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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Bartlett 
 Heard 
 
 
<tiitian 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS OF NATHANIEL 
 
 HAWTHORNE, WITH INTRODUCTORY 
 
 NOTES BY GEORGE PARSONS 
 
 LATHROP 
 
 AND ILLUSTRATED WITH 
 
 Etchings by Blum, Church, Dielman, Gifford, Shirlaw, 
 and Turner 
 
 IN THIRTEEN VOLUMES 
 VOLUME XII. 
 
TALES, SKETCHES, AND OTHER 
 
 PAPERS 
 
 BY 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 
 
 WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 fctbcrtftto Prntt, Camfcrrtrg* 
 1891 
 
AiOFFITT wV*2 
 
 Copyright, 1850, 1852, 1862, and 1876. 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
 
 Copyright, 1878, 
 BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATIIROP. 
 
 Copyright, 1883, 
 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass , U. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Company. 
 
A3 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PASK 
 
 INTRODUCTORY SKETCH 7 
 
 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 SKETCHES FROM MEMORY. 
 
 I. THE INLAND PORT. ...... 13 
 
 II. ROCHESTER . . . . . . . .17 
 
 III. A NIGHT SCENE 21 
 
 FRAGMENTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A SOLITARY MAN. 
 
 I . . . 23 
 
 II. MY HOME RETURN 35 
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA . 42 
 
 THE ANTIQUE RING . 51 
 
 GRAVES AND GOBLINS 68 
 
 DR. BULLIVANT 78 
 
 A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS ....... 88 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN S TALE ....... 109 
 
 TIME S PORTRAITURE. ADDRESS . . . . . 121 
 
 "BROWNE S FOLLY" ........ 131 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 BENJAMIN WEST 144 
 
 SIR ISAAC NEWTON . . . . . . . . 157 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON 166 
 
 OLIVER CROMWELL ........ 178 
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 189 
 
 QUEEN CHRISTINA 203 
 
vi CONTENTS. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 MRS. HUTCHINSON 217 
 
 SIR WILLIAM PHIPS 227 
 
 SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL 235 
 
 THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN . . . . . 246 
 
 JONATHAN CILLEY 264 
 
 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL . J. - . . . . 279 
 
 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS 299 
 
 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE 347 
 
 SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE . ,441 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 TALES, SKETCHES, ETC. 
 
 THE first group of short pieces embraced in this vol 
 ume belongs to Hawthorne s earlier period; excepting 
 "Browne s Folly," which was addressed to the author s 
 cousin, Mr. Richard Manning, of Salem, after the re 
 turn from Europe. The " Sketches from Memory," 
 like those in the " Mosses," and one in " The Snow- 
 Image," reveal the fact that, at some time in his bach 
 elor life, Hawthorne made a trip through portions of 
 New York ; but of this journey no other data have 
 ever come to the editor s knowledge. He took a little 
 tour in 1830 or 1831, or perhaps in both years, in Con 
 necticut, Western Massachusetts, and in New Hamp 
 shire ; and it was perhaps at this time that he crossed 
 the boundary into New York. The "Journal of a 
 Solitary Man " and " My Home Return " may not im 
 probably be connected with the narrative of "The 
 Story-Teller" which Hawthorne had planned as an 
 accompaniment to the " Twice -Told Tales." 1 All the 
 youthful pieces here preserved had been left in the ob 
 scurity of old periodicals, their very existence possibly 
 forgotten by the author himself, and were gradually 
 discovered during the five or six years immediately 
 following his death. 
 
 1 See the editor s Introductory Note to the Twice-Told Tales. 
 
8 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 In June, 1837, Hawthorne, writing to Longfellow, 
 had observed : " I can turn my attention to all sorts 
 of drudgery, such as children s books, etc." One 
 among several outgrowths of the ability he referred to 
 was the group of " Biographical Stories " in the pres 
 ent volume, hitherto included with " Grandfather s 
 Chair," under the general heading of " True Stories," 
 That he regarded the writing of them as in one sense 
 drudgery, as a performance which would not have been 
 undertaken but for the necessity of earning a liveli 
 hood by his pen, appears probable from a letter which 
 he addressed with the MS. of " Queen Christina " to 
 the conductress of a periodical in Northern New York. 
 Of this letter, which has been inaccessible for a long 
 time, the date (according to the editor s remembrance) 
 was about two years after that of the one to Longfellow 
 just mentioned ; and the terms in which it was couched 
 left the impression that Hawthorne was then much in 
 need of employment. We must not, however, forget 
 his own statement in the brief note prefixed to the 
 stories, that " this small volume and others of a simi 
 lar character . . . have not been composed without a 
 deep sense of responsibility." Indeed, whatever he 
 wrote for children Hawthorne prepared with as much 
 conscientiousness as the matter which he offered to a 
 mature audience ; and, conversely, his stories for older 
 readers were invested with such a refinement of sim 
 plicity that they were often well suited for children. 
 A circumstance illustrating this is that " The Lily s 
 Quest," afterwards issued in the second series of 
 "Twice-Told Tales," was first printed (January 19, 
 1839) in " The Southern Hose," a weekly paper for 
 young readers, published at Charleston, South Caro 
 lina. 
 
INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 The "Biographical Sketches," that follow next in 
 the order of contents, appear here as the result of a 
 gleaning from old magazines, which was made after 
 Hawthorne s death. Designed to fulfil purposes of the 
 moment, they are of course not to be placed in the 
 same category with the purely literary work which he 
 acknowledged. Nevertheless, the papers upon Mrs. 
 Hutchinson, Sir William Phips, and Sir William Pep- 
 perell, are valuable as evidences of the study which he 
 devoted to passages in the history of New England ; 
 study largely instrumental in developing that innate 
 knowledge of his native region which gives perennial 
 force to the picture presented in " The Scarlet Let 
 ter." The outline of Jonathan Cilley s career shows 
 how active had been his observation of a classmate in 
 college. 
 
 " Alice Doane s Appeal," one of the two remaining 
 contributions, was apparently overlooked until the pres 
 ent editor, coming upon its traces, secured a copy of it 
 in " The Token " for 1835, after a three years search. 
 Hawthorne s surviving sister, Miss Elizabeth Manning 
 Hawthorne, who died (January 1, 1883) after this 
 edition of the Works had made considerable headway, 
 informed the editor that she retained some recollection 
 of the story ; and it seems probable, from an allusion 
 in the opening portion, that the form here preserved 
 embodies a reminiscence of one among those " Seven 
 Tales of my Native Land " which the author burned 
 in manuscript. The chapter entitled " Chiefly about 
 War Matters " was published in the " Atlantic 
 Monthly " soon after a trip to Washington which Haw 
 thorne made in April, 1862. It now first takes its 
 place among his collected writings. The same thing 
 is to be said of the "Life of Franklin Pierce," re- 
 
10 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 printed in the present volume. It has been thought 
 advisable to include this pamphlet, which accordingly 
 appears in its original form, with the exception of one 
 omitted passage, consisting of extracts from General 
 Pierce s Diary during the Mexican War. 
 
 With this Introductory Note the editor s task comes 
 to an end. Slight though the result must appear, no 
 little labor and care have been involved in carrying 
 out the original purpose of the Notes, which was to 
 present, at suitable points and without wearying the 
 general reader by bibliographical details, a brief com- 
 pend of facts with regard to each work or collection 
 in the series. 
 
 G.P.L. 
 
 NEW YORK, May 1, 1883. 
 
TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
SKETCHES FROM MEMORY- 1 
 
 i. 
 
 THE INLAND PORT. 
 
 IT was a bright forenoon, when I set foot on the 
 beach at Burlington, and took leave of the two boat 
 men in whose little skiff I had voyaged since daylight 
 from Peru. Not that we had come that morning from 
 South America, but only from the New York shore of 
 Lake Champlain. The highlands of the coast behind 
 us stretched north and south, in a double range of 
 bold, blue peaks, gazing over each other s shoulders at 
 the Green Mountains of Vermont. 
 
 The latter are far the loftiest, and, from the oppo 
 site side of the lake, had displayed a more striking 
 outline. We were now almost at their feet, and could 
 see only a sandy beach sweeping beneath a woody 
 bank, around the semicircular Bay of Burlington. 
 
 The painted light-house on a small green island, the 
 wharves and warehouses, with sloops and schooners 
 moored alongside, or at anchor, or spreading their can 
 vas to the wind, and boats rowing from point to point, 
 reminded me of some fishing-town on the sea-coast. 
 
 But I had no need of tasting the water to convince 
 myself that Lake Champlain was not an arm of the 
 
 1 Second series. The first series was added to the revised edition 
 of the Mosses from an Old Manse. 
 
14 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 sea ; its quality was evident, both by its silvery sur 
 face, when unruffled, and a faint but unpleasant and 
 sickly smell, forever steaming up in the sunshine. One 
 breeze of the Atlantic with its briny fragrance would 
 be worth more to these inland people than all the per 
 fumes of Arabia. On closer inspection the vessels at 
 the wharves looked hardly seaworthy, there being 
 a great lack of tar about the seams and rigging, and 
 perhaps other deficiencies, quite as much to the purpose. 
 
 I observed not a single ^ sailor in the port. There 
 were men, indeed, in blue jackets and trousers, but not 
 of the true nautical fashion, such as dangle before slop 
 shops ; others wore tight pantaloons and coats prepon- 
 derously long-tailed, cutting very queer figures at the 
 masthead ; and, in short, these fresh-water fellows had 
 about the same analogy to the real " old salt " with his 
 tarpaulin, pea-jacket, and sailor-cloth trousers, as a 
 lake fish to a Newfoundland cod. 
 
 Nothing struck me more in Burlington than the 
 great number of Irish emigrants. They have filled 
 the British Provinces to the brim, and still continue to 
 ascend the St. Lawrence in infinite tribes overflowing 
 by every outlet into the States. At Burlington, they 
 swarm in huts and mean dwellings near the lake, lounge 
 about the wharves, and elbow the native citizens en 
 tirely out of competition in their own line. Every 
 species of mere bodily labor is the prerogative of these 
 Irish. Such is their multitude in comparison with 
 any possible demand for their services, that it is diffi 
 cult to conceive how a third part of them should earn 
 even a daily glass of whiskey, which is doubtless their 
 first necessary of life, daily bread being only the 
 second. 
 
 Some were angling in the lake, but had caught only 
 
THE INLAND PORT. 15 
 
 a few perch, which little fishes, without a miracle, 
 would be nothing among so many. A miracle there 
 certainly must have been, and a daily one, for the sub 
 sistence of these wandering hordes. The men exhibit 
 a lazy strength and careless merriment, as if they had 
 fed well hitherto, and meant to feed better hereafter ; 
 the women strode about, uncovered in the open air, 
 with far plumper waists and brawnier limbs as well as 
 bolder faces, than our shy and slender females ; and 
 their progeny, which was innumerable, had the reddest 
 and the roundest cheeks of any children in America. 
 
 While we stood at the wharf, the bell of a steam 
 boat gave two preliminary peals, and she dashed away 
 for Plattsburg, leaving a trail of smoky breath behind, 
 and breaking the glassy surface of the lake before her. 
 Our next movement brought us into a handsome and 
 busy square, the sides of which were filled up with 
 white houses, brick stores, a church, a court-house, and 
 a bank. Some of these edifices had roofs of tin, in 
 the fashion of Montreal, and glittered in the sun with 
 cheerful splendor, imparting a lively effect to the whole 
 square. One brick building, designated in large let 
 ters as the custom house, reminded us that this inland 
 village is a port of entry, largely concerned in foreign 
 trade, and holding daily intercourse with the British 
 empire. In this border country the Canadian bank 
 notes circulate as freely as our own, and British and 
 American coin are jumbled into the same pocket, the 
 effigies of the King of England being made to kiss 
 those of the Goddess of Liberty. 
 
 Perhaps there was an emblem in the involuntary 
 contact. There was a pleasant mixture of people in 
 the square of Burlington, such as cannot be seen else 
 where, at one view ; merchants from Montreal, British 
 
16 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 officers from the frontier garrisons, French Canadians, 
 wandering Irish, Scotchmen of a better class, gentle 
 men of the South on a pleasure tour, country squires 
 on business ; and a great throng of Green Mountain 
 boys, with their horse-wagons and ox-teams, true Yan 
 kees in aspect, and looking more superlatively so, by 
 contrast with such a variety of foreigners. 
 
II. 
 
 , ROCHESTEK. 
 
 THE gray but transparent evening rather shaded 
 than obscured the scene, leaving its stronger features 
 visible, and even improved by the medium through 
 which I beheld them. The volume of water is not 
 very great, nor the roar deep enough to be termed 
 grand, though such praise might have been appropri 
 ate before the good people of Kochester had abstracted 
 a part of the unprofitable sublimity of the cascade. 
 The Genesee has contributed so bountifully to their 
 canals and mill-dams, that it approaches the precipice 
 with diminished pomp, and rushes over it in foamy 
 streams of various width, leaving a broad face of the 
 rock insulated and unwashed, between the two main 
 branches of the falling river. Still it was an impres 
 sive sight, to one who had not seen Niagara. I con 
 fess, however, that my chief interest arose from a 
 legend, connected with these falls, which will become 
 poetical in the lapse of years, and was already so to 
 me as I pictured the catastrophe out of dusk and soli 
 tude. It was from a platform, raised over the naked 
 island of the cliff, in the middle of the cataract, that 
 Sam Patch took his last leap, and alighted in the 
 other world. Strange as it may appear, that any 
 uncertainty should rest upon his fate which was con 
 summated in the sight of thousands, many will tell 
 you that the illustrious Patch concealed himself in a 
 
 VOL. XII. 2 
 
18 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 cave under the falls, and has continued to enjoy post 
 humous renown, without foregoing the comforts of this 
 present life. But the poor fellow prized the shout of 
 the multitude too much not to have claimed it at the 
 instant, had he survived. He will not be seen again, 
 unless his ghost, in such a twilight as when I was 
 there, should emerge from the foam, and vanish among 
 the shadows that fall from cliff to cliff. 
 
 How stern a moral may be drawn from the story of 
 poor Sam Patch ! Why do we call him a madman or 
 a fool, when he has left his memory around the falls 
 of the Genesee, more permanently than if the letters 
 of his name had been hewn into the forehead of the 
 precipice ? 
 
 Was the leaper of cataracts more mad or foolish 
 than other men who throw away life, or misspend it in 
 pursuit of empty fame, and seldom so triumphantly as 
 he ? That which he won is as invaluable as any ex 
 cept the unsought glory, spreading like the rich per 
 fume of richer fruit from various and useful deeds. 
 
 Thus musing, wise in theory, but practically as 
 great a fool as Sam, I lifted my eyes and beheld the 
 spires, warehouses, and dwellings of Eochester, half a 
 mile distant on both sides of the river, indistinctly 
 cheerful, with the twinkling of many lights amid the 
 fall of the evening. . . . 
 
 The town had sprung up like a mushroom, but no 
 presage of decay could be drawn from its hasty 
 growth. Its edifices are of dusky brick, and of stone 
 that will not be grayer in a hundred years than now ; 
 its churches are Gothic ; it is impossible to look at its 
 worn pavements and conceive how lately the forest 
 leaves have been swept away. The most ancient town 
 in Massachusetts appears quite like an affair of yester- 
 
ROCHESTER. 19 
 
 day, compared with Eocliester. Its attributes of youth 
 are the activity and eager life with which it is redun 
 dant. The whole street, sidewalks and centre, was 
 crowded with pedestrians, horsemen, stage-coaches, 
 gigs, light wagons, and heavy ox-teams, all hurrying, 
 trotting, rattling, and rumbling, in a throng that 
 passed continually, but never passed away. Here, a 
 country wife was selecting a churn from several gayly 
 painted ones on the sunny sidewalk ; there, a farmer 
 was bartering his produce ; and, in two or three places, 
 a crowd of people were showering bids on a vocifer 
 ous auctioneer. I saw a great wagon and an ox-chain 
 knocked off to a very pretty woman. Numerous were 
 the lottery offices, those true temples of Mammon, 
 where red and yellow bills offered splendid fortunes 
 to the world at large, and banners of painted cloth 
 gave notice that the " lottery draws next Wednesday." 
 At the ringing of a bell, judges, jurymen, lawyers, 
 and clients, elbowed each other to the court-house, to 
 busy themselves with cases that would doubtless il 
 lustrate the state of society, had I the means of re 
 porting them. The number of public houses benefited 
 the flow of temporary population ; some were farmer s 
 taverns, cheap, homely, and comfortable ; others 
 were magnificent hotels, with negro waiters, gentle 
 manly landlords in black broadcloth, and foppish bar 
 keepers in Broadway coats, with chased gold watches 
 in their waistcoat-pockets. I caught one of these fel 
 lows quizzing me through an eye-glass. The porters 
 were lumbering up the steps with baggage from the 
 packet boats, while waiters plied the brush on dusty 
 travellers, who, meanwhile, glanced over the innumer 
 able advertisements in the daily papers. 
 
 In short, everybody seemed to be there, and all had 
 
20 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 something to do, and were doing it with all their 
 might, except a party of drunken recruits for the West 
 ern military posts, principally Irish and Scotch, 
 though they wore Uncle Sam s gray jacket and trou 
 sers. I noticed one other idle man. He carried a 
 rifle on his shoulder and a powder-horn across his 
 breast, and appeared to stare about him with confused 
 wonder, as if, while he was listening to the wind 
 among the forest boughs, the hum and bustle of an in 
 stantaneous city had surrounded him. . . . 
 
in. 
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 THE steamboat in which I was passenger for De 
 troit had put into the mouth of a small river, where 
 the greater part of the night would be spent in repair 
 ing some damages of the machinery. 
 
 As the evening was warm, though cloudy and very 
 dark, I stood on deck, watching a scene that would 
 not have attracted a second glance in the daytime, but 
 became picturesque by the magic of strong light and 
 deep shade. 
 
 Some wild Irishmen were replenishing our stock of 
 wood, and had kindled a great fire on the bank to 
 illuminate their labors. It was composed of large 
 logs and dry brushwood, heaped together with care 
 less profusion, blazing fiercely, spouting showers of 
 sparks into the darkness, and gleaming wide over 
 Lake Erie, a beacon for perplexed voyagers leagues 
 from land. 
 
 All around and above the furnace there was total 
 obscurity. No trees or other objects caught and re 
 flected any portion of the brightness, which thus 
 wasted itself in the immense void of night, as if it 
 quivered from the expiring embers of the world, after 
 the final conflagration. But the Irishmen were con 
 tinually emerging from the dense gloom, passing 
 through the lurid glow, and vanishing into the gloom 
 on the other side. Sometimes a whole figure would 
 
22 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 be made visible, by the shirt-sleeves and light-colored 
 dress ; others were but half seen, like imperfect crea 
 tures ; many flitted, shadow-like, along the skirts of 
 darkness, tempting fancy to a vain pursuit ; and often, 
 a face alone was reddened by the fire, and stared 
 strangely distinct, with no traces of a body. In short 
 these wild Irish, distorted and exaggerated by the 
 blaze, now lost in deep shadow, now bursting into 
 sudden splendor, and now struggling between light 
 and darkness, formed a picture which might have 
 been transferred, almost unaltered, to a tale of the 
 supernatural. As they all carried lanterns of wood, 
 and often flung sticks upon the fire, the least imagi 
 native spectator would at once compare them to devils 
 condemned to keep alive the flames of their own tor 
 ments. 
 
FRAGMENTS FROM THE JOURNAL OF A SOLI 
 TARY MAN. 
 
 MY poor friend " Oberon " l for let me be al 
 lowed to distinguish him by so quaint a name sleeps 
 with the silent ages. He died calmly. Though his 
 disease was pulmonary, his life did not flicker out like 
 a wasted lamp, sometimes shooting up into a strange 
 temporary brightness; but the tide of being ebbed 
 away, and the noon of his existence waned till, in the 
 simple phraseology of Scripture, " he was not." The 
 last words he said to me were, " Burn my papers, 
 all that you can find in yonder escritoire ; for I fear 
 there are some there which you may be betrayed into 
 publishing. I have published enough ; as for the old 
 disconnected journal in your possession" But here 
 my poor friend was checked in his utterance by that 
 same hollow cough which would never let him alone. 
 So he coughed himself tired, and sank to slumber. I 
 watched from that midnight hour till high noon on the 
 morrow for his waking. The chamber was dark ; till, 
 longing for light, I opened the window - shutter, and 
 the broad day looked in on the marble features of the 
 dead. 
 
 I religiously obeyed his instructions with regard to 
 the papers in the escritoire, and burned them in a heap 
 
 1 See the sketch or story entitled The Devil in Manuscript, in Ths 
 Snow-Image, and other Twice-Told Tales. 
 
24 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 without looking into one, though sorely tempted. But 
 the old journal I kept. Perhaps in strict conscience I 
 ought also to have burned that; but casting my eye 
 over some half-torn leaves the other day, I could not 
 resist an impulse to give some fragments of it to the 
 public. To do this satisfactorily, I am obliged to twist 
 this thread, so as to string together into a semblance 
 of order my Oberon s " random pearls." 
 
 If anybody that holds any commerce with his fel 
 low-men can be called solitary, Oberon was a " solitary 
 man." He lived in a small village at some distance 
 from the metropolis, and never came up to the city ex 
 cept once in three months for the purpose of looking 
 into a bookstore, and of spending two hours and a 
 half with me. In that space of time I would tell him 
 all that I could remember of interest which had oc 
 curred in the interim of his visits. He would join 
 very heartily in the conversation ; but as soon as the 
 time of his usual tarrying had elapsed, he would take 
 up his hat and depart. He was unequivocally the 
 most original person I ever knew. His style of com 
 position was very charming. No tales that have ever 
 appeared in our popular journals have been so gener 
 ally admired as his. But a sadness was on his spirit ; 
 and this, added to the shrinking sensitiveness of his 
 nature, rendered him not misanthropic, but singularly 
 averse to social intercourse. Of the disease, which 
 was slowly sapping the springs of his life, he first be 
 came fully conscious after one of those long abstrac 
 tions in which he was wont to indulge. It is remark 
 able, however, that his first idea of this sort, instead 
 of deepening his spirit with a more melancholy hue, 
 restored him to a more natural state of mind. 
 
 He had evidently cherished a secret hope that some 
 
JOURNAL OF A SOLITARY MAN. 25 
 
 impulse** would at length be given him, or that he 
 would muster sufficient energy of will to return into 
 the world, and act a wiser and happier part than his 
 former one. But life never called the dreamer forth ; 
 it was Death that whispered him. It is to be regret 
 ted that this portion of his old journal contains so 
 few passages relative to this interesting period ; since 
 the little which he has recorded, though melancholy 
 enough, breathes the gentleness of a spirit newly re 
 stored to communion with its kind. If there be any 
 thing bitter in the following reflections, its source is 
 in human sympathy, and its sole object is himself. 
 
 " It is hard to die without one s happiness ; to none 
 more so than myself, whose early resolution it had 
 been to partake largely of the joys of life, but never 
 to be burdened with its cares. Vain philosophy ! The 
 very hardships of the poorest laborer, whose whole ex 
 istence seems one long toil, has something preferable 
 to my best pleasures. 
 
 " Merely skimming the surface of life, I know noth 
 ing, by my own experience, of its deep and warm reali 
 ties. I have achieved none of these objects which the 
 instinct of mankind especially prompts them to pur 
 sue, and the accomplishment of which must therefore 
 beget a native satisfaction. The truly wise, after all 
 their speculations, wL l be led into the common path, 
 and, in homage to the human nature that pervades 
 them, will gather gold, and till the earth, and set out 
 trees, and build a house. But I have scorned such 
 wisdom. I have rejected, also, the settled, sober, care 
 ful gladness of a man by his own fireside, with those 
 around him whose welfare is committed to his trust, 
 and all their guidance to his fond authority. Without 
 influence among serious affairs, my footsteps were not 
 
26 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 imprinted on the earth, but lost in air ; antl i shall 
 leave no son to inherit my share of life, with a bet 
 ter sense of its privileges and duties, when his father 
 should vanish like a bubble ; so that few mortals, even 
 the humblest and the weakest, have been such inef 
 fectual shadows in the world, or die so utterly as I 
 must. Even a young man s bliss has not been mine. 
 With a thousand vagrant fantasies, I have never truly 
 loved, and perhaps shall be doomed to loneliness 
 throughout the eternal future, because, here on earth, 
 my soul has never married itself to the soul of woman. 
 " Such are the repinings of one who feels, too late, 
 that the sympathies of his nature have avenged them 
 selves upon him. They have prostrated, with a joy 
 less life and the prospect of a reluctant death, my self 
 ish purpose to keep aloof from mortal disquietudes, 
 and be a pleasant idler among care-stricken and labo 
 rious men. I have other regrets, too, savoring more of 
 my old spirit. The time has been when I meant to 
 visit every region of the earth, except the poles and 
 Central Africa. I had a strange longing to see the 
 Pyramids. To Persia and Arabia, and all the gor 
 geous East, I owed a pilgrimage for the sake of their 
 magic tales. And England, the land of my ancestors ! 
 Once I had fancied that my sleep would not be quiet 
 in the grave unless I should return, as it were, to my 
 home of past ages, and see the very cities, and castles, 
 and battle-fields of history, and stand within the holy 
 gloom of its cathedrals, and kneel at the shrines of its 
 immortal poets, there asserting myself their hereditary 
 countryman. This feeling lay among the deepest in 
 my heart. Yet, with this homesickness for the father 
 land, and all these plans of remote travel, which I 
 yet believe that my peculiar instinct impelled me to 
 
JOURNAL )F A SOLITARY MAN. 27 
 
 f onn, arid upbraided me for not accomplishing, the 
 utmost limit of my wanderings has been little more 
 than six hundred miles from my native village. Thus, 
 in whatever way I consider my life, or what must be 
 termed such, I cannot feel as if I had lived at all. 
 
 " I am possessed, also, with the thought that I have 
 never yet discovered the real secret of my powers ; that 
 there has been a mighty treasure within my reach, a 
 mine of gold beneath my feet, worthless because I 
 have never known how to seek for it ; and for want of 
 perhaps one fortunate idea, I am to die 
 
 Unwept, unliDuored, and unsung. 
 
 "Once, amid the troubled and tumultuous enjoy 
 ment of my life, there was a dreamy thought that 
 haunted me, the terrible necessity imposed on mor 
 tals to grow old, or die. I could not bear the idea of 
 losing one youthful grace. True, I saw other men who 
 had once been young and now were old, enduring 
 their age with equanimity, because each year recon 
 ciled them to its own added weight. But for myself, 
 I felt that age would be not less miserable, creeping 
 upon me slowly, than if it fell at once. I sometimes 
 looked in the glass, and endeavored to fancy my 
 cheeks yellow and interlaced with furrows, my fore 
 head wrinkled deeply across, the top of my head bald 
 and polished, my eyebrows and side-locks iron gray, 
 and a grisly beard sprouting on my chin. Shudder 
 ing at the picture, I changed it for the dead face of a 
 young man, with dark locks clustering heavily round 
 its pale beauty, which would decay, indeed, but not 
 with years, nor in the sight of men. The latter visage 
 shocked me least. 
 
 " Such a repugnance to the hard conditions of long 
 
28 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 life is common to all sensitive and thoughtful men, 
 
 O 
 
 who minister to the luxury, the refinements, the gay- 
 ety and lightsomeness, to anything, in short, but the 
 real necessities of their fellow-creatures. He who has 
 a part in the serious business of life, though it be only 
 as a shoemaker, feels himself equally respectable in 
 youth and in age, and therefore is content to live and 
 look forward to wrinkles and decrepitude in their due 
 season. It is far otherwise with the busy idlers of the 
 world. I was particularly liable to this torment, being 
 a meditative person in spite of my levity. The truth 
 could not be concealed, nor the contemplation of it 
 avoided. With deep inquietude I became aware that 
 what was graceful now, and seemed appropriate enough 
 to my age of flowers, would be ridiculous in middle 
 life; and that the world, so indulgent to the fantastic 
 youth, would scorn the bearded man, still telling love- 
 tales, loftily ambitious of a maiden s tears, and squeez 
 ing out, as it were, with his brawny strength, the es 
 sence of roses. And in his old age the sweet lyrics of 
 Anacreon made the girls laugh at his white hairs the 
 more. With such sentiments, conscious that my part 
 in the drama of life was fit only for a youthful per 
 former, I nourished a regretful desire to be summoned 
 early from the scene. I set a limit to myself, the ago 
 of twenty-five, few years indeed, but too many to be 
 thrown away. Scarcely had I thus fixed the term of 
 my mortal pilgrimage, than the thought grew into a 
 presentiment that, when the space should be com 
 pleted, the world would have one butterfly the less, by 
 my far flight. 
 
 " Oh, how fond I was of life, even while allotting, 
 as my proper destiny, an early death! I loved the 
 world, its cities, its villages, its grassy roadsides, its 
 
JOURNAL OF A SOLITARY MAN. 29 
 
 wild forests, its quiet scenes, its gay, warm, enlivening 
 bustle ; in every aspect, I loved the world so long as 
 I could behold it with young eyes and dance through 
 it with a young heart. The earth had been made 
 so beautiful, that I longed for no brighter sphere, but 
 only an ever - youthful eternity in this. I clung to 
 earth as if my beginning and ending were to be there, 
 unable to imagine any but an earthly happiness, and 
 choosing such, with all its imperfections, rather than 
 perfect bliss, which might be alien from it. Alas ! I 
 had not yet known that weariness by which the soul 
 proves itself ethereal." 
 
 Turning over the old journal, I open, by chance, 
 upon a passage which affords a signal instance of the 
 morbid fancies to which Oberoii frequently yielded 
 himself. Dreams like the following were probably en 
 gendered by the deep gloom sometimes thrown over 
 his mind by his reflections on death. 
 
 " I dreamed that one bright forenoon I was walking 
 through Broadway, and seeking to cheer myself with 
 the warm and busy life of that far-famed promenade. 
 Here a coach thundered over the pavement, and there 
 an unwieldy omnibus, with spruce gigs rattling past, 
 and horsemen prancing through all the bustle. On 
 the sidewalk people were looking at the rich display 
 of goods, the plate and jewelry, or the latest caricature 
 in the bookseller s windows ; while fair ladies and 
 whiskered gentlemen tripped gayly along, nodding 
 mutual recognitions, or shrinking from some rough 
 countryman or sturdy laborer, whose contact might 
 have ruffled their finery. I found myself in this ani 
 mated scene, with a dim and misty idea that it was 
 not my proper place, or that I had ventured into the 
 crowd with some singularity of dress or aspect which 
 
30 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 made me ridiculous. Walking in the sunshine, I was 
 yet cold as death. By degrees, too, I perceived myself 
 the object of universal attention, and, as it seemed, of 
 horror and affright. Every face grew pale ; the laugh 
 was hushed, and the voices died away in broken syl 
 lables ; the people in the shops crowded to the doors 
 with a ghastly stare, and the passengers on all sides fled 
 as from an embodied pestilence. The horses reared 
 and snorted. An old beggar - woman sat before St 
 Paul s Church, with her withered palm stretched out 
 to all, but drew it back from me, and pointed to the 
 graves and monuments in that populous churchyard. 
 Three lovely girls whom I had formerly known, ran 
 shrieking across the street. A personage in black, 
 whom I was about to overtake, suddenly turned his 
 head and showed the features of a long-lost friend. 
 He gave me a look of horror and was gone. 
 
 " I passed not one step farther, but threw my eyes 
 on a looking-glass which stood deep within the nearest 
 shop. At first glimpse of my own figure I awoke, with 
 a horrible sensation of self - terror and self - loathing. 
 No wonder that the affrighted city fled ! I had been 
 promenading Broadway in my shroud ! " 
 
 I should be doing injustice to my friend s memory, 
 were I to publish other extracts even nearer to insan 
 ity than this, from the scarcely legible papers before 
 me. I gather from them for I do not remember 
 that he ever related to me the circumstances that 
 he once made a journey, chiefly on foot, to Niagara. 
 Some conduct of the friends among whom he resided 
 in his native village was constructed by him into op 
 pression. These were the friends to whose care he had 
 been committed by his parents, who died when Oberon 
 was about twelve years of age. Though he had always 
 
JOURNAL OF A SOLITARY MAN. 31 
 
 been treated by them with the most uniform kindness, 
 and though a favorite among 1 the people of the village 
 rather on account of the sympathy which they felt in 
 his situation than from any merit of his own, such was 
 the waywardness of his temper, that on a slight provo 
 cation he ran away from the home that sheltered him, 
 expressing openly his determination to die sooner than 
 return to the detested spot. A severe illness overtook 
 him after he had been absent about four months. 
 While ill, he felt how unsoothing were the kindest 
 looks and tones of strangers. He rose from his sick 
 bed a better man, and determined upon a speedy self- 
 atonement by returning to his native town. There he 
 lived, solitary and sad, but forgiven and cherished by 
 his friends, till the day he died. That part of the 
 journal which contained a description of this journey 
 is mostly destroyed. Here and there is a fragment. 
 I cannot select, for the pages are very scanty ; but I 
 do not withhold the following fragments, because they 
 indicate a better and more cheerful frame of mind 
 than the foregoing. 
 
 44 On reaching the ferry-house, a rude structure of 
 boards at the foot of the cliff, I found several of those 
 wretches devoid of poetry, and lost some of my own 
 poetry by contact with them. The hut was crowded 
 by a party of provincials, a simple and merry set, 
 who had spent the afternoon fishing near the Falls, 
 and were bartering black and white bass and eels for 
 the ferryman s whiskey. A greyhound and three span 
 iels, brutes of much more grace and decorous demeanor 
 than their masters, sat at the door. A few yards off, 
 yet wholly unnoticed by the dogs s was a beautiful fox, 
 
32 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 whose countenance betokened all the sagacity attrib 
 uted to him in ancient fable. He had a comfortable 
 bed of straw in an old barrel, whither he retreated, 
 flourishing his bushy tail as I made a step towards 
 him, but soon came forth and surveyed me with a keen 
 and intelligent eye. The Canadians bartered their fish 
 and drank their whiskey, and were loquacious on tri 
 fling subjects, and merry at simple jests, with as little 
 regard to the scenery as they could have to the flattest 
 part of the Grand Canal. Nor was I entitled to de 
 spise them ; for I amused myself with all those fool 
 ish matters of fishermen, and dogs, and fox, just as if 
 Sublimity and Beauty were not married at that place 
 and moment ; as if their nuptial band were not tho 
 brightest of all rainbows on the opposite shore ; as if 
 the gray precipice were not frowning above my head 
 and Niagara thundering around me. 
 
 " The grim ferryman, a black-whiskered giant, half 
 drunk withal, now thrust the Canadians by main force 
 out of his door, launched a boat, and bade me sit in 
 the stern - sheets. Where we crossed, the river was 
 white with foam, yet did not offer much resistance to 
 a straight passage, which brought us close to the outer 
 edge of the American Falls. The rainbow vanished 
 as we neared its misty base, and when I leaped ashore, 
 the sun had left all Niagara in shadow." 
 
 "A sound of merriment, sweet voices and girlish 
 laughter, came dancing through the solemn roar of wa 
 ters. In old times, when the French, and afterwards 
 the English, held garrisons near Niagara, it used to be 
 deemed a feat worthy of a soldier, a frontier -man, or 
 
JOURNAL OF A SOLITARY MAN. 33 
 
 an Indian, to cross the rapids to Goat Island. As the 
 country became less rude and warlike, a long space in 
 tervened, in which it was but half believed, by a faint 
 and doubtful tradition, that mortal foot had never trod 
 this wild spot of precipice and forest clinging between 
 two cataracts. The island is no longer a tangled for 
 est, but a grove of stately trees, with grassy intervals 
 about their roots and woodland paths among their 
 trunks. There was neither soldier nor Indian herp 
 now, but a vision of three lovely girls, running brief 
 races through the broken sunshine of the grove, hiding 
 behind the trees, and pelting each other with the cones 
 of the pine. When their sport had brought them near 
 me, it so happened that one of the party ran up and 
 shook me by the hand, a greeting which I heartily 
 returned, and would have done the same had it been 
 tenderer. I had known this wild little black-eyed 
 lass in my youth and her childhood, before I had com 
 menced my rambles. 
 
 " We met on terms of freedom and kindness, which 
 elder ladies might have thought unsuitable with a gen 
 tleman of my description. When I alluded to the two 
 fair strangers, she shouted after them by their Chris 
 tian names, at which summons, with grave dignity, 
 they drew near, and honored me with a distant court 
 esy. They were from the upper part of Vermont. 
 Whether sisters, or cousins, or at all related to each 
 other, I cannot tell ; but they are planted in my mem 
 ory like two twin roses on one stem, with the fresh 
 dew in both their bosoms ; and when I would have 
 pure and pleasant thoughts I think of them. Neither 
 of them could have seen seventeen years. They both 
 were of a height, and that a moderate one. The rose- 
 bloom of the cheeks could hardly be called bright in 
 
34 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 her who was the rosiest, nor faint, though a shade less 
 deep, in her companion. Both had delicate eyebrows, 
 not strongly defined, yet somewhat darker than their 
 hair ; both had small sweet mouths, maiden mouths, of 
 not so warm and deep a tint as ruby, but only red as 
 the reddest rose ; each had those gems, the rarest, the 
 most precious, a pair of clear, soft, bright blue eyes. 
 Their style of dress was similar ; one had on a black 
 silk gown, with a stomacher of velvet, and scalloped 
 cuffs of the same from the wrist to the elbow ; the other 
 wore cuffs and stomacher of the like pattern and ma 
 terial, over a gown of crimson silk. The dress was 
 rather heavy for their slight figures, but suited to Sep 
 tember. They and the darker beauty all carried their 
 straw bonnets in their hands." 
 
 I cannot better conclude these fragments than with 
 poor Oberon s description of his return to his native 
 village after his slow recovery from his illness. How 
 beautifully does he express his penitential emotions ! 
 A beautiful moral may be indeed drawn from the early 
 death of a sensitive recluse, who had shunned the ordi 
 nary avenues of distinction, and with splendid abilities 
 sank to rest into an early grave, almost unknown to 
 mankind, and without any record save what my pen 
 hastily leaves upon these tear-blotted pages. 
 
IL 
 
 MY HOME RETURN. 
 
 WHEN the stage-coach had gained the summit of 
 the hill, I alighted to perform the small remainder of 
 my journey on foot. There had not been a more deli 
 cious afternoon than this in all the train of summer, 
 the air being a sunny perfume, made up of balm, and 
 warmth, and gentle brightness. The oak and walnut 
 trees over my head retained their deep masses of fo 
 liage, and the grass, though for months the pasturage 
 of stray cattle, had been revived with the freshness 
 of early June by the autumnal rains of the preceding 
 week. The garb of autumn, indeed, resembled that 
 of spring. Dandelions and butterflies were sprinkled 
 along the roadside, like drops of brightest gold in 
 greenest grass, and a star-shaped little flower of blue, 
 with a golden centre. In a rocky spot, and rooted 
 under the stone walk, there was one wild rose-bush 
 bearing three roses, very faintly tinted, but blessed 
 with a spicy fragrance. The same tokens would have 
 announced that the year was brightening into the glow 
 of summer. There were violets too, though few and 
 pale ones. But the breath of September was diffused 
 through the mild air, and became perceptible, too 
 thrillingly for my enfeebled frame, whenever a little 
 breeze shook out the latent coolness. 
 
 " I was standing on the hill at the entrance of my 
 native village, whence I had looked back to bid fare- 
 
36 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 well, and forward to the pale mist-bow that overarched 
 my path, and was the omen of my fortunes. How I 
 had misinterpreted that augury, the ghost of hope, 
 with none of hope s bright hues ! Nor could I deem 
 that all its portents were yet accomplished, though 
 from the same western sky the declining sun shone 
 brightly in my face. But I was calm and not de 
 pressed. Turning to the village, so dim and dream 
 like at my last view, I saw the white houses and brick 
 stores, the intermingled trees, the foot-paths with their 
 wide borders of grass, and the dusty road between; 
 all a picture of peaceful gladness in the sunshine. 
 
 " Why have I never loved my home before ? 
 thought I, as my spirit reposed itself on the quiet 
 beauty of the scene. 
 
 " On the side of the opposite hill was the graveyard, 
 sloping towards the farther extremity of the village. 
 The sun shone as cheerfully there as on the abodes of 
 the living, and showed all the little hillocks and the 
 burial-stones, white marble or slate, and here and there 
 a tomb, with the pleasant grass about them all. A 
 single tree was tinged with glory from the west, and 
 threw a pensive shade behind. Not far from where it 
 fell was the tomb of my parents, whom I had hardly 
 thought of in bidding adieu to the village, but had 
 remembered them more faithfully among the feelings 
 that drew me homeward. At my departure their tomb 
 had been hidden in the morning mist. Beholding it 
 in the sunshine now, I felt a sensation through my 
 frame as if a breeze had thrown the coolness of Sep 
 tember over me, though not a leaf was stirred, nor did 
 the thistle-down take flight. Was I to roam no more 
 through this beautiful world, but only to the other end 
 of the village? Then let me lie down near my pa* 
 
MY HOME RETURN. 37 
 
 rents, but not with them, because I love a green grave 
 better than a tomb. 
 
 " Moving slowly forward, I heard shouts and laugh 
 ter, and perceived a considerable throng of people, 
 who came from behind the meeting-house and made a 
 stand in front of it. Thither all the idlers in the vil 
 lage were congregated to witness the exercises of the 
 engine company, this being the afternoon of their 
 monthly practice. They deluged the roof of the meet 
 ing-house, till the water fell from the eaves in a broad 
 cascade ; then the stream beat against the dusty win 
 dows like a thunder-storm ; and sometimes they flung 
 it up beside the steeple, sparkling in an ascending 
 shower about the weathercock. For variety s sake the 
 engineer made it undulate horizontally, like a great 
 serpent flying over the earth. As his last effort, being 
 roguishly inclined, he seemed to take aim at the sky, 
 falling short rather of which, down came the fluid, 
 transformed to drops of silver, on the thickest crowd 
 of the spectators. Then ensued a prodigious rout and 
 mirthful uproar, with no little wrath of the surly ones, 
 whom this is an infallible method of distinguishing. 
 The joke afforded infinite amusement to the ladies 
 at the windows and some old people under the hay- 
 scales. I also laughed at a distance, and was glad to 
 find myself susceptible, as of old, to the simple mirth 
 of such a scene. 
 
 " But the thoughts that it excited were not all mirth 
 ful. I had witnessed hundreds of such spectacles in 
 my youth, and one precisely similar only a few days 
 before my departure. And now, the aspect of the 
 village being the same, and the crowd composed of my 
 old acquaintances, I could hardly realize that years 
 had passed, or even months, or thai the very drops of 
 
38 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 water were not falling at this moment, which had been 
 flung up then. But I pressed the conviction home, 
 that, brief as the time appeared, it had been long 
 enough for me to wander away and return again, with 
 my fate accomplished, and little more hope in this 
 world. The last throb of an adventurous and way 
 ward spirit kept me from repining. I felt as if it 
 were better or not worse, to have compressed my en 
 joyments and sufferings into a few wild years, and 
 then to rest myself in an early grave, than to have 
 chosen the untroubled and ungladdened course of the 
 crowd before me, whose days were all alike, and a 
 long lifetime like each day. But the sentiment star 
 tled me. For a moment I doubted whether my dear- 
 bought wisdom were anything but the incapacity to 
 pursue fresh follies, and whether, if health and strength 
 could be restored that night, I should be found in the 
 village after to-morrow s dawn. 
 
 " Among other novelties, I had noticed that the tav 
 ern was now designated as a Temperance House, in 
 letters extending across the whole front, with a smaller 
 sign promising Hot Coffee at all hours, and Spruce 
 Beer to lodgers gratis. There were few new build 
 ings, except a Methodist chapel and a printing-office, 
 with a bookstore in the lower story. The golden mor 
 tar still ornamented the apothecary s door, nor had the 
 Indian Chief, with his gilded tobacco stalk, been re 
 lieved from doing sentinel s duty before Dominions 
 Pike s grocery. The gorgeous silks, though of later 
 patterns, were still flaunting like a banner in front of 
 Mr. Nightingale s dry-goods store. Some of the signs 
 introduced me to strangers, whose predecessors had 
 failed, or emigrated to the West, or removed merely 
 to the other end of the village, transferring their names 
 
MY HOME RETURN. 39 
 
 from the sign-boards to slabs of marble or slate. But, 
 on the whole, death and vicissitude had done very 
 little. There were old men, scattered about the street, 
 who had been old in my earliest reminiscences ; and, 
 as if their venerable forms were permanent parts of 
 the creation, they appeared to be hale and hearty old 
 men yet. The less elderly were more altered, having 
 generally contracted a stoop, with hair wofully thinned 
 and whitened. Some I could hardly recognize; at 
 my last glance they had been boys and girls, but were 
 young men and women when I looked again ; and 
 there were happy little things too, rolling about on the 
 grass, whom God had made since my departure. 
 
 " But now, in my lingering course, I had descended 
 the hill, and began to consider, painfully enough, how 
 I should meet my towns-people, and what reception 
 they would give me. Of many an evil prophecy, doubt 
 less, had I been the subject. And would they salute 
 me with a roar of triumph or a low hiss of scorn, on 
 beholding their worst anticipations more than accom 
 plished? 
 
 " 4 No, said I, they will not triumph over me. 
 And should they ask the cause of my return, I will tell 
 them that a man may go far and tarry long away, if 
 his health be good and his hopes high ; but that when 
 flesh and spirit begin to fail, he remembers his birth 
 place and the old burial-ground, and hears a voice call 
 ing him to come home to his father and mother. They 
 will know, by my wasted frame and feeble step, that I 
 have heard the summons and obeyed. And, the first 
 greetings over, they will let me walk among them un 
 noticed, and linger in the sunshine while I may, and 
 steal into my grave in peace. 
 
 " With these reflections I looked kindly at the 
 
40 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 crowd, and drew off my glove, ready to give my hand 
 to the first that should put forth his. It occurred to 
 me, also, that some youth among them, now at the cri 
 sis of his fate, might have felt his bosom thrill at my 
 example, and be emulous of my wild life and worth 
 less fame. But I would save him. 
 
 " He shall be taught, said I, 4 by my life, and by 
 my death, that the world is a sad one for him who 
 shrinks from its sober duties. My experience shall 
 warn him to adopt some great and serious aim, such 
 as manhood will cling to, that he may not feel himself, 
 too late, a cumberer of this overladen earth, but a 
 man among men. I will beseech him not to follow 
 an eccentric path, nor, by stepping aside from the 
 highway of human affairs, to relinquish his claim 
 upon human sympathy. And often, as a text of deep 
 and varied meaning, I will remind him that he is an 
 American. 
 
 " By this time I had drawn near the meeting-house, 
 and perceived that the crowd were beginning to recog 
 nize me." 
 
 These are the last words traced by his hand. Has 
 not so chastened a spirit found true communion with 
 the pure in heaven ? " Until of late, I never could 
 believe that I was seriously ill : the past, I thought, 
 could not extend its misery beyond itself ; life was re 
 stored to me, and should not be missed again. I had 
 day-dreams even of wedded happiness. Still, as the 
 days wear on, a faintness creeps through my frame 
 and spirit, recalling the consciousness that a very old 
 man might as well nourish hope and young desire as 
 I at twenty-four. Yet the consciousness of my situa 
 tion does not always make me sad. Sometimes I look 
 upon the world with a quiet interest, because it cannot 
 
MY HOME RETURN. 41 
 
 concern me personally, and a loving one for the same 
 reason, because nothing selfish can interfere with the 
 sense of brotherhood. Soon to be all spirit, I have 
 already a spiritual sense of human nature, and see 
 deeply into the hearts of mankind, discovering what 
 is hidden from the wisest. The loves of young men 
 and virgins are known to me, before the first kiss, be 
 fore the whispered word, with the birth of the first 
 sigh. My glance comprehends the crowd, and pene 
 trates the breast of the solitary man. I think better 
 of the world than formerly, more generously of its vir 
 tues, more mercifully of its faults, with a higher esti 
 mate of its present happiness, and brighter hopes of 
 its destiny. My mind has put forth a second crop of 
 blossoms, as the trees do in the Indian summer. No 
 winter will destroy their beauty, for they are fanned 
 by the breeze and freshened by the shower that 
 breathes and falls in the gardens of Paradise ! " 
 
MY VISIT TO NIAGAEA. 
 
 NEVER did a pilgrim approach Niagara with 
 deeper enthusiasm than mine. I had lingered away 
 from it, and wandered to other scenes, because my 
 treasury of anticipated enjoyments, comprising all the 
 wonders of the world, had nothing else so magnificent, 
 and I was loath to exchange the pleasures of hope for 
 those of memory so soon. At length the day came. 
 The stage-coach, with a Frenchman and myself on the 
 back seat, had already left Lewiston, and in less than 
 an hour would set us doivn in Manchester. I began 
 to listen for the roar of the cataract, and trembled 
 with a sensation like dread, as the moment drew uigh, 
 when its voice of ages must roll, for the first time, on 
 my ear. The French gentleman stretched himself 
 from the window, and expressed loud admiration, 
 while, by a sudden impulse, I threw myself back and 
 closed my eyes. When the scene shut in, I was glad 
 to think, that for me the whole burst of Niagara was 
 yet in futurity. We rolled on, and entered the village 
 of Manchester, bordering on the falls. 
 
 I am quite ashamed of myself here. Not that 1 
 ran, like a madman to the falls, and plunged into the 
 thickest of the spray, never stopping to breathe, till 
 breathing was impossible : not that I committed this, 
 or any other suitable extravagance. On the contrary, 
 I alighted with perfect decency and composure, gave 
 my cloak to the black waiter, pointed out my baggage, 
 and inquired, not the nearest way to the cataract, but 
 
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 43 
 
 about the dinner-hour. The interval was spent in ar 
 ranging- my dress. Within the last fifteen minutes, 
 my mind had grown strangely benumbed, and my spir 
 its apathetic, with a slight depression, not decided 
 enough to be termed sadness. My enthusiasm was in 
 a deathlike slumber. Without aspiring to immortal 
 ity, as he did, I could have imitated that English trav 
 eller, who turned back from the point where he first 
 heard the thunder of Niagara, after crossing the ocean 
 to behold it. Many a Western trader, by the by, has 
 performed a similar act of heroism with more heroic 
 simplicity, deeming it no such wonderful feat to dine 
 at the hotel and resume his route to Buffalo or Lewis- 
 ton, while the cataract was roaring unseen. 
 
 Such has often been my apathy, when objects, long 
 sought, and earnestly desired, were placed within my 
 reach. After dinner at which an unwonted and 
 perverse epicurism detained me longer than usual I 
 lighted a cigar and paced the piazza, minutely atten 
 tive to the aspect and business of a very ordinary vil 
 lage. Finally, with reluctant step, and the feeling of 
 an intruder, I walked towards Goat Island. At the 
 toll-house, there were further excuses for delaying the 
 inevitable moment. My signature was required in a 
 huge ledger, containing similar records innumerable, 
 many of which I read. The skin of a great sturgeon, 
 and other fishes, beasts, and reptiles ; a collection of 
 minerals, such as lie in heaps near the falls ; some In 
 dian moccasons, and other trifles, made of deer-skin 
 and embroidered with beads; several newspapers from 
 Montreal, New York, and Boston, all attracted me 
 in turn. Out of a number of twisted sticks, the man 
 ufacture of a Tuscarora Indian, I selected one of 
 curled maple, curiously convoluted, and adorned with 
 
44 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the carved images of a snake and a fish. Using this 
 as my pilgrim s staff, I crossed the bridge. Above 
 and below me were the rapids, a river of impetuous 
 snow, with here and there a dark rock amid its white 
 ness, resisting all the physical fury, as any cold spirit 
 did the moral influences of the scene. On reaching 
 Goat Island, which separates the two great segments 
 of the falls, I chose the right-hand path, and followed 
 it to the edge of the American cascade. There, while 
 the falling sheet was yet invisible, I saw the vapor 
 that never vanishes, and the Eternal Rainbow of Ni 
 agara. 
 
 It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine, without a 
 cloud, save those of the cataracts. I gained an in 
 sulated rock, and beheld a broad sheet of brilliant and 
 unbroken foam, not shooting in a curved line from the 
 top of the precipice, but falling headlong down from 
 height to depth. A narrow stream diverged from the 
 main branch, and hurried over the crag by a channel 
 of its own, leaving a little pine-clad island and a streak 
 of precipice between itself and the larger sheet. Be 
 low arose the mist, on which was painted a dazzling 
 sunbow with two concentric shadows, one, almost 
 as perfect as the original brightness ; and the other, 
 drawn faintly round the broken edge of the cloud. 
 
 Still I had not half seen Niagara. Following the 
 verge of the island, the path led me to the Horseshoe, 
 where the real, broad St. Lawrence, rushing along on 
 a level with its banks, pours its whole breadth over a 
 concave line of precipice, and thence pursues its course 
 between lofty crags towards Ontario. A sort of 
 bridge, two or three feet wide, stretches out along the 
 edge of the descending sheet, and hangs upon the ris 
 ing mist, as if that were the foundation of the frail 
 
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 45 
 
 structure. Here I stationed myself in the blast of 
 wind, which the rushing river bore along with it. The 
 bridge was tremulous beneath me, and marked the 
 tremor of the solid earth. I looked along the whiten 
 ing rapids, and endeavored to distinguish a mass of 
 water far above the falls, to follow it to their verge, 
 and go down with it, in fancy, to the abyss of clouds 
 and storm. Casting my eyes across the river, and 
 every side, I took in the whole scene at a glance, and 
 tried to comprehend it in one vast idea. After an 
 hour thus spent, I left the bridge, and, by a staircase, 
 winding almost interminably round a post, descended 
 to the base of the precipice. From that point, my 
 path lay over slippery stones, and among great frag 
 ments of the cliff, to the edge of the cataract, where 
 the wind at once enveloped me in spray, and perhaps 
 dashed the rainbow round me. Were my long desires 
 fulfilled ? And had I seen Niagara ? 
 
 Oh that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld 
 it ! Blessed were the wanderers of old, who heard its 
 deep roar, sounding through the woods, as the sum 
 mons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful 
 brink, in all the freshness of native feeling. Had its 
 own mysterious voice been the first to warn me of its 
 existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down and 
 worshipped. But I had come thither, haunted with a 
 vision of foam and fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean 
 tumbling down out of the sky, a scene, in short, 
 which nature had too much good taste and calm sim 
 plicity to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt 
 these false conceptions to the reality, and finding 
 the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment 
 weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and 
 threw myself on the earth, feeling that I was un- 
 
46 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 worthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about 
 beholding them again. . . . 
 
 All that night, as there has been and will be for 
 ages past and to come, a rushing sound was heard, as 
 if a great tempest were sweeping through the air. It 
 mingled with my dreams, and made them full of storm 
 and whirlwind. Whenever I awoke, and heard this 
 dread sound in the air, and the windows rattling as 
 with a mighty blast, I could not rest again, till look 
 ing forth, I saw how bright the stars were, and that 
 every leaf in the garden was motionless. Never was a 
 summer night more calm to the eye, nor a gale of au 
 tumn louder to the ear. The rushing sound proceeds 
 from the rapids, and the rattling of the casements is 
 but an effect of the vibration of the whole house, 
 shaken by the jar of the cataract. The noise of the 
 rapids draws the attention from the true voice of 
 Niagara, which is a dull, muffled thunder, resounding 
 between the cliffs. I spent a wakeful hour at mid 
 night, in distinguishing its reverberations, and re 
 joiced to find that my former awe and enthusiasm were 
 reviving. 
 
 Gradually, and after much contemplation, I came to 
 know, by my own feelings, that Niagara is indeed a 
 wonder of the world, and not the less wonderful, be 
 cause time and thought must be employed in compre 
 hending it. Casting aside all preconceived notions, 
 and preparation to be dire-struck or delighted, the be 
 holder must stand beside it in the simplicity of his 
 heart, suffering the mighty scene to work its own im 
 pression. Night after night, I dreamed of it, and was 
 gladdened every morning by the consciousness of a 
 growing capacity to enjoy it. Yet I will not pretend 
 to the all-absorbing enthusiasm of some more fortunate 
 
MY VI-ZIT TO NIAGARA. 47 
 
 spectators, nor deny that very trifling causes would 
 draw my eyes and thoughts from the cataract. 
 
 The last day that I was to spend at Niagara, before 
 my departure for the Far West, I sat upon the Table 
 Kock. This celebrated station did not now, as of old, 
 project fifty feet beyond the line of the precipice, but 
 was shattered by the fall of an immense fragment, 
 which lay distant on the shore below. Still, on the 
 utmost verge of the rock, with my feet hanging over 
 it, I felt as if suspended in the open air. Never be 
 fore had my mind been in such perfect unison with 
 the scene. There were intervals, when I was con 
 scious of nothing but the great river, rolling calmly 
 into the abyss, rather descending than precipitating 
 itself, and acquiring tenfold majesty from its unhur 
 ried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It 
 was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have antic 
 ipated, in all its course through the broad lakes, that 
 it must pour their collected waters down this height. 
 The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and 
 the ever-varying shapes of mist, rising up, to become 
 clouds in the sky, would be the very picture of con 
 fusion, were it merely transient, like the rage of a 
 tempest. But when the beholder has stood awhile, 
 and perceives no lull in the storm, and considers that 
 the vapor and the foam are as everlasting as the rocks 
 which produce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of 
 calmness. It soothes, while it awes the mind. 
 
 Leaning over the cliff, I saw the guide conducting 
 two adventurers behind the falls. It was pleasant, 
 from that high seat in the sunshine, to observe them 
 struggling against the eternal storm of the lower re 
 gions, with heads bent down, now faltering, now press 
 ing forward, and finally swallowed up in their victory. 
 
48 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 After their disappearance, a blast rushed out with an 
 old hat, which it had swept from one of their heads. 
 The rock, to which they were directing their unseen 
 course, is marked, at a fearful distance on the exterior 
 of the sheet, by a jet of foam. The attempt to reach 
 it appears both poetical and perilous to a looker-on, 
 but may be accomplished without much more diffi 
 culty or hazard, than in stemming a violent north 
 easter. In a few moments, forth came the children 
 of the mist. Dripping and breathless, they crept 
 along the base of the cliff, ascended to the guide s cot 
 tage, and received, I presume, a certificate of their 
 achievement, with three verses of sublime poetry on 
 the back. 
 
 My contemplations were often interrupted by stran 
 gers who came down from Forsyth s to take their first 
 view of the falls. A short, ruddy, middle-aged gen 
 tleman, fresh from Old England, peeped over the rock, 
 and evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His 
 spouse, a very robust lady, afforded a sweet example 
 of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the safety of 
 her little boy that she did not even glance at Niagara. 
 As for the child, he gave himself wholly to the enjoy 
 ment of a stick of candy. Another traveller, a native 
 American, and no rare character among us, produced 
 a volume of Captain Hall s tour, and labored earnestly 
 to adjust Niagara to the captain s description, depart 
 ing, at last, without one new idea or sensation of his 
 own. The next comer was provided, not with a 
 printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from 
 top to bottom of which, by means of an ever-pointed 
 pencil, the cataract was made to thunder. In a little 
 talk, which we had together, he awarded his approba 
 tion to the general view, but censured the position oi 
 
MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 49 
 
 Goat Island, observing that it should have been thrown 
 farther to the right, so as to widen the American falls, 
 and contract those of the Horseshoe. Next appeared 
 two traders of Michigan, who declared, that, upon the 
 whole, the sight was worth looking at ; there certainly 
 was an immense water-power here ; but that, after all, 
 they would go twice as far to see the noble stone-works 
 of Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a 
 descent of sixty feet. They were succeeded by a young 
 fellow, in a homespun cotton dress, with a staff in his 
 hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced 
 close to the edge of the rock, where his attention, at 
 first wavering among the different components of the 
 scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the Horse 
 shoe falls, which is, indeed, the central point of inter 
 est. His whole soul seemed to go forth and be trans 
 ported thither, till the staff slipped from his relaxed 
 grasp, and falling down down down struck 
 upon the fragment of the Table Rock. 
 
 In this manner I spent some hours, watching the 
 varied impression, made by the cataract, on those who 
 disturbed me, and returning to unwearied contempla 
 tion, when left alone. At length my time came to de 
 part. There is a grassy footpath, through the woods, 
 along the summit of the bank, to a point whence a 
 causeway, hewn in the side of the precipice, goes wind 
 ing down to the Ferry, about half a mile below the 
 Table Rock. The sun was near setting, when I 
 emerged from the shadow of the trees, and began the 
 descent. The indirectness of my downward road con 
 tinually changed the point of view, and showed me, in 
 rich and repeated succession, now, the whitening rap- 
 ids and majestic leap of the main river, which ap 
 peared more deeply massive as the light departed ; 
 
 VOL. xii. 4 
 
50 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 now, the lovelier picture, yet still sublime, of Goat 
 Island, with its rocks and grove, and the lesser falls, 
 tumbling over the right bank of the St. Lawrence, like 
 a tributary stream ; now, the long vista of the river, 
 as it eddied and whirled between the cliffs, to pass 
 through Ontario toward the sea, and everywhere to 
 be wondered at, for this one unrivalled scene. The 
 golden sunshine tinged the sheet of the American cas 
 cade, and painted on its heaving spray the broken 
 semicircle of a rainbow, heaven s own beauty crown 
 ing earth s sublimity. My steps were slow, and I paused 
 long at every turn of the descent, as one lingers and 
 pauses who discerns a brighter and brightening excel 
 lence in what he must soon behold no more. The soli 
 tude of the old wilderness now reigned over the whole 
 vicinity of the falls. My enjoyment became the more 
 rapturous, because no poet shared it, nor wretch de 
 void of poetry profaned it ; but the spot so famous 
 through the world was all my own ! 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 
 
 " YES, indeed : the gem is as bright as a star, and 
 curiously set," said Clara Pemberton, examining an 
 antique ring, which her betrothed lover had just pre 
 sented to her, with a very pretty speech. " It needs 
 only one thing to make it perfect." 
 
 " And what is that ? " asked Mr. Edward Caryl, 
 secretly anxious for the credit of his gift. " A modern 
 setting, perhaps ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! That would destroy the charm at once," 
 replied Clara. " It needs nothing but a story. I 
 long to know how many times it has been the pledge 
 of faith between two lovers, and whether the vows, of 
 which it was the symbol, were always kept or often 
 broken. Not that I should be too scrupulous about 
 facts. If you happen to be unacquainted with its au 
 thentic history, so much the better. May it not have 
 sparkled upon a queen s finger ? Or who knows but 
 it is the very ring which Posthumus received from 
 Imogen ? In short, you must kindle your imagina 
 tion at the lustre of this diamond, and make a legend 
 for it." 
 
 Now such a task and doubtless Clara knew it 
 was the most acceptable that could have been imposed 
 on Edward Caryl. He was one of that multitude of 
 young gentlemen limbs, or rather twigs, of the law 
 whose names appear in gilt letters on the front of 
 Tudor s Buildings, and other places in the vicinity of 
 the Court House, which seem to be the haunt of the 
 
52 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 gentler as well as the severer Muses. Edward, in the 
 dearth of clients, was accustomed to employ his much 
 leisure in assisting the growth of American Literature, 
 to which good cause he had contributed not a few 
 quires of the finest letter-paper, containing some 
 thought, some fancy, some depth of feeling, together 
 with a young writer s abundance of conceits. Sonnets, 
 stanzas of Tennysonian sweetness, tales imbued with 
 German mysticism, versions from Jean Paul, criti 
 cisms of the old English poets, and essays smacking of 
 Dialistic philosophy, were among his multifarious pro 
 ductions. The editors of the fashionable periodicals 
 were familiar with his autography, and inscribed his 
 name in those brilliant bead-rolls of ink-stained celeb 
 rity which illustrate the first page of their covers. Nor 
 did fame withhold her laurel. Hillard had included 
 him among the lights of the New England metropolis, 
 in his " Boston Book ; " Bryant had found room for 
 some of his stanzas, in the " Selections from American 
 Poetry; " and Mr. Griswold, in his recent assemblage 
 of the sons and daughters of song, had introduced 
 Edward Caryl into the inner court of the temple, 
 among his fourscore choicest bards. There was a 
 prospect, indeed, of his assuming a still higher and 
 more independent position. Interviews had been held 
 with Ticknor, and a correspondence with the Harpers, 
 respecting a proposed volume, chiefly to consist of Mr. 
 Caryl s fugitive pieces in the Magazines, but to be 
 accompanied with a poem of some length, never be 
 fore published. Not improbably, the public may yet 
 be gratified with this collection. 
 
 Meanwhile, we sum up our sketch of Edward Caryl, 
 by pronouncing him, though somewhat of a carpet 
 knight in literature, yet no unfavorable specimen of a 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 53 
 
 generation of rising writers, whose spirit is such that 
 we may reasonably expect creditable attempts from 
 all, and good and beautiful results from some. And, 
 it will be observed, Edward was the very man to write 
 pretty legends, at a lady s instance, for an old-fash 
 ioned diamond ring. He took the jewel in his hand, 
 and turned it so as to catch its scintillating radiance, 
 as if hoping, in accordance with Clara s suggestion, to 
 light up his fancy with that star-like gleam. 
 
 " Shall it be a ballad? a tale in verse?" he in 
 quired. " Enchanted rings often glisten in old Eng 
 lish poetry ; I think something may be done with the 
 subject ; but it is fitter for rhyme than prose." 
 
 " No, no," said Miss Pemberton, " we will have no 
 more rhyme than just enough for a posy to the ring. 
 You must tell the legend in simple prose ; and when 
 it is finished, I will mako a little party to hear it 
 read." 
 
 The young gentleman promised obedience ; and go 
 ing to his pillow, with his head full of the familiar 
 spirits that used to be worn in rings, watches, and 
 sword-hilts, he had the good fortune to possess himself 
 of an available idea in a dream. Connecting this with 
 what he himself chanced to know of the ring s real 
 history, his task was done. Clara Pemberton invited 
 a select few of her friends, all holding the stanchest 
 faith in Edward s genius, and therefore the most ge 
 nial auditors, if not altogether the fairest critics, that 
 a writer could possibly desire. Blessed be woman for 
 her faculty of admiration, and especially for her ten 
 dency to admire with her heart, when man, at most, 
 grants merely a cold approval with his mind ! 
 
 Drawing his chair beneath the blaze of a solar lamp, 
 Edward Caryl untied a roll of glossy paper, and began 
 as follows : 
 
54 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 THE LEGEND. 
 
 After the death-warrant had been read to the Earl 
 of Essex, and on the evening before his appointed ex 
 ecution, the Countess of Shrewsbury paid his lordship 
 a visit, and found him, as it appeared, toying child 
 ishly with a ring. The diamond, that enriched it, 
 glittered like a little star, but with a singular tinge of 
 red. The gloomy prison-chamber in the Tower, with 
 its deep and narrow windows piercing the walls of 
 stone, was now all that the earl possessed of worldly 
 prospect ; so that there was the less wonder that he 
 should look steadfastly into the gem, and moralize 
 upon earth s deceitful splendor, as men in darkness 
 and ruin seldom fail to do. But the shrewd observa 
 tions of the countess, an artful and unprincipled 
 woman, the pretended friend of Essex, but who had 
 come to glut her revenge for a deed of scorn which 
 he himself had forgotten, her keen eye detected a 
 deeper interest attached to this jewel. Even while 
 expressing his gratitude for her remembrance of a 
 ruined favorite, and condemned criminal, the earl s 
 glance reverted to the ring, as if all that remained of 
 time and its affairs were collected within that small 
 golden circlet. 
 
 " My dear lord," observed the countess, " there is 
 surely some matter of great moment wherewith this 
 ring is connected, since it so absorbs your mind. A 
 token, it may be, of some fair lady s love, alas, poor 
 lady, once richest in possessing such a heart ! Would 
 you that the jewel be returned to her ? " 
 
 " The queen ! the queen ! It was her Majesty s own 
 gift," replied the earl, still gazing into the depths of 
 the gem. " She took it from her finger, and told me, 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 55 
 
 with a smile, that it was an heirloom from her Tudor 
 ancestors, and had once been the property of Merlin, 
 the British wizard, who gave it to the lady of his love. 
 His art had made this diamond the abiding-place of a 
 spirit, which, though of fiendish nature, was bound to 
 work only good, so long as the ring was an un violated 
 pledge of love and faith, both with the giver and 
 receiver. But should love prove false, and faith be 
 broken, then the evil spirit would work his own devil 
 ish will, until the ring were purified by becoming the 
 medium of some good and holy act, and again the 
 pledge of faithful love. The gem soon lost its virtue ; 
 for the wizard was murdered by the very lady to whom 
 he gave it." 
 
 " An idle legend ! " said the countess. 
 
 " It is so," answered Essex, with a melancholy 
 smile. " Yet the queen s favor, of which this ring 
 was the symbol, has proved my ruin. When death is 
 nigh, men converse with dreams and shadows. I have 
 been gazing into the diamond, and fancying but you 
 will laugh at me that I might catch a glimpse of 
 the evil spirit there. Do you observe this red glow, 
 dusky, too, amid all the brightness ? It is the token 
 of his presence ; and even now, methinks, it grows 
 redder and duskier, like an angry sunset." 
 
 Nevertheless, the earl s manner testified how slight 
 was his credence in the enchanted properties of the 
 ring. But there is a kind of playfulness that comes 
 in moments of despair, when the reality of misfortune, 
 if entirely felt, would crush the soul at once. He 
 now, for a brief space, was lost in thought, while the 
 countess contemplated him with malignant satisfac 
 tion. 
 
 " This ring," he resumed, in another tone, " alone 
 
56 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 remains, of all that my royal mistress s favor lavished 
 upon her servant. My fortune once shone as brightly 
 as the gem. And now, such a darkness has fallen 
 around me, methinks it would be no marvel if its 
 gleam the sole light of my prison-house were to 
 be forthwith extinguished ; inasmuch as my last earthly 
 hope depends upon it." 
 
 " How say you, my lord ? " asked the Countess of 
 Shrewsbury. " The stone is bright ; but there should 
 be strange magic in it, if it can keep your hopes alive, 
 at this sad hour. Alas ! these iron bars and ramparts 
 of the Tower are unlike to yield to such a spell." 
 
 Essex raised his head involuntarily ; for there was 
 something in the countess s tone that disturbed him, 
 although he could not suspect that an enemy had in 
 truded upon the sacred privacy of a prisoner s dun 
 geon, to exult over so dark a ruin of such once brill 
 iant fortunes. He looked her in the face, but saw 
 nothing to awaken his distrust. It would have re 
 quired a keener eye than even Cecil s to read the se 
 cret of a countenance, which had been worn so long 
 in the false light of a court, that it was now little bet 
 ter than a mask, telling any story save the true one. 
 The condemned nobleman again bent over the ring, 
 and proceeded : 
 
 " It once had power in it, this bright gem, the 
 magic that appertains to the talisman of a great 
 queen s favor. She bade me, if hereafter I should 
 fall into her disgrace, how deep soever, and what 
 ever might be the crime, to convey this jewel to her 
 sight, and it should plead for me. Doubtless, with 
 her piercing judgment, she had even then detected the 
 rashness of my nature, and foreboded some such deed 
 as has now brought destruction upon my head. And 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 57 
 
 knowing, too, her own hereditary rigor, she designed, 
 it may be, that the memory of gentler and kindlier 
 hours should soften her heart in my behalf, when my 
 need should be the greatest. I have doubted, I 
 have distrusted, yet who can tell, even now, what 
 happy influence this ring might have ? " 
 
 " You have delayed full long to show the ring, and 
 plead her Majesty s gracious promise," remarked the 
 countess, " your state being what it is." 
 
 " True," replied the earl : " but for my honor s sake, 
 I was loath to entreat the queen s mercy, while I 
 might hope for life, at least, from the justice of the 
 laws. If, on a trial by my peers, I had been acquitted 
 of meditating violence against her sacred life, then 
 would I have fallen at her feet, and, presenting the 
 jewel, have prayed no other favor than that my love 
 and zeal should be put to the severest test. But now 
 it were confessing too much it were cringing too 
 low to beg the miserable gift of life, on no other 
 score than the tenderness which her Majesty deems me 
 to have forfeited ! " 
 
 " Yet it is your only hope," said the countess. 
 
 " And besides," continued Essex, pursuing his own 
 reflections, u of what avail will be this token of wo 
 manly feeling, when, on the other hand, are arrayed 
 the all-prevailing motives of state policy, and the ar 
 tifices and intrigues of courtiers, to consummate my 
 downfall ? Will Cecil or Raleigh suffer her heart to 
 act for itself, even if the spirit of her father were not 
 in her ? It is in vain to hope it." 
 
 But still Essex gazed at the ring with an absorbed 
 attention, that proved how much hope his sanguine 
 temperament had concentrated here, when there was 
 none else for him in the wide world, save what lay in 
 
58 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the compass of that hoop of gold. The spark of 
 brightness within the diamond, which gleamed like an 
 intenser than earthly fire, was the memorial of his daz 
 zling career. It had not paled with the waning sun 
 shine of his mistress s favor ; on the contrary, in spite 
 of its remarkable tinge of dusky red, he fancied that 
 it never shone so brightly. The glow of festal torches, 
 the blaze of perfumed lamps, bonfires that had 
 been kindled for him, when he was the darling of 
 the people, the splendor of the royal court, where 
 he had been the peculiar star, all seemed to have 
 collected their moral or material glory into the gem, 
 and to burn with a radiance caught from the future, 
 as well as gathered from the past. That radiance 
 might break forth again. Bursting from the diamond, 
 into which it was now narrowed, it might beam first 
 upon the gloomy walls of the Tower, then wider, 
 wider, wider, till all England, and the seas around 
 her cliffs, should be gladdened with the light. It was 
 such an ecstasy as often ensues after long depression, 
 and has been supposed to precede the circumstances 
 of darkest fate that may befall mortal man. The earl 
 pressed the ring to his heart as if it were indeed a tal 
 isman, the habitation of a spirit, as the queen had 
 playfully assured him, but a spirit of happier influ 
 ences than her legend spake of. 
 
 " Oh, could I but make my way to her footstool ! " 
 cried he, waving his hand aloft, while he paced the 
 stone pavement of his prison-chamber with an impetu 
 ous step. "I might kneel down, indeed, a ruined man, 
 condemned to the block, but how should I rise again? 
 Once more the favorite of Elizabeth ! England s 
 proudest noble ! with such prospects as ambition 
 never aimed at ! Why have I tarried so long in thii 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 59 
 
 weary dungeon ? The ring has power to set me free ! 
 The palace wants me ! Ho, jailer, unbar the door ! " 
 
 But then occurred the recollection of the impossibil 
 ity of obtaining an interview with his fatally estranged 
 mistress, and testing the influence over her affections, 
 which he still flattered himself with possessing. Could 
 he step beyond the limits of his prison, the world 
 would be all sunshine ; but here was only gloom and 
 death. 
 
 " Alas ! " said he, slowly and sadly, letting his head 
 fall upon his hands. " I die for the lack of one 
 blessed word." 
 
 The Countess of Shrewsbury, herself forgotten amid 
 the earl s gorgeous visions, had watched him with an 
 aspect that could have betrayed nothing to the most 
 suspicious observer ; unless that it was too calm for 
 humanity, while witnessing the flutterings, as it were, 
 of a generous heart in the death-agony. She now ap 
 proached him. 
 
 " My good lord," she said, " what mean you to do ? " 
 
 " Nothing, my deeds are done ! " replied he, de- 
 spondingly ; " yet, had a fallen favorite any friends, 
 I would entreat one of them to lay this ring at her 
 Majesty s feet ; albeit with little hope, save that, here 
 after, it might remind her that poor Essex, once far 
 too highly favored, was at last too severely dealt with." 
 
 " I will be that friend," said the countess. " There 
 is no time to be lost. Trust this precious ring with 
 me. This very night the queen s eye shall rest upon, 
 it ; nor shall the efficacy of my poor words be want 
 ing, to strengthen the impression which it will doubt 
 less make." 
 
 The earl s first impulse was to hold out the ring. 
 But looking at the countess, as she bent forward to 
 
60 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 receive it, lie fancied that the red glow of the gem 
 tinged all her face, and gave it an ominous expression. 
 Many passages of past times recurred to his memory. 
 A preternatural insight, perchance caught from ap 
 proaching death, threw its momentary gleam, as from 
 a meteor, all round his position. 
 
 " Countess, he said, " I know not wherefore I hesi 
 tate, being in a plight so desperate, and having so lit 
 tle choice of friends. But have you looked into your 
 own heart? Can you perform this office with the 
 truth the earnestness the zeal, even to tears, and 
 agony of spirit wherewith the holy gift of human 
 life should be pleaded for ? Woe be unto you, should 
 you undertake this task, and deal towards me other 
 wise than with utmost faith! For your own soul s 
 sake, and as you would have peace at your death-hour, 
 consider well in what spirit you receive this ring ! " 
 
 The countess did not shrink. 
 
 " My lord ! my good lord ! " she exclaimed, " wrong 
 not a woman s heart by these suspicions. You might 
 choose another messenger ; but who, save a lady of her 
 bedchamber, can obtain access to the queen at this un 
 timely hour ? It is for your life, for your life, 
 else I would not renew my offer." 
 
 " Take the ring," said the earl. 
 
 " Believe that it shall be in the queen s hands be 
 fore the lapse of another hour," replied the countess, 
 as she received this sacred trust of life and death. 
 " To-morrow morning look for the result of my inter 
 cession." 
 
 She departed. Again the earl s hopes rose high. 
 Dreams visited his slumber, not of the sable-decked 
 scaffold in the Tower-yard, but of canopies of state, 
 obsequious courtiers, pomp, splendor, the smile of the 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 61 
 
 once more gracious queen, and a light beaming from 
 the magic gem, which illuminated his whole future. 
 
 History records how foully the Countess of Shrews 
 bury betrayed the trust, which Essex, in his utmost 
 need, confided to her. She kept the ring, and stood 
 in the presence of Elizabeth, that night, without one 
 attempt to soften her stern hereditary temper in be 
 half of the former favorite. The next day the earl s 
 noble head rolled upon the scaffold. On her death 
 bed, tortured, at last, with a sense of the dreadful 
 guilt which she had taken upon her soul, the wicked 
 countess sent for Elizabeth, revealed the story of the 
 ring, and besought forgiveness for her treachery. But 
 the queen, still obdurate, even while remorse for past 
 obduracy was tugging at her heart-strings, shook the 
 dying woman in her bed, as if struggling with death 
 for the privilege of wreaking her revenge and spite. 
 The spirit of the countess passed away, to undergo the 
 justice, or receive the mercy, of a higher tribunal ; 
 and tradition says, that the fatal ring was found upon 
 her breast, where it had imprinted a dark red circle, 
 resembling the effect of the intensest heat. The at 
 tendants, who prepared the body for burial, shud 
 dered, whispering one to another, that the ring must 
 have derived its heat from the glow of infernal fire. 
 They left it on her breast, in the coffin, and it went 
 with that guilty woman to the tomb. 
 
 Many years afterward, when the church, that con 
 tained the monuments of the Shrewsbury family, was 
 desecrated by Cromwell s soldiers, they broke open the 
 ancestral vaults, and stole whatever was valuable from 
 the noble personages who reposed there. Merlin s an 
 tique ring passed into the possession of a stout ser 
 geant of the Ironsides, who thus became subject to the 
 
62 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 influences of the evil spirit that still kept his abode 
 within the gem s enchanted depths. The sergeant was 
 soon slain in battle, thus transmitting the ring, though 
 without any legal form of testament, to a gay cavalier, 
 who forthwith pawned it, and expended the money in 
 liquor, which speedily brought him to the grave. We 
 next catch the sparkle of the magic diamond at vari 
 ous epochs of the merry reign of Charles the Second. 
 But its sinister fortune still attended it. From what 
 ever hand this ring of portent came, and whatever fin 
 ger it encircled, ever it was the pledge of deceit be 
 tween man and man, or man and woman, of faithless 
 vows, and unhallowed passion ; and whether to lords 
 and ladies, or to village - maids, for sometimes it 
 found its way so low, still it brought nothing but 
 sorrow and disgrace. No purifying deed was done, to 
 drive tho fiend from his bright home in this little star. 
 Again, we hear of it at a later period, when Sir Rob 
 ert Walpole bestowed the ring, among far richer jew 
 els, on the lady of a British legislator, whose political 
 honor he wished to undermine. Many a dismal and 
 unhappy tale might be wrought out of its other adven 
 tures. All this while, its ominous tinge of dusky red 
 had been deepening and darkening, until, if laid upon 
 white paper, it cast the mingled hue of night and blood, 
 strangely illuminated with scintillating light, in a cir 
 cle round about. But this peculiarity only made it 
 the more valuable. 
 
 Alas, the fatal ring ! When shall its dark secret 
 be discovered, and the doom of ill, inherited from one 
 possessor to another, \gi finally revoked ? 
 
 The legend now cruises the Atlantic, and comes 
 down to our own immediate time. In a certain church 
 of our city, not many evenings ago, there was a con- 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 63 
 
 tribution for a charitable object. A fervid preacher 
 had poured out his whole soul in a rich and tender dis 
 course, which had at least excited the tears, arid per 
 haps the more effectual sympathy, of a numerous audi 
 ence. While the choristers sang sweetly, and the organ 
 poured forth its melodious thunder, the deacons passed 
 up and down the aisles, and along the galleries, pre 
 senting their mahogany boxes, in which each person 
 deposited whatever sum he deemed it safe to lend to 
 the Lord, in aid of human wretchedness. Charity be 
 came audible, chink, chink, chink, as it fell drop 
 by drop, into the common receptacle. There was a 
 hum, a stir, the subdued bustle of people putting 
 their hands into their pockets ; while, ever and anon, 
 a vagrant coin fell upon the floor, and rolled away, 
 with long reverberation, into some inscrutable corner. 
 
 At length, all having been favored with an oppor 
 tunity to be generous, the two deacons placed their 
 boxes on the communion-table, and thence, at the con 
 clusion of the services, removed them into the vestry. 
 Here these good old gentlemen sat down together, to 
 reckon the accumulated treasure. 
 
 " Fie, fie, Brother Tilton," said Deacon Trott, peep 
 ing into Deacon Tilton s box, " what a heap of copper 
 you have picked up ! Really, for an old man, you 
 must have had a heavy job to lug it along. Copper ! 
 copper ! copper ! Do people expect to get admittance 
 into heaven at the price of a few coppers ? " 
 
 " Don t wrong them, brother," answered Deacon 
 Tilton, a simple and kindly old man. " Copper may 
 do more for one person, than gold will for another. 
 In the galleries, where I present my box, we must not 
 expect such a harvest as you gather among the gentry 
 in the broad aisle, and all over the floor of the church. 
 
64 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 My people are chiefly poor mechanics and laborers, 
 sailors, seamstresses, and servant - maids, with a most 
 uncomfortable intermixture of roguish school-boys." 
 
 " Well, well," said Deacon Trott ; " but there is a 
 great deal, Brother Tilton, in the method of presenting 
 a contribution-box. It is a knack that comes by na 
 ture, or not at all." 
 
 They now proceeded to sum up the avails of the 
 evening, beginning with the receipts of Deacon Trott. 
 In good sooth, that worthy personage had reaped an 
 abundant harvest, in which he prided himself no less, 
 apparently, than if every dollar had been contributed 
 from his own individual pocket. Had the good dea 
 con been meditating a jaunt to Texas, the treasures 
 of the mahogany box might have sent him on his way 
 rejoicing. There were bank - notes, mostly, it is true, 
 of the smallest denomination in the giver s pocket- 
 book, yet making a goodly average upon the whole. 
 The most splendid contribution was a check for a hun 
 dred dollars, bearing the name of a distinguished mer 
 chant, whose liberality was duly celebrated in the 
 newspapers of the next day. No less than seven half- 
 eagles, together with an English sovereign, glittered 
 amidst an indiscriminate heap of silver; the box be 
 ing polluted with nothing of the copper kind, except a 
 single bright new cent, wherewith a little boy had per 
 formed his first charitable act. 
 
 "Very well! very well indeed!" said Deacon Trott, 
 self -approvingly. "A handsome evening s work ! And 
 now, Brother Tilton, let s see whether you can match 
 it." Here was a sad contrast ! They poured forth 
 Deacon Tilton s treasure upon the table, and it really 
 seemed as if the whole copper coinage of the country, 
 together with an amazing quantity of shop-keeper s 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 65 
 
 tokens, and English and Irish half-pence, mostly of 
 base metal, had been congregated into the box. There 
 was a very substantial pencil-case, and the semblance 
 of a shilling ; but the latter proved to be made of tin, 
 and the former of German-silver. A gilded brass but 
 ton was doing duty as a gold coin, and a folded shop- 
 bill had assumed the character of a bank-note. But 
 Deacon Tilton s feelings were much revived by the 
 aspect of another bank - note, new and crisp, adorned 
 with beautiful engravings, and stamped with the indu 
 bitable word, TWENTY, in large black letters. Alas ! 
 it was a counterfeit. In short, the poor old Deacon 
 was no less unfortunate than those who trade with 
 fairies, and whose gains are sure to be transformed 
 into dried leaves, pebbles, and other valuables of that 
 kind. 
 
 " I believe the Evil One is in the box," said he, with 
 some vexation. 
 
 " Well done, Deacon Tilton ! " cried his Brother 
 Trott, with a hearty laugh. " You ought to have a 
 statue in copper." 
 
 " Never mind, brother," replied the good Deacon, 
 recovering his temper. " I 11 bestow ten dollars from 
 my own pocket, and may Heaven s blessing go along 
 with it. But look ! what do you call this ? " 
 
 Under the copper mountain, which it had cost them 
 so much toil to remove, lay an antique ring ! It was 
 enriched with a diamond, which, so soon as it caught 
 the light, began to twinkle and glimmer, emitting the 
 whitest and purest lustre that could possibly be con 
 ceived. It was as brilliant as if some magician had 
 condensed the brightest star in heaven into a compass 
 fit to be set in a ring, for a lady s delicate finger. 
 
 " How is this ? " said Deacon Trott, examining it 
 
66 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 carefully, in the expectation of finding it as worthless 
 as the rest of his colleague s treasure. " Why, upon 
 my word, this seems to be a real diamond, and of the 
 purest water. Whence could it have come ? " 
 
 " Really, I cannot tell," quoth Deacon Tilton, " for 
 my spectacles were so misty that all faces looked alike. 
 But now I remember, there was a flash of light came 
 from the box, at one moment ; but it seemed a dusky 
 red, instead of a pure white, like the sparkle of this 
 gem. Well ; the ring will make up for the copper ; 
 but I wish the giver had thrown its history into the 
 box along with it." 
 
 It has been our good luck to recover a portion of 
 that history. After transmitting misfortune from one 
 possessor to another, ever since the days of British 
 Merlin, the identical ring which Queen Elizabeth gave 
 to the Earl of Essex was finally thrown into the con 
 tribution-box of a New England church. The two 
 deacons deposited it in the glass case of a fashionable 
 jeweller, of whom it was purchased by the humble 
 rehearser of this legend, in the hope that it may be 
 allowed to sparkle on a fair lady s finger. Purified 
 from the foul fiend, so long its inhabitant, by a deed 
 of unostentatious charity, and now made the symbol 
 of faithful and devoted love, the gentle bosom of its 
 new possessor need fear no sorrow from its influence. 
 
 " Very pretty ! Beautiful ! How original ! 
 How sweetly written! What nature ! What im 
 agination ! What power ! What pathos ! What 
 exquisite humor!" were the exclamations of Ed 
 ward Caryl s kind and generous auditors, at the con 
 clusion of the legend. 
 
 " It is a pretty tale," said Miss Pemberton, who, 
 
THE ANTIQUE RING. 67 
 
 conscious that her praise was to that of all others as 
 a diamond to a pebble, was therefore the less liberal 
 in awarding it. " It is really a pretty tale, and very 
 proper for any of the Annuals. But, Edward, your 
 moral does not satisfy me. What thought did you 
 embody in the ring ? " 
 
 " O Clara, this is too bad ! " replied Edward, with 
 a half -reproachful smile. " You know that I can never 
 separate the idea from the symbol in which it mani 
 fests itself. However, we may suppose the Gem to be 
 the human, heart, and the Evil Spirit to be Falsehood, 
 which, in one guise or another, is the fiend that causes 
 all the sorrow and trouble in the world. I beseech 
 you to let this suffice." 
 
 " It shall," said Clara, kindly. u And, believe me, 
 whatever the world may say of the story, I prize it 
 far above the diamond which enkindled your imagina 
 tion." 
 
GRAVES AND GOBLINS. 
 
 Now talk we of graves and goblins ! Fit themes, 
 start not ! gentle reader, fit for a ghost like me. 
 Yes ; though an earth-clogged fancy is laboring with 
 these conceptions, and an earthly hand will write them 
 down, for mortal eyes to read, still their essence flows 
 from as airy a ghost as ever basked in the pale star 
 light, at twelve o clock. Judge them not by the gross 
 and heavy form in which they now appear. They 
 may be gross, indeed, with the earthly pollution con 
 tracted from the brain, through which they pass ; and 
 heavy with the burden of mortal language, that crushes 
 all the finer intelligences of the soul. This is no fault 
 of mine. But should aught of ethereal spirit be per 
 ceptible, yet scarcely so, glimmering along the dull 
 train of words, should a faint perfume breathe from 
 the mass of clay, then, gentle reader, thank the 
 ghost, who thus embodies himself for your sake ! 
 Will you believe me, if I say that all true and noble 
 thoughts, and elevated imaginations, are but partly 
 the offspring of the intellect which seems to produce 
 them ? Sprites, that were poets once, and are now all 
 poetry, hover round the dreaming bard, and become 
 his inspiration ; buried statesmen lend their wisdom, 
 gathered on earth and mellowed in the grave, to the 
 historian ; and when the preacher rises nearest to the 
 level of his mighty subject, it is because the prophets 
 of old days have commune d with him. Who has not 
 been conscious of mysteries within his mind, mysteries 
 
GRAVES AND GOBLINS. 69 
 
 of truth and reality, which will not wear the chains of 
 language ? Mortal, then the dead were with you ! 
 And thus shall the earth-dulled soul, whom I inspire, 
 be conscious of a misty brightness among his thoughts, 
 and strive to make it gleam upon the page, but all 
 in vain. Poor author ! How will he despise what 
 he can grasp, for the sake of the dim glory that eludes 
 him ! 
 
 So talk we of graves and goblins. But, what have 
 ghosts to do with graves ? Mortal man, wearing the 
 dust which shall require a sepulchre, might deem it 
 more a home and resting-place than a spirit can, whose 
 earthly clod has returned to earth. Thus philosophers 
 have reasoned. Yet wiser they who adhere to the 
 ancient sentiment, that a phantom haunts and hallows 
 the marble tomb or grassy hillock where its material 
 form was laid. Till purified from each stain of clay ; 
 till the passions of the living world are all forgotten ; 
 till it have less brotherhood with the wayfarers of 
 earth than with spirits that never wore mortality, 
 the ghost must linger round the grave. Oh, it is a long 
 and dreary watch to some of us ! 
 
 Even in early childhood, I had selected a sweet spot, 
 of shade and glimmering sunshine, for my grave. It 
 was no burial-ground, but a secluded nook of virgin 
 earth, where I used to sit, whole summer afternoons, 
 dreaming about life and death. My fancy ripened 
 prematurely, and taught me secrets which I could not 
 otherwise have known. I pictured the coming years, 
 they never came to me, indeed ; but I pictured 
 them like life, and made this spot the scene of all that 
 should be brightest, in youth, manhood, and old age. 
 There, in a little while, it would be time for me to 
 breathe the bashful and burning vows of first-love j 
 
70 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 thither, after gathering fame abroad, I would return 
 to enjoy the loud plaudit of the world, a vast but un 
 obtrusive sound, like the booming of a distant sea ; 
 and thither, at the far-off close of life, an aged man 
 would come, to dream, as the boy was dreaming, and 
 be as happy in the past as he was in futurity. Finally, 
 when all should be finished, in that spot so hallowed, 
 in that soil so impregnated with the most precious of 
 my bliss, there was to be my grave. Methought it 
 would be the sweetest grave that ever a mortal frame 
 reposed in, or an ethereal spirit haunted. There, too, 
 in future times, drawn thither by the spell which I had 
 breathed around the place, boyhood would sport and 
 dream, and youth would love, and manhood would en 
 joy, and age would dream again, and my ghost would 
 watch but never frighten them. Alas, the vanity of 
 mortal projects, even when they centre in the grave ! 
 I died in my first youth, before I had been a lover ; at 
 a distance, also, from the grave which fancy had dug 
 for me ; and they buried me in the thronged cemetery 
 of a town, where my marble slab stands unnoticed 
 amid a hundred others. And there are coffins on 
 each side of mine ! 
 
 " Alas, poor ghost ! " will the reader say. Yet I 
 am a happy ghost enough, and disposed to be con 
 tented with my grave, if the sexton will but let it be 
 my own, and bring no other dead man to dispute my 
 title. Earth has left few stains upon me, and it will 
 be but a short time that I need haunt the place. It 
 is good to die in early youth. Had I lived out three 
 score years and ten, or half of them, my spirit would 
 have been so earth-incrusted, that centuries might not 
 have purified it for a better home than the dark pre 
 cincts of the grave. Meantime, there is good choice 
 
GRAVES AND GOBLINS. 71 
 
 of company amongst us. From twilight till near sun 
 rise, we are gliding to and fro, some in the graveyard, 
 others miles away ; and, would we speak with any 
 friend, we do but knock against his tombstone, and 
 pronounce the name engraved on it: in an instant, 
 there the shadow stands ! 
 
 Some are ghosts of considerable antiquity. There 
 is an old man, hereabout ; he never had a tombstone, 
 and is often puzzled to distinguish his own grave ; but 
 hereabouts he haunts, and long is doomed to haunt,, 
 He was a miser in his lifetime, and buried a strong 
 box of ill-gotten gold, almost fresh from the mint, in 
 the coinage of William and Mary. Scarcely was it 
 safe, when the sexton buried the old man, and his se 
 cret with him. I could point out the place where the 
 treasure lies ; it was at the bottom of the miser s gar 
 den ; but a paved thoroughfare now passes beside the 
 spot, and the corner-stone of a market-house presses 
 right down upon it. Had the workmen dug six inches 
 deeper, they would have found the hoard. Now 
 thither must this poor old miser go, whether in star 
 light, moonshine, or pitch darkness, and brood above 
 his worthless treasure, recalling all the petty crimes 
 by which he gained it. Not a coin must he fail to 
 reckon in his memory, nor forget a pennyworth of the 
 sin that made up the sum, though his agony is such as 
 if the pieces of gold, red-hot, were stamped into his 
 naked soul. Often, while he is in torment there, he 
 hears the steps of living men, who love the dross of 
 earth as well as he did. May they never groan over 
 their miserable wealth like him ! Night after night, 
 for above a hundred years, hath he done this penance, 
 and still must he do it, till the iron box he brought to 
 light, and each separate coin be cleansed by grateful 
 
72 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 tears of a widow or an orphan. My spirit sighs for 
 his long vigil at the corner of the market-house ! 
 
 There are ghosts whom I tremble to meet, and cin- 
 not think of without a shudder. One has the guilt of 
 blood upon him. The soul which he thrust untimely 
 forth has long since been summoned from our gloomy 
 graveyard, and dwells among the stars of heaven, too 
 far and too high for even the recollection of mortal an 
 guish to ascend thither. Not so the murderer s ghost! 
 It is his doom to spend all the hours of darkness in 
 the spot which he stained with innocent blood, and to 
 feel the hot stream hot as when it first gushed upon 
 his hand incorporating itself with his spiritual sub 
 stance. Thus his horrible crime is ever fresh within 
 him. Two other wretches are condemned to walk arm 
 in arm. They were guilty lovers in their lives, and 
 still, in death, must wear the guise of love, though 
 hatred and loathing have become their very nature 
 and existence. The pollution of their mutual sin re 
 mains with them, and makes their souls sick continu 
 ally. Oh, that I might forget all the dark shadows 
 which haunt about these graves ! This passing 
 thought of them has left a stain, and will weigh me 
 down among dust and sorrow, beyond the time that 
 my own transgressions would have kept me here. 
 
 There is one shade among us, whose high nature it 
 is good to meditate upon. He lived a patriot, and is 
 a patriot still. Posterity has forgotten him. The 
 simple slab, of red freestone, that bore his name, wa? 
 broken long ago, and is now covered by the gradual 
 accumulation of the soil. A tuft of thistles is his only 
 monument. This upright spirit came to his grave, 
 after a lengthened life, with so little stain of earth, 
 that he might, almost immediately, have trodden the 
 
GRA VES AND GOBLINS. 73 
 
 pathway of the sky. But his strong love of country 
 chained him down, to share its vicissitudes of weal 
 or woe. With such deep yearning in his soul, he was 
 unfit for heaven. That noblest virtue has the effect of 
 sin, and keeps his pure and lofty spirit in a penance, 
 which may not terminate till America be again a wil 
 derness. Not that there is no joy for the dead patriot. 
 Can he fail to experience it, while he contemplates the 
 mighty and increasing power of the land, which he 
 protected in its infancy ? No ; there is much to glad 
 den him. But sometimes I dread to meet him, as he 
 returns from the bedchambers of rulers and politicians, 
 after diving into their secret motives, and searching 
 out their aims. He looks round him with a stern and 
 awful sadness, and vanishes into his neglected grave. 
 Let nothing sordid or selfish defile your deeds or 
 thoughts, ye great men of the day, lest ye grieve the 
 noble dead. 
 
 Few ghosts take such an endearing interest as this, 
 even in their own private affairs. It made me rather 
 sad, at first, to find how soon the flame of love expires 
 amid the chill damps of the tomb ; so much the sooner, 
 the more fiercely it may have burned. Forget your 
 dead mistress, youth ! She has already forgotten you. 
 Maiden, cease to weep for your buried lover ! He will 
 know nothing of your tears, nor value them if he did. 
 Yet it were blasphemy to say that true love is other 
 than immortal. It is an earthly passion, of which I 
 speak, mingled with little that is spiritual, and must 
 therefore perish with the perishing clay. When souls 
 have loved, there is no falsehood or forgetfulness. 
 Maternal affection, too, is strong as adamant. There 
 are mothers here, among us, who might have been in 
 heaven fifty years ago, if they could forbear to cherish 
 
74 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 earthly joy and sorrow, reflected from the bosoms of 
 their children. Husbands and wives have a comfort 
 able gift of oblivion, especially when secure of the 
 faith of their living halves. Jealousy, it is true, will 
 play the devil with a ghost, driving him to the bedside 
 of secondary wedlock, there to scowl, unseen, and gib 
 ber inaudible remonstrances. Dead wives, however 
 jealous in their lifetime, seldom feel this posthumous 
 torment so acutely. 
 
 Many, many things, that appear most important 
 while we walk the busy street, lose all their interest 
 the moment we are borne into the quiet graveyard 
 which borders it. For my own part, my spirit had not 
 become so mixed up with earthly existence, as to be 
 now held in an unnatural combination, or tortured 
 much with retrospective cares. I still love my parents 
 and a younger sister, who remain among the living, 
 and often grieve me by their patient sorrow for the 
 dead. Each separate tear of theirs is an added weight 
 upon my soul, and" lengthens my stay among the 
 graves. As to other matters, it exceedingly rejoices 
 me that my summons came before I had time to write 
 a projected poem, which was highly imaginative in con 
 ception, and could not have failed to give me a trium 
 phant rank in the choir of our native bards. Nothing 
 is so much to be deprecated as posthumous renown. 
 It keeps the immortal spirit from the proper bliss of 
 his celestial state, and causes him to feed upon the im 
 pure breath of mortal man, till sometimes he forgets 
 that there are starry realms above him. Few poets 
 infatuated that they are ! soar upward while the 
 least whisper of their name is heard on earth. On 
 Sabbath evenings, my sisters sit by the fireside, be 
 tween our father and mother, and repeat some hymns 
 
GRAVES AND GOBLINS. 75 
 
 of mine, which they have often heard from my own 
 lips, ere the tremulous voice left them forever. Little 
 do they think, those dear ones, that the dead stands 
 listening in the glimmer of the firelight, and is almost 
 gifted with a visible shape by the fond intensity of 
 their remembrance. 
 
 Now shall the reader know a grief of the poor ghost 
 that speaks to him ; a grief, but not a helpless one. 
 Since I have dwelt among the graves, they bore the 
 corpse of a young maiden hither, and laid her in the 
 old ancestral vault, which is hollowed in the side of a 
 grassy bank. It has a door of stone, with rusty iron 
 hinges, and above it, a rude sculpture of the family 
 arms, and inscriptions of all their names who have 
 been buried there, including sire and son, mother and 
 daughter, of an ancient colonial race. All of her 
 lineage had gone before, and when the young maiden 
 followed, the portal was closed forever. The night 
 after her burial, when the other ghosts were flitting 
 about their graves, forth came the pale virgin s shad 
 ow, with the rest, but knew not whither to go, nor 
 whom to haunt, so lonesome had she been on earth. 
 She stood by the ancient sepulchre, looking upward to 
 the bright stars, as if she would, even then, begin her 
 flight. Her sadness made me sad. That night and 
 the next, I stood near her, in the moonshine, but 
 dared not speak, because she seemed purer than all 
 the ghosts, and fitter to converse with angels than 
 with men. But the third bright eve, still gazing up 
 ward to the glory of the heavens, she sighed, and said, 
 " When will my mother come for me ? " Her low, 
 sweet voice emboldened me to speak, and she was 
 kind and gentle, though so pure, and answered me 
 again. From that time, always at the ghostly hour, 
 
76 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 I sought the old tomb of her fathers, and either found 
 her standing by the door, or knocked, and she ap 
 peared. Blessed creature, that she was ; her chaste 
 spirit hallowed mine, and imparted such a celestial 
 buoyancy, that I longed to grasp her hand, and fly, 
 upward, aloft, aloft ! I thought, too, that she only 
 lingered here, till my earthlier soul should be puri 
 fied for heaven. One night, when the stars threw 
 down the light that shadows love, I stole forth to the 
 accustomed spot, and knocked, with my airy fingers, at 
 her door. She answered not. Again I knocked, and 
 breathed her name. Where was she ? At once, the 
 truth fell on my miserable spirit and crushed it to the 
 earth, among dead men s bones and mouldering dust, 
 groaning in cold and desolate agony. Her penance 
 was over ! She had taken her trackless flight, and 
 had found a home in the purest radiance of the upper 
 stars, leaving me to knock at the stone portal of the 
 darksome sepulchre. But I know I know, that an 
 gels hurried her away, or surely she would have whis 
 pered ere she fled ! 
 
 She is gone ! How could the grave imprison that 
 unspotted one ! But her pure, ethereal spirit will not 
 quite forget me, nor soar too high in bliss, till I as 
 cend to join her. Soon, soon be that hour ! I am 
 weary of the earth -damps; they burden me; they 
 choke me ! Already, I can float in the moonshine ; 
 the faint starlight will almost bear up my footsteps ; 
 the perfume of flowers, which grosser spirits love, is 
 now too earthly a luxury for me. Grave ! Grave ! 
 thou art not my home. I must flit a little longer in 
 thy night gloom, and then be gone, far from the 
 dust of the living and the dead, far from the cor 
 ruption that is around me, but no more within ! 
 
