'.''''''''%''.%' 
 
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 '^J
 
 AGUECHEEK 
 
 I am old, 
 
 And my infirmities hare chained me here 
 To suffer and to vex my weary soul 
 With the vain hope of cure. 
 Yet my captivity is not so joyless 
 A you would think, my masters. Here I sit 
 And look upon this eager, anxious world, 
 Not with the eyes of sour misanthropy, 
 Nor envious of its pleasures, but content, 
 Yea, blessedly content, 'mid all 'my pains. 
 That I no more may mingle with its brawllngt. 
 ROWLET. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 SHEPARD, CLARK, AND BROWN. 
 
 M D CCC LIX.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by 
 
 8HEPARD, CLARK, AND BROWN, 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 STEREOTYPED AT THE 
 BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE principal part of the sketches and es- 
 says of which this volume is composed, was 
 first given to the public in the columns of 
 the Boston Saturday Evening Gazette, under the 
 signature of Aguecheek. The sketches of for- 
 eign travel have been mostly rewritten, and 
 several of them are entirely new. In them 
 the author has endeavoured to avoid the de- 
 tails which he always found tiresome in the 
 works of many foreign tourists, and to con- 
 fine himself to his individual experience. For, 
 if any one wishes to read the history and 
 description of a European city, or the public 
 edifices thereof, are not all these things writ- 
 ten in the guide-books of the infallible Mur- 
 ray ? And who would wish to steal the well- 
 earned laurels of that inseparable companion 
 
 (3)
 
 4 I'RKFACE. 
 
 of the European traveller, when his theft 
 could not possibly be concealed from any 
 discerning eye ? 
 
 There are, in several of the essays, certain 
 local allusions, which the author thinks will 
 be understood by a sufficiently large propor- 
 tion of his readers to justify their retention. 
 
 BOSTON, June 1, 1859.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 SKETCHES OF FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 PAQl 
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC, 9 
 
 LONDON, 23 
 
 ANTWERP AND BRUSSELS, . . ' 35 
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE 45 
 
 ANCIENT ROME, 58 
 
 MODERN ROME, 66 
 
 ROME TO MARSEILLES, 77 
 
 MARSEILLES, LYONS, AND Aix IN SAVOY, 89 
 
 Arx TO PARIS, 100 
 
 PARIS, 113 
 
 PARIS 125 
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD, 135 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY op FOREIGN TRAVEL, 151 
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE, ,,......,,,,,. 163 
 
 LONDON, , , , , 176 
 
 (5)
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 MM 
 
 STRKF.T LIFE, 189 
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS, 200 
 
 THE OLD CORNER, 212 
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THEATRE ALLEY 223 
 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL, 234 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF SUFFERING, 247 
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS, 268 
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS . 270 
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMMENTATORS, 282 
 
 MEMORIALS OF MRS. GRUNDY, 295 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE, 306 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 315 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CANT, 326
 
 SKETCHES OF FOREIGN TRAVEL.
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 
 
 "To an American visiting Europe for the first time," 
 saith Geoffrey Crayon, " the long voyage which he has to 
 make is an excellent preparative." To the greater propor- 
 tion of those who revisit the old world, the voyage is only 
 an interval of ennui and impatience. Not such is it to the 
 writer of this sentence. For him the sea has charms which 
 age cannot wither, nor head winds abate. For him the 
 voyage is a retreat from the cares of business, a rest from 
 the pursuit of wealth, and a prolonged reminiscence of his 
 youthful days, when he first trod the same restless pathway, 
 and the glories of England and the Continent rose up 
 resplendent before him, very much as the gorgeous city in 
 the clouds looms up before the young gentleman in one of 
 the late lamented Mr. Cole's pictures. For it is a satisfac- 
 tion to him to remember that such things were, even 
 though the performances of life have not by any means 
 equalled the promises of the programme of youth, 
 though age and the cares of an increasing family have 
 stifled poetry, and the genius of Romance has long since 
 taken his hat. 
 
 The recollections of youthful Mediterranean voyages are 
 a mine of wealth to an old man. They have transformed 
 ancient history into a majestic reality for him, and the 
 pages of his dog's-eared Lempriere become instinct with 
 
 (9)
 
 10 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 life as he recalls those halcyon days wheu he reclined on 
 deck beneath an awning, and gazed on Crete and Lesbos, 
 and the mountains that look on Marathon. Neither age 
 nor misfortune can ever rob him of the joy he feels when 
 he looks back to the cloudless afternoon when he passed 
 from the stormy Atlantic to that blue inland sea, when 
 he saw where Africa has so long striven to shake hands 
 with Europe, and thrilled at the thought that the sea 
 then glowing with the hues of sunset was once ploughed by 
 the invincible galleys of the Caesars, and dashed its angry 
 surges over the shipwrecked Apostle of the Gentiles. 
 
 It is rather a pleasant thing to report one's self on board 
 a fine packet ship on a bright morning in May the old 
 portmanteau packed again, and thoughts turned seaward. 
 There is a kind of inspiration in the song of the sailors at 
 the windlass, (that is, as many of them as are able to 
 maintain a perpendicular position at that early period of 
 the voyage ;) the very clanking of the anchor chains seems 
 to speak of speedy liberation, and the ship sways about as 
 if yearning for the freedom of the open sea. At last the 
 anchor is up, and the ship swings around, and soon is glid- 
 ing down the channel ; and slowly the new gasometer, and 
 Bunker Hill Monument, and the old gasometer (with the 
 dome) on Beacon Hill, begin to diminish in size. (I might 
 introduce a fine misquotation here about growing " small by 
 degrees, and beautifully less," but that I don't like novelties 
 in a correspondence like this.) The embankments of Fort 
 Warren seem brighter and more verdurous than ever, and 
 the dew-drops glitter in the sunbeams, as dear Nellie's tears 
 did, when she said good-by, that very morning. Then, as 
 we get into the bay, the tocsin calls to lunch and the 
 appetite for lobsters, sardines, ale, and olives makes us all 
 forget how much we fear lest business of immediate im- 
 portance may prevent an early return to the festive ma-
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 11 
 
 hogany. And shortly after, the pilot takes his leave, and 
 with him the small knot of friends, who have gone as far 
 as friendship, circumstances, and the tide will allow. And 
 so the voyage commences the captain takes command 
 and all feel that the jib-boom points towards Motherland, 
 and begin to calculate the distance, and anticipate the time 
 when the ship shall be boarded by a blue-coated beef-eater, 
 who will take her safely " round 'Oly'ead, and dock 'er." 
 The day wears away, and the sunset finds the passengers 
 well acquainted, and a healthy family feeling growing up 
 among them. The next morning we greet the sea and 
 skies, but not our mother earth. The breeze is light the 
 weather is fine so that the breakfast is discussed before a 
 full bench. Every body feels well, but sleepy, and the day 
 is spent in conversation and enjoyment of the novelty of 
 life at sea. The gentle heaving of the ocean is rather 
 agreeable than otherwise, and the young ladies promenade 
 the deck, and flatter themselves that they have (if I 
 might use such an expression) their sea legs on. But the 
 next day the gentle heaving has become a heavy swell, 
 locomotion is attended with great difficulties, the process 
 of dressing is a severe practical joke, and the timorous 
 approach to the breakfast table and precipitous retreat from 
 it, are very interesting studies to a disinterested spectator. 
 The dining saloon is thinly populated when the bell rings 
 the gentlemen preferring to lounge about on deck they 
 have slight headaches not seasick of course not the 
 gentleman who had taken eight sherry cobblers was not 
 intoxicated at all it was a glass of lemonade, that he took 
 afterwards, that disagreed with him and made his footing 
 rather unsteady. But Neptune is inexorable, and exacts 
 his tribute, and the payers show their receipts in pale 
 faces and dull eyes, whether they acknowledge it or no 
 and many a poor victim curses the pernicious hour thnt ever
 
 12 1GCECHKEK. 
 
 saw him shipped, and comes to the Irishman's conclusion 
 that the pleasantest part of going away from home is the 
 getting back again. 
 
 But a few days suffice to set all minds and stomachs at 
 rest, and we settle down into the ordinary routine of life at 
 sea. The days glide by rapidly, as Shakspeare says, " with 
 books, and work, and healthful play," and as we take a 
 retrospective view of the passage, it seems to be a maze of 
 books, backgammon, bad jokes, cigars, crochet, cribbage, and 
 conversation. Contentment obtains absolute sway, which 
 even ten days of head winds and calms cannot shake off. 
 Perhaps this is owing in a great measure to the good tem- 
 per and gentlemanly bearing of the captain, who never 
 yielded to the temptation, before which so many intrepid 
 mariners have fallen, to speak in disrespectful and condem- 
 natory terms of the weather. How varied must be the 
 qualities which make a good commander of a packet ship ; 
 what a model of patience he must be patience not only 
 with the winds, but also with variable elements of humanity 
 which surround him. He must have a good word for every 
 body and a smiling face, although he knows that the ship 
 will not head her course by four points of the compass on 
 either tack ; and must put aside with a jest the unconscious 
 professional gentleman whose hat intervenes between his 
 sextant and the horizon. In short, he must possess in an 
 eminent degree what Virgil calls the suaviter in what's-his- 
 name with the fortiter in what-d'ye-call-it. I am much 
 disposed to think that had Job been a sea captain with 
 a protracted head wind, the land of Uz would not have 
 attained celebrity as the abode of the most patient of 
 men. 
 
 An eminent Boston divine, not long since deceased, who 
 was noted alike for his Johnsonian style and his very un- 
 Johnsonian meekness of manner, once said to a sea captain,
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 13 
 
 " I have, sir, in the course of my professional career, en- 
 countered many gentlemen of your calling ; but I really 
 must say that I have never been powerfully impressed in a 
 moral way by them, for their conversation abounded in 
 expressions savouring more of strength than of righteous- 
 ness; indeed, but few of them seemed capable of enun- 
 ciating the simplest sentence without prefacing it with a 
 profane allusion to the possible ultimate fate of their visual 
 organs, which I will not shock your fastidiousness by re- 
 peating." The profanity of seafaring men has always been 
 remarked ; it has been a staple article for the lamentations 
 of the moralist and the jests of the immoralist ; but I must 
 say that I am not greatly surprised at its prevalence, for 
 when I have seen a thunder squall strike a ship at sea, and 
 every effort was making to save the rent canvas, it has 
 seemed to me as if those whose dealings were with the ele- 
 ments actually needed a stronger vocabulary than is re- 
 quired for less sublime transactions. To speak in ordinary 
 terms on such occasions would be as absurd as the Cockney's 
 application of the epithets " clever " and " neat " to Niagara. 
 I am not attempting to palliate every-day. profanity, for I 
 was brought up in the abhorrence of it, having been taken 
 at an early age from the care of the lady " who ran to catch 
 me when I fell, and kissed the place to make it well," and 
 placed in the country under the superintendence of a maiden 
 aunt, who was very moral indeed, and who instilled her 
 principles into my young heart with wonderful eloquence 
 and power. "Andrew," she used to say to me, "you 
 mustn't laugh in meetin' ; I've no doubt that the man who was 
 hung last week (for this was in those unenlightened days 
 when the punishment of crime was deemed a duty, and not 
 a sin) began his wicked course by laughing in meetin' ; 
 and just think, if you were to commit a murder for those 
 who murder will steal and those who steal will swear 
 2
 
 14 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 and lie and those who swear and He will drink rum 
 and then if they don't stop in their sinful ways, they get so 
 bad that they will smoke cigars and break the Sabbath ; 
 and you know what becomes of 'em then." 
 
 The ordinary routine of life at sea, which is so irksome 
 to most people, has a wonderful charm for me. There is 
 something about a well-manned ship that commands my 
 deepest enthusiasm. Each day is filled with a quiet and 
 satisfactory kind of enjoyment. From that early hour of 
 the morning when the captain turns out to see what is the 
 prospect of the day, and to drink a mug of boiling coffee as 
 strong as aquafortis, and as black as the newly-opened fluid 
 Day & Martin, from No. 97, High Holborn, to that quiet 
 time in the evening when that responsible functionary goes 
 below and turns in, with a sententious instruction to the 
 officer of the watch to " wake him at twelve, if there's any 
 change in the weather," there is no moment that hangs 
 heavy on my hands. I love the regular striking of the 
 bells, reminding me every half hour how rapidly time and 
 I are getting on. The regularity with which every thing 
 goes on, from the early washing of the decks to the sweep- 
 ing of the same at four bells in the evening, makes me think 
 of those ancient monasteries in the south of Europe, where 
 the unvarying round of duties creates a paradise which 
 those who are subject to the unexpected fluctuations of 
 common life might be pardoned for coveting. If the rude 
 voices that swell the boisterous chorus which hoists the 
 tugging studding-sail up by three-feet pulls, only imper- 
 fectly remind one of the sounds he hears when the full 
 choir of the monastery makes the grim arches of the chapel 
 vibrate with the solemn tones of the Gregorian chant, cer- 
 tainly the unbroken calmness of the morning watch may 
 well be allowed to symbolize the rapt meditation and un- 
 spoken devotion which finds its home within the " studious
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 15 
 
 cloister's pale ; " and I may be pardoned for comparing the 
 close attention of the captain and his mates in getting the 
 sun's altitude and working out the ship's position to the 
 " examination of conscience " among the devout dwellers in 
 the convent, and the working out of the spiritual reckoning 
 which shows them how much they have varied from the 
 course laid down on the divine chart, and how far they are 
 from the wished-for port of perfection. 
 
 I have a profound respect for the sea as a moral teacher. 
 No man can be tossed about upon it without feeling his 
 impotence and insignificance, and having his heart opened 
 to the companions of his danger as it has never been 
 opened before. The sea brings out the real character of 
 every man ; and those who journey over its " deep invisible 
 paths " find themselves intrusting their most sacred confi- 
 dences to the keeping of comparative strangers. The con- 
 ventionalities of society cannot thrive in a salt atmosphere ; 
 and you shall be delighted to see how frank and agreeable 
 the " world's people " can be when they are caught where 
 the laws of fashion are silent, and what a wholesome neg- 
 lect of personal appearances prevails among them when 
 that sternest of democrats, Neptune, has placed them where 
 they feel that it would be folly to try to produce an impres- 
 sion. The gentleman of the prize ring, whom Dickens 
 introduces looking with admiration at the stately Mr. Dom- 
 bey, gave it as his opinion that there was a way within the 
 resources of science of " doubling-up " that incarnation of 
 dignity ; but, for the accomplishment of such an end, one 
 good, pitching, head-sea would be far more effectual than 
 all the resources of the " manly art." The most unbending 
 assumption could not survive that dreadful sinking of the 
 stomach, that convulsive clutch at the nearest object for 
 support, and the faint, gurgling cry of " steward" which an- 
 nounces that the victim has found his natural level. A
 
 16 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 thorough tiovitiate of seasickness is as indispensable, in my 
 opinion, to the formation of true manly character, as the 
 measles to a well-regulated childhood. Mentally as well as 
 corporeally, seasickness is a wonderful renovator. We are 
 such victims of habit, so prone to run in a groove, (most of 
 us in a groove that may well be called a " vicious circle,") 
 that we need to be thoroughly shaken up, and made to take 
 a new view of the rationale of our way of life. I do not 
 believe that any man ever celebrated his recovery from 
 that marine malady by eating the pickles and biscuit which 
 always taste so good on such an occasion, without having 
 acquired a new set of ideas, and being made generally wiser 
 and better by his severe experience. I meet many un- 
 amiable persons " whene'er I take my walks abroad," who 
 only need two days of seasickness to convert them into 
 positive ornaments to society. 
 
 But, pardon me ; all this has little to do with the voyage 
 to Liverpool. The days follow each other rapidly, and it 
 begins to seem as if the voyage would stretch out to the 
 crack of doom, for the head wind stands by us with the 
 constancy of a sheriff, and when that lacks power to retard 
 us we have a calm. But the weather is beautiful, and all 
 the time is spent in the open air. Nut brown maids work 
 worsted and crochet on the cooler side of the deck, and 
 gentlemen in rusty suits, with untrimmed beards, wearing 
 the " shadowy livery of the burning sun," talk of the pros- 
 pects of a fair wind or read innumerous novels. The even- 
 ings are spent in gazing at a cloudless sky, and promenading 
 in the moonshine. Music lends its aid and banishes impa- 
 tience ; my young co-voyagers seem not to have forgotten 
 " Sweet Home," and the " Old Folks at Home " would be 
 very much gratified to know how green their memory is 
 kept. 
 
 At length we all begin to grow tired of fair weather.
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 17 
 
 The cloudless sky, the gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, and 
 the bright blue sea, with its lazily spouting whales and its 
 lively porpoises playing around our bows, grow positively 
 distasteful to us ; and we begin to think that any change 
 would be an agreeable one. "We do not have to wait 
 many days before we are awaked very early in the morn- 
 ing, by the throwing down of heavy cordage on deck, and 
 the shouts of the sailors, and are soon aware that we are 
 subject to an unusual motion as if the ship were being 
 propelled by a strong force over a corduroy road constructed 
 on an enormous scale. Garments, which yesterday were 
 content to hang in an orderly manner against the partitions 
 of one's state-roem, now obstinately persist in hanging at all 
 sorts of peculiar and disgraceful angles. Hat boxes, trunks, 
 and the other movables of- the voyager manifest great hilar- 
 ity at the change in the weather, and dance about the floor 
 in a manner that must satisfy the most fastidious beholder. 
 Every timber in the ship groans as if in pain. The omni- 
 present steward rushes about, closing up sky-lights and 
 dead lights, and " chocking " his rattling crockery and glass- 
 ware. On deck the change from the even keel and the 
 clear sunlight of the day before is still more wonderful. 
 The colour of the sky reminds you of the leaden lining of a 
 tea-chest ; that of the sea, of the dingy green paper which 
 covers the same. The sails, which so many days of sun- 
 shine have bleached to a dazzling whiteness, are now all 
 furled, except those which are necessary to keep some little 
 headway on the ship. The captain has adorned his manly 
 frame with a suit of India rubber, which certainly could not 
 have been selected for its gracefulness, and has overshad- 
 owed his honest face with a sou'wester of stupendous pro- 
 portions. With the exception of occasional visits to the 
 sinking barometer, he spends his weary day on the wet 
 deck, and tries to read the future in the blackening waves 
 2*
 
 18 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 and stormy sky. The wheel, which heretofore has required 
 but one man, now taxes the strength of two of the stoutest 
 of our crew ; so hard is it to keep our bashful ship head- 
 ing up to that rude sea, and to " ease her when she pitches." 
 The breakfast suffers sadly from neglect, for every one is 
 engrossed with the care of the weather. At noon there is 
 a lull for half an hour or so, and, in spite of the threats of 
 the remorseless barometer, some of our company try to look 
 for an amelioration in the meteorological line. But their 
 hopes are crushed when they find that the wind has shifted 
 one or two points, and has set in to blow more violently 
 than before. The sea, too, begins to behave in a most ca- 
 pricious and disagreeable style. When the ship has, with a 
 great deal of straining and cracking, ridden safely over two 
 mighty ridges of water, and seems to be easily settling 
 down into a black valley between two foam-capped hills, 
 there comes a sudden shock, as if she had met the Palisades 
 of the Hudson in her path, a crackling, grating sound, 
 like that of a huge nutmeg-grater operating on a coral reef, 
 a crash like the combined force of all the battering-rams of 
 Titus Flavius Vespasianus on one of the gates of Jerusalem, 
 and a hundred tons of angry water roll aft against the 
 cabin doors, in a manner not at all agreeable to weak nerves. 
 For a moment the ship seems to stand perfectly still, as if 
 deliberating whether to go on or turn back ; then, realizing 
 that the ship that deliberates in such a time is lost, she rises 
 gracefully over a huge pile of water which was threatening 
 to submerge her. 
 
 The afternoon wears away slowly with the passen- 
 gers. They say but little to one another, but look 
 about them from the security of the wheel-house as if they 
 were oppressed with a sense of the inestimable value of 
 strong cordage. As twilight approaches, and all hands 
 are just engaged in taking supper, after having " mended
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 19 
 
 the reefs," the ship meets a staggering sea, which seems to 
 start every timber in her firm-set frame, and our main-top- 
 gallant-mast breaks off like a stick of candy. Such things 
 generally happen just at night, the sailors say, when the 
 difficulties of clearing away the broken rigging are increased 
 by the darkness. Straightway the captain's big, manly 
 voice is heard above the war-whoop of the gale, ringing out 
 as Signer Badiali's was wont to in the third act of Ernani. 
 The wind seems to pin the men to the ratlines as they 
 clamber up ; but all the difficulties are overcome at length ; 
 the broken mast is lowered down, and snugly stowed away ; 
 and before nine o'clock all is quiet, except the howling 
 wind, which seems to have determined to make a night of 
 it. And such a night ! It is one of those times that make 
 one want one's mother. There is little sleeping done ex- 
 cept among the " watch below " in the forecastle, who snore 
 away their four hours as if they appreciated the reasoning 
 of Mr. Dibdin when he extols the safety of the open sea as 
 compared with the town with its falling chimneys and flying 
 tiles, and commiserates the condition of the unhappy shore- 
 folks in such a tempestuous time. The thumping of the sea 
 against our wooden walls, the swash of water on deck as 
 the ship rolls and pitches as you would think it impossible 
 for any thing addicted to the cold water movement to roll or 
 pitch, and over all the wild, changeless, shrieking of the 
 gale, will not suffer sleep to visit those who are not inured 
 to such things. Tired of bracing up with knee, and hand, 
 and heel, to keep in their berths, they lie and wonder how 
 many such blows as that our good ship could endure, and 
 think that if June gets up such gales on the North Atlantic, 
 they have no wish to try the quality of those of January. 
 
 Morning comes at last, and every heart is cheered by 
 the captain's announcement, as he passes through the cabin, 
 that the barometer is rising, and the weather has Jjgun to
 
 20 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 improve. Some of the more hopeful and energetic of our 
 company turn out and repair to the deck. The leaden 
 clouds are broken up, and the sun trying to struggle through 
 them ; but to the inexperienced the gale appears to be as 
 severe as it was yesterday. All the discomfort and danger 
 of the time are forgotten, however, in the fearful magnifi- 
 cence of the spectacle that surrounds us. As far as the eye 
 can reach it seems like a confused field of battle, where 
 snowy plumes and white flowing manes show where the 
 shock of war is felt most severely. To watch the gathering 
 of one of those mighty seas that so often work destruction 
 with the noblest ships, to see it gradually piling up until 
 it seems to be impelled by a fury almost intelligent, to be 
 dazzled by its emerald flash when it erects its stormy head 
 the highest, and breaks into a field of boiling foam, as if 
 enraged at being unable to reach us ; these are things 
 which are worth all the anxiety and peril that they cost. 
 
 The captain's prognostications prove correct. Our appe- 
 tites at dinner bear witness to them ; and before sunset we 
 find our ship (curtailed of its fair proportion, it is true, by 
 the loss of its main-top-gallant-mast) is under full sail once 
 more. The next day we have a few hours' calm, and when 
 a light breeze does spring up, it comes from the old easterly 
 quarter. It begins to seem as if we were fated to sail for- 
 ever, and never get any where. But patience wears out 
 even a head wind, and at last the long-looked-for change 
 takes place. The wind slowly hauls to the south, and many 
 are the looks taken at the compass to see how nearly the 
 ship can come up to her course. Then our impatience is 
 somewhat allayed by speaking a ship which has been out 
 twelve days longer than our own for, if it be true, as 
 Rochefoucauld says, that " there is something not unpleas- 
 ing to us in the misfortunes of our best friends," how keen 
 must be the satisfaction of finding a stranger-companion in
 
 A PASSAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC. 21 
 
 adversity. The wind, though steady, is not very strong, 
 and many fears are expressed lest it should die away and 
 give Eurus another three weeks' chance. But our forebod- 
 ings are not realized, and a sunshiny day comes when we 
 are all called up from dinner to see a long cloud-like affair, 
 (very like a whale,) which, we are told, is the Old Head of 
 Kinsale. Straightway all begin to talk of getting on shore 
 the next day ; but when that comes, we find that we are 
 drawing towards Holyhead very rapidly, as our favourable 
 wind has increased to a gale so that when we have got 
 round Holyhead, and have taken our pilot, (that burly 
 visitor whose coming every one welcomes, and whose de- 
 parture every one would speed,) the aforesaid pilot 
 heaves the ship to, and, having a bed made up on the cabin 
 floor, composes himself to sleep. The next morning finds 
 the gale abated, and early in the forenoon we are running 
 up to the mouth of the river. The smoke (that first pre- 
 monitory symptom of an English town) hangs over Liver- 
 pool, and forms a strong contrast with the bright green 
 fields and verdant hedges, which deck the banks of the 
 Mersey. The ship, after an immense amount of vocal 
 power has been expended in that forcible diction which may 
 be termed the marine vernacular, is got into dock, and in 
 the afternoon a passage of thirty-three days is concluded by 
 our stepping once more upon the " inviolate island of the 
 sage and free," and following our luggage up the pier, with 
 a swing in our gait which any stage sailor would have 
 viewed with envy. The examination at the Custom House 
 is conducted with a politeness and despatch worthy of imi- 
 tation among the officials of our Uncle Samuel. The party 
 of passengers disperses itself about in various hotels, 
 without any circumstance to hinder their progress except 
 falling in with an exhibition of Punch and Judy, which 
 makes the company prolific in quotations from the sayings
 
 2*2 AGUECIIKKK. 
 
 of Messrs. Codlin and Short, and at last the family which 
 never had its harmonious unity disturbed by any thing, is 
 broken up forever. 
 
 Liverpool wears its old thriving commercial look per- 
 haps it is a few shades darker with smoke. The posters 
 are on a more magnificent scale, both as regards size and 
 colour, than ever before, and tell not only of the night's 
 amusements, but promise the acquisition of wealth outrun- 
 ning the dreams of avarice in lands beyond the farthest 
 Thule. Melbourne and Port Philip vie in the most gor- 
 geous colours with San Francisco; and the United States seem 
 to have spread wide their capacious arms to welcome the 
 down-trodden Irishman. Liverpool seems to be the gate to 
 all the rest of the world. I almost fear to walk about lest 
 I should find myself starting off, in a moment of temporary 
 insanity, for Greenland's icy mountains, or India's coral 
 strand.
 
 LONDON. 
 
 DULL must he be of soul who could make the journey 
 from Liverpool to the metropolis in the month of June, and 
 not be lifted above himself by the surpassing loveliness of 
 dear mother Nature. Even if he were chained to a ledger 
 and cash book if he never had a thought or wish beyond 
 the broker's board, and his entire reading were the prices 
 current he must forget them all, and feel for the time 
 what a miserable sham his life is or he does not deserve 
 the gift of sight. It is Thackeray, I think, who speaks 
 somewhere of the " charming friendly English landscape 
 that seems to shake hands with you as you pass along " 
 and any body who has seen it in June will say that this is 
 hardly a figurative expression. I used to think that it was 
 my enthusiastic love for the land of the great Alfred which 
 made it seem so beautiful to me when I was younger ; but 
 I find that it wears too well to be a mere fancy of my own 
 brain. People may complain of the humid climate of Eng- 
 land, and curse the umbrella which must accompany them 
 whenever they walk out ; but when the sun does shine, it 
 shines upon a scene of beautiful fertility unequalled else- 
 where in the world, and which the moist climate produces 
 and preserves. And then, too, it seems doubly grateful to 
 the eyes of one just come from sea. The bright freshness 
 of the whole landscape, the varied tints of green, the trim 
 hedges, the luxuriant foliage which springs from the very 
 trunks of the trees, and the high state of cultivation which 
 makes the whole country look as if it had been swept and 
 dusted that morning, all these things strike an American, 
 
 (23)
 
 24 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 for he cannot help contrasting them with the parched fields 
 of his own land in summer, surrounded by their rough 
 fences and hastily piled-up stone walls. The solidity of the 
 houses and cottages, which look as if they were built, not 
 for an age, but for all time, makes him think of the country 
 houses of America, which Beem to have grown up in a 
 night, like our friend Aladdin's, and whose frailty is so 
 apparent that you cannot sneeze in one of them without 
 apprehending a serious calamity. Then the embankments 
 of the railways present not only a pleasant sight to the eye 
 of the traveller, but a pretty little hay crop to the cor- 
 poration ; and at every station, and bridge, and crossing, 
 wherever there is a switch to be tended, you see the neat 
 cottages of the keepers, and the gardens thereof the rail- 
 way companies having learned that the expenditure of a 
 few hundred pounds in this way saves an expenditure of 
 many thousands in surgeons' bills and damages, and is far 
 more satisfactory to all concerned. 
 
 What a charming sight is a cow - what a look of con- 
 tentment she has ambitious of nothing beyond the field 
 of daily duty, and never looking happier than when she 
 comes at night to yield a plenteousness of that fluid without 
 which custards were an impossibility ! Wordsworth says 
 that " heaven lies about us in our infancy " surely he 
 must mean that portion of the heavens called by astron- 
 omers the Milky Way. It is pleasant to see a cow by the 
 side of a railway provided she is fenced from danger 
 to see her lift her head slowly as the train goes whizzing 
 by, and gaze with those mild, tranquil eyes upon the noisy, 
 smoke-puffing monster, just as the saintly hermits of 
 olden tunes might have looked from their serene heights of 
 contemplation upon the dusty, bustling world. The taste 
 of the English farmers for fine cattle is attested by a glance 
 at any of their pastures. On every side you see the repre-
 
 LONDON. 25 
 
 sentatives of Alderney's bovine aristocracy ; and scores of 
 cattle crop the juicy grass, rivalling in their snowy white- 
 ness any that ever reclined upon Clitumno's " mild declivity 
 of hill," or admired their graceful horns in its clear waters. 
 Until I saw them, I never comprehended what farmers 
 meant when they spoke of " neat cattle." 
 
 What an eloquent preacher is an old church tower ! Moss- 
 crowned atid ivy-robed, it lifts its head, unshaken by the 
 tempests of centuries, as it did in the days when King John 
 granted the Great Charter or the holy Edward ruled the 
 realm, and tells of the ages when England was one in faith, 
 and not a poorhouse existed throughout the land. Like a 
 faithful sentinel, it stands guard over the humbler edifices 
 around it, and warns their inhabitants alike of their dangers 
 and their duties by the music of its bells. Erect in silent 
 dignity, it receives the first beams of the morning, and 
 when twilight has begun to shroud every thing in its 
 neighbourhood, the flash of sunset lingers on its gray summit. 
 It looks down with sublime indifference upon the changing 
 scene below, as if it would reproach the actors there with 
 their forgetfulness of the transitoriness of human pursuits, 
 and remind them, by its unchangeableness, of the eternal 
 year.-*. 
 
 At last we draw near London. A gentleman, whose age 
 I would not attempt to guess, for he was very carefully 
 made up, and boasted a deportment which would have ex- 
 cited the envy of Mr. Turveydrop, senior, so far forgot 
 his dignity as to lean forward and inform me that the place 
 we were passing was " 'Arrow on the '111," which made me 
 forget for the moment both his appearance and his uncalled- 
 for " exasperation of the haitches." Not long after, I found 
 myself issuing from the magnificent terminus of the North 
 Western Railway, in Euston Square, in a cab marked 
 V. R. 10.276. The cab and omnibus drivers of London 
 3
 
 26 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 are a distinct race of beings. Who can write their natural 
 history ? Who is competent to such a task ? The re- 
 searches of a Pritchard, a Pickering, a Smyth, would seem 
 to cover the whole subject of the history of the human 
 species from the anthropophagi and bojesmen to the 
 drinkers of train oil in the polar regions ; but the cabmen 
 are not included. They would require a master mind. 
 The subject would demand the patient investigation of a 
 Humboldt, the eloquence of a Macaulay, and the humour of a 
 Dickens and even then would fall short, I fear, of giving 
 an adequate idea of them. Your London cab driver has 
 no idea of distance ; as, for instance, I ask one the simple 
 question, 
 
 " How far is it to the Angel in Islington ? " 
 
 " Wot, sir ? " 
 
 I repeat my interrogatory. 
 
 " O, the Hangel, sir ! Four shillings." 
 
 " No, no. I mean what distance." 
 
 " Well, say three, then, sir." 
 
 " But I mean what distance ? How many miles ? " 
 
 " O, come, sir, jump in don't be 'ard on a fellow I 
 'avent 'ad a fare to-day. Call it 'arf a crown, sir." 
 
 Leigh Hunt says somewhere that if there were such a 
 thing as metamorphosis, Dr. Johnson would desire to be 
 transformed into an omnibus, that he might go rolling along 
 the streets whose very pavements were the objects of his 
 ardent affection. And he was about right. What better 
 place is there in this world to study human nature than an 
 omnibus ? All classes meet there ; in the same coach you 
 may see them all from the poor workwoman to the gen- 
 teelly dressed lady, who looks as if she disapproved of such 
 conveyances, but must ride nevertheless from the young 
 sprig, who is constantly anxious lest some profane foot 
 should dim the polish of his boots, to the urbane old gentle-
 
 LONDON. 27 
 
 man, who regrets his corpulence, and would take less room 
 if he could. And then the top of the omnibus, which 
 usually carries four or more passengers, what a place is 
 that to see the tide of life which flows unceasingly through 
 the streets of London ! I know of nothing which can fur- 
 nish more food for thought than a ride on an omnibus from 
 Brompton to the Bank on a fine day. It is a pageant, in 
 which all the wealth, pomp, power, and prosperity of this 
 world pass before you ; and for a moral to the whirling 
 scene, you must go to the nearest churchyard. 
 
 London is ever the same. The omnibuses follow each 
 other as rapidly as ever up and down the Strand, the white- 
 gloved, respectable-looking policemen walk about as delib- 
 erately, and the tail of the lion over the gate of Northum- 
 berland House sticks out as straight as ever. The only 
 great change visible here is in the newspapers. The tone 
 of society is so different from what it was formerly, in all 
 that concerns France, that the editors must experience con- 
 siderable trouble in accustoming themselves to the new 
 state of things. Once, France and Louis Napoleon fur- 
 nished Punch with his chief materials for satire and amuse- 
 ment, and if any of the larger and more dignified journals 
 wished to let off a little ill humour, or to say any thing par- 
 ticularly bitter, they only had to dip their pens in Gaul ; 
 but times are changed, and now nothing can be said too 
 strong in favour of " our chivalric allies, the French." The 
 memory of St. Helena seems to have given place to what 
 they call here the entente cordiale, which those who are ac- 
 quainted with the French language assure me means an 
 agreement by which one party contracts to "play second 
 fiddle " to another, through fear that if he does not he will 
 not be permitted to play at all. 
 
 To the man who thoroughly appreciates the Essays of 
 Elia, and Boswell's Life of Johnson, London can never
 
 28 AUUECIIEEK. 
 
 grow tiresome, lie can never turn a corner without mid- 
 ing " something new, something to please, and something to 
 instruct." Its very pavements are classical. And there is 
 nothing to abate, nor detract from, such a man's enthusiasm. 
 The traveller who visits the Roman Forum, or the Palace 
 of the Caesars, experiences a sad check when he finds his 
 progress impeded by unpoetical obstacles. But in London, 
 all is harmonious; he sees on every side, not only that 
 which tells of present life and prosperity, but the perennial 
 glories of England's former days. Would he study history, 
 he goes to the Tower, " rich with the spoils of time ; " or to 
 Whitehall, where mad fanaticism consummated its treason- 
 able work with the murder of a sovereign ; or to the tower- 
 ing minster, to gaze upon the chair in which the monarchs 
 of a thousand years have sat ; or to view the monuments, 
 and read the epitaphs, of that host of 
 
 " Bards, heroes, sages, side by side, 
 Who darkened nations when they died." 
 
 Is he a lover of English literature ? Here are scenes elo- 
 quent of that goodly company of wits and worthies, whose 
 glowing pages have been the delight of his youth and the 
 consolation of his riper years ; here are the streets in which 
 they walked, the taverns in which they feasted, the churches 
 where they prayed, the tombs where they repose. 
 
 And London wears well. To revisit it when age has 
 sobered down the enthusiasm of youth, is not like seeing a 
 theatre by daylight ; but you think almost that you have 
 under-estimated your privileges. How well I remember 
 the night when I first arrived in the metropolis ! It was 
 after ten o'clock, and I was much fatigued ; but before I 
 booked myself in my hotel, or looked at my room, I rushed 
 out into the Strand, " with breathless speed, like a soul in 
 chase." I pushed along, now turning to look at Temple
 
 LONDON. 29 
 
 Bar, now pausing to take breath as I went up Ludgate 
 Hill. I saw St. Paul's and its dome before me, and I was 
 satisfied. No, I was not satisfied ; for when I returned up 
 Fleet Street, I looked out dear old Bolt Court, and entered 
 its Johnsonian precincts with an awe and veneration which 
 a devout Mussulman, taking the early train for Mecca, 
 would gladly imitate. And then I posted down Inner Tem- 
 ple Lane, and looked at the house in which Charles Lamb 
 and his companions held their " Wednesday nights ; " and, 
 going still farther, I saw the river I stood on the bank 
 of the Thames, and I was satisfied. I looked, and all the 
 associations of English history and literature which are 
 connected with it filled my mind but just as I was getting 
 into a fine frenzy about it, a watchman hove in sight, and 
 the old clock chimed out eleven. So I started on, and 
 soon reached my hotel. I was accosted on my way thither 
 by a young and gayly dressed lady, whom I did not remem- 
 ber ever to have seen before, but who expressed her satis- 
 faction at meeting me, in the most cordial terms. I told her 
 that I thought that it must be a mistake, and she responded 
 with a laugh which very much shocked an elderly gentle- 
 man who was passing, who looked as if he m%ht have 
 been got up for the part of the uncle of the unhappy G. 
 Barnwell. I have since learned that such mistakes and 
 personal misapprehensions very frequently occur in Lon- 
 don in the evening. 
 
 Speaking of Temple Bar, it gratifies me to see that this 
 venerable gateway still stands, " unshaken, unseduced, un- 
 terrified," by any of the recent attempts to effect its re- 
 moval. The old battered and splashed doors are perhaps 
 more unsightly than before ; but the statues look down with 
 the same benignity upon the crowd of cabs and omnibuses, 
 and the never-ending tide of humanity which flows beneath 
 them, as they did upon the Rake's Progress, so many 
 3*
 
 30 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 years ago. The sacrilegious commissioners of streets long 
 to get at it with their crows and picks, but the shade of Dr. 
 Johnson watches over the barrier of his earthly home. It 
 is not an ornamental affair, to be sure, and it would be diffi- 
 cult for Mr. Choate, even, to defend it against the charge of 
 being an obstruction ; but its associations with the literature 
 and history of the last two or three centuries ought to en- 
 title its dingy arches to a certain degree of reverence, even 
 in our progressive and irreverent age. The world would 
 be a loser by the demolition of this ancient landmark, and 
 London, if it should lose this, though it might still be the 
 metropolis of the British empire, would cease to be the 
 London of Johnson and Goldsmith, of Addison and Pope, 
 of Swift and Hogarth. 
 
 Perhaps some may think, from what I have said in the 
 commencement of this letter, that my enthusiasm has 
 blinded me to those great moral and social evils which are 
 apparent in English civilization : but it is not so. I love 
 England rather for what she has been than for what she is ; 
 I love the England of Alfred and St. Edward ; and when 
 I contrast the present state with what it might ^ave been 
 under afcsuccession of such rulers, I cannot but grieve. 
 Truly the court of St. James under Victoria is not what it 
 was under Charles II., nor even under Mr. Thackeray's 
 favourite hero, "the great George IV.," but are not St. 
 James and St. Giles farther apart than ever before ? Js 
 not Lazarus looked upon as a nuisance, which legislation 
 ought, for decency's sake, to put out of the way ? What 
 does England do for the poor? Nothing; absolutely noth- 
 ing, if you except a system of workhouses, compared with 
 which prisons are delightful residences, and which seems to 
 have been intended more for the punishment of poverty 
 than as a work of charity, No ; on the contrary, she dis- 
 countenances works of charity ; when a few earnest men
 
 LONDON. 31 
 
 among the clergy of her divided church make an effort in 
 that direction, there is an outcry, and they must be put 
 down ; and their bishops, whose annual incomes are larger 
 than the whole treasury of Alfred, admonish them to be- 
 ware how they thus imitate the superstitions of the middle 
 ages. No ; your Englishman of the present day has some- 
 thing better to do than to look after the beggar at his door- 
 step ; he is too respectable a man for that ; he pays his 
 " poor rates," and the police must order the thing of shreds 
 and patches to " move on ; " his progress must not be im- 
 peded, for his presence is required at a meeting of the 
 friends of Poland, or of Italy, or of a society for the aboli- 
 tion of American slavery, and he has no time to waste on 
 such common, every-day matters as the improvement of 
 the miserable wretches who work his coal mines, or of 
 those quarters of the town where vice parades its deformity 
 with exulting pride, and the air is heavy with pestilence. 
 There is proportionably more beggary in London at this 
 hour than in any continental city. And such beggary ! 
 Not the comfortable, jolly-looking beggars you may see in 
 Rome or Naples, who know that charity is enjoined upon 
 the people as a religious duty, but the thin, pallid, high- 
 cheeked supplicants, whose look is a petition which tells a 
 more effective story than words can frame of destitution 
 and starvation. 
 
 But there is another phase of this part of London life, 
 sadder by far than that of mere poverty. It is an evil 
 which no attempt is made to prevent, and so great an 
 evil that its very mention is forbidden by the spirit of 
 this age of "superficial morality and skin-deep propri- 
 ety." I pity the man who can walk through Regent Street 
 or the Strand in the evening, unsaddened by what he shall 
 see on every side. How ridiculous do our boasts of this 
 Christian nineteenth century seem there! Here is this
 
 32 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 mighty Anglo-Saxon race, which can build steam engines, 
 and telegraphs, and clipper ships, which tunnels mountains, 
 and exerts an almost incredible mastery over the forces of 
 nature, and yet, when Magdalene looks up to it for a 
 merciful hand to lift her from degradation and sin, she finds 
 it either deaf or powerless. There is a work yet to be done 
 in London which would stagger a philanthropist, if he were 
 gifted with thrice the heroism, and patience, and self-forget- 
 fulness of a St. Vincent of Paul. 
 
 I cannot resist the inclination to give in this connection :- 
 passage from the personal experience of a friend in London, 
 which, had I read it in any book or newspaper, I should 
 have hesitated to believe. One evening, as he was passing 
 along Pall Mall, he was addressed by a young woman, who, 
 when she saw that he was going to pass on and take no 
 notice of her, ran before him, and said in a tone of the most 
 pathetic earnestness, 
 
 " Well, if you'll not go with me, for God's sake, sir, give 
 me a trifle to buy bread ! " 
 
 Thus appealed to, and somewhat shaken by the voice and 
 manner, he stopped under a gaslight, and looked at the 
 speaker. Vice had not impressed its distinctive seal sc 
 strongly upon her as upon most of the unfortunate creatures- 
 one meets in London's streets ; indeed, there was a shade 
 of melancholy on her face which harmonized well with her 
 voice and manner. So my friend resolved to have a few 
 words more with her, and buttoning up his coat, to protect 
 his watch and purse, he told her that he feared she wanted 
 money to buy gin rather than bread. She assured him that 
 it was not so, but that she wished to buy food for her little 
 child, a girl of two or three years. Then he asked how 
 she could lead such a life, if she had a child growing up, 
 upon whom her example would have such an influence; 
 and she said that she would gladly take up with an hones-
 
 LONDON. 33 
 
 occupation, if she could find one, indeed, she did try to 
 earn enough for the daily wants of herself and child with 
 her needle, but it was impossible, and her only choice 
 was between starvation and the street. At that time she 
 said that she was learning the trade of a dressmaker, and 
 she hoped that before long she should be able to keep her- 
 self above absolute necessity. Encouraged by a kind word 
 from my friend, 'she went on in a simple, womanly manner, 
 and told him of her whole career. It was the old story of 
 plighted troth, betrayed affection, and flight from her village 
 home, to escape the shame and reproach she would there 
 be visited with. She arrived in London without money, 
 without friends, without employment, without any thing 
 save that natural womanly self-respect which had received 
 such a severe blow : necessity stared her in the face, and 
 she sank before it. My friend was impressed by the recital 
 of her misfortunes, and thinking that she must be sincere, 
 he took a sovereign from his purse and gave it to her. She 
 looked from the gift to the giver, and thanked him again 
 and again. He continued his walk, but had not gone more 
 than three or four rods, when she came running after him, 
 and reiterated her expressions of thankfulness with a trem- 
 bling voice. He then walked on, and crossed over to the 
 front of the Church of St. Martin, (that glorious soldier who 
 with his sword divided his cloak with the beggar,) when she 
 came after him yet again, and seizing hold of his hand, she 
 looked up at him with streaming eyes, and said, holding the 
 sovereign in her hand, 
 
 " God bless you, sir, again and again for your kindness to 
 me ! Pray pardon me, sir, for troubling you so much but 
 but perhaps you meant to give me a shilling, sir, 
 perhaps you don't know that you gave me a sovereign." 
 
 How many models of propriety and respectability in every 
 rank of life, how many persons who have the technical
 
 34 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 language of religion constantly on their lips, how many of 
 those who, nurtured amid the influences of a good home 
 have never really known what temptation is, how man} 
 such persons are there who might learn a startling lesson 
 from this fallen woman, whom they seem to consider them- 
 selves religiously bound to despise and neglect ! I have ; 
 great dread of these severely virtuous people, who are sc 
 superior to all human frailty that they cannot afford a kint 
 word to those who have not the good fortune to be impec- 
 cable. But we all of us, I fear, need to be reminded of 
 Burns's lines 
 
 " What's done we partly may compute, 
 But know not what's resisted." 
 
 If we thought of this, keeping our own weaknesses in view 
 which of us would not shrink from judging uncharitably, 01 
 casting the first stone at an erring fellow-creature ? Whicb 
 of us would dare to condemn the poor girl who preserved sc 
 much of the spirit of honesty in her degradation, and to 
 commend the negative virtues which make up so many 
 of what the world calls good lives ?
 
 ANTWERP AND BRUSSELS. 
 
 IT is a very pleasant thing to get one's passport vised 
 (even though a pretty good fee is demanded for it,) and to 
 make preparations for leaving London, at almost any time ; 
 but it is particularly so when the weather has been doing 
 its worst for a fortnight, and the atmosphere is so " thick 
 and slab " that to compare it to pea-soup would be doing 
 that excellent compound a great injustice. It is very pleas- 
 ant to think of getting out from under that blanket of 
 smoke and fog, and escaping to a land where the sun shines 
 occasionally, and where the manners of the people make a 
 perpetual sunshine which renders you independent of the 
 weather. If there ever was a day to which that expressive 
 old Saxon epithet nasty might be justly applied, it was the 
 one on which I left the greasy pavements of London, and 
 (after a contest with a cabman, which ended, as such things 
 generally do, in a compromise) found myself on board one 
 of the fast-sailing packets of the General Steam Navigation 
 Company, at St. Catharine's Wharf, just below the espla- 
 nade of the Tower. The beautiful banks of the river below 
 the city, the fine pile of buildings, and the rich foliage of 
 the park at Greenwich, seemed to have laid aside their 
 charms, and shrouded themselves in mourning for the death 
 of sunshine. The steamer was larger than most of those 
 which ply in the Channel ; but the crowded cabins and 
 diminutive state-rooms made me think with envy of the 
 passengers from New York to Fall River that afternoon. 
 And there was a want of attention to those details which 
 would have improved the appearance of the boat greatly 
 
 (3.5)
 
 36 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 which made me wish that her commander might have 
 served his apprenticeship on Long Island Sound or on the 
 Hudson. 
 
 The company was composed of about the usual admix- 
 ture of English and foreign beauty and manliness ; and the 
 English, French, Dutch, and German languages were con- 
 founded in such a manner as to bring to mind the doings 
 of the committee on the construction of public works re- 
 corded in Genesis. Among the crowd of young Cockneys 
 in jockeyish-looking caps, with travelling pouches strapped 
 to their sides, there was a rather tall gentleman in a cleri- 
 cal suit, with his throat covered with the usual white ban- 
 dages. His highly respectable look, and the eminently 
 " evangelical " expression of the corners of his mouth, made 
 me feel quite sure that I ha found a character. He had 
 three little boys with him ; and as far as appearance went, 
 he might have been Dickens's model for Dr. Blimber, (the 
 principal of that celebrated academy where they had 
 mental green peas and intellectual asparagus all the year 
 round,) for he had the eye of a pedagogue " to threaten and 
 command," and his fixed look was the one which my old 
 schoolmaster's face wore when he turned up his wristbands, 
 and, taking his ruler, said, " I am very sorry, Andrew ; 
 but you know that it is for your good." His conversation 
 savoured so strongly of the dictionary, that, even if I had 
 been blind, I should have said that the speaker had spent 
 .years in correcting the compositions of ingenuous youth. I 
 shall not forget his look of wonder when he asked one of 
 the engineers what was the matter with a dog that was 
 yelping about the deck, and received for a reply that he 
 tumbled off the quarter deck, and was strained in the gar- 
 ret. However, I enjoyed two or three" hours' conversation 
 with him very much if it could be called conversation 
 when he did all the talking.
 
 ANTWERP AND BRUSSELS. 37 
 
 Towards evening, when we found ourselves in the open 
 sea, the south-westerly swell rolled up finely from the Good- 
 win Sands, and produced a scene to remind a disinterested 
 spectator of Punch's touching pictorial representation of the 
 commencement of the continental tour of Messrs. Brown, 
 Jones, and Robinson. I soon perceived that a conspicuous 
 collection of white bowls, which adorned the main saloon, 
 was not a mere matter of ornament. The amount of med- 
 icine for the prevention or cure of seasickness, which was 
 taken by my fellow-voyagers from flat bottles covered 
 with wicker-work, would have astonished the most ardent 
 upholder of the old allopathic practice. But all the pitch- 
 ing and rolling of the steamer, and the varied occupations 
 of the passengers, did not interfere with my repose. I 
 slept as soundly in my narrow accommodations as if I had 
 been within hearing of the rattling of the omnibuses of my 
 native city. 
 
 The next morning I was out in good season ; and though 
 I do not consider myself either " remote," " unfriended," 
 " melancholy," or " slow," I found myself upon the " lazy 
 Scheldt," with Antwerp's heaven-kissing spire climbing up 
 the hazy perspective. The banks of the Scheldt are not 
 very picturesque ; indeed, a person of the strongest poeti- 
 cal susceptibilities might approach Flanders without the 
 slightest apprehension of an attack of his weakness. I 
 could not help congratulating myself, though, on having 
 been spared to see the country which was immortalized by 
 the profanity of a great military force. 
 
 We Americans usually consider ourselves up to the 
 times, and are prone to sneer at Russia for being eleven 
 days behind the age ; but we do not yet " beat the Dutch " in 
 progress, for they are half an hour in advance, as I found, 
 very soon after landing, that all the church clocks, with a 
 great deal of formality and precision, struck nine, when the 
 4
 
 38 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 hands only pointed to half past eight ; and I noted a simi- 
 lar phenomenon while I was taking breakfast an hour after. 
 Antwerp is a beautiful old city, and its quiet streets are 
 very pleasant, after the tumult and roar of London ; but 
 there is one drawback it is too scrupulously clean. I 
 almost feared to walk about, lest I should unknowingly do 
 some damage ; and every door-handle and bell-pull had a 
 most unhospitable polish, which seemed to say with the 
 placards in the Crystal Palace, " Please not to handle." 
 Cleanliness is a great virtue ; but when it is carried to such 
 an extent that you cannot find your books and papers 
 which you left carefully arranged yesterday on your table, 
 when it gets to be a monomania with man or woman, 
 it becomes a bore. How strangely the first two or three 
 hours in a Dutch town strike a stranger ! the odd, high- 
 gabled houses, the queer head-dresses, (graceful because of 
 their very ungracefnlness,) the wooden shoes, and the lan- 
 guage, which sounds like English spoken by a toothless 
 person. But one very soon gets accustomed to it. It is 
 like being in an Oriental city, where the great variety of 
 costumes and languages, and the different manners of the 
 people, make up an ensemble which a stranger thinks will 
 be a lasting novelty ; but on his second day he finds him- 
 self taking about as much notice of a Persian caravan as 
 he would of a Canton Street or Sixth Avenue omnibus. 
 
 I might here indulge in a little harmless enthusiasm 
 about this grand old cathedral of Antwerp. I might talk 
 about the " long-drawn aisle and fretted vault," and give an 
 elaborate description of it, its enormous dimensions and 
 artistic glories, if I did not know that any reader who 
 desires such things can find them set down with greater ex- 
 actness than becomes me, in any of the guide books for 
 Belgium. I spent the greater proportion of my waking 
 hours in Antwerp under the solemn arches of that majestic
 
 ANTWERP AND BRUSSELS. 39 
 
 old church. I wonder, shall we ever see any thing in 
 America to remind us even faintly of the glories of Ant- 
 werp, Cologne, Rouen, Amiens, York, or Milan? I feat 
 not. The ages that built those glorious piles thought les? 
 of fat dividends than this boastful nineteenth century of 
 ours, and their religion was not the mere one-day-out-of 
 seven affair that the improved Christianity of to-day is. 
 The architects who conceived and executed those marvels 
 of sublimity never troubled themselves with our popular 
 query, " Will it pay ? " any more than Dante interrupted the 
 inspiration of his Paradiso, or Beethoven the linked har- 
 mony of his matchless symphonies, with their solicitude 
 about the amount of their copyright. No ; their work in- 
 spired them, and while it reflected their genius, it imparted 
 to them something of its own divine dignity. Their art be- 
 came religion, and its laborious processes acts of the most 
 fervent devotion. But we have reformed all that, and now 
 inspiration has to give way to considerations of the greatest 
 number of " sittings," that can possibly be provided, and if 
 the expenses of the sacred enterprise can be lessened by 
 contriving accommodation for shops or storage in the base- 
 ment, who does not rejoice ? There are too many churches 
 nowadays built upon the foundation of the profits, leaving 
 the apostles entirely out of the question. 
 
 But while I lament our want of those wonderful con- 
 structions whose very stones seem to have grown conscious- 
 ly into forms of beauty, I must record my satisfaction at 
 the improvement in architectural taste which is visible in 
 most of our cities at home. If we must have banks, and 
 railway stations, and shops, it is some compensation to have 
 them made pleasant to our sight. Buildings are the books 
 that every body unconsciously reads ; and if they are a 
 libel on the laws of architecture, they will surely vitiate in 
 time the taste of those who become familiarized to their
 
 40 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 deformity. Dr. Johnson said, thai " if a man's hands were 
 dirty, his thoughts would be dirty ; " and it may be declared, 
 with much more reason, that those who are obliged to look, 
 day after day, at ungraceful, mean, and unsubstantial ob- 
 jects, lose, by degrees, their sense of the beautiful and the 
 harmonious, and set forth, in the poverty of their minds, 
 the mc:umess of their surroundings. 
 
 On one account I have again and again blessed the star 
 that guided me to Antwerp, that is, for the pleasure 
 afforded me by its treasures of art. I have, in times past, 
 fed fat my appetite for the beautiful in the galleries of 
 Italy, and therefore counted but little on the contents of the 
 museum and churches of this ancient city. Do not be 
 frightened, beloved reader ; I am not going to launch out 
 into the muddy stream of artistic criticism. I despise most 
 of that which passes current under that dignified name, as 
 heartily as you do. Even the laurels of Mr. Ruskin can- 
 not rob me of a moment's repose. I cannot if I would, nor 
 would I if 1 could, talk learnedly about pictures. So I can 
 safely promise not to bore you with any " breadth of colour- 
 ing," and to keep very " shady " about chiaro 'scuro. I only 
 wish to say that he who has never been in Antwerp does 
 not know who Rubens was. He may know that an indus- 
 trious painter of that name once lived, and painted (as I 
 used to think, judging from most of his works that I had 
 seen elsewhere) a variety of fat, flaxen-haired women ; but 
 of Rubens, the great master, the painter of the Crucifixion, 
 and the Descent from the Cross, he is as ignorant as a 
 fourth-form boy in the public schools of Patagonia. It is 
 worth a month of seasick voyaging to see the works of 
 Rubens and Vandyck which Antwerp possesses ; and the 
 only regret connected with my visit there has been, that I 
 could not give more days to the study of them than I could 
 hours.
 
 ANTWERP AND BRUSSELS. 41 
 
 It is but fifteen miles from Antwerp to Mechlin, or Ma< 
 lines, (as the people here, in the depths of their ignorance, 
 insist upon calling it,) and as a representative of a natior 
 whose sole criterion is success, and whose list of the cardi 
 nal virtues is headed by Prosperity, I felt that it would be i, 
 grievous sin of omission for me not to stop and visit thai 
 thriving old town. It did not require much time to walk 
 through its nice, quiet streets, and look at the pictures and 
 wood carvings in its venerable churches. The white- 
 capped and bright-eyed lace-makers sat in windows and 
 doorways, their busy fingers forming fabrics, the sight of 
 which would kindle the fire of covetousness in any female 
 heart. Three hours in Mechlin sufficed to make me about 
 as well acquainted with it as if I had daily waked up its 
 echoes with the creaking of my shoes, until their thick soles 
 were worn out past all hope of tapping. Selecting one of 
 the numerous railways that branch out from Mechlin, like 
 the reins from the hand of a popular circus rider in his 
 favourite " six-horse-act," the " Courier of St. Petersburg," 
 I took a ticket for Brussels, and soon found myself spinning 
 along over these fertile plains, whose joyous verdure I had 
 not sufficient time to appreciate before I found myself in 
 the capital of Belgium. 
 
 And what a charming place this city of lace and carpets 
 is ! Clean as a parlour, not a speck nor a stain to be seen 
 any where, with less of Dutch stiffness and more of French 
 ease, so that you do not feel so much like an intruder as in 
 most other strange cities. Brussels is a kind of vestibule to 
 Paris ; its streets, its shops, its public edifices are all re- 
 flections in miniature of those of the French metropolis. 
 It has long seemed to me so natural a preparation for the 
 meridian splendours of Paris, that to go thither in any other 
 way than through Brussels, is as if you should enter a 
 saloon by a back window, rather than through the legitimate 
 4*
 
 42 AGUECflEEK. 
 
 front door. In one respect I prefer Brussels to Paris ; it 
 is smaller, and your mind takes it all in at once. In the 
 French capital, its very vastness bewilders you. You are 
 in the condition of the gentleman whose wife was so fat that 
 when he wished to embrace her, he was- obliged to make 
 two actions of the feat, and use a bit of chalk to insure the 
 proper distribution of his caress. But in Brussels every 
 thing is so harmoniously and compactly combined, that you 
 can enjoy it all at once. How does one's mind treasure up 
 his rambles through these fair streets and gay arcades, his 
 leisurely walks on these spacious boulevards, or under the 
 dense shade of this lovely park, his musings in this fine old 
 church of Ste. Gudule, whose gorgeous windows symbol- 
 ize the heavenly bow, and whose air of devotion is 
 eloquent of the undying hope which abides within its con- 
 secrated precincts ! How one looks back years after leaving 
 Brussels, and conjures up, in his memory, its public monu- 
 ments, from that exceedingly diminutive and peculiar statue 
 near the Hotel de Ville, which has pursued its useful and 
 ornamental career for so many centuries, to the heroic 
 equestrian figure of Godfrey of Bouillon, in the Place 
 Royale ! How vividly does one remember the old Gothic 
 hall, which has remained unchanged during the many years 
 that have passed since the Emperor Charles V. there laid 
 down the burden of his power, and exchanged the throne 
 for the cloister. 
 
 One of the most delightful recollections of my term of 
 residence in Brussels, is of a bright summer day, when I 
 made an excursion to the field of Waterloo. Some Eng- 
 lishmen have established a line of coaches for the purpose 
 real old fashioned coaches, with a driver and a guard, which 
 latter functionary performed Yankee Doodle most admira- 
 bly on his melodious horn as we rattled out of town. The 
 roadside views cannot have changed much since the night
 
 ANTWERP AND BRUSSELS. 43 
 
 when the pavement shook beneath the heavy artillery and 
 thundering tramp of Wellington's army. The forest of 
 Soignies (or, to use its poetical name, Arden) looked as it 
 might have looked before it was immortalized by a Tacitus 
 and a Shakspeare ; and its fresh foliage was " dewy with 
 Nature's tear-drops," over our two coach loads of pleasure- 
 seekers, just as Byron describes it to have been over the 
 " unreturning brave," who passed beneath it forty years 
 ago. Our party was shown over the memorable field by an 
 old English sergeant who was in the battle ; a fine bluff old 
 fellow, and a gentleman withal, who, though his head was 
 white, had all the enthusiasm of a young soldier. It was 
 the most interesting trip of the kind that I ever made, far 
 surpassing my expectations, for the ground remains liter- 
 ally in statu quo ante bellum. No commissioners of high- 
 ways have interfered with its historical boundaries. It 
 remains, for the most part, under cultivation, as it was before 
 it became famous, and the grain grows, perhaps, more lux- 
 uriantly for the chivalric blood once shed there. There 
 they are, unchanged, those localities which seem to so many 
 mere inventions of the historian, Mont St. Jean, the farm 
 of La Haye Sainte, the chateau of Hougoumont, the 
 orchard with its low brick wall, over which the chosen 
 troops of France and England fought hand to hand, and 
 the spot where the last great charge was made, and the 
 spell which held Europe in awe of the name of Napoleon, 
 and made that name his country's watchword, and the syno- 
 nyme of victory, was broken forever. Perhaps I err in 
 saying forever, for France is certainly not unmindful of 
 that name even now. That showery afternoon, when the 
 great conqueror saw his veterans, against whom scores of 
 battle fields, and all the terrors of a Russian campaign, 
 proved powerless, cut to pieces and dispersed by a superior 
 force, to which the news of coming reinforcements gave
 
 44 AGUECHEKK. 
 
 new strength and courage, that very afternoon a boy, with- 
 out a thought of battles or their consequences, was playing 
 in the quiet grounds of the chateau of Malmaison. If Na- 
 poleon could have looked forward forty years, if he could 
 have foreseen the romantic career of that child, and fol- 
 lowed him through thirty years of exile, imprisonment, and 
 discouragement, until he saw him reestablish the empire 
 which was then overthrown, and place France on a higher 
 pinnacle of power than she ever knew before, how comi>ur;i- 
 tively insignificant would have seemed to him the conse- 
 quences of that last desperate charge ! If he could have 
 seen that it was reserved to his nephew, the grandchild of 
 his divorced but faithful Josephine, to avenge Waterloo by 
 an alliance more fatal to England's prestige than any inva- 
 sion could be, and that the armies which had that day borne 
 such bloody witness to their unconquerable daring, would 
 forty years later be united to resist the encroachments of 
 the power which first checked him in his career of victory, 
 he would have had something to think of during that 
 gloomy night besides the sad events that had wrought such 
 a fearful change in his condition. 
 
 I returned to Brussels in the afternoon, meditating on 
 the scenes I had visited, and repeating the five stanzas of 
 Childe Harold in which Byron has commemorated the bat- 
 tle of Waterloo. In the evening I read, with new pleas- 
 ure, Thackeray's graphic Waterloo chapter in Vanity Fair, 
 and dreamed all night of falling empires and " garments 
 rolled in blood." And now I turn my face towards Italy.
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE. 
 
 IT is a happy day in every one's life when he commences 
 his journey into Italy. That glorious land, " rich with the 
 spoils of time " above all others, endeared to every heart 
 possessing any sense of the beautiful in poetry and art, or 
 of the heroic in history, rises up before him as it was wont 
 to do in the days of his youth, when Childe Harold's glow- 
 bag numbers gave a tone of enthusiasm to his every thought, 
 and filled him with longings, for the realization of which he 
 hardly dared to hope. For the time, the commonest ac- 
 tions of the traveller seem to catch something of the inde- 
 scribable charm of the land to which he is journeying. The 
 ticketing of luggage and the securing of a berth on board a 
 steamer occupations which are not ordinarily considered 
 particularly agreeable become invested with an attrac- 
 tiveness that makes him wonder how he could ever have 
 found them irksome. If he approaches Italy by land from 
 France or Switzerland, with what curiosity does he study 
 the varied features of the Piedmontese landscape ! He 
 recognizes the fertile fields which he read about in Tacitus 
 years ago, and endeavours to find in the strange dialect 
 which he hears spoken in the brief stops of the diligence 
 to change horses, something to remind him even faintly of 
 the melodious tongue with whose accents Grisi and Bosio 
 had long since made him familiar. Meanwhile his imagi- 
 nation is not idle, and his mind is filled with historical pic- 
 tures drawn from the classical pages which he once found 
 any thing but entertaining. Though he may be fresh from 
 the cloudless atmosphere of fair Provence, he fancies that 
 
 (46)
 
 40 AGUECHKKK. 
 
 the sky is bluer and the air more pure than he ever saw 
 before. 
 
 It is a great advantage to enter Italy from the sea. In 
 this way you perceive more clearly the national character- 
 istics, and enter at once into the Italian way of life. You 
 avoid in this way that gradual change from one pure na- 
 tionality to another, which is eminently unsatisfactory. 
 You do not weary yourself with the mixed population and 
 customs of those border towns which bear about the same 
 relation to Italy that Boulogne, with its multitude of Eng- 
 lish residents, bears to France. It was my good fortune 
 when I first visited Italy, years ago, to make the voyage 
 from America direct to the proud city of Genoa. Fifty- 
 five weary days passed away before the end of the voyage 
 was reached. Twenty-six of those days were spent in bat- 
 tling with a terrible north-easter, before whose might many 
 a better craft than the one I was in went down into the in- 
 satiable depths. My Italian anticipations kept me up 
 through all the cheerlessness of that time. The stormy sky, 
 the wet, the cold, and all the discomfort could not keep 
 from my mind's eye the vineyards, palaces, churches, and 
 majestic ruins which made up the Italy I had looked for- 
 ward to from childhood. My first sight of that romantic 
 land did somewhat shock, I must acknowledge, my precon- 
 ceived notions. I was called on deck early one December 
 morning to see the land which is associated in most minds 
 with perpetual sunshine. Facing a biting, northerly blast, 
 I saw the maritime range of the Alps covered with snow 
 and looking as relentless as arctic icebergs. My disap- 
 pointment was forgotten, however, two mornings after, when 
 Genoa, wearing " the beauty of the morning," lay before our 
 weather-beaten bark. It was something to remember to 
 my dying day that approach to the city of palaces. 
 Surrounded by its amphitheatre of hills crested on every
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE. 47 
 
 side with heavy fortifications, its palaces, and towers, and 
 domes, and terraced gardens rising apparently from the 
 very edge of that tideless sea, there sat Genoa, surpassing 
 in its splendour the wildest imaginings of my youth. I shall 
 never forget the thrill that ran through every fibre of my 
 frame, when the sun rose above those embattled ridges, and 
 poured his flood of saffron glory over the whole wonderful 
 scene, and the bells from a hundred churches and convents 
 rang out as cheerily as if the sunbeams made them musical, 
 like the statue in the ancient fable, and there was no fur- 
 ther need of bell ropes. The astonishment of Aladdin when 
 he rubbed the lamp and saw the effects of that operation 
 could not have equalled mine, when I saw Genoa put on 
 the light and life of day like a garment. It was like a scene 
 in a theatrical pageant, or one of the brilliant changes in a 
 great firework, so instantaneous was the transition from the 
 subdued light and calmness of early morning to the activity 
 and golden light of day. All the discomfort of the eight 
 preceding weeks was forgotten in the exultation of that 
 moment. I had found the Italy of my young dreams, and 
 myhappiness was complete. 
 
