UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES

 
 THE 
 
 LIFE AND POEMS 
 
 THEODORE WINTHROP 
 
 EDITED BY HIS SISTER 
 
 WITH PORTRAIT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 1884
 
 Copyright, 1884, 
 By HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY. 
 
 . Johnlatid Stereotype Foundry, 
 Suffolk Co., N. y.
 
 PS 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 CO 
 
 c/5 
 
 This Memorial of Theodore Winthrop has 
 been prepared, first for those who loved him 
 and valued his friendship, but whose remem- 
 brance of his life and death is beginning to 
 fade with the progress of time; and next for 
 the Young People of America, to whom the 
 story is a new one, but none the less good for 
 them to hear. Most of all for thoughtful 
 young men who have high aims like his, who 
 have felt the pangs of discouragement and 
 delay, and who will find sympathy in his life's 
 experience. Though a quarter of a century 
 has vanished, this record in his own words 
 of struggle and victory remains undimmed by 
 the lapse of years, and may still shed light 
 and hope into many hearts. 
 
 " One, generation passeth away and another 
 generation cometh, but the earth abideth forever" 
 
 268902
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH 1 
 
 II. EUKOPEAN TRAVEL 31 
 
 HI. MANHOOD 72 
 
 IV. THE TROPICS 92 
 
 V. THE WILDERNESS 137 
 
 VI. DARIEN 172 
 
 VII. TWO WORLDS 196 
 
 VHI. LAW AND AUTHORSHIP . . . . .260 
 
 IX. THE WAR. . 283
 
 THE LIFE AND POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 THEODORE WINTHROP. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 ANEW generation, with all its vivid personal life, 
 has sprung up since the close of our great Civil 
 War. As in the " sprout lands " of our mountain sides, 
 this active pushing young growth is fast covering the 
 blackened burnt districts, and the charred stumps, 
 that still show where the giants of the forests, pillars 
 of flame, fell before the blast. Though in the heart 
 of our re-united country, the warnings and the lessons, 
 both of failure and success, are still unforgotten, the 
 new men, full of their own affairs, can never know the 
 story as those knew it, who lived through that long 
 agony, that new birth. The memory of our second 
 struggle, like that of our first Kevolution, grows more 
 holy as its noise dies away, and yet a thousand details 
 will fade in a few short years into the light of common 
 history. So mnoh, of late, has this been felt, that there 
 is everywhere an effort to grasp these fleeting shadows, 
 and to fix them by the photography of literature. Much 
 has already been lost, that research will, by and by, 
 vainly strive to regain. Already, those who waited 
 for that day, who saw it and were glad, are beginning
 
 2 HIS BIRTH, 
 
 to die, and in a little while there will be none of them 
 left to tell the tale as it should be told. 
 
 Among the first of that " cloud of witnesses " who 
 made history for us in those days (so late, yet so long 
 ago) Theodore Winthrop fell at Great Bethel, in Vir- 
 ginia, on June 10th, 1861, before our country was half 
 awakened to the mighty work before it, or knew the 
 strength, born of sorrow, that was to come in time of 
 need. Love of country, where it becomes a passion, 
 may have smouldered through years of quiet and safety, 
 but when the hour strikes, and danger threatens the 
 Mother Land, it leaps into a blaze, and becomes a 
 beacon on the hill top, a prairie fire, that runs over 
 the broad land from East to West. The story of Theo- 
 dore "Winthrop's life, and of his death, coming as it 
 did at the opening of the war, and making him a type 
 and ideal for the ardent youth of that day, are among 
 the nobler things that should not be forgotten. He 
 was the representative man of the hour, the representa- 
 tive of the promise, beauty, culture, and patriotism that 
 were crowding to the front. To some he had seemed 
 a dreamy poet only, to others a man of society, to 
 others a wandering, aimless traveler. Few knew his 
 love for his country till he died for Her. Then they 
 believed it, and the belief grew like a creed, like a new 
 religion, in the warm air of that summer of 1861. 
 
 Theodore Winthrop was born on Sept. 22d, 1828. 
 His father was Francis Bayard Winthrop, a direct de- 
 scendant of Governor Winthrop of Massachusetts, and 
 of his son, Governor Winthrop of Connecticut, of whose 
 claims to distinction it is not necessary to speak. There 
 was also a third Governor Winthrop, and then the fam-
 
 MT. 1] FAMILY HISTORY. 3 
 
 ily rested from its governors, and had a quiet period 
 of comfort, and probably of conservative obscurity, for 
 little is recorded of them for some time; though Wait 
 Still Winthrop was Judge of the Supreme Court of Mass- 
 achusetts in 1708, and there was a Prof. Winthrop of 
 Harvard College, in the chair of Mathematics and Nat- 
 ural Philosophy, from 1738 to 1779, a friend and cor- 
 respondent of Franklin, and F. E. S. Theodore Win- 
 throp's mother was Elizabeth Dwight Woolsey, daughter 
 of William Walton Woolsey, one of the staunch old mer- 
 chants of New York who by their probity and energy 
 made the city so strong and great. She was one of the 
 numerous descendants, on her mother's side, of the re- 
 doubtable President Edwards, whose bold metaphys- 
 ical thought started New England thinkers upon a 
 track he little dreamed of, and whose unassailable logic 
 taught them their only possible tactics, that of denying 
 his premises. Her mother was Elizabeth Dwight, sis- 
 ter of Timothy Dwight, President of Yale College, a 
 poet, theologian and scholar, a great man in his day, 
 and a worthy, though not an original, thinker, but a 
 disciple and imitator of Edwards, his progenitor.* 
 
 William Walton Woolsey, whose family came from 
 Dosoiis, Long Island, though himself an Old School 
 Presbyterian, had for an ancestor one Benjamin Wool- 
 sey, who was drummed out of a small town in Long 
 Island for the crime of being an Episcopal clergyman 
 
 * The family of Francis Bayard Winthrop consisted, at the time 
 of Theodore's birth, of two sons by a former marriage, and two 
 daughters, the children of Elizabeth Woolsey. His brother Wil- 
 liam and a sister were born afterwards, besides two children who 
 died. There were living at the time of Winthrop's death a brother 
 and three sisters, Elizabeth, Laura, William, and Sarah, and 
 two half-brothers, Charles and Edward.
 
 4 FAMILY HISTORY. [1828 
 
 and wishing to settle there. The Woolseys remained 
 at Dosoris, where they have still an old graveyard, and 
 became one of those " good old Long Island families," 
 upon whom New York has always rested her flank 
 with safety. 
 
 But, though Puritans of the Puritans, some of the 
 family valued still more their descent from the Hu- 
 guenot brothers, Antony and Leonard Lispenard, who 
 came from their "own Eochelle, proud city of the 
 waters," after the revocation of the Edict of- Nantes, 
 and settled New Rochelle; also being valued citizens 
 of New York, where they owned property, and after 
 whom Antony, Leonard and Lispenard streets were 
 named. The great - grandmother of Theodore Win- 
 throp was Cornelia Lispenard, and her daughter, Alice 
 Marston, was his grandmother; a lady whose uncle, 
 John Marston, bought and colonized an island soine- 
 Avhere near the coast of Africa, and died there, not long 
 after the failure of his enterprise. 
 
 It was no wonder that the blood of these old rangers 
 and colonizers was hot within him, and prevented Theo- 
 dore Winthrop from remaining quiet for any length 
 of time in his restless youth. Yet it was an impulse 
 that he shared with most men of the Northern races, and 
 which, since the days of the old Sea Kings, and even 
 from pre-historic times, has kept them perpetually ? 
 " walking to and fro upon the earth, and going up and 
 down on it," like Satan of old. 
 
 Genealogy contains too many unknown quantities 
 to make it an exact science, if indeed it can ever be 
 a science at all. That we find deep truths, as well 
 as mysteries, in heredity, no one can doubt who 
 sees that the same nose, and the same temper, re-
 
 Mr. 1] FAMILY HISTORY. 5 
 
 appear at intervals in families, to the great regret of 
 everybody. But when it is considered that we have 
 all eight great-grandparents and sixteen progenitors 
 of one more generation back, it does not seem as if 
 a man could get much out of any one of them. The 
 distinguished Jonathan Edwards is said to have any- 
 where from fifteen hundred to two thousand lineal 
 descendants now living, all proud of their descent. 
 Though they are called a willful race, how much of 
 the peculiar characteristics of the great Calvinist is it 
 likely that each one of these can possess? Have they 
 not each thirty-one other ancestors ? Surely, many of 
 them have strayed from his guidance, and some are 
 even said to belong to " The Society for the Preven- 
 tion of Cruelty to Children " ! 
 
