THE

ATLANTIC MONTHLY. 

_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics. _

VOL. XVII. --MAY, 1866. --NO. CIII. 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by TICKNOR ANDFIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District ofMassachusetts. 

Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes movedto the end of the article. 

THE HARMONISTS. 

My brother Josiah I call a successful man, --very successful, though onlyan attorney in a manufacturing town. But he fixed his goal, and reachedit. He belongs to the ruling class, --men with slow, measuring eyes andbull-dog jaws, --men who know their own capacity to an atom's weight, andwho go through life with moderate, inflexible, unrepenting steps. Helooks askance at me when I cross his path; he is in the great marketmaking his way: I learned long ago that there was no place there for me. Yet I like to look in, out of the odd little corner into which I havebeen shoved, --to look in at the great play, never beginning and neverending, of bargain and sale, for which all the world's but a stage; tosee how men like my brother have been busy, since God blessed all thingshe had made, in dragging them down to the trade level, and stampingprice-marks on them. Josiah looks at me grimly, as I said. Jog asmethodically as I will from desk to bed and back to desk again, hesuspects some outlaw blood under the gray head of the fagged-out oldclerk. He indulges in his pictures, his bronzes: I have my highoffice-stool, and bedroom in the fifth story of a cheap hotel. Yet hesuspects me of having forced a way out of the actual common-sense worldby sheer force of whims and vagaries, and to have pre-empted a homesteadfor myself in some dream-land, where neither he nor the tax-gatherer canenter. 

"It won't do, " he said to-day, when I was there (for I use his books nowand then). "Old Père Bonhours, you're poring over? Put it down, and cometake some clam soup. Much those fellows knew about life! Zachary!Zachary! you have kept company with shadows these forty years, until youhave grown peaked and gaunt yourself. When will you go to work and be alive man?"

I knew we were going to have the daily drill which Josiah gave to hisideas; so I rolled the book up to take with me, while he rubbed hisspectacles angrily, and went on. 

"I tell you, the world's a great property-exchanging machine, whereeverything has its weight and value; a great, inexorable machine, --andwhoever tries to shirk his work in it will be crushed! Crushed! Thinkof your old friend Knowles!"

I began to hurry on my old overcoat; I never had but two or threefriends, and I could not hear their names from Josiah's mouth. But hewas not quick to see when he had hurt people. 

"Why, the poet, "--more sententious than before, --"the poet sells hissong; he knows that the airiest visions must resolve into trade-laws. You cannot escape from them. I see your wrinkled old face, red as aboy's, over the newspapers sometimes. There was the daring of that RebelJackson, Frémont's proclamation, Shaw's death; you claimed those thingsas heroic, prophetic. They were mere facts tending to solve the greatproblem of Capital _vs. _ Labor. There was one work for which the breathwas put into our nostrils, --to grow, and make the world grow by givingand taking. Give and take; and the wisest man gives the least and gainsthe most. "

I left him as soon as I could escape. I respect Josiah: his advice wouldbe invaluable to any man; but I am content that we should liveapart, --quite content. I went down to Yorke's for my solitary chop. Theold prophet Solomon somewhere talks of the conies or ants as "a feeblefolk who prepare their meat in the summer. " I joke to myself about thatsometimes, thinking I should claim kindred with them; for, looking backover the sixty years of Zack Humphreys's life, they seem to me to havepretty much gone in preparing the bread and meat from day to day. I seebut little result of all the efforts of that time beyond that solitarychop; and a few facts and hopes, may be, gathered outside of the market, which, Josiah says, absorb all of the real world. All day, sitting hereat my desk in Wirt's old counting-house, these notions of Josiah's havedogged me. These sums that I jotted down, the solid comforts theytypified, the homes, the knowledge, the travel they would buy, --thesewere, then, the real gist of this thing we called life, were they? Thegreat charities money had given to the world, --Christ's Gospel preachedby it. --Did it cover all, then? Did it?

What a wholesome (or unwholesome) scorn of barter Knowles had! The oldfellow never collected a debt; and, by the way, as seldom paid one. The"dirty dollar" came between him and very few people. Yet the heart inhis great mass of flesh beat fiercely for an honor higher than thatknown to most men. I have sat here all the afternoon, staring out at thewinter sky, scratching down a figure now and then, and idly going backto the time when I was a younger man than now, but even then withneither wife nor child, and no home beyond an eating-house; thinking howI caught old Knowles's zest for things which lay beyond trade-laws; howeager I grew in the search of them; how he inoculated me withAbolitionism, Communism, every other fever that threatened to destroythe commercial status of the world, and substitute a single-eyed regardfor human rights. It occurred to me, too, that some of those odd, one-sided facts, which it used to please me to gather then, --queer bitsof men's history, not to be judged by Josiah's rules, --it might pleaseothers to hear. What if I wrote them down these winter evenings? Nothingin them rare or strange; but they lay outside of the market, and weretrue. 

Not one of them which did not bring back Knowles, with his unwieldy heatand bluster. He found a flavor and meaning in the least of these hintsof mine, gloating over the largess given and received in the world, forwhich money had no value. His bones used to straighten, and his eyeglitter under the flabby brow, at the recital of any brave, true deed, as if it had been his own; as if, but for some mischance back yonder inhis youth, it might have been given to even this poor old fellow tostrike a great, ringing blow on Fate's anvil before he died, --to givehis place in the life-boat to a more useful man, --to help buy with hislife the slave's freedom. 

Let me tell you the story of our acquaintance. Josiah, even, would holdthe apology good for claiming so much of your time for this old dreamerof dreams, since I may give you a bit of useful knowledge in the tellingabout a place and people here in the States utterly different from anyother, yet almost unknown, and, so far as I know, undescribed. When Ifirst met Knowles it was in an obscure country town in Pennsylvania, ashe was on his way across the mountains with his son. I was ill in thelittle tavern where he stopped; and, he being a physician, we werethrown together, --I a raw country lad, and he fresh from the outerworld, of which I knew nothing, --a man of a muscular, vigorous type eventhen. But what he did for me, or the relation we bore to each other, isof no import here. 

One or two things about him puzzled me. "Why do you not bring your boyto this room?" I asked, one day. 

His yellow face colored with angry surprise. "Antony? What do you knowof Antony?"

"I have watched you with him, " I said, "on the road yonder. He's asturdy, manly little fellow, of whom any man would be proud. But you arenot proud of him. In this indifference of yours to the world, youinclude him. I've seen you thrust him off into the ditch when he caughtat your hand, and let him struggle on by himself. "

He laughed. "Right! Talk of love, family affection! I have tried it. Whyshould my son be more to me than any other man's son, but for anextended selfishness? I have cut loose all nearer ties than those whichhold all men as brothers, and Antony comes no closer than any other. "

"I've watched you coming home sometimes, " I said, coolly. "One night youcarried the little chap, as he was sound asleep. It was dark; but I sawyou sit by the pond yonder, thinking no one saw you, caressing him, kissing his face, his soiled little hands, his very feet, as fierce andtender as a woman. "

Knowles got up, pacing about, disturbed and angry; he was like a womanin other ways, nervous, given to sudden heats of passion, --was leakywith his own secrets. "Don't talk to me of Antony! I know no child, nowife, nor any brother, except my brother-man. "

He went trotting up and down the room, then sat down with his back tome. It was night, and the room was dimly lighted by the smoky flame of alard lamp. The solitary old man told me his story. Let me be more charywith his pain than he was; enough to say that his wife was yet living, but lost, to him. Her boy Antony came into the room just when his fatherhad ceased speaking, --a stout little chap of four years, with Knowles'sungainly build, and square, honest face, but with large, hazel, melancholy eyes. He crept up on my bed, and, lying across the foot, wentto sleep. 

Knowles glanced at him, --looked away, his face darkening. "Sir, " hesaid, "I have thrust away all arbitrary ties of family. The truelife, "--his eye dilating, as if some great thought had come into hisbrain, --"the true life is one where no marriage exists, --where the soulacknowledges only the pure impersonal love to God and our brother-man, and enters into peace. It can so enter, even here, by dint of longcontemplation and a simple pastoral work for the body. "

This was new talk in that country tavern: I said nothing. 

"I'm not dreaming dreams, " raising his voice. "I have a real plan foryou and me, lad. I have found the Utopia of the prophets and poets, anactual place, here in Pennsylvania. We will go there together, shut outthe trade-world, and devote ourselves with these lofty enthusiasts to alife of purity, celibacy, meditation, --helpful and loving to the greatHumanity. "

I was but a lad; my way in life had not been smooth. While he talked onin this strain my blood began to glow. "What of Tony?" I interrupted, after a while. 

"The boy?" not looking at the little heap at the foot of the bed. "Theywill take him in, probably. Children are adopted by the society; theyreceive education free from the personal taints given by father andmother. "

"Yes, " not very clear as to what he meant. 

The moon began to fleck the bare floor with patches of light and shadow, bringing into relief the broad chest of the man beside me, the big, motionless head dropped forward, and the flabby yellow face set with aterrible, lifelong gravity. His scheme was no joke to him. Whatever soullay inside of this gross animal body had been tortured nigh to death, and this plan was its desperate chance at a fresh life. Watching measkance as I tried to cover the boy with the blankets, he began thehistory of this new Utopia, making it blunt and practical as words couldcompass, to convince me that he was no dreamer of dreams. I will try torecall the facts as he stated them that night; they form a curious storyat all times. 

In 1805, a man named George Rapp, in Würtemberg, became possessed withthe idea of founding a new and pure social system, --sowing a mere seedat first, but with the hope, doubtless, of planting a universal truththereby which should some day affect all humanity. His scheme differedfrom Comte's or Saint Simon's, in that it professed to go back to theold patriarchal form for its mode of government, establishing underthat, however, a complete community of interest. Unlike other communistreformers, too, Rapp did not look through his own class for men of equalintelligence and culture with himself of whom to make converts, but, gathering several hundred of the peasants from the neighborhood, hemanaged to imbue them with an absolute faith in his divine mission, andemigrated with them to the backwoods of Pennsylvania, in Butler County. After about ten years they removed to the banks of the Wabash, inIndiana; then, in 1825, returned to Pennsylvania, and settled finally inBeaver County, some sixteen miles below Pittsburg, calling their villageEconomy. 

"A great man, as I conceive him, this Rapp, " said Knowles. "His ownproperty, which was large, was surrendered to the society at itsfoundation, and this to the least particular, not reserving for his ownuse even the library or gallery of paintings pertaining to his family;nor did the articles of association allow any exclusive advantage toaccrue to him or his heirs from the profits of the community. He heldhis office as spiritual and temporal head, not by election of thepeople, but assumed it as by Divine commission, as Moses and Aaron heldtheirs; and not only did the power of the man over his followers enablehim to hold this autocratic authority during a long life, unimpaired, but such was the skill with which his decrees were framed that after hisdeath this authority was reaffirmed by the highest legal tribunal of thecountry. [A] With all his faith in his divine mission, too, he had aclear insight into all the crookedness and weakness of the natures hewas trying to elevate. He knew that these dogged, weak Germans neededcoercion to make them fit for ultimate freedom; he held the power of anapostle over them, therefore, with as pure purpose, it's my belief, asany apostle that went before him. The superstitious element lay ready inthem for him to work upon. I find no fault with him for working it. "

"How?" I asked. 

Knowles hesitated. "When their stupidity blocked any of his plans fortheir advancement, he told them that, unless they consented, their namesshould be blotted out from the Book of Life, --which was but a coarse wayof stating a great truth, after all; telling them, too, that God must bean unjust Judge should he mete out happiness or misery to them withoutconsulting him, --that his power over their fate stretched over this lifeand the next, --which, considering the limitless influence of a strongmind over a weak one, was not so false, either. "

Rapp's society, Knowles stated, did not consist altogether of thisclass, however. A few men of education and enthusiasm had joined him, and carried out his plans with integrity. The articles of associationwere founded in a strict sense of justice; members entering the societyrelinquished all claim to any property, much or little, of which theymight be possessed, receiving thereafter common maintenance, education, profit, with the others; should they at any time thereafter choose toleave, they received the sum deposited without interest. A suit had justbeen decided in the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania[B] which had elicitedthis point. 

Knowles, more and more eager, went on to describe the settlement as ithad been pictured to him; the quaint, quiet village on the shores of"the Beautiful River, " the rolling hills of woodland, the quiet valleysover which their flocks wandered, the simple pastoral work in which alljoined; the day begun and ended with music;--even the rich, soft tintsof the fresh Western sky about them were not forgotten, nor thepicturesque dresses of the silent, primitive people. 

"A home in which to forget all pain and sore, boy, " ended the old man, gulping down a sigh, and then falling into a heavy silence. 

It was long before I broke it. "They do not marry?"

"No, " anxiously, as if I had reached the core of the truth in thismatter at last. "It was their founder's scheme, as I believe, to liftthem above all taint of human passion, --to bring them by pure work, solitude, and contact with a beautiful nature into a state of beingwhere neither earthly love, nor hate, nor ambition can enter, --a sphereof infinite freedom, and infinite love for Him and all His creatures. "

There was no doubting the fire of rapt enthusiasm in his eye, rising andlooking out across the moonlit fields as if already he saw the pleasanthills of Beulah. 

"Thank God for George Rapp! he has found a home where a man can standalone, "--stretching out his arms as if he would have torn out whatevervestige of human love tugged at his sick old heart, his eye hunting outTony as he spoke. 

The boy, startled from his sleep, muttered, and groped as a baby willfor its mother's breast or hand. No hand met the poor little fingers, and they fell on the pillow empty, the child going to sleep again with aforlorn little cry. Knowles watched him, the thick lips under hismoustache growing white. 

"I purpose, " he said, "that next week you and I shall go to thesepeople, and, if possible, become members of their community, --cut loosefrom all these narrow notions of home and family, and learn to standupright and free under God's heaven. The very air breathed by thesenoble enthusiasts will give us strength and lofty thoughts. Think itover, Humphreys. "

"Yes. "

He moved to the door, --held it open uncertainly. "I'll leave the boyhere to-night. He got into a foolish habit of sleeping in my arms whenhe was a baby; it's time he was broke of it. "

"Very well. "

"He must learn to stand alone, eh?" anxiously. "Good night";--and in amoment I heard his heavy steps on the stairs, stopping, then going onfaster, as if afraid of his own resolution. 

In the middle of the night I was wakened by somebody fumbling for Tonyat my side, --"Afraid the child would prove troublesome, "--and saw him gooff with the boy like a mite in his arms, growling caresses like alioness who has recovered her whelp. I say lioness, for, with all hisweight of flesh and coarseness, Knowles left the impression on your mindof a sensitive, nervous woman. 

 * * * * *

Late one spring afternoon, a month after that, Knowles and I stood onone of the hills overlooking the communist village of Economy. I wasweak and dizzy from illness and a long journey; the intense quiet of thelandscape before me affected me like a strain of solemn music. Knowleshad infected me with his eager hope. Nature was about to take me to hergreat mother's bosom, for the first time. Life was to give me the reposeI asked, satisfy all the needs of my soul: here was the foretaste. Thequaint little hamlet literally slept on the river-bank; not a livingcreature was visible on the three grass-grown streets; many of thehigh-gabled brick houses, even at that date of the colony, were closedand vacant, their inmates having dropped from the quiet of this lifeinto an even deeper sleep, and having been silently transferred to restunder the flat grass of the apple-orchards, according to the habit ofthe society. From the other houses, however, pale rifts of smoke waveredacross the cold blue sky; great apple and peach orchards swept up thehills back of the town, quite out of sight. They were in blossom, Iremember, and covered the green of the hills with a veil of delicatepink. A bleak wind, as we stood there, brought their perfume towards us, and ruffled the broad, dark river into sudden ripples of cut silver:beyond that, motion there was none. Looking curiously down into thetown, I could distinguish a great, barn-like church, a public laundry, bakery, apiary, and one or two other buildings, like factories, but allempty, apparently, and deserted. After all, was this some quaint Germanvillage brought hither in an enchanted sleep, and dropped down in theNew World? About the houses were silent, trim little gardens, set roundwith yew and box cut in monstrous shapes, and filled with plants ofwhich this soil knew nothing. Up a path from the woods, too, came atlast some curious figures, in a dress belonging to the last century. 

Knowles had no idea, like mine, of being bewitched; he rubbed his handsin a smothered excitement. "We too shall be Arcadians!" he burst out. "Humphreys!" anxiously, as we plodded down the hill, "we must becareful, very careful, my boy. These are greatly innocent and purenatures with which we have come in contact: the world must have grownvague and dim to them long ago, wrapped in their high communings. Wemust leave all worldly words and thoughts outside, as a snake drops hisskin. No talk of money here, lad. It would be as well, too, not tomention any family ties, such as wife or child: such bonds must seem tothis lofty human brotherhood debasing and gross. "

So saying, and dropping Tony's hand in order that the child even mightstand alone, we came into the village street; Knowles growing red witheagerness as one of the odd figures came towards us. "Careful, Zachary!"in a hoarse whisper. "It all depends on this first day whether we areaccepted or not. Remember their purity of thought, their forms gatheredfrom the patriarchs and apostles!"

I had a vague remembrance of a washing of feet, practised in those days;of calf-killing and open tents for strangers; so stood perplexed whilethe brother approached and stood there, like an animate lager-bierbarrel, dressed in flannel, with a round hat on top. "_Was brauchenSie?_" he grumbled. 

I don't know in what words Knowles's tremulous tones conveyed the ideathat we were strangers, going on to state that we were also world-weary, and--

"Ach! want der supper, " he said, his face brightening, and, turning, hejogged on, elephant-like, before, muttering something about himself, "Bin Yosef, an keepit der tavern, "--to the door of which, one of thesilent brick dwellings, he speedily brought us; and, summoning some"Christ-ina" in a subdued bellow from the bowels of the cellar, wentinto the neat bar-room, and swallowed two glasses of wine to revivehimself, dropping exhausted, apparently, into a chair. 

Christina, an old dried-up woman, in the quaint, daintily clean dress ofblue, emerged from the cellar-door, bringing with her a savory smell offrying ham and eggs. She glanced at us with suspicious blue eyes, andthen, with "_Ach! der Liebling! mein schöner Schatz!_" caught up Tony toher shrivelled breast in a sudden surprise, and, going back to thedoor, called "Fredrika!" Another old woman, dried, withered, with paleblue eyes, appeared, and the two, hastily shoving us chairs, took Tonybetween them, chattering in delighted undertones, patting his fatcheeks, his hands, feeling his clothes, straightening his leg, andlaughing at the miniature muscles. 

Knowles stared dumbly. 

"You will haf der supper, hein?" said the first old woman, recollectingherself and coming forward, her thin jaws yet reddened. "Der ham?Shickens? It is so long as I haf seen a little shild, " apologetically. 

I assented to the ham and chicken proposition, answering for myself andTony at least. As they went down the stairs, they looked wistfully athim. I nodded, and, picking him up, they carried him with them. I couldpresently distinguish his shrill little tones, and half a dozen women'svoices, caressing, laughing with him. Yet it hurt me somehow to noticethat these voices were all old, subdued; none of them could ever hold ababy on her lap, and call it hers. Joseph roused himself, came suddenlyin with a great pitcher of domestic wine, out again, and back withginger-cakes and apples, --"Till der supper be cookin', " with anencouraging nod, --and then went back to his chair, and presently snoredaloud. In a few minutes, however, we were summoned to the table. 

Knowles ate nothing, and looked vaguely over the great smoking dishes, which Tony and I proved to be marvels of cookery. "Doubtless, " he said, "some of these people have not yet overcome this grosser taste; we haveyet seen but the dregs of the society; many years of Rapp's culturewould be needed to spiritualize German boors. "

The old women, who moved gently about, listened keenly, trying tounderstand why he did not eat. It troubled them. 

"We haf five meals a day in der society, " said Christina, catching avague notion of his meaning, "Many as finds it not enough puts cheeseand cakes on a shelf at der bed-head, if dey gets faint in de night. "

"Do you get faint in the night?" I asked. 

"Most times I does, " simply. 

Knowles burst in with a snort of disgust, and left the table. When Ijoined him on the stoop he had recovered his temper and eagerness, evenlaughing at Joseph, who was plying him in vain with his wine. 

"I was a fool, Humphreys. These are the flesh of the thing; we'll findthe brain presently. But it was a sharp disappointment. Stay here anhour, until I find the directors of the society, --pure, great thinkers, I doubt not, on whom Rapp's mantle has fallen. They will welcome oursouls, as these good creatures have our bodies. Yonder is Rapp's house, they tell me. Follow me in an hour. "

As he struck into one of the narrow paths across the grassy street, Isaw groups of the colonists coming in from their field-work through thetwilight, the dress of the women looking not unpicturesque, with thetight flannel gown and broad-rimmed straw hat. But they were all old, Isaw as they passed; their faces were alike faded and tired; and whetherdull or intelligent, each had a curious vacancy in its look. Not onepassed without a greeting more or less eager for Tony, whom Christinaheld on her knees, on the steps of the stoop. 

"It is so long as I haf not seen a baby, " she said, again turning herthin old face round. 

I found her pleased to be questioned about the society. 

"I haf one, two, dree kinder when we come mit Father Rapp, " she said. "Dey is dead in Harmony; since den I just cooken in der tavern. FatherRapp say the world shall end in five years when we come in der society, den I shall see mein shilds again. But I wait, and it haf not yet end. "

I thought she stifled a quick sigh. 

"And your husband?"

She hesitated. "John Volz was my man, in Germany. He lives in yonderhouse, mit ein ander family. We are in families of seven. "

"Husbands and wives were separated, then?"

"Father Rapp said it must to be. He knows. "

There was a long pause, and then, lowering her voice, and glancingcautiously around, she added hurriedly, "Frederick Rapp was his brother:he would not leave his wife. "

"Well, and then?"

The two old women looked at each other, warningly, but Christina, beingon the full tide of confidence, answered at last in a whisper, "FatherRapp did hold a counsel mit five others. "

"And his brother?"

"He was killed. He did never see his child. "

"But, " I resumed, breaking the long silence that followed, "your womendo not care to go back to their husbands? They dwell in purer thoughtsthan earthly love?"

"Hein?" said the woman with a vacant face. 

"Were you married?"--to Fredrika, who sat stiffly knitting a bluewoollen sock. 

"Nein, " vacantly counting the stitches. "Das ist not gut, Father Rappsays. He knows. "

"_She_ war not troth-plight even, " interrupted the other eagerly, with acontemptuous nod, indicating by a quick motion a broken nose, whichmight have hindered Fredrika's chances of matrimony. "There is Rachel, "pointing to a bent figure in a neighboring garden; "she was to marry inthe summer, and in spring her man came mit Father Rapp. He was a sicklyman. "

"And she followed him?"

"Ya. He is dead. "

"And Rachel?"

"_Ya wohl!_ There she is, " as the figure came down the street, passingus. 

It was only a bent old Dutchwoman, with a pale face and fixed, tearlesseyes, that smiled kindly at sight of the child; but I have never seen inany tragedy, since, the something which moved me so suddenly and deeplyin that quiet face and smile. I followed her with my eyes, and thenturned to the women. Even the stupid knitter had dropped her work, andmet my look with a vague pity and awe in her face. 

"It was not gut she could not marry. It is many years, but she does atno time forget, " she mumbled, taking up her stocking again. Somethingabove her daily life had struck a quick response from even her, but itwas gone now. 

Christina eagerly continued; "And there is ----" (naming a woman, one ofthe directors. ) "She would be troth-plight, if Father Rapp had not saidit must not be. So they do be lovers these a many years, and every nighthe does play beneath her window until she falls asleep. "

When I did not answer, the two women began to talk together inundertones, examining the cut of Tony's little clothes, speculating asto their price, and so forth. I rose and shook myself. Why! here in thenew life, in Arcadia, was there the world, --old love and hunger to bemothers, and the veriest gossip? But these were women: I would seek themen with Knowles. Leaving the child, I crossed the darkening streets tothe house which I had seen him enter. I found him in a well-furnishedroom, sitting at a table, in council with half a dozen men in theold-time garb of the Communists. If their clothes were relics of othertimes, however, their shrewd, keen faces were wide awake and alive tothe present. Knowles's alone was lowering and black. 

"These are the directors of the society, " he said to me aloud, as Ientered. 

"Their reception of us is hardly what I expected, " nodding me to a seat. 

They looked at me with a quiet, business-like scrutiny. 

"I hardly comprehend what welcome you anticipated, " said one, coolly. "Many persons offer to become members of our fraternity; but it is, wehonestly tell you, difficult to obtain admission. It is chiefly anassociation to make money: the amount contributed by each new-comerought, in justice, to bear some proportion to the advantage heobtains. "

"Money? I had not viewed the society in that light, " stammered Knowles. 

"You probably, " said the other, with a dry smile, "are not aware howsuccessful a corporation ours has been. At Harmony, we owned thirtythousand acres; here, four thousand. We have steam-mills, distilleries, carry on manufactures of wool, silk, and cotton. Exclusive of ourstocks, our annual profit, clear of expense, is over two hundredthousand dollars. There are few enterprises by which money is to be madeinto which our capital does not find its way. "

Knowles sat dumb as the other proceeded, numbering, alertly as a broker, shares in railroad stocks, coal-mines, banks. 

"You see how we live, " he concluded; "the society's lands areself-supporting, --feed and clothe us amply. What profits accrue areamassed, intact. "

"To what end?" I broke in. "You have no children to inherit your wealth. It buys you neither place nor power nor pleasure in the world. "

The director looked at me with a cold rebuke in his eyes. "It is notsurprising that many should desire to enter a partnership into whichthey bring nothing, and which is so lucrative, " he said. 

"I had no intention of coming empty-handed, " said Knowles in a subduedvoice. "But this financial point of view never occurred to me. "

The other rose with a look of pity, and led us out through the greatware-rooms, where their silks and cottons were stored in chests, out tothe stables to inspect stock, and so forth. But before we had proceededfar, I missed Knowles, who had trotted on before with a stunned air ofperplexity. When I went back to the tavern, late that night, I found himasleep on the bed, one burly arm around his boy. The next morning he wasup betimes, and at work investigating the real condition of theHarmonists. They treated him with respect, for, outside of what Josiahcalled his vagaries, Knowles was shrewd and honest. 

Tony and I wandered about the drowsy village and meadows, looking at thequeer old gardens, dusky with long-forgotten plants, or sometimes attheir gallery of paintings, chief among which was one of West's largerefforts. 

It was not until the close of the second day that Knowles spoke openlyto me. Whatever the disappointment had cost him, he told nothing ofit, --grew graver, perhaps, but discussed the chances in the stock marketwith the directors, --ate Christina's suppers, watching the poor witheredwomen and the gross men with a perplexed look of pity. 

"They are but common minds and common bodies, perhaps, " he said oneevening, as we sat in our corner, after a long, quiet scrutiny of them:"in any case, their lives would have been meagre and insignificant, andyet, Humphreys, yet even that little possibility seems to have been herepalsied and balked. I hope George Rapp cannot look back and see what hisscheme has done for these people. "

"You were mistaken in it, then?"

His dark face reddened gloomily. "You see what they are. Yet Rapp, whatever complaints these people may make of him, I believe to have beenan enthusiast, who sacrificed his property to establish a pure, greatreform in society. But human nature! human nature is as crooked to driveas a pig tied by a string. Why, these Arcadians, sir, have made a god oftheir stomachs, and such of them as have escaped that spend their livesin amassing dollar after dollar to hoard in their common chest. "

I suggested that Rapp and he left them nothing else to do. "You shutthem out both from a home and from the world; love, ambition, politics, are dead words to them. What can they do but eat and grub?"

"Think! Go back into Nature's heart, and, with contemplation, bear fruitof noble thoughts unto eternal life!" But he hesitated; his enthusiasmhung fire strangely. 

After a while, --"Well, well, Zachary, " with a laugh, "we'd better goback into the world, and take up our work again. Josiah is partly right, may be. There are a thousand fibres of love and trade and mutual helpwhich bind us to our fellow-man, and if we try to slip out of our placeand loose any of them, our own souls suffer the loss by so much lifewithdrawn. It is as well not to live altogether outside of the market;nor--to escape from this, " lifting Tony up on his knee, and beginning arough romp with him. But I saw his face work strangely as he threw theboy up in the air, and when he caught him, he strained him to his burlybreast until the child cried out. "Tut! tut! What now, you youngruffian? Come, shoes off, and to bed; we'll have a little respite fromyou. I say, Humphreys, do you see the hungry look with which the oldwomen follow the child? God help them! I wonder if it will be made rightfor them in another world!" An hour after, I heard him still pacing thefloor up stairs, crooning some old nursery song to put the boy to sleep. 

 * * * * *

I visited the Harmonists again not many months ago; the village andorchards lie as sleepily among the quiet hills as ever. There are morehouses closed, more grass on the streets. A few more of the simple, honest folk have crept into their beds under the apple-trees, from whichthey will not rise in the night to eat, or to make money, --Christinaamong the rest. I was glad she was gone where it was sunny and bright, and where she would not have to grow tired for the sight of "a littleshild. " There have been but few additions, if any, to the society in thelast twenty years. They still retain the peculiar dress which they worewhen they left Würtemberg: the men wearing the common German peasanthabit; the women, a light, narrow flannel gown, with wide sleeves and abright-colored silk handkerchief crossed over the breast, the wholesurmounted by a straw hat, with a rim of immense width. They do notcarry on the manufactures of silk or woollen now, which were Rapp'sboast; they have "struck oil" instead, and are among the most successfuland skillful land-owners in Pennsylvania in the search for thatuncertain source of wealth. 

The "Economite Wells" are on the Upper Alleghany, nearly oppositeTidionte. In later years, I believe, children have been brought into thesociety to be cared for by the women. 

It needs no second-sight to discern the end of Rapp's scheme. His singlestrength sustained the colony during his life, and since his death oneor two strong wills have kept it from crumbling to pieces, convertingthe whole machinery of his system into a powerful money-making agent. These men are the hand by which it keeps its hold on the world, --or themarket, perhaps I should say. They are intelligent and able; honorabletoo, we are glad to know, for the sake of the quiet creatures drowsingaway their little remnant of life, fat and contented, driving theirploughs through the fields, or smoking on the stoops of the villagehouses when evening comes. I wonder if they ever cast a furtive glanceat the world and life from which Rapp's will so early shut them out?When they finish smoking, one by one, the great revenues of the societywill probably fall into the hands of two or three active survivors, andbe merged into the small currents of trade, according to the rapidsequence which always follows the accretion of large properties in thiscountry. 

Rapp is remembered, already, even by the people whom he meant to serve, only as a harsh and tyrannical ruler, and his very scheme will not onlyprove futile, but be forgotten very soon after Fredrika and Joseph havedrank their last cup of home-made wine, and gone to sleep under thetrees in the apple-orchard. 

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _Vide_ Trustees of Harmony Society _vs. _ Nachtrieb, 19 Howard, U. S. Reports, p. 126, Campbell, J. 

[B] Schreiber _vs. _ Rapp, 5 Watts, 836, Gibson, C. J. 

ABRAHAM DAVENPORT. 

 In the old days (a custom laid aside With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent Their wisest men to make the public laws. And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths, Stamford sent up to the councils of the State Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. 

 'Twas on a May-day of the far old year Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, A horror of great darkness, like the night In day of which the Norland sagas tell, -- The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs The crater's sides from the red hell below. Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died; Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked A loving guest at Bethany, but stern As Justice and inexorable Law. 

 Meanwhile in the old State-House, dim as ghosts, Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, Trembling beneath their legislative robes. "It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn, " Some said; and then, as if with one accord, All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice The intolerable hush. "This well may be The Day of Judgment which the world awaits; But be it so or not, I only know My present duty, and my Lord's command To occupy till he come. So at the post Where he hath set me in his providence, I choose, for one, to meet him face to face, -- No faithless servant frightened from my task, But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls; And therefore, with all reverence, I would say, Let God do his work, we will see to ours. Bring in the candles. " And they brought them in. 

 Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read, Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands, An act to amend an act to regulate The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport, Straight to the question, with no figures of speech Save the nine Arab signs, yet not without The shrewd dry humor natural to the man: His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while, Between the pauses of his argument, To hear the thunder of the wrath of God Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud. 

 And there he stands in memory to this day, Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen Against the background of unnatural dark, A witness to the ages as they pass, That simple duty hath no place for fear. 

LAST DAYS OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 

PART II. 

It is too general an opinion, confirmed by tradition, (and quite asuntrue as many traditions, ) that Landor, seated securely upon his highliterary pedestal, never condescended to say a good word of writers ofless degree, and that the praise of greater lights was rarely on hislips. They who persist in such assertions can have read but few of hisworks, for none of his profession has given so much public approbationto literary men. The form of his writings enabled him to show himselfmore fully than is possible to most authors, and in all his manyliterary discussions he gave expression to honest criticism, awardingfull praise in the numerous cases where it was due. Even at an age whenprejudice and petulancy are apt to get the better of a man's judgment, Landor was most generous in his estimate of many young writers. Iremember to have once remarked, that on one page he had praised (and notpassingly) Cowper, Byron, Southey, Wordsworth, Burns, Campbell, Hemans, and Scott. In the conversation between Archdeacon Hare and Landor, thelatter says: "I believe there are few, if any, who enjoy more heartilythan I do the best poetry of my contemporaries, or who have commendedthem both in private and in public with less parsimony and reserve. "

_Hare. _ "Are you quite satisfied that you never have sought a pleasurein detecting and exposing the faults of authors, even good ones?"

_Landor. _ "I have here and there sought that pleasure, and found it. Todiscover a truth and separate it from a falsehood is surely anoccupation of the best intellect, and not at all unworthy of the bestheart. Consider how few of our countrymen have done it, or attempted it, on works of criticism; how few of them have analyzed and compared. Without these two processes there can be no sound judgment on anyproduction of genius. "

_Hare. _ "How much better would it be if our reviewers and magazine menwould analyze, in this manner, to the extent of their abilities, andwould weigh evidence before they pass sentence!"

And if this analyzing is needed in England, the land of reviews andreviewing, how much more necessary is it in America, where veritablecriticism is not even old enough to be young; its germ, howevergrovelling it may be, not yet having taken the primary form of thecaterpillar. 

Great as was Landor's personal animosity towards Byron, he consideredhim a "great poet, "--"the keenest and most imaginative of poets"; norshould we attribute this dislike to the bitter attacks made by Byronupon the "deep-mouthed Boeotian, " though surely such would besufficient to excite indignation in more amiable breasts. It was Byron'sfurious assaults upon Landor's beloved friend, Southey, that roused theire of the lion poet; later knowledge of the man, derived from privatesources, helped to keep alive the fire of indignation. "While he wroteor spoke against me alone, I said nothing of him in print orconversation; but the taciturnity of pride gave way immediately to myzeal in defence of my friend. What I write is not written on slate; andno finger, not of Time himself, who dips it in the clouds of years, canefface it. To condemn what is evil and to commend what is good isconsistent. To soften an asperity, to speak all the good we can afterworse than we wish, is _that_, and more. If I must understand themeaning of consistency as many do, I wish I may be inconsistent with allmy enemies. There are many hearts which have risen higher and sunk lowerat his tales, and yet have been shocked and sorrowed at his untimelydeath a great deal less than mine has been. Honor and glory to him forthe extensive good he did! peace and forgiveness for the partial evil!"

Shall Landor be branded with intense egotism for claiming immortality?Can it be denied that he will be read with admiration as long asprinting and the English language endure? Can there be greatness withoutconscious power? Do those of us who believe in Christ as the grandest ofmen degrade his manly and inspired self-confidence to the level ofegotism? Far be it from me, however, to insinuate a comparison wherenone can exist, save as one ray of light may relate to the sun. Egotismis the belief of narrow minds in the supreme significance of a mortalself: conscious power is the belief in certain immortal attributes, emanating from, and productive of, Truth and Beauty. I should not callLandor an egotist. 

The friendship existing between Southey and Landor must have had much ofthe heroic element in it, for instances are rare where two writers haveso thoroughly esteemed one another. Those who have witnessed theenthusiasm with which Landor spoke of Southey can readily imagine howunpardonable a sin he considered it in Byron to make his friend anobject of satire. Landor's strong feelings necessarily caused him to beclassed in the _ou tout ou rien_ school. Seeing those whom he likedthrough the magnifying-glass of perfection, he painted others in lessbrilliant colors than perhaps they merited. Southey to Landor was theessence of all good things, and there was no subject upon which he dweltwith more unaffected pleasure. "Ah, Southey was the best man that everlived. There never was a better, my dear, good friends, Francis andJulius Hare, excepted. They were true Christians; and it is an honor tome that two such pure men should have been my friends for so many years, up to the hour of death. " It was to Julius Hare that Landor dedicatedhis great work of "Pericles and Aspasia, " and, while in England, it washis habit to submit to this friend (and to his brother also, I think)his manuscript. The complete edition of his works published in 1846 wasinscribed to Julius Hare and to John Forster, an equally devoted friend. Both of the Hares have been embalmed in his verse. 

Esteemed so highly in Landor's heart, Southey occupies the place ofhonor in the "Imaginary Conversations, " taking part in four dialogues, two with Porson and two with Landor, on subjects of universal literaryinterest, Milton and Wordsworth. These Conversations are among the mostvaluable of the series, being models of criticism. Landor delighted torecord every meeting with Southey, where it was compatible with thesubject-matter. Thus in writing of Como he says: "It was in Como Ireceived and visited the brave descendants of the Jovii; it was in ComoI daily conversed with the calm, philosophical Sironi; and I must lovethe little turreted city for other less intrinsic recollections. Thithercame to see me the learned and modest Bekker; and it was there, afterseveral delightful rambles, I said farewell to Southey. " Often have Iheard Landor express his great liking for "The Curse of Kehama. " One mayobtain an idea of how this admiration was reciprocated, from Southey'scriticism on "Gebir, " in the Critical Review for September, 1799. OfGebir's speech to the Gadites, he says: "A passage more truly Homericthan the close of this extract we do not remember in the volumes ofmodern poetry. " He took the entire poem as a model in blank verse. AfterSouthey's death, Landor used his influence with Lord Brougham to obtaina pension for the family, in justice to the memory of one who had addedto the fame of England's literature. Again, in a letter to Southey'sson, the Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, he pronounced a eulogy upon hisfriend's character and public services. 

Directing Landor's attention to the assertion in Pycroft's "Course ofEnglish Reading, " that he, Landor, failed to appreciate Chaucer, the oldman, much vexed, refuted such a falsehood, saying: "On the contrary, Iam a great admirer of his. I am extremely fond of the 'CanterburyTales. ' I much prefer Chaucer to Spenser; for allegory, when spun out, is unendurable. " It is strange that a man apparently so well read as Mr. Pycroft should have so unjustly interpreted Landor, when it needed but apassing reference to the Conversations to disprove his statement. Byturning to the second dialogue between Southey and Landor, he might haveculled the following tribute to Chaucer: "I do not think Spenser equalto Chaucer even in imagination, and he appears to me very inferior tohim in all other points, excepting harmony. Here the miscarriage is inChaucer's age, not in Chaucer, many of whose verses are highlybeautiful, but never (as in Spenser) one whole period. I love thegeniality of his temperature: no straining, no effort, no storm, nofury. His vivid thoughts burst their way to us through the coarsestinteguments of language. " In another book Landor says: "Since the timeof Chaucer there have been only two poets who at all resemble him; andthese two are widely dissimilar one from the other, --Burns and Keats. The accuracy and truth with which Chaucer has described the manners ofcommon life, with the foreground and background, are also to be found inBurns, who delights in broader strokes of external nature, but equallyappropriate. He has parts of genius which Chaucer has not in the samedegree, --the animated and pathetic. Keats, in his 'Endymion, ' is richerin imagery than either; and there are passages in which no poet hasarrived at the same excellence on the same ground. Time alone waswanting to complete a poet, who already far surpassed all hiscontemporaries in this country in the poet's most noble attributes. "Once more, in some beautiful lines to the fair and free soul ofpoesy, --Keats, --Landor concludes with a verse that surely shows anappreciation of Chaucer:--

 "Ill may I speculate on scenes to come, Yet would I dream to meet thee at our home With Spenser's quiet, Chaucer's livelier ghost, Cognate to thine, --not higher and less fair, -- And Madalene and Isabella there Shall say, _Without thee half our loves were lost_. "

When a man chooses an author as a companion, not for time but foreternity, he gives the best possible proof of an esteem that no rashassertion of critics can qualify. 

"I have always deeply regretted that I never met Shelley, " said Landorto me. "It was my own fault, for I was in Pisa the winter he residedthere, and was told that Shelley desired to make my acquaintance. But Irefused to make his, as, at that time, I believed the disgraceful storyrelated of him in connection with his first wife. Years after, when Icalled upon the second Mrs. Shelley, who, then a widow, was living outof London, I related to her what I had heard. She assured me that it wasa most infamous falsehood, one of the many that had been maliciouslycirculated about her husband. I expressed my sorrow at not having beenundeceived earlier, and assured her I never could forgive myself forcrediting a slander that had prevented me from knowing Shelley. I wasmuch pleased with Mrs. Shelley. " Landor's enthusiasm was most aroused atgenerous deeds; for these he honored Shelley. Meanness he scorned, andbelieved it to be an attribute of Byron. As a proof of contrast in thenatures of these two poets, he related an interesting anecdote, whichhas appeared in one of his Conversations. "Byron could comprehendnothing heroic, nothing disinterested. Shelley, at the gates of Pisa, threw himself between him and the dragoon, whose sword in hisindignation was lifted and about to strike. Byron told a common friend, some time afterward, that he could not conceive how any man livingshould act so. 'Do you know he might have been killed! and there wasevery appearance that he would be!' The answer was, 'Between you andShelley there is but little similarity, and perhaps but little sympathy;yet what Shelley did then, he would do again, and always. There is not ahuman creature, not even the most hostile, that he would hesitate toprotect from injury at the imminent hazard of life. ' ... 'By God! Icannot understand it!' cried Byron. 'A man to run upon a naked sword foranother!'"

And this Shelley, who, through a noble impulse, would have sacrificedhimself, is the man whom Moore seriously advised Byron to avoid, lesthis religious theories should undermine the immaculate morality of theauthor of Don Juan! It is to be supposed that Moore wrote in earnestnessof spirit, yet it is impossible not to smile in wonderment at thisletter. Moore doubtless had greater belief in salvation by faith than byworks. "Ah, Moore was a superstitious dog!" exclaimed Landor one day. "Iwas once walking with him in a garden, " (I forget in what part ofEngland, ) "laughing and joking, when Moore remarked the approach of somedignitary of the Catholic Church. He immediately began to mumblesomething, ran forward, and on his knees implored a blessing from thepriest, crossing himself with reverential air. Ah, what it is to havefaith! Landor, Landor, you are incorrigible! Don't you think so, Giallo?" asked the master of his dog. "I never heard Moore sing, much tomy regret. I once asked him, but he excused himself with a sigh, sayingthat he had lost his voice. "

 * * * * *

One of Landor's prominent characteristics was generosity, carried to theverge of rashness. Even in his last years, when living on a very limitedincome, he was only too ready to empty his pockets at the call of anycharity, whether public or private. Impulse, however, prompted him togive most heartily when he thought to further the cause of liberty. Atthe time a subscription was opened in Florence to aid Garibaldi'sSicilian expedition, Landor, anxious to lay an offering at the feet ofhis heart's hero, pulled out his watch, the only article of value abouthim, and begged Mr. Browning to present it to the fund. Mr. Browningtook it, but knowing how lost the old man would be without histimepiece, kept it for a few days; and then, seizing a favorable momentwhen Landor was missing his watch greatly, though without murmuring, Mr. Browning persuaded him to retain it. This he did, with reluctance, afterbeing assured of the fund's prosperous condition. It was about the sametime, I think, that Landor wrote an Italian Conversation betweenSavonarola and the Prior of San Marco, which he published in pamphletform for the benefit of this or a similar cause. Most admirably didLandor write Italian, his wonderful knowledge of Latin undoubtedlygiving him the key to the soft, wooing tongue. He, of course, spoke thelanguage with equal correctness; but, as with most Englishmen who go toItaly after having arrived at mature years, his pronunciation was_proprio Inglese_. 

Landor would never accept payment for his books, presenting the amountdue him either to the publisher, or, more generally, to some friend whohad been most active in aiding their publication. Few will applaud thisidiosyncrasy, the general and sensible opinion being that the laborer isworthy of his hire: but Landor took peculiar pride in writing for famealone, without thought of the more tangible product of genius; and, unlike most authors, he could well afford to indulge in this heroictaste. Three years ago--and for the first time in his life, hesaid--Landor accepted payment for a Conversation contributed to theLondon Athenæum. The money had no sooner been received, than he urged, though unsuccessfully, its acceptance upon a young American in whom hewas interested, declaring that he had no possible use for it. On anotheroccasion he proposed to give everything he might write to this sameAmerican, to dispose of for the latter's benefit, and appeared grievedwhen the offer was gratefully declined. 

One day I was surprised by the appearance of Landor's littlewaiting-maid bearing an old Florentine box of carved wood, almost aslarge as herself, which she deposited on the table in obedience to hermaster's wishes. She departed without vouchsafing any explanation. Curiosity however was not long unsatisfied, for soon Giallo's white nosepeered through the door and heralded the coming of the old lion, who hadno sooner entered the room than he put into my hands a quaint old key, saying: "I have brought you something that one of these days, when theseold bones of mine are packed away in the long box, may be ofconsiderable value. I have brought you what we may call, in anticipationof a long-deferred but inevitable event, my literary remains. In thatbox you will find all my notes and memoranda, together with manyunpublished verses. You can do what you like with them. " Startled atthis unexpected endowment, I looked very great hesitancy, whereuponLandor smiled, and begged me to unlock the box, as its opening would notbe fraught with evil consequences. "It is not Pandora's casket, I assureyou, " he added. Turning the key and raising the lid, I discovered quitea large collection of manuscripts, of very great interest to me ofcourse, but to which I had no right, nor was I the proper person withwhom to leave them. To have argued would have been useless. Expostulation with Landor when in the white heat of a new idea wasQuixotic, so I expressed my very grateful thanks, and determined towatch for a favorable opportunity to return the gift. I had not long towait, as it was not more than a month after that Landor bore them off, with the intention of making certain selections for immediatepublication in England and returning the remainder. Time had not dealtgently with Landor's memory of things nearest, therefore I knew that theold Florentine box would wait in vain for its jewels. I was right: theynever came. The box since then has braved shipwreck, and now standsbeneath a modern writing-table, dark and proud of its antiquity, telling perpetually of former noble associations. I felt relieved thatit so happened the manuscripts were not again left with me, yet I shouldhave been a saint had I not occasionally experienced a secret regret atnot having been forced to retain them in spite of entreaty andpropriety. 

The greater part of these manuscripts have since appeared, under thetitle of "Heroic Idyls, with Additional Poems, " published late in 1863by T. Cantley Newby, London. [C] This very last fruit off an old tree canin no way add to Landor's reputation; it is interesting, however, forhaving been written "within two paces of his ninetieth year, " and asshowing the course of the mind's empire. Landor would have been moreheroic than these Idyls had he withheld them from publication, for it isnot cheering to see Thor cracking nuts with his most ponderous hammer. And Landor realized as much when he wrote the following apology:--

 "You ask how I, who could converse With Pericles, can stoop to worse: How I, who once had higher aims, Can trifle so with epigrams. I would not lose the wise from view, But would amuse the children too: Besides, my breath is short and weak, And few must be the words I speak. "

Ah! but it is a question whether the children are amused. Occasionallythere is a line with the old ring to it, a couplet seasoned with Atticsalt, but for the rest there is the body without the spirit, --there isthe well of English undefiled, but it is pumped dry! Probably the desireto publish was never so great as during Landor's last years, when theinterests of his life had narrowed down to reading and writing, and hehad become a purely introverted man. It was then he wrote:--

 "The heaviest curse that can on mortal fall Is, 'Who has friends may he outlive them all!' This malediction has awaited me, Who had so many.... I could once count three. "

Cursed thus, he turned to the public for the only consolation left himon this side of the grave. It was not sufficient to write, for it is heas the Homer of his Idyls that confesses

 "A pardonable fault: we wish for listeners Whether we speak or sing: the young and old Alike are weak in this, unwise and wise Cheerful and sorrowful. "

Twenty years before, Landor wrote to Lady Blessington: "Once beyondseventy, I will never write a line in verse or prose for publication. Iwill be my own Gil Blas. The wisest of us are unconscious when ourfaculties begin to decay. " He, wisest of all, forgot his own goodresolutions; but the listeners to these latter-day Idyls were few, andLandor had scarce collected his small audience before the lights wereblown out and the curtain fell upon the deathbed of the singer. 

