The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858
A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics (2024)

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Title: The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858

Author: Various

Release date: November 1, 2003 [eBook #10079]
Most recently updated: December 19, 2020

Language: English


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VOL. II.—JULY, 1858.—NO. IX.


—fessoque SacrandumSupponato capiti lapidem, Curistoque quiescam.PAULINUS OF NOLL

Et factus est in pace locus ejus et halitatio in Sion.
Ps. LXXV. 2


Rome is preëminently the city of monuments and inscriptions, and thelapidary style is the one most familiar to her. The Republic, the Empire,the Papacy, the Heathens, and the Christians have written their recordupon marble. But gravestones are proverbially dull reading, andinscriptions are often as cold as the stone upon which they are engraved.

The long gallery of the Vatican, through which one passes to enter thefamous library, and which leads to the collection of statues, is lined onone side with heathen inscriptions, of miscellaneous character, on theother with Christian inscriptions, derived chiefly from the catacombs, butarranged with little order. The comparison thus exhibited to the eye is animpressive one. The contrast of one class with the other is visible evenin external characteristics. The old Roman lines are cut with precisionand evenness; the letters are well formed, the words are rightly spelt,the construction of the sentences is grammatical. But the Christianinscriptions bear for the most part the marks of ignorance, poverty, andwant of skill. Their lines are uneven, the letters of various sizes, thewords ill-spelt, the syntax often incorrect. Not seldom a mixture of Greekand Latin in the same sentence betrays the corrupt speech of the lowerclasses, and the Latin itself is that of the common people. But defects ofstyle and faults of engraving are insufficient to hide the feeling thatunderlies them.

Besides this great collection of the Vatican, there is another collectionnow being formed in the loggia of the Lateran Palace, in immediateconnection with the Christian Museum. Arranged as the inscriptions willhere be in historic sequence and with careful classification, it will bechiefly to this collection that the student of Christian antiquity willhereafter resort. It in in the charge of the Cavaliere de Rossi, who isengaged in editing the Christian inscriptions of the first six centuries,and whose extraordinary learning and marvellous sagacity in decipheringand determining the slightest remains of ancient stone-cutting give himunexampled fitness for the work. Of these inscriptions, about eleventhousand are now known, and of late some forty or fifty have been addedeach year to the number previously recorded. But a very small proportionof the eleven thousand remain in situ in the catacombs, and besides thegreat collections of the Vatican and the Lateran, there are many smallerones in Rome and in other Italian cities, and many inscriptions originallyfound in the subterranean cemeteries are now scattered in the porticos oron the pavements of churches in Rome, Ravenna, Milan, and elsewhere. Fromthe first period of the desecration of the catacombs, the engraved tabletsthat had closed the graves were almost as much an object of the greed ofpious or superstitious marauders as the more immediate relics of thesaints. Hence came their dispersion through Italy, and hence, too, it hashappened that many very important and interesting inscriptions belongingto Rome are now found scattered through the Continent.

It has been, indeed, sometimes the custom of the Roman Church to enhancethe value of a gift of relics by adding to it the gift of the inscriptionon the grave from which they were taken. A curious instance of this kind,connected with the making of a very popular saint, occurred not many yearssince. In the year 1802 a grave was found in the Cemetery of St.Priscilla, by which were the remains of a glass vase that had held blood,the indication of the burial-place of a martyr. The grave was closed bythree tiles, on which were the following words painted in red letters:LVMENA PAXTE CVMFL. There were also rudely painted on the tiles twoanchors, three darts, a torch, and a palm-branch. The bones found withinthe grave, together with the tiles bearing the inscription, were placed inthe Treasury of Relics at the Lateran.

On the return of Pius VII., one of the deputation of Neapolitan clergysent to congratulate him sought and received from the Pope these relicsand the tiles as a gift for his church. The inscription had been read byplacing the first tile after the two others, thus,—PAX TECUM FILUMENA,Peace be with thee, Filumena; and Filumena was adopted as a new saint inthe long list of those to whom the Roman Church has given this title. Itwas supposed, that, in the haste of closing the grave, the tiles had beenthus misplaced.

Very soon after the gift, a priest, who desired not to be named onaccount of his great humility, had a vision at noonday, in which thebeautiful virgin with the beautiful name appeared to him and revealed tohim that she had suffered death rather than yield her chastity to the willof the Emperor, who desired to make her his wife. Thereupon a youngartist, whose name is also suppressed, likewise had a vision of St.Filomena, who told him that the emperor was Diocletian; but as historystands somewhat opposed to this statement, it has been suggested that theartist mistook the name, and that the Saint said Maximian. However thismay be, the day of her martyrdom was fixed on the 10th of August, 303. Herrelics were carried to Naples with great reverence; they were inclosed,after the Neapolitan fashion, in a wooden doll of the size of life,dressed in a white satin skirt and a red tunic, with a garland of flowerson its head, and a lily and a dart in its hand. This doll, with the red-lettered tiles, was soon transferred to its place in the church ofMugnano, a small town not far from Naples. Many miracles were wrought onthe way, and many have since been wrought in the church itself. The fameof the virgin spread through Italy, and chapels were dedicated to herhonor in many distant churches; from Italy it reached Germany and France,and it has even crossed the Atlantic to America. Thus a new saint, a newstory, and a new exhibition of credulity had their rise not long ago froma grave and three words in the catacombs.

One of the first differences which are obvious, in comparing the Christianwith the heathen mortuary inscriptions, is the introduction in the formerof some new words, expressive of the new ideas that prevailed among them.Thus, in place of the old formula which had been in most common use upongravestones, D.M., or, in Greek, [Greek: TH.K.], standing for DisManibus, or [Greek: Theois karachthoniois], a dedication of the stoneto the gods of death, we find constantly the words In pace. The exactmeaning of these words varies on different inscriptions, but their generalsignificance is simple and clear. When standing alone, they seem to meanthat the dead rests in the peace of God; sometimes they are preceded byRequiescat, "May he rest in peace"; sometimes there is the affirmation,Dormit in pace, "He sleeps in peace"; sometimes a person is saidrecessisse in pace, "to have departed in peace." Still other forms arefound, as, for instance, Vivas in pace, "Live in peace," or Suscipiaturin pace, "May he be received into peace,"—all being only variations ofthe expression of the Psalmist's trust, "I will lay me down in peace andsleep, for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety." It is a curiousfact, however, that on some of the Christian tablets the same letterswhich were used by the heathens have been found. One inscription existsbeginning with the words Dis Manibus, and ending with the words inpace. But there is no need of finding a difficulty in this fact, or ofseeking far for an explanation of it. As we have before remarked, inspeaking of works of Art, the presence of some heathen imagery and ideasin the multitude of the paintings and inscriptions in the catacombs is notso strange as the comparatively entire absence of them. Many professingChristians must have had during the early ages but an imperfect conceptionof the truth, and can have separated themselves only partially from theirprevious opinions, and from the conceptions that prevailed around them inthe world. To some the letters of the heathen gravestones, and the wordswhich they stood for, probably appeared little more than a form expressiveof the fact of death, and, with the imperfect understanding natural touneducated minds, they used them with little thought of their absolutesignificance.[1]

[Footnote 1: It is probable that most of the gravestones upon which thisheathen formula is found are not of an earlier date than the middle of thefourth century. At this time Christianity became the formal religion ofmany who were still heathen in character and thought, and cared littleabout the expression of a faith which they had adopted more from theinfluence of external motives than from principle or conviction.]

Another difference in words which is very noticeable, running through theinscriptions, is that of depositus, used by the Christians to signifythe laying away in the grave, in place of the heathen words situs,positus, sepultus, conditus. The very name of coemeterium, adopted bythe Christians for their burial-places, a name unknown to the ancientRomans, bore a reference to the great doctrine of the Resurrection. Theirburial-ground was a cemetery, that is, a sleeping-place; they regardedthe dead as put there to await the awakening; the body was depositus,that is, intrusted to the grave, while the heathen was situs orsepultus, interred or buried,—the words implying a final anddefinitive position. And as the Christian dormit or quiescit, sleepsor rests in death, so the heathen is described as abreptus, ordefunctus, snatched away or departed from life.

Again, the contrast between the inscriptions is marked, and in a sadderway, by the difference of the expressions of mourning and grief. No onewho has read many of the ancient gravestones but remembers the bitterwords that are often found on them,—words of indignation against thegods, of weariness of life, of despair and unconsoled melancholy. Here isone out of many:—


I, Procope, who lived twenty years, lift up
my hands against God, who took me away innocent.
Proclus set up this.

But among the Christian inscriptions of the first centuries there is notone of this sort. Most of them contain no reference to grief; they are thevery short and simple words of love, remembrance, and faith,—as in thefollowing from the Lateran:—


To Adeodata, a worthy and deserving Virgin,
and rests here in peace, her Christ commanding.

On a few the word dolens is found, simply telling of grief. On one tothe memory of a sweetest daughter the word irreparable is used, Filiaedulcissimae inreparabili. Another is, "To Dalmatius, sweetest son, whomhis unhappy father was not permitted to enjoy for even seven years."Another inscription, in which something of the feeling that was uncheckedamong the heathens finds expression in Christian words, is this: "Sweetsoul. To the incomparable child, who lived seventeen years, andundeserving [of death] gave up life in the peace of the Lord." Neitherthe name of the child nor of the parents is on the stone, and the wordimmeritus, which is used here, and which is common in heathen use, isfound, we believe, on only one other Christian grave. One inscription,which has been interpreted as being an expression of unresigned sorrow, isopen to a very different signification. It is this:—


To their sweetest boy Jovian, of the most innocent age, who lived seven years and six months, his undeserving [or unlamenting] parents Theoctistus and Thallusa.

Here, without forcing the meaning, non merentes might be supposed torefer to the parents' not esteeming themselves worthy to be left inpossession of such a treasure; but the probability is that merentes isonly a misspelling of maerentes for otherwise immerentes would havebeen the natural word.

But it is thus that the Christian inscriptions must be sifted, to findexpressions at variance with their usual tenor, their general composureand trust. The simplicity and brevity of the greater number of them are,indeed, striking evidence of the condition of feeling among those who setthem upon the graves. Their recollections of the dead feared no fading,and Christ, whose coming was so near at hand, would know and reunite hisown. Continually we read only a name with in pace, without date, age, ortitle, but often with some symbol of love or faith hastily carved orpainted on the stone or tiles. Such inscriptions as the following arecommon:—


or, with a little more fulness of expression,—


To the sweetest son Endelechius, the well-
deserving, who lived two years, one month,
twenty days. In peace.

The word benemerenti is of constant recurrence. It is used both of theyoung and the old; and it seems to have been employed, with comprehensivemeaning, as an expression of affectionate and grateful remembrance.

Here is another short and beautiful epitaph. The two words with which itbegins are often found.


Sweet Soul. The Blessed Virgin Aufenia,
who lived thirty years. She sleeps in peace.

But the force and tenderness of such epitaphs as these is hardly to berecognized in single examples. There is a cumulative pathos in them, asone reads, one after another, such as these that follow:—


To Angelica well in peace.


To Currentius, the servant of God, laid in
the grave on the sixteenth of the Kalends of


Maximin, who lived twenty-three years, the
friend of all.


Septimus to Marciana in peace. Who lived
with me seventeen years. She sleeps in peace.


Gaudentia rests. Sweet spirit of two years
and three months.

Here is a gravestone with the single word VIATOR; here one that tells onlythat Mary placed it for her daughter; here one that tells of the light ofthe house,—[Greek: To phos thaes Oikias].

Nor is it only in these domestic and intimate inscriptions that thehabitual temper and feeling of the Christians is shown, but even stillmore in those that were placed over the graves of such members of thehousehold of faith as had made public profession of their belief, andshared in the sufferings of their Lord. There is no parade of words on thegravestones of the martyrs. Their death needed no other record than thelittle jar of blood placed in the mortar, and the fewest words were enoughwhere this was present. Here is an inscription in the rudest letters froma martyr's grave:—


To the well-deserving Sabatias, who lived forty years.

And here another:—


To Prosperus, innocent soul, in peace.

And here a third, to a child who had died as one of the Innocents:—


Aemilian, sweet soul of marvellous innocence,
who lived one year, eight months, twenty-eight
days. He sleeps in peace.

At this grave was found the vase of blood, and on the gravestone was thefigure of a dove.

Another inscription, which preserves the name of one of those who sufferedin the most severe persecution to which the ancient Church was exposed,and which, if genuine, is, so far as known, the only monument of the kind,is marked by the same simplicity of style:—


Lannus Martyr of Christ here rests. He
suffered under Diocletian.

The three letters EPS have been interpreted as standing for the words etposteris suis, and as meaning that the grave was also for his successors.Not yet, then, had future saints begun to sanctify their graves, and toclaim the exclusive possession of them.

But there is another point of contrast between the inscriptions of the un-Christianized and the Christian Romans, which illustrates forcibly thedifference in the regard which they paid to the dead. To the one the deadwere still of this world, and the greatness of life, the distinctions ofclass, the titles of honor still clung to them; to the other the past lifewas as nothing to that which had now begun. The heathen epitaphs areloaded with titles of honor, and with the names of the offices which thedead had borne, and, like the modern Christian (?) epitaphs whose stylehas been borrowed from them, the vanity of this world holds its placeabove the grave. But among the early Christian inscriptions of Romenothing of this kind is known. Scarcely a title of rank or a name ofoffice is to be found among them. A military title, or the name of priestor deacon, or of some other officer in the Church, now and then is metwith; but even these, for the most part, would seem to belong to thefourth century, and never contain any expression of boastfulness orflattery.


Flavius Olius Paternus, Centurion of the
Tenth Urban Cohort, who lived twenty-seven
years. In peace.

It is true, no doubt, that among the first Christians there were very fewof the rich and great. The words of St. Paul to the Corinthians were astrue of the Romans as of those to whom they were specially addressed: "Forye see your calling, brethren, how that not many wise men after the flesh,not many mighty, not many noble are called." Still there is evidenceenough that even in the first two centuries some of the mighty and some ofthe noble at Rome were among those called, but that evidence is not to begathered from the gravestones of the catacombs. We have seen, in a formerarticle, that even the grave of one of the early bishops,—the highestofficer of the Church,—and one who had borne witness to the truth in hisdeath, was marked by the words,


The Martyr Cornelius, Bishop.

Compare this with the epitaphs of the later popes, as they are found ontheir monuments in St. Peter's,—"flattering, false insculptions on atomb, and in men's hearts reproach,"—epitaphs overweighted withsuperlatives, ridiculous, were it not for their impiety, and full of thelies and vanities of man in the very house of God.

With this absence of boastfulness and of titles of rank on the earlyChristian graves two other characteristics of the inscriptions are closelyconnected, which bear even yet more intimate and expressive relation tothe change wrought by Christianity in the very centre of the heathenworld.

"One cannot study a dozen monuments of pagan Rome," says Mr. Northcote, inhis little volume on the catacombs, "without reading something of servusor libertus, libertis libertabusque posterisque eorum; and I believe theproportion in which they are found is about three out of every four. Yet,in a number of Christian inscriptions exceeding eleven thousand, and allbelonging to the first six centuries of our era, scarcely six have beenfound containing any allusion whatever—and even two or three of these aredoubtful—to this fundamental division of ancient Roman society.

"No one, we think, will be rash enough to maintain, either that thisomission is the result of mere accident, or that no individual slave orfreedman was ever buried in the catacombs. Rather, these two cognatefacts, the absence from ancient Christian epitaphs of all titles of rankand honor on the one hand, or of disgrace and servitude on the other, canonly be adequately explained by an appeal to the religion of those whomade them. The children of the primitive Church did not record upon theirmonuments titles of earthly dignity, because they knew that with the Godwhom they served 'there was no respect of persons'; neither did they careto mention the fact of their bondage, or of their deliverance frombondage, to some earthly master, because they thought only of that higherand more perfect liberty wherewith Christ had set them free; rememberingthat 'he that was called, being a bondman, was yet the freeman of theLord, and likewise he that was called, being free, was still the bondmanof Christ.'

"And this conclusion is still further confirmed by another remarkable factwhich should be mentioned, namely, that there are not wanting in thecatacombs numerous examples of another class of persons, sometimes rankedamong slaves, but the mention of whose servitude, such as it was, servedrather to record an act of Christian charity than any social degradation;I allude to the alumni, or foundlings, as they may be called. The laws ofpagan Rome assigned these victims of their parents' crimes or poverty tobe the absolute property of any one who would take charge of them. Asnothing, however, but compassion could move a man to do this, childrenthus acquired were not called servi, as though they were slaves who hadbeen bought with money, nor vernae, as though they had been the childrenof slaves born in the house, but alumni, a name simply implying thatthey had been brought up (ab alendo) by their owners. Now it is a verysingular fact, that there are actually more instances of alumni amongthe sepulchral inscriptions of Christians than among the infinitely morenumerous inscriptions of pagans, showing clearly that this was an act ofcharity to which the early Christians were much addicted; and thealumni, when their foster-parents died, very properly and naturallyrecorded upon their tombs this act of charity, to which they werethemselves so deeply indebted."

So far Mr. Northcote. It is still further to be noted, as an expression ofthe Christian temper, as displayed in this kind of charity, that it neverappears in the inscriptions as furnishing a claim for praise, or as beingregarded as a peculiar merit. There is no departure from the usualsimplicity of the gravestones in those of this class.


Peter, sweetest foster-child, in God.

And a dove is engraved at either side ofthis short epitaph.


Eutropius made this for the dear foster-child


Antonius Discolius her son, and Bibius Felicissimus
her foster-child, to Valeria Crestina
their mother, a widow for eighteen years.
[Her grave is] among the holy.[2]

[Footnote 2: This inscription is not of earlier date than the fourthcentury, as is shown by the words, Inter sancios,—referring, as weheretofore stated, to the grave being made near that of some personesteemed a saint.]

These inscriptions lead us by a natural transition to such as contain somereference to the habits of life or to the domestic occupations andfeelings of the early Christians. Unfortunately for the gratification ofthe desire to learn of these things, this class of inscriptions is farfrom numerous,—and the common conciseness is rarely, in the firstcenturies, amplified by details. But here is one that tells a little storyin itself:—


To Domnina, my most innocent and sweetest wife; who lived sixteen years and four months, and was married two years, four months, and nine days; with whom, on account of my journeys, I was permitted to be only six months; in which time, as I felt, so I showed my love. No others have so loved one another. Placed in the grave the 15th of the Kalends of June.

Who was this husband whose far-off journeys had so separated him from hislately married wife? Who were they who so loved as no others had loved?The tombstone gives only the name of Domnina. But in naming her, and inthe expression of her husband's love, it gives evidence, which isconfirmed by many other tokens in the catacombs, of the change introducedby Christianity in the position of women, and in the regard paid to them.Marriage was invested with a sanctity which redeemed it from sensuality,and Christianity became the means of uniting man and woman in the bonds ofan immortal love.

Here is an inscription which, spite of the rudeness of its style,preserves the pleasant memory of a Roman child:—


To the good and holy spirit Florentius, who lived thirteen years, Coritus, his master, who loved him more than if he were his own son, and Cotdeus, his mother, have made this for her well-deserving son.[3]

[Footnote 3: Compare an inscription from a heathen tomb:—


C. Julius Maximus,
Two years, five months old.

Harsh Fortune, that in cruel death finds't joy,
Why is my Maximus thus sudden reft,
So late the pleasant burden of my breast?
Now in the grave this stone lies: lo, his mother!]

And Coritus, his master, and Cotdeus, his mother, might have rejoiced inknowing that their poor, rough tablet would keep the memory of her boyalive for so many centuries; and that long after they had gone to thegrave, the good spirit of Florentius should still, through these fewwords, remain to work good upon the earth.—Note in this inscription (asin many others) the Italianizing of the old Latin,—the ispirito, andthe santo; note also the mother's strange name, reminding one of Puritanappellations,—Cotdeus being the abbreviation of Quod vult Deus, "WhatGod wills."[4]

[Footnote 4: Other names of this kind were Deogratias, Habetdeum, andAdeodatus.]

Here is an inscription set up by a husband to his wife, Dignitas, who wasa woman of great goodness and entire purity of life:—


Who, without ever wounding my soul, lived with me for fifteen years, and bore seven children, four of whom she has with her in the Lord.

We have already referred to the inscriptions which bear the name of someofficer of the early Church; but there is still another class, whichexhibits in clear letters others of the designations and customs familiarto the first Christians. Thus, those who had not yet been baptized andreceived into the fold, but were being instructed in Christian doctrinefor that end, were called catechumens; those who were recently baptizedwere called neophytes; and baptism itself appears sometimes to havebeen designated by the word illuminatio. Of the use of these names theinscriptions give not infrequent examples. It was the custom also amongthe Christians to afford support to the poor and to the widows of theirbody. Thus we read such inscriptions as the following:—


Her daughter Reneregina made this for her well-deserving mother Regina, a widow, who sat a widow sixty years, and never burdened the church, the wife of one husband, who lived eighty years, five months, twenty-six days.

The words of this inscription recall to mind those of St. Paul, in hisFirst Epistle to Timothy, (v. 3-16,) and especially the verse, "If any manor woman that believeth have widows, let them relieve them, and let notthe church be charged."

Some of the inscriptions preserve a record of the occupation or trade ofthe dead, sometimes in words, more often by the representation of theimplements of labor. Here, for instance, is one which seems like theadvertisem*nt of a surviving partner:—


From New Street. Pollecla, who sold barley
on New Street.

Others often bear a figure which refers to the name of the deceased, anarmoirie parlante as it were, which might be read by those too ignorantto read the letters on the stone. Thus, a lion is scratched on the graveof a man named Leo; a little pig on the grave of the little childPorcella, who had lived not quite four years; on the tomb of Dracontius isa dragon; and by the side of the following charming inscription is foundthe figure of a ship:—


Navira in peace. Sweet soul, who lived sixteen years, five months. Soul honey-sweet. This inscription made by her parents. The sign a ship.

The figures that are most frequent upon the sepulchral slabs are, however,not such as bear relation to a name or profession, but the commonlyadopted symbols of the faith, similar in design and character to thoseexhibited in the paintings of the catacombs. The Good Shepherd is thusoften rudely represented; the figure of Jonah is naturally, from itsreference to the Resurrection, also frequently found; and the figure of aman or woman with arms outstretched, in the attitude of prayer, occurs onmany of the sepulchral slabs. The anchor, the palm, the crown, and thedove, as being simpler in character and more easily represented, are stillmore frequently found. The varying use of symbols at different periods hasbeen one of the means which have assisted in determining approximate datesfor the inscriptions upon which they are met with. It is a matter ofimportance, in many instances, to fix a date to an inscription. Historicaland theological controversies hang on such trifles. Most of the earlygravestones bear no date; and it was not till the fourth century, that,with many other changes, the custom of carving a date upon them becamegeneral. The century to which an inscription belongs may generally bedetermined with some confidence, either by the style of expression and thenature of the language, or by the engraved character, or some otherexternal indications. Among these latter are the symbols. It has, forinstance, been recently satisfactorily proved by the Cavaliere de Rossithat the use of the emblem of the fish in the catacombs extended only tothe fourth century, so that the monuments upon which it is found may, withscarcely an exception, be referred to the preceding period. As this emblemwent out of use, owing perhaps to the fact that the Christians were nolonger forced to seek concealment for their name and profession, thefamous monogram of Christ, [Symbol] the hieroglyphic, not only of hisname, but of his cross, succeeded to it, and came, indeed, into far moregeneral use than that which the fish had ever attained. The monogram ishardly to be found before the time of Constantine, and, as it is veryfrequently met with in the inscriptions from the catacombs, it affords aneasy means, in the absence of a more specific date, for determining aperiod earlier than which any special inscription bearing it cannot haveoriginated. Its use spread rapidly during the fourth century. It "became,"says Gibbon, with one of his amusing sneers, "extremely fashionable in theChristian world." The story of the vision of Constantine was connectedwith it, and the Labarum displayed its form in the front of the imperialarmy. It was thus not merely the emblem of Christ, but that also of theconversion of the Emperor and of the fatal victory of the Church.

It is a remarkable fact, and one which none of the recent Romanistauthorities attempt to controvert, that the undoubted earlier inscriptionsafford no evidence of any of the peculiar doctrines of the Roman Church.There is no reference to the doctrine of the Trinity to be found amongthem; nothing is to be derived from them in support of the worship of theVirgin; her name even is not met with on any monument of the first threecenturies; and none of the inscriptions of this period give any sign ofthe prevalence of the worship of saints. There is no support of the claimof the Roman Church to supremacy, and no reference to the claim of thePopes to be the Vicars of Christ. As the third century advances to itsclose, we find the simple and crude beginning of that change in Christianfaith which developed afterward into the broad idea of the intercessorypower of the saints. Among the earlier inscriptions prayers to God or toChrist are sometimes met with, generally in short exclamatory expressionsconcerning the dead. Thus we find at first such words as these:—


Amerimnus to his dearest wife Rufina well-
deserving. May God refresh thy spirit!

And, in still further development,—


Aurelius Aelianus, a Paphlagonian, faithful servant of God. He sleeps in peace. Remember him, O God, forever!

Again, two sons ask for their mother,—


O Lord, let not the spirit of Venus be shadowed
at any time!

From such petitions as these we come by a natural transition to such asare addressed to the dead themselves, as being members of the samecommunion with the living, and uniting in prayers with those they had lefton earth and for their sake.


Mayst thou live in peace and ask for us!

Or, as in another instance,—


Pray for thy parents, Matronata Matrona!
Who lived one year, fifty-two days.

And as we have seen how in the fourth century the desire arose of beingburied near the graves of those reputed holy, so by a similar process wefind this simple and affectionate petition to the dead passing into aprayer for the dead to those under whose protection it was hoped that theymight be. In the multitude of epitaphs, however, these form but a smallnumber. Here is one that begins with a heathen formula:—


In Eternal Sleep. Aurelius Gemellus, who
lived —- years, and eight months, eighteen
days. His mother made this for her dearest
well-deserving son in peace. I commend to
Basilla the innocence of Gemellus.

Basilla was one of the famous martyrs of the time of Valerian and

Here again is another inscription of a curious character, as interposing asaint between the dead and his Saviour. The monogram marks its date.


Ruta, subject and affable to all, shall live in
the name of Peter, in the peace of Christ.

But it would seem from other inscriptions as if the new practice ofcalling upon the saints were not adopted without protest. Thus we read, incontrast to the last epitaph, this simple one:—


O Zosimus, mayst thou live in the name of Christ!

And again, in the strongest and most direct words:—


May God alone protect thy spirit, Alexander!

One more inscription and we have done; it well closes the long list:—


Whoever shall read this, may he live in Christ!

As the fourth century advanced, the character of the inscriptionsunderwent great change. They become less simple; they exhibit less faith,and more worldliness; superlatives abound in them; and the want of feelingdisplays itself in the abundance of words.

We end here our examinations of the testimony of the catacombs regardingthe doctrine, the faith, and the lives of the Christians of Rome in thefirst three centuries. The evidence is harmonious and complete. It leavesno room for skepticism or doubt. There are no contradictions in it. Fromevery point of view, theologic, historic, artistic, the results coincideand afford mutual support. The construction of the catacombs, the works ofpainting found within them, the inscriptions on the graves, all unite inbearing witness to the simplicity of the faith, the purity of thedoctrine, the strength of the feeling, the change in the lives of the vastmass of the members of the early church of Christ. A light had come intothe world, and the dark passages of the underground cemeteries wereilluminated by it, and manifest its brightness. Wherever it reached, theworld was humanized and purified. To the merely outward eye it might atfirst have seemed faint and dim, but "the kingdom of God cometh not withobservation."


Such a spring day as it was!—the sky all one mild blue, hazy on thehills, warm with sunshine overhead; a soft south-wind, expressive, andfull of new impulses, blowing up from the sea, and spreading the news oflife all over our brown pastures and leaf-strewn woods. The crocuses inFriend Allis's garden-bed shot up cups of gold and sapphire from the darkmould; slight long buds nestled under the yellow-green leafa*ge of theviolet-patch; white and sturdy points bristled on the corner that in Maywas thick with lilies-of-the-valley, crisp, cool, and fragrant; and in aknotty old apricot-tree two bluebirds and a robin did heralds' duty,singing of summer's procession to come; and we made ready to receive itboth in our hearts and garments.

Josephine Boyle, Letty Allis, and I, Sarah Anderson, three cousins as wewere, sat at the long window of Friend Allis's parlor, pretending to sew,really talking. Mr. Stepel, a German artist, had just left us; and alittle trait of Miss Josephine's, that had occurred during his call,brought out this observation from Cousin Letty:—

"Jo, how could thee let down thy hair so before that man?"

Jo laughed. "Thee is a little innocent, Letty, with your pretty dialect!
Why did I let my hair down? For Mr. Stepel to see it, of course."

"That is very evident," interposed I; "but Letty is not so innocent or sowise as to have done wondering at your caprices, Jo; expound, if youplease, for her edification."

"I do not pretend to be wise or simple, Sarah; but I didn't think Cousin
Josephine had so much vanity."

"You certainly shall have a preacher-bonnet, Letty. How do you know it wasvanity, my dear? I saw you show Mr. Stepel your embroidery with theserenest satisfaction; now you made your crewel cherries, and I didn'tmake my hair; which was vain?"

Letty was astounded. "Thee has a gift of speech, certainly, Jo."

"I have a gift of honesty, you mean. My hair is very handsome, and I knewMr. Stepel would admire it with real pleasure, for it is a rare color. Itook down those curls with quite as simple an intention as you brought himthat little picture of Cole's to see."

Josephine was right,—partly, at least. Her hair was perfect; its tint theexact hue of a new chestnut-skin, with golden lights, and shadows of deepbrown; not a tinge of red libelled it as auburn; and the light broke onits glittering waves as it does on the sea, tipping the undulations withsunshine, and scattering rays of gold through the long, loose curls, andacross the curve of the massive coil, that seemed almost too heavy for herproud and delicate head to bear. Mr. Stepel was excusably enthusiasticabout its beauty, and Jo as cool as if it had been a wig. Sometimes Ithought this peculiar hair was an expression of her own peculiarcharacter.

Letty said truly that Jo had a gift of speech; and she, having said hersay about the hair, dismissed the matter, with no uneasy recurring to it,and took up a book from the table, declaring she was tired of her seam;—she always was tired of sewing! Presently she laughed.

"What is it, Jo?" said I.

"Why, it is 'Jane Eyre,' with Letty Allis's name on the blank leaf. Thatis what I call an anachronism, spiritually. What do you think about thebook, Letty?" said she, turning her lithe figure round in the great chairtoward the little Quakeress, whose pretty red head and apple-blossom of aface bloomed out of her gray attire and prim collar with a certainfascinating contrast.

"I think it has a very good moral tendency, Cousin Jo."

The clear, hazel eyes flashed a most amused comment at me.

"Well, what do you call the moral, Letty?"

"Why,—I should think,—I do not quite know that the moral is stated,Josephine,—but I think thee will allow it was a great triumph ofprinciple for Jane Eyre to leave Mr. Rochester when she discovered that hewas married."

Jo flung herself back impatiently in the chair, and began an harangue.

"That is a true world's judgment! And you, you innocent little Quakergirl! think it is the height of virtue not to elope with a married man,who has entirely and deliberately deceived you, and adds to the wrong ofdeceit the insult of proposing an elopement! Triumph of principle! Ishould call it the result of common decency, rather,—a thing that theinstinct of any woman would compel her to do. My only wonder is how JaneEyre could continue to love him."

"My dear young friend," said I, rather grimly, "when a woman loves a man,it is apt, I regret to say, to become a fact, not a theory; and facts arestubborn things, you know. It is not easy to set aside a real affection."

"I know that, ma'am," retorted Jo, in a slightly sarcastic tone; "it is apainful truth; still, I do think a deliberate deceit practised on me byany man would decapitate any love I had for him, quite inevitably."

"So it might, in your case," replied I; "for you never will love a man,only your idea of one. You will go on enjoying your mighty theories anddreams till suddenly the juice of that 'little western flower' drips onyour eyelids, and then I shall have the pleasure of seeing you caress 'thefair large ears' of some donkey, and hang rapturously upon its bray, tillyou perhaps discover that he has pretended, on your account solely, tolike roses, when he has a natural proclivity to thistles; and then,pitiable child! you will discover what you have been caressing, and—Ispare you conclusions; only, for my part, I pity the animal! Now Jane Eyrewas a highly practical person; she knew the man she loved was only a man,and rather a bad specimen at that; she was properly indignant at thisfurther development of his nature, but reflecting in cool blood,afterward, that it was only his nature, and finding it proper and legal tomarry him, she did so, to the great satisfaction of herself and thepublic. You would have made a new ideal of St. John Rivers, who wasinfinitely the best material of the two, and possibly gone on to yourdying day in the belief that his cold and hard soul was only the adamantof the seraph, encouraged in that belief by his real and high principle,—a thing that went for sounding brass with that worldly-wise littlephilosopher, Jane, because it did not act more practically on his inborntraits."

"Bah!" said Josephine, "when did you turn gypsy, Sally? You ought to selldukkeripen, and make your fortune. Why don't you unfold Letty's fate?"

"No," said I, laughing. "Don't you know that the afflatus always exhauststhe priestess? You may tell Letty's fortune, or mine, if you will; but mypower is gone."

"I can tell yours easily, O Sibyl!" replied she. "You will never marry,neither for real nor ideal. You should have fallen in love in the orthodoxway, when you were seventeen. You are adaptive enough to have mouldedyourself into any nature that you loved, and constant enough to have clungto it through good and evil. You would have been a model wife, and ablessed mother. But now—you are too old, my dear; you have seen toomuch; you have not hardened yourself, but you have learned to see tookeenly into other people. You don't respect men, 'except exceptions'; andyou have seen so much matrimony that is harsh and unlovable, that youdread it; and yet—Don't look at me that way, Sarah! I shall cry!—Mydear! my darling! I did not mean to hurt you.—I am a perfect fool!—Doplease look at me with your old sweet eyes again!—How could I!"——

"Look at Letty," said I, succeeding at last in a laugh. And really Lettywas comical to look at; she was regarding Josephine and me with her eyeswide open like two blue larkspur flowers, her little red lips apart, andher whole pretty surface face quite full of astonishment.

"Wasn't that a nice little tableau, Letty?" said Josephine, withpreternatural coolness. "You looked so sleepy, I thought I'd wake you upwith a bit of a scene from 'Lara Aboukir, the Pirate Chief'; you know wehave a great deal of private theatricals at Baltimore; you should see mein that play as Flashmoria, the Bandit's Bride."

Letty rubbed her left eye a little, as if to see whether she was sleepy ornot, and looked grave; for me, the laugh came easily enough now. Jo sawshe had not quite succeeded, so she turned the current another way.

"Shall I tell your fortune now, Letty? Are you quite waked up?" said she.

"No, thee needn't, Cousin Jo; thee don't tell very good ones, I think."

"No, Letty, she shall not vex your head with nonsense. I think your fateis patent; you will grow on a little longer like a pink china-aster, safein the garden, and in due time marry some good Friend,—Thomas Dugdale,very possibly,—and live a tranquil life here in Slepington till youarrive at a preacher-bonnet, and speak in meeting, as dear Aunt Allis didbefore you."

Letty turned pale with rage. I did not think her blonde temperament heldsuch passion.

"I won't! I won't! I never will!" she cried out. "I hate Thomas Dugdale,Sarah! Thee ought to know better about me! thee knows I cannot endure him,the old thing!"

This climax was too much for Jo. With raised brows and a round mouth, shehad been on the point of whistling ever since Letty began; it was an old,naughty trick of hers; but now she laughed outright.

"No sort of inspiration left, Sally! I must patch up Letty's fate myself.Flatter not yourself that she is going to be a good girl and marry inmeeting; not she! If there's a wild, scatter-brained, handsome,dissipated, godless youth in all Slepington, it is on him that testylittle heart will fix,—and think him not only a hero, but a prodigy ofgenius. Friend Allis will break her heart over Letty; but I'd bet you apack of gloves, that in three years you'll see that juvenile Quakeress ina scarlet satin hat and feather, with a blue shawl, and green dress, onthe arm of a fast young man with black hair, and a cigar in his mouth."

"Why! where did thee ever see him, Josey?" exclaimed Letty, now rosywith quick blushes.

The question was irresistible. Jo and I burst into a peal of laughter thatwoke Friend Allis from her nap, and, bringing her into the parlor, forcedus to recover our gravity; and presently Jo and I took leave.

Letty was an orphan, and lived with her cousin, Friend Allis. I, too, wasalone; but I kept a tiny house in Slepington, part of which I rented, andJo was visiting me.

As we walked home, along the quiet street overhung with willows andsycamores, I said to her, "Jo, how came you to know Letty's secret?"

"My dear, I did not know it any more than you; but I drew the inference ofher tastes from her character. She is excitable,—even passionate; but herformal training has allowed no scope for either trait, and suppression hasbut concentrated them. She really pines for some excitement;—what, then,could be more natural than that her fancy should light upon some personutterly diverse from what she is used to see? That is simple enough. I hitupon the black hair on the same principle, 'like in difference.' The cigarseemed wonderful to the half-frightened, all-amazed child; but who eversees a fast young man without a cigar?"

"I am afraid it is Henry Malden," said I, meditatively; "he is all youdescribe, but he is also radically bad; besides, having been in theMexican war, he will have the prestige of a hero to Letty. How can thepoor girl be undeceived before it is quite too late?"

"What do you want to undeceive her for, Sally? Do you suppose that willprevent her marrying Mr. Malden?"

"I should think so, most certainly!"

"Not in the least. If you want Letty to marry him, just judiciously opposeit. Go to her, and say you come as a friend to tell her Mr. Malden'sfaults, and the result will be, she will hate you, and be deeper in lovewith him than ever."

"You don't give her credit for common sense, Jo."

"Just as much as any girl of her age has in love. Did you ever know awoman who gave up a man she loved because she was warned against him?—oreven if she knew his character well, herself? I don't know but there arewomen who could do it, from sheer religious principle. I believe youmight, Sarah. It would be a hard struggle, and wear you to a shadow inmind and body; but you have a conscience, and, for a woman with a heart assoft as pudding, the most thoroughly rigid streak of duty in you; none ofwhich Letty has to depend on. No; if you want to save her, take her awayfrom Slepington; take her to Saratoga, to Newport, to Washington; turn hersmall head with gayety: she is pretty enough to have a dozen lovers at anywatering-place; it is only propinquity that favors Mr. Malden here."

"I can't do that, Josephine. I have not the means, and Miss Allis wouldnot have the will, even if she believed in your prescription."

"Then Letty must stay here and bide her time. You believe in a special
Providence, Sarah, don't you?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Then cannot you leave her to that care? Circ*mstances do not work foryou. Perhaps it is best that she should marry him, suffer, live, love, andbe refined by fire."

My heart sunk at the prospect of these possibilities. Josephine put herarm round me. "Sally," said she, in her softest tone, "I grieved you,dear, this afternoon. I did not mean to. I grieved myself most. Pleaseforgive me!"

"I haven't anything to forgive, Jo," said I. "What you said to me wastrue, painfully true,—and, being so, for a moment pained me. I shouldhave been much happier to be married, I know; but now I daren't think ofit. I have lost a great deal. I have

"—'lost my place, My sweet, safe corner by the household fire, Behind the heads of children';

"and yet I do not know that I have not gained a little. It is something,Jo, to know that I am not in the power of a bad, or even an ill-temperedman. I can sit by my fire and know that no one will come home to fret atme,—that I shall encounter no cold looks, no sneers, no bursts of anger,no snarl of stinginess, no contempt of my opinion and advice. I know thatnow men treat me with respect and attention, such as their wives rarely,if ever, receive from them. Sensitive and fastidious as I am, I do notknow whether my gain is not, to me, greater than my loss. I know it oughtnot to be so,—that it argues a vicious, an unchristian, almost anuncivilized state of society; but that does not affect the facts."

"You frighten me, Sarah. I cannot believe this is always true of men andtheir wives."

"Neither is it. Some men are good and kind and gentle, gentle-men, even intheir families; and every woman believes the man she is to marry is thatexception. Jo,—bend your ear down closer,—I thought once I knew such aman,—and,—dear,—I loved him."

"My darling!—but, Sarah, why"—

"Because, as you said, Josey, I was too old; I had seen too much; I wouldnot give way to an impulse. I bent my soul to know him; I rang the metalon more than one stone, and every time it rang false. I knew, if I marriedhim, I should live and die a wretched woman. Was it not better to livealone?"

"But, Sarah,—if he loved you?"

"He did not,—not enough to hurt himself; he could not love anything somuch better than his ease as to suffer, Josey: he was safe. He thought, orsaid, he loved me; but he was mistaken."

"Safe, indeed! He ought to have been shot!"

"Hush, dear!"

There was a long pause. It was as when you lift a wreck from the tranquilsea and let it fall again to the depths, useless to wave or shore; theblack and ghastly hulk is covered; it is seen no more; but the waterpalpitates with circling rings, trembles above the grave, dashes quick andapprehensive billows upon the sand, and is long in regaining its quietsurface.

"I wonder if there ever was a perfect man," said Jo, at length, drawing adeep sigh.

"You an American girl, Jo, and don't think at once of Washington?"

"My dear, I am bored to death with Washington à l'Américain. A man!—how dare you call him a man?—don't you know he is a myth, an abstraction,a plaster-of-Paris cast? Did you ever hear any human trait of his noticed?Weren't you brought up to regard him as a species of special seraph, asublime and stainless figure, inseparable from a grand manner and ascroll? Did you ever dare suppose he ate, or drank, or kissed his wife?You started then at the idea: I saw you!"

"You are absurd, Jo. It is true that he is exactly, among us, whatdemigods were to the Greeks,—only less human than they. But when I onceget my neck out of the school-yoke, I do not start at such suggestions asyours; I believe he did comport himself as a man of like passions withothers, and was as far from being a hero to his valet-de-chambre asanybody."

By this time we were at home, and Jo flung her parasol on the bench in theporch, and sat down beside it with a gesture of weariness and disgustmingled.

"Why will you, of all people, Sarah, quote that tinkling, superficialtrash of a proverb, so palpably French, when the true reason why a man isnot a hero to his lackey is only because he is seen with a lackey's eyes,—the sight of a low, convention-ridden, narrow, uneducated mind, unableto take a broad enough view to see that a man is a hero because he is aman, because he overleaps the level of his life, and is greater than hisrace, being one of them? If he were of the heroic race, what virtue inbeing heroic? it is the assertion of his trivial life that makes hisspeciality evident,—the shadow that throws out the bas-relief. We chatterendlessly about the immense good of Washington's example: I believe itsgood would be more than doubled, could we be made, nationally, to see himas a human being, living on 'human nature's daily food,' having mortal andnatural wants, tastes, and infirmities, but building with and over all, bythe help of God and a good will, the noble and lofty edifice of a patriotmanhood, a pure life of duty and devotion, sublime for its very strengthand simpleness, heroic because manly and human."

The day had waned, and the sunset lit Josephine's excited eyes with fire:she was not beautiful, but now, if ever, beauty visited her with atransient caress. She looked up and met my eyes fixed on her.

"What is it, Sally?—what do I look like?"

"Very pretty, just now, Jo; your eyes are bright and your cheek flushed:the sunshine suits you. I admire you tonight."

"I am glad," said she, naively. "I often wish to be pretty."

"A waste wish, Jo!—and yet I have entertained it myself."

"It's not so much matter for you, Sarah; for people love you. And besides,you have a certain kind of beauty: your eyes are beautiful,—rather toosad, perhaps, but fine in shape and tint; and you have a good head, and adelicately outlined face. Moreover, you are picturesque: people look atyou, and then look again,—and, any way, love you, don't they?"

"People are very good to me, Jo."

"Oh, yes! we all know that people as a mass are kindly, considerate, andunselfish; that they are given to loving and admiring disagreeable andugly people; in short, that the millennium has come. Sally, my dear, youare a small hypocrite,—or else—But I think we won't establish a mutual-admiration society to-night, as there are only two of us; besides, I amhungry: let us have tea."

The next day, Josephine left me. As we walked together toward the landingof the steamer, Letty Allis emerged from a green lane to say good-bye, anddown its vista I discerned the handsome, lazy person of Henry Malden, butI did not inform Letty of my discovery.

A year passed away,—to me with the old monotonous routine; full of work,not wanting in solace; barren, indeed, of household enjoyments andvicissitudes; solitary, sometimes desolate, yet peaceful even in monotony.But this new spring had not come with such serene neglect to the other twoof us three. Against advice, remonstrance, and entreaty from her goodfriends, Letty Allis had married Henry Malden, and, in attire moretasteful, but quite as far from Quakerism as Josephine had predicted,beamed upon the inhabitants of Slepington from the bow-window, or opendoor, of a cottage very ornée indeed; while the odor of a tolerablecigar served as Mr. Malden's exponent, wherever he abode. And to Josephinehad come a loss no annual resurrection should repair: her mother was dead;she, too, was orphaned,—for she had never known her father; her onlysister was married far away; and I kept an old promise in going to her fora year's stay at least.

Aunt Boyle's property had consisted chiefly in large cotton mills owned byherself and her twin brother,—who, dying before her, left her all his ownshare in them. These mills were on a noisy little river in the westernpart of Massachusetts,—in a valley, narrow, but picturesque, and so farabove the level of the sea that the air was keen and pure as amongmountains. Mrs. Boyle had removed here from Baltimore, a few years beforeher own death, that she might be with her brother through his long andfatal illness; and, finding her health improved by change of air, hadoccupied his house ever since, until one of those typhoid fevers thatinfest such river-gorges at certain seasons of the year entered thevillage about the mills, when, in visiting the sick, she took the epidemicherself and died. Josephine still retained the house endeared to her bysad and glad recollections; and it was there I found her, when, afterrenting the whole of my little tenement at Slepington, I betook myself toValley Mills at her request.

The cottage where she lived was capacious enough for her wants, and thoughplain, even to an air of superciliousness, without, was most luxuriouswithin,—made to use and live in; for Mr. Brown, her uncle, was anEnglishman, and had never arrived at that height of Transatlantic tonwhich consists in shrouding and darkening all the pleasant rooms in thehouse, and skulking through life in the basem*nt and attic. Sunshine,cushions, and flowers were Mr. Brown's personal tastes; and plenty ofthese characterized the cottage. A green terrace between hill and riverspread out before the door for lawn and garden, and a tiny conservatoryabutted upon the brink of the terrace slope, from a bay-window in thelibrary, that opened sidewise into this winter-garden.

I found Jo more changed than I had expected: this last year of countrylife had given strength and elasticity to the tall and slender figure; asteady rose of health burned on either cheek; and sorrow had subdued andcalmed her quick spirits.

I was at home directly, and a sweeter summer never glowed and blushed overearth than that which installed me in the Nook Cottage. Out of doors thewhole country was beautiful, and attainable; within, I had continualresources in my usual work and in Jo's society: for she was one of thosepersons who never are uninteresting, never fatiguing; a certain salientcharm pervaded her conversation, and a simplicity quite original startledyou continually in her manner and ways. I liked to watch her about thehouse; dainty and fastidious in the extreme about some things, utterlycareless about others, you never knew where or when either trait wouldshow itself next. She was scrupulous as to the serving of meals, forinstance,—almost to a fault; no carelessness, no slight neglect, wasadmitted here, and always on the spotless damask laid with quaint chinastood a tapered vase of white Venice glass, with one, or two, or threeblossoms, sometimes a cluster of leaves, the spray of a wild vine, or thetasselled branch of a larch-tree jewelled with rose-red cones, arrangedtherein with an artist's taste and skill: but perhaps, while she sharplyrebuked the maid for a dim spot on her chocolate-pitcher or a grain ofsugar spilt on the salver, her white India shawl lay trailed over thedivan half upon the floor, and her gloves fluttered on the doorstep tillthe wind carried them off to find her parasol hanging in the honeysuckleboughs.

But, happily, it is not one's duty to make other people uncomfortable byperpetually tinkering at that trait in them which most offends our ownnature; and I thought it more for my good and hers to learn patiencemyself than undertake to beat her into order; the result of which waspeace and good-will that vindicated my wisdom to myself; and I found her,faults and all, sufficiently fascinating and lovable.

A year passed away serenely; and when spring came again, Josephine refusedto let me leave her. Our life was quiet enough, but, with such beautifulNature, and plenty to do, we were not lonely,—less so because Jo's handswere as open as her heart, and to her all the sick and poor looked, notonly for help, but for the rarer consolations of living sympathy andcounsel. Her shrewd common sense, her practical capacity, her kindly,cheerful face, her power of appreciating a position of want and perplexityand seeing the best way out of it, and, above all, her deep and ferventreligious feeling, made her an invaluable friend to just that class whom*ost needed her.

In the course of this spring we gained an addition to our society, in theperson of Mr. Waring, the son of the gentleman who had bought the mills atMrs. Boyle's death, but who had hitherto conducted them by an overseer. Hehad recently bought a little island in the middle of the river, just belowthe dam, and proposed erecting a new mill upon it; but as the Tunxis (theIndian name of our river) was liable to rapid and destructive freshets,the mill required a deep and secure foundation and a lower story of stone.

This implied some skilful engineering, and Mr. Arthur Waring, havingstudied this subject fully abroad, came on from Boston, and took up hisabode in Valley Mills village. Of course, we being his only hope ofsociety in the place, he made our acquaintance early. I rather liked him;his manner was good, his perceptions acute, his tastes refined, and he hada certain strength of will that gave force to a character otherwisecommon-place. Josephine liked him at once; she laid his shyness andbrusquerie, which were only the expression of a dominant self-consciousness, to genuine modesty. He was depressed and moody, because hewas bored for want of acquaintance, and missed the adulation and caressesthat he received at home as an only child; but Jo's swift imaginationpainted this as the trait of a reflective and melancholy nature disgustedwith the world, and pitied him accordingly; a mild way of misanthropicspeech, that is apt to infest young men, added to this delusion; and, withall the energy of her sweet, earnest disposition, Josephine undertook hiseducation,—undertook to teach him faith and hope and charity, to setright his wayward soul, to renovate his bitter opinions, to make him abetter and a happier man.

