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TWO COPIES RtCtlVEO. Koifatoeti Tpxn* J. 8. Cuihing k Co. - Berwick k Smith Norwood MaM. U.8.A. 16'j3. h PREFACE ' , This volume follows in general the plan adopted in Mr. Craik's English Prose and in Mr. Ward's English Poets. Its object is to present extracts of considerable length from the works of each of the chief American prose-writers, preceded by a critical essay and a brief biographical sketch. Authors now living — great as has been the temptation — are not included. The text of the extracts has been carefully reprinted from the best editions, without any attempt at producing uniformity in spelling or punctuation. The source of each extract is explicitly stated. The editor is respon- sible for the selection of the authors, the choice of the extracts, and for the biographical sketches of Brown, Irving, Cooper, Haw- thorne, Longfellow, Poe, Thoreau, Whitman, and Lowell. Thanks are due to many publishers, whose names are mentioned in the appropriate places, for their k;.idness in allowing the use of ex- tracts from works still in copyright, or revised texts, still in copy- right, of works thai themselves have alraady passed out of copyright. On the other hand, it must be stated that to the singular unwillingness of the publishers of Holmes's writings to allow the use of a few thousand words from his principal works is due the absence of extracts from Holmes in this volume. Indifference to American literature, as well as ignorance of its history, its developmer^Van'd its value', is so common among us, even with those whose passion is the study of the literatures of other lands, that it is hoped that this volume may open the eyes r I I '^isp" VBi*^ f- f^ VI FKEFACE of many to its interest and beauty. English literature, from about Dryden's tiuie on, falls into two main branches, — that produced in Oreat Biitain and that produced in the United States. In the Introduction I have shown why I believe that the ppise literature produced here during this long period, whatever may be saiil of the poetry, is one of the most interesting in the world, and may appropriately be placed, not indeed first or second, but probably third, and certainly not lower than fourth, among modern prose literatures. But whatever be its value to humanity at large, it is ours ; and surely no American can read sympathetically the body of literature here presented without realizing — perhaps for the first time — that even from colonial times the deepest and most characteristic sides of our national life and feeling have been reproduced in our prose. Ill conclusion it is proper tj say that the number and length of the extracts have been determined not so much by a desire to indicate the relative rank of the several authors as by a desire to give a clear impression of the range and character of each author's production, and, in some cases, of the degree to which he expressed dominant moods of national feeling. G. R. C. August i, 1898. ■Jt t ( ^\ ^dSWtai^MiiM ■ ■^*aai^«fei*^''^:-f"swi&«i«/. ire, from about that protluced States. In the •r'isc literature lay be said of arid, and may but probably modern prose ty at large, it ithetically the — perhaps for deepest and ing have been ;r and length by a desire to yy a desire to cter of each ree to which G. R. c. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION . . . ..-";". The Editor '*" COTTON MATHER BARRrrr VVenoeix i ■ The Churches of New England • ^ V f The I'hantum Ship g '^^ The l^st Uuy» of Theophilus Eaton g The Piety of Thomas Sheparcl ,g ^John Eliot and the Indian Language .II JONATHAN EDWARDS . . Eoward EvERExr Hai.«, Jr. 13 ^ Nature and Holiness ,5 Sarah I'ierrepopt . ^.^ v^^ ^ jg ^^^ Sin's Entrance into the World . . . .10 > ^ N»tural Men are God's Enemies 21 The Legacy of Christ 2^ BENJAMIN FRANKLIN William P. Trent a; Franklin's Entrance into Philadelphia ,, A Scheme for Perfection . . , . , , ; « (-^ The Way to Wealth . . . ... 36 Letter to Mr. Strahan Letter to Joseph Priestley >. A Dialogue -, ^ GEORGE WASHINGTON William P. Trent 48 To the Governors of All the States ci THOMAS PAINE . . . , , . Munroe Smith 62 Government and Freedom 55 An American Navy gg ^ The Crisis -q The Universal Right of Conscience »3 A Profession of Faith - , vU vm CONTENTS ■ ' / PAOt /riiOMAS JKI-KKKSON William P. Trent 76 ^^ Declaration of Imlcpcndence yf CHARLES HR(XKI)|:N IJKOVVN Thomas Wkntwoktii IlKiuiNSdN 84 Ailvuuturc with a dray Cougar 89 StciiL- niniinK Inilianx 93 ( rhilailelpiiia ilurinj; llie Yellow Kevcr 97 UANIKI. WKHSTER Harry Thurston Pkxk 101 'I'he Kxample of Our Country 105 S|)i'uch of John Adams 106 ^. Liberty ami Union ,; , . , 109 ^ The Uruin-l)oat of Ln^land «> t • II4 Americon Interest in Ut'iiulilican Government . . , . 115 WASHlNCnON n t 89 • 93 ■ 97 rroN Pkxk 101 ► • 'OS ► ■ '■ • 106 t '■ t 109 t '-\ ■ 114 • "5 Maitiiews 119 •24 • 130 • •34 HlGGINSON •47 , •53 • 162 Hale, Jr 172 •75 180 5ANTAYANA 187 • •94 • 198 . 203 . 208 RDs Gates "3 . 221 . 224 • 235 CHARDSON 244 . 248 • - • 252 C0Arr/:/V7s /AHNAIIAM MNIOI.N Kiml limtiKural AdilrestN . LclUr lo Cimoral Mi( Kllan A(lilri»s fit (iftlynlmrj; Second liuiutfural Adclrcw JilHIAR AM.AN If)!', SlinddW — A I'lualilt; f-^ I .i^i'in » 'I'hf MiirdiT!! in the Kiio Miir^iu; The Masi|iio ■>f llic \ 353 .356 3S8 3*3 36s 380 383 389 390 393 395 397 398 \ L. / 'kx- i > n li 1 i. i i FACB • 399 • 401 . 401 ARLANl) 403 . , 409 OWEI.LS 417 . 421 . -423 • 427 J FiSKE 433 • 437 . 440 4S> INTRODUCTION Scarcely a year goes by without some contribution of impor- tance to the history of American literature, but much yet remains to be done. The rise and fa!i of schools, the prevalence and per- manence of certain types, the influence of foreign models, remain still to be investigated 4. id explained. Criticism of our literature has scarcely begun, and it will be impossible for sound ideas of the value and bearing of American work to prevail among our people until scholars have studied our literature as our history and our political system have already been studied, noting with care the peculiar qualities that our poets and prose-writers possess as a class, and determining, on a comparative basis, what are the essen- tial characteristics, however precious or however mediocre, that belong to our literature, for such criticism, materials are rapidly accumulating. The whole history of our country, social, political, and literary, is being thoroughly explored. Through the publica- tion of biographies, letters, and journals, through researches into the development of intellectual, moral, and political movements, through our growing knowledge and appreciation of existing and preexisting social conditions, we begin slowly to understand what has been the course of affairs in the United States since the foun- dation of the colonies, and slowly to realize what part literature has played in our national development. Our interest in the literature that has originated among us must not be taken as a sign of our belief that this literature is to be ranked high among the literatures of the world. That is for time to determine. But however humble our literature may be, and however young, it is still ours, bound to us by a thousand natural ties. Its name is inappropriate : " American " literature is an inexact, though unavoidable, term for the literature of the United States, and would seem to imply larger boundaries than those we possess. iiMaiiiiiii m iiMMiim laa^fwifw mmitT*-" Hi I iif ::r XII AMERICAN PROSE ^-^ ril But within tue territory where this literature had its birth, affe :tion for it and a feeling of ownership in it are steadily increasing. During the colonial i)erio(l much of what was produced here could scarcely be distinguished from the contemporary work of minor British writers, mough even Mather and Edwards, to an attentive eye, present traits that distinguish them from their brethren across the sea, and we cannot imagine Franklin as the native of any land but our own. Certainly, from tiie end of the colonial period for- ward, the character of our literature became individual almost in proportion as the character of the nation became distinct. American literature has never become independent of outside influences, nor ceased often to follow foreign models. No living literature of modern times can be independent of other literatures ; indeed, it is the glory of English literature, on both sides of the Atlantic, that it has been open to influences from without, freely absorbing strange ideals, but assimilating them thoroughly. Comparative criticism has yet- to show how extensive the process of absorption and assimilation has been with us ; but it is plain, even to the supeificial observer, that whatever may be the points of likeness between our- selves and others, there a e, at least, elements in our national literature that are peculiar'/ characteristic of us as a people. In a literature thus bene of our bone and flesh of our flesh it is natural and human that we should take a strong and an increasing interest. There are, however, reasons other than those of blind affection that make American literature interesting and important. First, the period covered by it is, in reality, a long one. We are accus- tomed to think ourselves a young people, and yet it is nearly three hundred years since books in the English language began to be written in this continent. The fiist books written here were con- temporary with Shakspere's plays; the first books printed here were contemporary with those of Milton ; the first American-born authors were contemporary with Dryden and Defoe. The period covered by American literature includes, therefore, the whole mod- ern movement of European thought and life, — the movement that began with the Renaissance and the Reformation, and that passed, through the age in which pure reason held its sway, through the stormy period of Romantic enthusiasm, into the strangely I litfefwiiifttiimiiit'i liiilifiiillliliillUBIf'i ' ■ mm r^ h, affe :tion increasing, here could k of minor in attentive hren across of any land period for- I almost in . American uences, nor iterature of ; indeed, it mtic, that it )ing strange /e criticism irption and e supeificial etween our- )iir national people. In flesh it is II increasing nd affection ant. First, e are accus- nearly three began to be e were con- rinted here lerican-born The period whole mod- movement n, and that vay, through le strangely AMERICAN PROSE 3^ composite era of to-day. .'\nd although the works produced here have not at all times been of great importance, the continuity has been unbroken. In our branch of English literature, as in that of Great Britain, we may trace the development of modern culture. American literature, again, is interesting and important because it is the characteristic expression of a new nation, and a nation whose life is based, on the whole, upon a single and consistent set of principles-. Though our people speak a common language, we did not spring from a single race, but are rather formed, and are still being formed, from many races, each contributing its quota of men who chose voluntarily to live and act under given responsibili- ties, and in pursuit of given ideals, i nese responsibilities and these ideals are well known ; they assert the right of the individual to complete freedom in his own affairs, except where the common good, as determined by the representatives of each individual, makes restriction necessary. This noble, citizen's ideal of a life free, self-reliant, but responsible, shows itself clearly, to my mind, in our literature, and is the source of its strongest characteristics. Each step in our history has served to perpetuate the tendency of citizen and author not only to search for a clear understanding of his own mind and heart, but to look carefully at the minds and hearts of his fellows. To this tendency, obvious in all matters of the common welfare, is due the peculiarity of American literature, as a whole, that it appeals, in a marked degree, to moods or states of the national consciousness or, at least, to the consciousness of large bodies of the people, and that it is lacking in whatever appeals only to a select or special class. Our prose literature, in particular, consists largely of what may be described as the ideas of individuals on matters of wide general interest, presented for adoption, as a series of resolutions might be, to the assembly of the people. It is with matters of the commonwealth that oar prose literature is chiefly concerned, from Cotton Mather and Edwards to Parkman and Curtis,— .the religious, moral, political, social, and intellectual conceptions that are common to all, and upon the basis of which each must adjust his life. Such a condition of literature is natural to a thorough-going democracy. It has its strong points, and those that are weaker. It is less original, less devoted I ii •WW* XIV AMERICAN PROSE to the search for abstract beauty ; it is, as a whole, somewhat lacking in charm j but, on the other hand, it is rich in ideas, and strong in its appeal to the hearts of many, rather than to the special tastes or foibles of the few. American prose has an even stronger claim on our attention than American verse. And this for two reasons. First, American prose originated when modern prose began, at the very end of the seven- teenth and the beginning of the eighteenth century. Before that there had been great schools of poetry, but no great school of prose. Prose style, until then, was unformed, obscure, whimsical, ponderous. Prose liad had its great triumphs, but they were sepa- rate, accidental, — isolated, in large measure, from the course of development. It was Dryden, Defoe, Steele, Addison, Swift, — the school of journalism, of free speech, of debate and discussion, that, breaking away from the medifeval and Renaissance traditions, made the prose of England what it is ; .tad English prose and English ideals had a powerful influence on the development of prose style in France and Germany. But the school of Steele and Addison and Swift had its followers in America, as well as on the continent of Europe ; and the graceful, well-ordered, effective prose of mod- ern times, in a large part one of England's many contributions to civilization, we learned from its earliest source. It was, too, natural to our intellectual habits and our political and social institutions. The Magnalia is the only folio in our literature ; and from Edwards and Franklin down the modern ideal of prose is that to which we have instinctively turned, and that in the development of which we have had our share. Indeed, we may fairly claim that in prose style Great Britain, France, and the United States have been the most fortunate of nations. Germany, for instance, is still flounder- ing in the mediaeval fashions of which England rid herself two centuries ago, and the southern languages, though aided by classic models, are still beguiled by the overwrought enthusiasm which swept over Europe with the romantic movement, but which in Great Britain, France, and America has yielded to the ideals of vigorous but restrained speech which characterizes our own century. In the second place, prose rather than poetry, has been the natural form of expression in American literature, — a form wholly conso- nant with our national mood, that of clear-headed, well-ordered lW gt< Ml», and by the las been the But we are 3 our native s, its civiliza- its literature. ; has its own lost fitting to i praise. Darpenier COTTON MATHER [Cotton Mather was born in Boston, Feb. 12, 1663. The son of Increase Mather, minister of the Second Church of Boston, the grandson of John Cotton, minister of the First Church of Boston, and of Richard Mather, minister of Dorchester, he inherited with his iilood the most ardent traditions of the pristmc theocracy of New England. Gra between Ciuelphs and Ghibellincs, or Cavaliers and Roundheads, the heart- breaking controversies of CJodfearing New England are fading, with New England herself, into an historic past. Few men to-day, of any creed, believe what (Cotton Mather wrought through his whole life to maintain ; and had he not failed, the hatred of his memory might still inevitably persist in all its freshness. Hut to-day theocracy with all its vices and all its heroisms, is as dead as the gods of Olympus. Regardless of the cause to which its epic champion devoted his life, we can now do justice to his spirit and his character. So judging him, not only as, a writer, but as a man, one grows more and more to feel that whatever his oddities, whatever his faults and weaknesses, he belongs among the great men of our country. In the sustained faithfulness of his devotion to those ideals which for him constituted the truth, he was a brave and worthy precursor of any braveries to come. Barrett Wendell ^@Et88SS8BS? (I ^^11 i; -it ■ii ¥ I I: i THK CMDKCMKS OK NKVV EN(;LANI) I WHiiK llic ll'iini/cn of the ("mkisiian Iy Iliin, who is the Truth it self, report the fl'iiu/i-i/u//)isfi mm mn COTTOiW MATHER 5 ng from iIk" Lijil, assisted jiisricnce of t self, report n, (loodncss, h Imtdiiitfii ' ind attended .enowned for Ei'iingf/ifii/ 1 /'/>/:* l>v the Mistake of a few powerful lhflhr,n, driven to seek a phue for me Kxcrcise of tlie Protestant Religion, according to the Light of their Consciences, in the Desarts of America. And in this Attemi)t I have proposeil, not only to preserve and secure the Interest of Re/if^ion, in the C'hiirches of that little Country Nhw-Kn(;i^\ni), so far as the Ix)r(l Jesus Christ may please to HIess it for that End, but also to offer \mto the Churches of the Refor- mation, abroad in the Wor'd, some small Miinoria/s, that may be serviceable unto the Designs of Reformation, whereto, I believe, they are cpiickly to be awakened. ... In short, The First Age was the Golden //.i,r .• To return unto That, will make a Man a Protestant, and I may add, a Puritan. 'Tis possible, that our Lord Jesus Christ carried some Thousands of Reformers into the Retire- ments of an American Desart, on purpose, that, with an oppor- timity granted unto many of his Faithful Sen'ants, to enjoy the ])reci()us Liberty of their Ministry, tho' in the midst of many Temptations all their days, He might there, To them first, and then By them, give a Specimen of many Cood Things, which He would have His (Churches elsewhere aspire and arise unto : And This being done. He knows not whether there be not Ail done, that Nem- England wa^ planted for; and v.hether the IMantation may not, soon after this, Come to Nothing. Upon that Expres- "sion in the Sacred Scripture, Cast the unprofitable Servant into Outer Darkness, it hath been imagined by some, That the Re- giones Extern of America, are the Tenebrce Exteriores, which the Unprofitable are there condemned unto. No doubt, the Authors of those Ecclesiastical Impositions and Severities, which drove the English Christians into the Dark Regions of America, esteemed those Christians to be a very unprofitable sort of Creatures. But i 6 AMERICAX PROSE behold, ye European Churches, There are GoMcii Caiuilesdckx [more than twice Seven times Seie thy pleasure to bury these our Friends in the bottom of the Sea, they are thine; save them! Th» Spring following no Tidings of these Friends arrived with the Ships from England : New-Haven^ s Heart began to fail her : This put the Godly People on much Prayer, both Publick and Private, That the Lord would {if it was his Pleasure) let them hear what he had done with their dear Friends, and prepare them with a suitable Submission to his Holy Will. In June next ensuing, a great Thunder-Storm arose out of the North- West ; after which, (the Hemisphere being serene) about an hour before Sun-set a Ship of like Dimensions with the aforesaid, with her Canvas and Colours abroad (tho' the Wind Northernly) ap- i peared in the Air coming up from our Harbour's Mouth, which lyes Southward from the Town, seemingly with her Sails filled under a fresh Gale, holding her Course North, and continuing under Observation, Sailing against the Wind for the space of half Ian Hour. Many were drawn to behold this great Work of God j I yea, the very Children cry'd out. There's a Brave Ship ! At length, jcrouding up as far as there is usually Water sufficient for such a IVessel, and so near some of the Spectators as that they imagined la Man might hurl a Stone on Board her, her Maintop seem'd to fiiirHiBMri ff w llMlr«M|Ma^**K '^gi^ H m II i 8 AAfEKrCAN PKOSE be blown off, but left hanging in the Shrouds ; then her Mtssfn- top ■ then all her Mastitis seemed blown away by the Board : Quickly after the Hulk brought into a Careen, she overset, and so vanished into a snioaky Cloud, which in some time dissipated, leav- ing as everywhere else, a clear Air. The admiring Spectators could distinguish the several Colours of each Part, the Principal Rigmg, and such Proportions, as caused not only the generality of Persons to say. This was the Mould of their Ship, and thus was her Tra^ick End: But Mr. Davenport also in publick declared to this Effect, That God had condescended Jor the quieting of their afflicted Spirits, this Extraordinarv Account of his Sovereign Disposal of those for whom so many Fervent Prayers ivere made continually. Thus I am, Sir, , . ^ Your Humble Servant, James Pieriont. Reader, There being yet living so many Credible Gentlemen, that were Eye-Witnesses of this Wonderful Thing, I venture to Publish it for a thing as undoubted, as 'tis wonderful. ■ [Magnaiia, book i, " Antiquities, or Field prepared for Considerable Thing!, lo be Acted thereupon," chapter 6, section 6.] THE LAST DAYS OF THEOPHILUS EATON His Eldest Son he maintained at the College until he proceeded Master of Arts; and he was indeed the Son of his Vows, and a Son of great /fofies. But a severe C.:tarrh diverted this Young Genthraan from the Work of the Ministry whereto his Father had once devoted him , and a Malignant Fever then raging m those Parts of the Country, carried off him with his wife within Two or Throe Days of one another. This was counted the sorest of all the Trials that ever befel his Father in the Days of the Years of his Pilgrimage ; but he bore it with a Patience and Com- posure of «r.irit which was truly admirable. His dying Son look d . earnestly on hin,, and said, Sir, What shall we do! Whereto with a well-ordtred Countenance, he replied, Look up to God. And when he passed by his Daughter drowned in Tears on this Occasion, to her he said, Remember the Sixth Commandment, '#^»^-■ ■ fe«i « l i « t miiiiPNiMPPp COTTOI- MATHER n her Missen- ly the Board : )ver»et, and so issipated, leav- pectators could •incipal Riging, ility of Persons HIS her Tragick . to this Effect, afflicted Spirits, nal of those for lually. Thus I lES PlERl-ONT. ible Gentlemen, ng, I venture to rful ■ Considerable Things EATON »til he proceeded if his Vows, and erted this Young to his Father had raging in those wife within Two lunted the sorest tlie Days of the alienee and Com- dying Son look'd do! Whereto, look up to God! in Tears on this Commandment, Hurt not your self ivith Immoderate Grief ; I^einember Job, who said, The Lord hath given, and the Lord hatii taken away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord ! You may mar/; what a Note the Spirit of God put upon it; in all this yi>/^ sinned not, nor charged God foolishly : God accounts it a charging of him foo/is/i/y, when we don't su/tmit unto his Wiil patiently. Accordingly he now gov- erned hiinse'f as one that had attaiijjd unto the Rule of Weeping as if we wept not; for it being the Lord's Day, he repaired unto the Church in the Afternoon, as he had been there in the Fore- noon, though he was never like to see his Dearest Son alive any more in this World. And though before the First Prayer began, a Messenger came to prevent Mr, Davenport's jiraying for the Sick Person, who was now Dead, yet his Affectionate Father alter'd not iiis Course, but Wrote after the Preacher as formerly ; and when he came Home he held on his former Metiiods of Divine Worship in his Family, not for the Kxcuse of Aaron, omit- ting any thing in the Service of God. In like sort, when the People had been at the Solemn Interment of this his Worthy Son, he did with a very Unpassionatc Aspect and Carriage then say. Friends, I thank you all for your Lo7>e and Help, and for this Testimony of Respect unto me and mine : The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken; blessed he the Name of the Lord! Nevertheless, retiring hereupon into the Chamber where his Daughter then lay Sick, some Tears were observed falling from him while he uttered these Words, There is a difference between a sullen Silence or a stupid Senselessness under the Hand of God, and a Child-like Submission thereunto. Thus continually he, for about a Score of Years, was the Glory and Pillar of New-Hai'en Colony. He would often say. Some count it a great matter to Die well, but L am sure 'tis a great mat- ter to I,ive well. All our Care should be while we have our Life to use it ive!', and so when Death puts an end unto that, // mill put an end unto all our Cares. But having Excellently managed his Care to Live well, God would have him to Die well, v/ithout any room or time then given to take any Care at all ; for he enjoyed a Death sudden to every one but himself ! Having Wor- shipped God with his Family after his usual manner, and upon some Occasion with much Solemnity charged all the Family to lO AMERICAN PKOSE carry it well unto their Mistress who was now confined by Sick- ness he Supp'd, and then took a turn or two abroad for his Medi- tations. After that he came in to bid his Wife Good-night, before he left her with her Watchers; which when he did, she said, Methinks you look sad! Whereto he reply'd. The merences risen in the Church of Hartford make me so; she then added. Let us e'en go back to our Native Country again ; to which he answered. You may, [and so 5he did] f>ut I shall Di3 here. This was the last Word that ever she heard him speak; for now retir- ing unto his Lodging in another Chamber, he was overheard about midnight fetching a Groan; and unto one, sent in presently to enquire how he did, he answered the Enquiry with only saying, Ver\ 111! And without saying any more, he fell asleep in Jesus: In the Yea' 1657 loosing Anchor from New-Haven for the better. Sedes, ubi Fata; Quietas Ostendnnt. Now let his Gravestone wear at least the following EPITAPH New-Englan o's Glory, full of Warmth and T ,ight, Stole away (finrfsaid nothing) in the Night. {Magnalia, book ii. " Lives of the Governours. and the Names of the Magis- trates, that have been Shields unto the Churches of New England (until the Year 1686)," chapter 9, sections 9 and 10.] THE PIETY OF THOMAS SHEPARD As he was a very Studious Person, and a very lively Preacher ; and one who therefore took great Pains in his Preparations for his publick Labours, which Preparations he would usually fimsh on Saturday, by two a Clock in the Afternoon ; with Respect whereunto he once used these Words, God will curse that Man's Labours, that lumbers up and down in the World all the Week, and then upon Saturday in the Afternoon goes to his Study ; whereas God knows, that Time jvere little enough to pray in and weep in, and get his Heart into a fit Frame for the Duties of the approack- ■■# . COTTON MATHER II mfined by Sick- id for his Medi- wd-night, before : did, she said, The Differences ihe then added, ;// to which he Dl3 here. This : ; for now retir- was overheard sent in presently with only saying, asleep in Jesus: f« for the better. f/V7J • ing Sabbath. So the Character of his daily Conversation, was A Trembling Walk with God. Now to take true Measures of his Conversation, one of the best Glasses that can be used, is the Diary, wherein he did himself keep the Remembrances of many Remarkablcs that passed betwixt his God and himself; who were indeed A sufficient Theatre to one another. It would give some Inequality to this Part of our Church History, if all the Holy Memoirs left in the Private Writings of this Walker tvith God, sliould here be Transcribed : But I will single out from thence a few Passages, which might be more agreeibly and profitably ex- posed unto the World. [Magnalia,hi.>QV iii, " Lives of Many Reverend, Learned, and Holy Divines (arriving such from Europe to America) by whose Evangelical Ministry the Churches of New-England have been Illuminated," chapter 5, section 17.] img ■- , v Jonathan Edward.s and Benjamin Franklin are like enormous trees (say a pine and an oak), which may be seen from a great distance dominating the scrubby, homely, second growth of our provincial literature. They make an ill-assorted pair, — the cheery man of the world and the intense man of God, — but they owe their preeminence to the same quality. Franklin, it is true, is remarkable for his unfailing common sense, a quality of which Edwards had not very much, his keenest sense being rather un- common. But it was not his common sense, but the cause of his common sense, namely, his faculty of realization, that made Frank- lin eminent. This faculty is rare among men, but it was possessed by Franklin to a great degree. His perceptions of his surroundings — material, intellectual, personal, social, political — had power to affect his mind and action. He took real account of his circum- stances. Now this power of realization was the one thing which makes Edwards remarkable in literature. It is true that he was very !■>; Ai t.'^ vjiaaMi i T \^ f -apaaxaaaa. M AMERIC^iN PROSE devout, very logical, very hard-working, but so were many other men of his time. The remarkable tiling about I'klwards (and it explains his other qualities) was that he realised his thoughts, and through that fact alone nuv^e his hearers realiice them. Doubtless the things that were real to Edwards were not the things that were real to Franklin. The things that were real to Franklin were phe- nomenal to Edwards and of little concern to him. Franklin, in- tensely curious about the processes of nature, managed to snatch the lightning from the clouds ; but Edwards, who regarded all externality as the thought of (iod, was content, as a rule, to wander in the woods, intent on the Creator and oblivious of the creation. Franklin, extremely interested in the jjolitical affairs of the day, snatched also the sceptre from the tyrant or helped to snatch it. Edwards took no concern in current jvolitics, but devoted his life to restoring a rebellious world to its lawful God. Franklin may have thought Edwards a fanatic, and Edwards would have thought Franklin a reprobate. Bui they were men of much the same sort of mental power. There can be no doubt that Edwards conceived his ideas in a manner " more vivid, lively, forcible, firm, steady " than most peo- ple. Hence his ideas were powers within him, as other people's were not : they made him do this and that, as other people's do not. "Once more," says his biographer (of our owi time), "he was overcome and burst into loud weeping, as he thought how meet and suitable it was that God should govern the world, order- ing all things according to his own pleasure." We can receive that idea into our minds without disturbance of any kind ; with Edwards it often had physical consequences. It is often said that Edwards pressed his logic too far. The fact was that certain ideas were real to him. Hence he was led to state, for instance, that " when the saints in heaven shall look upon the damned in hell, it will serve to give them a greater sense of their own happi- ness." Few persons reading the sermon on The Wicked Useful in their Destruction Only, will dissen*. from its doctrine on any logical ground. We dissent from it because the ideas called up are too feeble to hold their own before the inconsistent ideas of sympathy, tolerance, indifferentism, humanity, which are more real to us than they were to Edwards. nHf^rttwfeV.'v^^l^^^^^f'm" ■-^ffj p yi^ .; J^E^^s !(■■ JON A THAN ED WARDS IS ! many other vartls (and it ihouglits, aiid 1. Doubtless tigs that were lIui were phe- Fraiikhn, in- ;ed to snatch regarded all as a rule, tu livious of the tical affairs of or helped to politics, but ;s lawful God. Cd wards would men of much his ideas in a han most peo- other people's IX people's do n time), "he ; thought how ; world, order- e can receive ly kind ; with is often said is that certain ;, for instance, le damned in ir own happi- Vicked Useful ictrine on any eas called up stent ideas of are more real It is this power of realizing his conteptions, making theni forces in his mind, that made Kdwards great. He went to Knfield once and preached to a congregation which had assembled in a very onlinary any-Sunday mood. In his (|uiet way, leaning upon one arm and without gesture, his eye fixed u|X)n some distant part of the nieetiUji-house, he preached a sermon w'ioli New Kngland '• has nev( i been able to forget." The congregation was aroused beyond belief : he had not gone far before the tears and outcries drowned hi .voice, and he paused to rebuke his hearers and to bid them allow him to go on. Few of us, probably, have ever seen such an effect ca\ised by the spoken word alone. Turn to the sermon Sinners in the Hands of an Anpy God, and see if you find an explanation of such emotion >•• others, or if you feel any especial emotion yourself. The ideas will be wholly unreal to many of us, as unreal as the legends of King Arthur, or even more so ; thev have no force when we conceive them. They were real to Ed- wards, and he made them real to his congregation : to Edwards they were but minor corollaries of ideas which sustained and up- lifted him ; to tlie congregation they were at the time all-powerful and of terrible effect. As we read Edwards to-day we can perceive this power, but we cannot do much more. We cannot realize his ideas ourselves until we devitalize a whole host of ideas of our own time. We must probably content ourselves with imagining what has been. Nor is it especially profitable to examine the technical means by which he succeeded in the great aim of literature. Edwards is an ex- ample of the power of unrhetorical rhetoric. His most marked rhetorical means weie negative: he instinctively avoided what was likely to stand between him and his hearer, and so his personality had full sway. But Edwards' literary significance at present lies chiefly in the fact that he was a New Englander who made the world aware of the New England mind. That he should have been a theologian was natural ; so was Cotton Mather, chiefly, who had performed a somewhat similar service half a century before. Each had presented what had long been the dominant factor in New England life. Edward Everett Hale, Jr. ,f l6 AMERICAN PROSE \\\ NATURE AND HOLINESS From about that time, I began to have a new kind of appre- hensions and ideas of Ciirist, and the work of redemption, and the glorious way of salvation by him. An inward, sweet sense of tiiesc things, at times, came into my heart ; and my soul was led away in pleasant views and contemplations of them. And my mind was greatly engageti to spentl my lime in reading and meditating on Christ, on the beauty and excellency of his person, and the lovely way of salvation by free grace in him. 1 found no books so delightful to me, as those that treated of these sub- jects. 'I'hose words, Cant. ii. i, usetl to be abundantly with me, / am the Rose of Sharon, and the Lily of the valleys. The words seemed to me sweetly to re|)resent the loveliness and beauty of Jesus Christ. The whole book of Canticles used to be pleasant to me,'and I used to be much in reading it, about that time ; and found, from time to time, an inward sweetness, that would carry me away in my contemplations. This I know not how to express otherwise, than by a calm, sweet abstraction of soul from all the concerns of this world ; and sometimes a kind of vision, or fixed ideas and imaginations, of being alone in the mountains, or some solitary wilderness, far from all mankind, sweetly conversing with Christ, and rapt and swallowed up in God. The sense I had of divine things would often of a sudden kindle up, as it were, a sweet burn- ing in my heart ; an ardor of soul that I know not how to express. Not long after I first began to exjierience these things, I gave an account to my father of some thngs that had passed in my mind. I was pretty much affected by the discourse we had together ; and when the discourse was ended, I walked abroad alone, in a solitary place in my father's pasture, for contem- plation. And as I was walking there, and looking up on the sky and clouds, there came into my mind so sweet a sense of the glorious majesty and grace of God, that I know not how to express. I seemed to sg e them both in_a iiKeeLXQlijynction ; majesty and meekness joinedtogether ; it was a sweet and gentle, and holy majesty ; and also a mastic meekness ; an awfiil sweet- ness ; a high, and great, and holy gentleness. 1 JONATHAN EDWARDS n kind of appre- I'.emptioii, and (I, sweet sense ul my soul was of them. And in reading and / of his person, him. 1 found (1 of these sub- iantly with me, ys. The words ; and beauty of be pleasant to me ; and found, 1 carry me away ;press otherwise, the concerns of fixed ideas and >r some solitary iing with Christ, I had of divine re, a sweet burn- t how to express, se things, I gave id passed in my iscourse we had I walked abroad Lire, for contem- king up on the iweet a sense of [ know not how feeLCQBiynction ; sweet and gende, J an awfiil sweet- Afler this my sense of ilivine things gradually increased, and became more and more lively, and had more of that inward sweetness. The appearance of every thing was altereil ; there seemed to be, as it were, a calm, sweet cast, or appearance of divine glory, in almost every thing, (iod's excellency, his wis- dom, his purity and love, seemed to appear in every thing ; in the sun, and moon, and stars ; in the clouds antl blue sky ; in the grass, flowers, trees ; in the water, and all nature ; which used greatly to fix my mind. I often used to sit and view the moon for continuance ; and in the day spent much time in viewing the clouds and sky, to beholil the sweet glory of God in these things ; in the mean time, singing forth, with a low voice, my contempla- tions of the Creator and Redeemer. And scarce anything, among all the works of nature, was as sweet to me as thunder and light- ning; formerly, nothing had been so terrible to me. Before, I used to be uncommonly terrified with thunder, anti to be struck with terror when I saw a thunder storm rising ; but now, on the contrary, it rejoiced me. I felt (iod, so to speak, at the first appearance of a thunder storm ; and used to take the opportunity, at such times, to fix myself in order to view the clouds and see the lightnings play, and hear the majestic and awftil voice of God's thunder, which oftentimes was exceedingly entertaining, leading me to sweet contemplations of my great anel glorious God. While thus engaged, it always seemed natural to me to sing, or chant forth my meditations ; or, to speak my thoughts in soliloquies with a singing voice. . . . The heaven I desired was a heaven of holiness; to be with God, and to spend my eternity in divine love, and holy communion with Christ. My mind was very much taken up with contemplations on heaven, and the enjoyments there ; und living there in perfect holiness, humility, and love ; and it used at that time to appear a great part of the happiness of heaven, that there the saints could express their love to Christ. It appeared to me a great clog and burden, that what I felt within, I could not express as I desired. 'i"he inward ardor of my soul seemed to be hindered and pent up, and could not freely flame out as it would. I used often to think, how in heaven this principle should freely and fully vent and ex- press itself. Heaven appeared exceedingly delightful, as a world c 1-4 'I -if II T'.^^^w^^'^rtS^gjj^^fc .- AMERICAN PROSE uf love ; and that all liappincss cuiisiHtecl in living in pure, humble, heavenly, divine love. I rcinember the thoughts I iiHod then to have of holiness ; and said somctinK's to myself, " I do ceilainly know that I love holi- ness, such as the gospel prescribes." It appeared to me that there was nothing in it but what was ravisliingly lovely ; the highest beauty and amiableness — a divine beauty; far purer than any thing here on earth ; and that everything else was like mire and defdemenf, in comparison of it. Holiness, as I then wrote down some of my contemplations on it, api)eared to me to be of a sweet, pleasant, t harming, serene, calm nature ; which brought an inexpressible purity, brightness, peacefulness, and ravishment to the soul. In other words, that it made the soul like a field or garden of (iod, with all manner of pleasant flowers ; all pleasant, delightful, and undisturbed ; enjoy- ing a sweet calm, and the gentle vivifying beams of the sun. The soul of a true C'hristian, as I then wrote my meditations, appeared like such a little white flower as we sec in the spring of the year; low and humble on the ground, opening its bosom to receive the pleasant beams of the sun's glory ; rejoicing as it were in a calm rapture ; dilTusing around a sweet fragrancy ; standing peacefully and lovingly, in the midst of other flowers round about ; all in like manner opening their bosoms, to drink in the light of the sun. There was no part of creature holiness, that I had so great a sense of its loveliness, as humility, brokenness of heart, and poverty of spirit ; and there was nothing that I so earnestly longed for. My heart panted after this, to lie low before God, as in the dust ; that I might be nothing, and that God might be all, that I might become as a little child. [From certain private papers written about 1723. vol. i, pp. 16-18.] ^ ■ IVorki, edition of 1857, SARAH PIERREPONT They say there is a young lady in [New Haven] who is beloved of that great Being who made and rules the wcrld, and that there are certain seasons in which this great Being, in some way or other invisible, comes to her and fills her mind with exceeding sweet I JONATHAN hDWAKOS "9 pure, humble, uiliiicss ; and I love lioli- ine that there ; the hi(;hc8t rer than any ike mire and ;mpIation» on ming, serene, y, brightness, *^ words, that it all manner of irbed ; enjoy- :he sun. The ons, appeared ; of the year; to receive the vere in a calm ing peacefully )iit ; all in like It of the sun. I great a sense nd poverty of iged for. My the dust ; that that I might edition of 1857, vho is beloved and that there e way or other ceeding sweet f sin into the I doctrine that lian notion of inent ; because o a scheme in be removed or Nothing that elf-determining difficulty, how e, and man be Will was self- sinful volition ; etermined by a culty. It is an , in oril *r to it. )egat his father, irst sinful act of ;hose and deter- :tter solution, to produced itself; ; go any further rst sinful volition nore man it will solve the difficult question, H,m the world could be made out of nothing? to say, it came into being out of nothing, without any cause ; as has been already observed. And if we should allow tliat that could be, that the first evil evolution should arise by perfect accident, without any cause ; it would relieve no difficulty, about God's laying the blame of it to man. For how was man to blame for perfect accident, which had no cause, and which there- fore, he (to be sure) was not the cause of, any more than if it came by some external cause? — Such solutions are no better, than if some person, going about to solve some of the strange mathemat- ical paradoxes, about infinitely great and small quantities ; as, that some infinitely great quantities are infinitely greater than some other infinitely great quantities; and also that fome infinitely small quantities, are infinitely less than others, which are yet infi- nitely little ; in order to a solution, should say, that mankind have been under a mistake, in supposing a greater quantity to exceed a smaller ; and that a hundred, multiplied by ten, makes but a single unit. ■,■:■:• _ <\ ..• :-\ ,:;v;. ■:,-:::„ ;-,... .'l-^r lA Careful and Strut Inquiry into the Modern Prevailing Notions of that Freedom of the IVill, which is sup(>osed to be Essential to Moral Agency, Virtue and Vice, Re^oard and Punishment, Praise ancf Blame; part iv, section lo '754.] NATURAL MEN ARE GOD'S ENEMIES I. I ani to show, in what respects they are enemies to God. I. Their enmity appears in their judgments; in the judgment and esteem they have of God. They have a very mean esteem of God. Men are ready to entertain a good esteem of those with whom they are friends : they are apt to think highly of their qualities, to give them their due praises ; and if there be defects, to cover them. But those to whom they are enemies, they are disposed to have mean thoughts of; they are apt to jntertair. a dishonorable opinion of them ; they will be ready tr look con- temptibly upon anything that is praiseworthy in them. So it is with natural men towards God. They entertain very low and contemptible thoughts of God. Whatever honor and respect they may pretend and make a show of towards God, if 'Wj fjfig' ■^^tk iiiiii- 22 AMERICAN PROSE their practice be examined, it will show, that they do certainly look upon, him to be a Being, that is but little to be regarded. They think him one that is worthy of very little honor and respect, not worthy to be much taken notice of. The language of their heart is, " Who is the Lord, that I slmuld obey his voice ? " Exod. v. 2. " What is the Almighty, that we should serve him? and what profit should we have if we pray unto him?" Job xxi. 15. They count him worthy neither to be loved nor feared. They dare not behave with that slight and dis- regard towards one of their fellow creatures, when a little raiseil above them in power and authority, as they dare and do towards God. They value one of their etpials much more than God, and are ten times more afraid of offending such a one, than of displeasing the God thai made them. They cast such exceeding contempt on God, as to prefer every vile lust before him. And every worMly enjoyment is set higher in their esteem than God. A morsel of meat, or a fe-,v pence of worldly gain, is preferred before him. God is set last and lowest in the esteem of natural men. ... „ 1 u • 3. Their wills are contrary to his will. God's will and theirs are exceeding cross the one to the other. God wills those things that they hate, and are most averse to ; and they will those things that God hates. Hence they oppose Goritv. 4.' They are enemies to God n to * affections. There is m every natural man a seed of malic- .-;a'i)st God: yea, there is such a seed of this rooted in the heau of man naturally. And it • does often dreadfully break forth and appear. Though it may m a great measure lie hid in secure times, when God lets men alone, and they meet with no great disturbance of body or mind ; yet if ijiliaiiggag§Mia iii i i^^ JONATHAN EDWARDS 23 ley do certainly to be regarded, nor and respect, rd, tliat I should mighty, that we ; if we pray unto jr neither to be It slight and dis- en a little raised and do towards nore than God, 1 a one, than of ; such exceeding efore him. And iteem than God. ;ain, is preferred esteem of natural 3 will and theirs nils those things will those things ir wills : they set dreadfiil, violent, I en to the will of God. It is from lot subject to the . Hence natural are not loyal sub- rd of the world. ons. There is in 3d : yea, there is naturally. And it Though it may in )d lets men alone, y or mind ; yet if (iod but does touch men a little in their consciences, by manifest- ing to them a little of his wrath for their sins, this oftentimes brings out the principle of malice against Got!, which is exercised in dreadful heart-risings, inward wranglings and quarrelings, and blasphemous thoughts ; wherein the heart is like a viper, hissing, and spitting poison at God. There is abundance of such a prin- ciple in the heart. And however free from it the heart may seem to be when let alone and secure, yet a very little thing will set it in a rage. Temptation will show what is in the heart. Tne alteration of a man's circumstances will often discover the heart : a change of circumstance will bring that out which was hid before. Pharaoh had no more natural enmity against God than other men ; and if other natural men had been in Pharaoh's circumstances, the same corruptions would have put forth themselves in as dreadful a manner. The Scribes and Pharisees had naturally no more of-a principle of malice in their hearts against Christ than other men ; and other natural men would, in their case, and having as little restraint, exercise as much malice against Christ as they did. When wicked men come to be cast into hell, then their malice against God will appear. Then it will appear what dreadful malice they have in their hearts. Then their hearts will appear as full of malice as hell is full of fire. But when wicked men come to be in hell, there will be no new corniptions put into their hearts ; but only old ones will break forth without restraint. That is all the difference between a wicked man on earth and a wicked man in hell, that in hell there will be more to stir up the exercise of corruption, and less to restrain it than on earth ; but there will be no new corruption put in. A wicked man will have no prinriple of corruption in hell, but what he carried to hell with him. There are now the seeds of all the malice that will be exercised then. The malice of damned spirits is but a branch of the root, that is in the hearts of natural men now. A natural man has a heart like the heart of a devil ; but only as corruption is more under restraint in man than in devils. 5. They are enemies in their practice. "They walk contrary to him," Lev. xxvi. 21. Their enmity against God does not lie still, but they are exceeding active in it. They are engaged in a war against God. Indeed they cannot hurt God, he is so much W- "^**%.. 24 AMERICAN PROSE \ above them ; but yet they do what they can. They oppose them- selves to his honor and glory : they oppose themselves to the interest of his kingdom in the world : they oppose themselves to the will and command of God ; and oppose him in his govern- ment. They oppose God in his works, and in his declared designs ; while God is doing one work, they are doing the con- trary, and as much as in them lies, counter-working ; God seeks one thing, and they seek directly the contrary. They list under Satan's banner, and are his willing soldiers in his opposing the kingdom of God. [From sermon three : Men Naturally Cod't Enemies. Works, vol. iv, pp. 37-40.] , • THE LEGACY OF CHRIST This legacy of Christ to his true disciples is very diverse from all that the men of this \- »rld ever leave to their children when they die. The men of this world, many of them, when they come to die, have great estates to bequeath to their children, an abundance of the good things of this world, large tracts of ground, perhaps in a fruitful soil, covered with flocks and herds. They sometimes leave to their children stately mansions, and vast treasures of sil- ver, gold, jewels, and precious things, fetched from both the Indies, and from every side of the globe of the earth. They leave them wherewith to live in much state and magnificence, and make a great show among men, to fare very sumptuously ; and swim in worldly pleasures. Some have crowns, sceptres, and palaces, and great monarchies to leave to their heirs. But none of these things are to be compared to that blessed peace of Christ which he has bequeathed to his true followers. These things are such as God commonly, in his providence, gives his worst enemies, those whom he hates and despises most. But Christ's peace is a precious benefit, which he reserves for his peculiar favorites. These worldly things, even the best of them, that the men and princes of the world leave for their children, are things which God in his providence throws out to those whom he looks on as dogs ; but Christ's peace is the bread of his children. All these earthly things are but empty shadows, which, however men set their U^HnMi^'^ie^i/Sssiiili^fs:- ■ ft: mmm ^^ JONATHAN EDWARDS 25 jy oppose thera- emselves to the se themselves to I in his govern- in his declared doing the con- ing ; God seeks They list under lis opposing the Works, vol. iv, pp. jr diverse from all ildren when they en they come to en, an abundance ound, perhaps in They sometimes treasures of sil- l from both the irth. They leave icence, and make ly; and swim in and palaces, and' le of these things ist which he has are such as God mies, those whom ce is a precious 'avorites. These en and princes of vhich God in his on as dogs ; but All these earthly er men set their hearts upon them, are not bread, and can never satisfy their souls ; but this peace of Christ is a truly substantial, satisfying food, Isai. Iv. 2. None of those things if men have them to the best advan- tage, and in ever so great abundance, can give true peace and rest to the soul, as is abundantly manifest not only in reason, but experience ; it being found in all ages, that those who have the most of them, have commonly the least quietness of mind. It is true, there may be a kind of quietness, a false peace they may have in their enjoyment of worldly things ; men may bless their souls, and think themselves the only happy persons, and despise others; may say to their souls, as the rich man did, Ltike xii. 19, " Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years, take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry." But Christ's peace, which he gives to his true disciples, vastly differs from thi^ peace that men may have in the enjoyments of the world, in the following respects : I. Christ's peace is a reasonable peace and rest of soul; it is what has its foundation in light and knowledge, in the proper exer- cises of reason, and a right view of things ; whereas the peace of the world is founded in blindness and delusion. The peace that the people of Christ have, arises from their having their eyes open, and seeing things as they be. The more tht consider, and the more they know of the truth and reality of things, the more they know what is true concerning themselves, the state and condition they are in ; the more they know of God, and the more certain they are that there is a God, and the more they know what manner of being he is, the more certain they are of another world and future judg- ment, and of the truth of God's threatenings and promises ; the more their consciences are awakened and enlightened, and the brighter and the more searching the light is that they see things in, the more is their peace established : whereas, on the contrary, the peace that the men of the world have in their worldly enjoyments can subsist no otherwise than by their being kept in ignorance. They must be blindfolded and deceived, otherwise they can have no peace : do but let hght in upon their consciences, so that they may look about them and see what they are, and what circumstan- ces they are in, and it will at once destroy all their quietness and comfort. Their peace can live nowhere but in the dark. Light II SSu 5 26 AMERICAN PROSE turns their ease into torment. The more they know what is true concerning God and concerning themselves, the more they are sensible of the truth concerning those enjoyments which they pos- sess ; and the more they are sensible what things now are, and what things are like to be hereafter, the more will their calm be turned into a storm. The worldly man's peace cannot be main- tained but by avoiding consideration and reflection. If he allows himself to think, and properly to exercise his reason, it destroys his quietness and comfort. If he would establish his carnal peace, it concerns him to put out the light of his mind, and turn beast as fast as he can. The faculty of reason, if at liberty, proves a mortal enemy to his peace. It concerns him, if he would keep alive his peace, to contrive all ways that may be, to stupify his mind and deceive himself, and to imagine things to be otherwise than they be. But with respect to the peace which Christ gives, reason is its great fnend. The more this faculty is exercised, the more it is established. The more they consider and view things with truth and exactness, the firmer is their comfort, and the higher their joy. How vast a difference is there between the peace of a Christian and the worldling ! How miserable are they who cannot enjoy peace any otherwise than by hiding their eyes from the light, and confining themselves to darkness ; whose peace is properly stu- pidity ; as the ease that a man has who has taken a dose of stupify- ing poison, and the ease and pleasure that a drunkard may have in a house on fire over his head, or the joy of a distracted man in thinking that he is a king, though a miserable wretch confined in bedlam : whereas, the peace which Christ gives his true disciples, is the light of life, something of the tranquillity of heaven, the peace of the celestial paradise, that has the glory of God to lighten it. [From sermon twenty-six : Tht Peace which Christ Gives his True FoUmoers. Works, vol. iv, pp. 434-435-] I " "'"'Tiiii ji"'' " ' I I ' "ml iiiiiiiiiii 1 )w what is true more they are vhich they pos- 3 now are, and I their calm be mnot be main- . If he allows son, it destroys lis carnal peace, id turn beast as proves a mortal 1 keep alive his y his mind and rwise than they ves, reason is its , the more it is lings with truth higher their joy. ; of a Christian o cannot enjoy m the light, and is properly stu- . dose of stupify- ikard may have istracted man in itch confined in is true disciples, eaven, the peace to lighten it. Ais True Folloivers. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN [Benjamin Franklin was born in Boston, of humble parents, on Jan. 17, 1706. He was early apprenti-ed to his brother, a printer, but developing tastes both for study and for persopal independence, ran away at the age of seventeen. He reached Philadelphia friendless and penniless, but soon began to rise, jvai sent on business to London, where he practised his trade and broadened his experience, returned to Philadelphia after about eighteen months, printed and published newspapers and almanacs there, and through his frugal and indus- trious habits st.on acquired both means and position. His public spirit dis- played in connection with the establishment of libraries and other municipal institulions, his scientific studies, which culminated in his electrical discoveries, his career as Postmaster-general and subsequently as agent for Pennsylvania and other colonies at London, made him easily the most prominent American of his age both at home and abroad. During the troubles preceding the Revolution he was a consistent patriot, and after war was declared he repre- sented the new nation most admirably as ambassador to France, where he was universally admired and where his fame is still fresh. In 1785 he returned wearied out to the United States, but he still had strength to serve his adopted state as President and to take an important part in the Convention of 1787 that framed the Constitution. He died second in honor only to Washington on April 17. 1790. The best edition of his works is that in ten volumes, edited by John Bigelow. The best biography of Franklin u that by John T. Morse, Jr. Franklin is by common consent the greatest of our colonial writers, but he is more than this, for he is one of the greatest of all American authors, and has produced at least one book (his Auto- hiogmphy) which the world has agreed to regard as a classic. He shares with Cooper, Poe, Mrs. Stowe, and perhaps Emerson and one or two others, the horior of having been fully appreciated abroad, nor has one of these writers received more universal recog- nition at home, which is a matter of greater or at least equal im- portance. Yet he was not primarily a man of letters, and is thought of as statesman and philosopher oftener than as author. On the other hand, his political wisdom, his rare common sense, his engag- er ■aMM 28 AMERICAN PROSF. A ing humor, his scientific speculations and discoveries, are not the real basis of his fame as a writer, however much they may indirectly contribute to it. It is not so much what Franklin deliberately did or thought that makes him a great author, as what he indirectly did the moment he took up a pen. He gave us himself, not merely his actions and thoughts, and mankind has always been peculiarly grate- ful for such self-revelations. The saying of Buffon, so often quoted, that style is the mat., has never received a better exemplification of its truth than in the writings of PVanklin, which are almost literally and truly Franklin himself. He has done more than give us a mere autobiography. Benvenuto Cellini did that, and is nevertheless thought of chiefly as an artist. Franklin has left us voluminous works, which, whether in their respective parts they deal with science or politics or every-day matters, and whether or not we read them thoroughly and systematically, are nevertheless as com- plete and perfect an exposition of an interesting character as can be paralleled in literature. Hence it is that while Franklin is still for most people a sage, just as Cellini is an artist, he is for some who have learned to know htm through his self-delineating works even more the great writer than he is the great philosopher or the great statesman and public servant. It is obvious that if all this be true, the secret of Franklin's power as a writer must in the main lie elsewhere than in the mate- rials of which his volumes are composed. There is more political philosophy to be found in the writings of some of Franklin's com- patriots than can be found in his ; other men have written better letters, other men have composed greater scientific monographs, and ye! in many of these cases the world has not for an instant thought it could discover a great writer. Nor can the secret of his power lie merely in his style — technically speaking. Good as Franklin's style is, it would be possible to parallel it in authors whom nobody has thought of calling really great. Perhaps we shall come as near explaining the secret by saying that Franklin's power comes from the fact that he revealed a fascinating and at the same time great character by means of a pellucid and even^ style, as we shall by any other explanation we can offer. FrankMn would have been great and fascinating if a Boswell had portrayed him for us ; in becoming his own Boswell he has enrolled himself ^...-MMMMM BKNJAMIN FRANKLIN 29 Es, are not the may indirectly Jelibcrately did IP indirectly did , not merely his )eculiarly grate- often quoted, :mplification of almost literally 1 give us a mere is nevertheless us voluminous they deal with :ther or not we theless as com- laracter as can Franklin is still he is for some lineating works ilosopher or the ;t of Franklin's lan in the mate- 5 more political Franklin's com- ; written better ic monographs, t for an instant n the secret of iking. Good as el it in authors it. Perhaps we that Franklin's cinating and at llucid and even^ offer. FrankHn I had portrayed :nrolled himself fore"er among the classical writers, not merely of America, but of the world. Descending now from generals to particulars, we may notice that while it is true to say that Addison and other contemporary British authors did much to form Franklin's style, and that in many of the forms of composition he undertook, such as his dia- logues, he was unquestionably imitative, it is equally true to affirm that he was rather the product, nay, the epitome, of his century, than a provincial Briton, and that in many most important respects he was as true an American as Abraham Lincoln himself. Frank- lin's shrewdness, common sense, and wit are much more American than they are British in flavor, and his evenly balanced indepen- dence, fearlessness, and dignity are racy of his native soil His lack of the highest spirituality, on the other hand, together with his somewhat amusing optimism, his wide-reaching, practical phil- anthropy, and the general sanity of his character, belong more to his century than to his race or country. But in every thought and word and deed of his life he was never anything but a loyal citizen of the land from which he was so long exiled by necessity, and it is the merest hypercriticism that would contend that both he and Washington were anything else than Americans in their warp and woof. The chief qualities of Franklin's work as a writer have all been given by implication in the preceding paragraph. Of his humor, it must suffice to say that it holds a middle range between the subtlety of Lamb's and the obviousness of Artemus Ward's. Of his lack not merely of spirituality, but even the conception of what is meant by the term, the attempt to amend the Lord's Prayer is a sufficiently familiar example. His scheme for reaching moral perfection throws a ludicrous light upon his this-worldly optimism, while his general sanity of character is witnessed to by hundreds of letters and by page after page of his only too short Autobiography. Perhaps his shrewdness, his common sense, and his wit stand out singly and in unison as well in his preface to Poor Richard's Almanac as any- where else, but they are obviously such basal qualities in Frank- lin's character that they are never absent from his self-depictmg writings of whatever form and type. The same may be said with regard to his evenly balanced independence, fearlessness, and dig- AMMstnii wMMnRMMiMiiiiWiiiiM MaaStoiaiia&atfiafir — 30 AMF.klCAN PROSE nily, but few students of his life and works will fail to associate these (lualities more particularly with that "most consummate masterpiece of political and editorial craftsmanship," to (juote Professor M. C.'l'yler, The Examination of Dr. Beniamin Frank- lin, in the British House of Commons, Relative to the Repeal of the American Stamp Act, in 1766. In conclusion, we may notice, with regard to verbal style, that a straightforward clearness is Franklin's most characteristic quality. He writes as we may imagine that he talked when at his best, and for the subjects he treated there could have been no more ideal style. Here and there a word or phrase may betray the fact that he wrote over a century ago, but in the main, it is distinctly true to say that his style " reads itself" as easily as that of any master of English. We may readily grant that Addison helped to form Franklin's style, if we will add immediately that, in all probability, he would have come near finding it for himself had he never chanced when a boy to fall under the fascinating influence of the Spectator. Short sentences, vigorous phrases, timely words, — these Franklin could not have heli^d using, simply because he was " Rare Hen Franklin." He probably could not foresee that the time would so soon come when the very qualities of style that were natural to him would seem to jxjsterity the l)est qualities to be cultivated ; but if he had had all the I^tin scholarship of Dr. Johnson and all the leisure and proi)ensity to formal composition that an academic life affords, he would surely not have fallen into that labored pomposity and that dead flatness which vitiate so much eighteenth century prose. He wrote like the rounded, vigorous, sane man that he was, and as a result he lives for us as few do of our fellow- mortals who, in the words of Horace, .ire but as " dust and a shade." W. P. Trent ■iBi'liiiwiiiiiirttiiiii BENJAMIN FRANKLIN SI . to associate consiunmatc p," to (jHote ■./;«/« Frank- the Repeal of il style, that a sristic qi'ility. t his best, and \o more ideal y the fact that itinctly true to any master of elped to form all probability, never chanced ■ the Spectator. these Franklin iras •' Rare Hen ; time would so natural to him tivated ; but if on and all the n academic life ared pomposity iteenth century e man that he fellow-mortals a shade." L P. Trent FRANKLIN'S ENTRANCE INTO PHILADELPHIA I HAVE been the more particular in this description of my jour- ney, and shall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in your mind compare such unlikely beginnings with the figure I have since made there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come round by sea. I was dirty from my jour- ney ; my pockets were stuff'd out with shirts and stockings, and I knew no soul nor where to look for lodging. I was fatigued with travelling, rowing, and want of rest, I was very hungry ; and n>y whole stock of cash consisted of a Dutch dollar, and about a shil- ling in copper. The latter I gave the people of the boat for my passage, who at first refus'd it on account of my rowing ; but I insisted on their taking it. A man being sometimes more gener- ous when he has but a little money than when he has plenty, per- haps thro' fear of being thought to have but little. Then I walked up the street, gazing about till near the market- house I met a boy with bread. I had made many a meal on bread, and, incpiiring where he got it, I went immediately to the baker's he directed me to, in Second-street, and ask'd for bisket, intending such as we had in Boston ; but they, it seems, were not made in Philadelphia. Then I asked for a three-penny loaf, and was told they had none such. So not considering or knowing the differ- ence of money, and the greater cheapness nor the names of his bread, I bade him give me three-penny worth of any sort. He gave me, accordingly, three great puffy rolls. I was sur- pris'd at the quantity, but took it, and having no room in my pockets, walk'd off with a roll under each arm, and eating the other. Thus I went up Market-street as far as Fourth street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife's father ; when she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut-street and part of Walnut-street, eating my roll all the way, and, coming round, found my elf again at Market-street wharf, near the boat I cime in, to which I went for a draught of the river water ; and b^'ing filled with one of my rolls, gave the other two to a woman and her child that icaiSSM^ajpv,:, ■niMM ifrtiifi •■'ff-'-'' '••<-'-■-'■£'■ MHi 3a AMERICAN PROSE came down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to go farther. Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which by this time had many clean-dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. I joined them, and thereby was led into the great meeting-house of thr Quakers near the market. I sat down among them, and after looking round a while and hearing nothing said, being very drowsy thro' labor and want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleq), and continu'd so till the meeting broke up, when one was kind enough to rouse me. This was, therefore, the first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia. [AutoHogi-althy, puhliiihed in London in 1817. 'I'he correct text wai fa%K estalilishcd by John liigclow, who obtained poMctiion of the original n.^nu- script, and pul)lishe(l by J. 11. I.ippincott and Co., Philadelphia, in 1868. It is alio included in Hlgelow's Life of Henjamin Franklin, wriltin by I/imself, 1874, from which thi* tclecfion and the following are reprinted, by permiMion uf thc'publithera, J. li. Lippincott & Co. Vol. i, pp, 125-127.] A SCHEME FOR PERFECTION ' ' It was about this time I conceiv'd the bold and arduous pro- ject of arriving at r 1 perfection. I wish'd to live without com- mitting any fault ' time; I would conquer all that either natural inclination, <.uaium, or company might lead me into. As I knew, or thought I knew, what was right and wrong, I did not see why I might not always do the one and avoid the other. But I soon found I had undertaken a task of more difficulty than I had imagined. While my care was employ'd in guarding against one fault, I was often surprised by another ; habit took the advantage of inattention ; inclination was sometimes too strong for reason. I concluded, at length, that the mere speculative conviction that it was our interest to be completely virtuous, was not sufficient to prevent our slipping ; and that the contrary habits must be broken, and good ones acquired and established, before we can have any dependence on a steady, uniform rectitude of conduct. For this purpose I therefore contrived the following method. In the various enumerations of the moral virtues I had met with in my reading, I found the catalogue more or less numerous, as ■wfpwiwiwri BENJAMIN FKANKUN 33 ; waiting to go :h by this time ill walking the into the great It down among i; nothing said, the preceding meeting broke was, therefore, rect text was fint tie uriginal n.anu- lia, ini868. It it ritttn by Himself, ted, by permiition i arduous pro- ■e without corn- all that either me into. As I g, I did not see ! other. But I :ulty than I had ling against one k the advantage ong for reason, conviction that not sufficient to must be broken, ire can have any iduct. For this i. i I had met with ss numerous, as (IKTcrent writers included more or fewer ideas under the same name. Temperance, for example, was by some tunfmed to eating and drinking, while by others it was extended to mean the mod- erating every other pleasure, appetite, inclination, or passion, bodily or mental, even to our avarice and ambition. I i)roposed to myself, for the sake of clearness, to use rather more names, with fewer ideas annex'd to each, than a few names with more ideas ; and I included under thirteen names of vii-tues all that at that time occurr'd to me as necessary or desirable, and annexed to each a short precept, which fully express'd the extent I gave to its meaning. These names of virtues, with their precepts were : 1. Tkmpf.rance % Eat not to dullness ; drink not to elevation. " • • a. SlI.KNCE Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation. ' 3. Ordrr "^'"' Let all your things have their places ; let each part of your busi- ness have its ime. 4. RESOLiniON Resolve to perform what you ought ; perform without fail what you resolve. ;;• . ■ 5. FRUGALrrv Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself; i.e. waste nothing. 6. Industry > Lose no time ; be always employ'd in something useful ; cut off all unnecessary actions. 7. Sincerity '' Use no hurtful deceit ; think innocently and justly j and, if you speak, speak accordingly. 8. Justice Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that are your duty. ; » ..■■■- D \ St^se;,. li" AMERICAN PROSE 9. Moderation Avoid extrearas ; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve. 10. Cleanliness Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, cloaths, or habitation. II. Tranquillity Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoid- able. 12. Chastftv 13. HuMiLrrv Imitate Jesus and Socrates. i,v My intention being to acquire the habitude of all these virtues, I judg'd it would be well not to distract my attention by attempt- ing the whole at once, but to fix it on one of them at a time ; and, when I should be master of that, then to proceed to another, and so on, till I should have gone thro' the thirteen ; and, as the pre- vious acquisition of some might facilitate the acquisition of certain others, I arrang'd them with that view. 13 they stand above. Temperance first, as it tends to procure that coolness and clear- ness of head, which is so necessary where constant vigilance was to be kept up, and guard maintained against the unremitting attrac- tion of ancient habits, and the force of perpetual temptations. This being acquir'd and establish'd, Silence would be more easy ; and my desire being to gain knowledge at the same time that I improv'd in virtue, and considering that in conversation it was obtain'd rather by the use of the ears than of the tongue, and therefore wishing to break a habit I was ge'.ting into of prattling, punning, and joking, which only made me acceptable to trifling company, I gave Silence the second place. This and the next, Order, I expected would allow me more time for attending to my project and my studies. Resolution, once become habitual, would keep me firm in my endeavors to obtain all the subsequent virtues ; Frugality and Industry freeing me from my remaining debt, and producing affluence and independence, would make more easy the BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 35 as ycu think tation. n or unavoid- practice of Sincerity and Justice, etc., etc. Conceiving then, that, agreeably to the advice of Pythagoras in his (iolden Verses, daily examination would be necessary, I contrived the following method for conducting that examination. I made a little book, in which I allotted a page for each of the virtues. I rul'd each pa ge with red ink, so as to have seven col- umes, one for each day of, the week, marking each column with a letter for the day. I cross'd these columns with thirteen red lines, marking the beginning of each line with the fiiit letter of one of the virtues, on which line, and in its proper column, I might mark, by a little black spot, every fault I found upon examination to have bee- . committed respecting that virtue upon that day. FORM OF THE PAGES these virtues, )n by attempt- t a time; and, another, and nd, as the pre- ition of certain stand above, ess and clear- igilance was to mitting attrac- l1 temptations, be more easy ; »e time that I srsation it was e tongue, and o of prattling, ible to trifling and the next, ttending to my labitual, would ;quent virtues ; ling debt, and more easy the TEMPKBANCE EAT NOT TO DULNESS; DRINK NOT TO ELEVATION. ' S. M. T. W. T. F. S. T. , S. • • • • O. • • • • • • • _^- • • F. • « I. • S. J. M. C. T. C. H. ■.. ■■ ■:^'" ^ '-■■'- .•';vi fcB^e^'! ■ J | '!" ^ ■^ ' .*^ | ,■^^» l ls';J ■ ^'t ' M.f i' ) * l« AMERICAN PROSE I determined to give a week's strict attention to each of the virtues successively. Thus, in the first week, my great guard was to avoid every the least offence against Temperance, leaving the other virtues to their ordinary chance, only marking every evening the faults of the day. Thus, if in the first week I could keep my first line, marked T, clear of spots, I suppos'd the habit of that virtue so much strengthen'd, and its op[K>site weaken'd, that I might venture extending my attention to include the next, and for the following week keep both lines clear of spots. Proceeding thus to the last, I could go thro' a coursu compleat in thirteen weeks, and four courses in a year. And like him who, having a garden to weed, does not attempt to eradicate all the bad herbs at once, which would exceed his reach and his strength, but works on one of the beds at a time, and, having accomplish'd the first, proceeds to a second, so I should have, I hoped, the encouraging pleasure of seeing on my pages the progress I made in virtue, by clearing successively my lines of their spots, till in the end, by a number of courses, I should be happy in viewing a clean book, after a thirteen weeks' daily examination. This my little book had for its motto these lines from Addison's Cato: " Here will I hold. If there's a power above us ' (And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works), He must delight in virtue ; And that which he delights in must be happy." Another from Cicero, o" '• i, "O vit-ie Philosophia dux! O virtutum indagatrix expultrixque vitiorum! Unus dies, bene et ex prxceptis tuis actus, peccanti immortalitati est ante- ponendus." {^Autobiography. From Bigelow's Life, vol. i, pp. 227-245.] THE WAY TO WEALTH Courteous Reader : I have heard that nothing gives an authoi: so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by others. Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse lately where a each of the ;at guard was r, leaving the ;very evening )'iid keep my habit of that ken'd, that I next, and for Proceeding it in thirteen iho, having a he bad herbs ;th, but works ih'd the first, encouraging ; in virtue, by the end, by a . clean book, om Addison's le; ixque vitiorum! ulitati est ante- ves an authov :ed by others, y an incident ately where a BENJAMIN FRANKLIN |^ great number of people were collected at an auction of merchants' goods. The hour of the sale not being come, they were convers- ing on the badness of the times ; and one of the company called to a plain, clean, old man, with white locks : " Pray, Father Abra- ham, what think you of the times? Will not these heavy taxes quite ruin the country ? How shall we ever be able to pay them ? What would you advise us to do?" Father Abraham stood up and replied : " If you have my advice, I will give it to you in short ; for A word to the wise is enough, as Poor Richard says." They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and, gathering round him, he proceeded as follows : " Friends," said he, " the taxes are indeed very heavy, and if those laid on by the government were the only ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them, but we have many others and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly, and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an abatement. However, let us hearken to good advice and something may be done for us ; God helps them that help themselves, as Poor Richard says. " I. It would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one-tenth part of their time, to be employed in its service, but idleness taxes many of us much more ; sloth by bringing on dis- eases, absolutely shortens life. Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labor wears, while the used key is always bright, as Poor Richard says. But dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life / made of, as Poor Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep, forgetting that The sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that There will be sleeping enough in the grave, as Poor Richard says. " If time be of all things the most precious, ivasting time must be, as Poor Richard says, the greatest prodigality, since, as he else- where tells us, Lost time is never found again, and what loe call time enough always proves little enough. Let us then up and be doing, and doing to the purpose ; so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all things easy ; and He that riseth late must trot all day, and shall I •«{<;^ew- .m.miwi m-'ifmemmm- 38 /IMERICAN PROSE \y scarce overtake his business at night; while Laziness travels so slowly that Poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let not that ilrive thee ; and Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise, as Poor Richard says. " So what signifies wishing and hoping for better tir.ie^ ? We may make these times better if we bestir ourselves. Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hopes will die fasting. There are no gains ivithout pains ; then he', hands, /or I have no lands; or if I have they are smartly taxed. He that hath a trade hath an estate, and he that hath a calling hath an office of profit and honor, as poor Richard says ; bu!: then the trade must be worked at and the calling followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious we shall never starve, for At the working man's house hunger looks in but dares not enter. Nor will the bailiff nor the constable enter, for Industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them. What though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left you a legacy. Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. Then plough deep while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep. Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered to-morrow. One to-day is worth tivo to-morroivs, as Poor Richard says ; and further, Ne^ier leave that till to-morrow which you can do to-day. If you were a ser- vant would you not be ashamed that a good master should catch you idle? Are you then your own master? Be ashamed to catch yourself idle when there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country, and your king. Handle your tools without mittens ; remember that The cat in gloves catches no mice, as Poor Richard says. It is true there is much to be done, and perhaps you are weakhanded, but stick to it steadily and you will see great effects; for Constant dropping wears away stones ; and By dili- gence and patience the mouse ate in two the cable ; and Little strokes fell great oaks. " Methinks I hear some of you say, ' Must a man afford himself no leisure?' I will tell thee, my friend, what Poor Richard says : Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure ; and, since thor art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour. Leisure is time for doing something useful ; this leisure the diligent man ■--»i«.*. . r- ' !«>». BENJAMIN FRANKLIN n s travels so business, let ise, makes a ti!'.ieS? We ndustry need There are 'e no lands ; ade hath an t and honor, irkcd at and e will enable ever starve, 'es not enter, y pays debts, /e found no Diligence is istry. Then corn to sell u know not lay is worth Naier leave were a ser- Iiould catch led to catch aurself, your 3ols without lice, as Poor md perhaps 'ill see great nd By dili- and Little brd himself chard says : ,• and, since tr. Leisure liligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never ; for A life of leisure and a life of laziness are two things. Many, without labor, would live by their wits only, but they break for want of stock ; whereas industry gives comfort and plenty and respect. Fly pleasures, and they will follow you. The J-'igent spinner has a large shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, everybody bids me good morrow. "II. But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled, and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust too much to others ; for, as Poor Richard says : I never iaw an oft-removed tree Nor yet an oft-removed family. That throve so well as those that settled be. " And again, Three removes are as bad as afire ; and again, Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee ; and again : If you would your business done, go ; if not, send. And again : ■■;V '■ He that by the plough would thrive. Himself must eitner hold or drive. And again, The eye of a master tvill do more work than both his hand- • w^ a^^ain, IVant of care does us more damage than want of knffi^ledge ; and again. Not to oversee workmen is to leave them your purse open. Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of many ; for, In the affairs of this world men are saved, not by faith, but by the want of it; but a man's own care is profitable; for. If you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, serve yourself. A little neglect may breed great mischief; for want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was ». ^/, being overtaken and slain by the enemy ; all for want of a little care about a horse-shoe nail. " III So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's own business ; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gejs, keep his nose all his life to the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a lean will; and Many estates are spent in the getting, Siince women for tea forsook spinning and knitting, And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting. ^1 if 1 f i 40 AMERICAN PROSE If you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as of getting. The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are greater than her incomes. " Away then with your expensive follies, and you will not then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and chargeable families ; for Women and wine, gamt and dtceit. Make the wealth small and the want great. And further, What maintains one vice would bring up tivo children. You may think perhaps that a little tea, or a little punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter ; but remem- ber, Many a little makes a mickle. Beware of little expenses : A small leak will sink a great ship, as Poor Richard says ; and again. Who dainties lo7>e, shall beggars prove ; and moreover, Fools make feasts and wise men eat them. " Here you are all got together at this sale of fineries and knick- knacks. You call them goods ; but if you do not take care they will prove evils to some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap, and perhaps they may for less than they cost ; but if you have no occasion for them they must be dear to you. Remember what Poor Richard says : Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shall sell thy necessaries. And again, At a great penny- worth pause a while. He means, that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not real ; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good. For in an- other place ae says. Many have been ruined by buying good penny- worths. Again, // is foolish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance; an-:' yet this folly is practised every day at auctions for want of mincing the Almanac. Many a one, for the sake of finery on the bark, have gone with a hungry belly and half-starved their families. Silks and satins, scarlet and velvets, put out the kitchen fire, as Poor Richard says. " These are not the necessaries of life ; they can scarcely be called the conveniences ; and yet, only because they look pretty, how many want to have them ! By these and other extravagances the genteel are reduced to poverty and forced to borrow of those r*-- WEf" MMWIM BENJAMIN FRANKLIN *l f getting. The ts are greater will not then vy taxes, and ' hvo children. inch now and , and a little ; but remem- expenses : A s ; and again, r, Fools make es and knick- ke care they will be sold ; but if you Remember d of, and ere great penny- cheapness is litening thee For in an- ", good penny- purchase of r at auctions the sake of I half-starved put out the scarcely be look pretty, xtravagances ow of those whom they formerly despised, but who, through industry and fru- gality, have maintained their standing ; in which case it appears plainly that A ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees, as Poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a small estate left them, which they knew not the getting of: they think, It is day, and will never be night; that a little to be spent out of so much is not worth minding ; but Always taking out of the meal- tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the bottom, as Poor Rich- ard says ; and then. When the well is dry, they know the worth of water. But this they might have known before, if they had taken his advice. If you would know the value of money, go and try to borrow some; for he that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing, as Poor Richard says j and indeed so does he that lends to such people, when he goes to get it again. Poor Dick further advises and says, — Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse ; • Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse. . . And again. Pride is as loud a beggar as Want, and a great deal more saucy. When you have bought one fine thing you must buy ten more, that your appearance may be all c ' a piece ; but Poor Dick says, // is easier to suppress the first de re than to satisfy all that follow it. And it is as truly folly for i..e poor to ape the rich, as for the frog to swell in order to equal the ox. Vessels large may venture more, But little boats should keep near shore. It is, however, a folly soon punished ; for, as Poor Richard says, P/ide that dines on vanity sups on contempt. Pride breakfasted with Plenty, dined with Poverty, and supped with Infamy. And after all, of what use i this pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered? It cannot promote health, nor ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person; it creates envy ; it hastens misfortune. " But what madness must it be to run in debt for these super- fluities? We are offered by the terms of this sale six months' credit ; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be fine without it. But, ah ! think what you do when you run in t* M 42 AMERICAN P/iOSE f:-. .ytv debt ; yoii give to another power over your liberty. If you can. not pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor ; you will be in fear when you speak to him ; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses, and by degrees come to lose your ve- racity, and sink into base, downright lying ; for, T/ie jecond vice is lying, the first is running into debt, as Poor Richard says ; and again, to the same purpose, Lying rides upon Debt's back; whereas a free-born Englishman ought not to be ashamed or afraid to see or speak to any man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue. // is hard for an empty bag to stand up- right. " What would you think of that prince or of that government who should issue an edict forbidding you to dress like a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude ? Would you not say that you are free, have a right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such a government tyrannical ? And yet you are about to put yourself under such tyranny when you run in debt for such dress ! Your creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive you of your lib- erty by confining you in gaol till you shall be able to pay him. When you have got your bargain you may perhaps think little of payment ; but, as Poor Richard says. Creditors have better memories than debtors ; creditors are a superstitious sect, great ob- servers of set days and times. The day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made before you are prepared to satisfy it ; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term, which at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely short. Time will seem to have added wings to his heels as well as his shoulders. Those have a short Lent who owe money to be paid at Easter. At present, perhaps, you may think yourselves in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance without injury, but — For age and want save while you may ; No morning sun lasts a whole day. Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever, while you live, expense is constant and certain ; and // is easier to build tivo chimneys than to keep one in fuel, as poor Richard says ; so, Rather go to bed supperless than rise in debt. 1/ lil* ll 1 1 Willi rrrrr: MHtts. If you can. our creditor; 1 make poor, lose your ve- ■itcond vice is rd says; and 'ick; whereas afraid to see )rives a man to stand up- ernment who ;entleman or Would you I please, and es, and such put yourself ress ! Your of your lib- to pay him. tliink little have better ct, great ob- before you prepared to n, which at mely short, well as his be paid at in thriving »ce without you live, build two says; so, BENJAMIN FRANKLIN Get what you tan, and what you get hold; ' Tis lit stone that wiU turn a// your lead into gold. And, when you have got the Philosopher's stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad times or the difficulty of paying taxes. " IV. This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom ; but, after all, do not depend too much upon your own industry and frugality and prudence, though excellent things, for they may all be blasted, without the blessing of Heaven ; and therefore ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Remember Job suffered and was afterwards prosperous. " And now, to conclude. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other, as Poor Richard says, and scarce in that, for it is true We may give adince, but we cannot give conduct. However, remember this. They that won't be counselled, cannot be helped; and further, that If you will not hear reason, she will surely rap your knuckles, as Poor Richard says." Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it and approved the doctrine ; and immediately practised the con- trary, just as if it had been a common sermon ; for the auction opened, and they began to buy extravagantly. I found the good man had thoroughly studied my Almanacs, and digested all I had dropped on these topics during the course of twenty-five years. The "requent mention he made of me must have tired any one else, but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my own which he ascribed to me, but rather the gleanings that I had made of the sense of all ages and nations. However, I resolved to be the better for the echo of it, and though I had at first determined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away resolved to wear my old one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as great as mine. I am, as ever, thine to serve ' Richard Saunders [Commonly known as The Way to Wealth, from the last of Franklin's series of almanacs : Poor Richard Improved, being an Almanac . . . for the year of our Lord 1758. The text followed, with the permission of the publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons, is that of Bigelow's Works, vol. i, pp. 441-452.] AMERICAN PROSE TO MR. STRAHAN PHii.ADKi.rinA, s Fuly, 1775, Mr. Strahan : - You are a member of Parliament, and one of that majority which has doomed my country to destruction. You ha^x begun to burn our towns, and murder our people. Uok upon your hands; they are staine.1 with the blood of your relation I You and I were long friends ; you are now my enemy, and I am, Yours, TO JOSEPH PRIESTLEY Phii.adk.uhi A, 3 October, 1775. Dear Sir: -I am to set out to-morrow for the camp, and having just heard of this opportunity, can only write a line to sa^ that I am well and hearty. Tell our dear good friend. Dr. Price who sometimes has his doubts and despondencies about our firm- ness, that America is determined and unanimous; a very few Tones and placemen excepted, who will probably soon export themselves. Britain, at the expense of three millions, has kiMed thousand n 7^ Jf'y/«"k^« ^^is campaign, which is twenty thousand pounds a head; and at Bunker's Hill she gained a mile o ground, ha f of which she lost again by our taking post on Ploughed Hill. During the same time sixty thousand children have been bom in America. From this data his mathematical head will easily calculate the time and expense necessary to kill us all and conquer our whole territory. My sincere respects to [ Works, vol. V. pp. 539-540.] B. Frankun S July. 1775- I, and one of uction. You Ix)ok upon ur relations I ', and I am, Frankmn ober, 1775. camp, and, i line to say I, Dr. Price, ut our firm- a very few ioon export i, has killed 1 is twenty ined a mile ig post on id children itheraatical ry to kill us ts to , n ever your RANKUN r ■m.i. I BENJAMIN FRANKUN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HRITAIN, FRANCE, SPAIN, HOLLAND, SAXONY, AND AMERICA Britain. — Sister of Spain, I have a favor to ask of you. My sub- jects in America are disobedient, and I am about to chastise them ; I beg you will not furnish them with any arms or ammunition. Spain. — Have you forgotten, then, that when my subjects in the Low Countries rebelled against me, you not only furnished them with military stores, but joined them with an army and a fleet? I wonder how ou can have the impudence to aiik such a favor of me, or the folly to expect it ! Britain. — You, my dear sister France, will surely not refuse me this favor. France. — Did you not assist my rebel Huguenots with a fleet and an army at Rochelle? And have you not lately aided pri- vately and sneakingly my rebel subjects in Corsica? And do you not at this instant keep their chief pensioned, and ready to head a fresh revolt there, whenever you can find or make an oppor- tunity ? Dear sister, you must be a little silly ! Britain. — Honest Holland ! You see it is remembered I was once your friend ; you will therefore be mine on this occasion. I know, indeed, you are accustomed to smuggle with these rebels of mine. I will wink at that ; sell them as much tea as you please, to enervate the rascals, since they will not take it of me ; but for God's sake don't supply them with any arms ! Holland. — 'Tis true you assisted me against Philip, my tyrant of Spain, but have T not assisted you against one of your tyrants ; and enabled you to expel him ? Surely that account, as we mer- chants say, is balanced, and I am nothing in your debt. I have indeed some complaints against >'<'», for endeavoring to starve me by your Navigation Acts ; but, being peaceably disposed, I do not quarrel with you for that. I shall only go on quietly with my own business. Trade is my profession ; 'tis all I have to subsist on. And, let me tell you, I shall make no scruple (on the prospect of a good market for that commodity) even to send my ships to Hell and supply the Devil with brimstone. For you must know, I can insure in London against the burning of my sails. AMERICAN PNOSF. »?■■. America to Jintain. — Why, you old l)l(X)clthirsty bully ! You, who have been everywhere vaunting your own prowess, and dc- fiiniing the Americans as poltroons ! You, who have boasted of being able to march over all their l)ellies with a single regiment I You, who by fraud have possessed yourself of their strongest for- tress, and all the arms they had stored up in it ! You, who have a disciplined army in their country, intrenched to the teeth, and pro- vided with everything ! Uo you riui at)out begging all Kurope not to supply those poor people with a little powder and shot? Do you mean, then, to fall u|)on them naked and unarmed, and butcher them in cold blood ? Is this your courage ? Is this your magnanimity? Britain. — Oh ! you wicked — Whig — Presbyterian — Serpent ! Have you the impudence to appear before me after all your dis- obedience ? Surrender immediately all your liberties and prop- erties into my hands, or I will cut you to pieces. Was it for this that I planted your country at so great an expense ? That I protected you in your infancy, and defended you against all your enemies? America. — I shall not surrender my liberty and property, but with my life. It is not true, that my country was planted at your expense. Your own records refute that falsehood to your face. Nor did you ever afford me a man or a shilling to defend me against the Indians, the only enemies I had upon my own account. But, when you have quarrelletl with all Europe, and drawn me with you into all your broils, then you value yourself upon pro- tectin<5 mt f.'oii the enemies you have made for me. I have no natural cause of difference with Spain, France, or Holland, and yet by turns I iiave joined with \ on in wars against them all. You would not suffer me to make or keep a separate peace with any of them, though I might easily have done it to great advantage. Does your protecting me in those wars give you a right to fleece me? If so, as I fought for you, as well as you for me, it gives me a proportionable right to fleece you. What think you of an American law to make a monopoly of you and your commerce, as you have done by your laws of me and mine ? Content yourself with that monopoly if you are wise, and learn justice if you would be respected ! Ms.