To express a liking for any of Landor's pictures--provided you were afriend--was almost sufficient to cause them to be taken down andpresented to you; hence to praise anything in his presence wasexceedingly unsafe. I remember looking over a large album once belongingto Barker, the English artist, which Landor had purchased to relieve himof certain debts, and particularly admiring four original sketches byTurner--two in oil and two in india-ink--that had been given by thisartist to his brother-painter. No sooner had I spoken than Landor wentin search of the scissors, and, had I not earnestly protested, wouldhave cut out the Turners and given them to me. Such being Landor'sdisposition, one can well imagine how easily he could be imposed upon bydesigning people. There is an instance of his kindly feeling soprominent and so honorable both to himself and the object of it, that itis but right the public should read the contents of two lettersbelonging to and greatly treasured by me. They were put into my handsnearly four years ago by Landor to do with as I pleased after his death. The letters explain themselves. 

 "8 SOUTH BANK, REGENT'S PARK, LONDON, March 24, 1856. 

 "MY VENERABLE FRIEND, --

"Though I very gratefully appreciate the generosity of your intentions, still I must confess that few things have ever affected me morepainfully than to see from the 'Times' of to-day my privatecircumstances--the sacred domain of life--thrust as an object ofcommiseration upon public discussion, --a miserable subject of publicsneers. 

"My head turns giddy at the very thought, and my resignation is scarcelyable to overcome the shame. I don't know how I shall muster sufficientresolution to appear in public ever hereafter; and I fear, with all yourgood intentions, you shall have become the involuntary instrument fordriving me out of England before my time. I really scarcely can imaginewhat else I have to do, unless you devise some means for healing thewound. 

"I am poor, very poor; but there was, I dare say, something honorable inthat poverty, something sacred I would say. But seeing it made theobject of a public appeal for commiseration, I feel as if everythingthat was sacred in my position had undergone a profanation. 

"I repeat that I respect and appreciate the nobility of your impulses, but I regret that such a step should have been taken without my havingan idea of its possibility. 

"I will say no more, but leave it with your prudence and discretion tomitigate the blow your kindness has inflicted on me. And remain withwonted esteem, only mingled with grief, "Yours very truly, "KOSSUTH. 

 "TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. "

Opposite the nervous yet legible scrawl of the noble and malignedMagyar, Landor traced the following answer. 

"It is impossible for me to rest until I have attempted to remove thevexation I have caused to the man I most venerate of any upon earth. 

"My noble Kossuth! 'the sacred domain of your life' is far moreextensive than your measurement. Neither your house nor your banker'sare its confines. Do not imagine that the world is ignorant of yourcircumstances; it would be a crime to be indifferent to them. 

"The editor of the Atlas, in announcing that he had _secured yourco-operation_, published a manifesto. I know nothing of this editor; butso long as you contributed to the paper, I was your humble subsidiary. 

"Consider how many men, wealthier than you and me, have accepted theoffers of those who came forward to indemnify the persecuted for thedemolition of their property. Ask yourself if Demosthenes or Milton, thetwo most illustrious defenders of liberty, by speech and pen, would havethrust aside the tribute which is due to such men alone. Would you dashout the signature of one who declares you his trustee for a legacy toyour children? No, you would not. Neither will you reject the proofs ofhigh esteem, however manifested, which England, however debased, isanxious to give. 

"Believe me ever sincerely and affectionately yours, "W. S. LANDOR. 

 "March 27. "

Landor was essentially a hero-worshipper. His admiration for Washingtonexceeded that entertained by him for any man of any time. Franklin, too, he greatly esteemed. "Ah, if you had but another Washington andFranklin!" he exclaimed one day. To have suffered for freedom was theopen-sesame to Landor's heart; nor did age in any way chill this nobleenthusiasm, as the letter here inserted amply proves. It was sufficientto name Kossuth to bring fire to the old man's eye and eulogisticvolubility to his tongue. 

Orsini, too, was a great favorite with him. Coming in one morning asusual, and sitting down in the arm-chair by the fire, he took from underhis arm a small paper-covered book, saying: "I have brought yousomething that I know you will like to read. Giallo and I have enjoyedit immensely; and a better critic than Giallo is not to be found in allItaly, though I say it who shouldn't. An approving wag of his tail isworth all the praise of all the Quarterlies published in the UnitedKingdom. " Hereupon Giallo, apparently delighted at this compliment, barked and frisked about like a creature bewitched, jumped into hismaster's lap, and did not return to a quiescent state until he hadkissed his master's face. "Down, Giallo, down!" finally cried Landor. "Where are your manners, sir? Don't you know it is very uncivil tointerrupt a conversation? And, moreover, remember never to spoil a_tête-à-tête_. " Then turning to me, Landor continued, presenting thebook, "Here it is; the _Memorie Politiche di Felice Orsini_, which youwill find vastly entertaining and far more romantic than any novel. Avery noble, brave fellow was that Orsini, and handsome too! It is agreat pity he did not succeed in his plot against that scoundrelNapoleon, although it was not well planned, and failure was written onthe face of it. " Right gladly did I read memoirs which were all thatLandor (and Giallo) claimed. It is strange that this book should be solittle known. Were students of Italian to transfer their affections from_Le mie Prigioni_ to these _Memorie Politiche_, they would be thegainers; for the patriotism of Silvio Pellico is but a sick and weaklysentiment compared with the dauntless energy and unflinchingdetermination of Orsini. His escape from Mantua, aided by no otherfriends than four sheets and four towels, and described most admirablyand in detail by him, is one of the most brilliant and perilous exploitsin the annals of prison history. Those who knew Orsini have since toldme that he was one of the most lovable of men, as he was one of the mosthandsome, --full of the fire of intense and stalwart manhood, yet asgentle as a young girl. Disappointed and wronged in his domesticrelations, a loving but wretched father, and stung to madness by hiscountry's servitude, whose cause he early made his own, Orsini's lifewas from the beginning a tragedy. Fate seemed to have wrested from himevery form of happiness in order to make him a more desperateconspirator. He conspired from pure love of liberty, for which at anymoment he was ready to die. Those who merely know Orsini by the last actof his life can have no proper appreciation of the wonderful purity andnobility of his character. In his attempt to assassinate Louis Napoleon, he was actuated by as exalted motives as led Charlotte Corday to do abloody deed. Exiled, a price upon his head, deceived by those in whom hehad put faith, in despair at the state of Italian affairs, Orsinicommitted what he himself, in a letter to his intended victim, Napoleon, confessed to be _un fatale errore mentale_, --assassination being indirect opposition to the faith and facts of his life up to theconspiracy of the 14th of January. For this fatal error he offered hisown blood as an expiatory sacrifice. Few nobler heads than Orsini's havebowed before the guillotine. 

In "Pericles and Aspasia, " Cleone has written with Landor's pen, that"study is the bane of boyhood, the aliment of youth, the indulgence ofmanhood, and the restorative of old age. " Of this theory there could beno better example than Landor's self. That life which outlasted all thefriends of its zenith was made endurable by a constant devotion to thegreatest works of the greatest men. Milton and Shakespeare were hisconstant companions, by night as well as by day. "I never tire of them, "he would say; "they are always a revelation. And how grand is Milton'sprose! quite as fine as his poetry!" He was very fond of repeating thefollowing celebrated lines that have the true ring to a tuneful ear aswell as to an appreciative intellect:--

 "But when God commands to take the trumpet And blow a dolorous or thrilling blast, It rests not with man's will what he shall say Or what he shall conceal. "

"Was anything more harmonious ever written?" Landor would ask. "ButMilton, you know, is old-fashioned. I believe _I_ am old-fashioned. However, it is rather an honor to be classed thus, if one may keep suchdistinguished company. " How devoted a student of Milton Landor was isevidenced in his delightful critical conversation between Southey andhimself, wherein he declared, "Such stupendous genius, so much fancy, somuch eloquence, so much vigor of intellect never were united as inParadise Lost. " Yet the lover is still an impartial critic, and does notindorse all things. Quoting the charming couplet, "Yielded with coy submission, modest pride, And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay, "

he says: "I would rather have written these two lines than all thepoetry that has been written since Milton's time in all the regions ofthe earth. " In 1861 Landor sent me the last lines he ever wrote, addressed to the English Homer, entitled

 "MILTON IN ITALY. 

 "O Milton! couldst thou rise again, and see The land thou lovedst in an earlier day! See, springing from her tomb, fair Italy (Fairer than ever) cast her shroud away, -- That tightly-fastened, triply-folded shroud! Around her, shameful sight! crowd upon crowd, Nations in agony lie speechless down, And Europe trembles at a despot's frown. "

The despot is, of course, Louis Napoleon, for Landor would never allowthat the French Emperor comprehended his epoch, and that Italianregeneration was in any way due to the co-operation of France. In hisallegorical poem of "The gardener and the Mole, " the gardener at theconclusion of the argument chops off the mole's head, such being thefate to which the poet destined Napoleon. No reference, however, is madeto "that rascal" in the lines to Milton inserted in the "Heroic Idyls, "and as the printed version was, doubtless, Landor's own preference, itis but just to insert it here:--

 "O Milton! couldst thou rise again and see The land thou lovedst in _thy_ earlier day See springing from her tomb fair Italy (Fairer than ever) cast her shroud away, That tightly-fastened, triply-folded shroud, _Torn by her children off their mother's face!_ _O couldst thou see her now, more justly proud_ _Than of an earlier and a stronger race!"_

There certainly is more unity of idea in the printed copy, but so faultyis it in punctuation--or at least for the want of it--that one iswarranted in believing the substitution of _thy_ for _an_, in the secondline, to be an _erratum_. Though Milton visited Italy in his youth, there is no evidence to prove that he did not love it in old age. In itspresent form the line loses in sense. Nothing annoyed Landor more thanto have his manuscript "corrected, " and no one's temper was ever moretried than his in this respect; for, having an orthography peculiar tohimself, which he maintained was according to the genius of thelanguage, and which printers would persist in translating into thevulgate, Landor grew to be morbidly sensitive concerning revision. Itwas the more intolerable to him, because of his extreme care in thepreparation of his manuscript. Few celebrated authors have written soclear and clean a hand; none ever sent his work to the press in a morehighly finished state. Fastidious beyond expression, the labor ofcorrection was unending. Even "Gebir" was subjected to revision, and atone time I was intrusted with quite a long introduction, which, the dayafter, Landor altered and sent to me the following note. 

"Again the old creature comes to bother you. The enclosed is to take theplace of what I wrote yesterday, and to cancel, as you will see, what atolerably good critic" (Southey) "thought _too good to be thrown away_, &c. , &c. I do not think so, but certainly the beginning of 'Gebir' isbetter with

 'Kings! ye athirst for conquest, ' etc. 

_You_ are not _athirst_ for it but _take it coolly_. "

Later, this introduction passed out of my hands. Previously Landor hadwritten on a slip of paper now before me:--

"'Gebir' should begin thus:--

 'Hear ye the fate of Gebir!'

_Not_

 'I sing the _fates_ of Gebir, '"--

which is a correction suggested to future publishers of this poem. 

It would be a hopeful sign were our young American writers inoculatedwith somewhat of Landor's reverence for literature, as it was no lessthan reverence that made him treat ideas with respect, and array them inthe most dignified language, thus making of every sentence a study. Andit is well that these writers should know what intense labor is requiredto produce anything great or lasting. "Execution is the chariot ofgenius, " William Blake, the great poet-artist, has said; and it is justthis execution which is unattainable without immense application andfastidiousness. If patience be genius, --"La patience cherche et le génietrouve, "--and if execution be its chariot, what possible fame can therebe for the slipshod writers of to-day, who spawn columns and volumes atso much a minute, regardless of the good name of their mother tongue, devoid of ideas, which are the product only of brains that have beenploughed up and sown with fruitful seed? An author's severest criticshould be himself. To be carried away by the popular current is easy andpleasant, but some fine morning the popular man wakes up to find himselfstranded and deserted, --Nature playing queer pranks with currentschanging their beds as best suits her fancy;--for even popular tastefollows laws of progression, and grows out of one error into a less. Pope wisely maintains that "no man ever rose to any degree of perfectionin writing but through obstinacy and an inveterate resolution againstthe stream of mankind. " Unless he mount the chariot of execution, hisideas, however good, will never put a girdle round the earth. They willhalt and limp as do his own weary feet. 

 * * * * *

Landor's enthusiasm for Shakespeare grew young as he grew old, and itwas his desire to bid farewell to earth with his eyes resting upon theShakespeare that so constantly lay open before him. Nothing excited hisindignation more than to hear little people of great pretensioncarpingly criticise the man of whom he makes Southey, in a discussionwith Porson, declare, that "all the faults that ever were committed inpoetry would be but as air to earth, if we could weigh them against onesingle thought or image such as almost every scene exhibits in everydrama of this unrivalled genius. " In three fine lines Landor has saideven more:--

 "In poetry there is but one supreme, Though there are many angels round his throne, Mighty, and beauteous, while his face is hid. "

To Landor's superior acumen, also, we owe two readings of Shakespearethat have made intelligible what was previously "a contradictoryinconceivable. " Did it ever occur to dealers in familiar quotations thatthere was a deal of nonsense in the following lines as they are printed?

 "_Vaulting_ ambition that o'erleaps _itself_ And falls on the _other side_. "

"Other side of what?" exclaims Landor "It should be _its sell_. _Sell_is _saddle_ in Spenser and elsewhere, from the Latin and Italian. " Yet, in spite of correction, every Macbeth on the stage still maintains instentorian tones that ambition o'erleaps _itself_, thereby demonstratinghow useless it is to look for Shakespearian scholarship in so-calledShakespearian actors, who blindly and indolently accept theatricaltradition. 

Equally important is Landor's correction of the lines

 "And the _delighted_ spirit To bathe in fiery floods. "

"Truly this would be a very odd species of delight. But Shakespearenever wrote such nonsense; he wrote _belighted_ (whence our _blighted_), struck by lightning; a fit preparation for such bathing. "

The last stanza ever inscribed to Shakespeare by Landor was sent to mewith the following preface: "An old man sends the last verses he haswritten, or probably he may ever write to ---- ----. "

 "SHAKESPEARE IN ITALY. 

 "Beyond our shores, beyond the Apennines, Shakespeare, from heaven came thy creative breath! 'Mid citron grove and overarching vines Thy genius wept at Desdemona's death: In the proud sire thou badest anger cease, And Juliet by her Romeo sleep in peace. Then rose thy voice above the stormy sea, And Ariel flew from Prospero to thee. 

 "July 1, 1860. "

Dante was not one of Landor's favorites, although he was quite ready toallow the greatness of _il gran poeta_. He had no sympathy with what hesaid was very properly called a comedy. He would declare that about onesixth only of Dante was intelligible or pleasurable. Turning to Landor'swritings, I find that in his younger days he was even less favorable toDante. In the "Pen_te_meron" (the author spelling it so) he, in the garbof Petrarch, asserts that "at least sixteen parts in twenty of the_Inferno_ and _Purgatorio_ are detestable both in poetry and principle;the higher parts are excellent, indeed. " Dante's powers of language, heallows, "are prodigious; and, in the solitary places where he exerts hisforce rightly, the stroke is irresistible. But how greatly to be pitiedmust he be who can find nothing in Paradise better than steriletheology! and what an object of sadness and consternation he who risesup from hell like a giant refreshed!" While allowing his wonderfuloriginality, Landor goes so far as to call him "the great master of thedisgusting"! Dante is not sympathetic. 

Yet he wrote the glorious episode of Francesca da Rimini, of whichLandor's Boccaccio says: "Such a depth of intuitive judgment, such adelicacy of perception, exists not in any other work of human genius;and from an author who, on almost all occasions, in this part of thework, betrays a deplorable want of it. "

Landor used often to say what Cleone has written to Aspasia, --"I do notbelieve the best writers of love-poetry ever loved. How could they writeif they did? where could they collect the thoughts, the words, thecourage?" This very discouraging belief admits of argument, for there ismuch proof to the contrary. Shelley and Keats could not write what theyhad not felt; and Mrs. Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese, the mostexquisite love-poems in the English language, came direct from theheart. It were hardly possible to make poetry while living it; but whenthe white heat of passion has passed, and hangs as a beautiful pictureon memory's walls, the artist may write his poem. If the best writers oflove-poetry have never loved, at least they have been capable of loving, or they could not make the reader feel. Appreciation is necessary toproduction. But Petrarca was such a poet as Cleone refers to. He washappy to be theoretically miserable, that he might indite sonnets to anunrequited passion: and who is not sensible of their insincerity? One isinclined to include Dante in the same category, though far higher indegree. Landor, however, has conceived the existence of a truly ardentaffection between Dante and Beatrice, and it was my good fortune to hearhim read this beautiful imaginary conversation. To witness the aged poetthrowing the pathos of his voice into the pathos of his intellect, hiseyes flooded with tears, was a scene of uncommon interest. "Ah!" saidhe, while closing the book, "I never wrote anything half as good asthat, and I never can read it that the tears do not come. " Landor'svoice must have been exceedingly rich and harmonious, as it then (1861)possessed much fulness. This was the first and only time I ever heardhim read aloud one of his own Conversations. 

 * * * * *

Petrarch and Boccaccio were highly esteemed by Landor, who did notsympathize with Lord Chesterfield in his opinion that the formerdeserved his _Laura_ better than his _lauro_. The best evidence of thispredilection is Landor's great work, "The Pentemeron, " second only tohis greatest, "Pericles and Aspasia. " Its _couleur locale_ ismarvellous. On every page there is a glimpse of cloudless blue sky, abreath of warm sunny air, a sketch of Italian manner. The masterly_gusto_ with which the author enters into the spirit of Italy wouldmake us believe him to be "the noblest Roman of them all, " had he notproved himself a better Grecian. Margaret Fuller realized this when, after comparing the Pentemeron and Petrarca together, she wrote: "I findthe prose of the Englishman worthy of the verse of the Italian. It is ahappiness to see such marble beauty in the halls of a contemporary. "

 * * * * *

I gave evidence of great surprise one day upon hearing Landor expresshimself warmly in favor of Alfieri, as I had naturally concluded, from anote appended to the Conversation between "Galileo, Milton, and aDominican, " that he entertained a sorry opinion of this poet. Readingthe note referred to, Landor seemed to be greatly annoyed, and replied:"This is a mistake. It was never my intention to condemn Alfieri sosweepingly. " A few days later I received the following correction. "Keats, in whom the spirit of poetry was stronger than in anycontemporary, at home or abroad, delighted in Hellenic imagery andmythology, displaying them admirably; but no poet came nearer thanAlfieri to the heroic, since Virgil. Disliking, as I do, prefaces andannotations, excrescences which hang loose like the deciduous bark on aplane-tree, I will here notice an omission of mine on Alfieri, in the'Imaginary Conversations. ' The words, '_There is not a glimpse of poetryin his Tragedies_, ' should be, as written, '_There is not an extraneousglimpse_, ' &c. "

Since then Landor has addressed these lines to Alfieri:--

 "Thou art present in my sight, Though far removed from us, for thou alone Hast touched the inmost fibres of the breast, Since Tasso's tears made damper the damp floor Whereon one only light came through the bars, " &c. ;

thus redeeming the unintentioned slur of many years' publicity. 

Landor pronounced (as must everyone else) Niccolini to be the best ofthe recent Italian poets. Of Redi, whose verses taste of the rich juiceof the grape in those good old days when Tuscan vines had not becomedemoralized, and wine was cheaper than water, Landor spoke fondly. LeighHunt has given English readers a quaff of Redi in his rollickingtranslation of "Bacchus in Tuscany, " which is steeped in"Montepulciano, " "the king of all wine. "

But Redi is not always bacchanalian. He has a loving, human heart aswell, which Landor has shown in a charming translation given to meshortly after our conversation concerning this poet. "I never publishtranslations, " he remarked at the time; but though translations may notbe fit company for the "Imaginary Conversations, " the verses from Rediare more than worthy of an abiding place here. 

 "Ye gentle souls! ye love-devoted fair! Who, passing by, to Pity's voice incline, O stay awhile and hear me; then declare If there was ever grief that equals mine. 

 "There was a woman to whose sacred breast Faith had retired, where Honor fixt his throne, Pride, though upheld by Virtue she represt.... Ye gentle souls! that woman was my own. 

 "Beauty was more than beauty in her face, Grace was in all she did, in all she said. In sorrow as in pleasure there was grace.... Ye gentle souls! that gentle soul is fled. "

FOOTNOTES:

[C] Out of three hundred and forty-eight pages, sixty-eight are devotedto Latin verses. 

TO-MORROW. 

 'Tis late at night, and in the realm of sleep My little lambs are folded like the flocks; From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep Their solitary watch on tower and steep; Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks, And through the opening door that time unlocks Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep. To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest, Who cries aloud: "Remember Barmecide, And tremble to be happy with the rest!" And I make answer: "I am satisfied; I dare not ask; I know not what is best; God hath already said what shall betide. "

DOCTOR JOHNS. 

LVIII. 

A letter from Reuben indeed has come; but not for Miss Adèle. The Doctoris glad of the relief its perusal will give him. Meantime Miss Eliza, inher stately, patronizing manner, and with a coolness that was worse thana sneer, says, "I hope you have pleasant news from your various friendsabroad, Miss Maverick?"

Adèle lifted her eyes with a glitter in them that for a moment wasalmost serpent-like; then, as if regretting her show of vexation, andwith an evasive reply, bowed her head again to brood over the strangesuspicions that haunted her. Miss Johns, totally unmoved, --thinking allthe grief but a righteous dispensation for the sin in which the poorchild had been born, --next addressed the Doctor, who had run his eyewith extraordinary eagerness through the letter of his son. 

"What does Reuben say, Benjamin?"

"His 'idols, ' again, Eliza; 't is always the 'flesh-pots of Egypt. '"

And the Doctor reads: "There is just now rare promise of a good venturein our trade at one of the ports of Sicily, and we have freighted twoships for immediate despatch. At the last moment our supercargo hasfailed us, and Brindlock has suggested that I go myself; it is shortnotice, as the ship is in the stream and may sail to-morrow, but Irather fancy the idea, and have determined to go. I hope you willapprove. Of course, I shall have no time to run up to Ashfield to saygood by. I shall try for a freight back from Naples, otherwise shallmake some excuse to run across the Straits for a look at Vesuvius andthe matters thereabout. St. Paul, you know, voyaged in those seas, whichwill interest you in my trip. I dare say I shall find where he landed:it's not far from Naples, Mrs. Brindlock tells me. Give love to thepeople who ever ask about me in Ashfield. I enclose a check of fivehundred dollars for parish contingencies till I come back; hoping tofind you clean out of harness by that time. " (The Doctor cannot for hislife repress a little smile here. ) "Tell Adèle I shall see her blueMediterranean at last, and will bring her back an olive-leaf, if I findany growing within reach. Tell Phil I love him, and that he deserves allthe good he will surely get in this world, or in any other. Ditto forRose. Ditto for good old Mrs. Elderkin, whom I could almost kiss for thelove she's shown me. What high old romps haven't we had in her garden!Eh, Adèle? (I suppose you'll show her this letter, father. )

"Good by, again. 

"N. B. We hope to make a cool thirty thousand out of this venture!"

Adèle had half roused herself at the hearing of her name, but thecareless, jocular mention of it, (so it seemed at least, ) in contrastwith the warmer leave-taking of other friends, added a new pang to herdistress. She wished, for a moment, that she had never written herletter of thanks. What if she wished--in that hour of terrible suspicionand of vain search after any object upon which her future happinessmight rest--that she had never been born? Many a one has given heartyutterance to that wish with less cause. Many a one of those justtottering into childhood will live to give utterance to the same. Butthe great wheel of fate turns ever relentlessly on. It drags us up fromthe nether mysterious depths; we sport and struggle and writhe andrejoice, as it bears us into the flashing blaze of life's meridian;then, with awful surety, it hurries us down, drags us under, once moreinto the abysses of silence and of mystery. Happy he who reads suchpromise as he passes in the lights fixed forever on the infinite depthsabove, that the silence and the mystery shall be as welcome as sleep tothe tired worker!

"It will be of service to Reuben, I think, Benjamin, " said Aunt Eliza;"I quite approve, "--and slipped away noiselessly. 

The Doctor was still musing, --the letter in his hand, --when Adèle rose, and, approaching him, said in her gentlest way, "It's a great grief toyou, New Papa, I know it is, but 'God orders all things well, '--exceptfor me. "

"Adaly! my child, I am shocked!"

She had roused the preacher in him unwittingly. 

"I can't listen now, " said she, impatiently, "and tell me, --youmust, --did papa give you the name of this--new person he is to marry?"

"Yes, Adaly, yes, " but he has forgotten it; and, searching for theprevious letter, he presently finds it, and sets it beforeher, --"Mademoiselle Chalet. "

"Chalet!" screams she. "There is some horrible mistake, New Papa. Morethan ever I am in the dark, --in the dark!" And with a hasty adieu sherushed away, taking her course straight for the house of that outlawedwoman, with whom now, more than ever, she must have so many sympathiesin common. Her present object, however, was to learn if any moredefinite evidence could be found that the deceased lady--mother still, in her thought--bore the name of Chalet. She found the evidence. One ortwo little books (devotional books they prove to be), which the mistressof the house had thrown by as valueless, were brought out, upon thefly-leaves of which the keen eyes of Adèle detected the name, --crossedand recrossed indeed, as if the poor woman would have destroyed alltraces of her identity, --but still showing when held to the light aportion of the name she so cherished in her heart, --Chalet. 

Adèle was more than ever incensed at thought of the delusion or thedeception of her father. But, by degrees, her indignation yielded to heraffection. He was himself to come, he would make it clear; this newmother--whom she was sure she should not love--was to remain; the Doctorhad told her this much. She was glad of it. Yet she found in that fact anew proof that this person could not be her true mother. _She_ wouldhave rushed to her arms; no fear of idle tongues could have kept herback. And though she yearned for the time when she should be claspedonce more in her father's arms, she dreaded the thought of crossing theseas with him upon such empty pilgrimage. She half wished for someexcuse to detain her here, --some fast anchor by which her love mightcling, within reach of that grave where her holier affections hadcentred. 

This wish was confirmed by the more cordial manner in which she wasreceived by the Elderkins, and, indeed, by the whole village, so soon asthe Doctor had made known the fact--as he did upon the earliestoccasion--that Mr. Maverick was speedily to come for Adèle, and torestore her to the embraces of a mother whom she had not seen for years. 

Even the spinster, at the parsonage, was disposed to credit something tothe rigid legal aspects which the affair was taking, and to find in thema shelter for her wounded dignities. Nor did she share the inquietude ofthe Doctor at thought of the new and terrible religious influences towhich Adèle must presently be exposed; under her rigid regard, thisenvironment of the poor victim with all the subtlest influences of theBabylonish Church was but a proper and orderly retribution underProvidence for family sins and the old spurning of the law. 'T wasright, in her exalted view, that she should struggle and agonize andwrestle with Satan for much time to come, before she should fullycleanse her bedraggled skirts of all taint of heathenism, and stand uponthe high plane with herself, among the elect. 

"It is satisfactory to reflect, Benjamin, " said she, "that during herresidence with us the poor girl has been imbued with right principles;at least I trust so. "

And as she spoke, the exemplary old lady plucked a little waif of downfrom her bombazine dress, and snapped it away jauntily upon theair, --even as, throughout her life, she had snapped from her thetemptations of the world. And when, in his Scripture reading that verynight, the Doctor came upon the passage "_Wo unto you, Pharisees!_" themind of the spinster was cheerfully intent upon the wretched sinners ofJudæa. 

LIX. 

THE news of Maverick's prospective arrival, and the comments of the goodDoctor, --as we have said, --shed a new light upon the position of Adèle. Old Squire Elderkin, with a fatherly interest, was not unaffected by it;indeed, the Doctor had been communicative with him to a degree that hadenlisted very warmly the old gentleman's sympathies. 

"Better late than never, Doctor, " had been his comment; and he hadthought it worth his while to drop a hint or two in the ear of Phil. 

"I say, Phil, my boy, I gave you a word of caution not long ago inregard to--to Miss Maverick. There were some bad stories afloat, my boy;but they are cleared up, --quite cleared up, Phil. "

"I'm glad of it, sir, " says Phil. 

"So am I, --so am I, my boy. She's a fine girl, Phil, eh?"

"I think she is, sir. "

"The deuse you do! Well, and what then?"

Phil blushed, but the smile that came on his face was not a hearty one. 

"Well, Phil?"

"I said she was a fine girl, sir, " said he, measuredly. 

"But she's an uncommon fine girl, Phil, eh?"

"I think she is, sir. "

"Well?"

Phil was twirling his hat in an abstracted way between his knees. "Idon't think she's to be won very easily, " said he at last. 

"Nonsense, Phil! Faint heart never won. Make a bold push for it, my boy. The best birds drop at a quick shot. "

"Do they?" said Phil, with a smile of incredulity that the old gentlemandid not comprehend. 

He found, indeed, a much larger measure of hope in a little hint thatwas let fall by Rose two days after. "I wouldn't despair if I were you, Phil, " she had whispered in his ear. 

Ah, those quiet, tender, sisterly words of encouragement, of cheer, ofhope! Blest is the man who can enjoy them! and accursed must he be whoscorns them, or who can never win them. 

Phil, indeed, had never given over most devoted and respectfulattentions to Adèle; but he had shown them latterly with a subdued andhalf-distrustful air, which Adèle with her keen insight had not beenslow to understand. Trust a woman for fathoming all the shades of doubtwhich overhang the addresses of a lover!

Yet it was not easy for Phil, or indeed for any other, to understand orexplain the manner of Adèle at this time. Elated she certainly was inthe highest degree at the thought of meeting and welcoming her father;and there was an exuberance in her spirits when she talked of it, thatseemed almost unnatural; but the coming shadow of the new mother whomshe was bound to welcome dampened all. The Doctor indeed had warned heragainst the Romish prejudices of this newly found relative, and hadentreated her to cling by the faith in which she had been reared; but itwas no fear of any such conflict that oppressed her;--creeds allvanished under the blaze of that natural affection which craved amotherly embrace and which foresaw only falsity. 

What wonder if her thought ran back, in its craving, to the days longgone, --to the land where the olive grew upon the hills, and the sunshinelay upon the sea, --where an old godmother, with withered hands claspedand raised, lifted up her voice at nightfall and chanted, --

 "O sanctissima, O piissima, Dulcis virgo Maria, Mater amata, Intemerata, Ora, ora, pro nobis!"

The Doctor would have been shocked had he heard the words tripping fromthe tongue of Adèle; yet, for her, they had no meaning save asexpressive of a deep yearning for motherly guidance and motherlyaffection. 

Mrs. Elderkin, with her kindly instinct, had seen the perplexity ofAdèle, and had said to her one day, "Ady, my dear, is the thought notgrateful to you that you will meet your mother once more, and be claspedin her arms?"

"If I could, --if I could!" said Adèle, with a burst of tears. 

"But you will, my child, you will. The Doctor has shown us the lettersof your father. Nothing can be clearer. Even now she must be longing togreet you. "

"Why does she not come, then?"--with a tone that was almost taunting. 

"But, Adèle, my dear, there may be reasons of which you do not know orwhich you could not understand. "

"I could, --I do!" said Adèle, with spirit mastering her grief. "'T isnot my mother, my true mother; she is in the graveyard; I know it!"

"My dear child, do not decide hastily. We love you; we all love you. Youknow that. And whatever may happen, you shall have a home with us. Iwill be a mother to you, Adèle. "

The girl kissed her good hostess, and the words lingered on her ear longafter nightfall. Why not her mother? What parent could be more kind?What home more grateful? And should she bring dishonor to it then? Couldshe be less sensitive to that thought than her father had already shownhimself? She perceives, indeed, that within a short time, and since thelater communications from her father, the manner of those who had lookedmost suspiciously upon her has changed. But they do not know the secretof that broidered kerchief, --the secret of that terrible death-clasp, which she never, never can forget. She will be true to her own sense ofhonor; she will be true, too, to her own faith, --the faith in which shehas been reared, --whatever may be the persuasions of that new relativebeyond the seas whom she so dreads to meet. 

Indeed, it is with dreary anticipations that she forecasts now herreturn to that _belle France_ which has so long borne olive-branchesalong its shores for welcome; she foresees struggle, change, hypocrisies, may be, --who can tell?--and she begins to count the weeksof her stay amid the quiet of Ashfield in the same spirit in whichyoungsters score off the remaining days of the long vacation. Adèlefinds herself gathering, and pressing within the leaves of somecherished book, little sprays of dead bloom that shall be, in the dimand mysterious future, mementoes of the walks, the frolics, the joysthat have belonged to this staid New England home. From the veryparsonage door she has brought away a sprig of a rampant sweet-brierthat has grown there this many a year, and its delicate leaflets areamong her chiefest treasures. 

More eagerly than ever she listens to the kindly voices that greet herand speak cheer to her in the home of the Elderkins, --voices which shefeels bitterly will soon be heard no more by her. Even the delicate andalways respectful attentions of Phil have an added, though a painfulcharm, since they are so soon to have an end. She knows that she willremember him always, though his tenderest words can waken no hopes of abrighter future for her. She even takes him partially into herconfidence, and, strolling with him down the street one day, she decoyshim to the churchyard gate, where she points out to him the stone shehad placed over the grave that was so sacred to her. 

"Phil, " said she, "you have always been full of kindness for me. When Iam gone, have a care of that stone and grave, please, Phil. My bestfriend lies there. "

"I don't think you know your best friends, " stammered Phil. 

"I know you are one, " said Adèle, calmly, "and that I can trust you todo what I ask about this grave. Can I, Phil?"

"You know you can, Adèle; but I don't like this talk of your going, asif you were never to be among us again. Do you think you can be happiestyonder with strangers, Adèle?"

"It's not--where I can be happiest, Phil; I don't ask myself thatquestion; I fear I never can";--and her lips trembled as she said it. 

"You can, --you ought, " burst out Phil, fired at sight of her emotion, and would have gone on bravely and gallantly, may be, with the passionthat was surging in him, if a look of hers and a warning finger had notstayed him. 

"We'll talk no more of this, Phil"; and her lips were as firm as ironnow. 

Both of them serious and silent for a while; until at length Adèle, inquite her old manner, says: "Of course, Phil, father may bring me toAmerica again some day; and if so, I shall certainly beg for a littlevisit in Ashfield. It would be very ungrateful in me not to remember thepleasant times I've had here. "

But Phil cannot so deftly change the color of his talk; his chattinesshas all gone from him. Nor does it revive on reaching home. Good Mrs. Elderkin says, "What makes you so crusty, Phil?"

LX. 

Maverick arrives, as he had promised to do, some time in early July;comes up from the city without announcing himself in advance; and, leaving the old coach, which still makes its periodical trips from theriver, a mile out from the town, strolls along the highway. He rememberswell the old outline of the hills; and the straggling hedge-rows, thescattered granite boulders, the whistling of a quail from a near fencein the meadow, all recall the old scenes which he knew in boyhood. At asolitary house by the wayside a flaxen-haired youngster is blowing offsoap-bubbles into the air, --with obstreperous glee whenever one risesabove the house-tops, --while the mother, with arms akimbo, looksadmiringly from the open window. It was the home to which the feet ofAdèle had latterly so often wandered. 

Maverick is anxious for a word with the Doctor before his interview withAdèle even. He does not know her present home; but he is sure he canrecall the old parsonage, in whose exterior, indeed, there have been nochanges for years. The shade of the embowering elms is grateful as hestrolls on into the main street of the town. It is early afternoon, andthere are few passers-by. Here and there a blind is coyly turned, and asly glance cast upon the stranger. A trio of school-boys lookwonderingly at his foreign air and dress. A few loiterers upon thetavern steps--instructed, doubtless, by the stage-driver, who has dulydelivered his portmanteau--remark upon him as he passes. 

And now at last he sees the old porch, --the diamond lights in the door. Twenty and more years ago, and he had lounged there, as the prettyRachel drove up in the parson's chaise. The same rose-brier is noddingits untrimmed boughs by the door. From the open window above he catchesa glimpse of a hard, thin face, with spectacles on nose, that scans himcuriously. The Doctor's hat and cane are upon the table at the foot ofthe stairs within. He taps with his knuckles upon the study-door, --andagain the two college mates are met together. At sight of the visitor, whom he recognizes at a glance, the heart of the old man is stirred by alittle of the old youthful feeling. 

"Maverick!" and he greets him with open hand. 

"Johns, God bless you!"

The parson was white-haired, and was feeble to a degree that shockedMaverick; while the latter was still erect and prim, and, with his grayhair carefully brushed to conceal his growing baldness, appeared inexcellent preservation. His coquettings for sixty years with the world, the flesh, and the Devil had not yet reduced his _phisique_ to thatdegree of weakness which the multiplied spiritual wrestlings hadentailed upon the good Doctor. The minister recognized this with a lookrather of pity than of envy, and may possibly have bethought himself ofthat Dives who "in his lifetime received good things, " but "now istormented. "

Yet he ventured upon no warning; there is, indeed, a certain assuredmanner about the man of the world who has passed middle age, which acountry parson, however good or earnest he may be, would no more attemptto pierce than he would attempt a thrust of his pen through ice. 

Their conversation, after the first greetings, naturally centres uponAdèle. Maverick is relieved to find that she knows, even now, the worst;but he is grievously pained to learn that she is still in doubt, byreason of that strange episode which had grown out of the presence anddeath of Madame Arles, --an episode which, even now, he is at a loss toexplain. 

"She will be unwilling to return with me then, " said Maverick, in atroubled manner. 

"No, " said the Doctor, "she expects that. You will find in her, Maverick, a beautiful respect for your authority; and, I think, a stillhigher respect for the truth. "

So it was with disturbed and conflicting feelings that Maverick made hisway to the present home of Adèle. 

The windows and doors of the Elderkin mansion were all open upon thatJuly day. Adèle had seen him, even as he entered the little gate, and, recognizing him on the instant, had rushed down to meet him in the hall. 

"Papa! papa!" and she had buried her face upon his bosom. 

"Adèle, darling! you are glad to welcome me then?"

"Delighted, papa. "

And Maverick kissed, again and again, that fair face of which he was soproud. 

We recoil from the attempt to transcribe the glowing intimacy of theirfirst talk. 

After a time, Maverick says, "You will be glad to return with me, --gladto embrace again your mother?"

"My own, true mother?" said Adèle, the blood running now swift overcheek and brow. 

"Your own, Adèle, --your own! As God is true!"

Adèle grows calm, --an unwonted calmness. "Tell me how she looks, papa, "said she. 

"Your figure, Adèle; not so tall, perhaps, but slight like you; and herhair, --you have her hair, darling (and he kissed it). Your eye too, forcolor, with a slight, hardly noticeable cast in it. " And as Adèle turnedan inquiring glance upon him, he exclaimed: "You have that too, mydarling, as you look at me now. "

Adèle, still calm, says: "I know it, papa; I have seen her. Do notdeceive me. She died in these arms, papa!"--and with that her calmnessis gone. She can only weep upon his shoulder. 

"But, Adèle, child, this cannot be; do not trust to so wild a fancy. Yousurely believe me, darling!"

Had she argued the matter, he would have been better satisfied. She didnot, however. Her old tranquillity came again. 

"I will go with you, papa, cheerfully, " said she. 

It was only too evident to Maverick that there was a cause of distrustbetween them. Under all of Adèle's earnest demonstrations of affection, which were intensely grateful to him, there was still a certain apparentreserve of confidence, as if some great inward leaning of her heartfound no support in him or his. This touched him to the quick. TheDoctor--had he unfolded the matter to him fully--would have called it, may be, the sting of retribution. Nor was Maverick at all certain thatthe shadowy doubt which seemed to rest upon the mind of Adèle withrespect to the identity of her mother was the sole cause of this secretreserve of confidence. It might be, he thought, that her affections wereotherwise engaged, and that the change to which she assented with solittle fervor would be at the cost of other ties to which he was astranger. 

On this score he consulted with the Doctor. As regarded Reuben, therecould be no doubt. Whatever tie may have existed there was long sincebroken. With respect to Phil Elderkin the parson was not so certain. Maverick had been attracted by his fine, frank manner, and was not blindto his capital business capacities and prospects. If the happiness ofAdèle were in question, he could entertain the affair. He even venturedto approach the topic--coyly as he could--in a talk with Adèle; and she, as the first glimmer of his meaning dawned upon her, says, "Don'twhisper it, papa. It can never be. "

And so Maverick--not a little disconcerted at the thought that he cannotnow, as once, fathom all the depths of his child's sensibilities--setshimself resolutely to the work of preparation for departure. His_affaires_ may keep him a month, and involve a visit to one or two ofthe principal cities; then, ho for _la belle France_! Adèle certainlylends a cheerful assent. He cannot doubt--with those repeated kisses onhis cheek and brow--her earnest filial affection; and if her sentimentslips beyond his control, or parries all his keenness of vision, whatelse has a father, verging upon sixty, to expect in a daughter, tenderlyaffectionate as she may be? Maverick's philosophy taught him to "takethe world as it is. " Only one serious apprehension of disquietudeoppressed him; the doubts and vagaries of Adèle would clear themselvesunder the embrace of Julie; but in respect to the harmony of theirreligious beliefs he had grave doubts. There had grown upon Adèle, sincehe had last seen her, a womanly dignity, which even a mother mustrespect; and into that dignity--into the woof and warp of it--wereinwrought all her religious sympathies. Was his home yonder, across theseas, to become the scene of struggles about creeds? It certainly wasnot the sort of domestic picture he had foreshadowed to himself attwenty-five. But at sixty a man blows bubbles no longer--except that ofhis own conceit. The heart of Maverick was not dead in him; a kiss ofAdèle wakened a thrilling, delicious sensation there, of which he hadforgotten his capability. He followed her graceful step and figure withan eye that looked beyond and haunted the past--vainly, vainly! Her"Papa!"--sweetly uttered--stirred sensibilities in him that amazedhimself, and seemed like the phantoms of dreams he dreamed long ago. 

But in the midst of Maverick's preparations for departure a letter cameto hand from Mrs. Maverick, which complicated once more the situation. 

LXI. 

The mother has read the letter of her child, --the letter in which appealhad been made to the father in behalf of the "unworthy" one whom thedaughter believed to be sleeping in her grave. The tenderness of theappeal smote the poor woman to the heart. It bound her to the child shescarce had seen by bonds into which her whole moral being was knittedanew. But we must give the letter entire, as offering explanations whichcan in no way be better set forth. The very language kindles the ardorof Adèle. Her own old speech again, with the French echo of herchildhood in every line. 

"_Mon cher Monsieur_, "--in this way she begins; for her religiousseverities, if not her years, have curbed any disposition to explosivetenderness, --"I have received the letter of our child, which wasaddressed to you. I cannot tell you the feelings with which I have readit. I long to clasp her to my heart. And she appeals to you, forme, --the dear child! Yes, you have well done in telling her that I wasunworthy (_méchante_). It is true, --unworthy in forgettingduty, --unworthy in loving too well. O Monsieur! if I could live overagain that life, --that dear young life among the olive orchards! But thegood Christ (thank Him!) leads back the repentant wanderers into thefold of His Church. 

 'Laus tibi, Christe!'

"And the poor child believes that I am in my grave! May be that werebetter for her and better for me. But no, I shall clasp her to my heartonce more, --she, the poor babe! But I forget myself; it is a woman'sletter I have been reading. What earnestness! what maturity! whatdignity! what tenderness! And will she be as tender to the living as tothe erring one whom she believes dead? My heart stops when I ask myself. Yes, I know she will. The Blessed Virgin whispers me that she will, andI fly to greet her! A month, two months, three months, four months?--Itis an age. 

"Monsieur! I cannot wait. I must take ship--sail--wings (if I could findthem), and go to meet my child. Until I do there is a tempest in mybrain--heart--everywhere. You are surprised, Monsieur, but there isanother reason why I should go to this land where Adèle has lived. Doyou wish to know it? Listen, then, Monsieur!

"Do you know who this poor sufferer was whom our child had learned so tolove, who died in her arms, who sleeps in the graveyard there, and ofwhom Adèle thinks as of a mother? I have inquired, I have searched highand low, I have fathomed all. Ah, my poor, good sister Marie! OnlyMarie! You have never known her. In those other days at dear Arles shewas too good for you to know her. Yet even then she was a guardianangel, --a guardian too late. _Mea culpa! Mea culpa!_

"I know it can be only Marie; I know it can be only she, who sleepsunder the sod in Ash----(_ce nom m'échappe_). 

"Listen again: in those early, bitter charming days, when you, Monsieur, knew the hillsides and the drives about our dear old town of Arles, poorMarie was away; had she been there, I had never listened, as I didlisten, to the words you whispered in my ear. Only when it was too late, she came. Poor, good Marie! how she pleaded with me! How her tender, good face spoke reproaches to me! If I was the pride of our household, she was the angel. She it was, who, knowing the worst, said, 'Julie, this must end!' She it was who labored day and night to set me free fromthe wicked web that bound me. I reproached her, the poor, good Marie, insaying that she was the plainer, that she had no beauty, that she wasdevoured with envy. But the Blessed Virgin was working ever by her side. Whatever doubts you may have entertained of me, Monsieur, --she createdthem; whatever suspicions tortured you, --she fed them, but always withthe holiest of motives. And when shame came, as it did come, the poorMarie would have screened me, --would have carried the odium herself. Good Marie! the angels have her in keeping!

"Listen again, Monsieur! When that story, that false story, of the deathof my poor child, came to light in the journals, who but Marie shouldcome to me--deceived herself as I was deceived--and say, 'Julie, dearone, God has taken the child in mercy; there is no stigma can rest uponyou in the eyes of the world. Live now as the Blessed Magdalen livedwhen Christ had befriended her. ' And by her strength I was made strong;the Blessed Virgin be thanked!

"Finally, it came to her knowledge one day, --the dear Marie!--that therumor of the death was untrue, --that the babe was living, --that the poorchild had been sent over the seas to your home, Monsieur. Well, I wasfar away in the East. Does Marie tell me? No, the dear one! She writesme, that she is going 'over seas, '--tired of _la belle France_, --she wholoved it so dearly! And she went, --to watch, to pray, to console. And I, the mother!--_Mon Dieu, Monsieur_, the words fail me. No wonder ourchild loved her; no wonder she seems a mother to her!

"Listen yet again, Monsieur. My poor sister died yonder, in thatheretical land, --may be without absolution. 

 'Ave Martha margarita In corona Jesu sita, Tam in morte quam in vita Sis nobis propitia!'

I must go, if it be only to find her grave, and to secure her burial insome consecrated spot. She waits for me, --her ghost, her spirit, --I mustgo; the holy water must be sprinkled; the priestly rites be said. Marie, poor Marie, I will not fail you. 

"Monsieur, I must go!--not alone to greet our child, but to do justiceto my sainted sister! Listen well! All that has been devotional in mypoor life centres here! I must go, --I must do what I may to hallow mypoor sister's grave. Adèle will not give up her welcome surely, if I ammoved by such religious purpose. She, too, must join me in an _AveMaria_ over that resting-place of the departed. 

"I shall send this letter by the overland and British mail, that it maycome to you very swiftly. It will come to you while you are with thepoor child, --our Adèle. Greet her for me as warmly as you can. Tell herI shall hope, God willing, to bring her into the bosom of his HolyChurch Catholic. I shall try and love her, though she remain a heretic;but this will not be. 

