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THE 
 
 OSTON BOOK, 
 
 BEING SPECIMENS OF 
 
 METROPOLITAN LITERATURE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS. 
 
 M DC CCL. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, by 
 
 TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS, 
 la the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 THURSTON, TORRY AND COMPANY, 
 
 31 Devonshire Street. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE first volume of the Boston Book, edited by Mr. 
 Henry T. Tuckerman, was published in 1836 ; the sec 
 ond, edited by Mr. Benjamin B. Thatcher, appeared in 
 1837; and the third and last, edited by Mr. George S. 
 Hillard, was published in 1841. A new volume having 
 been very generally called for, and as some years have 
 elapsed since the last one was issued, a continuation of 
 the series is deemed desirable. 
 
 Several of the articles here published are now printed 
 for the first time, their authors kindly furnishing original 
 contributions, both in prose and verse. The productions 
 of many well known writers, whose names would greatly 
 enhance the value of any publication, the limits and de 
 sign of this volume compel the Editor reluctantly to omit. 
 At some future time, he trusts, a more extended work 
 may allow greater justice to all our Boston authors. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1849. 
 
 248935 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Old Latin School House . 
 Boston Church Bells 
 Drowne s Wooden Image 
 The Syrens .... 
 The Literature of Mirth 
 Kathleen .... 
 Minute Philosophies 
 Morning and Night 
 The Solitary of Shawmut 
 
 July 
 
 Cochituate Lake . 
 
 The Morning Visit . 
 
 The Fatal Secret . 
 
 The Jingko Tree . 
 
 The Seen and the Unseen 
 
 Santa Croce . 
 
 Washington and The Union . 
 
 Mount Auburn 
 
 GEORGE S. HILLARD . . 1 
 O. W. HOLMES ... 9 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE . 13 
 
 JAMES R. LOWELL . . 30 
 
 EDWIN P. WHIPPLE . . 32 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER . . 39 
 
 N. P. WILLIS . . .44 
 
 HARRIET WINSLOW . . 69 
 
 J. L. MOTLEY . . .72 
 
 THOMAS W. PARSONS, JR. . 82 
 
 NEHEMIAH ADAMS . . 84 
 
 O. W. HOLMES . . .89 
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER . . 93 
 
 JACOB BIGELOW . . 96 
 
 EPHRAIM PEABODY . . 100 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT . . 106 
 
 ROBERT C. W1NTHROP . 110 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE . .114 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Thomas Chalmers . 
 Resignation .... 
 The Chase . . . ., 
 Forget Me Not 
 Character of Walter Scott 
 Dedication of a Lyceum Hall . 
 Value of Mechanical Industry . 
 
 Mary 
 
 That Gentleman 
 
 The Atlantic Steamer . 
 
 Washington Allston 
 
 Labor ..... 
 
 Goodness . 
 
 The Ocean . 
 
 Recollections of Cooper . 
 
 The Wind . 
 
 Nature 
 
 Song 
 
 The Lost Colony . 
 
 To a Lady .... 
 
 A Picture of War . 
 
 Love 
 
 Prejudice . 
 
 On a Book of Sea-Mosses 
 
 The Yankee Zincali 
 
 Home ..... 
 
 Clerks and Employers . 
 
 DANIEL SHARP . . . 116 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . 123 
 
 FRANCIS PARKMAN, JR. . 126 
 
 EPES SARGENT . . . 134 
 
 WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT . 136 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT . . 142 
 
 RUFUS CHOATE . . . 144 
 
 HENRY T. TUCKERMAN . 152 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT . . 154 
 
 JAMES F. COLMAN . . 167 
 
 CHARLES SUMNER . . 171 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD . . 178 
 
 F. D. HUNTINGTON . . 180 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA . . 191 
 
 JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM . 193 
 
 GEORGE LUNT . . . 208 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON . 210 
 
 NATHANIEL GREENE . .217 
 
 JOHN S. SLEEPER . . 218 
 
 THOMAS W. PARSONS, JR. . 223 
 
 THEODORE PARKER . . 225 
 
 WILLIAM W. STORY . . 231 
 
 SAMUEL G. GOODRICH . . 232 
 
 JAMES T. FIELDS . . 239 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER . . 240 
 
 ISAAC Mc.LELLAN . . 253 
 
 DANIEL N. HASKELL . . 255 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 vn 
 
 Charles James 
 
 Early Days of John Ledyard . 
 My Little Daughter s Shoes . 
 First Impressions of a Sailor . 
 To Scotland .... 
 Guy Linden s First Book 
 Be Happy .... 
 Room and Work Enough 
 To my Namesake . 
 A Welcome to Dickens 
 Concord Monument 
 The Successful Scholar . 
 My Youngest . . . 
 Recollections of Greenwood . 
 Love and Fame 
 The Last Supper . 
 A Winter Morning . 
 Footprints of Angels 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE . . 261 
 
 JARED SPARKS . . . 264 
 
 CHARLES JAMES SPRAGUE . 277 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA, JR. . 279 
 
 ROBERT C. WATERSTON . 286 
 
 GEORGE LUNT . . . 289 
 
 ELIZUR WRIGHT . . 313 
 
 GEORGE R. RUSSELL . . 316 
 
 WILLIAM CROSWELL . . 323 
 
 JOSIAH QUINCY, JR. . . 325 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON . 333 
 
 GEORGE PUTNAM . . 334 
 
 DANIEL SHARP . . . 339 
 
 N. L. FROTHINGHAM . . 341 
 
 ANNA H. PHILLIPS . . 345 
 
 HANNAH F. LEE . . 318 
 
 ANDREWS NORTON . . 355 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW . 358 
 
THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 THE OLD LATIN SCHOOL HOUSE. 
 
 BY GEORGE S. HILLARD. 
 
 As an old pupil of the Latin School, I cannot 
 witness the destruction of the School House, which 
 is now going on, without a swelling of the heart. 
 How many memories and associations are shattered 
 by the ruthless pickaxes which I see at work upon 
 those bricks and stones ! An attachment to the 
 place, where our young minds were fed with the 
 food of knowledge, is one of the universal instincts 
 of humanity. The man who can pass without 
 emotion by the play -place and study-place of his 
 early years, must have a heart thoroughly petrified 
 by worldly cares or worldly pleasures. It is this 
 feeling, which gives its charm to Gray s fine ode 
 on a distant prospect of Eton College, and their 
 vivid truth to the pictures in Cowper s Tirocinium. 
 The popularity of such poetry is owing to the 
 prevalence of the emotions to which it appeals. In 
 I 
 
V P -, 
 
 V ? 
 
 O .^C 
 
 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 every bosom there is a chord which vibrates to that 
 gentle touch. It is one of the wants of our coun 
 try, that we have so few material objects to link 
 the present with the past. Few persons live in the 
 houses in which their fathers lived before them. 
 Few persons send their children to the schools 
 where they themselves were taught. Few of our 
 pine academies survive one generation. The Latin 
 School House is but little more than thirty years 
 old, yet, as all things are old and new by compari 
 son, it had always a venerable aspect to my eye. 
 
 Certainly there were no intrinsic charms in the 
 building to commend it to the aifectionate remem 
 brances of the boys. There never was any thing 
 more bare, more tasteless, more uncouth. The 
 walls were the blankest, the seats the hardest, the 
 desks the most inconvenient, that could be imag 
 ined. "Going out " was such a farce. It was only 
 exchanging a room with a roof, for one without ; 
 and really not big enough for a well grown boy to 
 swing a kitten in. But what did we care for all 
 this? Youth, and hope, and light hearts, are such 
 mighty magicians. How they gilded and colored 
 those walls ! What more than regal tapestry they 
 hung round their naked desolation ; with what roses 
 they empurpled that dusty floor ; what beauty they 
 shed round that narrow staircase ! 
 
 There is nothing on earth like a large public 
 school. It is the nearest possible approach to the 
 palace of truth. The bar is said to be a good place 
 to take the conceit out of one, but it is nothing to 
 
THE OLD LATIN SCHOOL HOUSE. 6 
 
 a school. It is delightful to see how well and how 
 quickly the operation is there performed ; how the 
 full-blown "bladder of self-conceit is pricked ; how 
 the towering crest of pride is brought low. There 
 is no place where shams and masks, and lies of all 
 kinds, thrive so ill. There is never any mistake 
 about the extent of a boy s capacity. The proofs 
 are too palpable and too constant. A dunce can 
 never be any thing more or less than a dunce. Wise 
 looks, solemn shakes of the head, judicial gravity, 
 discreet silence all will not do. The murder 
 will out, every time he stands up to recite. And 
 what a fierce democracy a school is ; how little 
 does wealth or station avail. A primitive respect 
 is paid to purely personal qualities ; to the strong 
 hand, the generous temper, the warm heart, the 
 clever brain. A boy is never in a false position 
 towards his fellows. He receives just what he de 
 serves, and no more. The unconscious justice 
 which prevails in a large school, the stern law of 
 equivalents which is there enforced, is a matter not 
 beneath a wise man s notice. 
 
 There is no better illustration of Homer than 
 the daily course of a public school. His heroes are 
 grown-up boys. Like them, they call names. Like 
 them, they weep honest tears, and laugh hearty 
 laughs. Like them, they speak out the whole 
 truth. When a boy chances to make an ass of 
 himself by word or deed, with what distinctness is 
 the fact communicated to him. He is never left to 
 grope his way by inferences. Would that we could 
 
4 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 all be boys again for one day. What faces we 
 should see in Court Street and in State Street ! 
 
 I pass daily in the streets many of my old school 
 fellows. To me they are always boys. I see the 
 blooming looks of childhood through those strong 
 and manly lines. And yet how many are changed. 
 Such cold, money-getting eyes are turned upon me. 
 Some have protuberant waistcoats, and are growing 
 almost gouty. Some have that compressed lip and 
 furrowed brow which speak of suppressed grief 
 of that unspoken sorrow, whose darkling current 
 mines away the heart unseen. In some, the natu 
 ral face is so changed that it looks like a mask. 
 Some, many, are unaltered. With them the flavor 
 of youth is unimpaired. Towards them the dark 
 cloud has not been turned. With them the boy 
 has flowed into the man, as the brook expands into 
 the river. As I pass by these early companions, 
 with a cold nod of recognition, I have often longed 
 to stop them and say to them, " Tell me, in ten 
 words, your history where do you feel the pinch 
 of life ? 
 
 All, however, are not left. The reaper Death has 
 gathered many of those blooming forms into his 
 harvest. As I pass by the spot, I see again those 
 young faces which have passed into the sky, and 
 hear again those joyous voices which have long 
 
 since ceased to wake the echoes of earth. S * 
 
 reappears to me as he was in those days that rare, 
 
 * William W. Sturgis. 
 
THE OLD LATIN SCHOOL HOUSE. 5 
 
 bright, stainless creature ; so firm, and yet so gen 
 tle ; whose fine mind and lovely character impressed 
 even the rude perceptions of schoolboys with a 
 peculiar feeling of reverence ; as if an angel were 
 visibly guiding those steps that never went astray. 
 
 I greet, from the land of shadows, J ,* cordial, 
 
 warm-hearted, and true, but not yet showing those 
 marked intellectual qualities which afterwards gave 
 
 such rare promise of professional distinction. C f 
 
 is again before me, the faithful, conscientious scholar, 
 putting a sense of duty into all his life, and sub 
 sequently adorning his sacred calling, during the 
 brief period in which he was permitted to exercise 
 it, with all the Christian graces. The glowing face 
 
 of E 1 again beams upon me overshadowed 
 
 with his early-gathered laurels that express image 
 of a young scholar with invention ever new, and 
 wild wit, whose random shafts sometimes drew 
 blood, full of bright fancies and various knowledge, 
 writing even then in a style whose airy grace 
 awakened our admiration and despair, and charm 
 ing eye and ear alike with his beautiful elocution. 
 They all throng round me again, these dim shad 
 ows. The present disappears, and I live only in 
 the past. 
 
 The gentleman who was at the head of the 
 school in my day, is still living among us. For 
 this reason I cannot speak of him as I would, or 
 express the extent of our obligations to him. Far 
 
 * James Jackson, Jr. t George Chapman, t Charles C. Emerson. 
 1* 
 
6 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 distant may the day be, when we shall be permit 
 ted to utter his eulogy. But his own works are 
 daily praising him in the gates, and the character of 
 the pupils whom he has trained is covering his 
 name with silent benedictions. But of some of 
 those who were associated with him we may speak 
 more freely, for the touch of death has unsealed our 
 
 lips. There was L ,* that excellent scholar 
 
 and good man, who labored so faithfully and so 
 fatally in his vocation, with an organization too 
 sensitive, and a nervous temperament too irritable, 
 to endure the wear and tear of teaching. 
 
 My eyes grow dim, as I recall the face and form 
 of S ,f for he called out all the love and grati 
 tude of my young heart. He was a man of rare 
 faculties. How wisely, calmly, nobly, he dis 
 charged his trust. We all loved him, but the hold 
 ing up of his finger would quell the boldest of our 
 spirits. He had a most discriminating glance, and 
 seemed to know the very spot where every boy 
 could be most judiciously touched. All instruction 
 came mended from his lips, such was the magnet 
 ism of his manner. He gave an impulse to my 
 mind which it has never lost, and I never met his 
 smile of encouragement without a bounding of the 
 heart. He died too early for the community fully 
 to appreciate their loss but they, who knew him, 
 will feel the truth of all I have said and that 
 much more might be said without extravagance. 
 
 * Frederic P. Leverelt. t J. Greele Stevenson. 
 
THE OLD LATIN SCHOOL HOUSE. 7 
 
 I have wandered far from the point from which I 
 started, and naturally enough, for we grow garru 
 lous as we get on in life. I could not see the pros 
 tration of those walls, without giving them the 
 meed of a sigh. The very young will hardly sym 
 pathize with the emotions which I feel. They 
 are not sentimental. Sorrow and disappointment 
 have not beaten upon their hearts till they have 
 turned soft and womanish under the staggering 
 blows. But my contemporaries and elders will feel 
 with me, I am sure. They cannot pass by those 
 unsightly ruins all unmoved. 
 
 New associations will cling round the old place, 
 and the old feelings will be transferred to a new 
 locality. In every respect the pupils will have 
 gained by the change. They are better off than 
 we were. With motives as strong, and love of 
 knowledge as keen, they have the advantage of far 
 better helps and appliances, and a higher standard of 
 culture. We were compelled to feed on such husks 
 as the Gloucester Greek Grammar, Lempriere s 
 Dictionary, and a Delphin Virgil with an ordo 
 meandering along the margin ; things now as much 
 out of date as wigs and three-cornered hats. I hear 
 now in the school a sound of " logical predicates," 
 as strange to my ear as nouns and verbs were to 
 Jack Cade s. These fine lads are striding after us 
 with seven-leagued boots. I rejoice that they are 
 to know so much more than we. May the car of 
 Time thus ever bear improvement on its wheels. 
 Blessings be upon those young hearts and minds, 
 
8 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 that are now in quiet retreats, cropping the flowery 
 food of knowledge. They have small occasion to 
 envy us. But such is not their feeling. They 
 strain, like greyhounds on the slip, to join the race 
 of active life. Hope writes the poetry of the boy, 
 but memory that of the man. Man looks forward 
 with smiles, but backward with sighs. Such is the 
 wise providence of God. The cup of life is sweet 
 est at the brim, the flavor is impaired as we drink 
 deeper, and the dregs are made bitter that we may 
 not struggle when it is taken from our lips. 
 
BOSTON CHURCH BELLS. 
 
 BY O. W. HOLMES. 
 
 THE air is hushed ; the street is holy ground ; 
 Hark ! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound ; 
 As one by one awakes each silent tongue, 
 It tells the turret whence its voice is flung. 
 
 The Chapel, last of sublunary things 
 That shocks our echoes with the name of Kings, 
 Whose bell, just glistening from the font and forge, 
 Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, 
 Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang, 
 Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang ; 
 The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour 
 When Howe s artillery shook its half-built tower, 
 Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do, 
 The iron breastpin which the " Rebels" threw, 
 Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill 
 Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill ; 
 Aloft suspended in the morning s fire, 
 Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire ; 
 The giant, standing by the elm-clad green, 
 His white lance lifted o er the silent scene, 
 Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, 
 Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound ; 
 
10 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 While, sad with memories of the olden time, 
 The Northern Minstrel pours her tender chime, 
 Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song, 
 But tears still follow as they breathe along. 
 
 Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range 
 Where man and nature, faith and customs change, 
 Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone 
 Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone. 
 When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze 
 Through the warm billows of the Indian seas ; 
 When, ship and shadow blended both in one, 
 Flames o er thy mast the equatorial sun, 
 From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon 
 Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon ; 
 When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings 
 And thy poor seabird folds her tattered wings, 
 Oft will delusion o er thy senses steal, 
 And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal ! 
 Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array 
 Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay, 
 Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire, 
 The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire, 
 The mother s kiss, and, still if aught remain, 
 Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain 
 
 Ah, let the dreamer o er the taffrail lean 
 To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen ; 
 Fear not the tropic s dews, the evening s chills, 
 His heart lies warm among his triple hills ! 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 
 
 BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 ONE sunshiny morning, in the good old times of 
 the town of Boston, a young carver in wood, well 
 known by the name of Drowne, stood contemplating 
 a large oaken log, which it was his purpose to con 
 vert into the figure-head of a vessel. And while 
 he discussed within his own mind what sort of 
 shape or similitude it were well to bestow upon 
 this excellent piece of timber, there came into 
 Browne s workshop a certain Captain Hunnewell, 
 owner and commander of the good brig called the 
 Cynosure, which had just returned from her first 
 voyage to Fayal. 
 
 "Ah ! that will do, Drowne, that will do ! " cried 
 the jolly captain, tapping the log with his rattan. 
 " I bespeak this very piece of oak for the figure-head 
 of the Cynosure. She has shown herself the sweet 
 est craft that ever floated, and I mean to decorate 
 her prow with the handsomest image that the skill 
 of man can cut out of timber. And, Drowne, you 
 are the fellow to execute it." 
 
 " You give me more credit than I deserve, Captain 
 
12 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Hunnewell," said the carver, modestly, yet as one 
 conscious of eminence in his art. " But, for the 
 sake of the good brig, I stand ready to do my best. 
 And which of these designs do you prefer ? Here," 
 pointing to a staring, half length figure, in a white 
 wig and scarlet coat " here is an excellent model, 
 the likeness of our gracious king. Here is the 
 valiant Admiral Yernon. Or, if you prefer a female 
 figure, what say you to Britannia with the trident ?" 
 
 " All very fine, Drowne ; all very fine," answered 
 the mariner. " But as nothing like the brig ever 
 swam the ocean, so I am determined she shall have 
 such a figure-head as old Neptune never saw in his 
 life. And what is more, as there is a secret in the 
 matter, you must pledge your credit not to betray 
 it." 
 
 " Certainly," said Drowne, marvelling, however, 
 what possible mystery there could be in reference 
 to an affair so open, of necessity, to the inspection 
 of all the world, as the figure-head of a vessel. 
 " You may depend, captain, on my being as secret 
 as the nature of the case will permit." 
 
 Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the 
 button, and communicated his wishes in so low a 
 tone, that it would be unmannerly to repeat what 
 was evidently intended for the carver s private ear. 
 We shall, therefore, take the opportunity to give 
 the reader a few desirable particulars about Drowne 
 himself. 
 
 He was the first American who is known to have 
 attempted, in a very humble line, it is true, 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 13 
 
 that art in which we can now reckon so many 
 names already distinguished, or rising to distinction. 
 From his earliest boyhood, he had exhibited a 
 knack for it would be too proud a word to call it 
 genius a knack, therefore, for the imitation of 
 the human figure, in whatever material came most 
 readily to hand. The snows of a New England 
 winter had often supplied him with a species of 
 marble as dazzling white, at least, as the Parian or 
 Carrara, and if less durable, yet sufficiently so to 
 correspond with any claims to permanent existence 
 possessed by the boy s frozen statues. Yet they 
 won admiration from maturer judges than his 
 schoolfellows, and were, indeed, remarkably clever, 
 though destitute of the native warmth that might 
 have made the snow melt beneath his hand. As 
 he advanced in life, the young man adopted pine 
 and oak as eligible materials for the display of his 
 skill, which now began to bring him a return of 
 solid silver, as well as the empty praise that had 
 been an apt reward enough for his productions of 
 evanescent snow. He became noted for carving 
 ornamental pump-heads, arid wooden urns for gate 
 posts, and decorations, more grotesque than fanci 
 ful, for mantel-pieces. No apothecary would have 
 deemed himself in the way of obtaining custom, 
 without setting up a gilded mortar, if not a head of 
 Galen or Hippocrates, from the skilful hand of 
 Drowrie. But the great scope of his business lay 
 in the manufacture of figure-heads for vessels. 
 Whether it were the monarch himself, or some 
 2 
 
14 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 famous British admiral or general, or the governor 
 of the province, or perchance the favorite daughter 
 of the ship-owner, there the image stood above the 
 prow, decked out in gorgeous colors, magnificently 
 gilded, and staring the whole world out of counte 
 nance, as if from an innate consciousness of its own 
 superiority. These specimens of native sculpture 
 had crossed the sea in all directions, and been not 
 ignobly noticed among the crowded shipping of the 
 Thames, and wherever else the hardy mariners of 
 New England had pushed their adventures. It 
 must be confessed, that a family likeness pervaded 
 these respectable progeny of Browne s skill ; that 
 the benign countenance of the king resembled those 
 of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart, the 
 merchant s daughter, bore a remarkable similitude 
 to Britannia, Victory, and other ladies of the allego 
 ric sisterhood ; and, finally, that they all had a kind 
 of wooden aspect, which proved an intimate rela 
 tionship with the unshaped blocks of timber in the 
 carver s workshop. But, at least, there \vas no 
 inconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any 
 attribute to render them really works of art, except 
 that deep quality, be it of soul or intellect, which 
 bestows life upon the lifeless, and warmth upon the 
 cold, and which, had it been present, would have 
 made Browne s wooden image instinct with spirit. 
 
 The captain of the Cynosure had now finished 
 his instructions. 
 
 " And Browne," said he, impressively, " you 
 must lay aside all other business, and set about this 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 15 
 
 forthwith. And as to the price, only do the job in 
 first rate style, and you shall settle that point your 
 self." 
 
 " Very well, captain," answered the carver, who 
 looked grave and somewhat perplexed, yet had a 
 sort of smile upon his visage. " Depend upon it. 
 I 11 do my utmost to satisfy you." 
 
 From that moment, the men of taste about Long 
 Wharf and the Town Dock, who were wont to 
 show their love for the arts, by frequent visits to 
 Browne s workshop, and admiration of his wooden 
 images, began to be sensible of a mystery in the 
 carver s conduct. Often he was absent in the day 
 time. Sometimes, as might be judged by gleams 
 of light from the shop windows, he was at work 
 until a late hour of the evening ; although neither 
 knock nor voice, on such occasions, could gain 
 admittance for a visitor, or elicit any word of 
 response. Nothing remarkable, however, was ob 
 served in the shop at those hours when it was 
 thrown open. A fine piece of timber, indeed, which 
 Browne was known to have reserved for some work 
 of especial dignity, was seen to be gradually assum 
 ing shape. What shape it was destined ultimately 
 to take, was a problem to his frieuds, and a point 
 on which the carver himself preserved a rigid si 
 lence. But day after day, though Browne was 
 seldom noticed in the act of working upon it, this 
 rude form began to be developed, until it became 
 evident to all observers, that a female figure was 
 growing into mimic life. At each new visit they 
 
16 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 beheld a larger pile of wooden chips, and a nearer 
 approximation to something beautiful. It seemed 
 as if the hamadryad of the oak had sheltered herself 
 from the unimaginative world within the heart of 
 her native tree, and that it was only necessary to 
 remove the strange shapelessness that had incrusted 
 her, and reveal the grace and loveliness of a divinity. 
 Imperfect as the design, the attitude, the costume, 
 and especially the face of the image, still remained, 
 there was already an effect that drew the eye from 
 the wooden cleverness of Browne s earlier produc 
 tions, and fixed it upon the tantalizing mystery of 
 this new project. 
 
 Copley, the celebrated painter, then a young 
 man, and a resident of Boston, came one day to 
 visit Drowne ; for he had recognized so much o^ 
 moderate ability in the carver, as to induce him, in 
 the dearth of any professional sympathy, to culti 
 vate his acquaintance. On entering the shop, the 
 artist glanced at the inflexible image of king, 
 commander, dame, and allegory that stood around ; 
 on the best of which might have been bestowed 
 the questionable praise, that it looked as if a living 
 man had here been changed to wood, and that not 
 only the physical, but the intellectual and spiritual 
 part, partook of the stolid transformation. But in 
 not a single instance did it seem as if the wood 
 were imbibing the ethereal essence of humanity. 
 What a wide distinction is here, and how far would 
 the slightest portion of the latter merit have out 
 valued the utmost degree of the former ! 
 
DROWNE 7 S WOODEN IMAGE. 
 
 17 
 
 " My friend Drowne," said Copley, smiling to 
 himself, but alluding to the mechanical and wooden 
 cleverness that so invariably distinguished the ima 
 ges, " you are really a remarkable person ! I have 
 seldom met with a man, in your line of business, 
 that could do so much, for one other touch might 
 make this figure of General Wolfe, for instance, a 
 breathing and intelligent human creature." 
 
 " You would have me think that you are praising 
 me highly, Mr. Copley," answered Drowne, turning 
 his back upon Wolfe s image in apparent disgust. 
 " But there has come a light into my mind. I know, 
 what you know as well, that the one touch, which 
 you speak of as deficient, is the only one that would 
 be truly valuable, and that, without it, these works 
 of mine are no better than worthless abortions. 
 There is the same difference between them and the 
 works of an inspired artist, as between a sign-post 
 daub and one of your best pictures." 
 
 " This is strange ! " cried Copley, looking him in 
 the face, which now, as the painter fancied, had a 
 singular depth of intelligence, though, hitherto, it 
 had not given him greatly the advantage over his 
 own family of wooden images. " What has come 
 over you ? How is it that, possessing the idea 
 which you have now uttered, you should produce 
 only such works as these ? " 
 
 The carver smiled, but made no reply. Copley 
 turned again to the images, conceiving that the 
 sense of deficiency, so rare in a merely mechanical 
 character, must surely imply a genius, the tokens 
 
 2* 
 
18 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 of which had been overlooked. But no ; there was 
 not a trace of it. He was about to withdraw, when 
 his eyes chanced to fall upon a half-developed figure 
 which lay in a corner of the workshop, surrounded 
 by scattered chips of oak. It arrested him at once. 
 
 " What is here ? Who has done this? " he broke 
 out, after contemplating it in speechless astonish 
 ment for an instant. " Here is the divine, the life- 
 giving touch ! What inspired hand is beckoning 
 this wood to arise and live ? Whose work is 
 this?" 
 
 " No man s work," replied Drowne. " The 
 figure lies within that block of oak, and it is my 
 business to find it." 
 
 " Drowne," said the true artist, grasping the 
 carver fervently by the hand, " You are a man of 
 genius ! " 
 
 As Copley departed, happening to glance back 
 ward from the threshold, he beheld Drowne bending 
 over the half created shape, and stretching forth 
 his arms as if he would have embraced and drawn 
 it to his heart ; while, had such a miracle been 
 possible, his countenance expressed passion enough 
 to communicate warmth and sensibility to the life 
 less oak. 
 
 " Strange enough ! " said the artist to himself. 
 "Who would have looked for a modem Pygmalion 
 in the person of a Yankee mechanic ! " 
 
 As yet, the image was but vague in its outward 
 presentment ; so that, as in the cloud-shapes around 
 the western sun, the observer rather felt, or was led 
 
19 
 
 to imagine, than really saw what was intended by 
 it. Day by day, however, the work assumed greater 
 precision, and settled its irregular and misty outline 
 into distincter grace and beauty. The general de 
 sign was now obvious to the common eye. It 
 was a female figure, in what appeared to be a 
 foreign dress ; the gown being laced over the bosom 
 and opening in front, so as to disclose a skirt or 
 petticoat, the folds and inequalities of which were 
 admirably represented in the oaken substance. 
 She wore a hat of singular gracefulness, and abun 
 dantly laden with flowers, such as never grew in 
 the rude soil of New England, but which, with all 
 their fanciful luxuriance, had a natural truth that it 
 seemed impossible for the most fertile imagination 
 to have attained without copying from real proto 
 types. There were several little appendages to this 
 dress, such as a fan, a pair of ear-rings, a chain about 
 the neck, a watch in the bosom, and a ring upon the 
 finger, all of which would have been deemed be 
 neath the dignity of sculpture. They were put on, 
 however, with as much taste as a lovely woman 
 might have shown in her attire, and could therefore 
 have shocked none but a judgment spoiled by artis 
 tic rules. 
 
 The face was still imperfect ; but, gradually, by 
 a magic touch, intelligence and sensibility bright 
 ened through the features, with all the effect of 
 light gleaming forth from within the solid oak. 
 The face became alive. It was a beautiful, though 
 not precisely regular, and somewhat haughty aspect, 
 
20 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 but with a certain piquancy about the eyes and 
 mouth which, of all expressions, would have seemed 
 the most impossible to throw over a wooden coun 
 tenance. And now, so far as carving went, this 
 wonderful production was complete. 
 
 " Drowne," said Copley, who had hardly missed 
 a single day in his visits to the carver s workshop, 
 " if this work were in marble, it would make you 
 famous at once ; nay, I would almost affirm that it 
 would make an era in the art. It is as ideal as an 
 antique statue, yet as real as any lovely woman 
 whom one meets at a fireside or in the street. But 
 I trust you do not mean to desecrate this exquisite 
 creature with paint, like those staring kings and 
 admirals yonder ? " 
 
 "Not paint her?" exclaimed Captain Hunnewell, 
 who stood by ; " not paint the figure-head of the 
 Cynosure ! And what sort of a figure should I cut 
 in a foreign port, with such an unpainted oaken 
 stick as this over my prow ? She must, and she 
 shall, be painted to the life, from the topmost flower 
 in her hat down to the silver spangles on her slip 
 pers." 
 
 " Mr. Copley," said Drowne, quietly, " I know 
 nothing of marble statuary, and nothing of the 
 sculptor s rules of art. But of this wooden image 
 this work of my hands this creature of my heart " 
 and here his voice faltered and choked, in a very 
 singular manner "of this of her I may say 
 that I know something. A well-spring of inward 
 wisdom gushed within me, as I wrought upon the 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 21 
 
 oak with my whole strength, and soul, and faith. 
 Let others do what they may with marble, and 
 adopt what rules they choose. If I can produce 
 my desired effect by painted wood, those rules are 
 not for me, and I have a right to disregard them." 
 
 " The very spirit of genius ! " muttered Copley 
 to himself. " How otherwise should this carver 
 feel himself entitled to transcend all rules, and make 
 me ashamed of quoting them ! " 
 
 He looked earnestly at Drowne, and again saw 
 that expression of human love which, in a spiritual 
 sense, as the artist could not help imagining, was 
 the secret of the life that had been breathed into 
 this block of wood. 
 
 The carver, still in the same secrecy that marked 
 all his operations upon this mysterious image, pro 
 ceeded to paint the habiliments in their proper 
 colors, and the countenance with nature s red and 
 white. When all was finished, he threw open his 
 workshop, and admitted the towns-people to behold 
 what he had done. Most persons, at their first 
 entrance, felt impelled to remove their hats, and 
 pay such reverence as was due to the richly dressed 
 and beautiful young lady, who seemed to stand in 
 a corner of the room, with oaken chips and shavings 
 scattered at her feet. Then came a sensation of 
 fear; as if, not being actually human, yet so like 
 humanity, she must therefore be something preter 
 natural. There was, in truth, an indefinable air 
 and expression that might reasonably induce the 
 query who and from what sphere this daughter 
 
22 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 of the oak should be. The strange rich flowers of 
 Eden on her head ; the complexion, so much deeper 
 and more brilliant than those of our native beauties ; 
 the foreign, as it seemed, and fantastic garb, yet not 
 too fantastic to be worn decorously in the street ; 
 the delicately wrought embroidery of the skirt ; 
 the broad gold chain about her neck ; the curious 
 ring upon her finger ; the fan, so exquisitely sculp 
 tured in open work, and painted to resemble pearl 
 and ebony; where could Drowne, in his sober 
 walk of life, have beheld the vision here so match 
 lessly embodied ! And then her face ! In the dark 
 eyes, and around the voluptuous mouth, there played 
 a look made up of pride, coquetry, and a gleam of 
 mirthfulness, which impressed Copley with the idea 
 that the image was secretly enjoying the perplexing 
 admiration of himself and other beholders. 
 
 " And will you," said he to the carver, " permit 
 this master-piece to become the figure-head of a 
 vesse\. ? Give the honest captain yonder figure of 
 Britannia , it will answer his purpose far better, 
 and send this fairy queen to England, where, for 
 aught I know, it may bring you a thousand pounds." 
 
 " I have not wrought it for money," said Drowne. 
 
 " What sort of a fellow is this?" thought Copley. 
 " A Yankee, and throw away the chance of making 
 his fortune ! He has gone mad ; and thence has 
 come this gleam of genius." 
 
 There was still further proof of Browne s lunacy, 
 if credit were due to the rumor that he had been 
 seen kneeling at the feet of the oaken lady, and 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 23 
 
 gazing with a lover s passionate ardor into the face 
 that his own hands had created. The bigots of the 
 day hinted that it would be no matter of surprise if 
 an evil spirit were allowed to enter this beautiful 
 form, and seduce the carver to destruction. 
 
 The fame of the image spread far and wide. The 
 inhabitants visited it so universally, that, after a few 
 days of exhibition, there was hardly an old man or 
 a child who had not become minutely familiar with 
 its aspect. Had the story of Drowne s wooden 
 image ended here, its celebrity might have been 
 prolonged for many years, by the reminiscences of 
 those who looked upon it in their childhood, and 
 saw nothing else so beautiful in after life. But the 
 town was now astounded by an event, the narrative 
 of which has formed itself into one of the most sin 
 gular legends that are yet to be met with in the 
 traditionary chimney-corners of the New England 
 metropolis, where old men and women sit dreaming 
 of the past, and wag their heads at the dreamers of 
 the present and the future. 
 
 One fine morning, just before the departure of 
 the Cynosure on her second voyage to Fayal, the 
 commander of that gallant vessel was seen to issue 
 from his residence in Hanover street. He was 
 stylishly dressed in a blue broadcloth coat, with 
 gold lace at the seams and button-holes, an embroi 
 dered scarlet waistcoat, a triangular hat, with a loop 
 and broad binding of gold, and wore a silver-hilted 
 hanger at his side. But the good captain might 
 have been arrayed in the robes of a prince, or the 
 
24 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 rags of a beggar, without in either case attracting 
 notice, while obscured by such a companion as now 
 leaned on his arm. The people in the street started, 
 rubbed their eyes, and either leaped aside from their 
 path, or stood as if transfixed to wood or marble in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Do you see it? do you see it?" cried one, 
 with tremulous eagerness. " It is the very same ! " 
 
 " The same ? " answered another, who had ar 
 rived in town only the night before. "Who do 
 you mean? I see only a sea-captain in his shore- 
 going clothes, and a young lady in a foreign habit, 
 with a bunch of beautiful flowers in her hat. On 
 my word, she is as fair and bright a damsel as my 
 eyes have looked on this many a day ! " 
 
 "Yes; the same! the very same!" repeated 
 the other. " Drowne s wooden image has come to 
 life ! " 
 
 Here was a miracle indeed ! Yet, illuminated by 
 the sunshine, or darkened by the alternate shade of 
 the houses, and with its garments fluttering lightly 
 in the morning breeze, there passed the image along 
 the street. It was exactly and minutely the shape, 
 the garb, and the face, which the towns-people had 
 so recently thronged to see and admire. Not a rich 
 flower upon her head, not a single leaf, but had its 
 prototype in Drowne s wooden workmanship, al 
 though now their fragile grace had become flexible, 
 and was shaken by every footstep that the wearer 
 made. The broad -gold chain upon the neck was 
 identical with the one represented on the image, 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 25 
 
 and glistened with the motion imparted by the rise 
 and fall of the bosom which it decorated. A real 
 diamond sparkled on her finger. In her right hand 
 she bore a pearl and ebony fan, which she flourished 
 with a fantastic and bewitching coquetry, that was 
 likewise expressed in all her movements, as well as 
 in the style of her beauty and the attire that so 
 well harmonized with it. The face, with its bril 
 liant depth of complexion, had the same piquancy 
 of mirthful mischief that was fixed upon the coun 
 tenance of the image, but which was here varied 
 and continually shifting, yet always essentially the 
 same, like the sunny gleam upon a bubbling foun 
 tain. On the whole, there was something so airy 
 and yet so real in the figure, and withal so perfectly 
 did it represent Drowne s image, that people knew 
 not whether to suppose the magic wood ethereal- 
 ized into a spirit, or warmed and softened into an 
 actual woman. 
 
 " One thing is certain," muttered a Puritan of the 
 old stamp. " Drowne has sold himself to the devil ; 
 and doubtless this gay Captain Hunnewell is a party 
 to the bargain." 
 
 "And I," said a young man who overheard him, 
 "would almost consent to be the third victim, for 
 the liberty of saluting those lovely lips." 
 
 "And so would I," said Copley, the painter, "for 
 the privilege of taking her picture." 
 
 The image, or the apparition, whichever it might 
 be, still escorted by the bold captain, proceeded 
 from Hanover-street through some of the cross- 
 3 
 
26 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 lanes that make this portion of the town so intricate, 
 to Ann-street, thence into Dock-square, and so 
 downward to Drowne s shop, which stood just on 
 the water s edge. The crowd still followed, gather 
 ing volume as it rolled along. Never had a modern 
 miracle occurred in such broad daylight, nor in the 
 presence of such a multitude of witnesses. The 
 airy image, as if conscious that she was the object 
 of the murmurs and disturbance that swelled behind 
 her, appeared slightly vexed and flustered, yet still 
 in a manner consistent with the light vivacity and 
 sportive mischief that were written in her counte 
 nance. She was observed to flutter her fan with 
 such vehement rapidity, that the elaborate delicacy 
 of its workmanship gave way, and it remained 
 broken in her hand. 
 
 Arriving at Drowne s door, while the captain 
 threw it open, the marvellous apparition paused an 
 instant on the threshold, assuming the very attitude 
 of the image, and casting over the crowd that glance 
 of sunny coquetry which all remembered on the 
 face of the oaken lady. She and her cavalier then 
 disappeared. 
 
 " Ah ! " murmured the crowd, drawing a deep 
 breath, as with one vast pair of lungs. 
 
 "The world looks darker, now that she has 
 vanished," said some of the young men. 
 
 But the aged, whose recollections dated as far 
 back as witch times, shook their heads, and hinted 
 that our forefathers would have thought it a pious 
 deed to burn the daughter of the oak with fire. 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 27 
 
 " If she be other than a bubble of the elements," 
 exclaimed Copley, "I must look upon her face 
 again ! " 
 
 He accordingly entered the shop ; and there, in 
 her usual corner, stood the image, gazing at him, 
 as it might seem, with the very same expression of 
 mirthful mischief that had been the farewell look 
 of the apparition when, but a moment before, she 
 turned her face towards the crowd. The carver 
 stood beside his creation, mending the beautiful fan. 
 which by some accident was broken in her hand. 
 But there was no longer any motion in the life-like 
 image, nor any real woman in the workshop, nor 
 even the witchcraft of a sunny shadow, that might 
 have deluded people s eyes as it flitted along the 
 street. Captain Hunnewell, too, had vanished. 
 His hoarse, sea-breezy tones, however, were audible 
 on the other side of a door that opened upon the 
 water. 
 
 " Sit down in the stern sheets, my lady," said the 
 gallant captain. " Come, bear a hand, you lubbers, 
 and set us on board in the turning of a minute- 
 glass." 
 
 And then was heard the stroke of oars. 
 
 " Drowne," said Copley, with a smile of intelli 
 gence, " you have been a truly fortunate man. 
 What painter or statuary ever had such a subject ! 
 No wonder that she inspired a genius into you, and 
 first created the artist who afterwards created her 
 image." 
 
 Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore 
 
28 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 the traces of tears, but from which the light of 
 imagination and sensibility, so recently illuminating 
 it, had departed. He was again the mechanical 
 carver that he had been known to be all his life 
 time. 
 
 " I hardly understand what you mean, Mr. Cop 
 ley," said he, putting his hand to his brow. " This 
 image! Can it have been my work? Well, I 
 have wrought it in a kind of dream j and now that 
 I am broad awake, I must set about finishing yon 
 der figure of Admiral Vernon." 
 
 And forthwith he employed himself on the stolid 
 countenance of one of his wooden progeny, and 
 completed it in his own mechanical style, from 
 which he was never known afterwards to deviate. 
 He followed his business industriously for many 
 years, acquired a competence, and, in the latter 
 part of his life, attained to a dignified station in the 
 church, being remembered in records and traditions 
 as Deacon Drowne, the carver. One of his produc 
 tions, an Indian chief, gilded all over, stood during 
 the better part of a century on the cupola of the 
 Province House, bedazzling the eyes of those who 
 looked upward, like an angel of the sun. Another 
 work of the good deacon s hand, a reduced like 
 ness of friend Captain Hunnewell, holding a tele 
 scope and quadrant, may be seen, to this day, at 
 the corner of Broad and State streets, serving in the 
 useful capacity of sign to the shop of a nautical 
 instrument maker. We know not how to account 
 for the inferiority of this quaint old figure, as com- 
 
BROWNE S WOODEN IMAGE. 29 
 
 pared with the recorded excellence of the Oaken 
 Lady, unless on the supposition, that in every 
 human spirit there is imagination, sensibility, crea 
 tive power, genius, which, according to circumstan 
 ces, may either be developed in this world, or 
 shrouded in a mask of dullness until another state 
 of being. To our friend Drowne, there came a 
 brief season of excitement, kindled by love. It 
 rendered him a genius for that one occasion, but, 
 coienched in disappointment, left him again the 
 mechanical carver in wood, without the power even 
 of appreciating the work that his own hands had 
 wrought. Yet who can doubt, that the very high 
 est state to which a human spirit can attain, in its 
 loftiest aspirations, is its truest and most natural 
 state, and that Drowne was more consistent with 
 himself when he wrought the admirable figure of 
 the mysterious lady, than when he perpetrated a 
 whole progeny of blockheads ? 
 
 There was a rumor in Boston, about this period, 
 that a young Portuguese lady of rank, on some 
 occasion of political or domestic disquietude, had 
 fled from her home in Fayal, and put herself under 
 the protection of Captain Hunnewell, on board of 
 whose vessel, and at whose residence she was shel 
 tered until a change of affairs. This fair stranger 
 must have been the original of Drowne s Wooden 
 Image. 
 
 3* 
 
THE SYRENS. 
 
 BY JAMES R. LOWELL. 
 
 THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, 
 The sea is restless and uneasy ; 
 Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, 
 Wandering thou knowest not whither ; 
 Our little isle is green and breezy, 
 Come and rest thee ! O come hither ! 
 Come to this peaceful home of ours, 
 
 Where evermore 
 
 The low west wind creeps panting up the shore 
 To be at rest among the flowers ; 
 Full of rest, the green moss lifts, 
 
 As the dark waves of the sea 
 Draw in and out of rocky rifts, 
 
 Calling solemnly to thee 
 With voices deep and hollow, 
 " To the shore 
 
 Follow ! O follow ! 
 To be at rest for evermore ! 
 For evermore ! " 
 
 Look how the gray, old Ocean 
 From the depth of his heart rejoices, 
 Heaving with a gentle motion, 
 When he hears our restful voices ; 
 
THE SYRENS. 31 
 
 List how he sings in an undertone, 
 
 Chiming with our melody ; 
 
 And all sweet sounds of earth and air 
 
 Melt into one low voice alone, 
 
 That murmurs over the weary sea, 
 
 And seems to sing from everywhere, 
 
 " Here mayest thou harbor peacefully, 
 
 Here mayest thou rest from the aching oar; 
 
 Turn thy curved prow ashore, 
 And in our green isle rest for evermore ! 
 
 For evermore ! " 
 
 And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, 
 And, to her heart so calm and deep, 
 Murmurs over in her sleep, 
 Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, 
 " Evermore ! " 
 
 Thus, on Life s weary sea, 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sweet, from far and near, 
 Ever singing low and clear, 
 Ever singing longingly. 
 
 Is it not better here to be, 
 Than to be toiling late and soon ? 
 In the dreary night to see 
 Nothing but the blood-red moon 
 Go up and down into the sea ; 
 Or, in the loneliness of day, 
 
 To see the still seals only 
 Solemnly lift their faces gray, 
 
 Making it yet more lonely ? 
 Is it not better, than to hear 
 Only the sliding of the wave 
 Beneath the plank, and feel so near 
 
32 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 A cold and lonely grave, 
 
 A restless grave, where thou shall lie 
 
 Even in death unquietly ? 
 
 Look down beneath thy wave- worn bark, 
 
 Lean over the side and see 
 The leaden eye of the side-long shark 
 
 Upturned patiently, 
 Ever waiting there for thee : 
 Look down and see those shapeless forms, 
 Which ever keep their dreamless sleep 
 Far down within the gloomy deep, 
 And only stir themselves in storms, 
 Rising like islands from beneath, 
 And snorting through the angry spray, 
 As the frail vessel perisheth 
 In the whirls of their unwieldy play ; 
 
 Look down ! Look down ! 
 Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, 
 That waves its arms so lank and brown, 
 
 Beckoning for thee ! 
 
 Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark 
 Into the cold depth of the sea ! 
 Look down ! Look down ! 
 
 Thus, on Life s lonely sea, 
 Heareth the marinere 
 Voices sad, from far and near, 
 Ever singing full of fear, 
 Ever singing drearfully. 
 
 Here all is pleasant as a dream ; 
 The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, 
 The green grass floweth like a stream 
 Into the ocean s blue : 
 Listen ! O listen ! 
 
THE SYRENS. 33 
 
 Here is a gush of many streams, 
 A song of many birds, 
 
 And every wish and longing seems 
 
 Lulled to a numbered flow of words, 
 Listen ! O listen ! 
 
 Here ever hum the golden bees 
 
 Underneath full-blossomed trees, 
 
 At once with glowing fruit and flowers crowned ; 
 
 The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, 
 
 That thy keel will not grate, as it touches the land ; 
 
 All around, with a slumberous sound, 
 
 The singing waves slide up the strand, 
 
 And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, 
 
 The waters gurgle longingly, 
 
 As if they fain would seek the shore, 
 
 To be at rest from the ceaseless roar, 
 
 To be at rest for evermore, 
 For evermore. 
 
 Thus, on Life s gloomy sea, 
 
 Heareth the marinere 
 
 Voices sweet, from far and near, 
 
 Ever singing in his ear, 
 
 " Here is rest and peace for thee ! " 
 
 Nantaskct. 
 
THE LITERATURE OF MIRTH. 
 
 BY EDWIN P. WH1PPLE. 
 
 THE ludicrous side of life, like the serious side, 
 has its literature, and it is a literature of untold 
 wealth. Mirth is a Proteus, changing its shape and 
 manner with the thousand diversities of individual 
 character, from the most superficial gaiety, to the 
 deepest, most earnest humor. Thus, the wit of the 
 airy, feather-brained Farquhar glances and gleams 
 like heat lightning ; that of Milton blasts and burns 
 like the bolt. Let us glance carelessly over this 
 wide field of comic writers, who have drawn new 
 forms of mirthful being from life s ludicrous side, 
 and note, here and there, a wit or humorist. 
 There is the humor of Goethe like his own 
 summer morning, mirthfully clear; and there is 
 the tough and knotty humor of old Ben Jonson, 
 at times ground down at the edge to a sharp- 
 cutting scorn, and occasionally hissing out sting 
 ing words, which seem, like his own Mercury s, 
 " steeped in the very brine of conceit, and sparkle 
 
THE LITERATURE OF MIRTH. 35 
 
 like salt in fire." There is the incessant brilliancy 
 of Sheridan, 
 
 " Whose humor, as gay as the fire-fly s light, 
 
 Played round every subject, and shone as it played ; 
 Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright, 
 Ne er carried a heart-stain away on its blade." 
 
 There is the uncouth mirth, that winds, stutters, 
 wriggles and screams, dark, scornful, and savage, 
 among the dislocated joints of Carlyle s spavined 
 sentences. There is the lithe, springy sarcasm, 
 the hilarious badinage, the brilliant, careless dis 
 dain, which sparkle and scorch along the glistening 
 page of Holmes. There is the sleepy smile that 
 sometimes lies so benignly on the sweet and serious 
 diction of old Isaak Walton. There is the mirth 
 of Dickens, twinkling now in some ironical insinu 
 ation, and anon winking at you with pleasant 
 maliciousness, its distended cheeks fat with sup 
 pressed glee, and then, again, coming out in 
 broad gushes of humor, overflowing all banks and 
 bounds of conventional decorum. There is Sydney 
 Smith, sly, sleek, swift, subtle, a moment s 
 motion, and the human mouse is in his paw ! Mark, 
 in contrast with him, the beautiful heedlessness 
 with which the Ariel-like spirit of Gay pours it 
 self out in benevolent mockeries of human folly. 
 There, in a comer, look at that petulant little man, 
 his features working with thought and pain, his 
 lips wrinkled with a sardonic smile ; and, see ! the 
 immortal personality has received its last point and 
 polish in that toiling brain, and, in a strait, luminous 
 
36 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 line, with a twang like Scorn s own arrow, hisses 
 through the air the unerring shaft of Pope, to 
 
 " Dash the proud gamester from his gilded car, 
 And bare th base heart that lurks beneath a star." 
 
 There, a little above Pope, see Dryden keenly dis 
 secting the inconsistencies of Buckingham s volatile 
 mind, or leisurely crushing out the insect life of 
 Shadwell, 
 
 " owned, without dispute, 
 Throughout the realms of Nonsense, absolute." 
 
 There, moving gracefully through that carpeted 
 parlor, mark that dapper, diminutive Irish gentle 
 man. The moment you look at him, your eyes are 
 dazzled with the whizzing rockets and hissing 
 wheels, streaking the air with a million sparks, 
 from the pyrotechnic brain of Anacreon Moore. 
 Again, cast your eyes from that blinding glare and 
 glitter, to the soft and beautiful brilliancy, the win 
 ning grace, the bland banter, the gliding wit, the 
 diffusive humor, which make you in love with all 
 mankind, in the charming pages of Washington 
 Irving. And now for another change, glance at 
 the jerks and jets of satire, the mirthful audacities, 
 the fretting and teasing mockeries, of that fat, sharp 
 imp, half Mephistopheles, half Falstaff, that cross 
 between Beelzebub and Rabelais, known in all 
 lands as the matchless Mr. Punch. No English 
 statesman, however great his power, no English 
 nobleman, however high his rank, but knows that 
 every week he may be pointed at by the scoffing 
 
THE LITERATURE OF MJRTH. 37 
 
 finger of that omnipotent buffoon, and consigned 
 to the ridicule of the world. The pride of intel 
 lect, the pride of wealth, the power to oppress, 
 nothing can save the dunce or criminal from being 
 pounced upon by Punch, and held up to a derision 
 or execration, which shall ring from London to 
 St. Petersburg!!, from the Ganges to the Oregon. 
 From the vitriol pleasantries of this arch-fiend of 
 Momus, let us turn to the benevolent mirth of Ad- 
 dison and Steele, whose glory it was to redeem 
 polite literature from moral depravity, by showing 
 that wit could chime merrily in with the voice of 
 virtue, and who smoothly laughed away many a 
 vice of the national character, by that humor which 
 tenderly touches the sensitive point with an evan 
 escent grace and genial glee. And here let us not 
 forget Goldsmith, who^e delicious mirth is of that 
 rare quality which lies too deep for laughter ; 
 which melts softly into the mind, suif using it with 
 inexpressible delight, and sending the soul dancing 
 joyously into the eyes to utter its merriment in 
 liquid glances, passing all the expression of tone. 
 And here, though we cannot do him justice, let 
 us remember the name of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
 deserving a place second to none in that band of 
 humorists, whose beautiful depth of cheerful feel 
 ing is the very poetry of mirth. In ease, grace, 
 delicate sharpness of satire, in a felicity of touch 
 which often surpasses the felicity of Addison, in a 
 subtlety of insight which often reaches farther than 
 the subtlety of Steele, the humor of Hawthorne 
 4 
 
38 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 presents traits so fine as to be almost too excellent 
 for popularity, as, to every one who has attempted 
 their criticism, they are too refined for statement. 
 The brilliant atoms flit, hover, and glance before 
 our minds, but the subtle sources of their ethereal 
 light lie beyond our analysis, 
 
 "And no speed of ours avails 
 To hunt upon their shining trails." 
 
 And now, let us breathe a benison on these our 
 mirthful benefactors, these fine revellers among 
 human weaknesses, these stern, keen satirists of 
 human depravity. Wherever Humor smiles away 
 the fretting thoughts of care, or supplies that anti 
 dote which cleanses 
 
 " the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff 
 That weighs upon the heart, " 
 
 wherever Wit riddles folly, abases pride, or stings 
 iniquity, there glides the cheerful spirit, or glit 
 ters the flashing thought, of these bright enemies 
 of stupidity and gloom. Thanks to them, hearty 
 thanks, for teaching us that the ludicrous side of 
 life is its wicked side, no less than its foolish ; that 
 in a lying world there is still no mercy for false 
 hood ; that Guilt, however high it may lift its 
 brazen front, is never beyond the lightnings of 
 scorn ; and that the lesson they teach, agrees with 
 the lesson taught by all experience, that life, in 
 harmony with reason, is the only life safe from 
 laughter, that life, in harmony with virtue, is the 
 only life safe from contempt. 
 
KATHLEEN. 
 
 BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 OH Norah ! lay your Basket down, 
 
 And rest your weary hand, 
 And come and hear me sing a song 
 
 Of our Old Ireland. 
 
 There was a Lord of Galaway, 
 
 A mighty Lord was he ; 
 And he did wed a second Wife, 
 
 A maid of low degree. 
 
 But he was old, and she was young, 
 
 And soe in evil spite, 
 She baked the black Bread for his kin, 
 
 And fed her own with white. 
 
 She whipped the Maids, and starved the kern, 
 
 And drove away the poor ; 
 "Ah, woe is me ! " the old Lord said, 
 
 " I rue my bargain sore ! " 
 
40 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 This Lord he had a Daughter faire, 
 
 Beloved of old and young, 
 And nightly round the shealing fires 
 
 Of her the Gleeman sung. 
 
 "As sweet and good is young Kathleen 
 
 As Eve before her fall ; " 
 So sang the Harper at the Fair, 
 
 So harped he in the Hall. 
 
 " Oh, come to me, my Daughter dear ! 
 
 Come sit upon my knee, 
 For looking in your face, Kathleen, 
 
 Your Mother s own I see ! " 
 
 He smoothed and smoothed her Hair away, 
 He kissed her Forehead fair : 
 
 " It is my darling Mary s brow, 
 It is my darling s hair ! " 
 
 Oh, then spake up the angry Dame, 
 " Get up, get up," quoth she, 
 
 " I 11 sell ye over Ireland, 
 I 11 sell ye o er the sea ! " 
 
 She clipped her glossy Hair away, 
 That none her rank might know, 
 
 She took away her Gown of silk 
 And gave her one of tow, 
 
 And sent her down to Limerick town, 
 
 And to a Captain sold 
 This Daughter of an Irish Lord, 
 
 For ten good Pounds in gold. 
 
KATHLEEN. 41 
 
 The Lord he smote upon his breast, 
 
 And tore his beard so gray ; 
 But he was old, and she was young, 
 
 And so she had her way. 
 
 Sure that same night the Banshee howled 
 
 To fright the evil Dame, 
 And fairy folks, who loved Kathleen, 
 
 With funeral torches came. 
 
 She watched them glancing through the Trees, 
 
 And glimmering down the Hill ; 
 They crept before the dead-vault Door, 
 
 And there they all stood still ! 
 
 " Get up, old Man ! the wake-lights shine ! " 
 " Ye murthering Witch," quoth he ; 
 
 " So I m rid of your tongue, I little care 
 If they shine for you or me." 
 
 " Oh whoso brings my Daughter back, 
 
 My gold and land shall have ! " 
 Oh, then spake up his handsome Page, 
 
 " No gold nor land I crave ! 
 