It is a well-known fact in the philosophy of the human mind, that it isapt to gain more by imparting than by receiving; and since philosophy,where it becomes fact, does not mercifully adjust its results tocirc*mstance, but rushes on in implacable grooves, and clears its owntrack of whatever lies thereon by the summary process of crushing it todust, it did not pause now for the pure intentions and tender heart which,in teaching another love to men, taught herself love to a man, and learntfar better than her pupil.

Mr. Waring was but a man; he did not love Josephine,—he admired her; heloved nothing but himself, his quiet, his pleasure; and while sheministered to either, he regarded her with a species of affection that puton the mask of a diviner passion and used its language. A thousand littlethings showed the man fully to me, a cool spectator; but she who neededmost the discerning eye regarded this gay bubble as if it had been ajewel.

Perhaps I blame him too severely, for it was against the very heart of myheart that he sinned; possibly I do not allow for the temptation it was toa young man, quite alone in a country village, without resources, andaccustomed to the flattery and caresses of a devoted mother, to findhimself agreeable in the eyes of a noble and lovable woman. Possibly, inhis place, a better man might have sought her society, drawn her out ofher reserve for his own delectation, confided in her, worked upon herpity, claimed her care, played on her simplicity and ignorance of theworld, crept into her heart and won its strength of emotion and itsgenerous affection,—in short, made love to her, without saying so,honestly and openly. Yet there are some men who would not have done it;and even yet, while I try to regard Arthur Waring with Christian charity,I feel that I cannot trust him, that I do not respect him,—that, if Idared despise anything God has made, my first contempt would light on him.

In the autumn, while all this was going on, I received a painful andwretched letter from Letty Malden, begging me to come to her. I could notresist such an appeal; and one of Josephine's little nieces having come tospend the winter with her, I hurried to Slepington,—not, I am sure, inthe least regretted by Mr. Waring, who had begun to look at me with uneasyand sometimes defiant eyes.

I found a miserable household here. Mr. Malden had in no way reformed.When did marriage ever reform a bad man? On the contrary, he was moredissipated than ever; and whenever he came home, the welcome that waitedfor him was one little calculated to make home pleasant; for Letty's quicktemper blazed up in reproach and reviling that drew out worserecrimination; and even the little, wailing, feeble baby, that filledLetty's arms and consoled her in his absence, was only further cause ofstrife between her and her husband. Often, as I came down the street andsaw the pretty outside of the cottage, waving with creepers, and hedgedabout with thorns, whose gay berries decked it as if for a festival, Ithought of what a good old preacher among the Friends once said to me:"Sarah, thee will live to find shows are often seems; thee sees many aquiet house, with gay windows, that is hell inside."

I soon found that I must stay all winter at Slepington. I had a hard taskbefore me,—to try and teach Letty that she had no right to neglect herown duties because her husband ignored his. But six months of continualdropping seemed to wear a tiny channel of perception; and my presence, aswell as the efforts we made together to preserve order, if not serenity,in the house, restored a certain dim hope to Letty's mind, and I began tosee that the "purification by fire" was doing its work, in slow pain, butto a sure end.

Selfish as it was, I cannot say that I felt sorry to return to Jo, whowrote for me in April, urging me to come as soon as I could, for Mr.Waring had fallen from the mill-wall and broken his leg, and the workmen,in their confusion, had carried him to her house, and she wanted me tohelp her. I learned, on reaching Valley Mills, that the new building onthe island had not been completed far enough to resist a heavy freshet,that had swept away part of the first story, where the mortar was not yethardened; and it was in traversing these wet stones to ascertain theextent of the damage that Mr. Waring had slipped, and, unable to recoverhis footing, fallen on a heap of stones and received his injury.

My first question to Josephine was, "Where is Mr. Waring's mother?"

"He would not send for her, Sally," said she, "because she is not well,and he feared to startle her."

"H'm!" said I, very curtly.

Josephine looked at me with innocent, grave eyes,—dear, simple child!—and yet, for anybody but herself she would have been sufficientlydiscerning. This love seemed to have remodelled her nature, to have takenfrom her all the serpent's wisdom, to have destroyed her common sense, anddistorted her view of everything in which Arthur Waring was concerned. Shehad certainly got on very fast in my absence. I had returned too late.

I had little to do with the care of the invalid; that devolved on Jo; myoffers of service were kindly received, but always declined. Nobody couldread to him so well as Miss Boyle. Nobody else understood his moods, hishumors, his whims; she knew his tastes with ominous exactness. It was shewho arranged his meals on the salver with such care and grace, nay, evencooked them at times; for Jo believed, like a rational woman, thatintellect and cultivation increase one's capacity for every office,—thata woman of intelligence should be able to excel an ignorant servant inevery household duty, by just so much as she excels her in mind. In fact,this was a pleasant life to two persons, but harassing enough for me. HadI been confident of Arthur Waring's integrity, I should have regarded himwith friendly and cordial interest; but I had every reason to distrusthim. I perceived he had so far insinuated himself into Jo's confidence,that his whole artillery of expressive looks, broken sentences, evencaresses, were received by her with entire good faith; but when I askedher seriously if I was to regard Mr. Waring as her lover, she burst intoindignant denial, colored scarlet, and was half inclined to be angry withme,—though a certain tremulous key, into which her usually sweet andsteady voice broke while she declared he had never spoken to her of love,it was only friendship, witnessed against her that she was apprehensive,sad, perhaps visited with a tinge of that causeless shame which even in apure and good woman conventionality constrains, when she has loved a manbefore he says in plain English, "I love you," though every act and lookand tone of his may have carried that significance unmistakably for years.Thank God, there is a day of sure judgment coming, when conventions andshields of usage will save no man from the due vengeance of truth uponfalsehood, justice upon smooth and plausible duplicity!

In due time Mr. Waring recovered. If there was any change in his manner toJo, it was too slight to be seen, though it was felt, and was, after all,the carelessness of a person certain of his foothold in her good graces,rather than the evident withdrawal of attention,—which I could havepardoned even then, had it been the result of honest regret for pastcarelessness, and stern resolution to repair that past. Whatever it was,Jo perceived that her ideal man was become a real man; but, with atenacity of nature, for which in my fate-telling I had not given hercredit, she was as constant to the substance as she had been to the dream;and while she lost both health and spirits in the contemplation of ArthurWaring's fitful and heedless manner toward her, and was evidently painedby the discovery of his selfish and politic traits,—to call them by noharsher name,—it was inexpressibly touching to hear the excuses she madefor him, to see the all-shielding love with which she veiled his faults,and kept him as a mother would keep her graceless, yet dearest child fromanimadversion and reproach.

In the mean time I heard often from Letty,—no good news of her husband,but that her child grew more and more a comfort, that her friends werevery kind, and always in a tiny postscript some such phrase as this: "Itry to be patient, Sarah," or "I don't scold Harry so much as I did,dear." I hoped for Letty, for she persevered.

That summer we saw less than ever of Mr. Waring; he was very busy at themill in order that it might be far enough advanced to resist theinevitable spring freshets; and besides, we were absent from the Valleysome weeks, endeavoring to recruit Jo's failing health at the sea-side.But this was a vain endeavor; that which sapped the springs of her lifewas past outward cure. She inherited her father's delicate and unreliableconstitution, and a nervous organization, whose worst disease is ever thepreying of doubt, anxiety, or regret. As winter drew on, she grew nobetter; a dim, dreamy abstraction brooded over her. She said to me often,with a vague alarm, "Sally, how far off you seem! Do come nearer!" Sheceased to talk when we were alone, her step grew languid, her eye deeper,—and its bright expression, when you roused her, was longer in shootingback into the clouded sphere than ever before. She sat for hours by thewindow, her lovely head resting on its casem*nt, looking out, always outand away, beyond the hills, into the deep spaces of blue air, past cloudand vapor, to the stars. Sudden noises startled her to an extreme degree;a quick step flushed her cheek with fire and fluttered her breath. How Ilonged for spring! I hoped all from the delicate ministrations of Nature;though the physician we called gave me no hope of her final recovery. Mr.Waring himself seemed struck with her aspect, and many little signs offriendly interest came from him. As often as he could, he returned to hisold haunts; and while the pleasure of his presence and the excitement ofhis undisguised anxiety wrought on her, Jo became almost her old self forthe moment, gay, cheerful, blooming,—alas! with the bloom of feverishnessand vain hope.

So spring drew near. The mill was nearly finished. One day in March a warmsouth-wind "quieted the earth" after a long rain, the river began to stir,its mail of ice to crack and heave under the sun's rays. I persuaded Jo totake a little drive, and once in the carriage the air reanimated her; sherested against me and talked more than I had known her for weeks.

"What a lovely day!" said she; "how balmy the air is! there is such anexpression of rest without despair, such calm expectation! I always thinkof heaven such days, Sally!—they are like the long sob with which a childfinishes weeping. Only to think of never more knowing tears!—that is lifeindeed!"

A keen pang pierced me at the vibration of her voice as she spoke. Ithought to soothe her a little, and said, "Heaven can be no more thanlove, Jo, and we have a great deal of that on earth."

"Do we?" answered she, in a tone of grief just tipped with irony,—andthen went on: "I believe you love me, Sally. I would trust you with—myheart, if need were. I think you love me better than any one on earthdoes."

"I love you enough, dear," said I; more words would have choked me in theutterance.

Soon we turned homeward.

"Tell John to drive down by the river," said Josephine,—"I want to seethe new mill."

"But you cannot see it from the road, Jo; the hemlocks stand between."

"Never mind, Sally; I shall just walk through them; don't deny me! I wantto see it all again; and perhaps the arbutus is in bloom."

"Not yet, Jo."

"I can get some buds, then; I want to have some just once."

We left the carriage, and on my arm Jo strolled through the little thicketof hemlock-trees, green and fragrant. She seemed unusually strong. I beganto hope. After much searching, we found the budded flowers; she loved mostof all wild blossoms; no scent breathed from the closed petals; they werenot yet kissed by the odor-giving south-wind into life and expression; butJo looked at them with sad, far-reaching eyes. I think she silently saidgood-bye to them.

Presently we came out on the steep bank of the river, directly oppositethe mill. A heavy timber was thrown across from the shore to the island,on which the workmen from the west side had passed and repassed; it wasfirm enough for its purpose, but now, wet with the morning's rain, andhigh above the grinding ice, it seemed a hazardous bridge. As we stoodlooking over at the new mill, listening to the slight stir within it,apparently the setting to rights by some lingering workman of such oddsand ends as remain after finishing the great whole of such a building,suddenly the cool wind, which had shifted to the north, brought on itswaft a most portentous roar. We stood still to listen. Nearer and nearerit swelled, crashing and hissing as it approached. Josephine grasped myarm with convulsive energy, and at that instant we perceived Mr. Waring'splaid cap pass an open casem*nt. She turned upon me like a wild creaturedriven to bay. I looked up-stream;—the ice had gathered in one highbarrier mixed with flood-wood and timber, and, bearing above all theuprooted trunk of a huge sycamore, was coming down upon the dam like abattering-ram. Jo gasped. "The river is broken up and Arthur is on theisland," said she, in a fearfully suppressed tone, and, swifter than Icould think or guess her meaning, she had reached the timber, she was onit,—and with light, untrembling steps half across, when both she and Isimultaneously caught sight of Mr. Waring running for dear life to theother and stronger bridge. Jo turned to come back; but the excitement waspast that had sustained her; she trembled, she tottered. I ran to meet andaid her. Just then the roots of the great sycamore thundered against thedam; the already heavily pressed structure gave way; with the freed roarof a hurricane, the barrier, the dam, the foot-bridge swept down towardus. She had all but reached the end of the timber,—I stood there to graspher hand,—when the old tree, whirled down by the torrent, struck theother end of the beam and threw Josephine forward to the bank, dashing herthrobbing, panting breast, with all the force of her fall, against thehard ground. I lifted her in my arms. She was white with pain. Presentlyshe opened her eyes and looked up, a flush of rapture glowed all over herface, and then the awful mist of death, gray and rigid, veiled it. Herhead dropped on my shoulder; a sharp cry and a rush of scarlet bloodpassed her lips together; the head lay more heavily,—she was dead. ButArthur Waring never knew how or for what she died!

Five years have passed since that day. Still I live at Nook Cottage; butnot alone. Of us three, Josephine is in heaven. Letty is still troubledupon earth; her husband tests her patience and her temper every hour, butboth temper and patience are in good training; and if ever Henry Malden isreclaimed, as I begin to see reasons to hope he will be, he will owe it tothe continual example and gentle goodness of his wife, who has grown froma petulant, thoughtless girl into a lovely, unselfish, religious woman, adevoted mother and wife, "refined by fire." For me, the last,—whenevernow I say, as I used to say, "Three of us," I mean a new three,—Paul,baby, and me; for Jo was not a prophet. Four years ago, while my heart-ache for her was fresh and torturing, a new pastor came to the littlevillage church of Valley Mills. Mr. Lyman was very good; I have seen othermen with as fine natural traits, but I have never seen a man or woman soentirely good. He came to me to console me; for he, too, had just lost asister, and in listening to his story I for a moment forgot my own, as hemeant I should. But I did not love him,—no, not till I discovered, monthsafterward, that he suffered incessantly from ill-health, and was all alonein the world. I was too much a woman to resist such a plea. I pitied him;I tried to take care of him; and when he asked me if I liked the office ofsick-nurse, I told him I liked it well enough to wish it were for life;and now, when he wants to light my eyes out of that dreamy expression thattells him I am re-living the past, and thinking of the dead, he tells me,for the sake of the flash that follows, that I offered myself to him!Perhaps I did. But he is well now; the air of the Tunxis hills, and therest of a quiet life, partly, I hope, good care also, have restored to himhis lost health. And I am what Jo said I should have been,—a blessedmother, as well as a happy wife. The baby that lies across my lap hastraits that endear her to me doubly,—traits of each of us three cousins:Josephine's hair on her little nestling head, Letty's apple-blossomcomplexion, and my eyes, except that they are serene when they are notsmiling. I ask only of the love that has given me all this unexpected joy,that my little Jo may have one better trait,—her father's heart; astronger, tenderer, and purer heart than belonged to any one among "Threeof us!"


All the broad East was laced with tender rings
Of widening light; the Daybreak shone afar;
Deep in the hollow, 'twixt her fiery wings,
Fluttered the morning star.

A cloud, that through the time of darkness went
With wanton winds, now, heavy-hearted, came
And fell upon the sunshine, penitent,
And burning up with shame.

The grass was wet with dew; the sheep-fields lay
Lapping together far as eye could see;
And the great harvest hung the golden way
Of Nature's charity.

My house was full of comfort; I was propped
With life's delights, all sweet as they could be,
When at my door a wretched woman stopped,
And, weeping, said to me,—

"Its rose-root in youth's seasonable hours
Love in thy bosom set, so blest wert thou;
Hence all the pretty little red-mouthed flowers
That climb and kiss thee now!

"I loved, but I must stifle Nature's cries
With old dry blood, else perish, I was told;
Hence the young light shrunk up within my eyes,
And left them blank and bold.

"I take my deeds, all, bad as they have been,—
The way was dark, the awful pitfall bare;—
In my weak hands, up through the fires of sin,
I hold them for my prayer."

"The thick, tough husk of evil grows about
Each soul that lives," I mused, "but doth it kill?
When the tree rots, the imprisoned wedge falls out,
Rusted, but iron still.

"Shall He who to the daisy has access,
Reaching it down its little lamp of dew
To light it up through earth, do any less,
Last and best work, for you?"


Not Dibdin's; not Barry Cornwall's; not Tom Campbell's; not any of the"Pirate's Serenades" and "I'm afloats!" which appear in the music-shop-windows, illustrated by lithographic vignettes of impossible ships inimpracticable positions. These are sung by landsmen yachting in stillwaters and in sight of green fields, by romantic young ladies incomfortable and unmoving drawing-rooms to the tinkling of Chickering'spianos. What are the songs the sailor sings to the accompaniment of thethrilling shrouds, the booming double-bass of the hollow topsails, and themultitudinous chorus of Ocean? What does the coaster, in his brief walk"three steps and overboard," hum to himself, as he tramps up and down hislittle deck through the swathing mists of a Bank fog? What sings the cookat the galley-fire in doleful unison with the bubble of his coppers?Surely not songs that exult in the life of the sea. Certainly not, myamateur friend, anything that breathes of mastery over the elements. Thesea is a real thing to him. He never is familiar with it, or thinks of itor speaks of it as his slave. It is "a steed that knows his rider," and,like many another steed which the men of the forecastle have mounted,knows that it can throw its rider at pleasure, and the riders know it too.Now and then a sailor will utter some fierce imprecation upon wind or sea,but it is in the impotence of despair, and not in the conscious, boastfulmastery which the land-songs attribute to him. What, then, does the sailorsing?—and does he sing at all?

Certainly the sailor sings. Did you ever walk through Ann Street, Boston,or haunt the purlieus of the Fulton Market? and when there did you neverespy a huckster's board covered with little slips of printed paper of thesize and shape of the bills-of-fare at the Commonwealth Hotel? They areprinted on much coarser paper, and are by no means as typographicallyexact as the aforesaid carte, or as this page of the "Atlantic Monthly,"but they are what the sailor sings. I know they are there, for I oncespent a long summer's day in the former place, searching those files for acopy of the delightful ballad sung (or attempted to be sung) by DickFletcher in Scott's "Pirate,"—the ballad beginning

"It was a ship, and a ship of fame,
Launched off the stocks, bound for the main."

I did not find my ballad, and to this day remain in ignorance of what fatebefell the "hundred and fifty brisk young men" therein commemorated. But Ifound what the sailor does sing. It was a miscellaneous collection ofsentimental songs, the worn-out rags of the stage and the parlor, orditties of highwaymen, or ballad narratives of young women who ran awayfrom a rich "parient" with "silvier and gold" to follow the sea. The truthof the story was generally established by the expedient of putting thedamsel's name in the last verse,—delicately suppressing all but theinitial and final letters. The only sea-songs that I remember were otherballads descriptive of piracies, of murders by cruel captains, and ofmutinies, with a sprinkling of sea-fights dating from the last war withEngland.

The point of remark is, that all of these depend for their interest upon ahuman association. Not one of them professes any concern with the sea orships for their own sake. The sea is a sad, solemn reality, the theatreupon which the seaman acts his life's tragedy. It has no more ofenchantment to him than the "magic fairy palace" of the ballet has to ascene-shifter.

But other songs the sailor sings. The Mediterranean sailor is popularlysupposed to chant snatches of opera over his fishing-nets; but, after all,his is only a larger sort of lake, with water of a questionable saltness.It can furnish dangerous enough storms upon occasion, and, far worse thanstorms, the terrible white-squall which lies ambushed under sunny skies,and leaps unawares upon the doomed vessel. But the Mediterranean is notthe deep sea, nor has it produced the best and boldest navigators.Therefore, although we still seek the sources of our maritime law amid therock-poised huts (once palaces) of Amalfi, we must go elsewhere for ourtrue sea-songs.

The sailor does not lack for singing. He sings at certain parts of hiswork;—indeed, he must sing, if he would work. On vessels of war, the drumand fife or boatswain's whistle furnish the necessary movement-regulator.There, where the strength of one or two hundred men can be applied to oneand the same effort, the labor is not intermittent, but continuous. Themen form on either side of the rope to be hauled, and walk away with itlike firemen marching with their engine. When the headmost pair bring upat the stern or bow, they part, and the two streams flow back to thestarting-point, outside the following files. Thus in this perpetual"follow-my-leader" way the work is done, with more precision andsteadiness than in the merchant-service. Merchant-men are invariablymanned with the least possible number, and often go to sea shorthanded,even according to the parsimonious calculations of their owners. The onlyway the heavier work can be done at all is by each man doing his utmost atthe same moment. This is regulated by the song. And here is the truesinging of the deep sea. It is not recreation; it is an essential part ofthe work. It mastheads the topsail-yards, on making sail; it starts theanchor from the domestic or foreign mud; it "rides down the main tack witha will"; it breaks out and takes on board cargo; it keeps the pumps (theship's,—not the sailor's) going. A good voice and a new and stirringchorus are worth an extra man. And there is plenty of need of both.

I remember well one black night in the mid-Atlantic, when we were beatingup against a stiff breeze, coming on deck near midnight, just as the shipwas put about. When a ship is tacking, the tacks and sheets (ropes whichconfine the clews or lower corners of the sails) are let run, in orderthat the yards may be swung round to meet the altered position of theship. They must then be hauled taut again, and belayed, or secured, inorder to keep the sails in their place and to prevent them from shaking.When the ship's head comes up in the wind, the sail is for a moment or twoedgewise to it, and then is the nice moment, as soon as the head-sailsfairly fill, when the main-yard and the yards above it can be swungreadily, and the tacks and sheets hauled in. If the crew are too few innumber, or too slow at their work, and the sails get fairly filled on thenew tack, it is a fatiguing piece of work enough to "board" the tacks andsheets, as it is called. You are pulling at one end of the rope, but thegale is tugging at the other. The advantages of lungs are all against you,and perhaps the only thing to be done is to put the helm down a little,and set the sails shaking again before they can be trimmed properly.—Itwas just at such a time that I came on deck, as above mentioned. Beingnear eight bells, the watch on deck had been not over spry; and theconsequence was that our big main-course was slatting and flying outoverhead with a might that shook the ship from stem to stern. The flaps ofthe mad canvas were like successive thumps of a giant's fist upon a mightydrum. The sheets were jerking at the belaying-pins, the blocks rattling insharp snappings like castanets. You could hear the hiss and seething ofthe sea alongside, and see it flash by in sudden white patches ofphosphorescent foam, while all overhead was black with the flying scud.The English second-mate was stamping with vexation, and, with all hisills misplaced, storming at the men:—"'An'somely the weather main-brace,—'an'somely, I tell you!—'Alf a dozen of you clap on to the mainsheet here,—down with 'im!—D'y'see 'ere's hall like a midshipman'sbag,—heverythink huppermost and nothing 'andy.—'Aul 'im in, Hi say!"—But the sail wouldn't come, though. All the most forcible expressions ofthe Commination-Service were liberally bestowed on the watch. "Give usthe song, men!" sang out the mate, at last,—"pull with a will!—together, men!—haltogether now!"—And then a cracked, melancholy voicestruck up this chant:

"Oh, the bowline, bully bully bowline,
Oh, the bowline, bowline, HAUL!"

At the last word every man threw his whole strength into the pull,—allsinging it in chorus, with a quick, explosive sound. And so, jump by jump,the sheet was at last hauled taut.—I dare say this will seem very muchspun out to a seafarer, but landsmen like to hear of the sea and its ways;and as more landsmen than seamen, probably, read the "Atlantic Monthly," Ihave told them of one genuine sea-song, and its time and place.

Then there are pumping-songs. "The dismal sound of the pumps is heard,"says Mr. Webster's Plymouth-Rock Oration; but being a part of the dailymorning duty of a well-disciplined merchant-vessel,—just a few minutes'spell to keep the vessel free and cargo unharmed by bilge-water,—it isnot a dismal sound at all, but rather a lively one. It was a favoriteamusem*nt with us passengers on board the —— to go forward aboutpumping-time to the break of the deck and listen. Any quick tune to whichyou might work a fire-engine will serve for the music, and the words werevaried with every fancy. "Pay me the money down," was one favorite chorus,and the verse ran thus:—

Solo. Your money, young man, is no object to me.

Chorus. Pay me the money down!

Solo. Half a crown's no great amount.

Chorus. Pay me the money down!

Solo and Chorus. (Bis) Money down, money down, pay me the money down!

Not much sense in all this, but it served to man and move the brakesmerrily. Then there were other choruses, which were heard from time totime,—"And the young gals goes a-weepin',"—"O long storm, storm alongstormy"; but the favorite tune was "Money down," at least with our crew.They were not an avaricious set, either; for their parting ceremony, onembarking, was to pitch the last half-dollars of their advance on to thewharf, to be scrambled for by the land-sharks. But "Money down" was thestanding chorus. I once heard, though not on board that ship, the livelychorus of "Off she goes, and off she must go,"—

"Highland day and off she goes,
Off she goes with a flying fore-topsail,
Highland day and off she goes."

It is one of the most spirited things imaginable, when well sung, and,when applied to the topsail-halyards, brings the yards up in grand style.

These are some of the working-songs of the sea. They are not chosen fortheir sense, but for their sound. They must contain good mouth-fillingwords, with the vowels in the right place, and the rhythmic ictus atproper distances for chest and hand to keep true time. And this is why theseaman beats the wind in a trial of strength. The wind may whistle, but itcannot sing. The sailor does not whistle, on shipboard at least, but doessing.

Besides the working-day songs, there are others for the forecastle anddog-watches, which have been already described. But they are seldom of theparlor pattern. I remember one lovely moonlight evening, off the Irishcoast, when our ship was slipping along before a light westerly air,—justenough of it for everything to draw, and the ship as steady as Ailsa Crag,so that everybody got on deck, even the chronically sea-sick passengers ofthe steerage. There was a boy on board, a steerage passenger, who had beenback and forth several times on this Liverpool line of packets. He was setto singing, and his sweet, clear voice rang out with song after song,—almost all of them sad ones. At last one of the crew called on him for asong which he made some demur at singing. I remember the refrain well (forhe did sing it at last); it ran thus:—

"My crew are tried, my bark's my pride,
I'm the Pirate of the Isles."

It was no rose-water piracy that the boy sang of; it was the genuinepirate of the Isle of Pines,—the gentleman who before the days ofCalifornia and steamers was the terror of the Spanish Main. He wasdepicted as falling in deadly combat with a naval cruiser, after manydesperate deeds. What was most striking to us of the cabin was, that thesympathy of the song, and evidently of the hearers, was all on the side ofthe defier of law and order. There was no nonsense in it about "islands onthe face of the deep where the winds never blow and the skies never weep,"which to the parlor pirate are the indications of a capital station forwood and water, and for spending his honeymoon. It was downright cuttingof throats and scuttling of ships that our youngster sang of, and the grimfaces looked and listened approvingly, as you might fancy Ulysses'sveterans hearkening to a tale of Troy.

There is another class of songs, half of the sea, half of the shore, whichthe fishermen and coasters croon in their lonely watches. Such is therhyme of "Uncle Peleg," or "Pillick," as it is pronounced,—probably anhistorical ballad concerning some departed worthy of the Folger family ofNantucket. It begins—

"Old Uncle Pillick he built him a boat
On the ba-a-ck side of Nantucket P'int;
He rolled up his trowsers and set her afloat
From the ba-a-ck side of Nantucket P'int."

Like "Christabel," this remains a fragment. Not so the legend of "CaptainCottington," (or Coddington,) which perhaps is still traditionally knownto the young gentlemen at Harvard. It is marked by a bold and ingeniousmetrical novelty.

"Captain Cottington he went to sea,
Captain Cottington he went to sea,
Captain Cottington he went to sea-e-e,
Captain Cottington he went to sea."

The third verse of the next stanza announces that he didn't go to sea in aschoo-oo-ooner,—of the next that he went to sea in a bri-i-ig,—and soon. We learn that he got wrecked on the "Ba-ha-ha-hamys," that he swamashore with the papers in his hat, and, I believe, entered his protest atthe nearest "Counsel's" (Anglicé. Consul's) dwelling.

For the amateur of genuine ballad verse, here is a field quite as fertileas that which was reaped by Scott and Ritson amid the border peels andfarmhouses of Liddesdale. It is not unlikely that some treasures may thusbe brought to light. The genuine expression of popular feeling is alwaysforcible, not seldom poetic. And at any rate, these wild bits of verse areredolent of the freshness of the sea-breeze, the damps of the clingingfog, the strange odors of the caboose-cookery, of the curing of cod, andof many another "ancient and fish-like smell." Who will tell us of thesesongs, not indeed of the deep sea, but of soundings? What were the stanzaswhich Luckie Mucklebackit sang along the Portanferry Sands? What is thedredging-song which the oyster "come of a gentle kind" is said to love?

These random thoughts may serve to indicate to the true seeker new andunworked mines of rhythmic ore. We are crying continually, that we have nonational literature, that we are a nation of imitators and plagiarists.Why will not some one take the trouble to learn what we have? This doesnot mean that amateurs should endeavor to write such ballad fragments andpopular songs,—because that cannot be done; such things grow,—they arenot made. If the sea wants songs, it will have them. It is only suggestedhere that we look about us and ascertain of what lyric blessings we maynow be the unconscious possessors. Can it be that oars have risen andfallen, sails flapped, waves broken in thunder upon our shores in vain?that no whistle of the winds, or moan of the storm-foreboding seas haswaked a responsive chord in the heart of pilot or fisherman? If we are sopoor, let us know our poverty.

And now to bring these desultory remarks to a practical conclusion. I havewritten these seemingly trifling fragments with a serious purpose. It isto show that the seaman has little or no art or part in the poetry of theseas. I have put down facts, have given what experience I have had of someof the idiosyncrasies of the forecastle. The poetry of the sea has beenwritten on shore and by landsmen. Falconer's "Shipwreck" is a clevernautical tract, written in verse,—or if it be anything more, it is butthe solitary exception which proves and enforces the rule. Midshipmen havewritten ambitious verses about the sea; but by the time the younggentlemen were promoted to the ward-room they have dropped the habit orfound other themes for their stanzas. In truth, the stern manliness of hiscalling forbids the seaman to write poetry. He acts it. His is aprofession which leaves no room for any assumed feeling or for anyreflective tendencies. His instincts are developed, rather than hisreason. He has no time to speculate. He must be prepared to lay his handon the right rope, let the night be the darkest that ever came down uponthe waves. He obeys orders, heedless of consequences; he issues commandsamid the uproar and tumult of pressing emergencies. There is no chance forquackery in his work. The wind and the wave are infallible tests of allhis knots and splices. He cannot cheat them. The gale and the lee-shoreare not pictures, but fierce realities, with which he has to grapple forlife or death. The soldier and the fireman may pass for heroes upon anassumed stock of courage; but the seaman must be a brave man in hiscalling, or Nature steps in and brands him coward. Therefore he careslittle about the romance of his duties. If you would win his interest andregard, it must be on the side of his personal and human sensibilities.Cut off during his whole active life from any but the most partialsympathy with his kind, he yearns for the life of the shore, its socialpleasures and its friendly greetings. Captains, whose vessels have beenmade hells-afloat by their tyranny, have found abundant testimony in thecourts of law to their gentle and humane deportment on land. Therefore,when you would address seamen effectively, either in acts or words, let itbe by no shallow mimicry of what you fancy to be their life afloat. Itwill be at best but "shop" to them, and we all know how distasteful thatis in the mouth of a stranger to our pursuits. They laugh at your clumsyimitations, or are puzzled by your strange misconceptions. It is painfulto see the forlorn attempts which are made to raise the condition of thisnoble race of men, to read the sad nonsense that is perpetrated for theirbenefit. If you wish really to benefit them, it must be by raising theircharacters as men; and to do this, you must address them as such,irrespectively of the technicalities of their calling.



"Mildred, my daughter, I am faint. Run and get me a glass of cordial fromthe buffet."

The girl looked at her father as he sat in his bamboo chair on the piazza,his pipe just let fall on the floor, and his face covered with a deadlypallor. She ran for the cordial, and poured it out with a trembling hand.

"Shan't I go for the doctor, father?" she asked.

"No, my dear, the spasm will pass off presently." But his face grew moreashy pale, and his jaw drooped.

"Dear father," said the frightened girl, "what shall I do for you? Oh,dear, if mother were only at home, or Hugh, to run for the doctor!"

"Mildred, my daughter," he gasped with difficulty, "the blacksmith,—sendfor Ralph Hardwick,—quick! In the ebony cabinet, middle drawer, you willfind——Oh! oh!—God bless you, my daughter!—God bless"——

The angels, only, heard the conclusion of the sentence; for the speaker,Walter Kinloch, was dead, summoned to the invisible world without awarning and with hardly a struggle.

But Mildred thought he had fainted, and, raising the window, called loudlyfor Lucy Ransom, the only female domestic then in the house.

Lucy, frightened out of her wits at the sudden call, came rushing to thepiazza, flat-iron in hand, and stood riveted to the spot where she firstsaw the features on which the awful shadow of death had settled.

"Rub his hands, Lucy!" said Mildred. "Run for some water! Get me thesmelling-salts!"

Lucy attempted to obey all three orders at once, and therefore didnothing.

Mildred held the unresisting hand. "It is warm," she said. "But thepulse,—I can't find it."

"Deary, no," said Lucy, "you won't find it."

"Why, you don't mean"——

"Yes, Mildred, he's dead!" And she let fall her flat-iron, and covered herface with her apron.

But Mildred kept chafing her father's temples and hands,—callingpiteously, in hopes to get an answer from the motionless lips. Then shesank down at his feet, and clasped his knees in an agony of grief.

A carriage stopped at the door, and a hasty step came up the walk.

"Lucy Ransom," said Mrs. Kinloch, (for it was she, just returned from herdrive,) "Lucy Ransom, what are you blubbering about? Here on the piazza,and with your flat-iron! What is the matter?"

"Matter enough!" said Lucy. "See!—see Mr."——But the sobs were toofrequent. She became choked, and fell into an hysterical paroxysm.

By this time Mrs. Kinloch had stepped upon the piazza, and saw thedrooping head, the dangling arms, and the changed face of her husband."Dead! dead!" she exclaimed. "My God! what has happened? Mildred, who waswith him? Was the doctor sent for? or Squire Clamp? or Mr. Rook? What didhe say to you, dear?" And she tried to lift up the sobbing child, whostill clung to the stiffening knees where she had so often climbed for akiss.

"Oh, mother! is he dead?—no life left?"

"Calm yourself, my dear child," said Mrs. Kinloch. "Tell me, did he sayanything?"

Mildred replied, "He was faint, and before I could give him the cordial heasked for he was almost gone. 'The blacksmith,' he said, 'send for RalphHardwick'; then he said something of the ebony cabinet, but could notspeak the words which were on his lips." She could say no more, but gaveway to uncontrollable tears and sobs.

By this time, Mrs. Kinloch's son, Hugh Branning, who had been to thestable with the horse and carriage, came whistling through the yard, andcutting off weeds or twigs along the path with sharp cuts of his whip.

"Which way is the wind now?" said he, as he approached; "the governorasleep, Mildred crying, and you scolding, mother?" In a moment, however,the sight of the ghastly face transfixed the thoughtless youth, as it haddone his mother; and, dropping his whip, he stood silent, awe-struck, inthe presence of the dead.

"Hugh," said Mrs. Kinloch, speaking in a very quiet tone, "go and tell
Squire Clamp to come over here."

In a few minutes the dead body was carried into the house by George, theAsiatic servant, aided by a villager who happened to pass by. SquireClamp, the lawyer of the town, came and had a conference with Mrs. Kinlochrespecting the funeral. Neighbors came to offer sympathy, and aid, if needshould be. Then the house was put in order, and crape hung on the door-handle. The family were alone with their dead.

On the village green the boys were playing a grand game of "round ball,"for it was a half-holiday. The clear, silvery tones of the bell wereheard, and we stopped to listen. Was it a fire? No, the ringing was notvehement enough. A meeting of the church? In a moment we should know. Asthe bell ceased, we looked up to the white taper spire to catch the nextsound. One stroke. It was a death, then,—and of a man. We listened forthe age tolled from the belfry. Fifty-five. Who had departed? The sextoncrossed the green on his way to the shop to make the coffin, and informedus. Our bats and balls had lost their interest for us; we did not even askour tally-man, who cut notches for us on a stick, how the game stood. ForSquire Walter Kinloch was the most considerable man in our village ofInnisfield. Without being highly educated, he was a man of reading andintelligence. In early life he had amassed a fortune in the China trade,and with it he had brought back a deeply bronzed complexion, a scar fromthe creese of a Malay pirate, and the easy manners which travel alwaysgives to observant and sensible men. But his rather stately carriageproduced no envy or ill-will among his humbler neighbors, for hissuperiority was never questioned. Men bowed to him with honest good-will,and boys, who had been flogged at school for confounding Congo andCoromandel, and putting Borneo in the Bight of Benin, made an awkwardobeisance and stared wonderingly, as they met the man who had actuallysailed round the world, and had, in his own person, illustrated theexperiment of walking with his head downwards among the antipodes. Hishouse had no rival in the country round, and his garden was considered amiracle of art, having, in popular belief, all the fruits, flowers, andshrubs that had been known from the days of Solomon to those of Linnaeus.Prodigious stories were told of his hoard of gold, and some of the lessenlightened thought that even the outlandish ornaments of the balustradeover the portico were carven silver. Curious vases adorned the hall andside-board; and numberless quaint trinkets, whose use the villagers couldnot even imagine, gave to the richly-furnished rooms an air of Orientalmagnificence. Tropical birds sang or chattered in cages, and a learned butlawless parrot talked, swore, or made mischief, as he chose. The tawnyservant George, brought by Mr. Kinloch from one of the islands of thePacific, completed his claims upon the admiration of the untravelled.

He was just ready to enjoy the evening of life, when the night of deathclosed upon him with tropic suddenness. He left one child only, hisdaughter Mildred, then just turned of eighteen; and as Mrs. Kinloch hadonly one son to claim her affection, the motherless girl would seem to bewell provided for. Mildred was sweet-tempered, and her step-mother hadhitherto been discreet and kind.

The funeral was over, and the townspeople recovered from the shock whichthe sudden death had caused. Administration was granted to the widowconjointly with Squire Clamp, the lawyer, and the latter was appointedguardian for Mildred during her minority.

Squire Clamp was an ill-favored man, heavy-browed and bald, and with alook which, in a person of less consequence, would have been called "hang-dog,"—owing partly, no doubt, to the tribulation he had suffered from hisvixen spouse, whose tongue was now happily silenced. He was the town'sonly lawyer, (a fortunate circ*mstance,) so that he could frequentlymanage to receive fees for advice from both parties in a controversy. Hemade all the wills, deeds, and contracts, and settled all the estates hecould get hold of. But no such prize as the Kinloch property had everbefore come into his hands.

If Squire Clamp's reputation for shrewdness had belonged to an irreligiousman, it would have been of questionable character; but as he was a zealousmember of the church, he was protected from assaults upon his integrity.If there were suspicions, they were kept close, not bruited abroad.

He was now an almost daily visitor at the widow Kinloch's. What was theintricate business that required the constant attention of a legaladviser? The settlement of the estate, so far as the world knew, was aneasy matter. The property consisted of the dwelling-house, a small tractof land near the village, a manufactory at the dam, by the side of RalphHardwick's blacksmith's shop, and money, plate, furniture, and stocks.There were no debts. There was but one child, and, after the assignment ofthe widow's dower, the estate was Mildred's. Nothing, therefore, could besimpler for the administrators. The girl trusted to the good faith of herstepmother and the justice of the lawyer, who now stood to her in theplace of a father. She was an orphan, and her innocence and childlikedependence would doubtless be a sufficient spur to the consciences of herprotectors. So the girl thought, if she thought at all,—and so allcharitable people were bound to think.

How wearily the days passed during the month after the funeral! The shadowof death seemed to darken everything. Doors creaked dismally when theywere opened. The room where the body had been laid seemed to have grown acentury older than the other parts of the once bright and cheerful house,—its atmosphere was so stagnant and full of mould. The family spoke onlyin suppressed tones; their countenances were as sad as their garments. Allthis was terrible to the impressible, imaginative, and naturally buoyanttemper of Mildred. It was like dwelling in a tomb, and her heart cried outfor very loneliness. She must do something to take her mind out of thesunless vault,—she must resume her relations with the dwellers in theupper air. All at once she thought of her father's last words,—of RalphHardwick, and the ebony cabinet. It was in the next room. She opened thedoor, half expecting to see some bodiless presence in the silent space.She could hear her own heart beat between the tickings of the great Dutchclock, as she stepped across the floor. How still was everything! The airtingled in her ears as though now disturbed for the first time.

She opened the cabinet, which was not locked, and pulled out the middledrawer. She found nothing but a dried rose-bud and a lock of sunny hairwrapped in a piece of yellowed paper. Was it her mother's hair? AsMildred remembered her mother, the color of her hair was dark, not golden.Still it might have been cut in youth, before its hue had deepened. Andwhat a world of mystery, of feeling, of associations there was in thatscentless and withered rose-bud! What fair hand had first plucked it? Whatpledge did it carry? Was the subtile aroma of love ever blended with itsfragrance? Had her father borne it with him in his wanderings? The secretwas in his coffin. The struggling lips could not utter it before they werestiffened into marble. Yet she could not believe that these relics werethe sole things to which he had referred. There must have been somethingthat more nearly concerned her,—something in which the blacksmith or hisnephew was interested.


In order to show the position of Mrs. Kinloch and her son in our story, itwill be necessary to make the reader acquainted with some previousoccurrences.

Six years before this date, Mrs. Kinloch was the Widow Branning. Herhusband's small estate had melted like a snow-bank in the liquidation ofhis debts. She had only one child, Hugh, to support; but in a country townthere is generally little that a woman can do to earn a livelihood; andshe might often have suffered from want, if the neighbors had not relievedher. If she left her house for any errand, (locks were but seldom used inInnisfield,) she would often on her return find a leg of mutton, a basketof apples or potatoes, or a sack of flour, conveyed there by some unknownhands. In winter nights she would hear the voices of Ralph Hardwick, thevillage blacksmith, and his boys, as they drew sled-loads of wood, readycut and split, to keep up her kitchen fire. Other friends ploughed andplanted her garden, and performed numberless kind offices. But, thoughaided in this way by charity, Mrs. Branning never lost her self-respectnor her standing in the neighborhood.

Everybody knew that she was poor, and she knew that everybody knew it; yetso long as she was not in absolute want, and the poor-house, that bugbearof honest poverty, was yet far distant, she managed to keep a cheerfulheart, and visited her neighbors on terms of entire equality.

At this period Walter Kinloch's wife died, leaving an only child. Duringher sickness, Mrs. Branning had been sent for to act as nurse andtemporary house-keeper, and, at the urgent request of the widower,remained for a time after the funeral. Weeks passed, and her house wasstill tenantless. Mildred had become so much attached to the motherlywidow and her son, that she would not allow the servants to do anythingfor her. So, without any definite agreement, their relations continued.By-and-by the village gossips began to query and surmise. At the sewing-society the matter was fully discussed.

Mrs. Greenfield, the doctor's wife, admitted that it would be an excellentmatch, "jest a child apiece, both on 'em well brought up, used to goodcompany, and all that; but, land's sakes! he, with his mint o' money,a'n't a-goin' to marry a poor widder that ha'n't got nothin' but herhusband's pictur' and her boy,—not he!"

Others insinuated that Mrs. Branning knew what she was about when she wentto Squire Kinloch's, and his wife was 'most gone with consumption."'Twasn't a mite strange that little Mildred took to her so kindly; plentyof women could find ways to please a child, if so be they could have sucha chance to please themselves."

The general opinion seemed to be that Mrs. Branning would marry theSquire, if she could get him; but that as to his intentions, the matterwas quite doubtful. Nevertheless, after being talked about for a year, theparties were duly published, married, and settled down into the quietroutine of country life.

Doubtless the accident of daily contact was the secret of the match. HadMrs. Branning been living in her own poorly-furnished house, Mr. Kinlochwould hardly have thought of going to seek her. But as mistress of hisestablishment she had an opportunity to display her house-wifelyqualities, as well as to practise those nameless arts by which almost anyclever woman knows how to render herself agreeable.

The first favorable impression deepened, until the widower came to believethat the whole parish did not contain so proper a person to be thesuccessor of Mrs. Kinloch, as his housekeeper. Their union, thoughchildless, was as happy as common; there was nothing of the romance of afirst attachment,—little of the tenderness that springs from freshsensibilities, for she at least was of a matter-of-fact turn. But therewas a constant and hearty good feeling, resulting from mutual kindness anddeference.

If the step-mother made any difference in her treatment of the twochildren, it was in favor of the gentle Mildred. And though the Squirenaturally felt more affection for his motherless daughter, yet he wasproud of his step-son, gave him the advantages of the best schools, andafterwards sent him for a year to college. But the lad's spirits were toobuoyant for the sober notions of the Faculty. He was king in thegymnasium, and was minutely learned in the natural history and botany ofthe neighborhood; at least, he knew all the haunts of birds, rabbits, andsquirrels, as well as the choicest orchards of fruit.

After repeated admonitions without effect, a letter was addressed to hisstepfather by vote at a Faculty-meeting. A damsel at service in thePresident's house overheard the discussion, and found means to warn theyoung delinquent of his danger; for she, as well as most people who camewithin the sphere of his attraction, felt kindly toward him.

The stage-coach that conveyed the next morning's mail to Innisfieldcarried Hugh Branning as a passenger. Alighting at the post-office, hetook out the letter superscribed in the well-known hand of the President,pocketed it, and returned by the next stage to college. This prank onlymoved the Squire to mirth, when he heard of it. He knew that Hugh was alad of spirit,—that in scholarship he was by no means a dunce; and aslong as there was no positive tendency to vice, he thought but lightly ofhis boyish peccadilloes. But it was impossible for such irregularities tocontinue, and after a while Mr. Kinloch yielded to his step-son's requestand took him home.

Next year it was thought best that the young man should go to sea, and amidshipman's commission was procured for him. Now, for the second time,after an absence of three years, Hugh was at home in all the dignity ofnavy blue, anchor buttons, glazed cap, and sword.


"I have brought you the statement of the property, Mrs. Kinloch," said Mr.Clamp. "It is merely a legal form, embracing the items which you gave tome; it must be returned at the next Probate term."

Mrs. Kinloch took the paper and glanced over it.

"This statement must be sworn to, Mrs. Kinloch."

"By you?"

"We are joined in the administration, and both must swear to it."

There was a pause. Mrs. Kinloch, resting her hands on her knee, tossed thehem of her dress with her foot, as though meditating.

"I shall of course readily make oath to the schedule," he continued,—"atleast, after you have done so; for I have no personal knowledge of theeffects of the deceased."

His manner was decorous, but he regarded her keenly. She changed thesubject.

"People seem to think I have a mint in the house; and such bills as comein! Sawin, the cabinet-maker, has sent his to-day, as soon as my husbandis fairly under ground: forty dollars for a cherry coffin, which he madein one day. Cleaver, the butcher, too, has sent a bill running back forfive years or more. Now I know that Mr. Kinloch never had an ounce ofmeat from him that he didn't pay for. If they all go on in this way, Isha'n't have a cent left. Everybody tries to cheat the widow"——

"And orphan," interposed Mr. Clamp.

She looked at him quietly; but he was imperturbable.

"We must begin to collect what is due," she continued.

"Did you refer to the notes from Ploughman?" asked Mr. Clamp. "He isperfectly good; and he will pay the interest till we want to use themoney."

"I wasn't thinking of Ploughman," she replied, "but of Mark Davenport,Uncle Ralph Hardwick's nephew. They say he is a teacher in one of thefashionable schools in New York,—and he must be able to pay, if he's evergoing to."

"Well, when he comes on here, I will present the notes."

"But I don't intend to wait till he comes; can't you send the demands to alawyer where he is?"

"Certainly, if you wish it; but that course will necessarily be attendedwith some expense."

"I choose to have it done," said Mrs. Kinloch, decisively. "Mildred, whohas always been foolishly partial to the young upstart, insists that herfather intended to give up the notes to Mark, and she thinks that was whathe wanted to send for Uncle Ralph about, just before he died. I don'tbelieve it, and I don't intend to fling away my money upon such folks."

"You are quite right, ma'am," said the lawyer. "The inconsiderategenerosity of school-children would be a poor basis for the transactionsof business."

"And besides," continued Mrs. Kinloch, "I want the young man to rememberthe blacksmith's shop that he came from, and get over his ridiculousnotion of looking up to our family."

"Oh ho!" said Mr. Clamp, "that is it? Well, you are a sagacious woman,"—looking at her with unfeigned admiration.

"I can see through a millstone, when there is a hole in it," said Mrs.
Kinloch. "And I mean to stop this nonsense."

"To be sure,—it would be a very unequal match in every way. Besides, I'mtold that he isn't well-grounded in doctrine. He even goes to Brooklyn tohear Torchlight preach." And Mr. Clamp rolled up his eyes, interlockinghis fingers, as he was wont when at church-meeting he rose to exhort.

"I don't pretend to be a judge of doctrine, further than the catechismgoes," said the widow; "but Mr. Rook says that Torchlight is a dangerousman, and will lead the churches off into infidelity."

"Yes, Mrs. Kinloch, the free-thinking of this age is the fruitful parentof all evil,—of Mormonism, Unitarianism, Spiritualism, and of all thoseforms of error which seek to overthrow"——

There was a crash in the china-closet. Mrs. Kinloch went to the door, andleading out Lucy Ransom, the maid, by the ear, exclaimed, "You hussy, whatwere you there for? I'll teach you to be listening about in closets,"(giving the ear a fresh tweak,) "you eavesdropper!"

"Quit!" cried Lucy. "I didn't mean to listen. I was there rubbin' thesilver 'fore you come. Then I didn't wanter come out, for I was afeard."

"What made the smash, then?" demanded Mrs. Kinloch.

"I was settin' things on the top shelf, and the chair tipped over."

"Don't make it worse by fibbing! If that was so, how came the chair to tipthe way it did? You were trying to peep over the door. Go to the kitchen!"