"If I can enough curb myself, I shall wait for your answer, Monsieur;but it is necessary that I go yonder. Look for me; kiss our child forme. And if you ever prayed, Monsieur, I should say, pray for

 "_Votre amie_, "JULIE. "

The letter is of the nature of a revelation to Adèle; her doubtsrespecting Madame Arles vanish on the instant. The truth, as set forthin her mother's language, blazes upon her mind like a flame. She lovesthe grave none the less, but the mother by far the more. She, too, wishes to greet her amid the scenes which she has known so long. Nor isMaverick himself averse to this new disposition of affairs, if indeed hepossessed any power (which he somewhat doubts) of readjusting it. Seeingthe kindly intentions toward Adèle, and the tolerant feeling (to say theleast) with which Mrs. Maverick will be met by these friends of thedaughter, he trusts that the mother's interviews with the Doctor, and aknowledge of the kindly influences under which Adèle has grown up, maylessen the danger of a religious altercation between mother and child, which has been his great bugbear in view of their future association. 

A man of the world, like Maverick, naturally takes this common-senseview of religious differences; why not compound matters, he thinks; andhe hints as much quietly to the parson. The old gentleman's spirit isstirred to its depths by the intimation; like all earnest zealots, herecognizes one only unswerving rule of faith, and that the faith inwhich he has been reared. They who hold conflicting doctrines mustyield, --yield absolutely, --or there is no safety for them. In his eyethere was but one strait gate to the Celestial City, and that anywearing the furbelows of Rome should ever enter thereat could only comeof God's exceeding mercy; for himself, it must always be a duty to cryaloud to such to strip themselves clean of their mummery, and do works"meet for repentance. "

Adèle, after her first period of exultation over the recent news ispassed, relapses--perhaps by reason of its excess--into something of herold vague doubt and apprehension of coming evil. The truth--if it betruth--is so strange!--so mysteriously strange that she shall indeedclasp her mother to her heart; the grave yonder is so real! and thatfearful embrace in death so present to her! Or it may be an anticipationof the fearful spiritual estrangement that must ensue, and of which sheseems to find confirmation in the earnest talk and gloomy forebodings ofthe Doctor. 

Maverick effects a diversion by proposing a jaunt of travel, in whichRose shall be their companion. Adèle accepts the scheme with delight, --adelight, after all, which lies as much in the thought of watching theeager enjoyment of Rose as in any pleasant distractions of her own. Thepleasure of Maverick is by no means so great as in that trip of a fewyears back. Then he had for companion an enthusiastic girl, to whom lifewas fresh, and all the clouds that seemed to rest upon it so shadowy, that each morning sun lifting among the mountains dispersed themutterly. 

Now, Adèle showed the thoughtfulness of a woman, --her enthusiasms heldin check by a more calm estimate of the life that opened beforeher, --her sportiveness overborne by a soberness, which, if it gavedignity, gave also a womanly gravity. Yet she did not lack filialdevotion; she admired still that easy world-manner of his which had oncecalled out her enthusiastic regard, but now queried in her secret heartif its acquisition had not involved cost of purity of conscience. Sheloved him too, --yes, she loved him; and her evening and morning kiss andembrace were reminders to him of a joy he might have won, but hadnot, --of a home peace that might have been his, but whose image now onlylifted above his horizon like some splendid mirage crowded with floatingfairy shapes, and like the mirage melted presently into idle vapor. 

It was a novel experience for Maverick to find himself (as he did timeand again upon this summer trip in New England) sandwiched, of a Sunday, between his two blooming companions and some sober-sided deacon, in thepew of a country meeting-house. How his friend Papiol would have stared!And the suggestion, coming to him with the buzz of a summer fly throughthe open windows, did not add to his devotional sentiment. Yet Maverickwould follow gravely the scramble of the singers through the appointedhymn with a sober self-denial, counting the self-denial a virtue. We allmake memoranda of the small religious virtues when the large ones aremissing. 

Upon the return to Ashfield there is found a new letter from MadamMaverick. She can restrain herself no longer. Under the advices of herbrother, she will, with her maid, take the first safe ship leavingMarseilles for New York. She longs to bring Adèle with herself, byspecial consecration, under the guardianship of the Holy Virgin. 

The Doctor is greatly grieved in view of the speedy departure of Adèle, and tenfold grieved when Maverick lays before him the letter of themother, and he sees the fiery zeal which the poor child must confront. 

Over and over in those last interviews he seeks to fortify her faith; hewarns her against the delusions, the falsities, the idolatries of Rome;he warns her to distrust a religion of creeds, of human authority, oftraditions. Christ, the Bible, --these are the true monitors; and "Mind, Adaly, " says he, "hold fast always to the Doctrine of the WestminsterDivines. That is sound, --that is sound!"

LXII. 

Reuben went with a light heart upon his voyage. The tender memories ofAshfield were mostly lived down. (Had the letter of Adèle ever reachedhim, it might have been far different. ) Rose, Phil, the Tourtelots, theTew partners (still worrying through a green old age), themeeting-house, even the Doctor himself and Adèle, seemed to belong to asphere whose interests were widely separate from his own, and in whichhe should appear henceforth only as a casual spectator. The fascinationsof his brilliant business successes had a firm grip upon him. Heindulges himself, indeed, from time to time, with the fancy that someday, far off now, he will return to the scenes of his boyhood, andastonish some of the old landholders by buying them out at a fabulousprice, and by erecting a "castle" of his own, to be enlivened by thefairy graces of some sylph not yet fairly determined upon. Surely notRose, who would hardly be equal to the grandeur of his proposedestablishment, if she were not already engrossed by that "noodle" (histhought expressing itself thus wrathfully) of an assistant minister. Adèle, --and the name has something in it that electrifies, in spite ofhimself, --Adèle, if she ever overcomes her qualms of conscience, willyield to the tender persuasions of Phil. "Good luck to him!"--and hesays this, too, with a kind of wrathful glee. 

Still, he builds his cloud castles; some one must needs inhabit them. Some paragon of refinement and of beauty will one day appear, for whosetripping feet his wealth will lay down a path of pearls and gold. Thelonely, star-lit nights at sea encourage such phantasms; and the breakof the waves upon the bow, with their myriad of phosphorescent sparkles, cheats and illumines the fancy. We will not follow him throughout hisvoyage. On a balmy morning of July he wakes with the great cliff ofGibraltar frowning on him. After this come light, baffling winds, andfor a week he looks southward upon the mysterious, violet lift of theBarbary shores, and pushes slowly eastward into the blue expanse of theMediterranean. In the Sicilian ports he is abundantly successful. He hasample time to cross over to Naples, to ascend Vesuvius, and to exploreHerculaneum and Pompeii. But he does not forget the other side of thebeautiful bay, Baiæ and Pozzuoli. He takes, indeed, a healthful pleasurein writing to the Doctor a description of this latter, and of his walkin the vicinity of the great seaport where St. Paul must have landedfrom his ship of the Castor and Pollux, on his way from Syracuse. But hedoes not tell the Doctor that, on the same evening, he attended an operaat the San Carlo in Naples, of which the ballet, if nothing else, wouldhave called down the good man's anathema. 

An American of twenty-five, placed for the first time upon the sunnypavements of Naples, takes a new lease of life, --at least of itsimaginative part. The beautiful blue stretch of sea, the lava streets, the buried towns and cities, the baths and ruins of Baiæ, the burningmountain, piling its smoke and fire into the serene sky, the memories ofTiberius, of Cicero, of Virgil, --all these enchant him. And beside theseare the things of to-day, --the luscious melons, the oranges, the figs, the war-ships lying on the bay, the bloody miracle of St. Januarius, theLazzaroni upon the church steps, the processions of friars, and alwaysthe window of his chamber, looking one way upon blue Capri, and theother upon smouldering Vesuvius. 

At Naples Reuben hears from the captain of the Meteor--in which goodship he has made his voyage, and counts upon making his return--that thevessel can take up half her cargo at a better freight by touching atMarseilles. Whereupon Reuben orders him to go thither, promising to joinhim at that port in a fortnight. A fortnight only for Rome, forFlorence, for Pisa, for the City of Palaces, and then the marvellousCornice road along the shores of the sea. Terracina brought back to himthe story of Mr. Alderman Popkins and the Principessa, and the bandits;after this came the heights of Albano and Soracte, and there, at last, the Tiber, the pyramid tomb, the great church dome, the stone pines ofthe Janiculan hill, --Rome itself. Reuben was not strong or curious inhis classics; the galleries and the churches took a deeper hold upon himthan the Forum and the ruins. He wandered for hours together under thearches of St. Peter's. He wished he might have led the Doctor along itspavement into the very presence of the mysteries of the Scarlet Woman ofBabylon. He wished Miss Almira, with her saffron ribbons, might bethere, sniffing at her little vial of salts, and may be singing treble. The very meeting-house upon the green, that was so held in reverence, with its belfry and spire atop, would hardly make a scaffolding fromwhich to brush the cobwebs from the frieze below the vaulting of thisgrandest of temples. Oddly enough, he fancies Deacon Tourtelot, in hissnuff-colored surtout, pacing down the nave with him, and saying, --as hewould be like to say, --"Must ha' been a smart man that built it; but Iguess they don't have better preachin', as a gineral thing, than the oldDoctor gives us on Fast-Days or in 'protracted' meetin's. "

Such queer humors and droll comparisons flash into the mind of Reuben, even under all his sense of awe, --a swift, disorderly mingling of thethemes and offices which kindled his first sense of religious awe undera home atmosphere with the wondrous forms and splendor which kindle anew awe now. The great dome enwalling with glittering mosaics a heavenof its own, and blazing with figured saints, and the golden distich, "Thou art Peter, --to thee will I give the keys of the kingdom ofheaven, "--all this seems too grand to be untrue. Are not the keys verilyhere? Can falsehood build up so august a lie? A couple of friars shufflepast him, and go to their prayers at some near altar; he does not evensmile at their shaven pates and their dowdy, coarse gowns of serge. Lowmusic from some far-away chapel comes floating under the panelledvaultings, and loses itself under the great dome, with a sound sogentle, so full of entreaty, that it seems to him the dove on the highaltar might have made it with a cooing and a flutter of her white wings. A mother and two daughters, in black, glide past him, and drop upontheir knees before some saintly shrine, and murmur their thanksgivings, or their entreaty. And he, with no aim of worship, yet somehow shockedout of his unbelief by the very material influences around him. 

Reuben's old wranglings and struggles with doubt had ended--where somany are apt to end, when the world is sunny and success weaves itssilken meshes for the disport of self--in a quiet disbelief that angeredhim no longer, because he had given over all fight with it. But thegreat dome, flaming with its letters, _Ædificabo meam Ecclesiam_, shining there for ages, kindled the fight anew. And strange as it mayseem, and perplexing as it was to the Doctor (when he received Reuben'sstory of it), he came out from his first visit to the great Romishtemple with his religious nature more deeply stirred than it had beenfor years. 

_Ædificabo meam Ecclesiam. _ _HE_ had uttered it. There was thensomething to build, --something that had been built, at whose shrinemillions worshipped trustingly. 

Under the sombre vaultings of the great Florentine Cathedral, theimpression was not weakened. The austere gloom of it chimed more nearlywith his state of unrest. Then there are the galleries, the paintedceilings, --angels, saints, martyrs, holy families, --can art have beenleashed through so many ages with a pleasant fiction? Is there notsomewhere at bottom an earnest, vital truth, which men must needs clingby if they be healthful and earnest themselves? Even the meretriciousadornments of the churches of Genoa afford new evidence of the way inwhich the heart of a people has lavished itself upon belief; and ifbelief, why, then, hope. 

Upon the Cornice road, with Italy behind him and home before (such homeas he knows), he thinks once more of those he has left. Not that he hasforgotten them altogether; he has purchased a rich coral necklace inNaples, which will be the very thing for his old friend Rose; and, inRome, the richest cameos to be found in the Via Condotti he has securedfor Adèle; even for Aunt Eliza he has brought away from Florence a bitof the _pietra dura_, a few olive-leaves upon a black ground. Nor has heforgotten a rich piece of the Genoese velvet for Mrs. Brindlock; and, for his father, an old missal, which, he trusts, dates back far enoughto save it from the odium he attaches to the present Church, and to giveit an early Christian sanctity. He has counted upon seeing Mr. Maverickat Marseilles, but learns, with surprise, upon his arrival there, thatthis gentleman had sailed for America some months previously. The shipis making a capital freight, and the captain informs him thatapplication has been made for the only vacant state-room in their littlecabin by a lady attended by her maid. Reuben assents cheerfully to thisaccession of companionship; and, running off for a sight of the ruins atNismes and Arles, returns only in time to catch the ship upon the day ofits departure. As they pass out of harbor, the lady passenger, in deepblack, (the face seems half familiar to him, ) watches wistfully thereceding shores, and, as they run abreast the chapel of Nôtre Dame de laGarde, she devoutly crosses herself and tells her beads. 

Reuben is to make the voyage with the mother of Adèle. Both bound to thesame quiet township of New England; he, to reach Ashfield once more, there to undergo swiftly a new experience, --an experience that can cometo no man but once; she, to be clasped in the arms of Adèle, --a coldembrace and the last!

PASSAGES FROM HAWTHORNE'S NOTE-BOOKS. 

V. 

Brook Farm, _Sept. 26, 1841. _--A walk this morning along the Needhamroad. A clear, breezy morning, after nearly a week of cloudy and showeryweather. The grass is much more fresh and vivid than it was last month, and trees still retain much of their verdure, though here and there is ashrub or a bough arrayed in scarlet and gold. Along the road, in themidst of a beaten track, I saw mushrooms or toadstools, which had sprungup probably during the night. 

The houses in this vicinity are, many of them, quite antique, with long, sloping roofs, commencing at a few feet from the ground, and ending in alofty peak. Some of them have huge, old elms overshadowing the yard. Onemay see the family sleigh near the door, it having stood there allthrough the summer sunshine, and perhaps with weeds sprouting throughthe crevices of its bottom, the growth of the months since snowdeparted. Old barns, patched and supported by timbers leaning againstthe sides, and stained with the excrement of past ages. 

In the forenoon, I walked along the edge of the meadow, towards CowIsland. Large trees, almost a wood, principally of pine with the greenpasture-glades intermixed, and cattle feeding. They cease grazing whenan intruder appears, and look at him with long and wary observation, then bend their heads to the pasture again. Where the firm ground of thepasture ceases, the meadow begins, --loose, spongy, yielding to thetread, sometimes permitting the foot to sink into black mud, or perhapsover ankles in water. Cattle paths, somewhat firmer than the generalsurface, traverse the dense shrubbery which has overgrown the meadow. This shrubbery consists of small birch, elders, maples, and other trees, with here and there white pines of larger growth. The whole is tangledand wild and thick-set, so that it is necessary to part the nestlingstems and branches, and go crashing through. There are creeping plantsof various sorts, which clamber up the trees, and some of them havechanged color in the slight frosts which already have befallen these lowgrounds, so that one sees a spiral wreath of scarlet leaves twining upto the top of a green tree, intermingling its bright hues with theirverdure, as if all were of one piece. Sometimes, instead of scarlet, thespiral wreath is of a golden yellow. 

Within the verge of the meadow, mostly near the firm shore of pastureground, I found several grape-vines, hung with an abundance of largepurple grapes. The vines had caught hold of maples and alders, andclimbed to the summit, curling round about and interwreathing theirtwisted folds in so intimate a manner that it was not easy to tell theparasite from the supporting tree or shrub. Sometimes the same vine hadenveloped several shrubs, and caused a strange, tangled confusion, converting all these poor plants to the purpose of its own support, andhindering their growing to their own benefit and convenience. The broadvine-leaves, some of them yellow or yellowish-tinged, were seenapparently glowing on the same stems with the silver-maple leaves, andthose of the other shrubs, thus married against their will by theconjugal twine; and the purple clusters of grapes hung down from aboveand in the midst, so that one might "gather grapes, " if not "of thorns, "yet of as alien bushes. 

One vine had ascended almost to the tip of a large white pine, spreadingits leaves, and hanging its purple clusters among all itsboughs, --still climbing and clambering, as if it would not be contenttill it had crowned the very summit with a wreath of its own foliage andbunches of grapes. I mounted high into the tree and ate the fruit there, while the vine wreathed still higher into the depths above my head. Thegrapes were sour, being not yet fully ripe. Some of them, however, weresweet and pleasant. 

 * * * * *

_September 27. _--A ride to Brighton yesterday morning, it being the dayof the weekly Cattle Fair. William Allen and myself went in a wagon, carrying a calf to be sold at the fair. The calf had not had hisbreakfast, as his mother had preceded him to Brighton, and he keptexpressing his hunger and discomfort by loud, sonorous baas, especiallywhen we passed any cattle in the fields or in the road. The cows, grazing within hearing, expressed great interest, and some of them camegalloping to the roadside to behold the calf. Little children, also, ontheir way to school, stopped to laugh and point at poor little Bossie. He was a prettily behaved urchin, and kept thrusting his hairy muzzlebetween William and myself, apparently wishing to be stroked and patted. It was an ugly thought that his confidence in human nature, and naturein general, was to be so ill-rewarded as by cutting his throat, andselling him in quarters. This, I suppose, has been his fate before now!

It was a beautiful morning, clear as crystal, with an invigorating, butnot disagreeable coolness. The general aspect of the country was asgreen as summer, --greener indeed than mid or latter summer, --and therewere occasional interminglings of the brilliant hues of autumn, whichmade the scenery more beautiful, both visibly and in sentiment. We sawno absolutely mean nor poor-looking abodes along the road. There werewarm and comfortable farm-houses, ancient, with the porch, the slopingroof, the antique peak, the clustered chimney, of old times; and moderncottages, smart and tasteful; and villas, with terraces before them, anddense shade, and wooden urns on pillars, and other such tokens ofgentility. Pleasant groves of oak and walnut, also, there were, sometimes stretching along valleys, sometimes ascending a hill andclothing it all round, so as to make it a great clump of verdure. Frequently we passed people with cows, oxen, sheep, or pigs for BrightonFair. 

On arriving at Brighton, we found the village thronged with people, horses, and vehicles. Probably there is no place in New England wherethe character of an agricultural population may be so well studied. Almost all the farmers within a reasonable distance make it a point, Isuppose, to attend Brighton Fair pretty frequently, if not on business, yet as amateurs. Then there are all the cattle-people and butchers whosupply the Boston market, and dealers from far and near; and every manwho has a cow or a yoke of oxen, whether to sell or buy, goes toBrighton on Monday. There were a thousand or two of cattle in theextensive pens belonging to the tavern-keeper, besides many that werestanding about. One could hardly stir a step without running upon thehorns of one dilemma or another, in the shape of ox, cow, bull, or ram. The yeomen appeared to be more in their element than I have ever seenthem anywhere else, except, indeed, at labor;--more so than atmusterings and such gatherings of amusement. And yet this was a sort offestal day, as well as a day of business. Most of the people were of abulky make, with much bone and muscle, and some good store of fat, as ifthey had lived on flesh-diet;--with mottled faces too, hard and red, like those of persons who adhered to the old fashion of spirit-drinking. Great, round-paunched country squires were there too, sitting under theporch of the tavern, or waddling about, whip in hand, discussing thepoints of the cattle. There were also gentlemen-farmers, neatly, trimly, and fashionably dressed, in handsome surtouts and trousers, strappedunder their boots. Yeomen, too, in their black or blue Sunday suits, cut by country tailors, and awkwardly worn. Others (like myself) had onthe blue, stuff frocks which they wear in the fields, the mostcomfortable garments that ever were invented. Country loafers were amongthe throng, --men who looked wistfully at the liquors in the bar, andwaited for some friend to invite them to drink, --poor, shabby, out-at-elbowed devils. Also, dandies from the city, corseted andbuckramed, who had come to see the humors of Brighton Fair. All these, and other varieties of mankind, either thronged the spacious bar-room ofthe hotel, drinking, smoking, talking, bargaining, or walked about amongthe cattle-pens, looking with knowing eyes at the horned people. Theowners of the cattle stood near at hand, waiting for offers. There wassomething indescribable in their aspect, that showed them to be theowners, though they mixed among the crowd. The cattle, brought from ahundred separate farms, or rather from a thousand, seemed to agree verywell together, not quarrelling in the least. They almost all had ahistory, no doubt, if they could but have told it. The cows had eachgiven her milk to support families, --had roamed the pastures, and comehome to the barn-yard, --had been looked upon as a sort of member of thedomestic circle, and was known by a name, as Brindle or Cherry. Theoxen, with their necks bent by the heavy yoke, had toiled in theplough-field and in haying-time for many years, and knew their master'sstall as well as the master himself knew his own table. Even the youngsteers and the little calves had something of domestic sacredness aboutthem; for children had watched their growth, and petted them, and playedwith them. And here they all were, old and young, gathered from theirthousand homes to Brighton Fair; whence the great chance was that theywould go to the slaughter-house, and thence be transmitted, in sirloins, joints, and such pieces, to the tables of the Boston folk. 

William Allen had come to buy four little pigs to take the places offour who have now grown large at our farm, and are to be fatted andkilled within a few weeks. There were several hundreds, in pensappropriated to their use, grunting discordantly, and apparently in novery good humor with their companions or the world at large. Most ormany of these pigs had been imported from the State of New York. Thedrovers set out with a large number, and peddle them along the road tillthey arrive at Brighton with the remainder. William selected four, andbought them at five cents per pound. These poor little porkers wereforthwith seized by the tails, their legs tied, and then thrown into ourwagon, where they kept up a continual grunt and squeal till we got home. Two of them were yellowish, or light gold-color, the other two wereblack and white, speckled; and all four of very piggish aspect anddeportment. One of them snapped at William's finger most spitefully, andbit it to the bone. 

All the scene of the Fair was very characteristic andpeculiar, --cheerful and lively, too, in the bright, warm sun. I must seeit again; for it ought to be studied. 

 * * * * *

_September 28. _--A picnic party in the woods, yesterday, in honor oflittle Frank Dana's birthday, he being six years old. I strolled out, after dinner, with Mr. Bradford, and in a lonesome glade we met theapparition of an Indian chief, dressed in appropriate costume ofblanket, feathers, and paint, and armed with a musket. Almost at thesame time, a young gypsy fortune-teller came from among the trees, andproposed to tell my fortune. While she was doing this, the goddess Dianalet fly an arrow, and hit me smartly in the hand. The fortune-teller andgoddess were in fine contrast, Diana being a blonde, fair, quiet, with amoderate composure; and the gypsy (O. G. ) a bright, vivacious, dark-haired, rich-complexioned damsel, --both of them very pretty, atleast pretty enough to make fifteen years enchanting. Accompanied bythese denizens of the wild wood, we went onward, and came to a companyof fantastic figures, arranged in a ring for a dance or a game. Therewas a Swiss girl, an Indian squaw, a negro of the Jim Crow order, one ortwo foresters, and several people in Christian attire, besides childrenof all ages. Then followed childish games, in which the grown peopletook part with mirth enough, --while I, whose nature it is to be a merespectator both of sport and serious business, lay under the trees andlooked on. Meanwhile, Mr. Emerson and Miss Fuller, who arrived an houror two before, came forth into the little glade where we were assembled. Here followed much talk. The ceremonies of the day concluded with a coldcollation of cakes and fruit. All was pleasant enough, --an excellentpiece of work, --"would 't were done!" It has left a fantastic impressionon my memory, this intermingling of wild and fabulous characters withreal and homely ones, in the secluded nook of the woods. I rememberthem, with the sunlight breaking through overshadowing branches, andthey appearing and disappearing confusedly, --perhaps starting out of theearth; as if the everyday laws of Nature were suspended for thisparticular occasion. There were the children, too, laughing and sportingabout, as if they were at home among such strange shapes, --and anonbursting into loud uproar of lamentation, when the rude gambols of themerry archers chanced to overturn them. And apart, with a shrewd, Yankeeobservation of the scene, stands our friend Orange, a thick-set, sturdyfigure, enjoying the fun well enough, yet rather laughing with aperception of its nonsensicalness than at all entering into the spiritof the thing. 

This morning I have been helping to gather apples. The principal farmlabors at this time are ploughing for winter rye, and breaking up thegreensward for next year's crop of potatoes, gathering squashes, and notmuch else, except such year-round employments as milking. The crop ofrye, to be sure, is in process of being thrashed, at odd intervals. 

I ought to have mentioned among the diverse and incongruous growths ofthe picnic party our two Spanish boys from Manilla;--Lucas, with hisheavy features and almost mulatto complexion; and José, slighter, withrather a feminine face, --not a gay, girlish one, but grave, reserved, eying you sometimes with an earnest but secret expression, and causingyou to question what sort of person he is. 

 * * * * *

_Friday, October 1. _--I have been looking at our four swine, --not of thelast lot, but those in process of fattening. They lie among the cleanrye straw in the sty, nestling close together; for they seem to bebeasts sensitive to the cold, and this is a clear, bright, crystalmorning, with a cool, northwest wind. So there lie these four blackswine, as deep among the straw as they can burrow, the very symbols ofslothful ease and sensuous comfort. They seem to be actually oppressedand overburdened with comfort. They are quick to notice any one'sapproach, and utter a low grunt thereupon, --not drawing a breath forthat particular purpose, but grunting with their ordinary breath, --atthe same time turning an observant, though dull and sluggish, eye uponthe visitor. They seem to be involved and buried in their own corporealsubstance, and to look dimly forth at the outer world. They breathe noteasily, and yet not with difficulty nor discomfort; for the veryunreadiness and oppression with which their breath comes appears to makethem sensible of the deep sensual satisfaction which they feel. Swill, the remnant of their last meal, remains in the trough, denoting thattheir food is more abundant than even a hog can demand. Anon, they fallasleep, drawing short and heavy breaths, which heave their huge sides upand down; but at the slightest noise they sluggishly unclose their eyes, and give another gentle grunt. They also grunt among themselves, withoutany external cause; but merely to express their swinish sympathy. Isuppose it is the knowledge that these four grunters are doomed to diewithin two or three weeks that gives them a sort of awfulness in myconception. It makes me contrast their present gross substance offleshly life with the nothingness speedily to come. Meantime the fournewly-bought pigs are running about the cow-yard, lean, active, shrewd, investigating everything, as their nature is. When I throw an appleamong them, they scramble with one another for the prize, and thesuccessful one scampers away to eat it at leisure. They thrust theirsnouts into the mud, and pick a grain of corn out of the rubbish. Nothing within their sphere do they leave unexamined, grunting all thetime with infinite variety of expression. Their language is the mostcopious of that of any quadruped, and, indeed, there is something deeplyand indefinably interesting in the swinish race. They appear the more amystery the longer one gazes at them. It seems as if there were animportant meaning to them, if one could but find it out. One interestingtrait in them is their perfect independence of character. They care notfor man, and will not adapt themselves to his notions, as other beastsdo; but are true to themselves, and act out their hoggish nature. 

 * * * * *

_October 7. _--Since Saturday last, (it being now Thursday, ) I have beenin Boston and Salem, and there has been a violent storm and rain duringthe whole time. This morning shone as bright as if it meant to make upfor all the dismalness of the past days. Our brook, which in the summerwas no longer a running stream, but stood in pools along its pebblycourse, is now full from one grassy verge to the other, and hurriesalong with a murmuring rush. It will continue to swell, I suppose, andin the winter and spring it will flood all the broad meadows throughwhich it flows. 

I have taken a long walk this forenoon along the Needham road, andacross the bridge, thence pursuing a cross-road through the woods, parallel with the river, which I crossed again at Dedham. Most of theroad lay through a growth of young oaks principally. They still retaintheir verdure, though, looking closely in among them, one perceives thebroken sunshine falling on a few sere or bright-hued tufts of shrubbery. In low, marshy spots, on the verge of the meadows or along theriver-side, there is a much more marked autumnal change. Whole ranges ofbushes are there painted with many variegated hues, not of the brightesttint, but of a sober cheerfulness. I suppose this is owing more to thelate rains than to the frost; for a heavy rain changes the foliagesomewhat at this season. The first marked frost was seen last Saturdaymorning. Soon after sunrise it lay, white as snow, over all the grass, and on the tops of the fences, and in the yard, on the heap of firewood. On Sunday, I think, there was a fall of snow, which, however, did notlie on the ground a moment. 

There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October. The sunshine is peculiarly genial; and in sheltered places, as on theside of a bank, or of a barn or house, one becomes acquainted andfriendly with the sunshine. It seems to be of a kindly and homelynature. And the green grass, strewn with a few withered leaves, looksthe more green and beautiful for them. In summer or spring Nature isfarther from one's sympathies. 

 * * * * *

_October 8. _--Another gloomy day, lowering with portents of rain closeat hand. I have walked up into the pastures this morning, and lookedabout me a little. The woods present a very diversified appearance justnow, with perhaps more varieties of tint than they are destined to wearat a somewhat later period. There are some strong yellow hues, and somedeep red; there are innumerable shades of green, some few having thedepth of summer; others, partially changed towards yellow, look freshlyverdant with the delicate tinge of early summer or of May. Then there isthe solemn and dark green of the pines. The effect is, that every treein the wood and every bush among the shrubbery has a separate existence, since, confusedly intermingled, each wears its peculiar color, insteadof being lost in the universal emerald of summer. And yet there is aoneness of effect likewise, when we choose to look at a whole sweep ofwoodland instead of analyzing its component trees. Scattered over thepasture, which the late rains have kept tolerably green, there are spotsor islands of dusky red, --a deep, substantial hue, very well fit to beclose to the ground, --while the yellow, and light, fantastic shades ofgreen soar upward to the sky. These red spots are the blueberry andwhortleberry bushes. The sweet-fern is changed mostly to russet, butstill retains its wild and delightful fragrance when pressed in thehand. Wild China-asters are scattered about, but beginning to wither. Alittle while ago, mushrooms or toadstools were very numerous along thewood-paths and by the roadsides, especially after rain. Some were ofspotless white, some yellow, and some scarlet. They are always mysteriesand objects of interest to me, springing as they do so suddenly from noroot or seed, and growing one wonders why. I think, too, that somevarieties are pretty objects, little fairy tables, centre-tables, standing on one leg. But their growth appears to be checked now, andthey are of a brown tint and decayed. 

The farm business to-day is to dig potatoes. I worked a little at it. The process is to grasp all the stems of a hill and pull them up. Agreat many of the potatoes are thus pulled, clinging to the stems and toone another in curious shapes, --long red things, and little round ones, imbedded in the earth which clings to the roots. These being pluckedoff, the rest of the potatoes are dug out of the hill with a hoe, thetops being flung into a heap for the cow-yard. On my way home I pausedto inspect the squash-field. Some of the squashes lay in heaps as theywere gathered, presenting much variety of shape and hue, --as goldenyellow, like great lumps of gold, dark green, striped and variegated;and some were round, and some lay curling their long necks, nestling, asit were, and seeming as if they had life. 

In my walk yesterday forenoon I passed an old house which seemed to bequite deserted. It was a two-story, wooden house, dark andweather-beaten. The front windows, some of them, were shattered andopen, and others were boarded up. Trees and shrubbery were growingneglected, so as quite to block up the lower part. There was an agedbarn near at hand, so ruinous that it had been necessary to prop it up. There were two old carts, both of which had lost a wheel. Everything wasin keeping. At first I supposed that there would be no inhabitants insuch a dilapidated place; but, passing on, I looked back, and saw adecrepit and infirm old man at the angle of the house, its fit occupant. The grass, however, was very green and beautiful around this dwelling, and, the sunshine falling brightly on it, the whole effect was cheerfuland pleasant. It seemed as if the world was so glad that this desolateold place, where there was never to be any more hope and happiness, could not at all lessen the general effect of joy. 

I found a small turtle by the roadside, where he had crept to warmhimself in the genial sunshine. He had a sable back, and underneath hisshell was yellow, and at the edges bright scarlet. His head, tail, andclaws were striped yellow, black, and red. He withdrew himself, as faras he possibly could, into his shell, and absolutely refused to peepout, even when I put him into the water. Finally, I threw him into adeep pool and left him. These mailed gentlemen, from the size of a footor more down to an inch, were very numerous in the spring; and now thesmaller kind appear again. 

 * * * * *

_Saturday, October 9. _--Still dismal weather. Our household, beingcomposed in great measure of children and young people, is generally acheerful one enough, even in gloomy weather. For a week past we havebeen especially gladdened with a little seamstress from Boston, aboutseventeen years old; but of such a _petite_ figure, that, at first view, one would take her to be hardly in her teens. She is very vivacious andsmart, laughing and singing and talking all the time, --talking sensibly;but still, taking the view of matters that a city girl naturally would. If she were larger than she is, and of less pleasing aspect, I think shemight be intolerable; but being so small, and with a fair skin, and ashealthy as a wildflower, she is really very agreeable; and to look ather face is like being shone upon by a ray of the sun. She never walks, but bounds and dances along, and this motion, in her diminutive person, does not give the idea of violence. It is like a bird, hopping from twigto twig, and chirping merrily all the time. Sometimes she is rathervulgar, but even that works well enough into her character, and accordswith it. On continued observation, one discovers that she is not alittle girl, but really a little woman, with all the prerogatives andliabilities of a woman. This gives a new aspect to her, while thegirlish impression still remains, and is strangely combined with thesense that this frolicsome maiden has the material for the sober bearingof a wife. She romps with the boys, runs races with them in the yard, and up and down the stairs, and is heard scolding laughingly at theirrough play. She asks William Allen to place her "on top of that horse, "whereupon he puts his large brown hands about her waist, and, swingingher to and fro, lifts her on horseback. William threatens to rivet twohorse-shoes round her neck, for having clambered, with the other girlsand boys, upon a load of hay, whereby the said load lost its balance andslid off the cart. She strings the seed-berries of roses together, making a scarlet necklace of them, which she fastens about her throat. She gathers flowers of everlasting to wear in her bonnet, arranging themwith the skill of a dressmaker. In the evening, she sits singing by thehour, with the musical part of the establishment, often breaking intolaughter, whereto she is incited by the tricks of the boys. The lastthing one hears of her, she is tripping up stairs to bed, talkinglightsomely or warbling; and one meets her in the morning, the veryimage of bright morn itself, smiling briskly at you, so that one takesher for a promise of cheerfulness through the day. Be it said, with allthe rest, that there is a perfect maiden modesty in her deportment. Shehas just gone away, and the last I saw of her was her vivacious facepeeping through the curtain of the cariole, and nodding a gay farewellto the family, who were shouting their adieux at the door. With herother merits, she is an excellent daughter, and supports her mother bythe labor of her hands. It would be difficult to conceive beforehand howmuch can be added to the enjoyment of a household by mere sunniness oftemper and liveliness of disposition; for her intellect is veryordinary, and she never says anything worth hearing, or even laughingat, in itself. But she herself is an expression well worth studying. 

THE FENIAN "IDEA. "

It was a great truth Shelley uttered when he said that slavery would notbe the enormous wrong and evil which it is, if men who had long sufferedunder it could rise at once to freedom and self-government. We see thisfact everywhere proved by races, nations, sexes, long held in bondage, and, when at last set free, displaying for years, perhaps forgenerations, the vices of cowardice, deceit, and cruelty engendered byslavery. Chains leave ugly scars on the flesh, but deeper scars by faron the soul. Even where the exercise of oppression has stopped short ofactual serfdom, --where a race has been merely excluded from some naturalrights, and burdened with some unrighteous restrictions, --the sameresult, in a mitigated degree, may be traced in moral degradation, surviving the injustice itself and almost its very memory. Ages passaway, and "Revenge and Wrong" still "bring forth their kind. " The evilis not dead, though they who wrought it have long mouldered in theirforgotten graves. 

In a very remarkable manner this sad law of our nature applies to thecondition of the Irish race. Doubtless the isolated position of Ireland, the small share it has had in the life and movement of our century, hasallowed the old wrongs to fester in memory, and the old feelings ofrancor to perpetuate themselves, as they could never have done in acountry more in the highway of nations. Vendettas personal and politicalare ever to be found in islands, like Corsica, Sicily, Ireland; or inremote glens and mountains, such as those of Scotland or Greece. Men wholive in New York, London, or Paris must be singularly retentive ofpassion to keep up even their own hatreds, not to speak of the hatredsof their ancestors. But it is alike the bane and blessing of lives spentin retirement and monotony to retain impressions for years, and live inthe past almost more vividly than in the tame and uninteresting present. Ireland, at all events, has had nothing to divert her from her oldtraditions; and there is probably no man, woman, or child of Celtic raceliving in the country in whose mind a certain "historical element, "compounded strangely of truth and falsehood, does not occupy a placesuch as no analogous impression takes in the thought of an ordinaryEnglishman or Frenchman. We shall endeavor in this paper to give alittle idea of the nature of these Irish traditions and feelings; and ifwe succeed in doing so, we shall at the same time afford to our readersa clew to some of the supposed mysteries of the recent outbreak ofFenianism. In sober truth, Fenianism is not, to Anglo-Irish observers, astartling apparition, an outburst of insane folly, an epidemic ofnational hate, but, on the contrary, a most familiar phenomenon, themere appearance on the surface of what we always knew lay beneath, --anendemic as natural to the soil as the ague and fever which haunt theundrained bogs. Those who understand what Irishmen are always _thinking_will find no difficulty in understanding also what things theyoccasionally _do_. 

The real wrongs inflicted by England upon Ireland are probably as bad asever disgraced the history of a conquest--in itself without excuse. Notto speak of confiscations, and executions often taking the form ofmurderous raids into suspected districts, there were laws passed oneafter another, from the time of Edward I. Even to the present century, acollection of which would be a sad commentary on the boasted justice ofEnglish Parliaments. Irishmen lay under disabilities, political, social, and ecclesiastical, so severe and numerous that it really seems to havebeen a question what they were expected to do _except_ to break some ofthese arbitrary laws, and so incur some cruel penalty. Down to our owncentury, and for the avowed purpose of injuring the only flourishingtrade of the country (that of linen), the English cotton and woollenmanufacturers procured the passing of acts better called destructivethan protective; and in sober truth, if England now deplores the lowindustrial and commercial state of Ireland, she has only to look overher own statute-book, and see if ingenuity could have further gone inthe way of discouragement and depression. When we add to these wrongsthe bitter drop of the Irish Church Establishment, it is doubtless clearthat an able advocate could make out a very telling case for theplaintiff, in that great case of Ireland _vs. _ England on which Europeand America sit as jury. 

But it is a singularly inexact notion of the real historical wrongs ofhis country which an ordinary Irishman treasures in his heart; in fact, he has no idea of the real wrongs at all, but of other and quiteimaginary ones. He sets out with the great fallacy that Ireland was atsome indefinite epoch (described as "former times") a wealthy, prosperous, and united country, and that every declension from thosecharacteristics is to be laid at the door of English tyranny andjealousy. When Moore wrote, "Let Erin remember the days of old, Ere her faithless sons betrayed her, When Malachi wore the collar of gold Which he won from her proud invader, "When her kings, with their standards of green unfurled, Led the Red Branch knights to danger, Ere the emerald gem of the Western world Was set in the crown of a stranger, "--

when, we say, a man of the world, who afterwards wrote a remarkablymoderate and sensible History of Ireland, wrote nonsense like this, hewas doubtless well aware he was only by poetic license describing whatIrishmen commonly believed about "days of old, " and their glorifiedcircumstances. We once saw an Irish schoolmaster, just one of those whomould the ideas of the humbler classes, shown into a room furnished withthe usual luxury of a handsome English drawing-room, --books, pictures, flowers, and china, "an earthly paradise of ormolu. " The good man lookedround with great admiration, and then innocently remarked, "Why, thismust be like one of the palaces of our ancient kings!" Here wasprecisely the popular Irish idea. Her "ancient king"--who actually livedin the _wattled_ walls of Tara, enjoying barbarian feasts of beer andhecatombs of lean kine and sheep--is supposed to have been a refined andsplendid prince, dwelling in ideal "halls, " (doubtless compounded out ofthe Dublin Bank and Rotunda, ) and enjoying the finest music on adouble-action harp. As a fact, there is no evidence whatever that theold Irish Pentarchy was much better than any five chieftainships of theSandwich Islands. Even the historians who laud it in most pompousphrases, like Keatinge, give nothing but details of wars and massacres, disorders and rebellions without end. Out of one hundred and sixty-eightkings who by this (of course) half-fabulous story reigned from theMilesian Conquest to Roderick O'Connor, vanquished by Henry II. In 1172, no less than seventy-nine are said to have acquired the throne by themurder of their predecessors. The contests between the five kings forthe supremacy, or for the acquisition of each other's territories, offera spectacle which can only be compared to a sanguinary game ofpuss-in-the-corner lasting for a thousand years. As to any monuments ofcivilization, it would indeed be wonderful if they were found in acountry so circumstanced. Such existing architecture as can beattributed to a Celtic origin is confined to the simple round towers, Cormac's Chapel at Cashel, and a few humble little stone-roofed edificeslike the one known as "St. Kevin's Kitchen, " and made, with true Irishmagniloquence, to stand wellnigh alone for the "Seven Churches ofGlendalough. " For literature, ancient Ireland can show the respectable"Annals of the Four Masters, " and a few minor chronicles in prose andverse, but not a single work deserving a place in European history. Literally the fame of a few nomad saints, and a collection of torquesand brooches (of great beauty, but possible Byzantine workmanship) inthe Irish Academy, are the chief grounds on which rest the claims ofIreland to ancient civilization. Yet not merely civilization, but theextreme grandeur and magnificence of Ireland in "former times, " is thefirst postulate of all Irish discontent. It is because England hasdimmed her glory and overthrown her royal state that Irishmen burn withpatriot indignation, and not by any means because she has merely leftbarbarism and disunion still barbarous and disunited after sevencenturies, and has checked, instead of encouraging, the industry andcommerce of the land. 

Proceeding on this false ground, the Celtic Irishman, with his fervidimagination, easily builds for himself a whole edifice of local andpersonal grievances on the pattern of the supposed national one. WasIreland once a rich and splendid country? So was every town andneighborhood once full of gayety and prosperity, when "the family" livedat home and did not travel or spend the season in London. Full ofextravagant reverence for birth and rank, it is always, in theIrishman's mind, not _his_ fault, nor that of his compeers of theworking and middle classes, that trade and agriculture do not flourishin the land; but the fault of some lord or squire who ought to come andspend money there, or some king or queen who should hold court in Dublinand waste as much treasure as possible upon state ceremonials. Nay, every man for himself, almost, has at the bottom of his heart a beliefthat _he_ ought to be, not a laborer or carter, shoemaker or tailor, butthe head of some ancient house, --some O' or Mac, --living not in his ownmud cabin, but in the handsome residence of some English gentleman whoseestate was wrongfully taken in "former times" from his--the laborer's orshoemaker's--ancestors. 

Fenians talk of an Irish Republic, and the brave and honest men who ledthe rising of '98 undoubtedly heartily desired to establish one on theAmerican model. But to any one really acquainted with Irish character, to dream of such institutions for ages to come seems utterly vain. Allthe qualities which go to make a republican, in the true sense of theterm, are wanting in the Irish nature; and, on the other hand, there isa superabundance of all the opposite qualities which go to make a loyalsubject of a king, --not _too_ despotic, but still a strong-handed, visible, audible, tangible ruler of men. Devotion to an idea, to aconstitution, to a flag; respect for law _as_ law; sturdy independenceand self-reliance; regard for others' rights and jealousy of a man'sown, --all these true republican characteristics are most rarely to befound in Irishmen. Nay, the most important of all--the reverence forlaw--is almost, we might say, reversed in his nature. The true Irishmandetests law. He loves, indeed, mercy, retribution, many fine thingswhich law may or may not produce. But the simple fact that a certainproceeding has been by proper authorities constituted a law or rule ofany kind, in public matters or private, is reason enough, in high orlow, to make it secretly distasteful. As Coleridge used to say, that, "when anything was presented to him as a duty, he instantly felt himselfseized by a sense of inability to perform it, " so, to the Celtic mind, when anything comes in the guise of a law, there is an accompanyingseizure of moral paralysis. Even if the law or rule be made by theoffender himself, it is all the same. Having given it utterance, it is alaw, and he hates it accordingly. On the other hand, nothing can exceedthe generous, chivalrous personal and family loyalty of the Irishnature. But it is a person he wants, not a constitution or a flag. 

Of course, how far all these characteristics may be altered byresidence in America we are unable to say. We write of the Irishman inIreland, from lifelong acquaintance. What dreams the Fenians in Americamay indulge, we are also in no position to know. But this we may safelyaver: The Irishmen in Ireland who are caught by such schemes ofrebellion and revolution are not, as might be thought, mere vulgaragitators, eager for notoriety or perhaps plunder. They are (such ofthem as are the dupes, not the dupers) men whose minds from childhoodhave been filled with anti-historic visions of Ireland's formergrandeur, and who cherish patriotic indignation for her supposed wrongs, and patriotic hopes of her future glory. In a word, they live in a worldof unrealities almost inconceivable to a cool Saxon brain, --unrealsplendors of the past and utterly unreal and impossible future hopes. They neither see where England has actually wronged Ireland heretofore, nor how her Constitution opens to them now (were they but once united)the lawful means of obtaining all just redress and beneficiallegislation they can desire. Instead of this, they are still talking ofTara and Kincora, of Ollamh Fodhla and Brien Boiromhe, and dream in theyear of grace 1866 to set England at naught with a few thousandundisciplined troops, and then burn down the hundred or two of handsomehouses and banish all the cultivated men and women in the country (evenincluding the priests!), to inaugurate a grand era of universalprosperity and civilization. 

But however delusive the indignation and the hopes of the Fenians mustbe accounted, the sad fact remains that old misgovernment and oppressionhave left behind a train of evil feelings, whose existence is only tooreal, however fantastic may be the shapes they assume. While three orfour centuries sufficed to obliterate all trace of the Norman Conquest, and unite in indissoluble bonds of blood and language the two races whocontended for mastery at Hastings, in Ireland, on the contrary, sevencenturies have failed, not merely to efface, but even essentially todiminish the sharpness of the distinction between the conquerors and theconquered. Still, to this day, the two nations dwell in the same land, but not united. Still each member of each race learns as his firstlesson to which of the two he belongs, and recognizes, by some occult, but well-known tokens, the race and creed of every man with whom he hasdealings. Religious differences, of course, have come in to swell thetide of mistrust, and to nullify the most strenuous efforts of theAnglo-Irish to gain the confidence of the Celts. In the books circulatedin the baskets of the strolling pedlers, which constitute almost thesole literature of the laboring class, we have constantly seen thefavorite tract entitled "A Father's Advice to his Son, " in which theCatholic peasant is warned to put no faith in the desire of hisProtestant neighbor to help him, and advised, _not_, indeed, to refusehis charity, but to return for it no gratitude, since a Protestant canhave no real feeling for a Catholic. We have heard with our own earsO'Connell say almost the same thing in Conciliation Hall, and tell hishearers that English subscriptions at the time of the famine were givenfrom _fear_, not kindness. But even were all these false teacherssilenced, were the enormous insult of the Irish Establishment retractedto-morrow, even then the root of national bitterness would not bekilled. It would take generations to kill it. 