 " But give to me your Daughter dear, 
 
 And by the Holy Tree 
 Be she on Sea or on the Land, 
 
 I 11 bring her back to thee." 
 
 " My Daughter is a lady born, 
 
 And you of low degree, 
 But she shall be your Bride the day 
 
 Ye bring her back to me." 
 
42 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 He sailed East, he sailed West, 
 And North and South sailed he, 
 
 Until he came to Boston town, 
 Across the great salt Sea. 
 
 " Oh have ye seen the young Kathleen, 
 
 The flower of Ireland? 
 Ye 11 know her by her eyes so blue, 
 
 And by her snow-white hand ! " 
 
 Out spake an ancient man, " I know 
 The Maiden whom ye mean ; 
 
 I bought her of a Limerick man, 
 And she is called Kathleen." 
 
 " No skill hath she in household work, 
 Her hands are soft and white, 
 
 Yet well by loving looks and ways 
 She doth her cost requite." 
 
 So up they walked through Boston town, 
 
 And met a Maiden fair, 
 A little Basket on her arm 
 
 So snowy- white and bare. 
 
 " Come hither Child, and say hast thou 
 This young man ever seen ? " 
 
 They wept within each other s arms, 
 The Page and young Kathleen. 
 
 " Oh give to me this darling child, 
 And take my purse of gold : " 
 
 44 Nay, not by me," her Master said, 
 44 Shall sweet Kathleen be sold." 
 
KATHLEEN. 43 
 
 " We loved her in the place of one 
 
 The Lord hath early ta en ; 
 But since her heart s in Ireland, 
 
 We give her back again ! " 
 
 Oh for that same the Saints in Heaven 
 
 For his poor Soul shall pray, 
 And Holy Mother wash with tears 
 
 His heresies away. 
 
 Sure now they dwell in Ireland, 
 
 As you go up Claremore 
 Ye 11 see their Castle looking down 
 
 The pleasant Galway shore. 
 
 And the old Lord s Wife is dead and gone, 
 
 And a happy man is he, 
 For he sits beside his own Kathleen, 
 
 With her darling on his knee. 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 
 
 BY N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 " Nature there 
 
 Was with thee ; she who loved us both, she still 
 Was with thee ; and even so didst thou become 
 A silent poet ; from the solitude 
 Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart 
 Still couchant, an inevitable ear, 
 And an eye practised like a blind man s touch." 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A SUMMER or two since , I was wasting a college 
 vacation among the beautiful creeks and falls in the 
 neighborhood of New York. In the course of my 
 wanderings, up stream and down stream, sometimes 
 on foot, sometimes on horseback, and never without 
 a book for an excuse to loiter on the mossy banks, 
 and beside the edge of running water, I met fre 
 quently a young man of a peculiarly still and col 
 lected eye, and a forehead more like a broad slab 
 of marble than a human brow. His mouth was 
 small and thinly cut ; his chin had no superfluous 
 flesh upon it ; and his whole appearance was that 
 of a man whose intellectual nature prevailed over 
 the animal. He was evidently a scholar. We had 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 45 
 
 met so frequently at last, that, on passing each 
 other one delicious morning, we bowed and smiled 
 simultaneously, and, without further introduction, 
 entered into conversation. 
 
 It was a temperate day in August, with a clear 
 but not oppressive sun, and we wandered down a 
 long creek together, mineralizing here, botanizing 
 there, and examining the strata of the ravines, 
 with that sort of instinctive certainty of each 
 other s attainments which scholars always feel, and 
 thrusting in many a little wayside parenthesis, 
 explanatory of each other s history and circum 
 stances. I found that he was one of those pure 
 and unambitious men, who, by close application 
 and moderate living while in college, become in 
 love with their books ; and, caring little for any 
 thing more than the subsistence, which philosophy 
 tells them is enough to have of this world, settle 
 down for life into a wicker-bottomed chair, more 
 contentedly than if it were the cushion of a 
 throne. 
 
 We were together three or four days, and when 
 I left him, he gave me his address, and promised to 
 write to me. I shall give below an extract from 
 one of his letters. I had asked him for a history 
 of his daily habits, and any incidents which he 
 might choose to throw in, hinting to him that I 
 was a dabbler in literature, and would be obliged to 
 him if he would do it minutely, and in a form of 
 which I might avail myself in the way of publi 
 cation. 
 
46 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 After some particulars, unimportant to the reader, 
 he proceeds : 
 
 "I keep a room at a country tavern. It is a 
 quiet, out-of-the-way place, with a whole genera 
 tion of elms about it ; and the greenest grass up to 
 the very door, and the pleasantest view in the 
 whole country round, from my chamber window. 
 Though it is a public house, and the word i HOTEL 
 swings in golden capitals under a landscape of two 
 hills and a river, painted for a sign by some wan 
 dering Tinto, it is so orderly a town, that not a 
 lounger is ever seen about the door ; and the noisi 
 est traveller is changed to a quiet man, as if it were 
 by the very hush of the atmosphere. 
 
 " Here, in my pleasant room, upon the second 
 floor, with my round table covered with choice 
 books, my shutters closed just so much as to admit 
 light enough for a painter, and my walls hung with 
 the pictures which adorned my college chambers, 
 and are therefore linked with a thousand delightful 
 associations, I can study my twelve hours a day, 
 in a state of mind sufficiently even and philosophi 
 cal. I do not want for excitement. The animal 
 spirits, thanks to the Creator, are enough at all 
 times, with employment and temperate living, to 
 raise us above the common shadows of life ; and 
 after a day of studious confinement, when my mind 
 is unbound, and I go out and give it up to reckless 
 association, and lay myself open unreservedly to 
 the influences of nature, at such a time, there 
 comes mysteriously upon me a degree of pure joy, 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 47 
 
 unmingled and unaccountable, which is worth years 
 of artificial excitement. The common air seems to 
 have grown rarer ; my step is strangely elastic ; my 
 sense of motion full of unwonted dignity ; my 
 thoughts elevated ; my perceptions of beauty acuter 
 and more pleasurable ; and my better nature pre 
 dominant and sublime. There is nothing in the 
 future which looks difficult, nothing in my ambition 
 unattainable, nothing in the past which cannot be 
 reconciled with good : I am a purer and a better 
 man ; and though I am elevated in my own 
 thoughts, it will not lead to vanity, for my ideas 
 of God, and of my fellow-men, have been enlarged 
 also. This excitement ceases soon ; but it ceases 
 like the bubbling of a fountain, which leaves the 
 waters purer for the influence which has passed 
 through them, not like the mirth of the world, 
 which ebbs like an unnatural tide, and leaves loath 
 someness and disgust. 
 
 " Let no one say that such a mode of life is 
 adapted to peculiar constitutions, and can be relished 
 by those only. Give me the veriest worldling, 
 the most devoted, and the happiest of fashionable 
 ephemera, and if he has material for a thought, and 
 can take pride in the improvement of his nature, I 
 will so order his daily round, that, with temperance 
 and exercise, he shall be happier in one hour spent 
 within himself, than in ten wasted on folly. 
 
 " Few know the treasures in their own bosoms, 
 very few the elasticity and capacity of a well-regu 
 lated mind for enjoyment. The whole world of 
 
48 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 philosophers, arid historians, and poets, seem, to 
 the secluded student, but to have labored for his 
 pleasure ; and as he comes to one new truth and 
 beautiful thought after another, there answers a 
 chord of joy, richer than music, in his heart, 
 which spoils him for the coarser pleasures of the 
 world. I have seen my college chum, a man, 
 who, from a life of mingled business and pleasure, 
 became suddenly a student, lean back in his chair, 
 at the triumph of an argument, or the discovery of 
 a philosophical truth, and give himself up for a few 
 moments to the enjoyment of sensations, which, he 
 assured me, surpassed exceedingly the most vivid 
 pleasures of his life. The mind is like the appetite, 
 when healthy and well-toned, receiving pleasure 
 from the commonest food ; but becoming a disease, 
 when pampered and neglected. Give it time to 
 turn in upon itself, satisfy its restless thirst for 
 knowledge, and it will give birth to health, to 
 animal spirits, to every thing which invigorates the 
 body, while it is advancing by every step the capaci 
 ties of the soul. Oh ! if the runners after pleasure 
 would stoop down by the wayside, they might 
 drink waters better even than those which they 
 see only in their dreams. They will not be told 
 that they have in their possession the golden key 
 which they covet ; they will not know that the 
 music they look to enchant them, is sleeping in 
 their own untouched instruments ; that the lamp 
 which they vainly ask from the enchanter, is burn 
 ing in their own bosoms ! 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 49 
 
 " When I first came here, my host s eldest daugh 
 ter was about twelve years of age. She was, 
 without being beautiful, an engaging child, rather 
 disposed to be contemplative, and, like all children, 
 at that age, very inquisitive and curious. She was 
 shy at first, but soon became acquainted with me ; 
 and would come into my room in her idle hours, 
 and look at my pictures and read. She never dis 
 turbed me, because her natural politeness forbade 
 it; and I pursued my thoughts or my studies just 
 as if she were not there, till, by-and-by, I grew fond 
 of her quiet company, and was happier when she 
 was moving stealthily around, and looking into a 
 book here and there in her quiet way. 
 
 " She had been my companion thus for some 
 time, when it occurred to me that I might be of use 
 to her in leading her to cultivate a love for study. 
 I seized the idea enthusiastically. Now, thought I, 
 I will see the process of a human mind. I have 
 studied its philosophy from books, and now I will 
 take a single original, and compare them, step by 
 step. I have seen the bud, arid the flower full 
 blown, and I am told that the change was gradual, 
 and effected thus, leaf after leaf. Now I will 
 watch the expansion, and while I water it and let 
 in the sunshine to its bosom, detect the secret 
 springs which move to such beautiful results. The 
 idea delighted \ne. 
 
 " I was aware that there was great drudgery in 
 the first steps, and I determined to avoid it, and 
 connect the idea of my own instruction with all 
 5 
 
50 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 that was delightful and interesting to her mind. 
 For this purpose I persuaded her father to send her 
 to a better school than she had been accustomed to 
 attend, and, by a little conversation, stimulated her 
 to enter upon her studies with alacrity. 
 
 " She was now grown to a girl, and had begun 
 to assume the naive, womanly airs which girls do 
 at her age. Her figure had rounded into a flowing 
 symmetry, and her face, whether from associating 
 principally with an older person, or for what other 
 reason I know not, had assumed a thoughtful cast, 
 and she was really a girl of most interesting and 
 striking personal appearance. 
 
 " I did not expect much from the first year of my 
 experiment. I calculated justly on its being irk 
 some and commonplace. Still I was amused and 
 interested. I could hear her light step on the stair, 
 always at the same early hour of the evening, and 
 it was a pleasure to me to say * Come in to her 
 timid rap, and set her a chair by my own, that I 
 might look over her book, or talk in a low tone to 
 her. I then asked her about her lessons, and found 
 out what had most attracted her notice, and I could 
 always find some interesting fact connected with it, 
 or strike off into some pleasant association, till she 
 acquired a habit of selection in her reading, and 
 looked at me earnestly to know what I would say 
 upon it. You would have smiled to see her leaning 
 forward, with her soft blue eye fixed on me, and 
 her lips half parted with attention, waiting for my 
 ideas upon some bare fact in geography or history ; 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 51 
 
 and it would have convinced you that the natural, 
 unstimulated mind takes pleasure in the simplest 
 addition to its knowledge. 
 
 "All this time I kept out of her way every thing 
 that would have a tendency to destroy a taste for 
 mere knowledge, and had the pleasure to see that 
 she passed with keen relish from her text-books to 
 my observations, which were as dry as they, though 
 recommended by kindness of tone and an interested 
 manner. She acquired gradually, by this process, 
 a habit of reasoning upon every thing which admit 
 ted it, which was afterwards of great use in fixing 
 and retaining the leading features of her attain 
 ments. 
 
 " I proceeded in this way till she was fifteen. 
 Her mind had now become inured to regular habits 
 of inquiry, and she began to ask difficult questions 
 and wonder at common things. Her thoughts as 
 sumed a graver complexion, and she asked for books 
 upon subjects of which she felt the want of infor 
 mation. She was ready to receive and appreciate 
 truth and instruction, and here was to begin my 
 pleasure. 
 
 "She came up one evening with an air of embar 
 rassment approaching to distress. She took her 
 usual seat, and told me that she had been thinking 
 all day that it was useless to study any more. 
 There were so many mysterious things ; so much, 
 even that she could see, which she could not ac 
 count for, and, with all her efforts, she got on so 
 slowly, that she was discouraged. It was better, 
 
52 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 she said, to be happy in ignorance, than to be con 
 stantly tormented with the sight of knowledge to 
 which she could not attain, and which she only 
 knew enough to value. Poor child ! she did not 
 know that she was making the same complaint with 
 Newton, and Locke, and Bacon, and that the wisest 
 of men were only gatherers of pebbles on the 
 shore of an illimitable sea. I began to talk to her 
 of the mind. I spoke of its grandeur, and its ca 
 pacities, and its destiny. I told her instances of 
 high attainment and wonderful discovery ; sketched 
 the sublime philosophies of the soul, the possi 
 bility that this life was but a link in a chain of 
 existences, and the glorious power, if it were true, 
 of entering upon another world, with a loftier ca 
 pacity than your fellow-beings for the comprehen 
 sion of its mysteries. I then touched upon the 
 duty of self-cultivation, the pride of a high con 
 sciousness of improved time, and the delicious 
 feelings of self-respect and true appreciation. 
 
 " She listened to me in silence, and wept. It 
 was one of those periods, which occur to all delicate 
 minds, of distrust and fear ; and when it passed by, 
 and her ambition stirred again, she gave vent to her 
 feelings with a woman s beautiful privilege. I had 
 no more trouble to urge her on. She began the next 
 day with the philosophy of the mind, and I was 
 never happier than while following her from step to 
 step in this delightful study. 
 
 " I have always thought that the most triumphant 
 intellectual feeling we ever experience, is felt upon 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 53 
 
 the first opening of philosophy. It is like the inter 
 pretation of a dream of a lifetime. Every topic 
 seems to you like a phantom of your own mind, 
 from which a mist has suddenly melted. Every 
 feature has a kind of half-familiarity, and you re 
 member musing upon it for hours, till you gave it 
 up with an impatient dissatisfaction. Without a 
 definite shape, this or that very idea has floated in 
 your mind continually. It was a phenomenon with 
 out a name, a something which you could not 
 describe to your friend, and which, by-and-by, you 
 came to believe was peculiar to yourself, and would 
 never be brought out or unravelled. You read on, 
 and the blood rushes to your face in a tumultuous 
 consciousness ; you have had feelings in peculiar 
 situations which you could not define, and here are 
 their very features ; and you know now that it was 
 jealousy, or ambition, or love. There have been 
 moments when your faculties seemed blinded or re 
 versed. You could not express yourself at all when 
 you felt you should be eloquent. You could not 
 fix your mind upon the subject, of which, before, 
 you had been passionately fond. You felt an aver 
 sion for your very partialities, or a strange warming 
 in your heart toward people or pursuits that you 
 had disliked ; and when the beauty of the natural 
 world has burst upon you, as it sometimes will, 
 with an exceeding glory, you have turned away 
 from it with a deadly sickness of heart, and a wish 
 that you might die. 
 
54 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 " These are mysteries which are not all soluble 
 even by philosophy. But you can see enough of 
 the machinery of thought to know its tendencies : 
 and like the listener to mysterious music, it is 
 enough to have seen the instrument, without know 
 ing the cunning craft of the player. 
 
 "I remembered my school-day feelings, and lived 
 them over again with my beautiful pupil. I en 
 tered, with as much enthusiasm as she, into the 
 strength and sublimity which I had wondered at 
 before ; and I believe that, even as she sat reading 
 by herself, my blood thrilled, and my pulses quick 
 ened, as vividly as her own, when I saw, by the 
 deepening color of her cheek, or the marked pas 
 sages of my book, that she had found a noble 
 thought or a daring hypothesis. 
 
 " She proceeded with her course of philosophy 
 rapidly and eagerly. Her mind was well prepared 
 for its relish. She said she felt as if a new sense 
 had been given her, an inner eye which she could 
 turn in upon herself, and by which she could, as it 
 were, stand aside while the process of thought went 
 on. She began to respect and to rely upon her own 
 mind, and the elevation of countenance and man 
 ner, which so certainly and so beautifully accom 
 panies inward refinement, stole over her daily. I 
 began to feel respectful in her presence, and when, 
 with the peculiar elegance of a woman s mind, she 
 discovered a delicate shade of meaning which I 
 had not seen, or traced an association which could 
 spring only from an unsullied heart, I experienced a 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 55 
 
 sensation like the consciousness of an unseen pres 
 ence, elevating, without alarming me. 
 
 " It was probably well that with all this change 
 in her mind and manner, her person still retained 
 its childish grace and flexibility. She had not 
 grown tall, and she wore her hair yet as she used 
 to do, falling with a luxuriant fullness upon her 
 shoulders. Hence she was still a child, when, had 
 she been taller or more womanly, the demands upon 
 her attention, and the attractiveness of mature so 
 ciety, might have divided that engrossing interest 
 which is necessary to successful study. 
 
 " I have often wished I was a painter ; but never 
 so much as when looking on this beautiful being 
 as she sat absorbed in her studies, or turned to gaze 
 up a moment to my face, with that delicious ex 
 pression of inquiry and affection. Every one knows 
 the elevation given to the countenance of a man by 
 contemplative habits. Perhaps the natural delicacy 
 of feminine features has combined with its rarity, 
 to make this expression less observable in woman ; 
 but, to one familiar with the study of the human 
 face, there is, in the look of a truly intellectual 
 woman, a keen subtlety of refinement, a separation 
 from every thing gross and material, which comes 
 up to our highest dream of the angelic. For my 
 self, I care not to analyze it. I leave it to philoso 
 phy to find out its secret. It is enough for me that 
 I can see and feel it in every pulse of my being. 
 It is not a peculiar susceptibility. Every man who 
 approaches such a woman feels it. He may not 
 
56 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 define it ; he may be totally unconscious what it 
 is that awes him ; but he feels as if a mysterious 
 and invisible veil were about her, and every dark 
 thought is quenched suddenly in his heart, as if he 
 had come into the atmosphere of a spirit. I would 
 have every woman know this. I would tell every 
 mother who prays nightly for the peculiar watch 
 fulness of good spirits over the purity of her child, 
 that she may weave round her a defence stronger 
 than steel ; that she may place in her heart a liv 
 ing amulet, whose virtue is like a circle of fire to 
 pollution. I am not stringing pearls. I have seen, 
 and I know, that an empty mind is not a strong 
 citadel ; and in the melancholy chronicle of female 
 ruin, the instances are rare of victims distinguished 
 for mental cultivation. I would my pen were the 
 point of a diamond, and I were writing on living 
 hearts ! for when I think how the daughters of a 
 house are its grace and honor ; and when I think 
 how the father and mother that loved her, and the 
 brother that made her his pride, and the sister in 
 whose bosom she slept, are all crushed utterly, by 
 a daughter s degradation, I feel, that if every word 
 were a burning coal, my language could not be 
 extravagant ! 
 
 " My pupil had, as yet, read no poetry. I wag 
 uncertain how to enter upon it. Her taste for the 
 beautiful in prose had become so decided, that I 
 feared for the first impression of my poetical world. 
 I wished it to burst upon her brilliantly, like the 
 entrance to an inner and more magnificent temple 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 57 
 
 of knowledge. I hoped to dazzle her with a high 
 and unimagined beauty, which should exceed far 
 the massive but plain splendors of philosophy. We 
 had often conversed on the probability of a pre 
 vious existence, and one evening I opened Words 
 worth, and read his sublime Ode upon Intimations 
 of Immortality. She did not interrupt me, but I 
 looked up at the conclusion, and she was in tears. 
 I made no remark, but took up Byron, and read some 
 of the finest passages in Childe Harold, and Man 
 fred, and Cain, and, from that time, poetry has 
 been her world ! 
 
 "It would not have been so earlier. It needs the 
 simple and strong nutriment of truth to fit us 
 to relish and feel poetry. The mind must have 
 strength and cultivated taste, and then it is like a 
 language from Heaven. We are astonished at its 
 power and magnificence. We have been familiar 
 with knowledge as with a person of plain garment 
 and a homely presence, and he comes to us in 
 poetry, with the state of a king, glorious in purple 
 and gold. We have known him as an unassuming 
 friend who talked with us by the wayside, and 
 kept us company on our familiar paths j and we 
 see him coming with a stately step, and a glittering 
 diadem on his brow ; and we wonder that we did 
 not see that his plain garment honored him not, and 
 his bearing were fitter for a king ! 
 
 " Poetry entered to the very soul of Caroline 
 Grey. It was touching an unreached string, and 
 she felt as if the whole compass of her heart were 
 
58 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 given out. I used to read to her for hours, and it 
 was beautiful to see her eye kindle, and her cheek 
 burn with excitement. The sublimed mysticism 
 and spirituality of Wordsworth were her delight, 
 and she feasted upon the deep philosophy and half- 
 hidden tenderness of Coleridge. 
 
 " I had observed, with some satisfaction, that, in 
 the rapid development of her mental powers, she 
 had not found time to study nature. She knew 
 little of the character of the material creation, and 
 I now commenced walking constantly abroad with 
 her at sunset, and at all the delicious seasons of 
 moonlight, and starlight, and dawn. It came in 
 well with her poetry. I cannot describe the effect. 
 She became, like all who are, for the first time, 
 made sensible of the glories around them, a wor 
 shipper of the external world. 
 
 " There is a time when nature first loses its famil 
 iarity, and seems suddenly to have become beautiful. 
 This is true even of those who have been taught 
 early habits of observation. The mind of a child 
 is too feeble to comprehend, and does not soon learn, 
 the scale of sublimity and beauty. He would not 
 be surprised if the sun were brighter, or if the stars 
 were sown thicker in the sky. He sees that the 
 flower is beautiful, and he feels admiration at the 
 rainbow ; but he would not wonder if the dyes of 
 the flower were deeper, or if the sky were laced to 
 the four corners with the colors of a prism. He 
 grows up with these splendid phenomena at work 
 about him, till they have become common, and, in 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 59 
 
 their most wonderful forms, cease to attract his 
 attention. Then his senses are suddenly, as by an 
 invisible influence, unsealed, and, like the proselyte 
 of the Egyptian pyramids, he finds himself in a 
 magnificent temple, and hears exquisite music, and 
 is dazzled by surpassing glory. He never recovers 
 his indifference. The perpetual changes of nature 
 keep alive his enthusiasm, and if his taste is not 
 dulled by subsequent debasement, the pleasure he 
 receives from it flows on like a stream, wearing 
 deeper and calmer. 
 
 " Caroline became now my constant companion. 
 The changes of the natural world have always been 
 my chief source of happiness, and I was curious to 
 know whether my different sensations, under dif 
 ferent circumstances, were peculiar to myself. I 
 left her, therefore, to lead the conversation, without 
 any expression of my feelings, and, to my surprise 
 and delight, she invariably struck their tone, and 
 pursued the same vein of reflection. It convinced 
 me of what I had long thought might be true j 
 that there was, in the varieties of natural beauty, a 
 hidden meaning, and a delightful purpose of good ; 
 and, if I am not deceived, it is a new and beautiful 
 evidence of the proportion and extent of God s 
 benevolent wisdom. Thus, you may remember 
 the peculiar effect of the early dawn ; the deep, 
 unruffled serenity, and the perfect collectedness of 
 your senses. You may remember the remarkable 
 purity that pervades the stealing in of color, and 
 the vanishing of the cold shadows of gray ; the 
 
60 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 heavenly quiet that seems infused, like a visible 
 spirit, into the pearly depths of the east, as the 
 light violet tints become deeper in the upper sky, 
 and the morning mist rises up like a veil of silvery 
 film, and softens away its intensity ; and then you 
 will remember how the very beatings of your heart 
 grew quiet, and you felt an irresistible impulse to 
 pray ! There was no irregular delight, no indefinite 
 sensation, no ecstasy. It was deep, unbroken re 
 pose, and your pulses were free from the fever of 
 life, and your reason was lying awake in its cham 
 ber. 
 
 " There is a hush also at noon ; but it is not like 
 the morning. You have been mingling in the busi 
 ness of the world, and you turn aside, weary and 
 distracted for rest. There is a far depth, in the 
 intense blue of the sky which takes in the spirit, 
 and you are content to lie down and sleep in the 
 cool shadow, and forget even your existence. How 
 different from the cool wakefulness of the morning, 
 and yet how fitted for the necessity of the hour ! 
 
 " The day wears on arid comes to the sunsetting. 
 The strong light passes off from the hills, and the 
 leaves are mingled in golden masses, and the tips of 
 the long grass, and the blades of maize, and the luxu 
 riant grain, are all sleeping in a rich glow, as if the 
 daylight had melted into gold and descended upon 
 every living thing like dew. The sun goes down, 
 and there is a tissue of indescribable glory floating 
 upon the clouds, and the almost imperceptible 
 blending of the sunset color with the blue sky, is 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 61 
 
 far up toward the zenith. Presently the pomp of 
 the early sunset passes away ; and the clouds are 
 all clad in purple, with edges of metallic lustre ; and 
 very far in the west, as if they were sailing away 
 into another world, are seen spots of intense bright 
 ness, and the tall trees on the hilly edge of the 
 horizon seem piercing the sky, on fire with its con 
 suming heat. There is a tumultuous joy in the 
 contemplation of this hour, which is peculiar to 
 itself. You feel as if you should have had wings ; 
 for there is a strange stirring in your heart to follow 
 on ; and your imagination bursts away into that 
 beautiful world, and revels among the unsubstantial 
 clouds till they become cold. It is a triumphant 
 and extravagant hour. Its joyousness is an intoxi 
 cation, and its pleasure dies with the day. 
 
 " The night, starry and beautiful, comes on. The 
 sky has a blue, intense almost to blackness, and the 
 stars are set in it like gems. They are of different 
 glory, and there are some that burn, and some that 
 have a twinkling lustre, and some are just visible 
 and faint. You know their nature, and their 
 motion ; and there is something awful in so many 
 worlds moving on through the firmament so silently 
 and in order. You feel an indescribable awe steal 
 ing upon you, and your imagination trembles as it 
 goes up among them. You gaze on, and on, and the 
 superstitions of olden time, and the wild visions of 
 astrology, steal over your memory, till, by-and-by, 
 you hear the music which they i give out as they 
 go, and drink in the mysteries of their hidden 
 6 
 
62 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 meaning, and believe that your destiny is woven 
 by their burning spheres. There comes on you a 
 delirious joy, and a kind of terrible fellowship with 
 their sublime nature, and you feel as if you could 
 go up to a starry place and course the heavens in 
 company. There is a spirituality in this hour, a 
 separation from material things, which is of a fine 
 order of happiness. The purity of the morning, 
 and the noontide quietness, and the rapture of the 
 glorious sunset, are all human and comprehensible 
 feelings ; but this has the mystery and the lofty 
 energy of a higher world, and you return to your 
 human nature with a refreshed spirit and an eleva 
 ted purpose : see now the wisdom of God ! the 
 collected intellect for the morning prayer and our 
 daily duty the delicious repose for our noontide 
 weariness j and the rapt fervor to purify us by 
 night from our worldliness, and keep wakeful the 
 eye of immortality ! They are all suited to our 
 need ; and it is pleasant to think, when we go out 
 at this or that season, that its peculiar beauty is 
 fitted to our peculiar wants, and that it is not a 
 chance harmony of our hearts with nature. 
 
 " The world had become to Caroline a new place. 
 No change in the season was indifferent to her ; 
 nothing was common or familiar. She found beauty 
 in things you would pass by, and a lesson for her 
 mind or her heart in the minutest workmanship of 
 nature. Her character assumed a cheerful dignity, 
 and an elevation above ordinary amusements or 
 annoyances. She was equable and calm, because 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 63 
 
 her feelings were never reached by ordinary irrita 
 tions ; and, if there were no other benefit in culti 
 vation, this were almost argument enough to induce 
 it. 
 
 "It is now five years since I commenced my 
 tutorship. I have given you the history of two of 
 them. In the remaining three there has been much 
 that has interested my mind ; probably little that 
 would interest yours. We have read together, and, 
 as far as possible, studied together. She has walked 
 with me, and shared all my leisure, and known 
 every thought. She is now a woman of eighteen. 
 Her childish graces are matured, and her blue eye 
 would send a thrill through you. You might object 
 to her want of fashionable tournure, and find fault 
 with her unfashionable impulses. I do not. She 
 is a high-minded, noble, impassioned being, with 
 an enthusiasm that is not without reason, and a 
 common sense that is not a regard to self-interest. 
 Her motion was not learned at schools, but it is 
 unembarrassed and free ; and her tone has not 
 been educated to a refined whisper, but it expresses 
 the meaning of her heart, as if its very pulse had 
 become articulate. The many might not admire 
 her ; I know she would be idolized by the few. 
 
 " Our intercourse is as intimate still ; and it could 
 not change without being less so, for we are con 
 stantly together. There is to be sure lately 
 a slight degree of embarrassment and some 
 how we read more poetry than we used to do 
 but it is nothing at all nothing." 
 
64 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 My friend was married to his pupil a few months 
 after writing the foregoing. He has written to me 
 since, and I will show you the letter if you will 
 call, any time. It will not do to print it, because 
 there are some domestic details not proper for the 
 general eye ; but, to me, who am a bachelor, bent 
 upon matrimony, it is interesting to the last degree. 
 He lives the same quiet, retired life, that he did 
 before he was married. His room is arranged with 
 the same taste, and with reference to the same 
 habits as before. The light comes in as timidly 
 through the half-closed window, and his pictures 
 look as shadowy and dim, and the rustle of the 
 turned leaf adds as mysteriously to the silence. He 
 is the fondest of husbands, but his affection does 
 not encroach on the habits of his mind. Now and 
 then he looks up from his book, and, resting his 
 head upon his hand, lets his eye wander over the 
 pale cheek and drooping lid of the beautiful being 
 who sits reading beside him ; but he soon returns 
 to his half-forgotten page, and the smile of affection 
 which had stolen over his features fades gradually 
 away into the habitual soberness of thought. There 
 sits his wife, hour after hour, in the same chair 
 which she occupied when she first carne, a curious 
 loiterer to his room ; and though she does not study 
 so much, because other cares have a claim upon her 
 now, she still keeps pace with him in the pleasanter 
 branches of knowledge, and they talk as often and 
 as earnestly as before on the thousand topics of a 
 scholar s contemplation. Her cares may and will 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 65 
 
 multiply j but she understands the economy of time, 
 and I have no doubt that, with every attention to 
 her daily duties, she will find ample time for her 
 mind, and be always as well fitted as now for the 
 companionship of an intellectual being. 
 
 I have, like all bachelors, speculated a great deal 
 upon matrimony. I have seen young and beautiful 
 women, the pride of gay circles, married, as the 
 world said, well ! Some have moved into costly 
 houses, and their friends have all come and looked 
 at their fine furniture and their splendid arrange 
 ments for happiness, and they have gone away and 
 committed them to their sunny hopes, cheerfully, 
 and without fear. It is natural to be sanguine for 
 the young, and, at such times, I am carried away 
 by similar feelings. I love to get unobserved into 
 a corner, and watch the bride in her white attire, 
 and with her smiling face and her soft eyes moving 
 before me in their pride of life, weave a waking 
 dream of her future happiness, and persuade myself 
 that it will be true. I think how they will sit upon 
 that luxurious sofa as the twilight falls, and build 
 gay hopes, and murmur in low tones the now unfor- 
 bidden tenderness j and how thrillingly the allowed 
 kiss and the beautiful endearments of wedded life, 
 will make even their parting joyous, and how gladly 
 they will come back from the crowd and the empty 
 mirth of the gay, to each other s quiet company. I 
 picture to myself that young creature, who blushes, 
 even now at his hesitating caress, listening eagerly 
 for his footsteps as the night steals on, and wishing 
 
66 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 that he would come ; and when he enters at last, 
 and, with an affection as undying as his pulse, folds 
 her to his bosom, I can feel the very tide that goes 
 flowing through his heart, and gaze with him on 
 her graceful form as she moves about him for the 
 kind offices of affection, soothing all his unquiet 
 cares, and making him forget even himself, in her 
 young and unshadowed beauty. 
 
 I go forward for years, and see her luxuriant hair 
 put soberly away from her brow, and her girlish 
 graces ripened into dignity, and her bright loveliness 
 chastened with the gentle meekness of maternal 
 affection. Her husband looks on her with a proud 
 eye, and shows the same fervent love and delicate 
 attention which first won her j and fair children are 
 growing up about them, and they go on, full of 
 honor and untroubled years, and are remembered 
 when they die ! 
 
 I say I love to dream thus when I go to give the 
 young bride joy. It is the natural tendency of 
 feelings touched by loveliness that fears nothing for 
 itself, and, if I ever yield to darker feelings, it is 
 because the light of the picture is changed. I am 
 not fond of dwelling on such changes, and I will 
 not, minutely, now. I allude to it only because I 
 trust that my simple page will be read by some of 
 the young and beautiful beings who move daily 
 across my path, and I would whisper to them as 
 they glide by, joyously and confidingly, the secret 
 of an unclouded future. 
 
 The picture I have drawn above is not peculiar. 
 
MINUTE PHILOSOPHIES. 67 
 
 It is colored like the fancies of the bride ; and 
 many, oh many an hour will she sit, with her 
 rich jewels lying loose in her fingers, and dream 
 such dreams as these. She believes them, too, 
 and she goes on, for a while, undeceived. The 
 evening is not too long while they talk of their 
 plans for happiness, and the quiet meal is still plea 
 sant with the delightful novelty of mutual reliance 
 and attention. There comes soon, however, a time 
 when personal topics become bare and wearisome, 
 and slight attentions will not alone keep up the 
 social excitement. There are long intervals of 
 silence, arid detected symptoms of weariness, and 
 the husband, first in his impatient manhood, breaks 
 in upon the hours they were to spend together. 
 I cannot follow it circumstantially. There come 
 long hours of unhappy listlessness, and terrible mis 
 givings of each other s worth and affection, till, by- 
 and-by, they can conceal their uneasiness no longer, 
 and go out separately to seek relief, and lean upon 
 a hollow world for the support which one who was 
 their " lover and friend " could not give them ! 
 
 Heed this, ye who are winning, by your innocent 
 beauty, the affections of highminded and thinking 
 beings ! Remember that he will give up the brother 
 of his heart with whom he has had, ever, a fellow 
 ship of mind ; the society of his contemporary 
 runners in the race of fame, who have held with 
 him a stern companionship ; and frequently, in his 
 passionate love, he will break away from the arena 
 of his burning ambition, to come and listen to the 
 
68 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 " voice of the charmer." It will bewilder him at 
 first, but it will not long ; and then, think you that 
 an idle blandishment will chain the mind that has 
 been used, for years, to an equal communion? 
 Think you he will give up, for a weak dalliance, 
 the animating themes of men, and the search into 
 the fine mysteries of knowledge ? Oh no, lady, 
 believe me no ! Trust not your influence to 
 such light fetters ! Credit not the old-fashioned 
 absurdity that woman s is a secondary lot minis 
 tering to the necessities of her lord and master ! It 
 is a higher destiny I would award you. If your 
 immortality is as complete, and your gift of mind 
 as capable as ours of increase and elevation, I would 
 put no wisdom of mine against God s evident allot 
 ment. I would charge you to water the undying 
 bud, and give it healthy culture, and open its beauty 
 to the sun ; and then you may hope, that when 
 your life is bound up with another, you will go on 
 equally, and in a fellowship that shall pervade every 
 earthly interest. 
 
MORNING AND NIGHT. 
 
 BY HARRIET WINSLOW. 
 
 SHE comes ! the universe awakes to greet her, 
 With rapturous joy the heart of nature thrills, 
 
 Bright thoughts and buoyant hopes leap forth to meet her. 
 And life, at her warm glance, the faint heart fills. 
 
 The heavens reflect the azure of her eye, 
 
 The earth gives back her sweet and radiant smile, 
 
 The winds and waters to her voice reply, 
 
 And chant the measure of her step the while. 
 
 Her airy foot-falls scarcely brush the dews, 
 
 And leave, where er they light, a greener trace, 
 
 Her radiant eyes give to the flowers their hues, 
 
 Her breath their fragrance, and her touch their grace. 
 
 Her lustrous hair has caught the sun s bright beams, 
 And robbed them of their gay and golden store ; 
 
 The rainbow she has rifled, and it seems, 
 Enrobing her, to win one grace the more. 
 
70 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Darkness and sin, beneath her searching glances, 
 Shrink swiftly, cowering and abashed away, 
 
 And fear and cankering care, as she advances, 
 Vanish like phantoms that avoid the day. 
 
 She passes on, and ever in her train 
 Follows a joyous troop of rosy hours ; 
 
 O er pride and luxury, misery and pain, 
 
 O er rich and poor alike, her wealth she showers. 
 
 She stops not at the mansions of the great, 
 She gladdens the poor sinner s lonely cell, 
 
 She lights the lowly hut, the halls of state, 
 And lingers fondly where her lovers dwell. 
 
 Gently she passes from the world away, 
 
 And the earth seems a shade less fair and young, 
 
 Yet memory of her, throughout the day, 
 Speeds lightly all the after hours along. 
 
 But daylight dies, and lo ! a loftier presence 
 
 Fills the green courts where late her reign has been 
 
 Her subjects all forsake their old allegiance, 
 And offer homage to a rival queen. 
 
 She comes not, like her younger sister, calling 
 The world to welcome her with song and dance ; 
 
 Lightly and noiselessly her steps are falling, 
 
 And the awed earth is hushed beneath her glance. 
 
 A holier radiance lights her earnest eye, 
 A heavenly halo crowns her paler brow, 
 
 The sense was then a captive willingly, 
 
 The soul bows down with deeper reverence now. 
 
MORNING AND NIGHT. 71 
 
 The moon and stars attend her on her way, 
 And, by their pale and mystic light, reveal 
 
 The grace her every motion doth betray, 
 
 The form her shadowy robes would fain conceal. 
 
 At her approach the flowers, still bending low, 
 Incline their graceful heads in silent prayer, 
 
 And while her gentle hands sweet dews bestow, 
 Their fragrant lips anoint her trailing hair. 
 
 She brings dear visions to the homesick mind, 
 And welcome rest to the overwearied limbs, 
 
 She gives a foretaste of those realms divine, 
 Whose glory and whose purity she hymns. 
 
 Like some sweet strain of music sad and low, 
 Her presence moves the inmost soul, and seems 
 
 To waken memories of long ago, 
 
 To image the beloved we meet in dreams. 
 
 All high and holy mysteries attend her, 
 
 All gentle influences round her throng, 
 And spiritual beings freely lend her 
 
 The glories that to their own spheres belong. 
 
 Kind angel ! without thy alternate reign, 
 Morn were no longer beautiful and bright, 
 
 Her sunniest smile and glance, her sweetest strai 
 Her dearest spell she owes to thee, O Night ! 
 
THE SOLITARY OF SHAWMUT. 
 
 BY J. L. MOTLEY. 
 
 A SOLITARY figure sat upon the summit of Shaw- 
 mut. He was a man of about thirty years of age. 
 somewhat above the middle height, slender in form, 
 with a pale, thoughtful face. He wore a confused, 
 dark-colored, half-canonical dress, with a gray, 
 broad-leaved hat strung with shells, like an ancient 
 palmer s, and slouched back from his pensive brow, 
 around which his prematurely gray hair fell in 
 heavy curls, far down upon his neck. He had a 
 wallet at his side, a hammer in his girdle, and a 
 long staff in his hand. The hermit of Shawmut 
 looked out upon a scene of winning beauty. The 
 promontory resembled rather two islands than a 
 peninsula, although it was anchored to the conti 
 nent by a long slender thread of land, which seemed 
 hardly to restrain it from floating out to join its 
 sister islands, which were thickly strewn about the 
 bay. The peak upon which the hermit sat was 
 the highest of the three cliffs of the peninsula : 
 upon the south-east, and very near him, rose an 
 other hill of lesser height and more rounded form. 
 
THE SOLITARY OF SHAWMUT. 73 
 
 and upon the other side, and towards the north, a 
 third craggy peak presented its bold and elevated 
 front to the ocean. Thus the whole peninsula was 
 made up of three lofty crags. It was from this 
 triple conformation of the promontory of Shawmut, 
 that was derived the appellation of Trimountain, or 
 Tremont, which it soon afterwards received. 
 
 The vast conical shadows were projected east- 
 wardly, as the hermit, with his back to the declining 
 sun, looked out upon the sea. 
 
 The bay was spread out at his feet in a broad semi 
 circle, with its extreme headlands vanishing in the 
 hazy distance, while beyond rolled the vast expanse 
 of ocean, with no spot of habitable earth beyond 
 those outermost barriers, and that far distant father 
 land, which the exile had left forever. Not a 
 solitary sail whitened those purple waves, and 
 saving the wing of the sea-gull, which now and 
 then flashed in the sunshine, or gleamed across the 
 dimness of the eastern horizon, the solitude was at 
 the moment unbroken by a single movement of 
 animated nature. An intense and breathless silence 
 enwrapped the scene with a vast and mystic veil. 
 The bay presented a spectacle of great beauty. It 
 was not that the outlines of the coast around it 
 were broken into those jagged and cloud-like 
 masses, that picturesque and startling scenery, 
 where precipitous crag, infinite abyss, and roaring 
 surge unite to awaken stern and sublime emotions ; 
 on the contrary, the gentle loveliness of this trans 
 atlantic scene inspired a soothing melancholy, more 
 7 
 
74 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 congenial to the contemplative character of its 
 solitary occupant. The bay, secluded within its 
 forest-crowned hills, decorated with its necklace of 
 emerald islands, with its dark blue waters gilded 
 with the rays of the western sun, and its shadowy 
 forests of unknown antiquity, expanding into infi 
 nite depths a.round, was an image of fresh and 
 virgin beauty, a fitting type of a new world, una 
 dorned by art, unploughed by industry, unscathed 
 by war, wearing none of the thousand priceless 
 jewels of civilization, and unpolluted by its thou 
 sand crimes springing, as it were, from the bosom 
 of the ocean, cool, dripping, sparkling, and fresh 
 from the hand of its Creator. 
 
 On the left, as the pilgrim sat with his face to the 
 east, the outlines of the coast were comparatively 
 low, but broken into gentle and pleasing forms. 
 Immediately at his feet lay a larger island, in extent 
 nearly equal to the peninsula of Shawmut, covered 
 with mighty forest trees, and, at that day, unten- 
 anted by a human being, although but a short time 
 afterwards it became the residence of a distin 
 guished pioneer. Outside this bulwark, a chain of 
 thickly wooded islets, stretched across from shore 
 to shore, with but one or two narrow channels 
 between, presenting a picturesque and effectual 
 barrier to the boisterous storms of ocean. They 
 seemed like naiads, those islets lifting above the 
 billows their gentle heads, crowned with the bud 
 ding garlands of the spring, and circling hand in 
 hand, like protective deities about the scene. 
 
THE SOLITARY OF SHAWMUT. 75 
 
 On the south, beyond the narrow tongue of land, 
 which bound the peninsula to the main, and which 
 was so slender that the spray from the eastern side 
 was often dashed across it into the calmer cove of 
 the west, rose in the immediate distance, that long, 
 boldly broken, purple-colored ridge, called the Mas 
 sachusetts, or Mount Arrow Head, by the natives, 
 and by the first English discoverer baptized the 
 Cheviot Hills. On their left, and within the deep 
 curve of the coast, were the slightly elevated 
 heights of Passanogessit or Merry-Mount, and on 
 their right stretched the broad forest, hill beyond 
 hill, away. Towards the west and north-west, the 
 eye wandered over a vast undulating panorama of 
 gently rolling heights, upon whose summits the 
 gigantic pine forests, with their towering tops 
 piercing the clouds, were darkly shadowed upon 
 the western sky, while in the dim distance, far 
 above and beyond the whole, visible only through 
 a cloudless atmosphere, rose the airy summits of 
 the Wachusett, Watatick, and Monadnock Moun 
 tains. Upon the inland side, at the base of the hill, 
 the Q,uinobequin River, which Smith had already 
 christened with the royal name of his unhappy 
 patron, Charles, might be seen writhing in its slow 
 and tortuous course, like a wounded serpent, till it 
 lost itself in the blue and beautiful cove which 
 spread around the whole western edge of the pen 
 insula, and within the same basin, directly opposite 
 the northern peak of Shawmut, advanced the bold 
 and craggy promontory of Mishawum, where Wai- 
 
76 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 ford, the solitary smith, had built his thatched and 
 palisaded house. The blue thread of the River 
 Mystic, which here mingled its waters with the 
 Charles, gleamed for a moment beyond the heights 
 of Mishawum, and then vanished into the frowning 
 forest. 
 
 Such was the scene, upon a bright afternoon of 
 spring, which spread before the eyes of the solitary 
 William Blaxton, the hermit of Shawmut. It was 
 a simple but sublime image, that gentle exile in his 
 sylvan solitude. It was a simple but sublime 
 thought, which placed him and sustained him in 
 his lone retreat. In all ages, there seem to exist 
 men who have no appointed place in the world. 
 They are before their age in their aspirations, above 
 it in their contemplation, but behind it in their 
 capacity for action. Keen to detect the follies and 
 the inconsistencies which surround them, shrinking 
 from the contact and the friction of the rough and 
 boisterous world without, and building within the 
 solitude of their meditations the airy fabric of a 
 regenerated and purified existence, they pass their 
 nights in unproductive study, and their days in 
 dreams. With intelligence bright and copious 
 enough to illuminate and to warm the chill atmos 
 phere of the surrounding world, if the scattered 
 rays were concentrated, but with an inability or 
 disinclination to impress themselves upon other 
 minds, they pass their lives without obtaining a 
 result, and their characters, dwarfed by their dis 
 tance from the actual universe, acquire an apparent 
 
THE SOLITARY OF SHAWMUT. 77 
 
 indistinctness and feebleness, which in reality does 
 not belong to them. 
 
 The impending revolution in church and state, 
 which hung like a gathering thundercloud above 
 England s devoted head, was exciting to the 
 stronger spirits, whether of mischief or of virtue, 
 who rejoiced to mingle in the elemental war, and to 
 plunge into the rolling surge of the world s events ; 
 while to the timid, the hesitating, and the languid, 
 it rose like a dark and threatening phantom, scaring 
 them into solitude, or urging them to seek repose 
 and safety in obscurity. Thus there may be men, 
 whose spirits are in advance of their age, while 
 still the current of the world flows rapidly past 
 them. 
 
 Of such men, and of such instincts, was the 
 solitary who sat on the cliffs of Shawmut. For 
 swearing the country of his birth and early man 
 hood, where there seemed, in the present state of 
 her affairs, no possibility that minds like his could 
 develop or sustain themselves dropping, as it 
 were, like a premature and unripened fruit, from 
 the bough where its blossoms had first unfolded 
 he had wandered into voluntary exile, with hardly 
 a regret. Debarred from ministering at the altar, 
 to which he had consecrated his youth, because 
 unable to comply with mummery at which his soul 
 revolted, he had become a high priest of nature, 
 and had reared a pure and solitary altar in the 
 wilderness. He had dwelt in this solitude for three 
 or four years, and had found in the contemplation 
 7* 
 
78 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 of nature, in the liberty of conscience, in solitary 
 study and self-communing, a solace for the ills he 
 had suffered, and a recompense for the world he 
 had turned his back upon forever. 
 
 His spirit was a prophetic spirit, and his virtues 
 belonged not to his times. In an age which re 
 garded toleration as a crime, he had the courage to 
 cultivate it as a virtue. In an age in which liberty 
 of conscience was considered fearful licentiousness, 
 he left his fatherland to obtain it, and was as ready 
 to rebuke the intolerant tyranny of the noncon 
 formist of the wilderness, as he had been to resist 
 the bigotry and persecution of the prelacy at home. 
 In short, the soul of the gentle hermit flew upon 
 pure white wings before its age, but it flew, like 
 the dove, to the wilderness. Wanting both power 
 and inclination to act upon others, he became not a 
 reformer, but a recluse. Having enjoyed and im 
 proved a classical education at the university of 
 Cambridge, he was a thorough and an elegant 
 scholar. He was likewise a profound observer, and 
 a student of nature in all her external manifesta 
 tions, and loved to theorize and to dream in the 
 various walks of science. The botanical and min- 
 eralogical wonders of the new world were to him 
 the objects of unceasing speculation, and he loved 
 to proceed from the known to the unknown, and to 
 weave fine chains of thought, which to his soaring 
 fancy served to bind the actual to the unseen and 
 the spiritual, and upon which, as upon the celestial 
 ladder in the patriarch s vision, he could dream that 
 
THE SOLITARY OF SHAWMUT. 79 
 
 the angels of the Lord were descending to earth 
 from heaven. 
 
 The day was fast declining, as the solitary still 
 sat upon the peak and mused. He arose as the suri 
 was sinking below the forest-crowned hills which 
 girt his sylvan hermitage, and gazed steadfastly 
 towards the west. 
 
 " Another day," he said, "hath shone upon my 
 lonely path, another day hath joined the buried ages 
 which have folded their wings beneath yon glowing 
 west, leaving in their noiseless flight across this vir 
 gin world no trace nor relic of their passage. T is 
 strange, tis fearful, this eternal and unbroken si 
 lence. Upon what fitful and checkered scenes hath 
 yonder sun looked down in other lands, even in the 
 course of this single day s career. Events, as thickly 
 studded as the stars of heaven, have clustered and 
 shone forth beneath his rays, even as his glowing 
 chariot-wheels performed their daily course ; and 
 here, in this mysterious and speechless world, as if 
 a spell of enchantment lay upon it, the silence is 
 unbroken, the whole face of nature still dewy and 
 fresh. The step of civilization hath not adorned 
 nor polluted the surface of this wilderness. No 
 stately temples gleam in yonder valleys, no storied 
 monument nor aspiring shaft pierces yonder floating 
 clouds ; no mighty cities, swarming with life, filled 
 to bursting with the ten thousand attendants of 
 civilized humanity, luxury and want, pampered 
 sloth, struggling industry, disease, crime, riot, pes 
 tilence, death, all hotly pent within their narrow 
 
80 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 precincts, encumber yon sweeping plains ; no 
 peaceful villages, clinging to ancient, ivy-mantled 
 churches ; no teeming fields, spreading their vast 
 and nourishing bosoms to the toiling thousands, 
 meet this wandering gaze. No cheerful chime of 
 vesper bell, no peaceful low of the returning kine, 
 no watch-dog s bark, no merry shout of children s 
 innocent voices, no floating music from the shep 
 herd s pipe, no old familiar sounds of humanity, 
 break on this listening ear. No snowy sail shines 
 on yon eternal ocean, its blue expanse unruffled 
 and unmarred as the azure heaven ; and ah ! no 
 crimson banners flout the sky, and no embattled 
 hosts shake with their martial tread this silent 
 earth. T is silence and mystery all. Shall it be 
 ever thus ? Shall this green and beautiful world, 
 which so long hath slept invisibly at the side of its 
 ancient sister, still wear its virgin wreath unsoiled 
 by passion and pollution ? Shall this new, vast 
 page in the broad history of man, remain unsullied, 
 or shall it soon flutter in the storm-winds of fate, 
 and be stamped with the same iron record, the same 
 dreary catalogue of misery and crime, which fills 
 the chronicle of the elder world ? T is passing 
 strange, this sudden apocalypse ! Lo ! is it not as 
 if the universe, the narrow universe which bounded 
 men s thoughts in ages past, had swung open, as if 
 by an almighty fiat, and spread wide its eastern 
 and western wings at once, to shelter the myriads 
 of the human race ? " 
 
 The hermit arose, slowly collected a few simples 
 
THE SOLITARY OF SHAWMUT. 81 
 
 which he had culled from the wilderness, a few 
 roots of early spring flowers which he destined for 
 his garden, and stored them in his wallet, and then 
 grasping his long staff, began slowly to descend the 
 hill. 
 
JULY. 
 
 BY THOMA.S W. PARSONS, JR. 
 
 ORION dimly burns to-night, 
 I miss the starry seven, 
 
 And with a mild restraint of light 
 Arcturus walks the heaven ; 
 
 The frog pipes feebly in the fen, 
 The whippoorwill is faint 
 
 With chanting to regardless men 
 His petulant complaint. 
 
 So, June is over, and the race 
 Of fire th electric fly 
 
 Has come her obsequies to grace, 
 And welcome in July. 
 
 The year s great miracle is done, 
 The wonder of the spring, 
 
 And soon, the liberal-handed sun 
 His promised fruit shall bring. 
 
JULY. 83 
 
 Like some fresh marble, the sublime 
 
 Work of immortal hands ! 
 Nature before us, in her prime, 
 
 Almost completed stands. 
 
 And now the dreaming eye foresees 
 
 The sculptor s final stroke, 
 The golden heaps beneath the trees, 
 
 The purpling of the oak. 
 
 Ah ! might we never forward look, 
 
 Or be like insects blind, 
 And in the sunshine and the brook 
 
 Sufficient glory find ; 
 
 Nor think of icy days to come, 
 
 When sun and stream shall fail, 
 And all these branches, bare and numb, 
 
 Creak in December s gale ; 
 
 Then might we hail this radiant moon 
 
 With more confiding joy, 
 Nor dread the solemn law that soon 
 
 This beauty shall destroy. 
 
 So might I, dearest, fast by thee, 
 
 And breathing in thy breath, 
 Forget how soon thy smile must be 
 
 The sad, fixed smile of death. 
 
COCHITUATE LAKE. 
 
 BY NEHEMIAH ADAMS. 
 
 A LARGE extent of water, at some distance from 
 this city, and to most of its inhabitants unknown 
 till within a few years, is soon to be on its way 
 into the streets and dwellings of this place. At 
 what time the fountains were first opened there, 
 and the valley was filled with them, the memory 
 of man gives us no information. Tradition speaks 
 of it as known to the aborigines. The waters, 
 however, have survived all traces of those who 
 roamed over those hills, hid in those swamps, or 
 pursued their game over the frozen lake. For 
 centuries the embosomed water has reflected the 
 image of the heavens from its eye ever lifted 
 upward, as though it were waiting for the purpose 
 of God, in its creation, to appear. That purpose 
 has long been concealed and delayed. The snows 
 of myriads of winters, " likewise the small rain, 
 and the great rain of His strength," have descended 
 into it ; secret springs have been contributing to its 
 depth and amplitude ; it has been full, year after 
 year ; but still the purpose of God with regard to 
 
COCHITUATE LAKE. 85 
 
 it has not been made manifest. The leaves of 
 uncounted autumns have fallen round it j the nuts 
 and berries in successive harvests have perished 
 there ; by it the fowls of heaven have had their 
 habitation, which sing among the branches ; the 
 monthly " changes of the watery star " have passed 
 over it age after age ; but not till the present year 
 has it begun to serve any purpose commensurate 
 with its value. 
 
 When the appointed time arrives for the execu 
 tion of any great purpose of God, that time, could 
 we but understand it, is, in his view, the best time ; 
 as when important purposes are at length about to 
 be fulfilled by us, the need of them, or the prepa 
 ration for them, and the means to accomplish them, 
 then, and not till then, seem to be complete. In 
 the mean time, God is not unmindful of the end to 
 be accomplished. He regards more interests than 
 we are acquainted with ; he sees the need of prepa 
 rations, of which we have no conception. So in 
 the delay of introducing the waters of a lake into a 
 city ; we know not how necessary it may have 
 been that the secret springs should have had longer 
 time to strengthen themselves, and wear for them 
 selves larger openings into the lake ; or what slow, 
 chemical changes it was necessary should be ac 
 complished in the waters, before they were in the 
 highest degree fitted for the use of the great city. 
 The utilitarian, as he drinks from this well, may 
 hereafter be tempted to say, in thinking how long 
 the lake has been comparatively useless, and how 
 8 
 
86 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 much the city has needed it, " To what purpose 
 is this waste ? " He would have all the resources 
 of the earth and sea developed in a day ; if there 
 are any more planets in our system undiscovered, 
 he would have them show themselves forthwith ; 
 he proposes to cure all the evils of the moral system 
 by a short logic ; but still, the ways of" Infinite 
 Wisdom, which are deliberate and continually pro 
 gressive, are the best, and God will hasten every 
 thing in its time. No one of us foresaw that by the 
 delay of our great project until the present year, a 
 considerable amount in the cost of the iron would 
 be saved, through the recent enactment with regard 
 to the tariff. Thus we shall always find, that, if 
 we are not slothful, though we may be disappointed 
 and hindered in the execution of our plans, God s 
 time is always the best time ; it is unwise to hasten 
 it by rash expedients, and when it comes, all things 
 will fall into subserviency to it, and men will be 
 made willing in the day of its power. 
 
