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 EDITED BY 
 
 MRS. R. FRAZIER. 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO: 
 BACON & COMPANY, BOOK AND JOB PRINTERS, 
 
 Corner Clay and Sansome Streets. 
 
 1877.
 
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 , THE OFFICERS AND SOLDIERS OF THE 
 UNITED STATES ARMY, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 
 
 Ll_i 
 
 CO 
 
 MBS. R. FRAZIER.
 
 " As tiresome as a preface " is a saying so trite 
 as to have passed into a proverb, yet how unkind a 
 cut, thus to stigmatize what is so difficult to write, 
 and what one is so often at one's wits' end to know 
 how to achieve. Such, at this moment, is our own 
 case. 
 
 I had in contemplation writing a history of events 
 in California ; but to repeat what has so often been 
 written would be futile. To our contributors we ex 
 press our thanks for their valuable articles. We feel 
 assured that our readers will be amply repaid by 
 their perusal. Having during the late war offered 
 my services, and been accepted, as nurse in the hos 
 pitals, and being familiar with so many incidents that 
 are given by the inimitable writer of " The Life of 
 the Soldier," I could not forbear inserting a few 
 pages, as they recalled those never to be forgotten 
 days during my sojourn among our brave soldiers. 
 
 Several years ago, I published in pamphlet form 
 a work entitled " Reminiscences of Travel " ; but
 
 6 PREFACE. 
 
 although I sold the four thousand, the profit was 
 insufficient to finish what I began a house for a 
 Boarding and Unsectarian School for Girls. I 
 therefore determined, with the aid of contributors, 
 to publish a larger work, with the view of com 
 pleting the building, which is herewith presented 
 to a generous public. 
 
 With thanks to my former friends, I again solicit 
 your patronage for the work which I have carefully 
 and conscientiously prepared. 
 
 R. FEAZIER.
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 Siege and Capture of Port Hudson ..................... 9 
 
 Lessons of a Journey ................................ 41 
 
 Milwaukee ......................................... 50 
 
 Marrying a Fortune .................................. 56 
 
 The Pumpkin Pie ........................ , ...... ..... 6tt 
 
 Poetry ............................................. 75 
 
 Traveling through Oregon ............................. 87 
 
 Albany ........................................ 92 
 
 Salem .......................................... 98 
 
 Portland ...................................... 94 
 
 Washington Territory ....................... _____ 95 
 
 Seattle ........................................ 9fi 
 
 Vancouver ..................................... 97 
 
 British Columbia ................... ............. 98 
 
 The Witch, a New England Tale Chapter I ............. 105 
 
 Chapter II ...................................... 119 
 
 Chapter III. . ............................. _____ 128 
 
 Chapter IV ..................................... 132 
 
 Inward Resources .................................... 148 
 
 The Hazard Table ................................... 158 
 
 Idleness ............................................ 173 
 
 Dishonesty ......................................... 188 
 
 New England Thanksgiving Dinner Festivals ............. 194 
 
 Lines Composed while Ascending the Mississippi .......... 200
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 Mrs. Winfield's Visit 203 
 
 The Life of the Soldier , 231 
 
 In Camp 242 
 
 Off for the Field 250 
 
 Into Virginia 267 
 
 John Cutts' Secret 283 
 
 The Rich Uncle 291 
 
 Is Republicanism a Failure ? 814 
 
 A Few Remarks on the subject of Wearing Apparel 348
 
 kqd dkcptttfe of fWt 
 
 BY JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. 
 
 ?HE passage by the Union gun-boats of the tre 
 mendous batteries which the rebels had erect 
 ed at Port Hudson, was one of the most heroic 
 deeds of the war. Port Hudson, or Hickey's Land 
 ing, as it used to be called, is situated on a bend on the 
 eastern side of the Mississippi River, about twenty- 
 two miles above Baton Rouge, and one hundred and 
 forty-seven above New Orleans. It was three hun 
 dred miles below Vicksburg. The bluff, rising forty 
 feet above the level of the river, was covered with 
 forts for a distance of nearly four miles, constructed 
 upon the most scientific principles of modern military 
 art, and armed with the most approved and heaviest 
 ordnance which England, seeking the ruin of our 
 republic, could furnish the rebels. The river, just 
 at the bend, suddenly narrows, and the current, 
 striking upon the west bank, is thrown across, run 
 ning with great velocity, and carrying the channel 
 almost directly under the base of the precipitous 
 cliffs. Any vessel attempting the passage would be
 
 10 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 compelled to run the gauntlet of a plunging fire from 
 batteries which commanded the range for several 
 miles above and below. 
 
 It was proposed, in order that our fleet might be 
 able to co-operate with General Grant in the siege of 
 Vicksburg, to attack Port Hudson, and, under the fire 
 of the bombardment, to attempt to force a passage, by 
 several of our gun-boats, up the river. Rear-Ad 
 miral Farragut, who was entrusted with this perilous 
 adventure, was the man for the hour. He had 
 already acquired world-wide renown in the capture 
 of New Orleans, a feat for which no parallel can be 
 found in the annals of naval warfare. 
 
 This distinguished officer was born in Tennessee, 
 in 1803. His father was an army officer, much es 
 teemed by General Jackson. When but nine years 
 of age, the boy, David Glasgow Farragut, entered 
 the navy as a midshipman under Commodore Porter. 
 From earliest childhood he has developed alike 
 grandeur and magnanimity of character. Nursed 
 in the midst of hardships and perils, he has ever 
 proved himself adequate to any emergency. A 
 Southerner by birth, he married a Southern lady, es 
 tablished his home in Norfolk, Virginia, and was 
 mainly surrounded by those whose sympathies were 
 with the rebellion. But nobly he proved true to his 
 country and his flag. As the madness of secession 
 seized upon the community, Admiral Farragut, in his 
 own home at Norfolk, expressed, with a sailor's 
 frankness, his decided opposition to the disloyal pro 
 ceedings.
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 11 
 
 " You cannot be permitted to remain here," said 
 the traitors, " while you hold such sentiments." 
 
 " Very well," replied the Admiral, "I will then 
 go where I can live with such sentiments." 
 
 He knew the temper of the rebels, and went home 
 and informed his family that they must take their 
 departure from Norfolk for New York in a few hours. 
 He left the next morning, April 18th, 1861. The 
 next night the navy-yard was burned. When he 
 arrived in Baltimore he found that the rebel mob had 
 possession of the streets, having torn up the railroad 
 track. With difficulty he secured a passage to the 
 North in a canal-boat. Reaching New York, he ob 
 tained a safe retreat for his family at Hastings, on 
 the Hudson, and then went forth to battle for that 
 banner beneath which he had proudly sailed for more 
 than half a century. Had he remained in Norfolk 
 a day longer he would have been imprisoned and per 
 haps hung for his loyalty. 
 
 Treason in the Cabinet had scattered all our ships, 
 that there might be no naval force at hand to oppose 
 the rebels. For several months Admiral Farragut 
 had no command, simply because the Government 
 had no vessel to give him. At length, when the na 
 val expedition was fitted out against New Orleans, 
 he was selected as the right man to lead it. With 
 his entire fleet, in an engagement which impartial 
 history has pronounced almost superhuman in its 
 daring and its accomplishment, he ran the batteries, 
 surmounted all the obstructions in the river, and 
 crushed the gun-boats of the enemy aided, hero-
 
 12 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 ically aided, by Commodore Porter with his mortar- 
 boats. On the 25th of April, 1862, he anchored 
 before the city which treason had seized. Under the 
 menace of his guns he compelled every rebel flag to 
 go down into the dust. For this achievement he was 
 elevated to the rank of Rear- Admiral ; and probably 
 now, after his achievements at Port Hudson and Mo 
 bile, no one will dispute his title to be the foremost 
 naval hero of the war. Such was the man who was 
 entrusted with the command of the fleet which was 
 destined to run the batteries of Port Hudson. 
 
 The following anecdote illustrative of his character 
 is worthy of record. The Admiral has always been 
 from boyhood, thoughtful, earnest, studious. While 
 in foreign ports, he was ever busy in acquiring the 
 language of the people. He spoke Italian, Spanish, 
 French, and Arabic with almost as much fluency as 
 his own language. On one occasion, in approaching 
 an island in the Mediterranean, the captain of the 
 ship remarked that he did not know how he should 
 communicate with the people, as he had no inter 
 preter. Just then a boat came alongside filled 
 with natives. 
 
 " Captain," said one of the officers, " we have an 
 officer on board who seems to speak all languages. 
 He is doubtless in league with the ' Old Boy.' Sup 
 pose you send for him." 
 
 Lieutenant Farragut was called for. He looked 
 into the boat and saw an old Arab woman there, 
 with whom he immediately entered into conversation, 
 alike to the surprise and amusement of all.
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 13 
 
 Eight war vessels comprised the expedition to as 
 cend the Mississippi from New Orleans. The 
 splendid flag-ship Hartford led, a first-class steam 
 sloop of war. Her armament consisted of twenty- 
 six 8 and 9 inch Paixhan guns. Then came the 
 Richmond, a ship of the same class, armed with 
 twenty-six 8 and 9 inch Columbiads. The first-class 
 steam sloop of war Mississippi followed, with twenty- 
 two guns of the same calibre. The Monongahela, 
 a second-class steam sloop, carried sixteen heavy 
 guns. The gun-boats Kineo, Albatross, Sachem, 
 and Gf-enesee followed, each carrying three Columbi 
 ads and two rifled 32-pounders. All these vessels 
 were screw propellers, except the Mississippi, which 
 was a side-wheel steamer. 
 
 This little fleet ascended the river from New Or 
 leans, and passing the smouldering ruins of Baton 
 Rouge, the capital of Louisiana, anchored, on the 
 morning of the 14th of April, 1863, a few miles be 
 low the long series of rebel batteries at Port Hudson. 
 In ascending the river, the starboard sides alone of 
 the ships would be exposed to the fire of the rebels, 
 and the starboard guns alone could be called into 
 action. Every precaution was adopted in prepara 
 tion for the terrible ordeal. The bulwarks consisted 
 of solid timber, fifteen inches in thickness, impervi 
 ous to bullets, but offering but little resistance to 
 solid shot or shells. One remarkable feature of the 
 preparation is worthy of especial notice. The pas 
 sage was to be attempted in the darkness of the 
 night. It would not be safe to have any light upon
 
 14 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 the deck, as that would guide the fire of the foe. 
 The simple yet ingenious measure was adopted of 
 whitewashing the deck, the gun-carriages, and net 
 tings, so that the stands of grape and canister were 
 as visible as a black hat would be upon drifted snow. 
 The effect of this contrivance struck all with sur 
 prise. 
 
 Early in the morning the squadron reached 
 Prophet's Island, from which place the frowning bat 
 teries of the rebels could be plainly seen. Six 
 mortar-boats, prepared to take part in the bombard 
 ment, but not designed to run the batteries, were 
 here moored along the shore. They threw ponder 
 ous missiles, more destructive than the mythological 
 bolts of Jove. At half-past one o'clock these mortars 
 opened fire, at a signal- gun from the Hartford, to 
 try their range. The shells rose majestically into 
 the air, through a curve of between three and four 
 miles, and exploded over the rebel guns, without ap 
 parently doing much harm. In the mean time, a 
 small land force, which had been sent by back-coun 
 try roads to distract the attention of the garrison at 
 Port Hudson by an attack in the rear, signified 
 their arrival at their designated position by opening 
 fire. 
 
 At half-past nine o'clock at night a red light from 
 the flag-ship signaled the ships and gun-boats to 
 weigh anchor. The Hartford led, towing the Al 
 batross lashed on her starboard side. The Rich 
 mond, following, towed the Grenesee. The Monon- 
 gahela towed the Kineo. The Mississippi and the
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 15 
 
 Sachem followed. The mortar-boats were anchored 
 just above Prophet's Island, under shelter of the 
 eastern banks, but from which point they could easily 
 pitch their shells into the works of the foe. 
 
 Signal-lights were flashing along the rebel bat 
 teries, showing that they Avere awake to the move 
 ments of the Union squadron. Soon the gleam of a 
 fire kindled by the rebels was seen, which blazed 
 higher and more brilliant, till its flashes illumined 
 the whole river opposite the batteries with the light 
 of day. This immense bonfire was directly in front 
 of the most formidable of the fortifications, and every 
 vessel ascending the stream would be compelled to 
 pass in the full blaze of its light, exposed to the con 
 centrated fire of the heaviest ordnance. Still it was 
 hoped, notwithstanding the desperate nature of the 
 enterprise, that a few at least of the vessels of the 
 squadron would be able to eifect a passage. 
 
 Silently in the darkness the boats steamed along, 
 until a rebel field-piece, buried in the foliage of the 
 shore, opened fire upon the Hartford. The chal 
 lenge thus given was promptly accepted, and a 
 broadside volley was returned upon the unseen foe. 
 The rebel batteries, protected by strong redoubts, 
 extended, as we have mentioned, with small inter 
 vening spaces, a distance of nearly four miles, often 
 rising in tier above tier on the ascending bluff. 
 Battery after battery immediately opened its fire ; 
 the hillsides seemed peopled with demons hurling 
 their thunder-bolts, while the earth trembled beneath 
 the incessant and terrific explosions. And now the
 
 16 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 mortar-boats uttered their awful roar, adding to the 
 inconceivable sublimity of the scene. An eye-wit 
 ness thus describes the appearance of the mammoth 
 shells rising and descending in their majestic curve : 
 
 " Never shall I forget the sight that then met my 
 astonished vision. Shooting upward, at an angle of 
 forty-five degrees, with the rapidity of lightning, 
 small globes of golden flame were seen sailing through 
 the pure ether not a steady, unfading flame, but 
 corruscating like the fitful gleam of a fire -fly, now vis 
 ible and anon invisible. Like a flying star of the 
 sixth magnitude, the terrible missile, a 13-inch shell, 
 neared its zenith, up and still up, higher and higher. 
 Its flight now becomes much slower, till, on reaching 
 its utmost altitude, its centrifugal force becoming 
 counteracted by the earth's attraction, it describes a 
 parabolic curve, and down, down it comes, bursting, 
 it may be, ere it reaches terra firma, but probably 
 alighting in the rebel works ere it explodes, where it 
 scatters death and destruction around." 
 
 The air was breathing gently from the east, and 
 dense, volumes of billowy smoke hung over the 
 river, drifting slowly across in clouds which the eye 
 could not .penetrate, and adding greatly to the gloom 
 and sublimity of the scene. It strains a ship too 
 much to fire all the guns simultaneously. The broad 
 sides were consequently discharged by commencing 
 with the forward gun, and firing each one in its turn 
 in the most rapid manner possible as fast as the 
 ticking of a clock. The effect of this bombardment, 
 from ship and shore, as described by all who witnessed
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 17 
 
 it, was grand and terrific in the extreme. From the 
 innumerable batteries, very skillfully manned, shot 
 and shell fell upon the ships like hail. Piercing the 
 awful roar, which filled the air as with the voice of 
 ten thousand thunders, was heard the demoniac 
 shrieks of the shells, as if all the demons of the pit 
 had broken loose, and were reveling in hideous rage 
 through the darkness and the storm. 
 
 In the midst of this scene of terror, conflagration, 
 and death, as the ships were struggling through the 
 fire against the swift current of the Mississippi, there 
 was heard from the deck of the Richmond, coming 
 up from the dark, rushing stream, the cry of a 
 drowning man, " Help ! oh, help ! " The unhappy 
 sufferer had evidently fallen from the Hartford, 
 which was in advance. In such an hour there could 
 not be even an attempt made to rescue him. Again 
 and again the agonizing cry pierced the air, the voice 
 growing fainter and fainter as the victim floated away 
 in the distance, until he sank beneath the turbid 
 waves. 
 
 The whole arena of action, on the land and on the 
 water, was soon enveloped in a sulphurous canopy of 
 smoke, pierced incessantly by the vivid flashes of the 
 guns. The vessels could no longer discern each 
 other or the hostile batteries on the shore. It be 
 came very difficult to know how to steer ; and as in 
 the inpenetrable gloom the only object at which they 
 could aim was the flash of the guns, the danger be 
 came imminent that they might fire into each other. 
 This gave the rebels great advantage ; for with their 
 
 2
 
 18 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 stationary guns trained upon the river, though they 
 fired into dense darkness, they could hardly fire 
 amiss. Occasionally a gust of wind would sweep 
 away the smoke, slightly revealing the scene in the 
 light of the great bonfire on the bluff. Again the 
 black, stifling canopy would settle down, and all was 
 Egyptian darkness. 
 
 At one time, just as the Richmond was prepared 
 to pour a deadly fire into a supposed battery, whose 
 flash the gunners had just perceived, Lieutenant 
 Terry shouted out, " Hold on, you are firing into the 
 Hartford!"" Another quarter of a minute would 
 have discharged a deadly broadside into the bosoms 
 of our friends. Just then, another flash of the Hart 
 ford's guns revealed the spars and rigging of the 
 majestic ship just alongside of the Richmond. The 
 demons of war were now flapping their wings on the 
 blast, and death and misery held high carnival. The 
 surgeons were busy in their humane yet awful tasks. 
 The decks were becoming slippery with blood. The 
 shrill cry of the wounded often pierced the thunder 
 of the conflict. The gloom, the smoke, the suffoca 
 tion, the deafening roar, the bewilderment of the 
 ships struggling through the darkness, presented a 
 scene which war's panorama has perhaps never be 
 fore unrolled. 
 
 Still the ships kept up an incessant fire from their 
 starboard guns, and from brass howitzers stationed 
 in the tops, whenever the lifting of the smoke would 
 give them any chance to strike the foe. The ships 
 were now all engaged. Many of them were within
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 19 
 
 sixty feet of the batteries. The Monongaliela had 
 two immense rifled Parrott guns, each of which threw 
 shot weighing two hundred pounds. The thunder of 
 these guns and of the mammoth mortars rose sub 
 limely above the general roar of the cannonade. A 
 shell from a rebel battery entered the forward star 
 board port of the Richmond, and burst with a terrific 
 explosion directly under the gun. One fragment 
 splintered the gun-carriage. Another made a deep 
 indentation in the gun itself. Two other fragments 
 struck the unfortunate boatswain's mate, cutting 
 off both legs at the knee and one arm at the elbow. 
 He soon died, with his last breath saying, " Do n't 
 give up the ship, lads ! " The whole ship reeled 
 under the concussion as if tossed by an earthquake. 
 The river at Port Hudson, as we have mentioned, 
 makes a majestic curve. Rebel cannon were planted 
 along the concave brow of the crescent-shaped bluffs 
 of the eastern shore, while beneath the bluff, near the 
 water's edge, there was another series of what were 
 called water-batteries lining the bank. As the ships 
 entered this curve, following the channel which swept 
 close to the eastern shore, they Avere, one after the 
 other, exposed to the most terrible enfilading fire 
 from all the batteries following the line of the curve. 
 This was the most desperate point of the conflict ; for 
 here it was almost literally fighting muzzle to muzzle. 
 The rebels discharged an incessant cross-fire of grape 
 and canister, to which the heroic squadron replied 
 with double-shotted guns. Never did ships pass a 
 more fiery ordeal.
 
 20 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 Lieutenant-Commander Cummings, the executive 
 officer of the Richmond, was standing with his speak 
 ing-trumpet in his hand cheering the men, with Cap 
 tain Alden by his side, when there was a simultane 
 ous flash and roar, and a storm of shot came crash 
 ing through the bulwarks from a rebel battery, which 
 they could almost touch with their ramrods. Both 
 of the officers fell as if struck by lightning. The 
 Captain was simply knocked down by the windage, 
 and escaped unharmed. The speaking-trumpet in 
 Commander Cummings' hand was battered flat, and 
 his left leg was torn off just below the knee. 
 
 As he fell heavily upon the deck, in his gushing 
 blood, he exclaimed : 
 
 " Put a tourniquet on my leg, boys. Send my 
 letters to my wife. Tell her that I fell in doing my 
 duty ! " 
 
 As they took him below, and into the surgeon's 
 room, already filled with the wounded, he looked up 
 on the unfortunate group and said : 
 
 " If there are any here hurt worse than I am, let 
 them be attended to first." 
 
 His shattered limb was immediately amputated. 
 Soon after, as he lay upon his couch, exhausted by 
 the operation and faint from the loss of blood, he 
 heard the noise of the escape of steam as a rebel shot 
 penetrated the boiler. Inquiring the cause, and 
 learning that the ship had become disabled, he ex 
 claimed, with fervor, 
 
 " I would willingly give my other leg if we could 
 but pass those batteries ! "
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 21 
 
 A few days after, this Christian hero died of his 
 wound. He adds another to the honored list of those 
 martyrs who have laid down their lives to rescue our 
 beloved country from the most wicked rebellion which 
 ever disgraced the history of this world. A reporter 
 of one of the New York papers, describing the scene 
 just before the battle, writes : 
 
 " In conversation with Mr. Cummings, I asked him 
 whose post in time of action was on the bridge a 
 narrow platform even with the tops of the rail across 
 the ship from side to side where the best view can 
 be had of the whole ship fore and aft. With a quiet 
 smile, he only pointed to his own breast. You may 
 well believe that I often recalled this with great in 
 terest. There never was a more enthusiastic, chiv 
 alrous, and high-minded corps of officers than those 
 on board the Richmond. They had toned up the 
 whole ship's crew to their own valor." 
 
 The chaplain, Rev. Dr. Bacon, of New Orleans, 
 was aiding with the group around the gun when 
 Lieut. Cummings fell; but he escaped unharmed. 
 Like most of our chaplains during the war, he avoided 
 none of the peril of battle. No officer on board was 
 more heroic than he in facing every danger, as he 
 animated the men to duty. Just above the batteries 
 were several rebel gun-boats. They did not venture 
 into the melee, but anxiously watched the fight, until, 
 apprehensive that some of our ships might pass, they 
 put on all steam and ran up the river as fast as their 
 web-feet would carry them. But now denser and 
 blacker grew the dark billows of smoke. It seemed
 
 22 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 impossible, if the steamers moved, to avoid running 
 into each other or upon the shore. An officer of 
 each ship placed himself at the prow, striving to pen 
 etrate the gloom. A line of men passed from him to 
 the stern, along whom, even through the thunders of 
 the battle, directions could be transmitted to the 
 helmsman. Should any of the ships touch the ground 
 beneath the fire of such batteries their destruction 
 would be almost sure. 
 
 It was a little after eleven o'clock at night when the 
 first shot had been fired. For an hour and a half the 
 unequal conflict had raged. The flag-ship H'irtford 
 and the Albatross succeeded in forcing their way 
 above the batteries, and in thus gaining the all-im 
 portant object of their enterprise. The Richmond, 
 following, had just passed the principal batteries when 
 a shot penetrated her steam-chest, so effectually dis 
 abling her for the hour that she dropped, almost help 
 less, down the stream. The Gf-enesee, which was 
 alongside, unable to stem the rapid current of the 
 river, with the massive Richmond in tow, bore her 
 back to Prophet's Island. Just as the Richmond 
 turned, a torpedo exploded under her stern, throwing 
 up the water mast-head high, and causing the gallant 
 ship to quiver in every timber. 
 
 The Monongahela and Kineo came next in line of 
 battle. The commander of the Monongahela, Cap 
 tain M'Kinstry, was struck down early in the conflict. 
 The command then developed on a gallant young offi 
 cer, Lieutenant Thomas. He manfully endeavored 
 through all the storm of battle to follow the flag-ship.
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 23 
 
 But in the dense smoke the pilot lost the channel. 
 The ship grounded directly under the fire of one of the 
 principal rebel batteries. For twenty-five minutes 
 she remained in this perilous position, swept by shot 
 and shell. Finally, through the efforts of her consort, 
 the Kineo, she was- floated, and again heroically com 
 menced steaming up the river. But her enginery 
 soon became so disabled under the relentless fire, 
 that the Monongahela was also compelled to drop 
 down with the Kineo to the position of the mortar- 
 fleet. Her loss was six killed and twenty wounded. 
 In obedience to the order of Admiral Farragut, the 
 magnificent ship Mississippi brought up the rear, 
 with the gun-boat Sachem as her ally, bound to her 
 larboard side. She had reached the point directly 
 opposite the town, and her officers were congratulat 
 ing themselves that they had surmounted the greatest 
 dangers, and that they would soon be above the bat 
 teries, when the ship, which had just then been put 
 under rapid headway, grounded on the west bank of 
 the river. It was an awful moment ; for the guns of 
 countless batteries were immediately concentrated 
 upon her. Captain Smith, while with his efficient 
 engineer Rutherford he made the most strenuous ex 
 ertions to get the ship afloat, ordered his gunners to 
 keep up their fire with the utmost possible rapidity. 
 In the short space of thirty-five minutes they fired 
 two hundred and fifty shots. The principal battery 
 of the foe was within five hundred yards of the crip 
 pled ship, and the majestic fabric was soon riddled 
 through and through by the storm with which she was
 
 24 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 so pitilessly pelted. The dead and the wounded 
 strewed the decks, and it was soon evident that the 
 ship could not be saved. 
 
 Captain Smith prepared to destroy the ship, that 
 it might not fall into the hands of the rebels, and to 
 save the crew. Captain Caldwell, of the iron-clad 
 Essex, hastened to his rescue. Under as murderous 
 a fire as mortals were ever exposed to, the sick and 
 wounded were conveyed on board the ram. Com 
 bustibles were placed in the fore and after part of the 
 ship, to which the torch was to be applied so soon as 
 the crew had all escaped to the western shore. By 
 some misunderstanding, she was fired forward before 
 the order was given. This caused a panic, as there 
 were but three small boats by which they could es 
 cape. Some plunged into the river and were 
 drowned. It is related, in evidence of the coolness 
 of Captain Smith, that in the midst of this awful 
 scene, while lighting his cigar with steel and flint, he 
 remarked to Lieutenant Dewy : 
 
 "It is not likely that we shall escape, and we must 
 make every preparation to secure the destruction of 
 the ship." 
 
 After spiking nearly every gun with his own 
 hands, and seeing that the survivors of his crew were 
 fairly clear of the wreck, Captain Smith, accompanied 
 by Lieutenant Dewy, Ensign Backelder, and En 
 gineer Tower, sadly took their leave, abandoning the 
 proud fabric to the flames. Scarcely had they left, 
 when two shells came crashing through the sides of 
 the Mississippi, overturning, scattering, and enkind-
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 25 
 
 ling into flames some casks of turpentine. The ship 
 was almost instantly enveloped in billows of fire. A 
 yell of exultation rose from the rebels as they beheld 
 the bursting forth of the flames. The ship, light 
 ened by the removal of three hundred men, and by 
 the consuming power of the fire, floated from the 
 sand-bar and commenced floating, bow on, down the 
 river. 
 
 The scene presented was indeed magnificent. The 
 whole fabric Avas enveloped in flame. Wreathing 
 serpents of fire twined around the masts and ran up 
 the shrouds. Drifting rapidly downward on the 
 rapid current, the meteor, like a volcanic mountain 
 in eruption, descended as regularly along the west 
 ern banks of the stream as if steered by the most ac 
 complished helmsman. As the ship turned round in 
 floating off, the guns of her port battery, which had 
 not been discharged, faced the foe. As the fire 
 reached them, the noble frigate, with the stars and 
 stripes still floating at her peak, opened a new bom 
 bardment of the rebel batteries. The shells began 
 to explode, scattering through the air in all direc 
 tions. The flaming vision arrested every eye on the 
 land and on the ships, until the floating mountain of 
 fire drifted down and disappeared behind Prophet's 
 Island. And now came the explosion of the maga 
 zine. There was a vivid flash, shooting upward to 
 the sky in the form of an inverted cone. For a 
 moment the whole horizon seemed ablaze with fiery 
 missiles. Then came booming over the waves a peal 
 of heaviest thunder. The very hills shook be-
 
 26 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 neath the awful explosion. This was the dying cry 
 of the Mississippi, as she sank to her burial beneath 
 the waves of the river from which she received her 
 name. 
 
 Captain Caldwell of the Essex, who, as soon as he 
 saw the Mississippi to be on fire, gallantly steamed 
 to her aid, directly under the concentrated fire of 
 the batteries, succeeded in picking up many who were 
 struggling in the waves, and in rescuing others who 
 had escaped to the shore. There were about three 
 hundred men on board the Mississippi. Of these, 
 sixty-five officers and men were either killed, wound 
 ed, or taken prisoners. Seventy, who escaped to the 
 shore, wandered for many miles down the western 
 bank of the stream, in constant danger of being taken 
 captive, wading the bayous, and encountering fear 
 ful hardships, until they finally reached the ships be 
 low. Two ships, the Hartfvrd and the Albatross, 
 succeeded in running the gauntlet. We have not 
 space here to recount their subsequent exploits. 
 
 Two months now passed away, during which vig 
 orous preparations were made in New Orleans to at 
 tack and capture Port Hudson, so that efficient aid 
 might be contributed to General Grant, who was at 
 that time besieging Vicksburg. In the mean time, 
 the rebels had been very busy, and the batteries at 
 Port Hudson were surrounded, on the land side, by 
 as powerful a series of ramparts and redoubts as 
 modern science could construct. A large patriot 
 fleet and army were assembled at Baton Rouge. 
 The rebel works were soon invested. The lines of
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 27 
 
 the Union army extended in a semicircle from 
 Thompson's Bayou, five miles above Port Hudson, 
 to Springfield's Landing, about the same distance be 
 low. While this movement of the land forces was 
 taking place, the fleet was attracting the attention of 
 the rebels by an incessant bombardment. The Hart 
 ford and Albatross, which had run the blockade, at 
 tacked the upper batteries ; while the Richmond, 
 Mononyahela, Grenesee, and Essex opened their hot 
 test fire upon the batteries below. 
 
 General Banks was in command of the land force. 
 The extreme right was commanded by General 
 Weitzel, the center by Generals Emory and Grover, 
 the left by General T. W. Sherman. The artillery 
 brigade was under the command of General Arnold. 
 On the morning of Wednesday, the 27th of May, 
 1863, the great battle began. Our troops were to 
 march up with bare bosoms against one of the strong 
 est positions in the world. An almost impenetrable 
 abatis of felled trees covered the ground before them. 
 Sharp-shooters occupied every available point to pick 
 off the officers. The ramparts bristled with artillery, 
 double-shotted with grape and canister. Dense lines 
 of rebels of desperate valor crouched behind the 
 earth-works, with muskets loaded and capped, pre 
 pared, while almost safe from clanger themselves, to 
 hurtle such a storm of lead into the faces of the ad 
 vancing patriots as mortal bravery has rarely en 
 countered. 
 
 The patriots who were to face this fiery ordeal 
 were men who detested war. With great reluctance
 
 28 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 they had but recently left their homes of peaceful 
 industry. They loved their wives and their children, 
 and scenes of destruction and carnage were abhor 
 rent to all their feelings. But the free institutions, 
 so priceless, which their fathers had bequeathed to 
 them, were endangered, and for the integrity of their 
 country they were nobly willing to lay down their 
 lives. 
 
 The line of battle was formed at daybreak. 
 Weitzel, Grover, Augur, Sherman men already 
 renowned in this great strife for popular rights 
 marshaled their enthusiastic men in the dim twilight 
 fop the day of blood. The signal for the onset was 
 given, and the whole majestic line moved forward. 
 At the same signal, every gun in the fleet which could 
 be brought to bear upon the foe opened its thunders. 
 Every rebel battery and musket responded, and for 
 a circuit of leagues the deafening roar of battle filled 
 the air. Hour after hour there was no intermission. 
 Both parties fought with the utmost possible determ 
 ination. Through mutilation and death, and over 
 every obstacle, the patriots pressed resolutely for 
 ward. The rebels contested every inch. Guns were 
 clubbed. Bayonets crossed each other. Hand 
 clenched hand and breast pressed breast in deadly 
 strife. The patriots drove the rebels from several 
 portions of their works, seized their guns, and turned 
 them upon the retiring foe. These young men, fresh 
 from their homes and from all the ennobling pursuits 
 of industry, moved steadily forward against and 
 clambered over these bristling ramparts, under the
 
 OP PORT HUDSON. 29 
 
 most murderous fire of shot, shell, grape, canister, 
 and musketry, with all the firmness of veterans. 
 
 The Second Regiment of Louisiana Native Guards, 
 under Colonel Nelson, made one of the most heroic 
 charges of the day. They went in nine hundred 
 strong. When they came out, but six hundred 
 answered to the roll-call. They poured one charge 
 of bullets in upon the foe, and then, through a con 
 centric fire of musketry and batteries, rushed forward 
 with fixed bayonets. The Sixth Michigan and the 
 One Hundred and Twenty-eighth New York were 
 in the same charge. General Sherman led in per 
 son, arid was carried from the field severely wounded. 
 General Neal Dow, of Maine, was also wounded. 
 Each of these two regiments lost nearly one half of 
 its eifective men. The patriots, in this heroic attack 
 upon the right, gained the ground they fought for. 
 But they could not hold it, for it was commanded by 
 other and more formidable batteries in their rear. 
 
 In the center, the onset by Augur and Grover was 
 no less impetuous. The rebels were driven foot by 
 foot from their rifle-pits and outer intrenchments into 
 their main works, from which they never emerged 
 again until they marched out prisoners of war. The 
 rebels had placed every obstacle in the way of the 
 Union advance which art could suggest, and all the 
 most terrible engines of war exhausted their energies 
 in the work of slaughter. And yet these young 
 patriots, all inexperienced in war's horrible science, 
 who had enlisted but for nine months, carried line 
 after line of intrenchments, with precision of move-
 
 30 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 ment not surpassed by the veteran soldiers of Water 
 loo or Sebastopol. 
 
 Our loss amounted to about a thousand men in 
 killed, wounded, and missing. But we gained very 
 important advantages. Several guns were captured, 
 the rebels were driven back, and positions of great 
 military importance were secured for future opera 
 tions. The efforts of the fleet were equally success 
 ful. The accuracy of the firing was very remark 
 able. Five of the heaviest guns of the rebels were 
 dismounted. 
 
 The First Regiment of Louisiana engineers ren 
 dered efficient service in this action. It was com 
 posed exclusively of colored men. General Banks, 
 speaking of them in his report, says : 
 
 " In many respects their conduct was heroic. No 
 troops could be more determined or more daring. 
 They made, during the day, three charges upon the 
 batteries of the enemy, suffering very heavy losses, 
 and holding their position at nightfall with the other 
 troops on the right of our line. Whatever doubt 
 may have existed heretofore as to the efficiency of 
 organizations of this character, the history of this day 
 proves conclusively to those who were in condition 
 to observe the conduct of these regiments, that the 
 Government will find in this class of troops effective 
 supporters and defenders." 
 
 A fortnight now passed away of cannonading, of 
 skirmishing, of incessant action of sharp-shooters, of 
 throwing up intrenchments, and digging parallels. 
 On the 14th of June all things were ready for
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 31 
 
 another grand assault. The point of attack now 
 chosen was the extreme northeasterly corner of the 
 rebel works. Weitzel and Kimball and Morgan and 
 Paine and Grover had massed their forces here for 
 another great struggle. For several days a heavy 
 fire of artillery had been kept up at this point upon 
 the hostile batteries, and several of their most impor 
 tant guns had been dismounted. We had been 
 steadily drawing nearer to their works, picking off 
 their gunners with our sharp-shooters wherever we 
 could get sight of a head or a hand, and now our 
 batteries were in many places within three hundred 
 yards of those of the foe. 
 
 At ten o'clock at night of Saturday, June 13th, 
 General Augur, who had just returned from the head 
 quarters of General Banks, gave orders that all were 
 to be in readiness for the grand assault at three o'clock 
 the next morning, Sunday. Eager as all the soldiers 
 were for the movement, and sanguine as they were 
 of success, there probably was not a Christian man 
 in the army who did not regret that the assault was 
 to be made on the Sabbath day. Rarely during the 
 war had a party making an offensive movement on 
 Sunday been successful. The fact had attracted the 
 attention even of the most thoughtless men. 
 
 The day had not dawned when the brigades were 
 moving by routes which had been carefully marked 
 out to them for the impetuous assault. During 
 several previous days the engineers had been em 
 ployed constructing a covered way, through which the 
 assaulting column could advance to within about three
 
 32 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 hundred yards of the enemy's position. Through 
 this they marched in single file to the point where 
 they spread out in the line of battle. The advance 
 was then over an old cotton-field. But the rebels 
 had filled it with lines of ditches, which were covered 
 and concealed by an abatis of fallen trees and vines. 
 The rifle-pits of the foe commanded every inch. It 
 was impossible for horses to move across this plain, 
 and infantry could by no possibility keep in regular 
 order of battle. The entire line of rebel works ex 
 tended eight miles by land and three or four by 
 water. Along this whole circuit the assault was to 
 be made simultaneously by the army and navy, and 
 with the utmost determination, that there might be no 
 concentration of rebel troops to repel the main as 
 sault, which was to be made upon the northeast angle 
 of the rebel lines. Elsewhere the attack was merely 
 to distract attention, and to keep the foe engaged. 
 
 Before the dawn the most terrific cannonading 
 commenced along the whole line, afloat and ashore. 
 Every gun within the rebel intrenchments and from 
 the patriot opposing batteries was fired with the ut 
 most rapidity. Not a man on those grounds had 
 ever before heard thunders of war so awful. The 
 air was filled with shrieking, bursting shells. The 
 hills shook beneath the tremendous explosions. Dense 
 clouds of smoke, which hung heavily over the whole 
 expanse, gave the place the appearance of a vast vol 
 cano in violent eruption. 
 
 The grand assaulting column was under the imme 
 diate command of General Paine. It was led by the
 
 OP PORT HUDSON. 33 
 
 Eighth New Hampshire and the Fourth Wisconsin 
 regiments. Then came the Fourth Massachusetts 
 and the One Hundred and Tenth New York. Then 
 came the Third Brigade, under Colonel Gooding, 
 consisting of the Thirty-first, Thirty-eighth, and Fif 
 ty-third Massachusetts, and the One Hundred and 
 Fifty-sixth and One hundred and Seventy-fifth New 
 York. The Second Brigade followed, under Colonel 
 A. Fearing. Its serried ranks were composed of the 
 One Hundred and Thirty-third and the One Hun 
 dred and Seventy-third New York. The remainder 
 of this brigade were detailed as skirmishers. Then 
 came the First Brigade, under Colonel Ferris. It 
 was composed of the Twenty-eighth Connecticut, the 
 Fourth Massachusetts, and four companies of the 
 One Hundred and Tenth New York. The necessary 
 number of pioneers and Nims' Massachusetts Bat 
 tery were added. 
 
 Such was the immense battering-ram which mili 
 tary science had devised and constructed to break 
 through the rebel intrcnchments. While the storm of 
 war was beating with the utmost fierceness along a 
 circuit twelve miles in extent, this ponderous force 
 Avas to be hurled headlong, with all conceivable impet 
 uosity, upon a single point. Success seemed certain. 
 The battle cannot be described. It was a delirious 
 scene of terror, tumult, and blood. The following 
 words from one who was a participant in the 
 scene, may give a faint idea of its horrors : 
 
 " The moment we turned into the road, shot, 
 shell, grape, and canister fell like hail around us.
 
 34 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 On we went. A little higher, a new gun opened 
 upon us. Still farther, they had a cross-fire oh, 
 such a terrible one ! But on we went, bending, as 
 with sickening shrieks, the grape and canister swept 
 over us. I had no thought, after a short prayer, 
 but for my flag. The color-bearer fell, but the flag 
 did not. Half the guard fell, but the flag was there. 
 When about three hundred yards from the works I 
 was struck. The pain was so intense that I could 
 not go on. I turned to my second-lieutenant and 
 said, ' Never mind me, Jack ; for God's sake, jump 
 to the colors.' I don't recollect anything more until 
 I heard Colonel Benedict say, ' Up, men, and for 
 ward ! " I looked and saw the rear regiments lying 
 flat to escape the fire, and Colonel Benedict stand 
 ing there, the shot striking all about him, and he 
 never flinching. It was grand to see. 
 
 " When I heard him speak I forgot all else, and 
 running forward, did not stop till at the very front 
 and near the colors again. There, as did all the 
 rest, I lay down, and soon learned the trouble. 
 Within two hundred yards of the works was a 
 ravine parallel with them, completely impassable 
 from the fallen timber in it. Of course we could 
 not move on. To stand up was certain death. So 
 was retreat. Naught was left but to lie down, with 
 such scanty cover as we could get. We did lie 
 down in that hot, scorching sun. I fortunately got 
 behind two small logs, which protected me on two 
 sides, and lay there, scarcely daring to turn, for four 
 hours, till my brain reeled and surged, and I
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 35 
 
 thought that I should go mad. Death would have 
 been preferable to a continuance of such torture. 
 Lots of poor fellows were shot as they were lying 
 down, and to lie there and hear them groan and cry 
 was awful. Just on the other side of the log lay the 
 gallant Colonel Bryan, with both legs broken by shot. 
 He talked of home, but bore it like a patriot. Near 
 him was one of my own brave boys, with five balls in 
 him. The Colonel got out of pain sooner than 
 some, for he died after two hours of intense agony. 
 Bullets just grazed me as they passed over. One 
 entered the ground within an inch of my right eye. 
 I have been in many battles, but I never saw, and 
 never wish to see, such a fire as that poured on us 
 on June 14th. It was not merely terrible. It was 
 
 HORRIBLE." 
 
 After eight hours of as desperate fighting as was 
 ever witnessed on earth, our charging columns were 
 repulsed with great slaughter. About eleven o'clock 
 A. M. the fighting ceased. The ground in front of 
 the rebel redoubts was covered with the patriot dead 
 and wounded. But till night darkened the scene, 
 the rebels inhumanly fired upon the wounded writh 
 ing in their blood ; and no one could carry to them 
 a cup of cold water without being struck by the 
 bullet of a sharp-shooter. General Paine was severe 
 ly wounded by a ball which broke both bones of his 
 leg just below the knee. He could not be brought 
 from the field until after dark. Before he was 
 struck down he had got five regiments within four 
 rods of the rebel works, and some of his skirmishers
 
 36 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 had actually clambered over the ramparts. Not being 
 promptly supported, they were speedily cut down. As 
 General Paine lay upon his back, hour after hour, in 
 the blistering sun, slightly protected between two 
 rows of the cotton field, he dared not attempt to 
 cover his face with his cap, for if the rebels saw the 
 slightest movement a shower of balls was instantly 
 poured upon him. Our whole loss during the day 
 amounted to about seven hundred and fifty. It was 
 a sad Sabbath day's work. We had lost much and 
 gained nothing. The next day, under a flag of truce, 
 the dead and wounded were removed. 
 
 Port Hudson was in reality but an outpost of 
 Vicksburg, where General Grant was day by day 
 cutting off the resources of the rebels, capturing 
 their outlying batteries, and driving them within 
 narrower limits. The fall of either of these great 
 fortresses rendered the other no longer tenable. On 
 the 4th of July, 1863, the garrison of Vicksburg, 
 more than thirty thousand strong, were compelled to 
 an unconditional surrender to General Grant. The 
 joyful tidings were speedily conveyed down the river 
 to the patriot army surrounding Port Hudson. Salvos 
 of artillery and shouts from thirty thousand patriot 
 throats conveyed the news to the rebels within their 
 strong intrenchments. General Banks was just pre 
 paring for another assault, when he received a com 
 munication from General Gardner, who was in 
 command of the rebel works, offering to surrender. 
 General Frank Gardner at Port Hudson, and Gen 
 eral Pemberton at Vicksburg, were both Northern
 
 OF PORT HUDSON. 37* 
 
 men. They had both gone from their free homes in 
 the North to fight against that banner beneath whose 
 folds they were born, and for the destruction of that 
 Constitution to which our country was indebted for 
 all its prosperity and power. 
 
 As we have mentioned, Port Hudson was three 
 hundred miles below Vicksburg. It was not until 
 the morning of the 7th that General Banks received 
 the news of the surrender. General Gardner sent 
 to him that afternoon a communication containing 
 the following words : 
 
 " Having received information from your troops 
 that Vicksburg has been surrendered, I make this 
 communication to ask you to give me the official 
 assurance whether this is true or not ; and if true, 
 I ask for a cessation of hostilities, with a view to 
 the consideration of terms for surrendering this 
 position." 
 
 In General Banks' brief response, dated July 8th, 
 he stated : " I have the honor to inform you that I re 
 ceived yesterday morning, July 7th, at forty-five 
 minutes past ten o'clock, by the gun-boat General 
 Price, an official dispatch from Major-General Ulys 
 ses S. Grant, United States Army, whereof the 
 following is a true extract : 
 
 " ' The garrison of Vicksburg surrendered this 
 morning. The number of prisoners, as given by 
 the officers, is twenty-seven thousand, field artillery 
 one hundred and twenty-eight pieces, and a large 
 number of siege-guns, probably not less than 
 eighty.' 
 
 34937
 
 38 SIEGE AND CAPTURE 
 
 " I regret to say that, under present circumstan 
 ces, I cannot consistently with duty consent to a 
 cessation of hostilities for the purpose you indicate." 
 
 Preparations had already been made for an imme 
 diate assault. Our troops were flushed with the 
 joyful news which they had heard, and which ren 
 dered the downfall of Port Hudson certain. They 
 were anxious to be led instantly against the foe, tha t 
 they might storm and take his batteries before the fleet 
 and the army should have time to descend from 
 Vicksburg and deprive them of a portion of the 
 honor. The rebels knew that their doom was sealed. 
 They could not escape, and they could not resist the 
 forces now to be arrayed against them. Nothing 
 whatever could be gained by prolonging the con 
 test. General Gardner accordingly sent back a 
 reply couched in the following terms : 
 
 " Having defended this position as long as I deem 
 my duty requires, I am willing to surrender to you, 
 and will appoint a commission of three officers to 
 meet a similar commission appointed by yourself, at 
 nine o'clock this morning, for the purpose of agree 
 ing upon and drawing up the terms of surrender, and 
 for that purpose I ask for a cessation of hostilities." 
 
 The commissioners immediately met, and the 
 articles of capitulation were signed, by which the 
 fortress, with all its garrison, its stores, and its arma 
 ment, was surrendered to the National Government. 
 At the earliest dawn of the next morning, Thurs 
 day, July 9th, the whole patriot camp was alive 
 with joyful animation to witness the glorious spec-
 
 , OF PORT HUDSON. 39 
 
 tacle the day was to usher in. It was a splendid 
 morning. The air was filled with the flutterings of 
 the Star-Spangled Banner, and from scores of mar 
 tial bands our national airs were pealed forth over 
 the water and the land. 
 
 General Andrews, chief of staff of General 
 Banks, at seven o'clock, with a strong column of the 
 victors, made the grand entrance into the rebel forti 
 fications. The rebel army were drawn up in an 
 immense line upon the bluff, with their backs toward 
 the river. Their officers, in great dejection, were 
 grouped together on one side. The patriot army 
 advanced with gleaming weapons, and were spread 
 out in a double line in face of the conquered garri 
 son. The patriot officers each took his position in 
 front of his men. General Gardner then advanced 
 toward General Andrews and offered him his sword. 
 General Andrews declined receiving it, courteously 
 saying : 
 
 " In appreciation of your bravery, however mis 
 directed, you are at liberty to retain your sword." 
 
 General Gardner then said, " General, I will now 
 formally surrender my command to you, and for that 
 purpose will give the order to ground arms." 
 
 The order was given. Five thousand men 
 bowed their heads, deposited their arms upon the 
 ground, and rose prisoners of war. Armed guards 
 were then placed over the captives, and the 
 glorious old flag of the Union rose and floated 
 forth like a meteor from the flag-staff. It was 
 unfurled to the breeze from one of the highest
 
 40 SIEGE AND CAPTURE OF PORT HUDSON. . 
 
 bluffs by the men of the steamship Richmond. The 
 flag was saluted by the thunders of a battery whose 
 reverberations rolled majestically along the broad 
 surface of the Mississippi. And thus this great 
 national river, upon whose banks uncounted millions 
 are yet to dwell, and which treason had insanely 
 attempted to wrest from the nation, was restored to 
 its rightful owners. Treason has done its utmost to 
 rob the nation of the Mississippi, and has failed. 
 The banner of rebellion will never again go up upon 
 those shores. The Stars and Stripes will never 
 again go down. 
 
 As the immediate fruit of this capture there fell 
 into our hands 5500 prisoners, 20 pieces of heavy 
 artillery, 5 complete batteries numbering 31 pieces 
 of field artillery, a large supply of balls and shells, 
 44,800 pounds of cannon powder, 5000 stand of 
 arms, 150,000 rounds of ammunition, 2 steamers, 
 and a considerable amount of commissary stores. 
 
 The rebel General Gardner admitted that even 
 if Vicksburg had not fallen, he could not have 
 held out three days longer. He had made up his 
 mind that he could not repel another assault. He 
 was therefore anxiously watching every movement, 
 intending, so soon as there should be decisive in 
 dications of an assault, that he would surrender. 
 The capture of Port Hudson consequently redounds 
 to the glory of the heroic army which surrounded 
 it. It was the result of the Herculean exertions 
 and the military ability of the fleet and the army, 
 under Commodore Farragut and General Banks. 
 To them belong the undivided honor.
 
 of i Joufi\ey. 
 
 BY A. D. MAYO. 
 
 t THINK it a duty to enjoy the natural crea 
 tions of God. This sentence may read strangely 
 to those who have always regarded duty and pleasure 
 as terms of opposite meaning. But I hold that it is 
 a positive duty to admire and love the world which 
 our Father has made. Yet how can I do this? 
 says one who has lost the taste for such enjoyments. 
 I reply, such loss of taste is a sin. The love of na 
 ture is implanted originally in every soul. It is as 
 natural to turn to her grandeur and beauty, as to 
 love man or God, to work, or to live at all. The 
 obligation to cultivate this sentiment is imperative, 
 and the penalty of neglecting it is as fatal as the 
 penalty for any other neglect. And as nature is 
 always before us, and no position in life, excepting 
 hopeless bodily or mental infirmity, or extraordinary 
 tyranny of man, can shut us away from it, we are in 
 excusable if we forfeit this common privilege of hu 
 manity. The excuses by which men apologize for 
 their neglect of such opportunities are inconclusive 
 and insignificant. Business is no excuse to the man
 
 42 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 
 
 who walks to and from his place of toil every day, 
 through scenes of natural beauty which claim only a 
 passing glance for a partial appreciation. And what 
 right have we to give up this soul of ours so entirely 
 to matters of toil and trade, that we forget the 
 grander things all around us ? We must feed our 
 bodies, but must we therefore starve our minds ? 
 We must clothe ourselves in comfortable raiment, 
 but should we therefore fail to see how God arrays 
 the grass of the field ? We must build a house to 
 shelter us from the fury of the elements, but is that 
 house of more importance than those elements which 
 hold it at their mercy? And if any position of 
 earthly distinction is worth the trouble of effort, shall 
 we not occasionally renew the sense of our position 
 as dwellers in a universe that is the natural image of 
 its Creator ? We must not lose our hold on nature. 
 We degrade and enfeeble ourselves by giving up 
 our delight in its enjoyments. The paltry vanity with 
 which we often put off her claims is not to our credit ; 
 it proves us not wise, but foolish ; it is, to a com 
 petent observer, the testimony of a great loss, not a 
 great gain. Therefore, we must guard the love of 
 nature in our souls, just as a man should guard any 
 good impulse against the assaults of wordliness. So 
 must we never permit any success or sorrow, any 
 idleness or industry, any circumstance or state of 
 mind, to shut the door that opens out of our spirits 
 into the wide spaces of our Father's glorious crea 
 tions. Every man and woman should have special 
 seasons for intercourse with nature ; should be will-
 
 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 43 
 
 ing to sacrifice something in the mere outside of life 
 to purchase opportunities for occasional travel ; should 
 improve the means already at hand ; should regard 
 the satisfying the imagination and awakening the af 
 fections by images of natural sublimity and grace, as 
 a positive duty, without which no other duty can be 
 done well without which, manhood and womanhood 
 will lose what nothing can supply. 
 
 This is one of the lessons I brought home from a 
 journey of a month through some of the most at 
 tractive portions of the Middle States. And yet 
 another \vas more powerfully impressed on my mind, 
 so that if I were asked what are the true essen 
 tial conditions of gaining the best results of travel, 
 I would say : A habit of close and accurate observa 
 tion of nature, and a Christian deportment towards 
 the people we meet in our journeyings, 
 
 To observe nature accurately is one of the rarest 
 accomplishments. Most of the people in the world 
 never receive entirely correct reports from their 
 senses concerning the universe they live in. And 
 this, because of no deficiency in the original faculty 
 of observation, but from carelessness in the use of 
 that faculty. Our Creator has given us eyes and 
 ears ; but we can use these gifts in such a way that 
 we shall see or hear nothing just as it is. We may 
 behold the grandest spectacles of natural beauty in 
 such a listless, hazy, or sentimental state, that we see 
 them enveloped in our own distorting atmosphere. 
 We may be stunned and crazed by the mingled 
 sounds of nature, heard with no discrimination ; and
 
 44 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 
 
 the more subtle influences in the material creation 
 may be wasted on our stupidity or haste. We must 
 not expect to unlock the secret chambers of the 
 beauty all around us with false keys. Only healthy 
 and well trained senses can get the true meaning out 
 of these things. A man who has never held his fac 
 ulties to entire veracity in this respect, lives in a dif 
 ferent world from him who sees everything correctly. 
 Whether the objects of a journey shall be one con 
 fused mass of half perceived images, or a succession 
 of charming, well defined groups, linked with undy 
 ing associations, depends chiefly on ourselves. There 
 fore we should cultivate truth in our faculties of ob 
 servation ; accustom ourselves to see, hear, taste, 
 feel, and smell accurately; accustom our minds to 
 receive those sensous impressions correctly ; ac 
 custom ourselves to talk with precision of what has 
 thus come to us, and as far as possible discriminate 
 between nature and what we make it by means of 
 our own fancies, and in every way try to read the 
 world around us as it is. I urge this, not so much as 
 a matter of good taste as a religious duty. Any 
 thing worth doing at all is worth doing well.' We 
 have senses and imagination, and God's whole cre 
 ation spreads around us ; and it is a sin to make 
 these senses and that imagination liars, by our care 
 lessness, haste, or sickly affectation, and thus shut 
 ourselves out of the knowledge of the creation as it 
 is. Besides, we cannot be untrue in one respect 
 without being injured in all. Carelessness in the use 
 of our faculties of observation converts all the inter-
 
 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 45 
 
 preters between ourselves and the outward world into 
 false witnesses. We then live in a false conceit with 
 every object without us ; we reason falsely on these 
 objects, and feel in a morbid way concerning them, 
 and connect them to each other and ourselves by 
 false and painful ties of relationship ; we act falsely 
 as the inevitable result of false observation, and thus 
 our whole character gets Avarped from the truth. 
 God only knows how much superstition, weak and 
 extravagant sentiment, and downright wrong-doing, 
 spring from this infidelity of observation an infirmity 
 that can be cured, like any other, by patience and long 
 discipline. One of the greatest men of our country 
 told me that he had been accustomed all his life to 
 demand strict accuracy of all his senses, and to be 
 true to his actual impressions ; and in that habit, I 
 doubt not, was laid the foundation for his peculiar 
 superiority ; for one of the most radical distinctions 
 between the wise and foolish man is, that while the 
 former sees things as they are, and deals with real 
 ities, the other sees them as they are presented by 
 his own foolish mind, and all his life lives among ob 
 jects that exist in his own distempered fancy. Thus 
 the virtue of accurate observation is not only a use 
 ful condition of profitable traveling, but also an indis 
 pensable quality in the Christian character. "If 
 thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from 
 thee. Take heed how ye hear," says the great 
 Teacher. Use the faculties by which you learn all 
 things so faithfully, that they shall never betray you 
 into error and sin.
 
 46 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 
 
 The second condition of profitable traveling is 
 Christian politeness towards the people we meet. 
 The difference between a clown and a gentleman is 
 nowhere so visible as upon a journey. There are 
 persons who act as if the payment of a railroad, or 
 boat, or hotel fare conferred upon them the privilege 
 of unlimited selfishness. To occupy the best seat 
 or the best room, to the inconvenience of the weak or 
 the crowd of less forward travelers ; to feast at a pub 
 lic table at the expense of a dozen half-fed people 
 around you ; to always prefer yourself, and act every 
 where as if you were the only passenger on the road, 
 is a very common way of proving one's self a semi- 
 barbarian. Of course, a proper sense of self-respect 
 and self-protection is as essential to a good man in his 
 journeyings as elsewhere, and the numberless attempts 
 at fraud and extortion he everywhere encounters 
 should be met with decision. But it is one thing to 
 repel such indignities, and another to engross all the 
 comforts of a journey to yourself. A Christian 
 gentleman is willing to accept his own share of the 
 inconveniences of travel. He remembers that other 
 people are as capable of fatigue as himself, and will 
 not sit in obstinate selfishness through a long journey, 
 while his neighbor is losing all the pleasure of his 
 tour by an uncomfortable position. He will despise 
 the meanness of bribing officials and servants to treat 
 him carefully and luxuriously, to the loss of his fel 
 lows. I have seen men and women, who called them 
 selves gentlemen and ladies, quietly appropriate to 
 themselves, in this way, luxuries and comforts that
 
 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 47 
 
 should be divided among several persons ; and though 
 custom may be some excuse for such conduct, I can 
 not help thinking that it always betrays an innate 
 vulgarity. There is a peculiar obligation due from 
 us to those we meet on a journey. Most of these 
 persons we shall never see again ; it is our only op 
 portunity to move them by our personal influence. 
 And we can produce an impression on a crowd of 
 eager travelers by a quiet and Christian politeness 
 which will never be forgotten. Some of the pleas- 
 antest recollections of my youth are of people I never 
 saw but once, and then engaged in some act of cour 
 tesy to their traveling companions. It is not well 
 that the only opportunity given us to impress a 
 brother or sister with our manhood or womanhood, 
 should be abused by an act of selfish disregard of 
 their convenience and happiness. 
 
 We make our own mark at such times ; and are we 
 willing to be remembered for years by anybody as 
 the manor woman who scolded in the cars, or pushed 
 on to the first place at table, or procured the incon 
 venience of a neighbor in any of the numerous ways 
 of offense possible in travel ? Such a notoriety is 
 not to be sought by a good man, but may be left to 
 those who esteem self gratification above the love of 
 our neighbor. 
 
 A distinguished orthodox clergyman says a min 
 ister should never travel without making his profes 
 sional character everywhere apparent. I think 
 every man should be a Christian gentleman, abroad 
 as at home ; not by talking about repentance, cat-
 
 48 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 
 
 echising his neighbors, and parading the externals 
 of religion, so much as by a deportment in every sit 
 uation that shall be an unfailing test of his worth as 
 a man. 
 