 In New England the reverence for family is deeper 
 than anywhere in this country. People trace with 
 genuine and proper pride their descent from the Pil- 
 grim Fathers or the Revolutionary Heroes, while at 
 the Far "West, the opposite pole of the magnet, they 
 say, with rough good sense, "No daddyism! Who are 
 you, sir?" 
 
 The Winthrops kept up their old traditions, though 
 somewhat retiring from public view after their brilliant 
 beginning, and were little heard of in the Revolution- 
 ary days. In course of time, these Puritans became 
 Episcopalians, as the Woolseys, who began in the 
 English Church, became Presbyterians and Congrega- 
 tionalists. In after years they came again to the front, 
 and we hear of Thomas Lindall Winthrop, Lieutenant- 
 Governor of Massachusetts, and his distinguished son, 
 Robert C. Winthrop, and among the Woolseys, Presi- 
 dent Theodore Woolsey of Yale College. Scholars and
 
 6 FAMILY HISTORY. [1830 
 
 literary men were frequently cropping out in the strata 
 of both families, such as President S. W. Johnson of 
 Columbia College, Theodore Winthrop's elder brother, 
 a theological professor, and many among the Dwights. 
 Thus it is easy to see that he was born into what 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes admirably calls the " Brahmin 
 Caste of New England," and might well have had an 
 hereditary literary ambition. He was named from his 
 uncle Theodore Woolsey, who himself was called after 
 Theodore Dwight, his mother's brother, who was au- 
 thor, editor, and a man of influence in Hartford, 
 Connecticut. 
 
 The family traditions were all of culture. His fa- 
 ther, Francis Bayard Winthrop, was a man of refined 
 taste, a graduate of Yale College, and owned what was 
 called, fifty years ago, a fine library, of about two thou- 
 sand volumes selected by himself, besides a small col- 
 lection of good pictures and engravings, in a time when 
 such things were rare. He was an enthusiast in Art 
 and Literature, and loved Music and the Theater. 
 His children could see upon the walls Alston's Angel 
 and Both's Sunshine, and browsed freely in the library, 
 till books became their familiar friends. Their father 
 was one of the first persons to recognize the genius of 
 Hawthorne on reading his " Twice Told Tales," in the 
 winter of 1839-40. These pictures and engravings from 
 the old masters familiarized the children with forms of 
 beauty, and an old-fashioned garden, with flowers and 
 lilac bushes and pear-trees, gave them a pleasant play- 
 ground. But their happiest recollections linger round 
 their woodland walks with their father. He was a man 
 of delicate health (delicate and fond of reading when 
 a boy, when his brothers and sisters were romping
 
 2Bx. 3-6] WOODLAND WALKS. 7 
 
 and shooting arrows at the eyes of the old Governor's 
 portraits), a lawyer who had retired from business in 
 New York with reduced fortune, to live quietly at 
 New Haven, and educate his children. Here he 
 bought a roomy house in Wooster St., of the old- 
 fashioned New England type, with four rooms on a 
 floor, and a hall through the middle, and a garret 
 (not an attic), with great oak beams overhead, cob- 
 webs, dark corners, and a mysterious cock-loft. He 
 was hospitable, and charming in his own family, to 
 whom he was a true father (one of the rarest beings 
 in the world), and not a man whom they saw, sleepy 
 and harassed, once or twice a week. He had a won- 
 derful croon that always put the babies to sleep, he 
 danced quadrilles, sang songs, played games, told 
 wonderful tales in the twilight, and took them for 
 long walks in the woods. There were woods in those 
 days not too far off. His health required these walks, 
 and the children were usually his companions. They 
 learned to love Nature; birds and wild flowers were 
 their friends; they learned to know TKEES, rare but 
 necessary knowledge; they climbed the great precipi- 
 tous bluffs of East and West Eock, which stand over 
 against New Haven, like Arthur's Seat by Edinboro', 
 and wandered along where the quiet stream of the 
 Quinippiac winds among its hayricks. The hayricks 
 stand there still the crop has never failed. A rarer 
 pleasure was a long drive, taking their mother with 
 them, through the laurel lanes to some lovely lake 
 among the hills, where they dined " on dainty chicken, 
 snow-white bread," and spent a whole summer's day 
 of delight. Thus the children found eyes, without 
 looking through the spectacles of science, and knew
 
 8 THE LONG WHARF. [1831-4 
 
 perhaps almost as much about plants as Solomon, 
 without effort of study. New Haven in those days 
 was a quiet, lovely little town, scholarly and demure, 
 under the lofty arch of whose elms strayed the college 
 boys, studious or otherwise, the professor, stern of ex- 
 terior, and the dreaming school girl. No sound of 
 factories disturbed the silence, the railroad was not 
 dreamed of, the steamboat had but lately begun to 
 churn up the waters of the little bay. The town 
 seemed asleep, save when the buzzing boys poured 
 out of chapel or recitation. 
 
 There are few things more perfect of their kind than 
 one of those avenues of elms in the old New England 
 towns, whose leafy Gothic arches and sunny shadowed 
 grass, dwell in the minds of her children as sweet and 
 poetic memories that come back to them again and 
 again, wherever they go, and touch them with home- 
 sickness on the Lung' Arno or Unter den Linden. 
 Theodore Winthrop grew up in one of these beauti- 
 ful old towns, and wandered in childhood and youth 
 under the great elms around the Green, till they en- 
 tered into his heart and became a part of himself. 
 
 The Long Wharf was also one of his haunts, where 
 the town boys were always scrambling about, where 
 their imaginations were kindled by the sight of the 
 ships that traded to far countries, yes, even as far as 
 the "West Stingys," and from whose cargoes stray 
 gifts of oranges and cocoanuts sometimes found their 
 way to the pockets. The tarry smell, the sailor talk, 
 the molasses barrels, the chance sailing in smaller 
 craft, the handling of a rope or an oar, were all de- 
 lightful and full of a free life. There has always been 
 a strong attraction between wharfs and small boys.
 
 ^T. 3-6] FIRST SCHOOL DAYS. 9 
 
 Doubtless they found it so in the Piraeus, yea, in Tyre 
 and Sidon. The muddy little harbor was frozen in 
 winter, so that sometimes the only line of steamboats 
 was shut out, but it became a fine place for skating, a 
 favorite sport of Winthrop's. Though not robust, he 
 was active and sprightly, and good at all the athletic 
 sports then in vogue. Shells and canoes did not then 
 exist, but he was a good oarsman in the method of 
 the day. No one knew when or how he learned to 
 row and swim, these things come by nature to most 
 active boys. There are not many anecdotes preserved 
 of his childhood. He was a quiet, reticent boy, not 
 precocious, yet uncommonly intelligent, fair and deli- 
 cate looking, with chestnut hair and blue eyes, and 
 was always scrupulously neat. His father writes of 
 him, at two years old, as " his golden-haired boy, with 
 a picture book under each arm." 
 
 No dirt ever seemed to stick to him, -even on the 
 Long Wharf, while his younger brother, who kept 
 everybody laughing at his jokes, had the usual boyish 
 hatred of the "harmless necessary," soap. Another 
 brother, the eldest child of his parents, was so preco- 
 cious that he wrote Latin verses at the age of nine, 
 and kept little note books of historical reading. He 
 succumbed, as was natural, to some childish disease, 
 and Theodore was given his name, and became a great 
 darling in consequence. The " first Theodore," as he 
 was called, was spoken of by the children with awe 
 and reverence as a wonder. 
 