 An abundant supply of water has been stored up 
 for this city, kept in the good providence of God 
 for the time of our greatest need, and is now on its 
 way to make us glad. Once, few of us were aware 
 what blessings were in store for us in that lake. 
 One of the most interesting things connected with 
 the preparations for the water, is, a ground-plan of 
 the city, prepared in order to ascertain the necessary 
 amount of iron pipe, and to guide the workmen in 
 laying it. The city has thus been accurately sur 
 veyed and measured. Each intersection of the 
 
COCHITUATE LAKE. 87 
 
 streets and the opening into each court is to be 
 provided with an iron cross-pipe, cast at an angle 
 corresponding with the angle of intersection. Thus, 
 no place where the water will be needed, has been 
 overlooked, the purpose being to bring the water, 
 not merely into the city, but to each man s door. 
 
 All things being finished, the joyful day will 
 come, when the waters will make their entrance 
 into the city. The " ashlar " will be in its place, 
 the " arch-stone " will have been secured, the 
 straight and the crooked pipes will all be adjusted, 
 the thirsty reservoirs will wait for their supplies, 
 the beautiful decorations for the fountains will be 
 prepared, and many will be assembled to see the 
 sportive water leaping from them. In the dwellings 
 the approach of the day will excite as much enthu 
 siasm, as the day of national independence and its 
 entertainments. The children will many times 
 have had their hands upon the faucets, tempting 
 the streams, and the whole household will partake 
 of the same pleasurable expectation, perhaps in 
 doubt whether to remain within doors to welcome 
 the coming blessing, or to meet with the eager 
 multitude without. At a given signal, it may be, 
 the waters will be let in, gradually, and with in 
 creasing strength, filling the great reservoir within 
 the city, and then descending from it in haste to 
 smile in every household. All at once the city will 
 have an abundant supply of water. " Joy and 
 gladness will be found therein, thanksgiving and 
 the voice of melody." Man and beast will receive 
 
88 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 a common blessing. The rich will be as grateful 
 as the poor, and the poor will not envy the rich. 
 The distant lake will pour itself abroad upon a 
 hundred thousand grateful hearts ; it will stimulate 
 its unseen sources to supply the demands upon its 
 benevolence ; and the whole structure, so compli 
 cated in its preparation, and composed of such 
 various materials, will become one great monument 
 of divine goodness, and of human energy. When 
 I think of the joy of this whole city at the accom 
 plishment of this work ; when I see the influence 
 which it is to exert upon the comfort and the 
 happiness and the welfare of this place, I am 
 tempted to use these words in a different sense, 
 indeed, from that in which they were spoken, and 
 say, " Who shall live when God doeth this? " It 
 will be a favor to live and partake of the joy, and 
 exult in the blessings which are to flow abroad 
 here in such a stream. Let us rejoice and give 
 thanks in anticipation. " Spring up, O well ; sing 
 ye unto it." Let us cheer the hearts and encourage 
 the hands of those Avho are entrusted with this 
 noble enterprise, in such ways as we may, and at 
 last gratefully identify their names and memories 
 with it. As we see the work proceeding, and 
 when it is finished, let us " worship Him that made 
 heaven, and earth, arid the sea ; and the fountains 
 of waters." 
 
THE MORNING VISIT. 
 
 BY O. W. HOLMES. 
 
 A SICK man s chamber, though it often boast 
 The grateful presence of a literal toast, 
 Can hardly claim amidst its various wealth 
 The right, unchallenged, to propose a health ; 
 Yet though its tenant is denied the feast, 
 Friendship must launch his sentiment at least, 
 As prisoned damsels, locked from lovers lips, 
 Toss them a kiss from off their fingers tips. 
 
 The Morning Visit ; not till sickness falls, 
 In the charmed circle of your own safe walls ; 
 Till fever s throb, and pain s relentless rack 
 Stretch you, all helpless, on your aching back ; 
 Not till you play the patient in your turn, 
 The morning visit s mystery shall you learn. 
 
 Tis a small matter in your neighbor s case, 
 To charge your fee for showing him your face ; 
 You skip up stairs, inquire, inspect and touch, 
 Prescribe, take leave, and off to twenty such. 
 8* 
 
90 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 But when at length, by fate s transferred decree, 
 
 The visitor becomes the visitee, 
 
 O then, indeed, it pulls another string, 
 
 Your ox is gored, and that s a different thing ! 
 
 Your friend is sick ; phlegmatic as a Turk, 
 
 You write your recipe and let it work ; 
 
 Not yours to stand the shiver and the frown, 
 
 And sometimes worse with which your draught goes down ; 
 
 Calm as a clock your knowing hand directs, 
 
 Rhei, Jalapa, ana grana sex, 
 
 Or traces on some tender missive s back, 
 
 Scrupulos duos pulveris Ipecac. ; 
 
 And leaves your patient to his qualms and gripes, 
 
 Cool as a sportsman banging at his snipes. 
 
 But change the time, the person, and the place, 
 And be yourself the " interesting case," 
 You ll gain some knowledge which it s well to learn, 
 In future practice it may serve your turn. 
 Leeches, for instance, pleasing creatures quite, 
 Try them. and, bless you, don t you find they bite ? 
 You raise a blister for the smallest cause, 
 But be yourself the great sublime it draws, 
 And trust my statement, you will not deny, 
 The worst of draughtsmen is your Spanish Fly ! 
 It/s mighty easy, ordering when you please, 
 Infusi Senna, capiat uncias tres ; 
 It s mighty different when you quackle down, 
 Your own three ounces of the liquid brown. 
 Pilula, pulvis, pleasant words enough, 
 When other jaws receive the shocking stuff; 
 But oh, what flattery can disguise the groan, 
 That meets the gulp which sends it through your own ! 
 
THE MORNING VISIT. 91 
 
 Be gentle, then, though Art s unsparing rules 
 Give you the handling of her sharpest tools ; 
 Use them not rashly, sickness is enough, 
 Be always " ready," but be never " rough." 
 
 Of all the ills that suffering man endures, 
 The largest fraction liberal Nature cures ; 
 Of those remaining, tis the smallest part 
 Yields to the efforts of judicious Art ; 
 But simple kindness kneeling by the bed, 
 To shift the pillow for the sick man s head, 
 Give the fresh draught to cool the lips that burn, 
 Fan the hot brow, the weary frame to turn ; 
 Kindness, untutored by our grave M. D.s, 
 But Nature s graduate, whom she schools to please, 
 Wins back more sufferers with her voice and smile, 
 Than all the trumpery in the druggist s pile. 
 
 Once more, be quiet , coming up the stair, 
 Don t be a plantigrade, a human bear, 
 But stealing softly on the silent toe, 
 Reach the sick chamber ere you re heard below. 
 Whatever changes there may greet your eyes, 
 Let not your looks proclaim the least surprise ; 
 It s not your business by your face to show, 
 All that your patient does not want to know ; 
 Nay, use your optics with considerate care, 
 And don t abuse your privilege to stare. 
 But if your eyes may probe him overmuch, 
 Beware still further how you rudely touch ; 
 Don t clutch his carpus in your icy fist, 
 But warm your fingers ere you take the wrist ; 
 If the poor victim needs must be percussed, 
 Don t make an anvil of his aching bust ; 
 
92 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 (Doctors exist within a hundred miles, 
 Who thump a thorax as they d hammer piles.) 
 If you must listen to his doubtful chest, 
 Catch the essentials and ignore the rest, 
 Spare him ; the sufferer wants of you and art 
 A track to steer by, not a finished chart ; 
 So of your questions, don t in mercy try 
 To pump your patient absolutely dry, 
 He s not a mollusc squirming in a dish, 
 You re not Agassiz, and he s not a fish. 
 
 And last, not least, in each perplexing case, 
 Learn the sweet magic of a cheerful face, 
 Not always smiling, but at least serene, 
 When grief and anguish cloud the anxious scene. 
 Each look, each movement, every word and tone, 
 Should tell your patient you are all his own ; 
 Not the mere artist, purchased to attend, 
 But the warm, ready, self- forgetting friend, 
 Whose genial visit in itself combines 
 The best of cordials, tonics, anodynes. 
 
 Such is the Visit, that from day to day 
 Sheds o er my chamber its benignant ray. 
 I give his health, who never cared to claim, 
 Her babbling homage from the tongue of Fame ; 
 Unmoved by praise, he stands by all confest, 
 The truest, noblest, wisest, kindest, best ! 
 
 Boston, May 30, 1849. 
 
THE FATAL SECRET. 
 
 By DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 AN aged man, without an enemy in the world, in 
 his own house, and in his own bed, is made the 
 victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. Deep 
 sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all 
 beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom 
 sleep was sweet, the first sound slumbers of the 
 night held him in their soft but strong embrace. 
 The assassin enters, through the window already 
 prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With 
 noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted 
 by the moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, 
 and reaches the door of the chamber. Of this, he 
 moves the lock, by soft and continued pressure, till 
 it turns on its hinges without noise ; and he enters, 
 and beholds his victim before him. The room was 
 uncommonly open to the admission of light. The 
 face of the innocent sleeper was turned from the 
 murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on 
 the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him 
 where to strike. The fatal blow is given ! and the 
 victim passes, without a struggle or a motion, from 
 
94 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 the repose of sleep to the repose of death ! It is the 
 assassin s purpose to make sure work ; and he yet 
 plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life 
 had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. 
 He even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail 
 in his aim at the heart, and replaces it again over 
 the wounds of the poniard ! To finish the picture, 
 he explores the wrist for the pulse ! He feels for it, 
 and ascertains that it beats no longer ! It is accom 
 plished. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces 
 his steps to the window, passes out through it as 
 he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder, 
 no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The 
 secret is his own, and it is safe ! 
 
 Ah ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. 
 Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole 
 creation of God has neither nook nor corner, where 
 the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. Not 
 to speak of that eye which glances through all dis 
 guises, and beholds every thing, as in the splendor 
 of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from 
 detection, even by men. True it is, generally 
 speaking, that "murder will out." True it is, that 
 Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern 
 things, that those who break the great law of 
 heaven, by shedding man s blood, seldom succeed 
 in avoiding discovery. Especially, in a case exciting 
 so much attention as this, discovery must come, and 
 will come, sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn 
 at once to explore every man, every thing, every 
 circumstance, connected with the time and place ; 
 
THE FATAL SECRET. 95 
 
 a thousand ears catch every whisper ; a thousand 
 excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shed 
 ding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest 
 circumstance into a blaze of discovery. Meantime, 
 the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is 
 false to itself; or rather it feels an irresistible im 
 pulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors 
 under its guilty possession, and knows not what to 
 do with it. The human heart was not made for 
 the residence of such an inhabitant. It finds itself 
 preyed on by a torment, which it dares not ac 
 knowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring 
 it, and it can ask no sympathy or assistance, either 
 from heaven or earth. The secret which the mur 
 derer possesses soon comes to possess him; and, 
 like the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes 
 him, and leads him whithersoever it will. He feels 
 it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and 
 demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world 
 sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost 
 hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. 
 It has become his master. It betrays his discretion, 
 it breaks down his courage, it conquers his pru 
 dence. When suspicions, from without, begin to 
 embarrass him, and the net of circumstance to 
 entangle him, the fatal secret struggles with still 
 greater violence to burst forth. It must be con 
 fessed, it will be confessed, there is no refuge from 
 confession but suicide, and suicide is confession. 
 
THE JINGKO TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 
 
 BY JACOB BIGELOW. 
 
 THOU queer, outlandish, fan-leaved tree, 
 Whose grandfather came o er the sea, 
 
 A pilgrim of the ocean, 
 Didst thou expect to gather gear 
 By selling out thy chopsticks here ? 
 
 What a mistaken notion ! 
 
 Hard times, methinks, have been thy fate, 
 Such as have played the deuce of late, 
 
 With men s estates and purses, 
 Since, on thy native mount secure, 
 Thou deem dst thy title safe and sure, 
 
 Nor dream dst of such reverses. 
 
 They dealt thee many a sturdy thump, 
 They digged the earth beneath thy stump, 
 
 And left thee high and dry ; 
 The spot, which once thy roots did bore, 
 Is now the garret of a store, 
 
 And earth is changed to sky. 
 
THE JINGKO TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 97 
 
 They dragged thee sweeping through the street, 
 They set thee up upon thy feet, 
 
 And bade thee sink or swim ; 
 For many a month t was quite a doubt, 
 If thou could st possibly hold out, 
 
 Thou look dst so very slim. 
 
 And every morn a motley crew 
 Of idling loungers came to view 
 
 Thy withered limbs on high ; 
 And many a knowing look was there, 
 While some, that thou would st live, did swear, 
 
 And some that thou would st die. 
 
 Some shook their heads, and hinted fear, 
 It cost so much to move thee here, 
 
 That taxes would be cruel ; 
 And some exclaimed, what pity twas, 
 In these hard times, t incur the loss 
 
 Of half a cord of fuel. 
 
 But thou, most grave and sapient tree, 
 Their idle talk was nought to thee, 
 
 Yet could not be prevented : 
 So thou did st wave thy breezy head, 
 And nod assent to all they said, 
 
 And send them home contented. 
 
 Meanwhile thou didst resort to toil, 
 Send forth small roots in quest of soil, 
 
 And husband well thy gains ; 
 Two years thou mad st but little show, 
 But let thy useless trimmings go, 
 
 And liv dst within thy means. 
 9 
 
98 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Dear Jingko, in these days of dread, 
 Methinks a lesson may be read, 
 
 In thy lorn situation ; 
 Thy story might perhaps impart 
 To many a vexed and drooping heart 
 
 Some hints of consolation. 
 
 Tell them that thou too hast been distressed, 
 And found thyself at times quite pressed 
 
 For want of friendly propping ; 
 When none who witnessed thy mishap, 
 Would lend thee half a gill of sap 
 
 To save thee even from stopping. 
 
 Tell them how low thy credit sank, 
 And how they ran upon thy lank, 
 
 And cleared thy vaults profound ; 
 How thy supplies were all cut off, 
 And sure thy stock was low enough 
 
 When flat upon the ground. 
 
 But thou, brave tree, didst not despair, 
 But heldest up thy head in air, 
 
 And wast not seen to flinch ; 
 Thou let st them know for very spunk 
 Thou still hadst something in thy trunk 
 
 To serve thee at a pinch. 
 
 So when thou hadst set up again, 
 Although thy garb was rather plain, 
 
 Thy garments old and dusted, 
 Yet men, who saw thy frugal ways, 
 Remembering such in earlier days, 
 
 Believed thou might st be trusted. 
 
THE JINGKO TREE ON BOSTON COMMON. 99 
 
 The birds, thy customers of yore, 
 
 To thy new stand came back once more 
 
 As an established place ; 
 It made thy heavy heart feel light 
 When they discharged their bills at sight, 
 
 And paid their notes with grace. 
 
 And so thou hast survived thy fall, 
 And fairly disappointed all 
 
 Who thought to see thee down ; 
 And better days are stored for thee, 
 Long shalt thou live, triumphant tree, 
 And spread thy foliage broad and free, 
 
 A credit to the town. 
 
THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 
 
 BY EPHRAIM PEABODY. 
 
 HERE is a whaling vessel in the harbor, her 
 anchors up and her sails unfurled. The last boat 
 has left her, and she is now departing on a voyage 
 of three, and, perhaps, four years in length. All 
 that the eye sees, is, that she is a strong ship, well- 
 manned and well-provided for the seas. Those 
 on board will spend years of toil, and will then 
 return, while the profits of the voyage will be 
 distributed, as the case may be, to be squandered, 
 or to be added to already existing hoards. So 
 much appears. But there is an unpublished his 
 tory, which, could it be revealed and brought 
 vividly before the mind, would transfigure her, and 
 enshrine her in an almost awful light. 
 
 There is not a stick of timber in her whole 
 frame, not a plank or a rope, which is not, in some 
 mysterious way, enveloped with human interests 
 and sympathies. Let us trace this part of her 
 history, while she circles the globe and returns to 
 the harbor from which she sailed. At the outset, 
 the labor of the merchant, the carpenter, and of all 
 
THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 101 
 
 employed on her, has not been mere sordid labor. 
 The thought of their homes, of their children, and 
 of what this labor may secure for them, has been in 
 their hearts. 
 
 And they who sail in her, leave behind, homes, 
 wives, children, parents; and years before they 
 return, those who are dearest to them may be in 
 their tombs. What bitter partings, as if by the 
 grave s brink, are those which take place when the 
 signal to unmoor calls them on board. There are 
 among them, young men, married, perhaps, but a 
 few weeks before, and those of maturer years, 
 whose young children cleave to their hearts as they 
 go. How deeply, as the good ship sails out into 
 the open sea, is she freighted with memories and 
 affections. Every eye is turned towards the reced 
 ing coast, as if the pangs of another farewell were 
 to be endured. Fade slowly, shores that encircle 
 their homes ! Shine brightly, ye skies, over those 
 dear ones whom they leave behind ! They round 
 the capes of continents, they traverse every zone, 
 their keel crosses every sea, but still, brighter than 
 the southern cross or the polar star, shines on their 
 souls the light of their distant home. In the calm 
 moonlight rise before the mariner the forms of those 
 whom he loves ; in the pauses of the gale he hears 
 the voices of his children. Beat upon by the tem 
 pest, worn down with labor, he endures all. Wel 
 come care and toil, if these may bring peace and 
 happiness to those dear ones, who meet around his 
 distant fireside ! 
 
 9* 
 
102 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 And the thoughts of those in that home, com 
 passing the globe, follow him wherever he goes. 
 Their prayers blend with all the winds which swell 
 his sails. Their affections hover over his dreams. 
 Children count the months and the days of a father s 
 absence. The babe learns to love him and to lisp 
 his name. Not a midnight storm strikes their dwell 
 ing, but the wife starts from her sleep, as if she 
 heard, in the wailings of the wind, the sad fore 
 bodings of danger and wreck. Not a soft wind 
 blows, but comes to her heart as a gentle messenger 
 from the distant seas. 
 
 And after years of absence, they approach their 
 native shores. As the day closes, they can see the 
 summits of the distant highlands, hanging like 
 stationary clouds on the horizon. And long before 
 the night is over, their sleepless eyes catch the light 
 glancing across the rim of the seas, from the light 
 house at the entrance of the bay. With the morn 
 ing they are moored in the harbor. The newspapers 
 announce her arrival. But here again, how little of 
 her cargo is of that material kind which can be 
 reckoned in dollars and cents. She is freighted 
 with human hearts, with anxieties and hopes and 
 fears. Many of the crew have not dared to ask 
 the pilot of home. The souls of many, yesterday 
 full of joyful expectation, are now overshadowed 
 with anxiety. They almost hesitate to leave the 
 ship, and pause for some one from the shore to 
 answer those questions of home and of those 
 they love, which they dare not utter. There are 
 
THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 103 
 
 many joyful meetings, and some that are full of 
 sorrow. 
 
 Let us follow one of this crew. He is still a 
 youth. Years ago, of a wild, and reckless, and 
 roving spirit, he left his home. He had fallen into 
 temptations which had been too strong for his feeble 
 virtue. His feet had been familiar with the paths 
 of sin and shame. But during the present voyage, 
 sickness and reflection have " brought him to him 
 self." Full of remorse for evil courses, and for that 
 parental love which he has slighted, he has said, 
 " I will arise and go to my father s house ; " they 
 who gave me birth shall no longer mourn over me 
 as lost. I will smooth the pathway of age for 
 them, and be the support of their feeble steps. He 
 is on his way to where they dwell in the country. 
 As the sun is setting, he can see, from an eminence 
 over which the road passes, their solitary home on 
 a distant hill-side. O scene of beauty, such as, to 
 him, no other land can show ! There is the church, 
 here a school-house, and the abodes of those whom 
 he knew in childhood. He can see the places 
 where he used to watch the golden sunset, not, as 
 now, with a heart full of penitence, and fear, and 
 sorrow for wasted years, but in the innocent days 
 of youth. There are the pastures and the woods, 
 where he wandered full of the dreams and hopes of 
 childhood, fond hopes and dreams that have issued 
 in such sad realities. The scene to others would 
 be but an ordinary one. But to him, the spirit 
 gives it life. It is covered all over with the golden 
 
104 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 hues of memory. His heart leaps forward to his 
 home, but his feet linger. May not death have 
 been there ? May not those lips be hushed in the 
 silence of the grave, from which he hoped to hear 
 the words of love and forgiveness. He pauses on 
 the way, and does not approach till he beholds a 
 light shining through the uncurtained windows of 
 the humble dwelling. And even now his hand is 
 drawn back, which was raised to lift the latch. He 
 would see if all are there. With a trembling 
 heart he looks into the window, and there, 
 blessed sight ! he beholds his mother, busy as 
 was her wont, and his father, only grown more 
 reverend with increasing age, reading that holy 
 book which he taught his son to revere, but 
 which that son has so forgotten. But there were 
 others ; and lo ! one by one they enter, young 
 sisters, who, when he last saw them, were but 
 children that sate on the knee, but who have now 
 grown up almost to womanly years. And now 
 another fear seizes him. How shall they receive 
 him? May not he be forgotten? May they not 
 reject him ? But he will, at least, enter. He raises 
 the latch ; with a heart too full for utterance, he 
 stands silent and timid in the doorway. The father 
 raises his head, the mother pauses and turns to look 
 at the guest who enters. It is but a moment, when 
 burst from their lips the fond words of recognition, 
 my son ! my son ! Blessed words, which have 
 told, so fully that nothing remains to be told, the 
 undying strength of parental love. To a traveller, 
 
THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. L05 
 
 who might that night have passed this cottage 
 among the hills, if he had observed it at all, it would 
 have spoken of nothing but daily toil, of decent 
 comfort, of obscure fortunes. Yet at that very 
 hour, it was filled with thanksgivings which rose 
 like incense to the heavens, because that " he who 
 was lost, was found j and he that was dead, was 
 alive again." 
 
 Thus ever under the visible is the invisible. 
 Through dead material forms circulate the currents 
 of spiritual life. Desert rocks, and seas, and shores, 
 are humanized by the presence of man, and become 
 alive with memories and affections. There is a life 
 which appears, and under it, in every heart, is a life 
 which does not appear, which is, to the former, as 
 the depths of the sea to the waves, and the bubbles, 
 and the spray, on its surface. There is not an 
 obscure house among the mountains, where the 
 whole romance of life, from its dawn to its setting, 
 through its brightness and through its gloom, is not 
 lived through. The commonest events of the day 
 are products of the same passions and affections, 
 which, in other spheres, decide the fate of king 
 doms. Outwardly, the ongoings of ordinary life 
 are like the movements of machinery, lifeless, 
 mechanical, common-place repetitions of the same 
 trifling events. But they are neither lifeless, nor 
 old, nor trifling. The passions and affections make 
 them ever new and original, and the most unimpor 
 tant acts of the day reach forward in their results 
 into the shadows of eternity. 
 
SANTA CROCE. 
 
 BY EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 NOT chiefly for thy storied towers and halls, 
 For the bright wonders of thy pictured walls ; 
 Not for the olive s wealth, the vineyard s pride, 
 That crown thy hills, and teem on Arno s side, 
 Dost thou delight me, Florence ! I can meet 
 Elsewhere with halls as rich, and vales as sweet ; 
 I prize thy charms of nature and of art, 
 But yield them not the homage of my heart. 
 
 Rather to Santa Croce I repair, 
 To breathe her peaceful monumental air ; 
 The age, the deeds, the honors to explore, 
 Of those who sleep beneath her marble floor ; 
 The stern old tribunes of the early time, 
 The merchant lords of Freedom s stormy prime ; 
 And each great name, in every after age, 
 The praised, the wise ; the artist, bard and sage. 
 
 I feel their awful presence ; lo, thy bust, 
 Thy urn, Oh ! Dante, not alas thy dust. 
 Florence, that drove thee living from her gate, 
 Waits for that dust, in vain, and long shall wait. 
 
SANTA CROCE. 
 
 Ravenna! keep the glorious Exile s trust, 
 And teach remorseless factions to be just, 
 While the poor Cenotaph, which bears his name, 
 Proclaims at once his praise, his country s shame. 
 
 Next, in an urn, not void, though cold as thine, 
 Moulders a godlike spirit s mortal shrine. 
 Oh ! Michael, look not down so still and hard, 
 Speak to me,* Painter, Builder, Sculptor, Bard ! 
 And shall those cunning fingers, stiff and cold, 
 Crumble to meaner earth than they did mould ? 
 Art thou, who form and force to clay couldst give, 
 And teach the quarried adamant to live, 
 Bid, in the vaultings of thy mighty dome, 
 Pontifical, outvie imperial Rome, 
 Portray unshrinking, to the dazzled eye, 
 Creation, Judgment, Time, Eternity, 
 Art thou so low, and in this narrow cell, 
 Doth that Titanic genius stoop to dwell ; 
 And, while thine arches brave the upper sky, 
 Art thou content in these dark caves to lie ? 
 
 And thou, illustrious sage ! thine eye is closed 
 To which their secret paths new stars exposed. 
 Haply thy spirit, in some higher sphere, 
 Soars with the motions, which it measured here 
 Soft be thy slumbers, Seer, for thanks to thee, 
 The earth now turns, without a heresy. 
 Dost thou, whose keen perception pierced the cause 
 Which gives the pendulum its mystic laws, 
 
108 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Now trace each orb, with telescopic eyes, 
 And solve the eternal clock-work of the skies ; 
 While thy worn frame enjoys its long repose, 
 And Santa Croce heals Arcetri s woes ? * 
 
 Nor them alone : on her maternal breast 
 Here Machiavelli s tortured limbs have rest. 
 Oh ! that the cloud upon his tortured fame 
 Might pass away, and leave an honest name ! 
 The power of princes o er thy limbs is staid, 
 But thine own " Prince" ; that dark spot ne er shall fade. 
 Peace to thine ashes ; who can have the heart 
 Above thy grave, to play the cenosr s part. 
 I read the statesman s fortune in thy doom, 
 Toil, greatness, woe ; a late and lying tomb : t 
 Aspiring aims by grovelling arts pursued, 
 Faction and self baptized the public good, 
 A life traduced, a statue crowned with bays, 
 And starving service paid with funeral praise. 
 
 Here too, at length the indomitable will 
 And fiery pulse of Asti s bard are still. 
 And she, the Stuart s widow, rears thy stone, 
 Seeks the next aisle, and drops beneath her own. 
 The great, the proud, the fair, alike they fall ; 
 Thy sickle, Santa Croce, reapeth all ! 
 
 Yes, reapeth all, or else had spared the bloom 
 Of that fair bud, now closed in yonder tomb. 
 
 . .* Galileo, toward the close of his life, was imprisoned at Arcetri, near 
 Florence, by order of the inquisition. 
 
 t The monument of Machiavelli in Santa Croce was erected in the 
 latter half of the last century, The inscription, " tanto homini nullum 
 par elogium." 
 
SANTA CROCE. 109 
 
 Meek, gentle, pure ; and yet to him allied, 
 Who smote the astonished nations in his pride : 
 " Worthy his name," so saith the sculptured line, 
 Waster of man, would he were worthy thine ! * 
 
 Hosts yet unnamed, the obscure, the known, I leave ; 
 What throngs would rise, could each his marble heave ! 
 But we who muse above the famous dead, 
 Shall soon be silent, as the dust we tread. 
 Yet not for me, when I shall fall asleep, 
 Shall Santa Croce s lamps their vigils keep. 
 Beyond the main, in Auburn s quiet shade, 
 With those I loved and love my couch be made ; 
 Spring s pendent branches o er the hillock wave, 
 And morning s dew-drops glisten on my grave ; 
 While Heaven s great arch shall rise above my bed, 
 When Santa Croce s crumbles on her dead ; 
 Unknown to erring or to suffering fame, 
 So I may leave a pure though humble name. 
 
 Florence, May, 1841. 
 
 * " Ici repose Charlotte Napoleon Bonaparte, digne de son nom, 1S39. 
 The words are translated "worthy his name," for an obvious reason. 
 
 10 
 
WASHINGTON AND THE UNION. 
 
 BY ROBERT C. WINTHROP. 
 
 ABOVE all, and before all, in the heart of Wash 
 ington, was the Union of the States ; and no op 
 portunity was ever omitted by him, to impress 
 upon his fellow-citizens the profound sense which 
 he entertained of its vital importance at once to 
 their prosperity and their liberty. 
 
 In that incomparable address, in which he bade 
 farewell to his countrymen at the close of his Presi 
 dential service, he touched upon many other topics 
 with the earnestness of a sincere conviction. He 
 called upon them, in solemn terms, to " cherish 
 public credit ; " to " observe good faith and justice 
 towards all nations," avoiding both " inveterate 
 antipathies, and passionate attachments," towards 
 any ; to mitigate and assuage the unquenchable fire 
 of party spirit, " lest, instead of warming, it should 
 consume;" to abstain from " characterizing parties 
 by geographical distinctions ; " " to promote insti 
 tutions for the general diffusion of knowledge ; " 
 to respect and uphold " religion and morality ; 
 
WASHINGTON AND THE UNION. Ill 
 
 those great pillars of human happiness, those firm 
 est props of the duties of men and of citizens." 
 
 But what can exceed, what can equal, the accu 
 mulated intensity of thought and of expression 
 with which he calls upon them to cling to the 
 Union of the States. " It is of infinite moment," 
 says he, in language which we ought never to be 
 weary of hearing or of repeating, " that you should 
 properly estimate the immense value of your Na 
 tional Union to your collective and individual hap 
 piness ; that you should cherish a cordial, habitual, 
 immovable attachment to it ; accustoming your 
 selves to think and speak of it as of the palladium 
 of your political safety and prosperity; watching 
 for its preservation with jealous anxiety ; discoun 
 tenancing whatever may suggest even a suspicion 
 that it can, in any event, be abandoned ; and in 
 dignantly frowning upon the first dawning of every 
 attempt to alienate any portion of our country from 
 the rest, or to enfeeble the sacred ties which now 
 link together the various parts." 
 
 The Union, the Union in any event, was thus 
 the sentiment of Washington. The Union, the 
 Union in any event, let it be our sentiment this 
 day! 
 
 Yes, to-day, fellow-citizens, at the very moment 
 when the extension of our boundaries, and the 
 multiplication of our territories are producing, di 
 rectly and indirectly, among the different mem 
 bers of our political system, so many marked and 
 mournful centrifugal tendencies, let us seize this 
 
112 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 occasion to renew to each other our vows of alle 
 giance and devotion to the American Union ; and 
 let us recognize, in our common title to the name 
 and the fame of Washington, and in our common 
 veneration for his example and his advice, the all- 
 sufficient centripetal power, which shall hold the 
 thick clustering stars of our confederacy in one 
 glorious constellation forever ! Let the column 
 which we are about to construct, be at once a 
 pledge and an emblem of perpetual union ! Let 
 the foundations be laid, let the superstructure be 
 built up and cemented, let each stone be raised and 
 riveted, in a spirit of national brotherhood ! And 
 may the earliest ray of the rising sun, till that sun 
 shall set to rise no more, draw forth from it daily, 
 as from the fabled statue of antiquity, a strain of 
 national harmony, which shall strike a responsive 
 chord in every heart throughout the Republic. 
 
 Proceed, then, fellow-citizens, with the work for 
 which you have assembled. Lay the corner-stone 
 of a monument which shall adequately bespeak the 
 gratitude of the whole American people to the illus 
 trious Father of his country. Build it to the skies : 
 you cannot outreach the loftiness of his principles. 
 Found it upon the massive and eternal rock ; you 
 cannot make it more enduring than his fame. Con 
 struct it of the peerless Parian marble ; you cannot 
 make it purer than his life. Exhaust upon it the 
 rules and principles of ancient and of modern art ; 
 you cannot make it more proportionate than his 
 character. 
 
WASHINGTON AND THE UNION. 113 
 
 But let not your homage to his memory end 
 here. Think not to transfer to a tablet or a 
 column, the tribute which is due from yourselves. 
 Just honor to Washington can only be rendered by 
 observing his precepts, and imitating his example. 
 Similitudine decor emus. He has built his own 
 monument. We, and those who come after us in 
 successive generations, are its appointed, its privi 
 leged guardians. This wide-spread Republic is the 
 true monument to Washington. Maintain its Inde 
 pendence. Uphold its Constitution. Preserve its 
 Union. Defend its Liberty. Let it stand before 
 the world in all its original strength and beauty, 
 securing peace, order, equality and freedom, to 
 all within its boundaries, and shedding light and 
 hope and joy upon the pathway of human liberty 
 throughout the world ; and Washington needs no 
 other monument. Other structures may fitly testify 
 our veneration for him ; this, this alone, can ade 
 quately illustrate his services to mankind. 
 
 Nor does he need even this. The Republic may 
 perish ; the wide arch of our ranged Union may 
 fall j star by -star its glories may expire ; stone after 
 stone its columns and its capitol may moulder and 
 crumble ; all other names which adorn its annals 
 may be forgotten ; but as long as human hearts 
 shall any where pant, or human tongues shall any 
 where plead, for a true, rational, constitutional 
 liberty, those hearts shall enshrine the memory, 
 and those tongues shall prolong the fame, of 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 10* 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 
 
 BY CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 There was a garden, and in the garden a new sepulchre. 
 
 WHAT myriads throng, in proud array, 
 With songs of joy, and flags unfurled, 
 
 To consecrate the glorious day, 
 That gave a nation to the world ! 
 
 We raise no shout, no trumpet sound, 
 No banner to the breeze we spread ; 
 
 Children of clay ! bend humbly round ; 
 We plant a City to the Dead. 
 
 For man a garden rose in bloom, 
 When yon glad sun began to burn ; 
 
 He fell, and heard the awful doom, 
 " Of dust thou art, to dust return ! " 
 
MOUNT AUBURN. 115 
 
 But HE, in whose pure faith we come, 
 
 Who in a gloomier garden lay, 
 Assured us of a brighter home, 
 
 And rose, and led the glorious way. 
 
 His word we trust ! When life shall end, 
 Here be our long, long slumber passed ; 
 
 To the first garden s doom we bend, 
 And bless the promise of the last. 
 
REV. THOMAS CHALMERS, D. D. 
 
 BY DANIEL SHARP. 
 
 HAVING been long acquainted with Dr. Chal 
 mers as an author, and admiring him as a 
 Christian philanthropist, who was ever devising 
 plans for improving the social and moral condition 
 of the poor, on passing over from England to Scot 
 land, in the summer of 1845, it was one of my 
 cherished hopes that I might see and hear him 
 preach. 
 
 Nor was I disappointed. On my arrival in Glas 
 gow, the gratifying announcement was made, that 
 he would deliver a discourse the ensuing Sabbath, at 
 the dedication of the Free Church of St. John. On 
 that occasion, I had the uncommon satisfaction of 
 being introduced to and of listening to that eminent 
 minister of Christ. It was to me a delightful sight, 
 to see that house of worship devoted to the volun 
 tary principle, and filled to its utmost capacity with 
 eager listeners to a man who had commenced his 
 ministry in that city just thirty years before. As 
 he entered the church, every eye was fixed upon 
 him with love arid reverence. His Scottish Pres- 
 
117 
 
 byterian gown and bands contributed somewhat to 
 his dignified and venerable appearance. But there 
 was a majesty and yet a benignity of countenance, 
 that, had you seen him in a crowd without his 
 clerical robes, you would involuntarily have said, 
 " that is no common man." 
 
 His texts were, " Take heed what ye hear," and 
 " Take heed therefore how ye hear." For some 
 fifteen minutes I had a feeling of disappointment j 
 but as he warmed with his subject, there was a 
 comprehensiveness, and discrimination, and clear 
 ness of thought, a richness and copiousness of 
 expression, and an unction which charmed and 
 captivated me. His views on the duty of hearers 
 to listen with candor, attention and humility, and 
 to use their own minds in the examination and 
 contemplation of what they hear, were rational and 
 scriptural. He went against the doctrine of man s 
 passivity and the Spirit s exclusive activity, in con 
 version and in Christian progress. And he showed 
 the delusiveness of the doctrine, which teaches, 
 that man must do nothing in his salvation, so that 
 God may have the glory of doing every thing. It 
 was an able discourse. His style was not ornate, 
 nor so diffuse as I had expected. It was far better. 
 It was simple, clear, forcible, and fervid. Every 
 sentence was delivered with the earnestness of one 
 who believed what he said, and considered it to be 
 of present and eternal importance. He was an elo 
 quent man. During the whole of my visit in Great 
 Britain, I heard nothing from the lips of any 
 
118 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 preacher superior to the sermon at the dedication 
 of the Free Church of St. John. 
 
 Dr. Chalmers, perhaps, more than any one of his 
 theological views, set the example of a departure 
 from mere dogmatic and systematic preaching. His 
 sermons were not discussions of abstract truths, 
 applying to no one. He preached to the people 
 concerning their social relations, their secular pur 
 suits, their condition and duties. He addressed the 
 mercantile classes, and pointed out their dangers 
 and obligations. He preached to the tradesman 
 and the day-laborer, and to professional men, giv 
 ing to each a word in season, and showing them 
 how the principles of the gospel were to be carried 
 out in their different callings and pursuits. It was 
 thus he fulfilled his ministry, making himself inter 
 esting to all by overlooking none. 
 
 For the philosophic infidel, the vicious profligate, 
 and the self-righteous Pharisee, he had words of 
 truth and soberness, not unaccompanied by fervid 
 strains of eloquence. Many preachers fail of ex 
 tended usefulness, because of their extremely lim 
 ited and superficial views. They confine themselves 
 to one class of truths ; to one class of sins ; to one 
 class of hearers ; to one class of duties ; and to one 
 class of privileges. Throwing off all these fetters 
 and limitations, Chalmers suited his arguments, 
 appeals and remonstrances to these wide varieties 
 of character. Hence the beggar and the peer, the 
 operative and the barrister, would hear truths 
 deserving of their profoundest attention, because 
 
REV. THOMAS CHALMERS, D. D. 119 
 
 adapted to their respective circumstances. This 
 was one cause of the interest which all classes felt 
 in his preaching, and of his great success. A strong 
 mind, a liberal education, and a matured experience, 
 had given him large views of the relations of truth 
 and duty. When he prepared himself for the 
 pulpit, his mental treasures, drawn from the litera 
 ture of the ancients, from the discoveries of modern 
 science, from history and philosophy, afforded him 
 such exuberant and varied illustrations, that he 
 delighted, and of course riveted the attention both 
 of the learned and the illiterate, not only for a few 
 sabbaths, but to the end of a protracted life. 
 
 When I heard him, and he was then sixty-five 
 years of age, he kept up the unfatigued attention, 
 nay, the ravished interest, of a large audience for 
 one hour and twenty minutes. This he did not 
 by the " start and stare theatric practised at the 
 glass," but by strong and original thoughts, by 
 brilliant and beautiful illustrations, and by the an 
 nouncement of immortal and glorious hopes. These 
 broad and just views of truth and duty, and of the 
 endless variety of topics proper to the Christian 
 pulpit, with his rich powers of illustration, gave to 
 his eloquence an influence for good, over all classes, 
 which few preachers have but seldom so exten 
 sively diffused. 
 
 In describing the power of Dr. Chalmers as a 
 moral and religious teacher, it is proper to add, that 
 his character, demeanor, and principles were all in 
 harmony with his office and duties. No flashes of 
 
120 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 wit, no flights of fancy, no bold or vivid descrip 
 tions of the imagination, no logical acumen, no 
 power or compass of voice, were it soft and change 
 ful as the jEolian harp, can ever, for a moment, 
 compensate for a defective character. 
 
 It is said, that truth is truth, by whomsoever 
 delivered. So it is. But as a wise saying is un 
 seemly in the mouth of a fool, so is a virtuous one 
 from the lips of a vicious man. Men spurn at it ; 
 they recoil from it ; they are disgusted with it : 
 they contemptuously say, " Physician, heal thyself." 
 It is well that this feeling is so general ; for if the 
 splendor of a minister s sermons reconciles them to 
 his follies, they will soon commit, if it suits them, 
 the same follies themselves. One thing is certain ; 
 however eloquent such ministers may be, they do 
 nothing to strengthen the faith, to increase the 
 piety, or to improve the morality of their hearers. 
 
 Now, that which gave such a beneficent power 
 to the ministry of Dr. Chalmers was, that every one, 
 learned or illiterate, nobleman or commoner, be 
 lieved him to be a most worthy man. They knew 
 that the breath of suspicion had never whispered 
 aught against him, nor tarnished the brightness of 
 his fame. He stood up before the public without 
 fear and without reproach. There were no whis 
 perings, even from his opponents, that he was no 
 better than he ought to be. As an eloquent orator, 
 he carried with him the firm support of a good 
 name. He had the reputation of being discreet, 
 frank, firm, condescending. He was stable, uni- 
 
REV. THOMAS CHALMERS, D. D. 121 
 
 form, persevering. There was nothing fitful in his 
 opinions and movements. Hence he was listened 
 to, as an oracle to be trusted ; and he was followed 
 as a guide who knew where he was going, because 
 he had seen the end from the beginning. 
 
 And then he had the major virtues of truth, 
 honesty, and integrity, blended with courteousness 
 and consideration. He was above all artifice ; his 
 honor and purity were untainted. He was a God 
 fearing and a sin-hating man, regarding with scru 
 pulous delicacy all the proprieties of social and 
 domestic life. With these virtues of mind, manners 
 and morals, can it be a wonder that, in his own 
 country, he was heard every where with respect 
 and confidence ; and that, in this country, his 
 writings are read by thousands of our most intelli 
 gent Christians, who would not look at a page of 
 them, were there a stain upon his name ? This was 
 one of the secrets of Chalmers power, the rhetoric 
 of a blameless, nay, of an active, self-sacrificing, 
 exceedingly humane, and benevolent life. 
 
 It was not merely the eloquence of Chalmers, al 
 though that was great, which, while living, secured 
 for him so much respect, and when he died called 
 forth a nation s tears, and the regrets and homage 
 of all Christendom ; but it was his purity, his 
 probity, his piety, his philanthropy, in alliance with 
 great talents, and large views of human relations 
 and duties, and a dignity and persuasiveness of 
 speech, vouchsafed but to few. I was not surprised 
 to learn, that on receiving the news of his decease. 
 11 
 
122 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 both the "Assembly of the Free Church of Scot 
 land," and the " General Assembly," (from which 
 he, with hundreds of other ministers, had seceded, 
 and perhaps mainly through his influence,) had 
 voted to adjourn, in token of their profound regard 
 and veneration for the character and services of Dr. 
 Chalmers. All differences were forgotten, in the 
 remembrance that the " eloquent orator," who had 
 been the glory of that church, as he had been an 
 honor and a benefactor to his nation, had suddenly 
 passed away. 
 
 And it is worthy of perpetual remembrance, as 
 an encouragement for persons to act up to their 
 own convictions, that, seceder as he was from the 
 Established Church of Scotland, and although his 
 pious scruples, in regard to lay patronage, had occa 
 sioned much perplexity to those who were attached 
 to the ancient order of things, yet neither he nor 
 his family eventually suffered from his conscien 
 tious course. Greatly to her honor, the Queen of 
 Great Britain, from the consideration that Dr. Chal 
 mers had been a distinguished ornament and bless 
 ing to his country, settled on his bereaved widow 
 and her family a pension of 200 a year. It adds 
 lustre to this munificent act, that it was unsolicited 
 and unexpected on the part of Mrs. Chalmers and 
 her friends. It was a spontaneous expression of 
 sympathy with the bereaved widow, and of respect 
 for the illustrious dead. 
 
RESIGNATION. 
 
 BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no fireside, howsoe er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair ! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! these severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps, 
 What seem to us but dim funereal tapers 
 
 May be heaven s distant lamps. 
 
124 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 There is no Death ! what seems so is transition : 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, the child of our affection, 
 
 But gone unto that school, 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister s stillness and seclusion, 
 
 By guardian angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin s pollution, 
 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 Year after year her tender steps pursuing, 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus we do walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
 
 For when with rapture wild 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 
 She will not be a child ; 
 
 But a fair maiden in her Father s mansion, 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful, with all the soul s expansion, 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
RESIGNATION. 125 
 
 And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed, 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest ; 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We cannot wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 11 
 
THE CHASE. 
 
 BY FRANCIS PARKMAN, JR. 
 
 A SHOUT from Henry Chatillon aroused us, and 
 we saw him standing on the cart-wheel, stretching 
 his tall figure to its full height while he looked 
 toward the prairie beyond the river. Following 
 the direction of his eyes, we could clearly distin 
 guish a large dark object, like the black shadow of 
 a cloud, passing rapidly over swell after swell of 
 the distant plain ; behind it followed another of 
 -similar appearance though smaller. Its motion was 
 more rapid, and it drew closer and closer to the first. 
 It was the hunters of the Arapahoe camp pursuing 
 a band of buffalo. Shaw and I hastily caught 
 and saddled our best horses, and went plunging 
 through sand and water to the farther bank. We 
 were too late. The hunters had already mingled 
 with the herd, and the work of slaughter was 
 nearly over. When we reached the ground, we 
 found it strewn far and near with numberless black 
 carcasses, while the remnants of the herd, scattered 
 in all directions, were flying away in terror, and 
 the Indians still rushing in pursuit. Many of the 
 
THE CHASE. 127 
 
 hunters, however, remained upon the spot, and 
 among the rest was our yesterday s acquaintance, 
 the chief of the village. He had alighted by the 
 side of a cow, into which he had shot five or six 
 arrows, and his squaw, who had followed him on 
 horseback to the hunt, was giving him a draught of 
 water out of a canteen, purchased or plundered 
 from some volunteer soldier. Re-crossing the river, 
 we overtook the party who were already on their 
 way. 
 
 We had scarcely gone a mile, when an imposing 
 spectacle presented itself. From the river bank on 
 the right, away over the swelling prairie on the 
 left, and in front as far as we could see, extended 
 one vast host of buffalo. The outskirts of the 
 herd were within a quarter of a mile. In many 
 parts they were crowded so densely together, that 
 in the distance their rounded backs presented a 
 surface of uniform blackness ; but elsewhere they 
 were more scattered, and from amid the multitude 
 rose little columns of dust where the buffalo were 
 rolling on the ground. Here and there a great 
 confusion was perceptible, where a battle was going 
 forward among the bulls. We could distinctly see 
 them rushing against each other, and hear the clat 
 tering of their horns and their hoarse bellowing. 
 Shaw was riding at some distance in advance, with 
 Henry Chatillon. I saw him stop and draw the 
 leather covering from his gun. Indeed, with such 
 a sight before us, but one thing could be thought 
 of. That morning I had used pistols in the chase. 
 
128 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 I had now a mind to try the virtue of a gun. De- 
 lorier had one, and I rode up to the side of the cart ; 
 there he sat under the white covering, biting his 
 pipe between his teeth and grinning with excite 
 ment. 
 
 " Lend me your gun, Delorier," said I. 
 
 " Oui, Monsieur, oui," said Delorier, tugging with 
 might and main to stop the mule, which seemed 
 obstinately bent on going forward. Then every 
 thing but his moccasons disappeared, as he crawled 
 into the cart and pulled at the gun to extricate it. 
 
 "Is it loaded?" I asked. 
 
 " Q,ui, bien charge, you 11 kill, mon bourgeois ; 
 yes, you ll kill, c est un bon fusil." 
 
 I handed him my rifle, and rode forward to 
 Shaw. 
 
 " Are you ready ? " he asked. 
 
 " Come on," said I. 
 
 " Keep down that hollow," said Henry, " and 
 then they won t see you till you get close to them." 
 
 The hollow was a kind of ravine, very wide 
 and shallow; it ran obliquely toward the buffalo, 
 and we rode at a canter along the bottom until it 
 became too shallow ; when we bent close to our 
 horses necks, and then finding that it could no 
 longer conceal us, came out of it and rode directly 
 toward the herd. It was within gunshot ; before 
 its outskirts, numerous grizzly old bulls were scat 
 tered, holding guard over their females. They 
 glared at us in anger and astonishment, walked 
 .toward us a few yards, and then turning slowly 
 
THE CHASE. 129 
 
 round, retreated at a trot, which afterwards broke 
 into a clumsy gallop. In an instant the main body 
 caught the alarm. The buffalo began to crowd 
 away from the point toward which we were 
 approaching, and a gap was opened in the side 
 of the herd. We entered it, still restraining our 
 excited horses. Every instant the tumult was 
 thickening. The buffalo, pressing together in large 
 bodies, crowded away from us on every hand. In 
 front and on either side we could see dark columns 
 and masses, half hidden by clouds of dust, rushing 
 along in terror and confusion, and hear the tramp 
 and clattering of ten thousand hoofs. That count 
 less multitude of powerful brutes, ignorant of their 
 own strength, were flying in a panic from the 
 approach of two feeble horsemen. To remain quiet 
 longer was impossible. 
 
 " Take that band on the left," said Shaw ; " I 11 
 take these in front." 
 
 He sprang off, and I saw no more of him. A 
 heavy Indian whip was fastened by a band to my 
 wrist ; I swung it into the air and lashed my horse s 
 flank with all the strength of my arm. Away she 
 darted, stretching close to the ground. I could see 
 nothing but a cloud of dust before me, but I knew 
 that it concealed a band of many hundreds of buf 
 falo. In a moment I was in the midst of the cloud, 
 half suffocated by the dust and stunned by the 
 trampling of the flying herd ; but I was drunk with 
 the chase, and cared for nothing but the buffalo. 
 Very soon a long dark mass became visible, looming 
 
130 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 through the dust ; then I could distinguish each 
 bulky carcass, the hoofs flying out beneath, the 
 short tails held rigidly erect. In a moment I was 
 so close that I could have touched them with my 
 gun. Suddenly, to my utter amazement, the hoofs 
 were jerked upward, the tails flourished in the air, 
 and amid a cloud of dust the buffalo seemed to sink 
 into the earth before me. One vivid impression of 
 that instant remains upon my mind. I remember 
 looking down upon the backs of several buffalo 
 dimly visible through the dust. We had run una 
 wares upon a ravine. At that moment I was not 
 the most accurate judge of depth and width, but 
 when I passed it on my return, I found it about 
 twelve feet deep, and not quite twice as wide at the 
 bottom. It was impossible to stop ; I would have 
 done so gladly if I could; so half sliding, half 
 plunging, down went the little mare. I believe 
 she came down on her knees in the loose sand at 
 the bottom ; I was pitched forward violently against 
 her neck, and nearly thrown over her head among 
 the buffalo, who amid dust and confusion came 
 tumbling in all around. The mare was on her 
 feet in an instant, and scrambling like a cat up the 
 opposite side. I thought for a moment that she 
 would have fallen back and crushed me, but with 
 a violent effort she clambered out and gained the 
 hard prairie above. Glancing back, I saw the huge 
 head of a bull clinging as it were by the forefeet 
 at the edge of the dusty gulf. At length I was 
 fairly among the buffalo. They were less densely 
 
THE CHASE. 131 
 
 crowded than before, and I could see nothing but 
 bulls, who always run at the rear of a herd. As I 
 passed amid them they would lower their heads, 
 and, turning as they ran, attempt to gore my horse ; 
 but as they were already at full speed, there was no 
 force in their onset, and as Pauline ran faster than 
 they, they were always thrown behind her in the 
 effort. I soon began to distinguish cows amid the 
 throng. One just in front of me seemed to my 
 liking, and I pushed close to her side. Dropping 
 the reins I fired, holding the muzzle of the gun 
 within a foot of her shoulder. Quick as lightning 
 she sprang at Pauline ; the little mare dodged the 
 attack, and I lost sight of the wounded animal 
 amid the tumultuous crowd. Immediately after, I 
 selected another, and urging forward Pauline, shot 
 into her both pistols in succession. For a while I 
 kept her in view, but in attempting to load my gun, 
 lost sight of her also in the confusion. Believing 
 her to be mortally wounded and unable to keep up 
 with the herd, I checked my horse. The crowd 
 rushed onward. The dust and tumult passed away, 
 and on the prairie, far behind the rest, I saw a soli 
 tary buffalo galloping heavily. In a moment I and 
 my victim were running side by side. My firearms 
 were all empty, and I had in my pouch nothing but 
 rifle bullets, too large for the pistols and too small 
 for the gun. I loaded the latter, however, but as 
 often as I levelled it to fire, the little bullets would 
 roll out of the muzzle and the gun returned only a 
 faint report like a squib, as the powder harmlessly 
 
132 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 exploded. I galloped in front of the buffalo and 
 attempted to turn her back ; but her eyes glared, 
 her mane bristled, and lowering her head, she 
 rushed at me with astonishing fierceness and acti 
 vity. Again and again I rode before her, and again 
 and again she repeated her furious charge. But 
 little Pauline was in her element. She dodged her 
 enemy at every rush, until at length the buffalo stood 
 still, exhausted with her own efforts ; she panted, 
 and her tongue hung lolling from her jaws. 
 
 Riding to a little distance, I alighted, thinking to 
 gather a handful of dry grass to serve the purpose 
 of wadding, and load the gun at my leisure. No 
 sooner were my feet on the ground, than the buffalo 
 came bounding in such a rage toward me, that I 
 jumped back again into the saddle with all possible 
 dispatch. After waiting a few minutes more, I 
 made an attempt to ride up and stab her with my 
 knife ; but the experiment proved such as no wise 
 man would repeat. At length, bethinking me of 
 the fringes at the seams of my buckskin pantaloons. 
 I jerked off a few of them, and reloading the gun, 
 forced them down the barrel to keep the bullet in 
 its place then approaching, I shot the wounded 
 buffalo through the heart. Sinking to her knees, 
 she rolled over lifeless on the prairie. To my 
 astonishment, I found that, instead of a fat cow, I 
 had been slaughtering a stout yearling bull. No 
 longer wondering at the fierceness he had shown, 
 I opened his throat, and cutting out his tongue, tied 
 it at the back of my saddle. My mistake was one 
 
THE CHASE. 133 
 
 which a more experienced eye than mine might 
 easily make in the dust and confusion of such a 
 chase. 
 
 Then for the first time I had leisure to look at 
 the scene around me. The prairie in front was 
 darkened with the retreating multitude, and on the 
 other hand the buifalo came filing up in endless, 
 unbroken columns from the low plains upon the 
 river. The Arkansas was three or four miles dis 
 tant. I turned and moved slowly toward it. A 
 long time passed before, far down in the distance, I 
 distinguished the white covering of the cart and the 
 little black specks of horsemen before and behind 
 it. Drawing near, I recognized Shaw s elegant 
 tunic, the red flannel shirt conspicuous far off. I 
 overtook the party, and asked him what success he 
 had met with. He had assailed a fat cow, shot her 
 with two bullets, and mortally wounded her. But 
 neither of us were prepared for the chase that after 
 noon, and Shaw, like myself, had no spare bullets 
 in his pouch ; so he abandoned the disabled animal 
 to Henry Chatillon, who followed, dispatched her 
 with his rifle, and loaded his horse with her meat. 
 
 We encamped close to the river. The night was 
 dark, and as we lay down, we could hear mingled 
 with the howlings of wolves the hoarse bellowing 
 of the buffalo, like the ocean beating upon a distant 
 coast. 
 
 12 
 
"FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 BY EPES SARGENT. 
 
 " FORGET me not ? " Ah, words of useless warning 
 To one whose heart is henceforth memory s shrine ! 
 
 Sooner the skylark might forget the morning, 
 Than I forget a look, a tone of thine. 
 
 Sooner the sunflower might forget to waken 
 When the first radiance lights the eastern hill, 
 
 Than I, by daily thoughts of thee forsaken, 
 Feel, as they kindle, no expanding thrill. 
 
 Oft, when at night the deck I m pacing lonely, 
 Or when I pause to watch some fulgent star, 
 
 Will Contemplation be retracing only 
 
 Thy form, and fly to greet thee, though afar. 
 
 When storms unleashed, with fearful clangor sweeping, 
 Drive our strained bark along the hollowed sea, 
 
 When to the clouds the foam-topped waves are leaping. 
 Even then I 11 not forget, beloved one, thee ! 
 