Lucy went out with fallen plumes. Mr. Clamp took his hat to go also.

"Don't go till I get you the notes," said Mrs. Kinloch.

As she brought them, he said, "I will send these by the next mail, withinstructions to collect."

While his hand was on the latch, she spoke again:—

"Mr. Clamp, did you ever look over the deed of the land we own about thedam where the mill stands?"

"No, ma'am, I have never seen it."

"I wish you would have the land surveyed according to this title," shesaid. "Quite privately, you know. Just have the line run, and let me knowabout it. Perhaps it will be as well to send over to Riverbank and getGunter to do it; he will keep quiet about it."

Mr. Clamp stood still a moment. Here was a woman whom he was expecting tolead like a child, but who on the other hand had fairly bridled andsaddled him, so that he was driven he knew not whither.

"Why do you propose this, may I ask, Mrs. Kinloch?"

"Oh, I have heard," she replied, carelessly, "that there was some error inthe surveys. Mr. Kinloch often talked of having it corrected, but, likemost men, put it off. Now, as we may sell the property, we shall want toknow what we have got."

"Certainly, Mrs. Kinloch, I will follow your prudent suggestions,"—addingto himself, as he walked away, "I shall have to be tolerably shrewd to getahead of that woman. I wonder what she is driving at."


Ralph Hardwick was the village blacksmith. His shop stood on the bank ofthe river, not far from the dam. The great wheel below the flume rolledall day, throwing over its burden of diamond drops, and tilting theponderous hammer with a monotonous clatter. What a palace of wonders tothe boys was that grim and sooty shop!—the roar of the fires, as theywere fed by the laboring bellows; the sound of water, rushing, gurgling,or musically dropping, heard in the pauses; the fiery shower of sparklesthat flew when the trip-hammer fell; and the soft and glowing mass held bythe smith's tongs with firm grasp, and turning to some form of use underhis practised eye! How proud were the young amateur blacksmiths when thekind-hearted owner of the shop gave them liberty to heat and pound a bitof nail-rod, to mend a skate or a sled-runner, or sharpen a pronged fish-spear! Still happier were they, when, at night, with his sons and nephew,they were allowed to huddle on the forge, sitting on the bottoms of oldbuckets or boxes, and watching the fire, from the paly blue border offlame in the edge of the damp charcoal, to the reddening, glowing columnthat shot with an arrowy stream of sparks up the wide-throated chimney.How the dark rafters and nail-pierced roof grew ruddy as the white-hotploughshare or iron bar was drawn from the fire!—what alternations oflight and shadow! No painter ever drew figure in such relief as theblacksmith presented in that wonderful light, with his glistening face,his tense muscles, and his upraised arm.

Alas! the hammer is still; the wheel dashes no more the glittering spray;the fire has died out in the forge; the blacksmith's long day's work isdone!

He settled in Innisfield when it was but a district attached to aneighboring town. There were but three or four houses in the now somewhatpopulous village. He came on foot, driving his cow; his wife following inthe wagon, with their little stock of household goods,—not forgetting hishammer, more potent than Prospero's wand. The minister, the doctor, andSquire Kinloch, who constituted the aristocracy, yielded precedence indate to Ralph Hardwick, Knight of the Ancient Order of the Anvil.

So he toiled, faithful to his calling. By day the din of his hammer rarelyceased, and by night the flame and sparks from his chimney were a Pharosto all travellers approaching the town. Children were born to him, forwhich he blessed God, and worked the harder. He attained a moderateprosperity, secure from want, but still dependent upon labor for bread. Atlength his wife died; he wept like a true and faithful husband as he was,and thenceforth was both mother and father to his babes.

During all his life he kept Sunday with religious scrupulousness, and withhis family went to the house of worship in all weathers. From the veryfirst he had been leader of the choir, and had given the pitch with a forkhammered and tuned by his own hands. With a clear and sympathetic voice,he had such an instinctive taste and power of expression, that his song ofpenitence or praise was far more devotional than the labored efforts ofmany more highly cultivated singers. Music and poetry flowed smoothly andnaturally from his lips, but in uttering the common prose of daily lifehis organs were rebellious. The truth must be spoken,—he stammered badly,incurably. Whether it was owing to the attempt to overcome his impedimentby making his speech musical, or to the cadences of his hammer beatingtime while his brain was shaping its airy fancies, his thoughts rannaturally in verse.

Do not smile at the thought of Vulcan's callused fingers touching thechords of the lyre to delicate music. The sun shone as lovingly upon theswart face of the blacksmith in his shop-door, as upon the scholar at hislibrary-window. "Poetry was an angel in his breast," making his heart gladwith her heavenly presence; he did not "make her his drudge, his maid-of-all-work," as professional verse-makers do.

Mr. Hardwick's younger sister was married to a hard-working, stern,puritanical man named Davenport, (not her first love,) who removed to aWestern State when it was almost a wilderness, cleared for himself a farm,and built a log-house. The toil and privations of frontier life soonwrought their natural effects upon Mrs. Davenport's delicate constitution.She fell into a rapid decline and died. Her husband was seized with afever the summer after, and died also, leaving two children, Mark andAnna. The blacksmith had six motherless children of his own; but he setout for the West, and brought the orphans home with him. He thenceforthtreated them like his own offspring, manifesting a woman's tenderness aswell as a father's care for them.

Mark was a comely lad, with the yellow curling hair, the clear blue eyes,and the marked symmetry of features that belonged to his uncle. He had aninborn love of reading and study; he was first in his class at everywinter's school, and had devoured all the books within his reach. Then heborrowed an old copy of Adam's Latin Grammar from Dr. Greenfield, andcommitted the rules to memory without a teacher. That was his introductionto the classics.

But Mr. Hardwick believed in the duty and excellence of work, and Mark, aswell as his cousins, was trained to make himself useful. So the Grammarwas studied and Virgil read at chance intervals, when a storm interruptedout-door work, or while waiting at the upper mill for a grist, or ofnights at the shop by the light of the forge fire. The paradigms werecommitted to memory with an anvil accompaniment; and long after, he nevercould scan a line of Homer, especially the oft-repeated

[Greek: Tou d'au | Taelema | chos pep | numenos | antion | aeuda],

without hearing the ringing blows of his uncle's hammer keeping tune tothe verse.

At sixteen years of age he was ready to enter college, though he hadreceived little aid in his studies, except when some schoolmaster who wasversed in the humanities chanced to be hired for the winter. But his unclewas not able to support him at any respectable university, and the lad'sprospects for such an education as he desired seemed to be none of thebest.

At this point an incident occurred which changed the course of our hero'slife, and as it will serve to explain how he came to give his notes to Mr.Kinloch, on which the administrators are about to bring suit, it shouldproperly be related here.

Mark Davenport was at work on a farm a short distance from the village. Hehoped to enter college the following autumn, and he knew no means toobtain money for a portion of his outfit except by the labor of his hands.He could get twenty dollars a month for the summer season. Sixty, orpossibly seventy dollars!—what ideas of opulence were suggested by thesound of those words!

It was a damp, drizzly day; there was not a settled rain, yet it was toowet to work in the corn. Mark was therefore busy in picking loose stonesfrom the surface of a field cultivated the year before, and now "seededdown" for grass. A portion of the field bordered on a pond, and the aldersupon its margin formed a dense green palisade, over which might be seenthe gray surface of the water freckled by the tiny drops of rain. Lowclouds trailed their gauzy robes over the top of Mount Quobbin, and flecksof mist swept across the blue sides of the loftier Mount Elizabeth.

"What a perfect day for fishing!" thought Mark. "If I had my tackle here,and a frog's leg or a shiner, I would soon have a pickerel out fromunder those lilypads."

But he kept at work, and, having his basket full of stones, carried themto the pond and plumped them in. A growl of anger came up from behind thebushes.

"What the Devil do you mean, you lubber, throwing stones over here toscare away the fish?"

The bushes parted at the same time, showing Hugh Branning sitting in theend of his boat, and apparently just ready to fling out his line.

"If I had known you were there fishing," said Mark, "I shouldn't havethrown the stones into the water. But," he continued, while every fibretingled with indignation, "I will have you to know that I am not to betalked to in that way by you or anybody else."

"I would like to know how you are going to help yourself," said Hugh,stepping ashore and advancing.

"You will find out, Mr. Insolence, if you don't leave this field. Youa'n't on the quarter-deck yet, bullying a tar with his hat off."

"Bless me! how the young Vulcan talks!"

"I have talked all I am going to. Now get into your boat and be off!"

"I don't propose to be in a hurry," said Hugh, with provoking coolness,standing with his arms a-kimbo.

The remembrance of Hugh's usual patronizing airs, together with hisinsulting language, was too much for Mark's impetuous temper. He was in adelirium of rage, and he rushed upon his antagonist. Hugh stood warilyupon the defensive, and parried Mark's blows with admirable skill; he hadnot the muscle nor the endurance of the young blacksmith, but he hadconsiderable skill in boxing, and was perfectly cool; and though Markfinally succeeded in grappling and hurling to the ground his lithe andresolute foe, it was not until he had been pretty severely pommelledhimself, especially in his face. Mark set his knee on the breast of hisadversary and waited to hear "Enough." Hugh ground his teeth, but therewas no escape; no feint nor sudden movement could reverse their positions;and, out of breath, he gave up in sullen despair.

"Let me up," he said, at length. Mark arose, and being by this timethoroughly sobered, he walked off without a word and picked up his basket.

Hugh, on the other hand, was more and more angry every minute. Theindignity he had suffered was not to be tamely submitted to. He got intothe boat and took his oar; he looked back and saw Mark commencing workagain; the temptation was too strong. He picked up one of the largest ofthe stones that Mark had emptied into the shallow margin of the pond; hethrew it with all his force, and hurriedly pushed off from shore withoutstopping to ascertain the extent of the mischief he had done. He knew thatthe stone did not miss, for he saw Mark fall heavily to the ground, andthat was enough. The injury was serious. Mark was carried to the farm-house and was confined to his bed for six weeks with a brain fever, beingdelirious for the greater part of the time. Hugh Branning found the townquite uncomfortable; the eyes of all the people he met seemed to scorchhim. He was bold and self-reliant; but no man can stand up singly againstthe indignation of a whole community. He went on a visit to Boston, andnot long after, to the exceeding grief of his mother, entered the navy.

When Mark was recovering, Mr. Rook,the clergyman, called and offered to aid him in his college course, if hewould agree to study for the ministry. But the young man declined theproposal, because he thought himself unfitted for the sacred calling.

"No," he added, with a smile, "I'm not made for an evangelist; not muchlike the beloved disciple at all events, but rather like peppery Peter,—ready, if provoked, to whisk off an ignoble ear."

Mr. Rook returned home sorrowful; and at the next meeting of the sewing-circle the unfortunate Mark received a full share of attention; for theoffer of aid came partly from this society. When this matter had been thetalk of the village for a day or two, Squire Kinloch made some errand tothe house where Mark was. What passed between them the young man did notchoose to relate, but he showed his Uncle Hardwick the Squire's check fortwo hundred and fifty dollars, and told him he should receive a similarsum each year until he finished his collegiate course.

The promise was kept; the yearly supply was furnished; and Mark graduatedwith honor, having given notes amounting to a thousand dollars. Withcheerful alacrity he commenced teaching in a popular seminary, intendingto pay his debts before studying a profession.


It was Saturday night, and Mr. Hardwick was closing his shop. A customerwas just leaving, his horse's feet newly rasped and white, and a sack ofharrow-teeth thrown across his back. The boys, James and Milton, had beenputting a load of charcoal under cover, for the wind was southerly andthere were signs of rain. Of course they had become black enough withcoal-dust,—not a streak of light was visible, except around their eyes.They were capering about and contemplating each other's face withuproarious delight, while the blacksmith, though internally chuckling attheir antics, preserved a decent gravity, and prepared to go to his house.He drew a bucket of water, and bared his muscular arms, then, afterwashing them, soused his curly hair and begrimed face, and came outwonderfully brightened by the operation. The boys continued their sports,racing, wrestling, and putting on grotesque grimaces.

Charlotte, the youngest child, now came to the shop to say that supper wasready.

"C-come, boys, you've ha-had play enough," said Mr. Hardwick. "J-James,put Ch-Charlotte down. M-M-Milton, it's close on to S-Sabba'day. Now w-wash yourselves."

Just as the merriment was highest, Charlotte standing on James'sshoulders, and Milton chasing them, while the blacksmith was looking on,—his honest face glistening with soap and good-humor,—Mildred Kinlochpassed by on her way home from a walk by the river. She looked towards theshop-door and bowed to Mr. Hardwick.

"G-good evenin', M-Miss Mildred," said he; "I'm g-glad to see you lookin'so ch-cheerful."

The tone was hearty, and with a dash of chivalrous sentiment rarely heardin a smithy. His look of half-parental, half-admiring fondness wastouching to see.

"Oh, Uncle Ralph," she replied, "I am never melancholy when I see you. Youhave all the cheerfulness of this spring day in your face."

"Y-yes, I hev to stay here in the old shop; b-but I hear the b-birds inthe mornin', and all day I f-feel as ef I was out under the b-blue sky,an' rejoicin' with all livin' creaturs in the sun and the s-sweet air ofheaven."

"I envy you your happy frame; everything has some form or hue of beautyfor you. I must have you read to me again. I never take up Milton withoutthinking of you."

"I c-couldn't wish to be remembered in any p-pleasanter way."

"Well, good evening. I must hurry home, for it grows damp here by the mill-race. Tell Lizzy and Anna to come and see me. We are quite lonesomenow."

"P-p'raps Mark'll come with 'em."

"Mark? Is he here? When did he come?"

"H-he'll be here t-to-night."

"You surprise me!"

"'Tis rather s-sudden. He wrote y-yes-terday 't he'd g-got to come onurgent b-business."

"Urgent business?" she repeated, thoughtfully. "I wonder if Squire

The blacksmith nodded, with a gesture towards his children, as though hewould not have them hear.

"Yes," he added, in a low tone, "I g-guess that is it."

"I must go home," said Mildred, hurriedly.

"Well, G-God bless you, my daughter! D-don't forgit your old sooty friend.And ef ever y-you want the help of a s-stout hand, or of an old gray head,don't fail to come to the ber-blacksmith's shop."

"Thank you, Uncle Ralph! thank you with all my heart! Good-night!"

She walked lightly up the hill towards the principal street. But she hadnot gone half a dozen yards before a hand grasped her arm. She turned witha start.

"Mark Davenport!" she exclaimed, "Is it you? How you frightened me!"

"Yes, Mildred, it is Mark, your old friend" (with a meaning emphasis). "Icouldn't resist the temptation of giving you a little surprise."

"But when did you come to town?"

"I have just reached here from the station at Riverbank. I went to thehouse first, and was just going to see Uncle at the shop, when I caughtsight of you."

Mark drew her arm within his own, and noticed, not without pleasure, howshe yet trembled with agitation.

"I am very glad to see you," said Mildred; "but isn't your coming sudden?"

"Yes, I had some news from home yesterday which determined me to come, and
I started this morning."

"Quick and impetuous as ever!"

"Yes, I don't deliberate long."

There was a pause.

"I wish you had only been here to see father before he died."

"I wish I might have seen him."

"I am sure he would never have desired to put you to any trouble."

"I suppose he would not have troubled me, though I never expected to doless than repay him the money he was so good as to lend me; but I don'tthink he would have been so abrupt and peremptory as Squire Clamp."

"Why, what has he done?"

"This is what he has done. A lawyer's clerk, as I supposed him to be,called upon me yesterday morning with a statement of the debt andinterest, and made a formal demand of payment. I had only about half theamount in bank, and therefore could not meet it. Then the clerk appearedin his true character as a sheriff's officer, drew out his papers, andserved a writ upon me, besides a trustee process on the principal of theschool, so as to attach whatever might be due to me."

"Oh, Mark, were you treated so?"

"Just so,—entrapped like a wild animal. To be sure, it was a legalprocess, but one designed only for extreme cases, and which no gentlemanever puts in force against another."

"I don't know what this can mean. Squire Clamp is cruel enough, I know;but mother, surely, would never approve such conduct."

"After all, the mortification is the principal thing; for, with what Ihave, and what Uncle can raise for me, I can pay the debt. I have said toomuch already, Mildred. I don't want to put any of my burdens on yourlittle shoulders. In fact, I am quite ashamed of having spoken on thesubject at all; but I have so little concealment, that it popped outbefore I thought twice."

They were approaching the house, both silent, neither seeming to be boldenough to touch the tenderer chords that thrilled in unison.

"Mildred," said Mark, "I don't know how much is meant by this suit. Idon't know that I shall be able to see you again, unless it be casually,in the street, as to-night, (blessed accident!)—but remember, that,whatever may happen, I am always the same that I have been to you."

Here his voice failed him. With such a crowd of memories,—of hopes anddesires yet unsatisfied,—with the crushing burden of debt and poverty,—he could not command himself to say what his heart, nevertheless, ached inretaining. Here he was, with the opportunity for which during all hisboyhood he had scarcely dared to hope, and yet he was dumb. They were atthe gate, under the dense shade of the maples.

"Good-night, dear Mildred!" said Mark.

He took her hand, which was fluttering as by electrical influence, andraised it tenderly to his lips.

"Good-night," he said again.

She did not speak, but grasped his hand with fervor. He walked away slowlytowards his uncle's house, but often stopped and looked back at theslender figure whose outlines he could barely see in the gateway under thetrees. Then, as he lost sight of her, he remembered with shame the selfishprominence he had given to his own troubles. He was ashamed, too, of thecowardice which had kept him from uttering the words which had trembled onhis lips. But in a moment the thought of the future checked that regret.Gloomy as his own lot might be, he could bear it; but he had no right toinvolve another's happiness. Thus he alternated between pride andabasem*nt, hope and dejection, as many a lover has done before and since.


Sunday was a great day in Innisfield; for there, as in all Puritancommunities, religion was the central and engrossing idea. As the bellrang for service, every ear in town heard it, and all who were not sick orkept at home by the care of young children turned their steps towards thehouse of God. The idea that there could be any choice between going tohear preaching and remaining at home was so preposterous, that it neverentered into the minds of any but the openly wicked. Whatever might betheir inclinations, few had the hardihood to absent themselves frommeeting, still less to ride out for pleasure, or to stroll through thewoods or upon the bank of the river. A steady succession of vehicles—"thorough-braced" wagons, a few more stylish carriages with ellipticsprings, and here and there an ancient chaise—tended from all quarters tothe meeting-house. The horses, from the veteran of twenty years' servicedown to the untrimmed and half-trained colt, knew what the proprieties ofthe day required. They trotted soberly, with faces as sedate as theirdrivers', and never stopped to look in the fence-corners as they passedalong, to see what they could find to be frightened at. Nor would theyoften disturb worship by neighing, unless they became impatient at thelength of the sermon.

Mr. Hardwick and his family, as we have before mentioned, went regularlyto meeting; Lizzy and Mark sat with him in the singers' seats, the othersin a pew below. The only guardian of the house on Sundays was a largeungainly cur, named Caesar. The habits of this dog deserve a briefmention. On all ordinary occasions he followed his master or others of thefamily, seeming to take a human delight in their company. Whenever it wasdesirable to have him remain at home, nothing short of tying him wouldanswer the purpose. After a time he came to know the signs of preparation,and would skulk. Upon setting out, Mr. Hardwick would tell one of the boysto catch Caesar so that he should not follow, but he was not to be found;and in the course of ten minutes he would be trotting after his master ascomposedly as if nothing had ever happened to interrupt their friendlyrelations. It was impossible to resist such persevering affection, and atlength Mr. Hardwick gave up the contest, and allowed Caesar to travel whenand where he chose. But on Sunday he sat on the front-door step, erectupon his haunches, with one ear dropping forward, and the other uprightlike the point of a starched shirt-collar; and though on week-days he wasfond of paying the usual courtesies to his canine acquaintances, and (ifthe truth must be told) of barking at strange horses occasionally, yetnothing could induce him either to follow any of the family, or accost adog, or chase after foreign vehicles, on the day of rest. Once only heforgot what was due to his character, and gave a few yelps in holy time.But James, with a glance at his father, who was stoutly orthodox, averredthat Caesar's conduct was justifiable, inasmuch as the man he barked atwas one of a band of new-light fanatics who worshipped in the school-house, and the horse, moreover, was not shod at a respectable place, butat a tinker's shop in the verge of the township. A dog with such powers ofdiscrimination certainly merits a place in this true history.

The services of Sunday were finished. Those who, with dill and caraway,had vainly struggled against drowsiness, had waked up with a jerk at thebenediction, and moved with their neighbors along the aisles, a slow andsluggish stream. The nearest friends passed out side by side with meeklycomposed faces, and without greeting each other until they reached thevestibule. So slow and solemn was the progress out of church, that merryJames Hardwick averred that he saw Deacon Stone, a short fat man, actuallydozing, his eyes softly shutting and opening like a hen's, as he was bornealong by the crowd. The Deacon had been known to sleep while he stood upin his pew during prayer, but perhaps James's story was rather apocryphal.

Mark Davenport, of course, had been the object of considerable attentionduring the day, and at the meeting-house-door numbers of his oldacquaintances gathered round him. No one was more cordial in manner thanSquire Clamp. His face was wrinkled into what were meant for smiles, andhis voice was even smoother and more insinuating than usual. It was onlyby a strong effort that Mark gulped down his rising indignation, andreplied civilly.

Sunday in Innisfield ended at sunset, though labor was not resumed untilthe next day; but neighbors called upon each other in the twilight, andtalked over the sermons of the day, and the affairs of the church andparish. That evening, while Mr. Hardwick's family were sitting around thetable reading, a long growl was heard from Caesar at the door, followed byan emphatic "Get out!" The growls grew fiercer, and James went to the doorto see what was the matter. Squire Clamp was the luckless man. The dog hadseized his coat-tail, and had pulled it forward, so that he stood face toface with the Squire, who was vainly trying to free himself by poking athis adversary with a great baggy umbrella. James sent away the dog with areprimand, but laughed as he followed the angry man into the house. Healways cited this afterwards as a new proof of the sagacity of the grimand uncompromising Caesar.

"S-sorry you've had such a t-time with the dog," said Mr. Hardwick; "hedon't g-ginerally bark at pup-people."

"Oh, no matter," said the Squire, contemplating the measure of damage inthe skirt of his coat. "A good, sound sermon Mr. Rook gave us to-day. Thedoctrines of the decrees and sovereignty, and the eternal destruction ofthe impenitent, were strongly set forth."

"Y-yes, I sp-spose so. I d-don't profit so m-much by that inst-struction,however. I th-think more of the e-every-day religion he u-usuallypreaches."—Mr. Hardwick trotted one foot with a leg crossed and with anair which showed to his children and to Mark plainly enough how impatienthe was of the Squire's beginning so far away from what he came to say.

"Why, you don't doubt these fundamental points?" asked Mr. Clamp.

"No, I don't d-doubt, n-nor I don't th-think much about 'em; they're t-toodeep for me, and I ler-let 'em alone. We shall all un-know about thesethings in God's goo-good time. I th-think more about keepin' peace amongn-neighbors, bein' kuh-kindly to the poor, h-helpin' on the cause ofeddication, and d-doin' ginerally as I would be done by."—Mr. Hardwick'semphasis could not be mistaken, and Squire Clamp was a little uneasy.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Hardwick," he replied, "all the town knows of your practicalreligion." Then turning to Mark, he said, blandly, "So you came homeyesterday. How long do you propose to stay?"

The young man never had the best control of his temper, and it was nowrapidly coming up to the boiling-point. "Mr. Clamp," said he, "if you hadasked a pickerel the same question, he would probably tell you that youknew best how and when he came on shore, and that for himself he expectedto get back into water as soon as he got the hook out of his jaws."

"I am sorry to see this warmth," said Mr. Clamp; "I trust you have notbeen put to any trouble."

"Really," said Mark, bitterly, "you have done your best to ruin me in theplace where I earn my living, but 'trust I have not been put to anytrouble'! Your sympathy is as deep as your sincerity."

"Mark," said Mr. Hardwick, "you're sa-sayin' more than is necess-ssary."

"Indeed, he is quite unjust," rejoined the lawyer. "I saw an alteration inhis manner to-day, and for that reason I came here. I prefer to keep thefriendship of all men, especially of those of my townsmen and brethren inthe church whose piety and talents I so highly respect."

"S-sartinly, th-that's right. I don't like to look around, wh-when I takethe ker-cup at the Sacrament, and see any man that I've wronged; an' Idon't f-feel comf'table nuther to see anybody der-drinkin' from the samecup that I think has tried to w-wrong me or mine."

"You can save yourself that anxiety about Mr. Clamp, Uncle," said Mark."He is not so much concerned about our Christian fellowship as he is abouthis fees. He couldn't live here, if he didn't manage to keep on both sidesof every little quarrel in town. Having done me what mischief he could, hewants now to salve the wound over."

"My young friend, what is the reason of this heat?" asked Mr. Clamp,mildly.

"I don't care to talk further," Mark retorted. "I might as well explainthe pathology of flesh bruises to a donkey who had maliciously kicked me."

Mr. Clamp wiped his bald head, on which the perspiration was beginning togather. His stock of pious commonplaces was exhausted, and he saw noprospect of calming Mark's rage, or of making any deep impression on theblacksmith. He therefore rose to depart. "Good evening," said he. "I prayyou may become more reasonable, and less disposed to judge harshly of yourfriend and brother."

Mark turned his back on him. Mr. Hardwick civilly bade him good-night.Lizzy and Anna, who had retreated during the war of words, came back, andthe circle round the table was renewed.

"Yer-you'll see one thing," said Mr. Hardwick. "He'll b-bring you, andp'r'aps me, too, afore the church for this talk."

"The sooner, the better," said Mark.

"I d'no," said Mr. Hardwick. "Ef we must live in f-fellowship, a der-diffi-culty in church isn't per-pleasant. But 'tis uncomf'table forstraight wood to be ker-corded up with such ker-crooked sticks as him."

[To be continued.]


It is a pleasant June morning out on the Beauport slopes; the breeze comesladen with perfume from shady Mount Lilac; and it is good to bask here inthe meadows and look out upon the grand panorama of Quebec, with itsbeautiful bay sweeping in bold segments of shoreline to the mouth of theRiver St Charles. The king-bird, too lazy to give chase to his properquarry, the wavering butterfly, sways to and fro upon a tall weed; andthere, at the bend of the brook, sits an old kingfisher on a dead branch,gorged with his morning meal, and regardless of his reflected image in thestill pool beneath. The goguelu[1] rises suddenly up from his tuft ofgrass, and, having sung a few staves of his gurgling song, drops downagain like a cricket-ball and is no more seen. Smooth-plumaged wax-wingsare pruning their feathers in the tamarac-trees; and high up over thewaters of the bay sails a long-winged fish-hawk, taking an extended andgenerally liberal view of sundry important matters connected with thefishery question.

[Footnote 1: This name is given by the French Canadians to the bobolink orrice bunting. It is an old, I believe an obsolete, French word, and means"braggart."]

Many a year has gone by since I last looked upon this picture, and then itwas a winter scene; for it was near the end of March, which is winterenough in this region, and the blue water of the bay there was flaggedover with a rough white pavement of crisp snow. I think I see it now,faintly ruled with two lines of sapins, or young fir saplings,—onemarking out the winter road to the Island of Orleans, and the other thatfrom Quebec to Montmorency; and this memory recalls to me how it fell upona certain day, the incidents of which are expanding upon my mind likethose dissolving views that come up out of the dark, I set up a camp-firejust where that wood-barge nods drowsily at anchor, about a mile this sideof the town. It was a sort of bivouac a man is not likely to forget in ahurry; not that it makes much of a story, after all,—but a triflingscratch will sometimes leave its mark on a man for life. I was quarteredin Quebec then; didn't go much into society, though, because I devotedmuch of my young energies to shooting and fishing, which were worth anyexpenditure of energy in those days. And so I restricted my evening roundsof duty to one or two houses which were conducted on the always-at-homeprinciple, walking in and hanging up my wide-awake when it suited me, andstaying away when it didn't,—which was about the oftener.

In the winter of eighteen hundred and no matter what, I got three months'leave of absence, with the intention of devoting a great portion of it toa long-planned expedition, an invasion of the wild mountain-region lyingnorth of Quebec, towards the head-waters of the Saguenay,—a districtseldom disturbed by the presence of civilized man, but abandoned to thesemi-barbarous hunter and trapper, and frequented much by that prince ofroving bucks, the shy but stately caribou. I need not go into the detailsof my two-months' hunt. It was like any other expedition of the sort,about which so much information has already been given to the world in thepleasant narratives of the wandering family of MacNimrod. I succeeded inprocuring many hairy and horned trophies of trap and rifle, as well as inconverting myself from some semblance of respectability into the veriestlooking cannibal that ever breakfasted on an underdone enemy. The returnfrom the chase furnished the little adventure I have alluded to,—a verysmall adventure, but deeply impressed upon a memory now a good deal cut upwith tracks and traces of strange beasts of accidents, quaint "vestiges ofcreation," ineffaceably stamped upon what poor Andrew Romer used to callthe "old red sandstone," in playful allusion to what his friends well knewwas a heart of hearts.

The snow lay heavy in the woods, wet and heavy with the breath of comingspring, as I tramped out of them one March morning, and found myself onthe queen's highway, within short rifle-shot of the rushing Montmorency,whose roar had reached us through the forest an hour or two before. In theearly days of our hunt I had been so lucky as to run down and kill a largemoose, whose antlered head was a valuable trophy; and so I confided it tothe especial charge of my faithful follower, Zachary Hiver, a brulé orhalf-breed of the Chippewa nation, who had hunted buffaloes with me on theplains of the Saskatchewan and gaffed my salmon in the swift waters of theMingan and Escoumains. I had promised him powder and lead enough tomaintain his rifle for the probable remainder of his earthly hunting-career, if he succeeded in safely conveying to Quebec the hide and hornsof the mammoth stag of the forest. These he had concealed, accordingly, ina safe hiding-place, or cache, to be touched at on our return; and nowas he emerged from the dark pine copse, with his ropy locks tasselling hisflat skull, and a tattered blanket-coat fluttering in ribbons from hisbrown and brawny chest, his interest in the venture appeared in thecareful manner in which he drew after him a long, slender tobaugan,heavily packed with the hard-won proceeds of trap and gun. Foremost amongthese were displayed the broad antlers of the moose of my affections,whose skin served as a tarpaulin for the remainder of the baggage, roundwhich it was snugly tucked in with thongs of kindred material.

We halted on a broad ledge of rock by the western verge of the bay of theFalls, glad of an opportunity of enjoying my independence to the last,unfettered by the conventionalities for which I was beginning to be imbuedwith a savage contempt. Here we set up a primitive kitchen-range, and,having feasted upon cutlets of the caribou, scientifically treated by askewer process with which Zach was familiar, we lounged like "lazyshepherds" in the sun, and the eye of the Indian flashed as I producedfrom the folds of my sash a leather-covered flask which did not look as ifit was meant to contain water. During the weeks of the chase I had beenvery careful to conceal this treasure from Zach, knowing how helpless anIndian becomes under the influence of the "fire-water"; and as I had had apull at it myself only two or three times, under circ*mstances of unusualadversity and hardship, there still remained in it a very respectableallowance for two, from which I subtracted a liberal measure, handing overthe balance to Zach, who gulped down the skiltiwauboh with a fiendishgrin and a subsequent inhuman grunt. As I lit my pipe after thissatisfactory arrangement, the roar of the mighty Montmorency, whirlingdown its turbulent perpendicular flood behind a half-drawn curtain ofgreen and azure ice, sounded like exquisite music to my ears, and I lookedtowards Quebec and blinked at its fire-flashing tin spires and house-topsburning through the coppery morning fog, until my mind's eye becametelescopic, and my thoughts, unsentimental though I be, reverted tocivilized society and its agréments, and particularly to a certainsteep-roofed cottage situated on a suburban road, in the boudoirs of whichI liked to imagine one pined for my return. If memory has its pleasures,has it not also its glimpses of regret?—and who can say that the formercompensate for the latter? Even now I see her as she used to step out onthe veranda,—the lithe Indian girl, rivalling the choicest "desert-flower" of Arabia in the rich darkness of her eyes and hair, and in thewarm mantling of her golden-ripe complexion,—unutterably graceful in thethorough-bred ease of her elastic movements,—Zosime MacGillivray, perfecttype and model of the style and beauty of the brulée. She was the onlychild of a retired trader of the old North-West Fur Company and his Indianwife; had been partly educated in England; possessed rather more than thethen average Colonial allowance of accomplishments; and was, altogether,so much in harmony with my roving forest-inclinations, that I sometimesthought, half seriously, how pleasant and respectable it would be to haveone such at the head of one's camp-equipage, and how much nicer acompanion she would be on a hunt than that disreputable old scoundrel,Zach Hiver.

"Pack the tobaugan, Zach! The sun will come out strong by and by, andthe longer we tarry here, the heavier the snow will be for our stretch tothe Citadel. Up, there! lève-toi, cochon!" shouted I, in the elegantterms of address which experience had taught me were the only ones thathad any effect upon the stolid sensibilities of the half-breed,—at thesame time administering to him a kick that produced a thud and a grunt,as if actually bestowed on the unclean quadruped to which I had justlikened him. The ragamuffin was very slow this time in getting the trapstogether on the tobaugan, and, if I had not attended to the mattermyself, the moose trophy, at least, would in all probability have beenleft to perish, and would never have pointed a moral and adorned a tale,as it now does, in its exalted position among the reminiscences of thingspast. At length we got under way, and, as a walk over the open plainoffered a pleasing variety to a man who had been feeling his way so longthrough the dim old woods, I determined to descend from the ridge ofBeauport, and proceed over the snow-covered surface of the bay, in abird's-eye line, to our point of destination. Winding down the almostperpendicular declivity, sometimes sliding down on our snow-shoes, withthe tobaugan running before us, "on its own hook," at a fearful pace,and sometimes obliged to descend, hand under hand, by the tangled rootsand shrubs, we soon found ourselves on the great white winter-prairie ofthe grand St. Lawrence, upon which I strode forward with renewed energy,steering my course, like the primitive steeple-chasers of my boyhood'shome, upon the highest church-tower looming up from the heterogeneoushuddle of motley houses that just showed their gable-tops over the lowring of mist which mingled with the smoke of the Lower Town.

After a progress of about five miles, I found I had very materiallywidened the distance between myself and Zach, who, encumbered by thebaggage, and by the spring snow which each moment accumulated in wet heavycakes upon his snow-shoes, was now a good mile in my rear. This I wassurprised at, as he generally outwalked me, even when carrying on his backa heavy load, with perhaps a canoe on his head, co*cked-hat fashion, as hewas often obliged to do in our fishing-excursions to the northern lakes.It now occurred to me, however, that I had incautiously left the brandy-flask in his charge, and when he came up with me I gathered from his fishyeye, and the thick dribblings of his macaronic gibberish,—which wascompounded of sundry Indian dialects and French-Canadian patois,coarsely ground up with bits of broken English,—that the modern Circe,who changes men into beasts, had wrought her spells upon him; acirc*mstance at which I was terribly annoyed, as foreboding an ignominiousentry into the city by back-lane and sally-port, instead of my long-anticipated triumphal progress up St. Louis Street, bearded in splendor,bristling with knife and rifle, and followed by my wild Indian coureur-des-bois, drawing my antlered trophies after him upon the tobaugan asupon a festival car.

"Kaween nishishin! kaw-ween!" howled the big monster, in his mixed-picklemacaronio,—"je me sens saisi du mal-aux-raquettes, je ne pouvons plus.Why you go so dam fast, when hot sun he make snow for tire, eh? Sacr-r-réraquettes! il me semble qu'ils se grossissent de plus en plus à chaquedémarche. Stop for smoke, eh?—v'là! good place for camp away there,kitchee hogeemaus endaut, big chief's house may-be!" grinned he, as heindicated with Indian instinct and a wavering finger a structure of somekind that peered through the fog at a short distance on our left.

We were now within about a mile of Quebec. The Indian's intoxication hadincreased to a ludicrous extent, so that to have ventured into the townwith him must have resulted in a reckless exposure of myself to the justobloquy and derision of the public; while, on the other hand, if I lefthim alone upon the wide world of ice, and dragged the tobaugan to townmyself, the unfortunate brulé must inevitably have stepped into sometreacherous snow-drift or air-hole, and thus miserably perished. So I madeup my mind for a camp on the ice; and, diverging from our course in thedirection pointed out by the Indian, we soon arrived at the objectindicated by him, which proved to be a stout framework about twelve feetsquare, constructed of good heavy timber solidly covered with dealboarding, and conveying indubitable evidence, to my thinking, of theremains of one of the cabanes or shanties commonly erected on the ice bythose engaged in the "tommy-cod" fishery,—portable structures, so fittedtogether as to admit of being put up and removed piecemeal, to suit theconvenience of their proprietors. I blessed mentally the carelessindividual who had thus unconsciously provided for our especial shelter;and as the wind had now suddenly arisen sharp from the west, driving thefog before it with clouds of fine drifting snow, I was glad to get underthe lee of the providential wall, in the hospitable shelter of which,before two minutes had elapsed, "Stephano, my drunken butler," was snoringaway like a phalanx of bullfrogs, with his head bolstered up somehowbetween the great moose-horns, and his brawny limbs rolled carelessly inthe warm but somewhat unsavory skin of the dead monarch of the forest. Igloried in his calm repose; for the day was yet young, and I flatteredmyself that a three-hours' snooze would restore his muddled intellects totheir normal mediocrity of useful instinct, and that I might still achievemy triumphal entry into the city,—a procession I had been so much in thehabit of picturing to myself over the nocturnal camp-fire, that it hadbecome a sort of nightmare with me. Indeed, I had idealized it roughly inmy pocket-book, intending to transfer the sketches, for elaboration oncanvas, to Tankerville, the regimental Landseer, whose menagerie of livingmodels, consisting of two bears, one calf-moose, one loup-cervier, threebloated raccoons, and a bald eagle, formed at once the terror and delightof the rising generation of the barracks.

Having got up a small fire with the assistance of the chips and scraps ofwood that were plentifully scattered around, I placed my snow-shoes one ontop of the other, and sat down on them,—a sort of preparatory step in mytransition to civilization, for they had somewhat the effect of a cane-bottomed chair minus the legs and without a back. Then I filled my shortblack pipe from the seal-skin tobacco-pouch, the contents of which had sooften assuaged my troubled spirit when I brooded over griefs which thenwere immature, if not imaginary. It was a very pleasant smoke, Irecollect,—so pleasant, that I rather congratulated myself upon myposition; the only drawback to it being that I was shut out from a view ofthe town, as the wind and drift rendered it indispensable for comfort insmoking that I should keep strictly to leeward of my bulwark. Tobacco isnotoriously a promoter of reflection; there must be something essentiallyretrospective in the nature of the weed. I retired upon the days of myboyhood, my legs and feet becoming clairvoyant of the corduroys andhighlows of that happy period of my existence, as the revolving curls ofpale smoke exhibited to me, with marvellous fidelity, many quaintsuccessive tableaux of the old familiar scenes of home,—sentimental,some of them,—comic, others,—like the domestic incidents revealed withexaggerations on the hazy field of a magic-lantern. I thought of my poormother, and of the excellent parting advice she gave me,—but moreparticularly of the night-caps with strings, which she extracted such asolemn promise from me to wear carefully every night in all climates, andwhich, on the second evening of my sojourn in barracks, were sounceremoniously reduced to ashes in a noisy auto-da-fé. Theseretrospective pictures were succeeded by others of more modern date,coming round in a progressive series, until I had painted myself up towithin a few weeks of my present position, the foreground of my existence.Then I remembered promises made by me of contributions to a certainalbum,—further contributions,—for I had already furnished several pagesof it with food for mind and eye in the form of melancholy verses and"funny" sketches, with brief dramatic dialogues beneath the latter, toelucidate the "story." I particularly recollected having volunteered atranslation or imitation of a pretty song in Ruy Blas; and as the fit wasupon me, I produced my pocketbook, to commit to paper a version of itwhich I had mentally devised. The leaves of my book were all filled,however; some with memoranda,—a sort of savage diary it was,—some withsketches of scenes in the wilderness: there was not a corner vacant.Turning towards the planking of my bulwark, I perceived that it wassmoothly planed and clean, and to work on it I went, pencil in hand. FirstI wrote "Zosime MacGillivray," in several different styles of chirography,flourished and plain, and even in old text. Then I sketched out a roughdesign for an ornamental heading, with a wreath of flowers encircling thewords "To Zozzy," and beneath this work of Art I inscribed the effort ofmy muse, which ran thus:—

Fields and forests rejoice
In their silver-toned throng;
I hear but the voice
Of the bird in thy song!

In April's glad shower
Flash petals and leaves,
Less bright than the flower
Round thy heart that weaves!

Stars waken, stars slumber,
Stars wink in the sky,
Bright numberless number;
But none like thine eye!

For bird-song and flower
And star from above
Combine in thy bower;
Their union is love!

My mind being considerably relieved by this gush of sentiment, I feltmyself entitled to unbend a little, and, turning my attention to artisticpursuits, principally of a humorous character, I developed successivelymany long-pent-up imaginings in the way of severe studies of sundrygarrison notables. There was "Bendigo" Phillips, with boxing-glovesfearfully brandished, appearing in the attitude in which he polished offyoung Thurlow of the R.A., under the pretence of giving him a lesson inthe noble art of self-defence, but in reality to revenge himself upon himfor an ill-timed interference in a certain affaire du coeur. The agonyof young Thurlow, pretending to look pleased, was depicted by a verysuccessful stroke of Art. To the extreme right you might have beheldVegetable Warren, the staff-surgeon, slightly exaggerated in the semblanceof a South-Down wether nibbling at a gigantic Swedish turnip. Writtenlampoons of the fiercest character accompanied the illustrations. But myboldest effort was an atrocious and libellous cartoon of the commandant ofthe garrison, popularly known as "Old Wabbles,"—I believe from thepreternatural manner in which his wide Esquimaux boots vacillated abouthis long, lean shanks. This chef d'oeuvre was executed upon a ratherlarge scale, and I imparted considerable force and breadth to the designby "coaling in" the shadows with a charred stick. Then calling color to myaid, as far as my limited means admitted, I scraped from the edges of themoose-hide a portion of the red-streaked fat, and, having impastedtherewith the bacchanalian nose of my subject, I stepped back a few pacesto contemplate the effect. So ludicrous was the resemblance, that Ilaughed outright in the pride of my success,—a transient hilarity, nippedsuddenly in the bud by the loud boom of a cannon, accompanied rather thanfollowed by a rushing sound a few feet above my head, and a thunderingbump and splutter upon the ice some thirty or forty yards beyond me, asthe heavy shot skipped and ricochetted away with receding bounds to itsvanishing-point somewhere in the neighborhood of the Island of Orleans.Two strides to the front, and a glance at the broad, black ring emblazonedon the hitherto disregarded face of my bulwark, and the truth flashed uponmy staggering senses.

I was encamped in the lee of the bran-new artillery target, and they werejust commencing practice, on this fine bright afternoon, by pitchingthirty-two-pound shot into and about it, at intervals—as I pretty wellknew—of distressingly uncertain duration. With frantic strength I graspedthe Indian by the neck, and, plunging madly through the snow, dragged himafter me a few paces in the direction of our former track; but, hamperedas he was by the moose-trappings, the weight was too much for me, and Idropped him, instinctively continuing to run with breathless speed, until,having gained a considerable distance away from any probable line of fire,I flung myself down upon the snow, and was somewhat startled at findingZach very close upon my tracks, tearing along on all fours with a vaguesense of danger of some kind, and looking, in his strange envelope, likean infuriated bull-moose in the act of charging a hunter. A shot struckthe corner of the target just as we got away from it, slightly splinteringit, so as to give the bewildered Indian a pleasant practical lesson in thescience of gunnery and fortification.

Two minutes elapsed,—three minutes,—five minutes,—not another shot; butit might commence again at any moment, and I stood at a respectfuldistance from the danger, uncertain what course to pursue for the recoveryof my traps, all of which, rifle, snow-shoes, and tobaugan loaded withspoils, lay in pledge with the two-faced friend whose treacherous shelterhad no longer any charm for me, when I beheld several sleighs approachingus from the town at a fearful pace, in the foremost of which, when withinrange of rifle, I recognized Old Wabbles, the commandant.

"Who the Devil are you?" shouted he, as he drove right at us. "TwoIndians, ha!—somebody said it was one Indian with a moose after him, aman and a moose. Where's Thurlow?—he had the telescope, and assertedthere was a man running round the target and a moose after him. I don'tsee the moose." Zach had dropped the hide and horns from his "recreantlimbs," and was seated solemnly upon the snow, in all the majesty of hisnative dirt.

"By Jove, it's Kennedy!" cried Tankerville, whose artistical eye detectedme through my hirsute and fluttering disguise. "What a picturesqueobject!—I congratulate you, old fellow!—easiest and pleasantest way inthe world of making a living!—lose no time about it, but send in yourpapers at once!—continue assiduously to neglect your person, and you'reworth a guinea an hour for the rest of your prime, as a living model onthe full pay of the Academies!"

I was soon bewildered by a torrent of inquiries from all sides: as to howI came behind the target,—what success I had had in the woods,—how manymiles I had come to-day,—whether I had got the martin-skin I had promisedto this one, and the silver fox I undertook to trap for that,—when,suddenly, a diversion was created by a roar from Phillips, who hadproceeded to inspect my spoils behind the target, and now stood looking atmy portrait-gallery of living celebrities, his great chest heaving withlaughter; and before I could satisfy my inquiring friends, the whole crowdhad rushed pell-mell to the exhibition.

"Caught, by all that's lovely!" shouted Phillips, repeating my verses atthe top of his voice,—

"The bird-song and flower
And star from above
Combine in thy bower;
Their union is love!"

"Ritoorala loorala loorala loo, ritoorala loorala loorala loo!" chorusedeverybody, as he sang the last verse to the vulgar melody of 'Tatter JackWelch,' knocking the poetry out of my constitution at once and forever,like the ashes out of a pipe. "Hooray for Miss Mac! Who should havethought it, Darby?"—That was my pet name in the regiment.

"How like!—how very like!—That's Warren there, nibbling the turnip. Andthere's Thurlow,—ha! ha! ha! how good! And that—that—that's me, byJingo!—he he! he! he!—not so good that, somehow,—neck too long by halfa foot. But the Colonel!—only look at his boots!—He must'n't see this,though, by Jove!—Choke the Colonel off, boys!—take him round to thefront!—do something!" whispered good-natured Symonds, anxious to keep meclear of the scrape.

But it was too late. The last objects that met my view were the ghastlylegs of the Commandant, as he strode through the circle in front of myArt-exhibition. I saw no more. A soldier is but a mortal man. Rushing tothe nearest cariole,—it was the Commandant's,—I leaped into it, and,lashing the horse furiously towards the town, never pulled rein until Igot up to my long-deserted quarters in the Citadel. There I barricadedmyself into my own room, directing my servant to proceed to the targetfor my scattered property. I had still a month's leave of absence beforeme, availing myself of which, I started next morning for New York,subsequently obtained an extension of leave, sailed for England, andthere negotiating an exchange from a regiment whose facings no longersuited my taste for colors, I soon found myself gazetted into a lessobjectionable one lying at Corfu.

I have never seen Tankerville's famous picture of my triumphal entry into


The dead leaves their rich mosaics,
Of olive and gold and brown,
Had laid on the rain-wet pavements,
Through all the embowered town.

They were washed by the Autumn tempest,
They were trod by hurrying feet,
And the maids came out with their besoms
And swept them into the street,

To be crushed and lost forever
'Neath the wheels, in the black mire lost,—
The Summer's precious darlings,
She nurtured at such cost!

O words that have fallen from me!
O golden thoughts and true!
Must I see in the leaves a symbol
Of the fate which awaiteth you?


Again has come the Spring-time,
With the crocus's golden bloom,
With the smell of the fresh-turned earth-mould,
And the violet's perfume.

O gardener! tell me the secret
Of thy flowers so rare and sweet!—
—"I have only enriched my garden
With the black mire from the street."


What is a Gaucho?

That is precisely what I am going to tell you.

Take my hand, if you please. Shod with the shoes of swiftness, we haveannihilated space and time. We are standing in the centre of a boundlessplain. Look north and south and east and west: for five hundred milesbeyond the limit of your vision, the scarcely undulating level stretcheson either hand. Miles, leagues, away from us, the green of the torridgrass is melting into a misty dun; still further miles, and the misty dunhas faded to a shadowy blue; more miles, it rounds at last away into thesky. A hundred miles behind us lies the nearest village; two hundred inanother direction will bring you to the nearest town. The swiftest horsemay gallop for a day and night unswervingly, and still not reach adwelling-place of man. We are placed in the midst of a vast, unpeopledcircle, whose radii measure a thousand miles.

But see! a cloud arises in the South. Swiftly it rolls towards us; behindit there is tumult and alarm. The ground trembles at its approach; the airis shaken by the bellowing that it covers. Quick! let us stand aside! for,as the haze is lifted, we can see the hurrying forms of a thousand cattle,speeding with lowered horns and fiery eyes across the plain. Fortunately,they do not observe our presence; were it otherwise, we should be trampledor gored to death in the twinkling of an eye. Onward they rush; at lastthe hindmost animals have passed; and see, behind them all there scours aman!

He glances at us, as he rushes by, and determines to give us a specimen ofhis only art. Shaking his long, wild locks, as he rises in the stirrup andpresses his horse to its maddest gallop, he snatches from his saddle-bowthe loop of a coil of rope, whirls it in his right hand for an instant,then hurls it, singing through the air, a distance of fifty paces. A jerkand a strain,—a bellow and a convulsive leap,—his lasso is fast aroundthe horns of a bull in the galloping herd. The horseman flashes amurderous knife from his belt, winds himself up to the plunging beast,severs at one swoop the tendon of its hind leg, and buries the point ofhis weapon in the victim's spinal marrow. It falls dead. The man, myfriend, is a Gaucho; and we are standing on the Pampas of the ArgentineRepublic.