 The good old New England dame-school was an 
 institution as nearly perfect as is possible with things 
 below, and into the kind arms of one of these Theo- 
 dore was early received, to learn his A, B, C. Good
 
 10 THE DAME SCHOOL. [1831-4 
 
 Mrs. Bonticue (or, as the children called her, Miss 
 Bunnickyer), was the widow of a sea captain. It is a 
 well-known fact that a sea captain and his wife are 
 seldom seen together on this earth, and to this rule 
 she was no exception, though the portrait of the de- 
 ceased, ruddy and promising long life, hung in her 
 low, snug parlor, along with much coral and many 
 shells and ostrich eggs. Mrs. Bonticue had never 
 heard of Pestallozi, much less of a Kindergarten; but 
 she had it all in her brain, and possessed the genius for 
 teaching little children which must always be inborn. 
 Her school was exceptionally good, making allowance 
 for the bright halo that memory casts round the pleas- 
 ant things of childhood. But is it not true that the 
 bitter hate of a boy for his cruel teacher, or his con- 
 tempt for an incompetent one, lasts as long as his love 
 for a kind master, and is equally founded on fact and 
 experience ? Children know far more, and reason far 
 more, than we elders think, who have forgotten our 
 childhood; their large eyes are terrible, and they know 
 their small flat world far better than we know our big 
 round one. Good Mrs. Bonticue was faithful, she 
 was even rather stern, as we thought, and did not 
 ignore the rod altogether. She sat erect, with snowy 
 cap and apron, and kept order and discipline; but she 
 was kind and judicious. The school-room was a large 
 room at the back of the house (to us it seemed enor- 
 mous), looking out on a ragged little garden, in which 
 (fortunately for us) the pear-trees bore winter pears, 
 whose fruit of immortal green still puckers the mem- 
 ory. In the corner was a small bed where a tired 
 little one was sometimes put to sleep, for they were very 
 young at school. At four years of age children were
 
 Mr. 3-6] THE DAME SCHOOL. 11 
 
 expected to learn to read, if they were not dunces, 
 and it did no harm to the health of any of them. 
 Before six they were "bound to read fluently, to write 
 their names, and to know a little of Peter Parley's 
 Geography, Webster's Spelling-book, and perhaps a 
 trifle of Goldsmith's " History of England." At six 
 the best girls could sew WELL, make a shirt, knit stock- 
 ings, and make button holes such as are seldom seen 
 now. All this was not precocity, but the fruit of good, 
 painstaking teaching during several years, for the 
 children entered the school at three years of age, or 
 even earlier, and they were taught in a pleasant and 
 amusing way. They learned to sing pretty little songs 
 ("Mary had a little lamb," was new then!), they spoke 
 " pieces," in nasal tones, but armed with simple moral, 
 about birds and flowers, or against cruelty to animals. 
 It was not all sweetness, however; there was a hard 
 block of wood behind Madam's chair, which was a 
 stool of repentance there was a ferule that could give 
 smart raps to the little fingers. The most flagrant of- 
 fenders had to stand in the corner, to be " sissed at," 
 the boys with girls' bonnets on, the girls with boys' hats 
 on; but a still more condign punishment was to be put 
 upon the garret stairs, a sort of donjon keep that 
 cowed the boldest, for at the top of it was, we knew 
 not what, a place of crackings and rustlings, and 
 hoards of strange things, where perchance the ghost of 
 Capt. Bonticue might walk in full nautical costume 
 with a cat-o'-nine tails. There was a legend, however, 
 that a brave boy had once dared to ascend those stairs 
 and had found apples ! Good Mrs. Bonticue was a 
 comely woman, in the prime of life, and her two 
 daughters handsome young women, but all seemed
 
 12 THE CARBONARI. [1835 
 
 old and venerable to the children in the happy place 
 where Theodore's education began so well. He was 
 called the best and brightest boy in the school. 
 
 Among the memories of his childhood, young as he 
 was, may have been the strange vision of some dis- 
 tinguished exiles, the famous Carbonari, several of 
 whom came to New Haven about 1835, in hopes of 
 gaining a subsistence as teachers of Italian in Yale 
 College. This hope proved vain, but their coming 
 made quite an excitement in the town, and they were 
 kindly welcomed, and hospitably entertained by many, 
 and among others by Mr. Wiiithrop. Who could re- 
 sist that noble pitiful story, and the pleading of those 
 sad Italian eyes, where one could read the tale of sev- 
 enteen years of patient endurance, imprisonment, and 
 privation ? Theodore may have caught some faint idea 
 of their pathetic history, may have had a lesson of lib- 
 erty, a sense of what it means to lose it, a vague im- 
 pression of what it is to suffer for one's country. For 
 the older children at least, to see these noble and hand- 
 some men, dark and gently mysterious, to hear them, 
 gentlemen of birth and culture, tell, in their broken 
 way, how they passed long years of their lives in knit- 
 ting coarse stockings for the soldiers, and were thank- 
 ful even for that menial occupation, to hear in those 
 sweet low southern voices the ring of sharp pain, 
 deadened by long-borne waiting and despair, were 
 things the children could not easily forget. To have 
 a caressing hand, just unchained, laid upon the head, 
 and one's name spoken with tender Italian diminu- 
 tives, by those who had lost home and friends, and the 
 best of life and youth, for pure patriotism, was a deep 
 lesson that returned again and again to their mem-
 
 MT. 8-12] HIS FATHER'S DEATH. 13 
 
 ories; and when afterward they read the wonderful 
 narrative of Silvio Pellico, they could fill up the pic- 
 ture with the reality they had seen. 
 
 These men found some means to live, assisted per- 
 haps by Italian friends. Foresti was long a respected 
 and successful teacher in New York, others were artists 
 and teachers elsewhere, and were finally amnestied by 
 Victor Emanuel, and returned to their beloved country, 
 for whom they had suffered so much. Most of them 
 are now dead, after a peaceful old age among their 
 friends and families, and their memories are adored in 
 their own land as prophets and martyrs. If they had 
 not prepared the way, then Mazzini, Cavour, and Gari- 
 baldi might never have found that path that led through 
 dark waters to a United Italy. 
 
 We next find Theodore Winthrop preparing for col- 
 lege at the good sound school of Silas French, where 
 he was well thought of in the class and in the play- 
 ground. At the age of twelve, he had the mis- 
 fortune to lose one of his best friends, his kind and 
 gentle father, but he was not too young to have had his 
 character already biased by his influence. He was of 
 all the children the one who most resembled his father, 
 in manner as well as in more important characteristics. 
 " The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts," and 
 although he spoke but little of his feelings, it is easy 
 to see from his writings that the mysteries of life and 
 death had early troubled his mind, and that the loss 
 of his father must have made a deep impression upon 
 him. Such things are very strange and bitter to a sensi- 
 tive child, and, as Thoreau says, "we see but one corpse 
 in our lives." 
 
 His mother, left in early middle life with five chil-
 
 14 HIS MOTHER. [1841 
 
 dren to bring up on small means, and with little ad- 
 vice or assistance from others, performed her task 
 with patience and calmness, and bore up wonder- 
 fully under her burdens, as many another noble wo- 
 man has done. She was always, in youth and age, a 
 beautiful woman, of an exquisite and refined appear- 
 ance, with chestnut hair and eyes, and the delicately 
 tinted complexion that belongs to that type. She was 
 spoken of by every one who knew her as a woman near 
 to perfection in temper and character, of an angelic 
 gentleness, mingled with spirit; most appreciative, and 
 skilled in calling forth the best powers of others, and 
 winning their confidence. She was a great reader, 
 loved flowers and gardening, and wrote pretty verses, 
 when that accomplishment was still uncommon. Her 
 powers of quotation were immense, and Dr. Woolsey, 
 her brother, in a youthful poem, describing playfully 
 the family group, speaks of her as in the act of " cit- 
 ing, quoting in other words." Always busy about 
 family affairs, she never seemed to read, and was ac- 
 cused of getting up all the literature of the day before 
 any one rose in the morning, or after bedtime. To 
 which she replied, "Oh, no! I have used Bulwer's 
 ' Last of the Barons ' to put myself to sleep for the last 
 five years.'' The songs of Burns were the cradle songs 
 of her children (for she could sing sweetly, and had 
 caught the airs by ear from a Scotch relative), and, 
 from Percy's " Reliques " down to Scott and Southey, 
 she trained them to be familiar with the whole range 
 of the best English poetry, with the exception of Chaucer 
 who had not yet been interpreted. Spenser's ' Faerie 
 Queen ' was one of her greatest favorites. She studied 
 with them much histoi-y and other literature, and there
 
 2ET. 15] COLLEGE LIFE. 15 
 
 was reading aloud in the evenings for their father, 
 whose eyesight was not strong. 
 
 Theodore Winthrop entered college in 1843, at the age 
 of fifteen, with credit, and seemed to hold a good place 
 there. Be that as it may, " the wind's will," the rebel 
 nature of the boy, so long dormant, awoke. No ill 
 report had been heard of by his family, when a reck- 
 less moment of folly led to the usual consequences, he 
 broke away from rules, displeased authorities, and was 
 sent away from college. His error was trifling, but no 
 doubt bitter to him and his mother for the time. It 
 was the beginning of the battle which he had to fight 
 out with himself and with life, in which the victory 
 was not fully gained till long years after. He left 
 New Haven and spent the winter of 1844-5 in Ohio 
 with his half brother, the Eev. Edward Winthrop, a 
 scholarly man, who had been valedictorian of the class 
 of 1838. The little town of Marietta must have been 
 dull enough then for a place of penance, where he 
 found no better amusement than to spend the even- 
 ing in a grocery store with some other boys, cracking 
 nuts, and scrambling eggs upon a stove. 
 