Between fifty and a hundred years ago the Anglo-Irish gentry, as all theworld knows, were a wild and extravagant race. Duelling and drinkingwere the two great duties of a gentleman. A young man was instructed howto "make his head" early in life, and to acquire the gentle art ofpistolling his friends, when now he would be studying Greek underProfessor Jowett, or "coaching" for a civil-service examination. It wasin bad taste in those halcyon days for a man to leave a pleasant socialparty in a state of sobriety, and he was liable to be challenged by hisaggrieved companions if he did it frequently. The custom of locking thedining-room door and putting the key in the fire, so as to secure acomfortable night (on the floor), was so common as hardly to deservenotice; and in many old houses are still preserved the huge glassesbearing the toast of the Immortal Memory of William III. , and calculatedto hold three bottles of claret, all to be drunk at once by one memberof the company, who then won the prize of a seven-guinea piece depositedat the bottom. Gambling was not a pastime, but a business; and abusiness shared by the ladies. On rainy days it was customary to lay thecard-tables at ten o'clock in the morning, and on all days the workbegan immediately after the four-o'clock dinner. Of all field-sportshunting was the favorite; and, of course, horses and hounds helped torun away with estates as well as cards and claret. Great pomp, however, of a certain semi-barbaric kind was the crowning extravagance. Everybodydrove four horses, --the loftier grandees invariably six, --with dueaccompaniment of outriders and running footmen. Dresses, jewels, andlace were of course in keeping with the equipage, albeit the furnitureof the finest houses was what we should deem a strange mixture ofmagnificence and bareness, --beautiful pictures on the walls, and nocurtains to the windows, --tapestry _fauteuils_, and a small square ofcarpet in the midst of a Sahara of plain deal floor. But the kitchen wasthe true scene of that Wilful Waste which assuredly brought Woful Wantoften enough in its train. Every gentleman's house served as a sort offree tavern for tenants, servants, laborers, and the relatives, friends, and acquaintances of tenants, servants, and laborers without end. Upstairs there was endless dinner-giving and claret-drinking; down stairsthere was breakfasting, dining, and supping, --only substituting beef forvenison and whiskey for claret. One famous countess, coming into anestate of twenty thousand a year, with a reserve of one hundred thousandpounds, spent the whole, and left a debt of another hundred thousand, after Garter-King-at-Arms had been summoned from England to see her instate to her mausoleum as a descendant of the Plantagenets. An earl inthe North, of no great wealth, was carried to his grave by a processionof five thousand people, all of whom were entertained, and threethousand clothed in mourning, for the occasion. But there is no need togo further into such traditions. 

Were _these_, then, the people who earned the hoarded hate of theFenian? Was it this coarse and stupid extravagance, contrasted with theabject penury of the peasantry, (far greater then than now, ) which hasleft such indelible, bitter memories? Very far indeed is this from beingthe case. That age of lavish waste is looked back upon universally inIreland as one of those "former times" which are to be forevercontrasted with the present, --an age of gold compared to an age of iron. True, the old landlords were harder on their tenants than any _dare_ nowto be;--true, they neither improved land, nor built cottages, norendowed schools, nor did one earthly thing to help the wretched andstarving people in the face of whose misery they flaunted theirsplendor. But there was little or no bitterness of feeling toward them;for their faults were those with which the people sympathized, and theirfree-handed hospitality would have covered more sins even than theycommitted. Perhaps one of the very reasons why, in these last years, thenever wholly quieted ground-swell of discontent has risen up inFenianism is this, that the whole generation of which we have spoken hasnow utterly died out, and, since the Encumbered Estates Courts has doneits work, the families of landholders have undergone great changes, and, where not changed in race, have wholly changed in habits and mode oflife. "Castle Rackrent" exists no more. Irish landlords have now neitherpower nor inclination to hold free quarters for all comers. On the otherhand, (we speak it advisedly, ) no class of men in Europe strive moreearnestly and self-denyingly to improve the condition of those dependenton them, to build good houses for their tenants, open schools for thechildren, and drain and fertilize the land. Let us hope that, as yearsroll on, and generations pass, the tradition of imaginary wrongs, andthe unseen but too real results of actual ones, will both pass away, andthere may yet come a day in which it will not seem a satire to speak ofthe land of the Fenian and the _Agrarian_ murderer as "The Isle ofSaints. "

THE CHIMNEY-CORNER FOR 1866. 

V. 

WHAT ARE THE SOURCES OF BEAUTY IN DRESS. 

The conversation on dress which I had held with Jennie and her littlecovey of Birds of Paradise appeared to have worked in the minds of thefair council, for it was not long before they invaded my study again ina body. They were going out to a party, but called for Jennie, and ofcourse gave me and Mrs. Crowfield the privilege of seeing them equippedfor conquest. 

Latterly, I must confess, the mysteries of the toilet rites haveimpressed me with a kind of superstitious awe. Only a year ago mydaughter Jennie had smooth dark hair, which she wreathed in varioussoft, flowing lines about her face, and confined in a classical knot onthe back of her head. Jennie had rather a talent for _coiffure_, and thearrangement of her hair was one of my little artistic delights. Shealways had something there, --a leaf, a spray, a bud or blossom, thatlooked fresh, and had a sort of poetical grace of its own. 

But in a gradual way all this has been changing. Jennie's hair firstbecame slightly wavy, then curly, finally frizzy, presenting a tumbledand twisted appearance, which gave me great inward concern; but when Ispoke upon the subject I was always laughingly silenced with thedefinitive settling remark: "O, it's the fashion, papa! Everybody wearsit so. "

I particularly objected to the change on my own small account, becausethe smooth, breakfast-table _coiffure_, which I had always so muchenjoyed, was now often exchanged for a peculiarly bristling appearance;the hair being variously twisted, tortured, woven, and wound, withoutthe least view to immediate beauty or grace. But all this, I wasinformed, was the necessary means towards crimping for some eveningdisplay of a more elaborate nature than usual. 

Mrs. Crowfield and myself are not party-goers by profession, but Jennieinsists on our going out at least once or twice in a season, just, asshe says, to keep up with the progress of society; and at these times Ihave been struck with frequent surprise by the general untidiness whichappeared to have come over the heads of all my female friends. I know, of course, that I am only a poor, ignorant, bewildered man-creature; butto my uninitiated eyes they looked as if they had all, after a veryrestless and perturbed sleep, come out of bed without smoothing theirtumbled and disordered locks. Then, every young lady, without exception, seemed to have one kind of hair, and that the kind which was rathersuggestive of the term _woolly_. Every sort of wild _abandon_ of frowzylocks seemed to be in vogue; in some cases the hair appearing to myvision nothing but a confused snarl, in which glittered tinklers, spangles, and bits of tinsel, and from which waved long pennants andstreamers of different-colored ribbons. 

I was in fact very greatly embarrassed by my first meeting with somevery charming girls, whom I thought I knew as familiarly as my owndaughter Jennie, and whose soft, pretty hair had often formed the objectof my admiration. Now, however, they revealed themselves to me in_coiffures_ which forcibly reminded me of the electrical experimentswhich used to entertain us in college, when the subject stood on theinsulated stool, and each particular hair of his head bristled and rose, and set up, as it were, on its own account. This high-flying conditionof the tresses, and the singularity of the ornaments which appeared tobe thrown at hap-hazard into them, suggested so oddly the idea of abewitched person, that I could scarcely converse with any presence ofmind, or realize that these really were the nice, well-informed, sensible little girls of my own neighborhood, --the good daughters, goodsisters, Sunday-school teachers, and other familiar members of our besteducated circles; and I came away from the party in a sort of blue maze, and hardly in a state to conduct myself with credit in the examinationthrough which I knew Jennie would put me as to the appearance of herdifferent friends. 

I know not how it is, but the glamour of fashion in the eyes of girlhoodis so complete, that the oddest, wildest, most uncouth devices findgrace and favor in the eyes of even well-bred girls, when once thatinvisible, ineffable _aura_ has breathed over them which declares themto be fashionable. They may defy them for a time, --they may pronouncethem horrid; but it is with a secretly melting heart, and with a mentalreservation to look as nearly like the abhorred spectacle as theypossibly can on the first favorable opportunity. 

On the occasion of the visit referred to, Jennie ushered her threefriends in triumph into my study; and, in truth, the little room seemedto be perfectly transformed by their brightness. My honest, nice, lovable little Yankee-fireside girls were, to be sure, got up in a stylethat would have done credit to Madame Pompadour, or any of the mostquestionable characters of the time of Louis XIV. Or XV. They werefrizzled and powdered, and built up in elaborate devices; they wore ontheir hair flowers, gems, streamers, tinklers, humming-birds, butterflies, South American beetles, beads, bugles, and all imaginablerattle-traps, which jingled and clinked with every motion; and yet, asthey were three or four fresh, handsome, intelligent, bright-eyed girls, there was no denying the fact that they _did look extremely pretty_; andas they sailed hither and thither before me, and gazed down upon me inthe saucy might of their rosy girlhood, there was a gay defiance inJennie's demand, "Now, papa, how do you like us?"

"Very charming, " answered I, surrendering at discretion. 

"I told you, girls, that you could convert him to the fashions, if heshould once see you in party trim. "

"I beg pardon, my dear; I am not converted to the fashion, but to you, and that is a point on which I didn't need conversion; but the presentfashions, even so fairly represented as I see them, I humbly confess Idislike. "

"O Mr. Crowfield!"

"Yes, my dears, I do. But then, I protest, I'm not fairly treated. Ithink, for a young American girl, who looks as most of my fair friendsdo look, to come down with her bright eyes and all her little panoply ofgraces upon an old fellow like me, and expect him to like a fashionmerely because _she_ looks well in it, is all sheer nonsense. Why, girls, if you wore rings in your noses, and bangles on your arms up toyour elbows, if you tied your hair in a war-knot on the top of yourheads like the Sioux Indians, you would look pretty still. The questionisn't, as I view it, whether you look pretty, --for that you do and thatyou will, do what you please and dress how you will. The question iswhether you might not look prettier, whether another style of dress, andanother mode of getting up, would not be far more becoming. I am one whothinks that it would. "

"Now, Mr. Crowfield, you positively are too bad, " saidHumming-Bird, --whose delicate head was encircled by a sort of crapycloud of bright hair, sparkling with gold-dust and spangles, in themidst of which, just over her forehead, a gorgeous blue butterfly wasperched, while a confused mixture of hairs, gold-powder, spangles, stars, and tinkling ornaments fell in a sort of cataract down her prettyneck. "You see, we girls think everything of you; and now we don't likeit that you don't like our fashions. "

"Why, my little princess, so long as I like _you_ better than yourfashions, and merely think they are not worthy of you, what's the harm?"

"O yes, to be sure. You sweeten the dose to us babies with thatsugar-plum. But really, Mr. Crowfield, why don't you like the fashions?"

"Because, to my view, they are in great part in false taste, and injurethe beauty of the girls, " said I. "They are inappropriate to theircharacters, and make them look like a kind and class of women whom theydo not, and I trust never will, resemble internally, and whose marktherefore they ought not to bear externally. But there you are, beguiling me into a sermon which you will only hate me in your heartsfor preaching. Go along, children! You certainly look as well as anybodycan in that style of getting up; so go to your party, and to-morrownight, when you are tired and sleepy, if you'll come with your crochet, and sit in my study, I will read you Christopher Crowfield'sdissertation on dress. "

"That will be amusing, to say the least, " said Humming-Bird; "and, besure, we will all be here. And mind, you have to show good reasons fordisliking the present fashion. "

So the next evening there was a worsted party in my study, sitting inthe midst of which I read as follows. 

"WHAT ARE THE SOURCES OF BEAUTY IN DRESS. 

"The first one is _appropriateness_. Colors and forms and modes, inthemselves graceful or beautiful, can become ungraceful and ridiculoussimply through inappropriateness. The most lovely bonnet that the mostapproved _modiste_ can invent, if worn on the head of a coarse-facedIrishwoman bearing a market-basket on her arm, excites no emotion butthat of the ludicrous. The most elegant and brilliant evening dress, ifworn in the daytime in a railroad car, strikes every one with a sense ofabsurdity; whereas both these objects in appropriate associations wouldexcite only the idea of beauty. So, a mode of dress obviously intendedfor driving strikes us as _outré_ in a parlor; and a parlor dress wouldno less shock our eyes on horseback. In short, the course of thisprinciple through all varieties of form can easily be perceived. Besidesappropriateness to time, place, and circumstances, there isappropriateness to age, position, and character. This is the foundationof all our ideas of professional propriety in costume. One would notlike to see a clergyman in his external air and appointments resemblinga gentleman of the turf; one would not wish a refined and modest scholarto wear the outward air of a fast fellow, or an aged and venerablestatesman to appear with all the peculiarities of a young dandy. Theflowers, feathers, and furbelows which a light-hearted young girl ofseventeen embellishes by the airy grace with which she wears them, aresimply ridiculous when transferred to the toilet of her serious, well-meaning mamma, who bears them about with an anxious face, merelybecause a loquacious milliner has assured her, with many protestations, that it is the fashion, and the only thing remaining for her to do. 

"There are, again, modes of dress in themselves very beautiful and verystriking, which are peculiarly adapted to theatrical representation andto pictures, but the adoption of which as a part of unprofessionaltoilet produces a sense of incongruity. A mode of dress may be inperfect taste on the stage, that would be absurd in an evening party, absurd in the street, absurd, in short, everywhere else. 

"Now you come to my first objection to our present American toilet, --itsbeing to a very great extent _inappropriate_ to our climate, to ourhabits of life and thought, and to the whole structure of ideas on whichour life is built. What we want, apparently, is some court of inquiryand adaptation that shall pass judgment on the fashions of othercountries, and modify them to make them a graceful expression of our ownnational character, and modes of thinking and living. A certain class ofwomen in Paris at this present hour makes the fashions that rule thefeminine world. They are women who live only for the senses, with asutter and obvious disregard of any moral or intellectual purpose to beanswered in living as a paroquet or a macaw. They have no family ties;love, in its pure domestic sense, is an impossibility in their lot;religion in any sense is another impossibility; and their wholeintensity of existence, therefore, is concentrated on the question ofsensuous enjoyment, and that personal adornment which is necessary tosecure it. When the great, ruling country in the world of taste andfashion has fallen into such a state that the virtual leaders of fashionare women of this character, it is not to be supposed that the fashionsemanating from them will be of a kind well adapted to express the ideas, the thoughts, the state of society, of a great Christian democracy suchas ours ought to be. 

"What is called, for example, the Pompadour style of dress, so much invogue of late, we can see to be perfectly adapted to the kind ofexistence led by dissipated women, whose life is one revel ofexcitement; and who, never proposing to themselves any intellectualemployment or any domestic duty, can afford to spend three or four hoursevery day under the hands of a waiting-maid, in alternately tangling anduntangling their hair. Powder, paint, gold-dust and silver-dust, pomatums, cosmetics, are all perfectly appropriate where the ideal oflife is to keep up a false show of beauty after the true bloom is wastedby dissipation. The woman who never goes to bed till morning, who nevereven dresses herself, who never takes a needle in her hand, who nevergoes to church, and never entertains one serious idea of duty of anykind, when got up in Pompadour style, has, to say the truth, the goodtaste and merit of appropriateness. Her dress expresses just what sheis, --all false, all artificial, all meretricious and unnatural; no partor portion of her from which it might be inferred what her Creatororiginally designed her to be. 

"But when a nice little American girl, who has been brought up tocultivate her mind, to refine her taste, to care for her health, to be ahelpful daughter and a good sister, to visit the poor and teach inSunday schools; when a good, sweet, modest little puss of this kindcombs all her pretty hair backward till it is one mass of frowzyconfusion; when she powders, and paints under her eyes; when she adopts, with eager enthusiasm, every _outré_, unnatural fashion that comes fromthe most dissipated foreign circles, --she is in bad taste, because shedoes not represent either her character, her education, or her goodpoints. She looks like a second-rate actress, when she is, in fact, amost thoroughly respectable, estimable, lovable little girl, and on theway, as we poor fellows fondly hope, to bless some one of us with hertenderness and care in some nice home in the future. 

"It is not the fashion in America for young girls to havewaiting-maids, --in foreign countries it is the fashion. All thismeretricious toilet--so elaborate, so complicated, and so contrary tonature--must be accomplished, and is accomplished, by the busy littlefingers of each girl for herself; and so it seems to be very evidentthat a style of hair-dressing which it will require hours todisentangle, which must injure and in time ruin the natural beauty ofthe hair, ought to be one thing which a well-regulated court of inquirywould reject in our American fashions. 

"Again, the genius of American life is for simplicity and absence ofostentation. We have no parade of office; our public men wear no robes, no stars, garters, collars, &c. ; and it would, therefore, be in goodtaste in our women to cultivate simple styles of dress. Now I object tothe present fashions, as adopted from France, that they are flashy andtheatrical. Having their origin with a community whose senses areblunted, drugged, and deadened with dissipation and ostentation, theyreject the simpler forms of beauty, and seek for startling effects, forodd and unexpected results. The contemplation of one of our fashionablechurches, at the hour when its fair occupants pour forth, gives one agreat deal of surprise. The toilet there displayed might have been ingood keeping among showy Parisian women in an opera-house; but eventheir original inventors would have been shocked at the idea of carryingthem into a church. The rawness of our American mind as to the subjectof propriety in dress is nowhere more shown than in the fact that noapparent distinction is made between church and opera-house in theadaptation of attire. Very estimable, and, we trust, very religiousyoung women sometimes enter the house of God in a costume which makestheir utterance of the words of the litany and the acts of prostratedevotion in the service seem almost burlesque. When a brisk littlecreature comes into a pew with hair frizzed till it stands on end in amost startling manner, rattling strings of beads and bits of tinsel, mounting over all some pert little hat with a red or green featherstanding saucily upright in front, she may look exceedingly pretty and_piquante_; and, if she came there for a game of croquet or atableau-party, would be all in very good taste; but as she comes toconfess that she is a miserable sinner, that she has done the things sheought not to have done and left undone the things she ought to havedone, --as she takes upon her lips most solemn and tremendous words, whose meaning runs far beyond life into a sublime eternity, --there is adiscrepancy which would be ludicrous if it were not melancholy. 

"One is apt to think, at first view, that St. Jerome was right insaying, 'She who comes in glittering veil To mourn her frailty, still is frail. '

But St. Jerome was in the wrong, after all; for a flashy, unsuitableattire in church is not always a mark of an undevout or entirely worldlymind; it is simply a mark of a raw, uncultivated taste. In Italy, theecclesiastical law prescribing a uniform black dress for the churchesgives a sort of education to European ideas of propriety in toilet, which prevents churches from being made theatres for the same kind ofdisplay which is held to be in good taste at places of public amusement. It is but justice to the inventors of Parisian fashions to say, that, had they ever had the smallest idea of going to church and Sundayschool, as our good girls do, they would immediately have devisedtoilets appropriate to such exigencies. If it were any part of theirplan of life to appear statedly in public to confess themselves'miserable sinners, ' we should doubtless have sent over here the designof some graceful penitential habit, which would give our places ofworship a much more appropriate air than they now have. As it is, itwould form a subject for such a court of inquiry and adaptation as wehave supposed, to draw a line between the costume of the theatre and thechurch. 

"In the same manner, there is a want of appropriateness in the costumeof our American women, who display in the street promenade a style ofdress and adornment originally intended for showy carriage drives insuch great exhibition grounds as the Bois de Boulogne. The makers ofParisian fashions are not generally walkers. They do not, with alltheir extravagance, have the bad taste to trail yards of silk and velvetover the mud and dirt of a pavement, or promenade the street in acostume so pronounced and striking as to draw the involuntary glance ofevery eye; and the showy toilets displayed on the _pavé_ by Americanyoung women have more than once exposed them to misconstruction in theeyes of foreign observers. 

"Next to appropriateness, the second requisite to beauty in dress I taketo be unity of effect. In speaking of the arrangement of rooms in the'House and Home Papers, ' I criticised some apartments wherein were manyshowy articles of furniture, and much expense had been incurred, because, with all this, there was no _unity of result_. The carpet wascostly, and in itself handsome; the paper was also in itself handsomeand costly; the tables and chairs also in themselves very elegant; andyet, owing to a want of any unity of idea, any grand harmonizing tint ofcolor, or method of arrangement, the rooms had a jumbled, confused air, and nothing about them seemed particularly pretty or effective. Iinstanced rooms where thousands of dollars had been spent, which, because of this defect, never excited admiration; and others in whichthe furniture was of the cheapest description, but which always gaveimmediate and universal pleasure. The same rule holds good in dress. Asin every apartment, so in every toilet, there should be one ground toneor dominant color, which should rule all the others, and there should bea general style of idea to which everything should be subjected. 

"We may illustrate the effect of this principle in a very familiar case. It is generally conceded that the majority of women look better inmourning than they do in their ordinary apparel; a comparatively plainperson looks almost handsome in simple black. Now why is this? Simplybecause mourning requires a severe uniformity of color and idea, andforbids the display of that variety of colors and objects which go tomake up the ordinary female costume, and which very few women have suchskill in using as to produce really beautiful effects. 

"Very similar results have been attained by the Quaker costume, which, in spite of the quaint severity of the forms to which it adhered, hasalways had a remarkable degree of becomingness, because of itsrestriction to a few simple colors and to the absence of distractingornament. 

"But the same effect which is produced in mourning or the Quaker costumemay be preserved in a style of dress admitting color and ornamentation. A dress may have the richest fulness of color, and still the tints maybe so chastened and subdued as to produce the impression of a severesimplicity. Suppose, for example, a golden-haired blonde chooses for theground-tone of her toilet a deep shade of purple, such as affords a goodbackground for the hair and complexion. The larger draperies of thecostume being of this color, the bonnet may be of a lighter shade of thesame, ornamented with lilac hyacinths, shading insensibly towardsrose-color. The effect of such a costume is simple, even though there bemuch ornament, because it is ornament artistically disposed towards ageneral result. 

"A dark shade of green being chosen as the ground-tone of a dress, thewhole costume may, in like manner, be worked up through lighter andbrighter shades of green, in which rose-colored flowers may appear withthe same impression of simple appropriateness that is made by the pinkblossom over the green leaves of a rose. There have been times in Francewhen the study of color produced artistic effects in costume worthy ofattention, and resulted in styles of dress of real beauty. But thepresent corrupted state of morals there has introduced a corrupt tastein dress; and it is worthy of thought that the decline of moral purityin society is often marked by the deterioration of the sense of artisticbeauty. Corrupt and dissipated social epochs produce corrupt styles ofarchitecture and corrupt styles of drawing and painting, as might easilybe illustrated by the history of art. When the leaders of society haveblunted their finer perceptions by dissipation and immorality, they areincapable of feeling the beauties which come from delicate concords andtruly artistic combinations. They verge towards barbarism, and requirethings that are strange, odd, dazzling, and peculiar to captivate theirjaded senses. Such we take to be the condition of Parisian society now. The tone of it is given by women who are essentially impudent andvulgar, who override and overrule, by the mere brute force of opulenceand luxury, women of finer natures and moral tone. The court of Franceis a court of adventurers, of _parvenus_; and the palaces, the toilets, the equipage, the entertainments, of the mistresses outshine those ofthe lawful wives. Hence comes a style of dress which is in itselfvulgar, ostentatious, pretentious, without simplicity, without unity, seeking to dazzle by strange combinations and daring contrasts. 

"Now, when the fashions emanating from such a state of society come toour country, where it has been too much the habit to put on and wear, without dispute and without inquiry, any or everything that Francesends, the results produced are often things to make one wonder. Arespectable man, sitting quietly in church or other public assembly, maybe pardoned sometimes for indulging a silent sense of the ridiculous inthe contemplation of the forest of bonnets which surround him, as hehumbly asks himself the question, Were these meant to cover the head, todefend it, or to ornament it? and if they are intended for any of thesepurposes, how?

"I confess, to me nothing is so surprising as the sort of things whichwell-bred women serenely wear on their heads with the idea that they areornaments. On my right hand sits a good-looking girl with a thing on herhead which seems to consist mostly of bunches of grass, straws, with aconfusion of lace, in which sits a draggled bird, looking as if the cathad had him before the lady. In front of her sits another, who has aglittering confusion of beads swinging hither and thither from a jauntylittle structure of black and red velvet. An anxious-looking matronappears under the high eaves of a bonnet with a gigantic crimson rosecrushed down into a mass of tangled hair. She is _ornamented_! she hasno doubt about it. 

"The fact is, that a style of dress which allows the use of everythingin heaven above or earth beneath requires more taste and skill indisposition than falls to the lot of most of the female sex to make iteven tolerable. In consequence, the flowers, fruits, grass, hay, straw, oats, butterflies, beads, birds, tinsel, streamers, jinglers, lace, bugles, crape, which seem to be appointed to form a covering for thefemale head, very often appear in combinations so singular, and theresults, taken in connection with all the rest of the costume, are such, that we really think the people who usually assemble in a Quakermeeting-house are, with their entire absence of ornament, morebecomingly attired than the majority of our public audiences. For if oneconsiders his own impression after having seen an assemblage of womendressed in Quaker costume, he will find it to be, not of a confusion oftwinkling finery, but of many fair, sweet _faces_, of charming, nice-looking _women_, and not of articles of dress. Now this shows thatthe severe dress, after all, has better answered the true purpose ofdress, in setting forth the _woman_, than our modern costume, where thewoman is but one item in a flying mass of colors and forms, all of whichdistract attention from the faces they are supposed to adorn. The dressof the Philadelphian ladies has always been celebrated for its eleganceof effect, from the fact, probably, that the early Quaker parentage ofthe city formed the eye and the taste of its women for uniform andsimple styles of color, and for purity and chastity of lines. The mostperfect toilets that have ever been achieved in America have probablybeen those of the class familiarly called the gay Quakers, --children ofQuaker families, who, while abandoning the strict rules of the sect, yetretain their modest and severe reticence, relying on richness ofmaterial, and soft, harmonious coloring, rather than striking anddazzling ornament. 

"The next source of beauty in dress is the impression of truthfulnessand reality. It is a well-known principle of the fine arts, in all theirbranches, that all shams and mere pretences are to be rejected, --a truthwhich Ruskin has shown with the full lustre of his many-coloredprose-poetry. As stucco pretending to be marble, and graining pretendingto be wood, are in false taste in building, so false jewelry and cheapfineries of every kind are in bad taste; so also is powder instead ofnatural complexion, false hair instead of real, and flesh-painting ofevery description. I have even the hardihood to think and assert, in thepresence of a generation whereof not one woman in twenty wears her ownhair, that the simple, short-cropped locks of Rosa Bonheur are in a morebeautiful style of hair-dressing than the most elaborate edifice ofcurls, rats, and waterfalls that is erected on any fair headnow-a-days. "

"O Mr. Crowfield! you hit us all now, " cried several voices. 

"I know it, girls, --I know it. I admit that you are all looking verypretty; but I do maintain that you are none of you doing yourselvesjustice, and that Nature, if you would only follow her, would do betterfor you than all these elaborations. A short crop of your own hair, thatyou could brush out in ten minutes every morning, would have a morereal, healthy beauty than the elaborate structures which cost you hoursof time, and give you the headache besides. I speak of the shortcrop, --to put the case at the very lowest figure, --for many of you havelovely hair of different lengths, and susceptible of a variety ofarrangements, if you did not suppose yourself obliged to build after aforeign pattern, instead of following out the intentions of the greatArtist who made you. 

"Is it necessary absolutely that every woman and girl should lookexactly like every other one? There are women whom Nature makes withwavy or curly hair: let them follow her. There are those whom she makeswith soft and smooth locks, and with whom crinkling and craping is onlya sham. They look very pretty with it, to be sure; but, after all, isthere but one style of beauty? and might they not look prettier incultivating the style which Nature seemed to have intended for them?

"As to the floods of false jewelry, glass beads, and tinsel finery whichseem to be sweeping over the toilet of our women, I must protest thatthey are vulgarizing the taste, and having a seriously bad effect on thedelicacy of artistic perception. It is almost impossible to manage suchmaterial and give any kind of idea of neatness or purity; for the leastwear takes away their newness. And of all disreputable things, tumbled, rumpled, and tousled finery is the most disreputable. A simple whitemuslin, that can come fresh from the laundry every week, is, in point ofreal taste, worth any amount of spangled tissues. A plain straw bonnet, with only a ribbon across it, is in reality in better taste thanrubbishy birds or butterflies, or tinsel ornaments. 

"Finally, girls, don't dress at hap-hazard; for dress, so far from beinga matter of small consequence, is in reality one of the fine arts, --sofar from trivial, that each country ought to have a style of its own, and each individual such a liberty of modification of the generalfashion as suits and befits her person, her age, her position in life, and the kind of character she wishes to maintain. 

"The only motive in toilet which seems to have obtained much as yetamong young girls is the very vague impulse to look 'stylish, '--a desirewhich must answer for more vulgar dressing than one would wish to see. If girls would rise above this, and desire to express by their dressthe attributes of true ladyhood, nicety of eye, fastidious neatness, purity of taste, truthfulness, and sincerity of nature, they might form, each one for herself, a style having its own individual beauty, incapable of ever becoming common and vulgar. 

"A truly trained taste and eye would enable a lady to select from thepermitted forms of fashion such as might be modified to her purposes, always remembering that simplicity is safe, that to attempt little, andsucceed, is better than to attempt a great deal, and fail. 

"And now, girls, I will finish by reciting to you the lines old BenJonson addressed to the pretty girls of his time, which form anappropriate ending to my remarks. 

 'Still to be neat, still to be dressed As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed; Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

 'Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace, -- Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art, That strike my eyes, but not my heart. '"

EDWIN BOOTH. 

When we mark the struggles of a brave spirit against the restrictions ofan ignoble body, we pay admiring honors to every success that itachieves. It is the contest between human will and untoward fate. Eachtriumph is a victory of man's dearest heritage, spiritual power. Somehave made themselves great captains despite physical weakness andnatural fear; scholars and writers have become renowned, though slow tolearn, or, haply, "with wisdom at one entrance quite shut out"; nor havestammering lips and shambling figure prevented the rise of orators andactors, determined to give utterance to the power within. But, in ourapproval of the energy that can so vanquish the injuries of fortune, weare apt to overrate its quality, and to forget how much more exquisitethe endowment would be if allied with those outward resources whichcomplete the full largess of Heaven's favoritism. In the latter case weyield our unqualified affection to beings who afford us an unqualifieddelight. We are reverencing the gifts of the gods; and in their displaysee clearly that no human will can secure that nobility of appearanceand expression which a few maintain without intention, and by right ofbirth. 

Bodily fitness is no small portion of a genius for any given pursuit;and, in the conduct of life, the advantages of external beauty canhardly be overrated. All thinkers have felt this. Emerson says "of thatbeauty which reaches its perfection in the human form, " that "all menare its lovers; wherever it goes, it creates joy and hilarity, andeverything is permitted to it. " Now there is a beauty of parts, which isexternal; and another of the expression of the soul, which is thesuperior. But in its higher grades the former implies the latter. Socrates said that his ugliness accused just as much in his soul, had henot corrected it by education. And Montaigne writes: "The same word inGreek signifies both fair and good, and Holy Word often calls those goodwhich it would call fair"; and, moreover, "Not only in the men thatserve me, but also in the beasts, I consider this point within twofinger-breadths of goodness. "

Can we claim too much for physical adaptation in our measure of the rankto be accorded an actor? For he of all others, not excepting theorator, makes the most direct personal appeal to our tastes. In his ownfigure he holds the mirror up to Nature, while his voice must be theecho of her various tones. By the law of aristocracy in art, he must beheld so much the greater, as he is able to depict the noblermanifestations of her forms and passions. Of course the first excellenceis that of truth. A spirited enactment of Malvolio, of Falstaff, or ofRichard Crookback has the high merit of faithfully setting forthhumanity, though in certain whimsical or distorted phases; but we aremore profoundly enriched by the portrayal of higher types. And thus, inmaking an actor's chosen and successful studies a means of measuring hisgenius, we find in the self-poise which wins without effort, and mustthroughout sustain the princely Hamlet, or Othello tender and strong, that grand manner which, in painting, places the art of Raphael andAngelo above that of Hogarth or Teniers. Each may be perfect in itskind, but one kind exceeds another in glory. 

We have two pictures before us. One, on paper yellow with the moth ofyears, is the portrait of an actor in the costume of Richard III. What aclassic face! English features are rarely cast in that antique mould. The head sits lightly on its columnar neck, and is topped withdark-brown curls, that cluster like the acanthus; the gray eyes arethose which were justly described as being "at times full of fire, intelligence, and splendor, and again of most fascinating softness"; andthe nose is of "that peculiar Oriental construction, which gives an airof so much distinction and command. " Such was the countenance of JuniusBrutus Booth, --that wonderful actor, who, to powers of scorn, fury, andpathos rivalling those which illumined the uneven performances of EdmundKean, added scholastic attainments which should have equalized hisefforts, and made every conception harmonious with the graces of aphilosophical and cultured soul. In structure the genius of the elderBooth was indeed closely akin to that of Kean, if not the rarer of thetwo, notwithstanding the triumphant assertion of Doran, who says thatBooth was driven by Kean's superiority to become a hero to "transpontineaudiences. " Each relied upon his intuitive, off-hand conception of agiven part, and fell back to nature in his methods, throwing asideconventionalisms which had long ruled the English stage. But the formerwas capable of more fervid brightness in those flashes whichcharacterized the acting of them both. Still, there was something awrywithin him, which in his body found a visible counterpart. The shapelytrunk, crowned with the classic head, was set upon limbs of an ungainlyorder, short, of coarse vigor, and "gnarled like clumps of oak. " Above, all was spiritual; below, of the earth, earthy, and dragging him down. Strong souls, thus inharmoniously embodied, have often developed someirregularity of heart or brain: a disproportion, which only strength ofpurpose or the most favorable conditions of life could balance andovercome. With the elder Booth, subjected to the varying fortunes andexcitements of the early American stage, the evil influence gained sadascendency, and his finest renditions grew "out of tune and harsh. " Indepicting the pathetic frenzy of Lear, such actors as he and Kean, whenat their best, can surpass all rivals; and the grotesque, darkly-powerful ideals of Richard and Shylock are precisely those inwhich they will startle us to the last, gathering new, though fitful, expressions of hate and scorn, as their own natures sink from etherealto grosser atmospheres. The mouth catches most surely the growingtendency of a soul; and on the lips of the elder Booth there sat anatural half-sneer of pride, which defined the direction in which hisgenius would reach its farthest scope. 

The second picture is a likeness of this great actor's son, --of a faceand form now wonted to all who sustain the standard drama of to-day. Here is something of the classic outline and much of the Greeksensuousness of the father's countenance, but each softened andstrengthened by the repose of logical thought, and interfused with thatserene spirit which lifts the man of feeling so far above the child ofpassions unrestrained. The forehead is higher, rising toward the regionof the moral sentiments; the face is long and oval, such as Ary Schefferloved to draw; the chin short in height, but, from the ear downwards, lengthening its distinct and graceful curve. The head is of the mostrefined and thorough-bred Etruscan type, with dark hair thrown backwardsand flowing student-wise; the complexion, pale and striking. The eyesare black and luminous, the pupils contrasting sharply with the balls inwhich they are set. If the profile and forehead evince taste and abalanced mind, it is the hair and complexion, and, above all, thoseremarkable eyes, --deep-searching, seen and seeing from afar, --thatreveal the passions of the father in their heights and depths of power. The form is taller than either that of the elder Booth or Kean, lithe, and disposed in symmetry; with broad shoulders, slender hips, and comelytapering limbs, all supple, and knit together with harmonious grace. Wehave mentioned personal fitness as a chief badge of the actor's peerage, and it is of one of the born nobility that we have to speak. Amongstthose who have few bodily disadvantages to overcome, and who, it wouldseem, should glide into an assured position more easily than othersclimb, we may include our foremost American tragedian, --EDWIN THOMASBOOTH. [D]

But men are often endowed with plenteous gifts for which they never findemployment, and thus go to the bad without discovering their naturalbent to others or even to themselves. In the years preceding our latewar how many were rated as vagabonds, who had that within them which hassince won renown! They were "born soldiers, " and, in the piping time ofpeace, out of unison with the bustling crowd around them. Life seemed amuddle, and of course they went astray. But when the great guns sounded, and the bugles rang, they came at once to their birthright, and many ane'er-do-well made himself a patriot and hero forever. 

Edwin Booth, having the capabilities of a great actor, found himselfabout the stage in his childhood, and, by an unwonted kindness offortune, went through with perhaps the exact training his geniusrequired. If the atmosphere of the theatre had not almost enwrapt hiscradle, and thus become a necessity of his after years, his reflective, brooding temperament and æsthetic sensitiveness might have impelled himto one of the silent professions, or kept him an irresolute dreamerthrough an unsuccessful life. But while his youth was passed in thegreen-room, a stern discipline early made him self-reliant, matured hispowers, taught him executive action, and gave him insight of thepassions and manners of our kind. As for black-letter knowledge, such anature as his was sure to gain that, --to acquire in any event, andalmost unknowingly, what mere talent only obtains by severe, methodicalapplication. We know how genius makes unconscious studies, while in thedaily routine of life. The soul works on, unassisted, and at lengthbursts out into sudden blaze. How did Booth study? Just as youngFranklin weighed the minister's sermons, while mentally intent upon thearchitecture of the church roof. Night after night the lonely facebrightened the shadows of the stage-wings, and the delicate ear drankin the folly, the feeling, the wit and wisdom of the play. To such aboyhood the personal contact of his father's nature was all in all. Itwas quaffing from the fountain-head, not from streams of the imitationof imitation. As the genius of the father refined the intellect andjudgment of the son, so the weaknesses coupled with that genius taughthim strength of character and purpose. We have heard of nothing moredramatic than the wandering companionship of this gifted pair, --whetherthe younger is awaiting, weary and patient, the end of the heard butunseen play, or watching over his father at a distance, when the cloudssettled thickly upon that errant mind, through long nights and along thedesolate streets of a strange city. With other years came the time foryoung Booth to fight his own battle, and wander on his own accountthrough an apprenticeship preceding his mature successes, --to gain thoseprofessional acquirements which were needed to complete his education, and to make that tasteful research to which he naturally inclined. He isnow in the sunshine of his noonday fame; and we may estimate his measureof excellence by a review of those chosen and successful renderings, that seem most clearly to define his genius, and to mark the limits ofheight and versatility which he can attain. 

Take, then, the part of Hamlet, which, in these days, the very mentionof his name suggests. Little remains to be said of that undying play, whose pith and meaning escaped the sturdy English critics, untilColeridge discovered it by looking into his own soul, and thoseall-searching Germans pierced to the centre of a disposition quite inkeeping with their national character. A score of lights have sincebrought out every thought and phrase, and we now have Hamlet so clearlyin our mind's eye as to wonder how our predecessors failed to comprehendhis image. But what does this tragedy demand of an actor? Proverbially, that he himself shall fill it, and hold the stage from its commencementto its end. The play of "Hamlet" is the part of Hamlet. The slowness ofits action, and the import of its dialogue and soliloquies, make alldepend upon the central figure. Next, he is to depict the mostaccomplished gentleman ever drawn; not gallant, gay Mercutio, norcourtly Benedict, but the prince and darling of a realm; one who cannot"lack preferment, " being of birth above mean ambition and self-consciousunrest; a gentleman by heart, no less, --full of kindly good-fellowship, brooking no titles with his friends, loving goodness and truth, impatient of fools, scorning affectation; moreover, the glass of fashionand the mould of form, the modern ideal of manly beauty, --which joinswith the classic face and figure that charm of expression revealing adelicate mind within. For our Hamlet is both gentleman and scholar. History and philosophy have taught him the vice of kings, the brevity ofpower and forms, the immortality of principles, the art ofgeneralization; while contact with society has made him master of those"shafts of gentle satire, " for which all around him are his unconscioustargets. His self-respect and self-doubt balance each other, until thelatter outweighs the former, under the awful pressure of an unheard-ofwoe. Finally, he comes before us in that poetical, speculative period oflife following the years of study and pleasure, and preceding those ofexecutive leadership. Prince, gentleman, scholar, poet, --he is each, andall together, and attracts us from every point of view. 

Upon this noblest youth--so far in advance of his rude and turbulenttime--throw a horror that no philosophy, birth, nor training canresist--one of those weights beneath which all humanity bows shuddering;cast over him a stifling dream, where only the soul can act, and thelimbs refuse their offices; have him pushed along by Fate to thelowering, ruinous catastrophe; and you see the dramatic chainwork of apart which he who would enact Hamlet must fulfil. 

It has been said, distinguishing between the effects of comedy andtragedy, that to render the latter ennobles actors, so that successfultragedians have acquired graces of personal behavior. But one who doesnot possess native fineness before his portrayal of Hamlet will never bemade a gentleman by the part. In its more excited phases, a man not bornto the character may succeed. As in Lear, the excess of the passiondisplayed serves as a mask to the actor's disposition. In its repose, the ideal Hamlet is hard to counterfeit. In the reflective portions andexquisite minor play which largely occupy its progress, and in theprincely superiority of its chief figure, there can be little _acting_in the conventional sense. There is a quality which no false ware canimitate. The player must be himself. 

This necessity, we think, goes far toward Booth's special fitness forthe part. He is in full sympathy with it, whether on or off the stage. We know it from our earliest glance at that lithe and sinuous figure, elegant in the solemn garb of sables, --at the pallor of his face andhands, the darkness of his hair, those eyes that can be somelancholy-sweet, yet ever look beyond and deeper than the things abouthim. Where a burlier tragedian must elaborately pose himself for theyouth he would assume, this actor so easily and constantly falls intobeautiful attitudes and movements, that he seems to go about, as weheard a humorist say, "making statues all over the stage. " No picturecan equal the scene where Horatio and Marcellus swear by his sword, heholding the crossed hilt upright between the two, his head thrown backand lit with high resolve. In the fencing-bout with Laertes he is theapotheosis of grace; and since, though his height and shoulder-breadthare perfect, he is somewhat spare in form, you call to mind--inaccounting for this charm of motion, not studied, "like old Hayward's, between two looking-glasses"--the law that beauty is frame-deep; thatgrace results from the conscious, harmonious adjustment of joints andbones, and not from accidental increase and decrease of their covering. There is more hidden art in his sitting attitudes upon the quaintlounges of the period; whether rebuking his own remissness, or listeningto "the rugged Pyrrhus, " or playing upon old Polonius, --setting hisbreast, as it were, against the thorn of his own disgust. 

A sense of the fitness of things makes Booth hold himself in closerestraint when not engaged upon the sharper crises of the play. This weconceive to be the true art-spirit. There is no attempt to rouse thehouse by elocutionary climaxes or quick-stopping strides. LikeBetterton, he courts rapturous silence rather than clamorous applause. So finished is all this as a study, that the changes into the moredramatic passages at first grate harshly upon the eye and ear. For, after all, it is a tragedy, full of spectral terrors. Lord Hamlet feelsit in his soul. Why should this delicate life be so rudely freighted?Booth, faithful to the action, accepts the passion and the pang. Wehardly relish his gasping utterance and utter fall, when the Ghostrehearses his story on those solemn battlements of Elsinore. But thinkwhat he is seeing: not the stage-vision for which we care so little, butthe spectre of his father, --a midnight visitant from the grave! It hasbeen asserted that no man ever _believed_ he saw a spirit and survivedthe shock. And it is strongly urged, as a defence of Booth's conceptionof this scene, that, in the closet interview with the Queen, after theslaying of Polonius, and on the Ghost's reappearance, we, now wrought upto the high poetic pitch by the dialogue and catastrophe, and by thewhole progress of the piece, ourselves catch the key, expect, and fullysympathize with his horror and prostration, and accept the fall to earthas the proper sequel to that dreadful blazon from the other world. Notwithstanding this, it seems to us that Booth should tone down hismanner in the first Act. The audience has hardly left the outer life, and cannot identify itself with the player; and an artist mustacknowledge this fact, and not too far exceed the elevation of hishearers. 

Five years ago there was a weakness in Booth's voice, making thelistener apprehensive of the higher and louder tones. This insufficiencyhas passed away with practice and growth, and his utterance now hasprecisely the volume required in Hamlet, --being musical and distinct inthe quiet parts, and fully sustaining each emotional outburst. 

In effective compositions there is a return to the theme or refrain ofthe piece, when the end is close upon us. One of the finest points inthis play is, that after the successive episodes of the killing ofPolonius, the madness and death of Ophelia, and the wild bout withLaertes at her burial, Hamlet reassumes his every-day nature, and isnever more thoroughly himself than when Osric summons him to thefencing-match, and his heart grows ill with the shadow of coming death. The Fates are just severing his thread; events that shall sweep a wholedynasty, like the house of Atreus, into one common ruin, are close athand; but Philosophy hovers around her gallant child, and the sweet, wise voice utters her teachings for the last time: "If it be now, 't isnot to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yetit will come; the readiness is all. Let be. " Then follow the courtesy, the grace, the fraud, the justice, of the swift, last scene; the curtainfalls; and now the yearning sympathies of the hearers break out intosound, and the actor comes before the footlights to receive his meed ofpraise. How commonplace it is to read that such a one was called beforethe curtain and bowed his thanks! But sit there; listen to theapplauding clamor of two thousand voices, be yourself lifted on thewaves of that exultation, and for a moment you forget how soon all thiswill be hushed forever, and, in the triumph of the actor, the grander, more enduring genius of the writer whose imagination first evoked thespell. 

The performance of Richelieu, from one point of view, is a completeantithesis to that of the melancholy Dane. In the latter we see andthink of Booth; in the former, his household friends, watching My LordCardinal from first to last, have nothing to recall him to their minds. The man is transformed, is _acting_ throughout the play. Voice, form, and countenance are changed; only the eyes remain, and they are volcanicwith strange lustre, --mindful of the past, suspicious of the present, fixed still upon the future with piercing intent. The soul of theCardinal, nearing its leave of the tenement that has served it so long, glares out of the windows, with supernatural regard, over the luxury, the intrigue, the danger, the politics, the empire it must soon beholdno more. As the piece is now produced, with fidelity to details of useand decoration, --with armor, costumery, furniture, and music of theperiod of Louis XIII. , --with all this boast of heraldry and pomp ofpower, the illusion is most entire. The countenance is that of the oldportrait; white flowing locks, cap, robes, raised moustache, and pointedbeard, --all are there. The voice is an old man's husky treble, and wehave the old man's step, the tremor, and recurring spasmodic power; noris there any moment when the actor forgets the part he has assumed. Yes, it is age itself; but the sunset of a life whose noonday was gallantry, valor, strength, --and intellectual strength never so much as now. How welend our own impulses to the effort with which the veteran grasps thesword wherewith he shore "the stalwart Englisher, " strive with him inthat strong yearning to whirl it aloft, sink with him in the instant, nerveless reaction, and sorrow that "a child could slay Richelieu now!"He is not the intriguer of dark tradition, wily and cruel for lowambitious ends, but entirely great, in his protection of innocence andlonging for affection, and most of all in that supreme love of France towhich his other motives are subservient. Booth seizes upon this as thekey-note of the play, and is never so grand as when he rises at fullheight with the averment, "I found France rent asunder; The rich men despots, and the poor banditti; Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple; Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths, -- _I have re-created France!_"

Bulwer's "Richelieu, " though written in that author's pedantic, artificial manner, and catching the groundlings with cheap sentiment andrhetorical platitudes, is yet full of telling dramatic effects, which, through the inspiration of a fine actor, lift the most critical audienceto sudden heights. One of this sort is justly famous. We moderns, who sofeebly catch the spell which made the Church of Rome sovereign ofsovereigns for a thousand years, have it cast full upon us in the scenewhere the Cardinal, deprived of temporal power, and defending hisbeautiful ward from royalty itself, draws around her that Church's"awful circle, " and cries to Baradas, "Set but a foot within that holy ground, And on thy head--yea, though it wore a crown-- _I launch the curse of Rome!_"

Booth's expression of this climax is wonderful. There is perhapsnothing, of its own kind, to equal it upon the present stage. Well maythe king's haughty parasites cower, and shrink aghast from the ominousvoice, the finger of doom, the arrows of those lurid, unbearable eyes!But it is in certain intellectual elements and pathetic undertones thatthe part of Richelieu, as conceived by Bulwer, assimilates to that ofHamlet, and comes within the realm where our actor's genius holdsassured sway. The argument of the piece is spiritual power. The body ofRichelieu is wasted, but the soul remains unscathed, with all itsreason, passion, and indomitable will. He is still prelate, statesman, and poet, and equal to a world in arms. 

The requisite subtilty of analysis, and sympathy with mental finesse, must also specially adapt this actor to the correct assumption of thecharacter of Iago. Those who have never seen him in it may know byanalogy that his merits are not exaggerated. We take it that Iago is asharply intellectual personage, though his logic, warped by grovellingpurpose, becomes sophistry, while lustful and envious intrigues occupyhis skilful brain. We have described the beauty of Booth's countenancein repose. But it is equally remarkable for mobility, and his mostexpressive results are produced by liftings of the high-arched brows andthe play of passions about the flexible mouth. The natural line of hislip, not scornful in itself, is on that straight border-ground where ahair's breadth can raise it into sardonic curves, transforming all itsgood to sneering evil. In his rendering, Iago must become a shining, central incarnation of tempting deceit, with Othello's generous nature amere puppet in his hands. As Richard III. , we should look to find himmost effective in schemeful soliloquy and the phases of assumed virtueand affection, while perhaps less eminent than his father or Edmund Keanin that headlong, strident unrest, which hurried on theirrepresentations to the fury or the retributive end. 