 With these qualifications an earnest desire to see 
 the works of God, and study the character and cus 
 toms of men ; accurate habits of observation, and a 
 Christian deportment we may learn much in a little 
 time. There is no country so rich in the natural 
 materials for improvement in this respect as our 
 own. We have not those historical associations 
 which glorify the old world to the cultivated imagin 
 ation ; but in natural scenery and variety we are 
 unsurpassed. Our rapid means of communication 
 lay open to almost every man the grandest spectacles 
 in nature. There are few people who cannot, by 
 economy, save enough to see the Sierras and the lakes, 
 and so much grandeur ; to behold our mountains 
 and valleys, or the sea-shore. There are hundreds 
 of interesting places in the country or city, which 
 can be enjoyed by a little self denial in less elevating 
 pleasures. How much more rational for a young 
 man or woman to use spare time and means in such 
 an excursion, than to waste both in some trifling 
 pleasure, or frippery of dress, or equally unimport 
 ant mode of enjoyment. And a family that is will 
 ing to live a little below the extreme of fashion, and 
 use their money for a domestic trip to such a place, is 
 wise. Surely, we need not complain of lack of oppor 
 tunity to keep ourselves free from the trammels of a 
 low worldliness in such a land as ours.
 
 LESSONS OF A JOURNEY. 49 
 
 True, our temptations are great, but so are our 
 privileges. If the spirit of trade is here peculiarly 
 engrossing, there is some compensation in a business 
 tour which carries a man up one of our noble rivers, 
 in sight of any of our vast chains of mountains, or 
 across one of our inland seas. If we will only open 
 our eyes and other senses, and let American scenery 
 and human life talk to our souls, we can resist the 
 contagion of our national toil, and haste, and want of 
 refinement. God is speaking to our people through 
 this magnificent country and this sublime spectacle 
 of life, pouring through all its avenues and swarming 
 out to its farthest boundaries ; and we can only be 
 true to our destiny as Americans by living as grandly 
 as men ought, to whom is reserved such wonderful 
 opportunities for growth in all things, from the pos 
 session of worldly comforts to a participation in the 
 most honorable rights of humanity. 
 
 4
 
 Milwaukee. 
 
 BY C. F. LEFEVRB. 
 
 ]j&EEP in a bay, with bold and jutting lands 
 ' And sandy beach, Milwaukee proudly stands. 
 A city on a hill ; whose summit high, 
 With steeples crowned, aspires to the sky. 
 While down its sides and on its ample breast 
 Ten thousand households find their peaceful rest. 
 Its level base the flashing waters lave 
 Milwaukee's stream and Michigan's blue wave. 
 
 Ye bards and poets, who in ancient days 
 Invoked Apollo to inspire your lays 
 Or, borne on Pegasus in upward flight, 
 Successful scaled Parnassus' lofty height 
 Such happy age no modern muse can know, 
 Phoebus is mute and Pegasus no go ; 
 Olympus' gods have faded into air, 
 And moldering temples only say they were. 
 
 Is there, then, none to help the muse along ? 
 Say, in his breast must die th' unuttered song ? 
 Not so ; lo, Progress, on the car of time, 
 Applies the steam to help him in his rhyme,
 
 MILWAUKEE. 51 
 
 Allows no stops or lagging in his verse, 
 Drives no " slow coach," except it be a hearse, 
 But urges onward in the road to fame, 
 Towards the goal, " Excelsior " its aim. 
 
 Sing, then, how in the woods a city sprung, 
 Where two score years ago no axe had rung, 
 Whose sounding stroke was never known to daunt 
 The nymphs, or drive them from their hallowed 
 haunt. 
 
 Ill nymphs ! beneath your leafy shade 
 Remorseless Progress iron tracks has laid, 
 Your forest felled, and desecrated groves 
 Where Hamadryads told their sylvan loves ; 
 And kindled with the sacred trees the fire 
 Wrapped in whose lurid flames your fanes expire. 
 Thus the royal bird of cloud-compelling Jove 
 T 'extract the barbed arrow vainly strove, 
 Yet saw, ere ebbing life had left his heart, 
 That his own plume had winged the fatal dart. 
 
 In sleeping solitude the forest lay, 
 
 No keel as yet had plowed the placid bay ; 
 
 Alone the red man's humble wigwam stood, 
 
 His light canoe alone had skimmed the flood. 
 
 The white man came, and modest was his claim 
 
 To purchase peltries his only aim, 
 
 Bracelets, and beads and baubles gave in pay, 
 
 For which he bore the hard-earned furs away. 
 
 But greater objects soon his thoughts aspire,
 
 52 MILWAUKEE. 
 
 And, Christian-like, to want is to acquire. 
 Visions of wealth in quick succession rise, 
 And avarice urges to possess the prize. 
 Majestic trees like lofty columns stood, 
 With which to build his palaces of wood ; 
 Cascades there were to yield the needed power 
 To shape the timber or prepare his flour. 
 
 Still further on he saw the boundless plain, 
 Already waving with the golden grain, 
 And only stopped, by fancy led along, 
 At cities peopled with the busy throng. 
 Behind him lay the lake. His active mind 
 In its blue depths could countless treasures find ; 
 Not for its finny tribes though even there 
 An interest lay which well deserved his care. 
 But commerce there could spread her whitened sail. 
 Transport the freight, and court the favoring gale ; 
 Or conquering steam resistless force impart, 
 To bear the produce to the distant mart. 
 
 > 
 
 The die is cast, the vision is fulfilled ; 
 
 Might has prevailed, and weaker right must yield. 
 
 Of home, of graves, of lands now dispossessed, 
 
 Lo, the poor Indian seeks a farther west : 
 
 A hunting ground to which he may retire, 
 
 Far from the white man's guile and liquid fire ; 
 
 A life, a blanket, wrested from his toils, 
 
 All else abandoned as the victor's spoils.
 
 MILWAUKEE. 53 
 
 It needs no prophet's pen the fate to trace, 
 The last sad future of that waning race ; 
 Haters of work, save what the hunter knows, 
 The ardent chase, then indolent repose. 
 Where shall they find the needed hunting lands 
 When East and West are linked with iron bands ; 
 When iron steeds shall pass o'er swelling floods, 
 And the shrill whistle wake the echoing woods ; 
 When startled beasts shall find no secret lair, 
 Their dens discovered and their haunts laid bare ? 
 Then, where the sun shall kiss Pacific's wave, 
 They '11 find at last a resting place their grave. 
 
 To happier scenes my willing muse invites, 
 To make amSnds for violated rights, 
 Though in strict truth the justice is but small 
 That takes from Peter what it pays to Paul, 
 That banishes the red man from his home, 
 And then invites the foreigner to come ; 
 That boasts of liberty and equal laws, 
 And gains the meed at least of self-applause. 
 
 Say, who are they of fresh and ruddy cheek, 
 Whence come they, and what language do they 
 
 speak ? 
 
 These are the dwellers from old Father Rhine, 
 The land of castles, libraries, and wine ; 
 They come in hopes to own the right of soil, 
 And bravely yield their sinews to the toil ; 
 Patient and frugal, hopeful still the while, 
 Ere many years a home for them may smile,
 
 54 MILWAUKEE. 
 
 And find, 'midst kindred and affections warm, 
 Health in the breeze and shelter in the storm. 
 Men in short jerkins, with th' unfailing pipe ; 
 Women, short waists, and kirtles with a stripe ; 
 Trilling some native air they pass along, 
 Alike contented, resolute, and strong. 
 Huge chests they bring, with clamps securely bound, 
 Beneath whose lid their chattels all are found ; 
 Clothes, bibles, bottles, here together band, 
 With fond memorials from their" fatherland." 
 Success attend them ! and success they'll find, 
 But on these terms the bottle leave behind. 
 
 Norway and Sweden, and the Alpine hills, 
 Whose snow dissolving forms cascading" rills, 
 Where the bold Swiss pursues the chamois light, 
 Scales the steep crag and dares the giddy height ; 
 Their sons, oppressed with poverty, send forth 
 The hardy tenants of the sterile north. 
 These too shall triumph if their arms they wield, 
 Not in the battle, but the harvest field. 
 
 Ye sons of Erin, a promiscuous throng, 
 The muse shall not neglect you in her song ; 
 To you the honest dues she willing pays, 
 Whose pick and shovel smooth the rugged ways ; 
 Whose brawny shoulders heavy burdens bear, 
 To build the mansion or the temple rear. 
 Yourselves contented with the humble shed, 
 With wife, with children, and with daily bread 
 A higher destiny your sons shall find,
 
 MILWAUKEE. 55 
 
 Where public schools instruct the public mind ; 
 By nature formed of quick, impulsive parts, 
 A ready wit, with warm and generous hearts, 
 'T is theirs in future days to take their stand 
 Amidst the first and noblest of the land. 
 And some already on the page of fame, 
 In glowing characters, have stamped their name. 
 
 England ! my native, venerated land, 
 Few are thy sons that seek this distant strand ; 
 E'en among those, where lust of gold prevails, 
 Who leave thy fertile fields and flowery vales, 
 A hope still lingers, when their toils are o'er, 
 To spend life's remnant on thy sea-girt shore ; 
 To lay their heads upon thy constant breast, 
 Like patriots blessing, and like patriots blest. 
 Yes, to whatever clime thy children roam, 
 Where'er their dwelling, England is their home. 
 That name shall dwell unrivaled on their tongue, 
 That land where Hampden bled and Shakspeare 
 sung. 
 
 Farewell, Milwaukee ! may some worthier lays 
 In coming years rehearse thy well-earned praise ; 
 May other towns from thee a pattern take, 
 And own thee Model City of the Lake. 
 WISCONSIN, glory in thy honest fame, 
 And hand to history thy deathless name.
 
 BY AGNES LESLIE. 
 
 HAD two proposals last night, mamma, one of 
 which I accepted " ; and the beautiful belle of 
 the season leaned out of the window with a flushed 
 cheek and trembling lips. The worldly mother 
 looked up anxiously : " You accepted " 
 
 "Gilbert!" 
 
 It was enough she did not care to know more ; 
 the expensive jaunt had accomplished all she wished. 
 Florence was to marry a millionaire ! No more 
 struggles and strivings with a small income, to keep 
 up the appearances of a larger one. The future 
 road was smoothly paved with gold. How she could 
 look down upon that purse-proud Mrs. Laughton and 
 her troop of over-dressed, showy girls ! She did not 
 see her daughter's troubled face nor remark her 
 moody silence ; it mattered not to her if she stood at 
 the altar vowing to love and honor the man by her 
 side, when another occupied her heart. 
 
 Mr. Gilbert was a Virginian of high family, drove 
 fast horses, played billiards and cards scientifically, 
 drank the best wines, smoked the best cigars, wore
 
 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 57 
 
 the finest broadcloth, sported the most elegant mous 
 tache, and danced divinely, for which list of accomplish 
 ments the fashionable world dubbed him gentleman. 
 Congratulations, therefore, showered down upon the 
 future Mrs. Gilbert, and Florence herself was as 
 bright and beaming as a bird ; only sometimes, when 
 threading the intricacies of a dance, she feels the 
 gaze of a pair of eyes from a distant doorway, which 
 checks the coming smile and the gay repartee. She 
 hears again a few low-breathed words, tremulous 
 with emotion and freighted with love, offering for her 
 rejection a warm, true, manly heart. A thrill of 
 agony convulses her as she remembers the words : 
 " God help you, Florence, in all darkened hours." 
 It seems like a prophecy ; but she has put her hand 
 to the plow, and she will not turn back, though it 
 crush her life out. 
 
 Poor Florence ! the dark days are coming are 
 even now here. 
 
 A fine elegant mansion in Richmond, filled with 
 books, pictures, statues, and silken drapery, a luxuri 
 ant carriage drawn by dapple-greys, a fleet-footed 
 Arabian for her own riding, and servants to do the 
 bidding of her slightest wish. Enviable Florence ! 
 
 " What a superb woman Gilbert has got for a wife, 
 Morton! I've just been dancing with her." 
 
 " Yes, that's just the adjective for her, according 
 to my idea, though she was lovelier before her mar 
 riage ; there was more animation to her face more 
 heart, in short."
 
 58 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 
 
 " Oh, well, she can dispense with that ; it isn't 
 necessary for Mrs. James Gilbert. Didn't Lennox 
 fancy her at one time ? seems to me I remember 
 something of that kind." 
 
 " Yes, he was vastly pleased, but he was poor, 
 you know a captain in the army; that would n't do, 
 anyway. He was the best fellow in the world, 
 though not to be mentioned with Gilbert as true 
 as steel." 
 
 " "Well, he's got his six feet of earth,! suppose, by 
 this time ! " 
 
 " How ! what do you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, have n't you seen the report of the last en 
 gagement ? He was mentioned as amongst the slain." 
 
 The heavy window curtains before which they 
 stood swayed and shook, and a half-suppressed 
 moan went out upon the night air. 
 
 " Come, Morton, let's go and take an ice." They 
 moved away, while a white figure stole out upon the 
 piazza with faltering steps, and within hearing of the 
 brilliant music and light laughter, passed wearily up 
 and down. 
 
 " And I have been reveling in luxury, while he 
 was dying in a foreign land. Oh, Walter! Walter! 
 my life is all darkened hours. What a gilded lie I 
 have lived! The poverty I was warned against 
 from my childhood would have been far better than 
 this." A few moments more of heart-breaking 
 agony, and then, with tearless eyelids and a colorless 
 face, she entered the ball room. An hour after 
 wards she was handed to her carriage, with many 
 regrets and courtly compliments.
 
 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 59 
 
 Towards morning a staggering step came reeling 
 into the dressing-room, where she lay, half asleep, 
 upon the sofa. To a remonstrance from her, a 
 coarse oath was the reply, and then Oh, shame and 
 misery ! a blow that left a darkening mark upon 
 her white shoulder for many a long day afterwards. 
 The dark days had come ; she had her ray of sun 
 shine, though. " Dear little Charley, love mamma, 
 always love mamma, won't you, darling?" and the 
 baby would cling to her neck, as if he longed to 
 tell her of his love and sympathy. He was not like 
 his father she felt glad of that but the image of an 
 only brother, who died in boyhood. One day, with 
 the livid mark yet fresh upon her shoulder, but 
 shrouded with an Indian crape mantle, the gift of 
 the hand that dealt it, she sat in her slowly moving 
 carriage with Charley's soft, small fingers clasped in 
 hers. It was the fashionable hour of driving gay 
 groups rolled along, and gentlemen on horseback 
 subdued their mettlesome horses to pace beside the 
 window of some fair lady. Admiring eyes dwelt 
 upon the mother and child, and hats were lifted till 
 she passed. There were merry parties of bright 
 smiling faces, families of parents and children, yet 
 only she and Charley in that spacious carnage. 
 
 A sudden bustle, a loud, insolent laugh, and they 
 were stopped amid a crowd of vehicles, while the 
 driver of an open barouche was striving to force a 
 passage through the line of horses. 
 
 " Papa, papa ! See ! " cried little Charley. 
 Florence looked up ; there sat her husband, flushed
 
 60 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 
 
 with wine, talking in a noisy manner with a flashy, 
 
 painted thing known as Madame K , the actress. 
 
 The eyes of husband and wife met as they passed, 
 but to his bow of recognition she only gave a stately 
 stare, while slowly from her shoulders slid the In 
 dian mantle. Why do his red lips blanch as that 
 purple stain meets his view ? 
 
 Poor Florence ! it was the last drop in her bitter 
 cup. 
 
 " Florence, I want you to go with me, and call on 
 Madam K to-night." 
 
 She put the cup down from her lips, dismissed the 
 servant, and met his sullen look. 
 
 " Well, what'now ? Why don't you speak ?" 
 
 " I can't go to Madam K 's to-night," or any 
 
 other time." 
 
 " You shall ! " And uttering a terrible oath, he 
 rose from the table. 
 
 She rose at the same time, and confronted him. 
 
 " James Gilbert, it is time we understood each 
 other aye, strike me if you Avill," glancing at the 
 bruised shoulder, now turning a dull green, which 
 showed drearily through the thin muslin. 
 
 It was but a few words she said, yet he went out 
 with an altered mien. A divorce would never do. 
 She was too much admired for that. He liked the 
 buzz of admiration that always greeted them, and 
 the words, " Gilbert 's a lucky fellow." 
 
 That night Florence slept uneasily. Two o'clock, 
 and her husband not yet returned. It was no unu-
 
 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 61 
 
 sual tiling to be sure, yet now an undefined fear 
 crept over her. " Itark ! what is that ? " She starts 
 from the couch, throws on a dressing-gown, and goes 
 out upon the landing of the stairs. 
 
 " This way ; my missus is asleep. Somebody 
 must be sent to tell her." 
 
 " What is it, Cato ? " 
 
 " Massa's got a fall from the new horse, missus." 
 
 They bring him in on a shutter, covered over with a 
 cloth. It is all stained with blood, and the outlines 
 of his form look rigid and motionless. 
 
 Everything is done that human aid can do, but it 
 is useless. He only awakes to consciousness for a 
 few moments, and then he draws the pale, sad face 
 down to his, and asks her to forgive him. She 
 whispers comforting words, and, listening to them, he 
 falls asleep, never to awake on earth. 
 
 There was a clause in his will that left her penni 
 less if she married again, but Florence scarcely 
 thought of it ; the only man she would have bestowed 
 her hand upon was dead. What a chill the very 
 word sent to her heart ! 
 
 Daily up and down the beach walks a beautiful 
 woman, with a little boy of three or four years. Men 
 regard her with admiration and reverently lift their 
 hats to her stately greeting, and ladies court the 
 society of the high-bred Mrs. Gilbert. She heeds 
 it not ; a little child's prattle is sweeter to her than 
 the world's homage. 
 
 " Mamma, may Charley go and play on the lawn 
 with Eddie Clay ? "
 
 62 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 
 
 She ties on his hat, and with many kisses and in 
 junctions not to stray beyond the green, she lets him 
 go. While within hearing of their flute-like voices, 
 her attention is soon absorbed in Mr. Kingsley's 
 book, " Yeast." She comes to the line 
 
 " Oh, is it fish, or flesh, or floating hair ? " 
 
 when a shrill, piercing shriek, which makes her 
 mother's heart stand still, rings out upon the air. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! What can it mean ? " 
 
 She sees two or three gentlemen throw down their 
 cigars and rush towards the beach. Without shawl 
 or bonnet, she flies wildly down the stairs, across the 
 lawn, and meets them coming towards her. There is 
 quite a crowd of people, and in their midst a man, 
 dripping wet, bears a little child, its blue-veined eye 
 lids closed, and the golden curls reeking with water. 
 
 " Charley ! Charley ! " 
 
 Oh, the heart-breaking agony of those tones ! 
 But Charley neither speaks nor stirs. They carry 
 him in, and for hours he lies cold and pale on his bed, 
 while anxious faces cluster round, and busy hands 
 are active with remedies. et her " little sunbeam " 
 will not depart the rosy blood flushes the delicate 
 cheek again, and life comes back to the loving eyes. 
 
 " But where is my boy's rescuer ? You must bring 
 him to me, that I may thank him, Mr. Trevor." 
 
 She stands beside the drawing-room window, look 
 ing out with vague interest upon the gay groups, 
 when Mr. Trevor touches her arm and says, 
 
 " Colonel Lennox, Mrs. Gilbert."
 
 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 63 
 
 Breathlessly to the careworn, sunburned face, 
 she lifts her eyes ; she forgets to speak ; she forgets 
 the wondering gaze of Mr. Trevor ; only those 
 slightly-changed features, so dear to her heart, meet 
 her vision. 
 
 He sees her agitation, and that many eyes will 
 soon be upon them ; and oifering his arm, with a few 
 common words of courtesy, which recall her to her 
 self, more than anything, he moves away Avith her. 
 
 " It was quite a shock to see one whom we 
 thought dead, Colonel Lennox. We heard of you 
 as among the slain, in the last engagement at 
 Mexico." 
 
 " I recovered from wounds which were thought 
 mortal," was the brief reply. 
 
 " I can find no words to thank you for yesterday's 
 act of kindness towards my Charley," she says, 
 calmly, after a pause. 
 
 " Do not try, Mrs. Gilbert, it needs no thanks ; 
 't was a mere act of humanity." 
 
 So cold and calm ! Had he forgotten the past, and 
 the words " God bless you, Florence, in all dark 
 ened hours " ? 
 
 Up and. down, up and down, the long room he led 
 her, till her head swam, and her footsteps grew un 
 steady. 
 
 " You are faint, Mrs. Gilbert let me lead you to 
 the air." 
 
 " No, no, to my room." 
 
 They are alone in the quiet parlor ; alone, and yet 
 they stand side by side like strangers they whose 
 hearts once thrilled at a glance.
 
 64 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 
 
 " Walter, Walter, have you nothing to say to me ? 
 Have these six years withered the heart that once 
 bade ' God bless me in all darkened hours ' ? " 
 
 " Have the dark hours come to you, Florence 
 bright, beaming Florence ? You had wealth, and 
 luxury, and love how could it touch you ? " 
 
 " Do not mock me, Walter Lennox ! Such misery 
 has been mine such a dreary, darkened life, with 
 not one ray of love but my baby's to lighten it "; and 
 sinking down upon the lounge beside her, she buried 
 her face in her hands. He was by her side, his 
 soothing words in her ear. 
 
 " My poor Florence, has it come to this ? I thought 
 you were beloved and happy ; the world told me so." 
 
 " Happy ! Oh, Walter, the curse of an unloving 
 marriage was mine. You know not what scorn and 
 insult I have endured to expiate that sin." She 
 went over the bitter past briefly, softening as much 
 as possible all that was painful ; yet the loving heart 
 beside her read in the blenching cheek and faltering 
 voice what the lips failed to utter ; and when she 
 concluded, fond arms were around her, and fond 
 tones, breathing the same unchanging devotion of 
 other years, were murmuring in her ear, and bring 
 ing warmth and life to her chilled and weary heart. 
 
 " But remember, Walter, by my husband's will I 
 have nothing to bring you." 
 
 " Nothing to bring me, when you give yourself to 
 my keeping ? It is all I want, Florence. I would not 
 touch his gold it has brought us nothing but 
 misery."
 
 MARRYING A FORTUNE. 65 
 
 Before the autumn frost crisped the leaves, 
 Charley had a new papa. Years after, when a 
 younger Florence, with faltering tones, confessed her 
 love for one poor in everything save the priceless 
 wealth of a noble heart and blameless life, the mother, 
 still beautiful and admired, warmly gave her bless 
 ing and consent. The young daughter looked won- 
 deringly upon her parent's agitated face as she said : 
 
 "Ah, my Florence ! you cannot tell my happiness 
 at your choice. I have watched the suitors that 
 have hovered round my rose-bud with fear and 
 trembling fear lest the gay life we lead here might 
 turn your little head, and beguile your good sense 
 into the false belief that flattery and splendor are 
 equivalent to love." 
 
 The good, but somewhat gay and coquettish girl, 
 took these words of counsel and approval from that 
 reverently admired mother to her inmost heart, and 
 lived to prove their truth in after years of happiness.
 
 Pi 
 
 e. 
 
 ORIGINAL. 
 
 SsT is the opinion of many, at least we should judge 
 ^P so from their actions, that provided a thing is ac 
 complished, it is of little consequence how it has been 
 done. This is a sad mistake, and I would caution 
 every one, especially such as are entering on the 
 stage of active life, from indulging such an opin 
 ion. When the great Athenian orator was asked 
 what was the first requisite in a public speaker, he 
 replied, action ; when asked what was the second, he 
 still answered, action ; and the same question being 
 proposed a third time, the answer was the same ac 
 tion. The Earl of Chesterfield, whose letters are au 
 thority on rules of politeness, placed as much stress on 
 manner as Demosthenes did on action. " If," says he, 
 " I were asked what would most promote the interests 
 of a young man, entering the world, I should say 
 manner ; if the next thing necessary for this purpose, 
 I should say manner ; and if the third, still manner." 
 I am not prepared to go all lengths with Lord 
 Chesterfield on this particular point ; but as he was 
 educating his son for a courtier, it was necessary to 
 insist on his paying strict attention to his manner
 
 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 67 
 
 and address. I am, however, persuaded that if the 
 Earl was too strenuous on this subject, the generality 
 of mankind too much neglect it. In our inter 
 course with the world, we cannot have failed to re 
 mark the comparative ease with which those get 
 along who have made it their study to do things in a 
 proper manner. If we listen to the speaker in the 
 senate, at the bar, or in the pulpit, we shall be forci 
 bly reminded that his success mainly depends on the 
 manner in which he delivers himself. A production 
 which in print would afford very little entertainment 
 or instruction, will be listened to with great delight, 
 and even edification, if delivered in an easy, forcible, 
 and graceful manner. On the other hand, a dis 
 course replete with instruction, classical taste, and 
 beautiful imagery, often falls listless on the ear, and 
 excites no pleasurable emotions, from the dull, inele 
 gant, or awkward address of the speaker. 
 
 When we step aside from these more prominent 
 examples into the ordinary intercourse of life, the 
 rule still holds good. We are naturally led to esteem 
 and countenance those whose manners and actions 
 are distinguished by suavity and courtesy. So em 
 phatically true is it that there is a right way in do 
 ing things, that you may make a man your enemy 
 in granting him a favor, and make a friend of him, 
 even when you deny his request. You may bestow 
 a kindness in so blunt and ungracious a manner that 
 he who receives it will lose sight of the obligation for 
 the favor conferred, and scarcely thank you ; and 
 on the other hand, you may deny with so good a
 
 68 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 
 
 grace, and such manifest regret, that you will win 
 the esteem of the person whose petition you reject. 
 Manner is to matter what cookery is to meat. Two 
 dishes may contain precisely the same ingredients, 
 and yet while the one will be delicious, the other will 
 scarcely be palatable. 
 
 This brings to my mind a circumstance in my own 
 experience, which not inaptly illustrates the import. 
 ance of attending to minutiae. In the days of my 
 boyhood, my father's family was frequently visited by 
 a gentleman who for several years had resided in the 
 United States. His conversation was much relished 
 by our family, and more especially by the younger 
 branches. He was a kind of Peter Parley in the 
 social circle, and we always hailed his approach as 
 affording a promise of an interesting and instructive 
 visit. I can see, in my mind's eye, myself and my 
 brother sitting in our little chairs at his feet, and 
 drinking in with delight his graphic description of 
 matters and things which had come under his notice 
 while in foreign lands. I am not sure but that this 
 gentleman first fired my young bosom with the spirit 
 of adventure, and led me at an early age to roam 
 the Avorld. Be this as it may, I was completely 
 captivated with his conversation, nor was it less 
 relished by the elder branches of the family ; for he 
 was well-informed, happy in description, and could 
 embellish the most barren subject by a pleasing 
 method of narration. In the course of one of his 
 visits he had mentioned with approbation having 
 eaten pumpkin pies in America. This annunciation
 
 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 69 
 
 produced among the female portion of his audience 
 the most evident marks of surprise. What ! make 
 a pie out of a pumpkin ? They would as soon have 
 thought of making one from a turnip. The conclu 
 sion was hastily adopted in their minds that he must 
 be in jest. On the assurance, however, that it was 
 a sober fact, the next conclusion was not less hasty : 
 that those who could relish such a dish must possess 
 a barbarous taste. Our friend left us, but not before 
 he had appointed a time when he would spend a day 
 at our house. As he resided some miles from my 
 father's, he was in the habit of setting the time for 
 his visits. 
 
 The story of the pumpkin pie seemed to make a 
 strong impression on my good mother, and weighed 
 heavily on her spirits. It was such an anomaly in 
 the history of pies, such a startling exception to the 
 best established rules of pastry economy, that she 
 could scarcely credit the story, much less acquiesce 
 in the judgment and taste of the narrator in pro 
 nouncing it excellent. The result of her meditations 
 was a resolution to test the truth by actual experi 
 ment ; and that the advocate of pumpkin pies might 
 be triumphant or confounded, she determined that 
 the pie should make its appearance on the table, on 
 the very day when he next visited us. I have never 
 seen the pumpkin cultivated in England as an article 
 of food, either for men or cattle. In France, I have 
 seen it frequently in the market ; and it is used by 
 the poorer inhabitants in their vegetable soups. 
 There was, however, a gardener in the vicinity of
 
 70 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 
 
 my father's who raised a few, but I know not what 
 use he made of them. To him application was made, 
 and for a shilling, a fine and rich pompion (for so the 
 word is spelt and pronounced in England) was pro 
 cured. The pumpkin was brought home and depos 
 ited in the pantry, to await the day of trial, no doubt 
 greatly to the astonishment of the cook, who was at 
 a loss to imagine to what culinary purpose it could 
 be put. As my brother and myself were in the secret, 
 we awaited with no small degree of impatience the 
 appointed day, big with the fate of pumpkin pies. 
 I cannot suppose that the wheels of time moved 
 more slowly than usual in bringing the desired hour, 
 but they appeared to do so, and that to us was the 
 same thing. The tardiness of time is in this respect 
 like a fit of hypochondria ; imagination becomes a 
 reality to the sufferer, and fills him with all the pains 
 and inconvenience that the actual disease would pro 
 duce. 
 
 There was no small stir in the kitchen department 
 on the day when the expected guest was to make 
 his appearance. The pumpkin was brought out and 
 placed, like a subject for dissection, on the table. A 
 deep dish was brought, a rich crust of paste lined it, 
 and the knife was raised to slay the pumpkin. I 
 have no doubt that my mother trembled, and that 
 the servants, who were spectators of the unheard-of 
 deed, were filled with dismay at the awful experi 
 ment. The unhappy pumpkin was, however, soon 
 divided, and subdivided, cut up in its natural state, 
 in pieces about as large as it is customary to cut the
 
 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 71 
 
 fruit in making an apple pie ; next, it was placed in 
 the dish appointed for its reception, being well 
 sugared and spiced ; next, it was surmounted with a 
 coverlid of paste, and finally consigned to the oven. 
 At the usual hour our old friend made his appear 
 ance, and one or two more were invited to partake 
 of the feast. The dinner passed off much in the 
 usual manner, except a gentle hint, which my good 
 mother could not repress, that there was a favorite 
 and delicate dish in store, and that ifc would be well 
 to "keep a corner" for that. On clearing away 
 the meat, sure as fate, the pie made its appearance, 
 large, deep, and smoking hot. It was suggested that 
 the dish was of foreign parentage, and a hope was 
 expressed that due honor might be done to the 
 stranger. My good mother dealt it out to the ex 
 pectant guests in no stinted measure, and requested 
 them, if not sufficiently sweet, " to sugar for them 
 selves." Alas, the want of sweetness was its least 
 failing ! My brother and myself narrowly watched 
 the countenances of the guests, with that unerring 
 knowledge of physiognomy which even children pos 
 sess. Our observations were anything but favorable, 
 and the promise they afforded of pleasure in partak 
 ing of the delicacy, far from flattering. A wry 
 face and a crash between the teeth proclaimed the 
 presence of the pumpkin, but it did not argue that it 
 was a dainty morsel by any means. An unwillingness 
 to discredit the cookery, and a feeling of courtesy, 
 obtained for the raw subject a reception which he 
 would not have otherwise enjoyed. My parents,
 
 72 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 
 
 who, of course, by the established laws of etiquette 
 were the last to partake, felt unquestionably some 
 what mortified at the feeble encomiums which were 
 passed on the occasion. One, wishing to disguise 
 his abhorrence of the raw material he was champ 
 ing, modestly remarked that " he thought the fruit a 
 little too crisp." Another had no question of its 
 goodness, but he never was partial to fruit pie. A 
 third more bluntly and honestly said that it was not 
 quite baked enough. But now the time had arrived 
 for my mother herself to test her own experiment, 
 and I shall not soon forget the look of utter dismay 
 she gave on tasting the pie. On the very first 
 mouthful, the very first crack at the vegetable, the 
 whole concern exploded. It was pronounced hor 
 rible, detestable, unfit for any one but a savage or 
 barbarian. All eyes were now turned to our " trav 
 eled friend," on the strength of whose description the 
 pie had been made. His face was red, tears start 
 ing in his eyes, his hands on his sides, and he was 
 choking, not with pumpkin, but laughter. I do not 
 know but that my mother gave him a worse look than 
 she did the pie when she first stuck her teeth in its 
 uncooked contents. But the joke was too good to 
 yield to a dozen such looks, and it was not till 
 his laughter had found a vent that an explanation 
 took place. My mother accused him of having 
 trifled, in his declaration that the Americans ate 
 pumpkin pies, and that they were good. He as 
 stoutly maintained that such was the sober fact. 
 This led to the inquiry how they were made, and
 
 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 73 
 
 the mystery was at once revealed. My good 
 mother had got everything that was good of its 
 kind into the pie, but unfortunately she had forgot 
 ten to stew the pumpkin! 
 
 Benjamin Franklin tells us that the first bargain 
 which he ever made was a very bad one. He gave 
 all his pocket-money for a penny whistle. In after 
 life, when he saw men sacrificing substantial good 
 for useless trifles, he used to moralize and say " they 
 pay dear for their whistle." 
 
 The story which I have related above carries with 
 it* a suitable moral, and as I write for instruction as 
 well as amusement, I beg to press it on the attention 
 of the reader. It is true, as a general remark, that 
 the materials which life furnishes are the same to all, 
 but the happy disposition of the parts is our own 
 individual care. And here the reader will perceive 
 that he is brought to the very point from which we 
 set out, namely, the importance of manner as well as 
 matter. A slovenly, careless, or indifferent method, 
 will very much detract from the best performance. 
 It is unimportant whether such a disposition refers 
 to the body or the mind. It is the sentiment of 
 Horace, that there exist certain limits within and 
 beyond which moral rectitude cannot exist. I am of 
 the same opinion, and I would carry the sentiment 
 into all the details of life. There is a certain fitness 
 and propriety, the neglect of which, if not positively 
 ,a vice, is at least negatively a want of correct prin 
 ciples of action. Whenever a good sermon or ora 
 tion of any kind is spoiled for the want of a little
 
 74 THE PUMPKIN PIE. 
 
 study to give it proper effect whenever any virtue 
 is exhibited so coarsely as to deprive it of its loveli- 
 nesss whenever any action, in short, however 
 meritorious, is ungraciously performed we feel con 
 strained to express our regret, and say of the agent 
 in the case, " What a pity that he did not stew 
 his pumpkin." C. F.
 
 HE only correct definition of poetry appears to 
 be : the delineation of the beautiful and the 
 true as existing above, in, and around us. The ma 
 terials, therefore, may be considered ample ; 'the 
 only difficulty lies in not finding or appreciating 
 practical objects, and the want of skill in arranging 
 the emotions which such objects call up in the mind. 
 Numbers and melody are not at the command of 
 every one who may enter deeply into the poetic in 
 spirations created by an object of nature or art ; 
 and, consequently, while much that is written is not 
 poetry, much that is actually so remains unwritten. 
 
 If poetry embraces the wide range that we have 
 assigned it, of the beautiful and the true, it is evident 
 that nature must be the most fruitful source of in 
 spiration. Art generally ceases to be either beau 
 tiful or true, when it deviates to any considerable 
 extent from nature. This must be felt by any one 
 conversant with painting or sculpture, in which the 
 greatest effects are always produced by approxima 
 tion to nature ; and the more faithful the delineation, 
 or in other words, the closer the adherence to na 
 ture, the more complete the triumph of the artist.
 
 76 POETRY. 
 
 No man or woman ever looked upon the celebrated 
 statues in the Medicean Gallery at Florence, with 
 out feelings assimilated to poetical ones. They may 
 not, as in the case of Byron and thousands of others, 
 have taken the shape of verse, but in the speechless 
 admiration was embodied the soul of poetry, though 
 they themselves were not perhaps conscious of the' 
 fact. Why this deep feeling in a work of art ? 
 Because they see in the work nature herself ; the 
 glorious inspiration of genius ; the embodying of the 
 beautiful and the true, that with them may have 
 been hitherto only ideal. 
 
 The man who stands for the first time and gazes 
 on the beautiful and majestic columns of the Parthe 
 non at the temple of Jupiter, feels a mingled emo 
 tion of admiration and sublimity, for the existence of 
 which he is scarcely able to account. Place him in 
 the midst of one of our primeval forests, when the 
 o'erarching, magnificent trees tell of countless ages 
 gone by, and in the massive trunks and interlaced 
 canopy he traces the rich and unequaled original, 
 and finds that in his admiration of art he has only 
 bowed to the copyist of the mighty Master. Nature 
 then, is full of poetry, because all the elements of 
 the beautiful and the true are there combined. Art 
 furnishes the materials only as an imitator. No one 
 can look abroad on the beautiful earth, with its 
 mantle of rich green and smiling flowers, without 
 feeling that flowers are indeed " the poetry of the 
 earth." How much that is delightful do these little 
 mementoes call up : recollections savoring deeply of
 
 POETRY. 77 
 
 the poetry and the freshness of youth. Flowers tell 
 of rambles in the meadow chases after the golden- 
 winged butterflies tokens of affection and love ; alas, 
 that they, like the flowers should so often and so 
 early fade ! the mystic language of passion and 
 love, read with blushes and remembered with tears, 
 sometimes of joy, but oftener, we think, of sadness ; 
 and not infrequently they speak a deep-toned mor 
 ality to which all would do well to take heed. 
 
 The lessons they inculcate are of the purest kind ; 
 the truths they teach, such as no one should forget. 
 In their rich buds we see the opening promises of 
 childhood's spring; in the withered and scattered 
 petals is found a no less lively emblem of the close 
 of man's fevered career. The shortest-lived flower 
 has scarcely to wait for the fading of the child that 
 with it commenced its bright and sunny career. 
 
 Look at that beautiful little girl. Wild, playful, 
 confiding, affectionate, fearless, and full of love, the 
 very picture of sinless innocence and heavenly hope. 
 Now her arms are around your neck, now her child 
 kiss is on your cheek, and now her curling hair is 
 floating in the summer wind as she bounds over the 
 green turf, frolicsome as the kitten or the spaniel, 
 her companions. There is health on her cheek, 
 there is freedom in her movements, there are light 
 ness and joy in her heart. Thoughts of conquests, 
 and equipages, and settlements, have never yet 
 found a place in her dreams deep and passionate 
 emotions have not yet left their traces on her heart, 
 nor disturbed the quietness of her summer's sea
 
 78 POETRY. 
 
 soul, which constitutes the hell or heaven of woman, 
 is in its ordinary shall we say degraded ? sense to 
 her unknown, and the thousand causes that will yet go 
 to make up the sum total of her weal or woe, have 
 not yet commenced their exciting operations. The 
 hateful passions that " mixing with the world " is so 
 apt to engender and foster, and from which the young 
 can hardly hope to escape, have not found a place or 
 left their dark stains in her pure bosom. She is 
 now poetry itself; living, moving poetry; an incar 
 nation of the beautiful and the true. Would that 
 she could always remain so. 
 
 Stars are the " Poetry of Heaven " traced by 
 the Almighty's own hand, and not the less worthy of 
 being read, because we do not, like the astrologers 
 of old, find revealed in their glittering lines the 
 mysteries of fate and the destiny of man. How 
 exquisitely delightful to stand and see as the twi 
 light deepens into darkness, as objects on earth, one 
 after another, fade and go out the dust of the 
 sapphire court of heaven changing to gems of fire 
 beneath His feet who upholds creation. We pity 
 from our soul the man who can look on the glorious 
 garniture of the skies, the golden west, with its piled 
 up masses of purple clouds, the planets wheeling 
 their wide rounds to their own eternal music, the 
 stars glittering in their own sea of light, at incon 
 ceivable and illimitable distances, and not feel that 
 he who can comprehend the smallest part of the mag 
 nificent plan, and weigh and measure the smallest 
 of those celestial bodies, must be more noble than
 
 POETRY. 79 
 
 the dust he treads, more durable than planets, or 
 stars, or systems. He must, indeed, be but imper 
 fectly organized, who can spend a single eve of mild, 
 sweet summer, beneath the blue, o'erspreading sky, 
 and not feel that the beautiful and the true are before 
 him, nor experience the least moving of the Divine 
 afflatus. Such a man was not Derzhavan, when, 
 with the works of the Creator before him, and fully 
 imbued with feelings of His majesty and power, he 
 chose for a theme that great name whose power 
 upholds, supports, and circles all. 
 
 GOD. 
 
 0, Thou eternal One, whose presence bright 
 All space doth occupy, all motion guide, 
 Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight 
 Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! 
 Being above all beings ! Mighty One, 
 Whom none can comprehend, and none explore, 
 Who fill 'st existence with thyself alone ; 
 Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er, 
 Being whom we call God, and know no more. 
 
 In its sublime research, philosophy 
 May measure out the ocean deep, may count 
 The sands, or the sun's rays ; but God, for thee 
 There is no weight nor measure : none can mount 
 Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark, 
 Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try 
 To trace thy counsels infinite and dark ;
 
 80 POETRY. 
 
 And thought is lost, ere thought can soar so high, 
 Even like past moments, in eternity. 
 
 Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 
 First chaos, then existence ; Lord, on thee 
 Eternity had its foundation. All 
 Sprung from thee ; of light, joy, harmony, 
 Sole origin ; all life, all beauty thine. 
 Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
 Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine. 
 Thou art, and wert, and shall be, glorious, great, 
 Life-giving, life-sustaining potentate. 
 
 Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround 
 
 Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath, 
 
 Thou, the beginning with the end hast bound, 
 
 And beautifully mingled life and death. 
 
 As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze, 
 
 So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee ; 
 
 And as the spangles in the sunny rays, 
 
 Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
 
 Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. 
 
 A million torches, lighted by Thy hand, 
 Unwearied wander through the blue abyss ; 
 They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, 
 All gay with life, and eloquent with bliss. 
 What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light ? 
 A glorious company of golden streams ? 
 Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright ? 
 Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? 
 But Thou to these art as the noon to night.
 
 POETRY. 81 
 
 Yes, as a drop of water in the sea 
 All this magnificence in Thee is lost. 
 What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? 
 And what am I then ? Heaven's unnumbered host, 
 Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
 In all the glory of sublimest thought, 
 Is but an item in the balance, weighed 
 Against Thy greatness is a cipher brought 
 Against infinity. What am I then ? Naught. 
 
 Naught : but the effulgence of Thy light divine, 
 Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too. 
 Yes, in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine, 
 As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
 Naught : but I live, and on hope's pinions fly, 
 Eager towards Thy presence ; for in Thee 
 I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, 
 Even to the throne of Thy divinity. 
 / am, God, and surely Thou must be ! 
 
 Thou art ; directing, guiding all : Thou art ; 
 Direct my understanding then to Thee ; 
 Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart. 
 Though but an atom 'midst immensity, 
 Still I am something fashioned by thy hand ; 
 I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, 
 On the last verge of mortal being stand 
 Close on the realms where angels have their birth, 
 Just on the boundaries of the spirit land.
 
 82 POETRY. 
 
 The chain of being is complete in me ; 
 
 In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
 
 And the next step is spirit. Deity, 
 
 I can command the lightning, and am dust ; 
 
 A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god. 
 
 Whence came I here, and how ? So marvelously 
 
 Constructed and conceived ? Unknown ? This clod 
 
 Lives surely through some higher energy, 
 
 For from himself alone it could not he. 
 
 Creator ? Yes. Thy wisdom and Thy word 
 Created me. Thou source of life and good, 
 Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord, 
 Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude 
 Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
 O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear 
 The garment of eternal day, and wing 
 Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere 
 Even to its source, to Thee, its author there. 
 
 thought ineffable ! vision blest ! 
 Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee, 
 Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, 
 And waft its homage to thy Deity. 
 
 God ! Thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar, 
 Thus seek Thy presence. Being wise and good 
 'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore ; 
 And when the tongue is eloquent no more 
 The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.
 
 POETRY. 83 
 
 There are few objects in nature more poetical, or 
 calculated to make a deeper impression on the mind, 
 than the " deep, deep sea," with its immensity of 
 waters, booming its sullen roar upon a thousand 
 shores, and with its tone majestic melting into har 
 mony the rich melody of " nature's anthem." There 
 is no more tangible representation of immensity and 
 power than the ocean, and he who looks upon it for 
 the first time experiences emotions he cannot willingly 
 forget. Mountains are another object of earth, 
 sublime and poetical in the highest degree. There 
 is something so majestic, something which speaks of 
 eternity, in their " thunder-smitten pinnacles," that 
 we partake of feelings which can find expression 
 only in the language of poetry. Coleridge's Hymn, 
 written in the vale of Chamouni, in the presence of 
 Mont Blanc, is a splendid proof of such influence 
 on the philosopher and the poet. Large rivers, deep, 
 full, drawing their waters from a thousand sources, 
 but lost at last in the abysses of the ocean, 
 a type of time swallowed up in eternity, form 
 a part of that transcendent poetry which forms 
 part of His works who creates objects and harmo 
 nizes all His designs. Mortals, when listening to 
 the music of nature, sometimes catch a few of its 
 tones, and repeat, though at an immeasurable dis 
 tance, some of the faintest of its harmonies ; then 
 they give us poetry, unwritten to them ; poetry from 
 the true source of inspiration, the beautiful and the 
 true. 
 
 What man or woman is there who has not felt
 
 84 POETRY. 
 
 poetic imaginings crowding upon them when in. the 
 still beauty of a summer's evening they have gone 
 forth and seen the fire-fly flashing in the forest gloom, 
 while on the masses of foliage that swell and heave 
 upward in the margin, the silver moonlight lies piled 
 like drifted snow. There is but a shade of difference 
 between poetry and love ; is it strange, then, at such 
 a moment, when the heart is most susceptible of 
 impressions belonging to the beautiful and the true, 
 the two should spring up together, or that one 
 should sometimes be mistaken for the other. The 
 religion of the Catholic is the religion of poetry. 
 The dim-lighted cathedral, the solemn music, the 
 rich paintings, images that banish ideality, and the 
 service of the incense, all speak of the passions, all 
 belong to poetry rather than to the understanding. 
 Love, too, is mingled ; but who cannot see that 
 in the cathedral as well as in the conventicle, it is 
 a love tinctured with earth, insensibly, perhaps, but 
 not the less deeply. The male devotee offers his 
 prayers to the Virgin, and the woman Mary is pres 
 ent with him rather than the Mother of God. The 
 nun, young and beautiful, disappointed in her affec 
 tions perhaps, and secluded from the world, kneels 
 before the crucifix, pure in heart, though still with 
 affections belonging to human love, worships the 
 man, Christ Jesus. Love is from the Deity, and in 
 its aspiration it naturally flows thitherward again; 
 and though all that is human has some stains of 
 earth, the more its wings are cleansed from these, the 
 higher will be its flight, and the nearer its approach
 
 POETRY. 85 
 
 to the unspotted love of heaven. Is there no danger 
 that with the gifted and mind-illumined, poetry 
 may take the place of religion, as earthly feel 
 ing sometimes usurps the throne of Uranian love ? 
 We fear this. 
 
 By some, the high moral lessons and life-giving 
 doctrines of the new dispensation have been deemed 
 unsuitable to poetry, as wanting the high grandeur 
 and mystical sublimity of the old. Even this, in the 
 hands of Byron and Moore, proved sadly wanting in 
 poetic inspiration, if the Sacred Melodies of one, and 
 the Hebrew Melodies of the other, are to be consid 
 ered as the natural results of the study of the Scrip 
 tures. Fortunately, the proof is abundant that the 
 fault in these cases was in the men, not in the theme. 
 Their wings were so clogged with the night dews of 
 earth, the mephitic exhalations of sensuality, that 
 they were unable to rise to the high argument before 
 them. Not so with Milton and Milman, who found 
 the harp of Isaiah, even though touched by unin 
 spired fingers, still gave out tones of unequaled har 
 mony. 
 
 We think our examples will establish our notion 
 of poetry, and prove our definition, that it is a 
 delineation of the beautiful and the true. Still, there 
 are some who cannot feel poetry, and who do not 
 love it. It is but a short time since we heard a 
 young gentleman of tolerable education, and consid 
 erable pretensions to ton, declare that poetry was his 
 abhorrence, and that he never read it. Such want 
 of sympathy with nature would make us afraid of
 
 86 POETRY. 
 
 any man, as furnishing incontestible proof of aberra 
 tion in the organization. To be not able to write 
 poetry is no disgrace ; to not properly appreciate it 
 is wholly another affair, as closing to us the volume 
 in -which is written, more than in any other, the most 
 splendid efforts of genius, and exhibited with un 
 rivaled clearness the highest glories of creation. 
 
 A. S. D.
 
 BY MRS. R. FRAZER. 
 
 ^EAVING Sacramento about a year since, for 
 the purpose of traveling through Oregon to 
 sell a little book which I had written, to raise means 
 to finish a house which I proposed to use as a semin 
 ary, I traveled by railway as far as Bed Bluff. It 
 was nine o'clock at night when the stage agent passed 
 through the car, calling out : " Any one going to 
 Yreka, price twenty dollars." Our stage passengers 
 consisted of a little Scandinavian, his big wife and 
 five small children. .This family were from Minne 
 sota. The climate being too cold to remain there 
 any longer, they thought of settling somewhere in 
 Oregon. 
 
 The driver, who, by the way, was an affable fellow, 
 looked in the stage coach and asked me (we were 
 then quite near Soda Springs) if I would like to 
 ride > outside. I willingly accepted the offer, and 
 quickly ascended to the driver's seat. The scene 
 here was enchanting, on both sides of the road. Just 
 before sunset, the roaring and tumbling of the waters 
 of the springs, the reflection of the setting sun on 
 the spray sparkling like thousands of sapphires, the 
 coolness of the atmosphere, all blending, as it were,
 
 88 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 together the scene was most lovely. It was now 
 June, and all nature iti that region had put on her 
 brightest green. 
 
 After riding thirty hours, we arrived at the town 
 of Yreka. Stopped at the hotel kept by three par 
 ties, two of them Germans, the other a Canadian, 
 Mr. Lebeaux. I will here mention, the Yrekans 
 feel much indebted to our San Franciscans for the 
 aid rendered to them during the time of the burning 
 of the business portion of their town. 
 
 A line of stages runs from Yreka to Fort Jones, 
 a few miles distant. The fort is abandoned by 
 the troops ; it was now occupied by an aged Baptist 
 minister and his family, to prevent any one from cut 
 ting the timber on the reservation ; but the old man, 
 I was told, raises some fine crops there. Returning 
 from the fort to Yreka, the stage stopped at a pub 
 lic house, to hitch to the stage some wild mustangs, 
 for the purpose of breaking them on the road, in 
 order that they may be used for staging. An 
 invalid from Callahan's Ranch and myself were about 
 to enter the coach, when a man said to us, " You had 
 better remain until to-morrow, for I must assist the 
 driver in cudgeling those wild horses." " I have no 
 objection to your business, if it is to whip mustangs, 
 that is none of my affair, but I shall go," and I 
 entered the stage with fifteen Chinamen outside, and 
 the remainder inside. Just as I was seated, the 
 young man alluded to gave me a glance, remarking : 
 " I know you, I met you some years since, when you 
 resided at Fort Tejon. Well," said he, " I have
 
 "TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 89 
 
 been employed at this business so long a time, I feel 
 I am quite a wild horse myself." 
 
 The next morning the stage coach left for Oregon. 
 Our passengers were three gentlemen and a little 
 boy, en route for Portland. " Well," said the stout 
 gentleman, who was seated beside me on the back 
 seat, " only one lady passenger, I am informed at 
 the hotel." 
 
 " You are traveling for the purpose of selling your 
 books ? " " Yes." (I happened to have a copy in my 
 lunch basket.) He looked at it, asked me the price. 
 I replied " One dollar." Said he : "It certainly 
 will be to your interest to sell me one for half price, 
 as my home is in Portland ; when I get there, I will 
 praise the book." He paid me fifty cents, and then, 
 looking through its pages, he happened to notice a 
 line written thus " Pray deliver me from women poli 
 ticians." " Here," said he, " I am for women's 
 rights, I will return you the book, if you will give 
 me back twenty-five cents," and he screamed at the 
 highest pitch of his voice : " How can this be ? Can it 
 be true, that a woman who has written a book does 
 not believe in women's rights ?" He still kept scream 
 ing, " Hurrah for women's rights ! " 
 
 " Now, sir," said I, " the birds, you have so 
 frightened by your pleading in such vigorous lan 
 guage, they have ceased their warbling ; but there is 
 something certainly behind the scenes, why you are 
 so much for women's franchise ? it must be you are an 
 office seeker, and if the truth is known, you have 
 been to Washington for that very purpose." " Ah,"
 
 90 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 said he, " I am puzzled to know that a lady, like you, 
 disapproves of your sex wearing the breeches," and 
 looking up I saw a smile on his face, and he was 
 casting side glances to a passenger who sat opposite. 
 
 We had arrived at the station, where we changed 
 horses, and my friend, the stout gentleman got out. 
 I asked the young gentleman who sat opposite, if he 
 was acquainted with our strong patron of woman's 
 suffrage, " Strange to say," said he "his name is 
 Smith, so is mine. We are not related, but you 
 have guessed the truth ; he is a politician, and on his 
 return to Portland from Washington, and the repre 
 sentative of the republican party. He has been to 
 France to learn French, and for the two years past, 
 studying law in Washington, D. C." 
 
 " All aboard ! " said the driver, and quickly the 
 passengers were seated. We were very soon at the 
 pretty village of Ashland. I left the coach bade 
 my traveling friends good-by, wishing them a safe 
 journey to Portland, they wishing me much success. 
 
 The hotel was owned and kept by Mr. Hough, a 
 German, and the price of board moderate. Ashland 
 is situated some miles beyond the line which divides 
 California and Oregon. I remained a few days, 
 succeeded in selling my books, and found some ready 
 to help me more than I had bargained for. The 
 good landlord said to a gentleman one morning, " As 
 you are a carpenter, do mend the corner of this 
 lady's box; you see it is light redwood, and she 
 makes so many changes on the road, the road is so 
 rough." " All right," said the stranger. Returning
 
 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 91 
 
 to the hotel, lo and behold, the box was not mended, 
 but another of strong white wood, planed and sand 
 papered inside and out, brass hinges on the lid, 
 screws and screw driver. " Why ! " said I to the 
 landlord, " He is no better than a Christian." 
 
 The next morning I left for Roseburg. This is a 
 charming and thriving town in the Umpqua Valley, 
 of about five hundred inhabitants ; it is on the banks 
 of the Umpqua river, and the county seat of Doug 
 las County, one hundred and fifty miles south of 
 Salem, and on the overland road from Portland to 
 Sacramento. It has two newspapers, four churches, 
 good public and private schools, etc. 
 
 Douglas is an agricultural and stock-raising 
 county. There is an abundance of good timber land, 
 the water is excellent, the climate pleasant, and the 
 scenery varied and beautiful. I tarried here ten 
 _ days, sold some books, and left at one o'clock in the 
 morning's stage for Jacksonville, the county seat of 
 Jackson County, a flourishing town in southern 
 Oregon. It is located on the western side of the 
 celebrated Rogue River Valley, on the Portland and 
 Sacramento stage road, distant two hundred and 
 ninety-five miles from Portland, and three hundred 
 and forty miles from Sacramento. 
 
 Jacksonville contains between six and seven hun 
 dred inhabitants. It possesses some handsome build 
 ings within its corporate limits, and is justly celebrated 
 for the salubrity of its climate, and the beauty of the 
 surrounding scenery. 
 
 I remained in Jacksonville three weeks, did well
 
 92 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 at canvassing, and left for the pleasant town of 
 Eugene City, the county seat of Lane County, which 
 was named after its founder, Eugene Skinner. It is 
 situated on the west bank of the Willamette River, 
 and is distant one hundred and twenty-four miles 
 south of Portland. This point is considered to be 
 the head of steamboat navigation on the Willamette 
 River, and steamboats from Portland connect with it 
 regularly during the greater part of the year ; also a 
 daily line of cars on the Oregon and California Rail 
 road connects Eugene with Portland and all the in 
 termediate points along the line. This village now 
 contains a population of nearly 1,200, and has two 
 public schools well attended, an excellent academy 
 for teaching the higher branches of education, six 
 churches, four Sunday schools, one Court House, 
 one Masonic and one Odd Fellows Lodge, two news 
 papers, numerous stores, shops, etc., etc. 
 
 I must here allude to the ladies of Eugene City. 
 I found them always ready to aid me without asking 
 the second time. I really believe I called on each 
 one there. There are some three or four good hotels. 
 I boarded at the one kept by a lady, her name I do 
 not remember. 
 
 My canvassing done in Eugene City, I took the 
 cars for 
 
 ALBANY, 
 
 The county seat of Linn County, is built on the 
 east bank of the Willamette River, thirty-five miles
 
 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 93 
 
 above Salem, and about eighty miles south of Port 
 land. It contains a population of over 2,000, and 
 has the reputation of being one of the neatest, 
 healthiest, and one of the most prosperous towns in 
 Oregon. The expenses of living are moderate. Its 
 pleasant location, and unlimited water power, com 
 bine to make it one of the most promising settlements 
 in the State. Its schools are of a high character. 
 There are several houses of worship, and each suc 
 ceeding year adds to its population, importance, and 
 wealth. 
 
 Among the industries in successful operation are 
 two of the finest grist mills in the State (of which 
 Abany is the granary) one running by water, the 
 other by steam ; and many factories, stores, hotels. 
 Two weekly newspapers are published in the city. 
 I stayed a fortnight in Albany. Success here as 
 elswhere-. The hotels are well supplied with good 
 eatables, prices are not extravagant. The coach at 
 the door to convey passengers to the cars, so I am 
 away for 
 
 SALEM, 
 
 The county seat of Marion County, and the cap 
 ital of Oregon, is advantageously situated on a gentle 
 slope on the east bank of the Willamette River, at 
 a point navigable for steamers at all times of the 
 the year, and distant fifty miles southwest from 
 Portland, and sixty-two miles from the Columbia 
 River. It is also on the line of the Oregon and Cal-
 
 94 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGOX. 
 
 ifornia Railroad. Salem is a city 'of large blocks and 
 broad streets, contains 5,000 inhabitants, and has more 
 churches, in proportion to the population, than any 
 other city on the Pacific Coast. There are five 
 public schools, partly supported by State and direct 
 taxation, and several private educational establish 
 ments. The Willamette University, located at 
 Salem, is an elegant brick structure, erected a cost 
 of $30,000, and ranks among the best educational 
 institutions on the coast. The Roman Catholics also 
 have a Sisters' school, and an academy of some 
 standing. Every kind of manufactures flourish, and 
 asylums, which are too numerous to mention. I was 
 here ten days, sold some books, and left for the city 
 of Portland. 
 
 PORTLAND 
 
 Is a port of entry, and the county seat of Mult- 
 nomah County, which, although the smallest in area, 
 is the wealthiest county in the State. The city is 
 beautifully located on the west bank of the ^'illa- 
 mette River, twelve miles above its confluence with 
 the Columbia, and is built upon a plateau which grad 
 ually increases in hight as it recedes from the river, 
 thus aiFo'rding a magnificent view from the hills which 
 skirt the western limits of the city, from whence 
 may be discerned the majestic peaks of Mount Hood, 
 St. Helens, and Rainier, together with the entire 
 snow-capped region of the Cascade Range of moun 
 tains, which divide Eastern from Western Oregon.
 