"FORGET ME NOT." 135 
 
 Thy image, in my sorrow-shaded hours, 
 Will, like a sun-burst on the waters, shine ; 
 
 Twill be as grateful as the breath of flowers 
 From some green island wafted o er the brine. 
 
 And O, sweet lady, when, from home departed, 
 I count the leagues between us with a sigh, 
 
 When, at the thought, perchance a tear has started, 
 May I not dream in heart thou rt sometimes nigh ? 
 
 Ay, thou wilt sometimes, when the wine-cup passes, 
 And friends are gathering round in festal glee, 
 
 While bright eyes flash as flash the brimming glasses, 
 Let silent Memory pledge one health to me. 
 
 Farewell ! My fatherland is disappearing 
 Faster and faster from my baffled sight ; 
 
 The winds rise wildly, and thick clouds are rearing 
 Their ebon flags that hasten on the night. 
 
 Farewell ! The pilot leaves us ; seaward gliding, 
 Our brave ship dashes through the foamy swell ; 
 
 But Hope, forever faithful and abiding, 
 
 Hears distant welcomes in this last farewell ! 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTER OF SIR WALTER 
 SCOTT. 
 
 BY WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT. 
 
 TAKE it for all and all, it is not too much to say, 
 that this character is probably the most remarkable 
 on record. There is no man of historical celebrity 
 that we now recall, who combined, in so eminent a 
 degree, the highest qualities of the moral, the in 
 tellectual, and the physical. He united in his own 
 character what hitherto had been found incompati 
 ble. Though a poet, and living in an ideal world, 
 he was an exact, methodical man of business ; 
 though achieving with the most wonderful facility 
 of genius, he was patient and laborious ; a mousing 
 antiquarian, yet with the most active interest in the 
 present, and whatever was going on around him ; 
 with a strong turn for a roving life and military 
 adventure, he was yet chained to his desk more 
 hours, at some periods of his life, than a monkish 
 recluse ; a man with a heart as capacious as his 
 head ; a Tory, brim full of Jacobitism, yet full 
 of sympathy and unaffected familiarity with all 
 classes, even the humblest ; a successful author. 
 
CHARACTER OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 137 
 
 without pedantry and without conceit ; one, in 
 deed, at the head of the republic of letters, and yet 
 with a lower estimate of letters, as compared with 
 other intellectual pursuits, than was ever hazarded 
 before. 
 
 The first quality of his character, or, rather, that 
 which forms the basis of it, as of all great charac 
 ters, was his energy. We see it, in his early youth, 
 triumphing over the impediments of nature, and, in 
 spite of lameness, making him conspicuous in every 
 sort of athletic exercise j clambering up dizzy pre 
 cipices, wading through treacherous fords, and per 
 forming feats of pedestrianism that make one s 
 joints ache to read of. As he advanced in life, we 
 see the same force of purpose turned to higher 
 objects. A striking example occurs in his organiza 
 tion of the journals and the publishing house in 
 opposition to Constable. In what Herculean drudg 
 ery did not this latter business, in which he un 
 dertook to supply matter for the nimble press of 
 Ballantyne, involve him ! while, in addition to his 
 own concerns, he had to drag along by his solitary 
 momentum a score of heavier undertakings, that 
 led Lockhart to compare him to a steam-engine, 
 with a train of coal wagons hitched to it. 
 
 We see the same powerful energies triumphing 
 over disease at a later period, when nothing but a 
 resolution to get the better of it enabled him to do 
 so. " Be assured," he remarked to Mr. Gillies, " that 
 if pain could have prevented my application to lit 
 erary labor, not a page of Ivanhoe would have been 
 12* 
 
138 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 written. Now if I had given way to mere feelings, 
 and ceased to work, it is a question whether the 
 disorder might not have taken a deeper root, and 
 become incurable." But the most extraordinary 
 instance of this trait is the readiness with which 
 he assumed, arid the spirit with which he carried 
 through, till his mental strength broke down under 
 it, the gigantic task imposed on him by the failure 
 of Constable. 
 
 It mattered little what the nature of the task 
 was, whether it were organizing an opposition to a 
 political faction, or a troop of cavalry to resist 
 invasion, or a medley of wild Highlanders or Edin 
 burgh cockneys to make up a royal puppet-show 
 a loyal celebration for " His Most Sacred Majes 
 ty " he was the master-spirit that gave the cue to 
 the whole dramatis personce. This potent impulse 
 showed itself in the thoroughness with which he 
 prescribed, not merely the general orders, but the 
 execution of the minutest details, in his own person. 
 Thus all around him was the creation, as it were, 
 of his individual exertion. His lands waved with 
 forests planted with his own hands, and, in process 
 of time, cleared by his own hands. He did not lay 
 the stones in mortar, exactly, for his whimsical 
 castle, but he seems to have superintended the 
 operation from the foundation to the battlements. 
 The antique relics, the curious works of art, the 
 hangings and furniture, even, with which his halls 
 were decorated, were specially contrived or selected 
 by him ; and, to read his letters at this time to his 
 
CHARACTER OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 139 
 
 friend Terry, one might fancy himself perusing the 
 correspondence of an upholsterer, so exact and tech 
 nical is he in his instructions. We say this not 
 in disparagement of his great qualities. It is only 
 the more extraordinary ; for, while he stooped to 
 such trifles, he was equally thorough in matters of 
 the highest moment. It was a trait of character. 
 
 Another quality, which, like the last, seems to 
 have given the tone to his character, was his social 
 or benevolent feelings. His heart was an unfailing 
 fountain, which not merely the distresses, but the 
 joys of his fellow-creatures made to flow like water. 
 In early life, and possibly sometimes in later, high 
 spirits and a vigorous constitution led him occasion 
 ally to carry his social propensities into convivial 
 excess ; but he never was in danger of the habitual 
 excess to which a vulgar mind, and sometimes, 
 alas ! one more finely tuned, abandons itself. 
 With all his conviviality, it was not the sensual 
 relish, but the social, which acted on him. He was 
 neither gourme nor gourmand ; but his social meet 
 ings were endeared to him by the free interchange 
 of kindly feelings with his friends. 
 
 Scott was not one of the little great. His was 
 not one of those dark-lantern visages which concen 
 trate all their light on their own path, arid are black 
 as midnight to all about them. He had a ready 
 sympathy, a word of contagious kindness, or cordial 
 greeting, for all. His manners, too, were of a kind 
 to dispel the icy reserve and awe which his great 
 name was calculated to inspire. His frank address 
 
140 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 was a sort of open sesame to every heart. He did 
 not deal in sneers, the poisoned weapons which 
 came not from the head, as the man who launches 
 them is apt to think, but from an acid heart, or, 
 perhaps, an acid stomach, a very common laboratory 
 of such small artillery. Neither did Scott amuse 
 the company with parliamentary harangues or meta 
 physical disquisitions. His conversation was of the 
 narrative kind, not formal, but as casually suggested 
 by some passing circumstance or topic, and thrown 
 in by way of illustration. He did not repeat him 
 self, however, but continued to give his anecdotes 
 such variations, by rigging them out in a new 
 " cocked hat and walking-cane," as he called it, 
 that they never tired like the thrice-told tale of 
 a chronic raconteur. He allowed others, too, to 
 take their turn, and thought with the Dean of St. 
 Patrick s : 
 
 " Carve to all, but just enough, 
 Let them neither starve nor stuff: 
 And, that you may have your due, 
 Let your neighbors carve for you." 
 
 He relished a good joke, from whatever quarter it 
 came, and was not over-dainty in his manner of 
 testifying his satisfaction. " In the full tide of 
 mirth, he did indeed laugh the heart s laugh," says 
 Mr. Adolphus. " Give me an honest laugher," said 
 Scott himself, on another occasion, when a buckram 
 man of fashion had been paying him a visit at 
 Abbotsford. His manners, free from affectation or 
 artifice of any sort, exhibited the spontaneous move- 
 
CHARACTER OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 141 
 
 ments of a kind disposition, subject to those rules of 
 good breeding which Nature herself might have 
 dictated. In this way he answered his own pur 
 pose admirably as a painter of character, by putting 
 every man in good humor with himself, in the 
 same manner as a cunning portrait painter amuses 
 his sitters with such store of fun and anecdote as 
 may throw them off their guard, and call out the 
 happiest expressions of their countenances. 
 
DEDICATION OF A LYCEUM HALL. 
 
 BY JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE and Virtue ! sister powers, 
 Who guard and grace a Christian state, 
 
 Better than bulwarks, walls, or towers, 
 To you this hall we dedicate. 
 
 Temple of Science ! through thy door, 
 Now first thrown open, do we throng, 
 
 And reverently stand before 
 
 Creation s God, with prayer and song. 
 
 Father of lights ! thou gav st us eyes, 
 Earth, ocean, sun, and stars to see, 
 
 And thee in all ; they roll or rise 
 To teach us of thy majesty. 
 
 Works of his hand ! where er ye lie, 
 In earth or heaven, in light or shade, 
 
 These walls shall to your voice reply ; 
 Here shall your wonders be displayed. 
 
DEDICATION OF A LYCEUM HALL. 143 
 
 Trees ! that in field or forest stand, 
 
 Flowers ! that spring up in every zone, 
 Winds ! that with fragrance fill your hand, 
 
 Where trees have leafed, or flowers have blown, 
 
 Suns ! in the depths of space that burn, 
 
 Planets ! that walk around our own, 
 Comets ! that rush to fill your urn 
 
 With light out- gushing from his throne, 
 
 Waters ! from all the earth that rise, 
 
 And back to all its oceans go, 
 Cooling, in clouds, the flaming skies, 
 
 Cheering, in rains, the world below, 
 
 Torrents ! that down the mountain rush, 
 
 Glaciers ! that on its shoulders shine, 
 Pearls ! in your ocean bed that blush, 
 
 Diamonds ! yet sleeping in your mine, 
 
 Lightnings ! that from your cloud leap out, 
 
 Thunders ! that in its bosom sleep, 
 Fires ! that from Etna s crater spout, 
 
 Rocks! that the earthquake s records keep, 
 
 Rainbows ! that overarch a storm, 
 
 Or dance around a waterfall, 
 Tornadoes ! that earth s face deform, 
 
 Teach us, O teach us, in this hall. 
 
VALUE OF MECHANICAL INDUSTRY. 
 
 BY RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 DOUBTLESS, to the higher forms of a complete 
 civilization, a various, extensively developed, intel 
 lectual manufacturing and mechanical industry, 
 aiming to multiply the comforts and supply the 
 wants of the great body of the people, is wholly 
 indispensable. Its propitious influence upon the 
 wages and enjoyments of labor j the reasonable 
 rewards which it holds out by means of joint stock, 
 in shares, to all capital, whether the one hundred 
 dollars of the widow and orphan, or the one hundred 
 thousand of their wealthier neighbor j its propitious 
 influence upon all the other employments of society : 
 upon agriculture, by relieving it of over-production 
 and over-competition, and securing it a market at 
 home, without shutting up its market abroad ; upon 
 commerce, creating or mainly sustaining its best 
 branch, domestic trade, and giving to its foreign 
 trade variety, flexibility, an enlargement of field, 
 and the means of commanding a needful supply of 
 the productions of other nations, without exhausting 
 drains on our own ; its influence upon the comforts 
 
VALUE OF MECHANICAL INDUSTRY. 145 
 
 of the poor ; upon refinement ; upon security ; 
 defence ; independence ; power j nationality ; all 
 this is conceded by every body. Senators de 
 nounce the means, but they glorify the end. Pro 
 tective duties make a bill of abominations ; but an 
 advanced and diversified mechanical industry is 
 excellent. The harvest is delightful to behold ; it 
 is the sowing and fencing only that offends the 
 constitutionalist who denies the power, and the 
 economist who denies the expediency, of reaping 
 any thing but spontaneous growths of untilled soils. 
 While, therefore, a general defence of this class of 
 employments, and this species of industry, would 
 be wholly out of place, there is, however, an illus 
 tration or two of their uses, not quite so commonly 
 adverted to, on which I pause to say a word. And 
 one of them is this : that, in connection with the 
 other tasks of an advanced civilization, with which 
 they are always found associated, they offer to every 
 faculty, and talent, and taste, in the community, 
 the specific work best suited to it ; and thus effect 
 a more universal development and a more complete 
 education of the general intellect than otherwise 
 would be practicable. It is not merely that they 
 keep every body busy, in the evening and before 
 light as well as in the daytime, in winter as well as 
 in summer, in wet weather as well as in fair, women 
 and children as well as men, but it is that every 
 body is enabled to be busy on the precise thing the 
 best adapted to his capacity and his inclinations. 
 In a country of few occupations, employments go 
 13 
 
146 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 down by an arbitrary, hereditary, coercive desig 
 nation, without regard to peculiarities of individual 
 character. The son of a priest is a priest ; the son 
 of a barber is a barber j a man raises onions and 
 garlic, because a certain other person did so when 
 the Pyramids were building, centuries ago. But a 
 diversified, advanced, and refined mechanical and 
 manufacturing industry, co-operating with these 
 other numerous employments of civilization which 
 always surround it, offers the widest choice ; detects 
 the slightest shade of individuality j quickens into 
 existence and trains to perfection the largest con 
 ceivable amount and the utmost possible variety of 
 national mind. It goes abroad with its handmaid 
 labors, not like the elegiac poet into the churchyard, 
 but among the bright tribes of living childhood, and 
 manhood, and finds there, in more than a figurative 
 sense, some mute, inglorious Milton, to whom it 
 gives a tongue and the opportunity of fame ; the 
 dauntless breast of some Hampden still at play, yet 
 born to strive with the tyrant of more than a vil 
 lage ; infant hands that may one day sway the rod 
 of empire ; hearts already pregnant with celestial 
 fire ; future Arkwrights, and Watts, and Whitneys, 
 and Fultons, whom it leads forth to a discipline and 
 a career that may work a revolution in the arts and 
 commerce of the world. Here are five sons in a 
 family. In some communities they would all 
 become hedgers and ditchers; in others, shore 
 fishermen ; in others, hired men in fields, or porters 
 or servants in noblemen s families. But see what 
 
VALUE OF MECHANICAL INDUSTRY. 147 
 
 the diversified employments of civilization may 
 make of them. One has a passion for contention, 
 and danger, and adventure. There are the gigantic 
 game of the sea ; the vast fields of the Pacific ; the 
 pursuit even "beneath the frozen serpent of the 
 South," for him. Another has a taste for trade ; 
 he plays already at bargains and barter. There 
 are Wall-street, and Milk-street, and clerkships and 
 agencies at Manilla, and Canton, and Rio Janeiro, 
 for him. A, third early and seriously inclines to the 
 quiet life, the fixed habits, the hereditary opinions 
 and old ways of his fathers ; there is the plough for 
 him. Another develops from infancy extraordinary 
 mechanical and inventive talent ; extraordinary in 
 degree, of not yet ascertained direction. You see 
 it in his first whittling. There may be a Fulton, 
 or an Arkwright ; there may be wrapped up the 
 germs of an idea which, realized, shall change the 
 industry of nations, and give a new name to a new 
 era. Well, there are the machine shops at Lowell 
 and Providence for him ; there are cotton mills and 
 woollen mills for him to superintend ; there is sta 
 tionary and locomotive steam power for him to guide 
 and study ; of a hundred departments and forms of 
 useful art, some one will surely reach and feed the 
 ruling intellectual passion. In the flashing eye, 
 beneath the pale and beaming brow of that other 
 one, you detect the solitary first thoughts of genius. 
 There are the seashore of storm or calm, the waning 
 moon, the stripes of summer evening cloud, tradi 
 tions, and all the food of the soul, for him. And so 
 
148 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 all the boys are provided for. Every fragment of 
 mind is gathered up. Nothing is lost. The hazel 
 rod, with unfailing potency, points out, separates, 
 and gives to sight every grain of gold in the water 
 and in the sand. Every taste, every faculty, every 
 peculiarity of mental power, finds its task, does it, 
 and is made the better for it. 
 
 Let me say, that there is another influence of 
 manufacturing and mechanical arts and industry, 
 which should commend them to the favor of 
 American statesmen. In all ages and in all nations 
 they have been the parents and handmaids of popu 
 lar liberty. If I had said of democratical liberty, I 
 should have expressed myself more accurately* 
 This praise, if not theirs alone, or pre-eminently, 
 they share perhaps with commerce only. I observe, 
 with surprise, that Mr. Calhoun, in his speech in 
 opposition to Mr. Randolph s motion to strike out the 
 minimum valuation on cotton goods, in the House 
 of Representatives, April, 1816, a speech in many 
 respects remarkable and instructive, and to which 
 I shall make frequent reference before I have 
 done, in that speech Mr. Calhoun gives some 
 slight countenance to the suggestion that " capital 
 employed in manufacturing produced a greater 
 dependence on the part of the employed, than in 
 commerce, navigation, or agriculture." I think this 
 is contradicted by the history of the whole world. 
 " Millioriary manufacturing capitalists," like all other 
 persons possessed of large accumulations, are essen 
 tially conservative, timorous, disinclined to change, 
 
VALUE OF MECHANICAL INDUSTRY. 149 
 
 on the side of law, order, and permanence. So are 
 millionary commercial capitalists, and millionary 
 cotton-growing and sugar-growing capitalists, and 
 millionary capitalists of all sorts. But the artisans 
 of towns, mechanics, manufacturing operatives, 
 that whole city and village population, wherever 
 concentrated, by whom the useful arts of a civilized 
 society are performed, are among the freest of the 
 free, the world over. They are no man s slaves ; 
 they are "no man s men." Brought together in 
 considerable numbers, and forming part of a still 
 larger urban population in immediate contact ; recip 
 rocally acting on and acted on by numerous other 
 minds : enjoying every day some time of leisure, 
 and driven by the craving for stimulus which the 
 monotony of their employments, their own mental 
 activity, and all the influences about them, are so 
 well calculated to produce ; driven to the search of 
 some external objects of interest, they find these in 
 conversation, in discussion, in reading newspapers 
 and books, in all the topics which agitate the 
 crowded community of which they are part ; and 
 thus they become curious, flexible, quick, progres 
 sive. Something too in their position and relations ; 
 just starting in the world, their fortunes to seek or 
 to make ; something in their half antagonistical, half 
 auxiliary connection with their employers ; free asso 
 ciated labor employed by large associated capital; 
 something, with unfailing certainty, determines 
 them to the side of the largest liberty. So always 
 it has been. So it was in the freest of the Greek 
 13* 
 
150 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 republics. So too, in the middle ages, after her 
 sleep of a thousand years from the battle of Phar- 
 salia, liberty revived and respired among the handi 
 craftsmen and traders of the small commercial and 
 manufacturing towns of Germany, Italy, and Eng 
 land. There, in sight of the open and glorious sea, 
 law, order, self-government, popular liberty, art, 
 taste, and all the fair variety of cultivated things, 
 sprang up together, and set out together on that 
 " radiant round," never to cease but with the close 
 of time. And where do you feel the pulses of 
 democratical England and Scotland beat quickest 
 and hottest to-day ? What are the communities 
 that called loudest for parliamentary reform and 
 call loudest now for those social arid political 
 ameliorations, the fear of which perplexes the 
 throne, the church, and the aristocracy ? Certainly, 
 the large and small manufacturing towns. " The 
 two great powers, (I read from the ablest Tory 
 journal in Great Britain,) operating on human affairs, 
 which are producing this progressive increase of 
 democratical influence, are the extension of manu 
 factures and the influence of the daily press." 
 What British periodical is it, which most zealously 
 advocates the cause, asserts the dignity, appreciates 
 the uses and claims, of manufacturing industry ? 
 Precisely the most radical and revolutionary of them 
 all. And whose rhymes are those which convey 
 to the strong, sad heart of English labor, " thoughts 
 that wake to perish never," the germs of a culture 
 growing up to everlasting life, the "public and 
 
VALUE OF MECHANICAL INDUSTRY. 151 
 
 private sense of a man ; " the dream, the hope, of 
 social reform j and a better, but not revolutionary 
 liberty ! Whose, but Elliot s, the worker in iron, 
 the " artisan poet of the poor ? " 
 
 The real truth is, that manufacturing and me 
 chanical, and commercial industry, is " the prolific 
 source of democratic feeling." Of the two great 
 elements, which must be combined in all great 
 ness of national character and national destiny, 
 permanence, and progression, these employments 
 stimulate the latter ; agriculture contributes to the 
 former. They are one of those acting and counter 
 acting, opposing yet not discordant powers, from 
 whose reciprocal struggle is drawn out the harmony 
 of the universe. Agriculture is the other. The 
 country is the home of rest. The town is the 
 theatre of change. Senators are very fond of 
 reminding us that the census shows so large a 
 preponderance of numbers at work on the land. 
 Then, over and above all the good you do them, 
 by calling off some who would crowd that employ 
 ment into other business, and providing a better 
 market for those who remain in it, why should you 
 be afraid, on a larger and deeper reason, to temper 
 and attend this by other occupation ? You have 
 provided well for permanence. Be not afraid of the 
 agents of intelligent progress. It is the union of 
 social labors which causes the wealth, develops the 
 mind, prolongs the career, and elevates and adorns 
 the history of nations. 
 
MARY. 
 
 BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 WHAT though the name is old and oft repeated, 
 
 What though a thousand beings bear it now ; 
 And true hearts oft the gentle word have greeted, 
 
 What though t is hallow d by a poet s vow ? 
 We ever love the rose, and yet its blooming 
 
 Is a familiar rapture to the eye, 
 And yon bright star we hail, although its looming 
 
 Age after age has lit the northern sky. 
 
 As starry beams o er troubled billows stealing, 
 
 As garden odors to the desert blown, 
 In bosoms faint a gladsome hope revealing, 
 
 Like patriot music or affection s tone, 
 Thus, thus, for aye, the name of MARY spoken 
 
 By lips or text, with magic-like control, 
 The course of present thought has quickly broken 
 
 And stirred the fountains of my inmost soul. 
 
MARY. 153 
 
 The sweetest tales of human weal and sorrow, 
 
 The fairest trophies of the limner s fame, 
 To my fond fancy, MARY, seem to borrow 
 
 Celestial halos from thy gentle name ; 
 The Grecian artist gleaned from many faces, 
 
 And in a perfect whole the parts combined, 
 So have I counted o er dear woman s graces 
 
 To form the MARY of my ardent mind. 
 
 And marvel not I thus call my ideal, 
 
 We inly paint as we would have things be, 
 The fanciful springs ever from the real, 
 
 As APHRODITE rose from out the sea ; 
 Who smiled upon me kindly day by day, 
 
 In a far land where I was sad and lone ? 
 Whose presence now is my delight alway ? 
 
 Both angels must the same bless d title own. 
 
 What spirits round my weary way are flying, 
 
 What fortunes on my future life await, 
 Like the mysterious hymns the winds are sighing, 
 
 Are all unknown, in trust I bide my fate ; 
 But if one blessing I might crave from Heaven, 
 
 T would be that MARY should my being cheer, 
 Hang o er me when the chord of life is riven, 
 
 Be my dear household word, and my last accent here. 
 
THAT GENTLEMAN.* 
 
 BY EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 AMONG the passengers on board the steamboat 
 Chancellor Livingston, on one of her trips up the 
 North River, last year, a middle-aged gentleman was 
 observed by the captain, whose appearance attracted 
 notice, but whose person and quality were unknown 
 to him. The stranger was dressed in the best made 
 clothing, of the latest style, but without being in 
 the extreme of fashion, or conspicuous for any thing 
 that he did or did not wear. He had not, however, 
 availed himself of the apology of travelling, as 
 many do, to neglect the most scrupulous care of 
 his person, and seemed rather to be on a visit, than 
 a journey. His equipage had been noticed by the 
 porters to correspond with its owner, in appearance. 
 The trunk was made to increase or diminish in 
 capacity, the upper part rising on the under by 
 screws, according to the contents ; the whole of it 
 was besides enveloped in a firm canvass. A cloak- 
 bag of the best construction ; a writing apparatus, 
 with a most inscrutable lock ; an umbrella in a neat 
 
 * First published in 1825. 
 
THAT GENTLEMAN. 155 
 
 case, a hat in another, ready to take the place of 
 the travelling seal-skin cap, which the stranger 
 wore during the trip, were so many indications of 
 a man, who placed the happiness of life in the en 
 joyment of its comforts. The greatest of all com 
 forts is yet to be told, and was in attendance upon 
 him, in the shape of a first-rate servant, a yellow 
 man by complexion, taciturn, active, gentle ; just 
 not too obsequious, and just not too familiar ; not 
 above the name of servant, and well deserving that 
 of friend. 
 
 This strange gentleman was quiet, moderate in 
 his movements, somewhat reserved in his manners ; 
 all real gentlemen are so. A shade of melancholy 
 settled over his face, but rather lightening into 
 satisfaction, than dark and ominous of growing 
 sorrow. It was a countenance, which care had 
 furrowed, but in which the springing seeds of grief 
 were not yet planted. There was a timid look of 
 one, that had been deceived by appearances, and 
 feared to trust himself to an exterior, that might 
 betray his heart into a misplaced confidence. There 
 was an expression, which one might almost call 
 sly, of a man, who had at length found a secret 
 treasure, which he would not expose, lest it should 
 be torn from him, or he should be disturbed in its 
 enjoyment. Of the beauties of the scene, though 
 plainly a man of cultivated mind, he took little 
 notice. He cast an eye of equal indifference on 
 nature s Cyclopean masonry at the Palisades, and 
 on the elegant erections of art, on the opposite side 
 
156 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 of the river. Even the noble entrance into the 
 Highlands scarcely fixed his attention. 
 
 With all the appearance of a perfect gentleman, 
 there was nevertheless conspicuous about this per 
 sonage, a punctuality in obeying the bell, which 
 summoned to the meals, and a satisfaction evinced 
 while at them, which evidently proceeded from 
 some particular association of ideas, to which the 
 spectator wanted the key. It was not ravening 
 appetite ; it was not for want of being accustomed 
 at home to what are commonly, and we think 
 correctly, called "good things;" his whole appear 
 ance negatived such an idea. But he repaired to 
 the table with a cheerful and active step, as if he 
 were sure he should find things as they ought to 
 be ; and he partook of its provisions as if he had 
 found them so. He did not praise the abundance 
 and good quality of what he saw and enjoyed ; but 
 maintained the same rather mysterious silence here, 
 as elsewhere on board. But the expression of calm 
 inward satisfaction, which reigned in his face, 
 spoke volumes. In like manner, with respect to 
 every part of the domestic economy of the boat ; 
 the commodious berths, the conveniences of the 
 washing apparatus, and of the barber s shop; the 
 boot-brushing quarters, in short, all the nameless 
 accommodations and necessaries, which will suggest 
 themselves without being specified. In regard to 
 them all, you might read in the stranger s looks and 
 mien, that he was perfectly satisfied ; and for some 
 reason, which did not suggest itself for want of 
 
THAT GENTLEMAN. 157 
 
 knowledge of his history, he evidently enjoyed 
 this satisfaction, with a peculiar relish. In fact, 
 the only words, that had been heard to escape from 
 " that gentleman," for so the captain had called 
 him, in pointing him out to the steward ; and so 
 the barber had called him in speaking of him to the 
 cook ; and so the engineer had designated him, in 
 describing his looks to the fireman ; the only words 
 which " that gentleman " had been heard to utter 
 to any one on board, were his remarks to the 
 captain, after having finished a tour of observation 
 round the boat, " Yery convenient, very com 
 fortable." 
 
 As they drew near to Albany, this air of satis 
 faction was evidently clouded. Nothing adverse 
 had happened on board the boat, which was walking 
 cheerily through the water, at the rate of eleven 
 miles and a half per hour. Mr. Surevalve, her engi 
 neer, was heard to say that he could double her 
 steam without coming near her proof; "but then," 
 he added to the fireman, "what good would that do, 
 seeing the resistance of the water increases, with 
 the velocity of the boat ; " a remark, to which the 
 fireman returned, what may be called, a very un 
 knowing look. The weather was fine ; the com 
 pany generally exhilarated with arriving at the 
 journey s end ; and all but the stranger rising in 
 spirits, as they drew near to the landing place. He, 
 on the contrary, proceeded about the business of 
 disembarking, with the only discontented look he 
 had worn during the trip. 
 14 
 
158 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 But in the crowd and hurry of landing two 
 hundred and fifty passengers, with as many trunks, 
 carpet-bags, and bandboxes, and the tumult of con 
 flicting porters, draymen, hackmen, and greeting 
 friends, the stranger was lost sight of. Several of 
 the passengers had secretly determined to keep an 
 eye upon him ; an idea having got abroad that he 
 was a member of parliament, or some said the Duke 
 of Saxe Weimar, which the engineer averred with 
 an oath to be the case, adding that " it was hard, 
 if he could not tell a Frenchman." It so happened 
 that every man on board had an object of greater 
 interest to look after in the crowd, viz. himself; 
 and which course the stranger took on landing, no 
 one could say. 
 
 It was not long, before the captain discovered 
 that the stranger had not gone on shore, for he per 
 ceived him occupying a retired seat on the transom, 
 aft in the cabin ; and that he appeared to intend 
 returning to New York the next trip. His counte 
 nance had recovered its prevailing expression, and 
 he just opened his lips to say that he " believed he 
 should take the boat back." Various speculations, 
 no doubt, were made by the captain, the steward, 
 the engineer, and the fireman, on a circumstance, 
 upon the whole, so singular : but recollecting his 
 clouded aspect, as he approached Albany, they 
 came to the conclusion that he had forgotten some 
 thing of importance in New York ; that the recol 
 lection of it did not return to him, till near the 
 arrival of the boat, and consequently he was obliged 
 
THAT GENTLEMAN, 159 
 
 to go down the river again. " You see that gen 
 tleman again," says the engineer to the fireman. 
 "I do," replied Mr. Manyscald. " I suppose he has 
 forgotten something in New York," pursued the 
 engineer ; and thus closed a dialogue, which a skil 
 ful novelist would have spun out into three pages. 
 
 The stranger s demeanor, on the return, was the 
 exact counterpart of that, which he had worn on 
 the ascent ; calm, satisfied, retired ; perfectly at 
 ease ; a mind and senses, formed to enjoy, reposing 
 in the full possession of their objects. To describe 
 his manner more minutely, would be merely to re 
 peat what we have already said, in the former part 
 of this account. But the hypothesis, by which the 
 engineer and fireman had accounted for his return, 
 and his melancholy looks, at Albany, was over 
 thrown by the extraordinary fact, that as they drew 
 near to New York, his countenance was overshad 
 owed by the same clouds that had before darkened 
 it. He was even more perplexed in spirit, than he 
 had before seemed j arid he ordered his servant to 
 look to the baggage, with a pettishness that con 
 trasted strangely with his calm deportment. The 
 engineer who had noticed this, was determined to 
 watch him closely ; and the fireman swore he 
 would follow him up to the head of Cortlandt 
 street. But just as the steamboat was rounding 
 into the slip, a sloop was descending the river with 
 wind and tide ; and some danger of collision arose. 
 It was necessary that the engineer should throw his 
 wheels back, with all possible expedition. This 
 
160 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 event threw the fire-room into a little confusion, 
 succeeded by some remarks of admiration, at the 
 precision with which the engine worked, and the 
 boast of the fireman, " how sweetly she went over 
 her centres." This bustle below was followed by 
 that of arriving ; the usual throng of friends, por 
 ters, passengers, draymen, hackmen, and barrow- 
 men breasting each other on the deck, on the plank 
 which led from the boat, on the slip, and in the 
 street, completed the momentary confusion ; and 
 when the engineer and fireman had readjusted their 
 apartment, they burst out at once on each other, 
 with the question and reply, " Did you see which 
 way that gentleman went? " " Hang it, no." The 
 captain and the steward were much in the same 
 predicament. " I meant to have had an eye after 
 that gentleman, " said the captain, "but he has 
 given me the slip." 
 
 It was, accordingly, with a good deal of surprise, 
 that, on descending to the cabin, he again saw the 
 stranger, in the old place ; again prepared to all 
 appearance to go back to Albany, and again heard 
 the short remark, " I believe, I shall take the boat 
 back." But the captain was well-bred, and the 
 stranger a good customer ; so that no look escaped 
 the former, expressive of the sentiments which this 
 singular conduct excited in him. The same deco 
 rum, however, did not restrain the engineer and 
 fireman. As soon as they perceived the stranger, 
 on his accustomed walk up and down deck, the 
 engineer cried out, with a preliminary obtestation 
 
THAT GENTLEMAN. 161 
 
 which we do not care to repeat, " Mr. Manyscald, 
 do you see i that gentleman ? " "Ay, ay," was the 
 answer, " who can he be ? " " Tell that if you can," 
 rejoined the engineer, " it ain t every man that s 
 willing to be known ; for my own part, I believe 
 it s Bolivar come to tap the dam over the Mohawk, 
 and let the kanol waste out." The fireman mod 
 estly inquired his reason for thinking it was Bolivar, 
 but the engineer, a little piqued at having his judg 
 ment questioned, merely muttered, that " it was 
 hard, if he couldn t tell a Frenchman." 
 
 During the passage, nothing escaped the stran 
 ger that betrayed his history or errand ; nor yet 
 was there any affectation of mystery or conceal 
 ment. A close observer would have inferred (as is 
 said to be the case with free masonry), that no 
 secret escaped him, because there was none to es 
 cape ; that his conduct, though not to be accounted 
 for by those unacquainted with him, was probably 
 consistent with the laws of human nature, and the 
 principles of a gentleman. It is precisely, however, 
 a case like this, which most stimulates the curiosity 
 and awakens the suspicions of common men. They 
 think the natural unaffected air but a deeper dis 
 guise j and it cannot be concealed, that, in the 
 course of the third passage, very hard allusions 
 were made by the engineer and fireman to the 
 character of Major Andre, as a spy. The sight of 
 West Point, probably awakened this reminiscence 
 in the mind of the engineer, who, in the ardor of 
 his patriotic feeling, forgot it was time of peace. 
 H* 
 
162 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 The fireman was beginning to throw out a submis 
 sive hint, that he did not know, " that in time of 
 peace, even an Englishman could be hung for going 
 to West Point ; " but the engineer interrupted him, 
 and expressed his belief, with an oath, . that " if 
 General Jackson could catch that gentleman, " (as 
 he now called him with a little sneer on the word,) 
 "he would hang him, under the second article of 
 the rules of war." " For all me," meekly re 
 sponded the fireman, as he shouldered a stick of 
 pitch-pine into the furnace. 
 
 It is remarked by authors, who have spoken on 
 the subject of juggling, that the very intensity with 
 which an audience eyes the juggler, facilitates his 
 deceptions. He has but to give their eyes and their 
 thoughts a slight misdirection, and then he may, 
 for a moment, do almost any thing unobserved, in 
 full view. A vague impression, growing out of the 
 loose conversation in the fire-room, had prevailed 
 among the attendants and others in the boat, that 
 the gentleman was a foreigner, going to explore, if 
 not to tap, the canal. With this view, they felt no 
 doubt, he would land at Albany ; a lookout was 
 kept for him, and though he was unnoticed in the 
 throng at the place of debarkation, it was ascribed 
 to the throng that the gentleman was unnoticed. " I 
 tell you, you ll hear mischief from that gentleman 
 yet, " said the engineer, throwing off his steam. 
 
 What then was their astonishment, and even that 
 of the captain and steward, to find the stranger was 
 still in the cabin, and prepared to all appearance again 
 
THAT GENTLEMAN. 163 
 
 to go back to New York. The captain felt he hardly 
 knew how ; we may call it queer. He stifled, how 
 ever, his uneasy emotions, and endeavored to bow 
 respectfully to the stranger s usual remark, " I think 
 I shall take the boat back." Aware of the busy 
 speculation, which had begun to express itself in 
 the fire-room, he requested the steward not to let it 
 be known, that " that gentleman " was going down 
 again ; and it remained a secret till the boat was 
 under way. About half an hour after it had started, 
 the gentleman left the cabin to take one of his 
 walks on deck, and in passing along, was seen at 
 the same instant by the engineer and fireman. For 
 a moment they looked at each other with an 
 expression of displeasure and resolution strongly 
 mingled. Not a word was said by either ; but the 
 fireman dropped a huge stick of pine, which he was 
 shouldering into the furnace ; and the engineer as 
 promptly cut off the steam from the engine, and 
 brought the wheels to a stand. The captain of 
 course rushed forward, and inquired if the boiler 
 had collapsed, (the modern polite word for burst- 
 ing",) and met the desperate engineer coming up to 
 speak for himself. " Captain," said he, with a kind 
 of high-pressure movement of his arm, " I have 
 kept up steam, ever since there was such a thing as 
 steam on the river. Copper boiler, or iron, high 
 pressure or low ; give me the packing of my own 
 cylinder, and I 11 knock under to no man. But if 
 we are to have that gentleman up and down, 
 down and up, and up and down again, like a sixty 
 
164 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 horse piston, I know one, that won t raise another 
 inch of steam, if he starves for it." 
 
 The unconscious subject of this tumult had 
 already retreated to his post in the cabin, before 
 the scene began, and was luckily ignorant of the 
 trouble he was causing. The captain, who was a 
 prudent man, spoke in a conciliating tone to the 
 engineer ; promised to ask the stranger roundly, 
 who he was, and what was his business, and if he 
 found the least cause of dissatisfaction, to set him 
 on shore at Newburgh. The mollified engineer 
 returned to his department the fireman shouldered 
 a huge stick of pine into the furnace, the steam 
 rushed into the cylinder, and the boat was soon 
 moving her twelve knots an hour on the river. 
 
 The captain, in the extremity of the moment, 
 had promised what it was hard to perform j and 
 now experienced a sensible palpitation, as he drew 
 near to the stranger, to acquit the obligation he had 
 hastily assumed. The gentleman, however, had 
 begun to surmise the true state of the case ; he had 
 noticed the distrustful looks of the crew, and the 
 dubious expression of the captain and steward. As 
 the former approached him, he determined to relieve 
 the embarrassment, under which, it was plain, he 
 was going to address him ; and said, " I perceive, 
 sir, you are at a loss to account for my remaining 
 on board the boat, for so many successive trips, 
 and, if I mistake not, your people view me with 
 suspicious eyes. The truth is, captain, I believe I 
 shall pass the summer with you." 
 
THAT GENTLEMAN. 165 
 
 The stranger paused to notice (somewhat wick 
 edly) the effect of this intelligence on the captain, 
 whose eyes began to grow round at the intimation ; 
 but in a moment pursued : " You must know, 
 captain, I am one of those persons, favored I will 
 not say, who being above the necessity of labor 
 ing for a subsistence, are obliged to resort to some 
 extraordinary means to get through the year. I am 
 a Carolinian, and pass my summers in travelling. 
 I have been obliged to come by land, for the sake 
 of seeing friends, and transacting business by the 
 way. Did you ever, captain, travel by land from 
 Charleston to Philadelphia ? " 
 
 The captain shook his head in the negative. 
 " You may thank Heaven for that. O ! captain, 
 the crazy stages, the vile roads, the rivers to be 
 forded, sands to be ploughed through, the comfort 
 less inns, the crowd, the noise, the heat ; but I 
 must not dwell on it. Suffice it to say, I have 
 suffered every thing, both moving and stationary. 
 I have been overturned, and had my shoulder dis 
 located in Virginia ; I have been robbed between 
 Baltimore and Havre de Grace. At Philadelphia, I 
 have had my place in the mail coach taken up by 
 a way passenger ; I have been stowed by the side 
 of a drunken sailor in New Jersey ; I have been 
 beguiled into a fashionable boarding house, in the 
 crowded season, in New York. Once I have had 
 to sit on a bag of turkeys, which was going to the 
 stage proprietor, who was also keeper of a hotel ; 
 three rheumatic fevers have I caught, by riding in 
 
166 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 the night, against a window that would not close : 
 near Elkton, I was washed away in a gully, and 
 three horses drowned ; at Saratoga, I have been 
 suffocated j at Montreal, eaten of fleas ; in short, 
 captain, in the pursuit of pleasure I have suffered the 
 pains of purgatory. For the first time in my life, I 
 have met with comfort, ease, and enjoyment, on 
 board the Chancellor. I was following the multitude 
 to the Springs. As I drew near to Albany, my heart 
 sunk within me, as I thought of the little prison, in 
 which I should be shut up, at one of the fashion 
 able hotels. In the very moment of landing, my 
 courage failed me, and I returned to the comforts 
 of another trip, in your excellent boat. We went 
 down to New York ; I was about to step on shore, 
 and saw a well-dressed gentleman run down by a 
 swine, in my sight. I shrunk back again into your 
 cabin, where I have found such accommodations, 
 as I have never before met, away from home ; and 
 if you are not unwilling to have a season passen 
 ger, I intend to pass the ensuing three months on 
 board your boat." 
 
 The captain bowed ; gratified, and ashamed of 
 his suspicions. He hurried up to put the engineer 
 at ease, who was not less gratified at the high 
 opinion the stranger had of the Chancellor ; and as 
 long as the boat continued to ply for the rest of the 
 season, was used to remark, at least once a trip 
 to the fireman, ui that gentleman knows what s 
 what." 
 
ON THE DEPARTURE OF AN ATLANTIC 
 STEAMER. 
 
 BY JAMES F. COLMAN. 
 
 WITH what unconsciously majestic grace, 
 Like a leviathan half roused from sleep, 
 
 Thou movest from thy land-locked trysting-place, 
 To cleave thy way across the convex deep ; 
 
 While Ocean shouts to thee his welcome wild, 
 
 And clasps thee in fierce joy, his fearless child ! 
 
 Thy mighty pulses play, thy soul of fire 
 
 Paints its black breathings on the cold, blue sky, 
 
 And, scoffing at the billows puny ire, 
 
 As paws the war-horse at the trumpet s cry, 
 
 Thou pantest for a struggle with their wrath, 
 
 Trampling thy onward course along their path. 
 
 Confided wealth to thee were nothingness, 
 Bucephalus weighed not his rider s gold, 
 
 But couldst thou of thy nobler freightage guess, 
 The bruised and loving soul thine arms enfold, 
 
 A mother s yearning tenderness thou dst feel, 
 
 Thou iron-hearted thing with ribs of steel ! 
 
168 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 That sorrowing soul ! How many a fitful phase 
 Of life hath read its teachings to her eye, 
 
 Since, cradled in the shade of Shakspeare s bays, 
 She heard the Muses whispered lullaby, 
 
 Who with their sister Graces did combine, 
 
 Their flowers in Fate s dark web to intertwine ! 
 
 How many a heart hath hung upon her words ! 
 
 Wit, Art, and Wisdom at her shrine have knelt, 
 And on the trembling soul s awakened chords 
 
 The varying melodies of passion felt ; 
 For, in Love s school by Truth and Beauty taught, 
 That voice embodied all the charms of thought. 
 
 All lovely fancies of the poet s brain, 
 
 Which from Imagination s rifled hoards he stole, 
 
 Sprang from the page, informed with life again, 
 To claim their empire o er the loyal soul ; 
 
 And Genius led that visionary band 
 
 To take fresh chaplets from his darling s hand. 
 
 There stood sad Constance, for her murdered boy 
 Invoking vengeance, with white, outstretched arms ; 
 
 And sprightly Beatrice, so proudly coy, 
 Yet melted at the mischief of her charms ; 
 
 With Henry s wronged, repudiated mate, 
 
 Most queenlike still in her despised estate. 
 
 Gentle Ophelia came with willow crown, 
 Her dark, dishevelled tresses dripping wet ; 
 
 And wilful Kate, who wins us with a frown, 
 Whose temper shall be tamed to sweetness yet. 
 
 There was Cordelia s filial love, and then 
 
 The tender truthfulness of Imogen. 
 
DEPARTURE OF AN ATLANTIC STEAMER. 169 
 
 Lo ! through Verona s perfumed orchard-shades, 
 
 A girlish vision forms upon the sight, 
 Which, in those dim, ancestral colonnades, 
 
 With starlike beauty makes the darkness bright, 
 And kneels to her by Fate foredoomed to know 
 All depths of guiltless tenderness and woe. 
 
 Time gives and takes, wayward alike in all ; 
 
 He bears two goblets in his trembling hands, 
 And where from one bright drops of nectar fall, 
 
 Verdure and blossoms clothe life s barren sands ; 
 And the old graybeard looketh back to smile, 
 As if amid those bowers he d pause awhile. 
 
 And moments come, when quivering lips must drain 
 
 That other goblet s bitter contents dry, 
 One draught, for years of concentrated pain, 
 
 While his broad pinions stain the azure sky, 
 And their black shadows on the dewless sod 
 Hide from our haggard eyes the face of God. 
 
 It is that hour for her ; upon the bleak, 
 Cold deck she stands, a monument of woe, 
 
 While on her speaking brow and bloodless cheek 
 
 Thought s struggling forms their giant outlines throw ; 
 
 As when, depicted on a marble wall, 
 
 Some hidden wrestlers writhing shadows fall. 
 
 Soothe thou thy savageness, thou surly sea ! 
 
 And, as upon a mother s throbbing breast, 
 With lion-hearted magnanimity, 
 
 Rock her to slumber, she hath need of rest. 
 Chain the fierce tempest many a fathom deep, 
 Down at earth s core, where his pale victims sleep. 
 15 
 
170 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 That vision fades upon the straining view ; 
 
 Bear her on gently, O thou gallant bark ! 
 And may the dolphins rainbow-tints imbue, 
 
 Like emblemed Hope, the billows cold and dark ; 
 Till, to thy port by inward impulse driven, 
 Thy rest shall symbolize the soul s in heaven. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 
 
 BY CHARLES SUMNER. 
 
 PROM the grave of the Jurist, at Mount Auburn, 
 let us walk to that of THE ARTIST, who sleeps 
 beneath the protecting arms of those trees which 
 cast their shadow into this church. WASHINGTON 
 ALLSTON died in the month of July, 1843, aged 
 sixty-three, having reached the grand climacteric, 
 that special mile-stone on the road of life. It was 
 Saturday night ; the cares of the week were over ; 
 the pencil and brush were laid in repose ; the great 
 canvass on which for many years he had sought to 
 perpetuate the image of Daniel confronting the 
 idolatrous soothsayers of Belshazzar, was left, with 
 the chalk lines designating the labors to be resumed 
 after the rest of the Sabbath ; the evening was 
 passed in the pleasant converse of family and 
 friends ; words of benediction had fallen from his 
 lips upon a beloved relative ; all had retired for the 
 night, leaving him alone, in health, to receive 
 serenely the visitation of Death, sudden but not 
 unprepared for. Happy lot ! thus to be borne 
 away, with blessings on the lips, not through the 
 
172 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 long valley of disease, amidst the sharpness of pain, 
 and the darkness that beclouds the slowly departing 
 spirit, but straight upward through realms of light, 
 swiftly, yet gently, as on the wings of a dove ! 
 
 The early shades of evening had begun to prevail, 
 before the body of the Artist reached its last resting- 
 place ; and the solemn service of the church was 
 read in the open air, by the flickering flame of a 
 torch, fit image of life. In the group of mourners, 
 who bore by their presence a last tribute to what 
 was mortal in him of whom so much was immortal, 
 stood the great Jurist. His soul, overflowing with 
 tenderness and appreciation of merit of all kinds, 
 was touched by the scene. In vivid words, as he 
 slowly left the church-yard, he poured forth his 
 admiration and his grief. Never was such an Artist 
 mourned by such a Jurist. 
 
 Of Allston may we repeat the words in which 
 Burke has commemorated his friend Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, when he says, " He was the first who 
 added the praise of the elegant arts to the other 
 glories of his country."* An ingenious English 
 writer, who sees Art at once with the eye of taste 
 and humanity, has said, in a recent publication on 
 our Artist : "It seemed to me, that in him Amer 
 ica had lost her third great man. What Washington 
 was as a statesman, Channning as a moralist, that 
 was Allston as an Artist." 
 
 * Prior s Life of Burke, Vol. II., pp. 189, 190. 
 f Mrs. Jameson s Memoirs and Essays. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 173 
 
 And here again we discern the inseparable link 
 between character and works. Allston was a good 
 man, with a soul refined by purity, exalted by 
 religion, softened by love. In manner, he was sim 
 ple, yet courtly ; quiet, though anxious to please ; 
 kindly alike to all, the poor and lowly, riot less 
 than to the rich and great ; a modest, unpretending, 
 Christian gentleman. As he spoke, in that voice of 
 softest utterance, all were charmed to listen, and the 
 airy-footed hours often tripped on far towards the 
 gates of morning, before his friends could break 
 from his spell. His character is transfigured in his 
 works ; and the Artist is always inspired by the 
 man. 
 
 His life was consecrated to Art. He lived to 
 diffuse beauty, as a writer, as a poet, as a painter. 
 As an expounder of the principles of his art, he will 
 take a place with Leonardo da Vinci, Albert Durer, 
 Joshua Reynolds, and Fuseli. His theory of paint 
 ing, as developed in his still unpublished discourses, 
 and in that tale of rare beauty, " Monaldi," is an 
 instructive memorial of his conscientious studies. 
 In the small group of painter-poets, poets by the 
 double title of the pencil and the pen, he holds an 
 honored place. He was pronounced, by no less a 
 judge than Southey, to be one of the first poets of 
 the age. His Ode on England and America, one of 
 the choicest lyrics in the language, is immeasurably 
 superior to the satirical verse of Salvator Rosa, and 
 may claim companionship with the remarkable 
 sonnets of Michael Angelo. 
 14* 
 
174 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 In his youth, while yet a pupil of the University, 
 his busy fingers found pleasure in drawing ; and 
 there is still preserved, in the records of one of our 
 societies, a pen-and-ink sketch from his hand. 
 Shortly after leaving Cambridge, he repaired to 
 Europe, in the pursuit of his art. At Paris were 
 then collected the great masterpieces of painting and 
 sculpture, the spoils of unholy war, robbed from 
 their native galleries and churches, to swell the 
 pomp of the imperial capital. There our Artist 
 devoted his days to the diligent study of his chosen 
 profession, particularly the department of drawing, 
 so important to accurate art. Alluding to these 
 thorough labors at a later day, he said, " he worked 
 like a mechanic." Perhaps to these maybe referred 
 his singular excellence in that necessary, but ne 
 glected branch, which is to art what grammar is to 
 language. Grammar and design are treated by 
 Aristotle as on a level. 
 
 Turning his back upon Paris, and the greatness 
 of the Empire, he directed his steps to Italy, the 
 enchanted ground of literature, of history, and of 
 art, strown with richest memorials of the past, 
 touching from scenes memorable in the story of the 
 progress of man, teaching by the pages of phi 
 losophers and historians, vocal with the melody 
 of poets, ringing with the music which St. Ceci 
 lia protects, glowing with the living marble and 
 canvass, beneath a sky of heavenly purity and 
 brightness, with the sunsets which Claude has 
 painted, parted by the Apennines, early witnesses 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 175 
 
 of the unrecorded Etruscan civilization, sur 
 rounded by the snow-capped Alps and the blue, 
 classic waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The 
 deluge of war, which submerged Europe, had here 
 subsided ; and our Artist took up his peaceful abode 
 in Rome, the modern home of art. Strange change 
 of condition ! Rome, sole surviving city of antiq 
 uity, who once disdained all that could be wrought 
 by the cunning hand of sculpture, 
 
 " Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera, 
 Credo equidem : vivos ducent de marmore vultus," 
 
 who has commanded the world by her arms, by her 
 jurisprudence, by her church, now sways it further 
 by her arts. Pilgrims from afar, where neither her 
 eagles, her praetors, nor her interdicts ever reached, 
 become the willing subjects of this new empire ; 
 and the Vatican, stored with the precious remains 
 of antiquity, and the touching creations of a 
 Christian pencil, has succeeded to the Vatican 
 whose thunders intermingled with the strifes of 
 modern Europe. 
 
 At Rome he was happy in the friendship of Cole 
 ridge, and in long walks in his instructive company. 
 We can well imagine that the author of Genevieve 
 and The Ancient Mariner would find especial sym 
 pathies with Allston. We behold these two natures, 
 tremblingly alive to beauty of all kinds, looking 
 together upon those majestic ruins, upon the mani 
 fold accumulations of art, upon the marble, which 
 almost spoke, and upon the warmer canvass, 
 
172 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 long valley of disease, amidst the sharpness of pain, 
 and the darkness that beclouds the slowly departing 
 spirit, but straight upward through realms of light, 
 swiftly, yet gently, as on the wings of a dove ! 
 
 The early shades of evening had begun to prevail, 
 before the body of the Artist reached its last resting- 
 place ; and the solemn service of the church was 
 read in the open air, by the flickering flame of a 
 torch, fit image of life. In the group of mourners, 
 who bore by their presence a last tribute to what 
 was mortal in him of whom so much was immortal, 
 stood the great Jurist. His soul, overflowing with 
 tenderness and appreciation of merit of all kinds, 
 was touched by the scene. In vivid words, as he 
 slowly left the church-yard, he poured forth his 
 admiration and his grief. Never was such an Artist 
 mourned by such a Jurist. 
 
 Of Allston may we repeat the words in which 
 Burke has commemorated his friend Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, when he says, " He was the first who 
 added the praise of the elegant arts to the other 
 glories of his country."* An ingenious English 
 writer, who sees Art at once with the eye of taste 
 and humanity, has said, in a recent publication on 
 our Artist : "It seemed to me, that in him Amer 
 ica had lost her third great man. What Washington 
 was as a statesman, Channning as a moralist, that 
 was Allston as an Artist." f 
 
 * Prior s Life of Burke, Vol. II., pp. 189, 190. 
 f Mrs. Jameson s Memoirs and Essays. 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 173 
 
 And here again we discern the inseparable link 
 between character and works. Allston was a good 
 man, with a soul refined by purity, exalted by 
 religion, softened by love. In manner, he was sim 
 ple, yet courtly ; quiet, though anxious to please ; 
 kindly alike to all, the poor and lowly, riot less 
 than to the rich and great ; a modest, unpretending, 
 Christian gentleman. As he spoke, in that voice of 
 softest utterance, all were charmed to listen, and the 
 airy-footed hours often tripped on far towards the 
 gates of morning, before his friends could break 
 from his spell. His character is transfigured in his 
 works ; and the Artist is always inspired by the 
 man. 
 
 His life was consecrated to Art. He lived to 
 diffuse beauty, as a writer, as a poet, as a painter. 
 As an expounder of the principles of his art, he will 
 take a place with Leonardo da Vinci, Albert Durer, 
 Joshua Reynolds, and Puseli. His theory of paint 
 ing, as developed in his still unpublished discourses, 
 and in that tale of rare beauty, " Monaldi," is an 
 instructive memorial of his conscientious studies. 
 In the small group of painter-poets, poets by the 
 double title of the pencil and the pen, he holds an 
 honored place. He was pronounced, by no less a 
 judge than Southey, to be one of the first poets of 
 the age. His Ode on England and America, one of 
 the choicest lyrics in the language, is immeasurably 
 superior to the satirical verse of Salvator Rosa, and 
 may claim companionship with the remarkable 
 sonnets of Michael Angelo. 
 14* 
 
174 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 In his youth, while yet a pupil of the University, 
 his busy fingers found pleasure in drawing ; and 
 there is still preserved, in the records of one of our 
 societies, a pen-and-ink sketch from his hand. 
 Shortly after leaving Cambridge, he repaired to 
 Europe, in the pursuit of his art. At Paris were 
 then collected the great masterpieces of painting and 
 sculpture, the spoils of unholy war, robbed from 
 their native galleries and churches, to swell the 
 pomp of the imperial capital. There our Artist 
 devoted his days to the diligent study of his chosen 
 profession, particularly the department of drawing, 
 so important to accurate art. Alluding to these 
 thorough labors at a later day, he said, " he worked 
 like a mechanic." Perhaps to these maybe referred 
 his singular excellence in that necessary, but ne 
 glected branch, which is to art what grammar is to 
 language. Grammar and design are treated by 
 Aristotle as on a level. 
 