GRAVES AND GOBLINS. 77 
 
 A few times I have visited the chamber of one who 
 walks, obscure and lonely, on his mortal pilgrimage. 
 He will leave not many living friends, when he goes to 
 join the dead, where his thoughts often stray, and he 
 might better be. I steal into his sleep, and play my 
 part among the figures of his dreams. I glide through 
 the moonlight of his waking fancy, and whisper con 
 ceptions, which, with a strange thrill of fear, he writes 
 down as his own. I stand beside him now, at midnight, 
 telling these dreamy truths with a voice so dream-like, 
 that he mistakes them for fictions of a brain too prone 
 to such. Yet he glances behind him and shivers, while 
 the lamp burns pale. Farewell, dreamer, waking 
 or sleeping ! Your brightest dreams are fled ; your 
 mind grows too hard and cold for a spiritual guest to 
 enter ; you are earthly, too, and have all the sins of 
 earth. The ghost will visit you no more. 
 
 But where is the maiden, holy and pure, though 
 wearing a form of clay, that would have me bend over 
 her pillow at midnight, and leave a blessing there? 
 With a silent invocation, let her summon me. Shrink 
 not, maiden, when I come! . In life, I was a high- 
 souled youth, meditative, yet seldom sad, full of chaste 
 fancies, and stainless from all grosser sin. And now, 
 in death, I bring no loathsome smell of the grave, nor 
 ghostly terrors, but gentle, and soothing, and sweetly 
 pensive influences. Perhaps, just fluttering for the 
 skies, my visit may hallow the wellsprings of thy 
 thought, and make thee heavenly here on earth. Then 
 shall pure dreams and holy meditations bless thy life ; 
 nor thy sainted spirit linger round the grave, but seek 
 the upper stars, and meet me there ! 
 
DR. BULLIVANT. 
 
 THIS person was not eminent enough, either by na 
 ture or circumstance, to deserve a public memorial 
 simply for his own sake, after the lapse of a century 
 and a half from the era in which he flourished. His 
 character, in the view which we propose to take of it, 
 may give a species of distinctness and point to some 
 remarks on the tone and composition of New England 
 society, modified as it became by new ingredients from 
 the eastern world, and by the attrition of sixty or 
 seventy years over the rugged peculiarities of the orig 
 inal settlers. We are perhaps accustomed to employ 
 too sombre a pencil in picturing the earlier times 
 among the Puritans, because, at our cold distance, we 
 form our ideas almost wholly from their severest fea 
 tures. It is like gazing on some scenes in the land 
 which we inherit from them ; we see the mountains, 
 rising sternly and with frozen summits up to heaven, 
 and the forests, waving in massy depths where sun 
 shine seems a profanation, and we see the gray mist, 
 like the duskiness of years, shedding a chill obscurity 
 over the whole ; but the green and pleasant spots in 
 the hollow of the hills, the warm places in the heart of 
 what looks desolate, are hidden from our eyes. Still, 
 however, a prevailing characteristic of the age was 
 gloom, or something which cannot be more accurately 
 expressed than by that term, and its long shadow, fall 
 ing over all the intervening years, is visible, though 
 not too distinctly, upon ourselves. Without material 
 
DR. BULLIVANT. 79 
 
 detriment to a deep and solid happiness, the frolic of 
 the mind was so habitually chastened, that persons 
 have gained a nook in history by the mere possession 
 of animal spirits, too exuberant to be confined within 
 the established bounds. Every vain jest and unprofit 
 able word was deemed an item in the account of crim 
 inality, and whatever wit, or semblance thereof, came 
 into existence, its birthplace was generally the pulpit, 
 and its parent some sour old Genevan divine. The 
 specimens of humor and satire, preserved in the ser 
 mons and controversial tracts of those days, are occa 
 sionally the apt expressions of pungent thoughts ; but 
 oftener they are cruel torturings and twistings of trite 
 ideas, disgusting by the wearisome ingenuity which 
 constitutes their only merit. Among a people where 
 so few possessed, or were allowed to exercise, the art 
 of extracting the mirth which lies hidden like latent 
 caloric in almost everything, a gay apothecary, such 
 as Dr. Bullivant, must have been a phenomenon. 
 
 We will suppose ourselves standing in Cornhill, on 
 a pleasant morning of the year 1670, about the hour 
 when the shutters are unclosed, and the dust swept 
 from the doorsteps, and when Business rubs its eyes, 
 and begins to plod sleepily through the town. The 
 street, instead of running between lofty and continu 
 ous piles of brick, is but partially lined with wooden 
 buildings of various heights and architecture, in each 
 of which the mercantile department is connected with 
 the domicile, like the gingerbread and candy shops of 
 an after-date. The signs have a singular appearance 
 to a stranger s eye. These are not a barren record of 
 names and occupations, yellow letters on black boards, 
 but images and hieroglyphics, sometimes typifying the 
 principal commodity offered for sale, though generally 
 
80 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 intended to give an arbitrary designation to the estab 
 lishment. Overlooking the bearded Saracens, the 
 Indian Queens, and the wooden Bibles, let us direct 
 our attention to the white post newly erected at the 
 corner of the street, and surmounted by a gilded coun 
 tenance which flashes in the early sunbeams like veri 
 table gold. It is a bust of ^Esculapius, evidently of 
 the latest London manufacture; and from the door 
 behind it steams forth a mingled smell of musk and 
 assaf oetida, and other drugs of potent perfume, as if an 
 appropriate sacrifice were just laid upon the altar of 
 the medical deity. Five or six idle people are already 
 collected, peeping curiously in at the glittering array 
 of gallipots and phials, and deciphering the labels 
 which tell their contents in the mysterious and impos 
 ing nomenclature of ancient physic. They are next 
 attracted by the printed advertisement of a Panacea, 
 promising life but one day short of eternity, and youth 
 and health commensurate. An old man, his head as 
 white as snow, totters in with a hasty clattering of his 
 staff, and becomes the earliest purchaser, hoping that 
 his wrinkles will disappear more swiftly than they 
 gathered. The Doctor (so styled by courtesy) shows 
 the upper half of his person behind the counter, and 
 appears to be a slender and rather tall man ; his fea 
 tures are difficult to describe, possessing nothing pe 
 culiar, except a flexibility to assume all characters in 
 turn, while his eye, shrewd, quick, and saucy, remains 
 the same throughout. Whenever a customer enters 
 the shop, if he desire a box of pills, he receives with 
 them an equal number of hard, round, dry jokes, 
 or if a dose of salts, it is mingled with a portion of the 
 salt of Attica, or if some hot, Oriental drug, it is 
 accompanied by a racy word or two that tingle on the 
 
DR. BULLIVANT. 81 
 
 mental palate, all without the least additional cost. 
 Then there are twistings of mouths which never lost 
 their gravity before. As each purchaser retires, the 
 spectators see a resemblance of his visage pass over 
 that of the apothecary, in which all the ludicrous points 
 are made most prominent, as if a magic looking-glass 
 had caught the reflection, and were making sport with 
 it. Unwonted titterings arise and strengthen into 
 bashful laughter, but are suddenly hushed as some 
 minister, heavy-eyed from his last night s vigil, or 
 magistrate, armed with the terror of the whipping 
 post and pillory, or perhaps the governor himself, goes 
 by like a dark cloud intercepting the sunshine. 
 
 About this period, many causes began to produce an 
 important change on and beneath the surface of co 
 lonial society. The early settlers were able to keep 
 within the narrowest limits of their rigid principles, 
 because they had adopted them in mature life, and 
 from their own deep conviction, and were strengthened 
 in them by that species of enthusiasm, which is as 
 sober and as enduring as reason itself. But if their 
 immediate successors followed the same line of con 
 duct, they were confined to it, in a great degree, by 
 habits forced upon them, and by the severe rule under 
 which they were educated, and, in short, more by re 
 straint than by the free exercise of the imagination and 
 understanding. When therefore the old original stock, 
 the men who looked heavenward without a wandering 
 glance to earth, had lost a part of their domestic and 
 public influence, yielding to infirmity or death, a re 
 laxation naturally ensued in their theory and practice 
 of morals and religion, and became more evident with 
 the daily decay of its most strenuous opponents. This 
 gradual but sure operation was assisted by the increas- 
 
 VOL. XII. 6 
 
82 
 
 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ing commercial importance of the colonies, whither a 
 new set of emigrants followed unworthily in the track 
 of the pure - hearted Pilgrims. Gain being now the 
 allurement, and almost the only one, since dissenters 
 no longer dreaded persecution at home, the people of 
 New England could not remain entirely uncontami- 
 nated by an extensive intermixture with worldly men. 
 The trade carried on by the colonists (in the face of 
 several inefficient acts of Parliament) with the whole 
 maritime world, must have had a similar tendency ; 
 nor are the desperate and dissolute visitants of the 
 country to be forgotten among the agents of a moral 
 revolution. Freebooters from the West Indies and 
 the Spanish Main, state criminals, implicated in the 
 numerous plots and conspiracies of the period, fel 
 ons, loaded with private guilt, numbers of these 
 took refuge in the provinces, where the authority of 
 the English king was obstructed by a zealous spirit 
 of independence, and where a boundless wilderness 
 enabled them to defy pursuit. Thus the new popula 
 tion, temporary and permanent, was exceedingly unlike 
 the old, and far more apt to disseminate their own 
 principles than to imbibe those of the Puritans. All 
 circumstances unfavorable to virtue acquired double 
 strength by the licentious reign of Charles II. ; though 
 perhaps the example of the monarch and nobility was 
 less likely to recommend vice to the people of New 
 England than to those of any other part of the British 
 Empire. 
 
 The clergy and the elder magistrates manifested a 
 quick sensibility to the decline of godliness, their ap 
 prehensions being sharpened in this particular no less 
 by a holy zeal than because their credit and influence 
 were intimately connected with the primitive character 
 
DR. BULLIVANT. 83 
 
 of the country. A Synod, convened in the year 1679, 
 gave its opinion that the iniquity of the times had 
 drawn down judgments from Heaven, and proposed 
 methods to assuage the Divine wrath by a renewal 
 of former sanctity. But neither the increased num 
 bers, nor the altered spirit of the people, nor the just 
 sense of a freedom to do wrong, within certain limits, 
 would now have permitted the exercise of that inquisi 
 torial strictness, which had been wont to penetrate to 
 men s firesides and watch their domestic life, recogniz 
 ing no distinction between private ill conduct and 
 crimes that endanger the community. Accordingly, 
 the tide of worldly principles encroached more and 
 more upon the ancient landmarks, hitherto esteemed 
 the outer boundaries of virtue. Society arranged it 
 self into two classes, marked by strong shades of dif 
 ference, though separated by an uncertain line : in one 
 were included the small and feeble remnant of the 
 first settlers, many of their immediate descendants, the 
 whole body of the clergy, and all whom a gloomy tem 
 perament, or tenderness of conscience, or timidity of 
 thought, kept up to the strictness of their fathers ; the 
 other comprehended the new emigrants, the gay and 
 thoughtless natives, the favorers of Episcopacy, and a 
 various mixture of liberal and enlightened men with 
 most of the evil-doers and unprincipled adventurers in 
 the country. A vivid and rather a pleasant idea of 
 New England manners, when this change had become 
 decided, is given in the journal of John Dunton, a 
 cockney bookseller, who visited Boston and other 
 towns of Massachusetts with a cargo of pious publica 
 tions, suited to the Puritan market. Making due al 
 lowance for the flippancy of the writer, which may 
 have given a livelier tone to his descriptions than 
 
84 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 truth precisely warrants, and also for his character, 
 which led him chiefly among the gayer inhabitants, 
 there still seems to have been many who loved the 
 winecup and the song, and all sorts of delightful 
 naughtiness. But the degeneracy of the times had 
 made far less progress in the interior of the country 
 than in the seaports, and until the people lost the elec 
 tive privilege, they continued the government in the 
 hands of those upright old men who had so long pos 
 sessed their confidence. Uncontrollable events, alone, 
 gave a temporary ascendency to persons of another 
 stamp. James II., during the four years of his des 
 potic reign revoked the charters of the American col 
 onies, arrogated the appointment of their magistrates, 
 and annulled all those legal and prescriptive rights 
 which had hitherto constituted them nearly indepen 
 dent states. Among the foremost advocates of the 
 royal usurpations was Dr. Bullivant. Gifted with a 
 smart and ready intellect, busy and bold, he acquired 
 great influence in the new government, and assisted 
 Sir Edmund Andros, Edward Randolph, and five or 
 six others, to browbeat the council, and misrule the 
 Northern provinces according to their pleasure. The 
 strength of the popular hatred against this admin 
 istration, the actual tyranny that was exercised, and 
 the innumerable fears and jealousies, well grounded 
 and fantastic, which harassed the country, may be best 
 learned from a work of Increase Mather, the " Re 
 markable Providences of the Earlier Days of Ameri 
 can Colonization." The good divine (though writing 
 when a lapse of nearly forty years should have tamed 
 the fierceness of party animosity) speaks with the most 
 bitter and angry scorn of " Pothecary Bullivant," who 
 probably indulged his satirical propensities, from the 
 
DR. BULLIVANT. 85 
 
 seat of power, in a manner which rendered him an es 
 pecial object of public dislike. But the people were 
 about to play off a piece of practical fun on the Doc 
 tor and the whole of his coadjutors, and have the laugh 
 all to themselves. By the first faint rumor of the at 
 tempt of the Prince of Orange on the throne, the 
 power of James was annihilated in the colonies, and 
 long before the abdication of the latter became known, 
 Sir Edmund Andros, Governor-General of New Eng 
 land and New York, and fifty of the most obnoxious 
 leaders of the court party, were tenants of a prison. 
 We will visit our old acquaintance in his adversity. 
 
 The scene now represents a room of ten feet square, 
 the floor of which is sunk a yard or two below the 
 level of the ground ; the walls are covered with a dirty 
 and crumbling plaster, on which appear a crowd of 
 ill-favored and lugubrious faces done in charcoal, and 
 the autographs and poetical attempts of a long suc 
 cession of debtors and petty criminals. Other fea 
 tures of the apartment are a deep fireplace (superflu 
 ous in the sultriness of the summer s day), a door of 
 hard-hearted oak, and a narrow window high in the 
 wall, where the glass has long been broken, while the 
 iron bars retain all their original strength. Through 
 this opening come the sound of passing footsteps in the 
 public street, and the voices of children at play. The 
 furniture consists of a bed, or rather an old sack of 
 barley straw, thrown down in the corner farthest from 
 the door, and a chair and table, both aged and infirm, 
 and leaning against the side of the room, besides 
 lending a friendly support to each other. The atmos 
 phere is stifled and of an ill smell, as if it had been 
 kept close prisoner for half a century, and had lost 
 all its pure and clastic nature by feeding the tainted 
 
86 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 breath of the vicious and the sighs of the unfortunate. 
 Such is the present abode of the man of medicine and 
 politics, and his own appearance forms no contrast to 
 the accompaniments. His wig is unpowdered, out of 
 curl, and put on awry ; the dust of many weeks has 
 worked its way into the web of his coat and small 
 clothes, and his knees and elbows peep forth to ask 
 why they are so ill clad ; his stockings are ungartered, 
 his shoes down at the heel, his waistcoat is without a 
 button, and discloses a shirt as dingy as the remnant 
 of snow in a showery April day. His shoulders have 
 become rounder, and his whole person is more bent 
 and drawn together, since we last saw him, and his 
 face has exchanged the glory of wit and humor for a 
 sheepish dulness. At intervals, the Doctor walks the 
 room, with an irregular and shuffling pace ; anon he 
 throws himself flat on the sack of barley straw, mut 
 tering very reprehensible expressions between his 
 teeth ; then again he starts to his feet, and journeying 
 from corner to corner, finally sinks into the chair, 
 forgetful of its three-legged infirmity till it lets him 
 down upon the floor. The grated window, his only 
 medium of intercourse with the world, serves but to 
 admit additional vexations. Every few moments the 
 steps of the passengers are heard to pause, and some 
 well-known face appears in the free sunshine behind 
 the iron bars, brimful of mirth and drollery, the owner 
 whereof stands on tiptoe to tickle poor Dr. Bullivant 
 with a stinging sarcasm. Then laugh the little boys 
 around the prison door, and the wag goes chuckling 
 away. The apothecary would fain retaliate, but all 
 his quips and repartees, and sharp and facetious fan 
 cies, once so abundant, seem to have been transferred 
 from himself to the sluggish brains of his enemies. 
 
DR. BULL I VA NT. 87 
 
 While endeavoring to condense his whole intellect into 
 one venomous point, in readiness for the next assail 
 ant, he is interrupted by the entrance of the turnkey 
 with the prison fare of Indian bread and water. With 
 these dainties we leave him. 
 
 When the turmoil of the Revolution had subsided, 
 and the authority of William and Mary was fixed on 
 a quiet basis throughout the colonies, the deposed gov 
 ernor and some of his partisans were sent home to the 
 new court, and the others released from imprisonment. 
 The New-Englanders, as a people, are not apt to retain 
 a revengeful sense of injury, and nowhere, perhaps, 
 could a politician, however odious in his power, live 
 more peacefully in his nakedness and disgrace. Dr. 
 Bullivant returned to his former occupation, and spent 
 rather a desirable old age. Though he sometimes hit 
 hard with a jest, yet few thought of taking offence ; 
 for whenever a man habitually indulges his tongue at 
 the expense of all his associates, they provide against 
 the common annoyance by tacitly agreeing to consider 
 his sarcasms as null and void. Thus for many years, 
 a gray old man with a stoop in his gait, he continued 
 to sweep out his shop at eight o clock in summer 
 mornings, and nine in the winter, and to waste whole 
 hours in idle talk and irreverent merriment, making it 
 his glory to raise the laughter of silly people, and his 
 delight to sneer at them in his sleeve. At length, one 
 pleasant day, the door and shutters of his establish 
 ment kept closed from sunrise till sunset, and his 
 cronies marvelled a moment, and passed on ; a week 
 after, the rector of King s Chapel said the death-rite 
 over Dr. Bullivant ; and within the month a new apoth 
 ecary, and a new stock of drugs and medicines, made 
 their appearance at the gilded Head of ^Esculapius. 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 
 
 WE have before us a volume of autograph letters, 
 chiefly of soldiers and statesmen of the Revolution, 
 and addressed to a good and brave man, General 
 Palmer, who himself drew his sword in the cause. 
 They are profitable reading in a quiet afternoon, and 
 in a mood withdrawn from too intimate relation with 
 the present time ; so that we can glide backward some 
 three quarters of a century, and surround ourselves 
 with the ominous sublimity of circumstances that then 
 frowned upon the writers. To give them their full 
 effect, we should imagine that these letters have this 
 moment been brought to town by the splashed and 
 way-worn post-rider, or perhaps by an orderly dra 
 goon, who has ridden in a perilous hurry to deliver his 
 despatches. They are magic scrolls, if read in the 
 right spirit. The roll of the drum and the fanfare of 
 the trumpet is latent in some of them ; and in others, 
 an echo of the oratory that resounded in the old halls 
 of the Continental Congress, at Philadelphia ; or the 
 words may come to us as with the living utterance of 
 one of those illustrious men, speaking face to face, in 
 friendly communion. Strange, that the mere identity 
 of paper and ink should be so powerful. The same 
 thoughts might look cold and ineffectual, in a printed 
 book. Human nature craves a certain materialism, 
 and clings pertinaciously to what is tangible, as if that 
 were of more importance than the spirit accidentally 
 involved in it. And, in truth, the original manuscript 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 89 
 
 has always something which print itself must inevita 
 bly lose. An erasure, even a blot, a casual irregular 
 ity of hand, and all such little imperfections of me 
 chanical execution, bring us close to the writer, and 
 perhaps convey some of those subtle intimations for 
 which language has no shape. 
 
 There are several letters from John Adams, written 
 in a small, hasty, ungraceful hand, but earnest, and 
 with no unnecessary flourish. The earliest is dated at 
 Philadelphia, September 26, 1774, about twenty days 
 after the first opening of the Continental Congress. 
 We look at this old yellow document, scribbled on half 
 a sheet of foolscap, and ask of it many questions for 
 which words have no response. We would fain know 
 what were their mutual impressions, when all those 
 venerable faces, that have since been traced on steel, 
 or chiselled out of marble, and thus made familiar to 
 posterity, first met one another s gaze ! Did one spirit 
 harmonize them, in spite of the dissimilitude of man- 
 ners between the North and the South, which were 
 now for the first time brought into political relations ? 
 Could the Virginian descendant of the Cavaliers, and 
 the New-Englander with his hereditary Puritanism, 
 the aristocratic Southern planter, and the self-made 
 man from Massachusetts or Connecticut, at once 
 feel that they were countrymen and brothers ? What 
 did John Adams think of Jefferson ? and Samuel 
 Adams of Patrick Henry ? Did not North and South 
 combine in their deference for the sage Franklin, so 
 long the defender of the colonies in England, and 
 whose scientific renown was already world-wide ? And 
 was there yet any whispered prophecy, any vague con 
 jecture, circulating among the delegates, as to the des 
 tiny which might be in reserve for one stately man, 
 
90 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 who sat, for the most part, silent among them? what 
 station he was to assume in the world s history? and 
 how many statues would repeat his form and counte 
 nance, and successively crumble beneath his immor 
 tality? 
 
 The letter before us does not answer these inquiries. 
 Its main feature is the strong expression of the uncer 
 tainty and awe that pervaded even the firm hearts of 
 the Old Congress, while anticipating the struggle 
 which was to ensue. " The commencement of hostili 
 ties," it says, " is exceedingly dreaded here. It is 
 thought that an attack upon the troops, even should 
 it prove successful, would certainly involve the whole 
 continent in a war. It is generally thought that the 
 Ministry would rejoice at a rupture in Boston, because 
 it would furnish an excuse to the people at home " 
 [this was the last time, we suspect, that John Adams 
 spoke of England thus affectionately], " and unite 
 them in an opinion of the necessity of pushing hostili 
 ties against us." 
 
 His next letter bears on the superscription, " Fa 
 vored by General Washington." The date is June 20, 
 1775, three days after the battle of Bunker Hill, the 
 news of which could not yet have arrived at Philadel 
 phia. But the war, so much dreaded, had begun, on 
 the quiet banks of Concord River ; an army of twenty 
 thousand men was beleaguering Boston ; and here was 
 Washington journeying northward to take the com 
 mand. It seems to place us in a nearer relation with 
 the hero, to find him performing the little courtesy of 
 bearing a letter between friend and friend, and to hold 
 in our hands the very document intrusted to such a 
 messenger. John Adams says simply, " We send you 
 Generals Washington and Lee for your comfort ; " but 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 91 
 
 adds nothing in regard to the character of the Com- 
 mander-in-Chief. This letter displays much of the 
 writer s ardent temperament ; if he had been anywhere 
 but in the hall of Congress, it would have been in the 
 intrenchment before Boston. 
 
 " I hope," he writes, " a good account will be given 
 of Gage, Haldiman, Burgoyne, Clinton, and Howe, be 
 fore winter. Such a wretch as Howe, with a statue 
 in honor of his family in Westminster Abbey, erected 
 by the Massachusetts, to come over with the design 
 to cut the throats of the Massachusetts people, is too 
 much. I most sincerely, coolly, and devoutly wish 
 that a lucky ball or bayonet may make a signal ex 
 ample of him, in warning to all such unprincipled, un 
 sentimental miscreants for the future! " 
 
 He goes on in a strain that smacks somewhat of 
 aristocratic feeling : " Our camp will be an illustrious 
 school of military virtue, and will be resorted to and 
 frequented, as such, by gentlemen in great numbers 
 from the other colonies." The term "gentleman" 
 has seldom been used in this sense subsequently to the 
 Revolution. Another letter introduces us to two of 
 these gentlemen, Messrs. Acquilla Hall and Josias 
 Carvill, volunteers, who are recommended as " of the 
 first families in Maryland, and possessing indepen 
 dent fortunes." 
 
 After the British had been driven out of Boston, 
 Adams cries out, " Fortify, fortify ; and never let them 
 get in again ! " It is agreeable enough to perceive 
 the filial affection with which John Adams, and the 
 other delegates from the North, regard New England, 
 and especially the good old capital of the Puritans. 
 Their love of country was hardly yet so diluted as to 
 extend over the whole thirteen colonies, which were 
 
92 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 rather looked upon as allies than as composing one 
 nation. In truth, the patriotism of a citizen of the 
 United States is a sentiment by itself of a peculiar 
 nature, and requiring a lifetime, or at least the custom 
 of many years, to naturalize it among the other posses 
 sions of the heart. 
 
 The collection is enriched by a letter dated 
 "Cambridge, August 26, 1775" from Washington 
 himself. He wrote it in that house, now so vener 
 able with his memory, in that very room, where his 
 bust now stands upon a poet s table ; from this sheet 
 of paper passed the hand that held the leading-staff ! 
 Nothing can be more perfectly in keeping with all 
 other manifestations of Washington than the whole 
 visible aspect and embodiment of this letter. The 
 manuscript is as clear as daylight ; the punctuation ex 
 act, to a comma. There is a calm accuracy through 
 out, which seems the production of a species of intelli 
 gence that cannot err, and which, if we may so speak, 
 would affect us with a more human warmth, if we 
 could conceive it capable of some slight human error. 
 The chirography is characterized by a plain and easy 
 grace, which, in the signature, is somewhat elaborated, 
 and becomes a type of the personal manner of a gen 
 tleman of the old school, but without detriment to the 
 truth and clearness that distinguish the rest of the 
 manuscript. The lines are as straight and equidis 
 tant as if ruled ; and, from beginning to end, there is 
 no physical symptom as how should there be ? of 
 a varying mood, of jets of emotion, or any of those 
 fluctuating feelings that pass from the hearts into the 
 fingers of common men. The paper itself (like most 
 of those Eevolutionary letters, which are written on 
 fabrics fit to endure the burden of ponderous and 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 93 
 
 earnest thought) is stout, and of excellent quality, and 
 bears the water-mark of Britannia, surmounted by the 
 Crown. The subject of the letter is a statement of 
 reasons for not taking possession of Point Alderton ; 
 a position commanding the entrance of Boston Har 
 bor. After explaining the difficulties of the case, 
 arising from his want of men and munitions for the 
 adequate defence of the lines which he already occu 
 pies, Washington proceeds : " To you, sir, who are a 
 well-wisher to the cause, and can reason upon the ef 
 fects of such conduct, I may open myself with free 
 dom, because no improper disclosures will be made of 
 our situation. But I cannot expose my weakness to 
 the enemy (though I believe they are pretty well in 
 formed of everything that passes), by telling this and 
 that man, who are daily pointing out this, and that, 
 and t other place, of all the motives that govern my 
 actions ; notwithstanding I know what will be the con 
 sequence of not doing it, namely, that I shall be ac 
 cused of inattention to the public service, and perhaps 
 of want of spirit to prosecute it. But this shall have 
 no effect upon my conduct. I will steadily (as far as 
 my judgment will assist me) pursue such measures as 
 I think conducive to the interest of the cause, and rest 
 satisfied under any obloquy that shall be thrown, con 
 scious of having discharged my duty to the best of my 
 abilities." 
 
 The above passage, like every other passage that 
 could be quoted from his pen, is characteristic of 
 Washington, and entirely in keeping with the calm 
 elevation of his soul. Yet how imperfect a glimpse 
 do we obtain of him, through the medium of this or 
 any of his letters ! We imagine him writing calmly, 
 with a hand that never falters ; his majestic faco 
 
94 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 neither darkens nor gleams with any momentary ebul 
 lition of feeling, or irregularity of thought ; and thus 
 flows forth an expression precisely to the extent of his 
 purpose, no more, no less. Thus much we may con 
 ceive. But still we have not grasped the man ; we 
 have caught no glimpse of his interior ; we have not 
 detected his personality. It is the same with all the 
 recorded traits of his daily life. The collection of 
 them, by different observers, seems sufficiently abun 
 dant, and strictly harmonizes with itself, yet never 
 brings us into intimate relationship with the hero, nor 
 makes us feel the warmth and the human throb of his 
 heart. What can be the reason ? Is it, that his great 
 nature was adapted to stand in relation to his country, 
 as man stands towards man, but could not individual 
 ize itself in brotherhood to an individual ? 
 
 There are two from Franklin, the earliest dated, 
 " London, August 8, 1767," and addressed to " Mrs. 
 Franklin, at Philadelphia." He was then in England, 
 as agent for the colonies in their resistance to the op 
 pressive policy of Mr. Grenville s administration. The 
 letter, however, makes no reference to political or other 
 business. It contains only ten or twelve lines, begin 
 ning, " My dear child," and conveying an impression 
 of long and venerable matrimony which has lost all its 
 romance, but retained a familiar and quiet tenderness. 
 He speaks of making a little excursion into the coun 
 try for his health ; mentions a larger letter, despatched 
 by another vessel ; alludes with homely affability to 
 " Mrs. Stevenson," " Sally," and " our dear Polly " ; 
 desires to be remembered to " all inquiring friends " ; 
 and signs himself, " Your ever loving husband." In 
 this conjugal epistle, brief and unimportant as it is, 
 there are the elements that summon up the past, and 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 95 
 
 enable us to create anew the man, his connections and 
 circumstances. We can see the sage in his London 
 lodgings, with his wig cast aside, and replaced by a 
 velvet cap, penning this very letter ; and then can 
 step across the Atlantic, and behold its reception by 
 the elderly, but still comely, Madam Franklin, who 
 breaks the seal and begins to read, first remembering 
 to put on her spectacles. The seal, by the way, is a 
 pompous one of armorial bearings, rather symbolical 
 of the dignity of the Colonial Agent, and Postmaster 
 General of America, than of the humble origin of the 
 Philadelphia printer. The writing is in the free, quick 
 style of a man with great practice of the pen, and is 
 particularly agreeable to the reader. 
 
 Another letter from the same famous hand is ad 
 dressed to General Palmer, and dated, " Passy, Octo 
 ber 27, 1779." By an indorsement on the outside it 
 appears to have been transmitted to the United States 
 through the medium of Lafayette. Franklin was now 
 the ambassador of his country at the Court of Ver 
 sailles, enjoying an immense celebrity, caressed by the 
 French ladies, and idolized alike by the fashionable 
 and the learned, who saw something sublime and phil 
 osophic even in his blue yarn stockings. Still, as be 
 fore, he writes with the homeliness and simplicity that 
 cause a human face to look forth from the old, yellow 
 sheet of paper, and in words that make our ears re 
 echo, as with the sound of his long-extinct utterance. 
 Yet this brief epistle, like the former, has so little of 
 tangible matter that we are ashamed to copy it. 
 
 Next, we come to the fragment of a letter by Sam 
 uel Adams ; an autograph more utterly devoid of orna 
 ment or flourish than any other in the collection. It 
 would not have been characteristic, had his pen traced 
 
96 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 so much as a hair-line in tribute to grace, beauty, or 
 the elaborateness of manner ; for this earnest-hearted 
 man had been produced out of the past elements of his 
 native land, a real Puritan, with the religion of his 
 forefathers, and likewise with their principles of gov 
 ernment, taking the aspect of Revolutionary politics. 
 At heart, Samuel Adams was never so much a citizen 
 of the United States as he was a New-Englander, and 
 a son of the old Bay Province. The following passage 
 has much of the man in it : "I heartily congratulate 
 you," he writes from Philadelphia, after the British 
 have left Boston, "upon the sudden and important 
 change in our affairs, in the removal of the barba 
 rians from the capital. We owe our grateful acknowl 
 edgments to Him who is, as he is frequently styled in 
 Sacred Writ, The Lord of Hosts. We have not yet 
 been informed with certainty what course the enemy 
 have steered. I hope we shall be on our guard against 
 future attempts. Will not care be taken to fortify the 
 harbor, and thereby prevent the entrance of ships-of- 
 war hereafter ? " 
 
 From Hancock, we have only the envelope of a doc 
 ument " on public service," directed to " The Hon. the 
 Assembly, or Council of Safety of New Hampshire," 
 and with the autograph affixed, that stands out so 
 prominently in the Declaration of Independence. As 
 seen in the engraving of that instrument, the signature 
 looks precisely what we should expect and desire in 
 the handwriting of a princely merchant, whose pen 
 manship had been practised in the ledger which he is 
 represented as holding, in Copley s brilliant picture, 
 but to whom his native ability, and the circumstances 
 and customs of his country, had given a place among 
 its rulers. But, on the coarse and dingy paper before 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 97 
 
 us, the effect is very much inferior ; the direction, all 
 except the signature, is a scrawl, large and heavy, but 
 not forcible ; and even the name itself, while almost 
 identical in its strokes with that of the Declaration, 
 has a strangely different and more vulgar aspect. 
 Perhaps it is all right, and typical of the truth. If 
 we may trust tradition, and unpublished letters, and a 
 few witnesses in point, there was quite as much differ 
 ence between the actual man and his historical aspect, 
 as between the manuscript signature and the engraved 
 one. One of his associates, both in political life and 
 permanent renown, is said to have characterized him 
 as a " man without a head or heart." We, of an after 
 generation, should hardly be entitled, on whatever evi 
 dence, to assume such ungracious liberty with a name 
 that has occupied a lofty position until it has grown 
 almost sacred, and which is associated with memories 
 more sacred than itself, and has thus become a valu 
 able reality to our countrymen, by the aged reverence 
 that clusters round about it. Nevertheless, it may be 
 no impiety to regard Hancock not precisely as a real 
 personage, but as a majestic figure, useful and neces 
 sary in its way, but producing its effect far more by 
 an ornamental outside than by any intrinsic force or 
 virtue. The page of all history would be half unpeo 
 pled if all such characters were banished from it. 
 
 From General Warren we have a letter dated Jan 
 uary 14, 1775, only a few months before he attested 
 the sincerity of his patriotism, in his own blood, on 
 Bunker Hill. His handwriting has many ungraceful 
 flourishes. All the small d s spout upward in para 
 bolic curves, and descend at a considerable distance. 
 His pen seems to have had nothing but hair-lines in 
 it ; and the whole letter, though perfectly legible, has 
 
98 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 a look of thin and unpleasant irregularity. The sub 
 ject is a plan for securing to the colonial party the 
 services of Colonel Gridley the engineer, by an appeal 
 to his private interests. Though writing to General 
 Palmer, an intimate friend, Warren signs himself, 
 most ceremoniously, " Your obedient servant." In 
 deed, these stately formulas in winding up a letter 
 were scarcely laid aside, whatever might be the famili 
 arity of intercourse : husband and wife were occasion 
 ally, on paper at least, the " obedient servants " of one 
 another ; and not improbably, among well-bred peo 
 ple, there was a corresponding ceremonial of bows and 
 courtesies, even in the deepest interior of domestic life. 
 With all the reality that filled men s hearts, and which 
 has stamped its impress on so many of these letters, 
 it was a far more formal age than the present. 
 
 It may be remarked that Warren was almost the 
 only man eminently distinguished in the intellectual 
 phase of the Revolution, previous to the breaking out 
 of the war, who actually uplifted his arm to do battle. 
 The legislative patriots were a distinct class from the 
 patriots of the camp, and never laid aside the gown 
 for the sword. It was very different in the great civil 
 war of England, where the leading minds of the age, 
 when argument had done its office, or left it undone, 
 put on their steel breast-plates and appeared as lead 
 ers in the field. Educated young men, members of 
 the old colonial families, gentlemen, as John Adams 
 terms them, seem not to have sought employment 
 in the Revolutionary army, in such numbers as might 
 have been expected. Respectable as the officers gen 
 erally were, and great as were the abilities sometimes 
 elicited, the intellect and cultivation of the country 
 was inadequately represented in them, as a body. 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 99 
 
 Turning another page, we find the frank of a letter 
 from Henry Laurens, President of Congress, him 
 whose destiny it was, like so many noble men of old, to 
 pass beneath the Traitor s Gate of the Tower of Lon- 
 d on? him whose chivalrous son sacrificed as brilliant 
 a future as any young American could have looked 
 forward to, in an obscure skirmish. Likewise, we 
 have the address of a letter to Messrs. Leroy and Bay 
 ard, in the handwriting of Jefferson ; too slender a 
 material to serve as a talisman for summoning up the 
 writer ; a most unsatisfactory fragment, affecting us 
 like a glimpse of the retreating form of the sage of 
 Monticello, turning the distant corner of a street 
 There is a scrap from Robert Morris, the financier ; 
 a letter or two from Judge Jay ; and one from General 
 Lincoln, written, apparently, on the gallop, but without 
 any of those characteristic sparks that sometimes fly 
 out in a hurry, when all the leisure in the world would 
 fail to elicit them. Lincoln was the type of a New 
 England soldier ; a man of fair abilities, not especially 
 of a warlike cast, without much chivalry, but faith 
 ful and bold, and carrying a kind of decency and re 
 straint into the wild and ruthless business of arms. 
 
 From good old Baron Steuben, we find not a manu 
 script essay on the method of arranging a battle, but 
 a commercial draft, in a small, neat hand, as plain as 
 print, elegant without flourish, except a very compli 
 cated one on the signature. On the whole, the speci 
 men is sufficiently characteristic, as well of the Baron s 
 soldierlike and German simplicity, as of the polish of 
 the Great Frederick s aid -de -camp, a man of courts 
 and of the world. How singular and picturesque an 
 effect is produced, in the array of our Revolutionary 
 army, by the intermingling of these titled personages 
 
100 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 from the Continent of Europe, with feudal associations 
 clinging about them, Steuben, De Kalb, Pulaski, 
 Lafayette ! the German veteran, who had written 
 from one famous battle-field to another for thirty 
 years; and the young French noble, who had come 
 hither, though yet unconscious of his high office, to 
 light the torch that should set fire to the antiquated 
 trumpery of his native institutions. Among these au 
 tographs, there is one from Lafayette, written long 
 after our Revolution, but while that of his own coun 
 try was in full progress. The note is merely as fol 
 lows : " Enclosed you will find, my dear Sir, two 
 tickets for the sittings of this day. One part of the 
 debate will be on the Honors of the Pantheon, agree 
 ably to what has been decreed by the Constitutional 
 Assembly." 
 
 It is a pleasant and comfortable thought, that we 
 have no such classic folly as is here indicated, to lay 
 to the charge of our Revolutionary fathers. Both in 
 their acts, and in the drapery of those acts, they were 
 true to their several and simple selves, and thus left 
 nothing behind them for a fastidious taste to sneer at. 
 But it must be considered that our Revolution did not, 
 like that of France, go so deep as to disturb the com 
 mon-sense of the country. 
 
 General Schuyler writes a letter, under date of Feb 
 ruary 22, 1780, relating not to military affairs, from 
 which the prejudices of his countrymen had almost 
 disconnected him, but to the Salt Springs of Onon- 
 daga. The expression is peculiarly direct, and the 
 hand that of a man of business, free and flowing. The 
 uncertainty, the vague, hearsay evidence respecting 
 these springs, then gushing into dim daylight beneath 
 the shadow of a remote wilderness, is such as might 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 101 
 
 now be quoted in reference to the quality of the water 
 that supplies the fountains of the Nile. The following 
 sentence shows us an Indian woman and her son, prac 
 tising their simple process in the manufacture of salt, 
 at a fire of wind-strewn boughs, the flame of which 
 gleams duskily through the arches of the forest : 
 " From a variety of information, I find the smallest 
 quantity made by a squaw, with the assistance of one 
 boy, with a kettle of about ten gallons capacity, is 
 half a bushel per day ; the greatest, with the same ket 
 tle, about two bushels." It is particularly interesting 
 to find out anything as to the embryo, yet stationary 
 arts of life among the red people, their manufactures, 
 their agriculture, their domestic labors. It is partly 
 the lack of this knowledge the possession of which 
 would establish a ground of sympathy on the part of 
 civilized "men that makes the Indian race so shadow- 
 like and unreal to our conception. 
 
 We could not select a greater contrast to the up 
 right and unselfish patriot whom we have just spoken 
 of, than the traitor Arnold, from whom there is a 
 brief note, dated, " Crown Point, January 19, 1775," 
 addressed to an officer under his command. The three 
 lines of which it consists can prove bad spelling, erro 
 neous grammar, and misplaced and superfluous punc 
 tuation ; but, with all this complication of iniquity, 
 the ruffian General contrives to express his meaning 
 as briefly and clearly as if the rules of correct compo 
 sition had been ever so scrupulously observed. This 
 autograph, impressed with the foulest name in our his 
 tory, has somewhat of the interest that would attach 
 to a document on which a fiend-devoted wretch had 
 signed away his salvation. But there was not sub 
 stance enough in the man a mere cross between the 
 
102 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 bull-dog and the fox to justify much feeling of any 
 sort about him personally. The interest, such as it 
 is, attaches but little to the man, and far more to the 
 circumstances amid which he acted, rendering the vil- 
 lany almost sublime, which, exercised in petty affairs, 
 would only have been vulgar. 
 
 We turn another leaf, and find a memorial of Ham 
 ilton. It is but a letter of introduction, addressed to 
 Governor Jay in favor of Mr. Davies, of Kentucky ; 
 but it gives an impression of high breeding and cour 
 tesy, as little to be mistaken as if we could see the 
 writer s manner and hear his cultivated accents, while 
 personally making one gentleman known to another. 
 There is likewise a rare vigor of expression and preg 
 nancy of meaning, such as only a man of habitual en 
 ergy of thought could have conveyed into so common 
 place a thing as an introductory letter. This auto 
 graph is a graceful one, with an easy and picturesque 
 flourish beneath the signature, symbolical of a cour 
 teous bow at the conclusion of the social ceremony so 
 admirably performed. Hamilton might well be the 
 leader and idol of the Federalists ; for he was preemi 
 nent in all the high qualities that characterized the 
 great men of that party, and which should make even 
 a Democrat feel proud that his country had produced 
 such a noble old band of aristocrats ; and he shared all 
 the distrust of the people, which so inevitably and so 
 righteously brought about their ruin. With his auto 
 graph we associate that of another Federalist, his 
 friend in life ; a man far narrower than Hamilton, but 
 endowed with a native vigor, that caused many parti 
 sans to grapple to him for support ; upright, sternly in 
 flexible, and of a simplicity of manner that might have 
 befitted the sturdiest republican among us. In our 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 103 
 
 boyhood we used to see a thin, severe figure of an an 
 cient man, time-worn, but apparently indestructible, 
 moving with a step of vigorous decay along the street, 
 and knew him as " Old Tim Pickering." 
 
 Side by side, too, with the autograph of Hamilton, 
 we would place one from the hand that shed his blood. 
 It is a few lines of Aaron Burr, written in 1823 ; 
 when all his ambitious schemes, whatever they once 
 were, had been so long shattered that even the frag 
 ments had crumbled away, leaving him to exert his 
 withered energies on petty law cases, to one of which 
 the present note refers. The hand is a little tremulous 
 with age, yet small and fastidiously elegant, as became 
 a man who was in the habit of writing billet-doux on 
 scented note-paper, as well as documents of war and 
 state. This is to us a deeply interesting autograph. 
 Remembering what has been said of the power of 
 Burr s personal influence, his art to tempt men, his 
 might to subdue them, and the fascination that ena 
 bled him, though cold at heart, to win the love of 
 woman, we gaze at this production of his pen as into 
 his own inscrutable eyes, seeking for the mystery of 
 his nature. How singular that a character imperfect, 
 ruined, blasted, as this man s was, excites a stronger 
 interest than if it had reached the highest earthly per 
 fection of which its original elements would admit! 
 It is by the diabolical part of Burr s character that he 
 produces his effect on the imagination. Had he been 
 a better man, we doubt, after all, whether the present 
 age would not already have suffered him to wax dusty, 
 and fade out of sight, among the mere respectable me 
 diocrities of his own epoch. But, certainly, he was a 
 strange, wild off-shoot to have sprung from the united 
 stock of those two singular Christians, President Burr 
 of Princeton College, and Jonathan Edwards ! 
 
104 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Omitting many, we have come almost to the end of 
 these memorials of historical men. We observe one 
 other autograph of a distinguished soldier of the Kev- 
 olution, Henry Knox, but written in 1791, when he 
 was Secretary of War. In its physical aspect, it is 
 well worthy to be a soldier s letter. The hand is large, 
 round, and legible at a glance ; the lines far apart, 
 and accurately equidistant ; and the whole affair looks 
 not unlike a company of regular troops in marching 
 order. The signature has a point-like firmness and 
 simplicity. It is a curious observation, sustained by 
 these autographs, though we know not how generally 
 correct, that Southern gentlemen are more addicted to 
 a flourish of the pen beneath their names, than those 
 of the North. 
 
 And now we come to the men of a later generation, 
 whose active life reaches almost within the verge of 
 present affairs ; people of dignity, no doubt, but whose 
 characters have not acquired, either from time or cir 
 cumstances, the interest that can make their auto 
 graphs valuable to any but the collector. Those whom 
 we have hitherto noticed were the men of an heroic 
 age. They are departed, and now so utterly departed, 
 as not even to touch upon the passing generation 
 through the medium of persons still in life, who can 
 claim to have known them familiarly. Their letters, 
 therefore, come to us like material things out of the 
 hands of mighty shadows, long historical, and tradi 
 tionary, and fit companions for the sages and warriors 
 of a thousand years ago. In spite of the proverb, it is 
 not in a single day, or in a very few years, that a man 
 can be reckoned " as dead as Julius Ca3sar." We feel 
 little interest in scraps from the pens of old gentle 
 men, ambasadors, governors, senators, heads of de- 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 105 
 
 partments, even presidents though they were, who 
 lived lives of praiseworthy respectability, and whose 
 powdered heads and black knee-breeches have but just 
 vanished out of the drawing-room. Still less do we 
 value the blotted paper of those whose reputations are 
 dusty, not with oblivious time, but with present polit 
 ical turmoil and newspaper vogue. Really great men, 
 however, seem, as to their effect on the imagination, 
 to take their place amongst past worthies, even while 
 walking in the very sunshine that illuminates the au 
 tumnal day in which we write. We look, not without 
 curiosity, at the small, neat hand of Henry Clay, who, 
 as he remarks with his habitual deference to the wishes 
 of the fair, responds to a young lady s request for his 
 seal ; and we dwell longer over the torn-off conclusion 
 of a note from Mr. Calhoun, whose words are strangely 
 dashed off without letters, and whose name, were it 
 less illustrious, would be unrecognizable in his own 
 autograph. But of all hands that can still grasp a 
 pen, we know not the one, belonging to a soldier or a 
 statesman, which could interest us more than the hand 
 that wrote the following : " Sir, your note of the 6th 
 inst. is received. I hasten to answer that there was 
 no man 4 in the station of colonel, by the name of J. 
 T. Smith, under my command, at the battle of New 
 Orleans ; and am, respectfully, 
 
 "Yours, ANDKEW JACKSON. 
 
 Oct. 19th, 1833." 
 
 The old general, we suspect, has been insnared by 
 a pardonable little stratagem on the part of the au 
 tograph collector. The battle of New Orleans would 
 hardly have been won, without better aid than this 
 problematical Colonel J. T. Smith. 
 
106 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Intermixed with and appended to these historical 
 autographs, there are a few literary ones. Timothy 
 D wight the " old Timotheus " who sang the Con 
 quest of Canaan, instead of choosing a more popular 
 subject, in the British Conquest of Canada is of 
 eldest date. Colonel Trumbull, whose hand, at vari 
 ous epochs of his life, was familiar with sword, pen, 
 and pencil, contributes two letters, which lack the 
 picturesqueness of execution that should distinguish 
 the chirography of an artist. The value of Trumbull s 
 pictures is of the same nature with that of daguerreo 
 types, depending not upon the ideal but the actual. 
 The beautiful signature of Washington Irving appears 
 as the indorsement of a draft, dated in 1814, when, if 
 we may take this document as evidence, his individu 
 ality seems to have been merged into the firm of " P. 
 E. Irving & Co." Never was anything less mercan 
 tile than this autograph, though as legible as the writ 
 ing of a bank-clerk. Without apparently aiming at 
 artistic beauty, it has all the " Sketch Book " in it. 
 We find the signature and seal of Pierpont, the latter 
 stamped with the poet s almost living countenance. 
 What a pleasant device for a seal is one s own face, 
 which he may thus multiply at pleasure, and send 
 letters to his friends, the Head without, and the 
 Heart within ! There are a few lines in the school 
 girl hand of Margaret Davidson, at nine years old ; 
 and a scrap of a letter from Washington Allston, a 
 gentle and delicate autograph, in which we catch a 
 glimpse of thanks to his correspondent for the loan 
 of a volume of poetry. Nothing remains, save a let 
 ter from Noah Webster, whose early toils were mani 
 fested in a spelling-book, and those of his later age 
 in a ponderous dictionary. Under date of February 
 
A BOOK OF AUTOGRAPHS. 107 
 
 10, 1843, he writes in a sturdy, awkward hand, very 
 fit for a lexicographer, an epistle of old man s remi 
 niscences, from which we extract the following anec 
 dote of Washington, presenting the patriot in a fes 
 tive light : 
 
 " When I was travelling to the South, in the year 
 1785, I called on General Washington at Mount Yer- 
 non. At dinner, the last course of dishes was a species 
 of pancakes, which were handed round to each guest, 
 accompanied with a bowl of sugar and another of mo 
 lasses for seasoning them, that each guest might suit 
 himself. When the dish came to me, I pushed by me 
 the bowl of molasses, observing to the gentlemen pres 
 ent, that I had enough of that in my own country. 
 The General burst out with a loud laugh, a thing very 
 unusual with him. Ah, said he, there is nothing in 
 that story about your eating molasses in New Eng 
 land. There was a gentleman from Maryland at the 
 table ; and the General immediately told a story, 
 stating that, during the Revolution, a hogshead of 
 molasses was stove in, in West Chester, by the over 
 setting of a wagon ; and a body of Maryland troops 
 being near, the soldiers ran hastily, and saved all 
 they could by filling their hats or caps with molasses." 
 
 There are said to be temperaments endowed with 
 sympathies so exquisite, that, by merely handling an 
 autograph, they can detect the writer s character with 
 unerring accuracy, and read his inmost heart as easily 
 as a less-gifted eye would peruse the written page. 
 Our faith in this power, be it a spiritual one, or only 
 a refinement of the physical nature, is not unlimited, 
 in spite of evidence. God has imparted to the human 
 soul a marvellous strength in guarding its secrets, and 
 he keeps at least the deepest and most inward record 
 
108 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 for his own perusal. But if there be such sympathies 
 as we have alluded to, in how many instances would 
 History be put to the blush by a volume of autograph 
 letters, like this which we now close ! 
 
AN OLD WOMAN S TALE. 
 
 IN the house where I was born, there used to be an 
 old woman crouching all day long over the kitchen fire, 
 with her elbows on her knees and her feet in the ashes. 
 Once in a while she took a turn at the spit, and she 
 never lacked a coarse gray stocking in her lap, the foot 
 about half finished ; it tapered away with her own 
 waning life, and she knit the toe-stitch on the day of 
 her death. She made it her serious business and sole 
 amusement to tell me stories at any time from morning 
 till night, in a mumbling, toothless voice, as I sat on a 
 log of wood, grasping her check-apron in both my 
 hands. Her personal memory included the better part 
 of a hundred years, and she had strangely jumbled her 
 own experience and observation with those of many old 
 people who died in her young days ; so that she might 
 have been taken for a contemporary of Queen Eliza 
 beth, or of John Rogers in the Primer. There are a 
 thousand of her traditions lurking in the corners and 
 by -places of my mind, some more marvellous than 
 what is to follow, some less so, and a few not marvel 
 lous in the least, all of which I should like to repeat, 
 if I were as happy as she in having a listener. But I 
 am humble enough to own, that I do not deserve a 
 listener half so well as that old toothless woman, whose 
 narratives possessed an excellence attributable neither 
 to herself, nor to any single individual. Her ground- 
 plots, seldom within the widest scope of probability, 
 were filled up with homely and natural incidents, the 
 
110 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 gradual accretions of a long course of years, and fic 
 tion hid its grotesque extravagance in this garb of 
 truth, like the Devil (an appropriate simile, for the old 
 woman supplies it) disguising himself, cloven-foot and 
 all, in mortal attire. These tales generally referred 
 to her birthplace, a village in the valley of the Con 
 necticut, the aspect of which she impressed with great 
 vividness on my fancy. The houses in that tract of 
 country, long a wild and dangerous frontier, were ren 
 dered defensible by a strength of architecture that has 
 preserved many of them till our own times, and I can 
 not describe the sort of pleasure with which, two sum 
 mers since, I rode through the little town in question, 
 while one object after another rose familiarly to my 
 eye, like successive portions of a dream becoming real 
 ized. Among other things equally probable, she was 
 wont to assert that all the inhabitants of this village 
 (at certain intervals, but whether of twenty -five or 
 fifty years, or a whole century, remained a disputable 
 point) were subject to a simultaneous slumber, contin 
 uing one hour s space. When that mysterious time ar 
 rived, the parson snored over his half-written sermon, 
 though it were Saturday night and no provision made 
 for the morrow, - the mother s eyelids closed as she 
 bent over her infant, and no childish cry awakened, 
 the watcher at the bed of mortal sickness slumbered 
 upon the death - pillow, and the dying man antici 
 pated his sleep of ages by one as deep and dreamless. 
 To speak emphatically, there was a soporific influence 
 throughout the village, stronger than if every mother s 
 son and daughter were reading a dull story ; notwith 
 standing which the old woman professed to hold the 
 substance of the ensuing account from one of those 
 principally concerned in it. 
 
AN OLD WOMAN S TALE. Ill 
 
 One moonlight summer evening, a young man and 
 a girl sat down together in the open air. They were 
 distant relatives, sprung from a stock once wealthy, 
 but of late years so poverty - stricken, that David had 
 not a penny to pay the marriage fee, if Esther should 
 consent to wed. The seat they had chosen was in an 
 open grove of elm and walnut-trees, at a right angle 
 of the road ; a spring of diamond water just bubbled 
 into the moonlight beside them, and then whimpered 
 away through the bushes and long grass, in search of 
 a neighboring mill-stream. The nearest house (situate 
 within twenty yards of them, and the residence of their 
 great-grandfather in his lifetime) was a venerable old 
 edifice, crowned with many high and narrow peaks, 
 all overrun by innumerable creeping plants, which 
 hung curling about the roof like a nice young wig on 
 an elderly gentleman s head. Opposite to this estab 
 lishment was a tavern, with a well and horse - trough 
 before it, and a low green bank running along the left 
 side of the door. Thence, the road went onward, 
 curving scarce perceptibly, through the village, di 
 vided in the midst by a narrow lane of verdure, and 
 bounded on each side by a grassy strip of twice its 
 own breadth. The houses had generally an odd look. 
 Here, the moonlight tried to get a glimpse of one, a 
 rough old heap of ponderous timber, which, ashamed 
 of its dilapidated aspect, was hiding behind a great 
 thick tree ; the lower story of the next had sunk al 
 most under ground, as if the poor little house were 
 a-weary of the world, and retiring into the seclusion 
 of its own cellar ; farther on stood one of the few re 
 cent structures, thrusting its painted face conspicu 
 ously into the street, with an evident idea that it was 
 the fairest thing there. About midway in the village 
 
112 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 was a grist - mill, partly concealed by the descent of 
 the ground towards the stream which turned its wheel. 
 At the southern extremity, just so far distant that the 
 window-panes dazzled into each other, rose the meet 
 ing-house, a dingy old barnlike building, with an enor 
 mously disproportioned steeple sticking up straight 
 into heaven, as high as the Tower of Babel, and the 
 cause of nearly as much confusion in its day. This 
 steeple, it must be understood, was an afterthought, 
 and its addition to the main edifice, when the latter 
 had already begun to decay, had excited a vehement 
 quarrel, and almost a schism in the church, some fifty 
 years before. Here the road wound down a hill, and 
 was seen no more, the remotest object in view being 
 the graveyard gate, beyond the meeting-house. The 
 youthful pair sat hand in hand beneath the trees, and 
 for several moments they had not spoken, because the 
 breeze was hushed, the brook scarce tinkled, the leaves 
 had ceased their rustling, and everything lay motion 
 less and silent as if Nature were composing herself to 
 slumber. 
 
 " What a beautiful night it is, Esther ! " remarked 
 David, somewhat drowsily. 
 
 "Very beautiful," answered the girl, in the same 
 tone. 
 
 " But how still ! " continued David. 
 
 " Ah, too still ! " said Esther, with a faint shudder, 
 like a modest leaf when the wind kisses it. 
 
 Perhaps they fell asleep together, and, united as 
 their spirits were by close and tender sympathies, the 
 same strange dream might have wrapped them in its 
 shadowy arms. But they conceived, at the time, that 
 they still remained wakeful by the spring of bubbling 
 water, looking down through the village, and all along 
 
AN OLD WOMAN S TALE. 113 
 
 the moon-lighted road, and at the queer old houses, 
 and at the trees, which thrust their great twisted 
 branches almost into the windows. There was only a 
 sort of mistiness over their minds like the smoky air of 
 an early autumn night. At length, without any vivid 
 astonishment, they became conscious that a great many 
 people were either entering the village or already in 
 the street, but whether they came from the meeting 
 house, or from a little beyond it, or where the devil 
 they came from, was more than could be determined. 
 Certainly a crowd of people seemed to be there, men, 
 women, and children, all of whom were yawning and 
 rubbing their eyes, stretching their limbs, and stagger 
 ing from side to side of the road, as if but partially 
 awakened from a sound slumber. Sometimes they 
 stood stock-still, with their hands over their brows to 
 shade their sight from the moonbeams. As they drew 
 near, most of their countenances appeared familiar to 
 Esther and David, possessing the peculiar features of 
 families in the village, and that general air and aspect 
 by which a person would recognize his own townsmen 
 in the remotest ends of the earth. But though the 
 whole multitude might have been taken, in the mass, 
 for neighbors and acquaintances, there was not a single 
 individual whose exact likeness they had ever before 
 seen. It was a noticeable circumstance, also, that the 
 newest fashioned garment on the backs of these people 
 might have been worn by the great-grandparents of 
 the existing generation. There was one figure behind 
 all the rest, and not yet near enough to be perfectly 
 distinguished. 
 
 "Where on earth, David, do all these odd people 
 come from ? " said Esther, with a lazy inclination to 
 laugh. 
 
114 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 "Nowhere on earth, Esther," replied David, un 
 knowing why he said so. 
 
 As they spoke, the strangers showed some symptoms 
 of disquietude, and looked towards the fountain for an 
 instant, but immediately appeared to assume their own 
 trains of thought and previous purposes. They now 
 separated to different parts of the village,with a readi 
 ness that implied intimate local knowledge, and it may 
 be worthy of remark, that, though they were evidently 
 loquacious among themselves, neither their footsteps 
 nor their voices reached the ears of the beholders. 
 Wherever there was a venerable old house, of fifty 
 years standing and upwards, surrounded by its elm or 
 walnut-trees, with its dark and weather-beaten barn, 
 its well, its orchard and stone-walls, all ancient and all 
 in good repair around it, there a little group of these 
 people assembled. Such parties were mostly composed 
 of an aged man and woman, with the younger mem 
 bers of a family ; their faces were full of joy, so deep 
 that it assumed the shade of melancholy ; they pointed 
 to each other the minutest objects about the home 
 steads, things in their hearts, and were now compar 
 ing them with the originals. But where hollow places 
 by the wayside, grass -grown, and uneven, with un 
 sightly chimneys rising ruinous in the midst, gave 
 indications of a fallen dwelling and of hearths long 
 cold, there did a few of the strangers sit them down 
 on the mouldering beams, and on the yellow moss that 
 had overspread the door-stone. The men folded their 
 arms, sad and speechless ; the women wrung their hands 
 with a more vivid expression of grief ; and the little 
 children tottered to their knees, shrinking away from 
 the open grave of domestic love. And wherever a re 
 cent edifice reared its white and flashy front on the 
 
AN OLD WOMAN S TALE. 115 
 
 foundation of an old one, there a gray-haired man 
 might be seen to shake his staff in anger at it, while 
 his aged dame and their offspring appeared to join 
 in their maledictions, forming a fearful picture in the 
 ghostly moonlight. While these scenes were passing, 
 the one figure in the rear of all the rest was descend 
 ing the hollow towards the mill, and the eyes of David 
 and Esther were drawn thence to a pair with whom 
 they could fully sympathize. It was a youth in a 
 sailor s dress and a pale slender maiden, who met each 
 other with a sweet embrace in the middle of the street. 
 
 " How long it must be since they parted," observed 
 David. 
 
 "Fifty years at least," said Esther. 
 
 They continued to gaze with wondering calmness 
 and quiet interest, as the dream (if such it were) un 
 rolled its quaint and motley semblance before them, 
 and their notice was now attracted by several little 
 knots of people apparently engaged in conversation. 
 Of these one of the earliest collected and most charac 
 teristic was near the tavern, the persons who composed 
 it being seated on the low green bank along the left 
 side of the door. A conspicuous figure here was a fine 
 corpulent old fellow in his shirt-sleeves and flame-col 
 ored breeches, and with a stained white apron over his 
 paunch, beneath which he held his hands, and where 
 with at times he wiped his ruddy face. The stately 
 decrepitude of one of his companions, the scar of an 
 Indian tomahawk on his crown, and especially his worn 
 buff-coat, were appropriate marks of a veteran belong 
 ing to an old Provincial garrison, now deaf to the roll- 
 call. Another showed his rough face under a tarry 
 hat and wore a pair of wide trousers, like an ancient 
 mariner who had tossed away his youth upon the sea, 
 
116 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and was returned, hoary and weather-beaten, to his 
 inland home. There was also a thin young man, care 
 lessly dressed, who ever and anon cast a sad look to 
 wards the pale maiden above mentioned. With these 
 there sat a hunter, and one or two others, and they 
 were soon joined by a miller, who came upward from 
 the dusty mill, his coat as white as if besprinkled with 
 powdered starlight. All these (by the aid of jests, 
 which might indeed be old, but had not been recently 
 repeated) waxed very merry, and it was rather strange, 
 that just as their sides shook with the heartiest laugh 
 ter, they appeared greatly like a group of shadows 
 flickering in the moonshine. Four personages, very 
 different from these, stood in front of the large house 
 with its periwig of creeping plants. One was a little 
 elderly figure, distinguished by the gold on his three- 
 cornered hat and sky-blue coat, and by the seal of 
 arms annexed to his great gold watch-chain ; his air and 
 aspect befitted a Justice of Peace and County Major, 
 and all earth s pride and pomposity were squeezed 
 into this small gentleman of five feet high. The next 
 in importance was a grave person of sixty or seventy 
 years, whose black suit and band sufficiently indicated 
 his character, and the polished baldness of whose head 
 was worthy of a famous preacher in the village, half a 
 century before, who had made wigs a subject of pul 
 pit denunciation. The two other figures, both clad in 
 dark gray, showed the sobriety of Deacons ; one was 
 ridiculously tall and thin, like a man of ordinary bulk 
 infinitely produced, as the mathematicians say ; while 
 the brevity and thickness of his colleague seemed a 
 compression of the same man. These four talked with 
 great earnestness, and their gestures intimated that 
 they had revived the ancient dispute about the meet- 
 
AN OLD WOMAN S TALE. 117 
 
 ing-house steeple. The grave person in black spoke 
 with composed solemnity, as if he were addressing a 
 Synod ; the short deacon grunted out occasional sen 
 tences, as brief as himself ; his tall brother drew the 
 long thread of his argument through the whole dis 
 cussion, and (reasoning from analogy) his voice must 
 indubitably have been small and squeaking. But the 
 little old man in gold-lace was evidently scorched by 
 his own red-hot eloquence; he bounced from one to 
 another, shook his cane at the steeple, at the two dea 
 cons, and almost in the parson s face, stamping with 
 his foot fiercely enough to break a hole through the 
 very earth; though, indeed, it could not exactly be 
 said that the green grass bent beneath him. The fig 
 ure, noticed as coming behind all the rest, had now 
 surmounted the ascent from the mill, and proved to 
 be an elderly lady with something in her hand. 
 
 " Why does she walk so slow ? " asked David. 
 
 " Don t you see she is lame ? " said Esther. 
 
 This gentlewoman, whose infirmity had kept her so 
 far in the rear of the crowd, now came hobbling on, 
 glided unobserved by the polemic group, and paused 
 on the left brink of the fountain, within a few feet of 
 the two spectators. She was a magnificent old dame, 
 as ever mortal eye beheld. Her spangled shoes and 
 gold^ clocked stockings shone gloriously within the 
 spacious circle of a red hoop-petticoat, which swelled 
 to the very point of explosion, and was bedecked all 
 over with embroidery a little tarnished. Above the 
 petticoat, and parting in front so as to display it to 
 the best advantage, was a figured blue damask gown. 
 A wide and stiff ruff encircled her neck, a cap of the 
 finest muslin, though rather dingy, covered her head, 
 and her nose was bestridden by a pair of gold-bowed 
 
118 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 spectacles with enormous glasses. But the old lady s 
 face was pinched, sharp, and sallow, wearing a nig 
 gardly and avaricious expression, and forming an odd 
 contrast to the splendor of her attire, as did likewise 
 the implement which she held in her hand. It was a 
 sort of iron shovel (by housewives termed a "slice"), 
 such as is used in clearing the oven, and with this, 
 selecting a spot between a walnut-tree and the foun 
 tain, the good dame made an earnest attempt to dig. 
 The tender sods, however, possessed a strange impen 
 etrability. They resisted her efforts like a quarry of 
 living granite, and, losing her breath, she cast down 
 the shovel and seemed to bemoan herself most pit- 
 eously, gnashing her teeth (what few she had) and 
 wringing her thin yellow hands. Then, apparently 
 with new hope, she resumed her toil, which still had 
 the same result, a circumstance the less surprising 
 to David and Esther, because at times they would 
 catch the moonlight shining through the old woman, 
 and dancing in the fountain beyond. The little man 
 in gold-lace now happened to see her, and made his 
 approach on tiptoe. 
 
 " How hard this elderly lady works ! " remarked 
 David. 
 
 " Go and help her, David," said Esther, compas 
 sionately. 
 
 As their drowsy voices spoke, both the old woman 
 and the pompous little figure behind her lifted their 
 eyes, and for a moment they regarded the youth and 
 damsel with something like kindness and affection ; 
 which, however, were dim and uncertain, and passed 
 away almost immediately. The old woman again be 
 took herself to the shovel, but was startled by a hand 
 suddenly laid upon her shoulder ; she turned round in 
 
AN OLD WOMAN S TALE. 119 
 
 great trepidation, and beheld the dignitary in the blue 
 coat ; then followed an embrace of such closeness as 
 would indicate no remoter connection than matrimony 
 between these two decorous persons. The gentleman 
 next pointed to the shovel, appearing to inquire the 
 purpose of his lady s occupation ; while she as evi 
 dently parried his interrogatories, maintaining a de 
 mure and sanctified visage as every good woman ought, 
 in similar cases. Howbeit, she could not forbear look 
 ing askew, behind her spectacles, towards the spot of 
 stubborn turf. All the while, their figures had a 
 strangeness in them, and it seemed as if some cun 
 ning jeweller had made their golden ornaments of the 
 yellowest of the setting sunbeams, and that the blue 
 of their garments way brought from the dark sky near 
 the moon, and that the gentleman s silk waistcoat was 
 the bright side of a fiery cloud, and the lady s scarlet 
 petticoat a remnant of the blush of morning, and 
 that they both were two unrealities of colored air. 
 But now there was a sudden movement throughout the 
 multitude. The Squire drew forth a watch as large 
 as the dial on the famous steeple, looked at the warn 
 ing hands and got him gone, nor could his lady tarry ; 
 the party at the tavern door took to their heels, headed 
 by the fat man in the flaming breeches ; the tall deacon 
 stalked away immediately, and the short deacon wad 
 dled after, making four steps to the yard ; the moth 
 ers called their children about them and set forth, 
 with a gentle and sad glance behind. Like cloudy 
 fantasies that hurry by a viewless impulse from the 
 sky, they all were fled, and the wind rose up and fol 
 lowed them with a strange moaning down the lonely 
 street. Now whither these people went is more than 
 may be told ; only David and Esther seemed to see the 
 
120 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 shadowy splendor of the ancient dame, as she lingered 
 in the moonshine at the graveyard gate, gazing back 
 ward to the fountain. 
 
 " O Esther ! I have had such a dream ! " cried Da 
 vid, starting up, and rubbing his eyes. 
 
 " And I such another ! " answered Esther, gaping 
 till her pretty red lips formed a circle. 
 
 " About an old woman with gold-bowed spectacles," 
 continued David. 
 
 "And a scarlet hoop-petticoat," added Esther. They 
 now stared in each other s eyes, with great astonish 
 ment and some little fear. After a thoughtful mo 
 ment or two, David drew a long breath and stood up 
 right. 
 
 " If I live till to-morrow morning," said he, " I 11 
 see what may be buried between that tree and the 
 spring of water." 
 
 " And why not to-night, David ? " asked Esther ; 
 for she was a sensible little girl, and bethought herself 
 that the matter might as well be done in secrecy. 
 
 David felt the propriety of the remark, and looked 
 round for the means of following her advice. The 
 moon shone brightly on something that rested against 
 the side of the old house, and, on a nearer view, it 
 proved to be an iron shovel, bearing a singular resem 
 blance to that which they had seen in their dreams. 
 He used it with better success than the old woman, 
 the soil giving way so freely to his efforts, that he had 
 soon scooped a hole as large as the basin of the spring. 
 Suddenly, he poked his head down to the very bottom 
 of this cavity. " Oho ! what have we here ? " cried 
 David. 
 
TIME S PORTRAITURE. 
 
 BEING THE CARRIER S ADDRESS TO THE PATRONS OF " THE SALEM 
 GAZETTE" FOB THK IST OF JANUARY, 1838. 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 KIND PATRONS : We newspaper carriers are Time s 
 errand-boys; and all the year round the old gentle 
 man sends us from one of your doors to another, to let 
 you know what he is talking about and what he is do 
 ing. We are a strange set of urchins ; for, punctually 
 on New Year s morning, one and all of us are seized 
 with a fit of rhyme, and break forth in such hideous 
 strains, that it would be no wonder if the infant Year, 
 with her step upon the threshold, were frightened 
 away by the discord with which we strive to welcome 
 her. On these occasions, most generous patrons, you 
 never fail to give us a taste of your bounty; but 
 whether as a reward for our verses, or to purchase a 
 respite from further infliction of them, is best known 
 to your worshipful selves. Moreover, we, Time s er 
 rand-boys as aforesaid, feel it incumbent upon us, 
 on the first day of every year, to present a sort of 
 summary of our master s dealings with the world, 
 throughout the whole of the preceding twelvemonth. 
 Now it had so chanced, by a misfortune heretofore un 
 heard of, that I, your present petitioner, have been 
 altogether forgotten by the Muse. Instead of being 
 
122 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 able (as I naturally expected) to measure iny ideas 
 into six-foot lines, and tack a rhyme at each of their 
 tails, I find myself, this blessed morning, the same 
 simple proser that I was yesterday, and shall prob 
 ably be to-morrow. And to my further mortification, 
 being a humble-minded little sinner, I feel nowise ca 
 pable of talking to your worships with the customary 
 wisdom of my brethren, and giving sage opinions as 
 to what Time has done right, and what he has done 
 wrong, and what of right or wrong he means to do 
 hereafter. Such being my unhappy predicament, it 
 is with no small confusion of face that I make bold 
 to present myself at your doors. Yet it were surely 
 a pity that my non-appearance should defeat your 
 bountiful designs for the replenishing of my pockets. 
 Wherefore I have bethought me, that it might not 
 displease your worships to hear a few particulars 
 about the person and habits of Father Time, with 
 whom, as being one of his errand-boys, I have more 
 acquaintance than most lads of my years. 
 
 For a great many years past, there has been a wood 
 cut on the cover of the " Farmer s Almanac," pretend 
 ing to be a portrait of Father Time. It represents that 
 respectable personage as almost in a state of nudity, 
 with a single lock of hair on his forehead, wings on his 
 shoulders, and accoutred with a scythe and an hour 
 glass. These two latter symbols appear to betoken that 
 the old fellow works in haying time, by the hour. But, 
 within my recollection, Time has never carried a scythe 
 and an hour-glass, nor worn a pair of wings, nor shown 
 himself in the half-naked condition that the almanac 
 would make us believe. Nowadays, he is the most 
 fashionably dressed figure about town ; and I take it 
 to be his natural disposition, old as he is, to adopt 
 
TIME S PORTRAITURE. 123 
 
 every fashion of the day and of the hour. Just at the 
 present period, you may meet him in a furred surtout, 
 with pantaloons strapped under his narrow-toed boots ; 
 on his head, instead of a single forelock, he wears a 
 smart auburn wig, with bushy whiskers of the same 
 hue, the whole surmounted by a German - lustre hat. 
 He has exchanged his hour-glass for a gold patent- 
 lever watch, which he carries in his vest-pocket ; and 
 as for his scythe, he has either thrown it aside alto 
 gether, or converted its handle into a cane not much 
 stouter than a riding-switch. If you stare him full in 
 the face, you will perhaps detect a few wrinkles ; but, 
 on a hasty glance, you might suppose him to be in the 
 very heyday of life, as fresh as he was in the garden 
 of Eden. So much for the present aspect of Time ; 
 but I by no means insure that the description shall 
 suit him a month hence, or even at this hour to-mor 
 row. 
 
 It is another very common mistake to suppose that 
 Time wanders among old ruins, and sits on moulder 
 ing walls and moss-grown stones, meditating about 
 matters which everybody else has forgotten. Some 
 people, perhaps, would expect to find him at the 
 burial-ground in Broad Street, poring over the half- 
 illegible inscriptions on the tombs of the Higginsons, 
 the Hathornes, 1 the Holyokes, the Brownes, the Oli 
 vers, the Pickmans, the Pickerings, and other worthies 
 with whom he kept company of old. Some would 
 look for him on the ridge of Gallows Hill, where, in 
 one of his darkest moods, he and Cotton Mather hung 
 
 1 Not " Hawthorne," as one of the present representatives of the 
 family has seen fit to transmogrify a good old name. However, Time 
 has seldom occasion to mention the gentleman s name, so that it is no 
 great matter how he spells or pronounces it. 
 
124 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the witches. But they need not seek him there. Time 
 is invariably the first to forget his own deeds, his own 
 history, and his own former associates. His place is 
 in the busiest bustle of the world. If you would meet 
 Time face to face, you have only to promenade in 
 Essex Street, between the hours of twelve and one ; 
 I and there, among beaux and belles, you will see old 
 Father Time, apparently the gayest of the gay. He 
 walks arm in arm with the young men, talking about 
 balls and theatres, and afternoon rides, and midnight 
 merry-makings ; he recommends such and such a fash 
 ionable tailor, and sneers at every garment of six 
 months antiquity , and, generally, before parting, he 
 invites his friends to drink champagne, a wine in 
 which Time delights, on account of its rapid efferves 
 cence. And Time treads lightly beside the fair girls, 
 whispering to them (the old deceiver ! ) that they are 
 the sweetest angels he ever was acquainted with. He 
 tells them that they have nothing to do but dance and 
 sing, and twine roses in their hair, and gather a train 
 of lovers, and that the world will always be like an 
 illuminated ball-room. And Time goes to the Com 
 mercial News - Koom, and visits the insurance - offices, 
 and stands at the corner of Essex and St. Peter s 
 Streets, talking with the merchants about the arrival 
 of ships, the rise and fall of stocks, the price of cotton 
 and breadstuff s, the prospects of the whaling-business, 
 and the cod -fishery, and all other news of the day. 
 And the young gentlemen, and the pretty girls, and 
 the merchants, and all others with whom he makes ac 
 quaintance, are apt to think that there is nobody like 
 Time, and that Time is all in all. 
 
 But Time is not near so good a fellow as they take 
 him for. He is continually on the watch for mischief, 
 
TIME S PORTRAITURE. 125 
 
 and often seizes a sly opportunity to lay his cane over 
 the shoulders of some middle-aged gentleman ; and lo 
 and behold ! the poor man s back is bent, his hair 
 turns gray, and his face looks like a shrivelled apple. 
 This is what is meant by being " time-stricken." It 
 is the worst feature in Time s character that he al 
 ways inflicts the greatest injuries on his oldest friends. 
 Yet, shamefully as he treats them, they evince no de 
 sire to cut his acquaintance, and can seldom bear to 
 think of a final separation. 
 
 Again, there is a very prevalent idea that Time 
 loves to sit by the fireside, telling stories of the Puri 
 tans, the witch persecutors, and the heroes of the old 
 French War and the Revolution ; and that he has no 
 memory for anything more recent than the days of the 
 first President Adams. This is another great mistake. 
 Time is so eager to talk of novelties, that he never 
 fails to give circulation to the most incredible rumors 
 of the day, though at the hazard of being compelled to 
 eat his own words to-morrow. He shows numberless 
 instances of this propensity while the national elections 
 are in progress. A month ago, his mouth was full of 
 the wonderful Whig victories ; and to do him justice, he 
 really seems to have told the truth for once. Whether 
 the same story will hold good another year, we must 
 leave Time himself to show. He has a good deal to 
 say, at the present juncture, concerning the revolution 
 ary movements in Canada; he blusters a little about 
 the northeastern boundary question ; he expresses 
 great impatience at the sluggishness of our command 
 ers in the Florida War ; he gets considerably excited 
 whenever the subject of abolition is brought forward, 
 and so much the more, as he appears hardly to have 
 made up his mind on one side or the other. When- 
 
126 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ever this happens to be the case, as it often does, -~ 
 Time works himself into such a rage, that you would 
 think he were going to tear the universe to pieces ; 
 but I never yet knew him to proceed, in good earnest, 
 to such terrible extremities. During the last six or 
 seven months, he has been seized with intolerable sul- 
 kiness at the slightest mention of the currency; for 
 nothing vexes Time so much as to be refused cash 
 upon the nail. The above are the chief topics of gen 
 eral interest which Time is just now in the habit of 
 discussing. For his more private gossip he has ru 
 mors of new matches, of old ones broken off, with now 
 and then a whisper of good - natured scandal ; some 
 times, too, he condescends to criticise a sermon, or a 
 lyceum lecture, or performance of the glee-club ; and, 
 to be brief, catch the volatile essence of present talk 
 and transitory opinions, and you will have Time s gos 
 sip, word for word. I may as well add, that he ex 
 presses great approbation of Mr. Russell s vocal abil 
 ities, and means to be present from beginning to end 
 of his next concert. It is not every singer that could 
 keep Time with his voice and instrument, for a whole 
 evening. 
 
 Perhaps you will inquire, " What are Time s liter 
 ary tastes ? " And here again there is a general mis 
 take. It is conceived by many, that Time spends his 
 leisure hours at the Athenaeum, turning over the musty 
 leaves of those large worm-eaten folios, which nobody 
 else has disturbed since the death of the venerable Dr. 
 Oliver. So far from this being the case, Time s pro- 
 foundest studies are the new novels from Messrs. Ives 
 and Jewett s Circulating Library. He skims over the 
 lighter articles in the periodicals of the day, glances 
 at the newspapers, and then throws them aside for- 
 
TIME S PORTRAITURE. 127 
 
 ever, all except " The Salem Gazette," of which he 
 preserves a file, for his amusement a century or two 
 hence. 
 
 We will now consider Time as a man of business. 
 In this capacity, our citizens are in the habit of com 
 plaining, not wholly without reason, that Time is slug 
 gish and dull. You may see him occasionally at the 
 end of Derby Wharf, leaning against a post, or sitting 
 on the breech of an iron cannon, staring listlessly at 
 an unrigged East-Indiaman. Or, if you look through 
 the windows of the Union Marine Insurance Office, 
 you may get a glimpse of him there, nodding over a 
 newspaper, among the old weather-beaten sea-captains 
 who recollect when Time was quite a different sort of 
 fellow. If you enter any of the dry-goods stores along 
 Essex Street, you will be likely to find him with his 
 elbows on the counter, bargaining for a yard of tape 
 or a paper of pins. To catch him in his idlest mood, 
 you must visit the office of some young lawyer. Still, 
 however, Time does contrive to do a little business 
 among us, and should not be denied the credit of it. 
 During the past season, he has worked pretty dili 
 gently upon the railroad, and promises to start the 
 cars by the middle of next summer. Then we may fly 
 from Essex Street to State Street, and be back again 
 before Time misses us. In conjunction with our 
 worthy mayor (with whose ancestor, the Lord Mayor 
 of London, Time was well acquainted more than two 
 hundred years ago) he has laid the corner-stone of a 
 new city hall, the granite front of which is already an 
 ornament to Court Street. But besides these public 
 affairs, Time busies himself a good deal in private. 
 Just at this season of the year, he is engaged in col 
 lecting bills, and may be seen at almost any hour per- 
 
128 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 egrinating from street to street, and knocking at half 
 the doors in town, with a great bundle of these infer 
 nal documents. On such errands he appears in the 
 likeness of an undersized, portly old gentleman, with 
 gray hair, a bluff red face, and a loud tone of voice ; 
 and many people mistake him for the penny-post. 
 
 Never does a marriage take place, but Time is pres 
 ent among the wedding-guests ; for marriage is an af 
 fair in which Time takes more interest than in almost 
 any other. He generally gives away the bride, and 
 leads the bridegroom by the hand to the threshold of 
 the bridal chamber. Although Time pretends to be 
 very merry on these occasions, yet, if you watch him 
 well, you may often detect a sigh. Whenever a babe 
 is born into this weary world, Time is in attendance, 
 and receives the wailing infant in his arms. And the 
 poor babe shudders instinctively at his embrace, and 
 sets up a feeble cry. Then again, from the birth- 
 chamber, he must hurry to the bedside of some old ac 
 quaintance, whose business with Time is ended forever, 
 though their accounts remain to be settled at a future 
 day. It is terrible, sometimes, to perceive the linger 
 ing reluctance, the shivering agony, with which the 
 poor souls bid Time farewell, if they have gained no 
 other friend to supply the gray deceiver s place. How 
 do they cling to Time, and steal another and yet an 
 other glance at his familiar aspect! But Time, the 
 hard-hearted old fellow! goes through such scenes 
 with infinite composure, and dismisses his best friends 
 from memory the moment they are out of sight. 
 Others, who have not been too intimate with Time, 
 as knowing him to be a dangerous character, and 
 apt to ruin his associates, these take leave of him 
 with joy, and pass away with a look of triumph on 
 
TIME S PORTRAITURE. 129 
 
 their features. They know that, in spite of all his 
 flattering promises, he could not make them happy, 
 but that now they shall be so, long after Time is dead 
 and buried. 
 
 For Time is not immortal. Time must die, and be 
 buried in the deep grave of eternity. And let him 
 die. From the hour when he passed forth through the 
 gate of Eden, till this very moment, he has gone to 
 and fro about the earth, staining his hands with blood, 
 committing crimes innumerable, and bringing misery 
 on himself and all mankind. Sometimes he has been 
 a pagan ; sometimes a persecutor. Sometimes he has 
 spent centuries in darkness, where he could neither 
 read nor write. These were called the Dark Ages. 
 
 O 
 
 There has hardly been a single year, when he has not 
 stirred up strife among the nations. Sometimes, as 
 in France less than fifty years ago, he has been seized 
 with fits of frenzy, and murdered thousands of inno 
 cent people at noonday. He pretends, indeed, that he 
 has grown wiser and better now. Trust him who will ; 
 for my part, I rejoice that Time shall not live forever. 
 He hath an appointed office to perform. Let him 
 do his task, and die. Fresh and young as he would 
 make himself appear, he is already hoary with age ; 
 and the very garments that he wears about the town 
 were put on thousands of years ago, and have been 
 patched and pieced to suit the present fashion. There 
 is nothing new in him nor about him. Were he to die 
 while I am speaking, we could not pronounce it an 
 untimely death. Methinks, with his heavy heart and 
 weary brain, Time should himself be glad to die. 
 
 Meanwhile, gentle patrons, as Time has brought 
 round another New Year, pray remember your poor 
 petitioner. For so small a lad, you will agree that I 
 
130 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 talk pretty passably well, and have fairly earned what 
 ever spare specie Time has left in your pockets. Be 
 kind to me ; and I have good hope that Time will be 
 kind to you. After all the hard things which I have 
 said about him, he is really, that is, if you take 
 him for neither more nor less than he is worth, and 
 use him as not abusing him, Time is really a very 
 tolerable old fellow, and may be endured for a little 
 while that we are to keep him company. Be gener 
 ous, kind patrons, to Time s errand-boy. So may he 
 bring to the merchant his ship safe from the Indies ; 
 to the lawyer, a goodly number of new suits ; to the 
 doctor, a crowd of patients with the dyspepsia and fat 
 purses ; to the farmer, a golden crop and a ready 
 market ; to the mechanic, steady employment and good 
 wages ; to the idle gentleman some honest business ; 
 to the rich, kind hearts and liberal hands; to the 
 poor, warm firesides and food enough, patient spirits, 
 and the hope of better days ; to our country, a return 
 of specie payments ; and to you, sweet maid, the youth 
 who stole into your dream last night ! And next New 
 Year s Day (if I find nothing better to do in the mean 
 while) may Time again bring to your doors your lov 
 ing little friend, 
 
 THE CARRIER O 
 
"BROWNE S FOLLY." 
 
 THE WAYSIDE, August 28, 1860. 
 
 MY DEAR COUSIN : I should be very glad to write 
 a story, as you request, for the benefit of the Essex 
 Institute, or for any other purpose that might be 
 deemed desirable by my native towns-people. But it 
 is now many years since the epoch of the " Twice-Told 
 Tales," and the " Mosses from an Old Manse " ; and 
 my mind seems to have lost the plan and measure of 
 those little narratives, in which it was once so unprof- 
 itably fertile. I can write no story, therefore ; but 
 (rather than be entirely wanting to the occasion) I 
 will endeavor to describe a spot near Salem, on which 
 it was once my purpose to locate such a dreamy fiction 
 as you now demand of me. 
 
 It is no other than that conspicuous hill (I really 
 know not whether it lies in Salem, Danvers, or Bev 
 erly) which used in my younger days to be known by 
 the name of " Browne s Folly." This eminence is a 
 long ridge rising out of the level country around, like 
 a whale s back out of a calm sea, with the head and 
 tail beneath the surface. Along its base ran a green 
 and seldom - trodden lane, with which I was very fa 
 miliar in my boyhood ; and there was a little brook, 
 which I remember to have dammed up till its overflow 
 made a mimic ocean. When I last looked for this 
 tiny streamlet, which was still rippling freshly through 
 my memory, I found it strangely shrunken ; a mere 
 ditch indeed, and almost a dry one. But the green 
 
132 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 lane was still there, precisely as I remembered it ; two 
 wheel-tracks, and the beaten path of the horses feet, 
 and grassy strips between ; the whole overshadowed 
 by tall locust-trees, and the prevalent barberry-bushes, 
 which are rooted so fondly into the recollections of 
 every Essex man. 
 
 From this lane there is a steep ascent up the side of 
 the hill, the ridge of which affords two views of very 
 wide extent and variety. On one side is the ocean, 
 and Salem and Beverly on its shores ; on the other a 
 rural scene, almost perfectly level, so that each man s 
 metes and bounds can be traced out as on a map. The 
 beholder takes in at a glance the estates on which dif 
 ferent families have long been situated, and the houses 
 where they have dwelt, and cherished their various in 
 terests, intermarrying, agreeing together, or quarrel 
 ling, going to live, annexing little bits of real estate, 
 acting out their petty parts in life, and sleeping quietly 
 under the sod at last. A man s individual affairs look 
 not so very important, when we can climb high enough 
 to get the idea of a complicated neighborhood. 
 
 But what made the hill particularly interesting to 
 me were the traces of an old and long-vanished edifice 
 midway on the curving ridge, and at its highest point. 
 A pre-revolutionary magnate, the representative of a 
 famous old Salem family, had here built himself a 
 pleasure-house, on a scale of magnificence, which, com 
 bined with it airy site and difficult approach, obtained 
 for it, and for the entire: hill on which it stood, the tra 
 ditionary title of " Browne s Folly." Whether a folly 
 or no, the house was certainly an unfortunate one. 
 While still in its glory, it was so tremendously shaken 
 by the earthquake of 1755 that the owner dared no 
 longer reside in it ; and, practically acknowledging 
 
"BROWNE S FOLLY. 1 1 133 
 
 that its ambitious site rendered it indeed a Folly, he 
 proceeded to locate it on humbler ground. The great 
 house actually took up its march along the declining 
 ridge of the hill, and came safely to the bottom, 
 where it stood till within the memory of men now 
 alive. 
 
 The proprietor, meanwhile, had adhered to the Roy- 
 alist side, and fled to England during the Revolution. 
 The mansion was left under the care of Richard Derby 
 (an ancestor of the present Derby family), who had a 
 claim to the Browne property through his wife, but 
 seems to have held the premises precisely as the refu 
 gee left them, for a long term of years, in the expec 
 tation of his eventual return. The house remained, 
 with all its furniture in its spacious rooms and cham 
 bers, ready for the exile s occupancy, as soon as he 
 should reappear. As time went on, however, it be 
 gan to be neglected, and was accessible to whatever 
 vagrant or idle school-boy, or berrying party, might 
 choose to enter through its ill-secured windows. 
 
 But there was one closet in the house which every 
 body was afraid to enter, it being supposed that an evil 
 spirit perhaps a domestic Demon of the Browne 
 family was confined in it. One day, three or four 
 score years ago, some school-boys happened to be play 
 ing in the deserted chambers, and took it into their 
 heads to develop the secrets of this mysterious closet. 
 With great difficulty and tremor they succeeded in 
 forcing the door. As it flew open, there was a vision 
 of people in garments of antique magnificence, gen 
 tlemen in curled wigs and tarnished gold-lace, and 
 ladies in brocade and quaint head-dresses, rushing tu- 
 multuously forth and tumbling upon the floor. The 
 
134 TALES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 urchins took to their heels, in huge dismay, but crept 
 back, after a while, and discovered that the apparition 
 was composed of a mighty pile of family portraits. I 
 had the story, the better part of a hundred years af 
 terwards, from the very school - boy who pried open 
 the closet door. 
 
 After standing many years at the foot of the hill, 
 the house was again removed in three portions, and 
 was fashioned into three separate dwellings, which, for 
 aught I know, are yet extant in Danvers. 
 
 The ancient site of this proud mansion may still be 
 traced (or could have been ten years ago) upon the 
 summit of the hill. It consisted of two spacious wings, 
 connected by an intermediate hall of entrance, which 
 fronted likewise upon the ridge. Two shallow and 
 grass-grown cavities remain, of what were once the 
 deep and richly stored cellars under the two wings ; 
 and between them is the outline of the connecting hall, 
 about as deep as a plough furrow, and somewhat 
 greener than the surrounding sod. The two cellars 
 are still deep enough to shelter a visitor from the fresh 
 breezes that haunt the summit of the hill ; and bar 
 berry-bushes clustering within them offer the harsh 
 acidity of their fruits, instead of the rich wines which 
 the colonial magnate was wont to store there for his 
 guests. There I have sometimes sat and tried to re 
 build, in my imagination, the stately house, or to fancy 
 what a splendid show it must have made even so far 
 off as in the streets of Salem, when the old proprietor 
 illuminated his many windows to celebrate the King s 
 birthday. 
 
 I have quite forgotten what story I once purposed 
 writing about "Browne s Folly," and I freely offer the 
 
"BROWNE S FOLLY." 135 
 
 theme and site to any of my young townsmen who may 
 be afflicted with the same tendency towards fanciful 
 narratives which haunted me in my youth and long 
 afterwards. Truly yours, 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
BIOGEAPHIOAL STORIES. 
 
THIS small volume and others of a similar character, from the 
 same hand, have not been composed without a deep sense of re 
 sponsibility. The author regards children as sacred, and would 
 not, for the world, cast anything into the fountain of a young 
 heart that might embitter and pollute its waters. And, even in 
 point of the reputation to be aimed at, juvenile literature is as 
 well worth cultivating as any other. The writer, if he succeed 
 in pleasing his little readers, may hope to be remembered by 
 them till their own old age, a far longer period of literary ex 
 istence than is generally attained by those who seek immortality 
 from the judgments of full-grown men. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHEN Edward Temple was about eight or nine 
 years old he was afflicted with a disorder of the eyes. 
 It was so severe, and his sight was naturally so deli 
 cate, that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest the 
 boy should become totally blind. He therefore gave 
 strict directions to keep him in a darkened chamber, 
 with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray of the blessed 
 light of heaven could be suffered to visit the poor lad. 
 
 This was a sad thing for Edward. It was just the 
 same as if there were to be no more sunshine, nor 
 moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire, nor light of 
 lamps. A night had begun which was to continue per 
 haps for months, a longer and drearier night than 
 that which voyagers are compelled to endure when 
 their ship is ice-bound, throughout the winter, in the 
 Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother, his brother 
 George, and the sweet face of little Emily Robinson, 
 must all vanish and leave him in utter darkness and 
 solitude. Their voices and footsteps, it is true, would 
 be heard around him ; he would feel his mother s em 
 brace and the kind pressure of all their hands ; but 
 still it would seem as if they were a thousand miles 
 away. 
 
 And then his studies, they were to be entirely 
 
140 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 given up. This was another grievous trial ; for Ed 
 ward s memory hardly went back to the period when 
 he had not known how to read. Many and many a 
 holiday had he spent at his book, poring over its pages 
 until the deepening twilight confused the print and 
 made all the letters run into long words. Then would 
 he press his* hands across his eyes and wonder why 
 they pained him so ; and when the candles were 
 lighted, what was the reason that they burned so 
 dimly, like the moon in a foggy night ? Poor little 
 fellow! So far as his eyes were concerned he was 
 already an old man, and needed a pair of spectacles 
 almost as much as his own grandfather did. 
 
 And now, alas ! the time was come, when even 
 grandfather s spectacles could not have assisted Ed 
 ward to read. After a few bitter tears, which only 
 pained his eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to 
 the surgeon s orders. His eyes were bandaged, and, 
 with his mother on one side and his little friend Emily 
 on the other, he was led into a darkened chamber. 
 
 " Mother, I shall be very miserable ! " said Edward, 
 sobbing. 
 
 " Oh no, my dear child ! " replied his mother, cheer 
 fully. "Your eyesight was a precious gift of Heaven, 
 it is true ; but you would do wrong to be miserable 
 for its loss, even if there were no hope of regaining it. 
 There are other enjoyments besides what come to us 
 through our eyes." 
 
 " None that are worth having," said Edward. 
 
 " Ah, but you will not think so long," rejoined Mrs. 
 Temple, with tenderness. " All of us your father, 
 and myself, and George, and our sweet Emily will 
 try to find occupation and amusement for you. We 
 will use all our eyes to make you happy. Will they 
 not be better than a single pair ? " 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES, 141 
 
 " I will sit by you all day long," said Emily, in her 
 low, sweet voice, putting her hand into that of Ed 
 ward. 
 
 "And so will I, Ned," said George, his elder brother, 
 " school time and all, if my father will permit me." 
 
 Edward s brother George was three or four years 
 older than himself, a fine, hardy lad, of a bold and 
 ardent temper. He was the leader of his comrades in 
 all their enterprises and amusements. As to his pro 
 ficiency at study there was not much to be said. He 
 had sense and ability enough to have made himself 
 a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things to do 
 that he seldom took hold of a book with his whole 
 heart. So fond was George of boisterous sports and 
 exercises that it was really a great token of affection 
 and sympathy, when he offered to sit all day long in 
 a dark chamber with his poor brother Edward. 
 
 As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter 
 of one of Mr. Temple s dearest friends. Ever since 
 her mother went to heaven (which was soon after Em 
 ily s birth) the little girl had dwelt in the household 
 where we now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple seemed 
 to love her as well as their own children ; for they had 
 no daughter except Emily ; nor would the boys have 
 known the blessing of a sister had not this gentle 
 stranger come to teach them what it was. If I could 
 show you Emily s face, with her dark hair smoothed 
 away from her forehead, you would be pleased with 
 her look of simplicity and loving kindness, but might 
 think that she was somewhat too grave for a child of 
 seven years old. But you would not love her the less 
 for that. 
 
 So brother George and this loving little girl were 
 to be Edward s companions and playmates while he 
 
142 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 should be kept prisoner in the dark chamber. When 
 the first bitterness of his grief was over, he began to 
 feel that there might be some comforts and enjoy 
 ments in life even for a boy whose eyes were covered 
 with a bandage. 
 
 " I thank you, dear mother," said he, with only a 
 few sobs ; " and you, Emily ; and you, too, George. 
 You will all be very kind to me I know. And my 
 father, will not he come and see me every day?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear boy," said Mr. Temple ; for, though 
 invisible to Edward, he was standing close beside him. 
 " I will spend some hours of every day with you. And 
 as I have often amused you by relating stories and ad 
 ventures while you had the use of your eyes, I can do 
 the same now that you are unable to read. Will this 
 please you, Edward ? " 
 
 " Oh, very much," replied Edward. 
 
 " Well, then," said his father, " this evening we will 
 begin the series of Biographical Stories which I prom 
 ised you some time ago." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 WHEN evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward 
 considerably revived in spirits, and disposed to be re 
 signed to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure of the 
 boy, as it was dimly seen by the firelight, reclining in 
 a well-stuffed easy chair, looked so very comfortable 
 that many people might have envied him. When a 
 man s eyes have grown old with gazing at the ways of 
 the world, it does not seem such a terrible misfortune 
 to have them bandaged. 
 
 Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward s side with 
 the air of an accomplished nurse. As well as the 
 duskiness of the chamber would permit, she watched 
 all his motions and each varying expression of his 
 face, and tried to anticipate her patient s wishes be 
 fore his tongue could utter them. Yet it was notice 
 able that the child manifested an indescribable awe 
 and disquietude whenever she fixed her eyes on the 
 bandage ; for, to her simple and affectionate heart, it 
 seemed as if her dear friend Edward was separated 
 from her because she could not see his eyes. A friend s 
 eyes tell us many things which could never be spoken 
 by the tongue. 
 
 George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as 
 stout and healthy boys are accustomed to do in the 
 society of the sick or afflicted. Never having felt pain 
 or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing how to 
 sympathize with the sufferings of others. 
 
 " Well, my dear Edward," inquired Mrs. Temple, 
 
144 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 " is your chair quite comfortable ? and has your little 
 nurse provided for all your wants ? If so, your father 
 is ready to begin his stories." 
 
 " Oh, I am very well now," answered Edward, with 
 a faint smile. " And my ears have not forsaken me, 
 though my eyes are good for nothing. So pray, dear 
 father, begin." 
 
 It was Mr. Temple s design to tell the children a 
 series of true stories, the incidents of which should be 
 taken from the childhood and early life of eminent 
 people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward, 
 and Emily into closer acquaintance with the famous 
 persons who have lived in other times by showing that 
 they also had been children once. Although Mr. 
 Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing but what was 
 founded on fact, yet he felt himself at liberty to clothe 
 the incidents of his narrative in a new coloring, so that 
 his auditors might understand them the better. 
 
 " My first story," said he, " shall be about a painter 
 of pictures." 
 
 " Dear me ! " cried Edward, with a sigh. " I am 
 afraid I shall never look at pictures any more." 
 
 " We will hope for the best," answered his father. 
 " In the mean time, you must try to see things within 
 your own mind." 
 
 Mr. Temple then began the following story : 
 
 BENJAMIN WEST. 
 
 [BORN 1738. DIED 1820.] 
 
 In the year 1738 there came into the world, in the 
 town of Springfield, Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant, 
 from whom his parents and neighbors looked for won 
 derful things. A famous preacher of the Society of 
 Friends had prophesied about little Ben, and foretold 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 145 
 
 that he would be one of the most remarkable charac 
 ters that had appeared on the earth since the days of 
 William Penn. On this account, the eyes of many 
 people were fixed upon the boy. Some of his ances 
 tors had won great renown in the old wars of England 
 and France ; but it was probably expected that Ben 
 would become a preacher, and would convert multi 
 tudes to the peaceful doctrines of the Quakers. Friend 
 West and his wife were thought to be very fortunate 
 in having such a son. 
 
 Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years without 
 doing anything that was worthy to be told in history. 
 But one summer afternoon, in his seventh year, his 
 mother put a fan into his hand and bade him keep the 
 flies away from the face of a little babe who lay fast 
 asleep in the cradle. She then left the room. 
 
 The boy waved the fan to and fro, and drove away 
 the buzzing flies whenever they had the impertinence 
 to come near the baby s face. When they had all 
 flown out of the window or into distant parts of the 
 room, he bent over the cradle and delighted himself 
 with gazing at the sleeping infant. It was, indeed, a 
 very pretty sight. The little personage in the cradle 
 slumbered peacefully, with its waxen hands under its 
 chin, looking as full of blissful quiet as if angels were 
 singing lullabies in its ear. Indeed, it must have been 
 dreaming about heaven ; for, while Ben stooped over 
 the cradle, the little baby smiled. 
 
 " How beautiful she looks ! " said Ben to himself. 
 " What a pity it is that such a pretty smile should not 
 last forever ! " 
 
 Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard 
 of that wonderful art by which a look, that appears 
 and vanishes in a moment, may be made to last for 
 
 VOL. XII. 10 
 
146 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 hundreds of years. But, though nobody had told him 
 of such an art, he may be said to have invented it for 
 himself. On a table near at hand there were pens 
 and paper, and ink of two colors, black and red. The 
 boy seized a pen and sheet of paper, and, kneeling 
 down beside the cradle, began to draw a likeness of 
 the infant. While he was busied in this manner he 
 heard his mother s step approaching, and hastily tried 
 to conceal the paper. 
 
 " Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing ? " 
 inquired his mother, observing marks of confusion in 
 his face. 
 
 At first Ben was unwilling to tell ; for he felt as if 
 there might be something wrong in stealing the baby s 
 face and putting it upon a sheet of paper. However, 
 as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch into 
 her hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well 
 scolded. But when the good lady saw what was on 
 the paper, in lines of red and black ink, she uttered 
 a scream of surprise and joy. 
 
 " Bless me ! " cried she. " It is a picture of little 
 Sally!" 
 
 And then she threw her arms around our friend 
 Benjamin, and kissed him so tenderly that he never 
 afterwards was afraid to show his performances to his 
 mother. 
 
 As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast de 
 light in looking at the hues and forms of nature. For 
 instance, he was greatly pleased with the blue violets 
 of spring, the wild roses of summer, and the scarlet 
 cardinal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline of 
 the year, when the woods were variegated with all the 
 colors of the rainbow, Ben seemed to desire nothing 
 better than to gaze at them from morn till night. The 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 147 
 
 purple and golden clouds of sunset were a joy to him. 
 And he was continually endeavoring to draw the fig 
 ures of trees, men, mountains, houses, cattle, geese, 
 ducks, and turkeys, with a piece of chalk, on barn 
 doors or on the floor. 
 