 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 95 
 
 Looking directly down from Robinson's Hill, the city 
 is seen to best advantage its numerous churches, 
 school houses, and public buildings, whose domes and 
 spires rise far above the surroumding dwellings. Fur 
 ther eastward stands the prosperous town of East 
 Portland, whose streets resound with the shrill whis 
 tle of the locomotive ; whilst the placid waters of the 
 Willamette give a silvery charm to the landscape, 
 that must be seen in order to be appreciated. I 
 would advise strangers visiting Portland to be cau 
 tious of the water ; I give this advice simply because 
 I know by experience, to drink the water is unsafe to 
 any one, after traveling on the mountains of Oregon, 
 where the water is so pure. Take ice; so my pnysi- 
 cian prescribed. Unfortunately for the City of 
 Portland, the water is unfit to drink ; more particular 
 ly by strangers visiting there after crossing the moun 
 tains of Oregon, who are frequently troubled with this 
 terrible disease, chills and fever. Therefore I ad 
 vise all travelers to Portland, if they suffer from 
 chills and fever, to take steamer for Astoria, one of 
 the oldest ports on the Northern Coast, and certainly 
 one of the most healthy. I can say with truth, one 
 of the best hotels on that coast is the Arizona, which 
 has one of the most gentlemanly landlords. 
 
 Adieu, Portland, and friends who will ever be re 
 membered. 
 
 WASHINGTON TERRITORY. 
 
 Olympia, the county seat of Thurston County, and 
 the capital of Washington Territory, is the largest
 
 96 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 town on Puget Sound. It is beautifully situated at 
 the head of that great inland sea, and is about one 
 hundred miles east of the sea coast, and two hundred 
 southeast from the entrance to the Straits of Fuca. 
 There are five weekly, and two daily newspapers. 
 The families of many of the business men of Olym- 
 pia reside in a suburb called Swanton, situated 
 across an arm of the bay. Tumwater, another sub 
 urb of the town, nearly two miles south of Olympia, 
 is a manufacturing settlement, containing a saw mill, 
 flour mill, tannery, chair factory, pail factory, sash 
 and door factory, etc., and has about two hundred 
 inhabitants. I left this pleasant village, and the agree 
 able people of Olympia, disposing of many books 
 among them, after a sojourn of two weeks, and em 
 barked at nine o'clock at night, on the steamer 
 North Pacific, touching at all the way ports on the 
 sound, which are named Steilacoom, Tacoma, and 
 Seattle. 
 
 SEATTLE, 
 
 The county seat of King County, is situated on 
 the eastern shore of Puget Sound, sixty miles north 
 west of Olympia. The population is now over 1,000. 
 Every dwelling house, and every available place of 
 business is occupied. There are in the town about 
 twenty-five general stores, some of them doing business 
 on an extensive scale ; a large steam saw mill, and 
 two printing offices publishing weekly papers. 
 
 The farming country bordering the shores of the
 
 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 97 
 
 Sound is nearly all settled, for a distance of thirty 
 miles, but there is a large extent of the finest agri 
 cultural lands still unoccupied . The object of the 
 early settlers, was to secure farms having water 
 communication with Seattle, and thus it happens, 
 that some of the most valuable agricultural land 
 still remains open for settlement. I bade adieu to 
 friends at Seattle, where I found a people ready and 
 willing to patronize one who had wandered so far 
 away. 
 
 VANCOUVER, 
 
 The county seat of Clarke County, stands on 
 a gentle rise, beautifully situated on the left 
 bank of the Columbia River, one hundred miles from 
 its mouth, and one hundred and twenty miles south 
 of Olympia. It is at the junction of the beautiful 
 valleys of the Columbia and Willamette, on the 
 route of the North Pacific Railroad, and in full view 
 of the coast and Cascade Mountains. The river at 
 this point is more than a mile wide. It was on ac 
 count of its eligible position, that the site of Vancou 
 ver was selected in 1824, by the Hudson Bay Com 
 pany, for their entrepot and chief factory west of 
 the Rocky Mountains, and it continued to be their 
 leading trading port until 1860, when their term of 
 occupation expired. It became a military post in 
 1849, and General Grant was at one time stationed 
 there as Quartermaster. The town contains several 
 churches, some excellent schools, a United States 
 
 7
 
 98 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 garrison, a branch of the ordnance department, a 
 land office, and printing office publishing a weekly 
 newspaper. Vancouver has a population of about 
 nine hundred, and is connected by regular daily 
 steamer with Portland. The winters are mild, and 
 flowers bloom in the open air all the year round. 
 I returned to Olympia to take the steamer for Vic 
 toria. 
 
 BRITISH COLUMBIA. 
 
 Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, incor 
 porated by Royal Charter, is a well-laid-out town, 
 containing 3,000 inhabitants. It is beautifully situ 
 ated on the southern extremity of Vancouver Island, 
 opposite the mouth of Puget Sound. To vessels 
 drawing fifteen feet of water, the harbor of Victoria 
 is easy of access at all times, but larger vessels re 
 sort to the adjacent harbor of Esquimalt, the British 
 naval station three miles distant, which can be en 
 tered by the largest ships at all seasons of the year. 
 The climate is very genial, and the suburbs afford 
 delightful drives on fine roads with beautiful scenery 
 in every direction. 
 
 The city contains the Government buildings, the 
 residence of the Governor, numerous fine edifices, 
 substantial wharves, etc. It has three Episcopal, 
 two Catholic, one Presbyterian, and one Methodist 
 church. There are two daily papers. A consider 
 able business is carried on with Portland, Oregon, 
 by sailing vessels and steamers; and also with
 
 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 99 
 
 Washington Territory, a steam line trading regularly 
 between the principal ports on Puget Sound and 
 Victoria. I was anxious to visit the coal mine of 
 Nanaimo ; the steamer left her wharf at seven in 
 the morning. Accordingly, I arose earlier than usual 
 to go on board, but had I known the steward had 
 prepared a berth, expecting me on board that night, 
 I surely should have accepted the privilege. The 
 air at seven in the winter season here is extremely 
 cold, with not the least appearance of sunrise. The 
 passage was delightful. On both sides of the river 
 rose tall fir trees, which seen in the distance, and their 
 reflection in that most beautiful silent river, formed a 
 kaleidoscope of rare beauty. The mines are owned 
 by parties in England. I was told their best market 
 for shipment is San Francisco. There are farms 
 beyond and around Nanaimo ; but as I had taken 
 my passage on the steamer Idaho, for home, I 
 concluded two days would suffice ; therefore, I went 
 on board the night previous to the sailing of steamer. 
 Our passengers consisted of the Judge of the Su 
 preme Court, and a member of Parliament of Her 
 Majesty's dominions, several colored gentlemen, and 
 Indians. The English, I am compelled to write, are 
 the blackest Republicans I have ever traveled in 
 company with ; the meal was announced by the 
 kind mulatto steward. Said he, Ladies and gentle 
 men, please take your seats at the table. I was the 
 only white woman ; the other was a colored one ; but 
 what was singular for my eyes to witness, there was 
 the Judge at the head ; next to him sat three In-
 
 100 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 dians, two black men, the member of Parlia 
 ment, the colored woman, and myself. At first I 
 thought of waiting to dine at the second table, but 
 as I am considered a law-abiding citizen at home, 
 why should I act contrary to the law established in 
 our mother country. " Well," thought I, " here is 
 law carried out, and no mistake." 
 
 Our little steamer arrived at Victoria at six 
 o'clock in the evening, and when the morrow came, I 
 entered the hack, and left the Colonial, (the most 
 elegant, and best kept hotel in Victoria) and drove 
 to the steamer's wharf; her anchor drawn, her gun 
 is fired, and we are soon on the ocean for home. 
 The second night the wind blew a gale, we were 
 driven by fierce winds eight miles toward Victoria. 
 The engine, however, was still working. I was terri 
 bly frightened ; the steamer rolled so, and she 
 would make such plunges, it seemed to me all would 
 then and there find a tomb in the wild waters. But 
 the next morning the sea was becalmed, so we could 
 walk her deck. However, we had a quick passage, 
 two and a quarter days, all happy to arrive in San 
 Francisco. 
 
 Among the medical fraternity in this State, I can 
 not but tender my sincere acknowledgments to 
 Doctor Toland. 
 
 His acts of friendliness have not been conferred on 
 myself alone, who stood in great need of them ; but 
 upon many others, who perhaps will never in this
 
 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 101 
 
 public manner be able to attest their gratitude. 
 He has won a deservedly high reputation in his pro 
 fession, but not escaped the shafts of envy and mis 
 representation, which too often follow in the wake of 
 genuine merit. 
 
 That he has been a public, as well as a private 
 benefactor, is sufficiently attested by his magnificent 
 gift to the State University, of the Toland Medical 
 College. 
 
 That institution, under his supervision, has earned 
 a world-wide reputation and has been considered 
 the best school in the State for obtaining a thorough 
 medical education. Now that it has through his 
 generosity become a part and parcel of the State Uni 
 versity, it will continue to prove of no inconsiderable 
 advantage to the Alumni of the latter institution, 
 who desire to secure a thorough medical education. 
 Doctor Toland is one of the early pioneers, and his 
 success has been due as much to energy and atten 
 tion to his business, as to the possession of talent 
 and medical accomplishments. Some of the cures 
 which he has effected have been worthy of the most 
 accomplished physicians of Europe. 
 
 I know that he will take exception to this manner 
 of referring to him, and that he would prefer that his 
 good deeds and merits should be appreciated in 
 silence, without any public manifestation of them 
 whatever ; but I cannot let this opportunity pass, 
 however much it may prove distasteful to him, 
 without adding this public tribute to his worth. 
 
 There is an esprit du corps in the medical profes-
 
 102 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 sion which holds it steadfastly to a certain line of 
 conduct, and especially to a quiet, unobstrusive con 
 duct, when it relates to their merits or their abilities ; 
 and they are indeed so sensitive in this respect, that 
 they will resent the commendation of friends if pub 
 licly made, lest others might imagine that it was a 
 prearranged programme to earn undeserved praise. 
 The Doctor, I trust, will pardon me for this allusion, 
 remembering that, considering his great kindness, I 
 could do or say nothing less. He has achieved a 
 proud and independent position, and is above the 
 need of anything like adulation, and these remarks 
 certainly can call for no adverse criticism. 
 
 Another gentleman, occupying a high and respon 
 sible position in this State, and to whom I am under 
 some obligations, will give me an opportunity of mak 
 ing a few remarks, not so much, perhaps, with refer 
 ence to himself, as to the institution over which he 
 presides. I refer to Dr. Shurtleff and the State In 
 sane Asylum. 
 
 I have had occasion, very frequently, to make 
 visits to the home of the Insane, and to scrutinize 
 its various departments, and to consider the means 
 of discipline there employed in the cure and restor 
 ation of patients to their normal condition of health ; 
 and I must be permitted to say, that having had 
 some degree of experience with respects to the means 
 and manner best adapted to the treatment of the 
 insane, that the Asylum now conducted in Stockton, 
 under the supervision of Dr. Shurtleff, may favorably 
 compare with any like institution in America.
 
 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 103 
 
 . 
 
 Perhaps no other community in the world, its pop 
 ulation being taken in consideration, presents so 
 many different phases, as respects its passions, vicis 
 situdes, and life mutations, as that found in this 
 State. It follows, as a consequence, that insanity 
 itself, so far as it exists here, presents aspects and 
 conditions hardly to be found elsewhere, and that a 
 larger scope is offered for talent in its treatment. 
 
 That Doctor Shurtleff has proved equal to all the 
 exigencies of his position, is a fact fully attested by 
 the Press, by the medical faculty, and more espec 
 ially by those who, through his instrumentality, 
 enjoy the society of friends restored to reason, who 
 at one time gave every indication of being snatched 
 forever from communion with them. 
 
 Having occupied so responsible a position for many 
 years, despite the mutations of political parties, it 
 has afforded him experience, and is an evidence that 
 he will continue to discharge its duties for many 
 years to come, both to his own satisfaction, and to 
 that of the people of the State. 
 
 While upon this topic, I can hardly refrain from 
 referring to the exhaustive report made by Dr. 
 Wilkins, with reference to the Insane ; a report 
 founded upon an examination made by him of the 
 various prominent institutions established in Europe, 
 for the government of this unfortunate class of peo 
 ple. I hardly believe, that in any other work extant 
 upon this subject can be found more useful informa 
 tion, and more practical hints, calculated to prove of 
 lasting benefit, than in the report in question. Those
 
 104 TRAVELING THROUGH OREGON. 
 
 > 
 
 who give this subject their attention, although it may 
 not bring them fame and the applafuse of the multi 
 tude, will nevertheless enjoy the pleasing satisfaction, 
 in their own minds, of having proved genuine bene 
 factors of the human race.
 
 : k >[ 
 
 ew 
 
 BY MRS. C. M. SAWYER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 'ORE than seventy years ago, there stood on 
 a gentle slope of one of the rugged hills of 
 New England, a massive stone building, curiously 
 rambling in its construction, spacious in size, and 
 bearing the date 1668 deeply cut into the heavy 
 block surmounting the doorway. Old as as it was, 
 however, it was externally in a state of good pres 
 ervation. Its high peaked gables and broad porches 
 were, though moss-grown, entire ; and its long nar 
 row windows, just two panes in width, still boasted a 
 moderate complement of panes, albeit they were 
 gray and thick with long gathered dust. It was a 
 deserted house ; no footsteps resounded upon its silent 
 floors, and no smoke now ascended from its huge 
 chimneys. 
 
 Yet, though the very air around it spoke of desola 
 tion, it would be impossible to imagine a more pictur 
 esque scene than that which surrounded this noble 
 old dwelling. Rich dark hemlocks and mountain
 
 106 THE WITCH, 
 
 pines lifted their tall heads high up the hill-side in 
 its rear ; an interminable virgin forest stretched far 
 away to the blue horizon in its front, its right was 
 flanked by a large irregular field, or garden, where, 
 on a little knoll hard by the dwelling, its gray roof 
 just peering above the tangled weeds and briars, 
 stood an old crumbling family tomb, the last long 
 home of the generations who once tenanted the now 
 silent dwelling. 
 
 On the left, a tolerably clean lawn sloped suddenly 
 downward to a deep dell, through whose narrow bot 
 tom rushed a brawling stream, of sufficient capacity 
 to carry a mill as was attested by the crumbling 
 ruins still overhanging its banks, and whose ponder 
 ous wheel, from whose dilapidated floats depended 
 a drapery of long, green, slimy moss, added not a 
 little to the beauty of the dell. It added to its lone 
 liness, too, for 'its desertion and inactivity constrasted 
 strangely with the ever-restless hurry of the waters. 
 
 Yet ruined as they were, the solitude of the whole 
 premises seemed unnatural and strange : like that 
 of a place resting under a curse. And perhaps it 
 was 'so. Why else did even the stranger, around 
 whom the twilight settled suddenly down, involun 
 tarily quicken his steps, and glance furtively behind 
 him as he passed it ? Be all this as it may, it was a 
 marked spot ; for it was believed to have been the 
 theater of unholy deeds, and for leagues around bore 
 the name of the " Haunted House." 
 
 x 
 
 About a mile from this place, and on the same 
 beautifully winding thoroughfare, stood a small log
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 107 
 
 cabin, of the simplest and neatest character. Un 
 like most dwellings of so rude a construction, its ex 
 terior was picturesque, and even elegant ; for it was 
 almost completely embowered in a luxuriant drapery 
 of woodbine and bitter-sweet, their scarlet and pur 
 ple berries contrasting gaily with the rich green of 
 their heavy foliage. A little sign swinging at the door, 
 and which gave humble notice of rest and refresh 
 ment to be found within, sufficiently indicated the 
 calling of its occupants. 
 
 It was occupied by a disabled revolutionary sol 
 dier, of the name of Boyle. He had gone forth a 
 prosperous and hale young man, and after faithfully 
 serving his country through more than three quarters 
 of the war, maimed and broken down by long suffer- 
 ing and wounds, had received an honorable discharge, 
 and the full amount of his wages in Continental cur 
 rency one hundred dollars of which hardly sufficed 
 for the purchase of a single bushel of corn. 
 
 Few friends had he to welcome him back to a 
 home that, during his absence, had passed into the 
 hands of strangers. Yet, although his case was 
 too common a one in those hard days of trial to win 
 from most persons more than a passing expression of 
 pity, there were still some who contended that his 
 country was ungrateful, and that though herself 
 poor, she was still able to do something for those 
 who had given all but their bare lives for her. Boyle, 
 however, was of a different opinion, and in spite of 
 premature old age, and the frowns of fortune, reso 
 lutely maintained a cheerful front, and a good humor
 
 108 THE WITCH, 
 
 perfectly unexampled. He possessed a few acres of 
 land, and on this he determined to begin life anew. 
 By the aid of the few widely scattered inhabitants 
 of the region, a neat cabin was in a short time piled 
 together, and furnished with the few rustic articles 
 then considered necessary. A little sign-post hung at 
 the door, and a nice young girl, hardy, loving, and 
 good-humored, to whom he was in earlier days en 
 gaged, offered to become his wife, and, after many 
 objections on his part, was gratefully accepted. 
 
 Let no one in this deem the simple-hearted girl 
 unmaidenly. Had her lover been as he was ere war 
 so sadly mutilated him, the world would not have 
 tempted her to the step ; but poor wreck as he had 
 become, she well knew he would never seek to per 
 suade her to unite her fate with his, and she there 
 fore nobly took the matter into her own hands ; and 
 it is a sufficient proof of the happiness they shared, 
 that after six years' union, at the period of which 
 we now write, she had never yet wearied of his tales 
 of the war, but heard them for the hundredth time 
 as kindly as at first, loving him all the better for his 
 misfortunes. 
 
 His days thus flowed on in a peaceful serenity 
 seldom accompanying the closing years of men whose 
 trade has been war. Eminently social in his dispo 
 sition, his contentment as well as his purse was eked 
 out by the chance visitors, generally of the humblest 
 order, who shared the hospitalities of his cabin. 
 
 One evening, as Boyle sat smoking his pipe in his 
 doorway, watching the gorgeous sunset, whose gold-
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 109 
 
 en sheen lay over all the forest, and waiting for his 
 wife, who early in the morning had gone to Marl- 
 wood the nearest village, some six miles off to 
 make some little purchases for the household, an old 
 man with a long gray beard, a knotted staff in his 
 hand, and a knapsack at his back, came slowly toil 
 ing up the road. He was apparently a stranger, 
 for he several times stood still to gaze around him, 
 as if seeing the neighborhood for the the first time. 
 At length, walking directly to the door of the little 
 inn, he inquired if he could have entertainment for 
 the night. 
 
 "My house is open to all honest people," replied 
 the old soldier, making room for the stranger to en 
 ter, " and if you can content yourself with such 
 food as sinners live on, you are welcome to stay." 
 The traveler made no reply, but silently taking off 
 his hat, and laying aside his knapsack, sat down, 
 and asked for a drink of water. 
 
 " Hadn't you better have a mug of cider? " sug 
 gested Boyle, by way of opening a conversation. 
 But the traveler silently shook his head, looking 
 withal so pale and reserved as quite to dishearten 
 the worthy host in his design of drawing him out. 
 
 " Are you all alone in this neighborhood ? " he at 
 length inquired. 
 
 " Except the beasts and birds of the woods, I 
 have no nearer neighbors than the ghosts of the 
 haunted house," replied Boyle, quite enlivened by 
 even this dubious subject. 
 
 The stranger stared him in the face " What do 
 you mean ? "
 
 110 THE WITCH, 
 
 " Oh, nothing ! only they say the old stone house, 
 above here a little way, is haunted." 
 
 " What reason have they for thinking so ? " in 
 quired the stranger, with some interest. 
 
 " Well, they do say that strange noises are heard 
 in the empty old chambers, and I can affirm that 
 strange sights are seen there, for I have seen them 
 myself three times within the week, while I have 
 been hunting for my old cow, who has taken a strange 
 fancy to straying off in that dirfection ; and yet no one 
 has lived there since the old 'Squire died, which is 
 seventeen years come next Christmas. Nobody could 
 stay there after that, I can tell you." 
 
 " Why not." 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you ; though it is a story people 
 don't think it best to talk much about. You see 
 old 'Squire Beaumont had only one child, a daugh 
 ter named Alice, and she was beautiful and good, 
 only a bit spoiled by indulgence, and a little wilful 
 sometimes, as was natural with all the petting she 
 got. Her mother had died when she was just a 
 babe, or, you see, she might have been better gov 
 erned. Howbeit, that is neither here nor there ; 
 but of course, with all his wealth and her beauty, 
 her father felt that he had a right to look pretty 
 high for her. And so he had but bless you, where 
 was he to look ? There was ne'er a young man in 
 all the region that he would have thought good 
 enough for her. 
 
 " It happened one summer that a foreign painter, 
 that they called an artist, came wandering up
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. Ill 
 
 into these parts to make pictures of the neighbor 
 hood. His name was Hubert Delisle. He was a 
 man of middle age, but handsome to look at, and 
 dressed like a bird. The old 'Squire soon got ac 
 quainted with him, for he had a winning way, and 
 invited him to his house. It was not long, you may 
 be sure, before a great love sprung up between the 
 artist and his daughter, and they made it up be 
 tween them that they would be married. But, Lord ! 
 you should have seen what a rage the old 'Squire 
 was in when they broached the subject to him. He 
 ordered the artist out of the house, and shut hie 
 daughter up in her chamber. But you see Alice 
 had a bit of her father's spirit, and so, in spite of im 
 prisonment, she never would give the promise he re 
 quired, to have no more to say to him. After a few 
 days, however, the artist disappeared from the neigh 
 borhood, and then the old man let his daughter 
 out. Weeks went by, and he did not appear again, 
 and her father thought, to be sure, he had left the 
 country ; but as sure as I live, I saw him myself 
 late one moonlight evening going into that house 
 with another man, dressed in a long black gown. 
 Pretty soon, I saw a light in Alice's window, and 
 different shadows passing before it. I was puzzled, 
 you may depend, for I never saw him again, though 
 I have no doubt she did ; but I always thought they 
 were married that night." 
 
 " What made you think so ? " inquired the 
 stranger, with a startling kind of earnestness. 
 
 " Because by and by a change came over Alice
 
 112 THE WITCH, 
 
 she grew ill, and shut herself up, and whispers went 
 abroad against her good name. 
 
 " Her father, who before was a tyrant, became 
 a savage, and God only knows all that poor girl suf 
 fered. He dismissed all his servants except one 
 old crone, as bad as himself, and there the poor thing 
 was. 
 
 " I was sometimes hired to work in the garden, for 
 you see I was a stout young man then, and I often 
 heard stifled screams in the house, and it was my 
 belief the old tyrant horsewhipped her. At length 
 all came out. 
 
 " One day, after more dreadful screams than com 
 mon, and just as I was throwing down my hoe determ 
 ined to face the lion in the den, and find out what 
 the matter was, the old man came out, looking savage 
 and frightened, and told me to go for the doctor. 
 I jumped on the old horse, and went as fast as I 
 could ; but it was ten miles to where he lived, and the 
 roads none of the best, and before the doctor could get 
 there a baby was born before its time, and the mother 
 was dead." 
 
 " But why," inquired the stranger, pale and agit 
 ated, " did not somebody interfere ? " 
 
 " The only house within seven or eight miles was 
 'Squire Ellicott's, and that was about half way to 
 Marl wood. I had a little hut in the woods near 
 this, for you see I used to do chopping when I didn't 
 get work at either 'Squire Beamont's or 'Squire 
 Ellicott's. But Lord, if there had been, I should 
 like to see the man who would have dared to inter 
 fere.
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 113 
 
 " I believe he repented sorely of his cruelty when it 
 was too late, for he was greatly changed, and spent 
 nearly all his time walking about his garden, pulling 
 the weeds from the old tomb where his daughter lay ; 
 and it was not long before he was quite gray and old, 
 and had the look of a man who was struck with some 
 terror. And he was, as I will tell you. 
 
 " For some time after the birth of that child, it 
 wailed and moaned incessantly, night and day no 
 body could quiet it, do what they would. At length 
 one night it suddenly stopped its wailing, and the 
 old woman, who lay in bed near the cradle, saw the 
 dead mother looking just as she did when she was alive, 
 only pale, bending over the cradle, tucking the little 
 creature warmly in, and rocking and singing to it in a 
 sweet low voice, until it fell into a soft quiet sleep, 
 and did not awake until morning ; and so every 
 night after that, at just the same hour, she always 
 came and tucked the baby in and soothed it to sleep. 
 The old 'Squire would not believe anything of it at 
 first, but he watched for the apparition, and it struck 
 him with terror that turned him gray, and he never was 
 himself again. But the child throve under the dead 
 mother's care until a year elapsed, when she ceased 
 her visits perhaps not allowed to take care of her 
 baby any longer. 
 
 " But then more dreadful visitations took place. 
 Footsteps were heard all over the house, and screams 
 just like those I used to hear before Alice died ; till 
 by and by the old man gave way before them, and 
 died, I do believe of terror and remorse. Then the
 
 114 THE WITCH, 
 
 house was shut up, given over to the devil, and no 
 one has lived in it since." 
 
 " But what became of the child ? " inquired the 
 stranger, who had listened with an interest so in 
 tense as to call great drops of sweat to his brow. 
 
 " Why, the old Squire left her with the property ? 
 in the care of a friend but here comes my wife." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
 of the hostess^ a pretty, fair-faced little woman, who 
 greeted her husband with a broad, affectionate smile, 
 and the guests with a modest courtesy. Placing her 
 basket on the table, she drew a chair by her husband, 
 and sat down. 
 
 " I hear great news at Marlwood !" said she, 
 taking off her bonnet, and gravely smoothing back 
 her soft brown hair. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Well, they say messengers were all day coming 
 and going yesterday, from Ellicott House, inquiring 
 after Alice, who, it seems, had been missing three 
 days, before any of the servants knew it. People 
 think she is lost in the woods, because she was fond 
 of walking there to gather wild flowers. Everybody 
 is out scouring the woods in all directions, blowing 
 horns, and doing their best ; and Ellicott, who only 
 got home yesterday, is raving like a distracted man, 
 and asking why they did not send in search of her 
 earlier ; and it comes out that he was engaged to 
 Alice, while Madam Ellicott meant, and everybody 
 thought, he was going to marry her daughter, Clara 
 Linmore."
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE, 115 
 
 The old soldier sat with his hands on .his knees, 
 and was for some time silent. At length he looked 
 up in his wife's face. 
 
 . " And so they are scouring the woods for her, are 
 they ? It is my opinion they will not find her there. 
 It is my opinion that Madam Ellicott is an awful 
 woman ; she and that cousin of hers are a pair to 
 cook any devil's broth. And so Madam Ellicott 
 meant he should marry her daughter, did she ? Yes, 
 and I have no doubt she means so still." 
 
 All further remarks of the angry and surprised old 
 soldier were suddenly interrupted by the entrance of 
 a new and singular looking guest. It was a tall, 
 haggard old woman, erect as an arrow, but of a 
 swart, lifeless complexion, that was strangely and 
 startlingly contrasted, as well by the long white 
 locks that trailed over her face, as by the two small 
 jet-black, glitttering eyes, that, like two snakes from 
 their lair, peered out from their deep, hollow sockets. 
 Her dress was as peculiar as her face. It consisted 
 of a long, black serge dress, scanty and coarse, and 
 secured at the waist by a thick, woolen girdle, while 
 enclosed in a leathern sheath and fancifully wrought 
 at the handle, was thrust a long, heavy knife. A 
 short, but full gipsy-hooded cloak, of a rich scarlet 
 color, enveloped her head and shoulders ; and a 
 basket, half filled with roots and herbs, hanging at 
 her arm, completed her costume. 
 
 All, even the traveler, drew shrinkingly back as 
 she entered, and the hostess, turning pale, gathered 
 her garments closely to her person, to avoid the pos 
 sibility of contact.
 
 116 THE WITCH, 
 
 The movement was not unobserved by the woman, 
 and it seemed to intensify the unholy and malignant 
 expression of her countenance, for it covered it with 
 a sneer. 
 
 " Give me a mug of cider," said she, in a hollow, 
 husky voice, at the same time darting around the lit 
 tle circle a keen, snaky glance, which rested long on 
 the face of the stranger. 
 
 " I have been gathering herbs to make a draught 
 for a sick dog," she continued, with a leer that was 
 absolutely frightful, " and am both weary and thirsty." 
 
 The trembling hostess soon appeared with a small, 
 brown earthen jug of cider, which the old woman 
 emptied at a draught, when laying a small bit of 
 silver on the table, she turned to go away. 
 
 " Take your money again," said Boyle anxiously, 
 " I charge nothing for cider." 
 
 " I take nothing for nothing," she replied, in a 
 surly voice, and left the house, turning, as she did 
 so, another piercing look at the face of the traveler. 
 
 " Wife, take the pitcher and the money, and throw 
 them both out of the window." 
 
 " Not I," exclaimed the little woman, shrinking 
 back, " you'll not catch me touching anything that 
 old woman has handled." 
 
 Without another word Boyle arose, stumped along 
 to the hearth, and taking the tongs, with them delib 
 erately picked up the bit of silver, dropped it into 
 the pitcher, and then threw both into the door yard. 
 
 " Wife, where is the horse-shoe ? " he anxiously 
 inquired, as he stepped back into the cottage. 
 
 " Why, nailed up there, is it not ? "
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 117 
 
 " No : Oh, here 't is, fallen down on the ground. 
 The cow will give bloody milk to-night, if she never 
 did before." 
 
 " Do nail it up again," said the wife, running to 
 him with the hammer and a nail. This was im 
 mediately done, and the old soldier sat down and 
 wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve. 
 
 " It was unlucky that that should be off the house 
 when she came." 
 
 " Why, who is she ?" inquired the traveler, who 
 had been curiously watching the operations of the 
 good soldier. 
 
 " A witch," murmured the host, looking uneasily 
 around; "but we must- speak low; they say she 
 can hear through stone walls." 
 
 " Pshaw ! you old dunce," interrupted the little 
 hostess, whose courage, under the spell of the horse 
 shoe, was fast expanding. 
 
 " She can," persisted the old soldier, " and it is 
 well known that she has dealings with bad spirits. 
 Do you hear that wailing sound away off in the 
 woods ? It is the noise they make when they meet 
 her." 
 
 " She may be an evil spirit herself. What is her 
 name ? " 
 
 " Her name is Moll Pitcher, but people here 
 abouts generally call her The Witch." 
 
 " And does she live hereabouts ? " 
 
 " A few miles away, in the woods, in a little cot 
 tage built by her own hands," said the hostess, tak 
 ing up the tale. " She has lived there many years,
 
 118 THE WITCH, 
 
 and although she is looked upon with terror by most 
 persons, there are others who have great confidence 
 in her skill as a doctress, for she has done some won 
 derful cures. They have employed her in the Elli- 
 cott family for some time ; but I think no better of 
 her for that, for Madame Ellicott and a cousin who 
 lives there are neither of them much better them 
 selves. She can tell fortunes, find anything that is 
 lost, make love-philters, and people whisper, distill a 
 poison that is instant death." 
 
 " But does any one know anything of her origin 
 and history ? " 
 
 " The story is, she is a French Canadian ; that 
 when young she was very beautiful, and that a rich 
 young man, falling desperately in love with her, per 
 suaded her to leave her parents and come with him 
 to our Colonies, and in the end left her to her fate. 
 The whole matter that any one really knows is, that 
 she is a witch. It is a great pity that the Governor 
 suffers her to go at large. They did things better 
 in Salem. There they burned and drowned them." 
 
 " But you never would have Moll Pitcher, wicked 
 as she may be, suffer in that way, would you ? " 
 pleaded the little wife. " I think some others are to 
 blame for many things she does. Madame Ellicott 
 got her to prepare a love philter, and they say " 
 
 At this moment the clatter of horses' hoofs was 
 heard, and two young men spurred up to the door of 
 the inn. 
 
 " We are in search of Alice Beaumont," they 
 hurriedly said. " Have you heard or seen anything
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 119 
 
 of her yet ? " The grave shrug of the hostess' 
 shoulders was a sufficient reply, and without waiting 
 for anything further they galloped away. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In Ellicott House great changes had taken place 
 since the death of its former mistress, the first lovely 
 and good wife of the old squire. A second marriage 
 had followed the severance of the first, after a not 
 very long time. The lady that was chosen to supply 
 the place of the first wife was in every respect her 
 opposite. Much younger, gay, haughty, and ambi 
 tious, she had the art of appearing soft and lovely 
 the very embodiment of amiability. Many who knew 
 her well wondered why she should marry an old man, 
 and, leaving all the gaieties of city life, settle down 
 in the wild and secluded fastnesses of a mountain 
 State, with a man nearly twice her own age. But 
 those who knew her ambition and his wealth had no 
 difficulty in solving the problem. 
 
 The family of Mr. Ellicott at the time of his second 
 marriage consisted of his only son and child, Alfred, 
 a boy of about fifteen years ; the little orphan girl, 
 Alice Beaumont, confided to him at the death of her 
 grandfather, and now ten years old ; and a few old 
 servants. To these Madame Ellicott had added 
 another, a little girl by her first marriage, of the 
 same age of Alice ; and a cousin of her own, named 
 Robert Grayton.
 
 120 THE WITCH, 
 
 Soon after the marriage, Alfred was sent away to 
 acquire, in the preparatory schools and University 
 of Cambridge, that thorough education which his 
 own State had as yet no means of bestowing. 
 
 Meanwhile, the naturally stern old man, in the 
 hands of his artful wife, gradually yielded up his 
 authority and will, until he was a mere child, whom 
 she governed and moulded with a skill and tact 
 more honorable to her head than her heart. In the 
 execution of her various plans she was aided by Gray- 
 ton, whose moral qualities were not of an order to 
 throw any barrier in the way, whatever might be the 
 services he was required to perform. 
 
 A prominent plan, and one to which every other 
 ultimately tended, was to secure to herself the bulk 
 of the Ellicott estate, which, for that day and coun 
 try, was very large. To this end all her blandish 
 ments and arts, and they were neither few nor in 
 effective, were called into requisition. Smiles and 
 caresses, soft and enthralling as those of Delilah, 
 charmed and bewildered the old man, and the in 
 fluence of his wife grew every day more unbounded. 
 But after years of undiminished effort, there was one 
 thing she could not understand her absolute in 
 ability, notwithstanding all her apparent influence, 
 to effect her one great purpose. The matter was en 
 veloped in all the mist possible, to so adroit a man 
 ager, and yet he seemed to see through it. 
 
 " Alfred is a good son," he ever replied to all her 
 attacks, open and covert, " why should I cut him 
 off?"
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 121 
 
 It was in vain that between herself and her cousin 
 a will was concocted, and absolutely written ; but 
 parental affection still kept the mental vision clear to 
 that one thing the rights of his child when it was 
 dimmed to nearly everything else. He would not 
 sign it ; and for the first time in her life Madame 
 Ellicott doubted her own infallibility. 
 
 Her failures thus far, together with the completion 
 of Alfred's studies at Cambridge, and his final return 
 home, at length induced the step-mother to a change 
 of tactics. A noble and commanding, but gentle- 
 hearted young man his handsome, earnest counte 
 nance perfectly mirroring all that dwelt within 
 she regarded him at first with a strange mixture of 
 hatred and admiration a natural enemy, whom she 
 must either conquer or win. Nothing doubting her 
 own powers of fascination, she soon determined on the 
 latter, and her daughter was the medium through 
 whom she designed to effect her new purpose ; rightly 
 judging that as the husband of Clara, his wealth and 
 honors could be made to reflect on herself. 
 
 It would be perhaps doing Madam Ellicott in 
 justice, to deny that in this final plan she was in some 
 sort actuated by a regard for the happiness of her 
 child, whom, next to wealth and power, and as much 
 as her cold, calculating heart would allow, she really 
 loved. But that love was of a selfish and iron charac 
 ter, little harmonizing with the timid and gentle nature 
 of her child, who was a creature apparently almost too 
 tender and fragile for this world. 
 
 Fair as the fairest lily, her delicate young face
 
 122 THE WITCH, 
 
 lighted by eyes of the softest, loveliest blue, and 
 draped by long, wavy, golden curls, her graceful 
 floating little person seemed that of some exquisite 
 sylph, whom a rude breath would extinguish. 
 
 With a heart as loving as ever beat in a maiden's 
 bosom, she had only one friend, and she was of that 
 peculiar nature that could not understand how one 
 could have more. This friend was Alice Beaumont. 
 Her she loved with her whole heart, and during the 
 nearly eight years in which they had been insepa 
 rable companions, the strong intellect and brave heart 
 of Alice were ever as a shield before the weakness 
 and timidity and somewhat feeble intellect of Clara, 
 protecting and sustaining her in many a domestic 
 trial, when she would otherwise have given way. It 
 was well for Alice that her nature was thus brave. 
 In the time of the former Mrs. Ellicott, her days had 
 been all sunshine, for in that estimable lady she had 
 found a protectress, tender and loving as a mother. 
 In Alfred, also, she found a companion, gentle and 
 devoted, and so attached to his young playmate that 
 no one like her could perform the little services of 
 love, which a petted boy requires of the household. 
 These services he was ever ready to requite ; and so 
 she became the light and joy of the household good 
 and loving and beautiful. 
 
 But before many years, Alice learned that life has 
 cloud as well as sunshine. Her protectors died, and 
 long ere the deep sorrow of her young heart was 
 soothed, another took her place, who with the unerr 
 ing tact of childhood, she at once perceived was not
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 123 
 
 worthy to fill it, and she involuntarily shut up her 
 little heart against her. 
 
 So shrewd a woman as the new wife could not 
 fail to detect this incipient dislike in the little girl, 
 whose large black eyes turned away with a sort of a 
 shrinking look whenever she met them ; and she at 
 once made up her mind that she would be trouble 
 some, and must, in some way, be disposed of. 
 
 Until Alfred went away to school, however, Alice 
 knew not how great were the changes and trials in 
 store for her. He was a tall, commanding boy, and 
 was a check and protection, where both were needed. 
 But he left her, and then, no one could tell how, a 
 strange sense of oppression began gradually to be 
 felt through all the household. A certain insincer 
 ity in Madame Ellicott, an under-current of constant 
 deception, running through her daily life, and operat 
 ing in a thousand unseen ways, silently gathered 
 a cloud over the happiness of the whole family, and 
 particularly over that of Alice. Why it was, she 
 could not tell ; but she felt, rather than saw, that 
 behind all the smiles of her new protectress there 
 was evil at work, Avhich would, by and by, fall upon 
 her. 
 
 Her first realization of this dread, she found in the 
 changed manner of her guardian. He grew cold 
 and reserved, and sometimes even harsh and bitter 
 towards her, until she felt like an alien in the house. 
 Nothing could have touched her like this, and her 
 sorrow was often increased, and her heart clouded, 
 by the smiling sneer or covert insult of his wife.
 
 124 THE WITCH, 
 
 It was long before the unobserving Clara perceived 
 that anything was amiss, in the manner of her mother 
 to Alice ; but strong affection quickened her percep 
 tions, and she gradually opened her eyes to the fact. 
 She was deeply grieved. 
 
 " Do not mind it, Alice," she would say, " I will 
 love you, let what will be, and nobody but you." 
 This strong love of the childlike girl comforted, and 
 by degrees became sufficient for her happiness. She 
 grew less sensitive to the coldness and insults of oth 
 ers, while she clung, protectingly, and with an ever 
 increasing love, to her disinterested friend. 
 
 The two girls had just attained their eighteenth 
 year, at the time when Alfred, having completed his 
 studies, and won the highest honors of his class, re 
 turned, happy beyond measure, to be once more at 
 home. Matters there were at once the better of his 
 presence. He shed a new life over the household, 
 and the troubled waters semed for a time at rest. 
 He was charmed with the grace and beauty of the 
 two girls, though often puzzled at the childlike Clara. 
 
 He could not understand how a mind should never 
 grow, and often gazed at the little figure floating about 
 him with an amused, bewildered air, as he would 
 upon some ethereal sprite, that might at any moment 
 vanish. He was not long, however, in feeling that 
 her deficiency in intellect found a more than com 
 pensation in the unvarying goodness of her heart, 
 and he strove, by every means in his power, to pro 
 mote her happiness. The keen and watchful eye of 
 Madame Ellicott was not slow to perceive her daugh-
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 125 
 
 ter had not made the kind of impression on Alfred 
 which she had hoped her peculiar beauty might en 
 able her to do. On the contrary, it soon became 
 evident to her, that it was on Alice Beaumont that 
 his eye, with the most interest, dwelt ; that it was 
 her wishes and tastes that he most frequently con 
 sulted. Here was an obstacle which, strangely 
 enough, she had not anticipated, but which threatened 
 to overturn her last plan. Her husband's health was 
 rapidly failing ; she felt that little time was now to 
 be lost ; and in her despair, she resolved upon one 
 more experiment, that of endeavoring to induce him 
 to make it a condition of his will, that Alfred should 
 marry her daughter. She accordingly redoubled 
 her attentions to the doting old man, and by wearing 
 and unceasing importunities, at length wrung from 
 him a promise to that effect. 
 
 It was only two days after this promise had been 
 given, that a nurse suddenly entered the breakfast 
 room, exclaiming Mr. Ellicott was dying. They hast 
 ened to his chamber, and found it indeed true ; his 
 last moments were evidently nigh. 
 
 " Alfred," said the dying man, turning to his son, 
 who stood gazing, pale with sorrow, on his father's 
 changing features, " you have been a dutiful and 
 good son ; and now, as a last proof of your filial love, 
 let me take with me to my grave your solemn 
 promise to obey my last injunction." 
 
 " I promise, father." 
 
 . The old man rose suddenly in his bed, and reach 
 ing out his hand, took that of Clara, who stood near.
 
 126 THE WITCH, 
 
 " I command you, then, to marry " A rattle 
 in his throat choked his further utterance, a sharp 
 spasm contracted his features, and he fell back, a 
 corpse. 
 
 The name had not been spoken, and nothing 
 could equal the chagrin of Madame Ellicott at the 
 fatal omission. Alfred, however, at the last moment, 
 well understood the matter, and deep was his anger 
 and contempt for the mother who would have thus 
 fettered him against his will. Too generous, how 
 ever, to make his sentiments known, he treated her 
 with the kindness of a son, sparing her every pain 
 ful office, while he himself quietly and reverently 
 performed all the sad duties which yet remained to 
 be rendered to the father who had ever been kind to 
 him. 
 
 After the last sad scene was over, and the remains 
 had been consigned to their final resting place, the 
 will was opened, when it was found that the whole 
 estate had been left to Alfred, with a strict injunc 
 tion that he should take such care of his step-mother 
 and her daughter as his love and reverence for his 
 father should dictate. The guardianship of Alice 
 was also solemnly bequeathed to him as a more than 
 orphan. No words could paint the chagrin and 
 mortification of Madame Ellicott at this unexpected 
 disposition of her husband's property. Scarcely lis 
 tening to the assurances of Alfred that everything 
 should be done for her comfort and pleasure, she 
 abruptly left the room, and shut herself in her cham 
 ber, there to brood over her disappointed hopes, and
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 127 
 
 to nurse her aversion, now become hatred, towards 
 Alice. A light knock at the door aroused her, and 
 ere she could say come in, Grayton stood before her. 
 " Well! " said he, after standing and gazing at her 
 for the space of a minute, " What now ? " 
 
 " What now ? " she angrily repeated ; " and have 
 you nothing better to say to me in my beggary and 
 despair ? " 
 
 " Beggary and despair ! What folly to give up 
 in this way, when Clara may yet marry Alfred, and 
 you remain mistress of Ellicott House. He prom 
 ised" 
 
 " Promised what ? No name was spoken. It 
 seems as if fate, determined to thwart all my plans, 
 cut the thread of the old dotard's life just at the one 
 only moment of my life when I was about to realize 
 my highest hopes, and the years of living death 
 I have endured were to be rewarded by position 
 and wealth." 
 
 " Why did you marry him, then, when you loved 
 me, and knew well that I would sacrifice everything 
 to win you ? " 
 
 " Because I loved wealth better than all things 
 else, and he was rich and you were poor " ; and the 
 tone in which she replied had in it the concentration 
 of all bitterness. " But why all this now ? Robert, 
 you were wont to find means to any end. What 
 shall I do now ? " 
 
 " Alice Beaumont must be removed at once." 
 
 Madame Ellicott started. " Where ? She has 
 not a friend in the world, and the infatuated Alfred
 
 128 THE WITCH, 
 
 would not allow her out of his sight if she had a 
 hundred." 
 
 " Alfred must go, in a few days, to attend to legal 
 business connected with the will. He cannot return 
 in less than four or five days. That will be time 
 enough to dispose of her." 
 
 " Robert, you shall not harm her." 
 
 " I understand you, my conscientious cousin," he 
 replied with a sneer, " but it is too late for you to 
 affect tenderness now." 
 
 " Robert, you are a knave." 
 
 " Knave or not, Ellen, I shall do you one service, 
 and then, as I am not likely to get the share of the 
 estate you promised me, I think I shall shake off the 
 dust from my feet, and seek my fortune elsewhere." 
 
 " Robert ! " 
 
 But he left the chamber without any other reply 
 than a sneering grin. Mrs. Ellicott followed him 
 with a terrified look for one moment ; then, sinking 
 back into her chair, compressed her lips, clenched 
 her two hands, and muttered, " Well ! " 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The young girls were together in their chamber. 
 Clara, who had been for some days ill, was lying on 
 her little snow-white couch, and Alice sitting by her 
 side holding her hand. Alice looked flushed and 
 uneasy, and silent tears were on the cheeks of her 
 friend.
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 129 
 
 They had been opening their hearts to each other, 
 and their conversation had been tender and confi 
 dential. Both had been for some days aware of the 
 unwomanly means by which Mrs. Ellicott had at 
 tempted to compel a union between Alfred and her 
 daughter, but for opposite reasons each had been 
 silent. But to-day some stirring of the heart had 
 unsealed their lips, and the pent-up stream had 
 gushed forth. Clara's tears flowed faster than her 
 words, and the kind and soothing caresses of Alice 
 were for a time in vain. 
 
 " How could she do so? " she sobbed ; " I would 
 not have him think me knowing it for the world." 
 
 " He will not, Clara. He knows how pure you 
 are. He will love you just as well." 
 
 " I do not want him to love me, Alice ; what do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Why, do you not love him ? " 
 
 " No, only as I would love a brother. And you 
 too love in that way. Alice, do n't you? " 
 
 A vivid flush overspread the face of Alice, as she 
 looked shyly in Clara's face, and answered " No." 
 
 Clara turned her eyes wonderingly on her friend, 
 and a new light seemed suddenly to break upon her. 
 Starting to her elbow 
 
 " Why, Alice," she exclaimed, " why did I not 
 
 see it before ! You certainly are in love with Alfred, 
 and all this time you never told me of it." 
 
 " I did not, my darling, because I knew all along 
 that your mother desired that you should be his 
 wife. I saw that you loved him, but could not tell 
 
 9
 
 130 THE WITCH, 
 
 exactly how, and I would say nothing until I was 
 satisfied on that score." 
 
 " And loving him, you would have sacrificed your 
 self for me ? Poor little thing that I am ! " 
 
 " Yes, Clara ; not because you are a poor little 
 thing, but because the true love in your large heart 
 has for years been my comfort, when others would 
 have made me miserable." 
 
 " And very wicked they have been, too, Alice. But 
 does Alfred love you? " 
 
 " He told me so the day before he left us." 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad ; and so you will by and by be 
 mistress of Ellicott House, and I shall occupy this 
 pretty chamber still, for we will always live to 
 gether." 
 
 A warm embrace ratified the treaty between the 
 two young girls, and an hour went by in the most 
 interesting conversation. 
 
 The hour of sunset drew near, and its clear, yel 
 low light streamed in through the honeysuckles 
 which draped the open window, dotting the floor with 
 a thousand little flecks, and flinging soft, waving 
 shadows quite across the room, to the easy chair in 
 which Clara now sat. Both had been for some time 
 absorbed in thought. 
 
 "It is so lovely this afternoon," Clara at length 
 murmured, holding out her little pale hand to inter 
 cept the light and shadow, which lay like soft, tremb 
 ling mosaic on its white surface. " How I wish I 
 could go out and walk ; do, Alice, go for me, and 
 gather me some of those wild honeysuckles and ger-
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 131 
 
 aniums, which grow just in the edge of the wood ; I 
 do so love the sweet flowers." 
 
 " And you shall have some in ten minutes," ex 
 claimed Alice, springing to her feet. And taking 
 her little white sun-bonnet from the closet, she threw 
 it carelessly on her head, kissed her friend, and 
 tripped lightly down stairs. 
 
 Clara sat quietly listening to her quick footsteps 
 on the gravel walk, and then to the creaking of the 
 little garden gate, which she did not quite close be 
 hind her ; and when those sounds ceased, resorted 
 again to the amusement of watching the lights and 
 shadows on her little hand ; all the while going over 
 again her conversation with Alice, and never once 
 thinking that the ten minutes had long since elapsed, 
 and that she had not returned. At length the 
 drowsy hum of a large green fly, that had long been 
 trying to make his exit through a window-pane, to 
 gether with the faint carol of birds on a neighboring 
 cherry tree, lulled her senses to -a profound quiet, 
 and she dropped into a deep sleep. 
 
 When she awoke, it was dark, and for a moment 
 she could not recall where she was, until the slam 
 ming of the garden gate, and a heavy, grinding tread 
 on the gravel restored her recollection, and she won 
 dered where Alice could be. She waited and waited, 
 and still she did not come ; and the evening mists 
 stole in at her window, and chilled her limbs, but no 
 gleam of light under her door, or well-known footstep 
 on the stairs indicated her approach. She began to 
 grow alarmed, and after listening to the beating of
 
 132 THE WITCH, 
 
 her own heart till she could hear it no longer, she 
 was about to open her chamber-door and call, when 
 a sense of her folly at being frightened arrested her, 
 and she sat down again. 
 
 " What a foolish little thing I am ! " she thought. 
 "Alice is doing something for mother, or somebody 
 else, and will soon be here. But I am chilly, and 
 will not wait for her to help me undress. The moon 
 is beginning to shine into my window, and I do not 
 need a light." 
 
 She quietly undressed, and lying down on the soft 
 pillow, soon dropped asleep, thinking that Alice was 
 coming. 
 
 But Alice did not come. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was the third morning after the disappearance 
 of Alice, when the stranger whom we left in the 
 wayside inn very early took his leave of his kind 
 hosts, and left them. 
 
 He walked out into the highway, but seemed un 
 certain which way to proceed, while every moment 
 a deeper gloom settled in his eyes. Finally, choos 
 ing the direction leading towards the haunted house, 
 he turned into the forest through which it ran, and 
 walked slowly on. It was a glorious morning sky 
 and earth were alike beautiful ; but, busied in his own 
 deep thoughts, the outer world was a blank to him. 
 A thousand dewdrops trembled on all the leaves and
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 133 
 
 sprays, and glittered like diamonds in the truant sun 
 beams, but they arrested not his eyes. Multitudes 
 of birds on every side sent up their morning songs, 
 but he heard them not. A little frisky squirrel, that 
 ran skipping along on the huge logs that bounded the 
 roadside, now and then stopped to peer curiously 
 into the stranger's face, but provoked no returning 
 glance. At length, he began to murmur aloud to 
 himself, like one who speaks in a dream. 
 
 " Why did I seek- this place again, where only re 
 membrances of a miserable past, and anticipations of 
 a more wretched future, could meet me ? Better 
 far had I died in slavery, among the Algerians, for 
 then I should have been at rest." 
 
 " Perhaps not ! " said a harsh voice at his side. 
 
 He started, and saw what he would have seen 
 some minutes before, had his eyes not been looking 
 inward. The old woman he had seen the evening 
 before at the inn was sitting quietly on a mossy log, 
 shaking the earth from various roots and plants, 
 which she had apparently but just gathered. 
 
 " You might just wish an old acquaintance good 
 day, I should think ! " she continued, but without 
 interrupting her employment. 
 
 " Do you know me ? " he inquired, in great sur 
 prise. 
 
 " If you are the remains of Hubert Delisle, I do." 
 
 "I am ; but surely, I never saw you before yes 
 terday ! " 
 
 "Ah, suppose you take the trouble to look a little 
 into your memory ; perhaps, in some odd corner, you 
 may find a girl you once called Maud."
 
 " Maud ! " repeated the stranger, an expression 
 of pain and doubt, and almost horror, crossing his 
 face" Maud Decroy?" 
 
 " The same, at your service. Our roses have 
 pretty much withered since the days when fond 
 fools that we were we toyed our youth away, and 
 said we loved ; but I think we both of us find the 
 thorns remaining. The handsome young artist has 
 become, apparently, a gray-haired vagabond, and 
 beautiful Maud is transformed into the hateful witch, 
 Moll Pitcher." 
 
 " And you can sit there and remember what we 
 once were to each other, and what wreck and misery 
 your vanity brought upon us both, and not hide your 
 face in shame and wretchedness ? " 
 
 The hand of the old woman, now for the first time 
 pausing in her labor, dropped heavily on her lap, and 
 a fierce convulsive motion, passing over her face, 
 made her features more hideous than ever. But a 
 strange softness almost immediately succeeded it, and 
 two large tears trembled on her eyelids. 
 
 " You are right, Hubert ; in my utter misery for 
 years, I have almost forgotten to be human. Ah, it 
 is long, 'tis long, since the day your rival bore me 
 away from my father's home, leaving me soon to 
 want and contempt. Ah, it is long, for my punish 
 ment commenced then, and has endured to this day. 
 But he, too, deserved punishment." 
 
 " Yes, and had my dagger reached him, he would 
 have suffered for the deed." 
 
 " I know it, Hubert ! and I owe you more thanks
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 135 
 
 than a long life could repay. You, the one I had 
 most betrayed, and who should have hated me ; you, 
 you alone were kind to me. When others would have 
 trodden me under foot, you gave me the means to 
 return to my parents, and urged me to do so." 
 
 " You promised me that you would." 
 
 " True," replied Maud, with a strong burst of 
 emotion, " but I dared not, Hubert. My guilt had 
 separated me forever from the good, and I dared 
 not suifer my shadow to fall like a blight upon the 
 household where my innocent sister yet lived. No ! 
 I never trod the soil of Canada again." 
 
 "And where have you lived, these more than 
 fifty years ? " 
 
 " I changed my name, and wandered about, a 
 vagabond on the earth, studying the virtues of the 
 plants that grew wherever I went ; often healing the 
 sick, and doing what good I could. But the curse of 
 the vagabond was upon me, and I took, at last, to 
 telling fortunes, and pretending to power I did not 
 possess, until I won my present title of Witch ; and, 
 verily, I look like one." 
 
 " And what unholy business are you engaged in 
 now ? " 
 
 All its unwonted softness vanished from the face 
 of Maud, at this question. 
 
 " Can you not guess," she inquired with a disa 
 greeable grin, and tossing him a pale, ghostly looking 
 plant. 
 
 " This is deadly nightshade. What are you going 
 to do with it ? Are these all poisonous ? "
 
 136 THE WITCH, 
 
 " Not all. You see, in my vagabond life, I have 
 found occasion for all sorts of mixtures, and have 
 learned how fco help people out of their trouble in all 
 sorts of ways. Perhaps you have some friend you 
 would like to have me administer to ? or would may 
 be like a draught yourself." 
 
 " Poison mixer ! " exclaimed Delisle, a strange 
 wild glow blazing suddenly up in cheek and eyes. 
 " Would to heaven you had never mingled a more 
 deadly draught for me than these would make. 
 That would bring peace." 
 
 All the look of malice and wickedness instantly 
 vanished from the old woman's face, as she listened 
 to this sudden burst of passionate reproach. A 
 strange feeling of pain and surprise was evident in 
 her voice as she said : 
 
 " And did you really love me then ? " 
 
 " I did, and after fifty years, the wound is not yet 
 healed. But it is the innocent Maud of my youth, 
 that I remember thus, not you. Detestable woman ! " 
 
 " I know it," she humbly answered. " But tell 
 me how, after so many long years, you could come 
 into this secluded spot, and love and betray Alice 
 Beaumont." 
 
 " Woman, what know you of it ? I did not be 
 tray her because she loved me, and because I could 
 trace the beauty of your young years in her child 
 like features, and I, mad fool that I was, married 
 her in secret, and when I knew I must soon leave 
 her. Yet I expected to return, and return with 
 wealth ; for I left her to go to France to receive an ,
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 137 
 
 inheritance that had been bequeathed me. But the 
 ship in which I sailed was taken by an Algerine 
 pirate, and most of the crew put to the sword. I, 
 with a few others that still lived, was carried to 
 Algiers, where under its burning sky I toiled on in a 
 slavery that has bleached my hair, and broken my 
 health. I was at length so fortunate as to save the 
 life of my master's child, and he, in return, when I 
 no longer cared for liberty, gave it me, and here I am 
 returned to know that my former brief abiding 
 here was but a curse and death to the fair young 
 girl that I so rashly wedded." 
 
 " Did you know that she left a daughter ? " 
 
 " I heard it last night for the first time. But 
 whether she is still living, I did not learn ; as the ex 
 citing tale of a young girl's being lost within a few 
 days interrupted the sad story I so much wished 
 to hear, and I could not renew the conversation with 
 out exciting some suspicion." 
 
 " You did not know then " 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by a young boy, 
 on the unsaddled back of a horse, who came slowly 
 pacing along the way, whistling as he rode, but 
 stopped when he saw Moll Pitcher, or Maud as we 
 will still call her. 
 
 " I was just going into the woods, granny, to find 
 you in your hut, and am glad to be saved the trouble. 
 Mr. Gray ton sent me to give you this " and he 
 handed her a sprig of hemlock " and he told me to 
 tell you his dog is no better, and he shall expect you 
 to-night, at six o'clock, at the old mill."
 
 138 THE WITCH. 
 
 " Well, I '11 see, but you had better not have found 
 me," and the boy hastened rapidly away, more than 
 once looking uneasily behind him. 
 
 Maud held up the bit of hemlock. " That means 
 that a dose of rapid and sure poison is wanted ; but 
 they will be disappointed." 
 
 "Woman, who is it for?" demanded Delisle, a 
 strange chill running through all his veins. 
 
 " Gray ton says it is for a dog." 
 
 " But is it ? " 
 
 Maud did not at once reply, but sat gazing fixedly 
 on the face of her companion, while an earnest, grate 
 ful, and almost joyful expression gradually overspread 
 her face. At length, reaching out her hand, she took 
 his, and drew him down by her side. 
 