- f: '"-■'S== ^■pMiiir*ijMiy>j.iw«iiig|^iiyi'»-- ■ttribM BENJAMIN FRANK 1.1 N 47 f bully ! Ymi, )wcss, and dc- vc boasted of igle regiment ! strongest for- 111, who have a teeth, and pro- all Europe not id shot? Do unarmed, and Is this your in — Serpent 1 r all your dis- ies and prop- Was it for nse? That I {ainst all your property, but mted at your to your face, o defend me own account, id drawn me ilf upon pro- I have no Holland, and em all. You ; with any of it advantage, ight to fleece !, it gives me you of an ommerce, as ent yourself if you would Britain. — You impudent ! Am I not your mother coun- try? \:s not that a sufficient title to your respect and obedience? Saxony. —Mother country ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! What respect have you the frort to claim as a mother country? You know that /ana your mothe country, and yet you pay me none. Nay, it is but the other dav that you hired ruffians to rob me on the highway and burn my house ! For shame ! Hide your face and hoUl your tongue ! If you continue this conduct, you will make yourself the contempt of Europe ! Britain, — O I-ord ! Where are my friends? France, Spain, No/land, ami Saxony all together. — Friends ! Believe us, you have none, nor ever will have any, till you mend your manners. How can we who are your neighbors have any regard for you, or expect any equity from you, should your power increase, when we see how basely and unjustly you have used both your o^vn mother and your oivn children ? [Works, \a\. y\, Yi^. 1\%-122.] - '^''^'^'i-- - ,'- MMilpqi i^ I GEORGE WASHINGTON ' [George Washington was born, of old English stock, in Westmoreland Co lT^'i;,T A ?' '"'". ""^ "■"' '"■°"^*'' "P '^'^'^'^y "^y ^''' ="°'h". received a limited education, and was early thrown upon his own resources as a sur- IrlnL If ^aTTTu °^'"'"' ■^■"'^''''°^ '^^°"ght him into contact with frontier lifr and ed finally to his taking an active part in the campaigns against the trench and Indians for the possession of the Ohio region. Afttr his mar- riage with Mrs Custis in 1759. he settled at Mt. Vernon as a prosperous planter Having sympathized from the first with the colonies in their contentions with the mother country, he was made a member of the first Continental Congress and in 1775 became Commander-in-chief of the American forces. It is now generally acknowledged that his prudence, determination, and military skill were the greatest single factor in bringing the Revolution to a successful issue. After the close of the war he retired to Mt. Vernon, where he took an active interest in the efforts made to strengthen the union of states. He presided over the Convention of 1 787, and was subsequently elected first President under the new constitution. He served with great wisdom for two terms (178a-, 70,^ declining reelection in his famous FarewM AMress. After his retirement he was appointed lieutenant-general of the American forces, in view of the war hat seemed impending with France. He lived only a year longe.-, dying of laryngitis and bad medical attention, on Dec. 14. 1799. The best edhion of his works IS that of W. C. Ford, in fourteen volumes; but that of I.,e3 bparks. in twelve volumes, is also valuable. The best biography, in moderate compass, IS that by Henry Ckbot Lodge. moaerate The appearance of Washington's name in a volume devoted to the chief prose-writers of America seems to need some explanation He was extremely diffident of his own powers as a writer, and althoiigh his fame has been growing steadily for over a century few of his admners have ever ventured to claim for him the honors of authorship. His Fareweii Address has been assigned in con- siderable part to Hamilton, and at least one editor of his letters has felt obliged to correct his orthography and to elevate his dic- tion. His style, when at its best, possesses little grace or variety • his voluminous writings arc read by few who are not historical students ; he does not need the added prestige of being considered 48 GEORGE WASHINGTON 49 stmoreland Co., her, received a lurces as a sur- 3 contact with npaigns against After his mar- iperous planter, intentions with ental Congress, ces. It is now I military skill uccessful issue, took an active He presided 'resident under i (1789-1797), retirement he ew of the war ige.-, dying of e best edition that of Jared 1, in moderate devoted to explanation, writer, and a century, the honors led in con- F his letters ate his dic- or variety ; t historical considered a man of letters, even if his lack of general culture does not pre- clude him from acquiring it ; — why, then, is he made to keep company with Franklin and Jefferson? This question may be answered by one word, — character. Washington's character was so great and noble that whatever he wrote became great and noble also. No defects of early training, no lack of the elements of style, no shrinking from authorship, could prevent such a man from producing, whenever he wrote down what was uppermost in his mint: and heart, literature marked by the most important of all qualities, — " high seriousness." If, as we must believe, true literature, the " literature of power," is sepa- rated from pseudo-literature, the literature of mere knowledge, by the fact that it appeals powerfully to the emotions, then Wash- ington's writings are in the main literature of no mean order. It is impossible to read his more important letters, or his procla- mations to his soldiers, or such documents as his address to the governors of all the states on the occasion of his laying down his command, or the rough draft of his Farewell Address, without feeling emotions of the most elevated kind. It is true that these emotions are moral and intellectual rather than aesthetic in char- acter, yet at times they are aesthetic too, for the sonorous and stately dignity of some of hie pages gives a pleasure that is not unconnected with pure charm. The noble simplicity of the superb address of 1 783, which follows this criticism, — a document which it would be impossible to praise too highly for its spirit and, one might almost add, for its style — will illustrate the truth of the contention here made. Character, then, in the highest sense of the term, is what makes Washington's writings live as literature to those who have learned to revere him after long and zealous study. It is character com- bined with one splendid opportunity that gives Lincoln fame as a literary man, and it is by no means certain that Washington did not have his splendid opportunity when he disbanded his troops, even if we do not go further and attribute to him the only qualities that make the Farewel' Address an ever memorable document. Washington, with his character, and perhaps his two great oppor- tunities to express this character in words that move us still, is as truly a literary man as Lincoln, and should stand with the latter .4-1 m •sMMi i»-w«i»;y so AMERICAN PROSE m a Class apart from all our other writers. Criticism of these two great men, certainly the technical criticism of the student of rhet- oric, IS almost an impertinence; yet it would be equally an imper- tmence for the student of history to claim them for his own behoof smce they not merely did noble deeds, but uttered and recoui i noble words, that will stir mankind as long as sublime characters mspire reverent admiraUon. '-"t-iere W. P. Trent I of these two •dent of rhet- »lly an imper- i own behoof, and recoiiii.l ne cliaracters Trent Head-quarters, Newburg, 8 June, 1783. Sir :— The great object, for which I had the honor to hold an appointment in the service of my country, being accomplished, I am now preparing to resign it into the hands of Congress, and to return to that domestic retirement, which, it is well known, I left with the greatest reluctance ; a retirement for which I have never (eased to sigh, through a long and painful absence, and in which (remote from the noise and trouble of the world) I meditate to pass the remainder of life, in a state of undisturbed repose. But before I carry this resolution into effect, I think it a duty incumbent on me to make this my last official communication ; to congratu- late you on the glorious events which Heaven has been pleased to produce in our favor ; to offer my sentiments respecting some im- portant subjects, which appear to me to be intimately connected with the tranquillity of the United States ; to take my leave of your Excellency as a public character ; and to give my final blessing to that country, in whose service I have spent the prime of my life, for whose sake I have consumed so many anxious days and watch- ful nights, and whose happiness, being extremely dear to me, will always constitute no inconsiderable part of my own. Impressed with the liveliest sensibility on this pleasing occasion, I will claim the indulgence of dilating the more copiously on the subjects of our mutual felicitations. When we consider the mag- nitude of the prize we contended for, the doubtful nature of the contest, and the favorable manner in which it has terminated, we shall find the greatest possible reason for gratitude and rejoicing. This is a theme that will afford infinite delight to every benevolent and liberal mind, whether the event in contemplation be considered as the source of present enjoyment, or the parent of future happi- ness ; and we shall have equal occasion to felicitate ourselves on the lot which Providence has assigned us, whether we view it in a natural, a political, or a moral point of light. The citizens of America, placed in the most enviable condition, as the sole lords and proprietors of a vast tract of continent, cora- wi Ill H— t il l I* AMERICAN PROSE prehending all the various soils anil climates of the world, and abounding with all the necessaries and conveniences of life, are now, by the late satisfactory pacification, acknowledged to be possessed of absolute freedom and independency. They are, from this period, to be considered as the actors on a most conspicuous theatre, which seems to be peculiarly designated by Providence for the display of human greatness and felicity. Here they are not only surrounded with every thing, which can contribute to the completion of private and domestic enjoyment ; but Heaven has crowned all its other blessings, by giving a fairer opportunity for political Inppiness, than any other nation has ever been favored with. Nothing can illustrate these observations more forcibly, than a recollection of the happy conjuncture of times and circumstances, under which our republic assumed its rank among the nations. The foundation of our empire was not laid in the gloomy age of ignorance and superstition; but at an epoch when the rights of mankind were better understood and more clearly defined, than at any former period; The researches of the human mind after social happiness have been carried to a great extent ; the treasures of knowledge, acquired by the labors of philosophers, sages, and legislators, through a long succession of years, are laid open for our use, and their collected wisdom may be happily applied in the establishment of our forms of government. The free cultivation of letters, the unbounded extension of commerce, the progressive refinement of manners, the growing liberality of sentiment, and, above all, the pure and benign light of Revelation, have had a meliorating influ- ence on mankind and increased the blessings of society. At this auspicious period, the United States came into existence as a nation ; and, if their citizens should not be completely free and happy, the fault will be entirely their own. Such is our situation, and such are our prospects ; but notwith- standing the cup of blessing is thus reached out to us ; notwith- standing happiness is ours, if we have a disposition to seize the occasion and make it our own ; yet it appears to me there is an option still left to the United States of America, that it is in their choice, and depends upon their conduct, whether they will be respectable and prosperous, or contemptible and miserable, as n nation. This is the time of their political probation; this is GEORGE WASHINGTON n tie world, and )f life, are now, ) be possessed »m this period, theatre, which the display of ily surrounded tion of private I all its other al li ippiness, Nothing can icoUection of under which he foundation jnorance and nankind were it any former :ial happiness if knowledge, d legislators, our use, and establishment )f letters, the efinement of ibove all, the orating influ- ety. At this istence as a tely free and but notwith- us; notwith- to seize the e there is an it is in their they will be iserable, as a ion : this is the moment when the eyes of the whole world are turned upon them; this is the moment to establish or ruin their national character for ever; this is the favorable moment to give such a tone to our federal government, as will enable it to answer the ends of its institution, or this may bs the ill-fated moment for relaxing the powers of the Union, annihilating the cement of the confederation, and exposing us to become the sport of European politics, which may play one State against another, to prevent their growing importance, and to serve their own interested purposes. For, according to the system of policy the States shall adopt at this moment, they will stand or fall ; and by their confirmation or lapse it is yet to be decided, whether the revolution must ultimately be considered as a blessing or a curse ; a blessing or a curse, not to the present age alone, for with our fate will the destiny of unborn millions be involved. With this conviction of the importance of the present crisis, silence in me would be a crime. I will therefore speak to your Excellency the language of freedom and of sincerity without disguise. I am aware, however, that those who differ from me in political sentiment, may perhaps remark, I am stepping out of the proper line of my duty, and may possibly ascribe to arrogance or ostentation, what I know is alone the result of the purest intention. But the recitude of my own heart, which disdains such unworthy motives ; the part I have hitherto acted in life ; the determina- tion I have formed, of not taking any share in public business hereafter ; the ardent desire I feel, and shall continue to manifest, of quietly enjoying, in private life, after all the toils of war, the benefits of a wise and liueral government, will, I flatter myself, sooner or later convince my countrymen, that I could have no sinister views in delivering, with so little reserve, the opinions contained in this address. There are four things, which, I humbly conceive, are essential to the well-being, I may even venture to say, to the existence of the United States, as an independent power. First. An indissoluble union of the States under one federal head. Secondly, A sacred regard to public justice. Thirdly. The adoption of a proper peace establishment ; and, rm" naw S4 AMERICAN PROSE V- \- Fourthly. The prevalence of that pacific and friendly disposi- tion among the people of the United States, which will induce them to forget their local prejudices and policies ; to make those mutual concessions, which are requisite to the general prosperity ; and, in some instances, to sacrifice their individual advantages to the interest of the community. These are the pillars on which the glorious fabric of our inde- pendency and national character must be supported. Liberty is the basis ; and whoever would dare to sap the foundation, or over- turn the structure, under whatever specious pretext he may attempt it, will merit the bitterest execration, and the severest punishment, which can be inflicted by his injured country. On the three first articles I will make a few observations, leav- ing the last to the good sense and serious consideration of those immediately concerned. Under the first head, although it may not be necessary or proper for me, in this place, to enter into a particular disquisition on the principles of the Union, and to take up the great question which has been frequently agitated, whether it be expedient and requisite for the States to delegate a larger proportion of power to Congress, or not ; yet it will be a part of my duty, and that of every tnie patriot, to assert without reserve, and to insist upon, the following positions. That, unless the States will suffer Con- gress to exercise those prerogatives they are undoubtedly invested with by the constitution, every thing must very rapidly tend to anarchy and confusion. That it is indispensable to the happiness of the individual States, that there should be lodged somewhere a supreme power to regulate and govern the general concerns of the confederated republic, without which the Union cannot be of long duration. That there must be a faithful and pointed com- pliance, on the part of every State, with the late proposals and demands of Congress, or the most fatal consequences will ensue. That whatever measures have a tendency to dissolve the Union, or contribute to violate or lessen the sovereign authority, ought to be considered as hostile to the liberty and independency of America, and the authors of lliem treated according. And lastly, that unless we can be enabled, by the concurrence of the States, to participate of the fruits of the revolution, and enjoy the essen- iendly disposi- ich will induce to make those ral prosperity ; advantages to c of our inde- d. Liberty is ation, or over- text he may i the severest >untry. rvations, leav- ation of those necessary or ir disquisition freat question xpedient and n of power to , and that of \ insist upon, 1 suffer Con- edly invested »idly tend to he happiness somewhere a concerns of :annot be of ointed com- oposals and i will ensue. the Union, ty, ought to endency of And lastly, the States, the essen< GEORGE WASHINGTON tial benefits of civil society, under a form of go%'emment so free and uncorrupted, so happily guarded against the danger of op- pression, as lias been devised and adopted by the articles of con- federation, it will be a subject of regret, that so much blood and treasure have been lavished for no purpose, that so many suffer- ings have been encountered without a compensation, and that so many sacrifices have been made in vain. Many other considerations might here be adduced to prove, that, without an entire conformity to the spirit of the Union, we cannot exist as an independent power. It will be sufficient for my purpose to mention but one or two, which seem to me of the greatest importance. It is only in our united character, as an empire, that our independence is acknowledged, that our power can be regarded or our credit supported, among foreign nations. The treaties of the European powers with the United States of America will have no validity on a dissolution of the Union. We shall be left nearly in a state of nature ; or we may find, by our own unhappy experience, that there is a natural and necessary progression from the extreme of anarchy to the extreme of tyranny, and that arbitrary power is most easily established on the ruins of liberty, abused to licentiousness. As to the second article, which respects the performance of public justice, Congress have, in their late address to the United States, almost exhausted the subject; they have explained their ideas so fully, and have enforced the obligations the States are under, to render complete justice to all the public creditors, with so much dignity and energy, that, in my opinion, no real friend to the honor of independency of America can hesitate a single moment, respecting the propriety of complying with the just and honorable measures proposed. If their arguments do not pro- duce conviction, I know of nothing that will have greater in- fluence : especially when we recollect, that the system referred to, being the result of the collected- wisdom of the continent, must be esteemed, if not perfect, certainly the least objectionable of any that could be devised ; and that, if it shall not bij carried into immediate execution, a national bankruptcy, with all its deplorable consequences, will take place, before cny different plan can possibly be proposed and adopted. So pressing are the present * ' ommpms mm 56 AMERICAN PROSE \\ I circumstances, and such is the alternative now oflered to the States. The abihty of the country to discharge the debts, which have been incurred in its defence, is not to be doubted ; an incHnation, I flatter myself, will not be wanting. The path of our duty is plain before us ; honesty will be found, on every experiment, to be the best and only true policy. Let us then, as a nation, be just ; let us fulfil the public contracts, which Congress had un- doubtedly a right to make for the purpose of carrying on the war, with the same good faith we suppose ourselves bound to perform our private engagements. In the mean time, let an attention to the cheerful performance of their proper business, as individuals and as members of society, be earnestly inculcated on the citizens of America ; then will they strengthen the hands of the govern- ment, and be happy under its protection ; every one will reap the fruit of his labors, every one will enjoy his own acquisitions, with- out molestation and without danger. In' this state of absolute freedom and perfect security, who will grudge to yield a very little of his property to support the common interest of society, and insure the protection of government? Who does not remember the frequent declarations, at the com- mencement of the war, that we should be completely satisfied, if, at the expense of one half, we could defend the remainder of our possessions? Where is the man to be found, who wishes to remain indebted for the defence of his own person and property to the exertions, the bravery, and the blood of others, without making one generous cfTort to repay the debt of honor and grati- tude ? In what part of the continent shall we find a man, or body of men, who would not blush to stand up and propose measures purposely calculated to rob the soldier of his stipend, and the public creditor of his due? And were it possible, that such a flagrant instance of injustice could ever happen, would it not excite the general indignation, and tend to bring down upon the authors of such measures the aggravated vengeance of Heaven ? If, after all, a spirit of disunion, or a temper of obstinacy and per- verseness should manifest itself in any of the States ; if such an ungracious disposition should attempt to frustrate all the happy effects that might be expected to flow from the Union ; if there BBBsasir GEORGE WASIllNGTOtf 57 offered to the bts, >vhich have ; an inclination, of our duty is experiment, to as a nation, be ngress had un- Mng on the war, »und to perform an attention to >, as individuals on the citizens of the govern- iie will reap the luisitions, with- curity, who will irt the common f government? Js, at the com- ely satisfied, if, [Tiainder of our who wishes to 1 and property others, without >nor and grati- i man, or body pose measures pend, and the e, that such a would it not own upon the e of Heaven? inacy and per- !s ; if such an all the happy nion : if there should be a refusal to comply with the requisition for funds to discharge the annual interest of the public debts ; and if that refusal should revive again all those jealousies, and produce all those evils, which are now happily removed, Congress, who have, in all their transactions, shown a great degree of magnanimity and justice, will stand justified in the sight of God and man ; and the State alone, which puts itself in opposition to the aggregate wis- iloni of the continent, and follows such mistaken and pernicious counsels, will be responsible for all the consequences. For my own part, conscious of having acted, while a servant of the public, in the manner I conceived best suited to promote the real interests of my country ; having, in consequence of my fixed belief, in some measure pledged myself to the army, that their country would finally do them complete and ample justice ; and not wishing to conceal any instance of my official conduct from the eyes of the world, I have thought proper to transmit to your Excellency the enclosed collection of papers, relative to the half- pay and commutation granted by Congress to the officers of the army. From these communications, my decided sentiments will be clearly comprehended, together with the conclusive reasons which induced me, at an early period, to recommend the adoption of this measure, in the most earnest and serious manner. As the proceedings of Congress, the army, and myself, are open to all, and contain, in my opinion, sufficient information to remove the prejudices and errors, which may have been entertained by any, I think it unnecessary to say anything more than just to observe, that the resolutions of Congress, now alluded to, are undoubtedly as absolutely binding upon the United States, as the most solemn acts of confederation or legislation. As to the idea, which I am informed, has in some instances prevailed, that the half-pay and commutation are to be regarded merely in the odious light of a pension, it ought to be exploded for ever. That provision should be viewed, as it really was, a rea- sonable compensation offered by Congress, 3t a time when they had nothing else to give to the officers of the army for services then to be performed. It was the only means to prevent a total dereliction of the service. It was a part of their hire. I may be allowed to say, it was the price of their blood, and of your inde- 58 AMERICAN PROSE i pendency ; it is therefore more than a common debt, it is a debt of honor; it can never be considered as a pension or gratuil/, nor be cancelled until it is fairly ciischarged. With regard to a distinction between officers and soldiers, it is sufficient that the uniform experience of every nation of the world, combined with our own, proves the utility and propriety of the discrimination. Rewards, in pro|)()rtion to ihe aids the public derives from them, are unquestionably due to all its ser- vants. In some lines, the soldiers have perhaps generally had as ample a compensation for their services, by the large lx)unties which have been paid them, as their officers will receive in the proposed commutation ; in others, if, besides the donations of lands, the payment of arrearages of clothing and wages (in which articles all the component parts of the army must be put upon the same footing), we take into the estimate the douceurs many of the soldiers have received, and the gratuity of one year's full pay, which is promised to all, possibly their situation (every cir- cumstance being duly considered) will not be deemed less eligi- ble than that of the officers. Should a further reward, however, be judged equitable, I will venture to assert no one will enjoy greater satisfaction than myself, on seeing an exemption from taxes for a limited time, (which has been petitioned for in some instances,) or any other adequate immunity or compensation granted to the brave defenders of their country's cause ; but neither the adoption or rejection of this proposition will in any manner affect, much less militate against, the act of Congress, by which they have offered five years' full pay, in lieu of the half- pay for life, which had been before promised to the officers of the army. Before I conclude the subject of public justice, I cannot omit to mention the obligations this country is under to that meritori- ous class of veteran non-commissioned officers and privates, who have been disc narged for inability, in consequence of the resolu- tion of Congress of the 23d of April, 1782, on an annual pension for life. Their peculiar suflferings, their singular merits, and cjaims to that provision, need only be known, to interest all the feelings of humanity in their behalf. Nothing but a punctual payment of their annual allowance can rescue them from the most GEORGE WASHINGTON 59 cht, it is a debt ion or gratuil/, d soldiers, it is nation of the n.e of this description, belonging to yoir State, to the warmest patronage of your Kx( cilency ahd your legislature It is necessary to say but a few words on the third topic which was proposed, and which regards particularly the defence of the republic ; as there can be little doubt but Congress will recom- mend a proper peace establishment for tlic United States, in which a due attention will be paid to the importance of placing t'ur militia of the Union upcm a regular and respect ihlc footing. If this should be the case, I would beg leave to urge the great advantage of it in the strongest terms. The militia of this coun- try must be considered as the palladium of our security, and the first effect'/ d resort in case of hostility. It is essential therefore, tliat the same system should pervade the whole ; that th«- forma- tion md d;>( ipline of the mi!i*ia of the continent should be abso- lutely uniform, and that the same species of arms, accoutrements, and military apparatus, should be introduced in every part of the United States. No one, who has not learned it from experience, can conceive the difficulty, expense, and confusion, which result from a contrary system, or the vague arrangements which have hitherto prevailed. If, in treating of political points, a greater latitude than usual has been taken in the course of this address, the importance of the crisis, and the magnitude of the objects m discussion, must be my apology. It is, however, neither my wish or expectation, that the preceding observations should claim any regard, except so far as they shall appear to be dictated by a good intention, consonant to the immutable rules of justice, calculated to produce a liberal system of policy, and founded on whate t experience may have been rquired by a long and close attention to public business. Here I might speak with the more confidence, from my actual observations ; and, if it would not swell this letter (already too prolix) beyond the bounds I had preset il-tl to myself, I could 6o AMERICAN f/tOSE rlemonstr.ite to every ininJ o|)en to convicfion, that in less time, ami with miicii less expense, tiiaii lias Iwen iiuiirred, the war might have been brought to the same \v.\\)\^f mmliision, if the resoiirceii of the continent coiiid have been i)r>iperly .Irawn forth; that the distresses ami disappointments, wliirh have very often occurred, have, in too many ii\stances, resulted more from a want of energy in the Continental government, than a dt liciency of means in the l)articular States ; that the inefficacy of measures arising from the want of an ade(iuate authority in the supreme power, frum a partial compliance with the recjuisilions of Congress in some of the States, and from a failure of punctuality in others, while it temi d to damp the zeal of those, which were more willing to exert themselves, serveil also to accumulate the expenses of the wnr, and to frustrate the best concerted plans ; and that the discourage nent occasioned by the complicateil difticulties and embarrassments, in which our affairs were by this means involved, woulil have long ago produced the dissolution of any army, less patient, less virtuous, and less persevering, than that which I have had the honor to command. But, while I mention these things, which arc notorious facts, as the defects of our federal constitution, particularly in the prosecution of a war, I beg it may be understood, that, as I have ever taken a pleasure in gratefully acknowledging the assistance and support I have derived from every class of citizens, so shall I always be happy to do justice to the unparalleled exertions of the individual States on many interesting occasions. I have thus freely disclosed what I wished to make known, before I surrendered up my public trust to those who committed it to me. The task is now accomplished. I now bid adieu to your Excellency as the chief magistrate of your State, at the same time I bid a last farewell to the cares of office, and all the employ- ments of public life. It remains, then, to be my final and only request, that your Excellency will communicate these sentiments to your legislature at their next meeting, and that they may be considered as the legacy of one, who has ardently wished, on all occasions, to be use- ful to his country, and who, even in the shade of retirement, will not fail to implore the Divine benedictio" upon it. I now make it my earnest prayer, that God would have you, and tthiimimtmi at in less time, , the war mJKht f the resources forth ; that the often occurred, want of energy )f means in the rising from the r, fr(;m a partial le of the States, :enti< il to damp ert themselves, and to frustrate HMit occasioned ;s, in which our Ij ago produced tuous, and less r to command. }U8 facts, as the he prosecution ve ever taken a : and support I 11 I always be f the individual CEOKGE WASHINGTON 6i the State over which you preside, in his holy protection ; that he would inclini; the hearts of the citizens to cultivate a spirit of sub- ordination antl obedience to government ; to entertain a brotherly .i.Tection and love for one another, for their fellcw (.itizens of the United States at larye, and particularly for iheir brethren who have served in the field ; and fuiaily, that he would most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with ihat charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind, which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed religion, and without an humble imitation of whose example in these things, we can never hope to be a happy nation. I have the honor to l>o, with much esteem and respect, Sir, your Kxcellenry's most obedient and most humble servant. \Cir(uliir I. tiler AMrisstJ la the Governors of itll the Slitles on DishafiMHg the Army. The text fulloweil. with the periiiiitiiiiti) of the pulilinhcra, i* that enploycd l>y W. C. Ford, in hi» 'lite ll'tilings of Gtorgt Wntkington, O, V. I'utimm'i Son», i89r, vol. x, pp. 254-265.] I make known, ivho committed V bid adieu to Lte, at the same all the employ- itest, that your your legislature isidered as the ions, to be use- retirement, will 1 have you, and rm- ^m THOMAS PAINE ill [Thomas Paine was born at Thetford, in Norfolk County, England, Jan. 29, 1736/7. He was brought up in his father's faith, that of the Quakers, and trained to his father's trade of stay-making. He received a grammar school education, without the Latin; later this was broadened by attendance upon scientific lectures in London and by miscellaneous reading. After a brief ex- periment in privateering (1756), he sought his livelihood in a singular variety of occupations : he was, in turn or at the same time, stay-maker, schoolmaster, tobacconist, grocer, and exciseman. He was twice married, in 1759 and in 1 77 1, but had no children. In 1774, bankrupt in business and dismissed froai the excise, he separated by agreement from his wife and sailed for America. He carried letters from Franklin, whom he had met in London, and with their aid he secured employment in Philadelphia, first as a private tutor, then as editor of a literary magazine. Here, at last, he discovered his vocation. With the publication of Common Sense, in January, 1 776, he became the leading pamphleteer of the American Revolution; and this position he retained to the close of the war by a series of patriotic brochurp entitled. ZM-Criiis. He served for a time as r.ide-de-camp to General Greene, and in 1777 and 1778 he acted as secretary to the Congressional Committee on Foreign Affairs. In 1 78 1 he accompanied Colonel Laurens on an important and successful mission tn the French Court. At the end of the war, after all these services, he was as poor as at the beginning. His pay, as far as he got it, had barely defrayed his expenses; he was too honest to line bis pockets in any irregular fashion; he had refused, from patriotic motives, to copyright his publica- tions. The Republic showed some gratitude : at the instance of Washington, Paine received grants of money from Congress and from the Pennsylvania legislature, and from the legislature of New York a tract of confiscated land near New Rochelle, In 1787, he sailed for Europe with a plan for building iron bridges of novel construction and unprecedented length of span; but the outbreak of the French Revolution drew him back into literature and poli- tics. To Burke's attack upon the Revolution he responded with a book upon the Rights of Man (1791). A second part (1792) caused his indictriient and condemnation for treason ; but he had already fled to France, where, as a friend of liberty, he had received honorary citizenship and had been elected a member of the Convention. In this capacity he acted with the Girondists and voted against the execution of Louis XVI. During the Terror he narrowly escaped the guillotine; but after ten months' imprisonment, he was liberated in November, 1794. In 1794 and 1795 appeared his Age of Reason, an attack upon the authenticity and morality of the Jewish and Christian Scriptures. 62 ^mm!}., ' ■i n ' wi! >!' i>"iiii,ui.ii !i ii«m ii im ii ^w».i ii*> i » j i . 'ii niitw.mn > m i THOAfAS PAINE «3 ngland, Jan. 20, Quakers, and jrammar school ttendance upon \fter a brief ex- singular variety X, schoolmaster, in 1759 and in dismissed i'Aj-.u !d for America. I, and with their ; tutor, then as vocation. With me the leading he retained to ind in 1777 and Foreign Affairs, and successful 1 these services, it it, had barely in any irregular ;ht his publica- of Washington, le Pennsylvania :onfiscated land an for building h of span; but rature and poli- th a book upon indictrtient and here, as a friend scted a member jists and voted rrowly escaped IS liberated in nson, an attack ian Scriptures. The first English printer was indicted and convicted (1797) for publishing blasphemy, and other publishers were fmed and imprisoned as late as 1819. In the United States also, to which Paine returned in 1797, the work was ill received: it praclically destroyed his popularity. He died June 8, 1809, and was buried on his farm at New Kochelle. In 1819 his remains were disin- terred by William Cobbett and taken to England. Cobbett's intention of cele- brating a second funeral and making of it a great Radical demonstration was never carried out; in 1836 Paine's bones passed, with Cobbett's other effects, into the hands of a receiver in bankruptcy; and they are understood to be now scattered through England, held as curiosities or relics.] The best collection of Paine's writings, of which only the most important have been mentioned, is that edited by Moncure D. Conway (four vols., G. P. Putnam'^ Mons, 1894-96). Conway has also written the best life of Paine (two vols., G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1892). "Where liberty is, there is my country," said Benjamin Frank- lin. " Where liberty is not, there is mine," was Thomas Paine's reply. In their cosmopolitan spirit, as in the radical character of their liberalism, both of these men were fair representatives of the iationalistic eighteenth century; but Paine had the crusading instinct besides, and this carried him into enterprises of which his cannier and more cautious friend would have been incapable. It was as " a volunteer of the world," and not as a man having a stake in play, that Paine, as soon as he reached America, espoused the anti-British cause. It was us a friend of freedom that he threw himself, to his own harm, into the central and fiercest whirl of the French Revolution. It was as a knight-errant in the cause of liberty that he plunged into the last and most disastrous of his adventures, his attack upon orthodox Christianity ; for it seemed to him that men bound by any fa/th less elastic than his own were victims of the worst of tyrannies, bondsmen not only in their actions but in their thoughts. There was nothing especially novel in Paine's message to his contemporaries. His political ideals — popular sovereignty, equal rights, representative government — had been the commonplaces of advanced Whig theory since the days of the English Common- wealth; and in their French adaptations these theories had be- come familiar to Europe. In his Rights of Man he advocated also the limitation o( governmental power by a written constitu- tion ; but this idea had been formulated in England in 1647, had Pi I ■»— •-— f/T" ^.^ •MilttM^rf (54 AMERICAN PROSE been kept alive in the American colonies during the charter dis- putes, and had been embodied in the state constitutions at the very beginning of the Revolution. Paine's religious views were scarcely more original ; they were substantially those of the Eng- lish deists, tinged with Quakerism of the more radical school. It is always a long way, however, from the formulation of theories to their general acceptance, and such acceptance does not necessarily imply an immediate change of practice. In his political writings Paine did as much as any man, and perhaps more than any other man, to popularise the dogmas of Locke and Rousseau and to facilitate their embodiment in governmental institutions. His re- ligious propaganda was less successful, and the hostility it aroused has done much to obscure his political services. Other political writers may have exercised a deeper and more enduring influence, but few have had in their own day a larger public. Of his Common Sense one hundred and twenty thousand copies were sold within three months, and Conway estimates its total sale at houie and abroad, in the original and in translations, at half a million copies. The first part of the Rights of Man, in spite of the fact that English opinion was hostile to Paine's con- clusions, found more than forty thousand purchasers in Great Britain, and this without the i>,dvertisement which prosecution gave afterwards to the completed work. Ten years after its completion, Paine claimed that its total circulation, in English and in transla- tions, had exceeded four hundred thousand. The popularity of these tracts was partly owing to their timeliness, but mainly to their almost perfect adaptation to their purpose. Paine knew men. He knew what arguments would appeal to them, and how these arguments should be put. He had in high degree the faculty of lucid statement and of pat illustration. He could coin phrases and even epigrams, and he was too wise to lessen their value by coining too many. He knew that epigrammatic writing is fatiguing reading, and that to appeal to the plain people a writer should be known as a man of sense and not as a wit. Of humor Paine was wholly destitute. A man of humor cannot be a profes- sional agitator. The eighteenth century pamphleteer was the immediate fore- runner of the nineteenth century journalist, and Paine's best work * .mm THOMAS PAINE m e charter dis- tutions at the IS views were : of the Eng- i school. It is of theories to lot necessarily iitical writings lan any other isseau and to ons. His re- lity it aroused )er and more day a larger ;nty thousand estimates its translations, ts of Man, in Paine's Con- ors in Great iecution gave 5 completion, id in transla- popularity of Lit mainly to Paine knew 5m, and how degree the e could coin lessen their natic writing ople a writer Of humor be a profes- is rather journalism than literature. Such work is in its nature transitory. Paine's Age of Reason is to-day even more antiquated than are the particular phases of faith which at the time especially invited his attack ; for the fashion of scepticism has changed far more than has the form of Christian belief. In his political writ- ings there is more of permanent interest. We have grown scepti- cal to-day about laws of nature, and we doubt the finality of political* dogmas '; but we recognize that Paine's political philoso- phy was better adapted than ours to a revolutionary crisis, and we cannot deny that it has left deep traces on our national habits of thought. Paine's political writings are a part of our history ; and students of our history will always find it advisable to read them. MuNROE Smith *4' ediate fore- 's best work v'^^fejp: 66 AMERICAN PROSE lii GOVERNMENT AND FREEDOM But where, say some, is the King of America? I'll tell you, friend, he reigns above, and doth not make havoc of mankind like the Royal Brute of (ireat Britain. Yet that we may not appear to be defective even in earthly honours, let a day be solemnly set apart for proclaiming the Charter ; lei it be brought forth" placed on the Hivine Law, the Word of God; let a crown be placed thereon, by which the world may know, that so far as we approve ol monarchy, that in America the law is king, f'or as in absolute governments the King is law, so in free countries the law ought to be king ; aivl there ought to be no other. But lest any ill use should aitumaids arise, let the Crown at the conclusion of the cereujony be ilt- molished, and scattered among the people whose right it is. A go\ ernment of our own is our natural right : and when a man serioiisly reflects on the precariousness of human affairs, he will become convinced, that it is infinitely wiser and safer, to form a constitution of our own in a cool deliberate manner, while we have it in out power, than to tiust such an interesting event to time and chance. If we omit it now, some Massanello' may hereafter arise, who, U\ lUg hold of popular disquietudes, may collect together the desperate and the discontented, and by assuming to themselves the powers of government, finally sweep away the liberties of the Continent like a deluge. Should the government of America return again into the hands of Britain, the tottering situation of things will be a temptation for some desperate adventurer to try his fortune ; and in such case, what relief can Britain give? Ere she could hear the newr, the fatal business might be done ; and ourselves suffering like the wretched Britons under the oppression of the Conqueror. Ye that oppose independance now, ye know not what ye do : ye are opening a door to eternal tyranny, by keeping vacant the seat of government. There are thousands and tens of 1 Thomas Anello, otherwise Massanello, a fisherman of Naples, who after spirit- • ing up his countrymen in the public marlcct-place, r-rainst the oppression of the Spaniards, to whom the place was then subject, pruuipted them to revolt, and in the space of a day became King. —Author's Note. mmMMMM I'll tell you, mankind like lot appear to solemnly set forth* placed n be placed 3 we approve IS in absolute law ought to it any ill use usion of the )eople whose when a man [fairs, ho will sr, to form a ■hile we have : to time and reafter arise, together the ) themselves irties of the of America situation of iturer to try give ? Ere ; done ; and : oppression ye know not , by keeping and tens of 'ho after spirit- Dression of the I revolt, and in THOMAS PAINE thousands, who would think it glorious to expel from the Conti- nent, that barbarous .nd hellish power, which hath stirred up the Indians and the Negroes to destroy us ; the cruelty hath a double guilt, it is dealing brutally by us, and treacherously by them. To talk of friendship with those in whom our reason forbids us to have faith, and our affections \ anded thro' a thousand pores instruct us to detest, is madness and folly. Every day wears out the little remains of kindred between us and them ; and can there be any reason to hope, that as the relationship expires, the affec- tion will encrease, or that we shall agree better when we have ten times more and greater concerns to quarrel over than ever? Ye that tell us of harmony and reconciliation, can ye restore to us the time that is past? Can ye give to prostitution its former innocence? neither can ye reconcile Britain and America, The last cord now is broken, the people of England are presenting addresses against us. There are injuries which nature cannot for- give ; she would cease to be nature if she did. As well can the lover forgive the ravisher of his mistress, as the Continent forgive the murders of Britain. The Almighty hath implanted in us these unextinguishable feelings for good and wise purposes. They are the (iuardians of his Image in our hearts. They distinguish us from the herd of common animals. The social compact would dissolve, and justice be extirpated from the earth, or have only a casual existence were we callous to tl^e touches of affection. The robber and the murderer would ofteri escape unpunished, did not the injuries which our tempers sustain, provoke us into justice. O ! ye that love mankind ! Ye thaf dare oppose not only the tyranny but the tyrant, stand forth ! Every spot of the old world is overrun with oppression. Freedom hath been hunted round the Globe. Asia and Africa have long expelled her. luirope regards her like a stranger, and Engiavid hath given her warning to depart. O ! receive the fugitive, and prepare in time an asylum for mankind. [From Common Sense : Addressed to the Inhabitants of America, on the folloiving Interesting Subject', viz.: I. Of the O.igin rnd Design of Govern- ment in General; with Concise Reniarlis on the English Constitution. II. f)f Monaichy and Hereditary Succession. III. Thoughts or the Present State of American Affairs. IV. Of the Present Ability of America; with some 1,S |i*t«* M 68 AMERICAN PROSE Miscellaneou* Reflection*. Published January lo, 1776. The text of this ex- tract and those following is reprinted from M. D. Conway's Tht Writings of Thomas Painty by permission of the publishers, G, P. Putnam's Son;. Vol. i, pp. 99-101.] AN AMERICAN NAVY < No country on the globe is so happily situated, or so internally capable of raising a fleet as America. Tar, timber, iron, and cordage are her natural produce. We need go abroad for noth- ing. Whereas the Dutch, who make large profits by hiring out their ships of war to the Spaniards and Portugese, are obliged to import most of the materials they use. We ought to view the building a fleet as an article of commerce, it being the natural manufactory of this country. 'Tis the best money we can lay out. A navy when finished is worth more than it cost : And is that nice point in national policy, in which commerce and protection are united. Let us build ; if we want them not, we can sell ; and by that means replace our paper currency with ready gold and silver. In point of manning a fleet, people in general run into great errors ; it is not necessary that one fourth part should be sailors. The Terrible privateer, captain Death, stood the hottest engage- ment of iny ship last war, yet had not twenty sailors on board, though he." complement of men was upwards of two hundred. A few able and social sailors will soon instruct a sufficient number of active landsmen in the common work of a ship. Wherefore we never can be more capable of beginning on maritime matters than now, while our timber is standing, our fisheries blocked up, and our sailors and shipwrights out of employ. Men of war, of seventy and eighty guns, were built forty years ago in New England, and v;hy not the same now? Ship building is America's greatest pride, and in which she will, in time, excel the whole world. The great empires of the east are mostly inland, and consequently excluded from the possibility of rivalling her. Africa is in a state of bar- barism ; and no power in Europe, hath either such an extent of coastj or such an internal supply of materials. Wher^ nature hath given the one, she hath withheld the other ; to Aiijerica only hath she been liberal to both. The vast empire of Russia is almost THOMAS PAINE 69 text of this ex- \t Writi'igi of \ Sonr. Vol. i. ( ■:■ SO internally T, iron, and id for noth- y hiring out J obliged to to view the the natural can lay out. I is that nice otection are lell; and by d and silver. n into great I be sailors, test engage- s on board, lundred. A t number of therefore we natters than ced up, and r, of seventy ngland, and ;atest pride. The great :ly excluded tate of bar- 1 extent of nature hath ;a only hath a is almost shut out from the sea ; wherefore her boundless forests, her tar, iron, and cordage are only articles of commerce. In point of safety, ought we to be without a fleet? We are not the little people now, which we were sixty years ago ; at that time we might have trusted our property in the streets, or fields rather, and slept securely without locks or bolts to our doors and win- dows. The case 19 now altered, and our methods of defence ought to improve with our encrease of property. A common pirate, twelve months ago, might have come up the Delaware, and laid the city of Philadelphia under contribution for what sum he pleased ; and the same might have happened to other places. Nay, any daring fellow, in a brig of fourteen or sixteen guns, might have robbed the whole Continent, and carried off half a million of money. These are circumstances which demand our attention, and point out the necessity of naval protection. Some perhaps will say, thf.t after we have made it up with Britain, she will protect us. C'an they be so unwise as to mean, that she will ^n a navy in our Harbours for that purpose? Common sense will tell us, that the power which hath endeavoured to subdue us, is of all others, the most improper to defend us. Conquest may be effected under the pretence of friendship ; and ourselves, after a long and brave resistance, be at last cheated into slavery. And if her ships are not to be admitted into our harbours, I would ask, how is she to protect us ? A navy three or four thou- sand miles off can be of little use, and on sudden emergencies, none at all. Wherefore if we must hereafter protect ourselves, why not do it for ourselves? Why do it for another? The English list of ships of war, is long and formidable, but not a tenth part of them are at any one time fit for service, numbers of them are not in being ; yet their names are pompously continued in the list, if only a plank be left of the ship : and not a fifth part of such as are fit for service, can be spared on any one station at one time. The East and West Indies, Mediterranean, Africa, and other parts, over which Britain extends her claim, make large demands upon her navy. From a mixture of prejudice and inattention, we have contracted a false notion respecting the navy of England, and have talked as if we should have the whole of it to encounter at once, and. for that reason, supposed that we must have one as large ; i MUtM W llWiilMWMi'WW'ii i ..''J'''.'" ' fO . AMERICAN PROSE which not being instantly practicable, has been inade use of by a set of disguised Tories to discourage our beginning thereon. Nothing can be further from truth than this ; for if America had only a twentieth part of the naval force of Britain, she would be by far an over-match for her ; because, as we neither have, nor claim any foreign dominion, our whole force would be employed on our own coast, where we should, in the long run, have two to one the advantage of those who had three or four thousand miles to sail over, before they could attack us, and the same distance to return in order to refit and recruit. And although Britain, by her fleet, hath a check over our trade to Europe, we have as large a one over her trade to the West Indies, which, by laying in the neigh- borhood of the Continent lies entirely at its mercy. Some method might be fallen on to keep up a naval force in time of peace, if we should not judge it necessary to support a constant navy. If premiums were to be given to Merchants to build and employ in their service, ships mounted with twenty, thirty, forty, or fifty guns, (the premiums to be in proportion to the loss of bulk to the merchant,) fifty or sixty of those ships, with a few guardships on constant duty, would keep up a suffi- cient navy, and that without burdening ourselves with the evil so loudly complained of in England, of suffering their fleet in time of peace to lie rotting in the docks. To unite the sinews of com- merce and defence is sound policy; for when our strength and our ricl\es play into each other's hand, we need fear no external enemy. [From Common Senst. Writings, vol. i, pp. 103-106.] THE CRISIS These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country ; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like h':il, is not easily con- quered ; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly : it is dearness only that gives every IKM Mi le use of by ing thereon. \merica had he would be ve, nor claim loyed on our J to one the miles to sail nee to return by her fleet, large a one n the neigh- aval force in to support a Merchants to with twenty, )roportion to those ships, p up a suffi- \ the evil so fleet in time jews of corn- strength and r no external mmer soldier m the service the love and ot easily con- he harder the e obtain too t gives every THOMAS PAINE 7» tiling its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods ; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as Krcruom should not be highly rated. Britain, with an army to enforce her tyranny, has declared that she has a right {not only to tax) but " to niND us in all ca.ses whai-soever," and if being bound in that manner, is not slavery, then there is not such a thing as slavery upon earth. Even the expression a impious; for so unlimited a power can belong only to God. Whether the independence of the continent was declared too soon, or delayed too long, I will not now enter into as an argument ; my own simple opinion is, that had it been eight months earlier, it would have been much better. We did not make a proper use of last winter, neither could we, while we were in a dependant state. However, the fault, if it were one, was ill our own ; * we have none to blame but ourselves. But no great deal is lost yet. All that Howe has been doing for this month past, is rather a ravage than a conquest, which the spirit of the Jerseys, a year ago, would have quickly repulsed, and which time and a little resolution will soon recover. I have as little superstition in me as any man living, but my secret opinion has ever been, and still is, that God Almighty will not give up a people to military destruction, or leave them un- supportedly to perish, who have so earnestly and so repeatedly sought to avoid the calamities of war, by every decent method which wisdom" could invent. Neither have I so much of the infidel in me, as to suppose that He has relinquished the govern- ment of the world, and given us up to the care of devils ; and as I do not, I cannot see on what grounds the king of Britain can look up to heaven for help against us : a common murderer, a highwayman, or a house-Lrcaker, has as good a pretence as he. [From the first Crisis, printed in the F innsylvania Journal, December 19, 1776. Jfri/j/i^, vol. i, pp. 170-171.] ^i.; ♦ The present winter is worth an age, if . i ghtly employed ; but. if lost or neglected, the whole continent will partake of th° evil , and there is no punishment that man does not deserve, be he who, or w'-at, or wh?re he will, that may be the means of sacrificing a season so prec'cas and useful, — Author's Note, a citation from his Common Sense. % 'J s^i^.'. f9 AMEJilCAN PROSE THE UNIVERSAL RKJHT OF CONSCIENCE The Frendi Constitution hath al)olisheil or renounced Tolera- tion and Inloierance also, and hath established Univkrsal Right OF CONSCIKNCK. Toleration is not the opposite of Intolerance, but is the counter- feit of it. Both are despotisms. The one assumes to itself the right of withholding Liberty of Conscience, and the other of granting it. The one is the Pope armed with fire and faggot, and the other is the Pope selling or granting indulgences. The for- mer is church and state, and the latter is church and traffic. But Toleration may be viewed in a much stronger light. Man worships not himself, but his Maker ; and the liberty of conscience which he claims is not for the service of himself, but of his God. In this case, therefore, we must necessarily have the associated idea of two things ; the morta/ who renders the worship, and the Immortal Being who is worshipped. Toleration, therefore, places itself, not between man and man, nor between church and church, nor between one denomination of religion and another, but be- tween God and man ; between the being who worships, and the Being who is worshipped; and by the same act of assumed authority which il tolerates man to pay his worship, it presump- tuously and blasphemously sets itself up to tolerate the Almighty to receive it. ' Were a bill brought into any Parliament, entitled, "An Act to tolerate or grant liberty to the Almighty to receive the worship of a Jew or Turk," or " to prohibit the Almighty from receiving it," all men would startle and call it blasphemy. There would be an uproar. The presumption of toleration in religious matters would then present itself unmasked ; but the presumption is not the less because the name of " Man " only appears to those laws, for the associated idea of the worshipper and the worshipped can- not be separated. Who then art thou, vain dust and ashes ! by whatever name thou art called, whether a King, a Bishop, a Church, or. a State, a Parliament, or anything else, that obtrudest thine insignificance between the soul of man and its Maker? Mind thine own concerns. If he believes not as thou believest, it is a proof !Ba«»fri»iiiiaH«iiimBiffi^^ rff''«iiiiiiiii ■%mf THOMAS PAINE n NCE ricccl Tfllera- ERSAL Right I the counter- to itself the the other of cl faggot, and :s. The for- traffic. light. Man of conscience t of his God. lie associated ship, and the irefore, places h and church, ither, but be- hips, and the of assumed I, it presump- the Almighty ed, " An Act e the worship •om receiving lere would be gious matters tiption is not to those laws, irshipped can- nd ashes ! by lop, a Church, itrudest thine > Mind thine it is a proof that thou belicvest not as he believes, and there is no earthly power can determine between you. With respect to what are called denominations of religion, if every one is left to judge of its own religion, there is no such thing as a religion that is wrong ; but if they are to judge of each other's religion, there is no such thing as a religion that is right ; and therefore all the world is right, or all the world is wrong. But with respect to religion itself, without regard to names, and as directing itself from the universal family of mankind to the Divine object of all adoration, it is man bringing to his Maker the fruits of his heart; and though those fruits may differ from each other like the fruits of the earth, the grateful tribute of every one is accepted. A Bishop of Durham, or a Bishop of Winchester, or the arch- bishop who heads the dukes, will not refuse a tythe-sheaf of wheat because it is not a cock of hay, nor a cock of hay because it is not a sheaf of wheat ; nor a pig, because it is neither one nor the other ; but these same persons, under the figure of an established church, will not permit their Maker to receive the varied tythes of man's devotion. [From Rights of Man, being an Ansxver to Mr. Burie's Attack on the French Revolution, 1 791. Writings, vol. ii, pp. 3*5-326.] A PROFESSION OF FAITH It has been my intention, for several years past, to publish my thoughts upon religion ; I am well aware of the difficulties that attend the subject, and from that consideration, had reserved it to a more advanced period of life. I intended it to be the last offering I should make to my fellow-()itizens of all nations, and that at a time when the purity of the motive that induced me to it could not admit of a question,' even by those who might disap- prove the work. The circumstance that has now taken place in France, of the total abolition of the whole national order of priesthood, and of everything appertaining to compulsive systems of religion, and compulsive articles of faith, has not only precipitated my inten- ■BSSMRMMlii^' ■^imf f^vamiffiia ^^fl^i .-gasa^g^- '^^'^^'^^'Ji^L^'Msfiiiai^^i^^^ '«RWS.i«fl(»?^©J^*^*^'^^"^'^^~^ ^f^^^ w^w 0-r.. \L IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 14 IM III 2.5 2.2 l.i 1.25 ■50 "-= t 1^ illM 1.8 \A. 11.6 auhic ■i'^'tf^ /^, Zi % 2.6 ^ ■F.A \ c\ ^v \ "% ^>. ' ^^ ^ "^ Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. M580 (7i6) 872-4503 £..#;»; ,-^ MM :^"rri inirrn — -irri - vish, Christian, entions set up vet and profit, those who oe- ir belief as I s of man, that not consist in iing to believe THOMAS PAINE. 7$ necessary, lest ms of goveni- , of humanity, low-citizens of heir voluntary mine ; and I bich the mind for happiness that religious ideavouring to \y other things work, declare jelieving them, fewish church, Y the Turkish church that I Soon after I had published the pamphlet Common Sense, in America, I saw the exceeding probability that a revolution in the system of government would be followed by a revolution in the system of religion. The adulterous connection of church and state, wherever it had taken place, whether Jewish, Christian, or Turkish, had so effectually prohibited, by pains and penalties, every discus- sion upon established creeds, and upon first principles of religion, that until the system of government should be changed, those sub- jects could not be brought fairly and openly before the world ; but that whenever this should be done, a revolution in the system of religion would follow. Human inventions and priest-craft would be detected ; and man would return to the pure, unmixed, and unadulterated belief of one God, and no more. [The Age of Keason, I794-I795t chapter i, "The Author's Profession of Faith." Wrilings, vol. iv, pp. 21-23.] f I may so ex- When a man )f his mind, as es not believe, ■y other crime, f gain, and, in nx'a a perjury, dity than this? » I ■ft I ;5« WMW THOMAS JEFFERSON [Thomas Jefferson was born, of a good family, at ShadiVell, Albemarle Co., Va., April 13, 1743. He received an excellent education at William and Mary College, saw much of the best society, studied law under Chancellor Wythe, began its practice, and achieved at once a considerable success. At the age of twenty-six he entered the House of Burgesses, and served off and on with much oistinction until the breaking out of the Revolution. He then entered Congress, where he became the chief drafter of state papers, the most important of these being the Declaration of Independence. After this he returned to Virginian politics, labored successfully to modify the state laws in a democratic direction, and served as governor for two years, during which period his administration was much harassed by the British. In 1783 he re- entered Congress and took part in important legislation. The next year he went to France as minister plenipotentiary, succeeding Franklin in 1 785. 'lis career as a diplomat was distinctly successful, but was cut short by his accept- ance of the post of Secretary of State in Washington's first cabinet. Under the new government he was subsequently made Vice-President in 1797 and President from 1801 to 1809. His two presidential administrations were not •narked by much executive strength, but the first secured to the country the vast territory of Louisiana. He was succeeded by his disciple Madison, and during his retirement at Monticello maintained his grip upon politics by his large correspondence. From 1817 to his death, on July 4, 1826, he was mainly interested in founding the Unive-^'ty of Virginia. Throughout his old age he was looked up to as the chief political theorist and most typical republican of the country, but this public homage entailed a hospitality that left him poor. The best editions of his writings are the so-called Congressional, in nine vol- umes, and that of P. L. Ford, not yet complete.] If Jefferson be judged by any single piece of work, except per- haps the Declaration of Independence, or by the general qualities of his style, he cannot in any fairness be termed a great writer. His Notes on Virginia, his only book, may be justly said to be interesting and valuable, but cannot rank high as literature. His stajepapers, with the exception made above, and his official reports are excellent of their kind, but their kind is not iiuffioiently literary to warrant any one in holding them up as models. Even his count- 76 lite^fr^' m: THOMAS JEFFERSON 77 Albemarle Co., X William and der Chancellor le success. At I served off and lion. He then Ltu papers, the ice. After this y the state laws 3, during which In 1783 he re- e next year he > in 1785. 'lis t by his accept- abinet. Under nt in 1797 and ations were not the country the ; Madison, and I politics by his I, he was mainly t his old age he il republican of t left him poor, al, in nine vol- ;, except per- eral qualities great writer, y said to be ;rature. His ifficial reports iently literary rtn his count- less letters, while fascinating to the student of his character, are rather barren of charm when read without some ulterior purpose. In short, while Jefferson was plainly the most widely cultured of our early statesmen and was thus in a real sense a man of letters, he would be little read to-day if his fame depended either upon his author- ship of a masterpiece in the shape of a book or upon his posses- sion of a powerful or charming style. We see at once that in at least two important respects Jefferson is inferior to Franklin as a writer. Franklin possessed a style and has given us a classic. Nor is it at all clear tliat, judged from the point of view of mere readableness, Jefferson rises above or equals iome of his contemporaries, such as Fisher Ames, or Alexander Hamilton, or his rival as a drafter of state papers, John Dickinson. Yet he was surely in one important respect a greater writer than any of these men, not even Frajiklin excepted. His was the most in- fluential pen of his times upon his contemporaries, and it is to his writings that posterity turns with most interest whenever the par- poses, the hopes, the fears of the great Revolutionary epoch become matters of study. If Franklin's writings reveal a personality, Jeffer- son's reveal, if the exaggeration may be pardoned, the aspirations and ideals of an age. They reveal also the personality of Jefferson himself, but so subtle was that great man that we can never feel that we under- stand him fully. We may learn to understand, however, with fair thoroughness the theory of government that he had worked out for himself froth French and English sources ; we may see how every letter he wrote carried his democratic doctrines further afield ; we may feel him getting a firm grasp not merely upon his con- temporaries but upon generations yet to be ; finally, we cai; observe yawning across his later writings the political chasm into which the young republic was one day to fall. But books that enable us to do all this are certainly great in their way, and so is the hand that penned their contents. Jeffersoh is not a Burke, yet it is as true to say that he must be read by any one who wou'.J comprehend the origin and development of American political thought, as it is to say that Burke must be read by any similar student of British political thought. But has not Jefferson given us a masterpiece ? In a book, no ; I ■IM»*-^'- #»».' 79 AMERICAN PROSE in a state paper, yes. The Declaration of Independence, whatever may be the justice of the criticisms directed against this and that clause or statement, is a true piece of Uterature, because ever since it was written it has been alive with emotion. It may have charged George III with crimes he never committed, but even if we were to view it as pure fiction (which it is not), it would never- theless, though we were to read it a thousand times, stir every one of us that loves liberty and his native land and has a sense for the rhetoric of denunciation and aspiration. It answers the chief practical tests of good literature — the test of contemporaneous popularity at home and abroad, and the test of current popular appreciation. The man who drafted such a document knew the spirit of his own people and could express it to their satisfaction ; to deny him literary power of a high order would therefore be pedantic. In conclusion, while we are abundantly justified in including Jeflerson in any volume devoted to the important prose-writers of America, we should not be justified in proposing his writings as models for any student of English. Our national taste has changed, and the fervent eloquence of the Declaration would be distinctly out of place to-day. If we wrote letters to the same extent that our ancestors did, we should still need to set before ourselves writers of more ease and freedom and charm than Jefferson, if we wished to produce upon our own contemporaries a tithe of the influence he managed to convey in his somewhat cumbrous and stiff though very subtle fashion. This is only to say that the art of writing prose has made great strides since Jefferson's time ; but we must not forget that, if his pen was not that of a chastened writer, it was par excellence that of a ready and wonderfully effective one. W. P. Trent mmm IWraS'f*^^iA**%a**^ nee, whatever this and that ise ever since [t may have 1, but even if would never- tir every one sense for the ;rs the chief emporaneous rent popular ent knew the satisfaction ; therefore be in including )se-writers of is writings as has changed, be distinctly : extent that )re ourselves ifferson, if we , tithe of the ambrous and lat the art of time ; but we itened writer, effective one. . P. Trent THOMAS JEFFERSON DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE n A DECLARATION by the Representatives of the United States ok America in General Congress assembled. When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that ihey should declare the causes which-impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident : that all men are created equal ; that they are endowed by their creator with inherent and inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pur- suit of happiness ; that to secure these rights governments are in- stituted among men deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed ; that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on 3uch principles and organizing its pow-trs in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their happiness. Prudence indeed will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes : and accordingly all expf.rience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations begun at a distinguished period and pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government and to provide new guards for their future security. Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies, and such is now the necessity which constrains them to expunge their former systems of government. The history of the present king of Great Britain is a history of unremitting injuries and usurpations, among which appears no solitary fact to contra- dict the uniform tenor of the rest ; but all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To .4", if (? aimi i niWi i rtH ' 80 AMERICAN JA'OSE prove this let facts be submitted to a candid world, for the truth of which we pledge a faith yet unsullied by falsehood. He has refused his assent to laws the mos^ wholesome and nec- essary for the public good: He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent should be obtained, and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them. He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of large districts of people unless those people would relinquish the right of representation, in the legislature, a right inestimable to them, and formidable to tyrants only. He has called t'>gether legislative bodies at places unusual, and uncomfortable and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatigumg them into compliance with his measures. He has dissolved Representative houses repeatedly and continu- ally for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the right of the people : He has refused for a long time after such dissolutions to cause others to be elected, whereby the legislative powers incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise, the state remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without and convulsions within : He has endeavored to prevent the population of these states, for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreign- ers ; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither ; and raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands : He has suffered the adniinistration of justice totally to cease in some of these states, refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers : He has made judges dependant on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices and the amount and payment of their salaries : He has erected a multitude of new offices by a self assumed power and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people and eat out their substance : He has kept among us in times of peace, standing armies and ships of war without the consent of our legislatures : '^'HifilMiMalBIIBltWMIIfliiiiMM iitaniMM i M i itMMI mum THOMAS JEFFERSON 8l for the truth )od. ame and nec- (imediate and ration till \m fie has utterly lation of large lish the right ible to them, I unusual, and r their public compliance r and continu- n the right of tions to cause 'ers incapable irge for their osed to all the thin: f these states, on of foreign- ations hither ; lands : ly to cease in )r establishing for the tenure r salaries : 1 self assumed ur people and ig armies and He has affected to render the military, independent of and superior to the civil power : He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction for- eign to our constitutions and unacknowledged by our laws, giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation, for quartering large bodies of armed troops among us ; for protecting them by a mock trial from punishment for any murders which they should commit on *he inhabitants of these states ; for cutting off our trade with all parts of the world ; for imposing taxes on us with- out our consent ; for depriving us in many cases of the benefits of trial by jury ; for transporting us beyond the seas to be tried for pretended offences ; for abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary government and enlarging its boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these colonies ; for taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and fundamentally the forms of our gov- ernments, for suspending our own legislatures and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever : He has abdicated government here, withdrawing his governors, and declaring us out of his allegiance and protection. He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our towns and destroyed the lives of our people : He is at this time transporting large armies of foreign merce- naries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny al- ready begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy unworthy the head of a civilized nation : He has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes, and conditions of existence : He has incited treasonable insurrections of our fellow-citizens, with the allurements of forfeiture and confiscation of our property : He has constrained others, taken captive on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands : He has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating 11 K-'iHt-'i^' ! 8a AMERICAN PROSE its most sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of distant people, who never offended him, captivating and carrying Ihem into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their transportation thither. This piratical warfare, the opprobrium of infidel powers, is the warfare of the Christian king of Great Britain. Determined to keep open a market where Men should be bought and sold, he has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain this execrable commerce : and that this assemblage of horrors might want no fact of distinguished dye, he is now exciting those very people to rise in arms among us, and to purchase that liberty of which he has deprived them by murdering the people upon whcm he also obtruded them ; thus paying off former crime committed against the liberties of one pec,)le, with crimes which he urges them to commit against the hves of another. In every stage oi' the je oppressions we have petitioned for re- d'.ess in the most humlle ierms; our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injuries. A prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a people who mean to be free. Future ages will scarce believe that the hardiness of one man adventured within the short compass of twelve years only, to build a foundation, so broad and undisgr.ised for tyranny over a people fostered and fixed in principles jf freedom. Nor have we been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over these our states. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emi- gration and settlement here, no one of which could warrant so strange a pretension : that these were effected at the expence of our own blood and treasure, unassisted by the wealth or strength of Clreat Britain : that in constituting indeed our several forms of government, we had adopted a common king, thereby laying a foundation for perpetual league and amity with them : but that submission to their parliament was no part of our constitution nor ever in idea, if history be credited ; and we have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, as well as to the ties of our common kindred, to disavow these usurpations which were likely THOMAS JEFFERSON 83 ns of (liHtant irrying I hem ible tieath in opprobrium ng of Great Men should • suppressing lis execrable jht want no ry people to of which he ic'Ti he also itted against ges them to oned for re- us have been character is is unfit to be ire ages will tured within mndation, so fostered and ish brethren, ipts by their er these our s of our emi- i warrant so ; expence of h or strength jral forms of eby laying a n : but that istitution nor appealed to le ties of our 1 were likely to internipt our fonnection and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity, ami when occasions have been given them, by the regular course of their laws of removing from their councils the disturbers of our harmony, they have by their free elections re-established them in power. At this very time they are permitting their chief magistrate to send over not only soldiers of our own blood, but Scotch and other foreign mercenaries, to invade and destroy us. These facts have given the last stab to agonizing affections, and manly spirit bids to renounce forever these unfeeling brethren. We must en- deavor to forget our former love for them, to hold them as we hold the rest of mankind enemies in war, in peace friends. We might have been a free and a great people together ; but a communication of grandeur and of freedom it seems, is below their dignity. Be it so, since they will have it : the road to happi- ness and to glory is open to us too ; we will climb it apart from them, and acquiesce in the necessity which denounces our eternal separation I We therefore the representatives of the United States in Gen- eral Congress assembled in the name and by the authority of the good people of these states, reject and renounce all allegiance and subjection to the kings of Great Britain and all others who may hereafter claim by, through, or under them ; we utterly dissolve all political connection which may heretofore have subsisted be- tween us and the people or parliament of Great Britain, and finally we do assert and declare these colonies to be free and independant, and that as free and independant states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour. [Jefferson's draft of the Declaration of Independence as preserved in the Department of State. It is here reprinted from P. L. Ford's Writings of Thomas Jefferson, vol. ii, pp. 42-58, liy permission of the publishers, CI. P. Putnam's Sons.] i "«<■ intii II liifcfiiiiniS'ii^'iimiliiMlllimriHli^ iaumm CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN [Charteii Brockden Brown wa» born in Philadelphia, Jan. 17, 1771, and died in the tame city, of coniumption, Feb. 22, 1810. By hi» own itatement, made in a letter written just before hi« death, we learn that he never had more than one continuoun half-hour of perfect hcaltii. In spite of hi* short life ami his ill-health he accuniplished much. At first he studied law, but al)an- doned it for literature. He was a frequent contrii)utor to the magazines of the time and was himself the ean's letters in the days of Anna Seward. All we can say is that within a century, for some cause or other, English speech has grown very much simpler, and human happiness has increased in proportion. In the preface to his second novel {Edgar Huntly) Brown an- nounces it as his primary purpose to be American in theme, " to exhibit a series of advent'., res growing out of our own country," adding " That the * i i i»i iiri Ma " M ii K ir M <^#^ -m -,^£5. 90 AMERICAN PROSE occur. Something was perceived moving among the bushes and rocks, which, for a time, I hoped was no more than a raccoon or opossum, but which presently appeared to be a panther. His gray coat, extended claws, fiery eyes, and a cry which he at that moment uttered, and which, by its resemblance to the human voice, is peculiarly terrific, denoted him to be the most ferocious and untamable of that detested race.' The industry of our hunters has nearly banished animals of prey from these precincts. The fastnesses of Norwalk, however, could not but afford refuge to some of them. Of late I had met them so rarely, that my fears were seldom alive, and I trod, without caution, the ruggedest and most solitary haunts. Still, however, I had seldom been unfurnished in my rambles with the means of defence. My temper never delighted in carnage and blood. I found no pleasure in plunging into bogs, wading through rivulets, and penetrating thickets, for the sake of dispatching woodcocks and squirrels. To watch their gambols and flittings, and invite them to my hand, was my darling amusement when loitering among the woods and the rocks. It was much otherwise, however, with re- gard to rattlesnakes and panthers. Those I thought it no breach of duty to exterminate wherever they could be found. These judicious and sanguinary spoilers were equally the enemies of man and of the harmless race that sported in the trees, and many of their skins are still preserved by me as trophies of my juvenile prowess. As hunting was never my trade or sport, I never loaded myself with fowling-piece or rifle. Assiduous exercise had made me mas- ter of a weapon of much easier carriage, and, within a moderate distance, more destructive and unerring. This was the tomahawk. With this I have often severed an oak-branch, and cut the sinews of a catamount, at the distance of sixty feet. The unfrequency with which I had lately encountered this foe, and the encumbrance of provision, made me neglect, on this oc- casion, to bring with me my usual arms. The beast that was now 1 The gray cougar. This animal has all the essential characteristics of a tiger. Though somewhat inferior in size and strength, these are such as to make him equally formidable to man. — /^«Mo/-'j A'i)/i 'iw y ■atcil with at of their latiun can illen short inecl nv)rc 1(1. I wa- hich more ■ol ; hut I ich I had or rehict- anded was ; out upon ,*s to hsten rocrastina- rccincts of taken, and le voice of which the reduced, I It avenue, le verge of in a dozen am behind on, and as Their defended le to have iding with ere closed, inhabited. fell upon nants had CltAKr.ES Hh'OCKPRN BROWN 99 \ These tokens were new, ami awaki-ni'd all uiy panic s. Death MCeined to hover over this si one, and I dre.uk'd that thi' floating pestilence had already lighted on my frame. I had scare ely over- come these tremors, wijen I ai)proaclied a house the door of which was o|)ened, and before which stood a vehicle, wliii h I presently recognized to be a heaisc. The driver was seated on it. 1 stood still to mark his visage, and to observe the course which he proposed to take. Presently a cuftin, borne by two men, issued from the house. Tiie driver '...- " negro ; but his companions were white. Their features were marked by ferocious indifference to danger or pity. One of them, as he assisted in thrusting tlie coffin into the cavity provided for it, said, " I'll be damned if I think the poor dog was cpiite dead. It wasn't \\\c/ever that ailed him, but the sight of the girl and her mother on the floor. I wonder how they all got into that room. What carried them there?" The other surlily muttered, "Their legs, to-be-sure." " Hut what should they hug together in one room for?" "To save us trouble, to-be-sure." " And I thank them with all my heart ; but, damn it, it wasn't right to put him in his coffin before the breath was fairly gone. I thought the last look he gave me told me to stay a few minutes." " Pshaw ! He could not live. The sooner dead the better for him ; as well as for us. Did you mark hov/ he eyed us when we carried away his wife and daughter? I never cried in my life, since I was knee-high, but curse me if I ever felt in better time for the business than just then. Hey ! " continued he, looking up, and observing me standing a few paces distant, and listening to their discourse ; " what's wanted? Anybody dead?" I stayed not to answer or parley, but hurried forward. My joints trembled, and cold drops stood on my forehead. I was ashamed of my own infirmity; and, by vigorous efforts of my reason, regained some degree of composure. The evening had now advanced, and it behooved me to procure accommodation at some of the inns. These were easily distinguished by their .f4'"''> hat many were without inhabitants. At length I lighted upon one, the hall of which was open and the windows lifted. After knocking for some \ 1 '^ .30 v fW'i -i-»»-.-afm ,j. ■ ■ Hnjy»ii"u'»w'";^'ny' ■" ' I ' .wn^i l ymi y ?'f>i(g^!i««?«»>'<«*r%^«M"** ICX) AMERICAN PROSE time, a young girl appeared, with many marks of distress. In an- swer to my question, she answered that both her parents were sick, and that they could receive no one. I inquired, in vain, for any other tavern at which strangers might be accommodated. She knew of none such, and left iri ■, on some one's calling to her from above, in the midst of my embarrassment. After a moment's pause, I rei'.iT.ed, discomfited and perplexed, to the street. I proceeded, in a considerable degree, at random. At length I reached a spacious building in Fourth Street, which the sign-post showed me to be an inn. I knocked loudly and often at the door. At length a female opened the window of the second story, and, in a tone of peevishness, demanded what I wanted. I told her that I wanted lodging. " Go hunt for it somewhere else," said she ; " you'll find none here." I began to expostulate; but she shut the window with (juickness, and left me to my own reflections. I began. now to feel some regret at the journey I had taken. Never, in the depth of caverns or forests, was I equally conscious of loneliness. I was surrounded by the habitations of men ; but I was destitute of associate or friend. I had money, but a horse- shelter, or a morsel of food could not be purchased. I came for the purpose of relieving others, but stood in the utmost need my- self. Even in health my condition was helpless and forlorn ; but what would become of me should this fatal malady be contracted? To hope that an asylum would be afforded to a sick man, which was denied to one in health, was unreasonable. lArthur Mervyn ; or Memoirs of the y^^ar /79J, 1799-1800, chapter 15.] rf MiV- ^.IMC^M. ,-r_ ^ii^i^i^aimiia^iKitataiii« t,^.^:ii. ' -—irnH H mW' '-,-^'' ;s. In an- i were sick, tin, for any ated. She to her from moment's reet. At length I le sign-post It the door, ory, and, in old her that 1 find none indow with had taken. ly conscious f men ; but but a horse- I came for St need my- forlorn ; but contracted ? man, which chapter 15.] DANIEL WEBSTER [Daniel Webster was born in Salisbury, N.IL, Jan. 18, 1782. He was graduated from Dartmouth College in 180 1, was admitted to the bar in 1805, and soon became prominent as an advocate and as an orator. He was elected to the lower house of Congress for the first time in 1813, and again in 1815 and 1823. In 1827 he entered the Senate, serving there until Presi- dent Harrison appointed him Secr"tary of State in 1841. Resigning in 1843, after concluding the important Asbburton Treaty with England, he re-entered the Senate in 1845. In 1850, he was once more appointed Secretary of State by President Fillmore. He died at his home in Marshfield, Mass., Oct. 24, 1852. The standard edition of his works, the text of which is followed in this volume, is that of 1851. The best biography is that by George Ticknor Curtis. Daniel Webster was beyond all question the greatest of Ameri- can orators ; in the opinion of many students of oratorical style, he pronounced at least one oration that surpasses any other recorded specimen of human eloquence. He was, indeed, pecuHarly and uniquely fortunate both in his natural gifts and in the circum- stances of his remarkable career. There have been orators like Burke, whose elocution was noble in diction and weighty in thought, yet whose impressiveness was marred by the speaker's own physical insignificance or by an imperfect delivery; there have been still others who, like Henry Clay, produced upon their immediate hearers an effect that was almost wholly due to charm of utterance and of manner ; but very seldom has it been given to any one to unite, in perfect balance and proportion, the physical, the intellectual, and the emotional attributes that raise their pos- sessor to the rank of a great master of eloquence. Webster, however, had all the natural gifts and all the ac- quired graces that go to the endowment of the ideal orator. A man of stately presence, and with a fac? indicative of extraor- dinary power, his manner was at once easy and unaffected, yet stately and majestic. His intellectual gifts were no less striking, — a marvellous memory richly stored with facts and illustrations lOI 4M£»yinii w)Hw i'i ''' 'i' i '^-^ ' "■ — ' '- ' 1 02 AMERICAN PROSE drawn from a large experience and the widest reading, a keenly active, vigorous, aiul logical mind that pierced through the outer shell of any question and touched at once its very core, an unfail- ing fund of common sense and perfect reasonableness, a tact and taste that never made rhetorical mistakes nor allowed him for a moment to go too far, and finally a persuasive human sympathy that imparted to his stateliest and most massive utterances a warmth and glow and color such as vivified them and made them speak to the emotions as well as to the intellect. His voice was wonderful in its range and quality. It carried his lightest words with perfect ease to the farthest limits of the vast audiences that heard him, and it had at once an exquisite beauty of tone and a sonorous organ-quality that, in the supreme moments of his ora- tory, was instinct with an indescribably thrilling power. Webster was no less fortunate in the time and circumstances of his remarkable career. The period of our national history extend- ing from the close of the War of 18 12 to the year of his death was a perioti when the most vital issues were flung into the politi- cal arena. These issues involved the broadest questions of con- stitutional interpretation, and they touched alike the popular heart and the chords of conscience ; so that both intellect and senti- ment were aroused by their discussion, and the whole nation watched with the intensest eagerness the forensic battle that sprang out of them. The Senate of the United States was for forty years a battle-ground toward which every eye was turned to note each phase of the struggle and to judge each combatant ; and hence all who contended there ditl so with a knowledge that whether they achieved success or failure the result would at once be recognized by their countrymen. And this knowledge, coupled with the im- portance of the issues that were at stake, made it inevitable that the very ablest statesmen, the foremost orators, and the most acute debaters should be pitted there against each other. Here again was Webster fortunate ; for under different conditions the natu.al indolence of his temperament might never have been wholly cast aside, buc might have been allowed to obscure and leave untested the tremendous powers that were slumbering be- neath it. With antagonists whose intellectual gifts were almost equal to his own, and with the ardor of emulation always intensely tiaiwijitf* f fjAiiiitfiii^N 1 1 DAmEL WEBSTER 103 a keenly the outer an unfail- a tact and him for a sympathy erances a lade them voice was itest words iences that tone and a af his ora- istances of ary extend- f his death ) the politi- )ns of con- >pular heart t and senti- lole nation that sprang forty years note each »d hence all hether they recognized ifith the im- vitable that the most ther. Here iditions the have been Dbscure and ■iibering be- rtrere almost lys intensely stimulated, Webster was compelled to put forth every atom of his strength. He was throughout his whole senatorial career a giant roused to conflict, a champion always fully armemf .-/- DANIEL WERSTF.R 113 I State i>er- no longer t the iiulul- also. The itution, for md renown They are 1 by direct it will not agents and il vigilantly t, faithfully y dissent to ned. I atn ;h too long, ion, snch as t a subject, ve not been itiments. I without ex- it respects )st vital and )fess, Sir, in : prosi)erity tion of our ty at home, that Union ist proud of iscipline of its origin in merce, and ;at interests h with new- with fresh lur terriiory tion spread farther and flirther, tlicy have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself, Sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of preserving liberty when the Iwnds that unite us together shall be broken asun- der. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion, to see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may be best preserveil, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it should be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children, lieyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at least, that curtain may not rise ! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind I When my eyes shall be turned to be- hold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union ; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood 1 Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the j,'orgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased or polluted, ijor a single star obscured, beiiring for its motto, no such miserable interrogntory as "What is all this worth?" nor those other words of delusion and folly, " Liberty first and Union after- wards ; " but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, Liberty and Union, now and for ever, one and inseparable ! [From Second Spetth on Foot's Resolution, commonly known ait tfie "Re- ply to Ilayne," delivered in the Senate uf the United SUtes on Jan. 26, i8jo. Works, vol. iii, pp. 338-342.] , ... ,rx, I '. ■"■,"■''. .-' ^TT^i^y^ 114 AMERICAN PROSE THE DRUM-BEAT OF ENGLAND \ The Senate regarded this interposition as an encroachment by the executive on other branches of the government ; as an inter- ference with the legislative disposition of the public treasure. It was strongly and forcibly urged, yesterday, by the honorable member from South Carolina, that the true and only mode of preserving any balance of power, in mixed governments, is to keep an exact balance. This is very true, and to this end en- croachment must be resisted at the first step. The question is, therefore, whether, upon the true principles of the Constitution, this exercise of power by the President can be justified. Whether the consequence be prejudicial or not, if there be an illegal exer- cise of power, it is to be resisted in the proper manner. Even if no harm or inconvenience result from transgressing the boun- dary, the ii>trusion is not to be suffered to pass unnoticed. Every encroachment, great or small, is important enough to awaken the attention of those who are intrusted with the preservation of a constitutional government. We are not to wait till great public mischiefs come, till the government is overthrown, or liberty itself put into extreme jeopardy. We should not be worthy sons of our fathers were we so to regard great questions affecting the general freedom. Those fathers accomplished the Revolution on a strict question of principle. The Parliament of Great Britain asserted a right to tax the Colonies in all cases whatsoever ; and it was precisely on this question that they made the Revolution turn. The amount of taxation was trifling, but the claim itself was incon- sistent with liberty ; and that was, in their eyes, enough. It was against the recital of an act of Parliament, rather than against any suffering under its enactments, that they took up arms. They went to war against a preamble. They fought seven years against a declaration. They poured out their treasures and their blood like water, in a contest against an assertion which those less saga- cious and no. so well schooled in the principles of civil liberty would have regarded as barren phraseology, or mere parade of words. They saw in the claim of the British Parliament a semina' principle of mischief, the germ of unjust power ; they ichment by IS an inter- easure. It honorable y mode of lents, is to liis end en- question is, lonstitution, . Whether illegal exer- ner. Even ; the boun- ;ed. Every awaken the srvation of a;reat public iberty itself sons of our the general 1 on a strict ain asserted and it was lution turn. ■ was incon- gh. It was against any ms. They ears against their blood e less saga- civil liberty ere parade arliament a ower ; they DANIEL WEBSTER "5 detected it, dragged it forth from underneath its plausible dis- guises, struck at it ; nor did it elude either their steady eye or their well-directed blow till they had extirpated and destroyed it, to the smallest fibre. On this question of principle, while actual suffering was yet afar off, they raised their flag against a power, to which, for purposes of foreign conquest and subjugation, Rome, in the height of her glory, is not to be compared ; a power which has dotted over the surface of the whole globe with her posses- sions and military posts, whose morning drum-beat, following the sun, and keeping company with the hours, circles the earth with one continuous and unbroken strain of the martial airs of England. [From The Preudential Protest, a speech delivered in the Senate of the United States, May 7, 1834. IVorks, vol. iv, pp. 109, no.] AMERICAN INTEREST IN REPUBLICAN GOVERNMENT The undersigned will first observe, that the President is per- suaded his Majesty the Emperor of Austria does not think that the government of the United States ought to view with uncon- cern the extraordinary events which have occurred, not only i.; his dominions, but in many other parts of Europe, since February, 1848. The government and people of the United States, like other intelligent governments and communities, take a lively interest in the movements and the events of this remarkable age, in whatever part of the world they may be exhibited. But the interest taken by the United States in those events has not pro- ceeded from any disposition to depart from that neutrality toward foreign powers, which is among the deepest principles and the most cherished traditions of the political history of the Union. It has been the necessary effect of the unexampled character of the events themselves, which could not fail to arrest the attention of the contemporary world, as they will doubtless fill a memorable page in history. But the undersigned goes further, and freely rJmits that, in proportion as these extraordinary events appea.