 This time, however, I entered Italy from the north. I 
 pass by clean, prosperous-looking Milan, with its elegant 
 churches, and its white-coated Austrian soldiers standing 
 guard in every public place. I have not a word of lament 
 to utter at seeing a stranger force sustaining social order 
 there. It is better that it should be sustained by a despot- 
 ism far more cruel than that of Austria, than to become 
 the prey of that sanguinary anarchy which is dignified in 
 Europe with the name of republicanism. The most abso- 
 lute of all absolute monarchies is to be preferred to the best 
 government that could possibly be built upon such a foun- 
 dation as Mazzini's stiletto. Far better is the severest 
 military despotism than the irresponsible tyranny of those
 
 48 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 who deny the first principles of government and common 
 morality, and who seem to consider assassination the chief 
 of virtues and the most heroic of actions. I pass by that 
 magnificent cathedral, with its thousands of pinnacles and 
 shining statues piercing the clear atmosphere like the peaks 
 of a stupendous iceberg, and its subterranean chapel, glit- 
 tering with precious metals and jewels, where, in a crystal 
 shrine, repose the relics of the great St. Charles, and the 
 lamps of gold and silver burn unceasingly, and symbolize 
 the shining virtues of the self-forgetful successor of St. 
 Ambrose, and the glowing gratitude of the faithful Milanese 
 for his devotion to the welfare of their forefathers. 
 
 I lingered among the attractions of Genoa for a few 
 days. I enjoy not only those magnificent palaces with their 
 spacious quadrangles, broad staircases, and sculptured fa- 
 fades, but those narrow, winding streets of which three 
 quarters of the city are composed so narrow indeed that 
 a carriage never is seen in them, and a donkey, pannier- 
 laden, after the manner of Ali Baba's faithful animal, com- 
 pels you to keep very close to the buildings. Genoa is 
 the very reverse of Philadelphia. Its streets are as nar- 
 row and crooked as those of Philadelphia are broad and 
 straight. The Quaker City was always a wearisome place 
 to me. Its rectangular avenues so wide that they afford 
 no protection from the wintry blast nor shelter from the 
 canicular sunshine, and as interminable as a tale in a week- 
 ly newspaper tire me out. They make me long for 
 something more social and natural than their straight 
 lines. Man is a gregarious animal. It is his nature 
 to snuggify himself. But the Quaker affects a contempt 
 for snugness, and includes Hogarth's line of beauty 
 among the worldly vanities which his religion obliges him 
 to shun. Every time I think of Philadelphia my disre- 
 spect for the science of geometry is increased, and I find
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE. 49 
 
 myself more and more inclined to believe the most unkind 
 things "that Lord Macaulay can say about Mr. Penn, its 
 founder. Cherishing such sentiments as these, is it wonder- 
 ful that I find Genoa a pleasant city ? I enjoy its gay 
 port, its thronged market place, its sumptuous churches, 
 with gilded vaults and panels, and checkered exteriors, its 
 well-dressed people, from the bluff coachman, who laughed 
 at my attempts to understand the Genoese dialect, to the 
 devout feminines in their graceful white veils, which give 
 the whole city a peculiarly festive and nuptial appearance : 
 but it must be acknowledged, that the up-and-down-stairsy 
 feature of the town is not grateful to my gouty feet. 
 
 I must not weary you, dear reader, with any attempts to 
 describe the dHightful four days' journey from Genoa to 
 Florence, in a vettura. The Cornice road, with its steep 
 cliffs or trim villas on one side, and the clear blue Mediter- 
 ranean on the other, those pleasant old towns, pervaded 
 with an air of respectable antiquity, Chiavari, Sestri, Sar- 
 zana, Spezzia, with its beautiful gulf, whose waters looked 
 so pure and calm that it was difficult to think that they 
 could ever have swallowed poor Percy Shelley, and robbed 
 English literature of one of its brightest ornaments, Pie- 
 tra Santa, Carrara, with its queer old church, its quarries* 
 its door-steps and window-sills of milk-white marble, and 
 its throng of artists, the little marble city of Massa 
 Ducale, nestling among the mountains, the vast groves 
 of olives, whose ash-coloured leaves made noontide seem 
 like twilight, all these things would require a great ex- 
 penditure of time and rhetoric, and therefore I will not 
 even allude to them. 
 
 Neither will I tire you with any reference to my brief 
 
 sojourn in Pisa. I will not tell how delightful it was to 
 
 perambulate the clean streets of that peaceful city, how 
 
 I enjoyed the view from the bridges, the ancient towers and 
 
 5
 
 50 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 domes, and the lofty palaces, whose fair fronts are mirrored 
 in the soft-flowing Arno. I will not attempt to describe the 
 enchantment produced by that noble architectural group, 
 
 the Cathedral, the Baptistery, the Campanile, and the 
 Campo Santo, nor the joy I felt on making a closer 
 acquaintance with that graceful tower, whose inexplicable 
 dereliction from the perfect uprightness which is inculcated 
 as a primary duty in all similar structures, was made 
 familiar to me at an early age, through the medium of a 
 remarkable wood-cut in my school Geography. I will not 
 tell how I fatigued my sense with the forms of beauty with 
 which that glorious church is filled, how refreshing its 
 holy quiet and subdued light were to my travel-worn spirit, 
 
 now how the majestic cloisters of the Campo Santo, with 
 their delicate traceries, antique frescoes, and constantly 
 varying light and shade, elevated and purified my heart of 
 the sordid spirit of this mean, practical age, until I felt 
 that to live amid such scenes, and to be buried at last in 
 the earth of Palestine, under the shade of those solemn 
 arches, was the only worthy object of human ambition. 
 
 I entered Florence late in the afternoon, under cover of 
 a fog that would have done credit to London in the depths 
 of ;ts November nebulosity. It was rather an unbecoming 
 dress for the style of beauty of the Tuscan capital, that 
 mantle of chill vapour, but it was worn but a few hours, 
 and the sun rose the next morning in all his legitimate 
 splendour, and darted his rays through as clear and frosty 
 an atmosphere as ever fell to the lot of even that favoured 
 country. I have once or twice heard the epithet " beauti- 
 ful " applied to this city ; indeed, I will not be sure that I 
 have not met with it in some book or other. It is, in fact, 
 the only word that can be used with any propriety concern 
 ing this charming place. It is not vast like Rome, nor is 
 the soul of its beholder saddened by the sight of mighty
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE. 51 
 
 ruins, or burdened with the weight of thousands of years 
 of heroic history. It does not possess the broad Bay of 
 Naples, nor is it watched over by a stupendous volcano, 
 smoking leisurely for want of some better occupation. But 
 it lies in the valley of the Arno, one of the most harmo- 
 nious and impressive works of art that the world has ever 
 seen, surrounded by natural beauties that realize the most 
 ecstatic dreams of poesy. 
 
 Firenze la bella ! Who can look at her from any of the 
 terraced hills that enclose her from the rude world, and 
 deny her that title? That fertile plain which stretches 
 from her very walls to the edge of the horizon those pic- 
 turesque hills, dotted with lovely villas those orchards and 
 vineyards, in their glory of gold and purple that river, 
 stealing noiselessly to the sea and far away the hoary 
 peaks of the Apennines, changing their hue with every 
 hour of sun-light, and displaying their most gorgeous robes, 
 in honour of the departing day, I pity the man who can 
 look upon them without a momentary feeling of inspiration. 
 The view from Fiesole is consolation enough for a life of 
 disappointment, and ought to make all future earthly trials 
 seem as nothing to him who is permitted to enjoy it. 
 
 And then, those domes and towers, so eloquent of the 
 genius of Giotto and Brunelleschi and of the public spirit 
 and earnest devotion of ages which modern ignorance stig- 
 matizes as " dark," who can behold them without a thrill ? 
 The battlemented tower of the Palazzo Vecchio which 
 seems as if it had been hewn out of solid rock, rather than 
 built up by the patient labour of the mason looks down 
 upon the peaceful city with a composure that seems almost 
 intelligent, and makes you wonder whether it appeared the 
 same when the signiory of Florence held their councils 
 under its massive walls, and in those dark days when the 
 tyrannous factions of Guelph and GhibeUine celebrated
 
 52 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 their bloody carnival. The graceful Campanile of the ca- 
 thedral, with its coloured marbles, seems too much like a 
 mantel ornament to be exposed to the changes of the 
 weather. Amid the other domes and towers of the city rises 
 the vast dome of the cathedral, the forerunner of that of St. 
 Peter's, and almost its equal. It appears to be conscious of 
 its superiority to the neighbouring architectural monuments, 
 and merits Hallam's description " an emblem of the 
 Catholic hierarchy under its supreme head ; like Rome 
 itself, imposing, unbroken, unchangeable, radiating in equal 
 expansion to every part of the earth, and directing its con- 
 vergent curves to heaven." 
 
 There is no city in the world so full of memories of the 
 middle ages as Florence. Its very palaces, with their 
 heavily barred basement windows, look as if they were built 
 to stand a siege. Their sombre walls are in strong con- 
 trast with the bloom and sunshine which we naturally asso- 
 ciate with the valley of the Arno. Their magnificent pro- 
 portions and the massiveness of their construction oppress 
 you with recollections of the warlike days in which they 
 were erected. You wonder, as you stand in their court- 
 yards, or perambulate the streets darkened by their over- 
 hanging cornices, what has become of all the cavaliers ; and 
 if a gentleman in " complete steel " should lift his visor to 
 accost you, it would not startle you so much as to hear two 
 English tourists with the inevitable red guide-books under 
 their arms, conversing about the " Grand Juke." Wherever 
 one may turn his steps in Florence, he meets with some 
 object of beauty or historical interest ; yet among all these 
 charms and wonders there is one building upon which my 
 eyes and mind are never tired of feeding. The Palazzo 
 Riccardi, the cradle of the great Medici family, is not less 
 impressive in its architecture than in its historic associations. 
 Its black walls have a greater charm for me than the varie-
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE. 53 
 
 gated marbles of the Duomo. It was built by the great 
 Cosmo de' Medici, and was the home of that family of 
 merchant princes in the most glorious period of its history, 
 when a grateful people delighted to render to its members 
 that homage which is equally honourable to " him that gives 
 and him that takes." The genius of Michel Angelo and 
 Donatello is impressed upon it. It was within those lofty 
 halls that Cosmo and his grandson, Lorenzo the Magnificent, 
 welcomed. pontiffs and princes, and the illustrious but unti- 
 tled nobility of literature and art, which was the boast of 
 their age. The ancient glories of the majestic pile are kept 
 in mind by an inscription which greets him who enters it 
 with an exhortation to " reverence with gratitude the an- 
 cient mansion of the Medici, in which not merely so many 
 illustrious men, but Wisdom herself abode - a house which 
 was the nurse of revived learning." 
 
 I wonder whether any one ever was tired of strolling 
 about these old streets and squares. At my time of life, 
 walking is not particularly agreeable, even if it be not inter- 
 fered with by either of those foes to active exercise and 
 grace of movement rheumatism or gout; but I must 
 acknowledge that I have found such pleasure in rambling 
 through the familiar streets of this delightful city, that I 
 have taken no note of bodily fatigue, and have forgotten the 
 crutch or cane which is my inseparable companion. It is 
 all the same to me whether I walk about the streets, or 
 loiter in the Boboli Gardens, or listen to the delicious music 
 of the full military band that plays daily for an hour before 
 sunset under the shade of the Cascine. They all afford me 
 a kind of vague pleasure very much that sort of satisfac- 
 tion which springs from hearing a cat purr, or from watch- 
 ing the fitful blaze of a wood fire. I have no fondness for 
 jewelry, and the great Kohinoor diamond and all the crown 
 jewels of Russia could not invest respectable uselessness or 
 5*
 
 54 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 aristocratic vice with any beauty for me, nor add any charm 
 to a bright, intelligent face, such as lights up many a home 
 in this selfish world ; yet I have spent hours in looking at 
 the stalls on the Jeweller's Bridge, and enjoying the covetous 
 looks bestowed by so many passers-by upon their glittering 
 contents. 
 
 There are some excellent bookstalls here, and I have 
 renewed the joys of past years and the memory of Pater- 
 noster Row, Fleet Street, Holborn, the Strand, and of the 
 quays of Paris, in the inspection of their stock. I have a 
 strong affection for bookstalls, and had much rather buy a 
 book at one than in a shop. In the first place it would be 
 cheaper ; in the second place it would be a little worn, and 
 I should become the possessor, not only of the volume, but 
 of its associations with other lovers of books who turned 
 over its leaves, reading here and there, envying the future 
 purchaser. For books, so long as they are well used, 
 increase in value as they grow in age. Sir William Jones'* 
 assertion, that " the best monument that can be erected to a 
 man of literary talents is a good edition of his works," is 
 not to be denied ; but who would think of reading, for the 
 enjoyment of the thing, a modern edition of Sir Thomas 
 Browne, or Izaak Walton ? Who would wish to read 
 Hamlet in a volume redolent of printers' ink and binders' 
 glue ? Who would read a clean new copy of Robinson 
 Crusoe when he might have one that had seen service in a 
 circulating library, or had been well thumbed by several 
 generations of adventure-loving boys ? A book is to me 
 like a hat or coat a very uncomfortable thing until the 
 newness has been worn off". 
 
 It is in the churches of Florence that my enthusiasm 
 reaches its meridian. This solemn cathedral, with its richly 
 dight windows, whose warm hues must have been stolen 
 from the palette of Titian or Tintoretto, makes me forget
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE. 55 
 
 all earthly hopes and sorrows; and the majestic Santa 
 Maria Novella and San Lorenzo, with their peaceful clois- 
 ters and treasures of literature and art, appeal strongly to 
 my religious sensibilities, while they completely satisfy my 
 taste. And then Santa Croce, solemn, not merely as a 
 place of worship, but as the repository of the dust of many 
 of those illustrious men whose genius illumined the world 
 during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries ! I have en- 
 joyed Santa Croce particularly, because I have seen more 
 of the religious life of the Florentine people there. For 
 more than a week I have been there every evening, just 
 after sunset, when the only light that illuminated those an- 
 cient arches came from the high altar, which appeared like 
 a vision of heaven in the midst of the thickest darkness of 
 earth. The nave and aisles of that vast edifice were 
 thronged: men, women, and children were kneeling upon 
 that pavement which contains the records of so much good- 
 ness and greatness. I have heard great choirs ; I have 
 been thrilled by the wondrous power of voices that seemed 
 too much like those of angels for poor humanity to listen to ; 
 but I have never before been so overwhelmed as by the 
 hearty music of that vast multitude. 
 
 The galleries of art need another volume and an abler 
 pen than mine. Free to the people as the sunlight and the 
 shade of the public gardens, they make an American blush 
 to think of the niggardly spirit that prevails in the country 
 which he would fain persuade himself is the most favoured 
 of all earthly abodes. The Academy, the Pitti, the Uffizii, 
 make you think that life is too short, and that art is indeed 
 long. You wish that you had more months to devote to 
 them than you have days. Great as is the pleasure that 1 
 have found in them, I have found myself lingering more 
 fondly in the cloisters and corridors of San Marco than 
 amid the wonderful works that deck the walls of the pal-
 
 56 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 aces. The pencil of Beato Angelico has consecrated that 
 dead plastering, and given to it a divine life. The rapt 
 devotion and holy tranquillity of those faces reflect the 
 glory of the eternal world. I ask no more convincing 
 proof of the immortality of the soul, than the fact that 
 those forms of beauty and holiness were conceived and 
 executed by a mortal. 
 
 It is enough to excite the indignation of any reflective 
 Englishman or American to visit Florence, and compare 
 or perhaps I ought rather to say contrast the facts which 
 force themselves upon his attention, with the prejudices 
 implanted in his mind by early education. Surely, he has 
 a right to be astonished, and may be excused if he indulges 
 in a little honest anger, when he looks for the first time at 
 the masterpieces of art which had their origin in those ages 
 which he has been taught to consider a period of ignorance 
 and barbarism. He certainly obtains a new idea of the 
 " barbarism " of the middle ages, when he visits the benev- 
 olent institutions which they have bequeathed to our times, 
 and when he sees the admirable working of the Compa- 
 gnia della Misericordia, which unites all classes of society, 
 from the grand duke to his humblest subject, in the bonds, 
 of religion and philanthropy. He may be pardoned, too, if 
 he comes to the conclusion that the liberal arts were not 
 entirely neglected in the age that produced a Dante and a 
 Petrarch, a Cimabue and a Giotto, not to mention a host 
 of other names, which may not shine so brightly as these, 
 but are alike superior to temporal accidents, and he can- 
 not be considered unreasonable if he refuses to believe that 
 the ages which witnessed the establishment of universities 
 like those of Paris, Oxford, Cambridge, Prague, Bologna, 
 Salamanca, Vienna, Ferrara, Ingolstadt, Louvain, Leipsic, 
 &c., were quite so deeply sunk in darkness, or were held 
 in an intellectual bondage so utterly hopeless, as the eulo-
 
 GENOA AND FLORENCE. 57 
 
 gists of the* nineteenth century would persuade him. The 
 monuments of learning, art, and benevolence, with which 
 Florence is filled, will convince any thinking man that 
 tho.-;e who speak of the times I have alluded to as the 
 " dark ages," mean thereby the ages concerning which they 
 are in the dark ; and admirably exemplify in their own 
 shallow self-sufficiency the ignorance they would impute to 
 the ages when learning and all good arts were the hand- 
 maids of religion.
 
 ANCIENT ROME. 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE moment in which one takes his first look art Rome 
 is an epoch in his life. Even if his education should have 
 been a most illiberal one, and he himself should be as 
 strenuous an opponent of pontifical prerogatives as John of 
 Leyden or Dr. Dowling, he is sure to be, for the time, im- 
 bued in some measure with the feelings of a pilgrim. The 
 sight of that city which has exercised such a mighty influ- 
 ence on' the world, almost from its very foundation, fills his 
 mind with " troublings of strange joy." His vague notions 
 of ancient history assume a more distinct form. The 
 twelve Caesars pass before his mind's eye like the spectral 
 kings before the Scotch usurper. The classics which he 
 used to neglect so shamefully at school, the historical les- 
 sons which he thought so dull, have been endowed with life 
 and interest by that one glance of his astonished eye. But 
 if he loved the classics in his youth, if the wanderings 
 of .lEneas and the woes of Dido charmed instead of tiring 
 him, if " Livy's pictured page," the polished periods of 
 Sallust and Tacitus, and the mighty eloquence of Cicero, 
 were to him a mine of delight rather than a task, how 
 does his eye glisten with renewed youth, and his heart 
 swell as his old boyish enthusiasm is once more kindled 
 within it ! He feels that he has reached the goal to which 
 his heart and mind were turned during his purest and most 
 unselfish years ; and if he were as unswayed by human 
 respect as he was then, he would kneel down with the travel- 
 worn pilgrims by the wayside to give utterance to his 
 
 (58)
 
 ANCIENT ROME. 59 
 
 gratitude, and to greet the queen city of the world : Salve, 
 magna parens ! 
 
 I shall not easily forget the cloudless afternoon when I 
 first took that long, wearisome ride from Civita Vecchia 
 to Rome. There was no railway in those days, as there 
 is now, and the diligance was of so rude and uncomfort- 
 able a "make that I half suspected it to be the one upon 
 the top of which Hannibal is said to have crossed the 
 Alps, (summd diligentid.) I shared the coupe with two 
 other sufferers, and was, like them, so fatigued that it 
 seemed as if a celestial vision would be powerless to make 
 me forgetful of my aching joints, when (after a laborious 
 pull up a hill which might be included among the " ever- 
 lasting hills " spoken of in holy writ) our long-booted pos- 
 tilion turned his expressive face towards us, and banished 
 all our weariness by exclaiming, as he pointed into the blue 
 distance with his short whip-handle, " Ecco ! Roma ! San 
 Pietro ! " 
 
 A single glance of the eye served to overcome all our 
 fatigue. There lay the world's capital, crowned by the 
 mighty dome of the Vatican basilica, and we were every 
 moment drawing nearer to it. It was evening before we 
 found ourselves staring at those dark walls which have 
 withstood so many sieges, and heard the welcome demand 
 for passports, which informed us that we had reached the 
 gate of the city. 
 
 I was really in Rome, I was in that city hallowed by 
 so many classical, historical, and sacred associations, and 
 it all seemed to me like a confused dream. Twice, before 
 the diligence had gone a hundred yards inside the gate, 
 I had pinched myself to ascertain whether I was really 
 awake ; and even after I passed through the lofty col- 
 onnade of St. Peter's, and had gazed at the front of the 
 church and the vast square which art has made familiar to
 
 60 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 every one, and had seen the fountains with the moonbeams 
 flashing in their silvery spray, I feared lest something 
 should interrupt my dream, and I should wake to find my- 
 self in my snug bedroom at home, wondering at the weak- 
 ness which allowed me to be seduced into the eating of a 
 bit of cheese the evening before. It was not so, however ; 
 no disorganizing cheese had interfered with my digestion ; 
 it was no dream ; and I was really in Rome. I slept 
 soundly when I reached my hotel, for I felt sure that no 
 hostile Brennus lay in wait to disturb the city's peace, and 
 the grateful hardness of my bed convinced me that all the 
 geese of the capital had not been killed, if the enemy should 
 effect an entrance. 
 
 There are few people who love Rome at first sight. The 
 ruins, that bear witness to her grandeur in the days of her 
 worldly supremacy, oppress you at first with an inexpres- 
 sible sadness. The absence of any thing like the business 
 enterprise and energy of this commercial age makes Eng- 
 lish and American people long at first for a little of the 
 bustle and roar of Broadway and the Strand. The "small 
 paving stones, which make the feet of those who are unac- 
 customed to them ache severely, the brick and stone 
 floors of the houses, and the lack of the little comforts of 
 modern civilization, render Rome a wearisome place, until 
 one has caught its spirit. Little does he think who for the 
 first time gazes on those gray, mouldering walls, on which 
 " dull time feeds like slow fire upon a hoary brand," or 
 walks those streets in which the past and present are so 
 strangely commingled, little does he realize how dear 
 those scenes will one day be to him. He cannot foresee 
 the regret with which he will leave those things that seem 
 too common and familiar to deserve attention, nor the 
 glowing enthusiasm which their mention will inspire in 
 after years ; and he would smile incredulously if any one
 
 ANCIENT ROME. 61 
 
 were to predict to him that his heart, in after times, wil] 
 swell with homesick longings as he recalls the memory of 
 that ancient city, and that he will one day salute it from 
 afar as his second home. 
 
 I make no claims to antiquarian knowledge ; for I do not 
 love antiquity for itself alone. It is only by force of associ- 
 ation that antiquity has any charms fo'r me. The pyramids 
 of Egypt would awaken my respect, not so much by their 
 age or size, as by the remembrance of the momentous 
 scenes which have been enacted in their useless and un- 
 graceful presence. Show me a scroll so ancient that human 
 science can obtain no key to the mysteries locked up in the 
 strange figures inscribed upon it, and you would move me but 
 little. But place before me one of those manuscripts (filled 
 with scholastic lore, instinct with classic eloquence, or lu- 
 minous with the word of eternal life) which have come down 
 to us from those nurseries of learning and piety, the monas- 
 teries of the middle ages, and you fill me with the intensest 
 enthusiasm. There is food for the imagination hidden 
 under those worm-eaten covers and brazen clasps. I see 
 in those fair pages something more than the results of the 
 patient toil which perpetuated those precious truths. From 
 those carefully penned lines, and brilliant initial letters, the 
 pale, thoughtful face of the transcriber looks upon me his 
 contempt of worldly ambition and sacrifice of human conso- 
 lations are reflected there and from the quiet of his 
 austere cell, he seems to dart from his serene eyes a glance 
 of patient reproach at the worldlier and more modern age 
 which reaps the fruit of his labour, and repays him by slan- 
 dering his character. Show me a building whose stupendous 
 masonry seems the work of Titan hands, but whose history 
 is lost in the twilight of the ages, so that no record remains 
 of a time when it was any thing but an antique enigma, and 
 its massive columns and Cyclopean proportions will not 
 6
 
 62 AOUECHEEK. 
 
 touch me so nearly as the stone in Florence where Dante 
 used to stand and gaze upon that dome which Michel 
 Angelo said he would not imitate, and could not excel. 
 
 Feeling thus about antiquities, I need not say that those 
 of Rome, so crowned with the most thrilling historical and 
 personal associations, are not wanting in charms for me. 
 Yet I do not claim to be an antiquarian. It is all one to 
 me whether the column of Phocas be forty feet high or 
 sixty, whether a ruin on the Palatine that fascinates me 
 by its richness and grandeur, was once a Temple of Minerva 
 or of Jupiter Stator ; or whether its foundations are of trav- 
 ertine or tufa. I abhor details. My enjoyment of a land- 
 scape would be at an end if I were called upon to count the 
 mild-eyed cattle that contribute so much to its picturesque- 
 ness ; and I have no wish to disturb my appreciation of the 
 spirit of a place consecrated by ages o heroic history, by 
 entertaining any of the learned conjectures of professional 
 antiquarians. It is enough for me to know that I am stand- 
 ing on the spot where Romulus built his straw-thatched 
 palace, and his irreverent brother leaped over the walls of 
 the future mistress of the nations. Standing in the midst 
 of the relics of the grandeur of imperial Rome, the whole of 
 her wonderful history is constantly acting over again in my 
 mind. The stern simplicity of those who laid the founda- 
 tions of her greatness, the patriotic daring of those who ex- 
 tended her power, the wisdom of those who terminated 
 civil strife by compelling the divided citizens to unite 
 against a foreign foe, are all present to me. In that august 
 place where Cicero pleaded, gazing upon that mount where 
 captive kings did homage to the masters of the world, your^ 
 mere antiquarian, with his pestilent theories and measure- 
 ments, seems to me little better than a profaner. When I 
 see such a one scratching about the base of some majestic 
 column in the Forum (although I cannot but be grateful to
 
 ANCIENT ROME. 63 
 
 those whose researches have developed the greatness of the 
 imperial city,) I do long to interrupt him, and remind him 
 that his " tread is on an empire's dust." I wish to recall 
 him from the petty details in which he delights, arid have 
 him enjoy with me the grandeur and dignity of the whole 
 scene. 
 
 The triumphal arches, the monuments of the cultiva- 
 tion of those remote ages, no less than of the power of the 
 .state which erected them, the memorials of the luxury 
 that paved the way to the decline of that power all these 
 things impress me with the thought of the long years that 
 intervened between that splendour and the times when the 
 seat of universal empire was inhabited only by shepherds 
 and their flocks. It wearies me to think of the long centu- 
 ries of human effort that were required to bring Rome to 
 its culminating point of glory ; and it affords me a melan- 
 choly kind of amusement to contrast the spirit of those who 
 laid the deep and strong foundations of that prosperity and 
 power, with that of some modern sages, to whom a hundred 
 years are a respectable antiquity, and who seem to think 
 that commercial enterprise and the will of a fickle populace 
 form as secure a basis for a state as private virtue, and the 
 principle of obedience to law. I know a country, yet in the 
 first century of its national existence, full of hope and am- 
 bition, and possessing advantages such as never before fell 
 to the lot of a young empire, but lacking in those powers 
 which made Rome what she was. If that country, " the 
 newest born of nations, the latest hope of mankind'," which 
 has so rapidly risen to a power surpassing in extent that of 
 ancient Rome, and bears within itself the elements of the 
 decay that ruined the old empire, wealth, vice, corrup- 
 tion, if she could overcome the vain notion that hers is 
 an exceptional case, and that she is not subject to that great 
 law of nature which makes personal virtue the corner-stone
 
 64 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 of national stability and the lack of that, its bane, and 
 could look calmly upon the remains of old Rome's grandeur, 
 she might learn a great lesson. Contemplating the patient 
 formation of that far-reaching dominion until it found its 
 perfect consummation in the age of Augustus, (Tantte molis 
 erat Romanam condere gentem,) she would see that true 
 national greatness is not " the hasty product of a day ; " that 
 demagogues and adventurers, who have made politics their 
 trade, are not the architects of that greatness ; and that the 
 parchment on which the constitution and laws of a country 
 are written, might as well be used for drum-heads when 
 reverence and obedience have departed from the hearts of 
 its people. 
 
 A gifted representative of a name which is classical in 
 ^ the history of the drama, some years ago gave to the world 
 a journal of her residence in Rome. She called her volume 
 " A Year of Consolation " a title as true as it is poetical. 
 Indeed I know of nothing more soothing to the spirit than 
 a walk through these ancient streets, or an hour of medita- 
 tion amid these remains of fallen majesty. To stand in the 
 arena of the Coliseum in the noonday glare, or when those 
 ponderous arches cast their lengthened shadows on the spot 
 where the first Roman Christians were sacrificed to make a 
 holiday for a brutalized populace, to muse in the Pan- 
 theon, that changeless temple of a living, and monument of 
 a dead, worship, and reflect on the many generations that 
 have passed beneath its majestic portico from the days of 
 Agrippa to our own, to listen to the birds that sing amid 
 the shrubbery which decks the stupendous arches of the 
 Baths of Caracalla, to be overwhelmed by the stillness of 
 the Campagna while the eye is filled with that rolling ver- 
 dure which seems in the hazy distance like the waves of 
 the unquiet sea what are all these things but consolations 
 in the truest sense of the word? What is the bitterest
 
 ANCIENT ROME. 65 
 
 grief that ever pierced a human heart through a long life 
 of sorrows, compared to the dumb woe of that mighty deso- 
 lation ? "What are our brief sufferings, when they are 
 brought into the august presence of a mourner who has 
 seen her hopes one by one taken from her, through centu- 
 ries of war and rapine, neglect and silent decay ? 
 
 Among all of Rome's monuments of antiquity, there are 
 few that impress me so strangely as those old Egyptian 
 obelisks, the trophies of the victorious emperors, which the 
 pontiffs have made to contribute so greatly to the adorn- 
 ment of their capital. It is almost impossible to turn a 
 corner of one of the principal streets of the city without 
 seeing one of these peculiar shafts that give a fine finish to 
 the perspective. If their cold granite forms could speak, 
 what a strange history they would reveal ! They were 
 witnesses of the achievements of a power which reached its 
 noonday splendour centuries before the shepherd Faustulus 
 took the foundling brothers into his cottage on the banks of 
 the Tiber. The civilization of which they are the relics 
 had declined before the Roman kings inaugurated that 
 which afterwards reclaimed all Europe from the barbarians. 
 Yet there they stand as grim and silent as if they had but 
 yesterday been rescued from the captivity of the native 
 quarry, and had never seen a nobler form than those of the 
 dusty artisans who wrought them as dull and unimpres- 
 sible as some of the stupid tourists whom I see daily gazing 
 upon these glorious monuments, and seeing only so much 
 brick and stone. 
 6
 
 MODERN ROME. 
 
 ACKNOWLEDGING as I do the charms which the Rome 
 of antiquity possesses for ine, it must still be confessed that 
 the Rome of the present time enchants me with attractions 
 scarcely less potent. Religion has consecrated many of the 
 spots which history had made venerable, and thus, added a 
 new lustre to their associations. I turn from the broken 
 columns and gray mouldering walls of old Rome to those 
 fanes, "so ancient, yet so new," in which the piety of cen- 
 turies has found its enduring expression. Beneath their 
 sounding arches, by the mild light of the lamps that burn 
 unceasingly around their shrines, who would vex his brain 
 with antiquarian lore ? We may notice that the pavement 
 is worn away by the multitudes which have been drawn 
 thither by curiosity or devotion ; but we feel that Heaven's 
 chronology is not an affair of months and years, and that 
 Peter and Paul, Gregory and Leo, are not mere personages 
 in a drama upon the first acts of which the curtain long 
 since descended. Who thinks of antiquity while he inhabits 
 that world of art which Rome encloses within her walls ? 
 Those are not the triumphs of a past age alone ; they are 
 the triumphs of to-day. The Apollo's bearing is not less 
 manly, its step not less elastic, than it was in that remote 
 age when its unknown sculptor threw aside his chisel and 
 gazed upon his finished work. To-day's sunshine is not 
 more clear and golden than that which glows in the land- 
 scapes of Claude Lorraine, though he who thus made the 
 sunbeams his servants has been sleeping for nearly two 
 centuries in the dusty vaults of Trinitd de' Monti. Were 
 
 (66)
 
 MODERN ROME. 67 
 
 Raphael's deathless faces more real while he was living 
 than they are now ? Were Gtiido's and Domenichino's 
 triumphs more worthy of admiration while the paint was 
 wet upon them? or were the achievements of that giant of 
 art, Michel Angelo, ever more wonderful than now ? No ; 
 these great works take no note* of time, and confer upon 
 the city which contains them something of their own im- 
 mortality. 
 
 I have heard people regret that so many of our artists 
 should expatriate themselves, and spend their lives in 
 Rome or Florence. To me, however, nothing seems more 
 natural ; and if I were a painter, or a sculptor, I feel cer- 
 tain that I should share the common weakness of the pro- 
 fession for a place of residence in harmony with my art. 
 What sympathy can a true artist feel with a state of society 
 in which he is regarded by nine people out of ten as a use- 
 less member, because he does not directly aid in the pro- 
 duction of a given quantity of grain or of cloth ? Every 
 stroke of his brush, every movement of his hands in mould- 
 ing the obedient clay, is a protest against the low, mean, 
 materialistic views of life which prevail among us ; and it 
 is too much to ask of any man that he shall spend his days 
 in trying to live peaceably in an enemy's camp. When 
 figs and dates become common articles of food in Lapland, 
 and the bleak sides of the hills of New Hampshire are 
 adorned with the graceful palm tree and the luxuriant 
 foliage of the tropics, you may expect art to flourish in a 
 community whose god is commerce, and whose chief reli- 
 gious duty is money-getting. 
 
 Truly the life of an artist in Rome is about as near the 
 perfection of earthly happiness as is commonly vouchsafed 
 to mortal man. The tone of society, and all the surround- 
 ings of the artist, are so congenial that no poverty nor pri- 
 vation can seriously interfere with them. The streets,
 
 68 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 with their architectural marvels, the trim gardens and pic- 
 turesque cloisters of the old religious establishments, the 
 magnificent villas of the neighbourhood of the city, and 
 the vast, mysterious Campagna, with its gigantic aqueducts 
 and its purple atmosphere, and those glorious galleries 
 which at the same time gratify the taste of the artist and 
 feed his ambition, these are things which are as free to 
 him as the blessed sunlight or the water that sparkles in the 
 countless fountains of the Holy City. I do not wonder 
 that artists who have lived any considerable time in Rome 
 are discontented with the feverish restlessness of our Amer- 
 ican way of life, and that, after " stifling the mighty hunger 
 of the heart " through two or three wearisome years in our 
 western world, they turn to Rome as to a fond mother, upon 
 whose breast they may find that peace which they had else- 
 where sought in vain. 
 
 The churches of Rome impress me in a way which 1 
 have never heard described by any other person. I do not 
 speak of St. Peter's, (that " noblest temple that human skill 
 ever raised to the honour of the Creator,") nor do I refer 
 to those other magnificent basilicas in which the Christian 
 glories of eighteen centuries sit enthroned. These have a 
 lignity and majesty peculiarly their own, and the most 
 thoughtless cannot tread their ancient pavement without 
 being for the time subdued into awe and veneration. But 
 the parish churches of Rome, the churches of the various 
 religious orders and congregations, and those numerous 
 little temples which are so thickly scattered through the 
 city, attract me in a manner especially fascinating. There 
 is an air of cosiness and at-home-ativeness about them 
 which cannot be found in the grander fanes. Some of 
 them seem by their architectural finish to have been built 
 in some fine street or square, and to have wandered off" in 
 search of quiet to their present secluded positions. It is
 
 MODERN ROME. 69 
 
 beneath their arches that the Roman people may be seen. 
 Before those altars you may see men, women, and children 
 kneeling, their lips scarcely moving with the petitions 
 which are heard only in another world. No intruding 
 tourists, eye-glassed and Hurrayed, interfere with their 
 devotions, and the silence of the sacred place is unbroken, 
 save by the rattling of a rosary, or at stated times by the 
 swell of voices from the choir chapel. These are the 
 places where the real power of the Catholic religion makes 
 itself felt more unmistakably than in the grandest cathe- 
 drals, where every form and sound is eloquent of worship. 
 I remember with pleasure that once in London, as I was 
 parsing through that miserable quarter which lies between 
 Westminster Abbey and Buckingham Palace, I was at- 
 tracted by the appearance of a number of people who were 
 entering a narrow doorway. One or two stylish carriages, 
 with crests upon their panels, and drivers in livery, stood 
 before the dingy building which seemed to wear a mysteri- 
 ous air of semi-cleanliness in the midst of the general 
 squalour. I followed the strange collection of the repre- 
 sentatives of opulence and the extremest poverty through 
 a long passage-way, and found myself in a large room 
 which was tastefully fitted up for a Catholic chapel. The 
 simplicity of the place, joined with its strictly ecclesias- 
 tical look, the excellent music, the crowded and devout 
 congregation, and the almost breathless attention which was 
 paid to the simple and persuasive eloquence of the preacher, 
 who was formerly one of the chief ornaments of the estab- 
 lished church, whose highest honours he had cast aside that 
 he might minister more effectually to the poor and despised, 
 all these things astonished and delighted me. To see 
 that church preserving, even in its hiddenness and poverty, 
 its regard for the comeliness of God's worship, and adorn- 
 ing that humble chapel in a manner which showed that
 
 70 AGITCMKKK. 
 
 the spirit which erected the shrines of Westminster, Salis- 
 bury, and York, had not died out, carried me back in spirit 
 to the catacombs of Rome, where the early Christians 
 left the abiding evidences of their zeal for the beauty of 
 the house of God. I was at that time fresh from the con- 
 tinent, and my mind was occupied with the remembrance 
 of the gorgeous churches of Italy. Yet, despite my recol- 
 lection of those " forests of porphyry and marble," those 
 altars of lapis lazuli, those tabernacles glittering with gold, 
 and silver, and precious stones, and those mosaics and 
 frescoes whose beauty and variety almost fatigue the sense 
 of the beholder, I must say that it gave me a new sense 
 of the dignity and grandeur of the ancient Church, to see 
 her in the midst of the poverty and obscurity to which she 
 is now condemned in the land which once professed her 
 faith, and was once thickly planted with those institutions 
 of learning and charity which are the proudest monuments 
 of her progress. A large ship, under full sail, running off 
 before a pleasant breeze, is a beautiful sight ; but it is by 
 no means so grandly impressive as that of the same ship, 
 under close canvas, gallantly riding out the merciless gale 
 that carried destruction to every unseaworthy craft which 
 came within its reach. 
 
 I am not one of those who lament over the millions 
 which have been expended upon the churches of Rome. I 
 am not inclined to follow the sordid principle of that apostle 
 who is generally held up rather as a warning than an ex- 
 ample, and say that it had been better if the sums which 
 have been devoted to architectural ornament had been 
 withheld and given to the poor. Religion has no need, it 
 is true, of these visible splendours, any more than of set 
 forms and modes of speech. For it is the heart that be- 
 lieves, and loves, and prays. But we, poor mortals, so 
 enslaved by our senses, so susceptible to external appear-
 
 MODERN ROME. 71 
 
 ances, need every thing that can inspire in us a respect for 
 something higher than ourselves, or remind us of the glo- 
 ries of the' invisible, eternal world. And can we doubt that 
 He who praised the action of that pious woman who poured 
 the precious ointment upon His sacred head, looks with com- 
 placency upon the sacrifices which are made for the adorn- 
 ment of the temples devoted to his worship ? Is it a right 
 principle that people who are clad in expensive garments, 
 who are not content unless they are surrounded by carved 
 or enamelled furniture, and whose feet tread daily on costly 
 tapestries, should find fault with the generous piety which 
 has made the churches of Italy what they are, and should 
 talk so impressively about the beauty of spiritual worship ? 
 I have no patience with these advocates for simplicity in 
 every thing that does not relate to themselves and their 
 own comforts. 
 
 " Shall we serve Heaven with less respect 
 Than we do minister to our gross selves ? " 
 
 I care not how simple our private houses may be, but I 
 advocate liberality and splendour in our public buildings of 
 all kinds, for the sake of preserving a due respect for the 
 institutions they enshrine. I remember, in reading one of 
 the old classical writers, Sallust, I think, in my young 
 days, being greatly impressed by his declaration that pri- 
 vate luxury is a sure forerunner of a nation's downfall, and 
 that it is a fatal sign for the dwellings of the citizens to 
 be spacious and magnificent, while the public edifices are 
 mean and unworthy. Purely intellectual as we may think 
 ourselves, we are, nevertheless, somewhat deferential to the 
 external proprieties of life, and I very much doubt whether 
 the most reverential of us could long maintain his respect 
 for the Supreme Court if its sessions were held in a tap-
 
 72 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 room, or for religion, if its ministers prayed and preached 
 in pea-jackets and top-boots. 
 
 Displeasing as is the presence of most of the English- 
 speaking tourists one meets in Rome, there are two places 
 where they delight to congregate, which yet have charms 
 for me that not even Cockney vulgarity or Yankee irrev- 
 erence can destroy. The church of the convent of Trinitd 
 de' Monti wins me, in spite of the throng that fills its nave 
 at the hour of evening every Sunday and festival day. 
 Some years since, when I first visited Rome, the music 
 which was heard there was of the highest order of merit. 
 At present the nuns of the Sacred Heart have no such 
 great artistes in their community as they had then, but the 
 music of their choir is still one of those things which he 
 who has once heard can never forget. It is the only 
 church in Rome in which I have heard female voices ; and, 
 though I much prefer the great male choirs of the basili- 
 cas, there is a soothing simplicity in the music at Trinitd. 
 de' Monti which goes home to almost every heart. I have 
 seen giddy and unthinking girls, who laughed at the ceremo- 
 nial they did not understand, subdued to reverence by those 
 strains, and supercilious Englishmen reduced to the humili- 
 ating necessity of wiping their eyes. Indeed, the whole 
 scene is so harmoniously impressive that its enchantment 
 cannot be resisted. The solemn church, lighted only by 
 the twilight rays, and the tapers upon the high altar, the 
 veiled forms of the pious sisterhood and their young pupils 
 in the grated sanctuary, the clouding of the fragrant 
 incense, the tinkling of that silvery bell and of the chains 
 of the swinging censer, those ancient and dignified rites, 
 and over all, those clear, angelic voices praying and 
 praising, in litany and hymn all combine to make up a 
 worship, one moment of which would seem enough to wipe
 
 MODERN ROME. 73 
 
 away the memory of a lifetime of folly, and disappointment, 
 and sorrow. 
 
 The Sistine Chapel is another place to which I am 
 bound by an almost supernatural fascination. My imper- 
 fect eyesight will not permit me to enjoy fully the frescoes 
 that adorn its lofty walls ; but I feel that I am in the pres- 
 ence of the great master and some of his mightiest concep- 
 tions. I do not know whether the chapel is most impressive 
 in its empty state, or when thronged for some great religious 
 function. In the former condition, its fine proportions and 
 its simplicity satisfy me so completely, that I hardly wish 
 for the pomp and splendour which belong to it on great 
 occasions. I know of nothing more grand than the sight 
 of that simple throne of the Sovereign Pontiff, when it is 
 occupied by that benignant old man, to whom more than 
 two hundred millions of people look with veneration as to a 
 father and a teacher, and surrounded by those illustrious 
 prelates and princes who compose a senate of moral and 
 intellectual worth, such as all the world beside cannot par- 
 allel. Those venerable figures those gray hairs those 
 massive foreheads, and those resplendent robes of office, 
 seem to be a part of some great historical picture, rather 
 than a reality before my eyes. There is nothing more 
 severe in actual experience, or more satisfactory in the recol- 
 lection, than Holy Week in the Sistine Chapel. The crowd, 
 the fatigue, and the presence of so many sight-seers, who 
 have come with the same feeling that they would attend an 
 opera or a play, are not calculated to increase one's bodily 
 comfort, or to awaken the sentiments proper to so sacred a 
 season as that which is then commemorated. But after 
 these have passed away, there remains the recollection, 
 which time does not diminish, but makes more precious, of 
 that darkening chapel and the bowed-down heads of the 
 7
 
 74 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 Pope and cardinals, of the music, " yearning like a god in 
 pain," of the melodious woe of the Miserere, the plaintive 
 majesty of the Lamentations and the Reproaches, and the 
 shrill dissonance of the shouts of the populace in the gospel 
 narrative of the crucifixion. These are things which would 
 outweigh a year of fatigue and pain. I know of no greater 
 or more sincere tribute to the perfections of the Sistine choir, 
 and the genius of Allegri and Palestrina, than the patience 
 with which so many people submit to be packed, like herring 
 in a box, into that small chapel. But old and gouty as I am, 
 I would gladly undergo all the discomforts of that time to 
 hear those sounds once more. 
 
 I hear some people complain of the beggars, and wonder 
 why Rome, with her splendid system of charities for the 
 relief of every form of suffering, permits mendicancy. For 
 myself, I am not inclined to complain either of the beggars 
 or of the merciful government, which refuses to look upon 
 them as offenders against its laws. On the contrary, it ap- 
 pears to me rather creditable than otherwise to Rome, that 
 she is so far behind the age, as not to class poverty with 
 crime among social evils. I have a sincere respect for this 
 feature of the Catholic Church ; this regard for the poor as 
 her most precious inheritance, and this unwillingness that 
 her children should think that, because she has organized a 
 vast system of benevolence, they are absolved of the duty 
 of private charity. In this wisdom, which thus provides for 
 the exercise of kindly feelings in alms-giving, may be 
 found one of the most attractive characteristics of the Ro- 
 man Church. This, no less than the austere religious 
 orders which she has founded, shows in what sense she 
 receives the beatitude, " Blessed are the poor in spirit." 
 And the same kind spirit of equality may be seen in her 
 churches and cathedrals, where rich and poor kneel upon 
 the same pavement, before their common God and Saviour,
 
 MODERN ROME. 75 
 
 and in her cloisters, and universities, and schools, where 
 social distinctions cannot enter. 
 
 When I walk through the cloisters of these venerable 
 institutions of learning, or gaze upon the ancient city from 
 Monte Mario, or the Janiculum, it seems to me that never 
 until now did I appreciate the world's indebtedness to 
 Rome. Dislike it as we may, we cannot disguise the fact, 
 that to her every Christian nation owes, in a great measure, 
 its civilization, its literature, and its religion. The end- 
 less empire which Virgil's muse foretold, is still hers ; and, 
 as one of her ancient Christian poets said, those lands which 
 were not conquered by her victorious arms are held in 
 willing obedience by her religion. When I think how all 
 our modern civilization, our art, letters, and jurisprudence, 
 sprang originally from Rome, it appears to me that a nar- 
 row religious prejudice has prevented our forming a due 
 estimate of her services to humanity. To some, the glories 
 of the ancient empire, the memory of the days when her 
 sovereignty extended from Britain to the Ganges, and her 
 capital counted its inhabitants by millions, seem to render 
 all her later history insignificant and dull ; but to my mind 
 the moral dignity and power of Christian Rome is as 
 superior to her old military omnipotence as it is possible 
 for the human intellect to conceive. The ancient emperors, 
 with all their power, could not carry the Roman name much 
 beyond the limits of Europe ; the rulers who have suc- 
 ceeded them have made the majestic language of Rome 
 familiar to two hemispheres, and have built up, by spiritual 
 arms, the mightiest empire that the world has ever seen. 
 For me, Rome's most enduring glories are the memories 
 of the times when her great missionary orders civilized and 
 evangelized the countries which her arms had won, when 
 her martyrs sowed the seed of Christianity with their blood, 
 and her confessors illumined the world with their virtues ;
 
 76 AfiUECHEEK. 
 
 when her pontiffs, single-handed, turned back barbarian 
 invasions, or mitigated the severities of the feudal age, 
 or protected the people by laying their ban upon the 
 tyrants who oppressed them, or defended the sanctity 
 of marriage, and the rights of helpless women against 
 divorce-seeking monarchs and conquerors. These things 
 are the true fulfilment of the glowing prophecy of Rome's 
 greatness, which Virgil puts into the mouth of Anchises, 
 when jEneas visits the Elysian Fields, and hears from his 
 old father that the mission of the government he is about 
 to found is to rule the world by moral power, to make 
 peace between opposing nations, to spare the subject, and to 
 subdue the proud : 
 
 " Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento ; 
 Hae tibi erunt artes, pacisque imponere morem, 
 Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos."
 
 ROME TO MARSEILLES. 
 
 THE weather was fearfully hot the day of my departure 
 from Rome. The sun was staring down, without winking, 
 upon that wonderful old city, as if he loved the sight. The 
 yellow current of old Father Tiber seemed yellower than 
 ever in the glare. Except from sheer necessity, no person 
 moved abroad ; for the atmosphere, which early in the morn- 
 ing had seemed like airs from heaven, before noon had 
 become most uncomfortably like a blast from the opposite 
 direction. The Piazza di Spagna was like Tadmor in the 
 wilderness. Not a single English tourist, with his well-read 
 Murray under his arm, was to be seen there ; not a carriage 
 driver broke the stillness of the place with his polyglot 
 solicitations to ride. The great staircase of Trinitd de' 
 Monti seemed an impossibility ; to have climbed up its 
 weary ascent under that broiling sun would have been poor 
 entertainment for man or beast. The squares of the city 
 were like furnaces, and made one mentally curse architec- 
 ture, and bless the narrow, shady streets. The soldiers on 
 guard at the gates and in the public places looked as if 
 they couldn't help it. Now and then a Capuchin monk, in 
 his heavy, brown habit, girded with the knotted cord, toiled 
 along on some errand of benevolence, and made one mar- 
 vel at his endurance. Occasionally a cardinal rolled by in 
 scarlet state, looking as if he gladly would have exchanged 
 the bondage of his dignity and power for a single day of 
 virtuous liberty in linen pantaloons. 
 
 Traffic seemed to have departed this life ; there were no 
 buyers, and the shopkeepers slumbered at their counters. 
 7 * (77)
 
 78 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 The cafes were shrouded in their long, striped awnings, 
 and seemed to invite company by their well-wet pavement 
 A few old Romans found energy enough to call for an oc- 
 casional ice or lemonade, and talked in the intervals about 
 Pammerstone, and his agent, Mazzini. How the sun blazed 
 down into the Coliseum ! Not a breath of air stirred the 
 foliage that clothes that mighty ruin. Even the birds were 
 mute. To have crossed that broad arena would have per- 
 illed life as surely as in those old days when the first Ro- 
 man Christians there confessed their faith. On such a day, 
 one's parting visits must necessarily be brief; so I left the 
 amphitheatre, and walked along the dusty Via Sacra, paus- 
 ing a moment to ponder on the scene of Cicero's triumphs, 
 and of so many centuries of thrilling history, and coming 
 to the conclusion that, if it were such a day as that when 
 Virginius in that place slew his dear little daughter, the 
 blow was merciful indeed. The market-place in front of 
 the Pantheon, usually so thronged and lively, was almost 
 deserted. The fresh, bright vegetables had either all been 
 sold, or had refused to grow in such a heat. But the Pan- 
 theon itself was unchanged. There it stood, in all its 
 severe grandeur, majestic as in the days of the Caesars, the 
 embodiment of heathenism, the exponent of the worship 
 of the old, inexorable gods, of justice without mercy, 
 and power without love. Its interior seemed cool and 
 refreshing, for no heat can penetrate that stupendous pile 
 of masonry, and I gathered new strength from my short 
 visit. It was a fine thought in the old Romans to adapt 
 the temples of heathenism to the uses of Christianity. 
 The contrasts suggested to our minds by this practice are 
 very striking. When we see that the images of the old 
 revengeful and impure divinities have given place to those 
 of the humble and self-denying heroes of Christianity, that 
 the Saviour of the world stretches out His arms upon the
 
 ROME TO MARSEILLES. 79 
 
 cross, in the place from which the haughty Jupiter once 
 hurled his thunderbolts, we are borne at once to a con- 
 clusion more irresistible than any that the mere force 
 of language could produce. One of our own poets felt 
 this in Rome, and expressed this same idea in graceful 
 verse : 
 
 " The goddess of the woods and fields, 
 
 The healthful huntress undefiled, 
 
 Now with her fabled brother yields 
 
 To sinless Mary and her Child." 
 
 But I must hurry on towards St. Peter's. There are 
 three places in Rome which every one visits as soon as pos- 
 sible after he arrives, and as short a time as may be before 
 his departure the Coliseum, the Pantheon, and St. 
 Peter's. The narrow streets between the Pantheon and 
 the Bridge of St. Angelo were endurable, because they were 
 shady. It was necessary to be careful, however, and not 
 trip over any of the numerous Roman legs whose propri- 
 etors were stretched out upon the pavement in various pic- 
 turesque postures, sleeping away the long hours of that 
 scoiching day. At last the bridge is reached. Bernini's 
 frightful statues, which deform its balustrades, seemed to be 
 writhing under the influence of the sun. I am quite confi- 
 dent that St. Veronica's napkin was curling with the heat. 
 The bronze archangel stood as usual upon the summit of 
 the Castle of St. Angelo. I stopped a few moments, think- 
 ing that he might see the expediency of sheathing his 
 sword and retreating, before he should be compelled, in the 
 confusion of such a blaze as that, to run away ; but it was 
 useless. I moved on towards St. Peter's, and he still kept 
 guard there as brazen-faced as ever. The great square in 
 front of the basilica seemed to have scooped up its fill of 
 heat, and every body knows that it is capable of containing 
 a great deal. The few persons whom devotion or love of
 
 80 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 art had tempted out in such a day, approached it under the 
 shade of its beautiful colonnades. I was obliged to content 
 myself with the music of one of those superb fountains 
 only, for the workmen were making a new basin for the 
 other. St. Peter's never seemed to me so wonderful, 
 never filled me up so completely, as it did then. The con- 
 trast of the heat I had been in with that atmosphere of un- 
 changeable coolness, the quiet of the vast area, the fewness 
 of people moving about, all conspired to impress me with a 
 new sense of the majesty and holiness of the place. The 
 quiet, unflickering blaze of the numerous lamps that burn 
 unceasingly around the tomb of the Prince of the Apostles 
 seemed a beacon of immortality. To one who could at 
 that hour recall the bustle and turmoil of the Boulevards of 
 Paris, or of the Strand, or of Broadway, the vast basilica 
 itself seemed to be an island of peace in the tempestuous 
 ocean of the world. I am not so blind a lover of Gothic 
 architecture that I can find no beauty nor religious feeling 
 in the Italian churches. I prefer, it is true, the " long- 
 drawn aisle and fretted vault," and the " storied windows 
 richly dight ; " but I cannot for that reason sneer at the 
 gracefully turned arches, the mosaic walls and domes rich 
 in frescoes and precious marbles, that delight one's eyes in 
 Italy. Both styles are good in their proper places. The 
 Gothic and Norman, with their high-pitched roofs, are the 
 natural growth of the snowy north, and to attempt to trans- 
 plant them to a land where heat is to be guarded against, 
 were as absurd as to expect the pine and fir to take the 
 place of the fig tree and the palm. Talk as eloquently as 
 we may about being superior to external impressions, I 
 defy any man to breathe the quiet atmosphere of any of 
 these old continental churches for a few moments, without 
 feeling that he has gathered new strength therefrom to 
 tread the thorns of life. Lamartine has spoken eloquently
 
 ROME TO MARSEILLES. 81 
 
 on this theme : " Ye columns who veil the sacred asylums 
 where my eyes dare not penetrate, at the foot of your im- 
 movable trunks I come to sigh ! Cast over me your deep 
 shades, render the darkness more obscure, and the silence 
 more profound ! Forests of porphyry and marble ! the air 
 which the soul breathes under your arches is full of mys- 
 tery and of peace ! Let love and anxious cares seek shade 
 and solitude under the green shelter of groves, to soothe 
 their secret wounds. O darkness of the sanctuary ! the eye 
 of religion prefers thee to the wood which the breeze dis- 
 turbs ! Nothing changes thy foliage ; thy still shade is the 
 image of motionless eternity ! " 
 
 There was not time to linger long. The pressure of 
 worldly engagements was felt even at the shrine of the 
 apostles. I walked about, and tried to recall the many 
 splendid religious pageants I had there witnessed, and won- 
 dered sorrowfully whether I should ever again listen to that 
 matchless choir, or have my heart stirred to its depths by 
 the silver trumpets that reecho under that sonorous vault 
 in the most solemn moment of religion's holiest rite. Once 
 more out in the clear hot atmosphere which seemed hotter 
 than before. The Supreme Pontiff was absent from his cap- 
 ital, and the Vatican was comparatively empty. The Swiss 
 guards, in their fantastic but picturesque uniform, were loi- 
 tering about the foot of the grand staircase, and sighing for 
 a breath of the cool air of their Alpine home. I took a last 
 long gaze at that grand old pile of buildings, the home 
 of all that is most wonderful in art, the abode of that power 
 which overthrew the old Roman empire, inaugurated the 
 civilization of Europe, and planted Christianity in every 
 quarter of the globe, and then turned my unwilling feet 
 homewards. In my course I passed the foot of the Janic- 
 ulum Hill : it was too hot, however, to think of climbing up 
 to the convent of Sant' Onofrio though I would gladly have
 
 82 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 paid a final visit to that lovely spot where the munificence 
 of Pius IX. has just completed a superb sepulchre for 
 the repose of Tasso. So I crossed the Tiber in one of those 
 little ferry boats which are attached to a cable stretched over 
 the river, and thus are swung across by the movement of 
 the current, a labour-saving arrangement preeminently 
 Roman in its character, and soon found myself in my 
 lodgings. However warm the weather may be in Rome, 
 one can keep tolerably comfortable so long as he does not 
 move about, thanks to the thick walls and heavy wooden 
 window shutters of the houses, so I found my room a cool 
 asylum after my morning of laborious pleasure. 
 
 At last, the good byes having all been said, behold me, 
 with my old portmanteau, (covered with its many-coloured 
 coat of baggage labels, those trophies of many a hard cam- 
 paign of travel,) at the office of the diligence for Civita 
 Vecchia. The luggage and the passengers having been 
 successfully stowed away, the lumbering vehicle rolled down 
 the narrow streets, and we were soon outside the gate that 
 opens upon the old Aurelian Way. Here the passports were 
 examined, the postilions cracked their whips, and I felt in- 
 deed that I was " banished from Rome." It is a sad thing 
 to leave Rome. I have seen people who have made but a 
 brief stay there shed more tears on going away than they 
 ever did on a departure from home ; but for one who has 
 lived there long enough to feel like a Roman citizen to 
 feel that the broken columns of the Forum have become a 
 part of his being to feel as familiar with St. Peter's and 
 the Vatican as with the King's Chapel and the Tremont 
 House it is doubly hard to go away. The old city, so 
 " rich with the spoils of time," seems invested with a per- 
 sonality that appeals most powerfully to every man, and 
 would fain hold him back from returning to the world. The 
 lover of art there finds its choicest treasures ever open to
 
 ROME TO MARSEILLES. 83 
 
 him ; the artist there finds an abundance of employment 
 for his chisel or his brush ; the man of business there finds 
 an asylum from the vexing cares of a commercial career ; 
 the student of antiquity or of history can there take his fill 
 amid the " wrecks of a world whose ashes still are warm," 
 and listen to the centuries receding into the unalterable past 
 with their burdens of glory or of crime ; the lover of prac- 
 tical benevolence will there be delighted by the inspection 
 of establishments for the relief of every possible form of 
 want and suffering ; the enthusiast for education finds there 
 two universities and hundreds of public schools of every 
 grade, and all as free as the bright water that sparkles in 
 Rome's countless fountains ; the devout can there rekindle 
 their devotion at the shrines of apostles and martyrs, and 
 breathe the holy air of cloisters in .which saints have lived 
 and died, or join their voices with those that resound in old 
 churches, whose pavements are furrowed by the knees of 
 pious generations ; the admirer of pomp, and power, and 
 historic associations can there witness the more than regal 
 magnificence of a power, compared to which the houses of 
 Bourbon or of Hapsburg are but of yesterday ; the lover 
 of republican simplicity can there find subject for admira- 
 tion in the facility of access to the highest authorities, and 
 in the perfection of his favourite elective system by which 
 the supreme power is perpetuated. There is, in short, no 
 class of men to whom Rome does not attach itself. People 
 may complain during their first week that it is dull, or mel- 
 ancholy, or dirty ; but you generally find them sorry enough 
 to go away, and looking back to their residence there as the 
 happiest period of their existence. Somebody has said, 
 and I wish that I could recall the exact words, they are so 
 true, that when we leave Paris, or Naples, or Florence, 
 we feel a natural sorrow, as if we were parting from a cher-
 
 84 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 ished friend; but on our departure from Rome we feel a pang 
 like that of separation from a woman whom we love ! 
 
 At last Rome disappeared from sight in the dusk of 
 evening, and the discomforts of the journey began to make 
 themselves obtrusive. The night air in Italy is not con- 
 sidered healthy, and we therefore had the windows of the 
 diligence closed. Like Charles Lamb after the oyster pie, 
 we were " all full inside," and a pretty tfme we had of it. 
 As to respiration, you might as well have expected the per- 
 formance of that function from a mackerel occupying the 
 centre of i well-packed barrel of his finny comrades, as of 
 any person '^ide that diligence. Of course there was a 
 baby in the cuoopany, and of course the baby cried. I 
 could not blame it, for even a fat old gentleman who sat 
 opposite to me would have cried if he had not known how 
 to swear. But it is useless to recall the anguish of that 
 night : suffice it to say that for several hours the only air 
 we got was an occasional vocal performance from the above- 
 mentioned infant. At midnight we reached Palo, on the 
 sea coast, where I heard " the wild water lapping on the 
 crag," and felt more keenly than before that I had indeed 
 left Rome behind me. The remainder of the journey being 
 along the coast, we had the window open, though it was 
 not much better on that account, as we were choking with 
 dust. It was small comfort to see the cuttings and fillings- 
 in for the railway which is destined soon to destroy those 
 beastly diligences, and place Rome within two or three 
 hours of its seaport. 
 
 At five o'clock in the morning, after ten toilsome hours, 
 I found myself, tired, dusty, and hungry, in Civita Vecchia, 
 a city which has probably been the cause of more profanity 
 than any other part of the world, including Flanders. I 
 was determined not to be fleeced by any of the hotel keep- 
 ers ; so I staggered about the streets until I found a barber'?
 
 BOME TO MARSEILLES. 85 
 
 shop open. Having repaired the damage of the preceding 
 night, I hove to in a neighboring cafe long enough to take 
 in a little ballast in the way of breakfast. Afterwards I fell 
 in with an Englishman, of considerable literary reputation, 
 whom I had several times met in Rome. He was one of 
 those men who seem to possess all sorts of sense except 
 common sense. He was full of details, and could tell ex- 
 actly the height of the dome of St. Peter's, or of the great 
 pyramid, could explain the process of the manufacture 
 of the Minie rifle or the boring of an artesian well, and 
 could calculate an eclipse with Bond or Secchi, but he 
 could not pack a carpet-bag to save his life. That he 
 should have been able to travel so far from home alone is 
 a fine commentary on the honesty and good nature of the 
 people of the continent. I could not help thinking what 
 a time he would have were he to attempt to travel in 
 America. He would think he had discovered a new 
 nomadic tribe in the cabmen of New York. He had come 
 down to Civita Vecchia in a most promiscuous style, and 
 when I discovered him he was trying to bring about a 
 union between some six or eight irreconcilable pieces of 
 luggage. I aided him successfully in the work, and his 
 look of perplexity and despair gave way to one of gratitude 
 and admiration for his deliverer. Delighted at this escape 
 from the realities of his situation, he launched out into a 
 profound dissertation on the philosophy of language and 
 the formation of provincial dialects, and it was some time 
 before I could bring him down to the common and practical 
 business of securing his passage in the steamer for Mar- 
 seilles. Ten o'clock, however, found us on board one of the 
 steamers of the Messageries Imperiales, and. we were very 
 shortly after under way. We were so unfortunate as to 
 run aground on a little spit of land in getting out of port, 
 as we ran a little too near an English steamer that was 
 8
 
 86 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 lying there. But a Russian frigate sent off a cable to us, 
 and thus established an alliance between their flag and the 
 French, which drew the latter out of the difficulty in which 
 it had got by too close a proximity to its English neighbour. 
 
 It was a beautiful, cloudless day, and reminded me of 
 many halcyon days I had spent on that blue Mediterranean 
 in other times. It reminded me of some of my childhood's 
 days in the country in New England, days described by 
 Emerson where he says that we " bask in the shining hours 
 of Florida and Cuba," when "the day, immeasurably 
 long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm, wide fields," 
 when " the cattle, as they lie on the ground, seem to have 
 great and tranquil thoughts." It was on such a day that I 
 used to delight to pore over my Shakspeare, undisturbed 
 by any sound save the hum of the insect world, or the im- 
 patient switch of the tail, or movement of the feet, of a 
 horse who had sought the same shade I was enjoying. To 
 a man who has been rudely used by fortune, or who has 
 drunk deep of sorrow or disappointment, I can conceive of 
 nothing more grateful or consoling than a summer cruise in 
 the Mediterranean. " The sick heart often needs a warm 
 climate as much as the sick body." 
 
 My ISnglish friend, immediately on leaving port, took 
 some five or six prescriptions for the prevention of seasick- 
 ness, and then went to bed, so that I had some opportunity 
 to look about among our ship's company. There were two 
 men, apparently companions, though they hardly spoke to 
 each other, who amused me very much. One was a person 
 of about four feet and a half in height, who walked about 
 on deck with that manner which so many diminutive per- 
 sons have, of wishing to be thought as tall as Mr. George 
 Barrett. He boasted a deportment that would have made 
 the elder Turveydrop envious, while it was evident that 
 under that serene and dignified exterior lay hidden all the
 
 ROME TO MARSEILLES. 87 
 
 warm-heartedness and geniality of that eminent philan- 
 thropist who was obliged to play a concerto on the violin 
 to calm his grief at seeing the conflagration of his native 
 city. The other looked as if " he had not loved the world, 
 nor the world him ; " he was a thin, bilious-looking person, 
 and seemed like a whole serious family rolled into one 
 individuality. I felt a great deal of curiosity to know 
 whether he was reduced to that pitiable condition by piety 
 or indigestion. I felt sure that he was meditating suicide 
 as he gazed upon the sea, and I Stood by him for some 
 time to prevent his accomplishing any such purpose, until 
 I became convinced that to let him take the jump, if he 
 pleased, would be far the more philanthropic course of 
 action. There was a French bishop, and a colonel of the 
 French staff at Rome, among the passengers, and by their 
 genial urbanity they fairly divided between them the affec- 
 tions of the whole company. Either of them would have 
 made a fog in the English Channel seem like the sunshine 
 of the Gulf of Egina. I picked up a pleasant companion 
 in an Englishman who had travelled much and read more, 
 and spent the greater part of the day with him. When he 
 found that I was an American, he at once asked me if I 
 had ever been to Niagara, and had ever seen Longfellow 
 and Emerson. I am astonished to find so many cultivated 
 English people who know little or nothing about Tennyson ; 
 I am inclined to think he has ten readers in America to 
 one in England, while the English can repeat Longfellow 
 by pages. 
 
 After thirty hours of pleasant sailing along by Corsica 
 and Elba, and along the coast of France, until it seemed as 
 if our cruise (like that of the widow of whom we have all 
 read) would never have an end, we came to anchor in the 
 midst of a vast fleet of steamers in the new port of Mar- 
 seilles. The bustle of commercial activity seemed any
 
 88 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 thing but pleasant after the classical repose of Rome ; but 
 the landlady of the hotel was most gracious, and when I 
 opened the window of my room looking out on the Place 
 Royale, one of those peripatetic dispensers of melody, 
 whose life (like the late M. Mantilini's after he was re- 
 duced in circumstances) must be " one demnition horrid 
 grind," executed " Sweet Home " in a manner that went 
 entirely home to the heart of at least one of his accidental 
 audience.
 
 MARSEILLES, LYONS, AND AIX IN SAVOY. 
 