 " Sit here by me, Hubert, without shrinking, and 
 bless God that all good has not yet died out of me. 
 I hate those who employ me, and would sometimes 
 find it in my heart to curse them and die. But to 
 you, Hubert, the playmate of my youth, the lover of 
 later years, the compassionate friend when I was lost 
 and all others reviled me, I am truly, deeply grate 
 ful, and now I can repay it all. Hubert, listen : the 
 poison for which the villain Grayton has sent, is, I 
 feel convinced, not for a dog, but for one who should 
 be most dear to you." 
 
 " Woman, what mean you ? " he gasped out. 
 
 " The girl who is missing, and supposed to be lost 
 in these endless forests, is your own daughter. Stop 
 and hear on. I do not believe she is lost. On the 
 contrary, I feel all but certain that she is not a half
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 139 
 
 a mile from here, but in the power of human fiends. 
 She is in the way of Madame Ellicott's ambitious 
 schemes, and she is one to sacrifice her without mer- 
 
 cy." 
 
 " Woman ! " again ejaculated Delisle, " you give 
 me a fearful light ; I see, now, why God has led me 
 hither. It is that I may meet the reward of the sins 
 of my life, and lay my head on my daughter's grave 
 and die." 
 
 " Compose yourself, Hubert, it is not so bad. 
 Think of me, not as I am in the eyes of the world, the 
 Witch, Moll Pitcher ; but as the innocent Maud 
 Decroy you loved in girlhood ; and rest assured, I 
 will die myself, rather than a hair of your daughter's 
 head shall be harmed." 
 
 " Tell me, then, where she is, that I may go and 
 save her ! " 
 
 " Do not be too hasty. I know your terror and 
 anxiety ; bu'; remember it is not quite certain that 
 Madame Ellicott intends your daughter's death. If 
 she does, rely on it, her minion Grayton is the tool 
 selected for the deed. He has sent me this token 
 that he desires poison, and I am to carry it to him 
 near the Haunted House. He says the poison is for 
 a dog ; but I saw three days since, just after dark, a 
 young girl carried into that house, and have seen 
 lights every night since. Others have seen them 
 also ; but they poor weak hearts think them the 
 lights borne by the ghost of her poor mother, who is 
 said to haunt the house ; and she might be there a year 
 and no one be the wiser. A hundred pounds of gold
 
 140 THE WITCH, 
 
 would not induce a person within ten miles to cross 
 the threshold of that house after dark." 
 
 " But you will not carry poison ? " 
 
 " Not I, indeed ; only a little draught that will 
 produce a deep sleep resembling death, but from 
 which he who drinks will wake in twelve hours per 
 fectly well." 
 
 " But why administer even that ? " 
 
 " To secure time and means for a more sure con 
 viction of the guilty, and to prevent any more dan 
 gerous resorts on the part of Grayton." 
 
 " But if they should bury her," shuddered De- 
 lisle. 
 
 " They will not have time ; for at the worst, it 
 will not be two hours after she has taken the draught 
 before she will be placed in safety. But go you, 
 now, follow yonder path ; it leads to my hut in the 
 woods. There remain until sunset, when you will 
 find me here again. Before that time I will have 
 seen Alfred Ellicott, who is away this forenoon, and all 
 shall be prepared for the deliverance of your daugh 
 ter, and the caging of Grayton. Believe fully that 
 I am able to do all I say, and stir not in the matter 
 yourself until I say it is time, or the serpent will es 
 cape without being scotched. Think of all you have 
 done for me, and have faith." 
 
 Very unwillingly, Hubert Delisle betook himself to 
 the path pointed out by Maud, and as he pursued it, 
 a thrill of terror ran through him lest she should 
 prove false. Yet remembering the gratitude she ex 
 pressed for his kindness of the past, and her softened
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 141 
 
 mood at the remembrance of their youth, he banished 
 the suspicion, and went on. Perhaps had he been 
 fully aware of the estimation in which she was held 
 wherever she had, in her many wanderings, strayed, 
 he would have doubted still. But, happily, he was 
 not ; and the fate of his child was at length trustingly, 
 and without a fear, confided to the hands of the 
 widest known, most-dreaded witch that ever strolled 
 the witch-haunted ways of New England. 
 
 Left alone, Maud selected a long, strong stick from 
 a hickory sapling, tightened her rude belt, and tak 
 ing her basket on her arm, started on her mission of 
 gratitude and mercy, with, perhaps, the first really 
 womanly and virtuous emotions throbbing at her 
 heart, that had stirred its fountains for many a long 
 and sinful year. 
 
 The sun was just tinging the east with gold, on the 
 morning following the events recorded in the last chap 
 ter, when Madame Ellicott lay in the troubled sleep 
 that she had, as night wore away, at last won to her 
 eyelids. She had lain down in an agony of suspense 
 and terror, with which the crime that she had tried 
 to persuade herself she did not know was to be com 
 mitted filled her soul. All night long she had 
 wrestled with the fiends that surrounded her bedside, 
 and not until near day-break had exhausted nature 
 given way, and she went to sleep, but not to repose. 
 
 She dreamed that she lay in a dark wood, in a mis 
 erable ruined hut. At first she thought herself alone, 
 but peering into a dusky corner, she saw Moll Pitch 
 er mixing a poison draught. When it was thorough-
 
 142 THE WITCH,- 
 
 ly compounded, the witch raised her hand, and a pale, 
 deathlike figure glided in, and taking the mixture, 
 turned and revealed the lifeless and decaying features 
 of Alice Beaumont. She approached her bedside, 
 gazed at her a moment, then pouring the poison into 
 a cup, commanded her to drink it. 
 
 With a loud shriek, Madame Ellicott started from 
 her bed, uncertain whether the apparition were the vis 
 ion of a dream, or a reality. A trembling shook her 
 whole frame, and she dared not remain longer alone, 
 yet where to go she did not know. At length, throwing 
 on her morning wrapper, she determined to seek her 
 daughter. As she hastened toward her chamber, 
 she heard Clara's voice sobbing, and speaking in sor 
 rowful tones. 
 
 Filled with a new terror, she knew not why, she 
 could hardly open the door ; and on entering, a 
 sight met her eyes that rooted her feet to the floor. 
 
 A slender figure, covered with a linen sheet, lay 
 extended upon the bed, while Clara, with folded 
 hands, was kneeling by its side. At the sight of 
 her mother she uttered a stifled shriek, and starting 
 to her feet, folded back the cloth and pointed. 
 There lay Alice, fair as in life, dressed in her usual 
 garments, but hueless and motionless as death ; her 
 white hands crossed upon her breast, and a few pale 
 flowers wreathing her young face, and grouped on 
 her bosom. 
 
 Madame Ellicott stood dumb, her tongue cleaving 
 to the roof of her mouth, and her whole face and 
 form rigid as marble.
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 143 
 
 " See here, mother," sobbed out the poor girl, as 
 taking her mother's hand, she endeavored to draw 
 her nearer, " They have found her at last ; but see 
 how pale and still. 0, mother, it seems as if she 
 only slept, and as if she must awake again." 
 
 At this moment, Alice, with a heavy sigh, opened 
 her eyes and looked unconsciously around. 
 
 " She is alive, mother ! " screamed Clara ; " 0, 
 mother, she is alive." 
 
 " It was not a dream," gasped Madame Ellicott, 
 with frightfully staring eyes. " I knew it was not a 
 dream. It was the spirit of her I murdered, come 
 back to be avenged." 
 
 She turned to rush from the room, when a strong 
 grasp was placed on her arm, and Alfred, with Delisle 
 by his side, stood gazing sternly in her face. 
 
 " Woman," said he, with a low and calm but de 
 termined voice, "go to your chamber, and thank God 
 that a great crime has been prevented. I will see 
 you by and by." She disappeared without reply. 
 
 Meanwhile Clara, who had attributed her mother's 
 exclamation to mere surprise, and had not heard the 
 command of Alfred, was, in her joy, weeping and 
 laughing, and folding her recovered friend to her 
 breast covering her face and hands with kisses and 
 tears, and uttering her name in tones of the deepest 
 tenderness. 
 
 Delisle stood near his daughter, who now sat up 
 and seemed trying to recall her senses. He felt 
 that she was his own every feature of her young 
 face attested it, and the tide of overwhelming affec-
 
 144 THE WITCH, 
 
 tion at his heart confirmed the fact. But how dare 
 he make it known to her, who had been undoubtedly 
 taught to execrate his name and memory ? As these 
 thoughts agitated his mind, his eyes were fixed upon 
 her face in a gaze he could not turn away, while 
 every feature of his remarkable countenance was 
 working with suppressed emotioa 
 
 Suddenly Alice, possibly feeling the magnetic in 
 fluence of the gaze, raised her eyes and met his, and 
 a strange, new feeling, never felt before, seemed to 
 pervade her whole heart. She folded her hands to 
 gether and laid them on her breast, and gazing still, 
 great tears rolled, one after another, down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " Who are you ? " she murmured, as if in a 
 dream. 
 
 " Yes, well may you ask, dear Alice," said Alfred, 
 quietly taking her hands in his own, " for it is to this 
 venerable man you are indebted for your safety." 
 
 " To him ! 0, bless you, sir, for what you have 
 done for me ! I shall love you forever, as if you 
 were my father ! " 
 
 At this sweet and grateful assurance, uttered in 
 the most impassioned tones, all the long-sleeping ten 
 derness of a life awoke in the heart of the old man. 
 For a moment a struggle, incomprehensible to the 
 observers, was visible on his features ; but raising his 
 eyes to Heaven, " He who is just and merciful," he 
 solemnly said, " has now rewarded me for the suffer 
 ings of a long life. Blessed be his holy name ! " 
 
 A confused bustle was at this moment heard in the
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 145 
 
 apartment below, and a minute after a servant, en 
 tering the room, announced that Moll Pitcher had 
 been found a short distance from the house, mortally 
 wounded ; that she was now lying in the room below, 
 apparently dying, and earnestly desired to see Alfred 
 Ellicott and the stranger who was now with him. 
 
 In great excitement and confusion, the whole 
 party, including Alice, who seemed quite herself 
 again, proceeded to the indicated room ; and there, 
 her life slowly ebbing away at a deep wound in her 
 breast, lay the wretched woman, so long the super 
 stition of New England, and even now, in her utter 
 helplessness, an object of fear and aversion to nearly 
 all around her. 
 
 She looked anxiously from one to another, when 
 her eye falling on Delisle, a smile lit up her bronzed 
 and haggard features, now putting on the ashen gray 
 of death. 
 
 " Come here, Hubert Delisle," she faintly said, 
 as reaching out her dark and withered hand, she 
 took his, reluctantly yielded : " I cannot die without 
 your forgiveness for all the evil I in my early days 
 wrought you. I repent, Hubert, I have repented." 
 
 " And you have also suffered I forgive you, 
 Maud, as I hope to be forgiven. Die in peace." 
 
 Again the peculiar and grateful smile flitted over 
 the dark face of the dying woman, and she was for 
 some moments silent. At length, drawing his hand 
 closer to her bosom 
 
 " It will not harm you ; let me hold your hand, Hu- 
 10
 
 146 THE WITCH, 
 
 bert, when I die, that I may feel that I am not 
 wholly severed from my kind." 
 
 The deep and strange pathos in her voice touched 
 the heart of Delisle, and he sat down close. by her 
 side, still holding her hand. 
 
 " This calls back the days when I was innocent," 
 she feebly murmured. " Ah, Hubert, between that 
 time and this is a gulf that is deep and wide, and 
 filled with many iniquities. But I have not been so 
 evil as they thought me ; and whatever else I may 
 have done, I have never voluntarily caused the death 
 of a human being. I have done some good, perhaps, 
 but it has too often been for selfish purposes. But 
 now, I have done one good act from a pure motive. 
 I have saved the life of your child, for your sake, 
 and for the sake of other days, and in doing it I 
 have lost my own. Thank God, that it is for you 
 that I die ! " 
 
 Delisle started, and gazed inquiringly in her face, 
 
 " Yes," she replied, "for you! Robert Grayton, 
 who has escaped beyond pursuit, dealt the blow ; but 
 God, who knows all things, knew it was the fittest 
 time for me to die. Pray for me now, Hubert, that 
 He will forgive my sins." 
 
 The old man knelt down by the side of the dying 
 woman, and a prayer, deep and true as ever went up 
 to heaven, rose from his lips. He rose from his 
 knees, and once more taking her hand in his own, 
 solemnly, and with a strange look of inspiration pro 
 nounced 
 
 " Maud Decroy, God has forgiven thee thy sins !"
 
 A NEW ENGLAND TALE. 147 
 
 Clasping his hand again to her breast, a look of inef 
 fable peace settled over her face, and she was dead. 
 
 The words of the dying woman had revealed the 
 secret of Delisle, and the joy of the father and child 
 touched every heart. 
 
 "" May you never be separated in this life ! " said 
 Alfred, as he uttered his heartfelt congratulations. 
 And leading them away, where they might enjoy 
 their first emotions undisturbed, he sought the cham 
 ber of Madame Ellicott. 
 
 But whatever might have been his final determin 
 ation, in relation to her participation in the great 
 crime, which was iutended to destroy the life of 
 Alice, and which in her terror she had confessed, he 
 was spared the pain of carrying it into execution. 
 He found her lying on the floor, dead ! having been 
 struck by a sudden apoplexy, induced by strong and 
 terrible emotion. 
 
 Little remains to be told. The marriage of Alice 
 and Alfred soon took place, and Clara, who never 
 heard the story of her mother's sin, remained with 
 them ; never separating from her only friend. The 
 last days of Hubert Delisle were his happiest. And 
 among his most deeply felt causes of gratitude to 
 God, he always reckoned the atoning deed and fear 
 ful death of Maud Decroy. 
 
 " Thank God," he would say, " she died repentant 
 and at peace with Him, and not as she had lived, 
 the hateful and hated WITCH OF NEW ENGLAND."
 
 BY T. STARR KING. 
 
 CHRISTIAN strength consists in the possession 
 of internal stores, which will enable us, in a 
 measure, to maintain an independence of outward 
 circumstances for happiness. 
 
 And first, let me speak of the need that men 
 should have some mental possessions, which they 
 have stored away by the activity and fidelity of 
 their minds. I do not say that a man cannot be a 
 Christian unless he is educated. The Christian 
 life and character is determined by our loves, our 
 aspirations the state of our hearts not by our in 
 tellectual development and acquisitions. But the 
 more mental culture a man has, other things being 
 equal, the more resources he will have in himself, 
 and the nobler will be his life. 
 
 God did not give us this exquisitely ordered rea 
 son as a toy. He has not surrounded us with the 
 riches and mysteries of his wisdom, that we might 
 be indifferent to them. He would have us cultivate 
 our mental gifts, and inquire into the majestic meth 
 ods of this infinite reason ; and ennoble our spirits
 
 INWARD RESOURCES. 149 
 
 by an acquaintance with the beauty and order, the 
 skill and goodness, which the sky and the sea, the 
 depths of the earth, the vaults of air, and the sweep 
 of his moral Providence, unfold. When the mental 
 faculties are awake, and the vigor of the heart is con 
 secrated by a Christian temper, the character is more 
 massive and complete. It is more independent, it 
 has a deeper and fuller communion with God. A 
 man has more store in his own nature. The strength 
 of two strands is greater than that of one ; and when 
 God gives us a noble faculty, we may be sure there 
 is no danger in training it to the utmost, if we but 
 keep it in subjection to the true spirit, and dedicate 
 its activity to the highest end. 
 
 Some of the most inspiring suggestions and pic 
 tures of history are those which teach us the power 
 of the mind of man to conquer adverse circum 
 stances, and vindicate its royalty over fortune. 
 Poor and blind Homer ! What mental stores had 
 he as a foundation against the neglect of men. And 
 how liberally, with a Christian spirit that moved 
 him to return the richest good for evil, has he blessed 
 the world that slighted him, from that intellectual 
 treasury which poverty could not drain nor scorn 
 impair. How nobly, too, stood Washington ; up 
 held in adversities and upholding the spirits of a na 
 tion in times of utter darkness, by his inward store 
 of plans, hopes, and visions of brighter hours. And 
 shall we forget the experience of him, the great 
 Christian poet> who sang of the lost and better para 
 dise ? The outward world was shut out from him.
 
 150 INWARD RESOURCES. 
 
 With sad sweet melody did he sing : 
 
 "Seasons return, but not to rne returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of eve, or morn, 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
 Or flocks, or human face divine ; 
 But cloud instead, and ever during dark 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
 Cut off. * * * * * * 
 And wisdom at one entrance, quite shut out." 
 
 But his soul was filled with the riches of thought 
 which he had stored away. Penury, disgrace and 
 blindness did not leave him without resources could 
 not prevent his feeding on thoughts, that voluntary 
 more harmonious numbers " swarms of glorious ma 
 jestic visitants were with him, since his aspiration 
 was answered " 
 
 "So much the rather, thou celestial light, 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 Irradiate these pliant eyes, all mist from them 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell, 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight." 
 
 No character is complete that has not some men 
 tal treasures on which it may draw during the treach 
 ery of fortune. It is a mournful spectacle, morally 
 mournful, to see a person retiring from the world 
 with treasures of wealth, or one who has perhaps 
 been shipwrecked by the chances of trade, or an old 
 man whose bodily faculties have failed before his 
 energy, either restless or melancholy, or listless and 
 unhappy, because the customary excitement of ac 
 tivity, or the fashionable position, or the sight of the
 
 INWARD RESOURCES. 151 
 
 crowd, is denied to them ; to see that no love of truth 
 in a world so full of wisdom, no taste in a universe 
 so full of beauty, no mental appetites, where nature 
 offers to them such bountiful repasts, have been theirs 
 during a long life of constant toil ; and therefore, 
 that when the horn of plenty runs over, or when luck 
 plays false, or the limbs fail the stronger mind, there 
 is no independent manliness to assert its proper maj 
 esty, no inward resources to attest an educated soul. 
 By every consideration of noble self-interest and grati 
 tude to God, for the gift of reason, every person is 
 called upon to lay up some store of knowledge, and 
 to form some pure mental tastes, as a foundation 
 against the evil fortunes that many lurk in the time 
 to come. 
 
 Again and here we approach the spiritual ele 
 ments of our subject every person should have 
 within a store of moral power, -affections, principle. 
 Every man whose virtue is secure, must possess a 
 fund of moral strength, which is more than equal to 
 all the demands upon his will. It is not enough to 
 establish the purity of any soul, that it can just rub 
 and go in keeping clear of sin. It must have stores 
 of spiritual force, upon which it is not compelled to 
 draw. God would have our triumph over evil an 
 easy conquest, one which does not fret arid wear 
 our hearts away by keeping them always at their 
 toughest strain. It is a bad sign if we have to wres 
 tle long with ordinary temptations. A man ought 
 to feel, not only that he is equal to ordinary trials, 
 but superior to them, equal to the greatest trial that
 
 152 INWARD RESOURCES. 
 
 may come yes, superior to that. Not that a good 
 man will be or ought to be proud of his strength ; 
 not that there should ever be a haughty and compla 
 cent self-reliance in his breast. The infinite richness of 
 his resources should lie in pure affections, that seek, 
 and love, and are attracted to, and live in the right 
 and good. This experience of virtue should be so 
 deep, his holiness so vital, his piety so constant, that 
 goodness and holiness become the food of his spirit. 
 His reliance, therefore, will not be on granite 
 strength of resolution and Titanic vigor of will ; he 
 never will cherish a spirit of bravado, and desire to 
 play the pugilist with evil ; his resources should be 
 so vast, that base suggestions will pass by him with 
 out leaving a soil upon his heart, or finding any 
 chance to hold parley with his will pass by him as 
 a temptation to sinful indulgence would have flitted 
 before the upraised eye of Christ, without disturbing 
 the serenity of his prayer. The good man's re 
 sources of power, like his mental stores, are culti 
 vated faculties, right instincts, that naturally seek 
 the good ; holy affections abiding ever in his heart ; 
 and which, by their positive attractions, do away at 
 last with the necessity for any vigorous, visible, or con 
 scious conflict with sin. 
 
 And such inward resources, thus founded, form 
 the good man's support in seasons of trial and suffer 
 ing for virtue. He is sustained then by the treas 
 ures of his heart. The internal resources of power 
 which would not suffer him to be false to duty, be 
 come resources of support and pleasure in the crisis
 
 INWARD RESOURCES. 153 
 
 and the need. The spirit of sacrifice wherever found, 
 or in what manner soever shown, is always a spirit 
 of illumination. Stephen and Peter, and the proph 
 ets, and the great missionaries of the church, have 
 found their support, not in a miraculous grace, but 
 in that grace which insures to every faithful spirit a 
 treasury and foundation of solace and strength, which 
 " moth and rust cannot corrupt." 
 
 It was the buoyant inward stores developed by 
 long faithfulness to conscience that made the bearing 
 of Socrates so serene before his judges, and filled his 
 prison with the mystic light of immortality ; it was 
 Paul's earnestness, his consciousness of a well-spent 
 life, the long and glad devotion of his will to the 
 service of a higher law, which gave that grand as 
 surance of immortality to his dying spirit, and made 
 him welcome the ax as the friendly instrument that 
 should release his spirit from its prison, and permit 
 him to seek the society above. 
 
 In order to impress us most deeply Avith the fact 
 that holiness is the highest good of life, God never 
 bestows any richer blessing upon faithful hearts than 
 their own holiness. He never draws any nearer to 
 the spirit, or by any other medium than in and 
 through its holiness. He has appointed so that 
 goodness shall be our joy in cloudless times, and our 
 thought and comfort when the sky is dark ; and 
 there are no other resources to uphold a wronged 
 and persecuted good man in his seeming desertion 
 by Providence itself, and he needs no other, than 
 " the good treasure of his heart."
 
 154 INWARD RESOURCES. 
 
 A good man, too, has treasures in him of memory 
 and hope. It is a beautiful and beneficent ordinance 
 of God, that we love to remember only the good and 
 holy. No person does or can take pleasure in re 
 calling or dwelling in meditation upon the evil, the 
 base, the vile. The pleasures of memory spring 
 only from the recollection of something noble, worthy, 
 and pure. And it is a universal law of souls, that 
 what seems unpleasant and arduous when we have 
 to face it, and resolve to do it, looks delightful when 
 contemplated as a treasure of memory, a fact of our 
 past existence. In prospect and retrospect, good 
 alone looks winning and delightful. Say to any man, 
 that next week he will perform some splendid, heroic 
 deed, some act that will thrill the hearts of men, and 
 win the approbation of God, and it will delight and 
 inspire him. Prophesy that he will do some mean, 
 selfish deed, however profitable in a worldly view, 
 and he will recoil from it, and prefer, before the ter 
 rible temptation comes, that it should be otherwise. 
 We give to holiness the vote of our aspirations, as we 
 contemplate it ; we condemn vice by the judgment 
 of our regrets and shame, when we look back upon 
 it. Can you conceive such an anomaly as a mem 
 ory delighted or happy in the recollection of its once 
 pleasant misdeeds ? Ah ! we would throw a pall 
 a pall as of midnight darkness over the unfaithful 
 ness and unhallowed pleasures of the past. We 
 would make the miserable moments of those once 
 welcomed joys a blank in our being ; we would hail 
 with rapture the spell that could wipe them forever
 
 " INWARD RESOURCES. 155 
 
 from the tablets of the brain. Go, ask the satiated 
 sensualist what he would give, if the foul blots upon 
 his soul's history could be exchanged for acts of 
 purity and honor if his past years, so spotted with 
 infamy, could unroll themselves before the eye of 
 meditation, filled with winning pictures of useful, 
 holy deeds : ask the murderer, whose poison for ven 
 geance has been quenched in the blood of a victim, 
 what he would give if the memory of his crime might 
 be blotted from his spirit ; could his dreams and 
 musings be void of specters, and he be enabled to 
 look back upon an injury not revenged ; ask the 
 gambler, even the old, successful, wealthy gambler, 
 if such a one was ever known, how much of his treas 
 ures of hell he would pay for a past life ennobled by 
 honor and useful industry, and the annihilation of a 
 retrospect from which he cannot fly ; ask the unde 
 tected knave what he would give for an unpolluted 
 heart, an unflawed conscience, the sweet sleep of in 
 nocence, and the rich glow of satisfaction, which a 
 sense of steady integrity sheds over the retreating 
 landscape of our earthly life : and they will tell you 
 with passionate tears, if you could unlock their deep 
 est confidence : " We would give all else we have." 
 They would exclaim in words, as they often exclaim 
 in spirit, " Oh, come back to us, sunlit, quiet days 
 of innocence, that lie in such serene beauty in the 
 far distant depths of memory ; extend like a line of 
 rich hills and checkered vales along the burning 
 wastes of years on which our eyes now fall ; let 
 our past be dotted with objects that may charm our
 
 156 INWARD RESOURCES. 
 
 backward vision, and gratify our self-respect, and 
 win the approbation of conscience and God, and not 
 mock us, as now, with such a spectacle of moral des 
 olation ; let us but be able to look with unshamed 
 spirits and inward satisfaction on the past, and we 
 will abandon willingly and forever all the pleasures, 
 gains, and honors of iniquity. Remorse is a guilt- 
 laden memory, pressing heavily on an awakened 
 conscience, that teaches us too late the folly of sin. 
 It is from memory that the fiends arise which haunt 
 and lash the guilty breast ; it is from memory that 
 the angels of light are born, which gladden, with their 
 society and companionship, the faithful soul. 
 
 And the good man has also resources of hope. It 
 is the tendency of goodness to inspire and foster 
 hope, founded on confidence in man, and trust in 
 God. To the intellectual sensualist, and cold-hearted 
 scoffer, the world presents a sad, cheerless problem. 
 Such natures see only the sin, wrong, error, selfish- 
 ne,ss of men. 
 
 They have no generous aspirations, no enlivening 
 anticipations, no cheering prophecies of good. This 
 is the philosophy of indifference or despair. But 
 among the treasures of a religious heart, is a buoy 
 ant, animating confidence in truth and right, and 
 the better part of human nature. 
 
 A good man feels that goodness is the great fact 
 in the universe, rather than evil ; that providence is 
 more powerful than the finite abstractions and dis 
 turbances which it encounters ; that divine law is 
 mightier than the anomalies which the feeble senses
 
 INWARD RESOURCES. 157 
 
 see ; that wrong and evil waste themselves ; and 
 that the deepest instincts and undying sympathies of 
 man seek and desire the holy and the true. And 
 so the clouds are tipped and tinged with a golden 
 richness, from the bright light behind, and the har 
 monies of providence and eternity absorb the dis 
 cords of the moment and of earth. The philan 
 thropist who is brought in constant contact with vice 
 and degradation, never loses his confidence in man ; 
 the martyr never doubts God's goodness; the re 
 former enjoys a premonition of the triumphs of his 
 cause. Out of the good treasures of their hearts 
 hearts in sympathy with holiness and providence 
 come prophecies of the triumph of holiness and 
 heaven.
 
 Bayard 
 
 NO FICTION. 
 
 ^ WELL remember the night, when at the re- 
 sp quest of his mother, I set put to look in one of 
 the private gambling houses of New York for the 
 dearest friend of my college days. Henry Villiers, 
 in mind as well as person, was eminently calculated 
 to conciliate the affections of all around him ; and I 
 thought he must be changed indeed if I could not 
 win him back from the fatal pursuit to which he had 
 addicted himself, to the bosom of a family by whom he 
 was almost idolized. He had not been at home for 
 some days, and his absence had created the most 
 anxious apprehensions. I had undertaken to remove 
 them. 
 
 It was at the end of the severe January of last 
 year ; for two days previous a snow-storm had raged 
 with unwonted violence ; the streets were every 
 where covered to a depth of from three to four feet, 
 and where a projecting corner or accidental wind 
 ing had created a particular current of air, the 
 drifts had risen to a height even dangerous to the 
 incautious walker. It had just begun to thaw, and
 
 THE HAZARD TABLE. 159 
 
 the cold was much more intense than it had been 
 during the frost. 
 
 With an involuntary shudder, I wrapped my 
 cloak more closely around me, and with unsteady 
 steps worked through the masses of melting snow, 
 in which at each moment I sank above my ankles. I 
 might, perhaps, have been inclined to turn, for the 
 chill of the night seemed but to second the internal 
 shuddering with which I committed myself to the 
 dens of infamy and vice ; but that image of the 
 aged mother, as she wept in all the agony of hope 
 less solitude over the blighted prospects of her son, 
 rose freshly before -me ; I heard the heart-thrilling 
 tones with which she called on the absent Villiers 
 " My lost, my ruined child ! " still rang in my 
 ears, and I hurried on, with the determination that 
 no effort of mine should be wanting to restore 
 that child to her arms. If I needed any "ad 
 ditional inducement, I had but to recall the 
 silent anguish -of Miss Villiers ; and I felt armed for 
 any conflict of mind or body to which I could possi 
 bly be exposed. I pursued my way, therefore, down 
 
 R street, with renewed energy. The heavy 
 
 damp on the lamps completely obscured their bril 
 liancy, and left scarcely light sufficient to show the 
 pallid faces and shivering forms of the wretched vic 
 tims of vice, whom the cravings of want had driven 
 out, even on such a night as this, to earn a miserable 
 subsistence. I shuddered at their solicitations, in 
 which the utmost efforts could not conceal the hollow 
 tones of hunger and disease : and turning: from the
 
 160 THE HAZARD TABLE. 
 
 costly avenues of fashionable commerce, I passed 
 into the first of a succession of streets which were 
 to lead me to the object of my search. 
 
 A series of involved turnings led me, after a walk 
 of some five or ten minutes, to a retired street, which 
 I had no difficulty in recognizing as the place I was 
 in quest of. I gazed anxiously around to discover 
 the house to which I was directed, but the uniform 
 ity of all those near me presented almost insuperable 
 difficulties. The lower part of the house seemed, 
 from the closed outside shutters, to partake of the 
 nature of a shop ; while the windows of the upper 
 stories gave promise of a comfort very inviting to 
 those whom the label of " Furnished or Unfurnished 
 Apartments," might tempt to look towards them. 
 
 I pressed my hand on my bosom to ascertain that 
 the pistols with which I had armed myself were still 
 there, firmly grasped my stick, and crossed to ex 
 amine more accurately the house opposite. There 
 was no appearance of a door, yet I was convinced it 
 was the house I sought, and I moved a few steps 
 aside to search for an entrance, when a tall figure, 
 wrapped like myself in a cloak, crossed the street, 
 approached me closely, and a voice, in rather gen 
 tlemanly tones, though marked by a slight Irish 
 accent, said " This is the house, I think, sir." 
 
 The question tallied so completely with what was 
 passing in my own mind, that I answered, almost 
 involuntarily, " I believe so." 
 
 My new acquaintance, however, seemed, notwith 
 standing his remarks, to entertain no doubts on the
 
 THE HAZARD TABLE. 161 
 
 subject ; for turning short into a very narrow passage, 
 which the darkness had hitherto prevented me from 
 observing, he approached a small door, or rather 
 panel, in the side wall, and knocked three times 
 gently. I kept close to his side. We heard the 
 grating of iron as a chain was thrown across the 
 entrance. The door was then opened wide enough 
 to admit a strong glare of light to fall upon us, and 
 a face was protruded through the opening, which 
 accurately reconnoitered the person of my compan 
 ion, who stood foremost. The scrutiny seemed sat 
 isfactory so far as he was concerned, but a short 
 whisper ensued, in which the phrases, " new face," 
 " fresh stranger," were barely audible. The door 
 was then opened to its full width, scarcely sufficient 
 to admit us singly, and I found that we were in a 
 small hall, between the outside entrance and an 
 inner door, completely covered with cloth and sur 
 mounted by a brilliant lamp. The attendant turned 
 a spring key in the lock, and ushered us on a very 
 steep and narrow staircase, which my companion 
 and myself ascended with equal steps. 
 
 In a room on the first floor I distinguished a 
 strong light and a number of eager voices. Thither, 
 then, I was in the act of turning, when the voice of 
 my new acquaintance interrupted me, as he said : 
 
 " That is the billiard room ; you go up stairs, do n't 
 you?" 
 
 " Why, yes, I believe I shall," said I, endeavor 
 ing to assume an air of as much sang froid as pos 
 sible, and believing that up stairs, if there was the 
 11
 
 162 THE HAZARD TABLE. 
 
 hazard table, Villiers was the more likely to be 
 found. 
 
 We proceeded accordingly to the second floor, 
 and my conductor, for I had fallen in the rear, 
 pushing a door immediately opposite the staircase, 
 motioned to me to enter a long and low room, 
 crowded with figures, all of whom appeared deeply 
 interested in their various occupations. I did not 
 at first see Villiers. Close on my right lay the 
 remnants of a supper, to which full justice appeared 
 to have been done, for but a few fragments remained 
 to satisfy the appetite of one or two, who, having 
 been too late for its glories, were now voraciously 
 swallowing whatever remained that was eatable. 
 
 " They sup early, sir ; we are almost too late," 
 said rny companion, and throwing aside his cloak, he 
 instantly attacked the remaining viands with great 
 zeal." 
 
 " I thank you ; I am not hungry," I replied, gaz 
 ing at the same moment on the form and features 
 of the speaker. Succeeding events imprinted his ap 
 pearance on my memory Avith but too fearful distinct 
 ness. He was one of the most powerful looking men 
 I ever met. About six feet high and made in pro 
 portion, his frame was remarkable rather for strength 
 and weight than activity. The face, as his eyes 
 were bent on the table, had nothing in it peculiar, 
 except that the projection of one or two front teeth 
 broke the regularity of the features. 
 
 He looked upwards, however, as he addressed me 
 a second time, with, " You do n't eat, sir," and I
 
 THE HAZARD TABLE. 163 
 
 almost shrank from the expression of his eyes, as 
 they met my view ; small and deep set, of a light 
 gray color, but appearing at first view darker, from 
 the overhanging and closely-knit brows which shaded 
 them, they seemed to combine in them all of ferocity 
 and cunning that imagination could picture. I 
 moved hastily from beside him, and walked towards 
 the further end of the room. On one side was the 
 fire-place, around which were grouped, busily en 
 gaged in conversation, half a dozen, whose counten 
 ances plainly showed that they had nothing left to 
 risk. Opposite was placed a large table, the most 
 conspicuous portion of which was a circular revolving 
 center-piece. It was divided into small compart 
 ments, colored red and black, and the game seemed 
 to be regulated by the color into which might chance 
 to fall a small ivory ball, which an attendant rolled 
 round the edge of the circular part. Behind this 
 person were posted the regulations of the roulette- 
 table, and I gazed for a moment or two at a game 
 of which I had often heard as the most ruinous 
 among the varieties of play. Few, however, ap 
 peared, on this evening, to be its votaries ; and I 
 turned to a round table, occupying the whole end of 
 the room, about which were thronged all who seemed 
 really engaged in the occupation of the place. 
 
 My first glance fell upon Villiers. He was sitting 
 directly opposite to me, leaning his face on his left 
 hand, whilst with nervous anxiety he watched the 
 person who was throwing the dice. A small pile of 
 counters lay immediately before him, and his right
 
 164 THE HAZARD TABLE. 
 
 hand rested carelessly on them ; but his attention 
 was completely riveted on the progress of the game. 
 
 The muscles of Villiers' face worked for a moment 
 with convulsive energy ; but steadying himself by an 
 effort apparent to me, at least he pushed across 
 the table about one-half of the counters before him. 
 
 " You are fortunate to-night, Mr. Yarney." 
 
 I turned, and saw receiving the counters, with an 
 air of cool satisfaction, the man with whom I had 
 entered. I barely noticed him, however, for my 
 feelings were too much interested in Villiers to allow 
 me to dwell upon anything else. Alas, how changed 
 he was from the Villiers of my college days. He 
 was pale, almost ghastly ; but a heated flush of un 
 natural red flitted occasionally across his cheek, and 
 showed more plainly the ravages of dissipation. His 
 elegant form, always slight, and now greatly attenu 
 ated, seemed unfit to associate with the reckless 
 countenances of those who surrounded him. 
 
 His dark hair, which I had so often admired, at 
 present extremely long and disordered, was thrown 
 back from his brow, as if its weight was too much for 
 him to endure. 
 
 He was not now betting, but seemed to have re 
 served himself until it should come to his turn to take 
 the dice box. 
 
 I sighed involuntarily, and, I suppose, audibly ; for 
 Villiers glanced quickly around, and his eye met 
 mine. For one moment a burning blush crimsoned 
 his cheek, and a spasmodic affection seemed to flit 
 across his brow. It was but for a moment. He
 
 THE HAZARD TABLE. 165 
 
 looked, rather than nodded, a recognition, and turned 
 to watch the game. 
 
 " You do n't play, sir," said the voice of Varney 
 at my elbow ; " Come, just by way of a flyer, to put 
 you in humor, I'll bet you a twenty he throws this 
 time a deuce or an ace." 
 
 " Very well," said I, mechanically, and not sorry 
 to throw away a trifle to avoid observation. 
 
 The throw was four and one. and I was in the act 
 of handing over to Varney the amount, which I pre 
 sumed I had lost, when the voice of Villiers pre 
 vented me. 
 
 " You need not trouble yourself to pay that bet, 
 sir," said he, coolly. 
 
 " Who says so ? " cried Varney, with a loudness 
 which instantly attracted the attention of all present. 
 
 " I do," answered Villiers quietly. " The odds 
 were in your favor ; you made only an even bet. 
 By the rules of this table it cannot stand. Banker, 
 does the gentleman lose his money ? " 
 
 The man looked for an instant at Varney, and 
 evidently hesitated ; but the tone and manner of 
 Villiers prevailed, backed as it now was by that of a 
 number of young men around the table, and with 
 manifest reluctance he decided that the bet was off. 
 
 Varney said nothing aloud, but my blood curdled 
 as I caught the scowl of demoniac malignity with 
 which he glanced across the table, and as he ground 
 his teeth I could hear him muttering, 
 
 " D n him ! I '11 be revenged." 
 
 It now came the turn of Villiers to take the box.
 
 166 THE HAZARD TABLE. 
 
 He pushed into the center of the table all of his 
 counters that yet remained, and scarcely waiting 
 until an equal number were risked against them, he 
 threw the dice without naming any number. 
 
 " A main, sir," said the banker. 
 
 "I had forgotten," said Villiers ; " seven V the 
 main." 
 
 The dice rolled out, and the next moment I heard 
 the announcement, " Deuce ace. Caster loses." 
 
 " Nicked out, by Jove ! " said one near me. 
 " He's smashed now ; he has lost a devilish deal to 
 night." 
 
 My ear caught the words, but my gaze was still 
 upon Villiers, and I started at the wildness visible in 
 his demeanor. His eye was expanded in a glassy 
 stare, whilst his hand passed rapidly over his pockets, 
 as if to see whether there yet remained in them any 
 thing to stake. 
 
 " Shall I pass the box, or will you take a buck, 
 sir? " said the banker. 
 
 " Pass on. But, no, no ! Who will set this 
 watch ? " cried he, pushing forward a large gold 
 repeater which had been given to him by his mother, 
 and which I knew he therefore highly valued. 
 
 The stake was unusual, and no "one replied. 
 
 "It is worth two hundred," said Villiers. " Who 
 will risk one hundred against it ? " he paused 
 "or fifty?" he added. 
 
 A note was thrust from behind me into the ring, 
 while I was myself pushing forward the money in 
 place of the watch, which I was determined to save.
 
 THE HAZARD TABLE. 167 
 
 Villiers raised his hand, as if to throw, and I 
 feared I was too late, when suddenly pausing, he 
 said, " Whose money is that, banker ? " 
 
 "A gentleman's opposite," said the man, looking 
 to Varney. 
 
 " I do not bet with that person," said Villiers, 
 deliberately. " Will any one else set me ? " 
 
 Every eye was turned on Varney, and his huge 
 form appeared literally to dilate with rage as he ex 
 claimed furiously, "Beggar, what mean you? Dare 
 you insinuate that I play unfairly ? " 
 
 Villiers did not answer, but eyed him with cool 
 contempt. The question was again put, and in a 
 still more ferocious tone. Villiers looked full in his 
 face, and taking up his watch, said slowly, " Do I 
 insinuate? The matter is now beyond insinuation. 
 It amounts to certainty." 
 
 There was one moment of silence. A rush suc 
 ceeded, and my eye caught the form of Villiers as 
 it fell senseless on the floor, while the fierce eyes of 
 his opponent gleamed brightly above him. 
 
 " Aye, give it to him ! " shouted several voices, 
 " Teach these beggarly fops what it is to meet with 
 a gentleman of science ! " 
 
 I pushed hastily forward, and taking a pistol from 
 my breast, cocked it, and exclaimed, " The first who 
 touches him dies ! " 
 
 Varney drew back in terror. I slowly raised my 
 friend from the ground, and with the assistance of 
 one or two of the more gentlemanly looking persons 
 around me, endeavored to recall him to animation.
 
 168 THE HAZARD TABLE. 
 
 His forehead had struck, in his fall, against one 
 of the legs of the table, and the blood was flowing 
 profusely from the wound. In a few moments he re 
 vived. His eyes glared wildly around, when, sud 
 denly springing from our grasp, and shouting, " De 
 fend yourself, coward ! " he precipitated himself on 
 the huge form of Varney, who stood gazing on the 
 scene in evident triumph. 
 
 The movement was so unexpected as to throw us 
 into momentary confusion, and rapid blows were ex 
 changed between the combatants before any one 
 could interpose to separate them. 
 
 The conflict was apparently most unequal ; for 
 Varney was taller, and nearly double the weight of 
 his opponent. But excitement seemed to have lent 
 to Villiers unusual strength. Still, Varney watched 
 him with a coolness which showed he knew such 
 efforts could not last, when suddenly, in making an 
 effort which was evidently intended to end the con 
 test, his foot slipped, and his own weight, joined to 
 a blow from Villiers, prostrated him before us. 
 
 " Raise the ruffian," said Villiers. " Let him 
 come on again." 
 
 The group around the fallen man hastened to obey 
 the direction, surprised that he showed but little 
 signs of animation and utterly astonished at the re 
 sult of the contest. 
 
 Chance, however, had accomplished more than 
 any one believed. One or two groans issued from 
 Varney as they raised him ; a strong convulsion 
 shook his body, and then the sinking head and
 
 THE HAZARD TABLE. 169 
 
 nerveless arms showed but too plainly that the 
 spirit had passed into the presence of Him who 
 had created it. 
 
 The consternation occasioned by the discovery 
 gave an interval for action. I seized Villiers by the 
 arm, and thrusting a pistol into his hand, while I 
 held forth another myself, dragged him to the door, 
 and whispered, " Fly for your life ! They will be 
 upon you in a moment." 
 
 I spoke to one who heard me not ; but mechan 
 ically obeying the impulse, he had descended about 
 half way down the stairs, when a burst of execra 
 tions from the room above, followed by a rush 
 towards the door, warned me that we had not a mo 
 ment to lose. 
 
 I gave Villiers a violent push forward. The muffled 
 door below gave way to an impetuosity that defied 
 all barriers. The astonished watchman yielded to 
 'the summons of an armed and apparently desper 
 ate man. The outer door opened. 
 
 " Thank God ! " I shouted, involuntarily, though 
 along with us rushed into the air several of those 
 who had been above, when a firm grasp was laid on 
 my collar, and I found that we were in the hands of 
 a strong body of police officers, whom the noise above 
 had summoned to the spot. 
 
 Some of them made their way up stairs ; the 
 others guarded their prisoners. The former soon 
 returned, bringing with them the lifeless body of Var- 
 ney, and several of the men I had seen in the hazard 
 room. The rest, in the confusion, had managed to
 
 170 THE HAZARD TABLE. 
 
 escape. We were all marched to the police office. 
 
 Since the discovery of Varney's death, Villi.ers 
 had not spoken ; but as I got closer to him in the 
 narrow entrance of the police office, I could hear 
 him muttering to himself, " Ruined, aye, ruined ! 
 And now a murderer. Oh God, a murderer ! " 
 
 The tone was so hollow that I could scarcely rec 
 ognize it, but I had little time for thought. An ex 
 amination into the circumstances was immediately 
 proceeded with, which ended in my liberation, and 
 in the detention of Villiers. The private room was 
 allotted to him, and we entered together. 
 
 He threw himself on a chair in the apartment, 
 pressed his hands convulsively on his forehead, and 
 shrieked in tones of bitter desolation, " My God ! 
 my mother! Ellen ! " 
 
 I drew near to him, and placing my hand on his, 
 said, " Villiers, dear Villiers, recall your senses ; 
 be yourself and all will yet be well." 
 
 He started at my touch, sprung from the seat, 
 and with all the violence of a maniac screamed, " Off! 
 touch me not it's a lie ! I did not do it. Who 
 says so ? No, no, no ! " 
 
 The excitement had exhausted him, and again he 
 sank back on the chair ; but a minute had scarcely 
 elapsed when he leaped on the floor, and while his 
 whole frame shook with horror, and his eyes glared 
 at the door, as if he saw there the specter of the 
 murdered man, he shouted ! " Look, look ! there he is. 
 See the blue flames ! He beckons he seizes me ! 
 Oh, save save save me ! "
 
 THE HAZARD TABLE. 171 
 
 But why should I recall the horrors of that long 
 night ! Fit after fit followed of frantic despair, suc 
 ceeded by the weakness of exhaustion. At times it 
 was with difficulty that I, with the aid of my servant, 
 (whom I had sent for) could restrain him from some 
 act of desperate violence ; whilst at other periods 
 he sank to a state of so great weakness as to lie in 
 utter insensibility in my arms. 
 
 During the few intervals of collectedness which he 
 enjoyed, I gathered that he had been introduced to 
 the hazard table several months before by a mutual 
 college acquaintance of ours ; that he had gradually 
 grown more and more fascinated by the demon of 
 gambling ; and, finally, that for the last five days he 
 had been continually engaged at play, and had never 
 rested during the whole of that time, having been 
 wound up, by repeated losses, to such a pitch of 
 desperation, as to be insensible to the progress of 
 time. 
 
 Varney had been the principal winner, and Vil- 
 liers more than once had reason to suspect him of 
 unfair play. His attempt to swindle me had con 
 vinced him that those suspicions were well founded. 
 I had witnessed the closing scene. 
 
 " I am now," said he, " utterly ruined ; and," he 
 slowly added, " a murderer ! " 
 
 His mother and sister he dared not, could not 
 meet. Indeed, it was evident to me that at present 
 he was unable to do so ; for the very idea was so 
 distracting to him that convulsion after convulsion 
 succeeded, until, completely exhausted, he sank into
 
 172 THE HAZAKD TABLE. 
 
 a broken slumber, interrupted every five or ten min 
 utes by the agonies of remorse and despair, as the 
 image of the dead Varney seemed to flit before 
 his view. 
 
 Fever and delirium succeeded. Mind and body 
 gave way together, and at the end of a week I fol 
 lowed to the grave the remains of him for whom all 
 who knew him had anticipated a long career of hap 
 piness and honor. 
 
 My friend, my friend ! How bright was thy 
 rising how dark the close of thy life !
 
 BY HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 W DO believe that man is corrupt enough, but some- 
 j thing of good has survived his wreck ; something 
 of evil religion has restrained, and something par 
 tially restored ; yet I look upon the human heart as 
 a mountain of fire. I dread its crater. I tremble 
 when I see its lava roll the fiery stream ; therefore 
 I am the more glad if upon the old crust of past 
 eruptions I can find a flower springing up. A 
 flower in a howling wilderness is yet more precious 
 to the pilgrim, because the lovely tenant of desola 
 tion. So far from rejecting appearances of virtue in 
 the corrupt heart of a depraved race, I am as eager to 
 see their light as ever mariner was to see a star on a 
 stormy night. 
 
 Moss will grow upon grave-stones, the ivy will 
 cling to the mouldering pile, the mistletoe springs 
 from the dying branch ; and God be praised, some 
 thing green, something fair to the sight, and grate 
 ful to the heart, will yet twine around and grow 
 out of the seams and cracks of the desolate temple 
 of the human heart ! 
 
 Who could walk through Thebes or Palmyra,
 
 174 IDLENESS. 
 
 and there survey the wide w.aste of broken arches, 
 crumbled altars, fallen pillars, effaced cornices, top 
 pling walls, and crushed statues, with no feelings 
 but those of contempt ? Who, unsorrowing, could 
 see the stork's nest upon the carved pillar, satyrs 
 dancing on marble pavements, hateful scorpions 
 nestling where beauty once dwelt, and dragons the 
 sole tenants of royal palaces V Amid such melan 
 choly magnificence, even the misanthrope might 
 weep ! Here and there an altar stood unbruised, 
 or a graven column unblighted, or a statue nearly 
 perfect he might well feel love for a man-wrought 
 stone so beautiful, when all else is so dreary and des 
 olate. Thus, though man is in a desolate city, and 
 his passions are as the wild beasts of the wilderness 
 howling in king's palaces, yet he is God's workman 
 ship, and a thousand touches of exquisite beauty re 
 main. Since Christ hath put his sovereign hand to 
 restore man's ruin, many points are remoulded, and 
 the fair form of a new fabric already appears grow 
 ing from the ruins, and the first faint flame is glim 
 mering upon a restored altar. 
 
 It is impossible to indulge in such habitual sever 
 ity of opinion upon our fellow-men, without injuring 
 the tenderness and delicacy of our own feelings. A 
 man will be what his most cherished feelings are. If 
 he encourage appetite, he will not be far from 
 beastly ; if he encourage a noble generosity, such 
 will he be ; if he nurse bitter and envenomed thought, 
 his own spirit will absorb the poison, and he will 
 crawl among men as a burnished adder, whose life is
 
 IDLENESS. 175 
 
 mischief, whose errand is death. Although exper 
 ience should correct the indiscriminate confidence 
 of the young, no experience should render them 
 callous to goodness wherever seen. He who hunts 
 for flowers, will find flowers ; but he who hunts for 
 vermin, will find vermin; and he who loves weeds, 
 may find weeds. Let it be remembered that no 
 man, who is not himself mortally diseased, will have 
 a relish for disease in others. A swollen wretch, 
 blotched all over with leprosy, may grin hideously 
 at every wart or excrescence upon beauty. A whole 
 some man will be pained at it, and seek not to notice 
 it. Reject then the morbid ambition of the Cynic, 
 or cease to call yourself a man. 
 
 I fear that few villages exist without a specimen 
 of the Libertine. He is a beast put by accident into 
 human form. His errand into this world is to explore 
 every depth of sensuality, and collect upon himself the 
 foulness of every one. He is proud to be vile ; his am 
 bition is to be viler than other men. Were we not con 
 fronted almost daily by such wretches, it would be 
 hard to believe that any could exist to whom purity 
 and decency were a burden, and only corruption 
 a delight. This creature has changed his nature, 
 until only that which disgusts a pure mind pleases 
 his. He is lured by the scent of carrion. His 
 coarse feelings, stimulated by gross excitements, 
 are insensible to delicacy.- The exquisite bloom, 
 the dew and freshness of the flowers of the 
 heart, which delights both good men and God 
 himself, he gazes upon as a Behemoth would gaze
 
 176 IDLENESS. 
 
 enraptured upon a prairie of flowers. It is so much 
 pasture. The forms, the odors, the hues, are only a 
 mouthful for his terrible appetite. Therefore his 
 breath blights every innocent thing. He sneers at 
 the mention of purity, and leers in the very face 
 of Virtue, as though she was herself corrupt if the 
 truth were known. He assures the credulous dis 
 ciple that there is no purity ; that its appearances 
 are only the veils which cover indulgences the 
 paint which hides decay. Nay, he solicits praise for 
 the very openness of his evil, and tells the listener 
 that all act as he acts, but only few are cour 
 ageous enough to own it. Thus his shameless ex 
 cess is sanctified with sacred names. But the utter 
 most parts of depravity are laid open only when 
 several such monsters meet together, and vie with 
 each other, as we might suppose shapeless men-mon 
 sters disport in the slimiest ooze of the ocean. They 
 dive in fierce rivalry, which shall reach the most in 
 fernal depths and bring up the blackest sediments. It 
 makes the blood of an honest man run cold, to hear 
 but the echo of the shameless rehearsals of their 
 salacious enterprises. Each strives to tell a blacker 
 tale than the other. When the abomination of their 
 actual life is not damnable enough to satisfy the am 
 bition of their unutterable corruption, they devise in 
 their imagination scenes yet more flagrant ; swear 
 that they have performed them, and when they separ 
 ate, each strives to make his lying boastings true. 
 It would seem as if miscreants so loathsome could 
 have no power of temptation upon the young. Ex-
 
 IDLENESS. 177 
 
 perience shows that the worst men are often the most 
 skillful in touching the springs of human action. A 
 young man knows little of life ; less of himself. He 
 feels in his bosom impulses, wild desires, restless 
 cravings, he can hardly tell for what ; a somber melan 
 choly when all are gay ; a violent exhilaration when 
 others are sober. These wild gushes of feeling pe 
 culiar to youth the sagacious tempter has felt, has 
 studied, has practiced upon, until he can sit before 
 that most capacious organ, the human mind, know 
 ing every stop and all the combinations, and compe 
 tent to touch every note throughout the diapason. 
 As a serpent deceived the purest of mortals, so now 
 a beast may mislead their posterity. He begins 
 afar off. He decries the virtue of all men ; studies 
 to produce a doubt that any are under self-restraint. 
 He unpacks his filthy stories, plays off the fireworks 
 of his corrupt imagination its blue-lights, its red- 
 lights, and green-lights, and sparkle-spitting lights ; 
 and edging in upon the yielding youth, who begins 
 to wonder at his experience, he boasts his first ex 
 ploits, he hisses at the purity of woman. He grows 
 yet bolder, tells more wicked deeds, and invents 
 worse even than he ever performed, though he has 
 performed worse than good men ever thought of. All 
 thoughts, all feelings, all ambitions, are merged in one, 
 and that the lowest, vilest, most detestable ambition. 
 Had I a son of years, I could, with thanksgiving, 
 see him go down to the grave, rather than see him 
 fall into the maw of this most besotted devil. I would 
 rather see him rot in a lazar house than putrefy with 
 12
 
 178 IDLENESS. 
 
 such corruption. The plague is mercy, the cholera 
 is love, the deadliest fever is refreshment to man's 
 body, in comparison with this epitome and essence of 
 moral disease. He lives among men, Hell's ambas 
 sador, with full credentials ; nor can we conceive 
 that there should be need of any other fiend to per 
 fect the work of darkness, while he carries his body 
 among us, stuffed with every pestilent drug of cor 
 ruption. The heart of every virtuous young man 
 should loathe him. If he speaks, you should as soon 
 hear a wolf bark. Gather around you the venom 
 ous snake, the poisonous toad, the fetid vulture, the 
 prowling hyena, and their company would be an 
 honor to you above his, for they, at least, remain with 
 in their own nature ; but he goes out of his nature 
 that he may become more beastly than it is possible 
 for a beast to be. 
 
 He is hateful to religion, hateful to virtue, hateful 
 to decency, hateful to the coldest morality. The 
 stenchful ichor of his ulcerated heart has flowed over 
 every feeling of his nature, and left them as the 
 burning lava leaves the garden, the orchard, and the 
 vineyard. And it is a wonder that the bolt of God, 
 which crushed Sodom, does not slay him. It is a 
 wonder that the earth does not refuse the burden, 
 and open and swallow him up. I do not fear that 
 the young will be undermined by his direct assaults. 
 But some will imitate, and their example will be 
 again feebly imitated, and finally a remote circle of 
 disciples will spread the diluted contagion among the 
 virtuous. This man will be the fountain-head, and
 
 IDLENESS. 179 
 
 though none will come to drink at a hot spring, yet 
 further down, along the stream it sends out, will be 
 found many scooping from its waters. 
 
 I have described the devil in his native form, but 
 he sometimes appears as angel of light. There is 
 a polished libertine, in manners studiously refined, 
 in taste faultless ; his face is mild and engaging, his 
 words drop as purely as new made honey. In 
 general society he would rather attract attention as 
 a model of purity, and suspicion herself could 
 hardly look askance upon him. Under this brilliant 
 exterior, his heart is like a sepulcher full of unclean- 
 ness. Contrasted with the gross libertine, it would 
 not be supposed that he had a thought in common 
 with him. If his heart could be opened to our eye 
 as it is to God's, we should perceive scarcely dissim 
 ilar feelings in respect to appetite. Professing un 
 bounded admiration of virtue in general, he leaves 
 not, in private, a point untransgressed. His read 
 ing has culled every glowing picture of amorous 
 poets, every tempting scene of loose dramatists and 
 looser novelists. Enriched by these, his imagina 
 tion, like a rank soil, is overgrown with a prodigal 
 luxuriance of poisonous herbs and deadly flowers. 
 Men such as this man frequently aspire to be the 
 censors of morality. They are hurt at the injudi 
 cious reprehensions of vice from the pulpit. They 
 make great outcry when plain words are employed 
 to denounce base things. They are astonishingly 
 sensitive and fearful lest good men should soil their 
 hands with too much meddling with evil. Their cries
 
 180 IDLENESS. 
 
 are not the evidence of sensibility to virtue, but of 
 too lively a sensibility of vice. Sensibility is often 
 only the flattering of an impure heart. 
 
 At the very time that their voice is ringing an 
 alarm against immoral reformations, they are secretly 
 skeptical of every tenet of virtue, and practically 
 unfaithful to every one. Of these two libertines, the 
 most refined is the most dangerous. The one is a 
 rattlesnake which carries its warning with it ; the 
 other, hiding his burnished scales in the grass, 
 skulks to perform unsuspected deeds in darkness. 
 The one is the visible fog and miasra of the morass ; 
 the other is the serene air of a tropical city, which, 
 though so brilliant, is loaded with invisible pestilence. 
 
 The Politician. If there be a man on earth whose 
 character should be framed of the most sterling hon 
 esty, and whose conduct should conform to the most 
 scrupulous morality, it is the man who administers 
 public affairs. The most romantic notions of integ 
 rity are here not extravagant. As, under our in 
 stitutions, public men will be, upon the whole, fair 
 exponents of the character of their constituents, the 
 plainest way to secure public men is to inspire those 
 who make them with a right understanding of what 
 political character ought to be. Young men should 
 be prompted to discriminate between the spurious 
 and the real ; the artful and the honest ; the wise and 
 the cunning ; the patriotic and the pretender. 
 