 Turning his back upon Paris, and the greatness 
 of the Empire, he directed his steps to Italy, the 
 enchanted ground of literature, of history, and of 
 art, strown with richest memorials of the past, 
 touching from scenes memorable in the story of the 
 progress of man, teaching by the pages of phi 
 losophers and historians, vocal with the melody 
 of poets, ringing with the music which St. Ceci 
 lia protects, glowing with the living marble and 
 canvass, -beneath a sky of heavenly purity and 
 brightness, with the sunsets which Claude has 
 painted, parted by the Apennines, early witnesses 
 
WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 175 
 
 of the unrecorded Etruscan civilization, sur 
 rounded by the snow-capped Alps and the blue, 
 classic waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The 
 deluge of war, which submerged Europe, had here 
 subsided ; and our Artist took up his peaceful abode 
 in Rome, the modern home of art. Strange change 
 of condition ! Rome, sole surviving city of antiq 
 uity, who once disdained all that could be wrought 
 by the cunning hand of sculpture, 
 
 " Excudent alii spirantia mollius sera, 
 Credo equidem : vivos ducent de marmore vultus," 
 
 who has commanded the world by her arms, by her 
 jurisprudence, by her church, now sways it further 
 by her arts. Pilgrims from afar, where neither her 
 eagles, her praetors, nor her interdicts ever reached, 
 become the willing subjects of this new empire 
 and the Vatican, stored with the precious remains 
 of antiquity, and the touching creations of a 
 Christian pencil, has succeeded to the Vatican 
 whose thunders intermingled with the strifes of 
 modern Europe. 
 
 At Rome he was happy in the friendship of Cole 
 ridge, and in long walks in his instructive company. 
 We can well imagine that the author of Genevieve 
 and The Ancient Mariner would find especial sym 
 pathies with Allston. We behold these two natures, 
 tremblingly alive to beauty of all kinds, looking 
 together upon those majestic ruins, upon the mani 
 fold accumulations of art, upon the marble, which 
 almost spoke, and upon the warmer canvass, 
 
GOODNESS ALMIGHTY, AND ITS MEMORIAL 
 EVERLASTING. 
 
 BY F. D. HUNTINGTON. 
 
 THE force with which a man lives, depends on 
 the amount of his virtue, and the depth of his 
 faith ; not so much on the penetration of his un 
 derstanding ; far less, on his muscular activity, or 
 his worldly enterprise, or the persistency of his 
 ambition ; less still, on any favoritism of fortune. 
 To the worth of a life, the spirit that animates it, 
 and the splendor that attends it, are respectively re 
 lated, as the kingly temper, and the palace-tapestry, 
 to an empire. He moves, the really strong man, 
 among his fellows, who bears in his bosom a quick 
 conscience, a brave heart, a resolute will for duty, 
 generous affections for humanity, and a filial trust 
 in God. And without these, he were weak and 
 inefficient, though he swung the right arm of 
 Hercules ; ignorant and poor, though he wielded 
 Plato s reason, or held the title of Plutus wealth ; 
 shortlived and helpless, though he wore Methusa- 
 leh s multitude of days, or Cassar s crown upon his 
 forehead. 
 
GOODNESS ALMIGHTY. 181 
 
 Let the odds be never so greatly on the side of 
 evil, as the eye judges, yet virtue, slender as she 
 seems, carries behind her shield the pledge of an 
 immortal victory. As the seraph Abdiel cried, look 
 ing on the apostate in his " sun-bright chariot, 
 armed in adamant and gold," 
 
 " Strength and might 
 
 There fail where virtue fails, or weakest prove 
 Where boldest, though to sight unconquerable." 
 
 This truth finds support in the history of good 
 men and good enterprises. Silently, but effectu 
 ally, ever since the world began, virtue, a joyous 
 reaper, has been gathering its affluent harvest. 
 The field of its toil has often been obscure and 
 dusty ; but still, over all the hills, its sickle rings 
 cheerily against the waving wheat. Among the 
 superb forms of civic station and military glory, its 
 stature has seemed frail j yet in its slender figure 
 has dwelt the majesty of Right. The energy of a 
 giant has clung to its delicate limbs.. Whoever had 
 estimated its rank by the magnitude of its preten 
 sions, had sadly misjudged its nature. 
 
 Most of the great movements of reform have, 
 at the beginning, seemed insignificant. But by a 
 law of diffusion, certain as any that presides over 
 the growth of animal or vegetable life, they have 
 spread themselves out, in a steadfast organic devel 
 opment, till they arrested the world s attention, and 
 made epochs in its history. Witness the efforts of 
 modern philanthropy; the reformation of the six 
 teenth century, and the progress of the nineteenth j 
 16 
 
182 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 and the entire Christian Faith, which, from the 
 despised Nazarene and a few uneducated fishermen, 
 " the salt of the world," went forth, conquer 
 ing and to conquer ; the grain of seed expanding 
 into that tree, the green dome of whose branches 
 bends down over the farthest corners of the earth. 
 Forever, those benignant ideas that uplift and trans 
 figure the race, must have their birth in a manger. 
 From a lowly advent they go up to Jerusalem with 
 an ovation. 
 
 A single disinterested act, some patient suf 
 fering, some disinterested devotion of life or 
 comfort, for another s sake, for truth s sake, for 
 country s sake, lasts. Men see it shining through 
 dim distances, and their bosoms glow with grati 
 tude. Martyrs for justice ; apostles that have held 
 fast their integrity, amidst surrounding shame ; the 
 noble-minded ; the self-forgetful ; incorruptible pa 
 triots ; faithful friends ; these live forever. The 
 spot where a divine sentiment has had the theatre of 
 its demonstration, like the stony dungeon of Bon- 
 nivard, becomes a shrine which after-centuries visit 
 and bless, for the crown of honor it sets on human 
 nature. Goodness makes up, in the intensity of its 
 life, for all deficiencies in the visible ranks of its 
 disciples. 
 
 " How far that little candle throws its beams ; 
 So shines a good deed, in a naughty world." 
 
 Form one upright, genuine resolve, and it will uplift 
 into higher air your whole being. Just as a few 
 
GOODNESS ALMIGHTY. 183 
 
 great deeds, among a people, will dignify a whole 
 period, and give character to a whole history, so 
 a few heavenly affections will make a whole life 
 divine. 
 
 As goodness is the omnipotence of God, and the 
 manliness of man, so it is the only immortality. 
 We are constantly deceived by the fallacy that con 
 founds the mere continuance of time, and the em 
 ployment of it j by imagining bare existence to be 
 an end, and a good, in itself, apart from those moral 
 exercises which endow it with its only grandeur. 
 In simple fact, it is quite possible so to treat life, 
 that the arithmetical computation of it shall be 
 completely falsified. Crowd the " narrow span" of 
 a single score of years with " wise designs and vir 
 tuous deeds," and its dimensions open and expand, 
 till that short career seems lengthened into a pro 
 tracted age. Waste your threescore and ten in 
 idleness, dissipation, or worldliness, and you dwarf 
 them down to a brief and evanescent day. The 
 young man, whose heart has kept steady beat to 
 high resolves, pure thoughts, and generous sympa 
 thies, and has died only because the red blood that 
 warmed that heart has refused to flow, has yielded 
 larger sums of all that makes life truly long, of 
 all that makes life truly life, than the hoary- 
 headed debauchee, or worldling, or self-seeker, who 
 is carried forth to burial with the mocked insignia 
 .of age upon his brow. Life is to be measured 
 rather by its depth and breadth, than by its length ; 
 rather by its contents than its surface. Who would 
 
184 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 \ 
 
 not say, Give me the fate of Joseph Stevens Buck- 
 minster, dying at twenty-eight, but leaving an in 
 fluence both genial and eternal, and a memory that 
 has no bounds of blessing, rather than the gray 
 locks spread upon the temples of Aaron Burr, son 
 of blasphemy aud crime ? A prolonged probation 
 has its value, but only as it is prolonged usefulness. 
 Multiplied experiences are honorable, but only as 
 they bring multiplied occasions for heroism. The 
 hoary head is a crown of glory, but only as it is 
 found in the way of righteousness. 
 
 An untimely death, what is it 1 No human life 
 is long, that wastes its opportunities and perverts 
 its powers. Whenever the bad man dies, though 
 he be superannuated, there is an untimely death. 
 Even in the decrepitude of the body, the death is 
 premature. Out of the world, which it may have 
 gained, goes a lost soul. 
 
 On the other hand, the life of goodness never can 
 be brief. It is long of necessity, long without 
 being anxious to be long ; long, in its own deep 
 content and satisfying peace ; long, in the influ 
 ence it leaves, sweet as the breath of flowers, to 
 linger in the places that know its outward form no 
 longer, 
 
 " You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still ; " 
 
 long, in the blessings that grateful lips breathe upon 
 it ; long, in its pledge and foretaste of immortality. 
 Righteous men reach their full age ; and so do holy 
 
GOODNESS ALMIGHTY. 185 
 
 children. The young girl of pure and disinterested 
 heart, and serene trust in Heaven, has no short 
 period among her kindred, though she be borne to 
 her grave with all the dew and bloom of early 
 beauty on her countenance, and its roundness in her 
 unshrunken hand. In her quiet ministry to the 
 affections, in thoughtful manners, and the innocent 
 wisdom of an unspotted mind, she lived long, 
 long enough to teach us that such a death is no 
 untimely thing. The little child, passing away so 
 soon that it never wrought one of those deeds that 
 men call useful, if it brought one new syllable 
 from the skies, if it wakened one holy impulse or 
 solemn purpose, one prayer to the Father of Spirits, 
 by some speechless, sinless look, has not lived in 
 vain, has not died too soon, has not met an un 
 timely end. Noble affections are spiritual lon 
 gevity. Voltaire, grown old in the gloomy creed of 
 atheism, died an untimely death. But turn to the 
 lovely young Princess Charlotte, whom the loyal 
 devotion of a kingdom, whom accomplishments 
 and virtues, and the tenderest domestic love, could 
 not keep back from the inexorable tomb ; the gen 
 tle, sacred light of her beneficent life went down 
 full-orbed, though it hastened to its setting before 
 it had climbed to its noon. Says Sir Thomas 
 Browne, whose spiritual insight is the majesty and 
 the eloquence of his speech, "He cannot be ac 
 counted young, who outliveth the old man. He 
 that hath early arrived unto the measure of a per 
 fect stature in Christ, hath already fulfilled the 
 16* 
 
186 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 prime and longest intention of his being ; and one 
 day lived after the perfect rule of piety, is to 
 be preferred before sinning immortality. - And so 
 wrote, grandly, another of the wisest of men : 
 " Being made perfect in a short time, he fulfilled a 
 long time. Youth, that is soon perfected, shall 
 condemn the many years and old age of the un 
 righteous. For honorable age is not that which 
 standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by 
 number of years. But wisdom is the gray hair 
 unto men, and an unspotted life is old age." 
 
 Thus, too, if we would judge of the rate at 
 which we are living, we are to look, not at the 
 growth, or the decay of the frame, the tightening 
 or slackening of the sinews, but at the emotions 
 that play most freely through our hearts, and the 
 actions we achieve. Count, not your birth-days, 
 but the number of hearts you have blessed, and the 
 holy impulses you have set in motion, if you would 
 know how old you are. 
 
 " Life s more than breath, and the quick round of blood ; 
 It is a great spirit, and a busy heart. 
 We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; 
 In feelings, not in figures on a dial." 
 
 The memorial of goodness is everlasting. Who 
 ever bears a working hand and a large love through 
 the world, shall make eternal room for himself in 
 its memory. Whoever speaks fruitful words, so 
 laden with truth that they plant themselves in the 
 hearts of other men with an immovable lodgment, 
 
GOODNESS ALMIGHTY. 187 
 
 and strike root there, shall realize the fulfilment 
 of the inarticulate prophecy within him, and shall 
 not wholly die, even out of this scene of his 
 present habitation. Goodness is at once creative 
 and monumental ; ideal and form ; inspiration and 
 marble. It is one of the finest human traits, 
 that men insist on perpetuating the excellence 
 of their lost companions. Nothing is so sure 
 of an apotheosis, as Christian righteousness. Is 
 there any other immortality worth having ? 
 
 A shrewd bargainer s opulence may be burnt by 
 fire, or sunk in the sea, or scattered by spendthrift 
 heirs. The costly mansion has no stability, that it 
 should syllable forth its builder s name forever. 
 Children may, one by one, all pass from life, " or, 
 sadder yet, may fall from virtue." But holiness 
 and benevolence, having an independent principle 
 of life, will be fresh and green when the pillars 
 of the earth are shaken. 
 
 Following the spiritual laws, your smallest 
 exercise of Christian capability shall tell with its 
 full efficiency somewhere, somewhere in that 
 boundless realm where our destinies are to be 
 consummated, somewhere within the cycle of 
 the possibilities of God. 
 
 The average of Christian life in society at this 
 moment, is not the result of a few men s extraordi 
 nary gifts ; it is the growth of slow centuries, and 
 every deed or word, back to the remotest watch of 
 the morning, lent its share of influence to make the 
 child, bom to-day, what he is. If it is proved that 
 
188 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 every added drop of water swells the whole bosom of 
 the ocean, and that the ripple that drop makes on the 
 surface as it falls, spreads in ever-widening circles, 
 till it lifts the imperceptible wave on the most 
 distant beach j that the falling pebble sends its 
 little shock through the solid centre of the globe ; 
 that -the motion of our hand scatters vibrations 
 through all the spaces of air, audible, were our hear 
 ing only delicate enough to catch them ; then how 
 much easier to believe that every thought and act 
 quivers through the spiritual creation, and resounds 
 through the lengthening halls of Time. 
 
 The memorial of goodness is an everlasting 
 memorial, because goodness itself is an imperishable 
 thing. There are few truths more animating than 
 this, more practical or more ennobling. Jesus said 
 of Mary s offering, " Wheresoever this gospel shall 
 be preached in the whole world, there shall also 
 this that this woman hath done be told for a memo 
 rial of her." And so it has been. Wherever the 
 great gospel has gone, with its lofty message and 
 its gracious consolations, there also has gone the 
 story of this woman s reverential affection. The 
 thrilling eulogy on that humility, that devotedness, 
 that significant act so quietly and yet so earnestly 
 done, when the Saviour received his anointing from 
 the lowly woman, has gone out into all the world. 
 It has become a part of the " good tidings." The 
 history of that beautiful, unconscious sainthood, has 
 travelled wherever the all-conquering evangel of 
 Christ has travelled, has been borne on the same 
 
GOODNESS ALMIGHTY. 189 
 
 wide and rapid wings through kingdoms, has sur 
 vived with it a thousand revolutions, has looked 
 with it on the tragic course and consummation of 
 many nations greatness and men s ambition. Sim 
 ple and unostentatious in itself, such has been its 
 triumphant companionship with the everlasting 
 oracles. 
 
 It has happened in accordance with the estab 
 lished order of the spiritual world. And here is 
 encouragement. Every such deed, not this alone, 
 lives on, after the hand that wrought it has changed 
 into fine dust that the wind might drive away. 
 Let him, however humble his lot, who is oppressed 
 with the dark suspicion that he is living to no 
 purpose, dismiss that disheartening doubt. Each 
 honest look and tone of his that wears the stamp 
 of truth, wears also the seal of God ; and God 
 knows his own. A thousand times more illustrious 
 than the exploits of valiant commanders, it sinks 
 the brilliant successes of Salamis and Waterloo into 
 stupid failures. It towers up above the golden 
 battlements of commerce, and above even some 
 showy and vain philanthropies. 
 
 The charity that ministers its mercy without 
 asking to be seen ; the prompt defence of the injured, 
 though hatred and scorn be the first recompense ; 
 the example that pleads single-handed, for unbend 
 ing rectitude, in the face of popular corruptions; 
 the strict abiding by the truth, when falsehood and 
 treachery would buy promotion and fame ; simplicity 
 clung to amidst the artifices of an insincere society 
 
190 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 which seeks to sanction its impostor-tricks by the 
 flimsy apologies of fashion ; purity bearing its 
 angelic testimony where vileness sits as judge ; the 
 sufferings of the wronged ; the saint s trials ; the 
 sick child s patience ; the slave s cheerfulness ; the 
 aspiration after holiness ; the rising prayer of faith j 
 these, and such as these, have no element of decay 
 in them. They are deathless, by the primal ordi 
 nation of their being. The gathered lightnings of 
 the tropics could not blast, nor mar, their serene 
 beauty. The weight of accumulated mountains 
 could not extinguish the fragrance with which they 
 fill the earth. No blackness of darkness could dim 
 the censers of their unfailing light. Once commit 
 ted to this actual world, and to the eye of God, they 
 are sure of their eternity. Neither Raphael s pic 
 tures, nor Homer s verse, nor Beethoven s music, 
 nor Canova s forms, are so indestructible. Above 
 the brightness of the sun and the stars, they will 
 burn on, when the solemn and long- watching lamps 
 of heaven are gone out. 
 
THE OCEAN. 
 
 BY RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 Now stretch your eye offshore, o er waters made 
 To cleanse the air and bear the world s great trade, 
 To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, 
 Then back into themselves in rivers run, 
 Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, 
 Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide. 
 
 Ho ! how the giant heaves himself, and strains 
 And flings to break his strong and viewless chains ; 
 Foams in his wrath ; and at his prison doors, 
 Hark ! hear him ! how he beats and tugs and roars, 
 As if he would break forth again and sweep 
 Each living thing within his lowest deep. 
 
 Type of the Infinite ! I look away 
 Over thy billows, and I cannot stay 
 My thought upon a resting-place, or make 
 A shore beyond my vision, where they break ; 
 But on my spirit stretches, till tis pain 
 To think ; then rests, and then puts forth again. 
 Thou hold st me by a spell ; and on thy beach 
 I feel all soul ; and thoughts unmeasured reach 
 
192 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Far back beyond all date. And, O ! how old 
 Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast rolled. 
 Before an ear did hear thee, thou did st mourn, 
 Prophet of sorrows, o er a race unborn ; 
 Waiting, thou mighty minister of death, 
 Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath. 
 At last thou did st it well ! The dread command 
 Came, and thou swept st to death the breathing land ; 
 And then once more, unto the silent heaven 
 Thy lone and melancholy voice was given. 
 
 And though the land is thronged again, O Sea ! 
 Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee. 
 The small bird s plaining note, the wild, sharp call. 
 Share thy own spirit ; it is sadness all ! 
 How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down 
 Yonder tall cliff, he with the iron crown. 
 And see ! those sable pines along the steep, 
 Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep ! 
 Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge 
 Over the dead, with thy low beating surge. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 
 
 BY JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM. 
 
 " The noblest Roman of them all." SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 THE decease of any individual, who has occupied 
 a prominent position in society, and who, by the 
 exercise of any uncommon talent, has attracted a large 
 share of public attention, or secured a permanent hold 
 on the hearts of friends and cotemporaries, may prop 
 erly be followed by a recognition of his claims to 
 respectful remembrance. The writer of the follow 
 ing memoir has endeavored to exhibit the principal 
 incidents in the life of one, concerning whom his 
 personal recollections are vivid and imperishable, 
 and to place on record a memorial, faint and 
 imperfect, indeed, but sincere and hearty, of a 
 rich and splendid genius, whose mighty power has 
 often excited his admiration, and opened unexpected 
 and exhaustless sources of intellectual enjoyment. 
 
 THOMAS APTHORPE COOPER was born in 1777. 
 His father was a surgeon, who was well established 
 at Harrrovv-on-the-Hill, near London. Soon after 
 17 
 
194 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 the birth of his son, he left his situation, and a 
 profitable practice, and went to India. There he 
 acquired a considerable property, but of the greater 
 part of it his family were defrauded at his death, 
 which happened in India. His widow, was left 
 destitute of the means of educating her children ; 
 and, at nine years old, the subject of this memoir 
 was taken, from motives of friendship, by William 
 Godwin, the celebrated author of an essay on Polit 
 ical Justice, of St. Leon, Caleb Williams, and 
 several other popular novels and romances. Young 
 Cooper was educated by Mr. Godwin, and intended 
 for a writer. He was instructed in the democratic 
 principles of his friend and tutor, and maintained, 
 through life, an affection for republican forms of 
 government, and a dislike, amounting almost to 
 hatred, for the aristocracy of his native country. 
 
 Under the tuition of such a master, it is not sur 
 prizing that the pupil was roused by the French 
 revolution, and delighted with the anticipated suc 
 cess of the principles, which its instigators and 
 leaders professed. Cooper was scarcely seventeen, 
 when his enthusiasm prompted him to abandon the 
 pursuits of authorship, and to ask for a commission 
 in the army of the Great Republic. It was deter 
 mined that he should seek for distinction under the 
 banners of liberty, when the war broke out between 
 England and France, and clouded his brilliant pros 
 pects of military promotion and renown. He relin 
 quished his purpose of entering the French army, 
 and turned his attention to the stage. He commu- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 195 
 
 nicated his wishes to his benefactor, but they were 
 met with coldness and regret, and, when at last 
 assented to, were accompanied with decided marks 
 of disapprobation. 
 
 But his intention of becoming an actor by pro 
 fession was found to be invincible. Thomas Hoi- 
 croft, in political principles a kindred spirit, and a 
 popular dramatic author, undertook to prepare him 
 for a first appearance on the stage. When he was 
 thought sufficiently qualified, many difficulties oc 
 curred before an acceptable time and place could be 
 obtained for introducing him to the public. At 
 length, Stephen Kemble offered him an opportunity 
 to exhibit his qualities at the theatre in Edinburgh. 
 He was then a raw country youth of about seven 
 teen years of age. On his arrival in Edinburgh, 
 little conscious of his green appearance and incom- 
 petency, made up in the extreme of rustic foppery, 
 proud of his talents, and not doubting of success, he 
 waited on Mr. Kemble, and presented his letters of 
 introduction. On learning his name and errand, 
 Mr. Kemble s countenance changed from a smile 
 of politeness to a stare of disappointment. 
 
 Cooper had been prepared for the part of Young 
 Norval in Home s tragedy of Douglas ; but, after a 
 private rehearsal, instead of the expected eclat, he 
 received a few cold excuses from the manager, arid 
 he had the mortification to see his part filled by an 
 old man and a bad player. He remained with the 
 company through the season, without ever appear 
 ing before the audience. From Edinburgh he went 
 
196 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 with the company to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where 
 he lived as inactive and undistinguished as before, 
 till, owing to the want of a person to fill the part of 
 Malcolm in the tragedy of Macbeth, he was permit 
 ted to show himself in that humble character In 
 such an inferior sphere did HE begin to move, who 
 afterwards became one of the most brilliant lumi 
 naries of the theatrical world. But his reception 
 by the public was no more encouraging to his am 
 bition than the chilling and repulsive coldness he 
 had at first met with from the manager. He passed 
 tolerably well through the trifling and unimportant 
 dialogue of the part, till he came to the lines, which 
 conclude the play, 
 
 " So thanks to all at once, and to each one, 
 Whom we invite to see us crowned at Scone." 
 
 To give effect to his pronunciation of these lines, 
 he stretched out his hands, and assumed the attitude 
 and smile of thankfulness j a slight embarrassment 
 checked his utterance, and he paused, still retain 
 ing his posture. The prompter was heard by every 
 one, except the bewildered Malcolm, who still con 
 tinued mute, every moment of his silence increas 
 ing his perplexity. Macduff whispered the words 
 in his ear; Macbeth, who lay slaughtered at his 
 feet, broke the silence of death, to assist his dumb 
 successor ; the prompter spoke almost to vocifera 
 tion; each Thane, dead or alive, joined his voice ; 
 but this was only " confusion worse confounded." 
 If he could have spoken, the amazed prince might 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 197 
 
 very properly have said, " So thanks to all at once ; " 
 but his power of utterance was gone. A hiss broke 
 out in the pit, the clamor became general, and the 
 curtain dropped amidst a universal shout of disap 
 probation. 
 
 Discomfited and humiliated. Cooper returned to 
 London. His friends, Godwin and Holcroft, who 
 believed that he possessed the requisites for an 
 actor, sent him on a tour of probation and improve 
 ment among the provincial theatres. They ex 
 pected that he would thus acquire an acquaintance 
 with the stage, and prepare himself for the theatres 
 of the metropolis. An evil genius still seemed to 
 preside over his fate. He appeared to the managers, 
 in whose company he enlisted, as a raw recruit, 
 with no talents for the profession. Characters of 
 importance were considered utterly beyond his 
 reach. Those of inferior rank he played without 
 success, and he degenerated into a mere letter- 
 carrier. In this manner he spent a few months, 
 starving on a paltry salary, and then, abandoning 
 his irksome and degrading situation, traveled on 
 foot to London. 
 
 Cooper s friends now abandoned the idea of his 
 improvement by practice on the provincial stages. 
 Mr. Holcroft again undertook to instruct him j heard 
 him recite passages from Shakspeare s most distin 
 guished characters ; and explained their nature and 
 peculiarities, and the passions, by which they are 
 influenced. Thus he was taught the chief attribute 
 of an actor, to conceive the intention of the 
 17* 
 
198 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 author, to enter into the feelings of the character, 
 arid identify himself with it. To this discipline, 
 Cooper paid close and industrious attention, and his 
 extraordinary talents were rapidly evolved. In a 
 few months, he was thought qualified for appear 
 ance before a metropolitan audience ; and, accord 
 ingly, at the age of eighteen, he performed, in one 
 week, the characters of Hamlet and Macbeth on 
 the stage of Covent-Garden Theatre, to overflowing 
 houses, and with the most encouraging applause. 
 
 Having met so favorable a reception from a 
 London audience, Cooper was offered a liberal 
 engagement ; but, as he was not yet capable of 
 sustaining the first line of characters, he was ex 
 pected to undertake those of a lower grade. These 
 conditions he declined to accept. Resolved to be 
 " Caesar or nothing," he refused any secondary 
 situation, and retired to the country, where he 
 employed himself in cultivating his talents, and 
 studying the most important dramatic characters. 
 While he was thus engaged, Mr. Wignell, manager 
 of the Philadelphia theatre, visited England, to 
 raise a reinforcement for his company. He entered 
 into a negotiation with Cooper, which was promptly 
 concluded j and, in a few days, our young tragedian 
 was on the Atlantic, pursuing his voyage to the 
 United States. 
 
 Cooper was not fortunate enough at first, to win 
 the universal favor of the Philadelphia audience. 
 His engagement to play the first line of parts in 
 tragedy, excluded from those characters their old 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 199 
 
 and favorite performers. He had also some careless 
 and dissipated habits, that were not adapted to gain 
 respect or secure approbation, an evidence of which 
 was especially manifested on the occasion of his first 
 benefit, for which but few seats were taken. This 
 did not affect his pocket, for the benefit was guar 
 anteed to a certain amount ; but it affected his pride ; 
 and, resolved to avoid the mortification attendant on 
 "a beggarly account of empty boxes," he secured 
 an overflowing house, by the exhibition of an 
 elephant on the stage, whose appearance he 
 obtained by a fee of sixty dollars to its owner. 
 
 When the winter campaign at Philadelphia had 
 closed, the company made a summer excursion 
 to New- York. Cooper made his first bow to the 
 New- York audience in the character of Pierre, in 
 Otway s tragedy of Venice Preserved, and made an 
 indelible impression in his favor. A coldness had 
 some time subsisted between him and Wignell, and 
 he wished to change his situation. His engage 
 ment bound him in a penalty of two thousand 
 dollars. The sum was subscribed by several gen 
 tlemen, who engaged to advance it, if necessary, 
 and Cooper was transferred to the New- York thea 
 tre. There he remained, with the exception of one 
 season at Philadelphia, and a short visit to Boston, 
 till 1803. 
 
 In 1798, the celebrated Hodgkinson was the 
 lessee of the Haymarket Theatre, Boston, and, in the 
 course of the summer of that year, appeared there 
 with his company, of which Cooper was a member, 
 
200 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 with the intention of performing three months. 
 The yellow fever broke out, and spread consterna 
 tion throughout the town. The company per 
 formed but three or four nights, and then left the 
 place. The writer does not recollect that Cooper 
 played more than twice. He opened in Hamlet, 
 and his second performance was the character of 
 Lord Hastings, in the tragedy of Jane Shore. 
 
 When, in 1803, John Kemble had quarreled with 
 the managers of Drury Lane Theatre, and gone to 
 Paris, Cooper was invited to London, and the 
 situation of Kemble was offered to him, if he should 
 appear to satisfy the audience. He accordingly 
 went, but did not succeed equal to the expectation 
 of his friends. His performances were received 
 with a good degree of applause ; but the public 
 thought him inferior to their favorites, Cooke and 
 Kemble. After performing Hamlet, Macbeth and 
 Othello, in London, and a few other parts in Liver 
 pool, with approbation, he returned to New-York, 
 and was received with a most hearty welcome. 
 From New- York he went to Philadelphia, where 
 he added to his already large honors, and thence to 
 Boston. 
 
 It was in the spring of 1804, just after the regular 
 course of benefits had commenced, that Cooper 
 made his second visit to Boston. After the adjust 
 ment of conditions with the performers, who had 
 not taken their benefit nights, he played his principal 
 characters. some of them twice, much to the 
 gratification of the town. Before leaving Boston, 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 201 
 
 he made an engagement with the manager, Mr. 
 Powell, for five months of the next season, com 
 mencing the first of October. During this en 
 gagement Cooper personated, in tragedy, the 
 characters of Hamlet, Othello, Macbeth, Coriolanus, 
 Richard III., Zanga, Pierre, Beverly, Glenalvon, 
 Young Norval, Romeo, and Alexander ; and in 
 other pieces, Benedick, Octavian, Leon, Sir Edward 
 Mortimer, Duke Aranza, Osmond, and many others, 
 too numerous to mention. For his benefit, in Feb 
 ruary, he played Falstaff in the First Part of Henry 
 IV. In this part, he spoke the language with great 
 force and propriety. Every word was made to tell. 
 But he wanted ease, his limbs seemed to be entirely 
 stiffened by the stuffing out of the shape and 
 doublet. It is believed that he never attempted 
 the part a second time. 
 
 From Boston Mr. Cooper went to New- York, and 
 assumed the management of the Park Theatre. 
 How long he filled this station is not known to 
 the writer ; but he immediately began the system 
 of staining. In this career, he was eminently suc 
 cessful for a term of more than twenty years. He 
 purchased a beautiful estate at Bristol, in Penn 
 sylvania, on the bank of the Delaware, and this 
 thenceforward became his home. He visited Bos 
 ton, New-York, and Philadelphia every year, and 
 sometimes extended his tour to Charleston, play 
 ing, at each place, his favorite characters. 
 
 In the autumn of 1827, Mr. Cooper made another 
 voyage to England, with an intention of performing 
 
202 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 a few nights at one of the London theatres. He 
 appeared in the character of Macbeth at Drury Lane, 
 bat he was received with indifference. Whether 
 this was caused by any marked defects in the 
 performance, or by a prejudice, which had taken 
 possession of the London public against American 
 actors, is not known. Disappointed at the cool 
 reception he met, he soon returned to the United 
 States. Some unfavorable remarks of London crit 
 ics had arrived before him, which excited a senti 
 ment in his favor among his friends in Boston. He 
 appeared before them in the same character, in 
 which he had been condemned in London, but 
 which had been considered in Boston and New- 
 York as one of the finest efforts of his genius. He 
 was received with great applause, every body ad 
 mired, but some doubted whether his faculties were 
 not on the wane, a doubt, which, probably, was 
 not without justifiable cause, but which might not 
 have entered their minds, if they had not known 
 that the performance had been condemned by trans 
 atlantic criticism. 
 
 Notwithstanding the somewhat equivocal recep 
 tion he afterwards met in New-York and Philadel 
 phia, Mr. Cooper pursued his system of starring for 
 some years. It became evident to his friends that, 
 if his powers were not on the decline, he was 
 negligent and careless, and that his ambition had 
 suffered a lamentable decadence. Indulgence at 
 the social table sometimes extended beyond the 
 exact line of severe sobriety, the consequences 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 203 
 
 of which were not perfectly concealed from the 
 audience. Under such circumstances, his friends 
 were forced to the conviction, that his " May of life 
 had fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf," and that 
 he could no longer command public admiration, as 
 in his earlier years. 
 
 Mr. Cooper at length perceived that his physical 
 faculties had so far failed as to render him unequal 
 to the task of performing his favorite characters, 
 with his former energy and vigor ; and, as he had 
 no disposition to " lag superfluous on the stage," 
 or to give occasion for his friends to contrast the 
 feebleness of threescore with the brilliancy and 
 power of the middle age, he relinquished his pro 
 fession, and retired to his house at Bristol. But he 
 had not been provident enough, in the day of his 
 prosperity, to lay up sufficient to maintain him in 
 his declining years, in the style, in which he had 
 been accustomed to live. The estate on the Dela 
 ware was sold, and he took up his residence in 
 Philadelphia. Through the influence of friends, 
 he obtained a situation in the custom-house in 
 that city. Of this he was deprived, when there 
 came a change in the administration of the national 
 government. Another situation, of a similar char 
 acter, was afterwards obtained for him in New-York. 
 This he enjoyed till his death, which occurred in 
 the spring of 1849. 
 
 Mr. Cooper was twice married. By his first mar 
 riage he had a son, who received an appointment 
 in the navy of the United States. His second 
 
204 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 marriage was with a daughter of James Fairlee, 
 Esq., an alderman of the city of New-York, an 
 amiable and accomplished lady, possessing superior 
 intellectual powers, and most refined and attractive 
 manners. By this marriage he had several chil 
 dren j one of whom is the wife of Robert Tyler, 
 Esq., son of John Tyler, ex-president of the United 
 States. 
 
 The limits, to which the writer is confined, will 
 not allow of an elaborate review of Mr. Cooper s 
 performances ; indeed, barely to enumerate them 
 all, would occupy several pages. It is believed 
 that no actor of eminence, on the American stage, 
 had a greater range of parts, or personated so many 
 of the most important characters. The list would 
 probably exceed a hundred. 
 
 It is true, indeed, that before his last visit to 
 England, an impression existed to some small ex 
 tent, even here, that Mr. Cooper s powers were on 
 the decline. It was said, occasionally, that his 
 acting wanted the spirit and energy, which once 
 made it so attracting and popular. If there was 
 some truth, there was more of querulousness, in the 
 suggestion. Any one, who saw him, from year to 
 year, and watched him with a critic s eye, must 
 have perceived a gradual improvement. His style 
 of acting, in 1825, was indeed very different from 
 what it was in 1805; but it was all for the better. 
 There was more of natural tenderness in his Hamlet, 
 more of dignity in his Coriolanus, more of passion 
 in his Othello, more of the terrible sublime in his 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 205 
 
 Macbeth. There was more of philosophical delibe 
 ration in all his parts ; and he seldom introduced a 
 change from his former manner, seldom made a 
 deviation from the beaten track, which antiquity 
 and fashion had consecrated, that had not some 
 thing plausible, if not convincing, to oifer in its 
 vindication. 
 
 In certain characters in comedy, Mr. Cooper was 
 much admired, though not generally esteemed su 
 perior to some of his contemporaries. Benedick, 
 in Much Ado About Nothing, and Leon, in the 
 licentious play of Rule a Wife and Have a Wife, 
 were highly finished performances. Joseph Sur 
 face, in his hands, was so palpable a hypocrite, that 
 Sir Peter Teazle must have been an idiot not 
 to perceive the cheat, that was practised on him. 
 Of all his attempts in comedy, the part of Duke 
 Aranza, in the Honey Moon, was immeasurably 
 the best, and in this part he stood as far above all 
 competition, as he did in Hamlet or Macbeth. 
 
 In tragedy, Mr. Cooper was generally more suc 
 cessful in producing terror, than in exciting sym 
 pathy ; yet no one saw him in Othello, without a 
 sentiment of pity for the wrongs he suffered ; and 
 the pathos of Virginius, in the scene where he kills 
 his daughter, was sufficient to draw a tear from 
 the most insensible spectator. The strangling of 
 Appius, in the closing scene of that tragedy, was 
 awfully sublime and terrific. 
 
 Though always elegant, impressive, and grace 
 ful, in declamation, his style of speaking was much 
 18 
 
206 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 improved as his faculties approached to maturity. 
 His Mark Antony was a model of popular elo 
 quence : and his Brutus, in the same tragedy, dis 
 played the calm, unimpassioned, yet persuasive 
 eloquence of the philosopher. In the early part of 
 his theatrical career, he considered Hamlet as the 
 most finished of all his personations, and the public 
 voice seemed to coincide with him in this decision. 
 He undoubtedly bestowed upon it laborious and 
 critical study. But, when his faculties were in 
 their unfaded maturity, Macbeth was, certainly, his 
 masterpiece. He was completely identified with 
 the character. The dagger scene, which he played 
 in a style altogether his own, was a sublime effort 
 of histrionic genius. In the fifth act of the piece, 
 when the Thane had " supped full with horrors," 
 the moral reflections, inspired by remorse and fear, 
 were delivered with such exquisite beauty and 
 feeling, that the crimes of the murderer were 
 almost obliterated from the mind, by pity for the 
 wretched victim, writhing under the tortures of 
 conscience. 
 
 It would gratify the writer to proceed to reveal 
 the impressions, still deep in his memory, made by 
 Mr. Cooper s personations of Zanga, Richard, lago, 
 Pierre, Jaffier, and many others ; but vain would be 
 the effort to transfer that impression to the minds 
 of others. The genius of an actor can be seen only 
 in the living portraits he presents, the breathing 
 personifications of the poet, the philosopher, and 
 the moralist : 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A FAVORITE ACTOR. 207 
 
 Yes, hapless artist ! though thy skill can raise 
 
 The bursting peal of universal praise, 
 
 Though, at thy beck, Applause delighted stands, 
 
 And lifts, Briareus like, her hundred hands, 
 
 Know Fame awards thee but a partial breath ; 
 
 Not all thy talents brave the stroke of Death. 
 
 Poets to ages yet unborn appeal, 
 
 And latest times the eternal nature feel ; 
 
 Though blended, here, the praise of bard and player, 
 
 While more than half becomes the actor s share, 
 
 Relentless Death untwists the mingled fame, 
 
 And sinks the player in the poet s name. 
 
 The pliant muscles of the various face, 
 
 The mien, that gave each sentence strength and grace, 
 
 The tuneful voice, the eye, that spoke the mind, 
 
 Are gone, nor leave a single trace behind. 
 
THE WIND. 
 
 BY GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 THE wind has voices, that defy 
 
 The spirit s utmost scrutiny ; 
 
 We shudder at its sobbing wail, 
 
 And shrink when howls the rolling gale, 
 
 And even its softest breath is heard 
 
 Like some half-muttered, saddening word ; 
 
 Of all its tones, there is no voice 
 
 That bids the thrilling heart rejoice. 
 
 The sailor, on the silent seas, 
 May long to hail the freshening breeze ; 
 The blast, that hurls the spattered foam, 
 Will waft him to his distant home ; 
 Yet, while the loosening sail he flings, 
 That gives his floating bird its wings, 
 His manly breast will often feel 
 Some strange, dread fancy o er it steal. 
 
THE WIND. 209 
 
 When crouched beside the wintry blaze, 
 And midnight sings its wonted lays ; 
 The music of the mingling tune, 
 Now rising high, and falling soon, 
 The wailing and complaining tone 
 Might be a laugh, though more a moan ; 
 But wild or sad, or high or low, 
 It ever takes a note of woe. 
 
 I never hear it on the shore, 
 Concerted with the watery roar, 
 Or sweeping where the sullen breeze 
 Glides, like a spirit, through the trees ; 
 Nor listen to its mustering wail, 
 When wintry tempests swell the gale ; 
 But haunting fancies, dark and wild, 
 Brood like the dreams that daunt a child. 
 
 I Ve seen it stir the nested rills, 
 
 Amid the topmost Crystal hills ; 
 
 Have watched it drive the clashing clouds, 
 
 And scream along the shaken shrouds ; 
 
 Wild, strange ! the same in every hour, 
 
 Resistless, formless, unseen power! 
 
 A voice that gives us no reply, 
 
 A sound that shakes, we know not why ! 
 
 Yet not the less my battling soul 
 Springs, like a racer, to its goal ; 
 Can wring a joy, that else were pain, 
 When hurrying blasts cry o er the main, 
 Hear music in the mournful tune 
 That softens on the gales of June ; 
 And gather, from the fireside tone, 
 A sad, sweet language all its own. 
 18* 
 
NATURE. 
 
 BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 THERE are days which occur in this climate, at 
 almost any season of the year, wherein the world 
 reaches its perfection, when the air, the heavenly 
 bodies, and the earth, make a harmony, as if nature 
 would indulge her offspring ; when, in these bleak 
 tipper sides of the planet, nothing is to desire that 
 we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and we 
 bask in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba; 
 when every thing that has life gives sign of sat 
 isfaction, and the cattle that lie on the ground 
 seem to have great and tranquil thoughts. These 
 halcyons may be looked for with a little more 
 assurance in that pure October weather, which 
 we distinguish by the name of the Indian Sum 
 mer. The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over 
 the broad hills and warm wide fields. To have 
 lived through all its sunny hours, seems longevity 
 enough. The solitary places do not seem quite 
 lonely. At the gates of the forest, the surprised 
 man of the world is forced to leave his city esti 
 mates of great and small, wise and foolish. The 
 
NATURE. 211 
 
 knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first 
 step he makes into these precincts. Here is sanc 
 tity which shames our religions, and reality which 
 discredits our heroes. Here we find nature to be 
 the circumstance which dwarfs every other cir 
 cumstance, and judges like a god all men that 
 come to her. We have crept out of our close and 
 crowded houses into the night and morning, and 
 we see what majestic beauties daily wrap us in 
 their bosom. How willingly we would escape the 
 barriers which render them comparatively impotent, 
 escape the sophistication and second thought, and 
 suffer nature to entrance us. The tempered light 
 of the woods is like a perpetual morning, and is 
 stimulating and heroic. The anciently reported 
 spells of these places creep on us. The stems of 
 pines, hemlocks, and oaks, almost gleam like iron 
 on the excited eye. The incommunicable trees 
 begin to persuade us to live with them, and quit 
 our life of solemn trifles. Here no history, or 
 church, or state, is interpolated on the divine 
 sky and the immortal year. How easily we might 
 walk onward into the opening landscape, absorbed 
 by new pictures, and by thoughts fast succeeding 
 each other, until by degrees the recollection of 
 home was crowded out of the mind, all memory 
 obliterated by the tyranny of the present, and we 
 were led in triumph by nature. 
 
 These enchantments are medicinal, they sober 
 and heal us. These are plain pleasures, kindly and 
 native to us. We come to our own, and make 
 
212 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 friends with matter, which the ambitious chatter of 
 the schools would persuade us to despise. We 
 never can part with it ; the mind loves its old 
 home ; as water to our thirst, so is the rock, the 
 ground, to our eyes, and hands, and feet. It is 
 firm water ; it is cold flame : what health, what 
 affinity ! Ever an old friend, ever like a dear friend 
 and brother, when we chat affectedly with strangers, 
 comes in this honest face, and takes a grave liberty 
 with us, and shames us out of our nonsense. Cities 
 give not the human senses room enough. We go 
 out daily and nightly to feed the eyes on the hori 
 zon, and require so much scope, just as we need 
 water for our bath. There are all degrees of natural 
 influence, from these quarantine powers of nature, 
 up to her dearest and gravest ministrations to the 
 imagination and the soul. There is the bucket of 
 cold water from the spring, the wood-fire to which 
 the chilled traveller rushes for safety, and there 
 is the sublime moral of autumn and of noon. We 
 nestle in nature, and draw our living as parasites 
 from her roots and grains, and we receive glances 
 from the heavenly bodies, which call us to solitude, 
 and foretell the remotest future. The blue zenith 
 is the point in which romance and reality meet. I 
 think, if we should be rapt away into all that we 
 dream of heaven, and should converse with Gabriel 
 and Uriel, the upper sky would be all that would 
 remain of our furniture. 
 
 It seems as if the day was not wholly profane, in 
 which we have given heed to some natural object. 
 
NATURE. 
 
 213 
 
 The fall of snowflakes in a still air, preserving to 
 each crystal its perfect form ; the blowing of sleet 
 over a wide sheet of water, and over plains, the 
 waving rye-field, the mimic waving of acres of 
 houstonia, whose innumerable florets whiten and 
 ripple before the eye ; the reflections of trees and 
 flowers in glassy lakes ; the musical steaming odo 
 rous south wind, which converts all trees to wind- 
 harps ; the crackling and spurting of hemlock in 
 the flames; or of pine logs, which yield glory to 
 the walls and faces in the sitting-room, these are 
 the music and pictures of the most ancient religion. 
 My house stands in low land, with limited outlook, 
 and on the skirt of the village. But I go with my 
 friend to the shore of our little river, and with one 
 stroke of the paddle, I leave the village politics and 
 personalities, yes, and the world of villages and 
 personalities behind, and pass into a delicate realm 
 of sunset and moonlight, too bright almost for spot 
 ted man to enter without novitiate and probation. 
 We penetrate bodily this incredible beauty : we dip 
 our hands in this painted element: our eyes are 
 bathed in these lights and forms. A holiday, a 
 villeggiatura, a royal revel, the proudest, most 
 heart-rejoicing festival that valor and beauty, power 
 and taste, ever decked and enjoyed, establishes 
 itself on the instant. These sunset clouds, these 
 delicately emerging stars, with their private and 
 ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it. I am 
 taught the poorness of our invention, the ugliness 
 of towns and palaces. Art and luxury have early 
 
214 
 
 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 learned that they must work as enhancement and 
 sequel to this original beauty. I am over instructed 
 for my return. Henceforth I shall be hard to please. 
 I cannot go back to toys. I am grown expensive 
 and sophisticated. I can no longer live without 
 elegance : but a countryman shall be my master of 
 revels. He who knows the most, he who knows 
 what sweets and virtues are in the ground, the 
 waters, the plants, the heavens, and how to come 
 at these enchantments, is the rich and royal man. 
 Only as far as the masters of the world have called 
 in nature to their aid, can they reach the height of 
 magnificence. This is the meaning of their hang 
 ing-gardens, villas, garden-houses, islands, parks, 
 and preserves, to back their faulty personality with 
 these strong accessories. I do not wonder that the 
 landed interest should be invincible in the state 
 with these dangerous auxiliaries. These bribe and 
 invite j not kings, not palaces, not men, not women, 
 but these tender and poetic stars, eloquent of secret 
 promises. We heard what the rich man said, we 
 knew of his villa, his grove, his wine, and his com 
 pany, but the provocation and point of the invitation 
 came out of these beguiling stars. In their soft 
 glances, I see what men strove to realize in some 
 Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon. Indeed, it is 
 the magical lights of the horizon, and the blue sky 
 for the background, which save all our works of art, 
 which were otherwise baubles. When the rich 
 tax the poor with servility and obsequiousness, they 
 should consider the effect of men, reputed to be the 
 
NATURE. 215 
 
 possessors of nature, on imaginative minds. Ah ! 
 if the rich were rich as the poor fancy riches ! A 
 boy hears a military band play on the field at night, 
 and he has kings and queens, and famous chivalry 
 palpably before him. He hears the echoes of a horn 
 in a hill country, in the Notch Mountains, for exam 
 ple, which converts the mountains into an JEolian 
 harp, and this supernatural tiralira restores to him 
 the Dorian mythology, Apollo, Diana, and all divine 
 hunters and huntresses. Can a musical note be so 
 lofty, so haughtily beautiful ? To the poor young 
 poet, thus fabulous is his picture of society ; he is 
 loyal he respects the rich ; they are rich for the 
 sake of his imagination ; how poor his fancy would 
 be, if they were not rich ! That they have some 
 high-fenced grove, Avhich they call a park ; that 
 they live in larger and better garnished saloons than 
 he has visited, and go in coaches, keeping only the 
 society of the elegant, to watering-places, and to 
 distant cities, are the groundwork from which lie 
 has delineated estates of romance, compared with 
 which their actual possessions are shanties and pad 
 docks. The muse herself betrays her son, and 
 enhances the gifts of wealth and well born beauty, 
 by a radiation out of the air, and clouds, and forests 
 that skirt the road, a certain haughty favor, as if 
 from patrician genii to patricians, a kind of aristoc 
 racy in nature, a prince of the power of the air. 
 
 The moral sensibility which makes Edens and 
 Tempes so easily, may not be always found, but 
 the material landscape is never far off. We can 
 
216 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 find these enchantments without visiting the Como 
 Lake, or the Madeira Islands. We exaggerate the 
 praises of local scenery. In every landscape, the 
 point of astonishment is the meeting of the sky and 
 the earth, and that is seen from the first .hillock as 
 well as from the top of the Alleghanies. The stars 
 at night stoop down over the brownest, homeliest 
 common, with all the spiritual magnificence which 
 they shed on the Campagna, or on the marble 
 deserts of Egypt. The uprolled clouds and the 
 colors of morning and evening, will transfigure 
 maples and alders. The difference between land 
 scape and landscape is small, but there is great 
 difference in the beholders. There is nothing so 
 wonderful in any particular landscape, as the neces 
 sity of being beautiful under which every landscape 
 lies. Nature cannot be surprised in undress. Beauty 
 breaks in every where. 
 
SONG. 
 
 BY NATHANIEL GREENE. 
 
 WHEN I wrote sonnets to thy brow, 
 Thine eye was full and bright ; 
 
 Thy cheek was not, as it is now, 
 So thin and very white ; 
 
 Thy beauty then inspired the tale, 
 
 But, now, my love, thou rt very pale. 
 
 When first to thee I bent the knee, 
 
 I M no rheumatic pain, 
 My curling locks then floated free, 
 
 No lady thought me plain ; 
 But now, like Samson, I bewail 
 
 My shaved head and thou art pale ! 
 
 Six weeks ago, and thou, my dear, 
 
 Could st still enjoy a jig ; 
 Six weeks ago, and I had hair, 
 
 But now I wear a wig ; 
 Six weeks ago but cease the tale, 
 
 I m bald and thou art very pale. 
 19 
 
THE LOST COLONY. 
 
 BY JOHN S. SLEEPER. 
 
 ALTHOUGH now consisting of little else than bar 
 ren rocks, mountains covered with snow and ice, 
 and valleys covered with glaciers, although its 
 coasts are now lined with floods of ice, and cheq 
 uered with icebergs of immense size, Greenland was 
 once easily accessible ; its soil was fruitful, and well 
 repaid the cultivation of the earth. It was discov 
 ered by the Scandinavians, towards the close of 
 the tenth century, and a settlement was effected on 
 the eastern coast, in the year 982, by a company 
 of adventurers from Iceland, under command of 
 Eric the Red. Emigrants flocked thither from 
 Iceland and Norway, and the results of European 
 enterprise and civilization appeared on different 
 parts of the coast. A colony was established in 
 Greenland, and it bid fair to go on and prosper. 
 
 Voyages of exploration were projected in Green 
 land, and carried into effect by the hardy mariners 
 of those days. Papers have been published by the 
 Danish Antiquarian Society at Copenhagen, which 
 
THE LOST COLONY. 219 
 
 go far to show that those bold navigators discovered 
 the coast of Labrador, and proceeding to the south, 
 fell in with the Island of Newfoundland ; continu 
 ing their course, they beheld the sandy shores of 
 Cape Cod, centuries before the American continent 
 was discovered by Christopher Columbus ! It is 
 even believed that these Scandinavian adventurers 
 effected a settlement on the shores of what is now 
 known as Narraganset Bay, in Rhode Island, and 
 in consequence of the multitude of grapes which 
 abounded in the woods, they called the new and 
 fruitful country Vinland. But owing to the great 
 number of hostile savages who inhabited these 
 regions, the colonists, after some sanguinary skir 
 mishes, forsook the coast and returned to Green 
 land. 
 
 The colony, however, continued to flourish, and 
 the intercourse between it and the mother country 
 was constant and regular. In the year 1400, it is 
 said to have numbered one hundred and ninety 
 villages, a bishopric, twelve parishes, and two mo 
 nasteries. During this period of four hundred years, 
 vessels were passing, at regular intervals, between 
 the Danish provinces in Europe and Greenland. But 
 in the year 1406, this intercourse was interrupted 
 in a fatal manner. A mighty wall arose, as if by 
 magic, along the coast, and the navigators who 
 sought those shores, could behold the mountains in 
 the distance, but could not effect a landing. During 
 the greater part of the fifteenth, the whole of the 
 sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Greenland was 
 
220 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 inaccessible to European navigators. The whole 
 coast was blockaded by large masses and islands of 
 ice, which had been drifting from the north for years, 
 and which at length chilled the waters of the coast, 
 and changed the temperature of the atmosphere, 
 and presented an impassable barrier to the entrance 
 in their ports of friend or foe. The sea, at the 
 distance of miles from the land, was frozen to a 
 great depth, vegetation was destroyed, arid the very 
 rocks were rent with the cold. And this intensely 
 rigid weather continued for ages ! 
 
 The colony of Greenland, after this unexpected 
 event took place, never had any intercourse with 
 their friends in the mother country. They were 
 cut oif from all the rest of the world. And by this 
 sudden and unanticipated change of climate, they 
 were also doubtless deprived of all resources within 
 themselves. Their fate, however, is a mystery. 
 History is silent on the subject. All which is 
 known of this unfortunate people is, that they no 
 longer exist. The ruins of their habitations and 
 their churches have since been discovered along the 
 coast by adventurous men, who have taken advan 
 tage of an amelioration in the climate to explore 
 that sterile country, and establish settlements again 
 on various parts of the coast ; and also by mis 
 sionaries, who have braved hardships and perils 
 to introduce among the aboriginal inhabitants the 
 blessings of civilization and Christianity. No other 
 traces of those early European settlers have been 
 discovered, and we can only speculate upon their 
 fate. 
 
THE LOST COLONY. 221 
 
 It would require no vivid fancy to imagine the 
 appalling sense of destitution which blanched the 
 features and chilled the hearts of those unhappy 
 colonists, when they began to realize their forlorn 
 condition ; when the cold rapidly increased, and 
 their harbors became permanently blocked with 
 enormous icebergs, and the genial rays of the sun 
 were obscured by fogs ; when the winters became 
 for the first time intensely rigid, cheerless and 
 dreary ; when the summers were also cold, and the 
 soil unproductive ; when the mountains, no longer 
 crowned with forests, were covered with snow and 
 ice throughout the year, and the valleys filled 
 with glaciers ; when the wonted inhabitants of the 
 woods and waters were destroyed or exiled by the 
 severity of the weather, and their places perhaps 
 supplied by monsters of a huge and frightful char 
 acter. 
 
 It were easy to follow this people in fancy to 
 their dwellings ; to see them sad, spiritless, and 
 despairing, while conscious of their imprisoned and 
 cheerless condition, and impending fate j to watch 
 them as their numbers gradually diminish through 
 the combined influence of want and continual suf 
 fering ; to behold them struggling for existence, 
 and striving, nobly striving, to adapt their consti 
 tutions, their habits, their feelings and their wants, 
 to their strangely changed circumstances, but all in 
 vain ; to behold them gazing from their icy cliffs, 
 with straining eyes, to the eastward, towards that 
 quarter of the globe, so far distant, where their 
 19* 
 
222 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 friends and relations reside, in a more genial clime, 
 surrounded with all the blessings of life, but com 
 pelled to rest their eyes on a vast, dreary, and 
 monotonous sea of ice, a mass of frozen waves, 
 surrounding myriads of icebergs, extending to the 
 utmost limit of their vision. 
 
 Fancy might even go farther than this, and por 
 tray the last of these unhappy colonists, who had 
 lingered on the stage of life, until he had seen all 
 of his companions, all, of each sex and every age, 
 die a miserable death, the prey of want and de 
 spair. Poets have described, in lines of beauty and 
 sublimity, the horrors which may be supposed to 
 surround " the last man ; " but there seems to be a 
 remoteness, and indeed an air of improbability 
 about the subject, which robs it of half its force 
 and majesty. But here is an event which has 
 actually occurred, and worthy of being commemo 
 rated by the ablest pen in the land. Here, indeed, 
 we may imagine, without offending probability, the 
 wild horrors, invading the very temple of reason, 
 and accumulating, until madness takes possession 
 of the mind. Here we may look for the reality of 
 the fanciful picture, presented with so much ter 
 rible distinctness by the poets. 
 
TO A LADY, 
 
 WITH A HEAD OP POPE PIUS NINTH. 
 BY THOMAS W. PARSONS, JR. 
 
 MY gift went freighted with a hope 
 
 Slight bark upon a doubtful sea ! 
 Yet, under convoy of the Pope, 
 Successful may the venture be ; 
 For thus good Pius whispered me, 
 " Mi fili, Benedicite ! " 
 
 His blessing now I will transfer 
 
 To thee, although I hardly know 
 What Latin form appropriate were 
 " Cor meum ! " shall I call thee so ? 
 No, let the learned language be, 
 But, sweetheart, Benedicite ! 
 
 Your cardinals are blooming yet, 
 
 Pride of the brook ! the meadow s gem ! 
 