^-d tc have their origin in those great ideas of responsible and popular government, on which the American constitutions themselves are wholly •ftmmmis memma Ii6 AMERICAN PROSE founded, they could not but command the warm sympathy of the people of this country. Well-known circumstances in their history, indeed their whole history, have made them the repre- sentatives of purely popular principles of government. In this light they now stand before the world. They could not, if they would, conceal their character, their condition, or their destiny. They could not, if they so desired, shut out from the view of man- kind the causes which have placed them, in so short a national career, in the station which they now hold among the civilized states of the world. They could not, if they desired it, suppress either the thoughts or the hopes which arise in men's minds, in other countries, from contemplating their successful example of free government. That very intelligent and distinguished person- age, the Emperor Joseph the Second, was among the first to discern this necessary consequence of the American Revolution on the sentiments and opinions of the people of Europe. In a letter to- his ministc' in the Netherlands in 1787, he observes, that " it is remarkable that France, by the assistance which she afforded to the Americans, gave birth to reflections on free- dom." This fact, which the sagacity of that monarch perceived at so early a day, is now known and admitted by intelligent powers all over the world. True, indeed, it is, that the p.»..r- lence on the other continent of sentiments favorable to republican liberty is the result of the reaction of America upon Europe ; and the source and centre of this reaction has doubtless been, and now is, in these United States. The position thus belonging to the United States is a fact as inseparable from their history, their constitutional organization, and their character, as the opposite position of the powers com- posing the European alliance is from the history and constitutional organization of the government of those powers. The sovereigns who form that alliance have m^. ci.frequently felt it their right to interfere with the political mo* c, v.-- its of foreign states ; and have, in 'their manifestoes and deHar :^ :, Jenounced the popular ideas of the age in terms so compreh'ni^e as of necessity to include the United States, and their forms uf government. It is well known that one of the leading principles announced by the allied sov- ereigns, after the restoration of the Bourbons, is, that all popular I' ''-:.^i DANIEL WEBSTER 117 ynipathy of :es in their I the repre- it. In this not, if they leir destiny, iew of man- t a national the civilized it, suppress I's minds, in example of >hed person- the first to \ Revolution Europe. In he observes, :e which she jns on free- ch perceived »y intelligent .t the piv;.-"- to republican Europe ; and SB been, and s is a fact as organization, powers com- constitutional he sovereigns their right to ;s ; and have, popular ideas ity to include t. It is well the allied sov- lat all popular or constitutional rights are holden no otherwise than as grants and indulgences from crowned heads. " Useful and necessary changes in legislation and administration," says the Laybach Circular of May, 1821, "ought only to emanate from the free will and intelli- gent conviction of those whom God has rendered responsible for power ; all that deviates from this line necessarily leads to disorder, commotions, and evils far more insufferable than those which they pretend to remedy.". And his late Austrian Majesty, Francis the First, is reported to have declared, in an address to the Hun- garian Diet, in 1820, that "the whole world had become foolish, and, leaving their ancient laws, were in search of imaginary consti- tutions." These declarations amount to nothing less than a denial of the lawfulness of the origin of the government of the United States, since it is certain that that government was established in consequence of a change which did not proceed from thrones, or the permission of crowned heads. But the government of the United States heard these denunciations of its fundamental princi- ples without remonstrance, or the disturbance of its equanimity. This was thirty years ago. The power of this republic, at the present moment, is spread over a region one of the richest and most fertile on \he globe, and of an extent in comparison with which the possessions of the house of Hapsburg are but as a patch on the earth's surface. Its popu- lation, already twenty-five millions, will exceed that of rhe Austrian empire within the period during which it may be hoped that Mr. HUlsemann may yet remain in the honorable discharge of his duties to his government. Its navigation and commerce are hardly exceeded by the oldest and most commercial nations ; its maritime means and its maritime power may be seen by Austria herself, in all seas where she has ports, as well as they may be seen, also, in all other quarters of the globe. Life, libert.;, prop- erty, and all personal rights, are amply secured to all citizens, and protected by just and stable laws ; find credit, public and private, is as well established as in any government of Continental Europe ; and the country, in all its interests and concerns, partakes most largely in all the improvements and progress which distinguis^i the age. Certainly, the United States may be pardoned, even by (hose who profess adherence to the principle of absolute government, if i I ■'-A— ~ !■ 'afa'MMia'i ' ^ jt^iiiMte JiBiiW III Il8 AMERICAN PROSE they entertain an ardent affection for those popular forms of politi- cal organization whicli have so rapidly advanced their own pros- perity and hapjiiness, and enabled them, in so short a period, to bring their country, and the hemisphere to which it belongs, lo the notice and respectful regard, not to say tne admiration, of the civilized world. Nevertheless, the United States have abstained, at all times, from acts of interference with the political changes of Europe. They cannot, however, fail to cherish always a lively inter- est in the fortunes of nations struggling for institutions like their own. But this sympathy, so far from being necessarily a hostile feeling toward any of the parties to these great national struggles, is quite consistent with amicable relations with them all. The Hungarian people are three or four times as numerous as the inhabitants of these United States were when the American Revolution broke out. They possess, in a distinct language, and in other respects, important elements of a separate nationality, which the Anglo- Saxon race in this country did not possess; and if the United States wish success ; > countries contending for popular constitu- tions and national independence, it is only because they regard such constitutions and such national independence, not as imagi- nary, but as real blessings. They claim no right, however, to take part in the struggles of foreign powers in order to promote these ends. It is only in defence of his own government, and its prin- ciples and character, that the undersigned has now expressed himself on this subject. But when the people of the United States behold the people of foreign countries, without any such interfer- ence, spontaneously moving toward the adoption of institutions like their own, it surely cannot be expected of them to remain wholly indifferent spectators. [From a letter addressed, as Secretary of State, Dec. 21, 1850, to the Chevalier HUlsemann, Charg^ d' Affaires of the Emperor of Austria. Works, vol. vi, pp. 494-497.] IS of politi- own pros- 1 period, to ongs, lo the ion, of the bstained, at changes of lively inter- e their own. stile feeling ;Ies, is quite Hungarian labitants of jtion broke er respects, the Anglo- the United ar constitu- they regard ot as imagi- iver, to take )mote these md its prin- 1 expressed nited States ch interfer- institutions [I to remain 1850, to the tria. Works, WASHINGTON IRVING ; [Washington Irving was born in New York City, April 3, 1783, and died at Tarrytown, N.Y., Nov. 28, 1859. Irving spent his early years in New York City. In 1804 he went abroad for his health, travelling in France, Italy, and Kngland. Returning in 1806, he resumed the study of law and was admitted to the bar, hut dirl not practise his profession. In 1815 he went abroad again and passed five years in England, six years in travelling on the continent, and three years in Spain. In 1829 he was appointed Secretary of Legation at the Court of St. James, and remained in England until 1832, when he returned to New York. From 1842 to 1846 he was minister to Spain. The rest of his life was happily spent in New York and at Sunnyside, his little place on the lianks of the Hudson at Tarrytown. In 1802 Irving contributed to the Morning Chronicle a series of letters, signed Jonathan Oldstyle, in the manner of the TatUr and Spectator. In 1807 he joined his brother and Paulding in the production of Salmagundi, a semi- monthly publication, also modelled on the Spectator and its followers. In 1809 appeared the satirical History of New York, but it was not until ten years later that reverses of fortune determined Irving to choose the profession of literature. The Sketch-Bcok (1819-20) achieved a remarkable success both at home and abroad. It was followed by Bracebridge Hall (1822), Tales of a Traveller (1824), and, as fruits of his first residence in Spain, Life and Voyages of Columbus (1828), The Conq. t of Granada (1829), and The Alhambra (1832). During the ten years tliat elapsed before he went to Spain for the second time, he published Crayon Miscellanies (^\%l^, Astoria (1836), and Adventures of Captain Bonneville (1837). His later works were largely biographical and historical: Oliver Goldsmith (1849), Mahomet and his Suc- cessors {\%if)), Wolfert's Roost (1855), and Life of Washington (1855-59). With great generosity he abandoned to Prescott his life-long project of writing the history of the conquest of Mexico. The text of the extracts from Irving is, with the permission of G. P. Put- nam's Suns, the publishers, that of the author's revised edition.] It is a strange fact that the English language has no exact word for a thing frequent in English literarture, one which we are forced to call by an inadequate and inaccurate French phrase — vers de societe, a kind of poetry more abundantly cultivated in Great Britain and the United States than in France. Mr. Austin Dob- son has proposed to adopt Cowper's suggestion, /jm/7/ar verse, but this is perhaps not comprehensive enough. The late Frederick 119 ^•(vV t^ AMERICAN PROSE Locker-Lampson, selecting the most successful poems of this kind, entitled his enchanting anthology Lyra Ekgantiarum. But what- ever the name we bestow upon it, the thing itself is readily to be recognized ; it is verse such as Pope often wrote, and Prior, and Praed, such as Holmes delighted us with in our own day, and Mr. Locker-Lampson, and Mr. Austin Dobson. It is the poetry of the man of the world, who has a heart, no doubt, but who does not wear it on his sleeve ; it is brief and brilliant and buoyant ; and it is in verse almost the exact equivalent of the prose essay of Steele and Addison. A comparison of the Lyra EUgantiarum of Mr. Locker-Laiftp- son with an equally skilfully edited volume, the Eighteenth Cen- tury Essays of Mr. Austin Dobson, reveals the fact that the prose form which we are forced to call the eighteenth century essay is a literary ^^«r^ quite as distinct as the verse form which we are forced to -all vers de societe. Neither form has yet a name of its own, but each has an independent existence. Essay is a word of wide meaning ; it may include a mere medley of pithy reflections by Montaigne or Bacon or Emerson, and it may designate also an elaborate exhibition of quaint humor by Lamb, or an ebulli- tion of pungent wit by Lowell. The eighteenth century essay, as Steele devised it and as Addison improved it, owed some- thing to Walton's Conversations, something to \a Bruyfere's Characters, and something to Horace's Epistles, but despite these predecessors, the papers of the Tatler and the Spectator were essentially original in form. No one had ever before sketched men and manners from just that point of view, and with just that easy touch. What Steele and Addison had done spontaneously and naturally, many another writer coming after them laboriously reproduced, taking their papers as his pattern, and imitating his model as closely as he could. Dr. Johnson, for example, toiled mightily to repeat the success of the Spectator, and failed lament- ably; as Goldsmith suggested, Johnson could not help making little fishes talk like whales. Goldsmith himself was the sole heir of Steele and Addison ; and in his hands the eighteenth century essay was as free, as graceful, and as natural as in theirs. Irving is often accused of being a mere copyist of Goldsmith. The charge is unjust and absurd. Irving was no more an imitator tii ■ I ii innra i i-wrwnMiri^wtnriiiiii?^ - WASHINGTON IRVING 121 >f this kind, But what- i readily to , and Prior, r own day. It is the doubt, but )rilliant and ilent of the cker-Lartip- xteenth Cen- it the prose ry essay is a e are forced its own, but )rd of wide iflections by late also an r an ebulK- ntury essay, owed some- a Bruy^re's lespite these tctator were re sketched ith just that )ontaneously I laboriously mitating his imple, toiled iled lament- lelp making he sole heir :nth century rs. Goldsmith. ; an imitator of Goldsmith than Goldsmith was an imitator of Steele and Addi- son. He had a kindred talent with theirs and he was the heir of their tradition. The eighteenth century essay was the form in which he expressed himself most easily ; and for him to have sought another mode would have been to thwart his natural inclination. He is the nineteenth century writer who has possessed most of the qualities that must combine to give the eighteenth century essay its essential charm ; and he is the only nineteenth century writer wlio found in the eighteenth century essay a form wholly satis- factory and exactly suited to his own development. The sketches of Geoffrey Crayon are as inevitable a revelation of the author as are the lucubrations of Isaac Bickerstaff or the Chinese letters of the Citizen of the World, and they show " that happy mingling of the lively and severe, which Johnson envied but could not emulate " — to quote from Mr. Austin Dobson. " That charm of simplicity and grace, of kindliness and gentle humor, which," so Mr. Dobson tells us in another place, "we recognize as Goldsmith's special property," seem somehow to have passed by inheritance to Irving as next of kin. The eighteenth century essay is a definite form — but it con- tained also the beginnings of several other forms. It is not fan- tastic to find in the Spectator the precursor of the modern magazine, with its varied table of contents, since we can pick out from its pages not only the brisk disquisition upon the topics of the time, but also the character sketch, the short story, the theatrical criti- cism, the book-review, the obituary notice, and even the serial story, — for what else is the succession of papers in which Sir Roger de Coverley appears and reappears? Midway between the modern magazine and the Spectator stands the Sketch-Book ; and the first of the eight numbers in which it was originally issued had ample variety, containing, as they did, papers as dissimilar as the Author's Account of Himself, the Voyage, the essay on Roscoe, the two tales of the Wife and Rip Van Winkle, and the still unheeded warning to English Writers on America. For nothing is the American magazine now more noted than for its short stories, and one of the tales in the first number of the Sketch- Book has been the parent of an innumerable progeny. Rip Van Winkle is not only one of the best short stories in our Ian- I as AMERICAN PROSE guage ; it is also the earliest attempt in America at local fiction. Rip Van Winkle and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow (both contained in the Sketch- Book, issued in 1819-20) showed how the realities of our life here could best be made available in romance. In these stories Irving set an example to the New E:ngland group of story- tellers and to the later men and women who have since explained to us also the South and the West by frank and direct tales of the way people live in the one section and the other. Irving was first in the ficid now cultivated so carefully by Miss Jewett and Miss Wilkins, by Mr. Cable, Mr. Harris, and Mr. Page, by Mr. Garland and Mr. Wistar. On other authors also has Irving's influence made itself felt, — on Dickens, for one, as may be detected at once by a comparison of the Dingley Dell chapters of the Pickwick Papers, with the cor- responding humorously realistic pages of the Sketch-Book and Bracebridge Hall; and for another, on Longfellow, who came under the. pensive and romantic charm of Irving's earlier writ- ings, and who took Irving's prose as the model of his own in Outre Mer and Kavanagh. Hawthorne also and Poe followed in Irving's footsteps, and their short stories often disclose their indebtedness to him. Scott appreciated highly all that Irving wrote, and more especially the tales in which the eerie was adroitly fused with the ironic ; and in his paper On the Supernatural in Fictitious Com- position he praised the ludicrous sketch of The Bold Dragoon as the only instance of the fantastic then to be found in the English language. The one story of this sort that Scott himself wrote, Wandering Willie's Tale (introdu<:ed into Redgauntlet), appeared about the same time as the Tales of a Traveller, and later there- fore than Irving's ghostly stories. " At any rate," Irving wrote to a friend, " I have the merit of adopting a line for myself, instead of following others." Perhaps there is no better test of originality and power than this, — that an author's influence upon his fellow-craftsmen shall both broaden and endure. In the variegated garden of American story-telling "all can grow the flower now, for all have got the seed ".; but it was Irving who showed how the soil should be culti- vated and who brought the first blooms to perfection. His art seems so simple, his attitude is so modest, the man himself is so wftwaiwinnirTnifrmiir'"^"" i—i--'-^-- ' .itMtft«iui^ wi.iw ji'v'nw wam local fiction, th contained the realities e. In these lup of story- ce explained rect tales of Irving was 1 Jewett and Page, by Mr. itself felt, — I comparison with the cor- di-Book and r, who came earlier writ- own in Outre ed in Irving's indebtedness te, and more ised with the titioHS Com- ' Dragoon as 1 the English imself wrote, r/), appeared later there- ving wrote to yself, instead 1 power than aftsmen shall of American have got the ould be culti- ion. His art himself is so WASHINGTON IRVING 123 unpretending and unaffected, that he has not yet received full credit for his very real originality. And not only in literature does his influence abide, but in the life of the city he was born in. It was Irving who invented the Knickerbocker legeml and who im- posed it upon us, " making it out of whole cloth," as the phrase is, — weaving it in the loom of his own playful imagination. It was Irving again who flung the entrancing veil of romance over the banks of the Hudsort. To the end of time will the Catskills be Rip Van Winkle's country, and New York the town of the Knicker- bockers. It is not by his elaborately wrought biographies that Irving is to survive, not by the lives of Columbus and of Washington, admir- able as these are, but by the earlier miscellanies, developed, all of them, out of the eighteenth century es^ay, — the Skekh-Book, linuebrUge Hall, the Tales of a Traveller, and the Alhambra (that Spanish ".Sketch- Hook," as Prescott aptly called it). It is in these that Irving is most at home j in these he is doing the work he did best ; anil in these his style is seen at its finest. If the style is the man, then is Irving transparently revealed in these volumes, for his writing had always the simplicity and the sincerity of his own character. But though it may seem careless, it has more art than the casual reader may suspect. It has the rare merit of combining vivacity and repose. As Poe pointed out, Irving's style is excellent even though his diction is not always impeccable; and we remember that Addison also has been the prey of the rigid grammarians who think that man was made for syntax. The happy phrase is frequent in Irving's sketches, and the felicitous adjective abounds; — yet we have to admit that his leisurely and old-fashioned paragraphs do not appeal to those who fail to find beauty anywhere but in the verbal mosaics of certain latterday stylists. Irving's pages are wholesome always ; they are as genuine as they are graceful, as natural as they are charming ; and perhaps they are most relished- by those who best know the kindred qualities of Steele and of Goldsmith, Brander Matthews 124 AMERICAN PROSE WOUTER VAN TWILLER ! OP THK RENOWNEI> WOUTER VAN TWII.I.ER, HIS UNPAKALLELED VIRTUES — AS LIKKWISE HIS UNUTTERABLE WISDOM IN THE LAW- CASE OK WANIJLK SCHOONHOVEN AND BARENT BI.EECKER — AND THE (iREAT ADMIRATION OF THE PUBLIC THEREAT Grievous and very much to be commiserated is the task of the feeling historian, who writes the history of his native land. If it fall to his lot to be the recorder of calamity or crime, the mourn- ful page is watered with his tears; nor can he recall the most prosperous and blissful era, without a melancholy sigh at the reflection that it has passed away forever ! I know not whether it be owing to an immoderate love for the simplicity of former times, or to that certain tenderness of heart incident to all senti- mental historians ; but I candidly confess that I cannot look back on the happier days of our city, which I now describe, without great dejection of spirit. With faltering hand do I withdraw the curtain of oblivion, that veils the modest merit of our venerable ancestors, and as their figures rise to my mental vision, humble myself before their mighty shades. Such are my feelings when I revisit the family mansion of the Knickerbockers, and spend a lonely hour in the chamber where hang the portraits of my forefathers, shrouded in dust, like the forms they represent. With pious reverence do I gaze on the countenances of those renowned burghers, who have preceded me in the steady march of existence, — whose sober and temperate blood now meanders through my veins, flowing slower and slower in its feeble conduits, until its current shall soon be stopped for- ever ! These, I say to myself, are but frail memorials of the mighty men who flourished in the days of the patriarchs ; but who, alas, have long since mouldered in that tomb towards which my steps are insensibly and irresistibly hastening ! As I pace the darkened chamber and lose myself in melancholy musings, the shadowy images around me almost seem to steal once more into existence, — their countenances to assume the animation of life, — their eyes to pursue me in every movement ! Carried away by the delusions WASHINGTON IK VI NO 125 'AMAtLBLBD I THE LAW- :KKK — AND task of the land. If it the mourn- 11 the most igh at the not whether y of former :o all senti- it look back Ibc, without 'ithdraw the r venerable ion, humble jsion of the mber where ust, like the raze on the •receded me 1 temperate and slower .topped for- the mighty ut who, alas, ich my steps he darkened he shadowy :o existence, — their eyes he delusions of fancy, I almost imagine myself surrounded by the shades of the departed, and holding sweet converse with the worthies of anticj- uity 1 Ah, hapless Diedrich I born in a degenerate age, aban- doned to the buffetings of fortunes, — a stranger and a weary pilgrim in thy native land, — blest with no weeping wife, nor family of helpless children, but doomed to wander neglected through those crowded streets, and elbowed by foreign upstarts from those fair abodes where once thine ancestors held sover- eign empire ! Let me not, however, lose the historian in the man, nor suffer the doting recollections of age to overcome me, while dwelling with fond garrulity on the virtuous days of the patriarchs, — on those sweet days of simplicity and ease, which nevermore will dawn on the lovely island of Mannahata. These melancholy reflections have been forced from me by the growing wealth and importance of New Amsterdam, which, I plainly perceive, are to involve it in all kinds of perils and dis- asters. Already, as I observed at the close of my last book, they had awakened the attentions of the mother-country. The usual mark of protection shown by mother-countries to wealthy colonies was forthwith manifested ; a governor being sent out to rule over the province, and squeeze out of it as much revenue as possible. The arrival of a governor of course put an end to the protectorate of Oloffe the Dreamer. He appears, however, to have dreamt to some purpose during his sway, as we find him afterwards living as a patroon on a great landed estate on the banks of the Hudson ; having virtually forfeited all right to his ancient appiilation of Kortlandt or Lackland. It was in the year of our Lord 1629 that Mynheer Wouter Van Twiller was appointed governor of the province of Nieuw Neder- landts, under the commission and control of their High Might- inesses the Lords States General of the United Netheriands, and the privileged West India Company. This renowned old gentleman arrived at New Amsterdam in the merry month of June, the sweetest month in all the year ; when clan Apollo seems to dance up the transparent firmament, — when the robin, the thrush, and a thousand other wanton songsters, make the woods to resound with amorous ditties, and the luxurious little I 126 AMERICAN PROSE it ^11 l)ol)lincon revels among the clover blossoms of the meadows, — all which happy coincidence pcrsnadcti the old <:ames of New Amster- dam, who were Hkilled in the art of foretelling events, that this was to be a hajjpy and prosperous administration. ■Phe renowned Woutcr (or Walter) Van Twiller was descended from a long line of Dutch burgomasters, who had successively dozed away their lives, and grown fat upon the bench of nuigistracy in Rotterdam ; and who had comported themselves with such singular wisdom and propriety, tliat they were never either heard or talked of— which, next to being universally applauded, should be the object of ambition of all magistrates and rulers. There are two opposite ways by whic'.i some men make a figure in the worUl : one, by talking faster than they think, and the other, by holding their tongues and not thinking al all. By the first, many a smat- terer ac(iuires the reputation of a man of quick parts; by the other, many a dunderpate, like the owl, the stupidest of birds, comes to be considered the very type of wisdom. This, by the way, is a casual remark, which I would not, for the imiverse, have it thought I apply to (lovernor Van Twiller. It is true he was a man shut up within himself, like an oyster, and rarely spoke, except in monosyllables ; but then it was allowed he seldom saiti a ftwlish thing. So invi 'ble was his gravity that he was never known to laugh or eve; mile through the whole course of a long and prosperous li( y, if a joke were uttered in his presence, that set light-minded hearers in a roar, it was observed to throw him into a state of perplexity. Sometimes he would deign to inquire into the matter, and when, after much explanation, the joke was made as plain as a pikestaff, he would continue to smoke his pii)e in silence, and at length, knocking out the ashes, would exclaim, " Well ! I see nothing in all that to laugh about." With all his reflective habits, he never made up his mind on a subject. His adherents accounted for this by the astonishing magnitude of his ideas. He conceived every subject on so grand a scale that he had not room in his heatl to turn it over and examine both sides of it. Certain it is, that if any matter were propounded to him on which ordinary mortals would rashly determine at first glance, he would put on a vague, mysterious look, shake his capacious head, smoke some time in profound silence. vtmmmimmii ^' im WASHINGTON IK VINO i«r (lows, — all ew Ainster- uit this wuii descciuicd luccesHively magistracy witii such itiicr heard lied, should There are the world : by holding any a sinat- ts; by the it of birds, rhis, by the iverse, have le he was a )okc, except lid a foolish :r known to a long and esence, that 3 throw him 1 to inquire he joke was oke his pii)e lid exclaim, liis mind on astonishing on so grand it over and matter were .fould rashly iterious look, und silence. an'ence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls. W li Mfc..,a »,T _4».-' Sf-^ WASHINGTON IRVING 133 : seemed ty rocks, d fc'- an o3e tran- I heights, a hollow, recipices, ,nches, so he bright jmpanion sd greatly r up this incompre- ked famil- piesented ny of odd- dressed in others jer- 1 enormous eir visages, and small entirely of off with a shapes and nder. He mtenance ; owned hat roses in in an old the village at the time jgh these itained the withal, the Nothing the balls, which, wlienever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rambling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue- like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre counls-nances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to hin> to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the liquor in pro- found silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another ; and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking;, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a oright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the woe-begone party at nine-pins — the flagon — " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — " what excuse all I make to Dame Van Winkle ! " He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, ^i^" wmm iMteMmM rr .JiSb, 134 AMF.mCAN PROSE and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and want- ing in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do not a^jree with me," thought Rip, '* and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-h.izel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such opening re- mained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surround- ing forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crews, sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. [From The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent., i8i9-i82o,"Rip Van Winkle."] L THE ENCHANTED STEED ^ When Governor Manco, or " the one-armed," kept up a show of military state in the Alhambra, he became nettled at the reproaches «i^. ind gun. ul want- up with h Dame he glen : iscended in stream nd filling shift to I thickets led up or r tendrils th. i through )ening re- ver which J, and fell surround- and. He answered lir about a secure in )oor man's as passing e grieved ife ; but it his head, Irouble and 3, " Rip Van a show of [reproaches WASHINGTON IRVING 135 continually cast upon his fortress, of being a nestling- place of rogues and contrabandistas. On a sudden, the old potentate determined on reform, and setting vigorously to work, ejected whole nests of vagabonds out of the fortress and the gypsy caves with which the surrounding hills are honeycombed. He sent out soldiers, also, to patrol the avenues and footpaths, with orders to take up all sus- picious persons. One bright summer morning a patrol, consisting of the testy old corporal who had distinguished himself in the affair of the notary, a trumpeter, and two privates, was seated under the garden-wall of the GeneraUfe, beside the road which leads down from the Mountain of the Sun, when they heard the tramp of a horse, and a male voice singing in rough, though not unmusical tones, an old Castilian campaigning-song. Presently they beheld a sturdy, sunburnt fellow, clad in the ragged garb of a foot-soldier, leading a powerful Arabian horse caparisoned in the ancient Morisco fashion. Astonished at the sight of a strange soldier descending, steed in hand, from that solitary mountain, the corporal stepped forth and challenged him. , ..s, ^'i-:• " Who goes there ? " :., -v^ r "A friend." >.;.;-! " Who and what are you?" " A poor soldier just from the wars, with a cracked crown and empty purse for a reward." By this time they were enabled to view him more narrowly. He had a black patch across his forehead, which, with a grizzled beard, added to a certain dare-devil cast of countenance, while a slight squint threw into the whole an occasional gleam of roguish good-humor. Having answered the questions of the patrol, the soldier seemed to consider himself entitled to make others in return. " May I ask," said he, "what city is that which I see at the foot of the hill?" " What city ! " cried the trumpeter ; " come, that's too bad. Here's a fellow lurking about the Mountain of the Sun, and de- mands the name of the great city of Granada." " Granada ! Madre di Dios ! can it be possible? " on 13« AMERICAN PROSE " Perhaps not ! " rejoined the trumpeter ; " and perhaps you have no idea that yoiuler are the towers of the Alhambra?" " Son of a trumpet," rephed the stranger, " do not triflr with me ; if this be indeed the Alhambra, I have some strange matters to reveal to the governor." " You will have an opjjortunity," said the corporal, " for we mean to take you before him." By this time the trumpeter had seized tlie bridle of the steed, the two privates had each se- cured an arm of the soldier, the corporal put himself in front, gave the word, " Forward — march ! " and away they marched for the Alhambra. The sight of a ragged foot-soldier and a fine Arabian horse, brought in captive by th2 patrol, attracted the attention of all the idlers of the fortress, and of those gossip groups that generally as- semble about wells and fountains at early dawn. The \^'heel of the cistern paused in its rotations, and the slip-shod servant-maid stood gaping, with pitcher in hand, as the corporal passed by with his prize. A motley train gradually gathered in the rear of the escort. Knowing nods and winks and conjectures passed from one to another. " It is a deserter," said one ; " A contrabandista," said another ; " A bandolero," said a third ; — until it was affirmed that a captain of a desperate band of robbers had been captured by the prowess of the corporal and his patrol. " Well, well," said the old crones, one to another, " captain or not, let him get out of the grasp of old Governor Manco if he can, though he is but one- handed." Governor Manco was seated in one of the inner halls of the Al- hambra, taking his morning's cup of chocolate in company with his confessor, — a fat Franciscan friar, from the neighboring convent. A demure, dark-eyed damsel of Malaga, the daughter of his house- keeper, was attending upon him. The world hinted that the dam- sel, who, with all her demureness, was a sly buxom baggage, had found out a soft spot in the iron heart of the old governor, and held complete control over him. But let that pass — the domestic affairs' of these mighty potentates of the earth should not be too narrowly scrutinized. When word was brought that a suspicious stranger had been niWwiHgMfctifiiiwriir: mm ■un mmmmtammm,-. •haps you I?" triflr with je matters , " for we ipeter had each se- f in front, larched for >ian horse, 1 of all the enerally as- ■heel of the ■maid stood :d by with rear of the from one to idista," said jffirmed that tured by the said the old t out of the is but one- Is of the Al- )any with his ing convent, jf his house- lat the dam- )aggage, had overnor, and he domestic I not be too er had been •fjn: WASHINGTON IRVING 137 taken lurking about the fortress, and was actually in the outer court, in durance of the corporal, waiting the pleasure of his Excellency, the pride and stateliness of office swelled the bosom of the governor. Giving back his chocolate-cup into the hands of the demure damsel, he called for his ba'ket-hilted sword, girded it to his side, twirled up his moustaches, took his seat in a large high-backed chair, assumed a bitter and forbidding aspect, and ordered the prisoner into his presence. The soldier was brought in, still closely pinioned by his captors, and guarded by the corporal. He maintained, however, a resolute, self-confi- dent air, and returned the sharp, scrutinizing look of the governor with an easy squint, which by no means pleased the punctilious old potentate. " Well, culprit," said the governor, after he had regarded him for a moment in silence, " what have you to say for yourself — who are you ? " " A soldier, just from the wars, who has brought away nothing but scars and bruises." "A soldier — humph — a foot-soldier by your garb. I under- stand you have a fine Arabian horse. I presume you brought him too from the wars, besides your scars and bruises." " May it please your Excellency, I have something strange to tell about that horse. Indeed I have one of the most wonder- ful things to relate. Something too that concerns the security of this fortress, indeed of all Granada. But it is a matter to be im- parted only to your private ear, or in presence of such only as are in your confidence." The governor considered for a moment, and then directed the corporal and his men to withdraw, but to post themselves outside of the door, and be ready at a call. " This holy friar," said he, " is my confessor, you may say anything in his presence ; — and this damsel," nodding towards the handmaid, who had loitered with an air of great curiosity, " this damsel is of great secrecy and dis- cretion, and to be trusted with anything." The soldier gave a glance between a squint and a leer at the demure handmaid. " I am perfectly willing," said he, " that the damsel should remain." When all th? rest had withdrawn, the soldier commenced his m iKiYMrh 138 AMERICAN PROSE Story. He was a fluent, smooth-tongued varlet, and had a com- mand of language above his apparent rank. " May it please your Kxcellency," said he, " 1 am, as I before observed, a soldier, and have seen ■ "ne hard service, but my term of enUstment being expired, I was discharged, not long since, from the army at Valladolid, and set out on foot for my native village in Andalusia. Yesterday evening the sun went dnwn as I was trav- ersing a great dry plain of old Castile." "Hold!" cried the governor, "what is this you say? Old Castile is some two or three hundred miles from this." " Even so," replied the soldi'.r, coolly. " I told your Excellency I had strange things to relate ; but not more strange than true, as your Excellency will find, if you will deign me a patient hearing." "Proceed, culprit," said the governor, twirling up his mous- taches. " As the sun went down," continued the soldier, " I cast my eyes about in search of quarters for the night, but far as my sight could reach there were no signs of habitation. I saw that I should have to make my bed on the naked plain, with my knap- sack for a pillow ; but your Excellency is an old soldier, and knows that to one who has been in the wars, such a night's lodging is no great hardship." The governor nodded assent, as he drew his pocket-handker- chief out of the basket-hilt to drive away a fly that buzzed about his nose. " Well, to make a long story short," condnued the soldier, " I trudged forward for several miles until I came to a bridge ovek a deep ravine, through which ran a little thread of water, almost dried up by the summer heat. At one end of the bridge was a Moorish tower, the upper end all in ruins, but a vault in the foundation quite entire. Here, thinks I, is a good place to make a halt ; so I went down to the stream, and took a hearty drink, for the water was pure and sweet, and I was parched with thirst ; then, opening my wallet, I took out an onion and a few crusts, which were all my provisions, and seating myself on a stone on the mar- gin of the stream, began to make my supper, — intending afterwards to quarter myself for the night in the vault of the tower ; and ca,M- "NMia vmntimMmm iwiiiiiiimmmi mim- --simmimik^ i^- id a com- is I before It my term since, from c village in I was trav- say? Old Excellency than true, a patient I his mous- 'I cast my far as my I saw that th my knap- •, ami knows xlging is no et-handker- uzzed about soldier, "I jridge ovek inter, almost )ridge was a k^ault in the ace to make rty drink, for hirst ; then, :rusts, which on the mar- ig afterwards ; and ca oi- ty^.s/z/jva/vy h^i'/nu '39 tal (luarters they woiild have been for a campaigner just from the wars, as your ICxcellency, who is an old soldier, may snp|>ose." " I have put up gladly with worse in my time," said the gov- ernor, returning his i)ocket-handkerchief into the hilt of his sword. " While I was quietly crunching my crust," ])ursucd the soldier, " I heard sometliing stir within the vault ; I listened — it was the tramp of a horse. By-and-by a man came forth from a door in the foundation of the tower, close by the water's edge, leading a powerful horse by the bridle. I could not well make out what he was, by the starlight. It had a suspicious look to be lurking among the ruins of a l >wer, in that wild solitary place. He might be a mere wayfarer, like myself; he might be a contrabandista ; he might be a bandolero ! what of that ? thank heaven and iny poverty, I had nothing to lose ; so I sat still and crunched my crust. " He led his horse to the water, close by where I was sitting, so that I had a fair o])portunity of reconnoitring him. To my sur- |)rise he was dressed in a Muorish garb, with a cuirass of steel, and a polished skull-cap that I distinguished oy the reflection of the stars upon it. His horse, too, was harnessed in the Morisco fashion, with great shovel stirrups. He ku him, as I said, to the side of the stream, into which the animal plunged his head almost to the eyes, and drank until I thought he would have burst. " ' Comraile,' said I, * your steed drinks well ; it's a good sign when a horse plunges his muzzle bravely into the water.' " ' He may well drink,' said the stranger, speaking with a Moor- ish accent ; ' it is a good year since he had his last draught.' " ' By Santiago ! ' said I, ' that beats even the camels I have seen in Africa. But come, you seem to be something of a soldier, will you sit down and take part of a soldier's fare?' In fact, I felt the want of a companion in that lonely place, and was will ing to put up with an infidel. Besides, as your Excellency well knows, a soldier is never very p.TticnIar about the faith of his company, and soldiers of all countries are comrades on pea-^eable ground." - The governor again nodded assent. " Well, as I was saying, I invited him to share my supper, such as it was, for I could not do less in common hospitality. ' I have m 140 AMEKfCAN PKOSE no time to pause for meat or drink,' said he ; 'I have a long jour- ney to make before morning.' "' In which direction?' said I. . ; " • Andalusia,' said he. •" Kxacily my route,' said I ; ' so, as you won't stop and eat with mo, perhaps you will let me mount and ride with you. I see your horse is of a powerful frame ; I'll warrant he'll carry ilouble.' " • Agreed,' said the trooper ; and it would not have been civil and soldierlike to refuse, especially as 1 had offered to share my supper with him. So up he mounted, and up I mounted behind him. " ' Hold fast,' said he ; 'my steed goes like the wind.' " ' Never fear me,' said I, and so off we set. " From a walk the horse soon passed to a trot, from a trot to a gallop, and from a gallop to a harum-scarum scamper. It seemed as if rocks, trees, houses, everything flew hurry-scurry behind us. " ' What town is this? ' said I. " ' Segovia,' said he ; and before the words were out of his mouth, the towers of Segovia were out of sight. We swept up the Guadarama Mountains, and down by the Escurial ; and we skirtec' the walls of Madrid, and we scoured away across the plains of La Mancha. In this way we went up hill and down dale, by towns and cities, all buried in deep sleep, and across mountains, and plains, and rivers, just glimmering in the starlight. " To make a long story short, and not to fatigue your Excel- lency, Hie trooper suddenly pulled up on the side of a mountain. 'Here ve are,' said he, 'at the end of our journey.' I looked about, but could see no signs of habitation ; nothing but the mouth of a cavern. While I looked I saw multitudes of people in Moorish dresses, somo on horseback, some on foot, arriving as if borne by the wind from all points of the compass, and hurrying into the mouth of the cavern Hke bees into a hive. Before I could ask a question, the trooper struck his long Moorish spurs into the horse's flanks, and dashed in with the throng. We passed along a steep winding way, that descended into the very bowels of the mountain. As we pushed on, a light began to glimmer up, by little and little, Hke the first glimmerings of day, but what caused it I could not discern. It grew stronger and '.jggH^i^f^i^ ■MM miu:. r IMH WASiriNGTON IRVING 141 long jour- p and eat oil. I see ry double.' been civil ) sliare my cd behind a trot to a It seemed behind us. out of his irept up the , we skirteH lains of La e, by towns intains, and rour Excel- mountain. I looked ng but the s of people ot, arriving nipass, and rjto a hive, ng Moorish irong. We ito the very began to ngs of day, ronger and stronger, and enabled me to sec everything around. I now no- ticed, as we passed along, great caverns, opening to the right and left, like halls in an arsenal. In some there were shiehls, and hein ets, and cuirasses, and lances, and cimeters, hanging against the\'alls; in others there were great heaps of warlike munitions and tamp-equipage lying upon the ground. " It woulil have done your Kxcellency's heart good, being an old soldier, to have seen such grand provision for war. Then, in other caverns, there were long rows of horsemen armed to the teeth, with lances raised and banners unfurled, all ready for the field ; but they all sat motionless in their saddles, like so many statues. In other halls were warriors sleeping on the ground beside their horses, and foot-soldiers in groups ready to fall into the ranks. All were in old-fashioned Moorish dresses and armor. " Well, your Excellency, to ciit a long story short, we at length entered an immense cavern, or I may say palace, of grotto- work, the walls of which seemed to be veined with gold and silver, and to sparkle with diamonds and sa])phires and all kinds of precious stones. At the upper end sat a Moorish king on a golden throne, with his nobles on each side, and a guard of African blacks with drawn cimeters. All the crowd that continued to flock in, and amounted to thousands and thousands, passed one by one before his throne, each paying homage as he passed. Some of the multitude were dressed in magnificent robes, without stain or blemish, and sparkling with jewels ; others in burnished and enamelled armor ; while others were in mouldered and mil- dewed garments, and in armor all battered and dented and covered with rust. " I had hitherto held my tongue, for your Excellency well knows it is not for a soldier to ask many questions when on duty, but I could keep silence no longer. " ' Prithee, comrade,' said I, ' what is the meaning of all this? ' " ' This,' said the trooper, ' is • a great and fearful mystery. Know, O Christian, that you see before you the court ind army of Boalxlil the last king of Granada.' " 'What is this you tell me?' cried I. ' Boabdil and his court were exiled from the 'and hundreds of years agone, and all died in Africa.' mm n t BflH i M ii a J w-'m Hit 142 AMERICAN PROSE " ' So it is recorded in your lying chronicles,' replied the Moor ; ' but know that Boabdil and the warriors wiio made the last struggle for (iranada were all shut up in this mountain by povirer- ful enchantment. As for the king and army that marched fqrth from Granada at the time of the surrender, they were a mere phantom train of spirits and demons, permitted to assume those shapes to deceive the Christian sovereigns. And furthermore let me tell you, friend, that all Spain is a country under the power of enchantment. There is not a mountain cave, not a lonely watch- tower in the plains, nor ruined castle on the hills, but has some spellbound warriors sleeping from age to age within its vaults, until the sins are expiated for which AUr.h permitted the dominion to pass for a time out of the hands of the faithful. Once every year, on the eve of St. John, they are released from enchantment from sunsPt to sunrise, and permitted to repair here to pay hom- age to their sovereign ! and the crowds which you beheld swarm- ing into the cavern are Moslem warriors from their haunts in all parts of Spain. For my own part, you saw the ruined tower of the bridge in old Castile, where I have now wintered and summered for many hundred years, and where I must be back again by day- break. As to the battalions of horse and foot which you beiield drawn up in array in the neighboring caverns, they are the spell- bound warriors of Granada. It is written in the book of fiite, that when the enchantment is broken, Boabdil will descend from the mountains at the head of this army, resume his throne in the Alhambra and his sway of Granada, and gathering together the enchanted warriors from all parts of Spain, will reconquer the Peninsula and restore it to Moslem rule.' " ' And when shall this happen ? ' said I. " ' Allah alone knows : we had hoped the day of deliverance was at hand; but there reigns at present a vigilant governor in Alhambra, a stanch old soldier, well known as Governor Manco. While such a warrior holds command of the very outpost, and stands ready to check the first irruption from the mountain, I fear Boabdil and his soldiery must be content to rest upon their arms.'" Here the governor raised himself somewhat perpendicularly, adjusted his sword, ind twirled up his moustaches. mmmm i mm s sms sf msfim WASHINGTON IRVING 143 le Moor ; the last )y poii^er- led forth e a mere ime those rmore let power of jly watch- lias some its vaults, dominion Mice every chantment pay hom- :ld swarm- lunts in all )wer of the summered lin by day- you beiield ; the spell- jf fiite, that 1 from the one in the g together reconquer deliverance pvenior in lor Manco. tpost, and nountain, I upon their endicularly, " To make a long story short, and not to fatigue your Excellency, the trooper, having given me this account, dismounted from his steed. " ' Tarry here,' said he, ' and guard my steed while I go and bow the knee to Boabdil.' So saying, he strode away among the throng that pressed forward to the throne. "'What's to be done?' thought I, when thus left to myself; ' shall I wait here tintil this infidel returns to whisk rae off on his goblin steed, the Lord knows where ; or shall I make the most of ray time and beat a retreat from this hobgoblin community?' A soldier's mind is soon made up, as your Excellency well knows. As to the horse, he belonged to an avowed enemy of the faith and the realm, and was a fair prize according to the rules of war. So hoisting myself from the crupper into the saddle, I turned the reins, struck the Moorish stirrups into the sides of the steed, and put him to make the best of his way out of the passagie by which we had entered. As we scoured by the halls where the Moslem horsemen sat in motionless battalions, I thought I heard the clang of armor and a hollow murmur of voices. I gave the steed another taste of the stirrups and doubled my speed. There was now a sound behind me like a rushing blast ; I heard the clatter of a thousand hoofs ; a countless throng overtook me. I was borne along in the press, and hurled forth from the mouth of the cavern, wiiile thousands of shadowy forms were swept off in every direction by the four winds of heaven. " In the whirl and confusion of the scene I was thrown sense- less to the earth. When I came to myself, I was lying on the brow of a hill, with the Arabian steed standing beside me ; for in falling, my arm had slipped within the bridle, which, I presume, prevented his whisking off to old Castile. " Your Excellency may easily judge of my surprise, on looking round, to behold hedges of aloes and Indian figs and other proofs of a southern climate, and to see a great city below me, with towers, and palaces, and a grand cathedral. "I descended the hill cautiously, leading my steed, for I was afraid to mo mt him again, lest he should play me some slippery trick. As I descended I met with your patrol, who let me into the secret that it was Granada that lay before me, and that I was ■J , NHItlM >Si'^ 144 AMERICAN PROSE pt .^ w* appointed midship- man, a position which he held until 1810. A part of this time was spent in duty on Lakes Champlain and Ontario. From the time of his marriage (181 1) to that of his death. Cooper's life was that of the gentleman of leisure. The years 1826-33 he spent in Europe, and at various times he lived in New York City and Westchester County. But his strongest associations were with Coopers- town, where he held large tracts of land, and it became his permanent home. Cooper's first book. Precaution (1820), owed its existence to a careless boast of his that he could write a better story than a certain British novel that had come under his eye. Precaution dealt with foreign life, and Cooper's friends re- proached him for not portraying that of his native country. Thus incited, he produced The Spy (1821), the plot of which was laid in Westchester. The favorable reception of The Spy led to a rapid succession of remarkabU tales of romantic adventure on land and sea, of which the more famous are The Pioneers (1823), The Pilot (1823), The Last of the Mohicans (1826), The Prairie (1827), The Red Rover (1828), The IVater Witch (1830), The Pathfinder (1840), The Deerslayer (1841), The Wing-and-Wing (1842). Besides his novels Cooper wrote a History of the Navy of the United States (1839), and several volumes of biography, history, and travel. Much of this part of his work was explicitly or implicitly polemic in character. He criticised severely the manners of his countrymen and their methods of government, as well as the corresponding manners and methods of European countries, thus exposing himself to retaliatory criticism, both at home and abroad. For many years he was almost constantly involved in lawsuits and can scarcely be said to have been beloved by his countrymen at large. But though intolerant, he had a strong sense of honor and justice, and was always actuated by lofty principles and an unswerving patriotism. The best biography of Cooper is that of T. R. I^ounsbury.] H7 i> lt»i «nmi>i <| ii i n l i li l MitiaiMihla -T-vml^ 148 AMERICAN PROSE I " Cooper, whose name is with his country'* woven First in her ranks; her Pioneer of mind." Thfse were the words in which Fitz-Greene Halleck designated Cooper's substantial precedenc* in American novel-writing. Apart fioin this mere priority in time, he rendered the unique service of inaugurating three especial classes of fiction, — the novel of the American Revolution, the Indian novel, and the sea novel. In each case he wrote primarily for his own fellow-countrymen and achieved fame first at their hands ; and in each he produced a class of works which, in spite of their own faults and of the some- what unconciliatory spirit of their writer, have secured a per- manence and a width of range unequalled in the English language, save by Scott alone. To-day the sale of his works in his own *^*"* language remains unabated; and one has only to look over the catalogues of European booksellers in order to satisfy himself that this popularity continues, undiminished, through the medium of translation. It may be safely said of him that no author of fiction in the English language, except Scott, has held his own so well for half a century after death. Indeed, the list of various editions and versions of his writings in the catalogues of Gfcrman book- sellers often exceeds that of Scott. This was not in the slightest degree due to his personal qualities, for these made him unpopular, nor to personal manoeuvring, for this he disdained. He was known to refuse to have his works even noticed in a newspaper for which he wrote, the New York Patriot. He would never have consented to review his own books, as both Scott and Irving did, or to write direct or indirect puffs of himself, as was done by Poe and Whitman. He was foolishly sensitive to criticism, and unable to conceal it ; he was easily provoked to a quarrel ; he was dissatisfied both with praise or blame, and speaks evidently of himself in the words of the hero of Miles Wallingford, when he says : " In scarce a cir- cumstance of my life that has brought me in the least under the cognizance of the public have I ever been judged justly." There is no doubt that he hinis(.lf — or rather the temperament given him by nature — was to blame for this, but the fact is unquestionable. Add to this that he was, in his way and in what was unfortu- nately the most obnoxious way, a reformer. That is, he was what '^mmtsmm t^MMiti^MliSiS^J — n designated ing. Apart I service of 3vel of tlie novel. In rymen and produced a ■ the some- red a per- il language, in his own ik over the tiniself that nedium of )r of fiction so well for us editions man book- lie slightest unpopular, was known r for which ! consented or to write i Whitman, conceal it ; d both with le words of carce a cir- under the y." There t given him estionable. fas unfortu- le was what /AMES FENIMORE COOPER 149 may be called a reformer in the conservative direction, — he be- labored his fellow-citizens for changing many English ways and usages, and he wished them to change these things back again, immediately. In all this he was absolutely unselfish, but utterly tactless ; and inasmuch as the point of view he took was one re- quiring the very greatest tact, the defect was hopeless. As a rule, no man criticises American ways so unsuccessfully as an Ameri' n who has lived many years in Europe. The mere European critic is ignorant of our ways and frankly owns it, even if thinking the fact but a small disqualification ; while the American absentee, having remained away long enough to have forgotten many things and never to have seen many others, has dropped hopelessly behindhand as to the facts, yet claims to speak with authority. Cooper went even beyond these professional absentees, because, while they are usually ready to praise other countries at the expense of America, Cooper, with heroic impartiality, dispraised all countries, or at least all that spoke English. A thoroughly patriotic and highminded man, he yet had no mental perspective, and made small matters as important as great. Constantly re- proaching America for not being Europe, he also satirized Europe for being what it was. As a result, he was for a time equally detested by the press of both countries. The English, he thought, had " a national propensity to blackguardism," and certainly the remarks he drew from them did something to vindicate the charge. When the London Times called him " affected, offensive, curious, and ill-conditioned," and Eraser's Magazine, " a liar, a bilious braggart, a full jackass, an insect, a grub, and a reptile," they clearly left little for America to say in that direction. Yet Park Benjamin did his best, or his worst, when he called Cooper (in Greeley's New Yorker) " a superlative dolt and the common mark of scorn and contempt of every well-informed American " ; and so did Webb, when he pronounced the novelist " a base-minded caitiff who had traduced his country." Not being able to reach his English opponents, Cooper turned on these Americans, and spent years in attacking Webb and others through the courts, gaining little and losing much through the long vicissitudes of petty local lawsuits. The fact has kept alive their memory ; but for Lowell's keener shaft, "Cooper has written six volumes to ■Ami I K>m>mili^ ISO AMERICAN PROSE show he's as good as a lord," there was no redress. The arrow lodged and split the target. Like Scott and most other novelists, Cooper was rarely success- ful with his main characters, but was saved by his subordinate ones. These were strong, fresh, characteristic, human ; and they lay, as has been said, in several different directions, all equally marked. If he did not create permanent types in Harvey Birch the spy, Leather-Stocking the woodsman. Long Tom Coffin the sailor, Chingachgook the Indian, then there is no such thing as the creation of characters in literature. Scott was far more pro- fuse and varied, but he gave no more of life to individual person- ages and perhaps created no types so universally recognized. What is most remarkable is that, in the case of the Indian espe- cially. Cooper was not only in advance of the knowledge of his own time, but of that of the authors who immediately followed him. In Parkman and Palfrey, for instance, the Indian of Cooper vanishes and seems wholly extinguished, but under the closer in- spection of Alice Fletcher and Horatio Hale, the lost figure reappears, and becomes more picturesque, more poetic, more thoughtful than even Cooper dared to make him. The instinct of the novelist turned out more authoritative than the premature conclusions of a generation of historians. It is only women who can draw the commonplace, at least in English, and make it fascinating. Perhaps only two English wo- men have done this, Jane Austen and George Eliot, while in France George Sand has certainly done it far less well than it has been achieved by Balzac and Daudet. Cooper never succeeded in it for a single instant, and even when he has an admiral of this type to write about, he puts into him less of life than Marryat im- parts to tlie most ordinary lieutenant. The talk of Cooper's civil- ian worthies is, as Professor Lounsbury has well said — in what is perhaps the best biography yet written of any American author — " of a kind not known to human society." This is doubtless aggra- vated by the frequent use of thee and thou, yet this, which Profes- sor Lounsbury attributes to Cooper's Quaker ancestry, was in truth a part of tlie formality of the old period, and is found also in Brockden Brown. And as his writings conform to their period in this, so they did in other respects ; describing every woman, for f \ a 1 ii t t; b c S( n C r( ir R w ^aiiiiiiiimia^^ **«'».• -fc-^^-'-^jjl JAMRS FRNIMORE COOPER 151 success- •ordinate and they 1 equally rey Birch loffin the thing as nore pro- 1 person- cognized, ian espe- ge of his followed af Cooper closer in- ost figure :tic, more le instinct premature t least in iglish wo- while in lan it has succeeded ral of this arryat im- ler's civil- what is author — [less aggra- ;h Profes- was in Ind also in period in Iroman, for instance, as a " female " and making her to be such as Cooper himself describes the heroine of Mercedes of Castile to be when he says, " Her very nature is made up of religion and female decorum." Scott himself could also draw such inane figures, yet in Jeanie Deans he makes an average Scotch woman heroic, and in Meg Merrilies and Madge Wildfire he paints the extreme of daring self-will. There is scarcely a novel of Scott's where some woman has not show^ qualities which approach the heroic ; while Cooper scarcely produced one where a woman rises even to the level of an interesting commonplaceness. She may be threatened, endangered, tormented, besieged in forts, captured by Indians, but the same monotony prevails. So far as the real interests of Cooper's story goes it might usually be destitute of a single "female," that sex appearing chiefly as a bundle of dry goods to be transported, or as a fainting appendage to the skirmish. His long introductions he shared with the other novelists of the day, or at least with Scott, for both Miss Austen and Miss Edge- worth are more modern in this respect and strike more promptly into the tale. His loose-jointed plots are also shared with Scott, but he knows as surely as Scott how to hold the reader's attention when once grasped. Like Scott's, too, is his fearlessness in giving details, instead of the vague generalizations which were then in fashion, and to which his academical critics would have confined him. He is indeed already vindicated in some respects by the advance of the art he practised ; where he led the way, the best literary practice has followed. The Edinburgh Review exhausted its heavy artillery upon him for his accurate descriptions of cos- tume and localities, and declared that they were " an epilepsy of t!ie fancy " and that a vague general account would have been far better. " Why describe the dress and appearance of an Indian chief, down to his tobacco-stopper and button-holes?" We now see that it is this very habit which has made Cooper's Indian a per- manent figure in literature, while the Indians of his predecessor, Charles Brockden Brown, were merely dusky spectres. " Poetry or romance," continued the Edinburgh Revietv, " does not descend into the particulars," this being the same fallacy satirized by Ruskin, whose imaginary painter produced a quadruped which was a generalization between a pony and a pig. Balzac, who risked r 152 AMERICAN PROSE the details of buttons ami tobacco pipes as fearlessly as Cooper, said of The Pathfinder, " Never did the art of writing tread closer upon the art of the pencil. This is the school of study for liti rary landscape painters." He says elsewhere : " If Cooper had suc- ceeded in the painting of character to the same extent thai he did in the painting of the phenomena of nature, he would have uttered the last word of our art." Upon such praise as this the reputation of James Fcnimore Cooper may well rest. Thomas Wentworth HiGGiNsoN mmm as Cooper, read closer for liti rary er had sue- thai he did lave uttered ! reputation [IGGINSON MM. JAMES FENlMOKh. COOPER 153 HAWKEYE AND HIS FMENDS Before these fipl(U were shorn unci tilled, •■'ull to the brim our rivers flowed; The melody of waters filled The fresh and Ijoundless wood ; And torrents dashed, and rivulets played, Antt lounlains spouted In the shade, Bryant. Leaving the unsuspecting Ht^yward and his confiding com- panions to penetrate still deeper into a forest that contained such treacherous inmates, we must use nu author's privilege, and shift the scene a few miles to the westward of the place where we have last seen them. On that day, two men were lingering on the banks of a small but rapid stream, within an hour's journey of the encampment of Webb, like those who awaited the appearance of an absent person, or t'le approach of some expected event. Tlw vast canopy of woods spread itself to the margin of the river, overhanging the water and shadowing its dark current with a deeper hue. The rays of the sun were l)eginning to grow less fierce, and the intense heat of the day was lessened, as the cooler vapors of the springs and fountains rose alxjve their leafy beds, and rested in the atmos- phere. Still, that breathing silence, which marks the drowsy sultri- ness of an American landscape in July, pervaded the secluded spot, interrupted only by the low voices of the men, the occasional and lazy tap of a woodpecker, the discordant cry of some gaudy jay, or a swelling on the air from the dull roar of a distant water- fall. These feeble and broken sounds were, however, too familiar to the foresters to draw their attention from the more interesting matter of their dialogue. While one of these loiterers showed the red skin and wild accoutrements of a native of the woods, the other exhibited, through' the mask ^ his rmlo and nearly savage equipments, the brighter, though sunburnt and long-faded com- 1 iexion of one who might claim descent from a European parent- age. The former was seated on the end iA a mossy log, in a posture that permitted him to heighten the effect of his earnest iimM AMERICAN PHOSE langu.i^e by the mini bnl exprt-s-dve RPsttircs of an Indian en- gaged 111 debate. His body, which was ii<;irly Hiked, presented a terrific emblem of death, drawn in inltriniiij{lcd ( ok^s of white and black, His closely shavnl h' id, on wliii h no other hair than the well-known and thivalroii-> st dping lull' wxs preserved, was without ornament of any kind, with tlie exception of a solitary eagle's plume that crossed his crown uid depended over the left shoulder. A tomahawk and scalping-kiiife, of English manufacture, were in the girdle ; while a short military rillc, of that sort with which the i)olicy of the whites armed their savage allies, lay care- lessly across his bare and sinewy knee. 'I'he expar 1' d chest, full- formed limbs, and grave countenance of this warrior would denote that he had reached the vigor of his days, though nu symptoms of decay appeared to have yet weakened his manhootl. The frame of the white man, judging by such parts as were not concealed by his clothes, was like that of one who had known hardships and exertion from his earliest youth. His person, though muscular, was rather attenuated than full ; but every nerve and muscle appeared strung and indurated by unremitted exposure and toil. He wore a hunting-shirt of forest green, fringed with faded yellow,' and a summer cap of skins which had been shorn of their fur. He also bore a knife in a girdle of wampum, like that which confined the scanty garments of the Indian, but no tomahawk. His moccasins were ornamented after the gay fash- ion of the natives, while the only part of his under-dress which appeared below the hunting-frock was a pair of buckskin leggins that laced at the sides, and which were gartered above the knees with the sinews of a deer. A jwuch and horn completed his per- 1 The North American warrior caused the hair to be plucked from his whole body ; a small tuft, only, was left on the crown of his head in order that Ids enemy might avail himself of it, in wrenching off the scalp in the event of his fall. The scalp was the only admissible trophy of victory. Thus, it was deemed more impor- tant to obtain the scalp than to kill the man. Some tribes lay great stress on the honor of striking a dead body. These practices have nearly disappeared among the Indians of the Atlantic States. * The hunling-shirt is a picturesque smock frock, being shorter, and ornamented with fringes and tassels. The colors are intended to imitate the hues of the wood with a view to concealment. Many corps of American riflemen have been thus attired ; md the dress is one of the most striking of modern times. The hunling- shirt is frequently white. I ndian en- rt sen led a of white ■ hair than ;rvc(l, was a solitary /cr the left inufacture, t sort with s, lay care- chest, full- luld denote mptoms of as were not had known son, though ■ nerve and d exposure fringed with been shorn mpum, like ian, but no le gay fash- dress which kin leggins the knees ted his per- tjiii bis whole III liis enemy lis fall. The more impor- stress on the peared among id ornamented cs of the wood lave been thus The hunting- JAMES FRNtMORR COOPER «55 sonal nccoiitretncnts, thniigh a rifle of great length,' which the theory of the more ingenious whites had taught them was the most dangerous of all fire-arms, leane. We took wives who bore us children ; we worshipped the Great Spirit : and we kept the Maquas beyond the sound of our songs of triumph." " Kno>v you anything of your own family at that time?" de- manded the white. " But you are a just man, for an Indian ; and, as I suppose you hold their gifts, your fathers must have been brave warriors, and wise men at the council fire." " My tribe is the grandfather of nations, but I am an unmixed man. The blood of chiefs is in my veins, where it must stay for- ever. The Dutch landed, and gave my people the fire-water; they drank until the heavens and the earth seemed to meet, and they foolishly thought they had found the Great Spirit. Then they parted with their land. Foot by foot they were driven back from the shores, until I, that am a chief and a sagamore, have never seen the sun shine but through the trees, and have never visited the graves of my fathers ! " "Graves bring solemn feelings over the mind," returned the r -^ »ig river, ith their the salt at a dis- :e where iity suns' warriors, lods with V no fish n, observ- i English ds. The 'hey came [lawk with nued, be- to fall to spoken at le people, 2 wood its children ; las beyond ime?" de- lian ; and, )een brave unmixed it stay for- |fire-water ; meet, and Then they back from liave never visited the Iturned the JAMES FENIMORE COOPER 159 scout, a good deal touched at the calm suffering of his companion ; " and they often aid a man in his good intentions ; though, for my- self, I expect to leave my own bones unburied, to bleach in the woods, or to be torn asunder by the wolves. But where are to be found those of your race who came to their kin in the Delaware country, so many summers since?" " Where are the blossoms of those summers ! — fallen, one by one : so all of my family departed, each in his turn, to the land of spirits. I am on the hill-top, and must go down into the valley ; and when Uncas follows in my footsteps, there will no longer be any of the blood of the sagamores, for my boy is the last of the Mohicans." " Uncas is here ! " said another voice, in the same soft, guttural tones, near his elbow j "who speaks to Uncas?" The white man loosened his knife in his leathern sheath, and made an involuntary movement of the hand toward his rifle, at this sudden interruption ; but the Indian sat composed, and without turning his head at the unexpected sounds. At the next instant, a youthful warrior passed between them, with a noiseless step, and seated himself on the bank of the rapid stream. No exclamation of surpris- escaped the father, nor was any question asked, or reply given, for several minutes ; each ap- pearing to await the moment when he might speak, without betray- ing womanish curiosity or childish impatience. The white man seemed to take counsel from their customs, and, relinquishing his grasp of the rifle, he also remained silent and reserved. At length Chingachgook turned his eyes slowly towards his son and de- manded, — " Do the Maquas dare to leave the print of their moccasins in these woods?" " I have been on their trail," replied the young Indian, " and know that they number as many as the fingers of my two hands; but they lie hid, Uke cowards," " The thieves are out-lying for scalps and plunder ! " said the white man, whom we shall call Hawkeye, after the manner of his companions. " That bushy Frenchman, Montcalm, will send his .spies into our very camp, but he will know what road we travel ! " psSVfe, I i6o AMERICAN PROSE " Tis enough ! " returned the father, glancing his eye towards the setting sun ; " they shall be driven like deer from their bushes. Hawkeye, let us eat to-night, and show the Maquas that wo are men to-morrow." " I am as ready to do the one as the other ; but to fight the Iro- quois 'tis necessary to find the skulkers ; and to cat 'tis necessary to get the game — talk of the devil and he will come ; there is a pair of the biggest antlers I have seen this season, moving the bushes below the hill ! Now, Uncas," he continued in a half whisper, and laughing with a kind of inward sound, like one who had learnt to be watchful, " I will bet my charger three times full of powder, against a foot of wampum, that I take him atwixt the eyes, and nearer to the right than to the left." '■ \\ ^ ^nnot be ! " said the young Indian, springing to his feet with yo\ithful eagerness ; " all but the tips of his horns are hid ! " " He's a boy ! " said the white man, shaking his head while he spoke, and addressing the father. " Does he think when a hunter sees a part of the creatur', he can't tell where the rest of him should l)e ! " Adjusting his rifle, he was about to make an exhibition of that skill on which he so much valued himself, when the warrior struck up the piece with his hand, saying, — " Hawkeye ! will you fight the Maquas?" " These Indians know the nature of the woods, as it might be by instinct ! " returned the scout, dropping his rifle, and turning away like a man who was convinced of his error. " I must leave the buck to your arrow, Uncas, or we may kill a deer for them thieves, the Iroquois, to eat." The instant the father seconded this intimation by an expressive gesture of the hand, Uncas threw himself on the ground and ap- proached the animal with wary movements. When within a few yards of the cover, he fitted an arrow to his bow with the utmost care, while the antlers moved, as if their owner snuffed an enemy in the tainted air. In another moment the twang of the cord was heard, a white streak was seen glancing into the bushes, and the wounded buck plunged from the cover to the very feet of his hidden enemy. Avoiding the horns of the infuriated animal, Uncas darted to his side, and passed his "nife across the throat, when K^KWKS^'" (AtHOBit r awards the ;ir bushss. lat wo aire ;ht the Iro- i necessarj' there is a the bushes hisper, and had learnt of powder, ; eyes, and to his feet ; are hid ! " id while he sa a hunter est of him ion of that rrior struck might be by jrning away it leave the lem thieves, 1 expressive nd and ap- athin a few the utmost d an enemy he cord was les, and the feet of his limal, Uncas ;hroat, when JAMES FENIMORE COOPER I6i bounding to the edge of the river it fell, dyeing the waters with its blood. "Twas doi e with Indian skill," said the scout, laughing in- wardly, but with vast satisfaction; "and 'twas a pretty sight to behold ! Though an arrow is a near shot, and needs a knife to finish the work." " Hugh ! " ejaculated his cc .panion, turning quickly, like a hound who scented game. " By the Lord, there is a drove of them ! " exclaimed the scout, whose eyes began to glisten with the ardor of his usual occupation ; " if they come within range of a bullet I will drop one, though the whole Six Nations should be lurking within sound ! What do you hear, Chingachgook ? for to my ears the woods are dumb." " There is but one deer, and he is dead," said the Indian, bend- ing his body till his ear nearly touched the earth. " I hear the sounds of feet ! " '• Perhaps the wolves have driven the buck to shelter, and are following on his trail." " No. The horses of white men are coming ! " returned the other, raising himself with dignity, and resuming his seat on the log with his former composure. " Hawkeye, they are your brothers ; speak to them." " That will I, and in English that the king needn't be ashamed to answer," returned the hunter, speaking in the language of which he boasted ; " but I see nothing, nor do I hear the sounds of man or beast; 'tis strange that an Indian should understand whi'-" sounds better than a man who, his very enemies will own, has no cross in his blood,, although he may have lived with the redskins long enough to be suspected ! Ha ! there goes something like the cracking of a dry stick, too — now I hear the bushes move — yes, yes, there is a trampling that I mistook for the falls and — but here they come themselves ; God keep them from the Iroquois ! " [ The Last of the Mohicans, a narrative of ifs7t 1826, chapter 3.] 1 62 AMERICAN PROSE THE ARIEL AND THE ALACRITY "Thus guided on their course they bore, r j. " Until tliey nearcd the mainland shore ; t When frequent on the hollow blast, Wild shouts of merriment were cast." Lord of the Isles. The joyful shouts and hearty cheers of the Ariel's crew continued for some time after her coitimander had reached her deck. Barn- stable answered the congratulations of his officers by cordial shakes of the hand ; and after waiting for the ebullition of delight among the seamen to subside a little, he beckoned with an air of authority for silence. " I thank yon, my lads, for your goo-.'* Jt'"^' - ■ t'-. }-^'J''-^'i.<^'.T - '^'^'J'i\':.- '■■-■* "rvr- '-i^ -fVi;.^-. ifs^"'^"'' 1 68 AMERICAN PROSE his occupation with the silence and skill of one who labored in a regular vocation. IJarnstable was unusually composed and quiet, maintaining the grave deportment of a commander on whom rested the fortunes of the contest, at the same time that his dark eyes were dani-Iug «ith the fire of suppressed animation. " Give it them ! " he occasionally cried, in a voice that might be heard amid the bellowing of the cannon ; " never mind their cordage, my lads ; drive home their bolts, and make your marks below their ridge-ropes." In the mean time the Englishman played a manful game. He had suffered a heavy loss by the distant cannonade, which no metal he possessed could retort upon his enemy; but he struggled nobly to repair the error in jr.dgment with which he had begun the contest. The two vessels gradually drew nigher to each other, until they both entered into the common cloud created by their fire,whicli thickened and spread around them in such a man- ner as to conceal their dark hulls from the gaze of the curious and interested spectators on the cliffs. The heavy reports of the can- non were now mingled with the rattling of muskets and pistols, and streaks of fire might be seen glancing like flashes of lightning through the white cloud which enshiouded the combatants; and many minutes of painful uncertainty followed, before the deeply- interested soldiers, who were gazing at the scene, discovered on whose banners victory had alighted. V/e shall follow the combatants into their misty wreath, and display to the reader the events as they occurred. The fire of the Ariel was much the most quick and deadly, both because she had suffered less, and her men were less exhausted ; and the cutter stood desperately on to decide the combat, after grappling, hand to hand. Barnstable anticipated her intention, and well imderstood her commander's reason for adopting this course ; but he was not a man to calculate coolly his advantages, when pride and daring invited him to a more severe trial. Accord- ingly, he met the enemy half-way, and as the vessels rushed to- gether, the stern of the schooner was secured to the bows of the cutter, by the joint efforts of both parties. The voice of the Eng- lish commander was now plainly to be heard, in the uproar, calling to his men to follow him. 3 labored in a sed and quiet, >n whom rested his dark eyes ice that might ver mind their ke your marks ul game, inonade, which nemy ; but he h which he had r nigher to each 3ud created by 1 in such a man- the curious and )rts of the can- and pistols, and es of lightning )mbatants ; and fore the deeply- , discovered on ity wreath, and md deadly, both less exhausted ; le combat, after 1 her intention, ir adopting this his advantages, e trial. Accord- ssels rushed to- ;he bows of the Dice of the Eng- e uproar, calling i JAMES FEN IM ORE COOPER 169 " Away there, boarders ! repel boarders on the starboard quarter ! " shouted Barnstable tiirough his trumpet. This was the last order that the gallant young sailor gave with this instrument ; for, as he ■■poke, he cast it from him, and, seizing his sal)re, flew to the spot where the enemy was about to make his most desperate effort. The shouts, execrations, and tauntings of the combatants, now succeeded to the roar of the cannon, which could be used no longer with effect, though the fight was still maintained with spirited discharges of the small-arms. "Sweep him from his decks !" cried the English commander, as he appeared on his own bulwarks, surrounded by a dozen of his bravest men ; " drive the rebellious dogs into the sea ! " "Away there, marines !" retorted IJarnstable, firing his pistol at the advancing enemy ; " leave not a man of them to sup his grog again." The tremendous and close volley that succeeded this order, nearly accomplished the command of Barnstable to the letter, and the commander of the Alacrity, perceiving that he stood alone, reluctantly fell back on the deck of his own vessel, in order to bring on his men once more. " Board her ! gray-beards and boys, idlers and all ! " shouted Barnstable, springing in advance of his crew; a powerful arm arrested the movement of the dauntless seaman, and before he had -ime to recover himself, he was drawn violently back to his own vessel by the irresistible g.asp of his cockswain. "The fellow's in his flurry," said Tom, "and it wouldn't be wise to go within reach of his flukes ; but I'll just step ahead and give him a set with my harpoon." Without waiting for a reply, the cockswain reared his tail frame on the bulwarks, and was in the attitude of stepping on board of his enemy, when a sea separated the vessels, and he fell with a heavy dash of the waters into the ocean. As twenty muskets and pistols were discharged at the instant he appeared, the crew of the Ariel supposed his fall to be occasioned by his wounds, and were rendered doubly fierce by the sight, and the cry of their commander to — " Revenge long Tom ! board her ! long Tom or death ! " They threw themselves forward in irresistible numbers, and forced i I/O AMERICAN PROSE a passage, with much bloodshed, to the forecastle of the Alacrity. The Englishman was overpowered, but still rcmaine>l undaunted — he rallied his crew, and bore up most gallantly to the fray. Thrusts of pikes and blows of sabres were becoming close and deadly, while muskets and pistols were constantly dischargeil by those who were kept at a distance by the pressure of the throng of closer combatants. Barnstable led his men in advance, and became a mark of pecul- iar vengeance to his enemies, as they slowly yielded before his vigorous assaults. Chance had placed tlie two commanders on opposite sides of the cutter's dec'-, and the victory seemed to incline toward either party, wherever these daring officers directed the struggle in person. Hut the p]nglishman, perceiving that the ground he maintained in person was lost elsewhere, made an effort to restore the battle, by changing his position, followed by one or two of his best men. A marine, who preceded him, leveled his musket within a few feet of the head of the American com- mander, and was about to fire, when Merry glided among the combatants, and passed his dirk into the body of the man, who fell at the blow ; shaking his piece, with horrid imprecations, the wounded soldier prepared to deal his vengeance on his youthful assailant, when th^ fearless boy leaped within its muzzle, and buried his own keen weapon in his heart. " Hurrah ! " shouted the unconscious Barnstable, from the edge of the quarter-deck, where, attended by a few -'?n, he was driving all before him. " Revenge ! — long Tom and victory ! " "We have them !" exclaimed the P^nglishman ;'• handle your pikes 1 we have them between two Pres." The battle would probably have terminated very differently from what previous circumstances had indicated, had not a wild-looking figure appeared in the cutter's channels at that moment, issuing from the sea, and gainmg the deck at the same instant. It was long Tom, with his iron visage rendered fierce by his previous dis- comfiture, and his grizzled locks drenched with the briny element from which he had ri=jen, looking like Neptune with his trident. Without speaking, he poised his harpoon, and, with a i)owerful effort, pinned the unfortunate Englishman to the mast of his own vessel. ■ the Alacrity. L'vl undaunted t to the fray, ing close and lischargeil by the throng of nark of pecul- led before his mnianders on ined to incUne i directed the ving that the ere, made an 11, followed by d him, leveled merican corn- id among the the man, who irecations, the n his youthful 3 muzzle, and from the edge he was driving ry!" ''handle your lifferently from a wild- looking oment, issuing istant. It was s previous dis- briny element h his trident, th a powerful 1st of his own JAMES FEN I MORE COOPER 171 " Starn all ! " cried Tom by a sort of instinct, when the blow was struck; and catching up the musket of the fallen marine, he de.^It out terrible and fatal blows with its butt on all who ap- pioached him, utterly disregarding the use of the bayonet on its muzzle. The unfortunate commander of the Alacrity brandished his sword with frantic gestures, while his eyes rolled in horrid .vildness, when he writhed for an instant in his passing agonies, and then, as his head dropped lifeless upon his gored breast, he hung agaip=f the spar, a spectacle of dismay to his crew. A few of the Englishmen stood chained to the spot in silent horror at the sight, but most of them fled to their lower deck, or hastened to conceal themselves in the secret parts of the vessel, leaving to the Americans the undisputed possession of the Alacrity. [ The Pilot, a Fait of the Sea, 1823, chapter 18.] WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT rvN'iViiam Hickling I'rcscott was Ijorn in Salem, May 4, 1796, and died in Boston, Jan. 28, 1859. His life wa', quiet and uneventful. He was a student and a man of letters, anngii ^ement. He reminded them of the victories they iiad won with ot'ds nearly as discourag- ing as the present ; thus establishing the sui)eriority of science and discipline over numbers. Numbers, indeed, were of no ac- tount, where the arm of the Almighty was on their side. And he bade them have full confif the numbers of a disorderly savage multitude, as of the pebbles on the beach, or the scattered leaves in autumn. Yet it was, undoubtedly, one of the most remarkable victories ever achieved in the New World. And this, not merely on account of the disparity of the forces, but oi" their unequal condition. For the Indians were in all their strength, while the Christians were wasted by disease, famine, and long protracted sufferings ; without cannon or fire-arms, and deficient in the military apparatus which had so often struck terror into their barbarian foe, — deficient even in the terrors of a victorious name. But they had disci- pline on their side, desperate resolve, and implicit confidence in their commander. Tnat they should have triumphed against such odds furnishes an inference of the same kind as that estab- lished by the victories of the European over the semi-civilized hordes of Asia. Yet even here all must not be referred to superior discipline and tactics. For the battle would certainly have been lost, had it not been for the fortunate death of the Indian general. And, although the selection of the victim may be called the result of calculation, yet it was by the most precarious chance that he was thrown in the way of the Spaniards. It is, indeed, one among many examples of the influence of fortune in determining the fate of military operations. '1 he star of Cortes was in the ascendant. Had it been otherwise, not a Spaniard would have survived that day to tell the bloody tale of the battle of Otumba. [Frc.n History of the Conquest of Mexico, 1S43, '^o"'^ ^'> chapter 4.] THE PILLAGE OF CUZCO It was late in the afternoon when the Conquerors came in sight of Cuzco. The descending sun was streaming his broad rays fiill on tlie imperial city, where many an altar was dedicated to his worship. The low ranges of buildings, showing in his beams like so many lines of silvery light, filled up the bosom of the valley and the lower slopes of the mountains, whose shadowy forms hung fficulty in re- accurate cal- tude, as of the tumn. Yet it victories ever on account of indition. For hristians were •ings ; witliout iparatus wliich )e, — deficient ley had disci- confidence in nphed against as that estab- semi-civilized rior discipUne ;en lost, had it eneral. And, the result of ce that he was d, one among iiining the fate the ascendant. ; survived that haptct 4.] ; came in sight broad rays full plicated to his his beams like n of the valley )wy forms hung /' WILLIAM HICK LING PRESCOTT 181 darkly over the fair city, as if to shield it from the menaced profanation. It was so late, that Pizarro resolved to defer his entrance till the following morning. That night vigilant guard was kept in the camp, and the soldiers slept on their arms. But it passed away without annoyance from the enemy, and early on the following day, November 15, 1533, Pizarro prepared for his entrance into the Peruvian capital. The little army was formed into three divisions, of which the centre, or " battle," as it was called, was led by the general. The suburbs were thronged with a countless multitude of the nati-es, who had flocked from the city and die surrounding country to witness the showy, and, to them, startling pageant. All looked with eager curiosity on the strangers, the fame of whose terrible exploits had spread to the remotest parts of the empire. They gazed with astonishment on their dazzling arms and fair com- plexions, which seemed to proclaim them the true Children of the Sun ; and they listened with feelings of mysterious dread, as the trumpet sent forth its prolonged notes through the streets of the capital, and the solid ground shook under the heavy tramp of the cavalry. The Spanish commander rode directly up the great square. It was surrounded by low piles of buildings, among which w;re several palaces of the Incas. One of these, >'rtcted by Huryna Capac, was surmounted by a tower, while the ground-floor was occupied by one or more immense halls, like I hose descriJ ed in Caxamalca, where the Peruvian nobles held thci- fHes in stormy weather. These buildings afforded convenient barracks for the troops, though, during the f;rst few weeks, they remained under their tents in the open plaza, with their horses picketed by their side, ready to repulse any insurrection of the inhabitants. The capital of the Incas, though falling short of the El Dorado which had engaged their credulous fancies, astonished the Span- iards by the beauty of its edifices, the length and regularity of its streets, and the good order and appearance of comfort, even luxury, visible in its numerous population. It far surpassed all they had yet seen in the New World. The population of the city is computed by one of the Conquerors at two hundred thousand inhabitants, and that of the suburbs at as many more. This I I I i i; i E*sl 182 AMERICAN PROSE account is not conurmcd, as far as I have seen, by any other writer. I'ut however it may be exaggerated, it is certain that Cu/.co was the metropolis of a great empire, the residence of the court and tlie chiet nobility ; frequented by the most skilful mechanics and artisans „f every description, who found a demand for their ingenuity in the royal precincts ; while the place was garrisoned by a mmierous soldiery, and was the resort, finally, of emigrants from the most distant provinces. The quarters whence this motley population came were indicated by their peculiar dress, and especially their head-gear, so rarely fotmd at all on the American Indian, which, with its variegated colours, gave a pictu- resque effect to the groups and masses in the streets. The habit- ual order and .^_'-Mt'»*isi iK«>s«i«t«i&«i>,. Conduct of L:fe,\ZfK>. Society and Solituile, iS'jo. Letters and Social Aims, 1875. His coi-respondence with , Carlyle was afterwards edited by C. E. Norton. The best life of Emerson is that by J. E. Cabot.] Those who knew Emerson, or who stood so near to his time and to his circle that they caught some echo of his personal influ- ence, did not judge of him merely as a poet and philosopher, nor identify his efficacy with that of his writings. His friends and neigh- bors, the congregations he preached to in his younger days, the .87 I -j'aiii^^ ^ jtgaKVft 'i f.i*j'-j-.;i ' iJ^vi'i ' '.J. ' ^ ' ^.-'!a* ' Hl ' ji!-'yj ^ 1 88 AMERICAN PROSE audiences that afterwards listened to his lectures, all agreed in a veneration for his |)crson that had nothing to do with their under- standing or acceptam e of his opinions. They llocked to him and listened to his word, not so much for the sake of its absolute meaning as for the atmosphere of candor, purity, and serenity that hung about it, as about a sort of sacred music. They felt themselves in the presence of a rare and beautiful spirit, who was in communication with a higher world. More than the truth his teaching might express, they valued the sense it gave them of a truth that was inexpressible. They became aware, if we may say so, of the ultra-violet rays of hia spectrum, of the inaudible highest notes of his gamut, too pure and thin for common cars. Yet the j^ersonal impression I'jiicrson may have produced is but a small part of his claim to general recognition. This must ulti- mately rest on his jjublished works, on his collected essays and poems. His method of composition was to gather miscellaneous thoughts together in note-books and journals, and then, as occasion oflered, to cull those that bore on the same subject or could serve to illustrate the same general train of thought, and to piece a lect- ure out of them. This method has the important advantage of packing the page with thought and observation, so that it deserves to be reread and pondered ; but it is incompatible with continuity of thought or unity and permanence of impression. A style of point and counterpoint, where the emphasis attained by condensa- tion and epigram is not reserved for the leading ideas, but gives an artificial vividness to every part, must tend to make the whole in- distinct and inconclusive. The fact that the essays were lectures led to another characteristic which is now to be regretted. They are peppered by local allusions and illustrations drawn from the literary or scientific novelties of the hour. These devices may have served to keep an audience awake, but they were always unworthy of the subject, and they now distract the reader, who loses the perennial interest of the thought in the quaintness or obscurity of the expression. Yet, in spite of faults, Emerson's style is well fitted to his purpose and genius : it nas precision, picturesqueness, often a great poetic beauty and charm, with the eloquence that comes of ingenuous conviction and of dwelling habitually among high things. The very element of oddity, the arbitrary choice of quota- -*>!»^iw**?