 IP the people of Marseilles do not love the Emperor of 
 the French, they ought to be ashamed of themselves. He 
 has so completely changed the aspect of that city by his 
 improvements, that the man who knows it as it existed in 
 the reign of Louis Philippe, would be lost if he were to 
 revisit it now. The completion of the railway from Paris 
 to Marseilles is an inestimable advantage to the latter city, 
 while the new port, in magnitude and style of execution, is 
 worthy of comparison with the splendid docks of London 
 and Liverpool. The flags of every civilized nation may be 
 seen there ; and the variety of costumes and languages, 
 which bewilder one's eyes and ears, assure him that he is in 
 the commercial metropolis of the Mediterranean. The 
 frequency of steam communication between Marseilles and 
 the various ports of Spain, Italy, Africa, and the Levant, 
 draws to it a large proportion of the travellers in those 
 directions. I believe that Marseilles is only celebrated for 
 having been colonized by the Phocaeans, or some such peo- 
 ple, for having several times been devastated by the plague, 
 and for having been very perfectly described by Dickens in 
 his Little Dorrit. The day on which I arrived there was 
 very like the one described by Dickens ; so if any one 
 would like further particulars, he had better overhaul his 
 Little Dorrit, and, " when found, make note of it." 
 
 The day after my arrival I saw a grand religious proces- 
 sion in the streets of the city. The landlady of my hotel 
 had told me of it, but my expectations were not raised very 
 high, for I thought that after the grandeur of Rome, all 
 8 0)
 
 90 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 other things in that way would be comparatively tame. But 
 I was mistaken ; the procession fairly rivalled those of 
 Rome. There were the same gorgeous vestments, the 
 same picturesque groupings of black robes and snowy sur- 
 plices, of mitres and crosiers and shaven crowns, of scarlet 
 and purple and cloth of gold, the same swinging censers and 
 clouds of fragrant incense, the same swelling flood of almost 
 supernatural music. The municipal authorities of the city, 
 with the staff of the garrison, joined in the procession, and 
 the military display was such as can hardly be seen out of 
 France. I have often been struck with the facility with 
 which the Catholic religion adapts itself to the character of 
 every nation. I have had some opportunity of observation ; 
 I have seen the Catholic Church on three out of the four 
 continents, and have every where noticed the same phe- 
 nomenon. Mahometanism could never be transplanted to 
 the snowy regions of Russia or Norway ; it needs the soft, 
 enervating atmosphere of Asia to keep it alive ; the ve- 
 randa, the bubbling fountain, the noontide repose, are all 
 parts of it. Puritanism is the natural growth of a country 
 where the sun seldom shines, and which is shut out by a 
 barrier of water and fog from kindly intercourse with its 
 neighbours. It could never thrive in the bright south. 
 The merry vine-dressers of Italy could never draw down 
 their faces to the proper length, and would be very unwill- 
 ing to exchange their blithesome canzonetti for Sternhold 
 and Hopkins's version. But the Catholic Church, while it 
 unites its professors in the belief of the same inflexible 
 creed, leaves them entirely free in all mere externals and 
 national peculiarities. When I see the light-hearted French- 
 man, the fiery Italian, the serious Spaniard, the cunning 
 Greek, the dignified Armenian, the energetic Russian, the 
 hard-headed Dutchman, the philosophical German, the 
 formal and " respectable " Englishman, the thrifty Scotch-
 
 MARSEILLES, LYONS, AND AIX IN SAVOY. 91 
 
 man, the careless and warm-hearted Irishman, and the cal- 
 culating, go-ahead American, all bound together by the pro- 
 fession of the same faith, and yet retaining their national 
 characteristics, I can compare it to nothing but to a simi- 
 lar phenomenon that we may notice in the prism, which, 
 while it is a pure and perfect crystal, is found on examina- 
 tion to contain, in their perfection, all the various colours of 
 the rainbow. 
 
 The terminus of the Lyons and Meditewanean Railway 
 is one of the best things of its kind in the world. I wish 
 that some of our American railway directors could take a 
 few lessons from the French. The attention paid to secur- 
 ing the comfort and safety of the passengers and the regu- 
 larity of the trains would quite bewilder him. Instead of 
 finding the station a long, unfinished kind of shed, with two 
 small, beastly waiting rooms at one side, and a stand 
 for a vender of apples, root beer, and newspapers, he 
 would see a fine stone structure, several hundred feet in 
 length,' with a roof of iron and glass. He would enter a 
 hall which would remind him of the Doric hall of the State 
 House in Boston, only that it is several times larger, and is 
 paved with marble. He would choose out of the three 
 ticket offices of the three classes, where he would ride, and 
 he would be served with a promptness and politeness that 
 would remind him of Mr. Child in the palmy days of the 
 old Tremont Theatre, while he would notice that an officer 
 stood by each ticket office to see that every purchaser got 
 his ticket and the proper change, and to give all necessary 
 information. Having booked his luggage, he would be 
 ushered into one of the three waiting rooms, all of them 
 furnished in a style of neatness and elegance that would 
 greatly astonish him. He might employ the interval in the 
 study of geography, assisted by a map painted on one side 
 of the room, giving the entire south of France and Pied-
 
 2 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 mont, with the railways, &c., and executed in such a style 
 that the names of the towns are legible at a distance of 
 fifteen or twenty feet. Two or three minutes before the 
 hour fixed for the starting of the train, the door would be 
 opened, and he would take his seat in the train with the 
 other passengers. The whole affair would go on so system- 
 atically, with such an absence of noise and excitement, that 
 he would doubt whether he had been in a railway station at 
 all, until he found himself spinning along at a rapid rate, 
 through long tunnels, and past the beautiful panorama of 
 Proven9al landscape. 
 
 The sun was as bright as it always is in fair Provence, 
 the sky as blue. The white dusty roads wound around over 
 the green landscape, like great serpents seeking to hide 
 their folds amid those hills. The almond, the lemon, and the 
 fig attracted the attention of the traveller from the north, 
 before all other trees, not to forget however, the pale 
 foliage of that tree which used to furnish wreaths for Mi- 
 nerva's brow, but now supplies us with oil for our salads. 
 Aries, with its old amphitheatre (a broken shadow of the 
 Coliseum) looming up above it, lay stifled with dust and 
 broiling in the sun, as we hurried on towards Avignon. It 
 does not take much time to see that old city, which, from 
 being so long the abode of the exiled popes, seems to have 
 caught and retained something of the quiet dignity and 
 repose of Rome itself. That gloomy old palace of the 
 popes, with its lofty turrets, seems to brood over the town, 
 and weigh it down as with sorrow for its departed great- 
 ness.' Centuries have passed, America has been discovered, 
 the whole face of Europe has changed, since a pontiff 
 occupied those halls ; and yet there it stands, a monument 
 commemorating a mere episode in the history of the see of 
 St. Peter. 
 
 Arriving at Lyons, I found another palatial station, on
 
 MARSEILLES, LYONS, AND AIX IN SAVOY. 93 
 
 even a grander scale than that of Marseilles. The archi- 
 tect has worked the coats of arms of the different cities of 
 France into the stone work of the exterior in a very effec- 
 tive manner. Lyons bears witness, no less than Marseilles, 
 to the genius of the wonderful man who now governs France. 
 It is a popular notion in England and America, that the 
 enterprise of Napoleon III. has been confined to the im- 
 provement of Paris. If persons who labour under this error 
 would extend their journeyings a little beyond the ordinary 
 track of a summer excursion, they would find that there is 
 scarcely a town in the empire that has not felt the influence 
 of his skill as a statesman and political economist. The 
 Rue Imperiale of Lyons is a monument of which any sov- 
 ereign might be justly proud. The activity of Lyons, the 
 new buildings rising on every side, and its look of pros- 
 perity, would lead one to suppose that it was some place 
 that had just been settled, instead of a city with twenty 
 centuries of history. The Sunday, I was glad to see, was 
 well observed; perhaps not exactly in the style which 
 Aminadab Sleek would commend, but in a very rational 
 Christian, un-Jewish manner. The shops were, for the 
 most part, closed, the churches were crowded with people, 
 and in the afternoon and evening the entire population was 
 abroad enjoying itself and a cleaner, better-behaved, 
 happier-looking set of people I never saw. The excessive 
 heat still continues. It is now more than two months since 
 I opened my umbrella ; the prospects of the harvest are 
 good, but they are praying hard in the churches for a little 
 rain. During my stay at Lyons, I lived almost entirely on 
 fresh figs, and plums and ices. How full the cafes were 
 those sultry evenings ! How busy must the freezers have 
 been in the cellars below ! I read through all the news- 
 papers I could lay my hands on, and then amused myself 
 with watching the gay, chattering throng around me. How
 
 94 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 my mind flew across the ocean that evening to a quiet back 
 parlour at the South End ! I could see the venerable Baron 
 receiving a guest on such a night as that, and making the 
 weather seem cool by contrast with the warmth of his hos- 
 pitality. I could see him offering to his perspiring visitor 
 a release from the slavery of broadcloth, in the loan of a 
 nankeen jacket, and then busying himself in the prepara- 
 tion of a compound of old Cochituate, (I had almost said 
 old Jamaica,) of ice, of sugar, yea, of lemons, and com- 
 mending the grateful chalice to the parched lips of his guest. 
 Such an evening in the Baron's back parlour is the very 
 ecstasy of hospitality. It is many months since that old 
 nankeen jacket folded me in its all-embracing arms, but the 
 very thought of it awakes a thrill of pleasure in my heart. 
 When I last saw it, " decay's effacing fingers " had meddled 
 with the buttons thereof, and it was growing a trifle con- 
 sumptive in the vicinity of the elbows ; but I hope that it is 
 good for many a year of usefulness yet, before the epitaph 
 writer shall commence the recital of its merits with those 
 melancholy words, Hie jacet ! Pardon me, dear reader, 
 for this digression from the recital of my wanderings ; but 
 this jacket, the remembrance of which is so dear to me, is 
 not the trifle it may seem to you. It is, I believe, the only 
 institution in the world of the same age and importance, 
 which has not been apostrophized in verse by that gifted 
 bard, Mr. Martin Farquhar Tupper. If this be not celeb- 
 rity, what is it ? 
 
 In one of the narrow streets of Lyons I found a barber 
 named Melnotte. He was a man somewhat advanced in 
 life, and I feel sure that he addressed a good-looking woman 
 in a snowy white cap, who looked in from a back room 
 while I was having my hair cut, as Pauline. Be that as it 
 may, when he had finished his work, and I walked up to 
 the mirror to inspect it, he addressed to me the language
 
 MARSEILLES, LYONS, AND AIX IN SAVOY. 95 
 
 of Bulwer's hero, " Do you like the picture ? " or words to 
 that effect. I cannot help mistrusting that Sir Edward 
 may have misled us concerning the ultimate history of the 
 Lady of Lyons and her husband. But the heat was too 
 intolerable for human endurance ; so I packed up, and leav- 
 ing that fair city, with its numerous graceful bridges, and 
 busy looms whose fabrics brighten the eyes of the beauties 
 of Europe and America, and lighten the purses of their 
 chivalry, leaving Our Lady of Fourvieres looking down 
 with outstretched hands from the dome of her lofty shrine, 
 and watching over her faithful Lyonnese, I turned my 
 face towards the Alpine regions. 
 
 The Alps have always been to me what Australia was to 
 the late Mr. Micawber " the bright dream of my youth, 
 and the fallacious aspiration of my riper years." I remem- 
 ber when I was young, long before the days of railways and 
 steamers, in the times when a man who had travelled in 
 Europe was invested with a sort of awful dignity I re- 
 member hearing a travelled uncle of mine tell about the 
 Alps, and I resolved, with all the enthusiasm of boyhood, 
 thenceforward to "save up" all my Fourth of July and 
 Artillery Election money, until I should be able to go and 
 see one. When the Rev. James Sheridan Knowles (he 
 was a wicked playactor in those days) produced his drama 
 of William Tell, how it fed the flame of my ambition ! 
 How I longed to stand with the hero once again among his 
 native hills ! How I loved the glaciers ! How I doted on 
 the avalanches ! But age has cooled the longings of my 
 heart for mountain excursions, and robbed my legs of all 
 their climbing powers, so that if it depends upon my own 
 bodily exertions, the Vale of Chamouni will be entirely un- 
 available for me, and every mount will be to me a blank. 
 The scenery along the line of railway from Amberieu to 
 Culoz on the Rhone is very grand. The ride reminded me
 
 96 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 of the ride over the Atlantic and St. Lawrence road through 
 the White Mountains, only it is finer. The boldness of the 
 cliffs and precipices was something to make one's heart beat 
 quick, and cause him to wonder how the peasants could 
 work so industriously, and the cattle feed so constantly, 
 without stopping to look up at the magnificence that hemmed 
 them in. 
 
 At Culoz I went on board one of those peculiar steamers 
 of the Rhone about one hundred and fifty feet in length 
 by ten or twelve in width. Our way lay through a narrow 
 and circuitous branch of the river for several miles. The 
 windings of the river were such that men were obliged to 
 turn the boat about by means of cables, which they made 
 fast to posts fixed in the banks on either side for that pur- 
 pose. The scenery along the banks was like a dream of 
 Paradise. To say that the country was smiling with flowers 
 and verdure does not express it it was bursting into a 
 broad grin of fertility. Such vineyards ! Not like the 
 grape vine in your back yard, dear reader, nailed up against 
 a brick wall, but large, luxuriant vines, seeming at a loss 
 what to do with themselves, and festooned from tree to tree, 
 just as you see them in the scenery of Fra Diavolo. And 
 then there were groups of people in costumes of picturesque 
 negligence, and women in large straw hats, and dresses of 
 brilliant colours, just like the chorus of an opera. The deep, 
 rich hue of the foliage particularly attracted my notice. It 
 was as different from the foliage of New England as Win- 
 ship's Gardens are from an invoice of palm-leaf hats. Be- 
 yond the immediate vicinity of the river rose up beautiful 
 hills and cliffs like the Palisades of the Hudson. Let those 
 who will, prefer the wild grandeur of our American mountain 
 scenery ; there is a great charm for me in the union of nature 
 and art. The careful cultivation of the fields seems to set off 
 and render more grand and austere the gray, jagged cliffs
 
 MARSEILLES, LYONS, AND AIX IN SAVOY. 97 
 
 that overlook them. As the elder Pliny most justly re- 
 marks, (lib. iv. cap. xi. 24,) "It requires the lemon as well 
 as the sugar to make the punch." 
 
 After about an hour's sail upon the river, we came, out 
 upon the beautiful Lake of Bourget. It was stirred by a 
 gentle breeze, but it seemed as if its bright blue surface had 
 never reflected a cloud. All around its borders the trees 
 and vines seemed bending down to drink of its pure waters. 
 Far off in the distance rose up the mighty peaks of the Alps 
 
 their snow-white tops contrasting with the verdure of 
 their sides. They seemed to be watching with pleasure 
 over the glad scenes beneath them, like old men whose 
 gray hairs have been powerless to disturb the youthful 
 freshness and geniality of their hearts. 
 
 At St. Innocent I landed, and underwent the custom 
 house formalities attendant upon entrance into a new terri- 
 tory. The officials were very expeditious, and equally po- 
 lite. I at first supposed that the letters V. E., which each 
 of them bore conspicuously on his cap, meant " very empty" 
 
 but it afterwards occurred to me that they were the 
 initials of his majesty, the King of Sardinia. A few minutes' 
 ride over the " Victor Emmanuel Railway " brought me to 
 the beautiful village of Aix. It is situated, as my friend 
 the Lyonnese barber would say, in " a deep vale shut out by 
 Alpine hills from the rude world." It possesses about 2500 
 inhabitants ; but that number is considerably augmented at 
 present, for the mineral springs of Aix are very celebra- 
 ted, and this is the height of " the season." There is a 
 great deal of what is called " society " here, and during the 
 morning: the baths are crowded. It is as dull as all water- 
 
 O - i 
 
 ing places necessarily are, and twice as hot I think that 
 the French manage these things better than we do in Amer- 
 ica. There is less humbug, less display of jewelry and 
 dress, and a vast deal more of common sense and solid 
 9
 
 98 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 comfort than with us. The cafes are like similar establish- 
 ments in all such places an abundance of ices and 
 ordinary coffee, and a plentiful lack of newspapers. I have 
 found a companion, however, who more than makes good 
 the latter deficiency. He is an Englishman of some seventy 
 years, who is here bathing for his gout. His light hair and 
 fresh complexion disguise his age so completely that most 
 people, when they see us together, judge me, from my gray 
 locks, to be the elder. He is one of the most entertaining 
 persons I have ever met he knows the classics by heart, 
 
 is familiar with English, French, Italian, German, and 
 Spanish literature, speaks nine languages, and has 
 travelled all over the world. He is as familiar with the 
 Steppes of Tartary as with Wapping Old Stairs, has im- 
 bibed sherbet in Damascus and sherry cobblers in New 
 York, and seen a lion hunt in South Africa. But his heart 
 is the heart of a boy " age cannot wither nor custom 
 stale " its infinite geniality. He cannot pass by a beggar 
 without making an investment for eternity, and all the 
 babies look over the shoulders of their nurses to smile at 
 him as he walks the streets. I mention him here for the 
 sake of recording one of his opinions, which struck me by 
 its truth and originality. We were sitting in a cafe last 
 evening, and, after a long conversation, I asked him what 
 he should give as the result of all his reading and observa- 
 tions of men and things, and all his experience, if he were 
 to sum it up in one sentence. " Sir," said he, removing his 
 meerschaum from his mouth, and turning towards me as if 
 to give additional force to his reply, " it may all be com- 
 prised ir\ this : the world is composed of two classes of men 
 
 natural fools and d d fools ; the first class are those 
 who have never made any pretensions, or have reached a 
 just appreciation of the nothingness of all human acquire- 
 ments and hopes ; the second are those whose belief in their
 
 MARSEILLES, LYONS, AND AIX IN SAVOY. 99 
 
 own infallibility has never been disturbed ; and this class 
 includes a vast number of every rank, from the profound 
 German philosopher, who thinks that he has fathomed infin- 
 ity, down to that young fop twirling his moustache at the 
 opposite table, and flattering himself that he is making a 
 great impression." 
 
 Savoy, as every body knows, was once a part of France, 
 and it still retains all of its original characteristics. I have 
 not heard ten words of Italian since I arrived here, and, 
 judging from what I do hear and from the tone of the news- 
 papers, it would like to become a part of France again. 
 The Savoyards are a religious, steady-going people, and 
 they have little love either for the weak and dissolute 
 monarch who governs them, or for the powerful, infidel 
 prime minister who governs their monarch. The high- 
 pitched roofs of the houses here are suggestive of the snows 
 of winter ; but the heat reminds me of the coast of Africa 
 during a sirocco. How true is Sydney Smith's remark, 
 " Man only lives to shiver or perspire " ! The thermometer 
 ranges any where from 80 to 90. Can this be the legiti- 
 mate temperature of these mountainous regions ? I am 
 " ill at these numbers," and nothing would be so invigorating 
 to my infirm and shaky frame as a sniff of the salt breezes 
 of Long Branch or Nantasket.
 
 AIX TO PARIS. 
 
 THERE is no need of telling how disgusted I became with 
 Aix-les-Bains and all that in it is, after a short residence 
 there. How I hated those straw-hatted people who beset 
 the baths from the earliest flush of the aurora ! How I 
 detested those fellows who were constantly pestering me 
 with offers (highly advantageous, without doubt) of donkeys 
 whereon to ride, when they knew that I didn't want one ! 
 How I abominated the sight of a man (who seemed to haunt 
 me) in a high velvet-collared coat and a bell-crowned hat 
 just overtopping an oily-looking head of hair and bushy 
 whiskers who looked, for all the world, as if he were made 
 up for Sir Harcourt Courtly ! How maliciously he held on 
 to the newspapers in the cafe.! How constantly he sat 
 there and devoured all the news out of them through the 
 medium of a double tortoise-shell eye-glass, which always 
 seemed to be just falling off his nose ! How I abhorred the 
 sight of those waiters, who looked as if the season were a 
 short one, and time (as B. Franklin said) was money! 
 How stifling was the atmosphere of that " seven-by-nine " 
 room for which I had to pay so dearly ! How hot, how 
 dusty, how dull it was, I need not weary you by telling ; 
 suffice it to say, that I never packed my trunk more will- 
 ingly than when I left that village. I am very glad to 
 have been there, however, for the satisfaction I felt at leav- 
 ing the place is worth almost any effort to obtaiu. The joy 
 of departure made even the exorbitant bills seem reasona- 
 ble ; and when I thought Of the stupidity and discomfort I 
 was escaping from, I felt as if, come what might, my future 
 
 (100)
 
 AIX TO PARIS. 101 
 
 could only be one of sunshine and content. Aix-les-Bains 
 is one of the pleasarrtest places to leave that I have ever 
 seen. I can never forget the measureless happiness of 
 seeing my luggage ticketed for Paris, and then taking my 
 seat with the consciousness that I was leaving Aix (not 
 aches, alas !) behind me. 
 
 The Lake of Bourget was as beautiful and smiling as be- 
 fore only it did seem as if the sun might have held in a 
 little. He scorched and blistered the passengers on that 
 steamboat in the most absurd manner. He seemed never 
 to have heard of Horace, and was consequently entirely 
 ignorant of the propriety of maintaining a modus in his re- 
 buses. The scenery along the banks of the Rhone had not 
 changed in the least, but was as romantic and theatrical 
 as ever. At Culoz I was glad to get on shore, for like 
 Hamlet, I had been " too much i' the sun ; " so I left the 
 " blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone," (which the late Lord 
 Byron, with his usual disregard of truth, talks about, and 
 which is as muddy as a Medford brick-yard,) and took 
 refuge in the hospitality of a custom house. Here I fell 
 into a meditation upon custom house officers. I wonder 
 whether the custom house officers of France are in their 
 leisure hours given to any of the vanities which delight 
 their American brethren. There was one lean, thoughtful- 
 looking man among those at Culoz who attracted my atten- 
 tion. I tried ineffectually to make out his bent from his 
 physiognomy. I could not imagine him occupying his 
 leisure by putting any twice-told tales on paper or culti- 
 vating Shanghai poultry or riding on to the tented field 
 amid the roar of artillery at the head of a brigade of militia, 
 and I was obliged, in the hurry of the examination of 
 luggage, to give him up. 
 
 I had several times, during the journey from Aix, noticed 
 a tall, eagle-eyed man, in a suit of gray, and wearing a 
 9*
 
 102 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 moustache of the same colour, and while we were waiting 
 for the train at Culoz, I observed that he attracted a great 
 deal of attention : his bearing was so commanding, that I 
 had set him down as being connected with the military in- 
 terest, before I noticed that he did not bear arms, for the 
 left sleeve of his coat hung empty and useless by his side ; 
 so I ventured to inquire concerning him, and learned that I 
 was a fellow-traveller of Marshal Baraguay d'Hilliers. I 
 must do him the justice to say that he did not look like a 
 man who would leave his arms on the field. 
 
 "We were soon whirling, and puffing, and whistling along 
 through the tame but pleasing landscape of France. Those 
 carefully-tilled fields, those vineyards almost overflowing 
 with the raw material of conviviality, those interminable 
 rows of tall trees which seem to give no shade, those farm- 
 houses, whose walls we should in America consider strong 
 enough for fortifications, those contented-looking cattle, those 
 towns that seem to consist of a single street and an old 
 gray tower, with a dark-coloured conical top, like a candle 
 extinguisher, all had a good, familiar look to me; and 
 the numerous fields of Indian corn almost made me think 
 that I was on my way to Worcester or Fitchburg. I 
 stopped for a while at Macon, (a town which I respect for 
 its contributions to the good cheer of the world,) and hugely 
 enjoyed a walk through its clean, quiet streets. While I was 
 waiting at the station, the express train from Paris came 
 along ; and many of the passengers left their places (like 
 Mr. Squeers) to stretch their legs. Among them was a man 
 whose acquisitive eye, black satin waistcoat, fashionable 
 hat, (such as no man but an American would think of trav- 
 elling in,) and coat with the waist around his hips, and six 
 or eight inches of skirt, immediately fixed my attention. 
 Before I thought, he had asked me if I could speak Eng- 
 lish/ I set him at his ease by answering that I took lessons
 
 AIX TO PAULS. 103 
 
 in it once when I was young, and he immediately launched 
 out as follows : " Well, this is the cussedest language I 
 ever did hear. I don't see how in the devil these blasted 
 fools can have lived so long right alongside of England 
 without trying to learn the English language." The 
 whistle of the engine cut short the declaration of his senti- 
 ments, and he was whizzing on towards Lyons a moment 
 after. Whoever that man may have been, he owes it to 
 himself and his country to write a book. His work would 
 be as worthy of consideration as the writings of two thirds 
 of our English and American travellers, who think they 
 are qualified to write about the government and social con- 
 dition of a country because they have travelled through it. 
 Fancy a Frenchman, entirely ignorant of the English 
 tongue, landing at Boston, and stopping at the Tremont 
 House or Parker's ; he visits the State House, the Athe- 
 naeum, Bunker Hill, the wharves, &c. Then on Sunday 
 he wishes to know something about the religion of these 
 strange people ; so he goes across the street to the King's 
 Chapel, and finds that it is closed ; so he walks down the 
 street in the burning sun to Brattle Street, where he hears 
 a comfortable, drony kind of sermon, which seems to have 
 as composing an effect upon the fifty or a hundred persons 
 who are present as upon himself. In the afternoon he finds 
 his way to Trinity Church, (somebody having charitably 
 told him that that is the most genteel place,) and there he 
 hears " our admirable liturgy " sonorously read out to twenty 
 or thirty people, all of whom are so engrossed in their de- 
 votions that the responses are entirely neglected. Having 
 had enough of what the Irishman called the English leth- 
 argy, he returns to his lodgings, and writes in his note-book 
 that the Americans seldom go to church, and when they do, 
 go there to sleep in comfortable pews. Then he makes 
 a little tour of a fortnight to New Haven, Providence,
 
 104 AGUEC1IEEK. 
 
 Springfield, &c., and returns to France to write a book of 
 travels in New England. And what are all his observa- 
 tions worth ? I'll tell you. They are worth just as much, 
 and give exactly as faithful a representation of the state of 
 society in New England, as four fifths of the books written 
 by English and American travellers in France, Spain, and 
 Italy, do of the condition of those countries. 
 
 I have encountered many interesting studies of humanity 
 here on the continent in my day. I have met many people 
 who have come abroad with a vague conviction that travel 
 improves one, and who do not see that to visit Europe 
 without some preparation is like going a-fishing without 
 line or bait. They appear to think that some great benefit 
 is to be obtained by passing over a certain space of land" 
 and water, and being imposed upon to an unlimited extent by 
 a horde of commissionaires, ciceroni, couriers, and others, 
 who find in their ignorance and lack of common sense a 
 source of wealth. I met, the other day, a gentleman from 
 one of the Western States, who said that he was " putting 
 up " at Meurice's Hotel, but didn't think much of it : if it 
 had not been for some English people whom he fell in with 
 on the way from Calais, he should have gone to the Hotel 
 de Ville, which he supposed, from the pictures he had seen, 
 must be a " fust class house " ! I have within a few hours 
 seen an American, who could not ask the simplest question 
 in French, but thinks that he shall stop three or four weeks, 
 and learn the language! I have repeatedly met people 
 who told me that they had come out to Europe "jest to see 
 the place." But it is not alone such ignoramuses as these 
 who merit the pity or contempt of the judicious and sen- 
 sible. Their folly injures no one but themselves. The 
 same cannot be said, however, of the authors of the nu- 
 merous duodecimos of foreign travel which burden the 
 booksellers' counters. They have supposed that they can
 
 AIX TO PARIS. 105 
 
 sketch a nation's character by looking at its towns from the 
 windows of an express train. They presume to write 
 about the social life of France or Italy, while they are 
 ignorant of any language but their own, and do not know a 
 single French or Italian family. Victims of a bitter preju- 
 dice against those countries and their institutions, they are 
 prepared beforehand to be shocked and disgusted at all 
 they see. Like Sterne's Smelfungus, they " set out with 
 the spleen -and jaundice, and every object they pass by is 
 discoloured or distorted." Kenelm Digby wisely remarks 
 that one of the great advantages of journeying beyond sea, 
 to a man of sense and feeling, is the spectacle of general 
 travellers : " it will prevent his being ever again imposed 
 upon by these birds of passage, when they record their 
 adventures and experience on returning to the north." 
 
 Dijon is a fine old city. Every body knows that it used 
 to be the capital of Burgundy, but to the general reader it 
 is more particularly interesting as being the place to which 
 Mrs. Dombey and Mr. Carker fled after the elopement. 
 There is a fine cathedral and public library, and the whole 
 place has an eminently Burgundian flavour which makes one 
 regret that he got tired so soon when he tried to read Frois- 
 sart's Chronicles. There is a church there which was 
 desecrated during the old revolution, and is now used as 
 a market-house. It bears an inscription which presents 
 a satirical commentary on its recent history : " Domine, 
 dilexi decorem domus ttue ! " The Dijon gingerbread 
 (which the people, in their ignorance and lack of our 
 common school advantages, call pain cfepice) would really 
 merit a diploma from that academy of connoisseurs, the 
 Massachusetts House of Representatives. But Dombey 
 and Dijon are all forgotten in our first glimpse of the " gay 
 capital of bewildering France." There lay Paris, spar- 
 kling under the noonday sun. The sight of its domes and
 
 106 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 monuments awoke all my fellow-travellers : shabby caps 
 and handkerchiefs were exchanged for hats and bonnets, 
 which gave their wearers an air of respectability perfectly 
 uncalled for. We were soon inside the fortifications, which 
 have been so outgrown by the city that one hardly notices 
 them ; and, after the usual luggage examination, I found 
 myself in an omnibus, and once more on the Boulevards. 
 
 And what a good, comfortable home-feeling it was ! 
 There were the old, familiar streets, the well-known adver- 
 tisements, painted conspicuously, in blue, and green, and 
 gold, on what would else have been a blank, unsightly 
 wall, and inviting me to purchase cloths and cashmeres; 
 there were the same ceaseless tides of life ebbing and 
 flowing through those vast thoroughfares, the same glossy 
 beavers, the same snowy caps and aprons, the same blouses, 
 the same polite, s'il vous-plait, pardon, m'sieur, take-it-easy 
 air, that Paris, as seen from an omnibus window, always 
 presents. We rolled through the Rue St. Antoine, and it 
 was hard to realize that it had ever been the theatre of so 
 much appalling history. I tried to imagine the barricades, 
 the street ploughed up by artillery, and that heroic martyr, 
 Archbishop Affre, falling there, and praying that his blood 
 might be the last shed in that fratricidal strife ; but it 
 was useless ; the lively present made the past seem but the 
 mere invention of the historian. All traces of the frightful 
 scenes of 1848 have been effaced, and the facilities for bar- 
 ricades have been disposed of in a way that must make 
 red republicanism very disrespectful to the memory of 
 MacAdam. As we passed a church in that bloody locality, 
 a wedding party came out ; the bridegroom looked as if he 
 had taken chloroform to enable him to get through his dif- 
 ficulties, and the effect of it had not entirely passed off. 
 The bride (for women, you know, have greater power of 
 endurance than men) seemed to take it more easily, and,
 
 AIX TO PARIS. 107 
 
 beaming in the midst of a sort of wilderness of lace, and 
 gauze, and muslin, like a lighthouse in a fog, she tripped 
 briskly into the carriage, with a bouquet in her hand, and 
 happiness in her heart. Before the bridal party got fairly 
 out of sight, a funeral came along. The white pall showed 
 that it was a child who slept upon the bier ; for the Cath- 
 olic church does not mourn over those who are removed 
 from the temptations of life before they have known them. 
 The vehicles all gave way to let the little procession pass, 
 the hum seemed to cease for a moment, every head was 
 uncovered, even the porter held his burden on his shoulder 
 with one hand that he might pay his respects to that sover- 
 eign to whom even republicans are obliged to bow, and the 
 many-coloured hats of the omnibus drivers were doffed. I 
 had often before noticed those striking contrasts that one 
 sees in a capital like Paris ; but to meet such a one at my 
 very entrance impressed me deeply. Such is Paris. You 
 think it the liveliest place in the world, (and so it is ; ) but 
 suddenly you come upon something that makes you thought- 
 ful, if it does not sadden you. Life and death elbow and 
 jostle each other along these gay streets, until it seems as 
 if they were rivals striving to drive each other out. I en- 
 tered a church a day or two since. There was a funeral at 
 the high altar. The black vestments and hangings, the 
 lighted tapers, the solemn chant of the De profundis were 
 eloquent of death and what must follow it. I was startled 
 by hearing a child's cry, and looking round into the chapel 
 which served as a baptistery, there stood two young mothers 
 who had just received their infants from that purifying 
 laver which made them members of the great Christian 
 family. I never before had that beautiful thought of Cha- 
 teaubriand's so forced upon me " Religion has rocked us 
 in the cradle of life, and her maternal hand shall close our 
 eyes, while her holiest melodies soothe us to rest in the 
 cradle of death."
 
 108 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 There are, without doubt, many persons, who can say 
 that in their pilgrimage of life they have truly " found their 
 wannest welcome at an inn." My experience outstrips 
 that, for I have received one of my most cordial greetings 
 in a cafe. The establishment in question is so eminently 
 American, that I should feel as if I had neglected a sacred 
 duty, if I did not describe it, for the benefit of future so- 
 journers in the French capital, who are hereby requested 
 to overhaul their memorandum books and make a note of it. 
 It does not boast the magnificence and luxury of the 
 Cafe de Pan's, Very's, the Trois Freres Provengaux, nor 
 of Taylor's ; nor does it thrust itself forward into the pub- 
 licity of the gay Boulevards, or of the thronged arcades of 
 the Palais Royal. It does not appeal to those who love 
 the noise and dust of fashion's highway ; for them it has no 
 welcome. But to those who love " the cool, sequestered 
 path of life," it offers a degree of quiet comfort, to which 
 the " slaves of passion, avarice, and pride," who view them- 
 selves in the mirrors of the Maison Doree, are strangers. 
 You turn from the Boulevard des Italiens into the Rue de 
 la Michodiere, which you perambulate until you come to 
 number six, where you will stop and take an observation. 
 Perhaps wonder will predominate over admiration. The 
 front of the establishment does not exceed twelve feet in 
 width, and the sign over the door shows that it is a Creme- 
 rie. The fact is also adumbrated symbolically by a large 
 brass can, which is set over the portal. In one of the win- 
 dows may be observed a neatly-executed placard, to this 
 effect : 
 
 Aux AMERICAINS 
 
 Spe'cialite'. 
 Pumpkin Pie.
 
 AIX TO PARIS. 109 
 
 " Enter its vastness overwhelms thee not ! " On the 
 contrary, having passed through the little front shop, you 
 stand in a room ten or twelve feet square just the size of 
 Washington Irving's " empire," in the Red Horse Inn, at 
 Stratford. This little room is furnished with two round 
 tables, a sideboard, and several chairs, and is decorated 
 with numerous crayon sketches of the knights of the afore- 
 said round tables. You make the acquaintance of the 
 excellent Madame Busque, and order your dinner, which is 
 served promptly and with a motherly care, which will at 
 first remind you of the time when your bib was carefully 
 tied on, and you were lifted to a seat on the family Bible, 
 which had been placed on a chair, to bring the juvenile 
 mouth into proper relations with the table. 
 
 Nothing can surpass the home feeling that took posses- 
 sion of me when I found myself once more in Madame 
 Busque's little back room at No. 6, Rue de la Michodiere. 
 How cordial was that estimable lady's welcome ! She 
 made herself as busy as a cat with one chicken, and pre- 
 pared for me a "tired nature's sweet restorer" in the 
 shape of one of her famous omelets. The old den had not 
 changed in the least. Madame Busque used to threaten 
 occasionally to paint it, and otherwise improve and embel- 
 lish it ; but we always told her that if she did any thing of 
 that kind, or tried to render it less dingy, or snug, or un- 
 pretending, we would never eat another of her pumpkin 
 pies. Not all the mirrors and magnificence of the resorts 
 of fashion can equal the quiet cosiness of Madame Busque's 
 back room. You meet all kinds of company there. The 
 blouse is at home there, as well as its ambitious cousin, the 
 broadcloth coat. Law and medicine, literature and art, 
 pleasure and honest toil, meet there upon equal terms. 
 Our own aristocratic Washington never dreamed of such a 
 10
 
 110 AGCECHEEK. 
 
 democracy as his calm portrait looks down upon in that 
 room. Then we have such a delightful neighbourhood there. 
 I feel as if the charcoal woman of the next door but one 
 below was some relation to me at least an aunt; she 
 always has a pleasant word and a smile for the frequenters 
 of No. 6 ; and then it is so disinterested on her part, for we 
 can none of us need any of her charcoal. I hope that no 
 person who reads this will be misled by it, and go to Ma- 
 dame Busque's cremerie expecting to find there the variety 
 which the restaurants boast, for he will be disappointed. 
 But he will find every thing there of the best description. 
 My taste in food (as in most other matters) is a very cath- 
 olic one : I can eat beef with the English, garlic and on- 
 ions with the French, sourkrout with the Germans, maca- 
 roni with the Italians, pilaf with the Turks, baked beans 
 with the Yankees, hominy with the southerners, and oysters 
 with any body. But as I feel age getting the better of me 
 day by day, I think I grow to be more and more of a pre- 
 Raphaelite in these things. So I crave nothing more lux- 
 urious than a good steak or chop, with the appropriate 
 vegetables ; and these are to be had in their perfection at 
 Madame Busque's. My benison upon her ! 
 
 The canicular weather I suffered from in the south fol- 
 lowed me even here. I found every body talking about the 
 extraordinary chaleur. Shade of John Rogers ! how the 
 sun has glared down upon Paris, day after day, without 
 winking, until air-tight stoves are refrigerators compared 
 to it, and even old-fashioned preaching is outdone ! How 
 the asphalte sidewalks of the Boulevards have melted under 
 his rays, and perfumed the air with any thing but a Saba?an 
 odour! The fragrance of the linden trees was entirely 
 overpowered. The thought of the helmets of the cavalry 
 was utterly intolerable. Tortoni's and the cafes were
 
 AIX TO PARIS.' Ill 
 
 crowded. Great was the clamour for ices. Greater still 
 was the rush to the cool shades of the public gardens, or 
 the environs of Bougival and Marly. At last, the welcome 
 rain came hissing down upon these heated roofs ; and mal- 
 heur to the man who ventures out during these days with- 
 out his umbrella. It has been a rain of terror. It almost 
 spoilt the great national fete of the loth ; but the people 
 made the best of it, and, between the free theatrical per- 
 formances at sixteen theatres, the superb illuminations, and 
 the fireworks, seemed to have a very merry time. I went 
 in the morning to that fine lofty old church, (whose Lady 
 Chapel is a splendid monument of Couture's artistic genius,) 
 St. Eustache, where I heard a new mass, by one Mr. 
 L'Hote. It was well executed, and the orchestral parts 
 ;?ere particularly effective. After the mass, the annual 
 Te Deum for the Emperor was sung. The effect of the 
 latter was very grand ; indeed, when it was finished, I was 
 just thinking that it was impossible for music to surpass it, 
 when the full orchestra and two organs united in a burst of 
 harmony that almost lifted me off" my feet I recognized 
 the old Gregorian anthem that is sung every Sunday in all 
 the churches, and when it had been played through, the 
 trumpets took up the air of the chant, above the rest of the 
 accompaniment, and- the clear, alto voice of one of those 
 scarlet-capped choir-boys rang out the words, Domine, sal- 
 vum fac imperatorem nostrum, Napoleonem, in a way that 
 seemed to make those old arches vibrate, and wonderfully 
 quickened the circulation in the veins of every listener. It 
 was like the gradual mounting and heaving up of a high 
 sea in a storm on the Atlantic, which, when it has reached 
 a pitch you thought impossible, curls majestically over, and, 
 breaking into a creamy foam, loses itself in a transitory 
 vision of emerald brilliancy, that for the moment realizes
 
 112 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 the most gorgeous and improbable fables of Eastern luxury. 
 It made even me, notwithstanding my prejudices in favour 
 of republicanism, forget the spread eagle, and my free (and 
 easy) native land, and for several hours I found myself 
 singing that solemn anthem over in a most impressive man- 
 ner. Vive PEmpereur!
 
 PARIS. 
 
 THIS is a wonderful city. It seems to me, as I ride up 
 and down the gay Boulevards on the roof of an omnibus, or 
 gaze into the brilliant shop-windows of the Palais Royal, 
 or watch the happy children in the garden of the Tuileries, 
 or stand upon the bridges and take in as much as I can at 
 once- of gardens, palaces, and church towers it seems to 
 me like a great theatre, filled with gay company, to whom 
 the same grand spectacle is always being shown, and whose 
 faces always reflect something of that brilliancy which lights 
 up the gorgeous, never-ending, last scene of the drama. I 
 know that the play has its underplot of vicious poverty and 
 crime, but they shrink from the glare of the footlights and 
 the radiance of the red fire that lights up the scene. Taken 
 in the abstract taken as it appears from the outside 
 Paris is the most perfect whole the world can show. It 
 was a witty remark of a well-known citizen of Boston, 
 touching the materialistic views of many of his friends, that 
 " when good Boston people die, they go to Paris." I know 
 many whose highest idea of heaven would find its embodi- 
 ment in the sunshine of the Place de la Concorde or the gas 
 light of the Rue de Rivoli. Paris captivates you at once. 
 In this it differs from Rome. You do not grow to love it ; 
 you feel its charms before you have recovered from the fa- 
 tigue of your journey before you have even reached your 
 hotel, as you ride along and recognize the buildings and 
 monuments which books and pictures have made familiar. 
 In Rome all is different. Michel Angelo's mighty dome, to 
 be sure, does impress you, as you come to the city ; but when 
 10*
 
 114 ACUECHKKK. 
 
 you enter, the narrow streets are such a contrast to the broad, 
 free campagna you have just left, that you feel oppressed 
 and cramped as you ride through them. You find one of 
 the old temples kept in repair and serving as a custom 
 house ; this is a damper at the outset, and you sigh for 
 something to revive the ancient customs of the world's 
 capital. You walk into the Forum the next day, musing 
 upon the line of the twelve Cassars, and your progress is 
 arrested, and your sense of the dramatic unities of your 
 position deeply wounded, by an unamusing and prosaic 
 clothes-line. You keep on and try to recall Cicero, and 
 Catiline, and Jugurtha, and Servius Tullius, and Brutus, 
 and Virginius, but it is useless, for you find a cow feeding 
 there as quietly as if she were on the hills of Berkshire. 
 The whole city seems sad and mouldy, and out of date, and 
 you think you will " do the sights " as rapidly as possible, 
 and then be off. But before many days you find that all 
 is changed. The moss that clothes those broken walls be- 
 comes as venerable in your sight as the gray hairs upon 
 your mother's brow ; the ivy that enwreathes those old 
 towers and columns seems to have wound itself around your 
 heart and bound it forever to that spot. Clothes-lines, dirt, 
 and all the inconveniences inseparable from the older civili- 
 zation of Rome, fade away. The Forum, the Palace of the 
 Caesars, the Appian Way, all become instinct with a new 
 or rather with their old life ; and you feel that you are in 
 the Rome of Livy and Sallust, you have found the Rome 
 of which you dreamed in boyhood, and you are happy. 
 With Paris, as I have said, you are not obliged to serve 
 such an apprenticeship. You have read of Paris in history, 
 in novels, in guide-books, in the lucubrations of the whole 
 tribe of correspondents you recognize it at once on seeing 
 it, and accept it for all that it pretends to be. And you are 
 not deceived. And this, I apprehend, is the reason why we
 
 PARIS. 115 
 
 never feel that deep, clinging affection for Paris that we do 
 for that "goddess of all the nations, to whom nothing is 
 equal and nothing second " that city which (as one of 
 her prophet-poets said) shall ever be " the capital of the 
 world, for whatever her arms have not conquered shall be 
 hers by religion." You feel that Paris is the capital of 
 Europe, and you bow before it as you would before a sov- 
 ereign whose word was law. 
 
 I wonder whether every body judges of all new things by 
 the criterion of childhood, as I find myself constantly doing. 
 Whatever it may be, I apply to it the test of my youthful 
 recollections of something similar, and it almost always suf- 
 fers by the process. Those beautiful architectural wonders 
 that pierce the sky at Strasburg and Antwerp will bear no 
 comparison, in point of height, with the steeple of the Old 
 South as it exists in the memory of my childhood. I 
 have never seen a picture gallery in Europe which awa- 
 kened any thing like my old feelings on visiting one of the 
 first Athenaeum exhibitions many years ago. Those won- 
 derful productions of Horace Vernet, in which one may 
 read the warlike history of France, are nothing compared 
 to my recollections of TrumbulPs " Sortie of Gibraltar," as 
 seen through an antediluvian tin trumpet which considera- 
 bly interfered with my vision, but which I thought it was 
 necessary to use. I have visited libraries which antedated 
 by centuries the discovery of America, I have rambled 
 over castles which seemed to re'cho with the clank of ar- 
 mour and the clarion calls of the old days of chivalry, I 
 have walked through the long corridors and halls of the 
 Vatican with cardinals and kings, I have mused in 
 church-crypts and cloisters, in whose silent shade the dead 
 of a thousand years reposed, but I have never yet been 
 impressed with any thing like the awe which the old Athe- 
 naeum in Pearl Street used to inspire into my boyish heart.
 
 116 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 Pearl Street in those days was as innocent of traffic and its 
 turmoil as the quiet roads around Jamaica Pond are now. 
 A pasture, in which the Hon. Jonathan Phillips kept a cow, 
 extended through to Oliver Street, and handsome old-fash- 
 ioned private houses with gardens around them occupied the 
 place of the present rows of granite warehouses. The 
 Athenaeum, surrounded by torse-chestnut trees, stood there 
 in aristocratic dignity and repose, which it seemed almost 
 sacrilegious to disturb with the noise of our childish sports. 
 There were a few old gentlemen who used to frequent its 
 reading-room, whose white hair, (and some of them even 
 wore knee breeches and queues and powder,) always stilled 
 our boyish clamour as we played on the grass-plots in the 
 yard. To some of these old men our heads were often un- 
 covered, for children were politer in those days than now, 
 and to our young imagination it seemed as if they were 
 sages, who carried about with them an atmosphere of learn- 
 ing and the fragrance of academic groves. They seemed as 
 much a part of the mysterious old establishment as the 
 books in the library, the dusty busts in the entries, or the 
 old librarian himself. Sometimes I used to venture into 
 those still passages, and steal a look into that reading-room 
 whose quiet was never broken, save by the wealthy creak 
 of some old citizen's boots, or by the long breathing of some 
 venerable frequenter of the place, enjoying his afternoon 
 nap. In later years I came to know the Athenjeum more 
 familiarly ; the old gentlemen lost the character of sages and 
 became estimable individuals of quiet tastes, who were fa- 
 tiguing the Massachusetts Hospital Life Insurance Com- 
 pany by their long-continued perusal of the Daily Advertiser 
 and the Gentleman's Magazine ; but my old impression of 
 the awful mystery of the building remains to this day. I 
 mourned over the removal to the present fine position, and 
 I seek in vain amid the stucco-work and white paint of the
 
 PARIS. 117 
 
 new edifice for the charm which enthralled me in the old 
 home of the institution. Some people, carried away by the 
 utilitarian spirit of the age, may think that it is a great im- 
 provement ; but to me it seems nothing but an unwarrant- 
 able innovation on the established order of things, and a 
 change for the worse. Where is the quiet of the old place ? 
 Younger and less reverential men have risen up in the 
 places of the old, and have destroyed all that rendered the 
 old library respectable. The good old times when Dr. 
 Bass, the librarian, sat on one side of the fireplace, and the 
 late John Bromfield (with his silk handkerchief spread 
 over his knees) on the other, and read undisturbed for 
 hours, have passed away. A hundred persons use the libra- 
 ry now for one who did then ; and I am left to feed upon 
 the memory of better times, when learning was a quiet, 
 comfortable, select sort of thing, and mutter secret maledic- 
 tions on the revolutionary spirits who have made it otherwise. 
 
 But pardon me, dear reader, all this has little to do 
 with Paris, except by way of illustration of my remark that 
 the youthful standard of intellectual weights and measures is 
 the only infallible one we ever know. But Paris is some- 
 thing by itself: it overrides all standards of greatness or 
 beauty, and all preconceived notions of itself, and addresses 
 itself with confidence to every taste. Ladies love Paris as 
 a vast warehouse of jewelry and all the rich stuffs that hide 
 the crinoline from eyes profane. Physicians revel in its 
 hospitals, and talk of " splendid operations," such as make 
 the unscientific change colour. 
 
 Paris is a world in itself. Here may the Yankee find 
 his pumpkin-pie and sherry-cobblers, the Englishman his 
 rosbif, the German his sauerkraut, the Italian his macaro- 
 ni. Here may the lover of dramatic art choose his per- 
 formance among thirty theatres, and he who, with Mr. 
 Swiveller, loves " the mazy," will find at the Jardin Mabille
 
 118 AGUECHKKK. 
 
 a bower shaded for him. Here the bookworm can mouse 
 about, in more than twenty large public libraries, and spend 
 weeks in the delightful exploration of countless bookstalls. 
 Here the student of art can read the history of France on 
 the walls of Versailles, or, revelling in the opulence of the 
 Louvre, forget his studies, his technicalities, his criticisms, 
 in contemplation of the majestic loveliness of Murillo's " sin- 
 less Mother of the sinless Child." Here may " fireside phi- 
 lanthropists, great at the pen," compare their magnificent 
 theories with the works of delicate ladies who have left the 
 wealth they possessed and the society they adorned, for the 
 humble garb of the Sister of Charity and a laborious min- 
 istry to the poor, the diseased, and the infirm, and medi- 
 tate in the cool quadrangles of hospitals and benevolent in- 
 stitutions, founded by saints, and preserved in their integrity 
 by the piety of their disciples. Here may the man who 
 wishes to look beyond this brilliant world, find churches ever 
 open, inviting to prayer and meditation, where he may be 
 carried beyond himself by the choicest strains of Haydn 
 and the solemn grandeur of the Gregorian Chant, or may 
 be thrilled by the eloquent periods of Ravignan or Lacor- 
 daire, until the unseen eternal fills his whole soul, and the 
 visible temporal glories of the gay capital seem to him the 
 transient vanities they really are. 
 
 How few people really know Paris ! To most minds it 
 presents itself only as a place of general pleasure-seeking 
 and dissipation. I have seen many men whose only recol- 
 lections of Paris were such as will give them no pleasure 
 in old age, who flattered themselves that they knew Paris. 
 They thought that the whole city was given up to the folly 
 that captivated them, and so they represent Paris as one 
 vast reckless masquerade. I have seen others who, walking 
 through the thronged cafes and restaurants, have felt them- 
 selves justified in declaring that the French had no domes-
 
 PARIS. 119 
 
 tic life, and were as ignorant of family joys as their lan- 
 guage is destitute of a single word to express our good old 
 Saxon word " home ; " not knowing that there are in Paris 
 thousands of families as closely knit together as any that 
 dwell in the smoky cities of Old England, or amid the 
 bustle and activity of our new world. Good people 
 may turn up their eyes, and talk and write as many jere- 
 miads as they will about the vanity and wickedness of 
 Paris ; but the truth is, that this great Babel has even for 
 them its cheering side, if they would but keep their eyes 
 open to discover it. Let them visit the churches on the 
 vigils of great feasts, and every Saturday, and see the 
 crowds that throng the confessionals : let them rise an hour 
 or two earlier than usual, and go into any of the churches, 
 and they will find more worshippers there on any common 
 week-day morning than half of the churches in New Eng- 
 land collect on Sundays. Let them visit that magnificent 
 temple, the Madeleine, and see the freedom from social dis- 
 tinctions which prevails there : the soldier, the civilian, the 
 rich and the poor, the high-bred lady, the servant in livery, 
 and the negress with her bright yellow and red kerchief 
 wound around her head, are there met, on an equality that 
 free America knows not of. 
 
 The observance of the Sunday is a sign of the times 
 which ought not to be overlooked. Only a few years ago, 
 and suspension of business on Sunday was so uncommon 
 that notice was given by a sign to that effect on the front of 
 the few shops whose proprietors indulged in that strange 
 caprice. The signs (like certain similar ones on apothecary 
 shops in Boston, to the effect that prescriptions are the only 
 business attended to on the first day of the week) used to 
 seem to me like a bait to catch the custom of the godly. 
 But the signs have passed away before this movement, in- 
 augurated by the Emperor, who forbade labour on the public
 
 120 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 works on Sunday, and preached up by the late Archbishop 
 of Paris and the parish clergy. There are few shops in 
 Paris that do not close on Sunday now at least in the 
 afternoon. And this is done by the free will of the trades- 
 people : it is not the result of a legislative enactment. The 
 law here leaves all people free in regard to their religious 
 duties. The shops of the Jews, of course, are open on Sun- 
 day, for they are obliged to close on Saturday, and of course 
 ought not to be expected to observe two days. Of course, 
 too, the public galleries, and gardens, and places of amuse- 
 ment are all open ; God forbid that the hard-faring children 
 of toil should be cheated out of any innocent recreation on 
 the only free day they have by any attempts to judaize the 
 Christian Sunday into a sabbath. It is a great mistake to 
 suppose that people can be made better by diminishing the 
 sources of innocent pleasure. No ; if the Sunday be made 
 a hard, uninteresting day, when smiling is a grave impro- 
 priety, and a hearty laugh a mortal sin, children will begin 
 by disliking the day, and end by despising the religion that 
 made it gloomy. But provide the people with music in 
 the public parks on Sunday afternoon and evening, make 
 the day a cheerful, happy time to those who are ingulfed in 
 the carking cares of life all the rest of the week, make it 
 a day which children shall look forward to with longing, and 
 you will find that the people are better, and happier, and 
 thriftier for the change. You will find that the mechanic or 
 labourer, instead of lounging away his Sunday in a grog- 
 shop, (for the business goes on even though the front door 
 may be barred and the shutters closed,) will be ambitious 
 to take his wife and children to hear the music, and will 
 after a time become as well behaved as the common run of 
 people. It is better to use the merest worldly motives to 
 keep men in the path of decency, than to let them slide 
 away to perdition because they refuse to listen to the more 
 dignified teachings of religion.
 
 PARIS. 121 
 
 I have been much impressed by a visit to a large, but un- 
 pretentious-looking house in the Rue du Bac the " mother- 
 house" of that admirable organization, the Sisters of 
 Charity. It was not much of a visit, to be sure for not 
 even my gray hairs and respectable appearance could gain 
 for me an admission beyond the strangers' parlour, the court- 
 yard, and the cool, quiet chapel. But that was enough to 
 increase my respect and admiration for those devoted women. 
 The community there consists of six hundred Sisters of 
 Charity, whose whole time is occupied in taking care of the 
 sick, and needy, and neglected in the hospitals and asylums, 
 and in every quarter of the city. You see them at every 
 turn, going quietly about their work of benevolence, and 
 presenting a fine contrast to some of our noisy theorists at 
 home. I may be in error, but it strikes me that that com- 
 munity is doing more in its present mode of action to ad- 
 vance the true dignity and " rights " of the sex, than if it 
 were to resolve itself into a convention, after the American 
 fashion. I was somewhat anxious to inquire whether any 
 of the sisters of the community had ever taken to lecturing 
 or preaching in public ; but the modest and unassuming 
 manner of all those whom I saw, rendered such a question 
 unnecessary. I fear that oratory is sadly neglected among 
 them ; with this exception, and perhaps the absence of a 
 certain strong-mindedness in their characters, I think that 
 they will compare very favourably with any of our distin- 
 guished female philanthropists. They wear the same gray 
 habit and odd-shaped white bonnet that the Sisters of 
 Charity wear in Boston. "While we praise the self-forgetful 
 heroism of Florence Nightingale as it deserves, let us not 
 forget that France sent out her Florence Nightingales to 
 the Crimea by fifties and hundreds young and delicate 
 women, hiding their personality under the common dress of 
 a religions order, casting aside the names that would recall 
 11
 
 122 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 their rank in the world, unencouraged in their beneficence 
 by any newspaper paragraphs, and unrewarded save by the 
 sweet consciousness of duty done. The Emperor Alexan- 
 der, struck by the part played in the Crimean campaign by 
 the Sisters of Charity, has recently asked the superior of 
 the order to detail five hundred of the sisters, for duty in 
 the hospitals of Russia. It is understood that the request 
 will be complied with so far as the number of the com- 
 munity will permit. 
 
 If I were asked to sum up in one sentence the practical 
 result of my observations of men and manners here on the 
 continent, I should say that it was this : We have a great 
 deal to learn in America concerning the philosophy of life. 
 I do not mean that philosophy which teaches us that " it is 
 not all of life to live," but the philosophy of making ninety- 
 three cents furnish the same amount of comfort in America 
 that five francs do in Paris. The spirit of centralization is 
 stronger here than in any American city : (it is too true, as 
 Heine said, that to speak of the departments of France 
 having a political opinion as distinguished from Paris, " is 
 to talk of a man's legs thinking ;") and there is no reason 
 why people of moderate means should not be able to live 
 as respectably, comfortably, and economically in our cities 
 as here, if they will only use a little common sense. The 
 model-lodging-house enterprise was a most praiseworthy 
 one, but it seems to have been confined only to the wants 
 of the most necessitous class in the community. There is, 
 however, a large class of salesmen, and book-keepers, and 
 mechanics, on salaries of six hundred to twelve or fourteen 
 hundred dollars, whose position is no less deserving of com- 
 miseration. When the prices of beefsteak and potatoes 
 went up so amazingly a few years ago, there were few 
 salaries that experienced a similar augmentation. The 
 position of the men on small salaries therefore became pecu-
 
 PARIS. 123 
 
 liar, not to say unpleasant, as rents rose in the same propor- 
 tion as every thing else. Any person, familiar with the 
 rents of brick houses for small families in most of the 
 Atlantic cities, will see how difficult it is for such people as 
 these to live within their means. Now, the remedy for this 
 evil is a simple one, but it requires some public-spirited 
 men to initiate it. Suppose that a few large, handsome 
 houses, on the European plan, (that is, having a suit of 
 rooms, comprising a parlour, dining-room, two or three bed- 
 rooms, and a kitchen, on each floor,) were built in any of our 
 great thoroughfares, the ground floors might be used for 
 shops, for there is no reason why respectable people 
 should any more object to living over shops there, than on 
 the Boulevards. Such houses, it is easy to see, would be 
 good paying property to their owners, as soon as people 
 got into that way of living; and when salaried men saw 
 that they could get the equivalent, in comfort and available 
 room, to an ordinary five hundred dollar house for half that 
 rent, in a central situation, depend upon it, they would 
 not be long in learning how to live in that style. The ad- 
 vantages of this plan of domestic life are numerous and 
 striking. Housekeeping would be disarmed of half its dif- 
 ficulties ; the little kitchen would furnish the coffee and 
 eggs in the \norning and the tea and toast at night the 
 dinner might be ordered from a neighbouring restaurant for 
 any hour for such establishments would increase with 
 the increase of apartments. The dangers of burglary would 
 be diminished, for the housekeeper would have only the 
 door leading to the staircase to lock up at night. The 
 washing would be done out of the house, and the steam of 
 boiling suds, and all anxiety about clothes-lines, and sooty 
 chimneys, and windy weather would thereby be avoided. 
 Thousands of people would be liberated from the caprice 
 and petty tyranny of the railroad directors, whose action
 
 124 AGUECUKEK. 
 
 has so often filled our newspapers with resolutions and 
 protests, and, so far as Boston is concerned, its peninsula, 
 might be made the home of a population of three hundred 
 thousand instead of a hundred and eighty thousand persons. 
 The most rigidly careless person can hardly fail to become 
 a successful housekeeper, when the matter is made so easy 
 as it is by the European plan. The plan, too, not only 
 simplifies the mysteries of domestic economy, but it snuggi- 
 fies one's establishment wonderfully, and gives it a home 
 feeling, such as what are called genteel houses nowadays 
 wot not of. The change has got to come and the sooner 
 it does, the better it will be for our cities, and many of their 
 people, who have been driven into remote and unpleasant 
 suburbs by high rents, or who are held back from marriage 
 by the expenses of housekeeping conducted on the present 
 method.
 
 PAEIS. 
 
 IT is an inestimable advantage to an idle man to have 
 such a place as the Louvre ever open to him. The book- 
 stalls and print-shops of the quays, those never-failing 
 sources of pleasure and of extravagance in a small way, 
 cannot be visited with any satisfaction under the meridian 
 sun ; the shop windows, a perpetual industrial exhibition, 
 grow tiresome at times ; the streets are too crowded, the 
 gardens too empty ; the reading rooms are close ; the news- 
 papers are stupid ; and what remains ? Why, the Louvre 
 opens its hospitable doors, and, blessing the memory of 
 Francis I., the tired wanderer enters, and drinks in the 
 refreshing coolness of those quiet and spacious halls. If 
 he is an antiquarian, he plunges deep into the arcana of 
 ancient Egypt, and emulates the great Champollion ; if he 
 is a student of history, he muses on the sceptre of Charle- 
 magne, or the old gray coat and coronation robes of the 
 first Napoleon ; if he is devoted to art, he travels through 
 that wilderness of paintings and statuary, and thinks and 
 talks about chiaro 'scuro, " breadth of colour," or " bits of 
 foreshortening." But if he be a man of simple tastes, who 
 detests technicalities, and enjoys all such things in a quiet, 
 general sort of way, without knowing exactly what it is that 
 pleases him, he goes through room after room, now stop- 
 ping for an instant before a set of antique china, now specu- 
 lating on the figure he should cut in one of those old suits 
 of armour, and finally settling down in a chair before some 
 l:ui i -cape by Cuyp or Claude, in which the artist seems to 
 have imprisoned the sunbeams and the warm, fragrant 
 11 (125)
 
 llM AGUECHEEK. 
 
 atmosphere of early June ; or else he seats himself on that 
 comfortable sofa before Murillo's masterpiece, and contem- 
 plates the supernal beauty and holy exultation of the face 
 of her whom Dante calls the " Virgin Mother, daughter of 
 her Son." He is surrounded by artists, engaged in a work 
 that seems to verify the old maxim, Laborare est orare, 
 each one striving to reproduce on his canvas the effects of 
 the angel-guided pencil of Murillo. 
 
 I find it useless for me to attempt to visit the Louvre sys- 
 tematically, as most people do. I have frequently tried to 
 do it, but it has ended by my walking through one or two 
 rooms, and then taking up my position before Murillo's Con- 
 ception, and holding it until the hour came for closing the 
 gallery. When I was young, I used to think what a glo- 
 rious thing it would have been to have felt the thrill of joy 
 that filled the heart of the discoverer of America, or the 
 satisfaction of Shakespeare when he had finished Hamlet or 
 Macbeth, or of Beethoven when he had completed his sev- 
 enth symphony ; but all that covetousness of the impossible 
 is blotted out by my envy of the great Spanish painter. 
 What must have been the deep transport of his heart, when 
 he gazed upon the heavenly vision his own genius had cre- 
 ated ! He must have felt 
 
 " like some watcher of the skies, 
 
 When a new planet sails into his ken, 
 Or like stout Cortez, when, with eagle eyes, 
 He stared at the Pacific. " 
 
 In spite of all my natural New England prejudice, I can- 
 not help admiring and loving that old Catholic devotion to the 
 Blessed Virgin. Its humanizing offsets can be seen in the his- 
 tory of the middle ages, and they are felt amid all the t ustle 
 and roar of this irreverent nineteenth century. Woman can- 
 not again be thought the soulless being heathen philosophy 
 considered her ; she cannot again become a slave, for she is
 
 PAKIS. 127 
 
 recognized as the sister of her who was chosen to make 
 reparation for the misdeeds of Mother Eve. I am strongly 
 tempted to transcribe here some lines written in pencil on 
 the fly-leaf of an old catalogue of the museum of the Louvre, 
 and found on the sofa before Murillo's picture. The writer 
 seems to have had in mind the beautiful conclusion of the 
 life of Agricola by Tacitus, where the great historian says 
 that he would not forbid the making of likenesses in marble 
 or bronze, but would only remind us that such images, like 
 the forms of their originals, are frail and unenduring, while 
 the beauty of the mind is eternal, and can be perpetuated 
 in the manners of succeeding generations better than by 
 ignoble materials and the art of the sculptor. The lines 
 appear to be a paraphrase of this idea. 
 
 blest Murillo J what a task was thine, 
 That Mother to portray whose beauty mild 
 
 Combined earth's comeliness with grace divine, 
 To whom our God and Saviour as a child 
 Was subject upon whom so oft He smiled! 
 
 Yet not less happy also in my part, 
 For I, though in a world by sin defiled, 
 
 Though lacking genius and unskilled in art, 
 
 May paint that blessed likeness in a contrite heart. 
 
 Art is the surest and safest civilizer. Popular education 
 may be so perverted as only to minister to new forms of 
 corruption, but art purifies itself; it has no Voltaires, and 
 Rousseau?, and Eugene Sues, for painting and sculpture, 
 like poetry, refuse to be made the handmaids of vice or un- 
 belief. Open your galleries of art to the people, and you 
 confer on them a greater benefit than mere book education ; 
 you give them a refinement to which they would otherwise 
 be strangers. The boor, turned loose into civilized society, 
 soon catches something of its tone of politeness ; and those 
 who are accustomed to the contemplation of forms of ideal
 
 128 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 beauty will not easily be won by the grossness and deform- 
 ity of vice. A fine picture daily looked at becomes by 
 degrees a part of our own souls, and exerts an influence 
 over us of which we are little aware. Some English writer 
 Hazlitt, I think has said, that if a man were thinking 
 of committing some wicked or disgraceful action, and were 
 to stop short and look for a moment at some fine picture 
 with which he had been familiar, he would inevitably be 
 turned thereby from his purpose. It is to be hoped that the 
 time is not far distant when each of our great American 
 cities shall possess its gallery of art, which (on certain days 
 of the week, at least) shall be as free to all well-behaved 
 persons as the public parks themselves. We may not boast 
 the artistic wealth of Rome, Florence, Paris, Dresden, or 
 any of the old capitals of Europe ; but the sooner we make 
 a beginning, the better it will be for our galleries and our 
 mob. We need some more effectual humanizer than our 
 educational system. Reading, writing, and ciphering are 
 great things, but they are powerless to overcome the rude- 
 ness and irreverence of our people. Our populace seems to 
 lack entirely the sense of the beautiful or the sublime. As 
 Charles Lamb said, " They have, alas ! no passion for an- 
 tiquities for the tomb of king or prelate, sage or poet. If 
 they had, they would no longer be the rabble." It is too 
 true that the attempts which have been made to open pri- 
 vate gardens to the enjoyment of the public have resulted 
 in the most shameful abuses of privilege, and that flowers 
 are stolen from the graves in our cemeteries ; but there is 
 no reason for giving our people up as past praying for, on 
 the score of politeness and common decency. They must 
 be educated up to it : some abuses may occur at first, but a 
 few salutary lessons on the necessity of submission to au- 
 thority will rectify it all, and our people will, in the course
 
 PARIS. 129 
 
 of time, become as well-behaved as the people of France 
 or Italy. 
 