Let us examine this dexterous wielder of the knife and cord. He, Juan deDios! Come hither, O Centaur of the boundless cattle-plains! We will notask you to dismount,—for that you never do, we know, except to eat andsleep, or when your horse falls dead, or tumbles into a bizcachero; butwe want to have a look at your savage self, and the appurtenancesthereunto belonging.

And first, you say, the meaning of his name. The title, Gaucho, is appliedto the descendants of the early Spanish colonists, whose homes are on thePampa, instead of in the town,—to the rich estanciero, or owner ofsquare leagues of cattle, in common with the savage herdsman whom heemploys,—to Generals and Dictators, as well as to the most ragged Pampa-Cossack in their pay. Our language is incapable of expressing the ideaconveyed by this term; and the Western qualification "backwoodsman" isperhaps the nearest approach to a synonyme that we can attain.

The head of our swarthy friend is covered with a species of Neapolitancap, (let me confess, in a parenthesis, that my ideas of such head-coverings are derived from the costume of graceful Signor Brignoli in"Masaniello,") which was once, in all probability, of scarlet hue, but nowalmost rivals in color the jet-black locks which it confines. His face—well, we will pass that over, and, on our return to civilized life, willrefer the curious inquirer for a fac-simile to the first best painting ofSalvator, there to select at pleasure the most ferocious banditcountenance that he can find. And now the remainder of his person. Hewears an open jacket of dirt-crusted serge, covered in front with agorgeous eruption of plated buttons, and a waistcoat of the same material,adorned with equal profuseness, and showing at the neck a substratum ofdubious crimson, supposed to be a flannel shirt. So far, you may say,there is nothing suspicious or very outlandish about his rig; butturpiter desinit formosus superne,—there is something highly remarkableá continuacion. Do you see that blanket which is drawn tightly up, foreand aft, toward his waist, and, there confined by means of a belt whichhis querida has richly ornamented for him, falls over in uneven foldslike an abbreviated kilt? That is the famous chiripá, or Gauchopetticoat, which, like the bracae of the Northern barbarians somenineteen hundred years ago, distinguishes him from the inhabitants ofcivilized communities. Below the chiripá, his limbs are cased incalzoncillos, stout cotton drawers or pantalets, which terminate in afringe (you should see the elaborate worsted-work that adorns the hem ofhis gala-pair) an inch or two above the ankle. His feet are thrust into apair of botas de potro, or colt's-foot boots, manufactured from the hideof a colt's fore-leg, which he strips off whole, chafes in his hand untilit becomes pliable and soft, sews up at the lower extremity,—and puts on,the best riding-boot that the habitable world can show. Add a monstrousspur to each heel of this chaussure, and you will have fully equippedthe worthy Juan de Dios for active service.—But stay! his accoutrements!We must not forget that Birmingham-made butcher-knife, which, for a dozenyears, has never been for a moment beyond his reach; nor the coilinglasso, and the bolas, or balls of iron, fastened at each end of a thongof hide, which he can hurl a distance of sixty feet, and inextricablyentangle around the legs of beast or man; nor the recado, or saddle, hisonly seat by day, and his pillow when he throws himself upon the ground tosleep under the canopy of heaven. Neither must we omit the mate gourdwhich dangles at his waist, in readiness to receive its infusion ofyerba, or Paraguay tea, which he sucks through that tin tube, calledbombilla, and looking for all the world like the broken spout of an oil-can with a couple of pieces of nutmeg-grater soldered on, as strainers, atthe lower end; nor the string of sapless charque beef, nor the pouchfulof villanous tobacco, nor the paper for manufacturing it intocigarritos, nor the cow's-horn filled with tinder, and the flint andsteel attached. Thus mounted, clothed, and equipped, he is ready for agallop of a thousand leagues.

He is a strange individual, this Gaucho Juan. Born in a hut built of mudand maize-stalks somewhere on the superficies of these limitless plains,he differs little, in the first two years of his existence, from peasantbabies all the world over; but so soon as he can walk, he becomes anequestrian. By the time he is four years old there is scarcely a colt inall the Argentine that he will not fearlessly mount; at six, he whirls aminiature lasso around the horns of every goat or ram he meets. In thoseimportant years when our American youth are shyly beginning to claim thetitle of young men, and are spending anxious hours before the mirror incontemplation of the slowly-coming down upon their lip, young Juan (whonever saw a dozen printed books, and perhaps has only heard of looking-glasses) is galloping, like a portion of the beast he rides, over athousand miles of prairie, lassoing cattle, ostriches, and guanacos,fighting single-handed with the jaguar, or lying stiff and stark behindthe heels of some plunging colt that he has too carelessly bestrid.

At twenty-one he is in his glory. Then we must look for him in thepulperías, the bar-rooms of the Pampas, whither he repairs on Sundaysand fiestas, to get drunk on aguardiente or on Paraguay rum. There youmay see him seated, listening open-mouthed to the cantor, or Gauchotroubadour, as he sings the marvellous deeds of some desert hero,persecuted, unfortunately, by the myrmidons of justice for the numerousmisfortunes (Anglicé, murders) upon his head,—or narrates inimpassioned strain, to the accompaniment of his guitar, the circ*mstancesof one in which he has borne a part himself,—or chants the frightful endof the Gaucho Attila, Quiroga, and the punishment that overtook hismurderer, the daring Santos Perez. When the song is over, the cards aredealt. Seated upon a dried bull's-hide, each man with his unsheathed knifeplaced ostentatiously at his side, the jolly Gauchos commence their game.Suddenly Manuel exclaims, that Pedro or Estanislao or Antonio is playingfalse. Down fly the cards; up flash the blades; a ring is formed. Manuel,to tell the truth, has accused his friend Pedro only for the sake of alittle sport; he has never marked a man yet, and thinks it high timethat that honor were attained. So the sparks fly from the flashing blades,and Pedro's nose has got another gash in it, and Manuel is bleeding in adozen places, but he will not give in just yet. Unfortunate Gaucho! Pedrothe next moment slips in a sticky pool of his own blood, and Manuel'sknife is buried in his heart! "He is killed! Manuel has had a misfortune!"exclaim the ring; "fly, Manuel, fly!" In another minute, and just as thevigilantes are throwing themselves upon their horses to pursue him, hehas galloped out of sight.

Twenty miles from the pulpería he draws rein, dismounts, wipes hisbloody knife on the grass, and slices off a collop of charque, which hemunches composedly for his supper. Very likely this misfortune will makehim a Gaucho malo. The Gaucho malo is an outlaw, at home only in thedesert, intangible as the wind, sanguinary, remorseless, swift. Hisbrethren of the estancia pronounce his name occasionally, but in loweredtones, and with a mixture of terror and respect; he is looked up to bythem as a sort of higher being. His home is a movable point upon an areaof twenty thousand square miles; his horse, the finest steed that he canfind upon the Pampas between Buenos Ayres and the Andes, between the GranChaco and Cape Horn; his food, the first beef that he captures with hislasso; his dainties, the tongues of cows which he kills, and abandons,when he has stripped them of his favorite titbit, to the birds of prey.Sometimes he dashes into a village, drinks a gourdful of aguardientewith the admiring guests at the pulpería, and spurs away again intoobscurity, until at length the increasing number of his desgraciastempts the mounted emissaries of justice to pursue him, in the hope ofextra reward. If suddenly beset by seven or eight of these desert police,the Gaucho malo slashes right and left with his redoubted knife,—killsone, maims another, wounds them all. Perhaps he reaches his horse and isoff and away amid a shower of harmless balls;—or he is taken; in whichcase, all that remains, the day after, of the Gaucho malo, is a lump ofsoulless clay.

Then there is the guide, or vaqueano. This man, as one who knows himwell informs us, is a grave and reserved Gaucho, who knows by heart thepeculiarities of twenty thousand leagues of mountain, wood, and plain! Heis the only map that an Argentinian general takes with him in acampaign; and the vaqueano is never absent from his side. No plan isformed without his concurrence. The army's fate, the success of a battle,the conquest of a province, is entirely dependent upon his integrity andskill; and, strange to say, there is scarcely an instance on record oftreachery on the part of a vaqueano. He meets a pathway which crossesthe road upon which he is travelling, and he can tell you the exactdistance of the remote watering-place to which it leads; if he meet with athousand similar pathways in a journey of five hundred miles, it willstill be the same. He can point out the fords of a hundred rivers; he canguide you in safety through a hundred trackless woods. Stand with him atmidnight on the Pampa,—let the track be lost,—no moon or stars; thevaqueano quietly dismounts, examines the foliage of the trees, if anyare near, and if there are none, plucks from the ground a handful ofroots, chews them, smells and tastes the soil, and tellsyou that so many hours' travel due north or south will bring you to yourdestination. Do not doubt him; he is infallible.

A mere vaqueano was General Rivera of Uruguay,—but he knew every tree,every hillock, every dell, in a region extending over more than 70,000square miles! Without his aid, Brazil would have been powerless in theBanda Oriental; without his aid, the Argentinians would never havetriumphed over Brazil. As a smuggler in 1804, as a custom-house officer afew years later, as a patriot, a freebooter, a Brazilian general, anArgentinian commander, as President of Uruguay against Lavalleja, as anoutlaw against General Oribe, and finally against Rosas, allied withOribe, as champion of the Banda Oriental del Uruguay, Rivera had certainlyample opportunities for perfecting himself in that study of which he wasthe ardent devotee.

Cooper has told us how and by what signs, in years that have foreverfaded, the Huron tracked his flying foe through the forests of the North;we read of Cuban bloodhounds, and of their frightful baying on the scentof the wretched maroon; we know how the Bedouin follows his tribe overpathless sands;—and yet all these are bunglers, in comparison with theGaucho rastreador!

In the interior of the Argentine every Gaucho is a trailer orrastreador. On those vast feeding-grounds of a million cattle, whosetracks intersect each other in every direction, the herdsman candistinguish with unerring accuracy the footprints of his own peculiarcharge. When an animal is missing from the herd, he throws himself uponhis horse, gallops to the spot where he remembers having seen it last,gazes for a moment upon the trampled soil, and then shoots off for milesacross the waste. Every now and then he halts, surveys the trail, andagain speeds onward in pursuit. At last he reaches the limits of anotherestancia, and the pasturage of a stranger herd. His eagle eye singlesout at a glance the estray; rising in his stirrup, he whirls the lasso fora moment above his head, launches it through the air, and coolly drags therecalcitrant beast away on the homeward trail. He is nothing but a common,comparatively unskilled, rastreador.

The official trailer is of another stamp. Like his kinsman, thevaqueano, he is a personage well convinced of his own importance; grave,reserved, taciturn, whose word is law. Such a one was the famous Calébar,the dreaded thief-taker of the Pampas, the Vidocq of Buenos Ayres. Thisman during more than forty years exercised his profession in the Republic,and a few years since was living, at an advanced age, not far from BuenosAyres. There appeared to be concentrated in him the acuteness and keenperceptions of all the brethren of his craft; it was impossible to deceivehim; no one whose trail he had once beheld could hope to escape discovery.An adventurous vagabond once entered his house, during his temporaryabsence on a journey to Buenos Ayres, and purloined his best saddle. Whenthe robbery was discovered, his wife covered the robber's trail with akneading-trough. Two months later Calébar returned, and was shown thealmost obliterated footprint. Months rolled by; the saddle was apparentlyforgotten; but a year and a half later, as the rastreador was again atBuenos Ayres, a footprint in the street attracted his notice. He followedthe trail; passed from street to street and from plaza to plaza, andfinally entering a house in the suburbs, laid his hand upon the begrimedand worn-out saddle which had once been his own montura de fiesta!

In 1830, a prisoner, awaiting the death-penalty, effected his escape fromjail. Calébar, with a detachment of soldiers, was put upon the scent.Expecting this, and knowing that the gallows lay behind him, the fugitivehad adopted every expedient for baffling his pursuers: he had walked longdistances upon tiptoe; had scrambled along walls; had walked backwards,crawled, doubled, leaped; but all in vain! Calébar's blood was up; hisreputation was at stake; to fail now would be an indelible disgrace. Ifnow and then he found himself at fault, he as often recovered the trail,until the bank of a water-course was reached, to which the flying criminalhad taken. The trail was lost; the soldiers would have turned back; butCalébar had no such thought. He patiently followed the course of theacequia for a few rods, and suddenly halting, said to his companions,"Here is the spot at which he left the canal; there is no trail,—not afootprint,—but do you see those drops of water upon the grass?" With thisslight clue they were led towards a vineyard. Calébar examined it at everyside, and bade the soldiers enter, saying, "He is there!" The men obeyedhim, but shortly reported that no living being was within the walls. "Heis there!" quietly reiterated Calébar; and, in fact, a second morethorough examination resulted in the capture of the trembling fugitive,who was executed on the following day.—There can be no doubt regardingthe literal exactness of this anecdote.

At another time, we are told, a party of political prisoners, incarceratedby General Rosas, had contrived a plan of escape, in which they were to beaided by friends outside. When all was ready, one of the party suddenlyexclaimed,—

"But Calébar! you forget him!"

"Calébar!" echoed his friends; "true, it is useless to escape while he canpursue us!"

Nor was any flight attempted until the dreaded trailer had been bribed tofall ill for a few days, when the prisoners succeeded in making good theirescape.

He who would learn more of Calébar and his brother-trailers, let himprocure a copy of the little work that now lies before us,[1] in the shapeof a tattered duo-decimo, which has come to us across the Andes and aroundCape Horn, from the most secluded corner of the Argentine Confederation.Badly printed and barbarously bound, this "Life of Juan Facundo Quiroga"is nevertheless replete with the evidence of genius, and bears the stampof a generously-cultivated mind. Its author, indeed, the poet-patriot-philosopher, Don Domingo F. Sarmiento, may be called the Lamartine ofSouth America, whose eventful career may some day invite us to anexamination. Suffice it now to say, that he was expelled by Rosas in 1840from Buenos Ayres, and that he took his way to Chile, with the intentionin that hospitable republic of devoting his pen to the service of hisoppressed country. At the baths of Zonda he wrote with charcoal, under adelineation of the national arms: On ne tue point les idées! whichinscription, having been reported to the Gaucho chieftain, a committee wasappointed to decipher and translate it. When the wording of thesignificant hint was conveyed to Rosas, he exclaimed,—"Well, what does itmean?" The answer was conveyed to him in 1852; and the sentence serves asepigraph to the present life of his associate and victim, Facundo Quiroga.

[Footnote 1: Vida de Juan Facundo Quiroga, etc., por Domingo F.
Sarmiento. Santiago, 1845.]

In this extraordinary character we see the quintessence of that desert-life some types of which we have endeavored to delineate. As one who,rising from the lowest station to heights of uncontrolled power, as arepresentative of a class of rulers unfortunately too common in therepublics that descend from Spain, and as a remarkable instance of brutalforce and barbaric stubbornness triumphing over reason, science,education, and, in a word, civilization, he is admirably portrayed by Sr.Sarmiento. Ours be the task to condense into a few pages the story of hislife and death.

The Argentine province of La Rioja embraces vast tracts of sandy desert.Destitute of rivers, bare of trees, it is only by means of artificial andscanty irrigation that the peasant can cultivate a narrow strip of land.Inclosed by these arid wastes lies, nevertheless, a fertile regionentitled the Plains, which, in despite of its name, is broken by ridges ofhills, and supports a luxuriant vegetation with pastures trodden byunnumbered herds. The character of the people is Oriental; theirappearance actually recalls, as we are told, that of the ancient dwellersabout Jerusalem; their very customs have rather an Arabic than a Spanishtinge.

Somewhere upon these Llanos, and toward the close of the eighteenthcentury, Don Prudencio Quiroga, as a well-to-do estanciero or grazier,was gladdened (doubtless) by the birth of a lusty son. He called him JuanFacundo. For the first few years of his existence, we may safely believe,the future general was scarcely distinguishable from a common baby.Obstinate he doubtless was, and fierce and cruel in his tiny way; were hismother still alive, the good woman could doubtless tell us of many abitter moment spent in lamenting her infant's waywardness; but we hearnothing of him until the year 1799, when he was sent to San Juan, a townthen celebrated for its schools and learning, to acquire the rudiments ofknowledge. At the age of eleven the boy already manifested the characterof the future man. Solitary, disdainful, rebellious, his intercourse withhis schoolfellows was limited to the interchange of blows, his onlyamusem*nt lay in the annoyance of those with whom he was brought incontact. He is already a perfect Gaucho; can wield the lasso, and thebolas, and the knife; is a fearless ginete, a consummate horseman. Oneday at school, the master, irritated beyond endurance, exhibits a new rod,bought expressly, so he says, "for flogging Facundo." When the boy iscalled up to recite, he blunders, stammers, hesitates, on purpose. Downcomes the rod; with a vigorous kick Facundo upsets the pedagogue's ricketythrone, and takes to his heels. After a three-days' search, he isdiscovered secreted in a vineyard outside the town.

This little incident, of so trifling import at the time, was rememberedin after years as an early indication of the ferocious and uncontrollablecaudillo's character. But it was soon eclipsed by the reckless deedsthat followed each other in quick succession between his fifteenth andtwentieth years. He speedily became notorious in the little town for hiswild moroseness, for his savage ferocity when excited, for his inordinatelove of cards. Gaming, a passion with many, was a necessary of life tohim; it was the only pursuit to which he was ever constant; it gave riseto the quarrel in which, while yet a schoolboy, he for the first timespilt blood.

By and by we lose sight of the student of San Juan. He has absolutelysunk out of sight. Yet, if we peer into filthy pulperías here andthere between San Luis and San Juan, we may catch a glimpse of a shaggy,swarthy savage, gambling, gambling as if for life; and we may also hear ofmore than one affray in which his dagger has "come home richer than itwent." A little later, the son of wealthy Don Prudencio has become—not acommon laborer—but a comrade of common laborers. He chooses the mosttoilsome, the most unintellectual, but, at the same time, the mostremunerative handicraft,—that of the tapiador, or builder of mudwalls. At San Juan, in the orchard of the Godoys,—at Fiambalá, in LaRioja, in the city of Mendoza,—they will show you walls which the handsof General Facundo Quiroga, Comandante de Campaña, etc., etc., puttogether. Wherever he works, he is noted for the ascendency which hemaintains over the other peons. They are entirely subject to his will;they do nothing without his advice; he is worth, say his employers, adozen overseers. Ah, he is yet to rule on a larger scale!

Did these people ever think,—as they watched the sombre, stubborn Gauchosweating over a tapia, subjecting a drove of peons to his authority, or,stretched upon a hide, growing ferocious as the luck went against him atcards,—that here was one of those forces which mould or overturn theworld? Could it ever have occurred to the Godoys of San Juan, to theworthy municipality of Mendoza, that this scowling savage was yet to placehis heel upon their prostrate forms, and most thoroughly to exhibit,through weary, sanguinary years, the reality of that tremendous saying,—"The State? I am the State!"?

Doubtless no. Little as the comrades of Maximin imagined that thetruculent Goth was yet to wear the blood-stained purple, little as theclients of Robespierre dreamed of the vortex toward which he was beinginsensibly hurried by the stream of years, did the men, whose names arethrown out from their obscurity by the glare of his misdeeds, conceivethat their fortunes, their lives, all things but their souls, were shortlyto depend upon the capricious breath of this servant who so quietly poundsaway upon their mud inclosures.

He does not long, however, remain the companion of peons. Eighteen hundredand ten has come, bringing with it liberty, and bloodshed, and universaldiscord. The sun of May beams down upon a desolated land. For the mild,although repressive viceregal sway is substituted that of a swarm ofmilitary chieftains, who, fighting as patriots against Liniers and hisill-fated troops, as rivals with each other, or as montanero-freebootersagainst all combined, swept the plains with their harrying lancers fromthe seacoast to the base of the Cordillera.

In this period of anarchy we catch another glimpse of Juan Facundo. He hasworked his way down to Buenos Ayres, nine hundred miles from home, andenlists in the regiment of Arribeños, raised by his countryman, GeneralOcampo, to take part in the liberation of Chile. But even theinfinitesimal degree of discipline to which his fellow-soldiers had beenreduced was too much for his wild spirit; already he feels that command,and not obedience, is his birthright; there is soon a vacancy in theranks.

With three companions Quiroga took to the desert. He was followed andovertaken by an armed detachment, or partida; summoned to surrender; theodds are overpowering. But this man bids defiance to the world; he is yet,in this very region, to rout well-appointed and disciplined armies with ahandful of men; and he engages the partida. A sanguinary conflict is theresult, in which Quiroga, slaying four or five of his assailants, comesoff victorious, and pursues his journey in the teeth of other bands whichare ordered to arrest him. He reaches his native plains, and, after aflying visit to his parents, we again lose sight of the Gaucho malo.Blurred rumors of his actions have, indeed, been preserved; accounts ofbrutality toward his gray-haired father, of burnings of the dwelling inwhich he first saw the light, of endless gaming, and plentiful shedding ofblood; but we hear nothing positive concerning him until the year 1818.Somewhere in that year he determines to join the band of freebooters underRamirez, which was then devastating the eastern provinces. And here—Odeep designs of Fate!—the very means intended to check his mad careerserve only to accelerate its development. Dupuis, governor of San Luis,through which province he is passing on his way to join Ramirez, arreststhe Gaucho malo, and throws him into the common jail, there to rot orstarve as Fortune may direct.

But she had other things in store for him. A number of Spanish officers,captured by San Martin in Chile, were confined within the same walls.Goaded to the energy of despair by their sufferings, and convinced thatafter all they could die no more than once, the Spaniards rose one day,broke open the doors of their prison, and proceeded to that part of thebuilding where the common malefactors, and among them Juan Facundo, wereconfined. No sooner was Facundo set at liberty, than he snatched the boltof the prison-gate, from the very hand which had just withdrawn it to sethim free, crushed the Spaniard's skull with the heavy iron, and swung itright and left, until, according to his own statement, made at a laterdate, no less than fourteen corpses were stiffening on the ground. Hisexample incited his companions to aid him in subduing the revolt of theirfellow-prisoners; and, as a reward for "loyal and heroic conduct," he wasrestored to his privileges as a citizen.

Thus, in the energetic language of his biographer, was his name ennobled,and cleansed, but with blood, from the stains that defiled it.Persecuted no longer, nay, even caressed by the government, he returned tohis native plains, to stalk with added haughtiness and new titles toesteem among his brother Gauchos of La Rioja.

Having in this manner taken a rapid survey of the most salient points inhis private career up to the year 1820, we may pause for a moment, beforestudying his public life, to glance at the condition of his native countryin the first decade of its independence. The partial separation fromSpain, which was effected on the 25th May, 1810, was followed by a longand bloody struggle, in all the southern provinces, between the royalforces and the adherents of the Provisional Junta. Such framework ofgovernment as had been in existence was practically annihilated, and thevarious provinces of the late Viceroyalty of Buenos Ayres fell a prey tothe military chieftains who could attract around them the largest numberof Gaucho cavalry,—while civilization, commerce, and every peaceful art,declined at a rapid rate. No alteration in this state of affairs waseffected by the final Declaration of Independence, made at Tucuman, July9, 1816; and in 1820, Buenos Ayres, the seat of the government whichclaimed to be supreme, was seized by a confederacy of the provincialchiefs, who secured, by the destruction of the Directorial Government,complete and unchallenged independence for themselves. During thisanarchical period, the famous Artigas was harrying the Banda Oriental;Rosas and Lopez were preparing for their blood-stained careers; Bustos,Ibarra, and a host of other caudillos, ruled the interior provinces; andJuan Facundo Quiroga was raised to irresponsible power.

In his native province of La Rioja the mastery had for many years beendisputed by two powerful houses, the Ocampos and the Dávilas, bothdescended from noble families in Spain. In the year 1820 the former weretriumphant, and possessed all the authority then wielded in the province.From them Facundo received the appointment of Sergeant-Major of Militia,with the powers of Comandante de Campaña, or District Commandant.

In any other country the nomination to such a post of a man renderednotorious by his contempt for authority, who already boasted of no lessthan thirty murders, and who had voluntarily placed himself in the lowestranks of society, would be a thing absolutely incredible; but the Ocamposprobably felt the insecurity of their authority, and were sufficientlysagacious to attempt, at least, to render that man a useful adherent orally, who might, if allured by their foes, prove a terrible weapon againstthem. But they found in Quiroga no submissive servant. So openly did hedisregard the injunctions of his superiors, that a corps of the principalofficers in the army entreated their general, Ocampo, to seize upon andexecute the rebellious Gaucho, but failed in inducing him to adopt theiradvice. It was not long before he had occasion to repent his leniency, orhis weakness.

A mutiny having occurred among some troops at San Juan, a detachment wassent against them, and with it Quiroga and his horsem*n. The mutineersproved victorious, and, headed by their ringleaders, Aldao and Corro,continued their line of march towards the North. While Ocampo with hisbeaten troops fell back to wait for reinforcements, Quiroga pursued theretreating victors, harassed their rear, clogged their every movement, andproved so formidable to the enemy, that Aldao, abandoning his companion,made an arrangement with the government of La Rioja, by which he was to beallowed free passage into San Luis, whither Quiroga was ordered to conducthim. He joined Aldao.

And here, close upon the summit of the steep he has so easily ascended, wecannot help pausing for an instant to reflect upon the singularmanifestation of destiny in his life. History acquaints us with nosimilar character who displayed so little forethought with suchastonishing results. He premeditated nothing, unless now and then amurder. He took no trouble to form a plan of government, yet his authoritywas unquestioned during many years in Mendoza, Córdova, and San Juan. Evenhis most monstrous acts of perfidy appear to have been committed on thespur of the moment, with less calculation than he gave to a game at cards.Thrown upon the world with brutal passions scarcely controlled by aparticle of reason, whirled hither and thither in a general and fearfulcataclysm, he shows us preëminently the wonderful designs of Providencecarried into effect, as it were, by a succession of blind and suddenimpulses. In a community of established order the gallows would have put aspeedy check upon his misdeeds; in the Argentine Confederation of 1820 hewas gradually lifted, by an ever-rising tide of blood, to the eminence oflawless power.

Only for a while, however; for the stream did not cease to rise. The floodthat had elevated him alone disregarded his commands. For a few moments hemight maintain his footing upon the fearful peak; and then—

But as yet he is only Comandante de Campaña, escorting the rebel Aldaointo San Luis. He took no pains to conceal his discontent with thegovernment of Ocampo, nor was Aldao slow in noticing or availing himselfof his disaffection. He offered Quiroga a hundred men, if he chose tooverturn the government and seize upon La Rioja. Quiroga eagerly accepted,marched upon the city, took it by surprise, threw the Ocampos and theirsubordinates into prison, and sent them confessors, with the order toprepare for death. The remainder of Aldao's force was subsequently inducedto join his cause, and, on the intercession of some of its leaders, theincarcerated Ocampos were suffered to escape with their lives.

Their banished enemy, Don Nicolas Dávila, was called from Tucuman to thenominal governorship of La Rioja, while Quiroga retained, with his oldtitle, the actual rule of the province. But Dávila was not long contentwith this mere semblance of authority. During the temporary absence ofQuiroga, he concerted with Araya, one of the men of Aldao, a plan for thecapture of their master. Quiroga heard of it,—he heard of everything,—and his answer was the assassination of Captain Araya! Summoned by thegovernment which he himself had created to answer the accusation ofinstigated murder, he advanced upon the Dávilas with his Llanistahorsem*n. Miguel and Nicolas Dávila hastily assembled a body of troops,and prepared for a final struggle. While the two armies were in presenceof each other, a commissioner from Mendoza endeavored to effect apeaceable arrangement between their chiefs. Passing from one camp to theother with propositions and conditions, he inspired the soldiers of theDávilas with a fatal security. Quiroga, falling suddenly upon them in themidst of the negotiations, routed them with ease, and slew their general,who, with a small body of devoted followers, made a fierce onslaught uponhim personally, and succeeded in inflicting upon him a severe wound beforehe was shot down. Thenceforth,—from the year 1823,—Quiroga was despotof La Rioja.

His government was simple enough. His two engrossing objects—if objects,indeed, he may be said to have possessed—were extortion and theuprooting of the last vestiges of civilization and law; his instruments,the dagger and the lash; his amusem*nt, the torture of unwittingoffenders; his serious occupation, the shuffling of cards. For gamblingthe man had an insatiable thirst; he played once for forty hours withoutintermission; it was death to refuse a game with him; no one might ceaseplaying without his express commands; no one durst win the stakes; and asa consequence, he accumulated at cards in a few years almost all thecoined money then existing in the province.[2] Not content with thissource of revenue, he became a farmer of the diezmo or tithes,appropriated to himself the mostrenco or unbranded cattle, by whichmeans he speedily became proprietor of many thousand head, evenestablished a monopoly of beef in his own favor,—and woe to the lucklessfool who should dare to infringe upon the terrible barbarian'sprerogative!

[Footnote 2: Thus the Monagas, the late rulers of Venezuela, are accusedof denuding their country of specie in order to accumulate a vast treasureabroad in expectation of a rainy day.]

What was the state of society, it will undoubtedly be inquired, in whichthe defeat of a handful of men could result in such a despotism? We havealready glanced at the people of La Rioja,—at their dreamy, Orientalcharacter, at their pastoral pursuits. A community of herdsmen, scatteredover an extensive territory, and deprived at one blow of the two greatfamilies to whom they had been accustomed to look up, with infantinesubmission, as their God-appointed chiefs,—these were not the men tostand up, unprompted by a single master-mind, to rid themselves of onewhose oppression was, after all, only a new form of the treatment towhich, for an entire generation, they had been subjected. La Rioja and SanJuan were the only two provinces in which Quiroga's heavy hand was feltcontinuously; in the others he ruled rather by influence than in person;and the Gauchos, as a matter of course, were enthusiastic for a man whoexalted the peasant at the expense of the citizen, whose exactions wereactually burdensome only to the wealthy, and who permitted every licenseto his followers, with the single exception of disobedience to himself.

He was not without—it is impossible that he should have lacked—some ofthose instinctive and personal attributes with which almost every savagechieftain who has maintained so extraordinary an ascendency over hisfellows has been endowed. Sarmiento tells us that he was tall, immenselypowerful, a famous ginete or horseman, a more adroit wielder of thelasso and the bolas than even his rival, Rosas, capable of greatendurance, and abstinent from intoxicating drinks.

His eye and voice were dreaded more by his soldiers than the lances oftheir antagonists. He could wring a Gaucho's secret from his breast; itwas useless to attempt a subterfuge before him. Some article, we are told,was once stolen from a company of his troops, and every effort for itsrecovery proved fruitless. It was reported to Quiroga. He paraded the men,and, having procured a number of sticks, exactly equal in length, gave toeach man one, proclaiming that the soldier whose stick should be foundlonger than the others next morning had been the thief. Next morning heagain drew up his troops. The sticks were mustered by Quiroga himself. Notone had grown since the previous day; but there was one which was shorterthan the rest. With a terrible roar, Quiroga seized the trembling Gauchoto whom the stick belonged. "Thou art the thief!" he exclaimed. It was so;the fellow had cut off a portion of the wood, hoping thus to escapedetection by its growth![3]—

[Footnote 3: Since the above was written, we have heard of the adoption ofan expedient identical with that of Quiroga, under similar circ*mstances,and with the same result. The detector was, however, an English seaman,now captain of a well-known steam-vessel, who forming part of a crew oneof whom had lost a sum of money, broke off ten twigs of equal length froma broom, and distributed them among his shipmates, with the sameobservation as was used by the Argentine chief. Two hours later heexamined them, and found that the negro steward had shortened hisallotted twig. The money was restored.—The coincidence is instructive.]

Another time, one of his soldiers had been robbed of some trappings, andno trace of the thief could be discovered. Quiroga ordered the detachmentto file past him, one by one. He stood, himself, with folded arms andterrible eyes, perusing each man as he passed. At length he dartedforward, pounced upon one of the soldiers, and shouted, "Where is themontura?" "In yonder thicket!" stammered out the self-convicted thief."Four musketeers this way!" and the commander was not out of sight beforethe wretched Gaucho was a corpse. In these instinctive qualities, so awfulto untutored minds, lay the secret of the power of Quiroga,—and of howmany others of the world's most famous names!

Already in 1825 he was recognized as a lawful authority by the governmentof Buenos Ayres, and invited to take part in a Congress of Generals atthat city. At the same time, however, he received a military errand. TheProvince of Tucuman having been seized by a young Buenos Ayrean officer,Colonel Madrid, Quiroga was requested to march against the successfulupstart, and to restore the cause of law and order,—an undertakingscarcely congruous with his own antecedents. The chief of La Rioja,however, eagerly accepted the mission, marched with a small force intoTucuman, routed Madrid, (and this literally, for his army ran away,leaving the Colonel to charge Quiroga's force alone, which he did,escaping by a miracle with his life,) and returned to La Rioja and SanJuan. Into the latter town he made a triumphal entry, through streetslined on both sides with the principal inhabitants, whom he passed by indisdainful silence, and who humbly followed the Gaucho tyrant to hisquarters in a clover-field, where he allowed them to stand in anxioushumiliation while he conversed at length with an old negress whom heseated by his side. Not ten years had elapsed since these very men mighthave beheld him pounding tapias on this spot!

We do not propose following the blood-stained career of Juan Facundothrough all its windings and episodes of cruelty and blood. Suffice it tosay, that, with the title of Comandante de Campaña, he retained in LaRioja every fraction of actual power,—nominating, nevertheless, a shadowygovernor, who, if he attempted any independent action, was instantlydeposed. His influence gradually extended over the neighboring provinces;thrice he encountered and defeated Madrid; while at home he gambled,levied contributions, bastinadoed, and added largely to his army. Heexcelled his contemporary, Francia, in the art of inspiring terror; heonly fell short of Rosas in the results. A wry look might at any time calldown upon a luckless child a hundred lashes. He once split the skull ofhis own illegitimate son for some trifling act of disobedience. A lady,who once said to him, while he was in a bad humor, Adios, mi General,was publicly flogged. A young girl, who would not yield to his wishes, hethrew down upon the floor, and kicked her with his heavy boots until shelay in a pool of blood. Truly, a ruler after the Russian sort!

Dorrego, meanwhile, was at the head of affairs at Buenos Ayres. Opposed tothe "Unitarianism" of Lavalle and Paz, who would have made of theircountry, not a republic "one and indivisible," but a confederation afterthe model in the North, Dorrego was chiefly anxious to consolidate hispower in the maritime state of Buenos Ayres, leaving the interiorprovinces to their own devices, and to the tender mercies of Lopez,Quiroga, Bustos, with a dozen other Gaucho chiefs. Rosas, the incarnationof the spirit which was then distracting the entire Confederation, wasmade Commandant General by Dorrego, who, however, frequently threatened toshoot "the insolent boor," but who, unfortunately for his country, neverfulfilled the threat. As for himself, he, indeed, met with that fate atthe hands of Lavalle, who landed with an army from the opposite coast ofUruguay, defeated Dorrego and Rosas in a pitched battle at the gates ofBuenos Ayres, and entered the city in triumph a few hours later.

With the ascendency of Lavalle came the inauguration—and, alas! only theinauguration—of a new system. Paz, one of the few Argentinians who reallydeserved the name of General that they bore, was sent to Córdova, witheight hundred veterans of his old command. He defeated Bustos, the tyrantof Córdova, took possession of the city, (one of the most importantstrategic points upon the Pampas,) and restored that confidence andsecurity to which its inhabitants had so long been strangers. This actionwas at the same time a challenge to Quiroga in his neighboring domain. Itwas a warning that right was beginning to assert its supremacy over might;nor was the hero of La Rioja slow to understand it. Collecting a band offour thousand Gaucho lancers, he marched upon Córdova with the assuranceof an easy victory. The boleado General! The idea of his opposing theTiger of the Plains!

What followed this movement is a matter of general history. The battle ofthe Tablada has had European, and therefore American, celebrity. It isknown to those who think of Chacabuco and Maipú, of Navarro and MonteCaseros, only as of spots upon the map; let it, therefore, suffice to saythat Quiroga was beaten decisively, unmistakably, terribly. The serriedveterans of Paz, schooled in the Brazilian wars, stood grimly to the deathbefore the fiery onslaught of Quiroga; in vain did his horsem*n shatterthemselves against the Unitarian General's scanty squares; the tactics ofcivilized warfare proved for the first time successful on these plainsagainst wild ferocity and a larger force; Quiroga was driven back atlength with fearful slaughter, with the loss of arms, ammunition,reputation, and of seventeen hundred men. He returned to La Rioja, withthe disorganized remnant of his band, marking his path with blood and theinfliction of atrocious chastisem*nts. Even in adversity he is terribleand is obeyed.

For nearly two years he divided his time between the provinces of SanJuan, Tucuman, and La Rioja, engaged in the prosecution of his designs,chief among which was the destruction of Paz, who remained at Córdova,intending to act only on the defensive. At length, in 1830, he consideredhimself sufficiently strong for an attack on his recent conqueror. Paz wasunwilling to shed blood a second time; he offered advantageous terms toQuiroga; but the boastful Gaucho, full of confidence in his savagelancers, refused to negotiate, and marched against his skilful butunpresuming antagonist. Paz secretly evacuated Córdova, and, movingwestward, hazarded a feat which is alone sufficient to establish hischaracter as the best tactician of the New World,—San Martin alone,perhaps, excepted. Splitting his little army into a dozen brigades, heoccupied the entire mountain-range behind the town, operated, with scarcefive thousand men, upon a front of two hundred miles in extent, held inhis own unwavering grasp the reins which controlled the movements of everydivision, and gradually inclosed, as in a net, the forces of Quiroga andVillafañe. In vain they struggled and blindly sought an exit; every doorwas closed; until, finally, after a campaign of fifteen days, thenarrowing battalions of Paz surrounded, engaged, and utterly defeated atOncativo the bewildered army on whose success Quiroga had staked his all.

The Gaucho himself again escaped. After seven years of dictatorial power,he is once more reduced to the level upon which we saw him standing in1818, a vagabond at Buenos Ayres, although from that level he may raisehis head a trifle higher.

And here we might conclude, having seen his rocket-like ascent, and theswiftly-falling night of his career,—having seen him a laborer, adeserter, a General, a Dictator, a fugitive; but much remains to benarrated. Passing over, with the barest mention, his temporary return topower, which he accomplished by one of those lightning-like expeditionsthat even among Gaucho horsem*n rendered him conspicuous, let us hasten onto the great dramatic crisis of his history; and taking no notice of thefive years of marching and countermarching, scheming, fighting, andnegotiating, that intervened between his defeat at the Laguna Larga and1835, draw to a close our hasty sketch.

In that year, after taking part in a disorderly and fruitless expeditionplanned by Rosas to secure the southern frontier against Indian attacks,he suddenly made his appearance at Buenos Ayres, with a body of armedsatellites, who inspired the newly-seated Dictator—the famous Juan Manuelde Rosas, who has been already so often mentioned in these pages—withvivid apprehensions. Rosas, Quiroga, Lopez—the Triumvirate of La Plata—were bound together, it is true, by a potent tie,—by the strongest,indeed,—that of self-interest; but as each of the three, and especiallyRosas, was in continual dread lest that consideration in his colleaguesshould clash with his own intentions, the presence of Quiroga at Buenos Ayres was far from satisfactory to the remaining two. His influence overhalf a dozen of the despotic governors in the interior was still immense;the Pampa was his own, after all his defeats; and it was shrewdlysuspected that his indifference to power in La Rioja, and his mysteriousvisit to the maritime capital, were indications of a design to seize uponthe government of Buenos Ayres itself. Nor were the actions of Quirogasuited to remove these apprehensions. The sanguinary despot of theinterior bloomed in the Buenos Ayrean cafés into a profound admirer ofRivadavia, Lavalle, and Paz, his ancient Unitarian enemies; Buenos Ayres,the Confederation, he loudly proclaimed, must have a Constitution;conciliation must supplant the iron-heeled tyranny under which the peoplehad groaned so long; the very jaguar of the Pampa, said the Porteño wits,—not yet wholly muzzled by the dread Mazorca, or Club, of Rosas,—wasto be stripped of his claws, and made to live on matagusano twigs andthistles! Redeunt Saturnia regna! The reign of blood, according toQuiroga, its chief evangelist, was approaching its termination.

In order to form a conception of the effect produced by thesetransactions, we must imagine Pelissier or Walewski entertaining, twenty-three years later, the cercles at Paris with discourses from the beautyof the last régime, with eulogies of Lamartine, and apotheoses of LouisBlanc; sneering at Espinasse, and eulogizing Cavaignac; vowing that Francecan be governed only under a liberal constitution, and paying a visit tohis Majesty, the Elect of December, with a rough-and-tumble suite ofRepublican bravos. Assuredly, were such a thing possible in Paris, thegentlemen in question would very shortly be reviling English hospitalityunder its protecting aegis, if not dying of fever at Cayenne. Nor couldRosas, who was at that time far less firmly seated on his throne than isat present the man who wields the destinies of France, endure so powerfula rival in his vicinity. But how to get rid of him? Assassination, bywhich a minor offender was so speedily put out of the way, could notsafely be attempted with a man who yet retained a singular mastery overthe minds of thousands of brutal and strong-armed horsem*n; a false stepwould result in inevitable destruction; and many anxious days were spentby the gloomy tyrant ere he could decide upon a plan for disposing of hisinconvenient friend.

In the midst of this perplexity intelligence was received of adisagreement between the governments of Salta, Tucuman, and Santiago,provinces of the interior, which threatened to expand into warlikeproceedings. Rosas sent for Quiroga. No one but the hero of La Rioja, heinsinuated, had sufficient influence to bring about a settlement of thesedisputes; no one but he had power to prevent a war; would he not,therefore, hasten to Tucuman, and obviate so dire a calamity? Quirogahesitated, refused, consented, wavered, and again declined the task. Witha vacillation to which he had hitherto been a stranger, he remained formany days undecided; a suspicion of deceit appears to have presenteditself to his mind; but at length he resolved to accept the commission.His hesitation, meanwhile, had completed his ruin; it had given time forthe maturing of deadly plans.

In midsummer, 1835, (December 18th,) the Gaucho chieftain commenced hisfateful journey. As he entered the carriage which was to be his home formany days, and bade farewell to the adherents who were assembled towitness his departure, he turned toward the city with a wild expressionand words that were remembered afterwards. Si salgo bien, he said, tevolevré á ver; si no, adios para siempre! "If I succeed, I shall see theeagain; if not, farewell forever!" Was it a presentiment of the truth whichcame upon him, like that which clouded the great mind of the firstNapoleon as he left the Tuileries when the Hundred Days were running out?

One hour before his departure, a mounted messenger had been dispatchedfrom Buenos Ayres in the same direction as that he was about to follow;and the city was scarcely out of sight when Quiroga manifested the mostfeverish anxiety to overtake this man. His travelling companions were hissecretary, Dr. Ortiz, and a young man of his acquaintance, bound forCórdova, to whom he had given a seat in his vehicle. The postilions wereincessantly admonished to make haste. At a shallow stream which theyforded, in the mud of which the wheels became imbedded, resisting everyeffort for their release, Quiroga actually hooked the postmaster of thedistrict, who had hastened to the spot, to the carriage, and made him joinhis exertions to those of the horses until the vehicle was extricated,when he sped onward with fearful velocity, asking at every post-station,"When did the chasquí from Buenos Ayres pass? An hour ago! Forward,then!" and the carriage swept onward, on unceasingly, across the lonelyPampa,—racing, as it afterwards proved, with Death.

At last, Córdova, nearly six hundred miles from his starting-point, wasreached, just one hour after the arrival of the hunted courier. Quirogawas besought by the cringing magistracy to spend the night in their city.His only answer was, "Give me horses!" and two hours before midnight herolled out of Córdova, having beaten in the grisly race.

Beaten, inasmuch as he was yet alive. For Córdova was ringing with thedetails of his intended assassination. Such and such men were to have donethe deed; at such a shop the pistol had been bought; at such a spot it wasto have been fired;—but the marvellous swiftness of the intended victimhad ruined all.

Meanwhile, Quiroga sped onward more at ease toward Tucuman. Arrived there,he speedily arranged the matters in dispute, and was entreated by thegovernors of that province and of Santiago to accept of an escort on hisreturn; he was besought to avoid Córdova, to avoid Buenos Ayres; he wascounselled to throw off the mask of subservience, and to rally hisnumerous adherents in La Rioja and San Juan;—but remonstrance and advicewere alike thrown away upon him. In vain was the most circ*mstantialaccount of the preparations for his murder sent by friends from Córdova;he appeared as foolhardy now in February as in December he had been panic-stricken. "To Córdova!" he shouted, as he entered his galera; and forCórdova the postilions steered.

At the little post-hut of Ojos del Agua, in the State of Córdova, Quiroga,with his secretary, Ortiz, halted one night on the homeward journey.Shortly before reaching the place, a young man had mysteriously stoppedthe carriage, and had warned its hurrying inmates that at a spot calledBarranca Yaco a partida, headed by one Santos Perez, was awaiting thearrival of Quiroga. There the massacre was to take place. The youth, whohad formerly experienced kindness at the hands of Ortiz, begged him toavoid the danger. The unhappy secretary was rendered almost insane withterror, but his master sternly rebuked his fears.—"The man is not yetborn," he said, "who shall slay Facundo Quiroga! At a word from me thesefellows will put themselves at my command, and form my escort intoCórdova!"

The night at Ojos del Agua was passed sleeplessly enough by the unhappyOrtiz, but Quiroga was not to be persuaded into ordinary precautions.Confident in his mastery over the minds of men, he set out unguarded, onthe 18th of February, at break of day. The party consisted of thechieftain and his trembling secretary, a negro servant on horseback, twopostilions,—one of them a mere lad,—and a couple of couriers who weretravelling in the same direction.

Who that has been on the Pampas but can picture to himself this party asit left the little mud-hut on the plain? The cumbrous, oscillatinggalera, with its shaggy, straggling four-in-hand,—the caracoling Gauchocouriers,—the negro pricking on behind,—the tall grass rolling out onevery side,—the muddy pool that forms the watering-place for beasts andmen scattered over a hundred miles of brookless plain,—the great sunstreaming up from the herbage just in front, awakening the voices of amillion insects and the carols of unnumbered birds in the thickets hereand there! Look long, Quiroga, on that rising sun! listen to the well-known melody that welcomes his approach! gaze once more upon the rollingPampa! look again upon those flying hills! Thou who hast said, "There isno life but this life," who didst "believe in nothing," shalt know thesethings no more! five minutes hence thy statecraft will be over, thy longapprenticeship will have expired! thou shalt be standing—where thou maystlearn the secret that the wisest man of all the bookworms thou despisestwill never know alive!

Barranca Yaco is reached. The warning was well founded. A crack is heard,—there is a puff of smoke,—and two musket-balls pass each other in thecarriage, yet without inflicting injury on its occupants. From either sidethe road, however, the partida dashes forth. In a moment the horses aredisabled, the postilions, the negro, and the couriers cut down. Ortiztrembles more violently than ever; Quiroga rises above himself. Lookingfrom the carriage while the butchery is going on, he addresses themurderers with a few unfaltering words. There is glamour in his speech;the ensanguined assassins hesitate,—another instant, only one momentmore, and they will be on their knees before him; but Santos Perez, whowas at one side, comes up, raises his piece,—and the body of Juan FecundoQuiroga falls in a soulless heap with a bullet in the brain! Ortiz wasimmediately hacked to pieces; and the tragedy of Córdova is at an end.

Such were the life, misdeeds, and death of the Terror of the Pampas.Having in the most rapid and imperfect manner sketched the career of thisextraordinary Fortune's-child, his rise from the most abject condition tounbridled power, his ferocious rule, and his almost heroic end, we maysurely exclaim, that "nothing in his life became him like the leaving ofit," and, presenting this bare résumé of facts as a mere outline, a merepen-and-ink sketch of the terrible chieftain, refer the curious student tothe impassioned narrative whence our facts are mainly derived.

It may be well to add, that Santos Perez, who was actively pursued by thegovernment of Buenos Ayres, which itself had instigated him to thecommission of the crime, was finally, after many hairbreadth escapes,betrayed by his mistress to the agents of Rosas, and suffered death atBuenos Ayres with savage fortitude. The Lord have mercy on his soul!



The heroine of our tale is one so famous in history that her proper namenever appears in it. The seeming paradox is the soberest fact. To usAmericans, glory lies in the abundant display of one's personalappellation in the newspapers. Our heroine lived in the most gossiping ofall ages, herself its greatest gossip; yet her own name, patronymic orbaptismal, never was talked about. It was not that she sank that namebeneath high-sounding titles; she only elevated the most commonplace ofall titles till she monopolized it, and it monopolized her. Anne MarieLouise d'Orléans, Souveraine de Dombes, Princesse Dauphine d'Auvergne,duch*esse de Montpensier, is forgotten, or rather was never remembered; butthe great name of MADEMOISELLE, La Grande Mademoiselle, gleams like agolden thread shot through and through that gorgeous tapestry of crimsonand purple which records for us the age of Louis Quatorze.

In May of the year 1627, while the Queen and Princess of England lived inweary exile at Paris,—while the slow tide of events was drawing theirhusband and father to his scaffold,—while Sir John Eliot was awaiting inthe Tower of London the summoning of the Third Parliament,—while thetroops of Buckingham lay dying, without an enemy, upon the Isle of Rhé,—while the Council of Plymouth were selling their title to the lands ofMassachusetts Bay,—at the very crisis of the terrible siege of Rochelle,and perhaps during the very hour when the Three Guardsmen of Dumas heldthat famous bastion against an army, the heroine of our story was born.And she, like the Three Guardsmen, waited till twenty years after for acareer.