 In the spring he returned home, and was admitted 
 into the next class, where he soon won an honorable 
 position. It was a noted class, this one of '48, both 
 for its scholarship and its manliness, and he was happy 
 in the companionship he found, and distinguished in 
 it, especially for Greek and composition. He was not 
 strong enough in mathematics to win one of the high- 
 est places, but he gained two scholarships, an oration, 
 and many prizes for composition. His college themes 
 were as usual upon didactic subjects, and show more 
 thought and reading than is usual at his age. The
 
 16 RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. [1848 
 
 subject of his Commencement oration was " The Study 
 of the Beautiful necessary to a Liberal Education." 
 It was a characteristic choice, and the oration was 
 very much admired by his class-mates, who thought 
 him a wonder. This little assemblage of his peers 
 voted him their poet and philosopher, in the worship 
 of boyish friendship, while he, with reciprocal enthu- 
 siasm, deemed them the coming men, and saviors of 
 their country. 
 
 During his college life he " experienced religion," as 
 was then the phrase, and with deep sincerity. His 
 thoughtful nature could hardly escape such a conver- 
 sion at that time. It was in the air, and most young 
 persons felt it more or less. His religious fervor con- 
 tinued for a long time, for in such an earnest mind as 
 his it could hardly fade into mere indifference. After 
 a while he became emancipated from its narrowness, 
 and emerged into the free space of a liberal Christi- 
 anity, but he did not gain liberty without a bitter strug- 
 gle. Meanwhile he went through the usual phases of 
 religious excitement; he was often heard to pray aloud 
 in his chamber as if in agony; he grew melancholy and 
 almost morbid, and his health began to break down 
 under this strain, joined to the eagerness of hard study, 
 anxious as he was to regain a high position in his col- 
 lege. After graduating with honor in 1848, when 
 nearly twenty, he resolved to remain at Yale, and pursue 
 the philosophical course, under the guidance of Dr. 
 Woolsey, then Professor of Greek, and Prof. Porter. 
 But his health grew more and more delicate, his re- 
 ligious excitement abated, and left him in doubt and 
 misery, and at last he found that he could hold out 
 no longer, and determined to go to Europe, where
 
 MT. 19] HIS JOURNAL. 17 
 
 everybody who could do so went for health in those 
 days, paying, as many a young scholar has done, 
 his expenses with the proceeds of his scholarship. 
 At what time he had determined to strive for literary 
 fame is not exactly known, but it is certain that the 
 thought had already dawned in his mind. In a jour- 
 nal, kept through several of these years, he often 
 speaks of this ambition as his dearest one, and doubt- 
 less the success of his college efforts in composition 
 had encouraged him in the idea. The journal begins 
 in July, 1848, just before he graduated, and is full of 
 his studies, of his religious hopes and fears, and of his 
 affection for his family ? his instructors, and his college 
 friends, of keen introspection and self-examination, to- 
 gether with impressions of such authors as Paley and 
 Butler (dry bones for such a sensitive mind). 
 
 "Friday, August 25th, 1848. Commencement, 
 with all its anxieties and interests, has passed. 
 If I am not contented with my lot, no one can be. 
 One thing I can feel now, and that is how much 1 
 owe to my mother, and to the influences of home, 
 which have done so much for my character. My 
 mother is worthy of all love and admiration, and 
 of all care on my part, and I pray that I may feel 
 this as I ought ! Another thing I have learned is, 
 that no effort is thrown away, as in preparing for 
 these scholarships. I have done something, yet 
 how little to what I might have done, but this 
 little has made me Clark Scholar, and but for 
 drawing lots, would have made me Berkeleian. 
 Labor ! labor is the great thing ! Now 1 see how 
 much better it was; if I had drawn the lot prob-
 
 18 STUDY. [1848 
 
 ably I should not have studied for the Clark and 
 gained the higher honor, and should not have had 
 the advantage of the study for it, which has done 
 me more good than all the studies perhaps of rny 
 previous life; more than the Berkeleian, though that 
 was an introduction and a discipline for it. ... 
 The future is before me ! I am a man ! The mo- 
 tives of college exist for me no longer, the rewards 
 which a man receives from the world are more 
 distant, and perhaps more uncertain. Now, it 
 must be study for study's sake, and from a sense 
 of duty only; henceforth I must work like a man 
 and perhaps like a horse. What a man is at 
 twenty, when his character is nearly formed, there 
 are many chances that he will be through life. 
 Before twenty we have nearly all chosen what we 
 will be." 
 
 His vacation was passed with his brother Charles on 
 a farm in the state of New York; his letters and jour- 
 nals are full of pleasant impressions, and the didactic 
 reflections of youth. Though the thoughts seem com- 
 paratively crude, they are far deeper than those of 
 most young men of twenty, and the style is always 
 good. He criticises sermons, books, conversations, 
 and people, and analyzes Coleridge, Wordsworth, 
 Southey, Dr. Arnold, Ruskin, and other writers, look- 
 ing at them from a religious point of view, as well as 
 a literary one. 
 
 "Friday, Sept. 22d, 1848. To-day I am twenty 
 years old, and it seems fitting that I should soberly 
 and with a spirit of self-examination look back on
 
 JET. 20] AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL. 19 
 
 ray past life. Of my early childhood I do not re- 
 member much almost nothing of my thoughts 
 and feelings then. 1 know that I was studious, and 
 remember early having doubts about free will. I 
 hardly date further back than twelve, with any 
 connected recollection. My slight remembrances 
 of this period give me no satisfaction, for I see 
 myself as a selfish child, often exaggerating my 
 little indispositions, doing little but read novels. 
 My remembrances of my father, though faint, are 
 very pleasing, being almost entirely of a journey I 
 took with him, probably the autumn before his 
 death, which happened the 20th March, 1841. I 
 remember with pain having then offended him in 
 some way. There are many spots of recollection in 
 all this time of Mr. French's School, where I went 
 at eight years of age; of Stratford; and earliest of 
 all, of a visit to New York, and a family wedding, 
 when I was six. I was twelve when my father 
 died. 
 
 " The next thing of importance was my entering 
 college in August, 1843. I took a good standing 
 on my entrance, from previous knowledge, with- 
 out any study. I had no desire to excel; I was 
 idle and reckless all the first year, till on Nov. llth, 
 1844, I was dismissed from college for breaking 
 Freshmen's windows. I spent the winter idly 
 with my brother Edward in Marietta, Ohio, and 
 came home with better hopes. I wasted the sum- 
 mer, and at last entered Yale again, still idle, till 
 about Christmas, I saw, and loved, as the influence
 
 20 FIRST LOVE. [1848 
 
 upon me showed, Miss , and immediately gave 
 
 up the folly that had possessed me. This prepared 
 the way for the entrance of God's Spirit into my 
 heart, for in March next following, Mrs. , speak- 
 ing to me on my choice of a profession, made me 
 first think, to any effect, of my relation to a dis- 
 tant future, and this was my first step in what 
 was certainly a new life. I was confirmed that 
 summer, and took the communion on the first 
 Sunday in August. At that time, the young lady 
 whom I mentioned above continued to exercise a 
 great influence over me, though I never knew her, 
 or exchanged a word with her in my life, and I 
 shall always, even if I never see her again, retain 
 a very grateful feeling towards her, for an in- 
 fluence so entirely unconscious as it must have 
 been. In April, 1848, I was examined for the 
 Berkeleian scholarship, and declared equal to Colton, 
 my competitor; drew lots with him and lost. This 
 I believe brings the chronicle down to historic 
 times. Now for myself, what I know." . . . 
 
 Then follows more self-examination and self-accusa- 
 tion. In his journeys there appears more and more 
 feeling for natural scenery, but as yet no originality 
 of description. 
 