(»ffi; I agreed in a 1 their utuler- cl to him and Its ai>soliite and serenity :. They felt )irit, who was the truth his ve them of a f we may say idihle highest rs. aduced is but his must ulti- d essays and miscellaneous n, as occasion )r could serve I piece a lect- advantage of lat it deserves ith continuity 1. A style of by condensa- >, but gives an the whole in- were lectures retted. They iwn from the ices may have rays unworthy vho loses the r obscurity of e is well fitted queness, often :e that comes f among high oice of quota- '':sr'vim^' RALPH WAI.DO KMEKSON 189 tions and illustrations, is not without its charm, suggesting, as it does, the autiior's provincial solitutle and jjcrsonal savor. Taken separately, and witii the sympathetic cooperation of the reader's fancy, his pages are inspiring and eloipient in a high degree, the best paragraphs being sublime without obscurity, and convincing without argumentation. The themes treated seem at first sight various — biography, liter- ary criticism, natural science, morals, and metaphysics. Hut the initiated reader will find that the same topics and turns of thought recur under every title : we may expect under " Friendship " as much moral cosmology under " Fate," and under " Science " as many oriental anecdotes as under " Worship." The real subject is everywhere the same. As a preacher might under every text enforce the same lessons of tiie gospel, so Emerson traces in every sphere the same spiritual laws of experience — compensation, con- tinuity, the self-expression of the soul in the forms of nature and of society, until she finally recognizes herself in her own work, and sees its beneficence and beauty. The power of thought, or rather, perhaps, of imagination, is his single theme : its power first to make the world, then to understand it, and finally to rise above it. All nature is an embodiment of our native fimcy, and all history a drama, in which the innate possibilities of our spirit are enacted and realized. While the conflict of life and the shocks of experi- ence seem to bring us fiice to face with an alien and overwhelming power, reflection can humanize and rationalize the power by dis- covering its laws ; and with this recognition of the rationality of all things comes the sense of their beauty and order. The very destruction which nature seems to prepare for our special hopes is thus seen to be the victory of our deeper and impersonal interests. To awaken in us this spiritual insight, an elevation of mind which is an act at once of comprehension and of worship, to substitute it for lower passions and more servile forms of intelligence — that is Emerson's constant effort. All his resources of illustration, of observation, rhetoric, and paradox, are used to deepen and clarify this sort of wisdom. Such thought is essentially the same that is found in the German romantic or idealistic philosophers, with whom Emerson's affinity is remarkable, all the more as he seems to have borrowed little or 'umjij>aa «i {u|jy,j'^j,i;jgjj | fBij i 'J i ! !ijii< i iiiii «ji ii « i ^«jtjn > ,^»?w"iT'«' i , ' .u ' "* i i i' ini i j i i i niii -minrnnr i r Jm 190 .iMKKICAN I'A'O.S/i nutlun}{ from their works. I'lu- reseinhlancx- may l)e accounted for, perhaps, by the similar cimditions that existed in the religious thouglil of that time in Cicrniany and in New Knj^land. In noth countries tlie abandonment, on the part of the new school of philosophy, of all allegiance to the traditional theoloj^y, coincided with a va^ne enthusiasm for science and with a (juickcning of national and humanitarian hopes. The critics of human nature, , coincided iiickeninf; of innan nature, nit'ii's ideas on the char- nce. Seizing philosophers e which had re reasserting it ui)on a safe 1- makers, and of thought by ing according liose who are iiy, especially ite incapacity d defend the wrote, for in- :ompensation. latement on a defending his once aroused ! harmony, he to touch the Ity of idealiza- im was rather t than a body iing transcen- adic fashion, 1 avoiding its lity of his in- ' or one hint isequent birth For we are not dealing at all in such a philosophy with matters of fact, or with such vurifiabic truths as ex( hide their ojiposites, l)ut only with the art of conception and the various forms in which reflection, like a poet, can com|)ose and recompose human exper.ence. If we ask ourselves what was Mmerson's relation to the scientific and religious movements of his time, and what place he may claim in the history of opinion, we must answer that he belonged very little to the past, very little to the present, and almost wholly to that abstract sphere into which mystical and phdosophic aspiration has carried a few men in all ages. The religiouK tradition in which he was reared v as that of i'nritanism, but of a Puritanism wh".*!, retaining its moral intensity and metaphysical abstractness, had niinimizeil its doctrinal expression and become Unitarian. Emerson was indeed the i'syche of Puritanism, " the latest born and fairest vision lar " of all that " faded hierarchy." A Puritan whose religion was all poetry, a poet whose only pleasure was thought, he showed in his life and personality the meagreness, the constraint, the conscious aloofness and consecration which belonged to his clerical ancestors, while his personal spirit r; nged abroad over the fielils of history and nature, gathering what ideas it might, and singing its little snatches of inspired song. The traditional element was thus rather an external and un- essential contribution to iMiierson's mind ; he had the professional tinge, the decorum, and the distinction of an old-fashioned divine ; he had also the habit of writing sermons, and he had the national pride and hope of a religious people that felt itself providentially chosen to establish a free and godly commonwealth in a new world. For the rest he separated himself from the ancient creed of the community with a sense rather of relief than of regret. A literal belief in Christian doctrines repelled him as unspiritual, as manifesting no understanding of the meaning which, as allegories, those doctrines might have to a philosophic and poetical spirit. Although as a clergyman he was at first in the habit of referring to the Bible and its lessons as to a supreme authority, he had no instinctive sympathy with ihe inspiration of either the Old or the New Testament ; in Hafiz or Plutarch, in Plato or Shakspere, he found more congenial stuff. To reject tradition and think as one might have thought if no man had ever existed before was indeed ^y^SStMS' * ^ , ir\\ ' ' Ocrii.- '' ',!->", ' "''".'»'iiji', ' '"*"''* ' *' '^*»>*'' 193 AMl-.h'HAS I'KOSK ! I i the aspiration of the 'I'ransccmiciitaliHts, and althoii^li Kmcrson hardly ro[;.irjsg igl) l''.incrs()n )l, In- l.irj^fly ioth I))' tcm- mind to nil niiglit l)l()\v ; y « oiild work II. ita^^c was the iL-(l tcmlciicy ;itever minht ions attitude lod and in a ves as a reli- away into a iforniity, the the reiif^ion a discipline, , and of wor- force, ever to oi)inions left iimstance in (1 sacred joy, ipotuids laws 1 tiicmseives, lusiasm. An n at variance I description timistic bias, nown how to sing with no nd for more ; stock from • the glory of ;r inexorable ;eneral spirit- it of worship 1 in the pres- morc beaiiti- RAI.ril WAl.nO EMF.RSON 193 fill, and more heneficent than those of the old theology; and althouKh an indeiicndcnt philosopher miKht not have seen in those harmonies an object of worship or a siiflicient basis for opti- mism, he who was not primarily a philosopher but a Puritan mystic with a poetic fancy and a ^ift for observation and epigram, saw in them only a more intelligible form of the divinity he had always recognized and ailorcd. Mis was not a philos()|)hy passing into religion, but a religion expressing itself as a pliilos )phy, and veiled a-* it descended the heavens in various tints of poetry aiul reason. While Kmerson thus preferred to withdraw, without ramor and without contempt, from the an( ienl fellowship of the church, he assmned an attitude hardly less cool and deprecatory towards the enthusiasms of the new era. The national idea of democracy ami freedom had hi., complete sympatliy ; he allowed himself to be ! %^!'a.\»i '' "^ ^ ^ 196 AMERICAN PROSE ignorance. It is a shame to him if his tranquillity, amid danger- •ous times, arise from the presumption that, like children and women, his is a protected class ; or if he seek a temporar) peace by the diversion of his thoughts from politics or vexed ([uestions, hiding his head like an ostrich in the rlowering bushes, peeping into nHcrosco[)es, and turning rhymes, as a boy whistles to keep his courage up. So is the danger a danger still ; so is the fear worse. Manlike let him turn and face it. Let him look into its eye and search its nature, inspect its origin, — see the whelping of this lion, — which lies no great way back ; he will then find in himself a perfect comprehension of its nature and extent ; he will have made his hands meet on the other side, and can henceforth defy it, and pass on superior. The world is his, who can see through its pretension. What deafness, what stone-blind custom, what overgrown error you behold, is there only by sufferance, — by your sufferance. See it to be a lie, and you have already dealt it its mortal blow. Yes, we are the cowed, — we the trustless. It is a mischievous notion that we are come late into nature ; that the world was finished a long time ago. As the world was plastic and fluid in the hands of God, so it is ever to so much of his attributes as we bring to it. To ignorance and sin, it is flint. They adapt them- selves to it as they may ; but in proportion as a man has any- thing in him divine, the firmament flows before him and takes his signet and form. Not he is great who can alter matter, but he who can alter my state of mind. They are the kings of the world who give the color of their present thought to all nature and all art, and persuade men by the cheerful serenity of their carrying the matter, that this thing which they do is the apple which the ages have desired to pluck, now at last ripe, and inviting nations to the harvest. The great man makes the great thing. Wherever Macdonald sits, there is the head of the table, l.innzeus makes botany the most allunng of studies and wins it from the farmer and the herb- woman ; Davy, chemistry; and Cuvier, fossils. The day is always his, who work^ in it with serenity and great aims. The unstable estimates of men crowd to him whose mind is filled with a truth, as the heaped waves of the Atlantic follow the moon. BjBKsnsisa^g^lsisfe*', amiil danger- children and iporar) peace ed ([uestions, shes, peei)ing sties to keep lo is the fear look into its ; whelping of then find in tent ; he will m henceforth who can see jlind custom, sufferance, — already dealt i mischievous le world was and fluid in ributes as we adapt them- nan has any- md takes his latter, but he of the world ature and all ;heir carrying )le whicli the /iting nations 5. Wherever nnseus makes n the farmer fossils. The y and great whose mind tiantic follow ^wrartansKa^asMSsstes, RALPH WALDO hMERSON 197 For this self-trust, the reason is deeper than can be fathomed, — darker than can be enlightened. I might not carry with me the feeling of my audience iu stating my own belief. But I have already shown the ground of my hope, in adverting to the doc- trine that man is one. I believe that man has been wronged ; he has wronged himself He has almost lost the light, that can lead him back to his prerogatives. Men are become of no account. Men in history, men in the world of to-day are bugs, are spawn, and are called " the mass" and "the herd." In a century, in a millennium, one or two men ; that is to say, — one or two approx- imations to the right state of every man. All the rest behold in the hero oi'the poet their own green and -^rude being, — ripened ; yes, and are content to be less, so thai may attain to its full stature. What a testimony, — full of gri;ndeur, full of pity, — is borne to the demands of his own nature, by the poor clansman, the poor partisan, who rejoices in the glory of his chief. The poor and the low find some amends to their immense moral capacity, for their acquiescence in ,'■ political and social inferiority. They are content to be brushed like flies from the path of a great per- son, so that justice shall be done by him to that common nature which it is the dearest desire of all to see enlarged and glorified. They sun themselves in the great man's light, and feel it to be their own element. They cast the dignity of man from their downtrod selves upon the shoulders of a hero, and will perish to add one drop of blood to make that great heart beat, those giant sinews combat and concjuer. He lives for us, and we live in him. Men such as tiiey are, very naturally seek money or power ; and power because it is as good as money, — the " spoils," so called, "of office." And why not? for they aspire to the highest, and this, in their sleep-walking, they dream is highest. Wake them and they shall quit the false good and leap to the true, and leave governments to clerks and desks. This revolution is to be wrought by the gradual domestication of the idea of Culture. The main enterprise uf the world for splendor, for extent, is the upbuilding of a man. Here are the materials strown along the ground. The private life of one man shall be a more illustrious monarchy, — more formidable to its enemy, more sweet and serene in its influence 10 its friend, than any kingdom in history. Wl' tt ' i ' ! I J ! ' »!.■! J ii ill.WWM i WWI 198 AMERICAN PROSE For a man, rightly viewed, comprehendeth the particular natures of all men. Ivich philosopher, each bard, each actor, has only done for me, as by a delegate, what one day 1 can do for myself. The books which once we valued more than the apple of the eye, we have quite exhausted. What is that but saying, that we have come up with the point of view which the universal mind took through the eye of one scribe ; we have been that man, and have passed on. First, one ; then, another ; v.-e drain all cisterns, and, waxing greater by all these sup[)lies, we crave a better and more ubL'.ndant food. The man has never lived that can feed us ever. The human mind cannot be enshrined in a person, who shall set a barrier on any one side to this unbounded, unboundable empire. It is one central fire, wliich, flaming now out o<" the lips of F^tna, lightens the capes of Sicily ; and, now out of the throat of Vesu- vius, illuminates the towers and vineyards of Naples. It is one light which beams out of a thousand stars. It is one soul which animates all men. [From An Oration delivered before the Phi Beta Kafpa Society, at Cam- bridge \^Mass.'\, Aug. 31, iSjj. Afterwards known as "The American Scholar." From the text of the second edition, 1838.] SELF-RELIANCE It is for want of self-culture that the idol of Travelling, the idol of Italy, of lingland, of Kgyi^t, remains for all educated Americans. They who mn le lingland, Italy, or (Ireece venera- ble in the imagination, did so not by rambling round creation as a moth round a lamp, but by sticking fast where they were, like an axis of the earth. In manly hours, we feel that duty is our place, and that the merrymen of circumstance should follow as they may. The soul is no traveller : the wise man stays at home with the soul, and when his necessities, his duties, on any occasion call him from his house, or into foreign lands, he is at home still, and is not gadding abroad from himself, and shall make men sen- sible by the expression of his countenance, that he goes the mis- sionary of wisdom and virtue, and visits cities and men like a sovereign, and not like an interloper or a valet. mamufiiummmmimvmMM^^ ^^S^'' ular natures or, lias only ) for myself, of the eye, hat we have 1 mind took n, and have isterns, and, sr and more :ed us ever, ■ho shall set able empire, ips of F^tna, )at of Vesu- , It is one ; soul which ciely, at Cam- rhe American avelling, the dl educated ;ece venera- creation as :y were, like duty is our Id follow as ays at home iny occasion t home still, ke men sen- )es the mis- men like a wsMjawiJiSfciSi^^^^' :\, RALPH WALDO EMERSON 199 I have no churlish objection to the circumnavigation of the globe, for the purposes of art, of study, and benevolence, so that the man is first domesticated, or d(jes not go abroad with the hope of finding somewhat greater than he knows. He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows old even in youth among old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have be- come old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins. Travelling is a fool's paradise. We owe to our first journeys the discovery that place is nothing. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on Oie sea, and at last wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern Fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I seek the Vatican, and the palaces. T affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not intoxicated. My giant goes with me wherever I go. But the rage of travelling is itself only a symptom of a deeper unsoundness affecting the whole intellectual action. The intellect is vagabond, and the universal system of education fosters rest- lessness. Our minds travel when our bodies are forced to stay at home. We imitate ; and what is imitation but the travelling of the mind? Our houses are built with foreign taste; our shelves are garnished with foreign ornaments; our opinions, our tastes, our whole minds lean, and follow the Past and the Distant, as the eyes of a maid follow her mistress. The soul created the arts wherever they have flourished. It was in his own mind that the artist sought his model. It was an application of his own thought to the thing to be done and the conditions to be observed. And why need we copy the Doric or the Gothic model? Beauty, convenience, grandeur of thought, and quaint expression are as near to us as to any, and if the American artist will study with hope and love the precise thing to be done by him, considering the climate, the soil, the length of the day, the wants of die people, the habit and form of the government, he will create a house in which all these will find themselves fitted, and taste and sentiment will be satisfied also. Insist on yourself; never imitate. Your own gift you can pre- ~ ;a.JW^>gwjiww !» iwi i Mte»jimii)fc«^<.»f^iiLS:iMv^&,»!t»HSM,3S^^^^S ^US^^^-. f a whole life's yon have only I each can do man yet knows i it. Where is Where is ihe Washington, or . The Scipion- )orrow. If any in the original who else than le made by the thee, and thou rhere is at this and as that of gyptians, or the lese. Not pos- thousand-cloven hat these patri- pitch of voice : nature. Dwell y life, obey thy lin. abroad, so does an the improve- i one side as it )arent. like the changes : it is t is rich, it is For everything es new arts and well-clad, read- a pencil, and a New Zealander, 1 an undivided pare the health )riginal strength RALPH WALDO EMERSON 20I the white man has lost. If the traveller tell us truly, strike the savage with a broadaxe, anu in a day or two the flesh shall unite and heal as if you struck the blow into soft pitch, and the same blow shall send the white to his grave. The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use of his feet. He is supported on crutches, but loses so much support of muscle. He has got a fine Geneva watch, but he has lost the skill to tell the hour by the sun, A Greenwich nautical almanac he has, and so being sure of the information when he wants it, the man in the. street does not know a star in the sky. The solstice he does not observe ; the equinox he knows as little ; and the whole bright calendar of the year is without a dial in his mind. His note-books ir.ipair his memory ; his libraries overload his wit; the insurance oflfice increases the number of accidents; and it may be a question whether machinery does not encumber; whether we have not lost by refinement some energy, by a Chris- tianity entrenched in establishments and forms, some vigor of wild virtue. For every stoic was a stoic; but in Christendom where is the Christian? There is no more deviation in the moral standard than in the standard of height or bulk. No greater men are now than ever were. A singular equality may be observed between the. great men of the first and of the last ages ; nor can all the science, art, religion and philosophy of the nineteenth century avail to educate greater men than Plutarch's heroes, three or four and twenty cen- turies ago. Not in time is the race progressive. Phocion, Soc- rates, Anaxagoras, Diogenes, are great men, but they leave no class. He who is really of their class will not be called by their name, but be wholly his own man, and in his turn the founder of a sect. The arts and inventions of each period are only its cos- tume, and do not invigotate men. The harm of the improved machinery may compensate its good. Hudson and Behring accomplished so much in their fishing-boats, as to astonish Parry and Franklin, whose equipment exhausted the resources of science and art. Galileo, with an opera-glass, discovered a more splendid series of facts than any one since. Columbus found the New World in an undecked boat. It is curious to see the periodical disuse and perishing of means and machinery which were intro- •wnmnmrt^ ^ . 'Mt«ftaMHMlMMiMM«WN«i 202 AMERICAN PROSE duced with loud laudation, a few years or centuries before. The great genius returns to essential man \Ve reckoned the improve- ments of the art of war among the triumphs of science, and yet Napoleon con<|uercd luirope by the Bivouac, which consisted of falling back on naked valor, and disencumbering it of all aids. The Emperor held it imi)ossible to make a perfect army, says Las Casas, " without abolishing our arms, magazines, commissaries, and carriages, until in imitation of the Roman custom, the soldier should receive his supply of corn, grind it in his hand-mill, and bake his bread himself." Society is a wave. The wave moves onward, but the water of which it is composed, does not. The same particle does not rise from the valley to the ridge. Its unity is only phenomenal. The persons who make up a nation to-day, next year die, and their experience with them. And so the reliance on Property, including the reliance on governments which protect it, is the want of self reliance. Men have looked away from themselves and at things so long, that they have come to esteem what they call the soul's progress, namely, the religious, learned, and civil institutions, as guards of property, and they deprecate assaults on these, because they feel them to be assaults on property. They measure their esteem of each oth^r, by what each has, and not by what each is. But a cultivated man becomes ashamed of his property, ashamed of what he has, out of new respect for his being. Especially he hates what he has, if he see that it is accidental, — came to him by inheritance, or gift, or crime ; then he feels that it is not having : it does not belong to him, has no root in him, and merely lies there, because no revolution or no robber takes it away. But that which a man is, does always by necessity acquire, and what the man acquires is permanent and living property, which does not wait the beck of rulers, or mobs, or revolutions, or fire, or storm, or bankruptcies, but perpetually renews itself wherever the man is put. " Thy lot or portion of life," said the Caliph Ali, " is seeking after thee ; therefore be at rest from seeking after it." Our dependence on these foreign goods leads us to our slavish respect for numbers. The political parties meet in numerous conventions ; the greater the concourse, and with each new uproar of announcement, The delegation from SiT<4sc#«!ftsr«t«»mi--'>».<^~J»U<*u^-*»«AS»^^^ before. The 1 the improve- ience, ami yet li consisted of it of all aids, ct army, says commissaries, im, the soldier hand-mill, and the water of does not rise omenal. The die, and their c reliance on eliance. Men long, that they )gress, namely, Is of property, eel them to be of each oth'"'-, cultivated man he has, out of ,t he has, if he nee, or gift, or belong to him, o revolution or does always by )ermanent and jlers, or mobs, )ut perpetually or portion of therefore be at these foreign The political the concourse, ielegation from RALPH WALDO EMERSON 203 Essex ! The Democrats from New Hampsliiro ! The Wliigs of Maine ! the young patriot feels himself stronger than I)cfi)rc by a new thousand of eyes and arms. In like manner the reformers summon conventions, and vote and resolve in multitude. Hut not so, O friends ! will the Clod design to enter and inhabit you, but by a methoil precisely the reverse. It is only as a man puts off from himself all external support, and stands alone, that I see him to be strong and to prevail. He is weaker i)y every recruit to his banner. Is not a man better than a town ? Ask notliing of men, and in the endless mutation, thou only firm colimin must presently appear the upholder of al! tliat surrounds thee. He wlio knows that power is in the soul, that he i« weak only because he has looked for good out of him and elsewhere, and so perceiving, throws himself unhesitatingly on his thought, instantly rights him- self, stands in the erect position, commands his limbs, works mir- acles ; just as a man who stands on his feet is stronger than a man who stands on his head. So use all that is called I'ortune. Most men gamble with her, and gain all, and lose all, as her wheel rolls. lUit do thou leave as unlawful these winnings, and deal with Cause and I^ffect, the chancellors of Clod. In the Will work and acquire, and thou hast chained the wheel of Chance, and shalt always aii. The intellect names it shade, absence of light, and no essence. The conscience must feel it as essence, essential evil. That it is not : it has an objective existence, but no subjective. Thus inevitably does the universe wear our color, and every ob- ject fall successively into the subject itself. The subject exists, the subject enlarges ; all things sooner or later fall into place. As I am, so I see ; use what language we will, we can never see any- thing but what we are; Hermes, Cadmus, Columbus, Newton, Buonaparte, are the mind's ministers. Instead of feeling a pov- erty when we encounter a great man, let us treat the newcomer like a travelling geologist, who passes through our estate, and *iikteijSi:j.J.*4.**-i-t.i^; ..;ii-:-L -,VAli*i^VlC*.V-»*!4-«.*-'*teWW«"f*«fl*'-" '"3^^^al)^^%' KAI.I'Il WAI.DO EMI'.NSON 205 rs. \Vc per- in others, is iirsclvt's, that jr, «'\ cry man be iiuhilgeil iside, and on Murder in id romancers lim from his » be contcm- le jangle and s that spring of view, but, » man at last in is as black our own case the intellect, iw as well as lid Napoleon, jrld is a prob- it leaves out ■aling is com- ics not steal? n they sjiecu- nd not of the le thought is a ill, it is pravity light, and no essential evil, subjective. and every ob- subjfict exists, nto place. As never see any- nbus, Newton, feeling a pov- the newcomer ur estate, and , shows us goixl slate, or limestone, or anthracite, in our brush pas- ture. The partial action of each strong mind in one direc tion, is a telescope for the objects on which it is pointcil. lUit every other part of knowledge is to be pushed to the same extravagance, ere the soul attains her due sphericity. Do you see that kitten chas- ing so prettily her own tail? If you could look with her eyes, you might see her surrounded with hundreds of figures performing complex tlramas, with tragic and comic issues, long conversations, many characters, many ups and downs of fate, — and meantime it is only puss and her tail. How long before our mas(picrade will end its noise of tamborines, laughter, and shouting, ami we shall find it was a solitary performance? — .A subject and an object, — it takes so much to make the galvanic circuit complete, but magnitude adds nothing. What imports it whether it is Kepler anil the sphere ; Columbus and America; a reailer and his book ; or puss with her tail ? It is true that all the muses and love and religion hate these de- velopments, and will find a way to punish the chemist, who pub- lishes in the parlor the secrets of the laboratory. And we cannot say too little of our constitutional necessity of seeing things under private aspects, or saturated with our humors. And yet is the Ciod the native of these bleak rocks. That need makes in morals the capital virtue of self-trust. We must hold hard to this poverty, however scandalous, and by more vigorous self-recoveries, after the sallies of action, jiossess our axis more firmly. The life of trulli is cold, and so far mournful; but it is not the slave of tears, contri- tions, and perturbations. It does not attempt another's work, nor adopt another's facts. It is a main lesson of wisdom to know your own from another's. I have learned tb;;t I cannot dispose of other peojile's facts ; but I jKissess such x key to my own, as per- suades me against all their denials, that they also have a key to theirs. \ sympathetic person is placed in the dilemma of a swimmer among drowning men, who all catch at him, and if he give so much as a leg or a finger, they will drown him. They wish to be saved from the mischief of their vices, bi.t not from their vices. Ch-irity would be wasted on this poor waiting on the symp- toms. A wise and hardy physician will say. Come out of that^ as the first condition of advice. r 306 AMHNIC.IN ! KOSI-: \ In this niir talkiiiK Aim-ric a, we are ruinod by our good- nature ami lisleniii(4 on all sides. I his couipliance takes away the power of beiny grc.itly ii^ieliii. A man should not be able to h)ok other than directly and Ibrthriglil. A preoccupied attention is the only answer to the importunate frivolity of other people : an attention and to an aim wiiich makes their wants frivolous. This is a divine answer, and leaves no appeal, and no hanl thoughts. In i-'lax- man's drawing of the Kumenides of i^'lschyhis, Orestes supplicates Apollo, whilst the Furies sleep on the threshold. The fai e of the god expresses a shade of regret and compassion, but calm with the conviction of the irreconcilableness of the two spheres. He is born into other politics, into the eternal and beautiful. The man at his feet asks for his interest in turmoils of the earth, into which his nature cannot enter. And the Kumenides there lying express l)ictorially this disparity. The god is surcharged with his divine destiny. lih.sion, Temperament, Succession, Surface, Surprise, Reality, Subjeitiveness, — these are threads on the loom of time, these are the lords of life. I dare not assume to give their order, but 1 name them as I find them in my way. I know better than to claim any completeness for my i)icture. I am a fragment, anil this is a fragment of me. I can very confidently announce one or another law, which throws itself into relief and form, but I am too young yet by some ages to compile a code. I gossip for my hour con- cerning the eternal politics. I have seen many fair pictures not in vain. A wonderful time I have lived in. I am not the novice I was fourteen, nor yet seven years ago. Let who will ask, where is the fruit? I find a private fruit suflicient. This is a fruit, — that I should not ask for a rash effect from meditations, counsels, and the hiving of truths. I should feel it pitiful to demand a result on this town and county, an overt effect on the instant month and year. The effect is deej) and secular as the cause. It works on periods in which mortal lifetime is lost. All I know is reception ; I am and I have : but I do not get, and when I have fancied I had gotten anything, I found I had not. I worship with wonder the great Fortune. My reception has been so large, that i am not annoyed by receiving this or that superabundantly. I say to the Genius, if he will pardon the proverb, In /or a mill, in for a million. -;'«H.W..cft-.-^ -..-^^ii'i^-A rl^:o^*^v.*ii*!«^i'A^ii»ft»»?i^?i4a^««P.t«*^^ ■ RALPH WALDO EMHKSOy 207 ts. good nature ly till" |H)wcr to look otiicr n is the only an attention is is a divine III ['lax- s siipplicatcs e fa( e of the Hit calm with heres. lie is il. The man til, into which lying express ith his divine >rise, Reality, iine, these are order, but I r than to claim and this is a me or another am too young iny hour con- pictures not in t the novice I I ask, where is a fruit, — that counsels, and nd a result on nt month and It works on V is reception; fancied I had h wonder the hat i am not I say to the i/or a mi/lion. When I receive ;i new gift, I do not macerate my body to make the account sipiare, for, if I should die, I could not make the account s(|uire. The benefit overran the merit the first day, and has overrun the merit ever since. The merit itself, so tailed, I reckon part of the receiving. Also, that hankering after an overt or jiMcticiI effect sccins to me an apostasy. In good earnest, I am willing to spare this most unnecessary deal of doing. Life wears to me a visionary face. Hardest, roughest .ution is visionary also. It is but a choice be- tween soft and turbulent dreams. People disparage knowing and the intellectual life, and uri;e doing. I am very content with knowing, if only I could know. That is an august entertainment, and would suffice me a great while. To know a little, would be worth the expense of this world. I hear always the law of .Adrastia, " that every soul which had ac([uired any truth, should be safe from harm until another period." I know that tlie world T converse with in the city and in the farms is not the world 1 think. I observe that dilTerence, and shall observe it. One day, I shall know the value and law of this discrepance. Hut I hav." not found that mucii was gained by manipular altem|)ts to realize the woild of thought. Many eager persons successfully make an experiment in this way, and make themselves ridiculous. They accpiire democratic manners, they foam at the i.iouth, they hate and deny. Worse, I observe, that in the history of mankind, there is never a solitary example of success, — taking their own tests of success. I say this polemically, or in reply to the inquiry, why not realize your world? But far be from me the dc.^;>air which prejudg^-s the law by a paltry empiri- cism, — since there ntver was a right endeavor, but it succeeded. Patience and patience, we shall win at the last. We must be very suspicious of the deceptions of the element of time. It takes a good deal of time to eat or to sleep, or to earn a hundred dollars, and a very little time to -entertain a hope and an insight which becomes the light of our life. We dress our garden, eat our dinners, discuss the household with our wives, and these things make no impression, are forgotten next week ; but in the solitude to which every man is always returning, he has a sanity and reve- lations, which in his passage into new worlds he will carry with 208 AMERICAN PROSE him. Never mind the ridicule, never mind the defeat : up again, ok' heart ! — it seems to say, — there is victory yet for all justice ; and the true romance which the world exists to realize will be the transformation of genius into practical power. [From Essays, Second Scries, 1844, " Experience." The text is that of the first edition.] NATURE The rounded world is fair to see. Nine limes folded in mystery : Though baffled seers cannot impart The secret of its laboring heart, Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast. And all is clear from east to west. Spirit that lurks each form within Beckons to spirit of its kin ; Self-kindled every atom glows, And hints the future which it owes. There are days which occur in this climate, at almost any sea- son of the year, wherein the world reaches its perfection, when the air, the heavenly bodies, and the earth make a harmony, as if Nature would indulge her offspring ; when, in these bleak upper sides of the planet, nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and we bask in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba ; when everything that has life gives signs of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the ground seem tc have great and tran- quil thoughts. These halcyons may be looked for with a little more assurance in that pure October weather, which we distinguish by the name of the Indian Suinmer. The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours seems longevity enough. The solitary places do not seem quite lonely. At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to leave his city estimates of great and small, wise and foclish. The knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first st^,p he makes into these precincts Here is sanctity which shames our religions, and reality which discredits our heroes. Here we find nature to be the circum- r^s.^^s^sevaasmses-- ' -I^Si^^^&W^Mrvl at : up again, or all justice ; ze will be the :xt is that of the most any sea- •fection, when larmony, as if ; bleak upper heard of the irs of Florida )f satisfaction, reat and tran- with a little .ve distinguish asurably long, ro have lived The solitary he forest, the y estimates of f custom falls :se precincts, reality which ; the circum- RALPH WA:.D0 EMERSON 209 stance which dwarfs every other circumstance, and judges like a god all men that come to her. We have crept out of our close and crowded houses into the night and morning, and we see what majestic beauties daily wrap us in their bosom. How willingly we would escape the barriers which render them comparatively impotent, escape ihe sophistication and second thought, and suffer nature to entrance us. The tempered light of the woods is like a perpetual morning, and is stimulating and heroic. The anciently reported spells of these places creep on us. The stems of pines, hemlocks, and oaks almost gleam like iron on the excited eye. The incommunicable trees begin to persuade us to live with them, and quit our life of solemn trifles. Here no history, or church, or state is interpolated on the divine sky and the immortal year. How easily we might walk onward into the opening landscape, absorbed by new pictures, and by thoughts fast succeeding each other, until by degrees the recollection of home was crowded out of the mind, all memory obliterated by the tyranny of the present, and we were led in triumph by nature. These enchantments are medicinal, they sober and heal us. These are plain pleasures, kindly and native to us. We come to our own, and make friends with matter, which the ambitious chat- ter of the schools would persuade us to despise. We never can part with it ; the mind loves its old home : as water to our thirst, so is the rock, the ground, to our eyes, and hands, and feet. It is firm water : it is cold flame : what health, what affinity ! Ever an old friend, ever like a dear friend and brother, when we chat affectedly with strangers, comes in this honest face, and takes a grave liberty with us, and shames us out of our nonsense. Cities give not the human senses room enough. We go out daily and nightly to feed the eves on the horizon, and require so much scope, just as we need water for our bath. There are all degrees of nat- ural influence, from these quarantine powers of nature, up to her dearest and gravest ministrations to the imagination and the soul. There is the bucket of cold water from the spring, the wora-fire to which the chilled traveller rushes for safety, — and the-.- is the sublime moral of autumn and of noon. We nestle in nature, and draw our living as parasites from her roots and grains, and we receive glances from the heavenly bodies, which call us to solitude, Moi? 2IO AMERICAN PROSE and foretell the remotest future. The blue zenith is the point in which romance and reality meet. I think, if we should be rapt away into all that we dream of heaven, and should converse with Gabriel and Uriel, the upper sky would be all that would remain of our furniture. It seems as if the day was not wholly profane, in which we have given heed to some natural object, 'i'he fall of snowflakes in a still air, preserving to each crystal its perfect form ; the blowing of sleet over a wide sheet of water, and over plains ; the waving rye-field ; the mimic waving of acres of houstonia, whose innu- merable florets whiten and ripple before the eye ; the reflections of trees and flowers in glassy lakes ; the musical steaming odorous south wind, which converts all trees to windharps ; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in the flames ; or of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces in the sittingroom, — these are the music and pictures of the most mcient religion. My house stands in low land, with limited outlook, and on the skirt of the village. JJut I go with my friend to the shore of our little river, and with one stroke of the paddle, I leave the village politics and personalities, yes, and the world of villages and personalities behind, and pass into a delicate realm of sunset and moonlight, too bright almost for spotted man to enter without noviciate and probation. We penetrate bodily this incredible beauty : we dip our hands in this painted element : our eyes are bathed in these lights and forms. A holiday, a villeggiatura, a royal revel, the proudest, most heart-rejoicing festival that valor and beauty, power and taste, ever decked and enjoyed, establishes itself on the instant. These sunset clouds, these delicately emerging stars, with their private and ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it. I am taught the poorness of our invention, the ugliness of towns and palaces. Art and luxury have early learned '.bit they must work as enhancement and sequel to this origin ' ■ e.wty. I am overinstructed for my return. Henceforth 1 W.m i;e hard to please. I cannot go back to toys. I am grow;) < Apiinsive and sophisticated. I can no longer live without elegance ; but a countryman shall be my master of revels. He who knows the most, he who knows what sweets and virtues are in the ground, the waters, the plants, the heavens, and how to come at these en- r7lii j Cm!v^ ' ^^ ' .a • JgJ'itiJ:- '-mfs^jst-mx^gmmmmmimf' RALPH WALDO EMERSON 211 is the point in liould be rapt converse witli would remain wiiicli we have lowflakes in a ; the blowing s; the waving ., whose innu- the reflections miing odorous the crackling le logs, which n, — these are n. My house le skirt of the ur little river, ;e politics and I personalities nd moonlight, noviciate and lauty : we dip .thed in these yal revel, the and beauty, ishes itself on merging stars, aid proffer it. ness of towns 1 It they must eatity. I am be hard to Apiinsive and j.'ince; but a 10 knows the 1 the ground, e at these en- chantments, is the rich and royal man. Only as far as the masters of the world have called in nature to their aid, can they reach the height of magnificence. This is the meaning of their hanging- gardens, villas, garden-houses, islands, parks, and preserves, to back their faulty personality with these strong accessories. I do not wonder that the landed interest should be invincible in the state with these dangerous auxiliaries. These bribe and invite ; not kings, not palaces, not men, not women, but these tender and poetic stars, eloquent of secret promises. We heard wl>at the rich man said, we knew of his villa, his grove, his wine, and his company, but the provocation and point of the invitation came out of these beguiling stars. In their soft glances, I see what men strove to realize in some Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon. Indeed, it is the magical lights of the horizon, and the blue sky for the background, which save all our works of art, which were otherwise bawbles. When the rich tax the poor with servility and obsequiousness, they should consider the effect of men re- puted to be the possessors of nature, on imaginative minds. Ah ! if the rich were rich as the poor fancy riches ! A boy hears a military band play on the field at night, and he has kings and queens, and famous chivalry palpably before him. He hears the echoes of a horn in a hill country, in the Notch Mountains, for example, which converts the mountains into an ^olian harp, and this supernatural tiralim restores to him the Dorian mythology, Apollo, Diana, and all divine hunters and huntresses. Can a musical note be so lofty, so haughtily beautiful ! To the poor young poet, thus fabulous is his picture of society ; he is loyal ; he respects the rich ; they are rich for the sake of his imagination ; how poor his fancy would be, if they were not rich ! That they have some high-fenced grove, which they call a park ! that they live in larger and better-garnished saloons than he has visited, and go in coaches, keeping only the society of the elegant, to watering-places, and to distant cities, are the groundwork from which he has delineated estates of romance, compared with which their actual possessions are shanties and paddocks. The muse herself betrays her son, and enhances the gifts of wealth and well- born beauty, by a radiation out of the air, and clouds, and forests that skirt the road, — a certain haughty favor, as if from patrician ,ai i j»:iMi i!' 212 AMERICAN PROSE genii to patricians, a kind of aristocracy in nature, a prince of the power of the air. The moral sensibility which makes Edens and Tempes so easily, may not be always found, but the material landscape is never far off. We can find these enchantments without visiting the Como Lake, or the Madeira Islands. \Vc exaggerate the praises of local scenery. In every landscape, the point of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth, and that is seen from the first hillock as well as from the top of the AUeghanies. The stars at night stoop down over the brownest, homeliest common, with all the spiritual magnificence which they shed on the Campagna, or on the marble deserts of Egypt. The uprolled clouds and the colors of morning and evening, will transfigure maples and alders. The difference between landscape and landscape is small, but there is great difference in the beholders. There is nothing so wonderful in any particular landscape, as the necessity of being beautiful under which every landt ape lies. Nature cannot be surprised in undress. Beauty breaks in everywhere. [From Essays, Second Series, " Nature," 1844. edition.] The text is that of the first '*:HS:! ' i,i ' \ ,i^}si"^,s» ' ^mi\^f'.&i^^^m9i£ky,i0mx?^ii??s! ^ . prince of the npes so easily, e is never far ng the Como )raises of local shment is the from the first The stars at imon, with all Campagna, or louds and the es and alders, is small, but is nothing so ssity of being ire cannot be s that of the first NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE • [Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in Salem, Mass., July 4, 1804, and died in riymoutli, N.IL, May 19, 1864. Hawthorne came of an old Puritan family, long resident in Salem. His great-great-grandfather was a judge in the witch- craft trials, and his grandfather a Revolutionary officer. His father was a sea-captain. In 1821, Hawthorne graduated at Bowdoin College, where Long- fellow was his classmate. From 1821 to 1839 he remained in Salem, devoting himself to reading and composition, and living for the most part in great seclusion. In 1836-8 he was engaged in editorial work; in 1839-41 he was weigher anr righteousness le the quality of hedale Romance sentinels, whose of human pro- ably further into aders had ever ystery, and this of morals and rid. He is the rtrays it, though 1 warmth. This :e to the rule he e human heart." 1 to what is best ; griefs and the joys, the struggles and the passions that make up the drama of actual life. He portrays with loving reverence the frailty of chil- dren, the fragile grace of young girls ; the mischances of the van- quished in the struggle of life; the wretchedness of those who like Hester and Zenobia have been ill-fated in love ; the pathetic short- comings of unhappily tempered natures like Clifford and Miriam. He is swift to honor both in men and women spiritual intensity and consecration and fortitude. The more practical, every-day virtues of prutlence and justice, truth and persistent courage, he also exalts, though these are more apt to be taken for granted and presented casually, as in his conventional hero, Kcnyon. Ardent disregard of tradition and custom in the pursuit of lofty concep- tions of virtue and progress, he symi)athetically portrays in Hol- grave, in Miles Coverdale, and in the Artist of the Beautiful. Worldly cleverness and success, he satirizes incidentally in many short stories and above all in the character of Judge Pyncheon. Hawthorne is a dreamer who finds the great need of the world to be " sleep," — rest from its " morbid activity, ... so that the race might in due time awake as an infant out of dewy slumber and be restored to the simple perception of what is right, and the single-hearted desire to achieve it." Yet despite his distrust of conventionality and custom, his dreaming habit of mind, and his delight in the other-worldly, he is in his moral appreciations of conduct essentially normal and loves and honors the virtues and achievements that all good men and women believe in and vibrate responsively to. And the truth and habitableness of his world, despite its modulated atmosphere and its half-goblin populace, come from its essential loyalty to the demands and the awards of the normal human heart. Hawthorne's world differs here completely from the world into which the modern decadents inieces — such whimsical fantasies as Feathtitop — are full of love for life in its elements, and are often captivatingly genial in mood and in tone. Through this largeness and genuineness of nature, he is for the most part kept even in his passages of greatest unreality from sensationalism or cheapness of effect. The melodramatic is always false, and Hawthorne is persistently sincere and true. Now and then a symbol or a single detail, — the Scarlet Letter, the Kaun's ears, Ethan Brand's hollow laugh, — may be unworthily insisted upon. liut the important incidents and the main situations of a story carry conviction ; the reader h.is no sense of being tricked ; he feels himself present at essential crises in the development of human passion, and he watches with never a misgiving, human nature revealing itself in its elements and claiming his pity or hatred or love. Hawthorne's prose style is as sincere and as free from meretri- ciousness as the moods and effects it conveys. It disdains or never thinks of smartness and eschews epigram. It has none of the finical prettiness and unusualness of phrase that modern writers affect. It is distinctly an old-fashioned style. It has a trace of the reserve and self-conscious literary manner of the pre-journalistic period. It has an occasional fondness for literary phrasing, — for words that have the odor of libraries about them and suggest folios and paper yellow with age. It is dilatory or at least never hurried or eager. It uses long, lingering sentences. It leads often to smiles, never or rarely to laughter. It is suffused with feeling. It holds imagery and thought in solution and eddies around its subject. It is a synthetic, emotional, and imaginative style ; not an analytic, intellectual, and witty style. It has unsurpassable wiioleness of texture and weaves with no faltering of purpose or blurring of lines that fabric of a dream-world in which each of Hawthorne's stories imprisons our imaginations. It is the style of a great imaginative IM I W N W 1i>*»l »W i * »fc W I adil 230 AMEHICAN I'ROSE artist wlm ronimiincs with hiiusfiron the visions of his heart, not tlie style of an alert observer of the happenings of daily life ; it is the fitting and perfect niediiiin for the expression of those ex(|ui- sitely directed and humani/.ed dreams of symbolic beauty and truth which, as has been noted in detail, are Hawthorne's characteristic productions as a writer of romance. Lkwis Kdwarus C'lAira •m^siS^^iimuSiMii :..'-iK&iiim.- f his licart, not daily life ; it is )f tlinsf fX(|ui- jaiily and Inilh s characteristic NA I'll. U\U:I. IIA W niON.VK THK PKOCKSSKIN OK IJFE 331 Rur, come ! The sun is hastening westward, while the march ot human life, that never paiiseil before, is delayed by oui attempt to rearrange its order. It is desirable to find some compre- hensive princijile, that shall renie troid)lc. Some great mistake iii life is the chief condition of admittance into this class. Here are members of the li:iine:^;»*..^.i'4.>«*«fi6i»fe^si#8i«tJ^^ NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 223 :en kept con- ,'ildered upon iiselves within e must assign ill success, a ,vriters, actors, er unrenewed licious contin- 1, where, while )usness of im- such men, we vliich perhaps 1 the tomb of whose success have Hngered res out of the d accuracy of ; for himself a js around him id have drawn tend at disad- !t!. the brawny lie for brawling )n ; a governor ts of kings or )f happy stars, looks through one invaluable nuch achieved, )C for his com- \7hose delicacy better than the ardly worth the ivcrn and grog- ; maidens, and may find their like, or some tolerable approach to it, in the plentiful diversity of our latter class. There too, as his ultimate destiny, must we rank the dreamer, who, all his life long, has cherished the idea that he was peculiarly apt for something, but never could determine what it was ; and there the most unfortunate of men, whose purpose it has been to enjoy life's pleasures, but to avoid a manful struggle with its toil and sorrow. The remainder, if any, may connect themselves with whatever rank of the procession they shall find best adapted to their tastes and consciences. The worst possible fate would be to remain behind, shivering in the solitude of time, while all the world is on the move towards eternity. Our attempt to classify society is now complete. The result may be any thing but perfect ; ^ et better — to give it the very lowest praise — than the antique rule of the herald's office, or the modern one of the tax gatherer, whereby the accidents and superficial attributes, with which the real nature of individuals has least to do, are acted upon as the deepest characteristics of mankind. Our task is done ! Now let the grand procession move ! Yet pause a while ! We had forgotten the Chief Marshal. Hark ! The world-wide swell of solemn music, with the clang of a mighty bell breaking forth through its regulated uproar, announces his approach. He comes; a severe, sedate, immov able, dark rider, waving his truncheon of universal sway, as he passes along the lengthened line, on the pale horse of the Revela- tion. It is Death ! Who else could assume the guidance of a procession that comprehends all humanity? And if some, among these many millions, should deem themselves classed amiss, yet let them take to iheir hearts the comfortable truth, that Death levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that another state of being will surely rectify the wrong of this. Then breathe thy wail upon the earth's wailing wind, thou band of melancholy music, made up of every sigh that the human heart, unsatisfied, has uttered ! There is yet triumph in thy tones. And now we move ! Beggars in their rags, and Kings trailing the regal purple in the dust ; the Warrior's gleaming helmet ; the Priest in his sable robe ; the hoary drandsire, who has run life's circle and come back to childhood; ihe ruddy Schoollwy with his golden curls, frisking along the march; the Artisan's stuff jacket; the Noble's star- ..•■I 224 .tAri-.h'fCA.V /'A'OSfi decorated coat ; — the whole presenting a motley spectacle, yet with a dusky grandeur brooding over it. Onwanl, onward, into that dimness where the lights of Time, which have blazed along the procession, are dickering in their sockets ! And whither ! We know not; and Death, hitherto our leader, deserts us by the wayside as the tramp of our innumerable footsteps echoes beyond his sphere. He knows not, more thai\ we, our destined goal. But God, who made p.s, knows, and will not leave us on our toil- some and doubtful march, either to wander in infinite uncertainty, or perish by the way ! [From Mosses from ait Old Manse, "The Procession of Life," 1846. The text is that of the revised edition of 1854.] FEATHERTOP " Dickon," cried Mother Rigby, " a coal for my pipe ! " The pipe was in the o)d dame's mouth when she said these words. She had tiirust il there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to light it at the hearth, where indeed there was no appearance of a fire having been kindled that morning. F'orth- with, however, as soon as the order was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the pipe, and a whiff of smoke from Mother Rigby's lips. Whence the coal came, and how brought thither by an invisible hand, I have never been able to dis- cover. " Good ! " quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head. " Thank ye, Dickon ! And now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, Dickon, in case I need you again." The good woman had risen thus early, (for as yet it was scarcely sunrise,) in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she in- tended to put in the middle of her cornpatch. It was now the latter week of May, and the crows and blackbirds had already dis- covered the little,, green, rolled-up leaf of the Indian corn just peeping out of the soil. She was determiner), therefore, to con- trive as lifelike a scarecrow as ever was seen, and to finish it im- mediately, from top to toe, so that it should begin its sentinel's 'm&D^^^>^^^ili»M^^^^^f^^ttii- ipectacle, yet onward, into blazed along ind whither ! rts us by the choes beyond lestined goal, s on our toil- e uncertainty, fe," 1846. The ipe ! " he said these I tobacco, but ed there was ning. F'orth- vas an intense F smoke from how brought able to dis- of her head, larecrow. Be t was scarcely ivhich she in- was now the d already dis- lian corn just efore, to con- finish it im- its sentinel's NA TIlANIEl. II A WTIIORNE 225 duty that very morning. Now Mother Rigby, (as everybody must have heard,) was one of the most cunning and potent witches in New England, and might, with very little trouble, have made a scarecrow ugly enough to frighten the minister himself. But on this occasion, as she had awakened in an uncommonly pleasant humor, and was further dulcified by her pipe of tobacco, she resolved to proiluce something fine, beautiful, and splendid, rather than I'.ideous and horrible. " ' don't want to set up a hobgoblin in my own cornpatch, and ahnost at my own doorstep," said Mother Rigby to herself, puffing out a whiff of smoke ; " I could do it if I pleased, but I'm tired of doing marvellous things, and so I'll keep within the bounds of everyday business, just for variety's sake. Besides, there is no use in scaring the little children for a mile roundabout, though 'tis true I'm a witch." It was settled, therefore, in her own mind, that the scarecrow should represent a fine gentleman of the period, so fiir as the ma- terials at hand would allow. Perhaps it may be as well to enumer- ate the chief of the articles that went to the composition of this figure. The most important item of all, probably, although it made so little show, was a certain broomstick, on which Mother Rigby had taken many an airy gallop at midnight, and which now served the scarecrow by way of a spinal column, or, as the unlearned phrase it, a backbone. One of its arms was a disabled flail which used to be wielded by Goodman Rigby, before his spouse worried him out of this troublesome world ; the other, if I mistake not, was com- posed of the pudding stick, and a broken rung of a chair, tied loosely together at the elbow. As for its legs, the right was a hoe handle, and the left an undistinguished and miscellaneous stick from the woodpile. Its lungs, stomach, and other affairs of that kind were nothing better than a meal bag stuffed with straw. Thus we have made out the skeleton and entire corporeity of the scarecrow, with the exception of its head ; and this was admirably supplied by a somewhat withered and shrivelled pumpkin, in which Mother Rigby cut two holes for the eyes, and a slit for the mouth, leaving a bluish-colored knob in the middle to pass for a nose. It was really quite a respectable face. .,--i!!WBHt-W ai K ji 'iill ii tf ■' 226 AMERICAN PROSE " I've seen worse ones on human shoulders, at any rate," said Mother Rigby. " And many a fine gentleman has a pumpkin head, as well as my scarecrow," Hut the clothes, in this case, were to be the making of the man. So the good old woman took down from a peg an ancient plum- colored coat of London make, and with relics of embroidery on its seams, cuffs, pocket flaps, and button ho'"s, but lanientably worn and faded, patched at the elbows, tattereu ... the skirts, anil thread- bare all over. On the left breast was a round hole, whence either a star of nobility had been rent away, or else the hot heart of some former wearer had scorched it through and through. The neigh- bors said that this rich garment belonged to the Black Man's wardrobe, and that he kept it at Mother Rigby's cottage for the convenience of slipping it on whenever he v;ished to make a grand appearance at the governor's table. To match the coat there was a velvet waistcoat of very ample size and formerly embroidered with foliage that had been as brightly golden as the maple leaves in October, but which had now quite vanished out of the substance of the velvet. Next came a pair of scarlet breeches, once worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, and the knees of which had touched the lower step of the throne of Louis le Grand. The Frenchman had given these smallclothes to an Indian powwow, who had parted with them to the old witch for a gill of strong waters, at one of their dances in the forest. Furthermore, Mother Rigby produced a pair of silk stockings and put them on the figure's legs, where they showed as unsubstantial as a dream, with the wooden reality of the two sticks making itself miserably ap- parent through the holes. lastly, she put her dead husband's wig on the bare scalp of the pumpkin, and surmounted the whole with a dusty three-cornered hat, in which was stuck the longest tail feather of a rooster. Then the old dame stood the figure up in a corner of her cottage and chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with its nobby little nose thrust into the air. It had a strangely self- satisfied aspect, and seemed to say, " Come look at me I " " And yo'i are well worth looking at, that's a i'act ! " quoth Mother Rigby, in admiration at her own handiwork. " I've made many a puppet since I've been a witch ; but methinks this is the 'M^'^-^^i^^^^^^^'-^ NA THANIEL HA WTHORNE 227 ny rate," said IS a pumpkin g of the man. mcient plum- Jioidery on its nentably worn ts, antl tiiread- ivhence either heart of some The neigh- Hlack Man's Jttage for the make a grand :oat there was )roidered with iple leaves in the substance es, once worn lees of which Grand. The iian powwow, gill of strong more, Mother them on the a dream, with miserably ap- husband's wig he whole with e longest tail of her cottage isage, with its itrangely self- Tie!" fact ! " quoth " I've made iks this is the finest of them all. 'Tis almost too good for a scarecrow. And, by the by, I'll just fill a fresh pipe of tobacco, and then take him out to the cornpatch." While filling her pipe, the old woman continued to gaze with almost motherly affec on at the figure in the corner. To say the truth, whether it were chance, or skill, or downright witchcraft, there was something wonderfully human in this ridiculous sliape, bedizened with its tattered finery ; and as for the countenance, it appeared to shrivel its yellow surface into a grin — a funny kind of expression betwixt scorn and merriment, as if it understood itself to be a jesl at mankind. The more Mother Rigby looked the better she was pleased. " Dickon," cried she sharply, " another coal for my pipe ! " Hardly had she spoken, than, just as before, there was a red- glowing coal on the top of the tobacco. She drew in a long whiff and puffed it forth again into the bar of morning sunshine which struggled through the one dusty pane of her cottage window. Mother Rigby always liked to flavor her pipe with a coal of fire from the particular chimney corner whence this had been brought. But w*-— " th t chimney corner n\ig'.it be, or who brought the coal from ii — further than that the invisible messenger seemed to respond to the name of Dickon — I cannot tell. "That puppet yonder," thought Mother Rigby, still with her eyes fixed on the scarecrow, " is too good a piece of work to stand all summer in a cornpatch, frightening away the crows and blackbirds. He's capable of better things. Why, I've danced with a worse one, when partners happened to be scarce, at our witch meetings in the forest ! What »■ I should let him take his chance among the other men of straw and empty fellows who go bustling about the world ? " The old witch took three or four more \vhiffs of her pipe and smiled. " He'll meet plenty of his brethren at every street comer ! " continued she. " Well ; I didn't mean to dabble in witchcraft to-day, further than the lighting of my pipe ; but a witch I am, and a witch I'm likely to be, and there's no use trying to shirk it. I'll make a 'nan of my scarecrow, were it only for the joke's sake ! " AMERICAN rKOSE While muttering these words Mother Rigby took the pipe from her own mouth and thrust it into the crevice which represented the same feature in the pumpkin visage of the scarecrow. " I'uff, darUng, puff!" said she. "Puff away, my fine fellow! your life depends on it ! " This was a strange exhortation, undoubtedly, to be addressed to a more nothing of sticks, straw, and old clothes, with nothing better than a shrivelled pumpkin for a head ; as we know to have been the scarecrow's case. Nevertheless, as we must carefully hold in remembrance, Mother Rigby was a witch of singular power and dexterity ; and, keeping this fact duly before our minds, we shall see nothing beyond credibility in the remarkable incidents of our story. Indeed, the great difficulty will be at once got over, if we can only bring ourselves to believe that, as soon as the old dame bade him puff, there came a whiff of smoke from the scare- crow's mouth. It was the very feeblest of whiffs, to be sure ; but it was followed by another and another, each more decided than the preceding one. " Puff away, my pet ! puff away, my pretty one ! " Mother Rigby kept repeating, wii'u her pleasantest smile. " It is the breath of life to ye ; and that you may take my word for." Beyond all question the pipe was bewitched. There must have been a spell either in the tobacco or in the fiercely-glowing coal that so mysteriously burned on the top of it, or in the pungently- aromatic smoke which exhaled from the kindled weed. The figure, after a few doubtful attempts, at length blew forth a volley of smoke extending all the way from the obscure corner into the bar of sunshine. There it eddied and melted away among the motes of dust. It seemed a convulsive effort ; for the two or three next whiffs were fainter, although the coal still glowed and threw a gleam over the scarecrow's visage. The old witch clapped her skinny hands together, and smiled encouragingly upon her handi- work. She saw that the charm worked well. The shrivelled, yel- low face, which heretofore had been no face at all, had already a thin, fantastic haze, as it were, of human likeness, shifting to and fro across it ; sometimes vanishing entirely, but growing more per- ceptible than ever with the next whiff from the pipe. The whole figure, in like manner, assumed a show of life, such as we impart ^^^^^m^si^^m. J NA r II AM EL II A WTIIORNE 229 the pipe from 1 represented row. y fine fellow! t addressed to with nothing know to have nust carefully lingular power nir minds, we e incidents of :e got over, if an as the old om the scare- be sure ; but decided than ne!" Mother , "It is the I for." ere must have ^-glowing coal he pungently- [ weed. The forth a volley Drner into the ay among the le two or three red and threw h clapped her »on her handi- shrivelled, yel- had already a shifting to and ring more per- e. The whole I as we impart to ill-defined shapes among the clouds, and half deceive ourselves with the i)astinie of our own fancy. If we must needs pry closely into the matter, it may be doubted whether there was any real change, after all, in the sordid, wornout, worthless, and ill-jointed substance of the scarecrow ; but merely a spectral illusion, and a cunning effect of light and shade so colored and contrived as to delude the eyes of most men. The miracles of witchcraft seem always to have had a very shallow subtlety ; and, at least, if the above explanation do not hit the truth of the process, I can suggest no better. " Well puffed, my pretty lad ! " still cried old Mother Rigby. " Come, another good stout whiff, and let it be with might and main. Puff for thy life, I tell thee ! Puff out of the very bot- tom of thy heart ; if any heart thou hast, or any bottom to it ! Well done, again ! Thou didst suck in that mouthful as if for the pure love of it." And then the witch beckoned to the scarecrow, throwing so much magnetic potency into her gesture that it seemed as if it must inevitably be obeyed, like the mystic call of the loadstone when it summons the iron. "Why lurkest thou in the corner, lazy one?" lid she. "Step forth 1 Thou hast the world before thee ! " Upon my word, if the legend were not one which I heard on my grandmother's knee, and which had established its place among things credible before my childish judgment could analyze its probability, I question whether I should have the face to tell it now. In obedience to Mother Rigby's word, and extending its arm as if to reach her outstretched hand, the figure made a step for- ward — a kind of hitch and jerk, however, rather than a step — then tottered and almost lost its balance. What could the witch expect? It was nothing, after all, but a scarecrow stuck upon two sticks. But the strong-willed old beldam scowled, and beckoned, and flung the energy of her purpose so forcibly at this poor com- bination of rotten wood, and musty straw, and ragged garments, that it was compelled to show itself a man, in spite of thi; reality of things. So it stepped into the bar of sunshine. There it stood — poor devil of a contrivance that it was ! — with only the ,R J^:^*4^>t*kict in the world ; anil I've made them of all sorts— (lay, wax, straw, sticks, ni^'hl fog, morning mist, sea foam, and < hiinney smoke. Hut thou art the very host. So give heed to what I say." " Ves, kind mother," said the figure, " with all my heart ! " "With all thy heart !" rried the oUl witch, setting her hands to her sides ami laughing loudly. " 'I'hou hast such a i)retty way of speaking. With all thy heart ! And thou didst put tiiy hand to the left side of thy waistcoat as if thou really hadst one ! " So now, in high good humor with this fantastic contrivance of hers. Mother Rigby told the scarecrow that it must go and i)lay its part in the great world, where not one man in a hundred, she affirmed, was gifted with more real substance than itself. And, that he might hokl u)) his head with the best of them, she endowed him, on the spot, with an unreckonablc amount of wealth. It consisted partly of a gold mine in l-'-ldorado, and of ten thousand shares in a broken bubble, ami of half a million acres of vineyard at the North Pole, and of a castle in the air, ami a chateau in Spain, together with all the rents and income therefrom accruing. She further made over to him the cargo of a certain ship, laden with salt of Cadiz, which she herself, by her necromantic arts, had caused to founder, ten years before, in the deepest part of mid ocean. If the salt were not dissolved, and could be brought to market, it would fetch a pretty penny among the fishermen. That he might not lack ready money, she gave him a copper farthing of Hirmingham manufacture, being all the coin she had about her, and likewise a great deal of brass, which she applied to his forehead, thus making it yellower than ever. " With that brass alone," quoth Mother Rigby, " thou canst pay thy way all over the earth. Kiss me, pretty darling ! I have done my best for thee." Furthermore, that the adventurer might lack no possible advan- tage towards a fair start in life, this excellent old dame gave him a token by which he was to introduce himself to a certain magis- trate, member of the council, merchaiu, and elder of the church, (the four capacities constituting but one man,) who stood at the head of society in the neighboring metropolis. The token was neither more nor less than a single word, which Mother Rigby NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE ass ■e made them nurnin^ iiiiiit, ■cry best. So heart ! " her liands to pretty way of t tliy haiul to one ! " oiitrivance of ;o anil i)lay its hundred, she \ itself. And, of them, she le amount of orado, and of half a million ,tle in the air, s and income the cargo of a herself, by her before, in the dissolved, and penny among oney, she gave , being all the )f brass, which than ever, thou canst pay I have done jossible advan- lame gave him certain magis- of the church, o stood at the rhe token was Mother Rigby whispered to the scarecrow, and which the scarecrow was to whisper to the merchant. " Couty as the old fellow is, he'll run thy errands for thee, when once thou hast given him that word in his car," said the old witch. " Mother Rigby knows the worshipful Justice Gookin, and the wor- shipful Justice knows Mother Rigby !" Here the witch thrust her wrinkled face close to the puppet's, chuckling irrepressibly, and fidgeting all through her system, with delight at the idea which she meant to < ommimicate. " The worshipful Master ( \> )okm," whispered she, " hath a comely maiden to his vhen thou shall find thy pipe getting; low, go apart into some corner, .nnd, (first filling thyself with smnlvc.) cry sharply, * Dickon, a fre: i' pipe of tobacco ! ' and, ' Dickon, another coal for my pipe ! ' and Iiave it into thy pretty mouth as speedily as may be. P^Isc, in- stead of a gallant gentleman in a gold-laced coat, thou wilt be but a jumble of sticks and tattered clothes, and a bag of straw, and a withered pumpkin ! Now depart, my treasure, and good luck go with thee ! " " Never fear, mother ! " said the figure, in a stout voice, and sending forth a courageous whiff of smoke. " I will thrive, if an honest man and a gentleman may ! " EttiMUl ell Imrned the )kt'-l)lackenc(l ited buwl ami fc of the illu- woiild termi- cco to ashes. ;, " while I fill nan began to )ok the ashes 1 her tobacco other coal for e was glowing •ailing for the Irew in a few le tegular and ^'gby, " what- e. Thy life is lowest nought 3w thy cloud j it is for thy And, sweet )art into some rply, ' Dickon, for my pipe ! ' be. P^Isc, in- ou wilt be but " straw, and a good luck go ut voice, and 1 thrive, if an NA TIIANIEL HA W IIIORNE 235 " O, tho'i wilt bo the death of me ! " cried the old wit( li, ( on- vulscd with Iiiighter. "'i'li.it was well said. If an honest man and a gentlemar may ! Thou playcst thy |)art to perfection. (Jet along with thee for a smart fellow; and 1 will wager on thy head, as a man of pit i and substance, with a brain, and what they rail a heart, and all else that a man should have, against any other thing on two legs. I hold myself a better witch than yesterday, for thy sake. Did not I make thee? And I defy any witch in New Kngland to make such another ! Here ; take my staff along with thee ! " 'Ihe staff, though it was but a plain o.aken stick, immediately took, the aspect of a gold-headed cane. " That gold head has as much sense in it as thine own," said Mother Rigby, "and it will guide thee straight to worshipful Mas- ter Gookin's door, (iet thee gone, my jjretty pet, my darling, my precious one, my treasure ; and if any ask thy name, it is Keather- top. For thou hast a feather in thy hat, and I have thrust a hand- ful of feathers into the hollow of thy head, and thy wig too is of the fashion they call Feathertop, — so be Feathertop thy name ! " And, issuing from the cottage, Feathertop strode manfully towards town. Mother Rigby stood at the threshold, well pleased to see how the sunbeams glistened on him, as if all his magnificence were real, and how diligently and lovingly he smoked his pipe, and how handsomely he walked, in spite of a little stiffness of his legs. She watched him until out of sight, and threw a witch benediction after her darling, when a turn of the road snatched him from her view. [From Mossfi from an Old Manse, " Feathertop; a Moralized Legend." Revised edition of 1S54.] THE REVELATION OF THE SCARLET LETTER The eloquent voice, on which the souls of the listening audience had been borne aloft as on the swelling waves of the sea, at length came to a pause. There was a momentary silence, ])rofound as what should follow the utterance of oracles. Then ensued a mur- F's # m atmrntummm^mmm MM 2?,6 AMERICAN PROSE niur and half-hushed tumult ; as if the auditors, released from the high spell that had transported them into the region of another's mind, were returning into themselves, with all their awe anil won- der still heavy on them. In a moment more, the crowd began to gush forth from the doors of the church. Now that there was an end, they needed other breath, more fit to support the gross and- earthly life into which they relapsed, than that atmosphere which the preacher had converted into words of flame, and had l)urdened with tile rich fragrance of his thought. In the opeii air their rapture broke into speech. The street and the market-place absolutely babbleil, from side to side, with applauiics of the minister. Mis hearers could not rest until they had told one another of what each knew better than he could tell or hear. According to their unitetl testimony, never had man spoken in so wise, so high, and so holy a s])irit, as he that s])ake this day ; nor had ins])iration ever breathed through mortal lips more evidently than it did throiigh his. Its influence could be seen, as it were, descending upon him, and possessing him, and continually lifting him out of the written discourse that lay before him, and filling him with ideas that must have been as marvellous to himself as to his audience. His subject, it appeared, had been the relation between the Deity and the communities of mankind, with a special reference to the New England which they were here planting in the wilderness. And, as he drew towards the close, a spirit as of prophecy had come upon him, constraining him to its purpose as mightily as the old prophets of Israel were constrained ; only with its difference, that, whereas the Jewish seer^ had de- nounced judgment? and ruin on their country, it was his mission to foretell a high and glorious destiny for the newly gathered people of the Lord. But, throughout it all, and through the whole discourse, there had been a certain deep, sad undertone of pathos, which could not be interpreted otherwise than as the natural regret of one soon to pass away. Yes ; their minister whom they so loved — and who so loved them all, that he could not de- part heavenward without a sigh — had the foreboding of untimely death upon him, and would soon leave them in their tears ! This idea of his transitory stay on earth gave the last emphasis to the effect which the preacher had produced ; it was as if an angel, in I seci from the of another's we ami won- iwd began to there was an ie gross and- ipherc which ad l)urdened The street to side, with .'St until they he could tell •er had man e that spake 1 mortal lips ce could be ng him, and at lay before is marvellous :d, had been of mankind, ey were here the close, a ng him to its constrained ; :er3 had de- his mission fly gathered through the d undertone than as the inister whom ould not de- of untimely tears ! This phasis to the an angel, in NA TH.W'IEI. II A WTIIOKNE 237 his passage to the skies, had shaken his bright wings over the people for an instant, - at once a sliadow and a splendor, — and had shed down a shower of golden truths upon them. Thus, there had come to tiie Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale — as to most men, in their various spheres, thougli seldom recognized until they see it far behind them — an epoch of life more brilliant and full of triumph than any previous one, or than any which could hereafter be. He stood, at this moment, on the very proudest eminence of superiority, to which the gifts of intellect, rich lore, prevailing eloquence, and a reputation of whitest sanctity, could exalt a clergyman in New England's earliest days, when the pro- fessional character was of itself a lofty pedestal. Such was the position which the minister occupied, as he bowed his head for- ward on the cushions of ihe pulpit, at the close of his Election Sermon. Meanwhile Hester Prynne was standing beside the scaf- fold of the pillory, with the scarlet letter still burning on her breast ! Now was heard again the clangor of music, and the measured tramp of the military escort, issuing from the church-door. The procession was to be marshalled thence to the town-hall, where a solemn banquet would complete the ceremonies of the day. Once more, therefore, the train of venerable and majestic fathers was seen moving through a broad pathway of the people, who drew back reverently, on either side, as the Governor and magistrates, the old and wise men, the holy ministers, and all that were eminent and renowned, advanced in the midst of them. When they were fairly in the market-place, their presence was greeted by a shout. This — though doubtless it might acquire additional force and vol- ume from the childlike loyalty which the age awarded to its rulers — was felt to be an irrepressible outburst of enthusiasm kindled in the auditors by that high strain of eloquence which was yet reverberating in their ears. Each felt the impulse in himself, and, in the same breath, caught it from his neighbor. Within the church, it had har;l'iy been kept down ; beneath the sky, it pealed up- ward to the zenith. There were human beings enough, and enough of highly wrought and symphonious feeling, to produce that more impressive sound than the organ tones of the blast, or the thunder, or the roar of the sea ; even that mighty swell of many voices. r^% tS # wm BL 238 AMERICAN PROSE l)leiKlcd into one great voice by the universal impulse which makes likewise one vast iieart out of the many. Never, from the soil of New iMighinii, had gone up such a shout ! Never, on New England soil, had stood the man so honored by iiis mortal brethren as the preaclier ! How fared it with him then? Were there not the brilliant particles of a halo in the air about his head? So etherealized by spirit as he was, and so apotheosized by worshipping admirers, did his footsteps, in the procession, really tread upon the dust of earth? As the ranks of military men and civil fathers moved onward, all eyes were turned towards the point where the minister was seen to approach among them. The shout died into a murmur, as one portion of the crowd after another obtained a glimpse of him. How feeble and pale he looked, amid all his triumph ! The energy — or say, rather, the inspiration which had held him up until he should have delivered the sacred message that brought its own strength along with it from Heaven — was withdrawn, now that it had so faithfully performed its office. The glow, which they iiad just before beheld burning on his cheek, was extinguished, like a flame that sinks down hopelessly among the late-decaying embers. It seemed hardly the face of a man alive, with such a deathlike hue ; it was hardly a man with life in him that tottered on his path so nervelessly, yet tottered, and did not fall ! One of his clerical brethren, — it was the venerable John Wilson, — observing the state in which Mr. Dimmesdale was left by the retiring wave of intellect and sensibility, stepped forward hastily to offer his support. The minister tremulously, but decidedly, repelled tlie old man's arm. He still walked onward, if that move- ment could be so described, which rather resembled the wavering effort of an infant with its mother's arms in view, outstretched to tempt him forward. And now, almost imperceptible as were the latter steps of his progress, he had come opposite the well- remembered and weather-darkened scaffold, where, long since, with all that dreary lapse of time between, Hester Prynne had encoimtered the world's ignominious stare. There stood Hester, holding little Fearl by the hand ! And there was the scarlet letter on her breast ! The minister here made a pause, although the music still played the stately and rejoicing march to which the I \ NA riJANIEL HA WTHORNE 239 i\\ic\\ makes n the soil of ew England thren as the the brilliant •realized by rlmirers, did jst of earth ? 'ed onward, ter was seen mur, as one pse of him. Tiph ! The leld him up ; brought its idrawn, now glow, which xtinguished, ite-decayiug with such a liat tottered 11! ohn Wilson, left by the ivard hastily t decidedly, f that move- he wavering stretched to as were the e the well- long since, Prynne had lod Hester, icarlet letter Ithough the ) which the procession moved. It summoned him onward, — onward to the festival ! — but here he made a pause. Bellingham, for the last few moments, had kept an anxious eye upon him. He now left his own place in the procession, and advanced to give assistance, judging, from Mr. Dimmesdale's aspect, that he must otherwise inevitably fall. But there was something in the latter's expression that warned back the magistrate, although a man not readily obeying the vague intima- tions that pass from one spirit to another. The crowd, mean- while, looked on with awe and wonder. This earthly faintness was, in their view, only another phase of the minister's celestial strength ; nor would it have seemed a miracle too high to be wrought for one so holy, had he ascended before their eyes, wax- ing dimmer and brighter, and fading at last into the light of heaven. He turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his arms. " Hester," said he, " come hither ! Come, my little Pearl ! " It was a ghastly look with which he regarded them ; but there was something at once tender and strangely triumphant in it. The child, with the bird-like motion which was one of her characteris- tics, flew to him, and clasped her arms about his knees. Hester Prynne — slowly, as if impelled by inevitable fate, and against her strongest will — likewise drew near, but paused before she reached him. At this instant, old Roger Chillingworth thrust himself through the crowd, — or, perhaps, so dark, disturbed, and evil, was his look, he rose up out of some nether region, — to snatch back his victim from what he sought to do ! Be that as it might, the old man rushed forward, and caught the minister by the arm. "Madman, hold! what is your purpose?" whispered he. " Wave back that woman ! Cast off this child ! All shall be well ! Do not blacken your fame, and perish in dishonor ! I can yet save you ; Would you bring infamy on your sacred profession? " " Ha, tempter ! Methinks thou art too late ! " answered the minister, encountering his eye, fearfully, but firmly. "Thy power is not what it was ! With God's help, I shall escape thee now ! " He again extended his hand to the woman of the scarlet letter. " Hester Prynne," cried he, with a piercing earnestness, " in the name of Him, so terrible and so merciful, who gives me grace, at 1* . .uMMHiiftM'iJiiPiiii 240 AMERICAN PA' OS/-: this last moiiieiit, to do what — for my own heavy sin and misera- ble agony — I withheld myself from doing seven years ago, come hither now, and twine thy strength about me ! Thy strength, Hester; but let it be guided by the will which (lod hath granted me ! This wretched and wronged old man is opposing it with all his migiit ! with all iiis own might, and the fiend's ! Come, Hester, come ! Support me up yonder scaffold ! " The crowd was in a tumult. The men of rank and dignity, who stood more immediately around the clergyman, were so taken by surprise, and so perplexed as to the purport of what they saw, — unable to receive the ex])lanation which most readily i)resented itself, or to imagine any other, — that they remained silent and inactive spectators of the judgment which Providence seemed about to work. They beheld the minister, leaning on Hester's shoulder, and supported by her arm around him, approach the scaffold, and ascend its steps ; while still the little hand of the sin- born child was clasped in his. Old Roger Chillingworth followed, as one intimately ccnnectcd with the drama of guilt and sorrow in which they had all been actors, and well entitled, therefore, to be present at its closing scene. " Hadst thou sought the whole earth over," said he, looking darkly at the clergyman, " there was no one place so secret, — no high place nor lowly place, where thou couldst have escaped me, — save on this very scaffold ! " " Thanks be to Him who hath led me hither ! " answered the minister. Yet he trembled, and turned to Hester with an expression of doubt and anxiety in his eyes, not the less evidently betrayed, that there was a feeble smile upon his lips. " Is not this better," murmured he, " than what we dreamed of in the forest?" " I know not ! I know not ! " she hurriedly replied. " Better? Yea ; so we may both die, and little Pearl die with us ! " " For thee and Pearl, be it as God shall order," said the minis- ter ; " and God is merciful ! Let me now do the will which He hath made plain before my sight. For, Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste to take my shame upon me ! " Partly supported by Hester Prynne, and holding one hand of md misera- > ago, cotne ly strength, ath granted g it with all me, Hester, lignity, who jo taken by hey saw, — ^ I)resented I silent and ice seemed an Hester's )proach the 1 of the sin- th followed, id sorrow in efore, to be he, looking iccret, — no jscaped me, iswered the xpression of trayed, that dreamed of , "Better? It [ the minis- 1 which He xm a dying ne ! " me hand of NA TllANIEL HA WTliORNE 241 little Pearl's, the Reverend Mr. Dimmesdale turned to the dig- nified and venerable rulers ; to the holy ministers, who were his brethren ; to the people, whose great heart was thoroughly appalled, yet overflowing with tearful sympathy, as knowing that some deep life-matter — which, if full of sin, was full of anguish and repentance likewise — was now to be laid open to them. The sun, but little past its meridian, shone down upon the clergy- man, and gave a distinctness to his figure, as he stood out from all the earth, to put in his plea of guilty at the bar of Internal Justice. " People of New England ! " cried he, with a voice that rose over them, high, solemn, and majestic, — yet had always a tremor through it, and sometimes a shriek, struggling up out of a fathom- less depth of remorse and woe, — " ye, that have loved me ! — ye, that have deemed me holy ! — behold me here, the one sinner of the world! At last! — at last! — 1 stand upon the spot where, seven years since, I should have stood ; here, with this woman, whose arm, more than the little strength wherewith I have crept hithcrward, sustains me, at this dreadful moment, from grovelling down upon my face ! Lo, the scarlet letter which Hester wears ! Ye have all shuddered at it ! Wherever her walk hath been, — wherever, so miserably burdened, she may have hoped to find repose, — it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and horrible repug- nance round about her. But there stood one in the midst of you, at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have not shuddered ! " It seemed, at this point, as if the minister must leave the remainder of his story undisclosed. But he fought back the bodily weakness, — and, still more, the faintness of heart, — that was striving for the mastery with him. He threw off all assist- ance, and stepped passionately forward a pace before the woman and the child. " It was on him ! " he continued, with a kind of fierceness ; so determined was he to speak out the whole. " God's eye beheld it I The angels were forever pointing at it ! The Devil knew it well, and fretted it continually with the touch of his burning finger ! But he hid it cunningly from men, and walked among you with the mien of a spirit, mournful, because so pure in a sinful world ! — and sad, because he missed his heavenly kindred ! Now, at the death-hour, he stands up before you ! He bids you R 242 AMERICAN PROSE look again at Hester's scarlet letter ! He tells you, that, with all its mysterious horror, it is but the shadow of what he bears on his own breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, is no more than the type of what has seared his inmost heart ! Stand any here that question Clod's judgment on a sinner ? Behold ! Be- hold a dreadful witness of it ! " With a convulsive motion, he tore away the ministerial band from before his breast. It was revealed ! But it were irreverent to describe that revelation. For an instant, the gaze of the horror-stricken multitude was concentred on the ghastly miracle ; while the minister stood, with a flush of triumph in his face, as one who, in the crisis of acutest pain, had won a victory. Then, down he sank upon the scaffold ! Hester partly raised him, and supported his head against her bosom. Old Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank, dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have departed. "Thou hast escaped me!" he repeated more than once. " Thou hast escaped me ! " " May God forgive thee ! " said the minister. " Thou, too, hast deeply sinned ! " He withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and fixed them on the woman and the child. " My little Pearl," said he, feebly, — and there was a sweet and gentle smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose ; nay, now that the burden was removed, it seemed almost as if he would be sportive with the child, — " dear litde Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now ? Thou wouldst not, yonder, in the forest ! But now thou wilt?" Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief, in which the wild infant bore a part, had developed all her sympathies ; and as her tears fell upon her father's cheek, they were the pledge that she would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too. Pearl's erra id as a messenger of anguish was all fulfilled. " Hester," said the clergyman, " farewell ! " "Shall we not meet again?" whispered she, bending her face down close to his. "Shall we not spend our immortal life ..^-^■.■i-*-*i»—*«c -.».• ■*=«,.♦!•* ai.V-»v*a9Ai» ^,^&,M^amA^tSiii* NA THAN I EL HA WTIIORXE 243 that, with all bears 011 his ib no more Stand any ehold ! Be- isterial band re irreverent gaze of the istly miracle ; his face, as tory. Then, >ed him, and [Ihillingworth ance, out of than once. lou, too, hast i fixed them a sweet and ieep repose; tiost as if he arl, wilt thou forest ! But together? Surely, surely, we have ransomed one another, with all this woe ! Thou lookest far into eternity, with those bright dying eyes ! Then tell me what thou seest? " "Hush, Hester, hush!" said he, with tremulous solemnity. " The law we broke ! — the sin here so awfully revealed ! — let these alone be in thy thoughts ! I fear ! I fear ! It may be that, when we forgot our God, — when we violated our reverence each for the other's soul, — it was thenceforth vain to hope thut we could meet hereafter, in an everlasting and pure reunion. God knows ; and he is merciful ! He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. By giving me this burning torture to bear upon my breast ! By sending yonder dark and terrible old man, to keep the torture always at red-heat ! By bringing me hither, to die this death of triumphant ignominy before the ^ people ! Had either of these agonies been wanting, I had been 4 lost forever ! Praised be his name ! His will be done ! Fare- well ! " . u u That final word came forth with the minister's expinng breath. The multitude, silent till then, broke out in a strange, deep voice of awe and wonder, which could not as yet find utterance, save in vhis murmur that rolled so heavily aftetthe departed spirit, IThe Scarlet Letter, a Romance, I'Sso, Japter 23, "The Revelation of the Scai'et Letter." The text is that of the fi«t edition.] •eat scene of loped all her i cheek, they man joy and woman in it. :er of anguish ling her face mmortal life MR iiPi-iitMi ii ■aSBBOfe (^^ HENRY VVADSWORTH LONGFELLOW [Henry Wailaworth Longfellow was born in IJortland, Me., Fel). 27, 1807, and ilieil in Cauihridgo, Mass., March 24, i882.^Ie came of cjjdtT Knglish stock, and could trace his descent on one sjtle from John AI^airTwhose wooing he celebrated in his Cctolshtp of Milt^i'^indi'^ lie graduated at liowdoin College, where Hawthorne was his classmate,Tn 1825, and spent three years in France, Spain, Italy, and (lermany, preparing himself for the duties of the professorship of modern languages at Uowdoin. He held this chair six years, relincjuishing it when he was appointed to succeed Ticknor as Smith professor of modern languages at Harvard College. In preparation for his new and more distinguished duties he spent another year abroad, enlarging his ac(|uaintance/^^ with the Teutonic languages. He occupied the Harvard chair from rSjlMC '^M^ •"H'l IHTI ''v'"B '" "le old and beautiful Craigie House, and breaking the ***'' ' steady round of his academic duties only by a third visit to Europe >iC3i^. , fThc remainder of his life was spent in Cambridge, with the exception of a . ' Tnal visit, in l868>ri)se style wns not iinafftH tid by that of the author of the Sketch- Hook ; sonif of his contributions to the volume of AtiuMitit'cus Poems fioin llu L 'iiited Slates Literary Gazette closely resciubleil tile work, in the same pages, of the writer of 77ia>iatofM«I 34H AMKhJC.lX I'h'OSK KOOITKINTS OK ANCI l,S Ir was Sunilay mnrniug ; and llic diiirdi bolls were .ill ringing together. Fr<>ni tlie mighl)t)riiig villages came the solemn, joyful soiimls, floating tiinmgl) ihc MHiny air, mellow and I'unt and low, ;il| mingling into one harmonious ('hin\c, like the sound ol io^m- distant organ in heaven. Anon they ceased ; and the woods, and the clouds, and the whole village, and the very air itself seemed tt) pray, — so silent was it everywhere. Two venerable old men, — high-priests and i)atriarchs were they in the land, — went np the pulpit stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up Mount Ilor, in the sight of all the congregation, for the puljiit stairs were in front, and very high. Paul Klemming will never forget the sermon he heard that day, — no, not even if he should live to be as old as he who preached it. I'he text was, " I know that niy Redeemer liveth." It wa.s meant to <:onsole the pious, jwor widow, who sat right below him at the foot of the puli)it stairs, all in black, and her heart breaking. He said nothing of the terrors of death, nor of the gloom of the narrow house, but, looking beyond these things, as mere circum- stances to which the imagination mainly gives importance, he told his hearers o.' fi e innocence of childhood upon earth, ami the holiness of childhood in heaven, and how the beautiful Lord Jesus was once a little child, and now in heaven the spirits of little children walked with him, ami gathered (lowers in the fields of Paradise, (iood old mm ! In behalf of humanity, I thank thee for these benignant words ! And still more than I, the bereaved mother thanked thee, and from that hour, though she wept in secret for her child, yet ".She knew he was with Jesus, And she asked him ni)t again." After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked forth alone into the churchyard. There was no one there, save a little boy, who was fishing with a pin ho -k in a grave half full of water. But a few moments aftcrwar.l, through the arched gateway under the belfry, came a funeral procession. At its head walked a priest in white ^ IlENKY WADSlVOKT/l l.ONOFKU.OW 249 ■re all ringing iolenin, joyful imt ;in^Ma>iaairtKfife „ rider on the id hour-glass, linting in the rn times, was iritten, — the ip to all busi- tirement " of , and painted ■ Holbein are , where, from ;ath has taken Quietly and ince no grief, y and stretch- ; brother. A igel had been ^ little chapel, ; to enter and no one there. of the rudest thing there to leart of Flem- ;ubborn knees, 3w many bitter irequited love, arble tablet in lot back again, th to meet the rt." that grave had rds of consola- id yet spoken. The stone was longer there, is eyes were no HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 251 more bleared with tears ; and, looking into the bright morning heaven, he said ; " I will be strong ! " Men sometimes go down into tombs, with painful longmgs to behold once more the faces of their departed friends; and as they gaze upon them, lying there so peacefully with the semblance, that they wore on earth, the sweet br«;atli of heaveu touches them, arid the features crumble and fall together, and are but dust. So did his soul then descend for the last time into the great tomb of the Past, with painful longings to behold once more the dear faces of those he liad loved ; and the sweet breath of heaven touched them, and they would not stay, but crumbled away and perished as he gazed. They, too, were dust. And thus, far-sounding, he heard the great gate of the Past shut behind him as the Divine Poet did the gate of Paradise, when the angel pointed him the way up the Holy Mountain ; and to him likewise was it forbidden to look back. In the Ufe of every man, there are sudden transitions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. At once, as if some magician had touched the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity succeeds the storm. The causes which produce these sudden changes may have been long at work within us, but the changes themselves are instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient cause. It was so with Flemming ; and from that hour forth he resolved, that he would no longer veer with every shifting wind of circumstance ; no longer be a child's plaything in the hands of Fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. He resolved henceforward not to lean on others ; but to walk self-confident and self-possessed ; no longer to waste his years in vain regrets, nor wait the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet desires ; but to live in the Present wisely, alike forgetful of the Past, and careless of what the mysterious Future might bring. And from that moment he was calm and strong ; he was reconciled with himself ! His thoughts turned to his distant home beyond the sea. An indescribable, sweet feeling rose within him. • 4 1 « 1 "Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps," said he; and be a man among men, and no longer a dreamer among shadows. -■■■■ 4SSfe-vr.'-^..