 So, ere his sun be wholly set, 
 I send, in due return for them, 
 
 The Pope hark, love, he says to thee 
 " My daughter, Benedicite ! " 
 
224 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Oh take his blessing then, for ne er 
 
 Did evil come from holy touch ; 
 A righteous man s effectual prayer, 
 As the Saint says, availeth much, 
 So, for this once, a Papist be, 
 Nor scorn his Benedicite ! 
 
A PICTURE OF WAR. 
 
 BY THEODORE PARKER. 
 
 To make the evils of war still clearer, and to 
 bring them home to your door, let us suppose there 
 was war between the counties of Suffolk, on the 
 one side, and Middlesex on the other ; this army at 
 Boston, that at Cambridge. Suppose the subject 
 in dispute was the boundary line between the two, 
 Boston claiming a pitiful acre of flat land, which 
 the ocean at low tide disdained to cover. To make 
 sure of this, Boston seizes whole miles of flats, 
 unquestionably not its own. The rulers on one 
 side are fools, and traitors on the other. The 
 two commanders have issued their proclamations ; 
 the money is borrowed ; the whiskey provided ; 
 the soldiers Americans, Negroes, Irishmen, all 
 the able-bodied men are enlisted. The Bos- 
 tonians wish to seize Cambridge, burn the houses, 
 churches, college halls, and plunder the library. 
 The men of Cambridge wish to seize Boston, burn 
 its houses and ships, plundering its wares and its 
 goods. Martial law is proclaimed on both sides. 
 The men of Cambridge cut asunder the bridges, 
 
226 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 and make a huge breach in the mill-dam planting 
 cannon to enfilade all those avenues. Forts crown 
 the hill-tops, else so green. Men, madder than 
 lunatics, are crowded into the Asylum. The Bos- 
 tonians rebuild the old fortifications on the Neck ; 
 replace the forts on Beacon Hill, Fort Hill, Copps 
 Hill, levelling houses to make room for redoubts and 
 bastions. The batteries are planted, the mortars 
 got ready ; the furnaces and magazines are all pre 
 pared. The three hills are grim with war. From 
 Copps Hill men look anxious to that memorable 
 height the other side of the water. Provisions are 
 cut off in Boston ; no man may pass the lines ; the 
 aqueduct refuses its genial supply ; children cry 
 for their expected food. The soldiers parade 
 looking somewhat tremulous and pale ; all the able- 
 bodied have come, the vilest most willingly ; some 
 are brought by force of drink, some by force of 
 arms. Some are in brilliant dresses some in their 
 working frocks. The banners are consecrated by 
 solemn words. Your church towers are military 
 posts of observation. Last night the Bostonians 
 made a feint of attacking Chaiiestown, raining 
 bombs and red-hot cannon balls from Copps Hill, 
 till they have burnt a thousand houses, where the 
 British burnt not half so many. Women and 
 children fled screaming from the blazing rafters 
 of their homes. The men of Middlesex crowd 
 into Charlestown. 
 
 In the mean time the Bostonians hastily repair a 
 bridge or two ; some pass that way, some over the 
 
A PICTURE OF WAR. 227 
 
 Neck all stealthily by night and while the foe 
 expect them at Bunker s, amid the blazing town, 
 they have stolen a march and rush upon Cambridge 
 itself. The Cambridge men turn back. The bat 
 tle is fiercely joined. You hear the cannon, the 
 sharp report of musketry. You crowd the hills, 
 the house-tops j you line the Common, you cover 
 the shore yet you see but little in the sulphurous 
 cloud. Now the Bostonians yield a little a rein 
 forcement goes over. All the men are gone ; even 
 the gray-headed who can shoulder a firelock. 
 They plunge into battle, mad with rage, madder 
 with rum. The chaplains loiter behind. 
 
 " Pious men, whom duty brought, 
 To dubious verge of battle fought, 
 To shrive the dying, bless the dead ! " 
 
 The battle hangs long in even scale. At length it 
 turns. The Cambridge men retreat they run 
 they fly. The houses burn. You see the churches 
 and the colleges go up, a stream of fire. That 
 library founded mid want and war and sad secta 
 rian strife, slowly gathered by the saving of two 
 centuries, the hope of the poor scholar, the boast of 
 the rich one is scattered to the winds and burnt 
 with fire, for the solid granite is blasted by powder, 
 and the turrets fall. Victory is ours. Ten thou 
 sand men of Cambridge lie dead ; eight thousand 
 of Boston. There writhe the wounded ; men who, 
 but few hours before, were poured over the battle 
 field a lava-flood of fiery valor fathers, brothers, 
 
228 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 husbands, sons. There they lie, torn and mangled ; 
 black with powder ; red with blood ; parched with 
 thirst ; cursing the load of life they now must bear 
 with bruised frames and mutilated limbs. Gather 
 them into hasty hospitals let this man s daughter 
 come to-morrow and sit by him, fanning away the 
 flies ; he shall linger out a life of wretched anguish 
 unspoken and insupportable, and when he dies his 
 wife religiously will keep the shot which tore his 
 limbs. There is the battle-field ! Here the horse 
 charged ; there the howitzers scattered their shells, 
 pregnant with death ; here the murderous canister 
 and grape mowed down the crowded ranks ; there 
 the huge artillery, teeming with murder, was 
 dragged o er heaps of men wounded friends who 
 just now held its ropes, men yet curling with 
 anguish, like worms in the fire. Hostile and 
 friendly, head and trunk are crushed beneath those 
 dreadful wheels. Here the infantry showered their 
 murdering shot. That ghastly face was beautiful 
 the day before a sabre hewed its half away. 
 
 " The earth is covered thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay must cover, heaped and pent, 
 Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent." 
 
 Again tis night. Oh, what a night, and after 
 what a day ! Yet the pure tide of woman s love 
 which never ebbs since earth began flows on in 
 spite of war and battle. Stealthily, by the pale 
 moonlight, a mother of Boston treads the weary 
 miles to reach that bloody spot; a widow she 
 
A PICTURE OF WAR. 229 
 
 seeking among the slain her only son. The arm of 
 power drove him forth reluctant to the fight. A 
 friendly soldier guides her way. Now she turns 
 over this face, whose mouth is full of purple dust, 
 bit out of the ground in his extremest agony the 
 last sacrament offered him by Earth herself; now 
 she raises that form, cold, stiff, stony and ghastly 
 as a dream of hell. But, lo ! another comes she 
 too a woman younger and fairer, yet not less 
 bold, a maiden from the hostile town to seek her 
 lover. They meet two women among the corps 
 es ; two angels come to Golgotha, seeking to raise 
 a man. There he lies before them ; they look, 
 yes, tis he you seek ; the same dress, form, features 
 too ; tis he, the Son, the Lover. Maid and 
 mother could tell that face in any light. The 
 grass is wet with his blood. Yes, the ground is 
 muddy with the life of men. The mother s inno 
 cent robe is drabbled in the blood her bosom bore. 
 Their kisses, groans and tears recall the wounded 
 man. He knows the mother s voice ; that voice 
 yet more beloved. His lips move only, for they 
 cannot speak. He dies ! The waxing moon moves 
 high in heaven, walking in beauty mid the clouds, 
 and murmurs soft her cradle song unto the slumber 
 ing earth. The broken sword reflects her placid 
 beams. A star looks down and is imaged back in 
 a pool of blood. The cool night wind plays in the 
 branches of the trees shivered with shot. Nature 
 is beautiful that lovely grass underneath their 
 feet ; those pendulous branches of the leafy elm ; 
 20 
 
230 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 the stars and that romantic moon lining the clouds 
 with silver light ! A groan of agony, hopeless and 
 prolonged, wails out from that bloody ground. But 
 in yonder farm the whippoorwill sings to her lover 
 all night long ; the rising tide ripples melodious 
 against the shores. So wears the night away, 
 Nature, all sinless, round that field of wo. 
 
 " The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
 
 With breath all incense and with cheek all bloom, 
 Laughing the clouds away with playful scoin, 
 And living as if earth contained no tomb, 
 And glowing into day." 
 
 What a scene that morning looks upon ! I will 
 not turn again. Let the dead bury their dead. But 
 their blood cries out of the ground against the rulers 
 who shed it, "Cain! where are thy brothers?" 
 What shall the Fool answer? What the Traitor 
 say? 
 
LOVE. 
 
 BY WILLIAM W. STORY. 
 
 LOVE never out of Likeness springs, 
 
 Joy marries not to Joy ; 
 The strong unto the gentle clings, 
 
 The maiden to the boy. 
 Around the oak the ivy twines, 
 
 The granite fronts the sea ; 
 Each to its opposite inclines 
 
 By strange affinity. 
 
 The star into the deep looks down, 
 
 The deep dreams of the star ; 
 Nor distance nor decay are known, 
 
 Where love and longing are. 
 Who shall the mystery unfold, 
 
 That maketh hearts agree ? 
 The secret never will be told, 
 
 That bindeth thee to me. 
 
PREJUDICE. 
 
 BY SAMUEL G. GOODRICH. 
 
 AMONG the hardy pioneers who first settled along 
 the borders of the Ohio, was an Englishman, with 
 two sons. These were twins, and his only children. 
 He was half husbandman and half hunter, and the 
 two boys followed his double vocation. They 
 were seldom separated, and never seemed happy 
 but in each other s society. If one was engaged in 
 any employment, the other must share it. If one 
 took his rifle, and plunged into the forest in pursuit 
 of the wild deer, the other, as a matter of course, 
 took his, and became his companion. Thus they 
 grew up together, participating in each other s 
 pleasures and fatigues and dangers. They were 
 therefore united, not only by the ties of kindred 
 and a common home, but by a thousand recollec 
 tions of sylvan sports, and wild adventures, and 
 hair-breadth escapes, enjoyed or experienced in each 
 other s company. 
 
 About the time that these brothers were entering 
 upon manhood, the French and Indian war broke 
 out along our western frontier. In one of the 
 
PREJUDICE. 233 
 
 bloody skirmishes that soon followed, the father 
 and the two sons were engaged. The former was 
 killed, and one of the twins, being taken by the 
 French troops, was carried away. 
 
 The youth that remained, returned after the fight 
 to his father s home ; but it was to him a discon 
 solate and desolate spot. His mother had been 
 dead for years : his father was slain, and his only 
 brother, he that was bound to him by a thousand 
 ties, was taken by the enemy and carried away, 
 he knew not whither. But it seemed that he could 
 not live in separation from him. Accordingly, he 
 determined to visit Montreal, where he understood 
 his brother had been taken ; but, about this time, 
 he was told that he had died of wounds received in 
 the skirmish which had proved fatal to the father, 
 and brought captivity to the son. 
 
 The young man, therefore, for a time abandoned 
 himself to grief; but at last he went to Marietta, 
 and after a few years was married, and became the 
 father of several children. But the habits and 
 tastes of his early life were still upon him, and after 
 some years he migrated farther into the wilderness, 
 and settled down upon the banks of the Sandusky 
 river. Here he began to fell the trees and clear 
 the ground, and had soon a farm of cultivated land, 
 sufficient for all his wants. 
 
 But the forester was still a moody and discontented 
 
 man. His heart was indeed full of kindness to his 
 
 family ; but the death of his brother had left a blank 
 
 in his bosom, which nothing seemed to fill. Time, 
 
 20* 
 
234 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 it is true, gradually threw its veil over early memo 
 ries, and softened the poignancy of regret for the 
 loss of a brother who had seemed a part of himself, 
 and whose happiness was dearer than his own. But 
 still, that separation had given a bias to his mind 
 and a cast to his character, which no subsequent 
 event or course of circumstances could change. He 
 was at heart a solitary man, yearning indeed for 
 the pleasure of society, yet always keeping himself 
 aloof from mankind. He had planted himself in 
 the wilderness, far from any other settlement, as if 
 purposely burying himself in the tomb of the 
 forest. 
 
 There was one trait which strongly marked the 
 character of this man ; and that was a detestation 
 of every thing French. This, doubtless, origi 
 nated in the fact, that his brother s captivity and 
 death were chargeable to the French army, and he 
 naturally enough learned to detest every thing that 
 could be associated with the cause of that event 
 which darkened his whole existence. A striking 
 evidence of this deep and bitter prejudice, was 
 furnished by the manner in which the forester 
 treated a Frenchman who lived on the opposite 
 side of the Sandusky river, and who was, in fact, 
 Ihe only person that could be esteemed his neighbor. 
 Being divided by a considerable river, the two men 
 were not likely to meet except by design ; and as 
 the Frenchman was advised of the prejudice of his 
 neighbor against his countrymen, there was no 
 personal intercourse between them. 
 
PREJUDICE. 235 
 
 Thus they lived for many years, their families 
 sometimes meeting ; but quarrel and altercation 
 almost invariably ensued upon such occasions. In 
 all these cases, it was the custom of the farmer to 
 indulge in harsh reflections upon the French char 
 acter, and each action of his neighbor was com 
 mented upon with bitterness. Every unfavorable 
 rumor touching the Frenchman s character, how 
 ever improbable, was readily believed ; and his 
 actions, that deserved commendation rather than 
 blame, were distorted into evil, by misrepresentation 
 or the imputation of bad motives. 
 
 Thus these two families, living in the solitude of 
 the mighty forest, and impelled, it would seem, by 
 the love of sympathy and society, to companionship, 
 were still separated by a single feeling that of 
 prejudice. The two men, so far as they knew, had 
 never met, and had never seen each other ; but that 
 strange feeling of the human breast, that judges 
 without evidence, and decides without consulting 
 truth or reason, parted them like a brazen wall. 
 Under circumstances, when every thing around 
 might seem to enforce kindness upon the heart ; 
 even here, amid the majesty of nature s primeval 
 forest, and away from the ferment of passions 
 engendered amid towns and villages ; to this lone 
 spot the tempter had also migrated, and put into 
 the bosom of man the serpent of an evil passion. 
 
 Thus things passed, till the two men had num 
 bered nearly eighty years. At last, the rumor came 
 to the farmer that the Frenchman was dying, and 
 
236 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 it was remarked that a smile, as of pleasure, passed 
 over his furrowed face. Soon after, a messenger 
 came, saying that the dying Frenchman wished to 
 see his neighbor, and begging him, in the name of 
 Heaven, to comply with his request. Thus urged, 
 the old man took his staff, proceeded to the river, 
 and being set across in a boat, advanced toward the 
 Frenchman s cabin. As he approached it, he saw 
 the aged man reclining upon a bed of bear-skins, 
 beneath a group of trees, near his house. By his 
 side were his children, consisting of several grown 
 up men and women. They were kneeling, and in 
 tears, but as the farmer approached, they rose, and 
 at a sign from their dying father, stood a little apart, 
 while the stranger approached. The Frenchman 
 held out his hand, and said in a feeble voice, 
 " Brother, I am dying let us part in peace." 
 
 Our old farmer took the cold hand, and tears, 
 unwonted tears, coursed down his cheeks. For 
 a moment he could not speak. But at last he 
 said, " My friend, you speak English, and you 
 call me brother. I thought you was a Frenchman, 
 and I have ever esteemed a Frenchman as an 
 enemy. And God knows I have cause, for I had 
 once a brother, indeed. He came into life at the 
 same hour as myself, for we were twins ; and 
 all our early days were passed in undivided com 
 panionship. Our hearts were one, for we had no 
 hopes or fears, no wants or wishes, no pleasures or 
 pastimes, that were not mutually shared. But in 
 an evil hour I was robbed of that brother by the 
 
PREJUDICE. 237 
 
 French army. My father fell in the fight, and since 
 that dark day, my life has been shadowed with 
 sorrow." 
 
 A convulsion seemed to shake the emaciated 
 form of the sick old man, and for a time he could 
 not speak. At last, he faltered forth, " Have you 
 never seen your brother since that day ? " 
 
 " Never ! " said the other. 
 
 " Then you see him, here ! " said the Frenchman, 
 and falling backward upon his couch of skins, a 
 slight tremor ran over his frame, and he was no 
 more. 
 
 The explanation of the scene was this. The 
 lifeless man was indeed the brother of the farmer. 
 After being taken by the French troops, as has 
 been related, he was conducted to Montreal, where 
 he was detained for nearly two years. After his 
 release, he retraced his steps to his former home, on 
 the banks of the Ohio, but found his birth-place 
 deserted ; he also learned the death of his father 
 and the departure of his brother. For years he 
 sought the latter in vain, and at last returned to 
 Montreal. Here he married, and after some years, 
 removed, with a numerous family, to the borders of 
 the Sandusky. He at length discovered that his 
 nearest neighbor was his brother ; but having found 
 himself repulsed as a Frenchman, and treated rather 
 like a robber than a friend, a feeling of injury 
 and dislike had arisen in his breast, and therefore 
 he kept the secret in his bosom, till it was spoken 
 in the last moments of existence. 
 
238 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Thus it happened, in the tale we have told, that 
 prejudice, obstinately indulged, prevented the dis 
 covery of an important truth, and kept the mind 
 that was the subject of it, wrapped in gloom and 
 sorrow for years, which might otherwise have been 
 blessed by the realizing of its fondest hopes. And 
 thus prejudice often prevents a man from discovering 
 that the object of his dislike, could he see and 
 know him as he is, is indeed a man, and, as such, a 
 brother. 
 
ON A BOOK OF SEA-MOSSES. 
 
 SENT TO AN EMINENT ENGLISH POET. 
 BY JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 To him who sang of Venice, and revealed 
 How Wealth and Glory clustered in her streets, 
 And poised her marble domes with wondrous skill, 
 We send these tributes, plundered from the sea. 
 These many-colored, variegated forms 
 Sail to our rougher shores, and rise and fall 
 To the deep music of the Atlantic wave. 
 Such spoils we capture where the rainbows drop, 
 Melting in ocean. Here are broideries strange, 
 Wrought by the sea-nymphs from their golden hair, 
 And wove by moonlight. Gently turn the leaf. 
 From narrow cells, scooped in the rocks, we take 
 These fairy textures, lightly moored at morn. 
 Down sunny slopes, outstretching to the deep, 
 We roam at noon, and gather shapes like these. 
 Note now the painted webs from verdurous isles, 
 Festooned and spangled in sea-caves, and say 
 What hues of land can rival tints like those, 
 Torn from the scarfs and gonfalons of kings 
 Who dwell beneath the waters. 
 
 Such our Gift, 
 
 Culled from a margin of the western world, 
 And offered unto Genius in the old. 
 
THE YANKEE ZINCALT. 
 
 BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 HARK ! a rap at my door. Welcome any body, 
 just now. One gains nothing by attempting to 
 shut out the sprites of the weather. They come in 
 at the key-hole ; they peer through the dripping 
 panes ; they insinuate themselves through the cre 
 vices of the casement, or plump down chimney 
 astride of the rain-drops. 
 
 I rise and throw open the door. A tall, sham 
 bling, loose-jointed figure ; a pinched, shrewd face, 
 sun-brown and wind-dried ; small, quick-winking, 
 black eyes. There he stands, the water dripping 
 from his pulpy hat and ragged elbows. 
 
 I speak to him, but he returns no answer. With 
 a dumb show of misery, quite touching, he hands 
 me a soiled piece of parchment, whereon I read 
 what purports to be a melancholy account of ship 
 wreck and disaster, to the particular detriment, loss 
 and damnification of one Pietro Frugoni, who is, in 
 consequence, sorely in want of the alms of all char 
 itable Christian persons, and who is, in short, the 
 bearer of this veracious document, duly certified 
 
THE YANKEE ZINCALI. 241 
 
 and endorsed by an Italian consul in one of our 
 Atlantic cities, of a high sounding, but, to Yankee 
 organs, unpronounceable name. 
 
 Here commences a struggle. Every man, the 
 Mahometans tell us, has two attendant angels, the 
 good one on his right shoulder, the bad on his left. 
 " Give," says Benevolence, as with some difficulty 
 I fish up a small coin from the depths of my pocket. 
 " Not a cent," says selfish Prudence, and I drop it 
 from my fingers. " Think," says the good angel, 
 " of the poor stranger in a strange land, just escaped 
 from the terrors of the sea-storm, in which his little 
 property has perished, thrown half naked and help 
 less on our shores, ignorant of our language, and 
 unable to find employment suited to his capacity." 
 "A vile impostor ! " replies the left hand sentinel. 
 "His paper, purchased from one of those ready 
 writers in New York, who manufacture beggar cre 
 dentials at the low price of one dollar per copy, 
 with earthquakes, fires, or shipwrecks, to suit cus 
 tomers." 
 
 Amidst this confusion of tongues, I take another 
 survey of my visitant. Ha ! a light dawns upon 
 me. That shrewd, old face, with its sharp, wink 
 ing eyes, is no stranger to me. Pietro Prugoni, I 
 have seen thee before ! Si, Senor, that face of 
 thine has looked at me over a dirty white neck 
 cloth, with the corners of that cunning mouth 
 drawn downwards, and those small eyes turned 
 up in sanctimonious gravity, while thou wast offer 
 ing to a crowd of half-grown boys an extempora- 
 21 
 
242 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 neous exhortation, in the capacity of a travelling 
 preacher. Have I not seen it peering out from 
 under a blanket, as that of a poor Penobscot Indian, 
 who had lost the use of his hands while trapping on 
 the Madawaska? Is it not the face of the forlorn 
 father of six small children, whom the "marcury 
 doctors " had u pisened " and crippled ? Did it not 
 belong to that down-east unfortunate, who had 
 been out to the " Genesee country," and got the 
 " fevern-nager," and whose hand shook so pitifully 
 when held out to receive my poor gift ? The same, 
 under all disguises Stephen Leathers of Barring- 
 ton him and none other ! Let me conjure him 
 into his own likeness. 
 
 " Well, Stephen, what news from old Barring- 
 ton ?" 
 
 " O, well I thought I knew ye," he answers, not 
 the least disconcerted. " How do you do, and how s 
 your folks ? All well, I hope. I took this ere paper, 
 you see, to help a poor furriner, who could n t make 
 himself understood any more than a wild goose. I 
 thought I d just start him for ard a little. It seemed 
 a marcy to do it." 
 
 Well and shiftily answered, thou ragged Proteus. 
 One cannot be angry with such a fellow. I will 
 just inquire into the present state of his gospel mis 
 sion, and about the condition of his tribe on the 
 Penobscot ; and it may be not amiss to congratulate 
 him on the success of the steam-doctors in sweating 
 the " pisen " of the regular faculty out of him. But 
 he evidently has no wish to enter into idle conver- 
 
THE YANKEE ZINCALI. 243 
 
 sation. Intent upon his benevolent errand, he is 
 already clattering down stairs. Involuntarily I 
 glance out of the window, just in season to catch 
 a single glimpse of him ere he is swallowed up in 
 the mist. 
 
 He has gone j and, knave as he is, I can hardly 
 help exclaiming, " Luck go with him ! " He has 
 broken in upon the sombre train of my thoughts, 
 and called Up before me pleasant and grateful recol 
 lections. The old farm-house nestling in its valley ; 
 hills stretching off to the south, and green meadows 
 to the east ; the small stream, which came noisily 
 down its ravine, washing the old garden wall, and 
 softly lapping on fallen stones and mossy roots of 
 beeches and hemlocks ; the tall sentinel poplars at 
 the gateway ; the oak forest, sweeping unbroken to 
 the northern horizon ; the grass-grown carriage path, 
 with its rude and crazy bridge ; the dear old land 
 scape of my boyhood lies outstretched before me 
 like a daguerreotype from that picture within, which 
 I have borne with me in all my wanderings. I am 
 a boy again ; once more conscious of the feeling, 
 half terror, half exultation, with which I used to 
 announce the approach of this very vagabond, and 
 his " kindred after the flesh." 
 
 The advent of wandering beggars, or " old strag 
 glers," as we were wont to call them, was an event 
 of no ordinary interest in the generally monotonous 
 quietude of our farm-life. Many of them were well 
 known ; they had their periodical revolutions and 
 transits ; we could calculate them like eclipses or 
 
244 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 new moons. Some were sturdy knaves, fat and 
 saucy j and, whenever they ascertained that the 
 "men-folks" were absent, would order provisions 
 and cider like men who expected to pay for it, seat 
 ing themselves at the hearth or table with the air of 
 FalstafF " Shall I not take mine ease in mine own 
 inn ? " Others, poor, pale, patient, like Sterne s 
 monk, came creeping up to the door, hat in hand, 
 standing there in their gray wretchedness with a 
 look of heart-break and forlornness, which was never 
 without its effect on our juvenile sensibilities. At 
 times, however, we experienced a slight revulsion 
 of feeling, when even these humblest children of 
 sorrow somewhat petulantly rejected our proffered 
 bread and cheese, and demanded instead a glass of 
 cider. Whatever the temperance society might in 
 such cases have done, it was not in our hearts to 
 refuse the poor creatures a draught of their favorite 
 beverage ; and was n t it a satisfaction to see their 
 sad, melancholy faces light up as we handed them 
 the full pitcher, and, on receiving it back empty 
 from their brown, wrinkled hands, to hear them, 
 half breathless from their long, delicious draught, 
 thanking us for the favor, as " dear, good chil 
 dren ! " Not unfrequently these wandering tests 
 of our benevolence made their appearance in inter 
 esting groups of man, woman and child, picturesque 
 in their squalidness, and manifesting a maudlin 
 affection, which would have done honor to the 
 revellers at Poosie-Nansies, immortal in the can 
 tata of Burns. I remember some who were evi- 
 
THE YANKEE ZINCALI. 245 
 
 dently the victims of monomania, haunted and 
 hunted by some dark thought, possessed by a fixed 
 idea. One, a black-eyed, wild-haired woman, with 
 a whole tragedy of sin, shame, and suffering written 
 in her countenance, used often to visit us, warm 
 herself by our winter fire, and supply herself with 
 a stock of cakes and cold meat, but was never 
 known to answer a question or to ask one. She 
 never smiled ; the cold, stony look of her eye never 
 changed ; a silent, impassive face, frozen rigid by 
 some great wrong or sin. We used to look with 
 awe upon the " still woman," and think of the 
 demoniac of Scripture, who had a "dumb spirit." 
 
 One (I think I see him now, grim, gaunt, and 
 ghastly, working his slow way up to our door) 
 used to gather herbs by the wayside, and call him 
 self Doctor. He was bearded like a he-goat, and 
 used to counterfeit lameness ; yet when he supposed 
 himself alone, would travel on lustily as if walking 
 for a wager. At length, as if in punishment of his 
 deceit, he met with an accident in his rambles, and 
 became lame in earnest, hobbling ever after with 
 difficulty on his gnarled crutches. Another used to 
 go stooping, like Banyan s pilgrim, under a pack 
 made of an old bed-sacking, stuffed out into most 
 plethoric dimensions, tottering on a pair of small 
 meagre legs, and peering out with his wild, hairy 
 face from under his burden like a big-bodied spider. 
 That " Man with the pack " always inspired me 
 with awe and reverence. Huge, almost sublime in 
 its tense rotundity the father of all packs never 
 21 
 
246 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 laid aside and never opened, what might not be 
 within it ? With what flesh-creeping curiosity I 
 used to walk round about it at a safe distance, half 
 expecting to see its striped covering stirred by the 
 motions of a mysterious life, or that some evil 
 monster would leap out of it, like robbers from Ali 
 Baba s jars, or armed men from the Trojan horse. 
 
 Often, in the gray of the morning, we used to see 
 one or more of these " gaberlunzie men," pack on 
 shoulder and staff in hand, emerging from the barn 
 or other outbuildings, where they had passed the 
 night. I was once sent to the barn to fodder the 
 cattle late in the evening, and climbing into the 
 mow to pitch down hay for that purpose, I was 
 startled by the sudden apparition of a man rising up 
 before me, just discernible in the dim moonlight 
 streaming through the seams of the boards. I made 
 a rapid retreat down the ladder ; and was only re 
 assured by hearing the object of my terror calling 
 after me, and recognizing his voice as that of a 
 harmless old pilgrim whom I had known before. 
 Our farm-house was situated in a lonely valley, half 
 surrounded with woods, with no neighbors in sight. 
 One dark, cloudy night, when our parents chanced 
 to be absent, we were sitting with our aged grand 
 mother in the fading light of the kitchen fire, 
 working ourselves into a very satisfactory state of 
 excitement and terror, by recounting to each other 
 all the dismal stories we could remember of ghosts, 
 witches, haunted houses, and robbers, when we 
 were suddenly startled by a loud rap at the door. 
 
THE YANKEE ZINCALI. 247 
 
 A stripling of fourteen, I was very naturally regarded 
 as the head of the household ; and with many mis 
 givings I advanced to the door, which I slowly 
 opened, holding the candle tremulously above my 
 head, and peering out into the darkness. The feeble 
 glimmer played upon the apparition of a gigantic 
 horseman, mounted on a steed of a size worthy of 
 such a rider colossal, motionless, like images cut 
 out of the solid night. The strange visitant gruffly 
 saluted me ; and, after making several ineffectual 
 efforts to urge his horse in at the door, dismounted, 
 and followed me into the room, evidently enjoying 
 the terror which his huge presence excited. An 
 nouncing himself as " Dr. Brown, the great Indian 
 doctor," he drew himself up before the fire, stretched 
 his arms, clenched his fists, struck his broad chest, 
 and invited our attention to what he called his 
 "mortal frame." He demanded in succession all 
 kinds of intoxicating liquors ; and, on being assured 
 that we had none to give him, he grew angry, 
 threatened to swallow my younger brother alive, 
 and seizing me by the hair of my head, as the angel 
 did the prophet at Babylon, he led me about from 
 room to room. After an ineffectual search, in the 
 course of which he mistook a jug of oil for one of 
 brandy, and, contrary to my explanations and re 
 monstrances, insisted upon swallowing a portion of 
 its contents, he released me, fell to crying and sob 
 bing, and confessed that he was so drunk already 
 that his horse was ashamed of him. After bemoan 
 ing and pitying himself to his satisfaction, he wiped 
 
248 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 his eyes, sat down by the side of my grandmother, 
 giving her to understand that he was very much 
 pleased with her appearance ; adding, that, if agree 
 able to her, he should like the privilege of paying 
 his addresses to her. While vainly endeavoring to 
 make the excellent old lady comprehend his very 
 flattering proposition, he was interrupted by the 
 return of my father, who, at once understanding the 
 matter, turned him out of doors without ceremony. 
 On one occasion, a few years ago, on my return 
 from the field at evening, I was told that a foreigner 
 had asked for lodgings during the night ; but that, 
 influenced by his dark, repulsive appearance, my 
 mother had very reluctantly refused his request. 
 I found her by no means satisfied with her decision. 
 " What if a son of mine was in a strange land ? " 
 she inquired, self-reproachfully. Greatly to her re 
 lief, I volunteered to go in pursuit of the wanderer, 
 and, taking a cross-path over the fields, soon over 
 took him. He had just been rejected at the house 
 of our nearest neighbor, and was standing in a state 
 of dubious perplexity in the street. His looks quite 
 justified my mother s suspicions. He was an olive- 
 complexioned, black-bearded Italian, with an eye 
 like a live coal such a face as perchance looks 
 out on the traveller in the passes of the Abruzzo 
 one of those bandit visages which Salvator has 
 painted. With some difficulty I gave him to un 
 derstand my errand, when he overwhelmed me 
 with thanks, and joyfully followed me back. He 
 took his seat with us at the supper table j and when 
 
THE YANKEE ZINCALI. 249 
 
 we were all seated around the hearth that cold 
 autumnal evening, he told us, partly by words and 
 partly by gestures, the story of his life and misfor 
 tunes, amused us with descriptions of the grape 
 gatherings and festivals of his sunny clime, edified 
 my mother with a recipe for making bread of chest 
 nuts ; and in the morning, when, after breakfast, 
 his dark, sullen face lighted up, and his fierce eye 
 moistened with grateful emotion, as in his own sil 
 very Tuscan accent he poured out his thanks, we 
 marvelled at the fears which had so nearly closed 
 our door against him ; and, as he departed, we all 
 felt that he had left with us the blessing of the poor. 
 It was not often that, as in the above instance, 
 my mother s prudence got the better of her charity. 
 The regular " old stragglers " regarded her as an 
 unfailing friend ; and the sight of her plain cap was 
 to them an assurance of forthcoming creature com 
 forts. There was indeed a tribe of lazy strollers, 
 having their place of rendezvous in the town of 
 Barrington, N. H., whose low vices had placed them 
 beyond even the pale of her benevolence. They 
 were not unconscious of their evil reputation, and 
 experience had taught them the necessity of con 
 cealing, under well contrived disguises, their true 
 character. They came to us in all shapes, and with 
 all appearances save the true one, with most mise 
 rable stories of mishap and sickness, and all " the 
 ills which flesh is heir to." It was particularly 
 vexatious to discover, when too late, that our sym 
 pathies and charities had been expended upon such 
 
250 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 graceless vagabonds as the " Barrington beggars." 
 An old withered hag, known by the appellation of 
 " Hipping Pat," the wise woman of her tribe 
 was in the habit of visiting us, with her hopeful 
 grandson, who had "a gift for preaching," as well 
 as for many other things not exactly compatible 
 with holy orders. He sometimes brought with him 
 a tame crow, a shrewd, knavish looking bird, who, 
 when in the humor for it, could talk like Barnaby 
 Rudge s raven. He used to say, he could " do 
 nothin at exhortin without a white haridkercher on 
 his neck and money in his pocket ; " a fact going 
 far to confirm the opinions of the Bishop of Exeter 
 and the Puseyites generally, that there can be no 
 priest without tithes and surplice. 
 
 These people have for several generations lived 
 distinct from the great mass of the community, like 
 the gipseys of Europe, whom in many respects they 
 closely resemble. They have the same settled 
 aversion to labor, and the same disposition to avail 
 themselves of the fruits of the industry of others. 
 They love a wild, out-of-door life, sing songs, tell 
 fortunes, arid have an instinctive hatred of " mis 
 sionaries and cold water." 
 
 " The proper study of mankind is man ; " and, 
 according to my view, no phase of our common 
 humanity is altogether unworthy of investigation. 
 Acting upon this belief two or three summers ago } 
 when making, in company with my sister, a little 
 excursion into the hill country of New Hampshire, 
 I turned my horse s head towards Barrington, for 
 
THE YANKEE ZINCALI. 251 
 
 the purpose of seeing these semi-civilized strollers 
 in their own home, and returning, once for all, their 
 numerous visits. Taking leave of our hospitable 
 cousins in old Lee, with about as much solemnity 
 as we may suppose Major Laing parted with his 
 friends, when he set out in search of desert-girdled 
 Timbuctoo, we drove several miles over a rough 
 road, passed the " Devil s Den " unmolested, crossed 
 a fretful little streamlet, noisily working its way 
 into a valley, where it turned a lonely, half-ruinous 
 mill, and climbing a steep hill beyond, saw before 
 us a wide, sandy level, skirted on the west and 
 north by low, scraggy hills, and dotted here and 
 there with dwarf pitch pines. In the centre of this 
 desolate region were some twenty or thirty small 
 dwellings, grouped together as irregularly as a Hot 
 tentot kraal. Unfenced, unguarded, open to all 
 comers and goers, stood that city of the beggars 
 no wall or paling between the ragged cabins, to 
 remind one of the jealous distinctions of property. 
 The great idea of its founders seemed visible in its 
 unappropriated freedom. Was not the whole round 
 world their own, and should they haggle about 
 boundaries and title-deeds ? For them, on distant 
 plains, ripened golden harvests ; for them, in far-off 
 work-shops, busy hands were toiling ; for them, if 
 they had but the grace to note it, the broad earth 
 put on her garniture of beauty, and over them hung 
 the silent mystery of heaven and its stars. That 
 comfortable philosophy which modem Transcen 
 dentalism has but dimly shadowed forth that 
 
252 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 poetic Agrarianism, which gives all to each, and 
 each to all is the real life of this city of Unwork. 
 To each of its dingy dwellers might be not unaptly 
 applied the language of one, who, I trust, will pardon 
 me for quoting her beautiful poem in this connec 
 tion : 
 
 " Other hands may grasp the field or forest, 
 Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; 
 Thou art wealthier all the world is thine ! " 
 
 But, look ! the clouds are breaking. " Fair weather 
 cometh out of the north." The wind has blown 
 away the mists ; on the gilded spire of John-street 
 glimmers a beam of sunshine. And there is the sky 
 again, hard, blue, and cold in its eternal purity, not 
 a whit the worse for the storm. In the beautiful 
 Present, the Past is no longer needed. Reverently 
 and gratefully let its volume be laid aside ; and 
 when again the shadows of the outward world fall 
 upon the spirit, may I not lack a good angel to re 
 mind me of its solace, even if he comes in the shape 
 of a Barrington beggar. 
 
HOME. 
 
 BY ISAAC Me. LELLAN. 
 
 OFT have my wayward footsteps chanc d to roam, 
 A wandering pilgrim, far away from home, 
 By Seine, or blue Rhone s gay enamell d shores, 
 Or where the castled Rhine its tribute pours ; 
 Trod the bleak wastes, o er drifting Alpine snows, 
 Caught sunset s flush when o er Mount Blanc it glows ; 
 Have mused o er Grecia s templed hills and shrines, 
 Her mournful marbles, flashing thro the vines ; 
 Heard Tiber s song, and silver Arno s tale, 
 Told to the listening gardens of her vale ; 
 Have track d the Nile to Cairo s ancient gate, 
 Deplored, at Cheops, the Egyptian s fate ; 
 Have viewed the day, o er Syrian plains, expire, 
 And with the Arab shared his desert fire. 
 Mid such high scenes, the minstrel s heart would still, 
 At thought of home, with warm emotions thrill ; 
 No scene so bright, no landscape seemed so grand 
 As the fair borders of his native land ; 
 To yield the pilgrim s staff, not loth was he, 
 And tread once more the rough soil of the Free ! 
 22 
 
254 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Where er we rove, whate er betide our lot, 
 Bright burns the flickering taper of our Home, 
 Above life s charing tides, that golden spot 
 Shines like the blessed beacon o er the foam. 
 Year after year may haply intervene, 
 Far other realms their winning charms may spread, 
 Still shall we cling to each familiar scene, 
 And kind old friends, the absent and the dead, 
 O er recollection s path will shed a glow 
 To cheer the darkest mind weigh d down with woe, 
 To charm our days with bright seraphic beams, 
 And gild with heavenly flush our midnight dreams ! 
 
CLERKS AND EMPLOYERS. 
 
 BY DANIEL N. HASKELL. 
 
 THE relations sustained by clerks to their em 
 ployers are a source of many troubles, and occasion 
 unpleasant thoughts, and oftentimes result in 
 mutual and reciprocal hatred. In many depart 
 ments of business, the compensation allowed to 
 clerks is so small, that the sons of wealthy men 
 have a monopoly of the places, which operates 
 unfavorably, two ways : it drives away a large and 
 meritorious class of young men, while it introduces 
 another, who, from the very nature of the case, 
 cannot take so active an interest, as those whom 
 want and necessity urge forward. The influence 
 of these rich clerks, in situations where little or no 
 compensation is allowed, is very pernicious, in 
 inducing habits of extravagance, inattention to 
 business, and of substituting the swell manners and 
 flash appearance of the roue, for the gentlemanly 
 bearing and manly dignity of the good citizen. 
 
 In branches of trade where a compensation is 
 allowed, it is generally too small for the interests 
 of both parties. Enlightened selfishness would 
 
256 
 
 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 seem to dictate a reform in this matter. We are 
 proverbial for our thrift, and have a character for 
 knowing what investments will produce the best 
 dividends ; and I submit, whether an investment, 
 in the shape of increased salaries, would not exhibit 
 as large returns as any stock known to the board of 
 brokers. 
 
 Let any merchant reflect how large a portion of 
 the details of his business is in the hands of clerks, 
 how powerful an agency they exert in his affairs, 
 how often he is the victim of their negligence, 
 incompetency, or dishonesty, and he will perceive 
 the great necessity for care in the selection ; and 
 may we not hope a careful investigation of the sub 
 ject will lead him most cheerfully to pay ample 
 remuneration for services rendered. Two poorly 
 paid, dispirited clerks are not so valuable as one 
 who takes an active interest in his employer s 
 affairs, and goes to his business in earnest. 
 
 A boy whose existence is an experiment, showing 
 the lowest point at which body and soul can be 
 prevented from dissolving their painful connection, 
 is as far from being the living intelligence he was 
 created for, and is as much below the level of his 
 race, as are the jaded and broken-spirited animals, 
 we see carted about in caravan cages, below their 
 brethren of the boundless forest. 
 
 The best help, like the dearest law, is the 
 cheapest ; and it will always be found the truest 
 policy to practise the inspired precept, " the laborer 
 is worthy of his hire," 
 
CLERKS AND EMPLOYERS. 257 
 
 There is a strange want of confidence exhibited 
 in the intercourse between merchants and their 
 clerks. Too frequently their conversation resem 
 bles what may be termed cross-examination. Con 
 fidence begets confidence. No man has so much 
 talent and power as to be above learning many 
 important points of intelligence, respecting both 
 men and business, from his young men. Each of 
 the parties moves in a different circle ; and the 
 clerk, from the nature of his young companions, 
 has many opportunities of obtaining valuable infor 
 mation equal to that which his master enjoys. 
 
 What would be said of a military commander, 
 and what would be his success and fate, did he not 
 avail himself of all the talent and diversity of 
 character in his subordinate officers ? A mechanic 
 is careful to attend to the suggestions of his work 
 men. A shipmaster should have the most perfect 
 confidence in his mates and crew. And should a 
 merchant lose all the advantages to be obtained 
 from an active exercise of all the talents and means 
 of information his clerks possess ? 
 
 Another evil, attendant upon this intercourse, is 
 the want of interest manifested by employers 
 respecting their young men, during the time they 
 are away from their places of business. In a very 
 large majority of cases, employers do not trouble 
 themselves about this matter ; and yet who does 
 not see that upon this point depends, in a great 
 degree, the value of the services rendered while the 
 clerk is on duty. 
 
 22* 
 
258 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 I ask clerks, How many of you receive any indi 
 cations that your services are appreciated? How 
 many of you have ever been invited to meet your 
 employers at a house of worship, even in cases 
 where they are professedly Christian ? I ask, again, 
 how many of you are requested, even once a year, 
 to visit your employers at their dwellings for one 
 evening of social intercourse ? 
 
 I am well aware that the above suggestions will, 
 by many, be regarded as unworthy serious con 
 sideration. One wise saying will, in their estima 
 tion, explode the whole train of thought, and they 
 will not be induced to make trial of any new plan, 
 fearing, lest "familiarity should breed contempt." 
 
 But, until brothers and sisters cease to be bound 
 by the warmest ties ; till intimacies are not cher 
 ished, and love is extinguished ; until friendship is 
 unknown, and children repay their fathers kindness 
 and their mothers love and affection with con 
 tempt; then, and not till then, will it be admit 
 ted that the frank and friendly intercourse between 
 master and clerk, employers and employed, at 
 proper times and under judicious restrictions, will 
 end in any thing but increased interest, mutual 
 respect, and manly confidence. 
 
 Another evil, which is more prevalent than for 
 merly, is the false hopes often held out to young 
 men to induce a sacrifice of present good upon the 
 promise of future advancement, an advancement 
 which is always future and ideal. What greater 
 crime can be committed against society than to 
 
CLERKS AND EMPLOYERS. 259 
 
 coolly calculate how far one can speculate upon the 
 rising hopes of a young man. by basely holding 
 before him a delusion, which, when exposed, will 
 send him forth to the world a disappointed man, 
 the victim of generous confidence, of human cu 
 pidity, and the foulest wrongs. 
 
 What punishment is due the niggard, who sun 
 ders or weakens the bonds which bind man to his 
 fellow-man in ties stronger than aught save love 
 and affection ! What is life worth when honor is 
 gone ? And who shall repair the ruin to that mind, 
 cheated of its fondest prospects, and allured to 
 sacrifice its time in vainly chasing a bubble, which 
 bursts ere the hand could grasp its emptiness ! 
 
 Let no young man for one moment imagine, 
 however, that because his manhood is not acknowl 
 edged, and his better nature and nobler impulses 
 are not thus appealed to, there is, on his part, any 
 relaxation of the highest moral obligation to do 
 every thing in his power to advance the interest of 
 his employer. 
 
 No neglect or remissness of the employer can 
 obliterate his claims to all the ability and force of 
 character possessed by the young man. His duty 
 is none the less plain, because his life and enjoy 
 ments form no portion of the thoughts, and engage 
 not the attention, of the man who claims his time 
 and talents. 
 
 Two wrongs will not make one right. And the 
 boy, whose daily actions and every movement are 
 
260 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 regulated by any such narrow and grovelling stand 
 ard, fails alike in the duty he owes to another and 
 to himself. 
 
 Should negligence and heedlessness become a 
 habit, the injury to the employer is transient and 
 temporary while the evils, of which they are the 
 prolific parents, will follow their unfortunate victim 
 through life, and prove a curse, from whose wither 
 ing influence he will never be disenthralled. 
 
 The lessons of the past, and the united voices of 
 reason and revelation, urge the young man forward 
 to his duty in every relation of life. By the con 
 stant exercise of fidelity, he will rise superior to the 
 obstacles which seem to arrest his progress, and, by 
 serving others, he will confer lasting benefit upon 
 himself. Enlightened self-interest will press him 
 onward in the path which duty and obligation mark 
 out ; and he will show the world, and experience, 
 himself, the wisdom which dictated to a son the 
 wise counsel, 
 
 " To thine own self be true ; 
 
 And it must follow, as the night the day, 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man." 
 
CHARLES JAMESJ 
 
 ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HIS BIRTH. 
 
 BY CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 THOU cam st what pleasures new and bright 
 
 Thy coming gave ! 
 Thou rt gone and every young delight 
 
 Is laid in thy dark grave ! 
 
 There is a spot t is holy ground 
 
 To those who weep, 
 Where, hushed beneath each lonely mound, 
 
 Death s mouldering victims sleep. 
 
 Friend, sister, brother, there are laid, 
 
 From sorrows free ; 
 And there a clay-cold bed is made 
 
 For thee, Sweet Boy, for thee. 
 
 * This poem, written more than thirty years ago, has not been printed 
 with the author s other writings. It appears in this volume with a 
 striking interest, preceding as it does a charming little home-picture 
 (see page 277,) written by a son of the Poet, bearing the name of his 
 buried brother. 
 
262 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Those little hands thou lt raise no more 
 
 To meet my arms ; 
 
 Thou rt gone ! the bitter wind passed o er, 
 And withered all thy charms. 
 
 Forever gone life s active spark, 
 
 The blood s warm thrill ; 
 Thy bright blue eyes are closed and dark, 
 Thy merry laugh is still. 
 
 I ve sate me by thy cradle s side, 
 
 And joyed to trace, 
 Blind fool ! with all a father s pride, 
 
 Thy future earthly race. 
 
 Fancy beheld thee good and wise, 
 
 Honor s proud theme, 
 Truth s sturdy prop, Fame s noble prize 
 But O, t was all a dream. 
 
 There came an hour with me t will live 
 
 Till life depart ; 
 Time s vaunted skill no balm can give, 
 
 Remembrance wrings my heart. 
 
 Twas when I watched, with curdling blood, 
 Each stifled breath ; 
 
 T was when on that pale forehead stood 
 The boding damp of death. 
 
 T was when the tyrant s grasp, so cold, 
 
 Chilled life s young tide ; 
 
 T was when those eyes that last glance rolled 
 T was when my poor boy died. 
 
CHARLES JAMES. 263 
 
 The sigh will rise, in manhood s spite, 
 
 The tears will roll ; 
 
 Grief round me draws her mental night, 
 And desolates my soul. 
 
 Yet let my stricken heart be taught 
 
 That thou rt in peace ; 
 That lesson, with true wisdom fraught, 
 
 Should bid each anguish cease. 
 
 If there s a refuge-place at last, 
 
 For man t enjoy, 
 There may I meet, earth s trials past, 
 
 My Charles, my cherub boy. 
 
EARLY DAYS OF JOHN LEDYARD. 
 
 BY JARED SPARKS. 
 
 JOHN LEDYARD, the traveller, was the third of 
 that name in lineal descent. His mother, who was 
 the daughter of Robert Hempsted, of Southold, has 
 been described as a lady of many excellences of 
 mind and character, beautiful in person, well in 
 formed, resolute, generous, amiable, kind, and, 
 above all, eminent for piety and the religious vir 
 tues. Such a mother is the best gift of Heaven to 
 a family of helpless young children. In the present 
 instance, all her courage and all her strength of 
 character were necessary, to carry her through the 
 duties and trials which devolved upon her. The 
 small estate, which had belonged to her husband in 
 Groton, was, by some strange neglect of her friends, 
 or criminal fraud never yet explained, taken from 
 her soon after his death. During a visit to Long 
 Island, the deed, which she had left with a confi 
 dential person, disappeared. As this deed was the 
 only evidence of her title to the property, and her 
 claim could not be substantiated without it, the 
 whole reverted to its former owner, her husband s 
 
EARLY DAYS OF JOHN LEDYARD. 265 
 
 father, who was still living. The particulars of 
 this transaction are not now known, nor is it neces 
 sary to inquire into them. It is enough to state 
 the fact that such an event occurred, and that the 
 widowed mother with four infant children was thus 
 thrown destitute upon the world. In this condition 
 she and her children repaired to the house of her 
 father in Southold, where they found protection and 
 support. The estate at Groton afterwards fell into 
 the hands of Colonel William Ledyard. 
 
 It may be supposed that misfortune did not 
 weaken her parental solicitude, nor make her 
 neglectful of her high trust. The education of her 
 children was the absorbing object of her thoughts 
 and exertions. Her eldest son was now of an age 
 to receive impressions, that would become deeply 
 wrought into his mind, and give a decided bias 
 to his future character. In the marked features 
 of his eventful life, eccentric and extraordinary as 
 it was, full of temptations, crosses, and sufferings, 
 may often be traced lineaments of virtues, and good 
 impulses, justly referred to such a source, to the 
 early cares and counsels of a judicious, sensible, 
 and pious mother. Nor were these counsels scat 
 tered in a vacant mind, nor these cares wasted on a 
 cold heart ; in his severest disappointments and 
 privations, in whatever clime or among whatever 
 people, whether contending with the fierce snows 
 of Siberia or the burning sands of Africa, the image 
 of his mother always came with a beam of joy to 
 his soul, and was cherished there with delight. 
 23 
 
266 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Such of his letters to her as have been preserved 
 are written with a tenderness of filial affection, that 
 could flow only from an acute sensibility and a 
 good heart. 
 
 A few years after leaving Groton, and settling at 
 Southold, Mrs. Ledyard was married to a second 
 husband, Dr. Moore, of the latter place. At this 
 time her son John was taken into the family of his 
 grandfather at Hartford, who, from that period, 
 seems to have considered him as wholly under his 
 charge. Tradition tells of peculiarities in his man 
 ners and habits at this early age, of acts indicating 
 the bent of his genius, and the romantic disposition 
 that gave celebrity to his after life. But no record 
 of his schoolboy adventures has come down to us, 
 and we are left to conjecture in what manner the 
 wild spirits of a youth like his would exhibit them 
 selves. He attended the grammar school in Hart 
 ford, it is to be presumed, with commendable 
 proficiency, since he was at first designed for the 
 profession of the law. Several months were passed 
 by him as a student in the office of Mr. Thomas 
 Seymour, a respectable lawyer of that place, who 
 had married his aunt. 
 
 Meantime his grandfather died, and Mr. Seymour 
 became his guardian, and took him to his own 
 house. Whether Ledyard turned his thoughts to 
 the law by his voluntary choice, or by the advice 
 and wishes of his friends, who desired to quiet his 
 temper, by fixing him in some settled pursuit, is 
 not related j most probably the latter, for it was 
 
EARLY DAYS OF JOHN LEDYARD. 267 
 
 soon manifest, that neither the profound wisdom, 
 the abstruse learning, nor the golden promises of 
 the law, had any charms for him. It was decided 
 without reluctance on his part, therefore, that he 
 should leave the path, which he had found so intri 
 cate, and in which he had made so little progress, 
 and enter upon one more congenial to his inclina 
 tion, and presenting objects more attractive to his 
 taste and fancy. 
 
 Here was a difficult point to be determined. The 
 pursuit, which would accord best with the propen 
 sities, temperament, and wishes of John Ledyard, 
 and best promote his future usefulness and success, 
 was a thing not to be decided, even at that time of 
 his life, by the common rules of judging in such 
 cases ; it was a preliminary, which no one probably 
 would have been more perplexed than himself to 
 establish. Never was he accustomed to look for 
 ward with unwavering predilections, to prepare for 
 contingencies, or to mark out a course from which 
 he would not stray. To be seeking some distant 
 object, imposing and attractive in his own concep 
 tions, and to move towards it on the tide of circum 
 stances, through perils and difficulties, was among 
 the chief pleasures of his existence. On enterprises, 
 in which no obstacles were to be encountered, no 
 chances to be run, no disappointments to be appre 
 hended, no rewards of hazardous adventure to be 
 looked for, he bestowed not a thought ; but let a 
 project be started, thickly beset with dangers, and 
 promising success only through toils and sufferings, 
 
268 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 deeds of courage, and the resolute efforts of an 
 untiring spirit, and not a man would grasp at it so 
 eagerly, or pursue it with so much intenseness of 
 purpose. The wholesome maxim of providing for 
 the morrow rarely found a place in his ethics or his 
 practice ; and as he never allowed himself to anti 
 cipate misfortunes, so he never took any pains to 
 guard against them. 
 
 He was now at the age of nineteen, with very 
 narrow means, few friends, and no definite pros 
 pects. In this state of his affairs, as it was neces 
 sary for something to be done, he was compelled to 
 look around him, arid for a moment to exercise that 
 foresight, which the tenor of his life proves him to 
 have been so reluctant on most occasions to call to 
 his aid. And, after all, he was more indebted to 
 accident, than to his own deliberations, for the 
 immediate events that awaited him. Dr. Wheelock, 
 the amiable and pious founder of Dartmouth College, 
 had been the intimate friend of his grandfather; 
 and prompted by the remembrance of this tie, he 
 invited Ledyard to enter his institution, recently 
 established at Hanover, New Hampshire, amidst 
 the forests on the banks of the Connecticut river. 
 This offer was accepted, and in the spring of 
 1772, he took up his residence at this new seat 
 of learning, with the apparent intention of quali 
 fying himself to become a missionary among the 
 Indians. 
 
 His mother s wishes and advice had probably 
 much influence in guiding him to this resolution. 
 
EARLY DAYS OF JOHN LEDYARD. 269 
 
 In accordance with the religious spirit of that day, 
 she felt a strong compassion for the deplorable state 
 of the Indians, and it was among her earliest and 
 fondest hopes of this her favorite son, that he would 
 be educated as a missionary, and become an approved 
 instrument in the hands of Providence to bring 
 these degraded and suffering heathen to a know 
 ledge of a pure religion, and the blessings of civil 
 ized life. When she saw this door opened for the 
 realizing of her hopes, and her son placed under the 
 charge of the most eminent laborer of his day in the 
 cause of the Indians, her joy was complete. 
 
 Few memorials remain of his college life. The 
 whole time of his residence at Dartmouth was not 
 more than one year, and during that period he was 
 absent three months and a half, rambling among 
 the Indians. A classmate still living recollects, that 
 he had then some amusing singularities, was cheer 
 ful and gay in conversation, winning in his address, 
 and a favorite with his fellow-students. His jour 
 ney from Hartford to Hanover was performed in a 
 sulky, the first vehicle of the kind that had ever 
 been seen on Dartmouth plain; and it attracted 
 curiosity not more from this circumstance, than 
 from the odd appearance of the equipage. Both 
 the horse and the sulky gave evident tokens of 
 having known better days ; and the dress of their 
 owner was peculiar, bidding equal defiance to sym 
 metry of proportions and the fashion of the times. 
 In addition to the traveller s own weight, this 
 ancient vehicle was burdened with a quantity of 
 23* 
 
270 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 calico for curtains, and other articles to assist in 
 theatrical exhibitions, of which he was very fond. 
 Prom the character of this outfit, we may conclude 
 that he did not intend time should pass on heavy 
 wings at Dartmouth. 
 
 Considering the newness of the country, the want 
 of bridges, and the bad state of the roads, this jaunt 
 in a crazy sulky was thought to indicate no feeble 
 spirit of enterprise. The journey might have been 
 performed with much more ease and expedition on 
 horseback, but in that case his theatrical apparatus 
 must have been left behind. 
 