 I am no antiquarian. I do not love the antique for an- 
 tiquity's sake. It must appeal to me through the medium 
 of history, or not at all. Etruscan relics have no other 
 charm for me than their beauty of form. I care but 
 little for Egyptian sarcophagi or their devices and hiero- 
 glyphics, and I would not go half a mile to see a wilderness 
 of mummies. Whenever I feel a longing for any thing in 
 the Egyptian or heathen line, I can resort to Mount Au- 
 burn, with its gateway and this thought satisfies me ; so 
 that I pass by all such things without feeling that I am a 
 loser. With such feelings, there are many of the halls of 
 the Louvre which I only walk through with an admiring 
 glance at their elegance of arrangement. A few days since, 
 in wandering about there, I found a room which I had never 
 seen before, and which toyched me more nearly than any 
 thing there, except the paintings. It has been opened re- 
 cently. I had been looking through the relics of royalty 
 with a considerable degree of pleasure, meditating on the 
 armour of Henry the Great, the breviary of St. Louis, 
 and the worn satin shoe which once covered the little foot 
 of Marie Antoinette, and was about to leave, when I no- 
 ticed that a door was open which in past years I had seen 
 closed. I pushed in, and found myself in a vast and mag- 
 nificent apartment, on the gorgeously frescoed ceiling of 
 which was emblazoned the name which is a tower of 
 strength to every Frenchman Napoleon. Around the 
 room, in elegant glass cases, were disposed the relics of the 
 saint whom Mr. Abbott's bull of canonization has placed 
 in red letters in the calendar of Young America. Leaving 
 aside all joking upon the attempts to prove that much- 
 slandered monarch a saint, there was his history, written as 
 Sartor Resartus would have written it, in his clothes. There
 
 loU AGUECHEEK. 
 
 was & crayon sketch of him at the age of sixteen ; there was 
 a mathematical book which he had studied, the case of math- 
 ematical instruments he had used ; there was the coat in 
 which he rode up and down the lines of Marengo, inspiring 
 every heart with heroism, and every arm with vigour ; the 
 sword and coat he wore as First Consul ; the glittering 
 robes which decked him when he sat in the chair of Clovis 
 and Charlemagne, the idol of his nation, and the terror of 
 all the world besides ; the stirrups in which he stood at 
 Waterloo, and saw his brave legions cut up and dispersed ; 
 and, though last, not least, there was the old gray coat and 
 hat in which he walked about at St. Helena, and the very 
 handkerchief which in his dying hour wiped the chill dew 
 of eternity from his brow. There were many things be- 
 sides there w.ere his table and chair ; his camp bed on 
 which he rested during those long campaigns ; his gloves, 
 his razor strap, his comb, the clothes of his little son, the 
 " King of Rome," and the bow he played with ; the saddles 
 and other presents which he received during his expedition 
 to the East, and his various court dresses but the old 
 gray coat was the most attractive of all. It was a conso- 
 lation to notice that it had lost a button, for it showed that 
 though its wearer was an anointed emperor, he was not ex- 
 empt from the vicissitudes of common humanity. I sat 
 down and observed the people who visited the room, and I 
 noticed that they all lingered around the old coat. It made 
 no difference whether they spoke English, French, German, 
 or any other tongue; there was something which appealed 
 to them all ; there was a common ground, where the stu- 
 dent and the enthusiastic lover of high art could join in 
 harmonious feeling, even with the practical man, who .would 
 not have cared a three-cent piece if Praxiteles and Canova 
 had never sculptured, or Raphael and Murillo had never 
 seen a brush. It required but a slight effort to fill the room
 
 PARIS. 131 
 
 up of the absent hero, and to " stuff out his vacant gar- 
 ments with his form," and perhaps this very thing tended to 
 make the entire exhibition a sad one. It was the most mel- 
 ancholy commentary on human glory that can be imagined. 
 It ought to be placed in the vestibule of a church, or in 
 some more public place, and it would purge a community 
 of ambition. What a sermon might Lacordaire preach on 
 the temporal and the eternal, with the sword and the coro- 
 nation robes of Napoleon I. before him ! 
 
 The interest which I have seen manifested by so many 
 people in the relics of Napoleon I. has afforded me consid- 
 erable amusement. I have lately seen so much ridicule 
 cast upon the relics of the saints preserved in many of 
 the churches of Italy, by people of the same class as those 
 who lingered so reverentially before the glass cases of the 
 Napoleon room in the Louvre, that I cannot help thinking 
 how rare a virtue consistency is. 
 
 Perhaps it may be owing to some weakness in my men- 
 tal organization, but I cannot acknowledge the propriety of 
 honouring the burial-places of successful generals, and, at 
 the same time, think the shrines of the saints worthy of 
 nothing but ridicule and desecration. I found myself, a 
 few years ago, looking with grave interest at an old coat of 
 General Jackson's, which is preserved in the Patent Office 
 at Washington ; and I cannot wonder at the reverence which 
 some people pay to the garments of a martyr in the cause 
 of religion. I cannot understand how it may be right and 
 proper to celebrate the birthdays of worldly heroes, and 
 "rank idolatry" to commemorate the self-denying heroes 
 of Christianity. I cannot join in the setting-up of statues of 
 generals and statesmen, and condemn a similar homage to 
 the saints by any allusions to the enormity of making a 
 u graven image." In fine, if it is right to adorn and rever- 
 ence the tomb of the Father of his Country, (and what
 
 132 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 American heart does not acknowledge its propriety?) it 
 certainly cannot be wrong to beautify and venerate the 
 tomb of the chief apostle, and the shrines of saints and 
 martyrs who achieved for themselves and their fellow-men 
 an independence from a tyranny infinitely worse than that 
 from which Washington liberated America. 
 
 I have recently been visiting the three great monuments 
 of the reign of Napoleon III. the completed Louvre, 
 the Bois de Boulogne, and the Halles Centrales. As to 
 the first, those who remember those narrow, nasty streets, 
 which within six years were the approaches to the Louvre 
 and the Palace Royal, and those rickety old buildings re- 
 minding one too strongly of cheese in an advanced stage of 
 mouldiness, that used to intrude their unsightly forms into 
 the very middle of the Place du Carrousel, those who 
 recollect the junk shops that seemed more fitting to the 
 neighbourhood of the docks than to the entrance to a palace 
 and a gallery of art, feel in a manner lost, when they 
 walk about the courtyards of the noble edifice which has 
 taken the place of so much deformity. If the new wings 
 of the Louvre had been built in one range instead of quad- 
 rangles, they would extend more than half a mile ! Half a 
 mile of palace, and a palace, too, which in building has oc- 
 cupied one hundred and fifty sculptors for the past five 
 years ! Those who have not visited Paris within five years 
 will recollect the Bois de Boulogne only as a vast neglected 
 tract of woodland, which seemed a great waste of the raw 
 material in a place where firewood is so expensive as it is 
 here. It is now laid out in beautiful avenues and walks, 
 the extent of which is said to be nearly two hundred miles. 
 You are refreshed by the sound of waterfalls and the cool- 
 ness of grottos, the rocks for the formation of which were 
 brought from Fontainebleau, more than forty miles distant 
 from Paris. You walk on, and find yourself on the shores
 
 PAEIS. 133 
 
 of a lake, a mile or two in length, with two or three lovely 
 islands in it, and in whose bright blue waters thousands of 
 trout are sporting. That wild waste, the old Bois de Bou- 
 logne, which few persons but duellists ever visited, has 
 passed away, and in its place you find the most magnificent 
 park in the world. It is indeed a perfect triumph of land- 
 scape gardening. It is nature itself, not in miniature, but 
 on such a scale as to deceive you entirely, and fill you 
 with the same feeling of admiration that is awakened by 
 any striking natural beauty. The old French notions of 
 landscape gardening seem to have been entirely cast aside. 
 The carriage roads and paths go winding about so that the 
 view is constantly changing, and the trees are allowed to 
 grow as they please, without being tortured into fantastic 
 shapes by the pruning knife. The banks of the lake have 
 been made irregular, now steep, now sloping gently to the 
 water's edge, and in some places huge jagged rocks have 
 been most naturally worked in, while ivy has been planted 
 around them, and in their crevices those weeds and shrubs 
 which commonly grow in such places. You would about as 
 readily take Jamaica Pond to be artificial as this lovely 
 sheet of water and its surroundings. The Avenue de 1'Im- 
 pe*ratrice is the road from the Arc de Triomphe to the Bois 
 de Boulogne. It is half or three quarters of a mile in 
 length, and is destined to be one of the most striking fea- 
 tures of Paris. It is laid out with spacious grass plots, with 
 carriage ways and ways for equestrians and foot passengers, 
 with regular double rows of trees on either side. Many 
 elegant chateau-like private residences already adorn it, and 
 others are rapidly rising. An idea of its majestic appear- 
 ance may be had from the fact that its entire width from 
 house to house is about four hundred feet. The large space 
 around the Arc de Triomphe is already laid out in a square, 
 to be called the Place de 1'Europe, and the work has already 
 12
 
 134 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 been commenced of reducing the buildings around it to 
 symmetry. The Halles Centrales, the great central market- 
 house of Paris, has just been opened to the public. It is 
 built mainly of iron and glass. As nearly as I could judge 
 of its size> I should think it would leave but little spare 
 room if it were placed in Union Park, New York. It is 
 about a hundred feet in height, and so well ventilated that 
 it is hard to realize when there that one is under cover. A 
 wide street for vehicles runs through its whole length, 
 crossed by others at equal intervals. I have called these 
 three public improvements the great monuments of the 
 reign of Napoleon III. ; not that I would limit his good 
 works to these, but because these may be taken as conspic- 
 uous illustrations of his care, no less for the amusements 
 than for the bodily wants of his people, and of his zeal for the 
 promotion of art and the adornment of his capital. But 
 these noble characteristics of the Emperor deserve some- 
 thing more than a mere passing notice, and may well form 
 the subject of my next letter.
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIED* 
 
 THERE is a period in the life of almost every man which 
 nay justly be termed the romantic period. I do not mean 
 he time when a youth, whose heart is as yet unwarped by 
 he selfishness of the world, and his brow unclouded by its 
 trials and its sorrows, thinks that the performance of his 
 life will fully come up to the glowing programme he then 
 composes for it ; neither do I refer to the period when, in 
 hungry expectation, we clutched eagerly at the booksellers' 
 announcements of the last productions of the eloquent Bul- 
 wer, or of the inexhaustible James. But I refer to the' 
 tune when childhood forgets its new buttons in reading how 
 poor Ali Baba relieved his wants at the expense of the 
 wicked thieves ; how Whittington heard Bow bells ring out 
 the prophecy of his greatness ; how fierce Blue Beard pun- 
 ished' his wife's curiosity ; and how good King Alfred mer- 
 ited reproof by his forgetfulness of the herdsman's supper. 
 This is the true period of romance in the lives of all of us ; 
 for then all the romance that we read is clothed with the 
 dignity of history^ and all our history is invested with the 
 
 * The author must plead <milty to a little hesitation (induced by the 
 present aspect of European affairs) about incorporating this paper on 
 the French Emperor, written some three years since, in his work. He 
 feels, however, that, whatever may be the issue of the present contest in 
 Europe, the services of Napoleon III. to France and to civilization are 
 a part of history ; and he has no wish to disguise his satisfaction at hav- 
 ing been one of the first Americans who confronted the vulgar prejudices 
 of his countrymen against that remarkable man, and publicly recognized 
 the wonderful talents which have placed France at the head of all civil- 
 ized nations. 
 
 (135)
 
 136 AGUKCHEEK. 
 
 charm of romance. This happy period does not lose ita 
 attractions, even when we outgrow the credulity of child- 
 hood ; for the romance of history captivates us when we no 
 longer are subject to the sway of the novelist ; and we 
 leave Mr. Thackeray's last uncut, until we can finish a 
 newspaper chapter in the history of these momentous 
 times. 
 
 We know how eagerly we pursue the vicissitudes of for- 
 tune which have marked the career of so many of the 
 world's heroes ; and this will teach us how future genera- 
 tions Avill read the history of the present century. Surely 
 the whole range of romance presents no parallel to the 
 simple history of the wonderful man who now governs 
 France. It is easy to see that his varied fortunes will one 
 day perform a conspicuous part in that juvenile classical 
 literature of which I have spoken ; and perhaps it may not 
 be unprofitable, dear reader, for us to endeavour to raise 
 ourselves above the excitement of partisanship and the in- 
 fluences of old prejudices, and look upon his career as may 
 the writers of the twenty-fifth century. 
 
 It is a popular error in America to regard Louis Napo- 
 leon as a singular combination of knavery and half-witted- 
 ness. Even Mr. Emerson, in his English Traits, so far 
 forgets the kindliness of his nature as to call him a " suc- 
 cessful thief." The English journalists once delighted to rid- 
 icule him as the " nephew of his uncle," and the shadow of 
 a great i\ame, and Punch used to represent him as a pygmy 
 standing upon the brim of his uncle's hat, and wondering 
 how he could ever fill it ; but he has lived down ridicule, 
 and they have long since learned that there is such a thing 
 as the possibility of a mistake in judgment, even among 
 journalists and politicians. It is time that we Americans 
 got over a notion which has long since been exploded on 
 this side of the Atlantic. I know that I am flying in the 

 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD. 137 
 
 face of those who believe in the plenary inspiration of the 
 New York Tribune, when I claim for the Emperor any 
 thing like patriotism or capacity as a statesman. I know 
 that the Greeleian, " philanthropic " code exacts that we 
 should not " give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt," and 
 that when any one whom we dislike does any good, we 
 should attribute it to nothing but a selfish or ambitious mo- 
 tive. I know that this new-fangled love of all mankind 
 requires us to hate those who differ from us politically, and 
 never to lose an opportunity to blacken their characters and 
 diminish their reputation ; and therefore I make all due 
 allowances for the refusal of the Tribune, and journals of 
 the same amiable family, to see the truth. In April, 1856, 
 I was waiting for a train in a way station on the Worcester 
 Railroad. A sun-burned, hard-working man was reading 
 the news of the proclamation of peace at Paris from a 
 penny paper, and he commented upon it to two or three 
 others who were present, as follows : " Well, I don't know 
 how 'tis, but it seems to me that we've been most almightily 
 mistaken about this 'ere Lewis Napoleon. We used to 
 think he was a shaller kind o' feller any how, but it really 
 looks now, judging from the joosition of France in European 
 affairs, as if he was turning out to be altogether the biggest 
 dog in that lanyard ! " The old fellow's conclusion was a 
 true one, though his rhetoric would not have been com- 
 mended at Cambridge ; and it is to prevent this conclusion 
 forcing itself upon the public sense, that the sympathizers 
 with socialism have been labouring ever since. We are 
 told that it is our duty as Americans and republicans to 
 wish for the overthrow of Napoleon and his empire, and 
 the establishment of the republtque democratique et sociale. 
 Now, having received my political principles from another 
 source than the Tribune, I may be pardoned for having a 
 prejudice in favour of allowing the people of France to govern 
 12*
 
 138 \CI'I;CIIK;:K. 
 
 France ; and, as they elected Louis Napoleon President in 
 1848 by more than five millions of votes, and in 1851 
 chose him dictator (in their fear of the very party which 
 the Tribune wishes to see in power) by more than seven 
 millions of votes, and finally, in 1852, made him their 
 Emperor by a vote of more than seven millions against a 
 little more than three hundred thousand, we may suppose 
 France to have expressed a pretty decided opinion on this 
 matter. The French empire rests upon the very principle 
 that forms the basis of true republicanism universal suf- 
 frage. Louis Napoleon restored that principle after it had 
 been suppressed or restricted, and proved himself a truer 
 republican than his opponents. For nine years, Napoleon 
 has been sustained by the people of France with a unanim- 
 ity such as the United States never knew, except in the 
 election of Washington as first President, and his majority 
 has increased every time that he has appealed to the people. 
 It is idle to say that there are parties here that are opposed 
 to him ; it would be a remarkable phenomenon if there 
 were not. But there is a more united support here for the 
 Emperor than there is in our own country for the consti- 
 tution of the United States, and any right-minded man 
 vrould regret a revolutionary movement in one country as 
 much as in the other. 
 
 If there was ever a position calculated to test the capa- 
 bilities of its occupant, it was that in which Louis Napoleon 
 found himself when he obeyed the voice of the French 
 people, and accepted the presidency of the French repub- 
 lic. Surrounded by men holding all kinds of political opin- 
 ions, from the agrarian Proudhon to the impracticable Louis 
 Blanc, and men of no political opinions whatever, he 
 found himself obliged to use all the power reposed in him 
 by the constitution, to keep the government from falling 
 asunder. History bears witness to the fact that republi-
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD. 139 
 
 can governments deteriorate more rapidly than those which 
 are based upon a less changeable foundation than the pop- 
 ular will. But there was little danger of the French re- 
 public deteriorating, for it was about as weak and unprinci- 
 pled as it could be in its very inception. There were a few 
 men of high and patriotic character in the Assembly, but 
 (as is generally the case) their voices were drowned amid 
 the clainourings of a crowd of radical journalists and am- 
 bitious litterateurs, whose only bond of union was a fierce 
 hatred of law and religion, and a desire for the spoils of 
 office. These were the men with whom Napoleon had to 
 deal. They had favoured his election to the presidency, 
 for, in their misapprehension of his character, they thought 
 him the mere shadow of a name, and expected under his 
 government to have all things their own way. But they 
 were not long in discovering their mistake. 
 
 His conduct soon showed that he was the proper man for 
 the crisis. That unflinching republican, General Cavai- 
 gnac, had before pointed out the dangers to all European 
 governments, and to civilization itself, that would spring 
 from the continuance of the sanguinary and sacrilegious Ro- 
 man republic ; and Napoleon, accepting his suggestions, 
 took immediate measures to put an end to the atrocities 
 which marked the sway of Mazzini and his assassins in the 
 Roman States.* The success which attended these meas- 
 
 * Lest I should be thought guilty of speaking rashly with regard to the 
 anarchy which Napoleon destroyed in 1849 at Rome, I take the liberty to 
 transcribe a few extracts from the constitution of the Society of " Young 
 Italy," which will give some idea of the principles upon which the Roman 
 Republic rested. I translate from the edition published at Naples, by 
 Benedetto Cantalupo. 
 
 " ARTICLE I. The Society is established for the entire destruction of 
 all the governments of the peninsula, and for the forming of Italy into a 
 ingle state, under a republican government. 
 
 " ART. II. In consequence of the evils attendant upon absolute goy-
 
 140 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 ures is now a part of history. There is a kind of historical 
 justice in this part of Napoleon's career which must force 
 itself upon every reflecting mind. From the day when St. 
 Remy told his royal convert, Clovis, to " burn what he had 
 adored,- and adore what he had burned," the monarch of 
 France had always been considered the " eldest son of the 
 Church." The Roman Pontiff was indebted to Pepin and 
 Charlemagne for those possessions which rendered him in- 
 dependent of the secular power. In the hour of need it 
 was always to the Kings of France that he looked for aid ; 
 and whether he sought aid against the oppressors of the 
 Holy See or the infidel possessors of the Holy Sepulchre, 
 he seldom appealed to them in vain. It was meet, there- 
 fore, that Napoleon should inaugurate his power by thus 
 reviving the ancient traditionary spirit of the French mon- 
 archy ; for he could not better prove his worthiness to sit 
 on the throne which had been occupied by so many gener- 
 ous and heroic spirits, than by fighting the battles of the 
 Church they loved so well. 
 
 eminent, and the still greater evils of constitutional monarchy, we ought 
 to join all our efforts to establish a single and indivisible republic. 
 
 " AET. XXX. Those members who shall disobey the commands of 
 the Society, or who shall reveal its mysteries, shall be poniarded without 
 remission. 
 
 " ART. XXXI. The secret tribunal shall pronounce sentence in such 
 cases as the preceding, and shall designate one or more of the brethren 
 to carry it into instant execution. 
 
 " AET. XXXII. The brother who shall refuse to execute a sentence 
 thus pronounced shall be considered as a perjurer, and as such shall be 
 immediately put to death. 
 
 "ART. XXXIII. If the victim condemned to punishment should suc- 
 ceed in escaping, he shall be pursued unremittingly into any place what- 
 ever, and shall be struck as by an invisible hand, even if he shall have 
 taken refuge on the bosom of his mother, or in the tabernacle of Christ. 
 
 " ART. XXXIV. Each secret tribunal shall be competent not only to 
 condemn the guilty to death, but also to put to death all persons so sen- 
 tenced."
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD. 141 
 
 The foreign and domestic policy which the Prince-Presi- 
 dent pursued excited at the same time the anger of the 
 ultra republican faction, and the hopes of the religious and 
 conservative portion of society. Order was restored, and 
 an impetus was given to commercial enterprise and to the 
 arts of peace such as France had not known since the out- 
 break of 1848. Still the discordant elements of which the 
 Assembly was composed, were a just cause of alarm to all 
 friends of good order, and all parties, conservative and radi- 
 cal, regarded the existing state of affairs as a temporary 
 one. Napoleon saw that the only obstacle in the path of 
 the nation to peace and prosperity was the Assembly the 
 radicals of the Assembly that the Prince-President was the 
 only obstacle to their plans of disorganization and anarchy ; 
 and they also saw that, if the question were allowed to go 
 to the people at the expiration of Napoleon's term of office, 
 he would surely be reflected, and that his policy would 
 be triumphantly confirmed. So, as the time drew near for 
 the new election, the struggle between the President and the 
 Assembly between order and anarchy grew more and 
 more severe. Plots were formed against Napoleon, and were 
 just ripening for execution, when, on the second of Decem- 
 ber, 1851, he terminated the suspense of the nation by seiz- 
 ing and throwing into prison all the chief conspirators 
 against the public peace, and then appealed to the people to 
 sustain him in his efforts to preserve his country from the 
 state of anarchy towards which it seemed to be hastening. 
 The people answered promptly and with good will to the 
 call, and Napoleon gained an almost bloodless victory. 
 
 But we are told that by the coup d'etat, " Napoleon vio- 
 lated his oath to sustain the constitution of the republic 
 that he is a perjurer, and all his success cannot diminish his 
 crime." So might one of the old loyalists have said about 
 our own Washington. " He was a British subject by ao-
 
 1-lli AGUECHEEK. 
 
 cepting a commission under Braddock, he formally acknowl- 
 edged his allegiance to the crown by drawing his sword 
 in the revolution, he violated not only his fidelity as a sub- 
 ject, but his honour as a soldier." And what would any 
 American reply to this ? He would say that Washington 
 never bound himself to violate his conscience, and that con- 
 scientiously he felt bound to defend the old English prin- 
 ciples of free government even against the encroachments 
 of his own rightful sovereign. And so, with equal reason, 
 it may be said of Louis Napoleon, when the term of his 
 presidency was approaching, and the radical members of 
 the Assembly were forming conspiracies to dispose of him 
 so as to prevent his reelection, he was bound in conscience, 
 as the chief ruler of his country, to prevent the anarchy 
 that must result from such a movement. And how could 
 he do this save by dissolving the Assembly and appealing to 
 the people as he did ? The constitution was nullified by the 
 plots of the Assembly, and France in 1851 was really with- 
 out a government, until the coup d'etat inaugurated the pres- 
 ent reign of public prosperity and peace. The coup d'etat 
 was not only justifiable it was praiseworthy. When the 
 prejudices and party spirit of the present time shall have 
 passed away, the historian will grow eloquent in speaking 
 of that fearless and far-sighted statesman, who, when his 
 country was threatened with a repetition of the civil strife 
 which had too often shaken her to her centre, threw himself 
 boldly upon the patriotism of the people with whose noble 
 words, " The Assembly, instead of being what it ought to be, 
 the support of public order, has become a nest of conspira- 
 cies. It compromises the peace of France. I have dis- 
 solved it ; and I call upon the whole people to judge between 
 it and myself." The coup d'etat excited the anger only of 
 the socialists and of those partisans of the houses of Bour- 
 bon and Orleans who loved those families more than they
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD. 143 
 
 loved their country's welfare ; for they saw, by the revival 
 of business, that confidence in the stability of the govern- 
 ment was established, and that Napoleon had obtained a 
 place in the affections of the French people from which he 
 could not easily be dislodged. 
 
 From this dictatorship, which the dangers of the time had 
 rendered necessary, it was an easy transition to the empire, 
 and Louis Napoleon found his succession to the throne of 
 his uncle confirmed by almost the unanimous vote of the 
 French people. It was a tribute to the man, and to his 
 public policy, such as no ruler in modern times has ever 
 received, and for unanimity is unparalleled in the history of 
 popular elections. His marriage followed quickly upon the 
 proclamation of the empire ; and in this, as in all his acts, 
 we can discern his manly and independent spirit. He 
 sought not to ally himself with any of the royal families of 
 Europe, for he felt himself to be so sure of his position, that 
 he could without risk consult his affections rather than policy 
 or ambition. 
 
 The skilful diplomacy which led to the alliance with 
 England, the campaign in the Crimea, and the repulse of 
 Russia, are too fresh in every body's recollection to bear 
 any repetition. So far as they concern Napoleon III., 
 the world is a witness to his matchless coolness and determi- 
 nation. What could be grander than the heroic inflexibility 
 he displayed in the face of the accumulated disasters of that 
 campaign, and the murmurs of his allies ! Misfortune only 
 seemed to nerve him to more vigorous effort. During that 
 terrible winter of 1854-5, he appeared more like a fixed, 
 unvarying law of nature than a man, so immovable was 
 he in his opposition to those who, pressed by the unlooked- 
 for difficulties of the tune, counselled a change of policy. 
 The successful termination of the siege of Sebastopol, how- 
 ever, proved the justice of his calculations, and, while con-
 
 144 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 quering monarchs in other times have been content to see 
 the negotiations for peace made in some provincial town, 
 or in a city of some neutral state, the proud satisfaction 
 was conceded to him by Russia of having the peace confer- 
 ences held in his own capital. 
 
 But while commemorating the success of his ' efforts to 
 raise his country to a commanding position among the na- 
 tions, we must not forget the great enterprises of internal 
 improvement which he has set on foot within his empire. 
 Who can recall what Paris was under Louis Philippe, or 
 the time of the republic, and compare it with the Paris of 
 to-day, without admiring the genius of Napoleon III. ? Who 
 does not recognize a wonderful capacity for the administra- 
 tion of government in the Emperor, when he sees that nearly 
 all of these great improvements (unlike those of Louis 
 XIV., which impoverished the nation) will gradually but 
 surely pay for themselves by increasing the amount of tax- 
 able property. Indeed, the improvements in the city of 
 Paris alone are on so vast a scale as to be incomprehensi- 
 ble to any one unacquainted with that capital. If Napoleon 
 were to-day to fall a victim to that organization of republi- 
 can assassins which is known to exist in France, as well as 
 in the other states of Europe, he would leave, in the 
 Louvre, in the Bois de Boulogne, in the new Boulevards, 
 and the extension of the Rue de Rivoli, together with the 
 countless other public works which now adorn Paris, 
 testimonials to the splendour of his brief reign, such as no 
 monarch ever left before : of him, as of Sir Christopher 
 Wren, it might be truly said, " Si quceris monumentum, cir- 
 cumspice" 
 
 But we must not think that Napoleon has confined his 
 exertions to the improvement of Paris alone. Not a single 
 province of his empire has been neglected by him, and there 
 is scarcely a town that has not felt the influence of his
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD. 145 
 
 policy. The foreign commerce of France has been wonder- 
 fully increased by him, and his favourite project for a ship 
 canal through the Isthmus of Suez is now numbered among 
 the probabilities of the age. When it is considered what a 
 narrow strip of land separates the Red Sea from the Medi- 
 terranean, and what an immense advantage such a canal 
 would be to all the countries bordering on the latter, it is 
 not wonderful that Napoleon should find so many friends 
 among the sovereigns of Europe. He has not built the 
 magnificent new port of Marseilles merely for the accom- 
 modation of the Mediterranean coasting trade of his empire. 
 His far-seeing eye looks upon those massive quays covered 
 with merchandise from every quarter of the Orient, brought, 
 not around the stormy Cape, nor by the toilsome caravan 
 over the parching desert, but by the swift steamers of 
 the Messageries Imperiales from every port of India, 
 through the waters which, centuries ago, rolled back and 
 opened a path of safety to the chosen people of God. 
 
 If the old proverb be true, that a man is known by the 
 company he keeps, it is equally true, on the other hand, 
 that a statesman may be rightly known by examining the 
 character of his opponents. And who are the opponents of 
 Napoleon III. ? With the exception of a few partisans of 
 the Bourbons, (whose opposition to the Napoleon dynasty 
 is an hereditary complaint,) they are radical demagogues, 
 who delight to mislead the fickle multitude with the words, 
 " Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity," on their lips, but the 
 designs of anarchy and bloodshed in their hearts. Their 
 ranks are swelled by a number of visionary " philanthro- 
 pists," and a large number of newspaper scribblers deprived 
 of their occupation by Napoleon's salutary laws against 
 abuse of the liberty of the press, and lacking ambition to 
 earn an honest livelihood. Among them may be found a 
 few literary men of high reputation, who have espoused 
 13
 
 146 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 some impracticable theory of government, and would blindly 
 throw away their well-earned fame, and shed the last drop 
 of their ink in forcing it upon an unwilling nation. 
 
 Slander, like Death, loves a shining mark. The fact 
 cannot be doubted, if we look at the lives of the greatest 
 and best men the world has ever seen. In truth, a large 
 part of the heroism of the noblest patriots, and the purest 
 philanthropists, has been created by the necessity they have 
 been under to bear up against the obloquy with which 
 enmity or envy has assailed them. The Emperor Napo- 
 leon is, beyond a doubt, the best abused man in Christen- 
 dom. There probably never existed a man whose every 
 act and every motive have been more studiously misrepre- 
 sented and systematically lied about than his. It cannot be 
 wondered at, either ; for he exercises too much power in 
 the state councils of Europe, and fills too large a space in 
 the public eye, not to be assailed by those whose evil proph- 
 ecies have been falsified by his brilliant reign, and whose 
 lawless schemes have been frustrated by his unexampled 
 prudence and firmness. 
 
 And what right has he to complain ? If St. Gregory 
 VII. were obliged to submit for centuries to being repre- 
 sented as an ambitious self-seeker and unscrupulous poli- 
 tician, instead of a wise and far-seeing pontiff, a vanquisher 
 of tyrants, and a self-denying saint ; if St. Thomas of 
 Canterbury be held up, in hundreds of volumes, as a mon- 
 ster of ingratitude towards a beneficent sovereign, and a 
 haughty and overbearing supporter of prelatical tyranny, 
 instead of a martyr, in defence of religious liberty against 
 the encroachments of the civil authority ; if Cardinal Wol- 
 sey be held up to public scorn as a proud and selfish prince 
 of the Church, a glutton, and a wine-bibber, instead of a 
 skilful administrator of government, a liberal patron of 
 learning, and all good arts, and the sole restrainer of the
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD. 147 
 
 evil passions of the most shameless tyrant who ever sat 
 upon the English throne ; if Cardinal Richelieu be handed 
 down from generation to generation, painted in the blackest 
 colours, as a scheming politician, in whose heart, wile and 
 cruelty were mixed up in equal parts, instead of a sagacious 
 and inflexible statesman, and a patriot who made every 
 thing (even his religion) bend to his devotion to the glory 
 of his beloyed France ; if these great men have been thus 
 misrepresented in that history which De Maistre aptly calls 
 "a conspiracy against truth," I do not think that Napo- 
 leon III. can reasonably complain of finding himself de- 
 nounced as a tyrant, a perjurer, and a victim of all the bad 
 passions that vex the human heart, instead of a liberator of 
 his country from that many-headed monstrosity, miscalled 
 the RepiMique Franpaise, an unswerving supporter of the 
 cause of law and religion, and the architect of the present 
 glory and prosperity of France. It must be a great conso- 
 lation to the Emperor, under the slanders which have been 
 heaped upon him, to reflect that their authors and the ene- 
 mies who hate him worst, are, for the most part, infidels 
 and assassins, and enemies of social order. Whatever 
 errors a man may commit, he cannot be far from the course 
 of right so long as he is hated and feared by people of that 
 desperate stamp. The ancient adage tells us that " a cat 
 may look at a king ; " and it is, perhaps, a merciful pro- 
 vision of the law of compensation that the base reptiles 
 which fatten on the offal of slander are permitted to trail 
 their slime over a name which is the synonyme of the 
 power and glory of France. 
 
 When the prejudices of the present day shall have died 
 out, the historian will relate how devoted Napoleon HI. 
 was to every thing that concerned his country's welfare. 
 He will tell of his ceaseless care for the most common 
 wants of his people, and of his vigilance in enforcing
 
 148 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 laws against those who wronged the poor by their dishonest 
 dealings in the necessaries of life. He will relate how 
 promptly he turned his back upon nobles and ambassadors 
 to visit some of his people who had been overwhelmed by 
 a terrible calamity, and will describe the kind, fatherly man- 
 ner in which he went among them, carrying succour and 
 consolation to all. He will not compare the Emperor to his 
 great warrior-uncle ; he will contrast the two. He will 
 show how the uncle made all Europe fear and hate him, 
 and how the nephew converted his enemies into allies ; how 
 the uncle manured the soil of Europe with the bones of his 
 soldiers, and the nephew, having given splendid proofs of his 
 ability to make war, won for himself the title of " the Pa- 
 cificator of Europe ; " how the uncle, through his hot-headed 
 ambition, finally made France the prey of a hostile alliance, 
 and the nephew brought the representatives of all the Eu- 
 ropean powers around him in his capital to make peace 
 under his supervision. 
 
 The man who, after thirty years of exile and six years 
 of close imprisonment, can take a country in the chaotic 
 condition in which France found itself after the revolution 
 of 1848, and reorganize its government, place its financial 
 affairs on a better footing than they have been before within 
 the memory of man, double its commerce, and raise it to 
 the highest place among the states of Europe, cannot be an 
 ordinary man. In 1852, the Emperor said, " France, in 
 crowning me, crowns herself;" and he has proved the lit- 
 eral truth of his words. He has given France peace, 
 prosperity, and a stable government. He has imitated 
 Napoleon I. in every one of his great and praiseworthy 
 actions in his civil capacity, while he has not made a 
 single one of his mistakes. And if "he that ruleth his 
 own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city," this 
 remarkable man, whose self-control is undisturbed by his
 
 NAPOLEON THE THIRD. 149 
 
 most unparalleled success, is destined to be known in his- 
 tory as Napoleon the Great. 
 
 The character of Napoleon III. is marked by a unity 
 and a consistency such as invariably have distinguished 
 the greatest men. We can see this consistency in his fidel- 
 ity to the cause of law and order, whether it be manifested 
 in his services as a special constable against the Chartists 
 of England, or as the chief magistrate of his nation against 
 the Chartists of France. And to this conspicuous virtue 
 of steadfastness he adds a wonderful universality of acquire- 
 ments and natural genius. We see him contracting favour- 
 able loans and averting impending dangers in the monetary 
 affairs of France, and it would seem as if his early life had 
 been spent amid the clamours of the Bourse ; we see him 
 concentrating troops in his capital against the threats of the 
 revolutionists, or designing campaigns against the greatest 
 military powers of Europe ; we see him maintaining a 
 perfect composure in the midst of deadly missiles which 
 were expected to terminate his reign and dynasty, and it 
 would seem as if the camp had always been his home, and 
 the dangers of the battle-field his familiar associations ; 
 we see him buying up grain to prevent speculators from 
 oppressing his people during a season of scarcity, or impris- 
 oning bakers for a deficiency in the weight of their loaves, 
 or regulating the sales of meats and vegetables, and it 
 would seem as if he always had been a prudent house- 
 keeper and a profound student of domestic economy ; we 
 see him laying out parks, projecting new streets and public 
 buildings, and we question whether he has paid most atten- 
 tion to architecture, engineering, or landscape-gardening; 
 we see him visiting his subjects when they have been over- 
 whelmed by a great calamity, and he would seem to have 
 been a disciple of St. Thomas of Villanueva, or of St. Vin- 
 cent of Paul ; we see him taking the lead amid the chief 
 13*
 
 150 AGUEC1IEEK. 
 
 statesmen and diplomatists of the world, we read his pow- 
 erful state papers and speeches, and we wonder where he 
 acquired his experience ; we see him, in short, under all 
 circumstances, and it appears that there is nothing that con- 
 cerns his country's welfare or glory too difficult for him to 
 grapple with, nor any thing affecting the happiness of his 
 poorest subject trivial enough for him to overlook. By his 
 advocacy of the cause of the Church, he has won a place in 
 history by the side of Constantine and Charlemagne ; by his 
 internal policy and care for the needs of his subjects, his 
 name deserves to be inscribed with those of St. Louis and 
 Alfred. The language which Bulwer has put into the 
 mouth of Cardinal Richelieu might be used by Napoleon 
 III., and would from him be only the language of historical 
 truth: 
 
 " I found France rent asunder, 
 Sloth in the mart and schism within the temple, 
 Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws 
 Rotting away with rust * * * * 
 / have re-created France, and from the ashes 
 Civilization on her luminous wings 
 Soars phoenix-like to Jove ! "
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 FOREIGN travel is one of .the most useful branches of our 
 education, but, like a great many other useful branches, it 
 appears to be " gone through with " by many persons merely 
 as a matter of course. It is astonishing how few people 
 out of the great number constantly making the tour of 
 Europe really carry home any thing to show for it except 
 photographs and laces. Foreign travel ought to rub the 
 corners off a man's character, and give him a polish such as 
 " home-keeping youth " can never acquire ; yet how many 
 we see who seem to have increased their natural rudeness 
 and inconsiderateness by a continental trip ! Foreign travel 
 ought to soften prejudices, religious or political, and liberal- 
 ize a man's mind ; but how many there are who seem to 
 have travelled for the purpose of getting up their rancour 
 against all that is opposed to their notions, making them- 
 selves illustrations of Tom Hood's remark, that "some 
 minds resemble copper wire or brass, and get the narrower 
 by going farther." Foreign travel, while it shows a man 
 more clearly the faults of his own country, ought to make 
 him love his country more dearly than before ; yet how 
 often does it have the effect of making a man undervalue 
 his home and his old friends ! There must be some gen- 
 eral reason why foreign travel produces its legitimate fruits 
 in so few instances ; and I have, during several European 
 tours, endeavoured to ascertain it. I am inclined to think 
 that it is a general lack of preparation for travel, and a mis- 
 taken notion that " sight-seeing " is the chief end of travel- 
 ling. The expenses of the passage across the Atlantic are 
 
 (151)
 
 152 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 diminishing every year, and when the motive power in 
 electricity is discovered and applied, the expense of the 
 trip will be a mere trifle ; and in view of these considera- 
 tions, I feel that, though I might find a more entertaining 
 subject for a letter, I cannot find a more instructive one 
 than the philosophy of European travel. 
 
 Concerning the expense of foreign travel, there are 
 many erroneous notions afloat. There are hundreds of 
 persons in America artists, and students, and persons of 
 small means who are held back from what is to them a 
 land of promise, by the mistaken idea that it is expensive 
 to travel in Europe. They know that Bayard Taylor made 
 a tour on an incredibly small sum, and they think that they 
 have not his tact in management, nor his self-denial in 
 regard to the common .wants of life ; but if they will put 
 aside a few of their false American prejudices, they will 
 find that they can travel in Europe almost as cheaply as 
 they can live at home. In America, we have an aristocracy 
 of the pocket, which is far more tyrannical, and much less 
 respectable, than any aristocracy of blood on this side of 
 the water ; for every man feels an instinctive respect for 
 another who can trace his lineage back to some brave sol- 
 dier whose deeds have shone in his country's history for 
 centuries ; but it requires a peculiarly constituted mind to 
 bow down to a man whose chief claim to respect is founded 
 in the fact of his having made a large fortune in the pork 
 or dry goods line. Jinkins is a rich man ; he lives in style, 
 and fares sumptuously every day. Jones is one of Jin- 
 kins's neighbours ; he is not so rich as Jinkins, but he feels 
 a natural ambition to keep up with him in his establishment, 
 and he does so ; the rivalry becomes contagious, and the 
 consequence is, that a score of well-meaning people find, to 
 their dismay, at the end of the year, that they have been 
 living beyond their means. Now, if people wish to travel
 
 FOREIGN TRAVEL. 153 
 
 reasonably in Europe, the first thing that they must do is 
 to get rid of the Jones and Jinkins standard of respectabil- 
 ity. I have seen many people who were content to live at 
 home in a very moderate sort of way, who, when they 
 came to travel, seemed to require all the style and luxury 
 of a foreign prince. Such people may go all over Europe, 
 and see very little of it except the merest outside crust. 
 They might just as well live in a fashionable hotel in 
 America, and visit Mr. Battler's cosmoramas. They re- 
 semble those unfortunate persons who have studied the 
 classics from Anthon's text-books they have got a gen- 
 eral notion, but of the mental discipline of the study they 
 are entirely ignorant. But let me go into particulars con- 
 cerning the expenses of travelling. I know that a person 
 can go by a sailing vessel from Boston to Genoa, spend a 
 week or more in Genoa and on the road to Florence, pass 
 two or three weeks in that delightful city, and two months 
 in Rome, then come to Paris, and stay here two or three 
 weeks, then go to London for a month or more, and home 
 by way of Liverpool in a steamer, for less than four hun- 
 dred dollars ; for I did it myself several years ago. Dur- 
 ing this trip, I lived and travelled respectably all the time 
 that is, what is called respectably in Europe. I went in 
 the second class cars, and in 'the forward cabins of the 
 steamers. Jones and Jinkins went in the first class cars 
 and in the after cabins, and paid a good deal more money 
 for the same pleasure that cost me so little. I know, too, 
 that a person can sail from Boston to Liverpool, make a 
 summer trip of two months and a half to Paris, via Lon- 
 don and the cities of Belgium, and back to Boston via 
 London and Liverpool, for a trifle over two hundred and 
 fifty dollars. A good room in London can be got for two 
 dollars and a half a week, in Paris for eight dollars a 
 month, in Rome and Florence for four dollars a month, and
 
 154 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 in the cities of Germany for very considerably less. 
 And a good dinner costs about thirty cents in London, 
 thirty-five in Paris, fifteen to twenty-five in Florence or 
 Rome, and even less in Germany. Breakfast, which is 
 made very little of on the continent, generally damages 
 one's exchequer to the extent of five to ten cents. It will 
 be seen from this scale of prices that one can live very 
 cheaply if he will ; and, as the inhabitants of a country 
 may be supposed to know the requirements of its climate 
 better than strangers, common sense would dictate the 
 adoption of their style of living. 
 
 I need not say that some knowledge of the French lan- 
 guage is absolutely indispensable to one who would travel 
 with any satisfaction in Europe. This is the most impor- 
 tant general preparation that can be made for going abroad. 
 Next after it, I should place a review of the history of the 
 countries about to be visited. The outlines of the history 
 of the different countries of Europe, published by the 
 English Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, 
 are admirably adapted to this purpose. This gives a 
 reality to the scenes you are about to visit that they would 
 not otherwise possess ; it peoples the very roadside for you 
 with heroes. And not only does it impart a reality to your 
 travels, but history itself becomes a reality to you, instead 
 of being a mere barren record of events, hard to be re- 
 membered. At this time, when the neglect of classical 
 studies is apparent in almost every book, newspaper, and 
 magazine, I am afraid that I shall be thought somewhat 
 old-fashioned and out of date, if I say that some acquaint- 
 ance with the Latin classics is necessary before a man can 
 really enjoy Italy. Yet it is so ; and it will be a great sat- 
 isfaction to any man to find that Horace and Virgil, and 
 Cicero and Livy, are something more than the hard tasks 
 of childhood. Should a man's classical studies, however,
 
 FOREIGN TRAVEL. lo-O 
 
 be weak, the deficiency can be made up in some measure 
 by the judicious use of translations, and by Eustace's 
 Classical Tour. Murray's admirable hand-books of course 
 will supply a vast amount of information ; but it will not 
 do to trust to reading them upon the spot. Some prepara- 
 tion must be made beforehand, some capital is necessary 
 to start in business. " If you would bring home the wealth 
 of the Indies, you must carry out the wealth of the Indies." 
 It would be well, too, for a person about to visit Europe to 
 prepare himself for a quieter life than he has been leading 
 at home. I mean, to tone himself down so as to be able to 
 enjoy the freedom from excitement which awaits him here. 
 It is now more than a year since I left America, and like- 
 wise more than a year since I have seen any disorderly 
 conduct, or a quarrel, or even have heard high words be- 
 tween two parties in the street, or have known of an alarm 
 of fire. In the course of the year, too, I have not seen 
 half a dozen intoxicated persons. When we reflect what a 
 fruitful source of excitement all these things are in Amer- 
 ica, it will be easy to see that a man may have, compara- 
 tively, a very quiet life where they are not to be found. 
 It will not do any harm, either, to prepare one's self by 
 assuming a little more consideration for the feelings of 
 others than is generally seen among us, and by learning to 
 address servants with a little less of the imperious manner 
 which is so common in America. Strange as it may seem, 
 there is much less distinction of classes on the continent, 
 than in republican America. You are astonished to find 
 the broadcloth coat and the blouse interchanging the civil- 
 ities of a " light" in the streets, and the easy, familiar way 
 of servants towards their masters is a source of great sur- 
 prise. You seldom see a Frenchman or an Italian receive 
 any thing from a servant without thanking him for it. Yet 
 there appears to be a perfectly good understanding between
 
 156 AGUECHEEK. ' 
 
 nil parties as to their relative position, and with all their 
 familiarity, I have never seen a servant presume upon the 
 good nature of his employer, as they often do with us. We 
 receive our social habits in a great measure from Eng- 
 land, and therefore we have got that hard old English way 
 of treating servants, as if our object was to make them feel 
 that they are inferiors. So the sooner a man who is going 
 to travel on the continent, can get that notion out of his 
 head, and replace it with the continental one, which seems 
 to be, that a servant, so long as he is faithful in the dis- 
 charge of his duties, is quite as respectable a member of 
 society as his employer, the better it will be for him, and 
 the pleasanter will be his sojourn in Europe. 
 
 One of the first mistakes Americans generally make in 
 leaving for Europe is, to take too much luggage. Presup- 
 posing a sufficiency of under-clothing, all that any person 
 really needs is a good, substantial travelling suit, and a suit 
 of black, including a black dress coat, which is indispensa- 
 ble for all occasions of ceremony. The Sistine chapel is 
 closed to frock coats, and so is the Opera and as for even- 
 ing parties, a man might as well go in a roundabout as in 
 any thing but a dress coat. Clothing is at least one third 
 cheaper in Europe than it is with us, and any deficiency 
 can be supplied with ease, without carrying a large ward- 
 robe around with one, and paying the charges for extra 
 luggage exacted by the continental railways. 
 
 Let us now suppose a person to have got fairly off, 
 having read up his classics and his history, and got his 
 luggage into a single good-sized valise, let us suppose 
 him to have got over the few days of seasickness, which 
 made him wish that Europe had been submerged by the 
 broad ocean (as Mr. Choate would say) or ever he had left 
 his native land, and to have passed those few pleasant 
 days, which every one remembers in his Atlantic passage,
 
 FOREIGN TRAVEL. 157 
 
 when the ship was literally getting along " by degrees " on 
 her course, and to have arrived safely in some European 
 port. The^custom house officers commence the examina- 
 tion of the luggage, looking especially for tobacco ; and if 
 our friend is a wise man, he will not attempt to bribe the 
 officers, as in nine cases out of ten he will increase his dif- 
 ficulties by so doing, and cause his effects to be examined 
 with double care ; but he will open his trunk, and, if he 
 have any cigars, will show them to the examiner, and if he 
 have not, he will undoubtedly be told to close it again, and 
 will soon be on his way to his hotel. I suppose him to have 
 selected a hotel before arriving in port which would be 
 done by carefully avoiding those houses which make a great 
 show, or are highly commended in Murray's guide-books. 
 He will find a neat, quiet European hotel a delightful place, 
 after the gilding and red velvet of the great caravanseries 
 of his native country. If he is going to stop more than a 
 single night, he will ask the price of the room to which he 
 is shown, and if it seems too expensive, will look until he 
 finds one that suits him. When he has selected a room, and 
 his valise has been brought up, he will probably observe 
 that the servant (if it is evening) has lighted both of 
 the candles on the mantel-piece. He will immediately blow 
 one of them out and hand it to the waiter, with a look that 
 will show him that he is dealing with an experienced trav- 
 eller, who knows that he has to pay for candles as he 
 burns them. When he leaves the hotel, he will make it a 
 principle always to carry the unconsumed candle or candles 
 with him, for use as occasion may require ; for it is the 
 custom of the country, and will secure him against the little 
 impositions which are always considered fair play upon out- 
 siders. It is possible that he will find, when he goes to wash 
 his hands, that there is no soap in the wash stand, and will 
 thank me for having reminded him to carry a cake with 
 14
 
 158 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 him rolled up in a bit of oiled silk. When he wishes to 
 take lodgings in any city, he will be particular to avoid that 
 part of the town where English people mostly do inhabit, 
 and will be very shy of houses where apartments to let are 
 advertised on a placard in phrases which the originator 
 probably intended for English. He will look thoroughly 
 before he decides, and so will save himself a great deal of 
 dissatisfaction which he might feel on finding afterwards 
 that others had done much better than he. Besides, " room- 
 hunting" is not the least profitable, nor least amusing part 
 of a traveller's experience. He will, when settled in his 
 rooms, attend in person to the purchase of his candles and 
 his fuel, and to the delivery of the same in his apartments ; 
 for by so doing he will save money, and will see more of 
 the common people of the place. 
 
 Of course he will see all the " sights " that every stran- 
 ger is under a sort of moral obligation to see, however 
 much it may fatigue him ; but he must not stop there. He 
 must not think, as so many appear to, that, when he has seen 
 the palaces, and picture galleries, and gardens, and public 
 monuments of a country, he knows that country. He must 
 try to see and know as much as he can of the people of the 
 country, for they (Louis Quatorze to the contrary, not- 
 withstanding) are the state. Let him cultivate the habit 
 of early rising, and frequent market places and old parish 
 churches in the twilight of the morning, and he will learn 
 more of the people in one month than a year of reading or 
 ordinary sight-seeing could teach him. Let him choose 
 back alleys, instead of crowded and fashionable thorough- 
 fares for his walks ; when he falls in with a wandering 
 musician and juggler, exhibiting in public, let him stop, not 
 to see the exhibition, but the spectators ; when he goes to 
 the theatre, let him not shut himself up in the privacy of a 
 box, but go into the pit, where all he will see and hear
 
 FOREIGN TRAVEL. 159 
 
 aiound him will be full as amusing as the performance 
 itself; and when he uses an omnibus, let him always choose 
 a seat by the driver, in preference to one inside. I have 
 learnt more of the religious character of the poorer class in 
 Paris, by a visit to a little out-of-the-way church at sunrise, 
 than could be acquired by hours of conversation with the 
 people themselves. And I have learned equally as much 
 of the brutality and degradation of the same class in Eng- 
 land, by going into a gin-shop late at night, calling for a 
 glass of ale, and drinking it slowly, while I was inspecting 
 the company. There is many a man who travels through 
 Europe, communicating only with hotel keepers, couriers, 
 and ciceroni, and learning less of the people than he could 
 by walking into a market-place alone, and buying a sixpence 
 worth of fruit. Yet such men presume to write books, and 
 treat not merely of the governments of these countries, but 
 of the social condition of the people ! I once met a man in 
 Italy, who could not order his breakfast correctly in Italian, 
 who knew only one Italian, and he was the waiter who 
 served him in a restaurant ; and yet this man was a corre- 
 spondent of a respectable paper in Boston, and had the 
 effrontery to write column after column upon Italian social 
 life, and to speak of political affairs as if he were Cardinal 
 Antonelli's sole confidant. There are such people here in 
 Paris now, who send over to America, weekly, batches of 
 falsehood about the household of the Tuileries, which the 
 intelligent public of America accepts as being true ; for it 
 seems to be a part of some people's republicanism to be- 
 lieve nothing but evil of a ruler who wears a crown. I 
 need not say in this connection, that the traveller who wishes 
 to enjoy Europe must put away the habit (if he be so 
 unfortunate as to have it) of looking upon every thing 
 through the green spectacles of republicanism, and regarding 
 that form of government as the only one calculated to bene-
 
 160 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 fit mankind. He must remember that the government 
 of his own country is a mere experiment, compared with 
 the old monarchies of Europe, and he must try to judge 
 impartially between them. He must judge each system by 
 its results, and if on comparison he finds that there is really 
 less slavery in his own country than in Europe ; that the 
 government is administered more impartially ; that the ju- 
 diciary is purer ; that there is less of mob law and violence, 
 and less of political bargaining and trickery, and that life 
 and property are more secure in his own country than they 
 are here, why, he will return to America a better repub- 
 lican than before, from the very fact of having done justice 
 to the governments of Europe. 
 
 As I have before said, it is better for a traveller to en- 
 deavour to live as nearly as possible in the manner of the 
 inhabitants of the country in which he is sojourning. I do 
 not mean that he should feel bound to make as general a 
 use of garlic as some of the people of Europe do, for in 
 some places I verily believe that a custard or a blanc mange 
 would be thought imperfect if they were not seasoned with 
 that savory vegetable ; but, ceteris being paribus, if the 
 general manner of living were followed, the traveller would 
 find it conducive to health and to economy. The habits of 
 life among every people are not founded on a mere caprice ; 
 and experience proves that under the warm sun of Italy, a 
 light vegetable diet is healthier and more really invigorating 
 than all the roast beef of Old England would be. 
 
 In Europe, no man is ever ashamed of economy. Few 
 Englishmen even shrink from acknowledging that they can- 
 not afford to do this or that, and on the continent profuse- 
 ness in the use of money is considered the sure mark of a 
 parvenu. Every man is free to do as he pleases ; he can 
 travel in the first, second, or third class on the railways, and 
 not excite the surprise of any body ; and whatever class he
 
 FOREIGN TRAVEL. 161 
 
 may be in, he will be treated with equal respect by all. It 
 is well to bear this in mind, for, taken in connection with 
 the principle of paying for one's room and meals separately 
 according to what one has, it puts it within one's power to 
 travel all over Europe for a ridiculously small sum. You 
 can live in Paris, by going over into the Latin quarter, on 
 thirty cents a day, and be treated by every body, except 
 your own countrymen, with as much consideration as if you 
 abode among the mirrors and gilding of the Hotel de Louvre. 
 Not that I would advise any one to go over there for the 
 sake of saving money, and live on salads and meats in which 
 it is difficult to have confidence, when he can afford to do 
 better. I only wish to encourage those who are kept from 
 visiting Europe by the idea that it requires a great outlay 
 of money. You can live in Europe for just what you choose 
 to spend, and in a style of independence to which America 
 is a total stranger. Every body does not know here what 
 every body else has for dinner. You may live on the 
 same floor with a man for months and years, and not know 
 any more of him than can be learned from a semi-occasional 
 meeting on the staircase, and an interchange of hat civili- 
 ties. This seems so common to a Frenchman, that it would 
 be considered by him hardly worth notice ; but to any one 
 who knows what a sharp look-out neighbours keep over each 
 other in America, it is a most pleasing phenomenon. It is 
 indeed a delightful thing to live among people who have 
 formed a habit of minding their own business, and at the 
 same time have a spirit of consideration for the rights and 
 feelings of their neighbours. 
 
 If, in the above hints concerning the way to travel pleas- 
 antly and cheaply in Europe, I have succeeded in removing 
 any of the bugbear obstacles which hold back so many from 
 the great advantages they might here enjoy, I shall feel that 
 I have not tasked my poor eyes and brain for nothing. We 
 14*
 
 162 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 are a long way behind Europe in many things, and it is 
 only by frequent communication that we can make up our 
 deficiencies. It cannot be done by boasting, nor by claim- 
 ing for America all the enterprise and enlightenment of the 
 nineteenth century. Neither can it be done by setting up 
 the United States as superior to every historical precedent, 
 and an exception to every rule. Most men (as the old 
 French writer says) are mortal ; and we Americans shall 
 find that our country, with all its prosperity and unequalled 
 progress, is subject to the same vicissitudes as the countries 
 we now think we can afford to despise ; and that our his- 
 tory is 
 
 " but the same rehearsal'of the past 
 
 First Freedom, and then Glory ; when that fails, 
 Wealth, vice, corruption, barbarism at last." 
 
 No, we cannot safely scorn the lesson which Europe 
 teaches us ; for if we do, we shall have to learn it at the ex- 
 pense of much adversity and wounding of our pride. Every 
 American who comes abroad, if he knows how to travel, 
 ought to carry home with him a new idea of the amenities of 
 life, and of moderation in the pursuit and the use of wealth, 
 such as will make itself felt in the course of time, and make 
 the fast living and recklessness of authority and tendency to 
 bankruptcy of the present day, give way to a spirit of mod- 
 eration and obedience to law such as always produces pri- 
 vate prosperity and public stability.
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE. 
 
 IT was a delicious morning when I packed my trunk to 
 leave Paris. Indeed it was so bright and cloudless that it 
 seemed wrong to go away and leave so fine a combination 
 of perfections. It was more than the " bridal of the earth 
 and sky ; " it was the bridal of all the created beings around 
 one and their works with the sky. The deep blue of the 
 heavens, the glittering sunbeams, the clean streets, the fair 
 house fronts, the gay shop windows, the white caps, and 
 shining morning faces of the bonnes and market women, the 
 busy, prosperous look of the passers by, were all blended 
 together in one harmonious whole, more touching and po- 
 etical than any scene of mere natural beauty that the dewy 
 morn, " with breath all incense and with cheek all bloom," 
 ever looked upon. "Earth hath not any thing to show 
 more fair." Others may delight in communing with solitary 
 nature, and may rave in rhyme about the glories of woods, 
 lakes, mountains, and Ausonian skies ; but what is all that 
 compared to the awakening of a great city to the life of day ? 
 What are the floods of golden light that every morning 
 bathe the mountain tops, and are poured down into the val- 
 leys and fields below, compared to the playing of the sun- 
 beams in the smoke from ten thousand chimneys, and the 
 din of toil displacing the silence of night ? I have seen the 
 sunsets of the Archipelago I have seen Lesbos and Egina 
 clad in those robes of purple and gold, which till then I had 
 thought were a mere figment of the painter's brain I have 
 enjoyed that "hush of world's expectation as day died" 
 I have often drunk in the glory of a cloudless sunrise on 
 
 (163)
 
 104 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 fie Atlantic, and even now my heart leaps up at the re- 
 membrance of it ; but after all, commend me to the deeper 
 and more sympathetic feelings inspired by the dingy walls 
 and ungraceful chimney-pots of a metropolis. Thousands of 
 human hearts are there, throbbing with hope, or joy, or 
 sorrow, weighed down perchance by guilt ; and humanity 
 with all its imperfections is a noble thing. A single human 
 heart, though erring, is a grander creation than the Alps or 
 the Andes, for it shall outlive them. It is moved by aspi- 
 rations that outrun the universe, and possesses a destiny that 
 shall outlive the stars. It is the better side of human na- 
 ture that we see in the early morning in large cities. Vice 
 nourishes best under the glare of gas-lights, and does not 
 Falute the rising sun. The bloated form, the sunken eye, 
 the painted cheek, shrink from that which would make their 
 deformity more hideous, and hide themselves in places 
 which their presence makes almost pestilential. Honest, 
 healthful labour meets us at every step, and imparts to us 
 something of its own hopefulness and activity. We miss 
 the dew-drops glittering like jewels in the grass, but the loss 
 is more than made up to us by the bright eyes of happy 
 children, helping their parents in their work, or sporting 
 together on their way to school. 
 
 There was a time when I thought it very poetical to roam 
 the broad fields in that still hour when the golden light 
 seems to clasp every object that it meets, as if it loved it ; 
 but of late years a comfortable sidewalk has been more 
 suggestive of poetry and less productive of wet feet. Give 
 me a level pavement before all your groves and fields. The 
 only rus that wears well in the long run is JRuss in urbe. 
 Nine tenths of all the fine things in our literature concerning 
 the charms of country life, have been written, not beneath 
 the shade of overarching boughs, but within the crowded 
 city's smoke-stained walls. Depend upon it, Shakespeare
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE. 
 
 165 
 
 could never have written about the moonlight sleeping on 
 the bank any where but in the city ; had the realities of 
 country life been present to him, he would have rejected 
 any such metaphor, for he loved the moonlight too dearly to 
 subject it to the rheumatic attack that .would inevitably 
 have followed such a nap as that. It is with country life 
 very much as it is with life at sea. Mr. Choate, who pours 
 out his noblest eloquence on the glories and romance of the 
 sea, seldom sees the outside of his state-room while he is 
 out of sight of -land, and all his glowing periods are forgotten 
 in the realities of his position. So, too, the man who wishes 
 to destroy the poetry and romance of country life, has only 
 to walk about in the wet grass or the scorching heat, or to 
 be obliged to pick the pebbles out of his shoes, or a cater- 
 pillar off his neck, or to be mocked at by unruly cattle, or 
 pestered by any of the myriads of insects and reptiles which 
 abound in every well-regulated country. 
 
 The excellent Madame Busque (la dame aux pumpkin 
 pies) had prepared for me a viaticum in the shape of a 
 small loaf of as good gingerbread as was ever made west of 
 Cape Cod a motherly attention quite in keeping with 
 her ordinary way of taking care of her customers. All who 
 frequent the cremerie are her enfans, and if she does not 
 show them every little maternal attention, and tie a bib 
 upon every one's neck, it is only that we may know better 
 how to behave when we are beyond the reach of her kindly 
 hand. Fortified with the gingerbread, I found myself whirl- 
 ing out of the terminus of the Northern Railway, and Paris, 
 with its far-stretching fortifications, its domes and towers, 
 and its windmill-crowned Montmartre, was soon out of sight. 
 
 The train was very full, and the weather very warm. 
 Two of my car-companions afforded me a good deal of 
 amusement. They were a fat German and his wife. He 
 was one of the jolliest old gentlemen I ever had the
 
 166 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 good fortune to travel with. His silvery hair was cropped 
 close to his head, and he rode along with his cuffs turned 
 up and his waistcoat open. He seemed to feel that he was 
 occupying a good deal of room ;' but he was the only one 
 there who felt it. No one of us would have had his circum- 
 ference reduced an inch, but we should all of us have de- 
 lighted to put a thin man who was there out by the road- 
 side. His wife a bright-eyed little woman, whose hair 
 was just getting a little silvery had a small box-cage in 
 which she carried a large, intelligent looking-parrot. Be- 
 fore we had gone very far, the bird began to carry on an 
 animated conversation with its mistress, but finally disgusted 
 her and surprised us all by swearing in French and German 
 at the whole company, with all the vehemence of a regiment 
 of troopers. The lady tried hard to stop him, but it was 
 useless. The old gentleman (like a great many good 
 people who would not swear themselves, but rather like to 
 hear a good round oath occasionally) seemed to enjoy it 
 intensely, and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 At noon the worthy pair made solemn preparations for a 
 dinner. A basket, a carpet-bag, and sundry paper parcels 
 were brought out. The lady spread a large checked hand- 
 kerchief over their laps for a table cloth, and then produced 
 a staff 'of life about two feet in .length, and cut off a good 
 thick slice for each of them. Cheese was added to it, and 
 also a species of sausage about a foot in length, and three 
 inches in diameter. From these they made a comfortable 
 meal not eating by stealth, as we Americans should have 
 done but diving in heartily, and chatting together all the 
 while as cosily as if they had been at home. A bottle of 
 wine was then brought out from the magic carpet-bag, and 
 a glass, also a nice dessert of peaches and grapes. There 
 was a charming at-home-ativeness about the whole proceed- 
 ing that contrasted strongly with our American way of doing
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE. 167 
 
 such things, and all the other passengers apparently took no 
 notice of it. 
 
 We arrived at Boulogne in the midst of a storm as severe 
 as the morning had been serene. So fair and foul a day I 
 have not seen. An omnibus whisked me to a hotel in what 
 my venerable grandmother used to call a jiffy, and I was at 
 once independent of the weather's caprices. A comfortable 
 dinner at the table d'hote repaired the damages of the jour- 
 ney, and I spent the evening with some good friends, whose 
 company was made the more delightful by the months that 
 had separated us. The storm raged without, and we chat- 
 ted within. The old hotel creaked and sighed as the blast 
 assailed it, and I dreamed all night of close-reefed topsails. 
 
 " 'Tis a wild night out of dSors ; 
 The wind is mad upon the moors, 
 And comes into the rocking town, 
 Stabbing all things up and down : 
 And then there is a weeping rain 
 Huddling 'gainst the window pane ; 
 And good men bless themselves in bed ; 
 The mother brings her infant's head 
 Closer with a joy like tears, 
 And thinks of angels in her prayers, 
 Then sleeps with his small hand in hers." 
 
 Having in former years merely passed through Boulogne, 
 I had never known before what a pleasant old city it is. 
 Its clean streets and well-built houses, and the air of re- 
 spectable antiquity which pervades it, make a very pleasant 
 impression upon the mind. As you stand on the quay, and 
 look across at the white cliffs on the other side of the Chan- 
 nel, which are distinctly visible on a clear day, the differ- 
 ences in the character of the two nations so slightly separated 
 from one another, strike you more forcibly than ever. The 
 very fish taken on the French side of the channel are differ- 
 ent from any that you see in England ; and as to the fish-
 
 168 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 women, whose sunburnt legs, bare to the knee, are the 
 astonishment of all new-comers, go over all Europe, and 
 you will find nothing like them. That superb cathedral, 
 the shrine of our Lady of Boulogne, upon which the storm 
 of the first French revolution beat with such fury, is now 
 beginning to wear a look of completion. Its dome, one of 
 the loftiest and most graceful in the world, is a striking and 
 beautiful feature in the view of the city. For more than 
 twelve centuries this has been a famous shrine. Kings and 
 princes have visited it, not with the pomp and circumstance 
 of royalty, but in the humble garb of the pilgrim. Henry 
 VIII. made a pilgrimage hither in his unenlightened days, 
 before the pious Cranmer had taught him how wicked it 
 was to honour the Mother whom his Saviour honoured, and 
 how godly and just it was to divorce and put to death the 
 mothers of his children. Here it was that the heroic crusa- 
 der, Godfrey, kindled the flame of that devotion which 
 nerved his arm against the foes of Christianity, and added a 
 new lustre to his knightly fame. It is a fashion of the pres- 
 ent day to sneer at the age of chivalry and the crusades, 
 and some of our best writers have been enticed into the fol- 
 lowing of it. While we have so many subjects deserving 
 the treatment of the satirist, at our very doors, while we 
 have the fashionable world to draw upon, while we can 
 look around on political parsons, professional philanthropists 
 and patriots, politicians who talk of principle, and followers 
 who are weak enough to believe in them it would really 
 seem as if we might allow the crusaders and troubadours to 
 rest. Supposing, for the sake of argument, Christianity to 
 be a true religion, supposing it to be a fact that eighteen 
 hundred years ago the plains of Palestine were trodden by 
 the blessed feet that were " nailed for our advantage on the 
 bitter cross " the redemption of the land which had been 
 the scene of the sacred history, from the sacrilegious hands
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE. 169 
 
 of the Saracens, was certainly an enterprise creditable to 
 St. Louis, and Richard the lion-hearted, and Godfrey, and 
 the other gentlemen who sacrificed so much in it. It 
 was certainly as respectable an undertaking as any of the 
 crusades of modern times, : as that of the Spaniards in 
 America, the English in India, or the United States in 
 Mexico, with this exception, that it was not so profita- 
 ble. I am afraid that some of our modern satirists are 
 lacking in the spirit of their profession, and allow them- 
 selves to be made the mouthpieces of that worldly wisdom 
 which it is their office to rebuke. I can see nothing to 
 sneer at in the crusader exiling himself from his native 
 land, and forfeiting his life in the defence of the Holy 
 Sepulchre ; indeed, I am inclined to respect a man who 
 makes such a sacrifice to a conscientious conviction : it is 
 a noble conquest of the visible temporal by the unseen eter- 
 nal. I can well understand how such efforts for the protec- 
 tion of a mere empty tomb would seem worthy of laughter 
 and ridicule to those who can find no food for satire in the 
 auri sacra fames which has been the motive of modern for- 
 eign expeditions. It would be well for the world could we 
 bring back something of that age of chivalry which Edmund 
 Burke regretted so eloquently. We need it sorely ; for we 
 are every day sliding farther down from its high standard 
 of honour and of unselfish devotion to principle. 
 
 There is a little fishing village about a mile and a half 
 from Boulogne, on the sea coast towards Calais, which is 
 celebrated in history as having been the scene of the land- 
 ing of Prince Louis Napoleon and his companions in their 
 unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government of Louis 
 Philippe. Napoleon III. has not distinguished the spot 
 by any memorial ; but he has erected a colossal statue of 
 Napoleon I. on the spot where that insatiable conqueror, 
 with his mighty army around him, looked longingly at th 
 15
 
 170 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 coast of England. There is something of a contrast be- 
 tween the day thus commemorated and that on which the 
 " nephew of his uncle " received Queen Victoria at Boulogne, 
 when she visited France. It must have been a great satis- 
 faction to Louis Napoleon, after his life of exile, and par- 
 ticularly after the studied neglect which he experienced 
 from the English nobility, to have welcomed the British 
 Queen to his realm with that kiss which is the token of 
 equality among sovereigns. Waterloo must have been blot- 
 ted out when he saw the Queen in whose realm he had 
 served the cause of good order in the rank of special con- 
 stable bending down at his knee to confer upon him the 
 order of the garter. 
 