The twenty years are over. Richelieu is dead. The strongest will that everruled France has passed away; and the poor, broken King has hunted hislast badger at St. Germain, and meekly followed his master to the grave,as he had always followed him. Louis XIII., called Louis Le Juste, notfrom the predominance of that particular virtue (or any other) in hischaracter, but simply because he happened to be born under theconstellation of the Scales, has died like a Frenchman, in peace with allthe world except his wife. That beautiful and queenly wife, Anne ofAustria, (Spaniard though she was,)—no longer the wild and passionategirl who fascinated Buckingham and embroiled two kingdoms,—has hastenedwithin four days to defy all the dying imprecations of her husband, byreversing every plan and every appointment he has made. The little princehas already shown all the Grand Monarque in his childish "Je suis LouisQuatorze," and has been carried in his bib to hold his first parliament.That parliament, heroic as its English contemporary, though lesssuccessful, has reached the point of revolution at last. Civil war isimpending. Condé, at twenty-one the greatest general in Europe, afterchanging sides a hundred times in a week, is fixed at last. Turenne isarrayed against him. The young, the brave, the beautiful cluster aroundthem. The performers are drawn up in line,—the curtain rises,—the playis "The Wars of the Fronde,"—and into that brilliant arena, like somefair circus equestrian, gay, spangled, and daring, rides Mademoiselle.

Almost all French historians, from Voltaire to Cousin, (St. Aulaire beingthe chief exception,) speak lightly of the Wars of the Fronde. "La Fronden'est pas sérieuse." Of course it was not. If it had been serious, itwould not have been French. Of course, French insurrections, like Frenchdespotisms, have always been tempered by epigrams; of course, the peoplewent out to the conflicts in ribbons and feathers; of course, over everybattle there pelted down a shower of satire, like the rain at the Eglintontournament. More than two hundred pamphlets rattled on the head of Condéalone, and the collection of Mazarinades, preserved by the Cardinalhimself, fills sixty-nine volumes in quarto. From every field the firstcrop was glory, the second a bon-mot. When the dagger of De Retz fellfrom his breast-pocket, it was "our good archbishop's breviary"; and whenhis famous Corinthian troop was defeated in battle, it was "the FirstEpistle to the Corinthians." While, across the Channel, Charles Stuart waslistening to his doom, Paris was gay in the midst of dangers, Madame deLongueville was receiving her gallants in mimic court at the Hôtel deVille, De Retz was wearing his sword-belt over his archbishop's gown, thelittle hunchback Conti was generalissimo, and the starving people werepillaging Mazarin's library, in joke, "to find something to gnaw upon."Outside the walls, the maids-of-honor were quarrelling over the straw bedswhich annihilated all the romance of martyrdom, and Condé, with fivethousand men, was besieging five hundred thousand. No matter, they alllaughed through it, and through every succeeding turn of the kaleidoscope;and the "Anything may happen in France," with which La Rochefoucauldjumped amicably into the carriage of his mortal enemy, was not only thefirst and best of his maxims, but the key-note of French history for allcoming time.

But behind all this sport, as in all the annals of the nation, weremysteries and terrors and crimes. It was the age of cabalistic ciphers,like that of De Retz, of which Guy Joli dreamed the solution; ofinexplicable secrets, like the Man in the Iron Mask, whereof no solutionwas ever dreamed; of poisons, like that diamond-dust which in six hourstransformed the fresh beauty of the Princess Royal into foul decay; ofdungeons, like that cell at Vincennes which Madame de Rambouilletpronounced to be "worth its weight in arsenic." War or peace hung on thecolor of a ball-dress, and Madame de Chevreuse knew which party was cominguppermost, by observing whether the binding of Madame de Hautefort'sprayer-book was red or green. Perhaps it was all a little theatrical, butthe performers were all Rachels.

And behind the crimes and the frivolities stood the Parliaments, calm andundaunted, with leaders, like Molé and Talon, who needed nothing butsuccess to make their names as grand in history as those of Pym andHampden. Among the Brienne Papers in the British Museum there is acollection of the manifestoes and proclamations of that time, and they areearnest, eloquent, and powerful, from beginning to end. Lord Mahon aloneamong historians, so far as our knowledge goes, has done fit and fulljustice to the French parliaments, those assemblies which refusedadmission to the foreign armies which the nobles would gladly havesummoned in,—but fed and protected the banished princesses of England,when the court party had left those descendants of the Bourbons to die ofcold and hunger in the palace of their ancestors. And we have thetestimony of Henrietta Maria herself, the only person who had seen bothrevolutions near at hand, that "the troubles in England never appeared soformidable in their early days, nor were the leaders of the revolutionaryparty so ardent or so united." The character of the agitation was no moreto be judged by its jokes and epigrams, than the gloomy glory of theEnglish Puritans by the grotesque names of their saints, or the sternresolution of the Dutch burghers by their guilds of rhetoric andsymbolical melodrama.

But popular power was not yet developed in France, as it was in England;all social order was unsettled and changing, and well Mazarin knew it. Heknew the pieces with which he played his game of chess: the kingpowerless, the queen mighty, the bishops unable to take a singlestraightforward move, and the knights going naturally zigzag; but a hostof plebeian pawns, every one fit for a possible royalty, and therefore tobe used shrewdly, or else annihilated as soon as practicable. True, thegame would not last forever; but after him the deluge.

Our age has forgotten even the meaning of the word Fronde; but here alsothe French and Flemish histories run parallel, and the Frondeurs, like theGueux, were children of a sarcasm. The Counsellor Bachaumont one dayridiculed insurrectionists, as resembling the boys who played with slings(frondes) about the streets of Paris, but scattered at the first glimpseof a policeman. The phrase organized the party. Next morning all fashionswere à la fronde,—hats, gloves, fans, bread, and ballads; and it costsix years of civil war to pay for the Counsellor's facetiousness.

That which was, after all, the most remarkable characteristic of thesewars might be guessed from this fact about the fashions. The Fronde waspreëminently "the War of the Ladies." Educated far beyond the Englishwomenof their time, they took a controlling share, sometimes ignoble, as oftennoble, always powerful, in the affairs of the time. It was not merely acourtly gallantry which flattered them with a hollow importance. De Retz,in his Memoirs, compares the women of his age with Elizabeth of England. ASpanish ambassador once congratulated Mazarin on obtaining temporaryrepose. "You are mistaken," he replied, "there is no repose in France, forI have always women to contend with. In Spain, women have only love-affairs to employ them; but here we have three who are capable ofgoverning or overthrowing great kingdoms: the duch*ess de Longueville, thePrincess Palatine, and the duch*ess de Chevreuse." And there were others asgreat as these; and the women who for years outwitted Mazarin andoutgeneralled Condé are deserving of a stronger praise than they have yetobtained, even from the classic and courtly Cousin.

What men of that age eclipsed or equalled the address and daring of thosedelicate and highborn women? What a romance was their ordinary existence!The Princess Palatine gave refuge to Mme. de Longueville when that alonesaved her from sharing the imprisonment of her brothers Condé and Conti,—then fled for her own life, by night, with Rochefoucauld. Mme. deLongueville herself, pursued afterwards by the royal troops, wished toembark in a little boat, on a dangerous shore, during a midnight storm sowild that not a fisherman could at first be found to venture forth; thebeautiful fugitive threatened and implored till they consented; the sailorwho bore her in his arms to the boat let her fall amid the furious surges;she was dragged senseless to the shore again, and, on the instant ofreviving, demanded to repeat the experiment; but as they utterly refused,she rode inland beneath the tempest, and travelled for fourteen nightsbefore she could find another place of embarkation.

Madame de Chevreuse rode with one attendant from Paris to Madrid, fleeingfrom Richelieu, remaining day and night on her horse, attracting perilousadmiration by the womanly loveliness which no male attire could obscure.From Spain she went to England, organizing there the French exiles into astrength which frightened Richelieu; thence to Holland, to conspire nearerhome; back to Paris, on the minister's death, to form the faction of theImportants; and when the Duke of Beaufort was imprisoned, Mazarin said,"Of what use to cut off the arms while the head remains?" Ten years fromher first perilous escape, she made a second, dashed through La Vendée,embarked at St. Malo for Dunkirk, was captured by the fleet of theParliament, was released by the Governor of the Isle of Wight, unable toimprison so beautiful a butterfly, reached her port at last, and in a fewweeks was intriguing at Liège again.

The duch*ess de Bouillon, Turenne's sister, purer than those we have named,but not less daring or determined, after charming the whole population ofParis by her rebel beauty at the Hôtel de Ville, escaped from her suddenincarceration by walking through the midst of her guards at dusk,crouching in the shadow of her little daughter, and afterwards allowedherself to be recaptured, rather than desert that child's sick-bed.

Then there was Clémence de Maille, purest and noblest of all, niece ofRichelieu and hapless wife of the cruel ingrate Condé, his equal in daringand his superior in every other high quality. Married a child stillplaying with her dolls, and sent at once to a convent to learn to read andwrite, she became a woman the instant her husband became a captive; whilehe watered his pinks in the garden at Vincennes, she went through Franceand raised an army for his relief. Her means were as noble as her ends.She would not surrender the humblest of her friends to an enemy, or sufferthe massacre of her worst enemy by a friend. She threw herself between thefire of two hostile parties at Bordeaux, and, while men were falling eachside of her, compelled them to peace. Her deeds rang through Europe. Whenshe sailed from Bordeaux for Paris at last, thirty thousand peopleassembled to bid her farewell. She was loved and admired by all the world,except that husband for whom she dared so much,—and the Archbishop ofTaen. The respectable Archbishop complained, that "this lady did not provethat she had been authorized by her husband, an essential provision,without which no woman can act in law." And Condé himself, whose heart,physically twice as large as other men's, was spiritually imperceptible,repaid this stainless nobleness by years of persecution, and bequeathedher, as a life-long prisoner, to his dastard son.

Then, on the royal side, there was Anne of Austria, sufficient untoherself, Queen Regent, and every inch a queen, (before all but Mazarin,)—from the moment when the mob of Paris filed through the chamber of theboy-king, in his pretended sleep, and the motionless and stately motherheld back the crimson draperies, with the same lovely arm which had wavedperilous farewells to Buckingham,—to the day when the news of the fatalbattle of Gien came to her in her dressing-room, and "she remainedundisturbed before the mirror, not neglecting the arrangement of a singlecurl."

In short, every woman who took part in the Ladies' War became heroic,—from Marguerite of Lorraine, who snatched the pen from her weak husband'shand and gave De Retz the order for the first insurrection, down to thewife of the commandant of the Porte St. Roche, who, springing from her bedto obey that order, made the drums beat to arms and secured the barrier;and fitly, amid adventurous days like these, opened the career ofMademoiselle.



Grandchild of Henri Quatre, niece of Louis XIII., cousin of Louis XIV.,first princess of the blood, and with the largest income in the nation,(500,000 livres,) to support these dignities, Mademoiselle was certainlyborn in the purple. Her autobiography admits us to very gorgeous company;the stream of her personal recollections is a perfect Pactolus. There isalmost a surfeit of royalty in it; every card is a court-card, and all hercounters are counts. "I wore at this festival all the crown-jewels ofFrance, and also those of the Queen of England." "A far greaterestablishment was assigned to me than any fille de France had ever had,not excepting any of my aunts, the Queens of England and of Spain, and theduch*ess of Savoy." "The Queen, my grandmother, gave me as a governess thesame lady who had been governess to the late King." Pageant or funeral, itis the same thing. "In the midst of these festivities we heard of thedeath of the King of Spain; whereat the Queens were greatly afflicted, andwe all went into mourning." Thus, throughout, her Memoirs glitter like thecoat with which the splendid Buckingham astonished the cheaper chivalry ofFrance: they drop diamonds.

But for any personal career Mademoiselle found at first no opportunity, inthe earlier years of the Fronde. A gay, fearless, flattered girl, shesimply shared the fortunes of the court; laughed at thefestivals in the palace, laughed at the ominous insurrections in thestreets; laughed when the people cheered her, their pet princess; and whenthe royal party fled from Paris, she adroitly secured for herself the beststraw-bed at St. Germain, and laughed louder than ever. She despised thecourtiers who flattered her; secretly admired her young cousin Condé, whomshe affected to despise; danced when the court danced, and ran away whenit mourned. She made all manner of fun of her English lover, the futureCharles II., whom she alone of all the world found bashful; and in generalshe wasted the golden hours with much excellent fooling. Nor would she,perhaps, ever have found herself a heroine, but that her respectablefather was a poltroon.

Lord Mahon ventures to assert, that Gaston, Duke of Orléans, was "the mostcowardly prince of whom history makes mention." A strong expression, butperhaps safe. Holding the most powerful position in the nation, he nevercame upon the scene but to commit some new act of ingenious pusillanimity;while, by some extraordinary chance, every woman of his immediate kindredwas a natural heroine, and became more heroic through disgust at him. Hiswife was Marguerite of Lorraine, who originated the first Frondeinsurrection; his daughter turned the scale of the second. But,personally, he not only had not the courage to act, but he had not thecourage to abstain from acting; he could no more keep out of parties thanin them; but was always busy, waging war in spite of Mars, and negotiatingin spite of Minerva.

And when the second war of the Fronde broke out, it was in spite ofhimself that he gave his name and his daughter to the popular cause. Whenthe fate of the two nations hung trembling in the balance, the royal armyunder Turenne advancing on Paris, and almost arrived at the city ofOrléans, and that city likely to take the side of the strongest,—thenMademoiselle's hour had come. All her sympathies were more and moreinclining to the side of Condé and the people. Orléans was her ownhereditary city. Her father, as was his custom in great emergencies,declared that he was very ill and must go to bed immediately; but it wasas easy for her to be strong as it was for him to be weak; so she wrungfrom him a reluctant plenipotentiary power; she might go herself and trywhat her influence could do. And so she rode forth from Paris, one finemorning, March 27, 1652,—rode with a few attendants, half in enthusiasm,half in levity, aiming to become a second Joan of Arc, secure the city,and save the nation. "I felt perfectly delighted," says the young girl,"at having to play so extraordinary a part."

The people of Paris had heard of her mission, and cheered her as she went.The officers of the army, with an escort of five hundred men, met her halfway from Paris. Most of them evidently knew her calibre, were delighted tosee her, and installed her at once over a regular council of war. Sheentered into the position with her natural promptness. A certain grave Rohan undertook to tutor her privately, and met his match. In thepublic deliberation, there were some differences of opinion. All agreedthat the army should not pass beyond the Loire: this was Gaston'ssuggestion, and nevertheless a good one. Beyond this all was left toMademoiselle. Mademoiselle intended to go straight to Orléans. "But theroyal army had reached there already." Mademoiselle did not believe it."The citizens would not admit her." Mademoiselle would see about that.Presently the city government of Orléans sent her a letter, in greatdismay, particularly requesting her to keep her distance. Mademoiselleimmediately ordered her coach, and set out for the city. "I was naturallyresolute," she naïvely remarks.

Her siege of Orléans is perhaps the most remarkable on record. She wasright in one thing; the royal army had not arrived: but it might appear atany moment; so the magistrates quietly shut all their gates, and waited tosee what would happen.

Mademoiselle happened. It was eleven in the morning when she reached thePorte Bannière, and she sat three hours in her state carriage withoutseeing a person. With amusing politeness, the governor of the city at lastsent her some confectionery,—agreeing with John Keats, who held thatyoung women were beings fitter to be presented with sugar-plums than withone's time. But he took care to explain that the bonbons were notofficial, and did not recognize her authority. So she quietly ate them,and then decided to take a walk outside the walls. Her council of waropposed this step, as they did every other; but she coolly said (as theevent proved) that the enthusiasm of the populace would carry the city forher, if she could only get at them.

So she set out on her walk. Her two beautiful ladies-of-honor, theCountesses de Fiesque and de Frontenac, went with her; a few attendantsbehind. She came to a gate. The people were all gathered inside theramparts. "Let me in," demanded the imperious young lady. The astonishedcitizens looked at each other and said nothing. She walked on,—the crowdinside keeping pace with her. She reached another gate. The enthusiasm wasincreased. The captain of the guard formed his troops in line and salutedher. "Open the gate," she again insisted. The poor captain made signs thathe had not the keys. "Break it down, then," coolly suggested the daughterof the House of Orléans; to which his only reply was a profusion ofprofound bows, and the lady walked on.

Those were the days of astrology, and at this moment it occurred to ourMademoiselle, that the chief astrologer of Paris had predicted success toall her undertakings, from the noon of this very day until the noonfollowing. She had never had the slightest faith in the mystic science,but she turned to her attendant ladies, and remarked that the matter wassettled; she should get in. On went the three, until they reached the bankof the river, and saw, opposite, the gates which opened on the quay. TheOrléans boatmen came flocking round her, a hardy race, who feared neitherqueen nor Mazarin. They would break down any gate she chose. She selectedone, got into a boat, and sending back her terrified male attendants, thatthey might have no responsibility in the case, she was rowed to the otherside. Her new allies were already at work, and she climbed from the boatupon the quay by a high ladder, of which several rounds were broken away.They worked more and more enthusiastically, though the gate was built tostand a siege, and stoutly resisted this one. Courage is magnetic; everymoment increased the popular enthusiasm, as these highborn ladies stoodalone among the boatmen; the crowd inside joined in the attack upon thegate; the guard looked on; the city government remained irresolute at theHôtel de Ville, fairly beleaguered and stormed by one princess and twomaids-of-honor.

A crash, and the mighty timbers of the Porte Brûlée yield in the centre.Aided by the strong and exceedingly soiled hands of her new friends, ourelegant Mademoiselle is lifted, pulled, pushed, and tugged between thevast iron bars which fortify the gate; and in this fashion, torn,splashed, and dishevelled generally, she makes entrance into her city. Theguard, promptly adhering to the winning side, present arms to the heroine.The people fill the air with their applauses; they place her in a large,wooden chair, and bear her in triumph through the streets. "Everybody cameto kiss my hands, while I was dying with laughter to find myself in so odda situation."

Presently our volatile lady told them that she had learned how to walk,and begged to be put down; then she waited for her countesses, who arrivedbespattered with mud. The drums beat before her, as she set forth again,and the city government, yielding to the feminine conqueror, came to doher homage. She carelessly assured them of her clemency. She "had no doubtthat they would soon have opened the gates, but she was naturally of avery impatient disposition, and could not wait." Moreover, she kindlysuggested, neither party could now find fault with them; and as for thefuture, she would save them all trouble, and govern the city herself,—which she accordingly did.

By confession of all historians, she alone saved the city for the Fronde,and, for the moment, secured that party the ascendency in the nation. Nextday the advance-guard of the royal forces appeared,—a day too late.Mademoiselle made a speech (the first in her life) to the city government;then went forth to her own small army, by this time drawn near, and heldanother council. The next day she received a letter from her father,(whose health was now decidedly restored,) declaring that she had "savedOrléans and secured Paris, and shown yet more judgment than courage." Thenext day Condé came up with his forces, compared his fair cousin toGustavus Adolphus, and wrote to her that "her exploit was such as she onlycould have performed, and was of the greatest importance."

Mademoiselle staid a little longer at Orléans, while the armies laywatching each other, or fighting the battle of Bléneau, of which Condéwrote her an official bulletin, as being generalissimo. She amused herselfeasily, went to mass, played at bowls, received the magistrates, stoppedcouriers to laugh over their letters, reviewed the troops, signedpassports, held councils, and did many things "for which she should havethought herself quite unfitted, if she had not found she did them verywell." The enthusiasm she had inspired kept itself unabated, for shereally deserved it. She was everywhere recognized as head of affairs; theofficers of the army drank her health on their knees, when she dined withthem, while the trumpets sounded and the cannons roared; Condé, whenabsent, left instructions to his officers, "Obey the commands ofMademoiselle, as my own"; and her father addressed a despatch from Paristo her ladies of honor, as Field-Marshals in her army: "À Mesdames lesComtesses Maréchales de Camp dans l'Armée de ma Fille contre le Mazarin."



Mademoiselle went back to Paris. Half the population met her outside thewalls; she kept up the heroine, by compulsion, and for a few weeks heldher court as Queen of France. If the Fronde had held its position, shemight very probably have held hers. Condé, being unable to marry herhimself, on account of the continued existence of his invalid wife, (whichhe sincerely regretted,) had a fixed design of marrying her to the youngKing. Queen Henrietta Maria cordially greeted her, lamented more than everher rejection of the "bashful" Charles II., and compared her to theoriginal Maid of Orléans,—an ominous compliment from an English source.

The royal army drew near; on July 1, 1652, Mademoiselle heard their drumsbeating outside. "I shall not stay at home to-day," she said to herattendants, at two in the morning; "I feel convinced that I shall becalled to do some unforeseen act, as I was at Orléans." And she was notfar wrong. The battle of the Porte St. Antoine was at hand.

Condé and Turenne! The two greatest names in the history of European wars,until a greater eclipsed them both. Condé, a prophecy of Napoleon, ageneral by instinct, incapable of defeat, insatiable of glory, throwinghis marshal's baton within the lines of the enemy, and following it;passionate, false, unscrupulous, mean. Turenne, the precursor ofWellington rather, simple, honest, truthful, humble, eating off his ironcamp-equipage to the end of life. If it be true, as the ancients said,that an army of stags led by a lion is more formidable than an army oflions led by a stag, then the presence of two such heroes would have givenlustre to the most trivial conflict. But that fight was not trivial uponwhich hung the possession of Paris and the fate of France; and betweenthese two great soldiers it was our Mademoiselle who was again to hold thebalance, and to decide the day.

The battle raged furiously outside the city. Frenchman fought againstFrenchman, and nothing distinguished the two armies except a wisp of strawin the hat, on the one side, and a piece of paper on the other. The peopleof the metropolis, fearing equally the Prince and the King, had shut thegates against all but the wounded and the dying. The Parliament wasawaiting the result of the battle, before taking sides. The Queen was onher knees in the Carmelite Chapel. De Retz was shut up in his palace, andGaston of Orléans in his,—the latter, as usual, slightly indisposed; andMademoiselle, passing anxiously through the streets, met nobleman afternobleman of her acquaintance, borne with ghastly wounds to his residence.She knew that the numbers were unequal; she knew that her friends must belosing ground. She rushed back to her father, and implored him to go forthin person, rally the citizens, and relieve Condé. It was quite impossible;he was so exceedingly feeble; he could not walk a hundred yards. "Then,Sir," said the indignant Princess, "I advise you to go immediately to bed.The world had better believe that you cannot do your duty, than that youwill not."

Time passed on, each moment registered in blood. Mademoiselle went andcame; still the same sad procession of dead and dying; still the same madconflict, Frenchman against Frenchman, in the three great avenues of theFaubourg St. Antoine. She watched it from the city walls till she couldbear it no longer. One final, desperate appeal, and her dastard fatherconsented, not to act himself, but again to appoint her his substitute.Armed with the highest authority, she hastened to the Hôtel de Ville,where the Parliament was in irresolute session. The citizens throngedround her, as she went, imploring her to become their leader. She reachedthe scene, exhibited her credentials, and breathlessly issued demandswhich would have made Gaston's hair stand on end.

"I desire three things," announced Mademoiselle: "first, that the citizensshall be called to arms."

"It is done," answered the obsequious officials.

"Next," she resolutely went on, "that two thousand men shall be sent torelieve the troops of the Prince."

They pledged themselves to this also.

"Finally," said the daring lady, conscious of the mine she was springing,and reserving the one essential point till the last, "that the army ofCondé shall be allowed free passage into the city."

The officials, headed by the Maréchal de l'Hôpital, at once exhibited themost extreme courtesy of demeanor, and begged leave to assure her Highnessthat under no conceivable circ*mstances could this request be granted.

She let loose upon them all the royal anger of the House of Bourbon. Sheremembered the sights she had just seen; she thought of Rochefoucauld,with his eye shot out and his white garments stained with blood,—ofGuitant shot through the body,—of Roche-Giffard, whom she pitied, "thougha Protestant." Condé might, at that moment, be sharing their fate; alldepended on her; and so Conrart declares, in his Memoirs, that"Mademoiselle said some strange things to these gentlemen": as, forinstance, that her attendants should throw them out of the window; thatshe would pluck off the Marshal's beard; that he should die by no hand buther's, and the like. When it came to this, the Maréchal de l'Hôpitalstroked his chin with a sense of insecurity, and called the council awayto deliberate; "during which time," says the softened Princess, "leaningon a window which looked on the St. Esprit, where they were saying mass, Ioffered up my prayers to God." At last they came back, and assented toevery one of her propositions.

In a moment she was in the streets again. The first person she met wasVallon, terribly wounded. "We are lost!" he said. "You are saved!" shecried, proudly. "I command to-day in Paris, as I commanded in Orléans.""Vous me rendez la vie," said the reanimated soldier, who had been withher in her first campaign. On she went, meeting at every step men woundedin the head, in the body, in the limbs,—on horseback, on foot, on planks,on barrows,—besides the bodies of the slain. She reached the windowsbeside the Porte St. Antoine, and Condé met her there; he rode up, coveredwith blood and dust, his scabbard lost, his sword in hand. Before shecould speak, that soul of fire uttered, for the only recorded time in hiscareer, the word Despair: "Ma cousine, vous voyez un homme audésespoir,"—and burst into tears. But her news instantly revived him, andhis army with him. "Mademoiselle is at the gate," the soldiers cried; and,with this certainty of a place of refuge, they could do all things. Inthis famous fight, five thousand men defended themselves against twelvethousand, for eight hours. "Did you see Condé himself?" they askedTurenne, after it was over. "I saw not one, but a dozen Condés," was theanswer; "he was in every place at once."

But there was one danger more for Condé, one opportunity more forMademoiselle, that day. Climbing the neighboring towers of the Bastille,she watched the royal party on the heights of Charonne, and saw freshcavalry and artillery detached to aid the army of Turenne. The odds werealready enormous, and there was but one course left for her. She wasmistress of Paris, and therefore mistress of the Bastille. She sent forthe governor of the fortress, and showed him the advancing troops. "Turnthe cannon under your charge, Sir, upon the royal army." Without waitingto heed the consternation she left behind her, Mademoiselle returned tothe gate. The troops had heard of the advancing reinforcements, and weredrooping again; when, suddenly, the cannon of the Bastille, those Spanishcannon; flamed out their powerful succor, the royal army halted andretreated, and the day was won.

The Queen and the Cardinal, watching from Charonne, saw their victimsescape them. But the cannon-shots bewildered them all. "It was probably asalute to Mademoiselle," suggested some comforting adviser. "No," said theexperienced Maréchal de Villeroi, "if Mademoiselle had a hand in it, thesalute was for us." At this, Mazarin comprehended the whole proceeding,and coldly consoled himself with a bon-mot that became historic. "Elle atué son mari," he said,—meaning that her dreams of matrimony with theyoung king must now be ended. No matter; the battle of the Porte St.Antoine was ended also.

There have been many narratives of that battle, including Napoleon's; theyare hard to reconcile, and our heroine's own is by no means the clearest;but all essentially agree in the part they ascribe to her. One briefappendix to the campaign, and her short career of heroism fades into thelight of common day.

Yet a third time did Fortune, showering upon one maiden so manyopportunities at once, summon her to arm herself with her father'sauthority, that she might go in his stead into that terrible riot which,two days after, tarnished the glories of Condé, and by its reactionoverthrew the party of the Fronde ere long. None but Mademoiselle dared totake the part of that doomed minority in the city government, which, forresisting her own demands, were to be terribly punished on that fourth-of-July night. "A conspiracy so base," said the generous Talon, "neverstained the soil of France." By deliberate premeditation, an assault wasmade by five hundred disguised soldiers on the Parliament assembled in theHôtel de Ville; the tumult spread; the night rang with a civil conflictmore terrible than that of the day. Condé and Gaston were vainly summoned;the one cared not, the other dared not. Mademoiselle again took her placein her carriage and drove forth amid the terrors of the night. The suddenconflict had passed its cruel climax, but she rode through streetsslippery with blood; she was stopped at every corner. Once a man laid hisarm on the window, and asked if Condé was within the carriage. Sheanswered "No," and he retreated, the flambeaux gleaming on a weaponbeneath his cloak. Through these interruptions, she did not reach thehalf-burned and smoking Hôtel de Ville till most of its inmates had leftit; the few remaining she aided to conceal, and emerged again amid thelingering, yawning crowd, who cheered her with, "God bless Mademoiselle!all she does is well done."

At four o'clock that morning she went to rest, weary with these days andnights of responsibility. Sleep soundly, Mademoiselle, you will betroubled with such no longer. An ignominious peace is at hand; and thoughpeace, too, has her victories, yours is not a nature grand enough to graspthem. Last to yield, last to be forgiven, there will yet be little in yourfuture career to justify the distrust of despots, or to recall the youngheroine of Orléans and St Antoine.



Like a river which loses itself, by infinite subdivision, in the sands, sothe wars of the Fronde disappeared in petty intrigues at last. As thefighting ended and manoeuvring became the game, of course Mazarin cameuppermost,—Mazarin, that super-Italian, finessing and fascinating, sodeadly sweet, l'homme plus agréable du monde, as Madame de Mottevilleand Bussy-Rabutin call him,—flattering that he might win, avaricious thathe might be magnificent, winning kings by jewelry and princesses bylapdogs,—too cowardly for any avoidable collision,—too cool andeconomical in his hatred to waste an antagonist by killing him, but alwaysluring and cajoling him into an unwilling tool,—too serenely careless ofpopular emotion even to hate the mob of Paris, any more than a surgeonhates his own lancet when it cuts him; he only changes his grasp and holdsit more cautiously. Mazarin ruled. And the King was soon joking over thefight at the Porte St. Antoine, with Condé and Mademoiselle; the Queen atthe same time affectionately assuring our heroine, that, if she could havegot at her on that day, she would certainly have strangled her, but that,since it was past, she would love her as ever,—as ever; whileMademoiselle, not to be outdone, lies like a Frenchwoman, and assures theQueen that really she did not mean to be so naughty, but "she was withthose who induced her to act against her sense of duty!"

The day of civil war was over. The daring heroines and voluptuous blondebeauties of the Frondeur party must seek excitement elsewhere. Some lookedfor it in literature; for the female education of France in that age wasfar higher than England could show. The intellectual glory of the reign ofthe Grand Monarque began in its women. Marie de Médicis had imported theItalian grace and wit,—Anne of Austria the Spanish courtesy and romance;the Hôtel de Rambouillet had united the two, and introduced the genreprécieux, or stately style, which was superb in its origin, and dwindledto absurdity in the hands of Mlle. de Scudéry and her valets, beforeMolière smiled it away forever. And now that the wars were done, literarysociety came up again. Madame de Sablé exhausted the wit and the cookeryof the age in her fascinating entertainments,—pâtés and Pascal,Rochefoucauld and ragoûts,—Mme. de Brégy's Epictetus, Mme. de Choisy'ssalads,—confectionery, marmalade, elixirs, Des Cartes, Arnould,Calvinism, and the barometer. Mme. de Sablé had a sentimental theory thatno woman should eat at the same table with a lover, but she liked to seeher lovers eat, and Mademoiselle, in her obsolete novel of the "Princessede Paphlagonie," gently satirizes this passion of her friend. AndMademoiselle herself finally eclipsed the Sablé by her own entertainmentsat her palace of the Luxembourg, where she offered no dish but one ofgossip, serving up herself and friends in a course of "Portraits" soappetizing that it became the fashion for ten years, and reachedperfection at last in the famous "Characters" of La Bruyère.

Other heroines went into convents, joined the Carmelites, or those nuns ofPort-Royal of whom the Archbishop of Paris said that they lived in thepurity of angels and the pride of devils. Thither went Madame de Sabléherself, finally,—"the late Madame," as the dashing young abbés calledher when she renounced the world. Thither she drew the beautifulLongueville also, and Heaven smiled on one repentance that seemed sincere.There they found peace in the home of Angélique Arnould and JacquelinePascal. And thence those heroic women came forth again, when religious warthreatened to take the place of civil: again they put to shame their moretimid male companions, and by their labors Jesuit and Jansenist foundpeace.

But not such was to be the career of our Mademoiselle, who, at twenty, hadtried the part of devotee for one week and renounced it forever. No doubt,at thirty-five, she "began to understand that it is part of the duty of aChristian to attend High Mass on Sundays and holy days"; and herdescription of the deathbed of Anne of Austria is a most extraordinaryjumble of the next world and this. But thus much of devotion was to heronly a part of the proprieties of life, and before the altar of thoseproprieties she served, for the rest of her existence, with exemplaryzeal. At forty, she was still the wealthiest unmarried princess in Europe;fastidious in toilette, stainless in reputation, not lovely in temper,rigid in etiquette, learned in precedence, an oracle in court traditions,a terror to the young maids-of-honor, and always quarrelling with her ownsisters, younger, fairer, poorer than herself. Her mind and will were asactive as in her girlhood, but they ground chaff instead of wheat. Whetherher sisters should dine at the Queen's table, when she never had; whoshould be her trainbearer at the royal marriage; whether the royal Spanishfather-in-law, on the same occasion, should or should not salute theQueen-mother; who, on any given occasion, should have a tabouret, who apliant, who a chair, who an arm-chair; who should enter the King'sruelle, or her own, or pass out by the private stairway; how she shouldarrange the duch*esses at state-funerals: these were the things which triedMademoiselle's soul, and these fill the later volumes of thatautobiography whose earlier record was all a battle and a march. FromCondé's "Obey Mademoiselle's orders as my own," we come down to this: "Formy part, I had been worrying myself all day; having been told that the newQueen would not salute me on the lips, and that the King had decided tosustain her in this position. I therefore spoke to Monsieur the Cardinalon the subject, bringing forward as an important precedent in my favor,that the Queen-mother had always kissed the princesses of the blood"; andso on through many pages. Thus lapsed her youth of frolics into an old ageof cards.

It is a slight compensation, that this very pettiness makes her chroniclesof the age very vivid in details. How she revels in the silver brocades,the violet-colored velvet robes, the crimson velvet carpets, the purpledamask curtains fringed with gold and silver, the embroidered fleurs delis, the wedding-caskets, the cordons of diamonds, the clusters ofemeralds en poires with diamonds, and the Isabelle-colored linen,whereby hangs a tale! She still kept up her youthful habit of avoiding thesick-rooms of her kindred, but how magnificently she mourned them whenthey died! Her brief, genuine, but quite unexpected sorrow for her fatherwas speedily assuaged by the opportunity it gave her to introduce thefashion of gray mourning, instead of black; it had previously, it seems,been worn by widows only. Servants and horses were all put in deep black,however, and "the court observed that I was very magnifique in all myarrangements." On the other hand, be it recorded, that our Mademoiselle,chivalrous royalist to the last, was the only person at the French courtwho refused to wear mourning for the usurper Cromwell!

But, if thus addicted to funeral pageants, it is needless to say thatweddings occupied their full proportion of her thoughts. Her schemes formatrimony fill the larger portion of her history, and are, like all therest, a diamond necklace of great names. In the boudoir, as in the field,her campaigns were superb, but she was cheated of the results. Her pictureshould have been painted, like that of Justice, with sword and scales,—the one for foes, the other for lovers. She spent her life in weighingthem,—monarch against monarch, a king in hand against an emperor in thebush. We have it on her own authority, which, in such matters, wasunsurpassable, that she was "the best match in Europe, except the Infantaof Spain." Not a marriageable prince in Christendom, therefore, can hovernear the French court, but this middle-aged sensitive-plant prepares toclose her leaves and be coy. The procession of her wooers files before ourwondering eyes, and each the likeness of a kingly crown has on: Louishimself, her bright possibility of twenty years, till he takes her at herown estimate and prefers the Infanta,—Monsieur, his younger brother,Philip IV. of Spain, Charles II. of England, the Emperor of Germany, theArchduke Leopold of Austria,—prospective king of Holland,—the King ofPortugal, the Prince of Denmark, the Elector of Bavaria, the Duke ofSavoy, Condé's son, and Condé himself. For the last of these alone sheseems to have felt any real affection. Their tie was more than cousinly;the same heroic blood of the early Bourbons was in them, they were trainedby the same precocious successes, only six years apart in age, andbeginning with that hearty mutual aversion which is so often the parent oflove, in impulsive natures like theirs. Their flirtation was platonic, butchronic; and whenever poor, heroic, desolate Clémence de Maille was sickerthan usual, these cousins were walking side by side in the Tuileriesgardens, and dreaming, almost in silence, of what might be, while Mazarinshuddered at the thought of mating two such eagles together.—So passedher life, and at last, like many a matchmaking lady, she baffled all thegossips, and left them all in laughter when her choice was made.

The tale stands embalmed forever in the famous letter of Madame de Sévignéto her cousin, M. de Coulanges, written on Monday, December 15, 1670. Itcan never be translated too often, so we will risk it again.

"I have now to announce to you the most astonishing circ*mstance, the mostsurprising, most marvellous, most triumphant, most bewildering, mostunheard-of, most singular, most extraordinary, most incredible, mostunexpected, most grand, most trivial, most rare, most common, mostnotorious, most secret, (till to-day,) most brilliant, most desirable;indeed, a thing to which past ages afford but one parallel, and that apoor one; a thing which we can scarcely believe at Paris; how can it bebelieved at Lyons? a thing which excites the compassion of all the world,and the delight of Madame de Rohan and Madame de Hauterive; a thing whichis to be done on Sunday, when those who see it will hardly believe theireyes; a thing which will be done on Sunday, and which might perhaps beimpossible on Monday: I cannot possibly announce it; guess it; I give youthree guesses; try now. If you will not, I must tell you. M. de Lauzunmarries on Sunday, at the Louvre,—whom now? I give you three guesses,—six,—a hundred. Madame de Coulanges says, 'It is not hard to guess; it isMadame de la Vallière.' Not at all, Madame! 'Mlle. de Retz?' Not a bit;you are a mere provincial. 'How absurd!' you say; 'it is Mlle. Colbert.'Not that, either. 'Then, of course, it is Mlle. de Créqui.' Not right yet.Must I tell you, then? Listen! he marries on Sunday, at the Louvre, by hisMajesty's permission, Mademoiselle,—Mademoiselle de,—Mademoiselle (willyou guess again?)—he marries MADEMOISELLE,—La Grande Mademoiselle,—Mademoiselle, daughter of the late Monsieur,—Mademoiselle, grand-daughter of Henri Quatre,—Mademoiselle d'Eu,—Mademoiselle de Dombes,—Mademoiselle de Montpensier,—Mademoiselle d'Orléans,—Mademoiselle, theKing's own cousin,—Mademoiselle, destined for the throne,—Mademoiselle,the only fit match in France for Monsieur [the King's brother];—there'sa piece of information for you! If you shriek,—if you are besideyourself,—if you say it is a hoax, false, mere gossip, stuff, andnonsense,—if, finally, you say hard things about us, we do not complain;we took the news in the same way. Adieu; the letters by this post willshow you whether we have told the truth."

Poor Mademoiselle! Madame de Sévigné was right in one thing,—if it werenot done promptly, it might prove impracticable. Like Ralph RoisterDoister, she should ha' been married o' Sunday. Duly the contract wassigned, by which Lauzun took the name of M. de Montpensier and the largestfortune in the kingdom, surrendered without reservation, all, all to him;but Mazarin had bribed the notary to four hours' delay, and during thattime the King was brought to change his mind, to revoke his consent, andto contradict the letters he had written to foreign courts, formallyannouncing the nuptials of the first princess of the blood. In reading theMemoirs of Mademoiselle, one forgets all the absurdity of all her longamatory angling for the handsome young guardsman, in pity for her deepdespair. When she went to remonstrate with the King, the two royal cousinsfell on their knees, embraced, "and thus we remained for near threequarters of an hour, not a word being spoken during the whole time, butboth drowned in tears." Reviving, she told the King, with her usualfrankness, that he was "like apes who caress children and suffocate them";and this high-minded monarch soon proceeded to justify her remark byordering her lover to the Castle of Pignerol, to prevent a privatemarriage,—which had probably taken place already. Ten years passed,before the labors and wealth of this constant and untiring wife couldobtain her husband's release; and when he was discharged at last, he cameout a changed, soured, selfish, ungrateful man. "Just Heaven," she hadexclaimed in her youth, "would not bestow such a woman as myself upon aman who was unworthy of her." But perhaps Heaven was juster than shethought. They soon parted again forever, and he went to England, there toatone for these inglorious earlier days by one deed of heroic loyaltywhich it is not ours to tell.

And then unrolled the gorgeous tapestry of the maturer reign of the GrandMonarque,—that sovereign whom his priests in their liturgy styled "thechief work of the Divine hands," and of whom Mazarin said, more honestly,that there was material enough in him for four kings and one honest man.The "Moi-même" of his boyish resolution became the "L'état, c'est moi" ofhis maturer egotism; Spain yielded to France the mastery of the land, asshe had already yielded to Holland and England the sea; Turenne fell atSassbach, Condé sheathed his sword at Chantilly; Bossuet and Bourdaloue,preaching the funeral sermons of these heroes, praised their glories, andforgot, as preachers will, their sins; Vatel committed suicide because hisMajesty had not fish enough for breakfast; the Princess Palatine died in aconvent, and the Princess Condé in a prison; the fair Sévigné chose thebetter part, and the fairer Montespan the worse; the lovely La Vallièrewalked through sin to saintliness, and poor Marie de Mancini throughsaintliness to sin; Voiture and Benserade and Corneille passed away, andRacine and Molière reigned in their stead; and Mademoiselle, who had wonthe first campaigns of her life and lost all the rest, died a weary oldwoman at sixty-seven.

Thus wrecked and wasted, her opportunity past, her career adisappointment, she leaves us only the passing glimpse of what she was,and the hazy possibility of what she might have been. Perhaps the defectwas, after all, in herself; perhaps the soil was not deep enough toproduce anything but a few stray heroisms, bright and transitory;—perhapsotherwise. What fascinates us in her is simply her daring, that inbornfire of the blood to which danger is its own exceeding great reward; aquality which always kindles enthusiasm, and justly,—but which is a thingof temperament, not necessarily joined with any other great qualities, andworthless when it stands alone—But she had other resources,—weapons, atleast, if not qualities; she had birth, wealth, ambition, decision, pride,perseverance, ingenuity; beauty not slight, though not equalling thesuperb Longuevilles and Chevreuses of the age; great personal magnetism,more than average cultivation for that period, and unsullied chastity. Whocan say what these things might have ended in, under other circ*mstances?We have seen how Mazarin, who read all hearts but the saintly, dreaded theconjunction of herself and Condé; it is scarcely possible to doubt that itwould have placed a new line of Bourbons on the throne. Had she marriedLouis XIV., she might not have controlled that steadier will, but therewould have been two Grand Monarques instead of one; had she acceptedCharles II. of England, she might have only increased his despotictendencies, but she would easily have disposed of the duch*ess ofPortsmouth; had she won Ferdinand III., Germany might have suffered lessby the Peace of Westphalia; had she chosen Alphonso Henry, the House ofBraganza would again have been upheld by a woman's hand. But she did noneof these things, and her only epitaph is that dreary might-have-been.

Nay, not the only one,—for one visible record of her, at least, the soilof France cherishes among its chiefest treasures. When the Parisbutterflies flutter for a summer day to the decaying watering-place ofDieppe, some American wanderer, who flutters with them, may cast perchancea longing eye to where the hamlet of Eu stands amid its verdant meadows,two miles away, still lovely as when the Archbishop Laurent chose it outof all the world for his "place of eternal rest," six centuries ago. Butit is not for its memories of priestly tombs and miracles that the summervisitor seeks it now, nor because the savant loves its ancient sea-margin or its Roman remains; nor is it because the little Bresle windsgracefully through its soft bed, beneath forests green in the sunshine,glorious in the gloom; it is not for the memories of Rollo and William theConqueror, which fill with visionary shapes, grander than the living, thecorridors of its half-desolate château. It is because these storied walls,often ruined, often rebuilt, still shelter a gallery of historic portraitssuch as the world cannot equal; there is not a Bourbon king, nor a Bourbonbattle, nor one great name among the courtier contemporaries of Bourbons,that is not represented there; the "Hall of the Guises" contains kindredfaces, from all the realms of Christendom; the "Salon des Rois" holds Joanof Arc, sculptured in marble by the hand of a princess; in the drawing-room, Père la Chaise and Marion de l'Orme are side by side, and theangelic beauty of Agnes Sorel floods the great hall with light, like asunbeam; and in this priceless treasure-house, worth more to France thanalmost fair Normandy itself, this gallery of glory, first arranged atChoisy, then transferred hither to console the solitude of a weepingwoman, the wanderer finds the only remaining memorial of La GrandeMademoiselle.


When the reaper's task was ended, and the summer wearing late,
Parson Avery sailed from Newbury with his wife and children eight,
Dropping down the river harbor in the shallop Watch and Wait.

Pleasantly lay the clearings in the mellow summer-morn,
And the newly-planted orchards dropping their fruits first-born,
And the homesteads like brown islands amidst a sea of corn.

Broad meadows reaching seaward the tided creeks between,
And hills rolled, wave-like, inland, with oaks and walnuts green:
A fairer home, a goodlier land, his eye had never seen.

Yet away sailed Parson Avery, away where duty led,
And the voice of God seemed calling, to break the living bread
To the souls of fishers starving on the rocks of Marblehead!

All day they sailed: at nightfall the pleasant land-breeze died,
The blackening sky at midnight its starry lights denied,
And, far and low, the thunder of tempest prophesied.

Blotted out was all the coast-line, gone were rock and wood and sand;
Grimly anxious stood the helmsman with the tiller in his hand,
And questioned of the darkness what was sea and what was land.

And the preacher heard his dear ones, nestled round him, weeping sore:
"Never heed, my little children! Christ is walking on before
To the pleasant land of Heaven, where the sea shall be no more!"

All at once the great cloud parted, like a curtain drawn aside,
To let down the torch of lightning on the terror far and wide;
And the thunder and the whirlwind together smote the tide.

There was wailing in the shallop, woman's wail and man's despair,
A crash of breaking timbers on the rocks so sharp and bare,
And through it all the murmur of Father Avery's prayer.

From the struggle in the darkness with the wild waves and the blast,
On a rock, where every billow broke above him as it passed,
Alone of all his household the man of God was cast.

There a comrade heard him praying in the pause of wave and wind:
"All my own have gone before me, and I linger just behind;
Not for life I ask, but only for the rest thy ransomed find!

"In this night of death I challenge the promise of thy Word!
Let me see the great salvation of which mine ears have heard!
Let me pass from hence forgiven, through the grace of Christ, our Lord!

"In the baptism of these waters wash white my every sin,
And let me follow up to Thee my household and my kin!
Open the sea-gate of thy Heaven and let me enter in!"

The ear of God was open to his servant's last request;
As the strong wave swept him downward the sweet prayer upward pressed,
And the soul of Father Avery went with it to his rest.

There was wailing on the mainland from the rocks of Marblehead,
In the stricken church of Newbury the notes for prayer were read,
And long by board and hearthstone the living mourned the dead.

And still the fishers out-bound, or scudding from the squall,
With grave and reverent faces the ancient tale recall,
When they see the white waves breaking on the "Rock of Avery's Fall!"


It is the privilege of authors and artists to see and to describe; to "seeclearly and describe vividly" gives the pass on all state occasions. It isthe "cap of darkness" and the talaria, and wafts them whither they will.The doors of boudoirs and senate-chambers open quickly, and close afterthem,—excluding the talentless and staring rabble. I, who am one of thehumblest of the seers,—a universal admirer of all things beautiful andgreat,—from the commonwealths of Plato and Solon, severally, expulsed, aspoet without music or politic, and a follower of the great,—I, from mydormitory, or nest, of twelve feet square, can, at an hour's notice, orless, enter palaces, and bear away, unchecked and unquestioned, thoseimagines of Des Cartes which emanate or are thrown off from all forms,—and this, not in imagination, but in the flesh.

Whether it was the "tone of society" which pervaded my "Florentineletters," or my noted description of the boudoir of Egeria Mentale, Icould not just now determine; but these, and other humble efforts of mine,made me known in palaces as a painter of beauty and magnificence; and Ihave been in demand, to do for wealth what wealth cannot do for itself,—namely, make it live a little, or, at least, spread as far, in fame, asthe rings of a stone-plash on a great pond.

I enjoy friendships and regards which would satisfy the most fastidious.Are not the Denslows enormously rich? Is not Dalton a sovereign ofelegance? It was I who gave the fame of these qualities to the world, intrue colors, not flattered. And they know it, and love me. HonoriaDenslow is the most beautiful and truly charming woman of society. It wasI who first said it; and she is my friend, and loves me. I defy poverty;the wealth of all the senses is mine, without effort. I desire not to beone of those who mingle as principals and sufferers; for they are lesscauses than effects. As the Florentine in the Inferno saw the souls ofunfortunate lovers borne upon a whirlwind, so have I seen all things fairand precious,—outpourings of wealth,—all the talents,—all the offeringsof duty and devotion,—angelic graces of person and of soul,—borne andswept violently around on the circular gale. Wealth is only an enlargementof the material boundary, and leaves the spirit free to dash to and fro,and exhaust itself in vain efforts.—But I am philosophizing,—oddlyenough,—when I should describe.

An exquisite little note from Honoria, sent at the last moment, asking meto be present that evening at a "select" party, which was to open the "newhouse,"—the little palace of the Denslows,—lay beside me on the table.It was within thirty minutes of nine o'clock, the hour I had fixed forgoing. A howling winter out of doors, a clear fire glowing in my littlegrate. My arm-chair, a magnificent present from Honoria, shaming thewooden fixtures of the poor room, invited to meditation, and perhaps thecomposition of some delicate periods. They formed slowly. Time, it issaid, devours all things; but imagination, in turn, devours time,—and,indeed, swallowed my half-hour at a gulp. The neighboring church-clocktolled nine. I was belated, and hurried away.