«. «i»iwi>;«ii»Hf i Bi i i)Hii'i>' iiii5i i i.il I I I ■ri 252 AMERICAN PROSE i \ w f 1 r I \ 3 w Henceforth be mine a life of action and reality 1 I will work in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is health and happiness. This alone is life ; ' Life that shall send A chr.ilenge to its end, And wlien it comes, say. Welcome, friend ! ' Why have I not made these sage reflections, this wise resolve, sooner? Can such a simple result spring only from the long and intricate process of experience? Alas! it is not till Time, with reckless hand, has torn out ha'.f the leaves from the Book of Human I.ife, to light the fires of passion with, from day to day, that Man begins to see that the leaves which r'^main are few in number, and to remember, faintly at first, and then more clearly, that, upon the earlier pages of that book, was written a story of happy innocence, which he would fain read over again. Then come listless irresolution and the inevitable inaction of despair ; or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain, a more noble history, than ',he child's story, with which the book began." [From Hyperion, a Romance, 1839, cl. ipter 8. The text is that of the first ediiion.] THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE Je ne con^ois qu'une maniere de voyager plus agreable que d'aller h cheval ; c'est d'aller ^ pied. On part \ son moment, on s'arrSte Jl sa volonte, on fait tan', it si peu d'exercise qu'on veut. Quand on ne veut qu'arriver, on peut courir en chaise de poste; mais quand on veut voyager, il faut aller h pied. Rousseau In the beautiful month of Octobe; I made a foot excursion along the banks of the Loire, from Orleans to Tours. This luxu- riant region is justly called the garden of France. From Orleans to Blois, the whole valley of the Loire is one continued vineyard. The b-ight green foliage of the vine spreads, like the undulations of the sea, over dl the landscape, with here and there a silver flash of the river, a sequestered hamlet, or the towers of an old chateau, 'o erliven and variegate the scene. II ^:siS^t^-^',ti^^^s^^ia^eiaa^»-f^ :0^fm^v^^fimm' will work in ine is health wise resolve, he long and 1 Time, with the Book of day to day, in are few in more clearly, en a story of igain. Then » of despair ; t still remain, ich the book t is that of the d'aller hcheval; volonte, on fait ste; mais quand Rousseau oot excursion g. This luxu- From Orleans lued vineyard, e undulations there a silver ers of an old HENRY VVADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 253 The vintage had already commenced. The peasantry were busy in the fields, — the song that cheered their labor was on the breeze, and the heavy wagon tottered by, laden with the clusters of the vine. Everything around me wore that happy look which makes the heart glail. In the morning I arose with the lark ; and at night I slept where sunset overtook me. Tlie healthy exercise of foot-travelling, tlie pure, bracing air of autumn, and the cheer- ful asi)ect of the whole landscape about me, gave fresh elasticity to a mind not overburdened witli care, and made me forget not only the fatigue of walking, but also the consciousness of being alone. My fir't day's journey brought uic at evening to a village, whose name I have forgotten, situated about eight leagues froui Orleans. It is a small, obscure hamlet, not mentioned in the guide-book, and stains upon the precipitous banks of a deep ravine, through which a ^oisy brook leaps down to turn the ponderous wheel of a thatch-roofed mill. The village inn stands upon the highway ; but the village itself is not visible to the traveller as he passes. It is completely hidden in the lap of a wooded valley, and so em- bowered in trees that not a roof nor a chimney neeps out to betray its hiding-place. It is like the nest of a ground-swallow, which the passing footstep almost treads upon, and yet it is not seen. I passed by without suspecting that a village was near; and the little inn had a look so uninviting that I did not oven enter it. After proceeding a mile or two farther, I perceived, upon my left, a village spire rising over the vineyards. Towards this I directed my footsteps ; but it seemed to recede as I advanced, and at last quite disappeared. It was evidently many miles dis- tant; and as the path I followed descended from the highway, it had gradually sunk beneath a swell of the vine-clad landscape. I now found myself in the midst of an extensive vineyard. It was just sunset ; and the last golden rays lingered on the rich and mel- low scenery around me. The peasantry were still busy at their task ; and the occasional bark of a dog, and the distant sound of an evening bell, gave fresh romance to the scene. The reality of many a day-dream of childhood, of many a poetic revery of youth, was before me. I stood at sunset amid the luxuriant vineyards of France ! t«Wi«v-^v^W^.^;««ii«KAe4BSf'f^^^^j| - ^— « II ii w—wu ii imi i uimwuia i lnS iaa im-TrtiT Wil' vsmM f t f 2 il II ^ f t .1 254 AMERICAN PROSE The first person I met was a poor old woman, a little bowed down with age, gathering grapes into a large basket. She was dressed like the poorest class of peasantry, and pursued h^r soli- tary task alone, heedless of the cheerful gossip and the merry laugh which came from a band of more youthful vintagers at a short dis- UUU |i from her. She was so intently engaged in her work, tliat she i\\d not perceive my approach until I bade her good evening. On hearing my voice, she looked up from her labor, and returned l\^e srtlmsUlon ; and, on my asking her if there were a tavern or a frtVin-house in the neighborhood wlicre I could pass the night, she showed u\i' the pathway through the vineyard that led to the vil- lage; ^t^ii then adtled, with a look of curiosity, — "You must be a stranger, Sir, in these parts." " Yes ; my honu: U very far from here." "How far?" " More than a lhoUs;\hd leagues." The old woman looked incredulous. " I caille JVcnt\ rt distant land beyond the sea." " More than a thousand leagues ! " at length repeated she ; " and why \iave you cu.uu' so far from home ? " " To travel i — \o see how you live in this country." " Have you no relations in your own?" " Yes ; I ha\o lioth brothers and sisters, a father and — " "AndanuUher?" "Thank Heaven, I have." "And did you leave her? " Here Ihe old woman gave me a piercing look of reproof; shook her head mournfully, and, with a deep sigh, as if some painful recollections had been awakened in her bosom, turned again to her solitary task. 1 felt rebuked ; for there is something almost pro- phetic in the admonitions of the old. The eye of age looks meekly into my heart ! the voice of age echoes mournfully through it ! the hoary head and ])alsied hand of age plead irresistibly for its sympathies! I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon tlie sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deejjer upon the understanding ! I pursued the pathway which led towards the v.llagc, and the J| u. ,«.•,^^«««f»^^ little bowed et. She was iued bsr soli- ; merry laugh ,t a short tlis- er work, tliat ood evening, and returned a tavern or a he night, she ed to the vil- h1 she ; " and id — " of reproof; f some painful i again to her y almost pro- of age looks nfuUy through 'sistibly for its the man who hen the dusk 1 the shadows standing ! ilagc, and the HENRY IVADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 255 .*^in the national Congress (1846-48). and was elected President of the United States in i860. Reelected in 18C4, he was assassinated by John Wilkes Booth soon after the beginning of his second term of office, and died April 15, 1865. The standard edition of his papers and speeches is that of J. G. Nicolay. The best biography is that of Hay and Nicolay.] Lincoln's style, both in the sphere of oratory and in the sphere of dialectic, exhib'' • two distinct aad very striking characteristics. The first is a remu. jle compactness, clarity, and precision of statement, which may be taken as a nearly faultless model of coii- vincing exposition. These qualities, moreover, derive their ulti- mate effectiveness from the supreme perfection with which they show the intellectual processes that gave them birth. The domi- nant thought is stripped of every superfluous detail and made to stand out vividly before the mind in a clear white brilliancy of phras- ing ; a icrvous energy that is muscular and full of force brings every word to bear upon the writer's purpose ; while a delicate balancing of contrasted thought is conveyed in an equally delicate balancing of phrase, that pleases and attracts the mind, no less than the ear, of him who hears it. A tendency toward veiled an- tithesis, indeed, may be set down as a definite feature of Lincoln's oratory. It enters into nearly all of his most finished utterances ; and it is the more effective in that it does not spring from con- scious artifice, but is entirely natural; for it arose from the supremely logical workings of an intellect that had been trained to see the other side of every question, to set one fact against another, to weigh and to compare, and then to render judgment with a perfect impartiality. This it was that gave to Lincoln's controver- s 2S7 'JSSSmi' i I i 358 AMERICAN PKOSE sial oratory its great persuasive power ; for it struck the note of absolute sincerity and of intense conviction, — tiie note that was lacking in the oratory of his most redoubtable opponent, Douglas, as it was lacking also in the eloquence of the greate-.'.t of the Roman orators. This trait in Lincoln's style was fostered, if it was not actually created, by his legal training, and by the necessity imposed upon him of addressing boilies of men who lacked the academic point of view, who were not versed in technicalities, but whose mother wit and native shrewdness made them keen to detect a flaw in the most brilliant argument and to supply by close and cogent reason- ing the lack of formal training. Lincoln's style, then, was no holi- day weapon, but one that had been slowly forged by him in the fire of experience, one that had been tempered to a perfect edge, one that had again and again been tested in the severest of foren- sic conflicts. The second characteristic is still more remarkable. It finds its em- bodiment in the perfect taste and exquisite finish that endow some of his periods with such unusual beauty of expression. In several of the famous passages that are quoted here — the First ,and Second Inaugurals and the Gettysburg Address — the most accom- plished rhetorician will find it difficult to detect a flaw. And they contain much more than rhetoric. The sentences are short and simple ; the thought is not elaborated ; yet the simplicity is the simplicity of strength, and the ease is the ease of conscious power, while throughout the words whose cadences run on in an unbroken harmony there is a certain loftiness of diction that not infrequently attains to the sublime, especially when a coloring of metaphor is introduced that half recalls the severe yet splendid imagery of the Hebrew prophets. Just how this taste, this instinctive perception of every cadence, and this touch of the sublime, became a part of Lincoln's intellectual endowment is a mystery that stylists have in vain endeavored to make clear. Perhaps the ultimate solution must be sought in that psychological truth which contams the expla- nation of the source of every great style. For a style ic only great when it is a true reflection of mentality, of temperamtn*., of the man himself of whom it is a part ; and thus it is that we may find in the prose of this untaught American the accurate embodiment .-|t- "*"■*<-, .^(W9"»-=»W » i*Kjiiisiefew.»iiB't ^i!!^ »iavi)iB tp^^ the note of e note that le opponent, ; greatest of not actually iiposed upon idemic point liose mother a flaw in the jgent reason- , was no hoU- y him in the perfect edge, est of foren- it finds its em- t endow some I. In several le First and most accom- V. And they ire short and ipUcity is the scions power, an unbrolien t infrequently f metaphor is nagery of the ^e perception ame a part of ty lists have in nate solution ins the expla- ; i; only great imtn*., of the t we may find embodiment A UK All AM LINCOLN 259 c.-his own character as mouldo.l by experience and by environment. It had cU-urncss because his tliought was logical ; it had sincerity because he was himself sincere; it had solemnity and statelmess because of his own fundamental seriousness, whose depths were in reality revealed and not obscured by the humor that so often played upon the surface of his thought; and it had harmony be- cause in him the qualities of strength and gentlen'- were fitly and indissolubly harmonized. Hakry Thurston Peck 26o AMERICAN PROSE FIRST INAUGURAL ADDRESS This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who in- habit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing govern- ment, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it. I can- not be ignorant of the fact that many worthy and patriotic citizens are desirous of having the National Constitution amended. While I make no recommendation of amendments, I fully recognize the rightful authority of the people over the whole subject, to be exer- cised in either of the modes prescribed in the instrument itself; and I should, under existing circumstances, favor rather than oppose a fair opportunity being afforded the people to act upon it. I will venture to add that to me the convention mode seems preferable, in that it allows amendments to originate with the peo- ple themselves, instead of only permitting them to take or reject propositions originated by otht.-s not especially chosen for the purpose, and which might not bt precisely such as they would wish to either accept or refuse. I understand a proposed amend- ment to the Constitution — which amendment, however, I have not seen — has passed Congress, to the effect that .he Federal Govern- ment shall never interfere with the domestic institutions of the States, including that of persons held to service. To avoid misconstruc- tion of what I have said, I depart from my purpose not to speak of particular amendments so far as to say that, holding such a pro- vision to now be implied constitutional law, I have no objection to its being made express and irrevocable. The chief magistrate derives all his authority from the people, and they have conferred none upon him to fix terms for the sep- aration of the States. The people themselves can do this also if they choose ; but the executive, as such, has nothing to do with it. His duty is to administer the present government, as it came to his hands, and to transmit it, unimpaired by him, to his successor. Why should there not be a patient confidence in the ultimate justice of the people ? Is there any better or equal hope in the world? In our present differences is either party without faith of f'i'. "•'niiV-rtftJ-'>'.-.::r;i-.Vj.= . **V;C3tJ»Kl& 4-yfa-^ %^ff^^>^^S>J^ ABRAHAM LINCOLN 261 eople who in- isting govern- amending it, )w it. I can- riotic citizens ided. While recognize the ;t, to be exer- ument itself; rather than 5 to act upon 1 mode seems with the peo- take or reject losen for the ,s they would losed amend- 'er, I have not deral Govern- s of the States, I misconstrue- not to speak ig such a pro- objection to n the people, IS for the sep- i do this also lothing to do jrnment, as it jy him, to his 1 the ultimate 1 hope in the ithout faith of being in the right? If the Almighty Ruler of Nations, with his eternal truth and justice, be mi your side of the North, or on yours of the South, that truth and that justice will surely prevail by the judgment of this great tribunal of the American people. By the frame of the government under which we live, this same people have wisely given their public servants but little power for mischief; and have, with equal wisdom, provided for the return of that little to their own hands at very short intervals. While the people retain their virtue and vigilance, no administration, by any extreme of wickedness or folly, can very seriously injure the gov- ernment in the short si)ace of four years. My countrymen, one and all, think calmly and well upon this whole subject. Notliing valuable can be lost by taking time. If there be an object to hurry any of you in hot haste to a step which you would never take deliberately, that object will be frus- trated by taking time ; but no good object can be frustrated by it. Such of you as are now dissatisfied, still have the old Consti- tution unimpaired, and, on the sensitive point, the laws of your own framing under it; while the new administration will have no immediate power, if it would, to change either. If it were admitted that you who are dissatisfied hold the riglu side in the dispute, there still is no single good reason for precipitate action. Intelligence, patriotism, Christianity, and a firm reliance on Him who has never yet forsaken this favored land, are still competent to adjust in the beat way our present difficulty. In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The government will not assail you. You can have no conflict without being yourselves the aggressors. You have no oath registered in heaven to de- stroy the government, while I shall have the most solemn one to "preserve, protect, and defend it." I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature. ihtt il|-|fiiiii»'aiiMllKil»»i!|tTr'f i f ! f IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) #^^^ ^w L 1.0 I.I |50 ™'^^ VS. j^ 1.25 — 6" Photographic Sciences Corporation M 2.0 I.S 1-4 mil 1.6 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEPSTER.N.Y. 14580 (716) 872-4503 &" f/j i CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microraproductions historiquas ^ i-:-.l*i,>X^94ir-/.M&-:-V*05!>*^i',i^J^.- ;, V* .>^;ii t-*> 'W : i*piijif>«tf t *. i?-'-^ ■ , ;^..';i^.-:^-.i^!'^ia"^-^M^;! 262 AMERICAN PROSE [From tlic luist liiaiii^indl AJifrtss, March 4, 18O1. Reprinted, by per- mission of the pubhshers, I'he Ceniury Company, from tlie text used b) Nicolay and Hay, CompUlc Works of Abrnham Lincoln, vol. ii, pp. 6-7.] I! LETTER TO GENERAL McCLELLAN Executive Mansion, Washington, D.C, October 13, 1862. Majdr-Generai, McCi.ellan : My Dear Sir : You remember my speaking to you of what I called your over-cautiousness. Are you not over-cautious when you assume that you cannot do what the enemy is constantly doing? Should you not claim to be at least his equal in prowess, and act upon the claim? As I understand, you telegraphed General Hal- leck that you cannot subsist your army at Winchester unless the rail- road from Harper's Ferry to that point be put in working order. But the enemy does now subsist his army at Winchester, at a dis- tance nearly twice as great from railroad transportation as you would have to do without the railroad last named. He now wagons from Culpeper Court House, which is just about twice as far as you would have to do from Harper's Ferry. He is certainly not more than half as well provided with wagons as you are. I certainly should be pleased for you to have the advantage of the railroad from Harper's Ferry to Winchester, but it wastes all the remainder of autumn to give it to you, and in fact ignores the ques- tion of time, which cannot and must not be ignored. Again, one of the standard maxims of war, as you know, is to " operate upon the enemy's communications as much as possible without expos- ing your own." You seem to act as if this applies against you, but cannot apply in your favor. Change positions with the enemy, and think you not he would break your communication with Richmond within the next twenty-four hours? You dread his going into Pennsylvania ; but if he does so in full force, he gives up his communications to you absolutely, and you have nothing to do but to follow and ruin him. If he does so with less than full force, f.ill upon and beat what is left behind all the easier. Exclusive of the water-line, you are now nearer Richmond than the enemy is by the route that you can and he must take. Why ii:3iaiisri!w»-»i*st»5S!Sfag*i*«5gi3»8isr- i^iiB^ftii*ih1»jflj«fc. J ABRAHAM LINCOLN 263 srinted, by per- used b) Nicolay ».y^s Vc«»*i^-«aiaft£SB** laves, not dis- the Southern ind powerful the cause of 5 interest was ; Union, even io more than or the dura- ated that the e, the conflict iumph, and a ead the same his aid against Id dare to ask I the sweat of e not judged, af neither has nto the world es come ; but we shall sup- which, in the ing continued ;, and that he ;he woe due to n therein any believers in a ipe — fervently y speedily pass all the wealth of unrequited Irawn with the rd, as was said The judgments ; with firmness is strive on to AB.'^AHAM LINCOLN 267 finish the work we are in ; to bind up the nation's wounds ; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orpiian — to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves, and with ail nations. \Seeoiui Inaugural AMrest, March 4, 1865. Reprinted, by permission of The Century Company, from CompUleWorki of Lincoln, \'^\. ii, pp. ^'56-657.] EDGAR ALLAN POE [Edgar Allan Toe was liorn in Hoston, Jan. 19, 1809, and died in Baltimore, Oct. 7, 1849. He was tlie grandson of I>aviil I'oe, a distinguished .Maryland officer in the Kcvolution. His father and mother were both actors. Toe was early left an orphan, and was adopted liy John Allan, a wealthy Scotch tobacco merchant in Richmond. He was educated in private schools in Richmond and in Kngland, and entered the University of Virginia in 1826, hut was wi.h- drawn in the ■'ame year by his adopted father, who placed him in his counting- room. ( )n account of difierences with his family, he left them in 1827, entered the army under an assumed name, and served for two years in a battery of artillery. He was then partially reconciled with Mr. Allan, and received an annuity until Mr. Allan's death in 1834. In 1830 he entered the Military Academy at West I'oint, l.ut was dismissed in the following year by court- martial on charges of remissness in duty and disobedience. From that time until his vleath he led the uncertain and irregular life of a struggling writer, editor, and literary hack, in Haltimore, Thiladelphia, and New York. His brilliant intellect was in most cases ajipreciated by his numerous employers and colleagues. But his irritable and morbidly sensitive nature, his occasional indulgence in drink, which produce'<;r.^<^%s^^ . EDGAR ALLAN POE 269 One of Poe's Tales of the Grotesque portrays the fantastic doings of the so-railed Angel of the Odd. 'I'he name is not inapt for Poe himself. In ail his writings, with the i)ossibIe exception of his criticism, there is present the note of abnormal- ity; and even in his criticism, the wil''tilness and the egotism often reach a pitch that suggests morbidness of nature. Poe was a decadent before the days of decadence, and it is through no mistaken instinct that French decadents from Baudelaire to Mallarm^ have delighted to do him honor. Poe was fond of mystifications, and his confessions, as regards methods of work, are not to be taken too literally. Nevertheless, the rules he lays down in his essay on Hawthorne, for the writer of fiction, more particularly of the tale, are unquestionably frank in expression and true to Poe's own instincts and habits. These rules make very clear the artificiality of art as Poe conceived of it, its remoteness in substance from normal exi)erience ; they also illustrate the perfection of Poe's mastery of technique within the limits which his conception of art imposed upon him. According to Poe's theory, the tale ought to be an excjuisite tissue of moods and images wrought skilfully together through the medium of prose for the production of a single effect. The first task of the literary artist is to determine what the single effect is to be, at which his tale is to aim among the almost countless effects of terror, pas- sion, horror, grotesqueness, or humor, that are open to his choice. Having determined on his effect, the artist is to keep it vividly before his imagination, and to let it control him in all his selection of details ; he is to construct his entire story so that every fact, every incident, every character, even every phrase, figure, and cadence, shall prepare for or intensify this single effect, and bring out its peculiar quality. The effect is an end in itself, and is its own justification. The story need have no symtolic implications, — need send no suggestions of remote moral truths darting over the nerves to the brain. According to Poe's own practice, the effects best worth aiming at are emotional shivers of some sort, such as come from a gudden keen sense of the strangeness, or grotesqueness, or mystery, or horror of life. Each of Poe's best tales turns out on analysis to be simply an exquisitely adjusted series of devices for playing adroitly upon responsive nerves, and *i.^wt^*.».~v^^tyaa^ i F^tft^ ji ft Wli yw l MW i J i .1 i |WH i MA *^ .tiM IW tfi«WMW l w i 270 AM/:KfC.tX I'KOSF. l)iitting a sensitive tcmpcrainenl into a liarmoniously vibrating mood. The material that Poe's nature olTers him most generously for fabrication into art is as artificial as tlie methods by which he likes to work. I'oe had a degenerate's excitable nerves, ardent senses, and irresponsible feelings. Moreover, he had an alto- gether modern delight in watching intently for their own sakes the tricks of his nerves and senses, and the shadow-play of his moods. Me was an amateur of sensations and impressions, prone to dwelling upon them half mystically, and bent on cajjturing the essential charm of each. Me was extraordinarily sensitive to all the fleeting " unconsidered trifles" of the life of the senses and the feelings. In one of his stories he boasts of the deliir'^t of behold- ing " floating in mid-air the sad visions that the nany may not view" ; of pondering "over the perfume of some rovcl flower" ; of "growing bewildered with the meaning of some musical cadence." This same morbidness and semi-hysterical sensitive- ness may be traced also in Poe's heroes ; they, too, are tortured by the intensity of their sensations ; they are persecuted by fixed ideas ; they isolate themselves from the world, brood over their abnormal experiences of feeling and imagination, and live in dream-regions of their own fontastic invention. Poe's favorite characters, — Usher, the lovers of Ligeia, of Eleanora, and of Morella, — are degenerates, pure and simple, victims of nervous disease, experimenters with narcotics, and dabblers in death. Through all these characteristics, they call to mind the heroes of modern decadent French fiction, Huysmans' des Esseintes, for example. Like modern decadent heroes, too, Poe's heroes feel the fascination of the morally perverse, and spice the esthetic banquet with deadly sins, — sins whose piquancy lies in their abnormality of thought and feeling, not in any gross criminality of act. Moreover, Poe himself despises the conventional and the commonplace both in character and in life; he is cynical and disenchanted, and boasts of his cynicism and disenchant- ment. '• I really perceive that vanity," he asserta in one of his letters, "about which most men merely prate, — the vanity of the human or temporal life. I live continually in a reverie of the future, I have no faith in human perfectibility, — I think ^^«^i^^MW£v**«i^s;)*^ai5t of behold- lany may not »vcl flower " ; >onie musical cal sensitive- , are tortured uted by fixed ad over their and live in :'oe*s favorite nora, and of ns of nervous ers in death. :he heroes of Esseintes, for 's heroes feel ( the aesthetic lies in their criminality of ional and the s cynical and i disenchant- rta in one of , — the vanity 1 in a reverie ility, — I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon hu- manity." In Toe's so-called Tales of Jiatiocination the material is differ- ent from what h.is thus far been described ; it is, however, no less artificial, and the methotls by wiiich it is made effective are much the same. In short. Foe is confessedly a necromancer whose sole ambition is to play delicately upon nerves and intel- lects that have been skilfully attuned to submit to his influence. He is a weaver of spells and a dreamer of dreams, who has no concern with actual life, or with the commonplace moods or motives that enter into every-day experience. In all his tales no character is portrayed with any patience that the reader can fancy himself encountering in the highways of life, or that he would not hesitate to take frankly by the hanil. Poe's men are either mag- niloquent poseurs who dine on their hearts in public, or else disembodied intellects who do nothing but guess enormously com- plicated riddles. Nature, too, as Poe portrays it, becomes fiintastic and unverifi- able, a region of pure phantasmagoria. Its omnipresent " mead- ows "are sprinkled with asi)hodels and acanthuses; it is watered with rivers of silenne that lapse away into blue ial mxm AMEK/rA.V PROSE SHADOW — A PARABLE Yea ! thuugli I walk tliruugh the valley of the Shailuw. J'salm of David, Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron. The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; an . to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind. Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble hall in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat at night, a com- pany of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of brass; and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies likewise, in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the people- less streets — but the boding and the memory of Evil, they would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I could render no distinct account, — things mate- rial and spiritual: heaviness in the atmosphere, a sense of suffo- cation, anxiety — and, above all, that terrible state of existence ■fSh& \ ■\:i EDGAR Al.r.AJV POP. V7 iilow. ilm of David. ho write shall hadows. For igs be known, lorials be seen lisbelieve and ) ponder upon s more intense ;h. For many wide, over sea spread abroad, i not unknown lie, the Greek id arrived the 'th year when, jined with the spirit of the St, not only in gi nations, and the walls of a night, acom- entrance save lioned by the , was fastened gloomy room, id the people- of Evil, they round us and — things mate- sense of suffo- e of existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs, upon the household furniture, upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby — all things save only the flames of the seven iron lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning, all pallid a.id motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his companions. Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way — which was hysterical: and sang the songs of Anacreou — which are madness; and drank deeply — although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead and at full length he lay, enshrouded : the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes in which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment as the dead may haply take in the mer- riment of those who are to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their expression, and, gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistin- guishable, and so faded away. \nd lo! from among those sable draper'es where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and undefined shadow — a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man; but it was the shadow neither of man, nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor of God — neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldsea, nor any Egyptian X wiaSmmmm: 278 AMERICAN PROSE God. And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested was, if 1 remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and its appella- tion. And the shadow answered, "1 am SHADOW, and my dwelling is near to the catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border \ipon the foul Charo- nian canal." And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast: for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable, fell duskily upon our ears in the well- remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends. [1835. Reprinted, by permission of Herbert S. Stone and Co., from Works of Edgar Allan Poe, vol. i, pp. 1 25-128.] LIGEIA In halls such as these, in a bridal chamber such as this, I passed, with the Lady of Tremaine, the unhallowed hours of the first month of our marriage — passed them with but little dis- quietude. That my wife dreaded the fierce moodiness of my temper — that she shunned me, and loved me but little — I could not help perceiving; but it gave me rather pleasure than other- wise. I loathed her with a hatred belonging more to demon than to man. My memory flew back (oh, with what intensity of re- gret !) to Ligeia, the beloved, the august, the beautiful, the entombed. I revelled in recollections of her purity, of her wis- dom, of her lofty, her ethereal nature, of her passionate, her idolatrous love. Now, then, did my spirit fully and freely burn 'V. ' •■%^^^i}M'dst\lth the^ profound awe which had hitherto reigned there alone. I felt 'that my vision grew dim, that my reason wandered; and it was only by a violent effort that I at length succeeded in nerving myself to the task which duty thus once more had pointed out. There was now a partial glow upon the forehead and upon the cheek and throat; a perceptible warmth pervaded the whole frame; there was even a slight pulsation at the heart. The lady lived; and with re- doubled ardor I betook myself to the task of restoration. I chafed and bathed the temples and the hands, and used every exertion which experience, and no little medical reading, could suggest. But in vain. Suddenly, the color fled, the pulsation ceased, the lips resumed the expression of the dead, and, in an instant after- ward, the whole body took upon itself the icy chilliness, the livid hue, the intense rigidity, the sunken outline, and all the loath- some peculiarities of that which has been, for many days, a tenant of the tomb. 'si'Kastt'^afjsaa EDGAR ALLAN POP. 383 together apart vants - there nipg ihem to i — and this I jne in my en- 1 short period ice; the color wanness even shrivelled and jpulsive clam- of the body; jpervened. I h I had been to passionate ble?) I was a om the region . The sound ;, I saw — dis- jte afterwards ;eth. Amaze- ind awe which y vision grew by a violent ilf to the task ere was now a and throat; a liere was even and with re- ion. I chafed every exertion could suggest, on ceased, the 1 instant after- ness, the livid all the loath- days, a tenant And again I sunk into visions of Ligeia — and again, (what marvel tliat I shudder while I write?) attain there reached my ears a low sob from the region of the ebony bed. Hut why shall I minutely detail the unspeakable horrors of that night? Why shall I pause to relate how, time after time, until near the period of the gray dawn, this hideous drama of revivification was re- peated; how each terrific relapse was only into a sterner and apparently more irredeemable death; how each agony wore the aspect of a struggle with some " visibie foe; and how each struggle was succeeded by I know not what of wild change in the personal appearance of the corpse? Let me hurry to a conclusion. The greater part of the fearful night had worn away, and she who had been dead, once again stirred — and .low more vigor- ously than hitherto, although arousing from a dissolution more appalling in its utter helplessness than any. I had long ceased to struggle or to move, and remained sitting rigidly upon the ot toma n, a helpless prey to a whirl of violent emotions, of which extreme avve was perhaps the least terrible, the least consuming. The corpse, I repeat, stirred, and now more vigorously than before. The hues of life flushed up with unwonted energy into the countenance — the limbs relaxed — and, save that the eyelids were yet pressed heavily together, and that the bandages and dra- peries of the grave still imparted their charnel character to the figure, I might have dreamed that Rowena had indeed shaken off, utterly, the fetters of Death. But if this idea was not, even then, altogether adopted, I could at least doubt no longer, when, aris- ing from the bed, tottering, with feeble steps, with closed eyes, and with the manner of ane bewildered in a dream, the thing that was enshrouded advanced bodily and palpably into the middle of the apartment. I trembled not — I stirred not — for a crowd of unutterable fancies connected with the air, the stature, the demeanor of the figure, rushing hurriedly through my brain, had paralyzed — had chilled me into stone. I stirred not — but gazed upon the appa- rition. There was a mad disorder in my thoughts — a tumult unappeasable. Could it, indeed, be the iiving Rowena who con- fronted me? Could it indeed be Rowena at a// — the fair- haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena Trevanion of Tremaine. itfiatikiUiMMB 1 R| H i m t ' 1 s I : 41' i 1 11 i 1 1 1 : 1 if M m II AMERICAN PKOSR Why, why should I doubt it? Ihe iKindage hiy heavily a1u)ut the mouth — l»ut then migiit it not l)c ihf mouth o( the l)r'athinK l«ndy of Tremaine? And the chcelcs - there were the roses as in her noon of life — yes, these riiight indeed be the fair cheeks of the living I-a»ly of I'remaine. And the chin, with its dimples, as in h'.'nith, might it not be hers? but had she then f;i own talier since ,:c. maliitiy f What inexj-reysible madness seized me with that thoi j^iit? One bound, and I had reached her feet! Shrink- ing from my touch, she let fall from her head the gliastly cere- ments which had confined it, and there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of the chamber, huge masses of long and dishevelled hair; // was blacker than the n'/ni,'< of the inidnii^ht ! And now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood before me. "Here then, at least," I shrieked aloud, "can I never — can I never be mistaken — these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes — of my lost love — of the Lady — of the Lauv LlC.KIA." [From I.i^eia, i8j8. Reprinted, hy perniissJDn of Herbert S. Stone and Co., from Worki, vol. i, pp. 195-202] THE MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE I have said that the whims of my friend were manifold, and thatyi? les Htenagais : — for this phrase there is no Knglish equiva- lent. It was his humor, now, to decline all conversation on the subject of the murder, until about noon the next day. He then asked me, suddenly, if I had observed anything peculiar at the scene of the atrocity. There was something in his manner of emphasizing the word •■• peculiar," which caused me to shudder, without knowing why. "No, nothing />^<*///.V»;-," I said; "nothing more, at least, than we both saw stated in the paper." " The Gazette" he replied, " has not entered, I fear, into the unusual horror of the thing. But dismiss the idle opinions of this print. It appears to me that this mystery is considered insoluble, for the very reason which should cause it to he regarded as easy of solution — I mean for the outre character of its features. The ' ■i.fff^a X! ttbm,^^ »j ,\ At-^ W eavily about he l)r'athing the roses as e fair cheeks its dimples, ,t;rou'ii taller ized me with •et! Shrink- ghastly cere- irth, into the of long and he miiliiii^ht ! stood before n I never — le black, and of the Lauy , Stone and Co., JE lanifold, and iglish equiva- ation on the y. He then ciiliar at the ing the word nowing why. at least, than sar, into the inions of this red insoluble, rded as easy ;atures. The "^TH EDGAR .ti.r.Ay roK 285 police are confoumled by the seeming absence of motive : not for the murder itself, but for the atnx ity of the niunler. They are pu/zled, too, l)y theseeming impossibility of reconciling the voices heard in contention, with the facts that no one was dis- covered upstairs but the assassinated Mademoiselle I,'Kspanayc, and that there were no means of egress without the notice of the i)arty ascending. The wild disorder of the room; the corpse thrust, with the head downward, up the chimney ; the frightful mutilation of the body of the old lady ; these considerations, with those just mentioned, and others which I need not mention, have sufficed to l)aralyze the pow fs, by putting completely at fault the boasted acumen, of the government agents. They have fallen into the gross but common error of confounding the unusual with the abstruse. But it is by these deviations from the plane of the ordinary that reason feels its way, if at all, in its iiearch for the true. In in- vestigations such as we are now pursuing, it should not be so much asked ' what has occurred,' as ' what has occurred that has never occurred before.' In fact, the facility with which I shall arrive, or have arrived, at the solution of this mystery, is in the direct ratio of its apparent insolubility in the eyes of the police." I stared at the speaker in mute astonishment. " I am now awaiting," continued he, looking toward the door of our apartment — "I am now awaiting a person who, although per- haps not the perpetrator of these butcheries, must have been in some measure implicated in their perpetration. Of the worst por- tion of the crimes committed, it is probable that he is innocent. I hope that I am right in this supposition ; for upon it I build my expectation of reading the entire riddle. I look for the man here — in this room — every moment. It is true that he may not arrive ; but the probability is that he will. Should he come, it will be necessary to detain him. Here are pistols ; and we both know how to use them when occasion demands their use." I took the pistols, scarcely knowing what I did, or believing what I heard, while Dupin went on, very much as if in a soliloquy, I have already spoken of his abstract manner at such times. His discourse was addressed to myself; but his voice, although by no means loud, had that intonation which is commonly em- Jj ™ * f I:: H 286 AMUKICAN PKOSF. l)l()yf(l in spcakiiiK to Mome one nt a ureal (lislance His eyes, vacant in exprrssioii, ri-j^ardeil only thf wall. "That the voiies lu-ard in contention," he said, "by the party upon the stairs, were not the voices of the women tiiemselves, was fully provivj by the evidence. I'his relieves us of all doubt upon the ipicslion whether the old lady could have first destroyed the daugiiler, and afterward have coniniitted suicide. I speak of this point < hiclly for the sake of method ; for the strength of Madam l.'ICspanaye would have been utterly iinecpial to the task of thrustinj; her daughter's corpse up the chimney as it was found ; and the nature of the wounds upon her own person entirely pre- clude the idea of self-destruction. Murtler, then, has been com- mitted by some third party ; and the voices of this third i)arty were those heanl in contention. Let me now advert — not to the whole testimony respecting these voices — but to what was/<-<7///rtr in that testimony. Did you observe anything peculiar about it?" I remarked that, while all the witnesses agreed in supposing the gruff voice to be that of a Frenchman, there was much disagree- ment in regard to the shrill, or, as one individual termed it, the harsh voice. " That was the evidence itself," said Dupin, " but it was not the peculiarity of the evidence. You have observed nothing distinc- tive. Yet there urns something to be observed. The witnesses, as you remark, agreed alwut the gruff voice ; they were here unan- imous. Hut in regard to the shrill voice, the peculiarity is — not that they disagreed -but that, while an Italian, an English- man, a Spaniard, a Hollander, and a Frenchman attempted to describe it, each one spoke of it as that 0/ a foreif^ner. Each is sure that it was not the voice of one of his own countrymen. Each likens it — not to the voice of an individual of any nation with whose language he is conversant — but the converse. The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and ' might have distinguished some viox<\^ had he been acquainted ivith the Spanish.' The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman ; but we find it stated that ' not understanding French, this witness was examined throui^h an interpreter.' The linglishman thinks it the voice of a (ierman, and ' does not understand German.' The Spaniard ' is sure ' that it was that of an Englishman, but 'judges KDGAti All. AN ran 2H7 His eycii, y the party tliL'iuselves, L)f all (iouht St destroyed I speiik of strength of to the task t was found ; entirely pre- heen corn- third i)arty — not to the w:^"!, peculiar r aI)out it?" ipposing the ch disagrec- rnied it, the t was not the ling distinc- le witnesses, e here unan- uliarity is — an English- Lttempted to er. Each is countrymen, if any nation averse. The ' might have (he Spunish.' Frenchman ; , this witness nan thinks it nnan.' The , but 'judges by the intonation' altogether, ' hk he has no knowlfil^e of the luif;- iish: 'I'he Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but 'has never conversed ivith a native of Russia: A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian ; but, not l>eini; ,ot;ni:ant of that toni^ue, is, like the Spanir.rtI, 'convinced by the intonation." Now, how strangely unusual nuist th:it voice have really been, about which such testimony as this .-, '//y have been elicited ! — in whose tones, even, deni/ens of the uve great divisions of lOurope could rec- ognize nothing familiar! You will say that it might have been the voice of an Asiatic — of an African. Neither Asiatics nor Africans al)ound in I'aris ; but, without denying the inference, I will now merely call your attention to three points. 'I'lic voice is termed by one witness ' harsh rather than shrill.' It is represented by two others to have been ' quick and unequal: No words — no sounils resembling words — were by any witness mentioned a.s distinguishable. " I know not, " continued Dupin, " what impression I may have made, so far, upon your own understanding ; but I do not hesitate to say that legitimate deductions even from this |)ortion of the testimony — the portion respecting the gruff and shrill voices — are in themselves sufficient to engender a suspicion which should give direction to all farther progress in the investigation of the mystery. 1 said ' legitimate deductions ' ; but my meaning is not thus fully expressed. I designed to imply that the deductions are the sole proper ones, and that the suspicion arises inevitably from them as the single result. What the suspicion is, however, I will not say just yet. I merely wish you to bear in mind that, with myself, it was sufficiently forcible to give a definite form — a certain tendency — to my inquiries in the chamber. "Let us now transport ourselves, in fancy, to this chamber. What shall we first seek here? The means of egress employed by the murderers. It is not too much to say that neither of us believe in preternatural events. Madame anil Mademoiselle L'Espanaye were not destroyed by spirits. The doers of the deed were material, and escaped materially. Then how ? Fortu- nately there is but one mode of reasoning upon the point, and that mode must lead us to a definite decision. — l^t us examine, 288 AMERICAN PROSR \\\- each by each, the possible means of egress. It is clear that the assassins were in !:he room where Mademoiselle L'Pspanaye was found, or at least in the room adjoining, when the party ascended the stairs. It is then only from these two apartments that we have to seek issues. The poHce have laid bare the floors, tlie ceiUngs, and the masonry of the walls, in every direction. No secret issues could have escaped their vigilance. But, not trust- ing to their eyes, I examined with my own. There were, then, no secret issues. Both doors leading from the rooms into the passage were securely locked, with the keys inside. Let us turn to the chimneys. These, although of ordinary width for some eight or ten feet above the hearths, will not admit, throughout their extent, the body of a large cat. The impossibility of egress, by means already stated, being tlius absolute, we are reduced to the windows. Through those of the front room no one could have escaped with- out notice from the crowd in the street. The murderers must have passed, tlum, through those of the back room. Now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these apparent ' impossibilies' are, in reality, not such. "Tiiere are two windows in the chamber. One of them is unobstructed by furniture, and is wholly visible. The lower por- tion of the other is hidden from view by the head of the unwieldy bedstead which is thrust close up against it. The former was found securely fastened from within. It resisted the utmost force of those who en'leavored to raise it. A large gimlet-hole had been pierced in its '.rame to the left, and a very stout nail was found fitted therein, nearly to the head. Upon examining the other window, a similar nail tvas seen similarly fitted in it ; and a vigor- ous attempt to raise this sash, failed also. The police were now entirely satisfied that egress had not been in these directions. And, therefore, it was thought a matter of supererogation to with- draw the nail and open the windows. " My own examination was somewhat more piarticular, and was so for the reason I have just given ; because here it was, I knew^ that all apparent impossibilities must be proved to be not such in reality. clear that the le L'rispanaye 'hen the party ;wo apartments bare the floors, direction. No But, not triist- j were, then, no nto the passage us turn to the some eight or )ut their extent, ress, by means to the windows, e escaped with- erers must have fow, brought to ire, it is not our t impossibilities. : ' impossibilies ' )ne of them is The lower por- of the unwieldy rhe former was he utmost force t-hole had been nail was found lining the other it ; and a vigor- lolice were now hese directions, agatiou to with- rticular, and was it was, I knew^ be not such in EDGAR ALLAN POE 289 " I proceeded to think thus — a posteriori. The murderers did escape from one of these windows. Tiiis l)eing so, they could not have refastened the sashes from the inside, as they were found fitstened : the consideration which put a stop, tlirougii its obvious- ness, to the scrutiny of the police in this quarter. Yet the sashes 7iiere fastened. They iiiiist, then, have the power of fastening themselves. There was no esc:ii)e from this conclusion. I stepped to the unobstructed casement, withdrew the nail with some diffi- culty, and attempted to raise the sash. It resisted all uiy efforts, as I had anticipated. A concealed spring must, I now knew, exist ; and this corroboration of my idea convinced me tliat my premises, at least, were correct, however mysterious still appeared the cir- cumstances attending the nails. A careful search ..oon brought to liglit the hidden spring. I pressed it, and, satisfied with the dis- covery, forbore to upraise the sash. " I now replaced the nail and regarded it attentively. A person passing ou!. through this window might have reclosed it, and the spring would have caught — but the nail could not have been re- placed. The conclusion was plain, and agai'i narrowed in the field of my investigations. The assassins must have escaped through the other window. Supposing, then, the springs upon each sash to be the same, as was probable, there must be found a difference between the nails, or at least between the modes of their fixture, (letting upon the sacking of the bedstead, I looked over the head-board minutely at the second casement. Passing my hand down behind the board, I readily discovered and pressed the spring, which was, as I had supposed, identical in character with its neighbor. I now looked at the nail. It was as stout as the other, and apparently fitted in the same manner — driven in nearly up to the head. " You will say that I was puzzled ; but, if you think so, you must have misunderstood the nature of the inductions. To use a sport- ing phrase, I had not been once ' at fault.' The scent had never for an instant been lost. There was no flaw in any link of the chain. I had traced the secret to its ultimate result, — and that result was the nail. It had, I say, in every respect, the appearance of its fellow in the other window ; but this fact was an absolute nullity (conclusive as it might seem to be) when compared with 290 AMERICAN PROSE the consideration that here, at this point, terminated the clew. •There must be something wrong,' I said, 'about the nail." I touched it ; and the head, with about a quarter of an inch of tlie sliank, came off in my fingers. The rest of tiie shank was in the gimlet-hole, where it had been broken off. The fracture was an old one (for its edges were incrusted with rust), and had appar- ently been accomplished by the blow of a hammer, which had par- tially embedded, in the top of the bottom sash, the head portion of the nail. I now carefully replaced this head portion in the in- dentation whence I had taken it, and the resemblance to a per- fect nail was complete — the fissure was invisible. Pressing the spring, I gently raised the sash for a few inches ; the head went up with it, remaining firm in its bed. I closed the window, and the semblance of the whole nail was again perfect. "The riddle, so far, was now unriddled. The assassin had escaped through the window which looked ujwn the bed. Drop- ping of its own accord upon his exit (or perhaps purposely closed), it had become fastened by the spring; and it was the reten- tion of this spring which had been mistaken by the police for that of the nail — further inquiry being thus considered unneces- sary. " The next question is that of the mode of descent. Upon this point I have been satisfied in my walk with you around the build- iig. About five feet and a half from the casement in question there runs a lightning-rod. From this rod it would have been impossible for any one to reach the window itself, to say nothing of entering it. I observed, however, that the shutters of the fourth story were of the peculiar kind called by Parisian carpen- ters /^rm^w — a kind rarely employed at the present day, but fre- quently seen upon very old mansions at Lyons and Bordeaux. They are in the form of an ordinary door (a single, not a folding door), except that the lower half is latticed or worked in open trellis — thus affording an excellent hold for ihe hands. In the present instance these shutters are fully three feet and a half broad. When we saw them from the rear of the house, they were both about half open — that is to say, they stood off at right angles from the wall. It is probable that the police, as well as myself, examined the back of the tenement ; but, if so, in looking at these J. ated the clew, t the nail." I an inch of the lank was in the fracture was an nd had appar- which had par- e head jwrtion »rtion in the in- lance to a per- Pressing the the head went le window, and e assassin had le bed. Drop- rpostly closed), was the reten- the police for dered unneces- :nt. Upon this ound the build- snt in question )uld have been to say nothing shutters of the >arisian carpen- ;nt day, but fre- and Bordeaux. le, not a folding rorked in open hands. In the nd a half broad, they were both at right angles } well as myself, looking at these EDGAR ALLAN POE 291 fermdes in the line of their breadth (as they must have done), they did not perceive this great breadth itself, or, at all events, failed to take it into due consideration. In fact, having once sat- isfied themselves that no egress could have been made in this quarter, they would naturally bestow here a very cursory exami- nation. It was clear to me, hovever, that the sliutter belonging to the window at the head of the bed would, if swung fully back to the wall, reach to within two feet of the lightning-rod. It was also evident that, by exertion of a very unusual degree of activity and courage, an entrance into the window, from the rod, might have been thus effected. By reaching to the distance 3f two feet and a half (we now suppose the shutter open to its whole extent), a robber might have taken a firm grasp upon the trellis-work. Letting go, then, his hold upon the rod, placing his feet securely against the wall, and springing boldly from it, he might have swung the shutter so as to close it, and, if we imagine the win- dow open at the time, might even have swung himself into the room. " I wish you to bear especially in mind that I have spoken of a very unusual degree of activity as requisite to success in so hazard- ous and so difficult a feat. It is my design to show you first, that the thing might possibly have been accomplished : but, secondly and chiefly, I wish to impress upon your understanding the very extraordinary, the almost preternatural, character of that agility which could have accomplished it. " You will say, no doubt, using the language of the law, that ' to make out my case ' I should rather undervalue than insist upon a full estimation of the activity required in this matter. This may be the practice in law, but it is not the usage of reason. My ulti- mate object is only the truth. My immediate purpose is to lead you to place in juxtaposition that very tiinisiial activity, of which I have just spoken, with that vciy peculiar ^\\n\\ (or harsh) and unequal voice, about whose nationality no two persons could be found to agree, and in whose utterance no syllabification could be detected." At these words a vague and half-formed conception of the meaning of Dupin flitted over my mind. I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without power to comprehend ; as i '^ 292 AMERICAN PROSE men, at times, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without l)eing able, in tlie end, to remember. My friend went on with his discourse. " You will see," he said, " that 1 have shifted the question from the mode of egress to that of ingress. It was my design to con- vey the idea that both were effected in the same manner, at the same point. Let us now revert to the interior of the room. Let us survey the appearances here. The drawers of the bureau, it is said, hp.;! been rifled, although many articles of apparel still remained within them. The conclusion here is absurd. It is a mere guess — a very silly one — and no more. How are we to know that the articles foimd in the drawers were not all these drawers had originally contained? Madame I.'Espanaye and her daughter lived an exceedingly retired life — saw no company, seldom went out, had little use for numerous changes of habili- ment. Those found were at least of as good quality as any likely to be possessed by these ladies. If a thief had taken any, why did he not take the best — why did he not take all? In a word, why did he abandon four thousand francs in gold to encumber himself with a bundle of linen? The gold was abandoned. Nearly the whole sum mentioned by Monsieur Mignaud, the banker, was discovered, in bags, upon the floor. I wish you, therefore, to discard from your thoughts the blundering idea of fiictive, engendered ii the brains of the police by that portion o*" thi evidence which speaks of money delivered at the door of the house. Coincidences ten times as remarkable as this (the deliv- ery of the money, and murder con ~iitted within three days upon the party receiving it) happen to all of us every hour of our lives, without attracting even momentary notice. Coincidences, in gen- eral, are great stumbling-blocks in the way of that class of thinkers who have been educated to know nothing of the theory of proba- bilities : that theory to which the most glorious objects of human research are indebted for the most glorious of illustration. In the present instance, had the gold been gone, the fact of its delivery three rhys before would have formed something more than a coin- cidence. It would have been corroborative of this idea of motive. But, imder the real cir'-vmstances of the case, if we were to sup- pose gold the motive li this outrage, we must also imagine the ^ EPaih' .l/./.A.V I'OE 293 remembrance, friend went on question from design to con- manner, at the le room. Let the bureau, it if apparel still jsurd. It is a -low are we to : not all these anaye and her no company, nges of habili- ty as any likely aken any, why I ? In a word, 1 to encumber IS abandoned. Mignaud, the I wish you, lering idea of hat portion o*" de door of the Ills (the deliv- iree days upon lur of our lives, lences, in gen- lass of thinkers eory of proba- jects of human ration. In the of its delivery re than a coin- idea of motive. e were to sup- ;o imagine the l)erpetrutor so vacillafMig an idiot as to have abandoned his gold and his motive together. " Keeping now steadily in mintl the i)oiiUs to which I have diawn your attention — that peculiar voice, tliat unusual agility, and that startling absence of motive in a murder so singularly atrocious as this — let us glance at the butchery itself. Here is a woman strangled to death by manual strength, and thrust uji a chimney, head downward. Ordinary assassins employ no such modes of murder as this. Least of all, do they thus dispose o." the murdered. In the manner of thrusting the corjise up the chim- ney, you will admit that there was something excessively outre — something altogether irreconcilable with our common notions of human action, even when we suppose the actors the most de- praved of men. Think, too, how great must have been that strength which could have thrust the body /// such an ajierture so forcibly that the united vigor of several persons was found barely sufficient to drag it down! "Turn, now, to other indications of the employment of a vigor most marvellous. On the hearth were thick tresses — very thick tresses — of gray human hair. These had been torn out by the roots. You are aware of the great force necessary in tearing thus from the head even twenty or thirty hairs together. Vou saw the locks in question as well as myself. Their roots (a hideous sight !) were clotted with fragments of the flesh of the scalp : sure token of the prodigious power which had been exerted in uprooting perhaps half a million of hairs at a time. The throat of the (Md lady was not merely cut, but the head absolutely severed from the body : the instrument was a mere razor. I wish you also to look at the brutal ferocity of these deeds. Of the bruises upon the body of Madame L'Espanaye I do not speak. Monsieur Dumas, and his worthy coadjutor Monsieur fttienne, have pronounced that they were inflicted by some obtuse instrument ; and so far these gentle- men are very correct. The obtuse instrument was clearly the stone pavement in the yard, upon which the victim had fallen from the window which looked in upon the bed. This idea, however simple it may now seem, escaped the police for the same reason that the breadth of the shutters escaped them — because, by the affair of the nails, their perceptions had been -"'!«*K-:r:.5?Ysr;--'< w 294 AMERICAN rROSE n- hermetically sealed against the possibility of the windows having ever been opened at all. " If now, in adilition to alt these things, you have properly reflected upon the odd disorder of the chamber, we have gone so far as to combine the ideas of an agility astounding, a strength superhuman, a ferocity brutal, a butchery without motive, a givfesijueiie in horror absolutely alien from humanity, and a voice foreign in tone to the ears of men of many nations, and de- void of all distinct or intelligible syllabification. What result, then, has ensued? What impression have I made upon your fancy ? " I felt a creeping of the flesh as Dupin asked me the question. "A madman," I said, "has done this deed — some raving maniac, escaped from a neighboring Maison ik Sanfe." " In some respects," he replied, " your idea is not irrelevant. But the voices of madmen, even in their wildest paroxysms, are never found to tally with that peculiar voice heard ujwn the stairs. Madmen are of some nation, and their language, however inco- herent in its words, has always the coherence of syllabification. Besides, the hair of a madman is not such as I now hold in my hand. I disentangled this little tuft from the rigidly clutched fingers of Madame I/Espanaye. Tell me what you can make of it." " Dupin ! " I said, completely unnerved ; " this hair is most unusual — this is no /luinan hair." " I have not asserted that it is," said he ; " but, before we decide this point, I wish you to glance at the little sketch I have here traced upon this paper. It is a fac-simile drawing of what has been described in one portion of the testimony as 'dark bruises, and deep indentations of finger nails,' upon the throat of Mademoiselle L'Espanaye, and in another (by Messrs. Dumas and fetienne), as a 'series of livid spots, evidently the impression of fingers.' "You will perceive," continued my friend, spreading out the paper upon the table before us, " that this drawing gives the idea of a firm and fixed hold. There is no slipping apparent. Each finger has retained — possibly until the death of the victim — the fearful grasp by which it originally imbedded itself. Attempt, windows having have properly we have gone ling, a strength iQUt motive, a ty, and a voice tions, and de- What result, ide upon your e the question, raving maniac, not irrelevant, paroxysms, are iijwn the stairs. , however inco- syllabification. low hold in my igidly clutched you can make s hair is most 3ut, before we 2 sketch I have rawing of what iiony as 'dark pon the throat Messrs. Dumas the impression eading out the ; gives the idea :)parent. Each f the victim — self. Attempt, EDGAR ALLAN POE 295 now, to place all your fingers, at the same time, in the respective impressions as you see them." I made the attem[)t in v,.in. " We are possibly not giving this matter a fair trial," he said. " The paper is spread out upon a plane surface ; but the human throat is cylindrical. Here is a billet of wood, the circumference of which is about that of the throat. Wrap the drawing around it, and try the experiment again." I did so ; but the difficulty was even more obvious than before. "This," I said, " is the mark of no human hand." "Read now," replied Dujiin, " this passage from Cuvier." It was a minute anatomical and generally descriptive account of the large fulvous ourang-outang of the fi^ast Indian Islands. The gigantic stature, the prodigious strength and activity, the wild ferocity, and the imitative propensities of tliese mammalia are sufficiently well known to all. I understood the full horrors of the murder at once. [From The Murders in the Rue Mors;ue, 1841. Reprinted, by permission of Herbert S. Stone and Co., from Works, vol. iii, pp. 74-89.] THE MASQUE OF THE RED DEATH But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the Prince were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not. He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great /h\lhm of tliis latter is an esstMUial aid in the development of the poem's highest idea — the idea of the Keautiful -the artifu ialities of this rhythm arc an insepa- rable l);'r to the development of all points of thought or expres- sion which have their basis in I'rnth. Itut I'ruth is often, and in a very great degree, the aim of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. 'I'hus the field of this sjjecies of compositi^,,*>->^^gc.;^.. Uy |^j. gimr-"*"^ jvjth g ^^^.^fS^m^f^^^ the conscious literary form of his early letterV Ik liT!!ll !!||J?PlSTIy1fR?tng- lish classics. Pope's Homeland the Encyclopedia. -Aftcr-^rirhrattonT^wcnt for a year to the Dane Law School. Disliking the study, he began'immedi- ately to study medicine in Boston. After graduation he went to Europe, in the spring of 1833, studying medicine for a year at Paris, travelling, a little, and returning in the autumn of 1835. The next year he began practice and pub- lished later some medical essays which stood well and contained discoveries of some importance. In 1847 he became Parkman Professor of Anatomy and Physiology in the medical school of Harvard Unive rsity, a po«t which he held for thirty-five years. A considerabie4ail4 ^l hisTTme wa's aeVOted tyJS^Ture tour5_abg»Mh« rniipttt^, His connect ion with \)^c Atlantic Monthly began in 1857, through the influence of Janw* KuSgell iyrm^.TftlAimcrat 0/ the Breakfast TabUAODea.re(\ in that peri(^3T?jrTFr:785p5l?,~-7»f Pro/es'sorUt lKe~Break/ast Table in 1859, The Poet at the Breakfast Table in 1872, and Over the Teacups in 1891. Besides this series he published thr.;e novels, Elsie Venner (1861), The Guardian Angel (l86'/), and A Mortal Antipathy (1885), '"fl t*o biographies, a Life of John Lothrop Motley (1879) and a Life of Ralph Waldo Emerson (1885). Pages from an Old Volume of Life contains essays written from 1857 to 1881. His time went more and more to literary pursuits and less to medicine as his life advanced.] OuvER W-iNDELL HoLMES has left several of the most popular volumes of prose in American literature. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Tab!:, The Professor at the Breakfast Table, and, to a less extent, The Poet at th'' Breakfast Table, are among the small number of essays which have a large American public. Although 303 \ l(f 304 AMERICAN PROSE they are essays, the freedom of their form — in turn narrative, dramatic, and expository — matches the variety of tlieir subjects, so that their unity is in the personality of the writer. It is mainly wit that makes these books Hve, but the wit is composed largely of wisdom, and is carried along in an easy, flowing, and limber style, at once familiar and finished, — a style which expresses not only the man, but the time and place. New I-lngland has given to literature names which are greater, but none which springs more unmistakably from her soil. Distinct thought about life, expressed with wit and elegance, must have much that is common to civiliza- tion, but the breakfast-table series is as deeply saturated with New England as it is with Oliver Wendell Holmes. IJoston was the universe to Holmes. Concentration of life and thought in one atrilosphere gave to his writings their flavor rather than their sub- stance, and it is largely their flavor which h.s recommended them to his countrymen. Thoroughly as Holmes belongs to New England, he is part of no group. The larger tenilencies of his time, whicli found their expression in the transcendental movement, left the Autocrat un- touched. Democracy never whispered its vaguer poetry in his ear. His part of New England life was not its aspiration, but its Yankee shrewdness, — youthful, independent, wide-awake, matter of fact, even in the statement of truths tinged with imagination. Vagueness, color, a reaching out after something not yet seen, is the characteristic of the bulk of New England's greatest literature. Clearness, precision, confidence, are the elements of Holmes's Yankee mind. In the Autocrat this concrete and witty intellect is at its gayest. The Professor has less das^, and more ripeness and mild breadth. Naturally, therefore, the earlier book is still the more popular, and its successor the favorite of the most cultiv-lu'd fraction of readers. It is not less witty. It is only less t ; .;; ui- inatic and more leisurely. As these books, begun when tl'e i> .'^ . s. powers were at their height, took from his mind its brightest ; ''s- tals, the world has put the two later instalments of the series on a lower shelf. Of the novels, the first two were popular in their time, and Elsie Venner is still much read, b)Jt they have never been treated as important contributions. Holmes's mind was not constructive, but discursive. He could create characters and tell OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 30s irn narrn.tive, heir subjects, It is mainly posed largely ;, and limber expresses not 1 has given to springs more life, expressed on to civiliza- ited with New iston was the lought in one lian their sub- recommended he is part of :h found their ; Autocrat un- poetry in his ration, but its awake, matter \ imagination. )t yet seen, is test literature, i of Holmes's itty intellect is e ripeness and ok is still the lost cult'v..!ed less ti^'-,. ni- ;n \y^ iKubi i'b brightest ;';'h- the series on )pular in their ey have never mind was not icters and tell stt)ries, but it was in the manner of conversation. The best things in his fiction are digressions. The psychological interest domi- nates, and most of the formal development seems an effort of the will. "A Romance of Destiny," the sub-title of Elsie Venner, suggests his attitude toward his " medicated novels," as an old lady called them. Every one of his volumes contains brilliant passages, from the medical essays to Over the Teacups, but if pos- terity shall seek the author in the Autocrat, the Professor, and the i'oet, it will find the whole of him. In his happiest passages he is all those persons : an autocrat, revelling in his own personality; a professor, with information, and interest in the larger psychology ; and a jioet, who loved Pope and would have been the same had Wordsworth never lived. " This series of papers," he tells us, " was not the result of an express premeditation, but was, as I may say, dipped from the running stream of my thoughts." In it he has left such an intimate picture of himself as daily con- versation would have given. The types of New Kngland character which are sketched dra- matically and sharply in these papers did as much to give them their immediate success as the humorous philosophy of the princi- pal speaker. They range from the broadly comic to the pathetic, although htmior and pathos are never far apart. The landlady and her daughter, the schoolmistress. Little Boston, and as many others, have become familiar persons, but perhaps the most brilliantly executed, next to the autographical character, is " the young man whom they (;all John." In him-American humor, independence, and crudity take their most distinctive and most entertaining form. He is what the Autocrat would have been without culture, — the observant wit in its primitive state. Next to him come the series of kxjuacious and unreasonable women, universal personages, talk- ing not about the details of the life about them, so much as about the things which people everywhere discuss, yet proving their na- tionality in the turn of every phrase. The characters which are less comic, especially those which are supposed to have a touch of aristocratic distinction, are not so firmly drawn. The single passages which stand out for individual brilliancy are usually those in which the Autocrat moralizes in his own person, covering im- portant subjects with his special genial comment. He felt, kindly 3o6 AMERICAN PROSE and sympathetically, the general tragedies of life, but his mode of imtting even tragic truths was a playful one. For instance, noth- ing impressed him more constantly than the battle between the weak and the strong, and this is one way of stating it : " Each generation strangles and drowns its predecessor. The young Fee- jeean carries a cord in his girdle for his father's neck ; the young American, a string of propositions or syllogisms in his brain to finish the same relative ; the old man says, ' My son, I have swal- lowed and tligested the wisdom of the past.' The young man says, ' Sire, I proceed to swallow and digest thee with all thou knowest.' " Not unrelated to Holmes's humorous attitude toward every part of life, and to his dislike of the vague and his content with what truth can be put clearly in a sentence, was his entire absence from the great political movements which reached their climax while he was quietly smiling in his study. His readers would hardly know that there had been an abolition movement or a war, except from occasional not altogether sympathetic passages. He was sceptical about everything new except science. On that firm ground alone he felt at home, and probably at least nine tenths of his metaphors have a more or less distinctly scientific origin. The great, indistinct, ethical enthusiasm of the nation, which gradually carried along the cautious Emerson, and brought such a noble response from Lowell, was not to the taste of Holmes. He was the nice gendeman, full of delicacy, who did not like to see the proprieties disturbed. The sword and the truiiipet were un- pleasant objects. He suggested, as his doctor's sign, " the small- est fever gratefully received," and such was the tone in which he liked best to handle other things as serious as fevers. The Ameri- can nature has its enthusiastic, idealistic side, but even more ob- vious and pervading is its fatalistic, good-humored jocosity, which could hardly be represented more vividly than it was in the mind and character of Dr. Holmes. The Autocrat has given pleasure to thousands, but he has had Uttle more influence on Hfe or letters than the shirt-sleeved philosopher in 'a Yankee post-office who lazily retails quaint witticisms about his neighbors. Holmes is without successors, as he was without predecessors. The world amused him, he amused it, and each left the other in statu quo. 1 It his mode of nstance, noth- ; between the ng it : " Each he young Fee- :k ; the young 1 his brain to 1, I have swal- le young man with all thou toward every is content with entire absence I their climax readers would ment or a war, passages. He On that firm ; nine tenths of ic origin. The ihich gradually such a noble Holmes. He lot like to see mjjet were un- jn, " the small- le in which he 5. The Ameri- even more ob- jocosity, which ras in the mind given pleasure »n life or letters post-office who rs. Holmes is rs. The world in statu quo. OLIVER WF.:^nF.I.I. HOLMES 307 Although he lacked sympathy with change, everything simple and unchanging, however ludicrous, had his friendly appreciation. When he speaks of his " recollection of the two women, drifting upon their vocabularies as upon a shoreless ocean," surely the geniality and the kindliness are as visible as the fun. " Better too few words from the woman we love than too many ; while she is silent nature is working for her ; while she talks she is working for herself." That again is his dominant note, a smiling hospitality for the fixed truths, not the less genuine that it was always adorned with friendly satire. To his deta» hed obser\'ation the world was fragmentary and capricious, and much of its conversation, which buzzed loudly about his ears, signified nothing. He notices in entering a railway station that the cars are travelling by their own momentum, the engine having noiselessly left them some time ago. " Indeed, you would not have suspected that you were travelling on the strength of a dead fact if you had not seen the engine run- ning away from you on a side track." So it is with women, their words are detached from their thoughts, but run on so rapidly that we never know the difference. "Well, they govern the world, — these sweet-lipped women, — because beauty is the im' \ of a larger fact than wisdom. . . . Wisdom is the abstract of the past, but beauty is the promise of the future." It is always the same, this half-tender sentiment for the every-day important facts of life, mixed with an irrepressible amusement at the absurdity of their expression. A man of a rambling, genial wisdom, without a system, whimsi- cal and charming, reflecting in his style the quality of the air he breathed, but showing no more definite influence than that of Sterne, and forming none, is not easy to jjlace in a literary hie- rarchy. Some of the books of Holmes are likely to be a per- manent part of our literature, because of their finish, conciseness, humor, and national atmosphere, and because there are no others like them. They promise to outlive many which have had a deeper influence. The man with a message is frequently laid in the ground when his message is accepted, while the man who has put into artistic form the old universal things which are ever young, and speaks in a tone that is suggestive and cheering, has always the same reason for existence. Norman Hapgoou HARRIET BEECHER STOWE r Harriet Elizabeth Beecher was the daughter of Lyman Beechcr, a distin- guihed old school Congregational divine of New England, and s.ster of Kry Ward Beecher. She was born at Litchfield. Conn., on June 14. 81 Tnot Isi 2). At the ag. of thirteen she went to Hartford, Conn., to attend the ichool of her elder si.ter Catherine, and was afterwards a teacher there. In ^832 the family removed to Cincinnati. Oh.o. and in .835 she was marr.ed to Professor Calvin E. Stowe of the ; .i.e Theological Seminary m that cty Her Lt Zw was The May Florver, or Sketch., of the Deuendants of the P.lgnms riLgr The next year the Stowes went to Brunswick, Me., and Umle/om's c2 was written there during 1850. first printed as a serial in the Wnshtugton Natioml Era (the author writing it under pressure to keep pace with .t appTarance). and published in book form in .852. The success of the novel Jls instant and .mmense. No other work of American authorsh.p has ap- proximated to such a circulation. Copies have sold ''V '^e humlreds o Thousands, and there are translations in some thirty tongues In 1852 Pro lessor Stowe was called to the Theological Seminary at Andover. Mass. In 864 the family removed to Hartford, where Mrs. Stowe resided contmuou Jr until her death on July ,. .896. Her F-c-pal -rksare: 6m/. r^- rnhiH f l8<;2^ • Dred, a Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp (1856) ; The Mm- fstsyoS; (.fss9-. The Pearl of Orr's7stand(m2); Agnes of Sorrento Xl^ty!mtL Folks (.869) ; and Sam Lawson's Fireside Stones (.87.). ] By writing Unc/e Tom's Cabin Mrs. Stowe took her place at once as something more than a literary figure. She became a moral force, operative to great results ; she helped to make Amer- ican history. The uniquely wide acceptance of her remarkable story was due, in large measure, to the timeliness of its topic, and the perfervid character of its didacticism. The novel was not a calculated literary performance, much less a tour, te force of letters. Its maker was a New England woman, a member of one of the most distinctive and typical families of the land. She was dow- ered with a strong religious instinct, was bred in a spiritual atmos- phere, and trained in a way to make conscience hypersensitive. 308 WE Heechcr, a distin- 1(1, and sister of on June 14, 181 1 nn., to attend the eacher there. In le was married to in that city. Her lis of the Pilgriim and Uncle Toni's in the Washinglon eep pace with its ccess of the novel uthorship has ap- iT the hundreds of es. In 1852 Pro- ndover, Mass. In sided continuously are : Uncle Tom's [^1856); TheMin- Agnes of Sorrento de Stories {\%^\).\ ok her place at She became a I to make Amer- her remarkable of its topic, and novel was not a e force of letters. er of one of the She was dow- i spiritual atmos- e hypersensitive. mmmm. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 309 Such a woman as this — a young New iMiglaml wife and mother, in touch with common .American life — felt to the uttermost keen- ness the horrors of hum;in slavery ; she saw them in relation to the political evils of her day and country, written, as it were, in blood. Then, with her soul white-hot with spiritual passion, she found a vent for her feelings. The tale is a notable example of improvisation, and the motive is frankly non-literary. Herein lie at once its merits and defects. Technically, this piece of fiction — ind it is quite the fashion of critics nowadays to say it — is an uncertain, even at times a slov- enly performance. The narrative style is loose and careless, and there is little or no distinction of manner, — which is only to say again that we have here the work of the improvisatrice. Nor has the dialogue, admirable as it often is, the verisimilitude to life which is now demanded in modern fiction of the highest class. But to stop here is to falsify with a half truth. Uncle Tom's Cabin is essentially a romance of power ; genius is behind it, after all. It is a vital presentment of dramatic scenes out of human life ; it has reality, picturesqueness, vivid characterization, emotional force — main denotements of romantic writing. Its dramatic nat- ure is implied plainly by the persistence of the story as a stage play. These qualities have been instrumental in securing for the narration its wonderful vogue. Had Mrs. Stowe's masterpiece been nothing but an earnest sermon of little literary worth, it would not to-day compel explanatioii. Such creations, faulty as they may be, quicken our sense of the dynamics of literature. They draw our eyes away from the objective side, the side of technique and law, to consider the inner impulse, the unpredica- ble gift. That Uncle Tom's Cabin is not without prejudice as a picture of life may be granted readily ; it were strange, indeed, if a New England woman of Mrs. Stowe's antecedents and convic- tions had presented the facts of slaveholding in the South with the colorless impartiality of a historian a generation after the Civil War. Yet the author certainly took pains to be accurate. She had visited the Southern plantations, she had observed at first hand. The Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin, published shortly after the novel appeared, shows how careful she was to base her representations upon the actual. Considering her position, the ^■■ii^-J^iJfcM?iv;(*"S^^>-^¥i^ w 310 AMERICAN FKOSE stury is remarkable for this striving after the truth, rather than for misstatements. It errs perhaps in empliasis of the abuses 01 sla- very, so that the chiaroscuro is untrue. Nevertheless, the bright side is not ignored : St. Clare and Miss Ophelia are in the tale as well as Haley and Legree. Moreover, the whole question of fair- ness of statement is aside from that of the merit of a piece of fic- tion which presents effectively, in its n^iin outlines of passion, tragedy, and homely humor, a typical phase of American life now passed away. In comparison with this genuine contribution to the fiction of our day, everything else written by Mrs. Stowe is dwarfed into insignificance. Siie was voluminous, and much of her work had but an ephemeral value. It is her fate to be a one-book author. Some of her literary creations, however, have more than a passing interest. Dred, a Tale of the Great Dismal Swamp is an impres- sive story, dealing with material similar to that handled in Uncle Tom^s Cabin. Nor should it be forgotten that Mrs. Stowe was a pioneer in the sketch of New England country life, a field since enriched by the labors of Miss Jewett, Miss Wilkins, and others. OltUown Folks and The Ministet^s IVooing present truthfully and with charm the manners and characters of their place and time. Such a figure as Sam Lawson, in the former book, is a permanent addition to our portrait gallery of fiction. More than the nasal tone, the idiosyncrasy of dress, and the superficial social customs of rural communities a generation ago are reproduced in such studies ; one is made to see the physiognomy of the New England mind and soul under earlier, simpler conditions. As social documents these sketches have an abiding value to the student of American life, while they are by no means without attraction for the present-day reader of fiction as such. The recent apologetic tone of native criticism, with respect to Mrs. Stowe's work, is a not unnatural reaction from the excessive laudation following hard upon the appearance of Uncle Tom's Cabin. The later critical attitude also indicates an increased sensi- tiveness to technique in literary art. It is likely that in the end this reactionary zeal will moderate so far as to allow of a juster judgment. That novel will then stand forth as a great piece of fiction, unequal, faulty, yet the product of power, and Mrs. Stove ^iil r ther than for ibuses oi sla- ss, the bright in the tnle as estion of fair- i piece of fic- s of passion, rican life now the fiction of dwarfed into lier work had -book author, ihan a passing I is an impres- dled in Uncle 3. Stowe was a , a field since IS, and others, truthfully and ace and time, s a permanent than the nasal :ial customs of 1 such studies ; land mind and (cuments these American life, he present-day vith respect to 1 the excessive f Uncle Tom's ncreased sensi- nat in the end low of a juster great piece of ind Mrs. Stove IIANNIKT REIXIIER STOWE 311 will go down in our history not only as an American whose literary work is so involved in our politic al development that it is difficult to estimate her work as literature, but also as one of the few writers in the United States whose imaginative creation has held attention beyond the author's own life and land. RiCHAKI) HUK'TON 3>2 AMERICAN mOSK \- A ■ KLI/.A'S KSCAPK TiiK bell here rang, and 'lorn was siimnioneil to the parlor. "Tom," said his master, kindly, "I want you to notice that 1 give this gentleman bonds to forfeit u thousand dollars if you are not on the spot when he wants you; he's going today to look after his other business, and you can have the day to yourself. CiO anywhere you like, boy." "Thank you, Mas'r," said Tom. "And mind yerself," said the trader, "and don't come it over your master with any o' yer nigger trit^ks; for I'll take every cent out of him, if you an't thar. If he'd hear to me he wouldn't trust any on ye — si ippery as eels ! " " Mas'r," said Tom, — and he stood very straight, — " I was jist eight years old when old Missis put you into jny arms, and you wasn't a year old. 'Thar,' say she, 'Tom, that's to be your young Mas'r; take good care on him,' says she. And now I jist ask you, Mas'r, have I ever broke word to you, or gone contrary to you, 'specially since I was a Christian?" Mr. Shelby was fairly overcome, and the tears rose to his eyes. " My good boy," said he, " the Lord knows you say but the truth ; and if 1 was able to help it, all the world shouldn't buy you." " And sure as I am a Christian woman," said Mrs. Shelby, " you shall be redeemed as soon as I can any way bring together means. Sir," she said to Haley, " take good account of whom you sell him to, and let me know." "I,or, yes, for that matter," said the trader, "I may bring him up in a year, not much the wuss for wear, and trade him bark."^^ "I'll trade with you then, and make it for your advantage," said Mrs. Shelby. "Of course," said the trader, "all's equal with me; li'ves trade 'em up as down, so I does a good business. All I want is a livin', you know, ma'am; that's all any on us wants, I s'pose." Mr. and Mrs. Shelby both felt annoyed and degraded by the familiar impudence of the trader, and yet both saw the absolute necessity of putting a constraint on their feelings. The more hopelessly sordid and insensible he appeared, the greater became the parlor, o notice that I ilhirs if you are today to look lay to yourself. I't come it over take every rent lie he wouldn't t, — "I was jist f arms, and you It's to be your And now I jist )r gone contrary rose to his eyes, ay but the truth ; I't buy you." rs. Shelby, " you together means, om you sell him • [ may bring him ide him bark." ■our advantage," me; li'ves trade want is a livin', 5' pose." degraded by the saw the absolute ngs. The more I greater became llAHniET nKEClll'.R STOWF. 313 Mrs. Shelby's dread of his succeeding in recapturing Kliza and her child, and of course the greater her motive for detaining him by every female artifice. She therefore gra( iotisly smiled, as- sented, chatted familiarly, anil did all she could to make time pass imperceptibly. At two o'clock Sam and Andy brought the horses up to the posts, apparently greatly refreshed and invigorated by the scami)er of the morning. Sam was there new oiled from dinner, with an abundance of zealous and ready officiousness. As Ilaley approached, he was boasting, in flourishing style, to Andy, of the evident and emi- nent success of the operation, now that he had " farly come to it." "Your master, I s'pose, don't keep no dogs," said Haley, thoughtfully, as he prepared to mount. "Heaps on 'em," said Sam, triumphantly; "thar's nruno — he's a roarer! and, besides that, 'bout every nigger of us keeps a pup of some natur or uther." "Poh!" said Haley, — and he said something else, too, with regard to the said dogs, at which Sam muttered, " I don't see no use cussin' on 'em, no way." "But your master don't keep no dogs (I pretty much know he don't) for trackin' out niggers." Sam knew exactly what he meant, but he kept on a look of earnest and desperate simplicity. "Our dogs all smells round considable sharp. I spect they's the kind, though they han't never hau no practice. They's far dogs, though, at most anything, if you'd get 'em started. Here, Bruno," he called, whistling to the lumbering Newfoundland, who came pitching tumultuously toward them. "You go hang! " said Haley, getting up. "Come, tumble up now." Sam tumbled up accordingly, dexterously contriving to tickle Andy as he did so, which occasioned Andy to split out into a laugh, greatly to Haley's indignation, who made a cut at him with his riding-whip. "I's 'stonished at yer, Andy," said Sam, with awful gravity. "This yer's a seris bisness, Andy. Yer mustn't be a makin' game. This yer an't no way to help Mas'r." 3«4 AMKKICAN rkOSK % >i < i il *i "I shall take the straijjht roiul to the river," said Haley, tlecidedly, after they had toine to the boundaries of the estate. " 1 know the way of all of 'em, — they makes tracks for the under- ground." ".Sartin," said Siun, 'Mat's de idee. Mas'r Haley hits de thing right in de middle. Now, der's two roads to de river, — de dirt road and der i)ike,- which Mas'r mean to take?" Andy looked up innocently at Sam, surprisctl at hearing this new geographical fact, but instantly confirmed what he said, by a vehement reiteration. "Cause," said Sam, "I'd rather be 'dined to 'magine that I.izy'd take de dirt road, bcin' it's the least travelled." Haley, notwithstanding that he was a very old biril, and natu- rally inclined to be sus|)icious of chaff, was rather brought up by this view of the case. "If yer warn't both on yer such cussed liars, now!" he said, contemplatively, as he pondered a moment. The pensive, reflective tone in which this was spoken appeared to amuse Andy prodigiously, and he drew a little behind, and shook so as apparently to run a great risk of falling off his horse, while Sam's face was immovably comp' into the most doleful gravity. "Course," said Sam, "Mas'r can uv/ aa he'd ruther; go de straight road, if Mas'r thinks best, — it's all one to us. Now, when I study 'pon it, I think the straight road de best, deruieiUy." "She would naturally go a lonesome way," said Haley, think- ing aloud, and not minding Sam's remark. "Dar an't no sayin'," said Sam; "gals is pecular; they never does nothin' ye thinks they will; mose gen'Uy the contrar. C.als is nat'lly made contrary; and so, if you thinks they've gone one road, it is sartin you'd better go t'other, and then you'll be sure to find 'em. Now, my private 'pinion is, Lizy took der dirt road; so I think we'd better take de straight one." This profound generic view of the female sex did not seem to dispose Haley particularly to the straight road; and he announced decidedly that he should go the other, and asked Sam when they should come to it. "A little piece ahead," said Sam, giving a wink to Andy with m ■••"^, said Haley, of the estate, [or tlie iinilcr- laley hits de 3 de river, — ;ake?" t hearing this It he said, by 'magine that ed." ird, and natu- brought up by ow ! " he said, Dken appeared e behind, and t off his horse, le most doleful ruther; go de to us. Now, est, deriiieiUy" Haley, think- lar; they never contrar. dais ey've gone one then you'll be ;y took der dirt lid not seem to i he announced Sam when they ik to Andy with lIARRlRr BF.F.CHER STOWF. 315 the eye whl( h was on Andy's side of the head; and he added, gravely, "Imt I'vo studded on de nuttir, and I'm .luite »lar we ought not to go dat ar way. I nci)i)cr i)ecn over it no way. it's despit lonesome, and we might lose our way,— whar we'd come to, de Lord only knows." "Nevertheless," said Haley, " I shall go that way." "Now I think on't, I think 1 hcarn 'em tell that dat ar road was all fenced up and down by der creek, and thar, an't it, Andy?" Andy wasn't certain; he'd only "hearn tell " about that ro.id, but never been over it. In short, he was strictly non-committal. Haley, accustomed to strike the balance of probabilities between lies of greater or lesser magnitude, thought that it lay in favor of the dirt road aforesaid. The mention of the thing he thought he perceived was involuntary on Sam's i)art at first, and his confused attempts to dissuade him he set down to a desperate lying on second thoughts, as being unwilling to implicate ICIiza. When, therefore, Sam imlicated the road, Haley plunged briskly into it, followed by Sam and Andy. Now, the road, in fact, w i an old one, that had formerly been a thoroughfare to the river, nut abandoned for many years after the laying of the new pike. It was open for about an hour's ride, and after that it was cut across by various farms and fences. Sam knew this fact perfectly well,— indeed, the road had been so long closed up, that Andy had never heard of it. He therefore rode along with an air of dutiful submission, only groaning and vociferating occasionally that 'twas "desp't rough, and bad for Jerry's foot." "Now, I jest give yer warning," said Haley, "I know yer; yer won't get me to turn off this yer road, with all yer fussin' — so you shet up ! " "Mas'r will go his own way!" said Sam, with rueful submis- sion, at the same time winking most portentously to Andy, whose delight was now very near the explosive point. Sam was in wonderful spirits, — professed to keep a very brisk look-out,— at one time exclaiming that he saw "a gal's bonnet " on the top of some distant eminence, or calling to Andy "if that thar wasn't 'Lizy' down in the hollow;" always making these m I 316 AMERICAN PROSE exclamations in some rough or craggy part of the road, where the suciden quickening of speed was a special inconvenience to all l)arties concerned, and thus keeping Haley in a state of constant commotion. After riding about an hour in this way, the whole party made a precipitate and tumultuous descent into a barn-yard belonging to a large farming establishment. Not a soul was in sight, all the hands being employed in the fields; but, as the barn stood con- spicuously and plainly square across the road, it was evident that their journey in that direction had reached a decided finale. "Warii't dot ar what I telled Mas'r?" said Sam, with an air of injured innocence. " How does strange gentleman spect to know more about a country dan de natives born and raised?" "You rascal!" said Haley, "you knew all about this." "Didn't I tell yer I knoiv'J, and yer wouldn't believe me? I telled Mas'r 'twas all shet up, and fenced up, and I didn't spect we could get through, — Andy heard me." It was all too true to be disputed, and the unlucky man had to pocket his wrath with the best grace he was able, and all three faced to the right about, and took up their line of march for the highway. In consequence of a'! the various delays, it was about xnree quarters of an hour after Eliza had laid her child to sleep in the village tavern that the party came riding into the same place. Eliza was standing by the window, looking out in another direc- tion, when Sam's quick eye caught a glimpse of her. Haley and Andy were two yards behind. At this crisis, Sam contrived to have his hat blown off, and uttered a loud and characteristic ejaculation, which startled \\f-x at once; she drew suddenly back; the whole train swept by the window, round to the front door. A thousand lives seemed to be concentrated in that one moment to Eliza. Her room opened by a side door to the river. She caught her child, and sprang down the steps towards it. The trader caught a full glimpse of her, just as she was disappearing down the bank; and throwing himself from his horse, and calling loudly on Sam and Andy, he was after her like a hound after a deer. In that dizzy moment her feet to her scarce seemed to touch the ground, and a moment brought her to the water's edge. )ad, where the jnience to all te of constant )le party made ard belonging n sight, all the am stood con- is evident that led finale. , with an air of spect to know ed?" t this." t believe me? , and I didn't :ky man had to , and all three f march for the iras about intee to sleep in the he same place. 1 another direc- er. Haley and m contrived to 1 characteristic suddenly backj e front door, hat one moment the river. She )wards it. The ^as disappearing orse, and calling a hound after a ;arce seemed to he water's edge. HARRIET BEECH ER STOWE 317 Right on behind they came; and, nerved with strength such as God gives only to the desperate, with one wild cry and flying leap, she vaulted sheer over the turbid current by the shore, on to the raft of ice beyond. It was a desperate leap — impossible to anything but madness and despair; and Haley, Sam, and Andy instinctively cried out, and lifted up their hands, as she did it. 'i'he huge green fragment of ice on which she alighted pitched and creaked as her weight came on it, but she stayed there not a moment. With wild cries and desperate energy she leaped to another and still another cake ; — stumbling — leaping — slipping — springing upwards ag^in! Her shoes are gone — her stock- ings cut from her feet — while blood marked every step; but she saw nothing, felt nothing, till dimly, as in a dream, she saw the Ohio side, and a man helping her up the bank. " Yer a brave gal, now, whoever ye ar! " said the man, with an oath. Eliza recognized the voice and face of a man who owned a farm not far from her old home. " O, Mr. Symmes ! — save me — do save me — do hide me ! " said Eliza. "Why, what 3 this?" said the man. "Why, if 'tan't Shelby's gal ! " " My child ! — this boy ! — he'd sold him ! There is his Mas'r," she said, pointing to the Kentucky shore. "O, Mr. Symmes, you've got a little boy!" "So I have," said the man, as he roughly, but kindly, drew her up the steep bank. "Besides, you're a right brave gal. I like grit, wherever I see it." When they had gained the top of the bank, the man paused. " I'd be glad to do something for ye," said he; "but then there's nowhar I could take ye. ' The best I can do is to tell ye to go thar," said he, pointing to a large white house which stood by itself, off the main street of the village. "Go thar; they're kii;d folks. Thar's no kind o' danger but they'll help you, — they'rt up to all that sort o' thin :." "The Lord bless you!" said Eliza, earnestly. "No 'casion, no 'casion in the world," said the man. "What I've done's of no 'count." 3l8 AMERICA.