 In these old times the Mohawk Indians were still 
 numerous in Pennsylvania. Every year a party of 
 them used to pay a visit to Springfield, because the 
 wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood there. 
 These wild men grew fond of little Ben, and made him 
 very happy by giving him some of the red and yellow 
 paint with which they were accustomed to adorn their 
 faces. His mother, too, presented him with a piece of 
 indigo. Thus he had now three colors, red, blue, 
 and yellow, and could manufacture green by mixing 
 the yellow with the blue. Our friend Ben was over 
 joyed, and doubtless showed his gratitude to the In 
 dians by taking their likenesses in the strange dresses 
 which they wore, with feathers, tomahawks, and bows 
 and arrows. 
 
 But all this time the young artist had no paint 
 brushes ; nor were there any to be bought, unless he 
 had sent to Philadelphia on purpose. However, he 
 was a very ingenious boy, and resolved to manufacture 
 paint-brushes for himself. With this design he laid 
 hold upon what do you think ? Why, upon a re 
 spectable old black cat, who was sleeping quietly by 
 the fireside. 
 
 " Puss," said little Ben to the cat, " pray give me 
 some of the fur from the tip of thy tail ? " 
 
 Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet 
 Ben was determined to have the fur whether she were 
 willing or not. Puss, who had no great zeal for the 
 fine arts, would have resisted if she could ; but the 
 
148 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 boy was armed with his mother s scissors, and very 
 dexterously clipped off fur enough to make a paint 
 brush. This was of so much use to him that he ap 
 plied to Madam Puss again and again, until her 
 warm coat of fur had become so thin and ragged that 
 she could hardly keep comfortable through the winter. 
 Poor thing ! she was forced to creep close into the 
 chimney-corner, and eyed Ben with a very rueful phys 
 iognomy. But Ben considered it more necessary that 
 he should have paint-brushes than that puss should be 
 warm. 
 
 About this period friend West received a visit from 
 Mr. Pennington, a merchant of Philadelphia, who was 
 likewise a member of the Society of Friends. The 
 visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it 
 ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of 
 birds with beautiful plumage, and of the wild flowers 
 of the forest. Nothing of the kind was ever seen be 
 fore in the habitation of a Quaker farmer. 
 
 " Why, Friend West," exclaimed the Philadelphia 
 merchant, " what has possessed thee to cover thy walls 
 with all these pictures ? Where on earth didst thou 
 get them ? " 
 
 Then Friend West explained that all these pictures 
 were painted by little Ben, with no better materials 
 than red and yellow ochre and a piece of indigo, and 
 with brushes made of the black cat s fur. 
 
 " Verily," said Mr. Pennington, " the boy hath a 
 wonderful faculty. Some of our friends might look 
 upon these matters as vanity ; but little Benjamin ap 
 pears to have been born a painter ; and Providence is 
 wiser than we are," 
 
 The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, 
 and evidently considered him a wonderful boy. When 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 149 
 
 his parents saw how much their son s performances 
 were admired, they, no doubt, remembered the proph 
 ecy of the old Quaker preacher respecting Ben s future 
 eminence. Yet they could not understand how he was 
 ever to become a very great and useful man merely by 
 making pictures. 
 
 One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington s return 
 to Philadelphia, a package arrived at Springfield, di 
 rected to our little friend Ben. 
 
 " What can it possibly be ? " thought Ben, when it 
 was put into his hands. " Who can have sent me such 
 a great square package as this ? " 
 
 On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped 
 it, behold ! there was a paint-box, with a great many 
 cakes of paint, and brushes of various sizes. It was 
 the gift of good Mr. Pennington. There were like 
 wise several squares of canvas such as artists use for 
 painting pictures upon, and, in addition to all these 
 treasures, some beautiful engravings of landscapes. 
 These were the first pictures that Ben had ever seen 
 except those of his own drawing. 
 
 What a joyful evening was this for the little artist ! 
 At bedtime he put the paint-box under his pillow, and 
 got hardly a wink of sleep ; for, all night long, his 
 fancy was painting pictures in the darkness. In the 
 morning he hurried to the garret, and was seen no 
 more till the dinner-hour; nor did he give himself 
 time to eat more than a mouthful or two of food be 
 fore he hurried back to the garret again. The next 
 day, and the next, he was just as busy as ever ; until 
 at last his mother thought it time to ascertain what 
 he was about. She accordingly followed him to the 
 garret. 
 
 On opening the door, the first object that presented 
 
150 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 itself to her eyes was our friend Benjamin, giving the 
 last touches to a beautiful picture. He. had copied 
 portions of two of the engravings, and made one pic 
 ture out of both, with such admirable skill that it was 
 far more beautiful than the originals. The grass, the 
 trees, the water, the sky, and the houses were all 
 painted in their proper colors. There, too, were the 
 sunshine and the shadow, looking as natural as life. 
 
 " My dear child, thou hast done wonders ! " cried 
 his mother. 
 
 The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And 
 well might she be proud of her boy ; for there were 
 touches in this picture which old artists, who had 
 spent a lifetime in the business, need not have been 
 ashamed of. Many a year afterwards, this wonderful 
 production was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 
 London. 
 
 When Benjamin was quite a large lad he was sent 
 to school at Philadelphia. Not long after his arrival 
 he had a slight attack of fever, which confined him to 
 his bed. The light, which would otherwise have dis 
 turbed him, was excluded from his chamber by means 
 of closed wooden shutters. At first it appeared so to- 
 tally dark that Ben could not distinguish any object in 
 the room. By degrees, however, his eyes became ac 
 customed to the scanty light. 
 
 He was lying on his back, looking up towards the 
 ceiling, when suddenly he beheld the dim apparition 
 of a white cow moving slowly over his head ! Ben 
 started, and rubbed his eyes in the greatest amaze 
 ment. 
 
 " What can this mean ? " thought he. 
 
 The white cow disappeared ; and next came several 
 pigs, which trotted along the ceiling and vanished into 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 151 
 
 the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike did these 
 grunters look that Ben almost seemed to hear them 
 squeak. 
 
 " Well, this is very strange ! " said Ben to himself. 
 
 When the people of the house came to see him, 
 Benjamin told them of the marvellous circumstance 
 which had occurred. But they would not believe 
 him. 
 
 " Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses ! " 
 cried they. " How is it possible that a white cow and 
 a litter of pigs should be visible on the ceiling of a 
 dark chamber ? " 
 
 Ben, however, had great confidence in his own eye 
 sight, and was determined to search the mystery to the 
 bottom. For this purpose, when he was again left 
 alone, he got out of bed and examined the window- 
 shutters. He soon perceived a small chink in one of 
 them, through which a ray of light found its passage 
 and rested upon the ceiling. Now, the science of 
 optics will inform us that the pictures of the white cow 
 and the pigs, and of other objects out of doors, came 
 into the dark chamber through this narrow chink, and 
 were painted over Benjamin s head. It is greatly to 
 his credit that he discovered the scientific principle of 
 this phenomenon, and, by means of it, constructed a 
 camera-obscura, or magic-lantern, out of a hollow box. 
 This was of great advantage to him in drawing land 
 scapes. 
 
 Well, time went on, and Benjamin continued to 
 draw and paint pictures until he had now reached the 
 age when it was proper that he should choose a busi 
 ness for life. His father and mother were in consider 
 able perplexity about him. According to the ideas of 
 the Quakers, it is not right for people to spend their 
 
152 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 lives in occupations that are no real and sensible ad 
 vantage to the world. Now, what advantage could 
 the world expect from Benjamin s pictures ? This was 
 a difficult question ; and, in order to set their minds 
 at rest, his parents determined to consult the preachers 
 and wise men of their society. Accordingly, they all 
 assembled in the meeting-house, and discussed the mat 
 ter from beginning to end. 
 
 Finally they came to a very wise decision. It seemed 
 so evident that Providence had created Benjamin to be 
 a painter, and had given him abilities which would be 
 thrown away in any other business, that the Quakers 
 resolved not to oppose his inclination. They even ac 
 knowledged that the sight of a beautiful picture might 
 convey instruction to the mind, and might benefit the 
 heart as much as a good book or a wise discourse. 
 They therefore committed the youth to the direction 
 of God, being well assured that he best knew what was 
 his proper sphere of usefulness. The old men laid 
 their hands upon Benjamin s head and gave him their 
 blessing, and the women , kissed him affectionately. 
 All consented that he should go forth into the world 
 and learn to be a painter by studying the best pictures 
 of ancient and modern times. 
 
 So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his par 
 ents, and his native woods and streams, and the good 
 Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians who had 
 given him his first colors ; he left all the places and 
 persons whom he had hitherto known, and returned 
 to them no more. lie went first to Philadelphia, and 
 afterwards to Europe. Here he was noticed by many 
 great people, but retained all the sobriety and simplic 
 ity which he had learned among the Quakers. It is 
 related of him, that, when he was presented at the 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 153 
 
 court of the Prince of Parma, he kept his hat upon his 
 head even while kissing the Prince s hand. 
 
 When he was twenty-five years old he went to Lon 
 don, and established himself there as an artist. In due 
 course of time he acquired great fame by his pictures, 
 and was made chief painter to King George III. and 
 president of the Royal Academy of Arts. When the 
 Quakers of Pennsylvania heard of his success, they 
 felt that the prophecy of the old preacher as to little 
 Ben s future eminence was now accomplished. It is 
 true, they shook their heads at his pictures of battle 
 and bloodshed, such as the Death of Wolfe, thinking 
 that these terrible scenes should not be held up to the 
 admiration of the world. 
 
 But they approved of the great paintings in which 
 he represented the miracles and sufferings of the Re 
 deemer of mankind. King George employed him to 
 adorn a large and beautiful chapel at Windsor Castle 
 with pictures of these sacred subjects. He likewise 
 painted a magnificent picture of Christ Healing the 
 Sick, which he gave to the hospital at Philadelphia. 
 It was exhibited to the public, and produced so much 
 profit that the hospital was enlarged so as to accom 
 modate thirty more patients. If Benjamin West had 
 done no other good deed than this, yet it would have 
 been enough to entitle him to an honorable remem 
 brance forever. At this very day there are thirty poor 
 people in the hospital who owe all their comforts to 
 that same picture. 
 
 We shall mention only a single incident more. The 
 picture of Christ Healing the Sick was exhibited at 
 the Royal Academy in London, where it covered a 
 vast space, and displayed a multitude of figures as 
 large as life. On the wall, close beside this admirable 
 
154 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 picture, hung a small and faded landscape. It was 
 the same that little Ben had painted in his father s 
 garret, after receiving the paint-box and engravings 
 from good Mr. Pennington. 
 
 He lived many years in peace and honor, and died 
 in 1820, at the age of eighty-two. The story of his 
 life is almost as wonderful as a fairy tale ; for there 
 are few stranger transformations than that of a little 
 unknown Quaker boy, in the wilds of America, into 
 the most distinguished English painter of his day. 
 Let us each make the best use of our natural abili 
 ties as Benjamin West did ; and, with the blessing of 
 Providence, we shall arrive at some good end. As for 
 fame, it is but little matter whether we acquire it or 
 not. 
 
 "Thank you for the story, my dear father," said 
 Edward, when it was finished. " Do you know that 
 it seems as if I could see things without the help of 
 my eyes ? While you were speaking I have seen little 
 Ben, and the baby in its cradle, and the Indians, and 
 the white cow, and the pigs, and kind Mr. Pennington, 
 and all the good old Quakers, almost as plainly as if 
 they were in this very room." 
 
 " It is because your attention was not disturbed by 
 outward objects," replied Mr. Temple. " People, when 
 deprived of sight, often have more vivid ideas than 
 those who possess the perfect use of their eyes. I will 
 venture to say that George has not attended to the 
 story quite so closely." 
 
 " No, indeed," said George ; " but it was a very 
 pretty story for all that. How I should have laughed 
 to see Ben making a paint-brush out of the black cat s 
 tail ! I intend to try the experiment with Emily s 
 kitten." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 155 
 
 " Oh no, no, George ! " cried Emily, earnestly. " My 
 kitten cannot spare her tail." 
 
 Edward being an invalid, it was now time for him 
 to retire to bed. When the family bade him good 
 night he turned his face towards them, looking very 
 loath to part. 
 
 " I shall not know when morning comes," said he, 
 sorrowfully. " And, besides, 1 want to hear your 
 voices all the time ; for, when nobody is speaking, it 
 seems as if I were alone in a dark world." 
 
 " You must have faith, my dear child," replied his 
 mother. " Faith is the soul s eyesight ; and when we 
 possess it the world is never dark nor lonely." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE next day Edward began to get accustomed to 
 his new condition of life. Once, indeed, when his par 
 ents were out of the way and only Emily was left to 
 take care of him, he could not resist the temptation to 
 thrust aside the bandage, and peep at the anxious face 
 of his little nurse. But, in spite of the dimness of the 
 chamber, the experiment caused him so much pain 
 that he felt no inclination to take another Iqpk. So, 
 with a deep sigh, he resigned himself to his fate. 
 
 " Emily, pray talk to me ! " said he, somewhat im 
 patiently. 
 
 Now, Emily was a remarkably silent little girl, and 
 did not possess that liveliness of disposition which ren 
 ders some children such excellent companions. She 
 seldom laughed, and had not the faculty of making 
 many words about small matters. But the love and 
 earnestness of her heart taught her how to amuse poor 
 Edward in his darkness. She put her knitting-work 
 into his hands. 
 
 " You must learn how to knit," said she. 
 
 " What ! without using my eyes ? " cried Edward. 
 
 " I can knit with my eyes shut," replied Emily. 
 
 Then with her own little hands she guided Edward s 
 fingers while he set about this new occupation. So 
 awkward were his first attempts that any other little 
 girl would have laughed heartily. But Emily pre 
 served her gravity, and showed the utmost patience in 
 taking up the innumerable stitches which he let down. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 157 
 
 In the course of an hour or two, his progress was 
 quite encouraging. 
 
 When evening came, Edward acknowledged that 
 the day had been far less wearisome than he antici 
 pated. But he was glad, nevertheless, when his fa 
 ther and mother, and George and Emily, all took their 
 seats around his chair. He put out his hand to grasp 
 each of their hands, and smiled with a very bright ex 
 pression upon his lips. 
 
 " Now I can see you all with my mind s eye," said 
 he. " And now, father, pray tell us another story." 
 
 So Mr. Temple began. 
 
 SIR ISAAC NEWTON. 
 
 [BORN 1G42. DIED 1727.] 
 
 On Christmas Day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton 
 was born at the small village of Woolsthorpe, in Eng 
 land. Little did his mother think, when she beheld 
 her new-born babe, that he was destined to explain 
 many matters which had been a mystery ever since 
 the creation of the world. 
 
 Isaac s father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married 
 again to a clergyman, and went to reside at North 
 Witham. Her son was left to the care of his good old 
 grandmother, who was very kind to him and sent him 
 to school. In his early years Isaac did not appear to 
 be a very bright scholar, but was chiefly remarkable 
 for his ingenuity in all mechanical occupations. He 
 had a set of little tools and saws of various sizes man 
 ufactured by himself. With the aid of these Isaac 
 contrived to make many curious articles, at which he 
 worked with so much skill that he seemed to have been 
 born with a saw or chisel in hand. 
 
 The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the 
 
158 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 things which Isaac manufactured. And his old grand 
 mother, I suppose, was never weary of talking about 
 him. 
 
 " He 11 make a capital workman one of these days," 
 she would probably say. " No fear but what Isaac 
 will do well in the world and be a rich man before he 
 dies." 
 
 It is amusing to conjecture what were the antici 
 pations of his grandmother and the neighbors about 
 Isaac s future life. Some of them, perhaps, fancied 
 that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany, 
 rosewood, or polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, 
 and magnificently gilded. And then, doubtless, all 
 the rich people would purchase these fine things to 
 adorn their drawing-rooms. Others probably thought 
 that little Isaac was destined to be an architect, and 
 would build splendid mansions for the nobility and 
 gentry, and churches too, with the tallest steeples that 
 had ever been seen in England. 
 
 Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac s grand 
 mother to apprentice him to a clock-maker ; for, be 
 sides his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to have a 
 taste for mathematics, which would be very useful to 
 him in that profession. And then, in due time, Isaac 
 would set up for himself, and would manufacture curi 
 ous clocks, like those that contain sets of dancing fig 
 ures, which issue from the dial-plate when the hour is 
 struck ; or like those where a ship sails across the face 
 of the clock, and is seen tossing up and down on the 
 waves as often as the pendulum vibrates. 
 
 Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that 
 Isaac would devote himself to the manufacture of 
 clocks ; since he had already made one of a kind which 
 nobody had ever heard of before. It was set a-going, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 159 
 
 not by wheels and weights like other clocks, but by 
 the dropping of water. This was an object of great 
 wonderment to all the people round about; and it 
 must be confessed that there are few boys, or men 
 either, who could contrive to tell what o clock it is by 
 means of a IDOW! of water. 
 
 Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sundial. Thus 
 his grandmother was never at a loss to know the hour ; 
 for the water-clock would tell it in the shade, and the 
 dial in the sunshine. The sundial is said to be still 
 in existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the 
 house where Isaac dwelt. If so, it must have marked 
 the passage of every sunny hour that has elapsed since 
 Isaac Newton was a boy. It marked all the famous 
 moments of his life ; it marked the hour of his death ; 
 and still the sunshine creeps slowly over it, as regu 
 larly as when Isaac first set it up. 
 
 Yet we must not say that the sundial has lasted 
 longer than its maker; for Isaac Newton will exist 
 long after the dial yea, and long after the sun it 
 self shall have crumbled to decay. 
 
 Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring 
 knowledge by the simplest means. For instance, what 
 method do you suppose he took to find out the strength 
 of the wind ? You will never guess how the boy could 
 compel that unseen, inconstant, and ungovernable won 
 der, the wind, to tell him the measure of its strength. 
 Yet nothing can be more simple. He jumped against 
 the wind ; and by the length of his jump he could cal 
 culate the force of a gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a 
 tempest. Thus, even in his boyish sports, he was con 
 tinually searching out the secrets of philosophy. 
 
 Not far from his grandmother s residence there was 
 a windmill which operated on a new plan. Isaac was 
 
160 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 in the habit of going thither frequently, and would 
 spend whole hours in examining its various parts. 
 While the mill was at rest he pried into its internal 
 machinery. When its broad sails were set in motion 
 by the wind, he watched the process by which the mill 
 stones were made to revolve and crush the grain that 
 was put into the hopper. After gaining a thorough 
 knowledge of its construction he was observed to be 
 unusually busy with his tools. 
 
 It was not long before his grandmother and all the 
 neighborhood knew what Isaac had been about. He 
 had constructed a model of the windmill, though not 
 so large, I suppose, as one of the box-traps which boys 
 set to catch squirrels, yet every part of the mill and 
 its machinery was complete. Its little sails were neatly 
 made of linen, and whirled round very swiftly when 
 the mill was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff 
 of wind from Isaac s mouth or from a pair of bellows 
 was sufficient to set the sails in motion. And, what 
 was most curious, if a handful of grains of wheat were 
 put into the little hopper, they would soon be con 
 verted into snow-white flour. 
 
 Isaac s playmates were enchanted with his new wind 
 mill. They thought that nothing so pretty and so won 
 derful had ever been seen in the whole world. 
 
 " But, Isaac," said one of them, " you have forgotten 
 one thing that belongs to a mill." 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Isaac ; for he supposed 
 that, from the roof of the mill to its foundation, he 
 had forgotten nothing. 
 
 " Why, where is the miller ? " said his friend. 
 
 " That is true, I must look out for one," said 
 Isaac ; and he set himself to consider how the defi- 
 ciency should be supplied. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 161 
 
 He might easily have made the miniature figure of 
 a man ; but then it would not have been able to move 
 about and perform the duties of a miller. As Captain 
 Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the island of 
 Lilliput, Isaac did not know that there were little men 
 in the world whose size was just suited to his windmill. 
 It so happened, however, that a mouse had just been 
 caught in the trap ; and, as no other miller could be 
 found, Mr. Mouse was appointed to that important 
 office. The new miller made a very respectable ap 
 pearance in his dark-gray coat. To be sure, he had 
 not a very good character for honesty, and was sus 
 pected of sometimes stealing a portion of the grain 
 which was given him to grind. But perhaps some 
 two-legged millers are quite as dishonest as this small 
 quadruped. 
 
 As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far 
 more important matters in his mind than the manu 
 facture of toys like the little windmill. All day long, 
 if left to himself, he was either absorbed in thought or 
 engaged in some book of mathematics or natural phi 
 losophy. At night, I think it probable, he looked up 
 with reverential curiosity to the stars, and wondered 
 whether they were worlds like our own, and how great 
 was their distance from the earth, and what was the 
 power that kept them in their courses. Perhaps, even 
 so early in life, Isaac Newton felt a presentiment that 
 he should be able, hereafter, to answer all these ques 
 tions. 
 
 When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother s 
 second husband being now dead, she wished her. son to 
 leave school and assist her in managing the farm at 
 Woolsthorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he tried 
 to turn his attention to farming. But his mind was 
 
 .VOL. XII. 11 
 
162 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 so bent on becoming a scholar that his mother sent 
 him back to school, and afterwards to the University 
 of Cambridge. 
 
 I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton s 
 boyhood. My story would be far too long were I to 
 mention all the splendid discoveries which he made 
 after he came to be a man. He was the first that 
 found out the nature of light ; for, before his day, no 
 body could tell what the sunshine was composed of. 
 You remember, I suppose, the story of an apple s fall 
 ing on his head, and thus leading him to discover the 
 force of gravitation, which keeps the heavenly bodies 
 in their courses. When he had once got hold of this 
 idea, he never permitted his mind to rest until he had 
 searched out all the laws by which the planets are 
 guided through the sky. This he did as thoroughly 
 as if he had gone up among the stars and tracked 
 them in their orbits. The boy had found out the 
 mechanism of a windmill ; the man explained to his 
 fellow-men the mechanism of the universe. 
 
 While making these researches he was accustomed 
 to spend night after night in a lofty tower, gazing at 
 the heavenly bodies through a telescope. His mind 
 was lifted far above the things of this world. He may 
 be said, indeed, to have spent the greater part of his 
 life in worlds that lie thousands and millions of miles 
 away ; for where the thoughts and the heart are, there 
 is our true existence. 
 
 Did you never hear the story of Newton and his lit 
 tle dog Diamond ? One day, when he was fifty years 
 old, and had been hard at work more than twenty 
 years studying the theory of light, he went out of his 
 chamber, leaving his little dog asleep before the fire. 
 On the table lay a heap of manuscript papers, contain- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 163 
 
 ing all the discoveries which Newton had made during 
 those twenty years. When his master was gone, up 
 rose little Diamond, jumped upon the table, and over 
 threw the lighted candle. The papers immediately 
 caught fire. 
 
 Just as the destruction was completed Newton 
 opened the chamber door, and perceived that the la 
 bors of twenty years were reduced to a heap of ashes. 
 There stood little Diamond, the author of all the mis 
 chief. Almost any other man would have sentenced 
 the dog to immediate death. But Newton patted him 
 on the head with his usual kindness, although grief 
 was at his heart. 
 
 " O Diamond, Diamond," exclaimed he, " thou lit 
 tle knowest the mischief thou hast done ! " 
 
 This incident affected his health and spirits for 
 some time afterwards ; but, from his conduct towards 
 the little dog, you may judge what was the sweetness 
 of his temper. 
 
 Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired 
 great renown, and was made a member of Parliament, 
 and received the honor of knighthood from the king. 
 But he cared little for earthly fame and honors, and 
 felt no pride in the vastness of his knowledge. All 
 that he had learned only made him feel how little he 
 knew in comparison to what remained to be known. 
 
 " I seem to myself like a child," observed he, " play 
 ing on the sea-shore, and picking up here and there a 
 curious shell or a pretty pebble, while the boundless 
 ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before me." 
 
 At last, in 1727, when he was forescore and five 
 years old, Sir Isaac Newton died, or rather he ceased 
 to live on earth. We may be permitted to believe 
 that he is still searching out the infinite wisdom and 
 
164 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 goodness of the Creator as earnestly, and with even 
 more success, than while his spirit animated a mortal 
 body. He has left a fame behind him which will be 
 as endurable as if his name were written in letters of 
 light formed by the stars upon the midnight sky. 
 
 " I love to hear about mechanical contrivances, such 
 as the water-clock and the little windmill," remarked 
 George. " I suppose, if Sir Isaac Newton had only 
 thought of it, he might have found out the steam- 
 engine, and railroads, and all the other famous inven 
 tions that have come into use since his day." 
 
 " Very possibly he might," replied Mr. Temple ; 
 "and no doubt a great many people would think it 
 more useful to manufacture steam-engines than to 
 search out the system of the universe. Other great 
 astronomers besides Newton have been endowed with 
 mechanical genius. There was David Rittenhouse, an 
 American, he made a perfect little water-mill when 
 he was only seven or eight years old. But this sort of 
 ingenuity is but a mere trifle in comparison with the 
 other talents of such men." 
 
 " It must have been beautiful," said Edward, " to 
 spend whole nights in a high tower as Newton did, 
 gazing at the stars, and the comets, and the meteors. 
 But what would Newton have done had he been blind ? 
 or if his eyes had been no better than mine ? " 
 
 " Why, even then, my dear child," observed Mrs. 
 Temple, " he would have found out some way of en 
 lightening his mind and of elevating his soul. But 
 come ; little Emily is waiting to bid you good-night. 
 You must go to sleep and dream of seeing all our 
 faces." 
 
 " But how sad it will be when I awake ! " murmured 
 Edward. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN the course of the next day the harmony of our 
 little family was disturbed by something like a quarrel 
 between George and Edward. 
 
 The former, though he loved his brother dearly, had 
 found it quite too great a sacrifice of his own enjoy 
 ments to spend all his play-time in a darkened cham 
 ber. Edward, on the other hand, was inclined to be 
 despotic. He felt as if his bandaged eyes entitled him 
 to demand that everybody who enjoyed the blessing of 
 sight should contribute to his comfort and amusement. 
 He therefore insisted that George, instead of going out 
 to play football, should join with himself and Emily 
 in a game of questions and answers. 
 
 George resolutely refused, and ran out of the house. 
 He did not revisit Edward s chamber till the evening, 
 when he stole in, looking confused, yet somewhat sul 
 len, and sat down beside his father s chair. It was 
 evident, by a motion of Edward s head and a slight 
 trembling of his lips, that he was aware of George s 
 entrance, though his footsteps had been almost inaudi 
 ble. Emily, with her serious and earnest little face, 
 looked from one to the other, as if she longed to be a 
 messenger of peace between them. 
 
 Mr. Temple, without seeming to notice any of these 
 circumstances, began a story. 
 
166 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 [BORN 1709. DIED 1784.] 
 
 " Sam," said Mr. Michael Johnson, of Lichfield, one 
 morning, " I am very feeble and ailing to-day. You 
 must go to Uttoxeter in my stead, and tend the book 
 stall in the market-place there." 
 
 This was spoken above a hundred years ago by an 
 elderly man, who had once been a thriving bookseller 
 at Lichfield, in England. Being now in reduced cir 
 cumstances, he was forced to go every market-day and 
 sell books at a stall, in the neighboring village of Ut 
 toxeter. 
 
 His son, to whom Mr. Johnson spoke, was a great 
 boy, of very singular aspect. He had an intelligent 
 face ; but it was seamed and distorted by a scrofulous 
 humor, which affected his eyes so badly that sometimes 
 he was almost blind. Owing to the same cause his 
 head would often shake with a tremulous motion as if 
 he were afflicted with the palsy. When Sam was an 
 infant, the famous Queen Anne had tried to cure him 
 of this disease by laying her royal hands upon his 
 head. But though the touch of the king or queen was 
 supposed to be a certain remedy for scrofula, it pro 
 duced no good effect upon Sam Johnson. 
 
 At the time which we speak of the poor lad was not 
 very well dressed, and wore shoes from which his toes 
 peeped out ; for his old father had barely the means of 
 supporting his wife and children. But, poor as the 
 family were, young Sam Johnson had as much pride 
 as any nobleman s son in England. The fact was, he 
 felt conscious of uncommon sense and ability, which, 
 in his own opinion, entitled him to great respect from 
 the world. Perhaps he would have been glad if grown 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 167 
 
 people had treated him as reverentially as his school 
 fellows did. Three of them were accustomed to come 
 for him every morning ; and while he sat upon the 
 back of one, the two others supported him on each 
 side ; and thus he rode to school in triumph. 
 
 Being a personage of so much importance, Sam could 
 not bear the idea of standing all day in Uttoxeter mar 
 ket offering books to ^the rude and ignorant country 
 people. Doubtless he felt more reluctant on account 
 of his shabby clothes, and the disorder of his eyes, and 
 the tremulous motion of his head. 
 
 When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted and 
 made an indistinct grumbling in his throat ; then he 
 looked his old father in the face, and answered him 
 loudly and deliberately. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " I will not go to Uttoxeter mar 
 ket!" 
 
 Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad s ob 
 stinacy ever since his birth ; and while Sam was 
 younger, the old gentleman had probably used the rod 
 whenever occasion seemed to require. But he was 
 now too feeble and too much out of spirits to contend 
 with this stubborn and violent - tempered boy. He 
 therefore gave up the point at once, and prepared 
 to go to Uttoxeter himself. 
 
 " Well, Sam," said Mr. Johnson, as he took his hat 
 and staff, " if for the sake of your foolish pride you 
 can suffer your poor sick father to stand all day in the 
 noise and confusion of the market when he ought to 
 be in his bed, I have no more to say. But you will 
 think of this, Sam, when I am dead and gone." 
 
 So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his 
 eye, but certainly with sorrow in his heart) set forth 
 towards Uttoxeter. The gray-haired, feeble, melan- 
 
168 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 choly Michael Johnson ! How sad a thing it was that 
 he should be forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for 
 the support of an ungrateful son who was too proud to 
 do anything for his father, or his mother, or himself ! 
 Sam looked after Mr. Johnson with a sullen counte 
 nance till he was out of sight. 
 
 But when the old man s figure, as he went stooping 
 along the street, was no more to be seen, the boy s 
 heart began to smite him. He had a vivid imagina 
 tion, and it tormented him with the image of his 
 father standing in the market-place of Uttoxeter and 
 offering his books to the noisy crowd around him. 
 Sam seemed to behold him arranging his literary mer 
 chandise upon the stall in such a way as was best cal 
 culated to attract notice. Here was Addison s " Spec 
 tator," a long row of little volumes ; here was Pope s 
 translation of the Iliad and Odyssey ; here were Dry- 
 den s poems, or those of Prior. Here, likewise, were 
 " Gulliver s Travels," and a variety of little gilt-cov 
 ered children s books, such as " Tom Thumb, " " Jack 
 the Giant Queller," " Mother Goose s Melodies," ami 
 others which our great-grandparents used to read in 
 their childhood. And here were sermons for the 
 pious, and pamphlets for the politicians, and ballads, 
 some merry and some dismal ones, for the country 
 people to sing. 
 
 Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these 
 books, pamphlets, and ballads, now to the rude yeo 
 men, who perhaps could not read a word ; now to the 
 country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt 
 hares and foxes ; now to the children, who chose to 
 spend their coppers for sugar -plums or gingerbread 
 rather than for picture-books. And if Mr. Johnson 
 should sell a book to man, woman, or child, it would 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 169 
 
 cost him an hour s talk to get a profit of only six 
 pence. 
 
 "My poor father! " thought Sam to himself. " How 
 his head will ache I and how heavy his heart will be ! 
 I am almost sorry that I did not do as he bade me." 
 
 Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy 
 about the house. She did not know of what had passed 
 between Mr. Johnson and Sam. 
 
 " Mother," said he, " did you think father seemed 
 very ill to-day ? " 
 
 " Yes, Sam," answered his mother, turning with a 
 flushed face from the fire, where she was cooking their 
 scanty dinner. " Your father did look very ill ; and 
 it is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter in his 
 stead. You are a great boy now, and would rejoice, 
 I am sure, to do something for your poor father, who 
 has done so much for you." 
 
 The lad made no reply. But again his imagination 
 set to work and conjured up another picture of poor 
 Michael Johnson. He was standing in the hot sun 
 shine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, 
 and disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were 
 drawn to him. " Had this old man no son," the peo 
 ple would say among themselves, " who might have 
 taken his place at the book-stall while the father kept 
 his bed ? " And perhaps, but this was a terrible 
 thought for Sam ! perhaps his father would faint 
 away and fall down in the market-place, with his gray 
 hair in the dust and his venerable face as deathlike as 
 that of a corpse. And there would be the by-standers 
 gazing earnestly at Mr. Johnson and whispering, " Is 
 he dead? Is he dead?" 
 
 And Sam shuddered as he repeated to himself, " Is 
 he dead?" 
 
170 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 "Oh, I have been a cruel son!" thought he within 
 his own heart. "God forgive me ! God forgive me! " 
 
 But God could not yet forgive him ; for he was not 
 truly penitent. Had he been so, he would have has 
 tened away that very moment to Uttoxeter, and have 
 fallen at his father s feet, even in the midst of the 
 crowded market-place. There he would have con 
 fessed his fault, and besought Mr. Johnson to go home 
 and leave the rest of the day s work to him. But such 
 was Sam s pride and natural stubbornness that he 
 could not bring himself to this humiliation. Yet he 
 ought to have done so, for his own sake, for his father s 
 sake, and for God s sake. 
 
 After sunset old Michael Johnson came slowly 
 home and sat down in his customary chair. He said 
 nothing to Sam ; nor do I know that a single word 
 ever passed between them on the subject of the son s 
 disobedience. In a few years his father died, and left 
 Sam to fight his way through the world by himself. 
 It would make our story much too long were I to tell 
 you even a few of the remarkable events of Sam s life. 
 Moreover, there is the less need of this, because many 
 books have been written about that poor boy, and the 
 fame that he acquired, and all that he did or talked of 
 doing after he came to be a man. 
 
 But one thing I must not neglect to say. From his 
 boyhood upward until the latest day of his life he 
 never forgot the story of Uttoxeter market. Often 
 when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford, or 
 master of an academy at Edial, or a writer for the 
 London booksellers, in all his poverty and toil and 
 in all his success, while he was walking the streets 
 without a shilling to buy food, or when the greatest 
 men of England were proud to feast him at their 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 171 
 
 table, still that heavy and remorseful thought came 
 back to him, " I was cruel to my poor father in his ill 
 ness! " Many and many a time, awake or in his 
 dreams, he seemed to see old Michael Johnson stand 
 ing in the dust and confusion of the market-place, and 
 pressing his withered hand to his forehead as if it 
 ached. 
 
 Alas ! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have 
 such a thought as this to bear us company through 
 life. 
 
 Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it 
 was longer than usual, Mr. Temple here made a short 
 pause. He perceived that Emily was in tears, and 
 Edward turned his half -veiled face towards the speaker 
 with an air of great earnestness and interest. As for 
 George, he had withdrawn into the dusky shadow be 
 hind his father s chair. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, 
 as follows : 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 [CONTINUED.] 
 
 Well, my children, fifty years had passed away since 
 young Sam Johnson had shown himself so hard-hearted 
 towards his father. It was now market-day in the vil 
 lage of Uttoxeter. 
 
 In the street of the village you might see cattle- 
 dealers with cows and oxen for sale, and pig-drovers 
 with herds of squeaking swine, and farmers with cart 
 loads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other prod 
 uce of the soil. Now and then a farmer s red-faced 
 wife trotted along on horseback, with butter and 
 cheese in two large panniers. The people of the vil 
 lage, with country squires, and other visitors from the 
 neighborhood, walked hither and thither, trading, 
 jesting, quarrelling, and making just such a bustle as 
 their fathers and grandfathers had made half a cen 
 tury before. 
 
 In one part of the street there was a puppet-show, 
 with a ridiculous merry-andrew, who kept both grown 
 people and children in a roar of laughter. On the op 
 posite side was the old stone church of Uttoxeter, with 
 ivy climbing up its walls and partly obscuring its 
 Gothic windows. 
 
 There was a clock in the gray tower of the ancient 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 173 
 
 church, and the hands on the dial-plate had now al 
 most reached the hour of noon. At this busiest hour 
 of the market a strange old gentleman was seen mak 
 ing his way among the crowd. He was very tall and 
 bulky, and wore a brown coat and small-clothes, with 
 black worsted stockings and buckled shoes. On his 
 head was a three-cornered hat, beneath which a bushy 
 gray wig thrust itself out, all in disorder. The old 
 gentleman elbowed the people aside, and forced his 
 way through the midst of them with a singular kind of 
 gait, rolling his body hither and thither, so that he 
 needed twice as much room as any other person there. 
 
 " Make way, sir ! " he would cry out, in a loud, 
 harsh voice, when somebody happened to interrupt his 
 progress. " Sir, you intrude your person into the pub 
 lic thoroughfare ! " 
 
 " What a queer old fellow this is ! " muttered the 
 people among themselves, hardly knowing whether to 
 laugh or to be angry. 
 
 But when they looked into the venerable stranger s 
 face, not the most thoughtless among them dared to 
 offer him the least impertinence. Though his features 
 were scarred and distorted with the scrofula, and 
 though his eyes were dim and bleared, yet there was 
 something of authority and wisdom in his look, which 
 impressed them all with awe. So they stood aside to 
 let him pass ; and the old gentleman made his way 
 across the market-place, and paused near the corner of 
 the ivy-mantled church. Just as he reached it the 
 clock struck twelve. 
 
 On the very spot of ground where the stranger now 
 stood some aged people remembered that old Michael 
 Johnson had formerly kept his book-stall. The little 
 children who had once bought picture-books of him 
 were grandfathers now. 
 
174 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 " Yes ; here is the very spot I " muttered the old 
 gentleman to himself. 
 
 There this unknown personage took his stand and 
 removed the three-cornered hat from his head. It was 
 the busiest hour of the day. What with the hum of 
 human voices, the lowing of cattle, the squeaking of 
 pigs, and the laughter caused by the merry-andrew, 
 the market-place was in very great confusion. But the 
 stranger seemed not to notice it any more than if the 
 silence of a desert were around him. He was rapt in 
 his own thoughts. Sometimes he raised his furrowed 
 brow to Heaven, as if in prayer ; sometimes he bent 
 his head, as if an insupportable weight of sorrow were 
 upon him. It increased the awfulness of his aspect 
 that there was a motion of his head and an almost 
 continual tremor throughout his frame, with singular 
 twitchings and contortions of his features. 
 
 The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head ; but 
 he seemed not to feel its fervor. A dark cloud swept 
 across the sky and rain-drops pattered into the market 
 place ; but the stranger heeded not the shower. The 
 people began to gaze at the mysterious old gentleman 
 with superstitious fear and wonder. Who could he 
 be ? Whence did he come ? Wherefore was he stand 
 ing bareheaded in the market-place? Even the school 
 boys left the merry-andrew and came to gaze, with 
 wide-open eyes, at this tall, strange-looking old man. 
 
 There was a cattle-drover in the village who had 
 recently made a journey to the Smithfield Market, 
 in London. No sooner had this man thrust his way 
 through the throng and taken a look at the unknown 
 personage, than he whispered to one of his acquain 
 tances, 
 
 " I say, Neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know 
 who this old gentleman is ? " 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 175 
 
 "Ay, that I would," replied Neighbor Hutchins, 
 " for a queerer chap I never saw in my life. Some 
 how it makes me feel small to look at him. He s 
 more than a common man." 
 
 " You may well say so," answered the cattle-drover. 
 "Why, that s the famous Doctor Samuel Johnson, 
 who they say is the greatest and learnedest man in 
 England. I saw him in London streets, walking with 
 one Mr. Boswell." 
 
 Yes ; the poor boy, the friendless Sam, with whom 
 we began our story, had become the famous Doctor 
 Samuel Johnson. He was universally acknowledged 
 as the wisest man and greatest writer in all England. 
 He had given shape and permanence to his native lan 
 guage by his Dictionary. Thousands upon thousands 
 of people had read his "Idler," his "Eambler," and his 
 " Rasselas." Noble and wealthy men and beautiful 
 ladies deemed it their highest privilege to be his com 
 panions. Even the King of Great Britain had sought 
 his acquaintance, and told him what an honor he con 
 sidered it that such a man had been born in his domin 
 ions. He was now at the summit of literary renown. 
 
 But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter 
 remembrance which had tormented him through life. 
 Never, never had he forgotten his father s sorrowful 
 and upbraiding look. Never, though the old man s 
 troubles had been over so many years, had he forgiven 
 himself for inflicting such a pang upon his heart. 
 And now, in his old age, he had come hither to do 
 penance, by standing at noonday, in the market-place 
 of Uttoxeter, on the very spot where Michael Johnson 
 had once kept his book-stall. The aged and illustri 
 ous man had done what the poor boy refused to do. 
 By thus expressing his deep repentance and humilia- 
 
176 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 tion of heart, lie hoped to gain peace of conscience and 
 the forgiveness of God. 
 
 My dear children, if you have grieved (I will not 
 say your parents, but if you have grieved) the heart 
 of any human being who has a claim upon your love, 
 then think of Samuel Johnson s penance. Will it not 
 be better to redeem the error now than to endure the 
 agony of remorse for fifty years? Would you not 
 rather say to a brother, " I have erred ; forgive me ! " 
 than perhaps to go hereafter and shed bitter tears upon 
 his grave ? 
 
 Hardly was the story concluded when George has 
 tily arose, and Edward likewise, stretching forth his 
 hands into the darkness that surrounded him to find 
 his brother. Both accused themselves of unkindness ; 
 each besought the other s forgiveness ; and having 
 done so, the trouble of their hearts vanished away like 
 a dream. 
 
 " I am glad ! I am so glad ! " said Emily, in a low, 
 earnest voice. " Now I shall sleep quietly to-night." 
 
 " My sweet child," thought Mrs. Temple as she 
 kissed her, " mayest thou never know how much strife 
 there is on earth ! It would cost thee many a night s 
 rest." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ABOUT this period Mr. Temple found it necessary 
 to take a journey, which interrupted the series of 
 "Biographical Stories" for several evenings. In the 
 interval, Edward practised various methods of employ 
 ing and amusing his mind. 
 
 Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects which 
 he had formerly seen, until the intensity of his recol 
 lection seemed to restore him the gift of sight and 
 place everything anew before his eyes. Sometimes he 
 repeated verses of poetry which he did not know to be 
 in his memory until he found them there just at the 
 time of need. Sometimes he attempted to solve arith 
 metical questions which had perplexed him while at 
 school. 
 
 Then, with his mother s assistance, he learned the 
 letters of the string alphabet, which is used in some of 
 the institutions for the blind in Europe. When one 
 of his friends gave him a leaf of St. Mark s Gospel, 
 printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read 
 it by passing his fingers over the letters as blind chil 
 dren do. 
 
 His brother George was now very kind, and spent 
 so much time in the darkened chamber that Edward 
 often insisted upon his going out to play. George 
 told him all about the affairs at school, and related 
 many amusing incidents that happened among his com 
 rades, and informed him what sports were now in fash 
 ion, and whose kite soared the highest, and whose lit- 
 
 VOL. xii. 12 
 
178 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 tie ship sailed fleetest on the Frog Pond. As for 
 Emily, she repeated stories which she had learned 
 from a new book called "The Flower People," in 
 which the snow-drops, the violets, the columbines, the 
 roses, and all that lovely tribe are represented as tell 
 ing their secrets to a little girl. The flowers talked , 
 sweetly, as flowers should; and Edward almost fan 
 cied that he could behold their bloom and smell their 
 fragrant breath. 
 
 Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Ed 
 ward s confinement passed not unhappily. In due 
 time his father returned ; and the next evening, when 
 the family were assembled, he began a story. 
 
 "I must first observe, children," said he, "that 
 some writers deny the truth of the incident which I am 
 about to relate to you. There certainly is but little 
 evidence in favor of it. Other respectable writers, 
 however, tell it for a fact ; and, at all events, it fs an 
 interesting story, and has an excellent moral." 
 
 So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early 
 days of 
 
 OLIVER CROMWELL. 
 
 [BORN 1599. DIED 1658.] 
 
 Not long after King James I. took the place of 
 Queen Elizabeth on the throne of England, there lived 
 an English knight at a place called Hinchinbrooke. 
 His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He spent his 
 life, I suppose, pretty much like other English knights 
 and squires in those days, hunting hares and foxes and 
 drinking large quantities of ale and wine. The old 
 house in which he dwelt had been occupied by his an 
 cestors before him for a good many years. In it there 
 was a great hall, hung round with coats of arms and 
 helmets, cuirasses and swords, which his forefathers 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 179 
 
 had used in battle, and with horns of deer and tails of 
 foxes which they or Sir Oliver himself had killed in 
 the chase. 
 
 This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had 
 been called Oliver, after himself, but who was gener 
 ally known in the family by the name of little Noll. 
 His father was a younger brother of Sir Oliver. The 
 child was often sent to visit his uncle, who probably 
 found him a troublesome little fellow to take care of. 
 He was forever in mischief, and always running into 
 some danger or other, from which he seemed to escape 
 only by miracle. 
 
 Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange 
 accident had befallen him. A huge ape, which was 
 kept in the family, snatched up little Noll in his fore 
 paws and clambered with him to the roof of the house. 
 There this ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted 
 spectators, as if it had done the most praiseworthy 
 thing imaginable. Fortunately, however, he brought 
 the child safe down again ; and the event was after 
 wards considered an omen that Noll would reach a 
 very elevated station in the world. 
 
 One morning, when Noll was five or six years old, a 
 royal messenger arrived at Hinchinbrooke with tidings 
 that King James was coming to dine with Sir Oliver 
 Cromwell. This was a high honor, to be sure, but a 
 very great trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, 
 squires, guards, and yeomen, who waited on the king, 
 were to be feasted as well as himself ; and more provi 
 sions would be eaten and more wine drunk in that one 
 day than generally in a month. However, Sir Oliver 
 expressed much thankfulness for the king s intended 
 visit, and ordered his butler and cook to make the best 
 preparations in their power. So a great fire was kin- 
 
180 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 died in the kitchen ; and the neighbors knew, by the 
 smoke which poured out of the chimney, that boiling, 
 baking, stewing, roasting, and frying were going on 
 merrily. 
 
 By and by the sound of trumpets was heard ap 
 proaching nearer and nearer ; a heavy, old-fashioned 
 coach, surrounded by guards on horseback, drove up 
 to the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in his hand, 
 stood at the gate to receive the king. His Majesty 
 was dressed in a suit of green not very new : he had a 
 feather in his hat, and a triple ruff round his neck, and 
 over his shoulder was slung a hunting-horn instead of 
 a sword. Altogether he had not the most dignified 
 aspect in the world ; but the spectators gazed at him 
 as if there was something superhuman and divine in 
 his person. They even shaded their eyes with their 
 hands, as if they were dazzled by the glory of his coun 
 tenance. 
 
 "How are ye, man?" cried King James, speaking 
 in a Scotch accent ; for Scotland was his native coun 
 try. " By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad to see 
 ye!" 
 
 The good knight thanked the king ; at the same 
 time kneeling down while his Majesty alighted. When 
 King James stood on the ground, he directed Sir Oli 
 ver s attention to a little boy who had come with him 
 in the coach. He was six or seven years old, and wore 
 a hat and feather, and was more richly dressed than 
 the king himself. Though by no means an ill-looking 
 child, he seemed shy, or even sulky ; and his cheeks 
 were rather pale, as if he had been kept moping 
 within doors, instead of being sent out to play in the 
 sun and wind. 
 
 " I have brought my son Charlie to see ye," said the 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 181 
 
 king. " I hope, Sir Oliver, ye have a son of your own 
 to be his playmate." 
 
 Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the 
 little prince, whom one of the attendants had now 
 taken out of the coach. It was wonderful to see how 
 all the spectators, even the aged men with their gray 
 beards, humbled themselves before this child. They 
 bent their bodies till their beards almost swept the 
 dust. They looked as if they were ready to kneel 
 down and worship him. 
 
 The poor little prince ! From his earliest infancy 
 not a soul had dared to contradict him; everybody 
 around him had acted as if he were a superior being ; 
 so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of 
 himself. lie naturally supposed that the whole king 
 dom of Great Britain and all its inhabitants had been 
 created solely for his benefit and amusement. This 
 was a sad mistake ; and it cost him dear enough after 
 he had ascended his father s throne. 
 
 44 What a noble little prince he is ! " exclaimed Sir 
 Oliver, lifting his hands in admiration. " No, please 
 your Majesty, I have no son to be the playmate of his 
 royal highness ; but there is a nephew of mine some 
 where about the house. He is near the prince s age, 
 and will be but too happy to wait upon his royal high 
 ness." 
 
 " Send for him, man ! send for him ! " said the king. 
 
 But, as it happened, there was no need of sending 
 for Master Noll. While King James was speaking, a 
 rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little urchin thrust himself 
 through the throng of courtiers and attendants, and 
 greeted the prince with a broad stare. His doublet 
 and hose (which had been put on new and clean in 
 honor of the king s visit) were already soiled and torn 
 
182 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 with the rough play in which he had spent the morn 
 ing. He looked no more abashed than if King James 
 were his uncle and the prince one of his customary 
 playfellows. 
 
 This was little Noll himself. 
 
 " Here, please your majesty, is my nephew," said 
 Sir Oliver, somewhat ashamed of Noll s appearance 
 and demeanor. " Oliver, make your obeisance to the 
 king s majesty." 
 
 The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the 
 king ; for in those days children were taught to pay 
 reverence to their elders. King James, who prided 
 himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few 
 questions in the Latin grammar, and then introduced 
 him to his son. The little prince, in a very grave and 
 dignified manner, extended his hand, not for Noll to 
 shake, but that he might kneel down and kiss it. 
 
 " Nephew," said Sir Oliver, " pay your duty to the 
 prince." 
 
 " I owe him no duty," cried Noll, thrusting aside 
 the prince s hand with a rude laugh. " Why should I 
 kiss that boy s hand ? " 
 
 All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and 
 Sir Oliver the most of all. But the king laughed 
 heartily, saying that little Noll had a stubborn Eng 
 lish spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn be 
 times what sort of a people he was to rule over. 
 
 So King James and his train entered the house ; 
 and the prince, with Noll and some other children, was 
 sent to play in a separate room while his Majesty was 
 at dinner. The young people soon became acquainted ; 
 for boys, whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, 
 all like play, and are pleased with one another s so 
 ciety. What games they diverted themselves with I 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 183 
 
 cannot tell. Perhaps they played at ball, perhaps at 
 blind-man s-buff, perhaps at leap-frog, perhaps at pris 
 on-bars. Such games have been in use for hundreds 
 of years ; and princes as well as poor children have 
 spent some of their happiest hours in playing at them. 
 
 Meanwhile King James and his nobles were feasting 
 with Sir Oliver in the great hall. The king sat in 
 a gilded chair, under a canopy, at the head of a long 
 table. Whenever any of tlje company addressed him, 
 it was with the deepest reverence. If the attendants 
 offered him wine, or the various delicacies of the festi 
 val, it was upon their bended knees. You would have 
 thought, by these tokens of worship, that the monarch 
 was a supernatural being ; only he seemed to have 
 quite as much need of those vulgar matters, food and 
 drink, as any other person at the table. But fate had 
 ordained that good King James should not finish his 
 dinner in peace. 
 
 All of a sudden there arose a terrible uproar in the 
 room where the children were at play. Angry shouts 
 and shrill cries of alarm were mixed up together ; 
 while the voices of elder persons were likewise heard, 
 trying to restore order among the children. The king 
 and everybody else at table looked aghast ; for per 
 haps the tumult made them think that a general re 
 bellion had broken out. 
 
 " Mercy on us ! " muttered Sir Oliver ; " that grace 
 less nephew of mine is in some mischief or other. The 
 naughty little whelp ! " 
 
 Getting up from table, he ran to see what was the 
 matter, followed by many of the guests, and the king 
 among them. They all crowded to the door of the 
 playroom. 
 
 On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles, 
 
184 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 with his rich dress all torn and covered with the dust 
 of the floor. His royal blood was streaming from his 
 nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a 
 mixture of rage and affright, and at the same time a 
 puzzled expression, as if he could not understand how 
 any mortal boy should dare to give him a beating. As 
 for Noll, there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a 
 lion, looking as if he were ready to fight, not only the 
 prince, but the king and kingdom too. 
 
 " You little villain ! " cried his uncle. " What have 
 you been about ? Down 011 your knees, this instant, 
 and ask the prince s pardon. How dare you lay your 
 hands on the king s majesty s royal son ? " 
 
 " He struck me first," grumbled the valiant little 
 Noll ; " and I ve only given him his due." 
 
 Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in 
 astonishment and horror. No punishment seemed se 
 vere enough for this wicked little varlet, who had 
 dared to resent a blow from the king s own son. Some 
 of the courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be 
 sent prisoner to the Tower of London and brought to 
 trial for high treason. Others, in their great zeal for 
 the king s service, were about to lay hands on the boy 
 and chastise him in the royal presence. 
 
 But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal 
 of sagacity, ordered them to desist. 
 
 " Thou art a bold boy," said he, looking fixedly at 
 little Noll; "and, if thou live to be a man, my son 
 Charlie would do wisely to be friends with thee." 
 
 " I never will ! " cried the little prince, stamping his 
 foot. 
 
 " Peace, Charlie, peace ! " said the king ; then ad 
 dressing Sir Oliver and the attendants, " Harm not 
 
 O 
 
 the urchin ; for he has taught my son a good lesson, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 185 
 
 if Heaven do but give him grace to profit by it. Here 
 after, should he be tempted to tyrannize over the stub 
 born race of Englishmen, let him remember little Noll 
 Cromwell and his own bloody nose." 
 
 So the king finished his dinner and departed ; and 
 for many a long year the childish quarrel between 
 Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was forgotten. 
 The prince, indeed, might have lived a happier life, 
 and have met a more peaceful death, had he remem 
 bered that quarrel and the moral which his father 
 drew from it. But when old King James was dead, 
 and Charles sat upon his throne, he seemed to forget 
 that he was but a man, and that his meanest subjects 
 were men as well as he. He wished to have the prop 
 erty and lives of the people of England entirely at his 
 own disposal. But the Puritans, and all who loved 
 liberty, rose against him and beat him in many bat 
 tles, and pulled him down from his throne. 
 
 Throughout this war between the king and nobles on 
 one side and the people of England on the other, there 
 was a famous leader, who did more towards the ruin 
 of royal authority than all the rest. The contest 
 seemed like a wrestling-match between King Charles 
 and this strong man. And the king was overthrown. 
 When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, 
 that warlike leader sat in the judgment hall, Many 
 judges were present besides himself ; but he alone had 
 the power to save King Charles or to doom him to the 
 scaffold. After sentence was pronounced, this victori 
 ous general was entreated by his own children, on their 
 knees, to rescue his Majesty from death. 
 
 "No!" said he, sternly. "Better that one man 
 should perish than that the whole country should be 
 ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he shall die ! " 
 
186 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaf 
 fold, his great enemy stood at a window of the royal 
 palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor victim of 
 pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as 
 he laid his head upon the block. He looked out with 
 a steadfast gaze while a black-veiled executioner lifted 
 the fatal axe and smote off that anointed head at a 
 single blow. 
 
 " It is a righteous deed," perhaps he said to himself. 
 " Now Englishmen may enjoy their rights." 
 
 At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the 
 coffin, in a gloomy chamber, the general entered, light 
 ing himself with a torch. Its gleam showed that he 
 was now growing old ; his visage was scarred with the 
 many battles in which he had led the van ; his brow 
 was wrinkled with care and with the continual exer 
 cise of stern authority. Probably there was not a 
 single trait, either of aspect or manner, that belonged 
 to the little Noll who had battled so stoutly with 
 Prince Charles. Yet this was he ! 
 
 He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his 
 torch to fall upon the dead monarch s face. Then, 
 probably, his mind went back over all the marvellous 
 events that had brought the hereditary King of Eng 
 land to this dishonored coffin, and had raised him 
 self, a humble individual, to the possession of kingly 
 power. He was a king, though without the empty 
 title or the glittering crown. 
 
 u Why was it," said Cromwell to himself, or might 
 have said, as he gazed at the pale features in the cof 
 fin, " why was it that this great king fell, and that 
 poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the 
 realm?" 
 
 And, indeed, why was it? 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 187 
 
 King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood 
 the same as when a child, he disdained to feel that 
 every human creature was his brother. He deemed 
 himself a superior being, and fancied that his sub 
 jects were created only for a king to rule over. And 
 Cromwell rose, because, in spite of his many faults, 
 he mainly fought for the rights and freedom of his fel 
 low-men ; and therefore the poor and the oppressed 
 all lent their strength to him. 
 
 " Dear father, how I should hate to be a king ! " 
 exclaimed Edward. 
 
 " And would you like to be a Cromwell ? " inquired 
 his father. 
 
 "I should like it well," replied George; "only I 
 would not have put the poor old king to death. I 
 would have sent him out of the kingdom, or perhaps 
 have allowed him to live in a small house near the 
 gate of the royal palace. It was too severe to cut off 
 his head." 
 
 " Kings are in such an unfortunate position," said 
 Mr. Temple, " that they must either be almost deified 
 by their subjects, or else be dethroned and beheaded. 
 In either case it is a pitiable lot." 
 
 " Oh, I had rather be blind than be a king ! " said 
 Edward. 
 
 " Well, my dear Edward," observed his mother, 
 with a smile, " I am glad you are convinced that your 
 own lot is not the hardest in the world." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IT was a pleasant sight, for those who had eyes, to 
 see how patiently the blinded little boy now submitted 
 to what he had at first deemed an intolerable calamity. 
 The beneficent Creator has not allowed our comfort to 
 depend on the enjoyment of any single sense. Though 
 he has made the world so very beautiful, yet it is pos 
 sible to be happy without ever beholding the blue sky, 
 or the green and flowery earth, or the kind faces of 
 those whom we love. Thus it appears that all the ex 
 ternal beauty of the universe is a free gift from God 
 over and above what is necessary to our comfort. How 
 grateful, then, should we be to that divine Benevo 
 lence, which showers even superfluous bounties upon 
 us! 
 
 One truth, therefore, which Edward s blindness had 
 taught him was, that his mind and soul could dispense 
 with the assistance of his eyes. Doubtless, however, 
 he would have found this lesson far more difficult to 
 learn had it not been for the affection of those around 
 him. His parents, and George and Emily, aided him 
 to bear his misfortune ; if possible, they would have 
 lent him their own eyes. And this, too, was a good 
 lesson for him. It taught him how dependent on one 
 another God has ordained us to be, insomuch that all 
 the necessities of mankind should incite them to mu 
 tual love. 
 
 So Edward loved his friends, and perhaps all the 
 world, better than he ever did before. And he felt 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 189 
 
 grateful towards his father for spending the evenings 
 in telling him stories, more grateful, probably, than 
 any of my little readers will feel towards me for so 
 carefully writing these same stories down. 
 
 " Come, dear father," said he, the next evening, 
 " now tell us about some other little boy who was des 
 tined to be a famous man." 
 
 " How would you like a story of a Boston boy ? " 
 asked his father. 
 
 " Oh, pray let us have it ! " cried George, eagerly. 
 " It will be all the better if he has been to our schools, 
 and has coasted on the Common, and sailed boats in 
 the Frog Pond. I shall feel acquainted with him 
 then." 
 
 " Well, then," said Mr. Temple, " I will introduce 
 you to a Boston boy whom all the world became ac 
 quainted with after he grew to be a man." 
 
 The story was as follows : 
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 [BORN 170G. DIED 1790.] 
 
 In the year 1716, or about that period, a boy used 
 to be seen in the streets of Boston who was known 
 among his schoolfellows and playmates by the name 
 of Ben Franklin. Ben was born in 1706 ; so that he 
 was now about ten years old. His father, who had 
 come over from England, was a soap-boiler and tallow- 
 chandler, and resided in Milk Street, not far from the 
 Old South Church. 
 
 Ben was a bright boy at his book, and even a 
 brighter one when at play with his comrades. He had 
 some remarkable qualities which always seemed to give 
 him the lead, whether at sport or in more serious mat 
 ters. I might tell you a number of amusing anecdotes 
 
190 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 about him. You are acquainted, I suppose, with his 
 famous story of the WHISTLE, and how he bought it 
 with a whole pocketful of coppers and afterwards re 
 pented of his bargain. But Ben had grown a great 
 boy since those days, and had gained wisdom by ex 
 perience ; for it was one of his peculiarities, that no 
 incident ever happened to him without teaching him 
 some valuable lesson. Thus he generally profited 
 more by his misfortunes than many people do by the 
 most favorable events that could befall them. 
 
 Ben s face was already pretty well known to the in 
 habitants of Boston. The selectmen and other people 
 of note often used to visit his father, for the sake of 
 talking about the affairs of the town or province. Mr. 
 Franklin was considered a person of great wisdom and 
 integrity, and was respected by all who knew him, al 
 though he supported his family by the humble trade 
 of boiling soap and making tallow candles. 
 
 While his father and the visitors were holding deep 
 consultations about public affairs, little Ben would sit 
 on his stool in a corner, listening with the greatest in 
 terest, as if he understood every word. Indeed, his 
 features were so full of intelligence that there could 
 be but little doubt, not only that he understood what 
 was said, but that he could have expressed some very 
 sagacious opinions out of his own mind. But in those 
 clays boys were expected to be silent in the presence of 
 their elders. However, Ben Franklin was looked upon 
 as a very promising lad, who would talk and act wisely 
 by and by. 
 
 "Neighbor Franklin," his father s friends would 
 sometimes say, " you ought to send this boy to college 
 and make a minister of him." 
 
 " I have often thought of it," his father would re- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 191 
 
 ply; "and my brother Benjamin promises to give 
 him a great many volumes of manuscript sermons, in 
 case he should be educated for the church. But I 
 have a large family to support, and cannot afford the 
 expense." 
 
 In fact, Mr. Franklin found it so difficult to provide 
 bread for his family, that, when the boy was ten years 
 old, it became necessary to take him from school. Ben 
 was then employed in cutting candle-wicks into equal 
 lengths and filling the moulds with tallow ; and many 
 families in Boston spent their evenings by the light 
 of the candles which he had helped to make. Thus, 
 you see, in his early days, as well as in his manhood, 
 his labors contributed to throw light upon dark mat 
 ters. 
 
 Busy as his life now was, Ben still found time to 
 keep company with his former schoolfellows. lie and 
 the other boys were very fond of fishing, and spent 
 many of their leisure hours on the margin of the 
 mill-pond, catching flounders, perch, eels, and tomcod, 
 which came up thither with the tide. The place where 
 they fished is now, probably, covered with stone pave 
 ments and brick buildings, and thronged with people 
 and with vehicles of all kinds. But at that period it 
 was a marshy spot on the outskirts of the town, where 
 gulls flitted and screamed overhead and salt-meadow 
 grass grew under foot. 
 
 On the edge of the water there was a deep bed of 
 clay, in which the boys were forced to stand while they 
 caught their fish. Here they dabbled in mud and mire 
 like a flock of ducks. 
 
 " This is very uncomfortable," said Ben Franklin 
 one day to his comrades, while they were standing mid- 
 leg deep in the quagmire. 
 
192 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 " So it is," said the other boys. " What a pity we 
 have no better place to stand ! " 
 
 If it had not been for Ben, nothing more would 
 have been done or said about the matter. But it was 
 not in his nature to be sensible of an inconvenience 
 without using his best efforts to find a remedy. So, 
 as he and his comrades were returning from the water 
 side, Ben suddenly threw down his string of fish with 
 a very determined air. 
 
 " Boys," cried he, " I have thought of a scheme 
 which will be greatly for our benefit and for the pub 
 lic benefit." 
 
 It was queer enough, to be sure, to hear this little 
 chap this rosy-cheeked, ten-year-old boy talking 
 about schemes for the public benefit ! Nevertheless, 
 his companions were ready to listen, being assured 
 that Ben s scheme, whatever it was, would be well 
 worth their attention. They remembered how saga 
 ciously he had conducted all their enterprises ever 
 since he had been old enough to wear small-clothes. 
 
 They remembered, too, his wonderful contrivance of 
 sailing across the mill-pond by lying flat on his back 
 in the water and allowing himself to be drawn along 
 by a paper kite. If Ben could do that, he might cer 
 tainly do anything. 
 
 " What is your scheme, Ben ? what is it ? " cried 
 they all. 
 
 It so happened that they had now come to a spot of 
 ground where a new house was to be built. Scattered 
 round about lay a great many large stones which were 
 to be used for the cellar and foundation. Ben mounted 
 upon the highest of these stones, so that he might speak 
 with the more authority. 
 
 " You know, lads. " said he, " what a plague it is to 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 193 
 
 be forced to stand in the quagmire yonder, over 
 shoes and stockings (if we wear any) in mud and 
 water. See ! I am bedaubed to the knees of my small 
 clothes ; and you are all in the same pickle. Unless 
 we can find some remedy for this evil, our fishing busi 
 ness must be entirely given up. And, surely, this 
 would be a terrible misfortune ! " 
 
 " That it would ! that it would ! " said his comrades 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " Now, I propose," continued Master Benjamin, 
 " that we build a wharf, for the purpose of carrying 
 on our fisheries You see these stones. The work 
 men mean to use them for the underpinning of a 
 house ; but that would be for only one man s advan 
 tage. My plan is to take these same stones and carry 
 them to the edge of the water and build a wharf with 
 them. This will not only enable us to carry on the 
 fishing business with comfort and to better advantage, 
 but it will likewise be a great convenience to boats 
 passing up and down the stream. Thus, instead of 
 one man, fifty, or a hundred, or a thousand, besides 
 ourselves, may be benefited by these stones. What 
 say you, lads ? Shall we build the wharf? " 
 
 Ben s proposal was received with one of those up 
 roarious shouts wherewith boys usually express their 
 delight at whatever completely suits their views. No 
 body thought of questioning the right and justice of 
 building a wharf with stones that belonged to another 
 person. 
 
 " Hurrah ! hurrah ! " shouted they. " Let s set 
 about it." 
 
 It was agreed that they should all be on the spot 
 that evening and commence their grand public enter 
 prise by moonlight. Accordingly, at the appointed 
 
 VOL. XII. 13 
 
194 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 + 
 
 time, the whole gang of youthful laborers assembled, 
 and eagerly began to remove the stones. They had 
 not calculated how much toil would be requisite in 
 this important part of their undertaking. The very 
 first stone which they laid hold of proved so heavy that 
 it almost seemed to be fastened to the ground. Noth 
 ing but Ben Franklin s cheerful and resolute spirit 
 could have induced them to persevere. 
 
 Ben, as might be expected, was the soul of the en 
 terprise. By his mechanical genius, he contrived meth 
 ods to lighten the labor of transporting the stones, so 
 that one boy, under his directions, would perform as 
 much as half a dozen if left to themselves. Whenever 
 their spirits flagged he had some joke ready, which 
 seemed to renew their strength, by setting them all into 
 a roar of laughter. And when, after an hour or two 
 of hard work, the stones were transported to the water 
 side, Ben Franklin was the engineer to superintend 
 the construction of the wharf. 
 
 The boys, like a colony of ants, performed a great 
 deal of labor by their multitude, though the individual 
 strength of each could have accomplished but little. 
 Finally, just as the moon sank below the horizon, the 
 great work was finished. 
 
 " Now, boys," cried Ben, " let s give three cheers 
 and go home to bed. To-morrow we may catch fish at 
 our ease." 
 
 " Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! " shouted his comrades. 
 
 Then they all went home in such an ecstasy of de 
 light that they could hardly get a wink of sleep. 
 
 The story was not yet finished ; but George s impa 
 tience caused him to interrupt it. 
 
 " How I wish that I could have helped to build that 
 wharf ! " exclaimed he. " It must have been glorious 
 fun. Ben Franklin forever, say I." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 195 
 
 " It was a very pretty piece of work," said Mr. 
 Temple. " But wait till you hear the end of the 
 story." 
 
 " Father," inquired Edward, " whereabouts in Bos 
 ton was the mill-pond on which Ben built his wharf ? " 
 
 " I do not exactly know, answered Mr. Temple ; 
 " but I suppose it to have been on the northern verge 
 of the town, in the vicinity of what are now called 
 Merrimack and Charlestown Streets. That thronged 
 portion of the city was once a marsh. Some of it, in 
 fact, was covered with water." 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 As the children had no more questions to ask, Mr. 
 Temple proceeded to relate what consequences ensued 
 from the building of Ben Franklin s wharf. 
 
 BENJAMIN FKANKLIN. 
 
 [CONTINUED.] 
 
 In the morning, when the early sunbeams were 
 gleaming on the steeples and roofs of the town and 
 gilding the water that surrounded it, the masons came, 
 rubbing their eyes, to begin their work at the founda 
 tion of the new house. But, on reaching the spot, 
 they rubbed their eyes so much the harder. What 
 had become of their heap of stones ? 
 
 " Why, Sam," said one to another, in great per 
 plexity, " here s been some witchcraft at work while 
 we were asleep. The stones must have flown away 
 through the air ! " 
 
 " More likely they have been stolen ! " answered Sam. 
 
 " But who on earth would think of stealing a heap 
 of stones ? " cried a third. " Could a man carry them 
 away in his pocket ? " 
 
 The master mason, who was a gruff kind of man, 
 stood scratching his head, and said nothing at first. 
 But, looking carefully on the ground, he discerned in 
 numerable tracks of little feet, some with shoes and 
 some barefoot. Following these tracks with his eye, 
 he saw that they formed a beaten path towards the 
 water-side. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 197 
 
 " Ah, I see what the mischief is," said he, nodding 
 his head. " Those little rascals, the boys, they have 
 stolen our stones to build a wharf with ! " 
 
 The masons immediately went to examine the new 
 structure. And, to say the truth, it was well worth 
 looking at, so neatly and with such admirable skill had 
 it been planned and finished. These stones were put 
 together so securely that there was no danger of their 
 being loosened by the tide, however swiftly it might 
 sweep along. There was a broad and safe platform to 
 stand upon, whence the little fishermen might cast 
 their lines into deep water and draw up fish in abun 
 dance. Indeed, it almost seemed as if Ben and his 
 comrades might be forgiven for taking the stones, be 
 cause they had done their job in such a workmanlike 
 manner. 
 
 " The chaps that built this wharf understood their 
 business pretty well," said one of the masons. u I 
 should not be ashamed of such a piece of work my 
 self." 
 
 But the master mason did not seem to enjoy the 
 joke. He was one of those unreasonable people who 
 care a great deal more for their own rights and privi 
 leges than for the convenience of all the rest of the 
 world. 
 
 " Sam," said he, more gruffly than usual, " go call 
 a constable." 
 
 So Sam called a constable, and inquiries were set on 
 foot to discover the perpetrators of the theft. In the 
 course of the day warrants were issued, with the signa 
 ture of a justice of the peace, to take the bodies of 
 Benjamin Franklin, and other evil - disposed persons, 
 who had stolen a heap of stones. If the owner of the 
 stolen property had not been more merciful than the 
 
198 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 master mason, it might have gone hard with our friend 
 Benjamin and his fellow-laborers. But, luckily for 
 them, the gentleman had a respect for Ben s father, 
 and, moreover, was amused with the spirit of the whole 
 affair. He therefore let the culprits off pretty easily. 
 
 But, when the constables were dismissed, the poor 
 boys had to go through another trial, and receive sen 
 tence, and suffer execution, too, from their own fa 
 thers. Many a rod, I grieve to say, was worn to the 
 stump on that unlucky night. 
 
 As for Ben, he was less afraid of a whipping than 
 of his father s disapprobation. Mr. Franklin, as I 
 have mentioned before, was a sagacious man, and also 
 an inflexibly upright one. He had read much for a 
 person in his rank of life, and had pondered upon the 
 ways of the world, until he had gained more wisdom 
 than a whole library of books could have taught him. 
 Ben had a greater reverence for his father than for 
 any other person in the world, as well on account of 
 his spotless integrity as of his practical sense and deep 
 views of things. 
 
 Consequently, after being released from the clutches 
 of the law, Ben came into his father s presence with 
 no small perturbation of mind. 
 
 "Benjamin, come hither," began Mr. Franklin, in 
 his customary solemn and weighty tone. 
 
 The boy approached and stood before his father s 
 chair, waiting reverently to hear what judgment this 
 good irian would pass upon his late offence. He felt 
 that now the right and wrong of the whole matter 
 would be made to appear. 
 
 " Benjamin ! " said his father, " what could induce 
 you to take property which did not belong to you ? " 
 
 "Why, father," replied Ben, hanging his head at 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 199 
 
 first, but then lifting his eyes to Mr. Franklin s face, 
 " if it had been merely for my own benefit, I never 
 should have dreamed of it. But I knew that the 
 wharf would be a public convenience. If the owner 
 of the stones should build a house with them, nobody 
 will enjoy any advantage except himself. Now, I made 
 use of them in a way that was for the advantage of 
 many persons. I thought it right to aim at doing 
 good to the greatest number." 
 
 " My son," said Mr. Franklin, solemnly, " so far as 
 it was in your power, you have done a greater harm to 
 the public than to the owner of the stones." 
 
 " How can that be, father ? ". asked Ben. 
 
 " Because," answered his father, " in building your 
 wharf with stolen materials, you have committed a 
 moral wrong. There is no more terrible mistake than 
 
 O 
 
 to violate what is eternally right for the sake of a 
 seeming expediency. Those who act upon such a prin 
 ciple do the utmost in their power to destroy all that is 
 good in the world." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " said Benjamin. 
 
 "No act," continued Mr. Franklin, "can possibly 
 be for the benefit of the public generally which in 
 volves injustice to any individual. It would be easy 
 to prove this by examples. But, indeed, can we sup 
 pose that our all-wise and just Creator would have so 
 ordered the affairs of the world that a wrong act 
 should be the true method of attaining a fight end ? 
 It is impious to think so. And I do verily believe, 
 Benjamin, that almost all the public and private mis 
 ery of mankind arises from a neglect of this great 
 truth, that evil can produce only evil, that good 
 ends must be wrought out by good means." 
 
 " I will never forget it again," said Benjamin, bow 
 ing his head. 
 
200 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 "Kemember," concluded his father, "that, when 
 ever we vary from the highest rule of right, just so 
 far we do an injury to the world. It may seem other- 
 wise for the moment ; but, both in time and in eter 
 nity, it will be found so." 
 
 To the close of his life Ben Franklin never forgot 
 this conversation with his father ; and we have reason 
 to suppose that, in most of his public and private 
 career, he endeavored to act upon the principles which 
 that good and wise man had then taught him. 
 
 After the great event of building the wharf, Ben 
 continued to cut wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for 
 about two years. But, as he had no love for that oc 
 cupation, his father often took him to see various arti 
 sans at their work, in order to discover what trade he 
 would prefer. Thus Ben learned the use of a great 
 many tools, the knowledge of which afterwards proved 
 very useful to him. But he seemed much inclined to 
 go to sea. In order to keep him at home, and like 
 wise to gratify his taste for letters, the lad was bound 
 apprentice to his elder brother, who had lately set up 
 a printing-office in Boston. 
 
 Here he had many opportunities of reading new 
 books and of hearing instructive conversation. He 
 exercised himself so successfully in writing composi 
 tions, that, when no more than thirteen or fourteen 
 years old, he became a contributor to his brother s 
 newspaper. Ben was also a versifier, if not a poet. 
 He made two doleful ballads, one about the ship 
 wreck of Captain Worthilake ; and the other about 
 the pirate Black Beard, who, not long before, infested 
 the American seas. 
 
 When Ben s verses were printed, his brother sent 
 him to sell them to the towns-people wet from the 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 201 
 
 press. " Buy my ballads ! " shouted Benjamin, as he 
 trudged through the streets with a basketful on his 
 arm. " Who 11 buy a ballad about Black Beard ? A 
 penny apiece ! a penny apiece ! Who 11 buy my bal 
 lads?" 
 
 If one of those roughly composed and rudely printed 
 ballads could be discovered now, it would be worth 
 more than its weight in gold. 
 
 In this way our friend Benjamin spent his boyhood 
 and youth, until, on account of some disagreement 
 with his brother, he left his native town and went to 
 Philadelphia. He landed in the latter city, a home 
 less and hungry young man, and bought threepence 
 worth of bread to satisfy his appetite. Not knowing 
 where else to go, he entered a Quaker meeting-house, 
 sat down, and fell fast asleep. He has not told us 
 whether his slumbers were visited by any dreams. But 
 it would have been a strange dream, indeed, and an 
 incredible one, that should have foretold how great a 
 man he was destined to become, and how much he 
 would be honored in that very city where he was now 
 friendless and unknown. 
 
 So here we finish our story of the childhood of Ben 
 jamin Franklin. One of these days, if you would 
 know what he was in his manhood, you must read his 
 own works and the history of American independence. 
 
 " Do let us hear a little more of him ! " said Ed 
 ward ; " not that I admire him so much as many other 
 characters ; but he interests me, because he was a 
 Yankee boy." 
 
 " My dear son," replied Mr. Temple, " it would re 
 quire a whole volume of talk to tell you all that is 
 worth knowing about Benjamin Franklin. There is a 
 very pretty anecdote of his flying a kite in the midst 
 
202 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 of a thunder-storm, and thus drawing down the light 
 ning from the clouds and proving that it was the same 
 thing as electricity. His whole life would be an in 
 teresting story, if we had time to tell it." 
 
 " But, pray, dear father, tell us what made him so 
 famous," said George. " I have seen his portrait a 
 great many times. There is a wooden bust of him in 
 one of our streets ; and marble ones, I suppose, in 
 some other places. And towns, and ships of war, and 
 steamboats, and banks, and academies, and children, 
 are often named after Franklin. Why should he have 
 grown so very famous ? " 
 
 "Your question is a reasonable one, George," an 
 swered his father. " I doubt whether Franklin s philo 
 sophical discoveries, important as they were, or even 
 his vast political services, would have given him all 
 the fame which he acquired. It appears to me that 
 " Poor Richard s Almanac " did more than anything 
 else towards making him familiarly known to the pub 
 lic. As the writer of those proverbs which Poor Rich 
 ard was supposed to utter, Franklin became the coun 
 sellor and household friend of almost every family in 
 America. Thus it was the humblest of all his labors 
 that has done the most for his fame." 
 
 "I have read some of those proverbs," remarked 
 Edward ; " but I do not like them. They are all 
 about getting money or saving it." 
 
 " Well," said his father, " they were suited to the 
 condition of the country ; and their effect, upon the 
 whole, has doubtless been good, although they teach 
 men but a very small portion of their duties." 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HITHERTO Mr. Temple s narratives had all been 
 about boys and men. But, the next evening, he be 
 thought himself that the quiet little Emily would per 
 haps be glad to hear the story of a child of her own 
 sex. He therefore resolved to narrate the youthful 
 adventures of Christina, of Sweden, who began to be 
 a queen at the age of no more than six years. If we 
 have any little girls among our readers, they must not 
 suppose that Christina is set before them as a pattern 
 of what they ought to be. On the contrary, the tale 
 of her life is chiefly profitable as showing the evil ef 
 fects of a wrong education, which caused this daughter 
 of a king to be both useless and unhappy. Here fol 
 lows the story. 
 
 QUEEN CHRISTINA. 
 
 [BOEN 1626. DIED 1689.] 
 
 In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city of 
 Sweden, there was born, in 1626, a little princess. 
 The king, her father, gave her the name of Christina, 
 in memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been 
 in love. His own name was Gustavus Adolphus ; and 
 he was also called the Lion of the North, because he 
 had gained greater fame in war than any other prince 
 or general then alive. With this valiant king for 
 their commander, the Swedes had made themselves 
 terrible to the Emperor of Germany and to the King 
 of France, and were looked upon as the chief defence 
 of the Protestant religion. 
 
204 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 The little Christina was by no means a beautiful 
 child. To confess the truth, she was remarkably 
 plain. The queen, her mother, did not love her so 
 much as she ought; partly, perhaps, on account of 
 Christina s want of beauty, and also because both the 
 king and queen had wished for a son, who might have 
 gained as great renown in battle as his father had. 
 
 The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond of 
 the infant princess. When Christina was very young 
 she was taken violently sick. Gustavus Adolphus, 
 who was several hundred miles from Stockholm, trav 
 elled night and day, and never rested until he held the 
 poor child in his arms. On her recovery he made a 
 solemn festival, in order to show his joy to the people 
 of Sweden and express his gratitude to Heaven. Af 
 ter this event he took his daughter with him in all the 
 journeys which he made throughout his kingdom. 
 
 Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy lit 
 tle girl. When she was two years old, the king and 
 herself, in the course of a journey, came to the strong 
 fortress of Colmar. On the battlements were soldiers 
 clad in steel armor, which glittered in the sunshine. 
 There were likewise great cannons, pointing their 
 black mouths at Gustavus and little Christina, and 
 ready to belch out their smoke and thunder ; for, when, 
 ever a king enters a fortress, it is customary to receive 
 him with a royal salute of artillery. 
 
 But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and 
 his daughter as they were about to enter the gateway. 
 
 " May it please your Majesty," said he, taking off 
 his steel cap and bowing profoundly, " I fear that, if 
 we receive you with a salute of cannon, the little prin 
 cess will be frightened almost to death." 
 
 Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and wa 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 205 
 
 indeed apprehensive that the thunder of so many can 
 non might perhaps throw her into convulsions. He 
 had almost a mind to tell the captain to let them en 
 ter the fortress quietly, as common people might have 
 done, without all this head-splitting racket. But no ; 
 this would not do. 
 
 "Let them fire," said he, waving his hand. "Chris 
 tina is a soldier s daughter, and must learn to bear the 
 noise of cannon." 
 
 So the captain uttered the word of command, and 
 immediately there was a terrible peal of thunder from 
 the cannon, and such a gush of smoke that it envel 
 oped the whole fortress in its volumes. But, amid all 
 the din and confusion, Christina was seen clapping her 
 little hands, and laughing in an ecstasy of delight. 
 Probably nothing ever pleased her father so much as 
 to see that his daughter promised to be fearless as 
 himself. He determined to educate her exactly as if 
 she had been a boy, and to teach her all the knowl 
 edge needful to the ruler of a kingdom and the com 
 mander of an army. 
 
 But Gustavus should have remembered that Provi 
 dence had created her to be a woman, and that it was 
 not for him to make a man of her. 
 
 However, the king derived great happiness from his 
 beloved Christina. It must have been a pleasant sight 
 to see the powerful monarch of Sweden playing in 
 some magnificent hall of the palace with his merry 
 little girl. Then he forgot that the weight of a king 
 dom rested upon his shoulders. He forgot that the 
 wise Chancellor Oxenstiern was waiting to consult 
 with him how to render Sweden the greatest nation of 
 Europe. He forgot that the Emperor of Germany 
 and the King of France were plotting together how 
 they might pull him down from his throne. 
 
206 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 Yes ; Gustavus forgot all the perils, and cares, and 
 pompous irksomeness of a royal life ; and was as 
 happy, while playing with his child, as the humblest 
 peasant in the realm of Sweden. How gayly did they 
 dance along the marble floor of the palace, this valiant 
 king, with his upright, martial figure, his war-worn 
 visage, and commanding aspect, and the small, round 
 form of Christina, with her rosy face of childish mer 
 riment ! Her little fingers were clasped in her father s 
 hand, which had held the leading staff in many famous 
 victories. His crown and sceptre were her playthings. 
 She could disarm Gustavus of his sword, which was so 
 terrible to the princes of Europe. 
 
 But, alas ! the king was not long permitted to en 
 joy Christina s society. When she was four years old 
 Gustavus was summoned to take command of the al 
 lied armies of Germany, which were fighting against 
 the emperor. His greatest affliction was the necessity 
 of parting with his child; but people in such high 
 stations have but little opportunity for domestic happi 
 ness. He called an assembly of the senators of Sweden 
 and confided Christina to their care, saying, that each 
 one of them must be a father to her if he himself 
 should fall in battle. 
 
 At the moment of his departure Christina ran to 
 wards him and began to address him with a speech 
 which somebody had taught her for the occasion. 
 Gustavus was busied with thoughts about the affairs 
 of the kingdom, so that he did not immediately attend 
 to the childish voice of his little girl. Christina, who 
 did not love to be unnoticed, immediately stopped 
 short and pulled him by the coat. 
 
 " Father," said she, why do not you listen to my 
 speech ? " 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 207 
 
 In a moment the king forgot everything except that 
 he was parting with what he loved best in all the 
 world. He caught the child in his arms, pressed her 
 to his bosom, and burst into tears. Yes ; though he 
 was a brave man, and though he wore a steel corselet 
 on his breast, and though armies were waiting for him 
 to lead them to battle, still his heart melted within 
 him, and he wept. Christina, too, was so afflicted 
 that her attendants began to fear that she would ac 
 tually die of grief. But probably she was soon com 
 forted; for children seldom remember their parents 
 quite so faithfully as their parents remember them. 
 
 For two years more Christina remained in the palace 
 at Stockholm. The queen, her mother, had accompa 
 nied Gustavus to the wars. The child, therefore, was 
 left to the guardianship of five of the wisest men in 
 the kingdom. But these wise men knew better how 
 to manage the affairs of state than how to govern and 
 educate a little girl so as to render her a good and 
 happy woman. 
 
 When two years had passed away, tidings were 
 brought to Stockholm which filled everybody with 
 triumph and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes 
 had won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But, alas ! the 
 warlike King of Sweden, the Lion of the North, the 
 father of our little Christina, had been slain at the 
 foot of a great stone, which still marks the spot of 
 that hero s death. 
 
 Soon after this sad event, a general assembly, or 
 congress, consisting of deputations from the nobles, 
 the clergy, the burghers, and the peasants of Sweden, 
 was summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was for the 
 purpose of declaring little Christina to be Queen of 
 Sweden, and giving her the crown and sceptre of her 
 
208 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 deceased father. Silence being proclaimed, the Chan 
 cellor Oxenstiern arose. 
 
 " We desire to know," said he, " whether the people 
 of Sweden will take the daughter of our dead king, 
 Gustavus Adolphus, to be their queen." 
 
 When the chancellor had spoken, an old man, with 
 white hair and in coarse apparel, stood up in the midst 
 of the assembly. He was a peasant, Lars Larrson by 
 name, and had spent most of his life in laboring on a 
 
 farm. 
 
 "Who is this daughter of Gustavus? " asked the 
 old man. " We do not know her. Let her be shown 
 
 to us." 
 
 Then Christina was brought into the hall and placed 
 before the old peasant. It was strange, no doubt, to 
 see a child a little girl of six years old offered to 
 the Swedes as their ruler instead of the brave king, 
 her father, who had led them to victory so many times. 
 Could her baby fingers wield a sword in war ? Could 
 her childish mind govern the nation wisely in peace? 
 
 But the Swedes do not appear to have asked them 
 selves these questions. Old Lars Larrson took Chris 
 tina up in his arms and gazed earnestly into her face. 
 He had known the great Gustavus well ; and his heart 
 was touched when he saw the likeness which the little 
 girl bore to that heroic monarch. 
 
 " Yes," cried he, with the tears gushing down his 
 furrowed cheeks; "this is truly the daughter of our 
 Gustavus! Here is her father s brow! here is his 
 piercing eye! She is his very picture ! This child 
 shall be our queen ! " 
 
 Then all the proud nobles of Sweden, and the rever 
 end clergy, and the burghers, and the peasants, 
 down at the child s feet and kissed her hand. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 209 
 
 " Long live Christina, Queen of Sweden ! " shouted 
 they. 
 
 Even after she was a woman grown Christina re 
 membered the pleasure which she felt in seeing all 
 these men at her feet and hearing them acknowledge 
 her as their supreme ruler. Poor child ! she was yet 
 to learn that power does not insure happiness. As 
 yet, however, she had not any real power. All the 
 public business, it is true, was transacted in her name ; 
 but the kingdom was governed by a number of the 
 most experienced statesmen, who were called a re 
 gency. 
 
 But it was considered necessary that the little queen 
 should be present at the public ceremonies, and should 
 behave just as if she were in reality the ruler of the 
 nation. When she was seven years of age, some am 
 bassadors from the Czar of Muscovy came to the 
 Swedish court. They wore long beards, and were 
 clad in a strange .fashion, with furs and other outland 
 ish ornaments ; and as they were inhabitants of a half- 
 civilized country, they did not behave like other peo 
 ple. The Chancellor Oxenstiern was afraid that the 
 young queen would burst out a laughing at the first 
 sight of these queer ambassadors, or else that she 
 would be frightened by their unusual aspect. 
 
 "Why should I be frightened?" said the little 
 queen. " And do you suppose that I have no better 
 manners than to laugh ? Only tell me how I must be 
 have, and I will do it." 
 
 Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were in 
 troduced ; and Christina received them and answered 
 their speeches with as much dignity and propriety as 
 if she had been a grown woman. 
 
 All this time, though Christina was now a queen, 
 
210 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 you must not suppose that she was left to act as she 
 pleased. She had a preceptor, named John Mathias, 
 who was a very learned man and capable of instruct 
 ing her in all the branches of science. But there was 
 nobody to teach her the delicate graces and gentle vir 
 tues of a woman. She was surrounded almost entirely 
 by men, and had learned to despise the society of her 
 own sex. At the age of nine years she was separated 
 from her mother, whom the Swedes did not consider 
 a proper person to be intrusted with the charge of her. 
 No little girl who sits by a New England fireside has 
 cause to envy Christina in the royal palace at Stock 
 holm. 
 
 Yet she made great progress in her studies. She 
 learned to read the classical authors of Greece and 
 Rome, and became a great admirer of the heroes and 
 poets of old times. Then, as for active exercises, she 
 could ride on horseback as well as any man in her 
 kingdom. She was fond of hunting, and could shoot 
 at a mark with wonderful skill. But dancing was the 
 only feminine accomplishment with which she had any 
 acquaintance. 
 
 She was so restless in her disposition that none of 
 her attendants were sure of a moment s quiet neither 
 day nor night. She grew up, I am sorry to say, a 
 very unamiable person, ill-tempered, proud, stubborn, 
 and, in short, unfit to make those around her happy, 
 or to be happy herself. Let every little girl, who has 
 been taught self-control and a due regard for the 
 rights of others, thank Heaven that she has had bet 
 ter instruction than this poor little Queen of Sweden. 
 
 At the a^e of eighteen Christina was declared free 
 to govern the kingdom by herself without the aid of a 
 regency. At this period of her life she was a young 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 211 
 
 woman of striking aspect, a good figure, and intelli 
 gent face, but very strangely dressed. She wore a 
 short habit of gray cloth, with a man s vest over it, 
 and a black scarf around her neck ; but no jewels nor 
 ornaments of any kind. 
 
 Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her ap 
 pearance, there was something in her air and manner 
 that proclaimed her as the ruler of a kingdom. Her 
 eyes, it is said, had a very fierce and haughty look. 
 Old General Wrangel, who had often caused the ene 
 mies of Sweden to tremble in battle, actually trembled 
 himself when he encountered the eyes of the queen. 
 But it would have been better for Christina if she 
 could have made people love her, by means of soft 
 and gentle looks, instead of affrighting them by such 
 terrible glances. 
 
 And now I have told you almost all that is amusing 
 or instructive in the childhood of Christina. Only a 
 few more words need be said about her ; for it is 
 neither pleasant nor profitable to think of many things 
 that she did after she grew to be a woman. 
 
 When she had worn the crown a few years, she be 
 gan to consider it beneath her dignity to be called a 
 queen, because the name implied that she belonged to 
 the weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to be 
 proclaimed KING ; thus declaring to the world that she 
 despised her own sex and was desirous of being ranked 
 among men. But in the twenty-eighth year of her 
 age Christina grew tired of royalty, and resolved to 
 be neither a king nor a queen any longer. She took 
 the crown from her head with her own hands, and 
 ceased to be the ruler of Sweden. The people did not 
 greatly regret her abdication ; for she had governed 
 them ill, and had taken much of their property to 
 supply her extravagance. 
 
212 BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 
 
 Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Chris 
 tina left Sweden and travelled over many of the coun 
 tries of Europe. Everywhere she was received with 
 great ceremony, because she was the daughter of the 
 renowned Gustavus, and had herself been a powerful 
 queen. Perhaps you would like to know something 
 about her personal appearance in the latter part of her 
 life. She is described as wearing a man s vest, a short 
 gray petticoat, embroidered with gold and silver, and 
 a black wig, which was thrust awry upon her head. 
 She wore no gloves, and so seldom washed her hands 
 that nobody could tell what had been their original 
 color. In this strange dress, and, I suppose, without 
 washing her hands or face, she visited the magnificent 
 court of Louis XIV. 
 
 She died in 1689. None loved her while she lived, 
 nor regretted her death, nor planted a single flower 
 upon her grave. Happy are the little girls of Amer 
 ica, who are brought up quietly and tenderly at the 
 domestic hearth, and thus become gentle and delicate 
 women ! May none of them ever lose the loveliness of 
 their sex by receiving such an education as that of 
 Queen Christina ! 
 
 Emily, timid, quiet, and sensitive, was the very re 
 verse of little Christina. She seemed shocked at the 
 idea of such a bold masculine character as has been 
 described in the foregoing story. 
 
 " I never could have loved her," whispered she to 
 Mrs. Temple ; and then she added, with that love of 
 personal neatness which generally accompanies purity 
 of heart, "It troubles me to think of her unclean 
 hands ! " 
 
 " Christina was a sad specimen of womankind in- 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES. 213 
 
 deed," said Mrs. Temple. "But it is very possible 
 for a woman to have a strong mind, and to be fitted 
 for the active business of life, without losing any of 
 her natural delicacy. Perhaps some time or other Mr. 
 Temple will tell you a story of such a woman." 
 
 It was now time for Edward to be left to repose. 
 His brother George shook him heartily by the hand, 
 and hoped, as he had hoped twenty times before, that 
 to-morrow or the next day Ned s eyes would be strong 
 enough to look the sun right in the face. 
 
 "Thank you, George," replied Edward, smiling; 
 " but I am not half so impatient as at first. If my 
 bodily eyesight were as good as yours, perhaps I could 
 not see things so distinctly with my mind s eye. But 
 now there is a light within which shows me the little 
 Quaker artist, Ben West, and Isaac Newton with his 
 windmill, and stubborn Sam Johnson, and stout Noll 
 Cromwell, and shrewd Ben Franklin, and little Queen 
 Christina, with the Swedes kneeling at her feet. It 
 seems as if I really saw these personages face to face. 
 So I can bear the darkness outside of me pretty well." 
 
 When Edward ceased speaking, Emily put up her 
 mouth and kissed him as her farewell for the night. 
 
 " Ah, I forgot ! " said Edward, with a sigh. " I 
 cannot see any of your faces. What would it signify 
 to see all the famous people in the world, if I must be 
 blind to the faces that I love ? " 
 
 " You must try to see us with your heart, my dear 
 child," said his mother. 
 
 Edward went to bed somewhat dispirited ; but, 
 quickly falling asleep, was visited with such a pleas 
 ant dream of the sunshine and of his dearest friends 
 that he felt the happier for it all the next day. And 
 we hope to find him still happy when we meet again. 
 
BIOGKAPHIOAL SKETCHES: 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 MRS. HUTCHINSON. 
 
 THE character of this female suggests a train of 
 thought which will form as natural an Introduction 
 to her story, as most of the Prefaces to Gay s Fables, 
 or the tales of Prior ; besides that, the general sound 
 ness of the moral may excuse any want of present ap 
 plicability. We will not look for a living resemblance 
 of Mrs. Hutchinson, though the search might not be 
 altogether fruitless. But there are portentous indica 
 tions, changes gradually taking place in the habits 
 and feelings of the gentle sex, which seem to threaten 
 our posterity with many of those public women, where 
 of one was a burden too grievous for our fathers. The 
 press, however, is now the medium through which 
 feminine ambition chiefly manifests itself ; and we 
 will not anticipate the period (trusting to be gone 
 hence ere it arrive) when fair orators shall be as 
 numerous as the fair authors of our own day. The 
 hastiest glance may show how much of the texture 
 and body of cisatlantic literature is the work of those 
 slender fingers from which only a light and fanciful 
 embroidery has heretofore been required, that might 
 sparkle upon the garment without enfeebling the web. 
 Woman s intellect should never give the tone to that 
 of man ; and even her morality is not exactly the ma- 
 
218 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 terial for masculine virtue. A false liberality, which 
 mistakes the strong division-lines of Nature for arbi 
 trary distinctions, and a courtesy, which might polish 
 criticism, but should never soften it, have done their 
 best to add a girlish feebleness to the tottering infancy 
 of our literature. The evil is likely to be a growing 
 one. As yet, the great body of American women are 
 a domestic race ; but when a continuance of ill-judged 
 incitements shall have turned their hearts away from 
 the fireside, there are obvious circumstances which 
 will render female pens more numerous and more pro 
 lific than those of men, though but equally encouraged ; 
 and (limited, of course, by the scanty support of the 
 public, but increasing indefinitely within those limits) 
 the ink-stained Amazons will expel their rivals by ac 
 tual pressure, and petticoats wave triumphantly over 
 all the field. But, allowing that such forebodings are 
 slightly exaggerated, is it good for woman s self that 
 the path of feverish hope, of tremulous success, of bit 
 ter and ignominious disappointment, should be left 
 wide open to her? Is the prize worth her having if 
 she win it? Fame does not increase the peculiar re 
 spect which men pay to female excellence, and there 
 is a delicacy (even in rude bosoms, where few would 
 think to find it) that perceives, or fancies, a sort of 
 impropriety in the display of woman s natal mind to 
 the gaze of the world, with indications by which its 
 inmost secrets may be searched out. In fine, criticism 
 should examine with a stricter, instead of a more in 
 dulgent eye, the merits of females at its bar, because 
 they are to justify themselves for an irregularity which 
 men do not commit in appearing there ; and woman, 
 when she feels the impulse of genius like a command 
 of Heaven within her, should be aware that she is re- 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 219 
 
 linquishing a part of the loveliness of her sex, and 
 obey the inward voice with sorrowing reluctance, like 
 the Arabian maid who bewailed the gift of prophecy. 
 Hinting thus, imperfectly at sentiments which may be 
 developed on a future occasion, we proceed to consider 
 the celebrated subject of this sketch. 
 
 Mrs. Hutchinson was a woman of extraordinary 
 talent and strong imagination, whom the latter quality, 
 following the general direction taken by the enthusi 
 asm of the times, prompted to stand forth as a re 
 former in religion. In her native country, she had 
 shown symptoms of irregular and daring thought, but, 
 chiefly by the influence of a favorite pastor, was re 
 strained from open indiscretion. On the removal of 
 this clergyman, becoming dissatisfied with the ministry 
 under which she lived, she was drawn in by the great 
 tide of Puritan emigration, and visited Massachusetts 
 within a few years after its first settlement. But she 
 bore trouble in her own bosom, and could find no peace 
 in this chosen land. She soon began to promulgate 
 strange and dangerous opinions, tending, in the pe 
 culiar situation of the colony, and from the principles 
 which were its basis and indispensable for its tempo 
 rary support, to eat into its very existence. We shall 
 endeavor to give a more practical idea of this part of 
 her course. 
 
 It is a summer evening. The dusk has settled 
 heavily upon the woods, the waves, and the Trimoun- 
 tain peninsula, increasing that dismal aspect of the em 
 bryo town which was said to have drawn tears of de 
 spondency from Mrs. Hutchinson, though she believed 
 that her mission thither was divine. The houses, straw 
 thatched and lowly roofed, stand irregularly along 
 streets that are yet roughened by the roots of the trees, 
 
220 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 as if the forest, departing at the approach of man, 
 had left its reluctant footprints behind. Most of the 
 dwellings are lonely and silent : from a few we may 
 hear the reading of some sacred text, or the quiet voice 
 of prayer ; but nearly all the sombre life of the scene 
 is collected near the extremity of the village. A crowd 
 of hooded women, and of men in steeple -hats and 
 close-cropped hair, are assembled at the door and open 
 windows of a house newly built. An earnest expres 
 sion glows in every face ; and some press inward, as 
 if the bread of life were to be dealt forth, and they 
 feared to . lose their share ; while others would f aiii 
 hold them back, but enter with them, since they may 
 not be restrained. We, also, will go in, edging through 
 the thronged doorway to an apartment which occu 
 pies the whole breadth of the house. At the upper 
 end, behind a table, on which are placed the Scrip 
 tures and two glimmering lamps, we see a woman, 
 plainly attired, as befits her ripened years ; her hair, 
 complexion, and eyes are dark, the latter somewhat 
 dull and heavy, but kindling up with a gradual bright 
 ness. Let us look round upon the hearers. At her 
 right hand, his countenance suiting well with the 
 gloomy light which discovers it, stands Vane, the 
 youthful governor preferred by a hasty judgment of 
 the people over all the wise and hoary heads that had 
 preceded him to New England. In his mysterious 
 eyes we may read a dark enthusiasm, akin to that of 
 the woman whose cause he has espoused, combined 
 with a shrewd worldly foresight, which tells him that 
 her doctrines will be productive of change and tumult, 
 the elements of his power and delight. On her left, 
 yet slightly drawn back, so as to evince a less decided 
 support, is Cotton, no young and hot enthusiast, but a 
 
MRS. HUTCH1NSON. 221 
 
 mild, grave man in the decline of life, deep in all the 
 learning of the age, and sanctified in heart, and made 
 Venerable in feature, by the long exercise of his holy 
 profession. He, also, is deceived by the strange fire 
 now laid upon the altar; and he alone among his 
 brethren is excepted in the denunciation of the new 
 apostle, as sealed and set apart by Heaven to the work 
 of the ministry. Others of the priesthood stand full 
 in front of the woman, striving to beat her down with 
 brows of wrinkled iron, and whispering sternly and 
 significantly among themselves as she unfolds her se 
 ditious doctrines, and grows warm in their support. 
 Foremost is Hugh Peters, full of holy wrath, and 
 scarce containing himself from rushing forward to con 
 vict her of damnable heresies. There, also, is Ward, 
 meditating a reply of empty puns, and quaint antith 
 eses, and tinkling jests that puzzle us with nothing 
 but a sound. The audience are variously affected ; 
 but none are indifferent. On the foreheads of the 
 aged, the mature, and strong-minded, you may gener 
 ally read steadfast disapprobation, though here and 
 there is one whose faith seems shaken in those whom 
 he had trusted for years. The females, on the other 
 hand, are shuddering and weeping, and at times they 
 cast a desolate look of fear around them ; while the 
 young men lean forward, fiery and impatient, fit in 
 struments for whatever rash deed may be suggested. 
 And what is the eloquence that gives rise to all these 
 passions ? The woman tells them (and cites texts 
 from the Holy Book to prove her words) that they 
 have put their trust in unregenerated and uncommis 
 sioned men, and have followed them into the wilder 
 ness for nought. Therefore their hearts are turning 
 from those whom they had chosen to lead them to 
 
222 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 heaven ; and they feel like children who have been en 
 ticed far from home, and see the features of their 
 guides change all at once, assuming a fiendish shape 
 in some frightful solitude. 
 
 These proceedings of Mrs. Hutchinson could not 
 long be endured by the provincial government. The 
 present was a most remarkable case, in which religious 
 freedom was wholly inconsistent with public safety, 
 and where the principles of an illiberal age indicated 
 the very course which must have been pursued by 
 worldly policy and enlightened wisdom. Unity of 
 faith was the star that had guided these people over 
 the deep ; and a diversity of sects would either have 
 scattered them from the land to which they had as yet 
 so few attachments, or, perhaps, have excited a dimin 
 utive civil war among those who had come so far to 
 worship together. The opposition to what may be 
 termed the Established Church had now lost its chief 
 support by the removal of Yane from office, and his 
 departure for England ; and Mr. Cotton began to have 
 that light in regard to his errors, which will sometimes 
 break in upon the wisest and most pious men, when 
 their opinions are unhappily discordant with those of 
 the powers that be. A synod, the first in New Eng 
 land, was speedily assembled, and pronounced its con 
 demnation of the obnoxious doctrines. Mrs. Hutchin 
 son was next summoned before the supreme civil tri 
 bunal, at which, however, the most eminent of the 
 clergy were present, and appear to have taken a very 
 active part as witnesses and advisers. We shall here 
 resume the more picturesque style of narration. 
 