 In spite of its geographical situation, Boulogne can hardly 
 be considered a French town. The police department and 
 the custom house are in the hands of the French, to be 
 sure ; but in the course of a walk through its streets, you 
 hear much more of the English than of the French lan- 
 guage. You meet those brown shooting jackets, and checked 
 trousers, and thick shoes and gaiters that are at home every 
 where in the " inviolate island of the sage and free." You 
 cannot turn a corner without coming upon some of those 
 beefy and beery countenances which symbolize so perfectly 
 the genius of British civilization, and hearing the letter H 
 exasperated to a wonderful degree. Every where you see 
 bevies of young ladies wearing those peculiar brown straw 
 hats, edged with black lace, with a brown feather put in 
 horizontally on one side of the crown, a style of head dress 
 to which the French and Italians have given the name of 
 " Ingleesh spoken here" There is a large class among the 
 English population of Boulogne upon which the disinterested 
 spectator will look with interest and with pity. I mean 
 those unfortunate persons who have been obliged by " force 
 of circumstances " and the importunity of creditors to exile
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE. 171 
 
 themselves for a time from their native land. You see them 
 on every side ; and all ranks in society are represented 
 among them, from the distinguished-looking man, with the 
 tortoise-shell spectacles, who ran through his wife's property 
 at the club, to the pale, unhappy-looking fellow in the loose 
 thread gloves and sleepless coat. You can distinguish them 
 at a glance from their fellow-countrymen who have gone 
 over for purposes of recreation, the poor devils walk about 
 with such an evident wish to appear to be doing something 
 or going somewhere. The condition of the prisoners, or 
 rather the " collegians," in the old Marshalsea prison, must 
 have been an enviable one, compared to these unfortunates, 
 condemned to gaze at the cliffs of Old England from a dis- 
 tance, and wait vainly for something to turn up. 
 
 The arrival and departure of the English steamers is 
 the only source of excitement that the quiet city of Bou- 
 logne possesses. I was astonished to find, after being 
 there a day or two, what an interest I took in those occur- 
 rences. I found myself on the quay with the rest of the 
 foreign population of the town, .an hour before the depart- 
 ure of the boat, to make sure, like every body else there, 
 that not a traveller for England should escape my notice. 
 Besides, the pleasure of inspecting the motley crowd of spec- 
 tators, I was gratified one day to see the big, manly form 
 and good-natured, ugly face of Thackeray, following a 
 leathern portmanteau on its path from the omnibus to the 
 boat. The great satirist took an observation of the crowd 
 through his spectacles as if he were making a mental note, 
 to be overhauled in due season, and then hurried on board, 
 as if he longed to get back to London among his books. 
 He had been spending the warm season at the baths of 
 Hombourg. But the great excitement of the day is the 
 arrival of the afternoon boat from Folkstone. It is better 
 11- an amusement than many plays that I have seen, and it
 
 172 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 has this advantage, (an indispensable one to a large part of 
 the English population of Boulogne,) that it costs nothing. 
 During the days when I was there, the equinoctial gale 
 was in full blow, and, of course, there was a greater rush 
 than usual to the quay. It was necessary to go very early 
 to secure a good place. From the steamer to the passport 
 office, a distance of two or three hundred feet, ropes were 
 stretched to keep back the spectators, forming an avenue 
 some thirty feet wide. Through this the wretched victims 
 of the " chop sea " of the Channel were obliged to pass, and 
 listen to the remarks or laughter which their pitiable condi- 
 tion excited among the crowd of their disinterested country- 
 men. Any person who has ever been seasick can imagine 
 what it would be to go on shore from a boat that has just 
 been pitching and rolling about in the most absurd manner, 
 and try to walk like a Christian, with the eyes of several 
 hundred amusement-seeking people fixed upon him. Sym- 
 pathy is entirely out of the question. The pallid counte- 
 nance and uncertain step, as if the walker were waiting for 
 the pavement to rise to meet his foot, excite nothing but 
 mirth in the spectators. The whole scene, including the 
 lookers-on, was one of the funniest things I ever saw. The 
 observations of the crowd, too, were well calculated to 
 heighten the effect. " Ease her when she pitches," cried 
 out a youngster at my side, as an old lady, who was sup- 
 ported by a gentleman and a maid servant, seemed to be try- 
 ing to accommodate herself to the motion of the street, and 
 testify her love for terra Jirma by lying down. "Hard a' 
 starboard," shouted another, as a gentleman, with a felt hat 
 close reefed to his head with a white handkerchief, sidled 
 along up the leeward side of the passage way. " That 'ere 
 must 'a been a sewere case of sickness," said a little old 
 man, in an advanced state of seediness, as a tall man, look- 
 ing defiance at the crowd, walked ashore with a carpet-bag
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE. 178 
 
 in his hand, and an expression on his face very like that of 
 Mr. "Warren, in the farce, when he says, " Shall I slay him 
 at once, or shall I wait till the cool of the evening ? " " Don't 
 go yet, Mary," said a young gentleman in a jacket and pre- 
 cocious hat, to his sister, who seemed to fear that it was 
 about to begin to rain again, " don't go yet; the best of all 
 is to come ; there's a fat lady on board who has been so 
 sick we must wait to see her ! " And so they went on, 
 carrying out in the most exemplary manner that golden 
 rule which, applied to the period of seasickness, enjoins 
 upon us that we shall do unto others just as others would do 
 to us. 
 
 It is no joke to most people to cross the Channel at any 
 time, but to cross it on the tail-end of the equinoctial storm 
 is far from being a humourous matter. I had crossed from 
 almost all the ports between Havre and Rotterdam in 
 former years ; so I resolved to try a new route in spite of 
 the weather, and booked myself for a passage in the boat 
 from Boulogne to London, direct. The steamer was called 
 the Seine ; and when we had once got into the open sea, a 
 large part of the passengers seemed to think that they were 
 insane to have come in her. She was a very good sea-boat, 
 but I could not help contrasting her with our Sound and 
 Hudson River steamers at home. If the " General Steam 
 Navigation Company " were to import a steamer from 
 America like the Metropolis or the Isaac Newton, there would 
 be a revolution in the travelling world of England. The 
 people here would no longer put up with steamers without 
 an awning or any shelter from sun or rain. After they had 
 enjoyed the accommodations of one of our great floating 
 hotels, they would not think of shutting themselves up in the 
 miserable cabins which people pay so dearly for here. But 
 to proceed : when we got fairly out upon the nasty deep, I 
 ventured to gratify my curiosity, as a connoisseur in sea- 
 15*
 
 174 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 sickness, by a visit to the cabin. If I were in the habit of 
 writing for the newspapers, I suppose I should say that the 
 scene " baffled description." It certainly was one that I shall 
 not soon forget. The most rabid republican would have been 
 satisfied with the equality that prevailed there. The squalls 
 that assailed us on deck were nothing compared to the 
 demonstrations of a whole regiment of infantry below, who 
 were illustrating, in a manner worthy of Retsch, one of the 
 first lines in Shakespeare's Seven Ages. Ladies of all 
 ages were keeled up on every side in various postures of 
 picturesque negligence, and with a forgetfulness of the con- 
 ventionalities of society quite charming to look upon. The 
 floor, where it was unoccupied by prostrate humanity, was 
 nearly covered with hat-boxes, and bonnets, and bowls, and 
 anonymous articles of crockery ware, which were perform- 
 ing a lively quadrille, being assisted therein by the motion 
 of the ship. But a little of such sights, and sounds, and 
 smells as these goes a great way with me, and I was glad to 
 return to the wet deck. They had managed to rig a tar- 
 paulin between the paddle-boxes, and there I took refuge 
 until the rain ceased. It was comparatively pleasant 
 weather when we sailed past Walmer Castle, where that old 
 hero died on whom all the world has conferred the title of 
 " The Duke ; " and of course there was no rough sea as 
 soon as we got into the Downs. Black-eyed Susan might 
 have gone on board of any of the fleet of vessels that were 
 lying there without discolouring her ribbons by a single 
 dash of spray. Ramsgate and Margate (the Newport and 
 Cape May of England) looked full of company as we sailed 
 by them, and crowds of bathers were battling with the surf. 
 The heavy black yards of the ships of war loomed up at 
 Sheerness in the distance, and suggested thoughts of Nelson, 
 and Dibdin, and Ben Bowlin. Now and then we passed by 
 some splendid American clipper ship towing up or down
 
 PARIS TO BOULOGNE. 175 
 
 the river, and I felt proud of my nationality as I contrasted 
 her graceful lines and majestic proportions with the tub-like 
 models of British origin that every where met my eye. The 
 dock-yards of Woolwich seemed like a vast ant-hill for 
 numbers and busy life. Greenwich, with its fine architec- 
 ture and fresh foliage in the distance, was most grateful to 
 my eyes ; and it was pleasing to reflect, as I passed the ob- 
 servatory, that I could begin to reckon my longitude to the 
 westward, for it made me feel nearer home.
 
 LONDON. 
 
 No man can really appreciate the grandeur of London 
 until he has approached it from the sea. The sail up the 
 river from Gravesend to London Bridge is a succession of 
 wonders, each one more overwhelming than that which 
 preceded it. There is no display of fortifications ; but here 
 and there you see some storm-tossed old hulk, which, hav- 
 ing finished its active career, has been safely anchored in 
 that repose which powder magazines always enjoy. As 
 the river grows narrower, the number of ships, steamers^ 
 coal barges, wherries, and boats of every description, seems 
 to increase ; and as you sail on, the grand panorama of the 
 world-wide commerce of this great metropolis unfolds be- 
 fore you, and you are lost, not so much in admiration as in 
 astonishment Woolwich, Greenwich, Rotherhithe, Ber- 
 mondsey, Blackwall, Millwall, Wapping, &c., follow rapidly 
 in the vision, like the phantom kings before the eyes of the 
 unfortunate Scotch usurper, until one is tempted to inquire 
 with him, whether the " line will stretch out to the crack 
 of doom." The buildings grow thicker and more unsightly 
 as you advance ; the black sides of the enormous ware- 
 houses seem to be bulging out over the edge of the wharves 
 on which they stand ; far off, beyond the reach of the tides, 
 you see the forests of masts that indicate the site of the 
 docks. The bright green water of the Channel has been 
 exchanged for the filthy, drain-like current of the Thames. 
 Hundreds of monstrous chimneys belch forth the smoke 
 that constitutes the legitimate atmosphere of London. 
 Every thing seems to be dressed in the deepest mourning 
 
 (176)
 
 LONDON. 177 
 
 for the cruel fate of nature, and you look at the distant 
 hills and bright lawns, over in the direction of Sydenham, 
 with very much of the feeling that Dives must have had, 
 when he gazed on the happiness of Lazarus from his place 
 of torment. Every thing presents a most striking contrast 
 to the clean, fair cities of the continent. Paris, with its 
 cream-colored palaces adorning the banks of the Seine, 
 seems more beautiful than ever as you recall it while sur- 
 rounded by such sights, and sounds, and smells, as offend 
 your senses here. The winding Arno, and the towers, and 
 domes, and bridges, of Florence and Pisa, seem to belong 
 to a celestial vision rather than to an earthly reality, as you 
 contrast them with the monuments of England's commer- 
 cial greatness. At last, you come in sight of London 
 Bridge, with its never-ceasing current of vehicles and hu- 
 man beings crossing it ; and your amazement is crowned by 
 realizing that, notwithstanding the wonders you have seen, 
 you have just reached the edge of the city, and that you 
 can ride for miles and miles through a closely-built lab- 
 yrinth of bricks and mortar, hidden under the veil of 
 smoke before you. 
 
 And what a change it is from Paris to London ! To 
 a Frenchman it must be productive of a suicidal feeling. 
 The scene has shifted from the sunny Boulevards to the 
 blackened bricks and mortar, which neither great Neptune's 
 ocean, nor Lord Palmerston's anti-smoke enactment can 
 wash clean. In the place of the smiling, good-humoured 
 Frenchman, you have the serious, stately Englishman. 
 One misses the winning courtesy of which a Frenchman's 
 hat 'is the instrument, and the ready pardon or merci are 
 heard no more. The beggary, the drunkenness, and the 
 depravity, so apparent on every side, appall one. Paris 
 may be the most immoral city in the world ; but there, vice 
 must be sought for in its own haunts. Here in London, it
 
 178 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 prowls up and down in the streets, seeking for its victims. 
 Put all the other European capitals together, and I do not 
 believe that you could meet with so much to pain and dis- 
 gust you as you would in one hour in the streets of Lon- 
 don. And yet, with all this staring people in the face here, 
 how do they go to work to remedy it ? They pass laws 
 enforcing the suspension of business on Sundays, and when 
 they succeed in keeping all the shutters closed, by fear of 
 the law, they fold their arms, and say, " See what a godly 
 nation is this ! " If this is not " making clean the outside 
 of the cup and platter," what is it ? For my part, I much 
 prefer that perfect religious liberty which allows each man 
 to keep Sunday as he pleases ; and the recent improvement 
 in the observance of the day in France is all the more 
 gratifying, because it does not spring from any compulsory 
 motive. Let the Jews keep the Sabbath as they are com- 
 manded to in the Old Testament ; but Sunday is the Chris- 
 tian's day, and Sunday is a day of festivity and rejoicing, 
 and not of fasting and penitential sadness. 
 
 Despite the smoke, and the lack of continental courtesy 
 which is felt on arriving from France, despite the din and 
 hurry, I cannot help loving London. The very names 
 of the streets have been made classical by writers whose 
 works are a part of our own intellectual being. The illus- 
 trious and venerable names of Barclay and Perkins, of 
 Truman, Hanbury, and Buxton, that meet our eyes at 
 every corner, are the synonymes of English hospitality and 
 cheer. It is a pleasure, too, to hear one's native language 
 spoken on all sides, after so many months of French twang. 
 The hissing and sputtering English seems under such cir- 
 cumstances to be more musical than the most elegant 
 phrases of the Tuscan in the mouth of a dignified Roman. 
 Even the omnibus conductors' talk about the " Habbey," 
 the " Benk," 'Igh 'Olborn, &c., does not offend the ear, so
 
 LONDON. 179 
 
 delightful does it seem to be able to say beefsteak instead 
 of biftek. The odour of brown stout that prevails every 
 where is as fragrant as the first sniff of the land breeze 
 after a long voyage. Temple Bar is eloquent of the genius 
 of Hogarth, whose deathless drawings first made its ugly 
 form familiar to your youthful eyes in other lands. The 
 very stones of Fleet Street prate of Dr. Johnson and Gold- 
 smith. You walk into Bolt Court, and if you feel as I do 
 the associations of the place, you eat a chop in the tavern 
 that stands where stood the house of Dr. Johnson. Then 
 you cross over the way to Inner Temple Lane, and mourn 
 over the march of improvement when you see that its sacri- 
 legious hand is sweeping away a row of four brick houses, 
 which, dilapidated and unsightly as they may appear, are 
 dear to every lover of English literature. In No. 1, for- 
 merly dwelt Dr. Johnson ; in No. 4, Charles Lamb. You 
 walk into the Temple Church, and muse over the effigies 
 of the knights who repose there in marble or bronze, or go 
 into the quiet Temple Gardens, and meditate on the wars 
 of the red and white roses that were plucked there cen- 
 turies ago, before the iron fences were built. It would 
 be as difficult to pluck any roses there now as the most 
 zealous member of the Peace Society could wish. You 
 climb up Ludgate Hill, getting finely spattered by the cabs 
 and omnibuses, and find yourself at St. Paul's. You 
 smile when you think that that black pile of architecture, 
 with its twopenny fee of admission, was intended to rival 
 St. Peter's, and your smile becomes audible when you 
 enter it, and see that while the images of the Saviour and 
 the Saints may not be " had and retained," the statues of 
 admirals and generals are considered perfectly in place 
 there. You walk out with the conviction that consistency 
 is a jewel, and tread a pavement that is classical to every 
 lover of books. Paternoster Row receives you, and you
 
 180 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 slowly saunter through it. Nobody walks rapidly through 
 Paternoster Row. Situated midway between the bustle and 
 turmoil of Ludgate Hill and Cheapside, it is a kind of resting- 
 place for pedestrians. They breathe the more quiet air of 
 bookland there, and the windows are a temptation which 
 few loiterers can withstand. 
 
 The old church of St. Mary le Bow reminds you that 
 you are at the very centre of Cockneydom, as you walk 
 on towards the Bank and the Exchange. Crossing the 
 street at the risk of your life through a maze of snorting 
 horses and rattling wheels, you get into Cornhill. Here 
 the faces that you see are a proof that the anxious, money- 
 getting look is not confined to the worshippers of the 
 almighty dollar. You push on until you reach Eastcheap. 
 How great is your disappointment ! The very name has 
 called up all your recollections of the wild young prince and 
 his fat friend but nothing that you see there serves to 
 heighten your Shakespearean enthusiasm. Coal-heavers 
 and draymen make the air vocal with their oaths and slang, 
 which once resounded with the laughter of Jack Falstaff 
 and his jolly companions. No Mistress Quickly stands in 
 the doorway of any of the numerous taverns. The whole 
 scene is a great falling-off from what you had imagined of 
 Eastcheap. The sanded floors, the snowy window curtains, 
 the bright pewter pots, have given way to dirt and general 
 frowsiness. You read on a card in a window that within 
 you can obtain " a go of brandy for sixpence, and a go of 
 gin for fourpence," and that settles all your Falstaffian as- 
 sociations. You stop to look at an old brick house which is 
 being pulled down, for you think that perhaps its heavy 
 timbered ceilings, and low windows, and Guy Fawkesy en- 
 tries date back to Shakespeare's times ; but you are too much 
 incommoded by the dust from its crumbling walls to stop 
 long, and you leave the place carrying with you the only
 
 LONDON. 181 
 
 reminder of Falstaff you have seen there you leave with 
 lime in your sack ! 
 
 I know of nothing better calculated to take down a man's 
 self-esteem than a walk through the streets of London. To 
 a man who has always lived in a small town, where every 
 second person he meets is an acquaintance, a walk from 
 Hyde Park corner to London Bridge must be a crusher. 
 If that does not convince him that he is really of very little 
 importance in the world, he is past cure. The whirl of 
 vehicles, the throngs upon the sidewalks, seem to overwhelm 
 and blot out our own individuality. Xerxes cried when he 
 gazed upon his assembled forces, and reflected that out of 
 all that vast multitude not one person would be alive in a 
 hundred years. Xerxes ought to have ridden through Ox- 
 ford Street or the Strand on the top of an omnibus. Spital- 
 fields and Bandanna (two places concerning the geography 
 of which I am rather in the dark) could not have furnished 
 him with handkerchiefs to dry his eyes. 
 
 I was never so struck with the lack of architectural 
 beauty in London as I have been during this visit. There 
 are, it is true, a few fine buildings Westminster Abbey, 
 St. Paul's, Somerset House, &c. ; but they are all as 
 black as my hat, with this soot in which all London in 
 clothed ; so there is really very little beauty about them. 
 The new Houses of Parliament are a fine pile of buildings, 
 certainly, and the lately finished towers are a pleasing fea- 
 ture in the view from the bridges ; but they are altogether 
 too gingerbready to wear well. They lack boldness of light 
 and shade ; and this lack is making itself more apparent 
 every day as the smoke of the city is enveloping them in 
 its everlasting shade. Buckingham Palace looks like a 
 second rate American hotel, and as to St. James, the bar- 
 racks at West Point are far more palatial than that. It is 
 not architecture, however, that we look for in London. It 
 18
 
 182 AGUECHEKK. 
 
 has a charm in spite of all its deformities, in spite of its 
 climate, which is such an encouragement to the umbrella 
 makers in spite of its smoky atmosphere, through which 
 the sun looks like a great copper ball in spite of its mud, 
 which the water-carts insure when the dark skies fail in the 
 discharge of their daily dues to the metropolis. London, 
 with all thy fogs, I love thee still ! It is this great agglom- 
 eration of towns which we call London this great human 
 family of more than two millions and a half of beings that 
 awakens our sympathy. It is the fact that through England 
 we Americans trace our relationship to the ages that are 
 past. It is the fact that we are here surrounded by the 
 honoured tombs of heroes and wise men, whose very names 
 have become, as it were, a part of our own being. These 
 are the things that bind us to London, and which make the 
 aureola of light that hangs over it at night time seem a 
 crown of glory. 
 
 But we must not forget that there is a dark side to the 
 picture. There is a serious drawback to all our enthusiasm. 
 Poverty and vice beset us at every step. Beggary more 
 abject than all the world besides can show appeals to us at 
 every crossing. The pale hollow cheek and sunken eye 
 tell such a story of want as no language can express. The 
 mother, standing in a doorway with her two hungry-looking 
 children, and imploring the passers-by to purchase some of 
 the netting work her hands have executed, is a sight 
 that touches your heart. But walk into some of those 
 lanes and alleys which abound almost under the shadow of 
 the Houses of Parliament and the royal residence, slums 
 " whose atmosphere is typhus, and whose ventilation is chol- 
 era," and the sentiment of pity is lost in one of fear. 
 There you see on every side that despair and recklessness 
 which spring from want and neglect. Walk through Re- 
 gent Street, and the Haymarket, and the Strand in the even-
 
 LONDON. 183 
 
 iiig, and you shall be astonished at the gay dresses and 
 painted cheeks that surround you. The rummy atmosphere 
 reechoes with profanity from female lips. From time to 
 time you are obliged to shake off the vice and crinoline that 
 seek to be companions of your walk. 
 
 There is a distinguished prize-fighter here one Benja- 
 min Gaunt. He keeps a gin shop in St. Martin's Lane, and 
 rejoices in a profitable business and the title of the " Cham- 
 pion of England." He transacted a little business in the 
 prize-fighting line over on the Surrey side of the river a few 
 days ago, and is to sustain the honour of England against 
 another antagonist to-morrow. During the entire week his 
 gin shop has been surrounded by admiring crowds, anxious 
 to catch a glimpse of the hero. And such crowds ! Jt 
 would be wronging the lowest of the race of quadrupeds to 
 call those people beastly and brutal wretches. Most Ameri- 
 cans think that the Bowery and Five Points can rival 
 almost any thing in the world for displays of all that is dis- 
 gusting in society ; but London leaves us far behind. I 
 stopped several times to note the character of Mr. Caunt's 
 constituents. There were men there with flashy cravats 
 around necks that reminded me of Mr. Buckminster's Devon 
 cattle their hair cropped close for obvious reasons 
 moving about among the crowd, filling the air with damns 
 and brandy fumes. There were others in a more advanced 
 stage of " fancy " existence men with all the humanity 
 blotted out of them, not a spark of intellect left in their 
 beery countenances. There were women drabbled with 
 dirt, soggy with liquor, with eyes artificially black. There 
 were children pale and stunted from the use of gin, or 
 bloated with beer, assuming the swagger of the blackguards 
 around them, and looking as old and depraved as any of 
 them. It seemed as if hell were empty and all the devils 
 were there. The police those guardians of the public
 
 184 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 weal, who are so efficient when a poor woman is trying to 
 earn her bread by selling a few apples so prompt to make 
 the well-intentioned "move on" did not appear to inter- 
 fere. They evidently considered the street to be blockaded 
 for a just cause, and looked as if, in aiding people to get a 
 look at the Champion of England, they were sustaining the 
 honour of England herself. 
 
 And this is the same England that assumes to teach other 
 nations the science of benevolence. This is the same Eng- 
 land that laments over the tyranny of continental govern- 
 ments, and boasts of how many millions of Bibles it has 
 sent to people who could not read them if they would, and 
 would not if they could. This is the same England that 
 turns up the whites of its eyes at American slavery, and 
 wishes to teach the King of Naples how to govern. Why, 
 you can spend months in going about the worst quarters of 
 the continental cities, and not see so much of vice and pov- 
 erty as you can in the great thoroughfares of London in a 
 single day. There is vice enough in every large city, as we 
 all know ; but in most of them it has to be sought for by 
 its votaries in London it goes about seeking whom it may 
 devour. The press of England may try to advance the 
 interests of a prime minister anxious to get possession of 
 Sicily by slandering Ferdinand of Naples ; but every body 
 knows, who has visited that fair kingdom, that there are few 
 monarchs more public spirited and popular with all classes 
 of their subjects than he. Every body knows that there is 
 no class in that community corresponding to the prize- 
 fighting class in London that the horrors of the mining 
 districts are unknown there, and that an English work- 
 house would make even an Englishman blush when com- 
 pared with those magnificent institutions that relieve the 
 poor of Italy. I had rather be sold at auction in Alabama 
 any day than to take my chance as a denizen of the slums
 
 LONDON. 185 
 
 of London, or as a worker in the coal mines. I have no 
 patience with this telescopic philanthropy of the English, 
 while there are abuses all around them so much greater 
 than those that disgrace any other civilized country. What 
 can be more disgusting than this pharisaical cant this 
 thanking God that they are not as others are extortioners 
 and slaveholders when you look at the real condition of 
 things ? Englishmen always boast that their country has 
 escaped the revolutionary storm which has so many times 
 swept over Europe during this century, and would try to 
 persuade people that there is little or no discontent here. 
 The fact is, the lower classes in this country have been so 
 ground down by the money power and the force of the gov- 
 ernment, and are so ignorant and vicious, that they cannot 
 be organized into a revolutionary force. Walk through 
 Whitechapel, and observe the people there contrast them 
 with the blouses in the Faubourg St. Antoine and you will 
 acknowledge the truth of this. The people in the manu- 
 facturing districts in France are, indeed, far from being 
 models of morality or of intellectual culture ; but they 
 have retained enough of the powers of humanity to make 
 them very dangerous, when collected under the leadership 
 of demagogues of the school of Ledru Rollin. But the 
 farming districts of France have remained comparatively 
 free from the infection of socialism and infidelity. The 
 late Henry Colman, in his agricultural tour, found villages 
 where almost the entire population went to mass every 
 morning, before commencing the labour of the day. But 
 the degradation of the labouring classes of England is not 
 confined to the manufacturing towns ; the peasantry is in a 
 most demoralized condition : the Chartist leaders found 
 nearly as great a proportion of adherents among the farm 
 labourers as among the distressed operatives of Birmingham 
 and Sheffield ; and Mormonism counts its victims among 
 16*
 
 186 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 both of those neglected classes by thousands. It is, per- 
 haps, all very well for ambitious orators to make the House 
 of Commons or Exeter Hall resound with their denuncia- 
 tions of French usurpations, Austrian tyranny, Neapolitan 
 dungeons, Russian serfdom, and American slavery ; but 
 thinking men, when they note these enthusiastic demonstra- 
 tions of philanthropy, carfnot help thinking of England's 
 workhouses, the brutalized workers in her coal mines and 
 factories, and her oppressive and cruel rule in Ireland and 
 in India ; and it strikes them as strange that a country, 
 whose eyesight is obstructed by a beam of such extraor- 
 dinary magnitude, should be so exceedingly solicitous about 
 the motes that dance in the vision of its neighbours.
 
 ESSAYS.

 
 STREET LIFE. 
 
 THOMAS CARLTLE introduces his philosophical friend, 
 Herr Teufelsdrockh, to his readers, seated in his watch- 
 tower, which overlooks the city in which he dwells ; and 
 from which he can look down into that bee-hive of human 
 kind, and see every thing " from the palace esplanade where 
 music plays, while His Serene Highness is pleased to eat 
 his victuals, down to the low lane where in her door-sill the 
 aged widow, knitting for a thin livelihood, sits to feel the 
 afternoon sun." He draws an animated picture of that 
 busy panorama which is ever unrolling before Teufels- 
 drockh's eyes, and moralizes upon the scene in the spirit 
 of a true poet who has struck upon a theme worthy of his 
 lyre. And, most assuredly, Thomas is right. The daisies 
 and buttercups are all very well in their way ; but, as raw 
 material for poetry, what are they to the deep-furrowed 
 pavement and the blackened chimney-pots of a city ! In 
 spite of all our pantheistic rhapsodies, man is the noblest of 
 natural productions, and the worthiest subject for the high- 
 est and holiest of poetic raptures. My old friend, the late 
 Mr. Wordsworth, delighted to anathematize the railway 
 companies, and raved finely about Nature never betraying 
 the heart that loves her : he said that 
 
 " - the sounding cataract 
 Haunted him like a passion : the tall rock, 
 The mountain and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to him 
 An appetite ; " (189)
 
 190 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 and confessed that to him 
 
 " the meanest flower that blows could give 
 
 Thoughts that too often lie too deep for tears." 
 
 Yet notwithstanding all this, he was constrained to acknowl- 
 edge when he stood upon Westminster Bridge, and saw the 
 vast, dingy metropolis of Britain wearing like a garment the 
 beauty of the morning, that 
 
 " Earth has not any thing to show more fair, 
 Bull would be he of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty." 
 
 When I was a young man, it was my delight to brush 
 with early steps the dew away, and meet the sun upon the 
 upland lawn. There was a romantic feeling about it that I 
 liked, and I did not object to wet feet. But I have long 
 since put away that depraved taste, although the recent ap- 
 plication of India rubber to shoeing purposes has obviated 
 the inconvenience of its gratification. Now, I am content- 
 ed if I can find a level pavement and a clean crossing, and 
 will gladly give up the woods and verdant fields to less 
 prosaic and more youthful people. Your gout is a sad in- 
 terferer with early poetical prejudices but in my own 
 case it has shown me that all such things, like most of our 
 youthful notions, are mere fallacies. It has convinced me 
 that the poetical abounds rather in the smoky, narrow 
 streets of cities, than in the green lanes, the breezy hills, 
 and the broad fields of the country. Like the toad, ugly 
 and venomous, that fell disease is not without its jewel. It 
 has reconciled me to life in town, and has shown me all its 
 advantages and beauties. 
 
 If it be true that " the proper study of mankind is man," 
 then are the crowded streets of the city more improving 
 and elevating to us (if rightly meditated upon) than the 
 academic groves. If you desire society, in a city you
 
 STREET LIFE. 191 
 
 may find it to your tasfe, however fastidious you may be. 
 If you are a lover of solitude, where can you be more soli- 
 tary than in the very whirl of a multitude of people intent 
 upon their own pursuits, and all unknown to you ! That 
 honey-tongued doctor, St. Bernard, said that he was never 
 less alone than when alone a sentiment, which, in its re- 
 versed form, might be uttered by any denizen of a metrop- 
 olis. I always loved solitude : the old monastic inscription 
 was always a favourite motto of mine : 
 
 " O beata solitude ! 
 O sola beatitude ! " 
 
 But I have never found any solitude like the streets of a 
 large city. I have walked in the cool, quiet cloister of 
 Santa Mafia degli Angeli, built amid the ruins of the baths 
 of Diocletian, and though my footfall was the only 
 sound save the rustling of the foliage, and the song of the 
 birds, and the bubbling of a fountain which seemed tired 
 with its centuries of service, and which seemed to make 
 the stillness and repose of that spacious quadrangle more 
 profound I could not feel so perfectly alone there as I 
 have often felt in the thronged Boulevards or the busy 
 Strand. Place a mere worldling in those holy precincts, 
 and he would summon mentally around him the companions 
 of his past pleasures, and his worldliness would be increased 
 by his thus being driven to his only resources for over- 
 coming the ungrateful quiet of the place. Introduce a 
 religious man to those consecrated shades, and his devotion 
 would be quickened ; he would soon forget the world which 
 he had not loved and which had not loved him, and his face 
 would soon be as unwrinkled, his eye as serene, as those of 
 the monks who dwell there. But place either of them in 
 the most crowded thoroughfare of the city, and the world- 
 ling would be made for a time as meditative as the other.
 
 192 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 When I was a child, I delighted to watch the busy inhabit- 
 ants of an ant-hill, pursuing their various enterprises with 
 an intentness almost human ; and I should be tempted to 
 continue my observations of them, were it not that the 
 streets of my native city offer me a similar, but a more 
 interesting study. Xerxes, we are told, shed tears when 
 he saw his army drawn up before him, and reflected that 
 not one of all that mighty host would, be alive a century 
 after. Who could ride from Paddington to London Bridge, 
 through the current of human life that flows ceaselessly 
 through the streets of that great city, without sharing 
 somewhat in the feelings of that tender-hearted mon- 
 arch ? 
 
 What are all the sermons that ever were preached from 
 a pulpit, compared to those which may be found in the 
 stones of a city ? When we visit Pompeii and Hercula- 
 neum, we are thrilled to notice the ruts made by the wheels 
 of chariots centuries ago. The original pavement of the 
 Appian Way, now for some distance visible, carries us 
 back more than almost any of the other antiquities of 
 Rome, to the time when it was trodden by captive kings, 
 and reechoed with the triumphal march of returning con- 
 querors. I pity him in whom these things awaken no new 
 train of thought. The works of man have outlived their 
 builders by centuries, and still remain a solemn testimony 
 to the power and the nothingness which originated them. 
 Nineveh, Thebes, Troy, Carthage, Tyre, Athens, Rome, 
 London, Paris, have won the crown in their turn, and have 
 passed or will pass away. The dilapidated sculptures of 
 the former have been taken to adorn the museums of the 
 latter, and crowds have gazed and are gazing on them with 
 curious eyes, unmindful of their great lesson of the transi- 
 toriness of the glory of the world. These are, indeed, 
 " sermons in stones ; " but, like most other sermons, we look
 
 STREET LIFE. 193 
 
 rather at their style of finish, than at the deep meaning 
 with which they are so pregnant. 
 
 But I did not take up my pen to write about dead cities ; 
 I have somewhat to say about the life that now renders the 
 streets of our own towns so pleasant, and makes us so for- 
 getful of their inevitable fate. I am not going to claim for 
 the street life of our new world the charms which abound 
 in the ancient cities of Europe. We are too much troubled 
 about many things, and too utilitarian to give thought to 
 those lesser graces which delight us abroad, and which we 
 hardly remember until we come home and miss them. Our 
 street architecture, improved though it may have been 
 within a few years, is yet far behind the grace and massive 
 symmetry of European towns. Our builders and real 
 estate owners need to be reminded that it costs no more to 
 build in good taste than in bad ; that brick work can be 
 made as architectural as stone ; and that architecture is a 
 great public instructor, whose works are constantly open to 
 the public eye, and from which we are learning lessons, 
 good or bad, whether we will or not. I think it is Goethe 
 who calls architecture frozen music. I am glad to see these 
 tall piles rearing their ornamented fronts on every side of 
 us, even though they are intended for purposes of trade ; 
 for every one of them is a reproach to the untasteful struc- 
 tures around it, and an example which future builders must 
 copy, if they do not surpass. The quaint beauty which 
 charms us in Rouen, and in the old towns of Belgium, 
 the high pitched gables leaning over, as if yearning to get 
 across the narrow street, these all belong to another age, 
 and we may not possess them ; but the architecture which, 
 in its simplicity or its magnificence, speaks its adaptedness 
 to our climate and our social wants, is within our reach, 
 and is capable of making our cities equal to any in the 
 world. 
 
 17
 
 194 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 I have a great liking for streets. In the freshness of 
 morning, the glare of noonday, and the coolness of even- 
 ing, they have an equal charm for me. I like that market- 
 carty period of the day, before Labour has taken up his 
 shovel and his hoe, before the sun has tipped the chimneys 
 with gold, and reinspired the dolorous symphony of human 
 toil, just as his earliest beams were wont to draw supernal 
 melodies from old Memnon's statue. There is a holy quiet 
 in that hour, which, could we preserve it in our minds, 
 would keep us clear from many a wrong and meanness, 
 into which the bustle and the heat of passion betray us, and 
 would sanctify our day. In that time, the city seems 
 wrapped in a silent ecstasy of adoration. The incense of 
 its worship curls up from innumerous chimneys, and hangs 
 over it like the fragrant cloud which hovers over the altars 
 where saints have prayed, and religion's most august rites 
 have been celebrated for centuries. In the continental 
 cities, large numbers of people may be seen at that early 
 hour repairing to the churches. They are drawn together 
 by no spasmodic, spiritual stimulation ; they do not assem- 
 ble to hear their fellow-sinners tell with nasal twang how 
 bad they were once, and how good they are now, nor to 
 implore the curse of Heaven upon those who differ from 
 them in their belief or disbelief. They kneel beneath 
 those consecrated arches, joining in a worship in which 
 scarce an audible word is uttered, and drawing from it new 
 strength to tread the thorns of life. In our own cities, too, 
 people generally of the poorer classes may be seen 
 wending their way in the early morning to churches and 
 chapels, humbler than the marble and mosaic sanctuaries 
 of Europe, but one with them in that faith and worship 
 which radiates from the majestic Lateran basilica, (omnium 
 urbis et orbis ecclesiarum mater et caput,) and encircles the 
 world with its anthems and supplications.
 
 STREET LIFE. 195 
 
 ' A little later in the morning, and the silence is broken 
 by the clattering carts of the dispensers of that fluid with- 
 out which custards would be impossible. The washing of 
 doorsteps and sidewalks, too, begins to interfere with your 
 perambulations, and to dim the lustre which No. 97, High 
 Holborn, has imparted to your shoes. Bridget leans upon 
 her wet broom, and talks with Anne, who leaves her water- 
 pail for a little conference, in which the affairs of the two 
 neighbouring families of Smith and Jenkins receive, you 
 may be sure, due attention. Men smoking short and 
 odorous pipes, and carrying small, mysterious-looking tin 
 pails, begin to awaken the echoes with their brogans, and 
 to prove him a slanderer who should say they have no 
 music in their soles. Newspaper carriers, bearing the 
 damp chronicles of the world's latest history bestrapped to 
 their sides, hurry along, dispensing their favours into areas 
 and doorways, seasoning my friend Thompson's breakfast 
 with the reports of the councils of kings, or with the read- 
 able inventions of " our own correspondent," and delighting 
 the gentle Mrs. Thompson with a full list of deaths and 
 marriages, or another fatal railway accident. Then the 
 omnibuses begin to rattle and jolt along the streets, carrying 
 such masculine loads that they deserve for the time to be 
 called mail coaches. Later, an odour as of broiled mack- 
 erel salutes the sense ; school children, with their shining 
 morning faces, begin to obstruct your way, and the penny 
 postman, with his burden of joy and sorrow, hastens along 
 and rings peremptorily at door after door. Then the 
 streets assume by degrees a new character. Toil is en- 
 gaged in its workshops and in by-places, and staid respec- 
 tability, in its broadcloth and its glossy beaver, wends its 
 deliberate way to its office or its counting-house, unhindered 
 by aught that can disturb its equanimity, unless, perchance,
 
 19G AGUECHEEK. 
 
 it meets with a gang of street-sweepers in the full exercise 
 of their dusty avocation. 
 
 Who can adequately describe that most inalienable of 
 woman's rights that favourite employment of the sex 
 which is generally termed shopping ? Who can describe 
 the curiosity which overhauls a wilderness of dress patterns, 
 and the uncomplaining patience of the shopman who en- 
 deavours to suit the lady so hard to be suited, his well- 
 disguised disappointment when she does not purchase, and 
 her husband's exasperation when she does ? Not I, most 
 certainly, for I detest shops, have little respect for fashions, 
 lament the necessity of buying clothes, and wish most 
 heartily that we could return to the primeval fig-leaves. 
 
 I love the by-streets of a city the streets whose echoes 
 are never disturbed by the heavy-laden wagons which be- 
 speak the greatness of our manufacturing interests. For- 
 merly the houses in such streets wore an air of sobriety 
 and respectability, and the good housewifery which reigned 
 within was symbolized by the bright polish of the brass 
 door-plate, or bell-pull, or knocker. Now they are grown 
 more pretentious, and the brass has given place to an out- 
 ward and visible sign of silver. But the streets retain their 
 old characteristics, and are strangers to any sound more 
 inharmonious than the shouts of sportive children, or the 
 tones of a hand-organ. I do not profess to be a musical 
 critic, but I have been gifted by nature with a tolerable idea 
 of time and tune ; yet I am not ashamed to say that I do 
 not despise hand-organs. They have given me " Sweet 
 Home " in the cities of Italy, Yankee Doodle in the Fau- 
 bourg St. Germain ; and the best molodies of Europe's 
 composers are daily ground out under my windows. I have 
 no patience with these canting people who talk about pro- 
 ductive labour, and who see ia the organ-grinder who limps 
 around, looking up expectantly for the remunerating cpp-
 
 STREET LIFE. 197 
 
 per, only a vagabond whom it is expedient for the police to 
 counsel to "move on." These peripatetic dispensers of 
 harmony are full as useful members of society as the major- 
 ity of our legislators, and have a far more practical talent 
 for organization. Douglas Jerrold once said that he never 
 saw an Italian image merchant, with his Graces, and Venuses, 
 and Apollos at sixpence a head, that he did not spiritually 
 touch his hat to him : " It is he who has carried refinement 
 into the poor man's house ; it is he who has accustomed the 
 eyes of the multitude to the harmonious forms of beauty." 
 Let me apply these kindly expressions of the dead drama- 
 tist and wit to the organ-grinders. They have carried 
 music into lanes and slums, which, without them, would 
 never have known any thing more melodious than a watch- 
 man's rattle, and have made the poorest of our people 
 familiar with harmonies that might " create a soul under 
 the ribs of death." Occasionally their music may be in- 
 strumental in producing a feeling of impatience, so that I 
 wish that their " Mary Ann " were married off, and that 
 Norma would " hear," and make an end of it ; but my bet- 
 ter feelings triumph in the end, and I would not interfere 
 with the poor man's and the children's concert to hear a 
 strain from St. Cecilia's viol. Let the grinders be encour- 
 aged ! May the evil days foretold in ancient prophecy 
 never come among us, when the grinders shall cease be- 
 cause they are few ! 
 
 It is at evening that the poetic element is found most 
 abundant in the streets of cities. There is to me some- 
 thing of the sublime in the long lines of glittering shop- 
 windows that skirt Regent Street and the Boulevards. Dr. 
 Johnson exhorted the people who attended the sale of his 
 friend Thrale's brewery, to remember that it was not the 
 mere collection of boilers, and tubs, and vats which they 'saw 
 around them, for which they were about to bargain, but 
 17
 
 198 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 " the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of 
 avarice ;" and, in a similar spirit, I see in the shop windows 
 not merely the silks and laces, and the other countless luxu- 
 ries and wonders which delight the eye of taste and form 
 the source of wealth to multitudes, but a vast exposition of 
 the results of that industry, which, next to religion and 
 obedience to law, is the surest foundation of national great- 
 ness, and which shows us, behind the frowning Providence 
 that laid on man the curse of labour, the smiling face of di- 
 vine beneficence. There, in one great collection, may be 
 seen the fruits of the toil of millions. To produce that gor- 
 geous display, artists have cudgelled their weary brains ; 
 operatives have suffered ; ship-masters have strained their 
 eyes over their charts and daily observations, and borne pa- 
 tiently with the provoking vagaries of the " lee main brace ; " 
 sailors have climbed the icy rigging and furled the tattered 
 topsails with hands cracked and bleeding; for that, long 
 trains of camels freighted with the rich products of the 
 golden East, " from silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon," 
 have toiled with their white-turbaned drivers across the 
 parching desert ; thousands of busy hands have plied the 
 Bwift shuttle in the looms of Brussels, and Tournai, and 
 Lyons ; and thousands in deep and almost unfathomable 
 mines have suffered a living death. Manchester and Bir- 
 mingham have been content to wear their suit of mourning 
 that those windows may be radiant and gay. The tears, 
 and sweat, and blood of myriads have been poured out be- 
 hind those shining panes transmuted into shapes that fill the 
 beholder with wonder and delight. " In our admiration of 
 the plumage we forget the dying bird." Nevertheless, 
 above the roar and bustle of those whirling thoroughfares, 
 above the endless groan and " infinite fierce chorus " of man- 
 hood ground down, and starving in bondage more cruel 
 because it does not boar the name of slavery, I hear the
 
 STREET LIFE. 199 
 
 carol of virtuous and well-rewarded labour, and the cheer- 
 ful song of the white-capped lace-makers of Belgium and 
 the vine-dressers of Italy reminds me that powerful wrong 
 does not have every thing its own way even in this world. 
 
 I did intend to have gone farther in my evening walk ; 
 but time and space alike forbid it. I wished to leave the 
 loud roaring avenues for those more quiet streets, where 
 every sight and sound speak of domestic comfort, or hum- 
 ble fidelity, or patient effort ; where the brilliancy of splen- 
 did mansions is but imperfectly veiled by rich and heavy 
 draperies ; where high up gleams the lamp of the patient 
 student, happy in his present obscurity because he dreams 
 of coming fame ; and where the tan on the pavement and 
 the mitigated light from the windows are eloquent of suf- 
 fering and the sleepless affection that ministers to its un- 
 spoken wants. But I must stop. If, however, I have 
 shown one of my readers, who regrets that he is obliged to 
 dwell in a city, that there is much that is beautiful in paved 
 streets and smoke-stained walls, and that, if we only open 
 our eyes to see them, even though the fresh fields and wav- 
 ing woods may be miles away, the beauties of nature daily 
 fold us in their bosom, I shall feel that I have not tasked 
 my tired brain and gouty right hand entirely in vain.
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS. 
 
 MONEY, whatever those who affect misanthropy or a 
 sublime superiority to all temporal things may say to the 
 contrary, is a very desirable thing. We all enjoy the visit of 
 the great Alexander to the contented inhabitant of the im- 
 perishable tub, who was alike independent of the good will 
 and displeasure of that mighty monarch ; we sympathize 
 with all the bitter things that Timon says when he is re- 
 duced from wealth to beggary ; and we are never tired of 
 lamenting, with Virgil, that the human heart should be such 
 an abject prey to this accursed hunger for gold. I am not 
 sure that Horace would not be dearer to us, if he had lived 
 in a "three-pair-back" in some obscure street, and his 
 deathless odes had been inspired by fear of a shrewish land- 
 lady or an inexorable sheriff, instead of being an honoured 
 guest at the imperial court, and a recipient of the splendid 
 patronage of a Maecenas and an Augustus. Poetical jus- 
 tice seems to require a setting of the most cheerless poverty 
 for the full development of the lustre of genius. At least, 
 we think so, at times ; though, under it all, admire as we 
 may the successful struggles of the want-stricken bard, 
 we do not envy him his penury. We should shrink from his 
 gifts and his fame, if they were offered to us with his suffer- 
 ings. For underneath our abstract magnanimity lurks the 
 conviction that money is by no means a bad thing, after all. 
 Our enthusiasm is awakened by contemplating the self- 
 forgetful career of Francis of Assisi, who chose Poverty for 
 his bride, and whose name is in benediction among men, 
 even six centuries after he entered into possession of that 
 
 (200)
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS. 201 
 
 kingdom which was promised to the poor in spirit ; and, if 
 we should chance to see a more modern bearer of that 
 Christian name, who worshipped the wealth which the 
 ancient saint despised ; who trampled down honest poverty 
 in his unswerving march towards opulence ; who looked 
 unmoved upon the tears of the widow and the orphan ; 
 who exercised his sordid apostolate even to the last gasp 
 of bis miserable life ; and whose name (unblessed by the 
 poor, and unhonoui*ed by canonization) became, in the brief 
 period that it outlived him, a byword and a synonyme of 
 avarice, we should not fail to visit his memory with a cor- 
 dial malediction. But, in spite of all our veneration for 
 Francis, the apostle of holy poverty, and our loathing for 
 his namesake, the apostle of unholy wealth, we cannot 
 help wishing that we had a little more of that which the 
 Saint cast away, and the miser took in exchange for his 
 soul. 
 
 A little more that is the phrase and there is no 
 human being, rich or poor, who does not think that " a little 
 more" is all that is needed to fill up the measure of his 
 earthly happiness. It is for this that the gambler risks his 
 winnings, and the merchant perils the gains of many toil- 
 some years. For this, some men labour- until they lose the 
 faculty of enjoying the fruit of their exertions ; and this is 
 the ignis fatuus that goes dancing on before others, leading 
 them at last into that bog of bankruptcy from which they 
 never wholly extricate themselves. Enough is a word un- 
 known in the lexicon of those who have once tasted the 
 joy of having money at interest, and there are very few 
 men who practically appreciate the wisdom of the ancient 
 dramatist who tells us that 
 
 " He is most rich who stops at competence, 
 Not labours on till the worn heart grows sere, 
 Who, wealth attained, upon some loftier aim 
 Fixes his gaze, and never turns it hnfkrr.-.ri"
 
 202 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 " Give me neither poverty nor riches," has been my 
 prayer through life, as it was that of the ancient sage ; 
 and it has always been my opinion that a man who owns 
 even a single acre of land within a convenient distance of 
 State Street or of the Astor House, is just as well off as if 
 he were rich. My petition has been answered : but it must 
 be confessed that when I mouse in the book shops, or turn 
 over the rich portfolios of the print dealers, I feel that I 
 am poor indeed. I do not envy him who can adorn the 
 walls of his dwelling with the masterpieces of ancient or 
 modern art on their original canvas ; but I do crave those 
 faithful reproductions which we owe to the engraver's skill, 
 and which come so near my grasp as to aggravate ray cov- 
 etousness, and make me speak most disrespectfully of my 
 unelastic purse. 
 
 Few people have spent any considerable time abroad 
 without being for a season in straitened circumstances. 
 A mistake may have been made in reckoning up one's 
 cash, or a bill may be longer than was expected, or one's 
 banker may temporarily suspend payment ; and suddenly 
 he who never knew a moment's anxiety about his pecuniary 
 affairs finds himself wondering how he can pay for his 
 lodgings, and where his next day's beefsteak is coming from. 
 It was my good fortune once to undergo such a trial in 
 Paris. I say good fortune for, unpleasant as it was at 
 the time, it was one of the most precious experiences of 
 my life. I do not think that a true, manly character can 
 be formed without placing the subject in the position of a 
 ship's helm, when she is in danger of getting aback ; to 
 speak less technically, he must (once in his life, at least) 
 be hard up. 
 
 I was younger in those days than I am now, and was 
 living for a time in the gay capital of France. My lodg- 
 ings were in one of those quiet streets that lead to the
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS. 203 
 
 Place Ventadour, in which the Italian Opera House stands. 
 My room was about twelve feet square, was handsomely 
 furnished, and decorated with a large mirror, and a polished 
 oaken floor that rivalled the mirror in brilliancy. Its 
 window commanded an unobstructed view of a court-yard 
 about the size of the room itself; but, as I was pretty high 
 up (on the second floor coming down) my light was good, 
 and I could not complain. As I write, it seems as if I 
 could hear the old concierge blacking boots and shoes away 
 down at the bottom of that well of a court-yard, enlivening 
 his toil with an occasional snatch from some old song, and 
 now and then calling out to his young wife within the 
 house, with a clear voice, " Marie ! " the accent on the 
 final syllable being prolonged in a preternatural manner. 
 And then out of the same depths came a melodious response 
 from Marie's blithesome voice, that made me stop shaving 
 to enjoy it a voice that seemed in perfect harmony with 
 the cool breath and bright sky of that sunny spring morn- 
 ing. Marie was a representative woman of her class. I 
 do not believe that she could have been placed in any 
 honest position, however high, that she would not have 
 adorned. Her simplicity and good nature conciliated the 
 good will of every one who addressed her, and I have 
 known her quiet, lady-like dignity to inspire even some 
 loud and boastful Americans, who called on me, with a mo- 
 mentary sentiment of respect. They appeared almost like 
 gentlemen for two or three minutes after speaking with her. 
 Upon my honour, sir, it was worth considerably more than 
 I paid for my room to have the privilege of living under 
 the same roof with such a cheery sunbeam to see her 
 seated daily at the window of the conciergerie with a snow- 
 white cap on her head and a pleasant smile on her face ; 
 to interrupt her sewing, with an inquiry whether any letters
 
 204 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 had come for me, and be charmed with her alacrity in hand- 
 ing me the expected note, and the key of numero dix-huit. 
 Her nightly Bon soir, M'sieur, was like a benediction from 
 a guardian angel; her vivacious Bon jour vta& an augury 
 of an untroubled day ; it would have made the darkest, 
 foggiest November afternoon seem as bright, and fresh, and 
 exhilarating as a morning in June. These are trifles, I 
 know, but it is of trifles such as these that the true happi- 
 ness of life is made up. Great joys, like great griefs, do 
 not possess the soul so completely, as we think, as Welling- 
 ton victorious, or Napoleon defeated, at Waterloo, would 
 have discovered, if, in that great hour, they had been visited 
 with a twinge of neuralgia in the head, or a gnawing 
 dyspepsia. 
 
 The influenza, or grippe, as the French call it, is not a 
 pleasant thing under any circumstances ; but I think of a 
 four days' attack, during which Marie attended to my wants, 
 as a period of unmixed pleasure. She seemed to hover 
 about my sick bed, she moved so gently, and her voice (to 
 use the words of my former cherished friend, S. T. Cole- 
 ridge,) was like 
 
 " a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 Singeth a quiet tune." 
 
 " Was it that Monsieur would be able to drink a little tea, 
 or would it please him 'to taste some cool lemonade?" 
 Helos! Monsieur was too molade for that; but the kind 
 attentions of that estimable little woman were more refresh- 
 ing than a Baltic Sea of the beverage that cheers but does 
 not inebriate, or all the aid that the lemon groves of Italy 
 could afford. Marie's politeness was the genuine article, 
 and came right from her pure, kind heart. It was as far
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS. 205 
 
 removed from that despicable obsequiousness which passes 
 current with so many for politeness, as old-fashioned Chris- 
 tian charity is from modern philanthropy. 
 
 But pardon my garrulity I am forgetting my story. 
 In a moment of kindly forgetfulness I lent a considerable 
 portion of my available funds to a friend who was short, 
 and who was obliged to return to America, via England. 
 I was in weekly expectation of a draft from home that 
 would place me once more upon my financial legs. One, 
 two, three weeks passed away, and the letters from Amer- 
 ica were distributed every Tuesday morning, but there was 
 none for me. It gave me a kind of faint sensation when 
 the clerk at the banker's gave me the disappointing answer, 
 and I went into the reading-room of the establishment to 
 read the new American papers, and to speculate upon the 
 cause of the unremitting neglect of my friends at home. I 
 shall never forget my feelings when, in the third week of 
 my impecuniosity, I found my exchequer reduced to the 
 small sum of eight francs. I saw the truth of Shake- 
 speare's words describing the " consumption of the purse " 
 as an incurable disease. I had many acquaintances and a 
 few friends in Paris, but I determined not to borrow if it 
 could possibly be avoided. Five days would elapse before 
 another American mail arrived, and I resolved that my 
 remaining eight francs should carry me through to the event- 
 ful Tuesday, which I felt sure would bring the longed-for 
 succour. I found a little dingy shop, in a narrow street 
 behind the Church of St. Roch, where I could get a break- 
 fast, consisting of a bowl of very good coffee and piece of 
 bread (I asked for the end of the loaf) for six sous. My 
 dinners I managed to bring down to the sum of twelve sous, 
 by choosing obscure localities for the obtaining of that re- 
 past, and confining myself to those simple and nutritious 
 viands which possessed the merit attributed to the veal pie 
 18
 
 206 AGUECJIKEK. 
 
 by Samuel Weller, being "weny fillin' at the price." 
 Sometimes I went to bed early, to avoid the inconveniences 
 of a light dinner. One day I dined with a friend at his 
 lodgings, but I did not enjoy his hospitality ; I felt guilty, 
 as if I had sacrificed friendship to save my dwindling purse. 
 The coarsest bread and the most suspicious beef of the Latin 
 Quarter would have been more delicious to me under such 
 circumstances than the best ragout of the Boulevards or the 
 Palais Royal. 
 
 Of course, this state of things weighed heavily upon my 
 spirits. I heard Marie tell her husband that Monsieur 
 1'Anglais was Men triste. I avoided the friends with whom 
 I had been used to meet, and (remembering what a sublime 
 thing it is to suffer and be strong) sternly resolved not to 
 borrow till I found myself completely gravelled. It grieved 
 me to be obliged to pass the old blind man who played the 
 flageolet on the Pont des Arts without dropping a copper 
 into his tin box ; but the severest blow was the being com- 
 pelled to put off my obliging washerwoman and her reason- 
 able bill. The time passed away quickly, however. The 
 Louvre, with its treasures of art, was a blessed asylum for 
 me. It cost me nothing, and I was there free from the im- 
 portunities of distress which I could not relieve. In the 
 halls of the great public library now the Biblwiheque 
 Imperials I found myself at home. Among the studious 
 throng that occupied its vast reading rooms I was as inde- 
 pendent as if my name had been Rothschild, or the treas- 
 ures of the Bank of France had been at my command. The 
 master spirits with whom I there communed do not ask 
 what their votaries carry in their pockets. There is no 
 property-test for admission to the privileges of their com- 
 panionship. I felt the equality which prevails in the re- 
 public of letters. I knew that my left hand neighbour was 
 not, in that quiet place, superior to me on account of his
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS. 207 
 
 glossy coat and golden-headed cane, and that I was no better 
 than the reader at my right hand because he wore a blouse. 
 I jingled my two or three remaining francs in my pocket, 
 and thought how useless money was, when the lack of it 
 was no bar to entrance into the hallowed presence of 
 
 " Those dead but sceptred sovereigns who still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns." 
 
 I shall not soon forget the intense satisfaction with which I 
 read in the regulations of the library a strict prohibition 
 against offering any fees or gratuities whatever to its blue- 
 coated officials. 
 
 At last the expected Tuesday morning came. My funds 
 had received an unlooked-for diminution by receiving a 
 letter from my friend whose wants had led me into diffi- 
 culty. He was just embarking at Liverpool hoped that 
 my remittance had arrived in due season promised to 
 send me a draft as soon as he reached New York envied 
 my happiness at remaining in Paris and left me to pay 
 the postage on his valediction. It would be difficult for any 
 disinterested person to conceive how dear the thoughtless 
 writer of that letter was to me in that unfortunate hour. 
 Then, too, I was obliged to lay out six of those cherished 
 copper coins for a ride in an omnibus, as I was caught in a 
 shower over in the vicinity of St. Sulpice, and could not 
 afford to take the risk of a rheumatic attack by getting wet. 
 I well remember the cool, business-like air with which that 
 relentless conducteur pocketed those specimens of the French 
 currency that were so precious in my sight. Yet, in spite 
 of these serious and unexpected drains upon my finances, I 
 had four sous left after paying for my breakfast on that 
 memorable morning. I felt uncommonly cheerful at the 
 prospect of being relieved from my troubles, and stopped
 
 208 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 several minutes after finishing my coffee, and conversed with 
 the tidy shopwoman with a fluency that astonished both of 
 us. I really regretted for the moment that I was so soon 
 to be placed in funds, and should no longer enjoy her kindly 
 services. I chuckled audibly to myself as ! pursued my 
 way to the banker's, to think what an immense joke it 
 would be for some skilful Charley Bates or Artful Dodger 
 to try to pick my pocket just then. An ancient heathen 
 expecting an answer from the oracle of Delphos, a modern 
 candidate for office awaiting the count of the vote, never felt 
 more oppressed with the importance of the result than I did 
 when I entered the banking-house. My delight at having 
 a letter from America put into my hands could only be 
 equalled by my dismay when I opened it, and found, instead 
 of the draft, a request from a casual acquaintance who had 
 heard that I might possibly return home through Eng- 
 land, and who, if I did, would be under great obligations 
 if I would take the trouble to procure and carry home 
 for him an English magpie and a genuine King Charles 
 spaniel ! 
 
 I did not stop to read the papers that morning. As I 
 was leaving the establishment, I met its chief partner, to 
 whom I could not help expressing my disappointment. He 
 was one of your hard-faced, high-cheek-boned Yankees, 
 with a great deal of speculation in his eyes. I should as 
 soon have thought of attempting the cultivation of figs and 
 dates at Franconia as of trying to get a small loan from 
 him. So I pushed on into those busy streets whose liveli- 
 ness seemed to mock my pitiable condition. I had come to 
 it at last. I had got to borrow. A physician, who now 
 stands high among the faculty in Boston, was then residing 
 in Paris, and, as I had been on familiar terms with him, I 
 determined to have recourse to him. He occupied two
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS. 209 
 
 rooms in the fifth story of a house in the Rue St. Honore. 
 His apartments were more remarkable for their snugness 
 than for the extent of accommodation they afforded. A 
 snuff-taking friend once offered to present the doctor with 
 one of his silk handkerchiefs to carpet that parlour with. 
 But the doctor's heart was not to be measured by the size 
 of his rooms, and I knew that he would be a friend in need. 
 The concierge told me that the doctor had not gone out, and, 
 in obedience to the instructions of that functionary, I mounted 
 the long staircase and frapped at the door of that estimable 
 disciple of Galen. It was not my usual thrice-repeated 
 stroke upon the door ; it was a timid and uncertain knock 
 the knock of a borrower. The doctor said that he had 
 been rather short himself for a week or two, but that he 
 should undoubtedly find a letter in the General Post that 
 morning that would place him in a condition to give me a 
 lift. This was said in a manner that put me entirely at my 
 ease, and made me feel that by accepting his loan I should 
 be conferring an inestimable favour upon him. As we 
 walked towards the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, I amused 
 him with the story of the preceding week's adventures. He 
 laughed heartily, and after a few minutes I joined with him, 
 though I must say that the events, as they occurred, did not 
 particularly impress me as subjects for very hilarious mirth. 
 The doctor inquired at the poste restante in vain. His 
 friends had been as remiss as mine, and we had both got to 
 wait another week. The doctor was not an habitually pro- 
 fane man. but as we came through the court-yard of the 
 post office, he expressed his anxiety as to what the devil 
 we should do. He examined his purse, and found that his 
 available assets amounted to a trifle more than nineteen 
 francs. He looked as troubled as he had before looked gay. 
 I generously offered him my four remaining coppers, and 
 18*
 
 210 AGUEC1IKKK. 
 
 told him that I would stand by him as long as he had a 
 centime in his pocket. Such an exhibition of magnanimity 
 could not be made in vain. We stopped in front of the 
 church of Our Lady of Victories, and took the heroic 
 resolve to club our funds and go through the week 
 of expectation together. And we did it. I wish that 
 space would allow of my describing the achievements of 
 that week. Medical books were cast aside for the study of 
 domestic economy. I do not believe that a similar sum of 
 money ever went so far before, even in Paris. We found 
 a place in a narrow street, near the Odeon, where fried 
 potatoes were sold very cheap ; we bought our bread by the 
 loaf, as it was cheaper the loaves being so long that the 
 doctor said that he understood, when he first saw them, why 
 bread was called the staff of life. We resorted to all sorts 
 of expedients to make a franc buy as much as possible of 
 the necessaries of life. We frequented with great assiduity 
 all places of public amusement where there was no fee for 
 admission. The public galleries, the libraries, the puppet 
 shows in the Champs Elysees, were often honoured with 
 our presence. We made a joke of our necessities, and car- 
 ried it through to the end. The next Tuesday morning 
 found us, after breakfasting, on our way to the post office, 
 with a franc left in our united treasury. I had begun to 
 give up all hopes of our ever getting a letter from home, 
 and insisted upon the doctor's trying his luck first. He was 
 successful, but the severest part of the joke came when he 
 found that his letter (contrary to all precedent) was not 
 postpaid. The polite official at the window must have thirty- 
 two sous for it, and we had but twenty. Our laughter 
 showed him the whole state of the case, and we left him 
 greatly amused at our promises to return soon, and get the 
 desirable prize. My application at the banker's was sue-
 
 HARD UP IN PARIS. 211 
 
 cessful, too, and before noon we were both prepared to laugh 
 a siege to scorn. I paid the rosy-cheeked washerwoman, 
 bought Marie a neat crucifix to hang up in the place of a 
 very rude one in her conciergerie, out of sheer good humour ; 
 and that evening the doctor and I laughed over the recol- 
 lections of the week and a good dinner in a quiet restaurant 
 in the Palais Royal.
 
 THE OLD CORNER. 
 
 THE human heart loves comers. The very word ' cor- 
 ner " is suggestive of snugness and cosy comfort, and he 
 who has no liking for them is something more- or less than 
 mortal. I have seen people whose ideas of comfort were 
 singularly crude and imperfect; who thought that it con- 
 sisted in keeping a habitation painfully clean, and in having 
 every book or paper that might give token of the place 
 being the dwelling of a human being, carefully out of sight. 
 We have great cause for thankfulness that such people are 
 not common, (for a little wholesome negligence is by no 
 means an unpleasant thing,) so that we can say that mankind 
 generally likes to snuggify itself, and is therefore fond of a 
 corner. This natural fondness is manifested by the child with 
 his playthings and infantile sports, in one of which, at least, 
 the attractions of corners for the feline race are brought 
 strongly before his inquisitive mind. And how is this liking 
 strengthened and built up as the child increases in secular 
 knowledge, and learns in the course of his poetical and his- 
 torical researches all about the personal history of Master 
 John Horner, whose sedentary habits and manducation of 
 festive pastry are famous wherever the language of Shake- 
 speare and Milton is spoken ! 
 
 This love of nooks and corners is especially observable 
 in those who are obliged to live in style and splendour. 
 Many a noble English family has been glad to escape from 
 the bondage of its rank, and has found more real comfort 
 in the confinement of a Parisian entresol than amid the 
 gloomy grandeur of its London home. Those who are con- 
 
 (212)
 
 THE OLD CORNER. 213 
 
 demned to dwell in palaces bear witness to this natural love 
 of snugness, by choosing some quiet sunny corner in their 
 marble halls, and making it as comfortable as if it were a 
 cosy cottage. Napoleon and Eugenie delight to escape 
 from the magnificence of the Tuileries to that quiet and 
 homelike refuge for people who are burdened with imperial 
 dignity, amid the thick foliage and green alleys of St. 
 Cloud. Even in that mighty maze, the Vatican, the rooms 
 inhabited by the Sovereign Pontiff are remarkably comfort- 
 able and unpalatial, and prove the advantages of smallness 
 and simplicity over gilding and grandeur, for the ordinary 
 purposes of life. An American gentleman once called on 
 the great and good Cardinal Cheverus, and while talking 
 with him of his old friends in America, said that the con- 
 trast between the Cardinal's position in the episcopal palace 
 of Bordeaux and in his former humble residence when he 
 was Bishop of Boston, was a very striking one. The 
 humble and pious prelate smiled, and taking his visitor by 
 the arm, led him from the stately hall in which they were 
 conversing, into a narrow room furnished in a style of 
 austere simplicity : " The palace," said he, " which you 
 have seen and admired is the residence of the Cardinal 
 Archbishop of Bordeaux ; but this little chamber is where 
 John Cheverus lives" 
 
 Literary men and statesmen have always coveted the 
 repose of a corner where they might be undisturbed by the 
 wranglings of the world. Twickenham, and Lausanne, and 
 Ferney, and Rydal Mount have become as shrines to which 
 the lover of books would fain make pilgrimages. Have we 
 not a Sunnyside and an Idlewild even in this new land of 
 ours ! Cicero, in spite of his high opinion of Marcus Tul- 
 lius, and his thirst for popular applause, often grew tired of 
 urban life, and was glad to forsake the Senatus populusque 
 Rornanut for the quiet of his snug villa in a corner of the hill
 
 214 AGUmiKKK. 
 
 country overlooking Frascati. And did not our own Tully 
 love to fling aside the burden of his power, and find his 
 Tusculum on the old South Shore ? In the Senate Cham- 
 ber or the Department of State you might see the Defender 
 of the Constitution, but it was at Marshfield that Webster 
 really lived. Horace loved good company and the enter- 
 tainment of his wealthy patrons and friends, but he loved 
 snugness and quiet even more. In one of his odes he 
 apostrophizes his friend Septimius, and describes to him 
 the delight he takes in the repose of his Tiburtine retreat 
 from the bustle of the metropolis, saying that of all places 
 in the world that corner is the most smiling and grateful to 
 
 him : 
 
 Ille terrarum mihi prater omnes 
 Angulus ridet. 
 