It was a reunion of only three hundred invitations, selected by myfriend Dalton, the intimate and adviser of Honoria. So happy were theircombinations, scarce a dozen were absent or declined.

At eleven, the guests began to assemble. Introductions were almostneedless. Each person was a recognized member of "society." One-half ofthe number were women,—many of them young, beautiful, accomplished,—heiresses, "charming widows," poetesses of real celebrity, and, rarerstill, of good repute,—wives of millionnaires, flashing in satin anddiamonds. The men, on their side, were of all professions and arts, and ofevery grade of celebrity, from senator to merchant,—each distinguished bysome personal attribute or talent; and in all was the gift, so rare, ofmanners and conversation. It was a company of undoubted gentlemen, astruly entitled to respect and admiration as if they stood about a throne.They were the untitled nobility of Nature, wealth, and genius.

As I stood looking, with placid admiration, from a recess, upon abrilliant tableau of beautiful women and celebrated men that hadaccidentally arranged itself before me, Dalton touched my arm.

"I have seen," said he, "aristocratic and republican réunions of thepurest mode in Paris, the court and the banker's circle of London,conversazioni at Rome and Florence. Every face in this room isintelligent, and nearly all either beautiful, remarkable, or commanding. Observe those five women standing with Denslow and Adonaïs,—grandeur,sweetness, grace, form, purity; each has an attribute. It is a rareassemblage of superior human beings. The world cannot surpass it. And, bythe by, the rooms are superb."

They were, indeed, magnificent: two grand suites, on either side a centralhall of Gothic structure, in white marble, with light, aërial staircasesand gilded balconies. Each suite was a separate miracle: the height, thebreadth, the columnal divisions; the wonderful delicacy of the arches,upon which rested ceilings frescoed with incomparable art. In onecompartment the arches and caryatides were of black marble; in another, ofsnowy Parian; in a third, of wood, exquisitely carved, and joined like onepiece, as if it were a natural growth; vines rising at the bases of thewalls, and spreading under the roof. There was no forced consistency.Forms suitable only for the support of heavy masses of masonry, or for thesolemn effects of church interiors, were not here introduced. Fromstraight window-cornices of dark wood, slenderly gilt, but richly carved,fell cataracts of gleaming satin, softened in effect with laces of rareappreciation.

The frescoes and panel-work were a study by themselves, uniting theclassic and modern styles in allegorical subjects. The paintings, selectedby the taste of Dalton, to overpower the darkness of the rooms byintensity of color, were incorporated with the walls. There were but fewmirrors. At the end of each suite, one, of fabulous size, without frame,made to appear, by a cunning arrangement of dark draperies, like atransparent portion of the wall itself, extended the magnificence of theapartments.

Not a flame nor a jet was anywhere visible. Tinted vases, pendent, orresting upon pedestals, distributed harmonies and thoughts of light ratherthan light itself; and yet all was visible, effulgent. The columns whichseparated the apartments seemed to be composed of masses of richly-coloredflames, compelled, by some ingenious alchemy, to assume the form andoffice of columns.

In New York, par excellence the city of private gorgeousness andpetite magnificence, nothing had yet been seen equal to the rooms of theglorious Denslow Palace. Even Dalton, the most capricious and critical ofmen, whose nice vision had absorbed the elegancies of European taste,pronounced them superb. The upholstery and ornamentation were composedunder the direction of celebrated artists. Palmer was consulted on themarbles. Page (at Rome) advised the cartoons for the frescoes, and gavelaws for the colors and disposition of the draperies. The paintings,panelled in the walls, were modern, triumphs of the art and genius of theNew World.

Until the hour for dancing, prolonged melodies of themes modulated in thehappiest moments of the great composers floated in the perfumed air from acompany of unseen musicians, while the guests moved through the vastapartments, charmed or exalted by their splendor, or conversed in groups,every voice subdued and intelligent.

At midnight began the modish music of the dance, and groups of beautifulgirls moved like the atoms of Chladni on the vibrating crystal, with theirpartners, to the sound of harps and violins, in pleasing figures orinebriating spirals.

When supper was served, the ivory fronts of a cabinet of gems divideditself in the centre,—the two halves revolving upon silver hinges,—anddiscovered a hall of great height and dimensions, walled with crimsondamask, supporting pictures of all the masters of modern art. The dome-like roof of this hall was of marble variously colored, and the floortessellated and mosaicked in grotesque and graceful figures of Vesuvianlavas and painted porcelain.

The tables, couches, chairs, and vis-a-vis in this hall were of plainpattern and neutral dead colors, not to overpower or fade the pictures onthe walls, or the gold and Parian service of the cedar tables.

But the chief beauty of this unequalled supper-room was an immense bronzecandelabrum, which rose in the centre from a column of black marble. Itwas the figure of an Italian elm, slender and of thin foliage, embraced,almost enveloped, in a vine, which reached out and supported itself inhanging from all the branches; the twigs bearing fruit, not of grapes, butof a hundred little spheres of crimson, violet, and golden light, whosecombination produced a soft atmosphere of no certain color.

Neither Honoria, Dalton, nor myself remained long in the gallery. Weretired with a select few, and were served in an antechamber, separatedfrom the grand reception-room by an arch, through which, by putting asidea silk curtain, Honoria could see, at a distance, any that entered, asthey passed in from the hall.

My own position was such that I could look over her shoulder and see asshe saw. Vis-a-vis with her, and consequently with myself, was Adonaïs,a celebrated author, and person of the beau monde. On his left, Dalton,always mysteriously elegant and dangerously witty. Denslow and JeffreyLethal, the critic, completed our circle. The conversation was easy,animated, personal.

"You are fortunate in having a woman of taste to manage yourentertainments," said Lethal, in answer to a remark of Denslow's,—"but inbringing these people together she has made a sad blunder."

"And what may that be?" inquired Dalton, mildly.

"Your guests are too well behaved, too fine, and on their guard; there areno butts, no palpable fools or vulgarians; and, worse, there are manydistinguished, but no one great man,—no social or intellectual sovereignof the occasion."

Honoria looked inquiringly at Lethal. "Pray, Mr. Lethal, tell me who heis? I thought there was no such person in America," she added, with a lookof reproachful inquiry at Dalton and myself, as if we should have foundthis sovereign and suggested him.

"You are right, my dear queen; Lethal is joking," responded Dalton; "weare a democracy, and have only a queen of"——

"Water ices," interrupted Lethal; "but, as for the king you seek, asdemocracies finally come to that,"——

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Honoria, raising the curtain, "it must be hethat is coming in."

Honoria frowned slightly, rose, and advanced to meet a new-comer, who hadentered unannounced, and was advancing alone. Dalton followed to supporther. I observed their movements,—Lethal and Adonaïs using my face as amirror of what was passing beyond the curtain.

The masses of level light from the columns on the left seemed to envelopethe stranger, who came toward us from the entrance, as if he had divinedthe presence of Honoria in the alcove.

He was about the middle height, Napoleonic in form and bearing, withfeatures of marble paleness, firm, and sharply defined. His hair andmagnificent Asiatic beard were jetty black, curling, and naturallydisposed. Under his dark and solid brows gleamed large eyes of abysmalblackness and intensity.

"Is it Lord N——?" whispered Lethal, moved from his habitual coldness bythe astonishment which he read in my face.

"Senator D——, perhaps," suggested Denslow, whose ideas, like his person,aspired to the senatorial.

"Dumas," hinted Adonaïs, an admirer of French literature. "I heard he wasexpected."

"No," I answered, "but certainly in appearance the most noticeable manliving. Let us go out and be introduced."

"Perhaps," said Lethal, "it is the d——."

All rose instantly at the idea, and we went forward, urged by irresistiblecuriosity.

As we drew near the stranger, who was conversing with Honoria and Dalton,a shudder went through me. It was a thrill of the universal Boswell; Iseemed to feel the presence of "the most aristocratic man of the age."

Honoria introduced me. "My Lord Duke, allow me to present my friend, Mr.
De Vere; Mr. De Vere, the Duke of Rosecouleur."

Was I, then, face to face with, nay, touching the hand of a highness,—andthat highness the monarch of the ton? And is this a ducal hand, white asthe albescent down of the eider-duck, which presses mine with a tendertouch, so haughty and so delicately graduated to my standing as "friend"of the exquisite Honoria? It was too much; I could have wept; my sensesrather failed.

Dalton fell short of himself; for, though his head stooped to none, unlessconventionally, the sudden and unaccountable presence of the Duke ofRosecouleur annoyed and perplexed him. His own sovereignty was threatened.

Lethal stiffened himself to the ordeal of an introduction; the affairseemed to exasperate him. Denslow alone, of the men, was in his element.Pompous and soft, he "cottoned" to the grandeur with the instinct of aborn satellite, and his eyes grew brighter, his body more shining androtund, his back more concave. His bon-vivant tones, jolly andconventional, sounded a pure barytone to the clear soprano of Honoria, inthe harmony of an obsequious welcome.

The Duke of Rosecouleur glanced around him approvingly upon theapartments. I believed that he had never seen anything more beautiful thanthe petite palace of Honoria, or more ravishing than herself. He saidlittle, in a low voice, and always to one person at a time. His answersand remarks were simple and well-turned.

Dalton allowed the others to move on, and by a slight sign drew me to him.

"It is unexpected," he said, in a thoughtful manner, looking me full inthe eyes.

"You knew the Duke of Rosecouleur in Europe?"

"At Paris, yes,—and in Italy he was a travel friend; but we heard latelythat he had retired upon his estates in England; and certainly, he is thelast person we looked for here."


"That is a part of the singularity."

"His name was not in the published list of arrivals; but he may have left
England incognito. Is a mistake possible?"

"No! there is but one such man in Europe;—a handsomer or a richer doesnot live."

"An eye of wonderful depth."

"Hands exquisite."

"Feet, ditto."

"And his dress and manner."


"Not a shadow of pretence;—the essence of good-breeding founded uponextensive knowledge, and a thorough sense of position and its advantages;—in fact, the Napoleon of the parlor."

"But, Dalton," said I, nervously, "no one attends him."

"No,—I thought so at first; but do you see that Mephistophelean figure,in black, who follows the Duke a few paces behind, and is introduced to noone?"

"Yes. A singular creature, truly!—how thin he is!"

"That shadow that follows his Highness is, in fact, the famous valet, Rêvede Noir,—the prince of servants. The Duke goes nowhere without this manas a shadow. He asserts that Rêve de Noir has no soul; and I believe him.The face is that of a demon. It is a separate creation, equally wonderfulwith the master, but not human. He was condensed out of the atmosphere ofthe great world."

As we were speaking, we observed a crowd of distinguished personsgathered about and following his Highness, as he moved. He spoke now toone; now to another. Honoria, fascinated, her beauty every instantbecoming more radiant, just leaned, with the lightest pressure, upon theDuke's arm. They were promenading through the rooms. The music, soft andlow, continued, but the groups of dancers broke up, the loiterers in thegallery came in, and as the sun draws his fifty, perhaps his hundreds ofplanets, circling around and near him, this noble luminary centred inhimself the attention of all. If they could not speak with him, they couldat least speak of him. If they could not touch his hand, they could passbefore him and give one glance at his eyes. The less aristocratic wereeven satisfied for the moment with watching the singular being, Rêve deNoir,—who caught no one's eye, seemed to see no one but his master,—andyet was not here nor there, nor in any place,—never in the way, a thingof air, and not tangible, but only black.

At a signal, he would advance and present to his master a perfume, a lacedhandkerchief, a rose of rubies, a diamond clasp; of many with whom hespoke the liberal Duke begged the acceptance of some little token, as anearnest of his esteem. After interchanging a few words with JeffreyLethal,—who dared not utter a sarcasm, though he chafed visibly under therestraint,—the Duke's tasteful generosity suggested a seal ring, with anintaglio head of Swift cut in opal, the mineral emblem of wit, which dullsin the sunlight of fortune, and recovers its fiery points in the shade ofadversity;—Rêve de Noir, with a movement so slight, 'twas like theflitting of a bat, placed the seal in the hand of the Duke, who, with acharming and irresistible grace, compelled Lethal to receive it.

To Denslow, Honoria, Dalton, and myself he offered nothing.—Strange?—Not
at all. Was he not the guest, and had not I been presented to him by
Honoria as her "friend?"—a word of pregnant meaning to a Duke of

To Adonaïs he gave a lock of hair of the great novelist, Dumas, in alocket of yellow tourmaline,—a stone usually black. Lethal smiled atthis. He felt relieved.

"The Duke," thought he, "must be a humorist."

From my coarse way of describing this, you would suppose that it was afarcical exhibition of vulgar extravagance, and the Duke a madman or animpostor; but the effect was different. It was done with grace, and, inthe midst of so much else, it attracted only that side regard, atintervals, which is sure to surprise and excite awe.

Honoria had almost ceased to converse with us. It was painful to her totalk with any person. She followed the Duke with her eyes. When, by somedelicate allusion or attention, he let her perceive that she was in histhoughts, a mantling color overspread her features, and then gave way topaleness, and a manner which attracted universal remark. It was thenHonoria abdicated that throne of conventional purity which hitherto shehad held undisputed. Women who were plain in her presence outshoneHonoria, by meeting this ducal apparition, that called itselfRosecouleur,—and which might have been, for aught they knew, a fume ofthe Infernal, shaped to deceive us all,—with calm and haughty propriety.

The sensation did not subside. The music of the waltz invited a renewal ofthat intoxicating whirl which isolates friends and lovers, in whisperingand sighing pairs, in the midst of a great assemblage. All the worldlooked on, when Honoria Denslow placed her hand upon the shoulder of theDuke of Rosecouleur, and the noble and beautiful forms began silently andsmoothly turning, with a dream-like motion. Soon she lifted her lovelyeyes and steadied their rays upon his. She leaned wholly upon his arm, andthe gloved hands completed the magnetic circle. At the close of the firstwaltz, she rested a moment, leaning upon his shoulder, and his hand stillheld hers,—a liberty often assumed and permitted, but not to the noblesand the monarchs of society. She fell farther, and her ideal beauty fadedinto a sensuous.

Honoria was lost. Dalton saw it. We retired together to a room apart. Hewas dispirited; called for and drank rapidly a bottle of Champagne;—itwas insufficient.

"De Vere," said he, "affairs go badly."


"This cursed thing that people call a duke—it kills me."

"I saw."

"Of course you did;—the world saw; the servants saw. Honoria has fallento-night. I shall transfer my allegiance."

"And Denslow?"

"A born sycophant;—he thinks it natural that his wife should love a duke,and a duke love his wife."

"So would you, if you were any other than you are."

"Faugh! it is human nature."

"Not so; would you not as soon strangle this Rosecouleur for making loveto your wife in public, as you would another man?"


"Pooh! I give you up. If you had
simply said, 'Yes,' it would have satisfied me."

Dalton seemed perplexed. He called a servant and sent him with an orderfor Nalson, the usher, to come instantly to him.

Nalson appeared, with his white gloves and mahogany face.

"Nalson, you were a servant of the Duke in England?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Is the person now in the rooms the Duke of Rosecouleur?"

"I have not seen him, Sir."

"Go immediately, study the man well,—do you hear?—and come to me. Let noone know your purpose."

Nalson disappeared.

I was alarmed. If "the Duke" should prove to be an impostor, we wereindeed ruined.

In five minutes,—an hour, it seemed,—Nalson stood before us.

"Is it he?" said Dalton, looking fixedly upon the face of the usher.

No reply.

"Speak the truth; you need not be afraid."

"I cannot tell, Sir."

"Nonsense! go and look again."

"It is of no use, Mr. Dalton; you, who are as well acquainted with thepersonal appearance of his Highness as I am, you have been deceived,—if Ihave."

"Nalson, do you believe that this person is an impostor?" said Dalton,pointing at myself.

"Who? Mr. De Vere, Sir?"

"If, then, you know at sight that this gentleman is my friend Mr. De Vere,why do you hesitate about the other?"

"But the imitation is perfect. And there is Rêve de Noir."

"Yes, did Rêve de Noir recognize you?"

"I have not caught his eye. You know, Sir, that this Rêve is not, andnever was, like other men; he is a devil. One knows, and one does not knowhim."

"Were you at the door when the Duke entered?"

"I think not; at least—I cannot tell. When I first saw him, he was in theroom, speaking with Madam Denslow."

"Nalson, you have done wrong; no one should have entered unannounced. Sendthe doorkeeper to me."

The doorkeeper came; a gigantic negro, magnificently attired.

"Jupiter, you were at the door when the Duke of Rosecouleur entered?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did the Duke and his man come in a carriage?"

"Yes, Sir,—a hack."

"You may go. They are not devils," said Dalton, musingly, "or they wouldnot have come in a carriage."

"You seem to have studied the spiritual mode of locomotion," said I.

Dalton frowned. "This is serious, De Vere."

"What mean you?"

"I mean that Denslow is a bankrupt."

"Explain yourself."

"You know what an influence he carries in political circles. The G——rs,the S——es, and their kind, have more talent, but Denslow enjoys thesecret of popularity."

"Well, I know it."

"In the middle counties, where he owns vast estates, and has been liberalto debtors and tenants, he carries great favor; both parties respect himfor his ignorance and pomposity, which they mistake for simplicity andpower, as usual. The estates are mortgaged three deep, and will not holdout a year. The shares of the Millionnaire's Hotel and the Poor Man's Bankin the B——y are worthless. Denslow's railroad schemes have absorbed thecapital of those concerns."

"But he had three millions."

"Nominally. This palace has actually sunk his income."


"Wisdom, if you will listen."

"I am all attention."

"The use of money is to create and hold power. Denslow was certain of thepopular and county votes; he needed only the aristocratic support, and theA—— people would have made him Senator."

"Fool, why was he not satisfied with his money?"

"Do you call the farmer fool, because he is not satisfied with the soil,but wishes to grow wheat thereon? Money is the soil of power. For muchless than a million one may gratify the senses; great fortunes are not forsensual luxuries, but for those of the soul. To the facts, then. Theadvent of this mysterious duke,—whom I doubt,—hailed by Denslow andHonoria as a piece of wonderful good-fortune, has already shaken him andruined the prestige of his wife. They are mad and blind."

"Tell me, in plain prose, the how and the why."

"De Vere, you are dull. There are three hundred people in the rooms of the
Denslow Palace; these people are the 'aristocracy.' They control the
sentiments of the 'better class.' Opinion, like dress, descends from them.
They no longer respect Denslow, and their women have seen the weakness of

"Yes, but Denslow still has 'the people.'"

"That is not enough. I have calculated the chances, and mustered all ouravailable force. We shall have no support among the 'better class,' sincewe are disgraced with the 'millionnaires.'"

At this moment Denslow came in.

"Ah! Dalton,—like you! I have been looking for you to show the pictures.
Devil a thing I know about them. The Duke wondered at your absence."

"Where is Honoria?"

"Ill, ill,—fainted. The house is new; smell of new wood and mortar;deused disagreeable in Honoria. If it had not been for the Duke, she wouldhave fallen. That's a monstrous clever fellow, that Rosecouleur. AdmiresHonoria vastly. Come,—the pictures."

"Mr. John Vanbrugen Denslow, you are an ass!"

The large, smooth, florid millionnaire, dreaming only of senatorialhonors, the shouts of the multitude, and the adoration of a party press,cowered like a dog under the lash of the "man of society."

"Rather rough,—ha, De Vere? What have I done? Am I an ass because Iknow nothing of pictures? Come, Dalton, you are harsh with your oldfriend."

"Denslow, I have told you a thousand times never to concede position."

"Yes, but this is a duke, man,—a prince!"

"This from you? By Jove, De Vere, I wish you and I could live a hundredyears, to see a republican aristocrat. We are still mere provincials,"added Dalton, with a sigh.

Denslow perspired with mortification.

"You use me badly,—I tell you, Dalton, this Rosecouleur is a devil.Condescend to him! be haughty and—what do you call it?—urbane to him! Idefy you to do it, with all your impudence. Why, his valet, that shadowthat glides after him, is too much for me. Try him yourself, man."

"Who, the valet?"

"No, the master,—though I might have said the valet."

"Did I yield in Paris?"

"No, but you were of the embassy, and—and—no one really knew us, youknow."

Dalton pressed his lips hard together.

"Come," said he, "De Vere, let us try a fall with this Titan of thecarpet."

Denslow hastened back to the Duke. I followed Dalton; but as for me, bah!
I am a cipher.

The room in which we were adjoined Honoria's boudoir, from which a secretpassage led down by a spiral to a panel behind hangings; raising these,one could enter the drawing-room unobserved. Dalton paused midway in thesecret passage, and through a loop or narrow window concealed byarchitectural ornaments, and which overlooked the great drawing-rooms,made a reconnaissance of the field.

Nights of Venice! what a scene was there! The vine-branch chandeliers,crystal-fruited, which depended from the slender ribs of the ceiling, casta rosy dawn of light, deepening the green and crimson of draperies andcarpets, making an air like sunrise in the bowers of a forest. Form andorder were everywhere visible, though unobtrusive. Arch beyond arch, tofourth apartments, lessening in dimension, with increase of wealth;—groups of beautiful women, on either hand, seated or half reclined; thepure or rich hues of their robes blending imperceptibly, or in gorgeouscontrasts, with the soft outlines and colors of their supports; a banquetfor the eyes and the mind; the perfect work of art and culture;—glidingabout and among these, or, with others, springing and revolving in thatmonarch of all measures, which blends luxury and purity, until it iseither the one or the other, moved the men.

"That is my work," exclaimed Dalton, unconsciously.

"Not all, I think."

"I mean the combinations,—the effect. But see! Honoria will again acceptthe Duke's invitation. He is coming to her. Let us prevent it."

He slipped away; and I, remaining at my post of observation, saw him, aninstant later, passing quickly across the floor among the dancers, towardHonoria. The Duke of Rosecouleur arrived at the same instant before her.She smiled sorrowfully upon Dalton, and held out her hand in a languidmanner toward the Duke, and again they floated away upon the eddies of themusic. I followed them with eyes fixed in admiration. It was a vision ofthe orgies of Olympus,—Zeus and Aphrodite circling to a theme of Chronos.

Had Honoria tasted of the Indian drug, the weed of paradise? Her eyes,fixed upon the Duke's, shone like molten sapphires. A tress of chestnuthair, escaping from the diamond coronet, sprang lovingly forward andtwined itself over her white shoulder and still fairer bosom. Tints likeflitting clouds, Titianic, the mystery and despair of art, disclosed tothe intelligent eye the feeling that mastered her spirit and her sense.Admirable beauty! Unrivalled, unhappy! The Phidian idol of gold and ivory,into which a demon had entered, overthrown, and the worshippers gazing onit with a scorn unmixed with pity!

The sullen animal rage of battle is nothing to the livor, the burninghatred of the drawing-room. Dalton, defeated, cast a glance of deadlyhostility on the Duke. Nor was it lost. While the waltz continued, for tenminutes, he stood motionless. Fearing some untoward event, I came down andtook my place near him.

The Duke led Honoria to a sofa. But for his arm she would again havefallen. Dalton had recovered his courage and natural haughtiness. The toneof his voice, rich, tender, and delicately expressive, did not change.

"Honoria, you sent for me; and the Duke wishes to see the pictures. Theair of the gallery will relieve your faintness."

He offered his arm, which she, rising mechanically, accepted. A deep blushcrimsoned her features, at the allusion to her weakness. Several of theguests moved after us, as we passed into the gallery. The Duke's shadow,Rêve de Noir, following last, closed the ivory doors. We passed throughthe gallery,—where pyramids of sunny fruits, in baskets of fineporcelain, stood relieved by gold and silver services for wine and coffee,disposed on the tables,—and thence entered another and smaller room,devoid of ornament, but the crimson tapestried walls were covered withworks or copies of the great masters of Italy.

Opposite the entrance there was a picture of a woman seated on a throne,behind which stood a demon whispering in her ear and pointing to ahandsome youth in the circle of the courtiers. The design and color werein the style of Correggio. Denslow stood close behind me. In advance wereHonoria, Dalton, and the Duke, whose conversation was addressedalternately to her and Dalton. The lights of the gallery burst forth intheir full refulgence as we approached the picture.

The glorious harmony of its colors,—the force of the shadows, whichseemed to be converging in the rays of a single unseen source of light,—the unity of sentiment, which drew all the groups together, in the idea;—I had seen all this before, but with the eyes of supercilious criticism.Now the picture smote us with awe.

"I have the original of this excellent work," said the Duke, "in my houseat A——, but your copy is nearly as good."

The remark, intended for Honoria, reached the pride of her companion, whoblandly replied,—

"Your Highness's exquisite judgment is for once at fault. The piece isoriginal. It was purchased from a well-known collection in Italy, wherethere are none others of the school."

Honoria was gazing upon the picture, as I was, in silent astonishment.

"If this," said she, "is a copy, what must have been the genuine work? Didyou never before notice the likeness between the queen, in that picture,and myself?" she asked, addressing Dalton.

The remark excited general attention. Every one murmured, "The likeness isperfect."

"And the demon behind the queen," said Denslow, insipidly, "resembles your
Highness's valet."

There was another exclamation. No sooner was it observed, than thelikeness to Rêve de Noir seemed to be even more perfect.

The Duke made a sign.

Rêve de Noir placed himself near the canvas. His profile was thecounterpart of that in the painting. He seemed to have stepped out of it.

"It was I," said the Duke, in a gentle voice, and with a smile which justdisclosed the ivory line under the black moustache, "who caused thispicture to be copied and altered. The beauty of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow,whom it was my highest pleasure to know, seemed to me to surpass that ofthe queen of my original. I first, with great secrecy, unknown to yourwife," continued the Duke, turning to Denslow, "procured a portrait fromthe life by memory, which was afterwards transferred to this canvas. Theresemblance to my attendant is, I confess, remarkable and inexplicable."

"But will you tell us by what accident this copy happened to be in Italy?"asked Dalton.

"You will remember," replied the Duke, coldly, "that at Paris, noticingyour expressions of admiration for the picture, which you had seen in myEnglish gallery, I gave you a history of its purchase at Bologna bymyself. I sent my artist to Bologna, with orders to place the copy in thegallery and to introduce the portrait of the lady; it was a freak offancy; I meant it for a surprise; as I felt sure, that, if you saw thepicture, you would secure it.

"It seems to me," replied Dalton, "that the onus of proof rests withyour Highness."

The Duke made a signal to Rêve de Noir, who again stepped up to thecanvas, and, with a short knife or stiletto, removed a small portion ofthe outer layer of paint, disclosing a very ancient ground of some otherand inferior work, over which the copy seemed to have been painted. Theproof was unanswerable.

"Good copies," remarked the Duke, "are often better than originals."

He offered his arm to Honoria, and they walked through the gallery,—heentertaining her, and those near him, with comments upon other works. Thecrowd followed them, as they moved on or returned, as a cloud of gnatsfollow up and down, and to and fro, a branch tossing in the wind.

"Beaten at every point," I said, mentally, looking on the pale features ofthe defeated Dalton.

"Yes," he replied, seeing the remark in my face; "but there is yet time. Iam satisfied this is the man with whom we travelled; none other could havedevised such a plan, or carried it out. He must have fallen in love withHonoria at that time; and simply to see her is the object of his visit toAmerica. He is a connoisseur in pictures as in women; but he must not beallowed to ruin us by his arrogant assumptions."

"Excepting his manner and extraordinary personal advantages, I findnothing in him to awe or astonish."

"His wealth is incalculable; he is used to victories; and that mannerwhich you affect to slight,—that is everything. 'Tis power, success,victory. This man of millions, this prince, does not talk; he has butlittle use for words. It is manner, and not words, that achieves socialand amatory conquests."

"Bah! You are like the politicians, who mistake accidents for principles.But even you are talking, while this pernicious foreigner is acting. See!they have left the gallery, and the crowd of fools is following them. Youcannot stem such a tide of folly."

"I deny that they are fools. Why does that sallow wretch, Lethal, followthem? Or that enamelled person, Adonaïs? They are at a serpent-charming,and Honoria is the bird-of-paradise. They watch with delight, and sketchas they observe, the struggles of the poor bird. The others areindifferent or curious, envious or amused. It is only Denslow who iscapped and antlered, and the shafts aimed at his foolish brow glance andwound us."

We were left alone in the gallery. Dalton paced back and forth, in hisslow, erect, and graceful manner; there was no hurry or agitation.

"How quickly," said he, as his moist eyes met mine, "how like a dream,this glorious vision, this beautiful work, will fade and be forgotten!Nevertheless, I made it," he added, musingly. "It was I who moulded andexpanded the sluggish millions."

"You will still be what you are, Dalton,—an artist, more than a man ofsociety. You work with a soft and perishable material."

"A distinction without a difference. Every man is a politician, but onlyevery artist is a gentleman."

"Denslow, then, is ruined."

"Yes and no;—there is nothing in him to ruin. It is I who am thesufferer."

"And Honoria?"

"It was I who formed her manners, and guided her perceptions of thebeautiful. It was I who married her to a mass of money, De Vere."

"Did you never love Honoria?"

He laughed.

"Loved? Yes; as Praxiteles may have loved the clay he moulded,—for itssmoothness and ductility under the hand."

"The day has not come for such men as you, Dalton."

"Come, and gone, and coming. It has come in dream-land. Let us follow yourfools."

The larger gallery was crowded. The pyramids of glowing fruit haddisappeared; there was a confused murmur of pairs and parties, chattingand taking wine. The master of the house, his wife, and guest were nowhereto be seen. Lethal and Adonaïs stood apart, conversing. As we approachedthem unobserved, Dalton checked me. "Hear what these people are saying,"said he.

"My opinion is," said Lethal, holding out his crooked forefinger like aclaw, "that this soi-disant duke—what the deuse is his name?"

"Rosecouleur," interposed Adonaïs, in a tone of society.

"Right,—Couleur de Rose is an impostor,—an impostor, a sharper.
Everything tends that way. What an utter sell it would be!"

"You were with us at the picture scene?" murmured Adonaïs.

"Yes. Dalton looked wretchedly cut up, when that devil of a valet, whomust be an accomplice, scraped the new paint off. The picture must havebeen got up in New York by Dalton and the Denslows."

"Perhaps the Duke, too, was got up in New York, on the same principle,"suggested Adonaïs. "Such things are possible. Society is intrinsicallyrotten, you know, and Dalton"——

"Is a fellow of considerable talent," sneered Lethal,—"but has enemies,who may have planned a duke."

Adonaïs coughed in his cravat, and hinted,—"How would it do to call him
'Barnum Dalton'?"

Adonaïs appeared shocked at himself, and swallowed a minim of wine tocleanse his vocal apparatus from the stain of so coarse an illustration.

"Do you hear those creatures?" whispered Dalton. "They are arrangingscandalous paragraphs for the 'Illustration.'"

A moment after, he was gone. I spoke to Lethal and Adonaïs.

"Gentlemen, you are in error about the picture and the Duke; they are asthey now appear;—the one, an excellent copy, purchased as an original,—no uncommon mistake; the other, a genuine highness. How does he strikeyou?"

Lethal cast his eyes around to see who listened.

"The person," said he, "who is announced here to-night as an English dukeseemed to me, of all men I could select, least like one."

"Pray, what is your ideal of an English duke, Mr. Lethal?" asked Adonaïs,with the air of a connoisseur, sure of himself, but hating to offend.

"A plain, solid person, well dressed, but simple; mutton-chop whiskers;and the manners of a—a——"

"Bear!" said a soft female voice.

"Precisely,—the manners of a bear; a kind of gentlemanly bear, perhaps,—but still, ursine and heavy; while this person, who seems to have walkedout of ——- or a novel, affects me, by his ways and appearance, like a—a—h'm"——

"Gambler!" said the same female voice, in a conclusive tone.

There was a general soft laugh. Everybody was pleased. All admired, hated,and envied the Duke. It was settled beyond a doubt that he was animpostor,—and that the Denslows were either grossly taken in, or were"selling" their friends. In either case, it was shocking and delightful.

"The fun of the thing," continued Lethal, raising his voice a little, "is,that the painter who got up the old picture must have been as much anadmirer of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow as—his—Highness; for, in touching inthe queen, he has unconsciously made it a portrait."

The blow was final. I moved away, grieved and mortified to the soul,cursing the intrusion of the mysterious personage whose insolentsuperiority had overthrown the hopes of my friends.

At the door of the gallery I met G——, the painter, just returned fromLondon. I drew him with me into the inner gallery, to make a thoroughexamination of the picture. I called his attention to the wonderfulresemblance of the queen to Honoria. He did not see it; we lookedtogether, and I began to think that it might have been a delusion. I toldthe Duke's story of the picture to G——. He examined the canvas, testedthe layers of color, and pronounced the work genuine and of immense value.We looked again and again at the queen's head, viewing it in every light.The resemblance to Honoria had disappeared; nor was the demon any longer afigure of the Duke's valet.

"One would think," said G——, laughing, "that you had been mesmerized. Ifyou have been so deceived in a picture, may you not be equally cheated ina man? I am loath to offend; but, indeed, the person whom you callRosecouleur cannot be the Duke of that title, whom I saw in England. I hadleave to copy a picture in his gallery. He was often present. His mannerswere mild and unassuming,—not at all like those of this man, to whom, Iacknowledge, the personal resemblance is surprising. I am afraid our goodfriends, the Denslows, and Mr. Dalton,—whom I esteem for their patronageof art,—have been taken in by an adventurer."

"But the valet, Rêve de Noir?"

"The Duke had a valet of that name who attended him, and who may, foraught I know, have resembled this one; but probability is againstconcurrent resemblances. There is also an original of the picture in theDuke's gallery; in fact, the artist, as was not unusual in those days,painted two pictures of the same subject. Both, then, are genuine."

Returning my cordial thanks to the good painter for his timelyexplanation, I hastened to find Dalton. Drawing him from the midst of agroup whom he was entertaining, I communicated G——'s account of the twopictures, and his suspicions in regard to the Duke.

His perplexity was great. "Worse and worse, De Vere! To be ruined by acommon adventurer is more disgraceful even than the other misfortune.Besides, our guests are leaving us. At least a hundred of them have goneaway with the first impression, and the whole city will have it. Thejournal reporters have been here. Denslow's principal creditors were amongthe guests to-night; they went away soon, just after the affair with thepicture; to-morrow will be our dark day. If it had not been for this demonof a duke and his familiar, whoever they are, all would have gone well.Now we are distrusted, and they will crush us. Let us fall facing theenemy. Within an hour I will have the truth about the Duke. Did I evertell you what a price Denslow paid for that picture?"

"No, I do not wish to hear."

"You are right. Come with me."

The novel disrespect excited by the scandal of Honoria and the pictureseemed to have inspired the two hundred people who remained with acheerful ease. Eating, drinking excessively of Denslow's costly wines,dancing to music which grew livelier and more boisterous as the musiciansimbibed more of the inspiriting juice, and, catching scraps of thescandal, threw out significant airs, the company of young persons,deserted by their scandalized seniors, had converted the magnificent suiteof drawing-rooms into a carnival theatre. Parties of three and four werejunketing in corners; laughing servants rushed to and fro as in a café;the lounges were occupied by reclining beauties or languid fopsoverpowered with wine, about whom lovely young women, flushed withChampagne and mischief, were coquetting and frolicking.

"I warrant you, these people know it is our last night," said Dalton; "andsee what a use they make of us! Denslow's rich wines poured away likewater; everything soiled, smeared, and overturned; our entertainment, atfirst stately and gracious as a queen's drawing-room, ending, with theloss of prestige, in the riot of a bal masqué. So fades ambition! Butto this duke."

Denslow, who had passed into the polite stage of inebriation, evident toclose observers, had arranged a little exclusive circle, which includedthree women of fashionable reputation, his wife, the Duke, Jeffrey Lethal,and Adonaïs. Rêve de Noir officiated as attendant. The fauteuils andcouches were disposed around a pearl table, on which were liquors, coffee,wines, and a few delicacies for Honoria, who had not supped. They were inthe purple recess adjoining the third drawing-room. Adonaïs talked withthe Duke about Italy; Lethal criticized; while Honoria, in the fullsplendor of her beauty, outshining and overpowering, dropped here andthere a few musical words, like service-notes, to harmonize.

There is no beauty like the newly-enamored. Dalton seemed to forgethimself, as he contemplated her, for a moment. Spaces had been left forus; the valet placed chairs.

"Dalton," cried Lethal, "you are in time to decide a question of deepinterest;—your friend, De Vere, will assist you. His Highness has givenpreference to the women of America over those of Italy. Adonaïs, theexquisite and mild, settles his neck-tie against the Duke, and objects inthat bland but firm manner which is his. I am the Duke's bottle-holder;Denslow and wife accept that function for the chivalrous Adonaïs."

"I am of the Duke's party," replied Dalton, in his most agreeable manner."To be in the daily converse and view of the most beautiful women inAmerica, as I have been for years, is a privilege in the cultivation of apure taste. I saw nothing in Italy, except on canvas, comparable with whatI see at this moment. The Duke is right; but in commending his judgment, Iattribute to him also sagacity. Beauty is like language; its use is toconceal. One may, under rose-colored commendations, a fine manner, and aflowing style, conceal, as Nature does with personal advantages in men,the gross tastes and vulgar cunning of a charlatan."

Dalton, in saying this, with a manner free from suspicion or excitement,fixed his eyes upon the Duke's.

"You seem to have no faith in either men or women," responded the richbarytone voice of his Highness, the dark upper lip disclosing, as before,the row of square, sharp, ivory teeth.

"Little, very little," responded Dalton, with a sigh. "Your Highness willunderstand me,—or if not now, presently."

Lethal trod upon Adonaïs's foot; I saw him do it. Adonaïs exchangedglances with a brilliant hawk-faced lady who sat opposite. The lady smiledand touched her companion. Honoria, who saw everything, opened hermagnificent eyes to their full extent. Denslow was oblivious.

"In fact," continued Dalton, perceiving the electric flash he had excited,"skepticism is a disease of my intellect. Perhaps the most noticeable andpalpable fact of the moment is the presence and identity of the Duke whois opposite to me; and yet, doubting as I sometimes do my own existence,is it not natural, that, philosophically speaking, the presence andidentity of your Highness are at moments a subject of philosophicaldoubt?"

"In cases of this kind," replied the Duke, "we rest upon circ*mstantialevidence."

So saying, he drew from his finger a ring and handed it to Dalton, whowent to the light and examined it closely, and passed it to me. It was aminute cameo, no larger than a grain of wheat, in a ring of plain gold; arare and beautiful work of microscopic art.

"I seem to remember presenting the Duke of Rosecouleur with a similarring, in Italy," said Dalton, resuming his seat; "but the coincidence doesnot resolve my philosophic doubt, excited by the affair of the picture. Weall supposed that we saw a portrait of the Hon. Mrs. Denslow in yonpicture; and we seemed to discover, under the management of your valet,that Denslow's picture, a genuine duplicate of the original by the author,was a modern copy. Since your Highness quitted the gallery, thosedelusions have ceased. The picture appears now to be genuine. Thelikeness to Mrs. Denslow has vanished."

An exclamation of surprise from all present, except the Duke, followedthis announcement.

"And so," continued Dalton, "it may be with this ring, which now seems tobe the one I gave the Duke at Rome, but to-morrow may be different."

As he spoke, Dalton gave back the ring to the Duke, who received it withhis usual grace.

"Who knows," said Lethal, with a deceptive innocence of manner, "whetheraristocracy itself be not founded in mesmerical deceptions?"

"I think, Lethal," observed Adonaïs, "you push the matter. It would beimpossible, for instance, even for his Highness, to make Honoria Denslowappear ugly."

We all looked at Honoria, to whom the Duke leaned over and said,—

"Would you be willing for a moment to lose that exquisite beauty?"

"For my sake, Honoria," said Dalton, "refuse him."

The request, so simply made, was rewarded by a ravishing smile.

"Edward, do you know that you have not spoken a kind word to me to-night,until now?"

Their eyes met, and I saw that Dalton trembled with a deep emotion. "Iwill save you yet," he murmured.

A tall, black hound, of the slender breed, rose up near Honoria, and,placing his fore-paws upon the edge of the pearl table, turned and lickedher face and eyes.

It was the vision of a moment. The dog sprang upon the sofa by the Duke'sside, growling and snapping.

"Rêve de Noir," cried Lethal and Adonaïs, "drive the dog away!"

The valet had disappeared.

"I have no fear of him, gentlemen," said the Duke, patting the head of thehound; "he is a faithful servant, and has a faculty of reading thoughts.Go bring my servant, Demon," said the Duke.

The hound sprang away with a great bound, and in an instant Rêve de Noirwas standing behind us. The dog did not appear again.

Honoria looked bewildered. "Of what dog were you speaking, Edward?"

"The hound that licked your face."

"You are joking. I saw no hound."

"See, gentlemen," exclaimed Lethal, "his Highness shows us tricks. He is awizard."

The three women gave little shrieks,—half pleasure, half terror.

Denslow, who had fallen back in his chair asleep, awoke and rubbed hiseyes.

"What is all this, Honoria?"

"That his Highness is a wizard," she said, with a forced laugh, glancingat Dalton.

"Will his Highness do us the honor to lay aside the mask, and appear inhis true colors?" said Dalton, returning Honoria's glance with anencouraging look.

"Gentlemen," said the Duke, haughtily, "I am your guest, and byhospitality protected from insult."

"Insult, most noble Duke!" exclaimed Lethal, with a sneer,—"impossible,under the roof of our friend, the Honorable Walter Denslow, in the smallhours of the night, and in the presence of the finest women in the world.Dalton, pray, reassure his Highness!"

"Edward! Edward!" murmured Honoria, "have a care,—even if it be as youthink."

Dalton remained bland and collected.

"Pardon, my Lord, the effect of a little wine, and of those wonderfulfantasies you have shown us. Your dog, your servant, and yourself interestus equally; the picture, the ring,—all are wonderful. In supposing thatyou had assumed a mask, and one so noble, I was led into an error by thesemiracles, expecting no less than a translation of yourself into the personof some famous wonder-worker. It is, you know, a day of miracles, and evenkings have their salaried seers, and take counsel of the spiritual world.More!—let us have more!"

The circle were amazed; the spirit of superstitious curiosity seized uponthem.

"Rêve de Noir," said the Duke, "a carafe, and less light."

The candelabra became dim. The Duke took the carafe of water from thevalet, and, standing up, poured it upon the air; it broke into flames,which mounted and floated away, singly or in little crowds. Still the Dukepoured, and dashing up the water with his hand, by and by the ceiling wasilluminated with a thousand miniature tongues of violet-colored fire. Weclapped our hands, and applauded,—"Beautiful I marvellous! wonderful,Duke!—your Highness is the only magician,"—when, on a sudden, the flamesdisappeared and the lights rose again.

"The world is weary of skepticism," remarked Lethal; "there is nochemistry for that. It is the true magic, doubtless,—recovered fromantiquity by his Highness. Are the wonders exhausted?"

The Duke smiled again. He stretched out his hand toward Honoria, and sheslept. It was the work of an instant.

"I have seen that before," said Dalton.

"Not as we see it," responded his Highness. "Rêve de Noir, less light!"The room was dark in a moment. Over the head of Honoria appeared a cloud,at first black, and soon in this a nucleus of light, which expanded andshaped itself into an image and took the form of the sleeper, nude andspiritual, a belt of rosy mist enveloping and concealing all but a headand bust of ravishing beauty. The vision gazed with languid and beseechingeyes upon Dalton, and a sigh seemed to heave the bosom. In scarce abreathing-time, it was gone. Honoria waked, unconscious of what hadpassed.

Deep terror and amazement fell upon us all.

"I have seen enough," said Dalton, rising slowly, and drawing a smallriding-whip, "to know now that this person is no duke, but either acharlatan or a devil. In either case, since he has intruded here, todesecrate and degrade, I find it proper to apply a magic more material."

At the word, all rose exclaiming,—"For God's sake, Dalton!" He pressedforward and laid his hand upon the Duke. A cry burst from Rêve de Noirwhich rent our very souls; and a flash followed, unspeakably bright, whichrevealed the demoniacal features of the Duke, who sat motionless,regarding Dalton's uplifted arm. A darkness followed, profound andpalpable. I listened in terror. There was no sound. Were we transformed?Silence, darkness, still. I closed my eyes, and opened them again. A pale,cold light became slowly perceptible, stealing through a crevice, andrevealing the walls and ceiling of my narrow room. The dream stilloppressed me. I went to the window, and let in reality with the morninglight. Yet, for days after, the images of the real Honoria and Dalton, myfriends, remained separated from the creatures of the vision; and theDenslow Palace of dreamland, the pictures, the revelry, and the magic ofthe Demon Duke haunted my memory, and kept with them all their visionarysplendors and regrets.


Since Love within my heart made nest,
With the fond trust of brooding bird,
I find no all-embracing word
To say how deeply I am blest.

Though wintry clouds are in the air
And the dead leaves unburied lie,
Nor open is the violet's eye,
I see new beauty everywhere.

I walk beneath the naked trees,
Where wild streams shiver as they pass,
Yet in the sere and sighing grass
I hear a murmur as of bees,—

The bees that in love's morning rise
From tender eyes and lips to drain,
In ecstasies of blissful pain,
The sweets that bloomed in Paradise.

There twines a joy with every care
That springs within this sacred ground;
But, oh! to give what I have found
Doth thrill me with divine despair.

If distant, thou dost rise a star
Whose beams are with my being wrought,
And curvest all my teeming thought
With sweet attractions from afar.

As a winged ship, in calmest hour,
Still moves upon the mighty sea
To some deep ocean melody,
I feel thy spirit and thy power.



How far men go for the material of their houses! The inhabitants of themost civilized cities, in all ages, send into far, primitive forests,beyond the bounds of their civilization, where the moose and bear andsavage dwell, for their pine-boards for ordinary use. And, on the otherhand, the savage soon receives from cities iron arrow-points, hatchets,and guns to point his savageness with.

The solid and well-defined fir-tops, like sharp and regular spear-heads,black against the sky, gave a peculiar, dark, and sombre look to theforest. The spruce-tops have a similar, but more ragged outline,—theirshafts also merely feathered below. The firs were somewhat oftener regularand dense pyramids. I was struck by this universal spiring upward of theforest evergreens. The tendency is to slender, spiring tops, while theyare narrower below. Not only the spruce and fir, but even the arbor-vitaeand white pine, unlike the soft, spreading second-growth, of which I sawnone, all spire upwards, lifting a dense spear-head of cones to the lightand air, at any rate, while their branches straggle after as they may; asIndians lift the ball over the heads of the crowd in their desperate game.In this they resemble grasses, as also palms somewhat. The hemlock iscommonly a tent-like pyramid from the ground to its summit.

After passing through some long rips and by a large island, we reached aninteresting part of the river called the Pine-Stream Dead-Water, about sixmiles below Ragmuff, where the river expanded to thirty rods in width andhad many islands in it, with elms and canoe-birches, now yellowing, alongthe shore, and we got our first sight of Katadn.

Here, about two o'clock, we turned up a small branch three or four rodswide, which comes in on the right from the south, called Pine Stream, tolook for moose signs. We had gone but a few rods before we saw very recentsigns along the water's edge, the mud lifted up by their feet being quitefresh, and Joe declared that they had gone along there but a short timebefore. We soon reached a small meadow on the east side, at an angle inthe stream, which was for the most part densely covered with alders. As wewere advancing along the edge of this, rather more quietly than usual,perhaps, on account of the freshness of the signs,—the design being tocamp up this stream, if it promised well,—I heard a slight crackling oftwigs deep in the alders, and turned Joe's attention to it; whereupon hebegan to push the canoe back rapidly; and we had receded thus half a dozenrods, when we suddenly spied two moose standing just on the edge of theopen part of the meadow which we had passed, not more than six or sevenrods distant, looking round the alders at us. They made me think of greatfrightened rabbits, with their long ears and half-inquisitive, half-frightened looks; the true denizens of the forest, (I saw at once,)filling a vacuum which now first I discovered had not been filled for me,—_moose-_men, wood-eaters, the word is said to mean,—clad in a sort ofVermont gray, or homespun. Our Nimrod, owing to the retrograde movement,was now the farthest from the game; but being warned of its neighborhood,he hastily stood up, and, while we ducked, fired over our heads one barrelat the foremost, which alone he saw, though he did not know what kind ofcreature it was; whereupon this one dashed across the meadow and up a highbank on the north-east, so rapidly as to leave but an indistinctimpression of its outlines on my mind. At the same instant, the other, ayoung one, but as tall as a horse, leaped out into the stream, in fullsight, and there stood cowering for a moment, or rather itsdisproportionate lowness behind gave it that appearance, and uttering twoor three trumpeting squeaks. I have an indistinct recollection of seeingthe old one pause an instant on the top of the bank in the woods, looktoward its shivering young, and then dash away again. The second barrelwas levelled at the calf, and when we expected to see it drop in thewater, after a little hesitation, it, too, got out of the water, anddashed up the hill, though in a somewhat different direction. All this wasthe work of a few seconds, and our hunter, having never seen a moosebefore, did not know but they were deer, for they stood partly in thewater, nor whether he had fired at the same one twice or not. From thestyle in which they went off, and the fact that he was not used tostanding up and firing from a canoe, I judged that we should not seeanything more of them. The Indian said that they were a cow and her calf,—a yearling, or perhaps two years old, for they accompany their dams solong; but, for my part, I had not noticed much difference in their size.It was but two or three rods across the meadow to the foot of the bank,which, like all the world thereabouts, was densely wooded; but I wassurprised to notice, that, as soon as the moose had passed behind the veilof the woods, there was no sound of foot-steps to be heard from the soft,damp moss which carpets that forest, and long before we landed, perfectsilence reigned. Joe said, "If you wound 'em moose, me sure get 'em."