 I will sketch the Demagogue. The lowest of 
 politicians is that man who seeks to gratify an inva 
 riable selfishness by pretending to seek the public
 
 IDLENESS. 181 
 
 good. For a profitable popularity, he accommodates 
 himself to all opinions, to all dispositions, to every 
 side, and to each prejudice. He is a mirror, with 
 no face of his own, but a smooth surface, from which 
 every man of ten thousand may see himself reflected. 
 He glides from man to man, coinciding with their 
 views, pretending to their feelings, simulating their 
 tastes ; with this one he hates a man ; with that one 
 he loves the same man ; he favors a law, and he dis 
 likes it ; he approves, and opposes ; he is on both 
 sides at once, and seemingly wishes that he could 
 be on one side more than on both sides ; he attends 
 meetings to suppress intemperance but at elections 
 makes every grog-shop free to all drinkers. He can 
 with equal relish plead most eloquently for temper 
 ance, or toss off a dozen glasses in a dirty grocery. 
 He thinks that there is a time for everything, and 
 therefore, at one time he swears, and jeers, and leers 
 with a carousing crew ; and at another time, having 
 happily been converted, he displays the various 
 features of devotion. Indeed, he is a capricious 
 Christian, an epitome of faith. He piously asks the 
 class-leader after the welfare of his charge, for he was 
 always a Methodist, and always shall be until he 
 meets a Presbyterian ; then he is a Presbyterian, 
 old school or new, as the case requires. However, 
 as he is not a bigot, he can afford to be a Baptist, in 
 a good Baptist neighborhood, and with a wink he tells 
 the zealous elder that he never had one of his chil 
 dren baptized, not he. He whispers to the reformer 
 that he abhors all creeds but Baptism and the Bible.
 
 182 IDLENESS. 
 
 After all this, room will be found in his heart for the 
 fugitive sects also, which come and go like clouds in 
 a summer sky. His flattering attention at church 
 edifies the simple-hearted preacher, who admires 
 that a plain sermon should make a man whisper 
 Amen, and weep, or at least wipe his eyes to coax 
 a tear. Upon the stump his tact is no less rare. He 
 roars and bawls with courageous plainness, on points 
 where all agree ; but on subjects where men differ, 
 his meaning is nicely balanced on a pivot, that it may 
 dip either way. He depends for success chiefly 
 upon humorous stories. A glowing patriot telling 
 stories is a dangerous antagonist ; for it is hard to ex 
 pose the fallacy of a hearty laugh. Men convulsed 
 with merriment are slow to perceive in what way 
 an argument is a reply to a story. 
 
 Perseverance, effrontery, good-nature, and versa 
 tile cunning have advanced many a bad man higher 
 than a good man could attain. Men will admit that 
 he has not a single moral virtue, but he is smart. 
 Smart ? It does not occur to many that there is 
 much difference between men and game, or that 
 officers and laws are much more than beaver-traps, 
 or public men very different from smart trappers. 
 
 e object to no man for amusing himself at the fer 
 tile resources of the politician here painted, for 
 sober men are sometimes pleased with the grimaces 
 and mischievous tricks of a versatile monkey ; but 
 would it not be strange indeed if they should select 
 him for a ruler, or make him an exemplar to their 
 sons?
 
 IDLENESS. 183 
 
 The children of rich parents are apt to be reared 
 in indolence. The ordinary motives to industry are 
 wanting, and the temptations to sloth are multiplied. 
 Other men labor to provide a support; to amass 
 wealth ; to secure homage ; to obtain power ; to mul 
 tiply the elegant products of art. 
 
 The child of affluence inherits these things. Why 
 should he labor who may command universal service, 
 whose money subsidizes the inventions of art, ex 
 hausts the luxuries of society, and makes rarities 
 common by their abundance ? Only the blind would 
 not see that riches and ruin run in one channel to 
 prodigal children. The most rigorous regimen, the 
 most confirmed industry, and steadfast morality can 
 alone disarm inherited wealth, and reduce it to a 
 blessing. The profligate wretch, who fondly watches 
 his father's advancing decrepitude, and secretly 
 curses the lingering steps of death, (seldom too slow 
 except to hungry heirs) at last is overblessed in the 
 tidings that the loitering work is done, and the es 
 tate is his. When the golden shower has fallen, he 
 rules as a prince in a court of expectant parasites. 
 All the sluices by which pleasurable vice drains an 
 estate are opened wide. A few years complete the 
 ruin. The hopeful heir, avoided by all whom he has 
 helped, ignorant of useful labor, and scorning a 
 knowledge of it, fired with an incurable appetite for 
 vicious excitement, sinks steadily down, a profligate, 
 a wretch, a villain, a scoundrel, a convicted felon. 
 
 Let parents who hate their offspring rear them to 
 hate labor and to inherit riches, and before long they
 
 184 IDLENESS. 
 
 will be stung by every vice, racked by its poison, and 
 damned by its penalty. 
 
 Another cause of idleness is found in the secret 
 effects of youthful indulgence. The purest pleasures 
 lie within the circle of useful occupation. But the 
 golden sand of pleasure is scattered along the courses 
 of all the labors of love, or support, by which the 
 family subsists. Mere pleasure, sought outside of 
 usefulness existing by itself is fraught with poison. 
 When its exhilaration has thoroughly kindled the 
 mind, the passions thenceforth refuse a simple food ; 
 they crave and require an excitement higher than 
 any ordinary occupation can give. 
 
 After reveling all night in wine dreams, or amid 
 the fascinations of the dance, or the deception of the 
 drama, what has the dull store, or the dusty shop, 
 which can continue the pulse at this fever heat of de 
 light ? 
 
 The face of Pleasure, to the youthful imagination, 
 is the face of an angel, a paradise of smiles, a home 
 of love ; while the rugged face of Industry, em 
 browned by toil, is dull and repulsive ; but at the 
 end it is not so. 
 
 These are harlot charms which Pleasure wears. 
 At last, when Industry shall put on her beautiful 
 garments, and rest in the palace which her own 
 hands have built, Pleasure, blotched and diseased 
 with indulgences, shall lie down and die upon the 
 dunghill. 
 
 Example leads to idleness. The children of in 
 dustrious parents, at the sight of vagrant rovers,
 
 IDLENESS. 185 
 
 seeking their sports wherever they will, disrelish 
 labor, and envy this unrestrained leisure. At the 
 first relaxation of parental vigilance, they shrink 
 from their odious tasks. Idleness is begun when 
 labor is a burden and industry a bondage, and only 
 idle relaxation a pleasure. 
 
 The example of political men, office-seekers, and 
 public officers, is not usually conducive to industry. 
 The idea insensibly fastens itself upon the mind that 
 greatness and hard labor are not companions. The 
 experience of youth imagines that great men are 
 men of great leisure. They see them much in pub 
 lic, much applauded, and greatly followed. How 
 disgusting in contrast is a mechanic's life, a tinker 
 ing shop dark and smutty is the only theater of his 
 exploits ; and labor which covers him with sweat, and 
 fills him with weariness, brings neither notice nor 
 praise. 
 
 The ambitious apprentice, sighing over his soiled 
 hands, hates his ignoble work ; neglecting it, he as 
 pires to better things plots in a caucus, declaims in 
 a bar-room, fights in a grog-shop, and dies in a ditch. 
 
 But the indolence begotten by venal ambition must 
 not be so easily dropped. At those periods of oc 
 casional disasters, when embarrassments cloud the 
 face of commerce, and trade drags heavily, sturdy 
 laborers forsake industrial occupations, and petition 
 for office. 
 
 Had I a son able to gain a livelihood by toil, I 
 had rather bury him, than witness his beggarly sup 
 plications for office ; sneaking along the path of men's
 
 186 IDLENESS. 
 
 passions to gain his advantage ; holding in the breath 
 of his honest opinions ; breathing feigned words of 
 flattery to hungry ears, popular or official ; and 
 crawling, viler than a snake, through all the unmanly 
 courses by which ignoble wretches purloin the votes 
 of the dishonest, the drunken, and the vile. 
 
 For a farthing pittance of official salary, for the 
 miserable fees of a constable's office, for the par 
 ings and perquisites of any deputyship, a hundred 
 men in every village rush forward scrambling, 
 jostling, crowding each more obsequious than the 
 other to seek the hand that holds the omnipotent vote 
 for the starveling office. The most supple cunning 
 gains the prize. Of the disappointed crowd, a few, 
 rebuked by their sober reflections, go back to their 
 honest trade, ashamed and cured of office seeking. 
 But the majority grumble for a day, then prick forth 
 their ears, arrange their feline arts, and mouse it 
 again for another office. 
 
 The general appetite for office, and dislike for in 
 dustrial callings, is a prolific source of idleness ; and 
 it would be well for the honor of young men if they 
 were bred to regard office as fit only for those who 
 have clearly shown themselves able and willing to 
 support their families without it. No office can 
 make a worthless man respectable ; and a man of 
 integrity, thrift, and religion has name enough with 
 out badge or office. 
 
 Men become indolent through reverses of fortune. 
 Surely, despondency is a grievous thing, and a heavy 
 load to bear. To see disaster and wreck in the pres-
 
 IDLENESS. 187 
 
 ent, and no light in the future, but only storms, 
 lurid by the contrast of past prosperity, and grow 
 ing darker as they advance ; to wear a constant ex 
 pectation of woe like a girdle ; to see want at the 
 door, imperiously knocking, while there is no strength 
 to repel, or courage to bear its tyranny ; indeed, this 
 is dreadful enough. But there is a thing more 
 dreadful. It is more dreadful if the man is wrecked 
 with his fortune. Can anything be more poignant 
 in anticipation than one's own self, unnerved, cowed 
 down, and slackened to utter pliancy, and helplessly 
 drifting down the troubled sea of life ? 
 
 Of all things on earth, next to his God, a broken 
 man should cling to a courageous industry. If it 
 brings nothing back, and saves nothing, it will save 
 him. To be pressed down by adversity has nothing , 
 in it of a disgrace ; but it is disgraceful to lie down 
 under it like a supple dog. Indeed, to stand com 
 posedly in the storm, amidst its rage and wild dev 
 astation ; to let it beat over you, and roar around 
 you, and pass by you, and leave you undismayed 
 this is to be a man. Adversity is the mint in which 
 God stamps upon us his image and superscription. 
 In this matter, man may learn of insects. The ant 
 will repair his dwelling as often as the mischievous 
 foot crushes it ; the spider will exhaust life itself be 
 fore he will live without a web ; the bee can be de 
 coyed from his labor neither by plenty nor scarcity. 
 If summer be abundant it toils none the less ; if it 
 be parsimonious of flowers, the tiny laborer sweeps 
 a wider circle, and by industry repairs the frugality 
 of the season.
 
 DISHONESTY. 
 
 extraordinary circumstances can give the 
 appearance of dishonesty to an honest man. 
 Usually not to seem honest is not to be so. The qual 
 ity must not be doubtful like the twilight, lingering 
 between night and day, and taking hues from both ; 
 it must be daylight, clear and effulgent. This is the 
 doctrine of the Bible: " Providing for honest things 
 not only in the sight of the Lord, but also in the 
 sight of men." If the needle traverses in the com 
 pass, you may be sure something has attracted it ; 
 and so good men's opinions will point steadily to an 
 honest man, nor vibrate without a cause. In gen 
 eral, it may be said that no one has honesty without 
 dross until he has honesty without suspicion. 
 
 We are passing through times upon which the 
 seeds of dishonesty have been sown broadcast, and 
 they have brought forth an hundred-fold. These 
 times will pass away, but like ones will come again. 
 As physicians study the causes and record the phe 
 nomena of plagues and pestilences, to draw from 
 them an antidote against their recurrence, so 
 should we leave to. another generation* a his-
 
 DISHONESTY. 189 
 
 \ 
 
 tory of moral plagues, as the best antidote to their 
 recurring malignity. 
 
 Upon a land capacious beyond measure, whose 
 prodigal soil rewards labor with an unharvestable 
 abundance of exuberant fruits, occupied by a people 
 signalized by enterprise and industry, there came a 
 summer of prosperity, which lingered so long and 
 shone so brightly that men forgot that winter would 
 ever come. Each day grew brighter. No reins 
 were put upon the imagination. Its dreams passed 
 for realities. Even sober men, touched with wild- 
 ness, seemed to expect a realization of oriental 
 tales. Upon this bright day came sudden frost, 
 storms, and blight. 
 
 Men awoke from gorgeous dreams in the midst of 
 desolation. The harvests of years were swept away 
 in a day. The strongest firms were rent as easily 
 as the oak by lightning. Speculating companies 
 were dispersed as seared leaves from a tree in 
 autumn. Merchants were ruined by thousands ; 
 clerks turned adrift by ten thousand. Mechanics 
 were left in idleness. Farmers sighed over flocks 
 and wheat as useless as the stones and dirt. The 
 wide sea of commerce was stagnant. Upon the 
 realm of industry settled down a sullen lethargy. 
 
 Out of this reverse swarmed an unnumjbered host 
 of dishonest men, like vermin from a carcass, or 
 wolves and hyenas from a battle-ground. Banks 
 were exploded or robbed ; or, fleeced by astounding 
 forgeries, mighty, without cohesion, went to pieces. 
 
 The world looked upon a continent of inexhaust-
 
 190 DISHONESTY. 
 
 ible fertility (whose harvests had glutted the mar 
 kets and rotted in disuse) filled with lamentation, 
 and its inhabitants wandering like bereaved citizens 
 among the ruins of an earthquake, mourning for 
 children, for houses crushed, and for property buried 
 forever. 
 
 That no measure might be put to the calamity, 
 the Church of God, which rises a stately tower of ref- 
 fuge to desponding men, seemed now to have lost its 
 power of protection. When the solemn voice of re 
 ligion should have gone over the land, as the call of 
 God to guilty men to seek in him their strength ; in 
 this time, when religion should have restored sight to 
 the blind, made the lame to walk, and bound up the 
 broken-hearted, she was herself mourning in sack 
 cloth. Out of her courts came the noise of warring 
 sects ; some contending against others with a war 
 fare disgraceful to pirates ; and some, possessed of 
 a demon, wallowed upon the ground, foaming and 
 rending themselves. In a time of panic and disas 
 ter, and distress and crime, the fountain which should 
 have been for the healing of men cast up its sedi 
 ments, and gave forth a bitter stream of pollution. 
 
 In every age, a universal pestilence has hushed 
 the clamor of contention and cooled the heats of 
 parties ; but the greatness of our national calamity 
 seemed only to enkindle the fury of political parties. 
 Contentions never ran with such deep streams and 
 impetuous currents as amidst the ruin of our industry 
 and prosperity. States were greater debtors to 
 foreign powers than they were to each other. Both
 
 DISHONESTY. 191 
 
 States and citizens shrank back from their debts, 
 and yet more dishonest, from the taxes neces 
 sary to discharge them. The general government 
 did not escape, but lay becalmed, or pursued its 
 course like a ship, at every furlong touching the 
 rooks or beating against the sands. New questions 
 of exciting qualities perplexed the realms of legisla 
 tion and of morals. To all this must be added a 
 manifest decline 'of family government ; an increase 
 of the ratio of popular ignorance ; a decrease of 
 reverence for law, and an effeminate administration 
 of it. Popular tumults have been as frequent as 
 freshets in our rivers, and, like them, have swept 
 over the land with desolation, and left their filthy 
 slime in the highest places upon the press, upon 
 the legislature, in the halls of our courts, and even 
 upon the sacred bench of justice. If unsettled times 
 foster dishonesty, it should have flourished among 
 us. And it has. 
 
 Our nation must expect a periodical return of such 
 convulsions ; but experience should steadily curtail 
 their ravages and remedy their immoral tendencies. 
 Young men have before them lessons of manifold 
 wisdom, taught by the severest of masters : experi- 
 ence. They should be studied ; and that they may 
 be, I shall from the general survey turn to a specific 
 enumeration of the causes of dishonesty. 
 
 Some men find in their bosoms, from the first, a 
 vehement inclination to dishonest ways : knavish 
 propensities are inherent born with the child, and 
 transmissible from parent to son. The children of a
 
 192 DISHONESTY. 
 
 sturdy thief, if taken from him at birth and reared 
 by honest men, would doubtless have to contend 
 against a strongly dishonest inclination. Foundlings 
 and orphans, under public charitable charge, are 
 more apt to become vicious than other children. 
 They are usually born of low and vicious parents, 
 and inherit their parents' propensities. Only the 
 most thorough moral training can overrule this innate 
 depravity. 
 
 A child, naturally fair-minded, may become dis 
 honest by paternal example. He is early taught to 
 be sharp in bargains, and vigilant for every advan 
 tage. Little is said about honesty, and much about 
 shrewd traffic. A dextrous trick becomes a family 
 anecdote ; visitors are regaled with the boy's preco 
 cious keenness. Hearing the praise of his exploits, 
 he studies craft, and seeks parental admiration by 
 adroit knaveries. He is taught, for his safety, he 
 must not range beyond the law ; that would be un 
 profitable. He calculates his morality thus : ''Legal 
 honesty is the best policy. Dishonesty, then, is a bad 
 bargain, and therefore wrong ; everything is wrong 
 that is unthrifty." Whatever profit breaks no legal 
 statute, though it is gained by falsehood, by unfair 
 ness, by gloss, through dishonor, unkindness, and an 
 unscrupulous conscience, he considers fair, and says : 
 The law allows it. Men may spend a long time 
 without an indictable action, and without an honest 
 one. No law can reach the insidious ways of subtle 
 craft. The law allows and religion forbids men to 
 profit by others' misfortune ; to prowl for prey among
 
 DISHONESTY. 193 
 
 the ignorant ; to overreach the simple ; to suck the 
 life-drops from the bleeding ; to hover over men as 
 a vulture over herds, swooping down upon the weak, 
 the struggling, and the weary. The infernal craft 
 of cunning men turns the law itself to piracy, and 
 works- outrageous frauds in the halls of courts, by 
 the decision of judges, and under the seal of justice. 
 
 13
 
 NEW ENGLAND 
 
 A GRAPHIC SKETCH. 
 
 'HE custom of celebrating the ingathering of the 
 fruits of the earth has obtained amongst nearly 
 all civilized nations. It seems almost intuitive on 
 receiving the supply on which we are to depend for 
 support, until the yielding earth shall give her in 
 crease, to mark the event by some outward demon 
 strations of joy. 
 
 The manner and time of such celebrations are as 
 various as the countries and climates in which they 
 are observed. In England, the festival goes by the 
 name of " Harvest Home," the meaning of which 
 is, the harvest is brought home or housed. The cel 
 ebration is confined to the agricultural class, and is 
 unattended with any religious observances. It is a 
 feast which the landlord or farmer gives to the work 
 men on his land. It consists of a supper of the 
 true English materials roast beef, plum pudding, 
 and plenty of good home-brewed ale. Such pro 
 vision is truly characteristic of the nation. Among 
 the very few instances which occur of equality in
 
 THANKSGIVING DINNER FESTIVALS. 195 
 
 the domestic economy, this may be reckoned as one 
 of them. In the celebration of " Harvest Home," 
 all meet at one common table, and the stately land 
 lord or wealthy farmer is pleased to lay aside for a 
 few hours the aristocracy of rank, and mingles with 
 his humble laborers, whose diligence and nerve 
 have filled his plenteous garners. Rustic songs, and 
 sometimes a rural dance, close the scene of their 
 merriment. 
 
 " Harvest Home " differs in the time of its celebra 
 tion according to the forwardness or lateness of the 
 season, and the latitude of the place. There is not 
 any special day set apart for its observance. In the 
 part of England from which I came, Hampshire, be 
 ing one of the extreme southern counties, it generally 
 took place some time in September, and immediately 
 followed the last load of wheat. I believe that in 
 Kent, and counties where the hop is the principal 
 product of the soil, it is deferred to the close of the 
 gathering of the fruit of that plant. It will be seen 
 from these remarks that the festival must be very 
 partial, differing widely in the time of its observance. 
 The manner, I presume, is much the same in every 
 county in England. How can it be otherwise ? 
 
 There is no possibility of improving, at least in 
 the taste of an Englishman, on the solid comforts 
 arising from roast beef, plum pudding, and beer. In 
 France, in the provinces where the grape is cultivat 
 ed, the completion of the ingathering is also a season 
 of festivity. The difference of the celebration is in 
 keeping with the difference of character between the
 
 196 NEW ENGLAND 
 
 two nations. The sprightly, lively Frenchman, less 
 physical, but far more spiritual than his doughty neigh 
 bor, John Bull, exhibits his mirth in gallantry. He 
 sings catches, dances, and makes love to the peasant 
 girls, who have partaken in the labors of the field ; 
 and instead of blunting his appetite for merriment by 
 the soporific influence of the " home-brewed ale," he 
 increases the hilarity of his spirits by the exhilarat 
 ing juice of his native grape. 
 
 We leave the old world and enter upon the new. 
 and the festival assumes quite another appearance. 
 Here, it is quite a serious affair. Tinctured with the 
 spirit of the Pilgrims, religion is made the handmaid 
 of festivity. The State government appoints the 
 day, and invites the citizens to rejoice with sacred 
 joy. The New England States, whose claims to 
 " puritanism " are undisputed, look upon this festival 
 as the " queen of feasts." 
 
 At this time, the scattered members of the family, 
 who are within accessible distances, re-assemble in 
 the homestead. The hand of labor is suspended ; all 
 bend their way to the temple to worship with grate 
 ful hearts, and then return to their cheerful firesides 
 to enjoy the festivities of the occasion. Shortly after 
 coming from " meeting," the dinner is announced. 
 Good Heavens, what a banquet has been prepared ! 
 How shall I describe the luxuriance of that board ! 
 With all my good feeding propensities, I approach 
 the subject with misgiving. Oh, that I could only 
 do as good justice in describing it as I could in 
 partaking of it ! then would the reader feel that I
 
 THANKSGIVING DINNER FESTIVALS. 197 
 
 had done my duty nobly, and I should be no less 
 comfortable on that score myself. 
 
 First, then, let me notice the turkey, that rep 
 resentative of the Grand Seignior's dominions. I am 
 not concerned in the divisions which the rulers of 
 the earth make of the territories under their control. 
 If the " Holy Alliance " think fit to combine, and in 
 their great generosity kindly provide for the interests 
 of a feeble State by sharing it among themselves, 
 that is their affair. I am no politician, and shall 
 not interfere. If Congress determines to receive 
 Mexico into the confederacy, or to make any other 
 disposal of circumadjacent territories that may be 
 thought expedient, I have no objection let it be so. 
 But when Turkey is the subject of discussion, I beg 
 to put in my claim. I demand a slice in the " division 
 of the spoils." I know not which dish next takes 
 precedence in point of favor. I see my old friend, 
 Sir Loin,* but his title gives him no advantage in 
 this equalizing republic. Then I spy a goose ; that 
 is called a silly bird. I do not care for that ; it is 
 at all events a very sensible dish. A very simple 
 person is sometimes called a goose ; but the compari 
 son detracts from the merit of the feathered biped. 
 A simpleton, if he is of little use while he lives, is of 
 less when he is dead. A goose is not quite so sim 
 ple as that. Those ducks which lie side by side so 
 quietly in the same dish, look as inseparable as a 
 
 * Webster, in his dictionary, has these definitions to the 
 word " sir " : " The title of a knight or baronet. It is prefixed 
 to loin in sirloin, as, a sirloin of beef."
 
 198 NEW ENGLAND 
 
 newly married couple ; there is, l:o vever, this differ 
 ence in their destinies : death, which generally parts 
 married people, seems to have brought them together. 
 I will show them particular marks of my attention 
 ducks are the only quacks that I tolerate. A ctiicken- 
 pie of ample dimensions next strikes the eye. What 
 an extensive field for pleasing contemptation ! Quietly 
 reposing beneath a coverlid of crust, one is irresisti 
 bly led to remove the drapery and reveal the hidden 
 treasure. If in the jostling of life I must come in 
 contact with crusty characters, may they be of this 
 description ! Time would fail me to particularize on 
 all the dainties of that board. Everything, from a 
 jelly to a pickle, is to be found there. There are 
 sauces of every shape and flavor. Long sauce and 
 short sauce, sweet sauce and sour sauce ; cranberry 
 sauce for the turkey, and apple sauce for the goose ; 
 stuffings and seamings so abundant that there is 
 " nothing out of season." Let me not forget that 
 roast pig with an apple in his mouth. He shows the 
 " ruling passion strong in death." We have all heard 
 the trite remark, " there are those who live to eat, 
 and there are those who eat to live"; but who can 
 boast such great things as our friend in that dish, 
 "he lived to eat, and died to be eaten." He has 
 gone through the whole conjugation, both active 
 and passive voice what a learned pig ! 
 
 I utterly despair of introducing the whole family 
 of pies that are present on this occasion ; it will be 
 sufficient to speak of the first in dignity the pump 
 kin pie. What a host of delightful associations
 
 THANKSGIVING DINNER FESTIVALS. 199 
 
 crowd upon the mind in that single word ; you think 
 of sugar and milk, and ginger and fruit, and custard, 
 but you can only think of one at a time, but when 
 you eat pumpkin pie, you taste the whole at once. 
 It is an assemblage of most excellent things concen 
 trated in one delicious morsel. And now, perhaps, 
 the reader thinks that I have exhausted the subject. 
 By no means. The family of cakes is as numerous as 
 that of the pies, and scattered among the larger dishes, 
 look like those points in writing which are known by 
 the name of notes of admiration. They direct the 
 eye to something of special interest. There is the 
 doughnut with its coat of brown, considerably puffed 
 up in its own conceit ; there is molasses cake, and 
 sugar cake, and crullers, and gingerbread, handed 
 around in rapid succession, till the most redoubtable 
 knight of the table has to cry out : " Spare me, spare 
 me ! enough, enough ! " 
 
 Tea and coffee, sparkling cider, and apples and 
 nuts conclude the feast, leaving no room for desire. 
 The old folks talk of the good old times that are 
 past; the young ones enjoy the. good times that are 
 present; the little children, well replenished, sink, 
 one by one, to sleep, and are carried by their tender 
 mothers to. bed ; the youths frolic or play forfeits ; 
 but the candles begin to burn low, the flame flickers 
 in the fire place, the laugh is less loud and less 
 piquant, and by the time the clock strikes ten, the 
 mirthful company have all retired to their repose. 
 
 Happy New Englanders ! May you enjoy many 
 such meetings, and I do not care if I make one of 
 the party. C. F. L. F.
 
 wliile Spending tl^e 
 
 Oh, give me back my native hills, 
 The rock-girt woods that wave in heaven, 
 The music of a myriad rills 
 That purl beneath the light of even. 
 Oh, give me back the winter wind 
 That o'er the northern mountain howls ; 
 The burning clime I leave behind, 
 The sensual feast, the mantling bowls. 
 Let all who, born for better things, 
 Would chain the heart to Mammon's car, 
 Fly on the north wind's fleetest wings, 
 And hail the tropics' loveliest star. 
 To me, more lovely is the home 
 Where kindred hearts at evening meet, 
 While shrieking blasts like demons roam, 
 And minds, long tried, each other greet. 
 
 II. 
 
 I would not mount the vassal's throne 
 To find a felon's damne'd grave.
 
 LINES. 201 
 
 I would not do, to be undone, 
 f Nor, born mind's monarch, be a slave ! 
 Corruption lurks in all the bowers 
 Of that soft, sunny, sensual clime, 
 Where sin's dark pinions gloom the hours, 
 And, giant-like, stalks forth dark crime. 
 Let not the spirit God decreed 
 Should range at will through earth and heaven, 
 Descend to be in thought or deed 
 The creature of Time's festering leaven. 
 Let not the light that God breathed in, 
 From his own soul, the unborn child, 
 Be dimmed by doubt, or gloomed by sin, 
 Or perish on earth's dreariest wild. 
 Oft we become the things we hate, 
 Led on by those who ne'er relent ; 
 And thus we raise a tomb to fate, 
 And build o'er hope a monument. 
 Evil becomes the guest of all 
 Whom conscience guards not from the ills 
 That cluster round us from the Fall. 
 Like cataracts formed by mountain rills, 
 Plague breathes through all the gleaming air 
 That floats o'er heaven, as if it thought 
 In gilded cups lurks man's despair, 
 And all that woe hath ever wrought. 
 If in this world we would be wise, 
 Shun we the guilt that is unblest, 
 For in the far, far, unknown skies 
 There is for sin no realm of rest. 
 Then give me back my native hills,
 
 202 LINES. 
 
 Though rude the men and rough the soil, 
 And scant the harvest that ne'er fills 
 The granary won by hardest toil. 
 If no high, proud, and generous spirit 
 Flashes like light from northern hearts, 
 They from their sires a God inherit, 
 And God's own voice, that ne'er departs. 
 
 S. L. FAIRFIELD.
 
 Vi^it 
 
 A SKETCH : BY MRS. R.. FRAZIER. 
 
 HAVE pleasant news for you, my dear,' v said 
 Mr Delisle to his wife, as he came in to din 
 ner ; " your old friend, Mrs. Winfield, is in town." 
 
 " What, Emily Lardeau that was ? " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Delisle. " We were certainly intimate enough 
 when girls, our families living, for several years, next 
 door ; but since Emily married, and removed to a 
 remote part of Virginia, we have lost sight of each 
 other. We corresponded for a while at first, but 
 our letters gradually became less frequent, and at 
 last ceased entirely ; for, you know, I was married 
 soon after Emily, and then I lost all inclination for 
 letter-writing, as is generally the case, I believe, 
 with women that are settled in life, and have no 
 longer anything to write about." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Delisle, " you will, no doubt, 
 be glad to renew your friendship with the ci-devant 
 Emily Lardeau, whom I recollect as an uncommonly 
 fine girl. You know, we heard of the death of Mr. 
 Winfield, eight or nine years ago. She has been 
 spending most of the winter at Washington, having 
 had business with Congress, on account of a claim of
 
 204 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 her late husband against the United States. She 
 is here with some friends from the South, and they 
 leave town for Boston in a few days." 
 
 " But who told you all this ? " asked Mrs. Delisle. 
 
 " Herself," was his reply. " I stopped in at the 
 United States Hotel, to inquire if Mr. Marvin had 
 yet arrived, and I saw her name on the book. So, 
 believing it to be that of our old friend, I made her 
 a visit, and introduced myself. Mrs. Winfield and 
 her party have a private parlor at the hotel. I was 
 glad to find that she recognized me, even before I 
 mentioned my name, notwithstanding the lapse of 
 more than sixteen years. You know her marriage 
 took place about three months before ours." 
 
 " How long will Mrs. Winfield remain in town ? " 
 asked Mrs. Delisle. 
 
 " Only two or three days ; of course, you will call 
 and see her this afternoon, and show her all possible 
 kindness during her stay in Philadelphia." 
 
 "I am just thinking how that is to be managed. 
 What a pity she did not arrive in town a month ago, 
 and then I could have had her at my party." 
 " That would have been nothing," said Mr. Delisle. 
 
 " Nothing my dear, how can you talk so ? What 
 better could I have done for Emily Winfield, than to 
 invite her with all my friends ? " 
 
 " Friends ! " exclaimed her husband, " why will 
 you persist in calling a crowd of several hundred 
 people your friends ? " 
 
 " So they were," said Mrs. Delisle ; " you know 
 very well it was not a general party."
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 205 
 
 " Is it possible you were acquainted with even the 
 names of all the people I saw here that night ? " 
 asked Mr. Delisle. " I know not what you call a 
 general party, if that was not one." 
 
 " Well, it was not" resumed the wife. " A gen 
 eral party is when we ask everybody with whom we 
 are on visiting terms, and invite by families, even 
 when some of the members are not exactly such as 
 we like to show to the elite of our circle. For in 
 stance, I did not ask Mrs. Littleton's sisters, though 
 they live in the house with her ; nor Mrs. Ludlow's 
 either ; nor Mrs. Ramsby's cousin Mary ; nor Mrs. 
 Bloomfield's two step-daughters, though I had all 
 three of her own ; nor the Miss Jenks' aunt ; nor 
 Mrs. Milden's sister-in-law; nor Mrs. Masters' 
 either; also, I invited nobody that lives north of 
 Chestnut Street. Now, if I had not taken care be 
 forehand to have it understood that I was not go 
 ing to give a general party, I should have been 
 obliged to invite all these people." 
 
 " In other words," observed Mr. Delisle, " a gen 
 eral party is one in which the feelings of all your 
 acquaintances are respected ; whereas, they may he 
 oflended with impunity if your crowd is designated 
 as select." 
 
 " Well," resumed Mrs. Delisle, "I am sure there 
 was crowd enough, notwithstanding that I left out 
 everybody whom there was no advantage in having. 
 Not half the ladies even saw the supper table at 
 least, no more of it than the tops of the sugar tem 
 ples and pyramids ; and when the dancing com-
 
 206 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 raenced, there was only room for half cotillions, of 
 four people each. And the sleeves were all torn, as 
 everybody was jammed into one mass, and the 
 flounces of some were torn to tatters. The heat 
 was so great that all the real curls came out, and 
 hung in strings; and numbers of ladies caught violent 
 colds from passing nearly the whole time on the stairs 
 and in the entry, for the sake of coolness." 
 
 " And you regret that your friend, Mrs. Win- 
 field, was not here to enjoy all this ? " said Mr. 
 Delisle. 
 
 "Enjoy?" returned his wife, "was it not a 
 splendid party ? Think of the sum it cost." 
 
 " You need not telT me that," said the husband ; 
 ; ' rather too large a sum to be expended by persons 
 in middle life, for one evening of pain pleasure I 
 am sure it was not, to any human being." 
 
 " Middle life," repeated Mrs. Delisle, " you are 
 always talking of our being in middle life, even be 
 fore strangers." 
 
 " So we are. And even if we were to spend five 
 times the sum on one evening of foolery and suffer 
 ing, I doubt if we should still be admitted into what 
 is termed high life." 
 
 " You know well enough," replied Mrs. Delisle, 
 " that I have friends at whose houses I have met 
 with people of the very first rank and fashion 
 people who treated me so politely when I was in 
 troduced, that I did not hesitate to call on them, 
 previous to my party, as a preparatory step to send 
 ing them invitations."
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 207 
 
 " But did they come, when thus you called on 
 them ? " asked her husband smiling. 
 
 " Nonsense, Mr. Delisle," replied the lady, " they 
 all sent very reasonable excuses and sincere regrets." 
 
 " Well," resumed Mr. Delisle, " we have dis 
 cussed the subject often enough. But what is it all 
 to the Widow Winfield ? " 
 
 " Why, I do n't know exactly what to do with her. 
 I cannot give another party this season." 
 
 " Heaven forbid you should ! " ejaculated her 
 husband. 
 
 " "Well, inviting a small select company to meet 
 Mrs. Winfield, as some people would, that 's quite 
 out of my way. I give one great party every season, 
 and then I have done my duty, and my conscience 
 is clear till next season, having paid off my debts to 
 all that have invited me to their parties, and laid a 
 foundation for future invitations next winter." 
 
 " Notwithstanding all this," said Mr. Delisle, " my 
 advice is that you invite Mrs. Winfield for to-morrow 
 evening, and ask fifteen or twenty agreeable people 
 to meet her." 
 
 " Well, then," replied Mrs. Delisle, " we must 
 light up the parlors, and have ice-creams and other 
 such things, and hire Carrol to help Peter hand 
 them round. All this will cost as much as one of 
 Vanharlingen's new style pelerines, and I am dying 
 for one of them. There is one that is worked all 
 round in a running pattern " 
 
 " Never mind the running pattern," interrupted 
 her husband, " but endeavor to devise some way of
 
 208 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 evincing your pleasure at meeting again with one of 
 the most intimate friends of your early youth. I re 
 member her as a very handsome and agreeable girl, 
 and she is now a most agreeable woman, and hand 
 some still." 
 
 " Have you any idea what her circumstances 
 are?" 
 
 " Not the least." 
 
 " How was she dressed ? " 
 
 "I did not observe." 
 
 " That is so like you. I am sure if I were to buy 
 all my things at the cheap stores, where they keep 
 nothing but trash, and have them made up by cheap 
 mantua-makers and milliners, you would be none the 
 wiser ; I do not believe you would know the differ 
 ence between a bonnet from Paris and one made in 
 the Northern Liberties." 
 
 " I am certain I should not," replied her husband, 
 "but now let us postpone this discussion and go to 
 dinner." 
 
 In the afternoon, as they proceeded together towards 
 the United States Hotel, the subject was renewed by 
 Mrs. Delisle saying, " As to troubling myself with 
 any extra evening company after having given my 
 party, that is entirely out of the question." 
 
 " Then invite Mrs. Winfield to dinner," said Mr. 
 Delisle, " and ask the Roxleys, and Hermans, and 
 Lysters to meet her ; they are among the pleasantest 
 people we know." 
 
 " I cannot undertake all that," replied the lady. 
 " The trouble and expense of the dinner would far 
 exceed that of a small tea company."
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 209 
 
 " In this instance, I am willing to pay the cost," 
 said Mr. Dolisle, " for I expect some gratification 
 in return for it." 
 
 " You talk of your own gratification," said Mrs. 
 Delisle, " and yet you refuse to make poor Mary 
 Jane happy by giving her the superb silver card- 
 case she saw at Baily & Kitchen's the day she 
 got her last ear-rings, that she has been longing for 
 ever since. But, to make an end of all this argu 
 ing, the cheapest way of entertaining Emily Win- 
 field is" 
 
 " Cheapest!" said Mr. Delisle indignantly. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure," pursued his wife. " Is it not 
 our duty to consult cheapness in all unnecessary ex 
 penses ? You know that we have a large family, and 
 now that Mary Jane has come out, our bills for 
 articles of dress and jewelry are, of course, very 
 much enhanced." 
 
 " I know that, perfectly," replied Mr. Delisle. 
 ; ' She ought not to have come out for at least two 
 years seventeen would have been quite time 
 enough." 
 
 " There was no possibility of keeping her in," 
 remarked Mrs. Delisle. " But, as I was saying, the 
 cheapest way is to invite Emily Winfield to stay at 
 our house while she is in town ; and she will no 
 doubt consider it a greater compliment than if we 
 made a dinner or tea party for her. It will look as 
 if we desired only the pleasure of her society, and 
 were unwilling to lose any part of it by sharing it 
 with others." 
 
 14
 
 210 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 " I am not certain, though," said Mr. Delisle, 
 " that she will find our society (if we give her nothing 
 else) a sufficient compensation for what she will 
 lose by resigning that of the friends with whom she 
 staying at the hotel." 
 
 " How you talk ! " replied Mrs. Delisle. " Have 
 you no idea of the delight of calling up recollections 
 of our days of girlhood, and of discussing once more 
 our former lovers ? " 
 
 " It will not take you long to get through your 
 old sweethearts," observed Mr. Delisle. " Myself 
 and the two midshipmen make three." 
 
 Before the lady could reply they had reached the 
 door of the United States Hotel, and were immedi 
 ately conducted to the parlor occupied by Mrs. Win- 
 field and her party. They found her alone and ex 
 pecting them, as Mr. Delisle had told her he would 
 bring his wife to see her that afternoon. She re 
 ceived Mrs. Delisle with open arms, and both ladies 
 seemed very glad to meet again after so long a sep 
 aration, for they had been extremely intimate at so 
 early an age that the characters of both were still 
 unformed. 
 
 Mrs. Delisle examined the dress of her friend with 
 a scrutinizing eye, and wondered how a woman could 
 look so well in a plain black silk ; and wondered, 
 also, why any one with such a profusion of fine hair 
 should wear a cap ; and why it should be a little, 
 close cap, simply trimmed with white ribbon. Yet 
 she now felt rather glad that Mrs. Winfield had not 
 come to town a month sooner. " After all," thought
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 211 
 
 she, " poor Emily would not have been much of an 
 ornament to my party ; for I can easily see that her 
 style is always very plain. To be sure, as it was not 
 a general party, I need not have asked her. Yes, 
 yes I see clearly that it is not worth while to invite 
 any of my friends to meet her, either at dinner or 
 at tea." 
 
 However, Mrs. Delisle earnestly pressed Mrs. 
 Winfield to remove to her house, and pass with her 
 the two days she was yet to remain in town. Mrs. 
 Winfield, who, though she was very pleasantly situ 
 ated at the hotel, imagined that she might spend two 
 days still more agreeably with one of the most intim 
 ate friends of her youth, was soon prevailed on to 
 accept the invitation. She was engaged to go 
 with her party to Fairmount that afternoon, and to 
 the theater in the evening ; and it was arranged that 
 she should remove to Spruce Street at an early hour 
 next morning. All being satisfactorily arranged, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Delisle took their leave. 
 
 By the evening post, Mr. Delisle received a letter 
 requiring his immediate presence m New York on 
 some business of importance, which would most prob 
 ably detain him several days. He was therefore 
 obliged to set out next morning on the early boat, 
 lamenting that he was thus prevented from partici 
 pating in the pleasure of Mrs. Winfield's visit ; and 
 desiring his wife to do all in her power to make it 
 agreeable to that lady, so that she would have no 
 occasion to regret leaving the hotel and her own 
 party.
 
 212 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 " I shall treat her just as I would a sister," re 
 plied Mrs. Delisle. " But make haste, my dear, or 
 you will be too late for the boat." 
 
 " Mamma," said Mary Jane Delisle, " are n't you 
 going to dress yourself, and. sit in the front parlor all 
 day with Mrs. Winfield ? " 
 
 " Not I, indeed," replied Mrs. Delisle, " you know 
 as I am never at home to morning visitors, it is not 
 my way to sit dressed up in the parlor ; and therefore, 
 as of course I would not put myself out of my way for 
 so old a friend as Emily Winfield, she must take me 
 as she finds me ; that is, in the nursery, where I can 
 be at my ease in a wrapper. As for having such 
 parlors as ours littered with sewing, that is quite out 
 of the question ; and besides, they are so much dark 
 ened by the window curtains, that there is no seeing 
 to thread a needle, or to read a word, even in the 
 annuals that lie on the center table." 
 
 " But she might look out of the window," observed 
 Mary Jane. 
 
 " She could not see through the muslin blinds," 
 replied Mrs. Deslile, " they are worked so closely all 
 over ; and I won't have them rumpled by drawing 
 aside." 
 
 " It is well pa 's not at home," remarked the 
 daughter. 
 
 " I am very glad he is not," resumed Mrs. Delisle. 
 " He and I have such different views with regard to 
 entertaining company, and he is always so hard to 
 contradict. However, Mary Jane, you must con 
 tinually bear in mind that it is the duty of all children
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 213 
 
 to consider their father superior to every man in the 
 world." 
 
 " Yes mamma," replied Mary Jane, " but you 
 know very well that pa has a great many queer no 
 tions." 
 
 " Undoubtedly he has," answered the mother, 
 " and he is in every respect the reverse of myself ; 
 but remember, always, that it is your duty as a child 
 to be blind to his faults, however great they may 
 be." 
 
 About eleven o'clock, Mrs. Winfield came to the 
 door in a carriage, with a small trunk containing a 
 change of clothes. 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Mrs. Delisle, " who would have 
 thought of her being here before twelve, at the 
 earliest. When I urged her to come directly after 
 breakfast, I had no idea that she would take me at 
 my word ; nobody ever does. Run down, Mary 
 Jane, and show Mrs. Winfield into the back spare 
 bedroom, till she gets her bonnet off, and then bring 
 her into the nursery. I shall not put myself the 
 least out of my way. If visitors will come, they must 
 take me as they find me." 
 
 Accordingly, Mrs. Winfield was ushered into the 
 nursery, a long, narrow room in that part of the 
 house denominated the back building ; with a low 
 ceiling, low windows, and a door opening into a sort 
 of balcony or veranda. This apartment always pre 
 sented a most disorderly appearance ; and the furni 
 ture (which was very plain) had been much abused 
 by the children. But though it was the constant
 
 214 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 abiding place of the successive Irish nurses, it was in 
 the nursery that Mrs. Delisle spent most of her time. 
 There she sat in the full enjoyment of extreme de 
 shabille, except when, in an exuberance of finery, she 
 went out for the purpose of shopping, or of making 
 visits by leaving her card. Her professed devotion 
 to her children never prevented her daring the sea 
 son from spending the first part of every evening at 
 her toilet, and the last at a large party. 
 
 " My dear Emily," said Mrs. Delisle, " I am de 
 lighted to see you. But how late you are. Mary 
 Jane and I have been anxiously expecting you ever 
 since breakfast ; do take a seat on the couch. Nel 
 ly, shake up the pillows the boys have been on them 
 with their feet. You find me just going to dress 
 the baby, a thing I always do myself, before Nelly 
 carries her out walking. You were right to bring 
 your sewing ; you must make yourself quite at home, 
 and neither use ceremony nor expect any. Mary 
 Jane, are you going out this morning ? " 
 
 " To be sure I am," replied the daughter, " I 
 shall begin dressing immediately." 
 
 " Well, then, I must get you to leave cards for me 
 and yourself at Miss Warden's, at Mrs. Morley's, 
 at Mrs. Clarkson's, and at Mrs. Simmons', and to 
 to stop at Madame Dawson's and hurry her with my 
 bonnet." 
 
 " Dawson won't be hurried," said Mary Jane. 
 "Besides, I have visits of my own on hand, and have 
 no time to stop at all those places." 
 
 " Mildness of voice and deportment, my dear
 
 MRS. AVINFIELD'S VISIT. 215 
 
 Mary Jane," proceeded Mrs. Delisle, sententiously, 
 " and strict compliance with the wishes of a parent, 
 are particularly becoming to all young ladies who 
 desire " 
 
 But before her mother had time to finish the sen 
 tence, Mary Jane flounced out of the room, shutting 
 the door violently. 
 
 " A perfect child of nature," observed Mrs. De- 
 lisle. " She is, as yet, incapable of control, and is 
 considered brusque. But brusquerie sometimes suc 
 ceeds quite as well as manner. Mary Jane takes 
 extremely. The other night, at Mrs. Winslow's, she 
 was constantly surrounded with gentlemen. She is 
 but fifteen, and her father thinks I brought her out 
 too soon, but there was no such thing as keeping 
 her back." 
 
 " So I should suppose," thought Mrs. Winfield. 
 
 " Come now, Nelly, give me the baby," proceeded 
 Mrs. Delisle. " I have all her things ready. You 
 see, my dear Emily, (for I make no stranger of you) 
 Nelly washes and dresses the baby every morning ; 
 but when she is to be carried out, I always prepare 
 her myself; and while I arn doing so, we can talk 
 of old times quite at our ease. Do you remember 
 Maria Welford's Christmas ball? Nelly, give me 
 the pin-cushion. Hush, baby, hush ! " 
 
 " I remember it well," replied Mrs. Winfield. "It 
 was eighteen years ago." 
 
 " I wore a crepe lisse, looped up with daffodils, 
 over a primrose-colored satin," pursued Mrs. De- 
 lisle. " There now, baby, hold still till I pin its pet-
 
 216 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 ticoat. Hush, darling, hush (she always cries when 
 I dress her). Yes, as I was saying, I wore that 
 night a pale yellow crepe Usse ; the sleeves were 
 en bouffant, divided with rouleaux of primrose-colored 
 ribbon, finished with rosettes ; and Frank Edwards 
 said to me, very gallantly (baby, you must not cry 
 so; be quiet now till I put your frock on). What 
 was your dress, Emily ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I have no recollection," replied Mrs. 
 Winfield,' " but I remember that the ball was a 
 very pleasant one, and that a very amusing incident 
 occurred:" 
 
 " I found nothing there that amused me so 
 much," said Mrs. Delisle, " as seeing Mrs. Venham 
 in the same eternal black velvet that she had worn 
 everywhere for three winters. But as I was telling 
 you, Frank Edwards said to me baby, hush, or 
 mother will whip her. See, now, stop crying, and 
 look at its pretty pink cloak." 
 
 The baby did stop, and did look at its cloak, 
 which was of embroidered merino, lined with white 
 silk. 
 
 "And Emily," pursued Mrs. Delisle, " do n't you 
 remember the day when a large party of us went 
 down to the Navy Yard to see a ship or something, 
 and there came on a sudden rain, all in a moment, 
 and before we could get to the carriages my chip 
 hat was completely ruined ? It was perfectly new, 
 and you know it was trimmed with pearl-white ribbon, 
 and a wreath of Cape jasmin. There now, baby 's 
 quite ready. Come, darling, shake a day-day before 
 it goes."
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 217 
 
 After the baby had " shaken a day-day " and de 
 parted, Mrs. Delisle went to the glass, to arrange 
 her disordered wrapper, to smooth her still more dis 
 ordered hair, and she had thought of putting on a 
 clean cap, but concluded that as her husband was 
 not at home to insist on it, and as she should not see 
 anybody that day, it was not worth while. She 
 talked all the time to Mrs. Winfiatd ; sometimes of 
 her children, and sometimes of what she called old 
 times, but in reality these reminiscences adverted 
 only to the dresses she had worn on certain occa 
 sions in her girlhood, and to the compliments paid 
 * her by the persons she denominated her beaux. And 
 such was her volubility, that Mrs. Winfield, though 
 a woman of excellent conversational powers, had 
 seldom an opportunity of speaking at all. 
 
 Mrs. Delisle (who, notwithstanding her passion for 
 dress and parties, professed to be au fait in all the 
 petty details of housewifery, and was one of those 
 very common characters who exercise the closest 
 economy in some things and the most lavish extrav 
 agance in others) sat down to piecing together some 
 very old calico for a servant's bed-quilt, saying to 
 Mrs. Winfield, " This is not very pretty work to 
 bring out before a visitor, but you know I do not con 
 sider you a stranger." 
 
 In a few minutes the street door was thrown vio 
 lently open, and a rabble rout was heard ascending 
 the stairs. Presently in rushed five boys, just from 
 school, and shouting for bread and molasses. But 
 they all stopped short and stared at the sight of 
 Mrs. Winfield.
 
 218 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 " Nevermind, my dears," said their mother ; " it 
 is only Mrs. Winfield, an old friend of mine. My 
 dear Emily, I am sorry you have no children, you 
 know not the pleasure of them." 
 
 The boys having recovered from their surprise, 
 now clamored with one accord for the bread and mo 
 lasses, and Mrs. Winfield thought that, like Mary 
 Jane, they certainly wanted manner. Mrs. Delisle 
 mildly requested them to go and apply to Phillis for 
 it. 
 
 " You know very well," said one of the boys, 
 " that Phillis always drives us out of the kitchen, and 
 says she won't be plagued while she 's getting "dinner. 
 We are afraid of Phillis." 
 
 " I wish you were half as much afraid of me," 
 murmured their mother. However, she went down 
 to supply their demands, saying as she left the room, 
 " I do not ask you to take anything by way of lun 
 cheon, my dear Emily, lest it should spoil your 
 dinner." 
 
 The boys all ran down after her, and in a short 
 time returned, their faces and hands very much 
 smeared with molasses. From that time till dinner, 
 the nursery and the balcony resounded with noise 
 and riot ; the mother sometimes raising her voice in 
 vain attempts to check them, but generally content 
 ing herself with remarking to Mrs. Winfield, that 
 " boys would be boys," an indubitable truism. 
 " Their father," said Mrs. Delisle, " inclines to be 
 rather strict with the children, which is the reason 
 I am rather indulgent. And, therefore, when he is
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 219 
 
 away, they always break out. But I like to see 
 them natural, and I have no idea of cooling their af 
 fection by abridging their little pleasures. And I 
 must say they all absolutely dote on me. Come 
 here, Willie." 
 
 "What for?" said the urchin, who was just then 
 busily employed in unwinding and tangling one of 
 Mrs. Winfield's cotton spools. 
 
 " Come, and kiss mamma." 
 
 " No, I won't," was the reply. 
 
 Mrs. Winfield now endeavored to give a turn to 
 the conversation, by inquiring after one of their 
 former friends, Helen Farley. 
 
 " Oh, she married William Orford," replied Mrs. 
 Delisle. " Only think, her wedding dress was a 
 plain brown gros des Indes ; some said it was a gros 
 des Suisse. Just imagine, a bride in brown. But 
 Helen was always eccentric. My dear boys, let me 
 request that you will all go down and play in the 
 yard." 
 
 Her dear boys took no heed of the request, but 
 persisted in acting naturally by scampering in and 
 out of the balcony ; sometimes through the door, but 
 generally through the windows ; prancing on the 
 couch, and throwing its pillows in each other's faces ; 
 oversetting chairs and stools, and trampling on their 
 mother's sewing. One of them, being pursued by 
 another with the hearth-brush, fell over Mrs. Win- 
 field, and seized her silk dress in his molasses-daubed 
 hands to assist himself in rising. Another, with 
 similar hands, snatched her reticule, to pelt his
 
 220 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 brother with, and scattered its contents all over the 
 floor. But it were endless to relate their pranks, 
 none of which were the least amusing, though all 
 were extremely annoying. They played at nothing, 
 and there was no meaning in their fun. It was 
 nothing but senseless running, shouting, and scram 
 bling, beside which, they were all ugly, and had 
 remarkably foolish faces. Mrs. Delisle said that all 
 her children took after herself ; and Mrs. Winfield 
 saw no reason to doubt the truth of the assertion. 
 
 Dinner was at last announced. Mary Jane made 
 her appearance, and the ladies descended to the 
 dining-room, where they found the boys, who had 
 run down en masse before them, already squabbling 
 about their seats. 
 
 Mrs. Delisle requested Mary Jane to place her 
 self between James and Joseph, to keep them apart ; 
 but that young lady refusing, her mother said : 
 
 " My dear Emily, will you oblige me by taking a 
 seat between those two young gentlemen, who are apt 
 to be a little unruly when they sit together ? " Mrs. 
 Winfield complied ; and the boys were all the time 
 striking at each other behind her back. 
 
 " We have a very plain dinner, to-day," said the 
 hostess. " When Mr. Delisle is at home, he and I 
 and Mary Jane do not dine till three ; and the 
 children have an early dinner by themselves, at one 
 o'clock, on account of their going to school again at 
 two. But as he is absent, and I do not consider you 
 as a stranger, I did not think it worth while to have 
 two dinners prepared. What shall I help you-to ? "
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 221 
 
 The two youngest boys now cried out to be helped 
 first, and as their mother knew they would persist, 
 she complied with their demand, saying, " My dear 
 Emily, I am sure you will excuse the poor little fel 
 lows ; children are always hungry, and we can have 
 no comfort with our dinner unless we pacify them 
 first. Anything, you know, for peace and quiet 
 ness." 
 
 The children soon devoured their meat, and while 
 the ladies were still eating theirs, the pudiing was 
 called for and cut, and the juveniles were all served 
 with it by way of keeping them pacified. Little 
 Willie, thinking that his brother, George, had rather 
 a larger piece of pudding than himself, fell into a 
 violent tantrum, screamed and kicked, and finally, 
 by Mary Jane's order, was carried from the table by 
 the serving-man. And the mother rose up, and 
 begged to be excused, while she went out to quiet 
 the poor little fellow, which she did by carrying with 
 her a much larger piece of pudding. Mrs. Winfield 
 silently wished that the children were less natural, 
 or, rather, that their nature was better, or that she 
 was considered more of a stranger. 
 
 " It is always so, when papa is away," said Mary 
 Jane ; " but mamma is rightly served for not having 
 two dinners, as usual." 
 
 When the uncomfortable repast was finished, and 
 peace restored, by the boys going to school, Mrs. 
 Delisle retired to her chamber, having informed her 
 guest that it was her and Mary Jane's custom 
 always to take an afternoon nap in their respective
 
 222 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 rooms ; " and I suppose," said she, " you would 
 like to do the same." Mrs. Winfield was not in 
 clined to sleep, but she had no objection to the quiet 
 of her own apartment, and she expressed a desire to 
 take a book with her. 
 
 " Except a few annuals," said Mary Jane, " we 
 have no books but those in papa's library, neither 
 mamma nor myself having any time to read ; but I 
 will take you there to choose one. I believe he has 
 the Waverly novels, and Cooper's, and others that I 
 hear people talk about." 
 
 When they reached the library, they found the 
 door barricaded by a table, on which a woman was 
 standing while she cleaned the paint ; and looking in, 
 they saw another scrubbing the floor, half of which 
 was floated with water. The books were all in dis 
 order, having been taken down to be dusted ; and it 
 was found that Mrs. Delisle had seized the oppor 
 tunity of her husband's absence to have the library 
 cleaned. " To go in here is impossible," said Mary 
 Jane, " but I will bring you one of the annuals from 
 the center table in the parlor." 
 
 The annual was brought, and Mrs Winfield re 
 tired with it to her apartment, but having read it be 
 fore, she did not find it very amusing. 
 
 In the evening it rained, and Mrs. Delisle said 
 that she was glad of it, as now she need not dress ; 
 and as her husband was away, there could be no 
 danger of any of his visitors dropping in. Also, that 
 it was not worth while to have the parlors opened, as 
 they had been shut up all day. So they spent the
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 223 
 
 evening in the eating-room, and Mary Jane went to 
 bed immediately after tea ; longing, as she said, to 
 get her corsets off. The younger boys slept about 
 the sofa and carpet, and screamed when any one 
 touched or spoke to them. The elder ones rack- 
 etted overhead in the nursery. The baby was 
 brought down, and kept worrying about the table, in 
 the arms of Nelly, till nine o'clock, that it might 
 sleep the better during the night. When the justly 
 fretting infant could be kept awake no longer, either 
 by wafting it up and down, showing it the lamp, 
 jingling a bunch of keys in its ears, or shaking a 
 string of beads before its closing eyes, it was un 
 dressed on the spot, crying all the time, having been 
 thoroughly wakened in the process ; and it was 
 finally carried off by Nelly, whose dismal chant, as 
 she rocked and swung it to sleep, was heard from 
 above stairs for half an hour. 
 
 Mrs. Delisle now seemed so tired and sleepy, that 
 her guest (who was tired also) took her leave for the 
 night, and repaired to her chamber. This apart 
 ment, though called a spare bedroom, was used by 
 every member of the family as a receptacle for all 
 sorts of things, and Mrs. Winfield being (unfortu 
 nately for her) considered no stranger, nothing had 
 been removed with a view to her accomodation. 
 While she had sat there reading in the afternoon, at 
 night when she was preparing for bed, and in the 
 morning before she was up, and while she was dress 
 ing, her privacy was continually invaded by the 
 nurse, the other servants, and even Mrs. Delisle and
 
 224 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 Mary Jane coming to get various articles from the 
 closets, bureaus, and presses. This chamber was, 
 unhappily, on the same floor with the dormitories of 
 the boys, who begun their career at daylight, chasing 
 each other along the passages, and enacting a gen 
 eral wrestling match so close to Mrs. Winfield's 
 door, that they burst it open in the melde, and fell 
 into the room, while she was engaged at the wash 
 ing-stand. 
 
 There was another spare bedroom, superior in 
 every respect to this one, but Mrs. Delisle did not 
 think it worth while to be so ceremonious with her 
 old friend, Emily Winfield, as to place her in the 
 best of the two chambers. 
 
 As soon as the mother and daughter met in the 
 morning " Mary Jane," said Mrs. Delisle, " I have 
 been thinking of something Miss Nancy Kisings 
 has not yet made her weekly visit, and as we may be 
 sure of the infliction between this and Sunday, sup 
 pose we kill two birds with one stone, and have her 
 to-day with Mrs. Winfield." 
 
 " Never were two people more unsuitable," re 
 plied Mary Jane, " Miss Nancy is the stupidest wo 
 man on earth." 
 