 " Thursday, Oct. 12th, 1848. I have now become 
 regularly settled in my mode of life and studies 
 for the winter. These will be, Mental and Moral 
 Science, Greek, German, and History. Besides 
 these, I hope to write some Latin every day, and
 
 ^T. 20] AFTER COLLEGE. 21 
 
 a good deal of English, and I must have a little 
 poetry and light reading. My studies have begun 
 with Mill's " Logic," a book which 1 have thus far 
 found it hard to understand. My Greek studies, 
 carried on with Mr. Woolsey, are very interesting, 
 giving me new ideas of the exact use of words. I 
 see how a mind need not be narrowed by the study , 
 of detail, even so far as it may be carried by the' 
 critical study of a language. But I am very un- 
 disciplined. I hope to make history a real philo- 
 sophical study of human progress. Our country 
 is destined, they say, to become the chief station 
 between Europe and Eastern Asia. If the course 
 of Empire is westward, what will it do, when it 
 gets to the Pacific ? " 
 
 Pages upon pages follow, of his long thoughts upon 
 all subjects likely to interest a musing metaphysical 
 mind, or rather a mind passing through the phase of 
 metaphysics, in the light of an alert conscience. In fact 
 the effect of his studious and sedentary life upon a consti- 
 tution always delicate was such as to make his conscience 
 often a morbid one. His health was probably saved from 
 utter wreck by athletic exercises, such as rowing, skating, 
 and walking. The journal contains constant references 
 to his college friends, with whom he corresponded, and 
 long disquisitions upon subjects connected with his 
 studies, which resemble themes and sermons, yet show 
 a mind fuh 1 of work and thought, putting forth shoots 
 in all directions. At this time he began to write 
 verses, and show them to a friend. Some of them 
 have been preserved, but they lack originality, though
 
 22 EARLY DREAMS. [1848 
 
 they possess some poetic form. He had not got much 
 farther than the wish for expression, the words had 
 not yet come to him, but everything evinces a bias 
 towards a life of letters. His love of country already 
 declares itself strongly. 
 
 " How much this California excitement reminds 
 me of the time when Peru and Mexico were dis- 
 covered; the conquest of the country in all its 
 points bears so striking a resemblance to the first 
 attack by the Spaniards. 
 
 " How interesting are the effects ! giving in the 
 first place a President to this vast country, under 
 whose administration we first take acknowledged 
 place as the first people in the world ! Let Europe 
 go back to barbarism or anarchy, here the result 
 of the world's weary labors will be preserved, and 
 here the seed sown since the beginning of the 
 world shall ripen, and bring forth fruit. But enough 
 of this rhapsody " (Several pages long). 
 
 Many things were opening to him, almost too many. 
 The beauty of Nature now blossomed in his soul, and 
 Art was to be revealed before long in its own home. 
 
 " My aesthetic faculties, which have been asleep 
 for some time, are, I hope, waking again. If any- 
 thing could do it, it would be such a sunset; with 
 the evening which followed. The whole earth 
 covered with pure white snow; the West Rock 
 range not perfectly white, but hoary, and making 
 a sharp line against the glowing horizon, where
 
 2Ei. 20] EARLY DREAMS. 23 
 
 the sun went down full-orbed in splendor. And 
 the gradation of color, so glorious, from the bright 
 radiance of the sun's last tarrying place, to the 
 solemn glory of the zenith, and then the moon, 
 and the evening star shining on the snow; the sky 
 like steel. It is enough to make a poet of any one 
 who will let it into his soul. I got excited the 
 other day about poetry, and spent a morning in 
 writing some verses, which did very well, for my 
 small experience. I have read 'Modern Painters,' 
 too, an era in my life. Since then I have allowed 
 myself too many dreams, and have wished to be 
 a poet, 
 
 " 'Singing hymns unbidden till the world was wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.' 
 
 " It will not do ! My life must be practical. 
 
 " I have, in connection with Heeren's 'Asia,' read 
 some translations from the Sanskrit Milman's 
 'Nala and Damayanta,' and Sir William Jones' 'Sa- 
 contala.' They are beautiful, simple, and tender." 
 
 Here follows a critique upon Hindu poetry. 
 
 " In my late dreams of writing poetry, which* 
 my present powers do not confirm, I have been ex- 
 amining my past life, to see if I have any of those 
 'first affections, those shadowy recollections,' those 
 inward promptings that speak the power, the love, 
 the imagination of the true poet. I find that in 
 all my dreams I have desired something great, and 
 noble; but all dreamers have. I find that I have
 
 24 THE YOUNG POET. 
 
 been deeply impressed with nature and beauty; 
 but all dreamers have. As a child, I felt the won- 
 ders of the Hudson in a journey with my father, 
 and now often, in my boat, when I am in the trough 
 of the sea, with nothing but water around me, and 
 seem lost in the waste of water, as I go down into 
 the belly of one of those waves, I feel my nothing- 
 ness completely; and fear without fright is a part 
 of the sublime. But if all thoughts of poetry should 
 be to me but idle dreams, may I ever be able to 
 say with Coleridge, ' Poetry has been to me its 
 own exceeding great reward.' I never really set 
 about writing it till January 5th of this year, when 
 mother read me some vei-ses of hers about a bright- 
 er land, beyond an intervening water, which were 
 really very beautiful. They seemed to wake me 
 up, so that morning I wrote some verses, which I 
 count really as my first. They speak of the in- 
 fluence upon me, long ago, of a lady whom 1 do 
 not know. The great secret seems to be that, Avith 
 your mind ready and alive to what you are in 
 search of, you will be sure to find it. If you have 
 any creative power, the thoughts that would other- 
 wise pass through and be forgotten are thus chained. 
 I hardly dare to say to myself how much I wish 
 to find this power within me; it would satisfy all 
 the desire I have had to teach others to love beauty, 
 and to be made purer by it. If I might, I would 
 strive to be the poet of my country and my God, 
 guiding and raising the eyes of many young spirits 
 who like myself are beginning life with some noble
 
 ET. 20] JOURNAL. 25 
 
 aspirations. I almost think sometimes that I might. 
 It would be a sacred, an awful trust. I do riot de- 
 serve it. I must not dream, but labor, nor mistake 
 the desire for the power to speak to young men 
 and warn them and move them. 
 
 ' ' I began ' Sartor Resartus ' this evening (Saturday, 
 Jan. 20th, 1849). I am prepared to like Carlyle 
 very much. He suggests much to me of the force 
 of words. But I am a great deal too fond of the 
 sound of my own voice, and often find that, like a 
 fool, I would rather talk myself than hear others. 
 
 u I think dancing rather a bore, and supper always 
 
 makes me sick, yet the party at Mrs. D 's was 
 
 one of the pleasantest I remember 
 
 " I have been told on good authority that Robes- 
 pierre was an Irishman. 
 
 " Beauty of language places Pindar above all the 
 Greek poets 
 
 " Prince Louis Napoleon must be a very poor 
 sort of a man. He has, I suppose, strong advisers, 
 but can a man of so little ability sustain himself in 
 France at the present crisis ? Perhaps a nonentity 
 is the best they could have just now. A man of 
 power without principle might seize again upon 
 the throne, and so keep up the series of revolutions. 
 Unless they have a Republic, which will leave them 
 nothing to seek for, the French, from mere dissatis- 
 faction with the existing order of things, would have 
 another Revolution ; but it would be only temporary. 
 A republic actually existing removes the causes 
 for revolution. The California mania still rages
 
 26 JOURNAL. [1849 
 
 more and more. Some of my friends have gone. 
 Most of those who expect to make their fortunes 
 by mining will be disappointed. Wonderful that 
 this gold should have been kept out of sight so 
 long, and only be found when it can help our 
 country to be the middle of the world ; for here we 
 are with eastern ports for Europe and western 
 ones for Asia. With a people equal to anything, 
 I do not see but we shall be masters of the world. 
 Who knows but the whole world may one day bo 
 united under a representative government? 
 
 " I find my uncle's opinion about the Alcestis 
 quite agrees with mine. Admetus is made so con- 
 temptible that no other charm can counterbalance 
 this. Alcestis is tender and devoted, and her char- 
 acter is all the beauty of the play, for, certainly, not 
 beautiful are the recriminations of Admetus and his 
 father, or the double entendres with Hercules. 
 
 "I re-read with pleasure Tennyson's poems. He 
 has exquisite power over language, and his poems 
 have blood in them, and are really classic. The 
 poetic aestrus that excited me a while ago, has fled 
 away perhaps, forever. 
 
 " Oh, that I had had a guide in life, in youth, 
 and been saved much folly ! Whatever I have of 
 good, is owing to the silent influence of home and 
 my mother. I have been reading Grote's History, 
 and more Carlyle. He makes me long to visit the 
 north of Europe. I must see Europe sometime, and 
 all those places whose names are like household 
 words. England most of all.
 
 JET. 20] LOSS OF HEALTH. 27 
 
 "I have often observed that the stars seem to 
 shine down into my breast, not into my eyes. It 
 has given me occasion for some pleasant fancies. 
 