 It is a place of humble aspect where the elders of 
 the people are met, sitting in judgment upon the dis 
 turber of Israel. The floor of the low and narrow 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 223 
 
 hall is laid with planks hewn by the axe ; the beams 
 of the roof still wear the rugged bark with which they 
 grew up in the forest ; and the hearth is formed of 
 one broad, unhammered stone, heaped with logs that 
 roll their blaze and smoke up a chimney of wood and 
 clay. A sleety shower beats fitfully against the win 
 dows, driven by the November blast, which comes 
 howling onward from the northern desert, the boister 
 ous and unwelcome herald of a New England winter. 
 Rude benches are arranged across the apartment, and 
 along its sides, occupied by men whose piety and learn 
 ing might have entitled them to seats in those high 
 councils of the ancient church, whence opinions were 
 sent forth to confirm or supersede the gospel in the 
 belief of the whole world and of posterity. Here 
 are collected all those blessed fathers of the land, who 
 rank in our veneration next to the evangelists of Holy 
 Writ ; and here, also, are many, unpurified from the 
 fiercest errors of the age, and ready to propagate the 
 religion of peace by violence. In the highest place 
 sits Winthrop, a man by whom the innocent and 
 guilty might alike desire to be judged ; the first con 
 fiding in his integrity and wisdom, the latter hoping 
 in his mildness. Next is Endicott, who would stand 
 with his drawn sword at the gate of heaven, and resist 
 to the death all pilgrims thither, except they travelled 
 his own path. The infant eyes of one in this assembly 
 beheld the fagots blazing round the martyrs in Bloody 
 Mary s time ; in later life he dwelt long at Ley den, 
 with the first who went from England for conscience 
 sake ; and now, in his weary age, it matters little 
 where he lies down to die. There are others whose 
 hearts were smitten in the high meridian of ambitious 
 hope, and whose dreams still tempt them with the 
 
224 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 pomp of the Old World and the din of its crowded 
 cities, gleaming and echoing over the deep. In the 
 midst, and in the centre of all eyes, we see the woman. 
 She stands loftily before her judges with a determined 
 brow ; and, unknown to herself, there is a flash of car 
 nal pride half hidden in her eye, as she surveys the 
 many learned and famous men whom her doctrines 
 have put in fear. They question her; and her an 
 swers are ready and acute : she reasons with them 
 shrewdly, and brings Scripture in support of every ar 
 gument. The deepest controversialists of that scholas 
 tic day find here a woman, whom all their trained and 
 sharpened intellects are inadequate to foil. But, by 
 the excitement of the contest, her heart is made to rise 
 and swell within her, and she bursts forth into elo 
 quence. She tells them of the long unquietness which 
 she had endured in England, perceiving the corruption 
 of the Church, and yearning for a purer and more per 
 fect light, and how, in a day of solitary prayer, that 
 light was given. She claims for herself the peculiar 
 power of distinguishing between the chosen of man 
 and the sealed of Heaven, and affirms that her gifted 
 eye can see the glory round the foreheads of saints, so 
 journing in their mortal state. She declares herself 
 commissioned to separate the true shepherds from the 
 false, and denounces present and future judgments on 
 the land, if she be disturbed in her celestial errand. 
 Thus the accusations are proved from her own mouth. 
 Her judges hesitate, and some speak faintly in her de 
 fence ; but, with a few dissenting voices, sentence is 
 pronounced, bidding her go out from among them, and 
 trouble the land no more. 
 
 Mrs. Hutchinson s adherents throughout the colony 
 were now disarmed ; and she proceeded to Rhode Isl- 
 
MRS. HUTCHINSON. 225 
 
 and, an accustomed refuge for the exiles of Massa 
 chusetts in all seasons of persecution. Her enemies 
 believed that the anger of Heaven was following her, 
 of which Governor Winthrop does not disdain to re 
 cord a notable instance, very interesting in a scientific 
 point of view, but fitter for his old and homely narra 
 tive than for modern repetition. In a little time, also, 
 she lost her husband, who is mentioned in history only 
 as attending her footsteps, and whom we may conclude 
 to have been (like most husbands of celebrated wo 
 men) a mere insignificant appendage of his mightier 
 wife. She now grew uneasy away from the Rhode Isl 
 and colonists, whose liberality towards her, at an era 
 when liberality was not esteemed a Christian virtue, 
 probably arose from a comparative insolicitude on re 
 ligious matters, more distasteful to Mrs. Hutchinson 
 than even the uncompromising narrowness of the Pu 
 ritans. Her final movement was to lead her family 
 within the limits of the Dutch jurisdiction, where, 
 having felled the trees of a virgin soil, she became 
 herself the virtual head, civil and ecclesiastical, of a 
 little colony. 
 
 Perhaps here she found the repose hitherto so vainly 
 sought. Secluded from all whose faith she could not 
 govern, surrounded by the dependants over whom she 
 held an unlimited influence, agitated by none of the 
 tumultuous billows which were left swelling behind 
 her, we may suppose that, in the stillness of Nature, 
 her heart was stilled. But her impressive story was 
 to have an awful close. Her last scene is as difficult 
 to be described as a shipwreck, where the shrieks of 
 the victims die unheard, along a desolate sea, and a 
 shapeless mass of agony is all that can be broughi 
 home to the imagination. The savage foe was on the 
 
 VOL. XII. 15 
 
226 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 watch for blood. Sixteen persons assembled at the 
 evening prayer : in the deep midnight their cry rang 
 through the forest ; and daylight dawned upon the 
 lifeless clay of all but one. It was a circumstance 
 not to be unnoticed by our stern ancestors, in consid 
 ering the fate of her who had so troubled their relig 
 ion, that an infant daughter, the sole survivor amid 
 the terrible destruction of her mother s household, was 
 bred in a barbarous faith, and never learned the way 
 to the Christian s heaven. Yet we will hope that there 
 the mother and child have met. 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 
 
 FEW of the personages of past times (except such 
 as have gained renown in fireside legends as well as 
 in written history) are anything more than mere 
 names to their successors. They seldom stand up in 
 our imaginations like men. The knowledge commu 
 nicated by the historian and biographer is analogous 
 to that which we acquire of a country by the map, 
 minute, perhaps, and accurate, and available for all 
 necessary purposes, but cold and naked, and wholly 
 destitute of the mimic charm produced by landscape- 
 painting. These defects are partly remediable, and 
 even without an absolute violation of literal truth, 
 although by methods rightfully interdicted to profes 
 sors of biographical exactness. A license must be as 
 sumed in brightening the materials which time has 
 rusted, and in tracing out half-obliterated inscriptions 
 on the columns of antiquity : Fancy must throw her 
 reviving light on the faded incidents that indicate 
 character, whence a ray will be reflected, more or less 
 vividly, on the person to be described. The portrait 
 of the ancient governor whose name stands at the 
 head of this article will owe any interest it may pos 
 sess, not to his internal self, but to certain peculiari 
 ties of his fortune. These must be briefly noticed. 
 
 The birth and early life of Sir William Phips were 
 rather an extraordinary prelude to his subsequent dis 
 tinction. He was one of the twenty-six children of a 
 gunsmith, who exercised his trade where hunting 
 
228 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 and war must have given it a full encouragement 
 in a small frontier settlement near the mouth of the 
 river Kennebec. Within the boundaries of the Pu 
 ritan provinces, and wherever those governments ex 
 tended an effectual sway, no depth nor solitude of the 
 wilderness could exclude youth from all the common 
 opportunities of moral, and far more than common 
 ones of religious education. Each settlement of the 
 Pilgrims was a little piece of the Old World inserted 
 into the New. It was like Gideon s fleece, unwet with 
 dew : the desert wind that breathed over it left none 
 of its wild influences there. But the first settlers of 
 Maine and New Hampshire were led thither entirely 
 by carnal motives : their governments were feeble, un 
 certain, sometimes nominally annexed to their sister 
 colonies, and sometimes asserting a troubled indepen 
 dence. Their rulers might be deemed, in more than 
 one instance, lawless adventurers, who found that se 
 curity in the forest which they had forfeited in Eu 
 rope. Their clergy (unlike that revered band who 
 acquired so singular a fame elsewhere in New Eng 
 land) were too often destitute of the religious fervor 
 which should have kept them in the track of virtue, un 
 aided by the restraints of human law and the dread of 
 worldly dishonor ; and there are records of lamentable 
 lapses on the part of those holy men, which, if we may 
 argue the disorder of the sheep from the unfitness of 
 the shepherd, tell a sad tale as to the morality of the 
 eastern provinces. In this state of society, the future 
 governor grew up ; and many years after, sailing with 
 a fleet and an army to make war upon the French, 
 he pointed out the very hills where he had reached 
 the age of manhood, unskilled even to read and write. 
 The contrast between the commencement and close of 
 
SIR WILLIAM PHIPS. 229 
 
 his life was the effect of casual circumstances. During 
 a considerable time, he was a mariner, at a period 
 when there was much license on the high-seas. After 
 attaining to some rank in the English navy, he heard 
 of an ancient Spanish wreck off the coast of His- 
 paniola, of such mighty value, that, according to the 
 stories of the day, the sunken gold might be seen to 
 glisten, and the diamonds to flash, as the triumphant 
 billows tossed about their spoil. These treasures of 
 the deep (by the aid of certain noblemen who claimed 
 the lion s share) Sir William Phips sought for, and 
 recovered, and was sufficiently enriched, even after an 
 honest settlement with the partners of his adventure. 
 That the land might give him honor, as the sea had 
 given him wealth, he received knighthood from King 
 James. Returning to New England, he professed re 
 pentance of his sins (of which, from the nature both 
 of his early and more recent life, there could scarce 
 fail to be some slight accumulation), was baptized, 
 and, on the accession of the Prince of Orange to the 
 throne, became the first governor under the second 
 charter. And now, having arranged these prelimi 
 naries, we shall attempt to picture forth a day of Sir 
 William s life, introducing no very remarkable events, 
 because history supplies us with none such convertible 
 to our purpose. 
 
 It is the forenoon of a day in summer, shortly after 
 the governor s arrival ; and he stands upon his door 
 steps, preparatory to a walk through the metropolis. 
 Sir William is a stout man, an inch or two below the 
 middle size, and rather beyond the middle point of 
 life. His dress is of velvet, a dark purple, broadly 
 embroidered ; and his sword-hilt and the lion s head 
 of his cane display specimens of the gold from the 
 
230 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Spanish wreck. On his head, in the fashion of the 
 court of Louis XIV., is a superb, full-bottomed peri 
 wig, amid whose heap of ringlets his face shows like a 
 rough pebble in the setting that befits a diamond. 
 Just emerging from the door are two footmen, one 
 an African slave of shining ebony, the other an Eng 
 lish bond-servant, the property of the governor for a 
 term of years. As Sir William comes down the steps, 
 he is met by three elderly gentlemen in black, grave 
 and solemn as three tombstones on a ramble from the 
 burying - ground. These are ministers of the town, 
 among whom we recognize Dr. Increase Mather, the 
 late provincial agent at the English court, the author 
 of the present governor s appointment, and the right 
 arm of his administration. Here follow many bows 
 and a deal of angular politeness on both sides. Sir 
 William professes his anxiety to reenter the house, 
 and give audience to the reverend gentlemen : they, on 
 the other hand, cannot think of interrupting his walk ; 
 and the courteous dispute is concluded by a junction 
 of the parties ; Sir William and Dr. Mather setting 
 forth side by side, the two other clergymen forming 
 the centre of the column, and the black and white 
 footmen bringing up the rear. The business in hand 
 relates to the dealings of Satan in the town of Salem. 
 Upon this subject, the principal ministers of the prov 
 ince have been consulted ; and these three eminent 
 persons are their deputies, commissioned to express a 
 doubtful opinion, implying, upon the whole, an exhor 
 tation to speedy and vigorous measures against the ac 
 cused. To such counsels Sir William, bred in the 
 forest and on the ocean, and tinctured with the super 
 stition of both, is well inclined to listen. 
 
 As the dignitaries of Church and State make their 
 
SIR WILLIAM P II IPS. 231 
 
 way beneath the overhanging houses, the lattices are 
 thrust ajar, and you may discern, just in the boun 
 daries of light and shade, the prim faces of the little 
 Puritan damsels, eying the magnificent governor, and 
 envious of the bolder curiosity of the men. Another 
 object of almost equal interest now appears in the mid 
 dle of the way. It is a man clad in a hunting-shirt 
 and Indian stockings, and armed with a long gun. 
 His feet have been wet with the waters of many an 
 inland lake and stream ; and the leaves and twigs of 
 the tangled wilderness are intertwined with his gar 
 ments : on his head he wears a trophy which we would 
 not venture to record without good evidence of the 
 fact, a wig made of the long and straight black hair 
 of his slain savage enemies. This grim old heathen 
 stands bewildered in the midst of King Street. The 
 governor regards him attentively, and, recognizing a 
 playmate of his youth, accosts him with a gracious 
 smile, inquires as to the prosperity of their birthplace, 
 and the life or death of their ancient neighbors, and 
 makes appropriate remarks on the different stations 
 allotted by fortune to two individuals born and bred 
 beside the same wild river. Finally he puts into his 
 hand, at parting, a shilling of the Massachusetts coin 
 age, stamped with the figure of a stubbed pine-tree, 
 mistaken by King Charles for the oak, which saved 
 his royal life. Then all the people praise the humility 
 and bountifulness of the good governor, who struts on 
 ward flourishing his gold-headed cane ; while the gen 
 tleman in the straight black wig is left with a pretty 
 accurate idea of the distance between himself and his 
 old companion. 
 
 Meantime, Sir William steers his course towards the 
 town dock. A gallant figure is seen approaching on 
 
232 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 the opposite side of the street, in a naval uniform pro 
 fusely laced, and with a cutlass swinging by his side. 
 This is Captain Short, the commander of a frigate in 
 the service of the English king, now lying in the har 
 bor. Sir William bristles up at sight of him, and 
 crosses the street with a lowering front, unmindful of 
 the hints of Dr. Mather, who is aware of an unsettled 
 dispute between the captain and the governor, relative 
 to the authority of the latter over a king s ship on the 
 provincial station. Into this thorny subject, Sir Wil 
 liam plunges headlong. The captain makes answer 
 with less deference than the dignity of the potentate 
 requires : the affair grows hot ; and the clergymen en 
 deavor to interfere in the blessed capacity of peace 
 makers. The governor lifts his cane ; and the cap 
 tain lays his hand upon his sword, but is prevented 
 from drawing by the zealous exertions of Dr. Mather. 
 There is a furious stamping of feet, and a mighty up 
 roar from every mouth, in the midst of which his Ex 
 cellency inflicts several very sufficient whacks on the 
 head of the unhappy Short. Having thus avenged 
 himself by manual force, as befits a woodman and a 
 mariner, he vindicates the insulted majesty of the gov 
 ernor by committing his antagonist to prison. This 
 done, Sir William removes his periwig, wipes away 
 the sweat of the encounter, and gradually composes 
 himself, giving vent to a few oaths, like the subsiding 
 ebullitions of a pot that has boiled over. 
 
 It being now near twelve o clock, the three ministers 
 are bidden to dinner at the governor s table, where the 
 party is completed by a few Old Charter senators, 
 men reared at the feet of the Pilgrims, and who re 
 member the days when Cromwell was a nursing-father 
 to New England. Sir William presides with com- 
 
SIR WILLIAM PIIIPS. 233 
 
 mendable decorum till grace is said and the cloth re 
 moved. Then, as the grape-juice glides warm into 
 the ventricles of his heart, it produces a change, like 
 that of a running stream upon enchanted shapes ; and 
 the rude man of the sea and wilderness appears in the 
 very chair where the stately governor sat down. He 
 overflows with jovial tales of the forecastle and of his 
 father s hut, and stares to see the gravity of his guests 
 become more and more portentous in exact proportion 
 as his own merriment increases. A noise of drum and 
 fife fortunately breaks up the session. 
 
 The governor and his guests go forth, like men 
 bound upon some grave business, to inspect the train 
 bands of the town. A great crowd of people is col 
 lected on the Common, composed of whole families, 
 from the hoary grandsire to the child of three years. 
 All ages and both sexes look with interest on the ar 
 ray of their defenders ; and here and there stand a 
 few dark Indians in their blankets, dull spectators ef 
 the strength that has swept away their race. The sol 
 diers wear a proud and martial mien, conscious that 
 beauty will reward them with her approving glances ; 
 not to mention that there are a few less influential mo 
 tives to contribute to keep up an heroic spirit, such as 
 the dread of being made to " ride the wooden horse " 
 (a very disagreeable mode of equestrian exercise, 
 hard riding, in the strictest sense), or of being " laid 
 neck and heels," in a position of more compendious- 
 ness than comfort. Sir William perceives some error 
 in their tactics, and places himself with drawn sword 
 at their head. After a variety of weary evolutions, 
 evening begins to fall, like the veil of gray and misty 
 years that have rolled betwixt that warlike band and 
 
234 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 us. They are drawn into a hollow square, the officers 
 in the centre ; and the governor (for John Dunton s 
 authority will bear us out in this particular) leans his 
 hands upon his sword-hilt, and closes the exercises of 
 the day with a prayer. 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 
 
 THE mighty man of Kittery has a double claim to 
 remembrance. He was a famous general, the most 
 prominent military character in our ante-Revolution 
 ary annals ; and he may be taken as the representa 
 tive of a class of warriors peculiar to their age and 
 country, true citizen-soldiers, who diversified a life 
 of commerce or agriculture by the episode of a city 
 sacked, or a battle won, and, having stamped their 
 names on the page of history, went back to the routine 
 of peaceful occupation. Sir William PepperelTs letters, 
 written at the most critical period of his career, and 
 his conduct then and at other times, indicate a man 
 of plain good sense, with a large share of quiet reso 
 lution, and but little of an enterprising spirit, unless 
 aroused by external circumstances. The Methodistic 
 principles, with which he was slightly tinctured, in 
 stead of impelling him to extravagance, assimilated 
 themselves to his orderly habits of thought and action. 
 Thus respectably endowed, we find him, when near 
 the age of fifty, a merchant of weight in foreign and 
 domestic trade, a provincial counsellor, and colonel of 
 the York County militia, filling a large space in the 
 eyes of his generation, but likely to gain no other post 
 humous memorial than the letters on his tombstone, 
 because undistinguished from the many worshipful 
 gentlemen who had lived prosperously and died peace 
 fully before him. But in the year 1745, an expedition 
 was projected against Louisburg, a walled city of the 
 
236 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 French in the island of Cape Breton. The idea of re 
 ducing this strong* fortress was conceived by William 
 Vaughan, a bold, energetic, and imaginative adven 
 turer, and adopted by Governor Shirley, the most 
 bustling, though not the wisest, ruler, that ever pre 
 sided over Massachusetts. His influence at its utmost 
 stretch carried the measure by a majority of only one 
 vote in the legislature : the other New England prov 
 inces consented to lend their assistance ; and the next 
 point was to select a commander from among the gen 
 tlemen of the country, none of whom had the least par 
 ticle of scientific soldiership, although some were ex 
 perienced in the irregular warfare of the frontiers. 
 In the absence of the usual qualifications for military 
 rank, the choice was guided by other motives, and fell 
 upon Colonel Pepperell, who, as a landed proprietor 
 in three provinces, and popular with all classes of peo 
 ple, might draw the greatest number of recruits to his 
 banner. When this doubtful speculation was pro 
 posed to the prudeijt merchant, he sought advice from 
 the celebrated Whitefield, then an itinerant preacher 
 in the country, and an object of vast antipathy to 
 many of the settled ministers. The response of the 
 apostle of Methodism, though dark as those of the 
 Oracle of Delphos, intimating that the blood of the 
 slain would be laid to Colonel Pepperell s charge in 
 case of failure, and that the envy of the living would 
 persecute him if victorious, decided him to gird on his 
 armor. That the French might be taken unawares, 
 the legislature had been laid under an oath of secrecy 
 while their deliberations should continue ; this precau 
 tion, however, was nullified by the pious perjury of a 
 country member of the lower house, who, in the per 
 formance of domestic worship at his lodgings, broke 
 
Sill WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 237 
 
 into a fervent and involuntary petition for the success 
 of the enterprise against Louisburg. We of the pres 
 ent generation, whose hearts have never been heated 
 and amalgamated by one universal passion, and who 
 are, perhaps, less excitable in the mass than our 
 fathers, cannot easily conceive the enthusiasm with 
 which the people seized upon the project. A desire to 
 prove in the eyes of England the courage of her prov 
 inces ; the real necessity for the destruction of this 
 Dunkirk of America ; the hope of private advantage ; 
 a remnant of the old Puritan detestation of Papist 
 idolatry ; a strong hereditary hatred of the French, 
 who, for half a hundred years, had shed the blood of 
 the English settlers in concert with the savages ; the 
 natural proneness of the New-Englanders to engage in 
 temporary undertakings, even though doubtful and 
 hazardous, such were some of the motives which 
 soon drew together a host, comprehending nearly all 
 the effective force of the country. The officers were 
 grave deacons, justices of the peace, and other similar 
 dignitaries ; and in the ranks were many warm house 
 holders, sons of rich farmers, mechanics in thriving 
 business, husbands weary of their wives, and bachelors 
 disconsolate for want of them. The disciples of White- 
 field also turned their excited imaginations in this di 
 rection, and increased the resemblance borne by the 
 provincial army to the motley assemblages of the first 
 Crusaders. A part of the peculiarities of the affair 
 may be grouped in one picture, by selecting the mo 
 ment of General Pepperell s embarkation. 
 
 It is a bright and breezy day of March ; and about 
 twenty small white clouds are scudding seaward before 
 the wind, airy forerunners of the fleet of privateers and 
 transports that spread their sails to the sunshine in the 
 
238 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 harbor. The tide is at its height ; and the gunwale of a 
 barge alternately rises above the wharf, and then sinks 
 from view, as it lies rocking on the waves in readiness 
 to convey the general and his suite on board the Shir 
 ley galley. In the background, the dark wooden dwell 
 ings of the town have poured forth their inhabitants ; 
 and this way rolls an earnest throng, with the great 
 man of the day walking in the midst. Before him 
 struts a guard of honor, selected from the yeomanry 
 of his own neighborhood, and stout young rustics in 
 their Sunday clothes ; next appear six figures who de 
 mand our more minute attention. He in the centre is 
 the general, a well-proportioned man, with a slight 
 hoar-frost of age just visible upon him ; he views the 
 fleet in which he is about to embark with no stronger 
 
 o 
 
 expression than a calm anxiety, as if he were sending 
 a freight of his own merchandise to Europe. A scar 
 let British uniform, made of the best of broadcloth, be 
 cause imported by himself, adorns his person ; and in 
 the left pocket of a large buff waistcoat, near the pom 
 mel of his sword, we see the square protuberance of 
 a small Bible, which certainly may benefit his pious 
 soul, and, perchance, may keep a bullet from his body. 
 The middle-aged gentleman at his right hand, to whom 
 he pays such grave attention, in silk, gold, and velvet, 
 and with a pair of spectacles thrust above his fore 
 head, is Governor Shirley. The quick motion of his 
 small eyes in their puckered sockets, his grasp on one 
 of the general s bright military buttons, the gesticula 
 tion of his forefinger, keeping time with the earnest 
 rapidity of his words, have all something characteris 
 tic. His mind is calculated to fill up the wild concep 
 tions of other men with its own minute ingenuities ; 
 and he seeks, as it were, to climb up to the moon by 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 239 
 
 piling pebble-stones one upon another. He is now im 
 pressing on the general s recollection the voluminous 
 details of a plan for surprising Louisburg in the depth 
 of midnight, and thus to finish the campaign within 
 twelve hours after the arrival of the troops. On the 
 left, forming a striking contrast with the unruffled de 
 portment of Pepperell, and the fidgety vehemence of 
 Shirley, is the martial figure of Yaughan : with one 
 hand he has seized the general s arm ; and he points 
 the other to the sails of the vessel fluttering in the 
 breeze, while the fire of his inward enthusiasm glows 
 through his dark complexion, and flashes in tips of 
 flame from his eyes. Another pale and emaciated per 
 son, in neglected and scarcely decent attire, and distin 
 guished by the abstracted fervor of his manner, presses 
 through the crowd, and attempts to lay hold of Pep 
 perell s skirt. He has spent years in wild and shad 
 owy studies, and has searched the crucible of the alche 
 mist for gold, and wasted the life allotted him, in a 
 weary effort to render it immortal. The din of war 
 like preparation has broken in upon his solitude ; and 
 he comes forth with a fancy of his half -maddened 
 brain, the model of a flying bridge, by which the 
 army is to be transported into the heart of the hostile 
 fortress with the celerity of magic. But who is this, 
 of the mild and venerable countenance shaded by locks 
 of a hallowed whiteness, looking like Peace with its 
 gentle thoughts in the midst of uproar and stern de 
 signs ? It is the minister of an inland parish, who, 
 after much prayer and fasting, advised by the elders 
 of the church and the wife of his bosom, has taken 
 his staff, and journeyed townward. The benevolent 
 old man would fain solicit the general s attention to 
 a method of avoiding danger from the explosion of 
 
240 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 mines, and of overcoming the city without bloodshed 
 of friend or enemy. We start as we turn from this 
 picture of Christian love to the dark enthusiast close 
 beside him, a preacher of the new sect, in every 
 wrinkled line of whose visage we can read the stormy 
 passions that have chosen religion for their outlet. 
 Woe to the wretch that shall seek mercy there ! At 
 his back is slung an axe, wherewith he goes to hew 
 down the carved altars and idolatrous images in the 
 Popish churches ; and over his head he rears a ban 
 ner, which, as the wind unfolds it, displays the motto 
 given by Whitefield, Christo Duce, in letters red 
 as blood. But the tide is now ebbing ; and the gen 
 eral makes his adieus to the governor, and enters the 
 boat : it bounds swiftly over the waves, the holy ban 
 ner fluttering in the bows: a huzza from the fleet 
 comes riotously to the shore ; and the people thunder 
 back their many-voiced reply. 
 
 When the expedition sailed, the projectors could not 
 reasonably rely on assistance from the mother-country. 
 At Canso, however, the fleet was strengthened by a 
 squadron of British ships-of-the-line and frigates, un 
 der Commodore Warren ; and this circumstance un 
 doubtedly prevented a discomfiture, although the active 
 business, and all the dangers of the siege, fell to the 
 share of the provincials. If we had any confidence 
 that it could be done with half so much pleasure to 
 the reader as to ourself , we would present a whole gal 
 lery of pictures from these rich and fresh historic 
 scenes. Never, certainly, since man first indulged his 
 instinctive appetite for war, did a queerer and less 
 manageable host sit down before a hostile city. The 
 officers, drawn from the same class of citizens with the 
 rank and file, had neither the power to institute an 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 241 
 
 awful discipline, nor enough of the trained soldier s 
 spirit to attempt it. Of headlong valor, when occa 
 sion offered, there was no lack, nor of a readiness to 
 encounter severe fatigue ; but, with few intermissions, 
 the provincial army made the siege one long day of 
 frolic and disorder. Conscious that no military vir 
 tues of their own deserved the prosperous result which 
 followed, they insisted that Heaven had fought as man 
 ifestly on their side as ever on that of Israel in the 
 battles of the Old Testament. We, however, if we 
 consider the events of after-years, and confine our view 
 to a period short of the Revolution, might doubt 
 whether the victory was granted to our fathers as a 
 blessing or as a judgment. Most of the young men 
 who had left their paternal firesides, sound in constitu 
 tion, and pure in morals, if they returned at all, re 
 turned with ruined health, and with minds so broken 
 up by the interval of riot, that they never after could 
 resume the habits of good citizenship. A lust for mil 
 itary glory was also awakened in the country ; and 
 France and England gratified it with enough of 
 slaughter; the former seeking to recover what she 
 had lost, the latter to complete the conquest which the 
 colonists had begun. There was a brief season of re 
 pose, and then a fiercer contest, raging almost from 
 end to end of North America. Some went forth, and 
 met the red men of the wilderness ; and when years 
 had rolled, and the settler came in peace where they 
 had come in war, there he found their unburied bones 
 among the fallen boughs and withered leaves of many 
 autumns. Others were foremost in the battles of the 
 Canadas, till, in the day that saw the downfall of the 
 French dominion, they poured their blood with Wolfe 
 on the Heights of Abraham. Through all this troubled 
 
 VOL. XII. 16 
 
242 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 time, the flower of the youth were cut down by the 
 sword, or died of physical diseases, or became unprof 
 itable citizens by moral ones contracted in the camp 
 and field. Dr. Douglass, a shrewd Scotch physician 
 of the last century, who died before war had gathered 
 in half its harvest, computes that many thousand 
 blooming damsels, capable and well inclined to serve 
 the state as wives and mothers, were compelled to lead 
 lives of barren celibacy by the consequences of the 
 successful siege of Louisburg. But we will not sad 
 den ourselves with these doleful thoughts, when we 
 are to witness the triumphal entry of the victors into 
 the surrendered town. 
 
 The thundering of drums, irregularly beaten, grows 
 more and more distinct, and the shattered strength of 
 the western wall of Louisburg stretches out before the 
 eye, forty feet in height, and far overtopped by a rock- 
 built citadel. In yonder breach the broken timber, 
 fractured stones, and crumbling earth prove the effect 
 of the provincial cannon. The drawbridge is down 
 over the wide moat ; the gate is open ; and the gen 
 eral and British commodore are received by the French 
 authorities beneath the dark and lofty portal arch. 
 Through the massive gloom of this deep avenue there 
 is a vista of the main street, bordered by high peaked 
 houses, in the fashion of old France ; the view is ter 
 minated by the centre square of the city, in the midst 
 of which rises a stone cross ; and shaven monks, and 
 women with their children, are kneeling at its foot. 
 A confused sobbing and half-stifled shrieks are heard, 
 as the tumultuous advance of the conquering army be 
 comes audible to those within the walls. By the light 
 which falls through the archway, we perceive that a 
 few months have somewhat changed the general s 
 
SIR WILLIAM .PEPPERELL. 243 
 
 mien, giving it the freedom of one acquainted with 
 peril, and accustomed to command; nor, amid hopes 
 of more solid reward, does he appear insensible to the 
 thought that posterity will remember his name among 
 those renowned in arms. Sir Peter Warren, who re 
 ceives with him the enemy s submission, is a rough 
 and haughty English seaman, greedy of fame, but 
 despising those who have won it for him. Pressing 
 forward to the portal, sword in hand, comes a comical 
 figure in a brown suit, and blue yarn stockings, with a 
 huge frill sticking forth from his bosom, to which the 
 whole man seems an appendage : this is that famous 
 worthy of Plymouth County, who went to the war 
 with two plain shirts and a ruffled one, and is now 
 about to solicit the post of governor in Louistmrg. In 
 close vicinity stands Vaughan, worn down with toil 
 and exposure, the effect of which has fallen upon Mm 
 at once in the moment of accomplished hope. The 
 group is filled up by several British officers, who fold 
 their arms, and look with scornful merriment at the 
 provincial army, as it stretches far behind in garments 
 of every hue, resembling an immense strip of patch 
 work carpeting thrown down over the uneven ground. 
 In the nearer ranks we may discern the variety of 
 ingredients that compose the mass. Here advance 
 a row of stern, immitigable fanatics, each of whom 
 clinches his teeth, and grasps his weapon with a fist 
 of iron, at sight of the temples of the ancient faith, 
 with the sunlight glittering on their cross - crowned 
 spires. Others examine the surrounding country, and 
 send scrutinizing glances through the gateway, anx 
 ious to select a spot, whither the good woman and her 
 little ones in the Bay Province may be advantageously 
 transported. Some, who drag their diseased limbs for- 
 
244 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ward in weariness and pain, have made the wretched 
 exchange of health or life for what share of fleeting 
 glory may fall to them among four thousand men. 
 But these are all exceptions, and the exulting feelings 
 of the general host combine in an expression like that 
 of a broad laugh on an honest countenance. They roll 
 onward riotously, flourishing their muskets above their 
 heads, shuffling their heavy heels into an instinctive 
 dance, and roaring out some holy verse from the New 
 England Psalmody, or those harsh old warlike stanzas 
 which tell the story of "Lovell s Fight." Thus they 
 pour along, till the battered town and the rabble of its 
 conquerors, and the shouts, the drums, the singing, and 
 the laughter, grow dim, and die away from Fancy s 
 eye and ear. 
 
 The arms of Great Britain were not crowned by a 
 more brilliant achievement during that unprosperous 
 war ; and, in adjusting the terms of a subsequent peace, 
 Louisburg was an equivalent for many losses nearer 
 home. The English, with very pardonable vanity, at 
 tributed the conquest chiefly to the valor of the naval 
 force. On the Continent of Europe, our fathers met 
 with greater justice, and Voltaire has ranked this en 
 terprise of the husbandmen of New England among 
 the most remarkable events in the reign of Louis XY. 
 The ostensible leaders did not fail of reward. Shirley, 
 originally a lawyer, was commissioned in the regular 
 army, and rose to the supreme military command in 
 America. Warren, also, received honors and profes 
 sional rank, and arrogated to himself, without scruple, 
 the whole crop of laurels gathered at Louisburg. Pep- 
 perell was placed at the head of a royal regiment, and, 
 first of his countrymen, was distinguished by the title 
 of baronet. Vauglian alone, who had been soul of the 
 
SIR WILLIAM PEPPERELL. 245 
 
 deed from its adventurous conception till the trium 
 phant close, and in every danger and every hardship 
 had exhibited a rare union of ardor and perseverance, 
 Vaughan was entirely neglected, and died in Lon 
 don, whither he had gone to make known his claims. 
 After the great era of his life, Sir William Pepperell 
 did not distinguish himself either as a warrior or a 
 statesman. He spent the remainder of his days in all 
 the pomp of a colonial grandee, and laid down his 
 aristocratic head among the humbler ashes of his fa 
 thers, just before the commencement of the earliest 
 troubles between England and America. 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 
 
 THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN was the eldest of nine 
 children of the Rev. Thomas Fessenden. He was born 
 on the 22d of April, 1771, at Walpole, in New Hamp 
 shire, where his father, a man of learning and talent, 
 was long settled in the ministry. On the maternal 
 side, likewise, he was of clerical extraction ; his moth 
 er, whose piety and amiable qualities are remembered 
 by her descendants, being the daughter of the Rev. 
 Samuel Kendal, of New Salem. The early education 
 of Thomas Green was chiefly at the common school of 
 his native place, under the tuition of students from the 
 college at Hanover ; and such was his progress, that 
 he became himself the instructor of a school in New 
 Salem at the age of sixteen. He spent most of his 
 youthful days, however, in bodily labor upon the farm, 
 thus contributing to the support of a numerous family ; 
 and the practical knowledge of agriculture which he 
 then obtained was long afterwards applied to the ser 
 vice of the public. Opportunities for cultivating his 
 mind were afforded him, not only in his father s library, 
 but by the more miscellaneous contents of a large 
 bookstore. He had passed the age of twenty-one when 
 his inclination for mental pursuits determined him to 
 become a student at Dartmouth College. His father 
 being able to give but little assistance, his chief re 
 sources at college consisted in his wages as teacher of 
 a village school during the vacations. At times, also, 
 he gave instruction to an evening class in psalmody. 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 247 
 
 From his childhood upward, Mr. Fessenden had 
 shown symptoms of that humorous turn which after 
 wards so strongly marked his writings ; but his first 
 effort in verse, as he himself told me, was made dur 
 ing his residence at college. The themes, or exercises, 
 of his fellow-students in English composition, whether 
 prose or rhyme, were well characterized by the lack 
 of native thought and feeling, the cold pedantry, the 
 mimicry of classic models, common to all such produc 
 tions. Mr. Fessenden had the good taste to disapprove 
 of these vapid and spiritless performances, and re 
 solved to strike out a new course for himself. On one 
 occasion, when his classmates had gone through with 
 their customary round of verbiage and threadbare sen 
 timent, he electrified them and their instructor, Presi 
 dent Wheelock, by reading "Jonathan s Courtship." 
 There has never, to this day, been produced by any 
 of our countrymen a more original and truly Yankee 
 effusion. He had caught the rare art of sketching 
 familiar manners, and of throwing into verse the very 
 spirit of society as it existed around him ; and he had 
 imbued each line with a peculiar yet perfectly natural 
 and homely humor. This excellent ballad compels me 
 to regret, that, instead of becoming a satirist in poli 
 tics and science, and wasting his strength on tempo 
 rary and evanescent topics, he had not continued to be 
 a rural poet. A volume of such sketches as " Jona 
 than s Courtship," describing various aspects of life 
 among the yeomanry of New England, could not have 
 failed to gain a permanent place in American litera 
 ture. The effort in question met with unexampled 
 success : it ran through the newspapers of the day, 
 reappeared on the other side of the Atlantic, and was 
 warmly applauded by the English critics, nor has it 
 
248 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 yet lost its popularity. New editions may be found 
 every year at the ballad-stalls ; and I saw last sum 
 mer, on the veteran author s table, a broadside copy 
 of his maiden poem, which he had himself bought in 
 the street. 
 
 Mr. Fessenden passed through college with a fair 
 reputation for scholarship, and took his degree in 1796. 
 It had been his father s wish that he should imitate 
 the example of some of his ancestors on both sides, by 
 devoting himself to the ministry. He, however, pre 
 ferred the law, and commenced the study of that pro 
 fession at Rutland, in Vermont, with Nathaniel Chip- 
 man, then the most eminent practitioner in the State. 
 After his admission to the bar, Mr. Chipman received 
 him into partnership. But Mr. Fessenden was ill 
 qualified to succeed in the profession of law, by his 
 simplicity of character, and his utter inability to ac 
 quire an ordinary share of shrewdness and worldly 
 wisdom. Moreover, the success of " Jonathan s Court 
 ship," and other poetical effusions, had turned his 
 thoughts from law to literature, and had procured him 
 the acquaintance of several literary luminaries of those 
 days ; none of whose names, probably, have survived 
 to our own generation, save that of Joseph Dennie, 
 once esteemed the finest writer in America. His in 
 tercourse with these people tempted Mr. Fessenden to 
 spend much time in writing for newspapers and peri 
 odicals. A taste for scientific pursuits still further 
 diverted him from his legal studies, and soon engaged 
 him in an affair which influenced the complexion of 
 all his after-life. 
 
 A Mr. Langdon had brought forward a newly in 
 vented hydraulic machine, which was supposed to pos 
 sess the power of raising water to a greater height 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 249 
 
 than had hitherto been considered possible. A com 
 pany of mechanics and others became interested in this 
 machine, and appointed Mr. Fessenden their agent 
 for the purpose of obtaining a patent in London. He 
 was, likewise, a member of the company. Mr. Fes 
 senden was urged to hasten his departure, in conse 
 quence of a report that certain persons had acquired 
 the secret of the invention, and were determined to an 
 ticipate the proprietors in securing a patent. Scarcely 
 time was allowed for testing the efficacy of the machine 
 by a few hasty experiments, which, however, appeared 
 satisfactory. Taking passage immediately, Mr. Fes 
 senden arrived in London on the 4th of July, 1801, 
 and waited on Mr. King, then our minister, by whom 
 he was introduced to Mr. Nicholson, a gentleman of 
 eminent scientific reputation. After thoroughly ex 
 amining the invention, Mr. Nicholson gave an opinion 
 unfavorable to its merits ; and the question was soon 
 settled by a letter from one of the Vermont proprie 
 tors to Mr. Fessenden, informing him that the appar 
 ent advantages of the machine had been found alto 
 gether deceptive. In short, Mr. Fessenden had been 
 lured from his profession and country by as empty a 
 bubble as that of the perpetual motion. Yet it is 
 creditable both to his ability and energy, that, laying 
 hold of what was really valuable in Langdon s con 
 trivance, he constructed the model of a machine for 
 raising water from coal-mines, and other great depths, 
 by means of what he termed the " renovated pressure 
 of the atmosphere." On communicating this inven 
 tion to Mr. Nicholson and other eminent mechani 
 cians, they acknowledged its originality and ingenuity, 
 and thought that, in some situations, it might be use 
 ful. But the expenses of a patent in England, the 
 
250 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 difficulty of obtaining patronage for such a project, 
 and the uncertainty of the result, were obstacles too 
 weighty to be overcome. Mr. Fessenden threw aside 
 the scheme, and, after a two months residence in Lon 
 don, was preparing to return home, when a new and 
 characteristic adventure arrested him. 
 
 He received a visit, at his lodging in the Strand, 
 from a person whom he had never before seen, but 
 who introduced himself to his good-will as being like 
 wise an American. His business was of a nature well 
 calculated to excite Mr. Fessenden s interest. He pro 
 duced the model of an ingenious contrivance for grind 
 ing corn. A patent had already been obtained ; and a 
 company, with the Lord Mayor of London at its head, 
 was associated for the construction of mills upon this 
 new principle. The inventor, according to his own 
 story, had disposed of one fourth part of his patent 
 for five hundred pounds, and was willing to accom 
 modate his countryman with another fourth. After 
 some inquiry into the stranger s character and the ac 
 curacy of his statements, Mr. Fessenden became a pur 
 chaser of the share that was offered him ; on what 
 terms is not stated, but probably such as to involve his 
 whole property in the adventure. The result was dis 
 astrous. The lord mayor soon withdrew his counte 
 nance from the project. It ultimately appeared that 
 Mr. Fessenden was the only real purchaser of any part 
 of the patent ; and, as the original patentee shortly af 
 terwards quitted the concern, the former was left to 
 manage the business as he best could. With a perse 
 verance not less characteristic than his credulity, he 
 associated himself with four partners, and undertook 
 to superintend the construction of one of these patent- 
 mills upon the Thames. But his associates, who were 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 251 
 
 men of no respectability, thwarted his plans ; and af 
 ter much toil of body, as well as distress of mind, he 
 found himself utterly ruined, friendless and penniless, 
 in the midst of London. No other event could have 
 been anticipated, when a man so devoid of guile was 
 thrown among a set of crafty adventurers. 
 
 Being now in the situation in which many a literary 
 man before him had been, he remembered the success 
 of his fugitive poems, and betook himself to the pen 
 as his most natural resource. A subject was offered 
 him, in which no other poet would have found a theme 
 for the Muse. It seemed to be his fatality to form 
 connections with schemers of all sorts ; and he had be 
 come acquainted with Benjamin Douglas Perkins, the 
 patentee of the famous metallic tractors. These im 
 plements were then in great vogue for the cure of in 
 flammatory diseases, by removing the superfluous elec 
 tricity. Perkinism, as the doctrine of metallic tractors 
 was styled, had some converts among scientific men, 
 and many among the people, but was violently opposed 
 by the regular corps of physicians and surgeons. Mr. 
 Fessenden, as might be expected, was a believer in the 
 efficacy of the tractors, and, at the request of Perkins, 
 consented to make them the subject of a poem in Hu- 
 dibrastic verse, the satire of which was to be levelled 
 against their opponents. " Terrible Tractoration " was 
 the result. It professes to be a poetical petition from 
 Dr. Christopher Caustic, a medical gentleman who has 
 been ruined by the success of the metallic tractors, 
 and who applies to the Eoyal College of Physicians 
 for relief and redress. The wits of the poor doctor 
 have been somewhat shattered by his misfortunes; 
 and, with crazy ingenuity, he contrives to heap ridi 
 cule on his medical brethren, under pretence of rail- 
 
252 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ing against Perkinism. The poem is in four cantos, 
 the first of which is the best, and the most character 
 istic of the author. It is occupied with Dr. Caustic s 
 description of his mechanical and scientific contriv 
 ances, embracing all sorts of possible and impossible 
 projects ; every one of which, however, has a ridicu 
 lous plausibility. The inexhaustible variety in which 
 they flow forth proves the author s invention unri 
 valled in its way. It shows what had been the nature 
 of Mr. Fessenden s mental toil during his residence in 
 London, continually brooding over the miracles of 
 mechanism and science, his enthusiasm for which had 
 cost him so dear. Long afterwards, speaking of the 
 first conception of this poem, the author told me that 
 he had shaped it out during a solitary day s ramble 
 in the outskirts of London ; and the character of Dr. 
 Caustic so strongly impressed itself on his mind, that, 
 as he walked homeward through the crowded streets, 
 he burst into frequent fits of laughter. The truth is, 
 that, in the sketch of this wild projector, Mr. Fessen- 
 den had caricatured some of his own features ; and, 
 when he laughed so heartily, it was at the perception 
 of the resemblance. 
 
 " Terrible Tractoratioii " is a work of strange and 
 
 O 
 
 grotesque ideas aptly expressed : its rhymes are of a 
 most singular character, yet fitting each to each as ac 
 curately as echoes. As in all Mr. Fessenden s produc 
 tions, there is great exactness in the language ; the 
 author s thoughts being thrown off as distinctly as im 
 pressions from a type. In regard to the pleasure to 
 be derived from reading this poem, there is room for 
 diversity of taste ; but that it is an original and re 
 markable work, no person competent to pass judgment 
 on a literary question will deny. It was first pub- 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 253 
 
 lished early in the year 1803, in an octavo pamphlet 
 of above fifty pages. Being highly applauded by the 
 principal reviews, and eagerly purchased by the public, 
 a new edition appeared at the end of two months, in a 
 volume of nearly two hundred pages, illustrated with 
 engravings. It received the praise of Gifford, the se 
 verest of English critics. Its continued success en 
 couraged the author to publish a volume of " Original 
 Poems," consisting chiefly of his fugitive pieces from 
 the American newspapers. This, also, was favorably 
 received. He was now, what so few of his countrymen 
 have ever been, a popular author in London ; and, in 
 the midst of his triumphs, he bethought himself of his 
 native land. 
 
 Mr. Fessenden returned to America in 1804. He 
 came back poorer than he went, but with an honora 
 ble reputation, and with unstained integrity, although 
 his evil fortune had connected him with men far un 
 like himself. His fame had preceded him across the 
 Atlantic. Shortly before his arrival, an edition of 
 " Terrible Tractoration " had been published at Phila 
 delphia, with a prefatory memoir of the author, the 
 tone of which proves that the American people felt 
 themselves honored in the literary success of their 
 countryman. Another edition appeared in New York, 
 in 1806, considerably enlarged, with a new satire on 
 the topics of the day. It is symptomatic of the course 
 which the author had now adopted, that much of this 
 new satire was directed against Democratic principles 
 and the prominent upholders of them. This was soon 
 followed by " Democracy Unveiled," a more elaborate 
 attack on the same political party. 
 
 In "Democracy Unveiled," our friend Dr. Caustic 
 appears as a citizen of the United States, and pours 
 
254 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 out six cantos of vituperative verse, with copious notes 
 of the same tenor, on the heads of President Jefferson 
 and his supporters. Much of the satire is unpardon- 
 ably coarse. The literary merits of the work are in 
 ferior to those of " Terrible Tractoration ; " but it is 
 110 less original and peculiar. Even where the matter 
 is a mere versification of newspaper slander, Dr Caus 
 tic s manner gives it an individuality not to be mis 
 taken. The book passed through three editions in the 
 course of a few months. Its most pungent portions 
 were copied into all the opposition prints ; its strange, 
 jog-trot stanzas were familiar to every ear ; and Mr. 
 Fessenden may fairly be allowed the credit of having 
 given expression to the feelings of the great Federal 
 party. 
 
 On the 30th of August, 1806, Mr. Fessenden com 
 menced the publication, at New York, of " The Weekly 
 Inspector," a paper at first of eight, and afterwards of 
 sixteen, octavo pages. It appeared every Saturday. 
 The character of this journal was mainly political ; but 
 there are also a few flowers and sweet-scented twigs of 
 literature intermixed among the nettles and burrs, 
 which alone flourish in the arena of party strife. Its 
 columns are profusely enriched with scraps of satirical 
 verse, in which Dr. Caustic, in his capacity of ballad- 
 maker to the Federal faction, spared not to celebrate 
 every man or measure of government that was anywise 
 susceptible of ridicule. Many of his prose articles are 
 carefully and ably written, attacking not men so much 
 as principles and measures ; and his deeply felt anx 
 iety for the welfare of his country sometimes gives 
 an impressive dignity to his thoughts and style. The 
 dread of French domination seems to have haunted 
 him like a nightmare. But, in spite of the editor s 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 255 
 
 satirical reputation, " The Weekly Inspector " was too 
 conscientious a paper, too sparingly spiced with the 
 red pepper of personal abuse, to succeed in those out 
 rageous times. The publication continued but for a 
 single year, at the end of which we find Mr. Fessen- 
 den s valedictory to his readers. Its tone is despon 
 dent both as to the prospects of the country and his 
 own private fortunes. The next token of his labors 
 that has come under my notice is a small volume of 
 verse, published at Philadelphia in 1809, and alliter- 
 atively entitled " Pills, Poetical, Political, and Philo 
 sophical; prescribed for the Purpose of purging the 
 Public of Piddling Philosophers, Penny Poetasters, of 
 Paltry Politicians, and Petty Partisans. By Peter 
 Pepper -Box, Poet and Physician." This satire had 
 been written during the embargo, but, not making its 
 appearance till after the repeal of that measure, met 
 with less success than " Democracy Unveiled." 
 
 Everybody who has known Mr. Fessenden must 
 have wondered how the kindest hearted man in all the 
 world could have likewise been the most noted satirist 
 of his day. For my part, I have tried in vain to form 
 a conception of my venerable and peaceful friend as a 
 champion in the stormy strife of party, flinging mud 
 full in the faces of his foes, and shouting forth the 
 bitter laughter that rang from border to border of the 
 land ; and I can hardly believe, though well assured 
 of it, that his antagonists should ever have meditated 
 personal violence against the gentlest of human crea 
 tures. I am sure, at least, that Nature never meant 
 him for a satirist. On careful examination of his 
 works, I do not find in any of them the ferocity of 
 the true blood-hound of literature, such as Swift, or 
 Churchill, or Cobbett, which fastens upon the throat 
 
256 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 of its victim, and would fain drink his life-blood. In 
 my opinion, Mr. Fessenden never felt the slightest 
 personal ill-will against the objects of his satire, ex 
 cept, indeed, they had endeavored to detract from his 
 literary reputation, an offence which he resented 
 with a poet s sensibility, and seldom failed to punish. 
 With such exceptions, his works are not properly sa 
 tirical, but the offspring of a mind inexhaustibly fer 
 tile in ludicrous ideas, which it appended to any topic 
 in hand. At times, doubtless, the all-pervading frenzy 
 of the times inspired him with a bitterness not his 
 own. But, in the least defensible of his writings, he 
 was influenced by an honest zeal for the public good. 
 There was nothing mercenary in his connection with 
 politics. To an antagonist, who had taunted him with 
 being poor, he calmly replied, that he " need not have 
 been accused of the crime of poverty, could he have 
 prostituted his principles to party purposes, and be 
 come the hireling assassin of the dominant faction." 
 Nor can there be a doubt that the administration would 
 gladly have purchased the pen of so popular a writer. 
 I have gained hardly any information of Mr. Fes- 
 senden s life between the years 1807 and 1812 ; at 
 which latter period, and probably some time previous, 
 he was settled at the village of Bellows Falls, on Con 
 necticut River, in the practice of the law. In May 
 of that year, he had the good fortune to become ac 
 quainted with Miss Lydia Tuttle, daughter of Mr. 
 John Tuttle, an independent and intelligent farmer at 
 Littleton, Mass. She was then on a visit in Vermont. 
 After her return home, a correspondence ensued be 
 tween this lady and Mr. Fessenden, and was continued 
 till their marriage, in September, 1813. She was con 
 siderably younger than himself, but endowed with the 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 257 
 
 qualities most desirable in the wife of such a man ; 
 and it would not be easy to overestimate how much his 
 prosperity and happiness were increased by this union. 
 Mrs. Fessenden could appreciate what was excellent in 
 her husband, and supply what was deficient. In her 
 affectionate good sense he found a substitute for the 
 worldly sagacity which he did not possess, and could 
 not learn. To her he intrusted the pecuniary cares, 
 always so burdensome to a literary man. Her influ 
 ence restrained him from such imprudent enterprises 
 as had caused the misfortunes of his earlier years. 
 She smoothed his path of life, and made it pleasant to 
 him, and lengthened it ; for, as he once told me (I be 
 lieve it was while advising me to take, betimes, a sim 
 ilar treasure to myself), he would have been in his 
 grave long ago, but for her care. 
 
 Mr. Fessenden continued to practise law at Bellows 
 Falls till 1815, when he removed to Brattleborough, 
 and assumed the editorship of " The Brattleborough 
 Reporter," a political newspaper. The following year, 
 in compliance with a pressing invitation from the in 
 habitants, he returned to Bellows Falls, and edited, 
 with much success, a literary and political paper, 
 called " The Intelligencer." He held this employment 
 till the year 1822, at the same time practising law, and 
 composing a volume of poetry, " The Ladies Monitor," 
 besides compiling several works in law, the arts, and 
 agriculture. During this part of his life, he usually 
 spent sixteen hours of the twenty-four in study. In 
 1822 he clime to Boston as editor of " The New Eng 
 land Farmer," a weekly journal, the first established, 
 and devoted principally to the diffusion of agricul 
 tural knowledge. 
 
 His management of the " Farmer " met unreserved 
 
 TOL. XII. IT 
 
258 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 approbation. Having been bred upon a farm, and 
 passed much of his later life in the country, and being 
 thoroughly conversant with the writers on rural econ 
 omy, he was admirably qualified to conduct such a 
 journal. It was extensively circulated throughout 
 New England, and may be said to have fertilized the 
 soil like rain from heaven. Numerous papers on the 
 same plan sprung up in various parts of the country ; 
 but none attained the standard of their prototype. 
 Besides his editorial labors, Mr. Fessenden published, 
 from time to time, various compilations on agricul 
 tural subjects, or adaptations of English treatises to 
 the use of the American husbandman. Verse he no 
 longer wrote, except, now and then, an ode or song for 
 some agricultural festivity. His poems, being con 
 nected with topics of temporary interest, ceased to be 
 read, now that the metallic tractors were thrown 
 aside, and that the blending and merging of parties 
 had created an entire change of political aspects, since 
 the days of " Democracy Unveiled." The poetic lau 
 rel withered among his gray hairs, and dropped away, 
 leaf by leaf. His name, once the most familiar, was 
 forgotten in the list of American bards. I know not 
 that this oblivion was to be regretted. Mr. Fessen 
 den, if my observation of his temperament be correct, 
 was peculiarly sensitive and nervous in regard to the 
 trials of authorship : a little censure did him more 
 harm than much praise could do him good ; and me- 
 thinks the repose of total neglect was better for him 
 than a feverish notoriety. Were it worth while to 
 imagine any other course for the latter part of his 
 life, which he made so useful and so honorable, it 
 might be wished that he could have devoted himself 
 entirely to scientific research. He had a strong taste 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 259 
 
 for studies of that kind, and sometimes used to lament 
 that his daily drudgery afforded him no leisure to com 
 pose a work on caloric, which subject he had thor 
 oughly investigated. 
 
 In January, 1836, I became, and continued for a 
 few months, an inmate of Mr. Fessenden s family. It 
 was my first acquaintance with him. His image is be 
 fore my mind s eye at this moment ; slowly approach 
 ing me with a lamp in his hand, his hair gray, his face 
 solemn and pale, his tall and portly figure bent with 
 heavier infirmity than befitted his years. His dress, 
 though he had improved in this particular since mid 
 dle Hf e, was marked by a truly scholastic negligence. 
 He greeted me kindly, and with plain, old-fashioned 
 courtesy ; though I fancied that he somewhat regretted 
 the interruption of his evening studies. After a few 
 moments talk, he invited me to accompany him to his 
 study, and give my opinion on some passages of sa 
 tirical verse, which were to be inserted in a new edi 
 tion of " Terrible Tractoration." Years before, I had 
 lighted on an illustrated copy of this poem, bestrewn 
 with venerable dust, in a corner of a college library ; 
 and it seemed strange and whimsical that I should find 
 it still in progress of composition, and be consulted 
 about it by Dr. Caustic himself. While Mr. Fessenr 
 den read, I had leisure to glance around at his study, 
 which was very characteristic of the man and his occu 
 pations. The table, and great part of the floor, were 
 covered with books and pamphlets on agricultural sub 
 jects, newspapers from all quarters, manuscript arti 
 cles for " The New England Farmer," and manuscript 
 stanzas for " Terrible Tractoration." There was such 
 a litter as always gathers around a literary man. It 
 bespoke, at once, Mr. Fessen den s amiable temper and 
 
260 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 his abstracted habits, that several members of the fam 
 ily, old and young, were sitting in the room, and en 
 gaged in conversation, apparently without giving him 
 the least disturbance. A specimen of Dr. Caustic s 
 inventive genius was seen in the " Patent Steam and 
 Hot-Water Stove," which heated the apartment, and 
 kept up a pleasant singing sound, like that of a tea 
 kettle, thereby making the fireside more cheerful. It 
 appears to me, that, having no children of flesh and 
 blood, Mr. Fessenden had contracted a fatherly fond 
 ness for this stove, as being his mental progeny ; and 
 it must be owned that the stove well deserved his af 
 fection, and repaid it with much warmth. 
 
 The new edition of " Tractor ation " came out not 
 long afterwards. It was noticed with great kindness 
 by the press, but was not warmly received by the pub 
 lic. Mr. Fessenden imputed the failure, in part, to the 
 illiberality of the " trade," and avenged himself by a 
 little poem, in his best style, entitled " Wooden Book 
 sellers " ; so that the last blow of his satirical scourge 
 was given in the good old cause of authors against 
 publishers. 
 
 Notwithstanding a wide difference of age, and many 
 more points of dissimilarity than of resemblance, Mr. 
 Fessenden and myself soon became friends. His par 
 tiality seemed not to be the result of any nice discrimi 
 nation of my good and evil qualities (for he had no 
 acuteness in that way), but to be given instinctively, 
 like the affection of a child. On my part, I loved the 
 old man because his heart was as transparent as a 
 fountain ; and I could see nothing in it but integrity 
 and purity, and simple faith in his fellow-men, and 
 good-will towards all the world. His character was 
 so open, that I did not need to correct my original 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 261 
 
 conception of it. He never seemed to me like a new 
 acquaintance, but as one with whom I had been famil 
 iar from my infancy. Yet he was a rare man, such 
 as few meet with in the course of a lifetime. 
 
 It is remarkable, that, with such kindly affections, 
 Mr. Fessenden was so deeply absorbed in thought and 
 study as scarcely to allow himself time for domestic 
 and social enjoyment. During the winter when I first 
 knew him, his mental drudgery was almost continual. 
 Besides " The New England Farmer," he had the edi 
 torial charge of two other journals, " The Horticul 
 tural Kegister," and " The Silk Manual " ; in addition 
 to which employment, he was a member of the State 
 Legislature, and took some share in the debates. The 
 new matter of " Terrible Tractoration " likewise cost 
 him intense thought. Sometimes I used to meet him 
 in the street, making his way onward apparently by a 
 sort of instinct ; while his eyes took note of nothing, 
 and would, perhaps, pass over my face without sign of 
 recognition. He confessed to me that he was apt to 
 go astray when intent on rhyme. With so much to 
 abstract him from outward life, he could hardly be 
 said to live in the world that was bustling around him. 
 Almost the only relaxation that he allowed himself 
 was an occasional performance on a bass-viol, which 
 stood in the corner of his study, and from which he 
 loved to elicit some old-fashioned tune of soothing 
 potency. At meal-times, however, dragged down and 
 harassed as his spirits were, he brightened up, and 
 generally gladdened the whole table with a flash of 
 Dr. Caustic s humor. 
 
 Had I anticipated being Mr. Fessenden s biographer, 
 I might have drawn from him many details that would 
 have been well worth remembering. But he had not 
 
262 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 the tendency of most men in advanced life, to be copi 
 ous in personal reminiscences ; nor did he often speak 
 of the noted writers and politicians with whom the 
 chances of earlier years hau associated him. Indeed, 
 lacking a turn for observation of character, his former 
 companions had passed before him like images in a 
 mirror, giving him little knowledge of their inner na 
 ture. Moreover, till his latest day, he was more in 
 clined to form prospects for the future than to dwell 
 upon the past. I remember the last time, save one, 
 that we ever met I found him on the bed, suffer 
 ing with a dizziness of the brain. He roused him 
 self, however, and grew very cheerful ; talking, with a 
 youthful glow of fancy, about emigrating to Illinois, 
 where he possessed a farm, and picturing a new life 
 for both of us in that Western region. It has since 
 come to my memory, that, while he spoke, there was 
 a purple flush across his brow, the harbinger of 
 death. 
 
 I saw him but once more alive. On the thirteenth 
 day of November last, while on my way to Boston, ex 
 pecting shortly to take him by the hand, a letter met 
 me with an invitation to his funeral. He had been 
 struck with apoplexy on Friday evening, three days 
 before, and had lain insensible till Saturday night, 
 when he expired. The burial took place at Mount 
 Auburn on the ensuing Tuesday. It was a gloomy 
 day ; for the first snow-storm of the season had been 
 drifting through the air since morning ; and the " Gar 
 den of Graves" looked the dreariest spot on earth. 
 The snow came down so fast, that it covered the coffin 
 in its passage from the hearse to the sepulchre. The 
 few male friends who had followed to the cemetery 
 descended into the tomb ; and it was there that I took 
 
THOMAS GREEN FESSENDEN. 263 
 
 my last glance at the features of a man who will hold 
 a place in my remembrance apart from other men. 
 He was like no other. In his long pathway through 
 life, from his cradle to the place where we had now 
 laid him, he had come, a man indeed in intellect and 
 achievement, but, in guileless simplicity, a child. Dark 
 would have been the hour, if, when we closed the door 
 of the tomb upon his perishing mortality, we had be 
 lieved that our friend was there. 
 
 It is contemplated to erect a monument, by subscrip 
 tion, to Mr. Fessenden s memory. It is right that he 
 should be thus honored. Mount Auburn will long re 
 main a desert, barren of consecrated marbles, if worth 
 like his be yielded to oblivion. Let his grave be 
 marked out, that the yeomen of New England may 
 know where he sleeps ; for he was their familiar 
 friend, and has visited them at all their firesides. He 
 has toiled for them at seed-time and harvest : he has 
 scattered the good grain in every field ; and they have 
 garnered the increase. Mark out his grave as that of 
 one worthy to be remembered both in the literary and 
 political annals of our country, and let the laurel be 
 carved on his memorial stone; for it will cover the 
 ashes of a man of genius. 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 
 
 THE subject of this brief memorial had barely begun 
 to be an actor in the great scenes where his part could 
 not have failed to be a prominent one. The nation 
 did not have time to recognize him. His death, aside 
 from the shock with which the manner of it has thrilled 
 every bosom, is looked upon merely as causing a va 
 cancy in the delegation of his State, which a new 
 member may fill as creditably as the departed. It 
 will, perhaps, be deemed praise enough to say of Cilley, 
 that he would have proved himself an active and effi 
 cient partisan. But those who knew him longest and 
 most intimately, conscious of his high talents and rare 
 qualities, his energy of mind and force of character, 
 must claim much more than such a meed for their lost 
 friend. They feel that not merely a party nor a sec 
 tion, but our collective country, has lost a man who 
 had the heart and the ability to serve her well. It 
 would be doing injustice to the hopes which lie with 
 ered upon his untimely grave, if, in paying a farewell 
 tribute to his memory, we were to ask a narrower sym 
 pathy than that of the people at large. May no bit 
 terness of party prejudices influence him who writes, 
 nor those, of whatever political opinions, who may 
 read ! 
 
 Jonathan Cilley was born at Nottingham, N. H., on 
 the 2d of July, 1802. His grandfather, Colonel Jo 
 seph Cilley, commanded a New Hampshire regiment 
 during the Kevolutionary War, and established a char- 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 265 
 
 acter for energy and intrepidity, of which more than 
 one of his descendants have proved themselves the in 
 heritors. Greenleaf Cilley, son of the preceding, died 
 in 1808, leaving a family of four sons and three daugh 
 ters. The aged mother of this family, and the three 
 daughters, are still living. Of the sons, the only sur 
 vivor is Joseph Cilley, who was an officer in the late 
 war, and served with great distinction on the Cana 
 dian frontier. Jonathan, being desirous of a liberal 
 education, commenced his studies at Atkinson Acad 
 emy, at about the age of seventeen, and became a 
 member of the freshman class of Bowdoin College, 
 Brunswick, Me., in 1821. Inheriting but little prop 
 erty from his father, he adopted the usual expedient 
 of a young New-Englander in similar circumstances, 
 and gained a small income by teaching a country school 
 during the winter months, both before and after his 
 entrance at college. 
 
 Cilley s character and standing at college afforded 
 high promise of usefulness and distinction in after-life. 
 Though not the foremost scholar of his class, he stood 
 in the front rank, and probably derived all the real 
 benefit from the prescribed course of study that it 
 could bestow on so practical a mind. His true educa 
 tion consisted in the exercise of those faculties which 
 fitted him to be a popular leader. His influence among 
 his fellow-students was probably greater than that of 
 any other individual ; and he had already made him 
 self powerful in that limited sphere, by a free and 
 natural eloquence, a flow of pertinent ideas in lan 
 guage of unstudied appropriateness, which seemed al 
 ways to accomplish precisely the result on which he 
 had calculated. This gift was sometimes displayed in 
 class meetings, when measures important to those con- 
 
266 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 cerned were under discussion ; sometimes in mock trials 
 at law, when judge, jury, lawyers, prisoner, and wit 
 nesses were personated by the students, and Cilley 
 played the part of a fervid and successful advocate ; 
 and, besides these exhibitions of power, he regularly 
 trained himself in the forensic debates of a literary 
 society, of which he afterwards became president. 
 Nothing could be less artificial than his style of ora 
 tory. After filling his mind with the necessary in 
 formation, he trusted everything else to his mental 
 warmth and the inspiration of the moment, and poured 
 himself out with an earnest and irresistible simplicity. 
 There was a singular contrast between the flow of 
 thought from his lips, and the coldness and restraint 
 with which he wrote ; and though, in maturer life, he 
 acquired a considerable facility in exercising the pen, 
 he always felt the tongue to be his peculiar instrument. 
 In private intercourse, Cilley possessed a remarka 
 ble fascination. It was impossible not to regard him 
 with the kindliest feelings, because his companions 
 were intuitively certain of a like kindliness on his 
 part. He had a power of sympathy which enabled 
 him to understand every character, and hold com 
 munion with human nature in all its varieties. He 
 never shrank from the intercourse of man with man ; 
 and it was to his freedom in this particular that he 
 owed much of his subsequent popularity among a peo 
 ple who are accustomed to take a personal interest in 
 the men whom they elevate to office. In few words, 
 let us characterize him at the outset of life as a young 
 man of quick and powerful intellect, endowed with 
 sagacity and tact, yet frank and free in his mode of 
 action, ambitious of good influence, earnest, active, 
 and persevering, with an elasticity and cheerful strength 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 267 
 
 o mind which made difficulties easy, and the struggle 
 with them a pleasure. Mingled with the amiable qual 
 ities that were like sunshine to his friends, there were 
 harsher and sterner traits, which fitted him to make 
 head against an adverse world ; but it was only at the 
 moment of need that the iron framework of his char 
 acter became perceptible. 
 
 Immediately on quitting college, Mr. Cilley took up 
 his residence in Thomaston, and began the study of 
 law in the office of John Ruggles, Esq., now a sena 
 tor in Congress. Mr. Ruggles being then a promi 
 nent member of the Democratic party, it was natural 
 that the pupil should lend his aid to promote the po 
 litical views of his instructor, especially as he would 
 thus uphold the principles which he had cherished 
 from boyhood. From year to year, the election of Mr. 
 Kuggles to the state legislature was strongly opposed. 
 Cilley s services in overcoming this opposition were 
 too valuable to be dispensed with; and thus, at a 
 period when most young men still stand aloof from 
 the world, he had already taken his post as a leading 
 politician. He afterwards found cause to regret that 
 so much time had been abstracted from his professional 
 studies ; nor did the absorbing and exciting nature of 
 his political career afford him any subsequent oppor 
 tunity to supply the defects of his legal education. 
 He was admitted an attorney-at-law in 1829, and in 
 April of the same year was married to Miss Deborah 
 Prince, daughter of Hon. Hezekiah Prince of Thom 
 aston, where Mr. Cilley continued to reside, and en 
 tered upon the practice of his profession. 
 
 In 1831, Mr. Ruggles having been appointed a judge 
 of the Court of Common Pleas, it became necessary to 
 send a new representative from Thomaston to the leg- 
 
268 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 islature of the State. Mr. Cilley was brought forward 
 as the Democratic candidate, obtained his election, 
 and took his seat in January, 1832. But in the course 
 of this year the friendly relations between Judge Rug- 
 gles and Mr. Cilley were broken off. The former gen 
 tleman, it appears, had imbibed the idea that his polit 
 ical aspirations (which were then directed towards a 
 seat in the Senate of the United States) did not receive 
 all the aid which he was disposed to claim from the in 
 fluence of his late pupil. When, therefore, Mr. Cil 
 ley was held up as a candidate for reelection to the leg^ 
 islature, the whole strength of Judge Ruggles and his 
 adherents was exerted against him. This was the first 
 act and declaration of a political hostility, which was 
 too warm and earnest not to become, in some degree, 
 personal, and which rendered Mr. Cilley s subsequent 
 career a continual struggle with those to whom he 
 might naturally have looked for friendship and support. 
 It sets his abilities and force of character in the strong 
 est light, to view him, at the very outset of public life, 
 without the aid of powerful connections, an isolated 
 young man, forced into a position of hostility, not 
 merely with the enemies of his party, but likewise 
 with a large body of its adherents, even accused of 
 treachery to its principles, yet gaining triumph after 
 triumph, and making his way steadily onward. Surely 
 his was a mental and moral energy which death alone 
 could have laid prostrate. 
 
 We have the testimony of those who knew Mr. Cil 
 ley well, that his own feelings were never so imbit- 
 tered by those conflicts as to prevent him from inter 
 changing the courtesies of society with his most violent 
 opponents. While their resentments rendered his very 
 presence intolerable to them, he could address them 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 269 
 
 with as much ease and composure as if their mutual 
 relations had been those of perfect harmony. There 
 was no affectation in this ; it was the good-natured con 
 sciousness of his own strength that enabled him to 
 keep his temper ; it was the same chivalrous sentiment 
 which impels hostile warriors to shake hands in the 
 intervals of battle. Mr. Cilley was slow to withdraw 
 his confidence from any man whom he deemed a friend ; 
 and it has been mentioned as almost his only weak 
 point, that he was too apt to suffer himself to be be 
 trayed before he would condescend to suspect. His 
 prejudices, however, when once adopted, partook of 
 the depth and strength of his character, and could 
 not be readily overcome. He loved to subdue his 
 foes ; but no man could use a triumph more generously 
 than he. 
 
 Let us resume our narrative. In spite of the op 
 position of Judge Ruggles and his friends, combined 
 with that of the Whigs, Mr. Cilley was re elected to 
 the legislature of 1833, and was equally successful in 
 each of the succeeding years, until his election to Con 
 gress. He was five successive years the representative 
 of Thomaston. In 1834, when Mr. Dunlap was nomi 
 nated as the Democratic candidate for governor, Mr. 
 Cilley gave his support to Governor Smith, in the be 
 lief that the substitution of a new candidate had been 
 unfairly effected. He considered it a stratagem in 
 tended to promote the election of Judge Ruggles to the 
 Senate of the United States. Early in the legislative 
 session of the same year, the Ruggles party obtained a 
 temporary triumph over Mr. Cilley, effected his expul 
 sion from the Democratic caucuses, and attempted to 
 stigmatize him as a traitor to his political friends. But 
 Mr. Cilley s high and honorable course was erelong un- 
 
270 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 derstood and appreciated by his party and the people, 
 He told them openly and boldly that they might under 
 take to expel him from their caucuses, but they could 
 not expel him from the Democratic party ; they might 
 stigmatize him with any appellation they might choose, 
 but they could not reach the height on which he stood, 
 nor shake his position with the people. But a few 
 weeks had elapsed, and Mr. Cilley was the acknowl 
 edged head and leader of that party in the legislature. 
 During the same session, Mr. Speaker Clifford (one 
 of the friends of Judge Ruggles) being appointed at 
 torney-general, the Ruggles party were desirous of se 
 curing the election of another of their adherents to 
 the chair; but, as it was obvious that Mr. Cilley s 
 popularity would gain him the place, the incumbent 
 was induced to delay his resignation till the end of 
 the term. At the session of 1835, Messrs. Cilley, 
 Davee, and McCrote being candidates for the chair, 
 Mr. Cilley withdrew in favor of Mr. Davee. That 
 gentleman was accordingly elected ; but, being soon 
 afterwards appointed sheriff of Somerset County, Mr. 
 Cilley succeeded him as speaker, and filled the same 
 office during the session of 1836. All parties awarded 
 him the praise of being the best presiding officer that 
 the house ever had. 
 
 In 1836, he was nominated by a large portion of the 
 Democratic electors of the Lincoln Congressional Dis 
 trict as their candidate for Congress. That district 
 has recently shown itself to possess a decided Whig 
 majority ; and this would have been equally the case 
 in 1836, had any other man than Mr. Cilley appeared 
 on the Democratic side. He had likewise to contend, 
 as in all the former scenes of his political life, with 
 that portion of his own party which adhered to Mr. 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 271 
 
 Ruggles. There was still another formidable obstacle 
 in the high character of Judge Bailey, who then rep 
 resented the district, and was a candidate for reelec 
 tion. All these difficulties, however, served only to 
 protract the contest, but could not snatch the victory 
 from Mr. Cilley, who obtained a majority of yotes at 
 the third trial. It was a fatal triumph. 
 
 In the summer of 1837, a few months after his elec 
 tion to Congress, I met Mr. Cilley for the first time 
 since early youth, when he had been to me almost as 
 an elder brother. The two or three days which I 
 spent in his neighborhood enabled us to renew our 
 former intimacy. In his person there was very little 
 change, and that little was for the better. He had an 
 impending brow, deep-set eyes, and a thin and thought 
 ful countenance, which, in his abstracted moments, 
 seemed almost stern ; but in the intercourse of society 
 it was brightened with a kindly smile, that will live in 
 the recollection of all who knew him. His manners 
 had not a fastidious polish, but were characterized by 
 the simplicity of one who had dwelt remote from cities, 
 holding free companionship with the yeomen of the 
 land. I thought him as true a representative of the 
 people as ever theory could portray. His earlier and 
 later habits of life, his feelings, partialities, and preju 
 dices, were those of the people : the strong and shrewd 
 sense which constituted so marked a feature of his 
 mind was but a higher degree of the popular intellect. 
 He loved the people and respected them, and was 
 prouder of nothing than of his brotherhood with those 
 who had intrusted tfyeir public interests to his care. 
 His continual struggles in the political arena had 
 strengthened his bones and sinews : opposition had 
 kept him ardent ; while success had cherished the gen- 
 
272 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 erous warmth of his nature, and assisted the growth 
 both of his powers and sympathies. Disappointment 
 might have soured and contracted him ; but it ap 
 peared to me that his triumphant warfare had been no 
 less beneficial to his heart than to his mind. I was 
 aware, indeed, that his harsher traits had grown apace 
 with his milder ones ; that he possessed iron resolution, 
 indomitable perseverance, and an almost terrible en 
 ergy ; but these features had imparted no hardness 
 to his character in private intercourse. In the hour 
 of public need, these strong qualities would have shown 
 themselves the most prominent ones, and would have 
 encouraged his countrymen to rally round him as one 
 of their natural leaders. 
 
 In his private and domestic relations, Mr. Cilley was 
 most exemplary; and he enjoyed no less happiness 
 than he conferred. He had been the father of four 
 children, two of whom were in the grave, leaving, I 
 thought, a more abiding impression of tenderness and 
 regret than the death of infants usually makes on the 
 masculine mind. Two boys the elder, seven or 
 eight years of age ; and the younger, two still re 
 mained to him ; and the fondness of these children for 
 their father, their evident enjoyment of his society, 
 was proof enough of his gentle and amiable character 
 within the precincts of his family. In that bereaved 
 household there is now another child, whom the father 
 never saw. Mr. Cilley s domestic habits were simple 
 and primitive to a degree unusual, in most parts of 
 our country, among men of so eminent a station as he 
 had attained. It made me smile, though with any 
 thing but scorn, in contrast to the aristocratic state- 
 liness which I have witnessed elsewhere, to see him 
 driving home his own cow after a long search for her 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 273 
 
 through the village. That trait alone would have 
 marked him as a man whose greatness lay within him 
 self. He appeared to take much interest in the cul 
 tivation of his garden, and was very fond of flowers. 
 He kept bees, and told me that he loved to sit for 
 whole hours by the hives, watching the labors of the 
 insects, and soothed by the hum with which they filled 
 the air. I glance at these minute particulars of his 
 daily life, because they form so strange a contrast with 
 the circumstances of his death. Who could have be 
 lieved that, with his thoroughly New England charac 
 ter, in so short a time after I had seen him in that 
 peaceful and happy home, among those simple occu 
 pations and pure enjoyments, he would be stretched 
 in his own blood, slain for an almost impalpable 
 punctilio ! 
 
 It is not my purpose to dwell upon Mr. Cilley s 
 brief career in Congress. Brief as it was, his charac 
 ter and talents had more than begun to be felt, and 
 would soon have linked his name with the history of 
 every important measure, and have borne it onward 
 with the progress of the principles which he sup 
 ported. He was not eager to seize opportunities of 
 thrusting himself into notice ; but, when time and the 
 occasion summoned him, he came forward, and poured 
 forth his ready and natural eloquence with as much 
 effect in the councils of the nation as he had done in 
 those of his own State. With every effort that he 
 made, the hopes of his party rested more decidedly 
 upon him, as one who would hereafter be found in 
 the vanguard of many a Democratic victory. Let me 
 spare myself the details of the awful catastrophe by 
 which all those proud hopes perished ; for I write with 
 a blunted pen and a head benumbed, and am the less 
 
 VOL. XII. 18 
 
274 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 able to express my feelings as they lie deep at heart, 
 and inexhaustible. 
 
 On the 23d of February last, Mr. Cilley received a 
 challenge from Mr. Graves of Kentucky, through the 
 hands of Mr. Wise of Virginia. This measure, as is 
 declared in the challenge itself, was grounded on Mr. 
 Cilley s refusal to receive a message, of which Mr. 
 Graves had been the bearer, from a person of disputed 
 respectability ; although no exception to that person s 
 character had been expressed by Mr. Cilley ; nor need 
 such inference have been drawn, unless Mr. Graves 
 were conscious that public opinion held his friend in a 
 doubtful light. The challenge was accepted, and the 
 parties met on the following day. They exchanged 
 two shots with rifles. After each shot, a conference 
 was held between the friends of both parties, and the 
 most generous avowals of respect and kindly feeling 
 were made on the part of Cilley towards his antago 
 nist, but without avail. A third shot was exchanged ; 
 and Mr. Cilley fell dead into the arms of one of his 
 friends. While I write, a Committee of Investigation 
 is sitting upon this affair : but the public has not 
 waited for its award ; and the writer, in accordance 
 with the public, has formed his opinion on the official 
 statement of Messrs. Wise and Jones. A challenge 
 was never given on a more shadowy pretext ; a duel 
 was never pressed to a fatal close in the face of such 
 open kindness as was expressed by Mr. Cilley ; and 
 the conclusion is inevitable, that Mr. Graves and his 
 principal second, Mr. Wise, have gone further than 
 their own dreadful code will warrant them, and over 
 stepped the imaginary distinction, which, on their own 
 principles, separates manslaughter from murder. 
 
 Alas that over the grave of a dear friend my sor- 
 
JONATHAN CILLEY. 275 
 
 row for the bereavement must be mingled with another 
 grief, that he threw away such a life in so misera 
 ble a cause ! Why, as he was true to the Northern 
 character in all things else, did he swerve from his 
 Northern principles in this final scene ? But his error 
 was a generous one, since he fought for what he 
 deemed the honor of New England ; and, now that 
 death has paid the forfeit, the most rigid may forgive 
 him. If that dark pitfall that bloody grave had 
 not lain in the midst of his path, whither, whither 
 might it not have led him ! It has ended there : yet 
 so strong was my conception of his energies, so like 
 destiny did it appear that he should achieve every 
 thing at which he aimed, that even now my fancy 
 will not dwell upon his grave, but pictures him still 
 amid the struggles and triumphs of the present and 
 the future. 1 
 1838. 
 
 i A very subtile and searching description of Cilley s mental and 
 moral qualities is given in Hawthorne s American Note-Books, p. 75. 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL, 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF THE GENTLE BOY. 
 
 ON a pleasant afternoon of June, it was my good 
 fortune to be the companion of two young ladies in a 
 walk. The direction of our course being left to me, 
 I led them neither to Legge s Hill, nor to the Cold 
 Spring, nor to the rude shores and old batteries of the 
 Neck, nor yet to Paradise ; though if the latter place 
 were rightly named, my fair friends would have been 
 at home there. We reached the outskirts of the town, 
 and turning aside from a street of tanners and curriers, 
 began to ascend a hill, which at a distance, by its dark 
 slope and the even line of its summit, resembled a 
 green rampart along the road. It was less steep than 
 its aspect threatened. The eminence formed part of 
 an extensive tract of pasture land, and was traversed 
 by cow paths in various directions ; but, strange to 
 tell, though the whole slope and summit were of a pe 
 culiarly deep green, scarce a blade of grass was visible 
 from the base upward. This deceitful verdure was 
 occasioned by a plentiful crop of " wood-wax," which 
 wears the same dark and glossy green throughout the 
 summer, except at one short period, when it puts forth 
 a profusion of yellow blossoms. At that season, to a 
 distant spectator, the hill appears absolutely overlaid 
 with gold, or covered with a glory of sunshine, even 
 
280 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 beneath a clouded sky. Tut the curious wanderer on 
 the hill will perceive that all the grass, and everything 
 that should nourish man or beast, has been destroyed 
 by this vile and ineradicable weed : its tufted roots 
 make the soil their own, and permit nothing else to 
 vegetate among them ; so that a physical curse may be 
 said to have blasted the spot, where guilt and frenzy 
 consummated the most execrable scene that our Hs- 
 tory blushes to record. For this was the field where 
 superstition won her darkest triumph ; the high place 
 where our fathers set up their shame, to the mournful 
 gaze of generations far remote. The dust of martyrs 
 was beneath our feet. We stood on Gallows Hill. 
 
 For my own part, I have often courted the historic 
 influence of the spot. But it is singular how few 
 come on pilgrimage to this famous hill ; how many 
 spend their lives almost at its base, and never once 
 obey the summons of the shadowy past, as it beckons 
 them to the summit. Till a year or two since, this 
 portion of our history had been very imperfectly writ 
 ten, and, as we are not a people of legend or tradition, 
 it was not every citizen of our ancient town that could 
 tell, within half a century, so much as the date of the 
 witchcraft delusion. Recently, indeed, an historian 
 has treated the subject in a manner that will keep his 
 name alive, in the only desirable connection with the 
 errors of our ancestry, by converting the hill of their 
 disgrace into an honorable monument of his own anti 
 quarian lore, and of that better wisdom, which draws 
 the moral while it tells the tale. But we are a people 
 of the present, and have no heartfelt interest in the 
 olden time. Every fifth of November, in commemora 
 tion of they know not what, or rather without an idea 
 beyond the momentary blaze, the young men scare the 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 281 
 
 town with bonfires on this haunted height, but never 
 dream of paying funeral honors to those who died so 
 wrongfully, and, without a coffin or a prayer, were 
 buried here. 
 
 Though with feminine susceptibility, my companions 
 caught all the melancholy associations of the scene, 
 yet these could but imperfectly overcome the gayety of 
 girlish spirits. Their emotions came and went with 
 quick vicissitude, and sometimes combined to form a 
 peculiar and delicious excitement, the mirth brighten 
 ing the gloom into a sunny shower of feeling, and a 
 ratnbow in the mind. My own more sombre mood 
 was tinged by theirs. With now a merry word and 
 next a sad one, we trod among the tangled weeds, and 
 almost hoped that our feet would sink into the hollow 
 of a witch s grave. Such vestiges were to be found 
 within the memory of man, but have vanished now, 
 and with them, I believe, all traces of the precise spot 
 of the executions. On the long and broad ridge of the 
 eminence, there is no very decided elevation of any 
 one point, nor other prominent marks, except the de 
 cayed stumps of two trees, standing near each other, 
 and here and there the rocky substance of the hill, 
 peeping just above the wood-wax. 
 
 There are few such prospects pf town and village, 
 woodland and cultivated field, steeples and country 
 seats, as we beheld from this unhappy spot. No blight 
 had fallen on old Essex ; all was prosperity and riches, 
 healthfully distributed. Before us lay our native 
 town, extending from the foot of the hill to the harbor, 
 level as a chess board, embraced by two arms of the 
 sea, and filling the whole peninsula with a close assem 
 blage of wooden roofs, overtopped by many a spire, 
 and intermixed with frequent heaps of verdure, where 
 
282 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 trees threw up their shade from unseen trunks. Be 
 yond was the bay and its islands, almost the only 
 objects, in a country unmarked by strong natural fea 
 tures, on which time and human toil had produced no 
 change. Eetaining these portions of the scene, and 
 also the peaceful glory and tender gloom of the de 
 clining sun, we threw, in imagination, a veil of deep 
 forest over the land, and pictured a few scattered vil 
 lages, and this old town itself a village, as when the 
 prince of hell bore sway there. The idea thus gained 
 of its former aspect, its quaint edifices standing far 
 apart, with peaked roofs and projecting stories, and 
 its single meeting-house pointing up a tall spire in 
 the midst ; the vision, in short, of the town in 1692, 
 served to introduce a wondrous tale of those old 
 times. 
 
 I had brought the manuscript in my pocket. It 
 was one of a series written years ago, when my pen, 
 now sluggish and perhaps feeble, because I have not 
 much to hope or fear, was driven by stronger external 
 motives, and a more passionate impulse within, than I 
 am fated to feel again. Three or four of these tales 
 had appeared in the " Token," after a long time and 
 various adventures, but had encumbered me with no 
 troublesome notoriety, even in my birthplace. One 
 great heap had met a brighter destiny : they had fed 
 the flames ; thoughts meant to delight the world and 
 endure for ages had perished in a moment, and stirred 
 not a single heart but mine. The story now to be in 
 troduced, and another, chanced to be in kinder custody 
 at the time, and thus, by no conspicuous merits of 
 their own, escaped destruction. 
 
 The ladies, in consideration that I had never before 
 intruded my performances on them, by any but the 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 283 
 
 legitimate medium, through the press, consented to 
 hear me read. I made them sit down on a moss- 
 grown rock, close by the spot where we chose to be 
 lieve that the death tree had stood. After a little hes 
 itation on my part, caused by a dread of renewing my 
 acquaintance with fantasies that had lost their charm 
 in the ceaseless flux of mind, I began the tale, which 
 opened darkly with the discovery of a murder. 
 
 A hundred years, and nearly half that time, have 
 elapsed since the body of a murdered man was found, 
 at about the distance of three miles, on the old road 
 to Boston. He lay in a solitary spot, on the bank of 
 a small lake, which the severe frost of December had 
 covered with a sheet of ice. Beneath this, it seemed 
 to have been the intention of the murderer to conceal 
 his victim in a chill and watery grave, the ice being 
 deeply hacked, perhaps with the weapon that had 
 slain him, though its solidity was too stubborn for the 
 patience of a man with blood upon his hand. The 
 corpse therefore reclined on the earth, but was sepa 
 rated from the road by a thick growth of dwarf pines. 
 There had been a slight fall of snow during the night, 
 and as if nature were shocked at the deed, and strove 
 to hide it with her frozen tears, a little drifted heap 
 had partly buried the body, and lay deepest over the 
 pale dead face. An early traveller, whose dog had 
 led him to the spot, ventured to uncover the features, 
 but was affrighted by their expression. A look of evil 
 and scornful triumph had hardened on them, and 
 made death so life-like and so terrible, that the be 
 holder at once took flight, as swiftly as if the stiffened 
 corpse would rise up and follow. 
 
284 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 I read on, and identified the body as that of a young 
 man, a stranger in the country, but resident during 
 several preceding months in the town which lay at our 
 feet. The story described, at some length, the excite 
 ment caused by the murder, the unavailing quest after 
 the perpetrator, the funeral ceremonies, and other com 
 monplace matters, in the course of which, I brought 
 forward the personages who were to move among the 
 succeeding events. They were but three. A young 
 man and his sister ; the former characterized by a dis 
 eased imagination and morbid feelings; the latter, 
 beautiful and virtuous, and instilling something of her 
 own excellence into the wild heart of her brother, but 
 not enough to cure the deep taint of his nature. The 
 third person was a wizard ; a small, gray, withered 
 man, with fiendish ingenuity in devising evil, and su 
 perhuman power to execute it, but senseless as an 
 idiot and feebler than a child to all better purposes. 
 The central scene of the story was an interview be 
 tween this wretch and Leonard Doane, in the wizard s 
 hut, situated beneath a range of rocks at some distance 
 from the town. They sat beside a mouldering fire, 
 while a tempest of wintry rain was beating on the 
 roof. The young man spoke of the closeness of the tie 
 which united him and Alice, the consecrated fervor of 
 their affection from childhood upwards, their sense of 
 lonely sufficiency to each other, because they only of 
 their race had escaped death, in a night attack by the 
 Indians. He related his discovery or suspicion of a 
 secret sympathy between his sister and Walter Brome, 
 and told how a distempered jealousy had maddened 
 him. In the following passage, I threw a glimmering 
 light on the mystery of the tale. 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 285 
 
 " Searching," continued Leonard, "into the breast of 
 Walter Brome, I at length found a cause why Alice 
 must inevitably love him. For he was my very coun 
 terpart ! I compared his mind by each individual 
 portion, and as a whole, with mine. There was a re 
 semblance from which I shrunk with sickness, and 
 loathing, and horror, as if my own features had come 
 and stared upon me in a solitary place, or had met me 
 in struggling through a crowd. Nay ! the very same 
 thoughts would often express themselves in the same 
 words from our lips, proving a hateful sympathy in 
 our secret souls. His education, indeed, in the cities 
 of the old world, and mine in this rude wilderness, had 
 wrought a superficial difference. The evil of his char 
 acter, also, had been strengthened and rendered prom 
 inent by a reckless and ungoverned life, while mine 
 had been softened and purified by the gentle and holy 
 nature of Alice. But my soul had been conscious of 
 the germ of all the fierce and deep passions, and of all 
 the many varieties of wickedness, which accident had 
 brought to their full maturity in him. Nor will I 
 deny that, in the accursed one, I could see the with 
 ered blossom of every virtue, which, by a happier cul 
 ture, had been made to bring forth fruit in me. Now, 
 here was a man whom Alice might love with all the 
 strength of sisterly affection, added to that impure pas 
 sion which alone engrosses all the heart. The stranger 
 would have more than the love which had been gath 
 ered to me from the many graves of our household 
 and I be desolate ! " 
 
 Leonard Doane went on to describe the insane ha 
 tred that had kindled his heart into a volume of hel- 
 
286 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 lish flame. It appeared, indeed, that his jealousy had 
 grounds, so far as that Walter Brome had actually 
 sought the love of Alice, who also had betrayed an un- 
 definable, but powerful interest in the unknown youth. 
 The latter, in spite of his passion for Alice, seemed to 
 return the loathful antipathy of her brother ; the sim 
 ilarity of their dispositions made them like joint pos 
 sessors of an individual nature, which could not become 
 wholly the property of one, unless by the extinction of 
 the other. At last, with the same devil in each 
 bosom, they chanced to meet, they two on a lonely 
 road. While Leonard spoke, the wizard had sat lis 
 tening to what he already knew, yet with tokens of 
 pleasurable interest, manifested by flashes of expres 
 sion across his vacant features, by grisly smiles and by 
 a word here and there, mysteriously filling up some 
 void in the narrative. But when the young man told 
 how Walter Brome had taunted him with indubitable 
 proofs of the shame of Alice, and, before the trium 
 phant sneer could vanish from his face, had died by 
 her brother s hand, the wizard laughed aloud. Leon 
 ard started, but just then a gust of wind came down 
 the chimney, forming itself into a close resemblance of 
 the slow, unvaried laughter, by which he had been in 
 terrupted. " I was deceived," thought he ; and thus 
 pursued his fearful story. 
 
 " I trod out his accursed soul, and knew that he was 
 dead ; for my spirit bounded as if a chain had fallen 
 from it and left me free. But the burst of exulting 
 certainty soon fled, and was succeeded by a torpor 
 over my brain and a dimness before my eyes, with the 
 sensation of one who struggles through a dream. So 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 287 
 
 I bent down over the body of Walter Brome, gazing 
 into his face, and striving to make my soul glad with 
 the thought, that he, in very truth, lay dead before me. 
 I know not what space of time I had thus stood, nor 
 how the vision came. But it seemed to me that the 
 irrevocable years since childhood had rolled back, and 
 a scene, that had long been confused and broken in 
 my memory, arrayed itself with all its first distinct 
 ness. Methought I stood a weeping infant by my 
 father s hearth ; by the cold and blood-stained hearth 
 where he lay dead. I heard the childish wail of Alice, 
 and my own cry arose with hers, as we beheld the fea 
 tures of our parent, fierce with the strife and distorted 
 with the pain, in which his spirit had passed away. 
 As I gazed, a cold wind whistled by, and waved my 
 father s hair. Immediately I stood again in the lone 
 some road, no more a sinless child, but a man of blood, 
 whose tears were falling fast over the face of his dead 
 enemy. But the delusion was not wholly gone ; that 
 face still wore a likeness of my father ; and because 
 my soul shrank from the fixed glare of the eyes, I 
 bore the body to the lake, and would have buried it 
 there. But before his icy sepulchre was hewn, I heard 
 the voices of two travellers and fled." 
 
 Such was the dreadful confession of Leonard Doane. 
 And now tortured by the idea of his sister s guilt, yet 
 sometimes yielding to a conviction of her purity ; stung 
 with remorse for the death of Walter Brome, and 
 shuddering with a deeper sense of some unutterable 
 crime, perpetrated, as he imagined, in madness or a 
 dream; moved also by dark impulses, as if a fiend 
 were whispering him to meditate violence against the 
 
288 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 life of Alice ; he had sought this interview with the 
 wizard, who, on certain conditions, had no power to 
 withhold his aid in unravelling the mystery. The tale 
 drew near its close. 
 
 The moon was bright on high ; the blue firmament 
 appeared to glow with an inherent brightness ; the 
 greater stars were burning in their spheres ; the north 
 ern lights threw their mysterious glare far over the 
 horizon ; the few small clouds aloft were burdened 
 with radiance ; but the sky, with all its variety of light, 
 was scarcely so brilliant as the earth. The rain of 
 the preceding night had frozen as it fell, and, by that 
 simple magic, had wrought wonders. The trees were 
 hung with diamonds and many -colored gems ; the 
 houses were overlaid with silver, and the streets paved 
 with slippery brightness ; a frigid glory was flung over 
 all familiar things, from the cottage chimney to the 
 steeple of the meeting-house, that gleamed upward to 
 the sky. This living world, where we sit by our fire 
 sides, or go forth to meet beings like ourselves, seemed 
 rather the creation of wizard power, with so much of 
 resemblance to known objects that a man might shud 
 der at the ghostly shape of his old beloved dwelling, 
 and the shadow of a ghostly tree before his door. One 
 looked to behold inhabitants suited to such a town, 
 glittering in icy garments, with motionless features, 
 cold, sparkling eyes, and just sensation enough in their 
 frozen hearts to shiver at each other s presence. 
 
 By this fantastic piece of description, and more in 
 the same style, I intended to throw a ghostly glimmer 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 289 
 
 round the reader, so that his imagination might view 
 the town through a medium that should take off its 
 every-day aspect, and make it a proper theatre for so 
 wild a scene as the final one. Amid this unearthly 
 show, the wretched brother and sister were represented 
 as setting forth, at midnight, through the gleaming 
 streets, and directing their steps to a graveyard, where 
 all the dead had been laid, from the first corpse in that 
 ancient town, to the murdered man who was buried 
 three days before. As they went, they seemed to see 
 the wizard gliding by their sides, or walking dimly on 
 the path before them. But here I paused, and gazed 
 into the faces of my two fair auditors, to judge 
 whether, even on the hill where so many had been 
 brought to death by wilder tales than this, I might 
 venture to proceed. Their bright eyes were fixed on 
 me ; their lips apart. I took courage, and led the 
 fated pair to a new made grave, where for a few mo 
 ments, in the bright and silent midnight, they stood 
 alone. But suddenly there was a multitude of people 
 among the graves. 
 
 Each family tomb had given up its inhabitants, who, 
 one by one, through distant years, had been borne to 
 its dark chamber, but now came forth and stood in a 
 pale group together. There was the gray ancestor, the 
 aged mother, and all their descendants, some withered 
 and full of years, like themselves, and others in their 
 prime ; there, too, were the children who went prattling 
 to the tomb, and there the maiden who yielded her 
 early beauty to death s embrace, before passion had 
 polluted it. Husbands and wives arose, who had lain 
 many years side by side, and young mothers who had 
 
 VOL. XII. 19 
 
290 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 forgotten to kiss their first babes, though pillowed so 
 long on their bosoms. Many had been buried in the 
 habiliments of life, and still wore their ancient garb ; 
 some were old defenders of tho infant colony, and 
 gleamed forth in their steel -caps and bright breast 
 plates, as if starting up at an Indian war-cry ; other 
 venerable shapes had been pastors of the church, fa 
 mous among the New England clergy, and now leaned 
 with hands clasped over their gravestones, ready to 
 call the congregation to prayer. There stood the 
 early settlers, those old illustrious ones, the heroes of 
 tradition and fireside legends, the men of history whose 
 features had. been so long beneath the sod that few 
 alive could have remembered them. There, too, were 
 faces of former towns-people, dimly recollected from 
 childhood, and others, whom Leonard and Alice had 
 wept in later years, but who now were most terrible 
 of all, by their ghastly smile of recognition. All, 
 in short, were there; the dead of other generations, 
 whose moss-grown names could scarce be read upon 
 their tombstones, and their successors, whose graves 
 were not yet green ; all whom black funerals had 
 followed slowly thither now reappeared where the 
 mourners left them. Yet none but souls accursed 
 were there, and fiends counterfeiting the likeness of 
 departed saints. 
 
 The countenances of those venerable men, whose 
 very features had been hallowed by lives of piety, were 
 contorted now by intolerable pain or hellish passion, 
 and now by an unearthly and derisive merriment. 
 Had the pastors prayed, all saintlike as they seemed, 
 it had been blasphemy. The chaste matrons, too, and 
 the maidens with untasted lips, who had slept in their 
 virgin graves apart from all other dust, now wore a 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 291 
 
 look from which the two trembling mortals shrank, as 
 if the unimaginable sin of twenty worlds were collected 
 there. The faces of fond lovers, even of such as had 
 pined into the tomb, because there their treasure was, 
 were bent on one another with glances of hatred and 
 smiles of bitter scorn, passions that are to devils what 
 love is to the blest. At times, the features of those 
 who had passed from a holy life to heaven would vary 
 to and fro, between their assumed aspect and the fiend 
 ish lineaments whence they had been transformed. 
 The whole miserable multitude, both sinful souls and 
 false spectres of good men, groaned horribly and 
 gnashed their teeth, as they looked upward to the 
 calm loveliness of the midnight sky, and beheld those 
 homes of bliss where they must never dwell. Such 
 was the apparition, though too shadowy for language 
 to portray ; for here would be the moonbeams on the 
 ice, glittering through a warrior s breastplate, and 
 there the letters of a tombstone, on the form that 
 stood before it ; and whenever a breeze went by, it 
 swept the old men s hoary heads, the women s fearful 
 beauty, and all the unreal throng, into one indistin 
 guishable cloud together. 
 
 I dare not give the remainder of the scene, except 
 in a very brief epitome. This company of devils and 
 condemned souls had come on a holiday, to revel in 
 the discovery of a complicated crime ; as foul a one as 
 ever was imagined in their dreadful abode. In the 
 course of the tale, the reader had been permitted to 
 discover that all the incidents were results of the ma 
 chinations of the wizard, who had cunningly devised 
 that Walter Brome should tempt his unknown sister 
 
292 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 to guilt and shame, and himself perish by the hand of 
 his twin-brother. I described the glee of the fiends at 
 this hideous conception, and their eagerness to know 
 if it were consummated. The story concluded with 
 the Appeal of Alice to the spectre of Walter Brome ; 
 his reply, absolving her from every stain ; and the 
 trembling awe with which ghost and devil fled, as 
 from the sinless presence of an angel. 
 
 The sun had gone down. While I held my page of 
 wonders in the fading light, and read how Alice and 
 her brother were left alone among the graves, my voice 
 mingled with the sigh of a summer wind, which passed 
 over the hill -top, with the broad and hollow sound 
 as of the flight of unseen spirits. Not a word was 
 spoken till I added that the wizard s grave was close 
 beside us, and that the wood-wax had sprouted origi 
 nally from his unhallowed bones. The ladies started ; 
 perhaps their cheeks might have grown pale had not 
 the crimson west been blushing on them ; but after a 
 moment they began to laugh, while the breeze took a 
 livelier motion, as if responsive to their mirth. I kept 
 an awful solemnity of visage, being, indeed, a little 
 piqued that a narrative which had good authority in 
 our ancient superstitions, and would have brought even 
 a church deacon to Gallows Hill, in old witch times, 
 should now be considered too grotesque and extrava 
 gant for timid maids to tremble at. Though it was 
 past supper time, I detained them a while longer on 
 the hill, and made a trial whether truth were more 
 powerful than fiction. 
 