 As a scholar at college he was respectable, but 
 not over-diligent. He acquired knowledge with 
 facility, and could make quick progress when he 
 chose ; but he was impatient under discipline, and 
 thought nothing more irksome than to go by com 
 pulsion to a certain place at certain times, and tread 
 from day to day the same dull circle of the chapel, 
 the recitation room, the commons hall, and the 
 study. It is not affirmed, that he ever ventured to 
 set up any direct hostility to the powers that ruled, 
 but he sometimes demeaned himself in a manner, 
 that must take from him the praise of a shining 
 example of willing subordination. In those primi 
 tive times, the tones of a bell had not been heard 
 in the forests of Dartmouth, and the students were 
 called together by the sound of a conch-shell, which 
 was blown in turn by the freshmen. Ledyard was 
 indignant at being summoned to this duty, and it 
 was his custom to perform it with a reluctance and 
 
EARLY DAYS OF JOHN LEDYARD. 271 
 
 in a manner corresponding to his sense of the 
 degradation. 
 
 The scenic materials, brought with so much pains 
 from Hartford, were not suffered to lie useless. The 
 calico was manufactured into curtains, a stage was 
 fitted up, and plays were acted, in which our hero 
 personated the chief characters. Calo was among 
 the tragedies brought out upon his boards, and in 
 this he acted the part of old Syphax, wearing a long 
 gray beard, and a dress suited to his notion of the 
 costume of a Numidian prince. His tragedies were 
 doubtless comedies to the audience, but they all 
 answered his purpose of amusement, and of intro 
 ducing a little variety into the sober tenor of a 
 student s life. At this period he was much addicted 
 to reading plays, and his passion for the drama 
 probably stole away many hours, that might have 
 been more profitably employed iri preparing to 
 exhibit himself before his tutors. 
 
 He had not been quite four months in college, 
 when he suddenly disappeared without previous 
 notice to his comrades, and apparently without 
 permission from the president. The full extent of 
 his travels during his absence cannot now be known, 
 but he is understood to have wandered to the bor 
 ders of Canada, and among the Six Nations. It is 
 certain that he acquired in this excursion a knowl 
 edge of Indian manners and Indian language, which 
 was afterwards of essential service to him in his 
 intercourse with savages in various parts of the 
 world. His main object, probably, was to take a 
 
272 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 cursory survey of the missionary ground, which he 
 was contemplating as the theatre of his future 
 career ; and, judging from what followed, we may 
 suppose that this foretaste put an end to all his 
 anticipations. Nothing more is heard of his mis 
 sionary projects, although it is not clear at what 
 time he absolutely abandoned them. When three 
 months and a half had expired, he returned to 
 college and resumed his studies. 
 
 If his dramatic performances were not revived, as 
 it would seem they were not, his erratic spirit did 
 not sink into a lethargy for want of expedients to 
 keep it alive. In mid-winter, when the ground was 
 covered with deep snow, Ledyard collected a party, 
 whom he persuaded to accompany him to the sum 
 mit of a neighboring mountain, and there pass the 
 night. Dr. Wheelock consented to the project, as 
 his heart was bent on training up the young men 
 to be missionaries among the Indians, and he was 
 willing they should become inured to hardships, to 
 which a life among savages would frequently expose 
 them. The projector of the expedition took the 
 lead of his volunteers, and conducted them by a 
 pathless route through the thickets of a swamp and 
 forests, till they reached the top of the mountain, 
 just in time to kindle a fire, and arrange their 
 encampment on the snow before it was dark. The 
 night, as may be supposed, was dreary and sleepless 
 to most of the party, and few were they who did 
 not greet the dawn with gladness. Their leader 
 was alert, prompt at his duty, and pleased with his 
 
EARLY DAYS OF JOHN LEDYARD. 273 
 
 success. The next day, they returned home, all 
 perfectly satisfied, unless it were Ledyard, with this 
 single experiment of their hardihood, without being 
 disposed to make another similar trial. 
 
 After abandoning his missionary schemes, he 
 began to grow weary of college, and the more so, 
 probably, as his unsettled habits now and then 
 drew from the president a salutary admonition on 
 the importance of a right use of time, and a regard 
 for the regulations of the establishment. Such 
 hints he conceived to be an indignity, and fancied 
 himself ill treated. That there was value in rules 
 of order and discipline he did not pretend to deny, 
 but seemed at a loss to imagine why they should 
 apply to him. That the whole subject might be 
 put at rest, without involving any puzzling questions 
 of casuistry, he resolved to escape. 
 
 On the margin of the Connecticut river, which 
 runs near the college, stood many majestic forest 
 trees, nourished by a rich soil. One of these Led 
 yard contrived to cut down. He then set himself 
 at work to fashion its trunk into a canoe, and in 
 this labor he was assisted by some of his fellow- 
 students. As the canoe was fifty feet long and 
 three wide, and was to be dug out and constructed 
 by these unskilful workmen, the task was not a 
 trifling one, nor such as could be speedily executed. 
 Operations were carried on with spirit, however, till 
 Ledyard wounded himself with an axe, and was 
 disabled for several days. When recovered, he 
 applied himself anew to his work ; the canoe was 
 
274 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 finished, launched into the stream, and, by the 
 further aid of his companions, equipped and pre 
 pared for a voyage. His wishes were now at their 
 consummation, and, bidding adieu to these haunts 
 of the Muses, where he had gained a dubious fame, 
 he set off alone, with a light heart, to explore a 
 river, with the navigation of which he had not the 
 slightest acquaintance. The distance to Hartford 
 was not less than one hundred and forty miles, 
 much of the way was through a wilderness, and in 
 several places there were dangerous falls and rapids. 
 With a bearskin for a covering, and his canoe 
 well stocked with provisions, he yielded himself to 
 the current, and floated leisurely down the stream, 
 seldom using his paddle, and stopping only in the 
 night for sleep. He told Mr. Jefferson, in Paris, 
 fourteen years afterwards, that he took only two 
 books with him, a Greek Testament and Ovid, one 
 of which he was deeply engaged in reading when 
 his canoe approached Bellow s Falls, where he was 
 suddenly roused by the noise of the waters rushing 
 among the rocks through the narrow passage. The 
 danger was imminent, as no boat could go down 
 that fall without being instantly dashed in pieces. 
 With difficulty he gained the shore in time to 
 escape such a catastrophe, and through the kind 
 assistance of the people in the neighborhood, who 
 were astonished at the novelty of such a voyage 
 down the Connecticut, his canoe was drawn by 
 oxen around the fall, and committed again to the 
 water below. From that time, till he arrived at 
 
EARLY DAYS OF JOHN LEDYARD. 275 
 
 his place of destination, we hear of no accident, 
 although he was carried through several dangerous 
 passes in the river. 
 
 On a bright spring morning, just as the sun was 
 rising, some of Mr. Seymour s family were standing 
 near his house on the high bank of the small river, 
 that runs through the city of Hartford, and empties 
 itself into the Connecticut river, when they espied 
 at some distance an object of unusual appearance 
 moving slowly up the stream. Others were at 
 tracted by the singularity of the sight, and all were 
 conjecturing what it could be, till its questionable 
 shape assumed the true and obvious form of a 
 canoe ; but by what impulse it was moved forward 
 none could determine. Something was seen in the 
 stern, but apparently without life or motion. At 
 length the canoe touched the shore directly in front 
 of the house ; a person sprang from the stern to a 
 rock in the edge of the water, threw off a bearskin 
 in which he had been enveloped, and behold John 
 Ledyard, in the presence of his uncle and connec 
 tions, who were filled with wonder at this sudden 
 apparition ; for they had received no intelligence of 
 his intention to leave Dartmouth, but supposed him 
 still there diligently pursuing his studies, and fitting 
 himself to be a missionary among the Indians. 
 
 However unimportant this whimsical adventure 
 may have been in its results, or even its objects, it 
 was one of no ordinary peril, and illustrated in a 
 forcible manner the character of the navigator. The 
 voyage was performed in the last part of April or first 
 
276 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 of May, and of course the river was raised by the 
 recent melting of the snow on the mountains. 
 This circumstance probably rendered the rapids less 
 dangerous, but it may be questioned whether there 
 are many persons at the present day, who would 
 willingly run the same hazard, even if guided by a 
 pilot skilled in the navigation of the river. 
 
 We cannot look back to Ledyard, thus launching 
 himself alone in so frail a bark upon the waters of 
 a river wholly unknown to him, without being 
 reminded of the only similar occurrence, which has 
 been recorded, the voyage down the River Niger 
 by Mungo Park, a name standing at the very head 
 of those most renowned for romantic and lofty 
 enterprise. The melancholy fate, it is true, by 
 which he was soon arrested in his noble career, 
 adds greatly to the interest of his situation when 
 pushing from the shore his little boat Joliba, and 
 causes us to read his last affecting letter to his wife 
 with emotions of sympathy more intense, if possible, 
 than would be felt if the tragical issue were not 
 already known. In many points of character there 
 was a strong resemblance between these two dis 
 tinguished travellers, and they both perished, 
 martyrs in the same cause, attempting to explore 
 the hidden regions of Africa. 
 
MY LITTLE DAUGHTER S SHOES. 
 
 BY CHARLES JAMES SPRAGUE. 
 
 Two little, rough-worn, stubbed shoes, 
 
 A plump, well-trodden pair ; 
 With striped stockings thrust within, 
 
 Lie just beside my chair. 
 
 * 
 
 Of veiy homely fabric they, 
 
 A hole is in each toe, 
 They might have cost, when they were new, 
 
 Some fifty cents or so. 
 
 And yet, this little worn-out pair 
 
 Is richer far to me 
 Than all the jewelled sandals are 
 
 Of Eastern luxury. 
 
 This mottled leather, cracked with use, 
 
 Is satin in my sight ; 
 These little tarnished buttons shine 
 
 With all a diamond s light. 
 24 
 
278 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Search through the wardrobe of the world ! 
 
 You shall not find me there, 
 So rarely made, so richly wrought, 
 
 So glorious a pair. 
 
 And why ? Because they tell of her, 
 
 Now sound asleep above, 
 Whose form is moving beauty, and 
 
 Whose heart is beating love. 
 
 They tell me of her merry laugh ; 
 
 Her rich, whole-hearted glee ; 
 Her gentleness, her innocence, 
 
 And infant purity. 
 
 They tell me that her wavering steps 
 
 Will long demand my aid ; 
 For the old road of human life 
 
 Is very roughly laid. 
 
 High hills and swift descents abound ; 
 
 And, on so rude a way, 
 Feet that can wear these coverings 
 
 Would surely go astray. 
 
 Sweet little girl ! be mine the task 
 
 Thy feeble steps to tend ! 
 To be thy guide, thy counsellor, 
 
 Thy playmate and thy friend ! 
 
 And when my steps shall faltering grow, 
 And thine be firm and strong, 
 
 Thy strength shall lead my tottering age 
 In cheerful peace along ! 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF A YOUNG SAILOR. 
 
 BY RICHARD H. DANA, JR. 
 
 THE fourteenth of August was the day fixed 
 upon for the sailing of the brig Pilgrim, on her 
 voyage from Boston round Cape Horn, to the west 
 ern coast of North America. As she was to get 
 under weigh early in the afternoon, I made my ap 
 pearance on board at twelve o clock, in full sea-rig, 
 and with my chest, containing an outfit for a two 
 or three years voyage, which I had undertaken 
 from a determination to cure, if possible, by an 
 entire change of life, and by a long absence from 
 books and study, a weakness of the eyes, which 
 had obliged me to give up my pursuits, and which 
 no medical aid seemed likely to cure. 
 
 The change from the tight dress coat, silk cap 
 and kid gloves of an undergraduate at Cambridge, 
 to the loose duck trowsers, checked shirt and tar 
 paulin hat of a sailor, though somewhat of a trans 
 formation, was soon made, and I supposed that I 
 should pass very well for a Jack Tar. But it is 
 impossible to deceive the practised eye in these 
 matters ; and while I supposed myself to be look- 
 
280 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 ing as salt as Neptune himself, I was, no doubt, 
 known for a landsman by every one on board as 
 soon as I hove in sight. A sailor has a peculiar cut 
 to his clothes, and a way of wearing them which a 
 green hand can never get. The trousers, tight 
 round the hips, and thence hanging long and loose 
 round the feet, a superabundance of checked shirt, 
 a low-crowned, well varnished black hat, worn on 
 the back of the head, with half a fathom of black 
 ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a peculiar tie 
 to the black silk neckerchief, with sundry other 
 minutiae, are signs, the want of which betray the 
 beginner at once. Beside the points in my dress 
 which were out of the way, doubtless my com 
 plexion and hands were enough to distinguish me 
 from the regular salt, who, with a sunburnt cheek, 
 wide step, and rolling gait, swings his bronzed and 
 toughened hands athwart-ships half open, as though 
 just ready to grasp a rope. 
 
 " With all my imperfections on my head," I 
 joined the crew, and we hauled out into the stream, 
 and came to anchor for the night. The next day 
 we were employed in preparations for sea, reeving 
 studding-sail gear, crossing royal yards, putting on 
 chafing gear, and taking on board our powder. On 
 the following night, I stood my first watch. I re 
 mained awake nearly all the first part of the night, 
 from fear that I might not hear when I was called ; 
 and when I went on deck, so great were my ideas 
 of the importance of my trust, that I walked regu 
 larly fore and aft the whole length of the vessel, 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF A YOUNG SAILOR. 281 
 
 looking out over the bows and taffrail at each turn, 
 and was not a little surprised at the coolness of the 
 old salt, whom I called to take my place, in stow 
 ing himself snugly away under the long-boat for a 
 nap. That was a sufficient lookout, he thought, 
 for a fine night, at anchor in a safe harbor. 
 
 The next morning was Saturday, and a breeze 
 having sprung up from the southward, we took a 
 pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and began beat 
 ing down the bay. I took leave of those of my 
 friends who came to see me off, and had barely 
 opportunity to take a last look at the city, and well- 
 known objects, as no time is allowed on board ship 
 for sentiment. As we drew down into the lower 
 harbor, we found the wind ahead in the bay, and 
 were obliged to come to anchor in the roads. We 
 remained there through the day and a part of the 
 night. My watch began at eleven o clock at night, 
 and I received orders to call the captain if the wind 
 came out from the westward. About midnight the 
 wind became fair, and having called the captain, I 
 was ordered to call all hands. How I accomplished 
 this I do not know, but I am quite sure that I did 
 not give the true hoarse, boatswain call of "A-a-11 
 ha-a-a-nds ! up anchor, a-ho-oy ! " In a short time 
 every one was in motion, the sails loosed, the yards 
 braced, and we began to heave up the anchor, 
 which, was our last hold upon Yankee land. I 
 could take but little part in all these preparations. 
 My little knowledge of a vessel was all at fault. 
 Unintelligible orders were so rapidly given, and so 
 24* 
 
282 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 immediately executed ; there was such a hurrying 
 about, and such an intermingling of strange cries 
 and stranger actions, that I was completely bewil 
 dered. There is not so helpless and pitiable an 
 object in the world as a landsman beginning a 
 sailor s life. At length those peculiar, long-drawn 
 sounds, which denote that the crew are heaving at 
 the windlass, began, and in a few moments we 
 were under weigh. The noise of the water thrown 
 from the bows, began to be heard, the vessel leaned 
 over from the damp night breeze, and rolled with 
 the heavy ground swell, and we had actually begun 
 our long, long journey. This was literally bidding 
 " good night " to my native land. 
 
 The first day we passed at sea was the Sabbath. 
 As we were just from port, and there was a great 
 deal to be done on board, we were kept at work all 
 day, and at night the watches were set, and every 
 thing put into sea order. 
 
 I being in the starboard, or second mate s watch, 
 had the opportunity of keeping the first watch at 
 
 sea. S , a young man, making, like myself, 
 
 his first voyage, was in the same watch, and as he 
 was the son of a professional man, and had been in 
 a counting-room in Boston, we found that we had 
 many friends and topics in common. We talked 
 these matters over, Boston, what our friends were 
 probably doing, our voyage, &c., until he \rent to 
 take his turn at the lookout, and left me to myself. 
 I had now a fine time for reflection. I felt for the 
 first time the perfect silence of the sea. The 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF A YOUNG SAILOR. 283 
 
 officer was walking the quarter deck, where I had 
 no right to go, one or two men were talking on the 
 forecastle, whom I had little inclination to join, so 
 that I was left open to the full impression of every 
 thing about me. However much I was affected by 
 the beauty of the sea, the bright stars, and the 
 clouds driven swiftly over them, I could not but 
 remember that I was separating myself from all the 
 social and intellectual enjoyments of life. Yet, 
 strange as it may seem, I did then and afterwards 
 take pleasure in these reflections, hoping by them 
 to prevent my becoming insensible to the value of 
 what I was leaving. 
 
 But all my dreams were soon put to flight by an 
 order from the officer to trim the yards, as the wind 
 was getting ahead j and I could plainly see, by the 
 looks the sailors occasionally cast to windward, and 
 by the dark clouds that were fast coming up, that 
 we had bad weather to prepare for, and had heard 
 the captain say that he expected to be in the Gulf 
 Stream by twelve o clock. In a few minutes eight 
 bells were struck, the watch called, and we went 
 below. I now began to feel the first discomforts 
 of a sailor s life. The steerage in which I lived 
 was filled with coils of rigging, spare sails, old junk 
 and ship stores, which had not been stowed away. 
 Moreover, there had been no berths built for us to 
 sleep in, and we were not allowed to drive nails to 
 hang our clothes upon. The sea, too, had risen, 
 the vessel was rolling heavily, and every thing was 
 pitched about in grand confusion. There was a 
 
284 
 
 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 complete " hurrah s nest," as the sailors say, " every 
 thing on top and nothing at hand." A large hawser 
 had been coiled away upon my chest ; my hats, 
 boots, mattress and blankets had all fetched away 
 and gone over to leeward, and were jammed and 
 broken under the boxes and coils of rigging. To 
 crown all, we were allowed no light to find any 
 thing with, and I was just beginning to feel strong 
 symptoms of sea-sickness, and that listlessness and 
 inactivity which accompany it. Giving up all 
 attempts to collect my things together, I lay down 
 upon the sails, expecting every moment to hear the 
 cry of " All hands ahoy," which the approaching 
 storm would soon make necessary. I shortly heard 
 the rain-drops falling on deck, thick and fast, and 
 the watch evidently had their hands full of work, 
 for I could hear the loud and repeated orders of the 
 mate, the trampling of feet, the creaking of blocks, 
 and all the accompaniments of a coming storm. In 
 a few minutes the slide of the hatch was thrown 
 back, which let down the noise and tumult of the 
 -.deck still louder, the loud cry of " All hands, ahoy ! 
 tumble up here and take in sail," saluted our ears, 
 and the hatch was quickly shut again. When I 
 got upon deck, a new scene and a new experience 
 was before me. The little brig was close hauled 
 upon the wind, and lying over, as it then seemed to 
 me, nearly upon her beam ends. The heavy head 
 sea was beating against her bows with the noise 
 and force almost of a sledge hammer, and flying 
 over the deck, drenching us completely through. 
 
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF A YOUNG SAILOR. 285 
 
 The topsail halliards had been let go, and the great 
 sails were filling out and backing against the masts 
 with a noise like thunder. The wind was whist 
 ling through the rigging, loose ropes flying about ; 
 loud and, to me, unintelligible orders constantly 
 given and rapidly executed, and the sailors " singing 
 out " at the ropes in their hoarse and peculiar strains. 
 In addition to all this, I had not got my " sea legs 
 on," was dreadfully sick, with hardly strength 
 enough to hold on to any thing, and it was " pitch 
 dark." This was my state when I was ordered 
 aloft, for the first time, to reef topsails. 
 
 How I got along, I cannot now remember. I 
 " laid out " on the yards and held on with all my 
 strength. I could not have been of much service, 
 for I remember having been sick several times 
 before I left the topsail yard. Soon all was snug 
 aloft, and we were again allowed to go below. 
 This I did not consider much of a favor, for the 
 confusion of every thing below, and that inexpres 
 sible sickening smell, caused by the shaking up of 
 the bilge-water in the hold, made the steerage but 
 an indifferent refuge from the cold, wet decks. I 
 had often read of the nautical experiences of others, 
 but I felt as though there could be none worse than 
 mine ; for in addition to every other evil, I could 
 not but remember that this was only the first night 
 of a two years voyage. 
 
TO SCOTLAND. 
 
 BY ROBERT C. WATERSTON. 
 
 LAND of my fathers ! in my heart 
 I cherish fervent love for thee ; 
 Land, where the good have borne their part, 
 
 And struggled to be free ! 
 
 Land of the dark brown heath, and rocky glen, 
 Of glorious mountain heights, and noble hearted men. 
 
 Here Solway spreads its sheet of blue, 
 And Lomond s wave in beauty lies ; 
 And Bracklin s torrent thunders through, 
 
 Where shadowy forests rise ; 
 Here peaceful lakes are sleeping in the sun, 
 And rivers through the glens, like threads of silver, run. 
 
 Here patriots lived, and dared to die, 
 
 Ay, die, they could not live as slaves, 
 And now, beneath the arching sky, 
 A nation venerates their graves ; 
 And ages, yet to come, shall proudly tell 
 Where Bruce so bravely fought, and noble Wallace fell. 
 
TO SCOTLAND. 287 
 
 And here the Covenanters stood, 
 
 And died upon the soil they trod, 
 For what they deemed their country s good, 
 
 And for the cause of God ; 
 Here, in deep caves, and in lone vale and glen, 
 They lived as martyrs live, and died as Christian men. 
 
 And here have poets sweetly sung, 
 
 The softest strains of Scottish song ; 
 Here was King James s wild harp strung, 
 
 And his rare music borne along ; 
 While Michael Bruce, and Allan Ramsay, still 
 Live in those ancient songs that ring o er lake and hill. 
 
 And Burns, ay, Burns, whose touching notes 
 
 Are now on every nation s tongue, 
 Where er the voice of music floats, 
 
 Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ; 
 Here breathed sweet Nature s bard such words of love, 
 As move the heart to tears, and raise its thoughts above. 
 
 Here the Last Minstrel tuned his lay, 
 
 Here Branksome s towering turrets stood, 
 Here warriors met in deadly fray, 
 
 At Flodden Field and Holyrood ; 
 
 Here lived Fitz James ; and here, mid mountain brake, 
 Floated, in her light skiff, the Lady of the Lake. 
 
 Here lived those mighty heirs of fame, 
 
 Whose minds will never be forgot, 
 Long as the world can breathe the name, 
 
 Of Burns and Walter Scott ; 
 
 They loved thee ; and made dear thy hills and vales 
 By their heroic songs, and legendary tales. 
 
288 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Thus, honored land, within my heart 
 
 I cherish fervent love for thee, 
 Land where the good have borne their part, 
 
 And struggled to be free ; 
 
 Land of the dark brown heath, and rocky glen, 
 Of glorious mountain heights, and noble hearted men. 
 
GUY LINDEN S FIRST BOOK. 
 
 BY GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 I HAD just published my first volume, and felt 
 very sensibly as if an achievement of some moment 
 had been accomplished. I fully entered into the 
 peculiar opinions of Mr. Godwin on this subject, 
 who conceived that whoever had written a book, 
 had attained a very decided superiority over the 
 rest of mankind ; and who, in his " Essay on 
 Sepulchres," by a process savoring perhaps as much 
 of poetical as " Political Justice," developes a 
 scheme, for preserving in one place the memory of 
 all great writers deceased, each in his proper sta 
 tion. I knew there were many individuals who 
 differed very much from Mr. Godwin in these 
 particulars ; hard, churlish, unideal persons, who 
 considered an author rather as the enemy than the 
 benefactor of his kind, and regarded the man who 
 had written a book much as though he had picked 
 a pocket. But this was their affair, not mine. 
 There were enough ready to read, estimate, and 
 value good books, and quite enough who enjoyed 
 25 
 
290 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 bad ones ; and I thought it very hard, if on one 
 score or other I could not hit the popular fancy 
 between wind and water. 
 
 My sensations at this conjuncture were peculiar, 
 but pleasing. It was the class of emotions, proper 
 to the young man who, for the first time, opens his 
 new store, or the youthful captain, who commands 
 his first ship. I had gone through no small amount 
 of tedious negotiation with my publisher upon this 
 occasion ; a man, in my opinion, of a deal of un 
 necessary and ill-timed prudence. Still, he was 
 highly considered in his business, was a popular 
 publisher, and supposed to have acquired a very 
 handsome thing in the way of trade. My perform 
 ance was a poem, in the Spenserian stanza, " ON 
 THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME ; " a subject, thought I, 
 evidently of the greatest moment, and one in which 
 every class and condition of mankind are immedi 
 ately interested. Besides its religious consequence, 
 moralists and philosophers have directed much 
 attention to it from the very earliest ages. It may 
 be considered, in some sense, therefore, rather a 
 trite topic of discussion. Yet I do not perceive 
 that the admonitions of these elder worthies have 
 had much beneficial effect, since there are still a 
 great many idle persons about. It must be, there 
 fore, that the consideration of this truly interesting 
 and important question has not heretofore been at 
 tended with all those attractive and forcible persua 
 sives, which I flatter myself are pretty well brought 
 out in a certain series of MS. sheets, soon to con- 
 
291 
 
 centrate the public attention, in the shape of a neat 
 and modest duodecimo volume. 
 
 I perceived that my publisher looked rather blank 
 upon glancing at the manuscript, and I pitied his 
 want both of taste and discernment ; but he ad 
 dressed me in his usual courteous and urbane man 
 ner. 
 
 " This is rather an unpoetical age, I fear, Mr. 
 Linden," said he, "but we must do the best we can 
 for you in our line." 
 
 " Very true, sir," replied I, " the age is indeed 
 unpoetical ; what with steamships and railways, 
 and other utilitarian mischiefs, men seem to be 
 fairly whirled out of all sobriety, and decent, seri 
 ous reflection. But, my dear sir, this is the very 
 reason I write. If poets cease to write, because 
 society grows utilitarian and unideal, they certainly 
 help to aggravate, rather than to cure the evil. 
 The clergy might as well leave off preaching, be 
 cause the world persists in sinning." 
 
 " There is some force in your argument, I ad 
 mit," said he ; " the times are perhaps too practical 
 and selfish ; and though imagination may be cloyed, 
 yet as the appetite is inherent in our nature, it must 
 necessarily revive, when any thing tempting offers ; 
 and I suppose it is proper to use sound argument, 
 on suitable occasions, whether men will listen, for 
 the moment, or not. But how large an edition of 
 this work do you think it advisable to bring out ? " 
 
 " Why," said I, "I have made some little calcu 
 lation about this, in anticipation of your question. 
 
292 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 It is true, it is a subject in which every man, 
 woman and child, is deeply concerned. But there 
 are a good many persons, in every community, upon 
 whom you cannot safely count in an enterprise of 
 this kind ; some who never look beyond their legers, 
 others involved in various kinds of dissipation, 
 besides many of the poorer class, to whom it would 
 be inconvenient to purchase even the cheapest vol- 
 iime, however important. Let me see. The pop 
 ulation of the city is something over one hundred 
 thousand, call it, in round numbers, a hundred 
 thousand, in order to facilitate the computation. 
 Now allow five persons, on an average, to each 
 family, and that gives twenty thousand families, 
 more or less. It would be useful, to be sure, that 
 each individual should possess his own copy, for 
 occasional reference ; but still it is not likely, as a 
 general rule, that more than one copy would be 
 purchased by any particular household, except as 
 presents to friends in the country, or the like of 
 that. Making allowance, therefore, for the classes 
 of persons before alluded to, and a liberal deduction 
 to meet unforeseen contingencies, I am inclined to 
 think, with deference to your better judgment, that 
 it would not, on the whole, be judicious to print, 
 for the first impression, more than, say, five thou 
 sand copies." 
 
 " Five thousand copies ! Mr. Linden," said he, 
 and if he had not that moment been seized with an 
 immoderate fit of coughing, I should almost have 
 imagined, from the expression of his face, that he 
 
293 
 
 had some design of laughing me out of counte 
 nance. Bat he soon resumed his usual gravity, and 
 observed, " My dear sir, I perceive that you are 
 not aware of the arts of our trade. We make it 
 an invariable rule to print small, and sometimes 
 very small, editions of our best works. We can 
 easily multiply issues of these, according to the 
 public demand ; and a book, in this way, often 
 arrives at several editions, with increased fame, 
 which, without this precaution, would never be 
 reprinted at all. We cannot certainly ascertain, 
 beforehand, the probable demand ; but, if you will 
 allow me to recommend, I should advise a trial of 
 the market, with a sort of skirmishing party, a 
 light edition, of a few hundreds, straws, you 
 know, Mr. Linden, to see how the wind blows." 
 
 This proposition seemed really so reasonable, that 
 it was difficult to urge any objection, although I 
 confess I was secretly piqued at the unnecessary 
 timidity of my publisher. 
 
 " Besides," continued Mr. Oldfile, " you must per 
 mit me to suggest to you, my friend, that in your 
 computation, otherwise sufficiently accurate, you 
 appear to me to have omitted one or two very 
 essential considerations. In the first place, many 
 of those unhappy persons, who, as you say, persist 
 in wantonly misspending their time, will hardly be 
 induced to devote themselves to the study of your 
 performance, though generously intended for their 
 special benefit. Then there are, we would hope, 
 a good many conscientious individuals, who think 
 25* 
 
294 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 they already occupy themselves according to their 
 best judgment ; to them the work would be of no 
 service. Others, again, are so constantly engaged 
 in securing their daily bread, that on them I fear 
 your advice would be thrown away ; . and then 
 there are in this, as in every community, no small 
 proportion who will not, and not a few who cannot 
 read. Rely upon it, too, that the world may be 
 divided into two great classes, those who do not 
 think at all, but are borne passively along, as it 
 were, by the current of events ; and of the much 
 smaller class who do indeed think, the greater 
 number are supremely devoted to the consideration 
 of that most interesting of all subjects, themselves ! 
 Besides, not to enlarge too much on this topic, you 
 must be aware that there are a great many books 
 published every year, claiming various degrees of 
 attention, and many poets too, besides a certain 
 distinguished friend of ours, who on the present 
 occasion shall be nameless. If we are not in fact 
 a poetical people, Mr. Linden, we are sometimes 
 laughingly charged with having more than our due 
 proportion of those, who court the muses with more 
 or less devotedness." 
 
 " Yes," replied I, with some indignation, " I do 
 know that such an accusation is often brought, by 
 some of our newspaper hacks, a parcel of ignorant 
 jackanapes, who cannot tell an iambic from an hex 
 ameter, and whose lucubrations would not be read 
 at all if poetry, or any thing else worthy the name 
 of literature, was valued among us. But I deny the 
 
295 
 
 fact. A truly poetical age is necessarily a culti 
 vated, generous, disinterested and heroic age. But 
 we are so swallowed up in scrambling after money, 
 and squabbling about politics, principally, I verily 
 believe, for salaries instead of honors, that the very 
 idea of disinterestedness has become an imaginary 
 quantity amongst us. And as for having more than 
 our due share of poets, such as they are, for my 
 part I think it would be better for the country if 
 we had more and better ones ! Why, sir, it is but 
 a few days since I was running over an old book, 
 published in the year of grace 1723, by Giles 
 Jacob, so often quoted by Johnson in his Lives, 
 and which professes to give a catalogue and some 
 sketches of the English poets, from the time of 
 old Chaucer up to his own era ; and how many do 
 you think they were ? Two HUNDRED AND SEVENTY- 
 FOUR! And this, too, without including some two 
 hundred and fifty dramatic poets. Now, make a 
 little calculation about it. From Chaucer, say A. D. 
 1350, to A. D. 1723, is three hundred and seventy- 
 three years. From the landing of the Pilgrims, in 
 December, A. D. 1620, to the present time, is two 
 hundred and twenty-three years. The problem 
 then may be thus stated, 
 
 Years. Years. English poets. American poets. 
 
 373 : 223 :: 274 : 163| -f- 
 
 Now, in Mr. Griswold s book, if I remember right, 
 only eighty individuals are set down as AMERICAN 
 POETS, par excellence; it is clear, therefore, as the 
 
296 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Rule-of-Three can make it, that we are still defi 
 cient of our just proportion, by the large number 
 of EIGHTY-TWO respectable poets, without reckoning 
 the fraction, which may be considered as represent 
 ing one or more of the occasional contributors to 
 magazines, journals, and the like." 
 
 " The case is certainly worse than I had imag 
 ined," said Mr. Oldfile ; u but I hope we may mend 
 in this, as in other particulars ; a sound literature is 
 some indication of a sound state of the public mind 
 and morals ; let us hope for the best, especially as 
 present auspices are so favorable." 
 
 With this I left the shop. 
 
 I had not neglected such precautions as seemed 
 proper, to ascertain the probable effect of my work 
 upon the public mind. Following the example of 
 Le Sage, I read over the manuscript to my maiden 
 aunt, Hannah, one day after dinner, as she sat knit 
 ting, and looking at me occasionally over her spec 
 tacles, as I thought with a just and natural pride. 
 Nobody could accuse her of wasting time. Her 
 needles flew with the " fatal facility of the octosyl 
 labic measure ;" but she heard me without inter 
 ruption to the end. Dear soul ! she would have 
 listened with exemplary patience to the dullest 
 sermon, out of pure respect to the subject. Her 
 criticism, to be sure, was not very discriminating. 
 She thought the moral good, and suggested that 
 she hoped it might prove of some benefit to the 
 family of our opposite neighbor, Jones, " whose 
 girls," she remarked, " were eternally standing 
 
297 
 
 before the glass, or lolling out of the doors and 
 windows." 
 
 I also showed the production to several of my 
 old friends, taking care to select the critical tribunal 
 from persons of different professions or occupations, 
 in order to test the universality of my doctrines. 
 Each one returned it to me with unqualified appro 
 bation. 
 
 "A very good thing," said Oakes! 
 
 "A very good thing," said Stokes ! ! 
 
 "A very good thing," said Noakesi ! ! 
 
 " This looks, indeed," said I, " like the consen 
 taneous voice of contemporary applause ! It might 
 perhaps have been more satisfactory to see the 
 more particular beauties and most striking passages 
 pointed out and commented on ; but que voulez 
 vous ? what can a man ask more than unreserved 
 and entire approbation ? " 
 
 In the mean time, notwithstanding the usual de 
 lays and hindrances of publication, the days shuf 
 fled over each other, with the limping gait they 
 always put on in the eyes of an impatient author. 
 Time, however, wore on, and I cheated it of some 
 of its tediousness by indulging in several pleasing 
 reveries. Although I could not tell how, yet it 
 seemed to me, from some indications, that the pub 
 lic attention was already a good deal excited on the 
 subject. I had observed several scrutinizing-looking 
 individuals regard me with marked attention, as I 
 hurried along the street in my daily walks. " Old- 
 file," thought I, " has given these fellows a hint of 
 
298 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 what they may expect, before many days are out." 
 I might be mistaken, however. Perhaps it was 
 only the peculiar abstractedness of my demeanor, 
 or something uncommon in the elastic vigor of my 
 hasty step. But they will soon know more about 
 it, said I, and I should not be surprised, if hereafter 
 a little wholesome sensation should be exhibited, 
 when some folks make their appearance abroad ! 
 I imagined a crowd at the corner of the street. 
 " There, that s he," says one, " that s Mr. Linden, 
 the poet ! " " Where ? " says another, " which is 
 he ? " " Why, him in the drab overcoat and specta 
 cles, just stepping into Oldfile s shop," says a third. 
 
 How happily the days 
 Of Thalaba went by ! 
 
 Yet, as the fated moment approached, I could 
 not help growing extremely nervous and fidgety ; 
 so much so, indeed, that being unable any longer 
 to remain at home, I engaged a sort of attic, in an 
 old building directly opposite the shop of my pub 
 lisher, from the windows of which I could con 
 veniently watch the progress of events. As I sat 
 musing here on the evening before publication, it 
 suggested itself to me that considerable incon 
 venience might ensue, on the next morning, if it 
 should happen that much of a crowd should be 
 come collected (for a certain purpose) in and about 
 Oldfile s shop, which is indeed rather a cramped 
 place for a voluminous publisher, and I regretted 
 that I had not made some suggestion to him, by 
 
299 
 
 way of obviating this dilemma. In case of a rush, 
 however, I thought I could easily make him ac 
 quainted with my plans from my present quarters, 
 particularly as he is no ways deficient in sharpness, 
 and quite good at taking a hint. And I finally pro 
 posed to pin or fasten together several large sheets 
 of paper, and hang the signal out of my window, 
 like a telegraph, with some such directions as the 
 following, written out in a coarse bold hand. 
 " Put out a notice, thus : 
 
 jy ENTER ON THE RIGHT SAY LINDEN S POEM 
 
 LAY DOWN YOUR MONEY PASS OFF 
 
 TO THE LEFT." 
 
 My dream that night was certainly a very curious 
 one. I imagined a spacious hall with a lofty pyra 
 mid, formed by reams of large-sized paper, piled on 
 end ; upon the summit of which I was perched, 
 gracefully extending a gilt copy of the poem by 
 way of sceptre, and arrayed, somewhat fancifully, 
 in a complete robe and hood, like a monk s gown, 
 very curiously cut and contrived out of foolscap 
 paper, by the hands of Oldfile s youngest daughter ; 
 and an incessant throng of men, women and chil 
 dren, passing out and in, each saluting me with a 
 low bow or courtesy, as the case might be. 
 
 The morning broke as sweetly and unconsciously 
 as upon occasion of any other great event ; and 
 nothing particular in nature, that I am aware of, 
 would have indicated to an uninterested person, 
 that a great author was about to be launched into 
 
300 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 the world of letters, on the wings of Fame ! I took 
 my station at the window, having previously ascer 
 tained that several of the morning papers, to do 
 them justice, contained notices of the forthcoming 
 work by way of advertisement, forwarded to 
 them, I suppose, by old Oldfile, the evening before. 
 The shop at length was lazily opened/ as well as 
 others, in the street. The shutters were slowly 
 taken down, one by one, and deposited in their 
 usual place. The shop-boy sprinkled and swept 
 the floor, occasionally resting on his besom, outside 
 the door, and interchanging Doric ejaculations with 
 his next-door neighbor. Wheels of various descrip 
 tions had long been rattling over the pavement, and 
 the throng and current of every-day life commenced. 
 Well dressed men, with anxious faces began to 
 hurry down to their business, and an Irish lad, with 
 scarce a rag to his back, lounged whistling along, 
 munching, at intervals, what looked to me like a 
 cold potato. I observed, as yet, no unusual bustle 
 at Oldfile s shop. But I comforted myself with 
 various considerations: "Rome was not built in 
 a day," though the proverb is somewhat musty ; 
 "everything must have a beginning;" "literary 
 people, whose attention, naturally, must be first 
 attracted to the book, are, I fear, late risers," &c. 
 Towards ten o clock, a lady, whom I instantly 
 recognized, came jauntily along the street, evidently 
 making towards the point where all my hopes were 
 treasured. It is perhaps a whim ; but I could have 
 wished some other person to be the first and most 
 
GUY LINDEN S FIRST BOOK. 301 
 
 favored peruser of my poetical meditations ; for to 
 tell the truth, I did not hold Miss Olivia Brown 
 in very high estimation. Yet, certainly, she never 
 looked, to me, so interesting as at that moment. 
 Her figure is even now clearly depictured to my 
 " mind s eye," as she minced on her way, in her 
 short gray silk cloak gathered in behind, and her 
 brown bonnet with a little black feather on one 
 side with long curls worn a la Romantesque, and 
 a sun-screen (though it was winter) held so as par 
 tially to conceal a face, considerably beyond that 
 period, when the exact number of years necessary 
 to constitute " a certain age " is so very uncertain. 
 Age is in itself venerable and lovely, for its own 
 sake, upon its own merits, and by reason of its own 
 proper and becoming qualities ; but it never looks 
 so unamiable as when tricked out in an unnatural 
 childishness of manner and apparel. I knew that 
 Miss Brown spent her mornings in collecting gos 
 sip by wholesale, which she retailed, in a drawling 
 tone, to a chosen few every evening. Her tongue 
 was the terror of friends and foes alike. "No 
 matter," said I, "she ll, at least proclaim our lite 
 rary existence, like a trumpet ; it is something, in 
 our line, to be talked about in any way ; let her 
 abuse me, if she likes, and she s sure to do it; I 
 have often thought it of very little consequence 
 whether public characters are abused or praised, or, 
 in fact, whether they deserve praise or censure, if 
 their names are only well sounded in the popular 
 
 26 
 
302 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 After a reasonable time spent in Mr. Oldfile s 
 shop, moments to me of much interesting specula 
 tion, Miss Brown again made her appearance in the 
 street. She had nothing in her hand which looked 
 like a book, but the package was, probably, to be 
 forwarded to her order. 
 
 I looked up and down the street, but though 
 many persons were passing here and there, I could 
 distinguish none whose steps seemed particularly 
 directed our way. " But here comes somebody at 
 last," said I, "who may, for what I know, be 
 inclined for a nibble at our line, (poetically speak 
 ing,) though certainly never suspected of any very 
 decided literary tendencies." It was Mr. Green, 
 our family grocer, and a very worthy, respectable 
 man, who had served us in this way for a good 
 many years. Notwithstanding the importance of 
 the day, he was dressed in his usual costume ; a 
 peculiarly broad-brimmed drab hat on the top of 
 his bald head, a brown coat with broad flaps, yellow 
 waistcoat, and frills to his shirt bosom, in the old 
 style. He was a short and very fat man, who 
 loved a joke, and he stopped a moment to say 
 something to a gray-whiskered man in black, on 
 the opposite sidewalk, at which they both seemed 
 mightily amused. He moved on leisurely with one 
 hand under his coat-tail, and " actually " said I, 
 rubbing my hands, " he has gone in ! He owes 
 this attention to the Lindens, certainly, for he can 
 have few better customers than they have uniformly 
 been." 
 
303 
 
 After the lapse of considerable time, a very stately 
 individual, with tremendous whiskers and a very 
 big cane, whom I knew to be the editor of the 
 " Fun and Flash Chronicle," stalked into the im 
 portant precincts ; and shop-boys, as I supposed, of 
 brother booksellers, occasionally darted in and out, 
 now with and now without a volume of some kind 
 in their hands. On the whole, however, the influx 
 did not, as yet, seem to be great. Indeed I some 
 times thought there was a determined avoidance of 
 Oldfile s shop, on the part of the public. A little 
 boy in the street was rolling a large snowball along 
 the gutter, which increased by slow accumulations ; 
 and this incident, like Bruce s spider, under similar 
 circumstances, afforded me a great deal of encour 
 agement. Patience appeared to me the first of 
 virtues, and deserving of a special celebration in a 
 new poem in the Spenserian stanza. 
 
 The days in winter are, as every body knows, 
 uncommonly short ; and it was already waxing 
 rather late in the afternoon. I became satisfied 
 that I should have an apportunity of communicat 
 ing verbally to Oldfile, if necessary, instead of by 
 telegraph, my views in regard to the accommodation 
 of his customers. Not a single soul had entered 
 the fated portal for a very considerable time ; and 
 many instances of public ingratitude towards authors 
 in their lifetime, and of gross ignorance of their 
 merits too, had flitted across my imagination. I 
 remembered how Waller, who ought to have known 
 
304 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 better, spoke of Milton as " an old blind schoolmas 
 ter, who had written a prose poem about Paradise 
 Lost ; " and how, when Pope published the " Essay 
 on Man " without his name, and inquired of Mallet 
 the news of the day, he said there was " nothing 
 but a poem on man, written by somebody who had 
 neither skill in writing nor knowledge of the sub 
 ject ; " and how Pope mortified him by exposing 
 the authorship. " To be sure," said I, " people 
 cannot bear to be instructed by their contempora 
 ries, especially by their every-day acquaintances ; 
 they don t like to believe that others Have been 
 thinking, while they have been only plodding ; still 
 the employment of time is a subject so immediately 
 interesting" at this moment my attention was 
 attracted by a very beautiful young creature trip 
 ping directly up to the door of Oldfile s shop. She 
 was indeed the very bean-ideal of as much loveli 
 ness as imagination could picture; and I was in 
 stantly confident, that, if poetry had one true votary 
 left on earth, her heart must indeed beat in earnest 
 sympathy with the spiritual worship. After all, 
 thought I, it is to the unsophisticated we must look 
 to keep alive the ethereal flame of the sacred altar. 
 Old sinners are proverbially the hardest to convert. 
 I belie ve I must content myself with the approbation 
 of the few who have never lost the simple, childlike 
 sense of good, instead of struggling after the many, 
 who have become wholly given up to the nonsense 
 and nothings of the world. I could imagine the 
 
GUY LINDEN S FIRST BOOK. 305 
 
 earnest, yet modest alacrity with which she took 
 from the counter my little volume ; 
 
 A POEM 
 
 ON THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME. 
 BY GUY LINDEN, ESQ.. 
 
 " Mr. Linden," said she, musing, "is not he the 
 interesting looking gentleman, in a drab overcoat 
 and spectacles, who has been pointed out to me 
 somewhere ? Have the goodness to send this to 
 
 No Street, this evening, if you please. 
 
 Or stay, I will take this myself, (bless her soft 
 hands) as I am impatient to look it over, and you 
 may send half a dozen copies to my direction, which 
 I shall have occasion to distribute among my 
 friends!" 
 
 " Very much obliged to you indeed, Miss, for your 
 patronage," said Oldfile, with a bow and a simper ; 
 and so much was I interested in the fairy vision I 
 had conjured up, that I started from the window, 
 resolved to follow my unknown patroness, and 
 ascertain where so much loveliness and liberality 
 had found its earthly abode. 
 
 At this moment, there was a sort of stumbling 
 along the somewhat dark passage-way that led to 
 my attic, and presently a rap at the door. 
 
 " Come in," cried I ; and who should enter but my 
 old friend, Noakes, who had returned my manuscript 
 to me, with such decided approbation. I am 
 ashamed to say that I forgot the lady, and advanced 
 to meet him with more than usual cordiality. 
 26* 
 
306 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 " How do you do, this evening, my dear Jack," 
 said I. 
 
 " Why," replied he, " that is a problem I have 
 not yet solved, after half breaking my neck up 
 your ugly stairs. I have hunted for you, like 
 hound for hare ! What on earth possessed you 
 to take up your quarters in this dog-hole of a 
 place ? " 
 
 "I am sure," said I, " the situation is not so bad 
 when you get a little accustomed to the passage- 
 Avay ; there is an agreeable prospect from the win 
 dows ; we can see the passengers in the street : 
 and then (gently insinuating) there is the view 
 of literature opposite, always interesting to a stu 
 dent, you know." 
 
 " You don t tell me, you have climbed up here," 
 exclaimed Jack, " to secure the pleasure of gazing at 
 the outside of a bookseller s windows ! " 
 
 " Why no, not exactly that," said I, somewhat 
 abashed, " only I have taken a sort of fancy to the 
 place, at present, that s all but come, what s the 
 news of the day ? " 
 
 "News," said he, "I know of nothing particular, 
 unless it be the late storm ; I thought my chimneys 
 would come down; I fear we shall hear of it on 
 the coast." 
 
 " Yes," continued I, considering how I might 
 make this rather unfavorable turn of the conver 
 sation auxiliary to the main subject, -riot all we 
 could wish for the prospects of literature ! " 
 
 " Literature," says he, " what do you mean ? I 
 
307 
 
 confess I can t see its connection with last night s 
 storm." 
 
 " Why, I mean the communication with the 
 country," said I, " you know trade must suffer, 
 of course, if this is cut off; the transmission of 
 books is delayed, and a great deal of disappoint 
 ment necessarily ensues." 
 
 " I suspect the country people can wait for books, 
 till the roads are mended, if they require them," 
 replied Jack, " and I cannot conceive that any very 
 serious consequences are likely to follow the delay 
 of a few hours. The elections are long over, the 
 1 Message distributed, there is nothing that I am 
 aware of to be circulated with speed, and I know 
 of nothing likely to excite particular interest at the 
 present time." 
 
 This was rather a damper ; but I persevered. 
 
 " Well," cried I, "at any rate it is very pleasant 
 to see the sunshine again, after so much dull wea 
 ther ; it is like lighting on a brilliant passage in a 
 new poem, after poring over a stupid book. Have 
 you never remarked the happy influence of the sun 
 in brightening all nature ? how the moment it 
 flashes through the cloud, it seems to lift a shadow 
 from the heart ? how it seems to inspire you and 
 raise you above sublunary concerns, and make you, 
 as it were, a poet, whether you will or no ? " 
 
 " Of course, it s pleasanter when the sun shines," 
 was Jack s answer, " every body knows that, and 
 feels it too ; but something which I can t fathom 
 seems to be the matter with you to-day ; you fly 
 
308 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 a height above me ; have you been up all night ? 
 or are you in love, or are you writing a novel ? I 
 have it, by Jupiter ! Excuse me, my dear fellow, I 
 had entirely forgotten your new poem, though I 
 saw it advertised this morning. Good bye, I 11 get 
 it at once, and make amends for my negligence, by 
 criticising it to your heart s content, when I see 
 you again." 
 
 As it had now grown rather dusky, I ventured 
 across the road, to Oldfile s shop ; into which I 
 sauntered, with a very well assumed air of modest 
 indifference to the tidings, in anticipation of which 
 my very ears tingled. 
 
 "Good evening," said I, "Mr. Oldfile ; a fine 
 day we have had of it." 
 
 " Oh, how d ye do, Mr. Linden," replied he, with 
 as near an approach to a yawn as it would be pos 
 sible to make, and miss of it ; " rather tired," con 
 tinued Oldfile, rubbing his hand slowly over his 
 forehead, and down across his chin. This looked 
 well for trade. However, he said nothing. 
 
 I fidgeted round for a while, pretending to be 
 employed in examining the various publications on 
 the counter. Seeing no prospect of his commencing 
 ;the desired conversation, I at length thought it best 
 to begin. 
 
 " Well, what success to-day, sir? " said I. 
 
 " Success ! " said he, " Oh, about the poem," as 
 if suddenly recollecting that there was one subject 
 in which I felt a natural interest, and shuffling 
 among the books on the counter, " I have been 
 
GUY LINDEN S FIRST BOOK. 309 
 
 so much engaged to-day in looking over old ac 
 counts, a sad catalogue in these times, Mr. Lin 
 den, that I had really, for the moment, forgotten 
 our new work. Let me see ! we have just sold 
 one copy to Mr. Noakes, I think, of Kilby Street." 
 
 " One copy," cried I, " you surely have sold 
 more than one copy ! " 
 
 " Hand me the day-book," said Oldfile, turning 
 to his clerk, who remarked that they had given a 
 copy to the editor of the Fun and Flash Chronicle, 
 and he had promised to notice it when he could 
 find time. 
 
 " Time, indeed ! " observed Oldfile, " he must 
 be sadly put to it to find articles, if we may judge 
 from the appearance of his columns. I hope your 
 book will do him good, Mr. Linden, for / consider 
 him a very idle fellow." 
 
 " But surely," I observed, " I saw Miss Brown 
 go in at your door this morning." 
 
 " What Miss Brown ? " inquired he. 
 
 " Why, Miss Olivia Brown, who makes it a point 
 to talk about all the new publications, and indeed, 
 for the matter of that, about every thing else that s 
 new," replied I, " and I suppose, therefore, she 
 must read them." 
 
 " I fear that is what the logicians call a non 
 sequitur" remarked Oldfile, " but I did not see her 
 here." 
 
 " Miss Brown," interposed the clerk, " wished to 
 look over the late pamphlet On the Proper Use of 
 the True Milk of Roses. " 
 
310 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 "My neighbor, Mr. Green, was certainly in," 
 said I, somewhat aghast. 
 
 " What, my old friend Green, yes, he came over 
 to ask me to look in at Milsom Street, after tea this 
 evening ; it is Henry Green s birthnight, I believe ; 
 just a few friends, a glass of old wine, and perhaps, 
 a quiet rubber ; these are relaxations you know, 
 Mr. Linden, which business requires, and I think 
 justifies." 
 
 " Yery true," gasped I, as firmly as I could man 
 age ; but finding my articulation becoming some 
 what impeded, I darted out of the shop, and have 
 not even seen it since. The beautiful young lady, 
 may, for aught I know, have exhibited a taste for 
 literature similar to Miss Brown s. I make it a 
 point to walk (towards evening) in a different 
 direction from the shop; nor have I since learned 
 a syllable upon the subject, except from the follow 
 ing notice, which duly made its appearance in the 
 Fun and Flash : 
 
 " A NEW POEM. We have spent a few moments, 
 ill spared from our more important avocations, in 
 looking over portions of a poem * On the Employ 
 ment of Time, by Guy Linden, Esq. It is in the 
 Spenserian stanza. Some of the passages are, per 
 haps, as good as could be expected and there are 
 few things in the sentiment of the production to 
 which we should think it worth while formally to 
 object. Yet we take the liberty to suggest to Mr. 
 Linden, that the usages of society have sanctioned 
 
GUY LINDEN S FIRST BOOK. 311 
 
 as respectable, many other modes of spending time 
 than those which he enumerates ; and whoever 
 writes a book ought to be certain, that his views 
 correspond with the enlightened taste of the times. 
 Indeed, it is, in our view, rather presumptuous to 
 write a book at all ; and whoever does so, is not 
 unlikely to find himself in the condition of Ixion or 
 Jehu, we forget which, who, in old times, undertook 
 to drive his horses in the face and eyes of the sun, 
 without blinders, and got upset for his pains ! We 
 may not have told the story exactly right ; for we 
 sometimes find a confusion in our mind about these 
 classical reminiscences, resulting, no doubt, from 
 the fabulous character of poetical times, and we do 
 not think very well of those who pretend to know 
 more on these subjects than us and our contempo 
 raries. Besides, this is a practical age ; and, there 
 fore, has little need of poetry. Whoever publishes 
 a book, too, certainly presumes to assume, that it 
 will find readers j but the truth is, the world is 
 now too much in a hurry to read books, especially 
 those in verse. We cater for the popular taste, and 
 rejoice that the public are sufficiently satisfied with 
 the more racy and piquant literature which we are 
 able to entertain them with, in the Fun and 
 Flash. 
 
 " We hold it the duty of a critic, however, to find 
 some fault ; else wherefore criticise at all ? and we 
 are sorry to observe in this poem some marks of 
 carelessness which we cannot pass over ; such as 
 rhyming thimble with tremble, and treble 3 
 
312 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 with quibble, &c. &c. We have heard of poets, 
 who would not be persuaded to sacrifice a strong 
 thought for the sake of securing an absolutely exact 
 rhyme. Pope, who, for some reason which we 
 could never divine, has been called the most correct 
 of English poets, was of this school, and many 
 instances, like those we have pointed out, may be 
 found in his writings. So we are told ; we have 
 no time to read, scarcely to think. But, in our 
 view, the perfection of the rhyme constitutes the 
 chief charm of poetry. 
 
 " Upon the whole, we feel constrained to say, in 
 regard to this poern, l On the Employment of 
 Time, that we cannot but think Mr. Linden might 
 have employed his time much better than in writing 
 it." 
 
BE HAPPY. 
 
 BY ELIZUR WRIGHT. 
 
 A COMMANDMENT there is so exceedingly broad, 
 
 It reaches as far as the finger of God 
 
 A commandment, though often forgotten by men, 
 
 As high and as sacred as aught of the ten. 
 
 On the sky it is written in letters of light, 
 
 And the clouds that would hide it, both morning and night, 
 
 Are obliged to confess that the writing is true, 
 
 Which they do with a beautiful penitent hue 
 
 Nay, shout it aloud as, in garments of white, 
 
 They float at their ease in the measureless blue. 
 
 T is writ on the numberless leaves of the wood, 
 
 On the light dancing waves of the fathomless flood, 
 
 And the billows that whiten in merrier mood, 
 
 " Be happy, my creatures, be happy and good." 
 
 Poor toiling immortal, with clouds on thy brow, 
 Thy heart overloaded with sorrow and care, 
 Look inward : behold, the commandment is there ! 
 Thy heart is in motion, thou knowest not how : 
 27 
 
314 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Quick currents are streaming and ever returning, 
 
 The fire of vitality constantly burning, 
 
 And systems on systems unceasingly acting 
 
 A task which, for thee, would be sadly distractin g; 
 
 The hand that so secretly does for thy sake 
 
 Such a labor, whilst thou art asleep or awake, 
 
 T is that of a truly unchangeable friend. 
 