 "I find that I am vain, even to myself; talking 
 about what I could do, if I were not too lazy. I 
 have no business to be lazy. I must work and be 
 a man, or starve. But life and the world still seem 
 so obscure ! " 
 
 " Worcester, Mass., Sunday, May 20th. At Mr. 
 Foster's. My health has been so poor for the 
 two months past that I have not felt inclination 
 or energy, hardly ability, to write here. I have 
 been a martyr to dyspepsia, which has troubled me 
 more or less my whole life, but more this spring 
 than ever. In fact, I have been quite good-for- 
 nothing, and at times quite desperate. I gave 
 up study pretty much, my mind lost all spring, 
 and even the desire for information* and the wish 
 for the good opinion of others. All my hopes died 
 within me. Henry Hitchcock and I have now been 
 nearly a week in Worcester, and I have been en- 
 joying myself and constantly improving in health. 
 Life begins to look a little brighter for me. I really 
 think if I had continued a month longer I should 
 have fallen into a settled melancholy. I have en- 
 joyed my stay in Worcester, not only on account 
 of Dwight Foster's and Henry Hitchcock's society, 
 but because the intercourse with a man of Mr. Fos- 
 ter's age and sense is an unusual pleasure to me, 
 and the friendship between father and son is a 
 thing that I know nothing of. To be among new
 
 28 LOSS OF HEALTH. 
 
 people is quite a study, especially when they are 
 so different from my own female family circle. I 
 have learned something of the public characters 
 of the last generation, of whom my knowledge had 
 been almost confined to their names. Mr. Foster 
 has given me two letters of Fisher Ames. He 
 must have been an admirable man. I have read 
 his great speech on Jay's treaty, which was said 
 to be knee deep in pathos. Ill health prevented 
 him from engaging in public life to the height of 
 his powers, and finally obliged him to retire alto- 
 gether, at the time when his reputation was great- 
 est. That speech, which was his last, was also his 
 best. 
 
 "e7wie4th, 1849. I have now been so long in feeble 
 health and really unable to do anything, that some- 
 times I almost despair. My spirits have been very 
 much depressed, and serious considerations as to my 
 course in life have weighed upon me heavily. I have 
 hesitated long and painfully about my profession. I 
 have wished and prayed to do my duty. My friends 
 are divided in opinion, but they cannot choose for me. 
 My own judgment directs me to Law as my future 
 profession. A life of study and retirement would 
 increase my tendency to morbid views of myself 
 and others, and destroy my usefulness and happi- 
 ness. Of this state of mind I have had warnings 
 this spring. If my mind had been left to prey 
 upon itself much longer it might have led to dis- 
 aster. The very thought of such a thing makes 
 me watchful. An active life among men would
 
 MT. 20] LOSS OF HEALTH. 29 
 
 correct this. I have lost all inclination for a stu- 
 dent's life. In a literary life I might not be dili- 
 gent. The prospect is dim before me, but I mean 
 to study law this next year at Cambridge, and then 
 make up my mind and know better what I am tit 
 for. I suppose I could do respectably in anything 
 I tried, but this would not satisfy me. I want em- 
 inence, and to obtain this may be beyond my pow- 
 ers. I wonder if I could make a good speech? I 
 look to the bar as a stepping-stone to politics. 
 
 " July 20th, 1849. As I do not wish to fill my 
 pages with complaints, I will say nothing of the 
 ill health that interrupted and finally put an end 
 to my studies. Finding that I could really do noth- 
 ing at home and that the partial relaxation of a 
 walk or an idle day did me no good, and with the 
 fear before me that a winter of severe study at 
 Harvard would finish me entirely, I decided, with 
 the advice and approval of my mother, to devote a 
 year to travel in Europe. 1 was very unwilling 
 to come to this, as it compelled the deferring of all 
 my plans, and I can ill afford the time or the money. 
 But it seemed the only way which united the re- 
 covery of my health with the prospect of mental 
 improvement. I rejoice in the opportunity, and 
 shall try to make the best of it, though I regret 
 the cause." 
 
 Through all this youthful journalizing, moralizing, 
 essay-writing, and earnest self-questioning and accu- 
 sation, a peculiarly sensitive and impressionable soul 
 may plainly be seen, struggling with ill health in the
 
 30 THE REMEDY. 
 
 narrow cage of a quiet scholarly town, yet living a 
 real life, with sympathies going out to everything 
 around it. But a change was near. The earnestness 
 might have become morbidness, the sensitiveness, weak- 
 ness, or the struggle, misery and failure, had it not been 
 for the life-giving influence of wider experience, of new 
 worlds to conquer. The fight was yet to come, and 
 weapons were now to be put into his hands.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 EUROPE. 
 
 HE sailed for Europe in the Liverpool packet, Mar- 
 garet Evans, on Friday, July 27th, 1849. The influ- 
 ence of a foreign tour upon such a youth as he, must 
 have been very great. He was changed, he became a 
 man. His letters and journals were full of fascination 
 to his family, but now the grand tour is a thing of every 
 day, and they contain much that would not interest a 
 reader, and that would seem, hurried as they were, 
 like pages from guide books. It was then a rarer 
 chance than now for a young collegian to travel, and 
 he was probably the first of his class to go. His mind 
 was more ripe and prepared by study than most young 
 men of twenty-one. Although he traveled afterwards, 
 often and widely, there is only one first time; and its 
 mark is plainly to be seen in his literary woi'k, which 
 until then was the mere boyish effort of a fledgeling, 
 trying his wings, but never soaring. From this time 
 a love of travel and adventure was born in his soul, 
 bringing with it free thought and independent action. 
 His first impressions were overwhelming, nor was his 
 ardent young heart ashamed to beat as he neared 
 his goal.
 
 32 LAND, HO! [349 
 
 "England, August 26th, 1849. 
 
 "I had asked the mate to call me early, and 
 after sitting up till midnight enjoying the flashing 
 of the ship through the water under a thirteen- 
 knot breeze, and having caught a glimpse of St. 
 Catherine's light, with a dark line under it, that 
 the mate said was land, I turned in for a few hours, 
 with the exciting feeling that in the morning I 
 should see the land of our forefathers. I went up on 
 deck at five o'clock. The sun was just risen, the air 
 fresh and sparkling, and about three miles to wind- 
 ward the white cliffs of Beachy Head, their bril- 
 liant front coming sharply down to the clear green 
 water, and drawing a wavy line against the sky. 
 The very sight of land brings ecstasy to one who 
 has been long at sea, and this was more than vul- 
 gar earth and speechless clods. The recollection 
 of such things never leaves one, but to put it down 
 in black and white seems too much of rhapsody." 
 
 He landed from the ship in a pilot boat which put 
 them ashore at New Haven, a coincidence very pleas- 
 ant to him. 
 
 "I could hardly restrain myself," he says, "from 
 shouting and singing as I touched the land." 
 
 His first view of London impresses him deeply: 
 
 " August 29th, 1849. 
 
 "I had of course the usual feelings of delight 
 and excited interest on first seeing London, and 
 the usual astonishment of every one at its vast ex-
 
 &T. 20] LONDON. 33 
 
 tent, and the crowds that throng its streets, and 
 my wonder is always on the increase, as I wander 
 about from street to street, and find everywhere the 
 same mass of houses, and the same vast multitude 
 hurrying about, and not caring the least for you. 
 I cannot bear merely to go from place to place, not 
 seeing things thoroughly. I want to allow each 
 well-known place to be familiar and real to me, 
 before I confuse its impressions by adding some- 
 thing new. I wander about the whole time, find- 
 ing myself continually in familiar places. As soon 
 as I arrived and had dinner, I started down the 
 Strand from Morley's, and walked five or six miles, 
 coming home quite tired out. The next day I was 
 everywhere for a moment, just to satisfy the first 
 cravings of curiosity. I saw Westminster Abbey, 
 but only the exterior, for I found this affected me 
 so much that I could not trust myself further. 
 Yesterday I felt too unwell to do much, so I rode 
 down to St. Paul's in the morning, and spent the 
 rest of the day lying under the trees in Hyde Park. 
 " Whether it is not being strong, or what, I do 
 not know, but the sight of all these places has so 
 much effect upon me that I cannot refrain from 
 tears, and I was rejoiced to be able among the 
 trees of the Park to give them full flow. Don't 
 think me a fool, but I cannot help it." 
 
 In his long letters (often of sixteen large and closely 
 written pages), are minute details of everything he 
 sees, which were all new to his untraveled readers at 
 home. Though not yet twenty-one when he landed in
 
 34 LONDON. [1849 
 
 England, he was prepared with a knowledge of his- 
 tory, topography, and art, especially of architecture, 
 which was very uncommon at his age, and seemed 
 half instinctive. 
 