To give the distant reader our own impression of a great actor is a slowand delicate task, and perhaps the most we can accomplish is to set himbefore others somewhat as he has appeared to us, and to let each decidefor himself the question of histrionic rank. But have we notunconsciously defined our view of the excellence of Booth's genius, andhinted at its limitations? The latter are by no means narrow, for hiselastic, adaptable nature insures him versatility; and, despite theworld's scepticism as to the gift of an artist to do more than one thingwell, he is acknowledged to surpass our other actors in a score ofelegant parts. Amongst these are Pescara, Petruchio, and Sir EdwardMortimer; while in a few pieces of the French romance-school, such as"Ruy Blas, " and that terrible "The King's Jester, " he has introduced tous studies of a novel and intensely dramatic kind. As for the lighterorder, the greater including the less, our best Hamlet should be thebest "walking gentleman, " if he elect to assume that versatilepersonage's offices. We know also that Booth's Shylock should be amasterly performance, since his voice, complexion, eyes, and inheritedpowers of scorn, all lend their aid to his mental appreciation of thepart. But it is not our purpose to consider any of these _rôles_. Weonly allude to them to say that in most directions his equal has notappeared on the American stage; and in qualifying an opinion of hispowers, we make no exception in favor of his contemporaries, but, rather, of those who have been and shall be again, when Jove shall

 "let down from his golden chain An age of better metal. "

As Hamlet, Mr. Booth will hardly improve his present execution, since heis now at the age of thirty-two, and can never fill more easily theyouthful beauty of the part, without artifice, and, we may say, by thefirst intention. We should like to see him, ere many winters have passedover his head, in some new classic play, whose arrangement should not beconfined to the bald, antique model, nor drawn out in sounding speecheslike Talfourd's "Ion, " nor yet too much infused with the mingled Gothicelements of our own drama; but warm with sunlight, magical with thegrace of the young Athenian feeling, and full of a healthful actionwhich would display the fairest endowments of his mind and person. AsLear or Shylock, he will certainly grow in power as he grows in years, and may even gain upon his masterly performance of Richelieu. But in onedepartment, and that of an important order, he will perhaps never reachthe special eminence at which we place a few historic names. 

Our exception includes those simply powerful characters, the ideal ofwhich his voice and magnetism cannot in themselves sustain. At certainlofty passages he relies upon nervous, electrical effort, the naturalweight of his temperament being unequal to the desired end. Thoseflashing impulses, so compatible with the years of Richelieu and thegalled purpose of Shylock, would fail to reveal satisfactorily themassive types, which rise by a head, like Agamemnon, above the noblesthost. Dramatic representations may be classed under the analogousdivisions of poetry: for instance, the satirical, the bucolic, theromantic, the reflective, the epic. The latter has to do with thosetowering creatures of action--Othello, Coriolanus, Virginius, Macbeth--somewhat deficient, whether good or evil, in the casuistry ofmore subtile dispositions, but giants in emotion, and kingly in repose. They are essentially _masculine_, and we connect their ideals with thestately figure, the deep chest-utterance, the slow, enduring majesty ofmien. The genius of Mr. Booth has that feminine quality which, thoughallowing him a wider range, and enabling him to render even theseexcepted parts after a tuneful, elaborate, and never ignoble method ofhis own, might debar him from giving them their highestinterpretation, --or, at least, from sustaining it, without sharpfalsetto effort, throughout the entire passage of a play. In a fewimpersonations, where Kemble, with all his mannerisms and defectiveelocution, and Macready, notwithstanding his uninspired, didacticnature, were most at their ease and successful, this actor would besomewhat put to his mettle, --a fact of which he is probably himself noless aware. 

After all, what are we saying, except that his genius is ratherCorinthian than Doric, and therefore more cultured, mobile, and of widerrange? If Kemble was the ideal Coriolanus and Henry V. , he was tookingly as Hamlet, and Booth is the _princeliest_ Hamlet that ever trodthe stage. If Kean and the elder Booth were more supernal in theirlightnings of passion and scorn, --and there are points in "Richelieu"which leave this a debatable question, --Edwin Booth is more equalthroughout, has every resource of taste and study at his command; hisaction is finished to the last, his stage-business perfect, his readingdistinct and musical as a bell. He is thus the ripened product of oureclectic later age, and has this advantage about him, being anAmerican, that he is many-sided, and draws from all foreign schoolstheir distinctive elements to fuse into one new, harmonious whole. 

It is our fashion to speak of the decline of the Drama, to lament notonly a decay of morals, manners, and elocution, but the desertion ofstandard excellence for the frippery which only appeals to the lightestpopular taste. But this outcry proceeds mostly from old fogies, andthose who only reverence the past, while the halo which gilds thememories of youth is the cause of its ceaseless repetition. For it hasbeen heard through every period. It was in the era when our greatestdramas were created that Ben Jonson, during a fit of the spleen, occasioned by the failure of "The New Inn, " begat these verses "tohimself":--

 "Come, leave the loathed stage, And this more loathsome age, Where pride and impudence, in faction knit, Usurp the chair of wit! Inditing and arranging every day Something they call a play. "

At the commencement of our own century, and in what we are wont toconsider the Roscian Period of the British stage, its condition seemedso deplorable to Leigh Hunt, then the dramatic critic of "The News, " asto require "An Essay on the Appearance, Causes, and Consequences of theDecline of British Comedy. " "Of Tragedy, " he wrote, "we have nothing;and it is the observation of all Europe that the British Drama israpidly declining. " Yet the golden reign of the Kembles was then in itsprime; and such names as Bannister, Fawcett, Matthews, Elliston, andCooke occur in Hunt's graceful and authoritative sketches of the actorsof the day. [E] As to the newer plays, Gifford said, "All the fools inthe kingdom seem to have exclaimed with one voice, Let us write for thetheatre!" Latter-day croakers would have us believe that the TragicMuse, indignant at the desecration of her English altars, took flightacross the ocean, alighting in solemn majesty at the Old Park Theatre ofNew York, but that she disappeared utterly in the final conflagration ofthat histrionic shrine. Well, there are smouldering remnants of the OldPark still left to us; veteran retainers of the conventional stride, thedisdainful gesture, the Kemble elocution, and that accent which wasjustly characterized as

 "Ojus, insijjus, hijjus, and perfijjus!"

But the Muse is immortal, though so changing the fashion of her garb, itwould appear, as often to fail of recognition from ancient friends. Wethink that modern acting is quite as true to nature as that of theschool which has passed away, while its accessories are infinitelyricher and more appropriate; and as to the popular judgment, how shouldthat be on the decline? In America, --where common wealth makes commonentrance, and the lines are not so clearly drawn between the unskilfulmany and the judicious few, --managers will always make concessions tothe whim and folly of the hour. But we see no cause for discouragement, so long as dramas are set forth with the conscientious accuracy that hasmarked the latest productions of "Hamlet" and "Richelieu, " and whilehushed and delighted audiences, drawn from every condition of society, leave all meaner performances to hang upon the looks and accents ofNature's sweet interpreter, --Edwin Booth. 

FOOTNOTES:

[D] _Not_ Edwin _Forrest_ Booth, as often and erroneously written. Ouractor, born in November, 1833, derived his middle name from Thomas Flyn, the English comedian, his father's contemporary and friend. Edwin wasthe chosen companion of his father in the latter's tours throughout theUnited States, and was regarded by the old actor with a strange mixtureof repulsion and sympathy, --the one evinced in lack of outward affectionand encouragement, the other in a silent but undoubted appreciation ofthe son's promise. The boy, in turn, so fully understood the father'stemperament, that a bond existed between the two. Whether to keep Edwinfrom the stage, or in caprice, the elder Booth at first rarely permittedthe younger to see him act; but the son, attending the father to thetheatre, would sit in the wings for hours, listening to the play, andhaving all its parts so indelibly impressed on him memory as to astonishhis brother-actors in later years. 

[E] "Critical Essays on the Performers of the London Theatres, includingGeneral Observations on the Practice and Genius of the Stage. London, 1807. " Some publisher would do well to give us a reprint of this notedcollection. 

AMONG THE LAURELS. 

 "The sunset's gorgeous dyes Paled slowly from the skies, And the clear heaven was waiting for the stars, As side by side we strayed Adown a sylvan glade, And found our pathway crossed by rustic bars. 

 Beyond the barrier lay A green and tempting way, Arched with fair laurel-trees, a-bloom and tall, -- Their cups of tender snow Touched with a rosy glow, And warm sweet shadows trembling over all. 

 The chestnuts sung and sighed, The solemn oaks replied, And distant pine-trees crooned in slumberous tones; While music low and clear Gushed from the darkness near, Where a shy brook went tinkling over stones. 

 Soft mosses, damp and sweet, Allured our waiting feet, And brambles veiled their thorns with treacherous bloom; While tiny flecks of flowers, Which own no name of ours, Added their mite of beauty and perfume. 

 And hark! a hidden bird-- To sudden utterance stirred, As by a gushing love too great to bear With voiceless silence long-- Burst into passionate song, Filling with his sweet trouble all the air. 

 Then one, whose eager soul Could brook no slight control, Said, "Let us thread this pleasant path, dear friend, -- If thus the _way_ can be So beautiful to see, How much more beautiful must be the _end_!

 "Follow! this solitude May shrine the haunted wood, Storied so sweetly in romance and rhyme, -- Secure from human ill, And rarely peopled still By Fauns and Dryads of the olden time. 

 "A spot of hallowed ground By mortal yet unfound, Sacred to nymph and sylvan deity, -- Where foiled Apollo glides, And bashful Daphne hides Safe in the shelter of her laurel-tree!"

 "Forbear!" the other cried, -- "O, leave the way untried! Those joys are sweetest which we only guess, And the impatient soul, That seeks to grasp the whole, Defeats itself by its own eagerness. 

 "Let us not rudely shake The dew-drop from the brake Fringing the borders of this haunted dell; All the delights which are-- The present and the far-- Lose half their charm by being known too well!

 "And he mistakes who tries To search all mysteries, -- Who leaves no cup undrained, no path untracked; Who seeks to know too much Brushes with eager touch The bloom of Fancy from the brier of Fact. 

 "Keep one fair myth aloof From hard and actual proof; Preserve some dear delusions as they seem, Since the reality, How bright soe'er it be, Shows dull and cold beside our marvellous dream. 

 "Leave this white page unscored, This rare realm unexplored, And let dear Fancy roam there as she will; Whatever page we turn, However much we learn, Let there be something left to dream of still!"

 Wherefore, for aught we know, The golden apples grow In the green vale to which that pathway leads; The spirits of the wood Still haunt its solitude, And Pan sits piping there among the reeds!

GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

This Caroline Ryder was a character almost impossible to present so asto enable the reader to recognize her should she cross his path; sogreat was the contradiction between what she was and what she seemed, and so perfect was the imitation. 

She looked a respectable young spinster, with a grace of manner beyondher station, and a decency and propriety of demeanor that inspiredrespect. 

She was a married woman, separated from her husband by mutual consent;and she had had many lovers, each of whom she had loved ardently--for alittle while. She was a woman that brought to bear upon foolish, culpable loves a mental power that would have adorned the woolsack. 

The moment prudence or waning inclination made it advisable to breakwith the reigning favorite, she set to work to cool him down bydeliberate coldness, sullenness, insolence; and generally succeeded. Butif he was incurable, she never hesitated as to her course; she smiledagain on him, and looked out for another place: being an invaluableservant, she got one directly; and was off to fresh pastures. 

A female rake; but with the air of a very prude. 

A woman, however cunning and resolute, always plays this game at onegreat disadvantage; for instance, one day, Caroline Ryder, findingherself unable to shake off a certain boyish lover, whom she had won andgot terribly tired of, retired from her place, and went home, and lefthim blubbering. But by and by, in a retired village, she deposited anangelic babe of the female sex, with fair hair and blue eyes, the veryimage of her abandoned Cherubin. Let me add, as indicating the strangeforce of her character, that she concealed this episode from Cherubinand all the rest of the world; and was soon lady's maid again in anothercounty, as demure as ever, and ripe for fresh adventures. 

But her secret maternity added a fresh trait to her character; shebecame mercenary. 

This wise, silly, prudent, coquettish demon was almost perfect in thefamily relations: an excellent daughter, a good sister, and a devotedmother. And so are tigresses, and wicked Jewesses. 

Item--the decency and propriety of her demeanor were not all hypocrisy, but half hypocrisy, and half inborn and instinctive good taste and goodsense. 

As dangerous a creature to herself and others as ever tied on a bonnet. 

On her arrival at Hernshaw Castle she cast her eyes round to see whatthere was to fall in love with; and observed the gamekeeper, TomLeicester. She gave him a smile or two that won his heart; but there shestopped: for soon the ruddy cheek, brown eyes, manly proportions, andsquare shoulders of her master attracted this connoisseur in malebeauty. And then his manner was so genial and hearty, with a smile foreverybody. Mrs. Ryder eyed him demurely day by day, and often opened awindow slyly to watch him unseen. 

From that she got to throwing herself in his way; and this with such artthat he never discovered it, though he fell in with her about the housesix times as often as he met his wife or any other inmate. 

She had already studied his character, and, whether she arranged to meethim full or to cross him, it was always with a courtesy and a sunshinysmile; he smiled on her in his turn, and felt a certain pleasure atsight of her: for he loved to see people bright and cheerful about him. 

Then she did, of her own accord, what no other master on earth wouldhave persuaded her to do: looked over his linen; sewed on buttons forhim; and sometimes the artful jade deliberately cut a button off a cleanshirt, and then came to him and sewed it on during wear. This broughtabout a contact none knew better than she how to manage to a man'sundoing. The seeming timidity that fills the whole eloquent person, andtempts a man to attack by telling him he is powerful, --the droopinglashes that hint, "Ah, do not take advantage of this situation, or theconsequences may be terrible, and will certainly be delicious, "--thedelicate and shy, yet lingering touch, --the twenty stitches where ninewould be plenty, --the one coy, but tender glance at parting, --all thissoft witchcraft beset Griffith Gaunt, and told on him; but not as yet inthe way his inamorata intended. 

"Kate, " said he one day, "that girl of yours is worth her weight ingold. "

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Gaunt, frigidly; "I have not discovered it. "

When Caroline found that her master was single-hearted, and loved hiswife too well to look elsewhere, instead of hating him, she began tolove him more seriously, and to hate his wife, that haughty beauty, whotook such a husband as a matter of course, and held him tight withouttroubling her head. 

It was a coarse age, and in that very county more than one wife hadsuffered jealous agony from her own domestic. But here the parts wereinverted: the lady was at her ease; the servant paid a bitter penaltyfor her folly. She was now passionately in love, and had to do menialoffices for her rival every hour of the day: she must sit with Mrs. Gaunt, and make her dresses, and consult with her how to set off herhateful beauty to the best advantage. She had to dress her, and lookdaggers at her satin skin and royal neck, and to sit behind her an hourat a time combing and brushing her long golden hair. 

How she longed to tear a handful of it out, and then run away! Insteadof that, her happy rival expected her to be as tender and coaxing withit as Madame de Maintenon was with the Queen's of France. 

Ryder called it "yellow stuff" down in the kitchen; that was onecomfort, but a feeble one; the sun came in at the lady's window, andRyder's shapely hand was overflowed, and her eyes offended, by waves ofburnished gold: and one day Griffith came in and kissed it in her veryhand. His lips felt nothing but his wife's glorious hair; but, by thatexquisite sensibility which the heart can convey in a moment to the veryfinger-nails, Caroline's hand, beneath, felt the soft touch through hermistress's hair; and the enamored hypocrite thrilled, and then sickened. 

The other servants knew, as a matter of domestic history, that Griffithand Kate lived together a happy couple; but this ardent prude wascompelled by her position to see it, and realize it, every day. She hadto witness little conjugal caresses, and they turned her sick withjealousy. She was Nobody. They took no more account of her than of thefurniture. The creature never flinched, but stood at her post and groundher white teeth in silence, and burned, and pined, and raged, and froze, and was a model of propriety. 

On the day in question she was thinking of Griffith, as usual, andwondering whether he would always prefer yellow hair to black. Thisactually put her off her guard for once, and she gave the rival hair alittle contemptuous tug: and the reader knows what followed. 

Staggered by her mistress's question, Caroline made no reply, but onlypanted a little, and proceeded more carefully. 

But O the struggle it cost her not to slap both Mrs. Gaunt's fair cheeksimpartially with the backs of the brushes! And what with this struggle, and the reprimand, and the past agitations, by and by the comb ceased, and the silence was broken by faint sobs. 

Mrs. Gaunt turned calmly round and looked full at her hystericalhandmaid. 

"What is to do?" said she. "Is it because I chid you, child? Nay, youneed not take that to heart; it is just my way: I can bear anything butmy hair pulled. " With this she rose and poured some drops ofsal-volatile into water, and put it to her secret rival's lips: it waskindly done, but with that sort of half contemptuous and thoroughly coldpity women are apt to show to women, and especially when one of them isMistress and the other is Servant. 

Still it cooled the extreme hatred Caroline had nursed, and gave her alittle twinge, and awakened her intelligence. Now her intelligence wastruly remarkable when not blinded by passion. She was a woman with oneor two other masculine traits besides her roving heart. For instance, she could sit and think hard and practically for hours together: and onthese occasions her thoughts were never dreamy and vague; it was nobrown study, but good hard thinking. She would knit her coal-blackbrows, like Lord Thurlow himself, and realize the situation, and weighthe pros and cons with a steady judicial power rarely found in her sex;and, _nota bene_, when once her mind had gone through this process, thenshe would act with almost monstrous resolution. 

She now shut herself up in her own room for some hours, and weighed thematter carefully. 

The conclusion she arrived at was this: that, if she stayed at HernshawCastle, there would be mischief; and probably she herself would be theprincipal sufferer to the end of the chapter, as she was now. 

She said to herself: "I shall go mad, or else expose myself, and beturned away with loss of character; and then what will become of me, andmy child? Better lose life or reason than character. I know what I haveto go through; I have left a man ere now with my heart tugging at me tostay beside him. It is a terrible wrench; and then all seems dead for along while without _him_. But the world goes on and takes you round withit; and by and by you find there are as good fish left in the sea. I'llgo, while I've sense enough left to see I must. "

The very next day she came to Mrs. Gaunt and said she wished to leave. 

"Certainly, " said Mrs. Gaunt, coldly. "May I ask the reason?"

"O, I have no complaint to make, ma'am, none whatever; but I am nothappy here; and I wish to go when my month's up, or sooner, ma'am, ifyou could suit yourself. "

Mrs. Gaunt considered a moment: then she said, "You came all the wayfrom Gloucestershire to me; had you not better give the place a fairtrial? I have had two or three good servants that felt uncomfortable atfirst; but they soon found out my ways, and stayed with me till theymarried. As for leaving me before your month, that is out of thequestion. "

To this Ryder said not a word, but merely vented a little sigh, halfdogged, half submissive; and went cat-like about, arranging hermistress's things with admirable precision and neatness. Mrs. Gauntwatched her, without seeming to do so, and observed that her discontentdid not in the least affect her punctual discharge of her duties. SaidMrs. Gaunt to herself, "This servant is a treasure; she shall not go. "And Ryder to herself, "Well, 't is but for a month; and then no powershall keep me here. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

Not long after these events came the county ball. Griffith was there, but no Mrs. Gaunt. This excited surprise, and, among the gentlemen, disappointment. They asked Griffith if she was unwell; he thanked themdryly, she was very well; and that was all they could get out of him. But to the ladies he let out that she had given up balls, and, indeed, all reasonable pleasures. "She does nothing but fast, and pray, andvisit the sick. " He added, with rather a weak smile, "I see next tonothing of her. " A minx stood by and put in her word. "You should taketo your bed; then, who knows? she might look in upon _you_. "

Griffith laughed, but not heartily. In truth, Mrs. Gaunt's religiousfervor knew no bounds. Absorbed in pious schemes and religious duties, she had little time, and much distaste, for frivolous society; invitednone but the devout, and found polite excuses for not dining abroad. Shesent her husband into the world alone, and laden with apologies. "Mywife is turned saint. 'T is a sin to dance, a sin to hunt, a sin toenjoy ourselves. We are here to fast, and pray, and build schools, andgo to church twice a day. "

And so he went about publishing his household ill; but, to tell thetruth, a secret satisfaction peeped through his lugubrious accents. Anugly saint is an unmixed calamity to jolly fellows; but to be lord andmaster, and possessor, of a beautiful saint, was not without its piquantcharm. His jealousy was dormant, not extinct; and Kate's piety tickledthat foible, not wounded it. He found himself the rival of heaven, --andthe successful rival; for, let her be ever so strict, ever so devout, she must give her husband many delights she could not give to heaven. 

 * * * * *

This soft and piquant phase of the passion did not last long. All thingsare progressive. 

Brother Leonard was director now, as well as confessor; his visitsbecame frequent; and Mrs. Gaunt often quoted his authority for her actsor her sentiments. So Griffith began to suspect that the change in hiswife was entirely due to Leonard; and that, with all her eloquence andfervor, she was but a priest's echo. This galled him. To be sure Leonardwas only an ecclesiastic; but if he had been a woman, Griffith was theman to wince. His wife to lean so on another; his wife to withdraw fromthe social pleasures she had hitherto shared with him; and all becauseanother human creature disapproved them. He writhed in silence awhile, and then remonstrated. 

He was met at first with ridicule: "Are you going to be jealous of myconfessor?" and, on repeating the offence, with a kind, but graveadmonition, that silenced him for the time, but did not cure him, noreven convince him. 

The facts were too strong: Kate was no longer to him the genialcompanion she had been; gone was the ready sympathy with which she hadlistened to all his little earthly concerns; and as for his hay-making, he might as well talk about it to an iceberg as to the partner of hisbosom. 

He was genial by nature, and could not live without sympathy. He soughtit in the parlor of the "Red Lion. "

Mrs. Gaunt's high-bred nostrils told her where he haunted, and it causedher dismay. Woman-like, instead of opening her battery at once, she worea gloomy and displeased air, which a few months ago would have servedher turn and brought about an explanation at once; but Griffith took itfor a stronger dose of religious sentiment, and trundled off to the "RedLion" all the more. 

So then at last she spoke her mind, and asked him how he could lowerhimself so, and afflict her. 

"Oh!" said he, doggedly, "this house is too cold for me now. My mate ispriest-rid. Plague on the knave that hath put coldness 'twixt thee andme. "

Mrs. Gaunt froze visibly, and said no more at that time. 

One bit of sunshine remained in the house, and shone brighter than everon its chilled master, --shone through two black, seducing eyes. 

Some three months before the date we have now reached, Caroline Ryder'stwo boxes were packed and corded ready to go next day. She had quietlypersisted in her resolution to leave, and Mrs. Gaunt, though secretlyangry, had been just and magnanimous enough to give her a goodcharacter. 

Now female domestics are like the little birds; if that great hawk, their mistress, follows them about, it is a deadly grievance; but if shedoes not, they follow her about, and pester her with idle questions, and invite the beak and claws of petty tyranny and needlessinterference. 

So, the afternoon before she was to leave, Caroline Ryder came to hermistress's room on some imaginary business. She was not there. Ryder, forgetting that it did not matter a straw, proceeded to hunt hereverywhere; and at last ran out, with only her cap on, to "the Dame'sHaunt, " and there she was; but not alone: she was walking up and downwith Brother Leonard. Their backs were turned, and Ryder came up behindthem. Leonard was pacing gravely, with his head gently drooping asusual. Mrs. Gaunt was walking elastically, and discoursing with greatfire and animation. 

Ryder glided after, noiseless as a serpent, more bent on wondering andwatching now than on overtaking; for inside the house her mistressshowed none of this charming vivacity. 

Presently the keen black eyes observed a "trifle light as air" that madethem shine again. 

She turned and wound herself amongst the trees, and disappeared. Soonafter she was in her own room, a changed woman. With glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and nimble fingers, she uncorded her boxes, unpacked herthings, and placed them neatly in the drawers. 

What more had she seen than I have indicated?

Only this: Mrs. Gaunt, in the warmth of discourse, laid her hand lightlyfor a moment on the priest's shoulder. That was nothing, she had laidthe same hand on Ryder; for, in fact, it was a little womanly way shehad, and a hand that settled like down. But this time, as she withdrewit again, that delicate hand seemed to speak; it did not leave Leonard'sshoulder all at once, it glided slowly away, first the palm, then thefingers, and so parted lingeringly. 

The other woman saw this subtile touch of womanhood, coupled it withMrs. Gaunt's vivacity and the air of happiness that seemed to inspireher whole eloquent person, and formed an extreme conclusion on the spot, though she could not see the lady's face. 

When Mrs. Gaunt came in she met her, and addressed her thus: "If youplease, ma'am, have you any one coming in my place?"

Mrs. Gaunt looked her full in the face. "You know I have not, " said she, haughtily. 

"Then, if it is agreeable to you, ma'am, I will stay. To be sure theplace is dull; but I have got a good mistress--and--"

"That will do, Ryder: a servant has always her own reasons, and nevertells _them_ to her mistress. You can stay this time; but the next, yougo; and once for all. --I am not to be trifled with. "

Ryder called up a look all submission, and retired with an obeisance. But, once out of sight, she threw off the mask and expanded withinsolent triumph. "Yes, I have my own reasons, " said she. "Keep you thepriest, and I'll take the man. "

From that hour Caroline Ryder watched her mistress like a lynx, andhovered about her master, and poisoned him slowly with vague, insidioushints. 

CHAPTER XX. 

Brother Leonard, like many holy men, was vain. Not vainer than St. Paul, perhaps; but then he had somewhat less to be vain of. Not but what hehad his gusts of humility and diffidence; only they blew over. 

At first, as you may perhaps remember, he doubted his ability to replaceFather Francis as Mrs. Gaunt's director; but, after a slight disclaimer, he did replace him, and had no more misgivings as to his fitness. Buthis tolerance and good sense were by no means equal to his devotion andhis persuasive powers; and so his advice in matters spiritual andsecular somehow sowed the first seeds of conjugal coolness in HernshawCastle. 

And now Ryder slyly insinuated into Griffith's ear that the mistresstold the priest everything, and did nothing but by his advice. Thus thefire already kindled was fanned by an artful woman's breath. 

Griffith began to hate Brother Leonard, and to show it so plainly andrudely that Leonard shrank from the encounter, and came less often, andstayed but a few minutes. Then Mrs. Gaunt remonstrated gently withGriffith, but received short, sullen replies. Then, as the servileelement of her sex was comparatively small in her, she turned bitter andcold, and avenged Leonard indirectly, but openly, with those terriblepins and needles a beloved woman has ever at command. 

Then Griffith became moody, and downright unhappy, and went more andmore to the "Red Lion, " seeking comfort there now as well as company. 

Mrs. Gaunt saw, and had fits of irritation, and fits of pity, and soreperplexity. She knew she had a good husband; and, instead of taking himto heaven with her, she found that each step she made with Leonard'shelp towards the angelic life seemed somehow to be bad for Griffith'ssoul and for his earthly happiness. 

She blamed herself; she blamed Griffith; she blamed the Protestantheresy; she blamed everybody and everything--except Brother Leonard. 

One Sunday afternoon Griffith sat on his own lawn, silently smoking hispipe. Mrs. Gaunt came to him, and saw an air of dejection on his genialface. Her heart yearned. She sat down beside him on the bench, andsighed; then he sighed too. 

"My dear, " said she, sweetly, "fetch out your _viol da gambo_, and wewill sing a hymn or two together here this fine afternoon. We can praiseGod together, though we must pray apart; alas that it is so!"

"With all my heart, " said Griffith. "Nay, I forgot; my _viol da gambo_is not here. 'T is at the 'Red Lion. '"

"At the 'Red Lion'!" said she, bitterly. "What, do you sing there aswell as drink? O husband, how can you so demean yourself?"

"What is a poor man to do, whose wife is priest-ridden, and got to be nocompany--except for angels?"

"I did not come here to quarrel, " said she, coldly and sadly. Then theywere both silent a minute. Then she got up and left him. 

 * * * * *

Brother Leonard, like many earnest men, was rather intolerant. He urgedon Mrs. Gaunt that she had too many Protestants in her household: hercook and her nursemaid ought, at all events, to be Catholics. Mrs. Gaunton this was quite ready to turn them both off, and that withoutdisguise. But Leonard dissuaded her from so violent a measure. She hadbetter take occasion to part with one of them, and by and by with theother. 

The nursemaid was the first to go, and her place was filled by a RomanCatholic. Then the cook received warning. But this did not pass off soquietly. Jane Bannister was a buxom, hearty woman, well liked by herfellow-servants. Her parents lived in the village, and she had been sixyears with the Gaunts, and her honest heart clung to them. She took tocrying; used to burst out in the middle of her work, or while conversingwith fitful cheerfulness on ordinary topics. 

One day Griffith found her crying, and Ryder consoling her as carelesslyand contemptuously as possible. 

"Heyday, lasses!" said he; "what is your trouble?"

At this Jane's tears flowed in a stream, and Ryder made no reply, butwaited. 

At last, and not till the third or fourth time of asking, Jane blurtedout that she had got the sack; such was her homely expression, dignified, however, by honest tears. 

"What for?" asked Griffith kindly. 

"Nay, sir, " sobbed Jane, "that is what I want to know. Our dame ne'erfound a fault in me; and now she does pack me off like a dog. Me thathave been here this six years, and got to feel at home. What willfather say? He'll give me a hiding. For two pins I'd drown myself in themere. "

"Come, you must not blame the mistress, " said the sly Ryder. "She is agood mistress as ever breathed: 't is all the priest's doings. I'll tellyou the truth, master, if you will pass me your word I sha'n't be sentaway for it. "

"I pledge you my word as a gentleman, " said Griffith. 

"Well then, sir, Jane's fault is yours and mine. She is not a Papist;and that is why she is to go. How I come to know, I listened in the nextroom, and heard the priest tell our dame she must send away two of us, and have Catholics. The priest's word it is law in this house. 'T was inMarch he gave the order: Harriet, she went in May, and now poor Jane isto go--for walking to church behind _you_, sir. But there, Jane, Ibelieve he would get our very master out of the house if he could; andthen what would become of us all?"

Griffith turned black, and then ashy pale, under this venomous tongue, and went away without a word, looking dangerous. 

Ryder looked after him, and her black eye glittered with a kind offiendish beauty. 

Jane, having told her mind, now began to pluck up a little spirit. "Mrs. Ryder, " said she, "I never thought to like you so well";--and, withthat, gave her a great, hearty, smacking kiss; which Ryder, to judge byher countenance, relished, as epicures albumen. "I won't cry no more. After all, this house is no place for us that be women; 't is a fineroost, to be sure! where the hen she crows and the cock do but cluck. "

Town-bred Ryder laughed at the rustic maid's simile; and, not to beoutdone in metaphor, told her there were dogs that barked, and dogs thatbit. "Our master is one of those that bite. I've done the priest'sbusiness. He is as like to get the sack as you are. "

 * * * * *

Griffith found his wife seated on the lawn reading. He gulped down hisire as well as he could; but nevertheless his voice trembled a littlewith suppressed passion. 

"So Jane is turned off now, " said he. 

"I don't know about being turned off, " replied Mrs. Gaunt, calmly; "butshe leaves me next month, and Cicely Davis comes back. "

"And Cicely Davis is a useless slut that cannot boil a potato fit toeat; but then she is a Papist, and poor Jenny is a Protestant, and cancook a dinner. "

"My dear, " said Mrs. Gaunt, "do not you trouble about the servants;leave them to me. "

"And welcome; but this is not your doing, it is that Leonard's: and Icannot allow a Popish priest to turn off all my servants that are worththeir salt. Come, Kate, you used to be a sensible woman, and a tenderwife; now I ask you, is a young bachelor a fit person to govern a man'sfamily?"

Mrs. Gaunt laughed in his face. "A young bachelor!" said she; "who everheard of such a term applied to a priest, --and a saint upon earth?"

"Why, he is not married, so he must be a bachelor; and I say again it ismonstrous for a young bachelor to come between old married folk, andhear all their secrets, and have a finger in every pie, and set up to bemaster of my house, and order my wife to turn away my servants for goingto church behind me. Why not turn _me_ away too? Their fault is mine. "

"Griffith, you are in a passion, and I begin to think you want to put mein one. "

"Well, perhaps I am. Job's patience went at last, and mine has been soretried this many a month. 'T was bad enough when the man was only yourconfessor; you told him everything, and you don't tell me everything. Heknew your very heart, better than I do, and that was a bitter thing forme to bear, that love you and have no secrets from you. But every manwho marries a Catholic must endure this; so I put a good face on it, though my heart was often sore; 't was the price I had to pay for mypearl of womankind. But since he set up your governor as well, you are achanged woman; you shun company abroad, you freeze my friends at home. You have made the house so cold that I am fain to seek the 'Red Lion'for a smile or a kindly word: and now, to please this fanatical priest, you would turn away the best servants I have, and put useless, dirtyslatterns in their place, that happen to be Papists. You did not use tobe so uncharitable, nor so unreasonable. 'T is the priest's doing. He ismy secret, underhand enemy; I feel him undermining me, inch by inch, andI can bear it no longer. I must make a stand somewhere, and I may aswell make it here; for Jenny is a good girl, and her folk live in thevillage, and she helps them. Think better of it, dame, and let the poorwench stay, though she does go to church behind your husband. "

"Griffith, " said Mrs. Gaunt, "I might retort and say that you are achanged man; for to be sure you did never use to interfere between meand my maids. Are you sure some mischief-making woman is not advising_you_? But there, do not let us chafe one another, for you know we arehot-tempered both of us. Well, leave it for the present, my dear;prithee let me think it over till to-morrow, at all events, and try if Ican satisfy you. "

The jealous husband saw through this proposal directly. He turnedpurple. "That is to say, you must ask your priest first for leave toshow your husband one grain of respect and affection, and not make himquite a cipher in his own house. No, Kate, no man who respects himselfwill let another man come between himself and the wife of his bosom. This business is between you and me; I will brook no interference in it;and I tell you plainly, if you turn this poor lass off to please thisd----d priest, I'll turn the priest off to please her and her folk. Theyare as good as he is, any way. "

The bitter contempt with which he spoke of brother Leonard, and thisastounding threat, imported a new and dangerous element into thediscussion: it stung Mrs. Gaunt beyond bearing. She turned with flashingeyes upon Griffith. 

"As good as he is? The scum of my kitchen! You will make me hate themischief-making hussy. She shall pack out of the house to-morrowmorning. "

"Then I say that priest shall never darken my doors again. "

"Then I say they are my doors, not yours; and that holy man shallbrighten them whenever he will. "

 * * * * *

If to strike an adversary dumb is the tongue's triumph, Mrs. Gaunt wasvictorious; for Griffith gasped, but did not reply. 

They faced each other, pale with fury; but no more words. 

No: an ominous silence succeeded this lamentable answer, like thesilence that follows a thunder-clap. 

Griffith stood still awhile, benumbed as it were by the cruel stroke;then cast one speaking look of anguish and reproach upon her, drewhimself haughtily up, and stalked away like a wounded lion. 

Well said the ancients that anger is a short madness. When we reflect incold blood on the things we have said in hot, how impossible they seem!how out of character with our real selves! And this is one of therecognized symptoms of mania. 

There were few persons could compare with Mrs. Gaunt in nativemagnanimity; yet how ungenerous a stab had she given. 

And had he gone on, she would have gone on; but when he turned silent ather bitter thrust, and stalked away from her, she came to herself almostdirectly. 

She thought, "Good God! what have I said to him?"

And the flush of shame came to her cheek, and her eyes filled withtears. 

He saw them not; he had gone away, wounded to the heart. 

You see it was true. The house was hers; tied up as tight as wax. Thevery money (his own money) that had been spent on the place, had becomehers by being expended on real property; he could not reclaim it; he washer lodger, a dependent on her bounty. 

During all the years they had lived together she had never once assumedthe proprietor. On the contrary, she put him forward as the Squire, andslipped quietly into the background. _Bene latuit. _ But, lo! let a handbe put out to offend her saintly favorite, and that moment she couldwaken her husband from his dream, and put him down into his true legalposition with a word. The matrimonial throne for him till he resistedher priest; and then, a stool at her feet, and his. 

He was enraged as well as hurt; but being a true lover, his fury waslevelled, not at the woman who had hurt him, but at the man who stoodout of sight and set her on. 

By this time the reader knows his good qualities, and his defects;superior to his wife in one or two things, he was by no means sothorough a gentleman as she was a lady. He had begun to make a partywith his own servants against the common enemy; and, in his wrath, henow took another step, or rather a stride, in the same direction. As hehurried away to the public-house, white with ire, he met his gamekeepercoming in with a bucketful of fish fresh caught. "What have ye gotthere?" said Griffith, roughly; not that he was angry with the man, butthat his very skin was full of wrath, and it must exude. 

Mr. Leicester did not relish the tone, and replied, bluntly and sulkily, "Pike for our Papists. "

The answer, though rude, did not altogether displease Griffith; itsmacked of _odium theologicum_, a sentiment he was learning tounderstand. "Put 'em down, and listen to me, Thomas Leicester, " said he. 

And his manner was now so impressive that Leicester put down the bucketwith ludicrous expedition, and gaped at him. 

"Now, my man, why do I keep you here?"

"To take care of your game, Squire, I do suppose. "

"What? when you are the worst gamekeeper in the county. How manypoachers do you catch in the year? They have only to set one of theirgang to treat you at the public-house on a moonshiny night, and the restcan have all my pheasants at roost while you are boosing and singing. "

"Like my betters in the parlor, " muttered Tom. 

"But that is not all, " continued Gaunt, pretending not to hear him. "Youwire my rabbits, and sell them in the town. Don't go to deny it; forI've half a dozen to prove it. " Mr. Leicester looked very uncomfortable. His master continued: "I have known it this ten months, yet you are nonethe worse for 't. Now, why do I keep you here, that any other gentlemanin my place would send to Carlisle jail on a justice's warrant?"

Mr. Leicester, who had thought his master blind, and was so suddenlyundeceived, hung his head and snivelled out, "'T is because you have agood heart, Squire, and would not ruin a poor fellow for an odd rabbitor two. "

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Gaunt. "Speak your mind, for once, or elsebegone for a liar as well as a knave. "

Thus appealed to, Leicester's gypsy eyes roved to and fro as if he werelooking for some loophole to escape by; but at last he faced thesituation. He said, with a touch of genuine feeling, "D--n therabbits! I wish my hand had withered ere I touched one on them. " Butafter this preface he sunk his voice to a whisper, and said, "I see whatyou are driving at, Squire; and since there is nobody with us" (he tookoff his cap, ) "why, sir, 't is this here mole I am in debt to, nodoubt. "

Then the gentleman and his servant looked one another silently in theface, and what with their standing in the same attitude and being bothexcited and earnest, the truth must be owned, a certain family likenesscame out. Certainly their eyes were quite unlike. Leicester had hisgypsy mother's: black, keen, and restless. Gaunt had his mother's:brown, calm, and steady. But the two men had the same stature, the samemanly mould and square shoulders; and, though Leicester's cheek wasbrown as a berry, his forehead was singularly white for a man in hisrank of life, and over his left temple, close to the roots of the hair, was an oblong mole as black as ink, that bore a close resemblance inappearance and position to his master's. 

 * * * * *

"Tom Leicester; I have been insulted. "

 * * * * *

"That won't pass, sir. Who is the man?"

"One that I cannot call out like a gentleman, and yet I must not lay onhim with my cane, or I am like to get the sack, as well as my servants. 'T is the Popish priest, lad; Brother Leonard, own brother to Old Nick;he has got our Dame's ear, she cannot say him 'nay. ' She is turning awayall my people, and filling the house with Papists, to please him. Andwhen I interfered, she as good as told me I should go next; and so Ishall, I or else that priest. "

This little piece of exaggeration fired Tom Leicester. "Say ye so, Squire? then just you whisper a word in my ear, and George and I willlay that priest by the heels, and drag him through the horse-pond. Hewon't come here to trouble you after that, _I_ know. "

Gaunt's eyes flashed triumph. "A friend in need is a friend indeed, "said he. "Ay, you are right, lad. There must be no broken bones, and nobloodshed; the horse-pond is the very thing: and if she discharges youfor it, take no heed of her. You shall never leave Hernshaw Castle forthat good deed; or, if you do, I'll go with you; for the world it iswide, and I'll never live a servant in the house where I have been amaster. "

They then put their heads together and concerted the means by which thepriest at his very next visit was to be decoyed into the neighborhood ofthe horse-pond. 

And then they parted, and Griffith went to the "Red Lion. " And a pair ofblack eyes that had slyly watched this singular interview from an upperwindow withdrew quietly; and soon after Tom Leicester found himself faceto face with their owner, the sight of whom always made his heart beat alittle faster. 

Caroline Ryder had been rather cold to him of late; it was therefore acharming surprise when she met him, all wreathed in smiles, and, drawinghim apart, began to treat him like a bosom friend, and tell him what hadpassed between the master and her and Jane. Confidence begetsconfidence; and so Tom told her in turn that the Squire and the Dame hadcome to words over it. "However, " said he, "'t is all the priest'sfault: but bide awhile, all of ye. "

With this mysterious hint he meant to close his revelations. But Ryderintended nothing of the kind. Her keen eye had read the looks andgestures of Gaunt and Leicester, and these had shown her that somethingvery strange and serious was going on. She had come out expressly tolearn what it was, and Tom was no match for her arts. She so smiled onhim, and agreed with him, and led him, and drew him, and pumped him, that she got it all out of him on a promise of secrecy. She then enteredinto it with spirit, and, being what they called a scholar, undertook towrite a paper for Tom and his helper to pin on the priest's back. Nosooner said than done. She left him, and speedily returned with thefollowing document, written out in large and somewhat stragglingletters:--

 "HONEST FOLK, BEHOLD A

 MISCHIEVIOUS PRIEST, WHICH

 FOR CAUSING OF STRIFE

 'TWIXT MAN AND WYFE

 HATH MADE ACQUAINTANCE

 WITH SQUIRE'S HORSE-POND. "

And so a female conspirator was added to the plot. 

Mrs. Gaunt co-operated too, but, need I say, unconsciously. 

She was unhappy, and full of regret at what she had said. She tookherself severely to task, and drew a very unfavorable comparison betweenherself and Brother Leonard. "How ill, " she thought, "am I fitted tocarry out that meek saint's view. See what my ungoverned temper hasdone. " So then, having made so great a mistake, she thought the bestthing she could do was to seek advice of Leonard at once. She was notwithout hopes he would tell her to postpone the projected change in herhousehold, and so soothe her offended husband directly. 

She wrote a line requesting Leonard to call on her as soon as possible, and advise her in a great difficulty; and she gave this note to Ryder, and told her to send the groom off with it at once. 

Ryder squeezed the letter, and peered into it, and gathered its naturebefore she gave it to the groom to take to Leonard. 

When he was gone, she went and told Tom Leicester, and he chuckled, andmade his preparations accordingly. 

Then she retired to her own room, and went through a certain process Ihave indicated before as one of her habits: knitted her great blackbrows, and pondered the whole situation with a mental power that wasworthy of a nobler sphere and higher materials. 

Her practical revery, so to speak, continued until she was rung for todress her mistress for dinner. 

 * * * * *

Griffith was so upset, so agitated and restless, he could not stay longin any one place, not even in the "Red Lion. " So he came home to dinner, though he had mighty little appetite for it. And this led to anotherlittle conjugal scene. 

Mrs. Gaunt mounted the great oak staircase to dress for dinner, languidly, as ladies are apt to do, when reflection and regret comeafter excitement. 

Presently she heard a quick foot behind her: she knew it directly forher husband's, and her heart yearned. She did not stop nor turn herhead: womanly pride withheld her from direct submission; but womanlytenderness and tact opened a way to reconciliation. She drew softlyaside, almost to the wall, and went slower; and her hand, her sidelongdrooping head, and her whole eloquent person, whispered plainly enough, "If somebody would like to make friends, here is the door open. "

Griffith saw, but was too deeply wounded: he passed her without stopping(the staircase was eight feet broad). 

But as he passed he looked at her and sighed, for he saw she was sorry. 

She heard, and sighed too. Poor things, they had lived so happy togetherfor years. 

He went on. 

Her pride bent: "Griffith!" said she, timidly. 

He turned and stopped at that. 

"Sweetheart, " she murmured, "I was to blame. I was ungenerous. I forgotmyself. Let me recall my words. You know they did not come from myheart. "

"You need not tell me that, " said Griffith, doggedly. "I have no quarrelwith you, and never will. You but do what you are bidden, and say whatyou are bidden. I take the wound from you as best I may: the man thatset you on, 't is him I'll be revenged on. "

"Alas that you will think so!" said she. "Believe me, dearest, that holyman would be the first to rebuke me for rebelling against my husband andflouting him. O, how _could_ I say such things? I thank you, and loveyou dearly for being so blind to my faults; but I must not abuse yourblindness. Father Leonard will put me to penance for the fault youforgive. _He_ will hear no excuses. Prithee, now, be more just to thatgood man. "

Griffith listened quietly, with a cold sneer upon his lip; and this washis reply: "Till that mischief-making villain came between you and me, you never gave me a bitter word: we were the happiest pair inCumberland. But now what are we? And what shall we be in another year ortwo?--REVENGE!!"

He had begun bravely enough, but suddenly burst into an ungovernablerage; and as he yelled out that furious word his face was convulsed andugly to look at; very ugly. 

Mrs. Gaunt started: she had not seen that vile expression in his facefor many a year; but she knew it again. 

"Ay!" he cried, "he has made me drink a bitter cup this many a day. ButI'll force as bitter a one down his throat, and you shall see it done. "

Mrs. Gaunt turned pale at this violent threat; but being a high-spiritedwoman, she stiffened and hid her apprehensions loftily. "Madman that youare, " said she. "I throw away excuses on _Jealousy_, and I waste reasonupon frenzy. I'll say no more things to provoke you; but, to be sure, 'tis I that am offended now, and deeply too, as you will find. "

"So be it, " said Griffith, sullenly; then, grinding his teeth, "he shallpay for that too. "

Then he went to his dressing-room, and she to her bedroom. Griffithhating Leonard, and Kate on the verge of hating Griffith. 

And, ere her blood could cool, she was subjected to the keen, coldscrutiny of another female, and that female a secret rival. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Would you learn what men gain by admitting a member of the fair sex intotheir conspiracies? read the tragedy of "Venice Preserved"; and, by wayof afterpiece, this little chapter. 

Mrs. Gaunt sat pale and very silent, and Caroline Ryder stood behind, doing up her hair into a magnificent structure that added eight inchesto the lady's height: and in this operation her own black hair and keenblack eyes came close to the golden hair and deep blue eyes, nowtroubled, and made a picture striking by contrast. 

As she was putting the finishing touches, she said, quietly, "If youplease, Dame, I have somewhat to tell you. "

Mrs. Gaunt sighed wearily, expecting some very minute communication. 

"Well, Dame, I dare say I am risking my place, but I can't help it. "

"Another time, Ryder, " said Mrs. Gaunt. "I am in no humor to be worriedwith my servants' squabbles. "

"Nay, madam, 't is not that at all: 't is about Father Leonard. Sure youwould not like him to be drawn through the horse-pond; and that is whatthey mean to do next time he comes here. "

In saying these words, the jade contrived to be adjusting Mrs. Gaunt'sdress. The lady's heart gave a leap, and the servant's cunning fingerfelt it, and then felt a shudder run all over that stately frame. Butafter that Mrs. Gaunt seemed to turn to steel. She distrusted Ryder, shecould not tell why; distrusted her, and was upon her guard. 