 Then hush for a moment, and meekly attend,. 
 
 To the voice of thy pulse while it tenderly cries, 
 
 " Be happy, my creature, be happy and wise." 
 
 Faint-hearted immortal, recoiling with dread 
 From a future which threatens to drop on thy head, 
 While ensconced in the body, a famine of bread, 
 And terribler ills in the realms of the dead, 
 Look out on the lilies that laugh in the breeze, 
 Look out on the larks that rejoice in the sky, 
 Look out on the ravens that trustingly cry ; 
 Behold, there s a Spirit that careth for these : 
 And look at the moth, with its glorious wings, 
 Created anew from the meanest of things, 
 And look at the sport of the maritime bird, 
 When the tempests of winter are chillingly heard, 
 Outcrying to thee from the shelterless cold, 
 " Be happy, thou creature, be happy and bold." 
 
 Poor wandering pilgrim, led often astray 
 By lights that are false to the heavenward way, 
 Till the landmarks of morals are nearly washed out 
 By the fog and the mist and the drizzle of doubt, 
 From the tracks of thy fellows walk sometimes abroad, 
 And fasten thine eyes on the signals of God. 
 In the watches of silence, above thee, behold 
 The stars in their courses as sure as of old, 
 
BE HAPPY. 
 
 Round leading the seasons, as fresh and as fair 
 
 As when the winged zephyr first frolicked in air. 
 
 Stability firm in perpetual change, 
 
 Is the law they obey in their limitless range. 
 
 And hark, from the depths of the motionless lake, 
 
 Which the aspen o erhangeth, too drowsy to quake, 
 
 Reversing exactly the canopy blue, 
 
 The voice of its stillness comes sweetly to you, 
 
 " Be happy, my creature, be happy and true." 
 
 315 
 
ROOM ENOUGH AND WORK ENOUGH 
 FOR ALL. 
 
 BY GEORGE R. RUSSELL. 
 
 IT is a common complaint, perpetually reitera 
 ted, that the occupations of life are filled to over 
 flowing ; that the avenues to wealth, or distinction, 
 are so crowded with competitors, that it is hopeless 
 to endeavor to make way in the dense and jostling 
 masses. This desponding wail was doubtless 
 heard, when the young earth had scarcely com 
 menced her career of glory, and it will be dolefully 
 repeated, by future generations, to the end of time. 
 Long before Cheops had planted the basement- 
 stone of his pyramid, when Sphinx and Colossi 
 had not yet been fashioned into their huge exist 
 ence, and the untouched quarry had given out 
 neither temple nor monument, the young Egyptian, 
 as he looked along the Nile, may have mourned 
 that he was born too late. Fate had done him 
 injustice, in withholding his individual being till 
 the destinies of man were accomplished. His 
 imagination warmed at what he might have been, 
 had his chances been commensurate with his merits : 
 
ROOM ENOUGH AND WORK ENOUGH FOR ALL. 317 
 
 but what remained for him now, in this worn-out, 
 battered, used-up hulk of a world, but to sorrow 
 for the good old times, which had exhausted all 
 resources ! 
 
 The Roman youth, as he assumed the " toga 
 mrilis" and, in all the consciousness of newly 
 acquired dignity, folded about him his fresh insignia 
 of manhood, thought that it should have been put 
 on some centuries earlier. Standing amidst memo 
 rials of past glories, where arch and column told of 
 triumphs, which had secured boundless dominion, 
 he felt that nothing was left for the exercise of his 
 genius, or the energies of his enterprise. He saw, 
 sculptured on frieze and architrave, the subjugation 
 of many a nation, and strange garbs and foreign 
 tongues swarmed and sounded around him, as the 
 victims of all lands were summoned to a common 
 captivity. The black children of the sun were 
 there, from beyond the burning sands of the desert, 
 and the unshorn, fur-clad barbarian of the north, 
 even while the ravens were gathering in the halls 
 of Odin, for their " fell swoop." The recesses of 
 Asia gave up the swarthy Indian, and from the 
 " Ultima Thule " came the blue-eyed Briton. All 
 were mingled in the same sad doom, at the bidding 
 of the universal master. What was left for ambi 
 tion ? Conquest had consumed itself, the march of 
 the legion was stayed, and the domesticated eagle 
 crouched among the household gods. 
 
 The mournful lamentation of antiquity has not 
 been weakened in its transmission, and it is not 
 27* 
 
318 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 more reasonable now than when it groaned by the 
 Nile and Tiber. There is always room enough in 
 the world, and work waiting for willing hands. 
 The charm that conquers obstacle and commands 
 success, is strong Will arid strong Work. Applica 
 tion is the friend and ally of genius. The laborious 
 scholar, the diligent merchant, the industrious me 
 chanic, the hard-working farmer, are thriving men, 
 and take rank in the world, while genius, by itself, 
 lies in idle admiration of a fame that is ever pros 
 pective. The hare sleeps or amuses himself by the 
 wayside, and the tortoise wins the race. 
 
 Even the gold of California requires hard work. 
 It cannot be had for the gathering, nor is it to be 
 coaxed out with kid gloves. The patents of 
 nobility, on the Sacramento, are the hard hand and 
 the sun-burned face of the laboring man. 
 
 Genius will, alone, do but little in this matter- 
 of-fact, utilitarian, hard-working world. He who 
 would master circumstances must come down from 
 the clouds, and bend to unremitting toil. To few 
 of the sons of men is given an exception from the 
 common doom. 
 
 " The poet s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling 1 , 
 May glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," 
 
 and yet, in all that space, encounter nothing but air 
 too impalpable to be wrought into a local habitation 
 or a name. His suspended pen may wait in vain 
 for the inspiration that is to bring immortality, and 
 when, at last, it descends on the expectant foolscap, 
 
ROOM ENOUGH AND WORK ENOUGH FOR ALL. 319 
 
 it is, perhaps, only to chronicle rhymes which shall 
 jingle, for a day, in some weekly newspaper. He 
 who draws on genius alone, is oftentimes answered 
 by no funds ; his drafts are unexpectedly pro 
 tested, and he finds himself bankrupt, even while 
 unlimited wealth seems glittering around him. 
 
 It is not revealed how much of the celebrity of 
 gifted men has been dependent on " hard digging." 
 The rough draughts of inspiration are not printed ; 
 the pen-crossings, those modernized marks of the 
 inverted stylum, curl up chimney. There may 
 have been much perplexity, before smooth verses, 
 which fall so harmoniously on the ear, were tortured 
 into existence ; many a trial, before the splendid 
 figure could be hammered into shape : 
 
 " in versu faciendo 
 
 Ssepe caput scaberet, vivos et roderet ungues." 
 
 The wondrous efforts of the mightiest masters of 
 art have something in them besides genius. The 
 transfigured divinity of Raphael, and the walls 
 covered over by a pencil which seems to have been 
 dipped in sunbeams, are records not only of the 
 mind, that could image to itself those creations, but 
 of the intense study which, it is known, he devoted 
 to the elements of his art. Not by sudden flashes 
 came the graceful proportions, which give such 
 exceeding beauty to his works. Genius trusted not 
 to itself alone, but gathered from science illustrated 
 in the anatomical room, and from untiring contem- 
 
320 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 plation of dead and living model, every auxiliary 
 that could contribute to excellence. 
 
 When Michael Angelo hewed out his thought in 
 marble, or personated, in fresco, the awful concep 
 tions of the bard he loved so well, giving material 
 form to more than the ideal of Dante, he produced 
 the result of profound meditation mingled with the 
 severest application to the acquirement of all know 
 ledge that could aid his unrivalled power. 
 
 The examples before us bid us work, and the 
 changing present offers ample opportunity. Around 
 us, every where, the new crowds aside the old. 
 Improvement steps by seeming perfection. Dis 
 covery upsets theories and clouds over established 
 systems. The usages of our boyhood become mat 
 ters of tradition, for the amusement of our children. 
 Innovation rises on the site of homes reverenced for 
 early association. The school-books we used are 
 no longer respected, and it is not safe to quote the 
 authorities of our college days. Science can 
 scarcely keep pace with the names of publications, 
 qualifying or abrogating the past. Machinery be 
 comes old iron, as its upstart successor usurps its 
 place. The new ship dashes scornfully by the 
 naval prodigy of last year, and the steamer laughs 
 at them both. The railroad engine, as it rushes by 
 the crumbling banks of the canal, screams out its 
 mockery at the barge rotting piecemeal. The 
 astronomer builds up his hypothesis, and is com 
 forting himself among the nebulae, when invention 
 comes to the rescue ; the gigantic telescope points 
 
ROOM ENOUGH AND WORK ENOUGH FOR ALL. 321 
 
 upward, and lo ! the raw material of which worlds 
 are manufactured, becomes the centres of systems 
 blazing in the infinite heavens, and the defeated 
 theorizer retreats into space, with his speculation, 
 to be again routed, Avhen human ingenuity shall 
 admit us one hair-breadth further into creation. 
 
 The powers of man have not been exhausted. 
 Nothing has been done by him, that cannot be 
 better done. There is no effort of science or art 
 that may not be exceeded ; no depth of philosophy 
 that cannot be deeper sounded ; no flight of imagi 
 nation that may not be passed by strong and soaring 
 wing. 
 
 All nature is full of unknown things. Earth, 
 air, water, the fathomless ocean, the limitless sky, 
 lie almost untouched before us. The chances of 
 our predecessors have not been greater than those 
 which remain for our successors. What has hith 
 erto given prosperity and distinction, has not been 
 more open to others than to us ; to no one, past or 
 present, more than to the young man who shall 
 leave college to-morrow. 
 
 Sit not with folded hands, calling on Hercules. 
 Thine own arm is the demi-god. It was given to 
 thee to help thyself. Go forth into the world 
 trustful, but fearless. Exalt thine adopted profes 
 sion, nor vainly hope that its name alone will exalt 
 thee. Look on labor as honorable, and dignify the 
 task before thee, whether it be in the study, office, 
 counting-room, work -shop, or furrowed field. There 
 is an equality in all, and the resolute will and pure 
 heart may ennoble either. 
 
322 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 But no duty requires thee to shut out beauty, or 
 to neglect the influences that may unite thee with 
 Heaven. 
 
 The wonders of art will humanize thy calling. 
 The true poet may make thee a better man, and 
 unknown feelings will well up within thee, where 
 the painter s soul glows on canvass, and the almost 
 breathing marble stands a glorious monument of the 
 statuary s skill. 
 
 Nature, too, will speak kindly to thee from field 
 and forest, from hill and lake side. Go into glade 
 and woodland, by the waving harvest, and the 
 bright river hurrying to the sea. Look up at the 
 stars in the still night. Listen to the gentle voice 
 of the south wind, as it whispers with the pines. 
 Watch the pulsations of the ocean, as they regularly 
 beat on the sand. Such teachings will tell thee 
 there is consolation in the struggles of this life, and 
 may foreshadow the repose of that which is to 
 come. 
 
TO MY NAMESAKE, ON HIS BAPTISM. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CROSWELL. 
 
 CHILDE William, I have little skill, 
 
 But much of heart and hope, 
 To clear from every sign of ill 
 
 Thy happy horoscope ! 
 The occult gift is hid from me, 
 
 Nor may my art divine 
 Thy life s unfolded destiny 
 
 From this sweet palm of thine ! 
 
 But in thy mother s tender love, 
 
 Thy father s anxious care, 
 And, more, the answer from above 
 
 To our baptismal prayer, 
 In these, a hallowed influence dwells, 
 
 A charm that s heavenlier far 
 Than might of planetary spells 
 
 Or culminating star ! 
 
324 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 The power of holiest rites, fair boy, 
 
 The tears that oft will wet 
 Thy forehead from excess of joy, 
 
 These be thy amulet ! 
 On these auspicious prospects rest, 
 
 These figure out thy fate, 
 How can they fail to make thee blest, 
 
 Blest, if not fortunate. 
 
 A childless man, well may I deem 
 
 Thy name my highest pride, 
 Rich in thy parents dear esteem, 
 
 Though poor in all beside ! 
 Well may my heart with gladness ache, 
 
 Flower of a noble stem, 
 If one will love thee for my sake, 
 
 As I have honored them ! 
 
A WELCOME TO CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 BY JOSIAH QUINCY, JR. 
 
 A YOUNG man has crossed the ocean with no 
 hereditary title, no military laurels, no princely for 
 tune, and yet his approach is hailed with pleasure 
 by every age and condition, and on his arrival he 
 is welcomed as a long known and highly valued 
 friend. How shall we account for this reception ? 
 Must we not at the first glance conclude with 
 Falstaff, " If the rascal have not given me medi 
 cines to make me love him, I 11 be hanged : it 
 could not be else, I have drunk medicines." 
 
 But when reflection leads us to the causes of this 
 universal sentiment, we cannot but be struck by 
 the power which mind exercises over mind, even 
 while we are individually separated by time, space, 
 and other conditions of our present being. Why 
 should we not welcome him as a friend ? Have 
 we not walked with him in every scene of varied 
 life ? Have we not together investigated, with Mr. 
 Pickwick, the theory of Tittlebats ? Have we not 
 ridden together to the " Markis of Granby," with 
 old Weller on the box, and his son Samivel on the 
 28 
 
326 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 dickey ? Have we not been rook shooting with 
 Mr. Winkle, and courting with Mr. Tupman ? Have 
 we not played cribbage with " the Marchioness," 
 and quaffed the rosy with Dick Swiveller ? Tell 
 us not of Animal Magnetism ! We, and thousands 
 of our countrymen, have for years been eating and 
 talking, riding and walking, dancing and sliding, 
 drinking and sleeping, with our distinguished guest, 
 and he never knew of the existence of one of us. 
 Is it wonderful that we are delighted to see him, 
 and to return in a measure his unbounded hospitali 
 ties ? Boz a stranger ! Well may we again ex 
 claim, with Sir John Falstaff, " D ye think we 
 did n t know ye ? We knew ye as well as him 
 that made ye." 
 
 But a jovial fellow is not always the dearest 
 friend ; and although the pleasure of his society 
 would always recommend the great progenitor of 
 Dick Swiveller, " the perpetual grand of the glorious 
 Appollers," in a scene like this j yet the respect 
 of grave doctors and of fair ladies prove that there 
 are higher qualities than those of a pleasant com 
 panion to recommend and attach them to our dis 
 tinguished guest. What is the charm that unites 
 so many suffrages ? It is that in the lightest hours, 
 and in the most degraded scenes which he has por 
 trayed, there has been a reforming object and moral 
 tone, not formally thrust forth in the canvass, but 
 infused into the spirit of the picture, with those 
 natural touches whose contemplation never tires. 
 
 With what power of delineation have the abuses 
 
A WELCOME TO CHARLES DICKENS. 327 
 
 of public institutions been portrayed ! How have 
 the poor-house, the jail, the police courts of justice, 
 passed before his magic mirror, and displayed 
 to us the petty tyranny of the low-minded official, 
 from the magnificent Mr. Bumble, and the hard 
 hearted Mr. Roker, to the authoritative Justice 
 Fang, the positive Judge Starleigh ! And as we 
 contemplated them, how have we realized the 
 time-worn evils of other systems, and how has 
 our eyesight been sharpened to detect the defici 
 encies and malpractices of our own. 
 
 The genius of chivalry was exorcised by the 
 pen of Cervantes. He clothed it with the name 
 and image of Don Quixotte, and ridicule destroyed 
 what argument could not reach. 
 
 This power belongs in an eminent degree to 
 some of the personifications of our guest. A short 
 time ago, it was discovered that a petty tyrant had 
 abused the children who had been committed to 
 his care. No long and elaborate discussion was 
 needed to arouse the public mind. He was pro 
 nounced a perfect Squeers, and eloquence could go 
 no further. Happy is he who can add a pleasure 
 to the hours of childhood ; but far happier he 
 who, by fixing the attention of the world, can 
 protect or deliver them from their secret suffer 
 ings. 
 
 But it is not only as a portrayer of public wrongs 
 that we are indebted to our friend. What reflect 
 ing mind can contemplate some of those characters 
 without being made more kind-hearted and chari- 
 
328 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 table ? Descend with him into the very sink of 
 vice ; contemplate the mistress of a robber, the vic 
 tim of a murderer, disgraced without, polluted 
 within, and yet, when in better moments her 
 natural kindness breaks through the cloud ; when 
 she tells you that no word of counsel, no tone of 
 moral teaching, ever fell upon her ear ; when she 
 looks forward from a life of misery to a death by 
 suicide j you cannot but feel that there is no con 
 dition so degraded as not to be visited by gleams 
 of a higher nature, and rejoice that He alone 
 will judge the sin who knows the temptation. 
 Again, how strongly are the happiness of virtue, 
 and the misery of vice, contrasted. The morning 
 scene of Sir Mulberry Hawk and his pupil, brings 
 out in strong relief the night scene of Kit Nubbles 
 and his mother. The one in affluence and splen 
 dor, trying to find an easier position for his aching 
 head ; surrounded with means, and trophies of de 
 bauchery, and thinking " there would be nothing 
 so snug and comfortable as to die at once." The 
 other in the poorest room, earning a precarious 
 subsistence by her labors at the wash-tub ; ugly, 
 and ignorant, and vulgar, and poor, with one child 
 in the cradle, and the other in the clothes basket, 
 " whose great round eyes emphatically declared 
 that he never meant to go to sleep any more, and 
 thus opened a cheerful prospect to his relations 
 and friends ; " and yet in this situation, with only 
 the comfort that cleanliness and order could impart, 
 kindness of heart, and the determination to be talk- 
 
A WELCOME TO CHARLES DICKENS. 329 
 
 ative and agreeable, throws a halo round the scene, 
 and as we contemplate it we cannot but feel that Kit 
 Nubbles has attained to the summit of philosophy, 
 when he discovered "there was nothing in the way 
 in which he was made, that called upon him to be a 
 snivelling, solemn, whispering chap, sneaking about 
 as if he could nt help it, and expressing himself in 
 a most unpleasant snuffle ; but that it was as natu 
 ral for him to laugh, as it was for a sheep to bleat, 
 a pig to grunt, or a bird to sing." Or, take another 
 example, when wealth is attained, though by dif 
 ferent means, and for different purposes. Ralph 
 Nickleby and Arthur Gride are industrious and suc 
 cessful ; like the vulture, they are ever soaring over 
 the field, that they may pounce on the weak and 
 unprotected. Their constant employment is grind 
 ing the poor, and preying upon the rich. What is 
 the result ? Their homes are cold and cheerless ; 
 the blessing of him, that is ready to perish, comes 
 not to them; and they live in wretchedness, to die 
 in misery. What a contrast have we in the glori 
 ous old twins, brother Charles and brother Ned. 
 They have never been to school, they eat with 
 their knives (as the Yankees are said to do), and 
 yet how they illustrate the truth, that it is better 
 to give than to receive ! They acquire their wealth 
 in the honorable pursuits of business. They ex 
 pend it to promote the happiness of every one 
 within their sphere, and their cheerful days and 
 tranquil nights, show that wealth is a blessing, or 
 
330 . THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 a curse, as it ministers to the higher or lower 
 propensities of our nature. 
 
 " He that hath light within his own clear breast, 
 May sit i the centre and enjoy bright day ; 
 But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts, 
 Benighted walks, under the mid-day sun ; 
 Himself is his own dungeon." 
 
 Such men are powerful preachers of the truth, 
 that universal benevolence is the true panacea of 
 life ; and although it was a pleasant fiction of 
 brother Charles, " that Tim Linkinwater was born 
 a hundred and fifty years old, and was gradually 
 coming down to five-and-twenty," yet he who 
 habitually cultivates such a sentiment, will, as 
 years roll by, attain more and more to the spirit 
 of a little child ; and the hour will come, when 
 that principle shall conduct the possessor to immor 
 tal happiness and eternal youth. 
 
 If, then, our guest is called upon to state what 
 are 
 
 " The drugs, the charms, 
 The conjuration, and the mighty magic 
 He s won our daughters with," 
 
 well might he reply, that in endeavoring to relieve 
 the oppressed, to elevate the poor, and to instruct 
 and edify those of a happier condition, he had only 
 "held the mirror up to Nature, to show virtue her 
 own form, scorn her own image." That "this only 
 was the witchcraft he had used ; " and, did he need 
 
A WELCOME TO CHARLES DICKENS. 331 
 
 proof of this, there are many fair girls on both sides 
 of the water, who, though they might not repeat 
 the whole of Desdemona s speech to a married man, 
 yet could each tell him, 
 
 " That if he had a friend, that loved her, 
 
 He should but teach him how to tell his stories, 
 And that would win her." 
 
 I would, gentlemen, it were in my power to 
 present, as on the mirror in the Arabian tale, the 
 various scenes in our extended country, where the 
 master-mind of our guest is at this moment acting. 
 In the empty school-room, the boy at his evening 
 task has dropped his grammar, that he may roam 
 with Oliver or Nell. The traveller has forgotten 
 the fumes of the crowded steamboat, and is far off 
 with our guest, among the green valleys and hoary 
 hills of old England. The trapper, beyond the 
 Rocky Mountains, has left his lonely tent, and is 
 unroofing the houses in London with the more than 
 Mephistophiles at my elbow. And, perhaps, in some 
 well lighted hall, the unbidden tear steals from the 
 father s eye, as the exquisite sketch of the poor 
 schoolmaster and his little scholar brings back the 
 form of that gifted boy, whose "little hand " 
 worked its wonders under his guidance, and who, 
 in the dawning of intellect and warm affections, 
 was summoned from the school-room and the play 
 ground for ever. Or to some bereaved mother, 
 the tender sympathies and womanly devotion, the 
 touching purity of little Nell, may call up the form 
 
332 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 where dwelt that harmonious soul, which, uniting 
 in itself God s best gifts, for a short space shed its 
 celestial light upon her household, and then, van 
 ishing, "turned all hope into memory." 
 
 But it is not to scenes like these, that I would 
 now recall you. I would that my voice could reach 
 the ear of every admirer of our guest throughout 
 the land, that with us they might welcome him, on 
 this his first public appearance to our shores. Like 
 the rushing of many waters, the response would 
 come to us from the bleak hills of Canada, from 
 the savannas of the South, from the prairies of the 
 West, uniting, in an "earthquake voice," in the 
 cheers with which we welcome CHARLES DICKENS 
 to this new world. 
 
ON THE COMPLETION OF THE MONUMENT 
 
 AT CONCORD, APRIL, 1836. 
 
 BY R. W. EMERSON. 
 
 BY the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
 Their flag to April s breeze unfurled, 
 
 Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
 And fired the shot heard round the world. 
 
 The foe long since in silence slept ; 
 
 Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
 And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
 
 Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 
 
 On this green bank, by this soft stream, 
 
 We set to-day a votive stone, 
 That memory may their deed redeem, 
 
 When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 
 
 Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
 To die, or leave their children free, 
 
 Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
 The shaft we raise to them and thee. 
 
THE SUCCESSFUL SCHOLAR. 
 
 BY GEORGE PUTNAM. 
 
 WE are often told from abroad, in terms not 
 always agreeable, that our literary training in this 
 country is very defective j that a high degree of 
 intellectual cultivation is not to be expected from 
 our systems of education, and seldom proceeds from 
 them. All this may be true. But our greatest 
 want lies not there. The want of our educated 
 and able men, is not so much a higher degree of 
 intellectual cultivation ; that is desirable, no doubt, 
 yet not that primarily, not that first, or most, but 
 principle, and character, to impart wise direction, 
 and beneficent power, to the culture and ability 
 which they have. We have scholars, we have 
 strong men, eloquent men, men richly furnished, 
 and trained to a high mastery and use of noble 
 gifts ; but how inadequate a proportion, I had al 
 most said how few of them, have that purity of 
 life, and loftiness of purpose, which win confidence 
 to them, and make them the lights in our sky, and 
 the towers of strength on our borders, which they 
 are commissioned to be if they would. It is sad, 
 
THE SUCCESSFUL SCHOLAR. 335 
 
 that the great intellect should come short of making 
 a great man, and so be shorn of its glory. It is 
 sad, that our affection and respect cannot oftener 
 go with our admiration. It is a sad sight, to look 
 upon the man of high endowments, a child of the 
 muses, on whom every god of Olympus has smiled 
 and bestowed gifts, whom we would lean upon and 
 look to for wise guidance, and the inspirations that 
 would lift us to generous aims, and move us to 
 noble deeds and lead the way, whom we would 
 that we might trust as the pole-star, and follow as 
 the sun, and almost swear by, it seems so fit and 
 so possible that it might be so, and so blessed a 
 thing if it might, it is sad, I say, that it cannot 
 be, as so often it cannot. And why can it not be ? 
 It is not from defects in merely intellectual training 
 or attainment, but from the overweening confidence 
 he has placed in these. He has valued himself 
 upon these only. He has felt himself, through 
 these, great enough to put aside the gentle wisdom 
 he imbibed at a mother s knee. He has forgotten 
 the time, for it is likely there was a time, when 
 "his heart in its simplicity and purity conversed 
 with itself, and drew its desires from its own better 
 nature." He comes to deem intellect the master 
 element that makes the man. Learning, eloquence, 
 and power and skill in using them, these things he 
 vainly thinks must insure the true prizes of exist 
 ence. He goes out into life, and the brilliancy of 
 incipient success, and the hosannas with which the 
 first dawn of genius is ever greeted, dazzle him 
 
336 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 more and mislead him farther. Temptation comes, 
 and against the vices that taint and cripple the man 
 he is not provided, nor does he care to be. His 
 aspirations, lofty at first, learn to bend down and 
 shape themselves to the low issues which the world 
 presents. And then, when the vulgar ambitions of 
 the day, for place, popularity and preferment, get 
 possession of him, then the door is wide open for 
 all the rabble rout of earthy passions and petty 
 aims. He sinks into the sensualist, the schemer, 
 or the demagogue. He crawls and shuffles, or 
 towers and blusters, till all his canting of truth and 
 principle, of honor and patriotism, becomes a mock 
 ery, too shallow to pass. And then, where is the 
 man ? Where and what his intellect is, we know, 
 but where is the man 1 Just where intellect, trust 
 ing wholly in its own gifts and culture, will always 
 put a man ; on an eminence, indeed, to be seen and 
 heard of all, but a thing for men to shake their 
 heads at, distrustfully and lamentingly. Such men 
 are to be found in all histories and all times j in 
 our own history, and our own time. And they 
 show, that the defect of our systems of education 
 consists not so much in the low standard of intel 
 lectual culture, as in the overlooking of that other 
 culture, which is essential to its completeness, and 
 to the fulfilment even of its own issues, the attain 
 ment of its own worthy success. 
 
 There are few more melancholy contrasts in 
 life, than that presented by the ingenuous young 
 scholar, just passing into adolescence, the charm of 
 
THE SUCCESSFUL SCHOLAR. 337 
 
 boyhood yet lingering about him, generous thoughts 
 and high aspirations expanding his fair brow, the 
 fire of genius flashing in his soft eye, and the sil 
 very tones of that young, honest eloquence, which 
 sometimes, I know not how, thrills and inspires me 
 more than all other human speech of the strongest 
 or wisest promise, promise, written on his glow 
 ing countenance, in letters of light, read of all 
 beholders with a fond interest, and read by the pa 
 rental eye and heart with a silent ecstasy of loving 
 and exuberant hope, as delicious an emotion almost, 
 I should think, as ever visits the breast of mortals ; 
 the contrast, I say, between that youth, and the 
 same being as he is when a few years have flown, 
 when he has come, I say not to ruin and infamy, 
 (though that would be no extravagant imagination,) 
 but down from his mount of transfiguration to the 
 world s low level, when avarice has laid its gripe 
 on him, and the common lusts of political and social 
 life have mastered him, and the cares and passions 
 incident to vulgar ambition have ploughed their 
 unvenerable furrows in his face, and all that young 
 glory is departed. " How is the gold become dim, 
 and the most fine gold changed." 
 
 Oh, it is not a small thing to make the results of 
 age correspond in beauty and dignity to the promise 
 of youth. It is no ordinary career that makes the 
 almond blossoms of age as beautiful and as desira 
 ble as the blooming roses of youth, and the drear 
 autumn of life as lustrous and fair as the sweet 
 spring time, and the satisfactions of the finished 
 29 
 
338 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 race as dear as the fresh budding hopes that bright 
 ened its beginning. Thai is success, and it is no 
 light thing to win it. Intellect alone, genius, 
 learning, eloquence, skill, industry, ambition, 
 these, alone, never won it since the world has 
 stood, and never will. But it can be won. Let 
 principle, character, and soul accompany, pervade, 
 and underline these great intellectual instrumen 
 talities, and it is won gloriously. 
 
MY YOUNGEST. 
 
 BY DANIEL SHARP. 
 
 THEY say my youngest is a pet, 
 
 And has too much her way ; 
 It can t be so I think, and yet 
 
 I would not dare say, nay. 
 
 For if my memory serve me right, 
 
 And truth must be confessed, 
 Each youngest that has blessed my sight 
 
 Has seemed to be loved best. 
 
 Thus one by one, has shared the love 
 
 Of a fond father s heart, 
 The youngest tenderer thoughts could move, 
 
 Than those who had the start. 
 
 The oldest was to me most dear, 
 
 So was the next so all ; 
 The youngest came my age to cheer, 
 
 On her my love did fall. 
 
340 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 T is not that she is loved the most, 
 But she is loved the last, 
 
 The youngest may my fondness boast, 
 But so could all the past. 
 
 My youngest, then, is not a pet, 
 More than each child before, 
 
 I think so, certainly and yet 
 They say I love her more. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF REV. DR. GREENWOOD. 
 
 BY NATHANIEL L. FROTHINGHAM. 
 
 THE pulpit was the high field of his faithful 
 labors j may I not add, of his holy renown ? With 
 what a meek grace, what a beautiful simplicity, 
 what a deep seriousness upon his expressive face, 
 he stood up here and elsewhere and spoke for his 
 Master ! His voice was richly musical, breathing 
 out as from the soul j his look saintly ; his manner 
 fervidly collected ; his word full of calm power. 
 While he was yet a young man his aspect seemed 
 venerable. It grew more apostolic, when the thin 
 features grew thinner, and the touch of time was 
 upon the locks of his hair. And when the progress 
 of disease had enfeebled and altered the tones of 
 his speech, still as before, and more than ever, they 
 stole the attention of all classes of minds, and went 
 to the heart of every hearer. His topics were 
 various, and each was treated with its becoming 
 method. He was no vague writer. He did not 
 deal in abstractions and unaffecting generalities. 
 He had always a purpose in view, and he moved 
 distinctly towards it. In the discussion of moral 
 29* 
 
342 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 points he showed a nice discernment. He qualified, 
 as he went on, what needed to be set in its just 
 proportions. There was no indiscriminate assertion. 
 There was no empty declamation. He reasoned 
 with ability. He interpreted with good sense. He 
 described with the most skilful hand. But it was 
 in tender and persuasive representations that he 
 most excelled. These were the most congenial 
 with the cast of his reflections, and one must be of 
 a stern nature that could have heard him at such 
 times and remained unmoved. His style of dis 
 course was called a plain one by many. But this 
 could only be because it was so easily understood. 
 It was essentially poetical ; figurative in an unusual 
 degree ; and though always chaste, abounding with 
 the highest forms of eloquence. It was suited in 
 each several instance to its end. It was never out 
 of place. It was the more clear, and not the less 
 so, for its ornament. He taught the more effectu 
 ally by the exquisite mastery that he thus displayed 
 of the language in which he wrote. His " Sermons 
 to Children," have interested many other young 
 persons than they to whom they were first ad 
 dressed. His " Sermons of Consolation " have 
 gone from this public desk, and from the prepara 
 tions of his sick room, into hundreds of sorrowful 
 chambers, assuaging the griefs and lifting up the 
 souls of those who mourned there in secret. His 
 mind, or, rather, his spirit, unimpaired by the decay 
 of the body, never hurried and seldom perturbed, 
 accomplished more in this department of ministerial 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF REV. DR. GREENWOOD. 343 
 
 labor than is often done by the most industrious, 
 with all the advantages of their full vigor. 
 
 But, most of the things of which I have been 
 attempting to speak are now only memories. That 
 voice is silent. That countenance we shall no more 
 see. That form, after its long languishing, is laid 
 to rest. Never was a tedious decline endured with 
 more perfect patience, more sustaining trust. His 
 last days were not among the least instructive of 
 his life. It was good to converse with his prepared 
 soul. It is good to reflect how peacefully it passed 
 away to God. We read of Stephen the first mar 
 tyr, that when he confronted his tormentors, "his 
 face was as it had been the face of an angel." 
 Shall I confess that the passage was suggested to 
 me more than once when, under the slower martyr 
 dom of the malady that was exhausting his life, he 
 seemed to be already looking towards heaven, and 
 inwardly saying, " Receive my spirit " whenever it 
 shall be summoned away ! 
 
 "When I am dead, then bury me in the sepul 
 chre wherein the man of God is buried." The 
 question is often asked with some curiosity, or some 
 uneasiness, Where shall I be buried ? An idle 
 question. Of what consequence where ? No bane 
 ful thing can then harm us. No healing thing can 
 then help us. The desert is no exposure, and the 
 carved monument is no defence. Neighborhood is 
 of no importance where all is but dust. The deep 
 pits of the sea shall give up their dead at the call 
 of God, as easily as the shallowest grave. The 
 
344 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Roman emperor, entombed in the air upon the 
 column of his victories, was not so near to the skies 
 as the poor Christian whom he had permitted to be 
 slain for the Redeemer s sake. Of what conse 
 quence in what place, when the fragrance of the 
 earth, and the rays of the sun, and the music of the 
 stream, and the air are alike unheeded? But let 
 me be buried in the moral fellowship of righteous 
 souls. Let me be buried in the affections of them 
 I love. Let me be buried in the memory of those 
 who will honor mine. Let me be buried in faith 
 towards the heavenly Father, in charity with the 
 world, and in hope of the life everlasting. 
 
LOVE AND FAME. 
 
 BY ANNA H. PHILLIPS. 
 
 IT had passed in all its grandeur, that sounding summer 
 
 shower 
 
 Had paid its pearly tribute to each fair expectant flower, 
 And while a thousand sparklers danced lightly on the spray. 
 Close folded to a rose-bud s heart one tiny rain-drop lay. 
 
 Throughout each fevered petal had the heaven-brought 
 
 freshness gone, 
 They had mingled dew and fragrance till their veiy souls 
 
 were one ; 
 The bud its love in perfume breathed, till its pure and starry 
 
 guest 
 Grew glowing as the life-hue of the lips it fondly pressed. 
 
 He dreamed away the hours with her, his gentle bride and 
 
 fair, 
 No thought filled his young spirit, but to dwell for ever 
 
 there, 
 
 While ever bending wake fully, the bud a fond watch kept, 
 For fear the envious zephyrs might steal him as he slept. 
 
346 THE BOSTOX BOOK. 
 
 But forth from out his tent of clouds, in burnished armor 
 
 bright, 
 The conquering sun came proudly in the glory of his 
 
 might, 
 And, like some grand enchanter, resumed his wand of 
 
 power, 
 And shed the splendor of his smile on lake, and tree, and 
 
 flower. 
 
 Then, peering through the shadowy leaves, the rain-drop 
 
 marked on high 
 
 A many-hued triumphal arch span all the eastern sky 
 He saw his glittering comrades all wing their joyous flight, 
 And stand a glorious brotherhood to form that bow of 
 
 light ! 
 
 Aspiring thoughts his spirit thrilled " Oh, let me join 
 
 them, love ! 
 
 I ll set thy beauty s impress on yon bright arch above, 
 And, as a world s admiring gaze is raised to iris fair, 
 T will deem my own dear rose-bud s tint the loveliest color 
 
 there ! " 
 
 The gentle bud released her clasp, swift as a thought he 
 
 flew, 
 And brightly mid that glorious band he soon was glowing 
 
 too, 
 All quivering with delight to feel that she, his rose-bud 
 
 bride, 
 Was gazing, with a swelling heart, on this, his hour of 
 
 pride ! 
 
LOVE AND FAME. 347 
 
 But the shadowy night came down at last the glittering 
 bow was gone, 
 
 One little hour of triumph was all the drop had won ; 
 
 He had lost the warm and tender glow, his distant bud- 
 love s hue, 
 
 And he sought her sadly sorrowing a tear-dimmed star 
 of dew. 
 
THE LAST SUPPER. 
 
 A HISTORY OF L1CNARDO DA VINCl S CELEBRATED PAJNT1NG. 
 BY HANNAH F. LEE. 
 
 ONE day, when the Passion Week had just begun, 
 Lionardo was walking in the beautiful gardens near 
 Milan. His mind was pondering on the subject of 
 his painting. The spring had already awaked the 
 young blossoms from their winter s sleep, and the 
 trees and hedges were crowned with the fresh 
 foliage of the season. " I will paint the scene 
 sacred to our Lord ! " he exclaimed, " his last 
 supper with his disciples ; would that my pencil 
 were equal to the subject ! " 
 
 The sun was just setting as he returned home, 
 his mind filled with the vastness of the project. 
 Unconsciously he arrived at the cloister of the 
 Dominicans ; the pealing tones of the organ struck 
 upon his ear, while the lofty roof of the church 
 resounded with the chant of the monks. The 
 solemn sound had stilled the tumult of his breast, 
 and his heart was filled with gentle and deeply 
 religious emotions. 
 
 " O thou," he cried, " who died for the sins of 
 
THE LAST SUPPER. < 349 
 
 the human nature, which is so sinful and passionate 
 in me ; how shall my feeble hand portray thy 
 glory ! How shall I paint that last sorrowful night 
 when the apostles gathered around thee ! " 
 
 As he dwelt on the subject, it gradually expanded 
 to his mind ; he beheld the long table, and the 
 Saviour in the midst of his disciples, the last rays 
 of evening shining on his head, a mild radiance 
 beaming from his eyes, when he exclaimed, " Verily. 
 I say unto you, one of you shall betray me." 
 
 And with what beauty did the group spring to 
 light under the pencil inspired by such emotion ! 
 How fresh and yet how soft the coloring ! But it 
 was indeed an arduous task. Spring had come 
 round, and two of the heads yet remained un 
 finished, the Saviour s and that of Judas ; the one, 
 because his soul trembled to approach it ; the other, 
 because the beautiful purity of his own spirit shrank 
 in horror from the task of portraying fitly such a 
 visage. 
 
 In vain Lionardo sat before his easel, with his 
 pencil in his hand, and prayed for divine inspiration 
 to paint the Saviour of the world. His touch was 
 cold and formal ; where was the heavenly benevo 
 lence that irradiated his face, the pitying forgive 
 ness towards the apostle who he knew would deny 
 him, the glance of divine sorrow unmixed with 
 anger, which he cast upon his betrayer ? And the 
 contrast of the traitor, how was he ever to portray 
 it worthily? 
 
 30 
 
350 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 The last week arrived, and the heads were yet 
 unfinished. 
 
 "Dost thou know the conditions?" exclaimed 
 the exulting monk ; " success or death j so said the 
 Duke, and his word is never recalled." 
 
 " I know them well," replied Lionardo, in a 
 despairing tone. 
 
 " Then hasten on thy work," said the Domini 
 can. "Is life so worthless that thou canst not 
 afford a daub of thy brush to save it ? As well 
 might the mighty discovery of painting have slum 
 bered, if it will not do thee this slight service. 
 Come, lend me thy brush ; to-morrow is the day ; 
 I will furnish thee with a head, and perhaps it may 
 save thine own," fastening upon him a searching 
 glance, with a flashing expression of conscious 
 power and triumph. 
 
 " Ha," exclaimed Lionardo, " I thank thee, good 
 Sir Prior, for this last offer ; thou hast indeed 
 inspired me." 
 
 He hastened to the refectory, closed and secured 
 the door, and through the rest of that day, and the 
 whole solitude of that last night, sat almost without 
 intermission at the glorious work which has immor 
 talized him. The head of Judas was completed 
 before the shades of night came on ; but that of 
 the Saviour still remained. There was the beauti 
 ful oval, the locks parted on the forehead, but all 
 else of the face was a blank. He felt the task 
 beyond his power ; yet his generous spirit would 
 
THE LAST SUPPER. 351 
 
 not profane his own ideal, nor degrade his art, by 
 an unworthy performance. 
 
 The last rays of the sun were setting ; he turned 
 towards the west. " Andrea," he cried, "now, in 
 this hour of my last extremity of despair, let my 
 voice reach thee among the shades of the palm- 
 trees of paradise ! " 
 
 As by a sudden inspiration, confidence took pos 
 session of his mind ; celestial images floated before 
 his imagination ; the pealing roof seemed to ring 
 with hosannas ; and, in the vacant space, the imagi 
 nation of the painter beheld the countenance, the 
 divine countenance, which he had been in vain 
 attempting to portray. 
 
 Once more he seizes his brush ; he has only to 
 follow the traits impressed forever by that single 
 vision-gleam on his memory. Now, indeed, the 
 work was soon completed. 
 
 The next morning Lionardo did not make his 
 appearance, nor was any reply returned to the 
 applications of the Prior at the door : it was the 
 day on which the picture was to be exhibited, and 
 his remorseless enemy exulted in the belief, that, in 
 his despair, he had sought the fate of the Judas he 
 had found himself incompetent to depict. 
 
 At length the hour arrived, and the Duke Sforza, 
 accompanied by the principal nobility of Milan, 
 proceeded in state to the Dominican monastery, 
 and gave orders that the refectory should be thrown 
 open. The picture, which was upon the wall at 
 one end, was concealed by a curtain ; and the artist 
 
352 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 stood with his eyes cast down, and an expression of 
 deep dejection. There was a confused murmur 
 of voices. Curiosity and eager expectation were 
 expressed in every countenance but that of the 
 Prior s ; on his sat triumphant revenge ; the pic 
 ture, he was confident, was unfinished in the most 
 important figures, as he had himself seen it so on 
 the preceding day. 
 
 " Let the curtain be withdrawn," said the Duke. 
 
 Lionardo moved not ; the deep emotion of the 
 artist rendered him powerless. 
 
 The Dominican, unable to comprehend such 
 feelings, was confirmed in the belief that the with 
 drawing of the curtain would be the death-warrant 
 of Lionardo ; he hastily seized the string, and, by 
 a sudden pull, the curtain opened, and the Last 
 Supper of Lionardo da Yinci stood revealed to the 
 world. 
 
 Not a sound, for a few moments, broke the still 
 ness that prevailed : at length, murmurs of applause 
 were heard, increasing as the influence of the glo 
 rious work fell fuller upon the enthusiastic minds 
 of the Italians, to raptures. The Duke arose and 
 stood before Lionardo. "Well, noble Florentine, 
 hast thou atoned for thy fault ; I am proud to for 
 give thee all. On, on, to glory, to immortality ; 
 high rewards shall be thine. But why, holy fa 
 ther," said he to the Prior, who still stood motion 
 less and pale, before the picture, " why stand you 
 speechless there? see you not how nobly he has 
 redeemed his pledge ? " 
 
THE LAST SUPPER. 353 
 
 All eyes were turned upon the Dominican, 
 then to the figure of Judas. Suddenly they ex 
 claimed, with one voice, " It is he ! it is he ! " 
 
 The brothers and monks of the cloister, who 
 detested the Prior, repeated, " Yes, it is he ; the 
 Judas Iscariot who betrayed his Master ! " 
 
 After the first surprise was over, suppressed 
 laughter was heard. Pale with rage, the Domini 
 can retreated behind the crowd, and made his 
 escape to his cell, with the emotions of a demon 
 quelled before the radiant power of an angel s 
 divinity, and the reflection that henceforth he must 
 go down to posterity as a second Judas ! The 
 resemblance was perfect. 
 
 And where now was Lionardo da Vinci he 
 who stood conspicuous among the nobles of the 
 land he whose might of genius had cast high 
 birth and worldly honors into obscurity ? Now, 
 surely, was the hour of his triumph ! 
 
 Alas, no ! he stood humbled and depressed ; bit 
 ter tears bedewed his cheeks ; and when the cry 
 was repeated again and again, "It is the Prior ! " 
 he hastily quitted the presence of the Duke, and in 
 the solitude of his own apartment, on his knees, in 
 an agony of repentance, " O Andrea, my master ! " 
 he exclaimed, "how have I sinned against thy 
 memory, our art, and my own soul ! I have sinned, 
 I have sinned ! It was a sacrilege ; in the same 
 hour in which thou didst answer my prayer with 
 the blessed inspiration of the vision of the Re 
 deemer ! I am unworthy of thy love, of thy divine 
 30* 
 
354 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 art, and of my own respect. Revenge can have 
 no part in a great mind, was thy last precept ; how 
 much better didst thou know me than I knew 
 myself! Strengthen and guide, henceforth, my 
 weak and sinful nature." 
 
 Such were the emotions of the artist, while all 
 Milan and Italy rang with the fame of the work 
 which he himself so bitterly repented. All flocked 
 to see it, and his renown was at its zenith. He 
 shunned the applause, and in a humble spirit 
 devoted himself to the pursuit of a nobler triumph 
 than he had already achieved, the triumph over 
 himself. 
 
 This is the history of that celebrated painting, 
 the Last Supper of Lionardo da Yinci, which is 
 familiar to all, from the innumerable copies dis 
 tributed through every civilized country, by the 
 pencil and the burin. It is commonly understood 
 to be a fresco ; but it is not. It was painted on 
 the dry plastering, with the use of distilled oils, in 
 a manner invented by Lionardo. This circumstance 
 has caused its decay. It is still in the refectory 
 of the Dominican convent, at Milan ; though, hav 
 ing sustained much injury from ill usage, especially 
 when the convent was occupied by French troops 
 at the close of the last century, it gives the travel 
 ler now but an indistinct idea of its original glory. 
 
A WINTER MORNING. 
 
 BY ANDREWS NORTON. 
 
 THE keen, clear air the splendid sight 
 
 We waken to a world of ice ; 
 Where all things are enshrined in light, 
 
 As by some genie s quaint device. 
 
 T is winter s jubilee this day 
 
 His stores their countless treasures yield ; 
 See how the diamond glances play, 
 
 In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field. 
 
 The cold, bare spot, where late we ranged, 
 The naked woods, are seen no more ; 
 
 This earth to fairy land is changed, 
 With glittering silver sheeted o er. 
 
 A shower of gems is strew d around ; 
 
 The flowers of winter, rich and rare ; 
 Rubies and sapphires deck the ground, 
 
 The topaz, emerald, all are there. 
 
356 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 The morning sun, with cloudless rays, 
 
 His powerless splendor round us streams ; 
 
 From crusted boughs, and twinkling sprays, 
 Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams. 
 
 With more than summer beauty fair, 
 The trees in winter s garb are shown ; 
 
 What a rich halo melts in air, 
 
 Around their crystal branches thrown ! 
 
 And yesterday how changed the view 
 From what then charm d us : when the sky 
 
 Hung, with its dim and watery hue, 
 O er all the soft, still prospect nigh. 
 
 The distant groves, array d in white, 
 Might then like things unreal seem, 
 
 Just shown a while in silvery light, 
 The fictions of a poet s dream ; 
 
 Like shadowy groves upon that shore 
 O er which Elysium s twilight lay, 
 
 By bards and sages feign d of yore, 
 
 Ere broke on earth heaven s brighter day. 
 
 O GOD of Nature ! with what might 
 Of beauty, shower d on all below, 
 
 Thy guiding power would lead aright 
 Earth s wanderer all thy love to know ! 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS. 
 
 BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 IT was Sunday morning ; and the church bells 
 were all ringing together. From the neighboring 
 villages came the solemn, joyful sounds, floating 
 through the sunny air, mellow and faint and low, 
 all mingling into one harmonious chime, like the 
 sound of some distant organ in heaven. Anon they 
 ceased ; and the woods, and the clouds, and the 
 whole village, and the very air itself, seemed to 
 pray ; so silent was it every where. 
 
 Two venerable old men high priests and patri 
 archs were they in the land went up the pulpit 
 stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up Mount Hor, in 
 the sight of all the congregation ; for the pulpit 
 stairs were in front, and very high. 
 
 Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon he 
 heard that day, no, not even if he should 
 live to be as old as he who preached it. The 
 text was, " I know that my Redeemer liveth." It 
 was meant to console the pious, poor widow, who 
 sat right below him at the pulpit stairs, all in black, 
 and her heart breaking. He said nothing of the 
 
358 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 terrors of death, nor of the gloom of the narrow 
 house ; but, looking beyond these things, as mere 
 circumstances to which the imagination mainly 
 gives importance, he told his hearers of the inno 
 cence of childhood upon earth, and the holiness of 
 childhood in heaven, and how the beautiful Lord 
 Jesus was once a little child, and now in heaven 
 the spirits of little children walked with him, and 
 gathered flowers in the fields of Paradise. Good 
 old man ! In behalf of humanity, I thank thee for 
 these benignant words ! And still more than I, the 
 bereaved mother thanked thee ; and from that hour, 
 though she wept in secret for her child, yet 
 
 " She knew he was with Jesus, 
 And she asked him not again." 
 
 After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked forth 
 alone into the churchyard. There was no one 
 there, save a little boy, who was fishing with a pin 
 hook in a grave half full of water. But a few 
 moments afterward, through the arched gateway 
 under the belfry, came a funeral procession. At its 
 head walked a priest in white surplice, chanting. 
 Peasants, old and young, followed him, with burn 
 ing tapers in their hands. A young girl carried in 
 her arms a dead child, wrapped in its little winding- 
 sheet. The grave was close under the wall, by the 
 church door. A vase of holy water stood beside it. 
 The sexton took the child from the girl s arms, and 
 put it into a coffin ; and, as he placed it in the 
 grave, the girl held over it a cross wreathed with 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS. 359 
 
 roses, and the priest and peasants sang a funeral 
 hymn. When this was over, the priest sprinkled 
 the grave and the crowd with holy water ; and 
 then they all went into the church, each one stop 
 ping, as he passed the grave, to throw a handful 
 of earth into it, and sprinkle it with the hyssop. 
 
 A few moments afterwards, the voice of the 
 priest was heard saying mass in the church, and 
 Flemming saw the toothless old sexton treading, 
 with his clouted shoes, the fresh earth into the 
 grave of .the little child. He approached him, and 
 asked the age of the deceased. The sexton leaned 
 a moment on his spade, and, shrugging his shoul 
 ders, replied, 
 
 " Only an hour or two. It was born in the 
 night, and died this morning early." 
 
 " A brief existence," said Flemming. " The 
 child seems to have been born only to be buried 
 and have its name recorded on a wooden tomb 
 stone." 
 
 The sexton went on with his work, and made 
 no reply. Flemming still lingered among the graves, 
 gazing with wonder at the strange devices by which 
 man has rendered death horrible and the grave 
 loathsome. 
 
 In the temple of Juno at Alis, Sleep and his 
 twin brother, Death, were represented as children 
 reposing in the arms of Night. On various funeral 
 monuments of the ancients the Genius of Death is 
 sculptured as a beautiful youth, leaning on an 
 inverted torch, in the attitude of repose, his wings 
 
360 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 folded and his feet crossed. In such peaceful and 
 attractive forms did the imagination of ancient poets 
 and sculptors represent death. And these men were 
 men in whose souls the religion of Nature was like 
 the light of stars, beautiful, but faint and cold ! 
 Strange, that, in later days, this angel of God, which 
 leads us with a gentle hand into the "land of the 
 great departed, into the silent land," should have 
 been transformed into a monstrous and terrific 
 thing ! Such is the spectral rider on the white 
 horse ; such the ghastly skeleton with scythe and 
 hour-glass ; the Reaper, whose name is Death ! 
 
 One of the most popular themes of poetry and 
 painting in the Middle Ages, and continuing down 
 even into modern times, was the Dance of Death. 
 In almost all languages is it written, the appari 
 tion of the grim spectre, putting a sudden stop to 
 all business, and leading men away into the 
 " remarkable retirement " of the grave. It is writ 
 ten in an ancient Spanish poem, and painted on a 
 wooden bridge in Switzerland. The designs of 
 Holbein are well known. The most striking among 
 them is that, where, from a group of children sitting 
 round a cottage hearth, Death has taken one by the 
 hand, and is leading it out of the door. Quietly 
 and unresisting goes the little child, and in its 
 countenance no grief, but wonder only ; while the 
 other children are weeping and stretching forth 
 their hands in vain towards their departing brother. 
 It is a beautiful design, in all save the skeleton. 
 An angel had been better, with folded wings, and 
 torch inverted. 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS. 361 
 
 And now the sun was growing high and warm. 
 A little chapel, whose door stood open, seemed to 
 invite Flemrning to enter and enjoy the grateful 
 coolness. He went in. There was no one there. 
 The walls were covered with paintings and sculp 
 ture of the rudest kind, and with a few funeral 
 tablets. There was nothing there to move the 
 heart to devotion ; but in that hour the heart of 
 Flemming was weak, weak as a child s. He 
 bowed his stubborn knees, and wept. And, O, 
 how many disappointed hopes, how many bitter 
 recollectkms, how much of wounded pride and 
 unrequited love, were in those tears through which 
 he read, on a marble tablet in the chapel wall 
 opposite, this singular inscription : 
 
 " Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes 
 not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It 
 is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, 
 without fear, and with a manly heart." 
 
 It seemed to him as if the unknown tenant of 
 that grave had opened his lips of dust, and spoken 
 to him the words of consolation, which his soul 
 needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. In a 
 moment the anguish of his thoughts was still. The 
 stone was rolled away from the door of his heart ; 
 death was no longer there, but an angel clothed in 
 white. He stood up, and his eyes were no more 
 bleared with tears j and, looking into the bright, 
 morning heaven, he said : 
 
 " I will be strong ! " 
 31 
 
362 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 Men sometimes go down into tombs, with painful 
 longings to behold once more the faces of their 
 departed friends ; and as they gaze upon them, 
 lying there so peacefully with the semblance that 
 they wore on earth, the sweet breath of heaven 
 touches them, and the features crumble and fall 
 together, and are but dust. So did his soul then 
 descend for the last time into the great tomb of the 
 Past, with painful longings to behold once more the 
 dear faces of those he had loved ; and the sweet 
 breath of heaven touched them, and they would 
 not stay, but crumbled away and perished as he 
 gazed. They, too, were dust. And thus, far- 
 sounding, he heard the great gate of the Past shut 
 behind him, as the Divine Poet did the gate of 
 Paradise, when the angel pointed him the way up 
 the Holy Mountain ; and to him likewise was it 
 forbidden to look back. 
 
 In the life of every man, there are sudden transi 
 tions of feeling, which seem almost miraculous. At 
 once, as if some magician had touched the heavens 
 and the earth, the dark clouds melt into the air, the 
 wind falls, and serenity succeeds the storm. The 
 causes which produce these sudden changes may 
 have been long at work within us ; but the changes 
 themselves are instantaneous, and apparently with 
 out sufficient cause. It was so with Flemming ; 
 and from that hour forth he resolved that he would 
 no longer veer with every shifting wind of circum 
 stance ; no longer be a child s plaything in the 
 hands of Fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. 
 
FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS. 363 
 
 He resolved henceforward not to lean on others ; 
 but to walk self-confident and self-possessed ; no 
 longer to waste his years in vain regrets, nor wait 
 the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet 
 desires ; but to live in the Present wisely, alike for 
 getful of the Past, and careless of what the myste 
 rious Future might bring. And from that moment 
 he was calm and strong ; he was reconciled with 
 himself. His thoughts turned to his distant home 
 beyond the sea. An indescribable sweet feeling 
 rose within him. 
 
 " Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps," 
 said he, "and be a man among men, and no longer 
 a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth be mine a 
 life of action and reality ! I will work in my own 
 sphere, nor wish it other than it is. This alone is 
 health and happiness. This alone is Life, 
 
 1 Life that shall send 
 A challenge to its end, 
 And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend ! 
 
 Why have I not made these sage reflections, this 
 wise resolve, sooner ? Can such a simple result 
 spring only from the long and intricate process of 
 experience? Alas! it is not till time, with reckless 
 hand, has torn out half the leaves from the Book of 
 Human Life, to light the fires of passion with, from 
 day to day, that man begins to see that the leaves 
 which remain are few in number, and to remember, 
 faintly at first, and then more clearly, that upon the 
 earlier pages of that book was written a story of 
 
364 
 
 THE BOSTON BOOK. 
 
 happy innocence, which he would fain read over 
 again. Then comes listless irresolution, and the 
 inevitable inaction of despair ; or else the firm 
 resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain, a 
 more noble history than the child s story with 
 which the book began." 
 
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