 " London, Moray's Hold, Sept. 1st, 1849. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I sent you yesterday a letter, 
 which I fear will interest you but little, as it was 
 written in great haste. I have now been in Lon- 
 don three whole days, and my wonder does not at 
 all dimmish at the vastness of the city, the in- 
 finitude of people, and the perfect order that 
 prevails everywhere. In all this concourse every 
 man seems to know his business and his place, and 
 every horse and every vehicle obeys the same great 
 law. The sense of one's insignificance and mo- 
 mentariness is so strong as to be almost painful. 
 If I were asked, what I consider the greatest won- 
 der of London yet ? I should say to ride from Char- 
 ing Cross to the Bank about two o'clock, on the 
 top of a 'bus, and see the crowds of people, and the 
 wonderful driving. You will be tired, no doubt, 
 of my speaking so often of these things, but re- 
 member, this is not only my first view of London, 
 but of any great city. New York seems small now. 
 I will tell you better things by and by. 
 
 "On Wednesday, Sept, 5th, 1849, I left Euston 
 Square for the North. The perfection of the ar- 
 rangements on the English railways is quite strik- 
 ing to me, after the comparative confusion of ours, 
 though we're doing much better now."
 
 tffr. 20] SCOTLAND. 35 
 
 During this journey he visits Sheffield and York, 
 giving a minute description of the Cathedral, as well 
 as of Durham. Arriving at Edinboro' the first place 
 of interest is naturally Holyrood. 
 
 " I was shown about by a very solemn old wo- 
 man, whom I made more communicative by prob- 
 ing her about Sir Walter, of whom she spoke as of 
 some dear friend. * And the affability of Sir Wal- 
 ter, and how he used to ask questions, did Sir 
 Walter, though all the while, you know, sir, he 
 knew the whole better than anybody else.' When 
 I touched her upon the house of Stuart, she laid her 
 hand upon my arm, and in a mysterious whisper 
 declared to me the awful secret that she was a 
 Jacobite." 
 
 Edinboro' and its associations interest him deeply. 
 He is enchanted with Melrose. 
 
 " I longed for you more than ever to see it with 
 me; but for a full account of these things I must 
 refer you, from Theodore abroad, with a thousand 
 things to say, and no time to say them in, to Theo- 
 dore at home, the best of all places, as I feel more 
 and more clearly every day. 
 
 " I called on Sir William Hamilton, and spent a 
 very pleasant evening with him. To say that I 
 admired Melrose would be absurd. It is fairer than 
 the things of earth, and seems so because time has 
 purged away all the earthly part, leaving only 
 what was permanent. One thing that strikes me
 
 36 FfNGAL'S CAVE. [1849 
 
 as a chief element of its beauty is that it has no 
 windows or doors to check your view in looking 
 out, and you have the whole thrown open, so that 
 everywhere a broken arch or a fallen pillar gives 
 a new view; and then the color of the stone, a 
 beautiful red-brown." 
 
 Not to linger too long in Scotland, where he takes 
 an extended tour, he went on to Staffa. 
 
 " As I went north I had an odd sort of feeling 
 as if I were coming to the end of the world, and 
 as if each narrow rocky point was a jumping-off 
 place. I thought of going to the Isle of Skye, but 
 it is too late and cold, so I shall return towards 
 England, which seems quite like a home, and more 
 as I am always taken for an Englishman, and have 
 some difficulty in establishing my nationality. I 
 enjoy traveling more than at first. I used to be 
 sometimes at a loss with my little experience, but 
 greenness soon wears off, and I learn to bluster 
 like John Bull. The scene at Staffa was very 
 striking, in this solitary place, with the sea break- 
 ing wildly on the rocks, and became still more so 
 when we entered Fingal's Cave. There came to 
 my mind the passage in the Bible speaking of the 
 wicked calling for the mountains to fall on them, 
 and the hills to cover them ; and this was such a 
 hiding place. It was almost awful ; a temple not 
 made with hands ; the black damp rocks going down 
 to an unknown depth in the black water; the light 
 from the entrance just sufficient to make the whole
 
 MT. 21] SCOTLAND. 37 
 
 interior visible, without any glare. I have never 
 seen anything that seemed to bring me so near 
 eternity as this, so far from the .homes and works 
 of man." 
 
 " Stirling, Oct. 6th, 1849. 
 
 " This is my last point in Scotland, and I say it 
 with regret. It is quite a relief to be again in the 
 Lowlands, in softer scenery. I feel this particularly 
 after Glencoe, which is the climax of desolate Scotch 
 mountain scenery. You will be surprised when I 
 say that here at Stirling I saw my first horse -race, 
 and never care to see one again. I found it very 
 stupid. I make acquaintance with many travelers, 
 or they with me, and I meet the same tourists over 
 and over. The English throw off their reserve as 
 soon as they cross their own frontier, and can say, 
 ' We don't have such bread in England.' 
 
 " I like my lonely walks over the moors, where 
 the grouse get quietly up from under my feet, 
 knowing my umbrella is not a gun, and the deer 
 look at me from the hill, or the hare from the 
 covert. 
 
 " It is pleasant to study the surnames on signs, 
 and see if they are like ours, or new to me. One 
 name I noticed was Mr. Twentyman, himself a host. 
 Many I find that I supposed the coinage of some 
 author's brain. They told me to be sure to go to 
 Fountain's Abbey, and I am glad I did. The first 
 view of the Abbey is most beautiful, just in the cen- 
 ter of a picture, with a dark background of woods 
 and a foreground of soft green meadow, through
 
 38 ENGLISH LIFE. [1849 
 
 which winds a little wooded stream, and a pond is 
 at your feet with swans sailing about." 
 
 Giving a long description of the architecture of the 
 Abbey from Early English to Perpendicular, full of ap- 
 preciation and detail, he enjoys the grotesque carved 
 stalls at Eipon, where he finds a pig playing the bag- 
 pipe, Punch wheeling Judy in a barrow, a fox and 
 goose and other odd fancies, and goes to Haddon Hall, 
 Chatsworth, and Stratford-on-Avon. 
 
 "At Kirkstall, as elsewhere, I found the most 
 splendid screens of ivy, made more beautiful by 
 the blossoms of a lighter green. These monstrous 
 old trunks cling to the walls with a grasp that re- 
 minds me of the feeling that comes in bad dreams 
 they hold fast without any apparent means the 
 whole mass bared of its leaves and dead, but still 
 holding fast, and interlaced in the most complex 
 manner. 
 
 "I have amused myself by going into country 
 alehouses, to see all sides of English life. I went 
 into a little place in Lichfield on the Fair day. I 
 meant to have taken my glass with the farmers, 
 but the barmaid insisted on taking me into another 
 room, set round with little tables, garnished with 
 long clay pipes. Two women came in from the 
 market, producing mutton pies, on which they pro- 
 ceeded to dine heartily. I would far rather go to 
 these places than to an upper class hotel, where 
 people are all alike. I find great delight in the 
 scenes that make real to me so much. I see the
 
 Ex. 21] ENGLISH LIFE. 39 
 
 very people that novelists have described, 'Mr. 
 Weller ' and ' Samivel,' cockney sportsmen, and gen- 
 iuses with dishevelled hair, benevolent old green- 
 horns with eyeglass and black gaiters a whole 
 Pickwick Club at every railway station, fat old 
 ladies that have 'dowager' stamped upon every 
 feature and motion, from the ungainly waddle of 
 their gait, to the manifold ribbons of their mon- 
 strous hats; people wild about their multifarious 
 luggage, and making every possible blunder. A 
 thousand such things I see; and I am glad always 
 to see the comic side, for the sorrowful intrudes 
 itself quite too often, and painful questions force 
 themselves upon the mind. 
 
 "The English parks and seats are very beautiful 
 in their perfect finish, but hardly more so than the 
 country everywhere; you are astonished to find al- 
 ways the same green fields and trim hedges and 
 grand trees. 
 
 " One of my objects is to see as many cathedrals 
 as possible, for each is interesting in itself, and has 
 features quite peculiar to itself. Gloucester is re- 
 markable for its perfection in every part .... but 
 I must not give you an architectural treatise merely. 
 
 " In going to Bath I was amused to notice the 
 odd way of going down the steep hills with the 
 donkey carts. They tie the foremost beast of the 
 tandem to the back of the cart, and putting a sack 
 over his hinder parts, they knock away his legs 
 from under him, and he slides down hill, acting as 
 a drag."
 
 40 OXFORD. [1849 
 
 Visiting Oxford he meets with great kindness and 
 hospitality, and sees many interesting people. 
 
 "You know how I feel about Oxford, and can 
 imagine with what feelings I walked through the 
 quadrangles and gardens, and recognized the fa- 
 miliar names of each. I refer you to my future 
 letters for descriptions. Some of the young men 
 have the unmistakable look that distinguishes a 
 Freshman everywhere, the same mingling of con- 
 scious importance with apprehension and innocent 
 surprise. Altogether a very gentlemanly looking 
 collection of men, and many handsome ones among 
 them." 
 