"You must be mistaken, " said she. "Who would dare to lay hands on apriest in my house?"

"Well, Dame, you see they egg one another on: don't ask me to betray myfellow-servants; but let us balk them. I don't deceive you, Dame: if thegood priest shows his face here, he will be thrown into the horse-pond, and sent home with a ticket pinned to his back. Them that is to do itare on the watch now, and have got their orders; and 't is a burningshame. To be sure I am not a Catholic; but religion is religion, and amore heavenly face I never saw: and for it to be dragged through afilthy horse-pond!"

Mrs. Gaunt clutched her inspector's arm and turned pale. "The villains!the fiends!" she gasped, "Go ask your master to come to me thismoment. "

Ryder took a step or two, then stopped. "Alack, Dame, " said she, "thatis not the way to do. You may be sure the others would not dare, if mymaster had not shown them his mind. "

Mrs. Gaunt stopped her ears. "Don't tell me that _he_ has ordered thisimpious, cruel, cowardly act. He is a lion: and this comes from theheart of cowardly curs. What is to be done, woman? tell me; for you arecooler than I am. "

"Well, Dame, if I were in your place, I'd just send him a line, and bidhim stay away till the storm blows over. "

"You are right. But who is to carry it? My own servants are traitors tome. "

"I'll carry it myself. "

"You shall. Put on your hat, and run through the wood; that is theshortest way. "

She wrote a few lines on a large sheet of paper, for note-paper therewas none in those days; sealed it, and gave it to Ryder. 

Ryder retired to put on her hat, and pry into the letter with greedyeyes. 

It ran thus:--

"DEAR FATHER AND FRIEND, --You must come hither no more at present. Askthe bearer why this is, for I am ashamed to put it on paper. Pray forthem: for you can, but I cannot. Pray for me, too, bereft for a time ofyour counsels. I shall come and confess to you in a few days, when weare all cooler; but you shall honor _his_ house no more. Obey _me_ inthis one thing, who shall obey you in all things else, and am

 "Your indignant and sorrowful daughter, "CATHARINE GAUNT. "

"No more than that?" said Ryder. "Ay, she guessed as I should look. "

She whipped on her hat and went out. 

Who should she meet, or, I might say, run against, at the hall door, butFather Leonard. 

He had come at once, in compliance with Mrs. Gaunt's request. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Mrs. Ryder uttered a little scream of dismay. The priest smiled, andsaid, sweetly, "Forgive me, mistress, I fear I startled you. "

"Indeed you did, sir, " said she. She looked furtively round, and sawLeicester and his underling on the watch. 

Leicester, unaware of her treachery, made her a signal of intelligence. 

She responded to it, to gain time. 

It was a ticklish situation. Some would have lost their heads. Ryder wasalarmed, but all the more able to defend her plans. Her first move, asusual with such women, was--a lie. 

"Our Dame is in the Grove, sir, " said she. "I am to bring you to her. "

The priest bowed his head, gravely, and moved towards the Grove withdowncast eyes. Ryder kept close to him for a few steps; then she ran toLeicester, and whispered, hastily, "Go you to the stable-gate; I'llbring him round that way: hide now; he suspects. "

"Ay, ay, " said Leicester; and the confiding pair slipped away round acorner to wait for their victim. 

Ryder hurried him into the Grove, and, as soon as she had got him out ofhearing, told him the truth. 

He turned pale; for these delicate organizations do not generally excelin courage. 

Ryder pitied him, and something of womanly feeling began to mingle withher plans. "They shall not lay a finger on you, sir, " said she. "I'llscratch and scream and bring the whole parish out sooner; but the bestway is not to give them a chance; please you follow me. " And she hurriedhim through the Grove, and then into an unfrequented path of the greatwood. 

When they were safe from pursuit she turned and looked at him. He was agood deal agitated; but the uppermost sentiment was gratitude. It soonfound words, and, as usual, happy ones. He thanked her with dignity andtenderness for the service she had done him, and asked her if she was aCatholic. 

"No, " said she. 

At that his countenance fell, but only for a moment. "Ah! would youwere, " he said, earnestly. He then added, sweetly, "To be sure I haveall the more reason to be grateful to you. "

"You are very welcome, reverend sir, " said Ryder, graciously. "Religionis religion; and 't is a barbarous thing that violence should be done tomen of your cloth. "

Having thus won his heart, the artful woman began at one and the sametime to please and to probe him. "Sir, " said she, "be of good heart;they have done you no harm, and themselves no good; my mistress willhate them for it, and love you all the more. "

Father Leonard's pale cheek colored all over at these words, though hesaid nothing. 

"Since they won't let you come to her, she will come to you. "

"Do you think so?" said he, faintly. 

"Nay, I am sure of it, sir. So would any woman. We still follow ourhearts, and get our way by hook or by crook. "

Again the priest colored, either with pleasure or with shame, or withboth; and the keen feminine eye perused him with microscopic power. Shewaited, to give him an opportunity of talking to her and laying bare hisfeelings; but he was either too delicate, too cautious, or too pure. 

So then she suddenly affected to remember her mistress's letter. Sheproduced it with an apology. He took it with unfeigned eagerness, andread it in silence; and having read it, he stood patient, with the tearsin his eyes. 

Ryder eyed him with much curiosity and a little pity. "Don't you take onfor that, " said she. "Why, she will be more at her ease when she visitsyou at your place than here; and she won't give you up, I promise. "

The priest trembled, and Ryder saw it. 

"But, my daughter, " said he, "I am perplexed and grieved. It seems thatI make mischief in your house: that is an ill office; I fear it is myduty to retire from this place altogether, rather than cause dissensionbetween those whom the Church by holy sacrament hath bound together. " Sosaying, he hung his head and sighed. 

Ryder eyed him with a little pity, but more contempt. "Why take otherpeople's faults on your back?" said she. "My mistress is tied to a manshe does not love; but that is not your fault: and he is jealous of you, that never gave him cause. If I was a man he should not accuse me--fornothing; nor set his man on to drag me through a horse-pond--fornothing. _I'd have the sweet as well as the bitter. _"

Father Leonard turned and looked at her with a face full of terror. Somebeautiful, honeyed fiend seemed to be entering his heart and temptingit. "O, hush! my daughter, hush!" he said; "what words are these for avirtuous woman to speak, and a priest to hear?"

"There, I have offended you by my blunt way, " said the cajoling hussy, in soft and timid tones. 

"Nay, not so; but O speak not so lightly of things that peril theimmortal soul!"

"Well, I have done, " said Ryder. "You are out of danger now; so give yougood day. "

He stopped her. "What, before I have thanked you for your goodness. Ah, Mistress Ryder, 't is on these occasions a priest sins by longing forriches to reward his benefactors. I have naught to offer you but thisring; it was my mother's, --my dear mother's. " He took it off his fingerto give it her. 

But the little bit of goodness that cleaves even to the heart of an_intrigante_ revolted against her avarice. "Nay, poor soul, I'll nottake it, " said she; and put her hands before her eyes not to see it, for she knew she could not look at it long and spare it. 

With this she left him; but, ere she had gone far, her cunning andcuriosity gained the upper hand again, and she whipped behind a greattree and crouched, invisible all but her nose and one piercing eye. 

She saw the priest make a few steps homewards, then look around, thentake Mrs. Gaunt's letter out of his pocket, press it passionately to hislips, and hide it tenderly in his bosom. 

This done, he went home, with his eyes on the ground as usual, andmeasured steps. And to all who met him he seemed a creature in whomreligion had conquered all human frailty. 

Caroline Ryder hurried home with cruel exultation in her black eyes. Butshe soon found that the first thing she had to do was to defend herself. Leicester and his man met her, and the former looked gloomy, and thelatter reproached her bitterly, called her a double-faced jade, and saidhe would tell the Squire of the trick she had played them. But Ryder hada lie ready in a moment. "'T is you I have saved, not him, " said she. "He is something more than mortal: why, he told me of his own accordwhat you were there for; but that, if you were so unlucky as to layhands on him, you would rot alive. It seems that has been tried outStanhope way; a man did but give him a blow, and his arm was stiff nextday, and he never used it again; and next his hair fell off his head, and then his eyes they turned to water and ran all out of him, and hedied within the twelvemonth. "

Country folk were nearly, though not quite, as superstitious at thattime as in the Middle Ages. "Murrain on him, " said Leicester. "Catch melaying a finger on him. I'm glad he is gone; and I hope he won't nevercome back no more. "

"Not likely, since he can read all our hearts. Why he told me somethingabout you, Tom Leicester; he says you are in love. "

"No! did he really now?"--and Leicester opened his eyes very wide. "Anddid he tell you who the lass is?"

"He did so; and surprised me properly. " This with a haughty glance. 

Leicester held his tongue and turned red. 

"Who is it, mistress?" asked the helper. 

"He didn't say I was to tell _you_, young man. "

And with these two pricks of her needle she left them both more or lessdiscomfited, and went to scrutinize and anatomize her mistress's heartwith plenty of cunning, but no mercy. She related her own part in theaffair very briefly, but dwelt with well-feigned sympathy on thepriest's feelings. "He turned as white as a sheet, ma'am, when I toldhim, and offered me his very ring off his finger, he was so grateful;poor man!"

"You did not take it, I hope?" said Mrs. Gaunt, quickly. 

"La, no ma'am! I hadn't the heart. "

Mrs. Gaunt was silent awhile. When she spoke again it was to inquirewhether Ryder had given him the letter. 

"That I did: and it brought the tears into his poor eyes; and suchbeautiful eyes as he has, to be sure. You would have pitied him if youhad seen him read it, and cry over it, and then kiss it and put it inhis bosom he did. "

Mrs. Gaunt said nothing, but turned her head away. 

The operator shot a sly glance into the looking-glass, and saw a pearlytear trickling down her subject's fair cheek. So she went on, allsympathy outside, and remorselessness within. "To think of that face, more like an angel's than a man's, to be dragged through a nastyhorse-pond. 'T is a shame of master to set his men on a clergyman. " Andso was proceeding, with well-acted and catching warmth, to dig asdangerous a pit for Mrs. Gaunt as ever was dug for any lady; forwhatever Mrs. Gaunt had been betrayed into saying, this Ryder would haveused without mercy, and with diabolical skill. 

Yes, it was a pit, and the lady's tender heart pushed her towards it, and her fiery temper drew her towards it. 

Yet she escaped it this time. The dignity, delicacy, and pride, that isoftener found in these old families than out of them, saved her fromthat peril. She did not see the trap; but she spurned the bait by nativeinstinct. 

She threw up her hand in a moment, with a queenly gesture, and stoppedthe tempter. 

"Not--one--word--from my servant against my husband in _my_ hearing!"said she, superbly. 

And Ryder shrank back into herself directly. 

"Child, " said Mrs. Gaunt, "you have done me a great service, and myhusband too; for if this dastardly act had been done in his name, hewould soon have been heartily ashamed of it, and deplored it. Suchservices can never be quite repaid; but you will find a purse in thatdrawer with five guineas; it is yours; and my lavender silk dress, bepleased to wear that about me, to remind me of the good office you havedone me. And now, all you can do for me is to leave me; for I am very, very unhappy. "

Ryder retired with the spoil, and Mrs. Gaunt leaned her head over herchair, and cried without stint. 

 * * * * *

After this, no angry words passed between Mr. And Mrs. Gaunt; butsomething worse, a settled coolness, sprung up. 

As for Griffith, his cook kept her place, and the priest came no more tothe Castle; so, having outwardly gained the day, he was ready to forgetand forgive; but Kate, though she would not let her servant speak ill ofGriffith, was deeply indignant and disgusted with him. She met hisadvances with such a stern coldness, that he turned sulky and bitter inhis turn. 

Husband and wife saw little of each other, and hardly spoke. 

Both were unhappy; but Kate was angriest, and Griffith saddest. 

In an evil hour he let out his grief to Caroline Ryder. She seized theopportunity, and, by a show of affectionate sympathy and zeal, madeherself almost necessary to him, and contrived to establish a veryperilous relation between him and her. Matters went so far as this, thatthe poor man's eye used to brighten when he saw her coming. 

Yet this victory cost her a sore heart and all the patient self-denialof her sex. To be welcome to Griffith she had to speak to him of herrival, and to speak well of her. She tried talking of herself and herattachment; he yawned in her face: she tried smooth detraction andinnuendo; he fired up directly, and defended her of whose conduct he hadbeen complaining the very moment before. 

Then she saw that there was but one way to the man's heart. Sore, andsick, and smiling, she took that way: resolving to bide her time; toworm herself in any how, and wait patiently till she could venture tothrust her mistress out. 

If any of my readers need to be told why this she Machiavel threw herfellow-conspirators over, the reason was simply this: on calm reflectionshe saw it was not her interest to get Father Leonard insulted. Shelooked on him as her mistress's lover, and her own best friend. "Was Imad?" said she to herself. "My business is to keep him sweet upon her, till they can't live without one another: and then I'll tell _him_; andtake your place in this house, my lady. "

 * * * * *

And now it is time to visit that extraordinary man, who was the cause ofall this mischief; whom Gaunt called a villain, and Mrs. Gaunt a saint;and, as usual, he was neither, one nor the other. 

Father Leonard was a pious, pure, and noble-minded man, who hadundertaken to defy nature, with religion's aid; and, after years ofsuccessful warfare, now sustained one of those defeats to which suchwarriors have been liable in every age. If his heart was pure, it wastender; and nature never intended him to live all his days alone. Afteryears of prudent coldness to the other sex, he fell in with a creaturethat put him off his guard at first, she seemed so angelic. "At Wisdom'sgate suspicion slept": and, by degrees, which have been alreadyindicated in this narrative, she whom the Church had committed to hisspiritual care became his idol. Could he have foreseen this, it wouldnever have happened; he would have steeled himself, or left the countrythat contained this sweet temptation. But love stole on him, masked withreligious zeal, and robed in a garment of light that seemed celestial. 

When the mask fell, it was too late: the power to resist the soft andthrilling enchantment was gone. The solitary man was too deep in love. 

Yet he clung still to that self-deception, without which he never couldhave been entrapped into an earthly passion; he never breathed a word oflove to her. It would have alarmed her; it would have alarmed himself. Every syllable that passed between these two might have been publishedwithout scandal. But the heart does not speak by words alone: there arelooks and there are tones of voice that belong to Love, and are hissigns, his weapons; and it was in these very tones the priest murmuredto his gentle listener about "the angelic life" between spirits stilllingering on earth, but purged from earthly dross; and even about othertopics less captivating to the religious imagination. He had persuadedher to found a school in this dark parish, and in it he taught the poorwith exemplary and touching patience. Well, when he spoke to her aboutthis school, it was in words of practical good sense, but in tones oflove; and she, being one of those feminine women who catch the tone theyare addressed in, and instinctively answer in tune, and, moreover, seeing no ill, but good, in the _subject_ of their conversation, repliedsometimes, unguardedly enough, in accents almost as tender. 

In truth, if Love was really a personage, as the heathens feigned, hemust have often perched on a tree in that quiet grove, and chuckled andmocked, when this man and woman sat and murmured together, in the softseducing twilight, about the love of God. 

And now things had come to a crisis. Husband and wife went about thehouse silent and gloomy, the ghosts of their former selves; and thepriest sat solitary, benighted, bereaved of the one human creature hecared for. Day succeeded to day, and still she never came. Every morninghe said, "She will come to-day, " and brightened with the hope. But theleaden hours crept by, and still she came not. 

Three sorrowful weeks went by; and he fell into deep dejection. He usedto wander out at night, and come and stand where he could see herwindows with the moon shining on them: then go slowly home, cold inbody, and with his heart aching, lonely, deserted, and perhapsforgotten. O, never till now had he known the utter aching sense ofbeing quite alone in this weary world!

One day, as he sat drooping and listless, there came a light foot alongthe passage, a light tap at the door, and the next moment she stoodbefore him, a little paler than usual, but lovelier than ever, forcelestial joy softened her noble features. 

The priest started up with a cry of joy that ought to have warned her;but it only brought a faint blush of pleasure to her cheek and thebrimming tears to her eyes. 

"Dear father and friend, " said she. "What! have you missed me? Think, then, how I have missed _you_. But 't was best for us both to let theirvile passions cool first. "

Leonard could not immediately reply. The emotion of seeing her again sosuddenly almost choked him. 

He needed all the self-possession he had been years acquiring not tothrow himself at her knees and declare his passion to her. 

Mrs. Gaunt saw his agitation, but did not interpret to hisdisadvantage. 

She came eagerly and sat on a stool beside him. "Dear father, " she said, "do not let their insolence grieve you. They have smarted for it, and_shall_ smart till they make their submission to you, and beg andentreat you to come to us again. Meantime, since you cannot visit me, Ivisit you. Confess me, father, and then direct me with your counsels. Ah! if you could but give me the Christian temper to carry them outfirmly but meekly! 'T is my ungoverned spirit hath wrought all thismischief, --_mea culpa! mea culpa!_"

By this time Leonard had recovered his self-possession, and he spent anhour of strange intoxication, confessing his idol, sentencing his idolto light penances, directing and advising his idol, and all in the softmurmurs of a lover. 

She left him, and the room seemed to darken. 

Two days only elapsed, and she came again. Visit succeeded to visit: andher affection seemed boundless. 

The insult he had received was to be avenged in one place, and healed inanother, and, if possible, effaced with tender hand. So she kept all hersweetness for that little cottage, and all her acidity for HernshawCastle. 

It was an evil hour when Griffith attacked her saint with violence. Thewoman was too high-spirited, and too sure of her own rectitude, toendure that: so, instead of crushing her, it drove her toretaliation, --and to imprudence. 

These visits to console Father Leonard were quietly watched by Ryder, for one thing. But, worse than that, they placed Mrs. Gaunt in a newposition with Leonard, and one that melts the female heart. She was nowthe protectress and the consoler of a man she admired and revered. I sayif anything on earth can breed love in a grand female bosom, this will. 

She had put her foot on a sunny slope clad with innocent-lookingflowers; but more and more precipitous at every step, and perdition atthe bottom. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Father Leonard, visited, soothed, and petted by his idol, recovered hisspirits, and, if he pined during her absence, he was always so joyful inher presence that she thought of course he was permanently happy; sothen, being by nature magnanimous and placable, she began to smile onher husband again, and a tacit reconciliation came about by naturaldegrees. 

But this produced a startling result. 

Leonard, as her confessor, could learn everything that passed betweenthem; he had only to follow established precedents, and ask questionshis Church has printed for the use of confessors. He was mad enough toput such interrogatories. 

The consequence was, that one day, being off his guard, or literallyunable to contain his bursting heart any longer, he uttered a cry ofjealous agony, and then, in a torrent of burning, melting words, appealed to her pity. He painted her husband's happiness, and his ownmisery, and barren desolation, with a fervid, passionate eloquence thatparalyzed his hearer, and left her pale and trembling, and the tears ofpity trickling down her cheek. 

Those silent tears calmed him a little; and he begged her forgiveness, and awaited his doom. 

"I pity you, " said she, angelically. "What? _you_ jealous of my husband!O, pray to Christ and Our Lady to cure you of this folly. "

She rose, fluttering inwardly, but calm as a statue on the outside, gavehim her hand, and went home very slowly; and the moment she was out ofhis sight she drooped her head like a crushed flower. 

She was sad, ashamed, alarmed. 

Her mind was in a whirl; and, were I to imitate those writers whoundertake to dissect and analyze the heart at such moments, and put theexact result on paper, I should be apt to sacrifice truth to precision;I must stick to my old plan, and tell you what she did: that will surelybe some index to her mind, especially with my female readers. 

She went home straight to her husband; he was smoking his pipe afterdinner. She drew her chair close to him, and laid her hand tenderly onhis shoulder. "Griffith, " she said, "will you grant your wife a favor?You once promised to take me abroad: I desire to go now; I long to seeforeign countries; I am tired of this place. I want a change. Prithee, prithee take me hence this very day. "

Griffith looked aghast. "Why, sweetheart, it takes a deal of money goabroad; we must get in our rents first. "

"Nay, I have a hundred pounds laid by. "

"Well, but what a fancy to take all of a sudden!"

"O Griffith, don't deny me what I ask you, with my arm round your neck, dearest. It is no fancy. I want to be alone with _you_, far from thisplace where coolness has come between us. " And with this she fell tocrying and sobbing, and straining him tight to her bosom, as if shefeared to lose him, or be taken from him. 

Griffith kissed her, and told her to cheer up, he was not the man todeny her anything. "Just let me get my hay in, " said he, "and I'll takeyou to Rome, if you like. "

"No, no: to-day, or to-morrow at furthest, or you don't love me as Ideserve to be loved by you this day. "

"Now Kate, my darling, be reasonable. I _must_ get my hay in; and then Iam your man. "

Mrs. Gaunt had gradually sunk almost to her knees. She now started upwith nostrils expanding and her blue eyes glittering. "Your hay!" shecried, with bitter contempt; "your hay before your wife? That is how_you_ love me!" And, the next moment, she seemed to turn from a fierywoman to a glacier. 

Griffith smiled at all this, with that lordly superiority the malesometimes wears when he is behaving like a dull ass; and smoked hispipe, and resolved to indulge her whim as soon as ever he had got hishay in. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Showery weather set in, and the hay had to be turned twice, and left incocks instead of carried. 

Griffith spoke now and then about the foreign tour; but Kate deigned noreply whatever; and the chilled topic died out before the wet hay couldbe got in: and so much for Procrastination. 

Meantime, Betty Gough was sent for to mend the house-linen. She cameevery other day after dinner, and sat working alone beside Mrs. Gaunttill dark. 

Caroline Ryder put her own construction on this, and tried to makefriends with Mrs. Gough, intending to pump her. But Mrs. Gough gave hershort, dry answers. Ryder then felt sure that Gough was a go-between, and, woman-like, turned up her nose at her with marked contempt. Forwhy? This office of go-between was one she especially coveted forherself under the circumstances; and, a little while ago, it had seemedwithin her grasp. 

One fine afternoon the hay was all carried, and Griffith came home ingood spirits to tell his wife he was ready to make the grand tour withher. 

He was met at the gate by Mrs. Gough, with a face of great concern; shebegged him to come and see the Dame; she had slipped on the oak stairs, poor soul, and hurt her back. 

Griffith tore up the stairs, and found Kate in the drawing-room, lyingon a sofa, and her doctor by her side. He came in, trembling like aleaf, and clasped her piteously in his arms. At this she uttered alittle patient sigh of pain, and the doctor begged him to moderatehimself: there was no immediate cause of alarm; but she must be keptquiet; she had strained her back, and her nerves were shaken by thefall. 

"O my poor Kate!" cried Griffith; and would let nobody else touch her. She was no longer a tall girl, but a statuesque woman; yet he carriedher in his herculean arms up to her bed. She turned her head towards himand shed a gentle tear at this proof of his love; but the next momentshe was cold again, and seemed weary of her life. 

An invalid's bed was sent to her by the doctor at her own request, andplaced on a small bedstead. She lay on this at night, and on a sofa byday. 

Griffith was now as good as a widower; and Caroline Ryder improved theopportunity. She threw herself constantly in his way, all smiles, smalltalk, and geniality. 

Like many healthy men, your sickness wearied him if it lasted over twodays; and whenever he came out, chilled and discontented, from hisinvalid wife, there was a fine, buoyant, healthy young woman, ready tochat with him, and brimming over with undisguised admiration. 

True, she was only a servant, --a servant to the core. But she had beenalways about ladies, and could wear their surface as readily as shecould their gowns. Moreover, Griffith himself lacked dignity andreserve; he would talk to anybody. 

The two women began to fill the relative situations of clouds andsunshine. 

But, ere this had lasted long, the enticing contact with the object ofher lawless fancy inflamed Ryder, and made her so impatient that shestruck her long meditated blow a little prematurely. 

The passage outside Mrs. Gaunt's door had a large window; and one day, while Griffith was with his wife, Ryder composed herself on thewindow-seat in a forlorn attitude, too striking and unlike her usual gaydemeanor to pass unnoticed. 

Griffith came out and saw this drooping, disconsolate figure. "Hallo!"said he, "what is wrong with _you_?" a little fretfully. 

A deep sigh was the only response. 

"Had words with your sweetheart?"

"You know I have no sweetheart, sir. "

The good-natured Squire made an attempt or two to console her and findout what was the matter; but he could get nothing out of her butmonosyllables and sighs. At last the crocodile contrived to cry. Andhaving thus secured his pity, she said: "There, never heed me. I'm afoolish woman; I can't bear to see my dear master so abused. "

"What d' ye mean?" said Griffith, sternly. Her very first shaft woundedhis peace of mind. 

"O, no matter! why should I be your friend and my own enemy? If I tellyou, I shall lose my place. "

"Nonsense, girl, you shall never lose your place while I am here. "

"Well, I hope not, sir; for I am very happy here; too happy methinks, when _you_ speak kindly to me. Take no notice of what I said. 'T is bestto be blind at times. "

The simple Squire did not see that this artful woman was playing thestale game of her sex; stimulating his curiosity under pretence ofputting him off. He began to fret with suspicion and curiosity, andinsisted on her speaking out. 

"Ah! but I am so afraid you will hate me, " said she; "and that will beworse than losing my place. "

Griffith stamped on the ground. "What is it?" said he, fiercely. 

Ryder seemed frightened. "It is nothing, " said she. Then she paused, andadded, "but my folly. I can't bear to see you waste your feelings. Sheis not so ill as you fancy. "

"Do you mean to say that my wife is pretending?"

"How can I say that? I wasn't there: _nobody saw her fall_; nor _heardher either_; and the house full of people. No doubt there is somethingthe matter with her; but I do believe her heart is in more trouble thanher back. "

"And what troubles her heart? Tell me, and she shall not fret long. "

"Well, sir; then just you send for Father Leonard; and she will get up, and walk as she used, and smile on you as she used. That man is themain of her sickness, you take my word. "

Griffith turned sick at heart; and the strong man literally staggered atthis envenomed thrust of a weak woman's tongue. But he struggled withthe poison. 

"What d' ye mean, woman?" said he. "The priest hasn't been near herthese two months. "

"That is it, sir, " replied Ryder quietly; "_he_ is too wise to come hereagainst your will; and _she_ is bitter against you for frightening himaway. Ask yourself, sir, didn't she change to you the moment that youthreatened that Leonard with the horse-pond?"

"That is true!" gasped the wretched husband. 

Yet he struggled again. "But she made it up with me after that. Why, 'twas but the other day she begged me to go abroad with her, and take heraway from this place. "

"Ay? indeed!" said Ryder, bending her black brows, "did she so?"

"That she did, " said Griffith joyfully; "so you see you are mistaken. "

"You should have taken her at her word, sir, " was all the woman's reply. 

"Well, you see the hay was out; so I put it off; and then came thecursed rain, day after day; and so she cooled upon it. "

"Of course she did, sir. " Then, with a solemnity that appalled hermiserable listener, "I'd give all I'm worth if you had taken her at herword that minute. But that is the way with you gentlemen; you let theoccasion slip; and we that be women never forgive that: she won't giveyou the same chance again, _I_ know. Now if I was not afraid to make youunhappy, I'd tell you why she asked you to go abroad. She felt herselfweak and saw her danger; she found she could not resist that Leonard anylonger; and she had the sense to see it wasn't worth her while to ruinherself for him; so she asked you to save her from him: that is theplain English. And you didn't. "

At this, Griffith's face wore an expression of agony so horrible thatRyder hesitated in her course. "There, there, " said she, "pray don'tlook so, dear master! after all, there's nothing certain; and perhaps Iam too severe where I see you ill-treated: and to be sure no woman couldbe cold to _you_ unless she was bewitched out of her seven senses bysome other man. I couldn't use you as mistress does; but then there'snobody I care a straw for in these parts, except my dear master. "

Griffith took no notice of this overture: the potent poison of jealousywas coursing through all his veins and distorting his ghastly face. 

"O God!" he gasped, "can this thing be? My wife! the mother of my child!It is a lie! I can't believe it; I won't believe it. Have pity on me, woman, and think again, and unsay your words; for, if 't is so, therewill be murder in this house. "

Ryder was alarmed. "Don't talk so, " said she hastily; "no woman born isworth that. Besides, as you say, what do we know against her? She is agentlewoman, and well brought up. Now, dear master, you have got onefriend in this house, and that is me: I know women better than you do. Will you be ruled by me?"

"Yes, I will: for I do believe you care a little for me. "

"Then don't you believe anything against our Dame. Keep quiet till youknow more. Don't you be so simple as to accuse her to her face, oryou'll never learn the truth. Just you watch her quietly, withoutseeming; and I'll help you. Be a man, and know the truth. "

"I will!" said Griffith, grinding his teeth. "And I believe she willcome out pure as snow. "

"Well, I hope so too, " said Ryder, dryly. Then she added, "But don't yoube seen speaking to me too much, sir, or she will suspect me, and thenshe will be on her guard with _me_. When I have anything particular totell you, I'll cough, so; and then I'll run out into the Grove: nobodygoes there now. "

Griffith did not see the hussy was arranging her own affair as well ashis. He fell into the trap bodily. 

 * * * * *

The life this man led was now infernal. 

He watched his wife night and day to detect her heart; he gave uphunting, he deserted the "Red Lion"; if he went out of doors, it was buta step; he hovered about the place to see if messages came or went; andhe spent hours in his wife's bedroom, watching her, grim, silent, andsombre, to detect her inmost heart. His flesh wasted visibly, and hisruddy color paled. Hell was in his heart. Ay, two hells: jealousy andsuspense. 

Mrs. Gaunt saw directly that something was amiss, and erelong shedivined what it was. 

But, if he was jealous, she was proud as Lucifer. So she met hisever-watchful eye with the face of a marble statue. 

Only in secret her heart quaked and yearned, and she shed many a furtivetear, and was sore, sore perplexed. 

Meantime Ryder was playing with her husband's anguish like a cat with amouse. 

Upon the pretence of some petty discovery or other, she got him out dayafter day into the Grove, and, to make him believe in her candor andimpartiality, would give him feeble reasons for thinking his wife lovedhim still; taking care to overpower these reasons with some little pieceof strong good-sense and subtle observation. 

It is the fate of moral poisoners to poison themselves as well as theirvictims. This is a just retribution, and it fell upon this female Iago. Her wretched master now loved his wife to distraction, yet hated her tothe death: and Ryder loved her master passionately, yet hated himintensely, by fits and starts. 

These secret meetings on which she had counted so, what did she gain bythem? She saw that, with all her beauty, intelligence, and zeal for him, she was nothing to him still. He suspected, he sometimes hated his wife, but he was always full of her. There was no getting any other wedge intohis heart. 

This so embittered Ryder that one day she revenged herself on him. 

He had been saying that no earthly torment could equal his: all hiswatching had shown him nothing for certain. "O, " said he, "if I couldonly get proof of her innocence, or proof of her guilt! Anything betterthan the misery of doubt. It gnaws my heart, it consumes my flesh. Ican't sleep, I can't eat, I can't sit down. I envy the dead that lie atpeace. O my heart! my heart!"

"And all for a woman that is not young, nor half so handsome asyourself. Well, sir, I'll try and cure you of your _doubt_ if that iswhat torments you. When you threatened that Leonard, he got his ordersto come here no more. But _she_ visited him at his place again andagain. "

"'T is false! How know you that?"

"As soon as your back was turned, she used to order her horse and rideto him. "

"How do you know she went to _him_?"

"I mounted the tower, and saw the way she took. "

Griffith's face was a piteous sight. He stammered out, "Well, he is herconfessor. She always visited him at times. "

"Ay, sir; but in those days her blood was cool, and his too; but bethinkyou now, when you threatened the man with the horse-pond, he became yourenemy. All revenge is sweet; but what revenge so sweet to any man asthat which came to his arms of its own accord? I do notice that mencan't read men, but any woman can read a woman. Maids they are reserved, because their mothers have told them that is the only way to getmarried. But what have a wife and a priest to keep them distant? Canthey ever hope to come together lawfully? That is why a priest'slight-o'-love is always some honest man's wife. What had those two tokeep them from folly? Old Betty Gough? Why, the mistress had bought her, body and soul, long ago. No, sir, you had no friend there; and you hadthree enemies, --love, revenge, and opportunity. Why, what did the priestsay to me? I met him not ten yards from here. 'Ware the horse-pond!'says I. Says he, '_Since I am to have the bitter, I'll have the sweet aswell. _'"

These infernal words were not spoken in vain. Griffith's features werehorribly distorted, his eyes rolled fearfully, and he fell to theground, grinding his teeth, and foaming at the mouth. An epileptic fit!

An epileptic fit is a terrible sight: the simple description of one inour medical books is appalling. 

And in this case it was all the more fearful, the subject being sostrong and active. 

Caroline Ryder shrieked with terror, but no one heard her; at allevents, no one came; to be sure the place had a bad name for ghosts, etc. 

She tried to hold his head, but could not, for his body kept boundingfrom the earth with inconceivable elasticity and fury, and his arms flewin every direction; and presently Ryder received a violent blow thatalmost stunned her. 

She lay groaning and trembling beside the victim of her poisonous tongueand of his own passions. 

When she recovered herself he was snorting rather than breathing, butlying still and pale enough, with his eyes set and glassy. 

She got up, and went with uneven steps to a little rill hard by, andplunged her face in it: then filled her beaver hat, and came and dashedwater repeatedly in his face. 

He came to his senses by degrees; but was weak as an infant. Then Ryderwiped the foam from his lips, and, kneeling on her knees, laid a softhand upon his heavy head, shedding tears of pity and remorse, and sickat heart herself. 

For what had she gained by blackening her rival? The sight of _his_bodily agony, and _his_ ineradicable love. 

Mrs. Gaunt sat out of shot, cold, calm, superior. 

Yet, in the desperation of her passion, it was something to nurse hisweak head an instant, and shed hot tears upon his brow; it was apositive joy, and soon proved a fresh and inevitable temptation. 

"My poor master, " said she, tenderly, "I never will say a word to youagain. It is better to be blind. My God! how you cling to her thatfeigns a broken back to be rid of you, when there are others as well tolook at, and ever so much younger, that adore every hair on your dearhead, and would follow you round the world for one kind look. "

"Let no one love me like that, " said Griffith feebly, "to love so is tobe miserable. "

"Pity her then, at least, " murmured Ryder; and, feeling she had quitecommitted herself now, her bosom panted under Griffith's ear, and toldhim the secret she had kept till now. 

My female readers will sneer at this temptation: they cannot putthemselves in a man's place. My male readers know that scarcely one manout of a dozen, sick, sore, and hating her he loved, would have turnedaway from the illicit consolation thus offered to him in his hour ofweakness with soft, seducing tones, warm tears, and heart that panted athis ear. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

How did poor, faulty Griffith receive it?

He raised his head, and turned his brown eye gentle but full upon her. "My poor girl, " said he, "I see what you are driving at. But that willnot do. I have nothing to give you in exchange. I hate my wife that Iloved so dear: d--n her! d--n her! But I hate all womankind for hersake. Keep you clear of me. I would ruin no poor girl for heartlesssport, I shall have blood on my hands erelong, and that is enough. "

And, with these alarming words, he seemed suddenly to recover all hisvigor; for he rose and stalked away at once, and never looked behindhim. 

Ryder made no further attempt. She sat down and shed bitter tears ofsorrow and mortification. 

After this cruel rebuff she must hate somebody; and, with the justice ofher sex, she pitched on Mrs. Gaunt, and hated her like a demon, andwatched to do her a mischief by hook or by crook. 

 * * * * *

Griffith's appearance and manner caused Mrs. Gaunt very serious anxiety. His clothes hung loose on his wasting frame; his face was of one uniformsallow tint, like a maniac's; and he sat silent for hours beside hiswife, eying her askant from time to time like a surly mastiff guardingsome treasure. 

She divined what was passing in his mind, and tried to soothe him; butalmost in vain. He was sometimes softened for the moment; but _hæretlateri lethalis arundo_; he still hovered about, watching her andtormenting himself; gnawed mad by three vultures of the mind, --doubt, jealousy, and suspense. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Gaunt wrote letters to Father Leonard: hitherto she had only senthim short messages. 

Betty Gough carried these letters, and brought the answers. 

Griffith, thanks to the hint Ryder had given him, suspected this, andwaylaid the old woman, and roughly demanded to see the letter she wascarrying. She stoutly protested she had none. He seized her, turned herpockets inside out, and found a bunch of keys; item, a printed dialoguebetween Peter and Herod, omitted in the canonical books, but describedby the modern discoverer as an infallible charm for the toothache; item, a brass thimble; item, half a nutmeg. 

"Curse your cunning, " said he; and went off muttering. 

The old woman tottered trembling to Mrs. Gaunt, related this outragewith an air of injured innocence, then removed her cap, undid her hair, and took out a letter from Leonard. 

"This must end, and shall, " said Mrs. Gaunt, firmly; "else it will drivehim mad and me too. "

 * * * * *

Bolton fair-day came. It was a great fair, and had attractions for allclasses. There were cattle and horses of all kinds for sale, and alsoshows, games, wrestling, and dancing till daybreak. 

All the servants had a prescriptive right to go to this fair; andGriffith himself had never missed one. He told Kate over-night he wouldgo, if it were not for leaving her alone. 

The words were kinder than their meaning; but Mrs. Gaunt had the tact, or the candor, to take them in their best sense. "And I would go withyou, my dear, " said she; "but I should only be a drag. Never heed me;give yourself a day's pleasure, for indeed you need it. I am in careabout you: you are so dull of late. "

"Well, I will, " said Griffith. "I'll not mope here when all the rest aremerry-making. "

Accordingly, next day, about eleven in the morning, he mounted his horseand rode to the fair, leaving the house empty; for all the servants weregone except the old housekeeper; she was tied to the fireside byrheumatics. Even Ryder started, with a new bonnet and red ribbons; butthat was only a blind. She slipped back and got unperceived into her ownbedroom. 

Griffith ran through the fair; but could not enjoy it. _Hærebat lateriarundo. _ He came galloping back to watch his wife, and see whether BettyGough had come again or not. 

As he rode into the stable-yard he caught sight of Ryder's face at anupper window. She looked pale and agitated, and her black eyes flashedwith a strange expression. She made him a signal which he did notunderstand; but she joined him directly after in the stable-yard. 

"Come quietly with me, " said she, solemnly. 

He hooked his horse's rein to the wall, and followed her, trembling. 

She took him up the back stairs, and, when she got to the landing, turned and said, "Where did you leave her?"

"In her own room. "

"See if she is there now, " said Ryder, pointing to the door. 

Griffith tore the door open; the room was empty. 

"Nor is she to be found in the house, " said Ryder; "for I've been inevery room. "

Griffith's face turned livid, and he shivered and leaned against thewall. "Where is she?" said he, hoarsely. 

"Humph!" said Ryder, fiendishly. "Find _him_, and you'll find her. "

"I'll find them if they are above ground, " cried Griffith, furiously;and he rushed into his bedroom, and soon came out again, with a fearfulpurpose written on his ghastly features and in his bloodshot eyes, and aloaded pistol in his hand. 

Ryder was terrified; but instead of succumbing to terror, she flew athim like a cat, and wreathed her arms round him. 

"What would you do?" cried she. "Madman, would you hang for them? andbreak my heart, --the only woman in the world that loves you? Give me thepistol. Nay, I will have it. " And, with that extraordinary powerexcitement lends her sex, she wrenched it out of his hands. 

He gnashed his teeth with fury, and clutched her with a gripe of iron;she screamed with pain: he relaxed his grasp a little at that; sheturned on him and defied him. 

"I won't let you get into trouble for a priest and a wanton, " she cried;"you shall kill me first. Leave me the pistol, and pledge me your sacredword to do them no harm, and then I'll tell you where they are. Refuseme this, and you shall go to your grave and know nothing more than youknow now. "

"No, no; if you are a woman, have pity on me; let me come at them. There, I'll use no weapon. I'll tear them to atoms with these hands. Where are they?"

"May I put the pistol away then?"

"Yes, take it out of my sight; so best. Where are they?"

Ryder locked the pistol up in one of Mrs. Gaunt's boxes. Then she said, in a trembling voice, "Follow me. "

He followed her in awful silence. 

She went rather slowly to the door that opened on the lawn; and then shehesitated. "If you are a man, and have any feeling for a poor girl wholoves you, --if you are a gentleman, and respect your word, --noviolence. "

"I promise, " said he. "Where are they?"

"Nay, nay. I fear I shall rue the day I told you. Promise me once more:no bloodshed--upon your soul. "

"I promise. Where are they?"

"God forgive me; they are in the Grove. "

He bounded away from her like some beast of prey; and she crouched andtrembled on the steps of the door: and, now that she realized what shewas doing, a sickening sense of dire misgiving came over her, and madeher feel quite faint. 

And so the weak, but dangerous creature sat crouching and quaking, andlaunched the strong one. 

Griffith was soon in the Grove; and the first thing he saw was Leonardand his wife walking together in earnest conversation. Their backs weretowards him. Mrs. Gaunt, whom he had left lying on a sofa, and whoprofessed herself scarce able to walk half a dozen times across theroom, was now springing along, elastic as a young greyhound, and full offire and animation. The miserable husband saw, and his heart died withinhim. He leaned against a tree and groaned. 

The deadly sickness of his heart soon gave way to sombre fury. He camesoftly after them, with ghastly cheek, and bloodthirsty eyes, likered-hot coals. 

They stopped; and he heard his wife say, "'T is a solemn promise, then:this very night. " The priest bowed assent. Then they spoke in so low avoice, he could not hear; but his wife pressed a purse upon Leonard, andLeonard hesitated, but ended by taking it. 

Griffith uttered a yell like a tiger, and rushed between them withsavage violence, driving the lady one way with his wrists, and thepriest another. She screamed: he trembled in silence. 

Griffith stood a moment between these two pale faces, silent and awful. 

Then he faced his wife. "You vile wretch!" he cried: "so you _buy_ yourown dishonor, and mine. " He raised his hand high over her head; shenever winced. "O, but for my oath, I'd lay you dead at my feet! But no;I'll not hang for a priest and a wanton. So, this is the thing you love, and pay it to love you. " And with all the mad inconsistency of rage, which mixes small things and great, he tore the purse out of Leonard'shand: then seized him felly by the throat. 

At that the high spirit of Mrs. Gaunt gave way to abject terror. "Omercy! mercy!" she cried; "it is all a mistake. " And she clung to hisknees. 

He spurned her furiously away. "Don't touch me, woman, " he cried, "oryou are dead. Look at this!" And in a moment, with gigantic strength andfury, he dashed the priest down at her feet. "I know ye, ye proud, wanton devil!" he cried; "love the thing you have seen me tread upon!love it--if ye can. " And he literally trampled upon the poor priest withboth feet. 

Leonard shrieked for mercy. 

"None, in this world or the next, " roared Griffith; but the next momenthe took fright at himself. "God!" he cried, "I must go or kill. Live andbe damned forever, the pair of ye. " And with this he fled from them, grinding his teeth and beating the air with his clenched fists. 

He darted to the stable-yard, sprang on his horse, and galloped awayfrom Hernshaw Castle, with the face, the eyes, the gestures, theincoherent mutterings of a raving Bedlamite. 

WHAT WILL IT COST US?

If we take the arm of Mr. Smith, who is one of many perplexed at thistime by the cost of living, and go round with him to rebuke thetradesmen who oppress and devour him by overcharges of every kind, weshall find these obdurate persons very quick upon their defence, andfull of admirable justification of their supposed extortion. 

The wicked grocer, who in these piping times of peace makes Mr. Smithpay twenty cents a pound for sugar, fifty-five cents for coffee, and adollar and a half for tea, replies, when reproached with hisheartlessness, that Mr. Smith gives him depreciated paper, not gold, forhis sugar, while he must pay the importer for prime cost, freight, andduty, with the added premium on gold, and the importer's profit on theaggregate, as well as the new duty on refining; and that as to coffee, it has actually risen in price at Java through the Dutch government'smonopoly of the entire product, while our own law has imposed a duty offive cents in gold upon it. This abandoned tradesman declares that hemust have a large profit to cover risks in holding such articles as teaand coffee, when trade is unsettled and gold falling; and asserts thathe makes no more on tea now than he did in the days when it cost Mr. Smith only thirty-five or forty cents a pound. The duty of twenty-fivecents, and the withdrawal and destruction by privateers of many shipsformerly engaged in the trade, have brought up the price of tea, and thegrocer is none the richer, though Mr. Smith is considerably the poorer. 

Equally unblushing is the butcher, --a man who ought to have finerfeelings and some sense of remorse. Steak, he tells us, is thirty, second cut of the rib twenty-eight, mutton twenty-eight, and poultrythirty cents a pound, because, as he pretends, the farmers exhaustedtheir supply of cattle in feeding the army for so long a time, and nowfind it more profitable to raise their lambs, and keep and shear theirsheep, than to kill them. To which he adds a note in the minor keyconcerning the price of gold, and the increased expenses of living, which he has himself to meet, and drives us in despair to the pitilessmerchant of whom we buy our dry-goods. _He_ evidently expects Mr. Smith, for he says, with a shameless frankness and readiness: "I admit that Ihave doubled my prices, but fifty per cent of the rise is due to thepremium on gold. Then there come in the war duties, and then theinternal revenue taxes. Don't you know that Congress has put taxes onthe materials, and upon every process of manufacture, and a further taxof six per cent on sales, to say nothing of stamps and licenses? Look atthe report of the Revenue Commission, [F] which tells us that most of theduties are duplicated, till they lap over like shingles and slates, andcome to ten or twenty per cent on manufactures. Look at their story ofthe umbrella! Think of Webster's Spelling-Book printed in London for ourschools, to evade the taxes! Think of the men who go to Montreal, Halifax, and even to London, for new suits, in consequence of theduties, and of others who once came to me quarterly for a new coat andgave away their worn garments, and who now come yearly! Please examinethis bill for coal at fifteen dollars instead of six dollars a ton, anddo not forget the city, State, and national taxes. "

Incensed to the last degree by the merchant's effrontery, Mr. Smithhurries us to the den which the cruel coal-dealer calls his office, anddemands to know how it is that, when the nation no longer requires coalfor the uses of war, and coal ought, in the very nature of things, tocome down, he has actually raised the price of it to fifteen dollars aton?

"Gentlemen, " answers the coal-dealer, with a hardness not equalled bythe hardest clinker in his own anthracite, --"gentlemen, it's true thewar is over, but there are taxes on cars, engines, repairs, and grossreceipts, that add fifty per cent to transportation, while for fiveyears past the nation has required so much coal and iron to carry on thewar and to repair Southern tracks that few coal railways have been builtand few mines opened. There must be rivalry and increased production toput down prices. New mines and railways cannot be opened with gold atthe present rates, or while the internal taxes, direct and indirect, addfifteen dollars to the cost of each ton of bar-iron. Nor can there be agreat fall while there is a prospect that the coal from Nova Scotia isto be excluded or raised in price by the repeal of the ReciprocityTreaty. Freights have risen to the unprecedented rate of four or fivedollars per ton between Philadelphia and Massachusetts and Maine; and ifwe wish for former freights of two dollars per ton and lower prices, wemust build steam colliers like those which run between Newcastle andLondon, and bring back the coasters that left the trade and took shelterunder the flag of England. But the first thing is to bring down theprice of gold, which will bring down both freight and profits, andenable the poor to enjoy the sparkle of the black diamonds. And now, Mr. Smith, let me say that what with the city, the State, and the nationaltaxes, I am obliged to raise my rents, and I take the liberty to notifyyou that houses are scarce; and although I regret to disturb an oldtenant and customer, I must add another hundred to the rent of thehouse you occupy. Houses are in demand; few dare to build whilematerials are so dear. And there are the Shoddies, who would take mineto-morrow at any rent. "

Not in the least consoled, but rather exasperated by this suggestion, Mr. Smith fails to recover his spirits, even on the assurance of thecity official whom we meet, that the city, impoverished by payment ofsoldiers' bounties and allowances to soldiers' families, as well as thepayment of the interest of her debt in gold throughout the war, stillhopes to reduce the interest to five per cent, and, when gold falls, todiminish the taxes. 