 If we look into our hearts, I think we shall most of us 
 find that we have a clinging attachment to some favourite 
 corner, as well as Mr. Horatius Flaccus. There is at least 
 one corner in the city of Boston, which has many pleasant 
 associations for the lover of literature. Allusion was made 
 a few days since, in an evening paper, to the well-known 
 fact that the old building at the corner of Washington and 
 School Streets was built in 1713, and is therefore older by 
 seventeen years than the Old South Church. That little 
 paragraph reminded me of some passages in the history of 
 that ancient edifice related to me by an ancestor of mine, 
 for whom the place had an almost romantic charm. 
 
 The old building (my grandfather used to tell me) was 
 originally a dwelling-house. It had the high wainscots, 
 the broad staircases, the carved cornices, and all the other 
 blessed old peculiarities of the age in which it was built, 
 which we irreverently have improved away. One hundred 
 years ago the old corner was considered rather an aristo- 
 cratic place of residence. It was slightly suburban in its
 
 THE OLD CORNER. 215 
 
 position, for the town of Boston had an affection for Copp's 
 Hill, and the inhabitants clustered about that sacred em- 
 inence as if the southern parts of their territory were a 
 quicksand. Trees were not uncommon in the vicinity of 
 the foot of School Street in those days, and no innovating 
 Hathorne had disturbed the quiet of the place with count- 
 less omnibuses. The old corner was then occupied by an 
 English gentleman named Barmesyde, who gave good din- 
 ners, and was on intimate terms with the colonial governor. 
 My venerated relative, to whom I have already alluded, en- 
 joyed his friendship, and in his latter days delighted to talk 
 of him, and tell his story to those who had heard it so often, 
 that Hugh Greville Barmesyde, Esquire, seemed like a com- 
 panion of their own young days. 
 
 Old Barmesyde sprang from an ancient Somersetshire 
 family, from which he inherited a considerable property, and 
 a remarkable energy of character. He increased his wealth 
 during a residence of many years in Antigua, at the close 
 of which he relinquished his business, and returned to Eng- 
 land to marry a beautiful English lady to whom he had 
 engaged himself in the West Indies. He arrived in Eng- 
 land the day after the funeral of his betrothed, who had 
 fallen a victim to intermittent fever. Many of his relations 
 had died in his absence, and he found himself like a stranger 
 in the very place where he had hoped to taste again the joys 
 of home. The death of the lady he loved so dearly, and 
 the changes in his circle of friends, were so depressing to 
 him, that he resolved to return to the West Indies. He 
 thought it would be easier for him to continue in the associ- 
 ations he had formed there than to recover from the shock 
 his visit to England had given him. So he took passage in 
 a brig from Bristol to Antigua, and said farewell forever, as 
 he supposed, to his native land. Before half the voyage 
 was accomplished, the vessel was disabled : as Mr. Choatt
 
 216 AGDECHEEK. 
 
 would express it, a north-west gale inflicted upon her a seri- 
 ous, an immedicable injury; and she floated a wreck upon 
 the foamy and uneven surface of the Atlantic. She was 
 fallen in with by another British vessel, bound for Boston, 
 which took off her company, and with the renewal of the 
 storm she foundered before the eyes of those who had so 
 lately risked their lives upon her seaworthiness. When Mr. 
 Barmesyde arrived in Boston, he found an old friend in the 
 governor of the Province of Massachusetts Bay. Governor 
 Pownall had but lately received his appointment from the 
 Crown, and being a comparative stranger in Boston, he was 
 as glad to see Mr. Barmesyde as the latter was to see him. 
 It was several months before an opportunity to reach the 
 West Indies offered itself, and when one did occur, Mr. 
 Barmesyde only used it to communicate with his agent at 
 Antigua. He had given up all ideas of returning thither, 
 and had settled down, with his negro servant Cato, to house- 
 keeping at the corner of School Street, within a few doors 
 of his gubernatorial friend. 
 
 Governor Pownall's term of office was not a long one, 
 but even when he was removed, Mr. Barmesyde stuck faith- 
 fully to the old corner. He had found many warm friends 
 here, and could no longer consider himself alone in the 
 world. He was a man of good natural powers, and of 
 thorough education. He was one of those who seem never 
 to lose any thing that they have once acquired. In person 
 he was tall and comely, and my grandfather said that he 
 somewhat resembled General Washington as he appeared 
 twenty-five years later, excepting that Mr. Barmesyde's 
 countenance was more jolly and port-winy. From all I 
 can learn, his face, surmounted by that carefully-powdered 
 head of hair, must have resembled a red brick house after 
 a heavy fall of snow. If Hugh Barmesyde had a fault, I 
 am afraid it was a fondness for good living. He attended
 
 THE OLD CORNER; 217 
 
 to his marketing in person, assisted by his faithful Cato, 
 who was as good a judge in such matters as his master, and 
 who used to vindicate the excellence of his master's fare by 
 eating until he was black in the face. For years there 
 were few vessels arrived from England without bringing 
 choice wines to moisten the alimentary canal of Mr. Barme- 
 syde. The Windward Isles contributed bountifully to keep 
 alight the festive flame that blazed in his cheery counte- 
 nance, and to make his flip and punch the very best that 
 the province could produce. Every Sunday morning Mr. 
 Barmesyde's best buckles sparkled in the sunbeams as he 
 walked up School Street to the King's Chapel. Not that 
 he was an eminently religious man, but he regarded religion 
 as an institution that deserved encouragement for the sake 
 of maintaining a proper balance in society. The quiet order 
 and dignity of public worship pleased him, the liturgy grat- 
 ified his taste, and so Sunday after Sunday his big manly 
 voice headed the responses, and told that its possessor had 
 done many things that he ought not to have done, and had 
 left undone a great many that he ought to have done. 
 
 Mr. Barmesyde was not a mere feeder on good things, 
 however ; he had a cultivated taste for literature, and his 
 invoices of wine were frequently accompanied by parcels of 
 new books. The old gentleman took a great delight in 
 the English literature of that day. Fielding and Smollett 
 were writing then, and no one took a keener pleasure in 
 their novels than he. He imported, as he used to boast, the 
 first copy of Dr. Johnson's Dictionary that ever came to 
 America, and was never tired of reading that stately and 
 pathetic preface, or of searching for the touches of satire 
 and individual prejudice that abound in that entertaining 
 work. His well-worn copy of the Spectator, in eight duo- 
 decimo volumes, presented by him to my grandfather, now 
 graces one of my book shelves. His books were always at 
 19
 
 218 AOUECHEEK. 
 
 the service of his friends, who availed themselves of the old 
 gentleman's kindness to such an extent that his collection 
 might have been called a circulating library. But it was 
 not merely for the frequent " feast of reason and flow of 
 soul " that his friends were indebted to him. He was the 
 very incarnation of hospitality. I am afraid that my excel- 
 lent grandparent had an uncommon admiration for this trait 
 in the old fellow's character, for a frequent burning twinge 
 in one of the toes of my right foot, and occasionally in the 
 knuckles of my left hand, reminds me of his fondness for 
 keeping his legs under Mr. Barmesyde's festive mahogany. 
 A few years ago, when a new floor was laid in the cellar at 
 the old corner, a large number of empty bottles was discov- 
 ered, whose appearance bore witness to the previous good 
 character of the place as a cellar. Some labels were also 
 found bearing dates like 1697, 1708, 1721, &c. To this 
 day the occupants of the premises take pleasure in showing 
 the dark wine stains on the old stairs leading to the cellar. 
 But Mr. Barmesyde's happiness, like ihegioia de profani, 
 which we have all heard the chorus in the last scene of Lu- 
 crezia Borgia discordantly allude to, was but transient. The 
 dispute which had been brewing for years between the colo- 
 nies and the mother country, began to grow unpleasantly 
 warm. Mr. B. was a stanch loyalist. He allowed that 
 injustice had been done to the colonies, but still he could 
 not throw off his allegiance to his most religious and gracious 
 king, George III., Defender of the Faith. He was ready 
 to do and to suffer as much -for his principles as the most 
 ardent of the revolutionists. And he was not alone in his 
 loyalty. There were many old-fashioned conservative 
 people in this revolutionary and ismatic city in those days 
 as well as now. The publication in this city of a transla- 
 tion of De Maistre's great defence of the monarchical 
 principle of government, (the Essay on the Generative
 
 THE OLD CORNER. 219 
 
 Principle of Political Constitutions,) and of the late Mr. 
 Oliver's " Puritan Commonwealth," proves that the surren- 
 der of Cornwallis and the formation of the Federal Consti- 
 tution did not destroy the confidence of a good many persons 
 in the truth of the principles on which the loyalists took 
 their stand. The unfortunate occurrence in State Street, 
 March 5, 1770, gave Mr. B. great pain. He regretted the 
 bloodshed, but he regretted more deeply to see many per- 
 sons so blinded by their hatred of the king's most excellent 
 majesty, as to defend and praise the action of a lawless mob 
 just punished for their riotous conduct. The throwing 
 overboard of the tea excited his indignation. He stigma- 
 tized it (and not without some reason on his side) as a 
 wanton and cowardly act, a destruction of the property 
 of parties against whom the town of Boston had no cause 
 of complaint, a deed which proved how little real regard 
 for justice and honour there might be among those who were 
 the loudest in their shrieks for freedom. Of course he could 
 not give utterance to these sentiments without exciting the ire 
 of many people ; and feeling that he could no longer safely 
 remain in this country, he concluded to return to England. 
 In the spring of 1774, Hugh Greville Barmesyde gave his 
 last dinner to a few of the faithful at the old corner, and 
 sailed the next day with a sorrowing heart and his trusty 
 Cato for the land of his birth. He spent the remainder of 
 his days in London, where he died in 1795. He was in- 
 terred in the vault belonging to his family, in the north 
 transept of the Parish Church of Shepton Mallet, in Somer- 
 setshire, where there is still a handsome tablet commemo- 
 rating his many virtues and the inconsolable grief of the 
 nephews and nieces whom his decease enriched. 
 
 Some of the less orderly " liberty boys " bore witness to 
 the imperfect sympathy that existed between them and the 
 late occupant of the old corner, by breaking sundry panes
 
 20 AGUECHEEFv. 
 
 of glass in the parlour windows the night after his departure. 
 The old house, during the revolutionary struggle, followed 
 the common prosaic course of ordinary occupancy. There 
 was " marrying and giving in marriage " under that steep 
 and ancient roof in those days, and troops of clamorous 
 children used to play upon the broad stone steps, and tarnish 
 the brasses that Cato was wont to keep so clean and bright. 
 In the latter part of the last century the old house under- 
 went a painful transformation. An enterprising apothecary 
 perverted it to the uses of trade, and decorated its new 
 windows with the legitimate jars of various coloured fluids. 
 It is now nearly half a century since it became a bookstore. 
 Far be it from me to offer any disturbance to the modesty 
 of my excellent friends, Messrs. Ticknor and Fields, by 
 enlarging upon the old corner in its present estate. It were 
 useless to write about any thing so familiar. They are 
 young men yet, and must pardon me if I have used the pre- 
 rogative of age and spoken too freely about their old estab- 
 lishment and its reminiscences. I love the old corner, and 
 should not hesitate to apply to it the words of Horace which 
 I have quoted above. I love its freedom from pretence and 
 ostentation. New books seem more grateful to me there 
 than elsewhere ; for the dinginess of Paternoster RO\Y 
 harmonizes better with literature than the plate glass and 
 gairish glitter of Piccadilly or Regent Street. 
 
 The large looking-glass which stands near the Washing- 
 ton Street entrance to the old corner used to adorn the 
 dining-room where Mr. Barmesyde gave so many feasts. 
 It is the only relic of that worthy gentleman now remain- 
 ing under that roof. If that glass could only publish its re- 
 flexions during the past century, what an entertaining work 
 on the curiosities of literature and of life it might make ! It 
 is no ordinary place that may boast of having been the fa- 
 miliar resort of people like Judge Story, Mr. Otis, Chan-
 
 THE OLD CORNER. 221 
 
 ning, Kirkland, Webster, Choate, Everett, Charles Kemble 
 and the elder Vandenhoff with their gifted daughters, Ellen 
 Tree, the Woods, Finn, Dickens, Thackeray, James, Ban- 
 croft, Prescott, Emerson, Brownson, Dana, Halleck, Bryant, 
 Hawthorne, Longfellow, Holmes, Lowell, Willis, Bayard 
 Taylor, Whipple, Parkman, Hillard, Sumner, Parsons, 
 Sprague, and so many others whose names will live in litera- 
 ture and history. It is a very pleasant thing to see literary 
 men at their ease, as they always are around those old 
 counters. It is a relief to find that they can throw off at 
 times the dignity and restraint of authorship. It is pleasant 
 to see the lecturer and the divine put away their tiresome 
 earnestness and severe morality, and come down to the jest 
 of the day. It refreshes one to know that Mr. Emerson is 
 not always orphic, and that the severely scholastic Everett 
 can forget his elegant and harmonious sentences, and descend 
 to common prose. For we can no more bear to think of an 
 orator living unceasingly in oratory than we could of Signo- 
 rina Zanfretta being obliged to remain constantly poised on 
 the corde tendue. 
 
 The bust of Sir Walter Scott has filled the space above 
 the mirror I have spoken of, for many years. It is a fine 
 work of Chantrey's, and a good likeness of that head of Sir 
 Walter's, so many stories high that one can never wonder 
 where all his novels came from. Except this specimen of 
 the plastic art, and one of Professor Agassiz, there is little 
 that is ornamental in 'the ancient haunt. The green cur- 
 tain that decorates the western corner of the establishment 
 is a comparatively modern institution. It was found neces- 
 sary to fence off that portion of the shop for strict business 
 purposes. The profane converse of the world cannot pene- 
 trate those folds. Into that sanctiasimum sanctissimorum 
 no joke, however good, may enter. What a strange dispen- 
 sation of Providence is it, that a man should have been for 
 19*
 
 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 years enjoying the good society that abounds at that corner, 
 and yet should seem to have so little liking for a quiet jest 
 as the estimable person who conceals his seriousness behind 
 that green curtain ! 
 
 But every thing must yield to the law of nature, and the 
 old corner must share the common lot. Some inauspicious 
 night, the fire-alarm will sound for District III. ; hoarse 
 voices will echo at the foot of School Street, calling earnestly 
 on No. 3 to " hold on," and No. 9 to " play away ; " where 
 erst good liquor was wont to abound water will more abound, 
 and when the day dawns Mr. Barmesyde's old house will be 
 an unsightly ruin, there will be mourning and desolation 
 among the lovers of literature, and wailing in the insurance 
 offices in State Street. When the blackened ruins are 
 cleared away, boys will pick up scraps of scorched manu- 
 scripts, and sell them piecemeal as parts of the original copy 
 of Hiawatha, or Evangeline, or the Scarlet Letter. In the 
 fulness of time, a tall, handsome stone or iron building will 
 rise on that revered site, and we lovers of the past shall 
 try to invest it with something of the unpretending dignity 
 and genial associations of the present venerable pile, which 
 will then be cherished among our most precious memories.
 
 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THEATRE 
 ALLEY. 
 
 WE are all associationists. There is no man who does 
 not believe in association in some degree. For myself, I 
 am firm in the faith. Let me not be misunderstood, how- 
 ever ; I do not mean that principle of association which 
 the late Mr. Fourier advocated in France, and Mr. Bris- 
 bane in America. I do not believe in the Utopian schemes 
 which have been ground out of the brains of philosophers 
 who mistake vagueness and impracticability for sublimity, 
 and which they have misnamed association. The principle 
 of association to which I pay homage is one which finds a 
 home in every human heart. It is that principle of our 
 nature which, when the bereaved Queen Constance was 
 mourning for her absent child, " stuffed out his vacant gar- 
 ments with his form." It is that principle which makes a 
 man love the scenes of his boyhood, and which brings tears 
 to the eyes of the traveller in a foreign land, when he hears 
 a familiar strain from a hand organ, however harsh and out 
 of tune. Even the brute creation seems to share in it ; the 
 cat is sure to be found in her favourite place at the fireside, 
 while the tea kettle makes music on the hob ; the dog, too, 
 (let Hercules himself do what he may,) will not only have 
 his day, but will have his chosen corner for repose, and 
 will stick to it, however tempting you may make other 
 places by a superabundance of door mats and other canine 
 furniture. And the tired cart horse, when his day's labour 
 is over, and he finds himself once more in the familiar 
 stall, with his provender before him do you not suppose 
 
 (223)
 
 224 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 that the associations of equine comfort by which he is sur* 
 rounded are dearer to him than any hopes of the luxury 
 and splendour of Her Britannic Majesty's stables at Wind- 
 sor could be? Ask him if he would leave his present peck 
 of oats for the chances of royal service, and a red-waist- 
 coated, white-top-booted groom to wait upon him, and I will 
 warrant you that he will answer nay ! 
 
 There is no nation nor people that is free from this bondage 
 of association. We treasure General Jackson's garments with 
 respectful care in a glass case in the Patent Office at Wash- 
 ington ; in the Louvre, you shall find preserved the crown 
 of Charlemagne and the old gray coat of the first Napo- 
 leon ; and at Westminster Abbey, (if you have the money 
 to pay your admission fee,) you may see the plain old oaken 
 chair in which the crowned monarchs of a thousand years 
 have sat. Go to Rome, and stand "at the base of Pom- 
 pey's statua," and association shall carry you back in imagi- 
 nation to the time when the mighty Julius fell. Stand 
 upon the grassy mounds of Tusculum, and you will find 
 yourself glowing with enthusiasm for Cicero, and wonder 
 how you could have grown so sleepy over Quousque tan- 
 dem, &c., in your school-boy days. Climb up the Traste- 
 verine steep to where the convent of San Onofrio suns 
 itself in the bright blue air of Rome, and while the monks 
 are singing the divine office where the bones of Tasso 
 repose, you may fill your mind with memories of the bard 
 of the crusades, in the chamber where his weary soul 
 found the release it craved. Go to that fair capital which 
 seems to have hidden itself among the fertile hills of Tus- 
 cany ; walk through its pleasant old streets, and you shall 
 find yourself the slave of many pleasing associations. The 
 very place where Dante was wont to stand and gaze at 
 that wondrous dome which Michel Angelo said he was 
 unwilling to copy and unable to excel, is marked by an
 
 THEATRE ALLEY. 225 
 
 inscription in the pavement. Every street has its associa- 
 tions that appeal to your love of the beautiful or the heroic. 
 Walk out into the lively streets of that city which stands 
 at the head of the world's civilization, and you are over- 
 whelmed with historic associations. You seem to hear the 
 clatter of armed heels in some of those queer old alleys, 
 and the vision of Godfrey or St. Louis, armed for the holy 
 war, would not astonish you. The dim and stately halls of 
 the palaces are eloquent of power, and you almost expect 
 to see the thin, pale, thoughtful face of the great Richelieu 
 at every corner. Over whole districts, rebellion, and an- 
 archy, and infidelity, once wrote the history of their sway 
 in blood, and even now, the names of the streets, as you 
 read them, seem to fill you with terrible mementoes. 
 
 But to us, Americans, connected as we are with England 
 in our civilization and our literature, how full of thrilling 
 associations is London ! From Whitehall, where Puritan- 
 ism damned itself by the murder of a king, to Eastcheap, 
 where Mistress Quickly served Sir John with his sherris- 
 eack ; from St. Saviour's Church, where Massinger and 
 Fletcher lie in one grave, to Milton's tomb in St. Giles's, 
 Cripplegate, there is hardly a street, or court, or lane, or 
 alley, which does not appeal by some association to the 
 etudent of English history or literature. He perambulates 
 the Temple Gardens with Chaucer ; he hears the partisans 
 of the houses of York and Lancaster, as they profane the 
 silence of that scholastic spot ; he walks Fleet Street, and 
 disputes in Bolt Court with Dr. Johnson ; he smokes in the 
 coffee-houses of Covent Garden with Dryden and Pope, 
 and the wits of their day ; he makes morning calls in 
 Leicester Square and its neighbourhood, on Sir Philip Syd- 
 ney, Hogarth, Reynolds, and Newton ; he buys gloves and 
 stockings at Defoe's shop in Cornhill ; and makes excur- 
 sions with Dicky Steele out to Kensington, to see Mr.
 
 226 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 Addison. Drury Lane, despite its gin, and vice, and squal- 
 our, has its associations. The old theatre is filled with 
 them. They show you, in the smoky green-room, the 
 chairs which once were occupied by Siddons and Kemble ; 
 the seat of Byron by the fireside in the days of his trustee- 
 ship ; the mirrors in which so many dramatic worthies 
 viewed themselves, before they were called to achieve their 
 greatest triumphs. 
 
 Every where you find men acknowledging in their ac- 
 tions their allegiance to this great natural law. Our own 
 city, too, has its associations. Who can pass by that ven- 
 erable building in Union Street, which, like a deaf and 
 dumb beggar, wears a tablet of its age upon its unsightly 
 front, without recalling some of the events that have taken 
 place, some of the scenes which that venerable edifice has 
 looked down upon, since its solid timbers were jointed in 
 the year of salvation 1 685 ? Who can enter Faneuil Hall 
 without a quickening of his pulse ? Who can walk by the 
 old Hancock House, and not look up at it as if he expected 
 to see old John (the best writer on the subject of American 
 independence) standing at the door in his shad-bellied coat, 
 knee-breeches, and powdered wig ? Who can look at the 
 Old South Church without thinking of the part it played in 
 the revolution, and of the time when it was obliged to 
 yield its unwilling horsepitality to the British cavalry? 
 Boston is by no means deficient in associations. Go to 
 Brattle Street, to Copp's Hill, to Mount Washington, to 
 Deer Island, though it must be acknowledged, the only 
 association connected with the last-named place is the Prov- 
 ident Association. 
 
 If there be a fault in the Yankee character, I fear it is 
 a lack of sufficient respect for the memory of the past. 
 Nature will have her way with us, however we may try to 
 resist her and trample old recollections under foot. We wor-
 
 THEATRE ALLEY. 227 
 
 ship prosperity too much ; and the wide, straight streets of 
 western cities, with the telegraph posts standing like sen- 
 tinels on the edge of the sidewalks, and a general odour of 
 pork-packing and new houses pervading the atmosphere, 
 seem to our acquisitive sense more beautiful than the sculp- 
 tured arch, the moss-grown tower, the quaint gable, and all 
 the summer fragrance of the gardens of the Tuileries or the 
 Unterdenlinden. I am afraid that we almost deserve to be 
 classed with those who (as Mr. Thackeray says) " have no 
 reverence except for prosperity, and no eye for any thing 
 but success." 
 
 Many are kindled into enthusiasm by meditating upon 
 the future of this our country, " the newest born of na- 
 tions, the latest hope of mankind," but for myself I love 
 better to dwell on the sure and unalterable past, than to 
 speculate upon the glories of the coming years. While I 
 was young, I liked, when at sea, to stand on the top- 
 gallant forecastle, and see the proud ship cut her way 
 through the waves that playfully covered me with spray ; 
 but of late years my pleasure has been to lean over the 
 taffrail and muse upon the subsiding foam of the vessel's 
 wake. The recollection even of storms and dangers is to 
 me more grateful than the most joyful anticipation of a fair 
 wind and the expected port. With these feelings, I cannot 
 help being moved when I see so many who try to deaden 
 their natural sensibility to old associations. When the old 
 Province House passed into the hands of the estimable Mr. 
 Ordway, I congratulated him on his success, but I mourned 
 over the dark fate of that ancient mansion. I respected it 
 even in its fallen state as an inn, for it retained much of 
 its old dignity, and the ghosts of Andros and his predeces- 
 sors seemed to brush by you in its high wainscoted pas- 
 sages and on its broad staircases ; but it did seem the very 
 ecstasy of sacrilege to transform it into a concert room. I
 
 228 AJGUECHEEK. 
 
 rejoiced, however, a few years since, when the birthplace 
 of B. Franklin, in Milk Street, was distinguished by an in- 
 scription to that effect in letters of enduring stone. That 
 was a concession to the historic associations of that locality 
 which the most sanguine could hardly have expected from 
 the satinetters of Milk Street. 
 
 But I am forgetting my subject, and using up my time 
 and ink in the prolegomena. My philosophy of association 
 received a severe blow last week. It was a pleasant day, 
 and I hobbled out on my gouty timbers for a walk. I 
 wandered into Franklin Place, but it was not the Franklin 
 Place of my youth. The rude hand of public improvement 
 had not been kept even from that row of houses which, 
 when I was a boy, was thought an ornament to our city, 
 and was dignified with the name of the Tontine Buildings. 
 Franklin Place looked as if two or three of its front teeth 
 had been knocked out. I walked on, and my sorrow and 
 dismay were increased to find that the last vestige of Thea- 
 tre Alley had disappeared. It was bad enough when the 
 old theatre and the residence of the Catholic bishops of 
 Boston were swept away : I still clung to the old alley, 
 and hoped that it would not pass away in my time that 
 before the old locality should be improved into what the 
 profane vulgar call sightliness and respectability, I should 
 (to use the common expressions of one of our greatest ora- 
 tors, who, in almost every speech and oration that he has 
 Jiade for some years past, has given a sort of obituary 
 notice of himself before closing) have been "resting in 
 peace beneath the green sods of Mount Auburn," or should 
 have " gone down to the silent tomb." 
 
 Do not laugh, beloved reader, at the tenderness of my 
 affection for that old place. There is a great deal of ro- 
 mance of a quiet and genial kind about Theatre Alley. 
 As I first remember it, commerce had not encroached upon
 
 THEATRE ALLEY. 229 
 
 \ 
 
 its precincts ; no tall warehouses shut out the light from its 
 narrow footway, and its planks were unencumbered by any 
 intrusive bales or boxes. Old Dearborn's scale factory was 
 the only thing to remind one of traffic in that neighbourhood, 
 which struck a balance with fate by becoming more scaley 
 than before, when Dearborn and his factory passed away. 
 The stage door of the theatre was in the alley, and the 
 walk from thence, through Devonshire Street, to the Ex- 
 change Coffee House, which was the great hotel of Boston 
 at that time, was once well known to many whose names 
 are now part of the history of the drama. How often was 
 I repaid for walking through the alley by the satisfaction 
 of meeting George Frederick Cooke, the elder Kean, Finn, 
 Macready, Booth, Cooper, Incledon, old Mathews, or the 
 tall, dignified Conway or some of that goodly company 
 that made Old Drury classical to the play-goers of forty 
 years ago. 
 
 The two posts which used to adorn and obstruct the en- 
 trance to the alley from Franklin Street, when they were 
 first placed there, were an occasion of indignation to a por- 
 tion of the public, and of anxiety and vexation to Mr. Pow- 
 ell, the old manager. That estimable gentleman had often 
 been a witness to the terror of the children and of those of 
 the weaker sex (I hope that I shall be forgiven by the 
 " Rev. Antoinette Brown " for using such an adjective) 
 who sometimes met a stray horse or cow in the alley ; so 
 he placed two wooden posts just beyond the theatre, to shut 
 out the dreaded bovine intruders. But the devout Hi- 
 bernians who used to worship at the church in Franklin 
 Street could not brook the placing of any such obstacles 
 in their way to the performance of their religious duties ; 
 and they used to cut the posts down as often as Mr. Powell 
 set them up, until he took refuge in the resources of science, 
 20
 
 230 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 and covered and bound them with the iron bands, which 
 imprisoned them up to a very recent period. 
 
 Old Mr. Stoughton, the Spanish consul, used to occupy 
 the first house in Franklin Street above the alley, behind 
 which his garden ran back for some distance. How little 
 that worthy gentleman thought that his tulip beds and rose 
 bushes would one day give place to a dry goods shop ! 
 Senor Stoughton was one of the urbanest men that ever 
 touched a hat. If he met you in the morning, the memory 
 of his bland and gracious salutation never departed from 
 you during the day, and seemed to render your sleep 
 sweeter at night. He always treated you as if you were 
 a prince in disguise, and he were the only person in the 
 secret of your incognito. He enjoyed the intimate friend- 
 ship of that great and good man, Dr. Cheverus, the first 
 Bishop of Boston, who was afterwards transferred to the 
 archiepiscopal see of Bordeaux, and decorated with the 
 dignity of a Prince of the Church. He, too, often walked 
 through the old alley. The children always welcomed his 
 approach. They respected Don Stoughton ; Bishop Chev- 
 erus they loved. His very look was a benediction, and 
 the mere glance of his eye was a Sursum corda. That 
 calm, wise, benignant face always had a smile for the little 
 ones who loved the neighbourhood of that humble Cathedral, 
 and the pockets of that benevolent prelate never knew a 
 dearth of sugar plums. Years after that happy time, a 
 worthy Protestant minister of this vicinity who was 
 blessed with few or none of those prejudices against " Ro- 
 manism " which are nowadays considered a necessary part 
 of a minister's education visited Cardinal Cheverus in 
 his palace at Bordeaux, and found him keenly alive to 
 every thing that concerned his old associations and friends 
 in Boston. He declared, with tears in his eyes, and with 
 that air of sincerity that marked every word he spoke, that
 
 THEATRE ALLEY. 231 
 
 he would gladly lay down the burden of the honour and 
 power that then weighed upon him, to return to the care of 
 his little New England flock. Now, Cardinal Cheverus was 
 a man of taste and of kind feelings, and I will warrant you 
 that when he thought of Boston, Theatre Alley was in- 
 cluded among his associations, and enjoyed a share in his 
 affectionate regrets. 
 
 Mrs. Grace Dunlap's little shop was an institution which 
 many considered to be coexistent with the alley itself. It 
 was just one of those places that seem in perfect harmony 
 with Theatre Alley as it was twenty-five years ago. It was 
 one of those shops that always seem to shun the madding 
 crowd's ignoble strife, and seek a refuge in some cool seques- 
 tered way. The snuff and tobacco which Mrs. Dunlap 
 used to dispense were of the best quality, and she numbered 
 many distinguished persons among her customers. The 
 author of the History of Ferdinand and Isabella was often 
 seen there replenishing his box, and exchanging kind cour- 
 tesies with the fair-spoken dealer in that fragrant article 
 which is productive of so many bad voices and so much real 
 politeness in European society. Mrs. Dunlap herself was 
 a study for an artist. Her pleasant face, her fair complex- 
 ion, her quiet manner, her white cap, with its gay ribbons, 
 rivalling her eyes in brightness, were all in perfect keeping 
 with the scrupulous neatness and air of repose that always 
 reigned in her shop. Her parlour was as comfortable a place 
 as you would wish to see on a summer or a winter day. It 
 had a cheerful English look that I always loved. The 
 plants in the windows, the bird cage, the white curtains, the 
 plain furniture, that looked as if you might use it without 
 spoiling it, the shining andirons, and the blazing wood fire, 
 are all treasured in my memory of Theatre Alley as it used 
 to be. Mrs. Dunlap's customers and friends (and who 
 could help being her friend ?) were always welcome in her
 
 232 AGDECHEEK. 
 
 parlour, and there were few who did not enjoy her simple 
 hospitality more than that pretentious kind which sought to 
 lure them with the pomp and vanity of mirrors and gilding. 
 Her punch was a work of art. But I will refrain from, 
 pursuing this subject further. It is no pleasure to me to 
 harrow up the feelings of my readers by dwelling upon the 
 joys of their pr&teritos annos. 
 
 When Mrs. Dunlap moved out of the alley, its glory be- 
 gan to decline. From that day its prestige seemed to have 
 gone. Even before that time an attempt had been made to 
 rob it of its honoured name. Signs were put up at each 
 end of it bearing the inscription, " Odeon Avenue ; " but 
 the attempt was vain, whether it proceeded from motives 
 of godliness or of respectability ; nobody ever called it any 
 thing but Theatre Alley. At about that time nearly all the 
 buildings left in it were devoted to the philanthropic object 
 of the quenching of human thirst. We read that St. Paul 
 took courage when he saw three taverns. Who can esti- 
 mate the height of daring to which the Apostle of the Gen- 
 tiles might have risen had it been vouchsafed to him to walk 
 through Theatre Alley. One of the most frequented resorts 
 there rejoiced in the name of " The Rainbow " an auspi- 
 cious title, certainly, and one which would attract those who 
 were averse to the cold water principle. Some of the 
 places were below the level of the alley, and verified, in a 
 striking manner, the truth of Virgil's words, Facilis de- 
 scensus taverni. Among certain low persons, not apprecia- 
 tive of its poetic associations, the alley at that time was 
 nicknamed " Rum Row ; " and he was considered a hero who 
 could make all the ports in the passage through, and carry 
 his topsails when he reached Franklin Street. Various 
 efforts were made at that period to bring the alley into dis- 
 repute. Among others, a sign was put up announcing that 
 it was dangerous passing through there ; I fear that Father
 
 THEATRE ALLEY. 233 
 
 Mathew would have thought a declaration that it was dan- 
 gerous stopping, to have been nearer the truth. But the 
 daily deputations from the Old Colony and Worcester Rail- 
 ways could not be kept back by any signs, and the alley 
 echoed to their multitudinous tramp every morning. Mr. 
 Choate, too, was faithful to the alley through good and evil 
 report, and while there was a plank left, it was daily pressed 
 by his India rubbers. To such a lover of nature as he, 
 what shall take the place of a morning walk through Theatre 
 Alley ! 
 
 But venit summa dies et ineluctabik tempus, and the old 
 alley has been swept away. During the past century how 
 many thousands have passed through it ! how many anxious 
 minds, engrossed with schemes of commercial enterprises, 
 how many hearts weary with defeat, how many kind, and 
 generous, and great, and good men, who have passed away 
 from earthly existence, like the alley through which they 
 walked ! But while I mourn over the loss, I would not 
 restore it if I could. When so many of its old associations 
 had been blotted out ; when low dram-drinking dens had 
 taken the place of the ancient, quiet dispensatories of good 
 cheer ; when grim and gloomy warehouses, with their unso- 
 cial, distrustful iron shutters, had made the warm sunlight a 
 stranger to it, it was time for it to go. It was better that it 
 should cease to exist, than continue in its humiliation, a re- 
 proach to the neighbourhood, and a libel upon its ancient 
 and honourable fame. 
 20* 

 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 
 
 IN many people who have been abroad, the mere mention 
 of the old city of Rouen is enough to kindle an enthusiasm. 
 If you would know why this is, why those who are fa- 
 miliar with the cathedrals of Cologne, Milan, Florence, and 
 the basilicas of Rome, have yet so deep a feeling about the 
 old capital of Normandy, the true answer is, that Rouen, 
 with its Gothic glories and the thrilling history of the 
 middle ages written on its every stone, was the first ancient 
 city that they saw, and made the deepest impression on 
 their minds. They had left the stiff and unsympathetic 
 respectability of Boston, the tiresome cleanliness of Phila- 
 delphia, or the ineffable filth of New York behind them ; 
 or perchance they had been emancipated from some dreary 
 western town, whose wide, straight, unpaved streets seemed 
 to have no beginning and to end nowhere ; whose atmos- 
 phere was pervaded with an odour of fresh paint and new 
 shingles, and whose inhabitants would regard fifty years as 
 a highly respectable antiquity, and had come steaming 
 across the unquiet Atlantic to Havre, eager to see an old 
 city. A short railway ride carried them to one in which 
 they could not turn a corner without seeing something to 
 remind them of what they had seen in pictures or read in 
 books about the middle ages. The richly-carved window 
 frames, the grotesque faces, the fanciful devices, the pro- 
 fusion of ornament, the shrines and statues of the saints at 
 the corners of the streets, and all the other picturesque 
 peculiarities of that queer old city, filled them with wonder 
 and delight. Those fantastic gables that seemed to be lean- 
 
 (234)
 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 235 
 
 ing over to look at them, inspired them with a respect 
 which all the architectural wonders and artistic trophies of 
 the continent are powerless to disturb. 
 
 It was not my fortune thus to make acquaintance with 
 Rouen. I had several times tasted the pleasure of a conti- 
 nental sojourn. The streets of several of the great Euro- 
 pean capitals were as familiar to me as those of my native 
 city. Yet Rouen captivated me with a charm peculiarly 
 its own. I shall not easily forget the delicious summer day 
 in which I left Paris for a short visit to Rouen. That four 
 hours' ride over the Western Railway of France was full 
 of solid enjoyment for every sense. The high cultivation 
 of that fertile and unfenced country the farmers at work 
 in the sunny broad-stretched fields the hay-makers piling 
 up their fragrant loads the chateau-like farm houses, 
 looking as stately as if they had strayed out of the city, 
 and, getting lost, had thought it beneath their dignity to in- 
 quire the way back and those old compactly built towns, 
 in each of which the houses seem to have nestled together 
 around a moss-grown church tower, like children at the 
 knees of a fond mother, made up a scene which harmo- 
 nized admirably with my feelings and with the day, " so calm, 
 so cool, so bright, the bridal of the earth and sky." My 
 fellow-passengers shared in the general joy which the 
 blithesomeness of nature inspired. We all chatted merrily 
 together, and a German, who looked about as lively a8 
 Scott's Commentaries bound in dark sheep-skin, tried to 
 make a joke. So irresistible was the contagion of cheerful- 
 ness, that an Englishman, who sat opposite me, so far forgot 
 his native dignity, as to volunteer the remark that it was a 
 " nice day." 
 
 At last we began to consult our watches and time tables, 
 and, after a shrill whistle and a ride through a long tunnel, I 
 found myself, with a punctuality by which you might set
 
 236 AQUECHEEK. 
 
 your Frodsham, in the station at Rouen. I obeyed the in- 
 structions of the conductor to Messieurs leg voyageurs pour 
 Rouen to descendez, and was, in a very few minutes, walk- 
 ing leisurely through narrow and winding streets, which I 
 used to think existed only in the imaginations of novelists 
 and scene-painters. I say walking, but the fact is, I did not 
 know what means of locomotion I employed in my progress 
 through the town. My eyes and mind were too busy to 
 take cognizance of any inferior matters. My astonishment 
 and delight at all that met my sight was not so great as my 
 astonishment and delight to find myself astonished and de- 
 lighted. I had seen so many old cities that I had no 
 thought of getting enthusiastic about Rouen, until I found 
 myself, suddenly in a state of mental exaltation. I had 
 visited Rouen as many people visit churches and galleries 
 of art in Italy because I had an opportunity, and feared 
 that in after years I might be asked if I had ever been 
 there. But, if a dislike to acknowledge my ignorance led 
 me to Rouen, it was a very different sentiment that took 
 possession of me as soon as I caught the spirit of the place. 
 The genius of the past seemed to inhabit every street and 
 alley of that strange city. I half expected, whenever I 
 heard the hoofs of horses, to find myself encompassed by 
 mailed knights ; and if Joan of Arc, with her sweet maid- 
 enly face beaming with the inspiration of religious patriot- 
 ism, had galloped by, it would not have surprised me so 
 much as it did to realize that I a Yankee, clad in a gray 
 travelling suit, with an umbrella in my hand, and drafts 
 o a limited amount on Baring Brothers in my pocket 
 ffas moving about in the midst of such scenes, and was 
 lot arrested and hustled out of the way as a profane in- 
 truder. 
 
 Wandering through the mouldy streets without any defi- 
 nite idea whither they led, and so charmed by all I saw,
 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 237 
 
 that I did not care, I suddenly turned a corner and sudden- 
 ly found myself in a market-place well filled with figures, 
 which would have graced a similar scene in any opera- 
 house, and facing that stupendous cathedral which is one of 
 the glories of France. I do not know how to talk learned- 
 ly about architecture ; so I can spare you, dear reader, any 
 criticism on the details of that great church. I have no 
 doubt that it is full of faults, but my unskilful eyes rested 
 only on its beauties. I would not have had it one stroke of 
 the chisel less ornate, nor one shade less dingy. I could not, 
 indeed, help thinking what it must have been centuries ago, 
 when it was in all the glory of its fresh beauty ; but still I 
 rejoiced that it was reserved for me to behold it in the per- 
 fected loveliness and richer glory of its decay. Never until 
 then did I fully appreciate the truth of Mr. Ruskin's dec- 
 laration, that the greatest glory of a building is not in its 
 sculptures or in its gold, but in its age, nor did I ever 
 before perfectly comprehend his eloquent words touch- 
 ing that mysterious sympathy which we feel in " walls 
 that have long been washed by the passing waves of hu- 
 manity." 
 
 After lingering for a while before the sacred edifice, I 
 entered, and stood within its northern aisle. Arches above 
 arches, supported by a forest of massive columns, seemed 
 to be climbing up as if they aspired to reach the throne of 
 Him whose worship was daily celebrated there. The sun 
 was obscured by a passing cloud as I entered, and that made 
 the ancient arches seem doubly solemn. The stillness that 
 reigned there was rendered more profound by the occasional 
 twitter of a swallow from some "jutty frieze," or "coigne 
 of vantage," high up above my head. I walked half way 
 up the aisle, and stopped on hearing voices at a distance. 
 As I stood listening, the sun uncovered his radiant face, and 
 poured his golden glory through the great western windows
 
 238 AGUKCHKEK. 
 
 of the church, bathing the whole interior with a prismatic 
 brilliancy which made me wonder at my presumption in 
 being there. At the same moment a clear tenor voice rang 
 out from the choir as if the sunbeams had called it into 
 being, giving a wonderful expression to the words of the 
 Psalmist, Dominus illuminatio mea et salus mea ; quern 
 timebo. Then came a full burst of music as the choir took 
 up the old Gregorian Chant the universal language of 
 prayer and praise. As the mute groves of the Academy 
 reecho still the wisdom of the sages, so did that ancient 
 church people my mind with forms and scenes of an age 
 long passed away. " I was all ear," and those solemn strains 
 seemed to be endowed with the accumulated melody of the 
 Misereres and Glorias of a thousand years. 
 
 I have an especial affection for an old church, and I pity 
 with all my heart the man whom the silent eloquence of 
 that vast cathedral does not move. The very birds that 
 build their nests in its mouldering towers have more soul 
 than he. Its every stone is a sermon on the transitoriness 
 of human enterprise and the vanity of worldly hopes. Be- 
 neath its pavement lie buried hopes and ambitions which 
 have left no memorial but in the unread pages of forgotten 
 historians. Richard, the lion-hearted, who made two con- 
 tinents ring with the fame of his valour, and yearned for new 
 conquests, was obliged at last to content himself with the 
 dusty dignity and obscurity of a vault beneath those lofty 
 arches which stand unmoved amid the contentions of rival 
 dynasties and the insane violence of republican anarchy. 
 
 But it was not merely to write of the glories of Rouen 
 and its churches, that I took up my neglected pen. The 
 old cathedral, of. which I have now a few kind words to 
 say, does not, like that of Rouen, date back sixteen centuries 
 to its foundation ; neither is it one of those marvels of archi- 
 tecture in which the conscious stone seems to have grown
 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 239 
 
 naturally into forms of enduring beauty. No great synods 
 or councils have been held within its walls ; nor have its 
 humble aisles resounded daily with the divine office chanted 
 by a chapter of learned and pious canons. Indeed it bears 
 little in its external appearance that would raise a suspicion 
 of its being a cathedral at all. Yet its plain interior, its 
 simple altars, and its unpretentious episcopal throne, bear 
 witness to the abiding-place of that power which is radiated 
 from the shrine of the Prince of the Apostles as unmis- 
 takably as if it were encrusted with mosaics, and the genius 
 of generations of great masters had been taxed in its 
 adornment. 
 
 The Cathedral of Boston is the last relic of Franklin 
 Street as I delight to remember it. One by one, the theatre, 
 the residence of the Catholic bishops, and the old mansions 
 that bore such a Berkeley Square-y look of respectability 
 have passed away ; and the old church alone remains. Tall 
 warehouses look down upon it, as if it were an intruder 
 there, and the triumphal car of traffic makes its old walls 
 tremble and disturbs the devotion of its worshippers. An 
 irreverent punster ventured a few months since to suggest 
 that, out of regard to its new associations, it ought to be re- 
 dedicated under the invocation of St. Casimir, and to be 
 enlarged by the addition of a chapel built in honor of St. 
 Pantaleone. 
 
 Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, 
 Joci sacra fames ! 
 
 But it is well that it should follow the buildings with which 
 it held companionship through so many quiet years. The 
 charm of the old street has been destroyed, and the sooner 
 the last monument of its former state is removed the better 
 it will be. The land on which it stands formerly belonged 
 to the Boston Theatre corporation. It was transferred to 
 its present proprietorship in the last week of the last cen
 
 240 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 tury, and the first Catholic church in New England was 
 erected upon it. That church (enlarged considerably by 
 the late Bishop Fenwick) is the one which still stands, and 
 towards which I feel a veneration similar in kind to that 
 inspired by the cathedrals of the old world. Even now I 
 remember with pleasure how I used to enjoy an occasional 
 visit to that strange place in my boyhood. " Logic made 
 easy " and " Geometry for Infant Schools " were things un- 
 known in my young days. I was weaned from the Primer 
 and Spelling-book with the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, 
 and the works of Defoe, Goldsmith, Addison, and Shake- 
 speare. Therefore the romantic instinct was not entirely 
 crushed out of my youthful heart, and it would be difficult, 
 dear reader, for you to conceive how much I found to feed 
 h on, within those plain brick walls. 
 
 The lamp which used to burn constantly before the altar, 
 until an anxiety for "improvement" removed it out of 
 sight behind the pulpit, filled me with an indescribable awe. 
 I was ignorant of its meaning, and for years was unaware 
 that my childish reverence for its mild flicker was a blind 
 homage to one of the profoundest mysteries of the Catholic 
 faith. I remember to this day the satisfaction I took in 
 the lighting of those tall candles, and what a halo of myste- 
 rious dignity surrounded even the surpliced boys grouped 
 around that altar. That strange ceremonial surpassed my 
 comprehension. The Latin, as I heard it sung there, was 
 pronounced so differently from what I had been taught at 
 school, that it was all Greek to me. Yet, when I saw the 
 devotion of that congregation, and the pious zeal of the 
 devoted clergymen who built that church, I could not call 
 their worship " mummery," nor join in the irreverent laugh- 
 ter of my comrades at those ancient rites. There was some- 
 thing about them that seemed to fill up my ideal of worship 
 a soothing and consoling influence which I found no- 
 where else.
 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 241 
 
 I never entertained the vulgar notion of a Catholic priest. 
 Of course my education led me to regard the dogmas of 
 the Roman Church with any thing but a friendly eye ; but 
 my ideas of the clergy of that Church were not influenced 
 by popular prejudice. I was always willing to believe that 
 Vincent de Paul, and Charles Borromeo, and Fenelon were 
 what they were, in consequence of their religion, rather than 
 in spite of it, as some people, who make pretensions to lib- 
 erality, would fain persuade us. When I recall the self- 
 denying lives of the two founders of the Catholic Church in 
 Boston, Matignon and Cheverus, I wonder that the 
 influence of their virtues has not extended even to the pres- 
 ent day, to soften prejudice and do away with irreligious 
 animosity. They were regarded with distrust, if not with 
 hatred, when they first came among us to take charge of 
 that humble flock ; but their devotedness, joined with great 
 acquirements and rare personal worth, overcame even the 
 force of the great Protestant tradition of enmity towards 
 their office. Protestant admiration kept pace with Catholic 
 love and veneration in their regard, and when they built the 
 church which is now so near the term of its existence, there 
 were few wealthy Protestants in Boston who did not esteem 
 it a privilege to aid them with liberal contributions. The 
 first subscription paper for its erection was headed by the 
 illustrious and venerable name of John Adams, the suc- 
 cessor of Washington in the presidency of the United States. 
 
 The memory of the first Bishop of Boston, Dr. Cheverus, 
 is (for most Bostonians of my age) the most precious asso- 
 ciation connected with the Cathedral. He was endeared to 
 the people of this city by ten years of unselfish exertion in 
 the duties of a missionary priest, before he was elevated to 
 the dignity of the episcopate. His unwillingness to receive 
 the proffered mitre was as characteristic of his modest and 
 humble spirit, as the meekness with which he bore his 
 21
 
 242 AGUECHEKK. 
 
 faculties when the burden of that responsibility was forced 
 upon him. His " episcopal palace," as he used facetiously 
 to term his small and scantily-furnished dwelling, which was 
 contiguous to the rear of the church, was the resort of all 
 classes of the community. His simplicity of manner and 
 ingenuous affability won all hearts. The needy and opulent, 
 the learned and illiterate, the prosperous merchant and the 
 Indians in the unknown wilds of Maine, found in him a 
 father and a friend. Children used to run after him as he 
 walked down Franklin Place, delighted to receive a smile 
 and a kind word from one whose personal presence was like 
 a benediction. 
 
 His face was the index of a pure heart and a great mind. 
 It was impossible to look at him without recalling that fine 
 stanza of the old poet, 
 
 " A sweete attractive kind of grace, 
 A full assurance given by lookes, 
 Continuall comfort in a face, 
 The lineaments pf Gospel bookes ; 
 I trow that countenance cannot lie 
 Whose thoughts are legible in the eye." 
 
 One of the ancient Hebrew prophets, in describing the 
 glories of the millennial period, tells us that upon the bells 
 of the horses shall be the words, Holiness unto the Lord 
 a prophecy which always reminded me of Cheverus ; for 
 that divine inscription seemed to have been written all over 
 his benign countenance as with the luminous pen of the rapt 
 evangelist in Patmos. 
 
 But Bishop Cheverus was not merely a good man he 
 was a great man. He did not court the society of the 
 learned, for his line of duty lay among the poor ; but, even 
 in that humble sphere, his talents shone out brightly, and 
 won the respect even of those who had the least sympathy
 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 243 
 
 with the Church to which his every energy was devoted. 
 Boston valued him highly ; but few of her citizens thought, 
 as they saw him bound on some errand of mercy through 
 her streets, that France envied them the possession of such 
 a prelate, that the peerage of the old monarchy was thought 
 to need his virtuous presence, and that the scarlet dignity 
 of a Prince of the Church was in reserve for that meek and 
 self-sacrificing servant of the poor. Had he been gifted 
 with prophetic vision, his humility would have had much to 
 suffer, and his life would have been made unhappy, by the 
 thought of coming power and honour. He had given 
 the best part of his life to Boston, and here he wished to 
 die. He had buried his friend and fellow-labourer, Dr. 
 Matignon, in the Church of St. Augustine at South Boston, 
 and when he placed the mural tablet over the tomb of that 
 venerable priest, he left a space for his own name, and ex- 
 pressed the hope that, as they had lived together harmoni- 
 ously for so many years, they might not in death be sepa- 
 rated. It was a strange sight to see more than two hundred 
 Protestants remonstrating against the translation of a 
 Catholic bishop from their city, and speaking of him in 
 such terms as these : " We hold him to be a blessing and 
 a treasure in our social community, which we cannot part 
 with, and which, without injustice to any man, we may 
 affirm, if withdrawn from us, can never be replaced." And 
 when he distributed all that he possessed among his clergy, 
 his personal friends and the poor, and left Boston as poor 
 as he had entered it, with the single trunk that contained 
 his clothes when he arrived, twenty-seven years before, 
 public admiration outran the power of language. Doctrinal 
 differences were forgotten. Three hundred carriages and 
 other vehicles escorted him several miles on the road to 
 New York, where he was to embark.
 
 244 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 Of his life as Bishop of Montauban, Archbishop of Bor- 
 deaux, a Peer of France, and a Cardinal, there is not space 
 for me to speak. Suffice it to say, that amid all the dignities 
 to which he was successively promoted, he lived as simply 
 and unostentatiously as when he dwelt in Franklin Street ; 
 and that in time of pestilence and public distress he showed 
 the same unbounded charity which caused his departure 
 from Boston to be considered a public calamity. To the 
 last day of his life he maintained his interest in his American 
 home, and would gladly have relinquished all his dignities 
 to return and minister at the altar of the church he here 
 erected. Throughout France he was honoured and beloved, 
 even as he had been in the metropolis of New England, and 
 a nation sorrowed at his death. Full as his life was of good 
 works, it was not in his eloquence, nor his learning, nor in 
 the pious and charitable enterprises which he originated, 
 that the glory of Cardinal Cheverus consisted ; it was in 
 the simplicity of his character and the daily beauty of 
 his life : 
 
 "His thoughts were as a pyramid up-piled, 
 On whose far top an angel stood and smiled, 
 Yet in his heart he was a little child." 
 
 The gentle and benevolent spirit of that illustrious prel- 
 ate has never departed from the church he built. When 
 Channing died, and was buried from the church which his 
 eloquence had made famous, the successor of Cheverus 
 caused the bell of the neighbouring Cathedral to be tolled, 
 that it might not seem as if the Catholics had forgotten the 
 friendly relations which had existed between the great 
 Unitarian preacher and their first bishop. And when the 
 good Bishop Fenwick was borne from the old Cathedral, 
 with all the pomp of pontifical obsequies, his courtesy and
 
 THE OLD CATHEDRAL. 245 
 
 regard for Dr. Channing's memory was not forgotten, and 
 the bell which was so lately removed from the tower, where 
 it had swung for half a century, joined with that of the 
 Cathedral in giving expression to the general sorrow, and 
 proved that no dogmatic differences had disturbed the kindly 
 spirit which Channing inculcated and had exemplified in 
 his blameless life. 
 
 Of the later history of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross 
 I may not speak. My youthful respect for it has in no 
 degree diminished, and I shall always consider it a substan- 
 tial refutation of the old apothegm, " Familiarity breeds 
 contempt." There are, I doubt not, those who regard that 
 old edifice with deeper feelings than mine. Who can 
 estimate the affection and veneration in which it is held by 
 those who may there have found an asylum from harassing 
 doubts, who have received from that font the joy of a reno- 
 vated heart, and from that altar the divine gift which is at 
 the same time a consolation for past sorrows and a renewal 
 of strength to tread the rough path of life ! 
 
 I am told that it will not probably be long before the 
 glittering cross which the pure-hearted Cheverus placed 
 upon the old church will be removed, and the demolition 
 of his only monument in Boston will be effected. Permit 
 me to conclude these reminiscences with the expression of 
 the hope that the new Cathedral of Boston will be an edifice 
 worthy of this wealthy city, and that it may contain some 
 fitting memorial of the remarkable man who exercised hii 
 beneficent apostolate among us during more than a quartei 
 of a century. The virtues which merited the gratitude of 
 the poor and the highest honours which pontiffs and kingt 
 can bestow, ought not to go uncommemorated in the citi 
 which witnessed their development, and never hesitated t 
 give expression to its love and veneration for their possessor. 
 21*
 
 246 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 But whatever the new Cathedral may be, however glorious 
 the skill of the architect, the sculptor, and the painter may 
 render it, there are those in whose affections it will never 
 be able to replace the little unpretending church which 
 Cheverus built, and which the remembrance of his saintly 
 life has embalmed in all their hearts.
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF SUFFERING. 
 
 HUMAN suffering is an old and favourite theme. From 
 the time when the woes of Job assumed an epic grandeur 
 of form, and the adventures and pains of Philoctetes in- 
 spired the tragic muse of Sophocles, down to the publica- 
 tion of the last number of the London Lancet, there would 
 seem to have been no subject so attractive as the sufferings 
 of poor humanity. Literature is filled with their recital, 
 and, if books were gifted with a vocal power, every library 
 would resound with wailings. Ask your neighbour Jenkins, 
 who overtakes you on your way to your office, how he is, 
 and it is ten chances to one that he will entertain you with 
 an account of his influenza or his rheumatism. It is a sub- 
 ject, too, which age cannot wither nor custom stale. It 
 knows none of the changes which will at times dwarf or 
 keep out of sight all other themes. The weather, which 
 forms the raw material of so much conversation, is nothing 
 compared to it. There is nothing which men find so much 
 pleasure in talking about as their own ailments. The late 
 Mr. Webster, of Marshfield, was once stopping for a single 
 day in a western city, where he had never been before, and 
 where there was a natural curiosity among many of the in- 
 habitants to see the Defender of the Constitution. He 
 therefore set apart two hours before the time of his depart- 
 ure for the reception of such persons as might seek the 
 honour of a shake of his hand. The reception took place in 
 one of the parlours of a hotel, the crowd filing in at one 
 door, being introduced by the mayor, and making their exit 
 by another. In the course of the proceedings, a little man, 
 
 (247)
 
 248 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 with a lustrous beaver in one hand and a gold-headed cane 
 in the other, and whose personal apparel appeared to have 
 been got up (as old Pelby would have said) without the 
 slightest regard to expense, and on a scale of unparalleled 
 splendour, walked forward, and was presented by the mayoi 
 as " Mr. Smith, one of our most eminent steamboat build- 
 ers and leading citizens." Mr. Webster's large, thoughtful 
 serene eyes seemed to be completely filled by the result of 
 the combined efforts of the linen-draper, the tailor, and th 
 jeweller, that confronted him, and his deep voice made an- 
 swer " Mr. Smith, I am happy to see you. I hope you 
 are well, sir." " Thank you, thir," said the leading citizen, 
 " I am not very well. I wath tho unfortunate ath to take 
 cold yethterday by thitting in a draught. Very unpleath- 
 ant, Mr. Webthter, to have a cold ! But Mrs. Smith thays 
 that the thinks that if I put my feet in thome warm water 
 to-night, and take thomething warm to drink on going to 
 bed, that I may get over it. I thertainly hope tho, for it 
 really givth me the headache, and I can't thmell at all." 
 Mr. Webster expressed a warm interest in Mr. Smith's 
 case, and a hope that Mrs. Smith's simple medical treat- 
 ment would result beneficially, and then turned with undis- 
 turbed gravity to the next citizen, who, with some six hun- 
 dred others, was anxiously waiting his turn. We are all 
 like Mr. Smith. We laugh, it is true, at his affectations, 
 but we are as likely to force our petty ailments upon a mind 
 burdened with the welfare of a nation ; and we never tire 
 of hearing ourselves talk about our varying symptoms. 
 Politeness may hold us back from importuning our friends 
 with the diagnosis of our case, but our self-centred hearts 
 are all alike, and a cold in the head will awaken more feel- 
 ing in its victim than the recital of all the horrors of the 
 hospital of Scutari. Nothing can equal the heroic fortitude 
 with which we bear the sufferings of our fellows, or the
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF SUFFERING. 249 
 
 eaintliness of our pious resignation and acquiescence in the 
 wisdom of the divine decrees when our friends are bending 
 under their afflictive stroke. 
 
 I wish to say a few words about suffering. Do not be 
 afraid, beloved reader, that I am going to carry you into 
 rooms from which the light is excluded, and which are 
 strangers to any sound above a whisper, or the casual move- 
 ment of some of the phials ou the mantel-piece. I am 
 going to speak of suffering in its strict sense of pain, bod- 
 ily pain, and sickness is not necessarily accompanied with 
 pain. I cannot regard your sick man as a real sufferer. 
 His fever rages, and he tosses from side to side as if he 
 were suffering punishment with Dives ; but from the inco- 
 herent phrases which escape from his parched lips, you 
 learn that his other self is rapt in the blissfulness that en- 
 folds Lazarus. He prattles childishly of other lands and 
 scenes he thinks himself surrounded by friends whose 
 faces once were grateful to his sight, but who long since fell 
 before the power with which he is struggling or he fancies 
 himself metamorphosed into a favourite character in some 
 pleasant book which he has lately read. After a time he 
 wakes forth from his delirium, but he cannot even then be 
 called a sufferer. On the contrary, his situation, even 
 while he is so entirely dependent upon those around him, is 
 really the most independent one in the world. His lightesl 
 wish is cared for as if his life were the price of its non 
 accomplishment. All his friends and kinsmen, and neighbours 
 whom he hardly knows by sight, vie with each other in try- 
 ing to keep pace with his returning appetite. He is the 
 absolute monarch of all he surveys. There is no one to 
 dispute his reign. The crown of convalescence is the only 
 one which does not make the head that wears it uneasy. He 
 has nothing to do but to satisfy his longings for niceties, to 
 listen to kind words from dear friends, to sleep when he
 
 feels like it," and to get better. I am afraid that we are all 
 so selfish and so enslaved by our appetites, that the period 
 of convalescence is the pleasantest part of life to most 
 of us. 
 
 Therefore I shut out common sickness, fevers, and the 
 like, from any share in my observations on suffering. If 
 you ask me what I should be willing to consider real bodily 
 pain, since I am unwilling to allow that ordinary sick men 
 participate in it, I should say that you can find it in a 
 good, old-fashioned attack of rheumatism or gout. I think it 
 was Horace Walpole who said that these two complaints were 
 very much alike, the difference between them being this : 
 that rheumatism was like putting your hand or foot into a 
 vice, and screwing it up as tight as you possibly can, and 
 gout was the same thing, only you give the screw one more 
 turn. It is no flattery to speak of the victim to either of 
 these disorders as a sufferer. The rheumatic gout is a 
 complaint which possesses all the advantages and peculiari- 
 ties which its compound title denotes. It unites in itself all 
 the potentiality of gout and all the ubiquity of rheumatism. 
 Its characteristics have been impressed upon me in a man- 
 ner that sets at defiance that weakness of memory which 
 generally accompanies old age. Sharp experience, increas- 
 ing in sharpness as my years pile up, makes that com- 
 plaint a speciality among my acquirements. These sting- 
 ing, burning, cutting pains deserve the superlative case, 
 if any thing does. Language (that habitual bankrupt) is 
 reduced to a most abject state when called upon to describe 
 rheumatic gout. The disease does not seem to feel satisfied 
 with poisoning your blood by its aciduousness, it makes your 
 flesh tingle and burn, and, like the late Duke of "Welling- 
 ton, does not rest until it has conquered the bony part. Tho 
 very bone seems to be crumbling wherever the demon of 
 gout pinches. There are moments in the life of every
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF SUFFERING. 251 
 
 gouty man when it seems as if nothing would be so refresh- 
 ing as to indulge for a while in the use of that energetic 
 diction, savouring more of strength than of righteousness, 
 which is common among cavalry troops and gentlemen of 
 the seafaring profession, but which, in society, is considered 
 to be a little in advance of the prejudices of the age. No 
 higher encomium could be passed upon a gouty man than 
 to say that, with all his torments, he never swore, and was 
 seldom petulant. But there are very few whose merits 
 deserve this canonization. 
 
 But gout, with all its pains, has yet its redeeming char- 
 acteristics. That great law of compensation which reduces 
 the inequalities of our lot, and makes Brown, Jones, and 
 Robinson come out about even in the long run, is not in- 
 operative here. The gout is painful, but its respectability 
 is unquestionable. It is the disease of a gentleman. It is 
 a certificate of good birth more satisfactory than any which 
 the Heralds' College or the Genealogical Association can 
 furnish. It is but right, too, that the man who can date 
 back his family history to Plymouth or Jamestown in this 
 country, and to Runnymede on the other side of the Atlan- 
 tic, should pay something for such a privilege. A man 
 may never, have indulged in " the sweet poison of the Tus- 
 can grape " himself, but can he reasonably complain of an 
 incontrovertible testimony to the fact that his ancestors lived 
 well ! Chacun d son gout : for myself, I should much 
 prefer my honoured family name, with all its associations 
 with the brave knight who made it famous, accompanied by 
 the only possession which I have received by hereditary 
 right, to the most unequivocal state of health burdened 
 with such a name as Jinkins. 
 
 Mentally and spiritually, the gout is far from being a use- 
 less institution. It ripens a man's judgment, and prunes 
 away the radical tendencies of his nature. It will convert
 
 252 AGUECUEEK. 
 
 the wildest of revolutionists into the stiffest of conservatives. 
 It teaches a man to look at things as they really are, and 
 not as enthusiasm would have them represented. No gouty 
 man would ever look to the New York Tribune as the ex- 
 ponent of his religious or political creed. His complaint 
 has a positive character, and it makes him earnest to find 
 something positive in religion and politics. The negative- 
 ness of radicalism tires him. He deprecates every thing 
 like change. He thinks that religion, and society, and gov- 
 ernment were established for some better end than to afford 
 a perpetual employment to the destructive powers of vision- 
 ary reformers and professional philanthropists. He longs 
 to find constancy and stability in something besides his in- 
 exorable disorder. 
 
 There is another disorder which people generally seem to 
 consider a very trifling affair, but which any one who knows 
 it will allow to be productive of the most unmistakable 
 pain. I refer to neuralgia. Who pities a neuralgic person ? 
 Any healthy man, when asked about it, will answer in his 
 ignorance that it is " only a headache." But ask the school 
 teacher, whose throbbing head seems to be beating time to 
 the ceaseless muttering and whispering of her scholars as 
 they bend over their tasks ask the student, whose thoughts, 
 like undisciplined soldiers, will not fall into the ranks, and 
 whose head seems to be occupied by a steam engine of 
 enormous power, running at the highest rate of pressure, 
 with the driver sitting on the safety-valve ask them 
 whether neuralgia is " only a headache " ! Who can tell 
 the cause of the prevalence of this scourge ? whether it 
 proceeds from our houses overheated with intolerable 
 furnaces and anthracite coal, or from our treacherous 
 a:; 1 unconstant climate so forcibly described by Choate: 
 " Cold to-day ; hot to-morrow ; mercury at eighty degrees in 
 the morning, with wind at south-west ; and in three hours
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF SUFFERING. 253 
 
 more a sea turn, with wind at east, a thick fog from the very 
 bottom of the ocean, and a fall of forty degrees of Fahren- 
 heit." The uncertainty which seems to attend all human 
 science, and the science of medicine in particular, envelops 
 this mysterious disease, and thousands of us are left to suf- 
 fer and wonder what the matter is. 
 
 But all of these pain.-, gouty, neuralgic, and otherwise, 
 have yet their sweet uses, and like the vile reptile Shake- 
 speare tells us of, are adorned with a precious jewel. The 
 old Roman emperors in the hour of triumph used to have 
 a slave stand behind them to whisper in their ear, from time 
 to time, the unwelcome but salutary truth that they were 
 but mortal men. Even now, on the occasion of the en- 
 thronement of a Pope, a lighted candle is applied to a 
 bunch of flax fixed upon a staff, and as the smoke dissipates 
 itself into thin air before the newly-crowned Pontiff, sur- 
 rounded as he is by all the emblems of religion and all the 
 insignia and pomp of worldly power, the same great truth 
 of the perishableness of all mortal things is impressed upon 
 his mind by the chanting of the simple but eloquent phrase, 
 Sic transit gloria mundi. But we neuralgic and gouty 
 wretches need no whispering slave nor smoking flax to re- 
 mind us of our frailty and the transientness of our happi- 
 ness and glory. We carry with us a monitor who checks 
 our swelling pride, and teaches us effectually the brevity of 
 human joys. We are very apt, in our impatience and 
 short-sightedness, to think that if we had the management 
 of the world and the dispensation of pleasure and suffering, 
 every thing could be conducted in a much more satisfactory 
 manner. If it were so, we should undoubtedly carry things 
 on in the style of a French restaurant, so that we could 
 have pain d discretion. But on the whole, I am inclined 
 to think that we had better leave these matters to the man- 
 agement of that infinite Power which gives us day by day 
 22
 
 254 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 our daily pain, and from which we receive in the long run 
 about what is meet for us. I hope that I shall not be 
 thought ill-bred or profane in using such expressions as 
 these. At my time of life it is too late to begin to murmur. 
 A few twinges more or less are nothing when the hair 
 grows gray and the eye is dimmed with the mists of age. 
 The man who knows nothing of the novitiate of patience 
 who has passed through life without the chastening dis- 
 cipline of bodily pain has missed one of the best parts 
 of existence. To suffer is one of the noblest prerogatives 
 of human nature. Without suffering, life would be robbed 
 of half its zest, and the thought of death would drive us to 
 despair. 
 