 We looked again towards the town, no longer ar 
 rayed in that icy splendor of earth, tree, and edifice, be 
 neath the glow of a wintry midnight, which shining afar 
 through the gloom of a century had made it appear 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 293 
 
 the very home of visions in visionary streets. An in 
 distinctness had begun to creep over the mass of build 
 ings and blend them with the intermingled tree-tops, 
 except where the roof of a statelier mansion, and the 
 steeples and brick towers of churches, caught the 
 brightness of some cloud that yet floated in the sun 
 shine. Twilight over the landscape was congenial to 
 the obscurity of time. With such eloquence as my 
 share of feeling and fancy could supply, I called back 
 hoar antiquity, and bade my companions imagine an 
 ancient multitude of people, congregated on the hill 
 side, spreading far below, clustering on the steep old 
 roofs, and climbing the adjacent heights, wherever a 
 glimpse of this spot might be obtained. I strove to 
 realize and faintly communicate the deep, unutterable 
 loathing and horror, the indignation, the affrighted 
 wonder, that wrinkled on every brow, and filled the 
 universal heart. See ! the whole crowd turns pale and 
 shrinks within itself, as the virtuous emerge from yon 
 der street. Keeping pace with that devoted company, 
 I described them one by one ; here tottered a woman 
 in her dotage, knowing neither the crime imputed her, 
 nor its punishment ; there another, distracted by the 
 universal madness, till feverish dreams were remem 
 bered as realities, and she almost believed her guilt. 
 One, a proud man once, was so broken down by the 
 intolerable hatred heaped upon him, that he seemed 
 to hasten his steps, eager to hide himself in the grave 
 hastily dug at the foot of the gallows. As they went 
 slowly on, a mother looked behind, and beheld her 
 peaceful dwelling ; she cast her eyes elsewhere, and 
 groaned inwardly yet with bitterest anguish, for there 
 was her little son among the accusers. I watched the 
 face of an ordained pastor, who walked onward to the 
 
294 ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 
 
 same death ; his lips moved in prayer ; no narrow pe 
 tition for himself alone, but embracing all his fellow- 
 sufferers and the frenzied multitude ; he looked to 
 Heaven and trod lightly up the hill. 
 
 Behind their victims came the afflicted, a guilty and 
 miserable band ; villains who had thus avenged them 
 selves on their enemies, and viler wretches, whose cow 
 ardice had destroyed their friends ; lunatics, whose 
 ravings had chimed in with the madness of the land ; 
 and children, who had played a game that the imps of 
 darkness might have envied them, since it disgraced 
 an age, and dipped a people s hands in blood. In the 
 rear of the procession rode a figure on horseback, so 
 darkly conspicuous, so sternly triumphant, that my 
 hearers mistook him for the visible presence of the 
 fiend himself ; but it was only his good friend, Cotton 
 Mather, proud of his well-won dignity, as the repre 
 sentative of all the hateful features of his time ; the 
 one blood - thirsty man, in whom were concentrated 
 those vices of spirit and errors of opinion that sufficed 
 to madden the whole surrounding multitude. And 
 thus I marshalled them onward, the innocent who 
 were to die, and the guilty who were to grow old in 
 long remorse tracing their every step, by rock, and 
 shrub, and broken track, till their shadowy visages 
 had circled round the hill -top, where we stood. I 
 plunged into my imagination for a blacker horror, and 
 a deeper woe, and pictured the scaffold 
 
 But here my companions seized an arm on each 
 side ; their nerves were trembling ; and, sweeter vic 
 tory still, I had reached the seldom trodden places of 
 their hearts, and found the well-spring of their tears. 
 And now the past had done all it could. We slowly 
 descended, watching the lights as they twinkled grad- 
 
ALICE DOANE S APPEAL. 295 
 
 ually through the town, and listening to the distant 
 mirth of boys at play, and to the voice of a young girl 
 warbling somewhere in the dusk, a pleasant sound to 
 wanderers from old witch times. Yet, ere we left the 
 hill, we could not but regret that there is nothing on 
 its barren summit, no relic of old, nor lettered stone 
 of later days, to assist the imagination in appealing 
 to the heart. We build the memorial column on the 
 height which our fathers made sacred with their blood, 
 poured out in a holy cause. And here, in dark, fu 
 nereal stone, should rise another monument, sadly 
 commemorative of the errors of an earlier race, and 
 not to be cast down, while the human heart has one 
 infirmity that may result in crime. 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAK MATTEES. 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 BY A PEACEABLE MAN. 
 
 [This article appeared in the "Atlantic Monthly" for July, 
 1862, and is now first reprinted among Hawthorne s collected 
 writings. The editor of the magazine objected to sundry para 
 graphs in the manuscript, and these were cancelled with the con 
 sent of the author, who himself supplied all the foot-notes that 
 accompanied the article when it was published. It has seemed 
 best to retain them in the present reproduction. One of the sup 
 pressed passages, in which President Lincoln is described, has 
 since been printed, and is therefore restored to its proper place 
 in the following pages. G. P. L.] 
 
 THERE is no remoteness of life and thought, no her 
 metically sealed seclusion, except, possibly, that of the 
 grave, into which the disturbing influences of this war 
 do not penetrate. Of course, the general heart-quake 
 of the country long ago knocked at my cottage-door, 
 and compelled me, reluctantly, to suspend the contem 
 plation of certain fantasies, to which, according to my 
 harmless custom, I was endeavoring to give a suffi 
 ciently life-like aspect to admit of their figuring in a 
 romance. As I make no pretensions to state-craft or 
 soldiership, and could promote the common weal nei 
 ther by valor nor counsel, it seemed, at first, a pity 
 that I should be debarred from such unsubstantial 
 business as I had contrived for myself, since nothing 
 more genuine was to be substituted for it. But I 
 
300 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 magnanimously considered that there is a kind of trea 
 son in insulating one s self from the universal fear and 
 sorrow, and thinking one s idle thoughts in the dread 
 time of civil war; and could a man be so cold and 
 hard-hearted, he would better deserve to be sent to 
 Fort Warren than many who have found their way 
 thither on the score of violent, but misdirected sym 
 pathies. I remembered the touching rebuke admin 
 istered by King Charles to that rural squire the echo 
 of whose hunting-horn came to the poor monarch s ear 
 on the morning before a battle, where the sovereignty 
 and constitution of England were to be set at a stake. 
 So I gave myself up to reading newspapers and listen 
 ing to the click of the telegraph, like other people; 
 until, after a great many months of such pastime, it 
 grew so abominably irksome that I determined to look 
 a little more closely at matters with my own eyes. 
 
 Accordingly we set out a friend and myself to 
 wards Washington, while it was still the long, dreary 
 January of our Northern year, though March in name; 
 nor were we unwiDing to clip a little margin off the 
 five months winter, during which there is nothing ge 
 nial in New England save the fireside. It was a clear, 
 frosty morning, when we started. The sun shone 
 brightly on snow - covered hills in the neighborhood 
 of Boston, and burnished the surface of frozen ponds ; 
 and the wintry weather kept along with us while we 
 trundled through Worcester and Springfield, and all 
 those old, familiar towns, and through the village-cit 
 ies of Connecticut. In New York the streets were 
 af.oat with liquid mud and slosh. Over New Jersey 
 there was still a thin covering of snow, with the face 
 of Nature visible through the rents in her white 
 shroud, though with little or no symptom of reviving 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 301 
 
 life. But when we reached Philadelphia, the air was 
 mild and balmy ; there was but a patch or two of dingy 
 winter here and there, and the bare, brown fields about 
 the city were ready to be green. We had met the 
 Spring half-way, in her slow progress from the South ; 
 and if we kept onward at the same pace, and could get 
 through the Rebel lines, we should soon come to fresh 
 grass, fruit-blossoms, green peas, strawberries, and all 
 such delights of early summer. 
 
 On our way, we heard many rumors of the war, but 
 saw few signs of it. The people were staid and deco 
 rous, according to their ordinary fashion ; and business 
 seemed about as brisk as usual, though, I suppose, 
 it was considerably diverted from its customary chan 
 nels into warlike ones. In the cities, especially in New 
 York, there was a rather prominent display of military 
 goods at the shop windows, such as swords with 
 gilded scabbards and trappings, epaulets, carabines, re 
 volvers, and sometimes a great iron cannon at the 
 edge of the pavement, as if Mars had dropped one of 
 his pocket-pistols there, while hurrying to the field. 
 As railway-companions, we had now and then a volun 
 teer in his French-gray great-coat, returning from fur 
 lough, or a new-made officer travelling to join his regi 
 ment, in his new-made uniform, which was perhaps all 
 of the military character that he had about him, but 
 proud of his eagle-buttons, and likely enough to do 
 them honor before the gilt should be wholly dimmed. 
 The country, in short, so far as bustle and movement 
 went, was more quiet than in ordinary times, because 
 so large a proportion of its restless elements had been 
 drawn towards the seat of the conflict. But the air 
 was full of a vague disturbance. To me, at least, it 
 seemed so, emerging from such a solitude as has been 
 
302 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 hinted at, and the more impressible by rumors and 
 indefinable presentiments, since I had not lived, like 
 other men, in an atmosphere of continual talk about 
 the war. A battle was momentarily expected on the 
 Potomac ; for, though our army was still on the hither 
 side of the river, all of us were looking towards the 
 mysterious and terrible Manassas, with the idea that 
 somewhere in its neighborhood lay a ghastly battle 
 field, yet to be fought, but foredoomed of old to be 
 bloodier than the one where we had reaped such 
 shame. Of all haunted places, methinks such a des 
 tined field should be thickest thronged with ugly phan 
 toms, ominous of mischief through ages beforehand. 
 
 Beyond Philadelphia there was a much greater 
 abundance of military people. Between Baltimore and 
 Washington a guard seemed to hold every station 
 along the railroad ; and frequently, on the hill-sides, 
 we saw a collection of weather-beaten tents, the peaks 
 of which, blackened with smoke, indicated that they 
 had been made comfortable by stove-heat throughout 
 the winter. At several commanding positions we saw 
 fortifications, with the muzzles of cannon protruding 
 from the ramparts, the slopes of which were made of 
 the yellow earth of that region, and still unsodded ; 
 whereas, till these troublous times, there have been no 
 forts but what were grass-grown with the lapse of at 
 least a lifetime of peace. Our stopping -places were 
 thronged with soldiers, some of whom came through 
 the cars asking for newspapers that contained accounts 
 of the battle between the Merrimack and Monitor, 
 which had been fought the day before. A railway- 
 train met us, conveying a regiment out of Washington 
 to some unknown point ; and reaching the capital, we 
 filed out of the station between lines of soldiers, with 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 308 
 
 shouldered muskets, putting us in mind of similar spec 
 tacles at the gates of European cities. It was not with 
 out sorrow that we saw the free circulation of the na 
 tion s life-blood (at the very heart, moreover) clogged 
 with such strictures as these, which have caused chronic 
 diseases in almost all countries save our own. Will 
 the time ever come again, in America, when we may 
 live half a score of years without once seeing the like 
 ness of a soldier, except it be in the festal march of a 
 company on its summer tour ? Not in this genera 
 tion, I fear, nor in the next, nor till the Millennium ; 
 and even that blessed epoch, as the prophecies seem 
 to intimate, will advance to the sound of the trumpet. 
 One terrible idea occurs in reference to this matter. 
 Even supposing the war should end to-morrow, and 
 the army melt into the mass of the population within 
 the year, what an incalculable preponderance will there 
 be of military titles and pretensions for at least half a 
 century to come! Every country-neighborhood will 
 have its general or two, its three or four colonels, half 
 a dozen majors, and captains without end, besides 
 non-commissioned officers and privates, more than the 
 recruiting offices ever knew of, all with their cam 
 paign-stories, which will become the staple of fireside- 
 talk forevermore. Military merit, or rather, since that 
 is not so readily estimated, military notoriety, will be 
 the measure of all claims to civil distinction. One 
 bullet-headed general will succeed another in the Pres 
 idential chair; and veterans will hold the offices at 
 home and abroad, and sit in Congress and the state 
 legislatures, and fill all the avenues of public life. 
 And yet I do not speak of this deprecatingly, since, 
 very likely, it may substitute something more real and 
 genuine, instead of the many shams on which men 
 
304 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 have heretofore founded their claims to public regard ; 
 but it behooves civilians to consider their wretched 
 prospects in the future, and assume the military button 
 before it is too late. 
 
 We were not in time to see Washington as a camp. 
 On the very day of our arrival sixty thousand men 
 had crossed the Potomac on their march towards Ma- 
 nassas ; and almost with their first step into the Vir 
 ginia mud, the phantasmagory of a countless host and 
 impregnable ramparts, before which they had so long 
 remained quiescent, dissolved quite away. It was as 
 if General McClellan had thrust his sword into a gigan 
 tic enemy, and, beholding him suddenly collapse, had 
 discovered to himself and the world that he had merely 
 punctured an enormously swollen bladder. There are 
 instances of a similar character in old romances, where 
 great armies are long kept at bay by the arts of nec 
 romancers, who build airy towers and battlements, 
 and muster warriors of terrible aspect, and thus feign 
 a defence of seeming impregnability, until some bolder 
 champion of the besiegers dashes forward to try an 
 encounter with the foremost foeman, and finds him 
 melt away in the death-grapple. With such heroic 
 adventures let the march upon Manassas be hereafter 
 reckoned. The whole business, though connected with 
 the destinies of a nation, takes inevitably a tinge of 
 the ludicrous. The vast .preparation of men and war 
 like material, the majestic patience and docility 
 with which the people waited through those weary and 
 dreary months, the martial skill, courage, and cau 
 tion, with which our movement was ultimately made, 
 and, at last, the tremendous shock with which we 
 were brought suddenly up against nothing at all I The 
 Southerners show little sense of humor nowadays, but 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 305 
 
 I think they must have meant to provoke a laugh at 
 our expense, when they planted those Quaker guns. 
 At all events, no other Rebel artillery has played upon 
 us with such overwhelming effect. 
 
 The troops being gone, we had the better leisure 
 and opportunity to look into other matters. It is nat 
 ural enough to suppose that the centre and heart of 
 Washington is the Capitol ; and certainly, in its out 
 ward aspect, the world has not many statelier or more 
 beautiful edifices, nor any, I should suppose, more 
 skilfully adapted to legislative purposes, and to all ac 
 companying needs. But, etc., etc. 1 
 
 We found one man, however, at the Capitol, who was 
 satisfactorily adequate to the business which brought 
 him thither. In quest of him, we went through halls, 
 galleries, and corridors, and ascended a noble stair 
 case, balustraded with a dark and beautifully varie 
 gated marble from Tennessee, the richness of which is 
 quite a sufficient cause for objecting to the secession 
 of that State. At last we came to a barrier of pine 
 boards, built right across the stairs. Knocking at a 
 rough, temporary door, we thrust a card beneath ; and 
 in a minute or two it was opened by a person in his 
 shirt-sleeves, a middle-aged figure, neither tall nor 
 short, of Teutonic build and aspect, with an ample 
 beard of a ruddy tinge and chestnut hair. He looked 
 at us, in the first place, with keen and somewhat 
 guarded eyes, as if it were not his practice to vouchsafe 
 
 1 We omit several paragraphs here, in which the author speaks of 
 some prominent Members of Congress with a freedom that seems to 
 have been not unkindly meant, but might be liable to misconstruction. 
 As he admits that he never listened to an important debate, we can 
 hardly recognize his qualifications to estimate these gentlemen, in 
 their legislative and oratorical capacities. 
 VOL. xii. 20 
 
306 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 any great warmth of greeting, except upon sure ground 
 of observation. Soon, however, his look grew kindly 
 and genial (not that it had ever been in the least 
 degree repulsive, but only reserved), and Leutze al 
 lowed us to gaze at the cartoon of his great fresco, 
 and talked about it unaffectedly, as only a man of true 
 genius can speak of his own works. Meanwhile the 
 noble design spoke for itself upon the wall. A sketch 
 in color, which we saw afterwards, helped us to form 
 some distant and flickering notion of what the picture 
 will be, a few months hence, when these bare outlines, 
 already so rich in thought and suggestiveness, shall 
 glow with a fire of their own, a fire which, I truly 
 believe, will consume every other pictorial decoration 
 of the Capitol, or, at least, will compel us to banish 
 those stiff and respectable productions to some less 
 conspicuous gallery. The work will be emphatically 
 original and American, embracing characteristics that 
 neither art nor literature have yet dealt with, and pro 
 ducing new forms of artistic beauty from the natural 
 features of the Rocky-Mountain region, which Leutze 
 seems to have studied broadly and minutely. The 
 garb of the hunters and wanderers of those deserts, 
 too, under his free and natural management, is shown 
 as the most picturesque of costumes. But it would be 
 doing this admirable painter no kind office to overlay 
 his picture with any more of my colorless and uncer 
 tain words ; so I shall merely add that it looked full 
 of energy, hope, progress, irrepressible movement on 
 ward, all represented in a momentary pause of tri 
 umph ; and it was most cheering to feel its good au 
 gury at this dismal time, when our country might seem 
 to have arrived at such a deadly stand-still. 
 
 It was an absolute comfort, indeed, to find Leutze 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 307 
 
 so quietly busy at this great national work, which is 
 destined to glow for centuries on the walls of the Cap 
 itol, if that edifice shall stand, or must share its fate, 
 if treason shall succeed in subverting it with the Union 
 which it represents. It was delightful to see him so 
 calmly elaborating his design, while other men doubted 
 and feared, or hoped treacherously, and whispered to 
 one another that the nation would exist only a little 
 longer, or that, if a remnant still held together, its 
 centre and seat of government would be far northward 
 and westward of Washington. But the artist keeps 
 right on, firm of heart and hand, drawing his outlines 
 with an unwavering pencil, beautifying and idealizing 
 our rude, material life, and thus manifesting that we 
 have an indefeasible claim to a more enduring national 
 existence. In honest truth, what with the hope-inspir 
 ing influence of the design, and what with Leutze s 
 undisturbed evolvement of it, I was exceedingly en 
 couraged, and allowed these cheerful auguries to weigh 
 against a sinister omen that was pointed out to me in 
 another part of the Capitol. The freestone walls of 
 the central edifice are pervaded with great cracks, and 
 threaten to come thundering down, under the immense 
 weight of the iron dome, an appropriate catastrophe 
 tnough, if it should occur on the day when we drop 
 the Southern stars out of our flag. 
 
 Everybody seems to be at Washington, and yet there 
 is a singular dearth of imperatively noticeable people 
 there. I question whether there are half a dozen in 
 dividuals, in all kinds of eminence, at whom a stran 
 ger, wearied with the contact of a hundred moder 
 ate celebrities, would turn round to snatch a second 
 glance. Secretary Seward, to be sure, a pale, large- 
 nosed, elderly man, of moderate stature, with a de- 
 
308 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 elded originality of gait and aspect, and a cigar in his 
 mouth, etc., etc. 1 
 
 Of course, there was one other personage, in the 
 class of statesmen, whom I should have been truly 
 mortified to leave Washington without seeing; since 
 (temporarily, at least, and by force of circumstances) 
 he was the man of men. But a private grief had 
 built up a barrier about him, impeding the customary 
 free intercourse of Americans with their chief mag 
 istrate ; so that I might have come away without a 
 glimpse of his very remarkable physiognomy, save for 
 a semi-official opportunity of which I was glad to take 
 advantage. The fact is, we were invited to annex our 
 selves, as supernumeraries, to a deputation that was 
 about to wait upon the President, from a Massachu 
 setts whip-factory, with a present of a splendid whip. 
 
 Our immediate party consisted only of four or five 
 (including Major Ben Perley Poore, with his note 
 book and pencil), but we were joined by several other 
 persons, who seemed to have been lounging about the 
 precincts of the White House, under the spacious 
 porch, or within the hall, and who swarmed in with us 
 to take the chances of a presentation. Nine o clock 
 had been appointed as the time for receiving the dep 
 utation, and we were punctual to the moment ; but not 
 so the President, who sent us word that he was eating 
 his breakfast, and would come as soon as he could. 
 His appetite, we were glad to think, must have been a 
 
 1 We are again compelled to interfere with our friend s license of 
 personal description and criticism. Even Cabinet Ministers (to whom 
 the next few pages of the article were devoted) had their private im 
 munities, which ought to be conscientiously observed, unless, in 
 deed, the writer chanced to have some very piquant motives for violaU 
 ing them. 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 309 
 
 pretty fair one ; for we waited about half an hour in 
 one of the antechambers, and then were ushered into 
 a reception-room, in one corner of which sat the Sec 
 retaries of War and of the Treasury, expecting, like 
 ourselves, the termination of the Presidential break 
 fast. During this interval there were several new 
 additions to our group, one or two of whom were in a 
 working-garb, so that we formed a very miscellaneous 
 collection of people, mostly unknown to each other, 
 and without any common sponsor, but all with an 
 equal right to look our head-servant in the face. 
 
 By and by there was a little stir on the staircase 
 and in the passage-way, and in lounged a tall, loose- 
 jointed figure, of an exaggerated Yankee port and de 
 meanor, whom (as being about the homeliest man I 
 ever saw, yet by no means repulsive or disagreeable) 
 it was impossible not to recognize as Uncle Abe. 
 
 Unquestionably, Western man though he be, and 
 Kentuckian by birth, President Lincoln is the essen 
 tial representative of all Yankees, and the veritable 
 specimen, physically, of what the world seems deter 
 mined to regard as our characteristic qualities. It is 
 the strangest and yet the fittest thing in the jumble of 
 human vicissitudes, that he, out of so many millions, 
 unlocked for, unselected by any intelligible process that 
 could be based upon his genuine qualities, unknown to 
 those who chose him, and unsuspected of what endow 
 ments may adapt him for his tremendous responsibil 
 ity, should have found the way open for him to fling 
 his lank personality into the chair of state, where, I 
 presume, it was his first impulse to throw his legs on 
 the council - table, and tell the Cabinet Ministers a 
 story. There is no describing his lengthy awkward- 
 nor the uncouthness of his movement ; and yet 
 
310 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 it seemed as if I had been in the habit of seeing him 
 daily, and had shaken hands with him a thousand times 
 in some village street ; so true was he to the aspect of 
 the pattern American, though with a certain extrava 
 gance which, possibly, I exaggerated still further by 
 the delighted eagerness with which I took it in. If 
 put to guess his calling and livelihood, I should have 
 taken him for a country schoolmaster as soon as any 
 thing else. He was dressed in a rusty black frock- 
 coat and pantaloons, unbrushed, and worn so faith 
 fully that the suit had adapted itself to the curves and 
 angularities of his figure, and had grown to be an 
 outer skin of the man. He had shabby slippers on 
 his feet. His hair was black, still unmixed with gray, 
 stiff, somewhat bushy, and had apparently been ac 
 quainted with neither brush nor comb that morning, 
 after the disarrangement of the pillow; and as to a 
 night-cap, Uncle Abe probably knows nothing of such 
 effeminacies. His complexion is dark and sallow, be 
 tokening, I fear, an insalubrious atmosphere around 
 the White House ; he has thick black eyebrows and 
 an impending brow ; his nose is large, and the lines 
 about his mouth are very strongly defined. 
 
 The whole physiognomy is as coarse a one as you 
 woidd meet anywhere in the length arid breadth of 
 the States ; but, withal, it is redeemed, illuminated, 
 softened, and brightened by a kindly though serious 
 look out of his eyes, and an expression of homely sa 
 gacity, that seems weighted with rich results of village 
 experience. A great deal of native sense ; no bookish 
 cultivation, no refinement ; honest at heart, and thor 
 oughly so, and yet, in some sort, sly, at least, en 
 dowed with a sort of tact and wisdom that are akin to 
 craft, and would impel him, I think, to take an antag- 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 311 
 
 onist in flank, rather than to make a bull-run at him 
 right in front. But, on the whole, I like this sallow, 
 queer, sagacious visage, with the homely human sym 
 pathies that warmed it ; and, for my small share in 
 the matter, would as lief have Uncle Abe for a ruler 
 as any man whom it would have been practicable to 
 put in his place. 
 
 Immediately on his entrance the President accosted 
 our member of Congress, who had us in charge, and, 
 with a comical twist of his face, made some jocular 
 remark about the length of his breakfast. He then 
 greeted us all round, not waiting for an introduction, 
 but shaking and squeezing everybody s hand with the 
 utmost cordiality, whether the individual s name was 
 announced to him or not. His manner towards us 
 was wholly without pretence, but yet had a kind of 
 natural dignity, quite sufficient to keep the forwardest 
 of us from clapping him on the shoulder and asking 
 him for a story. A mutual acquaintance being estab 
 lished, our leader took the whip out of its case, and 
 began to read the address of presentation. The whip 
 was an exceedingly long one, its handle wrought in 
 ivory (by some artist in the Massachusetts State 
 Prison, I believe), and ornamented with a medallion 
 of the President, and other equally beautiful devices ; 
 and along its whole length there was a succession of 
 golden bands and ferrules. The address was shorter 
 than the whip, but equally well made, consisting 
 chiefly of an explanatory description of these artistic 
 designs, and closing with a hint that the gift was a 
 suggestive and emblematic one, and that the President 
 would recognize the use to which such an instrument 
 should be put. 
 
 This suggestion gave Uncle Abe rather a delicate 
 
312 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 task in his reply, because, slight as the matter seemed, 
 it apparently called for some declaration, or intima 
 tion, or faint foreshadowing of policy in reference to 
 the conduct of the war, and the final treatment of the 
 Rebels. But the President s Yankee aptness and not- 
 to-be-caughtness stood him in good stead, and he 
 jerked or wiggled himself out of the dilemma with an 
 uncouth dexterity that was entirely in character ; al 
 though, without his gesticulation of eye and mouth, 
 and especially the nourish of the whip, with which he 
 imagined himself touching up a pair of fat horses, 
 I doubt whether his words would be worth recording, 
 even if I could remember them. The gist of the re 
 ply was, that he accepted the whip as an emblem of 
 peace, not punishment ; and, this great affair over, we 
 retired out of the presence in high good-humor, only 
 regretting that we could not have seen the President 
 sit down and fold up his legs (which is said to be a 
 most extraordinary spectacle), or have heard him tell 
 one of those delectable stories for which he is so cele 
 brated. A good many of them are afloat upon the 
 common talk of Washington, and are certainly the 
 aptest, pithiest, and funniest little things imaginable ; 
 though, to be sure, they smack of the frontier freedom, 
 and would not always bear repetition in a drawing- 
 room, or on the immaculate page of the Atlantic. 1 
 
 1 The above passage relating to President Lincoln was one of those 
 omitted from the article as originally published, and the following 
 note was appended to explain the omission, which had been indicated 
 by a line of points : 
 
 We are compelled to omit two or three pages, in which the author 
 describes the interview, and gives his idea of the personal appearance 
 and deportment of the President. The sketch appears to have been 
 written in a benign spirit, and perhaps conveys a not inaccurate im 
 pression of its august subject ; but it lacks reverence, and it pains us 
 to see a gentleman of ripe age, and who has spent years under the 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 313 
 
 Good Heavens ! what liberties have I been taking 
 with one of the potentates of the earth, and the man 
 on whose conduct more important consequences de 
 pend than on that of any other historical personage 
 of the century ! But with whom is an American citi 
 zen entitled to take a liberty, if not with his own chief 
 magistrate? However, lest the above allusions to 
 President Lincoln s little peculiarities (already well 
 known to the country and to the world) should be 
 misinterpreted, I deem it proper to say a word or two 
 in regard to him, of unfeigned respect and measurable 
 confidence. He is evidently a man of keen faculties, 
 and, what is still more to the purpose, of powerful 
 character. As to his integrity, the people have that 
 intuition of it which is never deceived. Before he 
 actually entered upon his great office, and for a con 
 siderable time afterwards, there is no reason to sup 
 pose that he adequately estimated the gigantic task 
 about to be imposed on him, or, at least, had any dis 
 tinct idea how it was to be managed ; and I presume 
 there may have been more than one veteran politician 
 who proposed to himself to take the power out of Pres 
 ident Lincoln s hands into his own, leaving our honest 
 friend only the public responsibility for the good or ill 
 success of the career. The extremely imperfect devel 
 opment of his statesmanly qualities, at that period, 
 may have justified such designs. But the President 
 is teachable by events, and has now spent a year in 
 a very arduous course of education ; he has a flexible 
 mind, capable of much expansion, and convertible to 
 wards far loftier studies and activities than those of 
 his early life ; and if he came to Washington a back- 
 corrective influence of foreign institutions, falling into the character 
 istic and most ominous fault of Young America. 
 
314 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 n 
 
 woods humorist, he has already transformed himself 
 into as good a statesman (to speak moderately) as his 
 prime-minister. 
 
 Among other excursions to camps and places of in 
 terest in the neighborhood of Washington, we went, 
 one day, to Alexandria. It is a little port on the Po 
 tomac, with one or two shabby wharves and docks, re 
 sembling those of a fishing-village in New England, 
 and the respectable old brick town rising gently be 
 hind. In peaceful times it no doubt bore an aspect 
 of decorous quietude and dulness ; but it was now 
 thronged with the Northern soldiery, whose stir and 
 bustle contrasted strikingly with the many closed 
 warehouses, the absence of citizens from their custom 
 ary haunts, and the lack of any symptom of healthy 
 activity, while army-wagons trundled heavily over the 
 pavements, and sentinels paced the sidewalks, and 
 mounted dragoons dashed to and fro on military er 
 rands. I tried to imagine how very disagreeable the 
 presence of a Southern army would be in a sober 
 town of Massachusetts ; and the thought considerably 
 lessened my wonder at the cold and shy regards that 
 are cast upon our troops, the gloom, the sullen de 
 meanor, the declared or scarcely hidden sympathy 
 with rebellion, which are so frequent here. It is a 
 strange thing in human life, that the greatest errors 
 both of men and women often spring from their sweet 
 est and most generous qualities ; and so, undoubtedly, 
 thousands of warm-hearted, sympathetic, and impul 
 sive persons have joined the Rebels, not from any real 
 zeal for the cause, but because, between two conflict 
 ing loyalties, they chose that which necessarily lay 
 nearest the heart. There never existed any other 
 government against which treason was so easy, and 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 315 
 
 could defend itself by such plausible arguments, as 
 against that of the United States. The anomaly of 
 two allegiances (of which that of the State comes 
 nearest home to a man s feelings, and includes the 
 altar and the hearth, while the General Government 
 claims his devotion only to an airy mode of law, and 
 has no symbol but a flag) is exceedingly mischievous 
 in this point of view ; for it has converted crowds of 
 honest people into traitors, who seem to themselves 
 not merely innocent, but patriotic, and who die for a 
 bad cause with as quiet a conscience as if it were the 
 best. In the vast extent of our country, too vast 
 by far to be taken into one small human heart, we 
 inevitably limit to our own State, or, at farthest, to 
 our own section, that sentiment of physical love for 
 the soil which renders an Englishman, for example, 
 so intensely sensitive to the dignity and well-being of 
 his little island, that one hostile foot, treading any 
 where upon it, would make a bruise on each individ 
 ual breast. If a man loves his own State, therefore, 
 and is content to be ruined with her, let us shoot him, 
 if we can, but allow him an honorable burial in the 
 soil he fights for. 1 
 
 In Alexandria, we visited the tavern in which Colo 
 nel Ellsworth was killed, and saw the spot where he 
 fell, and the stairs below, whence Jackson fired the 
 fatal shot, and where he himself was slain a moment 
 afterwards ; so that the assassin and his victim must 
 have met on the threshold of the spirit- world, and per 
 haps came to a better understanding before they had 
 taken many steps on the other side. Ellsworth was 
 
 1 We do not thoroughly comprehend the author s drift in the fore 
 going paragraph, but are inclined to think its tone reprehensible, and 
 its tendency impolitic in the present stage of our national difficulties. 
 
316 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS, 
 
 too generous to bear an immortal grudge for a d3ed 
 like that, done in hot blood, and by no skulking en 
 emy. The memorial-hunters have completely cut away 
 the original wood-work around the spot, with their 
 pocket-knives ; and the staircase, balustrade, and floor, 
 as well as the adjacent doors and door-frames, have 
 recently been renewed ; the walls, moreover, are cov 
 ered with new paper-hangings, the former having been 
 torn off in tatters ; and thus it becomes something like 
 a metaphysical question whether the place of the mur 
 der actually exists. 
 
 Driving out of Alexandria, we stopped on the edge 
 of the city to inspect an old slave-pen, which is one of 
 the lions of the place, but a very poor one ; and a little 
 farther on, we came to a brick church where Washing 
 ton used sometimes to attend service, a pre-Revolu- 
 tionary edifice, with ivy growing over its walls, though 
 not very luxuriantly. Reaching the open country, 
 we saw forts and camps on all sides ; some of the 
 tents being placed immediately on the ground, while 
 others were raised over a basement of logs, laid length 
 wise, like those of a log-hut, or driven vertically into 
 the soil in a circle, thus forming a solid wall, the 
 chinks closed up with Virginia mud, and above it the 
 pyramidal shelter of the tent. Here were in progress 
 all the occupations, and all the idleness, of the sol 
 dier in the tented field ; some were cooking the com 
 pany-rations in pots hung over fires in the open air : 
 some played at ball, or developed their muscular power 
 by gymnastic exercise ; some read newspapers ; some 
 smoked cigars or pipes ; and many were cleaning their 
 arms and accoutrements, the more carefully, per 
 haps, because their division was to be reviewed by the 
 Commander-in-Chief that afternoon : others sat on the 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 317 
 
 ground, while their comrades cut their hair, it be 
 ing a soldierly fashion (and for excellent reasons) to 
 crop it within an inch of the skull ; others, finally, lay 
 asleep in breast-high tents, with their legs protruding 
 into the open air. 
 
 We paid a visit to Fort Ellsworth, and from its 
 ramparts (which have been heaped up out of the 
 muddy soil within the last few months, and will re 
 quire still a year or two to make them verdant) we 
 had a beautiful view of the Potomac, a truly majestic 
 river, and the surrounding country. The fortifications, 
 so numerous in all this region, and now so unsightly 
 with their bare, precipitous sides, will remain as his 
 toric monuments, grass-grown and picturesque memo 
 rials of an epoch of terror and suffering: they will 
 serve to make our country dearer and more interesting 
 to us, and afford fit soil for poetry to root itself in : 
 for this is a plant which thrives best in spots where 
 blood has been spilt long ago, and grows in abundant 
 clusters in old ditches, such as the moat around Fort 
 Ellsworth will be a century hence. It may seem to 
 be paying dear for what many will reckon but a worth 
 less weed ; but the more historical associations we can 
 link with our localities, the richer will be the daily life 
 that feeds upon the past, and the more valuable the 
 things that have been long established : so that our 
 children will be less prodigal than their fathers in sac 
 rificing good institutions to passionate impulses and 
 impracticable theories. This herb of grace, let us 
 hope, may be found in the old footprints of the war. 
 
 Even in an aesthetic point of view, however, the 
 war has done a great deal of enduring mischief, by 
 causing the devastation of great tracts of woodland 
 scenery, in which this part of Virginia would appear 
 
318 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 to have been very rich. Around all the encampments, 
 and everywhere along the road, we saw the bare sites 
 of what had evidently been tracts of hard-wood forest, 
 indicated by the unsightly stumps of well-grown trees, 
 not smoothly felled by regular axe-men, but hacked, 
 haggled, and unevenly amputated, as by a sword, or 
 other miserable tool, in an unskilful hand. Fifty 
 years will not repair this desolation. An army de 
 stroys everything before and around it, even to the 
 very grass ; for the sites of the encampments are con 
 verted into barren esplanades, like those of the squares 
 in French cities, where not a blade of grass is allowed 
 to grow. As to the other symptoms of devastation 
 and obstruction, such as deserted houses, unfenced 
 fields, and a general aspect of nakedness and ruin, I 
 know not how much may be due to a normal lack of 
 neatness in the rural life of Virginia, which puts a 
 squalid face even upon a prosperous state of things ; 
 but undoubtedly the war must have spoilt what was 
 good, and made the bad a great deal worse. The car 
 casses of horses were scattered along the wayside. 
 
 One very pregnant token of a social system thor 
 oughly disturbed was presented by a party of con 
 trabands, escaping out of the mysterious depths of Se- 
 cessia ; and its strangeness consisted in the leisurely 
 delay with which they trudged forward, as dreading no 
 pursuer, and encountering nobody to turn them back. 
 They were unlike the specimens of their race whom 
 we are accustomed to see at the North, and, in my 
 judgment, were far more agreeable. So rudely were 
 they attired, as if their garb had grown upon them 
 spontaneously, so picturesquely natural in manners, 
 and wearing such a crust of primeval simplicity 
 (which is quite polished away from the northern black 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 319 
 
 man), that they seemed a kind of creature by them 
 selves, not altogether human, but perhaps quite as 
 good, and akin to the fauns and rustic deities of olden 
 times. I wonder whether I shall excite anybody s 
 wrath by saying this. It is no great matter. At all 
 events, I felt most kindly towards these poor fugitives, 
 but knew not precisely what to wish in their behalf, 
 nor in the least how to help them. For the sake of 
 the manhood which is latent in them, I would not have 
 turned them back ; but I should have felt almost as re 
 luctant, on their own account, to hasten them forward 
 to the stranger s land ; and I think my prevalent idea 
 was, that, whoever may be benefited by the results of 
 this war, it will not be the present generation of ne 
 groes, the childhood of whose race is now gone for 
 ever, and who must henceforth fight a hard battle with 
 the world, on very unequal terms. On behalf of my 
 own race, I am glad and can only hope that an inscru 
 table Providence means good to both parties. 
 
 There is an historical circumstance, known to few, 
 that connects the children of the Puritans with these 
 Africans of Virginia in a very singular way. They are 
 our brethren, as being lineal descendants from the 
 Mayflower, the fated womb of which, in her first voy 
 age, sent forth a brood of Pilgrims on Plymouth Rock, 
 and, in a subsequent one, spawned slaves upon the 
 Southern soil, a monstrous birth, but with which 
 we have an instinctive sense of kindred, and so are 
 stirred by an irresistible impulse to attempt their res 
 cue, even at the cost of blood and ruin. The character 
 of our sacred ship, I fear, may suffer a little by this 
 revelation ; but we must let her white progeny offset 
 her dark one, and two such portents never sprang 
 from an identical source before. 
 
320 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 While we drove onward, a young officer on horse 
 back looked earnestly into the carriage, and recognized 
 some faces that he had seen before ; so he rode along 
 by our side, and we pestered him with queries and ob 
 servations, to which he responded more civilly than 
 they deserved. He was on General McClellan s staff, 
 and a gallant cavalier, high-booted, with a revolver in 
 his belt, and mounted on a noble horse, which trotted 
 hard and high without disturbing the rider in his ac 
 customed seat. His face had a healthy hue of expos 
 ure and an expression of careless hardihood ; and, as 
 I looked at him, it seemed to me that the war had 
 brought good fortune to the youth of this epoch, if 
 to none beside ; since, they now make it their daily 
 business to ride a horse and handle a sword, instead 
 of lounging listlessly through the duties, occupations, 
 pleasures all tedious alike to which the artificial 
 state of society limits a peaceful generation. The at 
 mosphere of the camp and the smoke of the battle 
 field are morally invigorating ; the hardy virtues 
 flourish in them, the nonsense dies like a wilted weed. 
 The enervating effects of centuries of civilization van 
 ish at once, and leave these young men to enjoy a life 
 of hardship, and the exhilarating sense of danger, 
 to kill men blamelessly, or to be killed gloriously, 
 and to be happy in following out their native instincts 
 of destruction, precisely in the spirit of Homer s he 
 roes, only with some considerable change of mode. 
 One touch of Nature makes not only the whole world, 
 but all time, akin. Set men face to face, with weap 
 ons in their hands, and they are as ready to slaughter 
 one another now, after playing at peace and good-will 
 for so many years, as in the rudest ages, that never 
 heard of peace-societies, and thought no wine so deli 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 321 
 
 cious as what they quaffed from an enemy s skull. 
 Indeed, if the report of a Congressional committee 
 may be trusted, that old-fashioned kind of goblet has 
 again come into use, at the expense of our Northern 
 head-pieces, a costly thinking-cup to him that fur 
 nishes it ! Heaven forgive me for seeming to jest 
 upon such a subject ! only, it is so odd, when we 
 measure our advances from barbarism, and find our 
 selves just here ! l 
 
 We now approached General McClellan s head 
 quarters, which, at that time, were established at 
 Fairfield Seminary. The edifice was situated on a 
 gentle elevation, amid very agreeable scenery, and, at 
 a distance, looked like a gentleman s seat. Prepara 
 tions were going forward for reviewing a division of 
 ten or twelve thousand men, the various regiments 
 composing which had begun to array themselves on an 
 extensive plain, where, methought, there was a more 
 convenient place for a battle than is usually found 
 in this broken and difficult country. Two thousand 
 cavalry made a portion of the troops to be reviewed. 
 By and by we saw a pretty numerous troop of mounted 
 officers, who were congregated on a distant part of the 
 plain, and whom we finally ascertained to be the Com 
 mander -in -Chief s staff, with McClellan himself at 
 their head. Our party managed to establish itself in 
 a position conveniently close to the General, to whom, 
 moreover, we had the honor of an introduction ; and 
 he bowed, on his horseback, with a good deal of dig 
 nity and martial courtesy, but no airs nor fuss nor 
 
 1 We hardly expected this outbreak in favor of war from the 
 Peaceable Man ; but the justice of our cause makes us all soldiers at 
 heart, however quiet in our outward life. We have heard of twenty 
 Quakers in a single company of a Pennsylvania regiment. 
 
 VOL.. XII. 21 
 
322 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 pretension beyond what his character and rank inevi 
 tably gave him. 
 
 Now, at that juncture, and, in fact, up to the pres 
 ent moment, there was, and is, a most fierce and bitter 
 outcry, and detraction loud and low, against General 
 McClellan, accusing Mm of sloth, imbecility, coward 
 ice, treasonable purposes, and, in short, utterly deny 
 ing his ability as a soldier, and questioning his integ 
 rity as a man. Nor was this to be wondered at ; for 
 when before, in all history, do we find a general in 
 command of half a million of men, and in presence of 
 an enemy inferior in numbers and no better disciplined 
 than his own troops, leaving it still debatable, after 
 the better part of a year, whether he is a soldier or 
 no ? The question would seem to answer itself in the 
 very asking. Nevertheless, being most profoundly 
 ignorant of the art of war, like the majority of the 
 General s critics, and, on the other hand, having some 
 considerable impressibility by men s characters, I was 
 glad of the opportunity to look him in the face, and 
 to feel whatever influence might reach me from his 
 sphere. So I stared at him, as the phrase goes, with 
 all the eyes I had ; and the reader shall have the ben 
 efit of what I saw, to which he is the more wel 
 come, because, in writing this article, I feel disposed 
 to be singularly frank, and can scarcely restrain my 
 self from telling truths the utterance of which I should 
 get slender thanks for. 
 
 The General was dressed in a simple, dark-blue uni 
 form, without epaulets, booted to the knee, and with a 
 cloth cap upon his head ; and, at first sight, you might 
 have taken him for a corporal of dragoons, of particu 
 larly neat and soldier-like aspect, and in the prime of 
 his age and strength. He is only of middling stature, 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 323 
 
 but his build is very compact and sturdy, with broad 
 shoulders and a look of great physical vigor, which, in 
 fact, he is said to possess, he and Beauregard having 
 been rivals in that particular, and both distinguished 
 above other men. His complexion is dark and san 
 guine, with dark hair. He has a strong, bold, sol 
 dierly face, full of decision ; a Roman nose, by no 
 means a thin prominence, but very thick and firm ; 
 and if he follows it (which I should think likely), it 
 may be pretty confidently trusted to guide him aright. 
 His profile would make a more effective likeness than 
 the full face, which, however, is much better in the 
 real man than in any photograph that I have seen. 
 His forehead is not remarkably large, but comes for 
 ward at the eyebrows ; it is not the brow nor counte 
 nance of a prominently intellectual man (not a natu 
 ral student, I mean, or abstract thinker), but of one 
 whose office it is to handle things practically and to 
 bring about tangible results. His face looked capa 
 ble of being very stern, but wore, in its repose, when 
 I saw it, an aspect pleasant and dignified ; it is not, 
 in its character, an American face, nor an English 
 one. The man on whom he fixes his eye is conscious 
 of him. In his natural disposition, he seems calm 
 and self - possessed, sustaining his great responsibili 
 ties cheerfully, without shrinking, or weariness, or 
 spasmodic effort, or damage to his health, but all 
 with quiet, deep - drawn breaths ; just as his broad 
 shoulders would bear up a heavy burden without ach 
 ing beneath it. 
 
 After we had had sufficient time to peruse the man 
 (so far as it could be done with one pair of very atten 
 tive eyes), the General rode off, followed by his caval 
 cade, and was lost to sight among the troops. They 
 
324 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 received him with loud shouts, by the eager uproar of 
 which now near, now in the centre, now on the out 
 skirts of the division, and now sweeping back towards 
 us in a great volume of sound we could trace his 
 progress through the ranks. If he is a coward, or a 
 traitor, or a humbug, or anything less than a brave, 
 true, and able man, that mass of intelligent soldiers, 
 whose lives and honor he had in charge, were utterly 
 deceived, and so was this present writer ; for they be 
 lieved in him, and so did I ; and had I stood in the 
 ranks, I should have shouted with the lustiest of them. 
 Of course I may be mistaken ; my opinion on such a 
 point is worth nothing, although my impression may 
 be worth a little more ; neither do I consider the Gen 
 eral s antecedents as bearing very decided testimony 
 to his practical soldiership. A thorough knowledge 
 of the science of war seems to be conceded to him ; 
 he is allowed to be a good military critic ; but all this 
 is possible without his possessing any positive qualities 
 of a great general, just as a literary critic may show 
 the profoundest acquaintance with the principles of 
 epic poetry without being able to produce a single 
 stanza of an epic poem. Nevertheless, I shall not give 
 up my faith in General McClellan s soldiership until 
 he is defeated, nor in his courage and integrity even 
 then. 
 
 Another of our excursions was to Harper s Ferry, 
 the Directors of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad 
 having kindly invited us to accompany them on the 
 first trip over the newly laid track, after its breaking 
 up by the Rebels. It began to rain, in the early morn 
 ing, pretty soon after we left Washington, and contin 
 ued to pour a cataract throughout the day ; so that the 
 aspect of the country was dreary, where it would other- 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 825 
 
 wise have been delightful, as we entered among the hill- 
 scenery that is formed by the subsiding swells of the Al- 
 leghanies. The latter part of our journey lay along the 
 shore of the Potomac, in its upper course, where the 
 margin of that noble river is bordered by gray, over 
 hanging crags, beneath which and sometimes right 
 through them the railroad takes its way. In one 
 place the Rebels had attempted to arrest a train by pre 
 cipitating an immense mass of rock down upon the 
 track, by the side of which it still lay, deeply imbed 
 ded in the ground, and looking as if it might have lain 
 there since the Deluge. The scenery grew even more 
 picturesque as we proceeded, the bluffs becoming very 
 bold in their descent upon the river, which, at Har 
 per s Ferry, presents as striking a vista among the 
 hills as a painter could desire to see. But a beautiful 
 landscape is a luxury, and luxuries are thrown away 
 amid discomfort ; and when we alighted into the tena 
 cious mud and almost fathomless puddle, on the hither 
 side of the Ferry (the ultimate point to which the cars 
 proceeded, since the railroad bridge had been destroyed 
 by the Rebels), I cannot remember that any very rap 
 turous emotions were awakened by the scenery. 
 
 We paddled and floundered over the ruins of the 
 track, and, scrambling down an embankment, crossed 
 the Potomac by a pontoon-bridge, a thousand feet in 
 length, over the narrow line of which level with 
 the river, and rising and subsiding with it General 
 Banks had recently led his whole army, with its pon 
 derous artillery and heavily lajlen wagons. Yet our 
 own tread made it vibrate. The broken bridge of the 
 railroad was a little below us, and at the base of one 
 of its massive piers, in the rocky bed of the river, lay 
 a locomotive, which the Rebels had precipitated there. 
 
326 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 As we passed over, we looked towards the Virginia 
 shore, and beheld the little town of Harper s Ferry, 
 gathered about the base of a round hill and climbing 
 up its steep acclivity ; so that it somewhat resembled 
 the Etruscan cities which I have seen among the Apen 
 nines, rushing, as it were, down an apparently break 
 neck height. About midway of the ascent stood a 
 shabby brick church, towards which a difficult path 
 went scrambling up the precipice, indicating, one would 
 say, a very fervent aspiration on the part of the wor 
 shippers, unless there was some easier mode of access 
 in another direction. Immediately on the shore of 
 the Potomac, and extending back towards the town, 
 lay the dismal ruins of the United States arsenal and 
 armory, consisting of piles of broken bricks and a 
 waste of shapeless demolition, amid which we saw gun- 
 barrels in heaps of hundreds together. They were the 
 relics of the conflagration, bent with the heat of the 
 fire and rusted with the wintry rain to which they had 
 since been exposed. The brightest sunshine could not 
 have made the scene cheerful, nor have taken away 
 the gloom from the dilapidated town ; for, besides the 
 natural shabbiness, and decayed, unthrifty look of a 
 Virginian village, it has an inexpressible forlornness 
 resulting from the devastations of war and its occupa 
 tion by both armies alternately. Yet there would be 
 a less striking contrast between Southern and New- 
 England villages, if the former were as much in the 
 habit of using white paint as we are. It is prodig 
 iously efficacious in putting a bright face upon a bad 
 matter. 
 
 There was one small shop, which appeared to have 
 nothing for sale. A single man and one or two boys 
 were all the inhabitants in view, except the Yankee 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 327 
 
 sentinels and soldiers, belonging to Massachusetts reg 
 iments, who were scattered about pretty numerously. 
 A guard-house stood on the slope of the hill ; and in 
 the level street at its base were the offices of the Pro 
 vost-Marshal and other military authorities, to whom 
 we forthwith reported ourselves. The Provost-Mar 
 shal kindly sent a corporal to guide us to the little 
 building which John Brown seized upon as his fortress, 
 and which, after it was stormed by the United States 
 marines, became his temporary prison. It is an old 
 engine-house, rusty and shabby, like every other work 
 of man s hands in this God-forsaken town, and stands 
 fronting upon the river, only a short distance from 
 the bank, nearly at the point where the pontoon-bridge 
 touches the Virginia shore. In its front wall, on each 
 side of the door, are two or three ragged loop-holes, 
 which John Brown perforated for his defence, knock 
 ing out merely a brick or two, so as to give himself 
 and his garrison a sight over their rifles. Through 
 these orifices the sturdy old man dealt a good deal of 
 deadly mischief among his assailants, until they broke 
 down the door by thrusting against it with a ladder, 
 and tumbled headlong in upon him. I shall not pre 
 tend to be an admirer of old John Brown, any farther 
 than sympathy with Whittier s excellent ballad about 
 him may go ; nor did I expect ever to shrink so unut 
 terably from any apophthegm of a sage, whose happy 
 lips have uttered a hundred golden sentences, as from 
 that saying (perhaps falsely attributed to so honored 
 a source), that the death of this blood-stained fanatic 
 has " made the Gallows as venerable as the Cross ! " 
 Nobody was ever more justly hanged. lie won his 
 martyrdom fairly, and took it firmly. lie himself, I 
 am persuaded (such was his natural integrity), would 
 
328 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 have acknowledged that Virginia had a right to take 
 the life which he had staked and lost; although it 
 would have been better for her, in the hour that is fast 
 coming, if she could generously have forgotten the crim 
 inality of his attempt in its enormous folly. On the 
 other hand, any common-sensible man, looking at the 
 matter unsentimentally, must have felt a certain intel 
 lectual satisfaction in seeing him hanged, if it were 
 only in requital of his preposterous miscalculation of 
 possibilities. 1 
 
 But, coolly as I seem to say these things, my Yan 
 kee heart stirred triumphantly when I saw the use to 
 which John Brown s fortress and prison-house has now 
 been put. What right have I to complain of any 
 other man s foolish impulses, when I cannot possibly 
 control my own ? The engine-house is now a place of 
 confinement for Rebel prisoners. 
 
 A Massachusetts soldier stood on guard, but readily 
 permitted our whole party to enter. It was a wretched 
 place. A room of perhaps twenty-five feet square oc 
 cupied the whole interior of the building, having an 
 iron stove in its centre, whence a rusty funnel as 
 cended towards a hole in the roof, which served the 
 purposes of ventilation, as well as for the exit of smoke. 
 We found ourselves right in the midst of the Rebels, 
 some of whom lay on heaps of straw, asleep, or, at all 
 events, giving no sign of consciousness ; others sat in 
 the corners of the room, huddled close together, and 
 staring with a lazy kind of interest at the visitors ; two 
 were astride of some planks, playing with the dirtiest 
 pack of cards that I ever happened to see. There was 
 only one figure in the least military among all these 
 
 1 Can it be a son of old Massachusetts who utters this abominable 
 sentiment ? For shame. 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 329 
 
 twenty prisoners of war, a man with a dark, intelli 
 gent, moustached face, wearing a shabby cotton uni 
 form, which he had contrived to arrange with a degree 
 of soldierly smartness, though it had evidently borne 
 the brunt of a very filthy campaign. He stood erect, 
 and talked freely with those who addressed him, telling 
 them his place of residence, the number of his regi 
 ment, the circumstances of his capture, and such other 
 particulars as their Northern inquisitiveuess prompted 
 them to ask. I liked the manliness of his deport 
 ment ; he was neither ashamed, nor afraid, nor in the 
 slightest degree sullen, peppery, or contumacious, but 
 bore himself as if whatever animosity he had felt 
 towards his enemies was left upon the battle-field, and 
 would not be resumed till he had again a weapon in 
 his hand. 
 
 Neither could I detect a trace of hostile feeling in 
 the countenance, words, or manner of any prisoner 
 there. Almost to a man, they were simple, bumpkin- 
 like fellows, dressed in homespun clothes, with faces 
 singularly vacant of meaning, but sufficiently good- 
 humored : a breed of men, in short, such as I did not 
 suppose to exist in this country, although I have seen 
 their like in some other parts of the world. They 
 were peasants, and of a very low order: a class of 
 people with whom our Northern rural population has 
 not a single trait in common. They were exceedingly 
 respectful, more so than a rustic New - Englander 
 ever dreams of being towards anybody, except perhaps 
 his minister ; and had they worn any hats, they would 
 probably have been self-constrained to take them off, 
 under the unusual circumstance of being permitted to 
 hold conversation with well-dressed persons. It is my 
 belief that not a single bumpk n of them all (the mous- 
 
330 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 tached soldier always excepted) had the remotest com 
 prehension of what they had been fighting for, or how 
 they had deserved to be shut up in that dreary hole ; 
 nor, possibly, did they care to inquire into this latter 
 mystery, but took it as a godsend to be suffered to 
 lie here in a heap of unwashed human bodies, well 
 warmed and well foddered to-day, and without the 
 necessity of bothering themselves about the possible 
 hunger and cold of to-morrow. Their dark prison-life 
 may have seemed to them the sunshine of all their 
 lifetime. 
 
 There was one poor wretch, a wild-beast of a man, 
 at whom I gazed with greater interest than at his fel 
 lows ; although I know not that each one of them, in 
 their semi-barbarous moral state, might not have been 
 capable of the same savage impulse that had made 
 this particular individual a horror to all beholders. 
 At the close of some battle or skirmish, a wounded 
 Union soldier had crept on hands and knees to his 
 feet, and besought his assistance, not dreaming that 
 any creature in human shape, in the Christian land 
 where they had so recently been brethren, could re 
 fuse it. But this man (this fiend, if you prefer to call 
 him so, though I would not advise it) flung a bitter 
 curse at the poor Northerner, and absolutely trampled 
 the soul out of his body, as he lay writhing beneath 
 his feet. The fellow s face was horribly ugly ; but I 
 am not quite sure that I should have noticed it, if I 
 had not known his story. He spoke not a word, and 
 met nobody s eye, but kept staring upward into the 
 smoky vacancy towards the ceiling, where, it might 
 be, he beheld a continual portraiture of his victim s 
 horror-stricken agonies. I rather fancy, however, that 
 his moral sense was yet too torpid to trouble him with 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 331 
 
 such remorseful visions, and that, for his own part, he 
 might have had very agreeable reminiscences of the 
 soldier s death, if other eyes had not been bent re 
 proachfully upon him and warned him that something 
 was amiss. It was this reproach in other men s eyes 
 that made him look aside. He was a wild-beast, as I 
 began with saying, an unsophisticated wild-beast, 
 while the rest of us are partially tamed, though still 
 the scent of blood excites some of the savage instincts 
 of our nature. What this wretch needed, in order to 
 make him capable of the degree of mercy and benevo 
 lence that exists in us, was simply such a measure of 
 moral and intellectual development as we have re 
 ceived ; and, in my mind, the present war is so well 
 justified by no other consideration as by the probabil 
 ity that it will free this class of Southern whites from 
 a thraldom in which they scarcely begin to be respon 
 sible beings. So far as the education of the heart is 
 concerned, the negroes have apparently the advantage 
 of them ; and as to other schooling, it is practically 
 unattainable by black or white. 
 
 Looking round at these poor prisoners, therefore, it 
 struck me as an immense absurdity that they should 
 fancy us their enemies ; since, whether we intend it so 
 or no, they have a far greater stake on our success than 
 we can possibly have. For ourselves, the balance of 
 advantages between defeat and triumph may admit of 
 question. For them, all truly valuable things are de 
 pendent on our complete success; for thence would 
 come the regeneration of a people, the removal of 
 a foul scurf that has overgrown their life, and keeps 
 them in a state of disease and decrepitude, one of the 
 chief symptoms of which is, that, the more they suffer 
 and are debased, the more they imagine themselves 
 
332 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 strong and beautiful. No human effort, on a grand 
 scale, has ever yet resulted according to the purpose of 
 its projectors. The advantages are always incidental. 
 Man s accidents are God s purposes. We miss the 
 good we sought, and do the good we little cared for. 1 
 
 Our Government evidently knows when and where 
 to lay its finger upon its most available citizens ; for, 
 quite unexpectedly, we were joined with some other 
 gentlemen, scarcely less competent than ourselves, in a 
 commission to proceed to Fortress Monroe and exam 
 ine into things in general. Of course, official propri 
 ety compels us to be extremely guarded in our descrip 
 tion of the interesting objects which this expedition 
 opened to our view. There can be no harm, however, 
 in stating that we were received by the commander of 
 the fortress with a kind of acid good-nature, or mild 
 cynicism, that indicated him to be a humorist, charac 
 terized by certain rather pungent peculiarities, yet of 
 no unamiable cast. He is a small, thin old gentleman, 
 set off by a large pair of brilliant epaulets, the only 
 pair, so far as my observation went, that adorn the 
 shoulders of any officer in the Union army. Either 
 for our inspection, or because the matter had already 
 been arranged, he drew out a regiment of Zouaves 
 that formed the principal part of his garrison, and ap 
 peared at their head, sitting on horseback with rigid 
 perpendicularity, and affording us a vivid idea of the 
 disciplinarian of Baron Steuben s school. 
 
 There can be no question of the General s military 
 qualities ; he must have been especially useful in con- 
 
 1 The author seems to imagine that he has compressed a great deal 
 of meaning into these little, hard, dry pellets of aphoristic wisdom. 
 We disagree with him. The counsels of wise and good men are often 
 coincident with the purposes of Providence ; and the present war 
 promises to illustrate our remark. 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 333 
 
 verting raw recruits into trained and efficient soldiers. 
 But valor and martial skill are of so evanescent a 
 character (hardly less fleeting than a woman s beauty), 
 that Government has perhaps taken the safer course in 
 assigning to this gallant officer, though distinguished 
 in former wars, no more active duty than the guardian 
 ship of an apparently impregnable fortress. The ideas 
 of military men solidify and fossilize so fast, while 
 military science makes such rapid advances, that even 
 here there might be a difficulty. An active, diversi 
 fied, and therefore a youthful, ingenuity is required 
 by the quick exigencies of this singular war. For 
 tress Monroe, for example, in spite of the massive so 
 lidity of its ramparts, its broad and deep moat, and 
 all the contrivances of defence that were known at the 
 not very remote epoch of its construction, is now pro 
 nounced absolutely incapable of resisting the novel 
 modes of assault which may be brought to bear upon 
 it. It can only be the flexible talent of a young man 
 that will evolve a new efficiency out of its obsolete 
 strength. 
 
 It is a pity that old men grow unfit for war, not 
 only by their incapacity for new ideas, but by the 
 peaceful and unadventurous tendencies that gradually 
 possess themselves of the once turbulent disposition, 
 which used to snuff the battle-smoke as its congenial 
 atmosphere. It is a pity ; because it would be such 
 an economy of human existence, if time-stricken peo 
 ple (whose value I have the better right to estimate, 
 as reckoning myself one of them) could snatch from 
 their juniors the exclusive privilege of carrying on the 
 war. In case of death upon the battle-field, how un 
 equal would be the comparative sacrifice ! On one 
 part, a few unen joy able years, the little remnant of a 
 
334 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 life grown torpid ; on the other, the many fervent 
 summers olf manhood in its spring and prime, with 
 all that they include of possible benefit to mankind. 
 Then, too, a bullet offers such a brief and easy way, 
 such a pretty little orifice, through which the weary 
 spirit might seize the opportunity to be exhaled ! If 
 I had the ordering of these matters, fifty should be 
 the tenderest age at which a recruit might be accepted 
 for training ; at fifty-five or sixty, I would consider 
 him eligible for most kinds of military duty and ex 
 posure, excluding that of a forlorn hope, which no 
 soldier should be permitted to volunteer upon, short 
 of the ripe age of seventy. As a general rule, these 
 venerable combatants should have the preference for 
 all dangerous and honorable service in the order of 
 their seniority, with a distinction in favor of those 
 whose infirmities might render their lives less worth 
 the keeping. Methinks there would be no more Bull 
 Runs ; a warrior with gout in his toe, or rheumatism 
 in his joints, or with one foot in the grave, would 
 make a sorry fugitive ! 
 
 On this admirable system, the productive part of the 
 population would be undisturbed even by the bloodiest 
 war ; and, best of all, those thousands upon thousands 
 of our Northern girls, whose proper mates will perish 
 in camp-hospitals or on Southern battle-fields, would 
 avoid their doom of forlorn old-maidenhood. But, no 
 doubt, the plan will be pooh-poohed down by the War 
 Department ; though it could scarcely be more disas 
 trous than the one on which we began the war, when 
 a young army was struck with paralysis through the 
 age of its commander. 
 
 The waters around Fortress Monroe were thronged 
 with a gallant array of ships of war and transports, 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 335 
 
 wearing the Union flag, " Old Glory," as I hear it 
 called in these days. A little withdrawn from our na 
 tional fleet lay two French frigates, and, in another 
 direction, an English sloop, under that banner which 
 always makes itself visible, like a red portent in the 
 air, wherever there is strife. In pursuance of our 
 official duty (which had no ascertainable limits), we 
 went on board the flag -ship, and were shown over 
 every part of her, and down into her depths, inspect 
 ing her gallant crew, her powerful armament, her 
 mighty engines, and her furnaces, where the fires are 
 always kept burning, as well at midnight as at noon, 
 so that it would require only five minutes to put the 
 vessel under full steam. This vigilance has been felt 
 necessary ever since the Merrimack made that terri 
 ble dash from Norfolk. Splendid as she is, however, 
 and provided with all but the very latest improvements 
 in naval armament, the Minnesota belongs to a class 
 of vessels that will be built no more, nor ever fight 
 another battle, being as much a thing of the past 
 as any of the ships of Queen Elizabeth s time, which 
 grappled with the galleons of the Spanish Armada. 
 
 On her quarter-deck, an elderly flag-officer was pac 
 ing to and fro, with a self-conscious dignity to which 
 a touch of the gout or rheumatism perhaps contrib 
 uted a little additional stiffness. He seemed to be a 
 gallant gentleman, but of the old, slow, and pompous 
 school of naval worthies, who have grown up amid 
 rules, forms, and etiquette which were adopted full 
 blown from the British navy into ours, and are some 
 what too cumbrous for the quick spirit of to-day. This 
 order of nautical heroes will probably go down, along 
 with the ships in which they fought valorously and 
 strutted most intolerably. How can an admiral con- 
 
336 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 descend to go to sea in an iron pot ? What space and 
 elbow-room can be found for quarter-deck dignity in 
 the cramped lookout of the Monitor, or even in the 
 twenty-feet diameter of her cheese-box ? All the pomp 
 and splendor of naval warfare are gone by. Hence 
 forth there must come up a race of enginemen and 
 smoke-blackened cannoneers, who will hammer away 
 at their enemies under the direction of a single pair of 
 eyes ; and even heroism so deadly a gripe is Science 
 laying on our noble possibilities will become a qual 
 ity of very minor importance, when its possessor can 
 not break through the iron crust of his own armament 
 and give the world a glimpse of it. 
 
 At no great distance from the Minnesota lay the 
 strangest-looking craft I ever saw. It was a platform 
 of iron, so nearly on a level with the water that the 
 swash of the waves broke over it, under the impulse 
 of a very moderate breeze ; and on this platform was 
 raised a circular structure, likewise of iron, and rather 
 broad and capacious, but of no great height. It could 
 not be called a vessel at all ; it was a machine, and 
 I have seen one of somewhat similar appearance em 
 ployed in cleaning out the docks ; or, for lack of a 
 better similitude, it looked like a gigantic rat-trap. It 
 was ugly, questionable, suspicious, evidently mischiev 
 ous, nay, I will allow myself to call it devilish ; for 
 this was the new war-fiend, destined, along with others 
 of the same breed, to annihilate whole navies and 
 batter down old supremacies. The wooden walls of 
 Old England cease to exist, and a whole history of 
 naval renown reaches its period, now that the Moni 
 tor comes smoking into view ; while the billows dash 
 over what seems her deck, and storms bury even her 
 turret in green water, as she burrows and snorts 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 337 
 
 along, oftener under the surface than above. The sin 
 gularity of the object has betrayed me into a more am 
 bitious vein of description than I often indulge ; and, 
 after all, I might as well have contented myself with 
 simply saying that she looked very queer. 
 
 Going on board, we were surprised at the extent and 
 convenience of her interior accommodations. There is 
 a spacious ward-room, nine or ten feet in height, be 
 sides a private cabin for the commander, and sleep 
 ing accommodations on an ample scale ; the whole well 
 lighted and ventilated, though beneath the surface of 
 the water. Forward, or aft (for it is impossible to 
 tell stem from stern), the crew are relatively quite as 
 well provided for as the officers. It was like finding 
 a palace, with all its conveniences, under the sea. The 
 inaccessibility, the apparent impregnability, of this 
 submerged iron fortress are most satisfactory ; the 
 officers and crew get down through a little hole in the 
 deck, hermetically seal themselves, and go below ; and 
 until they see fit to reappear, there would seem to be 
 no power given to man whereby they can be brought 
 to light. A storm of cannon-shot damages them no 
 more than a handful of dried peas. We saw the shot- 
 marks made by the great artillery of the Merrimack 
 on the outer casing of the iron tower ; they were about 
 the breadth and depth of shallow saucers, almost im 
 perceptible dents, with no corresponding bulge on the 
 interior surface. In fact, the thing looked altogether 
 too safe ; though it may not prove quite an agreeable 
 predicament to be thus boxed up in impenetrable iron, 
 with the possibility, one would imagine, of being sent 
 to the bottom of the sea, and, even there, not drowned, 
 but stifled. Nothing, however, can exceed the confi 
 dence of the officers in this new craft. It was pleasant 
 
338 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 to see their benign exultation in her powers of mis 
 chief, and the delight with which they exhibited the 
 circumvolutory movement of the tower, the quick 
 thrusting forth of the immense guns to deliver their 
 ponderous missiles, and then the immediate recoil, and 
 the security behind the closed port-holes. Yet even 
 this will not long be the last and most terrible im 
 provement in the science of war. Already we hear of 
 vessels the armament of which is to act entirely be 
 neath the surface of the water ; so that, with no other 
 external symptoms than a great bubbling and foaming, 
 and gush of smoke, and belch of smothered thunder 
 out of the yeasty waves, there shall be a deadly fight 
 going on below, and, by and by, a sucking whirlpool, 
 as one of the ships goes down. 
 
 The Monitor was certainly an object of great in 
 terest ; but on our way to Newport News, whither we 
 next went, we saw a spectacle that affected us with far 
 profounder emotion. It was the sight of the few 
 sticks that are left of the frigate Congress, stranded 
 near the shore, and still more, the masts of the 
 Cumberland rising midway out of the water, with a 
 tattered rag of a pennant fluttering from one of them. 
 The invisible hull of the latter ship seems to be ca 
 reened over, so that the three masts stand slantwise ; 
 the rigging looks quite unimpaired, except that a few 
 ropes dangle loosely from the yards. The flag (which 
 never was struck, thank Heaven ! ) is entirely hidden 
 under the waters of the bay, but is still doubtless 
 waving in its old place, although it floats to and fro 
 with the swell and reflux of the tide, instead of rust 
 ling on the breeze. A remnant of the dead crew still 
 man the sunken ship, and sometimes a drowned body 
 floats up to the surface. 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 339 
 
 That was a noble fight. When was ever a better 
 word spoken than that of Commodore Smith, the father 
 of the commander of the Congress, when he heard that 
 his son s ship was surrendered ? " Then Joe s dead ! " 
 said he ; and so it proved. Nor can any warrior be 
 more certain of enduring renown than the gallant 
 Morris, who fought so well the final battle of the old 
 system of naval warfare, and won glory for his coun 
 try and himself out of inevitable disaster and defeat. 
 That last gun from the Cumberland, when her deck 
 was half submerged, sounded the requiem of many 
 sinking ships. Then went down all the navies of 
 Europe, and our own, Old Ironsides and all, and Traf 
 algar and a thousand other fights became only a mem 
 ory, never to be acted over again ; and thus our brave 
 countrymen come last in the long procession of heroic 
 sailors that includes Blake and Nelson, and so many 
 mariners of England, and other mariners as brave as 
 they, whose renown is our native inheritance. There 
 will be other battles, but no more such tests of sea 
 manship and manhood as the battles of the past ; and, 
 moreover, the Millennium is certainly approaching, be 
 cause human strife is to be transferred from the heart 
 and personality of man into cunning contrivances of 
 machinery, which by and by will fight out our wars 
 with only the clank and smash of iron, strewing the 
 field with broken engines, but damaging nobody s lit 
 tle finger except by accident. Such is obviously the 
 tendency of modern improvement. But, in the mean 
 while, so long as manhood retains any part of its pris 
 tine value, no country can afford to let gallantry like 
 that of Morris and his crew, any more than that of 
 the brave Word en, pass unhonored and unrewarded. 
 If the Government do nothing, let the people take the 
 
340 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 matter into their own hands, and cities give him 
 swords, gold boxes, festivals of triumph, and, if he 
 needs it, heaps of gold. Let poets brood upon the 
 theme, and make themselves sensible how much of the 
 past and future is contained within its compass, till its 
 spirit shall flash forth in the lightning of a song ! 
 
 From these various excursions, and a good many 
 others (including one to Manassas), we gained a pretty 
 lively idea of what was going on ; but, after all, if 
 compelled to pass a rainy day in the hall and parlors 
 of Willard s Hotel, it proved about as profitably spent 
 as if we had floundered through miles of Virginia 
 mud, in quest of interesting matter. This hotel, in 
 fact, may be much more justly called the centre of 
 Washington and the Union than either the Capitol, 
 the White House, or the State Department. Every 
 body may be seen there. It is the meeting-place of 
 the true representatives of the country, not such as 
 are chosen blindly and amiss by electors who take a 
 folded ballot from the hand of a local politician, and 
 thrust it into the ballot-box unread, but men who 
 gravitate or are attracted hither by real business, or a 
 native impulse to breathe the intensest atmosphere of 
 the nation s life, or a genuine anxiety to see how this 
 life-and-death struggle is going to deal with us. Nor 
 these only, but all manner of loafers. Never, in any 
 other spot, was there such a miscellany of people. 
 You exchange nods with governors of sovereign States ; 
 you elbow illustrious men, and tread on the toes of 
 generals ; you hear statesmen and orators speaking in 
 their familiar tones. You are mixed up with office- 
 seekers, wire-pullers, inventors, artists, poets, prosers 
 (including editors, army - correspondents, attaches of 
 foreign journals, and long-winded talkers), clerks, 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 341 
 
 diplomatists, mail - contractors, railway-directors, until 
 your own identity is lost among them. Occasionally 
 you talk with a man whom you have never before 
 heard of, and are struck by the brightness of a 
 thought, and fancy that there is more wisdom hidden 
 among the obscure than is anywhere revealed among 
 the famous. You adopt the universal habit of the 
 place, and call for a mint-julep, a whiskey-skin, a gin- 
 cocktail, a brandy-smash, or a glass of pure Old Rye ; 
 for the conviviality of Washington sets in at an early 
 hour, and, so far as I had an opportunity of observing, 
 never terminates at any hour, and all these drinks are 
 continually in request by almost all these people. A 
 constant atmosphere of cigar-smoke, too, envelops the 
 motley crowd, and forms a sympathetic medium, in 
 which men meet more closely and talk more frankly 
 than in any other kind of air. If legislators would 
 smoke in session, they might speak truer words, and 
 fewer of them, and bring about more valuable results. 
 It is curious to observe what antiquated figures and 
 costumes sometimes make their appearance at Wil- 
 lard s. You meet elderly men with frilled shirt-fronts, 
 for example, the fashion of which adornment passed 
 away from among the people of this world half a cen 
 tury ago. It is as if one of Stuart s portraits were 
 walking abroad. I see no way of accounting for this, 
 except that the trouble of the times, the impiety of 
 traitors, and the peril of our sacred Union and Con 
 stitution have disturbed, in their honored graves, some 
 of the venerable fathers of the country, and summoned 
 them forth to protest against the meditated and half- 
 accomplished sacrilege. If it be so, their wonted fires 
 are not altogether extinguished in their ashes, in 
 their throats, I might rather say, for I beheld one 
 
342 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 of these excellent old men quaffing such a horn of 
 Bourbon whiskey as a toper of the present century 
 would be loath to venture upon. But, really, one 
 would be glad to know where these strange figures 
 come from. It shows, at any rate, how many remote, 
 decaying villages and country - neighborhoods of the 
 North, and forest-nooks of the West, and old mansion- 
 houses in cities, are shaken by the tremor of our na 
 tive soil, so that men long hidden in retirement put 
 on the garments of their youth and hurry out to in 
 quire what is the matter. The old men whom we see 
 here have generally more marked faces than the young 
 ones, and naturally enough ; since it must be an ex 
 traordinary vigor and renewability of life that can 
 overcome the rusty sloth of age, and keep the senior 
 flexible enough to take an interest in new things ; 
 whereas hundreds of commonplace young men come 
 hither to stare with eyes of vacant wonder, and with 
 vague hopes of finding out what they are fit for. And 
 this war (we may say so much in its favor) has been 
 the means of discovering that important secret to not 
 a few. 
 
 We saw at Willard s many who had thus found out 
 for themselves, that, when Nature gives a young man 
 no other utilizable faculty, she must be understood as 
 intending him for a soldier. The bulk of the army 
 had moved out of Washington before we reached the 
 city ; yet it seemed to me that at least two thirds of 
 the guests and idlers at the hotel wore one or another 
 token of the military profession. Many of them, no 
 doubt, were self-commissioned officers, and had put on 
 the buttons and the shoulder-straps, and booted them 
 selves to the knees, merely because captain, in these 
 days, is so good a travelling - name. The majority, 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 343 
 
 however, had been duly appointed by the President, 
 but might be none the better warriors for that. It 
 was pleasant, occasionally, to distinguish a grizzly vet 
 eran among this crowd of carpet-knights, the trained 
 soldier of a lifetime, long ago from West Point, who 
 had spent his prime upon the frontier, and very likely 
 could show an Indian bullet -mark on his breast, - 
 if such decorations, won in an obscure warfare, were 
 worth the showing now. 
 
 The question often occurred to me, and, to say 
 the truth, it added an indefinable piquancy to the 
 scene, what proportion of all these people, whether 
 soldiers or civilians, were true at heart to the Union, 
 and what part were tainted, more or less, with treason 
 able sympathies and wishes, even if such had never 
 blossomed into purpose. Traitors there were among 
 them, no doubt of that, civil servants of the pub 
 lic, very reputable persons, who yet deserved to dan 
 gle from a cord ; or men who buttoned military coats 
 over their breasts, hiding perilous secrets there, which 
 might bring the gallant officer to stand pale-faced be 
 fore a file of musketeers, with his open grave behind 
 him. But, without insisting upon such picturesque 
 criminality and punishment as this, an observer, who 
 kept both his eyes and heart open, would find it by no 
 means difficult to discern that many residents and vis 
 itors of Washington so far sided with the South as to 
 desire nothing more nor better than to see everything 
 reestablished a little worse than its former basis. If 
 the cabinet of Richmond were transferred to the Fed 
 eral city, and the North awfully snubbed, at least, and 
 driven back within its old political limits, they would 
 deem it a happy day. It is no wonder, and, if we 
 look at the matter generously, no unpardonable crime. 
 
344 CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 
 
 Very excellent people hereabouts remember the many 
 dynasties in which the Southern character has been 
 predominant, and contrast the genial courtesy, the 
 warm and graceful freedom of that region, with what 
 they call (though I utterly disagree with them) the 
 frigidity of our Northern manners, and the Western 
 plainness of the President. They have a conscien 
 tious, though mistaken belief, that the South was 
 driven out of the Union by intolerable wrong on our 
 part, and that we are responsible for having compelled 
 true patriots to love only half their country instead of 
 the whole, and brave soldiers to draw their swords 
 against the Constitution which they would once have 
 died for, to draw them, too, with a bitterness of 
 animosity which is the only symptom of brotherhood 
 (since brothers hate each other best) that any longer 
 exists. They whisper these things with tears in their 
 eyes, and shake their heads, and stoop their poor old 
 shoulders, at the tidings of another and another North 
 ern victory, which, in their opinion, puts farther off 
 the remote, the already impossible, chance of a re 
 union. 
 
 1 am sorry for them, though it is by no means a 
 sorrow without hope. Since the matter has gone so 
 far, there seems to be no way but to go on winning 
 victories, and establishing peace and a truer union in 
 another generation, at the expense, probably, of greater 
 trouble, in the present one, than any other people ever 
 voluntarily suffered. We woo the South " as the Lion 
 wooes his bride ; " it is a rough courtship, but perhaps 
 love and a quiet household may come of it at last. 
 Or, if we* stop short of that blessed consummation, 
 heaven was heaven still, as Milton sings, after Lucifer 
 and a third part of the angels had seceded from its 
 
CHIEFLY ABOUT WAR MATTERS. 345 
 
 golden palaces, and perhaps all the more heavenly, 
 because so many gloomy brows, and soured, vindictive 
 hearts, had gone to plot ineffectual schemes of mischief 
 elsewhere. 1 
 
 1 We regret the innuendo in the concluding sentence. The war 
 can never be allowed to terminate, except in the complete triumph of 
 Northern principles. We hold the event in our own hands, and may 
 choose whether to terminate it by the methods already so successfully 
 used, or by other means equally within our control, and calculated to 
 be still more speedily efficacious. In truth, the work is already done. 
 
 We should be sorry to cast a doubt on the Peaceable Man s loyalty, 
 but he will allow us to say that we consider him premature in his 
 kindly feelings towards traitors and sympathizers with treason. As 
 the author himself says of John Brown (and, so applied, we thought 
 it an atrociously cold-blooded dictum), " any common-sensible man 
 would feel an intellectual satisfaction in seeing them hanged, were it 
 only for their preposterous miscalculation of possibilities." There 
 are some degrees of absurdity that put Reason herself into a rage, 
 and affect us like an intolerable crime, which this Rebellion is, into 
 the bargain. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE author of this memoir being so little of a 
 politician that he scarcely feels entitled to call himself 
 a member of any party would not voluntarily have 
 undertaken the work here offered to the public. 
 Neither can he flatter himself that he has been remark 
 ably successful in the performance of his task, viewing 
 it in the light of a political biography, and as a repre 
 sentation of the principles and acts of a public man, 
 intended to operate upon the minds of multitudes dur 
 ing a presidential canvass. This species of writing is 
 too remote from his customary occupations and, he 
 may add, from his tastes to be very satisfactorily 
 done, without more time and practice than he would 
 be willing to expend for such a purpose. If this little 
 biography have any value, it is probably of another 
 kind as the narrative of one who knew the individ. 
 ual of whom he treats, at a period of life when char 
 acter could be read with undoubting accuracy, and 
 who, consequently, in judging of the motives of his 
 subsequent conduct, has an advantage over much more 
 competent observers, whose knowledge of the man may 
 have commenced at a later date. Nor can it be con 
 sidered improper (at least the author will never feel 
 it so, although some foolish delicacy be sacrificed in 
 the undertaking), that when a friend, dear to him al 
 most from boyish days, stands up before his country, 
 
350 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 misrepresented by indiscriminate abuse, on the one 
 hand, and by aimless praise, on the other, he should 
 be sketched by one who has had opportunities of know- 
 ing him well, and who is certainly inclined to tell the 
 truth. 
 
 It is perhaps right to say, that while this biography 
 is so far sanctioned by General Pierce, as it comprises 
 a generally correct narrative of the principal events of 
 his life, the author does not understand him as thereby 
 necessarily indorsing all the sentiments put forth by 
 himself, in the progress of the work. These are the 
 author s own speculations upon the facts before him, 
 and may, or may not, be in accordance with the ideas 
 of the individual whose life he writes. That individ 
 ual s opinions, however, so far as it is necessary to 
 know them, may be read, in his straightforward and 
 consistent deeds, with more certainty than those of al 
 most any other man now before the public. 
 
 The author, while collecting his materials, has re 
 ceived liberal aid from all manner of people Whigs 
 and Democrats, congressmen, astute lawyers, grim old 
 generals of militia, and gallant young officers of the 
 Mexican war most of whom, however, he must needs 
 say, have rather abounded in eulogy of General Pierce 
 than in such anecdotical matter as is calculated for a 
 biography. Among the gentlemen to whom he is sub 
 stantially indebted, he would mention Hon. C. G. 
 Atherton, Hon. S. H. Ayer, Hon. Joseph Hall, Chief 
 Justice Gilchrist, Isaac O. Barnes, Esq., Col. T. J. 
 Whipple, and Mr. C. J. Smith. He has likewise 
 derived much assistance from an able and accurate 
 sketch, that originally appeared in the " Boston Post," 
 and was drawn up, as he believes, by the junior editor 
 of that journal. 
 
 CONCORD, MASS., August 27, 1852. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 HIS PARENTAGE AND EARLY LIFE. 
 
 FRANKLIN PIERCE was born at Hillsborough, in the 
 State of New Hampshire, on the 23d of November, 
 1804. His native county, at the period of his birth, 
 covered a much more extensive territory than at pres 
 ent, and might reckon among its children many mem 
 orable men, and some illustrious ones. General Stark, 
 the hero of Bennington, Daniel Webster, Levi Wood- 
 bury, Jeremiah Smith, the eminent jurist, and gover 
 nor of the state, General James Miller, General 
 McNeil, Senator Atherton, were natives of old Hills- 
 borough County. 
 
 General Benjamin Pierce, the father of Franklin, 
 was one of the earliest settlers in the town of Hills- 
 borough, and contributed as much as any other man 
 to the growth and prosperity of the county. He was 
 born in 1757, at Chelmsford, now Lowell, in Mas 
 sachusetts. Losing his parents early, he grew up un 
 der the care of an uncle, amid such circumstances of 
 simple fare, hard labor, and scanty education as usu 
 ally fell to the lot of a New England yeoman s family 
 some eighty or a hundred years ago. On the 19th of 
 April, 1775, being then less than eighteen years of 
 age, the stripling was at the plough, when tidings 
 reached him of the bloodshed at Lexington and Con 
 cord. He immediately loosened the ox chain, left the 
 plough in the furrow, took his uncle s gun and equip- 
 
352 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 ments, and set forth towards the scene of action. 
 From that day, for more than seven years, he never 
 saw his native place. He enlisted in the army, was 
 present at the battle of Bunker Hill, and after serving 
 through the whole Revolutionary War, and fighting his 
 way upward from the lowest grade, returned, at last, 
 a thorough soldier, and commander of a company. 
 He was retained in the army as long as that body of 
 veterans had a united existence ; and, being finally 
 disbanded, at West Point, in 1784, was left with no 
 other reward, for nine years of toil and danger, than 
 the nominal amount of his pay in the Continental 
 currency then so depreciated as to be almost worth 
 less. 
 
 In 1785, being employed as agent to explore a tract 
 of wild land, he purchased a lot of fifty acres in what 
 is now the town of Hillsborough. In the spring of 
 the succeeding year, he built himself a log hut, and 
 began the clearing and cultivation of his tract. An 
 other year beheld him married to his first wife, Eliza 
 beth Andrews, who died within a twelvemonth after 
 their union, leaving a daughter, the present widow of 
 General John McNeil. In 1789, he married Anna 
 Kendrick, with whom he lived about half a century, 
 and who bore him eight children, -of whom Franklin 
 was the sixth. 
 
 Although the revolutionary soldier had thus be 
 taken himself to the wilderness for a subsistence, his 
 professional merits were not forgotten by those who 
 had witnessed his military career. As early as 1786, 
 he was appointed brigade major of the militia of Hills- 
 borough County, then first organized and formed into 
 a brigade. And it was a still stronger testimonial to 
 his character as a soldier, that, nearly fifteen years a 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 353 
 
 ter wards, during the presidency of John Adams, he 
 was offered a high command in the northern division 
 of the army which was proposed to be levied in antici 
 pation of a war with the French republic. Inflexibly 
 democratic in his political faith, however, Major Pierce 
 refused to be implicated in a policy which he could not 
 approve. " No, gentlemen," said he to the delegates 
 who urged his acceptance of the commission, " poor as 
 I am, and acceptable as would be the position under 
 other circumstances, I would sooner go to yonder 
 mountains, dig me a cave, and live on roast potatoes, 
 than be instrumental in promoting the objects for 
 which that army is to be raised ! " This same fidelity 
 to his principles marked every public, as well as pri 
 vate, action of his life. 
 
 In his own neighborhood, among those who knew 
 him best, he early gained an influence that was never 
 lost nor diminished, but continued to spread wider 
 during the whole of his long life. In 1789, he was 
 elected to the state legislature and retained that posi 
 tion for thirteen successive years, until chosen a mem 
 ber of the council. During the same period, he was 
 active in his military duties, as a field officer, and fi 
 nally general, of the militia of the county ; and Miller, 
 McNeil, and others learned of him, in this capacity, 
 the goldier-like discipline which was afterwards dis 
 played on the battle fields of the northern frontier. 
 
 The history, character, and circumstances of Gen 
 eral Benjamin Pierce, though here but briefly touched 
 upon, are essential parts of the biography of his son, 
 both as indicating some of the native traits which the 
 latter has inherited, and as showing the influences 
 amid which he grew up. At Franklin Pierce s birth, 
 and for many years subsequent, his father was the 
 
 VOL. xit. 23 
 
354 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 most active and public-spirited man within his sphere ; 
 a most decided Democrat, and supporter of Jefferson 
 and Madison ; a practical farmer, moreover, not rich, 
 but independent, exercising a liberal hospitality, and 
 noted for the kindness and generosity of his charac 
 ter ; a man of the people, but whose natural qualities 
 inevitably made him a leader among them. From in 
 fancy upward, the boy had before his eyes, as the 
 model on which he might instinctively form himself, 
 one of the best specimens of sterling New England 
 character, developed in a life of simple habits, yet of 
 elevated action. Patriotism, such as it had been in 
 revolutionary days, was taught him by his father, as 
 early as his mother taught him religion. He became 
 early imbued, too, with the military spirit which the 
 old soldier had retained from his long service, and 
 which was kept active by the constant alarms and war 
 like preparations of the first twelve years of the pres 
 ent century. If any man is bound, by birth and youth 
 ful training, to show himself a brave, faithful, and 
 able citizen of his native country, it is the son of such 
 a father. 
 
 At the commencement of the war of 1812, Franklin 
 Pierce was a few months under eight years of age. 
 The old general, his father, sent two of his sons into 
 the army ; and as his eldest daughter was soon after 
 wards married to Major McNeil, there were few fami 
 lies that had so large a personal stake in the war as 
 that of General Benjamin Pierce. He himself, both 
 in his public capacity as a member of the council, and 
 by his great local influence in his own county, lent a 
 strenuous support to the national administration. It 
 is attributable to his sagacity and energy, that New 
 Hampshire then under a federal governor was 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 355 
 
 saved the disgrace of participation in the questionable, 
 if not treasonable projects of the Hartford Convention. 
 He identified himself with the cause of the country, 
 and was doubtless as thoroughly alive with patriotic 
 zeal, at this eventful period, as in the old days of 
 Bunker Hill, and Saratoga, and Yorktown. The gen 
 eral not only took a prominent part at all public meet 
 ings, but was ever ready for the informal discussion 
 of political affairs at all places of casual resort, where 
 in accordance with the custom of the time and 
 country the minds of men were made to operate ef 
 fectually upon each other. Franklin Pierce was a fre 
 quent auditor of these controversies. The intentness 
 with which he watched the old general, and listened 
 to his arguments, is still remembered ; and, at this 
 day, in his most earnest moods, there are gesticulations 
 and movements that bring up the image of his father 
 to those who recollect the latter on those occasions of 
 the display of homely, native eloquence. No mode of 
 education could be conceived, better adapted to imbue 
 a youth with the principles and sentiment of demo 
 cratic institutions ; it brought him into the most fa 
 miliar contact with the popular mind, and made his 
 own mind a part of it. 
 
 Franklin s father had felt, through life, the disad 
 vantages of a defective education ; although, in his pe 
 culiar sphere of action, it might be doubted whether 
 he did not gain more than he lost, by being thrown on 
 his own resources, and compelled to study men and 
 their actual affairs, rather than books. But he deter 
 mined to afford his son all the opportunities of im 
 provement which he himself had lacked. Franklin, 
 accordingly, was early sent to the academy at Han 
 cock, and afterwards to that of Francestown, where he 
 
356 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 was received into the family of General Pierce s old 
 and steadfast friend, Peter Woodbury, father of the 
 late eminent judge. It is scarcely more than a year 
 ago, at the semi-centennial celebration of the academy, 
 that Franklin Pierce, the mature and distinguished 
 man, paid a beautiful tribute to the character of Ma 
 dam Woodbury, in affectionate remembrance of the 
 motherly kindness experienced at her hands by the 
 school-boy. 
 
 The old people of his neighborhood give a very de 
 lightful picture of Franklin at this early age. They 
 describe him as a beautiful boy, with blue eyes, light 
 curling hair, and a sweet expression of face. The 
 traits presented of him indicate moral symmetry, kind 
 liness, and a delicate texture of sentiment, rather than 
 marked prominences of character. His instructors 
 testify to his propriety of conduct, his fellow-pupils to 
 his sweetness of disposition and cordial sympathy. 
 One of the latter, being older than most of his com 
 panions, and less advanced in his studies, found it dif 
 ficult to keep up with his class ; and he remembers 
 how perseveringly, while the other boys were at play, 
 Franklin spent the noon recess, for many weeks to 
 gether, in aiding him in his lessons. These attributes, 
 proper to a generous and affectionate nature, have 
 remained with him through life. Lending their color 
 to his deportment, and softening his manners, they are, 
 perhaps, even now, the characteristics by which most 
 of those who casually meet him would be inclined to 
 identify the man. But there are other qualities, not 
 then developed, but which have subsequently attained 
 a firm and manly growth, arid are recognized as his 
 leading traits among those who really know him. 
 Franklin Pierce s development, indeed, has always 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 357 
 
 been the reverse of premature ; the boy did not show 
 the germ of all that was in the man, nor, perhaps, did 
 the young man adequately foreshow the mature one. 
 
 In 1820, at the age of sixteen, he became a student 
 of Bowdoin College, at Brunswick, Maine. It was in 
 the autumn of the next year that the author of this 
 memoir entered the class below him ; but our college 
 reminiscences, however interesting to the parties con 
 cerned, are not exactly the material for a biography. 
 He was then a youth, with the boy and man in him, 
 vivacious, mirthful, slender, of a fair complexion, with 
 light hair that had a curl in it : his bright and cheer 
 ful aspect made a kind of sunshine, both as regarded 
 its radiance and its warmth ; insomuch that no shyness 
 of disposition, in his associates, could well resist its in 
 fluence. We soon became acquainted, and were more 
 especially drawn together as members of the same col 
 lege society. There were two of these institutions, 
 dividing the college between them, and typifying, re 
 spectively, and with singular accuracy of feature, the 
 respectable conservative, and the progressive or demo 
 cratic parties. Pierce s native tendencies inevitably 
 drew him to the latter. 
 
 His chum was Zenas Caldwell, several years older 
 than himself, a member of the Methodist persuasion, 
 a pure-minded, studious, devoutly religious character ; 
 endowed thus early in life with the authority of a grave 
 and sagacious turn of mind. The friendship between 
 Pierce and him appeared to be mutually strong, and 
 was of itself a pledge of correct deportment in the for 
 mer. His chief friend, I think, was a classmate named 
 Little, a young man of most estimable qualities and 
 high intellectual promise ; one of those fortunate char 
 acters whom an early death so canonizes in the remem. 
 
358 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 brance of their companions, that the perfect fulfilment 
 of a long life would scarcely give them a higher place. 
 Jonathan Cilley, of my own class, whose untimely 
 fate is still mournfully remembered, a person of very 
 marked ability and great social influence, was another 
 of Pierce s friends. All these have long been dead. 
 There are others, still alive, who would meet Franklin 
 Pierce, at this day, with as warm a pressure of the 
 hand, and the same confidence in his kindly feel 
 ings, as when they parted from him nearly thirty 
 years ago. 
 
 Pierce s class was small, but composed of individ 
 uals seriously intent on the duties and studies of their 
 college life. They were not boys, but, for the most 
 part, well advanced towards maturity; and, having 
 wrought out their own means of education, were little 
 inclined to neglect the opportunities that had been won 
 at so much cost. They knew the value of time, and 
 had a sense of the responsibilities of their position. 
 Their first scholar the present Professor Stowe 
 has long since established his rank among the first 
 scholars of the country. It could have been no easy 
 task to hold successful rivalry with students so much 
 in earnest as these were. During the earlier part of 
 his college course, it may be doubted whether Pierce 
 was distinguished for scholarship. But, for the last 
 two years, he appeared to grow more intent on the busi 
 ness in hand, and, without losing any of his vivacious 
 qualities as a companion, was evidently resolved to 
 gain an honorable elevation in his class. His habits 
 of attention, and obedience to college discipline, were 
 of the strictest character ; he rose progressively in 
 scholarship, and took a highly creditable degree. l 
 1 See note at close of this Life. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 359 
 
 The first civil office, I imagine, which Franklin 
 Pierce ever held, was that of chairman of the stand 
 ing committee of the Athenaean Society, of which, as 
 above hinted, we were both members ; and, having my 
 self held a place on the committee, I can bear testi 
 mony to his having discharged not only his own share 
 of the duties, but that of his colleagues. I remember, 
 likewise, that the only military service of my life was as 
 a private soldier in a college company, of which Pierce 
 was one of the officers. He entered into this latter 
 business, or pastime, with an earnestness with which I 
 could not pretend to compete, and at which, perhaps, 
 he would now be inclined to smile. His slender and 
 youthful figure rises before my mind s eye, at this mo 
 ment, with the air and step of a veteran of the school 
 of Steuben ; as well became the son of a revolutionary 
 hero, who had probably drilled under the old baron s 
 orders. Indeed, at this time, and for some years after 
 wards, Pierce s ambition seemed to be of a military 
 cast. Until reflection had tempered his first predilec 
 tions, and other varieties of success had rewarded his 
 efforts, he would have preferred, I believe, the honors 
 of the battle field to any laurels more peacefully won. 
 And it was remarkable how, with all the invariable 
 gentleness of his demeanor, he perfectly gave, never 
 theless, the impression of a high and fearless spirit. 
 His friends were as sure of his courage, while yet un 
 tried, as now, when it has been displayed so brilliantly 
 in famous battles. 
 
 At this early period of his life, he was distinguished 
 by the same fascination of manner that has since 
 proved so magical in winning him an unbounded per 
 sonal popularity. It is wronging him, however, to call 
 this peculiarity a mere effect of manner; its source 
 
360 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 lies deep in the kindliness of his nature, and in the 
 liberal, generous, catholic sympathy, that embraces all 
 who are worthy of it. Few men possess any thing 
 like it ; so irresistible as it is, so sure to draw forth an 
 undoubting confidence, and so true to the promise 
 which it gives. This frankness, this democracy of 
 good feeling, has not been chilled by the society of 
 politicians, nor polished down into mere courtesy by 
 his intercourse with the most refined men of the day. 
 It belongs to him at this moment, and will never leave 
 him. A little while ago, after his return from Mex 
 ico, he darted across the street to exchange a hearty 
 gripe of the hand with a rough countryman upon his 
 car t a man who used to " live with his father," as 
 the general explained the matter to his companions. 
 Other men assume this manner, more or less skilfully ; 
 but with Frank Pierce it is an innate characteristic ; 
 nor will it ever lose its charm unless his heart should 
 grow narrower and colder a misfortune not to be 
 anticipated, even in the dangerous atmosphere of ele 
 vated rank, whither he seems destined to ascend. 
 
 There is little else that it is worth while to relate 
 as regards his college course, unless it be that, during 
 one of his winter vacations, Pierce taught a country 
 school. So many of the statesmen of New England 
 have performed their first public service in the char 
 acter of pedagogue, that it seems almost a necessary 
 step on the ladder of advancement. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 361 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 HIS SERVICES IN THE STATE AND NATIONAL LEGISLATURES. 
 
 AFTEK leaving college, in the year 1824, Franklin 
 Pierce returned to Hillsborougb. His father, now in 
 a green old age, continued to take a prominent part in 
 the affairs of the day, but likewise made his declining 
 years rich and picturesque with recollections of the 
 heroic times through which he had lived. On the 
 26th of December, 1825, it being his sixty - seventh 
 birthday, General Benjamin Pierce prepared a festi 
 val for his comrades in arms, the survivors of the Rev 
 olution, eighteen of whom, all inhabitants of Hills- 
 borough, assembled at his house. The ages of these 
 veterans ranged from fifty-nine up to the patriarchal 
 venerableness of nearly ninety. They spent the day 
 in festivity, in calling up reminiscences of the great 
 men whom they had known, and the great deeds which 
 they had helped to do, and in reviving the old senti 
 ments of the era of seventy-six. At nightfall, after a 
 manly and pathetic farewell from their host, they sep 
 arated " prepared," as the old general expressed it, 
 " at the first tap of the shrouded drum, to move and 
 join their beloved Washington, and the rest of their 
 comrades, who fought and bled at their sides." A 
 scene like this must have been profitable for a young 
 man to witness, as being likely to give him a stronger 
 sense than most of us can attain of the value of that 
 Union which these old heroes had risked so much to 
 consolidate of that common country which they had 
 sacrificed everything to create ; and patriotism must 
 have been communicated from their hearts to his, with 
 
362 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 somewhat of the warmth and freshness of a new-born 
 sentiment. No youth was ever more fortunate than 
 Franklin Pierce, through the whole of his early life, 
 in this most desirable species of moral education. 
 
 Having chosen the law as a profession, Franklin be 
 came a student in the office of Judge Woodbury, of 
 Portsmouth. Allusion has already been made to the 
 friendship between General Benjamin Pierce and Peter 
 Woodbury, the father of the judge. The early prog 
 ress of Levi Woodbury towards eminence had been 
 facilitated by the powerful influence of his father s 
 friend. It was a worthy and honorable kind of patron 
 age, and bestowed only as the great abilities of the 
 recipient vindicated his claim to it. Few young men 
 have met with such early success in life, or have de 
 served it so eminently, as did Judge Woodbury. At 
 the age of twenty-seven, he was appointed to the bench 
 of the Supreme Court of the state, on the earnest rec 
 ommendation of old General Pierce. The opponents 
 of the measure ridiculed him as the " baby judge ; " 
 but his conduct in that high office showed the presci 
 ent judgment of the friend who had known him from 
 a child, and had seen in his young manhood already 
 the wisdom of ripened age. It was some years after 
 wards when Franklin Pierce entered the office of 
 Judge Woodbury as a student. In the interval, the 
 judge had been elected governor, and, after a term of 
 office that thoroughly tested the integrity of his demo 
 cratic principles, had lost his second election, and re 
 turned to the profession of the law. 
 
 The last two years of Pierce s preparatory studies 
 were spent at the law school of Northampton, in Mas 
 sachusetts, and in the office of Judge Parker at Am- 
 herst. In 1827, being admitted to the bar, he began 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 363 
 
 the practice of his profession at Hillsborough. It is 
 an interesting fact, considered in reference to his sub 
 sequent splendid career as an advocate, that he did not, 
 at the outset, give promise of distinguished success. 
 His first case was a failure, and perhaps a somewhat 
 marked one. But it is remembered that this defeat, 
 however mortifying at the moment, did but serve to 
 make him aware of the latent resources of his mind, 
 the full command of which he was far from having 
 yet attained. To a friend, an older practitioner, who 
 addressed him with some expression of condolence and 
 encouragement, Pierce replied, and it was a kind of 
 self-assertion which no triumph would have drawn out, 
 
 I do not need that. I will try nine hundred and 
 
 ninety-nine cases, if clients will continue to trust me, 
 and, if I fail just as I have to-day, will try the thou 
 sandth. I shall live to argue cases in this court house 
 in a manner that will mortify neither myself nor my 
 friends." It is in such moments of defeat that charac 
 ter and ability are most fairly tested ; they would irre 
 mediably crush a youth devoid of real energy, and, be 
 ing neither more nor less than his just desert, would 
 be accepted as such. But a failure of this kind serves 
 an opposite purpose to a mind in which the strongest 
 and richest qualities lie deep, and, from their very size 
 and mass, cannot at once be rendered available. It pro 
 vokes an innate self-confidence, while, at the same time, 
 it sternly indicates the sedulous cultivation, the earnest 
 effort, the toil, the agony, which are the conditions of 
 ultimate success. It is, indeed, one of the best modes 
 of discipline that experience can administer, and may 
 reasonably be counted a fortunate event in the life of 
 a young man vigorous enough to overcome the mo 
 mentary depression. 
 
364 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 Pierce s distinction at the bar, however, did not im 
 mediately follow; nor did he acquire what we may 
 designate as positive eminence until some years after 
 this period. The enticements of political life so 
 especially fascinating to a young lawyer, but so irreg 
 ular in its tendencies, and so inimical to steady pro 
 fessional labor had begun to operate upon him. His 
 father s prominent position in the politics of the state 
 made it almost impossible that the son should stand 
 aloof. In 1827, the same year when Franklin began 
 the practice of the law, General Benjamin Pierce had 
 been elected governor of New Hampshire. He was 
 defeated in the election of 1828, but was again suc 
 cessful in that of the subsequent year. During these 
 years, the contest for the presidency had been fought 
 with a fervor that drew almost everybody into it, on 
 one side or the other, and had terminated in the tri 
 umph of Andrew Jackson. Franklin Pierce, in ad 
 vance of his father s decision, though not in opposition 
 to it, had declared himself for the illustrious man 
 whose military renown was destined to be thrown into 
 the shade by a civil administration, the most splendid 
 and powerful that ever adorned the annals of our coun 
 try. I love to record of the subject of this memoir 
 that his first political faith was pledged to that great 
 leader of the democracy. 
 
 I remember meeting Pierce about this period, and 
 catching from him some faint reflection of the zeal 
 with which he was now stepping into the political 
 arena. My sympathies and opinions, it is true, so 
 far as I had any in public affairs, had, from the 
 first, been enlisted on the same side with his own. 
 But I was now made strongly sensible of an increased 
 development of my friend s mind, by means of which 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 365 
 
 he possessed a vastly greater power than heretofore 
 over the minds with which he came in contact. This 
 progressive growth has continued to be one of his 
 remarkable characteristics. Of most men you early 
 know the mental gauge and measurement, and do not 
 subsequently have much occasion to change it. Not 
 so with Pierce : his tendency was not merely high, but 
 towards a point which rose higher and higher, as the 
 aspirant tended upward. Since we parted, studious 
 days had educated him ; life, too, and his own exer 
 tions in it, and his native habit of close and accurate 
 observation, had likewise begun to educate him. 
 