But if our course of inquiry into the causes of the present ruinous costof living has not given much solace to Mr. Smith, we may, nevertheless, from the facts elicited and from the arguments of the differenttradesmen draw a few useful conclusions and decide what are the evils tobe removed or obviated before we can reduce the cost of living; and thechief of these, we have learned, are the following:--

The premium on gold. 

The taxes on productions. 

The duties on materials. 

The charges on transportation. 

The duties and taxes which absorb income. 

Let us consider whether these evils may not be boldly met andsurmounted, and this, too, without impairing the ability of the nationto meet the interest of the debt incurred as the price of freedom, orinterfering with the payment of army and navy pensions, and similarexpenses. 

RESUMPTION. 

What is there to prevent the nation from resuming specie payments duringthe present year?

There are those who profit by the fluctuations of gold; who gamble ingold, and would make fortunes regardless of the consequences to others;who control the columns of venal papers and write financial articles;who claim to be the leaders of opinion, and tell their confiding readersthat Great Britain did not resume for a quarter of a century; thatresumption implies contraction and portends ruin; that we have athousand millions to fund within three years, and therefore cannotresume. 

But is not all this fallacious? Our position is not that of the BritishIsles half a century since, exhausted by a war of twenty years, withouta railway, with less than half the wealth and half the population, andone twentieth of the land and mineral resources that we possess, whiletheir debt was fifty per cent more than our own. They were almoststationary, and we are progressive. In descending from a premium of 180to 30 on gold, we have already accomplished five sixths of the journeytowards specie payment without serious disaster and with an easymoney-market. 

As respects contraction, the instructive report lately addressed to theSecretary of the Treasury by Mr. Carey, the veteran advocate ofmanufactures, shows that the compound-interest notes are withdrawn; thata large portion of the greenbacks is held as a reserve fund by thebanks, another large portion is locked up in the sub-treasury, and theactual circulation of the Union but $460, 000, 000, --really less than thatof France or Great Britain, although our population exceeds that ofeither of those countries. And Mr. Carey, in his instructive letter, offers proof that our circulation, although in excess of the gold, silver, and bills circulating before the war, is not disproportionate toour commercial transactions. When the Secretary of the Treasury isready, no serious contraction will probably be required, and no ruinwill follow, if our merchants move with caution, and prepare for areturn to the only safe standard of values. Let the manufactureraccumulate no stocks, but continue to make goods to order, to sell inadvance. Let him cover his sales by the purchase of the materials as thewise and sagacious have done ever since the surrender of Lee, and weshall be ready for the notice that, after an interval of three or fourmonths, the United States will meet their notes and contracts withspecie. 

Commerce will gradually adapt itself to this notice, as it has done tothe decline of gold from 285 to 130 in less than a year. But it is urgedthat we have a thousand millions of debt to fund within three years, andtherefore cannot resume. Did we not fund nearly a thousand millions atpar in 1865, and most of this after gold fell to 30 per cent premium?Then the amount was drawn from hoards and commerce; but now our incomeexceeds expenditures, and we are reducing the debt ten or twentymillions a month; we require no funds for war or unproductiveinvestments, and when we pay one hundred millions, we return it to thosewho will seek new loans for investment, and doubtless lend on morefavorable terms. 

At Paris, Brussels, and Frankfort, the average rate of interest lastyear was less than five per cent. Give Mr. McCulloch power to go there, to issue bonds for one twentieth part of our debt payable there in thecurrency of the country; and with such a fund at his disposal, he can atonce reduce interest and bring back specie, or rather retain it; for weneed not seek it abroad. When the Committee of Ways and Means intimatethat they will give him this power, gold and exchange fall; if a doubtis expressed, both advance; and the simple question before the publicis, whether we shall cripple the Minister of Finance and give the powerto Wall Street;--whether our finances are to be governed by the Jews ofthe gold board and the speculators of the stock exchange, or by theSecretary of the Treasury. If we ended the war by placing one man on thefield to direct every movement, --after we had tried in vain to conductit by committees of Congress and rival generals, --will not onestatesman, with plenary power, be equally effective on the field offinance?

The man who carried a Western State through the revulsion of 1857, andmaintained specie payments when Boston and New York succumbed, --who hasso well and so successfully wielded the limited power we have givenhim, --well deserves the confidence of the country. Let him have power atonce to go to the fountain-head for the small balance we may requirefrom the Old World; let him have the authority to raise funds to meetthe floating debt and temporary loan, and to replace the seven-thirtiesand compound-interest notes as they mature, and we may confidentlyanticipate both an early resumption of specie payments and reduced ratesof interest, and consequent diminution of debt. With a return to speciepayments, our current expenses must fall from thirty to forty per cent, and we can well afford to resign any premium on gold we now enjoy. 

TAXES ON PRODUCTION. 

The Revenue Commission enlighten us on this point. In their very ableand luminous Report they say:--

"The diffuseness of the present revenue system of the United States isdoubtless one of its greatest imperfections, and under it the exemptionof any article from taxation is the exception rather than the rule. Toassert this, however, is no reflection on the judgment or skill of itsauthors. The system was framed under circumstances of such pressingnecessity as to afford but little opportunity for any careful andaccurate investigation of the sources of revenue; but it has mostcertainly accomplished the end designed, namely, the raising of revenue;and the country to-day is undoubtedly receiving by taxation far morerevenue than is necessary for its legitimate expenditures. As a success, therefore, our present revenue system is a most honorable testimonial, not only to the wisdom of its authors, but to the patriotism of thepeople, who not only _endured_, but _welcomed_, the burdens it imposedupon them. 

"A system of taxation, however, so diffuse as the present one, necessarily entails a system of duplication of taxes, which in turnleads to an undue enhancement of prices; a decrease both of productionand consumption, and consequently of wealth; a restriction ofexportations and of foreign commerce; and a large increase in themachinery and expense of the revenue collection. 

"In respect to the injurious influence of this duplication of taxes uponthe industry of the country, the Commission cannot speak too strongly. Its effect has already been most injurious. It threatens the veryexistence (even with the protection of inflated prices and a hightariff) of many branches of industry; and with a return of the trade andcurrency of the country to anything approximating its normal condition, it must, by checking development, prove highly disastrous. 

"The influence of the duplication of taxes in sustaining prices is also, in the opinion of the Commission, far greater than those not conversantwith the subject generally estimate; and were the price of gold and ofthe national currency made at once to approximate, and the presentrevenue system to continue unchanged, it would be impossible for theprices of most products of manufacturing industry to return to anythinglike their former level. "

The Commission arrive at the conclusion, that all our manufactures areby these taxes increased in cost from ten to twenty per cent. In thelanguage of Senator Sherman, when defending the Internal Tax Bill in theSenate last year, the nation required funds to maintain its armies inthe field; it had put forth its arms and grasped the money of thecountry, and would reduce and equalize the taxes when the war was ended. The Revenue Commission find the taxes on our manufactures and theirmaterials an incubus upon the industry and a check to the progress ofthe country, and recommend their remission. And this we may reasonablyexpect from Congress at its present session. But, it may be urged, howare we to meet the interest on our debt and current expenses of$284, 000, 000 in the aggregate, if we repeal these taxes? The answer is asimple one. The Commission estimate our imports at $400, 000, 000, and ourduties now average forty-seven per cent. Should this continue, we shoulddraw from this source alone $188, 000, 000. There is also the revenue frompublic lands and miscellaneous sources, which the Secretary and theRevenue Commission both rate at $21, 000, 000, making an aggregate of$209, 000, 000; although the Commission, to guard against the effects ofany change in the tariff, modestly rate these items at only$151, 000, 000. 

To these they add for excise, viz. :--

From five cents per pound on Cotton, $40, 000, 000One dollar per gallon on Spirits, 40, 000, 000Duties on Tobacco, 18, 000, 000Malt Liquors at one dollar only per barrel, 5, 000, 000Twenty cents per gallon on Refined Petroleum, 3, 000, 000From Spirits of Turpentine and Rosin, 2, 000, 000 ----------- $108, 000, 000

Licenses, $15, 000, 000Stamps, 20, 000, 000Banks, 15, 000, 000Salaries, Sales, and Successions, 9, 000, 000 ----------- $59, 000, 000

They thus provide a revenue of $318, 000, 000, or $30, 000, 000 more thanthat required by the Secretary, --a surplus which, with the annual excessof duties, to say nothing of the future growth of revenue, wouldextinguish our debt in little more than thirty years. But to guardagainst all contingencies, they propose to levy on incomes taxes to theamount of $40, 000, 000; and on the gross receipts of railways, bridges, canals, and stages, $9, 000, 000. These change the aggregate to$367, 000, 000; an excess of $81, 000, 000 over the estimate of ourrequirements by the Secretary. 

 * * * * *

The Commission give us the Budget of France in the following summary, viz. :--

Direct Taxes, $63, 072, 280Registry Stamps and Public Domains, 81, 537, 833Forests, 8, 051, 300Customs and Duties on Salt, 29, 485, 000Indirect Taxes, 115, 600, 400Post-Office, 14, 482, 000Sundry Revenues, 26, 441, 989Miscellaneous, 11, 736, 360 -----------Total, $350, 407, 212

Also, the revenues of Great Britain and Ireland for 1865, viz. :--

Customs, $115, 023, 808Excise, 97, 048, 180Stamps, 47, 659, 870Fund and assessed Taxes, 16, 439, 670Income and Property Taxes, 39, 928, 865Post-Office, 20, 852, 197Grain Lands, 2, 212, 000Miscellaneous, 14, 967, 183 -----------Total $354, 131, 773

If from these returns we deduct the earnings of the Post-OfficeDepartment, which are not included in the Commission's estimate ofrevenue for the United States, that estimate will exceed the returns ofrevenue for France or the United Kingdom by more than thirty millions, although the expenses of each of these countries are at least fiftymillions more than the computed expenses of our own. It is obvious, therefore, from the Report of the Commission, that we may dispense withthe fifty-nine millions from income tax and the duties ontransportation, and still have a margin of more than thirty millions tocover contingencies and provide for the gradual reduction of the debt. Such a victory in finance achieved the first year after the war wouldgive us a second great national triumph. 

The system proposed by the Commission is entitled to the most favorableconsideration. The taxes levied during the war were multifarious intheir character. Although effective in producing revenue, they wereimposed without discrimination, and they bear heavily alike both onproducer and consumer, checking the industry of the one and swellingunduly the expenditures of the other. The plan of the Commission strikesthe handcuffs from industry, lessens the expenses of collection, enablesour artisan to compete with the foreigner, and, as most of themanufactures of the country are consumed at home, consequently reducesthe cost of living. It seems from the Report of the Commission, thattheir leading idea is to simplify the system and reduce the number oftaxes; to shift them from the producer to the consumer, and thusstimulate the creation of wealth; to diminish charges, and at the sametime lighten the weight of the impost as it falls on the consumer. Another leading idea is to transfer a portion of our burdens to theforeign consumers of cotton, and at the same time stimulate ourmanufactures, and the production of cotton, by a remission of the tax oncloth exported; while yet another part of their plan was to take fromthe illicit trader and give to the public coffers the profit he nowrealizes upon spirits, and to restore alcohol to the arts. 

Let us give to each of these measures the attention it deserves; andinquire if we may not take at once the steps, which the Commission deferfor the present, toward the discontinuance of all charges upontransportation and incomes. In recommending the entire removal of taxeson production as the first measure to be adopted, the Commissionersadvise: "That the capital stock of the country in the interval between1850 and 1860, deducting the value of the slaves, increased at the rateof 158 per cent, or from $5, 533, 000 to $14, 282, 000; and that, if adevelopment in any degree approximating to the past can be maintainedand continued, then the extinguishment of the national debt in acomparatively brief period becomes a matter of no uncertainty. To securethis development, both by removing the shackles from industry, and byfacilitating the means of rapid and cheap intercommunication between thedifferent sections of the country, is to effect at the same time asolution of all the financial difficulties that now press upon us. "

The policy of the Commission is the speedy abolition or reduction of alltaxes which tend to check development. This policy is eminently wise andstatesman-like; for while it removes some of our most onerous burdens, it gives a stimulus to the creation of wealth that must annuallyalleviate our taxes, and is entitled to the approval of an enlightenednation. 

The second great measure of the Commission is to increase to five centsthe tax on cotton, which has, since the close of our last financialyear, begun to aid our revenue. The soil, climate, and seasons of ourSouthern States are peculiarly adapted to the culture of cotton. InIndia the fields are parched by the extreme heats of summer, and thestaple shortened; in Algiers, the rains of autumn, which favor the youngwheat, prevent the opening of the cotton-balls; but in the cotton Statesof the South, the moisture of the spring, the heats and showers ofsummer, and the dry weather and late frosts of autumn, all contribute tothe full development of the cotton-plant; and the yield is twice orthree times as great as in the cotton districts of the East. The staple, too, is much more valuable, and the yield and the quality of the stapleare both improved by the application of guano. In 1859 the yield of theUnited States rose to 2, 080, 000, 000 pounds, while the consumption of thecivilized world was as follows:--

In Great Britain, 1, 050, 000, 000 lbs. On the Continent, 700, 000, 000 "In the United States, 400, 000, 000 " ------------- Total, 2, 150, 000, 000 lbs. 

During the five years of war, the consumption was reduced more than onehalf by the deficiency; Great Britain was compelled to pay twice theusual amount for half the usual quantity, and cotton rose from ten centsto sixty cents in gold. The world was ransacked for cotton, and thewhole addition made to the supply (chiefly from India and Egypt) did notexceed the increase of three years in the United States previous to thewar. The Revenue Commission have made a very elaborate report upon thissubject, and base their conclusions upon the advice and opinions of thechief manufacturers of New England, who concur in the opinion that thetax will be chiefly paid by the foreign consumer; that it will not givean undue stimulus to the culture of cotton abroad; that Japan and Chinahave, since the decline of cotton to twenty pence in England, ceased toship it, and are drawing upon Surat and Bombay; that Egypt, our chiefrival, has nearly or quite reached her full capacity of production, while India makes little progress. 

The late Confederacy, by imposing an export duty of twenty cents perpound, to be paid in gold; France, by her export duty on linen andcotton rags and skins of animals; Russia, by various export duties;Portugal, by her duties on wine exported; Great Britain, by her exportduties, imposed in India, on gunny-cloth, linseed, jute, saltpetre, andopium; and Holland, by her monopoly and export duties on the coffee ofJava, --give precedents for a tax on cotton. The United States areprohibited by the Constitution from levying an export duty, but maynevertheless impose an internal tax which will cling to the cotton bothabroad and at home. A tax of five cents a pound will add but one cent tothe cost of a yard of calico; and with a crop of 2, 000, 000, 000 pounds, like that of 1859, will yield a revenue of $100, 000, 000, although theCommission do not anticipate more than half that revenue for a few yearsto come. It seems but reasonable that King Cotton, who made the war, should aid in defraying its expenses; and it is also just that Englandand France, his chief allies, should pay their tribute for thesuppression of the revolt they did so much to encourage. The plantersand free blacks of the South have sufficient incentives to the cultureof cotton in the high prices it must bear for years to come; and theCommission have very wisely recommended a remission of the tax on allcotton cloth or yarn exported, which will give a stimulus tomanufactures both at the South and the North, and enable our merchantsto meet those of Great Britain in successful competition in all parts ofthe globe. The cotton tax, as a substitute for taxes on sales andmanufactures, will meet the cordial support of our countrymen; and, ifit oppose a slight check to production, they have already learned thathalf a crop gives more dollars than a whole one. 

SPIRITS. 

Another change of great importance recommended by the Commission, bothin their general Report, and in a special report devoted to thissubject, is a reduction of the duty on spirits from two dollars to onedollar per gallon _as a revenue measure_, the higher duty having provedan utter failure. For some months past the average quantity that hasmonthly paid duty has been less than half a million gallons, or at therate of six millions of gallons per year, while the entire annualproduct, by the census of 1860, exceeded ninety-two millions of gallons, and, at the customary rate of increase, would have amounted to onehundred and twenty millions of gallons, or ten millions a month, inplace of half a million in 1866. It has been ascertained that in 1860more than half the annual production was consumed in the arts. Asalcohol it was used for ether, spirit-lamps, camphene, andburning-fluid; by apothecaries for tinctures and medicinal preparations;by hair-dressers for lotions; and it was also consumed in manymanufactures. The duty has carried alcohol to five dollars per gallon, and nearly stopped its use in the arts, while it has not stopped the useof spirits as a beverage. It has drawn a revenue from the pockets of thepeople, and transferred it from the government to the illicit trader. While the duty ranged from twenty to sixty cents per gallon, the amountassessed was from six to seven million gallons per month; but thereturns nearly ceased with the advance of duty two years since. Effortshave been made to sustain the present duty by reference to the practiceof Great Britain, where a duty of $2. 40 is imposed upon the imperialgallon; but the imperial gallon is more than twenty per cent larger thanthe wine gallon of America. The average prime cost of good spirits therebeing sixty cents a gallon, while it has been but twenty cents in theWest, the percentage of the British duty is but 400 per cent, while theduty of the United States is 1000 per cent, or a rate 150 per cent abovethe rate abroad. Great Britain, in her compact territory, has employed7, 200 men in the preventive service, and 66 cruisers to check theevasions of her duties on spirits and tobacco; and it is estimated bygood judges that a large part of the spirits, and more than half thetobacco, consumed in England escape the duty. Several thousand seizuresare made annually, and it has been testified before Parliament that notone evasion in sixteen is detected. If this be so in Great Britain, itis not surprising that the government has failed, in this country, withits sparse population, to collect a duty of 1000 per cent, or that theexperiment has cost the nation more than fifty millions. Such excessiveduties may well be styled over-taxation, and tend to demoralize andcorrupt our revenue officers, to encourage fraud, and to enrich illicittraders. The Commission believe that the reduction of the duty willrestore alcohol to the arts, diminish fraud, and give us a revenue of atleast $40, 000, 000 annually, --a sum nearly equal to the proceeds of theincome tax. 

INCOME TAX. 

The Revenue Commission clearly demonstrate by their Report and table ofincome, that this tax will not be required to meet our interest andcurrent expenses, and they apparently retain a portion of it as a flankguard for their other items of revenue; but it is obvious from theirvery guarded Report that this flank guard may be dispensed with. TheCommissioners very properly suggest that it is better to place this taxupon created wealth and net income than to levy it upon production, andin this all sensible men will concur; but we require at this time nosurplus revenue of $81, 000, 000. Our revenue from foreign duties mustexceed their estimate; and if it did not, a sinking fund of $32, 000, 000is ample for a debt of $2, 700, 000, 000, $400, 000, 000 of which draws nointerest, and the residue of which we may well presume will soon bepermanently funded at reduced interest. The income tax in Great Britainis but 1-2/3 per cent, and it is wise to reduce our own tax on thesurplus incomes of the rich from ten to five per cent; but thesuggestion that an income tax should be imposed on rents exceeding $300is in conflict with the Commissioners' suggestion, at page 60 of theirReport: "The general government has taken to itself nearly every sourceof revenue, except the single one of real estate, which had been beforeburdened with large expenditures for schools, roads, and other thingswith which the local governments stand charged, " and "cases can be citedin which taxation upon real estate even now falls little short ofconfiscation. Justice and wise policy, therefore, would seem to demandthat the national government should not now adopt any measurescalculated to maintain or increase these burdens, but, on the contrary, do all in its power to diminish them. "

Let the nation follow this judicious advice, and dispose of theadditional charge on real estate by repealing the income tax, which wecease to require, or reducing it to a tax of three or four per cent upondividends and coupons, which will yield at least ten millions. This willfurnish a sufficient rear-guard for the corps which the Commission hasmarshalled. 

To use another happy expression in the very able Report of theCommission, --"Freedom from multitudinous taxes, espionage, andvexations; freedom from needless official inquisitions and intrusions;freedom from the hourly provocations of each individual in the nation toconcealments, evasions, and falsehoods; freedom for industry, circulation, and competition, --everywhere give the nation theseconditions, and it will give in return a flowing income. "

We indorse the conclusions of the Commission, but would carry them totheir legitimate results, --the repeal of the inquisitorial tax onincomes. 

One of the Commissioners, Mr. J. S. Hayes, in a special report upon thesubject, proposes to draw some part of the revenue from the nationalbonds. Those which are now reached by the income tax when the holdersare residents here should be reached hereafter by an impost on dividendsand coupons, according to Mr. Hayes's idea. He urges that these bondswere issued when the currency was depreciated to 73 per cent, or 27 percent below par; but it was the government paper that depreciated it, andthe loyal men who subscribed for the national bonds in many instancesused funds drawn from mortgages upon which they had advanced in gold themoney they invested. Great Britain realized only 63 per cent or less indepreciated currency from her three-per-cents, but redeems them at par, or buys them in open market. There may be instances in which individualsevade local taxes by such investments, but even this tends to popularizethe loans and reduce interest; and it may well be asked whether it wouldnot be wiser for the nation to make the loan popular, treating it assacred, and thus save twenty or thirty millions in interest annually byreducing interest one per cent, than to attempt to save two thirds thatamount by taxes, which would inspire lenders with distrust, injure thecredit of the nation, and weaken its resources in a future exigency. 

TAXES ON GROSS RECEIPTS. 

The Commission, while they condemn charges on transportation, continuefor the present nine millions in taxes on the gross receipts ofsteamers, ships, and railways, which it would be wise to relinquish atthe earliest moment. The railways to earn one dollar must charge two, which doubles these taxes to the public, and adds to the cost ofdelivering each ton of coal and each bushel of grain at the seaports, sothat our internal commerce now presents the strange anomaly of Indiancorn selling at one dollar per bushel in Boston, and at thirty-six centsin Chicago, or less than the price in gold before the Insurrection. Such charges are an incubus on trade, and may wisely be abandoned. 

PROVINCIAL COMMERCE. 

For the past ten years the Central and Eastern States have drawn largesupplies of breadstuffs, animals, lumber, and other materials for ourmanufactures, from the Provinces; and under the Treaty of Reciprocityour fisheries have grown vastly in importance. The whole amount of thiscommerce, including the outfits and returns of the fishermen, is closeupon $100, 000, 000, and the tonnage of arrivals and departures exceeds7, 000, 000 tons. Under the Treaty we have imported Canadian and Morganhorses, oats for their support, barley of superior quality for our ale, lustre-wool for our alpacas, and boards and clapboards for our housesand for the fences and corn-cribs of our Western prairies. Indeed, thefacilities for communicating with the Provinces are so great, that forsome years past we have imported potatoes, coal, gypsum, and buildingstone to supply the wants of New York and New England. Is it wise, then, to cripple this growing trade by placing a duty of fifty per cent on thespruce and pine we require for the new houses whose construction the warhas delayed, and by denying to Maine and Massachusetts the privilege ofsending their pine down the Aroostook and St. John, as those who owntownships on the waters of the Penobscot propose?

When Mr. Sumner moved the repeal of the Treaty, it was upon the groundthat it prevented us from levying a tax on lumber. The Ministers ofCanada have at once conceded this, and agree that internal duties may belevied on all they send to us, and thus meet in advance the position ofMr. Sumner. They have shown a desire to revive the Treaty, and tocherish the great commerce between contiguous states. Mr. Derby reportsto the State Department that they will extend the free list, and includeour manufactures; that they will discourage illicit trade, and repealall discriminating tolls and duties. The position taken by the Ministersof Canada is eminently wise and judicious. While we may not concede allthe privileges they ask, is it our policy to decline to negotiate, --toshut out the materials we require and can command at low rates? Is itwise to propose, as a committee of Congress has done, to reduce a freecommerce of seven millions of tons to a traffic in plaster andmillstones, and thus jeopard our fisheries and stimulate smuggling? TheCanadian Ministers, who visited Washington on business connected withthe Treaty, were kindly received by our Executive. They placed theProvinces on the true ground by their proffered concessions and offersto negotiate, and can stand at home upon the ground they took, whiletheir course in retiring after the rebuff they received from thecommittee was dignified and judicious. When Congress has disposed ofreconstruction, and found leisure to attend to revenue and finance; whenit sees that we need new materials for our rising manufactures, andrequire access both by the east and the west to the exhaustless pineforests of Canada, [G] to provincial oats and barley, purchasable atrates lower than those at which the West can afford to send them, and tocoal on coasts which Nature designed for the supply of the gas-works andsteamers of New England; when it finds proclamations issued excludingour fishermen from the waters to which the mackerel resort, --thenCongress at last will doubtless be willing to resume negotiations, andto give to us coal, wood, butter, grain, fish, lumber, and horses atreasonable prices. 

 * * * * *

Eliminating from the summary of the Commission the items which arecondemned by their Report, we have the following result:--

REVENUE LIST OF COMMISSIONERS, EXCLUDING TAXES ON INCOME ANDTRANSPORTATION. 

Customs, $130, 000, 000Excise on Spirits, Tobacco, Malt Liquors Cotton, Refined Oil, Spirits of Turpentine, and Rosin, 108, 000, 000Licenses, 15, 000, 000Salaries, 2, 000, 000Banks, 15, 000, 000Stamps, 20, 000, 000Sales, Legacies, &c. , 7, 000, 000Add Tax on Dividend and Coupons, 10, 000, 000Miscellaneous, 21, 000, 000 ----------- Total $328, 000, 000

Amount deemed necessary by the Secretary of the Treasury to meet Interest and Expenses of Government annually, 284, 000, 000 ----------- Surplus, $44, 000, 000

We thus deduce from the estimate of the Secretary and the conclusions towhich we are led by the Commission a surplus revenue or sinking fund of$44, 000, 000, and this, too, after discontinuing all taxes on production, income, and transportation, and liberating industry from the trammelsimposed by war. In addition, we may expect from cotton, whenever thecrop exceeds two millions of bales, a further revenue from the five-centtax, while the income from customs, which we rate at $130, 000, 000, hasactually been increased since June, 1865, to the amount of $58, 000, 000more. 

These results, achieved by the country while emerging from the smoke ofthe battle-field, and disbanding its troops and placing army and navy ona peace footing, are in the highest degree reassuring. What is there, then, to prevent the nation's prompt return to specie?

Our chief bankers estimate their annual remittances to American citizensfor foreign travel and residence abroad at less than five millionsyearly. Our exports again exceed our imports, and foreign exchange is at7-1/4 in gold, or two per cent below par. An emigration, chiefly fromGermany, greatly in excess of any former year is predicted. It has beenwell ascertained that each emigrant brings, on the average, seventydollars in funds to this country, and these funds alone will suffice tomeet our interest abroad. What period could be more auspicious for agradual return, say in six months, to specie? Of course there would besome decline in merchandise, but the loss would fall on decliningstocks, often sold in advance, and would not reach stocks in bond, theprice of which is to be paid in specie. The improvident might suffer alittle; but when the first shock was past, would not a strong impulse begiven to industry? Would not enterprise be at once directed to theerection of the houses, factories, ships, steamers, locomotives, andrailways which our growth demands? Would not the community immediatelyseek to renew their wardrobes and furniture, now worn out or exhaustedby the war? Our mutual friend Mr. Smith might then meet his friend thecoal-merchant with a smile, and cheer himself with his open fireplace, putting away his stifling but economic stove; he might postpone hisretirement from the three-story brick to the wooden two-story in thesuburbs, eat his roast beef again on Sunday, and regale himself withblack coffee after dinner, without a thought of the slow but sagaciousDutchman, who is transferring at his expense a national debt of$800, 000, 000 from the sea-girt dikes of little Holland to the populousand fertile isles and spice groves and coffee plantations of Sumatra andJava. 

FOOTNOTES:

[F] Report of the United States Revenue Commission to the Secretary ofthe Treasury, January 29th, 1866. 

[G] The annual product of lumber in Maine is rated at 1, 100, 000, 000feet, worth $20, 000, 000. By the census of 1860, the lumber produced byall the States was valued at $95, 000, 000. The consumption was at least$100, 000, 000, or five times the amount furnished by Maine. Canada has287, 000 square miles of pine forest on the waters of the St. Lawrence. 

MEPHISTOPHELEAN. 

You have been, I presume, Madam, among the crowds of young and old, tothe musical revival of the great wonder-work of the last century. Youhave heard the Frenchman's musical expression of the German poet'sthought, uttered by the motley assemblage of nationalities whichconstitutes an opera troupe in these latter days. You have seen thelearned Dr. Faustus's wig and gown whisked off behind his easy chair, and the rejuvenated Doctor emerge from his antiquated apparel as freshand sprightly as Harlequin himself, to make love in Do-di-pettos. Youhave seen the blonde young Gretchen, beauteous and pure at herspinning-wheel, gay and frolicsome before that box looking-glass andthat kitchen table, --have heard her tender vows of affection and herpassionate outbursts of despair. You have heard the timid Siebel warbleout his adolescent longings for the gentle maid in the very scantiest oftunics, as becomes the fair proportions of the stage girl-boy. You haveseen the respectable old Martha faint at the news of her husband'sdeath, and forthwith engage in a desperate flirtation with the gentlemanwho brings the news. You have seen the gallant Valentin lead off themarch of that band of stalwart warriors, who seem to have somehow lostthe correct step in their weary campaigns. Your memory, even now, has asomewhat confused impression of Frederici, moonlight, Mazzoleni, Kermesse, Sulzer, gardens, Kellogg, churches, Himmer, flaming goblets, Stockton, and an angelic host with well-rounded calves in pink tights, radiant in the red light that, from some hidden regions, illuminates theaforesaid scantily clad angels, as they hang, like Mahomet's coffin, 'twixt heaven and earth. 

But I question, Madam, whether the strongest impression which yourmemory retains be not exactly the one personage in the drama whom I haveomitted to mention, --the red-legged, gleaming-eyed, loud-voicedgentleman who pulls the hidden wires which set all the other puppets inmotion, --Mr. Mephistopheles himself. Marguerite, studied, refined, unimpassioned in the pretty Yankee girl, --simple, warm, outpouring inthe sympathetic German woman, --and Faust, gallant, ardent, winning inthe bright-eyed Italian, --thoughtful, tender, fervent in the intelligentGerman, --are background figures in the picture your memory paints; whilethe ubiquitous, sneering, specious, cunning, tempting, leering, unholyMephistopheles is a character of himself, in the foreground, whosespecial interpreter you do not care to distinguish. 

Ring down the curtain. Put out the lights. We will leave the mimicscene, and return to the broad stage of life, whereon all are actors andall are audience. There are Gretchens and Fausts everywhere, --American, English, French, German, Italian, --of all nations and tongues, --butthere is only one Mephistopheles. They have lived and loved and fallenand died. But he, indestructible, lives on to flash fire in the cups ofbeings yet unborn, and lurk with unholy intent in hearts which have notyet learned to beat. There is only one Mephistopheles; but he is proteanin shape. The little gentleman in black, the hero of so many strangestories, is but the Teutonic incarnation of a spirit which takes manyforms in many lands. Out of the brain of the great German poet he steps, in a guise which is known and recognized wherever the story of love andbetrayal finds an echo in human hearts. Poor Gretchen! She had heard ofSatan, and had been rocked to sleep by tales of the Loreley, and knewfrom her Bible that there was an evil spirit in the world seeking whomhe might devour. But little did she dream, when she stopped herspinning-wheel to think for a moment of the gallant young lover whowooed her so ardently, that the glance of his eye was lighted with theflame of eternal fire, and that the fond words of love he spoke were hotbreathings from the regions of the accursed. Poor Gretchen!

But, my dear Madam, this is all a fable. Mephistopheles--the real, vital, moving Mephistopheles--has outlived Goethe, and will outlast thevery memory of the unhappy heroine of his noble poem. He walks thestreets to-day as fresh and persuasive as when, in ophidian form, hehaunted that lovely garden which is said to have once stood near thebanks of the Euphrates, and there beguiled the mother of mankind. Yourfriend Asmodeus--albeit not the quondam friend of that name for whoseespecial amusement he unroofed so many houses in the last century, whenhe was suffering from severe lameness--has a discerning eye to piercehis many disguises. He does not walk our streets now-a-days in redtights or with tinsel eyes; he does not limp about with a sardoniclaugh; nor could you see the cloven hoof which is said to betray hisidentity. Were such the case, the little street-boys would point himout, and the daily papers, with which his friend Dr. Faustus had so muchto do in their origin, would record his movements with greater eagernessthan they do the comings and goings of generals and governors. No, mydear Madam, he assumes no such striking costumes. But he brushes by youin your daily walks, he sits beside you in the car, the theatre, andeven in the church, in respectable, fashionable attire. Frank dickerswith him in his counting-room, Tommy chases him in the play-ground, Mrs. Asmodeus makes him a fashionable call, and--God help us all!--wesometimes find him sitting domiciliated at our hearthstones. He changeslike the wizard we used to read of in our wonderful fairy books, who wasan ogre one moment and a mouse the next. He is more potent than thephilosopher's stone; for that changed everything into gold only, whilehe becomes, at will, all the ores and alloys of creation. Fortunatus'swishing-cap and Prince Hussein's tapestry were baby toys to him. Theywhisked their owners away to the place where they wished, at the moment, to be. He is ubiquitous. 

He lurks under the liberty-cap of the goddess whose features are stampedin the shining gold, and his laugh is the clink of the jingling pieces. He turns himself into a regal sceptre that sways the gaping crowd, andit becomes a magnet that draws with resistless power the outstretched, itching palms of men. He takes the witching form of woman, paints herpulpy cheek with peachy bloom, knots into grace her mass of wavy hair, lights in her sparkling eye the kindling flame, hangs on her pouting lipthe expectant kiss, and bids her supple waist invite caress; and moreseductive far than gold or power are these cunning lures to win men tobow down in abject, grovelling worship of his might. My dear Madam, Iwould not imply that your beauty and grace are exhibitions of his skill. By no manner of means! I faithfully believe that Frank was drawn to youby the holiest, purest, best of emotions. But then, you know, so many ofyour lovely sex are under the influence of that cunning gentleman whilethey least suspect it. When a poor girl who owns but one jewel onearth--the priceless one that adorns and ennobles her lowliness--bartersthat treasure away for the cheap glitter of polished stones or therustling sweep of gaudy silk, is not the basilisk gleam of theMephistophelean eye visible in the sparkling of those gewgaws and thesheen of that stuff? When your friend Asmodeus, honest in his modestself-respect, is most ignominiously ignored by the stylish Mrs. Money, --her father was a cobbler, --more noted for brocades thanbrains, --or the refined Miss Blood, --her grandfather was third-cousin tosome Revolutionary major, --more distinguished for shallowness than forspirit, --does he not smile in his sleeve, with great irreverence for thebrocades and the birth, at the easy way in which the old fellow haswheedled them into his power by tickling their conceit and vanity? Hecreeps into all sorts of corners, and lurks in the smallest ofhiding-places. He lies _perdu_ in the folds of _figurante's_ gauze, nestles under the devotee's sombre veil, waves in the flirt's fan, andswims in the gossip's teacup. He burrows in a dimple, floats on a sigh, rides on a glance, and hovers in a thought. 

But I would not infer, Madam, that he is the particular pet of the fair, or that he specially devotes himself to their subjugation. It is certainthat he employs them with his most cunning skill, and sways the worldmost powerfully by their regnant charms. But the lords of creation arelikewise the slaves of his will and the dupes of his deception. Hebestrides the nib of the statesman's pen and guides it into falsehoodand treason. He perches on the cardinal's hat and counsels bigotry andoppression. He sits on the tradesman's counter and bears down theunweighted scale. He hides in the lawyer's bag and makes specious pleasfor adroit rogues. He slips into the gambler's greasy pack and rollsover his yellow dice. He dances on the bubbles of the drunkard's glass, swings on the knot of the planter's lash, and darts on the point of theassassin's knife. He revels in a coarse oath, laughs in a perjured vow, and breathes in a lie. He has kept celebrated company in times gone by. He was Superintendent of the Coliseum when the Christian martyrs weregiven to the wild beasts. He was long time a familiar in the SpanishInquisition, and adviser of the Catholic priesthood in those days, andGovernor of the Bastile afterwards. He was the king's minister ofpleasure in the days of the latter Louises. He was court chaplain whenRidley and Latimer were burned. He was Charles IX. 's private secretaryat the time of the St. Bartholomew affair, and Robespierre's right-handman in the days of Terror. He was Benedict Arnold's counsellor, Jefferson Davis's bedfellow, and John Wilkes Booth's bosom friend. 

A personage, and yet none ever saw him. His cloven hoof, his twistedhorns, his suit of black, his gleaming eyes, his limbs of flame, are butthe poet's dream, the painter's color. Mephistopheles is but thecreature of our fancy, and exists but in the fears, the passions, thedesires of mankind. He is born in hearts where love is linked withlicense, in minds where pride weds with folly, in souls where pietyunites with intolerance. We never meet the roaring lion in our path; yetour hearts are torn by his fangs and lacerated by his claws. We neversee the sardonic cavalier; yet we hear his specious whisperings in ourears. The sunlight of truth shines forever upon us; yet we sit in thecold shadow of error. We put the cup of pleasure to our lips, and quaff, instead of cooling draughts, the fiery flashes of searing excess. Welong for forbidden delights, and when the fiend Opportunity places themwithin our reach, we sign the compact of our misery to obtain them. Thecharmed circle this unholy spirit draws around his fatal power is tracedalong the devious line that marks our weakness and our ignorance. Stormas we may, he stands intrenched within our souls, defying all our wrath. But he shrinks and crouches before us when, bold and fearless, we liftthe cross of truth, and bid him fly the upborne might of ourintelligence. Mephistopheles is an unholy spirit, nestling in the heartsof myriads of poor human beings who never heard of Goethe. Long afterthe mimic scene in which he shares shall have been forgot, --long afterthe sirens who have warbled poor Gretchen's joys and sorrows shall havemouldered in their graves, --long after the witching beauty of theFrenchman's harmony shall have been forever hushed, --long after the verylanguage in which the German poet portrayed him shall have passed intooblivion, --will Mephistopheles carry his diabolisms into the souls ofhuman kind, and hold there his mystic reign. Yet there are those, andyou find Asmodeus is one, who dream of a day when the Mephistopheleandynasty is to be overthrown, --when the sappers and miners of the greatarmy of human progress are to besiege him in his strong-holds, and tolead him captive in eternal bondage. Of all the guides who lead thatmighty host, none rank above the Faust of whom tradition tells suchwondrous tales. Not the bewigged and motley personage Gounod has sung, not the impassioned lover Goethe drew, but the great genius who firsttaught mankind to stamp its wisdom in imperishable characters, and tobequeath it unto races yet to rise. The Faust of history shall longoutlive the Faust of wild romance. The victim in the transient poemshall be a conqueror in the unwritten chronicles of time. 

My dear Madam, let us draw around us a charmed circle; not with thetrenchant point of murderous steel, but with the type that Faust gave tothe world. Within its bounds, intelligence and thought shall guard ussafe from Mephistopheles. Come he in whatever guise he may, its subtilepotency shall, like Ithuriel's spear, compel him to display his realform in all its native ugliness and dread. And we must pass away; yetmay we leave behind, secure in the defence we thus may raise, the dearones that we love, to be the parents of an angel race that, in thedistant days to come, shall tread the sod above our long-forgotten dust. 

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW'S SPEECH IN MARCH MEETING. 

 Jaalam, April 5, 1866. 

 MY DEAR SIR, --

(an' noticin' by your kiver thet you're some dearer than wut you wuz, Ienclose the diffrence) I dunno ez I know jest how to interdroce thislas' perduction of my mews, ez Parson Willber allus called 'em, which isgoin' to _be_ the last an' _stay_ the last onless sunthin' pertiklersh'd interfear which I don't expec' ner I wun't yield tu ef it wuz ezpressin' ez a deppity Shiriff. Sence M^r Wilbur's disease I hevn't hedno one thet could dror out my talons. He ust to kind o' wine me up an'set the penderlum agoin' an' then somehow I seemed to go on tick as itwear tell I run down, but the noo minister ain't of the same brewin' norI can't seem to git ahold of no kine of huming nater in him but sort ofslide rite off as you du on the eedge of a mow. Minnysteeril natur iswal enough an' a site better'n most other kines I know on, but the othersort sech as Welbor hed wuz of the Lord's makin' an' naterally morewonderfle an' sweet tastin' leastways to me so fur as heerd from. Heused to interdooce 'em smooth ez ile athout sayin' nothin' in pertickleran' I misdoubt he didn't set so much by the sec'nd Ceres as wut he doneby the Fust, fact, he let on onct thet his mine misgive him of a sort offallin' off in spots. He wuz as outspoken as a norwester _he_ wuz, but Itole him I hoped the fall wuz from so high up thet a feller could ketcha good many times fust afore comin' bunt onto the ground as I see JethroC. Swett from the meetin' house steeple up to th' old perrish, an' tookup for dead but he 's alive now an' spry as wut you be. Turnin' of itover I recclected how they ust to put wut they called Argymunce onto thefrunts of poymns, like poorches afore housen whare you could rest ye aspell whilst you wuz concludin' whether you'd go in or nut espeshullyware tha wuz darters, though I most allus found it the best plen to goin fust an' think afterwards an' the gals likes it best tu. I dno asspeechis ever hez any argimunts to 'em, I never see none thet hed an' Iguess they never du but tha must allus be a B'ginnin' to everythin'athout it is Etarnity so I'll begin rite away an' any body may put itafore any of his speeches ef it soots an' welcome. I don't claim nopaytent. 

THE ARGYMUNT. 

Interducshin, w'ich may be skipt. Begins by talkin' about himself: thet's jest natur an'

most gin'ally allus pleasin', I b'leeve I 've notist, to _one_ of thecumpany, an' thet 's more than wut you can say of most speshes oftalkin'. Nex' comes the gittin' the goodwill of the orjunce by lettin''em gether from wut you kind of ex'dentally let drop thet they air aboutEast, A one, an' no mistaik, skare 'em up an' take 'em as they rise. Spring interdooced with a fiew approput flours. Speach finally beginswitch nobuddy need n't feel obolygated to read as I never read 'em an'never shell this one ag'in. Subjick staited; expanded; delayted;extended. Pump lively. Subjick staited ag'in so 's to avide allmistaiks. Ginnle remarks; continooed; kerried on; pushed furder; kind o'gin out. Subjick _re_staited; dielooted; stirred up permiscoous. Pumpag'in. Gits back to where he sot out. Can't seem to stay thair. Ketchesinto Mr. Seaward's hair. Breaks loose ag'in an' staits his subjick;stretches it; turns it; folds it; onfolds it; folds it ag'in so 's 't noone can't find it. Argoos with an imedginary bean thet ain't aloud tosay nothin' in repleye. Gives him a real good dressin' an' is settysfidehe 's rite. Gits into Johnson's hair. No use tryin' to git into hishead. Gives it up. Hez to stait his subjick ag'in; doos it back'ards, sideways, eendways, criss-cross, bevellin', noways. Gits finally red onit. Concloods. Concloods more. Reads sum xtrax. Sees his subjicka-nosin' round arter him ag'in. Tries to avide it. Wun't du. _Mis_statesit. Can't conjectur' no other plawsable way of staytin' on it. Triespump. No fx. Yeels the flore. 

You kin spall an' punctooate thet as you please. I allus do, it kind ofputs a noo soot of close onto a word, thisere funattick spellin' doosan' takes 'em out of the prissen dress they wair in the Dixonary. Ef Isqueeze the cents out of 'em it's the main thing, an' wut they wuz madefor; wut 's left 's jest pummis. 

Mistur Wilbur sez he to me onct, sez he, "Hosee, " sez he, "inlitterytoor the only good thing is Natur. It 's amazin' hard to comeat, " sez he, "but onct git it an' you 've gut everythin'. Wut's thesweetest small on airth?" sez he. "Noomone hay, " sez I, pooty bresk, forhe wuz allus hankerin' round in hayin'. "Nawthin' of the kine, " sez he. "My leetle Huldy's breath, " sez I ag'in. "You 're a good lad, " sez he, his eyes sort of ripplin' like, for he lost a babe onct nigh about herage, --"You 're a good lad; but 't ain't thet nuther, " sez he. "Ef youwant to know, " sez he, "open your winder of a mornin' et ary season, andyou 'll larn thet the best of perfooms is jest fresh air, _fresh air_, "sez he, emphysizin', "athout no mixtur. Thet 's wut _I_ call natur inwritin', and it bathes my lungs and washes 'em sweet whenever I git awhiff on 't, " sez he. I offen think o' thet when I set down to write, but the winders air _so_ ept to git stuck, and breakin' a pane costssunthin'. 

 Yourn for the last time, _Nut_ to be continooed, HOSEA BIGLOW. 

 I don't much s'pose, hows'ever I should plen it, I could git boosted into th' House or Sennit, -- Nut while the twolegged gab-machine 's so plenty, 'Nablin' one man to du the talk o' twenty; I 'm one o' them thet finds it ruther hard To mannyfactur' wisdom by the yard, An' maysure off, acordin' to demand, The piece-goods el'kence that I keep on hand, The same ole pattern runnin' thru an' thru, An' nothin' but the customer thet 's new. I sometimes think, the furder on I go, Thet it gits harder to feel sure I know, An' when I 've settled my idees, I find 'T war n't I sheered most in makin' up my mind; 'T wuz this an' thet an' t' other thing thet done it, Sunthin' in th' air, I could n' seek nor shun it. Mos' folks go off so quick now in discussion, All th' ole flint locks seems altered to percussion, Whilst I in agin' sometimes git a hint Thet I 'm percussion changin' back to flint; Wal, ef it's so, I ain't agoin' to werrit, For th' ole Oueen's-arm hez this pertickler merit, -- It gives the mind a hahnsome wedth o' margin To kin' o' make its will afore dischargin': I can't make out but jest one ginnle rule, -- No man need go an' _make_ himself a fool, Nor jedgment ain't like mutton, thet can't bear Cookin' tu long, nor be took up tu rare. 

 Ez I wuz say'n', I ha'n't no chance to speak So 's 't all the country dreads me onct a week, But I 've consid'ble o' thet sort o' head Thet sets to home an' thinks wut _might_ be said, The sense thet grows an' werrits underneath, Comin' belated like your wisdom-teeth, An' git so el'kent, sometimes, to my gardin Thet I don' vally public life a fardin'. Our Parson Wilbur (blessin's on his head!) 'Mongst other stories of ole times he hed, Talked of a feller thet rehearsed his spreads Beforehan' to his rows o' kebbige-heads, (Ef 'twarn't Demossenes, I guess 'twuz Sisro, ) Appealin' fust to thet an' then to this row, Accordin' ez he thought thet his idees Their diff'runt ev'riges o' brains 'ould please; "An', " sez the Parson, "to hit right, you must Git used to maysurin' your hearers fust; For, take my word for 't when all 's come an' past, The kebbige-heads 'll cair the day et last; Th' ain't ben a meetin' sense the worl' begun But they made (raw or biled ones) ten to one. "

 I 've allus foun' 'em, I allow, sence then About ez good for talkin' to ez men; They 'll take edvice, like other folks, to keep, (To use it 'ould be holdin' on 't tu cheap, ) They listen wal, don' kick up when you scold 'em, An' ef they 've tongues, hev sense enough to hold 'em; Though th' ain't no denger we shall loose the breed, I gin'lly keep a score or so for seed, An' when my sappiness gits spry in spring So 's 't my tongue itches to run on full swing, I fin' 'em ready-planted in March-meetin', Warm ez a lyceum-audience in their greetin', An' pleased to hear my spoutin' frum the fence, -- Comin', ez 't doos, entirely free 'f expense. This year I made the follerin' observations Extrump'ry, like most other tri'ls o' patience, An', no reporters bein' sent express To work their abstrac's up into a mess Ez like th' oridg'nal ez a woodcut pictur' Thet chokes the life out like a boy-constrictor, I've writ 'em out, an' so avide all jeal'sies 'Twixt nonsense o' my own an' some one's else's. 