 When I was a yeung man, and gave little thought to the 
 gout and the other ills that vex me at present, I saw a won- 
 derful exhibition of patience, which I now daily recall to 
 mind, and wish I could imitate. I was sojourning in 
 Florence, that lovely city, whose every association is one of 
 calm and satisfactory pleasure undisturbed by any thing like 
 bodily suffering. I enjoyed the friendship of a young 
 American amateur artist of unquestioned talent, but whose 
 artistic efforts were interfered with by the frequent attacks 
 of a serious and excruciating disorder. It was considerable 
 time after I made his acquaintance before I knew that he 
 was an invalid. I noticed his lameness, but whenever we 
 met he wore a smiling face, and had a cheerful word for 
 every body. One evening I called in at his quiet lodgings 
 near the Lung 'Arno, and found a party of some six or 
 eight Americans talking over their recollections of home. 
 He was entertaining them with the explanation of an im- 
 aginary panorama of New England, and a musical friend 
 t"hrew in illustrative passages from the piano in the inter- 
 vals. The parlour resounded with our laughter at his irre- 
 sistible fun ; but in the midst of it all, he asked us to excuse
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF SUPFERINa. 255 
 
 him for a moment, and went into his bed-room. After a 
 little while, another engagement calling me away, I went 
 into his chamber to speak with him before leaving. I found 
 him lying upon his bed, writhing like Laocoon, while great 
 drops stood upon his brow and agony was depicted on his 
 patient face. He resisted all my attempts to do any thing 
 for him ; the attack had lasted all day, but was at some 
 times severer than at others ; he should feel better soon, 
 and would go back to his friends ; I had better not stop 
 with him, as it might attract their attention in the parlour, 
 &c. So I took my leave. The next morning I met one 
 of his friends, who told me that he returned to his company 
 a few minutes after my departure, and entertained them for 
 an hour or more with an exhibition of his powers of wit 
 and humour, which eclipsed all his previous efforts. Poor 
 S. C. ! His weary but uncomplaining spirit laid down that 
 crippled body, which never gave aught but pain to its pos- 
 sessor, three or four years ago, and passed, let us hope, into 
 a happier state of existence, which flesh and blood, with 
 their countless maladies and dolours, may not inherit. 
 
 The traveller in the south of Europe frequently encoun- 
 ters, in his perambulations through the streets and squares 
 of cities, a group of people gathered around a monk, who is 
 discoursing to them of those sublime truths which men are 
 prone to lose sight of in their walks abroad. The style of 
 the sermon is not, it is true, what we should look for from 
 Newman, or Ravignan, or Ventura, but it has in it those 
 fundamental principles of true eloquence, simplicity and 
 earnestness ; and the coarse brown habit, the knotted cord, 
 and the pale, serene, devout face of the preacher, harmonize 
 wondrously with the self-denying doctrine he teaches, and 
 give a double force to all his words. His instructions fre- 
 quently concern the simple moral duties of life and the 
 exercise of the cardinal virtues, which he enforces by illus-
 
 
 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 trations drawn from the lives of canonized saints, who woi 
 their heavenly crown and their earthly fame of blessednea 
 by the practice of those virtues. Allow me to close mj 
 sermon on suffering in the manner of the preaching friars, 
 though I may not draw my illustrations from the ancient 
 martyrologies ; for I apprehend that it will be more in keep- 
 ing with the serious character of this essay to take them 
 from another source. We have all laughed at Dickens's 
 characters of Mark Tapley and Mr. Toots. The former 
 was celebrated for " keeping jolly under disadvantageous 
 circumstances," and seemed to mourn over those dispensa- 
 tions of good fortune which detracted from his credit in 
 being jolly. The latter was never known to indulge in any 
 complaint, but met every mishap and disappointment with 
 a manly resignation and the simple remark, " It's of no con- 
 sequence." Even when he was completely ingulfed in 
 misfortunes, when Pelion seemed to have been heaped upon 
 Ossa, and both upon him, he did not give way to despair. 
 He only gave utterance more fervently to his favourite 
 maxim, " It's of no consequence. Nothing is of any con- 
 sequence whatever ! " Now, laugh at it as we may, this is 
 a great truth. It is the foundation of all true philosophy 
 of all practical religion. A few years more, and what will 
 it avail us to have bargained successfully, to have lived 
 in splendour, to have left in history a name that shall be 
 the synonyme of power ! A few years, and what shall we 
 care for all our present sufferings and the light afflictions 
 which are but for a moment ! May we not say with Solo- 
 mon, that " All is vanity," and with poor Toots, that " Noth- 
 ing is of any consequence whatever ? " Now, if there are any 
 people who are likely to arrive at this satisfactory conclu- 
 sion, and who need the consolation imparted by the recep- 
 tion and full appreciation of the deep truth it contains, it is 
 the gouty, and rheumatic, and neuralgic wretches whom I
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OP SUFFERING. 257 
 
 have had in mind while writing this paper. Let me, in 
 conclusion, as one who has had some experience, and is not 
 merely theorizing, exhort all such persons to meditate upon 
 the lives of the two great patterns of patience whom 
 I have brought forward as examples ; and to bear in 
 mind that it is only through the resignation of Toots, that 
 they can attain to the jollity of Tapley. Likewise let me 
 counsel those who may be passing through life unharmed 
 by serious misfortune and untrammelled by bodily pain, 
 never to lose sight of that striking admonition of old Sir 
 Thomas Browne's, " Measure not thyself by thy morning 
 shadow, but by the extent of thy grave ; and reckon thyself 
 above the earth, by the line thou must be contented with 
 under it." 
 
 22*
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS. 
 
 HUMAN nature is a very telescopic "institution." I* 
 delights to dwell on whatever is most distant. Lord Rosse'a 
 famous instrument dwindles down to a mere opera glass if 
 you compare it with the mental vision of a restles boy, look- 
 ing forward to the time when he shall don a tail-coat and a 
 beaver hat. How his young heart swells with pride as he 
 anticipates the day when he shall be his own master, as the 
 phrase is when he shall be able to stay out after nine 
 o'clock in the evening, and to go home without being sub- 
 jected to the ignominy of being escorted by a chamber- 
 maid! If he be of a particularly sanguine temperament, 
 his wild imagination is rapt in the contemplation of the 
 possibility of one day having his name in the newspapers 
 as secretary of some public meeting, or as having made a 
 vigorous speech at a political caucus where liberty of speech 
 runs out into slander, and sedition is mistaken for patriot- 
 ism, or perhaps even of being one day a Common Coun- 
 cilman, or a member of the Great and General Court. A 
 popular poet of the present day has expressed the same 
 idea in a less prosaic manner : 
 
 L " Not rainbow pinions coloured like yon cloud, 
 
 The sun's broad banner o'er his western tent, 
 Can match the bright imaginings of a child 
 Upon the glories of his coining years : " 
 
 and another bard avers that human blessings are always 
 governing the future, and never the present tense, or 
 something to that effect. The truth of this nobody will 
 
 (258)
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS. 
 
 deny who has passed from the boxes of childhood upon the 
 stage of manhood which so charmed hi youthful fancy, 
 and finds that the heroes who dazzled him once by their 
 splendid achievements are mere ordinary mortals like him- 
 self, whom the blindness or caprice of their fellows has 
 'owed to be dressed in a little brief authority ; that the 
 .oud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces he used to gaze 
 on from afar, prove, on a closer inspection, to be mere de- 
 ceptions of paint and canvas, and that he has only to look 
 behind them to see the rough bricks and mortar of every- 
 day life. 
 
 The voyager who sails from the dark waters of the rest- 
 less Atlantic into the deep blue Mediterranean, notices at 
 sunset a rich purple haze which rises apparently from the 
 surface of that fair inland sea, and drapes the hills and 
 vales along the beautiful shore with a glory that fills the 
 heart of the beholder with unutterable gladness. The dis- 
 tant, snow-covered peaks of old Granada, clad in the same 
 bright robe, seem by their regal presence to impose silence 
 on those whom their majestic beauty has blessed with a 
 momentary poetic inspiration which defies all power of 
 tongue or pen. It touches nothing which it does not adorn, 
 and the commonest objects are transmuted by its magic 
 into fairy shapes which abide ever after in the memory. 
 Under its softening influence, the dingy sail of a fisherman's 
 boat becomes almost as beautiful an object to the sight as 
 the ruins of the temple which crowns the height of Cape 
 Colonna. But when you approach nearer to that which 
 had seemed so charming in its twilight robes, your poetic 
 sense is somewhat interfered with. You find the fishing 
 boat as unattractive as any that anchor on the Banks from 
 which we obtain such frequent discounts of nasty weather, 
 and the shore, though it may still be very beautiful, lacks 
 the supernal glory imparted to it by distance. It is very
 
 260 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 much after this fashion with manhood, when we compare itt 
 reality with our childish expectations. We find that we 
 have been deceived by a mere atmospheric phenomenon. 
 But the destruction of the charm which age had for our 
 eyes as children, is compensated for by the creation of a 
 new glory which lights up our young days, as we look back 
 upon them with the regret of manhood, and realize that 
 their joys can never be lived over again. 
 
 Pardon me, gentle reader, for all this prosing. I have 
 been reading that pleasant, hearty book, " Tom Brown's 
 School Days at Rugby," during the past week, and it has 
 set me a-thinking about my own boyhood ; for, strange as 
 it may seem, there was a time when this troublesome foot 
 was more familiar with the football and the skate than 
 with gout and flannel, and Tom Brown's genial reminis- 
 cences have revived the memory of that time most won- 
 derfully. There was considerable fun in Boston in my 
 childhood, even though most of the faces which one met in 
 Marlboro' Street and Cornhill were such as might have 
 appropriately surrounded Cromwell at Naseby or Marston 
 Moor. There were many people, even then, who did not 
 regard religion as an affair of spasmodic emotions, and 
 long, bilious-looking faces, and psalm-singing, and neck-ties. 
 They thought that, so long as they were honest in their 
 dealings, and did not swear to false invoices at the custom- 
 house, and did as they would be done by, and lived vir- 
 tuously, that He to whom they had been taught by parental 
 lips to pray, would overlook the smaller offences such as 
 an occasional laugh or a pleasant jest into which weak 
 nature would now and then betray them. I cannot help 
 thinking that they were about right, though I fear that I 
 shall be set down as little better than one of the wicked by 
 Stiggins, Chadband, Sleek & Co. 
 
 Yes, there was a good deal of fun among the boys in
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS. 261 
 
 those old days. Boys will be boys, however serious the 
 family may be ; and if you take away their marbles, some 
 other " vanity " will be sure to take their place. What 
 jolly times we used to have Artillery Election ! How good 
 the egg-pop used to taste, in spite of the dust of Park 
 Street, which mingled itself liberally with the nutmeg ! 
 How we used to save up our money for those festive days ! 
 How hard the arithmetic lessons seemed, particularly in the 
 days immediately preceding vacation ! How dreary were 
 those long winters ; and yet how short and pleasant they 
 seemed to us ! for we loved the runners, and skates, and 
 jingling bells, and, as Pescatore, the Neapolitan poet, sings, 
 " though bleak our lot, our hearts were warm." 
 
 Newspapers were not a common luxury in those times, 
 and I suppose that I took as little notice of passing events 
 as most children ; yet I well remember the effect produced 
 upon my mind one dark, threatening afternoon, near the 
 close of the last century, by the announcement of the death 
 of General Washington. I had been accustomed to hear 
 him talked about as the Father of his Country ; I had 
 studied the lineaments of his calm countenance, as they 
 were set forth for the edification of my patriotism on some 
 coarse handkerchiefs presented to me by a public-spirited 
 aunt, until I began to look upon him as almost a supernat- 
 ural being. If I had been told that the Old South had 
 been removed to Dorchester Heights, or that the solar 
 system was irreparably disarranged, I should not have 
 been more completely taken aback than I was by that mel- 
 ancholy intelligence. I need not say that afterwards, when 
 I grew up and found that Washington was not only a mor- 
 tal like the rest of us, but that he sometimes spelt incor- 
 rectly enough to have suited Noah Webster, (the inventor 
 of the American language,) my supernatural view of that 
 estimable general and patriot was very materially modified.
 
 262 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 I remember, too, how much I used to hear said about an 
 extraordinary man who had risen up in France, and who 
 seemed to be bending all Europe to his will. I never shall 
 forget my astonishment on finding that Marengo was not & 
 man, but a place. The discovery shamed me somewhat, 
 and afterwards I always read whatever newspapers came 
 in my way. When some slow tub of a packet had come 
 across the ocean, battling with the nor'-westers, and was 
 announced to have made a " quick passage of forty-eight 
 days," how eagerly I followed the rapid fortunes of the first 
 Napoleon ! His successes, as they intoxicated him, dazzled 
 and bewildered my boyish imagination. I understood the 
 matter imperfectly, but I loved Napoleon, and delighted to 
 repeat to myself those stirring names, Austerlitz, Jena, 
 Wagram, &c. How I hated Russia after the disastrous 
 campaign of 1812! (By the way, the exhibition of the 
 Conflagration of Moscow, which used to have its intermit- 
 tent terms of exhibition here some years since, always 
 brought back all my youthful feelings about the old Napo- 
 leon ; the march of the artillery across the bridge, in the 
 foreground of the scene, the rattling of the gun carriages, 
 that most warlike of all warlike sounds, the burning 
 city, the destruction of the Kremlin, all united in my mind 
 to form a sentiment of admiration and sympathy for the 
 baffled conqueror. If that admirable show were to be 
 revived once more, I should be tempted to take a season 
 ticket to it, for I have no doubt that it would thrill me just 
 as it did before my head could boast of a single gray hair.) 
 Nor was my admiration for Napoleon's old marshals much 
 below that which I entertained for the mighty genius who 
 knew so well how to avail himself of their surpassing 
 bravery and skill. I felt as if the unconquerable Murat, 
 Lannes, Macdonald, Davoust, were my dearest and most 
 intimate friends. The impetuous Ney, " the bravest of the
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS. 263 
 
 brave," as his soldiers called him ; and the inflexible Mas- 
 sena, " the favourite child of victory," figured in all my 
 dreams, heading gallant charges, and withstanding deadly 
 assaults, and occupied the best part of my waking thoughts. 
 I do not doubt that there is many a school-boy nowadays who 
 has dwelt with equal delight on the achievements of Scott 
 and Taylor, of Canrobert, Bosquet and Pelissier, of Fenwick 
 Williams and Havelock, and poor old Raglan, (that brave 
 man upon whom the Circumlocution Office tried to fasten the 
 blame of its own inefficiency, and who died broken-hearted, 
 a melancholy illustration of the truth of Shakespeare's lines, 
 
 " The painful warrior, famoused for fight, 
 After a thousand victories once foiled, 
 Is from the book of honour razed quite, 
 And all the rest forgot for which he toiled,") 
 
 and who cherishes them as I did the heroes of half a cen- 
 tury ago. 
 
 But, as I was saying, Tom Brown's happy reminiscences 
 of Rugby have awakened once more all my boyish feelings ; 
 for New England has its Rugby, and many of the readers 
 of the old Rugby boy's pleasant pages will grow enthusiastic 
 with the recollection of their schoolboy days at Exeter, 
 their snowballings, their manly sports, their mighty contests 
 with the boys of the town, and, though they may not 
 claim the genius of the former head-master of Rugby for 
 the guardian of their youthful sports and studies, will apply 
 all of the old boy's praises of Dr. Arnold to the wise, judi- 
 cious, and lovable Dr. Abbot. 
 
 I always cherished an unbounded esteem for boys. The 
 boy the genuine human boy may, I think, safely be 
 set down as the noblest work of God. Pope claims that 
 proud distinction for the honest man, but at the present 
 time, the nearest we can come to such a mythological per- 
 sonage as an honest man, (even though we add Argand
 
 204 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 burners, expensive Carcels, Davy safeties, and ttoe Drum- 
 ruond light to the officially recognized lantern of Diogenes,) 
 is a real human boy, without a thought beyond his next 
 holiday, with his heart overflowing with happiness, and his 
 pockets chock full of marbles. Young girls cannot help 
 betraying something of the in-dwelling vanity so natural to 
 the sex ; you can discern a self-consciousness in their every 
 action which you shall look for in vain in the boy. Bless 
 your heart ! you may dress a real boy up with super- 
 human care, and try to impress on his young mind that he 
 is the pride of his parents, and one of the most remarkable 
 beings that ever visited this mundane sphere, and he will 
 listen to you with becoming reverence and docility ; but 
 his pure and honest .nature will give the lie to all your flat- 
 tery as soon as your back is turned, and in ten minutes you 
 will find him kicking out the toes of his new boots, or 
 rumpling his clean collar by " playing horse," or using the 
 top of his new cap for a drinking vessel, and mixing in with 
 the Smiths, and Browns, and Jinkinses, on terms of the 
 most unquestioned equality. The author of Tom Brown 
 says that " boys follow one another in herds like sheep, for 
 good or evil ; they hate thinking, and have rarely any set- 
 tled principles." This is undoubtedly true ; but still there 
 is a generous instinct in boys which is far more trustworthy 
 than those sliding, and unreliable, and deceptive ideas which 
 we call settled principles. The boy's thinking powers may 
 be fallible, but his instinct is, in the main, sure. There is 
 no aristocracy of feeling among boys. Linsey-woolsey or 
 broadcloth find equal favour in their eyes. What they seek 
 is just as likely to be found under coarse raiment as under 
 purple and fine linen. If their companion is a real good 
 feller, even though he be a son of a rich merchant or banker, 
 he is esteemed as highly as if his father were an editor of a 
 newspaper.
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS. 265 
 
 The nature of the boy is full of the very essence of gen- 
 erosity. The boys who hide away their gingerbread, and 
 eat it by themselves, who lay up their Fourth of July five- 
 cent pieces, for deposit in that excellent savings institution 
 in School Street, instead of spending them for the legitimate 
 India crackers of the " Sabbath Day of Freedom," are 
 exceptions which only put the general rule beyond the pale 
 of controversy. The real boy carries his apple in one "of 
 his pockets until it is comfortably warm, and he has found 
 some companion to whom he may offer a festive bite ; for he 
 feels, with Goethe, that 
 
 " It were the greatest misery known 
 To be in paradise alone ; " 
 
 and if, occasionally, when he sees his friend gratifying his 
 palate with a fair round specimen of the same delicious fruit, 
 he asks for a return of his kindness, with a beckoning ges- 
 ture, and a free and easy "I say, you know me, Bill ! " 
 he is moved thereto by no mere selfish liking for apples, 
 but by a natural sense of friendship, and of the excellence 
 of the apostolic principle of community of goods. This 
 spirit of generosity may be seen in the friendships of boys, 
 which are more entire and unselfish than those by which 
 men seek to mitigate the irksomeness of life. There are 
 more Oresteses and Pyladeses, more Damons and Pythiases, 
 at twelve years of age than at any later period of life. The 
 devotedness of boyish friendship is peculiar from the fact 
 that it is generally reciprocal. In this it is superior to what 
 we call love, which, if we may believe the French satirist, 
 in most instances consists of one party who loves, and 
 another who allows himself or herself to be loved. This 
 phenomenon has not escaped the notice of that great ob- 
 server of human nature, Thackeray. 
 
 " What generous boy," he asks, " in his time has not wor- 
 23
 
 266 AGUECHKEK. 
 
 shipped somebody ? Before the female enslaver makes her 
 appearance, every lad has a friend of friends, a crony of 
 cronies, to whom he writes immense letters in vacation; 
 whom he cherishes in his heart of hearts ; whose sister he 
 proposes to marry in after life ; whose purse he shares ; for 
 whom he will take a thrashing if need be ; who is his hero." 
 The generosity, and all the priceless charms of boyhood, 
 rarely outlive its careless years of happiness. They are 
 generally severely shaken, if not wholly destroyed, when 
 the youth enters upon that crepuscular period of manhood 
 in which his jacket is lengthened into a sack, and he begins 
 to take his share in the conceit, and ambition, and selfishness 
 of full-grown humanity. It is sad to think that a human 
 boy, like the morning star, full of life and joy, may be 
 stricken down by death, and all his hilarity stifled in the 
 grave ; but to my mind it is even more melancholy to think 
 that he may live to grow up, and be hard, and worldly, and 
 ungenerous as any of the rest of us. For this latter fate 
 is accompanied by no consolations such as naturally assuage 
 our sorrow when an innocent child is snatched from among 
 his playthings, when " death has set the seal of eternity 
 upon his brow, and the beautiful hath been made perma- 
 nent." I have seen few men who would be willing to live 
 over again their years of manhood, however prosperous and 
 comparatively free from trouble they may have been ; but 
 fewer still are those whom I have met, in whose memory 
 the records of boyhood are not written as with a sunbeam. 
 No, talk as we may about the happiness of manhood, the 
 satisfaction of success in life, of gratified ambition, of the 
 possession of the Mary or Lizzie of one's choice, what is 
 it all compared to the unadulterate joy of that time when 
 we built our card houses, and made our dirt pies, or drove 
 our hoops, unvexed by the thoughts that Jinkins's house was 
 larger than ours, or by any anxiety concerning the possi-
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS. 267 
 
 bility of obtaining our next day's mutton-chop and potatoes? 
 Except the momentary pain occasioned by the exercise of a 
 magisterial rattan upon our persons, or an occasional stern 
 reproof from a hair-brush or the thin sole of a maternal shoe, 
 that halcyon period is imperturbed, and may safely be called 
 the happiest part of life. 
 
 My venerated friend, Baron Nabem, who has been through 
 all these " experiences," and therefore ought to know, in- 
 sists upon it that no man really knows any thing until he is 
 forty years old. For when he is eighteen or twenty years 
 of age, he esteems himself to be a sort of combination of 
 the seven wise men of Greece in one person, with Hum- 
 boldt, Mezzofanti, and Macaulay thrown in to make out the 
 weight ; at twenty-five, his confidence in his own infallibility 
 begins to grow somewhat shaky ; at thirty, he begins to 
 wish that he might really know a tenth part as much as he 
 thought he did ten years before; at thirty-five, he thinks 
 that if he were added up, there would be very little to 
 carry ; and at forty the great truth bursts upon him in all 
 its effulgence that he is an ass. There are some who reach 
 this desirable state of self-knowledge before they attain the 
 age specified by the Baron ; other some there are who 
 never reach it at all, as we all see numerous instances 
 around us, but these are mere exceptions strengthening 
 rather than invalidating the common rule. It is a humiliat- 
 ing acknowledgment, but if we consider the uncertainty of 
 all earthly things, if we try the depth of the sea of human 
 science, and find how easy it is to touch bottom any where 
 therein, if we convince ourselves of the impenetrability of 
 the veil which bounds our mental vision, I think that we 
 shall be obliged to allow that the recognition of our own noth- 
 ingness and asininity is the sum and perfection of human 
 knowledge. Now, Solomon tells us that he who increases 
 knowledge increases sorrow ; and it naturally follows that
 
 268 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 when a man has reached the knowledge which generally 
 comes with hi> fortieth year, he is less happy than ho was 
 when he wrapped himself in the measureless content of his 
 twentieth year's self-deception. And it follows, too, most 
 incontrovertibly, that he is happier when unpossessed by 
 that exaggerated self-esteem which rendered the discovery 
 of his fortieth y^ar necessary to him ; and when is that 
 time, if not during the careless, happy years of boyhood ? 
 
 The period of boyhood has been shortened very consider- 
 ably within a few years ; and real boys are becoming scarce. 
 They are no sooner emancipated from the bright buttons 
 which unite the two principal articles of puerile apparel, 
 than they begin to pant for virile habiliments. Their choler 
 is roused if they are denied a stand-up dickey. They sport 
 canes. They delight to display themselves at lectures and 
 concerts. Their young lips are not innocent of damns and 
 short-sixes ; and they imitate the vulgarity and conceit 
 of the young men of the present day so successfully that 
 you find it hard to believe that they are mere children. 
 Since this period of dearth in the boy market set in, of 
 course the genuine, marketable article has become more 
 precious to me. I remember seeing an old physician in 
 Paris, who was as true a boy as any beloved twelve-year- 
 old that ever snapped a marble or stuck his forefinger into 
 a preserve jar on an upper shelf in a china closet. A 
 charming old fellow he was, too. He used to stop to see 
 the boys play in the gardens of the Tuileries, and I knew 
 him once to spend a whole afternoon in the avenue of the 
 Champs Elysees looking at the puppet shows and other 
 sights with the rest of the youngsters. He told me after- 
 wards that that was one of the happiest days of his life ; for 
 he had felt as if he were back again in the pleasant time 
 before he knew any thing of that most uncertain of all un- 
 certain things the science of medicine ; and he doubted
 
 BOYHOOD AND BOYS. 269 
 
 whether any boy there had enjoyed the cheap amusement 
 more than himself. I envied him, for I knew that he who 
 retained so much of the happy spirit of boyhood could not 
 have outlived all of its generosity and simplicity. " Once a 
 man and twice a child," says the old proverb ; and I cannot 
 help thinking that if at the last we could only recall some- 
 thing of the sincerity, and innocence, and unselfishness of 
 our early life, second childhood would indeed be a blessed 
 thing. 
 
 23
 
 / 
 
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS. 
 
 A BRIGHT-EYED, fair, young maiden, whose satchel I 
 should insist upon carrying to school for her every morning 
 if I were half a century younger, came to me a day or two 
 after the publication of my last essay, and, placing her 
 white, taper fingers in my rough, Esau-like hand, said, " I 
 liked your piece about the boys very much ; and now I 
 hope that you'll write something about girls." "My dear 
 Nellie," replied I, " if I should do that I should lose all my 
 female acquaintances. I have a weakness for telling the 
 truth, and there are some subjects concerning which it is 
 very dangerous to speak out ' the whole truth and nothing 
 but the truth.' " The gentle damsel smiled, and looked 
 
 "Modest as justice, and did seem a palace 
 For the crown'd truth to dwell in," 
 
 as she still urged me on, and refused to see any danger in 
 my giving out the plainest truth about girlhood. She had 
 no fear, though all the truth were told ; and I suppose that 
 if we had some of Nellie's purity and gentleness remaining 
 in our sere and selfish hearts, we should be much better and 
 happier men and women, and should dread the truth as lit- 
 tle as she does. But I must not begin my truth-telling by 
 seeming to praise too highly, though it must be confessed, 
 even at my time of life, if I were to describe the charming 
 young person I have referred to, with the merciless fidelity 
 of a daguerreotype and an absence of hyperbole worthy of 
 the late Dr. Bowditch's work on Navigation, I should seem 
 to the unfortunate "general reader" who does not know 
 
 (270)
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS. 271 
 
 Nell, to be indulging in the grossest flattery, and panting 
 poesy would toil after me in vain. So I will put aside all 
 temptations of that kind, and come down to the plain prose 
 of my subject. 
 
 There is, in fact, very little that can be said about girl- 
 hood. Those calm years that come between the commence- 
 ment of the bondage of the pantalettes and emancipation 
 from the tasks of school, present few salient points upon 
 which the essayist (observe he never so closely) may turn 
 a neat paragraph. They offer little that is startling or 
 attractive either to writer or reader, 
 
 " As times of quiet and unbroken peace, 
 Though for a nation times of blessedness, 
 Give back faint echoes from the historian's page." 
 
 The rough sports of boyhood, the out-door life which boys 
 always take to so naturally, and all their habits of activity, 
 give a strength of light and shade to their early years 
 which is not to be found in girlhood. It is not enough to 
 say that there is no difference in kind, but simply one in 
 degree, that the years of boyhood are calm and happy, 
 and that those of girlhood are so likewise, that the former 
 resemble the gairish sunshine, and the latter the mitigated 
 splendour of the moon ; for the characters of boys seem to 
 be struck in a sharper die than those of girls, which gives 
 them an absoluteness quite distinct from the feminine grace 
 we naturally look for in the latter. The free-hearted boy, 
 plunging into all sorts of fun without a thought of his next 
 day's arithmetic lesson, and with a charming disregard of 
 the expense of jackets and trousers, and the gentle girl, 
 who clings to her mother's side, like an attendant angel, 
 and contents herself with teaching long lessons to docile 
 paper pupils in a quiet corner by the fireside, are repre- 
 sentatives of two distinct classes in :Iie order of nature, and
 
 272 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 (untheologically, of course, I might add) of grace. There 
 is not a greater difference between a hockey and a crochet 
 needle than there is between them. 
 
 I have, as a general thing, a greater liking for boys than 
 for girls ; for the vanity so common to all mankind is not 
 developed in them at so early an age as in the latter. Still 
 I must acknowledge that I have seen some splendid excep- 
 tions, the mere recollection of which almost tempts me to 
 draw my pen through that last sentence. Can I ever forget 
 I can never forget one into whose years of girlhood the 
 beauty and grace of a long, pure life seemed to have been 
 compressed ? It was many years ago, and I was younger 
 than I am now so pardon me if I should seem to catch 
 a little enthusiasm of spirit from the remembrance of those 
 days. Like the ancient Queen of Carthage, Agnosco veteria 
 vestigia flammce. I was living in London at that time, or 
 rather at Hampstead, which had not then become a mere 
 suburb of the great metropolis, but was a quiet town, whose 
 bright doorplates, and well-scoured doorsteps, and clean 
 window curtains contrasted finely with the dingy brick 
 walls of its houses, and impressed the visitor with the gen- 
 eral prosperity and quiet respectability of its inhabitants. 
 In my daily walks to and from the city, I frequently met a 
 gentleman whose gray hairs and simple dignity of manners 
 always attracted me towards him, and exacted from me an 
 involuntary tribute of respectful recognition. One day he 
 overtook me in a shower, and gave me the benefit of his 
 umbrella and his friendship for an intimacy which ended 
 only with his death commenced between us from that hour. 
 He was a gentleman of good family and education, who had 
 seen thirty years of responsible service in the employ of 
 the Honourable East India Company, had attained a com- 
 petency, and had forsworn Leadenhall Street for a pension 
 and a quiet retreat on the heights of Hampstead. His wife
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS. 273 
 
 was a lady of cultivated tastes, whose sober wishes never 
 learned to stray from the path of simple domestic duty, and 
 the presence of the books in which she found her daily 
 pleasures. 
 
 " Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam ; 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home." 
 
 Their only child, " one fair daughter, and no more," was a 
 gentle and merry-hearted creature, who, in the short and 
 murky days of November, filled that cottage with a more 
 than June-like sunshine. Her parents always had a deep 
 sympathy with that unfortunate Empress of France whose 
 dismission from the throne was the commencement of the 
 downward career of the first Napoleon, and bore witness to 
 it by giving her name to their only child. They lived only 
 three or four doors from my lodgings, and there were few 
 days passed after the episode of the umbrella in which I 
 did not find a welcome in their quiet home. Their daugh- 
 ter was their only idol, and I soon found myself a convert 
 to their innocent system of paganism. We all three agreed 
 that Josey was the incarnation of all known perfections, 
 and the lapse of forty years has not sufficed to weaken that 
 convjction in my mind. She had risen just above the hori- 
 zon of girlhood, and the natural beauty of her character 
 made the beholder content to forget even the promise of 
 her riper years. I do not think she was what the world 
 calls handsome. I sometimes distrust my judgment in the 
 matter of female beauty ; indeed, some of my candid friends 
 have told me that I had no judgment in such things. Well, 
 as I was saying, Josey was not remarkable for personal 
 beauty in fact, I think I remember some persons of 
 her own sex who thought her " very plain " " positively 
 homely " and wondered what there was attractive about 
 her. There are circumstances under which I should nol
 
 274 AOUECHKKK. 
 
 have hesitated to attribute such remarks to motives of envy 
 and jealousy ; but as they came from girls whose attractions 
 of every kind were far below those of the gentle creature 
 whom they delighted to criticise, how can I account for 
 them ? Josey's complexion was dark her forehead, like 
 those of the best models of female comeliness among the 
 ancients, low. Her teeth were pearly and uniform, and her 
 clear, dark eyes seemed to reflect the happiness and hope 
 which were the companions of her youth. Her beauty 
 was not of that kind which consists in mere regularity of 
 features ; it was far superior to that. You could discern 
 under those traits, none of which were conspicuous, a com- 
 bination of mental and social qualities which were far above 
 the fleeting charms that delight so many, and which age, 
 instead of destroying, would increase and perfect. She was 
 quiet and gentle, without being dull or moody ; light-hearted 
 and cheery, without being frivolous ; and witty, without 
 being pert or conceited. Her unaffected goodness of heart 
 found many an opportunity of exercise. I often heard of 
 her among the poor, and among those who needed words 
 of consolation even more than the necessaries of life. It 
 was her delight to intercede with the magistrate who had 
 inflicted a punishment on some disorderly brother of one 
 of her poor clients, and to obtain his pardon by promising 
 to watch over him and insure his future good behaviour ; 
 and there were very few, among the most reckless, who 
 were not restrained by the thought that their offences 
 would give pain to the kind-hearted girl who had so will- 
 ingly become their protector. 
 
 During the months that I lived at Hampstead my inter- 
 course with that excellent family was as familiar as if I had 
 been one of their own kindred. A little attack of rheuma- 
 tism, which confined me to my lodging for a fortnight or 
 three weeks, proved the constancy of their friendship. The
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS. 275 
 
 old gentleman came daily to see me told me all the news 
 from the city, and read to me ; the mother sent me some of 
 her favourite books ; and Josey came to get assistance in 
 her Latin and French, and brought me sundry little pots 
 of grape jelly and other preserves, which tasted all the 
 sweeter for being the work of her fair hands. It was a sad 
 parting when I was called away to America sad for me ; 
 for I told them that I hoped that my absence from England 
 would be but temporary, when I felt inwardly that it might 
 extend to several years. 
 
 Two or three months after my arrival at home, I received 
 a letter from the old gentleman, written in his deliberate, 
 round, clerk-like style, informing me of his wife's death. 
 A note was enclosed from Josey, in which she described 
 with her pencil the spot where her mother was buried in 
 the old churchyard, and told me of her progress in her 
 studies. More than a year passed by without my hearing 
 from them at all, two or three of my letters to them having 
 miscarried. Nearly seven years elapsed before I visited 
 England again. Two years before that, I had read the 
 decease of the old gentleman, in a stray London newspaper. 
 I had written to Josey, sympathizing with her in her deso- 
 lation, but had received no answer. So, the day after my 
 arrival in London, I determined to make a search for the 
 beloved Josey. I went to Hampstead, and my heart beat 
 quicker as I approached the cottage where I had spent so 
 many happy hours. My throat felt a little choky, as I 
 recognized the neat bit of hedge before the door, the grace- 
 ful vine which overhung it, and the familiar arrangement 
 of the flower pots in the frames outside the windows ; but 
 my hopes received a momentary check when I found a 
 strange name on the plate above the knocker. I knocked, 
 and inquired concerning the former occupants of the house. 
 After a severe effort to overcome the Boeotian stupidity of
 
 276 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 the housemaid, she ushered me into the little breakfast 
 room, and said she would " call her missus." Almost before 
 I had time to look about me, Josey entered the room. The 
 little girl whose Latin exercises I had corrected, and who 
 had always lived in my memory as she appeared in those 
 days, suddenly came before me 
 
 " A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still and bright 
 With something of an angel light." 
 
 Yet she was hardly changed at all. She had lost none of 
 those charming qualities which had made the thought of 
 her precious to me during long years of absence. She had 
 gained the maturity and dignity of womanhood without 
 losing any of the simplicity and light-heartedness of girl- 
 hood. She was married. Her husband was a literary man 
 of considerable reputation. Though only in middle age, he 
 was a great sufferer with the gout. He was, generally 
 speaking, a patient man ; but I found, after I became inti- 
 mate with him, that his pains sometimes made him express 
 himself with a force of diction somewhat in advance of the 
 religious prejudices of his gentle Josey, who tended him 
 and ministered to his wants like an angel, as she was. But 
 excuse me for wandering so far from my theme. To make 
 a long story short, Josey went to Italy with her husband, 
 who had been ordered thither by his physicians, and I never 
 saw her afterwards. She deposited her husband's remains 
 in the cemetery where those of Shelley and Keats repose, 
 and found for two or three years a consolation for her be- 
 reaved spirit in residence in that city which more than 
 all others proclaims to our unwilling hearts the vanity and 
 transitoriness of this world's hopes, and the glory of the 
 unseen eternal. Years after, I met one of her husband's 
 friends in Paris, who told me that some four years after his
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS. 277 
 
 death, she had entered a convent of a religious order 
 devoted to the reclaiming of the degraded of her sex, in 
 Brussels. There she had found a fitting occupation for the 
 natural benevolence of her heart, and the peace which the 
 world could not give. She had concealed the glory of her 
 good works under her vow of obedience her personality 
 was hidden under the common habit of her Order the 
 very name which was so dear to me had been exchanged 
 for another on the day that saw her covered with the white 
 veil of the novice. I was about returning to England from 
 the continent when I heard this, and I resolved to take 
 Belgium's fair capital in my route. I found the convent 
 readily enough, and waited in its uncarpeted but scrupu- 
 lously clean parlour some time for the Lady Superior. She 
 was a lady of dignified mien, with the clear complexion, 
 the serene brow, and the dovelike eyes so common among 
 nuns, and her face lighted up, as she spoke, with a gentle 
 smile, which seemed almost like a presage of immortality. 
 I explained my errand, and she told me that the good Eng- 
 lish sister had been dead more than a year. The intelli- 
 gence pained me, and it gave me a feeling of self-reproach 
 to notice that the nun, who had been with her in her last 
 hour, spoke of her as if she had merely passed into another 
 part of the convent we were in. The Superior, perceh ing 
 my emotion, conducted me through the garden of the con- 
 vent to a shady corner of the grounds, where there were 
 several graves. She stopped before a mound, over which 
 a rose bush bent affectionately, as if its white blossoms 
 craved something of the purity which was enshrined be- 
 neath it At its head was a simple wooden cross, on which 
 was inscribed the name of " Sister Helen Agnes," the date 
 of her death, and the common supplication that she might 
 rest in peace ; and that was the only memorial of Josey 
 that remained to me. 
 24
 
 278 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 I have not forgotten, dear reader, that I am writing 
 about girls ; but having brought forward one whc always 
 seemed to me to be about as near perfection as it is vouch- 
 safed to poor humanity to approach, I could not help follow- 
 ing her to the end, and showing how she went from a 
 beautiful girlhood to a still more beautiful womanhood, and 
 a death which all of us might envy ; and how lovely and 
 harmonious was her whole career. For I feel that the con- 
 sideration of the contrast which most of the young female 
 readers of these pages will discover between themselves 
 and Josey, will do them some good. 
 
 I do not know of a more quietly funny sight than a 
 group of school-girls, all talking as fast as their tongues can 
 wag, (forty-woman power,) and clinging inextricably together 
 like a parcel of macaroni, d la Napolitaine. Their inde- 
 pendence is quite refreshing. Lady Blessington in her 
 diamonds never descended the grand staircase at Covent 
 Garden Opera House with half the consciousness of making 
 a sensation, that you may notice in these school-girls when- 
 ever you take your walks abroad. It is delightful to see 
 them step off so proudly, and look you in the face so coolly, 
 thinking all the time of just nothing at all. Their bold- 
 ness is the boldness of innocence ; for perfect modesty does 
 not even know how to blush. How vain they grow as they 
 advance in their teens ! How careful they are that the 
 crinoline "sticks out" properly before they venture on the 
 road to school ! If Mother Goose (of blessed memory) 
 could take a look into this world now, she would wish to 
 revise her ancient rhyme to her patrons, 
 
 " Come with a whoop come with a call," &c., 
 
 for she would find that it is now their custom to come with 
 a hoop when they come for a call. 
 
 When unhappy Romeo stands in old Capulet's garden,
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS. 279 
 
 under the pale beams of the " envious moon," and watches 
 the unconscious Juliet upon the balcony, he utters, in the 
 course of his incoherent soliloquial apostrophe, these remark- 
 able words concerning that interesting young person : 
 
 " She speaks, yet she says nothing." 
 
 I have seen many young ladies of Juliet's time of life in 
 my day of whom the same thing might be said. They indeed 
 speak, yet say nothing. Yet take them on such a subject 
 as the trimming of a new bonnet for Easter Sunday, or any 
 of those entertaining topics more or less connected with the 
 adornment of their persons, and how voluble they are ! To 
 the stronger sex, which of course cares nothing about dress, 
 being entirely free from vanity, the terms used in their 
 never-ending colloquies on such themes are mere unmean- 
 ing words ; but I must do the gentler side of humanity the 
 justice to say that they are not all vanity, as their fathers 
 and husbands find to their dismay, when the quarterly bills 
 come in, that gimp, and flounces, and trimmings generally, 
 have a real, tangible existence. 
 
 How sentimental they are ! In my young days albums 
 were all the rage among young ladies ; but now they seem 
 to be somewhat out of date, and young ministers have taken 
 their place. What pains will they not take to get a bow 
 from the Rev. Mr. Simkins ! They swarm around him 
 after service, like flies around the bung of a molasses cask. 
 Raphael never had such a face as his ; Massillon never 
 preached as he does. What a wilderness of worsted work 
 are they not willing to travel over for his sake ! How do 
 they exhaust their inventive faculties in the search after 
 new patterns for lamp mats, watch cases, pen wipers, and 
 slippers to encase the feet at which they delight to sit ! 
 But when Simkins marries old Thompson's youngest daugh- 
 ter and a snug property, he finds a sad abatement in his
 
 280 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 popularity. The Rev. Mr. Jenkins, a young preacher with 
 a face every whit as milk-and-watery as his own, succeeds 
 to the throne he occupied, and reigns in his stead among 
 the volatile devotees ; and Simkins then sees that his popu- 
 larity was no more an evidence of the favour his preaching 
 of the gospel found among those thoughtless young people 
 than was the popularity of the good-looking light comedian, 
 after whom the girls ran as madly as they did after his 
 own white neckerchief and nicely -brushed black frock coat. 
 
 Exaggeration is one of the great faults of girlhood. 
 Whatever meets their eyes is either " splendid " or " hor- 
 rid." They delight to exaggerate their likes and dislikes. 
 Self-restraint seems to be a term not contained in their lex- 
 icon. They take a momentary fancy to a young man, and 
 flatter him with their smiles until some new face takes his 
 place in their fleeting memory. In this way many young 
 hearts are frittered away in successive flirtations before 
 their possessors have reached womanhood. But it would 
 be wrong to confine action from mere blind impulse and 
 exaggeration to young girls alone. I think it is St. Paul 
 who gives us some good counsel about " speaking the truth 
 in love." I fear that very few victims of the tender passion, 
 from Pyramus and Thisbe down to Petrarch and Laura, 
 and from the latter couple down to Mr. Smith with Miss 
 Brown hanging on his arm, who haf e not sadly needed 
 the advice of the Apostle of the Gentiles. I have seen 
 very few people in my day who really speak the truth in 
 love. Therefore I will not blame girls for a fault which is 
 common to all mankind. 
 
 Impulse is commonly supposed to be inconsistent with 
 cunning ; but in most girls I think the two thing? are sin- 
 gularly combined. I am told that there is an academy in 
 this city, frequented by many young women, known as the 
 School of Design. The fact is a gratifying one to me ; for
 
 GIRLHOOD AND GIRLS. 281 
 
 my observation of girlish nature had led me to suppose that 
 there were very few indeed of the young ladies of these 
 days who required any tuition in the arts of design. I hail 
 the fact as a good omen for the sex. Action from impulse 
 carries its young victims to the extremes of good and evil. 
 Queen Dido is a fair type of the majority of her sex. De- 
 feated in their hopes, they are willing to make a funeral 
 pile of all that remains to them. But there is a spirit of 
 generosity in them which does not find a place in the hearts 
 of men. It was the part of Eve to bring death into this 
 world, and all our woe, by her inquisitiveness and credulity ; 
 but it was reserved for Adam to inaugurate the meanness 
 of mankind by laying all the blame to his silly little wife. 
 The accusation ought to have blistered Adam's cowardly 
 tongue. 
 
 But I am making a long preachment, and yet I have said 
 very little. I must leave my young friends, however, to 
 draw their own lessons from the portrait I have given of 
 one whose perfections would far outweigh the silliness and 
 vanity of a generation of girls. Let them take the gentle 
 Josey as tEe model of their youth, and they will not wish 
 to sculpture their later career after any less perfect shape. 
 There will then be fewer heartless flirts, fewer vain exhib- 
 itors of the works of the milliner and dressmaker parading 
 the streets, and more true women presiding over the homes 
 of America. The imitation of her virtues will be found a 
 better preservative of beauty than any eau lustrale ; for it 
 will create a beauty which " time's effacing fingers " are 
 powerless to destroy, and give to those who practise it a 
 serene and lovely old age, whose recollection of the past, 
 instead of awakening any self-reproach, shall be a source 
 of perpetual benediction. 
 24*
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 
 
 IT was a favourite wish of the beneficent Caligula that 
 all mankind had but one neck, that he might finish them off 
 at a single chop. It would ill comport with my known 
 modesty, were I to lay claim to any thing like the all- 
 embracing humanity of the old Roman philanthropist ; but 
 I must acknowledge that I have frequently felt inclined to 
 apply his pious aspiration to the commentators on Shake- 
 speare. Impatience is not my prevailing weakness ; but 
 these pestilent annotators have often been instrumental in 
 convincing me that I am no stoic. I have frequently re- 
 gretted the days of my youth, when no envious commentary 
 obscured the brilliancy of that genius which has consecrated 
 the language through which it finds utterance, and made it 
 venerable to the scholars of all lands and ages. My love 
 of Shakespeare, like the gout which has been stinging my 
 right foot all the morning, is hereditary. My revered 
 grandmother was very fond of solid English literature. 
 She had not had, it is true, the advantages which the young 
 people of the present day rejoice in ; she had not studied 
 in any of those seminaries which polish off an education in 
 a most Arabian-Nightsy style of expedition, and send a 
 young lady home in the middle of her teens, accomplished 
 in innumerous ologies, and knowing little or nothing that is 
 really useful, or that will attract lu-r to intellectual pursuits 
 or pleasure in after life. She had acquired what is infi- 
 nitely better than the superficial omniscience which is so 
 much cultivated in these days. The more active duties of 
 life pleased her not ; and Shakespeare was the never-failing 
 
 (282)
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 283 
 
 resource of her leisure hours. Mr. Addison's Spectator was 
 for her a " treasure of contentment, a mine of delight, 
 and, with regard to style, the best book in the world." I 
 shall never forget that happy day (anterior even to the 
 jacket era of my life) when she took me upon her knee, and 
 read to me the speeches of Marullus, and Mark Antony, 
 and Brutus. In that hour I became as sincere a devotee 
 as ever bent down before the shrine of Shakespeare's genius. 
 Nor has that innocent fanaticism abated any of its ardour 
 under the weight laid upon me by increasing years. The 
 theatre has lost many of its old charms for me. The friend- 
 ships of youth the only enduring intimacies, for our 
 palms grow callous in the promiscuous intercourse of the 
 world, and cannot easily receive new impressions have 
 either been terminated by that inexorable power whose 
 chilling touch is merciless alike to love and enmity, or have 
 been interfered with by the varying pursuits of life. But 
 Shakespeare still maintains his wonted sway, and my loyalty 
 to him has not been disturbed by any of the revolutionary 
 movements which have made such changes in most other 
 things. Martin Farquhar Tupper has written, but I am so 
 old-fashioned in my prejudices that I find myself constantly 
 turning to my Shakespeare, in preference even to that gifted 
 and proverbially philosophic bard. 
 
 But I am wandering. From the day I have mentioned, 
 Robinson Crusoe was obliged to abdicate, and England's 
 " monarch bard " (as Mr. Sprague calls Anne Hathaway's 
 husband) reigned in his stead. I first devoured the Julius 
 Caesar. I say " devoured," for no other word will express 
 the eager earnestness with which I read. The last time I 
 read that play through, it was " within a bowshot where the 
 Caesars dwelt," and but a few minutes walk from the palace 
 which now holds great Pompey's statua, at whose foot the 
 mighty Julius fell. Increase of appetite grew rapidly by
 
 284 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 what it fed on, and I was not long in learning as much about 
 the black-clad prince, the homeless king, the exacting usurer, 
 the fat knight and his jolly companions, the remorseful 
 Thane, and generous, jealous Moor, as I knew about Brutus 
 and the other red republican assassins of imperial Rome. 
 My love of Shakespeare was greatly edified by a friendship 
 which I formed in my earliest foreign journeyings. It was 
 before the days of railways, which, convenient as they 
 are, have robbed travelling of half its zest, by rendering it 
 so common. I had been making a little tour through the 
 north of France. I had admired the white caps and pious 
 simplicity of the peasants of Normandy, and had drunk in 
 that exaltation of soul which the lofty nave of the majestic 
 Cathedral of Amiens always imparts, and was about return- 
 ing to Paris, when a rheumatic attack arrested my progress 
 and prolonged my stay in the pleasant city of Douai. I 
 there met accidentally with an English monk of that grand 
 old Benedictine order, whose history for more than twelve 
 centuries has been the history of civilization, and literature, 
 and religion. He was descended from one of those old 
 families which refused to modify their creed at the demand 
 of a divorce-seeking king. He was a man of clear intellect 
 and fascinating simplicity of character. He seemed to carry 
 sunshine with him wherever he went. He occupied a pro- 
 fessorial chair in the English College attached to the Bene- 
 dictine Monastery at Douai, and when his class hours were 
 ended, he daily came to visit me. His sensible and sprightly 
 conversation did more towards untying the rheumatic knots 
 in my poor shoulder, than all the pills and lotions for which 
 M. le Medecin charged me so roundly. When I visited him 
 in his cell, I found that a well-worn copy of Shakespeare 
 was the only companion of his Breviary, his Aquinas and 
 St. Bernard on his study table. He loved Shakespeare for 
 himself alone. He never used him as a lay figure on which
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 285 
 
 he might display the drapery of a pedant. He hated com- 
 mentators as heartily as a man so sincerely religious can 
 hate any thing except sin, and was as earnest in his predilec- 
 tion for Shakespeare, " without note or comment," as his 
 dissenting fellow-countrymen would have wished him to be 
 for a similar edition of the only other inspired book in the 
 world. He had his theories, however, concerning Shake- 
 speare's characters, and we often talked them over together ; 
 but I must do him the justice to say that he never published 
 any of them. I always regarded this fact as a splendid 
 evidence of the entireness of his self-abnegation, and of his 
 extraordinary advancement in the path of religious perfec- 
 tion. Many have taken the three monastic vows by which 
 he was bound, and have lived up to them with conscientious 
 fidelity ; but few scholars have studied Shakespeare as he 
 did, and yet resisted the temptation to tell the world all 
 about it in a book. 
 
 Mousing the other day in the library of a venerable 
 citizen of Boston, who is no less skilled in the gospel (let us 
 hope) than in the law, I stumbled over a seedy-looking folio 
 containing A Treatise of Original Sinne, by one Anthony 
 Burgesse, who flourished in England something more than 
 two centuries ago. One of the discoloured fly-leaves of this 
 entertaining tome informed me, in a hand-writing which 
 resembled a dilapidated rail-fence looked at from the window 
 of an express train, that Jacobus Keith me possedit, An. Dom. 
 1655; and also bore this inscription, so pertinent to my 
 present theme : " Expositors are wise when they are not 
 otherwise." I feel that it is safe to leave my readers to 
 make the application of this apothegm to the Shakespearean 
 annotators of their acquaintance, so few of whom are wise, 
 so many otherwise. I think it was the late Mr. Hazlitl 
 who said (and if it was not, it ought to have been) that if 
 you desire to know to what sublimity human genius is
 
 280 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 capable of ascending, you must read Shakespeare ; but 
 that if you seek to ascertain to what a depth of imbecility 
 the intellect of man may be brought down, you must read 
 his commentators. 
 
 Notwithstanding the low estimate which I am inclined to 
 place upon the labours of the majority of the commentators 
 on Shakespeare, still I have often felt a strong temptation 
 to enroll myself among them. Not all their stupidity in 
 explaining things which are clear to the meanest capacity, 
 not all their pedantry in elucidating matters which are sim- 
 ply inexplicable, not all their inordinate voluminousness, 
 could quench my ambition to fasten my roll of waste 
 paper to the bob (already so unwieldy) of the Shakespearean 
 kite. Others have soared into fame by such means ; why 
 should not I ? We ought not to study Shakespeare so 
 many years for nothing, and I feel that a sacred duty 
 would be neglected if the result of my researches were 
 withheld from my suffering fellow-students. But let me be 
 more merciful than other commentators ; let me confine 
 my remarks to a single play. From that one you may 
 learn the tenor of my theories concerning the others ; and 
 if you wish for another specimen, I shall consider that I 
 have achieved an unheard-of triumph in this department of 
 literature. 
 
 The tragedy of Hamlet has always been regarded as one 
 of the most creditable of Shakespeare's performances. It 
 needs no new commendation from me. Dramatic composi- 
 tion has made great progress within the two hundred and 
 sixty years that have elapsed since Hamlet was written, yet 
 few better things are produced nowadays. We may as 
 well acknowledge the humiliating fact that Hamlet, with all 
 its age, is every whit as good as if it had been written 
 since Lady Day, and were announced on the playbills of 
 to-morrow night, with one of Mr. Bourcicault's most elo-
 
 8HAKESPEABE AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 287 
 
 quent and elaborate prefaces. The character of Hamlet 
 has been much discussed, but, with all due respect for the 
 genius of those who have fatigued their reader with their 
 treatment of the subject, I would humbly suggest that they 
 are all wrong. Hamlet resembles a picture which has been 
 scoured, and retouched, and varnished, and restored, until 
 you can hardly see any thing of the original. Critics and 
 commentators have bedaubed the original character so 
 thoroughly, and those credulous people who rejoice that 
 Chatham's language is their mother tongue, have heard so 
 much of their estimates of Hamlet's character, that they 
 receive them on faith, flattering themselves all the while 
 that they are paying homage to the Hamlet of Shakespeare. 
 High-flown philosophy exerts its powers upon the theme, 
 and Goethe gives it as his opinion that the dramatist wished 
 to portray the effects of a great action, imposed as a duty 
 upon a mind too feeble for its accomplishment, and com- 
 pares it to an oak planted in a china vase, proper to receive 
 only the most delicate flowers, and which flies to pieces as 
 soon as the roots begin to strike out. 
 
 Now let us drop all this metaphysical and poetical cant, 
 and go back to the play itself. Shakespeare will prove his 
 own best expositor, if we read him with docile minds, hav- 
 ing previously instructed ourselves concerning the history 
 of the time of which he wrote. There is a tradition com- 
 mon in the north of Ireland that Hamlet's father was a 
 native of that country, named Howndale, and that he fol- 
 lowed the trade of a tailor ; that he was captured by the 
 Danes, in one of their expeditions against that fair island, 
 and carried to Jutland ; that he married and set up in busi- 
 ness again in that cold region, but that he afterwards for- 
 sook the sartorial for the regal line, by usurping the throne 
 of Denmark. The tradition represents him to have been a 
 man of violent character, a hard drinker, and altogether a
 
 288 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 most unprincipled and unamiable person, though an excel- 
 lent tailor. Now, if we take the old chronicle of Saxo 
 Gram mat icus, (Historia Danomm,) from which Shake- 
 speare drew the plot for his tragedy, we shall find there 
 little that does not harmonize with this tradition. Saxo 
 Grammaticus tells us that Hamlet was the son of Horwen- 
 dal, who was a famous pirate of Jutland, whom the king," 
 Huric, feared so much, that, to propitiate him, he was 
 obliged to appoint him governor of Jutland, and afterwards 
 to give him his daughter Gertrude in marriage. Thus he 
 obtained the throne. The old Irish name, Howndale, 
 might easily have been corrupted into Horwendal by the 
 jaw-breaking Northmen, and for the rest, the Danish chron- 
 icle and the Irish tradition are perfectly consistent. That 
 there was frequent communication at that early period be- 
 tween Denmark and Ireland, I surely need not take the 
 trouble to prove. All the early chronicles of both of those 
 countries bear witness to it. It was to the land evangelized 
 by St. Patrick that Denmark was indebted for the blessings 
 of education and the Christian faith. But the visits of the 
 Danes were not dictated by any holy zeal for the salvation 
 or mental advancement of their benefactors, if we may 
 believe all the stories of their piratical expeditions. An 
 Irish monk of the great monastery of Banchor, who wrote 
 very good Latin for the age in which he lived, alludes to 
 this period in his country's history in a poem, one line of 
 which is sometimes quoted, even now : 
 
 Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. 
 \ "Time was, O Danes, we feared your gifts." 
 
 The great Danish poet, GEhlenschlaeger, makes frequent 
 allusions in the course of his epic, The Gods of the North, 
 to the relations that once existed between Denmark and 
 Ireland, and to the fact that his native land received from
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 289 
 
 Ireland the custom of imbibing spirituous liquors in large 
 quantities. 
 
 Hamlet's Irish parentage would naturally be concealed 
 as much as possible by him, as it might prejudice his claims 
 to the throne of Denmark ; therefore we can hardly expect 
 to find the ancient legend confirmed in the play, except in 
 a casual manner. The free, outspoken, Irish nature would 
 make itself known occasionally. Thus we find that when 
 Horatio tells him that " there's no offence," he rebukes him 
 
 with 
 
 " Yes, by St. Patrick, but there is, Horatio ! " 
 
 There certainly needs no ghost come from the grave to tell 
 us that no true-born Scandinavian would have sworn in an 
 unguarded moment by the Apostle of Ireland. Again, 
 when Harnlet thinks of killing his uncle, the wrongful 
 king, he apostrophizes himself by the name which he prob- 
 ably bore when he assisted his father (whose death he 
 wishes to avenge) in his shop in Jutland : 
 
 "Now, might I do it, Pat, now he is praying." 
 
 Then, too, he speaks to Horatio of the "funeral baked 
 meats " coldly furnishing forth the marriage table at his 
 mother's second espousal. The custom of baking meats is 
 as well known to be of Irish origin, as that of roasting them 
 is to be peculiar to the northern nations of continental 
 Europe. 
 
 The frequent allusions in the course of the play to drink- 
 ing customs not only prove that Hamlet descended from that 
 nation whose hospitality is its greatest fault, but that he and 
 his family were far from being the refined and philosophic 
 people some of the commentators would have us believe. 
 Thus he promises his old companion, 
 
 " We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart," 
 25
 
 290 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 which the most prejudiced person will freely allow to be 
 truly a Corkonian phrase. This frailty of the family may 
 be seen throughout the play. In the last scene, it is es- 
 pecially apparent. All the royal family of Denmark seem 
 to have^joined an intemperance society. The queen even, 
 in spite of her husband's remonstrances, joins in the carou- 
 sal. Hamlet, too, while he is dying, starts up on hearing 
 Horatio say, " Here's yet some liquor left," and insists upon 
 the cup being given to him. I know that it may be urged, 
 on the other hand, that in the scene preceding the first ap- 
 pearance of the ghost before Hamlet, he indulges in some 
 remarks which would prove him to have entertained senti- . 
 ments becoming his compatriot, the noble Father Mathew. 
 Speaking of the custom of draining down such frequent 
 draughts of Rhenish, he pronounces it to his mind 
 
 " a custom 
 More honoured in the breach than the observance." 
 
 It must be remembered that the occasion on which this 
 speech was uttered was a solemn one. Under such super- 
 natural circumstances old Silenus or the King of Prussia 
 himself might be pardoned for growing somewhat homiletic 
 on the subject of temperance. The conclusion of this speech 
 has given the commentators a fine chance to exercise their 
 
 ingenuity. 
 
 " The dram of bale 
 
 Doth all the noble substance often doubt 
 To his own scandal." 
 
 They have called it the " dram of base," the " dram of eale," 
 &c., and then have been as much in the dark as before. 
 Some have thought that Shakespeare intended to have 
 written it " the dram of Bale," as a sly hit at Dr. John Eale, 
 the first Protestant Bishop of Ossory in Ireland, who was 
 an unscrupulous dram-drinker as well as dramatist, for he
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 291 
 
 wrote a play called " Kynge Johan," which was reprinted 
 under the editorial care of my friend, Mr. J. O. Halliwell, 
 by the Camden Society, in 1838. But this attempt to make 
 it reflect upon the Ossory prelate is entirely uncalled for. 
 A little research would have showed that bale was a liquor 
 somewhat resembling our whiskey of the true R. G. brand, 
 the consumption of which in the dram-shops of his country 
 the Prince Hamlet so earnestly deplored. The great Danish 
 philosopher, V. Scheerer Homboegger, in his autobiography, 
 speaks of it, and says that like all the Danes he prefers it to 
 either wine or ale, or water even : Der er vand, her er vun 
 off oel, men attested BAELE drikker saaledes de Dansker. 
 (Autobiog. II. xiii. Ed. Copenhag.) 
 
 As to the proofs that Hamlet's family was closely con- 
 nected with the tailoring interest, they are so thickly scat- 
 tered through the entire tragedy, and are so apparent even 
 to the casual reader, that, even if I had room, it would only 
 be necessary to mention a few of the principal ones. In 
 the very first scene in which he is introduced, Hamlet talks 
 in an experienced manner about his " inky cloak," " suits of 
 solemn black," " forms " and " modes," and tries to defend 
 himself from the suspicion which he feels is attached to him 
 by many of the courtiers, by saying plainly, " I know not 
 seams" This first speech of Hamlet's is a key to the wanton 
 insincerity of his character. His mother has begged him to 
 change his clothes, to " cast his nighted colour off," and 
 he answers her requests with, " I shall in all my best obey 
 you, madam ; " yet it is notorious that he heeds not this 
 promise, but wears black to the end of his career. 
 
 He repeatedly uses the expressions which a tailor would 
 naturally employ. His figures of speech frequently smell 
 of the shop. As, for instance, he says to Rozencrantz and 
 Guildenstern, " The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and 
 ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb ; " in the
 
 292 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 scene preceding the play he declares that, though the devil 
 himself wear black, he'll " have a suit of sables." In the 
 interview with his mother, who may be supposed not to 
 have forgotten the early history of the family, he uses such 
 figures with still greater freedom : 
 
 " That monster custom who all sense doth eat 
 Of habit's devil, is angel yet in this ; 
 That to the use of actions fair and good 
 He likewise gives a. frock or livery, 
 That aptly is put on." 
 
 In his instruction to the players he speaks of tearing " a 
 passion to tatters, to very rags" and says of certain actors 
 that when he saw them it seemed to him as if " some of 
 nature's journeymen had made men and not made them 
 well." In the fourth act, he calls Rosencrantz a sponge. 
 
 What better evidence of the skill of Hamlet and his father 
 in their common trade can we have than that afforded by 
 the fair Ophelia, who speaks of the Prince as " the glass of 
 fashion and the mould of form " ? In the chamber scene 
 with his mother, Hamlet is taken entirely off his guard by 
 the sudden appearance of his father's ghost, whom he apos- 
 trophizes, not in the s6t phrases which he used when Horatio 
 and Marcellus were by, but as " a king of shreds and patches." 
 Old Polonius does not wish his daughter to marry a tailor, 
 but is too polite to tell her all of his objections to Lord 
 Hamlet's suit ; so he cloaks his reasons under these figures 
 of speech, instead of telling her, out of whole cloth, that 
 Hamlet is a tailor, and the match will never do : 
 
 "Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers, 
 Not of that dye which there in vestments .show, 
 But implorators of unholy suits," &c. 
 
 Some late editions of the Bard make the second line of this 
 passage read, 
 
 " Not of that die which their investments ,ha\v,''
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND HIS COMMENTATORS. 293 
 
 which is as evident a corruption of the text as any of those 
 detected by the indefatigable Mr. Payne Collier. 
 
 If any further proof is needed of a matter which must 
 be clear to every reasoning mind, it may be found in that 
 solemn scene in which the Prince, oppressed by the burden 
 of a life embittered and defeated in its highest aims, medi- 
 tates suicide. Now, if there is a time when all affectation of 
 worldly rank would be likely to be forgotten and swallowed 
 up in the contemplation of the terrible deed which occu- 
 pies the mind, it is such a time as this. And here we find 
 Shakespeare as true as Nature herself. The soldier, weary 
 of life, uses the sword his enemies once feared, to end his 
 troubles. Hamlet's mind overleaps the interval of his 
 princely life, and the weapon which is most naturally sug- 
 gested by his youthful career is " a bare bodkin." 
 
 Had I not already written more than I intended on this 
 subject, I might go on with many other evidences of the 
 truth of my view of this remarkable character. I did wish 
 also to show that Hamlet was a most disreputable character, 
 and by no means entitled to the sympathy or admiration of 
 men. Suffice it to say that he was, even to his last hour, 
 fonder of drink than became a prince (except perhaps a 
 Prince Regent) that he treated Ophelia improperly 
 that he often spoke of his step-father in profane terms 
 that he indulged in the use of profane language even in his 
 soliloquies, as for example, 
 
 " The spirit I have seen 
 May be a devil ; and the devil hath power 
 To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 
 Out of my weakness, and my melancholy, 
 (As he is very potent with such spirits) 
 Abuses me too, damme ! " 
 
 His familiarity with the players likewise is an incontro- 
 vertible proof of his depravity ; for the theatrical people of 
 25*
 
 294 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 Denmark in his age, were not what the players of our day 
 are. They were too often people of loose and reckless 
 lives, careless of moral and social obligations, and whose 
 company would by no means be acceptable to a truly philo- 
 sophic prince. 
 
 If this pre-Raphaelite sketch of Hamlet's character should 
 seem unsatisfactory, it can be filled out by a perusal of the 
 play itself, if the reader will only cast aside the trammels 
 which the commentators have placed in his way. It may 
 be a new view to most of my readers ; but I am convinced 
 that the theory, of which I have given an outline, is fully 
 as tenable as many of the countless conjectural essays to 
 which that matchless drama has given rise. If it be un- 
 true, why, then we must conclude that all similar theories, 
 though they may be sustained by as many passages as I 
 have adduced in support of my Hibernico-sartorial hy- 
 pothesis, are equally devoid of a foundation of common 
 sense. If my theory stands, I have the satisfaction of hav- 
 ing connected my name (which would else be soon forgot- 
 ten) with one of Shakespeare's masterpieces ; and that is 
 all that any commentator has ever done. And if my theory 
 proves false, it consoles me to think that the splendour of 
 the genius which I so highly reverence is in no wise ob- 
 scured thereby ; for the stability and grandeur of the temple 
 cannot be impaired by the obliteration of the ambitious 
 scribblings and chalk-marks with which some aspiring wor- 
 shippers may have defaced its portico.
 
 MEMORIALS OF MRS. GRUNDY. 
 