 " No matter," said Mrs. Delisle, " am I responsi 
 ble for her stupidity ? It will be a good opportunity 
 of getting at once through the bore of her visit ; at 
 least, for this week. Mrs. Winfield has seen too much 
 of the world not to know that she must take people 
 as she finds them ; and she does not seem the least 
 hard to please. I dare say she will get along well
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 225 
 
 enough with Miss Nancy, who must be tolerated, as 
 your father, in his foolish kindness, will not allow 
 her to be affronted away. So we will send for her 
 to come to-day, and no doubt the poor old thing will 
 be highly pleased with the compliment, as I dare say 
 it is the first time in her life she ever was sent for by 
 anybody." 
 
 Miss Nancy Risings was an old maiden lady, who 
 lived alone, on a very small income derived from a 
 ground rent ; and to make it hold out, she was in the 
 habit of visiting round in seven or eight families with 
 whom she had long been acquainted. After the 
 death of Mrs. Delisle's mother, whom she had visited 
 once a week for twenty-five years, Miss Nancy trans 
 ferred her visits to the daughter, and as it was really 
 an object of some importance to the old lady to spend 
 every day from home, Mr. Delisle insisted on her be 
 ing received by his family, and she was not in the 
 least particular as to the mode of reception. 
 
 Accordingly, Miss Nancy Risings was sent for, 
 and by the time breakfast was over, and the boys 
 prevailed on to go to school, the old lady arrived, and 
 she and their other guest were ushered into the back 
 parlor ; Mary Jane having protested to her mother 
 that it would be too bad to condemn Mrs. Winfield to 
 the nursery, particularly as she had Miss Nancy in 
 addition. 
 
 The two visitors were now left alone. Miss Nancy 
 had her knitting, and Mrs. Winfield her sewing. Mrs. 
 Winfield kindly endeavored to draw her into conver 
 sation, but in vain, for Miss Nancy had no talent for 
 
 15
 
 226 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 talking, or for anything else. She had read nothing, 
 seen nothing, heard nothing, and she knew nothing, 
 and her replies were little more than monosyllables. 
 Mrs. Winfield, as the morning was fine, had intended 
 going out ; but down came Mrs. Delisle and Mary 
 Jane, dressed for shopping and card leaving. 
 
 " As by this time, my dear Emily, you must feel 
 quite at home here," said Mrs. Delisle, " I need 
 make no apology for leaving you with Miss Nancy 
 Risings, who is a very particular friend and a great 
 favorite of mine. Make yourself happy together till 
 dinner-time, for I doubt if we can get home much be 
 fore." And out they sallied, leaving Mrs. Winfield 
 to feel very much as if caught in a trap. But her 
 good nature prevailed ; and having by this time 
 learned to consider her visit as a salutary trial of 
 patience, she proceeded with the heavy task of enter 
 taining the unentertainable Miss Nancy. 
 
 At noon the boys rushed home and behaved as 
 usual. Mrs. Delisle and her daughter, being very 
 tired with running about all the morning, put on un 
 dresses to come to dinner in, and the dinner proceed 
 ings were the same as the day before. 
 
 Early in the afternoon Mrs. Winfield took her 
 leave and terminated her visit, having as she truly 
 said, some purchases to make previous to leaving 
 town next morning for Boston. Mrs. Delisle pro 
 fessed great regret at the departure of her dear 
 Emily, and hoped that whenever she came to Phila 
 delphia she would always make a point of staying at 
 her house. Mary Jane expressed much disappoint-
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 227 
 
 ment at Mrs. Winfield leaving them that evening ; 
 and she really felt it, as she knew that it would now 
 fall to her lot to get Miss Nancy through the remain 
 der of the day. 
 
 We need not inform our readers with what satis 
 faction Mrs. Winfield found herself that evening 
 again at the hotel, and in the society of the refined 
 and intelligent friends with whom she was traveling 
 to Boston, to visit a brother, who had married and 
 settled there. 
 
 Mr. Delisle did not return for three weeks, having 
 extended his journey to the far East. The first thing 
 he told on his arrival at home was, that he had been 
 at a wedding the evening before he left Boston, and 
 that the bride was Mrs. Winfield. 
 
 Great surprise was expressed by Mrs. Delisle and 
 Mary Jane, and they were still more amazed to hear 
 that the bridegroom, Mr. Stanley, was a Southern 
 gentleman of large property, and of high standing in 
 every respect. Having become acquainted with 
 Mrs. Winfield at Washington, he had followed her 
 to Boston as soon as Congress broke up, (it was one 
 of the long sessions) and had there prevailed on her 
 to return with him as his wife. They were married 
 at her brother's, and were going home by way of the 
 lakes, and, therefore, should not pass through Phila 
 delphia. 
 
 " How very extraordinary, Mary Jane," said Mrs. 
 Delisle to her daughter as soon as they were alone. 
 " Who could have guessed the possibility of that 
 plain-looking little woman making a great match ?
 
 228 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 
 
 I remember hearing, when she married Mr. Winfield, 
 that he was by no means rich, and I knew nothing 
 about the people she was traveling with ; therefore, 
 I did not see the necessity of putting myself the 
 least out of the way on her account. Still, if I had 
 had the smallest idea of her so soon becoming Mrs. 
 Stanley, the wife of a rich man and a member of 
 Congress, I should certainly have dressed myself, 
 and received her in the front parlor instead of the 
 nursery, and had nice things for dinner, and invited 
 some of my best people to meet her in the eve 
 ning" 
 
 " And not sent for Miss Nancy Risings," inter 
 rupted Mary Jane. " Well, mamma, I think we 
 have made a bad business of it ; and, to say the 
 truth, I was actually ashamed, more than once, to 
 see the way things were going on. As to the boys, 
 I am glad papa is going to send them all to that 
 Boston boarding-school ; the farther from home, the 
 better for themselves and us. It will be such a re 
 lief to get rid of them." 
 
 In the most private confabulation between the 
 mother and daughter, " Only think, Mary Jane," 
 said Mrs. Delisle, " your father tells me that the 
 family Mrs. Winfield was traveling with is one of 
 the very first in Boston, quite at the head of society ; 
 immensely wealthy, and living in almost a palace 
 such people as we never had in our house. What a 
 pity we did not know who they were ; we might 
 have derived so much eclat from them. If Mrs. 
 Winfield had given me any reason to suppose that
 
 MRS. WINFIELD'S VISIT. 229 
 
 her friends could be persons of that description, I 
 would have invited them all in the evening, and 
 strained every nerve to get some of our most fashion 
 able people to meet them, and I would have had 
 Carrol and Jelb both, and ice-cream, and blanc 
 mange, and champagne, and all such things but 
 how was I to suppose that little Mrs. Winfield, with 
 her plain gown and cap, was likely to have had such 
 acquaintances, or to make such a match ? I wish I 
 had not treated her so unceremoniously ; but I am 
 sure I thought it could never be worth while to put 
 myself the least out of the way for HER." 
 
 " You see, mother," said Mary Jane, " in this, as 
 in many other instances, you have overreached your 
 self. Your plans never seem to come out well." 
 
 " I believe," replied Mrs. Delisle, "your father's 
 notions of things are, after all, the best, and I shall 
 pay more regard to them in the future. Mary Jane, 
 be sure you tell him no particulars of Mrs. Win- 
 field's visit."
 
 I<ife of 
 
 n was too much of a politican to 
 have any deep sympathy or respect for a 
 soldier educated to his profession. Indeed, so lively 
 was his distrust of every officer who had been in 
 the regular army, that he would, at times, treat with 
 indifference, and even with discourtesy, men whose 
 services the country needed most. 
 
 He was inclined, also, to underrate the merits of 
 his own countrymen, and to give precedence to 
 foreigners. Mr. C., as well as his successor, was 
 unfortunate in falling into the popular error of his 
 party, that fighting battles and gaining victories was 
 the business of politicians and reformers, and that if 
 you gave a soldier an odd job now and then, when 
 his sword got rusty, it was merely to have him show 
 how far he was behind the spirit of the times. All 
 history teaches that the badly educated politician 
 lives in continual fear of the overshadowing figure of 
 the soldier. The good soldier may be a very useful 
 thing to have at hand when there is immediate dan 
 ger, when his firm nerve is necessary to the politi 
 cian's safety. But, once the danger is over, the 
 politician will mount his feathers and seek for a
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 231 
 
 closet, where he can keep the soldier until it suits his 
 convenience to give him another job. The man who 
 has sought and gained political power, over, a road 
 both crooked and muddy ; who never had a con 
 science to accuse him when selling the souls of some 
 men, and baying the votes of others, is not the man 
 to appreciate the spirit of chivalry which rules in 
 the heart of every true soldier. His thoughts are 
 fettered and his actions narrowed by the very means 
 he was forced to use to gain his position, which he 
 holds without finding any real favor in the hearts of 
 the people, such being secured only where there is 
 true worth. 
 
 I must here, at this time and place, relate some pleas 
 ing memories of the First New York Cavalry. It- has 
 been charged, and very unjustly I think, that Mr. 
 Wood had selfish motives in thus setting up for a po 
 litical saint ; that his regiment was raised, not so much 
 to put down rebellion, as to keep life in political enter 
 prises he had invested capital in, and which he was 
 afraid would be swept into the dead sea of the past. 
 But it must be remembered that all great and good 
 men have in all ages been charged with selfishness, 
 and I see no good reason why Mr. Wood should not 
 be added toj;he long list of worthy persons who have 
 been martyrs to their intentions, rather than heroes 
 to their ambition. Strange to say, the officers all 
 seemed to repudiate their great benefactor, against 
 whom several of them pronounced maledictions I 
 would protest against their writing on my tombstone. 
 This I charged to the ingratitude common among
 
 232 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 mankind, and not to any want of integrity shown by 
 Mr. Wood when he squared his account current with 
 the regiment. But as Mr. Wood will not thank me 
 for writing either his political or military history, and 
 fearing lest my labor of love may be lost on the 
 reader, I will return to the Union Defense Com 
 mittee. 
 
 I have said we got no money from this committee. 
 We did. After several applications to other mem 
 bers, General Dix generously came forward in our 
 behalf and procured for us the sum of five hundred 
 dollars. Small as this sum was, considering the 
 magnitude of our enterprise and the obligations we 
 had already incurred, it came like a fresh gleam of 
 sunlight through dark and discouraging clouds, cheer 
 ing our spirits, and giving new life to our energies. 
 The committee had, perhaps, good reasons for not 
 giving us more. Some of its members told us what 
 had become a stale story: " It was not certain that 
 cavalry would be called for. The authorities at 
 Washington had advised raising infantry and artillery 
 for immediate use. And cavalry regiments were so 
 expensive ; volunteer cavalry could not be depended 
 on, and the country we had to operate in was " not 
 suited to the maneuvering of mounted troops." Such 
 were the objections we had to overcome and work 
 against. 
 
 But we had lost O'Meara, one of our best spirits. 
 Frank, outspoken, manly in his every act, and with 
 as true a heart as ever beat in a brave Irishman, he 
 had served his country faithfully in the field when
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 283 
 
 his superiors had turned traitors. Like a good 
 patriot, he was again impatient to show his strength 
 in doing battle for her cause. He had given us his 
 services willingly, and without remuneration, and his 
 prompt, soldierlike bearing had endeared him to us 
 all. Being doubtful of our success, he was offered 
 and accepted a commission in the Tammany regiment, 
 with which, as I have said before, he distinguished 
 himself for great coolness and bravery. 
 
 Our group of leading spirits, as assembled of a morn 
 ing in the little office at Palace Gardens, to talk over 
 the affairs of the nation, and our own troubles, would 
 have formed a fine subject for the pencil of Eastman 
 Johnson. There was the meditative Stearns, his 
 bright bald head and his kindly face ; never out of 
 temper, and ready to accept disappointment without 
 a sigh, to look at the bright side of everything, and 
 never say give up while there was a hope. 
 
 Harkins, who had played on many a stage, was 
 ready now to entertain us with his amusing stories, 
 his quaint humor, and his inspiriting laugh. Active 
 and impulsive, he would make various incursions into 
 Jersey ; recount the wonderful progress our regiment 
 was making to his friends there, and come away with 
 a number of their names on his roll. And these 
 pleasant adventures after recruits he would recount 
 to us in the morning, in his amusing style. There, 
 too, was Bailey, whom we had all come to love for his 
 cool nonchalance, his activity, and his genial quali 
 ties, and his readiness to invite us all to the Woodbine 
 over the Avay, where he would spend his last dollar
 
 234 THE LIFE OP THE SOLDIER. 
 
 for what is known among the soldiers as " brotherly 
 love," to keep their spirits up. And there was 
 Leavitt, (the indomitable Tom) never behind any 
 man when there was work to be done. The hand 
 some Harry Hidder, rather impatient to get to the 
 field, so prim in his attire, his black, piercing eyes 
 warm with intelligence, and a curl of manly contempt 
 on his lips for those who were desponding and ready 
 to give up the enterprise in despair. Fancy this 
 group forming a half circle, with the soldierly Ogle 
 (well known in the regular army) for a central figure, 
 and you have a band of as companionable and genial 
 spirits as ever sat together, discoursing their future 
 prospects in the field. Nor must I forget to men 
 tion a group that usually assembled outside and held 
 their deliberations on the pavement. This was com 
 posed of the big politician, whom the wits inside had 
 begun to use as a fit subject for their jokes, and 
 whose wonderful stories of himself had ceased to have 
 effect, except on the mind of some new recruit. The 
 melancholy man in black, who had taught cavalry 
 tactics over the border, and was always in a despond 
 ing mood, was sure we never could raise the regiment, 
 solely because we did not follow his advice. Between 
 the big politician and the melancholy man there had 
 sprung up a fellow-feeling which" it was difficult to 
 understand or appreciate, since they were opposite, 
 mentally and physically. The one had a big saber, 
 and wore long, square-toed boots. The other had 
 been a hero in the Mexican War. The little dark- 
 visaged major of Venezuelan fame, fraternized with
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 235 
 
 this outside group, and, indeed, gave light and shade, 
 if not picturesqueness, to it. He was always ready 
 to join the big politician over his cups, but would 
 never agree with him on a question of arms. And 
 he would dispute for an hour with the melancholy man 
 over horseflesh, and his skill in the use of the saber. 
 
 I noticed that all three of these distinguished 
 officers were much more inclined to waste time ia 
 disputes on their own skill, than to engage in the 
 more urgent business of bringing in recruits. The 
 best recruiting officers were those freest from self-lau 
 dation. 
 
 Bidder would attend of a morning to the recruits, 
 inspire them with confidence as to our success, and 
 whisper such words of encouragement in their ears 
 as would make them feel impatient to be in the field. 
 If the recruit were an old soldier, he was sure to 
 want a dollar or two. He must drink our health ; 
 he must have success to our regiment in a square 
 drink or two with a comrade, who had served with 
 him during some war in Europe. If there were a 
 few shillings left, he would use it in first wetting the 
 comrade's eye, and then fastening him on the rolls. 
 In this way, the old soldiers would empty Harry's 
 pockets, for he had a kind heart, and could not re 
 sist the appeal of a soldier. It must be remembered, 
 also, that at that day men were not bought to 
 serve their country with corrupting bounties. 
 
 Through the exertions of Ogle, Bailey, and Jones, 
 Company A was nearly full. Todd was encourag 
 ing his recruits with a few dollars each, and being
 
 236 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 popular with his men, was nearly ready to muster in. 
 Harkins wanted but a few men to complete his num 
 ber, and Stearns and Hidder, both ready to help a 
 friend when he needed, had got a large number of 
 men enrolled. Some of the officers looked on Steams' 
 men with longing eyes, and would occasionally send 
 an old soldier into their ranks, with a view to making 
 them comrades in his own company. And this the 
 old soldier generally did, with a few glasses of whis 
 ky, and a dollar or two. These little raids were con 
 ducted with perfect good nature, and as the sweet 
 spirit of love ruled paramount in Stearns' character, 
 he was generally selected as the subject of them. 
 About this time, a little boyish and beardless man, 
 of the name of Bennett, brought a company down 
 from Syracuse, where he had raised it. I, doubt 
 if Syracuse will ever sufficiently repay Captain Ben 
 nett for relieving her of that motley collection of 
 men, many of whom must have been a terror to the 
 place. The question was frequently asked, where 
 this young, innocent-looking man, who dressed with 
 scrupulous care, had picked up such a combination 
 of human nature in its lowest form. Hogarth could 
 not have drawn a better cartoon of human depravity 
 as pictured in the faces of these men. There was 
 the model Bowery boy, as we used to see him twenty 
 years ago, with his oily head, his expansive gar 
 ments, and his love for brass buttons. There, too, 
 was the thick-framed and bullet-headed shoulder- 
 hitter, ready always to settle a private quarrel with 
 friend or foe. There, too, was the wild, ungovernable
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 237 
 
 youth, the misfortune of his parents, who were glad 
 to get him into the army, as a fit place to reform his 
 morals. These men seemed never without a quarrel. 
 Indeed, the company enjoyed a perpetual state of 
 war, and when its members were not fighting among 
 themselves, which was seldom, they were disturbing 
 the peace of the neighborhood. Their officers had 
 no control over them, and an attempt to enforce disci 
 pline entailed a risk they were not willing to under 
 take. Indeed, the officers were inclined to treat 
 their men on those terms of equality common among 
 men in a country town, but which cannot be carried 
 into the army without destroying discipline. And 
 here let me mention that the class of men I have 
 just described are rarely to be depended on in battle. 
 Captain Harkins was the first to fill his company, 
 and after the excitement incident to the election of 
 officers, which in many cases was a mere matter of 
 form, the men Avere marched to the arsenal in Center 
 Street, and the process of mustering in gone through. 
 With some men, mustering in is a test of courage. 
 The timid see in it a solemn obligation to serve the 
 country as a soldier for a term of years, to submit 
 to all the rigors of martial law, to undergo all the 
 vexations and hardships of camp life, to face death 
 in battle, and which is more trying to the patriotic 
 spirit of every honest soldier to submit tamely to 
 the tyranny and insults of officers unfit, as well by 
 birth as education, to be their superiors. Many a 
 man, anxious to do his part in putting down the 
 rebellion, ponders these things over in his mind, until
 
 238 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 fear gains the victory, and he falls out, unwilling to 
 take the oath that is to make him a soldier. Instances 
 of this kind occurred when our first company was 
 being mustered in. Several who had marched in 
 the ranks to the arsenal, dropped out before the oath 
 was administered, and at one time it was doubtful 
 if we should get the requisite number. The com 
 pany, however, was mustered in without a man to 
 spare. And then there was great cheering, great 
 shaking of hands among the men, and exchange of 
 congratulations between officers. A major-general 
 commanding a corps never felt prouder than did 
 Harkins as he walked up and down in front of the 
 men he said he was to lead in battle, addressing 
 them words of encouragement. This was to be a 
 new phase of his life. The stage was a new one to 
 him, and the part he had to play was strange and 
 novel. Company B (Captain Todd) was the next 
 to muster in, and presented a fine appearance, for it 
 was composed of men of a superior class. 
 
 The companies, as fast as mustered in and pro 
 vided with tents, were sent to camp in the breezy 
 shades of Elm Park, to which the tents of our Ger 
 man companies had already given a picturesque 
 and martial look. We had great trouble in getting 
 the company of plug ruffians from Syracuse mustered 
 in. Some of them left or strayed away as soon as 
 they reached New York, and it was with great diffi 
 culty respectable recruits could be got to take their 
 places. Day after day the mustering officer was 
 summoned, and as often had to go away disappointed.
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 239 
 
 Some of them would be away enjoying a fight with a 
 friend ; others might have been found at some bar 
 room, disabled by the too free use of whisky. At 
 length, through the influence and superior energy of 
 one Sergeant McCormack, the only man that seemed 
 to have any control over them, the requisite number 
 was got, arid they were mustered and sent to camp, 
 much to the relief of the neighborhood and every 
 one about head-quarters. Stearns and Hidder, be 
 tween whom there existed feelings that had grown 
 and ripened into the truest friendship, had generous 
 ly given their men to assist others in filling up their 
 companies, and neglected themselves. They were 
 now without men enough to muster in, and how to 
 obtain them was a very difficult problem to solve. 
 Some of the means we had *to resort to at times to 
 get a man or two, in order to make up the number re 
 quired by the regulations, were really of the meanest 
 kind, although they afforded us some amusement. 
 In one case, where it was found that we only lucked 
 two men to fill up a company, a sergeant and two 
 men (old soldiers) went out on a raid, and soon re 
 turned with a smutty blacksmith, to whom they had 
 given five dollars to come and be mustered in for a 
 soldier. This was given him, with the assurance that 
 as soon as mustered in he might go free. But the 
 blacksmith was suspicious that we were setting a 
 trap for him, exhibited much uneasiness during the 
 process of being made a soldier, and was quick to 
 take his departure as soon as the ceremony was 
 over. The raiders also made forcible seizure of a
 
 240 THE LIFE OP THE SOLDIER. 
 
 poor, inoffensive-looking baker, on his way to his 
 master's customers with a basket of loaves. The 
 poor baker was frightened out of his wits, and lustily 
 pleaded the necessity of getting bread to his master's 
 customers in time for dinner. He was told that he 
 would get five dollars to come and be sworn in for a 
 soldier ; after that he might go where he pleased. 
 But he was not inclined to understand this way of 
 making a bargain. He declared he did not want to 
 go for a soldier ; was, indeed, a poor but honest man ; 
 had a family of small children, with stomachs to fill, 
 and would never get absolution if he took an oath he 
 did not intend to respect. The absolution seemed 
 to trouble him the most. But the sergeant and his 
 comrades were insensible to these appeals, and while 
 one took charge of his" basket of loaves, the others 
 brought him by force into the building, where they 
 threatened to hang him unless he consented to be 
 sworn in as a trooper. The poor fellow consented at 
 last, though in great fear that this was only a plan to 
 deprive him of his liberty. Indeed, it was with 
 great difficulty he could be kept from breaking away 
 during the ceremony of mustering in. When it was 
 over, he was given the five dollars, and speedily went 
 about his business, declaring, by the saints, he would 
 never be caught in such a scrape again. Many 
 amusing incidents of this kind might be related, 
 showing to what straits we were at times put, to get 
 one or two men to fill up a company. 
 
 The time had now come for mustering in Company 
 A, about which the big politician had caused us so
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 241 
 
 much delay and trouble. We had seen nothing of 
 either him, or the melancholy man in black, for sev 
 eral days, and fears were entertained, not that they 
 had taken final leave of us, but that they bad car 
 ried off the little bugler for some selfish purpose. It 
 was very well understood that no man could blow his 
 own trumpet better than the big politician, and what 
 need the melancholy man in black could have for the 
 little bugler, unless it was to carry his weighty saber, 
 none of us could tell. Nor could we understand the 
 remarkable and deep sympathy existing between the 
 melancholy man and the big politician, for while 
 the latter was a man of huge stomach and small 
 brain, a Falstaffin vanity, and exceedingly illiterate, 
 the former was a man of cultivated tastes ; indeed, he 
 was something of an artist, as well as a poet, and was 
 given to writing sonnets to ladies, and painting flow 
 ers for their albums. Just as the company was about 
 to proceed to the election of officers, we were all sur 
 prised to see the big politician come tramping into 
 the circle, in all his magnificence, followed by the 
 melancholy man in black and the little shark-mouthed 
 bugler. He stood expanding himself for a few min 
 utes ; then began circulating among, and conversing 
 with, the men. One or two of them assured him he 
 was immensely popular with every man in the com 
 pany, and would undoubtedly be elected their cap 
 tain. This gave him encouragement. He was sure 
 they could not desire a more war-like leader, and he 
 warned them not to forget how great a responsibility 
 they were about to assume, and how necessary it 
 
 16
 
 242 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 was that they elect men of first-rate military talent, 
 and gentlemen, for officers. Such qualities, he was 
 proud to say, he had been told he possessed, but that 
 was neither here nor there ; he had seen service in 
 Mexico. 
 
 Now the men of this company were remarkable 
 for their intelligence, and received what the big pol 
 itician said as a very good off-set to the joke they 
 were attempting to play on him. Indeed, they in 
 duced him to write a vote for every man, to whom he 
 gave particular instructions what to do with it. But 
 to the great surprise of all those not in the secret, 
 when the votes came to be opened and counted, they 
 were all for Ogle, who was proclaimed captain, with 
 loud cheers. 
 
 IN CAMP. 
 
 Our little town under canvas, as it nestled among 
 the deep green foliage and under the breezy shade 
 of the tall trees of Elm Park, was fast filling up 
 with a strange mixture of people. It began, too, to 
 put on a busy and military air. The Germans and 
 Americans had drawn well defined lines of demark- 
 ation, and indeed pitched their tents on separate 
 ground. There were Austrians, Prussians, and 
 Hungarians composing the former ; and, as a natural 
 result, there was at times some bad blood manifested 
 between the nationalities. The Irish and Scotch 
 joined the American companies ; the former always 
 being ready for a fight with " the Dutchmen," as
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 243 
 
 they called the Germans. Now arid then they 
 amused us with a little tongue-fight across the street, 
 in which sundry challenges would be sent and re 
 turned ; an Irishman offering to bet a bottle of 
 whisky of which dangerous fluid he had taken a 
 little too much that he could whip six Dutchmen ; 
 or a German offering to bet a keg of lager that he 
 could whip ten Irishmen before eating his supper. 
 Sometimes these tongue battles ended with an Irish 
 man and a Dutchman being sent to the guard-house, 
 to keep company and cultivate more friendly rela 
 tions. Not unfrequently these quarrels were in pan 
 tomime of the fiercest description, one party not 
 understanding a word of what the other said. 
 
 This camp life has its quaint lights and shades. 
 It develops and brings boldly out all the good and 
 bad qualities of men all their virtues and their 
 vices. Here the genfle and generous nature per 
 forms its mission of good for others. Here the firm 
 will and the stout heart of the physically weak rise 
 superior, and arrest their dignity over the man of 
 coarse nature. Strange associations are formed in 
 camp; warm, sincere, and enduring friendships 
 spring up between men, and will be remembered and 
 cherished through life. Charity takes a broader 
 range in camp ; heart meets heart in all its longings ; 
 strangers from a distance meet to become friends and 
 brothers ; tent shares its bread and its bottle with 
 tent next door, and the faults and follies of men are 
 judged in a more generous and Christian spirit 
 than that which rules in higher places. Here,
 
 244 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 over a pipe, after taps, the man who has roamed 
 over the world in search of fortune, relates his 
 strange adventures to his listening companions, 
 whose sympathies he touches and whose bounty 
 he is sure to share, for the world's unfortunates 
 always find a warm friend in the true soldier. 
 In camp, as our army is composed, rich and 
 poor meet in the ranks as equals, and the edu 
 cated and the ignorant find shelter under one tent. 
 They are here as brothers, enlisted for a common 
 purpose, to stand shoulder to shoulder against a fierce 
 enemy, and fight to preserve the very life of their 
 country. And the arm finds strength when sure 
 that true friends are near. 
 
 We had reached that stage when the realities of 
 a soldier's life, and what was before us during the 
 three years of our enlistment, became subjects of con 
 versation. What dangers we would have to share, 
 what hardships we should have to undergo, what 
 scenes of blood to witness, and perhaps participate 
 in ; how many of us would fall in battle, or die of 
 disease and neglect ; how many of us would return 
 to recount in pleasant homes all the vicissitudes of 
 war our regiment had passed through, were subjects 
 of contemplation as well as conversation. 
 
 These subjects, too, were much enlarged by the 
 old soldiers, who found apparent delight in exciting 
 the fears of the timid and hesitating. Love, also, had 
 leaped the gates of our camp, and we had more than 
 one case where the tender passion was yielding to 
 the charm of Mars. Every fine afternoon, a pretty,
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 245 
 
 elastic-stepping girl of eighteen used to come tripping 
 over the lawn, her black braided hair arranged in 
 such beautiful folds, arid her eyes beaming with love 
 and tenderness, to see one of our handsome captains. 
 We had several, and they were just out in bright 
 new uniforms, which gave them quite a soldierly ap 
 pearance. The other captains envied this one the 
 beautiful captive he was soon, as report had it, to 
 carry off. He would meet her half way down the 
 lawn, and there was something for a bachelor to envy 
 in the sweet smile that played over her pale, oval 
 face as the distance shortened between them. Then 
 there was the warm, hearty shake of the hand ; he 
 had a sly but honest way of imprinting a kiss on her 
 peachy cheek. And there were other little love 
 tokens, so tenderly expressed, that it needed only a 
 glance to read in them how truly heart was speaking 
 to heart. She would always bring him some little 
 present. Then they would stroll together to the 
 tent door, and sit talking their heart secrets until 
 some duty called him away. I have seen her sit 
 working some piece of worsted for him, her soft eyes 
 looking up lovingly in his face, as his hand stole 
 under her shawl, and almost unconsciously around 
 her waist. And then he bid her such an envied 
 good-bye, as he left her at the gate, and waved his 
 handkerchief, as she turned when half down the lane 
 to toss a last fond adieu for the night. This was the 
 high noon of their love dream, and heaven was 
 sweetening the enchantment with the perfume of 
 flowers.
 
 246 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 And there was a pretty, blue-eyed blonde, with 
 round cherub-like face, and curls the breeze used to 
 play with, as she came trip j ing with such artless 
 gaiety down the lawn, to see one of our dashing 
 ieu tenants. Her tight-fitting boddice, cut after the 
 fashion of a habit, gave a bewitching roundness to 
 her form ; and there was something so childish, so 
 artless in her manners, that it seemed as if heaven 
 had blessed her with the sweetest of natures. We 
 called her the June flower of our camp, and gave her 
 a hearty welcome, for her presence was like bright 
 sunshine after a dark storm. She brought the young 
 lieutenant flowers, put his tent in order, and rol 
 licked about with the air of a girl just from school. 
 And the young lieutenant was so proud of her, pat 
 ted her so gently on the shoulder, and spoke in such 
 tones of kindness. And when they parted, I could 
 see that a feeling of sadness invaded her light heart, 
 for a tear would brighten, like a diamond, in her 
 blue eyes, and then write the story of her love down 
 her cheeks, as she went away. 
 
 Our camp at times would also be enlivened by an 
 aged, leather-faced woman, in big spectacles. Armed 
 with a bundle of tracts, she would distribute them 
 among us, tell us what the Lord was doing for us, 
 and how we would need his help in battle, and must 
 pray to him, and read the tract before we slept. 
 This aged lady was in no very high favor with our 
 parson, (we had got both a parson and a doctor) 
 who regarded her efforts as an infringement of his 
 right to get us all made Christians in his own way.
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 247 
 
 Nor did the doctor and the parson quite agree as to 
 the best way to save the souls of soldiers. Indeed, 
 they too often had their little differences as to what 
 sort of medicine would best improve the spiritual and 
 physical condition of the men. But the doctor gen 
 erally got the best of it, for he was active and skill 
 ful, and what was more, gained favor with the men 
 by setting them good examples ; while the parson, 
 eloquent enough in speech and prayer, was weak 
 in the flesh, and so given to the bottle as to become 
 its slave. 
 
 Love also had its votaries among our German 
 companions across the road. A little, frisky Dutch 
 woman, with a bright, bulging forehead, a face 
 like an over-fed doll, and dressed in pink and blue, 
 would come of an afternoon to see little Bob, the 
 light-horseman. Bob was now a lieutenant, had a 
 tender and generous heart, and never went into a 
 neighborhood without falling in love with all the small 
 women in it. There was no happier being in this 
 world than Bob, when the little, frisky Dutch woman 
 sat at his side, in front of his tent, with empty beer 
 kegs for seats. She always brought something good 
 for Bob, which they enjoyed with the addition of a 
 bottle of Rhine wine. The captains, too, had their 
 jolly, buxom wives, who came and spent the day, set 
 ting their husbands' tents in order, preparing good 
 dinners, and adding an air of cheerfulness to the 
 camp. Indeed, our German side of the camp seemed 
 to be in favor with the women, who brought abun 
 dance of good cheer to their friends.
 
 248 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 While we were quietly smoking our pipes at head 
 quarters one morning, news came that the big pol 
 itician had been seen down town, in a military cap 
 and yellow stripes down his breeches. This had a 
 look of cavalry in. it. Ogle cast a glance at Hark- 
 ins, Stearns exchanged a sad expression of face with 
 Hidder, Harry turned to Bailey, and shaking his 
 head, said " if there is any manhood left in the fellow, 
 he won't make another attempt to get into this regi 
 ment." 
 
 " He will," said the man who brought the news, 
 " he is doing it now. He has got authority from the 
 Colonel to raise a company of Germans for this regi 
 ment, and, as he won't understand a word they say, 
 much .happiness may he have with them. And I 
 can tell you this, too," continued the man knowingly, 
 " he is raising money from citizens to pay his re 
 cruiting expenses." 
 
 "Money!" interrupted one of the company 
 " why, where is the fortune he has been boasting' 
 about? Like his common sense, we have not seen 
 the color of it yet." 
 
 The news was . indeed true, and cast a feeling of 
 sadness over the camp, since it foreshadowed the 
 fact that a man was to be forced upon us whose pres 
 ence in the regiment was sure to keep it in perpetual 
 trouble. That a man so very unacceptable to the 
 Americans, and who had been rejected by them, 
 should have been authorized to raise a company of 
 men whose language he could not speak, showed too 
 plainly that some grave wrong was to be perpe 
 trated.
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 249 
 
 Now there was a man among the Germans, named 
 Gustave Otto, a Quixotic sort of person, who had 
 dashed about in a gay uniform, big spurs, and a 
 dangling saber, and otherwise assumed the mighty 
 man of war. Otto had served in the cavalry in 
 Europe, knew something of the tactics, and was, so 
 far as looks went, a soldier. But he was inclined to 
 be cruel, and had an excessively bad temper, which 
 led him into frequent quarrels with his countrymen. 
 He aspired to the captaincy of one of the German 
 companies, but failing to get a vote when they were 
 organized, he was left outside. In truth, the men were 
 afraid of him, just as ours were of the big politician. 
 These two men now joined interests, and with the ad 
 dition of the melancholy man, who still wore his black 
 clothes, formed a sort of mutual sympathy society ; 
 for I must here mention that the last named gentle 
 man, having failed to get a position in the regiment, 
 had taken to writing poetry of a heavy order. This 
 trio of forsaken men now held frequent meetings, 
 discussed their misfortunes over frothy lager, and 
 were joined by the parson, who evinced remarkable 
 sympathy for them, and would share their cups until 
 his mind got into a lofty mood. 
 
 To tell the truth, Father Ruley had a free use of 
 blarney when under the influence of his cups, and 
 it was seldom he was not. 
 
 " Faith, gentlemen, there never was such injured 
 men as yourselves since the world began. Leave 
 the matter to me, and I '11 have the three of you 
 generals after the war 's over," he would say.
 
 250 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 But if they found sympathy in the parson, they 
 were as thoroughly hated by the doctor, who was a 
 man of courage, and said what he thought of them 
 to their faces. I verily believe he would have found 
 pleasure in making a pill to send them all to the 
 devil, and end the mischief. He was willing to ex 
 cuse the parson's getting a little tipsy at times, but he 
 would have him look better after the souls of men, 
 that being the business the country paid him for. 
 
 OFF FOR THE FIELD. 
 
 The 25th of August was a bright and sunny day ; 
 from early morning there had been great bustle 
 and confusion in camp, and by ten o'clock we were 
 moving into Fourteenth Street, to form a line pre 
 vious to embarking, our right resting on Union 
 Square. The American companies were on the 
 ground first. The men were afoot, the officers 
 mounted. Then our German friends joined us, with 
 an extraordinary flourish of trumpets, making quiet 
 people along the road stare and wonder. Then be 
 gan the business of forming a line. Some wanted 
 the German battalion on the left, others wanted it in 
 the center. The German battalion was inclined to 
 suit itself, and took position on the right. The 
 melancholy man had been appointed adjutant, in 
 consideration of his disappointment. His boots came 
 nearly up to his waist, his spurs were of extraordin 
 ary length, and the horse he rode was remarkable
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 251 
 
 for much bone and little flesh. He had brought his 
 trusty saber with him, and thus mounted, he pre 
 sented a figure few could have contemplated with 
 serious face. This business of forming a regimental 
 line was new to the adjutant, who was not a little 
 confused, and went clattering and tilting down the 
 line, now shouting and flourishing his saber, now 
 reining in his horse suddenly and bringing the poor 
 animal to his haunches, now stopping to inquire of 
 some more experienced officer what he should do 
 next. What one told him was right, another told 
 him was wrong ; one cursed him for not doing what 
 another cursed him for doing, till at length the poor 
 man became so confused as not to know what he was 
 doing, and his horse, that had knocked down a dozen 
 or so of the bystanders, was nearly exhausted. 
 
 Then the big politician, affecting to assist the dis 
 comfited adjutant, went dancing over the ground 
 with his horse, now being up on the right of the line, 
 now on the left, and returning the salutations of la 
 dies who waved their handkerchiefs from adjacent 
 windows. He had friends, he said, in all those 
 houses, and when the ladies waved their handker 
 chiefs he knew they were friends of his, and it would 
 be very unkind of any military gentleman not to re 
 turn their salute. 
 
 The poor adjutant had exhausted his wits and his 
 knowledge of the tactics, and still there was disorder 
 in the ranks. He could not get the regiment into 
 line properly, and began cursing the big politician 
 for his interference.
 
 252 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 The little bugler now stepped out on the left, and 
 blew numerous shrill blasts on his horn, by whose 
 order, or for what purpose, not one of us knew. This 
 brought out the fat Dutch bugler on the right, who 
 returned the compliment by sounding an officers' as 
 sembly call. This brought the .German officers gal 
 loping and shouting to the front, where they joined 
 the Americans, and formed opposite the center. A 
 flourish of trumpets by the three buglers, and the 
 adjutant turned, saluted the colonel, and reported 
 the regiment in line. The band then struck up and 
 played a march, ladies waved their hankerchiefs and 
 pressed forward, and the crowd filled up the space 
 necessary for maneuvering the regiment. 
 
 Then we had an oratorical entertainment of rare 
 quality. A few kind friends had bought a horse for 
 the colonel, and it would not do to present him with 
 out a speech; and Richard Busteed, Esq., better 
 known as General Busteed, Governor of Yorktown, 
 etc., etc., was called on to do us this high honor. 
 
 The general was on his highest horse that day ; 
 could build up a new kingdom, kill a rebel, fight 
 a dozen battles, and win as many victories, in one 
 sentence. Being a man of uncommon ingenuity, he 
 spoke at the horse and the colonel, then at the 
 country and the horse, for nearly an hour, and go't 
 the patriotism so confoundedly sandwiched in with 
 the buncombe, that it was impossible to tell which 
 had the better part. In the course of his speech, 
 the speaker alluded to the gods and the devils ; to 
 Mars and Apollo ; to glorious patriots, and rebels
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 253 
 
 with devilish intentions ; to fields convulsed with the 
 slain, and ted with glory ; and to the terrible part 
 this regiment would have to play in preserving the 
 life of the nation. In short, according to the speak 
 er, some one connected with the regiment was to do a 
 great deal of fighting, and kill a great many of the 
 enemy ; but whether it was the horse or the colonel, 
 was not quite clear. But the men repaid the speech 
 with a great many cheers, and when he was done, 
 the colonel mounted the horse, and thanking his 
 friends for their valuable present, gave us a long 
 speech, in which the state of the nation was strangely 
 mixed up with the exploits to be performed by the 
 Lincoln Cavalry. 
 
 It was high noon when the colonel ended his 
 speech ; and now the time for parting was come. 
 Husbands kissed their wives, caressed their children, 
 as the parting tear wrote their heart's tale, and " God 
 bless and protect you ! " came trembling from their 
 lips. Many a young lover kissed his sweetheart sly 
 ly, shook her hand warmly, and lisped that good-bye 
 in which love speaks to love, and future hopes and 
 joys brighten even in the hour of darkness. 
 
 It was, indeed, the heart's day of trial to many a 
 young man and woman, and tears were writing hon 
 est tales of love down their cheeks. There, weep 
 ing, was our airy little June flower, the gentle breeze 
 playing with her golden locks. The bright, smiling 
 face that had so often shed its pleasing radiance over 
 our camp, was now turned to take a last look at him 
 on whom all the affections of her heart were fixed.
 
 254 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 And truly she had fixed her heart upon one worthy 
 of her, for he was a young man of handsome figure, 
 and God had blessed him with a noble nature. And 
 there were other fair friends whose hearts were with 
 us in the war, and who had come to share with us 
 such bounties as heaven had blessed them with, and 
 these were to cheer the soldier on his journey. And 
 while their hands brought us good cheer, their lips 
 breathed prayers that a merciful God would watch 
 ver and protect us in the day of conflict. 
 
 Among these messengers of mercy was the good 
 Mrs. Kirkland, who went about among the men, dis 
 tributing havelocks, and other little things necessary 
 to their comfort. Nor must I forget to mention the 
 diminutive little Dutch woman who had found the 
 idol of her heart in Bob, the light-horseman. She 
 had come to bid him a last good-bye, and her sorrow 
 seemed uncontrollable. Indeed, her sorrow had so 
 much affected Bob that he mounted his horse with a 
 tear in his eye and a heavy heart. 
 
 General Stoneman was chief of cavalry at this 
 time, and, annoyed at the delay that had been caus 
 ed, he sent a peremptory order to organize the reg 
 iment and get it into working shape. This was 
 the signal for as great an excitement in our camp as 
 if a shell from the enemy's battery had exploded in 
 it. Captain Frederick Von Shickpess, than whom 
 the service had not a better officer, was appointed 
 lieutenant-colonel ; Ogle was nominated for major of 
 the first battalion, and Captain Hourand (a German) 
 for the second. No objection was made to these ap-
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 255 
 
 pointments indeed, they were good and proper ; but, 
 to the surprise of every one, the name of the big pol 
 itician was added for major of the third. This was a 
 new and novel way of making a major of raising 
 over the heads of officers of higher rank, and forcing 
 upon the regiment, a man in every way unfitted for 
 the position, and who never could be got to learn or 
 attend to the duties of a soldier ; and whose appear 
 ance in the regiment, as experience proved, was fatal 
 to good order and discipline. Against this outrage a 
 strong protest was drawn up by the officers, with 
 Major Ogle at their head. The officers gathered into 
 Ogle's tent to hear him read the protest, in which 
 the big politician was described as an incubus, a man 
 much given to mischief, much wanting in common 
 sense, and not to be trusted in an enemy's country, 
 where the lives of loyal and brave men would be 
 more exposed by traitors in our own ranks than en 
 emies in arms on our front. Before sending this to 
 the Colonel, the big politician was invited into the 
 tent, and came smiling and brushing his hair, as if 
 he expected to be the recipient of a compliment. 
 
 " Lieutenant," said Ogle, " we have sent for you, 
 on business not of the most agreeable kind " 
 
 " It doesn't matter," replied the politician, " lam 
 accustomed to kicks, and never take them as unkind 
 when I know a man 's a particular friend." 
 
 " You have resolved," continued Ogle, " to honor 
 this regiment with your presence ; and, believing that 
 you are neither fit for a soldier, nor an honest man 
 that you could do the service much harm and no
 
 256 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 good that this regiment would be better without 
 you we have subscribed to this protest." Here he 
 read, in a loud voice and with clear emphasis, what 
 I have before stated. The politician shook his head, 
 listened, and trembled in his boots. 
 
 " I 'd have you know it is no compliment to a man," 
 said the politician, " to set him down for a fool ; and 
 no one said I was not an honest man when I had the 
 honor of holding a position in the New York Custom 
 House" 
 
 "A night watchman, I suppose," interrupted 
 Ogle. 
 
 " As for your opposition to me, this I can tell 
 you : I do not intend to stay but a week or two in the 
 regiment. As to the position of major, it will only 
 serve me until I am made a general, which I will 
 soon show you I have friends enough to do," con 
 tinued the big politician, who hereafter will be known 
 as Major Von Flopp. 
 
 The protest was sent, but it failed to produce any 
 effect, for our good-natured Colonel put it into his 
 pocket, and there it remained. Then, too, Van 
 Flopp remained, a political fact, forced on the regi 
 ment to destroy its usefulness ; just as politicians of 
 more mental capacity were making mischief, des 
 tructive to the whole army. A remonstrance against 
 this strange proceeding, signed by a large number of 
 the officers, was sent to Gen. McClellan, praying 
 that he would take such action as would relieve us 
 from the burden about to be forced upon us. The 
 General acted promptly in the- matter, and an order
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 257 
 
 soon came directing the Colonel to make an inquiry 
 into the matter, and report. This order produced 
 great flattering in camp for a day or so, and Van 
 Flopp began to think his prospects of being soon 
 made a general of were at an end. But I have 
 noticed, in the volunteer service, that it is one thing 
 to issue an order, and quite another to have it obey 
 ed. The inquiry was never made, and General 
 McClellan's order, like the protest, found a quiet 
 sleeping place in the Colonel's pocket. Promotions 
 are made in this way. 
 
 i 
 
 INTO VIRGINIA. 
 
 We struck tents on the morning of the 10th of 
 October, and moved over into Virginia. The weather 
 was dump and the roads heavy, but the men were in 
 fine spirits, and amused themselves by cheering each 
 camp they passed on the road, and singing patriotic 
 songs. 
 
 We had marched about six miles, when the whole 
 column was thrown into a state of excitement by the 
 shrill sound of a bugle in our rear. This was fol 
 lowed by the sharp tramp of hoofs, the clashing of 
 sabers, and the shouts of horsemen. On looking in 
 the direction the sound came from, three horsemen 
 were seen emerging from a wood we had passed a 
 few minutes before, and advancing down a hill at 
 full speed. The officer in command of the rear 
 guard halted his men, and formed across the road,
 
 258 THE LIFE OP THE SOLDIER. 
 
 ready to receive the strangers, and hear what ac 
 count they had to give of themselves. That they 
 were on a mission demanding the quickest execution, 
 and had important orders, not one of us doubted. 
 Judge then of our disappointment, when I say that, 
 as they came up, their horses reeking with foam, he 
 who rode ahead was recognized as our little bugler. 
 And this roving fellow was followed by no less a 
 person than Major Von Flopp, who in turn was fol 
 lowed by his new servant, an unsightly negro, who 
 had a pair of long, wabbling legs, was without hat 
 or shoes, and rode a lean, gray horse, with a heavy, 
 old-fashioned rocking chair secured behind. 
 
 And here I may mention that this venerable chair 
 was a piece of property Major Von Flopp was trans 
 porting to the field, to carry out a maxim that he had 
 often asserted, that no really good trooper ought to 
 go to war without furniture to make himself comfort 
 able. In truth, the major had so much furniture 
 with him, that it was evident he intended to make a 
 permanent settlement somewhere in the sunny coun 
 try, and at no distant day. 
 
 A few minutes more, and the major had his faith 
 ful bugler by his side, his servant and the big chair 
 mounted. Then there was a shrill blast ; all three 
 were mounted, and away they went, alarming all the 
 timid people along the road ; the little bugler blow 
 ing his horn every few minutes, warning all way 
 farers to make way for his master. It was well on 
 in the evening, tattoo was being sounded, the coun 
 tersign had been given out, roll had been called, and
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 259 
 
 no one had seen or heard anything of Major Von 
 Flopp, whose tent still lay on the ground, unpitched. 
 One and another began to inquire for him, and fears 
 were entertained that he had kept on into the ene 
 my's lines, and been captured. In that event, we 
 should have to regret the loss of Crump, the little 
 bugler. 
 
 The guard at the crossing was interrogated, and 
 such information there obtained as led to search be 
 ing made for the major and his men at a neighbor 
 ing farm-house. And there he was found, having 
 engaged comfortable lodgings for himself and men. 
 The officers who went in search of him happened to 
 look in at the window, before entering, and to their 
 great amusement, discovered the major in his shirt 
 sleeves, working away at an old-fashioned churn, as 
 sisting the good lady to make her butter. 
 
 The woman, who was anything but prepossessing, 
 and plainly clad, sat rocking herself in the major's 
 big chair, while the little bugler was busy washing 
 the supper dishes, and the negro servant lay 
 stretched before a blazing fire, his feet nearly into 
 the ashes, and his head on a big, shaggy dog. 
 
 The major expressed great surprise when the 
 officers entered, ceased his work at the churn, and 
 made haste to put on his uniform. 
 
 "What has brought you here at this hour?" 
 inquired the major, reproachfully, and at the same 
 time wiping the splashes of cream from his nether 
 garments. " This is no time to be away from your 
 regiment."
 
 260 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 " We are in search of you, major," replied one 
 of them, " and have orders to bring you in arrest to 
 camp." 
 
 " Arrest a superior officer ! " returned the major. 
 " You can't practice a trick like that on me. This 
 poor woman is in great distress. Her husband is away 
 in the Confederate army, and she has no one left to 
 protect her " 
 
 " Them 'ere sodgers o' yourn," interrupted the 
 woman, increasing her rocking, " give me a right 
 big skaar when they com'd 'ere fust. Done me a 
 right smart heap o' harm since, tew. Ha'n't got a 
 pig nor a sheep, and only one keow left." 
 
 " There, now," interposed the major, " you hear 
 the poor woman's own story. Did' n't ask you to 
 believe me. I considered it a soldier's duty to pro 
 tect this poor woman. If the enemy comes to-night 
 you will know where to find me." 
 
 " He's bin mighty kind to me, this 'ere gentleman 
 has," replied the woman. " That 'ere butter he 
 was a churnin' is the first I 've made for more nor 
 a month." 
 
 Here the major made an attempt to turn the con 
 versation by saying his battalion had not treated 
 him well, and he thought to punish it by making his 
 head-quarters at some distance away. But the 
 woman was not to be silenced by this interruption. 
 
 " Used to work at the millinery business. Arn'd 
 a right smart heap of money at it afore the war 
 broke out did. Gentleman says he '11 set me up in 
 the business if I '11 go with your regiment to Rich-
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 261 
 
 mond. Husband's in the Third Virginny. Would 
 go anywhar to see him." 
 
 The officers resolved among themselves that the 
 major's slumbers should not be very tranquil, and, 
 indeed, had concocted a plan to disturb him. It 
 was after midnight. The Grand Army of the Poto 
 mac slept undisturbed along the hills of Arlington, 
 and the stillness that hung over the broad landscape 
 was broken only by the hoarse voice of some weary 
 sentinel demanding the countersign. Suddenly the 
 shrill notes of a bugle sounding the alarm were 
 heard. The men responded quickly, and in a few 
 minutes the camp was all astir. Rumor had it 
 that the enemy, meditating a suprise, had advanced 
 and driven in our pickets. Major Ogle and several 
 other officers were seen in a group near the head 
 quarters, their horses saddled and ready to mount. 
 The bugles sounded " Boots and Saddles," and the 
 call was quickly responded to, for there was great 
 rivalry among the companies to see which should be 
 be ready to mount first. And when the line was 
 formed and mounted, the little bugler appeared in 
 camp, to inquire for Major Von Flopp what was the 
 matter in camp, and if the battalion he had the 
 honor to command needed his services. 
 
 The little bugler was sent back to say that the 
 enemy was rapidly advancing in strong force, and as 
 the fight was likely to be a desperate one, there was 
 great need that Major Von Flopp should be here to 
 command his battalion. 
 
 The major not making his appearance within a
 
 262 THE LIFE OP THE SOLDIER. 
 
 reasonable time, the regiment wheeled by fours, and 
 moved out on the little river turnpike about two 
 miles. It now began to return by a different road, 
 and when about a hundred rods from the little farm 
 house where Von Flopp had taken lodgings, a com 
 pany was sent ahead at a gallop, to surround and 
 surprise the inmates. The heavy tramp of the horses 
 made the ground tremble, and set all the curs in the 
 neighborhood barking. The officers, having reached 
 the house, dismounted and knocked heavily at the 
 door. 
 
 " Who 's there ? " inquired a feminine voice. 
 
 " Confederate officers, with a portion of the Con 
 federate army," was the quick reply. " It has been 
 reported that your house is a resort for Yankee offic 
 ers." 
 
 The good woman opened the door quickly, and in 
 a delirium of joy thanked heaven that her hopes had 
 been realized ; asked certain questions concerning 
 her husband, when they had left Richmond, and if 
 they had come to drive the cursed Yankees out of 
 Virginia, to all of which the officers gave satisfac 
 tory answers. 
 
 "And now," continued the good woman, lowering 
 her voice to a whisper, " thar a'n't much in the house, 
 but you shall hev the best I got." Then touching 
 one of the officers on the arm, she drew him aside, 
 saying, " There 's two on 'em in the house now, and 
 a nigger tew, under the bed in t' other room." 
 
 The officer was quick to take the hint, for an in 
 vitation to enter the room was just what he wanted.
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 Then taking the candle from her hand, he motioned 
 his comrades, and they proceeded cautiously into the 
 room. After casting about for several minutes, for 
 it would not be polite to make the exposure too soon, 
 a pair of remarkably long legs and feet, stockingless 
 and bootless, were discovered, protruding from under 
 a bed in one corner of the room. But they were 
 black and crusty, and could not belong to Ma 
 jor Von Flopp. The owner of them, however, was 
 commanded to discover himself, which he did after 
 the manner of a tortoise backing out of his hole. 
 When the tall figure of the negro stood erect, he was 
 in a sorry plight. He was commanded to give an 
 account of his master. 
 
 " My mas'r ? My mas'r ? He stowed away in dar, 
 boss, in dar," said he, in an agitated voice, and 
 pointed under the bed. 
 
 They now began to draw forth sundry old blankets 
 and quilts. Then they made divers thrusts with 
 their swords, and other demonstrations of doing se 
 rious bodily harm to whomsoever was concealed 
 there. At length a voice cried out, " Heavens, 
 gentlemen, spare my life, and I surrender to you, a 
 prisoner of war ! " Then the major's ponderous 
 figure came rolling out from under the bed. 
 
 " I was only here," he said, " to protect this poor 
 woman and her property." And he rose to his feet, 
 and stood amazed at the appearance of his captors, 
 in whom he recognized not Confederates, but three 
 officers of the first battalion. The major shook his 
 head, and sat down in his rocking-chair ; and never 
 was man so disturbed in hi3 dignity.
 
 264 THE LIFE OP THE SOLDIER. 
 
 " You may think this all very fine, gentlemen," 
 said he, looking askance at his captors, " but I am 
 no such fool as you would make me appear before 
 this good woman." 
 
 " So, so ! " interrupted the woman ; " then they 
 a'n't our officers. You Yankees beats all for bein' 
 cute." The woman discovered the serious mistake 
 she had committed, and was inclined to make amends 
 for the doubtful quality of her loyalty. 
 
 " I 'in a gentleman," resumed the major, " and 
 not to be trifled with in this way. There shall be a 
 court of inquiry into this matter. I have read the 
 regulations, and am sure there 's nothing in them 
 that permits the dignity of a field officer to be out 
 raged in this manner." 
 
 Ai) end was put to this colloquy by one of the 
 officers threatening that unless the major immedi 
 ately packed up his traps, and accompanied him to 
 camp, force would be called in to compel obedience 
 to the order. Search being made for the little bugler, 
 he was found among the branches of an apple tree 
 hard by. And now, all being ready, the truant par 
 ty were mounted on their animals and marched to 
 the road, where the regiment was halted. 
 
 No sooner had the men caught sight of the major's 
 portly figure than they sent up cheers and groans 
 without stint, for they saw in him the object they had 
 been sent out to capture. The regiment now re 
 turned to camp in the very best of temper. And 
 here we must leave the major, making an effort to 
 pitch his tent, and procure shelter for the rest of the 
 ni'j.ht.
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 265 
 
 The ruse served a good purpose : it proved how 
 quickly the regiment could turn out on the sound of 
 alarm, and also in what spirit the men were ready 
 to face the enemy. 
 
 * * # * * 
 
 The country around Washington is remarkable 
 for the picturesqueness of its hills and the beauty of 
 its scenery. On one of the most prominent of these 
 hills, and distinctly seen from Washington, stands 
 Fairfax Seminary, distinguished before the war as 
 one of the best conducted institutions of learning in 
 Virginia. I doubt if our country affords a more 
 charming view of hill and dale, than that seen from 
 the cupola of this seminary. 
 
 When the Army of the Potomac lay stretched 
 along these hills for a distance of twenty miles, with 
 its showy paraphernalia flashing and gleaming on the 
 oak-crowned slopes, the scene it presented was in 
 deed grand and bewitching. The effect at night was 
 beyond description, forming one of the most interest 
 ing subjects for study and contemplation. If you 
 looked east, you had the dusky old city of Alexan 
 dria, with its faint, dreamy lights, seeming to sleep 
 at your feet, and the almost motionless Potomac cut 
 ting through the background like a belt of silver. 
 I ascended to the cupola one night to view the grand 
 and rare scene, and shall never forget the effect it 
 had on my feelings. There was no moon, but the 
 stars were out in their brightest, and not a cloud 
 tinged the clear blue sky ; not a bugle sounded, nor 
 a drum beat. A mysterious stillness hung over the
 
 266 THE LIFE OP THE SOLDIER. 
 
 earth, that all at once seemed peopled with shadowy 
 figures just transported from some fairy land. Far 
 away in the north, signal rockets were going up, and 
 mingling their bright colors with the brighter stars. 
 Then the answers to these appeared, rising from those 
 dark hills cutting the horizon in the direction of 
 Fairfax Court House in the west, and sailed through 
 the air like birds of exquisite plumage. Southwest 
 and north, as far as the eye could penetrate, the 
 bright, flitting shadows of twenty thousand camp- 
 fires were adding enchantment to the already superb 
 scene. Then a misty glow spread over the heavens, 
 and in it each figure of this vast camp was reflected 
 in the clearest outlines. Another change came. 
 The misty glow rolled up into fleecy clouds, and the 
 illusion became so strong that all sorts of figures in 
 real shape seemed taking the place of dancing shad 
 ows. Again and again these gave place to what 
 seemed chariots and steeds ; to long lines of horse 
 and artillery, surging forward, as if in pursuit of an 
 enemy. Then came the soft, silvery notes of a bugle 
 sounding tattoo on the far-off fort. Another and an 
 other bugler followed, the accustomed ear detecting 
 their identity, and their strains sounding louder and 
 louder, echoing and re-echoing over the hills in one 
 grand chorus. 
 
 And when the bugle sounds had ceased, the bands 
 struck up and played their martial airs, with such 
 harmony and sweetness as made the broad landscape 
 reverberate with melody. 
 
 Imagine, reader, if you can, what must have been
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 267 
 
 the effect of this grand and exciting night-scene, as 
 seen when the earth was white with snow. I saw it 
 once, and shall never forget it. The shadows of 
 twenty thousand camp-fires, spread for twenty miles 
 over a range of sloping hills, were flitting and danc 
 ing over the clear, crusty surface, and reflecting 
 strangely on the misty heavens. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was on the 4th of December, that a good deal 
 of excitement was caused throughout the division, by 
 the news that a man of our regiment had been cap 
 tured, while deserting to the enemy. The man, 
 William H. Johnson, was a private in Company D. 
 He had been on picket near Benton's Tavern, and 
 leaving his companion under pretense of watering his 
 horse at a neighboring brook, deliberately proceeded 
 to give himself up to the enemy. 
 