^ I'KOSE "And, oh, surely, sir, you won't tell any one!" "Go to thunder, gal! What do you take a feller for? In course not," said the man. "(^ome, now, go along like a likely, sensible gal, as you are. You've arnt your liberty, and you shall have it, (or all mc." The woman folded her child to her bosom, and walked firmly and swiftly away. The man stood and looked after her. "Shelby, now, mebbe won't think this yer the most neighborly thing in the world; but what's a feller to do? If he catches one of my gals in the same fix, he's welcome to pay back. Somehow I never could see no kind o' crittur a strivin* and pantin', and trying to clar theirselves, with the dogs arter 'em, and go agin 'em. Besides, I don't see no kind of 'casion forme to be hunter and catcher for other folks, neither." So spoke this poor, heathenish Kcntuckian, who had not been instructed in his constitutional relations, and consequently was betrayed into acting in a sort of Christianized manner, which, if he had been better situated and more enli&htened, he would not have been left to do. Haley had stood a perfectly amazed spectator of the scene, till Eliza had disappeared up the bank, when he turned a blank, in- quiring look on Sam and Andy. "That ar was a tolable fair stroke of business," said Sam. "The gal's got seven devils in her, I believe!" said Haley. " How like a wildcat she jumped ! " "Wal, now," said Sam, scratching his head, "I hope Mas'r'U scuse us try in' dat ar road. Don't think I feel spry enough for dat ar, no way ! " and Sam gave a hoarse chuckle. " You laugh ! " said the trader, with a growl. "Lord bless you, Mas'r, I couldn't help it, now," said Sam, giving way to the long pent-up delight of his soul. " She looked so curi's, a leapin' and springin' — ice a crackin' — and only to hear her,— plump! kerchunk! ker splash! Spring! Lord! how she goes it!" and Sam and Andy laughed till the t^ars rolled down their cheeks. " I'll make yer laugh t'other side yer mouths ! " said the trader, laying about their heads with his riding-whip. ipip" ler for? In like a. likely, ind you shall and walked looked after St neighborly e catches one k. Somehow pantin', and and go agin : to be hunter had not been sequently was ner, which, if he would not the scene, till d a blank, in- lid Sam. ' said Haley. hope Mas'r'U iry enough for V," said Sam, " She looked — and only to ! Lord! how e t^ars rolled aid the trader. HAKKIET BEECH EK STUWE 319 Both ducked, and ran shouting up the bank, and were on their horses before he was up. "Good evening, Mas'ri" said Sam, with much gravity, "/ berry much spect Missis be anxious 'bout Jerry. Mas'r Haley won't want us no longer. Missis wouldn't hear of our ridin' the critters over Lizy's bridge to-night;" and with a facetious poke into Andy's ribs, he started off, followed by the latter, at full speed, — their shouts of laughter coming faintly on the wind. [From Uncle Tom's CaHn ; or. Life among the Loxvly, 1 85 2, chapter 7. The text is that of the hrst edition.] TOPSY Miss Ophelia's ideas of education, like all her other ideas, were very set and definite; and of the kind that prevailed in New England a century ago, and which are still preserved in some very retired and unsophisticated parts, where there are no railroads. As nearly as could be expressed, they could be comprised in very few words: to teach them to mind when they were spoken to; to teach them the catechism, sewing, and reading; and to whip them if they told lies. And though, of course, in the flood of light that is now poured on education, these are left far away in the rear, yet it is an undisputed fact that our grandmothers raised some tolerably fair men and women under this regime, as many of us can remember and tesrify. At all events, Miss Ophelia knew of nothing else to do; and, therefore, applied her mind to her heathen with the best diligence she could command. The child was announced and considered in the family as Miss Ophelia's girl; and, as she was looked upon with no gracious eye in the kitchen. Miss Ophelia resolved to confine her sphere of operation and instruction chiefly to her own chamber. With a self-sacrifice which some of our readers will appreciate, she resolved, instead of comfortably making her own bed, sweeping and dusting her own chamber, — which she had hitherto done, in utter scorn of all offers of help from the chambermaid of the establishment, — to condemn herself to the martyrdom of instruct- ing Topsy to perform these operations, — ah, woe the day! Did m^nff^ r- 320 AMERICAN J'h'OSE '!• any of our readers ever do the same, they will appreciate the amount of her self-sacrifice. Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her chamber, tlie first morning, and solemnly commencing a course of instruc- tion in the art and mystery of bed-making. Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all tho little braided tails wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed v clean gown, with well-starched apron, standing reverently before Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well befitting a funeral. "Now, Topsy, I'm going to show you just how my bed is to be made. I am very particular about my bed. You must learn exactly how to do it." 'Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face of wofid earnestness. "Now, Topsy, look here; — this is the hem of the sheet, — this is the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong; — will you remember?" "Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with another sigh. ."Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over the bolster, — so, — and tuck it clear down under the mattress nice and smooth, — so, — do you see ? " "Yes, ma'am," said Topsy. with profound attention. "But the upper sheet," said Miss Ophelia, "must be brought down in this way, and tucked under firm and smooth at the foot, — so, — the narrow hem at the foot." "Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before; but we will add, what Miss Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when the good lady's back was turned, in the zeal of her manipulations, the young disciple had contrived to snatch a pair of gloves and a ribbon, which she had adroitly slipped into her sleeves, and stood with her hands dutifully folded, as before. "Now, Topsy, let's see you do this," said Miss Ophelia, pull- ing off the clothes, and seating herself. Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through the exer- cise completely to Miss Ophelia's' satisfaction; smoothir;; the sheets, patting out every wrinkle, and exhibiting, through the whole process, a gravity and seriousness with which her instructress was greatly edified. By an unlucky slip, however, a fluttering frag- 1:11 mmmmmimmm ippreciate the ) her chamber, rse of instruc- '. little braided clean gown, Miss Ophelia, leral. ' my bed is to 'ou must learn and a face of le sheet, — this ng; — will you /er the bolster, tress nice and Uion. Hist be brought ath at the foot, will add, what when the good lipulations, the »f gloves and a ;r sleeves, and i Ophelia, puU- irough the exer- smoothir^- the rough the whole instructress was fluttering frag- IIARRIET BEECIIER STOIVE 321 ment of the ribbon hung out of one of her sleeves, just as she was finishing, and caught Miss Ophelia's attention. Instantly she pounced upon it. "What's this? You naughty, wicked child, — you've been stealing this!" The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy's own sleeve, yet was she not in the least disconcerted; she only looked at. it with an air of the most surprised and unconscious innocence. "I^aws! why, that ar's Miss Feely's ribbon, an't it? How could it a got caught in my sleeve ? " "Topsy, you naughty girl, df^nt you tell me a lie, — you stole that ribbon ! " "Missis, I deciar for't, I didn't; — never seed it till dis yer blessed m inn it."' "Topsy, ' said .Miss Ophelia, "don't you know it's wicked to tell lies?" "I never tells no lies. Miss Feely," said Topsy, with virtuous gravity; "it's jist the truth I've been a tellin' now, and an't nothin' else." "Topsy, I shall ^^-"c tc Al-ip you, if you tell lies so." "Laws, Missis, 1. >ou's to whip all day, couldn't say no other way," said Topsy, beginning to blubber. " I never seed dat ar, — it must a got caught in my sleeve. Miss Feely must have left it on the bed, and it got caught in the clothes, and so got in my sleeve." Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that she caught the child, and shook her. "Don't you tell me that again! " The shake brought the gloves on the floor, from the other sleeve. "There, you! " said Miss Ophelia, "will you tell me now, ycu didn't steal the ribbon?" Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted in deny- ing the ribbon. "Now, Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "if you'll confess all about it, I won't whip you this time." Thus adjured, Topsy confessed to the ribbon and gloves, with woful protestations of penitence. " Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other things since you have been in the house, for I let you run about all day V 1,9-!*;; S-i»;: i^iiSMlSSS&Si ,,««i«i««*M»» A^mAS' ^ :ii i .1 322 AMERICAN P/iC'SE yesterday. Now, tell me if you took anything, and I shan't whip you." "Laws, Missis! I took Miss Eva's red thing she wars on her neck." "You did, you naughty child! — Well, what else?" " I took Rosa's yer-rings, — them red ones." "(io bring them to me this minute, both of 'em." "Laws, Missis! I can't, —they's burnt up!" " Kurnt up ! — what a story ! (io get 'em, or I'll whip you." Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, declared that she a>u/t/ not. " They's burnt up, — they was." "What did you burn 'em up for?" said Miss Ophelia. "Cause I'swicked, — I is. I's mighty wicked, any how. I can't help it." Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the room, with the identical coral necklace on her neck. "Why, Eva, where did you get your necklace?" said Miss Ophelia. "(iet it? Why, I've had ii on all day," said Eva. "Did you have it on yesterday? " "Yes; and what is funny. Aunty, I had it on all night. I for- got to take it off when I went to bed." Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered; the more so, as Rosa, at that instant, came into the room, with a basket of newly ironed linen poised on her head, and the coral ear-drops shaking in her ears ! " I'm sure I can't toll anything what to do with such a child ! " she said, in despair. " What in the world did you tell me you took those things for, Topsy?" "Why, Missis said 1 must 'fess; and I couldn't think of nothin' else to 'fess," said Topsy, rubbing her eyes. " But, of course, I didn't want you to confess things you didn't do," said Miss Ophelia; "that's telling a lie, just as much as the other." "Laws, now, is it?" said Topsy, with an air of innocent wonder. [From Unc/e Tom's Cabin; or. Life among the Lowly, 1852, chapter 20. The text is that of the first edition.] " ■;; I shan't whip e wars on her ?" whip you." oans, declared >helia. , any how. I ;he room, with ?" said Miss ^a. night. Ifor- e more so, as )asket of newly -drops shaking such a child ! " ou tell me you Idn't think of !S. ings you didn't as much as the ,ir of innocent 1852, chapter 20. JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY [John Lothrop Motley was born at Dorchester, now a part of Uoston, April 15, 1814, and died near Dorchester, in England, May 29, 1877. His life was passed in dealing with the affairs of nations, either of the past, as historian, or of the present, as diplomatist; he therefore lived much of his life aliroad. 1 le was lirst a student of law at G6ttingen and ISerlin, and later minister to Austria and then to England. Me was also, however, led to Europe by the necessities of his studies on the history of Holland and of Europe in the sixteenth cen- tury. He published : The Rise of the Dutch Republic, in 1856, History of the United NetherlanJs, in 1861-8, and The Life and Death of John oj Barne- t/^/(/(i874). Uefore settling down to the historical work which has made him famous, he wrote two novels, Morton's Hope (1839) and Merry Mount (iS^g). He was a man of charming personality, as may be gathered from his Correspond- ence (1889), or from the Memoir (1879), by Oliver Wendell Holmes.] It is not unnatural at first to compare Motley with Pr*"-. M. . Indeed, the comparison forced itself upon the mind of the younger man at the very beginning of his career as a historian, when, being already heart and soul committed to the Revolt of the Netherlands, he learned that Prescott had already collected materials for a history of Philip the Second. The elder scholar behaved in the most liberal and sympathetic manner, encouraged the younger student most earnestly to go on, and assured him that " no two books ever injured each other." He was not wrong, in this case at least. A comparison of these two great historians serves chiefly to emphasize the strong points of each. Both are distinguished by immense thoroughness in dealing with their materials, both by the challenging care of their style. With their characteristics as historians we are here not closely concerned, but we certainly cannot neglect the matter. As a historian there can be no doubt of Motley's hard work, breadth of knowledge, sound accuracy, sincerity. The same thing can be said of Pres- cott, who has a most engaging and disinterested impartiality, besides. But Motley could not have been disinterestedly impar- 323 *i'^i#S B M iia t a i fa ^ I 'm ii w i ihi ■■ AMERICAN PKOSE tial. He was writing, not of Spaniards and Moors, Incis and Aztecs, but of the rise of a republic, of a father of his country, of the growth of religious toleration. He was just, but he tauld not be disinterested. Indeed, by his very nature Motley was not a disinterested observer. No novelist can afford to be disinterested : it is too catching. Motley did not become famous as a novelist, certainly, but he had many of the gifts of a novelist. He was a man of temperament for one thing, and a man of belief for another. Sympathy for his subject led him to the eighty years' war, and his ])osition was necessarily taken beforehand. It is then with allowance for the personal equation that Motley is impartial. It is this very personal e(|uation, however, which gives him his great charm as a man of letters, and which enables him to tell a story and to describe a thing so remarkably. It is true that this is not all. Patient industry and hard work counted for more than we of the laity can well understand. Prescott wrote to him of the vivid details of the sack of Saint Quentin, which Motley had found in a dry Documentos Ineditos, into which Prescott had never thought to look. And any one who reads the account of the fire- ships at the Prince of Parma's bridge, comes near being chilled at the list of authorities at the end, which Motley fortunately did not think necessary " to cite step by step." But all this mass of material is fused by his spirit into a living reality, and that is the first thing that makes Motley noteworthy for everybody. If it be one of the tests of an author's power that he can make real in his reader's mind the thoughts and feelings which are real to him, Motley stands the test well. It is true that he has an advantage, as did Prescott, in his subject-matter, but certainly a great part of that advantage was discovered by himself. ICverybody knew that Don John, of Austria, and Sir Philip Sidney were romantic figures, but how about the men of Haarlem, who sallied forth on skates and chased the Spaniards about on the ice, or the sea beggars who raised the siege of I.eyden by .sailing their fleet up to the city walls? These things had been, but had not taken the mind. Motley had the sympathy to see life in the facts : this was the first thing needful to enable us to see the facts as life. He was not a close student : he was a man of the world. Indeed, his non-scholastic character comes near interference with ors, Incis and his country, of It he could not tley was not a ; disinterested : 3 as a novelist, ist. He was a n of belief for le eighty years' md. It is then y is impartial. 1 gives him his ss him to tell a i true that this 1 for more than te to him of the otley had found ;ott had never mat of the fire- being chilled at tunately did not irit into a living )tley noteworthy lor's power that ;hts and feelings It is true that iject-matter, but ered by himself. ;ir Philip Sidney if Haarlem, who ibout on the ice, 1 by sailing their en, but had not see life in the s to see the (iicts lan of the world, interference with /0///V l.OTIIROP MOTLEY m his peculiar power. One of ll,e i harming characteristics of the man was gentle humor, delicate satire, sedate ei)igram, courteous irony. Everybody will remr;mber how tliis ligiUs up the Dutch Republic ; in his later work m e are sometimes distracted a little by It from a matter we wish to engross us. But Motley not only saw life in the fiicts, he had a very sane feeling for dramatic and narrative propriety ; in fact, he sometimes had even an ultra-scenic feeling. Rarely carried too far, this feeling helped him to a remarkable epic unity in his whole work, a unity of which the remarkable thing was that it seems so natural. Pro- portion and relation in time and space, these matters are as much a part of his literary manner as picturcscjueness and life. And althougii the former are most noticeable in his way of looking at things, the latter are the most noteworthy in his way of dealing with them. Motley continued the honorable succession of American histo- rians and surpassed all who had preceded him because he gained from their work. He avoided their mistakes and either imitated or naturally had their qualities. Irving had been romantic and ?pi;rks had been laborious. Bancroft was an analyst, but he gave hii work the unity of a great idea ; and Prescott, an analyst too, had moulded his material into a unity of form. Motley had some- thing of all these things, but in him they were fused and modified into a remarkable literary power that has never been surpassed by an American historian. He had certain minor faults. In some directions, notably in ease and power of narrative, he is surpassed by Parkman. But for the large powers of a historian, as history was understood in his day, he has no superior. EDWARr> EvEREiT Hale, Jr. tiiw»n-ii'iiihfri.i&iMwT?ffy^iii^iW.M ■M^ ^^ rit fai i a r iii.iii - .l^ i ll.l■il < l i .i i j i « i >i>S i. ' i » .i^.., Ma;. i wa iifc nM.» «iii c iaia^^ 326 aa//:a/(.i.v I'h'osE III. I THE RliLKilON OF WILLIAM UF OKANGL DuRisci all these triumphs of Alva, the Prince oJ Orange had not lost his self-possession. One after another, each of his bold, skilfully-conceived and carefully prepared plans had failed. Vil- Icrs had been entirely discomfited at Dalheni, Co( ipieville had been cut to pieces in I'icardy, and now the valiant and experi- enced l.ouis had met with an entire overthrow in Friesland. The brief success of the patriots at Heiliger I,ce had been washed out in the blood-torrents of Jemmingcn. Tyranny was more trium- phant, the provinces more timidly crouching, than ever. The friends on whom William of Orange relied in Clermany, never enthusiastic in his cause, although many of them true-hearted and liberal, now grew cold and anxious. For months long, his most faithful and affectionate allies, such men as the Elector of Hesse and the Duke of Wirtemberg, as well as the less trustworthy Augustus of Saxony, had earnestly expressed their opinion that, under the circumstances, his best course was to sit still and watch the course of events. It was known that the Emperor had written an urgent letter to Philip on the subject of his policy in the Netherlands in general, and concerning the position of Orange in particular. All per- sons, from the luiiijeror down to the pettiest jjotentate, seemed now of oi)inion that the Prince had better pause; that he was, indeed, bound to wait the issue of that remonstrance. "Your highness must sit still," said Landgrave William. "Your high- ness must sit still," said Augustus of Saxony. "You must move neither hand nor foot in the cause of the perishing provinces," said the Emperor. "Not a soldier — horse, foot, or dragoon — shall be levied within the Empire. If you violate the peace of the realm, and embroil us with our excellent brother and cousin Philip, it is at your own peril. You have nothing to do but to keep quiet and await his answer to our letter." But the Prince knew how much effect his sitting still would produce upon the cause of liberty and religion. He knew how much effect the Emperor's letter was like to have upon the heart of Philip. He knew that the more impenetrable the darkness now gathering over XNC.L )f Orange had •h of his bold, I failed. Vil- )( i|ncville had nt and experi- 'iesland. The en washed out s more trium- \n ever. The crmany, never le- hearted and long, his most ector of Hesse iss trustworthy r opinion that, itill and watch irgent letter to ids in general, dar. All per- entate, seemed '. ; that he was, ranee. " Your " Your high- ('ou must move ng provinces," or dragoon — te the peace of her and cousin [ig to do but to But the Prince duce upon the luch effect the )f Philip. He gathering over yojLV /.or// A- or motii-.y 327 that land of doom wiiich he had dcvoird his life to defend, the more urgently was he forbidden tu turn his fa( e away from it in its affliction. He knew th.it tiiousamis of human souls, nigh tu perishing, were daily turning towards liim as their only hope on earth, and he was resolved, so lung as he could dispense a single ray of light, that his countenance should never be averted. It is difficult to contemplate his character, at this period, without l)eing infected with a perhaps dangerous enthusiasm. It is nut an easy task coldly to analyze a nature wh'ch contained so much of the self-sacrificing and the heroic, a-, well as of the adroit and the subtle; and it is almost impossible to give utterance to the emotions which naturally swell the heiirt at the < ontemplation of so much active virtue, without rendering oneself liable to the charge of excessive admiration. Through the mists of adversity, a human "form may ililate into proportions which are colossal anil deceptive. Our judgment may thus, perhaps, be led captive, but at any rate the sentiment excited is more healthful than that in- spired by the mere shedder of blood, by the merely selfish con- queror. When the cause of the champion is that of human right against tyranny, of political and religious freedom against an all- engrossing and absolute bigotry, it is still more onil the world. 'Ihc stvcro tliitits, the grave character of the cause to which his days were hentulorth to he devoted, had already led him to a closer inspec- tion ol the essential attributes of ( hristianity. He was now en- rolled for life as a soldier of the Refornuition. The Reformation was henceforth his falherlanil, the sphere of his duty and his affection. 1 he reliKious Relormers became his brethren, whether in France, (iermany, the Netherlands, or l-lngland. Yet his mind had taken a higher llight than that of the most eminent RefornierH. lli^ goal was not a new tloctrine, but religious liberty. In an age when to think was a crime, and when bigotry and a persecuting spirit chaiacteri^ed Romanists and Lutherans, C'alvinists and Zwinglians, he had tiarcd to announce Ireciloin of const ience as the great object for which noble natures should strive. In an age when toleratior. was a vice, he had the manhood to cultivate it as a virtue. Mis parting advice to the Reformers of the Nethcr- lamls, when he left them for a season in the sp-ring of 1567, was to sink all lesser differences in religious union. Those of the Augsburg Confession and those of the I'alvinistic Church, in their own opinion as incapable of commingling as oil and water, were, in his iudgmo.i, capable of friendly amalgamativ/i'. lie appealed clo-iucntl) to the good and inlluential of all parties to unite in one common cause against opi 'o-sion. Kven while favoring daily more ■^•^'' more the cause of the purified Church, and becoming I ilv nore alive to the corruption of Rome, he was yet willing to tolerate all forms of worship, and to leave reason to combat error. V/ithuat a 1 article of cant or fanaticism, he had become a deeply religious man. Hitherto he had been only a man of the world and a statesman, but from this time forth he began calmly to rely upon Clod's providence in all the emergencies of his eventful life. His letters written to his most confidential friends, to be read only by themselves, and which have been gazed upon by no other eyes until after the lapse of nearly three centuries, abundantly prove his sincere and simple trust. This sentiment was not assumed for effect to delude others, but cherished as a secret support for himself. His rel'gion was not a cloak to his "^^^Skf»i&y'M'^^ iiiiionof the an- l);i(l iiiit ltd liini il. 'I lie St vcrc 1 his (lays were I closiT inspec- le was now cn- iie KcformatiDn s duty and his cthrcn, whether , Yet his mind lent Reformers. L-rly. In an age II n persecuting C'aivinists and f const ience as rive. In an age o cultivate it as of the Nether- ig of 1567, was Those of the Church, in their ind water, were, \ lie appealed rties to unite in ie favoring daily I, and becoming as yet willing to to combat error. ; had become a ly a man of the he began calmly irgencies of his Rdential friends, >een gazed upon three centuries. This sentiment it cherished as a )t a cloak to his 1 yo//y t.oTiiKop Mori.EY 339 designs, but a consolation in his disasters. In his letter of in- struction to his must c-oiiluh-ntial agrnt, John lia/ius, while lie declared himself frankly in lavor of the rrotestaiit principles, he expressed his extreme rcp'-^inncc to the persecution of Catholics. "Should we obtain powc over any city or cities," he wrote, "let the communities of jiapists be as much respected and protected as possible. Let them be overcome, not by violence, but with gentle-iuindcdiu'ss and virtuous treatment." After the terrilile disaster at Jemmingen, ue had written to Louis, consoling him, in the most affectionate language, for the unfortunate result of his campaign. Not a word of reproach escajjcd from him, although his brother had conducted the operations in Kriesland, after the battle of Ileiliger I.ee, in a manner quite contrary to his own advice. He had counselled against a battle, and had foretold a defeat; but after the battle had been fought and a crushing defeat sustained, his language breathed only unwavering submission to the will of (lod, and continueass this life in misery and labor, with which I am well content, since it thus pleases the Omnipotent, for I know that I 330 AMERICAN PK03E have merited still greater chastisement. I only implore Hmi graciously to send me strength to endure with patience." Sucli language, in letters the most private, never meant to be seen by other eyes than those to which they were addressed, gives touching testimony to the sincere piety of his character. No man was ever more devoted to a high purpose, no man had ever more right to imagine himself, or less inclination to pronounce him- self, entrusted with a divine mission. There was nothing of the charlatan in his character. His nature was true and steadfast. No narrow-minded usurper was ever more loyal to his own aggrandisement than this large-hearted man to the cause of oppressed humanity. Yet it was inevitable that baser minds should fail to recognise his purity. While he exhausted his life for the emancipation of a people, it was easy to ascribe all his struggles to the hope of founding a dynasty. It was natural for grovelling natures to search in the gross soil of self-interest for the sustaining roots of the tree beneath whose branches a nation found its shelter. What could they comprehend of living foun- tains and of heavenly dews? [From Tht A'ise of the Dutch Republic. ter 4-] A History. 1856. Part iii, chap- THE RELIEF OF LEYDEN Meantime, the besieged city was at its last gasp. The burghers had been in a state of uncertainty for many days; being aware that the fleet had set forth for their relief, but knowing full well the thousand obstacles which it had to surmount. They had guessed its progress by the illumination from the blazing vil- lages; they had heard its salvos of artillery, on its arrival at North Aa; but since then, all had been dark and mournful again, hope and fear, in sickening alternation, distracting every breast. They knew that the wind was unfavorable, and at the dawn of each day every eye was turned wistfully to the vanes of the steeples. So long as the easterly breeze prevailed, they felt, as they anxiously stood on towers and housetops, that they must look in vain for the welcome ocean. Yet, while thus patiently f implore Him ience." ver meant to be itidresied, gives acter. No man 1 had ever more pronounce him- 5 nothing of the K and steadfast, ^-al to his own the cause of lat baser minds unt. They had the blazing vil- on its arrival at I mournful again, ing every breast. 1 at the dawn of he vanes of the iled, they felt, as i, that they must ile thus patiently JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY 331 waiting, they were literally starving; for even the misery endured at Harlem had not reached that depth and intensity of agony to which Leyden was now reduced. Bread, malt-cake, horse-flesh, had entirely disappeared; dogs, cats, rats, and other vermin, weie esteemed luxuries. A small number of cows, kept as long as possible, for their milk, still remained; but a few were killed from Liay to day, and distributed in minr.te proportions, hardly sufficient to support life among the famishing population. Starv- ing wretches swarmed daily around the shambles where these cattle were slaughtered, contending for any morsel which might fall, and lapping eagerly the blood as it ran along the pavement; while the hides, chopped and boiled, were greedily devoured. Women and children, all day long, were searching gutters and dunghills for morsels of food, which tiiey disputed fiercely with the famishing dogs. 'J'he green leaves were stripped from the trees, every living herb was converted into human food, but these expedients could not avert starvation. The daily mortality was frightful — infants starved to death on the maternal breasts, which famine had parched and withered; mothers dropjjcd dead in the streets, with their dead children in their arms. In many a house the watchmen, in their rounds, found a whole family of corpses, father, mother, children, side by side, for a disorder called the plague, naturally engendered of hardship and famine, now came, as if in kindness, to abridge the agony of the people. The pes- tilence stalked at noonday through the city, and the doomed in- habitants fell like grass beneath its scythe. From six thousand to eight thousand human beings sank before this scourge alone, yet the people resolutely held out — women and men mutually encouraging each other to resist the entrance of their foreign foe — an evil more horrible than pest or famine. The missives from Valdez, who saw more vividly than the besieged could do, the uncertainty of his own position, now poured daily into the city, ihe enemy becoming more prodigal of his vows, as he felt that the ocean might yet save the victims from his grasp. The inhabitants, in their ignorance, had gradu- ally abandoned their hopes of relief, but they spurned the sum- mons to surrender. Leyden was sublime in its despair. A few murmurs were, however, occasionally heard at the steadfastness £t 332 AMERICAN PROSE of the magistrates, and a dead body was placed at the door of the burgomaster, as a silent witness against his inflexibility. A party of the more faint-hearted even assailed the heroic Adrian Van der Werf with threats and reproaches as he passed through the streets. A crowd had gathered around him, as he reached a triangular place in the centre of the town, into which many of the |)rincipal streets emptied th-.-mselves, and upon one side of which stood the church of baint Pancras, with its high brick tower surmounted by two pointed turrets, and with two ancient lime trees at its entrance. There stood the burgomaster, a tali, haggard, imposing figure, with dark visage, and a tranquil but com- maniling eye. He waved his broad-leaved felt hat for silence, and then exclaimed, in language which has been almost literally pre- served, "What would ye, my friends? ^Vhy do you murmur that we do not break our vows and surrender the city to the Spaniards? a fate more horrible than the agony which she now endures. I tell you I have made an oath to hold the city, and may God give me strength to keep my oath! I can die but once; whether by your hands, the enemy's, or by the hand of God. My own fate is indifferent to me, not so that of the city intrusted to my care. I know that we shall starve if not soon relieved: but starvation is preferable to the dishonored deaih which is the only alterna- tive. Your menaces move me not; my life is at your disposal; here is my sword, plunge it into my breast, and divide my flesh among you. Take my body to appease your hunger, but expect no surrender, so long as I remain alive." The words of the stout burgomaster inspired a new courage in the hearts of those who heard him, and a shout of applause and defiance arose from the famishing but enthusiastic crowd. They left the place, after exchanging new vows of fidelivy with their magistrate, and again ascended tower and battlement to watch for the coming fleet. From the ramparts they hurled renewed defi- ance at the enemy. "Ye call us rat-eaters and dog-eaters," they cried, "and it is true. So long, then, as ye hear dog bark or cat mew within the walls, ye may know that the city holds out. And when all has perished but ourselves, be sure that we will each devour our left arms, retaining our right to defend our women, our liberty, and our religion, against the foreign tyrant. Should he door of the lity. A party ic Adrian Van d through the he reached a ivhich many of pon one side its high brick th two ancient jmaster, a tail, nquil but com- or silence, and it literally pre- lU murmur that the Spaniards? w endures. I may God give :e ; whether by My own fate ed to my care. but starvation le only alterna- your disposal; divide my flesh ger, but expect new courage in 5f applause and : crowd. They eliiy with their ent to watch for d renewed defi- 3g-eaters," they dog bark or cat lolds out. And at we will each ;nd our women, tyrant. Should JOHN LOT UK OP MOTLEY 333 God, in his wrath, doom us to destruction, and deny us all relief, even then will we maintain ourselves for ever against your en- trance. When the last hour has come, with our hands we will set fire to the city and perish, men, women, and children together in the flames, rather than suffer our homes to be polluted and our liberties to be crushed." Such words of defiance, thundered daily from the battlements, sufficiently informed Vaklez as to his chance of conquering the city, either by force or fraud, but at the same time, he felt comparatively relieved by the inactivity of Boisot's fleet, which still lay stranded at North Aa. "As well," shouted the Spaniards, derisively, to the citizens, "as well can the Prince of Orange jiluck the stars from the sky as bring the ocean to the walls of Leyden for your relief." On the 28th of September, a dove flew into the city, bringing a letter from Admiral IJoisot. In this despatch, the position of the fleet at North Aa was described in encouraging terms, and the inhabitants were assured that, in a very few days at fur- thest, the long-expected relief would enter their gates. The letter was i^ad publicly upon the market-place, and the bells were rung for joy. Nevertheless, on the morrow, the vanes pointed to the east, the waters, so far from rising, continued to sink, and Admiral Boisot was almost in despair. He wrote to the Prince, that if the spring-tide, now to be expected, should not, together with a strong and favorable wind, come immedi- ately to their relief, it wo\ild be in vain to attempt anything further, and that the expedition would, of necessity, be aban- doned. The tempest came to their relief. A violent equinoc- tial gale, on the night of the ist and 2nd of October, came storming from the north-west, shifting after a few hours full eight points, and then blowing still more violently from the south-west. he waters of the North Sea were piled in vast masses upoK the southern coast of Holland, and then dashed furiously landward, the ocean rising over the earth, and sweep- ing with unrestrained power across the ruined dykes. In the course of twenty-four hours, the fleet at North Aa, in- stead of nine inches, had more than two feet of water. No time was lost. 'J'he Kiik-way, which had been broken through accord- ing to the Prince's instructions, was now completely overflowed. 334 AMERICAN PROSE and the fleet sailed at midnight, in the midst of the storm and darkness. A few sentinel vessels of the enemy challenged them as they steadily rowed towards Zoeterwoiide. The answer was a flash from Boisot's cannon, lighting u[) the black waste of waters. There was a fierce naval midnight battle; a strange spec- tacle among the branches of those quiet orchards, and with the chimney stacks of half-submerged farm houses rising around the -.ontending vessels. The neighboring village of Zoeterwoude shook with the discharges of the Zealanders' cannon, and the Spaniards assembled in that fortress knew that the rebel Admiral was at last afloat and on his course. The enemy's vessels were soon sunk, their crews hurled into the waves. On went the fleet, sweeping over the broad waters which lay between Zoeterwoude and Zwie- ten. As they approached some shallows, which led into the great mere, the Zealanders dashed into the sea, and with sheer strength shouldered every vessel through. Two obstacles lay still in their path — the forts of Zoeterwoude and lammen, distant from the city five hundred and two hundred and fifty yards respectively. Strong redoubts, both well supplied with troops and artillery, they were likely to give a rough reception to the light flotilla, but the panic, which had hitherto driven their foes before the advancing patriots, had reached Zoeterwoude. Hardly was the fleet in sight when the Spaniards, in the early morning, poured out from the fortress, and fled precipitately to the left, along a road which led in a westerly direction towards the Hague. Their narrow path was rapidly vanishing in the waves, and hundreds sank beneath the constantly deeiH-ning and treacherous flood. The wild Zea- landers, too, sprang from their vessels upon the crumbling dyke and drove their retreating foes into the sea. They hurled their harpoons at them, with an accuracy acquired in many a polar chase; they plunged into the waves in the keen pursuit, attacking them with boat-hook and dagger. The numbers who thus fell beneath these corsairs, who neither gave nor took quarter, were never counted, but probably not less than a thousand perished. The rest effected their escape to the Hague. The first fortress was thus seized, dismantled, set on fire, and passed, and a few strokes of the oars brought the whole fleet close to Lammen. This last obstacle rose formidable and frown- the storm and illenged them answer was a lack waste of strange spec- and with the ng around the irwoude shook the Spaniards ral was at last ;re soon sunk, leet, sweeping ide and Zwie- into the great sheer strength y still in their stant from the s respectively. 1 artillery, they lotilla, but the the advancing e fleet in sight i out from the road which led ir narrow path 3 sank beneath The wild Zea- rumbling dyke ey hurled their many a polar rsuit, attacking 1 who thus fell k quarter, were sand perished. set on fire, and ;he whole fleet \ble and frown- JOHN LOTIIROP MOTLEY 335 ing directly across their path. Swarming as it was with soldiers, and bristling with artillery, it seemed to defy the irmada either to carry it by storm or to pass under its guns into the city. It appeared that the enterprise was, after all, to founder within sight of the long expecting and expected haven. Boisot anchored his fleet within a respectful distance, and spent what remained of the day in carefully reconnoitring the fort, which seemed only too strong. In conjunction with Leyderdorp, the head-quarters of Valdez, a mile and a half distant on the right, and within a mile of the city, it seemed so insuperable an impediment that Boisot wrote in despondent tone to the Prince of Orange. He announced his intention of carrying the fort, if it were possible, on the following morning, but if obliged to retreat, he observed, with something like despair, that there would be nothing for it but to wait for another gale of wind. If the waters should rise sufficiently to enable them to make a wide detour, it might be possible, if, in the meantime, Leyden did not starve or sur- render, to enter its gates from the opposite side. Meantime, the citizens had grown wild with expectation. A dove had been despatched by Boisot, informing them of his precise position, and a number of citizens accompanied the bur- gomaster, at nightfall, toward the tower of Hengist — "Yonder," cried the magistrate, stretching out his hand towards Lammen, "yonder, behind that fort, are bread and meat, and brethren in thousands. Shall all this be destroyed by the Spanish guns, or shall we rush to the rescue of our friends?" "We will tear the fortress to fragments with our teeth and nails," was the reply, "before the relief, so long expected, shall be wrested from us." It was resolved that a sortie, in conjunction with the operations of Boisot, should be made against Lammen with the earliest dawn. Night descended upon the scene, a pitch dark night, full of anxiety to the Spaniards, to the armada, to Leyden. Strange sights and sounds occurred at different moments to bewilder the anxious sentinels. A long procession of lights issuing from the fort was seen to flit across the black face of the waters, in the dead of night, and the whole of the city wall, between the Cow-gate and the Tower of Burgundy, fell with a loud crash. The horror-struck citizens thought that the Spaniards were upon them at last; the i£»^.» -s .--/ ..yMMtSMiamSlii^^, i If 336 AMERICAN PROSE Spaniards imagined the noise to indicate a desperate sortie of the citizens. Everything was vague and mysterious. Day dawned, at length, after the feverish night, and the Admiral prepared for the assault. Within the fortress reigned a death-like stillness, which inspired a sickening suspicion. Had the city, indeed, been carried in the night; had the massacre already commenced; had all this labor and audacity been ex- pended in vain? Suddenly a man was descried, wading breast- high through the water from Lammen towards the fleet, while at the same time, one solitary boy was seen to wave his cap from the summit of the fort. After a moment of doubt, the happy mystery was solved. The Spaniards had fled, panic struck, dur- ing the darkness. 'I'heir position would still have enabled them, with firmness, to frustrate the enterprise of the patriots, but the hand of (Jod, which had sent the ocean and the tempest to the deliverance of I.eyden, had struck her enemies with terror like- wise. The lights which had been seen moving during the night were the lanterns of the retreating Spaniards, and the boy who was now waving his triumphant signal from the battlements had alone witnessed the spectacle. So confident was he in the con- clusion to which it led him, that he had volunteered at day- break to go thither all alone. The magistrates, fearing a trap, hesitated for a moment to believe the truth, which soon, how- ever, became quite evident. Valdez, flying himself from Ley- derdorp, had ordered Colonel Borgia to retire with all his troops from I,ammen. 'I'hus, the Spaniards had retreated at the very moment that an extraordinary accident had laid bare a whole side of the city for their entrance. The noise of the wall, as it fell, only inspired them with fresh alarm; for they believed that the citizens had sallied forth in the darkness, to aid the advancing flood in the work of destruction. All obstacles being now re- moved, the fleet of Boisot swept by Lammen, and entered the city on the morning of the 3d of October. Leydei. was relieved. The quays were lined with the famishing [lopulation, as the fleet rowed through the canals, every human being who could stand, coming forth to greet the preservers of the city. Bread wa. thrown from every vessel among the crowd. The poor creat- ures, who for two months had tasted no wholesome human food, e sortie of the ght, and the ress reigned a picion. Had the massacre city been ex- irading breast- fleet, while at his cap from ibt, the happy ic struck, dur- enabled them, triots, but the :empest to the ith terror like- iring the night d the boy who ittlements had he in the con- eered at day- fearing a trap, ich soon, how- self from Ley- 1 all his troops ed at the very re a whole side wall, as it fell, ieved that the the advancing being now re- id entered the L was relieved, ulation, as the ing who could e city. Bread rhe poor creat- e human food, JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY 337 and who had literally been living within the jaws of death, snatched eagerly the blessed gift, at last too liberally bestowed. Many choked themselves to death, in the greediness with which they devoured their bread; others became ill with the effects of plenty thus suddenly succeeding starvation; — but these were iso- lated cases, a repetition of which was prevented. The Admiral, stepping ashore, was welcomed by the magistracy, and a solemn procession was immediately formed. Magistrates and citizens, wild Zealanders, emaciated burgher guards, sailors, soldiers, women, children, — nearly every living person within the walls, all repaired without delay to the great churcii, stout Admiral Boisot leading the way. The starving and heroic city, which had been so firm in its resistance to an earthly king, now bent itself in humble gratitude before the King of kings. After pray- ers, the whole vast congregation joined in the thanksgiving hymn. Thousands of voices raised the song, but few were able to carry it to its conclusion, f-r the universal emotion, deepened by the music, became too full for uUerance. The hymn was abruptly suspend>?d, while the multitude wept like children. This scene of honest pathos terminated, the necessary measures for distrib- uting the food and for relieving the sick were taken by the magis- tracy. A note despatched to the Prince of Orange, was received by him at two o'clock, as he sat in church at Delft. It was of a somewhat different purport from that of the letter which he had received early in the same day from Boisot; the letter in which the Admiral had informed him that the success of the enterprise depended, after all, upon the desperate assault upon a nearly impregnable fort. The joy of the Prince may be easily imag- ined, and so soon as the sermon was concluded, he handed the letter just received to the minister, to be read to the congrega- tion. Thus, all participated in his joy, and united with him in thanksgiving. [From The Rise of the Dutch Republic, part iv, chapter 2.] ..VSjaWesas— ^^-^ r HENRY DAVID THOREAU [Henry David Thoreau was born in Concord, Mass., July 12, 1817, and died there May 6, 1862. His father, a pencil-maker, was the son of a lioston merchant, who came of a Jersey family of French extraction, and had emi- grated to America in 1773. Both I'horeau's mother and grandmcther were Scotch. He was educated at Harvard College, where he was graduated in 1837. For a few years he taught school, and at times, in later years, he lectured, but throughout his life he preferred to sujiport himself largely by the work of his hands. 1 le was an expert pencil-maker, an excellent surveyor, and by the intermittent exercise of these employments, as well as by farm work, he earned enough to supply his simple wants and the needs of the relatives who were at times dependent upon him. He was on intimate terms with the little band of American transcendentalists, especially with Fmerson, at whose house he lived for some years, repaying the cost of his maintenance b;' his labor. But wherever Thoreau lived, and whatever was his occupation, his prevailing passion was a deep and constant delight in nature. Much of his time was spent in the open air in pleasant companionship, or, more com- monly still, alone. ) He was thoroughly familiar with the woods, fields, and waters about his native place, and made longer journeys, on several occasions, to Cape Cod, the Maine forests, and the White Mountains. His ruling pas- sions — his love for simplicity and indeuendence and his love for nature — were perhaps most completely and naturallyVratified when he spent more than two years in a little hut which he built oil Walden Pond near Concord, tilling a small plot of ground, and depending for sustenance and for enjoyment almost entirely on his own resources. Thoreau was a man wliose personal views and tenets were carried out to the point of eccentricity; but his life was blameless and he was loved and respected by all who knew him. Only two books of Thoreau's were published during his lifetime, A IVtek on the Concord and Aferrimaek Rivtrs ( 1 848) and Walden ; or Life in the IVoods (1854). He contributed, however, to several periodicals, and these essays and addresses, together with much matter from his journals and other papers, have since been issued in the following volumes : Excursions (1863), The Maine Woods (1863), Cape Cod (1865), Letters to Various Persons (1865), A Yan- kee in Canada, with Anti-Slavery and Reform Papers (1866), Early Spring in Massachusetts (1881), Summer (1884), Winter {i9i&i). Autumn {\^2), Familiar Letters (1894).] There has been in America no such instance of posthumous reputation as in the case of Thoreau. Poe and Whitman may 338 ) 2, l8i7, and I uf a lioston ind had emi- Imcther were graduated in iter years, he :lf largely by lent surveyor, II as by farm needs of the itimate terms ith Kinerson, maintenance s occupation, re. Much of ir, more com- s, fields, and ral occasions, Is ruling pas- lature — were ore than two cord, tilling a yment almost srsonal views his life was ime, A IVtek r in the IVoods se essays and papers, have , The Maine \6t,),A Van- Early Spring ttimn {lSg2), posthumous litman may HENRY DAVin TIIOREAU 339 be claimed as parallels, but not justly. Poe even during his life rode often on the very wave of success, until it subsided presently beneath him, always to rise again, had he but made it possible. Whitman gathered almost immediately a small but stanch band of followers, who have held by him with such vehemence and such flagrant imitation as to keep his name defiantly in evidence, while perhaps enhancing the antagonism of his critics. Thoreau could be egotistical enough, but was always high-minded ; all was 6pen and above board ; one could as soon conceive of self-advertis- ing by a deer in the woods or an otter of the brook. He had no organized clique of admirers, nor did he possess even what is called personal charm — or at least only that j)iquant attraction which he himself found in wild apples. As a rule, he kept men at a distance, being busy with his own affairs. He left neither wife nor children to attend to his memory ; and his sister seemed for a time to repress the publication of his manuscripts. Yet this plain, shy, retired student, who when thirty-two years old carried the unsold edition of his first book upon his back to his attic cham- ber ; who died at forty-four still unknown to the general public ; this child of obscurity, who printed but two volumes during his life- time, has had ten volumes of his writings published by others since his death, while four biographies of him have been issued in America (by Emerson, Channing, Sanborn, and Jones) besides two in England (by Page and Salt). Up to the time of his death he was unappreciated away from home, and this was naturally also true of him at his place of resi- dence, since such is the way of the world. Even Sir Walter Scott, as we learn from the lately published letters of Mrs. Grant, was not so much of a hero in Edinburgh as elsewhere. Thoreau was born in Concord, Mass., and died there, and was therefore more completely identified with that town than any of her other celebrities. Yet when I was endeavoring, about 1870, to persuade his sister to let me edit his journals, I invoked the aid of Judge Hoar, then lord of the manor in Concord, who heard me patiently through, and then said : " Whereunto ? You have not established the preliminary point. Why should any one wish to have Tho- reau 's journals printed?" Ten years later four successive vol- umes were made out of these journals by the late H. G. O. Blake, 340 AMERICAN PROSE and it is a (lucHtion whether the whole may not yet be published. I hear from a local |)hotogra[)h dealer in (Jonconl that the demand for I'horeau's pictures now exceeds that for any other li>! al celeb- rity. In the last sale catalogue of autograjjhs which I h.ive en- countereil I find a letter from Thoreau priced at #17.50, one from Hawthorne valued at the same, oiu from lx)ngfellow at ,^4.50 only, and one from Holmes at fi^, each of these luing guaranteed as an especially good autograph letter. Now the value of such memorials durng a man's life affords but a slight test of his permanent standing, — lince almost any man's autograph can be obtaineil for two postage stamps if the request be put with suffi- cient ingenuity, — but when this financial standard can be safely applied more than thirty years after a man's death, it conies pretty near to a permanent fame. It is true that Thoreau had Emerson as the editor of four of his posthumous volumes ; but it is also true that he had against him the strong >'oice of Lowell, whose following as a critic was far greater than Kmerson's. It will always remain a puzzle why it was til -owell, who had reviewed Thoreau's first book with co'.'.iality m the Afass(ii/iH\e//.( Quarterly Revieiv and had said to me afterward 1, on heariii// him compared to Izaak Walton, " There is room for three or four Waltons in Thoreau," should have written the really harsh attack on the latter which afterwards appeared and in which the plain facts were unquestionably per- verted. To transform Thoreau's two brief years of study and observation at VValden, within two miles of his mother's door, into a lifelong renunciation of his fellow-men ; to < omplain of him as waiving all interest in public affairs when the great crisis of John Brown's execution had found him far more awake to it than lx)well was, — this was only explainable by the lingering tradition of that savage period of criticism, initiated by Foe, in whose hands the thing became a tomahawk. As a matter of fact the tomahawk had in this case its immediate effect ; and the Eng- lish editor and biographer of Thoreau has stated that Lov/ell's criticism is to this day the great obstat le to the acceptance of Thoreau's writings in r'ngland. It is to be remembered, how- ever, that Thoreau was not wholly of English but partly of French origin, and was, it might be added, of a sort of moral-Oriental ■Vv. M tkw irtfUi'Oiltoil HE.VKY PAVin rilOHEAU 34f ! published. the demand U>'. Ill celeb- I have en- 0, one from w at #4.50 guaranteed lue of such test of his iph can be t with sufifi- an 1k~ safely 1, it conies r of four of had against a critic was puzzle why : book with 1(1 had said lak Walton, au," should 1 afterwards ionably per- study and ther's door, om plain of great crisis ke to it than iig tradition :, in whose of fact the d the Eng- lat Lov/ell's ceptance of bered, how- y of French iral-Oriental or Puritan- Pagan temperament. With a literary feeling even stronger than his feeling for nature — the proof of this being that he could not, like many men, enjoy nattnc in silence— -he put his observat! MS always on the level of literature, while Mr. Itur- roughs, foi itistanre, remains more upon the level of journalism. It is to be doubted whether any a\ithor uider such circum- stances would have been rci cived favorably in Kngland , just as the poems of Kmily Dickinson, which have shafts of profound scrutiny that often suggest 'I'horeau, had an extriordinary success at fiome, but fell hojielcssly dead in Knglanil, so that the second volume was never even published. Lowell speaks of Thoreau as " indolent," but this is, as has been said, like speaking of the indolence of a sclf-regislciing ther- mometer I >well objects to him as pursuing " a seclusion that keeps him in the public eye," whereas it was the public eye which sought him ; it was almost as hard to persuade him to lecture (crede , \per(o) as it was to git an audience for him when he had consented. He never proclaimed the intrinsic superiority of the wilderness, but pointed out 1h iter th.'n any one else has done its undesirableness as a residence, ranking it only as "a resource and a background." "The partially cultivated country it is," he says, " which has chiefly inspired, and will continue to inspire, the strains of poets such as compose the mass of any literature." " What is nature," he elsewhere says, " unless there is a human life passing within it? Many joys and many sorrows are the lights and shadows in which she shines most beautiful." This is the real and human Thoreau, who often whimsically veiled him^'lt, but was plainly enough seen by any careful observer. That iie was abrupt and repressive to bores and pedants, that he grudged his time to them and frequently withdrew himself, was as true of him as of Wordsworth or Tennyson. If they were allowed their pri- vacy, tliough in the heart of England, an American who never left his own broad continent might at least be allowed iiis priviK of stepping out of doors. The Concord school-children never cpiar- relled with this habit, for he took them out of doors with him and taught them where the best whortleberries grew. His scholarship, like his observation of nature, was second ry to his function as poet and writer. Into both he carried the cjc- 1^ 343 .lAf/a/c.hv rh'osE mcnt uf wliiiii ; hut his version of the Pivmit/uus HouuJ shows accuracy, aiul his study of l)irils an appears to and pepper ! rigging of it withal, — ong the vil- All the land idle palms, mid the low r, Elnathan, 1, with their m spectacle me between t more than rse pastimes the inspired HENRY DAVID THOREAU 347 negro from whose larynx the melodies of all Congo and Guinea coast have broke loose into our streets; now to see the procession of a hundred yoke of oxen, all as august and grave as Osiris, or the droves of neat cattle and milch cows as unspotted as Isis or lo. Such as had no love for Nature " at all, Came lovers home from this great festival." They may bring their fattest cattle and richest fruits to the fair, but they are all eclipsed by the show of men. These are stirring autumn days, when men sweep by in crowds, amid the rustle of leaves, like migrating finches; this is the true harvest of the year, when the air is but the breath of men, and the rustling of leaves is as the trampling of the crowd. We read nowadays of the ancient festivals, games, and processions of the Greeks and l-Urus- cans with a little incredulity, oral least with little sympathy; but how natural and irrepressible in (.very people is some hearty an«l palpable greeting of Nature. The Corybantes, the Bacchantes, the rude primitive tragedians with their procession am' goat- song, and the whole paraphernalia of the Panathentea, which appear so antiquated and peculiar, have their parallel now. The husbandman is always a better Greek than the scholar is preparcvl to appreciate, and the old custom still survives, while antiqua- rians and scholars grow gray in commemorating it. The farmers crowd to the fair to-day in obedience to the same ancient law, which Solon or Lycurgus did not enact, as naturally as bees swarm and follow their queen. It is worth the while to see the country's people, how they pour into the town, the sober farmer folk, now all agog, their very shirt and coat collars pointing forward, — collars so broad as if (hey had put their shirts on wrong end upward, for the fashions always tend to superfluity, —and with an unusual springiness in their gait, jabbering earnestly to one another. The more supple vaga- bond, too, is sure to appear on the least rumor of such a gather- ing, and the next day to disappear, and go into his hole like the seventeen-year locust, in an ever shabby coat, though finer than the farmer's best, yet never dressed; come to see the sport, and have a hawd in what is going, — to know "what's the row," if 1^ 348 AMERICAN PROSE there is any; to be where some men are drunk, some horses race, some cockerels figlit: anxious to be shaking projjs under a table, and above all to see the "ytriped i)ig." He certainly is the cleature of the occasion. He empties both his pockets and his character into tl\r ntream, and swims in such a day. He dearly lo\;es the social slush. There is no reserve of soberness in him. I love to see the herd of men feeding heartily on coarse and suciulett^ pl<;as\irt», ii» cattle on the husks and stalks of vege- tables. 'Vhough there are many cii)okeil and crabbed specimens of humanity among tin m, run all to thorn and rind, and crowded out of shape by adverse circumstances, like the third chestnut in the burr, so that you wonder ^o see some heads wear a whole hat, yet fear not that the ^-ace luH fail or waver in them; like the crabs which grow in hedges, they furnish the stocks of sweet and thrifty fruits still. Thus is nature recruited from age to age, while the fair and palalaltlf varieties die out, and have their period. This is that mankind. How cheap must be the mate- rial of which so \\\\\Vj men are mavle. [From A \V(ek on the Com aid, rli ., " Friday." The text is that of the first edition.] VfeKSONAL AIMS I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essenti.d facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessais. 1 wanted to live deep and suck out all the mar- row of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, ii It proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it ap- pears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is lorses race, ler a table, inly is the ets and his He dearly ;ss in him. coarse and cs of vege- speciniens id crowded chestnut in ar a whole them; like cs of sweet age to age, have their : the niate- at of the first jerately, to d not learn scover that life, living iless it was .11 the mar- put to rout e close, to erms, and, lid genuine d; or if it ; to give a nen, it ap- lether it is HENKY DAVID TUOKEAU 349 of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever." Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were long ago changed into men; like pygmies v fight with cranes; it is error upon error, and clout upon clout, and our best virtue has for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretched- ness. Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your thumb nail. In the midst of this chopping sea of civilized life, such are the clouds and storms and quicksands and thousand-and-one items to be allowed for, that a man has to live, if he would not founder and go to the bottom and not make his port at all, by dead reckoning, and he must be a great calculator indeed who succeeds. Sim- plify, simplify. Instead of three meals a day, if it be necessary eat but one; instead of a hundred dishes, five; and reduce other things in proportion. Our life is like a (ierman Confederacy, made up of petty states, with its boundary forever fluctuating, so that even a German cannot tell you how it is bounded at any moment. The nation il elf, with all its so-called internal im- provements, which by the way are all extxrnal and superficial, is just such an unwieldy and overgrown establishment, cluttered with furniture and tripped up by its own traps, ruined by luxury and heedless expense, by want of calculation and a worthy aim, as the million households in the land; and the only cure for it as for them is in a rigid economy, a stern and more than Spartan simplicity of life and elevation of purpose. It lives too fast. Men think that it is essential that the Nation have commerce, and export ice, and talk through a telegraph, and ride thirty miles an hour, without a doubt, whether they do or not; but whether we should live like baboons or like men, is a little uncer- tain. If we do not get out sleepers, and forge rails, and devote days and nights to the work, but go to tinkering upon our lives to improve them, who will build railroads? And if railroads are 350 AMERICAN PROSE not built, how shall we get to heaven in season? Hut if we stay at home and mind our business, who will want railroads? We do not ride on the railroad; it rides upon us. Did you ever think what those sleepers are that underlie the railroad? Each one is a man, an Irishman, or a Yankee man. The rails are laid on them, and they are covered with sand, and the cars run smoothly over them. 'I'hey are sound sleepers, I assure you. And every few years a new lot is laid down and run over; so that, if some have the pleasure of riding on a rail, others have the misfortune to be ridden upon. .And when they run over a mun that is walking in his sleep, a supernumerary sleeper in the wrong position, and wake him up, they suddenly stop the cars, and make a hue and cry about it, as if this were an exception. I am glad to know that it takes a gang of men for every five miles to keep the sleepers down and level in their beds as it is, for this is a sign that they may sometime get up again. Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life? We are determined to be starved before we are hungry. Men say that a stitch in time saves nine, and so they take a thousand stitches to-day to save nine to-morrow. As for icork, we haven't any of any consequence. We have the Saint Vitus' dance, and cannot possibly keep our hca is still. If I should only give a few pulls at the parish bell-rope, as for a fire, that is, without setting the bell, there is hardly a man on his farm in the outskirts of Concord, notwithstanding that press of engagements which was his excuse so many times this morning, nor a boy, nor a woman, I might almost say, but would forsake all and follow that sound, not mainly to save ])roperty from the flames, but, if we will con- fess the truth, much more to see it burn, since burn it must, and we, be it known, did not set it on fire, — or to see it put out, and have a hand in it, if that is done as handsomely; yes, e\en if it were the parish church itself. Hardly a man takes a half hour's nap after dinner, but wlien he wak.^s he holds up his head and asks, "What's the news?" as if the rest of mankind had stood his sentinels. Some give directions to be waked every half hour, doubtless for no other purpose; and then, to pay for it, they tell what they have dreamed. After a night's sleep the news is as indispensable as the breakfast. " Pray tell me anything new tMM : if we stay )ads ? We 1 you ever id ? Each ils are laid ; cars run issure you. n over; so jthers have run over a eper in the [) the cars, exception. i five miles s it is, for life? We Men say 1 thousand we haven't dance, and inly give a is, without le outskirts 1 which was • a woman, ;hat sound, e will con- n it must, it put out, ; yes, even ikes a half ip his head nkind had I every half pay for it, p the news ything new HENRY DAVID THOKEAU 351 that has happened to a man anywhere on this globe," — and he reads it over his coffee and rolls, that a man has had his eyes gouged out this morning on the Wachito River; never dreaming the while that he lives in the dark unfathomed mammoth cave of this world, and has but the rudiment of an eye himself. [From WalJen; or. Life in the IVoods, 1854, chapter 2. The text of this and succeeding selections is that of the iirst edition.] SOUNDS AT EVENING Now that the cars are gone by and all the restless world with them, and the fishes in the pond no longer feel their rumbling, I am more alone than ever. For the rest of the long afternoon, perhaps, my meditations are interrupted only by the faint rattle of a carriage or team along the ». ^nt highway. Sometimes, on Sundays, I heard the bells, the Lincoln, Acton, Bedford, or Concord bell, when the wind was favorable, a faint, sweet, and, as it were, natural melody, worth importing into the wilderness. At a sufficient distance over the woods this sound acquires a certain vibratory hum, as if the pine needles in the horizon were the strings of a harp which it swept. All sound heard at the greatest possible distance produce; one and the same effect, a vibration of the universal lyre, just as the inter- vening atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth interesting to our eyes by the azure tint it imparts to it. There came to me in this case a melody which the air had strained, and which had conversed with every leaf and needle of the wood, that portion of the sound which the elements had taken up and modulated and echoed from vale to vale. The echo is, to some extent, an origind sound, and therein is the magic and charm of it. It is not merely a repetition of what was worth repeating in the bell, but partly the voice of the wood; the same trivial words and note:, sung by a wood-nymph. At evening, the distant lowing of some cow in the horizon beyond the woods sounded sweet and melodious, and at first I would mistake it fur the voices of certain minstrels by whom I 352 AMERICAN PROSE was sometimes serenaded, who might be straying over hill and dale; but soon 1 was not unpleasantly disappointed when it was prolonged into the cheap and natural music of the cow. I do not mean to be satirical, but to express my ajjpreciation of those youths' singing, when I state that I perceived clearly that it was akin to the music of the cow, and they were at length one articu- lation of Nature. Regularly at half past seven, in one part of the summer, after the evening train had gone by, the whippoorwills chanted their vespers for half an hour, sitting on a stump by my door, or upon the ridge-pole of the house. They would begin to sing almost with as much precision as a clock, within five minutes of a par- ticular time, referred to the setting of the sun, every evening. I had a rare opportunity to become acquainted with their habits. Sometimes I heard four or five at once in different parts of the wood, by accident one a bar behind another, and so near me that I distinguished not only the cluck after each note, but often that singular buzzing sound like a fly in a spider's web, only propor- tionally louder. Sometimes one would circle round and round me in the woods a few feet distant as it tethered by a string, when probably I was near its eggs. They sang at intervals throughout the night, and were again as musical as ever just before and about dawn. When other birds are still the screech owls take up the strain, like mourning wcmen their ancient u-lu-lu. Their dismal scream is truly Ben Jonsonian. Wise midnight hags! It is no honest and blunt tu-whit tu-who of the poets, but, without jesting, a most solemn graveyard ditty, the mutual consolations of suicide lovers remembering the pangs and the delights of supernal love in the infernal groves. Yet I love to hear their wailing, their doleful responses, trilled along the woodside; reminding me sometimes of music and singing birds; as if it were the dark and tearful side of music, the regrets and sighs that would fain be sung. They are the spirits, the low sjiirits and melancholy fore- bodings, of fallen souls that once in human shape night-walked the earth and did the deeds of darkness, now expiating their sins with their wailing hymns or threnodies in the scenery of their transgressions. They give me a new sense of the variety and ca- ■»«»i*«ite**>**<*«*.'»^»*» i'fe» irf > i^ ' *'^^ " ■^ ■■ wafcdiga«'-Aft'«;rftjs.-i-*»ti***r' 1/ENKY DAVID TIIORRAU 355 trace l«ft, ml tlirown t;int, or by frequently hway sixty horizon is just at our g, familiar ay, and re- vast range :st, for my ighbor is a ut the hill- )n bounded id where it t-hich skirts [)art it is as jch Asia or >'n sun and night there it my door, were in the llage to fish alden Pond :ness, — but 1 left "the af the night believe that though the have been and tender, 3und in any nost melan- to hirn who There was healthy and innocent ear. Nothing can rightly compel a siniiile and brave man to a vulgar sadness. While I enjoy the friendshij) of the seasons I trust that nothing can make life a burden to me. The gentle rain which waters my bean> and kefi)s me in the house to- day is not drear and melancholy, but good for me too. Though it prevents my hoeing them, it is of far more worth than my hoeing. If it should continue so long as to cause the seeds to rot in the ground and destroy the potatoes in the lowlands, it would '.till be good for the grass on the uplands, and, being good for the grass, it would be good for me. Sometimes, when 1 com- pare myself with other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the gods than they, beyond any deserts that I am conscious of; as if I had a warrant ami surety at their hands which my fel- lows have not, and were especially guided and guarded. I do not flatter myself, but if it be possible they flatter me. I have never felt lonesome, or in the least oppressed by a sense of soli- tude, but once, and that was a few weeks after 1 came to the woods, when, for an hour, I doubted if the near neighborhood of man was not essential to a serene and healthy life. To be alone was something unpleasant. But I was at the same time conscious of a slight insanity in my mood, and seemed to foresee my re- covery. In the midst of a gentle rain while these thoughts pre- vailed, I was suddenly sensible of such sweet and beneficent society in Nature, in the very pattering of the drops, and in every sound and sight around my house, an infinite and unac- countable friendliness all at once like an atmosphere sustaining me, as made the fancied advantages of human neighborhood insignificant, and I have never thought of them since. Every little pine needle expanded and swelled with sympathy and be- friended me. I was so distinctly made aware of the presence of something kindred to me, even in scenes which we are accus- tomed to call wild and dreary, and also thai the nearest of blood to me and humanest was not a person nor a villager, that I thought no place could ever be strange to me again. [From VValden, chapter 5, " Solitude."] > : \ x^ ■ ■^.*»^M'^-v>*»i;VL,-«'^>r;^^l...'; ■■.J'^i--,tii-S>n ■■*rJ'4 Ai t> ^%. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) / O {./ ^ ^«< MJ, 1.0 I.I |50 '""== i." ilia if'} 7. Wit I 'M lll||M 12.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 16 ^ 6" - ite Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (714) 872-4503 ! ■t.^ ' j^i'/iy^.- ' tJiaw^gy i . i U ' ^'u.dtl-M^n;..'! ^ ^ .*Jrf-. ■-..i.t.:-^'".. r-,„: 356 AMEKlCAiV PROSE IMMORTALITY How long shall we sit in our porticoes practising idle and musty virtues, which any work would make impertinent? As if one were to begin the day with long-suffering, and hire a man to hoe his potatoes; and in the afternoon go forth to practise Christian meekness and charity with goodness aforethought! Consider the China pride and stagnant self-complacency of mankind. This generation inclines a lutle to congratulate itself on being the last of an illustrious line; and in Boston and London and Paris and Rome, thinking of its long descent, it speaks of its progress in art and science and literature with satisfaction. There are the Records of the Philosophical Societies, and the public Tulogies of Great Men ! It is the good Adam contemplating his own vir- tue. "Yes, we have done great deeds, and sung divine songs, which shall never die," — that is, as long as we can remember them. The learned societies and great men of Assyria, —where are they? What youthful philosophers and experimentalists we are ! There is not one of my readers who has yet lived a whole human life. 'I'hese may be but the spring months in the life of the race. If we have had the seven years' itch, we have not seen the seventeen-year locust yet in Concord. We are acquainted with a mere pellicle of the globe on which we live. Most have not delved six feet beneath the surface, nor leaped as many above / it. We know not where we are. Beside, we are sound asleep nearly half our time. Yet we esteem ourselves wise, and have an established order on the surface. Truly, we are deep thinkers, we are ambitious spirits! As I stand over the insect crawling amid the pine needles on the forest floor, and endeavoring to conceal itself from my sight, and ask myself why it will cherish those humble thoughts, and hide its head from me who might, perhaps, be its benefactor, and impart to its race some cheering informa- tio?;, I am reminded of the greater Benefactor and Intelligence , ihat stands over me the human insect. There is an incessant influx of novelty into the world, and yet we tolerate incredible dulness. I need only suggest what kind of sermons are still listened to in the most enlightened "*-*».?,--5>*-.,^- ',^'a>jv-«jV-'fTwt^c^*hsiS'f^--*^u*v.L-'.Tt;:sp«j'll » ! »Uiil llii ^^ W^ and musty As if one lan to hoe Christian insider the nd. This ng the last Paris and progress in ?re are the : r,ulogies is own vir- ine songs, remember I, — where ntalists we ed a whole the life of 'c not seen acquainted Most have nany above und asleep nd have an linkers, we vling amid to conceal srish those t, perhaps, ig informa- ntelligence , world, and iggest what !nlightened / HEI^h'Y DAVID IHOREAV countries. There are such words as joy and sorrow, but they are only the burden of a psalm, snug with a nasal twang, while we believe in the ordinary and mean. We think that we can change our clothes only. It is said that the British Empire is very large and respectable, antl tliat the United States are a first-rate power. We do not believe that a tide rises and falls behind every man which can float the British Empire like a chip, if he should ever harbor it in his mind. Who knows what sort of seventeen-year locust will next come out of the ground? The government of the world I Jive in was not framed, like that of Britain, in after- dinner conversations over the wine. The life in us is like the water in the river. It may rise this year higher than man has ever known it, and flood the parched uplandsj even this ma)»»be the^^ntfvd year, which will d.own out all our muskrats. It was noWnways dry lanil where we dwell. T see far inland the banks which the stream anciently washed, before science began to record its freshets. Every one has heard the story which has gone the rounds of New England, of a strong and beautiful bug which came out of the dry leaf of an old table of apple-tree wood, which had stood in a farmer's kitchen for sixtj years, first in Connecticut, and afterward in Massachusetts, — from an egg deposited in the living tree many years earlier still, as appeared by counting the annual layers beyond it; which was heard gnawing oi't for several weeks, hatched perchance by the heat of an urn. Who does not feel his faith in a resurrection and immortality strengthened by hearing of thiy? Who knows what beautiful and winged life, whose egg has been buried for ages under many concentric layers of wooden- ness in the dead dry life of society, deposited at first in the alburnum of the green and living tree, which has been gradually converted into the semblance of Us well-seasoned tomb, — heard perchance gnawing out now for years by the astonished family of man, as they sat round the festive board, — may unexpectedly come forth from amidst society's most trivial rnd handselled furniture, to enjoy its perfect summer life at last! [From Walden, "Conclusion."] P^ftS^w6sS)^2^^JS^^^^'-£ I (I I I -k-^ JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL [James Russell I.owoU was Imrn in the Lowell homestead, F.lmwooil, in Camliridfje, Mass., I'l'l). 2>, iSkj, and •, which took ted to other inging satire^ F slavery and ression ; and [lade his first ^ongfellow as eratures and years, during lo.nance , d by hj! >-( 1857), and ny ofl^is be* [1 in 1877 he jplance of an . tu England, indl^)xford hat'>f LL.D. , an editor, a intinuation at ratures begun iroughcut the is periodicals, •ose work are esiift Travels '- ), Afy Study U/ical Essays nglish Dram- 1883.] i JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 359 Among American men of letters Lowell stands conspinious alike for variety of natur-il gift and breadth of culture. Poet, wit, humorist, scholar, critic, essayist, professor, diplomatist, in each capacity he exhibited an excellence which served as warrant that had he limited himself to a single art, he might easily have attainetl to the highest distinction in its pursuit. But the very multiplicity of his endowments interfered with the complete expression of any one of them. His talents h.TiMpered his genius. A lifetime is long enough for most men to make full use of their possessions. I5ut so ample were his resources that he seemed to need a secular term in which to fulfil the service which they were capable of rendering. In all that he did he was troubled, not by lack but by superfluity of means. Masterly as was his performance in many fields, his seventy years were but as a long youth, a period of preparation for the completely disciplined exercise of his natural po.vers. He was never content with his own achievements, but, with unex- hausted ardor and unwearied industry, he continued to the end of life preparing himself for the work in which his genius should exhibit the full sweep of its wing. Yet in his poetry and in his prose, however ..luch there may be that is deciduous, there is much of perennial quality which " gives it a title to rank as literature in the highest sense." His best work is replete with an undying vitality ; it is the expression of a spirit of perpetual contemporaneousness. His own words in speaking of the classics are largely applicable to .himself: "Their vitality is the vitality not of one or another blood or tongue, but of human nature ; their truth is not topical -and transitory, but of universal acceptation ; and thus all great authors seem the coevals not only of each other, but of whoever reads them, growing wiser with him as he grows wise, and unlocking to him one secret after another as his own Hfe and experience give him the key, but on no other condition. Their meaning is absolute, not conditional ; it is a property of theirs quite irrespective of manners or creed ; for the highest culture, the development of the individual by observa- lion, i;eflection, and study leads to one result, whether in Athens or in London " or on the banks of the Charles. Lowell was fortunate in his birth and his early training. The time was the happiest period of the historic .'ife of New England. The 360 AMERICAN PROSE community was one in wliicii homogeneousness of blood, comir.on traditions, simplicity of customs, wide diffusion of comfort uail of culture, an unusual eciuality of condition, a general disposition to individual inilependencc and mutual reliance, all combined to pro- mote a spirit of hopefulness, confidence, and sympathy, such as has rarely existed among men. For a youth of genius it was a fortunate society in which he grew up. There were few adventi- tious difficulties to be struggled with ; there was little to pervert the natural course of his powers ; there was learning enough to be had for their due cultivation ; the moral atmosphere was healthy. The influence of such conditions v.. manifest not only in Ivowell's writings, but in those of his contemporaries as well ; it gave its quality to the wisdom of Kmerson, to the poetry of Ix)ngfellow; and, in the work of these and other men their fellows, the salutary influence is perjjctuated for the benefit of later generations. These men in their writings, and in their lives, gave expression and form to the true ideals of American democracy. The first of Lowell's jirose works, Conversations on Some of the Old Poets, was i)ublished in 1845, when he was but twenty-six years old, " standing as yet only in the outer porch of life." Alike in substance and in form it exhibits the youthfulness of its author, but it is the work of a youth already capable of such things as betoken great achievements to come. There is in it the evidence of native force of mind, of poetic temperament, of imaginative insight and critical discrimination, as well as of wide reading and capacity of so assimilating the thought of others as to make it the nutriment of originality of genius. But there is also in it something of the perfervid zeal of youth, its disposition to rhetorical exuberance, its exclusiveness of taste, and its subjection to the influences of favorite writers. Lowell rapidly outgrew these defects, they be- came distasteful to him, and in later years he refrained from reprinting the little book which, in spite of its containing much that remained characteristic of its author, was the work of a writer different in some important respects from what he had become. In the Address to the Reader with which it begins there is, how- ever, a passage which is of interest in its bearing on the whole of Lowell's literary work. " For the minor faults of the book," said the young authc.-, "the hurry with which it has been prepared must ". *Jinv.-ir^iTi.*-ss^Aia«w-*.Vi-«-— .'"-ii.. ^:.Ki^ r;it««in»Wii-onfA ' 4cMft'fiecttb.^&i!lBi^'t«bMii«S&3m$f«>M^^ 1, comiT.on ort uiiil of )jsition to led to i)ro- ly, such as s it was a w adventi- to pervert ougli to be as healthy. n Lxjwell's it gave its -ongfellow ; he salutary ins. These 1 and form Some of the ty-bix years ' Alike in author, but as betoken ce of native insight and capacity of ; nutriment hing of the exuberance, ifluences of ts, they be- ained from ining much c of a writer ad become, lere is, how- le whole of book," said epared must JAMES KUSSEI.L LOWELL 361 plead in extenuation, since it was in process of writing and printing at the same time, so that I could never estimate its proportions as a whole." The same words might have been repeated as an intro- duction to much, indeed to the greater part, of his writing at every period of his life. Poem or essay as it might be, the expression of life-long sentiment, or of years of study and reflection, it was written hastily. The pages flew from the study to the press. Low- ell's faculties were so ready at command, were so trained and disciplined by continual service, that he could trust them to per- form efficiently the bidding of his genius whatever it might require. But even the most consummate master cannot always give perfec- tion of form to work in his first shaping of it. The mentis ateriue forma is not to be rendered in its completeness at the first effort. But he was impatient of revision. The poetic impulse was stronger in him than the artistic. He could not bring himself to follow Donne's example, and "cribrate, recribrate, and postcribrate." The very abundance of his genius was a temptation which led him to care little for what lay behind him already accomplished, in comparison with the allurement of what still lay before him to be done. And he had, indeed, such ample reason for confidence in his own poweis, thrit the lover of his work is left with litde to desire but that the gods had added to his other gifts the disposi- tion of perfecting. At its best Lowell's prose style is that of a master of the English tongue. It is full of life and masculine vigor. In its large, clear, and easy flow it is the expression of a strong, rich, and well-nurt- ured mind, of a nature generous and sweet, and of a poetic tem- perament modified by the tastes of a scholar and of a student of nature. The resources of the language are at his command. There is no conscious effort in his sentences, no mere rhetorical display, but they possess a natural and often noble modulation. The form which he gives to his thought seldom makes too great a claim on the attention of the reader ; his diction is in general simple and direct, full without redundancy, word and phrase hap- pily coalescing with the thought. There is much in his style of what he calied " that happy spontaneousness which delights us in the best writers," and which, seeming to partake of the element of luck, is evidence of the highest culture. Now and then his f tmmmtMM^mimmmv 362 AMERICAN PROSE vivacity of fancy leads Iiim beyond the bounds of a chastc'ied taste, and he drops the wand of the magician to play for a brief instant with the lath of the jester. Hut the fulness of life is less often manifest in superabundance of vivacity than in happy illus- tration, vivid metaphor, imaginative simile, or wise reflection. Of all his prose work that which most fully displays his genius is, perhaps, the body of his essays on the linglish poets and drama- tists. There are no literary studies in the language more instinct with the true spirit of critical appreciation, none which may serve better as an introduction not merely to the work of special poets, i but to Knglish poetry in general. For, in treating of the poets from Spenser to Wordsworth, the whole field is traversed along the main road leailing through it, and many of its by-paths are inci- dentally explored. The treatment is throughout large, liberal, and , just, distinguished by poetic insight, scholarly urbanity, and mature reflection. Yet if his native genius finds its freest expression in these liter- ary essays, his character is perhaps manifested even more impres- sively in his political writings. The spirit that pervades them is that of the wise and practical idealist, who knows that the worth of a nation and the strength of its institutions depend upon the nature of the ideas which they embody and represent, and that material prosperity is in the long run dependent upon the suprem- acy of moral principles. The vigorous reasoning, the large knowledge of history, the wit, the clearness of statement, the strong, right sentiment of these essays and speeches give them a high rank in political literature. Lowell's place is secure among the great writers of English prose ; for it is not presumptuous to prophesy that much of his work will be read by future generations, not merely for its impor- tance in the history of American letters, but for its own sake, its wisdom and its charm, its abiding classic quality. Charles Eliot Norton *<-S'-i<.'.»«J''»/'ii»*'**i' ^d*^*Mivi .1.V b^imii^thgii>mMAi*i^^»^«i^s»M^t»ia0^i>ec chastciied for a brief life is less lappy illus- ?ction. his genius md ilraina- ore instinct I may serve ecial poets, J f the poets (1 along the IS are inci- liberal, and i and mature I these liter- ore impres- ■ des them is It the worth <1 upon the It, and that the suprem- , the large tement, the give them a of English nuch of his r its impor- iwn sake, its r Norton JAMES KUSSELL LOWtU. 363 THE YANKEE CHARACTER TiiKRK are two things »pon which it should seem fitting to di- late somewhat more largely in this place, — the 'lankee character and the Yankee dialect. And, first, of the Yankee character, which has wanted neither open maligners, nor even more danger- ous enemies in the persons of those unskilful painters who have given to it that hardness, angularity, and want of proper perspec- tive, which, in truth, belonged, not to their subject, but to their own niggard and unskilful pencil. New England was not so much the colony of a mother country, as a Hagar driven forth into the wilderness. The little self- exiled band which came hither in 1620 came, not to seek gold, but to found a democracy. They came that they might have the privileges to work and pray, to sit upon hard benches and listen to painful preachers as long as they would, yea, even unto thirty- seventhly, if the spirit so willed it. And surely if the (Ireek might boast his Thermopylte, where three hundred men fell re- sisting the Persian, we may well be proud of our Plymouth Rock, where a handful of men, women, and children not merely faced, but vamiuished, winter, famine, the wilderness, and the yet more invincible stoige that drew them back to the green island far away. These found no lotus growing upon the surly shore, the taste of which could make them forget their little native Ithaca; nor were they so wanting to themselves in faith as to burn their ship, but could see the fair west-wind belly the homeward sail, and then turn unrepining to grapple with the terrible Unknown. As Want was the prime foe these hardy exodists had to fortress themselves against, so it is little wonder if that traditional feud be long in wearing out of the stock. The wounds of the old warfare were long ahealing, anc' an east-wind of hard times puts a new ache in every one of them. Thri.'t was the first lesson in their horn-book, pointed out, letter after letter, by the lean finger of the hard schoolmaster, Necessity. Neither were those plump, rosy-gilled Englishmen that came hither, but a hard-faced, atra- bilious, earnest-eyed race, stiff from long wrestling with the Lord in prayer, and who had taught Satan to dread the new Puritan ii 1! \ f'. » 364 AMERICAN PROSE hug. Add two liiindrcd years' influence of soil, climate, and txposiiri", witii its ne» essary result of idiosyncrasies, and we have the present YanlLce, full of expedients, half-master of all trades, inventive in all but the beautiful, full of shifts, not yet capable of comfort, armed at all points against the old enemy Hunger, longanimous, good at patching, not so careful for what is best as for what will do, with a clasp to his purse and a button to his pocket, not skilled to build against Time, as in old coun- tries, but against sore-i)ressing Need, accustomed to move the world with no jtov o-Tui but his own two feet, and no lever but his own long forecast. A strange hybrid, indeed, did circumstance beget, here in the New World, upon the old Puritan stocl- and the earth never before saw such mystic-practicalism, such ni. gard- geniality, such calculating-fanaticism, such cast-iron-enthu ;iasm, such unwilling-humor, such c\o:,<. fj.ued-generosity. This new Gni'iulux esurkns will make a living out of anything. He will invent new trades as well as tools. His brain is his capital, and he will get education at all risks. Put him on Juan Fernandez, and he would make a spelling-book first, and a salt-pan after- ward. In ccclitm, jussfris, ibit, — or the other way either, — it is all one, so anything is to be got by it. Yet, after all, thin, speculative Jonathan is more like the Knglishman of two centu- ries ago than John Bull himself is. He has lost somewhat in solidity, has become fluent and adaptable, but more of the origi- nal groundwork of character remains. He feels more at home with Fulke Greville, Herbert of Cherbury, Quarles, George Herbert, and Browne, than with his modern English cousins. He is nearer than John, but by at least a hundred years, to Naseby, Marston Moor, Worcester, and the time when, if ever, there were true Englishmen. John Bull has suffered the idea of the Invisible to be very much fattened out of him. Jonathan is con- scious still that he lives in the world of the Unseen as well as the Seen. To move John you must make your fulcrum of solid beef and pudding; an abstract idea will do for Jonathan. [ The Biglow Papers, First Series, 1848, " Introduction." The text is that of the tirst edition.] " '■T*ftiiSJi>^-*r».','-jric"'*)fei*»i':v'*;i*^^ffl^l- itoaaM«»^^.aa^'«aife.*aa^itf w>tKi i -a i^ »i i^? AMERICAN I'NOS/-: hinh-lying table-lands; Ut him be many times driven back (till he wisoly consriit to l)c balTInli from its inctipliysicd northwest ]).issat^i's tiiat lead only to the dreary solitudes of a siiidess world, before he think himself morally e(Hiipi)ed for travels to more distant ref^ioos. Hut does he commonly esen so much us tiiink of this, or, while buying amplest trunks for his cori)oreal apparel, does it once ocnir to him how very small a i)ortmanteau will contain all his mental and spiritual outfit? Oftener, it is true, thai a man who could scarce be induced to expose his un- clothed body, even in a village of prairie dogs, will complacently display a mind as naked as the day it was born, without so much as a fig-leaf of actiuirement on it, in every gallery of I'.urope. If not with a robe «lyed in the'l'yrian jnirple of imaginative culture, if not with the close-fitting, active ilress of social or business training, — at least, my flear Storg, one might provide himself with the merest waist-clout of modesty! lilt if it be too much to expect men to traverse and survey themselves before they go abroad, we might ccrtaiidy ask that they should be familiar with their own villages. If not even that, then it is of little import whither they go, and let ns hope that, by seeing how calmly their own narrow neigld)orhood bears their departure, they may be led to think that the circles of disturbance set in motion by the fall of their tiny drop into the ocean of eter- nity, will not have a radius of more than a week in any ilirection; and that the world can endure the subtraction of even a justice of the peace with provoking e>iuanimity. In this way, at least, foreign travel may do them good, may make them, if not wiser, at any rate less fussy. Is it a great way to go to school, and a great fee to pay for the lesson ? Wo cannot pay too much for that genial stoicism which, when life flouts us and says — Put TH.vr in your pipe and smoke it! — can puff away with as sincere a relish as if it were tobacco of Mount Lebanon in a narghileh of Damascus. After all, my dear Storg, it is to know thins!^ that one has need- to travel, and not men. Those force us to come to them, but these come to us — sometimes whether we will or no. These exist for us in every variety in our own town. Vou may find your antipodes without a voyage to China; he lives there, just liflV piP»t*v^s*f.^-^s^ji5ir-' ••Slilhe^,Kl,iaMlim^m»i^u)^^ /AMES KUSSia.l. I.OWEl.l. 367 round tlic next corner, precise, formal, the slave of i)re P^ j y K *^W*^»3^^^^^!^r% le'-gM-H ^tr i ir ft ff ms m t t n i yi iw y. |i> n «(^ n mmiy . ftm 368 AMERICAN rROSE at home. Mont Blanc does not tower more grandly in the memory, than did the d-oam-peak which loomed afar on the morning-horizon of hope; nor did the smoke-palm of Vesuvius stand more erect and fair, with tapering stem and spreading top, in that Parthenopeian air than under the diviner sky of imagina- tion. I know what Shakespeare sny;- about home-keeping youths, and 1 can fancy what you will add about America being interest- ing only as a phenomenon, and uncomfortable to live in, because we have not yet done with getting ready to live. But is not your Europe, on the other hand, a place where men have done living for the -^resent, and of value chiefly because of the men who had done living in it long ago? And if, in our rapidly-moving country, one feel sometimes as if he had his home in a railroad train, is there not also a satisfaction in knowing that one is going f '/.y*.'«MV:^A-^>«i^^it«>Ai*r^---«a^ !•»«■■.. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 369 andly in the [ afar on the n pf Vesuvius preading top, y of imagiiia- eping youths, leing interest- ,'e in, because ut is not your I done living men who had ipidly-nioving in a railroad t one is going )le carry with ing hardly as ot both seen dfish in their .Mit, incapable them, a show 3uld see at all lie wise man t that he goes everything in im by divine is nature and lly, as to the »on the hearth soft moss of pale travesty natural end. quarters, and X the muffled •attling tramp a prisoner in )rs of heaven. ite rocky tenet of mine, for I maintained, you remember, that the wisest man >was he who stayed at home; that to see the anticpiities of the old world was nothing, since the youth of the world vas really no farther away from us than our own youth ; and that, moreover, we had also in America things amazingly old, as our boys, for ex- ample. Add, that in the end this antiquity is a matter of com- parison, which skips from place to place as nimbly as Emerson's sphinx, and that one old thing is good only till we have seen an older. England is ancient till we go to Rome. Etruria de- thrones Rome, but only to pass this sceptre of Antiquity which so lords it over our fancies to the PeLisgi, from w'iom Egypt straightway wrenches it to give it up in turn to older India. And whither then? As well rest upon the first step, since the effect of what is old upon the mind is single and positive, not cumula- tive. As soon as a thing is past, it is as infinitely far away from us as if it had happened millions of years ago. And if the learned Huet be correct, who reckoned that every human thought and record could be included in ten folios, what so frightfully old as we ourselves, who can, if we choose, hold in our memories every syllable of recorded time, from the first crunch of Eve's teeth in the apple, downward, being thus ideally contemporary with hoariest Eld? " Thy pyramids built up with newer might To us are nothing novel, nothing strange." Now, my dear Storg, you know my (what the phrenologists call) inhabitiveness and adhesiveness, how I stand by the old thought, the old thing, the old place, and the old friend, till I am very sure I have got a better, and even then migrate painfully. Re- member the old Arabian story, and think how hard it is to pick up all the pomegranate-seeds of an opponent's argument, and how, as long as one remains, you are as far from the end as ever. Since I have you entirely at my mercy (for you cannot an«ver me under five weeks) you will not be surprised at the advent of this letter. I had always one impregnable position, which was, that however "ood other places might be, there was only one in which we could be born, and which therefore possessed a quite peculiar and inalienable virtue. We had the fortune, which 2B VKinvweamxiiaM^, .1^^^ n • I 370 AMERICAN P/iOSE neither of us have had reason to call other than good, to jouiney together through the green, secluded valley of boyhood; together we climbed the mountain wall which shu* "t in, and looked upon those Italian plains of early manhood; and, since then, we have met sometimes by a well, or broken bread together at an oasis in the arifl desert of life, as it truly is. With this letter I propose to make you my fellow-traveller in one of those fireside voyages which, as we grow older, we make oftener and oftener through our own past. Without leaving your elbow-chair, you shall go back with me thirty years, which will bring you among things and persons as thoroughly preterite as Romulus or Numa. For, so rapid are our changes in America, that the transition from old to new, the shifting from habits and associations to others entirely different, is as rapid almost as the pushing in of one scene and the drawing out of another on the stage. And it is this which makes America so interesting tc t'^p philosophic student of his- tory and man. Here, as in a theatre, the great problems of anthropology, which in the old world were ages in "olving, but which are solved, leaving only a dry net result; are compressed, as it were, into the entertainment of a few hours. Here we have I know not how many epochs of history and phases of civilization contemporary with each other, nay, within live minutes of each other by ihe electric telegraph. In two centuries we have seen rehearsed the dispersion of man from a small point over a whole coiitine"L; we witness with our own eyes the action of those forces which govern the great migration of the peoples, now historical in Europe; we can watch the action and reaction of different races, forms of government, and higher or lower civilizations. Over there, you have only the dead precipitate, demanding tedious analysis; but here the elements are all in solution, and we have only to look to know them all. History, which every day makes less account of governors and more of man, must find here the compendious key to all that picture-writing of the Past. Therefore it is, my dear Storg, that we Yankees may still esteem our America a place worth living in. But calm your apprehen- sions : I do not propose to drag you with me on such an historical circumnavigation of the globe, but only to show you that (how- ever needful it may be to go abroad for the study of sesthetics) a - (^.SA'a; »S;i wi^Vi^^'^^M-AJrti.