 The town of Hillsborough, in 1829, gave Franklin 
 Pierce his first public honor, by electing him its rep 
 resentative in the legislature of the state. His whole 
 service in that body comprised four years, in the two 
 latter of which he was elected Speaker by a vote of 
 one hundred and fifty-five against fifty-eight for other 
 candidates. This overpowering majority evinced the 
 confidence which his character inspired, and which, 
 during his whole career, it has invariably commanded, 
 in advance of what might be termed positive proof, 
 although the result has never failed to justify it. I 
 still recollect his description of the feelings with which 
 he entered on his arduous duties the feverish night 
 that preceded his taking the chair the doubt, the 
 struggle with himself all ending in perfect calmness, 
 full self-possession, and free power of action when the 
 crisis actually came. 
 
 He had all the natural gifts that adapted him for 
 the post ; courtesy, firmness, quickness and accuracy 
 of judgment, and a clearness of mental perception 
 that brought its own regularity into the scene of con 
 fused and entangled debate ; and to these qualities he 
 
366 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 added whatever was to be attained by laborious study 
 of parliamentary rules. His merit as a presiding offi 
 cer was universally acknowledged. It is rare that a 
 man combines so much impulse with so great a power 
 of regulating the impulses of himself and others as 
 Franklin Pierce. The faculty, here exercised and im 
 proved, of controlling an assembly while agitated by 
 tumultuous controversy, was afterwards called into 
 play upon a higher field ; for, during his congressional 
 service, Pierce was often summoned to preside in com 
 mittee of the whole, when a turbulent debate was ex 
 pected to demand peculiar energy in the chair. 
 
 He was elected a member of Congress in 1833, be 
 ing young for the station, as he has always been for 
 every public station that he has filled. A different 
 kind of man a man conscious that accident alone 
 had elevated him, and therefore nervously anxious to 
 prove himself equal to his fortunes would thus have 
 been impelled to spasmodic efforts. He would have 
 thrust himself forward in debate, taking the word out 
 of the mouths of renowned orators, and thereby win 
 ning notoriety, as at least the glittering counterfeit of 
 true celebrity. Had Pierce, with his genuine ability, 
 practised this course ; had he possessed even an ordi 
 nary love of display, and had he acted upon it with his 
 inherent tact and skill, taking advantage of fair occa 
 sions to prove the power and substance that were in 
 him, it would greatly have facilitated the task of his 
 biographer. 
 
 To aim at personal distinction, however, as an object 
 independent of the public service, would have been 
 contrary to all the foregone and subsequent manifes 
 tations of his life. He was never wanting to the occa 
 sion ; but he waited for the occasion to bring him in- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 367 
 
 evitably forward. When he spoke, it was not only 
 because he was fully master of the subject, but be 
 cause the exigency demanded him, and because no 
 other and older man could perform the same duty as 
 well as himself. Of the copious eloquence and 
 some of it, no doubt, of a high order which Bun 
 combe has called forth, not a paragraph, nor a period, 
 is attributable to Franklin Pierce. He had no need 
 of these devices to fortify his constituents in their 
 high opinion of him ; nor did he fail to perceive that 
 such was not the method to acquire real weight in the 
 body of which he was a member. In truth, he has 
 no fluency of words, except when an earnest meaning 
 and purpose supply their own expression. Every one 
 of his speeches in Congress, and, we may say, in every 
 other hall of oratory, or on any stump that he may 
 have mounted, was drawn forth by the perception that 
 it wa s needed, was directed to a full exposition of the 
 subject, and (rarest of all) was limited by what he 
 really had to say. Even the graces of the orator were 
 never elaborated, never assumed for their own sake, 
 but were legitimately derived from the force of his 
 conceptions, and from the impulsive warmth which 
 accompanies the glow of thought. Owing to these 
 peculiarities, for such, unfortunately, they may be 
 termed, in reference to what are usually the character 
 istics of a legislative career, his position before the 
 country was less conspicuous than that of many men 
 who could claim nothing like Pierce s actual influence 
 in the national councils. His speeches, in their mus 
 cular texture and close grasp of their subject, resem 
 bled the brief but pregnant arguments and expositions 
 of the sages of the Continental Congress, rather than 
 the immeasurable harangues which are now the order 
 of the day. 
 
368 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 His congressional life, though it made comparatively 
 so little show, was full of labor, directed to substantial 
 objects. He was a member of the judiciary and other 
 important committees ; and the drudgery of the com 
 mittee room, where so much of the real public busi 
 ness of the country is transacted, fell in large meas 
 ure to his lot. Thus, even as a legislator, he may be 
 said to have been a man of deeds, not words ; and 
 when he spoke upon any subject with which his duty, 
 as chairman or member of a committee, had brought 
 him in relation, his words had the weight of deeds, 
 from the meaning, the directness, and the truth, that 
 he conveyed into them. His merits made themselves 
 known and felt in the sphere where they were exer 
 cised ; and he was early appreciated by one* who sel 
 dom erred in his estimate of men, whether in their 
 moral or intellectual aspect. His intercourse with 
 President Jackson was frequent and free, and marked 
 by friendly regard on the part of the latter. In the 
 stormiest periods of his administration, Pierce came 
 frankly to his aid. The confidence then established 
 was never lost ; and when Jackson was on his death 
 bed, being visited by a gentleman from the North 
 (himself formerly a democratic member of Congress), 
 the old hero spoke with energy of Franklin Pierce s 
 ability and patriotism, and remarked, as with pro 
 phetic foresight of his young friend s destiny, that 
 " the interests of the country would be safe in such 
 hands." 
 
 One of President Jackson s measures, which had 
 Pierce s approval and support, was his veto of the 
 Maysville Koad Bill. This bill was part of a system 
 of vast public works, principally railroads and canals, 
 which it was proposed to undertake at the expense of 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 369 
 
 the national treasury a policy not then of recent 
 origin, but which had been fostered by John Quincy 
 Adams, and had attained a gigantic growth at the 
 close of his presidency. The estimate of works under 
 taken or projected, at the commencement of Jackson s 
 administration, amounted to considerably more than 
 a hundred millions of dollars. The expenditure of 
 this enormous sum, and doubtless other incalculable 
 amounts, in progressive increase, was to be for pur 
 poses often of unascertained utility, and was to pass 
 through the agents and officers of the federal gov 
 ernment a means of political corruption not safely 
 to be trusted even in the purest hands. The peril to 
 the individuality of the states, from a system tending 
 so directly to consolidate the powers of government 
 towards a common centre, was obvious. The result 
 might have been, with the lapse of time and the in 
 creased activity of the disease, to place the capital of 
 our federative Union in a position resembling that of 
 imperial Rome, where each once independent state 
 was a subject province, and all the highways of the 
 world were said to meet in her forum. It was against 
 this system, so dangerous to liberty and to public and 
 private integrity, that Jackson declared war, by the 
 famous Maysville veto. 
 
 It would be an absurd interpretation of Pierce s 
 course, in regard to this and similar measures, to sup 
 pose him hostile either to internal or coastwise im 
 provements, so far as they may legitimately be the 
 business of the general government. He was aware of 
 the immense importance of our internal commerce, and 
 was ever ready to vote such appropriations as might be 
 necessary for promoting it, when asked for in an hon 
 est spirit, and at points where they were really needed. 
 
 VOL. xii. 24 
 
370 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 He doubted, indeed, the constitutional power of Con 
 gress to undertake, by building roads through the wil 
 derness or opening unfrequented rivers, to create com 
 merce where it did not yet exist ; but he never denied 
 or questioned the right and duty to remove obstruc 
 tions in the way of inland trade, and to afford it every 
 facility, when the nature and necessity of things had 
 brought it into genuine existence. And he agreed 
 with the best and wisest statesmen in believing that 
 this distinction involved the true principle on which 
 legislation, for the purpose here discussed, should pro 
 ceed. 
 
 While a member of the House of Representatives, 
 he delivered a forcible speech against the bill author 
 izing appropriations for the Military Academy at 
 West Point. He was decidedly opposed to that insti 
 tution as then and at present organized. We allude to 
 the subject in illustration of the generous frankness 
 with which, years afterwards, when the battle smoke 
 of Mexico had baptized him also a soldier, he acknowl 
 edged himself in the wrong, and bore testimony to the 
 brilliant services which the graduates of the Academy, 
 trained to soldiership from boyhood, had rendered to 
 their country. And if he has made no other such ac 
 knowledgment of past error, committed in his legisla 
 tive capacity, it is but fair to believe that it is because 
 his reason and conscience accuse him of no other 
 wrong. 
 
 It was while in the lower house of Congress that 
 Franklin Pierce took that stand on the slavery ques 
 tion from which he has never since swerved a hair s 
 breadth. He fully recognized, by his votes and by his 
 voice, the rights pledged to the South by the Constitu 
 tion. This, at the period when he so declared himself, 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 371 
 
 was comparatively an easy thing to do. But when it 
 became more difficult, when the first imperceptible 
 movement of agitation had grown to be almost a con 
 vulsion, his course was still the same. Nor did he 
 ever shun the obloquy that sometimes threatened to 
 pursue the northern man who dared to love that great 
 and sacred reality his whole, united, native country 
 better than the mistiness of a philanthropic theory. 
 He continued in the House of Representatives four 
 years. If, at this period of his life, he rendered un 
 obtrusive, though not unimportant, services to the pub 
 lic, it must also have been a time of vast intellectual 
 advantage to himself. Amidst great national affairs, 
 he was acquiring the best of all educations for future 
 eminence and leadership. In the midst of statesmen, 
 he grew to be a statesman. Studious, as all his 
 speeches prove him to be, of history, he beheld it de 
 monstrating itself before his eyes. As regards this 
 sort of training, much of its good or ill effect depends 
 on the natural force and depth of the man. Many, 
 no doubt, by early mixture with politics, become the 
 mere politicians of the moment, a class of men suffi 
 ciently abundant among us, acquiring only a knack 
 and cunning, which guide them tolerably well through 
 immediate difficulties, without instructing them in the 
 great rules of higher policy. But when the actual ob 
 servation of public measures goes hand in hand with 
 study, when the mind is capable of comparing the 
 present with its analogies in the past, and of grasping 
 the principle that belongs to both, this is to have his 
 tory for a living tutor. If the student be fit for such 
 instruction, he will be seen to act afterwards with the 
 elevation of a high ideal, and with the expediency, the 
 sagacity, the instinct of what is fit and practicable, 
 
372 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 which make the advantage of the man of actual affairs 
 over the mere theorist. 
 
 And it was another advantage of his being brought 
 early into the sphere of national interests, and contin 
 uing there for a series of years, that it enabled him to 
 overcome any narrow and sectional prejudices. With 
 out loving New England less, he loved the broad area 
 of the country more. He thus retained that equal sen 
 timent of patriotism for the whole land with which his 
 father had imbued him, and which is perhaps apt to be 
 impaired in the hearts of those who come late to the 
 national legislature, after long training in the narrower 
 fields of the separate states. His sense of the value 
 of the Union, which had been taught him at the fire 
 side, from earliest infancy, by the stories of patriotic 
 valor that he there heard, was now strengthened by 
 friendly association with its representatives from every 
 quarter. It is this youthful sentiment of Americanism, 
 so happily developed by after circumstances, that we 
 see operating through all his public life, and making 
 him as tender of what he considers due to the South 
 as of the rights of his own land of hills. 
 
 Franklin Pierce had scarcely reached the legal age 
 for such elevation, when, in 1837, he was elected to 
 the Senate of the United States. He took his seat 
 at the commencement of the presidency of Mr. Yan 
 Buren. Never before nor since has the Senate been 
 more venerable for the array of veteran and celebrated 
 statesmen than at that time. Calhoun, Webster, and 
 Clay had lost nothing of their intellectual might. Ben- 
 ton, Silas Wright, Woodbury, Buchanan, and Walker 
 were members ; and many even of the less eminent 
 names were such as have gained historic place men 
 of powerful eloquence, and worthy to be leaders of the 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 373 
 
 respective parties which they espoused. To this digni 
 fied body (composed of individuals some of whom were 
 older in political experience than he in his mortal life) 
 Pierce came as the youngest member of the Senate. 
 With his usual tact and exquisite sense of propriety, 
 he saw that it was not the time for him to step forward 
 prominently on this highest theatre in the land. lie 
 beheld these great combatants doing battle before the 
 eyes of the nation, and engrossing its whole regards. 
 There was hardly an avenue to reputation save what 
 was occupied by one or another of those gigantic fig 
 ures. 
 
 Modes of public service remained, however, requir 
 ing high ability, but with which few men of competent 
 endowments would have been content to occupy them 
 selves. Pierce had already demonstrated the possibil 
 ity of obtaining an enviable position among his asso 
 ciates, without the windy notoriety which a member of 
 Congress may readily manufacture for himself by the 
 lavish expenditure of breath that had been better 
 spared. In the more elevated field of the Senate, he 
 pursued the same course as while a representative, and 
 with more than equal results. 
 
 Among other committees, he was a member of that 
 upon revolutionary pensions. Of this subject he made 
 himself thoroughly master, and was recognized by the 
 Senate as an unquestionable authority. In 1840, in 
 reference to several bills for the relief of claimants 
 under the pension law, he delivered a speech which 
 finely illustrates as well the sympathies as the justice 
 of the man, showing how vividly he could feel, and, 
 at the same time, how powerless were his feelings to 
 turn him aside from the strict line of public integrity. 
 The merits and sacrifices of the people of the Revolu- 
 
374 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 tion have never been stated with more earnest grati 
 tude than in the following passage : 
 
 " I am not insensible, Mr. President, of the advan 
 tages with which claims of this character always come 
 before Congress. They are supposed to be based on 
 services for which no man entertains a higher estimate 
 than myself services beyond all praise, and above all 
 price. But, while warm and glowing with the glorious 
 recollections which a recurrence to that period of our 
 history can never fail to awaken ; while we cherish 
 with emotions of pride, reverence, and affection the 
 memory of those brave men who are no longer with 
 us ; while we provide, with a liberal hand, for such as 
 survive, and for the widows of the deceased ; while we 
 would accord to the heirs, whether in the second or 
 third generation, every dollar to which they can estab 
 lish a just claim, I trust we shall not, in the strong 
 current of our sympathies, forget what becomes us as 
 the descendants of such men. They would teach us to 
 legislate upon our judgment, upon our sober sense of 
 right, and not upon our impulses or our sympathies. 
 No, sir ; we may act in this way, if we choose, when 
 dispensing our own means, but we are not at liberty to 
 do it when dispensing the means of our constituents. 
 
 " If we were to legislate upon our sympathies yet 
 more I will admit if we were to yield to that sense 
 of just and grateful remuneration which presses itself 
 upon every man s heart, there would be scarcely a 
 limit for our bounty. The whole exchequer could not 
 answer the demand. To the patriotism, the courage, 
 and the sacrifices of the people of that day, we owe, 
 under Providence, all that we now most highly prize, 
 and what we shall ^transmit to our children as the 
 richest legacy they can inherit. The War of the Rev- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 375 
 
 olution, it has been justly remarked, was not a war of 
 armies merely it was the war of nearly a whole peo 
 ple, and such a people as the world had never before 
 seen, in a death struggle for liberty. 
 
 " The losses, sacrifices, and sufferings of that period 
 were common to all classes and conditions of life. 
 Those who remained at home suffered hardly less than 
 those who entered upon the active strife. The aged 
 father and mother underwent not less than the son, 
 who would have been the comfort and stay of their de 
 clining years, now called to perform a yet higher duty 
 to follow the standard of his bleeding country. The 
 young mother, with her helpless children, excites not 
 less deeply our sympathies, contending with want, and 
 dragging out years of weary and toilsome days and 
 anxious nights, than the husband in the field, following 
 the fortunes of our arms without the common habili 
 ments to protect his person, or the requisite sustenance 
 to support his strength. Sir, I never think of that 
 patient, enduring, self-sacrificing army, which crossed 
 the Delaware in December, 1777, marching barefooted 
 upon frozen ground to encounter the foe, and leaving 
 bloody footprints for miles behind them I never 
 think of their sufferings during that terrible winter 
 without involuntarily inquiring, Where then were their 
 families ? Who lit up the cheerful fire upon their 
 hearths at home? Who spoke the word of comfort 
 and encouragement? Nay, sir, who furnished protec 
 tion from the rigors of winter, and brought them the 
 necessary means of subsistence ? 
 
 "The true and simple answer to these questions 
 would disclose an amount of suffering and anguish, 
 mental and physical, such as juight not have been 
 found in the ranks of the armies not even in the 
 
376 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 severest trial of that fortitude which never faltered, 
 and that power of endurance which seemed to know 
 no limit. All this no man feels more deeply than I 
 do. But they were common sacrifices in a common 
 cause, ultimately crowned with the reward of liberty. 
 They have an everlasting claim upon our gratitude, 
 and are destined, as I trust, by their heroic example, 
 to exert an abiding influence upon our latest pos 
 terity." 
 
 With this heartfelt recognition of the debt of grati 
 tude due to those excellent men, the senator enters 
 into an analysis of the claims presented, and proves 
 them to be void of justice. The whole speech is a good 
 exponent of his character ; full of the truest sympathy," 
 but, above all things, just, and not to be misled, on 
 the public behalf, by those impulses that would be 
 most apt to sway the private man. The mere pecu 
 niary amount saved to the nation by his scrutiny into 
 affairs of this kind, though great, was, after all, but a 
 minor consideration. The danger lay in establishing 
 a corrupt system, and placing a wrong precedent upon 
 the statute book. Instances might be adduced, on the 
 other hand, which show him not less scrupulous of the 
 just rights of the claimants than careful of the public 
 interests. 
 
 Another subject upon which he came forward was 
 the military establishment and the natural defences of 
 the country. In looking through the columns of the 
 " Congressional Globe," we find abundant evidences 
 of Senator Pierce s laborious and unostentatious dis 
 charge of his duties reports of committees, brief re 
 marks, and, here and there, a longer speech, always 
 full of matter, and evincing a thoroughly - digested 
 knowledge of the subject. Not having been written 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 877 
 
 out by himself, however, these speeches are no fair 
 specimens of his oratory, except as regards the train 
 of argument and substantial thought ; and adhering 
 very closely to the business in hand, they seldom pre 
 sent passages that could be quoted, without tearing 
 them forcibly, as it were, out of the context, and thus 
 mangling the fragments which we might offer to the 
 reader. As we have already remarked, he seems, as 
 a debater, to revive the old type of the Revolutionary 
 Congress, or to bring back the noble days of the Long 
 Parliament of England, before eloquence had become 
 what it is now, a knack, and a thing valued for itself. 
 Like those strenuous orators, he speaks with the ear 
 nestness of honest conviction, and out of the fervor of 
 his heart, and because the occasion and his deep sense 
 of it constrain him. 
 
 By the defeat of Mr. Van Buren, in the presidential 
 election of 1840, the administration of government 
 was transferred, for the first time in twelve years, to 
 the Whigs. An extra session of Congress was sum 
 moned to assemble in June, 1841, by President Harri 
 son, who, however, died before it came together. At 
 this extra session, it was the purpose of the whig 
 party, under the leadership of Henry Clay, to over 
 throw all the great measures which the successive 
 democratic administrations had established. The sub- 
 treasury was to be demolished ; a national bank was to 
 be incorporated ; a high tariff of duties was to be im 
 posed, for purposes 6i protection and abundant reve 
 nue. The whig administration possessed a majority, 
 both in the Senate and the House. It was a dark 
 period for the Democracy, so long unaccustomed to de 
 feat, and now beholding all that they had won for the 
 cause of national progress, after the arduous struggle 
 of so many years, apparently about to be swept away. 
 
378 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 The sterling influence which Franklin Pierce now 
 exercised is well described in the following remarks of 
 the Hon. A. O. P. Nicholson : 
 
 " The power of an organized minority was never 
 more clearly exhibited than in this contest. The demo 
 cratic senators acted in strict concert, meeting night 
 after night for consultation, arranging their plan of 
 battle, selecting their champions for the coming day, 
 assigning to each man his proper duty, and looking 
 carefully to the popular judgment for a final victory. 
 In these consultations, no man s voice was heard with 
 more profound respect than that of Franklin Pierce. 
 His counsels were characterized by so thorough a 
 knowledge of human nature, by so much solid com 
 mon sense, by such devotion to democratic principles, 
 that, although among the youngest of the senators, it 
 was deemed important that all their conclusions should 
 be submitted to his sanction. 
 
 "Although known to be ardent in his temperament, 
 he was also known to act with prudence and caution. 
 His impetuosity in debate was only the result of the 
 deep convictions which controlled his mind. He en 
 joyed the unbounded confidence of Calhoun, Buchan 
 an, Wright, Woodbury, Walker, King, Benton, and 
 indeed of the entire democratic portion of the Senate. 
 When he rose in the Senate or in the committee room, 
 he was heard with the profoundest attention ; and 
 again and again was he greeted by these veteran Dem 
 ocrats as one of our ablest champions. His speeches, 
 during this session, will compare with those of any 
 other senator. If it be asked why he did not receive 
 higher distinction, I answer, that such men as Calhoun, 
 Wright, Buchanan, and Woodbury were the acknowl 
 edged leaders of the Democracy. The eyes of the na- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 379 
 
 tion were on them. The hopes of their party were 
 reposed in them. The brightness of these luminaries 
 was too great to allow the brilliancy of so young a 
 man to attract especial attention. But ask any one of 
 these veterans how Franklin Pierce ranked in the 
 Senate, and he will tell you, that, to stand in the front 
 rank for talents, eloquence, and statesmanship, he only 
 lacked a few more years." 
 
 In the course of this session he made a very power 
 ful speech in favor of Mr. Buchanan s resolution, call 
 ing on the President to furnish the names of persons 
 removed from office since the 4th of March, 1841. 
 The Whigs, in 1840, as in the subsequent canvass of 
 1848, had professed a purpose to abolish the system of 
 official removals on account of political opinion, but, 
 immediately on coming into power, had commenced a 
 proscription infinitely beyond the example of the dem 
 ocratic party. This course, with an army of office 
 seekers besieging the departments, was unquestiona 
 bly difficult to avoid, and perhaps, on the whole, not 
 desirable to be avoided. But it was rendered astound 
 ing by the sturdy effrontry with which the gentlemen 
 in power denied that their present practice had falsi 
 fied any of their past professions. A few of the clos 
 ing paragraphs of Senator Pierce s highly effective 
 speech, being more easily separable than the rest, may 
 here be cited. 
 
 " One word more, and I leave this subject, a pain 
 ful one to me, from the beginning to the end. The 
 senator from North Carolina, in the course of his re 
 marks the other day, asked, Do gentlemen expect that 
 their friends are to be retained in office against the 
 will of the nation? Are they so unreasonable as to 
 expect what the circumstances and the necessity of the 
 
380 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 case forbid ? What our expectations were is not the 
 question now ; but what were your pledges and prom 
 ises before the people. On a previous occasion, the 
 distinguished senator from Kentucky made a similar 
 remark : <-An ungracious task, but the nation de 
 mands it! Sir, this demand of the nation, this 
 plea of STATE NECESSITY, let me tell gentlemen, 
 is as old as the history of wrong and oppression. It 
 has been the standing plea, the never-failing resort of 
 despotism. 
 
 " The great Julius found it a convenient plea when 
 he restored the dignity of the Roman Senate, but de 
 stroyed its independence. It gave countenance to and 
 justified all the atrocities of the Inquisition in Spain. 
 It forced out the stifled groans that issued from the 
 Black Hole of Calcutta. It was written in tears upon 
 the Bridge of Sighs in Venice, and pointed to those 
 dark recesses upon whose gloomy thresholds there w r as 
 never seen a returning footprint. 
 
 " It was the plea of the austere and ambitious Straf- 
 ford, in the days of Charles I. It filled the Bastile of 
 France, and lent its sanction to the terrible atrocities 
 perpetrated there. It was this plea that snatched the 
 mild, eloquent, and patriotic Camille Desmoulins from 
 his young and beautiful wife, and hurried him to the 
 guillotine with thousands of others equally unoffending 
 and innocent. It was upon this plea that the greatest 
 of generals, if not men, you cannot mistake me, 
 I mean him, the presence of whose very ashes within 
 the last few months sufficed to stir the hearts of a 
 continent, it was upon this plea that he abjured 
 the noble wife who had thrown light and gladness 
 around his humbler days, and, by her own lofty ener 
 gies and high intellect, had encouraged his aspira- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 381 
 
 tions. It was upon this plea that he committed that 
 worst and most fatal act of his eventful life. Upon 
 this, too, he drew around his person the imperial pur 
 ple. It has in all times, and in every age, been the 
 foe of liberty and the indispensable stay of usurpa 
 tion. 
 
 " Where were the chains of despotism ever thrown 
 around the freedom of speech and of the press but 
 on this plea of STATE NECESSITY ? Let the spirit of 
 Charles X. and of his ministers answer. 
 
 " It is cold, selfish, heartless, and has always been 
 regardless of age, sex, condition, services, or any of 
 the incidents of life that appeal to patriotism or hu 
 manity. Wherever its authority has been acknowl 
 edged, it has assailed men who stood by their country 
 when she needed strong arms and bold hearts, and has 
 assailed them when, maimed and disabled in her ser 
 vice, they could no longer brandish a weapon in her 
 defence. It has afflicted the feeble and dependent 
 wife for the imaginary faults of the husband. It 
 has stricken down Innocence in its beauty, Youth in 
 its freshness, Manhood in its vigor, and Age in its fee 
 bleness and decrepitude. Whatever other plea or apol 
 ogy may be set up for the sweeping, ruthless exercise 
 of this civil guillotine at the present day, in the name 
 of LIBERTY let us be spared this fearful one of STATE 
 NECESSITY, in this early age of the Republic, upon the 
 floor of the American Senate, in the face of a people 
 yet free ! " 
 
 In June, 1842, he signified his purpose of retiring 
 from the Senate. 
 
 It was now more than sixteen years since the author 
 of this sketch had been accustomed to meet Frank 
 Pierce (that familiar name, which the nation is adopt- 
 
382 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 ing as one of its household words) in habits of daily 
 intercourse. Our modes of life had since been as dif 
 ferent as could well be imagined ; our culture and la 
 bor were entirely unlike ; there was hardly a single 
 object or aspiration in common between us. Still we 
 had occasionally met, and always on the old ground of 
 friendly confidence. There were sympathies that had 
 not been suffered to die out. Had we lived more con 
 stantly together, it is not impossible that the relation 
 might have been changed by the various accidents and 
 attritions of life ; but having no mutual events, and 
 few mutual interests, the tie of early friendship re 
 mained the same as when we parted. The modifica 
 tions which I saw in his character were those of growth 
 and development ; new qualities came out, or displayed 
 themselves more prominently, but always in harmony 
 with those heretofore known. Always I was sensible 
 of progress in him; a characteristic as, I believe, 
 has been said in the foregoing pages more perceptible 
 in Franklin Pierce than in any other person with whom 
 I have been acquainted. He widened, deepened, rose 
 to a higher point, and thus ever made himself equal to 
 the ever-heightening occasion. This peculiarity of in 
 tellectual growth, continued beyond the ordinary pe 
 riod, has its analogy in his physical constitution it 
 being a fact that he continued to grow in stature be 
 tween his twenty-first and twenty-fifth years. 
 
 He had not met with that misfortune, which, it is 
 to be feared, befalls many men who throw their ardor 
 into politics. The pursuit had taken nothing from 
 the frankness of his nature ; now, as ever, he used di 
 rect means to gain honorable ends ; and his subtlety 
 for, after all, his heart and purpose were not such 
 as he that runs may read had the depth of wisdom, 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 383 
 
 and never any quality of cunning. In great part, this 
 undeteriorated manhood was due to his original nobil 
 ity of nature. Yet it may not be unjust to attribute 
 it, in some degree, to the singular good fortune of his 
 life. He had never, in all his career, found it neces 
 sary to stoop. Office had sought him ; he had not 
 begged it, nqr manoeuvred for it, nor crept towards it 
 arts which too frequently bring a man, morally 
 bowed and degraded, to a position which should be 
 one of dignity, but in which he will vainly essay to 
 stand upright. 
 
 In our earlier meetings, after Pierce had begun to 
 come forward in public life, I could discern that his 
 ambition was aroused. He felt a young man s enjoy 
 ment of success, so early and so distinguished. But 
 as years went on, such motives seemed to be less in 
 fluential with him. He was cured of ambition, as, one 
 after another, its objects came to him unsought. His 
 domestic position, likewise, had contributed to direct 
 his tastes and wishes towards the pursuits of private 
 life. In 1834 he had married Jane Means, a daugh 
 ter of the Rev. Dr. Appleton, a former president of 
 Bowdoin College. Three sons, the first of whom died 
 in early infancy, were born to him ; and, having hith 
 erto been kept poor by his public service, he no doubt 
 became sensible of the expediency of making some 
 provision for the future. Such, it may be presumed, 
 were the considerations that induced his resignation 
 of the senatorship, greatly to the regret of all parties. 
 The senators gathered around him, as he was about to 
 quit the chamber; political opponents took leave of 
 him as of a personal friend ; and no departing mem 
 ber has ever retired from that dignified body amid 
 warmer wishes for his happiness than those that at 
 tended Franklin Pierce. 
 
384 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 His father had died three years before, in 1839, at 
 the mansion which he built, after the original log- 
 cabin grew too narrow for his rising family and for 
 tunes. The mansion was spacious, as the liberal hos 
 pitality of the occupant required, and stood on a little 
 eminence, surrounded by verdure and abundance, and 
 a happy population, where, half a century before, the 
 revolutionary soldier had come alone into the wilder 
 ness, and levelled the primeval forest trees. After 
 being spared to behold the distinction of his son, he 
 departed this life at the age of eighty -one years, in 
 perfect peace, and, until within a few hours of his 
 death, in the full possession of his intellectual powers. 
 His last act was one of charity to a poor neighbor a 
 fitting close to a life that had abounded in such deeds. 
 Governor Pierce was a man of admirable qualities 
 brave, active, public - spirited, endowed with natural 
 authority, courteous yet simple in his manners ; and 
 in his son we may perceive these same attributes, 
 modified and softened by a finer texture of character, 
 illuminated by higher intellectual culture, and polished 
 by a larger intercourse with the world, but as substan 
 tial and sterling as in the good old patriot. 
 
 Franklin Pierce had removed from Hillsborough in 
 1838, and taken up his residence at Concord, the capi 
 tal of New Hampshire. On this occasion, the citizens 
 of his native town invited him to a public dinner, in 
 token of their affection and respect. In accordance 
 with his usual taste, he gratefully accepted the kindly 
 sentiment, but declined the public demonstration of it. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 385 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HIS SUCCESS AT THE BAR. 
 
 FKANKLIN PIERCE S earliest effort at the bar, as we 
 have already observed, was an unsuccessful one ; but 
 instead of discouraging him, the failure had only 
 served to awaken the consciousness of latent power, 
 and the resolution to bring it out. Since those days, 
 he had indeed gained reputation as a lawyer. So 
 much, however, was the tenor of his legal life broken 
 up by the months of public service subtracted from 
 each year, and such was the inevitable tendency of 
 his thoughts towards political subjects, that he could 
 but very partially avail himself of the opportunities of 
 professional advancement. But on retiring from the 
 Senate, he appears to have started immediately into 
 full practice. Though the people of New Hampshire 
 already knew him well, yet his brilliant achievements 
 as an advocate brought him more into their view, and 
 into closer relations with them, than he had ever be 
 fore been. He now met his countrymen, as repre 
 sented in the jury box, face to face, and made then* 
 feel what manner of man he was. Their sentiment 
 towards him soon grew to be nothing short of enthu 
 siasm ; love, pride, the sense of brotherhood, affec 
 tionate sympathy, and perfect trust, all mingled in it. 
 It was the influence of a great heart pervading the 
 general heart, and throbbing with it in the same pulsa 
 tion. 
 
 It has never been the writer s good fortune to listen 
 to one of Franklin Pierce s public speeches, whether 
 at the bar or elsewhere ; nor, by diligent inquiry, has 
 
 VOL. xn. 25 
 
386 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 he been able to gain a very definite idea of the mode 
 in which he produces his effects. To me, therefore, 
 his forensic displays are in the same category with 
 those of Patrick Henry, or any other orator whose 
 tongue, beyond the memory of man, has mouldered 
 into dust. His power results, no doubt, in great meas 
 ure, from the earnestness with which he imbues him 
 self with the conception of his client s cause ; inso 
 much that he makes it entirely his own, and, never 
 undertaking a case which he believes to be unjust, 
 contends with his whole heart and conscience, as well 
 as intellectual force, for victory. His labor in the 
 preparation of his cases is said to be unremitting; 
 and he throws himself with such energy into a trial of 
 importance as wholly to exhaust his strength. 
 
 Few lawyers, probably, have been interested in a 
 wider variety of business than he ; its scope compre 
 hends the great causes where immense pecuniary in 
 terests are concerned from which, however, he is 
 always ready to turn aside, to defend the humble 
 rights of the poor man, or give his protection to one 
 unjustly accused. As one of my correspondents ob 
 serves, " When an applicant has interested him by a 
 recital of oppression, fraud, or wrong, General Pierce 
 never investigates the man s estate before engaging in 
 his business ; neither does he calculate whose path he 
 may cross. I have been privy to several instances of 
 the noblest independence on his part, in pursuing, to 
 the disrepute of those who stood well in the com 
 munity, the weal of an obscure client with a good 
 cause." 
 
 In the practice of the law, as Pierce pursued it, in 
 one or another of the court houses of New Hampshire, 
 the rumor of each successive struggle and success re- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 387 
 
 sounded over the rugged hills, and perished without a 
 record. Those mighty efforts, into which he put all 
 his strength, before a county court, and addressing a 
 jury of yeomen, have necessarily been, as regards the 
 evanescent memory of any particular trial, like the elo 
 quence that is sometimes poured out in a dream. In 
 other spheres of action, with no greater expenditure 
 of mental energy, words have been spoken that endure 
 from age to age deeds done that harden into history. 
 But this, perhaps the most earnest portion of Franklin 
 Pierce s life, has left few materials from which it can 
 be written. There is before me only one report of a 
 case in which he was engaged the defence of the 
 Wentworths, at a preliminary examination, on a 
 charge of murder. His speech occupied four hours in 
 the delivery, and handles a confused medley of facts 
 with masterly skill, bringing them to bear one upon 
 another, and making the entire mass, as it were, trans 
 parent, so that the truth may be seen through it. The 
 whole hangs together too closely to permit the quota 
 tion of passages. 
 
 The writer has been favored with communications 
 from two individuals, who have enjoyed the best of 
 opportunities to become acquainted with General 
 Pierce s character as a lawyer. The following is the 
 graceful and generous tribute of a gentleman, who, of 
 late, more frequently than any other, has been opposed 
 to him at the bar : 
 
 " General Pierce cannot be said to have commenced 
 his career at the bar, in earnest, until after his resig 
 nation of the office of senator, in 1842. And it is a 
 convincing proof of his eminent powers that he at once 
 placed himself in the very first rank at a bar so dis 
 tinguished for ability as that of New Hampshire. It 
 
388 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 is confessed by all, who have the means of knowledge 
 and judgment on this subject, that in no state of the 
 Union are causes tried with more industry of prepara 
 tion, skill, perseverance, energy, or vehement effort to 
 succeed. 
 
 " During much of this time, rny practice in our 
 courts was suspended ; and it is only within three or 
 four years that I have had opportunities of intimately 
 knowing his powers as an advocate, by being associ 
 ated with him at the bar ; and, most of all, of appreci 
 ating and feeling that power, by being opposed to him 
 in the trial of causes before juries. Far more than 
 any other man, whom it has been my fortune to meet, 
 he makes himself felt by one who tries a case against 
 him. From the first, he impresses on his opponent a 
 consciousness of the necessity of a deadly struggle, not 
 only in order to win the victory, but to avoid defeat. 
 
 " His vigilance and perseverance, omitting nothing 
 in the preparation and introduction of testimony, even 
 to the minutest details, which can be useful to his cli 
 ents ; his watchful attention, seizing on every weak 
 point in the opposite case; his quickness and readi 
 ness ; his sound and excellent judgment ; his keen in- 
 sight into character and motives, his almost intuitive 
 knowledge of men ; his ingenious and powerful cross- 
 examinations ; his adroitness in turning aside trou 
 blesome testimony, and availing himself of every 
 favorable point ; his quick sense of the ridiculous ; 
 his pathetic appeals to the feelings ; his sustained elo 
 quence, and remarkably energetic declamation, all 
 mark him for a 4 leader. 
 
 " From the beginning to the end of the trial of a 
 case, nothing with him is neglected, which can by pos 
 sibility honorably conduce to success. His manner is 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 389 
 
 always respectful and deferential to the court, capti 
 vating to the jury, and calculated to conciliate the 
 good will even of those who would be otherwise in 
 different spectators. In short, he plays the part of a 
 successful actor ; successful, because he always identi 
 fies himself with his part, and in him it is not acting. 
 
 " Perhaps, as would be expected by those who know 
 his generosity of heart, and his scorn of everything 
 like oppression or extortion, he is most powerful in his 
 indignant denunciations of fraud or injustice, and his 
 addresses to the feelings in behalf of the poor and 
 lowly, and the sufferers under wrong. I remember to 
 have heard of his extraordinary power on one occasion, 
 when a person, who had offered to procure arrears of 
 a pension for revolutionary services, had appropriated 
 to himself a most unreasonable share of the money. 
 General Pierce spoke of the frequency of these in 
 stances, and, before the numerous audience, offered 
 his aid, freely and gratuitously, to redress the wrongs 
 of any widow or representative of a revolutionary offi 
 cer or soldier who had been made the subject of such 
 extortion. 
 
 " The reply of the poor man, in the anecdote related 
 by Lord Campbell of Harry Erskine, would be appli 
 cable, as exhibiting a feeling kindred to that with 
 which General Pierce is regarded : c There s no a puir 
 man in a Scotland need to want a friend or fear an 
 enemy, sae lang as Harry Erskine lives ! 
 
 We next give his aspect as seen from the bench, in 
 the following carefully prepared and discriminating 
 article, from the chief justice of New Hampshire : 
 
 " In attempting to estimate the character and quali 
 fications of Mr. Pierce as a lawyer and an advocate, 
 we undertake a delicate, but, at the same time, an 
 
390 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 agreeable task. The profession of the law, practised 
 by men of liberal and enlightened minds, and un 
 stained by the sordidness which more or less affects 
 all human pursuits, invariably confers honor upon and 
 is honored by its followers. An integrity above suspi 
 cion, an eloquence alike vigorous and persuasive, and 
 an intuitive sagacity have earned for Mr. Pierce the 
 reputation that always follows them. 
 
 " The last case of paramount importance in which 
 he was engaged as counsel was that of Morrison v. 
 Philbrick, tried in the month of February, 1852, at 
 the Court of Common Pleas for the county of Bel- 
 knap. There was on both sides an array of eminent 
 professional talent, Messrs. Pierce, Bell, and Bellows 
 appearing for the defendant, and Messrs. Atherton 
 and Whipple for the plaintiff. The case was one of 
 almost unequalled interest to the public generally, and 
 to the inhabitants of the country lying around the 
 lower part of Lake Winnipiseogee. A company, com 
 monly called the Lake Company, had become the own 
 ers of many of the outlets of the streams supplying 
 the lake, and by means of their works at such places, 
 and at Union Bridge, a few miles below, were enabled 
 to keep back the waters of the lake, and to use them 
 as occasion should require, to supply the mills at Low 
 ell. The plaintiff alleged that the dam at Union 
 Bridge had caused the water to rise higher than was 
 done by the dam that existed in the year 1828, and 
 that he was essentially injured thereby. The case had 
 been on trial nearly seven weeks. Evidence equivalent 
 to the testimony of one hundred and eighty witnesses 
 had been laid before the jury. Upon this immense 
 mass of facts, involving a great number of issues, Mr. 
 Pierce was to meet his most formidable opponent 
 
LIFE OF F RAJS KLIN PIERCE. 391 
 
 in the state, Mr. Atherton. In that gentleman are 
 united many of the rarest qualifications of an advo 
 cate. Of inimitable self-possession; with a coolness 
 and clearness of intellect which no sudden emergen 
 cies can disturb ; with that confidence in his resources 
 which nothing but native strength, aided by the most 
 thorough training, can bestow ; with a felicity and fer 
 tility of illustration, the result alike of an exquisite 
 natural taste and a cultivation of those studies which 
 refine while they strengthen the mind for forensic con 
 tests, Mr. Atherton s argument was listened to with 
 an earnestness and interest which showed the convic 
 tion of his audience that no ordinary man was address 
 ing them. 
 
 " No one who witnessed that memorable trial will 
 soon forget the argument of Mr. Pierce on that occa 
 sion. He was the counsel for the defendant, and was 
 therefore to precede Mr. Atherton. He was to ana 
 lyze and unfold to the jury this vast body of evidence 
 under the watchful eyes of an opponent at once enter 
 prising and cautious, and before whom it was neces 
 sary to be both bold and skilful. He was to place 
 himself in the position of the jury, to see the evidence 
 as they would be likely to regard it, to understand the 
 character of their minds, and what views would be the 
 most likely to impress them. He was not only to be 
 familiar with his own case, but to anticipate that of 
 his opponent, and answer as he best might the argu 
 ment of the counsel. And most admirably did he dis 
 charge the duties he had assumed on behalf of his 
 client. Eminently graceful and attractive in his man 
 ner at all times, his demeanor was then precisely what 
 it should have been, showing a manly confidence in 
 himself and his case, and a courteous deference to the 
 
392 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 tribunal he was addressing. His erect and manly 
 figure, his easy and unembarrassed air, bespoke the 
 favorable attention of his audience. His earnest de 
 votion to his cause, his deep emotion, evidently sup 
 pressed, but for that very reason all the more interest 
 ing, diffused themselves like electricity through his 
 hearers. And when, as often happened, in the course 
 of his argument, his clear and musical accents fell 
 upon the ear in eloquent and pointed sentences, grati 
 fying the taste while they satisfied the reason, no man 
 could avoid turning to his neighbor, and expressing 
 by his looks that pleasure which the very depth of his 
 interest forbade him to express in words. And when 
 the long trial was over, every one remembered with 
 satisfaction that these two distinguished gentlemen 
 had met each other during a most exciting and ex 
 hausting trial of seven weeks, and that no unkind 
 words, or captious passages, had occurred between 
 them to diminish their mutual respect, or that in which 
 they were held by thair fellow-citizens. 
 
 " In the above remarks, we have indicated a few of 
 Mr. Pierce s characteristics as an advocate ; but he 
 possesses other endowments, to which we have not al 
 luded. In the first place, as he is a perfectly fearless 
 man, so he is a perfectly fearless advocate ; and true 
 courage is as necessary to the civilian as to the sol 
 dier, and smiles and frowns Mr. Pierce disregards 
 alike in the undaunted discharge of his duty. He 
 never fears to uphold his client, however unpopular 
 his cause may seem to be for the moment. It is this 
 courage which kindles his eloquence, inspires his con 
 duct, and gives direction and firmness to his skill. 
 This it is which impels him onward, at all risks, to lay 
 bare every mystery of iniquity which he believes is 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 393 
 
 threatening his case. He does not ask himself whether 
 his opponent be not a man of wealth and influence, of 
 whom it might be for his interest to speak with care 
 and circumspection ; but he devotes himself with a 
 ready zeal to his cause, careless of aught but how 
 he may best discharge his duty. His argumentative 
 powers are of the highest order. He never takes be 
 fore the court a position which he believes untenable. 
 He has a quick and sure perception of his points, and 
 the power of enforcing them by apt and pertinent 
 illustrations. He sees the relative importance and 
 weight of different views, and can assign to each its 
 proper place, and brings forward the main body of his 
 reasoning in prominent relief, without distracting the 
 Attention by unimportant particulars. And above all, 
 he has the good sense, so rarely shown by many, to 
 stop when he has said all that is necessary for the elu 
 cidation of his subject. With a proper confidence in 
 his own perceptions, he states his views so pertinently 
 and in such precise and logical terms, that they can 
 not but be felt and appreciated. He never mystifies ; 
 he never attempts to pervert words from their proper 
 and legitimate meaning, to answer a temporary pur 
 pose. 
 
 " His demeanor at the bar may be pronounced fault 
 less. His courtesy in the court house, like his cour 
 tesy elsewhere, is that which springs from self-respect 
 and from a kindly heart, disposing its owner to say 
 and do kindly things. But he would be a courageous 
 man who, presuming upon the affability of Mr. Pierce s 
 manner, would venture a second time to attack him ; 
 for he would long remember the rebuke that followed 
 his first attack. There is a ready repartee and a quick 
 and cutting sarcasm in his manner when he chooses to 
 
394 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 display it, which it requires a man of considerable 
 nerve to withstand. He is peculiarly happy in the 
 examination of witnesses that art in which so few 
 excel. He never browbeats, he never attempts to ter 
 rify. He is never rude or discourteous. But the 
 equivocating witness soon discovers that his falsehood 
 is hunted out of its recesses with an unsparing deter 
 mination. If he is dogged and surly, he is met by a 
 spirit as resolute as his own. If he is smooth and 
 plausible, the veil is lifted from him by a firm but 
 graceful hand. If he is pompous and vain, no ridi 
 cule was ever more perfect than that to which he lis 
 tens with astonished and mortified ears. 
 
 " The eloquence of Mr. Pierce is of a character not 
 to be easily forgotten. He understands men, their 
 passions and their feelings. He knows the way to 
 their hearts, and can make them vibrate to his touch. 
 His language always attracts the hearer. A graceful 
 and manly carriage, bespeaking him at once the gen 
 tleman and the true man ; a manner warmed by the 
 ardent glow of an earnest belief ; an enunciation ring 
 ing, distinct, and impressive beyond that of most men ; 
 a command of brilliant and expressive language ; and 
 an accurate taste, together with a sagacious and in 
 stinctive insight into the points of his case, are the 
 secrets of his success. It is thus that audiences are 
 moved and truth ascertained ; and he will ever be the 
 most successful advocate who can approach the nearest 
 to this lofty and difficult position. 
 
 " Mr. Pierce s views as a constitutional lawyer are 
 such as have been advocated by the ablest minds of 
 America. They are those which, taking their rise in 
 the heroic age of the country, were transmitted to him 
 by a noble father, worthy of the times in which he lived, 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 395 
 
 worthy of that Revolution which he assisted in bringing 
 about. He believes that the Constitution was made, 
 not to be subverted, but to be sacredly preserved ; that 
 a republic is perfectly consistent with the conservation 
 of law, of rational submission to right authority, and 
 of true self-government. Equally removed from that 
 malignant hostility to order which characterizes the 
 demagogues who are eager to rise upon the ruins even 
 of freedom, and from that barren and bigoted narrow 
 ness which would oppose all rational freedom of opin 
 ion, he is, in its loftiest and most ennobling sense, a 
 friend of that Union, without which the honored name 
 of American citizen would become a by-word among 
 the nations. And if, as we fervently pray and confi 
 dently expect he will, Mr. Pierce shall display before 
 the great tribunals of the nation the courage, the con 
 sistency, the sagacity, and the sense of honor, which 
 have already secured for him so many thousands of 
 devoted friends, and which have signalized both his 
 private and professional life, his administration will 
 long be held in grateful remembrance as one of which 
 the sense of right and the sagacity to perceive it, a 
 clear insight into the true destinies of the country and 
 a determination to uphold them at whatever sacrifice, 
 were the predominant characteristics." 
 
 It may appear singular that Franklin Pierce has not 
 taken up his residence in some metropolis, where his 
 great forensic abilities would so readily find a more 
 conspicuous theatre, and a far richer remuneration 
 than heretofore. He himself, it is understood, has 
 sometimes contemplated a removal, and, two or three 
 years since, had almost determined on settling in Bal 
 timore. But his native state, where he is known so 
 well, and regarded with so much familiar affection, 
 
396 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 which he has served so faithfully, and which rewards 
 him so generously with its confidence, New Hampshire, 
 with its granite hills, must always be his home. He 
 will dwell there, except when public duty for a season 
 shall summon him away ; he will die there, and give 
 his dust to its soil. 
 
 It was at his option, in 1846, to accept the highest 
 legal position in the country, setting aside the bench, 
 and the one which undoubtedly would most have grati 
 fied his professional aspirations. President Polk, with 
 whom he had been associated on the most friendly 
 terms in Congress, now offered him the post of attor 
 ney general of the United States. " In tendering to 
 you this position in my cabinet," writes the President, 
 " I have been governed by the high estimate which I 
 place upon your character and eminent qualifications 
 to fill it." The letter, in whi^h this proposal is de 
 clined, shows so much of the writer s real self that we 
 quote a portion of it. 
 
 " Although the early years of my manhood were de 
 voted to public life, it was never really suited to my 
 taste. I longed, as I am sure you must often have 
 done, for the quiet and independence that belong only 
 to the private citizen ; and now, at forty, I feel that 
 desire stronger than ever. 
 
 " Coming so unexpectedly as this offer does, it would 
 be difficult, if not impossible, to arrange the business 
 of an extensive practice, between this and the first of 
 November, in a manner at all satisfactory to myself, 
 or to those who have committed their interests to my 
 care, and who rely on my services. Besides, you know 
 that Mrs. Pierce s health, while at Washington, was 
 very delicate. It is, I fear, even more so now ; and 
 the responsibilities which the proposed change would 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 397 
 
 necessarily impose upon her ought, probably, in them 
 selves, to constitute an insurmountable objection to 
 leaving our quiet home for a public station at Wash 
 
 ington. 
 
 " When I resigned my seat in the Senate in 1842, I 
 did it with the fixed purpose never again to be volun 
 tarily separated from my family for any considerable 
 length of time, except at the call of my country in 
 time of war ; and yet this consequence, for the reason 
 before stated, and on account of climate, would be very 
 likely to result from my acceptance. 
 
 " These are some of the considerations which have 
 influenced my decision. You will, I am sure, appre 
 ciate my motives. You will not believe that I have 
 weighed my personal convenience and ease against the 
 public interest, especially as the office is one which, if 
 not sought, would be readily accepted by gentlemen 
 who could bring to your aid attainments and qualifica 
 tions vastly superior to mine." 
 
 Previous to the offer of the attorney-generalship, the 
 appointment of United States Senator had been ten 
 dered to Pierce by Governor Steele, and declined. It 
 is unquestionable that, at this period, he hoped and ex 
 pected to spend a life of professional toil in a private 
 station, undistinguished except by the exercise of his 
 great talents in peaceful pursuits. But such was not 
 his destiny. The contingency to which he referred in 
 the above letter, as the sole exception to his purpose of 
 never being separated from his family, was now about 
 to occur. Nor did he fail to comport himself as not 
 only that intimation, but the whole tenor of his charac 
 ter, gave reason to anticipate. 
 
 During the years embraced in this chapter, be 
 tween 1842 and 1847, he had constantly taken an 
 
398 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 efficient interest in the politics of the state, but had 
 uniformly declined the honors which New Hampshire 
 was at all times ready to confer upon him. A dem 
 ocratic convention nominated him for governor, but 
 could not obtain his acquiescence. One of the occa 
 sions on which he most strenuously exerted himself 
 was in holding the democratic party loyal to its prin 
 ciples, in opposition to the course of John P. Hale. 
 This gentleman, then a representative in Congress, 
 had broken with his party on no less important a point 
 than the annexation of Texas. He has never since 
 acted with the Democracy, and has long been a leader 
 of the free soil party. 
 
 In 1844 died Frank Robert, son of Franklin Pierce, 
 aged four years, a little boy of rare beauty and prom 
 ise, and whose death was the greatest affliction that his 
 father has experienced. His only surviving child is a 
 son, now eleven years old. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE MEXICAN WAR. 
 
 WHEN Franklin Pierce declined the honorable offer 
 of the attorney-generalship of the United States, he 
 intimated that there might be one contingency in which 
 he would feel it his duty to give up the cherished pur 
 pose of spending the remainder of his life in a private 
 station. That exceptional case was brought about, in 
 1847, by the Mexican War. He showed his readiness 
 to redeem the pledge by enrolling himself as the ear 
 liest volunteer of a company raised in Concord, and 
 went through the regular drill, with his fellow-soldiers, 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 399 
 
 as a private in the ranks. On the passage of the bill 
 for the increase of the army, he received the appoint 
 ment of colonel of the Ninth Regiment, which was the 
 quota of New England towards the ten that were to be 
 raised. And shortly afterwards, in March, 1847, 
 he was commissioned as brigadier-general in the army i 
 his brigade consisting of regiments from the extreme 
 north, the extreme west, and the extreme south of the 
 Union. 
 
 There is nothing in any other country similar to 
 what we see in our own, when the blast of the trumpet 
 at once converts men of peaceful pursuits into warriors. 
 Every war in which America has been engaged has 
 done this ; the valor that wins our battles is not the 
 trained hardihood of veterans, but a native and spon 
 taneous fire ; and there is surely a chivalrous beauty 
 in the devotion of the citizen soldier to his country s 
 cause, which the man who makes arms his profession, 
 and is but doing his regular business on the field of 
 battle, cannot pretend to rival. Taking the Mexican 
 War as a specimen, this peculiar composition of an 
 American army, as well in respect to its officers as its 
 private soldiers, seems to create a spirit of romantic 
 adventure which more than supplies the place of disci 
 plined courage. 
 
 The author saw General Pierce in Boston, on the 
 eve of his departure for Vera Cruz. He had been in 
 tensely occupied, since his appointment, in effecting 
 the arrangements necessary on leaving his affairs, as 
 well as by the preparations, military and personal, de 
 manded by the expedition. The transports were wait 
 ing at Newport to receive the troops. He was now in 
 the midst of bustle, with some of the officers of his 
 command about him, mingled with the friends whom 
 
400 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 he was to leave behind. The severest point of the 
 crisis was over, for he had already bidden his family 
 farewell. His spirits appeared to have risen with the 
 occasion. He was evidently in his element ; nor, to 
 say the truth, dangerous as was the path before him, 
 could it be regretted that his life was now to have the 
 opportunity of that species of success which in his 
 youth, at least he had considered the best worth 
 struggling for. He looked so fit to be a soldier, that 
 it was impossible to doubt not merely his good con 
 duct, which was as certain before the event as after 
 wards, but his good fortune in the field, and his 
 fortunate return. 
 
 He sailed from Newport on the 27th of May, in 
 the bark Kepler, having on board three companies of 
 the Ninth Regiment of Infantry, together with Colo 
 nel Hansom, its commander, and the officers belong 
 ing to the detachment. The passage was long and 
 tedious, with protracted calms, and so smooth a sea 
 that a sail boat might have performed the voyage in 
 safety. The Kepler arrived at Yera Cruz in precisely 
 a month after her departure from the United States, 
 without speaking a single vessel from the south dur 
 ing her passage, and, of course, receiving no intelli 
 gence as to the position and state of the army which 
 these reinforcements were to join. 
 
 From a journal kept by General Pierce, and in 
 tended only fo* the perusal of his family and friends, 
 we present some extracts. They are mere hasty jot 
 tings-down in camp, and at the intervals of weary 
 marches, but will doubtless bring the reader closer to 
 the man than any narrative which we could substi 
 tute. 1 
 
 1 In this reprint it has been thought expedient to omit the passages 
 from General Pierce s journal. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 401 
 
 General Pierce s journal here terminates. In its 
 clear and simple narrative, the reader cannot fail to 
 see although it was written with no purpose of dis 
 playing them the native qualities of a born soldier, 
 together with the sagacity of an experienced one. He 
 had proved himself, moreover, physically apt for war, 
 by his easy endurance of the fatigues of the march ; 
 every step of which (as was the case with few other 
 officers) was performed either on horseback or on foot. 
 Nature, indeed, has endowed him with a rare elasticity 
 both of mind and body ; he springs up from pressure 
 like a well-tempered sword. After the severest toil, a 
 single night s rest does as much for him, in the way 
 of refreshment, as a week could do for most other 
 men. 
 
 His conduct on this adventurous march received the 
 high encomiums of military men, and was honored 
 with the commendation of the great soldier who is 
 now his rival in the presidential contest. He reached 
 the main army at Puebla on the 7th of August, with 
 twenty-four hundred men, in fine order, and without 
 the loss of a single wagon. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HIS SERVICES IN THE VALLEY OF MEXICO. 
 
 GENERAL SCOTT, who was at Puebla with the main 
 army, awaiting this reinforcement, began his march 
 towards the city of Mexico on the day after General 
 Pierce s arrival. The battle of Contreras was fought 
 on the 19th of August. 
 
 VOL. XII. 20 
 
402 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 The enemy s force consisted of about seven thou 
 sand men, posted in a strongly-intrenched cam]), un 
 der General Valencia, one of the bravest and ablest 
 of the Mexican commanders. The object of the com 
 manding general appears to have been to cut off the 
 communications of these detached troops with Santa 
 Anna s main army, and thus to have them entirely at 
 his mercy. For this purpose a portion of the Amer 
 ican forces were ordered to move against Valencia s 
 left flank, and, by occupying strong positions in the 
 villages and on the roads towards the city, to prevent 
 reinforcements from reaching him. In the mean time, 
 to draw the enemy s attention from this movement, a 
 vigorous onset was made upon his front ; and as the 
 operations upon his flank were not immediately and 
 fully carried out according to the plan, this front 
 demonstration assumed the character of a fierce and 
 desperate attack, upon which the fortunes of the day 
 much depended. General Pierce s brigade formed a 
 part of the force engaged in this latter movement, in 
 Which four thousand newly-recruited men, unable to 
 bring their artillery to bear, contended against seven 
 thousand disciplined soldiers, protected by intrench- 
 ments, and showering round shot and shells against 
 the assailing troops. 
 
 The ground in front was of the rudest and roughest 
 character. The troops made their way with difficulty 
 over a broken tract called the Pedregal, bristling with 
 sharp points of rocks, and which is represented as 
 having been the crater of a now exhausted and ex 
 tinct volcano. The enemy had thrown out skirmish 
 ers, who were posted in great force among the crevices 
 and inequalities of this broken ground, and vigorously 
 resisted the American advance ; while the artillery of 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 403 
 
 the intrenched camp played upon our troops, and shat 
 tered the very rocks over which they were to pass. 
 
 General Pierce s immediate command had never be 
 fore been under such a fire of artillery. The enemy s 
 range was a little too high, or the havoc in our ranks 
 must have been dreadful. In the midst of this fire 9 
 General Pierce, being the only officer mounted in the 
 brigade, leaped his horse upon an abrupt eminence, 
 and addressed the colonels and captains of the regi 
 ments, as they passed, in a few stirring words re 
 minding them of the honor of their country, of the 
 victory their steady valor would contribute to achieve. 
 Pressing forward to the head of the column, he had 
 nearly reached the practicable ground that lay beyond, 
 when his horse slipped among the rocks, thrust his 
 foot into a crevice, and fell, breaking his own leg, and 
 crushing his rider heavily beneath him. 
 
 Pierce s mounted orderly soon came to his assist 
 ance. The general was stunned, and almost insensible. 
 When partially recovered, he found himself suffering 
 from severe bruises, and especially from a sprain of the 
 left knee, which was undermost when the horse came 
 down. The orderly assisted him to reach the shelter 
 of a projecting rock ; and as they made their way 
 thither, a shell fell close beside them and exploded, 
 covering them with earth. " That was a lucky miss," 
 said Pierce calmly. Leaving him in such shelter as 
 the rock afforded, the orderly went in search of aid, 
 and was fortunate to meet with Dr. Ritchie, of Vir 
 ginia, who was attached to Pierce s brigade, and was 
 following in close proximity to the advancing column. 
 The doctor administered to him as well as the circum 
 stances would admit. Immediately on recovering his 
 full consciousness, General Pierce had become anxious 
 
404 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 to rejoin his troops ; and now, in opposition to Dr. 
 Ritchie s advice and remonstrances, he determined to 
 proceed to the front. 
 
 With pain and difficulty, and leaning on his order 
 ly s arm, he reached the battery commanded by Cap 
 tain McGruder, where he found the horse of Lieuten 
 ant Johnson, who had just before received a mortal 
 wound. In compliance with his wishes, he was as 
 sisted into the saddle ; and, in answer to a remark 
 that he would be unable to keep his seat, "Then," said 
 the general, " you must tie me on." Whether his pre 
 caution was actually taken is a point on which author 
 ities differ ; but at all events, with injuries so severe 
 as would have sent almost any other man to the hos 
 pital, he rode forward into the battle. 
 
 The contest was kept up until nightfall, without 
 forcing Valencia s intrenchment. General Pierce re 
 mained in the saddle until eleven o clock at night. 
 Finding himself, at nine o clock, the senior officer in 
 the field, he, in that capacity, withdrew the troops 
 from their advanced position, and concentrated them 
 at the point where they were to pass the night. At 
 eleven, beneath a torrent of rain, destitute of a tent or 
 other protection, and without food or refreshment, he 
 lay down on an ammunition wagon, but was prevented 
 by the pain of his injuries, especially that of his 
 wounded knee, from finding any repose. At one o clock 
 came orders from General Scott to put the brigade 
 into a new position, in front of the enemy s works, pre 
 paratory to taking part in the contemplated operations 
 of the next morning. During the night, the troops 
 appointed for that service, under Riley, Shields, Smith, 
 and Cadwallader, had occupied the villages and roads 
 between Valencia s position and the city ; so that, with 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 405 
 
 daylight, the commanding general s scheme of the bat 
 tle was ready to be carried out, as it had originally ex 
 isted in his mind. 
 
 At daylight, accordingly, Valencia s intrenched camp 
 was assaulted. General Pierce was soon in the saddle 
 at the head of his brigade, which retained its position 
 in front, thus serving to attract the enemy s attention, 
 and divert him from the true point of attack. The 
 camp was stormed in the rear by the American troops, 
 led on by Riley, Cadwallader, and Dimmick ; and in 
 the short space of seventeen minutes it had fallen into 
 the hands of the assailants, together with a multitude 
 of prisoners. The remnant of the routed enemy fled 
 towards Churubusco. As Pierce led his brigade in 
 pursuit, crossing the battle-field, and passing through 
 the works that had just been stormed, he found the 
 road and adjacent fields everywhere strewn with the 
 dead and dying. The pursuit was continued until one 
 o clock, when the foremost of the Americans arrived 
 in front of the strong Mexican positions at Churubusco 
 and San Antonio, where Santa Anna s army had been 
 compelled to make a stand, and where the great con 
 flict of the day commenced. 
 
 General Santa Anna entertained the design of with 
 drawing his forces towards the city. In order to in 
 tercept this movement, Pierce s brigade, with other 
 troops, was ordered to pursue a route by which the en 
 emy could be attacked in the rear. Colonel Noah E. 
 Smith (a patriotic American, long resident in Mexico, 
 whose local and topographical knowledge proved emi 
 nently serviceable) had offered to point out the road, 
 and was sent to summon General Pierce to the pres 
 ence of the commander-in-chief . When he met Pierce, 
 near Coyacan, at the head of his brigade, the heavy fire 
 
406 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 of the batteries had commenced. " He was exceed 
 ingly thin," writes Colonel Smith, " worn down by the 
 fatigue and pain of the day and night before, and then 
 evidently suffering severely. Still there was a glow in 
 his eye, as the cannon boomed, that showed within him 
 a spirit ready for the conflict." He rode up to Gen 
 eral Scott, who was at this time sitting on horseback 
 beneath a tree, near the church of Coyacan, issuing 
 orders to different individuals of his staff. Our ac 
 count of this interview is chiefly taken from the nar 
 rative of Colonel Smith, corroborated by other testi 
 mony. 
 
 The commander-in-chief had already heard of the 
 accident that befell Pierce the day before ; and as 
 the latter approached, General Scott could not but no 
 tice the marks of pain and physical exhaustion against 
 which only the sturdiest constancy of will could have 
 enabled him to bear up. " Pierce, my dear fellow," 
 said he, and that epithet of familiar kindness and 
 friendship, upon the battle-field, was the highest of 
 military commendation from such a man, " you are 
 badly injured; you are not fit to be in your saddle." 
 " Yes, general, I am," replied Pierce, " in a case like 
 this." " You cannot touch your foot to the stirrup," 
 said Scott. " One of them I can," answered Pierce. 
 The general looked again at Pierce s almost disabled 
 figure, and seemed 011 the point of taking his irrevo 
 cable resolution. "You are rash, General Pierce," 
 said he ; " we shall lose you, and we cannot spare you. 
 It is my duty to order you back to St. Augustine." 
 " For God s sake, general," exclaimed Pierce, " don t 
 say that ! This is the last great battle, and I must 
 lead my brigade ! " The commander-in-chief made no 
 further remonstrance, but gave the order for Pierce to 
 advance with his brigade. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 407 
 
 The way lay through thick standing corn, and over 
 marshy ground intersected with ditches, which were 
 filled, or partially so, with water. Over some of the 
 narrower of these Pierce leaped his horse. When the 
 brigade had advanced about a mile, however, it found 
 itself impeded by a ditch ten or twelve feet wide, and 
 six or eight feet deep. It being impossible to leap it, 
 General Pierce was lifted from his saddle, and in some 
 incomprehensible way, hurt as he was, contrived to 
 wade or scramble across this obstacle, leaving his horse 
 on the hither side. The troops were now under fire. 
 In the excitement of the battle he forgot his injury, 
 and hurried forward, leading the brigade, a distance 
 of two or three hundred yards. But the exhaustion 
 of his frame, and particularly the anguish of his knee, 
 made more intolerable by such free use of it, was 
 greater than any strength of nerve, or any degree of 
 mental energy, could struggle against. He fell, faint 
 and almost insensible, within full range of the enemy s 
 fire. It was proposed to bear him off the field ; but, 
 as some of his soldiers approached to lift him, he be 
 came aware of their purpose, and was partially revived 
 by his determination to resist it. " No," said he, with 
 all the strength he had left, u don t carry me off ! Let 
 me lie here ! " And there he lay, under the tremen 
 dous fire of Churubusco, until the enemy, in total rout, 
 was driven from the field. 
 
 Immediately after the victory, when the city of 
 Mexico lay at the mercy of the American commander, 
 and might have been entered that very night, Santa 
 Anna sent a flag of truce, proposing an armistice, with 
 a view to negotiations for peace. It cannot be con 
 sidered in any other light than as a very high and sig 
 nal compliment to his gallantry in the field that Gen- 
 
408 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 era! Pierce was appointed, by the Commander-in-chief, 
 one of the commissioners on our part, together with 
 General Quitman and General Persifer F. Smith, to 
 arrange the terms of this armistice. Pierce was una 
 ble to walk, or to mount his horse without assistance, 
 when intelligence of his appointment reached him. 
 He had not taken off his spurs, nor slept an hour, for 
 two nights ; but he immediately obeyed the summons, 
 was assisted into the saddle, and rode to Tacubaya, 
 where, at the house of the British consul-general, the 
 American and Mexican commissioners were assembled. 
 The conference began late in the afternoon, and con 
 tinued till four o clock the next morning, when the 
 articles were signed. Pierce then proceeded to the 
 quarters of General Worth, in the village of Tacubaya, 
 where he obtained an hour or two of repose. 
 
 The expectation of General Scott, that further blood 
 shed might be avoided by means of the armistice, 
 proved deceptive. Military operations, after a tem 
 porary interruption, were actively renewed ; and on 
 the 8th of September was fought the bloody battle of 
 Molino del Rey, one of the fiercest and most destruc 
 tive of the war. 
 
 In this conflict general Worth, with three thousand 
 troops, attacked and routed fourteen thousand Mex 
 icans, driving them under the protection of the Castle 
 of Chepultepec. Perceiving the obstinacy with which 
 the field was contested, the commander-in-chief dis 
 patched an order to General Pierce to advance to the 
 support of General Worth s division. He moved for 
 ward with rapidity ; and although the battle was won 
 just as he reached the field, he interposed his brigade 
 between Worth and the retreating enemy, and thus 
 drew upon himself the fire of Chepultepec. A shell 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 409 
 
 came streaming from the castle, and, bursting within 
 a few feet of him, startled his horse, which was near 
 plunging over an adjacent precipice. Continuing a 
 long time under fire, Pierce s brigade was engaged in 
 removing the wounded and the captured ammunition. 
 While thus occupied, he led a portion of his command 
 to repel the attacks of the enemy s skirmishers. 
 
 There remained but one other battle, that of Che- 
 pultepec, which was fought on the 13th of Septem 
 ber. On the preceding day (although the injuries 
 and the over-exertion resuming from previous marches 
 and battles had greatly enfeebled him), General Pierce 
 had acted with his brigade. In obedience to orders, 
 it had occupied the field of Molino del Rey. Contrary 
 to expectation, it was found that the enemy s force had 
 been withdrawn from this position. Pierce remained 
 in the field until noon, when, it being certain that the 
 anticipated attack would not take place before the fol 
 lowing day, he returned to the quarters of General 
 Worth, which were near at hand. There he became 
 extremely ill, and was unable to leave his bed for the 
 thirty-six hours next ensuing. In the mean time, the 
 Castle of Chepultepec was stormed by the troops un 
 der Generals Pillow and Quitman. Pierce s brigade 
 behaved itself gallantly, and suffered severely ; and 
 that accomplished officer, Colonel Hansom, leading the 
 Ninth Regiment to the attack, was shot through the 
 head, and fell, with many other brave men, in that 
 last battle of the war. 
 
 The American troops, under Quitman and Worth, 
 had established themselves within the limits of the 
 city, having possession of the gates of Belen and of San 
 Cosma, but, up till nightfall, had met with a vigorous 
 resistance from the Mexicans, led on by Santa Anna 
 
410 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 in person. They had still, apparently, a desperate 
 task before them. It was anticipated that, with the 
 next morning s light, our troops would be ordered to 
 storm the citadel, and the city of Mexico itself. When 
 this was told to Pierce, upon his sick-bed, he rose, and 
 attempted to dress himself ; but Captain Hardcastle, 
 who had brought the intelligence from Worth, pre 
 vailed upon him to remain in bed, and not to exhaust 
 his scanty strength until the imminence of the occa 
 sion should require his presence. Pierce acquiesced 
 for the time, but again arose, in the course of the 
 night, and made his way to the trenches, where he 
 reported himself to General Quitman, with whose di 
 vision was a part of his brigade. Quitman s share in 
 the anticipated assault, it was supposed, owing to the 
 position which his troops occupied, would be more per 
 ilous than that of Worth. 
 
 But the last great battle had been fought. In the 
 morning, it was discovered that the citadel had been 
 abandoned, and that Santa Anna had withdrawn his 
 army from the city. 
 
 There never was a more gallant body of officers than 
 those who came from civil life into the army on occa 
 sion of the Mexican War. All of them, from the rank 
 of general downward, appear to have been animated 
 by the spirit of young knights, in times of chivalry, 
 when fighting for their spurs. Hitherto known only 
 as peaceful citizens, they felt it incumbent on them, 
 by daring and desperate valor, to prove their fitness to 
 be intrusted with the guardianship of their country s 
 honor. The old and trained soldier, already distin 
 guished on former fields, was free to be discreet as 
 well as brave ; but these untried warriors were in a 
 different position, and therefore rushed on perils with 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 411 
 
 a recklessness that found its penalty on every battle 
 field not one of which was won without a grievous 
 sacrifice of the best blood of America. In this band 
 of gallant men, it is not too much to say, General 
 Pierce was as distinguished for what we must term his 
 temerity in personal exposure, as for the higher traits 
 of leadership, wherever there was an opportunity for 
 their display. 
 
 He had manifested, moreover, other and better qual 
 ities than these, and such as it affords his biographer 
 far greater pleasure to record. His tenderness of heart, 
 his sympathy, his brotherly or paternal care for his 
 men, had been displayed in a hundred instances, and 
 had gained him the enthusiastic affection of all who 
 served under his command. During the passage from 
 America, under the tropics, he would go down into 
 the stifling air of the hold, with a lemon, a cup of tea, 
 and, better and more efficacious than all, a kind word 
 for the sick. While encamped before Yera Cruz, he 
 gave up his own tent to a sick comrade, and went him 
 self to lodge in the pestilential city. On the march, 
 and even on the battle-field, he found occasion to ex 
 ercise those feelings of humanity which show most 
 beautifully there. And, in the hospitals of Mexico, 
 he went among the diseased and wounded soldiers, 
 cheering them with his voice and the magic of his 
 kindness, inquiring into their wants, and relieving 
 them to the utmost of his pecuniary means. There 
 was not a man of his brigade but loved him, and would 
 have followed him to death, or have sacrificed his own 
 life in his general s defence. 
 
 The officers of the old army, whose profession was 
 war, and who well knew what a soldier was and ought 
 to be, fully recognized his merit An instance of 
 
412 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 their honorable testimony in his behalf may fitly be 
 recorded here. It was after General Pierce had re 
 turned to the United States. At a dinner in the halls 
 of Montezuma, at which forty or f fty of the brave 
 men above alluded to were present, a young officer of 
 the New England Regiment was called on for a toast. 
 He made an address, in which he spoke with irrepres 
 sible enthusiasm of General Pierce, and begged to 
 propose his health. One of the officers of the old line 
 rose, and observed that none of the recently appointed 
 generals commanded more unanimous and universal 
 respect ; that General Pierce had appreciated the sci 
 entific knowledge of the regular military men, and had 
 acquired their respect by the independence, firmness, 
 and promptitude with which he exercised his own 
 judgment, and acted on the intelligence derived from 
 them. In concluding this tribute of high, but well- 
 considered praise, the speaker very cordially acqui 
 esced in the health of General Pierce, and proposed 
 that it should be drunk standing, with three times 
 three. 
 
 General Pierce remained in Mexico until Decem 
 ber, when, as the warfare was over, and peace on the 
 point of being concluded, he set out on his return. 
 In nine months, crowded full of incident, he had seen 
 far more of actual service than many professional sol 
 diers during their whole lives. As soon as the treaty 
 of peace was signed, he gave up his commission, and 
 returned to the practice of the law, again proposing 
 to spend the remainder of his days in the bosom of his 
 family. All the dreams of his youth were now ful 
 filled ; the military ardor, that had struck an heredi 
 tary root in his breast, had enjoyed its scope, and was 
 satisfied; and he flattered himself that no circum- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 413 
 
 stances could hereafter occur to draw him from the 
 retirement of domestic peace. New Hampshire re 
 ceived him with even more enthusiastic affection than 
 ever. At his departure, he had received a splendid 
 sword at the hands of many of his friends, in token of 
 their confidence ; he had shown himself well worthy 
 to wear and able to use a soldier s weapon ; and his 
 native state now gave him another, the testimonial 
 of approved valor and warlike conduct. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE COMPROMISE AND OTHER MATTERS. 
 
 THE intervening years, since General Pierce s re 
 turn from Mexico, and until the present time, have 
 been spent in the laborious exercise of the legal pro 
 fession, an employment scarcely varied or inter 
 rupted, except by those episodes of political activity 
 which a man of public influence finds it impossible to 
 avoid, and in which, if his opinions are matter of con 
 science with him, he feels it his duty to interest him 
 self. 
 
 In the presidential canvass of 1848 he used his best 
 efforts (and with success, so far as New Hampshire 
 was concerned) in behalf of the candidate of his party. 
 A truer and better speech has never been uttered on a 
 similar occasion than one which he made (during a 
 hurried half hour, snatched from the court room) in 
 October of the above year, before the democratic 
 state convention, then in session at Concord. It is 
 an invariable characteristic of General Pierce s popu 
 lar addresses, that they evince a genuine respect for 
 
414 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 the people ; he makes his appeal to their intelligence, 
 their patriotism, and their integrity, and, never doubt 
 ful of their upright purpose, proves his faith in the 
 great mind and heart of the country both by what he 
 says and by what he refrains from saying. He never 
 yet was guilty of an effort to cajole his fellow-citizens, 
 to operate upon their credulity, or to trick them even 
 into what was right; and therefore all the victories 
 which he has ever won in popular assemblies have 
 been triumphs doubly honored, being as creditable to 
 his audiences as to himself. 
 
 When the series of measures known under the col 
 lective term of The Compromise were passed by Con 
 gress in 1850, and put to so searching a test here at 
 the North the reverence of the people for the Consti 
 tution and their attachment to the Union, General 
 Pierce was true to the principles which he had long 
 ago avowed. At an early period of his congressional 
 service he had made known, with the perfect frank 
 ness of his character, those opinions upon the slavery 
 question which he has never since seen occasion to 
 change in the slightest degree. There is an unbroken 
 consistency in his action with regard to this matter. 
 It is entirely of a piece, from his first entrance upon 
 public life until the moment when he came forward, 
 while many were faltering, to throw the great weight 
 of his character and influence into the scale in favor 
 of those measures through which it was intended to re 
 deem the pledges of the Constitution, and to preserve 
 and renew the old love and harmony among the sister 
 hood of States. His approval embraced the whole 
 series of these acts, as well those which bore hard upon 
 northern views and sentiments as those in which the 
 South deemed itself to have made more than recipro 
 cal concessions. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 415 
 
 No friend nor enemy that knew Franklin Pierce 
 would have expected him to act otherwise. With his 
 view of the whole subject, whether looking at it through 
 the medium of his conscience, his feelings, or his intel 
 lect, it was impossible for him not to take his stand as 
 the unshaken advocate of Union, and of the mutual 
 steps of compromise which that great object unques 
 tionably demanded. The fiercest, the least scrupulous, 
 and the most consistent of those who battle against 
 slavery recognize the same fact that he does. They 
 see that merely human wisdom and human efforts can 
 not subvert it, except by tearing to pieces the Constitu 
 tion, breaking the pledges which it sanctions, and sev 
 ering into distracted fragments that common country 
 which Providence brought into one nation, through a 
 continued miracle of almost two hundred years, from 
 the first settlement of the American wilderness until 
 the Revolution. In the days when, a young member 
 of Congress, he first raised his voice against agitation, 
 Pierce saw these perils and their consequences. He 
 considered, too, that the evil would be certain, while 
 the good was, at best, a contingency, and (to the clear, 
 practical foresight with which he looked into the fu 
 ture) scarcely so much as that, attended as the move 
 ment was and must be during its progress, with the 
 aggravated injury of those whose condition it aimed to 
 ameliorate, and terminating, in its possible triumph, 
 if such possibility there were, with the ruin of 
 two races which now dwelt together in greater peace 
 and affection, it is not too much to say, than had ever 
 elsewhere existed between the taskmaster and the serf. 
 
 Of course, there is another view of all these matters. 
 The theorist may take that view in his closet ; the phi 
 lanthropist by profession may strive to act upon it un- 
 
416 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 compromisingly, amid the tumult and warfare of his 
 life. But the statesman of practical sagacity who 
 loves his country as it is, and evolves good from things 
 as they exist, and who demands to feel his firm grasp 
 upon a better reality before he quits the one already 
 gained will be likely here, with all the greatest 
 statesmen of America, to stand in the attitude of a 
 conservative. Such, at all events, will be the attitude 
 of Franklin Pierce. We have sketched some of the 
 influences amid which he grew up, inheriting his fa 
 ther s love of country, mindful of the old patriot s 
 valor in so many conflicts of the Revolution, and hav 
 ing close before his eyes the example of brothers and 
 relatives, more than one of whom have bled for Amer 
 ica, both at the extremest north and farthest south ; 
 himself, too, in early manhood, serving the Union in 
 its legislative halls, and, at a maturer age, leading his 
 fellow-citizens, his brethren, from the widest-sundered 
 states, to redden the same battle-fields with their kin 
 dred blood, to unite their breath into one shout of vic 
 tory, and perhaps to sleep, side by side, with the same 
 sod over them. Such a man, with such hereditary 
 recollections, and such a personal experience, must not 
 narrow himself to adopt the cause of one section of his 
 native country against another. He will stand up, as 
 he has always stood, among the patriots of the whole 
 land. And if the work of antislavery agitation, which 
 it is undeniable leaves most men who earnestly engage 
 in it with only half a country in their affections, if 
 this work must be done, let others do it. 
 
 Those northern men, therefore, who deem the great 
 cause of human welfare as represented and involved 
 in this present hostility against southern institutions, 
 and who conceive that the world stands still except so 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 417 
 
 far as that goes forward, these, it may be allowed, 
 can scarcely give their sympathy or their confidence 
 to the subject of this memoir. Bat there is still an 
 other view, and probably as wise a one. It looks 
 upon slavery as one of those evils which divine Prov 
 idence does not leave to be remedied by human con 
 trivances, but which, in its own good time, by some 
 means impossible to be anticipated, but of the simplest 
 and easiest operation, when all its uses shall have been 
 fulfilled, it causes to vanish like a dream. There is 
 110 instance, in all history, of the human will and in 
 tellect having perfected any great moral reform by 
 methods which it adapted to that end ; but the prog 
 ress of the world, at every step, leaves some evil or 
 wrong on the path behind it, which the wisest of man 
 kind, of their own set purpose, could never have found 
 the way to rectify. Whatever contributes to the great 
 cause of good, contributes to all its subdivisions and 
 varieties ; and, on this score, the lover of his race, the 
 enthusiast, the philanthropist of whatever theory, might 
 lend his aid to put a man, like the one before us, into 
 the leadership of the world s affairs. 
 
 How firm and conscientious was General Pierce s 
 support of The Compromise may be estimated from 
 his conduct in reference to the Reverend John Atwood. 
 In the foregoing pages it has come oftener in our way 
 to illustrate the bland and prepossessing features of 
 General Pierce s character, than those sterner ones 
 which must necessarily form the bones, so to speak, 
 the massive skeleton, of any man who retains an up 
 right attitude amidst the sinister influences of public 
 life. The transaction now alluded to affords a favor 
 able opportunity for indicating some of these latter 
 traits. 
 
418 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 In October, 1850, a democratic convention, held at 
 Concord, nominated Mr. Atwood as the party s regidar 
 candidate for governor. The Compromise, then re 
 cent, was inevitably a prominent element in the dis 
 cussions of the convention ; and a series of resolutions 
 were adopted, bearing reference to this great subject, 
 fully and unreservedly indorsing the measures com 
 prehended under it, and declaring the principles on 
 which the Democracy of the state was about to engage 
 in the gubernatorial contest. Mr. Atwood accepted 
 the nomination, acceding to the platform thus tendered 
 him, taking exceptions to none of the individual res 
 olutions, and, of course, pledging himself to the whole 
 by the very act of assuming the candidacy, which was 
 predicated upon them. 
 
 The reverend candidate, we should conceive, is a 
 well-meaning, and probably an amiable man. In or 
 dinary circumstances, he would, doubtless, have gone 
 through the canvass triumphantly, and have adminis 
 tered the high office to which he aspired with no dis 
 credit to the party that had placed him at its head. 
 But the disturbed state of the public mind on the 
 Compromise question rendered the season a very criti 
 cal one ; and Mr. Atwood, unfortunately, had that 
 fatal weakness of character, which, however respecta 
 bly it may pass in quiet times, is always bound to 
 make itself pitiably manifest under the pressure of a 
 crisis. A letter was addressed to him by a committee, 
 representing the party opposed to The Compromise, 
 and with whom, it may be supposed, were included 
 those who held the more thorough-going degrees ol 
 antislavery sentiment. The purpose of the letter was 
 to draw out an expression of Mr. Atwood s opinion on 
 the abolition movement generally, and with an espe- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 419 
 
 cial reference to the Fugitive Slave Law, and whether, 
 as chief magistrate of the state, he would favor any 
 attempt for its repeal. In an answer of considerable 
 length the candidate expressed sentiments that brought 
 him unquestionably within the free soil pale, and fa 
 vored his correspondents, moreover, with a pretty de 
 cided judgment as to the unconstitutional, unjust, and 
 oppressive character of the Fugitive Slave Act. 
 
 During a space of about two months, this very im 
 portant document was kept from the public eye. Ku- 
 mors of its existence, however, became gradually 
 noised abroad, and necessarily attracted the attention 
 of Mr. Atwood s democratic friends. Inquiries being 
 made, he acknowledged the existence of the letter, but 
 averred that it had never been delivered, that it was 
 merely a rough draught, and that he had hitherto 
 kept it within his own control, with a view to more 
 careful consideration. In accordance with the advice 
 of friends, he expressed a determination, and appar 
 ently in good faith, to suppress the letter, and thus 
 to sever all connection with the antislavery party. 
 This, however, was now beyond his power. A copy 
 of the letter had been taken ; it was published, with 
 high commendations, in the antislavery newspapers ; 
 and Mr. Atwood was exhibited in the awkward pre 
 dicament of directly avowing sentiments on the one 
 hand which he had implicitly disavowed on the other, 
 of accepting a nomination based on principles diamet 
 rically opposite. 
 
 The candidate appears to have apprehended this 
 disclosure, and he hurried to Concord, and sought 
 counsel of General Pierce, with whom he was on terms 
 of personal kindness, and between whom and himself, 
 heretofore, there had never been a shade of political 
 
420 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 difference. An interview with the general and one or 
 two other gentlemen ensued. Mr. Atwood was cau 
 tioned against saying or writing a word that might be 
 repugnant to his feelings or his principles ; but, vol 
 untarily, and at his own suggestion, he now wrote for 
 publication a second letter, in which he retracted every 
 objectionable feature of his former one, and took de 
 cided ground in favor of The Compromise, including 
 all its individual measures. Had he adhered to this 
 latter position, he might have come out of the affair, 
 if not with the credit of consistency, yet, at least, as a 
 successful candidate in the impending election. But 
 his evil fate, or, rather, the natural infirmity of his 
 character, was not so to be thrown off. The very next 
 day, unhappily, he fell into the hands of some of his 
 antislavery friends, to whom he avowed a constant ad 
 herence to the principles of his first letter, describing 
 the second as having been drawn from him by impor 
 tunity, in an excited state of his mind, and without a 
 full realization of its purport. 
 
 It would be needlessly cruel to Mr. Atwood to trace 
 with minuteness the further details of this affair. It 
 is impossible to withold from him a certain sympathy, 
 or to avoid feeling that a very worthy man, as the world 
 goes, had entangled himself in an inextricable knot of 
 duplicity and tergiversation, by an ill-advised effort to 
 be two opposite things at once. For the sake of true 
 manhood, we gladly turn to consider the course adopted 
 by General Pierce. 
 
 The election for governor was now at a distance of 
 only a few weeks ; and it could not be otherwise than 
 a most hazardous movement for the democratic party, 
 at so late a period, to discard a candidate with whom 
 the people had become familiar. It involved nothing 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 421 
 
 less than the imminent peril of that political suprem 
 acy which the party had so long enjoyed. With Mr. 
 Atwood as candidate, success might still be considered 
 certain. To a short-sighted and a weak man, it would 
 have appeared the obvious policy to patch up the diffi 
 culty, and, at all events, to conquer, under whatever 
 leadership, and with whatever allies. But it was one 
 of those junctures which test the difference between 
 the man of principle and the mere politician the 
 man of moral courage and him who yields to tempo 
 rary expediency. General Pierce could not consent 
 that his party should gain a nominal triumph, at the 
 expense of what he looked upon as its real integrity 
 and life. With this view of the matter, he had no 
 hesitation in his course ; nor could the motives which 
 otherwise would have been strongest with him pity 
 for the situation of an unfortunate individual, a per 
 sonal friend, a Democrat, as Mr. Atwood describes 
 himself, of nearly fifty years standing incline him 
 to mercy, where it would have been fatal to his sense 
 of right. He took decided ground against Mr. At 
 wood. The convention met again, and nominated 
 another candidate. Mr. Atwood went into the field as 
 the candidate of the antislavery party, drew off a suf 
 ficient body of Democrats to defeat the election by the 
 people, but was himself defeated in the legislature. 
 
 Thus, after exhibiting to the eyes of mankind (or 
 such portion of mankind as chanced to be looking in 
 that direction) the absurd spectacle of a gentleman 
 of extremely moderate stride attempting a feat that 
 would have baffled a Colossus, to support himself, 
 namely, on both margins of the impassable chasm 
 that has always divided the antislavery faction from 
 the New Hampshire Democracy, this ill-fated man 
 
422 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 attempted first to throw himself upon one side of 
 the gulf, then on the other, and finally tumbled head 
 long into the bottomless depth between. His case 
 presents a painful but very curious and instructive 
 instance of the troubles that beset weakness, in those 
 emergencies which demand steadfast moral strength 
 and energy of which latter type of manly character 
 there can be no truer example than Franklin Pierce. 
 
 In the autumn of 1850, in pursuance of a vote of 
 the people, a convention assembled at Concord for the 
 revision of the Constitution of New Hampshire. Gen 
 eral Pierce was elected its president by an almost 
 unanimous vote a very high mark of the affection 
 ate confidence which the state, for so long a time and 
 in such a variety of modes, had manifested in him. 
 It was so much the higher, as the convention included 
 New Hampshire s most eminent citizens, among whom 
 was Judge Woodbury. 
 
 General Pierce s conduct, as presiding officer, was 
 satisfactory to all parties ; and one of his political op 
 ponents (Professor Sanborn, of Dartmouth College) 
 has ably sketched him, both in that aspect and as a 
 debater. 
 
 " In drawing the portraits of the distinguished 
 members of the constitutional convention," writes the 
 professor, " to pass Frank Pierce unnoticed would be 
 as absurd as to enact one of Shakspeare s dramas with 
 out its principal hero. I give my impressions of the 
 man as I saw him in the convention ; for I would not 
 undertake to vouch for the truth or falsehood of those 
 veracious organs of public sentiment, at the capital, 
 which have loaded him in turn with indiscriminate 
 praise and abuse. As a presiding officer, it would 
 be difficult to find his equal. In proposing questions 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 423 
 
 to the house, he never hesitates or blunders. In decid 
 ing points of order, he is both prompt and impartial. 
 His treatment of every member of the convention was 
 characterized by uniform courtesy and kindness. The 
 deportment of the presiding officer of a deliberative 
 body usually gives tone to the debates. If he is 
 harsh, morose, or abrupt in his manner, the speakers 
 are apt to catch his spirit by the force of involuntary 
 sympathy. The same is true, to some extent, of the 
 principal debaters in such a body. When a man of 
 strong prejudices and harsh temper rises to address 
 a public assembly, his indwelling antipathies speak 
 from every feature of his face and from every mo 
 tion of his person. The audience at once brace them 
 selves against his assaults, and condemn his opinions 
 before they are heard. The well-known character of 
 an orator persuades or dissuades quite as forcibly as 
 the language he utters. Some men never rise to ad 
 dress a deliberative assembly without conciliating good 
 will in advance. The smile that plays upon the speak 
 er s face awakens emotions of complacency in those 
 who hear, even before he speaks. So does that weight 
 of character, which is the matured fruit of long public 
 services and acknowledged worth, soothe, in advance, 
 the irritated and angry crowd. 
 
 " Mr. Pierce possesses unquestioned ability as a 
 public speaker. Few men, in our country, better un 
 derstand the means of swaying a popular assembly, 
 or employ them with greater success. His forte lies 
 in moving the passions of those whom he addresses. 
 He knows how to call into vigorous action both the 
 sympathies and antipathies of those who listen to him. 
 I do not mean to imply by these remarks that his ora 
 tory is deficient in argument or sound reasoning. On 
 
424 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 the contrary, he seizes with great power upon the 
 strong points of his subject, and presents them clearly, 
 forcibly, and eloquently. As a prompt and ready de 
 bater, always prepared for assault or defence, he has 
 few equals. In these encounters, he appears to great 
 advantage, from his happy faculty of turning little 
 incidents, unexpectedly occurring, to his own account. 
 A word carelessly dropped, or an unguarded allusion 
 to individuals or parties by an opponent, is frequently 
 converted into a powerful weapon of assault, by this 
 skilful advocate. He has been so much in office that 
 he may be said to have been educated in public life. 
 He is most thoroughly versed in all the tactics of de 
 bate. He is not only remarkably fluent in his elocu 
 tion, but remarkably correct. He seldom miscalls or 
 repeats a word. His style is not overloaded with or 
 nament, and yet he draws liberally upon the treasury 
 of rhetoric. His figures are often beautiful and strik 
 ing, never incongruous. He is always listened to with 
 respectful attention, if he does not always command 
 conviction. From his whole course in the convention, 
 a disinterested spectator could not fail to form a very 
 favorable opinion, not only of his talent and eloquence, 
 but of his generosity and magnanimity." 
 
 Among other antiquated relics of the past, and 
 mouldy types of prejudices that ought now to be for 
 gotten, and of which it was the object of the present 
 convention to purge the Constitution of New Hamp 
 shire, there is a provision that certain state offices 
 should be held only by Protestants. Since General 
 Pierce s nomination for the presidency, the existence 
 of this religious test has been brought as a charge 
 against him, as if, in spite of his continued efforts to 
 remove it, he were personally responsible for its re 
 maining on the statute book. 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 425 
 
 General Pierce has naturally a strong endowment 
 of religious feeling. At no period of his life, as is well 
 known to his friends, have the sacred relations of the 
 human soul been a matter of indifference with him ; 
 and, of more recent years, whatever circumstances of 
 good or evil fortune may have befallen him, they 
 have alike served to deepen this powerful sentiment. 
 Whether in sorrow or success, he has learned, in his 
 own behalf, the great lesson, that religious faith is the 
 most valuable and most sacred of human possessions ; 
 but, with this sense, there has come no narrowness or 
 illiberality, but a wide-embracing sympathy for the 
 modes of Christian worship, and a reverence for indi 
 vidual belief, as a matter between the Deity and man s 
 soul, and with which no other has a right to interfere. 
 With the feeling here described, and with his acute 
 intellectual perception of the abortive character of all 
 intolerant measures, as defeating their own ends, it 
 strikes one as nothing less than ludicrous that he 
 should be charged with desiring to retain this obsolete 
 enactment, standing, as it does, as a merely gratuitous 
 and otherwise inoperative stigma upon the fair reputa 
 tion of his native state. Even supposing no higher 
 motives to have influenced him, it would have sufficed 
 to secure his best efforts for the repeal of the relig 
 ious test that so many of the Catholics have always 
 been found in the advance-guard of freedom, march 
 ing onward with the progressive party ; and that, 
 whether in peace or war, they have performed for 
 their adopted country the hard toil and the gallant 
 services which she has a right to expect from her most 
 faithful citizens. 
 
 The truth is that, ever since his entrance upon pub 
 lic life, on all occasions, and often making the oc- 
 
426 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 casion where he found none, General Pierce has 
 done his utmost to obliterate this obnoxious feature 
 from the Constitution. He has repeatedly advocated 
 the calling of a convention mainly for this purpose. 
 In that of 1850, he both spoke and voted in favor of 
 the abolition of the test, and, with the aid of Judge 
 Woodbury and other democratic members, attained his 
 purpose, so far as the convention possessed any power 
 or responsibility in the matter. That the measure was 
 ultimately defeated is due to other causes, either tem 
 porary or of long continuance ; and to some of them 
 it is attributable that the enlightened public sentiment 
 of New Hampshire was not, long since, made to op 
 erate upon this enactment, so anomalous in the funda 
 mental law of a free state. 
 
 In order to the validity of the amendments passed by 
 the convention, it was necessary that the people should 
 subsequently act upon them, and pass a vote of two 
 thirds in favor of their adoption. The amendments 
 proposed by the convention of 1850 were numerous. 
 The Constitution had been modified in many and very 
 important particulars, in respect to which the popular 
 mind had not previously been made familiar, and on 
 which it had not anticipated the necessity of passing 
 judgment. In March, 1851, when the vote of the peo 
 ple was taken upon these measures, the Atwood con 
 troversy was at its height, and threw all matters of less 
 immediate interest into the background. During the 
 interval since the adjournment of the convention, the 
 whig newspapers had been indefatigable in their at 
 tempts to put its proceedings in an odious light before 
 the people. There had been no period, for many years, 
 in which sinister influences rendered it so difficult to 
 draw out an efficient expression of the will of the 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 427 
 
 Democracy as on this occasion. It was the result 
 of all these obstacles that the doings of the constitu 
 tional convention were rejected in the mass. 
 
 In the ensuing April, the convention reassembled, in 
 order to receive the unfavorable verdict of the people 
 upon its proposed amendments. At the suggestion of 
 General Pierce, the amendment abolishing the religious 
 test was again brought forward, and, in spite of the 
 opposition of the leading whig members, was a second 
 time submitted to the people. Nor did his struggle in 
 behalf of this enlightened movement terminate here. 
 At the democratic caucus, in Concord, preliminary to 
 the town meeting, he urged upon his political friends 
 the repeal of the test, as a party measure ; and again, 
 at the town meeting itself, while the balloting was going 
 forward, he advocated it on the higher ground of relig 
 ious freedom, and of reverence for what is inviolable 
 in the human soul. Had the amendment passed, the 
 credit would have belonged to no man more than to 
 General Pierce ; and that it failed, and that the free 
 Constitution of New Hampshire is still disgraced by 
 a provision which even monarchical England has cast 
 off, is a responsibility which must rest elsewhere than 
 on his head. 
 
 In September, 1851, died that eminent statesman 
 and jurist, Levi Woodbury, then occupying the ele 
 vated post of judge of the Supreme Court of the United 
 States. The connection between him and General 
 Pierce, beginning in the early youth of the latter, had 
 been sustained through all the subsequent years. They 
 sat together, with but one intervening chair between, in 
 the national Senate ; they were always advocates of the 
 eame great measures, and held, through life, a harmony 
 of opinion and action, which was never more conspicu- 
 
428 LIFE OF FRANKLIN FIERCE. 
 
 ous than in the few months that preceded Judge 
 Woodbury s death. At a meeting of the bar, after his 
 decease, General Pierce uttered some remarks, full of 
 sensibility, in which he referred to the circumstances 
 that had made this friendship an inheritance on his 
 part. Had Judge Woodbury survived, it is not im 
 probable that his more advanced age, his great public 
 services, and equally distinguished zeal in behalf of 
 the Union might have placed him in the position now 
 occupied by the subject of this memoir. Fortunate 
 the state which, after losing such a son, can still point 
 to another, not less worthy to take upon him the charge 
 of the nation s welfare. 
 
 We have now finished our record of Franklin Pierce s 
 life, and have only to describe the posture of affairs 
 which, without his own purpose and against his wish, 
 has placed him before the people of the United States 
 as a candidate for the presidency. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HIS NOMINATION FOB THE PRESIDENCY. 
 
 ON the 12th of June, 1852, the democratic national 
 convention assembled at Baltimore, in order to select 
 a candidate for the presidency of the United States. 
 Many names, eminently distinguished in peace and 
 war, had been brought before the public, during several 
 months previous ; and among them, though by no 
 means occupying a very prominent place, was the 
 name of Franklin Pierce. In January of this year, 
 the Democracy of New Hampshire had signified its 
 preference of General Pierce as a presidential candi* 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 429 
 
 date in the approaching canvass a demonstration 
 which drew from him the following response, addressed 
 to his friend, Mr. Atherton : 
 
 "I am far from being insensible to the generous 
 confidence so often manifested towards me by the 
 people of this state ; and although the object indicated 
 in the resolution, having particular reference to myself, 
 be not one of desire on my part, the expression is not 
 on that account less gratifying. 
 
 " Doubtless the spontaneous and just appreciation of 
 an intelligent people is the best earthly reward for 
 earnest and cheerful sevices rendered to one s state and 
 country ; and while it is a matter of unfeigned regret 
 that my life has been so barren of usefulness, I shall 
 ever hold this and similar tributes among my most 
 cherished recollections. 
 
 " To these, my sincere and grateful acknowledgments, 
 I desire to add that the same motives which induced 
 me, several years ago, to retire from public life, and 
 which since that time controlled my judgment in this 
 respect, now impel me to say that the use of my name 
 in any event, before the democratic national conven 
 tion at Baltimore, to which you are a delegate, would 
 be utterly repugnant to my taste and wishes." 
 
 The sentiments expressed in the above letter were 
 genuine, and from his heart. He had looked long and 
 closely at the effects of high public station on the char 
 acter and happiness, and on what is the innermost and 
 dearest part of a man s possessions his independence ; 
 and he had satisfied himself that office, however ele 
 vated, should be avoided for one s own sake, or ac 
 cepted only as a good citizen would make any other 
 sacrifice, at the call and at the need of his country. 
 
 As the time for the assembling of the national con- 
 
430 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 vention drew near, there were other sufficient indica 
 tions of his sincerity in declining a stake in the great 
 game. A circular letter was addressed, by Major Scott, 
 of Virginia, to the distinguished Democrats whose 
 claims had heretofore been publicly discussed, request 
 ing a statement of their opinions on several points, and 
 inquiring what would be the course of each of these 
 gentlemen, in certain contingencies, in case of his at 
 taining the presidency. These queries, it may be pre 
 sumed, were of such a nature that General Pierce 
 might have answered them, had he seen fit to do so, 
 to the satisfaction of Major Scott himself, or to that of 
 the southern democratic party, whom it seemed his 
 purpose to represent. With not more than one ex 
 ception, the other statesmen and soldiers, to whom the 
 circular had been sent, made a response. General 
 Pierce preserved an unbroken silence. It was equiv 
 alent to the withdrawal of all claims which he might 
 be supposed to possess, in reference to the contem 
 plated office; and he thereby repeated, to the dele 
 gates of the national party, the same avowal of dis 
 taste for public life which he had already made known 
 to the Democracy of his native state. He had thus 
 done everything in his power, actively or passively, 
 everything that he could have done, without showing 
 such an estimate of his position before the country as 
 was inconsistent with the modesty of his character, 
 to avoid the perilous and burdensome honor of the 
 candidacy. 
 
 The convention met, at the date above mentioned, 
 and continued its sessions during four days. Thirty- 
 five ballotings were held, with a continually decreasing 
 prospect that the friends of any one of the gentlemen 
 hitherto prominent before the people would succeed in 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 431 
 
 obtaining the two thirds vote that was requisite for a 
 nomination. Thus far, not a vote had been thrown 
 for General Pierce ; but, at the thirty-sixth ballot, the 
 delegation of old Virginia brought forward his name. 
 In the course of several more trials, his strength in 
 creased, very gradually at first, but afterwards with a 
 growing impetus, until, at the forty-ninth ballot, the 
 votes were for Franklin Pierce two hundred and eighty- 
 two, and eleven for all other candidates. Thus Frank 
 lin Pierce became the nominee of the convention ; and 
 as quickly as the lightning flash could blazon it abroad 
 his name was on every tongue, from end to end of this 
 vast country. Within an hour he grew to be illus 
 trious. 
 