 My feller kebbige-heads, who look so green, I vow to gracious thet ef I could dreen The world of all its hearers but jest you, 'T would leave 'bout all tha' is wuth talkin' to, An' you, my venerable frien's, thet show Upon your crowns a sprinklin' o' March snow, Ez ef mild Time had christened every sense For wisdom's church o' second innocence, Nut Age's winter, no, no sech a thing, But jest a kin' o' slippin'-back o' spring, -- We 've gathered here, ez ushle, to decide Which is the Lord's an' which is Satan's side, Coz all the good or evil thet can heppen Is 'long o' which on 'em you choose for Cappen. 

 Aprul 's come back; the swellin' buds of oak Dim the fur hillsides with a purplish smoke; The brooks are loose an', singing to be seen, (Like gals, ) make all the hollers soft an' green; The birds are here, for all the season 's late; They take the sun's height an' don' never wait; Soon 'z he officially declares it 's spring Their light hearts lift 'em on a north'ard wing, An' th'ain't an acre, fur ez you can hear, Can't by the music tell the time o' year; But thet white dove Carliny scared away, Five year ago, jes' sech an Aprul day; Peace, that we hoped 'ould come an' build last year An' coo by every housedoor, is n't here, -- No, nor won't never be, for all our jaw, Till we 're ez brave in pol'tics ez in war! O Lord, ef folks wuz made so 's 't they could see The bagnet-pint there is to an idee! Ten times the danger in 'em th' is in steel; They run your soul thru an' you never feel, But crawl about an' seem to think you 're livin', Poor shells o' men, nut wuth the Lord's forgivin', Till you come bunt agin a real live fact, An' go to pieces when you 'd ough' to act! Thet kin' o' begnet 's wut we 're crossin' now, An' no man, fit to nevvigate a scow, 'Ould stan' expectin' help from Kingdom Come While t' other side druv their cold iron home. 

 My frien's, you never gethered from my mouth, No, nut one word ag'in the South ez South, Nor th' ain't a livin' man, white, brown, nor black, Gladder 'n wut I should be to take 'em back; But all I ask of Uncle Sam is fust To write up on his door, "No goods on trust"; Give us cash down in ekle laws for all, An' they 'll be snug inside afore nex' fall. Give wut they ask, an' we shell hev Jamaker, Wuth minus some consid'able an acre; Give wut they need, an' we shell git 'fore long A nation all one piece, rich, peacefle, strong; Make 'em Amerikin, an' they'll begin To love their country ez they loved their sin; Let 'em stay Southun, an' you 've kep' a sore Ready to fester ez it done afore. No mortle man can boast of perfic' vision, But the one moleblin' thing is Indecision, An' th' ain't no futur' for the man nor state Thet out of j-u-s-t can't spell great. Some folks 'ould call thet reddikle; do you? 'T wuz commonsense afore the war wuz thru; _Thet_ loaded all our guns an' made 'em speak So 's 't Europe heared 'em clearn acrost the creek; "They 're drivin' o' their spiles down now, " sez she, To the hard grennit o' God's fust idee; "Ef they reach thet, Democ'cy need n't fear The tallest airthquakes _we_ can git up here. "

 Some call 't insultin' to ask _ary_ pledge, An' say 't will only set their teeth on edge, But folks you 've jest licked, fur 'z I ever see, Are 'bout ez mad ez they know how to be; It 's better than the Rebs themselves expected 'Fore they see Uncle Sam wilt down henpected; Be kind 'z you please, but fustly make things fast, For plain Truth 's all the kindness thet 'll last; Ef treason is a crime, ez _some_ folks say, How could we punish it a milder way Than sayin' to 'em, "Brethren, lookee here, We 'll jes' divide things with ye, sheer an' sheer, An' sence both come o' pooty strongbacked daddies, You take the Darkies, ez we 've took the Paddies; Ign'ant an' poor we took 'em by the hand, An' the 're the bones an' sinners o' the land. " I ain't o' those thet fancy there 's a loss on Every inves'ment thet don't start from Bos'on; But I know this: our money 's safest trusted In sunthin', come wut will, thet _can't_ be busted, An' thet 's the old Amerikin idee, To make a man a Man an' let him be. 

 Ez for their l'yalty, don't take a goad to 't, But I do' want to block their only road to 't By lettin' 'em believe thet they can git More 'n wut they lost, out of our little wit: I tell ye wut, I 'm 'fraid we 'll drif' to leeward 'Thout we can put more stiffenin' into Seward; He seems to think Columby 'd better act Like a scared widder with a boy stiff-necked Thet stomps an' swears he wun't come in to supper; She mus' set up for him, ez weak ez Tupper, Keepin' the Constitootion on to warm, Till he 'll accept her 'pologies in form: The neighbors tell her he 's a cross-grained cuss Thet needs a hidin' 'fore he comes to wus; "No, " sez Ma Seward, "he 's ez good 'z the best, All he wants now is sugar-plums an' rest"; "He sarsed my Pa, " sez one; "He stoned my son, " Another edds. "O, wal, 't wuz jest his fun. " "He tried to shoot our Uncle Samwell dead. " "'T wuz only tryin' a noo gun he hed. " "Wal, all we ask 's to hev it understood You'll take his gun away from him for good; We don't, wal, nut exac'ly, like his play, Seein' he allus kin' o' shoots our way. You kill your fatted calves to no good eend, 'Thout his fust sayin', 'Mother, I hev' sinned!'"

 The Pres'dunt _he_ thinks thet the slickest plan 'Ould be t' allow thet he 's our only man, An' thet we fit thru all thet dreffle war Jes' for his private glory an' eclor; "Nobody ain't a Union man, " sez he, "'Thout he agrees, thru thick an' thin, with me; War n't Andrew Jackson's 'nitials jes' like mine? An' ain't thet sunthin' like a right divine To cut up ez kentenkerous ez I please, An' treat your Congress like a nest o' fleas?" Wal, I expec' the People would n' care, if The question now wuz techin' bank or tariff, But I conclude they 've 'bout made up their mind This ain't the fittest time to go it blind, Nor these ain't metters thet with pol'tics swings, But goes 'way down amongst the roots o' things; Coz Sumner talked o' whitewashin' one day They wun't let four years' war be throwed away. "Let the South hev her rights?" They say, "Thet's you! But nut greb hold of other folks's tu. " Who owns this country, is it they or Andy? Leastways it ough' to be the People _and_ he; Let him be senior pardner, ef he 's so, But let them kin' o' smuggle in ez Co; Did he diskiver it? Consid'ble numbers Think thet the job wuz taken by Columbus. Did he set tu an' make it wut it is? Ef so, I guess the One-Man-power _hez_ riz. Did he put thru' the rebbles, clear the docket, An' pay th' expenses out of his own pocket? Ef thet 's the case, then everythin' I exes Is t' hev him come an' pay my ennooal texes. Was 't he thet shou'dered all them million guns? Did he lose all the fathers, brothers, sons? Is this ere pop'lar gov'ment thet we run A kin' o' sulky, made to kerry one? An' is the country goin' to knuckle down To hev Smith sort their letters 'stid o' Brown? Who wuz the 'Nited States 'fore Richmon' fell? Wuz the South needfle their full name to spell? An' can't we spell it in thet short-han' way Till th' underpinnin' 's settled so 's to stay? Who cares for the Resolves of '61, Thet tried to coax an airthquake with a bun? Hez act'ly nothin' taken place sence then To l'arn folks they must hendle facts like men? Ain't _this_ the true p'int? Did the Rebs accep' 'em? Ef nut, whose fault is 't thet we hev n't kep' 'em? War n't there _two_ sides? an' don't it stend to reason Thet this week's 'Nited States ain't las' week's treason? When all these sums is done, with nothin' missed, An' nut afore, this school 'll be dismissed. 

 I knowed ez wal ez though I 'd seen 't with eyes Thet when the war wuz over copper 'd rise, An' thet we 'd hev a rile-up in our kettle 'T would need Leviathan's whole skin to settle; I thought 't would take about a generation 'Fore we could wal begin to be a nation, But I allow I never did imegine 'T would be our Pres'dunt thet 'ould drive a wedge in To keep the split from closin' ef it could, An' healin' over with new wholesome wood; For th' ain't no chance o' healin' while they think Thet law an' gov'ment 's only printer's ink; I mus' confess I thank him for discoverin' The curus way in which the States are sovereign; They ain't nut _quite_ enough so to rebel, But, when they fin' it 's costly to raise h----, Why, then, for jes' the same superl'tive reason, They 're most too much so to be tetched for treason; They _can't_ go out, but ef they somehow _du_, Their sovereignty don't noways go out tu; The State goes out, the sovereignty don't stir, But stays to keep the door ajar for her. He thinks secession never took 'em out, An' mebby he 's correc', but I misdoubt; Ef they war n't out, then why, 'n the name o' sin, Make all this row 'bout lettin' of 'em in? In law, p'r'aps nut; but there 's a diffurence, ruther, Betwixt your brother-'n-law an' real brother, An' I, for one, shall wish they 'd all ben _som'eres_, Long 'z U. S. Texes are sech reg'lar comers. But, O my patience! must we wriggle back Into th' ole crooked, pettyfoggin' track, When our artil'ry-wheels a road hev cut Stret to our purpose ef we keep the rut? War 's jes' dead waste excep' to wipe the slate Clean for the cyph'rin' of some nobler fate. 

 Ez for dependin' on their oaths an' thet, 'T wun't bind 'em more 'n the ribbin roun' my het; I heared a fable once from Othniel Starns, Thet pints it slick ez weathercocks do barns: Once on a time the wolves hed certing rights Inside the fold; they used to sleep there nights, An', bein' cousins o' the dogs, they took Their turns et watchin', reg'lar ez a book; But somehow, when the dogs hed gut asleep, Their love o' mutton beat their love o' sheep, Till gradilly the shepherds come to see Things war n't agoin' ez they 'd ough' to be; So they sent off a deacon to remonstrate Along 'th the wolves an' urge 'em to go on straight; They did n' seem to set much by the deacon, Nor preachin' did n' cow 'em, nut to speak on; Fin'ly they swore thet they 'd go out an' stay, An' hev their fill o' mutton every day: Then dogs an' shepherds, arter much hard dammin', Turned tu an' give 'em a tormented lammin', An' sez, "Ye sha' n't go out, the murrain rot ye, To keep us wastin' half our time to watch ye!" But then the question come, How live together 'Thout losin' sleep, nor nary yew nor wether? Now there wuz some dogs (noways wuth their keep) Thet sheered their cousins' tastes an' sheered the sheep; They sez, "Be gin'rous, let 'em swear right in, An', ef they backslide, let 'em swear ag'in; Jes' let 'em put on sheep-skins whilst they 're swearin'; To ask for more 'ould be beyond all bearin'. " "Be gin'rous for yourselves, where _you_ 're to pay, Thet 's the best practice, " sez a shepherd gray; "Ez for their oaths they wun't be wuth a button, Long 'z you don't cure 'em o' their taste for mutton; Th' ain't but one solid way, howe'er you puzzle: Till they 're convarted, let 'em wear a muzzle. "

 I 've noticed thet each half-baked scheme's abetters Are in the hebbit o' producin' letters Writ by all sorts o' never-heared-on fellers, 'Bout ez oridge'nal ez the wind in bellers; I 've noticed, tu, it 's the quack med'cines gits (An' needs) the grettest heaps o' stiffykits; Now, sence I lef' off creepin' on all fours, I ha' n't ast no man to endorse my course; It 's full ez cheap to be your own endorser, An' ef I 've made a cup, I 'll fin' the saucer; But I 've some letters here from t' other side, An' them 's the sort thet helps me to decide; Tell me for wut the copper-comp'nies hanker, An' I 'll tell you jest where it 's safe to anchor. Fus'ly the Hon'ble B. O. Sawin writes Thet for a spell he could n' sleep o' nights, Puzzlin' which side wuz preudentest to pin to, Which wuz th' ole homestead, which the temp'ry leanto; Et fust he jedged 't would right-side-up his pan To come out ez a 'ridge'nal Union man, "But now, " he sez, "I ain't nut quite so fresh; The winnin' horse is goin' to be Secesh; You might, las' spring, hev eas'ly walked the course, 'Fore we contrived to doctor th' Union horse; Now _we_ 're the ones to walk aroun' the nex' track: Jest you take hold an' read the follerin' extrac', Out of a letter I received last week From an ole frien' thet never sprung a leak, A Nothun Dem'crat o' th' ole Jarsey blue, Born coppersheathed an' copperfastened tu. "

 "These four years past, it hez been tough To say which side a feller went for; Guideposts all gone, roads muddy 'n' rough, An' nothin' duin' wut 't wuz meant for; Pickets afirin' left an' right, Both sides a lettin' rip et sight, -- Life war n't wuth hardly payin' rent for. 

 "Columby gut her back up so, It war n't no use a tryin' to stop her, -- War's emptin's riled her very dough An' made it rise an' act improper; 'T wuz full ez much ez I could du To jes' lay low an' worry thru', 'Thout hevin' to sell out my copper. 

 "Afore the war your mod'rit men Could set an' sun 'em on the fences, Cyph'rin' the chances up, an' then Jump off which way bes' paid expenses; Sence, 't wuz so resky ary way, _I_ did n't hardly darst to say I 'greed with Paley's Evidences. 

 "Ask Mac ef tryin' to set the fence War n't like bein' rid upon a rail on 't, Headin' your party with a sense O' bein' tipjint in the tail on 't, And tryin' to think thet, on the whole, You kin' o' quasi own your soul When Belmont's gut a bill o' sale on 't?

 "Come peace, I sposed thet folks 'ould like Their pol'tics done ag'in by proxy, Give their noo loves the bag an' strike A fresh trade with their reg'lar doxy; But the drag 's broke, now slavery 's gone, An' there 's gret resk they 'll blunder on, Ef they ain't stopped, to real Democ'cy. 

 "We've gut an awful row to hoe In this 'ere job o' reconstructin'; Folks dunno skurce which way to go, Where th' ain't some boghole to be ducked in; But one thing 's clear; there _is_ a crack, Ef we pry hard, 'twixt white an' black, Where the old makebate can be tucked in. 

 "No white man sets in airth's broad aisle Thet I ain't willin' t' own az brother, An' ef he 's heppened to strike ile, I dunno, fin'ly, but I 'd ruther; An' Paddies, long 'z they vote all right, Though they ain't jest a nat'ral white, I hold one on 'em good 'z another. 

 "Wut _is_ there lef' I 'd like to know, Ef 't ain't the difference o' color, To keep up self-respec' an' show The human natur' of a fullah? Wut good in bein' white, onless It 's fixed by law, nut lef' to guess, Thet we are smarter an' they duller?

 "Ef we 're to hev our ekle rights, 'T wunt du to 'low no competition; Th' ole debt doo us for bein' whites Ain't safe onless we stop th' emission O' these noo notes, whose specie base Is human natur', 'thout no trace O' shape, nor color, nor condition. 

 "So fur I 'd writ an' could n' jedge Aboard wut boat I 'd best take pessige, My brains all mincemeat, 'thout no edge Upon 'em more than tu a sessige, But now it seems ez though I see Sunthin' resemblin' an idee, Sence Johnson's speech an' veto message. 

 "I like the speech best, I confess, The logic, preudence, an' good taste on 't, An' it 's so mad, I ruther guess There 's some dependence to be placed on 't; It 's narrer, but 'twixt you an' me, Out o' the allies o' J. D. A temp'ry party can be based on 't. 

 "Jes' to hold on till Johnson's thru' An' dug his Presidential grave is, An' _then_!--who knows but we could slew The country roun' to put in ----? Wun't some folks rare up when we pull Out o' their eyes our Union wool An' larn 'em wut a p'lit'cle shave is!

 "O, did it seem 'z ef Providunce _Could_ ever send a second Tyler? To see the South all back to once, Reapin' the spiles o' the Freesiler, Is cute ez though an engineer Should claim th' old iron for his sheer Because 't wuz him that bust the biler!"

 Thet tells the story! Thet 's wut we shall git By tryin' squirtguns on the burnin' Pit; For the day never comes when it 'll du To kick off Dooty like a worn-out shoe. I seem to hear a whisperin' in the air, A sighin' like, of unconsoled despair, Thet comes from nowhere an' from everywhere, An' seems to say, "Why died we? war n't it, then, To settle, once for all, thet men wuz men? O, airth's sweet cup snetched from us barely tasted, The grave's real chill is feelin' life wuz wasted! O, you we lef, long-lingerin' et the door, Lovin' you best, coz we loved Her the more, Thet Death, not we, had conquered, we should feel Ef she upon our memory turned her heel, An' unregretful throwed us all away To flaunt it in a Blind Man's Holiday!"

 My frien's, I 've talked nigh on to long enough. I hain't no call to bore ye coz ye 're tough; My lungs are sound, an' our own v'ice delights Our ears, but even kebbigeheads hez rights. It 's the las' time thet I shell e'er address ye, But you 'll soon fin' some new tormentor: bless ye!

QUESTION OF MONUMENTS. 

In the beautiful life which the English-speaking foreigners lead atRome, the great sensations are purely æsthetic. To people who know oneanother so familiarly as must the members of a community united in astrange land by the ties of alien race, language, and religion, therecannot, of course, be wanting the little excitements of personal gossipand scandal; but even these have generally an innocent, artistic flavor, and it is ladies' statues, not reputations, which suffer, --gentlemen'spictures, not characters, which are called into question; while theevents which interest the whole community are altogether different fromthose which move us at home. In the Capital of the Past, people meetingat the _café_, or at the tea-tables of lady-acquaintance, speak, beforefalling upon the works of absent friends, concerning the antique jewelwhich Castellani lately bought of a peasant, and intends to reproduce, for the delight of all who can afford to love the quaint and exquisiteforms of the ancient workers in gems and gold; or they talk of thatfamous statue of the young Hercules, dug up by the lucky proprietor, whoreceived from the Pope a marquisate, and forgiveness of all his debts, in return for his gift of the gilded treasure. At the worst these happychildren of art, and their cousins the connoisseurs, (everyEnglish-speaking foreigner in Rome is of one class or the other, ) areonly drawn from the debate of such themes by some dramatic aspect of thepicturesque Roman politics: a scene between the French commandant andAntonelli, or the arrest of a restaurateur for giving his guests whiteturnips, red beets, and green beans in the same revolutionary plate; orthe like incident. 

At home, here, in the multiplicity of our rude affairs, by what widelydifferent events and topics are we excited to talk! It must be someoccurrence of very terrible, vile, or grotesque effect that can take ourminds from our business. We discuss the ghastly particulars of asteamboat explosion, or the evidence in a trial for murder; or if thechief magistrate addresses his fellow-citizens in his colloquial, yetdignified way, we dispute whether he was not, at the time of the speech, a martyr to those life-long habits of abstinence from which he is knownto have once suffered calamities spared the confirmed wine-bibber. Once, indeed, we seemed as a nation to rise to the appreciation of thosebeautiful interests which occupy our Roman friends, and once, not agreat while ago, we may be said to have known an æsthetic sensation. Forthe first time in our history as a people, we seemed to feel thenecessity of art, and to regard it as a living interest, like commerce, or manufacturing, or mining, when, shortly after the close of the war, and succeeding the fall of the last and greatest of its dead, thecountry expressed a universal desire to commemorate its heroes by theaid of art. But we do not husband our sensations as our Roman friends dotheirs: the young Hercules lasted them two months, while a divorce casehardly satisfies us as many days, and a railroad accident not longer. Wehasten from one event to another, and it would be hard to tell nowwhether it was a collision on the Saint Jo line, or a hundred and thirtylives lost on the Mississippi, or some pleasantry from our merry Andrew, which distracted the public mind from the subject of monumental honors. It is certain, however, that, at the time alluded to, there was muchtalk of such things in the newspapers and in the meetings. A popularsubscription was opened for the erection of a monument to AbrahamLincoln at his home in Springfield; each city was about to celebrate himby a statue in its public square; every village would have his bust or afuneral tablet; and our soldiers were to be paid the like reverence andhomage. Then the whole affair was overwhelmed by some wave of novelexcitement, and passed out of the thoughts of the people; so that wefeel, in recurring to it now, like him who, at dinner, turns awkwardlyback to a subject from which the conversation has gracefully wandered, saying, "We were speaking just now about"--something the company hasalready forgotten. So far as we have learned, not an order for anymemorial sculpture of Lincoln has been given in the whole country, andwe believe that only one design by an American sculptor has been offeredfor the Springfield monument. There is time, however, to multiplydesigns; for the subscription, having reached a scant fifty thousanddollars, rests at that sum, and rises no higher. 

But we hope that the people will not altogether relinquish the purposeof monumental commemoration of the war, and we are not wholly inclinedto lament that the fever-heat of their first intent exhausted itself indreams of shafts and obelisks, groups and statues, which would probablyhave borne as much relation to the real idea of Lincoln's life, and thewar and time which his memory embodies and represents, as the poetry ofthe war has borne. In the cool moments of our convalescence from civildisorder, may we not think a little more clearly, and choose rather morewisely than would have been possible earlier?

No doubt there is in every epoch a master-feeling which art must obey, if it would flourish, and remain to represent something intelligibleafter the epoch is past. We know by the Gothic churches of Italy howmightily the whole people of that land were once moved by the impulsesof their religion (which might be, and certainly was, a thing verydifferent from purity and goodness): the Renaissance temples remind usof a studious period passionately enamored of the classic past; in therococo architecture and sculpture of a later time, we have the idleswagger, the unmeaning splendor, the lawless luxury, of an age corruptedby its own opulence, and proud of its licentious slavery. Had anythingcome of the æsthetic sensation immediately following the war, and thespirit of martial pride with which it was so largely mixed, we shouldprobably have had a much greater standing-army in bronze and marble thanwould have been needed for the suppression of any future rebellion. Anexcitement, a tumult, not a tendency of our civilization, would thushave been perpetuated, to misrepresent us and our age to posterity; forwe are not a military people, (though we certainly know how to fightupon occasion, ) and the pride which we felt in our army as a body, andin the men merely as soldiers, was an exultation which has already in agreat part subsided. Indeed, the brave fellows have themselves meantimegiven us a lesson, in the haste they have made to put off theirsoldier-costume and resume the free and individual dress of thecivilian. The ignorant poets might pipe of the glory and splendor ofwar, but these men had seen the laurel growing on the battle-field, andknew

 "Di che lagrime grondi e di che sangue"

its dazzling foliage. They knew that the fighting, in itself horrible, and only sublime in its necessity and purpose, was but a minor part ofthe struggle; and they gladly put aside all that proclaimed it as theirvocation, and returned to the arts of peace. 

The idea of our war seems to have interpreted itself to us all as faithin the justice of our cause, and in our immutable destiny, as God'sagents, to give freedom to mankind; and the ideas of our peace aregratitude and exultant industry. Somehow, we imagine, these ideas shouldbe represented in every memorial work of the time, though we should besorry to have this done by the dreary means of conventional allegory. Amilitary despotism of martial statues would be far better than ademagogy of these virtues, posed in their well-known attitudes, toconfront perplexed posterity with lifted brows and superhuman simpers. Asublime parable, like Ward's statue of the Freedman, is the fullexpression of one idea that should be commemorated, and would bettercelebrate the great deeds of our soldiers than bass-reliefs of battles, and statues of captains, and groups of privates, or manyscantily-draped, improper figures, happily called Liberties. 

With the people chosen to keep pure the instinct of the Beautiful, asthe Hebrews were chosen to preserve a knowledge of the Divine, it wasnot felt that commemorative art need be descriptive. He who triumphedthe first and second time in the Olympic games was honored with astatue, but not a statue in his own likeness. Neither need thecommemorative art of our time be directly descriptive of the actions itcelebrates. There is hardly any work of beautiful use which cannot bemade to serve the pride we feel in those who fought to enlarge andconfirm the freedom of our country, and we need only guard that ourmonuments shall in no case express funereal sentiment. Their placeshould be, not in the cemeteries, but in the busy hearts of towns, andthey should celebrate not only those who fought and died for us in thewar, but also those who fought and lived, for both are equally worthy ofgratitude and honor. The ruling sentiment of our time is triumphant andtrustful, and all symbols and images of death are alien to it. 

While the commemoration of the late President may chiefly take visibleshape at the capital, or at Springfield, near the quiet home from whichhe was called to his great glory, the era of which he was so grand apart should be remembered by some work of art in every community. Theperpetuation of the heroic memories should in all cases, it seems to us, be committed to the plastic arts, and not, as some would advise, to anyless tangible witness to our love for them. It is true that a communitymight endow a charity, to be called forever by some name that wouldcelebrate them, or might worthily record its reverence for them bypurchase of a scholarship to be given in our heroes' names togenerations of struggling scholars of the place. But the poor we havealways with us; while this seems the rare occasion meant for the plasticarts to supply our need of beautiful architecture and sculpture, and toprove their right to citizenship among us, by showing themselvesadequate to express something of the spirit of the new order we havecreated here. Their effort need not, however, be toward novel forms ofexpression. That small part of our literature which has best answeredthe want of our national life has been the most jealous in its regardfor the gospels of art, and only incoherent mediums and false prophetshave disdained revelation. Let the plastic arts, in proving that theyhave suffered the change which has come upon races, ethics, and ideas inthis new world, interpret for us that simple and direct sense of thebeautiful which lies hidden in the letter of use. There is the great, overgrown, weary town of Workdays, which inadequately struggled at thetime of our national æsthetic sensation, in all its newspapers, pulpits, and rostrums, with the idea of a monument to the regiments it sent tothe war. The evident and immediate want of Workdays is a park or publicgarden, in which it can walk about, and cool and restore itself. Whyshould not the plastic arts suggest that the best monument whichWorkdays could build would be this park, with a great triumphal gatewayinscribed to its soldiers, and adorned with that sculpture andarchitecture for which Workdays can readily pay? The flourishing villageof Spindles, having outgrown the days of town-pumps and troughs, hasnot, in spite of its abundant water-power, a drop of water on its publicways to save its operatives from drunkenness or its dogs from madness. Oplastic arts! give Spindles a commemorative fountain, which, taking alittle music from the mills, shall sing its heroes forever in drops ofhealth, refreshment, and mercy. In the inquiring town of Innovation, successive tides of doubt and revival and spiritualism have left thedifferent religious sects with little more than their names; letInnovation build a votive church to the memory of the Innovators sent tothe war, and meet in it for harmonious public worship. At Dulboys andSlouchers, it must be confessed that they sadly need a new unionschool-house and town-hall, (the old school-house at Dulboys having beenat last whittled to pieces, and no town-hall having ever been built inSlouchers, ) and there seems no good reason why these edifices should notbe given the honor to proclaim the pride of the towns in the deeds oftheir patriots. 

On their part, we hope none of these places will forget that it is boundto the arts and to itself not to build ignobly in memory of its great. Acommemorative edifice, to whatever purpose adapted, must first bebeautiful, since a shabby or ugly gateway, fountain, or church woulddishonor those to whom it was dedicated; a school-house or town-hallbuilt to proclaim pride and reverence cannot be a wooden box; but allmust be structures of enduring material and stately architecture. Allshould, if possible, have some significant piece of statuary within orupon them, or at least some place for it, to be afterwards filled; andall should be enriched and beautified to the full extent of the people'smoney and the artist's faculty. 

For the money, the citizens will, of course, depend upon themselves; butmay we pray them to beware of the silliness of local pride--(we imaginethat upon reading this paper the cities and towns named will at oncemove in the business of monuments, and we would not leave them unadvisedin any particular)--in choosing their sculptors and architects? Hometalent is a good thing when educated and developed, but it must betaught in the schools of art, and not suffered to spoil brick and mortarin learning. Our friends, the depraved Italian popes and princes (ofwhom we can learn much good), understood this, and called to theircapitals the best artist living, no matter what the city of his birth. If a famous sculptor or architect happens to be a native of any of theplaces mentioned, he is the man to make its monument; and if he is anative of any other place in the country, he is equally the man, whilehome talent must be contented to execute his design. 

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. 

_Mind in Nature; or the Origin of Life, and the Mode of Development ofAnimals. _ By HENRY JAMES CLARK, A. B. , B. S. , Adjunct Professor ofZoölogy in Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass. New York: D. Appleton &Co. 

When all lower branches of Natural History have been finally exhausted, and we begin upon the Natural History of Scientific Men, we shall nodoubt discover why it is necessary for each _savant_ to season his mildpursuits by some desperate private feud with the nearest brother in theservice. The world of scoffers no doubt revels in this particularweakness, and gladly omits all the rest of the book, in haste to get atthe personalities. But to the sedate inquirer it only brings dismay. Howpainful, as one glides pleasantly on amid "concentric vesicles" and"albuminous specialization, " tracing the egg from the germinal dot tothe very verge of the breakfast-table, to be suddenly interrupted, likeCharles O'Malley's pacific friend in Ireland, by the crack of aduelling-pistol and the fracture of all the teacups! It makes it all theworse to know that the brother professor thus assailed is no meanantagonist, and certainly anything but a non-resistant; and thatundoubtedly in his next book our joys will again be disturbed by ananswering volley. 

Yet it should be said, in justice to Professor Clark, that all thisstartling fusillade occurs at two or three points only, and that readingthe rest of the book is like a peaceful voyage down the Mississippiafter the few guerilla-haunted spots are passed. The general tone of thebook is eminently quiet, reasonable, and free from partisanship. Indeed, this studied moderation of statement sometimes mars even the clearnessof the book, and the reader wishes for more emphasis. Professor Clarkloves fact so much better than theory, that he sometimes leaves thetheory rather obscure, and the precise bearing of the facts doubtful. Tothis is added the difficulty of a style, earnest and laborious indeed, but by no means luminous. In a treatise professedly popular, one has aright to ask a few more facilities for the general reader. It can hardlybe expected of all scientific men to attain the singular success, inthis direction, of Professor Huxley; but the art of popularization istoo important a thing to be ignored, and much may be done to cultivatethe gift by literary training and by persistent effort. The newresearches into the origin of life are awakening the interest of all;and though the popular tendency is no doubt towards the views mainlyheld by Professor Clark, yet most men prefer an interesting speech onthe wrong side of any question to a dull speech in behalf of the right. 

When one takes the book piecemeal, however, the author's statements ofhis own observations and analysis are so thorough and so admirable, hisdrawings so good, and the interest of many separate portions so great, that it seems hardly fair to complain of the rather fragmentary effectof their combination, and the rather obscure tenor of the whole. Professor Clark holds that the old doctrine, _Omne vivum ex ovo_, is nowvirtually abandoned by all, since all admit the origin of vast numbersof animated individuals by budding and self-division. There are, infact, types of animals, as the Zoöphyta, where these appear the normalmodes of reproduction, and the egg only an exceptional process. Fromthis he thinks it but a slight step to admit the possibility ofspontaneous generation, and he accordingly does admit it. Touching thedevelopment theory, his conclusion is that the barriers between the fivegreat divisions of the animal world are insurmountable, but "that, bythe multiplication and intensifying of individual differences, and theprojection of these upon the branching lines of the courses ofdevelopment from a lower to a higher life, the diverse and successivelymore elevated types among each grand division have originated upon thisglobe. " (p. 248. ) This sentence, if any, gives the key-note of the book. To say that this is one of its clearest statements, may help to justifythe above criticisms on the rest. 

_A Noble Life. _ By the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman, " etc. NewYork: Harper and Brothers. 1866. 

The story of a man born cruelly deformed and infirm, with a bodydwarfish, but large enough to hold a good heart and clear brain, --and ofsuch a man's living many years of pain, happy in the blessings which hisgreat wealth and high rank, and, above all, his noble nature, enable himto confer on every one approaching him, --could hardly have been toldmore simply and pathetically than it is in this book, but it mightcertainly have been told more briefly. The one slight incident of thefiction--the marriage of the Earl of Cainforth's _protégée_ andprotectress and dearest friend to his worthless cousin, who, havingfound out that the heirless Earl will leave her his fortune, wins herheart by deceit, and then does his worst to break it--occurs when thebook is half completed, and scarcely suffices to interest, since it isso obvious what the end must be; while the remaining pages, devoted tostudy of the Earl's character, do not develop much that is new inliterature or humanity. Still, the story has its charm: it is healthful, unaffected, and hopeful; and most people will read it through, and bebetter for having done so. 

_Literature in Letters; or, Manners, Art, Criticism, Biography, History, and Morals, illustrated in the Correspondence of Eminent Persons. _Edited by JAMES HOLCOMBE, LL. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1866. 

The very comprehensive title of this work leaves us little to say inexplanation of its purpose, and we can only speak in compliment of thetaste with which the editor has performed a not very arduous task. As amatter of course, the famous epistles of Lady Mary Wortley Montague, Pope, Horace Walpole, Madame de Sévigné, Miss Burney, Lady Russell, andHannah More go to form a large part of the collection; but Mr. Holcombehas drawn from other sources epistolary material of interest and value, and has performed a service to literature by including in his book theoccasional letters of great men not addicted to letter-writing, but nodoubt as natural and true to themselves and their time as habitualletter-writers. It is curious to note the deterioration in the artisticquality of the letters as the period of their production approaches ourown, when people dash off their correspondence rapidly and incoherently, instead of bestowing upon it the artifice and care which distinguishedthe epistolarians of an elder date, whose letters, fastidiously written, faithfully read, and jealously kept and shown about in favored circles, supplied the place of newspapers. The lowest ebb of indifference seemsto be reached in a letter by Daniel Webster, written from Richmond, anddevoted to some very commonplace and jejune praises of morning and earlyrising. Except as an instance of our epistolary degeneracy, we couldhardly wish it to have a place in Mr. Holcombe's collection, which isotherwise so judiciously made. 

_The Criterion; or the Test of Talk about Familiar Things. A Series ofEssays. _ By HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. New York: Hurd and Houghton. 1866. 

Mr. Tuckerman's books, if they possess no great value as works oforiginal thought, are characterized by the hardly less desirable qualityof unfailing good taste. He has a quiet and meditative way of treatingthose topics of literature and art with which he chiefly loves to deal, and has much in him which reminds of the race of essayists preceding thebrilliant dogmatists of our time; and we confess that we find a greatenjoyment in the lazy mood in which he here gossips of twenty desultorymatters. The name of the present work is, to be sure, a somewhatformidable mask under which to hide the cheerful visage of a rambleramong Inns, Pictures, Sepulchres, Statues and Bridges, and a tattler ofAuthors, Doctors, Holidays, Lawyers, Actors, Newspapers, and Preachers;but it is only a mask after all, and the talk really tests nothing, --noteven the reader's patience. With much charming information from booksconcerning these things, Mr. Tuckerman agreeably blends personalknowledge of many of the subjects. Bits of reminiscence drift down thetranquil current of story and anecdote, and there is just enough ofintelligent comment and well-bred discussion to give each paper unionand direction. In fine, "The Criterion" is one of the best of that verypleasant class of books made for the days of unoccupied men and thehalf-hours of busy ones, --which may be laid down at any moment withoutoffence to their purpose, and taken up again with profit to theirreaders. 

_The History of Henry the Fifth: King of England, Lord of Ireland, andHeir of France. _ By GEORGE MAKEPEACE TOWLE. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 

The doubt whether Mr. Towle is writing historical romance or romantichistory must often embarrass the reader of a work uniting the amiableweaknesses of both species of composition, and presenting much more thatis tedious in narration, affected in style, and feeble in thought, thanwe have lately found in any large octavo volume of five hundred pages. We begin with four introductory chapters recounting the events which ledto the usurpation of Bolingbroke, and the succession of Mr. Towle's heroto the English throne; we go on with two chapters descriptive of theyouthful character and career of Henry the Fifth; we end with sixchapters devoted to the facts of his reign. Through all this, it appearsto us, we are conducted at a pace of singular equality, not to belightened by the triviality of minor incidents, nor greatly delayed bythe most important occurrences. Nearly all the figures of the pictureare in the foreground, and few are more prominent than the leastsignificant accessory of the landscape; and, for once, it is scarcelypossible to say that the picture would have been better if the painterhad taken more pains. Indeed, we incline to think the contrary, andwould have been willing to accept a result somewhat less labored thanthat given us. We confess, for example, that it is a matter of smallinterest to us to know that the Duke of Lancaster's wife is the "fairBlanche"; that, when Katharine consented to wed Henry, "a blush mountedher clear temple"; that over every part of her wedding dress "glitteredthe rarest gems of Golconda"; that Henry's heart "ever beataffectionately for his beloved isle" of England; that at a certainmoment of the battle of Agincourt a large body of the French forces"shook in their shoes"; that the crossbow was "an object of wonder anddelight to the children of olden chivalry"; that Shakespeare "caressedthe fame of the hero-king with the richest coruscations of hisgenius";--not to name a multitude of other facts stated with equal costof thought and splendor of diction. But Mr. Towle spares us nothing, andsometimes leaves as little to the opinion of his readers as to theirimagination. Having to tell us that Henry learned, in his boyhood, toplay upon the harp, he will not poorly say as much, but will lavishlydeclare, "He learned, with surprising quickness, to play upon thatnoblest of instruments, the harp"; which is, indeed, a finer turn oflanguage, but, at the same time, an invasion of the secret preferencewhich some of us may feel for the bass-viol or the accordion. 

The same excellent faculty for characterization serves our historian ongreat occasions as well as small ones. Of an intriguing nobleman likethe Duke of Norfolk, he is as prompt to speak as of the harp itself: "Hewas one of those politicians who are never contented; who plot andcounterplot incessantly; who are always running their heads fearlessly, to be sure, but indiscreetly, into danger of decapitation. " This fineanalytic power appears throughout the book. Describing the enthusiasm ofthe Londoners for Henry of Bolingbroke, and their coldness towards thecaptive King Richard, the historian acutely observes: "Ever thus, fromthe beginning of the world, have those been insulted who have fallenfrom a high estate. The multitude follows successful usurpation, butnever offers a shield to fallen dignity. " The bashfulness and silence ofPrince Henry an ordinary writer would perhaps have called by thosenames; but Mr. Towle says: "He was neither loud nor forward in givinghis views; he apparently felt that one so young should never seemdogmatic or positive on questions in regard to which age and learningwere in doubt. " Such a sentence might perhaps suggest the idea that Mr. Towle's History was intended for the more youthful reader, but when youread, farther on, in the analysis of Henry's character, "It was fittingthat so fine a soul should be illustrated by brilliancy of intellect andeloquence of speech, that so precious a jewel should be encased in acasket of beauty and graceful proportion, "--or when you learn, inanother place, that "the eloquence of Stephen Partington stirred thereligious element of Henry's _character, which appreciated and admired_superior ability of speech, "--we say, you can no longer doubt that Mr. Towle addresses himself to minds as mature as his own. It is naturalthat an historian whose warmth of feeling is visible in his glow oflanguage should be an enthusiastic worshipper of his hero, and shoulddefend him against all aspersions. Mr. Towle finds that, if Henry was arake in youth and a bigot in manhood, he was certainly a very amiablerake and a very earnest bigot. "There can be no doubt, " says ourhistorian, in his convincing way, "that he often paused in his recklesscareer, filled with remorse, wrestling with his flighty spirit, toovercome his unseemly sports"; and as to the sincerity of hisfanaticism, "to suppose otherwise is to charge a mere youth with ahypocritical cunning worthy of the Borgias in their zenith. " Masterlystrokes like these are, of course, intended to console the reader for awant of distinctness in Mr. Towle's narrative, from which one does notrise with the clearest ideas of the civilization and events of the timewhich he describes. 

We can understand how great an attraction so brilliant and picturesquean epoch of history should have for a spirit like Mr. Towle's; but wecannot help thinking it a pity that he should have attempted toreproduce, in such an ambitious form, the fancies which itscontemplation suggested. The book is scarcely too large for the subject, but it is much too large for Mr. Towle, whose grievous fashion of_padding_ must be plain enough, even in the few passages which we havequoted from his book. A writer may, by means of a certain dead-a-livelyexpansive style of narration, contrived out of turns of expressionadapted from Percy's Reliques, the Waverly Novels, the newspapers, andthe imitators of Thackeray's historical gossip, succeed in filling fivehundred pages, but he will hardly satisfy one reader; and we areconvinced by Mr. Towle's work that, whatever other species of literaturemay demand the exercise of a childish imagination, --a weak fancy easilycaught with the prettiness as well as the pomp of words, --a slenderphilosophy incapable of grasping the true significance of events, --alogic continually tripped upon its own rapier, --and a powerful feelingfor anti-climax, with no small sentiment for solecism, --History, atleast, has little to gain from them. 

_War of the Rebellion; or, Scylla and Charybdis. Consisting ofObservations upon the Causes, Course, and Consequences of the Late CivilWar in the United States. _ By H. S. FOOTE. New York: Harper andBrothers. 1866. 

The slight value which this volume possesses is of a nature altogetherdifferent from that which the author doubtless ascribes to it, though weimagine most of his readers will agree with us in esteeming it chieflyfor its personal reminiscences of great events and people. As for Mr. Foote's philosophization of the history he recounts, it is so generallybased upon erroneous views of conditions and occurrences, that we wouldwillingly have spared it all, if we could have had in its place a fulland simple narrative of his official career from the time he took partin secession up to the moment of his departure from the Rebel territory. We find nothing new in what he has to say concerning the character ofour colonial civilization and the unity of our colonial origin; and, aswe get farther from the creation of the world and approach our own era, we must confess that the light shed upon the slavery question by Mr. Foote seems but vague and unsatisfactory. A few disastrous years haveseparated us so widely from all the fallacies once current here, thatMr. Foote's voice comes like an utterance from Antediluvia, when hetells us how compromises continually restored us to completetranquillity, which the machinations of wicked people, North and South, instantly disturbed again. There was once a race of feeble-mindedpoliticians who thought that, if the Northern Abolitionists and Southernfire-eaters were destroyed, there could be no possible disagreementbetween the sections concerning slavery; and Mr. Foote, surviving hiscontemporaries, still clings to their delusions, and believes that thelate war resulted from the conflict of ambitious and unscrupulous men, and not from the conflict of principles. Now that slavery is foreverremoved, it might seem that this was a harmless error enough, and wouldprobably hurt nobody, --not even Mr. Foote. But the fact is important, since it is probable that Mr. Foote represents the opinions of a largeclass of people at the South, who were friendly to the Union in thebeginning of the war, but yielded later to the general feeling ofhostility. They were hardly less mischievous during the struggle thanthe original Secessionists, and, now that the struggle is ended, arelikely to give us even more trouble. 

Mr. Foote offers no satisfactory explanation of his own course in takingpart in the Rebel government, which was founded upon a principle alwaysabhorrent to him, and opposed to all his ideas of good faith and goodpolicy; but he gives us to understand that he was for a long time aboutthe only honest man unhanged in the Confederacy. Concerning thepolitical transactions of that short-lived state, he informs us of fewthings which have not been told us by others, and his criticism ofDavis's official action has little to recommend it except itsdisapproval of Davis. 

We must do Mr. Foote the justice to say that his book is not marred byany violence towards the great number of great men with whom he haspolitically differed; that he frankly expresses his regret for such ofhis errors as he now sees, and is not ashamed to be ashamed of certainoffences (like that which won him a very unpleasant nickname) againstgood taste and good breeding, which the imperfect civilization ofSouthern politicians formerly tempted them to commit. Remoteness fromthe currents of modern thought--such as life in a region so isolated asthe South has always been involves--will account for much cast-offallusion in his book to Greece and Rome, as well as that inflation ofstyle generally characteristic of Southern literature. 

_Poems in Sunshine and Firelight. _ By JOHN JAMES PIATT. Cincinnati: R. W. Carroll & Co. 1866. 

Among the best poems of the earlier days of the Atlantic was Mr. Piatt's"Morning Street, " which we think some of our readers may remember evenat this remote period, after so much immortality in all walks ofliterature has flourished and passed away. Mr. Piatt later published alittle volume of verses together with another writer of the West; andyet later, "The Nests at Washington, "--a book made up of poems from hisown pen and from that of Mrs. Piatt. He now at last appears in a volumewholly his, which we may regard as the work of a mind in some degreeconfirmed in its habits of perception and expression. 

We must allow to the author as great originality as belongs to any ofour younger poets. It is true that the presence of the all-pervadingTennyson is more sensibly felt here than in the first poems of Mr. Piatt; but even here it is very faint, and if the diction occasionallyreminds of him, Mr. Piatt's poems are undoubtedly conceived in a spiritentirely his own. This spirit, however, is one to which its proper senseof the beautiful is often so nearly sufficient, that the effort toimpart it is made with apparent indifference. The poet's ideal so winshim and delights him, in that intangible and airy form which it firstwore to his vision, that he seems to think, if he shall put down certainwords by virtue of which he can remember its loveliness, he shall alsohave perfectly realized its beauty to another. We do not know one poemby Mr. Piatt in which a full and clear sense of his whole meaning is atonce given to the reader; and he is obscure at times, we fear, becausehe has not himself a distinct perception of that which he wishes to say, though far oftener his obscurity seems to result from impatience, or theflattery of those hollow and alluring words which beset the dreams ofpoets, and must be harshly snubbed before they can be finally banished. There are many noble lines in his poems, but not much unity of effect orcoherence of sentiment; and it happens now and then that the idea whichthe reader painfully and laboriously evolves from them is, after all, not a great truth or beauty, but some curious intellectual toy, someplaything of the singer's fancy, some idle stroke of antithesis. 

In the poem called "At Evening, " in which the poet can be sopreposterous as to say, "Twilight steals Great stealthy veils of silence over all, "

occur the following lines, full of the tranquil sweetness and thedelicacy of feeling characteristic of Mr. Piatt's best mood:--

 "O, dear to me the coming forth of stars! After the trivial tumults of the day They fill the heavens, they hush the earth with awe, And when my life is fretted pettily With transient nothings, it is good, I deem, From darkling windows to look forth and gaze At this new blossoming of Eternity, 'Twixt each To-morrow, and each dead To-day; Or else, with solemn footsteps modulate To spheral music, wander forth and know Their radiant individualities, And feel their presence newly, hear again The silence that is God's voice speaking, slow In starry syllables, forevermore. "

Such thoughts as these are themselves like the star-rise described, andshine out distinctly above the prevailing twilight of the book, everywhere haunted by breaths of fragrance, and glimpses of beautifulthings, which cannot be determined as any certain scent or shape. Forexample, who can guess this riddle?

 "Come from my dreaming to my waking heart! Awake, within my soul there stands alone Thy marble soul; in lonely dreams apart, Thy sweet heart fills the stone!"

It is altogether probable that here the poet had some meaning, though itis entirely eclipsed in its expression. At other times his meaning isnot to be detached from the words by any violence of utterance; and if, speaking of the winged steed, he says, "When in the unbridled fields he flew, "

we understand perfectly that the steed flew unbridled in the limitlessfields. But no thanks to the poet!

Among the poems of Mr. Piatt which we understand best and like most, "Riding the Horse to Market"--or the poet's experience of offering hisdivine faculty to the world's rude uses--is in a spirit of fine andoriginal allegory; "September" and "Travellers" are very noble sonnets;"Fires in Illinois, " though a little thin in thought, is subtly andbeautifully descriptive, and so is "Sundown, " with the exception of afew such unmeaning lines as

 "Where the still waters glean The melancholy scene. "

"The Ballad of a Rose" is lovely and pathetic; and in "Riding to Vote"the poet approaches the excellent naturalness and reality of "The Mowerin Ohio, " which is so simple and touching, so full of homelike, genuinefeeling, unclouded by the poet's unhappy mannerism, that we are temptedto call it his best poem, as a whole, and have little hesitation incalling it one of the few good poems which the war has yet suggested. "The Pioneer's Chimney, " which is the first thing in the present book, is almost as free from Mr. Piatt's peculiar defects as "The Mower inOhio, " and it is a very charming idyl. We observe in it no strife forremote effect, while there is visible, here and there, as in the linesbelow, a delicate and finely tempered power of expression, which canonly come from the patient industry of true art, and from which wegather more hope for the poet's future than from anything else in thepresent book:--

 "The old man took the blow, but did not fall, -- Its weight had been before. The land was sold, The mortgage closed. The winter, cold and long, (Permitted by the hand that grasped his all, That winter passed he here, ) beside his fire, He talked of moving in the spring.... 

 "In the spring, When the first warmth had brooded everywhere, He sat beside his doorway in that warmth, Watching the wagons on the highway pass, _With something of the memory of his dread In the last autumn. _"

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