-Ai Hi 'i^'AA v-rfw«wJieg»-.^'iK'^*-/.feM*:va&fc<*3nw>1te^^ ■■f^Jstmmmf^T^- 1 JAMES KUSSEf.l. LOWELL 371 to jouiney together )oked upon n, we have an oaiis in r I propose de voyages er through :)U shall go things and . For, so from old to ers entirely scene and this which lent of his- roblems of olving, but om pressed, sre we have civilization tes of each : have seen ver a whole those forces w historical Df different iviiizations. demanding ilution, and :h every day ist find here [ the Past. still esteem • apprehen- n historical that (how- Bsthetics) a man who uses the eyes of his heart, may find here also pretty bits of what may be called the social picturesque, and little land- scapes over which that* Indian-summer atmosphere of the Past broods as sweetly and tenderly as over a Roman ruin. Let us look at the Cambridge of thirty years since. The seal of the oldest college in America, it had, of course, some of that cloistered quiet which characterizes all university towns. 15ut, underlying this, it had an idiosyncrasy of its own. Boston was not yet a city, and Cambridge was still a country vil- lage, with its own hiibits and traditions, not yet feeling too strongly the force of suburban gravitation. Approaching it from the west by what was tl en called the New Road (it is so called no longer, for we change our names whenever we can, to the great detriment of all historical association) you would pause on the brow of Symonds' Hill to enjoy a view singularly soothing and placid. In front of you lay the town, tufted with elms, lin- dens, and horse-chestnuts, which had seen Massachusetts a colony, and were fortunately unable to emigrate with the tories by whom, or by whose fathers, they were planted. Over it rose the noisy belfry of the college, the square, brown tower of the church, and the slim, yellow spire of the parish meeting-house, by no means ungraceful, and then an invariable characteristic of New England religious architecture. On your right, the Charles slipped smoothly through green and purple salt-meadows, dark- ened, here and there, with the blossoming black-grass as with a stranded cloud-shadow. Over these marshes, level as water, but without its glare, and with softer and more soothing gradations of perspective, the eye was carried to a horizon of sioftly-rounded hills. To your left hand, upon the Old Road, you saw some half- dozen dignified old houses of the colonial time, all comfortably fronting southward. If it were spring-time, the rows of horse- chestnuts along the fronts of these houses showed, through every crevice of their dark heap of foliage, and on the end of every drooping limb, a cone of pearly flowers, while the hill behind was white or rosy with the crowding blooms of various fruit-trees. There is no sound, unless a horseman r latters over the loose planks of the bridge, while his antipodal shadow glides silently over the mirrored bridge below, or unless 1-1 372 AMERICAN PROSE "() winged rapture, feathered soul of spring, ISlithc voice of woods, fields, waters, all in one, / ripe blown through l)y the warm, u>iW Lireath of June, Shepherding her white flocks of woolly clouds. The llolnilink has come, and climbs the wind With rippling wings, that (juaver, not for flight. But only joy, or, yielding to its will, Kuns down, a brook of laughter, through the air." li ''■d Such was the charmingly rural picture which he who, thirty years ago, went eastward over Symonds' Hill, had given him for nothing to hang in the Gallery of Memory. But we are a city now, and Common Councils have as yet no notion of the truth (learned long ago by many a European hamlet) that picturesque- ness adds to the actual money value of a town. To save a few dollars in gravel, they have cut a kind of dry ditch through the hill, where you suffocate with dust in summer, or flounder through waist-deep snow-drifts in winter, with no prospect but the crum- bling earth-walls on each side. The landscape was carried away, cart-ioad by cart-load, and, deposited on the roads, forms a part of that unfathomable pudding, which has, I fear, driven many a teamster and pedestrian to the use of phrases not commonly found in English dictionaries. We called it " the Village " then (I speak of Old Cambridge), and it was essentially an English village, quiet, unspeculative, without enterprise, sufficing to itself, and only showing such dif- ferences from the original type as the public school and the sys- tem of town government might superinduce. A few houses, chiefly old, stood around the bare common, with ample elbow- room, and old women, capped and spectacled, still peered through the same windows from which they had watched Lord Percy's artillery rumble by to Lexington, or caught a glimpse of the hand- some Virginia General who had come to wield our homespun Saxon chivalry. People were still living who regretted the late unhappy separation from the Mother Island, who had seen no gentry since the Vassalls went, and who thought that Boston had ill kept the day of her patron saint, Botolph, on the 17th June, 1775. The hooks were to be seen from which had swung the hammocks of Burgoyne's captive red coats. If memory does not l^;UWMMr^^^ in the Presi- [), that still s a doubt, it 1 oil artillery ml buckskin that solemn Railways prominences itizen every ome to our i traditional hat historic mitations of town hogs! " ;l of the bar- md all about i around the 1 every more y like burs. I through all , when hurry lulating pen- Some slow- 1 humiliating shed loafers, laster, whose lid not then . nail-cutting :ngth, and to ved in recog- s more indi- t P. as Greek n, in his old it silver spec- loses of these JA.'ES RUSSEl.L LOW El I. 375 degenerate days could bear? lie was a natural celibf.te, not dwelling "like the fly in the heart of the apple," but like a lonely bee, rather, absconding himself in Mymcttian llowers, incapable of matrimony as a solitary palm-tree, 'i'here was not even a tra- dition of youthful disappointment. I fancy him arranging his scrupulous toilet, not for Amaryllis or Nea:ra, but, like Machia- velli, for the society of his beloved classics. His ears had needed no prophylactic wax to pass the Sirens* isle, nay, he would have kept them the wider open, studious of the dialect in which they sang, and perhaps triumphantly detecting the Aeolic digamma in their lay. A thoroughly single man, single-minded, single- hearted, buttoning over his single heart a single-breasted surtout, r.nd wearing always a hat of a single fashion, — did he in secret regard the dual number of his favorite language as a weakness? The son of an officer of distinction in the Revolutionary War, he mounted the pulpit with the erect port of a soldier, and carried his cane more in the fashion of a weapon than a staff, but with the point lowered in token of surrender to the peaceful proprie- ties of his calling. Yet sometimes the martial instincts wou'd burst the cerements of black coat and clerical neck-cloth, as once when the students had got into a fight upon the training-field, and the licentious soldiery, furious with rum, had driven them at point of bayonet to the college-gates, and even threatened to lift their arms against the Muses' bower. Then, like Major Goffe at Deerfield, suddenly appeared the grayhaired P., all his father resurgent in him, and shouted, " Now, my lads, stand your ground, you're in the right now! don't let one of them get inside the college grounds!" Thus he allowed arms to get the better of the toga, but raised it, like the Prophet's breeches, into a banner, and carefully ushered resistance with a preamble of in- fringed right. Fidelity was his strong characteristic, and burned equably in him through a life of eighty-three years. He drilled himself till inflexible habit stood sentinel before all those pos- tern-weaknesses which temperament leaves unbolted to tempta- tion. A lover of the scholar's herb, yet loving freedom more, and knowing that the animal appetites ever hold one hand behind them for Satan to drop a bribe in, he would never have two segars in his house at once, but walked every day to the shop to fetch ;■ .. ' e:! m m III k . ■.II 11. m 376 AMKh'lCA.V I'/iOSK his single diuriKil sohicc. Nor would lie trust himself with two on Saturdays, preferring (since he could not violate the Sahhath even hy that infinitesimal traffic) to dei)cnd on Providential ravens, which were seldom wanting in the shape of some black- coated friend who knew his need and honored the scruple that occasioned it. He was faithful also to his old hats, in which appeared the constant service of the antique world, and which he preserved for ever, piled like a black pagoda under his dressing- table. No scarecrow was ever the residuary legatee of his beavers, though one of them in any of the neighboring peach- orchards would have been sovran against an attack of freshmen. He wore them all in turn, getting through all in the course of the year, like the sun through the signs of the Zodiac, modulating them according to seasons and celestial phenomena, so that never was spider-web or chickweed so sensitive a weather-gauge as they. Nor did his political party find him less loyal. Taking all the tickets, he would seat himself apart and carefully com- pare them with the list of regular nominations as printed in his Dai/y Adverliscr before he dropped his ballot in the box. In less ambitious moments it almost seems to me that I would rather have had that slow, conscientious vote of ^'.'s alone, than have been chosen alderman of the ward ! If you had walked to what was then Sweet Auburn by the pleas- ant Old Road, on some June morning thirty years ago, you would, very likely, have met two other characteristic persons, both phan- tasmagoric now, and belonging to the Past. Fifty years earlier, the scarlet-coated, rapiered figures of Vassall, Oliver, and Brattle, creaked up and down there on red-heeled shoes, lifting the cere- monious three-cornered hat, and offering the fugacious hospitali- ties of the snuff-box. They are all shadowy alike now, not one of your Etruscan Lucumos or Roman Consuls more sc, my dear Storg. First is W., his queue slender and tapering like the tail of a violet crab, held out horizontally, by the high collar of his shepherd's-gray overcoat, whose style was of the latest when he studied at Leyden in his hot youth. The age of cheap clothes sees no more of those faithful old garments, as proper to their wearers and as distinctive as the barks of trees, and by long use interpenetrated with their very nature. Nor do we see so many ■'«fe'a:«af^»lia.i*M^'«!ea«W*rt«se^lS«<»««9W!S. i with two ic Sabbath rovidential )ine bhick- ruple that , in which (I which he s (Iressing- itec of /lis ing peach- [ freshmen. Qurse of the modulating 3 that never er-gauge as il. Taking cfnlly com- inted in his le box. In r'ould rather I, than have )y the pleas- , you would, both phan- ears earlier, and Brattle, ng the cere- is hospitali- )w, not one sc, my dear like the tail :ollar of his :st when he eap clothes per to their by long use see so many JAMES RUSSF.l.l. l.OWIU.I 377 Humors (still in the old sense) now that every man's soul belongs to the Public, as when social distinctions were more marked, and men felt that their iHTsonalities were their castles, in which they could entrench themselves against the world. Nowadays men are shy of lettiiig their true selves be seen, as if in some former life they had committed a crime, and were all the time afraid of dis- covery and arrest in this, formerly they used to insist on your giving the wall to their peculiarities, and you may still find ex- amples of it in the parson or the doctor of r !red vUlages. One of W.'s oddities was touching. A little brook used to run across the street, and the sidewalk was carried over it by a broad stone. Of course, there is no brook now. What use did that little glimpse of ripple serve, where the children used to launch their chip fleets? W., in going over this stone, which gave a hollow resonance to the tread, used to strike upon it three times with his cane, and mutter Tom ! Tom ! Tom ! I used to think he was only mimicking with his voice the sound of the blows, and possibly it was that sound which suggested his thought — for he was remem- bering a favorite nephew prematurely dead. Perhaps Tom had sailed his boats there; perhaps the reverberation under the old man's foot hinted at the hollowness of life; perhaps the fleeting eddies of the water brought to mind the /usances (innos. W., like P., wore amazing spectacles, fit to transmit no smaller image than the page of mightiest folios of Dioscorides or Hercules de Saxonia, and rising full-disked upon the beholder like those prodigies of two moons at once, portending change to monarchs. The great collar disallowing any independent rotation of the head, I remember he used to turn his whole person in order to bring their /od to bear upon an object. One can fancy that terrified nature would have yielded up her secrets at once, without cross- examination, at their first glare. Through them he had gazed fondly into the great mare's-nest of Junius, publishing his obser- vations upon the eggs found therein in a tall octavo. It was he who introduced vaccination to this Western World. He used to stop and say good-morning kindly, and pat the shoulder of the blushing school-boy who now, with the fierce snow-storm wilder- ing without, sits and remembers sadly those old meetings and partings in the June sunshine. r 37« AMI-.mCAN PKOSK it I 1 .1 H li ;i! W 'I'licn, there was S,, whose resounding "haw! haw! haw! by (IcorKc!" positively enlarged the income of every dweiler in Cambridge. In downright, honest good cheer and good neighbor- hood it was worth five hundred a year to every one of iis. Its jovial thunders cleared the mental air of every sulky cloud. Per- l)etual childhu ' dwelt in him, the childhood of his native South- ern France, an its fixeii air was all the time bubbling up and sparkling and winking in his eyes. It seemed as if his placid old face were only a mask behind which a merry Clupid had ambushed himself, peeping out all the while, and ready to drop it when the play grew tiresome. Every word he uttered seemed to be hilari- ous, no matter what the occasion. If he were sick and you vis- ited him, if he had met with a misfortune (and there art few men so wise that they can look even at the back of a retiring sorrow with composure), it was all one; his great laugh went off as if it were set like an alarum-clock, to run down, whether he would or no, at a ce-tain nick. Kven after an ordinary good morning f (especially if to an old pupil, and in French,) the wonderful haw.' haw! haw! by George! would burst upon you unexpectedly like a salute of artillery on some holiday which you had forgotten. Every thing was a joke to him — that the oath of allegiance had been administered to him by your grandfather, — that he had taught I'rescott his first Spanish (of which he was proud) — no matter what. Every thing came to him marked by nature — right side up, with care, and he kept it so. The world to him, as to all of us, was like a medal, on the obverse of which is stamped the image of Joy, and on the reverse that of Care. S. never took the foolish pains to look at that other side, even if he knew its existence; much less would it have occurred to him to turn it into view and insist that his friends should look at it with him. Nor was this a mere outside good-humor; its source was deeper in a true Christian kindliness and amenity. Once when he had been knocked down b> a tipsily-driven sleigh, and was urged to prosecute the offende..: — " No, no," he said, his wounds still fresh, "young blood! young blood! it must have its way; I was young myself." Was! few men come into life so young as S. went out. He landed in Boston (then the front door of America) in '93, and, in honor of the ceremony, had his head powdered *J»«KS»,. »ESBS««i»Wi'St'~«fc»»«i*5^ift***«« ^mm^ti' ! haw I by dweller in I neighbor- j( us. Its 3ud. I'er- tive South- ing up and placid old 1 ambushed it when the 3 be hilari- nd you vis- re few men itig sorrow nt off as if :r he would / morning! wonderful lexpectedly J forgotten, giance had hat he had iroud) — no ture — right 3 him, as to is stamped , never took he knew its n to turn it it with him. was deeper vhen he had vas urged to wounds still way: I was young as S. of America) ,d powdered JAMES KUSSHU. I.OWlil.l. 379 afresh, and put on a suit of court-mourning before he set foot on the wharf. My fancy always drcssetl him in that violet silk, and his soul certainly wore a lull court-suit. What was there ever like his bow? It was as if you had received a decoration, and could write yourself gentleman from that day forth. His hat rose, regrecting your own, and, having sailed through the stately curve of tiie old regime, sank gently back over that placid bri'.in which harbored no thought less while than the powder which cov- ered it. I have son»etimes imaginetl that there was a graduated arc over his head, invisible to other eyes than his, by which he meted out to each his rightful share of castorial consideration. 1 car.y in my memory three exemplary bows. The first is that of an old beggar, who already carrying in his hand a white hat, the gift of benevolence, took off the black one from his head also, and profoundly saluted me with both at once, giving me, in re- turn for my alms, a dual benediction, puzzling as a nod from Janus Bifrons. The second 1 received from an old Cardinal who was taking his walk just outside the I'orta San C.iovanni at Rome. I paid him the courtesy due to his age and rank. Forthwith rose — first, the Hat; second, the hat of his confessor; third, that of another priest who attended him; fourth, the fringed cocked-hat of his coachman; fifth and sixth, the ditto, ditto, of his two footmen. Here was an investment, indeed; six hundred per cent, interest on a single bow ! The third bow, w(jrthy to be noted in one's almanac among the other mirahilia, was that of S., in which courtesy had mounted to the last round of her ladder, — and tried to draw it up after her. But the genial veteran is gone even while I am writing this, and I will play Old Mortality no longer. Wandering among these rtrent graves, my dear friend, we may chance to , but no, I will not end my sentence. I bid you heartily farewell ! [Firtside Travels : "Cambridge Thirty Yeats Ago." Putnam's Magazine, 1854, vol. iii.] I.!' 380 AMERICAN I'KOSR KKAISS I'OKTKY The faults of Ki-ats's poetry are oljvioiis imioiikIi, but it should be rememhcrcd that he died at twenty four, and that he- offends 'by superabuntlance anil not poverty. 'I hat he was ovcrlanjjuaged ' at first there <:an be no doubt, and in this was implied the pos- sif)iiity of falling bai k to the perfect mean of diction. It is only by the rich that the costly |)lainness, which at once satisfies the taste and the imagination, is attainable. Wi'.etlier Keats was original or not we do not think it useful to discuss vmtil it has been settled what originality is. Mr. Milnes tells us that this merit (whatever it is) has been denied to Keats because his poems take the color of the authors he hajjpened to be reading at the time he wrote them. Hut men have their intel- lectual ancestry, and the likeness of some one of them is forever unexpectedly Hashing out in the features of a descendant, it may be after a gap of several generations. In the parliament of the present, every man represents a constituency of the past. It is true that Keats has the accent of the men from whom he learned to speak, but this is to make originality a mere question of exter- nals, and in this sense the author of a dictionary might bring an action of trover against every author who used his words. It is the man behind the words that gives them value, and if Shak- speare help himself to a verse or a phrase, it is with ears that have learned of him to listen that we feel the harmony of the one, and it is the mass of his intellect that makes the other weighty with meaning. Enough that we recognize in Keats that undefinable i newness and unexpectedness that we call genius. The sunset is original every evening, though for thousands of years it has built out of the same light and vapor its visionary cities with dorties and pinnacles, and its delectable mountains which night shall utterly abase and destroy. Three men, almost contemporaneous with each other, Words- worth, Keats, and Byron, were the great means of bringing back ''English poetry from the sandy deserts of rhetoric, and recovering for her her triple inheritance of simplicity, sensuousness and passion. Of these, Wordsworth was the only conscious reformer, )<.XSSnl:!S>!^^3^mmKu;imtmmm^r^~?s iSi^s^i&& 7i&SlSi^^^&MSSSi^tiS& les repeated, ■ of language e powers the red the word Jilt its lords. )dy and make Is a nepenthe e immortals. poetry; (or,» n them found 5t the barrel- sleepy divine dicated when 11 and the un- Burke prose, ling was good )se, as if one 5 that tallow- t going to the cumbers from proof of the instant return And it is a agle balanced inderstanding :ulty; thought ing in turn its accordant as rse. Without nd grew more typical by the ses and is the fohn Keats, Bos- ''^^^^eM^^im^. , WALT WHITMAN rWalt (Walter) Whitman was born at West Hills, Long Island, May 31, 1819, and died at Camden, N.J., March 25, 1892. Mis father was of Lng- lish his mother of Dutch descent, and on his mother's side there was also Quaker blood. His forma! education did not go beyond that furnished by :he public schools, but he read much, and had a rare gift for assimilating the essence of what he read. 1 lis youth was spent in varied pursuits. He was at different times a teacher, a compositor, and an editor. In 1847-48 he edited the Brook. Ivn Eaelc In 1849 he started on a long tour, largely performed on foot, to the chief cities of the country. He jomneyed through Pennsylvania and Vir- einia down the Ohio and the Mississippi to New Orleans, and returned by way of St.' Louis, Chicago, and the lake cities, finding means for his trave s by work on various journals. In 1851-52 he owned and manage.l a Brooklyn paper. For some years he was a carpenter and builder. During the war he was a vol- unteer nurse in the Washington hospitals, supporting himself by writing for the newspapers. The nervous strain of his experiences as a nurse and an attack of hospital fever made severe inroads on his robust constitufun, but he held a government clerkship from 1865 until 1874, when he was stricken with partial paralysis, from the effect of which he never wholly recovered. Ihe re- mainder of his life he spent mainly in Camden, N.J., visiting New \ork frequently, and occasionally making longer journeys. No American writer has known the rank and file of his countrymen as Whitman did. In " Man- hattan," the city he knew best and loved best, as well as in other cities and in the country, he " became thoroughly conversant," as his biographer attests, "with the shops, houses, sidewalks, ferries, factories, tavern gatherings, politi- cal meetings, carousings, etc. He knew the hospitals, poorh.nises, prisons, and their inmates," and honest laborers of all kinds and descriptions, with people of greater education. And to this wide knowledge lie added a sym- pathy equally penetrating and all-embracing. , a ■ ,t Whitman's principal prose writings are : Democratic Ftstas (iSji), Afo'i- oranda during the War (\%Ti), Specimen Days and Collect (1882-83), A>- vemlier Boughs (1888).] The reputation of Walt Whitman rests upon the poetical por- tion of his writings ; but while that part of his works remains in the public eye, as it long must on account of its singularity of form and its inspiration, the lesser part which appears in the garb of prose will also be of interest, as containing the history of the 383 a 384 AMERICAN PROSE man and the abstract ideas of the writer. In Specimen Days, Whitman descril)es his parentage and early surroundings, the si"hts and occupations that filled his youth, his wanderings, his activity during the CMvil War as a visitor and co.nfurter of wounded soldiers in the hospitals at Washington, and finally his rambles and meditations in the woods of New Jersey. In Demo- cratic Vistas, he exi)lains his theory of his own poetry and the relation of the literature of the past and of the future to American society. Taking the two books together, we are able to learn what was Whitman's inspiration and am'oition, what he thought of his country, of himself, and of his fimction. Much of this, indeed, might have been gathered from the poems by an attentive reader ; yet it is an advantage to have it all set down by the author in an autobiograjjhical fashion with eloquence, clearness, and evident sincerity. The conditions that made possible so remarkable a writer, his personal character, and his ideal of the society he meant to describe and to serve, are thus brought vividly before us. And these confessions are not only interesting to one who wishes to understand the author of the Leaves of Grass, but they are in themselves of considerable imagi- native and historical value. His parents were formers in central Long Island, and his early v«- irs were spent in that district. The family seems to have L. >.i not too prosperous and somewhat nomadic; Whit- man himself drifted through boyhood without much guidance. We find him now at school, now helping the laborers at the farms, now wandering along the beaches of Long Island, finally at Brooklyn, working in an apparently desultory way as a printer, and sometimes as a writer for a local newspaper. He must have read or heard something, during this early period, of the English classics ; his style often betrays the deep effect made upon him by the grandiloquence of the Bible, of Shakespeare, and of Milton. But his chief interest, if we may trust his account, was already in his own sensations. The aspects of nature, the forms and habits of animals, the sights of cities, the movement and talk of common people, were his constant delight. His mind was flooded with these images, keenly felt and often vividly rendered with bold strokes of realism and imagination. Many poets have had this SgSS«3fei^^S5a??&ii.ii?443h'*kS*a£*»«S»»^ IVALT WHITMAN 385 iinen Days, uiings, the derings, his iinfurter of finally his In Demo- try p.nd the American )le to learn : thought of 1 the poems ;e it all set 1 eloquence, that made ter, and his ve, are thus re not only thur of the rable imagi- id, and his ly seems to idic; Whit- h guidance. It the farms, 1, finally at IS a printer, e must have the English e upon him d of Milton, is already in is and habits : of common looded with d with bold ive had this faculty to seize the elementary aspects of things, but none has had it so exclusively ; with Whitman the surf;ice is absolutely all and the underlying structure is without interest and almost without existence. He had had no education, and his natural delight in imbibing sensations had not been trained to the uses of practical or theoretical intelligence. He basked in the sunshine of percep- tion and wallowed in the stream of his own sensibility, as later at Camden in the shallows of his favorite brook. Kven during the war, when he heard the " drum-taps " so clearly, he could only gaze at the picturesque and terrible aspects of the struggle, and linger among the wounded from day to day with a canine dv.vo- tion ; he could not be aroused either to clear thought or positive action. So also in his poems ; a multiplicity of images pass before hiin and he yields himself to each in turn with absolute passivity. But the world has no inside : it is a phantasmagoria of continuous visions, vivid, impressive, but monotonous and hard to remember, like the waves of the sea or the decorations of some barbarous temple, sublime only by the infinite aggregation of parts. This abundance of detail without organization ; this wealth of percep- tion without intelligence, and of imagination without taste, makes the -uigularity of Whitman's genius. Full of sympathy and recep- tivity, with a wonderful gift of graphic characterization and an occasional rare grandeur of diction, he fills us with a sense of the individuality and the universality of what he describes — it is a drop in itself, yet a drop in the ocean. The absence of any principle of selection, or of a sustained style, enables him to render aspects of things and of emotions which would have eluded a trained writer. He i:5, therefore, interesting even where he is grotesque or perverse. He is important in that he has accom- plished, by the sacrifice of almost every other good quality, some- thing never so well done before. He has approached common life without bringing in his mind any higher standard by which to criticise it ; he has seen it, not in contrast to an ideal, but as the expression of forces more indeterminate and elementary than itself; and the vulgar, in this cosmic setting, has appeared to him sublime. There is clearly some analogy between a mass of images with- out structure, and the notion of an absolute democracy. Whit- 2C .1 *l i^^illl i1 ''■ 386 AMERICAN FKOSE man, inclined by liis genius and habits to see life without relief or organization, believed that his inclination in this respect corre- sponded to the spirit of his age and country, and that nature and society, at least in America, were constituted after the fashion of his own mind. Iking the poet of the average man, he wished all men to be specimens of that average, and being the poei of a fluid nature, he believed that natuie was or should be a formless flux. This personal biaa of Whitman's was further encouraged by the actual absence of notable distinction in his immediate environ- ment. Surrounded by ugly things and common people, he felt himself happy, ecstatic, overflowing with a kind of patriarchal love. He accordingly came to think there was a spirit of the New World which he embodied and which was in complete opposition to that of the Old, that a literature upon novel principles was needed to express and strengthen this American spirit. Democ- racy was not to be merely a constitutional device for the better government of given nations, not merely a movement for the ma- terial improvement of the lot of the lower classes. It was to be a social and a moral democracy, and to involve an actual equality among all men. Whatever kept them apart and made it impos- sible for them to be messmates together was to be discarded. The literature of democracy was to ignore all extraordinary gifts of genius or virtue, all distinction drawn even from great passions or romantic adventures. In Whitman's works, in which this new literature is foreshadowed, there is accordin^^ly not a single char- acter or a single story. His only hero .i Myself, the "single, separate person," endowed with the primary impulses, with health, and with sensitiveness to the elementary aspects of nature. The perfect man of the future is to work with his hands, chanting the poems of some democratic bard. Women are to have as nearly as possible the same character as men : the emphasis is to pass from family life and local ties to the friendship of comrades and the general brotherhood of man. Men are to be vigorous, comforta- ble, sentimental, and irresponsible. This dream is, of course, unrealized and unrealizable in America as elsewhere. Undeniably there are in America many suggestions of such a society and such a national character. But the growing complexity and fixity of institutions tends to obscure these traits '.,?¥Ste»#.'sS(i»»k«ate*^l^S^SM.'*Sji :im^m^Mi»iiimmse. out relidf or pect corre- . nature and e fashion of e wished all lei of a fluid rmless flux, iged by the xte environ- jple, he felt iarchal love, of the New ; opposition inciplcs was it. Democ- r the better for the ma- It was to be tual equality ide it impos- e discarded. )rdinary gifts reat passions ich this new single char- the "single, , with health, lature. The chanting the ive as nearly i to pass from ades and the us, comforta- le in America ly suggestions t the growing e these traits tVA/7- IVI/ITMAN 387 ^&ii^e^iiiimhB«mies,(i^ of a primitive and crude democracy. What Whitman seized upon as the promise of the future was in reality the survival of the past. He sings the song of pioneers, but it is in the nature of the pioneer that the greater his success the quicker must be his trans- formation into something different. When Whitman made the initial phase of society his ideal, he became the prophet of a lost cause. That cause was lost not merely when wealth and intelli- gence began to take shape in this country, but it was lost at the very foundation of the world, when those laws of evolution were tstablished which Whitman, like Rousseau, failed to understand. If we may trust Mr. Herbert Spencer, these laws involve a passage from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, and a constant progress at once in differentiation and in organization — all, in a word, that Whitman systematically deprecated or ignored. He is surely not the spokesman of the tendencies of his country, although he describes some aspects of its present condition ; nor does he appeal to those he describes, but rather to the dilettanti he despises. He is regarded as representative chiefly by foreigners, who look for some grotesque expression of the genius of so young and prodigious a people. Fortunately, the political theory that makes Whitman's princi- ple of literary prophecy and criticism is not presented, even in his prose works, bare and unadorned. In Democratic Vistas we find it clothed with something of the same poetic passion, and lighted up with the same flashes of intuition, that we admire in the poems. Even here the temperament is finer than the ideas and the poet wiser than the thinker. His ultimate appeal is really to something more general than a national ideal. He speaks to those minds and to those moods in which sensuality is touched with mysticism. When the intellect is in abeyance, when we would " turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self- contained," when we are weary of conscience and of ambition, and would yield ourselves for a while to the dream of sense, Walt Whitman is a welcome companion. The images he arouses in us, fresh, full of light and health and of a kind of frank- ness and beauty, are prized all the more at such a time because they are not choice, but drawn perhaps from a hideous and. sordid environment. For this circumstance makes them a bet- w MM'- 1^: m 388 AMERICAN PROSE ter means of escape from convention and from that fatigue and despair which hirk not far beneath the surface of conven- tional life. In casting off with self-assurance and a sense of fresh vitality the distinctions of tradition anr' reason a man may feel, as he sinks back comfortably to a lower level of sense and instinct, that he is returning to nature or escaping into the mfinite. Mysticism makes us proud and happy to renounce the work of intelligence, both in thought and in life, and persuades us that we become divine by remaining imperfecdy human. Whitman gives a new expression to this ancient and multiform tendency. He proclaims the cosmic justification of everything he sees and of his own satyrlike disposition. ' ^ George Santavana fatigue and of conven- a sense of a man may if sense and the infinite, the work of :s us that we litman gives idency. He es and of his Santayana WALT WHITMAN THE \vi:sT an:) I)i:mocracv 389 In a few years the iluminion-heart of America will be far inland, toward the West. Our future national capital may not be where the present one is. It is possible, nay likely, that in less than fifty years, it will migrate a thousand or two miles, will be re-founded, and every thing belonging to it made on a differ- ent plan, original, far more superb. The main social, political, spine-character of the States will probably run along the Ohio, Missouri and Mississippi rivers, and west and north of them, including Canada. Those regions, vith the group of powerful brothers toward the Pacific, (destined to the mastership of that sea and its countless paradises of islands,) will comiiact and settle the traits of America, with all the old retain'd, but more expanded, grafted on newer, hardier, purely native stock. A giant growth, composite from the rest, getting their contribu- tion, absorbing it, to make it more illustrious. From the north, intellect, the sun of things, also the idea of unswayable justice, anchor amid the last, the wildest tempests. From the south the living soul, the animus of good and bad, haughtily admitting no demonstration but its own. While from the west itself comes solid personality, with blood and brawn, and the deep quality of all-accepting fusion. Political democracy, as it exists and practically v/orks in Amer- ica, with all its threatening evils, supplies a training-school for making first-class men. It is life's gymnasium, not of good only, but of all. We try often, though we fall back often. A brave delight, fit for freedom's athletes, fills these arenas, and fully satisfies, out of the action in them, irrespective of success. Whatever we- do not attain, we at any rate attain the experiences of the fight, the hardening of the strong campaign, and throb with currents of .atempt at least. Time is ample. Let the vic- tors come after us. Not for nothing does evil play its part among us. Judging from the main portions of the history of the world, so far, justice is always in jeopardy, peace walks amid hourly pit-falls, and of slavery, misery, meanness, the craft of tyrants and the credulity of the populace, in some of their pro- 'i; H' ri,! I ' !'J 3 f I 390 AMEKICAK PROSE tcan forms, no voice can at any time say, They are not. The clouds break a liitic, and the sun shines out — but soon and cer- tain the lowering; darkness falls again, as if to last forever. Yet there is an immortal courage and prophecy in every sane soul that cannot, must not, under any circumstances, capitulate. Vive, the attack — the perennial assault ! Vive, the unpopular cause — the spirit that audaciously aims — the never-abandon'd efforts, pursued the same amid opposing proofs and precedents. \ Deniocnilic I'islns, 1 870. Piosi H\>rl-s, |)p. 222, 223. This extract ami tliosc foUuwiiig are rtpriiitcd by permission of Whitman's literary executors.] DEMOCRACY Dominion strong is the body's: dominion stronger is the mind's. What has fdl'd, and fills to-day our intellect, our fancy, furnishing the standards therein, is yet foreign. The great poenis, Shakspere included, are poisonous to the idea of tne pride and dignity of the common people, the life-blood of democracy. The models of our literature, as we get it from other lands, ultramarine, have had their birth in courts, and bask'd and grown in castle sunshine; all smells of princes' favors. Of workers of a certain sort, we have, indeed, plenty, contributing after their kind; many elegant, many learn'd, all complacent. But touch'd by the national test, or tried by the standards of democratic personality, they wither to ashes. I say I have not seen a single writer, artist, lecturer, or what not, that has con- fronted the voiceless but ever erect and active, pervading, under- lying will and typic aspiration of the land, in a spirit kindred to itself. Do you call those genteel little creatures American poets? Do you term that perpetual, pistareen, paste-pot work, Americari art, American drama, taste, verse? I think I hear, echoed as from some mountain-top afar in the west, the scornful laugh of the Genius of these States. Democracy, in silence, biding its time, ponders its own ideals, not of literature and art only — not of men only, but of women. The idea of the women of America, (extricated irom this daze, this fossil and unhealthy air which hangs about the word lady,) ^-imimuimiai>m^~^ lyALT WIIITMAM 391 not. The )n and cer- ever. Yet t sane soul capitulate, unpopular •abandon'd recedents. IS extract annly of use there that it may pass on and come to its flower and fruits in manners, in the highest forms of irteraction between men, and their beliefs — in religion, literature, colleges, and schools — democracy in all public and private life, and in the army and navy.' I have intimated that, as a paramount scheme, it has yet few or no full realizers and believers. I do not see, eithe/, that it owes any serious thanks to noted propagandists or champions, or has been essentially help'd, though often harm'd, by them. It has been and is carried on by all the moral forces, and by trade, finance, machinery, intercommunications, and, in fact, by all the developments' of history, and can no more be stopp'd than the tides, or the earth in its orbit. Doubtless, also, it resides, crude and latent, well down in the hearts of the fair 1 The whole present system of the officering and personnel of the army and navy of these States, and the spirit and letter of their trel)ly-aristocratic rules and regulations, is a monstrous exotic, a nuisance and revolt, and belong here just as much as orders of nobility, or the Pope's council of cardinals. I say if the present theory of our army and navy is sensible and true, then the rest of America i> an unmitigated fraud. wi m>' 392 .t.U/:h'll.tX /'A'OSF. avi"r:ij;c of the Ameri( an horn people, mainly in the agricn'tural rL^ions. Uiit it is not ytt, there or anywhere, tiic fully icceiv'd, the fervid, the absolute faith. 1 submit, therefore, that the fruition of tiemocrai y, on aught like a urand scale, resides altogether in the future. As, under any profouml and comjirehensive view of the gorgeous-tomposite feudal world, we see in i', through the long ages and cycles of ages, the results of a deep, integral, human and divine principle, or fountain, from which issued laws, ecclesia, manners, insti- tutes, costumes, personalities, poems, (hitherto une(piall'd, ) faithfully partaking of their source, and indeed only arising either to betoken it, or to furnish parts of that varied-flowing display, whose centre was one anil absolute — so, long ages hence, shall the ilue historian or critic make at least an equal retrospect, an equal history for ihe democratic princi|)le. It too must be adorn'd, credited with its results — then, when it, with imperial power, through amplest time, has dominated mankind — has been the source and test of all the moral, esthetic, social, politi- cal, and religious expressions and institutes of the civilized world — has begotten them in spirit and in form, and has car- ried them to its own unprecedented heights — has had, (it is possible,) monastics and ascetics, more numerous, more devout than the monks and priests of all previous creeds — has sway'd the ages with a breadth and rectitude tallying Natiire's own — has fashion'd, systematized, and triumphantly finish'd and car- ried out, in its own interest, and with unparallel'd success, a nc earth and a new man. Thus we presume to write, as it were, upon things that exist not, and travel by maps yet unmade, and a blank. But the throes of bjrth are upon us; and we have something of this advantage in stasonsof strong formations, doubts, suspense — for then the afflatus of such themes haply may fail upon us, more or less; and then, hot from surrounding war and revolution, our speech, though without polish'd coherence, and a failure by the standard called criticism, comes forth, real at least as the lightnings. And may-b« we, these days, have, too, our own reward — (for there are yet some, in all lands, worthy to be so encouraged.) '^*^'SSi£iMW!i^gefmmr agricui'.tural Hy-icceiv'd, ( y, on alight As, uiulcr us composite iiid cycles of ne principle, nners, insti- unecniall'd, ) only arising aried-flowing g ages liencc, al retrospect, too must be with imperial ankind — has social, politi- the civilized , and has car- is had, (it is , more devout — has sway'd ilure's own — sh'd and car- success, a ne' ngs that exist ank. But the ething of this suspense — for on us, more or evolution, our failure by the ; least as the I reward — (lor encouraged.) tyA/.r WHITMAN 393 Though not for us the joy of entering at the last the conquer'd city — not ours the chance ever to see with our own eyes the peerless power and si)lendid cilat of the democratic principle, arriv'd at meridian, filling the world with effulgence and majesty far beyond those of past history's kings, or all dynastic sway — there is yet, to whoever is eligible among us, the prophetic vision, the joy of being toss'd in the brave turmoil of these times — the promulgation and the path, obedient, lowly reverent to the voice, the gesture of the god, or holy ghost, which others see not, hear not — with the proud consciousness that amid whatever clouds, seductions, or heart-wearying postponements, we have never deserted, never despair'd, never abandon'd the faith. [DemoaalU I'islas. Prose Works, pp. 225-227.] AMERICAN LITERATURE America demands a poetry that is bold, modern, and all-sur- rounding and kosmical, as she is herself. It must in no respect ignore science or the modern, but inspire itself with science and the modern. It must bend its vision toward the future more than the past. Like America, it must extricate itself from even the greatest models of the past, and, while courteous to them, must have entire faith in itself, and the products of its own democratic spirit only. Like her, it must place in the van, and hold up at all hazards, the banner of the divine pride of man in himself, (the radical foundation of the new religion.) Long enough have the People been listening to poems in which common humanity, deferential, bends low, humiliated, acknowledging superiors. But America listens to no such poems. Erect, inflated, and fully self-esteeming be the chant; and then America will listen with pleased ears. Nor may the genuine gold, the gems, when brought to light at last, be probably usher'd forth from any of the quarters currently counted on. To-day, doubtless, the infant genius of American poetic expression, (eluding those highly-refined imported and gilt-edged themes, and sentimental and butterfly flights, pleasant to orthodox publishers — causing tender "pasms in the coteries, 394 AMERICAN PKOSE i' '«! liM' ' and warriintcd not to chafe the sensitive niticle of the most ex- (liiisilely artificial gossamer delicacy,) lie-, sleeping far away, happily unrccognixed and uiiinjiir'd by the coteries, the art- writers, the talkers and critics of the saloons, or the lecturers in the colleges — lies sleeping, aside, unrccking itself, in some western idiom, or native Michigan or Tennessee repartee, or stump-speech — or in Kentucky or Georgia, or the Carolinas — or in some slang or local song or allusion of the Manhattan, Hos- ton, I'hiladelphia or Haltimore mechanic — or up in the Maine woods — or off in the hut of the California miner, or crossing the Rocky mountains, or along the Pacific railroad — or on the breasts of the young farmers of the northwest, or t!anada, or boatmen of the lakes. Riule and coarse nursing-beds, these; but only from such beginnings and stocks, indigenous here, may haply arrive, be grafitd, and sjmMit, in time, flowers of genuine American aroma, and fruits truly and fully our own. I say it were a standing disgrace to these States — I say it were a disgrace to any nation, distinguish'd above others by the variety and vastness of its territories, its materials, its inventive activity, and the splendid practicality of its people, not to rise and soar above others also in its original styles in literature and art, and its own supply of intellectual and esthetic masterpieces, arche- typal, and consistent with itself. I know not a land except ours that has not, to some extent, however small, made its title clear. The Scotch have their bcjrn ballads, subtly expressing their past and present, and expressing character. The Irish have theirs. England, Italy, France, Spain, theirs. What has America? With exhaustless mines of the richest ore of epic, lyric, tale, time, picture, &c., in the Four Years' War; with, indeed, I sometimes think, the richest masses of material ever afforded a nation, more variegated, and on a larger scale — the first sign of proportionate, native, imaginative Soul, and first-class works to match is, (I cannot too often repeat,) so far wanting. Lori4 ere the second centennial arrives, there will be some forty to fifty great States, among them Canada and Cuba. When the present century closes, our population will be sixty or seventy millions. The Pacific will be ours, and the Atlantic mainly ours. There will be daily electric communication with every part of the \ •■^r- ■<^^uS.maims^i£i^.^tS!m^im»mii*i^mmm,- .•.■Ja«t'i-»-*.,./< he moRt ex- ; far away, js, the art- lecturers in (, in some repartee, or Carolinas — hattan, Hos- 1 the Maine crossing the - or on the (!anada, or beds, these; lis here, may i of genuine I say it were )y the variety tive activity, rise and soar and art, and lieces, arche- l except ours ts title clear, ing their past have theirs, las America? , lyric, tale, ;h, indeed, I 'cr afforded a e first sign of lass works to will be some Cuba. When xty or seventy - mainly ours, •ry part of the /K.//,y WHITMAN 395 globe. What an age! What a land! Where, elsewhere, one ho great? The individuality of one nation must then, as always, lead the world. Can there be any doubt who the leader ought to be? Hear in uiind, though, that nothing less than t'le mightiest origi- nal non subortiinatcd S<»ui, has ever really, gloriously led, or ever can lead. (This Soul — its other name, in these Vistas, is l.llKR.Vll HI.) \_Dimo(nUi( Viitat. Proa Works, pj). 245-247.] A NICHT BATTLE But it was t!ie tug of Saturday evening, and through the night and Sunday morning, I wanted to make a special note of. It was largely in the woods, and (juitc a general engagement. The night was very pleasant, at times the moon siiining out full and .lear, all Nature so calm in itself, tl.c early summer grass so rich, and foliage of the trees — yet there the battle raging, and many good fellows lying helpless, with new accessions to them, and every minute amid the rattle of muskets and crash of cannon, (for tliere was an artillery contest too), the red life-blood oozing out from heads or trunks or limbs upon that green and dew-cool grass. Patches of the woods take fire, and several of the wounded, unable to move, are consumed — quite large spaces are swept over, burning the dead also — some of the m^-n have their hair and beards singed — sohk, burns on their faces and hands — others holes burnt in their clothing The flashes of fire from the cannon, the quick flaring flames and smoke, and the immense roar — the musketry so general, the light nearly bright enough for each sidj to see the other — the crashing, tramping of men — the yelling — close quarters — we htai the secesh yells — our men cheer loudly back, especially if Hooker is in sight — hand to hand conflicts, each side stands up to it, brave, deter- min'd as demons, they often charge upon us — a thousand deeds are done worth to write newer greater poems on — and still the woods on fire — still many are not only scorch'd — too many, unable to move, arc burn'd to death. Then the camps of the wounded — O heavens, what scene is .^''^ife&fc. r.fe. 396 AMERICAN PROSE Itti this? — is this indeed humanity — these butchers' shambles? There are several of them. There they lie, in the largest, in an open space in the woods, from 200 to 300 poor fellows — the groans and screams — the odor of blood, mixed with the fresh scent of the night, the grass, the trees — that slaughter-house! O well is it their mothers, their sisters cannot see them — cannot conceive, and never conceiv'd, these things. One man is shot by a shell, both in the arm and leg — both are amputated — there lie the rejected members. Some have their legs blown off — some bullets thror.gh the breast — some indescribably horrid wounds in the face or head, all mutilated, sickening, torn, gouged out — some in the abdomen — some mere boys — many rebels, badly hurt — they take their regular turns with the rest, just the same as any — the surgeons use them just the same. Such is the camp of the wounded — such a fragment, a reflection afar off of the bloody scene — while over all the clear, large moon comes out at times softly, quietly shining. Amid the woods, that scene of flitting souls — amid the crack and crash and yelling sounds — the impalpable perfume of the woods — and yet the pungent, stifling smoke — the radiance of the moon, looking from heaven at intervals so placid — the sky so heavenly — the clear-obscure up there, those buoyant upper oceans — a few large placid stars beyond, coming silently and languidly out, and then disappearing — the melancholy, draperied night above, around. And there, upon the roads, the fields, and in those woods, that contest, never one more desperate in any age or land — both parties now in force — masses — no fancy battle, no serai- play, but fierce and savage demons fighting there — courage and scorn of death the rule, exceptions almost none. What history, I say, can ever give — for who can know — the mad, determin'd tussle of the armies, in all their separate large and little squads — as this — each steep'd from crown to toe in desperate, mortal purports? Who know thi> conflict, hand-to- hand — the many conflicts in the dark, those, shadowy-tangled, flashing moonbeam'd woods — the writhing groups and squads — the cries, the din, the cracking guns and pistols — the distant cannon — the cheers and calls and threats and awful music of the oaths — the indescribable mix — the officers' orders, persuasions, i;^ii*i>"^w»«^i?*o.-,s**«*Mi#«.<»«»aiai^^ 1 ,' shambles? e largest, in 'ellows — the ith the fresh er-house ! O em — cannot man is shot tated — there blown off — bably horrid cening, torn, boys — many ivith the rest, ist the same, t, a reflection ; clear, large ;. Amid the ck and crash the woods — of the moon, ;y so heavenly =T oceans — a languidly out, i night above, and in those ly age or land attle, no serai- — courage and m know — the separate large rown to toe in flict, hand-to- idowy-tangled, and squads — — the distant i\ music of the •s, persuasions, lV.^/.r W/HTMAN 397 encouragements — the devils fully rous'd in human hearts — the strong shout, Charge, men, charge — the flash of the naked sword, and rolling flame and smoke? And still the broken, clear and clouded heaven — and still again the moonlight pouring silvery soft its radiant patches over all. Who paint the scene, the sud- den partial panic of the afternoon, at dusk? Who paint the irrepressible advance of the second division of the Third corps, under Hooker himself, suddenly order'd up — those rapid-filing phantoms through the woods? Who show what moves there in the shadows, fluid and firm — to save, (and it did save,) the army's name, perhaps the nation? as there the veterans hold the field. (Brave Berry falls not yet — but death has mark'd him — soon he falls.) [From Specimen Days and Collect, 1882, -'A Night Battle, ovfir a Week since." Prose Works, pp. 34-36,] UNNAMED REMAINS THE BRAVEST SOLDIER Of scenes like these, I say, who writes — whoe'er can write the story ? Of many score — aye, thousands, north and south, of un- writ heroes, unknown heroisms, incredible, impromptu, first-class desperations — who tells? No history ever — no poem sings, no music sounds, those bravest men of all — those deeds. No for- mal general's report, nor book in the library, nor column in the paper, embalms the bravest, north or south, east or west. Un- named, unknown, remain, and still remain, the bravest soldiers. Our manliest — our boys — our hardy darlings; no picture gives them. Likely, the typic one of them (standing, no doubt, for hundreds, thousands,) crawls aside to some bush-clump, or ferny tiift, on receiving his death-shot — there sheltering a little while, soaking roots, grass and soil, with red blood — the battle ad- vances, retreats, flits from the scene, sweeps by — and there, haply with pain and suffering (yet less, far less, than is sup- posed,) the last lethargy winds like a serpent round him — the eyes glaze in death — none recks — perhaps the burial-si]uads, in truce, a week afterwards, search not the secluded spot — and ' 398 AM URIC AN PROSE ^i.s there, at last, the Bravest Soldier crumbles in mother earth, un- buried and unknown. [From specimen Days and Colled, " Unnamed Remains the Bravest Soldier." J'rose Works, p. 36.] ENTERING A LONG FARM-LANE As every man has his hobby-liking, mine is for a real farm- lane fenced by old chestnut-rails gray-green with dabs of moss and lichen, copious weeds and briers growing in spots athwart the heaps of stray-pick'd stones at the fence bases — irregular ])aths worn between, and horse .md cow tracks — all character- istic accompaniments marking and scenting the neighborhood in their seasons — apple-tree blossoms in forward April - rigs, poul- try, a field of August buckwheat, and in another the long Happing tassels of maize — and so to the pond, the expansion of the creek, the secluded-beautiful, with young and old trees, and such recesses and vistas. [From specimen Days ami Collect, " Entering a Long Farm- Lane." Prose IVorks, p. 83.] MANHATTAN FROM THE BAY June 25. — Returned to New York last night. Out to-day on the waters for a sail in the wide bay, southeast of S' ..en island — a rough, tossing tide, and a free sight — the lo..g stretch of Sandy Hook, the highlands of Navesink, and the many vessels outward and inward bound. We came up through the midst of all, in the full sun. I especially enjoy'd the last hour or tvv A moderate sea-breeze had set in; yet over the city, and t'.f waters adjacent, was a thin haze, concealing nothing, only adding to the beauty. From my point of view, as I write amid the soft breeze, with a sea-temperature, surely nothing on earth of its kind can go beyond this show. To the left the North river with its far vista — nearer, three or four warships, anchor'd peacefully — the Jersey side, the banks of Weehawken, the I^aPsades, and the gradually receding blue, lost in the distance — to the right earth, un- the Bravest I real farm- bs of moss lOts athwart — irregular I character- iborhood in ■ I igs, poul- )ng Happing )f the creek, uch recesses Lane." Proie lit to-day on 'i ..en island ig stretch of nany vessels the midst of hour or tV' ity, and t'.. only adding mid the soft earth of its th river with 'd peacefully al'sades, and -to the right WALT WHITMAN 399 the Kast river — the mast-hemm'd shores — the grand obelisk- like towers of the bridge, one on either side, in haze, yet plainly defin'd, giant brothers twain, throwing free graceful interlinking loops high across the tumbled tumultuous current below — (the tide is just changing to its ebb) — the broad water-spread every- where crowded — no, not crowded, but thick as stars in the sky — with all sorts and sizes of sail and steam vessels, plying ferry- boats, arriving and departing coasters, great ocean Dons, iron- black, modern, magnificent in size and power, fill'd with their incalculable value of human life and precious merchandise — with here and there, above all, those daring, careening things of grace and wonder, those white and shaded swift-darting (ish-birds, (I wonder if shore or sea elsewhere can outvie them,) ever with their slanting spars, and fierce, pure, hawk-like beauty and mo- tion — first-class New York sloop or schooner yachts, sailing, this fine day, the free sea in a good wind. And rising out of the midst, tall-topt, ship-hemm'd, modern, American, yet strangely oriental, V-shaped Manhattan, with its compact mass, its spires, its cloud-touching edifices group'd at the centre — the green of the trees, and all the white, brown and gray of the architecture well blended, as I see it, under a miracle of limpid sky, deli- cious light of heaven above, and June haze on the surface below. [I'rom Spedmen Days and Colled, "Manhattan from the Bay." Proit Works, pp. ii6, 117.] HUMAN AND HEROIC NEW YORK The general subjective view of New York and Brooklyn — (will not the time hasten when the two shall be municipally united in one, and named Manhattan?) — what I may call the human inte- rior and exterior of these great seething oceanic populations, as I get it in this visit, is to me best of all. After an absence of many years, (I went away at the outbreak of the secession war, and have never been back to stay since,) again I resume with curiosity the crowds, the streets I knew so well, Broadway, the ferries, the west side of the city, democratic Bowery — human appearances and manners as seen in all these, and along the S \ .L f f'^ '11 400 AMERICAN PKCSE wharves, and in the perpetual travel of the horse-cars, or the crowded excursion steamers, or in Wall and Nassau streets by day — in the places of amusement at night — bubbling and whirl- ing and moving like its own environment of waters — endless humanity in all phases — Brooklyn also — taken in for the last three weeks. No need to specify minutely — enough to say that (making all allowances for the shadows and side-streaks of a mill- lon-headedcity) the brief total of the impressions, the human qualities, of these vast cities, is to me comforting, even heroic, beyond statement. Alertness, generally fine physique, clear eyes that look straight at you, a singular combination of reticence and self-possession, with good nature and friendliness — a prevailing range of according manners, taste and intellect, surely beyond any elsewhere upon earth — and a palpable outcropping of that personal comradeship I look forward to as the subtest, strongest future hold of this many-iiem'd Union — are not only constantly visible here in these mighty channels of men, but they form the rule and average. To-day, I should say — defiant of cynics and pessimists, and with a full knowledge of all their exceptions — an appreciative and i)erceptive study of the current humanity of New York gives the directest proof yet of successful Democracy, and of the solution of that paradox, the eligibility of the free and fully developed individual with the paramount aggregate. In old age, lame and sick, pondering for years on many a doubt and danger for this republic of ours — fully aware of all that can be said on the other side — 1 find in this visit to New York, and the daily contact and rapport with its myriad people, on the scale of the oceans and tides, the best, most effective medicine my soul has yet partaken — the grandest physical habitat and surroundings of land and water the globe affords — namely, Manhattan island and Brooklyn, which the future shall join in one city — city of superb democracy, amid superb surroundings. [From S/>enm,n Days and Colled, " Human and Heroic New York." Prose Works, pp. 117, 118.J i: ■ "--^^^fi^^ MM .'4 ' 1 , -cars, or the ui sueets by r>g and whirl- srs — endless I for the last •h to say that ;iks of a niill- i, the human even heroic, lie, clear eyes reticence and -a prevailing urely beyond iping of that est, strongest ily constantly hey form the af cynics and exceptions — t humanity of il Democracy, f the free and jgate. In old a doubt and ill that can be York, and the in the scale of licine my soul 1 surroundings nhattan island city — city of lie New York." pyAlT WHITMAN 4^1 AMERICA'S CHAKACTIiKlSTIC LANDSCAPE Speaking generally as to the capacity and sure future destiny of that plain and prairie area (larger than any European kingdom) it is the inexhaustible land of wheat, maize, wool, flax, coal, iron, beef and pork, butter and cheese, apples and grapes — land of ten million virgin farms — to the eye at present wild and un- productive—yet experts say that upon it when irrigated may easily be grown enough wheat to feed the world. Then as to scenery (giving my own thought and feeling,) while I know the standard claim is that Yosemite, Niagara falls, the upper Yellow- stone and the like, afford the greatest natural shows, I am not so sure but the Prairies and Plains, while less stunning at first sight, last longer, fill the esthetic sense fuller, precede all the rest, and make North America's characteristic landscape. Indeed through the whole of this journey, with all its shows and varieties, what most impressed me, and will longest remain with me, are these same prairies. Day after day, and night after night, to my eyes, to all my senses — the esthetic one most of all — they silently and broadly unfolded. Even their simplest sta- tistics are sublime. [From Specimut Days and Collect, " America's Characteristic Landscape." Prose Works, p. 150.] THE SILENT GENERAL Sept. 28, '79. — So General Grant, after circumambiating the world, has arrived home again — landed in San Francisco yester- day, from the ship City of Tokio from Japan. What a man he is! what a history ! what an illustration — his life — of the capaci- ties of that American individuality common to us all. Cynical critics are wondering "what the people can see in Grant" to make such a hubbub about. They aver (and it is no doubt true) that he has hardly the average of our day's literary and scholastic culture, and absolutely no pronounc'd genius or conventional eminence of any sort. Correct: but he proves how an average 2U % 403 AMERICAN PROSE western farmer, meclianic, boatman, carried by tides of circum- stances, perhaps caprices, into a position of incredible military or civic responsibilities, (history has presented none more trying, no born monarch's, no mark more shining for attack or envy,) may steer his way fitly and steadily through them all, carrying the country and himself with credit year after year — command over a million armed men — fight more than fifty heavy battles — rule for eight years a land larger than all the kingdoms of Europe combined — and then, retiring, quietly (with a cigar in his mouth) make the promenade of the whole world, through its courts and coteries, and kings and czars and mikados, and splen- didest glitters and etiquettes, as phlegmatically as he ever walk'd the portico of a Missouri hotel after dinner. I say all this is what people like— and I am sure I like it. Seems to me it transcends Plutarch. How these old Greeks, indeed, would have seized on him! A mere plain man — no art, no poetry — only practical sense, ability to do, or try his best to do, what devolv'd upon him. A common trader, money-maker, tanner, farmer of Illinois — general for the republic, in its terrific struggle with itself, in the war of attempted secession — President following, (a task of peace, more difficult than the war itself ) — nothing heroic, as the authorities put it — and yet the greatest hero. The gods, the destinies, seem to have concentrated upon him. [From Spedmen Days and Colled, "The Silent General.' PP- "S3. >54-] Prose IVorks, is of circnin- lible military more trying, ack or envy,) all, carrying : — command avy battles — ms of Europe cigar in his through its 3s, and splen- ic ever vvalk'd say all this is ems to me it d, would have poetry — only what devolv'd ler, farmer of struggle with ;nt following, ;lf) — nothing st hero. The n him. " Prose Works, ULYSSES S. GRANT [Iliram Ulysses Grant was born at Puint Pleasant, in southern Ohio, April 27, 1822. His father, Jcbse K. C'.rant, was a young tanner of good family, who soon afterward set up in l)usii)ess for himself in Georgetown, Ohio. Grant spent the first seventeen years of his life in and about Georgetown. He was appointed to West Point in 1839, and was entered by mistake as Ulysses S.Grant. He graduated at the middle of his class in 1843. He passed through the Mexican war, serving gallantly, being twice breveted for distinguished action. He served six years at northern posts, resigning, in 1854, from Huml)oldt Hay, Cal. He reentered service as colonel of the Twenty-first Illinois Volunteers, in 1861, and in four years rose to the sole command of the armies of the United States. He was elected President in 1868, and served two terms. He passed round the world in 1877-79, receiv- ing the greatest honors ever shown to an American. He allowed his name to stand for nomination the third time, and was defeated in the Convention of 1880. He moved to New York, entered business, and was dragged down to ruin by the failure of the firm with which he was connected. Finding him- self old, poor, and attacked by incurable cancer in the throat, he set himself to work to write a book which should tell the story of his life and shield his wife from want. He died before the book, his Personal Memoirs, was entirely finished, on July 23, 1885] It was reserved for Ulysses Grant in the last year of his life to amaze his friends by writing a book. Every one knew of his reticence, no one had thought of him as writer. He had never considered himself in any sense a literary man, but had held in high admiration men like Halleck and Scott, who had the power to express themselves in Ihe elevated style which seemed to him good literature. Until dire necessity forced him to the task, he had never given a thought to the recording of his great deeds. Having made history, he left to others the task of writing it. And yet he had already written more than most literary men. In that long row of volumes, fat and portly, called The Official War Records, his mind, along certain lines of thought, had foimd the fullest expression. Literally hundreds of thousands of 403 404 AMERICAN PROSE words written by his own hand are there preserved. No cue can study the enormous bulk of these despatches, letters, and orders without coming to a high admiration of the marvellous command which General (Irant possessed over details of widely separated plans and campaigns. Nothing confused or hurried him. In fact, he spoke best as he thought best, when pushed hardest. One cannot fail to be impressed, also, by the nobility and lack of self-consciousness in all that he wrote. In this immense output, it is safe to say there is not one line discreditable to him. After the war closed, his official career as President again de- manded from him much writing of a certain sort. It could not be said, therefore, that he was without practice in the use of the pen. Hut in all this writing the idea of form was absent. He was occupied with the plain statement of fact, or of his opinions. Of the narrative form he had made little use, except in letters during the Mexican war. When he set himself to write his memoirs, he began where he had laid down the pen after the war. He confined himself to the simple and forthright statement of the facts. He told again the story of his campaigns. His first paper was upon the disputed battle of Shiloh, concerning which he had never before made a complete report. He passed from this to a succinct and masterly statement of the siege of Vicksburg ; and, having prepared him- self for pure narrative, turned back to the story of his boyhood, his life in Mexico, and on the coast. In this order the great drama of his life unfolded itself naturally and easily under his l)en. The peculiarity of his mind was such that no phrase for eflfect, no extraneous adornment, was possible to him. He was, as a friena well said, " almost tediously truthful." It was his primary intention to express himself clearly and with as few words as pos- sible. The workings of his mind were always direct and simple. Whatever the complications going on around him, no matter how acrid the disputes and controversies of subordinates, in the midst of the confusing clash of opinions, charges, and counter-charges, Grant himself remained perfectly direct, calm, and single-minded. His mind digested every fact within reach, and cleared itself before he came to speech. He never used words to cover up ' i rya ULYSSES S. GRANT 40$ No oue can s, and orders }us command ely separated ied him. In shed hardest. y' and lack of nense output, him. ent again de- It could not he use of the 3 absent. He ' his opinions. ;ept in letters gan where he himself to the :old again the I the disputed )efore made a t and masterly prepared him- ■ his boyhood, rder the great sily under his •ase for effect, He was, as a IS his primary words as pos- :t and simple, lo matter how i, in the midst )unter-charges, single-minded. I cleared itself Is to cover up his thought, seldom to aid his thought, but only to express his thought. The circumstances under which the larger i)art of his story was written sliow clearly his will power and his manner of composi- tion. For months he was unable to eat solid food, water felt like hot lead passing down his throat, and he was unable to sleep without anodynes. A malignant ulcer, incurable anil insatiate, was eating its way into his throat at the base of the tongue. Speech became difficult, and at last impossible. During ihe time that he was still able to speak, he dictated much of the story. Wasted to pitiful thinness, and suffering ceaselessly, he was obliged to sit day and night in a low chair with his feet outtlirust toward the fire. His mind was abnormally active, filled with the ceaseless revolving panorama of his epic deeds. M times he was forced to the use of morphia to cut off the intolerable movement of his thought. The sleeplessness which was a natural accompaniment of his disease was added to by the task which he had set himself to complete, but he did not allow himself to cut his work short on that account. Yet no trace of his suffering is to be found in the book. He dictated slowly, but almost without hesitation, and his thought grouped itself naturally into paragraphs, and seemed to be almost perfectly arranged in word and phrase, ready to be drawn off like the precipitation of a chemical in a jar. In all this, he was precisely conforming to his life-long habit, which had been to speak only when he had something to say and had delib- erated how to say it. As he grew weaker, the amount of his dic- tation slowly decreased, and at the last ceased altogether. His work was done. The book surprised the world by its dignity, clarity, and sim- plicity of style. It displayed no attempt to be humorous, and yet became so, with rare effect, at times. Its author did not at- tempt to be picturesque, nor to magnify his importance on the battle-field. He was dispassionate. If he criticised his fellows, or his subordinates, he did so without anger and without envy. At. rewrote many parts of his story in order that he should not do an injustice. He had no hatred of his enemies when he was commander in the field, and he had none when he wrote the story of his life. I w 4o6 AMEKIVAX PROSE (Irant always had very distiiu-t limitations as a writer. I?.; was a bad speller, and occasionally he lost himself in loose grammati- cal construction. He was at his worst whenever he attempted congratulatory orders to his troojjs, and at his best when detailing the movements of an army. There was something inexorable in the swift march of his words at such times. His friends said : " The book sounds like the general." His speech had always been singularly plain ; even as a Ixjy, he used straightforward Anglo- Saxon words, without slang, without ])rofanity, and almost without dialectic peculiarities. Throughout his life he retained this purity and simplicity of diction, and in his memoirs these qualities are found raised to their highest power at a time when to express his thought in any form was an agony retiuiring the greatest effort to overcome. These " personal memoirs " form a great book. It is not all the work of General Grant's hand, but the best of it is his, and the temper and tone of it are almost wholly his. The first volume is entirely his own, and is the best, although it is not exactly in the order in which it was written. It is a great book ; but after all it fails, as any such book must, to express the life of its author. It expresses rather his attitude toward life. His natural reserve and his habit of understatement would not allow him to tell the com- plete story of his defeats, nor permit him to record his triumphs. Naturally, the black shadows of the past are left out, as well as the blazing high lights. No man can attain eminence such as his, without suffering from the bitter enmity and savage criticism of those who fancy themselves set aside or superseded. The book is like him — dispassionate, even-tempered, expressing thought, but never emotion. It is a great book, but it is not in any sense the inner story of its author's life. It is merely the obvious, almost the prosaic side of the life of one of the three preeminent men in American history. The time has not yet come when the story of his struggles and his triumphs can be fully told — probably it will never be told. Hamlin Garland cr. I?.; was sc grumnuti- )c attempted hen detailing ncxorable in friends said : 1 always been rwaril Anglo- most without ;d this purity qualities are express his itest effort to It is not all s his, and the irst volume is exactly in the ut after all it s author. It 1 reserve and tell the com- his triumphs, ut, as well as e such as his, ; criticism of I. The book sing thought, t in any sense bvious, almost linent men in 1 the story of robably it will N Garl\nd ULYSSES S. CK.iXT WOI.VKS AND i'OMTICIAN.S 407 Whkn our party left Corpus Christi it was quite large, includ- ing the cavalry escort, Paymaster, Major Dix, his cltrk, and the officers who, like myself, were sim|)ly on leave; but all the officers on leave, except Lieutenant lienjamin — afterwards killed in the valley of Mexico — Lieutenant, nowdeneral, Augur, and myself, concluded to spend their allotted time at San Antonio and return from there. We were all to be back at Corpus Christi by the end of the month. The paymaster was detained in Austin so long that, if we had waited for him, we wouhl have exceeded our leave. We concluded, therefore, to start back at once with the animals we had, and having to rely i)rincipally on grass for their food, it was a good six days' journey. We had to sleep on the prairie every niuht, excejjt at Cioliad, and possibly one night on the Colorado, without shelter and with only such food as we carried with us, and prepared ourselves. The journey was haz- ardous on account of Indians, and there were white men in Texas whom I would not have cared to meet in a secluded place. Lieutenant Augur was taken seriously sick before we reached Goliad and at a distance from any habitation. To add to the complication, his horse — a mustang that had probably been cap- tured from the band of wild horses before alluded to, and of un- doubted longevity at his capture — gave out. It was absolutely necessary to get forward to (loliad to find a shelter for our sick companion. By dint of patience and exceedingly slow move- ments, Goliad was at last reached, and a shelter and bed secured for our patient. We remained over a day, hoping that Augur might recover sufficiently to resume his travels. He did not, however, and knowing that Major Dix would be along in a few days with his wagon-train, now empty, and escort, we arranged with our Louisiana friend to take the best of care of the sick lieutenant until thus relieved, and went on. I had never been a sportsman in my life; had scarcely ever gone in search of game, and rarely seen any when looking for it. On this trip there was no minute of time while travelling between San Patricio and the settlements on the San Antonio River, from ■^i^^M^M 4oS .i.\//:a'/(:i.v /'Kos/-: ■ till San Antonio to Austin, nml again from the Colorado Kiscr back to San l'atri( io, wiun deer or .intelope rowlil not l)e seen in great niMnbers. I)ach oflicer carried a shot gun, and every evening, after going into (ani)), some would go out and soon return with venison all a ruse employed to enable the Confederates to get away. They said they believed that Johnston was marching from North Carolina now, and Lee was moving to join him; and they would whip the rebels where they now were in five minutes if I would only let them go in. But I had no doubt about the good faith of Lee, and pretty soon was conducted to where he was. I found him at the house of a Mr. McLean, at Appomattox Court House, with Colonel Marshall, one of his staff officers, awaiting my arrival. The head of his column was occupying a hill, on a portion of which was an apple orchard, beyond a little trifciSjiS^fe. ;^S&^&iiMi^^^^^^^!^^^^^Si^MSiM^^Si&^^isS^^& }'. 1' , i"! i; :» 410 AMERICAN PROSE valley which separated it from that on the crest of which Sheri- dan's forces were drawn up in line of battle to the soutl;. Before stating what took place between Cieneral Lee and my- self, 1 will give ail there is of the story of the famous apple tree. Wars produce many storie« of fiction, some of which are told until they are believed to be true. The war of the rebellion was no exception to this rule, and the story of the apple tree is one of those fictions based on a slight foundation of fact. As I have said, there was an ai)ple orchard on the side of the hill occupied by the Confederate forces. Running diagonally up the hill was a wagon roail, whicli, at one point, ran very near one of the trees, so that the wheels of the vehicles had, on that side, cut ofr the roots of this tree, leaving a little embankment. General Bab- cock, of my staff, reported to me that when lie first met General Lee he was sitting upon this embankment with his feet in the road below and his back resting against the tree. The story had no other foundation than that. Like many other stories, it would be very good if it was only true. 1 had known General Lee in the old army, and had served with him in the Mexican War; but did not suppose, owing to the difference in our age and rank, that he would remember me; while I would more naturally remember him distinctly, because he was the chief cf staff of General Scott in the Mexican War. Wiien I left (-a-np that morning I had not expected so soon the lesuU that was then taking place, and consequently was in rough garb. 1 was without a sword, as I usually was when on horse- back on the field, and wore a soldier's blouse for a coat, with the shoulder straps of my rank to intlicate to the army who I was. NV'hen I went into the house I found General Lee. We greeted each other, and after shaking hands took our seats. 1 had my staff with me, a good portion of whom were in the room during the whole of the interview. What General Lee's feelings were I do not know. As he was a man of much dignity, with an impassible face, it was impos- sible to say whether he felt inwardly glad that the end had finally come, or felt sad over the result, and was too manly to show it. Whatever his feelings, they were entirely concealed from my ob- m\. "'W- %^~J^:' ■ which Sheri- soutl;. Lee and my- famous apple ivhich are told : rebellion was pie tree is one ;t. As 1 have hill occupied ip the hill was le of the trees, le, cut off thi General liab- t met General is feet in the The story had ories, it would ad served with owing to the emember me; nctly, because exican War. ted so soon the y was in rough fhen on horse- r a coat, with rmy who I was. . We greeted Its. 1 had my e room during w. As he was it was impos- end had finally nly to show it. d from my ob- ULYSSES S. GRAXT 411 scrvution; but my own feelings, which had been quite jubilant on the receipt of his letter, were sad and depressed. I felt like anything rather than rejoicing at the downfall of a foe who had fought so long and valiantly, and had suffered so mtich for a cause, though that cause was, I believe, one cf the worst for which a people ever fought, and one for which there was the least excuse. I do not question, however, the sincerity of the great mass of those who were opposed to us. Genera! I.ee was dressed in a full uniform which was entirely new, and was wearing a sword of considerable value, very likely the sword which had been presen.cd by the State of Virginia; at all events, it was an entirely I'.iffcrent sword from the one that would ordinarily be worn in the field. In my rough traveling s.iit,' ihc uniform of a private with the straps of a lieutenant-gen- eral, I must have contrasted very strangely with a man so hand- somely dressed, six feet high and of faultless form. But this was not a matter that I thought of until afterwards. We soon fell into a conversation about old army times. He remarked that he remembered me very well in the old army; and I told him that as a matferof course I remembered him perfectly, but from the difference in our rank and years (there being about sixteen years' difference in our ages), 1 had thought it very likely that I had not attracted his attention sufficiently to be remem- bered by him after such a long interval. Our conversation grew so pleasant that I almost forgot the object of our meeting. After the conversation had run on in this style for some time, General Lee called my attention to the object of our meeting, and said that he had asked for this interview for the purpose of getting from me the terms I proposed to give his army. I said that I meant merely that his army should lay down their arms, not to take them up again during the continuance of the war unless duly and properly exchanged. He said that he had so understood my letter. Then we gradually fell off again into conversation about matters foreign to the subject which had brought us together. This con- tinued for some little time, when General Lee again interrupted the course of the conversation by suggesting that the terms I pro- posed to give his army ought to be written out. I called to Gen- .^mm^Mmm^-^ L*iMti' 412 AMERICAN PROSE w. eral I'arker, secretary on my staff, for writing materials, commenced writing out the following terms: — and Appomattox C. il , Va., April 9th, 1865. Gen. R. E. Lee, Conufg C. S. A. Gen : — In accordance with the substance of my letter to you of the 8th inst., I propose to receive the surrender of the Army of N. Va. on the following terms, to wit: Rolls of all the officers and men to be made in duplicate. One copy to be given to an officer designated by me, the other to be retained by such officer or officers as you may designate. The officers to give their indi- vidual paroles not to take up arms against the (}overnment 0/ the United States until properly exchanged, and each company or regimental commander sign a like parole for the men of their commands. 'I he arms, artillery, and public property to be parked and stacked, and turned over to the officer appointed by me to receive them. This will not embrace the side arms of the officers, nor their private horses or baggage. This done, each officer and man will be allowed to return to their homes, not to be disturbed by United States authority so long as they observe their paroles and the laws in force where they may reside. Very respectfully, U. S. Grant, Lt. Gen. y 14\- When I put my pen to the paper I did not know the first word that I should make use of in writing the terms. I only knew what was in my mino> and I wished to express it clearly, so that there could be no mistaking it. As I wrote on, the thought occurred to me that the officers had their own private horses and effects, which were important to them, but of no value to us; also that it would be an unnecessary humiliation to call upon them to deliver their side arms. No conversation, not one word, passed between General Lee and myself, either about private property, side arms, or kindred subjects. He appeared to have no objections to the terms first proposed; or if he had a point to make against them he wished '..--: ,a .:>.'iiit;':.^.;tk^^£rvuv'.tj .•,'!.rvk(m.'ittrf»^«nwi iterials, and xC. il, Va., th, 1865. tter to you of the Army of 1 the officers e given to an y such officer ve their indi- rnment oj the company or men of their f to be parked ited by me to arms of the is done, each homes, not to 3 they observe reside. , Lt. Gen. the first word I only knew ;learly, so that 1, the thought ate horses and 3 vahie to us; 1 to call upon 1 General Lee ms, or kindred the terms first hem he wished ULYSSES S. GRANT 413 to wait until they were in writing to make it. When he read over that part of the terms about side arms, horses and pri\ ate property of the officers, he remarked, with some feeling, I thought, that this would have a happy effect upon his army. Then, after a little further conversation, (Jeneral Lee remarked to me again that their army was organized a little differently from the army of the United States (still maintaining by implication that we were two countries); that in their army the cavalrymen and artillerists owned their own horses; and he asked if he was to understand that the men who so owned their horses were to be permitted to retain them. I told him that as the terms were written they would not; that only the officers were permitted to take their private property. He then, after reading over the terms a second time, remarked that that was clear. I then said to him that I thought this would be about the last battle of the war — I sincerely hoped so; and 1 said further I took it that most of the men in the ranks were small farmers. The whole country had been so raided by the two armies that it was doubtful whether they would be able to put in a crop to carry themselves and their families through the next winter without the aid of the horses they were then riding. The United States did not want them and I would, therefore, instruct the officers I left behind to receive the paroles of his troops to let every man of the Confederate army who claimed to own a horse or mule take the animal to his home. Lee remarked again that this would have a happy effect. He then sat down and wrote out the following letter : Headquarters Army of Northern Virginia, April 9, 1865. General: — I received your letter of this date containing the terms of the surrender ot the Army of Northern Virginia as pro- posed by you. As th«iy are substantially the same as those ex- pressed in your letter of the 8th inst., they are accepted. I will proceed to designate the proper officers to carry the stipulations into effect. R. E. Lee, General. Lieut. -General U. S. Grant. I 4M AMERICAN PKOSE V ,lif ', i m 'i\ f '*^kim. While duplicates of the two letters were being made, the Union generals present were severally presented to General Lee. ihe much talked of surrendering of 1-ee's sword and my hand- ing it back, this and much more that has been said about it is the purest romance. 'Ihe word .-.word or side arms was not mentioned by either of us until 1 wrote it in the terms. There w,- no pre- meditation, and it did not occur to me until the moment I wrote it down. If I had happened to oniit it, and General Lee had called my attention to it, I should have put it in the terms precisely as I acccflod lo the provision about the soldiers retaining their horses. General Lee, after all was completed and before taking his leave, remarked that his army was in a very bad condition for want of food, and that they were without forage; that his men had been living for some days on parched corn exclusively, and that he would have to ask me for rations and forage. I told him "certainly," and asked for how many men he wanted rations. His answer was "about twenty-five thousand:" and I authorized him 10 send his own commissary and quartermaster to Appomattox Station, two or three miles away, where he could have, out of the trains we had stopped, all the provisions wanted. As for forage, we had ourselves depended almost entirely upon the country for that. Generals Gibbon, Grififin and Merritt were designated by me to carry into effect the paroling of Lee's troops before they should start for their homes — General Lee leaving Generals Longstreet, Gordon and Pendleton for them to confer with in order to facili- tate this work. Lee and I then separated as cordially as we had met, he returning to his own lines, an.l all went into bivouac for the night at Ajjpomattox. Soon after Lee's departure 1 telegraphed to Washington as follows: — „ ,, ,. HEAtlQUARrERS APPOMATTOX C. H., VA., April 9th, 1865,4.30 P.M. Hon. E. M. Stanion, Skcrktvrv of War, W'ashinctok. General Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia this afternoon on terms proposed by myself. The accompanying additional correspondence will show the conditions fully. U. S. Grant, Lieut.-General, le, the Union I Lee. liid my hand- ibout it is the ot mentioned e w,' no pre- lent I wrote it ,ee had called precisely as I ; their horses, re taking his condition for that his men clusively, and . I told him inted rations. 1 I authorized o Appomattox ve, out of the i for forage, we untry for that, ignated by me ire they should lis Longstreet, )rder to facili- ally as we had to bivouac for tVashington as )X C. H., Va., JO F.M. 1 Virginia this accompanying IS fully. ui.- General, ULYSSES S. GRANT 415 When the news of the surrender "irst reached our lines our men commenced firing a salute of u hundred guns in honor of the victory. I at once sent word, however, to have it stopped. The Confederates were now our prisoners, and we did not want to exult over their downfall. I determined to return to Washington at once, with a view to putting a stop to the purchase of supplies, and what I now deemed other useless outlay of money. Before leaving, however, I thought I would like to see General Lee again; so next, morning I rode out beyond our lines towards his headquarters, preceded by a bugler and a staff-ofificer carrying a white flag. Lee soon mounted his horse, seeing who it was, and met me. We had there between the lines, sitting on horseback, a very pleasant conversation of over half an hour, in the course of which Lee said to me that the South was a big country, and that we might have to march over it three or four times before the war entirely ended, but that we would now be able to do it as they could no longer resist us. He expressed it i\r- his earnest hope, however, that we would not be calk ,)on to cause more loss and sacrifice of life; but he could not foretell the result. I then suggested to General Lee that there was not a man in the Confederacy whose influence with the soldiery and the whole people was as great as his, and that if he would now advise the surrender of all the armies I had no doubt his advice would be followed with alacrity. But Lee said, that he could not do that without consulting the President first. I knew there was no use to urge him to '-> any- thing against his ideas of what was right. I was accompanied by my staff and other officers, some of whom seemed to have a great desire to go inside the Confederate lines. They fin-ally asked permission of Lee to do so for the pur- pose of seeing some of their old army friends, and the permis- sion was granted. They went over, had a very pleasant time with their old friends, and brought some of them back with them when they returned. When Lee and I separated he went back to his lines and I re- turned to the house of Mr. McLean. Here the officers of both armies came in great numbers, and seemed to enjoy the meeting as much as though they had been friends separated for a long time I»-^teis«MB ilii 1 1I Id i .mi 811 s ■v t> ^ 416 AMERICAN PROSE while fighting battles under the same flag. For the time being it looked very much as if all thought of the war had escaped their minds. After an hour pleasantly paKsed in this way I set out on horseback, accompanied by my staff and a small escort, for Burkes- ville Junction, up to which point the railroad had by this time been repaired. [From Penoual Memoirs, vol. ii, chapter 67. Reprinted by permission of The Century Company.] time being it scaped their I set out on t, for Hurkes- by this time y permission of GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS [George William Curtis was born in Providence, R.I., Feb. 24, 1824. He was sent to school at Jamaica Plain, near liostun, liut had afterwards no academic training. In 1839 his family removed to New York, where he lived till 1842. He early satisfied a wish he had for a simple, useful life by working on a farm in New England, and he was for some time a member of the famous lirook Farm Community. In 1846 he went abioad, and travelled in Europe and the East for three or four years, returning home in 1850. Two years later he became the editor of Putnam's Magazine, and on giving up that periodical he took the department of the Easy Chair in Harper's Monthly, which he continued to write till the time of his death. He entered public life in 1855, and became known throughout the country as a political writer and speaker; he was already active and popular as a lecturer. He refused several places of honor abroad, but accepted from Grant the appointment of Chair- man of the Civil Service Commission, which owed to him its first efficiency in the course of political reform. Up to the time of IJlaine's nomination foi the presidency he was a republican; but after that, though he suppt)rted Gar- field, he was independent of party ties. He died at West New Brighton, Staten Island, Aug. 31, 1892. The following are the names and dates of Curtis's principal works : A% Notes of a Ilowadji (1851), The Howadji in Syria (1852), The Potiphar Papers (1853), Prue and I (1856), Trumps (1861), Eulogy on Wendell Phillips (1884), three series uf essays From the Easy Chair (1892, 1893, 1 894) , and James Russell Lowell i; 1 892) . H is Orations and Addresses, edited by Charles Eliot Norton, appea.ed in 1893-94. His biography has been written by Edward Cary (1895).] When time shall have got him in the right perspective, few of our writers will show as distinct and continuous a purpose, as direct a growth from a very definite impulse, as George William Curtis. The impulse seemed to exhaust itself at a certain moment of his career, but perhaps it was only included and carried forward in the larger and stronger impulse which made the witness of the effect forget the aesthetic quality in the ethical tendency. His intellectual life was really of a singular unity. The moral force which }' 4i8 AMEKlCAiV PROSE I ■-■ ^iii i; ^1 illl'i » 1 i i 1 !' 'hi 111 ultimately prevailed was always present in the earlier charm ; and the grace which his strenuousness kept to the end wus as in- alienably his. He was both artist and moralist from the beginning to the end of his work. He could not help trying for literary beauty in his political writings, in his appeal to the civic sense of his countrymen ; he could not forbear to remind himself and his reader of higher things when he seemed rapt in the joy of art. He was of Massachusetts stock, but it was not for nothing that he was born in Rhode Island. He embodied in literature that transition from New England to New York which his state repre- sents in our civilization. The influences that shaped his mind and character, that kindled his sympathies and inspired his ideals, were New England influences ; the circumstances which attracted his energies and formed his opportunities were New York circum- stances. He began to write when what has been called, for want of some closer phrase, the Knickerbocker school had shrunken through the waning activity of Irving and the evanescence of Poe to little more than the tradition which it remains, and when the great Boston group of poets and thinkers was in its glory, when Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, Prescott, Ticknor, Motley, Parkman, and Phillips were establishing such claim as we had to literary standing before the world. Yet he did not write like the Bostonians, in spite of his inherent and instinctive ethicism. He was not Puritanic, either in revolt or in acquiescence ; he was not provincial in the good way or in the bad way, in the way of Athens, and Florence, and Paris, as the Bosto- nians sometimes were, or in the way of Little Peddlington, as they sometimes were. He was like the finest and greatest of them in their enlargement to the measure of humanity, though he was not liberated from what is poor and selfish and personal by anything cosmopolitan in his environment, but by his disgust with its social meanness and narrowness. What "our best society " in New York was in 1858, the best society in 1898 can perhaps hardly imagine ; but the most interesting fact of that period was the evolution of a great public spirit from conditions fatal to poorer natures. A great public spirit was what Curtis was : at first tentatively and falteringly, and then more and more voluntarily and fully. After he once came to his civic consciousness, he could not con- S i i»^ ii i„_,. . j. . . . .M i ,L. . r charir ; and 1 wus as in- the beginning ig for literary civic sense of mself and his joy of art. r nothing that literature that is state repre- I his mind and ;d his ideals, hich attracted York circunj- lUed, for want had shrunken iscence of Poe and when the ts glory, when veil. Holmes, re establishing e world. Yet inherent and in revolt or in ' or in the bad as the Bosto- ington, as they est of them in igh he was not al by anything with its social " in New York ardly imagine ; le evolution of natures, irst tentatively irily and fully, ould not con- GEORCR WILLIAM CURTIS 419 tent himself with sterile satire of New York society, with brcakin^j butterflies or even more vicious insects upon wheels ; he must do something, become something ; he must live a protest against triviality and vulgarity, and he chose to do this on the American scale. It was not till he had written The Potiphar Papers that he dedicated iiimself to humanity in the anti-slavery reform, and thereafter to the purification of our practical politics. But he had the root of the matter always in him : it germinated far back in his past, wiien as a young man he joined the Brook Farm Commu- nity and dreamed, in the sweat of his brow and the work of his hands, of tlie day when economic etjuality and the social justice which nothing less implies, should rule among men. There are no miracles in character, and what took the literary world with surprise and sorrow when Curtis left the study for the stump was the sim- plest possible effect of growth, an effect wholly to be expected and hardly to have been avoided. His two books of Eastern travel, Nile Notes of a Jlowadji, and The Howadji in Syria, followed each other in 1851 and 1852, and first sounded the American note which has since been heard in so many agreeable books o." travel. They were joyoun dances of tints and lights, in great part ; they were even more choreo- graphic than musical, though they were written from an ear that sympathetically sought the concord of sweet sounds, and with a skill that almost cloyingly reported it. They give a picture of the pleasing lands of " drowsihed " through which they lead by color rather than by drawing, but the picture is not less true, for a" that, and it is not less a work of art because it is at times so puii^iy deco- rative. Ix)ng before impressionism had a name, Curtis's studies of travel were impressionistic ; and one is sensible of something like this, not only in the Howadji' pages, but in the more conscious effort, Lotus-Eating, a Summtr Book, which treated of American watering-places, and tried to divine the poetry of our summer idling. This appeared in 1852, and was followed in 1854 by The Potiphar Papers, which satirized the vices and follies of the self- called best society of New York. The lash was laid on with rather a heavy hand, which was artistically a mistake and morally useless, since it cpuld not penetrate the thick skin it scourged ; ■^ ,s,^«Mw;M&^ »0:msaimmiiiiimtk> 420 AMERICAN I'KOSli ' , but probably the diet was not caricatured in the satire. The next book was that group of tender and winning stmUes in the ideal, J'n/f s, a novel, published in 1 86 1, which promptly, and it appears finally, failed of a public. After that furtis wrote tlie graceful and gracious, humanizing, civilizing papers of the I':asy Chair in //. tf-^.