We all landed at once. My companion reloaded; the Indian fastened hisbirch, threw off his hat, adjusted his waistband, seized the hatchet, andset out. He told me afterward, casually, that before we landed he had seena drop of blood on the bank, when it was two or three rods off. Heproceeded rapidly up the bank and through the woods, with a peculiar,elastic, noiseless, and stealthy tread, looking to right and left on theground, and stepping in the faint tracks of the wounded moose, now andthen pointing in silence to a single drop of blood on the handsome,shining leaves of the Clintonia Borealis, which, on every side, coveredthe ground, or to a dry fern-stem freshly broken, all the while chewingsome leaf or else the spruce gum. I followed, watching his motions morethan the trail of the moose. After following the trail about forty rods ina pretty direct course, stepping over fallen trees and winding betweenstanding ones, he at length lost it, for there were many other moose-tracks there, and, returning once more to the last bloodstain, traced it alittle way and lost it again, and, too soon, I thought, for a good hunter,gave it up entirely. He traced a few steps, also, the tracks of the calf;but, seeing no blood, soon relinquished the search.

I observed, while he was tracking the moose, a certain reticence ormoderation in him. He did not communicate several observations of interestwhich he made, as a white man would have done, though they may have leakedout afterward. At another time, when we heard a slight crackling of twigsand he landed to reconnoitre, he stepped lightly and gracefully, stealingthrough the bushes with the least possible noise, in a way in which nowhite man does,—as it were, finding a place for his foot each time.

About half an hour after seeing the moose, we pursued our voyage up PineStream, and soon, coming to a part which was very shoal and also rapid, wetook out the baggage, and proceeded to carry it round, while Joe got upwith the canoe alone. We were just completing our portage and I wasabsorbed in the plants, admiring the leaves of the aster macrophyllus, teninches wide, and plucking the seeds of the great round-leaved orchis, whenJoe exclaimed from the stream that he had killed a moose. He had found thecow-moose lying dead, but quite warm, in the middle of the stream, whichwas so shallow that it rested on the bottom, with hardly a third of itsbody above water. It was about an hour after it was shot, and it wasswollen with water. It had run about a hundred rods and sought the streamagain, cutting off a slight bend. No doubt, a better hunter would havetracked it to this spot at once. I was surprised at its great size, horse-like, but Joe said it was not a large cow-moose. My companion went insearch of the calf again. I took hold of the ears of the moose, while Joepushed his canoe down stream toward a favorable shore, and so we made out,though with some difficulty, its long nose frequently sticking in thebottom, to drag it into still shallower water. It was a brownish black, orperhaps a dark iron-gray, on the back and sides, but lighter beneath andin front. I took the cord which served for the canoe's painter, and withJoe's assistance measured it carefully, the greatest distances first,making a knot each time. The painter being wanted, I reduced thesemeasures that night with equal care to lengths and fractions of myumbrella, beginning with the smallest measures, and untying the knots as Iproceeded; and when we arrived at Chesuncook the next day, finding a two-foot rule there, I reduced the last to feet and inches; and, moreover, Imade myself a two-foot rule of a thin and narrow strip of black ash whichwould fold up conveniently to six inches. All this pains I took because Idid not wish to be obliged to say merely that the moose was very large. Ofthe various dimensions which I obtained I will mention only two. Thedistance from the tips of the hoofs of the fore-feet, stretched out, tothe top of the back between the shoulders, was seven feet and five inches.I can hardly believe my own measure, for this is about two feet greaterthan the height of a tall horse. The extreme length was eight feet and twoinches. Another cow-moose, which I have since measured in those woods witha tape, was just six feet from the tip of the hoof to the shoulders, andeight feet long as she lay.

When afterward I asked an Indian at the carry how much taller the malewas, he answered, "Eighteen inches," and made me observe the height of across-stake over the fire, more than four feet from the ground, to giveme some idea of the depth of his chest. Another Indian, at Oldtown, toldme that they were nine feet high to the top of the back, and that onewhich he tried weighed eight hundred pounds. The length of the spinalprojections between the shoulders is very great. A white hunter, who wasthe best authority among hunters that I could have, told me that the malewas not eighteen inches taller than the female; yet he agreed that hewas sometimes nine feet high to the top of the back, and weighed athousand pounds. Only the male has horns, and they rise two feet or moreabove the shoulders,—spreading three or four, and sometimes six feet,—which would make him in all, sometimes, eleven feet high! According tothis calculation, the moose is as tall, though it may not be as large, asthe great Irish elk, Megaceros Hibernicus, of a former period, of whichMantell says that it "very far exceeded in magnitude any living species,the skeleton" being "upward of ten feet high from the ground to thehighest point of the antlers." Joe said, that, though the moose shed thewhole horn annually, each new horn has an additional prong; but I havenoticed that they sometimes have more prongs on one side than on theother. I was struck with the delicacy and tenderness of the hoofs, whichdivide very far up, and the one half could be pressed very much behind theother, thus probably making the animal surer-footed on the uneven groundand slippery moss-covered logs of the primitive forest. They were veryunlike the stiff and battered feet of our horses and oxen. The bare, hornypart of the fore-foot was just six inches long, and the two portions couldbe separated four inches at the extremities.

The moose is singularly grotesque and awkward to look at. Why should itstand so high at the shoulders? Why have so long a head? Why have no tailto speak of? for in my examination I overlooked it entirely. Naturalistssay it is an inch and a half long. It reminded me at once of thecamelopard, high before and low behind,—and no wonder, for, like it, itis fitted to browse on trees. The upper lip projected two inches beyondthe lower for this purpose. This was the kind of man that was at homethere; for, as near as I can learn, that has never been the residence, butrather the hunting-ground of the Indian. The moose will perhaps one daybecome extinct; but how naturally then, when it exists only as a fossilrelic, and unseen as that, may the poet or sculptor invent a fabulousanimal with similar branching and leafy horns,—a sort of fucus or lichenin bone,—to be the inhabitant of such a forest as this!

Here, just at the head of the murmuring rapids, Joe now proceeded to skinthe moose with a pocket-knife, while I looked on; and a tragical businessit was,—to see that still warm and palpitating body pierced with aknife, to see the warm milk stream from the rent udder, and the ghastlynaked red carcass appearing from within its seemly robe, which was made tohide it. The ball had passed through the shoulder-blade diagonally andlodged under the skin on the opposite side, and was partially flattened.My companion keeps it to show to his grandchildren. He has the shanks ofanother moose which he has since shot, skinned and stuffed, ready to bemade into boots by putting in a thick leather sole. Joe said, if a moosestood fronting you, you must not fire, but advance toward him, for he willturn slowly and give you a fair shot. In the bed of this narrow, wild, androcky stream, between two lofty walls of spruce and firs, a mere cleft inthe forest which the stream had made, this work went on. At length Joe hadstripped off the hide and dragged it trailing to the shore, declaring thatit weighed a hundred pounds, though probably fifty would have been nearerthe truth. He cut off a large mass of the meat to carry along, andanother, together with the tongue and nose, he put with the hide on theshore to lie there all night, or till we returned. I was surprised that hethought of leaving this meat thus exposed by the side of the carcass, asthe simplest course, not fearing that any creature would touch it; butnothing did. This could hardly have happened on the bank of one of ourrivers in the eastern part of Massachusetts; but I suspect that fewersmall wild animals are prowling there than with us. Twice, however, inthis excursion I had a glimpse of a species of large mouse.

This stream was so withdrawn, and the moose-tracks were so fresh, that mycompanions, still bent on hunting, concluded to go farther up it and camp,and then hunt up or down at night. Half a mile above this, at a placewhere I saw the aster puniceus and the beaked hazel, as we paddled along,Joe, hearing a slight rustling amid the alders, and seeing something blackabout two rods off, jumped up and whispered, "Bear!" but before the hunterhad discharged his piece, he corrected himself to "Beaver!"—"Hedgehog!"The bullet killed a large hedgehog, more than two feet and eight incheslong. The quills were rayed out and flattened on the hinder part of itsback, even as if it had lain on that part, but were erect and long betweenthis and the tail. Their points, closely examined, were seen to be finelybearded or barbed, and shaped like an awl, that is, a little concave, togive the barbs effect. After about a mile of still water, we prepared ourcamp on the right side, just at the foot of a considerable fall. Littlechopping was done that night, for fear of scaring the moose. We had moose-meat fried for supper. It tasted like tender beef, with perhaps moreflavor,—sometimes like veal.

After supper, the moon having risen, we proceeded to hunt a mile up thisstream, first "carrying" about the falls. We made a picturesque sight,wending single-file along the shore, climbing over rocks and logs,—Joe,who brought up the rear, twirling his canoe in his hands as if it were afeather, in places where it was difficult to get along without a burden.

We launched the canoe again from the ledge over which the stream fell, butafter half a mile of still water, suitable for hunting, it became rapidagain, and we were compelled to make our way along the shore, while Joeendeavored to get up in the birch alone, though it was still verydifficult for him to pick his way amid the rocks in the night. We on theshore found the worst of walking, a perfect chaos of fallen and driftedtrees, and of bushes projecting far over the water, and now and then wemade our way across the mouth of a small tributary on a kind of net-workof alders. So we went tumbling on in the dark, being on the shady side,effectually scaring all the moose and bears that might be thereabouts. Atlength we came to a standstill, and Joe went forward to reconnoitre; buthe reported that it was still a continuous rapid as far as he went, orhalf a mile, with no prospect of improvement, as if it were coming downfrom a mountain. So we turned about, hunting back to the camp through thestill water. It was a splendid moonlight night, and I, getting sleepy asit grew late,—for I had nothing to do,—found it difficult to realizewhere I was. This stream was much more unfrequented than the main one,lumbering operations being no longer carried on in this quarter. It wasonly three or four rods wide, but the firs and spruce through which ittrickled seemed yet taller by contrast. Being in this dreamy state, whichthe moonlight enhanced, I did not clearly discern the shore, but seemed,most of the time, to be floating through ornamental grounds,—for Iassociated the fir-tops with such scenes;—very high up some Broadway, andbeneath or between their tops, I thought I saw an endless succession ofporticos and columns, cornices and façades, verandas and churches. I didnot merely fancy this, but in my drowsy state such was the illusion. Ifairly lost myself in sleep several times, still dreaming of thatarchitecture and the nobility that dwelt behind and might issue from it;but all at once I would be aroused and brought back to a sense of myactual position by the sound of Joe's birch horn in the midst of all thissilence calling the moose, ugh, ugh, oo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oo, and I preparedto hear a furious moose come rushing and crashing through the forest, andsee him burst out on to the little strip of meadow by our side.

But, on more accounts than one, I had had enough of moose-hunting. I hadnot come to the woods for this purpose, nor had I foreseen it, though Ihad been willing to learn how the Indian manoeuvred; but one moose killedwas as good, if not as bad, as a dozen. The afternoon's tragedy, and myshare in it, as it affected the innocence, destroyed the pleasure of myadventure. It is true, I came as near as is possible to come to being ahunter and miss it, myself; and as it is, I think that I could spend ayear in the woods, fishing and hunting, just enough to sustain myself,with satisfaction. This would be next to living like a philosopher on thefruits of the earth which you had raised, which also attracts me. But thishunting of the moose merely for the satisfaction of killing him,—not evenfor the sake of his hide,—without making any extraordinary exertion orrunning any risk yourself, is too much like going out by night to somewood-side pasture and shooting your neighbor's horses. These are God's ownhorses, poor, timid creatures, that will run fast enough as soon as theysmell you, though they are nine feet high. Joe told us of some hunterswho a year or two before had shot down several oxen by night, somewhere inthe Maine woods, mistaking them for moose. And so might any of thehunters; and what is the difference in the sport, but the name? In theformer case, having killed one of God's and your own oxen, you strip offits hide,—because that is the common trophy, and, moreover, you haveheard that it may be sold for moccasins,—cut a steak from its haunches,and leave the huge carcass to smell to heaven for you. It is no better, atleast, than to assist at a slaughter-house.

This afternoon's experience suggested to me how base or coarse are themotives which commonly carry men into the wilderness. The explorers andlumberers generally are all hirelings, paid so much a day for their labor,and as such they have no more love for wild nature than wood-sawyers havefor forests. Other white men and Indians who come here are for the mostpart hunters, whose object is to slay as many moose and other wild animalsas possible. But, pray, could not one spend some weeks or years in thesolitude of this vast wilderness with other employments than these,—employments perfectly sweet and innocent and ennobling? For one that comeswith a pencil to sketch or sing, a thousand come with an axe or rifle.What a coarse and imperfect use Indians and hunters make of Nature! Nowonder that their race is so soon exterminated. I already, and for weeksafterward, felt my nature the coarser for this part of my woodlandexperience, and was reminded that our life should be lived as tenderly anddaintily as one would pluck a flower.

With these thoughts, when we reached our camping-ground, I decided toleave my companions to continue moose-hunting down the stream, while Iprepared the camp, though they requested me not to chop much nor make alarge fire, for fear I should scare their game. In the midst of the dampfir-wood, high on the mossy bank, about nine o'clock of this brightmoonlight night, I kindled a fire, when they were gone, and, sitting onthe fir-twigs, within sound of the falls, examined by its light thebotanical specimens which I had collected that afternoon, and wrote downsome of the reflections which I have here expanded; or I walked along theshore and gazed up the stream, where the whole space above the falls wasfilled with mellow light. As I sat before the fire on my fir-twig seat,without walls above or around me, I remembered how far on every hand thatwilderness stretched, before you came to cleared or cultivated fields, andwondered if any bear or moose was watching the light of my fire; forNature looked sternly upon me on account of the murder of the moose.

Strange that so few ever come to the woods to see how the pine lives andgrows and spires, lifting its evergreen arms to the light,—to see itsperfect success; but most are content to behold it in the shape of manybroad boards brought to market, and deem that its true success! But thepine is no more lumber than man is, and to be made into boards and housesis no more its true and highest use than the truest use of a man is to becut down and made into manure. There is a higher law affecting ourrelation to pines as well as to men. A pine cut down, a dead pine, is nomore a pine than a dead human carcass is a man. Can he who has discoveredonly some of the values of whalebone and whale oil be said to havediscovered the true use of the whale? Can he who slays the elephant forhis ivory be said to have "seen the elephant"? These are petty andaccidental uses; just as if a stronger race were to kill us in order tomake buttons and flageolets of our bones; for everything may serve a loweras well as a higher use. Every creature is better alive than dead, men andmoose and pine-trees, and he who understands it aright will ratherpreserve its life than destroy it.

Is it the lumberman, then, who is the friend and lover of the pine, standsnearest to it, and understands its nature best? Is it the tanner who hasbarked it, or he who has boxed it for turpentine, whom posterity willfable to have been changed into a pine at last? No! no! it is the poet; heit is who makes the truest use of the pine,—who does not fondle it withan axe, nor tickle it with a saw, nor stroke it with a plane,—who knowswhether its heart is false without cutting into it,—who has not boughtthe stumpage of the township on which it stands. All the pines shudder andheave a sigh when that man steps on the forest floor. No, it is thepoet, who loves them as his own shadow in the air, and lets them stand. Ihave been into the lumber-yard, and the carpenter's shop, and the tannery,and the lampblack-factory, and the turpentine clearing; but when at lengthI saw the tops of the pines waving and reflecting the light at a distancehigh over all the rest of the forest, I realized that the former were notthe highest use of the pine. It is not their bones or hide or tallow thatI love most. It is the living spirit of the tree, not its spirit ofturpentine, with which I sympathize, and which heals my cuts.

Ere long, the hunters returned, not having seen a moose, but, inconsequence of my suggestions, bringing a quarter of the dead one, which,with ourselves, made quite a load for the canoe.

After breakfasting on moose-meat, we returned down Pine Stream on our wayto Chesuncook Lake, which was about five miles distant. We could see thered carcass of the moose lying in Pine Stream when nearly half a mile off.Just below the mouth of this stream were the most considerable rapidsbetween the two lakes, called Pine-Stream Falls, where were large flatrocks washed smooth, and at this time you could easily wade across abovethem. Joe ran down alone while we walked over the portage, my companioncollecting spruce gum for his friends at home, and I looking for flowers.Near the lake, which we were approaching with as much expectation as if ithad been a university,—for it is not often that the stream of our lifeopens into such expansions,—were islands, and a low and meadowy shorewith scattered trees, birches, white and yellow, slanted over the water,and maples,—many of the white birches killed, apparently by inundations.There was considerable native grass; and even a few cattle—whosemovements we heard, though we did not see them, mistaking them at firstfor moose—were pastured there.

On entering the lake, where the stream runs southeasterly, and for sometime before, we had a view of the mountains about Katadn,(Katahdinauquoh one says they are called,) like a cluster of blue fungiof rank growth, apparently twenty-five or thirty miles distant, in asoutheast direction, their summits concealed by clouds. Joe called some ofthem the Souadneunk mountains. This is the name of a stream there, whichanother Indian told us meant "Running between mountains." Though somelower summits were afterward uncovered, we got no more complete view ofKatadn while we were in the woods. The clearing to which we were bound wason the right of the mouth of the river, and was reached by going round alow point, where the water was shallow to a great distance from the shore.Chesuncook Lake extends northwest and southeast, and is called eighteenmiles long and three wide, without an island. We had entered the northwestcorner of it, and when near the shore could see only part way down it. Theprincipal mountains visible from the land here were those alreadymentioned, between southeast and east, and a few summits a little west ofnorth, but generally the north and northwest horizon about the St. Johnand the British boundary was comparatively level.

Ansell Smith's, the oldest and principal clearing about this lake,appeared to be quite a harbor for bateaux and canoes; seven or eight ofthe former were lying about, and there was a small scow for hay, and acapstan on a platform, now high and dry, ready to be floated and anchoredto tow rafts with. It was a very primitive kind of harbor, where boatswere drawn up amid the stumps,—such a one, methought, as the Argo mighthave been launched in. There were five other huts with small clearings onthe opposite side of the lake, all at this end and visible from thispoint. One of the Smiths told me that it was so far cleared that they camehere to live and built the present house four years before, though thefamily had been here but a few months.

I was interested to see how a pioneer lived on this side of the country.His life is in some respects more adventurous than that of his brother inthe West; for he contends with winter as well as the wilderness, and thereis a greater interval of time at least between him and the army which isto follow. Here immigration is a tide which may ebb when it has swept awaythe pines; there it is not a tide, but an inundation, and roads and otherimprovements come steadily rushing after.

As we approached the log-house, a dozen rods from the lake, andconsiderably elevated above it, the projecting ends of the logs lappingover each other irregularly several feet at the corners gave it a veryrich and picturesque look, far removed from the meanness of weather-boards. It was a very spacious, low building, about eighty feet long, withmany large apartments. The walls were well clayed between the logs, whichwere large and round, except on the upper and under sides, and as visibleinside as out, successive bulging cheeks gradually lessening upwards andtuned to each other with the axe, like Pandean pipes. Probably the musicalforest-gods had not yet cast them aside; they never do till they are splitor the bark is gone. It was a style of architecture not described byVitruvius, I suspect, though possibly hinted at in the biography ofOrpheus; none of your frilled or fluted columns, which have cut such afalse swell, and support nothing but a gable end and their builder'spretensions,—that is, with the multitude; and as for "ornamentation," oneof those words with a dead tail which architects very properly use todescribe their flourishes, there were the lichens and mosses and fringesof bark, which nobody troubled himself about. We certainly leave thehandsomest paint and clapboards behind in the woods, when we strip off thebark and poison ourselves with white-lead in the towns. We get but halfthe spoils of the forest. For beauty, give me trees with the fur on. Thishouse was designed and constructed with the freedom of stroke of aforester's axe, without other compass and square than Nature uses.Wherever the logs were cut off by a window or door, that is, were not keptin place by alternate overlapping, they were held one upon another by verylarge pins driven in diagonally on each side, where branches might havebeen, and then cut off so close up and down as not to project beyond thebulge of the log, as if the logs clasped each other in their arms. Theselogs were posts, studs, boards, clapboards, laths, plaster, and nails, allin one. Where the citizen uses a mere sliver or board, the pioneer usesthe whole trunk of a tree. The house had large stone chimneys, and wasroofed with spruce-bark. The windows were imported, all but the casings.One end was a regular logger's camp, for the boarders, with the usual firfloor and log benches. Thus this house was but a slight departure from thehollow tree, which the bear still inhabits,—being a hollow made withtrees piled up, with a coating of bark like its original.

The cellar was a separate building, like an ice-house, and it answered fora refrigerator at this season, our moose-meat being kept there. It was apotato-hole with a permanent roof. Each structure and institution here wasso primitive that you could at once refer it to its source; but ourbuildings commonly suggest neither their origin nor their purpose. Therewas a large, and what farmers would call handsome, barn, part of whoseboards had been sawed by a whip-saw; and the saw-pit, with its great pileof dust, remained before the house. The long split shingles on a portionof the barn were laid a foot to the weather, suggesting what kind ofweather they have there. Grant's barn at Caribou Lake was said to be stilllarger, the biggest ox-nest in the woods, fifty feet by a hundred. Thinkof a monster barn in that primitive forest lifting its gray back above thetree-tops! Man makes very much such a nest for his domestic animals, ofwithered grass and fodder, as the squirrels and many other wild creaturesdo for themselves.

There was also a blacksmith's shop, where plainly a good deal of work wasdone. The oxen and horses used in lumbering operations were shod, and allthe iron-work of sleds, etc., was repaired or made here. I saw them load abateau at the Moosehead carry, the next Tuesday, with about thirteenhundred weight of bar iron for this shop. This reminded me how primitiveand honorable a trade was Vulcan's. I do not hear that there was anycarpenter or tailor among the gods. The smith seems to have preceded theseand every other mechanic at Chesuncook as well as on Olympus, and hisfamily is the most widely dispersed, whether he be christened John orAnsell.

Smith owned two miles down the lake by half a mile in width. There wereabout one hundred acres cleared here. He cut seventy tons of English haythis year on this ground, and twenty more on another clearing, and he usesit all himself in lumbering operations. The barn was crowded with pressedhay and a machine to press it. There was a large garden full of roots,turnips, beets, carrots, potatoes, etc., all of great size. They said thatthey were worth as much here as in New York. I suggested some currants forsauce, especially as they had no apple-trees set out, and showed howeasily they could be obtained.

There was the usual long-handled axe of the primitive woods by the door,three and a half feet long,—for my new black-ash rule was in constantuse,—and a large, shaggy dog, whose nose, report said, was full ofporcupine quills. I can testify that he looked very sober. This is theusual fortune of pioneer dogs, for they have to face the brunt of thebattle for their race, and act the part of Arnold Winkelried withoutintending it. If he should invite one of his town friends up this way,suggesting moose-meat and unlimited freedom, the latter might pertinentlyinquire, "What is that sticking in your nose?" When a generation or twohave used up all the enemies' darts, their successors lead a comparativelyeasy life. We owe to our fathers analogous blessings. Many old peoplereceive pensions for no other reason, it seems to me, but as acompensation for having lived a long time ago. No doubt, our town dogsstill talk, in a snuffling way, about the days that tried dogs' noses. Howthey got a cat up there I do not know, for they are as shy as my auntabout entering a canoe. I wondered that she did not run up a tree on theway; but perhaps she was bewildered by the very crowd of opportunities.

Twenty or thirty lumberers, Yankee and Canadian, were coming and going,—Aleck among the rest,—and from time to time an Indian touched here. Inthe winter there are sometimes a hundred men lodged here at once. The mostinteresting piece of news that circulated among them appeared to be, thatfour horses belonging to Smith, worth seven hundred dollars, had passed byfurther into the woods a week before.

The white-pine-tree was at the bottom or further end of all this. It is awar against the pines, the only real Aroostook or Penobscot war. I have nodoubt that they lived pretty much the same sort of life in the Homericage, for men have always thought more of eating than of fighting; then, asnow, their minds ran chiefly on the "hot bread and sweet cakes"; and thefur and lumber trade is an old story to Asia and Europe. I doubt if menever made a trade of heroism. In the days of Achilles, even, theydelighted in big barns, and perchance in pressed hay, and he who possessedthe most valuable team was the best fellow.

We had designed to go on at evening up the Caucomgomoc, whose mouth was amile or two distant, to the lake of the same name, about ten miles off;but some Indians of Joe's acquaintance, who were making canoes on theCaucomgomoc, came over from that side, and gave so poor an account of themoose-hunting, so many had been killed there lately, that my companionsconcluded not to go there. Joe spent this Sunday and the night with hisacquaintances. The lumberers told me that there were many moosehereabouts, but no caribou or deer. A man from Oldtown had killed ten ortwelve moose, within a year, so near the house that they heard all hisguns. His name may have been Hercules, for aught I know, though I shouldrather have expected to hear the rattling of his club; but, no doubt, hekeeps pace with the improvements of the age, and uses a Sharpe's riflenow; probably he gets all his armor made and repaired at Smith's shop. Onemoose had been killed and another shot at within sight of the house withintwo years. I do not know whether Smith has yet got a poet to look afterthe cattle, which, on account of the early breaking up of the ice, arecompelled to summer in the woods, but I would suggest this office to suchof my acquaintances as love to write verses and go a-gunning.

After a dinner, at which apple-sauce was the greatest luxury to me, butour moose-meat was oftenest called for by the lumberers, I walked acrossthe clearing into the forest, southward, returning along the shore. For mydessert, I helped myself to a large slice of the Chesuncook woods, andtook a hearty draught of its waters with all my senses. The woods were asfresh and full of vegetable life as a lichen in wet weather, and containedmany interesting plants; but unless they are of white pine, they aretreated with as little respect here as a mildew, and in the other casethey are only the more quickly cut down. The shore was of coarse, flat,slate rocks, often in slabs, with the surf beating on it. The rocks andbleached drift-logs, extending some way into the shaggy woods, showed arise and fall of six or eight feet, caused partly by the dam at theoutlet. They said that in winter the snow was three feet deep on a levelhere, and sometimes four or five,—that the ice on the lake was two feetthick, clear, and four feet, including the snow-ice. Ice had alreadyformed in vessels.

We lodged here this Sunday night in a comfortable bed-room, apparently thebest one; and all that I noticed unusual in the night—for I still kepttaking notes, like a spy in the camp—was the creaking of the thin splitboards, when any of our neighbors stirred.

Such were the first rude beginnings of a town. They spoke of thepracticability of a winter-road to the Moosehead carry, which would notcost much, and would connect them with steam and staging and all the busyworld. I almost doubted if the lake would be there,—the self-same lake,—preserve its form and identity, when the shores should be cleared andsettled; as if these lakes and streams which explorers report neverawaited the advent of the citizen.

The sight of one of these frontier-houses, built of these great logs,whose inhabitants have unflinchingly maintained their ground many summersand winters in the wilderness, reminds me of famous forts, likeTiconderoga, or Crown Point, which have sustained memorable sieges. Theyare especially winter-quarters, and at this season this one had apartially deserted look, as if the siege were raised a little, the snow-banks being melted from before it, and its garrison accordingly reduced. Ithink of their daily food as rations,—it is called "supplies"; a Bibleand a great coat are munitions of war, and a single man seen about thepremises is a sentinel on duty. You expect that he will require thecountersign, and will perchance take you for Ethan Allen, come to demandthe surrender of his fort in the name of the Continental Congress. It is asort of ranger service. Arnold's expedition is a daily experience withthese settlers. They can prove that they were out at almost any time; andI think that all the first generation of them deserve a pension more thanany that went to the Mexican war.

[To be continued.]



Aquí está encerrada el alma del licenciadoPedro Garcias.

If I should ever make a little book out of these papers, which I hope youare not getting tired of, I suppose I ought to save the above sentence fora motto on the title-page. But I want it now, and must use it. I need notsay to you that the words are Spanish, nor that they are to be found inthe short Introduction to "Gil Blas," nor that they mean, "Here liesburied the soul of the licentiate Pedro Garcias."

I warned all young people off the premises when I began my notes referringto old age. I must be equally fair with old people now. They are earnestlyrequested to leave this paper to young persons from the age of twelve tothat of four-score years and ten, at which latter period of life I am surethat I shall have at least one youthful reader. You know well enough whatI mean by youth and age;—something in the soul, which has no more to dowith the color of the hair than the vein of gold in a rock has to do withthe grass a thousand feet above it.

I am growing bolder as I write. I think it requires not only youth, butgenius, to read this paper. I don't mean to imply that it required anywhatsoever to talk what I have here written down. It did demand a certainamount of memory, and such command of the English tongue as is given by acommon school education. So much I do claim. But here I have related, atlength, a string of trivialities. You must have the imagination of a poetto transfigure them. These little colored patches are stains upon thewindows of a human soul; stand on the outside, they are but dull andmeaningless spots of color; seen from within, they are glorified shapeswith empurpled wings and sunbright aureoles.

My hand trembles when I offer you this. Many times I have come bearingflowers such as my garden grew; but now I offer you this poor, brown,homely growth, you may cast it away as worthless. And yet—and yet—it issomething better than flowers; it is a seed-capsule. Many a gardenerwill cut you a bouquet of his choicest blossoms for small fee, but he doesnot love to let the seeds of his rarest varieties go out of his own hands.

It is by little things that we know ourselves; a soul would very probablymistake itself for another, when once disembodied, were it not forindividual experiences that differed from those of others only in detailsseemingly trifling. All of us have been thirsty thousands of times, andfelt, with Pindar, that water was the best of things. I alone, as I think,of all mankind, remember one particular pailful of water, flavored withthe white-pine of which the pail was made, and the brown mug out of whichone Edmund, a red-faced and curly-haired boy, was averred to have bitten afragment in his haste to drink; it being then high summer, and littlefull-blooded boys feeling very warm and porous in the low-"studded"school-room where Dame Prentiss, dead and gone, ruled over young children,many of whom are old ghosts now, and have known Abraham for twenty orthirty years of our mortal time.

Thirst belongs to humanity, everywhere, in all ages; but that white-pinepail and that brown mug belong to me in particular; and just so of myspecial relationships with other things and with my race. One could neverremember himself in eternity by the mere fact of having loved or hated anymore than by that of having thirsted; love and hate have no moreindividuality in them than single waves in the ocean;—but the accidentsor trivial marks which distinguished those whom we loved or hated maketheir memory our own forever, and with it that of our own personalityalso.

Therefore, my aged friend of five-and-twenty, or thereabouts, pause at thethreshold of this particular record, and ask yourself seriously whetheryou are fit to read such revelations as are to follow. For observe, youhave here no splendid array of petals such as poets offer you,—nothingbut a dry shell, containing, if you will get out what is in it, a fewsmall seeds of poems. You may laugh at them, if you like. I shall nevertell you what I think of you for so doing. But if you can read into theheart of these things, in the light of other memories as slight, yet asdear to your soul, then you are neither more nor less than a POET, and canafford to write no more verses during the rest of your natural life,—which abstinence I take to be one of the surest marks of your meriting thedivine name I have just bestowed upon you.

[May I beg of you who have begun this paper, nobly trusting to your ownimagination and sensibilities to give it the significance which it doesnot lay claim to without your kind assistance,—may I beg of you, I say,to pay particular attention to the brackets which enclose certainparagraphs? I want my "asides," you see, to whisper loud to you who readmy notes, and sometimes I talk a page or two to you without pretendingthat I said a word of it to our boarders. You will find a very long"aside" to you almost as soon as you begin to read. And so, dear youngfriend, fall to at once, taking such things as I have provided for you;and if you turn them, by the aid of your powerful imagination, into a fairbanquet, why, then, peace be with you, and a summer by the still waters ofsome quiet river, or by some yellow beach, where, as my friend, theProfessor, says, you can sit with Nature's wrist in your hand and counther ocean-pulses.]

I should like to make a few intimate revelations relating especially to myearly life, if I thought you would like to hear them.

[The schoolmistress turned a little inher chair, and sat with her face directed partly towards me.—Half-mourning now;—purple ribbon. That breastpin she wears has gray hair init; her mother's, no doubt;—I remember our landlady's daughter tellingme, soon after the school-mistress came to board with us, that she hadlately "buried a payrent." That's what made her look so pale,—kept thepoor sick thing alive with her own blood. Ah! long illness is the realvampyrism; think of living a year or two after one is dead, by sucking thelife-blood out of a frail young creature at one's bedside!—Well, soulsgrow white, as well as cheeks, in these holy duties; one that goes in anurse may come out an angel.—God bless all good women!—to their softhands and pitying hearts we must all come at last!——The schoolmistresshas a better color than when she came.—— —— Too late!——"It mighthave been."——Amen!

——How many thoughts go to a dozen heart-beats, sometimes! There was nolong pause after my remark addressed to the company, but in that time Ihad the train of ideas and feelings I have just given flash through myconsciousness sudden and sharp as the crooked red streak that springs outof its black sheath like the creese of a Malay in his death-rage, andstabs the earth right and left in its blind rage.

I don't deny that there was a pang in it,—yes, a stab; but there was aprayer, too,—the "Amen" belonged to that.—Also, a vision of a four-storybrick house, nicely furnished,—I actually saw many specific articles,—curtains, sofas, tables, and others, and could draw the patterns of themat this moment,—a brick house, I say, looking out on the water, with afair parlor, and books and busts and pots of flowers and bird-cages, allcomplete; and at the window, looking on the water, two of us.—"Male andfemale created He them."—These two were standing at the window, when alittle boy that was playing near them looked up at me with such a lookthat I—— ——poured out a glass of water, drank it all down, and thencontinued.]

I said I should like to tell you some things, such as people commonlynever tell, about my early recollections. Should you like to hear them?

Should we like to hear them?—said the schoolmistress;—no, but weshould love to.

[The voice was a sweet one, naturally, and had something very pleasant inits tone, just then.—The four-story brick house, which had gone out likea transparency when the light behind it is quenched, glimmered again for amoment; parlor, books, busts, flower-pots, bird-cages, all complete,—andthe figures as before.]

We are waiting with eagerness, Sir,—said the divinity-student.

[The transparency went out as if a flash of black lightning had struckit.]

If you want to hear my confessions, the next thing—I said—is to knowwhether I can trust you with them. It is only fair to say that there are agreat many people in the world that laugh at such things. I think theyare fools, but perhaps you don't all agree with me.

Here are children of tender age talked to as if they were capable ofunderstanding Calvin's "Institutes," and nobody has honesty or senseenough to tell the plain truth about the little wretches: that they are assuperstitious as naked savages, and such miserable spiritual cowards—thatis, if they have any imagination—that they will believe anything which istaught them, and a great deal more which they teach themselves.

I was born and bred, as I have told you twenty times, among books andthose who knew what was in books. I was carefully instructed in thingstemporal and spiritual. But up to a considerable maturity of childhood Ibelieved Raphael and Michel Angelo to have been super-human beings. Thecentral doctrine of the prevalent religious faith of Christendom wasutterly confused and neutralized in my mind for years by one of those toocommon stories of actual life, which I overheard repeated in a whisper.—Why did I not ask? you will say.—You don't remember the rosy pudency ofsensitive children. The first instinctive movement of the little creaturesis to make a cache, and bury in it beliefs, doubts, dreams, hopes, andterrors. I am uncovering one of these caches. Do you think I wasnecessarily a greater fool and coward than another?

I was afraid of ships. Why, I could never tell. The masts lookedfrightfully tall,—but they were not so tall as the steeple of our oldyellow meeting-house. At any rate, I used to hide my eyes from the sloopsand schooners that were wont to lie at the end of the bridge, and Iconfess that traces of this undefined terror lasted very long.—One othersource of alarm had a still more fearful significance. There was a greatwooden HAND,—a glove-maker's sign, which used to swing and creak in theblast, as it hung from a pillar before a certain shop a mile or twooutside of the city. Oh, the dreadful hand! Always hanging there ready tocatch up a little boy, who would come home to supper no more, nor yet tobed,—whose porringer would be laid away empty thenceforth, and his half-worn shoes wait until his small brother grew to fit them.

As for all manner of superstitious observances, I used once to think Imust have been peculiar in having such a list of them, but I now believethat half the children of the same age go through the same experiences. NoRoman soothsayer ever had such a catalogue of omens as I found in theSibylline leaves of my childhood. That trick of throwing a stone at a treeand attaching some mighty issue to hitting or missing, which you will findmentioned in one or more biographies, I well remember. Stepping on or overcertain particular things or spots—Dr. Johnson's especial weakness—I gotthe habit of at a very early age.—I won't swear that I have not sometendency to these not wise practices even at this present date. [How manyof you that read these notes can say the same thing!]

With these follies mingled sweet delusions, which I loved so well I wouldnot outgrow them, even when it required a voluntary effort to put amomentary trust in them. Here is one which I cannot help telling you.

The firing of the great guns at the Navy-yard is easily heard at the placewhere I was born and lived. "There is a ship of war come in," they used tosay, when they heard them. Of course, I supposed that such vessels came inunexpectedly, after indefinite years of absence,—suddenly as fallingstones; and that the great guns roared in their astonishment and delightat the sight of the old warship splitting the bay with her cutwater. Now,the sloop-of-war the Wasp, Captain Blakely, after gloriously capturing theReindeer and the Avon, had disappeared from the face of the ocean, and wassupposed to be lost. But there was no proof of it, and, of course, for atime, hopes were entertained that she might be heard from. Long after thelast real chance had utterly vanished, I pleased myself with the fondillusion that somewhere on the waste of waters she was still floating, andthere were years during which I never heard the sound of the great gunsbooming inland from the Navy-yard without saying to myself, "The Wasp hascome!" and almost thinking I could see her, as she rolled in, crumplingthe water before her, weather-beaten, barnacled, with shattered spars andthreadbare canvas, welcomed by the shouts and tears of thousands. This wasone of those dreams that I nursed and never told. Let me make a cleanbreast of it now, and say, that, so late as to have outgrown childhood,perhaps to have got far on towards manhood, when the roar of the cannonhas struck suddenly on my ear, I have started with a thrill of vagueexpectation and tremulous delight, and the long-unspoken words havearticulated themselves in the mind's dumb whisper, The Wasp has come!

——Yes, children believe plenty of queer things. I suppose all of youhave had the pocket-book fever when you were little?—What do I mean? Why,ripping up old pocket-books in the firm belief that bank-bills to animmense amount were hidden in them.—So, too, you must all remember somesplendid unfulfilled promise of somebody or other, which fed you withhopes perhaps for years, and which left a blank in your life which nothinghas ever filled up.—O.T. quitted our household carrying with him thepassionate regrets of the more youthful members. He was an ingeniousyoungster; wrote wonderful copies, and carved the two initials given abovewith great skill on all available surfaces. I thought, by the way, theywere all gone; but the other day I found them on a certain door which Iwill show you some time. How it surprised me to find them so near theground! I had thought the boy of no trivial dimensions. Well, O.T. when hewent, made a solemn promise to two of us. I was to have a ship, and theother a mar_tin_-house (last syllable pronounced as in the word tin).Neither ever came; but, oh, how many and many a time I have stolen to thecorner,—the cars pass close by it at this time,—and looked up that longavenue, thinking that he must be coming now, almost sure, as I turned tolook northward, that there he would be, trudging toward me, the ship inone hand and the mar_tin_-house in the other!

[You must not suppose that all I am going to say, as well as all I havesaid, was told to the whole company. The young fellow whom they call Johnwas in the yard, sitting on a barrel and smoking a cheroot, the fumes ofwhich came in, not ungrateful, through the open window. The divinity-student disappeared in the midst of our talk. The poor relation in blackbombazine, who looked and moved as if all her articulations were elbow-joints, had gone off to her chamber, after waiting with a look of soul-subduing decorum at the foot of the stairs until one of the male sort hadpassed her and ascended into the upper regions. This is a famous point ofetiquette in our boarding-house; in fact, between ourselves, they makesuch an awful fuss about it, that I, for one, had a great deal rather havethem simple enough not to think of such matters at all. Our land-lady'sdaughter said, the other evening, that she was going to "retire"; where-upon the young fellow called John took up a lamp and insisted on lightingher to the foot of the staircase. Nothing would induce her to pass by him,until the schoolmistress, saying in good plain English that it was herbed-time, walked straight by them both, not seeming to trouble herselfabout either of them.

I have been led away from what I meant the portion included in thesebrackets to inform my readers about. I say, then, most of the boarders hadleft the table about the time when I began telling some of these secretsof mine, all of them, in fact, but the old gentleman opposite and theschoolmistress. I understand why a young woman should like to hear thesehomely but genuine experiences of early life, which are, as I have said,the little brown seeds of what may yet grow to be poems with leaves ofazure and gold; but when the old gentleman pushed up his chair nearer tome, and slanted round his best ear, and once, when I was speaking of sometrifling, tender reminiscence, drew a long breath, with such a tremor init that a little more and it would have been a sob, why, then I felt theremust be something of nature in them which redeemed their seeminginsignificance. Tell me, man or woman with whom I am whispering, have younot a small store of recollections, such as these I am uncovering, buriedbeneath the dead leaves of many summers, perhaps under the unmelting snowsof fast-returning winters,—a few such recollections, which, if youshould write them all out, would be swept into some careless editor'sdrawer, and might cost a scanty half-hour's lazy reading to hissubscribers,—and yet, if Death should cheat you of them, you would notknow yourself in eternity?]

——I made three acquaintances at avery early period of life, my introduction to whom was never forgotten.The first unequivocal act of wrong that has left its trace in my memorywas this: it was refusing a small favor asked of me,—nothing more thantelling what had happened at school one morning. No matter who asked it;but there were circ*mstances which saddened and awed me. I had no heart tospeak;—I faltered some miserable, perhaps petulant excuse, stole away,and the first battle of life was lost. What remorse followed I need nottell. Then and there; to the best of my knowledge, I first consciouslytook Sin by the hand and turned my back on Duty. Time has led me to lookupon my offence more leniently; I do not believe it or any other childishwrong is infinite, as some have pretended, but infinitely finite. Yet, ohif I had but won that battle!

The great Destroyer, whose awful shadow it was that had silenced me, camenear me,—but never, so as to be distinctly seen and remembered, during mytender years. There flits dimly before me the image of a little girl,whose name even I have forgotten, a schoolmate, whom we missed one day,and were told that she had died. But what death was I never had any verydistinct idea, until one day I climbed the low stone wall of the oldburial-ground and mingled with a group that were looking into a very deep,long, narrow hole, dug down through the green sod, down through the brownloam, down through the yellow gravel, and there at the bottom was anoblong red box, and a still, sharp, white face of a young man seen throughan opening at one end of it. When the lid was closed, and the gravel andstones rattled down pell-mell, and the woman in black, who was crying andwringing her hands, went off with the other mourners, and left him, then Ifelt that I had seen Death, and should never forget him.

One other acquaintance I made at an earlier period of life than the habitof romancers authorizes.—Love, of course.—She was a famous beautyafterwards.—I am satisfied that many children rehearse their parts in thedrama of life before they have shed all their milk-teeth.—I think I won'ttell the story of the golden blonde.—I suppose everybody has had hischildish fancies; but sometimes they are passionate impulses, whichanticipate all the tremulous emotions belonging to a later period. Mostchildren remember seeing and adoring an angel before they were a dozenyears old.

[The old gentleman had left his chair opposite and taken a seat by theschoolmistress and myself, a little way from the table.—It's true, it'strue,—said the old gentleman.—He took hold of a steel watch-chain, whichcarried a large, square gold key at one end and was supposed to have somekind of timekeeper at the other. With some trouble he dragged up anancient-looking, thick, silver, bull's-eye watch. He looked at it for amoment,—hesitated,—touched the inner corner of his right eye with thepulp of his middle finger,—looked at the face of the watch,—said it wasgetting into the forenoon,—then opened the watch and handed me the looseoutside case without a word.—The watch-paper had been pink once, and hada faint tinge still, as if all its tender life had not yet quite fadedout. Two little birds, a flower, and, in small school-girl letters, adate,—17…—no matter.—Before I was thirteen years old,—said the oldgentleman.—I don't know what was in that young schoolmistress's head, norwhy she should have done it; but she took out the watch-paper and put itsoftly to her lips, as if she were kissing the poor thing that made it solong ago. The old gentleman took the watch-paper carefully from her,replaced it, turned away and walked out, holding the watch in his hand. Isaw him pass the window a moment after with that foolish white hat on hishead; he couldn't have been thinking what he was about when he put it on.So the schoolmistress and I were left alone. I drew my chair a shadenearer to her, and continued.]

And since I am talking of early recollections, I don't know why Ishouldn't mention some others that still cling to me,—not that you willattach any very particular meaning to these same images so full ofsignificance to me, but that you will find something parallel to them inyour own memory. You remember, perhaps, what I said one day about smells.There were certain sounds also which had a mysterious suggestiveness tome,—not so intense, perhaps, as that connected with the other sense, butyet peculiar, and never to be forgotten.

The first was the creaking of the wood-sleds, bringing their loads of oakand walnut from the country, as the slow-swinging oxen trailed them alongover the complaining snow, in the cold, brown light of early morning.Lying in bed and listening to their dreary music had a pleasure in it akinto that which Lucretius describes in witnessing a ship toiling through thewaves while we sit at ease on shore, or that which Byron speaks of as tobe enjoyed in looking on at a battle by one "who hath no friend, nobrother there."

There was another sound, in itself so sweet, and so connected with one ofthose simple and curious superstitions of childhood of which I havespoken, that I can never cease to cherish a sad sort of love for it.—Letme tell the superstitious fancy first. The Puritan "Sabbath," as everybodyknows, began at "sundown" on Saturday evening. To such observance of it Iwas born and bred. As the large, round disk of day declined, a stillness,a solemnity, a somewhat melancholy hush came over us all. It was time forwork to cease, and for playthings to be put away. The world of active lifepassed into the shadow of an eclipse, not to emerge until the sun shouldsink again beneath the horizon.

It was in this stillness of the world without and of the soul within thatthe pulsating lullaby of the evening crickets used to make itself mostdistinctly heard,—so that I well remember I used to think that thepurring of these little creatures, which mingled with the batrachian hymnsfrom the neighboring swamp, was peculiar to Saturday evenings. I don'tknow that anything could give a clearer idea of the quieting and subduingeffect of the old habit of observance of what was considered holy time,than this strange, childish fancy.

Yes, and there was still another sound which mingled its solemn cadenceswith the waking and sleeping dreams of my boyhood. It was heard only attimes,—a deep, muffled roar, which rose and fell, not loud, but vast,—awhistling boy would have drowned it for his next neighbor, but it musthave been heard over the space of a hundred square miles. I used to wonderwhat this might be. Could it be the roar of the thousand wheels and theten thousand footsteps jarring and tramping along the stones of theneighboring city? That would be continuous; but this, as I have said, roseand fell in regular rhythm. I remember being told, and I suppose this tohave been the true solution, that it was the sound of the waves, after ahigh wind, breaking on the long beaches many miles distant. I shouldreally like to know whether any observing people living ten miles, more orless, inland from long beaches,—in such a town, for instance, asCantabridge, in the eastern part of the Territory of the Massachusetts,—have ever observed any such sound, and whether it was rightly accountedfor as above.

Mingling with these inarticulate sounds in the low murmur of memory, arethe echoes of certain voices I have heard at rare intervals. I grieve tosay it, but our people, I think, have not generally agreeable voices. Themarrowy organisms, with skins that shed water like the backs of ducks,with smooth surfaces neatly padded beneath, and velvet linings to theirsinging-pipes, are not so common among us as that other pattern ofhumanity with angular outlines and plane surfaces, arid integuments, hairlike the fibrous covering of a cocoa-nut in gloss and suppleness as wellas color, and voices at once thin and strenuous,—acidulous enough toproduce effervescence with alkalis, and stridulous enough to sing duetswith the katydids. I think our conversational soprano, as sometimesoverheard in the cars, arising from a group of young persons, who may havetaken the train at one of our great industrial centres, for instance,—young persons of the female sex, we will say, who have bustled in full-dressed, engaged in loud strident speech, and who, after free discussion,have fixed on two or more double seats, which having secured, they proceedto eat apples and hand round daguerreotypes,—I say, I think theconversational soprano, heard under these circ*mstances, would not beamong the allurements the old Enemy would put in requisition, were hegetting up a new temptation of St. Anthony.

There are sweet voices among us, we all know, and voices not musical, itmay be, to those who hear them for the first time, yet sweeter to us thanany we shall hear until we listen to some warbling angel in the overtureto that eternity of blissful harmonies we hope to enjoy.—But why should Itell lies? If my friends love me, it is because I try to tell the truth. Inever heard but two voices in my life that frightened me by theirsweetness.

——Frightened you?—said the school-mistress.—Yes, frightened me. Theymade me feel as if there might be constituted a creature with such a chordin her voice to some string in another's soul, that, if she but spoke, hewould leave all and follow her, though it were into the jaws of Erebus.Our only chance to keep our wits is, that there are so few natural chordsbetween others' voices and this string in our souls, and that those whichat first may have jarred a little by and by come into harmony with it.—But I tell you this is no fiction. You may call the story of Ulysses andthe Sirens a fable, but what will you say to Mario and the poor lady whofollowed him?

——Whose were those two voices that bewitched me so?—They both belongedto German women. One was a chambermaid, not otherwise fascinating. The keyof my room at a certain great hotel was missing, and this Teutonic maidenwas summoned to give information respecting it. The simple soul wasevidently not long from her mother-land, and spoke with sweet uncertaintyof dialect. But to hear her wonder and lament and suggest, with soft,liquid inflexions, and low, sad murmurs, in tones as full of serioustenderness for the fate of the lost key as if it had been a childthat had strayed from its mother, was so winning, that, had her featuresand figure been as delicious as her accents,—if she had looked like themarble Clytie, for instance,—why, all I can say is——

[The schoolmistress opened her eyes so wide, that I stopped short.]