 It would be a pretension, which we do not mean to 
 put forward, to assert that, whether considering the 
 length and amount of his public services, or his prom 
 inence before the country, General Pierce stood on 
 equal ground with several of the distinguished men 
 whose claims, to use the customary phrase, had been 
 rejected in favor of his own. But no man, be his pub 
 lic services or sacrifices what they might, ever did or 
 ever could possess, in the slightest degree, what we 
 may term a legitimate claim to be elevated to the 
 rulership of a free people. The nation would degrade 
 itself, and violate every principle upon which its insti 
 tutions are founded, by offering its majestic obedience 
 to one of its citizens as a reward for whatever splendor 
 of achievement. The conqueror may assert a claim, 
 such as it is, to the sovereignty of the people whom he 
 subjugates ; but, with us Americans, when a statesman 
 romes to the chief direction of affairs, it is at the sum 
 mons of the nation, addressed to the servant whom it 
 deems best fitted to spend his wisdom, his strength, 
 
432 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 and his life in its behalf. On this principle, which is 
 obviously the correct one, a candidate s previous ser 
 vices are entitled to consideration only as they indicate 
 the qualities which may enable him to render higher 
 services in the position which his countrymen choose 
 that he shall occupy. What he has done is of no im 
 portance, except as proving what he can do. And it 
 is on this score, because they see in his public course 
 the irrefragable evidences of patriotism, integrity, and 
 courage, and because they recognize in him the noble 
 gift of natural authority, and have a prescience of the 
 stately endowment of administrative genius, that his 
 fellow-citizens are about to summon Franklin Pierce to 
 the presidency. To those who know him well, the 
 event comes, not like accident, but as a consummation 
 which might have been anticipated, from its innate fit 
 ness, and as the final step of a career which, all along, 
 has tended thitherward. 
 
 It is not as a reward that he will take upon him the 
 mighty burden of this office, of which the toil and awful 
 responsibility whiten the statesman s head, and in 
 which, as in more than one instance we have seen, the 
 warrior encounters a deadlier risk than in the battle 
 field. When General Pierce received the news of his 
 nomination, it affected him with no thrill of joy, but a 
 sadness, which, for many days, was perceptible in his 
 deportment. It awoke in his heart the sense of relig 
 ious dependence a sentiment that has been growing 
 continually stronger, through all the trials and ex 
 periences of his life ; and there was nothing feigned 
 in that passage of his beautiful letter, accepting the 
 nomination, in which he expresses his reliance upon 
 heavenly support. 
 
 The committee, appointed by the Baltimore conven- 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 433 
 
 tion, conveyed to him the intelligence of his nomina 
 tion in the following terms : 
 
 " A national convention of the democratic republi 
 can party, which met in Baltimore on the first Tues 
 day in June, unanimously nominated you as a candi 
 date for the high trust of the President of the United 
 States. We have been delegated to acquaint you with 
 the nomination, and earnestly to request that you will 
 accept it. Persuaded as we are that this office should 
 never be pursued by an unchastened ambition, it can 
 not be refused by a dutiful patriotism. 
 
 " The circumstances under which you will be pre 
 sented for the canvass of your countrymen seem to us 
 propitious to the interests which the constitution in 
 trusts to our Federal Union, and must be auspicious 
 to your own name. You come before the people with 
 out the impulse of personal wishes, and free from 
 selfish expectations. You are identified with none of 
 the distractions which have recently disturbed our 
 country, whilst you are known to be faithful to the 
 constitution to all its guaranties and compromises. 
 You will be free to exercise your tried abilities, within 
 the path of duty, in protecting that repose we happily 
 enjoy, and in giving efficacy and control to those car 
 dinal principles that have already illustrated the party 
 which has now selected you as its leader principles 
 that regard the security and prosperity of the whole 
 country, and the paramount power of its laws, as in- 
 dissolubly associated with the perpetuity of our civil 
 and religious liberties. 
 
 " The convention did not pretermit the duty of reit 
 erating those principles, and you will find them promi 
 nently set forth in the resolutions it adopted. To 
 these we respectfully invite your attention. 
 
 VOL. xii. 28 
 
434 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 " It is firmly believed that to your talents and pa 
 triotism the security of our holy Union, with its ex 
 panded and expanding interests, may be wisely trusted, 
 and that, amid all the perils which may assail the con 
 stitution, you will have the heart to love and the arm 
 to defend it." 
 
 We quote likewise General Pierce s reply : 
 
 " I have the honor to acknowledge your personal 
 kindness in presenting me, this day, your letter, offi 
 cially informing me of my nomination, by the demo 
 cratic national convention, as a candidate for the pres 
 idency of the United States. The surprise with which 
 I received the intelligence of my nomination was not 
 unmingled with painful solicitude ; and yet it is proper 
 for me to say that the manner in which it was con 
 ferred was peculiarly gratifying. 
 
 " The delegation from New Hampshire, with all the 
 glow of state pride, and with all the warmth of per 
 sonal regard, would not have submitted my name to 
 the convention, nor would they have cast a vote for 
 me, under circumstances other than those which oc 
 curred. 
 
 "I shall always cherish with pride and gratitude 
 the recollection of the fact that the voice which first 
 pronounced, and pronounced alone, came from the 
 Mother of States a pride and gratitude rising above 
 any consequences that can betide me personally. May 
 I not regard it as a fact pointing to the overthrow of 
 sectional jealousies, and looking to the permanent life 
 and vigor of the Union, cemented by the blood of 
 those who have passed to their reward ? a Union 
 wonderful in its formation, boundless in its hopes, 
 amazing in its destiny. 
 
 " I accept the nomination, relying upon an abiding 
 
LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 435 
 
 devotion to the interests, honor, and glory of the whole 
 country, but, above and beyond all, upon a Power su 
 perior to all human might a Power which, from the 
 first gun of the Revolution, in every crisis through 
 which we have passed, in every hour of acknowledged 
 peril, when the dark clouds had shut down over us, 
 has interposed as if to baffle human wisdom, outmarch 
 human forecast, and bring out of darkness the rain 
 bow of promise. Weak myself, faith and hope repose 
 there in security. 
 
 " I accept the nomination upon the platform adopted 
 by the convention, not because this is expected of me 
 as a candidate, but because the principles it embraces 
 command the approbation of my judgment ; and with 
 them, I believe I can safely say, there has been no 
 word or act of my life in conflict." 
 
 The news of his nomination went abroad over the 
 Union, and, far and wide, there came a response, in 
 which was distinguishable a truer appreciation of 
 some of General Pierce s leading traits than could 
 have been anticipated, considering the unobtrusive 
 tenor of his legislative life, and the lapse of time since 
 he had entirely withdrawn himself from the nation s 
 eye. It was the marvellous and mystic influence of 
 character, in regard to which the judgment of the peo 
 ple is so seldom found erroneous, and which conveys 
 the perception of itself through some medium higher 
 and deeper than the intellect. Everywhere the coun 
 try knows that a man of steadfast will, true heart, and 
 generous qualities has been brought forward, to re 
 ceive the suffrages of his fellow-citizens. 
 
 He comes before the people of the United States at 
 a remarkable era in the history of this country and of 
 the world. The two great parties of the nation ap- 
 
436 LIFE OF FRANKLIN PIERCE. 
 
 pear at least to an observer somewhat removed from 
 both to have nearly merged into one another ; for 
 they preserve the attitude of political antagonism 
 rather through the effect of their old organizations 
 than because any great and radical principles are at 
 present in dispute between them. The measures ad- 
 vocated by the one party, and resisted by the other, 
 through a long series of years, have now ceased to be 
 the pivots on which the election turns. The promi 
 nent statesmen, so long identified with those measures, 
 will henceforth relinquish their controlling influence 
 over public affairs. Both parties, it may likewise be 
 said, are united in one common purpose, that of pre 
 serving our sacred Union, as the immovable basis from 
 which the destinies, not of America alone, but of man 
 kind at large, may be carried upward and consum 
 mated. And thus men stand together, in unwonted 
 quiet and harmony, awaiting the new movement in ad 
 vance which all these tokens indicate. 
 
 It remains for the citizens of this great country to 
 decide, within the next few weeks, whether they will 
 retard the steps of human progress by placing at its 
 head an illustrious soldier, indeed, a patriot, and one 
 indelibly stamped into the history of the past, but who 
 has already done his work, and has not in him the 
 spirit of the present or of the coming time ; or 
 whether they will put their trust in a new man, whom 
 a life of energy and various activity has tested, but 
 not worn out, and advance with him into the auspi 
 cious epoch upon which we are about to enter. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 WE have done far less than justice to Franklin Pierce s college 
 standing, in our statement on page 355. Some circumstances 
 connected with this matter are too characteristic not to be re 
 ported. 
 
 During the first two years, Pierce was extremely inattentive to 
 his college duties, bestowing only such modicum of time upon 
 them as was requisite to supply the merest superficial acquaint 
 ance with the course of study for the recitation room. The con 
 sequence was that when the relative standing of the members of 
 the class was first authoritatively ascertained, in the junior year, 
 he found himself occupying precisely the lowest position in point 
 of scholarship. In the first mortification of wounded pride, he 
 resolved never to attend another recitation, and accordingly ab 
 sented himself from college exercises of all kinds for several days, 
 expecting and desiring that some form of punishment, such as 
 suspension or expulsion, would be the result. The faculty of the 
 college, however, with a wise lenity, took no notice of this be 
 havior ; and at last, having had time to grow cool, and moved by 
 the grief of his friend Little and another classmate, Pierce deter 
 mined to resume the routine of college duties. " But," said he 
 to his friends, " if I do so, you shall see a change ! " 
 
 Accordingly, from that tune forward, he devoted himself to 
 study. His mind, having run wild for so long a period, could be 
 reclaimed only by the severest efforts of an iron resolution ; and 
 for three months afterwards, he rose at four in the morning, toiled 
 all clay over his books, and retired only at midnight, allowing 
 himself but four hours for sleep. With habit and exercise, he 
 acquired command over his intellectual powers, and was no longer 
 under the necessity of application so intense. But from the mo 
 ment when he made his resolve until the close of his college life, 
 he never incurred a censure, never was absent (and then un- 
 
438 NOTE. 
 
 avoidably) but from two college exercises, never went into the 
 recitation room without a thorough acquaintance with the subject 
 to be recited, and finally graduated as the third scholar of his 
 class. Nothing save the low standard of his previous scholarship 
 prevented his taking a yet higher rank. 
 
 The moral of this little story lies in the stern and continued 
 exercise of self-controlling will, which redeemed him from indo 
 lence, completely changed the aspect of his character, and made 
 this the turning point of his life. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 OF 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 THE lives of great men are written gradually. It 
 often takes as long to construct a true biography as it 
 took the person who is the subject of it to complete 
 his career ; and when the work is done, it is found to 
 consist of many volumes, produced by a variety of au 
 thors. We receive views from different observers, and 
 by putting them together are able to form our own es 
 timate. What the man really was not even himself 
 could know; much less can we. Hence all that we 
 accomplish, in any case, is to approximate to the re 
 ality. While we flatter ourselves that we have im 
 printed on our minds an exact image of the individ 
 ual, we actually secure nothing but a typical likeness. 
 This likeness, however, is amplified and strengthened 
 by successive efforts to paint a correct portrait. If 
 the faces of people belonging to several generations of 
 a family be photographed upon one plate, they com 
 bine to form a single distinct countenance, which shows 
 a general resemblance to them all : in somewhat the 
 same way, every sketch of a distinguished man helps 
 to fix the lines of that typical semblance of him which 
 is all that the world can hope to preserve. 
 
442 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 This principle applies to the case of Hawthorne, 
 notwithstanding that the details of his career are 
 comparatively few, and must be marshalled in much 
 the same way each time that it is attempted to re 
 view them. The veritable history of his life would 
 be the history of his mental development, recording, 
 like Wordsworth s " Prelude," the growth of a poet s 
 mind ; and on glancing back over it he too might have 
 said, in Wordsworth s phrases : 
 
 " Wisdom and spirit of the universe ! 
 
 By day or star-light thus from my first dawn 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 The passions that build up the human soul; 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, 
 But with high objects, with enduring things 
 With life and nature, purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 And sanctifying by such discipline 
 Both pain and fear, until we recognize 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart." 
 
 But a record of that kind, except where an autobiog 
 raphy exists, can be had only by indirect means. We 
 must resort to tracing the outward facts of the life, 
 and must try to infer the interior relations. 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne was born on the Fourth of 
 July, 1804, at Salem, Massachusetts, in a house num 
 bered twenty-one, Union Street. The house is still 
 standing, although somewhat reduced in size and still 
 more reduced in circumstances. The character of the 
 neighborhood has declined very much since the period 
 when Hawthorne involuntarily became a resident there. 
 As the building stands to-day it makes the impression 
 simply of an exceedingly plain, exceedingly old-fash 
 ioned, solid, comfortable abode, which in its prime 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 443 
 
 must have been regarded as proof of a sufficient but 
 modest prosperity on the part of the occupant. It is 
 clapboarded, is two stories high, and has a gambrel 
 roof, immediately beneath which is a large garret that 
 doubtless served the boy-child well as a place for play 
 and a stimulant for the sense of mystery. A single 
 massive chimney, rising from the centre, emphasizes 
 by its style the antiquity of the building, and has the 
 air of holding it together. The cobble-stoned street 
 in front is narrow, and although it runs from the house 
 towards the water-side, where once an extensive com 
 merce was carried on, and debouches not far from the 
 Custom House where Hawthorne in middle life found 
 plenty of occupation as Surveyor, it is now silent and 
 deserted. 
 
 He was the second of three children born to Nathan 
 iel Hathorne, sea-captain, and Elizabeth Clarke Man 
 ning. The eldest was Elizabeth Manning Hathorne, 
 \vho came into the world March 7, 1802 ; the last was 
 Maria Louisa, born January 9, 1808, and lost in the 
 steamer Henry Clay, which was burned on the Hud 
 son River, July 27, 1852. Elizabeth survived all the 
 members of the family, dying on the 1st of January, 
 1883, when almost eighty-one years old, at Montserrat, 
 a hamlet in the township of Beverly, near Salem. In 
 early manhood, certainly at about the time when he 
 began to publish, the young Nathaniel changed the 
 spelling of his surname to Hawthorne ; an alteration 
 also adopted by his sisters. This is believed to have 
 been merely a return to a mode of spelling practised 
 by the English progenitors of the line, although none 
 of the American ancestors had sanctioned it. 
 
 " The fact that he was born in Salem," writes Dr. 
 George B. Loring, who knew him as a fellow-towns* 
 
144 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 man, " may not amount to much to other people, but 
 it amounted to a great deal to him. The sturdy and 
 defiant spirit of his progenitor, who first landed on 
 these shores, found a congenial abode among the people 
 of Naumkeag, after having vainly endeavored to ac 
 commodate itself to the more imposing ecclesiasticism 
 of Winthrop and his colony at Trimountain, and of 
 Endicott at his new home. He was a stern Separatist 
 . . . but he was also a warrior, a politician, a legal 
 adviser, a merchant, an orator with persuasive speech. 
 . . . He had great powers of mind and body, and 
 forms a conspicuous figure in that imposing and he 
 roic group which stands around the cradle of New 
 England. The generations of the family that followed 
 took active and prominent part in the manly adven 
 tures which marked our entire colonial period. . . . 
 It was among the family traditions gathered from the 
 Indian wars, the tragic and awful spectre of the witch 
 craft delusion, the wild life of the privateer, that he 
 [Nathaniel] first saw the light." 
 
 The progenitor here referred to is William Ha- 
 thorne, who came to America with John Winthrop in 
 1630. He had grants of land in Dorchester, but was 
 considered so desirable a citizen that the town of Sa 
 lem offered him other lands if he would settle there ; 
 which he did. It has not been ascertained from what 
 place William Hathorne originally came. His elder 
 brother Robert is known to have written to him in 
 1653 from the village of Bray, in Berkshire, Eng 
 land ; but Nathaniel Hawthorne says in the "Ameri 
 can Note-Books " that William was a younger brother 
 of a family having for its seat a place called Wigcastle, 
 in Wiltshire. He became, however, a person of note 
 and of great usefulness in the community with which 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 445 
 
 he cast his lot, in the new England. Hathorne Street 
 in Salem perpetuates his name to-day, as Lathrop 
 Street does that of Captain Thomas Lathrop, who 
 commanded one of the companies of Essex militia, 
 when John Hathorne was quartermaster of the forces ; 
 Thomas Lathrop, who marched his men to Deerfield 
 in 1675, to protect frontier inhabitants from the In 
 dians, and perished with his whole troop, in the mas 
 sacre at Bloody Brook. The year after that, William 
 Hathorne also took the field against the Indians, in 
 Maine, and conducted a highly successful campaign 
 there, under great hardships. He had been the cap 
 tain of the first military organization in Salem, and 
 rose to be major. He served for a number of years 
 as deputy in the Great and General Court ; was a tax- 
 collector, a magistrate, and a bold advocate of colo 
 nial self-government. Although opposed to religious 
 persecution, as a magistrate he inflicted cruelties on 
 the Quakers, causing a woman on one occasion to be 
 whipped through Salem, Boston, and Dedham. " The 
 figure of that first ancestor," Hawthorne wrote in 
 " The Custom House," " invested by family tradition 
 with a dim and dusky grandeur, was present to my 
 boyish imagination as far back as I can remember ; " 
 so that it is by no means idle to reckon the history 
 of his own family as among the important elements 
 influencing the bent of his genius. John, the son of 
 William, was likewise a public character ; he, too, be 
 came a representative, a member of the Governor s 
 council, a magistrate and a military officer, and saw 
 active service as a soldier in the expedition which he 
 headed against St. John, in 1696. But he is chiefly 
 remembered as the judge who presided over the witch- 
 craft trials and displayed great harshness and bigotry 
 
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148 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 in his treatment of the prisoners. His descendants 
 did not retain the position in public affairs which had 
 been held by his father and himself ; and for the most 
 part they were sea-faring men. One of them, indeed, 
 Daniel the grandfather of Nathaniel figured as a 
 privateer captain in the Revolution, fighting one bat 
 tle with a British troop-ship off the coast of Portugal, 
 in which he was wounded ; but the rest led the obscure 
 though hardy and semi - romantic lives of maritime 
 traders sailing to Africa, India, or Brazil. The priva- 
 teersman had among his eight children three boys, one 
 of whom, Nathaniel, was the father of the author, and 
 died of fever in Surinam, in the spring of 1808, at the 
 age of thirty-three. 
 
 The founders of the American branch were men of 
 independent character, proud, active, energetic, capa 
 ble of extreme sternness and endowed with passionate 
 natures, no doubt. But they were men of affairs ; 
 they touched the world on the practical side, and, even 
 during \he decline of the family fortunes, continued to 
 do so. All at once, in the personality of the younger 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne, this energy which persisted in 
 them reversed its direction, and found a new outlet 
 through the channel of literary expression. We must 
 suppose that he included among his own characteristics 
 all those of his predecessors ; their innate force, their 
 endurance, their capacity for impassioned feeling ; but 
 in him these elements were fused by a finer prevailing 
 quality, and held in firm balance by his rare tempera- 
 Jient. This must be borne in mind, if we would un 
 derstand the conjunction of opposite traits in him. It 
 was one of his principles to guard against being run 
 away with by his imagination, and to cultivate in prac 
 tical affairs what he called " a morose common sense." 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 449 
 
 There has been attributed to him by some of those 
 who knew him a certain good-humored gruffness, 
 which might be explained as a heritage from the self- 
 assertive vitality of his ancestors. While at Liver 
 pool he wrote to one of his intimates in this country, 
 and in doing so made reference to another acquaint 
 ance as a "wretch," to be away from whom made exile 
 endurable. The letter passed into the hands of the 
 acquaintance thus stigmatized long after Hawthorne 
 was in his grave ; but he declared himself to be in no 
 wise disturbed by it, because he knew that the re 
 mark was not meant seriously, being only one of the 
 occasional explosions of a " sea - dog " forcefulness, 
 which had come into the writer s blood from his skip 
 per forefathers. Hawthorne had, in fact, parted on 
 friendly terms from the gentleman of whom he thus 
 wrote. On the other hand we have the traits of sensi 
 tiveness, great delicacy, reserve and reverie, drawn 
 from both his father and his mother. Captain Ha- 
 thorne had been a man of fine presence, handsome, 
 kindly, and rather silent ; a reader, likewise ; and his 
 son s resemblance to him was so marked that a strange 
 sailor stopped Hawthorne on the steps of the Salem 
 Custom House, many years afterward, to ask him if 
 he were not a son or nephew of the Captain, whom he 
 had known. 
 
 His mother belonged to an excellent family, the 
 Mannings, of English stock, settled in Salem and 
 Ipswich ever since 1680, and still well represented in 
 the former place. She, too, was a very reserved per 
 son ; had a stately, aristocratic manner ; is remem 
 bered as possessing a peculiar and striking beauty. 
 Her education was of that simple, austere, but judi 
 cious and perfected kind that without taking any 
 
 VOL. xii. 29 
 
450 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 very wide range gave to New England women in 
 the earlier part of this century a sedate freedom and 
 a cultivated judgment, which all the assumed im 
 provements in pedagogy and the general relations of 
 men and women since then have hardly surpassed. 
 She was a pious woman, a sincere and devoted wife, a 
 mother whose teachings could not fail to impress upon 
 her children a bias towards the best things in life. 
 Nathaniel s sister Elizabeth, although a recluse to the 
 end of her days, and wholly unknown to the public, 
 gave in her own case evidence indisputable of the fine 
 influences which had moulded her own childhood and 
 that of her brother. She showed a quiet, unspoiled, 
 and ardent love of Nature, and was to the last not 
 only an assiduous reader of books but also a very 
 discriminating one. The range of her reading was 
 very wide, but she never made any more display of it 
 than Hawthorne did of his. An intuitive judgment 
 of character was hers, which was really startling at 
 times : merely from the perusal of a book or the in 
 spection of a portrait, she would arrive at accurate 
 estimates of character which revealed a power of facile 
 and comprehensive insight; and her letters, even in 
 old age, flowed spontaneously into utterance of the 
 same finished kind that distinguished Nathaniel Haw 
 thorne s epistolary style. How fresh and various, too, 
 was her interest in the affairs of the world ! For 
 many years she had not gone farther from her se 
 cluded abode in a farm - house at Montserrat, than 
 to Beverly or Salem ; yet I remember that, only six 
 months before her death, she wrote a letter to her 
 niece, a large part of which was devoted to the cam 
 paign of the English in Egypt, then progressing : with 
 a lively and clear comprehension she discussed the 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 451 
 
 difficulties of the situation, and expressed the utmost 
 concern for the success of the English army, at the 
 same time that she laughed at herself for displaying, 
 as an old woman, so much anxiety about the matter. 
 Now, a mother who could bring up her daughter in 
 such a way as to make all this possible and natural, 
 must be given much credit for her share in develop 
 ing an illustrious son. Let us not forget that it was 
 to his mother that Goethe owed in good measure the 
 foundation of his greatness. Mrs. Hathorne had 
 large, very luminous gray eyes, which were repro 
 duced in her son s ; so that, on both sides, his parent 
 age entitled him to the impressive personal appearance 
 which distinguished him. In mature life he became 
 somewhat estranged from her, but their mutual love 
 was presumably suspended only for a time, and he was 
 with her at her death, in 1849. She lived long enough 
 to see him famous as the author of "Twice -Told 
 Tales " ; but " The Scarlet Letter " had not been writ 
 ten when she died. 
 
 She, as well as her husband, was one of a family of 
 nine brothers and sisters ; these were the children of 
 Kichard Manning. Two of the brothers, Kichard and 
 Kobert, were living in Salem when she was left a 
 widow ; Robert being eminent in New England at that 
 time as a horticulturist. She was without resources, 
 other than her husband s earnings, and Robert under 
 took to provide for her. Accordingly, she removed 
 with her young family to the Manning homestead on 
 Herbert Street, the next street east of Union Street, 
 where Nathaniel was born. This homestead stood 
 upon a piece of land running through to Union 
 Street, and adjoining the garden attached to Haw 
 thorne s birthplace. At that time Dr. Nathaniel Pea- 
 
452 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 body, a physician, occupied a house in a brick block 
 on the opposite side of Union Street; and there in 
 1809, September 21st, was born his daughter, Sophia 
 A. Peabody, who afterwards became Hawthorne s wife. 
 Her birthplace, therefore, was but a few rods distant 
 from that of her future husband. Sophia Peabody s 
 eldest sister, Mary, who married Horace Mann, noted 
 as an educator and an abolitionist, remembers the 
 child Nathaniel, who was then about five years old. 
 He used to make his appearance in the garden of the 
 Herbert Street mansion, running and dancing about 
 there at play, a vivacious, golden-haired boy. The 
 next oldest sister, who was the first of this family to 
 make the acquaintance of the young author some thirty 
 years later on, was Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody, who 
 has taken an important part in developing the Kin 
 dergarten in America. There were plenty of books in 
 the Manning house, and Nathaniel very soon got at 
 them. Among the authors whom he earliest came to 
 know were Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, Thomson, and 
 Rousseau. The " Castle of Indolence " was one of 
 his favorite volumes. Subsequently, he read the whole 
 of the " Newgate Calendar," and became intensely ab 
 sorbed in Bunyan s " Pilgrim s Progress," which un 
 doubtedly left very deep impressions upon him, trace 
 able in the various allusions to it scattered through his 
 works. He also made himself familiar with Spenser s 
 " Faerie Queen," Froissart s " Chronicles," and Claren 
 don s " History of the Rebellion." 
 
 " Being a healthy boy, with strong out-of-door in 
 stincts planted in him by inheritance from his sea 
 faring sire, it might have been that he would not have 
 been brought so early to an intimacy with books, but 
 for an accident similar to that which played a part in 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 453 
 
 the boyhoods of Scott and Dickens. When he was 
 nine years old, he was struck on the foot by a ball, 
 and made seriously lame. The earliest fragment of 
 his writing now extant is a letter to his uncle Robert 
 Manning, at that time in Raymond, Maine, written 
 from Salem, December 9, 1813. It announces that 
 the foot is no better, and that a new doctor is to be 
 sent for. 4 Maybe, the boy writes, 4 he will do me 
 
 some good, for Dr. B has not, and I don t know 
 
 as Dr. K will. He adds that it is now four 
 
 weeks since he has been to school, and I don t know 
 but it will be four weeks longer. . . . But the trouble 
 was destined to last much longer than even the young 
 seer had projected his gaze. There was some threat of 
 deformity, and it was not until he was nearly twelve 
 that he became quite well. Meantime, his kind school 
 master, Dr. Worcester, . . . came to hear him his 
 lessons at home. The good pedagogue does not fig 
 ure after this in Hawthorne s history ; but a copy of 
 Worcester s Dictionary still exists and is in present 
 use, which bears in a tremulous writing on the fly-leaf 
 the legend : 4 Nathaniel Hawthorne Esq., with the re 
 spects of J. E. Worcester. For a long time, in the 
 worst of his lameness, the gentle boy was forced to 
 lie prostrate, and choosing the floor for his couch, he 
 would read there all day long. He was extremely 
 fond of cats a taste which he kept through life ; 
 and during this illness, forced to odd resorts for 
 amusement, he knitted a pair of socks for the cat who 
 reigned in the household at the time. When tired of 
 reading, he constructed houses of books for the sarm 
 feline pet, building walls for her to leap, and perhapf 
 erecting triumphal arches for her to pass under." l 
 1 A Study of Hawthorne, III., 67-69 
 
454 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 The lexicographer, Dr. Worcester, was then living 
 at Salem in charge of a school, which he kept for a 
 few years ; and it was with him that Hawthorne was 
 carrying on his primary studies. He also went to 
 dancing-school, was fond of fishing as well as of taking 
 long walks, and doubtless engaged in the sundry occu 
 pations and sports, neither more nor less extraordinary 
 than these, common to lads of his age. He already 
 displayed a tendency towards dry humor. As he 
 brought home from school frequent reports of having 
 had a bout at fisticuffs with another pupil named John 
 Knights, his sister Elizabeth asked him : " Why do 
 you fight with John Knights so often ? " "I can t 
 help it," he answered: "John Knights is a boy of 
 very quarrelsome disposition." 
 
 But all this time an interior growth, of which we 
 can have no direct account, was proceeding in his 
 mind. The loss of the father whom he had had so 
 little chance to see and know and be fondled by, no 
 doubt produced a profound effect upon him. While 
 still a very young child he would rouse himself from 
 long broodings, to exclaim with an impressive shaking 
 of the head : " There, mother ! I is going away to sea 
 some time ; and I 11 never come back again ! " The 
 thought of that absent one, whose barque had glided 
 out of Salem harbor bound upon a terrestrial voyage, 
 but had carried him softly away to the unseen world, 
 must have been incessantly with the boy ; and it would 
 naturally melt into what he heard of the strange, 
 shadowy history of his ancestors, and mix itself with 
 the ever-present hush of settled grief in his mother s 
 dwelling, and blend with his unconscious observations 
 of the old town in which he lived. Salem then was 
 much younger in time, but much older to the eye, than 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 455 
 
 it is now. In " Alice Doane s Appeal " he has sketched 
 a rapid bird s-eye view of it as it appeared to him when 
 he was a young man. Describing his approach with 
 his sisters to Witch Hill, he says : " We . . . began 
 to ascend a hill which at a distance, by its dark slope 
 and the even line of its summit, resembled a green ram 
 part along the road ; . . . but, strange to tell, though 
 the whole slope and summit were of a peculiarly deep 
 green, scarce a blade of grass was visible from the 
 base upward. This deceitful verdure was occasioned 
 by a plentiful crop of wood-wax, which wears the 
 same dark and gloomy green throughout the summer, 
 except at one short period, when it puts forth a pro 
 fusion of yellow blossoms. At that season, to a dis 
 tant spectator the hill appears absolutely overlaid with 
 gold, or covered with a glory of sunshine even under 
 a clouded sky." This wood-wax, it may be said, is 
 a weed which grows nowhere but in Essex County, 
 and, having been native in England, was undoubtedly 
 brought over by the Pilgrims. He goes on : " There 
 are few such prospects of town and village, woodland 
 and cultivated field, steeples and country-seats, as we 
 beheld from this unhappy spot. . . . Before us lay our 
 native town, extending from the foot of the hill to the 
 harbor, level as a chess-board, embraced by two arms 
 of the sea, and filling the whole peninsula with a clos? 
 assemblage of wooden roofs, overtopped by many a 
 spire and intermixed with frequent heaps of verdure. 
 . . . Retaining these portions of the scene, and also 
 the peaceful glory and tender gloom of the declining 
 sun, we threw in imagination a deep veil of forest over 
 the land, and pictured a few scattered villages here 
 and there and this old town itself a village, as when 
 the prince of Hell bore sway there. The idea thug 
 
456 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 gained of its former aspect, its quaint edifices stand, 
 ing far apart with peaked roofs and projecting stories, 
 and its single meeting-house pointing up a tall spire 
 in the midst ; the vision, in short, of the town in 1692, 
 served to introduce a wondrous tale." There were 
 in fact several old houses of the kind here described 
 still extant during Hawthorne s boyhood, and he went 
 every Sunday to service in the First Church, in whose 
 congregation his forefathers had held a pew for a hun 
 dred and seventy years. It is easy to see how some of 
 the materials for " The House of the Seven Gables " 
 and " The Scarlet Letter " were already depositing 
 themselves in the form of indelible recollections and 
 suggestions taken from his surroundings. 
 
 Oppressed by her great sorrow, his mother had shut 
 herself away, after her husband s death, from all so 
 ciety except that of her immediate relatives. This was 
 perhaps not a very extraordinary circumstance, nor 
 one that need be construed as denoting a morbid dis 
 position ; but it was one which must have distinctly 
 affected the tone of her son s meditations. In 1818, 
 when he was fourteen years old, she retired to a still 
 deeper seclusion, in Maine ; but the occasion of this 
 was simply that her brother Robert, having purchased 
 the seven-mile-square township of Raymond, in that 
 State, had built a house there, intending to found a 
 new home. The year that Hawthorne passed in that 
 spot, amid the breezy life of the forest, fishing and 
 shooting, watching the traits and customs of lumber 
 men and country-folk, and drinking in the tonic of a 
 companionship with untamed nature, was to him a 
 happy and profitable one. " We are all very well," 
 he wrote thence to his Uncle Robert, in May, 1819 : 
 * The fences are all finished, and the garden is laid 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 457 
 
 out and planted. ... I have shot a partridge and a 
 henhawk, and caught eighteen large trout out of our 
 brook. I am sorry you intend to send me to school 
 again." He had been to the place before, probably 
 for short visits, when his Uncle Richard was staying 
 there, and his memories of it were always agreeable 
 ones. To Mr. James T. Fields, he said in 1863 : " I 
 lived in Maine like a bird of the air, so perfect was 
 the freedom I enjoyed. But it was there I first got 
 my cursed habits of solitude." " During the moon 
 light nights of winter he would skate until midnight 
 all alone upon Sebago Lake, with the deep shadows of 
 the icy hills on either hand. When he found himself 
 far away from his home and weary with the exercise of 
 skating, he would sometimes take refuge in a log-cabin, 
 where half a tree would be burning on the broad 
 hearth. He would sit in the ample chimney, and look 
 at the stars through the great aperture through which 
 the flames went roaring up. Ah, he said, how well 
 I recall the summer days, also, when with my gun I 
 roamed through the woods of Maine ! " 1 
 
 Hawthorne at this time had an intention of following 
 the example of his father and grandfather, and going 
 to sea ; but this was frustrated by the course of events. 
 His mother, it is probable, would strongly have ob 
 jected to it. In a boyish journal kept while he was at 
 Raymond he mentions a gentleman having come with 
 a boat to take one or two persons out on " the Great 
 Pond," and adds : " He was kind enough to say that 
 I might go (with my mother s consent), which she 
 gave after much coaxing. Since the loss of my father 
 she dreads to have any one belonging to her go upon 
 the water." And again : " A young man named 
 
 i Yesterdays With Authors, p. 113. 
 
458 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Henry Jackson, Jr., was drowned two days ago, up in 
 Crooked River. ... I read one of the Psalms to my 
 mother . this morning, and it plainly declares twenty- 
 six times that 4 God s mercy endureth forever. . . . 
 Mother is sad ; says she shall not consent any more to 
 my swimming in the mill-pond with the boys, fearing 
 that in sport my mouth might get kicked open, and 
 then sorrow for a dead son be added to that for a 
 dead father, which she says would break her heart. I 
 love to swim, but I shall not disobey my mother." 
 This same journal, which seems to have laid the basis 
 of his life-long habit of keeping note-books, was begun 
 at the suggestion of Mr. Richard Manning, who gave 
 him a blank-book, with advice that he should use it 
 for recording his thoughts, " as the best means of his 
 securing for mature years command of thought and 
 language." In it were made a number of entries which 
 testify plainly to his keenness of observation both of 
 people and scenery, to his sense of humor and his 
 shrewdness. Here are a few : 
 
 " Swapped pocket-knives with Robinson Cook yes 
 terday. Jacob Dingley says that he cheated me, but 
 I think not, for I cut a fishing-pole this morning and 
 did it well ; besides, he is a Quaker, and they never 
 cheat." 
 
 "This morning the bucket got off the chain, and 
 dropped back into the well. I wanted to go down on 
 the stones and get it. Mother would not consent, for 
 fear the well might cave in, but hired Samuel Shaw 
 to go down. In the goodness of her heart, she thought 
 the son of old Mrs. Shaw not quite so good as the son 
 of the Widow Hathorne." 
 
 Of a trout that he saw caught by some men : 
 " This trout had a droll-looking hooked nose, and 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 459 
 
 tried to make me believe that, if the line had been in 
 my hands, I should have been obliged to let go, or 
 have been pulled out of the boat. They are men, and 
 have a right to say so. I am a boy, and have a right 
 to think differently." 
 
 " We could see the White Hills to the northwest, 
 though Mr. Little said they were eighty miles away ; 
 and grand old Rattlesnake to the northeast, in its im 
 mense jacket of green oak, looked more inviting than 
 I had ever seen it ; while Frye s Island, with its close 
 growth of great trees growing to the very edge of the 
 water, looked like a monstrous green raft, floating to 
 the southeastward. Whichever way the eye turned, 
 something charming appeared." 
 
 The mental clearness, the sharpness of vision, and 
 the competence of the language in this early note-book 
 are remarkable, considering the youth and inexperi 
 ence of the writer ; and there is one sketch of " a sol 
 emn-faced old horse " at the grist-mill, which exhibits 
 a delightful boyish humor with a dash of pathos in it, 
 and at the same time is the first instance on record of 
 a mild approach by Hawthorne to the writing of fic 
 tion : 
 
 " He had brought for his owner some bags of corn 
 to be ground, who, after carrying them into the mill, 
 walked up to Uncle Richard s store, leaving his half- 
 starved animal in the cold wind with nothing to eat, 
 while the corn was being turned into meal. I felt 
 sorry, and, nobody being near, thought it best to have 
 a talk with the old nag, and said, Good morning, 
 Mr. Horse, how are you to-day ? Good morning, 
 youngster, said he, just as plain as a horse can speak ; 
 and then said, I am almost dead, and I wish I was 
 quite. I am hungry, have had no breakfast, and must 
 
460 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 stand here tied by the head while they are grinding 
 the corn, and until master drinks two or three glasses 
 of rum at the store, then drag the meal and him up 
 the Ben Ham Hill home, and am now so weak that I 
 can hardly stand. Oh dear, I am in a bad way ; and 
 the old creature cried. I almost cried myself. Just 
 then the miller went down-stairs to the meal-trough ; 
 I heard his feet on the steps, and not thinking much 
 what I was doing, ran into the mill, and, taking the 
 four-quart toll-dish nearly full of corn out of the hop 
 per, carried it out, and poured it into the trough be 
 fore the horse, and placed the dish back before the 
 miller came up from below. When I got out, the 
 horse was laughing, but he had to eat slowly, because 
 the bits were in his mouth. I told him that I was 
 sorry, but did not know how to take them out, and 
 should not dare to if I did. ... At last the horse 
 winked and stuck out his lip ever so far, and then 
 said, 4 The last kernel is gone ; then he laughed a lit 
 tle, then shook one ear, then the other ; then he shut 
 his eyes. I jumped up and said : How do you feel, 
 old fellow ; any better ? He opened his eyes, and 
 looking at me kindly answered, Very much, and then 
 blew his nose exceedingly loud, but he did not wipe it. 
 Perhaps he had no wiper. I then asked him if his 
 master whipped him much. He answered, Not much 
 lately. He used to till my hide got hardened, but 
 now he has a white-oak goad-stick with an iron brad 
 in its end, with which he jabs my hind-quarters and 
 hurts me awfully. . . . The goad with the iron brad 
 was in the wagon, and snatching it out I struck the 
 end against a stone, and the stabber flew into the mill- 
 pond. There, says I, old colt, as I threw the goad 
 back into the wagon, he won t harpoon you again witlj 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 461 
 
 that iron. The poor old brute understood well enough 
 what I said, for I looked him in the eye and spoke 
 horse language." 
 
 Mother and uncles could hardly have missed observ 
 ing in him many tokens of a gifted intelligence and 
 an uncommon individuality. The perception of these, 
 added to Mrs. Hawthorne s dread of the sea, may have 
 led to the decision which was taken to send him to col 
 lege. In 1819 he went back to Salem, to continue his 
 schooling ; and one year later, March 7, 1820, wrote 
 to his mother, who was still at Raymond : " I have 
 left school, and have begun to fit for College, under 
 Benjamin L. Oliver, Lawyer. So you are in great 
 danger of having one learned man in your family. . . . 
 Shall you want me to be a Minister, Doctor, or Law 
 yer ? A minister I will not be." Miss E. P. Peabody 
 remembers another letter of his, in which he touched 
 the same problem, thus : " I do not want to be a doc 
 tor and live by men s diseases, nor a minister to live 
 by their sins, nor a lawyer and live by their quarrels. 
 So I don t see that there is anything left but for me 
 to be an author. How would you like some day to 
 see a whole shelf full of books written by your son, 
 with Hathorne s Works printed on the backs ? " 
 There appears to have been but little difficulty for 
 him in settling the problem of his future occupation. 
 During part of August and September he amused 
 himself by writing three numbers of a miniature 
 weekly paper called " The Spectator ; " and in Octo 
 ber we find that he had been composing poetry and 
 sending it to his sister Elizabeth, who was also exer 
 cising herself in verse. At this time he was employed 
 as a clerk, for a part of each day, in the office of an 
 other uncle, William Manning, proprietor of a great 
 
462 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 line of stages which then had extensive connections 
 throughout New England; but he did not find the 
 task congenial. " No man," he informed his sister, 
 " can be a poet and a book-keeper at the same time ; " 
 from which one infers his distinct belief that literature 
 was his natural vocation. The idea of remaining de 
 pendent for four years more on the bounty of his Un 
 cle Robert, who had so generously taken the place of 
 a father in giving him a support and education, op 
 pressed him, and he even contemplated not going to 
 college ; but go he finally did, taking up his residence 
 at Bowdoin with the class entering in 1821. 
 
 The village of Brunswick, where Bowdoin College is 
 situated, some thirty miles from Raymond, stands on 
 high ground beside the Androscoggin River, which is 
 there crossed by a bridge running zig-zag from bank 
 to bank, resting on various rocky ledges and producing 
 a picturesque effect. The village itself is ranged on 
 two sides of a broad street, which meets the river at 
 right angles, and has a mall in the centre that, in Haw 
 thorne s time, was little more than a swamp. This 
 street, then known as "sixteen -rod road," from its 
 width, continues in a straight line to Casco Bay, only 
 a few miles off ; so that the new student was still near 
 the sea and had a good course for his walks. If Har* 
 vard fifty and even twenty-five years ago had the look 
 of a rural college, Bowdoin was by comparison an 
 academy in a wilderness. " If this institution," says 
 Hawthorne in " Fanshawe," where he describes it un 
 der the name of Harley College, " did not offer all the 
 advantages of elder and prouder seminaries, its defi 
 ciencies were compensated to its students by the in 
 culcation of regular habits, and of a deep and awful 
 sense of religion, which seldom deserted them in their 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 463 
 
 course through life. The mild and gentle rule . . . 
 was more destructive to vice than a sterner sway ; and 
 though youth is never without its follies, they have sel 
 dom been more harmless than they were here." The 
 local resources for amusement or dissipation must have 
 been very limited, and the demands of the curriculum 
 not very severe. Details of Hawthorne s four years 
 stay at college are not forthcoming, otherwise than in 
 small quantity. His comrades who survived him never 
 have been able to give any very vivid picture of the 
 life there, or to recall any anecdotes of Hawthorne : 
 the whole episode has slipped away, like a dream from 
 which fragmentary glimpses alone remain. By one of 
 those unaccountable associations with trifles, which out 
 last more important memories, Professor Calvin Stowe 
 (to whom the authoress of "Uncle Tom s Cabin" was 
 afterwards married) remembers seeing Hawthorne, 
 then a member of the class below him, crossing the 
 college-yard one stormy day, attired in a brass-but 
 toned blue coat, with an umbrella over his head. The 
 wind caught the umbrella and turned it inside out ; 
 and what stamped the incident on Professor Stowe s 
 mind was the silent but terrible and consuming wrath 
 with which Hawthorne regarded the implement in its 
 utterly subverted and useless state, as he tried to rear 
 range it. Incidents of no greater moment and the 
 general effect of his presence seem to have created 
 the belief among his fellows that, beneath the bashful 
 quietude of his exterior, was stored a capability of ex 
 erting tremendous force in some form or other. He 
 was seventeen when he entered college, tall, broad- 
 chested, with clear, lustrous gray eyes, 1 a fresh com- 
 
 1 Both his friends, George William Curtis and George S. Hillard, 
 In writing about him, have made the mistake of assigning to him 
 
464 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 plexion, and long hair: his classmates were so im 
 pressed with his masculine beauty, and perhaps with 
 a sense of occult power in him, that they nicknamed 
 him Oberon. Although unusually calm-tempered, how 
 ever, he was quick to resent disrespectful treatment 
 (as he had been with John Knights), and his vigor 
 ous, athletic frame made him a formidable adversary. 
 In the same class with him were Henry W. Longfel 
 low ; George Barrell Cheever, since famous as a divine, 
 and destined to make a great stir in Salem by a satire 
 in verse called " Deacon Giles s Distillery," which cost 
 him a thirty days imprisonment, together with the loss 
 of his pastorate ; also John S. C. Abbott, the writer 
 of popular histories ; and Horatio Bridge, afterwards 
 Lieutenant in the United States Navy, and now Com 
 mander. Bridge and Franklin Pierce, who studied in 
 the class above him, were his most intimate friends. 
 He boarded in a house which had a stairway on the 
 outside, ascending to the second story ; he took part, I 
 suppose, in the " rope-pulls " and " hold-ins " between 
 Freshmen and Sophomores, if those customs were 
 practised then ; he was fined for card-playing and for 
 neglect of theme ; entered the Athenian Society, 
 which had a library of eight hundred volumes ; tried 
 to read Hume s " History of England," but found it 
 "abominably dull," and postponed the attempt; was 
 fond of whittling, and destroyed some of his furniture 
 in gratifying that taste. Such are the insignificant 
 particulars to which we are confined in attempting to 
 form an idea of the externals of his college-life. Pierce 
 was chairman of the Athenian Society, and also or 
 ganized a military company, which Hawthorne joined. 
 
 black or dark eyes ; an error perhaps due to the depth of shadowed 
 cavity in which they were seen under the high and massive forehead. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 465 
 
 In the Preface to " The Snow-Image " we are given a 
 glimpse of the simple amusements which occupied his 
 leisure : " While we were lads together at a country 
 college, gathering blueberries in study hours under 
 those tall academic pines ; or watching the great logs 
 as they tumbled along the current of the Androscog- 
 gin ; or shooting pigeons and gray squirrels in the 
 woods; or bat -fowling in the summer-twilight; or 
 catching trouts in that shadowy little stream which, 
 I suppose, is still wandering riverward through the 
 forest." He became proficient in Latin. Longfellow 
 was wont to recall how he would rise at recitation, 
 standing slightly sidewise attitude indicative of his 
 ingrained shyness and read from the Roman clas 
 sics translations which had a peculiar elegance and 
 charm. In writing English, too, he won a reputation, 
 and Professor Newman was often so struck with the 
 beauty of his work in this kind that he would read 
 them in the evening to his own family. Professor 
 Packard says : " His themes were written in the sus 
 tained, finished style that gives to his mature produc 
 tions an inimitable charm. The recollection is very 
 distinct of Hawthorne s reluctant step and averted 
 look, when he presented himself at the professor s 
 study and submitted a composition which no man in 
 his class could equal." 
 
 Hawthorne always looked back with satisfaction to 
 those simple and placid days. In 1852 he revisited 
 the scene where they were passed, in order to be pres 
 ent at the semi-centennial anniversary of the founding 
 of the college. A letter, from Concord (October 13, 
 1852), to Lieutenant Bridge, now for the first time 
 published, contains the following reference to that 
 event : 
 
 VOL. xw. 30 
 
466 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 " I meant to have told you about my visit to Bruns 
 wick. . . . Only eight of our classmates were present, 
 and they were a set of dismal old fellows, whose heads 
 looked as if they had been out in a pretty copious 
 shower of snow. The whole intermediate quarter of a 
 century vanished, and it seemed to me as if they had 
 undergone the miserable transformation in the course 
 of a single night especially as I myself felt just 
 about as young as when I graduated. They flattered 
 me with the assurance that time had touched me ten 
 derly ; but alas ! they were each a mirror in which I 
 beheld the reflection of my own age. I did not arrive 
 till after the public exercises were nearly over and 
 very luckily, too, for my praises had been sounded by 
 orator and poet, and of course my blushes would have 
 been quite oppressive." 
 
 Hawthorne s rank in his class entitled him to a 
 " part " at Commencement, but the fact that he had 
 not cultivated declamation debarred him from that 
 honor ; and so he passed quietly away from the life of 
 Bowdoin and settled down to his career. "I have 
 thought much upon the subject," he wrote to his sister, 
 just before graduation, " and have come to the con 
 clusion that I shall never make a distinguished figure 
 in the world, and all I hope or wish is to plod along 
 with the multitude." But declamation was not essen 
 tial to his success, which was to be achieved in anything 
 but a declamatory fashion. 
 
 II. 
 
 In one sense it was all very simple, this childhood 
 and youth and early training of Hawthorne. We can 
 Bee that the conditions were not complicated and were 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 467 
 
 quite homely. But the influence of good literature 
 had been at work upon the excellent mental substance 
 derived from a father who was fond of reading and a 
 mother who had the plain elementary virtues on which 
 so much depends, and great purity of soul. The com 
 posure and finish of style which he already had at 
 command on going to college were ripened amid the 
 homely conditions aforesaid: there must have been 
 an atmosphere of culture in his home, unpretentious 
 though the mode of life there was. His sister, as I 
 have mentioned, showed much the same tone, the same 
 commanding ease, in her writing. There existed a 
 dignity, a reserve, an instinctive refinement in this 
 old-fashioned household, which moved its members to 
 appropriate the best means of expression as by nat 
 ural right. They appear to have treated the most or 
 dinary affairs of life with a quiet stateliness, as if 
 human existence were really a thing to be considered 
 with respect, and with a frank interest that might oc 
 casionally even admit of enthusiasm or strong feel 
 ing with regard to an experience, although thousands 
 of beings might have passed through it before. Our 
 new horizons, physically enlarged by rapid travel, our 
 omnifarious culture, our passion for obtaining a glaze 
 of cosmopolitanism to cover the common clay from 
 which we are all moulded, do not often yield us any 
 thing essentially better than the narrow limits of the 
 little world in which Hawthorne grew up. He was 
 now to go back to Salem, which he once spoke of as 
 being apparently for him " the inevitable centre of the 
 universe ; " and the conditions there were not radically 
 altered from what they had been before. We can 
 form an outline of him as he was then, or at most a 
 Water-color sketch presenting the fresh hues of youth. 
 
468 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 the strong manly frame of the young graduate, his fine 
 deep-lighted eyes, and sensitively retiring ways. But 
 we have now to imagine the change that took place 
 in him from the recent college Senior to the maturing 
 man ; change that gradually transforms him from the 
 visionary outline of that earlier period to a solid re 
 ality of flesh and blood, a virile and efficient person 
 who still, while developing, did not lose the delicate 
 sensibility of his young prime. 
 
 His family having reestablished themselves in Salem, 
 at the old Herbert Street house, he settled himself with 
 them, and stayed there until December, 1828, mean 
 while publishing " Fanshawe " anonymously. They 
 then moved to a smaller house on Dearborn Street, 
 North Salem ; but after four years they again took up 
 their abode in the Herbert Street homestead. Haw 
 thorne wrote industriously ; first the " Seven Tales of 
 my Native Land," which he burned, and subsequently 
 the sketches and stories which, after appearing in cur 
 rent periodicals, were collected as " Twice-Told Tales." 
 In 1830 he took a carriage trip through parts of Con 
 necticut. " I meet with many marvellous adventures," 
 was a part of his news on this occasion, but they were 
 in reality adventures of a very tame description. He 
 visited New York and New Hampshire and Nan- 
 tucket, thus extending slightly his knowledge of men 
 and places. A great deal of discursive reading was 
 also accomplished. In 1836 he went to Boston to edit 
 for Mr. S. G. Goodrich " The American Magazine of 
 Useful and Entertaining Knowledge." It did not 
 turn out to be either useful or entertaining for the 
 editor, who was to be paid but $ 500 a year for his 
 drudgery, and in fact received only a small part of 
 that sum. Through Goodrich, he became a copious 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 469 
 
 Contributor to " The Token," in the pages of which his 
 tales first came to be generally known ; but he gave 
 up the magazine after a four months misery of editor 
 ship, and sought refuge once more in his native town. 
 Salem was an isolated place, was not even joined to 
 the outer world by its present link of railroad with 
 Boston, and afforded no very generous diet for a 
 young, vigorous, hungry intellect like that of Haw 
 thorne. Surroundings, however, cannot make a mind, 
 though they may color its processes. He proceeded 
 to extract what he could from the material at hand. 
 "His mode of life at this period was fitted to nur 
 ture his imagination, but must have put the endur 
 ance of his nerves to the severest test. The state 
 ment that for several years he never saw the sun is 
 entirely an error. In summer he was up shortly after 
 sunrise, and would go down to bathe in the sea ; but 
 it is true that he seldom chose to walk in the town 
 except at night, and it is said that he was extremely 
 fond of going to fires if they occurred after dark. The 
 morning was chiefly given to study, the afternoon to 
 writing, and in the evening he would take long walks, 
 exploring the coast from Gloucester to Marblehead 
 and Lynn a range of many miles. . . . Sometimes he 
 took the day for his rambles, wandering perhaps over 
 Endicott s ancient Orchard Farm and among the an 
 tique houses and grassy cellars of old Salem Village, 
 the witchcraft ground ; or losing himself among the 
 pines of Moiitserrat and in the silence of the Great 
 Pastures, or strolling along the beaches to talk with 
 old sailors and fishermen. " He had little commu 
 nication with even the members of his family. Fre 
 quently his meals were brought and left at his locked 
 door, and it was not often that the four inmates of the 
 
470 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 old Herbert Street mansion met in family circle. He 
 never read his stories aloud to his mother and sisters, 
 as might be imagined from the picture which Mr. 
 Fields draws of the young author reciting his new 
 productions to his listening family ; though, when they 
 met, he sometimes read older literature to them. It 
 was the custom in this household for the members to 
 remain very much by themselves : the three ladies were 
 perhaps nearly as rigorous recluses as himself ; and, 
 speaking of the isolation which reigned among them, 
 Hawthorne once said, We do not even live at our 
 house ! But still the presence of this near and gen 
 tle element is not to be underrated, as forming a very 
 great compensation in the cold and difficult morning 
 of his life." Of self-reliant mind, accustomed to soli 
 tude and fond of reading, it was not strange that they 
 should have fallen into these habits, which, however 
 peculiarly they may strike others, did not necessarily 
 spring from a morbid disposition, and never prevented 
 the Hawthornes from according a kindly reception to 
 their friends. 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne s own associates were not 
 numerous. There was a good society in the town, for 
 Salem was not, strictly speaking, provincial, but 
 aided in a degree by the separateness of its situation 
 retained very much its old independence as a commer 
 cial capital. There were people of wealth and culti 
 vation, of good lineage in our simple domestic kind, 
 who made considerable display in their entertainments 
 and were addicted to impressive absences in Paris 
 and London. Among these Hawthorne did not show 
 himself at all. His preference was for individuals 
 who had no pretensions whatever in the social way. 
 Among his friends was one William B. Pike, a car- 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 471 
 
 penter s son, who, after acquiring an ordinary public- 
 school education without passing through the higher 
 grades, adopted his father s trade, became a Method 
 ist class-leader, secondly a disciple of Swedenborg, 
 and at length a successful politician, being appointed 
 Collector of the port of Salem by President Pierce. 
 He is described as having " a strongly marked, benig 
 nant face, indicative of intelligence and individuality. 
 He was gray at twenty, and always looked older than 
 his years. ... He had a keen sense of the ludicrous, 
 a vivid recollection of localities and incidents, a quick 
 apprehension of peculiarities and traits, and was a 
 most graphic and entertaining narrator." l As Mr. 
 James has said : " Hawthorne had a democratic strain 
 in his composition, a relish for the common stuff of 
 human nature. He liked to fraternize with plain peo 
 ple, to take them on their own terms." It was the 
 most natural thing in the world for him to fancy such 
 a man as Pike is represented to have been. His So 
 ciety in college was the one which displayed a demo 
 cratic tendency; and, in addition to making friends 
 with persons of this stamp, men of some education 
 and much innate " go," he had a taste for loitering in 
 taverns where he could observe character in the rough, 
 without being called upon to take an active share in 
 talk. "Men," we are told, "who did not meddle with 
 him he loved, men who made no demands on him, who 
 offered him the repose of genial companionship. His 
 Afe-long friends were of this description, and his loy 
 alty to them was chivalrous and fearless, and so gen 
 erous that when they differed from him on matters of 
 opinion he rose at once above the difference and ad- 
 
 1 Hawthorne and his Friends Harper s Magazine, vol. 63 (July 
 1881). 
 
472 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 hered to them for what they really were." Inevitably, 
 such a basis for the selection of companions, coupled 
 with his extreme reserve, subjected him to criticism ; 
 but when, in 1835, his former classmate, the Rev. 
 George B. Cheever, was thrown into jail on account 
 of the satirical temperance pamphlet which has al 
 ready been referred to in this sketch, Hawthorne 
 emerged from his strict privacy, and daily visited the 
 imprisoned clergyman. He showed no especial love 
 for his native place, and in return it never made of 
 him a popular idol. At this initial epoch of his career 
 as an author there probably did not exist that active 
 ill-will which his chapter on the Custom House after 
 wards engendered ; he was in fact too little known to 
 be an object of malice or envy, and his humble friend 
 ships could not be made the ground of unfavorable 
 insinuations. The town, however, was not congenial to 
 him, and the profound retirement in which he dwelt, 
 the slow toil with scanty meed of praise or gold, and 
 the long waiting for recognition, doubtless weighed 
 upon and preyed upon him. 
 
 To stop at that would be to make a superficial sum 
 mary. His seclusion was also of the highest utility to 
 him, nay, almost indispensable to his development; 
 for his mind, which seemed to be only creeping, was 
 making long strides of growth in an original direction, 
 unhindered by arbitrary necessities or by factitious in 
 fluences. 
 
 Nevertheless, the process had gone on long enough ; 
 and it was well that circumstances now occurred to 
 bring it to a close, to establish new relations, and 
 draw him somewhat farther into the general circle of 
 human movement. Dr. Peabody, who has been spoken 
 af on a preceding page as living on the opposite side 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 473 
 
 of Union Street from Hawthorne s birthplace, had, 
 during the vicissitudes of the young author s educa 
 tion and journeys to and fro, changed his residence 
 and gone to Boston. No acquaintance had as yet 
 sprung up between the two families which had been 
 domiciled so near together, but in 1832 the Peabodys 
 returned to Salem ; and Miss Elizabeth, who followed 
 in 183G, having been greatly struck by the story of 
 " The Gentle Boy," and excited as to the authorship, 
 set on foot an investigation which resulted in her 
 meeting Hawthorne. It is an evidence of the ap- 
 proachableness, after all, of his secluded family, that 
 Miss Louisa Hawthorne should have received her 
 readily and with graciousness. Miss Peabody, having 
 formerly seen one of Miss Hawthorne s letters, had 
 supposed that she must be the writer of the stories, 
 under shelter of a masculine name. She now learned 
 her mistake. Months passed without any response 
 being made to her advance. But when the first vol 
 ume of " Twice-Told Tales " was issued, Hawthorne 
 sent it to her with his compliments. Up to this time 
 she had not obtained even a glimpse of him anywhere ; 
 and, in acknowledging his gift, she proposed that he 
 should call at her father s house ; but although matters 
 had proceeded thus far, and Dr. Peabody lived within 
 three minutes walk of Herbert Street, Hawthorne still 
 did not come. It was more than a year afterward that 
 she addressed an inquiry to him about a new maga 
 zine, and in closing asked him to bring his sisters to 
 call in the evening of the same day. This time he 
 made his appearance, was induced to accept an in 
 vitation to another house, and thus was led into be* 
 ginning a social intercourse which, though not exten< 
 sive, was unequalled in his previous experience. 
 
474 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 About a week after the first call, he came agaia 
 Miss Sophia Peabody, who was an invalid, had been 
 unable to appear before, but this time she entered the 
 room ; and it was thus that Hawthorne met the lady 
 whom he was to make his wife some two or three 
 years later. She was now about twenty-nine, and 
 younger by five years than Hawthorne. In childhood 
 her health had received a serious shock from the he 
 roic treatment then upheld by physicians, which fa 
 vored a free use of mercury, so that it became neces 
 sary from that time on to nurse her with the utmost 
 care. Many years of in valid ism had she suffered, be 
 ing compelled to stay in a darkened room through 
 long spaces of time, and although a sojourn in Cuba 
 had greatly benefited her, it was believed she could 
 never be quite restored to a normal state of well-being. 
 Despite such serious obstacles, she had gently per 
 sisted in reading and study; she drew and painted, 
 and no fear of flippant remark deterred her from at 
 tempting even to learn Hebrew. At the same time 
 she was a woman of the most exquisitely natural cul 
 tivation conceivable. A temperament inclined like 
 hers, from the beginning, to a sweet equanimity, may 
 have been assisted towards its proper culmination by 
 the habit of patience likely enough to result from the 
 continued endurance of pain ; but a serenity so benign 
 and so purely feminine and trustful as that which she 
 not displayed, but spontaneously exhaled, must have 
 rested on a primary and plenary inspiration of good 
 ness. All that she knew or saw sank into her mind 
 and took a place in the interior harmony of it, without 
 ruffling the surface ; and all that she thought or uttered 
 seemed to gain a fragrance and a flower-like quality 
 from having sprung thence. Neither were strength of 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 475 
 
 character and practical good sense absent from the com 
 pany of her calm wisdom and refinement. In brief, 
 no fitter mate for Hawthorne could have existed. 
 
 Soon after their acquaintance began, she showed 
 him, one evening, a large outline drawing which she 
 had made, to illustrate "The Gentle Boy," and asked 
 him: " Does that look like Ilbrahim ? " 
 
 Hawthorne, without other demonstration, replied 
 quietly : " Ilbrahim will never look otherwise to me." 
 
 The drawing was shown to Washington Allston, 
 who accorded it his praise ; and a Miss Burleigh, who 
 was among the earliest admirers of Hawthorne s gen 
 ius, having offered to pay the cost of an engraving 
 from it, the design was reproduced and printed with 
 a new special edition of the story, accompanied by a 
 Preface, and a Dedication to Miss Sophia Peabody. 
 The three sisters and two brothers who composed the 
 family of Dr. Peabody were strongly imbued with in 
 tellectual tastes : nothing of importance in literature, 
 art, or the philosophy of education escaped them, when 
 once it was brought to their notice by the facilities of 
 the time. Miss Sophia was not only well read and a 
 very graceful amateur in the practice of drawing and 
 painting, but evinced furthermore a somewhat remark 
 able skill in scidpture. About the year 1831, she 
 modelled a bust of Laura Bridgman, the blind girl, 
 who was then a child of twelve years. This portrait 
 not only was said to be a very good likeness, but 
 although it is marred by a representation of the pecul 
 iar band used to protect the eyes of the patient has 
 considerable artistic value, and attains very nearly to 
 a classic purity of form and treatment. Miss Peabody 
 also executed a medallion portrait, in relief, of Charles 
 Emerson, the brilliant brother of Ralph Waldo Emer- 
 
476 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 son, whose great promise was frustrated by his prema 
 ture death. This medallion was done from memory. 
 The artist had once seen Mr. Emerson while he was 
 lecturing, and was so strongly impressed by his elo 
 quent profile that, on going home, she made a memory- 
 sketch of it in pencil, which supplied a germ for the 
 portrait in clay which she attempted after his death. 
 
 The appearance of the "Twice-Told Tales" in book- 
 form had, like that of the " Gentle Boy " design, been 
 due to the kindness of a friend. In this case it was 
 Lieutenant Bridge who became responsible for the ex 
 pense ; and the volume met with, if not much pecun 
 iary success, a gratifying literary renown. The author 
 sent a copy to Longfellow, who acknowledged it cor 
 dially ; and then Hawthorne wrote him as follows : 
 
 " By some witchcraft or other for I really cannot 
 assign any reasonable cause I have been carried 
 apart from the main current of life, and find it im 
 possible to get back again. Since we last met, which 
 you remember was in SawtelTs room, where you read 
 a farewell poem to the relics of the class ever since 
 that time I have secluded myself from society ; and 
 yet I never meant any such thing nor dreamed what 
 sort of life I was going to lead. . . . For the last 
 ten years I have not lived, but only dreamed of liv 
 ing. . . . 
 
 " As to my literary efforts, I do not think much of 
 them, neither is it worth while to be ashamed of them. 
 They would have been better, I trust, if written under 
 more favorable circumstances." 
 
 But Longfellow broke out, as it were, into an exult 
 ing ciy over them, which echoed from the pages of the 
 next " North American Keview." l His notice wag 
 
 1 Vol. 45 (July, 1837), p. 59. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 477 
 
 hardly a criticism ; it was a eulogy, bristling 1 with the 
 adornment of frequent references to European litera 
 ture ; but it is worth while to recall a few of its sen 
 tences. 
 
 " When a star rises in the heavens," said Longfel 
 low, " people gaze after it for a season with the naked 
 eye, and with such telescopes as they may find. In 
 the stream of thought, which flows so peacefully deep 
 and clear through this book, we see the bright reflec* 
 tion of a spiritual star, after which men will be prone 
 to gaze with the naked eye and with the spy-glasses 
 of criticism. ... To this little work we would say, 
 4 Live ever, sweet, sweet book. It comes from the 
 hand of a man of genius. Everything about it has 
 the freshness of morning and of May. . . . The book, 
 though in prose, is nevertheless written by a poet. 
 He looks upon all things in a spirit of love and with 
 lively sympathies. A calm, thoughtful face seems to 
 be looking at you from every page ; with now and then 
 a pleasant smile, and now a shade of sadness steal 
 ing over its features. Sometimes, though not often, it 
 glares wildly at you, with a strange and painful ex 
 pression, as, in the German romance, the bronze 
 knocker of the Archivarius Lindhorst makes up faces 
 at the student Anselm. . . . One of the prominent 
 characteristics of these tales is that they are national 
 in their character. The author has wisely chosen his 
 themes among the traditions of New England. . . . 
 This is the right material for story. It seems as nat 
 ural to make tales out of old tumble-down traditions 
 as canes and snuff-boxes out of old steeples, or trees 
 planted by great men." 
 
 This hearty utterance of Longfellow s not only was 
 of advantage to the young author publicly, but also 
 
478 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 doubtless threw a bright ray of encouragement into 
 the morning-dusk which was then the pervading at- 
 mosphere of his little study, which he termed his 
 " owl s nest." " I have to-day," he wrote back, " re 
 ceived and read with huge delight, your review of 
 Hawthorne s Twice-Told Tales. I frankly own that 
 I was not without hopes that you would do this kind 
 office for the book ; though I could not have antici 
 pated how very kindly it would be done. Whether 
 or no the public will agree to the praise which you 
 bestow on me, there are at least five persons who 
 think you the most sagacious critic on earth, viz., 
 my mother and two sisters, my old maiden aunt, and 
 finally the strongest believer of the whole five, my own 
 self. If I doubt the sincerity and earnestness of any 
 of my critics, it shall be of those who censure me. 
 Hard would be the lot of a poor scribbler, if he may 
 not have this privilege." 
 
 His pleasant intimacy with the Peabodys went on ; 
 the dawn of his new epoch broadened, and he began 
 to see in Miss Sophia Peabody the figure upon which 
 his hopes, his plans for the future converged. Her 
 father s house stood on the edge of the Charter Street 
 Burying-Ground, oldest of the Salem cemeteries. "A 
 three-story wooden house " thus he has described it 
 " perhaps a century old, low-studded, with a square 
 front, standing right upon the street, and a small en 
 closed porch, containing the main entrance, affording 
 a glimpse up and down the street through an oval win 
 dow on each side : its characteristic was decent respec 
 tability, not sinking below the level of the genteel." 
 In his " Note-Books " (July 4, 1837) he speaks of the 
 old graveyard. "A slate gravestone round the bor 
 ders, to the memory of Col. John Hathorne Esq., 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 479 
 
 who died in 1717. This was the witch-judge. The 
 stone is sunk deep into the earth, and leans forward, 
 and the grass grows very long around it. ... Other 
 Hathornes lie buried in a range with him on either 
 side. ... It gives strange ideas, to think how con 
 venient to Dr. P s family this burial-ground is, 
 
 the monuments standing almost within arm s reach of 
 the side-windows of the parlor and there being a 
 little gate from the back-yard through which we step 
 forth upon those old graves aforesaid. And the tomb 
 of the P - family is right in front, and close to the 
 gate." Among the other Hathornes interred there 
 are Captain Daniel, the privateersman, and a Mr. 
 John Hathorne, "grandson of the Hon. John Ha- 
 thorne," who died in 1758. The specification of his 
 grandfather s name, with the prefix, shows that the re 
 lentless condemner of witches was still held in honor 
 at Salem, in the middle of the eighteenth century. 
 Dr. Peabody s house and this adjoining burial-ground 
 form the scene of the unfinished " Dolliver Romance," 
 and also supply the setting for the first part of " Dr. 
 Grimshawe s Secret." In the latter we find it pictured 
 with a Rembrandtesque depth of tone : 
 
 " It stood in a shabby by-street and cornered on a 
 graveyard. . . . Here were old brick tombs with curi 
 ous sculpture on them, and quaint gravestones, some 
 of which bore puffy little cherubs, and one or two 
 others the effigies of eminent Puritans, wrought out 
 to a button, a fold of the ruff, and a wrinkle of the 
 skull-cap. . . . Here used to be some specimens of 
 English garden flowers, which could not be accounted 
 for unless, perhaps, they had sprung from some 
 English maiden s heart, where the intense love of 
 those homely things and regret of them in the foreign 
 
480 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 land, had conspired together to keep their vivifying 
 principle. . . . Thus rippled and surged with its hun 
 dreds of little billows the old graveyard about the 
 house which cornered upon it ; it made the street 
 gloomy so that people did not altogether like to pass 
 along the high wooden fence that shut it in ; and the 
 old house itself, covering ground which else had been 
 thickly sown with bodies, partook of its dreariness, be 
 cause it hardly seemed possible that the dead people 
 should not get up out of their graves and steal in to 
 warm themselves at this convenient fireside." 
 
 This was the place in which Hawthorne conducted 
 his courtship ; but we ought not to lose sight of the 
 fact that, in the account above quoted, he was writing 
 imaginatively, indulging his fancy, and dwelling on 
 particular points for the sake of heightening the effect. 
 It is not probable that he associated gloomy fantasies 
 with his own experience as it progressed in these sur 
 roundings. Here as elsewhere it is important to bear 
 in mind the distinction which Dr. Lorinjr has made : 
 
 O 
 
 " Throughout life," he declares, " Hawthorne led a 
 twofold existence a real and a supernatural. As a 
 man, he was the realest of men. From childhood to 
 old age, he had great physical powers. His massive 
 head sat upon a strong and muscular neck, and his 
 chest was broad and capacious. His strength was 
 great ; his hand and foot were large and well made. 
 ... In walking, he had a firm step and a great stride 
 without effort. In early manhood he had abounding 
 health, a good digestion, a hearty enjoyment of food. 
 His excellent physical condition gave him a placid and 
 even temper, a cheerful spirit. He was a silent man 
 and often a moody one, but never irritable or morose ; 
 his organization was too grand for that. He was a 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 481 
 
 most delightful companion. In conversation he was 
 never controversial, never authoritative, and never ab 
 sorbing. In a multitude his silence was oppressive ; 
 but with a single companion his talk flowed on sensi 
 bly, quietly, and full of wisdom and shrewdness. He 
 discussed books with wonderful acuteness, sometimes 
 with startling power, and with an unexpected verdict, 
 as if Shakespeare were discussing Ben Jon son. He 
 analyzed men, their characters and motives and capac 
 ity, with great penetration, impartially if a stranger 
 or an enemy, with the tenderest and most touching 
 justice if a friend. He was fond of the companion 
 ship of all who were in sympathy with this real and 
 human side of his life." But there was another side 
 of his being, for which we may adopt the name that 
 Dr. Loring has given it, the " supernatural." It was 
 this which gave him his high distinction. " When he 
 entered upon his work as a writer, he left" behind 
 him his other and accustomed personality by which he 
 was known in general intercourse. " In this work he 
 allowed no interference, he asked for no aid. He was 
 shy of those whose intellectual power and literary 
 fame might seem to give them a right to enter his 
 sanctuary. In an assembly of illustrious authors and 
 thinkers, he floated, reserved and silent, around the 
 margin in the twilight of the room, and at last van 
 ished into the outer darkness ; and when he was gone, 
 Mr. Emerson said of him : Hawthorne rides well his 
 horse of the night. The working of his mind was so 
 sacred and mysterious to him that he was impatient of 
 any attempt at familiarity or even intimacy with the 
 divine power within him. His love of personal soli 
 tude was a ruling passion, his intellectual solitude was 
 an overpowering necessity. , . . Hawthorne said him- 
 
 VOL. xii. 31 
 
482 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 self that his work grew in his brain as it went on, 
 and was beyond his control or direction, for nature 
 was his guide. ... I have often thought that he un 
 derstood his own greatness so imperfectly, that he 
 dared not expose the mystery to others, and that the 
 sacredness of his genius was to him like the sacredness 
 of his love." 
 
 And did not Hawthorne write to his betrothed wife ? 
 " Lights and shadows are continually flitting across 
 my inward sky, and I know not whence they come nor 
 whither they go ; nor do I inquire too closely into 
 them. It is dangerous to look too minutely into such 
 phenomena." What we may collect and set down of 
 mere fact about his surroundings and his acts relates 
 itself, therefore, mainly to his outwardly real existence, 
 to the mere shell or mask of him, which was all that 
 anybody could behold with the eyes ; and as for the 
 interior and ideal existence, it is not likely that we 
 shall securely penetrate very far, where his own im 
 partial and introverted gaze stopped short. It is but 
 a rough method to infer with brusque self-confidence 
 that we may judge from a few words here and there 
 the whole of his thought and feeling. A fair enough 
 notion may be formed as to the status of his post- 
 collegiate life in Salem, from the data we have, but 
 we can do no more than guess at its formative influ 
 ence upon his genius. And I should be sorry to give 
 an impression that because his courtship went on in 
 the old house by the graveyard, of which he has writ 
 ten so soberly, there was any shadow of melancholy 
 upon that initiatory period of a new happiness. His 
 reflections concerning the spot had to do with his im 
 aginative, or if one choose, his " supernatural," exis 
 tence ; what actually passed there had to do with the 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 483 
 
 real and the personal, and with the life of the affec 
 tions. We may be sure that the meeting of two such 
 perfected spirits, so in harmony one with another, was 
 attended with no qualified degree of joy. If it was 
 calm and reticent, without rush of excitement or ex 
 uberant utterance, this was because movement at its 
 acme becomes akin to rest. Let us leave his love in 
 that sanctity which, in his own mind, it shared with 
 his genius. 
 
 Picturesquely considered, however, and the pict 
 uresque never goes very deep, it is certainly inter 
 esting to observe that Hawthorne and his wife, both 
 of Salem families, should have been born on opposite 
 sides of the same street, within the sound of a voice ; 
 should have gone in separate directions, remaining un 
 aware of each other s existence ; and then should finally 
 have met, when well beyond their first youth, in an old 
 house on the borders of the ancient burial-ground in 
 which the ancestors of both reposed, within hail of the 
 spot where both had first seen the light. 
 
 When they became engaged, there was opposition 
 to the match on the part of Hawthorne s family, who 
 regarded the seemingly confirmed invalidism of Miss 
 Peabody as an insuperable objection ; but this could 
 not be allowed to stand in the way of a union so evi 
 dently pointed out by providential circumstance and 
 inherent adaptability in those who were to be the par^ 
 ties to it. The engagement was a long one ; but in 
 the interval before her marriage Miss Peabody s health 
 materially improved. 
 
484 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 III. 
 
 The new turn of affairs of course made Hawthorne 
 impatient to find some employment more immediately 
 productive than that with the pen. He was profoundly 
 dissatisfied, also, with his elimination from the active 
 life of the world. " I am tired of being an orna 
 ment ! " he said with great emphasis, to a friend. " I 
 want a little piece of land of my own, big enough to 
 stand upon, big enough to be buried in. I want to 
 have something to do with this material world." And, 
 striking his hand vigorously upon a table that stood 
 by : " If I could only make tables," he declared, " I 
 should feel myself more of a man." 
 
 President Van Buren had entered on the second 
 year of his term, and Mr. Bancroft, the historian, was 
 Collector of the port of Boston. One evening the lat 
 ter was speaking, in a circle of whig friends, of the 
 splendid things which the democratic administration 
 was doing for literary men. 
 
 " But there s Hawthorne," suggested Miss Eliza 
 beth Peabody, who was present. " You Ve done noth 
 ing for him." 
 
 " He won t take anything/ 7 was the answer : " he 
 has been offered places." 
 
 In fact, Hawthorne s friends in political life, Pierce 
 and Jonathan Cilley, had urged him to enter politics ; 
 and at one time he had been offered a post in the 
 West Indies, but refused it because he would not live 
 in a slaveholding community. 
 
 " I happen to know," said Miss Peabody, " that he 
 Would be very glad of employment." 
 
 The result was that a small position in the Boston 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 485 
 
 Custom House was soon awarded to the young au 
 thor. On going down from Salem to inquire about 
 it, he received another and better appointment as 
 weigher and ganger. His friend Pike was installed 
 there at the same time. To Longfellow, Hawthorne 
 wrote in good spirits : 
 
 "I have no reason to doubt my capacity to fulfil 
 the duties ; for I don t know what they are. They tell 
 me that a considerable portion of my time will be un 
 occupied, the which I mean to employ in sketches of 
 my new experience, under some such titles as follows : 
 4 Scenes In Dock, 4 Voyages at Anchor, Nibblings 
 of a Wharf Rat, Trials of a Tide-Waiter, 4 Romance 
 of the Revenue Service, together with an ethical work 
 in two volumes on the subject of Duties ; the first vol 
 ume to treat of moral duties and the second of duties 
 imposed by the revenue laws, which I begin to con 
 sider the most important." 
 
 His hopes regarding unoccupied time were not ful 
 filled ; he was unable to write with freedom during his 
 term of service in Boston, and the best result of it 
 for us is contained in those letters, extracts from which 
 Mrs. Hawthorne published in the first volume of the 
 " American Note-Books." The benefit to him lay in 
 the moderate salary of $1,200, from which the cheap 
 ness of living at that time and his habitual economy 
 enabled him to lay up something ; and in the contact 
 with others which his work involved. He might have 
 saved time for writing if he had chosen ; but the wages 
 of the wharf laborers depended on the number of 
 hours they worked, and Hawthorne true to his in 
 stinct of democratic sympathy and of justice made 
 it a point to reach the wharf at the earliest hour, no 
 matter what the weather might be, solely for the con- 
 
486 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 venience of the men. " It pleased me," he says in one 
 of his letters, " to think that I also had a part to act 
 in the material and tangible business of life, and that 
 a portion of all this industry could not have gone on 
 without my presence." 
 
 But when he had had two years of this sort of toil 
 the Whigs elected a President, and Hawthorne was 
 dropped from the civil service. The project of an 
 ideal community just then presented itself, and from 
 Boston he went to Brook Farm, close by in Roxbury. 
 The era of Transcendentalism had arrived, and Dr. 
 George Ripley, an enthusiastic student of philosophy 
 and a man of wide information, sought to give the new 
 tendencies a practical turn in the establishment of a 
 modified socialistic community. The Industrial Asso 
 ciation which he proposed to plant at West Roxbury 
 was wisely planned with reference to the conditions of 
 American life ; it had no affinity with the erratic views 
 of Enfantin or St. Simon, nor did it in the least par 
 take of the errors of Robert Owen regarding the rela 
 tion of the sexes ; although it agreed with Fourier and 
 Owen both, if I understand the aim rightly, in respect 
 of labor. Dr. Ripley s simple object was to distrib 
 ute labor in such a way as to give all men time for 
 culture, and to free their minds from the debasing in 
 fluence of a merely selfish competition. "A few men 
 of like views and feelings," one of his sympathizers has 
 said, " grouped themselves around him, not as their 
 master, but as their friend and brother, and the com 
 munity at Brook Farm was instituted." Charles A. 
 Dana and Minot Pratt were leading spirits in the en 
 terprise ; the young Brownson, George William Curtis, 
 and Horace Sumner (a younger brother of Charles) 
 were also engaged in it, at various times. The place 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 487 
 
 was a kind of granary of true grit. Hawthorne has 
 characterized the community in that remark which he 
 applied to Blithedale : " They were mostly individuals 
 who had gone through such an experience as to dis 
 gust them with ordinary pursuits, but who were not 
 yet so old, nor had suffered so deeply, as to lose their 
 faith in the better time to come." Miss E. P. Pea- 
 body had at that time left Salem and begun a publish 
 ing business in Boston, being one of the first women 
 of our time to embark in an occupation thought to ap 
 pertain exclusively to men ; and at her rooms some of 
 the preliminary meetings of the new association were 
 held. Thus it happened that the scheme was speedily 
 brought to Hawthorne s notice. When his accession to 
 the ranks was announced, Dr. Ripley, as he said to the 
 present writer, felt as if a miracle had occurred, " or 
 as if the heavens would presently be opened and we 
 should see Jacob s Ladder before us. But we never 
 came any nearer to having that, than our old ladder 
 in the barn, from floor to hayloft." Besides his belief 
 in the theory of an improved condition of society, and 
 his desire to forward its accomplishment, Hawthorne 
 had two objects in joining the community: one of 
 which was to secure a suitable and economical home 
 after marriage ; the other, to hit upon a mode of life 
 which should equalize the sum of his exertions between 
 body and brain. Many persons went thither in just 
 the same frame of mind. 
 
 From a distance, the life that was led there has a 
 very pretty and idyllic look. There was teaching, and 
 there was intellectual talk ; there was hard domestic 
 and farming work in pleasant companionship, and a 
 general effort to be disinterested. The various build 
 ings in which the associators found shelter were bap- 
 
488 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 tized with cheerful and sentimental names ; The Hi 76, 
 The Pilgrim House, The Nest, The Eyrie, and The 
 Cottage. The young women sang as they washed the 
 dishes, and the more prepossessing and eligible of the 
 yeomen sometimes volunteered to help them with their 
 unpoetic and saponaceous task. The costume of the 
 men included a blouse of checked or plaided stuff, 
 belted at the waist, and a rough straw hat ; and the 
 women also wore hats, in defiance of the fashion then 
 ruling, and chose calico for their gowns. In the even 
 ings, poems and essays composed by the members, or 
 else a play of Shakespeare, would be read aloud in the 
 principal gathering held at one of the houses. A great 
 deal of individual liberty was allowed, and Hawthorne 
 probably availed himself of this to keep as much as 
 possible out of sight. One might fancy, on a casual 
 glance, that Brook Farm was the scene of a prolonged 
 picnic. But it was not so at all. Hawthorne had 
 hoped that by devoting six hours a day to mechanical 
 employments, he could earn the time he needed for 
 writing ; but, as it proved, the manual labor more 
 nearly consumed sixteen hours, according to Dr. Rip- 
 ley, who declared of Hawthorne that " he worked like 
 a dragon ! " 
 
 Sundry of Hawthorne s common sense observations 
 and conclusions upon the advisability of his remaining 
 at the farm are to be found in his " Note-Books," and 
 have often been quoted and criticised. They show 
 that, as might be expected in a person of candor and 
 good judgment, he was considering the whole phe 
 nomenon upon the practical side. There is an in 
 structive passage also in " The Blithedale Romance," 
 which undoubtedly refers to his own experience : 
 
 " Though fond of society, I was so constituted as to 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 489 
 
 need these occasional retirements, even in a life like 
 that of Blithedale, which was itself characterized by a 
 remoteness from the world. Unless renewed by a yet 
 further withdrawal towards the inner circle of self- 
 communion, I lost the better part of my individuality. 
 My thoughts became of little worth, and my sensibili 
 ties grew as arid as a tuft of moss . . . crumbling in 
 the sunshine, after long expectance of a shower." 
 
 The whole thing was an experiment for everybody 
 concerned, and Hawthorne found it best to withdraw 
 from a further prosecution thereof, as persons were 
 constantly doing who had come to see if the life would 
 suit them. He had contributed a thousand dollars 
 (the chief part of his savings in the Custom House) 
 to the funds of the establishment ; and, some time 
 after he quitted the place, an effort was made among 
 the most influential gentlemen of Brook Farm to re 
 store this sum to him, although they were not, I be 
 lieve, bound to do so. Whether or not they ever car 
 ried out this purpose has not been learned. The com 
 munity flourished for four years and was financially 
 sound, but in 1844 it entered into bonds of brother 
 hood with a Fourieristic organization in New York, 
 began to build a Phalanstery, attempted to enlarge its 
 range of industry, and came to grief. No one of its 
 chief adherents has ever written its history ; but per 
 haps Mr. Frothingham is right in saying that "As 
 pirations have no history." l At all events Hawthorne, 
 in " The Blithedale Romance," which explicitly dis 
 claims any close adherence to facts or any criticism 
 on the experiment, has furnished the best chronicle it 
 has had, so far as the spirit of the scheme is concerned. 
 
 Having tried the utmost isolation for ten years iu 
 1 Transcendentalism in New England* 
 
490 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Salem, and finding it unsatisfactory ; and having 
 made a venture in an opposite extreme at Brook Farm, 
 which was scarcely more to his liking, Hawthorne had 
 unconsciously passed through the best of preparation 
 for that family life of comparative freedom, and of 
 solitude alternating with a gentle and perfect compan 
 ionship, on which he was about to enter. In July, 
 1842, Rev. James Freeman Clarke, of Boston, received 
 the following note, dated from 54 Pinckney Street, 
 which was the residence of Hawthorne s friend, George 
 S. Hillard: 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, Though personally a stranger to 
 you, I am about to request of you the greatest favor 
 which I can receive from any man. I am to be mar 
 ried to Miss Sophia Peabody ; and it is our mutual 
 desire that you should perform the ceremony. Unless 
 it should be decidedly a rainy day, a carriage will call 
 for you at half past eleven o clock in the forenoon. 
 Very respectfully yours, 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 The wedding took place quietly, and Hawthorne 
 carried his bride to the Manse at Concord, the old 
 parsonage of that town. It belonged to the descend 
 ants of Dr. Ezra Ripley, who had been pastor there at 
 the close of the last century ; they were relatives of 
 the George Bipley with whom Hawthorne had so re 
 cently been associated at Brook Farm. Hawthorne 
 had succeeded in hiring the place for a time, and was 
 happy in beginning his married life in a house so well 
 in keeping with his tastes. The best account of this, 
 his first sojourn in Concord, is to be found in the 
 " American Note-Books," and in the Introduction to 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 491 
 
 the "Mosses from an Old Manse." Here his first 
 child was born, a daughter, to whom the name of Una l 
 was given, from " The Faerie Queen " ; and here he 
 saw something of Emerson and of Margaret Fuller. 
 Among his visitors, who were never many, was George 
 Stillman Hillard, a Democrat, a lawyer, an editor, an 
 orator in high favor with the Bostonians, and the au 
 thor of several works both of travel and of an edu 
 cational kind. Mr. George P. Bradford, with whom 
 Hawthorne had talked and toiled at Brook Farm, was 
 a cousin of the Ripleys, and also came hither as a 
 friend. Another Brook Farmer appeared at the 
 Manse, in the person of one Frank Farley, a man of 
 some originality, who had written a little book on 
 natural scenery and had been a frontiersman, but was 
 subject to a mild, loquacious form of insanity. (^Men- 
 tion of him as " Mr. F " is made in the "Ameri 
 can Note-Books," under date of June 6 and June 10, 
 1844.) A writer in one of the magazines has recorded 
 the impression which Hawthorne left on the minds of 
 others who saw him during this period, but did not 
 know him. Among the villagers " a report was cur 
 rent that this man Hawthorne was somewhat uncanny 
 in point of fact, not altogether sane. My friend, the 
 son of a Concord farmer and at that time a raw college 
 youth, had heard these bucolic whisperings as to the 
 sanity of the recluse dweller at the ancient parsonage ; 
 but he knew nothing of the man, had read none of his 
 productions, and of course took no interest in what 
 was said or surmised about him. And one day, cast 
 ing his eye toward the Manse as he was passing, he 
 saw Hawthorne up the pathway, standing with folded 
 a-rms in motionless attitude, and with eyes fixed upon 
 1 She died, unmarried, in September, 1877. 
 
492 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 the ground. Poor fellow, was his unspoken com 
 ment : he does look as if he might be daft. And 
 when, on his return a full hour afterward, Hawthorne 
 was still standing in the same place and attitude, the 
 lad s very natural conclusion was, 4 The man is daft, 
 sure enough ! Mr. Thomas Wentworth Higginson 
 has presented quite a different view, in his " Short 
 Studies of American Authors." He says : 
 
 u The self-contained purpose of Hawthorne, the large 
 resources, the waiting power, these seem to the im 
 agination to imply an ample basis of physical life ; 
 and certainly his stately and noble port is inseparable, 
 in my memory, from these characteristics. Vivid as 
 this impression is, I yet saw him but twice, and never 
 spoke to him. I first met him on a summer morning, 
 in Concord, as he was walking along the road near the 
 Old Manse, with his wife by his side and a noble look 
 ing baby-boy in a little wagon which the father was 
 pushing. I remember him as tall, firm, and strong in 
 bearing. . . . When I passed, Hawthorne lifted upon 
 me his great gray eyes with a look too keen to seem 
 indifferent, too shy to be sympathetic and that was 
 all." 1 
 
 Hawthorne s plan of life was settled ; he was happily 
 married, and the problems of his youth were solved : 
 his character and his genius were formed. From this 
 point on, therefore, his works and his " Note- Books " 
 impart the essentials of his career. The main business 
 of the biographer is, after this, to put together that 
 which will help to make real the picture of the author 
 grappling with those transient emergencies that consti- 
 
 1 The allusion to a baby-boy is confusing, because Mr. Julian Haw 
 thorne was not born at Concord, and when the family returned thitbeT 
 to occupy The Wayside, he was about six years old. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 493 
 
 tute the tangible part of his history. A few extracts 
 from letters written to Horatio Bridge, heretofore un 
 published, come under this head. 
 
 Concord, March 25, 1843. " I did not come to see 
 you, because I was very short of cash having been 
 disappointed in money that I had expected from three 
 or four sources. My difficulties of this kind some 
 times make me sigh for the regular monthly payments 
 of the Custom House. The system of slack payments 
 in this country is most abominable. ... I find no 
 difference in anybody in this respect, for all do wrong 
 
 alike. is just as certain to disappoint me in 
 
 money matters as any little pitiful scoundrel among 
 the booksellers. For my part, I am compelled to dis 
 appoint those who put faith in my engagements ; and 
 so it goes round." 
 
 The following piece of advice with regard to notes 
 for the " Journal of an African Cruiser," by Mr. 
 Bridge, which Hawthorne was to edit, is worth ob 
 serving and has never before been given to the pub 
 lic :- 
 
 " I would advise you not to stick too accurately to 
 the bare facts, either in your descriptions or your nar 
 ratives ; else your hand will be cramped, and the re 
 sult will be a want of freedom that will deprive you 
 of a higher truth than that which you strive to attain. 
 Allow your fancy pretty free license, and omit no 
 heightening touches merely because they did not 
 chance to happen before your eyes. If they did not 
 happen, they at least ought which is all that con 
 cerns you. This is the secret of all entertaining trav 
 ellers. . . . Begin to write always before the impres 
 sion of novelty has worn off from your mind ; else you 
 will soon begin to think that the peculiarities which 
 
494 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 at first interested you are not worth recording ; yet 
 these slight peculiarities are the very things that make 
 the most vivid impression upon the reader." In this 
 same letter (May 3, 1843) he reverts to the finan 
 cial difficulty, and speaks of a desire to obtain office 
 again, but adds : "It is rather singular that I should 
 need an office; for nobody s scribblings seem to be 
 more acceptable to the public than mine ; and yet I 
 still find it a tough match to gain a respectable living 
 by my pen." 
 
 By November of 1844 he had put things seriously 
 in train for procuring another government position ; 
 Polk having been elected to the Presidency. There 
 was a rumor that Tyler had actually fixed upon Haw 
 thorne for the postmastership of Salem, but had been 
 induced to withdraw the name ; and this was the office 
 upon which he fixed his hope ; but a hostile party 
 made itself felt in Salem, which raised all possible 
 obstacles, and apparently Hawthorne s former chief, 
 Mr. Bancroft, it may have been for some reason 
 connected with political management, opposed his 
 nomination. Early in October, 1845, Hawthorne 
 made his farewell to the Old Manse, never to return 
 to the shelter of its venerable and high-shouldered 
 roof. Once more he went to Salem, and halted in 
 Herbert Street. The postmastership had proved un 
 attainable, but there was a prospect of his becoming 
 Naval Officer or Surveyor. The latter position was 
 given him at length ; but not until the spring of 
 1846. On first arriving at Salem, he wrote to Bridge: 
 " Here I am, again established in the old chamber 
 where I wasted so many years of my life. I find it 
 rather favorable to my literary duties ; for I have al 
 ready begun to sketch out the story for Wiley & Put 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 495 
 
 nam," an allusion to something intended to fill out a 
 volume of the " Mosses," already negotiated for. Af 
 ter his installation as Surveyor he wrote, speaking 
 of his "moderate prosperity," and said further: "I 
 have written nothing for the press since my entrance 
 into office, but intend to begin soon. My Mosses 
 seem to have met with good acceptance." Time went 
 on, however, and he remained, so far as literary pro 
 duction was concerned, inert. He had left the Man 
 ning homestead and hired a house in Chestnut Street, 
 which he kept for a year and a half. During this 
 period Mrs. Hawthorne went to Boston for a time, 
 and in Carver Street, Boston, was born their second 
 child and only son, Mr. Julian Hawthorne, who has 
 since made a reputation for himself as a novelist. 
 From Chestnut Street he went to another house, in 
 Mall Street ; and it was there that " The Scarlet Let 
 ter " was finished, in 1850, four years after he had an 
 nounced to Bridge that he intended soon to begin 
 composition. The Custom House routine disturbed 
 his creative moods and caused a gradual postponement 
 of literary effort. Of the figure that he made while 
 fulfilling the functions assigned to him, slight traces 
 have been left. We are told, for example, that two 
 Shakers, leaders in their community, visited the Cus 
 tom House one day, and were conducted through its 
 several departments. On the way out, they passed 
 Hawthorne, and no sooner had they left his room 
 than, the door being shut behind them, the elder 
 brother asked with great interest who that man was. 
 After referring to the strong face, " and those eyes, 
 the most wonderful he had ever beheld," he said : 
 " Mark my words, that man will in some way make a 
 deep impression upon the world." It is also remem- 
 
496 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 bered that a rough and overbearing sea-captain at 
 tempted to interfere with Hawthorne s exercise of his 
 duty as an inspector of the customs, in charge of the 
 ship. His attempt " was met with such a terrific up 
 rising of spiritual and physical wrath that the dis 
 mayed captain fled up the wharf " and took refuge 
 with the Collector, " inquiring with a sailor s emotion 
 and a sailor s tongue : What in God s name have you 
 sent on board my ship for an inspector ? Unex 
 pectedly, in the winter of 1849, he was deprived of his 
 surveyorship ; a great surprise to him, because he had 
 understood certain of his fellow-citizens of Salem to 
 have given a pledge that they would not seek his re 
 moval, and it appeared that they had, notwithstanding, 
 gone to work to oust him. 
 
 On finding himself superseded, he walked away from 
 the Custom House, returned home, and entering sat 
 down in the nearest chair, without uttering a word. 
 Mrs. Hawthorne asked him if he was well. 
 
 " Well enough," was the answer. 
 
 " What is the matter, then ? " said she. " Are you 
 decapitated? " 
 
 He replied with gloom that he was, and that the oc 
 currence was no joke. 
 
 " Oh," said his wife, gayly, " now you can write your 
 Romance ! " For he had told her several times that 
 he had a romance " growling " in him. 
 
 " Write my Romance ! " he exclaimed. " But what 
 are we to do for bread and rice, next week ? " 
 
 " I will take care of that," she answered. " And I 
 will tell Ann to put a fire in your study, now." 
 
 Hawthorne was oppressed with anxiety as to means 
 of support for his wife and children ; the necessity of 
 writing for immediate returns always had a deterrent 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 497 
 
 and paralyzing effect on his genius ; and lie was 
 amazed that Mrs. Hawthorne should take his calam 
 ity with so much lightness. He questioned her again 
 regarding the wherewithal to meet their current needs, 
 knowing well that he himself had no fund in reserve. 
 His habit had been to hand her the instalments of 
 salary as they came to him from the office ; and when 
 he was in need of money for himself he drew again 
 upon her for it. He therefore supposed that every 
 thing had been used up from week to week. But Mrs. 
 Hawthorne now disclosed the fact that she had about 
 a hundred and fifty dollars, a sum which for them was 
 a considerable one, their manner of living being ex 
 tremely plain. Greatly astonished, he asked her where 
 she had obtained so much. 
 
 " You earned it," she replied, cheerily. 
 
 Mrs. Hawthorne was in fact overjoyed, on his ac 
 count, that he had lost his place ; feeling as she did 
 that he would now resume his proper employment. 
 The fire was built in the study, and Hawthorne, stim 
 ulated by his wife s good spirits, set at once about writ 
 ing " The Scarlet Letter." 
 
 Some six months of time were required for its 
 completion, and Mrs. Hawthorne, who was aware that 
 her savings would be consumed in a third of that 
 space, applied herself to increasing the small stock of 
 cash, so that her husband s mind might remain free 
 and buoyant for his writing. She began making little 
 cambric lamp-shades, which she decorated with deli- 
 rate outline drawings and sent to Boston for sale. 
 They were readily purchased, and, by continuing their 
 manufacture, this devoted wife contrived to defray the 
 expenses of the household until the book was finished. 
 
 Mr. James T. Fields, the publisher who was already 
 
98 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 an acquaintance, and eventually became a friend, of 
 Hawthorne s had been told of the work, and went 
 down to Salein to suggest bringing it out. This was 
 before the story had been fully elaborated into its 
 present form. Hawthorne had written steadily all 
 day, and every day, from the start, but, remember 
 ing in what small quantity his books sold, he had come 
 to consider this new attempt a forlorn hope. Mr. 
 Fields found him despondent, and thus narrates the 
 close of the interview : 
 
 " I looked at my watch and found that the train 
 would soon be starting for Boston, and I knew there 
 was not much time to lose in trying to discover what 
 had been his literary work during these last few years 
 in Salem. I remember that I pressed him to reveal 
 to me what he had been writing. He shook his head, 
 and gave me to understand that he had produced 
 nothing. At that moment I caught sight of a bureau 
 or set of drawers near where we were sitting ; and 
 immediately it occurred to me that, hidden away some 
 where in that article of furniture, was a story or sto 
 ries by the author of the Twice-Told Tales, and I 
 became so confident that I charged him vehemently 
 with the fact. He seemed surprised, I thought, but 
 shook his head again ; and I rose to take my leave, 
 begging him not to come into the cold entry, saying I 
 would come back and see him again in a few days. I 
 was hurrying down the stairs when he called after 
 me from the chamber, asking me to stop a moment. 
 Then, quickly stepping into the entry with a roll of 
 manuscript in his hands, he said : How in Heaven s 
 name did you know this thing was here ? As you 
 have found me out, take what I have written, and tel] 
 me, after you get home and have time to read it, if it 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 499 
 
 is good for anything. It is either very good or very 
 bad I don t know which. On my way up to Bos 
 ton I read the germ of The Scarlet Letter ; 3 before 
 I slept that night I wrote him a note all aglow with 
 admiration of the marvellous story he had put into my 
 hands." 
 
 In a letter to Bridge (April 10, 1850), the author 
 said : " c The Scarlet Letter has sold well, the first edi 
 tion having been exhausted in ten days, and the second 
 (5,000 in all) promising to go off rapidly." Speaking 
 of the excitement created among his townspeople by 
 the introductory account of the Custom House, he con 
 tinued : "As to the Salem people, I really thought I 
 had been exceedingly good-natured in my treatment of 
 them. They certainly do not deserve good usage at 
 my hands, after permitting me ... to be deliberately 
 lied down, not merely once but at two separate attacks, 
 on two false indictments, without hardly a voice being 
 raised on my behalf ; and then sending one of their 
 false witnesses to Congress and choosing another as 
 their Mayor. I feel an infinite contempt for them, 
 and probably have expressed more of it than I in 
 tended; for my preliminary chapter has caused the 
 greatest uproar that ever happened here since witch- 
 times. If I escape from town without being tarred 
 and feathered, I shall consider it good luck. I wish 
 they would tar and feather me it would be such an 
 entirely new distinction for a literary man ! And 
 from such judges as my fellow-citizens, I should look 
 upon it as a higher honor than a laurel-crown." In 
 the same letter he states that he has taken a house 
 in Lenox, and shall move to it on the 1st of May : 
 "I thank Mrs. Bridge for her good wishes as respects 
 iny future removals from office ; but I should be sorry 
 
500 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 to anticipate such bad fortune as ever again being ap 
 pointed to me." 
 
 Previous to this, he had written : "I long to get 
 into the country, for my health latterly is not quite 
 what it has been for many years past. I should not 
 long stand such a life of bodily inactivity and mental 
 exertion as I have led for the last few months. An 
 hour or two of daily labor in a garden, and a daily 
 ramble in country air or on the sea-shore, would keep 
 me all right. Here I hardly go out once a week. . . . 
 I detest this town so much, that I hate to go into the 
 streets, or to have the people see me. Anywhere else 
 I should at once be another man." 
 
 It was not a very comfortable home, that small red 
 wooden house at Lenox, overlooking the beautiful 
 valley of the Housatonic and surrounded by moun 
 tains ; but both Hawthorne and his wife bravely made 
 the best of it. Mrs. Hawthorne ornamented an entire 
 set of plain furniture, painted a dull yellow, with copies 
 from Flaxman s outlines, executed with great perfec 
 tion ; and, poor as the place was, it soon became in 
 vested by its occupants with something of a poetic at 
 mosphere. After a summer s rest, Hawthorne began 
 "The House of the Seven Gables ; " writing to Bridge 
 in October : 
 
 " 1 am getting so deep into my own book, that I am 
 afraid it will be impossible for me to attend properly 
 to my editorial duties" (connected with a new edi 
 tion of Lieutenant Bridge s "Journal of an African 
 Cruiser "). ..." Una and Julian grow apace, and so 
 do our chickens, of which we have two broods. There 
 is one difficulty about these chickens, as well as about 
 the older fowls. We have become so intimately ac 
 quainted with every individual of them, that it really 
 
_!_. e^k^ 
 
 4- &t~ 
 
 -y^ s - 
 
 ****+ f &. f- -i_ ^W -u- fLs^f 
 
 ^ 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 503 
 
 seems like cannibalism to think of eating them. What 
 is to be done ? " 
 
 His task occupied him all winter. To Mr. Fields 
 at length, on the 27th of January, 1851, he sent the 
 following message : 
 
 " I intend to put The House of the Seven Gables 
 into the expressman s hands to-day ; so that, if you do 
 not soon receive it, you may conclude that it has mis 
 carried in which case, I shall not consent to the 
 universe existing a moment longer. I have no copy 
 of it, except the wildest scribble of a first draught ; so 
 that it could never be restored. 
 
 " It has met with extraordinary success from that 
 portion of the public to whose judgment it has been 
 submitted : viz. from my wife. I likewise prefer it to 
 The Scarlet Letter ; but an author s opinion of his 
 book, just after completing it, is worth little or noth 
 ing ; he being then in the hot or cold fit of a fever, and 
 certain to rate it too high or too low. It has undoubt 
 edly one disadvantage in being brought so close to the 
 present time, whereby its romantic improbabilities be 
 come more glaring." 
 
 The f ac simile of a part of the above letter which is 
 reproduced here serves as a fairly good specimen of 
 Hawthorne s handwriting. At the time when it was 
 written, he was not very well, and the fatigue of his 
 long labor upon the book rendered the chirography 
 somewhat less clear in this case than it often was. The 
 lettering in his manuscripts was somewhat larger, and 
 was still more distinct than that in his correspondence. 
 