 Johnson was a man of weak intellect, with a down 
 cast, but inoffensive countenance, and no doubt a bad 
 man. But the many stories told of him at the time, 
 and some of which got into the newspapers, were 
 nothing less than the pure inventions of camp gossips. 
 Johnson's parents resided in Louisiana, where he was, 
 according to his own account, born and raised. Like 
 many others of his class, he was leading a sort of 
 vagabond life at the North when the war began, and 
 only joined the army because it afforded him a quicker 
 means of aiding the bad cause in Avhich his heart was 
 engaged. Justice was swift to overtake him, and 
 bring his career of mischief to an end. 
 
 He had got but a short distance beyond our outer
 
 268 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 picket line when he was met by a party of officers, 
 of the First New Jersey Brigade, returning from an 
 excursion outside our picket posts. Mistaking them 
 for Confederates, a mistake they were quick to dis 
 cover and take advantage of, he proceeded to give 
 them a minute account of what he knew concerning 
 the disposition of our forces, and more particularly 
 the strength and position of our picket posts, exult 
 ing at the same time in his crime. When he had 
 sufficiently convicted himself out of his own mouth, 
 the officers discovered to him who they were, dis 
 armed him, and brought him back a prisoner, a man 
 than whom none could have been more wretched. 
 
 Johnson was arraigned before a court martial, of 
 which Colonel N. J. Jackson, Fifth Maine Volun 
 teers, was president, found guilty, and sentenced to 
 be shot to death. General McClellan, in approving 
 the sentence and fixing the day of execution, (the 
 thirteenth of December) concluded his remarks with 
 these words: "For simple desertion the penalty is 
 death. For desertion coupled with such treachery 
 there can be no mercy." 
 
 There are few things more solemn and touching 
 than a military execution when properly conducted, 
 and the present one, I venture to assert, has never 
 been excelled for its force and impressiveness. The 
 place of execution was a broad, level plain, just 
 north of the seminary. Three o'clock was the hour 
 for the division to be in position, but it was nearly 
 four when all the troops had taken their places. 
 The scene was then grand and imposing. Three
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 269 
 
 sides of a square were formed in double lines, the 
 space between being twenty paces. General Slo- 
 cum's brigade formed one side of the square, on the 
 Leesburg turnpike ; General Kearney's at right 
 angles and resting on his right ; and General New 
 ton's formed the other side, the center facing west. 
 Then the artillery formed on one side of the 
 square, the cavalry on the other ; General Franklin 
 and his staff, the brigade generals and their staffs, 
 making a brilliant display, took position beside the 
 place of execution. Then a great crowd of spec 
 tators came, some in gay equipages, others afoot, all 
 eager to witness the putting to death of this wretched 
 man. The young, laughing girl and the gi'ave 
 senator mingled with painted harlots and their 
 gaudily dressed companions. 
 
 The sad procession approached at last, and the 
 impatient crowd pressed forward to catch a glimpse 
 of the condemned. There was the music, and the 
 provost-marshal and his aids, the wagon with the 
 coffin, the prisoner and his priest, the carbineers, 
 with reversed arms, and the escort. It began its 
 solemn march by entering between the lines at the 
 right of the division, the front battalions falling to 
 the rear as it approached, and in that manner passed 
 along to the extreme left, one band after another 
 striking up and playing a dirge, with an effect not 
 easily described. Now the procession halted at the 
 place of execution. The last faint strains of music 
 had died away. The prisoner crouched on the foot 
 of his coffin, for he was overcome, and there was no
 
 270 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 courage in his soul. The priest whispered a bene 
 diction and took a last farewell. The carbineers 
 were at their places, a strange and solemn stillness 
 prevailed, the red setting sun clothed the scene in 
 mysterious shadows, mingling with the gleam of 
 arms and giving deeper solemnity to the picture. 
 
 The marshal waved his handkerchief. It was the 
 final signal. There was a flash, a crash of carbines, 
 a wreath of pale white smoke cleared away, but the 
 wretched man was not dead. At least, a groan had 
 been heard, and the reserve was called up to finish 
 the work of death. 
 
 ***** 
 
 The fine weather of early January was succeeded 
 by the severest storms. To-day it would be freez 
 ing cold. To-morrow a drenching rain, filling the 
 streams and overflowing the roads, would be accom 
 panied by hail, sleet, and a fierce, cutting wind. 
 Then snow would cover the ground, and the Army 
 of the Potomac would lie for weeks buried in a mud 
 trench. Mud churned up everywhere, as only mud 
 can churn up in Virginia. Picket reliefs struggled 
 and picked their way over fields and through woods 
 to get to the outposts ; subsistence wagons stuck in 
 the mud ; teamsters labored in mud knee-deep, and 
 the poor animals plunged and struggled in vain 
 to do their work. Mud-covered cavalrymen, their 
 jaded animals dripping and reekitig, presented 
 the most forlorn appearance as they dragged and 
 struggled in mud. Mud dragged into head-quarters, 
 mud filled the log cabins and disfigured the tents ;
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 271 
 
 the whole army struggled in mud. Artillery could 
 not be moved, forage teams were stuck fast in the 
 road, and our poor animals suffered and died for want 
 of something to eat. And there was little change 
 for the better until far into February. This severe 
 weather had also a very bad effect on the men. 
 Many of them were seized with fevers and other 
 diseases peculiar to the climate, and our hospitals, 
 not very well provided at that time, soon became 
 filled with the sick. A peculiar feature of this effect 
 of the climate was that its first victims were among 
 those apparently the most robust and strong. Young 
 men, tenderly brought up, accustomed to the indulg 
 ences of city life, appeared to preserve their health 
 and endure the hardships of camp life best. 
 
 And here I must relate a curious result of the 
 President's War Order No. 1. 
 
 I was picking my way from head-quarters to one 
 of the officers' tents one morning, during a driving 
 rain, when I discovered the figure of a man, appar 
 ently fast in the mud, for he remained almost mo 
 tionless, and gave no heed to the storm. As I 
 approached nearer, I discovered him to be Hugh 
 McSourley. His back was to the storm, his body a 
 little bent, his hands joined before him, and his 
 countenance wore a downcast and dejected air. 
 
 " Is that you, McSourley ? " I inquired ; and 
 he turned toward me with a look of sorrow, and 
 shaking his head replied : 
 
 " It is, an' troth, an' sorry am I it is me. It 's 
 no good luck brought me here, Captain."
 
 272 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 " You had better go to your tent, out of the 
 storm," I continued. His Irish enthusiasm quick 
 ened, and his face brightened into a smile. 
 
 " How 'd I go to my tint, an' I ankered here to the 
 mud ? " he replied, making an effort to draw up his 
 right foot, when I discovered the shackle that se 
 cured him to a ball and chain. I had rarely seen 
 a more pitiable object, or one which touched my 
 feelings more deeply. Hugh was a brave man, and 
 not a bad man, except when his temper was troubled 
 with whisky. 
 
 " I am sorry to see so good a soldier as you un 
 dergoing such severe punishment in this storm " 
 
 " Faith, it might be worse, Captain," he inter 
 rupted, with a good-natured smile. " But won't the 
 ribils pay for this, thin ! Stay awhile, till I git 'em 
 within lingth of my saber." 
 
 McSourley laid all his troubles at the door of the 
 rebels. No matter how much he suffered, he found 
 consolation in the promise that the rebels would have 
 to pay for it when he got within saber reach of 
 them. I confessed my inability to see how the rebels 
 could have anything to do in bringing this punish 
 ment upon him. 
 
 " May the saints forgive me ! " he exclaimed, 
 raising his hands. " Would I be here only for the 
 ribils ? Bad luck to thim and the breed o' thim ; 
 and may the divil git 'm afore they git absolution." 
 Here he made a desperate struggle to move forward, 
 and with his hand extended in a threatening manner 
 and with much earnestness, he ejaculated : " And
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 273 
 
 wasn't it the likes of you, too, that brought me 
 here ? " I turned to see what had caused him this 
 sudden agitation. It was a stalwart negro, passing 
 a few paces behind me, to his master's tent. I re 
 marked that, like himself, the poor negro was an 
 object of sympathy. 
 
 " An' it 's a mighty lot of it they gits," he replied, 
 quickly. " If the ribils had the naigurs, and the divil 
 the pair o' thim, would n't I be home, living in pace 
 wid the ould woman?" 
 
 I now endeavored to get from him what was the 
 immediate cause of this punishment. Slipping his 
 fingers into his vest pocket, he drew forth a small, 
 dirty slip from a newspaper. " Perhaps ye 've read 
 that before anyhow, ye can read it again." 
 
 It was the President's remarkable War Order No. 
 1, and read thus : 
 
 President's Special War Order, No. 1. 
 
 EXECUTIVE MANSION, 
 WASHINGTON, January 31st, 1862. 
 Ordered: That all the disposable force of the Army of the- 
 Potomac, after providing safely for the defense of Washington, 
 be formed into an expedition for the immediate object of seizing 
 and occupying a point upon the railroad, southeastward of what 
 is known as Manassas Junction. All the details to be in the dis 
 cretion of the Commander-in-chief, and the expedition to move 
 before or on the 22d day of February next. 
 
 (Signed) ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 I was still at a loss to see what this had to do 
 with it, and told him so. He smiled, apparently at 
 my innocence, and putting the bit of paper carefully 
 back in his pocket, soon gave me to understand that 
 
 18
 
 274 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 the President had in him a more sincere friend, and 
 one ready to defend his authority with a stronger 
 arm, than many of those who fawn about and flatter 
 him in the hope of securing his favors. 
 
 Then, raising his right hand, he exclaimed, with 
 an emphasis and depth of feeling I have rarely heard 
 excelled : " A mighty curse upon your head, Finn 
 McGinnis ! " 
 
 " So, then, it was another fight between you and 
 McGinnis, and whisky, I suppose, had something to 
 do with it," I rejoined, making a motion to leave 
 him, and ordering him to his tent. 
 
 " Stay, Captain, stay," said he anxiously, " an' 
 I '11 tell ye all about it. There was a mighty dale o' 
 talk in camp, as ye know, about Gineral Miklillin 
 lavin us, and the President takin' a spell at com- 
 mandin' the army. There was thim as said he could 
 do the same, and there was thim as said that per 
 haps he could n't do that same. Och ! the whole 
 camp was mighty agitated ye know that. And 
 there was Corporal Rooney, and Private Teddy 
 O'Brien, and Mr. McSourley, (meself, ye know) in 
 the tent beyant, behavin' like gentlemen, when Finn 
 McGinnis drops in, widout sayin' by your lave. 
 ' Have yez heard the news, boys ? ' says he. 
 
 " ' What news have ye now ? ' says I. ' Gineral 
 Miklillin laid on the shelf, and the President him 
 self to command the army. Much luck may he have 
 wid his new occupation ! ' says Finn, radin' the Pres 
 ident's order till us, and spakin' derogretory of the 
 President as a gineral. ' Musha ! Should n't I like
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 275 
 
 to see the gineral that 'd move an array, an' it stuck 
 in the mud. A good time he 'd have wid his artillery 
 crossing sthrames, an' his powder wet. Botherashin 
 to the man as would sit in his aisy chair, an' till the 
 army to move on, an' it fast in the mud,' says Finn, 
 spakin' of the President as did n't become the likes 
 of him." Here Hugh shook his head, and paused 
 for a moment. 
 
 "And you used striking arguments in defense of 
 the President's military capacity," I interposed, 
 with an encouraging nod. 
 
 " Faith, I did ! Was n't it my duty to stand up 
 for the man as commands us ? ' Yer a blackguard, 
 Finn,' says I, ' an' it 's not sayin' much for ye as a 
 sodger, that ye refuse to obey orders, ony how.' 
 
 " ' Could ye repate that ? ' says he*. 
 
 " ' I could,' says I, ' an' more too, bedad, an' do ye 
 mind this, Mister McGinnis : the man 's no gentle 
 man what insults the President in my tint. Does n't 
 yez git yer rashuns, an does n't yez git yer pay, an 
 does n't yez git yer clothes ? An' seein' that, is n't 
 it yer duty as a sodger to yield obedience to the or 
 ders of your superiors ? ' 
 
 " ' Is it the likes o' you, that comes to tache me 
 my duty ! ' says Finn. An' did n't meself tache him 
 better manners by knockin' him down ? An' what 
 does the spalpeen do but cry ' Murther ! Murther ! 
 Would ye, Mister McSourley, murther a man in yer 
 own tint ? ' 
 
 " 'I would,' says I, ' an' it 's that same ye desarve 
 for yer disrespect to the President.' An' it 's not 
 the half murthered he was.
 
 276 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 " Thin I was arristed, and had 'comraodashuns in 
 the guard-house beyant. Thin charges an' spisifica- 
 tions, an' all that, an' more too, an' I was thried be 
 fore a court martial, fur the half murtherin' Finn 
 McGinnis. Musha, was n't there a dale of lies told ! 
 The divil a word was I allowed to say for meself, 
 an' I innocent as the lamb. An' it 's here I am pay- 
 in' the pinalty. Ye have it all, Captain. Good luck 
 to ye ! May ye niver do duty of this sort. But 
 won't the ribils pay for this, an' they within the 
 rache of my saber ! " 
 
 Having concluded his story I left him extricating 
 the ball from the mud, and making a desperate effort 
 to reach his tent. 
 
 Sunday, the 9th of March, came in with a pale 
 gray sky, and a damp, chilly atmosphere. Bugles 
 were sounding, drums beating, and bands playing, 
 all along the whole line. Mounted orderlies and 
 staff officers were galloping to and fro, from division 
 to brigade head-quarters, carrying orders. Indeed, 
 everything indicated a movement of the army at 
 once. For several days previous all sorts of rumors 
 respecting a forward movement had been circulated 
 in camp, and a color of truth was given to them 
 when the impatient and brave Kearney, with his 
 First New Jersey Brigade, (an honor to the State 
 that sent such a fine body of men) moved out to 
 Burke's Station. The army was provided with ra 
 tions for six days, and a feeling akin to joy ran 
 through it, at the prospect of meeting and trying 
 strength once more with the enemy.
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 277 
 
 About three o'clock, the first battalion of the First 
 New York, or Lincoln Cavalry, received orders to 
 march, and join General Kearney at Burke's Station. 
 Later in the day, an order was issued for a general 
 movement of the army. The battalion proceeded 
 over the little river turnpike, and joined General 
 Kearney at Burke's Station the same night. On the 
 following day, the 10th, they advanced to Sangston's 
 Station, on the Orange and Alexandria Railroad, 
 and were engaged in protecting a working party, 
 which was building a bridge and repairing the road. 
 
 There was a piece of rising ground to the right of 
 the station, and just beyond this, an open, level field, 
 skirted on the west by a belt of thick wood. Early 
 in the afternoon, it was discovered that the enemy 
 had an infantry picket of about one hundred and fifty 
 men posted near a clump of woods on the western 
 part of this field. Gen. Kearney at once ordered 
 Captain Stearns, of Company H, to send one of his 
 best and most reliable officers and fifteen or twenty 
 men to learn their position, and, if possible, dislodge 
 them. Lieut. Harry Hidder, of whom I have before 
 spoken, was selected to perform this service, and 
 given only sixteen troopers to aid him in carrying out 
 his orders. 
 
 He was loved and respected by all the regiment. 
 He was brave and fearless, full of the spirit of com 
 mand, and earnest in the cause of his country. He 
 had won the respect of his superior officers for his 
 strict attention to duty, and his men loved him be 
 cause he was kind to them ; and they knew him to be
 
 278 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 devoted to their interests, and brave. He had a fine, 
 handsome figure, a face of rare beauty, and was a 
 skillful horseman. He was proud at being selected 
 to perform so hazardous aserviee, and his dark, flash 
 ing eyes beamed with satisfaction as he proceeded to 
 perform it. He selected from his company sixteen 
 of the best and most reliable men, among whom were 
 Hugh McSourley, the man I left moored to a ball 
 and chain, and one Corporal Lewis, a brave young 
 New Yorker. 
 
 With this mere handful of men, armed with sabers 
 and pistols, Bidder moved in the direction of the 
 enemy, General Kearney and other officers watch 
 ing his advance from a hill near by. The enemy 
 was on the alert, and began forming his line and ad 
 vancing as soon as he discovered our troopers. In 
 deed, he came out bold and defiant, and indicated an 
 intention to resist the advance. Steadily the little 
 band of troopers advanced, and were. received with 
 a few shots. Here Bidder halted, and formed his 
 men for a charge against the infantry's steel. They 
 were soon ready draw sabers ! and away they went 
 over the field, first at a brisk trot, then, when the 
 enemy's fire was drawn, dashed down upon him at 
 full gallop, cutting and slashing with the saber. 
 McSourley and Corporal Lewis had their horses shot 
 dead ; still they rushed on, engaging the enemy in 
 hand-to-hand conflicts Union sabers against rebel 
 bayonets and knives. The struggle was desperate 
 and bloody while it lasted, and so excited Kearney's 
 admiration that he gave vent to his feelings in ap-
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 279 
 
 plause. The enemy fought bravely, but could not 
 stand the impetuosity of our troopers, and began to 
 give way and fall back. Our men followed up quick 
 ly, until they came to a fence, which gave the enemy 
 a momentary advantage. Some of the horses took 
 this fence handsomely, and the troopers proceeded 
 to keep the enemy in confusion by quick and effective 
 use of the saber; others balked. 
 
 Hidder was riding the bugler's horse, an awkward, 
 unwieldly animal, who balked, and refused to take 
 the fence. In turning him for a second attempt, an 
 enemy's bullet entered his left shoulder, twisting up 
 wards into his neck, cut the jugular vein, and the 
 gallant young officer fell dead from his horse, his 
 blood watering the spot where he lay. The little 
 band of troopers now fought more desperately than 
 before, and soon had the enemy driven in confusion 
 into the woods. They had killed several, captured 
 more than double their number of men, and two offi 
 cers. Those officers were captured after the most 
 desperate resistance, and only yielded when they 
 were prostrate and disarmed. 
 
 Young Lewis displayed great coolness and judg 
 ment in fighting his men after Hidder had fallen, and 
 bringing them off tne field, with their prisoners. 
 Kearney was fond of these displays of courage, and 
 complimented Lewis on the spot for his bravery, as 
 well as recommended him for promotion in his report. 
 
 McSourley, who had sworn that the rebels should 
 pay dearly for all his trouble, embraced this as the 
 first opportunity to prove that what he had said was
 
 280 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 really in earnest. lie fought a good fight ; was a 
 brave Irishman, and when he had put three of his 
 antagonists hors de combat in hand-to-hand fights, 
 brought off four prisoners in triumph. 
 
 The foregoing is an extract taken from a work re 
 cently published in New York City, by Colburn 
 Adams. The style needs no commendation, and the 
 critical acumen which it exhibits is very considerable, 
 especially in the discussion of the relative merits of 
 the soldier and the politician. I thought an extract 
 taken from such a source might possibly have a ten 
 dency to open the eyes of the public to the all im 
 portant knowledge that the life of the soldier in 
 America, especially after he has fought nobly for his 
 country, and come back to his home from the field of 
 carnage a living wreck of manhood, is not the most 
 enviable ; and that the politician who in the midst of 
 ease and comfort chalks out his programmes and sees 
 them carried out to his own pecuniary advantage, 
 has an infinitely greater prospect of happiness, 
 and may hope comparatively to live on an eternal bed 
 of roses. 
 
 While Congress has been mindful of its own, that 
 is, the politicians, (who make up its constituent parts) 
 it has studiously abstained from giving any aid or 
 encouragement to the brave men, many of them 
 helpless from scars and wounds, who came to the 
 country's rescue in the hour of her peril. This is
 
 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 281 
 
 perhaps to be expected of the politicians who have yet 
 held up and run the governmental machinery, but it 
 is nevertheless an outrage, and one which should not 
 be borne much longer. There should be a set of 
 men in Congress, not greedy and grasping, looking 
 solely with an eye to their own pecuniary gains, but 
 who should look beyond all this and be influenced in 
 their legislative conduct by something like true pa 
 triotism. Perhaps those who tread the military 
 walks of life are somewhat to blame for .the strong 
 grip which the politicians have fastened upon the 
 various departments of the government. Were they 
 thoroughly organized, they would prove numerically 
 strong enough to overcome the influence of the pol 
 iticians. They could hold the balance of political 
 power at last, and by combination attain ends which 
 would redound to their own interests, and which 
 could not be obtained otherwise. 
 
 It is said that the peculiar education imparted at 
 West Point has a tendency to estrange the soldier from 
 the dutieo of civil life, and that the tastes which it im 
 parts are of such a nature as to repel association with 
 the masses of the people in other words, that it fos 
 ters a haughty and aristocratic spirit. Nothing can 
 be more untrue ; while they do not aspire to civil 
 honors and have a hearty contempt for demagoguery, 
 they possess a truer appreciation of the country's 
 real needs than almost any other class in the com 
 munity. They are ready and willing, but they are 
 not chosen ; and they are not chosen simply because 
 the principle of honor which has been deeply in-
 
 282 THE LIFE OF THE SOLDIER. 
 
 stilled into their breasts revolts against resorting, in 
 order to compass success, to contemptible acts and 
 wicked machinations. 
 
 Outside of West Point, too, the numerous phalanx 
 that remain, bearing witness to the fearful struggle 
 of the bloody days of the rebellion, are actuated by 
 too high a sense of the real nobility of manhood to 
 lend themselves to schemes such as would enrich a 
 Tweed to the position of a millionaire, or elevate a 
 Pomeroy to a seat in the Senate of the United 
 States. 
 
 MRS. R. FRAZIER.
 
 $edret. 
 
 , S Mr. Cutts in ? " asked a gentleman, who, 
 having knocked at a door, was saluted by a 
 woman from the upper window, with " Well, what's 
 wantin' naow ? " 
 
 " Yes, he 's in, or about somewhere, I suppose," 
 she replied, " but I 'm Mr. Cutts when any business 
 is to be done ; he 's Mr. Cutts eatin' and drinkin', 
 sleepin' sometimes " 
 
 " Well, my good woman," said the gentleman, " I 
 think he will be Mr. Cutts for my business, too. I 
 wish to see him." 
 
 " What do you want of him ? " asked the shrew, 
 thrusting her head still further out of the window. 
 
 " To do something for me, but I must see him him 
 self," was the reply. 
 
 " Is it raal business for pay, or only a favor you 
 want ? I can let your horse have a peck of oats, or I can 
 direct you to the shortest road to the Four Corners, 
 or I can I can why, I can do anything for you 
 that he could, and a good deal more ; I take the 
 money, and write the receipts, and pay the men, and
 
 284 JOHN CUTTS' SECRET. 
 
 I take off the produce. I am as good a judge of stock 
 as he is, and I can't be beat on horse flesh." 
 
 " But," saii the gentleman, drawing down his face 
 solemnly, " you can't take his place now. Find him 
 for me at once." 
 
 The shrew was baffled. " Look a here, mister, 
 maybe you do n't know the circumstances of the 
 case ; this farm is mine and it was my father's afore 
 me, and Cutts, he ha'n't no more claim to it than 
 that hen down there has ; and besides, I'm seven 
 years older than he is, a foot higher, and weigh 
 twenty pounds more ; what's your business on my 
 place, if I may make so bold ? " 
 
 " To see and to talk with your husband," replied 
 the gentleman, getting out of his chaise, and hitch 
 ing his horse to a post, as if he meant to stay until 
 he did see him. 
 
 " Be you a doctor ? Cause there a'n't a living thing 
 the matter with Cutts. He 's the wellest man in 
 the town, and so am I," said the woman. 
 
 " No, my good woman, I 'm not a doctor. Do you 
 think your husband will be in soon? Send that boy 
 to find him," said the stranger. 
 
 The boy looked up to his mother's face, but he 
 knew his own interests too well to start without or 
 ders. 
 
 " Then you 're a minister, I suppose, by your black 
 clothes. I may as well tell you and save you time, 
 that we don't go to meeting, and don't want to. It 
 a'n't no use for you to leave your tracts, for I 've 
 got a big dairy, and ha'n't no time to idle away
 
 JOHN CUTTS' SECRET. 285 
 
 readin' ; and I keep him about so early and late, 
 that when he 's done work he's glad to go to bed 
 and rest." 
 
 " I 'm no minister, madam ; I wish I Avere, though, 
 for your sake," said the gentleman ; " send for your 
 husband. I cannot wait much longer. I must see 
 him at once." 
 
 The boy started to his feet again, and looked in 
 his mother's eye, but it gave no marching orders. 
 
 " Look here, mister," now appearing at the door, 
 and looking defiantly at him, " you 're a schoolmas 
 ter, huntin' up a district school, and you think he 's 
 a committee man ; but he a'n't this year." 
 
 " Ma'am Cutts," as the neighbors called her, 
 dropped her hands at her side, and heaved a groan. 
 She had found a man she could not manage. 
 
 " See here now, mister," she said, " I can read a 
 body right through, and I knew what you was the 
 blessed minute I clapped my eyes on you. I can 
 tell by your everlastin' arguin' that you are a law 
 yer. We ha'n't got no quarrels ; don't want no deeds 
 drawed, or wills made ; so if you 're huntin' for a 
 job of my husband, you may as well onhitch your 
 hoss, and drive on. We know enough to make a 
 little money, and I know enough to hold on to it." 
 
 " M}' good woman, you entirely misunderstand 
 my errand. I can tell no one but himself what it is, 
 and must tell him in confidence, alone. If he chooses, 
 he may break it to you the best way he can." 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! Sakes alive ! Brother Lip 's 
 blowed up in the Mississippi boat, I bet. Oh, la me,
 
 286 JOHN CUTTS' SECRET. 
 
 the poor fellow ! He left a little something, did n't 
 he?" 
 
 " I never heard of him ; and nobody 's blowed up 
 that I know of," replied the gentleman. 
 
 " I now I know ! You 're the man what wants 
 to go to Congress, and have come here huntin' after 
 votes. He shall not vote for you. I hate politicians, 
 especially them that goes agin women, and thinks 
 they was made to drudge, and nothin' else. I go 
 in for free and equal rights for white folks men and 
 women for Scripture says there is n't men or women, 
 but all 's one in politics. I believe the day is com 
 ing when such as you and me will have to bow the 
 knee to women, afore you can get the big places and 
 high pay that 's eatin' us up with taxes. You can't 
 see my husband ! We are going to the polls on the 
 way to the mill, and I '11 promise you that he votes 
 right." 
 
 " I 'm no candidate, and I don't know what you 
 are talking about. Ah ! there comes the man I 
 want." And the stranger went toward Mr. Cutts, 
 who had just leaped a pair of bars which led from 
 the potato patch into the lane. 
 
 Mrs. Cutts flew into the house for her sunbonnet, 
 to follow them ; but by the time she got to the bars, 
 her mysterious visitor and Cutts were driving rapid 
 ly down the road. The strong-minded woman shouted 
 after her husband, " You 'd better come back, I tell 
 you," but the wind was the wrong way, and carried 
 her words into the potato patch. 
 
 " Sir," said the gentleman to honest Cutts, " I
 
 JOHN CUTTS' SECRET. 287 
 
 have a very simple question to ask you, but I shall 
 have to ask you in confidence. I will give you five 
 dollars if you will promise not to repeat my words 
 until to-morrow." 
 
 " Well, sir," replied Cutts, " I should n't like to 
 answer any questions that would make trouble among 
 my neighbors. I have my hands full to keep out 
 of scrapes now, but I 've done it, an' ha'n't an en 
 emy in the world as I know." 
 
 " But, sir, you need n't reply to my question unless 
 you are perfectly willing," said the stranger. 
 
 " Ask your question, and I will not repeat it." 
 
 " Well, Mr. Cutts, I am laying fence on the 
 Brisley place, which I have just bought, and I was 
 directed to inquire of you where I can buy cedar 
 posts. A fellow in the store said, ' Cutts can tell 
 you, if his wife will let him. But she won't ; she '11 
 insist on telling you herself, and perhaps offer to 
 drive you wherever you go to order them.' 
 
 " I told them I would see you, and ask you only, 
 and the fellows bet on it. They are to give you ten 
 dollars, and two or three widows in town a cord of 
 wood each, if I succeed in asking you this question 
 alone, and making sure your wife does not know my 
 business until after breakfast to-morrow morning." 
 
 Cutts knew his wife's standing too well to feel 
 very sensitive, and taking the bill from the stranger, 
 he smiled and said : 
 
 " I'll go with you to look out cedar posts, and 
 keep dark, for the joke's sake; but I don't know, 
 whether she'll let me stay in the house to-night. I 
 do n't own it," replied the good-natured Cutts.
 
 288 JOHN CDTTS' SECRET. 
 
 " Suppose you go to the place and see to setting 
 the posts. I will send a boy to tell her you had to 
 go off suddenly on a little business, and will be back 
 in the morning," said the stranger. 
 
 " I '11 do that," replied Cutts, " for I never quar 
 rel with her, but let her have her own way. I do n't 
 want to worry myself about trifles." 
 
 " Good man," said the stranger, " there are no 
 trifles in this life. The smallest act is important, 
 and that easy good nature of yours will ruin your 
 family. Baffle that spirit to-day, and next Sunday 
 take your boys and go to the house of God, what 
 ever she says, and be a real man at the head of 
 your own house and family." 
 
 " It's rather late to begin," said Cutts, shaking 
 his head in a way that would have warned others 
 from the trap in which his feet were fast. " You 
 see, the purse is hers," he added, "and that has 
 been a crueler fetter than her will to me. But I 
 will try to begin anew, for her good will and the 
 children's." 
 
 The boy was sent with the message, but the boy 
 wasn't sharp enough. Madame Cutts discovered 
 the whereabouts of her lord, and tackled up and 
 went after him. 
 
 All the way home, and far into the night, she 
 used her eloquence, both in pleadings and threaten- 
 ings, to find out the mysterious errand of that hate 
 ful city nabob, that had come into the country to 
 separate happy families. 
 
 But Cutts yielded himself to a dumb spirit for the
 
 JOHN CUTTS' SECRET. 289 
 
 night, and no measure could induce him to talk on 
 any subject, lest she should pry the mighty secret 
 out of him. About midnight she wore herself out 
 and went to sleep, but at break of day she began. 
 He then ventured to say : " As soon as breakfast is 
 over I will break the news to you." 
 
 " You'll never eat a morsel in my house, I can tell 
 you," cried Xantippe, " till you have told me what 
 the man wanted of you." 
 
 " Then you '11 wait a long time to hear it," said 
 Cutts, " for I have vowed I 'd never tell it till I had 
 first eaten my breakfast," and with these words he 
 went out. 
 
 Ma'am Cutts endured the torture as long as pos 
 sible, and then got breakfast. She called at the 
 door, to no one in particular, " Come." 
 
 But Cutts did n't come. After a while she went 
 out to the barn, and found him seated on an up 
 turned half-bushel measure, calmly peeling and eafc- 
 ing a raw turnip. 
 
 " It does seem as if this here man had possessed 
 you! Your breakfast is coolin'. Do come in." 
 
 It was a point gained. 
 
 Cutts went in, as requested, and ate his breakfast. 
 When that was over, Ma'am settled herself back in 
 her chair, with her face full of expectation, and 
 said : 
 
 " Now, begin. What did that man want ? " 
 
 " He wanted some cedar posts," replied Cutts, 
 calmly, " and that was all." 
 
 19
 
 290 JOHN CUTTS' SECRET. 
 
 If an arrow had struck Madame Cutts, she could 
 not manifested more surprise and shame. 
 
 " I am the laughing stock of this town," added 
 Cutts, " and from this hour I. turn over a new leaf. 
 I am henceforth head of my family, and unless this 
 house is made mine I shall finish off a room in the 
 barn which is mine and you will be welcome 
 to share it with me. If not, I will live there with 
 the boys, and you will find a civil neighbor." 
 
 Madame Cutts' .power was broken. Since then 
 the farm has been called John Cutts' place, and he 
 is the head of the house.
 
 OF 
 
 [ ORIGINAL. ] 
 
 a certain street in our good city there is a row 
 of stately edifices, whose plate glass windows 
 and marble steps bespeak them to be the abodes of 
 fashion and opulence. Opposite this lordly row is a 
 heterogeneous mixture of good, bad, and indifferent. 
 In one of the most humble of these, an upper apart 
 ment was occupied by a being whose life might well 
 be a lesson to the more exalted in station. Meek, 
 lowly, and resigned, this aged female, after a life of 
 unshrinking duty, patiently awaited a call to another 
 existence, where her virtues will give her a rank far 
 above many who contemned her in this world. Mrs. 
 Williams had passed the greater part of her life in 
 the service of one of the most respectable families of 
 this city. She had seen several generations pass 
 away of those whom she had served most faithfully, 
 and now but one descendant of that family remained 
 to cheer and maintain her in her old age. Well 
 did he perform this duty. In the flower of life, when
 
 292 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 youth can feel no sympathy with age, Clement Os- 
 born would often pass an hour conversing with his 
 old nurse with her who had received the last sigh of 
 his mother, had nursed his infancy, and taught him 
 his first rudiments of learning. To gaze on his fine 
 countenance, glowing with youth and intelligence, to 
 trace the likeness of his mother and his grandfather, 
 was one of the few pleasures left to her helpless old 
 age. 
 
 " I cannot imagine, my good nurse," said Clement 
 to her one day, during his usual visit, " how you can 
 always be so cheerful and contented, confined as you 
 are to one seat. How can you contrive to pass away 
 the weary hours, for even with me, who have so great 
 a variety of pursuits, time sometimes lags heavily, 
 and I long for something new ? " 
 
 " You will feel differently, my son." she answered, 
 " when at my age. After a life of toil and trials, rest 
 alone is welcome to the aged ; quiet and repose is 
 necessary for the spirit to prepare us for that final 
 change, which will soon arrive. I have still, however, 
 my amusements and occupations ; I read, I knit, I 
 chat with a friend, and a visit from you serves me 
 for a whole day ; when everything else fails, I resort 
 to an old maid's privilege, and amuse myself watch 
 ing my neighbors." 
 
 " Watching your neighbors ! " said Clement, 
 " what can you discover through those linen shades, 
 which screen every window from prying curiosity, to 
 amuse you ? " 
 
 " Those linen shades are sometimes drawn up," .
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 293 
 
 said Mrs. Williams ; " the inhabitants sometimes go 
 out and come in and I study their characters from 
 what I perceive. In that house with the balconies 
 resides a fashionable mother with two beautiful 
 daughters, whose characters are very dissimilar. 
 One of the young ladies is artificial and selfish the 
 other, all truth and nature." 
 
 " You must have slight grounds to judge from," 
 said Clement ; " you draw upon your imagination, 
 probably, to fill up the outline." 
 
 " Trifles sometimes express a great deal," she 
 continued ; " I have observed one Miss Parker, for 
 that is the name who never appears, except when 
 attired, from the turn of her hair to her shoe-tie, in 
 the highest fashion ; and then only when some stylish 
 visitor arrives whom she delights to honor. To them 
 she is all grace and smiles ; but her attitudes are 
 studied, and she occasionally throws a glance around 
 to discover what impression she is making ; whilst the 
 other, with unaffected grace and natural manners, 
 is often seen ushering to the very door some plain, 
 unpretending personage, who looks as if she might 
 be a country cousin, or some aged relation. I have 
 often seen her nurse and fondle the little ones, with 
 such untiring affection that I am sure she must have 
 a good heart." 
 
 " I am glad," said Clement, " that you can find 
 amusement so easily. I have often heard of the 
 beautiful Misses Parker from their many admirers ; 
 but they are both equally favorites in society, I 
 believe. I go out so little that I know very few of
 
 294 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 the present race of belles there is a new set every 
 season. I must now leave you," said he, rising to 
 depart. " My engagements are numerous to-day. 
 Hoping the Parker family will act up for your amuse 
 ment, I bid you good morning." 
 
 Clement left the humble abode of his old nurse, 
 animated by the consciousness of having performed 
 a duty, and cheered by the warm affection of one 
 who loved him so entirely. He possessed a heart 
 rich in all the better feelings of human nature, but 
 he found few, very few, to appreciate its treasures 
 his position was lonely, and he often felt desolate. 
 It is true he had a father, but he saw very little of 
 him, and had never resided with him. The father of 
 Clement, though good-hearted and upright, was of a 
 roving, speculating sort of disposition. Full of 
 visions and schemes, he was ever roving from place to 
 place, lured by hope, in the pursuit of fortune, which 
 still evaded his grasp. Sometimes his plans suc 
 ceeded, but he was one of those who never could 
 reap the harvest, even after he had sown the seed. 
 Clement resided with a bachelor uncle, a brother of 
 his father, who had given him a home when quite 
 young. The uncle was ever immersed in business 
 to accumulate thousands upon thousands, until he 
 could count millions, was the first grand object of 
 his life ; his heart seemed to be in his counting- 
 house, and if he had any of the softer feelings of 
 humanity he seldom displayed them. He was rather 
 eccentric in some of his sentiments, and had always 
 given Clement to understand he thought the worst
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 295 
 
 thing that could happen to a young man was to be 
 born to a fortune. Clement must, therefore, make 
 his own way, as all the immense property would 
 probably be given to different institutions. His uncle 
 thought, as many do, to compensate for a life of 
 worldliness by deeds which should live after him. 
 When he gave Clement a home in his richly fur 
 nished mansion, where no expense was spared, he 
 thought he had done everything necessary for his 
 happiness ; while Clement felt that he would willingly 
 exchange the cold stateliness of his splendid abode 
 for a home endeared by affection or enlivened by 
 female influence. Clement had devoted himself 
 assiduously to his profession, and his hopes were fair 
 of rising to eminence. He had not mixed much in 
 society of late, though ever welcomed as a favorite 
 when he did apppear. He was once prevailed upon 
 to accept an invitation to a party given by a lady, 
 who had sent her son to procure some beaux for her 
 belles, whose appearance would not disgrace her 
 rooms. Clement arrived when the rattling throng 
 of carriages were hastily depositing their inmates, 
 and the crowd began to thicken in the brilliantly 
 lighted apartments. The scene was gay, the music 
 enlivening fairy forms flitted by, and he felt as if in 
 the temple of pleasure. He observed one bright 
 being, whose commanding style of beauty, as she 
 stood in a conspicuous position, attracted his admira 
 tion. She was dressed with much taste and haut 
 ton, and was conversing fluently with a bewhiskered, 
 foreign-looking gentlemen. Just then his friend
 
 296 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 returned, and insisted on introducing him to the lady 
 who had attracted his attention. He took advan 
 tage of a pause in her conversation and presented 
 Clement to Miss Parker. Clement thought of his 
 old nurse, and wondered if this was her favorite. 
 The lady, however, merely bowed coldly, and contin 
 ued to be absorbed by her bewhiskered and mustached 
 German baron. Clement immediately determined 
 that the lady had no taste, whatever other qualifica 
 tions she might have. Mrs. Parker happened to be 
 not far from them. Her watchful eye observed her 
 daughter. She glided behind them. 
 
 " Adelaide, my love," said she, " your ruff is turn 
 ed down," and whilst she adjusted her dress she 
 whispered, " you are wasting your time on an un 
 known adventurer, while that was rich old Osborn's 
 nephew and heir that was just introduced to you." 
 
 A hint was enough for Adelaide ; she immediately 
 turned with a smile to Clement, and commenced a 
 gay conversation. He was enchanted by the fair 
 lady's beauty, wit, and finished manners. She was, 
 however, engaged to dance, and obliged to fulfill the 
 claim of some equally eligible admirer. Mrs. Parker, 
 however, did not lose sight of Clement, and soon way 
 laid him. She addressed him as an old acquaintance ; 
 she remembered him as a boy, she said, and knew his 
 mother all his kith and kin, in fact. She had nu 
 merous questions to ask about his father and uncle, 
 whom she declared were formerly her best friends. 
 Her friendship and sociability quite charmed Clem 
 ent ; he offered her his arm, which she thankfully ac-
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 297 
 
 cepted, to go in pursuit of her youngest daughter, 
 whom she said she had missed for some time. They 
 with difficulty passed through the gay throng to 
 another apartment, where they discovered a bevy of 
 fair wall-flowers in one corner, who seemed by their 
 joyous faces and light laughter, to be in the full career 
 of enjoyment. 
 
 Mrs. Parker pressed on into the midst of the fair 
 group, and addressing one of the loveliest as her 
 daughter Julia, led her forth. 
 
 "How can you, Julia," whispered she, "plant 
 yourself here, when you ought to be dancing ? " 
 
 " There is no pleasure dancing in such a crowd," 
 she answered, " and it is so long since I have seen 
 Sophy and Anna we had so much to say." 
 
 " Silly girl !" said Mrs. Parker, " you ought to 
 stand up if you can't dance, or every one will sup 
 pose you are a wall-flower from necessity." 
 
 Mrs. Parker then led her daughter away from her 
 youthful friends, and Clement soon prevailed on her 
 to join a set which was just forming. Clement never 
 tired of gazing on the frank and sunny face of 
 his companion, bright with youth, beauty, and a joy 
 ous spirit. Her unaffected manner, and the unstud 
 ied grace in all her movements, soon convinced him 
 that however hastily Nurse Williams might have 
 judged the sister, she had been correct in her opinion 
 of the lovely Julia. 
 
 The evening passed rapidly to Clement, and he 
 became more and more fascinated by his fair partner. 
 He scarcely left her side, was so happy as to obtain
 
 298 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 a station near her at the supper table, and safely 
 deposited her in their carriage before he left her. He 
 went homeward full of thoughts of the fair Julia. 
 Her bright and radiant countenance shone upon him 
 in his dreams, with her sunny smile. His visits to 
 his old nurse now seemed doubly interesting, for he 
 could gaze on the residence of the fairy-like being 
 who possessed his fancy ; and when he occasionally 
 caught a glimpse as she quickly glided down the 
 marble steps to the carriage, or for a moment appear 
 ed at the window, he felt as if a gleam of sunshine had 
 shone upon his pathway. But he had not to content 
 himself with such shadowy enjoyments ; he often met 
 the Misses Parker in company, and was soon honored 
 by an invitation to their house. 
 
 The more he saw of Julia, the more worthy of his 
 admiration she appeared. She became every day 
 more interesting to him, and he more devoted to her. 
 Frank and open in his character, his interest in her 
 was no secret to any who chose to observe him. He 
 became a prodigious favorite with all the family of 
 Parkers. They gave him every encouragement to 
 his passion, and he soon found himself completely at 
 home there. By the fluttered manner, the sudden 
 blush which overspread the tell-tale face of Julia, he 
 could read that he was anything but indifferent to 
 her. The most delightful visions and blissful pros 
 pects were his as he floated on so prosperously in 
 his wooing. He only awaited the arrival of his father, 
 who was daily expected, to declare himself in form 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Parker, while he found a thousand
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 299 
 
 ways to declare to Julia his hopes and wishes. An 
 unfinished sentence, a meaning glance, an unobserved 
 pressure of the hand, are sufficient to lovers to com 
 municate volumes. 
 
 The father of Clement arrived at length, and his 
 son lost no time in communicating to him the state 
 of his affairs. 
 
 " What ! Julia Parker," said his father, " the 
 daughter of Tom Parker ? I know the family ; 
 used to be rather intimate once, but did not like him 
 afterwards. He married Adelaide Stanley never 
 liked her a proud, cold-hearted girl very hand 
 some, though. Well, well, the daughter may not be 
 like the mother." 
 
 The father, according to the son's request, de 
 parted to inform Mr. and Mrs. Parker of Clement's 
 hopes, plans and wishes, whilst Clement remained in 
 a feverish state of excitement during this momentous 
 affair. 
 
 " Now, now," said he, whilst his heart beat rapidly, 
 " my fate will be decided ! But why should I fear ? 
 Everything promises me success. Julia, dear girl, 
 I cannot doubt her parents have given me every en 
 couragement. She surely will be mine. What a 
 blessed home will ours be, with her as the ministering 
 spirit. She knows my circumstances, and her senti 
 ments are like mine where true affection exists, 
 riches are not necessary to happiness. My profession 
 will give us the comforts of life. We can live for 
 each other, and a few tried friends. The gay, the 
 heartless, fashionable throng, who court the wealthy.
 
 300 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 will be excluded from our quiet home without a re 
 gret, while domestic happiness, a heaven on earth of 
 which they can form no idea, will be ours." 
 
 Clement impatiently awaited his father's return 
 to bid him hasten to his Julia, and hear from her the 
 certainty of his happiness. His heart fluttered at 
 every sound, until Mr. Osborn at length made his 
 appearance. 
 
 " Well, my boy," said Mr. Osborn, throwing him 
 self into a seat, " I am sorry for you, but it is all 
 over with you there." 
 
 " What do you mean sir ? " said Clement. 
 
 " I mean," he answered, "you can't have your 
 Julia." 
 
 " What can you mean? " said Clement, starting 
 up, while his heart almost ceased to beat. 
 
 " Sit down, sit down," said his father, " while I 
 tell you all about it. I found Mr. and Mrs. Parker 
 at home ; they received me very graciously ; talked 
 about old times, etc. I soon made known to them 
 your attachment to their daughter Julia they re 
 ceived the intelligence most favorably, declared you 
 were a prodigious favorite the finest young man 
 they had ever known ; and to no one would they 
 sooner commit the happiness of their dearest darling. 
 Well, I went on to explain your worldly expecta 
 tions. I told them I should have little or nothing 
 to give ; that your profession you considered suffic 
 ient for the comforts of life at present, and hoped 
 from year to year to extend your practice ; your 
 prospects were favorable.
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 301 
 
 " ' But,' said Mrs. Parker, ' his uncle will do 
 something handsome, I suppose, on the marriage of 
 his heir.' 
 
 " ' Brother George,' said I, ' is as little likely to 
 make my son his heir as to leave all his great wealth 
 to his black coachman. He is an oddity, and has 
 ever given Clement and myself to understand he 
 must expect nothing from him. He might marry 
 himself stranger things have happened he is only 
 fifty-five. At all events, he will probably outlive us 
 all.' 
 
 " They looked very blank, and exchanged glances' 
 full of meaning which seemed to say, We have played 
 a wrong card, and must retrieve it as soon as possi 
 ble. They then began in a roundabout way to ex 
 press their sorrow and concern ; their esteem for you ; 
 but they were under a great mistake. They sup 
 posed Mr. Clement Osborn was the declared heir of 
 Mr. George Osborn, and they expected, of course, a 
 handsome settlement on the marriage of his only 
 nephew. As for their daughter living on fifteen 
 hundred or two thousand a year, the idea was absurd 
 none but a romantic young man could ever have 
 entertained such a thought. It would hardly be 
 enough for a decent wardrobe. They were astonished 
 that a person of Mr. Clement Osborn's good sense 
 could ever have supposed such a thing. They could 
 not, consistently with their duties as parents, allow 
 such a lovely young creature, fitted to adorn a high 
 station, to consign her youth and charms to the cares 
 of household drudgery. So, as I did not know very
 
 302 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 well what else to say, I left the confounded proud 
 pack, thinking you were well rid of them. I know 
 it will come hard at first to give her up but try my 
 son, to bear it well." 
 
 Alas, poor Clement ! What a sad blow to all his 
 plans his fairy visions. Happiness such happi 
 ness just opening to his view, to be thus suddenly 
 withdrawn. The tempting draught just touched his 
 lips and was then dashed away. He remained for a 
 long time overwhelmed with the rush of wounded 
 feelings of mortified pride. At length, starting up, 
 he said : 
 
 " I will see Julia. I will hear from her my 
 doom." 
 
 He as suddenly left the house, and soon arrived at 
 the residence of Mr. Parker. The servant admitted 
 him as usual, being in the habit of considering him 
 almost as one of the family, though, from his disor 
 dered air, he discovered something extraordinary 
 must have happened. Clement heard the sound of 
 many voices from the back drawing-room, where the 
 family usually assembled he drew back. 
 
 " I wish to see Miss Julia alone," he said. The 
 servant threw open the door of the front drawing- 
 room. It was gloomy, cold, and deserted. The 
 almost closed shutters scarcely admitted any light, 
 and the furniture, being covered, gave it a cheerless 
 appearance. 
 
 He discovered Julia in one corner, seated on a low 
 divan, weeping bitterly. He flew to her, and soon un 
 burdened his heart to her. He found her as much
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 303 
 
 overwhelmed by the disappointment as himself. She, 
 like Clement, could not perceive why they could 
 not be happy in their own way, but felt that her des 
 tiny was in the hands of her parents. She would 
 never act in opposition to them, and Clement could 
 not urge her to leave her luxurious home to share 
 the comparatively small establishment he had to 
 offer. They parted without any settled plans for 
 the future, but their hearts were lighter from the 
 consciousness of their mutual attachment. The full 
 avowal which had taken place was some balm for the 
 wounds of separation. Hope whispered there were 
 happier days in store for them. 
 
 Time passed on, and Clement found he could 
 scarcely see or speak to Julia, for the careful watch 
 fulness of her mother, ever on the alert to prevent 
 their intercourse, debarred them from anything more 
 than a passing glance when they did meet. Hope's 
 fairy hues grew fainter and every day dragged more 
 heavily. Clement's visits to Mrs. Williams were 
 his only comfort, for there he could occasionally see 
 his heart's idol at a distance, and his poor old nurse 
 became the depository of his secret sufferings his 
 withered hopes and disappointed prospects. He 
 thought fate could not add another drop of bitter 
 ness to his cup, until he became aroused by the fear 
 of a favored rival. 
 
 Rudolph Delaney, a well-known bacheler, and as 
 it was whispered, a sad roue, whose riches obtained 
 for him the passport into fashionable society, com 
 bined with highly polished manners, manners pecu-
 
 304 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 liarly fascinating to women, a person which, though 
 un pen passe, when well made up was still very 
 attractive. Intriguing mothers and misses had in 
 vain lavished their smiles. He had passed along from 
 flower to flower, ever seeking the fairest but none 
 had ever secured him when he became attracted by 
 the beauty and manners of Julia. Her innocence 
 and natural grace was so refreshing after the man- 
 niere of those he usually met, where the real charac 
 ter is veiled, and an outward grace, like the cement 
 which passes for polished marble, often conceals the 
 false interior, that he turned, sickened, from the cold 
 and heartless, to pluck the fairest flower which had 
 ever crossed his path. His wishes had never been 
 thwarted, and he dreamed not of any opposition 
 as for a girlish fancy for Clement Osborn, that 
 would soon be forgotten in the high honor he con 
 ferred upon her. Mrs. Parker observed his devoue- 
 ment with the greatest satisfaction. She had been 
 severely mortified by the false move she had made 
 with regard to Clement, and this grand partie 
 offering for Julia would make all right, and stop the 
 thousand comments of her dear five hundred friends 
 in the affair. Her blandest smiles and utmost cour 
 tesies were now lavished on Delaney. lie had every 
 facility to be in Julia's society, and Julia was 
 schooled and scolded into apparent submission to her 
 mother's will. Clement beheld the game they were 
 playing in silent agony. To see Julia whirling past 
 him in the waltz, with this man, whose character he 
 despised, or seated apart, on some convenient sofa
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 305 
 
 or divan, apparently engaged in interesting discourse, 
 aroused his indignation against her and every one. 
 Often, in these crowded assemblies, the only place 
 where he could see her, where all were happy and 
 joyous, the bitterness of his feelings seemed preying 
 on his life he felt as if they were all laughing at 
 him the only one excluded from the light of social 
 
 jy s - _ 
 
 Spring arrived, but brought no flowers for Clement. 
 One day, as he made his accustomed visit to Mrs. 
 Williams, he observed the house of the Parkers shut 
 up and deserted. She informed him the family had 
 all departed at six o'clock in the morning, with a 
 large party, and Mr. Rudolph Delaney was one of 
 the number. 
 
 Rumors soon reached Clement from fashionable 
 watering places, brought by good-natured friends, of 
 the gaieties of the Parkers ; the tete-a-tete rides of 
 Julia and Delaney in short, it was decided by those 
 who professed to know, that the winter gaieties were 
 to commence with the wedding of the rich Mr. De 
 laney and the beautiful Miss Julia Parker ; a wedding 
 which would surpass all others by the number of 
 its bridesmaids, the expense, the jewels, the costli 
 ness of the trappings, etc., orders for which, it was 
 confidently asserted, had already been dispatched to 
 Paris. 
 
 The feverish excitement in Clement now settled 
 
 into a gloomy despondency. Life seemed to offer 
 
 no enjoyment; existence no object. He neglected 
 
 his affairs, threw aside his studies, and a silent gloom 
 
 20
 
 306 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 possessed him entirely. The change from his former 
 animation and kindliness of manner attracted the 
 attention of his uncle even ; he who was usually so 
 unobservant of the joys and sufferings of others. If 
 there was a being who could penetrate the crust which 
 time and worldliness had wound around the heart of 
 Mr. George Osborn, it was Clement. He had been, 
 from a boy, dutiful and attentive to his uncle. He 
 knew not how insensibly, by a thousand little acts 
 which sprung from his kindly nature, he had won 
 his uncle's affections. For who has not affections ? 
 However the heart may become hardened by selfish 
 ness, there ever must glow some feeling in the human 
 heart, a spark divine it is impossible to extinguish 
 like a spring of clear water, which, however it may 
 become sullied or diminished, still remains pure in 
 the parent fountain. Mr. Osborn, the uncle, had 
 heard from the father of Clement the story of his 
 attachment to Julia Parker. He supposed young 
 people had all some affair of the kind on hand, and 
 it had passed out of his thoughts. Those sort of pas 
 sions were like the measles and whooping cough, 
 which must be passed through, the sooner the better. 
 As he agreed with his brother in not liking the Par 
 kers, he was glad it had terminated thus. But 
 Clement's unaccountable dejection had deprived him 
 of one of his greatest pleasures. The gay and en 
 tertaining conversation of his nephew had become 
 necessary to him. Now, his meals passed dull and 
 gloomily. Clement sent away untouched the rarest 
 delicacies, though cooked in the most scientific man 
 ner. His uncle observed him with surprise, for eat-
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 307 
 
 ing had ever been one of the great objects of his 
 life, and a loss of appetite he considered one of the 
 greatest of misfortunes. 
 
 "Why, Clement," said he, " you are not well ; 
 you confine yourself too much to your office. Take 
 a trip to the country ; you really appear quite ill." 
 
 Clement assured his uncle he was perfectly well, 
 had no wish for change of air and scenery, and 
 scarcely attended to business at all. The uncle said 
 no more, but pondered on the matter. His anxiety 
 was aroused. He determined to watch Clement, and 
 was surprised to find him so listless and gloomy. He 
 went to consult Mrs. Williams about the health of 
 Clement, and she informed him of the cause of his 
 dejection. Still he could not comprehend why the 
 loss of a heartless hussy could transform a fine, live 
 ly, high-spirited young man into a useless creature. 
 
 The summer had passed away ; Saratoga and 
 Rockaway began to be deserted. The sea beach no 
 longer was trod by the light foot of beauty ; dandies 
 no longer lounged along its sands. It was after a 
 cool, bleak day ; the setting sun had tinged the 
 heavens with its most gorgeous hues. Every distant 
 object was distinct in the pure atmosphere, as Mr. 
 George Osborn and his silent nephew were slowly 
 taking their usual stroll on the Battery. Never 
 did the waves look more lovely as they reflected the 
 changing hues of the clouds whilst the thousand 
 light skiffs, the swelling sails, the dashing steam-boats, 
 the noble ships, gave animation to the scene. The 
 beauties of it, however, were lost to Clement, for
 
 308 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 memory brought back too vividly the days when he 
 had trod those paths with Julia, when love and hope 
 were his ; and now, the idea ever uppermost, that 
 another could gaze on her bright, animated counte 
 nance, could be privileged to watch its varying hues, 
 hung upon his spirits with deadening weight. 
 
 This most delightful promenade was nearly de 
 serted ; a few loungers on the paved walk were all 
 who enjoyed this most brilliant of sunsets. As 
 Mr. Osborn and his ' nephew were coming up 
 the willow walk, they noticed the only individuals 
 besides themselves were a young lady and a boy, 
 who were rapidly approaching, as they came near. 
 
 Clement recognized Julia and a young brother. 
 Never did she look more lovely. The cool, fresh air 
 had tinged the roses of her cheek to a deeper dye ; 
 her eyes sparkled with unusual brilliancy, arid her 
 step, free and light, seemed like one devoid of care. 
 She passed rapidly on, like some bright being which 
 flits by or in a dream. She did not perceive Clem 
 ent until quite near ; then the sudden rush of blood 
 to her cheeks, her faltering steps, her fluttered man 
 ner, showed her recognition ; but he looked straight 
 forward with a stern, contracted brow. His uncle, 
 however, stopped and looked after her, struck with 
 her loveliness, and the innocence of expression so 
 peculiar to her. 
 
 " That's a pretty girl, is she not ? " he said. His 
 nephew made no answer. " Who is she ? she seems 
 to know you, for she turned very red at sight of 
 
 you."
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 309 
 
 " She is Miss Julia Parker," said Clement, in a 
 forced tone of voice. 
 
 " What, your girl, eh, Clem ? She you have been 
 moping about," said his uncle. " Well, I would 
 have her in spite of them she is too nice looking for 
 any of those fashionable dandies." 
 
 " It is too late," said Clement, " they have matched 
 her more to their mind she is already betrothed to 
 Rudolph Delaney." 
 
 " To that dissipated gambler ! " exclaimed Mr. Os- 
 born, " I know him well, and I knew his father be 
 fore him, who was no better than a blackleg. Yes, 
 he won this large fortune, which he bequeathed to 
 his son, by fleecing silly young men, who had better 
 have been at their counting-houses, minding their 
 business. This continued good luck was not all 
 chance ; he was no better than a thief, and if any one 
 ever deserved the State Prison it was he. The 
 son is not much better ; how could he be, never 
 brought up to any business, with the idea of possess 
 ing a large fortune. I have heard enough of him, of 
 his chere amies and such doings. It is a shame. She 
 shan't have him if I can help it. She is too good I 
 know it by her looks." 
 
 When they had reached Broadway gate, the uncle 
 hurriedly left Clement, saying he might take another 
 turn, as he had business to attend to. Clement 
 had cast a glance behind for Julia he feared she 
 had gone around by the State Street side. He 
 hesitated, undecided what course to pursue. At 
 one tirna he resolved to m3et her once more, to have
 
 310 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 one more interview, and reproach her for her forget 
 fulness ; then he felt as if he could never see her 
 again. Since she had transferred her heart to 
 another he could never behold that lovely counte 
 nance, which once to him expressed so much truth 
 and purity. At length, impelled by a sudden im 
 pulse, he hastily approached her, whilst her heedless 
 brother no sooner saw his sister provided with an 
 other escort, than he made his escape to join some 
 young companions whom he had seen fishing from the 
 bridge of Castle Garden. 
 