I was only going to say that I should have drowned myself. For Lake Eriewas close by, and it is so much better to accept asphyxia, which takesonly three minutes by the watch, than a mésalliance, that lasts fiftyyears to begin with, and then passes along down the line of descent,(breaking out in all manner of boorish manifestations of feature andmanner, which, if men were only as short-lived as horses, could be readilytraced back through the square-roots and the cube-roots of the familystem, on which you have hung the armorial bearings of the De Champignonsor the De la Morues, until one came to beings that ate with knives andsaid "Haow?") that no person of right feeling could have hesitated for asingle moment.

The second of the ravishing voices I have heard was, as I have said, thatof another German woman.—I suppose I shall ruin myself by saying thatsuch a voice could not have come from any Americanized human being.

——What was there in it?—said the schoolmistress,—and, upon my word,her tones were so very musical, that I almost wished I had said threevoices instead of two, and not made the unpatriotic remark abovereported.—Oh, I said, it had so much woman in it,—muliebrity, aswell as femineity;—no self-assertion, such as free suffrage introducesinto every word and movement; large, vigorous nature, running back tothose huge-limbed Germans of Tacitus, but subdued by the reverentialtraining and tuned by the kindly culture of fifty generations. Sharpbusiness habits, a lean soil, independence, enterprise, and east winds,are not the best things for the larynx. Still, you hear noble voices amongus,—I have known families famous for them,—but ask the first person youmeet a question, and ten to one there is a hard, sharp, metallic, matter-of-business clink in the accents of the answer, that produces the effectof one of those bells which small trades-people connect with their shop-doors, and which spring upon your ear with such vivacity, as you enter,that your first impulse is to retire at once from the precincts.

——Ah, but I must not forget that dear little child I saw and heard in aFrench hospital. Between two and three years old. Fell out of her chairand snapped both thigh-bones. Lying in bed, patient, gentle. Roughstudents round her, some in white aprons, looking fearfully business-like;but the child placid, perfectly still. I spoke to her, and the blessedlittle creature answered me in a voice of such heavenly sweetness, withthat reedy thrill in it which you have heard in the thrush's even-song,that I hear it at this moment, while I am writing, so many, many yearsafterwards.—C'est tout comme un serin, said the French student at myside.

These are the voices which struck the key-note of my conceptions as towhat the sounds we are to hear in heaven will be, if we shall enterthrough one of the twelve gates of pearl. There must be other thingsbesides aërolites that wander from their own spheres to ours; and when wespeak of celestial sweetness or beauty, we may be nearer the literal truththan we dream. If mankind generally are the shipwrecked survivors of somepre-Adamitic cataclysm, set adrift in these little open boats of humanityto make one more trial to reach the shore,—as some grave theologians havemaintained,—if, in plain English, men are the ghosts of dead devils whohave "died into life," (to borrow an expression from Keats,) and walk theearth in a suit of living rags that lasts three or four score summers,—why, there must have been a few good spirits sent to keep them company,and these sweet voices I speak of must belong to them.

——I wish you could once hear my sister's voice,—said theschoolmistress.

If it is like yours, it must be a pleasant one,—said I.

I never thought mine was anything,—said the schoolmistress.

How should you know?—said I.—People never hear their own voices,—anymore than they see their own faces. There is not even a looking-glass forthe voice. Of course, there is something audible to us when we speak; butthat something is not our own voice as it is known to all ouracquaintances. I think, if an image spoke to us in our own tones, weshould not know them in the least.—How pleasant it would be, if inanother state of being we could have shapes like our former selves forplaythings,—we standing outside or inside of them, as we liked, and theybeing to us just what we used to be to others!

——I wonder if there will be nothing like what we call "play," after ourearthly toys are broken,—said the schoolmistress.

Hush,—said I,—what will the divinity-student say?

[I thought she was hit, that time;—but the shot must have gone over her,or on one side of her; she did not flinch.]

Oh,—said the schoolmistress,—he must look out for my sister's heresies;
I am afraid he will be too busy with them to take care of mine.

Do you mean to say,—said I,—that it is your sister whom thatstudent——

[The young fellow commonly known as John, who had been sitting on thebarrel, smoking, jumped off just then, kicked over the barrel, gave it apush with his foot that set it rolling, and stuck his saucy-looking facein at the window so as to cut my question off in the middle; and theschoolmistress leaving the room a few minutes afterwards, I did not have achance to finish it.

The young fellow came in and sat down in a chair, putting his heels on thetop of another.

Pooty girl,—said he.

A fine young lady,—I replied.

Keeps a fust-rate school, according to accounts,—said he,—teaches allsorts of things,—Latin and Italian and music. Folks rich once,—smashedup. She went right ahead as smart as if she'd been born to work. That'sthe kind o' girl I go for. I'd marry her, only two or three other girlswould drown themselves, if I did.

I think the above is the longest speech of this young fellow's which Ihave put on record. I do not like to change his peculiar expressions, forthis is one of those cases in which the style is the man, as M. de Buffonsays. The fact is, the young fellow is a good-hearted creature enough,only too fond of his jokes,—and if it were not for those heat-lightningwinks on one side of his face, I should not mind his fun much.]

[Some days after this, when the company were together again, I talked alittle.]

——I don't think I have a genuine hatred for anybody. I am well awarethat I differ herein from the sturdy English moralist and the stoutAmerican tragedian. I don't deny that I hate the sight of certainpeople; but the qualities which make me tend to hate the man himself aresuch as I am so much disposed to pity, that, except under immediateaggravation, I feel kindly enough to the worst of them. It is such a sadthing to be born a sneaking fellow, so much worse than to inherit a hump-back or a couple of club-feet, that I sometimes feel as if we ought tolove the crippled souls, if I may use this expression, with a certaintenderness which we need not waste on noble natures. One who is born withsuch congenital incapacity that nothing can make a gentleman of him isentitled, not to our wrath, but to our profoundest sympathy. But as wecannot help hating the sight of these people, just as we do that ofphysical deformities, we gradually eliminate them from our society,—welove them, but open the window and let them go. By the time decent peoplereach middle age they have weeded their circle pretty well of theseunfortunates, unless they have a taste for such animals; in which case, nomatter what their position may be, there is something, you may be sure, intheir natures akin to that of their wretched parasites.

——The divinity-student wished to know what I thought of affinities, aswell as of antipathies; did I believe in love at first sight?

Sir,—said I,—all men love all women. That is the primâ-facie aspect ofthe case. The Court of Nature assumes the law to be, that all men do so;and the individual man is bound to show cause why he does not love anyparticular woman. A man, says one of my old black-letter law-books, mayshow divers good reasons, as thus; He hath not seen the person named inthe indictment; she is of tender age, or the reverse of that; she hathcertain personal disqualifications,—as, for instance, she is ablackamoor, or hath an ill-favored countenance; or, his capacity of lovingbeing limited, his affections are engrossed by a previous comer; and so ofother conditions. Not the less is it true that he is bound by duty andinclined by nature to love each and every woman. Therefore it is that eachwoman virtually summons every man to show cause why he doth not love her.This is not by written document, or direct speech, for the most part, butby certain signs of silk, gold, and other materials, which say to allmen,—Look on me and love, as in duty bound. Then the man pleadeth hisspecial incapacity, whatsoever that may be,—as, for instance,impecuniosity, or that he hath one or many wives in his household, or thathe is of mean figure, or small capacity; of which reasons it may be noted,that the first is, according to late decisions, of chiefest authority.—Sofar the old law-book. But there is a note from an older authority, sayingthat every woman doth also love each and every man, except there be somegood reason to the contrary; and a very observing friend of mine, a youngunmarried clergyman, tells me, that, so far as his experience goes, he hasreason to think the ancient author had fact to justify his statement.

I'll tell you how it is with the pictures of women we fall in love with atfirst sight.

——We a'n't talking about pictures,—said the landlady's daughter,—we're talking about women.

I understood that we were speaking of love at sight,—I remarked, mildly.—Now, as all a man knows about a woman whom he looks at is just what apicture as big as a copper, or a "nickel," rather, at the bottom of hiseye can teach him, I think I am right in saying we are talking about thepictures of women.—Well, now, the reason why a man is not desperately inlove with ten thousand women at once is just that which prevents all ourportraits being distinctly seen upon that wall. They all are paintedthere by reflection from our faces, but because all of them are paintedon each spot, and each on the same surface, and many other objects at thesame time, no one is seen as a picture. But darken a chamber and let asingle pencil of rays in through a key-hole, then you have a picture onthe wall. We never fall in love with a woman in distinction from women,until we can get an image of her through a pin-hole; and then we can seenothing else, and nobody but ourselves can see the image in our mentalcamera-obscura.

——My friend, the Poet, tells me he has to leave town whenever theanniversaries come round.

What's the difficulty?—Why, they all want him to get up and makespeeches, or songs, or toasts; which is just the very thing he doesn'twant to do. He is an old story, he says, and hates to show on theseoccasions. But they tease him, and coax him, and can't do without him, andfeel all over his poor weak head until they get their fingers on thefontanelle, (the Professor will tell you what this means,—he says theone at the top of the head always remains open in poets,) until, by gentlepressure on that soft pulsating spot, they stupefy him to the point ofacquiescence.

There are times, though, he says, when it is a pleasure, before going tosome agreeable meeting, to rush out into one's garden and clutch up ahandful of what grows there,—weeds and violets together,—not cuttingthem off, but pulling them up by the roots with the brown earth they growin sticking to them. That's his idea of a post-prandial performance. Lookhere, now. These verses I am going to read you, he tells me, were pulledup by the roots just in that way, the other day.—Beautiful entertainment,—names there on the plates that flow from all English-speaking tongues asfamiliarly as and or the; entertainers known wherever good poetry andfair title-pages are held in esteem; guest a kind-hearted, modest, genial,hopeful poet, who sings to the hearts of his countrymen, the Britishpeople, the songs of good cheer which the better days to come, as allhonest souls trust and believe, will turn into the prose of common life.My friend, the Poet, says you must not read such a string of verses tooliterally. If he trimmed it nicely below, you wouldn't see the roots, hesays, and he likes to keep them, and a little of the soil clinging tothem.

This is the farewell my friend, the Poet, read to his and our friend, the


Brave singer of the coming time,
Sweet minstrel of the joyous present,
Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme,
The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,
Good-bye! Good-bye!—Our hearts and hands,
Our lips in honest Saxon phrases,
Cry, God be with him, till he stands
His feet among the English daisies!

'Tis here we part;—for other eyes
The busy deck, the fluttering streamer,
The dripping arms that plunge and rise,
The waves in foam, the ship in tremor,
The kerchiefs waving from the pier,
The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,
The deep blue desert, lone and drear,
With heaven above and home before him!

His home!—the Western giant smiles,
And twirls the spotty globe to find it;—
This little speck the British Isles?
'Tis but a freckle,—never mind it!—
He laughs, and all his prairies roll,
Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles,
And ridges stretched from pole to pole
Heave till they crack their iron knuckles!

But Memory blushes at the sneer,
And Honor turns with frown defiant,
And Freedom, leaning on her spear,
Laughs louder than the laughing giant:—
"An islet is a world," she said,
"When glory with its dust has blended,
And Britain keeps her noble dead
Till earth and seas and skies are rended!"

Beneath each swinging forest-bough
Some arm as stout in death reposes,—
From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow
Her valor's life-blood runs in roses;
Nay, let our brothers of the West
Write smiling in their florid pages,
One-half her soil has walked the rest
In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages!

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,
From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather,
The British oak with rooted grasp
Her slender handful holds together;—
With cliffs of white and bowers of green,
And Ocean narrowing to caress her,
And hills and threaded streams between,—
Our little mother isle, God bless her!

In earth's broad temple where we stand,
Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us,
We hold the missal in our hand,
Bright with the lines our Mother taught us;
Where'er its blazoned page betrays
The glistening links of gilded fetters,
Behold, the half-turned leaf displays
Her rubric stained in crimson letters!

Enough! To speed a parting friend
'Tis vain alike to speak and listen;—
Yet stay,—these feeble accents blend
With rays of light from eyes that glisten.
Good-bye! once more,—and kindly tell
In words of peace the young world's story,—
And say, besides,—we love too well
Our mother's soil, our fathers' glory!

When my friend, the Professor, found that my friend, the Poet, had beencoming out in this full-blown style, he got a little excited, as you mayhave seen a canary, sometimes, when another strikes up. The Professor sayshe knows he can lecture, and thinks he can write verses. At any rate, hehas often tried, and now he was determined to try again. So when someprofessional friends of his called him up, one day, after a feast ofreason and a regular "freshet" of soul which had lasted two or threehours, he read them these verses. He introduced them with a few remarks,he told me, of which the only one he remembered was this: that he hadrather write a single line which one among them should think worthremembering than set them all laughing with a string of epigrams. It wasall right, I don't doubt; at any rate, that was his fancy then, andperhaps another time he may be obstinately hilarious; however, it may bethat he is growing graver, for time is a fact so long as clocks andwatches continue to go, and a cat can't be a kitten always, as the oldgentleman opposite said the other day.

You must listen to this seriously, for I think the Professor was very muchin earnest when he wrote it.


As Life's unending column pours,
Two marshalled hosts are seen,—
Two armies on the trampled shores
That Death flows black between.

One marches to the drum-beat's roll,
The wide-mouthed clarion's bray,
And bears upon a crimson scroll,
"Our glory is to slay."

One moves in silence by the stream,
With sad, yet watchful eyes,
Calm as the patient planet's gleam
That walks the clouded skies.

Along its front no sabres shine,
No blood-red pennons wave;
Its banner bears the single line,
"Our duty is to save."

For those no death-bed's lingering shade;
At Honor's trumpet-call,
With knitted brow and lifted blade
In Glory's arms they fall.

For these no clashing falchions bright,
No stirring battle-cry;
The bloodless stabber calls by night,—
Each answers, "Here am I!"

For those the sculptor's laurelled bust,
The builder's marble piles,
The anthems pealing o'er their dust
Through long cathedral aisles.

For these the blossom-sprinkled turf
That floods the lonely graves,
When Spring rolls in her sea-green surf
In flowery-foaming waves.

Two paths lead upward from below,
And angels wait above,
Who count each burning life-drop's flow,
Each falling tear of Love.

Though from the Hero's bleeding breast
Her pulses Freedom drew,
Though the white lilies in her crest
Sprang from that scarlet dew,—

While Valor's haughty champions wait
Till all their scars are shown,
Love walks unchallenged through the gate
To sit beside the Throne!


There was no apologue more popular in the Middle Ages than that of thehermit, who, musing on the wickedness and tyranny of those whom theinscrutable wisdom of Providence had intrusted with the government of theworld, fell asleep and awoke to find himself the very monarch whose abjectlife and capricious violence had furnished the subject of his moralizing.Endowed with irresponsible power, tempted by passions whose existence inhimself he had never suspected, and betrayed by the political necessitiesof his position, he became gradually guilty of all the crimes and theluxury which had seemed so hideous to him in his hermitage over a dish ofwater-cresses.

The American Tract Society from small beginnings has risen to be thedispenser of a yearly revenue of nearly half a million. It has become agreat establishment, with a traditional policy, with the distrust ofchange and the dislike of disturbing questions (especially of suchas would lessen its revenues) natural to great establishments. It had beenpoor and weak; it has become rich and powerful. The hermit has becomeking.

If the pious men who founded the American Tract Society had been told thatwithin forty years they would be watchful of their publications, lest, byinadvertence, anything disrespectful might be spoken of the African Slave-trade,—that they would consider it an ample equivalent for compulsorydumbness on the vices of Slavery, that their colporteurs could awaken theminds of Southern brethren to the horrors of St. Bartholomew,—that theywould hold their peace about the body of Cuffee dancing to the music ofthe cart-whip, provided only they could save the soul of Sambo alive bypresenting him a pamphlet, which he could not read, on the depravity ofthe double-shuffle,—that they would consent to be fellow-members in theTract Society with him who sold their fellow-members in Christ on theauction-block, if he agreed with them in condemning Transubstantiation,(and it would not be difficult for a gentleman who ignored the realpresence of God in his brother man to deny it in the sacramental wafer,)—if those excellent men had been told this, they would have shrunk inhorror, and exclaimed, "Are thy servants dogs, that they should do thesethings?"

Yet this is precisely the present position of the Society.

There are two ways of evading the responsibility of such inconsistency.The first is by an appeal to the Society's Constitution, and by claimingto interpret it strictly in accordance with the rules of law as applied tocontracts, whether between individuals or States. The second is by denyingthat Slavery is opposed to the genius of Christianity, and that any moralwrongs are the necessary results of it. We will not be so unjust to theSociety as to suppose that any of its members would rely on this latterplea, and shall therefore confine ourselves to a brief consideration ofthe other.

In order that the same rules of interpretation should be consideredapplicable to the Constitution of the Society and to that of the UnitedStates, we must attribute to the former a solemnity and importance whichinvolve a palpable absurdity. To claim for it the verbal accuracy and thelegal wariness of a mere contract is equally at war with common sense andthe facts of the case; and even were it not so, the party to a bond whoshould attempt to escape its ethical obligation by a legal quibble ofconstruction would be put in Coventry by all honest men. In point of fact,the Constitution was simply the minutes of an agreement among certaingentlemen, to define the limits within which they would accept trust-funds, and the objects for which they should expend them.

But if we accept the alternative offered by the advocates of strictconstruction, we shall not find that their case is strengthened. Claimingthat where the meaning of an instrument is doubtful, it should beinterpreted according to the contemporary understanding of its framers,they argue that it would be absurd to suppose that gentlemen from theSouthern States would have united to form a society that included in itsobjects any discussion of the moral duties arising from the institution ofSlavery. Admitting the first part of their proposition, we deny theconclusion they seek to draw from it. They are guilty of a glaringanachronism in assuming the same opinions and prejudices to have existedin 1825 which are undoubtedly influential in 1858. The Antislaveryagitation did not begin until 1831, and the debates in the VirginiaConvention prove conclusively that six years after the foundation of theTract Society, the leading men in that State, men whose minds had beentrained and whose characters had been tempered in that school of actionand experience which was open to all during the heroic period of ourhistory, had not yet suffered such distortion of the intellect throughpassion, and such deadening of the conscience through interest, as wouldhave prevented their discussing either the moral or the political aspectsof Slavery, and precluded them from uniting in any effort to make therelation between master and slave less demoralizing to the one and lessimbruting to the other.

Again, it is claimed that the words of the Constitution are conclusive,and that the declaration that the publications of the Society shall besuch as are "satisfactory to all Evangelical Christians" forbids byimplication the issuing of any tract which could possibly offend thebrethren in Slave States. The Society, it is argued, can publish only ontopics about which all Evangelical Christians are agreed, and must,therefore, avoid everything in which the question of politics is involved.But what are the facts about matters other than Slavery? Tracts have beenissued and circulated in which Dancing is condemned as sinful; are allEvangelical Christians agreed about this? On the Temperance question;against Catholicism;—have these topics never entered into our politics?The simple truth is, that Slavery is the only subject about which thePublishing Committee have felt Constitutional scruples. Till this questionarose, they were like me in perfect health, never suspecting that they hadany constitution at all; but now, like hypochondriacs, they feel it inevery pore, at the least breath from the eastward.

If a strict construction of the words "all Evangelical Christians" beinsisted on, we are at a loss to see where the Committee could draw thedividing line between what might be offensive and what allowable. TheSociety publish tracts in which the study of the Scriptures is enforcedand their denial to the laity by Romanists assailed. But throughout theSouth it is criminal to teach a slave to read; throughout the South, nobook could be distributed among the servile population more incendiarythan the Bible, if they could only read it. Will not our Southern brethrentake alarm? The Society is reduced to the dilemma of either denying thatthe African has a soul to be saved, or of consenting to the terriblemockery of assuring him that the way of life is to be found only bysearching a book which he is forbidden to open.

If we carry out this doctrine of strict construction to its legitimateresults, we shall find that it involves a logical absurdity. What is thenumber of men whose outraged sensibilities may claim the suppression of atract? Is the taboo of a thousand valid? Of a hundred? Of ten? Or aretracts to be distributed only to those who will find their doctrineagreeable, and are the Society's colporteurs to be instructed that aTemperance essay is the proper thing for a total-abstinent infidel, and asermon on the Atonement for a distilling deacon? If the aim of the Societybe only to convert men from sins they have no mind to, and to convincethem of errors to which they have no temptation, they might as well bespending their money to persuade schoolmasters that two and two make four,or mathematicians that there cannot be two obtuse angles in a triangle. Ifthis be their notion of the way in which the gospel is to be preached, wedo not wonder that they have found it necessary to print a tract upon theimpropriety of sleeping in church.

But the Society are concluded by their own action; for in 1857 theyunanimously adopted the following resolution: "That those moral dutieswhich grow out of the existence of Slavery, as well as those moral evilsand vices which it is known to promote, and which are condemned inScripture, and so much deplored by Evangelical Christians, undoubtedly dofall within the province of this Society, and can and ought to bediscussed in a fraternal and Christian spirit." The Society saw clearlythat it was impossible to draw a Mason and Dixon's line in the world ofethics, to divide Duty by a parallel of latitude. The only line whichChrist drew is that which parts the sheep from the goats, that greathorizon-line of the moral nature of man which is the boundary betweenlight and darkness. The Society, by yielding (as they have done in 1858)to what are pleasantly called the "objections" of the South, (objectionsof so forcible a nature that we are told the colporteurs were "forced toflee,") virtually exclude the black man, if born to the southward of acertain arbitrary line, from the operation of God's providence, andthereby do as great a wrong to the Creator as the Episcopal Church did tothe artist when they published Ary Scheffer's Christus Consolator withthe figure of the slave left out.

The Society is not asked to disseminate antislavery doctrines, but simplyto be even-handed between master and slave, and, since they haverecommended Sambo and Toney to be obedient to Mr. Legree, to remind him inturn that he also has duties toward the bodies and souls of his bondmen.But we are told that the time has not yet arrived, that at present theears of our Southern brethren are closed against all appeals, that God inhis good time will turn their hearts, and that then, and not till then,will be the fitting occasion to do something in the premises. But if theSociety is to await this golden opportunity with such exemplary patiencein one case, why not in all? If it is to decline any attempt at convertingthe sinner till after God has converted him, will there be any specialnecessity for a tract society at all? Will it not be a littlepresumptuous, as well as superfluous, to undertake the doing over again ofwhat He has already done? We fear that the studies of Blackstone, uponwhich the gentlemen who argue thus have entered in order to fit themselvesfor the legal and constitutional argument of the question, have confusedtheir minds, and that they are misled by some fancied analogy between atract and an action of trover, and conceive that the one, like the other,cannot be employed till after an actual conversion has taken place.

The resolutions reported by the Special Committee at the annual meeting of1857, drawn up with great caution and with a sincere desire to make wholethe breach in the Society, have had the usual fate of all attempts toreconcile incompatibilities by compromise. They express confidence in thePublishing Committee, and at the same time impliedly condemn them byrecommending them to do precisely what they had all along scrupulouslyavoided doing. The result was just what might have been expected. Bothparties among the Northern members of the Society, those who approved theformer action of the Publishing Committee, and those who approved the newpolicy recommended in the resolutions, those who favored silence and thosewho favored speech on the subject of Slavery, claimed the victory, whilethe Southern brethren, as usual, refused to be satisfied with anythingshort of unconditional submission. The word Compromise, as far as Slaveryis concerned, has always been of fatal augury. The concessions of theSouth have been like the "With all my worldly goods I thee endow" of abankrupt bridegroom, who thereby generously bestows all his debts upon hiswife, and as a small return for his magnanimity consents to accept all herpersonal and a life estate in all her real property. The South is willingthat the Tract Society should expend its money to convince the slave thathe has a soul to be saved so far as he is obedient to his master, but notto persuade the master that he has a soul to undergo a very differentprocess so far as he is unmerciful to his slave.

We Americans are very fond of this glue of compromise. Like so many quackcements, it is advertised to make the mended parts of the vessel strongerthan those which have never been broken, but, like them, it will not standhot water,—and as the question of Slavery is sure to plunge all whoapproach it, even with the best intentions, into that fatal element, thepatched-up brotherhood, which but yesterday was warranted to be betterthan new, falls once more into a heap of incoherent fragments. The lasttrial of the virtues of the Patent Redintegrator by the Special Committeeof the Tract Society has ended like all the rest, and as all attempts tobuy peace at too dear a rate must end. Peace is an excellent thing, butprinciple and pluck are better; and the man who sacrifices them to gain itfinds at last that he has crouched under the Caudine yoke to purchase onlya contemptuous toleration that leaves him at war with his own self-respectand the invincible forces of his higher nature.

But the peace which Christ promised to his followers was not of thisworld; the good gift he brought them was not peace, but a sword. It was nosword of territorial conquest, but that flaming blade of conscience andself-conviction which lightened between our first parents and their lostEden,—that sword of the Spirit that searcheth all things,—which seversone by one the ties of passion, of interest, of self-pride, that bind thesoul to earth,—whose implacable edge may divide a man from family, fromfriends, from whatever is nearest and dearest,—and which hovers beforehim like the air-drawn dagger of Macbeth, beckoning him, not to crime, butto the legitimate royalties of self-denial and self-sacrifice, to thefreedom which is won only by surrender of the will. Christianity has neverbeen concession, never peace; it is continual aggression; one province ofwrong conquered, its pioneers are already in the heart of another. Themile-stones of its onward march down the ages have not been monuments ofmaterial power, but the blackened stakes of martyrs, trophies ofindividual fidelity to conviction. For it is the only religion which issuperior to all endowment, to all authority,—which has a bishopric and acathedral wherever a single human soul has surrendered itself to God. Thatvery spirit of doubt, inquiry, and fanaticism for private judgment, withwhich Romanists reproach Protestantism, is its stamp and token ofauthenticity,—the seal of Christ, and not of the Fisherman.

We do not wonder at the division which has taken place in the TractSociety, nor do we regret it. The ideal life of a Christian is possible tovery few, but we naturally look for a nearer approach to it in those whoassociate together to disseminate the doctrines which they believe to beits formative essentials, and there is nothing which the enemies ofreligion seize on so gladly as any inconsistency between the conduct andthe professions of such persons. Though utterly indifferent to the wrongsof the slave, the scoffer would not fail to remark upon the hollowness ofa Christianity which was horror-stricken at a dance or a Sunday-drive,while it was blandly silent about the separation of families, the puttingasunder whom God had joined, the selling Christian girls for Christianharems, and the thousand horrors of a system which can lessen the agoniesit inflicts only by debasing the minds and souls of the race on whom itinflicts them. Is your Christianity, then, he would say, a respecter ofpersons, and does it condone the sin because the sinner can contribute toyour coffers? Was there ever a Simony like this,—that does not sell, butwithholds, the gift of God for a price?

The world naturally holds the Society to a stricter accountability than itwould insist upon in ordinary cases. Were they only a club of gentlemenassociated for their own amusem*nt, it would be very natural and properthat they should exclude all questions which would introduce controversy,and that, however individually interested in certain reforms, they shouldnot force them upon others who would consider them a bore. But a societyof professing Christians, united for the express purpose of carrying boththe theory and the practice of the New Testament into every household inthe land, has voluntarily subjected itself to a graver responsibility, andrenounced all title to fall back upon any reserved right of personalcomfort or convenience.

We say, then, that we are glad to see this division in the Tract Society,—not glad because of the division, but because it has sprung from anearnest effort to relieve the Society of a reproach which was not onlyimpairing its usefulness, but doing an injury to the cause of truth andsincerity everywhere. We have no desire to impugn the motives of those whoconsider themselves conservative members of the Society; we believe themto be honest in their convictions, or their want of them; but we thinkthey have mistaken notions as to what conservatism is, and that they arewrong in supposing it to consist in refusing to wipe away the film ontheir spectacle-glasses which prevents their seeing the handwriting on thewall, or in conserving reverently the barnacles on their ship's bottom andthe dry-rot in its knees. We yield to none of them in reverence for thePast; it is there only that the imagination can find repose and seclusion;there dwells that silent majority whose experience guides our action andwhose wisdom shapes our thought in spite of ourselves;—but it is notlength of days that can make evil reverend, nor persistence ininconsistency that can give it the power or the claim of orderlyprecedent. Wrong, though its title-deeds go back to the days of Sodom, isby nature a thing of yesterday,—while the right, of which we becameconscious but an hour ago, is more ancient than the stars, and of theessence of Heaven. If it were proposed to establish Slavery to-morrow,should we have more patience with its patriarchal argument than with theparallel claim of Mormonism? That Slavery is old is but its greatercondemnation; that we have tolerated it so long, the strongest plea forour doing so no longer. There is one institution to which we owe our firstallegiance, one that is more sacred and venerable than any other,—thesoul and conscience of Man.

What claim has Slavery to immunity from discussion? We are told thatdiscussion is dangerous. Dangerous to what? Truth invites it, courts thepoint of the Ithuriel-spear, whose touch can but reveal more clearly thegrace and grandeur of her angelic proportions. The advocates of Slaveryhave taken refuge in the last covert of desperate sophism, and affirm thattheir institution is of Divine ordination, that its bases are laid in thenature of man. Is anything, then, of God's contriving endangered byinquiry? Was it the system of the universe, or the monks, that trembled atthe telescope of Galileo? Did the circulation of the firmament stop interror because Newton laid his daring finger on its pulse? But it is idleto discuss a proposition so monstrous. There is no right of sanctuary fora crime against humanity, and they who drag an unclean thing to the hornsof the altar bring it to vengeance and not to safety.

Even granting that Slavery were all that its apologists assume it to be,and that the relation of master and slave were of God's appointing, wouldnot its abuses be just the thing which it was the duty of Christian men toprotest against, and, as far as might be, to root out? Would our courtsfeel themselves debarred from interfering to rescue a daughter from aparent who wished to make merchandise of her purity, or a wife from ahusband who was brutal to her, by the plea that parental authority andmarriage were of Divine ordinance? Would a police-justice discharge adrunkard who pleaded the patriarchal precedent of Noah? or would he notrather give him another month in the House of Correction for hisimpudence?

The Antislavery question is not one which the Tract Society can exclude bytriumphant majorities, nor put to shame by a comparison ofrespectabilities. Mixed though it has been with politics, it is in nosense political, and springing naturally from the principles of thatreligion which traces its human pedigree to a manger, and whose firstapostles were twelve poor men against the whole world, it can dispensewith numbers and earthly respect. The clergyman may ignore it in thepulpit, but it confronts him in his study; the church-member, who hassuppressed it in parish-meeting, opens it with the pages of his Testament;the merchant, who has shut it out of his house and his heart, finds itlying in wait for him, a gaunt fugitive, in the hold of his ship; thelawyer, who has declared that it is no concern of his, finds it thrustupon him in the brief of the slave-hunter; the historian, who hadcautiously evaded it, stumbles over it at Bunker Hill. And why? Because itis not political, but moral,—because it is not local, but national,—because it is not a test of party, but of individual honesty and honor.The wrong which we allow our nation to perpetrate we cannot localize,if we would; we cannot hem it within the limits of Washington or Kansas;sooner or later, it will force itself into the conscience and sit by thehearthstone of every citizen.

It is not partisanship, it is not fanaticism, that has forced this matterof Anti-slavery upon the American people; it is the spirit ofChristianity, which appeals from prejudices and predilections to the moralconsciousness of the individual man; that spirit elastic as air,penetrative as heat, invulnerable as sunshine, against which creed aftercreed and institution after institution have measured their strength andbeen confounded; that restless spirit which refuses to crystallize in anysect or form, but persists, a Divinely-commissioned radical andreconstructor, in trying every generation with a new dilemma between caseand interest on the one hand, and duty on the other. Shall it be said thatit* kingdom is not of this world? In one sense, and that the highest, itcertainly is not; but just as certainly Christ never intended those wordsto be used as a subterfuge by which to escape our responsibilities in thelife of business and politics. Let the cross, the sword, and the arenaanswer, whether the world, that then was, so understood its firstpreachers and apostles. Caesar and Flamen both instinctively dreaded it,not because it aimed at riches or power, but because it strove to conquerthat other world in the moral nature of mankind, where it could establisha throne against which wealth and force would be weak and contemptible. Nohuman device has ever prevailed against it, no array of majorities orrespectabilities; but neither Caesar nor Flamen ever conceived a scheme socunningly adapted to neutralize its power as that graceful compromisewhich accepts it with the lip and denies it in the life, which marries itat the altar and divorces it at the church-door.


In our first article on the Roman Catacombs we expressed the belief that"a year was now hardly likely to pass without the discovery" of newburial-places of the early Christians,—the fresh interest in Christianarchaeology leading to fresh explorations in the hollow soil of theCampagna. A letter to us from Rome, of the 2lst of April, confirms thejustness of this expectation. We quote from it the following interestingpassage:—

"The excavations on the Via Appia Nuova, which I mentioned in a formerletter, prove very interesting, and have already resulted in mostimportant discoveries. The spot is at the second milestone outside of thegate of St. John Lateran. The field is on the left of the road goingtowards Albano, and in it are several brick tombs of beautiful fine work,now or formerly used as dwellings or barns. You and I crossed the veryfield on a certain New Year's Day, and lingered to admire the almostunrivalled view of the Campagna, the mountains, and Rome, which itaffords.

"The first discovery was an ancient basilica, satisfactorily ascertainedto be the one dedicated to St. Stephen, built by Santa Demetria,—thefirst nun,—at the instigation of the pope, St. Leo the Great. [A.D. 440-461.] Sig. Fortunati, who made the discovery and directs the excavations,told me at great length how he was led to the investigation; but as he haspublished this and much more in a pamphlet, which I shall send to you, Iwill not repeat it here.

"Twenty-two columns have been found, many of rare and beautiful marble,one of verde antico, most superb, others of breccia and of cipollinomarino, said to be rare, and certainly very beautiful. Forty bases andover thirty capitals of various styles have also been found, as well asarchitectural ornaments without number, many of them carved with Greek orRoman crosses. The rare and superb fragments of marble show that theremust have been costly and beautiful linings and finish. There are alsonumerous inscriptions of great interest, which connect this church withillustrious families and famous martyrs.

"Subsequently, portions of villas were found, with ruined baths, andmosaics and frescoes, with various pieces of sculpture, some perfect andof most excellent style. There is also a sarcophagus with bas-relief of aBacchic procession, remarkably fine. The government has bought all for theMuseum, and intends spending a large sum in building a basilica over theremains of the old one, in honor of St. Stephen.

"But the most remarkable discovery is an old Roman tomb, by far the finestI have seen in its preservation and perfection. It is about eighteen feetsquare, has been lined and paved with white marble, some of which stillremains. The lofty ceiling is covered with bas-reliefs in stucco, ofcharming grace and spirit, representing various mythological subjects, insquare compartments united by light and elegant arabesques. They arereally of wonderful merit, and so perfectly preserved, so fresh, that theyseem as if done last year. A massive marble doorway, beautifully corniced,gives entrance to this superb chamber, in which were found three hugesarcophagi, containing the bones of nine bodies;—which bones are left tolie exposed, because the bones of pagans! These sarcophagi are of splendidworkmanship, but, unhappily, broken by former barbarians. Presentbarbarians (said to be Inglesi and Americani) have stolen two skulls, andpick up everything not closely watched. Opposite to this chamber isanother, smaller and more modest in adornment, and by the side of thisdescend two flights of steps in perfect repair. Many vases of coloredglass and two very handsome rings were found at the foot of these steps.This tomb is supposed to be of about 160 of our era.

"These stairways descend from the ancient Via Latina, which has beenexcavated for some distance, and is found with wide sidewalks of stone(lava) similar to the sidewalks in Pompeii. The narrow carriage-way isdeeply rutted, which makes one think that the old Romans had hard bumps tocontend with.

"Another tomb with perfect stairway has been discovered, but it is muchmore plain. Foundations of villas, and baths with leaden pipes in greatquantity, have been exposed. I hear to-day that the government has orderedthe excavation of a mile and a half of the old Via Latina in thisneighborhood, and much interesting discovery is anticipated."

We will only add to our correspondent's account the fact that the Basilicaof St. Stephen had been sought for in vain previously to this discovery bySignor Fortunati. The great explorer, Bosio, failed to find it, andAringhi, writing just two hundred years ago, says, "Formerly upon the ViaLatina stood the church erected with great pains in honor of the mostblessed Stephen, the first martyr, by Demetria, a woman of pristine piety;of which the Bibliothecarius, in his account of Pope Leo the First, thusmakes mention: 'In these days, Demetria, the handmaid of God, made theBasilica of St. Stephen on the Latin Way, at the third mile-stone, on herestate:… which afterward, being decayed and near to ruin through thelong course of years, was restored by Pope Leo the Third.' Of this mostnoble church, which was one of the chief monuments of the Christianreligion, as well as an ornament of the city of Rome, no vestige at thisday remains."

It is remarkable that a church restored so late as the time of Leo III.[A.D. 795-816] should have been so lost without being utterly destroyed,and so buried under the slowly-accumulating soil of the Campagna, that thevery tradition of the existence of its remains should have disappeared,and its discovery have been the result of scientific archæeologicalinvestigation.

The disappearance and the forgetting of the Church of St. Alexander wereless remarkable, because of its far greater distance from the city, andits comparative inconspicuousness and poverty. Scarcely a more strikingproof exists of the misery and lowness of Rome during many generations inthe Dark Ages than that she should thus have forgotten the very sites ofthe churches which had stood around her walls, the outpost citadels of herfaith.


The Aquarium: An Unveiling of the Wonders of the Deep Sea. By P.H.GOSSE. Second Edition, revised and enlarged. With Illustrations. London:1866.

The Common Objects of the Seashore; including Hints for an Aquarium. Bythe REV. J.G. WOOD. With Illustrations. London: Routledge & Co. 1857.

We trust that many of our readers, stimulated by the account of anAquarium which was given in our number for February, are proposing to setone up for themselves.

Let no one who has been to Barnum's Museum, to look at what the namingadvertisem*nt elegantly and grammatically terms "an aquaria," fancy thathe has seen the beauty of the real aquarium. The sea will not show itstreasures in a quarter of an hour, or be made a sight of for a quarter ofa dollar. An aquarium is not to be exhausted in a day, but, if favorablyplaced where it may have sufficient direct sunshine, and well stocked withvarious creatures, day after day developes within it new beauties andunexpected sights. It becomes like a secret cave in the ocean, where theprocesses of Nature go on in wonderful and silent progression, and the coysea displays its rarer beauties of life, of color, and of form before thewatching eyes. Look at it on some clear day, when the sun is bright, andsee the broad leaves of ulva, their vivid green sparkling with thebrilliant bubbles of oxygen which float up to the surface like the bubblesof Champagne; see the glades of the pink coralline, or the purple Iceland-moss covered with its plum-like down, in the midst of which thetransparent bodies of the shrimps or the yellow or banded shells of thesea-snails are lying half hid. See on the brown rock, whose surface iscovered with the softest growth, the white anemone stretching its crown ofdelicate tentacles to the light; or the long winding case of the serpula,from the end of which appear the purple, brown, or yellow feathers thatdecorate the head of its timid occupant. Or watch the scallop with histurquoise eyes; or the comic crabs, or the minnows playing through thewater, in and out of the recesses of the rocks or the thickets of theseaweed. There is no end of the pleasant sights. And day after day thecreatures will grow more tame, the serpula will not dart back into hiscase when you approach, nor the pecten close his beautiful shell as yourshadow passes over it. Moreover, the habits of the creatures grow moreentertaining as you become familiar with them, and even the dull oysterbegins at last to show some signs of individual character.

And it is easy to have all this away from the seashore. The best tanks, sofar as we know, that are made in this country, are those of Mr. C.E.Hammett, of Newport, Rhode Island. But the tank is of little importance,if one cannot get the water, the seaweed, and the stock; and therefore Mr.Hammett undertakes to supply these also. He will send, not the wateritself, but the salts obtained by evaporation from the quantity of waternecessary for each aquarium. These are to be dissolved in clear spring-water, (previously boiled, to insure its containing no injurious livingmatter,) and then the aquarium, having first had a bed of cleanly-washedsand put upon its bottom for about an inch or an inch and a half in depth,and this in turn covered with a thin layer of small pebbles,—though theselast are not essential,—is to be filled with it. Then the seaweed, whichis sent so packed as to preserve its freshness, is to be put in. It willbe attached to small bits of rock, and these should be supported by orlaid upon other pieces of stone, so raised as to secure a free passage forthe water about them, and so afford places of retreat for the animals. Thestock will be sent, if it is to go to any distance, in jars, and anemones,crabs, shell-fish of various kinds, and many other creatures, will befound among it. The seaweed should be a day or two in the tank before thecreatures are put into it.

And now, having got the aquarium in order, comes the point how to keep itin order,—how to keep the creatures alive, and how to prevent the waterfrom growing cloudy and thick. The main rule is to secure sunlight,—hotenough to raise the water to a temperature above that of the outer air,—to remove all dirt and floating scum, and to furnish the tank on everycloudy day with a supply of air and with motion by means of a syringe. Thecreatures should never be fed in warm weather with any animal substance,its decay being certain to corrupt the water. A little meal or a fewcrumbs of bread may now and then be given; but even this is not necessary;for Nature furnishes all the food that is needed, in the spores thrown offby the seaweed, in the seaweed itself, whose growth is generallysufficiently rapid to make up for the ravages committed upon it, and inthe host of infusoria constantly produced in the water. If any of thecreatures die, their bodies should be immediately removed,—thoughsometimes the omnivorous crabs will do this work rapidly enough. As thewater evaporates, it should be filled up to its original level with freshspring-water,—the salts in it undergoing no diminution by evaporation.If, suddenly, the water should grow thick, it should be taken from thetank, a portion at a time, and filtered back into it slowly throughpounded charcoal, the process being repeated till the purity seems to bereturning, and at the same time the rocks and seaweed should be removedand carefully washed in fresh water. If, however, the water should by anyill chance grow tainted and emit a bad odor, nothing can be done torestore it, and, unless it is at once changed, the creatures will die. Tomeet such an emergency, which is of rare occurrence, it is well to have adouble quantity of the salts sent with the tank to secure a new supply ofwater. But we have known aquariums that have kept in order for more thana year with no change of the water, a supply of spring-water being put infrom time to time as we have directed; and at this moment, as we write,there is an aquarium at our side which has been in active operation forsix months, and the water is as clear as it was the day it was put in. If,spite of everything, the seawater fail, then try a fresh-water aquarium.Use your tank for the pond instead of the ocean; and in the spotted newt,the tortoise, the tadpole, the caddis-worm, and the thousand otherinhabitants of our inland ponds and brooks, with the weeds among whichthey live, you will find as much entertainment as in watching the wondersof the great sea.

A camel's-hair brush, a bent spoon on a long handle, a sponge tied to astick, and one or two other instruments which use will suggest, are allthat are needed for keeping the sides of the tank free from growth orremoving obnoxious substances from its bottom.

If, on receiving the animals, any of them should appear exhausted by thejourney, they may sometimes be revived by aerating the water in which theyare by means of a syringe. It should always be remembered, that, thoughliving in the water, they need a constant supply of air. And it would bewell, in getting an aquarium, to have the tank and the seaweeds sent a fewdays in advance of the stock, so that on the arrival of the creatures theymay be at once transferred to their new abode.

There are no American books upon the subject, and, in the present want ofthem, the two whose names are given above are the best that can beobtained. Mr. Gosse's is expensive, costing between four and five dollars."The Common Objects of the Seashore," to be got for a quarter of a dollar,contains much accurate, unpretending, and pleasant information.

The American Drawing-Book: a Manual for the Amateur, and a Basis of Studyfor the Professional Artist. Especially adapted to the Use of Public andPrivate Schools, as well as Home Instruction. By J.G. CHAPMAN, N.A. NewYork: J.S. Redfield. 4to. pp. 304.

Drawing-books, in general, deserve to be put into the same category withthe numerous languages "without a master" which have deluded so manyimpatient aspirants to knowledge by royal (and cheap) roads. A drawing-book, at its very best, is only a partial and lame substitute for ateacher, giving instruction empirically; so that, be it ever so correct inprinciple, it must lack adaptation to the momentary and most pressingwants of the pupil and to his particular frame of mind; it is tooProcrustean to be of any ultimate use to anybody, except in comparativelyunimportant matters. It is well enough for those who need only amusem*ntin their drawing, and whose highest idea of Art is copying prints andpictures; but for those who want assistance from Art in order to thebetter understanding of Nature, no man, be he ever so wise, can, by thedrawing-book plan, do much to smooth the way of study.

All that another mind could do for us by way of teaching Art would be tosave us time,—first, by its experience, in anticipating our failures;second, by its trained accuracy, to correct our errors of expression morepromptly than our afterthought would do it,—and to systematize ourperceptions for us by showing us the relative and comparative importanceof truths in Nature. In the first two respects, which are merelypractical, the drawing-book, if judiciously prepared, might do somewhat toassist us; but in the last and most important, only the experienced andthoughtful artist, standing with us before Nature, can give us furtherinsight into her system of expression. A good picture may do a little, butit is Nature's own face we need to study, and that neither book norpicture can very deeply interpret for our proper and peculiar perception.

In the practical part, again, the drawing-book can give us no realassistance in regard to color. And thus the efficacy of it is reduced tothe communication of methods of drawing in white and black. This Chapman'sbook does to the best purpose possible under the circ*mstances, in what istechnically termed the right-line system of drawing,—that is, thereduction of all forms to their approximate geometrical figures in orderto facilitate the measurements of the eye. Thus, it is easier by far todetermine the proportion which exists between the sides of a triangleformed by the lines connecting the three principal points in any figurethan any curvilinear connections whatever. The application of therectilinear system consists in the use, as a basis of the drawing, of sucha series of triangles as shall at once show the exact relation of thepoints of definition or expression to each other; but the successfulapplication of this depends much on the assistance of the trained eye andhand of a master watching every step we make.

When we leave this section of the "American Drawing-Book," we leave allthat is of practical value to the young artist. The prescription of anyparticular mode of execution is always injurious, (if in any degreeeffective,) for the reason that the student must not think of execution atall, but simply what the form is which he wants to draw, and how he candraw it most plainly and promptly. Decision of execution should always bethe result of complete knowledge of the thing to be drawn; if from anyother source, it will assuredly be only heedless scrawling, bad inproportion as it is energetic and decided.

The chapter on Perspective is full and well illustrated, and useful toarchitectural or mechanical draughtsmen, may-be, but little so to artists.There are, indeed, no laws of perspective which the careful draughtsmanfrom Nature need ever apply, for his eye will show him the tendency oflines and the relative magnitude of bodies quicker than he can find themby the application of the rules of perspective,—and with much betterresult, since all application of science directly to artistic workendangers its poetic character, and almost invariably gives rise to ahardness and formalism the reverse of artistic, leading the artist todepend on what he knows ought to be rather than on what he really sees, atendency more to be deprecated than any want of correctness in drawing.

The book contains chapters on artistic processes and technical mattersgenerally, making it a useful hand-book to amateurs; but all that isreally valuable to a young student of Art might be compressed into a veryfew pages of this ponderous book. To follow its prescriptions seriatimwould be to him a serious loss of time and heart.

The New American Cyclopaedia. A Popular Dictionary of General Knowledge,Edited by GEORGE RIPLEY and CHAS. A. DANA. Vol. II. New York: D. Appleton& Co. 8vo.

We have spoken so fully of the purpose and general character of this work,in noticing the first volume, that it is hardly necessary for us to speakat length of the second. In a rapid glance at its contents, it appearsfully to bear out the promise of the first. We have noticed a fewomissions, and some mistakes of judgment. It is, perhaps, impossible topreserve the gradation of reputations in such a work; but a zoologist mustbe puzzled when he sees Von Baer, the great embryologist, who made aclassification of animals, founded on their development, whichsubstantially agrees with that of Cuvier, founded on their structure,occupy about one tenth of the space devoted to Peter T. Barnum; however,we suppose, that, as Barnum created new animals, he is a more wonderfulpersonage than Von Baer, who simply classified old ones. These occasionalomissions and disturbances of the scale of reputations are, however, morethan offset by the new information the editors have been able toincorporate into most of their biographies of the living, and not a few ofthose of the dead. Many persons who were mere names to the majority of thepublic are here, for the first time, recognized as men engaged in livinglives as well as in writing books. Some of these biographies must havebeen obtained at the expense of much time and correspondence. SamuelBayley, the author of "Essays on the Formation of Opinions," is one ofthese well-known names but unknown men; but in the present volume he hasbeen compelled to come out of his mysterious seclusion, and present to thepublic those credentials of dates and incidents which prove him to be apositive existence on the planet.

The papers on Arboriculture, Architecture, Arctic Discovery, Armor, Army,Asia, Atlantic Ocean, Australia, Balance of Power, Bank, and Barometer,are excellent examples of compact and connected statement of facts andprinciples. The biographies of Aristotle, Aristophanes, Augustine,Ariosto, and Arnold, and the long article on Athens, are among the moststriking and admirable papers in the volume. As the purpose of the work isto supply a Cyclopaedia for popular use, it is inevitable that students ofspecial sciences or subjects should be occasionally disappointed at thecomparatively meagre treatment of their respective departments ofknowledge. In regard to the articles in the present volume, it may be saidthat such subjects as Astronomy and the Association of Ideas should haveoccupied more space, even if the wants of the ordinary reader were aloneconsulted. But still, when we consider the vast range and variety oftopics included in this volume, and the fact that it comprehends a dozensubjects which a dozen octavos devoted to each would not exhaust, we arecompelled to award praise to the editors for contriving to compress intoso small a space an amount of information so great.


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The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 09, July, 1858
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