 After the new romance had come out and had met 
 with a flattering reception, he inquired of Bridge 
 (July 22, 1851) : " Why did you not write and tell me 
 how you liked (or how you did not like) The House of 
 
504 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 the Seven Gables ? Did you feel shy about express, 
 ing an unfavorable opinion ? It would not have hurt 
 me in the least, though I am always glad to please 
 you ; but I rather think I have reached the stage 
 when I do not care very essentially one way or the 
 other for anybody s opinion on any one production. 
 On this last romance, for instance, I have heard and 
 seen such diversity of judgment that I should be al 
 together bewildered if I attempted to strike a balance ; 
 so I take nobody s estimate but my own. I think 
 it is a work more characteristic of my mind, and more 
 natural and proper for me to write, than The Scarlet 
 Letter but for that very reason less likely to interest 
 the public. ... As long as people will buy, I shall 
 keep at work, and I find that my facility of labor in 
 creases with the demand for it." 
 
 In the May of 1851 another daughter was added 
 to his family. Hawthorne, like his father, had one son 
 and two daughters. Of this youngest one he wrote to 
 Pike, two months after her birth: "She is a very 
 bright and healthy child. ... I think I feel more in 
 terest in her than I did in the other children at the 
 same age, from the consideration that she is to be the 
 daughter of my age the comfort (so it is to be 
 hoped) of my declining years." There are some other 
 interesting points in this communication. "What a 
 sad account you give of your solitude, in your letter ! 
 I am not likely ever to have that feeling of loneliness 
 which you express; and I most heartily wish you 
 would take measures to remedy it in your own case, 
 by marrying. . . . Whenever you find it quite intol 
 erable (and I can hardly help wishing that it may be* 
 come so soon), do come to me. By the way, if I con 
 tinue to prosper as hitherto in the literary line, I shall 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 505 
 
 soon be in a condition to buy a place ; and if you 
 should hear of one, say worth from $1,500 to f 2,000, 
 I wish you would keep your eye on it for me. I 
 should wish it to be on the sea-coast, or at all events 
 within easy access to the sea. Very little land would 
 suit my purpose, but I want a good house, with space 
 inside. ... I find that I do not feel at home among 
 these hills, and should not consider myself perma 
 nently settled here. I do not get acclimated to the 
 peculiar state of the atmosphere ; and, except in mid 
 winter, I am continually catching cold, and am never 
 so vigorous as I used to be on the sea-coast. . . . Why 
 did you not express your opinion of The House of 
 the Seven Gables ? ...! should receive friendly 
 censure with just as much equanimity as if it were 
 praise ; though certainly I had rather you would like 
 the book than not. At any rate, it has sold finely, 
 and seems to have pleased a good many people better 
 than the other ; and I must confess that I myself am 
 among the number. . . . When I write another ro< 
 mance I shall take the Community for a subject, and 
 shall give some of my experiences at Brook Farm." 
 
 On the first day of December, 1851, he left Lenox 
 with his wife and children, betaking himself for the 
 winter to West Newton, a suburban village a few 
 miles west of Boston, on the Charles River ; there to 
 remain until he could effect the purchase of a house 
 which could serve him as a settled home. The house 
 that he finally selected was an old one in the town 
 of Concord, about a mile easterly from the centre of 
 the village on the road to Lexington, and was then 
 the property of Mrs. Bronson Alcott. During the 
 winter at West Newton he wrote " The Blithedale 
 Romance," which was published early in 1852. In the 
 
506 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 brief term of two years and a half from the moment 
 of his leaving the Custom House at Salem, lie had 
 thus produced four books, " The Scarlet Letter," 
 "The House of the Seven Gables," "A Wonder- 
 Book for Boys and Girls," and " The Blithedale Ro 
 mance," three of them being the principal works of 
 his lifetime, with which " The Marble Faun " alone 
 stands in the same category. Early in the summer of 
 1852 he took up his residence in his new home, The 
 Wayside, of which he thus discoursed to Mr. George 
 William Curtis, on the 14th of July, 1852 : - 
 
 MY DEAR HOWADJI, I think (and am glad to 
 think) that you will find it necessary to come hither 
 in order to write your Concord Sketches ; and as for 
 my old house, you will understand it better after 
 spending a day or two in it. Before Mr. Alcott took 
 it in hand, it was a mean-looking affair, with two 
 peaked gables ; no suggestiveness about it and no ven- 
 erableness, although from the style of its construction 
 it seems to have survived beyond its first century. He 
 added a porch in front, and a central peak, and a 
 piazza at each end, and painted it a rusty olive hue, 
 and invested the whole with a modest picturesqueness ; 
 all which improvements, together with its situation at 
 the foot of a wooded hill, make it a place that one 
 notices and remembers for a few moments after pass 
 ing it. Mr. Alcott expended a good deal of taste and 
 some money (to no great purpose) in forming the hill 
 side behind the house into terraces, and building ar 
 bors and summer-houses of rough stems and branches 
 and trees, on a system of his own. They must have 
 been very pretty in their day, and are so still, although 
 much decayed, and shattered more and more by every 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 507 
 
 breeze that blows. The hill-side is covered chiefly with 
 locust-trees, which come into luxuriant blossom in the 
 month of June, and look and smell very sweetly, in 
 termixed with a few young elms and some white-pines 
 and infant oaks, the whole forming rather a thicket 
 than a wood. Nevertheless, there is some very good 
 shade to be found there. I spend delectable hours 
 there in the hottest part of the day, stretched out at 
 my lazy length, with a book in my hand or an unwrit 
 ten book in my thoughts. There is almost always a 
 breeze stirring along the sides or brow of the hill. 
 
 From the hill-top there is a good view along the ex 
 tensive level surfaces and gentle, hilly outlines, covered 
 with wood, that characterize the scenery of Concord. 
 We have not so much as a gleam of lake or river in 
 the prospect ; if there were, it would add greatly to 
 the value of the place in my estimation. 
 
 The house stands within ten or fifteen feet of the 
 old Boston road (along which the British marched and 
 retreated), divided from it by a fence, and some trees 
 and shrubbery of Mr. Alcott s setting out. Where 
 upon I have called it " The Wayside," which I think 
 a better name and more morally suggestive than that 
 which, as Mr. Alcott has since told me, he bestowed 
 on it, " The Hill-Side." In front of the house, on 
 the opposite side of the road, I have eight acres of 
 land, the only valuable portion of the place in a 
 farmer s eye, and which are capable of being made 
 very fertile. On the hither side, my territory extends 
 some little distance over the brow of the hill, and is 
 absolutely good for nothing, in a productive point of 
 view, though very good for many other purposes. 
 
 I know nothing of the history of the house, except 
 Thoreau s telling me that it was inhabited a genera- 
 
508 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 tion or two ago by a man who believed he should 
 never die. 1 I believe, however, he is dead ; at least, I 
 hope so ; else he may probably appear and dispute my 
 title to his residence. . . . 
 
 I asked Tieknor to send a copy of " The Blithedale 
 Eomance " to you. Do not read it as if it had any 
 thing to do with Brook Farm (which essentially it has 
 not)> but merely for its own story and character. 
 
 Truly yours, NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Quite possibly the name of The Wayside recom 
 mended itself to him by some association of thought 
 like that which comes to light in the Preface to " The 
 Snow -Image," where, speaking of the years imme 
 diately following his college course, he says : " I sat 
 down by the wayside of life like a man under enchant 
 ment, and a shrubbery sprung up around me, and the 
 bushes grew to be saplings, and the saplings became 
 trees, until no exit appeared possible through the en 
 tangling depths of my obscurity." If so, the simile 
 held good as to his home ; for there, too, the shrub 
 bery has sprung up and has grown to saplings and 
 trees, until the house is embosomed in a wood, except 
 for the opening along the road and a small amphi 
 theatre of lawn overlooked by the evergreen-clad hill. 
 
 Hawthorne s old college friend, Franklin Pierce, 
 after having been to Congress and having risen to the 
 rank of general in the Mexican War, was nominated 
 by the democratic party for the presidency of the 
 United States, at the time when the romancer had es 
 tablished himself in this humble but charming old 
 
 1 This is the first intimation of the story of Septimius Felton, so 
 far as local setting is concerned. The scenery of that romance wa* 1 
 obviously taken from The Wayside and its hilL 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 609 
 
 abode ; and it became manifest that the candidate 
 wanted Hawthorne to write a life of him, for use in 
 the campaign. Hawthorne, on being pressed, con 
 sented to do so, and a letter which he addressed to 
 Bridge, October 13, 1852, contains some extremely 
 interesting confidences on the subject, which will be 
 entirely new to readers. As they do Hawthorne credit, 
 if considered fairly, and give a striking presentment 
 of the impartiality with which he viewed all subjects, 
 it seems to be proper to print them here. 
 
 He begins by speaking of "The Blithedale Ro 
 mance," regarding which he says : " I doubt whether 
 you will like it very well ; but it has met with good 
 success, and has brought me (besides its American 
 circulation) a thousand dollars from England, whence 
 likewise have come many favorable notices. Just at 
 this time, I rather think your friend stands foremost 
 there as an American fiction-monger. In a day or 
 two I intend to begin a new romance, which, if possi 
 ble, I intend to make more genial than the last. 
 
 " I did not send you the Life of Pierce, not consid 
 ering it fairly one of my literary productions. ... I 
 was terribly reluctant to undertake this work, and 
 tried to persuade Pierce, both by letter and vivd voce, 
 that I could not perform it as well as many others ; 
 but he thought differently, and of course after a friend 
 ship of thirty years it was impossible to refuse my 
 best efforts in his behalf, at the great pinch of his 
 life. It was a bad book to write, for the gist of the 
 matter lay in explaining how it happened, that with 
 such extraordinary opportunities for eminent distinc 
 tion, civil and military, as he has enjoyed, this crisis 
 should have found him so obscure as he certainty 
 was, in a national point of view. My heart absolutely 
 
510 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 sank at the dearth of available material. However, I 
 have done the business, greatly to Frank s satisfac 
 tion ; and, though I say it myself, it is judiciously 
 done ; and, without any sacrifice of truth, it puts him 
 in as good a light as circumstances would admit. 
 Other writers might have made larger claims for him, 
 and have eulogized him more highly ; but I doubt 
 whether any other could have bestowed a better as 
 pect of sincerity and reality on the narrative, and have 
 secured all the credit possible for him without spoiling 
 all by asserting too much. And though the story is 
 true, yet it took a romancer to do it. 
 
 " Before undertaking it, I made an inward resolu 
 tion that I would accept no office from him ; but to 
 say the truth, I doubt whether it would not be rather 
 folly than heroism to adhere to this purpose, in case he 
 should offer me anything particularly good. We shall 
 see. A foreign mission I could not afford to take; 
 the consulship at Liverpool I might. ... I have 
 several invitations from English celebrities to come 
 over there ; and this office would make all straight. 
 He certainly owes me something ; for the biography 
 has cost me hundreds of friends here at the North, who 
 had a purer regard for me than Frank Pierce or any 
 other politician ever gained, and who drop off from 
 me like autumn leaves, in consequence of what I say 
 on the slavery question. But they were my real sen 
 timents, and I do not now regret that they are on 
 record." 
 
 After discussing other topics, he observes further of 
 Pierce : " I have come seriously to the conclusion 
 that he has in him many of the chief elements of a 
 great man ; and that if he wins the election he may 
 run a great career. His talents are administrative; 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 511 
 
 he has a subtle faculty of making affairs roll around 
 according to his will, and of influencing their course 
 without showing any trace of his action." Hawthorne 
 did not feel very confident of his friend s election. " I 
 love him," he adds, " and, oddly enough, there is a 
 kind of pitying sentiment mixed with my affection for 
 him just now." 
 
 Mr. Richard Henry Stoddard has set down his rem 
 iniscences of two visits paid to Hawthorne at the be 
 ginning and after the end of the campaign. In the 
 summer of 1852, Mr. Stoddard was making a short 
 stay in Boston, and dropped in at the Old Corner 
 Bookstore to call upon Mr. Fields, who then had his 
 headquarters there. He found Mr. Edwin P. Whipple, 
 the lecturer and critic, sitting with the publisher. 
 
 " i We are going to see Hawthorne, Mr. Fields re 
 marked, in an off-hand way, as if such a visit was the 
 commonest thing in the world. 4 Won t you come 
 along ? He knew my admiration for Hawthorne, and 
 that I desired to meet him, if I could do so without 
 being considered an infliction. 4 To be sure I will, I 
 replied. . . . When we were fairly seated in the train 
 we met a friend of Hawthorne, whom Mr. Fields knew 
 - a Colonel T. I. Whipple who, like ourselves, 
 was en route for Concord, . . . and as General Pierce 
 was then the democratic candidate for the presidency, 
 he was going to see Hawthorne, in order to furnish 
 materials for that work. 
 
 " We reached The Wayside, where Hawthorne, who 
 had no doubt been expecting visitors, met us at the 
 door. I was introduced to him as being the only 
 stranger of the party, and was greeted warmly, more 
 so thaii I had dared to hope, remembering the stories 
 
512 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 I had heard of his unconquerable shyness. He threw 
 open the door of the room on the left, and, telling us 
 to make ourselves at home, disappeared with Colonel 
 Whipple and his budget of biographical memoranda. 
 We made ourselves at home, as he had desired, in 
 what I suppose was the parlor a cosy but plainly 
 furnished room, with nothing to distinguish it from a 
 thousand other " best rooms " in New England, ex 
 cept a fine engraving on the wall of one of Raphael s 
 Madonnas. We chatted a few moments, and then, as 
 he did not return, we took a stroll over the grounds, 
 under the direction of Mr. Fields. 
 
 " We had ascended the hill, and from its outlook 
 were taking in the historic country about, when we 
 were rejoined by Hawthorne in the old rustic summer- 
 house. As I was the stranger, he talked with me 
 more than with the others, largely about myself and 
 my verse-work, which he seemed to have followed with 
 considerable attention ; and he mentioned an archi 
 tectural poem of mine and compared it with his own 
 modest mansion. 
 
 " If I could build like you, he said, I, too, would 
 have a castle in the air. 
 
 " 4 Give me The Wayside, I replied, and you shall 
 have all the air castles I can build. 
 
 " As we rambled and talked, my heart went out to 
 wards this famous man, who did not look down upon 
 me, as he might well have done, but took me up to 
 himself as an equal and a friend. Dinner was an 
 nounced and eaten, a plain country dinner, with a bot 
 tle or two of vin ordinaire, and we started back to 
 Boston." 
 
 Pierce having become President-Elect, Mr. Stoddard 
 made another trip to Concord, in the winter of 1852-3, 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 513 
 
 to ask Hawthorne s advice about getting a place in the 
 Custom House. He was taken into the study (at that 
 time in the southeast corner, on the ground-floor and 
 facing the road), where there was a blazing wood-fire. 
 The announcement of dinner cut short their conversa 
 tion, but after dinner they again retired to the study, 
 where, as Mr. Stoddard says, Hawthorne brought out 
 some cigars, " which we smoked with a will and which 
 
 O > 
 
 I found stronger than I liked. Custom House mat 
 ters were scarcely touched upon, and I was not sorry, 
 for while they were my ostensible errand there, they 
 were not half so interesting as the discursive talk of 
 Hawthorne. He manifested a good deal of curiosity 
 in regard to some old Brook Farmers whom I knew in 
 a literary way, and I told him what they were doing, 
 and gave him my impressions of the individuality of 
 each. He listened, with an occasional twinkle of the 
 eye, and I can see now that he was amused by my out 
 spoken detestation of certain literary Philistines. He 
 was out-spoken, too, for he told me plainly that a vol 
 ume of fairy stories I had just published was not sim 
 ple enough for the young. 
 
 " What impressed me most at the time was not the 
 drift of the conversation, but the graciousness of Haw 
 thorne. He expressed the warmest interest in my af 
 fairs, and a willingness to serve me in every possible 
 way. In a word, he was the soul of kindness, and 
 when I forget him I shall have forgotten everything 
 else." 
 
 When Mr. Stoddard got back to New York, he re 
 ceived this letter : 
 
 VOL. xii. 33 
 
514 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 CONCORD, March 16th, 1853. 
 
 DEAR STODDARD : 
 
 I beg your pardon for not writing before ; but 1 
 have been very busy and not particularly well. I en 
 close a letter to Atherton. Roll up and pile up as 
 much of a snow-ball as you can in the way of political 
 interest ; for there never was a fiercer time than this 
 among the office-seekers. . . . 
 
 Atherton is a man of rather cold exterior ; but has 
 a good heart at least for a politician of a quarter of 
 a century s standing. If it be certain that he cannot 
 help you, he will probably tell you so. Perhaps it 
 would be as well for you to apply for some place that 
 has a literary fragrance about it librarian to some 
 department the office that Lanman held. I don t 
 know whether there is any other such office. Are you 
 fond of brandy? Your strength of head (which you tell 
 me you possess) may stand you in good stead in Wash 
 ington ; for most of these public men are inveterate 
 guzzlers, and love a man that can stand up to them in 
 that particular. It would never do to let them see 
 you corned, however. But I must leave you to find 
 your way among them. If you have never associated 
 with them heretofore, you will find them a new class, 
 and very unlike poets. 
 
 I have finished the " Tanglewood Tales," and they 
 will make a volume about the size of the " Wonder- 
 Book," consisting of six myths "The Minotaur," 
 " The Golden Fleece," " The Story of Proserpine," 
 etc., etc., etc., done up in excellent style, purified from 
 all moral stain, re-created good as new, or better 
 and fully equal, in their way, to " Mother Goose." I 
 never did anything so good as those old baby-stories. 
 
 In haste, Truly yours, 
 
 NATH. HAWTHORNE. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 515 
 
 Nothing could more succinctly illustrate the readi 
 ness of Hawthorne s sympathies, and the companion 
 able, cordial ease with which he treated a new friend 
 who approached him in the right way, one who caught 
 his fancy by a frank and simple independence, than 
 this letter to Mr. Stoddard, whom he had spoken with 
 only twice. At that very time his old disinclination 
 to be intruded upon was as strong as ever ; for Mr. 
 Fields relates how, just before Hawthorne sailed for 
 England, they walked together near the Old Manse 
 and lay down in a secluded, grassy spot beside the 
 Concord River, to watch the clouds and hear the birds 
 sing. Suddenly, footsteps were heard approaching, 
 and Hawthorne whispered in haste, with much solem 
 nity : " Duck ! or we shall be interrupted by some 
 body." So they were both obliged to prostrate them 
 selves in the grass until the saunterer had passed out 
 of sight. 
 
 The proposition to accept an office from Pierce was 
 made to him as soon as the new President was inaugu 
 rated. Although Hawthorne had considered the pos 
 sibility, as we have seen, and had decided what he 
 could advantageously take if it were offered, he also 
 had grave doubts with regard to taking any post what 
 ever. When, therefore, the Liverpool consulate was 
 tendered to him, he at first positively declined it. 
 President Pierce, however, was much troubled by his 
 refusal, and the intervention of Hawthorne s publisher, 
 Mr. Ticknor, was sought. Mr. Ticknor urged him to 
 reconsider, on the ground that it was a duty to his 
 family ; and Hawthorne, who also naturally felt a 
 strong desire to see England, finally consented. His 
 appointment was confirmed, March 26, 1853 ; but his 
 predecessor was allowed, by resigning prospectively, to 
 
516 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 hold over for five months ; so that the departure for 
 England was not effected until the midsummer of 
 1853. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The twofold character of Hawthorne s mind is 
 strongly manifested in the diverse nature of the in 
 terests which occupied him in Europe, and the tone 
 with which he discussed them, alike in his journals, in 
 his letters, in " Our Old Home," and " The Marble 
 Faun." On the one side, we find the business-like 
 official, attending methodically to the duties of his 
 place, the careful father of a family looking out for 
 his personal interests and the material welfare of his 
 children in the future, the keen and cool-headed ob 
 server who is determined to contemplate all the novel 
 ties of strange scenes through no one s eyes but his 
 own. On the other side, he presents himself to us as 
 the man of reverie, whose observation of the actual 
 constantly stimulates and brings into play a faculty 
 that perceives more than the actual ; the delicate ar 
 tist, whose sympathies are ready and true in the ap 
 preciation of whatever is picturesque or suggestive, or 
 beautiful, whether in nature or in art. 
 
 Some of the letters which he wrote from Liverpool 
 to his classmate, Horatio Bridge, throw light upon his 
 own affairs and the deliberate way in which he consid 
 ered them. For instance, under date of March 30, 
 1854, he wrote : 
 
 " I like my office well enough, but my official du 
 ties and obligations are irksome to me beyond expres 
 sion. Nevertheless, the emoluments will be a sufficient 
 inducement to keep me here for four years, though 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 517 
 
 they are not a quarter part what people suppose them. 
 The value of the office varied between ten and fifteen 
 thousand dollars during my predecessor s term, and it 
 promises about the same now. Secretary Guthrie, 
 however, has just cut off a large slice, by a circular. 
 
 . . . Ask to show you a letter of mine, which I 
 
 send by this steamer, for possible publication in the 
 newspapers. It contains a statement of my doings in 
 reference to the San Francisco [steamship] sufferers. 
 The " Portsmouth Journal," it appears, published an 
 attack on me, accusing rue of refusing all assistance 
 until compelled to act by Mr. Buchanan s orders ; 
 whereas I acted extra-officially on my own responsibil 
 ity, throughout the whole affair. Buchanan refused 
 to have anything to do with it. Alas ! How we pub 
 lic men are calumniated. But I trust there will be 
 no necessity for publishing my letter; for I desire 
 onlv to glide noiselessly through my present phase of 
 life*. 
 
 " It sickens me to look back to America. I am sick 
 to death of the continual fuss and tumult, and excite 
 ment and bad blood, which we keep up about political 
 topics. If it were not for my children, I should prob 
 ably never return, but, after quitting office, should 
 go to Italy, to live and die there. If you and Mrs. 
 Bridge would go, too, we might form a little colony 
 amongst ourselves, and see our children grow up to 
 gether. But it will never do to deprive them of their 
 native land, which, I hope, will be a more comfortable 
 and happy residence in their day than it has been in 
 ours. In my opinion we are the most miserable peo 
 ple on earth." It appears, further, that the appoint 
 ment of a consul for Manchester was contemplated, 
 which, Hawthorne says, by withdrawing some of the 
 
518 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Liverpool perquisites, " would go far towards knock 
 ing this consulate in the head." 
 
 On April 17th, hearing that a bill had been in 
 troduced in Congress to put consuls upon salary, in 
 stead of granting them fees, he wrote : 
 
 " I trust to Heaven no change whatever will be made 
 in regard to the emoluments of the Liverpool consu 
 late, unless indeed a salary is to be given in addition 
 to the fees, in which case I should receive it very thank 
 fully. This, however, is not to be expected. ... A 
 fixed salary (even if it should be larger than any sal 
 ary now paid by government, with the exception of the 
 President s own) will render the office not worth any 
 man s holding. It is impossible (especially for a man 
 with a family and keeping any kind of an establish 
 ment) not to spend a vast deal of money here. The 
 office, unfortunately, is regarded as one of great dig 
 nity, and puts the holder on a level with the highest 
 society, and compels him to associate on equal terms 
 with men who spend more than my whole income on 
 the mere entertainments and other trimmings and em 
 broideries of their lives. Then I am bound to exer 
 cise some hospitality toward my own countrymen. I 
 keep out of society as much as I decently can, and 
 really practise as stern an economy as ever I did in 
 my life ; but nevertheless I have spent many thousands 
 of dollars in the few months of my residence here, 
 and cannot reasonably hope to spend less than $ 6,000 
 per annum, even after the expense of setting up an es 
 tablishment is defrayed. All this is for the merely 
 indispensable, part of my living ; and unless I make a 
 hermit of myself and deprive my wife and children of 
 all the pleasures and advantages of an English resi 
 dence, I must inevitably exceed the sum named above, 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 519 
 
 ... It would be the easiest thing in the world for 
 me to run in debt, even taking my income at 15,- 
 000 " (out of which all the clerks and certain other 
 office expenses had to be paid), ..." the largest sum 
 that it ever reached in Crittenden s time. He had no 
 family but a wife, and lived constantly at a boarding- 
 house, and, nevertheless, went away (as he assured me) 
 with an aggregate of only $25,000 derived from his 
 savings. 
 
 " Now the American public can never be made to 
 understand such a statement as the above ; and they 
 would grumble awfully if more than $6,000 per annum 
 were allowed for a consul s salary." But Hawthorne 
 concludes that it would not compensate him to retain 
 the place with a salary even of $10,000 ; and that if the 
 emoluments should be reduced from their then propor 
 tions, " the incumbent must be compelled to turn his 
 official position to account by engaging in commerce 
 a course which ought not to be permitted, and which 
 no Liverpool consul has ever adopted." 
 
 There are some references to President Pierce, in 
 the Bridge correspondence, which possess exceptional 
 interest ; but I cite only one of them. The great honor 
 of the immense publicity into which Pierce had come 
 as the executive head of the nation, and the centre 
 upon which many conflicting movements and machi 
 nations turned, created a danger of misunderstandings 
 with some of his early and intimate friends. In dis 
 cussing one such case Hawthorne writes (May 1, 1854), 
 with regard to maintaining a friendship for the Presi 
 dent : 
 
 " You will say that it is easy for me to feel thus 
 towards him, since he has done his very best on my 
 behalf ; but the truth is (alas for poor human nature !) 
 
520 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 I should probably have loved him better if I had never 
 received any favor at his hands. But all this will 
 come right again, after both he and I shall have re 
 turned into private life. It is some satisfaction, at 
 any rate, that no one of his appointments was so fa 
 vorably criticized as my own ; and he should have my 
 resignation by the very next mail, if it would really 
 do him any good." 
 
 Mr. Pike, who still held a post in the Salem Custom 
 House, had written to Hawthorne not long .after his 
 arrival in England, inquiring about the prospect of ob 
 taining some employment in the consular service there ; 
 and Hawthorne replied, in a manner that leaves no 
 doubt of his sagacity in perceiving the exact situation 
 of affairs, with its bearings for both Pike and himself, 
 nor of his determination neither to deceive himself 
 nor to give his friend any but the real reasons why he 
 discouraged the inquiry. 
 
 "LIVERPOOL, September 15, 1853. 
 
 DEAR PIKE, I have been intending to write to 
 you this some time, but wished to get some tolerably 
 clear idea of the state of things here before communi 
 cating with you. I find that I have three persons 
 in my office : the head-clerk, or vice-consul, at 200, 
 the second clerk at X150, and the messenger, who does 
 some writing, at 80. They are all honest and capable 
 men, and do their duty to perfection. No American 
 would take either of these places for twice the sums 
 which they receive ; and no American, without some 
 months practice, would undertake the duty. Of the 
 two I would rather displace the vice-consul than the 
 second clerk, who does a great amount of labor, and 
 has a remarkable variety of talent, whereas the old 
 gentleman, though perfect in his own track, is nothing 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 521 
 
 outside of it. I will not part with either of these men 
 unless compelled to do so ; and I don t think Secre 
 tary Marcy c^n compel me. 
 
 Now as to the Manchester branch, it brings me in 
 only about 200. There is a consular agent there, 
 all the business being transacted here in Liverpool. 
 The only reason for appointing an agent would be 
 that it might shut off all attempts to get a separate 
 consulate there. There is no danger, I presume, of 
 such an attempt for some time to come ; for Pierce 
 made a direct promise that the place should be kept 
 open for my benefit. Nevertheless efforts will be made 
 to fill it, and very possibly representations may be 
 made from the business men of Manchester that there 
 is necessity for a consul there. In a pecuniary point 
 of view, it would make very little difference to me 
 whether the place were filled by an independent con 
 sul or by a vice-consul of my own appointment,- for the 
 latter would of course not be satisfied with less than 
 the whole 200. What I should like would be to 
 keep the place vacant and receive the proceeds as long 
 as possible, and at last, when I could do no better, to 
 give the office to you. No great generosity in that to 
 be sure. Thus I have put the matter fairly before 
 you. Do you tell me as frankly how your own affairs 
 stand, and whether you can live any longer in that 
 cursed old Custom House without hanging yourself. 
 Rather than that you should do so I would let you have 
 the place to-morrow, although it would pay you about 
 ,100 less than your present office. I suppose as a 
 single man you might live within your income in Man 
 chester ; but judging from my own experience as a 
 married man, it would be a very tight fit. With all 
 the economy I could use I have already got rid of $2,000 
 
522 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 since landing in England. Hereafter I hope to spend 
 less and save more. 
 
 In point of emolument, my office will furn out about 
 what I expected. If I have ordinary luck I shall bag 
 from 15,000 to 17,000 clear per annum : but to effect 
 this I shall have to deny myself many things which I 
 would gladly have. Colonel Crittenden told me that 
 it cost him $4,000 to live with only his wife at a board 
 ing-house, including a journey to London now and 
 then. I am determined not to spend more than this, 
 keeping house with my wife and children. I have 
 hired a good house furnished at <160, on the other 
 side of the River Mersey, at Rock Park, where there 
 is good air and play-ground for thg children ; and I can 
 come over to the city by steamboat every morning. I 
 like the situation all the better because it will render 
 it impossible for me to go to parties, or to give parties 
 myself, and will keep me out of a good deal of non 
 sense. 
 
 Liverpool is the most detestable place as a residence 
 that ever my lot was cast in, smoky, noisy, dirty, 
 pestilential ; and the consulate is situated in the most 
 detestable part of the city. The streets swarm with 
 beggars by day and by night. You never saw the like ; 
 and I pray that you may never see it in America. It 
 is worth while coming across the sea in order to feel 
 one s heart warm towards his own country ; and I feel 
 it all the more because it is plain to be seen that a 
 great many of the Englishmen whom I meet here dis 
 like us, whatever they may pretend to the contrary. 
 
 My family and myself have suffered very much from 
 the elements ; there has not been, what we should cal] 
 a fair day since our arrival, nor a single day when a 
 fire would not be agreeable. I long for one of oui 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 523 
 
 sunny days, and one of our good hearty rains. It al 
 ways threatens to rain, but seldom rains in good ear 
 nest. It never does rain, and it never don t rain ; but 
 you are pretty sure to get a sprinkling if you go out 
 without an umbrella. Except by the fireside, I have 
 not once been as warm as I should like to be : but the 
 Englishmen call it a sultry day whenever the ther 
 mometer rises above 60. There has not been heat 
 enough in England this season to ripen an apple. 
 
 My wife and children often talk of you. Even the 
 baby has not forgotten you. Write often, and say as 
 much as you can about yourself, and as little as you 
 
 please about A , N , and B , and all the 
 
 rest of those wretches of whom my soul was weary to 
 death before I made my escape. 
 
 Your friend ever, 
 
 NATH. HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Writing to Bridge again, November 28, 1854, he 
 continues, with regard to his consular prospects, by a 
 comparison between the pay received by English con 
 suls and that allowed by the new bill to Americans. 
 Only $ 7,500 were to be paid the consul at Liverpool. 
 " Now I employ three clerks constantly," says Haw 
 thorne " and sometimes more. The bill provides that 
 these clerks should be Americans ; and the whole sum 
 allowed would not do much more than pay competent 
 Americans, whose salaries must be much higher than 
 would content Englishmen of equal qualifications. 
 No consul can keep the office at this rate, without en 
 gaging in business which the bill forbids." He 
 adds that the notion that, by the proposed measure, a 
 fund would be gained from the larger consulates 
 towards paying the salaries of the smaller ones, was 
 
524 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 mistaken, since " a large part of the income of this 
 consulate arises from business which might just as 
 well be transacted by a notary public as by a consul, 
 and which a consul is therefore not officially bound to 
 do. All such business as this the consul will cease to 
 transact, the moment the avails of it go into the pub 
 lic treasury, instead of his own purse ; and thus there 
 will be an immediate falling off of the office to a very 
 considerable extent." 
 
 Later on, he says : " I should really be ashamed 
 to tell you how much my income is taxed by the as 
 sistance which I find it absolutely necessary to render 
 to American citizens, who come to me in difficulty or 
 distress. Every day there is some new claimant, for 
 whom the government makes no provision, and whom 
 the consul must assist, if at all, out of his own pocket. 
 It is impossible (or at any rate very disagreeable) to 
 leave a countryman to starve in the streets, or to hand 
 him over to the charities of an English work-house ; 
 so I do my best for these poor devils. But I doubt 
 whether they will meet with quite so good treatment 
 after the passage of the consular bill. If the govern 
 ment chooses to starve the consul, a good many will 
 starve with him." 
 
 The bill, nevertheless, was passed. Lieutenant 
 Bridge, who was then stationed at Washington, had 
 done all that he could to rouse an effectual opposition 
 to its enactment ; and his friend wrote to him from 
 Liverpool (March 23, 1855) thus : - 
 
 " I thank you for your efforts against this bill ; but 
 Providence is wiser than we are, and doubtless it will 
 all turn out for the best. All through my life, I have 
 had occasion to observe that what seemed to be mis 
 fortunes have proved, in the end, to be the best things 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 525 
 
 that could possibly have happened to me ; and so it 
 will be with this even though the mode in which it 
 benefits me may never be made clear to my apprehen 
 sion. It would seem to be a desirable thing enough 
 that I should have had a sufficient income to live 
 comfortably upon for the rest of my life, without the 
 necessity of labor ; but, on the other hand, I might 
 have sunk prematurely into intellectual sluggishness 
 which now there will be no danger of my doing; 
 though with a house and land of my own, and a good 
 little sum at interest besides, I need not be under any 
 very great anxiety about the future. When I contrast 
 my present situation with what it was five years ago, I 
 see a vast deal to be thankful for ; and I still hope to 
 thrive by my legitimate instrument the pen. One 
 consideration which goes very far towards reconciling 
 me to quitting the office is my wife s health, with 
 which the climate of England does not agree. ... In 
 short, we have wholly ceased to regret the action of 
 Congress (which, nevertheless, was most unjust and 
 absurd), and are looking at matters on the bright side. 
 However, I shall be glad to get what advantage I can 
 out of the office, and therefore I hope Pierce will give 
 me as long a line as his conscience will let him." 
 
 Believing that the office of consul with a salary re 
 duced to 17,500, which was only half the sum it had 
 previously yielded in good years, would not be worth 
 the sacrifice involved in giving himself up to its 
 duties, he purposed resigning within a few months, 
 taking a trip to Italy, and then going home. But, for 
 tunately for his pecuniary welfare, the act of Congress 
 had been so loosely framed (in harmony with the gen 
 eral ignorance on which it was based), that it was left 
 to the President to reappoint old incumbents undei 
 
626 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 the new system or not, as he pleased. Pierce accord- 
 ingly let Hawthorne s commission run on without in 
 terruption, and the consul stayed through the rest of 
 the administration s term. 
 
 While the matter was still in abeyance, however, 
 the suggestion came from Bridge that he allow himself 
 to be transferred to Lisbon as minister. The prospect 
 was, in one way, seductive. Hawthorne was growing 
 anxious about his wife s health, and felt that nothing 
 could be more delightful than to take her to a warmer 
 climate, which she needed, and thus avoid the tempo 
 rary separation which might have to be undergone if 
 he remained at Liverpool. The objections were, that 
 he had no acquaintance with diplomacy, did not know 
 Portuguese, and disliked forms and ceremonies. " You 
 will observe," he wrote, " that the higher rank and 
 position of a minister, as compared with a consul, have 
 no weight with me. This is not the kind of honor of 
 which I am ambitious." With a good deal of hesita 
 tion he came to the belief that it would be wise for 
 him not to make the change. " But," he remarked, "it 
 was a most kind and generous thing on the part of the 
 President to entertain the idea." His friend, Mr. John 
 O Sullivan, who had been the founder and editor of the 
 " Democratic Review," to which Hawthorne had con 
 tributed copiously during his residence at the Manse, 
 was at this time accredited to the Court of Lisbon, 
 and would doubtless have been provided for in some 
 other way had Hawthorne been promoted to the place. 
 The latter decided to stay at Liverpool, but to send 
 Mrs. Hawthorne to Lisbon, where she would find not 
 only milder air, but also friends in the minister and 
 his wife. She sailed with her daughters in October, 
 1855, and returned in the following June. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 527 
 
 Wearisome as the details of his office duty were to 
 him, Hawthorne gave them more than a perfunctory 
 attention. He became greatly aroused by the wrongs 
 and cruelties endured by sailors on the high seas, and 
 sent a long despatch on that subject to the Secretary 
 of State, suggesting action for their relief. He even 
 investigated such minutiae as the candles used in the 
 British navy, and sent samples of them to Bridge, 
 thinking that it might be desirable to compare them 
 with those in use on American war-ships. Opportu 
 nities, however, had occurred for several trips in va 
 rious directions, to Wales, Furness Abbey, and the 
 Lakes. London was visited just before Mrs. Haw 
 thorne sailed ; and during her absence he again went to 
 the capital, and made a tour which included Glasgow, 
 Edinburgh, York, Newcastle, and Salisbury. A few 
 days before her expected return, he said in a letter to 
 Bridge that unless she should prove to be perfectly 
 free from the cough which had troubled her, " I shall 
 make arrangements to give up the consulate in the 
 latter part of autumn, and we will be off for Italy. I 
 wish I were a little richer ; but when I compare my 
 situation with what it was before I wrote c The Scar 
 let Letter, I have reason to be satisfied with my run 
 of luck. And, to say the truth, I had rather not be 
 too prosperous : it may be a superstition, but it seems 
 to me that the bitter is very apt to come with the 
 sweet, and bright sunshine casts a dark shadow ; so I 
 content myself with a moderate portion of sugar, and 
 about as much sunshine as that of an English sum. 
 mer s day. In this view of the matter, I am disposed 
 to thank God for the gloom and chill of my early 
 life, in the hope that my share of adversity came then, 
 when I bore it alone ; and that therefore it need not 
 
52& NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 come now, when the cloud would involve those whom 
 I love. 
 
 " I make my plans to return to America in about 
 two years from this time. For my own part, I should 
 be willing to stay abroad much longer, and perhaps 
 even to settle in Italy ; but the children must not be 
 kept away so long as to lose their American charac 
 teristics; otherwise they will be exiles and outcasts 
 through life." 
 
 The presidential convention of the democratic party 
 was held early in the summer of 1856, and Buchanan, 
 then minister at the Court of St. James, became the 
 candidate. Pierce had also been in the field, but was 
 defeated, and concerning this circumstance Hawthorne 
 wrote, characteristically : " I am sorry Frank has not 
 the nomination, if he wished it. Otherwise, I am glad 
 he is out of the scrape." 
 
 During the earlier part of his consulship, Haw 
 thorne leased a pleasant dwelling at Kock Ferry, on 
 the opposite side of the Mersey from Liverpool, where 
 he was able to live without going much into society ; 
 and while Mrs. Hawthorne was in Portugal, he occu 
 pied simple quarters at a boarding-house. Afterwards 
 he settled at Southport for a number of months, in a 
 furnished house. He formed but one intimate friend 
 ship, that which attached him to Mr. Henry Bright, a 
 gentleman engaged in business, but gifted with a quick 
 and sympathetic mind and a taste for literature. In 
 London his chief friend was Mr. Francis Beimoch, 
 also a merchant, who consorted much with people of 
 creative genius, and delighted to gather them at his 
 table, where they were entertained with a cordial and 
 charming hospitality. Mr. Bright and Mr. Bennoch 
 have each published a book since then ; but although 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 529 
 
 Hawthorne met many persons eminent in literature, 
 and enjoyed meeting them, it was not with any of their 
 number that he formed the closest ties. 
 
 With relief he heard in April, 1857, that his resig 
 nation had been accepted. " Dear Bridge," he wrote, 
 " I have received your letter, and the not unwelcome 
 intelligence that there is another Liverpool consul now 
 in existence. ... I am going to Paris in a day or two, 
 with my wife and children, and shall leave them there 
 while I return here to await my successor." He then 
 thanked Bridge for a newspaper paragraph which the 
 latter had caused to be printed, explaining Hawthorne s 
 position in resigning. " I was somewhat apprehensive 
 that my resignation would have been misunderstood," 
 he proceeded, " in consequence of a letter of General 
 Cass to Lord Napier, in which he intimated that any 
 consul found delinquent in certain matters should be 
 compelled to retire. . . . But for your paragraph, I 
 should have thought it necessary to enlighten the pub 
 lic on the true state of the case as regards the treat 
 ment of seamen on our merchant vessels, and I do not 
 know but I may do it yet ; in which case I shall prove 
 that General Cass made a most deplorable mistake in 
 the above-mentioned letter to Lord Napier. I shall 
 send the despatch to Ticknor, at any rate, for publica 
 tion if necessary. I expect great pleasure during my 
 stay on the Continent, and shall come home at last 
 somewhat reluctantly. Your pledge on my behalf of 
 a book shall he honored in good time, if God pleases." 
 
 The intention of taking his family at once to Paris 
 was given up, and instead Hawthorne went with them 
 to Manchester, the Lakes, and Scotland, and made a 
 pilgrimage to Warwick and Coventry, besides visiting 
 many other places. The new consul, however, post- 
 
 VOL. xn. 34 
 
530 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 poned his coming until near the end of 1857. Not 
 before January, 1858, did Hawthorne break away from 
 the fascinations of England and cross to the Continent. 
 When, after spending more than a year and a half in 
 Italy, he again set foot in England, it was to establish 
 himself at Redcar, a sea-side town in Yorkshire, where 
 he finished " The Marble Faun " in October, 1859 ; 
 and thence he betook himself to Leamington, which 
 had greatly pleased him on a previous visit. Here his 
 old friend, Mr. Hillard, called upon him ; and in an 
 article printed in the "Atlantic Monthly," in 1870, he 
 says : " The writer of this notice, who confesses to an 
 insatiable passion for the possession of books, and an 
 omnivorous appetite for their contents, was invited by 
 him into his study, the invitation being accompanied 
 with one of his peculiar and indescribable smiles, in 
 which there lurked a consciousness of his (the writer s) 
 weakness. The study was a small square room, with a 
 table and chair, but absolutely not a single book. He 
 liked writing better than reading." Mr. Hillard s 
 implication, however, is a misleading one. "Haw 
 thorne," says Mr. Fields, " was a hearty devourer of 
 books, and in certain moods of mind it made very little 
 difference what the volume before him happened to 
 be. ... He once told me that he found such delight 
 in old advertisements in the newspaper files at the 
 Boston Athenaeum, that he had passed delicious hours 
 among them. At other times he was very fastidious, 
 and threw aside book after book, until he found the 
 right one. De Quincey was a favorite with him, and 
 the sermons of Laurence Sterne he once commended 
 to me as the best sermons ever written." His corre 
 spondence was not " literary," to be sure ; but in his 
 letters to Mr. Fields, who had to do so especially witli 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 531 
 
 books, occasional references to literature escape him, 
 which did not ordinarily find their way into his letters 
 to other people. From England, in 1854, he wrote to 
 that gentleman : " I thank you for the books you sent 
 me, and more especially for Mrs. Mowatt s i Autobiog 
 raphy, which seems to me an admirable book. Of 
 all things I delight in autobiographies ; and I hardly 
 ever read one that interested me so much." He did 
 not read for erudition or for criticism, but he certainly 
 read much, and books were companions to him. I 
 have seen several catalogues of libraries which Haw 
 thorne had marked carefully, proving that, although 
 he made no annotations, he had studied the titles with 
 a natural reader s loving fondness. His stay at Leam 
 ington was but a brief one, and for that reason he 
 may well have been without books in his study at the 
 moment ; he never crowded them about himself, in the 
 rooms where he worked, but his tower-study at The 
 Wayside always contained a few volumes, and a few 
 small pictures and ornaments enough to relieve his 
 eye or suggest a refreshment to his mind, without dis 
 tracting him from composition or weakening the ab 
 sorbed intensity of his thought. 
 
 The only approach to literary exertion made at Liv 
 erpool seems to have been the revision of the " Mosses 
 from an Old Manse," for a reissue at the hands of 
 Ticknor & Fields ; employment which led to some re 
 flections upon his own earlier works. 
 
 " I am very glad that the Mosses * have come into 
 the hands of our firm ; and I return the copy sent me, 
 after a careful revision. When I wrote those dreamy 
 sketches, I little thought I should ever preface an 
 edition for the press amid the bustling life of a Liver 
 pool consulate. Upon my honor, 1 am not quite sure 
 
532 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 that I entirely comprehend my own meaning, in some 
 of those blasted allegories ; but I remember that I al 
 ways had a meaning, or at least thought I had. I am 
 a good deal changed since those times ; and, to tell 
 you the truth, my past self is not very much to my 
 taste, as I see myself in this book. Yet certainly there 
 is more in it than the public generally gave me credit 
 for at the time it was written. 
 
 "But I don t think myself worthy of very much 
 more credit than I got. It has been a very disagree 
 able task to read the book." 
 
 Pie was inveigled, however, into giving encourage 
 ment to that unfortunate woman, Miss Delia Bacon, 
 who was engaged in the task of proving that Lord 
 Bacon wrote Shakespeare s plays. He corresponded 
 with her on the subject, and finally agreed, although 
 not assenting to her theory, to write a preface for her 
 book, which he did. She was dissatisfied because he 
 did not accept her views entirely, grew very angry, and 
 even broke off all relations with him, notwithstanding 
 that he had paid the expenses of publication for her. 
 
 Arriving at Home in February, 1858, Hawthorne 
 lingered there until late in May, when he retired to 
 Florence, and hired there the Villa Montauto, in the 
 suburb of Bellosguardo. October found him again 
 in Rome, where he spent the winter; leaving the 
 Continent, finally, in June, 1859, for England and 
 Kedcar. 
 
 " I am afraid I have stayed away too long," he 
 wrote from Bellosguardo, to Mr. Fields, in September, 
 1858, " and am forgotten by everybody. You have 
 piled up the dusty remnants of my editions, I sup 
 pose, in that chamber over the shop, where you once 
 took me to smoke a cigar, and have crossed my name 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 533 
 
 out of your list of authors, without so much as asking 
 whether I am dead or alive. But I like it well enough, 
 nevertheless. It is pleasant to feel that at last I am 
 away from America, a satisfaction that I never en 
 joyed as long as I stayed in Liverpool, where it seemed 
 to me that the quintessence of nasal and hand-shaking 
 Yankeedom was continually filtered and sublimated 
 through my consulate, on the way outward and home 
 ward. I first got acquainted with my own country 
 men there. At Rome, too, it was not much better. 
 But here in Florence, and in the summer-time, and in 
 this secluded villa, I have escaped from all my old 
 tracks and am really remote. 
 
 "I like my present residence immensely. The 
 house stands on a hill, overlooking Florence, and is 
 big enough to quarter a regiment ; insomuch that 
 each member of the family, including servants, has a 
 separate suite of apartments, and there are vast wil 
 dernesses of upper rooms, into which we have never 
 yet sent exploring expeditions. 
 
 " At one end of the house there is a moss-grown 
 tower haunted by the ghost of a monk, who was con 
 fined there in the thirteenth century, previous to being 
 burned at the stake in the principal square of Florence. 
 I hire this villa, tower and all, at twenty-eight dollars 
 a month ; but I mean to take it away bodily and clap 
 it into a romance which I have in my head ready to be 
 written out." Turning to the topic of home, he went 
 jm : " After so long an absence (more than five years 
 already, which will be six before you see me at the 
 Old Corner), it is not altogether delightful to think of 
 returning. Everybody will be changed, and I, myself, 
 no doubt, as much as anybody. ... It won t do. I 
 shall be forced to come back again and take refuge in 
 
534 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 a London lodging. London is like the grave in ono 
 respect, any man can make himself at home there ; 
 and whenever a man finds himself homeless elsewhere, 
 he had better either die or go to London. 
 
 " Speaking of the grave reminds me of old age and 
 other disagreeable matters, and I would remark that 
 one grows old in Italy twice or three times as fast as 
 in other countries. I have three gray hairs now for 
 one that I brought from England, and I shall look 
 venerable indeed by the time I return next summer." 
 
 The " French and Italian Note-Books " are more 
 prolific in literary hints than the English. At Rome 
 and Florence the practical self, which was necessarily 
 brought forward in the daily round at the consulate and 
 left its impress on the letters to Lieutenant Bridge, re 
 tired into the background under the influence of scenes 
 more purely picturesque and poetic than those of Eng 
 land ; and the idealizing, imaginative faculty of Haw 
 thorne, being freed from the restraint which had so 
 long cramped it, gained in elasticity from day to day. 
 Four years of confinement to business, broken only at 
 intervals by short episodes of travel, had done no more 
 than impede the current of fancy ; had not dried it, 
 nor choked the source. Mr. Fields assures us that, 
 in England, Hawthorne told him he had no less than 
 five romances in his mind, so well planned that he 
 could write any one of them at short notice. But it is 
 significant that, however favorable Italy might be for 
 drawing out and giving free course to this current, he 
 could do little there in the way of embodying his con 
 ceptions, lie wrote out an extensive first draft of 
 " The Marble Faun " while moving from place to place 
 on the actual ground where the story is laid ; but the 
 work itself was written at liedcar, and in the commu< 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 535 
 
 nication last quoted from he had said : " I find this 
 Italian atmosphere not favorable to the close toil of 
 composition, although it is a very good air to dream 
 in. I must breathe the fogs of old England, or the 
 east-winds of Massachusetts, in order to put me into 
 working-trim." Conditions other than physical were 
 most probably responsible, in part, for this state of 
 things. Strong as Hawthorne s nature was on the 
 side of the real, the ideal force within him was so much 
 more puissant, that when circumstances were all pro 
 pitious as they were in Italy it obtained too com 
 manding a sway over him. His dreams, in such case, 
 would be apt to overcome him, to exist simply for their 
 own sake instead of being subordinated to his will ; 
 and, in fine, to expend their witchery upon the air, in 
 stead of being imprisoned in the enduring form of a 
 book. Being compounded in such singular wise of op 
 posing qualities : the customary, prudential, common 
 sensible ones, and the wise and visionary ones the 
 outward reticence, and (if we may say so) the inward 
 eloquence of which we now have a clearer view ; 
 being so compounded, he positively needed something 
 stern and adverse in his surroundings, it should seem, 
 both as a satisfaction to the sturdier part of him, and 
 as a healthful check which, by exciting reaction, would 
 stimulate his imaginative mood. He must have pre 
 cisely the right proportion between these counter in 
 fluences, or else creation could not proceed. In the 
 Salem Custom House and at the Liverpool consulate 
 there had been too much of the hard commonplace : 
 instead of serving as a convenient foil to the more ex 
 pansive and lightsome tendencies of his genius, it had 
 weighed them down. But in Italy there was too much 
 freedom, not enough framework of the severe, the 
 
536 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 roughly real and unpicturesque. Hawthorne s intel 
 lectual and poetic nature presents a spectacle some 
 what like that of a granite rock upon which delicate 
 vines flourish at their best ; but he was himself both 
 rock and vine. The delicate, aspiring tendrils and 
 the rich leafage of the plant, however, required a par 
 ticular combination of soil and climate, in order to 
 grow well. When he was not hemmed in by the round 
 of official details, England afforded him that combina 
 tion in bounteous measure. 
 
 On the publication of "The Marble Faun," the 
 author s friend, John Lothrop Motley, with whom he 
 had talked, of the contemplated romance, in Home, 
 wrote to him from Walton -on -Thames (March 29, 
 1860) : - 
 
 " Everything that you have ever written, I believe, 
 I have read many times, and I am particularly vain 
 of having admired Sights from a Steeple, when I 
 first read it in the Boston Token, several hundred 
 years ago, when we were both younger than we are 
 now ; of having detected and cherished, at a later day, 
 an old Apple-Dealer, whom I believe you have un 
 handsomely thrust out of your presence now that you 
 are grown so great. But the 4 Romance of Monte 
 Beni has the additional charm for me, that it is the 
 first book of yours that I have read since I had the 
 privilege of making your personal acquaintance. My 
 memory goes back at once to those walks (alas, not 
 too frequent) we used to take along the Tiber, or in 
 the Campagna . . . and it is delightful to get hold of 
 the book now, and know that it is impossible for you 
 any longer, after waving your wand as you occasion 
 ally did then, indicating where the treasure was hid 
 den, to sink it again beyond plummet s sound. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 537 
 
 "I admire the book exceedingly ... It is one 
 which, for the first reading at least, I did n t like to 
 hear aloud. ... If I were composing an article for a 
 review, of course I should feel obliged to show cause 
 for my admiration ; but I am only obeying an impulse. 
 Permit me to say, however, that your style seems, if 
 possible, more perfect than ever. . . . Believe me, I 
 don t say to you half what I say behind your back ; 
 and I have said a dozen times that nobody can write 
 English but you. With regard to the story, which 
 has been somewhat criticized, I can only say that to 
 me it is quite satisfactory. I like those shadowy, weird, 
 fantastic, Hawthornesque shapes flitting through the 
 golden gloom, which is the atmosphere of the book. 
 I like the misty way in which the story is indicated 
 rather than revealed ; the outlines are quite definite 
 enough from the beginning to the end, to those who 
 have imagination enough to follow you in your airy 
 flights. . . . The way in which the two victims dance 
 through the Carnival on the last day is very striking. 
 It is like a Greek tragedy in its effect, without being 
 in the least Greek." 
 
 In this last sentence Mr. Motley struck out an apt 
 distinction ; for it is perhaps the foremost character 
 istic of Hawthorne as a writer that his fictions pos 
 sessed a plastic repose, a perfection of form, which 
 made them akin to classic models, at the same time 
 that the spirit was throughout eminently that belong 
 ing to the mystic, capricious, irregular fantasy of the 
 North. 
 
 Hawthorne thus made answer from Bath (April 1, 
 I860): 
 
 MY DEAK MOTLEY, You are certainly that Gen- 
 
538 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 tie Reader for whom all my books were exclusively 
 written. Nobody else (my wife excepted, who speaks 
 so near me that I cannot tell her voice from my own) 
 has ever said exactly what I love to hear. It is most 
 satisfactory to be hit upon the raw, to be shot straight 
 through the heart. It is not the quantity of your 
 praise that I care so much about (though I gather it 
 all up carefully, lavish as you are of it), but the 
 kind, for you take the book precisely as I meant it ; 
 and if your note had come a few days sooner, I believe 
 I would have printed it in a postscript which I have 
 added to the second edition, because it explains better 
 than I found possible to do the way in which my ro 
 mance ought to be taken. . . . Now don t suppose 
 that I fancy the book to be a tenth part as good as 
 you say it is. You work out my imperfect efforts, and 
 half make the book with your warm imagination, and 
 see what I myself saw but could only hint at. Well, 
 the romance is a success, even if it never finds another 
 reader. 
 
 We spent the winter in Leamington, whither we 
 had come from the sea-coast in October. I am sorry 
 to say that it was another winter of sorrow and anx 
 iety. ... I have engaged our passages for June 16th. 
 . . . Mrs. Hawthorne and the children will probably 
 remain in Bath till the eve of our departure ; but I 
 intend to pay one more visit of a week or two to Lon 
 don, and shall certainly come and see you. I wonder 
 at your lack of recognition of my social propensities. 
 I take so much delight in my friends, that a little in 
 tercourse goes a great way, and illuminates my life be 
 fore and after. . . . Your friend, 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHOKNE. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 539 
 
 One may well linger here, for an instant, over the 
 calm, confident, but deeply vibrating happiness from 
 which those words sprang, concerning his wife, " who 
 speaks so near me that I cannot tell her voice from my 
 own ; " and one may profitably lay away, for instruc 
 tion, the closing lines, "I take so much delight in 
 my friends, that a little intercourse goes a great way." 
 The allusion to " another winter of sorrow and anx 
 iety " carries us back to the previous winter, passed 
 in Rome, during which Hawthorne s elder daughter 
 underwent a prolonged attack of Roman fever. Ill 
 ness again developed itself in his family while they 
 were staying at Leamington. 
 
 In February of 1860 he wrote to Mr. Fields, who 
 was then in Italy : 
 
 " I thank you most heartily for your kind wishes in 
 favor of the forthcoming work [ The Marble Faun ], 
 and sincerely join my own prayers to yours in its be 
 half, without much confidence of a good result. My 
 own opinion is, that I am not really a popular writer, 
 and that what popularity I have gained is chiefly ac 
 cidental, and owing to other causes than my own kind 
 or degree of merit. Possibly I may (or may not) de 
 serve something better than popularity; but looking 
 at all my productions, and especially this latter one, 
 with a cold or critical eye, I can see that they do not 
 make their appeal to the popular mind. It is odd 
 enough, moreover, that my own individual taste is for 
 quite another class of works than those which I my 
 self am able to write. If I were to meet with such 
 books as mine by another writer, I don t believe I 
 should be able to get through them." At another 
 time he had written of Anthony Trollope s novels: 
 4t They precisely suit my taste ; solid and substantial, 
 
540 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 written on the strength of beef and through the inspi 
 ration of ale, and just as real as if some giant had 
 hewn a great lump out of the earth and put it under 
 a glass case, with all its inhabitants going about their 
 daily business and not suspecting that they were made 
 a show of." 
 
 Before leaving England for the last time, Hawthorne 
 went up alone to London, and spent a week or two 
 among his friends there, staying with Motley, and 
 meeting Lord Dufferin, the Honorable Mrs. Norton, 
 Leigh Hunt, Barry Cornwall, and many other agree 
 able and noted persons. " You would be stricken 
 dumb," he wrote to his wife, who remained at Bath, 
 " to see how quietly I accept a whole string of invita 
 tions, and, what is more, perform my engagements 
 without a murmur. . . . The stir of this London life, 
 somehow or other, has done me a wonderful deal of 
 good, and I feel better than for months past. This is 
 strange, for if I had my choice, I should leave undone 
 almost all the things I do." In the midst of these 
 social occupations he gave sittings to a young German- 
 American sculptor named Kuntze, who modelled a pro 
 file portrait of him in bas-relief. A farewell dinner 
 was given him at Barry Cornwall s ; and in June, 
 1860, he sailed for America, from which he had been 
 absent seven years. 
 
 There was not yet any serious sign of a failure in 
 his health ; but the illness in his family, lasting 
 through two winters, had worn severely upon him ; his 
 spirits had begun to droop. " I would gladly journal 
 ize some of my proceedings, and describe things and 
 people ; but I find the same coldness and stiffness in 
 my pen as always since our return to England : " thus 
 he had written in his Note-Book, while making that 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 541 
 
 final London visit. In Italy, however, he had already 
 shown symptoms of fatigue, saying to Mr. Fields : 
 " I have had so many interruptions from things to see 
 and things to suffer, that the story [ The Marble 
 Faun ] has developed itself in a very imperfect way. 
 ... I could finish it in the time that I am to remain 
 here, but my brain is tired of it just now." The voy 
 age put fresh vigor into him, apparently. Mrs. Har 
 riet Beecher Stowe and Professor Stowe were on board, 
 with their daughters, and Mr. Fields, who was also a 
 passenger, has said : " Hawthorne s love for the sea 
 amounted to a passionate worship, and while I (the 
 worst sailor probably on this planet) was longing, 
 spite of the good company on board, to reach land as 
 soon as possible, Hawthorne was constantly saying in 
 his quiet, earnest way, I should like to sail on and 
 on forever, and never touch the shore again. J! His 
 inherited susceptibility to the fascination of the sea 
 no doubt intensified his enjoyment, and he is reported 
 to have talked in a strain of delightful humor while on 
 shipboard. 
 
 For nearly a year after his return to The Wayside, 
 there is an uneventful gap in his history, concerning 
 which we have very few details. He set about improv 
 ing his house, and added to it a wing at the back, 
 which, having three stories, rose above the rest of the 
 building, and thus supplied him with a study in the 
 top room, which had the effect of a tower. Meanwhile 
 the political quarrel between the North and the South 
 was rapidly culminating ; in a few months the Slave 
 States began their secession, and the Civil War broke 
 out. This affected Hawthorne so deeply that for some 
 time he was unable to engage in imaginative work, and 
 he now relinquished the custom he had maintained for 
 
542 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 so many years, of keeping a journal. But there are 
 letters which define his state of mind, which make his 
 position clear with regard to the question of the 
 Union, and show the change in his feeling brought on 
 by the course of events. 
 
 Several years before, while he was still consul, he 
 thus confided to Bridge (January 9, 1857) his gen 
 eral opinion respecting the crisis which even then im 
 pended : 
 
 " I regret that you think so doubtfully of the pros 
 pects of the Union ; for I should like well enough to 
 hold on to the old thing. And yet I must confess 
 that I sympathize to a large extent with the Northern 
 feeling, and think it is about time for us to make a 
 stand. If compelled to choose, I go for the North. 
 At present, we have no country at least, none in the 
 sense in which an Englishman has a country. I never 
 conceived, in reality, what a true and warm love of 
 country is, till I witnessed it in the breasts of English 
 men. The States are too various and too extended to 
 form really one country. New England is quite as 
 large a lump of earth as my heart can really take in. 
 . . . However, I have no kindred with nor leaning 
 toward the Abolitionists." 
 
 When hostilities had begun, he wrote to the same 
 friend, May 26, 1861 : 
 
 " The war, strange to say, has had a beneficial ef 
 fect upon my spirits, which were flagging woefully be 
 fore it broke out. But it was delightful to share in 
 the heroic sentiment of the time, and to feel that I 
 had a country, a consciousness which seemed to make 
 me young again. One thing as regards this matter I 
 regret, and one thing I am glad of. The regrettable 
 thing is that I am too old to shoulder a musket my 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 543 
 
 self, and the joyful thing is that Julian is too young 
 He drills constantly with a company of lads, and 
 means to enlist as soon as he reaches the minimum 
 age. But I trust we shall either be victorious or van 
 quished by that time. Meantime, though I approve 
 the war as much as any man, I don t quite see what 
 we are fighting for or what definite result can be ex 
 pected. If we pommel the South ever so hard, they 
 will love us none the better for it ; and even if we 
 subjugate them, our next step should be to cut them 
 adrift, if we are fighting for the annihilation of slav 
 ery. To be sure, it may be a wise object, and offers 
 a tangible result and the only one which is consistent 
 with a future union between North and South. A 
 continuance of the war would soon make this plain 
 to us, and we should see the expediency of preparing 
 our black brethren for future citizenship, by allowing 
 them to fight for their own liberties and educating 
 them through heroic influences. Whatever happens 
 next, I must say that I rejoice that the old Union is 
 smashed. We never were one people, and never really 
 had a country since the Constitution was formed." 
 
 Thus, then, Hawthorne, who had been brought up 
 politically within the democratic party and thrice 
 held office under its regime, had reached the conclu 
 sion, four years in advance of the event, that it was 
 time for the North to " make a stand " ; and now, 
 while muskets rattled their grim prelude to a long 
 and deadly conflict, he planted himself firmly on the 
 side of the government was among the first, more 
 over, to resolve upon that policy of arming the ne 
 groes, which was so bitterly opposed and so slow of 
 adoption among even progressive reformers at the 
 North. In his solitude, out of the current of affairs, 
 
544 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 trying to pursue his own peaceful, artistic calling, and 
 little used to making utterances on public questions, 
 it was not incumbent upon him nor proper to his 
 character to blazon his beliefs where every one could 
 see them. But, these private expressions being un 
 known, his silence was construed against him. One 
 more reference to the war, occurring in a letter of 
 October 12, 1861, to Lieutenant Bridge, should be re 
 corded in this place : 
 
 " I am glad you take such a hopeful view of our 
 national prospects, so far as regards the war. . . . 
 For my part, I don t hope (nor indeed wish) to see 
 the Union restored as it was; amputation seems to 
 me much the better plan, and all we ought to fight for 
 is the liberty of selecting the point where our diseased 
 members shall be lopped off. I would fight to the 
 death for the Northern Slave-States, and let the rest 
 go. . . . I have not found it possible to occupy my 
 mind with its usual trash and nonsense during these 
 anxious times ; but as the autumn advances, I find 
 myself sitting down to my desk and blotting succes 
 sive sheets of paper, as of yore. Very likely I may 
 have something ready for the public long before the 
 public is ready to receive it." 
 
 It will be seen that he was not hopeful as to the 
 restoration of the entire Union, adhered to his first 
 view indeed, that the scission of a part would be pref 
 erable. In declining a cordial invitation from Bridge 
 to come to Washington, in February, 1862, he gave 
 renewed emphasis to this opinion. "I am not very 
 well," he said, " being mentally and physically Ian. 
 guid ; but I suppose there is an even chance that the 
 trip and change of scene might supply the energy 
 which I lack." He announced that he had begun a 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 545 
 
 new romance, and then turning to the questions of the 
 day, remarked that he " should not much regret an 
 ultimate separation," and that soon ; adding that if a 
 strong Union sentiment should not set in at the South, 
 we ought to resolve ourselves into two nations at once, 
 He was evidently growing despondent ; a fact which 
 may have been due in part to the physical and mental 
 languor of which he told his friend. Misfortune had 
 once more entered his household ; for one of his chil 
 dren was suffering from a peculiarly distressing mal 
 ady, which imposed a heavy strain upon his nerves 
 and troubled his heart. More than this, he mourned 
 over the multitude of private griefs which he saw or 
 apprehended on every side griefs resulting from the 
 slaughter that was going on at the seat of war as 
 acutely as if they had been his own losses. He could 
 not shut out, by any wall of patriotic fire, the terri 
 ble shapes of fierce passion and the pathetic appari 
 tions of those whose lives had been blasted by the 
 tragedies of the field. His health, we have already 
 noticed, had begun to falter while he was still abroad. 
 Neither was he free from pecuniary anxieties. He 
 had laid up a modest accumulation from his earnings 
 in the consulate ; but the additions to his house, un 
 ambitious though they were, had cost a sum which 
 was large in proportion to his resources; the expense 
 of living was increased by the war, and his pen was 
 for the time being not productive. His income from 
 his books was always scanty. He was too scrupulous 
 to be willing to draw upon the principal which had 
 been invested for the future support of his family; 
 and there were times when he was harassed by the 
 need of money. All these causes conspired to reduce 
 his strength ; but the omnipresent misery of the war, 
 
 VOL. xii. 36 
 
546 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 and the destruction of the Union, which he believed to 
 be inevitable, were perhaps the chief adverse factors 
 in the case. " Hawthorne s life," Mr. Lowell has said 
 to me, " was shortened by the war." 
 
 The romance mentioned as having been begun dur 
 ing this winter of 1861-62, was probably " Dr. Grim- 
 shawe s Secret," the first scheme of which appears as 
 " The Ancestral Footstep ; " and it was afterwards 
 merged in " Septimius Felton." Hawthorne, however, 
 did not make satisfactory progress with this work; 
 and throughout the summer of 1862 he seems to have 
 given such energies as he could command to the prep 
 aration of the chapters of travel subsequently col 
 lected under -the title, " Our Old Home." The latter 
 volume appeared at a time of fervid, nay, violent pub 
 lic excitement, caused by the critical state of military 
 matters, the unpopularity of the draft, the increasing 
 boldness of the democratic party at the North in op 
 posing the war and demanding its cessation. To Haw 
 thorne it appeared no more than just that he should 
 dedicate his book to the friend whose public act, in 
 sending him abroad in the government service, had 
 made it possible for him to gather the materials he had 
 embodied in these reminiscences. But his publisher, 
 Mr. Fields, knowing that ex-President Pierce was very 
 generally held to be culpable for his deference towards 
 Southern leaders who had done much to bring on the 
 war, and that he was ranked among the men who were 
 ready to vote against continuing the attempt to conquer 
 the Confederacy, foresaw the clamor which would be 
 raised against Hawthorne if, at such a moment, he 
 linked his name publicly with that of Pierce. He r& 
 monstrated upon the proposed dedication. But Haw 
 thorne was not to be turned aside from his purpose by 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 547 
 
 any dread of an outcry which he considered unjust. 
 " I find," he replied, " that it would be a piece of pol 
 troonery in me to withdraw either the dedication or 
 the dedicatory letter, . . . and if he [Pierce] is so 
 exceedingly unpopular that his name is enough to sink 
 the volume, there is so much the more need that an 
 old friend should stand by him. I cannot, merely on 
 account of pecuniary profit or literary reputation, go 
 back from what I have deliberately felt and thought 
 it right to do ; and if I were to tear out the dedication, 
 I should never look at the volume again without re 
 morse and shame. ... If the public of the North 
 see fit to ostracize me for this, I can only say that I 
 would gladly sacrifice a thousand or two of dollars 
 rather than retain the good-will of such a herd of 
 dolts and mean-spirited scoundrels." The language 
 did not lack vigor and warmth ; but Dr. Loring has 
 stated that he spoke of the matter to the same effect, 
 " not in the heat of passion, but with a calm and gen 
 erous courage." The dedicatory letter was printed, 
 of course, and drew down upon Hawthorne abundant 
 condemnation ; but he had maintained his integrity. 
 
 The shock of such an accident was by no means the 
 right sort of tonic for a man of Hawthorne s sensitive 
 disposition when he was already feeble and almost ill. 
 In April, 1862, he had been to Washington, and the 
 things that impressed him there were noted down in an 
 " Atlantic Monthly " paper, entitled " Chiefly About 
 War Matters." At Washington, also, Leutze painted 
 a portrait of him for General Pierce. In July, he took 
 a brief trip with his son to the Maine coast, and began 
 a new journal. There were no other changes of scene 
 for him ; the monotony of his life at The Wayside was 
 seldom broken. That this period was for him one of 
 
548 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 unmitigated gloom cannot truthfully be predicated ; he 
 enjoyed his home, he had the society of his wife and 
 children ; he had many small and quiet pleasures. But 
 there was likewise much to make him sorrowful, and 
 the tide of vitality was steadily ebbing away. In May, 
 1863, James Russell Lowell invited him to Elmwood, 
 and Hawthorne agreed to go, but he was finally pre 
 vented from doing so by a troublesome cold. The 
 slow and mysterious disease, which was to prove fatal 
 within a year, continued to make inroads upon his con 
 stitution. After the publication of " Our Old Home," 
 in the autumn of 1863, there is no certain record of 
 his condition or his proceedings, beyond this, that he 
 went on declining, and that having abandoned the 
 two preceding phases of his new fiction he at 
 tempted to write the resultant form of it, which was to 
 have been brought out as " The Dolliver Romance." 
 
 Although the title had not yet been determined 
 upon, he consented to begin a serial publication of the 
 work in the " Atlantic Monthly " for January, 1864. 
 But he wrote to Mr. Fields ; "I don t see much prob 
 ability of my having the first chapter of the Romance 
 ready so soon as you want it. There are two or three 
 chapters ready to be written, but I am not yet robust 
 enough to begin, and I feel as if I should never carry 
 it through. ... I can think of no title for the unborn 
 Romance. Always heretofore I have waited till it was 
 quite complete, before attempting to name it, and I 
 fear I shall have to do so now." On the 1st of De 
 cember, he dispatched the manuscript of the first 
 chapter, with the title of the whole. But he could not 
 follow it up with more, and wrote, about the middle of 
 January, 1864 : " I am not quite up to writing yet, 
 but shall make an effort as soon as I see any hope of 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 549 
 
 At the end of February : " I hardly know 
 what to say to the public about this abortive Romance, 
 though I know pretty well what the case will be. I 
 shall never finish it. . . , I cannot finish it unless a 
 great change comes over me ; and if I make too great 
 an effort to do so, it will be my death." From this 
 time on he accomplished no work which he was willing 
 to send to the press, although he had among his papers 
 the two fragmentary scenes from " The Dolliver Ro 
 mance " that were posthumously printed. 
 
 The wife of ex-President Pierce died in December, 
 
 1863, and Hawthorne went to New Hampshire to 
 attend the funeral. When he passed through Bos 
 ton, on his return, he appeared to Mr. Fields ill and 
 more nervous than usual. Dreary events seemed to 
 thicken around his path. In the last days of March, 
 
 1864, Mr. Fields saw him again ; and by this time his 
 appearance had greatly changed. " The light in his eye 
 was as beautiful as ever, but his limbs were shrunken, 
 and his usual stalwart vigor [was] utterly gone." A 
 photograph taken not long before that date represents 
 him with cheeks somewhat emaciated, and a worn, 
 strangely anxious, half - appealing expression, which, 
 while singularly delicate and noble, is extremely sad. 
 Soon after this, in March, he set out for Washington 
 with Mr. William Ticknor, Mr. Fields s senior part 
 ner in the publishing firm of Ticknor & Fields. The 
 travelling companions spent two or three days in 
 New York, and had got as far as Philadelphia, when 
 Mr. Ticknor was taken suddenly ill, at the Continen 
 tal Hotel, and died the next day. Stunned, wellnigh 
 shattered by this sinister event, Hawthorne was al 
 most incapacitated for action of any sort ; but there 
 were kind and ready friends in Philadelphia who came 
 
550 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 to his aid, and relieved him from the melancholy duty 
 which he would else have had to meet. He returned 
 to Concord, in what forlorn state an extract from a 
 letter of Mrs. Hawthorne s may best convey : " He 
 came back unlocked for, that day ; and when I heard 
 a step on the piazza, I was lying on a couch and feel 
 ing quite indisposed. But as soon as I saw him I 
 was frightened out of all knowledge of myself, so 
 haggard, so white, so deeply scored with pain and fa 
 tigue was the face, so much more ill than ever I saw 
 him before." Mrs. Hawthorne still hoped for some 
 favorable turn, if he could but obtain a complete 
 change of scene and escape from the austere New 
 England spring, into some warmer climate. " He has 
 not smiled since he came home till to-day," she wrote, 
 " when I made him laugh, with Thackeray s humor, 
 in reading to him." She was constant in her care ; 
 she would scarcely let him go up and down stairs 
 alone. But not the most tender solicitude, nor any 
 encouragement of unquenchable hope, could now avail 
 to help him. 
 
 The only stratagem that could be devised to win 
 back health and strength was the plan proposed by 
 General Pierce, to take Hawthorne with him on an 
 easy journey by carriage into New Hampshire. They 
 started in May, the two old college-mates ; the ex- 
 President so lately widowed and still in the shadow 
 of his own bereavement, with the famous romancer 
 so mournfully broken, who was never more to be seen 
 in life by those to whom he was dearest. From the 
 Pemigewasset House at Plymouth, New Hampshire, 
 where they had stopped for the night, General Pierce 
 sent the news on May 19, that Hawthorne was dead. 
 " He retired last night," wrote the General, " soon 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 551 
 
 after nine o clock, and soon fell into a quiet slumber. 
 
 ... At two o clock I went to H s bedside ; he 
 
 was apparently in a sound sleep ; and I did not place 
 my hand upon him. At four o clock I went into his 
 room again, and, as his position was unchanged, I 
 placed my hand upon him and found that life was 
 extinct. ... He must have passed from natural slum 
 ber to that from which there is no waking, without the 
 slightest movement." 
 
 Hawthorne was buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery 
 at Concord, on the 24th of May, 1864. The grave was 
 made beneath the shadowing pines of a hill near one 
 of the borders of the beautiful, wooded burial-ground, 
 whence there is a peaceful view over the valley of the 
 Concord River. It was close to the slope where Tho- 
 reau now lies, and not far away is the grassy resting- 
 place of Emerson. The spot was one for which Haw 
 thorne had cherished an especial fondness. Emerson, 
 that day, stood beside the grave, and with him Long 
 fellow and Lowell were present ; Agassiz, Holmes, 
 James Freeman Clarke, Edwin Whipple, Pierce, and 
 Hillard, had all assembled to pay their last reverence. 
 A great multitude of people attended the funeral ser 
 vice at the old Unitarian First Church in the village, 
 and Mr. Clarke, who had performed the marriage cere 
 mony for Hawthorne, conducted the rites above him 
 dead. It was a perfect day of spring ; the roadside 
 banks were blue with violets, the orchards were in 
 bloom ; and lilies of the valley, which were Hawthorne s 
 favorites among flowers, had blossomed early as if for 
 him, and were gathered in masses about him. Like a 
 requiem chant, the clear strains that Longfellow wrote 
 in memory of that hour still echo for us its tender so- 
 lemnity: 
 
552 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 " How beautiful it was, that one bright day 
 
 In the long week of rain ! 
 Though all its splendor could not chase away 
 The omnipresent pain. 
 
 " The lovely town was white with apple-bloomSj 
 
 And the great elms o erhead 
 Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms, 
 Shot through with golden thread. 
 
 "Across the meadows, by the gray old manse, 
 
 The historic river flowed ; 
 I was as one who wanders in a trance, 
 Unconscious of his road. 
 
 w The faces of familiar friends seemed strange ; 
 
 Their voices I could hear, 
 
 And yet the words they uttered seemed to change 
 Their meaning to the ear. 
 
 " For the one face I looked for was not there, 
 
 The one low voice was mute ; 
 Only an unseen presence filled the air, 
 And baffled my pursuit. 
 
 " Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream 
 
 Dimly my thought defines; 
 I only see a dream within a dream 
 The hill-top hearsed with pines. 
 
 " I only hear above his place of rest 
 
 Their tender undertone, 
 The infinite longings of a troubled breast, 
 The voice so like his own. 
 
 * There in seclusion and remote from men 
 
 The wizard hand lies cold, 
 Which at its topmost speed let fall the pem, 
 And left the talc half told. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 553 
 
 u Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power, 
 
 And the lost clue regain ? 
 The unfinished window in Aladdin s tower 
 Unfinished must remain I " 
 
 V. 
 
 This narrative of his career, in one sense so sim 
 ple, so uneventful, has brought chiefly to the front, 
 as we have followed it, a phase under which Haw 
 thorne appears the most like other men ; with motives 
 easily understood, wishing to take his full share in hu 
 man existence and its responsibilities ; devoted in his 
 domestic relations. Moderately ambitious of worldly 
 welfare, but in poverty uncomplaining, he is so coolly 
 practical in his view that he scarcely alludes to the 
 products of his genius except as they may bear upon 
 his material progress. Even this much of the char 
 acter is uncommon, because of its sterling tone, the 
 large, sustained manliness, and the success with which 
 in the main it keeps itself firmly balanced ; but it is a 
 character not difficult to grasp, and one that appeals 
 to every observer. It leaves out a great deal, however. 
 The artist is absent from it. Neither is that essential 
 mystery of organization included which held these ele 
 ments together, united them with something of import 
 far different, and converted the whole nature into a 
 most extraordinary one, lifting it to a plane high above 
 that on which it might, at first, seem to rest. 
 
 We know, from brief allusions in his " Note-Books," 
 that Hawthorne was perfectly well aware of his high 
 quality as an artist. He speaks of having won fame 
 in his dismal room in Herbert Street ; and at Arezzo, 
 in 1858, the well " opposite Petrarch s birth-house " 
 
554 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 which Boccaccio introduced into one of his stories, re* 
 calls to the American writer one of his own perfor 
 mances. " As I lingered round it I thought of my own 
 town-pump in old Salem, and wondered whether my 
 towns-people would ever point it out to strangers, and 
 whether the stranger would gaze at it with any degree 
 of such interest as I felt in Boccaccio s well. Oh, 
 certainly not ; but I made that humble town-pump 
 the most celebrated structure in the good town. A 
 thousand and a thousand people had pumped there, 
 merely to water oxen or fill their tea-kettles ; but 
 when once I grasped the handle, a rill gushed forth 
 that meandered as far as England, as far as India, 
 besides tasting pleasantly in every town and village 
 of our own country. I like to think of this, so long 
 after I did it, and so far from home, and am not 
 without hopes of some kindly local remembrance on 
 this score." l Such indications of the artistic con 
 sciousness are the merest ripples on the surface ; the 
 deeper substance of it, with Hawthorne, always re- 
 
 1 French and Italian Note-Books, May 30, 1858. A contributor to 
 Appletons Journal, writing in 1875, describes a surviving specimen of 
 the old contrivances which then gave Salem its water-supply. " The 
 presumption is that a description of this particular one answers for 
 Ilawthorne s pump, seeing that they were all alike. It is large 
 enough for a mausoleum and looks not unlike one, made of slabs of 
 dingy stone, like stained, gray gravestones set up on one end, in a 
 square at the foundation, but all inclining inward at the top, where 
 they are kept in position by a band of iron. A decaying segment of 
 log appears, in which the pump-handle works in vain, now, how 
 ever, since, being long out of use, it has no connection with the water 
 below ; on the front side are two circular holes, like a pair of great 
 eyes, made for the insertion of the spouts ; and, finally, a long-handled 
 iron dish, like a saucepan or warming-pan on a smaller scale, is attached 
 by an iron chain to the stone, by way of drinking-vessel. Altogether, 
 though it may not strike an old Salem resident in that way, it seemi 
 to the stranger a very unique, antiquated, and remarkable structure." 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 555 
 
 mained out of sight. Letters, which are assumed to 
 reveal so much of those who indite them, are, when 
 we come to the fact, very insufficient exponents of 
 character ; as, for instance, we may observe in the let 
 ters of Michael Angelo, whose mood and manner vary 
 according to the person addressed. Correspondence, it 
 is true, is appetizing to readers, and should be prized 
 for the help it gives in defining an individual, but it 
 does not always do full justice to the larger being in 
 cluded in the whole personality. Hawthorne s letters 
 are more representative of those faculties by which he 
 came into association with his fellows, than of those 
 which tended to separate him from them by making 
 him single and phenomenal, in his function as writer 
 of romance. But in his actual presence there was a 
 something which did most noticeably correspond to the 
 hidden sources of his power, and visibly express them. 
 There was the hale and vigorous port of a man well 
 fitted by his physical constitution to meet the rudest 
 emergency ; but there was also a temperament of 
 which the reserve, the delicacy, the tremulous sensi 
 tiveness were equal to those of the most finely organ 
 ized woman. " He was tall and strongly built," wrote 
 his friend Hillard, " with broad shoulders, deep chest, 
 a massive head. ... He looked like a man who might 
 have held the stroke oar in a University boat. ... 
 But, on the other hand, no man had more of the femi 
 nine element than he. He was feminine in his quick 
 perceptions, his fine insight, his sensibility to beauty. 
 ... No man comprehended woman better than he. 
 And his face was as mobile and rapid in its changes 
 of expression as that of a young girl. . . . His eyes 
 woidd darken visibly under the touch of a passing 
 emotion, like the waters of a fountain ruffled by the 
 
556 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 breeze of summer. So, too, he was the shyest of 
 
 men." 
 
 The same writer adds : " There was nothing morbid 
 in his character or temperament. He was, indeed, 
 much the reverse of morbid. No man of genius ever 
 had less the infirmities of genius than he ... Haw 
 thorne was physically one of the healthiest of men. 
 His pulse always kept even music. He cared nothing 
 for wine or tobacco, or strong coffee or strong tea. He 
 was a sound sleeper and an early riser. He was never 
 moody or fitful or irritable. He was never unduly de 
 pressed or unreasonably elated. His spirits were not 
 brilliant, but they were uniform, and, as Mrs. Haw 
 thorne says, 4 The airy splendor of his wit and humor 
 was the light of his own home. " 
 
 Dr. Loring has supplied another sketch of his ap 
 pearance in general intercourse, which does a great 
 deal to fill out our conception : 
 
 " He knew no such thing as fear ; was scrupulously 
 honest ; was unwavering in his fidelity ; conscientious 
 in the discharge of his duty. There may have been 
 men of more latent power, but I have known no man 
 more impressive, none in whom the great reposing 
 strength seemed clad in such a robe of sweetness as 
 he wore. I saw him on the day General Pierce was 
 elected to the presidency. It was a bright and de 
 licious day in late autumn. He was standing under 
 the little shaded and embowered piazza of The Way 
 side, at Concord, in the full vigor of his manhood, 
 radiant with joy at the good fortune of his friend, and 
 with that sad, shy smile playing over his face, which 
 was so touching and charming. I have seen him 
 fishing from the rocks of the Essex County shore at 
 
 1 Atlantic Monthly, September, 1870, vol. 26, p. 257. 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 557 
 
 Swampscott, enjoying the bliss of absolute repose and 
 the sweet uncertainty which attends the angler s line. 
 I have sat with him in the dimly lighted room on 
 autumnal evenings, cheerful and vocal with the cricket s 
 chirp, and have heard his wise and sensible talk, ut 
 tered in that soft, melodious tone which gave such a 
 peculiar charm to his utterances, a tone so shy that 
 an intruder would hush it into silence in an instant. I 
 have strolled with him in the darkness of a summer 
 night through the lanes of Concord, assured by his 
 voice, which came up from the grass-grown roadside in 
 a sort of mysterious murmur, that he was my compan 
 ion still. And everywhere and at all times, he bore 
 about him a strong and commanding presence and im 
 pression of unpretending power. I can hardly tell 
 how Hawthorne succeeded in entertaining his compan 
 ions and securing their entire confidence, unless it was 
 that he displayed great good sense and acuteness and 
 good temper in his intercourse with them, and never 
 misled them by false promises or low appeals. This, 
 in addition to his subtile genius, everywhere recognized 
 and never wholly concealed to even the most common 
 place associates, made him a most fascinating friend, as 
 he was really and truly a man of rare quality among 
 ordinary men." l 
 
 The earlier portraits of Hawthorne show the gentle 
 ness and the feminine traits in his disposition much 
 more distinctly than those that are best known to the 
 world. There is one, now owned by his cousin, Mr. 
 Richard C. Manning, of Salem, which was painted in 
 1840 by Charles Osgood, an artist of Salem, and in 
 duced this comment from his sister Louisa: "The 
 color is a little too high, to be sure, but perhaps it is 
 1 Papyrus Leaves, pp. 261, 262. 
 
558 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 a modest blusli at the compliments which are paid to 
 your pen." Another, painted by a Mr. C. G. Thomp 
 son, at Boston, in 1850 (now owned by Mr. Julian 
 Hawthorne), resembles this, and presents, one would 
 say, the ideal Hawthorne of the " Twice-Told Tales " 
 and " The House of the Seven Gables." The face is 
 smooth shaven and the cheeks are somewhat slender, 
 making all the lines and features contribute to an ef 
 fect of greater length and of more oval contour than 
 that given by the later representations. The color is 
 delicate ; the large eyes look forth with peculiarly fas 
 cinating power from beneath a forehead of exceptional 
 height and harmonious prominence. The hair is long, 
 and recedes slightly on both sides of the forehead ; a 
 single lock in the middle curving over and drooping 
 forward. There is less firmness about the lips than 
 was characteristic of them in his latter years ; they 
 close softly, yet even in their pictured repose they 
 seem to be mobile and ready to quiver with response 
 to some emotion still undefined but liable to make it 
 self felt at any instant. In its surrounding of long 
 hair, and of a collar rising above the jaws, with a large 
 black tie wound about the throat in the manner of a 
 stock but terminating in a large bow at the front, the 
 beardless countenance is stamped with a sort of preva 
 lent aspect of the period when it was painted, which 
 gives it what we call the old-fashioned look. It is, 
 none the less, a striking one ; one that arrests the 
 glance immediately, and holds it by a peculiar spell. 
 There is no suggestion of a smile or of cheeriness about 
 it ; the eyes even look a little weary, as with too 
 much meditation in the brain behind them ; there is 
 not a trace discernible of that sturdy, almost military, 
 resoluteness so marked in the familiar crayon portrait 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 559 
 
 by Eowse, executed after Hawthorne s return from 
 Italy and England. Here the face is pensive, timid, 
 fresh and impressionable as that of some studious un 
 dergraduate unusually receptive of ideas, sentiments, 
 and observations : it is, indeed, quiet and thoughtful 
 to the verge of sadness. Longfellow kept always in 
 his study a black-and-white copy from this portrait, 
 and in speaking of it and of the subject s extreme shy 
 ness, said that to converse with Hawthorne was like 
 talking to a woman. The Thompson picture was re 
 produced in 1851, in a steel engraving of considerable 
 merit, and Hawthorne, thanking Mr. Fields for some 
 of the prints, wrote from Lenox : " The children rec 
 ognized their venerable sire with great delight. My 
 wife complains somewhat of a want of cheerfulness in 
 the face ; and, to say the truth, it does appear to be 
 afflicted with a bedevilled melancholy ; but it will do 
 all the better for the author of The Scarlet Letter. 
 In the expression there is a singular resemblance (which 
 I do not remember in Thompson s picture) to a min 
 iature of my father." 
 
 In Rome, Miss Landor modelled a bust, the marble 
 copy of which is now in the Concord Public Library. 
 It is of life-size, and presents the head in a position 
 which raises the chin and inclines the plane of the face 
 slightly backward, so that the effigy might be taken 
 for that of an orator addressing a great audience. 
 This pose was selected by the sculptress because, after 
 due study, she was persuaded that when Hawthorne 
 became interested in conversation and kindled with the 
 desire to set forth his own view, he always raised his 
 head and spoke from a commanding attitude. She 
 chose to perpetuate a momentary action, instead of ren 
 dering his customary aspect of holding the chin some- 
 
560 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 what down or on a firm level ; and this may account 
 for the likeness not being satisfactory to the mem 
 bers of Hawthorne s own family. The bust, however, 
 renders impressively the magnificent proportions of 
 the neck and head and the whole physiognomy. The 
 mouth is not concealed, and, although it exhibits more 
 decision than that of the Thompson picture, it conveys 
 the same general impression of a quickly responsive 
 sensibility, Mr. Thompson made his painting when 
 Hawthorne was forty -six, and Miss Landor had 
 sittings from the author at the age of fifty-four ; but 
 the difference in apparent maturity of power in the 
 face would indicate a much longer interval. This is 
 perhaps due to the difference in the means of represen 
 tation, and to some defect of strength in Mr. Thomp 
 son s drawing; but perhaps also the decided change 
 in Hawthorne^s general look, which began under the 
 greatly altered conditions attending his European life, 
 proceeded very rapidly. He allowed a thick mustache 
 to grow, during his last stay in England, and it was 
 then that Kuntze modelled his profile, which sets Haw 
 thorne s features before us in a totally different way 
 from any of the other portraits. Unfortunately, 
 Kuntze s relief is reduced to a size below that of life, 
 and the features accordingly assume a cramped rela 
 tion. The lofty forehead is given its due importance, 
 however, and concentration of impassioned energy is 
 conveyed by the outline of the face, from this point of 
 view. The chin, always forcible as well as delicate, 
 impresses one in this case with a sense of persistent 
 and enduring determination on the part of the origi 
 nal ; and with this sense there is mingled an impression 
 of something that approaches sternness, caused, it may 
 be, by the hirsute upper lip. In considering thes 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 561 
 
 several representations and the crayon by Rowse, to 
 gether with the photographs taken after Hawthorne s 
 home-return, it is impossible not to observe that the 
 sturdier and more practical elements in the romancer 
 gained upon him, so far as personal appearance was 
 concerned, with advancing age and a wider experi 
 ence of life in the large world. But such a series of 
 glimpses can do no more than to suggest disjointedly 
 the union in him of attributes positive and passive, 
 which always struck those who met him. A photo 
 graph which was secured before he left England de 
 picts him in a mood and with an air that very hap 
 pily convey this complete equipment of the man, this 
 wellnigh perfect combination of traits, which enabled 
 him by sympathy to run through the entire gamut of 
 human feeling. His friend, John Lothrop Motley, 
 induced him one day to enter a photographer s estab 
 lishment, on the plea that he had business of his own 
 there. Hawthorne was given a book to read, while 
 waiting ; and when the photographer was ready Motley 
 attracted his friend s attention. Hawthorne looked up 
 with a dawning smile, a bright, expectant glance, 
 holding the book on his knee meanwhile, with a finger 
 in the place, and instantly a perfect negative was 
 made. The resulting portraiture showed him abso 
 lutely as he was : a breathing form of human nobility ; 
 a strong, masculine, self-contained nature, stored in a 
 stalwart frame the face grown somewhat more ro 
 tund than formerly, through material and professional 
 success, and lighted up with captivating but calm ge 
 niality ; while over the whole presence reigned an ex 
 quisite temperance of reserve, that held every faculty 
 in readiness to receive and record each finest fluctua< 
 tion of joy or sorrow, of earnest or of sport 
 
562 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 Such as he there appears, we shall do well to imagine 
 him to ourselves. 
 
 The tendency at first, among those who judged him 
 from his writings alone, was to set him down as a mis 
 anthrope. We need not go to the other extreme now. 
 That he inclined to gravity, in his manner and in his 
 habit of thought, seems to be beyond question ; but he 
 was not sombre. Neither was he hilarious. At home, 
 though he was frequently silent, he never appeared to 
 be so from depression, except in seasons of distress at 
 the illness of members of the household ; the prevail 
 ing effect of his presence, even when he was least com 
 municative, being that of a cheerful calm with mel 
 low humor underlying it. One of his children said to 
 Mr. T. AV. Higginson : " There was never such a play 
 mate in all the world." On the other hand, I remem 
 ber a letter from Hawthorne (no longer accessible for 
 exact quotation), in which he frankly speaks of him- 
 self as taking constitutionally a somewhat despondent 
 view of things. But if he did so, he never permitted 
 the shadow to fall upon his friends. " I should fancy 
 from your books," Hillard confessed in a letter to him, 
 " that you were burdened with some secret sorrow, that 
 you had some blue chamber in your soul, into which 
 you hardly dared to enter yourself; but when I see 
 you, you give me the impression of a man as healthy 
 as Adam in Paradise." Mr. Hillard once told the 
 present writer that he had sometimes walked twenty 
 miles along the highway with Hawthorne, not a word 
 being spoken during the entire tramp, and had never 
 theless felt as if he were in constant communication 
 with his friend. Mr. Curtis wrote many years ago : 
 M His own sympathy was so broad and sure, that, al 
 though nothing had been said for hours, his compan- 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 563 
 
 ion knew that not a thing had escaped his eye, nor a 
 single pulse of beauty in the day or scene or society 
 failed to thrill his heart. In this way his silence was 
 most social. Everything seemed to have been said." 
 
 His fondness for seclusion, his steady refusal to talk 
 when he did not feel like talking, and his unobtrusive 
 but immovable independence in opinion, together with 
 his complete disregard of conventional requirements in 
 social intercourse, prevented Hawthorne from ever be 
 coming a popular man. But he was the object of a 
 loving admiration and the sincerest friendship, on the 
 part of certain few intimates. Those who knew him 
 best, and had been longest in relations with him, in 
 sensibly as one observer has well suggested caught 
 from his fine reticence a kindred reluctance to speak 
 about him to others. A degree of reverence was blended 
 with their friendship, which acquired for them a sa 
 cred privacy. Having sound health physically, as well 
 as a healthy mind, he enjoyed out-door occupations 
 such as garden-work, rowing, fishing, and walking; 
 but he never rode on horseback. He liked to make 
 pedestrian trips through the country, stopping at hap 
 hazard in country taverns and farm-houses and listen 
 ing to the conversation that went on there. In chance 
 companionship of that sort, he could tolerate much 
 freedom of speech, in consideration of the mother-wit 
 that prompted it ; but among men of his own class he 
 never encouraged broad allusions. If anything that 
 savored of the forbidden were introduced, he would 
 not protest, but he at once turned the conversation 
 towards some worthier subject. The practical vein in 
 Hawthorne his ingrained sympathy with the work- 
 a-day world in which his father and his forefathers 
 had busied themselves adapted him to the official 
 
564 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 drudgery to which he devoted nine years of his life ; 
 although, while he was occupied with that, the ideal 
 activities of his nature lay dormant. The two sets of 
 faculties never could be exercised in equal measure at 
 the same time : one or the other had to predominate. 
 Yet in the conduct of his own affairs, so far as his pe 
 cuniary obligations were concerned, he was very pru 
 dent, and to the last degree scrupulous. One or two 
 exceedingly small debts, which he was forced to con 
 tract, weighed upon him with a heaviness that to the 
 ordinary commercial mind would be altogether incon 
 ceivable ; and the relief he experienced when he was 
 able to cancel them was inexpressible. His fault, in 
 business, was that he attributed to other people a sense 
 of honor equal to his own. This entailed upon him 
 sundry losses which he was not well able to afford, 
 through loans made to supposed friends. Notwith 
 standing the carefulness of his expenditure and a few 
 moderately good receipts from the publication of his 
 books in England, he died leaving a property of little 
 more than twenty thousand dollars, besides his house 
 at Concord and the copyright of his works. 
 
 In addition to the strong physical frame and tall 
 stature several times noticed in the present sketch, 
 Hawthorne s personal appearance was distinguished by 
 his large and lustrous gray-blue eyes, luxuriant dark 
 brown hair of remarkable fineness, and a delicacy of 
 the skin that gave unusual softness to his complexion ; 
 a complexion subdued, but full of "healthy, living 
 color," as Mrs. Hawthorne once described it. " After 
 his Italian journey he altered much, his hair having 
 begun to whiten, and a thick dark mustache being 
 permitted to grow, so that a wit described him as look- 
 ing like a boned pirate. When it became imperative 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 565 
 
 to shake off his reticence, he seems to have had the 
 power of impressing as much by speech as he had be 
 fore done by silence. It was the same abundant, ar 
 dent, but self-contained and perfectly balanced nature 
 that informed either phase. How commanding was 
 this nature may be judged by the fact related of him 
 by an acquaintance, that rude people jostling him in a 
 crowd would give way at once 4 at the sound of his low 
 almost irresolute voice. . . . Something even of the 
 eloquent gift of old Colonel Hathorne seemed to be 
 locked within him, like a precious heirloom rarely 
 shown ; for in England, where his position called for 
 speech-making, he acquitted himself with brilliant 
 honor. But the effort which this compelled was no 
 doubt commensurate with the success. He never 
 shrank, notwithstanding, from effort, when obligation 
 to others put in a plea. A member of his family has 
 told me that, when talking to any one not congenial to 
 him, the effect of the contact was so strong as to cause 
 an almost physical contraction of his whole stalwart 
 frame, though so slight as to be perceptible only to eyes 
 that knew his informal and habitual aspects ; yet he 
 would have sunk through the floor rather than betray 
 his sensations to the person causing them. Mr. Cur 
 tis, too, records the amusement with which he watched 
 Hawthorne paddling on the Concord River, with a 
 friend whose want of skill caused the boat continually 
 to veer the wrong way, and the silent generosity with 
 which he put forth his whole strength to neutralize 
 the error, rather than mortify his companion by expla 
 nation. His considerateness was always delicate and 
 alert." l A niece of Horace Mann, who passed a part 
 of the spring of 1852 with Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne 
 
 " * A Study of Hawthorne: Chapter, xi., 291, 292. 
 
566 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 at West Newton, supplies one little instance of this, 
 which shall be registered here. Mrs. Dean, the lady 
 in question, was then under engagement to teach in 
 Boston, but had an interval of time on her hands be 
 fore the work should begin. She was invited by the 
 Hawthornes to the West Newton house (at that time 
 owned by Mr. Mann), where she was to occupy a room 
 which had formerly been hers. She found that a fire 
 was carefully laid in the stove everjr night, to warm 
 the room in the morning, and, thinking that too much 
 trouble was taken on her account, she begged to be 
 allowed to attend to this detail herself. It was then 
 she discovered that it was Hawthorne who made up 
 the fire ; and he insisted upon continuing his service. 
 Mrs. Dean also recalls that he listened attentively to 
 the incidental and ordinary chat between Mrs. Haw 
 thorne and herself, seldom making any remark, but, 
 when he did volunteer one, giving it a pungent and 
 epigrammatic or humorous turn. Entering the room 
 where she was constructing a raised map for school 
 room use, he watched her with close interest for a 
 while, and then observed : " I would rather have had 
 the making of the world itself, in the beginning." 
 
 Taking whatever happened in a spirit always very 
 much the same ; reflective, penetrating, quietly spor 
 tive a spirit, likewise, of patience and impartiality 
 Hawthorne kept his power of appreciation fresh to 
 the very last. He could endure the humdrum tasks 
 of government office, but they lid not dull his pleasure 
 in the simplest incidents of home-life, nor his delight 
 in nature. " Every year the recurrent changes of sea 
 son filled him with untold pleasure ; and in the spring, 
 Mrs. Hawthorne has been heard to say, he would walk 
 with her in continuous silence, his heart full of the 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 567 
 
 awe and delight with which the miracle of buds and 
 new verdure inspired him." Taking everything in this 
 spirit, we may repeat, mingling with the rough and the 
 refined, and capable of extracting the utmost intellec 
 tual stimulus from the least of mundane phenomena, 
 he maintained intact a true sense of relativity and a 
 knowledge that the attainable best is, in the final anal 
 ysis, incomplete. Contemplating a rose one day, he 
 said : " On earth, only a flower is perfect." He cher 
 ished a deep, strong, and simple religious faith, but 
 never approved of intellectual discussion concerning 
 religion. 
 
 The slightness of the definite fact, or of the remi 
 niscence vouchsafed by those who knew him, is con 
 tinually impressed upon us in reviewing this career. 
 Considered in its main outline, how very plain and 
 unambitious is the history ! A sea-captain s son, born 
 in Salem ; living obscurely ; sent up to the rude clear 
 ing where a new village was founding in Maine ; in 
 duced, against his preference, to go to college ; writ 
 ing timid stories and essays, which the world had no 
 suspicion that it needed, and prompted to this by 
 an impulse of which the origin is inexplicable ; next, 
 the author coming into notice, but under eclipse now 
 and then from disappearance behind a public office ; 
 finally, the acknowledged romancer of indefinitely 
 great endowment the head of his order in Amer 
 ica sent abroad to an important post, where he is 
 recognized and warmly greeted by every one who can 
 discern clearly : such is the general course of the nar 
 rative. Afterwards, the now eminent man comes back 
 to his native land, labors a little longer in comparative 
 obscurity, suffers unmerited obloquy for his fidelity to 
 a personal friend, while perfectly loyal to his govern- 
 
568 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 ment ; then dies, and is mourned not alone by those 
 devoted companions who felt him to be the one great 
 fact to them in present human nature, but also by 
 famous scholars and poets, and by a multitude of 
 strangers, who gather around his bier with a stricken 
 sense of loss ineffable. It is very simple ; it is very 
 democratic the unnoticed American boy in humble 
 circumstances becoming the centre of a circle of fame 
 which is still extending its radius. Very simple it 
 is, and yet inexplicable. But if we cannot tell pre 
 cisely how the mind came into being, nor what were 
 the fostering influences that most cogently aided its 
 growth, we can, at least, pay our reverence to the 
 overruling Power that brings genius to the flowering- 
 point under circumstances seemingly the most un- 
 propitious. 
 
 In 1863 the last year of his life Hawthorne 
 wrote to Mr. Stoddard, who had sent him a copy of 
 his poem, " The King s Bell." " I sincerely thank 
 you," he said, " for your beautiful poem, which I have 
 read with a great deal of pleasure. It is such as the 
 public had a right to expect from what you gave us 
 in years gone by ; only I wish the idea had not been 
 so sad. I think Felix might have rung the bell once 
 in his lifetime, and again at the moment of death. 
 Yet you may be right. I have been a happy man, 
 and yet I do not remember any one moment of such 
 happy conspiring circumstances that I could have 
 rung a joy-bell for it." 
 
 Yes, he had been a happy man ; one who had every 
 qualification for a rich and satisfactory life, and was 
 able to make such a life out of whatever material 
 offered. He might not have been willing to sound 
 the joy-bell for himself, but the world has rung it 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 569 
 
 because of his birth. As for his death, it is better 
 not to close our sketch with any glimpse of that, be 
 cause, in virtue of his spirit s survival among those 
 who read and think, he still lives. 
 
 G. P. L. 
 NEW YORK, May 20, 1883. 
 
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