 As Clement and Julia were both naturally frank 
 and open in their dispositions, they soon came to an 
 explanation. It seemed that Delaney had been ex 
 tremely devoted to Julia all summer ; as his career 
 had, hitherto, been one of entire success with the 
 ladies, he never doubted of her soon becoming duly 
 sensible of the honor of his address, notwithstanding 
 her present manifest indifference ; he attributed it to 
 a girlish fancy for Clement, which would soon pass 
 away. Encouraged in those sentiments by Mr. 
 Parker, he had persevered, and Julia ever found 
 herself obliged to dance, ride, or walk with him in 
 all their rural excursions. She was continually con 
 demned to a place in his bijou of a carriage a situ 
 ation of penance for her, though envied by others. 
 She was resolved to repulse him if he gave her an 
 opportunity, though her heart sank with dread at 
 the scene which she knew would ensue with her 
 mother ; and sometimes it seemed so appalling to her, 
 she feared she would be obliged to submit to a fate
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 311 
 
 that often appeared inevitable, rather than encounter 
 the indignation of her family. They returned at 
 length to the city. 
 
 Mrs. Parker had never ceased endeavoring to im 
 press on her daughter's mind the splendid establish 
 ment within her power, her envied situation as the 
 chosen one of the much admired Rudolph ; and as 
 Julia ceased to contest the point, the mother sup 
 posed she had at length acquiesced. On that very 
 day Delaney had declared himself to Julia, and she 
 had peremptorily refused him. She scrupled not to 
 inform him, to escape his importunities, that her heart 
 was unalterably given to another. He knew there 
 was no hope, and he left her with rage and mortifi 
 cation in his breast. Her heart was lightened, for 
 she had taken one step, and the most decided one, 
 in the affair which had been hanging over her all 
 summer. She felt as if she had freed herself from a 
 frightful evil, and to escape the family scene she 
 called a younger brother, and repaired to the Bat 
 tery. The fresh, pure air lightened her youthful, 
 elastic spirit from a load which had long repressed 
 its animation ; brought the bloom again to her cheek, 
 and made her step once more free and light. 
 Clement arid Julia walked and talked, indulging 
 once more the overflowing of their hearts, until the 
 lessening twilight warned them to depart. He ac 
 companied her to the door, and was on the point of 
 bidding her a reluctant adieu, whilst her heart sank 
 with apprehension at the thought of meeting her dis 
 appointed mother, when the house door suddenly
 
 312 THE RICH UNCLE. 
 
 opened, and Mr. George Osborn appeared, ushered 
 out with every mark of attention by Mr. Varker 
 himself. 
 
 " Oh, Clement," said his uncle, in a low tone, 
 "just in time ; I have settled it all for you ; go in, 
 go in ; there are no objections now to you, you can 
 have your Julia " 
 
 In short, Mr. Osborn had proceeded from the Bat 
 tery to Mr. Parker's, and arrived just at the time 
 when father and mother and all had gone mad at 
 the perversity of Julia, in refusing so splendid an es 
 tablishment ; he had made such liberal offers that 
 even the grasping Parkers were satisfied, and it was 
 agreed that Clement should in future be received as 
 the accepted lover of Julia. 
 
 We need not dwell on the happiness of the youth 
 ful pair. Some can imagine it. They married and 
 resided afterwards with the uncle, who soon found 
 his nephew's spirits restored to their usual happy 
 flow, and acknowledged his niece gave a charm to 
 his fireside it had never known before. Their happy 
 faces at his luxurious board gave a new zest to even 
 the costly delicacies which it was one great object of 
 his life to procure, and he found that conferring hap 
 piness was a more delicious seasoner of viands than 
 the science of gastronomy could produce. Clement 
 perceived the former gloomy air of his magnificent 
 home had vanished under the cheering influence of a 
 woman of taste, the first wish of whose heart was to 
 perform her domestic duties. 
 
 Mrs. Parker and Adelaide managed so well to
 
 THE RICH UNCLE. 313 
 
 soothe the mortification of Rudolph Delaney, that he 
 transferred the honor intended for Julia to her more 
 dashing sister, and if she was not his first choice, she 
 at least appeared more gratified for the honor con 
 ferred. He married her, hoping to conceal from the 
 world his refusal by Julia, as rumor, he supposed, 
 would think it had hitherto mistaken the sister. 
 They were as happy as a fashionable couple may be, 
 united from similar motives. Mrs. Williams only 
 lived to witness the happiness of her beloved Clement, 
 and then sank gradually to her eternal rest, like a 
 happy child reposing on the bosom of a parent. 
 
 B. F.
 
 f}ej>ubli(&ni$ijq k ^ai 
 
 By a member of the California Bar. 
 
 HEN the first gun from the parapets of 
 i/w 
 
 Charleston opened fire upon Fort Sumter, 
 
 the people of the Northern States experienced a 
 thrill of horror, quickly followed by a stern resolu 
 tion to uphold the Union at any sacrifice, of blood or 
 treasure. 
 
 The national flag had commanded respect abroad ; 
 it had been considered the symbol of freedom and 
 civilization; the area of territory over which it float 
 ed had been gradually expanding ; nor was he con 
 sidered a visionary who fondly interpreted that it 
 would soon be streaming in every breeze, from the 
 Isthmus to the Pole. All at once the political skies 
 darkened, the emblem of nationality lay trailing in 
 the dust, and the prospect became imminent that 
 the republic might soon experience the throes of 
 dissolution and its consequent disaster. In the pres 
 ence of a contingency so dreadful, the people of the 
 North lost heart only for a moment. The gigantic 
 exertions they made ; the terrible reverses they met ; 
 their final success, are matters of history ; and it is
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 315 
 
 simply a very grave question now arising, whether the 
 Union, saved at so great a sacrifice, will be product 
 ive of those blessings deemed incompatible without 
 it. An inquiry of such a nature to a few may ap 
 pear novel, to many absurd, while to the patriotic 
 mass it may smack of something like treason. That 
 it should, however, be seriously raised by one whose 
 patriotism has never been doubted, offers evidence 
 that it is worthy of some consideration. The time 
 has passed when we can any longer hoodwink our 
 selves, nor can a candid criticism upon any govern 
 ment be sneered at, notwithstanding such criticism 
 should go to the extent of making that government 
 appear as anything but a paragon of excellence. 
 
 Modern civilization is fast inculcating the idea that 
 the general dissemination of happiness among men 
 is the prime end of all government. The notion at 
 the same time seems generally to prevail, that the 
 democratic or republican form, by all odds, best sub 
 serves that purpose, and so strongly does this con 
 ception obtain, that any argument against it is im 
 mediately construed into an argument in favor of 
 royalty. 
 
 That experience does not entirely coincide with 
 these views, appears quite apparent, when we trace 
 the history of various modern republics ; especially 
 that of Mexico, and those of South America. 
 
 That they have been successful in aiding the dis 
 semination of happiness and prosperity among their 
 cities, is a proposition for which even the most 
 zealous enthusiast for republics will not contend.
 
 316 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 
 
 Their governments have in the main been modeled 
 after that of the United States. They have been 
 blessed with boundless resources ; with a virgin soil, 
 teeming with mineral and agricultural wealth ; and 
 with a climate so diversified as to bring forth in lux 
 uriance the products of the tropics as well as the 
 temperate zone. This being acknowledged, anl be 
 yond dispute, it certainly seems doubtful at the first 
 blush whether a republican government is so superior 
 a government after all. Hence, we shall approach 
 such an inquiry as we have proposed free, if possible, 
 from all preconceived opinions. The time was when 
 no Englishman dared dispute the divine right of 
 kings. The time has come, let us hope, when Amer 
 icans may dispassionately exercise the right of criti 
 cism with reference to their own government. 
 
 The exercise of such a right can do no harm ; but 
 only redound in benefit. It may reveal foul excres 
 cences in the body politic, which a ready application 
 of the principles of sound political surgery may heal. 
 If the conclusion is reached that the great govern 
 ment purchased by our Revolutionary sires is a 
 failure ; that it is theoretically perfect, but in practice 
 a delusion ; and that it is fostering a hateful aristoc 
 racy, whose only basis is the aggregation of wealth 
 by means, perhaps lawful, though at the same time 
 utterly unscrupulous : let us still live in hope that all 
 is not yet lost ; that the avenue to reformation still 
 remains open, while the right of revolution exists, as 
 it will always exist, against every form of proud op 
 pression or tyranny. It is generally the last process
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 317 
 
 employed ; and though the remedy is dreadful, it is 
 seldom unequal to the exigencies of the disease. 
 
 For communism we have the strongest abhorrence. 
 It is in principle radically opposed to the laws of so 
 cial development, and all the evils contained in the 
 box of Pandora would weigh as nothing in compar 
 ison with those which would be put forth by this hy 
 dra-headed monster, were it permitted to acquire gov 
 ernmental ascendency. 
 
 The terrible nature of its venom, when injected in 
 the body politic, may be feebly understood in the 
 contemplation of the harrowing events to which it 
 gave rise in the French capital, at the close of the 
 Franco-Prussian war. No safety for life, no security 
 for property, streets drenched with blood. The torch 
 of the incendiary at every corner, a fusillade of cit 
 izens in every boulevard, excesses surpassing in 
 magnitude and wickedness those of the first revolu 
 tion these were some of the effects of the doctrines 
 of Rochefort and his compeers. 
 
 These doctrines could have obtained no support, 
 had not the people been driven to fury by imagining 
 that the great catastrophe which had befallen France 
 was the result of the blunders of the Imperial 
 regime. Out of the impending chaos they saw no 
 path to salvation. They had been betrayed, despoiled 
 of their territory, their banner had been disgraced, 
 the invader had rung peans of triumph under arches 
 inscribed with victories from the days of Marengo to 
 those of Solferino. 
 
 But the leaven of communism exists in the United
 
 318 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 
 
 States. When the conditions for its operations are 
 ripe, which good statesmanship alone can avert, the 
 world may witness a social phenomenon characterized 
 by scenes and events not unworthy to be classed with 
 those of Pandemonium. The more intelligent the 
 people, the more powerfully will they experience the 
 sense of wrong, the keener will be their appreciation 
 of injustice, and the intolerable nature of their 
 bonds. When they behold society marching in two 
 parallel lines, the one carrying with it all political 
 power, and , aggregating to it all wealth ; the other 
 running amid gradually increasing indigence, possess 
 ing political power in theory, but its shadow only in 
 practice ; they will naturally conclude that if such a 
 condition is the product of law irresistible by law, 
 that the law must be changed. This change must 
 be resisted ; the resistance must prove successful, as 
 long as the attempt is made through the same chan 
 nels which gave it birth, to wit : the law. Finally, 
 the moment of agony and despair must come, the 
 terrible Gordian knot must be untied at all hazards, 
 and the laws must be overthrown. To restore so 
 ciety to anything like its natural equilibrium must, 
 under such circumstances, be exceedingly difficult. 
 The edifice must be razed to the ground ere the 
 work of reconstruction can be begun. This must 
 entail ruin, destruction, bloodshed, the absence of 
 refinement, the generation of abject vices, the reign 
 of a barbaric spirit. 
 
 That no such dreadful contingency shall ever 
 arise, we most fervently hope ; that it will not arise
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 319 
 
 if the people are awakened in time, we firmly 
 believe. 
 
 At the present time they are lulled to a sense of 
 entire security. The country presents all the indi 
 cations of prosperity. Its material wealth is increas 
 ing year by year. Food is cheap and plentiful ; 
 wages are high, and land is in abundance. Is it 
 probable that the picture of plenty and content 
 which we now behold on every hand, will continue 
 to increase with the coming years, and keep pace 
 with the growth of the population ? That is one of 
 the inquiries involved in the question before us. To 
 answer it in the affirmative would be a virtual sur 
 render to everything like discussion nay, it would 
 require a degree of enthusiasm more befitting a 
 Fourth of July orator than an unimpassioned thinker. 
 Nor would it be fitting to answer it in the negative, 
 without a judicious examination into the final result 
 of operating causes. 
 
 The North American continent was settled by a 
 sturdy race of people a people, for the most part, 
 intolerant of anything like religious oppression who 
 preferred, among wilds and wildernesses, the bless 
 ings of liberty, to anything like submission to kingly 
 rule and ease and plenty. 
 
 They founded this Great Republic. When they 
 beheld it fairly launched, their pride and joy knew 
 no bonds. They were thoroughly imbued with the 
 spirit of liberty. It was as necessary to them, they 
 could no more live without it, than without the air of 
 Heaven. The luxuries of life they indeed courted,
 
 320 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 but these luxuries were not the only spurs to their 
 ambition. They looked to something beyond the 
 almighty dollar. They considered that a clear con 
 science was preferable to power and the accumula 
 tion of riches. While they gloried in their religious 
 principles, they were religious ; and not, indeed, to 
 the extent of bigotry or fanaticism, but to that de 
 sirable limit which gives spiritual things an ascen 
 dancy over things which are material. They were 
 not satisfied with the moral harvests which they 
 might reap in their day and generation, but they 
 looked far beyond, and they scattered the seed 
 which was to produce fruits long after they had 
 passed away. They were imbued with the spirit of 
 self-sacrifice ; they were patriotic in the largest 
 view. They loved their country because it was a 
 country in which good men abounded, dominated in 
 their conduct by a sturdy store of truth and right. 
 They administered the law in the spirit as well as 
 the letter, with an impartial judicial eye. He who 
 had stolen fabulous sums, and who, in. our days of 
 mock politeness, would be termed a defaulter, was 
 branded as a felon, and consigned to the same recep 
 tacle as the petty thief, who glories in the accom 
 plishment of picking a pocket or tapping a till ; and 
 a representative of the people was looked upon with 
 honor and respect ; and he who, in a moment of in 
 fatuation, should have bartered his vote, would have 
 been considered a political Judas, too base to be 
 shielded upon this earth, except by a universal hiss 
 of execration.
 
 IS KEPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 321 
 
 The supple knee was not then fawningly bent to 
 wealth. Affluence, unaccompanied by worth, if not 
 treated with absolute disdain, was permitted to 
 flourish in quiet obscurity. Gold had not become 
 the open sesame before whose magical touch the por 
 tals in every avenue of life were to swing open. 
 Suspicion, in her most silent whisperings, had never 
 dared to say aught against the purity of him who, 
 standing in the pulpit, taught lessons of virtue as 
 he expounded the sacred passages of scripture. 
 
 The gigantic cabals of modern days, euphoniously 
 denominated corporations convenient instruments 
 for enriching a few at the expense of the many, 
 through a refined system of knavery which sets both 
 law and decency at defiance were comparatively 
 unknown in that unsophisticated era of the republic. 
 Cant, hypocrisy, and humbug appeared to be under 
 stood, but much more frequently were at a discount 
 than a premium. 
 
 The councils of the nation were filled with sages 
 esteemed for their integrity, honored for their 
 scholarship and attainments, and venerated for long 
 years of disinterested labor in the public service. 
 He who should have dared aspire to commingle with 
 such spirits in such an arena, basing his hopes of 
 success upon the merchantable quality of the mem 
 bers of the Legislature of a State, would have been 
 considered a fit subject to be hurled from a new 
 Tarpeian rock. Those were the halcyon days ; per 
 haps entitled by some of the progressive mortals of 
 the present epoch, the days of Rip Van Winkleism 
 21
 
 322 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 and Old Fogyism. Never mind how they be carica 
 tured : as long as the Republic exists, she shall know 
 them no more, except in the example which they 
 may teach ; and thank God that so much remains. 
 
 Since the revolution, the country has undergone 
 many changes. The people were then, as to blood, 
 distinctly English. Now we find, with perhaps the 
 exception of the New England States, a population 
 in whose veins the blood of the great European 
 nationalities is commingled. The infusion of the 
 German and the Irish blood has been so great as to 
 metamorphose the character of the original stock. At 
 the same time, neither the Teuton nor the Celtic 
 type seems to predominate. A new product has been 
 the result of this intermixture of European races ; 
 and not a Yankee product either, but one which, in 
 the absence of a better appellation, may be denom 
 inated American. Year by year, as immigration 
 flows in upon our shores, the elements that go to 
 form the national character receive new accessions. 
 The population is now, however, so large, that these 
 new accessions, derived from the same sources and 
 in equal proportions, can effect but little change in 
 the individuality of the people. 
 
 That individuality is for all intents and purposes 
 established. The individuality of the Turks has had 
 a great deal to do with the laws, customs, manners, 
 and morals of the Turks. When the German indi 
 viduality is impressed upon Lorraine and Alasce, as 
 it will be if Prussia can hold those conquered provinc 
 es for a century, we shall see a people as devoted
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 323 
 
 to Germany as they are now to France. In Ireland, 
 it has remained the same for centuries. In Spain, 
 its grades of variation can be distinctly traced from 
 the time of the monks. In France, it exhibits only 
 a feeble degree of variation. The country that pre 
 sents it unchanged during the longest period of time 
 is China, and that which seems to shake it off with the 
 same ease that an animal sheds its skin, is' her neigh 
 bor, Japan. This would seem to establish the fact 
 that nations, like individuals, have their characteris 
 tics ; that they are in a large measure guided and 
 influenced by them ; and that systems of government 
 and certain constitutions may comport with the 
 genius of the one and be at war with the genius of 
 the other. It cannot be seriously questioned, that 
 the individuality of the people of the United States 
 has undergone a most astonishing revolution in half 
 a century. Their characteristics were then such 
 that they preferred a republic to any other kind of 
 government. They were ready to make any sacri 
 fice in order to obtain it, and they watched its pro 
 gress with earnest and even jealous solicitude. 
 
 The ties that now bind the American to the gov 
 ernment have become comparatively weak. Many 
 there are who do not scruple to denounce it as a hum 
 bug or as a failure, rotten from the surface to the 
 core. There does not seem to exist any prevailing 
 sentiment that it ought to be reformed, and any dis 
 cussion upon that point is by no means relished. 
 The idea seems to obtain that the existing evils are 
 beyond all remedy ; that they flow in a broad, deep,
 
 324 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 
 
 overwhelming current ; and that good sense would 
 dictate the policy of being borne along with it, in 
 stead of bearing up against it. 
 
 Transactions daily occur, in one. governmental de 
 partment or the other, tainted with the grossest fraud. 
 The newspapers discuss them with imperturable sang 
 froid, and citizens consider them as a matter of 
 course, as much to be expected as the rising of the 
 sun or the ebb and flow of the tide. 
 
 This certainly seems a most singular manner for a 
 great, enlightened, progressive people, to view the 
 conduct of those upon whom it has conferred the 
 functions of government. It gives evidence of a 
 pusillanimous, cowardly spirit. It bespeaks a degree 
 of abjectness which would hardly be commendable in a 
 serf. Such a spirit may be generated in part by a wick 
 ed and corrupt government; but a tame acquiescence 
 in its corruptness and wickedness will cause that 
 government to make larger and larger encroachments 
 upon decency and principle, with less .and less pros 
 pect of serious opposition. This, too, when it is con 
 sidered that every event of any importance is not 
 only circumstantially related, but inexhaustibly dis 
 cussed by the newspapers. The doses of unpalat 
 able information are presented with such regularity 
 as perhaps, finally, to create a surfeit. The evil af 
 fects the Federal government ; it enters into State 
 governments ; it twines itself in the concerns of coun 
 ties, it is closely associated with municipalities. Here 
 it is PomBroy, there it is Tweed, again it is Marks. 
 
 There was a time when such a condition of things
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 325 
 
 would not have been undergone for a moment. 
 Twenty years ago it existed to an infinitely smaller 
 extent, and it is since the close of the war that it has 
 assumed proportions which almost stagger belief. 
 After the inauguration of hostilities, there was virtu 
 ally but one party I., the- country. The Democracy 
 occasionally obtained a spasmodic triumph in New 
 York or Indiana, but as a national party presenting 
 any serious opposition, it had no vitality. The party 
 in power was permitted to assume the reins. It 
 found itself face to face with new and unheard-of 
 issues, and it resorted to new and unheard-of ex 
 pedients. The yearly expenditures which had been 
 deemed extravagant in the days of Pierce and 
 Buchanan, were suddenly increased ten-fold. The 
 supplies necessary to the sustenance and the fitting 
 out of great armies stimulated every branch of 
 trade, and served to enrich a horde of unscru 
 pulous contractors, whose mansions, faced with brown 
 stone, are subjects of admiration in the metropolis 
 of the Union. In the general excitement which 
 prevailed, the people, jiow exultant with victory 
 and now depressed by defeat, paid little heed to 
 the frauds generally practiced. Unused to the 
 pecuniary exigencies of a gigantic war, their ex 
 perience could not check the flow of extravagance 
 and corruption which it entailed. 
 
 Victory finally crowned the efforts of the North. 
 The national debt amounted close upon three billions. 
 The States, too, were largely indebted ; and even 
 cities and towns saw in their depleted exchequers
 
 326 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 some of the direful results of the great struggle. 
 But neither the Federal government, the States, nor 
 the Towns seemed to feel any pecuniary enervation. 
 The greenbacks, everwhere but in California, flooded 
 the country. They could not buy as much as specie 
 before the war, but they were ten times as common 
 as specie had been ; and as the people had gradually 
 been taught that they constituted money, they were 
 satisfied as long as they were plentiful. If they 
 could not get a small amount of gold, they could get 
 plenty of greenbacks. Commerce, instead of droop 
 ing, seemed in all its channels to be galvanized into 
 new life. The great West, which appeared to have 
 suffered much, became the field of new enterprise. 
 Manufactures and commerce flourished as they had 
 never at any time previously. 
 
 Appearances, however, were deceptive. The ma 
 terial productions increased. The surplus found 
 a ready customer in the government, which, pay 
 ing for all war commodities in greenbacks, was 
 not inclined to be over economical in its bargains. 
 The middleman argued with plausibility, that an ever 
 fluctuating currency presented such future hazards 
 with regard to his gains, that he was warranted in 
 demanding what seemed exorbitant rates. Articles 
 were in immediate need ; there was no time for ad 
 vertising for supplies on the basis of competition. 
 Hence the government was, so to speak, " made to 
 stand and deliver"; and one thousand million dollars 
 in greenbacks, thirty-three per cent, of the cost of 
 the war, very nearly represents the sum which, above
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 327 
 
 fair profits, went into the pockets of the middlemen or 
 contractors. These became suddenly elevated to the 
 very pinnacle of wealth ; and the reign of the Ameri 
 can shoddy aristocracy thence took its rise. As for 
 the masses of the people, they made no sort of head 
 way in the improvement of their worldly condition. 
 Their earnings had indeed increased in value, but 
 the general commodities of life had increased pari 
 passu; and while they handled larger sums, and 
 seemed to realize larger profits, a calculation of the 
 difference existing between paper and gold taught 
 them how chimerical had been their ideas of increased 
 returns. 
 
 The cities generally reaped large pecuniary advan 
 tages. The raw material necessary in manufacture 
 by no means preserved an equal ratio', as to value, 
 with the manufactured articles themselves. Hence 
 the manufacturers amassed a larger corresponding 
 degree of wealth than the producers. Nor was this 
 less true with regard to the merchants. The cities, 
 hence, gained largely in wealth, and the millionaires, 
 that had been scarce, became numerous. A large 
 class was thrown to the surface, buoyed up by the 
 money which they had made in gigantic speculations. 
 Though known as the shoddyites, they insinuated 
 themselves with little difficulty into the most distin 
 guished social circles, and the result has been sadly 
 detrimental. A good name, a fair education, respect 
 ability arid integrity, had previously been deemed as 
 necessary passports to occupy a foremost position in 
 society ; but now these requisites were considered as
 
 328 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 secondary, and men as naught, if unaccompanied by 
 a goodly income, and a sumptuous display of the 
 gewgaws of wealth. The fire of patriotism, kindled 
 by the war, and raised to a fever heat during the 
 days of Chancellorsville, and others equally dark, 
 almost flickered out when Lee surrendered at Ap- 
 pomatox. The spirit of greed then presided at the 
 altar where the sacred fire had burned, and there it 
 presides to-day, inventing new means, excavating 
 new channels, and planning wicked machinations, to 
 the sole end that its domains may increase. The 
 church, dedicated to the worship of God, greets the 
 passer-by in every city, village, and hamlet ; but the 
 worship of God has become a mockery, the church 
 a convenient means of keeping up appearances, and 
 the only God foremost in heart, and foremost in hope 
 and feeling, is Mammon. 
 
 This headlong pursuit of wealth, one of the results 
 of the war with the South, has given us in the North 
 a distinctively wealthy class ; not less so, indeed, than 
 existed in the South, but without the courtesy and 
 grace, and rare accomplishments and culture, which 
 so eminently distinguished the latter. To shine in 
 this high social plane, education and a polished de 
 meanor are, perhaps, valuable adjuncts ; but unac 
 companied by a well-filled exchequer, they amount 
 to nothing. It follows, that those who have accu 
 mulated the largest means, are looked up to with 
 great respect, if not absolute reverence, and that a 
 feeling of emulation is excited among those less suc 
 cessful in the race for lucre.
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 329 
 
 A few, occupying the foremost walks in the learned 
 professions, or distinguished by success in literature, 
 science, or art, may enter the sacred precincts where 
 this new-fledged American aristocracy holds sway ; 
 but woe to the poor struggling artist who knocks for 
 admittance, seeking only the feeble pittance of en 
 couragement. Let him cast his easel aside, enter 
 into the contest for the almighty dollar, gather 
 laurels in this highly desirable field, and he will be 
 greeted with a thousand welcomes. 
 
 Indeed, the common pander, after his coffers over 
 flow with the vile returns of his base traffic, may 
 sooner hope to be received with approving smiles, 
 than the most accomplished of the impecunious 
 dilettanti. 
 
 Opulence and refinement are, as a rule, found ex 
 isting together. It has been- left for us in this Re 
 public, and in this generation, to witness a marked 
 exception to the rule. 
 
 We have not that species of refinement in view 
 which consists simply in a palatial residence, in a 
 costly service of silver plate, and the magnificent 
 trumpery generally provided by the jeweler, the 
 dry goods dealer, or upholsterer. 
 
 It is with well filled book cases, containing works 
 -of standard and classic authors ; with paintings of 
 the old masters, commingled with those of the best 
 of our modern and native artists ; and, in a word, 
 with the productions of art, that we associate the 
 idea of refinement. 
 
 As it flows from aesthetic culture, it can hardly be
 
 330 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 expected to exist where there has been an utter lack 
 of that culture. The mind in harmony with the 
 good, the beautiful, and the true, may possess a true 
 appreciation of wealth for its alkcommanding power, 
 but its sympathies and aspirations will range far be 
 yond this material province, and delight in making 
 cheerful excursions in the realms of poelTy, of music, 
 and other kindred arts. 
 
 It is a fact that cannot be gainsayed, that the race 
 in the pecuniary field becomes with many so all ab 
 sorbing, that they can with difficulty preserve their 
 bodily health, to say nothing of their mental health. 
 For anything like aesthetic culture, they betray the 
 most undisguised contempt. Their bodies prostrated 
 by lack of physical exercise, their nerves unstrung 
 by the constant oscillations of speculation, and the 
 concoction of schemes for coining money, as the 
 phrase goes, they become prematurely old, and die 
 with the harness upon their backs. They have no 
 tastes, natural or acquired, except for the acquisition 
 of money ; and when the decay of the body becomes 
 the consequence of their unremitting labor in this 
 direction, they have no means of deriving mental 
 comfort from any source. Gold they have in abund 
 ance, but they discover that it will produce them 
 nothing but food and raiment. Their satisfaction, if 
 any, lies in the consciousness that their well filled 
 coffers are the envy of therr neighbors. The refine 
 ments of cultured life they might indeed easily bring 
 within their reach, but the refinement of mind -neces 
 sary to their proper enjoyment being wanting, they
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 331 
 
 pay a severe penalty for their intense struggle in 
 the arena of greed. 
 
 It is this class of men who delight in forming and 
 managing corporations. Here their peculiar talents 
 have free scope ; here they can scheme to their heart's 
 content ; nay, they may plunder with perfect impun 
 ity, and hope to escape the punishment incurred in 
 an individual capacity. No wonder that it is an 
 adage of the common law, that corporations have no 
 souls. As convenient instruments for legally en 
 riching a few by robbing the many, they are unique. 
 They have been established ostensibly to satisfy the 
 craving needs of commerce. It cannot be denied 
 that in many instances they have tended to subserve 
 that purpose ; but with the flimsy safeguards with 
 which they have been surrounded by legislation, they 
 have proved a curse instead of a blessing. The 
 East India Company was, perhaps, the first which, 
 on account of its indiscriminate and unblushing plun 
 der, arrested general attention. Bloated with millions 
 upon millions of revenues wrung at the point of the 
 bayonet from a people against whom they waged 
 war without any pretext, making their weak defense 
 a pretext for the imposition of unheard-of tributes, 
 they defied public opinion, and even found the gov 
 ernment of England to abet them. This grand 
 scheme of organized corruption may find none other 
 which may safely challenge comparison with it at 
 the present time, but the hour seems approaching 
 when its past claims to superiority may be eclipsed. 
 
 The frauds unearthed in the Credit Mobilier in-
 
 332 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 
 
 vestigation are still a matter of indignant comment 
 among the people. The government was systemati 
 cally robbed, and in great part by Its own servants. 
 The investigation was only partial. To have been 
 full and exhaustive, it would have necessitated another 
 atmosphere than Washington, and other parties than 
 members of Congress. Still, it disclosed a well 
 arranged system of wholesale robbery, which for 
 perfectness of details and ostensible respectability of 
 its authors, is without example. Such a scheme 
 could never have succeeded in any European gov 
 ernment; but had it succeeded in such government, 
 it is certain that all those concerned in it, whatever 
 position they should have occupied in its councils, 
 or in social circles, would have shared the common 
 ignominy of the galley slave. In the United States, 
 considerably more leniency is displayed, and some, 
 instead of luxuriating in solitary confinement, to pine 
 over the vicissitudes consequent on dishonesty, are 
 clothed with the dignity of Ministers at foreign 
 courts. All are permitted to retain the spoils of 
 their pilfered wealth, and untainted by public opinion, 
 and shielded by the technicalities of law nay, even 
 honored by a base horde of scycophants they still 
 concoct schemes which will open to them new 
 avenues of plunder. 
 
 The railroad corporations have, by gradual en 
 croachments upon the sovereign rights of the people, 
 arrived at the conclusion that in them alone the right 
 of sovereignty resides. They seem inclined, when 
 their own interests are not directly at stake, to per-
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 333 
 
 mit the people to exercise all residuary legislation. 
 Their creatures abound in both political parties, and 
 no matter which is successful,, the railroad interests 
 are sure to be well represented. If they have failed 
 in electing a sufficient number of their despicable 
 underlings to the Legislature, they freely indulge in 
 the wholesome pastime of drawing gilt-edged checks, 
 which has an unfailing tendency in increasing the 
 number of their henchmen to the requisite standard. 
 They pursue a similar course in the conventions, and 
 the nominees of the dear people, addressing the 
 dear people in honeyed accents, and proclaiming 
 their allegiance to the dear people, are found, after 
 their election, the supple, fawning tools of the rail 
 road influence. These assertions are so susceptible 
 of proof that no one dare gainsay them. The prac 
 tice has been indulged in so long, and with so much 
 impunity, that they seem to have a prescriptive right 
 to indulge in it. 
 
 We must confess, that latterly the press and the 
 people seemed to have awakened to the danger of 
 permitting these gigantic monopolies to exercise 
 their imperial dominion. Until the laws are radi 
 cally changed, and they are made subject to legisla 
 tive control, the evil will continue to exist in a 
 greater or less degree. 
 
 As the people have a direct interest in low fares 
 and freights, once that the tariff with respect to 
 them is settled, the railroads will have no occasion 
 to enter the arenajrf politics. They may then hope 
 to appeal to the good sense and not to the sordid 
 passions of legislators.
 
 334 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 One great stumbling block stands directly in the 
 way ; one which has aided these corporations, and 
 one on which they may continue to rely for success 
 in their schemes. This stumbling block is the pri 
 mary election system. 
 
 Of the many causes that have conspired to bring 
 our republican form of government into contempt, to 
 bring bad men to the surface, to drive good men 
 from the arena of politics, to aid the schemes of un 
 principled political cabals, the primary election sys 
 tem has been the foremost nay, we may go further, 
 and say that it has been the fount whence' all the 
 evils that have befallen the Republic have flowed. 
 
 The people cannot exercise the right of selecting 
 their nominees for office on the radical democratic 
 plan. They cannot assemble according as their 
 party fealty impels them, en masse, and viva voce 
 proclaim who shall be their candidates. This being 
 impracticable, they must either permit a select few, 
 self-appointed, to do the business, or elso they .must 
 resort to a primary election. Now, in theory it 
 would seem that nothing could be more fair than 
 this system of selection ; but experience has taught 
 us that nothing could be more corrupt, or have a 
 greater tendency to defeat the popular will. Five 
 or six men, at the most, in each ward or township, 
 fix up the tickets which are to be voted. They 
 make a pretense, sometimes, of having the tickets 
 ratified by a ward meeting ; but this is very rare, 
 and even then, the ward meeting, insufficient in 
 numbers, is conveniently packed in the interests of
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 335 
 
 the original manipulators. The officers of election 
 are county committee-men, previously chosen through 
 means of a primary. These being in full accord 
 with the ward chieftains, the judges and inspectors 
 are chosen with an eye to certain victory. If the 
 straggle is not very close, then there is no occasion 
 for stuffing a ballot or adding a fictitious name 
 now and then ; but if the fight waxes warm, no mat 
 ter how much the outsiders may outnumber the 
 ring, the ring is sure to be counted in. The returns 
 are handed in to the county committee, and what 
 ever protests may be presented, they are courteously 
 laid on the table. 
 
 Each party has its county committee. A few in 
 dividuals always turn up in these bodies, whose only 
 object seems to give them tone. The majority are 
 generally men without means, nor tax-payers, and 
 whose principal occupation would appear to consist 
 in gauging the width of curb-stones. When the 
 time arrives for a primary election, they are in 
 all their glory, and many of them whose apparel had 
 grown seedy, are found adorned with the best of slop 
 clothes. They are consulted with, mysteriously, by 
 candidates for office, or more generally, if a legisla 
 tive election is soon to take place, by potent manipu 
 lators of the railroads, or by senatorial aspirants. 
 
 They call primary elections, settle the political 
 tests which are to be applied, appoint judges and in 
 spectors, regulate the style of ballot box to be used, 
 and prescribe other details. As they are invariably 
 intimate associates, frequently the creatures, of the
 
 336 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 ward managers, it is easy to perceive the disadvantage 
 under which those outside of the ring must labor to 
 compass success against those within the ring. 
 
 The ballot-box is frequently hidden from sight by a 
 high barrier, and the voter remains in doubt whether 
 his ballot, or some substitute therefor, has been depos 
 ited. The polls are surrounded by " piece-makers," 
 or " strikers," who are not over choice in their exple 
 tives, under the influence of an unlimited supply of 
 undiluted alcohol. 
 
 Such circumstances being generally known to co 
 exist with primaries, the result is that the better class 
 of voters take no hand in them, and that the schemes 
 of the managers are successfully carried out. 
 
 The nominating convention, thus chosen, assembles 
 and nominates candidates for office. If the party is 
 in a minority, with feeble prospects of victory, the 
 candidates are selected either as they are popular 
 or capable. On the other hand, if the party is in a 
 majority, combinations are made, caucuses are held? 
 slates made up and voted for, regardless of the char 
 acter or the ability of the aspirants. The majority of 
 the convention is under the sway of the ward manip 
 ulators ; and the ward manipulators are under the 
 sway of some high Federal or State official ; and these 
 latter, virtually, or their agents, are those that set 
 up and pull down candidates. The choice seems to 
 spring from the people, while it is in reality effected 
 covertly by an oligarchy. Money becomes an indis 
 pensable adjunct in carrying out these political 
 schemes. Its magical touch brings county-committee
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 337 
 
 men to their senses, and it has a remarkable effect 
 in occasionally removing all conscientious scruples 
 from recalcitrant members of conventions. It will 
 easily be perceived that railroad corporations, under 
 such a system, can experience but little difficulty in 
 electing, in a representative capacity, those who will 
 best subserve their interests. As this system is in 
 vogue everywhere, almost, in the United States, it is 
 very evident that the people generally have very 
 little voice in the selection of their officials. 
 
 We know of no remedy suggested or presented 
 which will effectually reach this great evil. It stands 
 out in all its naked deformity, corrupting the fount 
 of political power, and yet we seem powerless. It 
 has arms longer than the devil-fish, and its tenacious 
 hold is felt by nearly all occupying official positions, 
 from constable to the President. 
 
 Occasionally its schemes are prostrated when lo 
 cal independent parties gain the ascendency. But 
 as independent parties rely on self-constituted ap 
 pointing committees, they obtain only a short lease 
 of power. The people permit themselves to be 
 hoodwinked into the belief that they really exercise 
 the right of sovereignty through conventions, and 
 resent anything like its palpable usurpation by self- 
 appointed bodies. The attempt recently made to or 
 ganize an Independent party on a national basis 
 failed completely, and we are not sure but that, had 
 it succeeded, it would soon have fallen into the old 
 party grooves. 
 
 The time may come when the evil may be allayed. 
 
 22
 
 338 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE ? 
 
 The monster must, however, be fought upon his own 
 ground. There must be no fleeing from his pres 
 ence, and he must be taught the amenities which be 
 long to courtesy and fair dealing. The education 
 and instincts of the great majority of people are such 
 that they abominate primaries. Let them once thor 
 oughly understand that it is the source whence 
 spring high taxes, the defalcations of officials, the 
 low standard of statesmanship that it may pass over 
 to their control, that their taxes will consequently be 
 lowered, that officials will no longer indulge in pecula 
 tion, and that the halls of legislation will be purified 
 and we think that they would take a very lively in 
 terest in these peculiar institutions. They would see 
 that no clumsy barriers were erected to shield the 
 ballot box from scrutiny ; that every ballot was fairly 
 deposited and fairly counted, and that no hired bully 
 should be permitted to intimidate by word or sign. 
 
 The great difficulty, however, is that they will not, 
 taking full cognizance of so great a mischief, take 
 steps at once so simple to remove it. The recent 
 political upheaval securing the Democracy a large 
 majority in the next House, is certainly indicative 
 that the people have at last awoke from their apathy 
 and will never tolerate anything of Caesarism. The 
 evils under a military administration had grown so 
 great that the party in power had to indulge in the 
 process of self scourging so common among the saintly 
 crew of primeval days. This salutary party dis 
 cipline, amounting as it frequently does to political 
 hari kari, is exceedingly rare in these days, and let
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 339 
 
 us rejoice in the hope that it will be more common in 
 future. 
 
 It augurs much good to the future of this great 
 Kepublic ; it proves conclusively that the people may 
 for a long time slumber upon their rights, but that 
 there is a moment of awakening, when wrath and 
 vengeance are dealt out. 
 
 The administration of the law in the United States 
 has not been such as to warrant the belief that a 
 republic has any advantages, in this respect, over a 
 monarchy. The delays have been tedious and har- 
 rassing, and the decisions too frequently grounded 
 on technicalities and rendered uncertain by reversal. 
 The criminal side has failed to mete out justice to 
 wealthy malefactors, (Tweed, perhaps, excepted) 
 and it is notorious that only the poorer grade of crim 
 inals can be convicted. This arises, in the main, 
 from a defective jury system, the manner of sum 
 moning jurors, and the character of the jurors them 
 selves. Given, an intelligent, honest jury, and they 
 will readily see through the quirks and films of law, 
 and give the culprit his deserts ; and this, too, despite 
 eloquent counsel, dealing in tawdry sophistry. 
 
 Justice should be administered with uniformity, 
 impartiality, and speed. The decisions upon which 
 the law grounds itself in arriving at new decisions 
 are entirely too voluminous and clashing a system 
 of codification on an extensive scale has become a 
 necessity. It would abridge the time of courts, the 
 labors of attorneys, and leave the issue to something 
 besides chance. Such a code, out of the legal chaos 
 which exists, would require considerable time to bring
 
 340 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 it to any degree of perfection. There should be a 
 sort of international congress of the various States, 
 to take this all-important matter in hand, to the end 
 that the code, when duly compiled, would possess 
 something like national uniformity. The citizen of 
 Maine, desirous of emigrating to California, would 
 then understand the status under which his property 
 would be subjected, and not be terrified into remain 
 ing in his primeval abode by the specter of loose 
 laws, offering his household gods but inadequate pro 
 tection. 
 
 That no effort of this kind has yet been made is 
 not creditable to American statesmanship. When 
 the primary convention system is thoroughly purified, 
 and the Legislature is found embodying capacity and 
 worth, and not a sordid spirit of selfishness, then this 
 grand consummation may be realized. 
 
 Peculation in office may be justly said to be one 
 of the greatest of all evils affecting republics, es 
 pecially as witnessed in our own government. Of 
 fices themselves are uselessly multiplied. Some take 
 the character of sinecures ; and, in general, they 
 seem less a necessity for a sound and honest admin 
 istration of public affairs than as rewards for patri 
 otic exertions in the slough of politics. At the re 
 currence of every election, candidates loom up in 
 infinite number. Their party services are made the 
 pretense of their candidacy. The money they have 
 spent in the glorious cause of Republicanism or 
 Democracy is the argument most potently urged. 
 And it is a potent argument indeed, outweighing 
 considerations of integrity and capacity. When
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 341 
 
 these apostles of the party, so to speak, are elevated 
 to the dignities and partake of the emoluments of 
 office, it is only natural that they should take a 
 calm review of their financial position. They ascer 
 tain, to their infinite surprise, that taking in consid 
 eration the amounts they have subscribed for 
 music, fire-works, torch-light processions, speakers, 
 and meetings ; the sums they have been assessed by 
 county committees and ward manipulators, to say 
 nothing of the numerous little bills paid to saloon 
 keepers and corner groceries, a very consider 
 able inroad has been made on the total salary or 
 perquisites they are to receive during their term of 
 office. 
 
 Being looked upon as among the favored few of 
 the community, they are always held in remem 
 brance whenever an occasion presents itself for 
 raising funds for charitable or kindred institutions. 
 To refuse a contribution under such a pressing con 
 tingency would detract sadly from their popularity ; 
 and hence, prudence, if not the dictates of an over 
 whelming benevolence, permits their names to appear 
 prominently among those of the most philanthropic 
 citizens. 
 
 The ever-dreaded moment gradually draws nigh, 
 when the sweet cares of office are to cease. Already, 
 marshaled in the field, appears an ambitious host, 
 patriots of long standing, who have performed yeo 
 man's service in the party ranks, hungering and thirst 
 ing for the spoils ; who have matured their plans of 
 victory amid midnight wassail, extending to the wee 
 hours of morn. The " in " must now fight the "outs."
 
 342 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 Single-handed, he must contend against the many. 
 His cry must be " Avaunt, ye birds of prey ! I 
 neither expect quarter nor shall I give quarter." 
 His purse-strings fly open, he supplies himself with 
 the sinews of war, marches boldly to the encounter 
 and does he win ? No ! He has been betrayed 
 by the ward manager, outwitted by the county 
 committee-man, and deliberately sold out by the con 
 vention. He suddenly finds himself minus friends, 
 minus money, minus any business or avocation where 
 by he may earn a decent livelioood. 
 
 No wonder, such being too often the fate of the 
 politician, that he is tempted, while occupying office, 
 to enter into crooked and ugly courses, and to be 
 come, not a common swindler or thief, indeed, but 
 simply a defaulter. When the law shall be so 
 amended that this class of knaves will be put on a 
 footing with the most abject habitues of the peniten 
 tiary, citizens may reasonably expect lower rates of 
 taxation and more general prosperity. 
 
 Universal suffrage has, perhaps, too wide a scope 
 for its proper exercise, where there are so many elec 
 tions and candidates for office. The sacredness of 
 the trust and we consider the right of suffrage a 
 holy trust ought no more to be violated than those 
 other duties which imperatively call for the exercise 
 of judgment and honesty. 
 
 If nine-tenths of all officials were appointed to 
 hold their positions during good behavior, a better 
 class of men would be found seeking the suffrages of 
 the people. The good character of those in office 
 would raise the standard of merit to such a degree
 
 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 343 
 
 that the incompetent and venal aspirant would qui 
 etly disappear. 
 
 We must necessarily assume that the appointing 
 power would be sans peur et sans reproche, an as 
 sumption which will cause the cynic to smile more 
 derisively than usual, especially when many of the 
 appointments of" the Silent Man " on the Avenue are 
 taken into consideration. 
 
 We have traveled but little of the ground originally 
 marked out when we began this article. The subject 
 is one of the highest importance. It is not free from 
 difficulties, and to the philosophic mind offers much 
 food for reflection. The ideas we have thrown out 
 are in the main crude, and calculated rather to sug 
 gest than to instruct. 
 
 We are by no means satisfied that Republican 
 Government, as exemplified in the United States, is 
 a failure ; but are painfully conscious that it possesses 
 very serious defects, which, were it not for a contin 
 ually developing popular intelligence, would furnish 
 grounds for its early destruction. 
 
 The mightiest prop upon which it rests is the com 
 mon school. We know in theory that it is the best 
 form of government to ensure liberty and equality be 
 fore the law. The wiser and better the masses, the 
 more the practice must conform to the theory, until 
 finally many of the evils referred to will disappear. 
 All the good to come depends upon legislation intel 
 ligent, discriminating, and honest. The public 
 school, we have said, is the prop upon which the 
 entire fabric rests. Let it be guarded with an ever 
 vigilant eye by every American, and let the youth-
 
 344 IS REPUBLICANISM A FAILURE? 
 
 ful mind, as it takes in the ordinary gamut of studies, 
 be taught the glories as well as the defects of repub 
 lics ; the causes of their success, and the poisons 
 which sap their growth. 
 
 The individual who prepares a text-book which 
 will meet this requirement will rank forever as a 
 public benefactor, and outlive in memory the names 
 of mighty heroes, whose deeds are inscribed upon 
 marble or engraven in brass.
 
 EW TXEMARKS ON THE OUBJECT 
 OF WEARING APPAREL. 
 
 W 
 
 
 EFORE I begin to give advice to you, I 
 'must acknowledge the medicine I offer is cer 
 tainly unpalatable to me at this time of life, who 
 have passed along (considerably out of my teens) ; 
 but as this is the last article in the volume, I thought 
 I would present a few remarks upon the training of 
 children, particularly little girls. The custom of 
 parents sending their children to school at the age 
 of four and five years, is not commendable. Their 
 little forms being so full of activity, it becomes wear 
 isome to them to sit so many hours on their benches ; 
 and their brains become taxed too much with their 
 lessons. If mothers desire their little ones to learn 
 at home, they may provide a pictorial alphabet, 
 which is quite sufficient to educate and amuse them * 
 until they are seven years old. On the subject of 
 clothes, I know fashion will have her sway to some 
 extent ; but if the little girls of this day were little 
 girls in our mothers' time, the fashion of wearing 
 short clothes at the knee would have proved shock 
 ing. I think for one it is most unbecoming, and in 
 a great degree injurious to their health ; and cer 
 tainly the fashion is an immodest one ; every fashion 
 seems in these days to be carried to extremes. My 
 little daughter, when living, was in the habit, every 
 evening, of reading the articles upon the fashions of
 
 346 A FEW REMARKS 
 
 the day ; possibly, this was not always a labor of love, I 
 being a rather fidgetty listener, nor at the same time 
 one of those conceited old persons, who consider that 
 to minister unto them is, to the young, a p; ivilege 
 invaluable. 
 
 There have been times, when perceiving Oi itavia's 
 bright eye wander and her voice drop into a monot 
 onous absent tone, I have inwardly sighed over those 
 inevitable infirmities which render each generation 
 in its turn dependent on the succeeding one. But, 
 there that will do, and I shall rather forfeit my own 
 undeniable pleasure than thus to make a martyr of 
 my little girl. But then, few can have lived to my 
 length of days without being taught the blessedness 
 of labors of love but labors of duty ; and I was glad, 
 even at the cost of some personal pain, to see my 
 child learning this lesson after me ; conquering her 
 self, accommodating the frivolous tastes of youth to 
 the prosy likings of old age, and acquiring, even in 
 so small a thing as the reading of a newspaper, that 
 habit of self-control and self-abnegation which we 
 women have to practice with or against our will all 
 our lives. So after going through the leading arti 
 cles by the way, what a curious fact of modern in 
 tellectual advance is that page of Times leaders ; 
 thought out with infinite labor, compiled with surpass 
 ing skill, influencing the whole world's destinies one 
 day, to become the next mere waste paper now, 
 my dear, I leave the choice to you, read anything 
 that you consider amusing. " Amusing ! " as if she 
 doubted whether anything in the Times could come 
 under that head. But suddenly her countenance 
 cleared. "'An American Bridal Trousseau' will 
 that do, mamma, dear ? " I nodded, and she began to 
 read : " ' Extraordinary Marriage Ceremony Cuban 
 Don Young Lady of New York.' Why, I declare, 
 it is a list of her clothes. And such a quantity,
 
 ON WEARING APPAREL. 347 
 
 only hear : * One blue silk, ruffled to the waist ; 
 one green and white double skirt, trimmed with black 
 lace ; one light blue silk, chintz flowers down the 
 skirt, trimmed with deep fringe to match ; one steel- 
 colored silk, with purple velvet flowers, trimmed with 
 wide bands of purple velvet, edged with black lace ; 
 a surplice waist, trimmed to match the skirt ; one 
 Suisse dress, the skirt formed with clusters of ruffles 
 and tucks, the waist to match ; one white Suisse mus 
 lin dress, five flounces, edged with narrow valen- 
 ciennes lace ; one white Suisse dress-skirt, with three 
 flounces, three ruffles on each flounce, pink ribbon 
 underneath ; one Suisse dress tucked to the waist ; 
 six dresses of poplin, merino, and Ottoman velvet ' " 
 
 " Stop, stop ; let us take breath, child ; poplin, me 
 rino, Ottoman velvet, and how many more was it? 
 Suisse muslin, silk chintz, and something with a 
 surplice waist, whatever that may be." 
 
 " Indeed, I do n't know, mamma," laughed my 
 child, " though you do think me such an extravagant 
 young lady. Not so bad as this one, anyhow ; oh, 
 oh, oh, just listen : ' Eighteen street dresses of 
 rich, plain, and figured silks, and two flounces ; 
 also, moire antique, made in the newest and most 
 fashionable style ; twelve afternoon dresses, consist 
 ing of grenadines, organdies, and tissue, all varied 
 in styles of making ; twelve evening dresses ; one 
 pink embossed velvet, trimmed with the richest point 
 de Venice ; one white silk tissue dress-skirt, embroid 
 ered and trimmed with blonde lace ; one pearl-colored 
 silk, double skirt, with bouquets of embossed velvet ; 
 three white crepe dresses, ornamented with bunches 
 of raised flowers; three white tulle dresses, with 
 colored polka spots of floss silk, to be worn over 
 white silk skirts ; six dinner dresses, one white silk, 
 embroidered with gold ; one pink moire antique, very 
 elegant side stripes ; one blue silk, with lace flounces ;
 
 848 A FEW REMARKS 
 
 one amber silk, with black lace tissue dress; one 
 black moire antique, trimmed with velvet and lace ; 
 one white moire antique, with puffings of illusion, 
 and the sleeves made in Princess Clothilde style ; 
 twelve muslin dresses made with flounces and simple 
 ruffles." 1 
 
 " That's a merry girl. I began to think the only 
 simple article the lady possessed was her husband." 
 
 "Mamma, how funny you are. Well, will you 
 hear to the end? " 
 
 "Well, goon." 
 
 She did so. " ' Three riding habits ; one black 
 Canton crape, trimmed with velvet buttons ; three 
 opera cloaks ' ; and herein are mentioned bonnets, 
 shoes, and underclothing that would fill a small vol 
 ume." Ending, my daughter regarded me with a 
 puzzled air. "Well?" 
 
 " Well, my dear ? " 
 
 " What do you think about it all ? " 
 
 " I was thinking what a contrast all these gowns 
 are to the one the lady must some day, may any day, 
 put on plain Avhite, frilled, probably, but still plain 
 enough ; since, after her first dressing, or rather 
 being dressed in it, no one will care to look at it or 
 her any more." 
 
 Octavia started " Mamma, you do n't mean a 
 shroud?" 
 
 " Why not, child ? when, flounce and furbellow 
 as we may, we shall all want a shroud some time." 
 
 " But it is so dreadful ! " 
 
 " Not when one approaches so near the time of 
 wearing it as I do. Nor at any age is it half so 
 dreadful to think of ourself, or of any fair body one 
 loves, wrapped up in this garment, as to think of it 
 decked out like this young creature, whose trousseau 
 forms a feature in the public newspapers. She ap 
 parently comes to her husband so buried in clothes,
 
 ON WEARING APPAREL. S49 
 
 that he must feel, poor man, as if he had married a 
 walking linen draper's shop, instead of a flesh-and- 
 blood woman with a heart and brain, a sweet human 
 body, and a responsible immortal soul ; ask yourself, 
 would you wish to be so married, my dear ? " 
 
 A toss of the curls, a flash of the indignant young 
 eyes 
 
 " Mamma, I'd rather be married like like pa 
 tient Griselda ! " 
 
 Suggesting that, out of the reign of romance, 
 Griselda's costume might be, to say the least of it, 
 cold, I nevertheless cordially agreed with my little 
 girl, as a matter of principle. 
 
 When she was gone to her music lesson, I sat 
 thinking you hardly know how much we old folks 
 enjoy thinking the mere act of running over, men 
 tally, times, places, people, and things moralizing 
 upon past, present, and future, and evolving out of 
 this undisturbed quietude of meditation, that wisdom 
 which is supposed to be the peculiar quality of old 
 age. A solitude that ripens thought, smooths down 
 prejudices, disposes to kindness and charity. I 
 could not get her out of my head, this New York 
 belle, with her innumerable quantity of clothes ; for 
 disguise them as you will in dresses, costumes, 
 or toilettes, they all resolve themselves into mere 
 clothes used for the covering of this perishable ma 
 chine of bone, muscle, sinew, and flesh. One is 
 tempted to inquire, viewing with the mind's eye such 
 a mountain of millinery, what had become of this in 
 finitesimal me the real woman whom the Cuban 
 gentleman married ? if it were not crushed out of 
 identity by this fearful superincumbent weight, the 
 weight of $16,400 worth of clothes ? 
 
 Far be it from me to undervalue dress. I am 
 neither Quaker, Puritan, nor devotee. I think 
 there is not a straw to choose between the monk of
 
 350 A FEW REMARKS 
 
 old, whose washing days occurred about twice in a 
 life-time, and the modern saint, who imagines he 
 glorifies God by a ragged shirt and a dirty pocket- 
 handkerchief. They are both equal, and equal fools. 
 Scarcely less so is the " religious " woman, who 
 makes it a matter of conscience to hide or neutralize 
 every physical beauty with which nature has endowed 
 her, as if He who so clothes the fields with grass that 
 even the meanest forms of his handiwork are largely 
 beyond all our poor imitating, were displeased at our 
 delighting ourselves in that wherein He must delight 
 continually. As if nature and grace were two opposite 
 attributes, and there could be any beauty which did 
 not proceed from God. 
 
 But every virtue may be exaggerated into a vice, 
 and I often think the ever-increasing luxury of this 
 century is carrying to a dangerous extreme a wo 
 man's right of making herself charming by means 
 of self-adornment, and it seems to me the variety ex 
 acted by fashion is a great evil. Formerly, our an 
 cestors used to dress richly and handsomely, but it 
 was in a solid, useful style of handsomeness. Gowns 
 were not made for a month or a year, they were 
 meant to last a life-time, or perhaps two life-times, 
 for they frequently descended from mother to daugh 
 ter. The stuffs which composed them were corres 
 pondingly substantial. 
 
 Even though this extravagant personal luxury be 
 temporarily beneficial to commerce, to continue it is 
 doing evil that good may come. It injures fatally 
 the aggregate morals of a country, and lowers its 
 standard of ideal right. We find that in its deca 
 dence and ultimate degradation. For what sort of 
 men and women are likely to result from the children 
 of a generation which has its pocket-handkerchiefs of 
 point d'Alencon, at $200 each, and Valenciennes, 
 worth $250, the richest ever imported ? Oh, my
 
 ON WEARING APPAREL. 351 
 
 sisters, these were not the sort of brides who became 
 Cornelias, Volumnias, and mothers of the Gracchi. 
 
 Perhaps there was some foundation in the cry set 
 up and laughed down awhile ago, that the terrible 
 commercial crisis of 1857 was caused by the extrav 
 agance of women's dress, especially American wo 
 men. I know there are here many prudent, practi 
 cal young men not too deeply smitten to feel " all 
 for love and the world well lost," yet secretly crav 
 ing for home and its comforts and respectabilities, 
 and acute enough to see that a bachelor is never 
 worth to himself or society or the State as much as a 
 man who is married and settled yet who are often 
 deterred from that salutary duty by what ? A 
 vague dread of their wives' clothes ! 
 
 I have one more word to say, and then I have 
 done. A woman should always remember that her 
 clothes should be, in expense and quantity, propor 
 tionate to her own circumstances, and not those of 
 her neighbor. The mingling of classes is good 
 that is, the frequent association of those persons who, 
 in effect, from one and the same class, being alike in 
 tastes, sympathies, moral purposes, and mental cali 
 ber however various be their degrees of annual in 
 come, worldly station, profession, trade, or unem 
 ployed leisure, provided, always, that the one meet 
 ing point of rivalry lies in themselves and not their 
 externals. Even mothers of families one sees fall 
 ing into this error, and wearing gowns, shawls, etc., 
 that must of necessity have pinched the family in 
 come for many a day. My dear ladies, will you not 
 see that a good daily joint of meat on your table is 
 far more conducive to the health and happiness of 
 those sitting round it than the handsomest silk dress 
 placed at the head of it ? The one economy which 
 I have always found safest to practice, as being least 
 harmful to one's self and least annoying to other peo-
 
 352 A FEW REMARKS ON WEARING APPAREL. 
 
 pie, was clothes ! And that I shall try, if possible, to 
 teach my readers. Not that mean economy which 
 hides poor materials by a tawdry making up dis 
 guising cheap silks, coarse linen, and flimsy muslin 
 by a quantity of false lace, sham jewelry, dirty rib 
 bons, and unnatural flowers but that quiet indepen 
 dence with which, believing that the woman herself 
 is superior to any thing she wears, and as happy in 
 a dress of last year's fashion as if one had at com 
 mand the whole establishment of the renowned Jane 
 Clark, (who they say, but for the credit of woman 
 hood I hope it is untrue, ordered herself to be buried 
 in a point-lace shroud) the matter of clothes seems 
 often a very trivial thing, hardly worth indeed the 
 prosy dissertation I have been led to give upon it. 
 Let us only so clothe ourselves that this frail body of 
 ours, while it does last, may not be unpleasing in the 
 sight of those who love us ; and let us so use it in 
 this life that in the life to come it may be found 
 worthy to be clothed upon with its Maker's own 
 glorious immortality.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
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