^i *VAV*- 7' ti^""'^ ' : 1^1 The next in the ideal, They were iirtis edited, undoubtedly tion it is not :d something beauty and tinicntal, but 1 of them is •y which was his was their published in a public, humanizing, .ly. He had very side of se pages for all patriotic m he may be t HOWELLS UKoA'aK nii.i.iAM cuKTis 431 rilK DUTY OK THIC AMKKICAN SCHOLAR Do you ask me our duty as scholars? (icnlicuu-n, thought, wi)ich the scholar represents, is life and liberty. There is no intellectual or moral life without lil)crty. Therefore, as a man must breathe and see before he can study, the scholar must have liberty, first of all ; and as the American scholar is a man and has a voice in liis own government, so his interest in 1 olitical affairs must precede all others. He must build his home before he can live in it, He must be a perpetual inspiration of freedom in politics. He must recognize that the intelligeni «'xercise of politi- cal rights which is ,1 |>rivilege in a monarchy, is a duty in a republic. If it clash with his ease, his retirement, his taste, his study, let it clash, but let him do his duty. The course of events is incessant, and when the good deed is slighted, the bad deed is done. Young scholars, young Americans, young men, we are all called upon to do a great duty. Nobody is released from it. It is a work to be done by hard strokes, and everywhere. I ^ee a rismg enthusiasm, but enthusiasm is not an elecpon ; and I hear cheers from the heart, but cheers are not votes. livery man must labor with his neighbor — in the street, at the plough, at the bench, early and late, at home and abroad.'' Generally we are concerned, in elections, with the measures of government. This time it is with the essential principle of government itself. Therefore there must be no doubt about our leader. He must not prevaricate, or stand in the fog, or use terms to court popular favor, which every dema- gogue and traitor has always used. If he says he favors the in- terest of the whole country, let him frankly say whether he thinks the interest of the whole country demands the extension of slavery. If he declares for the Union, let him say whether he means a Union for freedom or for slavery. If he swear by the (Constitution, let him state, so that the humblest free laborer can hear and under- stand, whether he believes the Constitution means to prefer slave labor to free labor in the national representation of the Territories. Ask him as an honest man, in a great crisis, if he be for the Union, the Constitution, and si, u cry extension, or lox" Liberty axidi. union, now and forever, one and inseparable." «^*^wSS6'. -^®1SS3Si^3?SSr :l'|! U m 422 AMF.KfC.IX PKOSE Scholars, you woulil like Id loiter in the pleasant paths of study. ICvery man loves his east loves to please his taste. Hut into how many homes alon^ this lovely valley canie the news of lexin^ton and ISnnker Hill eighty years ago; and yonnj? men like us, studi- ous, fond of leisure, youiiK lovers, youiiK luishands, young brothers, and sons, knew that they nuint forsake the wooded hillside, the river meadows golden with harvest, the twilight walk along the river, the summer .Sunday in the oM rhurch, parents, wife, 1 hild, mistress, and go away to uncertain war. Putnam heard the call at his plough, ami turned to go without waiting. Wooster heanl it and ol)eyed. Not less lovely in those days was this peaceful valley, not less soft this summer air. Life was as d .-ar, and love as beautiful, to those young men as to us who stand u|)on their graves. Hut be- cause they were so dear and beautiful those men went out, bravely to fight for them and fill. Through these very streets they mart hed, who never returned. Thi y fell ami were buried ; but they t ,m never die.' Not sweeter are the flowers that make your valley fair, not greener are the pines that give your river its name, than the memory of the brave men who died for freedom. » And yet no victim of those days, sleeping under the green sod of Connecticut, is more truly a martyr of Liberty than every murdered man whose bones lie bleaching in this sn-rmier sun upon the silent plains o*" Kansas. Centlemen.'wlrV we read hinory we make history.' .kcause our fathers fought in this great cause, .v' must not hojie to escape fighting. Hecause two thoi. ;und years ago Leonidas stood against Xerxes .e n, i.,t not suppose that Xerxes was slain, nor, thank God ! that l,eonidas is not immortal. Kvery great crisis d human history is •', lass if T'lormopylae, and there is always a Legnidas and hi.s ihioe hurnlrt.i to die in it, if they cannot conquer. And so long as Liberty has one martyr, so long as one drop of blood is poured out for her, so long from that single «lrop of bloody sweat of the agony of humanity shall spring hosts as countless as the forest leaves and mighty as the sea. Brothers ! the call has come to us. I bring it to you in these calm retreats. I summon you to the great fight of Freedom. I call upon you to say with your voices, whenever the occasion offers, and with your votes when the day comes, that upon these k L TT —rf *■ *-*&>* ?w GKOKy'l-: Willi AM I UK lis 423 ths of study, lilt iiilo how )f Irxington ku lis, Hluili- \n\^ brothers, hillside, the k along the , wife, ihild, (1 the call at iter heard it lley, not less beautiful, to es. Hut be- out, bravely ley niar( hed, icy ( .in never illey fair, not I the memory 110 victim of icut, is more whose bones IS o*" Kansas. ry. ' ikcause ])e to esca|)e stood against , nor, thank isis (>r liuman \ a Le(^nidas nquer. And p of blood is bloody sweat ntless as the you in these Freedom. I the occasion t upon these fertile fields of Kansas, in llic v^' v heart of the continent, the upas-trecof slavery, dripping deatli-'uws upon national prosperity and upon free labor, shall never be 1 .anted. I call upon you to plant there the palm of pe.ue, the viii • and the olive c-f i Chris- tian civiUzatioii. 1 call upon you to dcteriiiiue whether this great experiment of human freeilom, which has been the scorn of des- potism, shall, by its failure, be also our sin and shame. I call upon you to defend the ht)pe of the world. The voice of our brotiiers who are bleeding, no less than of our fathers who bled, summons us to this battle. Shall the < hildren of unborn generations, c!'istering over that vast western empire, rise up and c.iU us blessed or cursed? Here are our Marathon and I.exington; here are our heroic fields. The hearts of all good men lieat with us. The fight is fierce — the issue is with (loil. Hut (lod is good. [I'rum '/'/;<• Duly of Iht Antericaii Siholnf lo rolilifs itiui tht 'l'imes,~an oration iklivcrnl Ipclnre the literary si.cicties of Wcalcyaii University, Miiidle- town, Conn.,Aii(,'ust 5, 1856, ami repul)lished in paniplet form in the same year. It i* also included in Onilions and AMitsses, 1 884, Harper and Brothers, vol. 1. The text i» that of the original publication.] TITHOTTOM'S GRANDFATHER " You know my grandfather Titbottom was a West Indian. A large proprietor, and an easy man, he basked in the tropical sun, leading his (piiet, luxurious life. He lived much alone, and was what people call eccentric, by which I understand that he was very much himself, and, refusing the influence of other people, they had their little revenges, and called him names. It is a habit not exclusively tropical. I think I have seen the same thing even in this city. But he was greatly beloved — my bland and bounti- ful grandfather. He was so large-hearted, and open-handed. He was so friendly, and thoughtful, and genial, that even his jokes had the air of graceful benedictions. He did not seem to grow old, and he was one of those who never appear to have been very young. He flourished in a perennial maturity, an immortal middle-age. " My grandfather lived upon one of the small islands, St. Kitt's, perhaps, and his domain extended to the sea. His house, a 'A*i*(^(«toa«i&6isS^«*MifeiwS9^^ I I s t^ 11' 424 AMERICAN PROSE rambling West Indian mansion, was surrounded with deep, spa- cious piazzas, covered witii luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair was his peculiar seat. Tliey tell me he used some- times to sit there for the wliole day, his great, soft, brown eyes fastened upon the sea, watching the specks of sails that (lashed upon tiie horizon, while the evanescent expressions chased each other over his placid face, as if it reflected the calm and changing sea before him. His morning costume was an ample dressing- gown -of gorgeously flowered silk, and his morning was very apt to last all day. He rarely read, but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with his hands sunken in the pockets of his dressing- gown, and an air of sweet reverie, which any author might be very I'^appy to produce. "Society, of course, he saw litUe. There was some slight apprehension that if he were bidden to social entertainments, he might forget his con.:, or arrive without some other essential part of his dress ; and there is a sly tradition in the Titbottom fiimily, that, having been invited to a ball in honor of the new governor of the island, my grandfather Titbottom sauntered into the hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of his dressing- gown, and with his hands buried in the pockets, as usual. There was great excitement among the guests, and immense deprecation of gubernatorial ire. But it happened that the governor and my grandfather w -re old friends, and there was no oficnce. But as they were conversing together, one of the distressed managers cast indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who summoned him, and asked courteously : " ' Did you invite me, or my coat? ' " ' You, in a proper coat,' replied the manager. " The governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grand- father. " ' My friend,' said he to the manager, ' I beg your pardon, I forgot.' " The next day, my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball dress along the streets of the little town. " ' They ought to know,' said he, ' that I have a proper coat, and that not contempt nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball in my dressing-gown.' Cw--. ^^dik nth deep, spa- ong which one : lie used some- ft, brown eyes Is that (lashed s chased each 1 and changinji; imple dressiiig- was very apt to le great piazza )f his dressing- iithor might be as some slight crtainments, he r essential part tbottom fiimily, e new governor ;d into the hall of his dressing- s usual. There nse deprecation overnor and my ffence. IJut as d managers cast randfather, who d at my grand- your pardon, I nenading in full I a proper coat, ess, sent me to a GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 425 " He did not nmch frequent social festivals after this failure, but he always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile. " To a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even to weariness. But the old native dons like my grandfather, ripen in the prolonged sunshine, like the turUe upon the Bahama banks, nor know of existence more desirable. Life in .he tropics, I take to be a placid torpidity. During the long warm mornings of nearly half a century, my grandfather Titbottom had sat in his dressing- gown, and gazed at the sea. But one calm June day, as he slowly paced the i)iazza after breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel, evidently nearing the shore. He called for his spy- glass, and surveying the craft, saw that she came from the neighbor- ing island. She glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea. The warm morning air was sweet with perfumes, and silent with heat. The sea sparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue sky hung cloud- lessly over. Scores of little island vessels had my grandfather seen come over the horizon, and cast anchor in the port. Hundreds of summer mornings had the white sails flashed and faded, like vague faces through forgotten dreams. But this time he laid down the spyglass, and leaned against a column of the piazza, and watched the vessel with an "ntentness that he could not explain. She came nearer and nearer, a graceful spectre in the dazzling morning. " ' Decidedly, I must step down and see about that vessel,' said my grandfather Titbottom. " He gathered his ample dressing-gown about him, and stepped from the piazza with no other protection from the sun than the little smoking-cap upon his head. His face wore a calm beaming smile, as if he approved of all the world. He was not an old man, but there was almost a patriarchal pathos in his expression as he sauntered along in the sunshine towards the shore. A group of idle gazers was collected to watch the arrival. The little vessel furled her sails and drifted slowly landward, and as she was of very light draft, she came close to the shelving shore. A long plank was put out from her side, and the debarkation commenced. My grandfather Titbottom stood looking on to see the passengers as they passed. There were but a few of them, and mostly traders from the neighboring island. But suddenly the face of a young girl appeared over the side of the vessel, and she stepped upon Etfft^Sss^*" 42(3 AMEKICAM PROSE the idank to descend. My grandfather TitboUom instantly ad- vanced, and moving briskly reached the toj) of the plank at the same moment, and with the old tassel of his cap flashing \\\ the sun, and one hand in the j)ocket of his ilressing-gown, with the other he handed the young lady carefully down the plank. That young lady was afterwards my grandmother Titbottom. " And so, over tlie gleaming sea whic'.. he had watched so long, and wliich seemed thus to reward his patient gaze, came his bride that sunny morning. " ' Of course we are happy,' he used to say : ' For you are the gift of the sun 1 have 1 )vc(l so long and so well.' And my grand- father Titbottom \vould '.ay his hand so tenderly upon the golden hair of his young bride, ihat you could fancy him a devout Parsee caressing sunbeams. " There were endless festivities upon occasion of the marriage ; and my grandfather did not go to one of them in his dressing- gown. The gentle sweetness of his wife melted every heart into love and sympathy. He was much older than she, without douV)t. But age, as he used to say with a smile of immortal youth, is a matter of feeling, not of years. And if, sometimes, as she sat by his side on the piazza, her fancy looked through her eyes upon that summer sea and saw a younger lover, perhaps some one of those graceful and glowing heroes who occupy the foreground of all young maidens' visions by the sea, yet she could not fuid one more generous and gracious, nor fancy one more worthy and lov- ing than my grandfather Titbottom. And if, in the moonlit mid- night, while he lay calmly sleeping, she leaned out of the window and sank into vague reveries of sweet possibility, and watched the gleaming path of the moonlight upon the water, until the dawn glided over it — it was only that mood of nameless regret and longing, which underlies all human happiness, or it was the vision of that life of society, which she had never seen, but of which she had olten read, and which looked very fair and alluring across the sea to a girlish imagination, which knew that it should never know that reality. [From Titbottom' s Spectacles, in Putnam's Afni^azitie, December, 1854; after- ■ wards included in Piue and I, 1856, Harper and Brothers. The text is thai of the original article.] GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 427 istantly ad- lank at the f ill the sun, h the other That young 10(1 so long, ne his bride you are the 1 my grand- i the golden :vout Parsee e marriage ; lis dressing- y heart into thout doubt. I youth, is a IS she sat by r eyes upon some one of oregroiind of not find one thy and lov- noonlit mid- ■ the window watched the til the dawn s regret and as the vision of which she luring across should never )er, 1854; after- rhe text is thai THE PURITAN SPIRIT Whei.- Elizabeth died, the country gentlemen, the great traders in the towns, the sturdy steadfast middle class, the class from which English character and strength have sprung, were chiefly Puritans. Puritans taught in the universities and sat on the thrones of bishops. They were Peers in Parliament, they were Ambassailois and Secretaries of State. Hutchinson, graced with every accomplishmciU of the English gentleman, was a Puritan, Sir Henry Vane, by whose side sat justice, was a Puritan. John Hampden, purest of patriots, was a Puritan. John Pym, greatest of parliamentary leaders, was a Puritan. A fanatic? Yes, in the high sense of unchangeable fidelity to a sublime idea ; — a fanatic like Columbus, sure of a western passage to India over a myste- rious ocean which no mariner had ever sailed ; — a fanatic like Gali- leo, who marked the courses of the stars and saw, despite the jargon of authority, tViat still the earth moved; — a fanatic like Joseph Warren, whom the glory of patriotism transfigures upon Bunker Hill. This was the fanatic who read the Bible to the English people and quickened English life with »he fire of the primeval faith; who smote the Spaniard and swept the pirates from the sea, and rode with Cromwell and his Ironsides, praising God ; who to the utmost shores of the Mediterranean, and in the shuddering valleys of Piedmont, to every religious oppressor and foe of England made the name of England terrible. This was the ftinatic, soft as sunshine in the young Milton, blasting in Crom- well as t! thunder-bolt, in Endicott austere as Calvin, in Roger Williams benign as Melanchthon, in John Robinson foreseeing more truth to break t h from God's word. In all history do you see a nobler figure ? Forth from the morning of Greece come, Leoiiidas, with your bravest of the brave, — in the rapt city plead, Demosthenes, your country's cause, — pluck, Gracchus, from aristocratic Rome its crown, — speak, Cicero, your magic word, — lift, Cato, your admonishing hand, — and you, patriots of modern Europe, be all gratefully remembered ; — but where in the earlier ages, in the later day, in lands remote or near, shall we find loftier self-sacrifice, more unstained devotion to worthier ends, ii^eai'S^^^M: fe;i?-^3!^55UWf"' ^"' IV ii 428 AMERICAN PROSE issuing in happier results to the highest interests of man, than in the EngUsh Puritan ? He apprehended his. own principle, indeed, often blindly, often narrowly, never in its utmost amplitude and splendor. The his- toric ?uritan was a man of the seventeenth century, not of the nineteenth. He saw through a glass darkly, but he saw. The acorn is not yet the oak, the well-spring is not yet the river. But as the .'arvest is folded in the seed, so the largest freedom political and religious, — liberty, not toleration, not permission, not endur- ance — in yonder heaven Cassiopeia does not tolerate Arcturus nor the clustered Pleiades permit Orion to shine — the right of absolute individual liberty, subject only to the equal right of others, is the ripened fruit of the Puritan principle. It is this fact, none the less majestic because he was unconscious of it, which invests the emigration of the Puritan to this country with a dignity and grandeur that belong to no other colonization. In unfurling his sail for that momentous voyage he was impelled by no passion of discovery, no greed of trade, no purpose of con- quest. He was the most practica', the least romantic of men, but he was allured by no vision of worldly success. The winds that blew the Mayflower over the sea were not more truly airs from heaven than the moral impulse and moral heroism which inspired her voyage. Sebastian Cabot, Sir Walter Raleigh, Fran- cis Drake and P'robisher, Cortez and Ponce de Leon, Champlain, bearing southward from the St. Lawrence the lilies of France, Henry Hudson pressing northward from Sandy Hook with the flag of Holland, sought mines of gold, a profitable trade, the foun- tain of youth, colonial empire, the northwestern passage, a shorter channel to Cathay. But the Puritan obeyed solely the highest of all human motives. He dared all that men have ever dared, seek- ing only freedom to worship God. Had the story of the Puritan ended with the landing upon Plymouth Rock, — had the rigors of that first winter which swept away half of the Pilgrims obliterated every trace of the settlement, — had the unnoted Mayflower sunk at sea, — still the Puritan story would have been one of the noblest in the annals of the human race. But it was happily developed into larger results, and the Puritan, changed with the changing time, adding sweetness to strength, and a broader humanity to - I.i the Rocky Mountain region, in what was then a howling wilderr.css, and lived for some time in a village of Sioux Indians of the Ogillalab tribe, whose acquaintance with white men was but slight. A graphic account of this wild experience was given in Parkman's first book. The Oregon Trail, published in 1847. Some time afterward he published a historical novel, Vassall Morion, which had not much success. In 1851 he published the first of his great series of histories, The Conspiracy of Pontiac. This remarkable book, though Ji.- first to be published, was in its subject the last of the series to which it belongs, and which, with their dates of publi- cation, are as follows: Pioneers of France in the New IVor/.l (^iSGs), The Jesuits in North America (1867), La Salle and the Discovery of the Great lVest(lB6<)), The Old Regime in Canada (1874), Count Frontenac and New France under Louis XIV. (1877), A Half Century of Conflict (1892), Mont- calm and Wolfe (1884). It will be observed that the last-named work, the climax of the series, was completed before the less important one which pre- cedes it. . r 1 Mr. Parkman was eminent in the culture of roses, and author of a work entitled The Book of Roses (1866). He was president of the Horticultural Society, and was at one time Professor of Horticulture in Harvard University. He was afterward an Overseer and finally a Fellow of the University. No biography of him has as yet been published except the brief sketch by the present writer, prefixed to the revised and illustrated edition of his complete works, in twenty volumes (Boston, 1897-1898).] The significance of Parkman in literary history lies chiefly in the fact that he was the first great American historian to deal on 2F 433 ■H (!ii I .||. 434 AMERICAN PROSE a large scale with American thenies. Two men of genius before him had taken subjects from the ever fascinating age of naritine discovery. Seventy years ago Washington Irving published a biography of CoUimbus which still remains without a worthy rival in any language ; in his life of Washington the same writer was less successful. I'rcscjtt's narratives of Spanish conquest in Mex ico and I'eru, extremely brilliant but inadequate and misleading because of the writer's imperfect acquaintance with American archaiology, barely apjjroach the threshold of American history, properly so called. Our oi\ly other historian of genius occupied liimself with the noble story of the Netherlands and their war of 'idepf^niience. For Ameri< an history one had to choose between the jejune registialion of llildreth and the vapid rhetoric of Ban- croft. Far above such writers we must rank I'alfrey, in spite of his one-sidedness ; but his work, though excellei.l, is without gen- ius ; it does not clothe with warm llesh and red blood the dry bones of the past. Before Parknian wrote it used commonly to be said, either that our country had no history, or else that such as it had w evoid of romantic interest. What ! Two and a half ce "•turies, more crowded with incident and richer in records than my that had gme before, and yet no hiitory ! A leading race of men thrust into a savage wilderness, to work out a new civilization under these strange conditions, and yet no romantic interest ! Truly the history was th re, and tiic romance was there, only it needed the touch of tiie artist to bring it out. So it might have seemed in Dr. Johnson's day that there was but little of interest in Britain north of the Tweed, but the enchant 'T, Scott, forever dispelled such a monstrous illusion. The first thing that strikes us in reading Parkman's books is their picturesqueness. But they .ire equally remarkable for their minute accuracy and for their wealth of knowledge. For patient and careful research Parknian has never been excelled by aiiy of the Dryasdust family. He would follow up a clew with the tenacity of a sleuth-hound. It was very rarely that anything es- caped him, and it is but seldom that the most jealous criticism has detected a weak spot in his statements or in his conclusions. Parkman's accuracy, indeed, is a notable element of his pictur- esqueness. His descriptions are vivid because in every small mm mm n\\\% before of maritime published a worthy rival c writer was lest in Mex misleading 1 American can history, us occupied their war of ose between jric of Ban- ', in spite of vithout gen- ood the dry omnionly to se that such 'I'wo and a :r in records A leading k out a new no romantic oniancc was t out. So it ivas but little lanlfr, Scott, m's books is ible for their For patient :lled by awy ew with the anything es- nus criticism onclusions. of his pictur- every small FRANC rs PAKKMAN 435 detail they are true to life. His preparati(»n for his subject was admirable. It grew naturally out of his early wanderings in the Middlesex Fells. A passionate love of wild nature took posses- sioi\ of him, and ni youth he lonceived the plan of writmg the history uf the Anuncan wilderness, and the mighty struggle be- tween {•'rciH hmen and Knglishmen for the masterv of it. This struggle between political despotism and political liberty for the possession of such a vast area of virgin soil for future growth and ex|)ansi()ii gives to the theme an epic grandeur. For dealing with such a subject lirkman prepared himself by various experiences. Though his sojourn with a wild tribe of Sioux in 1846 was not long, yet he brought away from it knowledge of the highest value, for his faculty of observation was as keen as that of any naturalist. On his first journc\ in Europe, during his college days, he had spent several weeks in a n onastery of I'assionists at Rome, and what he saw there must have been of infinite service to him in studying the I ilmrs of Jesuits and F/anciscans in the New World. The next thing in order was to study history at its sources, and this involved much tedious i\ploi..tion and several journeys in Europe. A notable monument of this research exists in a cabinet now standing in the library of the Massachusetts Historical Society, containing nearly two hundred folio volumes of docu- ments transcribed from the originals by expert copyists. Ability to incur he.ivy expense is a prerequisite for such undertakings, and herein our historian was favored by fortune. Against this great advantage were to be offset the hardships entailed by deli- cate health and inability to use the eyes for reading and writing. Parkman always dictated instead of holding the pen, and his huge mass of documents in French, Italian, I>atin, and other languages, had to be read aloud to him, while it was but seldom that he could work lu more than half an hour without stopping to take a long rest. Tiie heroism shown year after year in contending with physical ailments was the index of a character fit to be mated, for its pertinacious courage, with t le heroes that live in his shining pages. Parkman's descriptions seem like the reports of an eyewitness. The realism is so strong that the author seems to have come in person fresh from the scenes he describes, with the smoke of the .,„*«»!»,-!?*s^?K»»*^^^^; |4 ^■■P f im^ 43^' AMF.KICAN PKOSE battle hovcrinn alxHit him and its fierce light glowing in his eyes. I'arkinan liid not fei-l ready to write until he had visited nearly all the localities that form the scenery of his story, ami studied liietn with the patience of a surveyor and the discerning eye of a land scape painter. His love of naUire added keen zest to this sort of work. 'I'o sleep under the open sky was his delight, and his books fairly reek with the fragrance of pine woods. Hut except for I'arkman's inborn temperament all his micro- scopic industry would have availed him but little. To use his own worils, " l-aithfulness to the truth of history involves far more than a research, however patient and scrupulous, into special facts. Such facts may be detailed with the most minute exactness, and yet the narrative, taken as a whole, may be unmeaning." These are words which the mere Dryasdust can never comprehend ; yet they are golden words for the student of the historical art to ponder. To make a truthful record of a vanishetl age, patient scholarship is needed, and something more. Into the making of a historian there should enter something of the naturalist, some- thing of the poet, and something of the philosopher. Seldom has this union of qualities been realized in such a high degree as in Parkman. His philosophic habit of mind is seen in all his books, but it may best be studied in The Old Rcf^imc in Canada. The fate of a nationalistic experiment, set on foot by one of the most abso- lute of monarchs and fostered by one of the most devoted and powerful of religious organizations, is traced to the operation of causes inherent in its very nature. These pages are alive with philosopliy and teem with object-lessons of extraordinary value. Free industrial England pitted against despotic militant France for the possession of an ancient continent reserved from the begin- ning of time for this decisive struggle, and dragging into the conflict the belated barbarism of the Stone Age, — such is the wonderful theme which Parkman has treated. Thus, while of all our historians he is the most deeply and peculiarly American, he is at the same time the broadest and most cosmopolitan. His work is for all time, and the more aduiuately men's historic per- spective gets adjusted, the greater will it seem. John Fiske in his eyes, id nearly all ;u(lied Uicm c of a lam! lliis sort ot ;ht, and his 1 his micro- I'o use his /es fiir more special facts, ictness, and ig." These •ehend ; yet •rical art to age, patient c making of ralist, some- Seldom has degree as in :s, but it may The fate of most abso- devoted and operation of e alive with lary value, litant Trance m the begin- ng into the -such is the i, while of all Unerican, he )olitan. His historic per- 3HN FiSKE I-h'AM/S PAHKAfAy 437 TllK m.ACK HII.I.S To nit on rocks, tu muse o'l-r IIddiI ami foil, To »luwly tract' tlif fDfost'* shady scene, Wlii.rc thinn'* llii>l "\*''> ""' iii.in's iKmiinion dwell, Ai\d mortal Innt hath ne'er ur rarely lieen ; Til elimli the IracUless mountain all unseen. With the wild llneU that never needs a fold ; Alone o'er steeps and foamy falls to lean ; Tliit is not solitude; 'tis l>ut to hold Converse with Nature's charms, and view her storei unrolled. ChiUc Harold Wk travelled eastward for two days, .-rnd then the gloomy riilgcs of the lilack Hills rose up before us. The village passed along for some miles beneath their declivities, trailing out to a great length over the arid prairie, or winding at times among small detached hills of distorted shapes. Turning sharply to the left, we entered a wide defile of the mountains, down the bottom of, which a brook came winding, lined with tall grass and dense copses, amid which were hidden many beaver-dams and lodges. We passed along between two lines of high precipices and rocks, piled in disorder one upon another, with scarcely a tree, a bush, or a clump of grass to veil their nakedness. Hie restless Indian boys were wandering along their edges and clambering up and down their rugged sides, and sometimes a group of them would stand on the verge of a cliff and look down on the array as it passed in review beneath them. As we advanced, the passage grew more narrow; then it suddenly expanded into a round grassy meadow, completely encompassed by mountains; and here the families stopped as they came up in turn, and the camp rose like magic. The lodges were hardly erected when, with their usual precipi- tation, the Indians set about accomplishing the object that had brought them there; that is, the obtaining poles for their new lodges. Half the population, men, women, and boys, mounted their horses and set out for the interior of the motmtains. As they rode at full gallop over the shingly rocks and into the da;-k aagat«aatow^ * )M atBaj)i 8a!ig»i»^/: --fe9^^ 438 AMERICAN PROSE opening of the defile beyond, I thought I had never read or dreamed of a more strange or pictures(Hic cavalcade. We passed between precii)iccs, sharp and splintering at the tops, their sides beetling over the defile or descending in abrupt declivities, bristling with black fir-trees. On our leit they rose close to us like a wall, but on the right a winding brook with a narrow strip of marshy soil intervened. The stream was clogged with old beaver-dams, and spread frequently into wide pools. There were thick bushes and many dead and blasted trees along its course, though frecpiently nothing remained but stumps cut close to the ground by the beaver, and marked with the sharp chisel-like teeth of those indefatigable laborers. Sometimes we were diving among trees, and then emerging upon open spots, over which, Indian-like, all galloped at full speed. As Pauline bounded over the rocks I felt her saddle-girth slipping, and alighted to draw it tighter; when the whole array swept past me in a moment, the women with their gaudy ornaments tinkling as they rode, the men whooping, and laughing, and lashing forward their horses. Two black-tailed dee;- bounded away among the rocks; Raymond fnot at them from horseback; the sharp report of his rifle was answered by another equally sharp from the opposing cliffs, and then the echoes, leaping in rapid succession from side to side, died away rattling, far amid the mountains. After having ridden in this manner for six or eight miles, the appearance of the scene began to change, and all the declivities around us were covered with forests of tall, slender pine trees. The Indians began to fall off to the right and left, and dispersed with their hatchets and knives among these woods, to cut the poles which they had come to seek. Soon I was left almost alone; but in the deep stillness of those lonely mountains, the stroke of hatchets and the sound of voices might be heard from far and near. Reynal, who imitated the Indians in their habits as well as the worst features of their character, had killed buffalo enough to make a lodge for himself and his squaw, and now he was eager to get the poles necessary to complete it. He asked me to let Raymond go with him, and assist in the work. I assented, and the two men immediately entered the thickest part of the wood. Si' ta ma ^ smmmmmmmmfim m m i m ' i ever read or We passed )s, their sides t declivities, se close to us L narrow strip ged with old There were ng its course, t close to the p chisel-like e were diving , over which, bounded over ted to draw it moment, the hey rode, the their horses, ks; Raymond ■ his rifle was ing cliffs, and side to side, ght miles, the he declivities ;r pine trees, and dispersed Is, to cut the is left almost lountains, the )e heard from as well as the ilo enough to he was eager iked me to let assented, and of the wood. FHANCIS PARKMAN 439 Having left my horse in Raymond's keeping, I began to climb the mountain. I was weak and weary, and made slow progress, often pausing to rest, but after an hour I gained a height, whence the little valley out of which I had climbed seemed like a deep, dark gulf, though the inaccessible peak of the mountain was still towering to a much greater distance above. Objects familiar from childhood surrounded me; crags and rocks, a black and sullen brook that gurgled with a hollow voice deep among the crevices, a wood of mossy distorted trees and prostrate trunks flung down by age and storms, scattered among the rocks, or damming the foaming waters of the little brook. The objects were the same, yet they were thrown into a wilder and more startling scene, for the black crags and the savage trees assumed a grim and threatening aspect, and close across the valley the opposing mountain confronted me, rising from the gulf for thou- sands of feet with its bare pinnacles and its ragged covering of pines. Yet the scene was not without its milder features. As I ascended, I found frequent little grassy terraces, and there was one of these close at hand, across which the brook was stealing, beneath the shade of scattered trees that seemed artificially planted. Here I made a welcome discovery, no other than a bed of strawberries, with their white flowers and their red fruit, close nestled among the grass by the side of the brook, and I sat down by them, hailing them as old acquaintances; for among those lonely and perilous mountains, they awakened delicious associations of the gardens and peaceful homes of far-distant New-England. Yet wild as they were, these mountains were thickly peopled. As I climbed further, I found the broad, dusty paths made by the elk, as they filed across the mountain side. The grass on all the terraces was trampled down by deer; there were numerous tracks of wolves, and in some of the rougher and more precipitous parts of the ascent, I found foot-prints different from any that I had ever seen, and which I took to be those of the Rocky Moun- tain sheep. I sat down upon a rock ; there was a perfect still- ness. No wind was stirring, and not even an insect could be heard. I recollected the danger of becoming lost in such a place, and therefore I fixed my eye upon one of the tallest pin- IJ'^sB^^^!^**liiwi»*«a*»^!83»!«^^ 'I.t 440 AMERICAN PHOSE nacles of the opposite mountain. It rose sheer upright from the woods below, and by an extraordinary freak of nature, sus- tained aloft on its very summit a large loose rock. Such a land- mark could ever be mistaken, and feeling once nure secure, 1 began again to move forward. A white wolf jumped up from among some bushes, and leaped clumsily away; but he stopped for a moment, and turned back his keen eye and his bristling muzzle. I longed to take his scalp and carry it back with me, as an appropriate trophy of the Black Hills, but before I could fire, he was gone among the rocks. Soon after I heard a rustling sound, with a cracking of twigs ac a little distance, and saw moving above the tall bushes the branching antlers of an elk. I was in the midst of a hunter's parai'ise. Such are the Black Hills, as I found them in July; but they wear a different garb when winter sets in, when the broad boughs of the fir tree are bent to the ground by the load of snow, and the dark mountains are whitened with it. At that season the mountain-trappers, returned from their autumn expeditions, often build their rude cabins in the midst of these olitudes, and live in abundance and luxury on the game that harbv rs there. I have heard them relate, how with their tawny mistresses, arid perhaps a few young Indian companion^, they have spent months in total seclusion. They would dig pitfalls, and set traps for the white wolves, the sables, and the martens, and though through the whole night the awful chorus of the wolves would resound from the frozen mountains around them, yet within their massive walls of logs they would lie in careless ease and comfort before the blazing fire, and in the morning shoot the elk and deer from their very door. [From The California and Oregon Trail: being Sketches of Prairie and Rocky Mountain Life, 1849, chapter 17, "The Black Hills." The text is that of the first edition, which is in certain respects preferable to that of the author's revised edition.] THE AMERICAN INDIAN Of the Indian character, much has been written foolishly, and credulously believed 3y the rhapsodies of poets, the cant of sentimentalists, and the extravagance of some who should have SMMM FRANCIS PARKMAN 441 ipright from nalare, sus- Such a land- )re secure, I )ed up from ; he stopped his bristling ick with me, 2 fore I could ird a rustling ice, and saw )f an elk. I ily; but they broad boughs of snow, and it season the expeditions, olitudes, and )k rs there. I istresses, and spent months t traps for the ough through ould resound their massive jmfort before nd deer from s of Prairie and The text is that at of the author's foolishly, and 3, the cant of .0 should have known better, a counterfeit image has been tricked out, which might seek in vain for its likeness through every corner of the habitable earth; an image bearing no more resemblance to its original, than the monarch of the tragedy and the hero of the epic poem bear to their living prototypes in the palace and the camp. The shadows of his wilderness home, and the darker mantle of his own inscrutable reserve, have made the Indian warrior a wonder and a mystery. Yet to the eye of rational ob- servation there is nothing unintelligible in him. He is full, it is true, of coatraijiction. He deems himself the centre of greatness and renown; his pride is proof against the fiercest torments of fire and steel; and yet the sam.e man would beg for a dram of whiskey, or pick up a crust of bread thrown to him like a dog, from the tent door of the traveller. At one moment, he is wary and cautious to the verge of cowardice; at the next, he abandons himself to a very insanity of recklessness; and the habitual self- restraint which throws an impenetrable veil over emotion is joined to the unbridled passions of a madman or a beast. Such inconsistencies, strange as they seem in our eyes, when viewed under a novel aspect, arc but the ordinary incidents of humanity. The qualities of the mind are not uniform in their action through all the relations of life. With different men, and different races of men, pride, valor, prudence, have different forms of manifestation, and where in one instance they lie dor- mant, in another they are keenly awake. The conjunction of greatness and littleness, meanness and pride, is older than the days of the patriarchs; and such antiquated phenomena, dis- played undor a new form in the unreflecting, undisciplined mind of a savage, call for no special wonder, but should rather be classed with the other enigmas of the fathomless human heart. The dissecting knife of Rochefoucault might lay bare matters of no less curious observation in the breast of every man. Nature has stamped the Indian with a hard and stern physiog- nomy. Ambition, revenge, envy, jealousy, are his ruling pas- sions; and his cold temperament is little exposed to those effeminate vices which are the bane of milder races. With him revenge is an overpowering instinct; nay, more, it is a point of honor and a duty. His pride sets all language at defiance. He ■i^ms^^tmtA:^ tS^Hi^V' 443 AMERICAN PROSE loathes the thought of coercion; and few of his race have ever stoojied to discharge a menial office. A wild love of I.berty, an utlir intolerance of control, lie at the basis of his character, and five his whole existence. Yet, in spite of his haughty inde- pendence, he isi\dcvm\> hero-worshipper; and high achievement in war or policy touches a chord to which his nature never fails to respond, lie looks \\\\ vnth admiring reverence to the sages and heroes ol his ttibe, and it is this principle, joined to the Tes\iect for age H\»ilnging Ivom the patriarchal element in his social system, which, beyond all others, contributes union and harmony to the erratic members of .in Indian community. With l^\m the love of glory kindles into i\ burning passion; and to allay its cravings, he will dare cold and famine, fire, tempest, torture, and death itself. These generous traits are overcast by much that is dark, cold and sinister, by sleepless distrust, and rankling jealousy. Treacherous himself, he is always suspicious of treachery in others. Brave as he is, — and few of mankind are braver, — he will vent his passion by a secret 'itab rather than an open blow. His warfare is full of ambuscade and stratagem; and he never rushes into battle with that joyous self-abandonment, with which the warriors of the Gothic ran • lUmg themselves into the ranks of their enemies. In his (ta^ls and his drinking bouts we find none of that robust and full-toned mirth, which reigned at the nide carousals of our b.\»l>aric ancestry. He is never jovial in his cups, and maudlin borrow or maniacal rage is the sole result of his potations. Over all emotion he throws the veil of an iron self control, originating in a |'v culiar form of pride, and fostered by rigorous discipline from childhood upward. He is trained to conceal pas- sion, and not to subdue it. 'Jhe inscrutable warrior is aptly imaged by the hackneyed figure of a volcano covered with snow; and IV) man can say when or where the wild-fire will burst forth. This shallow self-mastery serves to give dignity to public delib- eration, and harmony to social life. Wrangling and quarrel are strangers to an Indian dwelling; and while an assembly of the ancient Gauls was garrulous as a convocation of magpies, a Roman bcnate might have taken a lesson from the grave solemnity of an ^' ■-:,Std»,l|..- w: FRANCIS PARKMAN 443 have "^ver of liberty, character, ghty inde- hievement never fails the sages lied to the ent in his union and ity. With )n; and to 2, tempest, dark, cold ; jealousy, eachery in raver, — he jpen blow, id he never with which ) the ranks uts we find gned at the ;r jovial in ? sole result lelf control, by rigorous :onceal pas- or is aptly with snow; burst forth, nblic delib- quarrel are mbly of the es, a Roman ponity of an Indian council. In the midst of his family and friends, he hides affections, by nature none of the most tender, under a mask of icy coldness; and in the torturing fires of his enemy, the haughty sufferer maintains to the last his look of grim defiance. His intellect is as peculiar as his moral organization. A ong all savages, the powers of perception preponderate over those of reason and analysis; but this is more especially the case with the Indian. An acute judge of character, at least of such parts of it as his experience enables him to comprehend; keen to a proverb in all exercises of war and the chase, he seldom traces effects to their causes, or follows out actions to their remote results. Though a close observer of external nature, he no sooner attempts to account for her phenomena than he involves himself in the most ridiculous absurdities; and quite content with these puerilities, he has not the least desire to push his inquiries further. His curiosity, abundantly active within its own narrow circle, is dead to all things else; and to attempt rousing it from its torpor is but a bootless task. He seldom takes cognizance of general or abstract ideas; and his language has scarcely the power to express them, except through the medium of figures drawn from the external world, and often highly picturesque and forcible. The absence of reflection makes him grossly improvi- dent, and unfits him for pursuing any complicated scheme of war or policy. Some races of men seem moulded in wax, soft and melting, at once plastic and feeble. Some races, like some metals, combine the greatest flexibility with the greatest strength. But the Indian is hewn out of a rock. You can rarely change the form without destruction of the substance. Races of inferior energy have pos- sessed a power of expansion and assimilation to which he is a stranger; and it is this fixed and rigid quality which has proved his ruin. He will not learn the arts of civilization, and he and his forest must perish together. The stern, unchanging features of his mind excite our admiration from their very immutability; and we look with deep interest on the fate of this irreclaimable son of the wilderness, the child who will not be weaned from the breast of his rugged mother. And our interest increases when we discern in the unhappy wanderer the germs of heroic virtues 3 . "itftSiSiJi iar^KiSffiwi£if.-^?^*te*-i«i^' cvi^K nUNifa^-^r.^^' 444 AMERICAN PROSE mingled among his vices, — a hand bountiful to bestow as it is rapacious to seize, and even in extremest famine, imparling its last morsel to a fellow-sufferer; a heart which, strong in friend- ship as in hate, thinks it not too much to lay down, life for its chosen comrade; a soul true to its own idea of honor, and burn- ing with an unquenchable thirst for greatness and renown. The imprisoned lion in the showman's cage differs not more widely from the lord of the desert, than the beggarly frequenter of frontier garrisons and dramshops differs from the proud deni- zen of the woods. It is in his native wilds alone that the Indian must be seen and studied. Thus to depict him is the aim of the ensuing History; and if, from the shades of rock and forest, the savage features should look too grimly forth, it is because the clouds of a tempestuous war have cast upon the picture their murky shadows .nnd lurid fires. [From The Conspiravy of Pontine and the Indian IVar after the Conquest of Canada, 1851, chapter i, "The Indian Character." The text employed, by permission of the publishers, Little, Brown, and Co., is that of the author's revised edition of 1870.] THE CAPTURE OF QUEBEC The eventful night of the twelfth was clear and calm, with no light but that of the stars. Within two hours before daybreak, thirty boats, crowded with sixteen hundred soldiers, cast off from the vessels, and floated downward, in perfect order, with the current of the ebb tide. To the boundless joy of the army, Wolfe's malady had abated, and he was able to command in per- son. His ruined health, the gloomy prospects of the siege, and the disaster at Montmorenci, had oppressed him with the deepes* melancholy, but never impaired for a moment the promptness of his decisions, or the impetuous energy of his action. He sat in the stern of one of the boats, pale and weak, but borne up to a calm height of resolution, Every order had been given, every arrangement made, and it only remained to face the issue. The ebbing tide sufficed to bear the boats along, and nothing broke the silence of the night but the gurgling of the river, and the low »i5*^ tow as it is parting its in friend- life for its , and burn- own. rs not more frequenter )roud deni- the Indian ; aim of the and forest, is because licture their - the Conquest : employed, by f the author's ilm, with no e daybreak, cast off from er, with the f the army, nand in per- le siege, and 1 the deepes* romptness of He sat in )orne up to a given, every : issue. The othing broke , and the low FRANCIS PARKMAN 445 voice of Wolfe, as he repeated to the officers about him the stanzas of Gray's Elegy in a Country Churchyard, which had re- cently appeared and which he had just received from England. Perhaps, as he uttered those strangely appropriate words, — "The paths of glory lead but to the grave," the shadows of his own approaching fate stole with mournful prophecy across his mind. "Gentlemen," he said, as he closed his recital, " I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow." As they approached the landing-place the boats edged closer in towards the northern shore, and the woody precipices rose high on their left, like a wall of undistinguished blackness. " Qui Vive ? " shouted a French sentinel, from out the imper- vious gloom. "La France/" answered a captain of Eraser's Highlanders, from the foremost boat. "A quel regiment f" demanded the soldier. " De la Reine!" promptly replied the Highland captain, who chanced to know that the regiment so designated formed part of Bougainville's command. As boats were frequently passing down the river with supplies for the garrison, and as a convoy from Bougainville was expected that very night, the sentinel was de- ceived, and allowed the P'ncrlish to proceed. A few moments after, they were challenged again, and this time they could discern the soldier running close down to the water's edge, as if all his suspicions were aroused ; but the skilful replies of the Highlander once more saved the party from discovery. They reached the landing-place in safety, — an indentation in the shore, about a league above the city, and now bearing the name of Wolfe's Cove. Here a narrow path led up the face of the heights and a French guard was posted at the top to defend the pass. By the force of the current, the foremost boats, in- cluding thit which carried Wolfe himself, were borne a little below the spot. The general was one of the first on shore. He looked upward at the rugged heights which towered above him in the gloom. "You can try it," he coolly observed to an officer near him "but I don't think you'll get up." ) ! ! I .ittiif^ i*s^aiwaiiS?^^5--.»^.5-- - i5#»»F-t-: =7^-.'ss,W»8a?fc8*r. i ^m^roepm^.'!^^ ' t t. jb jmM i wBB itt Wtfcw i grt Hi* - *^ 446 AMERICAX PROSE At the point where the Highlanders landed, ore ol their cap- tains, Donald Macdonald, apparently the sume whose presence of mind hud just saved the enterprise from ruin, was climbing in advance of his men, wiicn he was challenged by a sentinel. He replied in French, by declaring that he had been sent to relieve the guard, and ordering the soldier to withdraw. Before the latter was undeceived, a crowd of Highlanders were close at hand, while the steeps below were thronged with eager ( iimbeis, dragging themselves up by trees, roots, and bushes. Ihe guard turned out, and made a brief though brave resistance. In a moment, they were cut to pieces, disp- rsed, or made prisoners; while men after men came swarming up the height, am' quickly formed upon the plains above. Meanwhile, the vessels had dropped downward with the current, and anchored opposite the landing-place. The remaining troops were disembarked, and, with the dawn of day, the whole were brought in safety to the shore. The Sim rose, and, from the ramparts of Quebec, the astonished people saw the Plains of Abraham glittering with arms, and the dark-red lines of the English forming ii. array ot battle. Breath- less messengers had borne the evil tidings to Montcalm, and far and near his wide-extendtd camp resounded with the rolling of alarm drums and the din of startled preparation. He, too, had had his struggles and his sorrows. The civil power had thwarted him; famine, discontent, and disaffection were rife among his soldiers; and no small portion of the Canadian militia had dis- persed from sheer starvation. In spite of all, he had trusted to hold out till the winter frosts should drive the invaders from before the town; when, on. that disastrous morning, the news of their successful temerity fell like a cannon shot upon his ear. Still he assumed a tone of confidence. "They have got to the weak side of us at last," he is reported to have said, "and we must crush them with our numbers." With headlong haste, his troops were pouring over the bridge of the St. Charles, and gath- ering in heavy masses under the western ramparts of the town. Could numbers give assurance of success:, their triumph would have been secure; for five French battalions and the armed colo- nial peasantry amounted in all to more than seven thousand five i -S^^ftftiwon- -; FRANCIS PAh'h'MAN 447 their cap- rescnce of imbing in inel. He to relieve Ik fore the i; close at • rlimbeis, The guard nee. In a prisoners; id (luickly essels had )posite the rked, and., fety to the astonished IS, an^l the •. Breath- Im, and far : rolling of e, too, had id thwarted among his a had dis- 1 trusted to aders from the news of m his ear. got to the d, " and we y haste, his ), and gath- t the town, imph would irmed colo- lousand five hundred men. Inill Jn siglit before them stretched the long, thin lines of the British forces, —the half-wild Highl.ir.ders, the steady soldiery of England, and the hardy levies of the piovinces, — less than five thousand in number, but all inured to battle, and strong in tiie full assurani:e of success. Yet, could the chiefs of that gallant army have pierced the secrets of the future, could they have foreseen that the victory which they bui iied to achieve would have robbed England of her proudest boast, that the con quest of Canada would pave 'he way for the independence of America, their swords would have droppefl from their hands, and the heroic fire have gone out within their hearts. It was nine o'clock, and the adverse armies stood motionless, each gazing on the other. The clouds hung low, and, at inter- vals, warm light showers descended, besprinkling both alike. The coppice aiid cornfields in front of the JUitish troops were filled with French sharpshooters, who kept up a distant, spatter- ing fire. Here and there a soldier fell in the ranks, and tl.e gap was filled in silence. At a little before ten, the British could see that Montcalm was preparing to advance, and, in a few moments, all his troops appeared in rapid motion. They came on in three divisions, shouting after the manner of their nation, and firing heavily as soon as they came within range. In the British ranks, not a trigger was pulled, not a soldier stirred ; and their ominous com- posure seemed to damp the spirits of the assailants. It was not till the French were within forty yards that tiie fatal word was given, and the British muskets blazed forth at once in one crash- ing explosion. Like a ship at full career, arrested with sudden ruin on a sunken rock, the ranks of Montcalm staggered, shivered, and broke before that wasting storm of lead. Thv. smoke, rolling along the field, for a moment shut out the view; but when the white wreaths were scattered on the wind, a wretched spectacle was disclosed; men and ofificers tumbled in heaps, battalions re- solved into a mob, order and obedience gone; and wiien the British muskets were levelled tor a second volley, the masses of the militia were seen to cower and shrink with uncontrcllable panic. For a few minutes, the French regulars stood their ground, returning a sharp and not ineffectual fire. But no.v. u ■ rj5i^i^J^^*faitJ*'''i^**fefc=^«g^--^g'* ^ i '*'^'J *< l^ ^ *«fc^i»-j%arf^.*'^Ut f.v--fSJ<**^is.v«*-*.«i,wfca.i--.- t>.iiia4**;.-. i-iVSJiiir V itMvi^'ilUi^T^-i .•sa^4::iiAiei^^^ „.Jr 448 AMERICAN PROSE W^ echoing cheer on cheer, redoubling volley on volley, trampling the dying and the dead and driving the fugitives in crowds, the IJritish troops advanced and swept the field before them. The ardor of the men burst all restraint. 'I'hey broke into a run, and with unsparing slaughter chased the flying multitudes to the gates of Quebec. Foremost of all, the light-footed Highlanders dashed along in t'lrious pursuit, hewing down the Frenchmen with their broadswords, and slaying many in the very ditch of the fortifica- tions. Never was victory more quick or more decisive. In the short action and pursuit, the French lost fifteen hundred men, killed, wounded, and taken. Of the remainder, some escaped within the city, and others fled across the St. Charles to rejoin their comrades who had been left to guard the camp. The pursuers were recalled by sound of trumpet; the broken ranks were formed afresh, and the English troops withdrawn beyond reach of the cannon of Quebec. Bougainville, with his corps, arrived from the upper country, and, hovering about their rear, threatened an attack; but when he saw what greeting was pre- pared for him, he abandoned his purpose and withdrew. Towns- hend and Murray, the only general officers who remained unhurt, passed to tiie head of every regiment in turn, and thanked the soldiers for the bravery they had shown; yet the triumph of the victors was mingled with sadness, as the tidings went from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen. In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of the grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist; but he wrapped his handkerchief about the wound, and showed no sign of pain. A moment more, and a ball pierced his side. Still he pressed forward, waving his sword and cheering his soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within his breast. He paused, reeled, and, staggering to one side, fell to the earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers, Henderson, a volunteer, an officer of artillery, and a private soldier, raised him together in their arms, and, bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the grass. They asked if he would have a surgeon; but he shook his head, and answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with the torpor of approaching death, and those around sustained his fainting form. Yet they could not withhold their }\ , traii'pling crowds, the hem. The ) a run, and to the gates ders dashed 1 with their de fortifica- ve. en hundred nder, some :. Charles to :amp. The oken ranks uvn beyond I his corps, t their rear, ng was pre- w. Towns- ned unhurt, thanked the nnph of the t from rank head of the ist; but he iwed no sign le. Still he IS soldiers to breast. He D the earth, a volunteer, aim together lim softly on 3ut he shook I. His eyes ;hose around ithhold their FNAXCIS PAKh'MAN 449 gaze from the wild turmoil before them, and the charging ranks of their companions rushing through fire and smoke, "See how they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French fled in confusion before the levelled bayonets. " Who run ? " demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from sleep. "The enemy, sir," was the reply; "they give way everywhere." "Then," said the dying general, "tell Colonel Burton to march Webb's regiment down to Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised, I will die in peace," he muttered; and, turning on his side, he calmly breathed his last. Almost at the same moment fell his great adversary, Mont- calm, as he strove, with vain bravery, to rally his shattered ranks. Struck down with a mortal wound, he was placed upon a litter and borne to the General Hospital on the banks of the St. Charles. The surgeons told him that he could not recover. " I am glad of it," was his calm reply. He then asked how long he might survive, and was told that he had not many hours remain- ing. "So much the better," he said; " I am happy that I shall not live to see the surrender of Quebec." Officers from the gar- rison came to his bedside to ask his orders and instructions. " I will give no more orders," replied the defeated soldier; "I have much business that must be attended to, of greater moment than your ruined garrison and this wretched country. My time is very short; therefore, pray leave me." The officers withdrew, and none remained in the chamber but his confessor and the Bishop of Quebec. To the last, he expressed his contempt for his own mutinous and half-famished troops, and his admiration for the disciplined valor of his opponents. He died before mid- night, and was buried at his own desire in a cavity of the earth formed by the bursting of a bombshell. The victorious army encamped before Quebec, and pushed their preparations for the siege with zealous energy; but before a single gun was brought to bear, the white flag was hung out, and the garrison surrendered. On the eighteenth of September, 1759, the rock-built citadel of Canada passed forever from the hands of its ancient masters. The victory on the Plains of Abraham and the downfall of Que- 2G SMfeij^SBisM^'*"*"*'''''****^^' ^^^^«s»i,'i^Xi^J.-Ji*iia^'?r1»5i«Kw*Jr;4]IJj*3.cw-i Kj' ' 1 f •.-aaB«s««i»S5*ijSirte£»fcia&si^ i,^ -^i^tut.:,-- -ufh.-.-n ,,,,#. .;., • i'f',---.^>t4VfW.«='» V t W^''W o 7 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I >S|y 1125 2.0 2.2 1.8 1.25 U III 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14560 (716) 872-'.503 m m 'Ml S m m iff 1 >>..-«». f ;ff». '. ' ' '^. ' . ' '■R ' A to y" tope of pisgah, to vow from this willdernes, a more goodly cuntrie to feed their hops; for which way so euer they turnd their eys (saue vpward to y" heavens) they could haue little solace or content, in respecte of any outward objects, for sumti being done, all things stand vpon them with a wetherbeaten face; an y' whole countrie (full of woods & thickets) represented a wild & sauage heiw; If they looked behind them, ther was y° mighty Ocean which they had passed, and was now a maine barr, & goulfe, to seperate them from all y' ciuill parts of y" world. If it be said they had a ship to sucour them, it is trew; but what heard they daly from y" m' & company? but y' with speede they should looke out a place (with their shallop) wher they would be, at some near distance; for y* season was shuch, as he would not stirr from thence, till a safe harbor was discouered by the* i, wher they would be, and he might goe without danger; and that victells consumed apace, but ' he must & would keepe sufficient for them selues, & their returne; yea it was muttered by some that if they gott not a place in time, they would turne them, & their goods a shore, & ieaue them. Let it be also considered what weake hopes of supply, & succoure, they left beh'nie them; y' might bear vp their minds in this sade condition, and trialls they were vnder; and they could not but be uery smale; It is true indeed, y' affec- tions & !oue of their brethren at Leyden was cordiall & entire towards them, but they had litle power to help them, or them selues; and how y" case stoode betwene them, & y° marchants, at their coming away hath allready been declared. What could now sustaine them, but y" Spirite of God ^' his grace? May not, & ought not the children of these fathers rightly say, our faithers were English men ivhich came oner this great Ocean, and were ready to perish in this willdernes, but they cried vnto y/' Lord, and he heard their voyce, and looked on their aduersitie, i5^r. \YKo\a History of the Plimoth Plantation. Hy William Bradfoid. Written from about 1630 onward. The text is that of the original manuscript, as printed in Doylf's facsimile.] ..,0144* ■ APPENDIX 4S3 , full of wild it be of them vjj to y" tojie Uy cuntrie to leir eys (saue )r content, in ne, all things hole countrie age heiw; If a which they eperate them ey had a ship ly from y" m' out a place ear distances thence, till a ould be, and ;umed apace, ;lues, & their y gott not a ds a shore, & ike hopes of light bear vp ' were vnder; leed, y' affec- liall & entire hem, or them marchants, at What could J? May not, , our faithers an, and were f Lord, and dfoid. Written manuscript, as WAR If you should bu* see Warre described to you in a Map, es- pecially in a Countrey, well knowne to you, nay dearely beloved of yo;,, where you drew your first breath, where onre, yea where lately you dwelt, where you have received ten thousand mercies, and have many a deare friend ?nd Countrey-man and kinsman abiding, how could you but lament and mourne? Warre is the conflict of enemies enraged with bloody revenge, wheiein the parties opposite carry their lives in their hands, every man turning prodigall of his very heart blood, and willing to be killed to kill. The instruments are clashing swords, rat- ling spearcs, skul-dividing Holberds, murthering pieces, and thundering Cannons, from whose mouthes proceed the fire, and smell, and smoake, and terrour, death, as it were, of the very bottojnlesse pit. Wee wonder now and then at the sudden death of a man: alas, you might there see a thousand men not onely healthy, but stout and strong, struck dead in the twinckling of an eye, their breath exhales without so much as, Lorn have mercy up- on us. Death heweth its way thorow a wood of men in a minute of time from the mouth of a murderer, turning a forrest into a Champion suddenly; and when it hath used these to slay their opposites, they are recompenced with the like death themselves. O the shrill eare-piercing o'.ings of the Trumpets, noise of Drums, the animating voyces of Horse Capiaines, and Commanders, learned and learning to destroy! There is the undaunted Horse whose neck is clothed with thunder, and the glory of whose nos trills is terrible ; how doth hee lye patoing and prauncing in the valley, going forth to meete the armed men ? he mocks atfeare, swallowing the ground with fiercenesse and rage, and saying among the trum- pets. Ha, Ha, hee smels the battell a far off, the thunder of the Captaines and the shouting. Here ride some dead men swagg- ing in their deepe saddles; there fall others alive upon their dead Horses; death sends a message to those from the mouth of the Muskets, these it talkes with face to face, and stabs them in the fift rib: In yonder file there is a man hath his arme struck off from his shoulder, another by him hith lost his leg, here ;*i,i;-,'s*'»i»**^'*'' »*-/»if^ (**' ili*- » ■h X f 454 AMEK/CAX PROSE stands a Soldier with liaife a face, there fights another upon his stumi)s, and at once both kils and is killed; not far off lies a company wallowing in their sweat aUvl goare; such a man whilst he chargeth his Musket is discharg'd of his life, and falls upon his dead fellow. Kvery battell of the warriour is with confused noise and garments rouled in blood. Death reignes in the field, and is sure to have the day which side soever falls. In the meanewhile (O formidable !) the infernall fiends follow the Campe to catch after the soiiles of rude nefarous souldiers (such as are commonly men of that calling) who fight themselves fearlesly into the mouth of hell for reveng?, a booty or a little revenue. How thicke and three-fold doe they speed one another to destruc- tion? A day of battell is a day of harvest for the devill. [From AVry F.iiglauds Teares, for Old EnglanJs Feares. Preached in a Sermon on July ^j, r6^o. hiiiii^ a day of Ptthlike Humiliation, appointed by the Churches in hehalfe of our native Countrey in time of feared dangers. By William Uooke, 1641.] \ ! ENGLAND AND AMERICA And therefore I cannot but admire, and indeed much pitty the dull stupidity of people necessitated in England, who rather then they will remove themselves, live here a base, slavish, penurious life; as if there were a necessity to live and to live so, choosing rather then they will forsake England to stuff New-gate, Bride- well, and other Jayles with their carkessies, nay cleave to tyburne it selfe ; and so bring confusion to their souls horror and infamine to their kindred or posteritie, others itch out their wearisome lives in reliance of other mens charities, an uncertaine and un- manly expectation; some more abhorring such courses betake them selves to almost perpetuall and restlesse toyle and drug- geries out of which (whilst their strength lasteth) they (observing hard diets, earlie and late houres) make hard shift to subsist from hand to mouth, untill age or sicknesse takes them off from labour and directs them the way to beggerie, and such indeed are to be pittied, relieved and provided for. I have seriously considered when I have (passing the streets) ther upon his : far off lies a » a man whilst ind falls upon with confused 2s in the field, falls. In the low the Campe rs (such as are elves fearlesly little revenue, her to destruc- devill. Preached in a ion, appointed by red dangers. By much pitty the ho rather then ■ish, penurious e so, choosing w-gate, Bride- ave to tyburne r and infamine leir wearisome rtaine and un- courses betake )yle and drng- hey (observing to subsist from 3ff from labour ideed are to be ing the streets) ^'MMMWMMVMVWWIWWr' I m i . mi ll II I u n i n iii-yii w iii min ,_ APPENDIX 455 heard the several Cryes, and noting the commodities, and the worth of them they have carried and cryed up and down; how possibly a livelihood could be exacted out of them, as to cry Matches. SmiU-Coal, Blacking, Pen and Ink, Thred-laces, and a hundred more such kinde of trilling merchandizes; then looking on the nastinesse of their linnen habits and bodies: I conclude if gain sutlkient could be raised out of them for subsistance; yet their manner of living was degenerate and base; and their con- dition to be far below the meanest servant in Virginia. [From Leah and Rachel, or, the Two Fruitfull Sisters Virginia and Maryland. By John Hammond, 1656.] NEW ENGLAND New England is said to begin at 40 and to end at 46 of Northerly Latitude, that is from de la Ware Bay to New-found- Land. The Sea Coasts are accounted wholsomest, the East and South Winds coming from Sea produceth warm weather, the Northwest coming over land causeth extremity of (Jold, and many times strikes the Inhabitants both English and Indian with that sad Disease called there the Plague of the back, but with us Empiema. The Country generally is Rocky and Mountanous, and ex- tremely overgrown with wood, yet here and there beautified with large rich Valleys, wherein are Lakes ten, twenty, yea sixty miles in compass, out of which our great Rivers have their Begin- nings. Fourscore miles (upon a direct line) to the Northwest of Scar- borow, a Ridge of Mountains run Northwest and Northeast an hundred Leagues, known by the name of the White Mountains, upon which lieth Snow all the year, and is a Land-mark twenty miles off at Sea. It is rising ground from the Sea shore to these Hills, and they are inaccessible but by the Gullies which the dis- solved Snow hath made; in these Gullies ^ovi Saven Bushes, which being taken hold of are a good help to the climbing Dis- coverer; upon the top of the highest of these Mountains is a large ~i%;_^ffJt:AA■^i■»^^• - s?^i*^s!t^.r»^-" if 41 '< : 1 if: I 1^ 1^ i 456 AMERICAN PROSE Level or Plain of a clays journey over, whereon nothing grows but Moss; at the farther end of this I'lain is another Hill called the Sttf[ar-Loa/, to outward appearance a rude heap of niassic stones piled one upon another, and you may a., you ascend step fropi one stone to another, as if you wore going up a pair of stairs, but winding still ahuut the Hill till you come to the top, which will reipiire half a days time, and yet it is not above a Mile, where there is also a Level of about an Acre of ground, with a pond of Clearwater in the midst of it; which you may hear run tlown, but how it ascends is a mystery. From this rocky Hill you may see the whole Country round about; it is far above the lower Clouds, and from hence we beheld a Vapour (like a great Pillar) drawn up by the Sun beams out of a great Lake or Pond into the Air, where it was formed into a Cloud. The Country beyond these Hills Northward is daunting terrible, being full of rocky Hills, as thick as Mole-Hills in a meadow, and clothed with infinite thick Woods. [From Ne-M England's Rarities discovered in Birds, Beasls, Fishes, Ser- pents, and Plants of that Cmnt.-y. John Josselyn, Gent., 1672.] THE PILHANNAW The Pilhannmv or Mechqiian, much like the description of the Indian Ruck, a monstrous great Bird, a kind of Hawk, some say an Ivigle, four times as big as a Goshawk, white Mail'd, having two or three puiple Feathers in her head as long as Geeses Feathers they make Pens of, the Quills- of these Feathers are purple, as big as Swans Quills and transparent; her Head is as big as a Childs of a year old, a very Princely Bird; when she soars abroad, all sort of feathered Creatures hide themselves, yet she never preys upon any of them, but upon Fmvns and Jaccah: She Ayries in the Woods upon the High Hills of Ossapy, and is ■3ry rarely or seldom seen. [From the same.] t i ^,.>i;i„4«MI«*«w».Bf iig grows but 11 called the iiassic stones d step from of stairs, but ), which will Mile, where th a pond of iin tlown, but you may see ower Clouds, Pillar) drawn into the Air, ueyond these rocky Hills, with infinite is/s, fishes, Ser- 2-] lescription of Hawk, some vhite Mail'd, long as Geeses Feathers are er Head is as rd; when she lemselves, yet ,f and Jaccah: Ossapy, and is APPENDIX NATURE AND CHRISTIANITY 457 As long as Plum Island shall faithfully keep the commanded Post; Notwithstanding all the hectoring Words, and h^rd Illows of the pioud and boisterous Ocean; As long as any Salmon, or Sturgeon shall swim in the streams of Mcnimaik ; or any I'erch, or Pickeril, in Crane Pond ; As long as the Sea-Fowl shall know the Time of their coming, and not neglect seasonably to visit the Places of their Accpiainlance ; As long as any Cattel shall be fed with the Grass growing in the Medows, which do humbly bow down themselves before 'rinkic-llill ; As long as auy Sheep shall walk upon Old-Tojon Jlills, and shall from thence ])leasantly look down upon the River Parker, the fruitful Marishes lying beneath; As long as any free & harmless Doves shall find a White Oak, or other Tree within the Township, to perch, or feed, or build a careless Nest upon; and shall voluntarily present themselves to perform the office of Gleaners after Barley-Harvest ; As long as Nature shall not grow Old and dote; but shall constantly re- member to give the rows of Indian Corn their education by Pairs: So long shall Christians be born there; and being first made meet shall from thence be translated, to be made partakers of the In- heritance of the Saints in Light. [From Phitnomeiia qiMiiam apocalyptica ad aspectum novi orbis conjigu- rata. Or, some few Lines toward a description of A^ew Heaven As It makes to those who stand upon the Ne7v Earth. By Samuel Sewall, 1 697. The text is that of the second edition, 1727.] CAPTIVITY After this, we went up the mountain, and saw the smoke of the fires in the town, and beheld the awful deiolations of Deer- field : And before we marched any farther, they killed a sucking child of the English. There were slain by the enemy of the inhabitants of Deerfield, to the number of thirty-eight, besides nine of the neighboring towns. We travelled not far the first day; God made the heathen so to pity our children, that though ^ Ifeiwf^St*''^**'*"'' f^r 458 ^.IfE/HCAy PA'OSE they hnd several wounded persons of their own to carry upon their shoulders, for /////A mi/cx, before they came to the river, yet they carried our children, incapable of travelling, in iheir arms, and upon their shoulders. When we came to our lodging place, the>M7 iii.i;/i/, tiiey dug away the snow, and made some wigwams, cut down some small branches of the s/>nne tree to lie down on, and gave the prisoners somewhat to eat; but we had but little appetite. I was pinionetl, and bound down that night, and so I was every nigiit wliilsl I was with the army. Some of the enemy who brought drink with them from the town, fell to drinking, and in their drunken fit, they killed my negro man, the only dead person 1 either saw at the town, or in the way. In the night an Eiii^lishiiuxn made his escape; in the morn-ng {^Manh i.J 1 was called fo' , and ovdered by the genera! 'o cU the Eiii^lish, that if any more made tlieir escape, they would barn the rest of the prisoners. He that took me, was unwilling to let me speak with any of the prisoners, as we marched; but on the moniini^ai the seeoti/ day, he being ajipointed to guard the rear, I was jMit into the hands of my other master, who permitted me to speak to my wife, when I overtook her, and to walk with her to hclj) her in her journey. On the way, we discoursed of the happiness of those who had a right to an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens; and God for a father, and friend; as also, that it was our reasonable duty, quietly to submit to the will of (;<)i), and to say, the will if the Lord he done. My wife told me her strength of body began to fail, and that I must expect to part with her; saying, she hoped God would preserve my life, and the life of some, if not all of our children, with us; and commended to me, under God, the care of them. She never spake any discontented word as to what had befallen us, but with suitable expressions justified God in what had happened. We soon made a halt, in which time my chief surviving master came up, upon which I was put upon marching with the foremost, and so made to take my last farewell of my dear wife, the desire of my eyes, and companion in many mercies and afflictions. Upon our separation from each other, we asked for each other, grace sufficient, for what God should call us to: After our being parted from one another, she spent the few remaining minutes ^■^«mt-' ■ t Ufl ^H|»^l<—— l|>'»«i~ APPENDIX 459 > carry '.ipf)n ;l\e river, yet 1 iheir arms, (Iging place, ne wigwiiins, lie clown on, lad but little ^ht, and so I )( the enemy to drinking, :he only dead the morn'iig enerr.l to ell y would barn unwilling to ched ; but on to guard the ho permitted to walk with discoursed of Hse not made I father, and ;tly to submit he done. My \ that I must juld preserve Iren, with us; I. She never n us, but with ppened. We [ master came ioremost, and the desire of tions. Upon I other, grace er our being ning minutes of her slay, in reading the holy scriptures; which she was wont personally every day to delight her soul in reading, i)raying, meditating on, and over, by herself, in her closet, over and above what she heard out of them in our family worship. 1 was made to wade over a small river, and so were all the lin^lish, the water above knee deep, the stream very swift; and after that to travel up a small mountain; my strength was almost spent, before 1 came to the top of it: No sooner had I overcome the diffi- culty of that ascent, but I was permitted to sit down, and be un- burthened of my pack; I sat pitying those who were behind, and intreated my master to let me go down and helj) my wife; but he refused and would nor let me stir from him. 1 asked each of the prisoners (as they passed by me) after her, and heard that jjassing through the above saiil river, she fell down, and was plunged over head and ears in the water; after which she travelled not far, for at the foot of that mountain, the cruel and blood- thirsty savage wlio took her, slew her with his hatchet at one stroke, the tidings of which were very awful : And yet such was the hard-heartedness of the adversary, that my tears were reck- oned to me as a reproach. My loss, and the loss of my children was great, our hearts were so fdled with sorrow, that nothing but the comfortable hopes of her being taken away in mercy, to her- self, from the evils we were to see, feel, and suffer under, (and joined to the assembly of the spirits of just men made perfect, to rest in peace, VinAjoy unspeakable and full of glory ; and the good pleasure of God thus to exercise us) could have kept us from sinking under, at that time. . . . We were again called upon to march, with a far heavier burden on my spirits, than on my back. I begged of God to overrule in his providence, that the corpse of one so dear to me, and of one whose spirit he had taken to dwell with him in glory, might meet with a christian burial, and not be left for meat to the fowls of the air, and beasts of the earth : A mercy that God graciously vouchsafed to grant. For God put it into the liearts of my neighbors, to come out as far as she lay, to take up her corpse, c^rry it to the town, and decently to bury it soon after. In our march they killed a sucking infant of one of my neighbors; and before night a girl of about eleven years of age. I was made to =ii-'---"'9.'*^^ :-^iUaii!■ 1 Kl 1 ,' s t .. .I 460 AM HA' I CAN PKOSE mourn, at the consideration of my Hock's being so far a flock o slaugiUer, many being slain in tlic town, and so many murdered in so few miles from the town; and from fears what we must yet expect, from such who delightfully imbrued their hands in the blood of so many of his people. When we came to our lodging place an Indian captain from the easfwar,/, spake to my master about killing me, and taking off my scalp. I lifted u). my heart to God, to implore his grace and mercy in such a time of need; and afterwards I told my master, if he int.-nded to kill me, I de- sired he would let me know of it; assuring him that my death, after a promise of quarter, would bring the guilt of blood upon him. He told me he would not kill me: We laid down and slept, for (lod sustained and kept us. FFroin Tht Kedtantd Captive reluruin^to Zion, or a Fnithful 'f'fyjf Krm.utM- (>uwr,>,,fs in Ou CpiMty ami nelivnamc of Mr. John W,l- Itams, M.nistcrofl/u' C.o^t^l at Pe.rpU, who. in the Pnolat.on Ml befell that ria. ition, by an Incuruon of the I'ven.h ami Indiam, was by hen, car- ried away, with his family and hh Xei.'hbourhood, into <">"""■ ^'7" ''^ himself 1707. The text U that of the nixth edition, Greenfield, Mass., iSoo.J THE FUTURE STATE OF NORTH AMERICA Thirdiy of the Future State of North America, — Here we find a vast Stock of proper Materials for the Art and Ingenuity of Man to work upon: -Treasures of immense Worth, conceal d from the poor ignorant aboriginal Natives! The Curious have observ'd, that the Progress of Humane Literature (like the bun) is from the Ivast to the W^est; thus has it travelled thro' Asia and Ettn'fr, and now is arrived at the Eastern Shore of Amcnca. As the Celestial Light of the Gospel was directed here by the Finger of (]oi>, it will doubtless, finally drive the long! long! Night of Heathenish Darkness from Atnerica: — So Arts and Sciences will change the Face of Nature in their Tour from Hence over the Appalachian Mountains to the Western Ocean; and as they march thro' the vast Desert, the Residence of wild Beasts will be broken up, and their obscene Howl cease for ever; _ Instead of which, the Stones and Trees will dance together at Arri-:xn/x 461 ir a flot k of y nmnlcred ivc imist yi't mils in the :Mir lodging ) my masltT lip my ht'art lie of need ; 11 me, I de- it my death, blood upon 1 down and /«/ History of Mr. John Wil- III which he/ell IS hy Ihem car- fa. Drawn by , Mass., 1800.] RICA , — Here we id Ingenuity th, conceal'd Jurious have like the Sun) uro' Asia and of America. 1 here by the long! long! So Arts and r Tour from stern Ocean; ,cnce of wild ease for ever ; ce together at the Music of <9///;c«v, — the Rot ks will disclose thoir hidden Clems, — and the inestimable treasures of (lold iV Silver will be broken up. Huge Mountains of Iron Ore are already discovered ; and vast Stores arc reserved for future dcnerations; this Metal more useftd than (iold or Silver, will emjjloy Millions of Hands, not only to form the martial Sword, and j)eaceful Share, alter- nately; but an iMfinity of I'ttusils improved in the I'lxercise of Art, and Handicraft amongst .Men. Nature thro' all her Works has stami)'d .Authority on this Law, namely, "that all fit Matter shall be improved to its best Purposes." — Shall not then those vast Quarries that teem with mechanic Stone, — tiiose for Structure be piled into great t!ities, — and those for Sculpture into Statues, to |)erpetuatc the Honor of renowned Heroes; — even those who shall NOW save their country. O! I'c tiii/ioni /nhahidiits of America! slioiilJ this Pat^e escape its ih'slin' ii ConJUv^ration at the Year's Eiui, and these Alphabetical Letters remain le^^ihle, — when your Eyes behold the Sun after he has rolled the Seasons round for two or three Centuries more, you will knoiv that in Anno Domini 1758, we dream' d of your Times. [From An Astronomical Diary: or, an Almanack For the Year 0/ our Lord Christ, /yjS. lly Nathaniel Anics.J AN AMERICAN FARMER As you are the first enlightened European I have ever had the pleasure of being accpiainted with, you will not be surprised that 1 should, according to your earnest desire and my promise, ap- pear anxious of preserving your friendship and correspondence. Hy your accounts, I observe a material difference subsists between your husbandry, modes, and customs, and ours; everything is local; could we enjoy the advantages of the ICnglish farmer, w should be much happier, indeed; but this wish, like many others, implies a contradiction; and could the English farmers have some of those privileges we possess, they would be the first of their class in the world, (lood and evil, I see, are to be found in all .societies, and it is in vain to seek for any spot where those in- gredients are not mixed. I therefore rest satisfied, and thank J. i»;^',4H'-<*»* w^ 462 AMERICAN PROSE ■Ul: ; \ m God tliat my lot is to be an American farmer, instead of an Rus- sian boor, or an Hungarip.ii peasant. I thanii you kindlj for the idea however dreadful, which you have given me of tlieir lot and condition; your observations have confirmed me in the justness of my ideas, and I am happier now than I thought myjclf before. It is strange that misery, when viewed in others, should become to us a sort of real good, though I am far from rejoicing to hear that there are in the world, men so thoroughly wretched ; they are no doubt as harmless, industrious, and willing to work as we are. Hard is their fate, to be thus condemned to a slavery worse than that ol our negroes. Yet when young, I entertained some thoughts of selling mv farm. I thought it afforded but a dull rep- etition of the same labours .:nd pleasures. I thought the former tedious and hea\y, the latter few and insipid; but when I came to consider myself as divested of my farm, I then found the world so wide, and every place so full, that I began to fear lest there should be no room for me. My farm, my house, my barn, pre- sented to my imagination, objects from which I adduced quite new ideas; they were more forcil'e dian before. Why should I not finti myself happy, said I, where my father was before? He left me no good books, it is true; he gave me no other education than the art of reading and writing; but he left me a good farm, and his experience; he left me free from debts, and no kind of difficulties to struggle with. I married, and this perfectly recon- cileil me to my situation; my wife rendered my house all at once chearful and pleasing: it no longer appeared gloomy and solitary as before; when I went to work in my fields, I worked with more alacrity and sprightliness; I felt that I did not work for myself alone, and this encouraged me much. My wife would often come wiiii her knitting in her hand, and sit under the shady trees, praising the straightness of my furrows, and the docility of ir.y horses; this swelled my heart and made every thing light ana pleasant, and I regretted that I had not married before. I felt myself happy in my new situation; and whcie is that situation which can confer a more substantial system of felicity, than that of an American farmer, possessing freedom of action, freedom of thoughts, ruled by a mode of go\ernment which requires but little from us? I owe nothing, but a pepper corn to my country, a : , .A-.s f i^i0^Jil^.'^}^&m .ifA'^ii ■.a^.f«k -i t i» » a M( i8S 8>)itw»w-->--- APPENDIX 463 ead of an Rus- kindl) for the )f tlieir lot and in the justness myself before, should become joicing to hear ivretched; they to work as we a slavery worse tertained some but a dull rep- ght the former It when I came ound the world fear lest there , my barn, pre- adduced quite \Vhy should I IS before? He other education le a good farm, and no kind of perfectly recon- ouse all at once imy and solitary )rked with more vork for myself ould often come :he shady trees, docility of m.y thing light and 1 before. I felt is that situation :licity, than that tion, freedom of squires but little o my country, a small tribute to government, with loyalty and due respect; I know no other landlord, than the Lord of all land, to whom I owe the most sincere gratitude. My father left me three hundred and seventy-one acres of land, forty-seven of which are good timothy meadow, an excellent orchard, a good house, and a sub- stantial barn. It is my duty to think how happy I am, that he lived to build and to pay for all these improvements; what are the labours which I have to undergo, what are my fatigues when compared to his, who had every thing to do, from the first tree he felled, to the finishing of his house? Every year I kill from 1500 to 2000 weight of pork, 1200 of beef, half a dozei. of good wethers in harvest: of fowls my wife has always a great flock: what can I with more? My negroes are tolerably faithful and healthy; by a long series of industry and honest dealings, my father left behind him the name of a good man; I have but to tread his paths to be happy and a good man like him. I know enough of the law to regulate my little concerns with propriety, nor do I dread its power; these are the grand outlines of my situation, but as I can feel much more than I am able to express, I hardly know how to proceed. When my first son was born, the whole train of my ideas was altered; never was there a charm that acted so quickly and so powerfully; I ceased to ramble in imagination through the wide world: my excursions since have not exceeded the bounds of my farm, and all my principal pleasures are now centred within its scanty limits: but, at the same time, there is not an operation belonging to it, in which I do not find some food for useful reflexions. This is the reason I suppose, that when you was here, you used, in your refined stile, to denominate me the farmer of feelings; how rude must those feelings be in him who daily holds the axe or the plough! how much more refined on the contrary those of the European, whose mind is improved by education, example, .^ooks, and by every acquired advantage ! Those feelings, however, I will de- lineate as well as I can, agreeably to your earnest request. When I contemplate my wife, by my fireside, while she either spins, knits, darns, or su"kles our child, I carmot describe the various emotions of love, of gratitude, of conscious pride, which thrill in my heart, and often overflow in involuntary tears. I feel the u ;=-7-'^.^;j-,-iiRi?.^;Ei(fe».-»SiW*^ '^ 464 AMERICAN PROSl. \M necessity, the sweet pleasure of acting mj part, the part of an husband and faiher, with an attention and propriety which may entitle me to my good fortune. It is true th- ^e pleasing images vanish with the smoke of my pipe; but though they disappear from my mind, the impression they have made on my heart '3 indellible. When I play ^vith the infant, my warm imagination runs forward, and eagerly anticipates his future temper and con- stitution. 1 would willingly open ihe book of fate, and know in which pige his destiny is delineated; alas! where is the father who in those moments of paternal extacy, can delineate one half the thoughts which dilate his heart? I am sure I cannot; then again I fear for the health of those who are become so dear to mo and in their sicknesses 1 severely pay for the joys I experi- enced while they were well. Whenever I go abroad, it is always involuntarily. I never return home without feeling some pleas- ing emotion, which 1 often suppress ps '-.seless and foolish. The instant I enter on my own land, the bright idea of property, of exclusive right, of independence, exalts my mind. Precious soil, I say to myself, by what singular custom of law is it, that ..lou wast made to constitute the riches of the freeholder? What should we American farmers be, without the distinct possession of that soil? It feeds, it clothes us; from it we draw even a great exu- berancy, our best meat, our richest drink, the very honey of our bees come from this privileged spot. No wonder we should thus cherish its possession, no wonder that so many Europeans who have never been able to say, that such portion of land was theirs, cross the Atlantic to realize that happiness. This for- ri.:'rly rude soil has been converted by my father into a pleasant farm, and in return it has established all our rights; on it is f jimded our rank, our freedo .1, our power as citizens, our impor- tance, as inhabitants of such a district. These images, I must confess, I always behold with i)leasure, ind extend them as far as my imagination can reach : for this is what may be called the true, and the only jihilosophy of an American farmer. Pray do not laugh in thus seeing an artless countryman tracing himself through the simple modifications of his life; remember that you have required it; therefore with candour, though with diffidence, I endeavor to follow the thread of my feelings; but I cannot tell •• >9>^>fr«w^'* vt^-4->»t'iH part of an which may iing images y disappear my heart u imagination er and con- md know in IS the father ate one half annot; then e so dear to >'s I experi- it is always some pleas- )olish. The property, of 'recious soil, lat viiou wast IVhat should ssion of that a great exu- loney of our r we should ly Europeans of land was ,. This for- to a pleasant Its; on it is 5, our impor- uiges, I must them as far be called the er. Pray do cing himself iber that you th diffidence, I cannot tell •saaiW^ APPENDIX 465 you all. Often wlicn I plough my ground, I place my little boy on a chair, which screws to the beam of the plough, -Us motion, and that of the horses please him; he is perfectly happy, and begins to chat. As I lean over the handle, various are the thoughts which croud into my mind. I am now doing for him, I say, what my father formerly did for me; may God enable him to live, that he may perform the same operations, for the same purposes, when I am worn out and old ! I relieve his mother of some trouble, while I havo him with me; the oderiferous furrow exhilerates his spirits, and seems to do the child a great deal of good, for he looks more blcom ng since I have adopted that prac- tice; can more pleasure, more dignity, be added to that primary occupation? The father thus ploughing with his child, and to feed his family, is inferior only, to the emperor of China, plough- ing as an example to his kingdom. [From IMUrsfrom an Anurican Farmer, describing C'r'ain Prcr^maal^it- nations, Manners, and Customs, and conveying Some Idea of the ■^'"j'; «/ J' People of North America. Written to a friend in England, by J. Hector bt. John [CreveccEur], a Farmer in Pennsylvania, 1782.] 311 ^•^g»»«r»««<»w»~<'- i U. ^i li 1 ' I i i ! < '1! H li 1 m. ^tfe#i^# •■i^ J ^«J^ t-ai^ttilJi^ -St -%.a5rti'fcj_> ■Wi.,.,uiwji(!t*^»;jW)*' STUDIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE. A Text-Book for Academies and High Schools. BY CHARLES NOBLE, Professor of English Language and Rhetoric in Iowa College. 12tno. Cloth. $1.00, Met. " It has the great text-book merit, that it is tangible, while at the same time il contrives to unite with this scientific quality true literary appreciation." Stockweix Axson, Adelphi College, Brooklyn, N. Y. " It is so preeminently a book that can be put into students' hands, that it deserves special commendation. In it Mr. Noble presents the technicalities of literary criticism in such a way that the student, unaware, must needs be developed in a power of literary api.reciation. It is a book whose charm of method will find a warm endorsement among teachers of English. It is that rare thing, a good text-book." Harriet L. Mason, Drexel Institute, Philadelphia. " A book full of interest, and especially rich in material on the early history of our Uterature." EnwARD S. Parsons, Colorado College, Colorado Springs. THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. :». fijj'. ■\ i^ AMERICAN LITERATURE. KATHARINE LEE BATES, Wcllesley College. lamo. Cloth. Price, i.oo, net. COMMENTS. " It is a valuable addition to that form of literature which is half bio- graphical and half critical, and wholly instructive. We do not recall any handbook of American Literature which breathes so distinctly the spirit and purpose of the present as this." — A^. V. Home Joiirmil. " I hjve no hesitation in pronouncing this thoughtful sketch that you have just published to be the best written volume that I have ever seen. The author has knowledge; the book proc eds from unusually full and accurate acquaintance with American Letters. The suggestions for class- room use seem to me admirable." — Aubrrt H. Smvth, Central High Schocl, Philadelphia, Pa. " I am delighted with the sympathetic treatment and cri'ical insight of Bates' Amtfican I.iterature. The uncommon excellence of its style makes it a part of the literature it describes." — Caroline Ladd Crew, Frietidi School, WilmiHgton, Del. " It is a pleasure to pick up such a neat little volume. It is hard to lay it down after one begins. The combination of history and literature is very happy and the development of literature, side by side with the materiel and political progress of the country, cannot fail to be of great service to teacher and student." — Frederick A. Voct, Principal Central High School, Buffalo, AT. V. " I have no doubt this book will be a great success, filling well a gap; for no small book that 1 am familiar with cnmi>?rfr ns well .is lliis the authors who belong together: it seems more than simply chronological or descriptive; it weighs and balances." — Frances A. Mathes, High School, Portsmouth, N.H. THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. m ■J-YVV^^l"-- .'■^^.^mfi'^^^"^-' f > .-'