 OP all the studies to which I was ever impelled in my 
 youth, either by fear of the birch or by the hope of the 
 laurel or the bays, mythology was perhaps the most charm- 
 ing. It was refreshing, after trying in vain to conjugate a 
 verb, and being at last obliged to decline it after adding 
 up a column of figures several times, and getting many dif- 
 ferent results, and none of them the right one and after 
 making a vain attempt to comprehend the only algebraic 
 knowledge that ever was forced into my unmathematical 
 brain, viz., that x equals an unknown quantity, it was, 
 I say, refreshing to turn over the leaves of my Classical 
 Dictionary, and revel among the gods and heroes whose 
 wondrous careers were embalmed in its well-thumbed 
 pages. Lempriere was the great magician who summoned 
 up before my delighted eyes the denizens of a^phere where 
 existence was unvexed by any pestilent arithmetics, and 
 where the slavery of the inky desk was unknown. It al- 
 ways seemed to me as if the knowledge that I gained out 
 of those enchanted chronicles not only improved my mind, 
 but made my body more robust ; for I joined in the chase, 
 fought desperate battles, as the gods willed it, and breathed 
 all the while the pure, invigorating air of old Olympus. 
 The consecrated groves were the dwelling-place of my 
 mind, and I became for a time a sharer in the joys of beings 
 in whom I believed with all the ardour and simplicity of 
 childhood. I enjoyed my mythological readings all the 
 more because they did not generally find favour with my 
 school companions, most of whom vindicated their nation- 
 
 (295)
 
 296 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 ality by professing their affection for the Rule of Three. 
 One of them, I remember, was especially severe on the 
 uselessness of the studies in which I took pleasure. He, 
 parcus deorum cultor, et infrequens, could get no satisfac- 
 tion out of the books in which I revelled ; if he had got to 
 study or read, he could not afford to waste his brains over 
 the foolish superstitions of three thousand years ago. He 
 did not care how much romance and poetic beauty there 
 might be in the ancient mythology : what did it all come to 
 in the end? It didn't pay. It was a humbug. Our paths 
 in life separated when we graduated from jackets and peg- 
 tops. He remained faithful to his boyish instincts, and pur- 
 sued the practical as if it were a reality. After a few years 
 his.face lost all its youthful look ; an intense spirit of ac- 
 quisitiveness gleamed in his calculating eye, and an interest 
 table seemed to be written in the lines of his care-worn 
 countenance. We seldom had any conversation in our after 
 years, for he always seemed to be under some restraint, as if 
 he feared that I wished to borrow a little money of him, 
 and he did not wish to refuse for the sake of the old time 
 when we sat at the same desk, although he knew that my 
 note was good for nothing. His devotion to his deity, the 
 practical, did not go unrewarded. He became like the only 
 mythological personage whom he would have envied, had 
 he known any thing of the science he despised. His touch 
 seemed to transmute every thing into gold. His specula- 
 tions during the war of 1812 were all successful. Eastern 
 lands harmed him not. The financial panic of 1837 only 
 put money in his purse. He rolled up a large fortune, and 
 was happy. He looked anxious, but of course he was 
 happy. What man ever devoted his life to the working 
 out of the dreams* of his youth in the acquisition of riches, 
 and succeeded beyond his anticipations, without being very 
 happy? But, if his gains were something practical and
 
 MEMORIALS OF MRS. GRUNDY. 297 
 
 real, his losses were doubly so. Each one of them was as 
 a dagger stuck into that sere heart. His only son gave him 
 much trouble by his wild life, and, what touched him still 
 more, wasted the money he had laboured to pile up, at 
 the gaming tables of Baden. I saw him walking down 
 Tremont Street the other day, looking care-worn and miser- 
 able, and I longed to ask him what he thought of the real 
 and practical after trying them. He would certainly have 
 been willing to acknowledge that there is more reality in 
 the romance and poetry of mythology than in the thousands 
 which he invested in the Bay State Mills. His practical 
 life has brought him vanity and vexation of spirit, while the 
 old Lempriere, which he used to treat so contemptuously, 
 flourishes in immortal youth, unhurt amid the wreck of 
 fortunes and the depreciation of stocks. 
 
 But I am not writing an essay on mythology. I wish to 
 treat of one who is sometimes, considered a myth, but who 
 is a living and breathing personality like all of us. This 
 wide-spread scepticism is one of the most fatal signs of the 
 times. Because the late Mrs. Sairey Gamp supposed her- 
 self justified in cultivating a little* domestic mythology in the 
 shade of the famous Mrs. Harris, are we to take all the 
 personages who have illustrated history as myths and 
 unrealities ? Shade of Herodotus, forbid it ! There are 
 some unbelieving and irreverent enough to doubt whether 
 there is really such a person as Mrs. Partington ; other 
 some there are so hardened in their incredulity as to ques- 
 tion the existence of the individual who smote Mr. William 
 Patterson, and even of the immortal recipient of the blow 
 himself. Therefore we ought not to think it strange that 
 the lady whose name adorns the title of this article should 
 not have escaped the profane spirit of the age. 
 
 Unfortunately for us, Mrs. Grundy is no myth, but a 
 terrible reality. She is a widow. The late Mr. Grundy
 
 298 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 bore it with heroic patience as long as he could, and then, 
 by a divine dispensation in which he gladly acquiesced, was 
 relieved of the burden of life. If he be not happy now, the 
 great doctrine of compensation is nought but a delusion and 
 a sham. If endless happiness could only be attained 
 through such a purgatory as poor Grundy's life, few of us, 
 I fear, would yearn to be counted among the elect. Mar- 
 tyrs, and confessors, and saints of every degree have won 
 their crowns of beatitude with comparative ease ; if they 
 had been subjected to a twenty years' novitiate with Mrs. 
 Grundy and her tireless tongue, they would have found how 
 much more terrible that was than the laborious life or cruel 
 death by which they passed from earth, and fewer bulls of 
 canonization would have received the Seal of the Fisher- 
 man. I have heard from those who were acquainted with 
 that estimable and uncomplaining man that he married for 
 love. His wife was a person of considerable attractions, of 
 an inquiring turn of mind, and of uncommon energy of 
 character. In her care of his household there was nothing 
 of which he might with reason complain. She kept a sharp 
 look-out over all those matters in which the prudent house- 
 wife delights to show her skill ; her table was worthy to 
 receive regal legs beneath its shining mahogany and spot- 
 less cloth, and I have even heard that her husband never 
 had occasion to curse mentally over the lack of a shirt- 
 button. Yet was Giles Grundy, Esquire, one of the most 
 miserable of men. Of what avail was it to him that his 
 wife could preserve quinces, if she could not preserve her 
 own peace of mind ? What did it matter how well she 
 cured hams, if she always failed so miserably in curing her 
 tongue? What profit was it that her accounts with her 
 butcher and grocer were always correctly kept, if her ac- 
 counts of all her neighbours constantly overran and kept 
 her and her spouse in a perpetual state of moral bankruptcy ?
 
 MEMORIALS OF MRS. GRUNDY. 299 
 
 What difference did it make how well she took care of her 
 own family, if they were to be kept in an unending turmoil 
 by her solicitude concerning that of every body else ? 
 
 If you had visited Mrs. Grundy, and remarked the bright- 
 ness of the door-knocker, the stair-rods, the andirons, and 
 every other part of her premises that was susceptible of 
 polish, and the scrupulous cleanliness that held absolute 
 sway around her, you would have sworn that she was gifted 
 with the hundred arms of Briareus : if you had listened for 
 fifteen minutes to her observations of men and things, you 
 would have had a conviction amounting to absolute certain- 
 ty that she possessed the eyes of Argus. Nobody ever 
 doubted that she was a most religious person. She attended 
 to all her religious duties with most edifying exactness. 
 She was always in her seat at church, and could tell you, to 
 a bonnet ribbon, the dress of every person who honoured 
 the sacred edifice with 'his or her presence. If you would 
 know who of the congregation were so lacking in fervour of 
 spirit as to neglect to bow in the creed, or to commit the 
 impropriety of nodding during the sermon, Mrs. Grundy 
 could give you all the information you could wish. She 
 carried out the divine precept to the letter : she watched as 
 well as prayed. But her religion did not waste itself in 
 mere devotional ecstasy ; it took the most attractive form 
 of religion that of active benevolence. And her pious 
 philanthropy was not of that exclusively telescopic character 
 that looks out for the interests of the Cannibal Islands and 
 the king thereof, and cannot understand that there is any 
 spiritual destitution nearer home. She subscribed, it is 
 true, to support the missionaries with their wives and nu- 
 merous children, who were devoted to the godly work of 
 converting the Chinese and the Juggernauts ; but she did 
 something ..iso in the way of food and flannel for the 
 victims of want in her own neighbourhood. She estab-
 
 300 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 lished a sewing circle in the parish where she lived, and 
 never appeared happier than when busily engaged with her 
 female companions in their weekly task and talk. I am 
 afraid that there was other sowing done in that circle besides 
 plain sewing. The seeds of domestic unhappiness and 
 strife were carried from thence into all parts of the parish. 
 Reputations as well as garments took their turn among 
 those benevolent ladies, and were cut out, and fitted, and 
 basted, and sewed up, and overcast. The sewing circle was 
 Mrs. Grundy's confessional. Do not misapprehend me 
 I would not asperse her character by accusing her of what 
 are known at the present day as " Romanizing tendencies;" 
 for she lived long before the " scarlet fever " invaded the 
 University of Oxford and carried off its victims by hun- 
 dreds ; and nobody ever suspected her of any desire to tell 
 her own offences in the" ear of any human being. No, 
 she detested the Roman confessional in a becoming manner ; 
 but she upheld, by ward and example, that most scriptural 
 institution, the sewing circle the Protestant confessional, 
 where each one confesses, not her own sins, but the sins of 
 her neighbours. Mrs. Grundy's success with her favourite 
 institution encouraged others to emulate her example ; and 
 now sewing circles are common wherever the mother tongue 
 of that benevolent lady is spoken. It must in justice be 
 acknowledged that there are few institutions of human in- 
 vention which have departed from the spirit of their origi- 
 nal founder so little as the sewing circle. 
 
 Yet, in spite of all her virtues as a housekeeper, a phi- 
 lanthropist, and a Christian, Mrs. Grundy had her enemies. 
 Some people were uncharitable enough to say that she was 
 the cause of more trouble than all the rest of the female 
 population of tke town. They accused her of setting her- 
 self up as a censor, and giving judgments founded upon hear- 
 say testimony rather than sound legal evidence. They even
 
 MEMORIALS OF MRS. GRUNDY. 301 
 
 said that she made her visits among the poor a cloak for 
 the gratification of her inquisitiveness ; and, if it is ever 
 pardonable to judge of the motives of a fellow-being, I 
 think that, in consideration of their exasperation, they must 
 be excused for making so unkind a charge, it seemed to be 
 so well founded. Far be it from me to say that Mrs. 
 Grundy ever wilfully misrepresented. She would have 
 shrunk instinctively from a falsehood. But she delighted to 
 draw inferences ; and no fact or rumour ever came to her 
 without being classified properly in her mental history of 
 her neighbours, and being made to shed its full influence 
 upon her next conversation. It is astonishing how much 
 one pair of eyes and ears will do in the collection of infor- 
 mation when a person is devoted to it in earnest. In her 
 younger days, Mrs. Grundy had taken pleasure in watching 
 her neighbours and keeping up a running commentary on 
 their movements ; as she advanced in life, it became her 
 business. Her efforts in that way were rather in the style 
 of an amateur up to the time of her marriage ; afterwards 
 she adopted a professional air. She placed herself at her 
 favourite window, ornamenting its seat with her spools, and 
 though she stitched away with commendable industry, noth- 
 ing escaped her that came within range of her keen powers 
 of observation. 
 
 If Mr. Brown called on Mrs. White over the way, Mrs. 
 Grundy set it down as a remarkable occurrence : if he re- 
 peated his visit a week later, she would not declare it posi- 
 tively scandalous, but it was evident that her nicer sense of 
 propriety was deeply wounded : if he passed by the door 
 without calling, it was clear that there had been a falling 
 out that Mrs. "White had seen the error of her ways, or 
 that her husband had, and had given Brown a warning. If 
 a stranger was seen exercising Jones's bell-pull on two con- 
 secutive days, this indefatigable woman allowed not her eyea 
 26
 
 302 AOUECIIEEK. 
 
 to sleep nor her eyelids to slumber until she had satisfi^l 
 lici-M-lf concerning his name and purpose. If Mr. Thomp- 
 son waited upon pretty Miss Jenkins home in a shower, and 
 treated her kindly and politely, (and who could do other- 
 wise with a young angel in blue and drab, who might charm 
 a Kaffir or a Sepoy into urbanity ?) Mrs. Grundy straight- 
 way instituted inquiries among all the neighbours as to 
 whether it was true that they were engaged. After this 
 fashion did Mrs. Grundy live. Her words have been 
 known to blast a reputation which under the sunshine of 
 prosperity and the storms of misfortune had sustained itself 
 with equal grace and honour. It was useless to bring up 
 proofs of a life of integrity against her sentence or her 
 knowing smile. There was no appeal from her decision. 
 Not that she was uncharitable, only it did seem as if she 
 were rather more willing to .believe evil of her neighbours 
 than good ; and she appeared slow to trust in the repent- 
 ance of any one who had ever fallen into sin, especially if 
 the person were of her own sex. I am not complaining of 
 this peculiarity; we must be circumspect and strict, and 
 mercy is, a quality too rare and divine to be wasted on every 
 trivial occasion. But I cannot help thinking that, if the 
 penitent found it as hard to gain the absolving smile of that 
 Power to which alone we are answerable for our misdeeds 
 as to reinstate themselves in the good graces of Mrs. 
 Grundy, how few of us could have any hope of the beatific 
 
 vision 
 
 Mrs. Grundy had great influence ; she was respected and 
 feared. People found that she would give her opinion ex 
 cathedra, and that, however unfounded that opinion might 
 be, there were those who would reecho it until common 
 repetition gave it the force of truth ; so they tried to con- 
 ciliate her by graduating their actions according to what 
 they supposed would be her judgment. When this was
 
 MEMORIALS OF MRS. GRUNDY. 803 
 
 seen, she began to be envied by some who had once hated 
 her, and her idiosyncrasies were made the study of many 
 of her sex who longed to share her empire over the thoughts 
 and actions of their fellow-creatures. Thus, by . a sort of 
 multiplex metempsychosis, were Mrs. Grundy's virtues per- 
 petuated, and she was endowed with a species of omnipres- 
 ence. In this country Mrs. Gruudy is a power. She is 
 the absolute sovereign of America. Her reign there is none 
 to dispute. Our national motto ought to be, instead of 
 E pluribus unum, " What will Mrs. Grundy say ? " There is 
 no class in our community over which she does not exercise 
 more or less power. Our politicians, when they cease to 
 regard their influence as a commodity to be sold to the 
 highest bidder, act, not from any fixed principles, but with 
 a single eye to the-good will of Mrs. Grundy. If a man is 
 buying a house, it is ten chances to one that Mrs. Grundy's 
 opinion concerning gentility of situation will carry the day 
 against cosiness and real comfort. ' If your wife or daughter 
 goes to buy a dress, Mrs. Grundy's taste will be consulted 
 in preference to the durability of the fabric or the condition 
 of your purse. Mrs. Grundy dictates to us how we shall 
 furnish our houses, and prescribes to us our whole rule of 
 life. Under her stern sway, multitudes are living beyond 
 their means, and trying to avert the bankruptcy and unhap- 
 piness that inevitably await them. It is not merely in the 
 management of temporal affairs that Mrs. Grundy makes 
 her power felt. Her vigilance checks many a generous 
 impulse, stands between the resolution to do justice and its 
 execution, and is a fruitful source of hypocrisy. She pre- 
 sides over the pulpit ; the power of wardens and vestrymen 
 is swallowed up by her ; and the minister who can dtess up 
 his weekly dish of moral commonplaces so as not to offend 
 her discriminating taste deserves to retain his place, and 
 merits the unanimous admiration of the whole sewing circle.
 
 304 AGUECI1ELK. 
 
 She is to be found in courts of law, animating the opposing 
 parties, and enjoying the contest ; actions of slander are an 
 agreeable recreation to her ; petitions for divorce give her 
 unmixed joy. Like the fury, Alecto, so finely described by 
 Virgil, Mrs. Grundy can arm brothers to deadly strife 
 against each other, and stir up the happiest homes with 
 infernal hatred ; to her belong a thousand woful arts Sibi 
 nomina mille, mille nocendi artes. Mrs. Grumly's philan- 
 thropy confines itself to no particular class ; it is universal. 
 Nothing that relates to human kind is alien to her. There 
 is nothing earthly so high that she does not aspire to control 
 it, nor any thing too contemptible for her not to wish to 
 know all about it. 
 
 Mrs. Grundy is omnipresent. Go where you will, you 
 cannot escape from her presence. She stands guard un- 
 ceasingly over your front door and back windows. Her 
 watchful eye follows you whene'er you take your walks 
 abroad. Your name is never mentioned that she is not by, 
 and seriously inclined to hear aught that may. increase her 
 baleful stock of knowledge. It is all the same to her 
 whether you have lived uprightly or viciously ; beneath her 
 Gorgon glance all human actions are petrified alike. And 
 if she does not succeed in sowing discord around your 
 hearthstone, and in driving you to despair and self-murder, 
 as she did poor Henry Herbert the other day, it will be 
 because you are not cursed with his fiery sensitiveness, and 
 not because she lacks the will to do it. 
 
 There is but one way in which the Grundian yoke can 
 be thrown off. We must treat her as the English wit 
 treated an insignificant person who had insulted him ; we 
 must " let her alone severely." We pay a certain kind of 
 allegiance to her if we take notice of her for the purpose 
 of running counter to her notions. We must ignore her 
 altogether. It is true, this requires a great deal of moral
 
 MEMORIALS OF MRS. GRUNDY. 305 
 
 courage, particularly in a country where every body knows 
 every body else's business ; but it is an easier task to 
 acquire that courage than to submit patiently to Mrs. 
 Grundy's dictation and interference. Who shall estimate 
 the happiness of that millennial period when we shall cease 
 to ask ourselves before our every action, " What will Mrs. 
 Grundy say ? " and shall begin in earnest to live up to the 
 golden rule that counsels us to mind our own business ? 
 When that day comes, what a world this will be ! How 
 will superficial morality and skin-deep propriety, envy and 
 uncharitableness, be diminished ! How will contentment, 
 and mutual good will, and domestic peace be augmented ! 
 Think on these things, beloved reader ; mind your own 
 business, and the day is not far distant when, for you at 
 least, the iron sceptre of Dame Grundy shall be powerless, 
 and the spell broken that held you in so humiliating a 
 thraldom. 
 
 26
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OP LIFE. 
 
 LIFE is what we make it. The same scenes wear a very 
 different appearance to an ingenuous youth " in the bright 
 morning of his virtues, in the full spring blossom of his 
 hopes," and to the disappointed wretch who gazes on them 
 " with the eyes of sour misanthropy." The horse that was 
 turned by his benevolent owner into a carpenter's shop, 
 with a pair of green spectacles prefixed to his nose, and 
 mistook the dry pine shavings for his legitimate fodder, was 
 very much in the condition of a youth looking upon life 
 and yielding to the natural enthusiasm of his unwarped 
 spirit. Like the noble brute, however, the young man is 
 undeceived as soon as he tries to sustain himself with the 
 vanities which look so tempting and nutritious. He may, 
 like a Wolsey, a Charles V., or a Napoleon, attain to the 
 heights of power before the delusive glasses drop off; but 
 even though the moment be delayed until he lies gasping 
 in the clutch of that monarch to whom the most absolute 
 of sovereigns and the most radical of republicans alike 
 must yield allegiance, it is sure to come, and show him the 
 ashes that lay hid beneath the fair, ripe-looking rind of the 
 fruit he climbed so high to obtain. Life passes before us 
 like a vast panorama, day by day and year by year un- 
 rolling and disclosing new scenes to charm us into self- 
 forgetfulness. At one time, we breathe the bracing air of 
 the mountains ; at another, our eyes are gladdened by the 
 sight of sunshiny meadows, or of fertile and far-reaching 
 prairies ; and then the towered city, with its grove of masts 
 and its busy wharves, makes all mere natural beauty seem 
 
 (306)
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OP LIFE. 307 
 
 insignificant in comparison with the enterprise and ambition 
 of man ; until, at last, the canvas is rolled away, the music 
 ceases, the lights are put out, and we are left to realize that 
 all in which we delighted was but an illusion and a " fleet- 
 ing show." 
 
 Nevertheless, in spite of the vanities that surround us, 
 in spite of the sublime world-sickness of Solomon and the 
 Preacher, and the fierce satire of Juvenal, (who was as 
 anxious to ascertain the precise weight of Hannibal as if 
 that illustrious dux had been a prize-fighter,) there is 
 considerable reality in life. The existence of so much 
 sham and make-believe implies the existence of the real 
 and true. Sir Thomas Browne tells us that " in seventy 
 or eighty years a man may have a deep gust of the 
 world ; " and it were indeed melancholy if any one with 
 hair as gray as mine should look despairingly over the field 
 of human existence and effort, and cry, " All is barren." 
 
 Life, as I have before said, is whatever we choose to 
 make it. Its true philosophy is that divine art which en- 
 ables us to transmute its every moment into the pure gold 
 of heroic and changeless immortality. Without that phi- 
 losophy, it is impossible for the world not to seem at times 
 as it did to the desponding Danish prince, " a sterile prom- 
 ontory," and a " foul and pestilent congregation of vapours." 
 Without it, life is like an elaborate piece of embroidery, 
 looked at from the wrong side ; we cannot but acknowledge 
 the brilliancy of some of its threads, and the delicate tex- 
 ture of the work, but its lack of system, and of any appear- 
 ance of utility, fatigues the mind that hungers after perfec- 
 tion, and tempts it to doubt the divine wisdom and goodness 
 from which it originated. With it, however, we gaze with 
 admiration and awe upon the front of the same marvellous 
 work. Our sense is no longer puzzled by any straggling 
 tin cads, or loose ends ; the exquisite colours, the contrast
 
 308 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 \ 
 
 of light and shade, and the perfect symmetry and harmony 
 of the design, fill the heart of the beholder with wonder 
 and delight, and draw him nearer to the source of those 
 ineffable perfections which are but imperfectly symbolized 
 in the marvels of the visible universe. 
 
 The philosophy which can do all this is sincerity. " I 
 think sincerity is better than grace," says Mr. T. Carlyle ; 
 and the Scotch savage is right. All the amenities of life 
 that spring from' any other source than a true heart, an: 
 but gratuitous hypocrisy. The kind-heartfed knight whom 
 I have already quoted showed how highly he esteemed this 
 virtue when he said, " Swim smoothly in the stream of 
 nature, and live but one man" This double existence, that 
 most of us support, that is, what we really are, and what 
 we wish to be considered, is the source of many of our 
 faults, and most of our vexation and wretchedness. He ia 
 the truly happy man who forgets that " appearances must 
 be kept up," and remembers only that " each of us is as 
 great as he appears in the sight of his Creator, and no 
 greater." A great French philosopher has truly said, 
 "How many controversies would be terminated, if the 
 disputants were obliged to speak out exactly what they 
 thought ! " And surely he might have gone farther in the 
 same line of thought ; for how much heartburning, domestic 
 unhappiness, dishonesty, and shameful poverty might be 
 prevented, if my neighbour Jinkins and his wife were con- 
 tent to pass in the world for what they are, instead of 
 assuming a princely style of living that only makes their 
 want of true refinement more apparent, and if Johnson 
 and his wife could be induced not to imitate the vulgar fol- 
 lies of the Jinkinses ! Believe me, incredulous reader, 
 there is more wisdom in old Sir Thomas's exhortation to 
 "live but one man" than appears at first sight. 
 
 But to leave this great primary virtue, which policy
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 
 
 teaches most men to practise, though they love it not, 
 there are two or three principles of action which I have 
 found very useful in my career, and which form a part of 
 my philosophy of life. The first is, never to anticipate 
 troubles. Many years ago, I was travelling in a part of 
 our common country not very thickly settled, and, coming 
 to a place where two roads met, I applied, in my doubt as 
 to which one I ought to take, to an old fellow (with a pair 
 of shoulders like those of Hercules, and a face on which 
 half a century of sunshine, and storm, and toddies had made 
 an indelible record) who was repairing a rickety fence by 
 the wayside. He scanned me with a look that seemed to 
 take in not only my personal appearance, but the genealogy 
 of my brave ancestor, who might have fallen in a duel if he 
 had not learned how " to distinguish between the man and 
 the act," and then directed me to turn to the left, as that 
 road saved some three or four miles of the distance to the 
 farm-house to which I was journeying. As it was spring- 
 time, I manifested some anxiety to know whether the fresh- 
 ets, which, had been having quite a run of business in some 
 parts of the country, had done any damage to a bridge 
 which I knew I must cross if I took the shorter road. 
 He sneered at my forethought, and said he supposed that the 
 bridge was all right, and that I had better " go ahead, and 
 see." I was acting upon his advice, when a shout from his 
 hoarse, nasal voice caused me to look back. " I say, young 
 man," he bawled out to me, " never cross a bridge till you 
 come to it ! " There was wisdom in the old man's rough- 
 spoken sentence " solid chunks of wisdom," as Captain 
 Ed'ard Cuttle would fain express it and it sank deep into 
 my memory. There are very few of us who have not a 
 strong propensity to diminish our present strength by enter- 
 taining fears of future weakness. If we could content our- 
 selves to " act in the living present," if we could keep
 
 810 ACT: 
 
 these telescopic evils out of sight, and use all our energies 
 in grappling with the difficulties that actually beset our 
 path, how much more we should achieve, and how greatly 
 would our sum of happiness be increased ! 
 
 Another most salutary principle iii my philosophy is, 
 never to allow myself to be frightened until I have exam- 
 ined and fairly established the necessity of such a humilia- 
 tion. I adopted this principle in my childhood, being led to 
 it in the following manner : I was visiting my grandfather, 
 who lived in a fine old mansion-house in the country, with 
 high wainscotings, capacious fireplaces, heavy beams in the 
 ceilings, and wide-arching elms overshadowing the snug 
 porch where two or three generations had made love. Sixty 
 years and more have elapsed since that happy time, yet it 
 seems fresher in my memory than the events of only 
 quarter of a century back. My grandfather was a lover of 
 books, and possessed a good deal of general information. 
 He thought it as advisable to keep up with the history of 
 his own times as to be skilled in that of empires long since 
 passed away. It is not to be wondered at that he should 
 have treasured every newspaper especially every foreign 
 journal that he could lay his hands upon. It was under 
 his auspices that I first read the dreadful story of the Reign 
 of Terror, and acquired my anti-revolutionary principles. 
 
 I shall never forget the bright autumnal afternoon when 
 the mail coach from Boston brought a package of books and 
 papers to my grandfather. It was the last friendly favour, 
 in fact the last communication, that he ever received from 
 his old Tory friend, Mr. Barmesyde, whom I mentioned 
 with respect in a former essay ; for that genial old gentle- 
 man died in London not long after. The parcel had made 
 a quick transit for those days, Mr. Barmesyde's letter being 
 dated only forty-six days before it was opened by my grand- 
 sire, and we enjoyed the strong fragrance of its uncut con-
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 311 
 
 tents together. The old gentleman seized upon a copy of 
 Burke's splendid Essay on the French Revolution, which 
 the package contained, and left me to revel in the newspa- 
 pers, which were full of the dreadful details of that bloody 
 Saturnalia. I got leave from my grandfather (who was so 
 deep in Burke that he answered me at random) to sit up an 
 hour later than usual. Terrible as all the things of which I 
 read seemed to my young mind, there was a fascination 
 about the details of that sanguinary orgie that completely 
 enchanted me. My imagination was full of horrible shapes 
 when I was obliged to leave the warm, cheerful parlour, and 
 Robespierre, Danton, and Marat were the infernal cham- 
 berlains that attended me as I went up the broad, creaking 
 staircase unwillingly to bed. A fresh north-west breeze 
 was blowing outside, and the sere woodbines and honey- 
 suckles that filled the house with fragrance, and gave it such 
 a rural look in summer, startled me with their struggles to 
 escape from bondage. Had it been spring, my young im- 
 agination was so excited that I should have feared that they 
 might imitate the insurgents of whom I had been reading 
 and begin to shoot ! In the night my troubled slumbers 
 were disturbed by a noise that seemed to me louder than 
 the discharge of a heavy cannon. I sat up in the high, old- 
 fashioned bed, and glared around the room, which was some- 
 what lighted by the beams of the setting moon. There was no 
 mistake about my personal identity 'I was neither royalist 
 nor jacobin ; there was no doubt that I was in the best " spare 
 chamber " of my grandfather's house, and not in the Bastile, 
 and that the dark-looking thing in the corner was a solid 
 mahogany chest of drawers, and not a guillotine ; but all 
 these things only served to increase my terror when I no- 
 ticed a dark form standing near the foot of. the bed and 
 staring at me with pale, fiery eyes. I rubbed my own eyes 
 hard, and pinched myself severely, to make sure that I was
 
 812 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 awake. The room was as still as the great chamber in the 
 pyramid of Cheops. I could hear the old clock tick at the 
 foot of the stairs as plainly as if I had been shut up in its 
 capacious case. In the midst of my perturbation it made 
 every fibre of my frame tremble by striking one with a sol- 
 emn clangour that I thought must have waked every sleeper 
 in the house. The stillness that followed was deeper and 
 more terrifying than before. I heard distinctly the breath- 
 ing of the monster at the foot of the bed. I tried to whistle 
 at the immovable shape, but I had lost the power to pucker. 
 At last, I formed a desperate resolution. I knew that, if the 
 being whose big, fierce eyes filled me with terror, were a gen- 
 uine supernatural fiend, it was all over with me, and I might 
 as well give up at once. But, if perchance a human form 
 were hid beneath that di-eadful disguise, there was some 
 room for hope of ultimate escape. To settle this point, 
 therefore, became necessary to my peace of mind, and I de- 
 termined that it should be done. Bending up " each cor- 
 poral agent to the terrible feat," I slid quietly out of bed. 
 The monster was as motionless as before, but I noticed that 
 his head was covered with a white cloth, which made his 
 head seem ghastlier than ever. Setting my teeth firmly 
 together, and clinching my little fists to persuade myself that 
 I was not afraid, I made the last, decisive effort. I walked 
 across the room, and stood face to face with that formidable 
 shape. My grandfather's best coat hung there against the 
 wall, its velvet collar protected from the dust by a white 
 cloth, and the two gilt buttons on its back glittering in the 
 moonlight. This was the tremendous presence that had 
 appalled me. The weakness in the knees, the chattering 
 of my teeth, and the profuse perspiration which followed 
 my recognition of that harmless garment, bore witness to 
 the severity of my fright. Before I crawled back into the 
 warm bed, I resolved never in future to yield to fear, until
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE. 313 
 
 I had ascertained that there was no escape from it ; and I 
 have had many occasions since to act upon that principle. 
 
 Speaking of fear, a friend of mine has a favourite maxim, 
 " Always do what you are afraid to do ; " to which (in a 
 limited sense, so far as it relates to bodily fear) I subscribed 
 even in my boyhood. I was returning one evening to my 
 grandfather's house, during one of my vacation visits, and 
 yielded to the base sentiment of timidity so far as to choose 
 the long way thither by the open road, rather than to take the 
 short cut, through the graveyard and a little piece of wood- 
 land, which was the ordinary path in the daytime. I pur- 
 sued my way, thinking of what I had done, until I got 
 within sight of the old mansion and its guardian elms, when 
 shame for my own cowardice compelled me to retrace my 
 steps a quarter of a mile or more, and take the pathway I 
 had so foolishly dreaded. The victory then achieved has 
 lasted to this hour. Dead people and their habitations 
 have not affrighted me since ; indeed, some grave men 
 whom I have met have excited my mirth rather than my 
 fears. 
 
 But overcome our fears and our propensity to borrow 
 trouble, as we may, in spite of ah 1 our philosophy, life is 
 a severe task. I have heard of a worthy Connecticut par- 
 son of the old school, who enlarged upon the goodness of 
 that Providence which dealt out time to man, divided into 
 minutes, and hours, and days, and months, and years, instead 
 of giving it to him, as it were, in a lump, or in so large a 
 quantity that he could not conveniently use it ! Laugh as 
 much as you please, gentle reader, at the seeming absurdity 
 of the venerable divine, but do not neglect the great truth 
 which inspired his thought. Do not forget what a great 
 mercy it is that we are obliged to live but one day at a 
 time. Do not overlook the loving kindness which softens 
 the memory of past sorrows, and conceals from us those 
 27
 
 814 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 which are to come. I have no respect for that newest 
 heresy of our age, which pretends to read the secrets of 
 the unseen world, nor any sympathy with those morbid 
 minds that yearn to tear away the veil which infinite wis- 
 dom and mercy hangs between us and the future. With 
 all our boasted learning we know little enough ; but that 
 little is far too much for our happiness. How many of our 
 trials and afflictions could we have borne, if we had been 
 able to foresee their full extent and to anticipate their com- 
 bined poignancy ? Truly we might say with Shakespeare, 
 
 " 0, if this were seen, 
 
 The happiest youth viewing his progress through, 
 What perils past, what crosses to ensue 
 "Would shut the book, and sit him down and die." 
 
 He only is the true philosopher who uses life as the 
 usurer does his gold, and employs each shining hour so as 
 to insure an ever-increasing rate of interest. He does not 
 bury his gift, nor waste it in frivolity. Like the old Doge 
 of Venice, he grows old but does not wear out : Senescit, 
 non segnescit. And he truly lives twice, as an old classical 
 poet expresses it, inasmuch as he renews his enjoyment of 
 the past in the recollection of his good actions and of pleas- 
 ures " such as leave no sting behind."
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 THERE is no pleasure so satisfactory as that which an 
 old man feels in recalling the happiness of his youthful 
 days. All the woes, and anxieties, and heart-burnings that 
 disturbed him then have passed away, and left only sun- 
 shine in his memory. And this retrospective enjoyment 
 increases with every repeated recital, until the scenes of his 
 past history assume a magnificence of proportion that be- 
 wilders the narrator himself, and sets the principles of optics 
 entirely at defiance. It is with old men looking back on 
 their younger days very much as it is with people who 
 have travelled in Italy. How do the latter glow with en- 
 thusiasm at the mere mention of the " land of the melting 
 lyre and conquering spear " ! How do their eyes glisten 
 as they tell of the time when they mused among the broken 
 columns of the Forum, or breathed the air of ancient con- 
 secration under the majestic vaults of the old basilicas, or 
 walked along the shores of the world's most beautiful bay, 
 and watched the black form of Vesuvius striving in vain to 
 tarnish with its foul breath the blue canopy above it ! They 
 have forgotten their squabbles with the vetturini, the 
 draughtless chimneys in their lodgings, and the dirty stair- 
 case that conducted to them ; the fleas, with all the other 
 disagreeable accompaniments of Italian life, have fled into 
 oblivion ; and Italy lives in their memories only as a land 
 of gorgeous sunsets, and of a history that dwarfs all other 
 human annals. And so it is with an old man looking back 
 upon his youth : he forgets how he cried over his arith- 
 metic lessons ; how unfilial his feelings were when his 
 
 (315)
 
 316 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 governor refused him permission lo set up a theatre in the 
 cellar; how sheepishly he slunk through all the back alleys 
 on the day when he first mounted a tail-coat and a hat ; how 
 unhappy he was when he saw his heart's idol, Mary Smith, 
 walking home from school with his implacable foe, Brown ; 
 how his head used to ache after those nodes ccenceque deum 
 with his club at the old Exchange Coffee House ; and what 
 a void was created in his heart when his crony of cronies 
 was ordered off by a commission from the war department. 
 There is no room in his crowded memory for such things as 
 these. Sitting by his fireside, as I do now, he recalls his 
 youth only as a season of bats and balls, and marbles, of 
 sleds, and skates, and bright buttons, and clean ruffled col- 
 lars, of Christmas cornucopias of hosiery, and no end of 
 Artillery Elections and Fourths of July, with coppers 
 enough to secure the potentiality of obtaining egg-pop to 
 an alarming extent. 
 
 How he fires up if you mention the theatre to him ! 
 He will allow that Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Warren are most 
 excellent in their way ; but bless your simple heart, what is 
 the stage now compared to what it was in the first part of 
 this century ? And he is about right. It is useless for us, 
 who remember the old Federal Street playhouse, and the 
 triumphs of Cooke and the great Kean, to try to go to the 
 theatre now. Our new theatre is more stately and splendid 
 than Old Drury was, but our players do not reach my 
 youthful standard. I miss those old familiar faces and 
 voices that delighted me in times long past, and the stage 
 has lost most of its charms. I can find my best theatrical 
 entertainment here at home. I call up from among the 
 shadows that the flickering firelight casts upon the wall, the 
 tall, knightly figure of Duff, the brisk, busy, scolding Mrs. 
 Barnes, the sedate and judicious Dickson, the grotesque 
 Finn, the stately and elegant Mrs. Powell, looking like the
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 317 
 
 personification of tragedy, and bluff old Kilner, fat and 
 pleasant to the sight, and with that hearty laugh that made 
 all who heard it love him. 
 
 What is the excitement occasioned by the Ellsler or Miss 
 Lind compared to that which attended the advent of the 
 elder Kean ? What crowds used to beset the box office in 
 the ten-footer next to the theatre, from the earliest dawn 
 until the opening ! I often think, when I meet some of 
 our gravest and grayest citizens m their daily walks, what a 
 figure they cut now compared with the days when they 
 were fighting their way into the box office of the old the- 
 atre ! Talk of enthusiasm ! What are all our political 
 campaigns and public commemorations compared with that 
 evening during the last war with Great Britain, when Com- 
 modore Bainbridge came into Boston Bay after his victory 
 over the Java ! That admirable actor, the late Mr. Cooper, 
 was playing Macbeth, and interrupted his performance to 
 announce the victory. 
 
 But, pardon me, I did not sit down here to lose myself in 
 the reminiscences of half a century ago. Let me try to 
 govern this truant pen, and keep it more closely to my 
 chosen theme. Do you remember, beloved reader, your 
 second visit to the theatre ? If you do, cherish it ; let it 
 not depart from you, for in the days that are in store for 
 you, when age and infirmity shall stand guard over you, and 
 you are obliged to find all your pleasures by your fireside, 
 the memory of your second play will be very precious to 
 you. You will find, on looking back to it through a vista 
 of sixty years or more, that all the pleasure you then en- 
 joyed was placed on the credit side of your account, and 
 has been increasing by a sort of moral compound interest 
 during the long years that you have devoted to delights less 
 innocent, perhaps, and certainly less satisfactory, or to the 
 pursuit of objects far more fleeting and unreal than those 
 27
 
 318 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 which then fascinated your youthful mind. I say your 
 " second play," for the first dramatic performance that the 
 child witnesses is too astonishing to afford him its full meas- 
 ure of gratification. It is only after he has told his play- 
 mates all about it, and imitated the wonderful hero who 
 rescued the beautiful lady in white satin, and dreamed of 
 the splendour of the last great scene, when all the persons 
 of the drama stood in a semicircle, and the king, with a 
 crown of solid gold upon his head, addressed to the mag- 
 nanimous hero the thrilling words, 
 
 " It is enough : the princess is thine own ! " 
 
 and all the characters struck impressive attitudes, and the 
 curtain descended upon a tableau lighted up by coloured 
 fires of ineffable brilliancy, it is only after all these things 
 have sunk deep into the young mind, and he has resolved 
 to write a play himself, and never to rest satisfied until he 
 can bring down the house with the best of the actors he has 
 seen, that he fully appreciates the entertainment which has 
 been vouchsafed to him. 
 
 What a charm invests the place where we made our first 
 acquaintance with the drama ! It becomes an enchanted 
 spot for us, and I doubt if the greatest possible familiarity 
 in after life can ever breed contempt for it in our hearts. 
 For my own part, I regarded the destruction of the old 
 theatre in Federal Street, and the erection of warehouses 
 on its hallowed site, as a positive sacrilege. And I cannot 
 pass that spot, even at this late day, without mentally re- 
 curring to the joys I once tasted there. Perhaps some 
 who read this may cherish similar sentiments about the 
 old Tremont Theatre, a place for which I had as great a 
 fondness as one can have for a theatre in which he did not 
 see his first play. The very mention of it calls up its 
 beautiful interior in my mind's eye, its graceful prosce-
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 319 
 
 nium, its chandeliers around the front of the boxes, its com- 
 fortable pit, where I enjoyed so much good acting, and all 
 the host of worthies who graced that spacious stage. Mr. 
 Gilbert was not so fat in those days as he is now, nor Mr. 
 Barry so gray. What a picturesque hero was old Brough 
 in the time when the Woods were in their golden prime, 
 and the appearance of the Count Rodolpho on the distant 
 bridge was the signal for a tempest of applause ! Who 
 can forget how Mr. Ostinelli's bald head used to shine, as 
 he presided over that excellent orchestra, or how funny old 
 Gear's serious face looked, as he peered at the house 
 through those heavy, silver-bowed spectacles? Perhaps 
 for some of my younger readers the stage ^>f the Museum 
 possesses similar charms, and they will find themselves, 
 years hence, looking back to the happy times when Mr. 
 Angier received their glittering quarters, and they hastened 
 up stairs, to forget the wanderings of ^neas and the per- 
 plexities of arithmetic in the inimitable fun of that prince- 
 regent among comedians, Mr. William Warren. 
 
 But wherever we may have commenced our dramatic 
 experience, and whatever that experience may have been, 
 we have all, I am sure, felt the influence of that mysterious 
 charm which hangs over the stage. We have all felt that 
 keen curiosity to penetrate to the source of so much enjoy- 
 ment. Who has not had a desire to enter that mysterious 
 door which conducts the " sons of harmony " from the 
 orchestra to the unknown depths below the stage ? It looks 
 dark and forbidding, but we feel instinctively that it is not 
 so, when we see our venerated uncle Tom Comer carrying 
 his honest and sunshiny face through it so often. That 
 green curtain, which is the only veil between us and a 
 world of heroes and demigods, how enviously do we look 
 at its dusty folds ! With what curiosity do we inspect the 
 shoes of varied make and colour that figure in the little
 
 320 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 space between it and the stage ! How do we long to follow 
 the hero who has strutted his hour upon the stage into the 
 invisible recesses of P. S. and O. P., and to know what 
 takes the place of the full audience and the glittering row 
 of footlights in his eyes when he makes his exit at the 
 " upper entrance, left," or through the " door in flat " which 
 always moves so noiselessly on its hinges ! I think that 
 the performance of the " Forty Thieves " awakened this 
 curiosity in my mind more than almost any other play. I 
 longed to inspect more closely those noble steeds that came 
 with such a jerky gait over the distant mountains, and to 
 know what produced the fearful noise that attended the 
 opening of the robbers' cave. I believed in the untold 
 wealth that was said to be heaped up in those subterranean 
 depths, but still I wished to look at the " cavern goblet," 
 and see how it compared with those that adorned the cases 
 of my excellent friends, Messrs. Davis and Brown. I can 
 never forget the thrill that shot through me when Morgiana 
 lifted the cover of the oil jar, and the terrible question, " Is 
 it time ? " issued from it, nor my admiration for the fear- 
 lessness of that self-possessed maiden when she answered 
 with those eloquent and memorable words, " Not yet, but 
 presently." I believed that the compound which Morgiana 
 administered so freely to the concealed banditti was just as 
 certain death to every mother's son of them as M. Fousel's 
 Pabulum Vitce is renewed life to the consumptives of the 
 present day ; and, years after I had supposed my recollec- 
 tions of the " Forty Thieves " to have become very misty 
 and shapeless, I found myself startled in an oriental city by 
 coming upon several oil jars of the orthodox model, and I 
 astonished the malignant and turbaned Turk who owned 
 them, and amused the companion of my walks about 
 Smyrna, by lifting the lid of one of them, and quoting the 
 words of Morgiana. My superstitions concerning that
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 321 
 
 pleasant old melodrama of course passed away when I 
 became familiar with the theatre by daylight, and was 
 accustomed to exchange the compliments of the morning 
 with the estimable gentleman who played Hassarac ; but 
 the illusion of its first performance has never been entirely 
 blotted from my mind. 
 
 Some years ago it was my privilege to visit a place which 
 is classical to every lover of the drama and its literature. 
 Drury Lane Theatre, now that its ancient rival, Covent 
 Garden, has passed away, and been replaced by a house 
 exclusively devoted to the lyric muse, is the only theatre 
 of London which is associated in every mind with that host 
 of geniuses who have illustrated dramatic art from the 
 times of Garrick to our own. That gifted and versatile 
 actor, Mr. Davenport, who stands as high in the favour of 
 the English as of the American public, conducted me 
 through that immense establishment. We entered the door, 
 which I had often looked at with curiosity as I passed 
 through the long colonnade of the theatre, encountering 
 several of those clean-shaven personages in clothes that 
 would be much refreshed if they were allowed to take a 
 nap, and, after traversing two or three dark corridors, found 
 ourselves upon the stage. The scene of so many triumphs 
 as have there been achieved is not without its attractions, 
 even though it may look differently en deshabille from what 
 it does in the glitter of gaslight. The stage which has been 
 trod by the Kembles, the Keans, Siddons, Macready, Young, 
 Palmer Dowton, Elliston, Munden, Listen, and Farren, is 
 by no means an ordinary combination of planks. We 
 know, for Campbell has told us, that 
 
 " by the mighty actor brought, 
 
 Illusion's perfect triumphs come ; 
 Verse ceases to be airy thought, 
 And sculpture to be dumb."
 
 322 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 Yet what a shadowy, intangible thing the reputation of a 
 great actor would seem to be ! We simply know of him 
 that in certain characters his genius held the crowded thea- 
 tre in willing thraldom, and made the hearts of hundreds 
 of spectators throb like that of one man. Those who felt 
 his wondrous power have passed away like himself; and 
 all that remains of him who once filled so large a space in 
 the public eye is an ill-written biography or a few hastily 
 penned sentences in an encyclopaedia. 
 
 I was too full of wonder at the extent of that vast stage, 
 however, to think much of its ancient associations. Those 
 lumbering stacks of scenery that filled a large building at 
 the rear of the stage, and ran over into every available 
 corner, told the story of the scenic efforts of Old Drury 
 during nearly half a century. How many dramas, pro- 
 duced " without the slightest regard to expense," and " on a 
 scale of unparalleled splendour," must have contributed to 
 the building up of those mighty piles ! The labyrinthine 
 passages, the rough brick walls, darkened by time and the 
 un-Penelope-like spiders of Drury Lane, were in striking 
 contrast to the stage of that theatre as it appears from the 
 auditorium. The green-room had been placed in mourning 
 for the " goodlie companie " that once filled it, by the all- 
 pervading, omnipresent smoke of London. Up stairs the 
 sight was still more wonderful. The space above the stage 
 was crowded full of draperies, and borders, and dusty ropes, 
 and wheels, and pulleys. D. enjoyed my amazement, and 
 led me through a darksome, foot-wide passage above the 
 stage, through that wilderness of cordage to the machinists' 
 gallery. Take all the rope-walks that you have ever visited, 
 dear reader, and add to them the running gear of several 
 first-class ships, and you may obtain something of an idea 
 of the sight that then met my view. I have often heard 
 an impatient audience hiss at some trifling delay in the
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 323 
 
 shifting of a scene. If they could see the complicated ma- 
 chinery which must be set in motion to produce the effects 
 they desire, their impatience would be changed to wonder 
 at the skill and care which are so constantly exerted and 
 make so few mistakes. A glance into two or three of the 
 dressing-rooms, and a hasty visit to the dark maze of ma- 
 chinery beneath the stage for working the trap-doors, com- 
 pleted my survey of Old Drury, and I left its ancient walls 
 with an increased respect for them, and a feeling of self- 
 gratulation that I was neither an actor nor a manager. 
 
 Not long after the above visit, I availed myself of an 
 opportunity to make a similar inspection of the Theatre 
 Franpais, in the Palais Royal at Paris. The old estab- 
 lishment is not so extensive as tha'. of Drury Lane, but its 
 main features are the same. There was an air of govern- 
 ment patronage about it which was apparent in its every 
 department. The stage entrance was through a long and 
 well-lighted corridor that might have led to a banking- 
 house. Its green-room was a luxurious saloon, with a floor 
 of tessellated walnut and oak, waxed and polished so highly 
 that you could see your figure in it, and could with difficulty 
 avoid becoming a lay figure upon it. Its frescoed ceiling and 
 gilded cornices, its immense mirrors, and its walls covered 
 witL the portraits of several generations of players, whose 
 genius has made the very name of that theatre venerable 
 throughout the civilized world, were very different from 
 most of the green-rooms that I had seen. In the ancient 
 colleges in Italy the walls of the class-rooms are hung with 
 portraits of the distinguished scholars, illustrious prelates, 
 and sometimes of the canonized saints, who once studied 
 under their time-honoured roofs. In the same spirit, the 
 green-room of the Theatre Francois is adorned with busts 
 and pictures ; and the chairs that once were occupied by a 
 Talma, a Mars, and a Rachel are held in honour in the
 
 324 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 place where their genius received its full development. The 
 dressing-rooms of the brilliant company which sustains the 
 high reputation of that house are in perfect keeping with 
 its green-room. Each of the leading actors and actresses 
 has a double room, furnished in a style of comfortable ele- 
 gance. In the wardrobe and pi-operty rooms, the imperial 
 patronage is visible in the richness of the stage furniture 
 and the profusion of dresses made of the costliest silks and 
 velvets. The stage, however, is very much like that of any 
 other theatre. There were the same obscure passages, the 
 same stupendous collection of intricate machinery, and the 
 same mysterious odour, as of gas and musty scenery, per- 
 vaded the whole. I was permitted to view all its arcana, 
 from the wheels that revolve in dusty silence eighty or 
 ninety feet above the stage to the ponderous balance weights 
 that dwell in the darkness of the second and third stories 
 below it ; and enjoyed it so keenly that I regretted to be 
 told that I had seen all, and to find myself once more in 
 the dazzling sunshine of the Rue de Richelieu. 
 
 We are accustomed to speak of the theatre as a reposi- 
 tory of shams and unrealities, and to contrast it with the 
 actualities of every-day life. I hope that you will excuse 
 me, gentle reader, for venturing to deny the justice of all 
 such figures of speech. They are as false as that common 
 use of the expressions " sunrise " and " sunset," when we 
 know that the sun does not really rise or set at all. No, it 
 is the theatre that is the reality, and the life we see on 
 every side the sham. The theatre is all that it pretends to 
 be a scenic illusion ; and if we compare it to the world 
 around us, with its loving couples, my-dearing each other 
 before folks, and exchanging angry words over the solitary 
 tea-tray, its politicians, seeking nominations and votes, 
 and then reluctantly giving up their private interests and 
 comforts for the " public good," (as the spoils of office are
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES. 325 
 
 facetiously termed,) its so-called ministers of the gospel, 
 who speak of an offer of increased salary as " an opportunity 
 to labour in a wider sphere of usefulness," and its funer- 
 als, where there is such an imposing show of black crape 
 and bombazine, but where the genuine mourning commences 
 only after the reading of the will of the deceased, I am 
 sure that we shall be justified in concluding that the ficti- 
 tious affair which we try to dignify with the title of " real 
 life " is a far less respectable illusion than the mimic scene 
 that captivates us in the hours of relaxation. 
 28
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CANT. 
 
 BE not dismayed, kind reader, I have no intention of 
 impressing you for a tiresome cruise in the high and dan- 
 gerous latitudes of German metaphysics ; nor do I wish to 
 set myself up as a critic of pure reason. In spite of Noah 
 Webster and his inquisitorial publishers, I still cherish a 
 partiality for correct orthography ; and I would not be 
 understood as referring in the caption of this article to the 
 celebrated founder of the transcendental school of philosophy. 
 I cannot but respect Emmanuel Kant as a remarkable in- 
 tellectual man ; and I hope to be pardoned for saying that 
 his surname might properly be anglicized, by spelling it 
 with a C instead of a K. Neither did I allude to the useful 
 art of saying " No " opportunely, which an excellent friend 
 of mine (whose numerous virtues are neutralized by his 
 propensity to fabricate puns in season and out of season) 
 insists upon denominating the " philosophy of can't." That 
 faculty which is, in more senses than one, a negative virtue, 
 is unhappily a much harder thing to find than the vice of 
 which I have a few words to say. 
 
 I do not mean cant in the worse sense of the word, as 
 exemplified in the characters of Pecksniff, Stiggins, Chad- 
 band, and Aminadab Sleek, nor even in those of that large 
 school of worshippers of propriety and bond-servants of 
 popular opinion, who reverse the crowning glory of the 
 character of Porcius Cato, and prefer to seem, rather than 
 to be, good. The cant I allude to is the technical phrase- 
 ology of the various virtues, which some people appear to 
 think is the same thing as virtue itself. They do not 
 
 (326)
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OP CANT. 327 
 
 remember that a greasy bank-note is valueless save as the 
 representative of a given quantity of bullion, and that pious 
 and virtuous language is of no account except its full value 
 be found in the pure gold of virtue stored away in the 
 treasure-chambers of the heart. For such cant as this I 
 have less respect than for downright hypocrisy ; for there is 
 something positive about the character of your genuine 
 villain, which certainly does not repel me so strongly as the 
 milk-and-watery characteristics of that numerous class of 
 every-day people who (not being good enough to serve as 
 examples, nor bad enough to be held up as warnings) are 
 of no use whatever in their day and generation. What 
 possible solace can he who deals in the set phrases of con- 
 solation administer to the afflicted spirit in that hour, when 
 (even among the closest friends) " speech is silver, but 
 silence is golden " ? 
 
 There is scarcely a subject upon which men converse, in 
 which this species of cant' does not play its part ; but there 
 are some matters in which it makes itself so conspicuous 
 that I cannot resist the temptation to pay particular atten- 
 tion to them. And, as the subject is rather an extensive 
 one, I will parley no longer in its vestibule, but pull off my 
 overcoat, and make myself at home in its front parlpur. I 
 wish to make a few observations on cant as it manifests 
 itself in regard to morality, philanthropy, religion, liberty, 
 and progress. My notions will excite the sneers of some 
 of my younger readers, I doubt not, and perchance of some 
 older ones ; but, while I claim the privilege of age in speak- 
 ing dut my mind, I shall try to avoid the testiness which 
 senility too often manifests towards those who do not respect 
 its opinions. Convinced that mine are true, I can afford to 
 emulate " Messire de Hauprat " in his patience, and wait to 
 see my fellow-men pass their fortieth birthday, and, leaving 
 their folly and enthusiasm behind them, come round to my 
 position.
 
 328 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 The cant of Morality is so common that it is mistaken by 
 many excellent people for morality itself. To leave unno- 
 ticed the people who consider it very iniquitous to go to 
 the theatre, but perfectly allowable to laugh at Mr. Warren 
 on the stage of the Museum ; who enjoy backgammon, but 
 shrink from whist with holy horror; and who hold up their 
 hands and cry out against the innocent Sunday recreations 
 of continental Europe, yet think themselves justified in read- 
 ing their Sunday newspapers and the popular magazines, 
 or talking of the style of the new bonnets which made 
 their first appearance at the morning service, to say nothing 
 about the moralists of this school, I am afraid that the pre- 
 vailing notions on matters of greater import than mere 
 amusement are not such as would stand a very severe moral 
 test. When I see so much circumspection with regard to 
 external propriety, joined with such an evident want of 
 principle, it seems to me as if the Ten Commandments of 
 the Old Law had been superseded by an eleventh : Thou 
 shalt not be found out. When I see people of education in 
 a city like Boston, dignifying lust under the title of a 
 spiritual affinity, and characterizing divorce as obedience to 
 the highest natural law, and still more, when I see how 
 little surprise the enunciation of such doctrines occasions, I 
 no longer wonder at infidelity, for I am myself tempted to 
 ask whether there is any such thing as abstract right or 
 abstract wrong, and to question whether morality may not 
 be an antiquated institution, which humanity is now suffi- 
 ciently advanced to dispense with. It is a blessed thing 
 that we have not the power to read one another's hearts. 
 To pass by the unhappiness it would cause us, what changes 
 it would occasion in our moral classifications ! How many 
 men, clad in picturesque and variegated costumes, are 
 labouring in the public work- hops of Charlestown, or Sing 
 Sing, or Pentonville, who, if the heart were seen, would be
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CANT. 329 
 
 found worthier by far than some of those ornaments of so- 
 ciety who are always at the head of their pews, and whose 
 names are found alike on false invoices and subscription 
 lists for evangelizing some undiscovered continent ! What 
 a different balance would be struck between so-called re- 
 spectability in its costly silks and its comparative immu- 
 nity from actual temptation, and needy wantonness display- 
 ing its rouge and Attleborough jewelry all the more boldly 
 because it feels that the ban of society is upon it ! 
 
 And this brings me to the cant of Philanthropy. That 
 excellent word has been so shamefully abused of late years, 
 by being applied to the empirical schemes of adventurers 
 and social disorganizers, that you cannot now say a much 
 worse thing of a man than that he is a " philanthropist." 
 That term ought to designate one of the noblest representa- 
 tives of the unselfish side of human nature ; but to my mind, 
 it describes a sallow, long-haired, whining fellow, who has 
 taken up with the profession of loving all men in general, 
 that he may better enjoy the satisfaction of hating all men 
 in particular, and may the more effectually prey upon his 
 immediate neighbours ; a monomaniac, yet with sufficient 
 " method in his madness " to make it pay a handsome profit ; 
 a knave whose telescopic vision magnifies the spiritual desti- 
 tution of Tching-tou, and can see nothing wanting to com- 
 plete our Christian civilization but a willingness to contribute 
 to the " great and good work," and whose commissions for 
 disbursing the funds are frightfully disproportionate to the 
 amount collected and the work done. But there is a great 
 deal of the cant of philanthropy passing current even among 
 those who have no respect for the professional philanthro- 
 pist With all possible regard for the spirit of the age, I 
 do not believe that modern philanthropy can ever be made 
 to take the place of old-fashioned Christian charity. Far 
 be it from me to underrate the benevolent efforts which are 
 28*
 
 330 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 made in this community ; but I cannot help seeing that 
 while thousands are spent in alms, we lack that blessed 
 spirit of charity which imparted such a charm to the benev- 
 olent institutions of the middle ages. They seemed to 
 labour among the poor on the principle which Sir Thomas 
 Browne laid down for his charities "I give no alms to 
 satisfy the hunger of my brother, but to fulfil and accom- 
 plish the will and command of my God; I draw not my 
 purse for his sake that demands it, but His that enjoined it." 
 We irreverent moderns have tried to improve upon this, 
 and the result is seen in legal enactments against mendi- 
 cancy, in palatial prisons for criminals, and in poorhouses 
 where the needy are obliged to associate with the vicious 
 and depraved. The "dark ages" (as the times which wit- 
 nessed the foundation of the greatest universities, hospitals, 
 and asylums the world ever saw, are sometimes called) were 
 not dark enough for that. 
 
 Do what we may to remedy this defect in our solicitude 
 for the suffering classes, the legal view of the matter will 
 still predominate. We may imitate the kindliness of the 
 ancient times, but we cannot disguise the fact that pauper- 
 ism is regarded not only as a great social evil, but as an 
 offence against our laws. While this is so, we shall labour 
 in vain to catch the tone of the days when poverty was en- 
 nobled by the virtues of the apostolic Francis of Assisi and 
 the heroic souls that relinquished wealth and power to share 
 his humble lot. The voice of our philanthropy may be the 
 voice of Jacob, but the hand will bo the hand of Esau. 
 That true gentleman and kind-hearted knight whom I have 
 already quoted, had no patience with this contempt for pov- 
 erty which was just growing into sight in his time, but is 
 now so common ; and he administered to it a rebuke which 
 has lost none 'of its force by the lapse of more than two 
 hundred years : " Statists that labour to contrive a common-
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CANT. 331 
 
 wealth without poverty, take away the object of charity, not 
 understanding only the commonwealth of a Christian, but 
 forgetting the prophecy of Christ." 
 
 In making any allusion to religious cant, I am sensible 
 that I tread on very dangerous ground. Still, in an essay 
 on such a subject as the present, revivalism ought not to go 
 unnoticed. God forbid that a man at my time of life should 
 pen a light word against any thing that may draw men from 
 their worldliness to a more intimate union with their Cre- 
 ator. But the revival extravagances which last year made 
 the profane laugh and the devout grieve, merit the depre- 
 cation of every person who does not wish to see religion 
 itself brought into contempt. I do not believe in the appli- 
 cation of the high-pressure system to the spiritual life. 
 Some persons seem to regard a religious excitement as an 
 evidence of a healthy spiritual state. As well might they 
 consider a fever induced by previous irregularity to be a 
 proof of returning bodily health. As the physician of the 
 body would endeavour to restore the patient to his normal 
 state, so too the true physician of the soul would labour to 
 banish the religious fever from the mind of his patient, and 
 to plant therein the sure principles of spiritual health a 
 clearly-defined dogmatic belief, and a deep conviction of the 
 sinfulness of sin. We all need to be from time to time re- 
 minded that true religion is not a mere effervescence, not a 
 vain blaze, but a reality which reflects something of the 
 unchangeable glory of its divine Author. It is not a vol- 
 cano, treasuring within its bosom a fierce, destructive ele- 
 ment, sullenly smouldering and smoking for years, and 
 making intermittent exhibitions of a power as terrible as it 
 is sublime. No ; it is rather a majestic and deep-flowing 
 river, taking its rise amid lofty mountains whose snowy 
 crags and peaks are pure from the defilement of our lower 
 world, fed from heaven, bearing in its broad current beauty,
 
 332 AGUECIIEEK. 
 
 and fertility, and refreshment, to regions which would else 
 be sterile and joyless, and emptying at last into a shoreless 
 and untroubled sea, whose bright surface mirrors eternally 
 the splendour of the .-kics. 
 
 That the cant of Liberty should be popular with the 
 American tongue is not, perhaps, to be wondered at. A 
 young nation, which has achieved its own independence 
 in a contest with one of the most powerful governments in 
 the world, which has grown in territory, population, and 
 wealth beyond all historical precedent, and which has a 
 new country for its field of action, so that its progress is 
 unimpeded by the relics of ancient civilization or the ruins 
 of dead empires, could not reasonably be expected to 
 resist all temptations to self-glorification. The American 
 eagle is no mere barnyard fowl content with a secure 
 roost and what may be picked up within sight of the same. 
 He is the most insatiable of birds. His fierce eye and 
 bending beak look covetous, and his whole aspect is one of 
 angry anxiety lest his prey should be snatched from him, or 
 his dominion should be called in question. In this regard 
 he differs greatly from his French relative, who squats with 
 such a conscious air of superiority on the tops of the regi- 
 mental standard-poles of the imperial army, and surveys 
 the forest of bayonets in which he makes his nest as if he 
 felt that his power was undisputed. And we Americans 
 are not less uneasy and wild than the bird we have chosen 
 for our national emblem, and appear to think that the essen- 
 tial part of liberty consists in keeping up an endless talk 
 about it. Our cant of freedom needs to be reminded of 
 Tom Hood's observation concerning religious cant : 
 
 " "Tis not so plain as the old hill of Howth, 
 
 A man has got his bellyfi^ of meat, 
 Because he talks with victuals in his mouth ! " 
 
 With all our howling about liberty, we Americans are
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CANT. 333 
 
 abject slaves to a theory of government which we feel 
 bound to defend under all circumstances, and to propagate 
 even in countries which are entirely unfitted for it. This 
 constitutional theory is a fine thing to talk about ; few topics 
 afford so wide a range to the imaginative powers of a young 
 orator. It is not therefore to be wondered at, that the sub- 
 ject should be so often forced upon us, and that so many 
 startling contrasts should be drawn between our govern- 
 mental experiment and the thousand-years-old monarchies 
 of Europe. These comparisons (which some people who 
 make republicanism such an article of faith, that they must 
 find it hard to repeat the clause of the Lord's prayer, " Thy 
 kingdom come," are so fond of drawing) remind me of 
 the question that was discussed in the Milesian debating 
 society " Which was the greatest man, St. Patrick or the 
 Fourth of July ? " and the conclusions drawn from them 
 are very like the result of that momentous debate, which 
 was decided in the affirmative. 
 
 For my own part, I have got past the age when eloquence 
 and poetry are of much account in matters of such vital 
 importance as government. When I buy a pair of over- 
 shoes, my first object is to get something that is water-proof. 
 So, too, in the matter of government, I only wish to know 
 whether the purposes for which government is instituted 
 the protection of the life, property, and personal liberty of 
 its subjects are answered ; and, if they are, I am ready 
 to swear allegiance to it, not caring a splinter of a ballot- 
 box whether it be founded on hereditary succession or a 
 roll of parchment, or whether its executive authority be 
 vested in a president, a king, or an emperor. That is the 
 best government which is best administered ; it makes little 
 difference what you call it, or on what theory it is built. I 
 love my country dearly, and yield to no one in my loyalty 
 to her government and laws ; but (pardon me for being so
 
 334 AGUECHKKK. 
 
 matter-of-fact, and seemingly unpatriotic) I would willingly 
 part with some of this boasted liberty of ours, to secure a 
 little more wisdom in making laws, and a good deal more 
 strength in executing them. I count the privilege of talk- 
 ing politics and of choosing between the various political 
 adventurers who aspire to be my rulers, as a very insig- 
 nificant affair compared with a sense of security against 
 popular violence and the dishonesty of dealers in the neces- 
 saries of life. And I cannot help thinking, that for the 
 inhabitants of a country where there is little reverence for 
 authority or willing obedience to law, where the better class 
 of the citizens refuse to take any part in politics, and where 
 the legislative power is enthroned, not in the Senate, nor in 
 the House of Representatives, but in the Lobby, for the 
 inhabitants of such a country to boast of their liberty aloud, 
 is the most absurd of all the cants in this canting world. 
 
 Little as I respect the cant -of liberty, I care even less for 
 the cant of Progress. I never had much patience with this 
 worship of the natural sciences, which is rapidly getting to 
 be almost the only religion among certain cultivated people 
 in this quarter. I remember in my boyhood startling by my 
 scientific apathy a precocious companion who used to bother 
 his brains about the solar system, and one useless ology 
 and another, in the precious hours which ought to have been 
 devoted to Robinson Crusoe and the Arabian Nights' Enter- 
 tainments. He had been labouring hard to explain to me 
 the law of gravitation, and concluded with the bold state- 
 ment that, were it not for that law, an apple, with which he 
 had been illustrating his theory, instead of falling to the 
 earth, might roll off the unprotected side of this sublunary 
 sphere into the abyss of space, or something to that effect. 
 He could not conceal his contempt for my want of scientific 
 ardour, when I asked him whether he should really care if 
 it did roll off, so long as there was a plenty left ! I did
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF CANT. 335 
 
 wrong to joke him, for he was a good fellow, in spite of his 
 weakness. It is many years since he figured himself out 
 of this unsatisfactory world, into a state of existence where 
 vision is clearer even than mathematical demonstration, 
 and where x does not " equal the unknown quantity." 
 
 Pardon this digression : in complaining of the vaunted 
 progress of this rapid age, I am making little progress my- 
 self. It appears to me that the people who laud this age so 
 highly either do not know what true progress is, or suffer 
 themselves to mistake the means for the end. Your cotton 
 mills, and steam engines, and clipper ships, and electric tel- 
 egraphs, do not constitute progress ; they are means by which 
 it may be attained. If gunpowder, immediately after its in- 
 vention, had been devoted to the indiscriminate destruction 
 of mankind, could such an invention have justly been termed 
 progress ? If the press were used only to perpetuate the 
 blasphemies and indecencies of Mazzini and Eugene Sue, 
 who would esteem Gutenberg and Fust as benefactors, or 
 promoters of true progress ? And if the increased facilities 
 for travel, and the other inventions on which this age prides 
 itself, pnly tend to make men's minds narrower by absorbing 
 them in material interests, and their souls more mean by 
 giving them the idol of prosperity to worship, then is this 
 nineteenth century a century of progress indeed, but in 
 the wrong direction. And if our mode of education only 
 augments the ratio of crime among the lower class, and 
 makes superficial pretenders of the higher orders of society, 
 it is not a matter which will justify our setting ourselves 
 quite so high above past ages and the rest of the world. 
 
 I cannot see what need nor what excuse there is for all 
 this bragging. A great many strong men lived before 
 Agamemnon, and after him. We indeed do some things 
 that would astonish our forefathers ; but how are we supe- 
 rior to them on that account ? We enslave the lightnings
 
 336 AGUECHEEK. 
 
 of heaven to be our messengers, and compel the sun to 
 take our portraits ; but if our electric wires are prostituted 
 to the chicanery of trade or politics, and the faces which 
 the sun portrays are expressive of nothing nobler than 
 mercantile shrewdness and the price of cotton, the less we 
 boast of our achievements, the better. Thucydides never 
 had his works puffed in a newspaper, Virgil and Horace 
 never poetized or lectured for a lyceum ; Charlemagne 
 never saw a locomotive, nor did St. Thomas Aquinas ever 
 use a friction match. Yet this unexampled age possesses, 
 I apprehend, few historians who would not shrink from 
 being compared with the famous Greek annalist, few poets 
 worthy to wear the crowns of the friends of the great 
 Augustus, few rulers more sagacious and firm than the first 
 Emperor of the West, and few scholars who would not con- 
 sider it a privilege to be taught by the Angelic Doctor. 
 
 True progress is something superior to your puffing en- 
 gines and clicking telegraphs, and independent of them. 
 It is the advancement of humanity in the knowledge of its 
 frailty and dependence ; the elevation of the mind above 
 its own limited acquirements, to the infinite source of 
 knowledge ; the cleansing of the heart of its selfishness and 
 uncleanness ; in fact, it is any thing whatever that tends to 
 assimilate man more closely to the divine Exemplar of 
 perfect manhood. 
 
 THE END.
 
 
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