 Three long letters, of sixteen pages each, contain his 
 impressions of Oxford and Cambridge, and their po- 
 etic, scholarly life and beauty. 
 
 " At Balliol we saw among the curiosities a tank- 
 ard, given by the Man of Koss Mr. Kyrle. It had 
 a hedgehog, his crest, upon it, and a lady who knows 
 the family told me that they have a superstition 
 that a hedgehog always precedes each member of 
 the family to the other world, for one of these ani- 
 mals is always found dead by the door before any 
 death in the house. 
 
 " how I glory in my country ! There are times 
 when sad and gloomy views of life must be present 
 to one who feels ' the burthen of the mystery of all 
 this unintelligible world,' but I rejoice to think 
 that there are among us some men, young and old,
 
 -Efc. 21] OXFORD. 41 
 
 who combine reverence for the past with hope for 
 the future, in whom reverence is not blindness, nor 
 hope rashness. They will be our salvation. 
 
 "A genuine enthusiasm like Ruskin's is not com- 
 mon in Oxford; the present spirit of the place seems 
 opposed to it; the easy life of a fellow of a college 
 is enjoyed rather as a period of scholastic leisure, 
 than of serious and diligent preparation for the 
 duties of life. This impression at least I derived 
 from the men themselves. It is not so, of course, 
 with all. There is life enough among the younger 
 men, especially those who come from Rugby." 
 
 Among his letters of introduction was one to a gen- 
 tleman who was a strong opponent of the Tractarian 
 movement. The controversy was still rife, and he 
 appears to have heard much discussion on the subject, 
 though he seems only to have been interested as a 
 looker on. But everything set him thinking. 
 
 " I have always in my mind, when I see any- 
 thing new or important, its effect if carried over 
 to my own country, and I should think, on the 
 whole, our system is far in advance of Oxford, and 
 not much behind Cambridge. Every one, nearly, 
 in Oxford thinks that some change is necessary, 
 but none are agreed as to what it is. 
 
 "I sometimes feel disposed to come directly 
 home. I have seen things and people, already, 
 enough to last me all my life. 
 
 "Mr. G told me that on his proposing to 
 
 bring me to visit a friend, the person expressed
 
 42 AN ATTACHE. [1849 
 
 great consternation, and said, ' How do you know 
 but he is going to write a book ! ' 
 
 " One thinks of the English as a stable govern- 
 ment, but it has a strange effect on me here, where 
 I hear only English opinions, to find how every- 
 thing is in a transition state everybody proposing 
 some plan of improvement, so that ours seems the 
 settled government and this the experimental." 
 
 " London, Morley's Hotel, Nov. 9th, 1849. 
 
 " One can hardly know, until you have been 
 about these streets, how true and how telling are 
 the jokes and caricatures in Punch. In fact a care- 
 ful study of Punch is an excellent preparation for 
 London life. 
 
 " I am acting as a sort of attache to our Embassy. 
 
 I call myself so, because Mr. L told me I was 
 
 his only one. Attaches are rather ornamental than 
 useful, their duties being generally only to the 
 ladies of the family; these I have faithfully per- 
 formed, and besides I am deep in the secrets of the 
 Mosquito question. 
 
 " I shall go to Paris probably on Monday, and 
 am, for my convenience, charge de depeches for the 
 Legation. 
 
 " I always enjoy myself to an intense degree in 
 a crowd, and delight in going down into the City 
 on the top of a 'bus. It was my first wonder in 
 London, and will be my last the marvelous driv- 
 ing in the streets." 
 
 In Paris he meets many friends, but is very far from 
 being well or happy. In fact, his health was never
 
 -&T. 21] PARIS LIFE. 43 
 
 strong enough to give him a fair start in life, and 
 though in after years it gradually improved, and out- 
 door life and travel always invigorated him, illness 
 constantly interfered with his plans. He spent a great 
 deal of his time in Paris in the friendly home of the 
 Hunts, the family of the distinguished painter, William 
 Hunt, and his brother, Richard Hunt, the architect, 
 who were both there, engaged in art studies; and he 
 also met, for the first time, Mr. "W. H. Aspinwall, 
 destined to become his fast friend. 
 
 He was a favorite wherever he went, and proper 
 reticence and want of space alone forbid quoting his 
 descriptions of the people he met, both high and low, 
 who were kind and attentive to him. Society could 
 not fail to awaken still more a young soul only too im- 
 pressible for its own happiness. Everything was ap- 
 preciated and assimilated. He started wonderfully 
 well prepared for travel for a young man not twenty- 
 one, and his art criticisms* seldom differ from the best 
 ideas of to-day. 
 
 " Paris, Nov. 22d, 1849. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, At another time I would have 
 liked to stop and see the country, but now I looked 
 upon Paris as a sort of El Dorado, where I was to 
 find health, and everything that I wished; so I 
 hastened on, reaching there about five AM. I de- 
 livered my despatches to the Secretary of Legation 
 the next day, and found he was from Woodbury, 
 Connecticut. I am very much amused in the 
 streets with everything, soldiers, peasants, bonnes, 
 
 * Mostly omitted.
 
 44 PARIS LIFE. [1849 
 
 hand-bills arid signs, but the novelty and surprise 
 is that I feel so much at home, and find people so 
 little different from ours. I suppose it is every- 
 one's experience. I have felt also, in London and 
 in Paris, the desolation that comes at first in a 
 great city, but the loneliness soon wears off. I 
 have been established in my 'appartement' about 
 half an hour, and expect to be very comfortable. 
 
 " I enjoy the contrast between the fashion and 
 splendor of the Boulevards, and the narrow and an- 
 cient streets, where you find a life so different that 
 you might think yourself in another world lofty 
 old houses, crammed with people from cellar to sky- 
 light, but in all their darkness preserving some- 
 thing of the attempt at elegance that makes any 
 house in Paris prettier than any house elsewhere. 
 The women, in nice caps, go about as if life were 
 pleasant, and the muddy street a ball-room. The 
 Parisian ladies all wear stout shoes, and sometimes 
 gaiters besides; their example ought to be followed 
 by ours, who are sadly imprudent, even with our 
 delightful climate. 
 
 "In the public speaking, though there is plenty 
 of life in the manner, the rising inflection constantly 
 used makes it monotonous and peculiar at first. 
 
 " I see my old schoolmate, Dick Hunt, all the 
 time; he is working hard at architecture, with a 
 manly and patriotic feeling to make himself of use 
 at home. He has passed rapidly and successfully 
 through all the examinations. The French system 
 is calculated to bring out any original powers a
 
 ^T. 21] PARIS LIFE. 45 
 
 man has. I am in the Louvre all the time, admir- 
 ing, and full of plans for improving the condition 
 of the fine arts in my own country. I am inclined 
 to think that few men place their hopes higher 
 than their powers, and therefore expect my friend 
 Dick Hunt will do good work at home. 
 
 " I feel that I have learnt much of men and things, 
 not half as much as I ought, but something to take 
 the romance out of me, and to do away with the idle 
 dreamy spirit that I have so much indulged, until 
 at last my eyes have been opened. This is an ep- 
 och in my life ; but all such changes are sudden. 
 
 " I had a very interesting visit to the school where 
 the daughters of the Legion of Honor are gratui- 
 tously educated. ... In one room there were forty- 
 one pianos going at once, and each on a different 
 piece. Think of rattling away with forty others 
 practicing at the same time ! Habit settles it, but 
 it must injure the ear, while it promotes attention. 
 It is very cold, and the days are very short, yet I 
 feel brighter than for some time. I start in good 
 spirits, and hope to enjoy myself in Italy, going 
 by Avignon and Nismes, to Marseilles. Love to 
 all my dear friends. I have longed to send you 
 some of the pretty Christmas things that fill the 
 shop windows." 
 
 Extracts from Journal. 
 
 "Dreamed about writing a book on Art. The 
 ideas of William Hunt are certainly very fine and 
 good. I think I should like to stay in Europe and
 
 46 JOURNAL. [1850 
 
 go into diplomatic life. Talked with Dick Hunt 
 about changing" our seat of government, and lay- 
 ing out a grand new city as a national monument. 
 Hurrah! We'll do it!" 
 
 " In the salon of the Louvre, devoted to portraits 
 of the kings of France, it seemed an odd coinci- 
 dence that Louis Philippe's portrait fills up the 
 very last space that is left in the room. And yet 
 they talk here as if Louis Napoleon would make 
 himself emperor before long." 
 
 Many interesting things must have been talked of 
 between these three brilliant young men and the 
 charming women of the Hunt family, and excellent 
 guides and teachers they nmst have been in Paris life. 
 Leaving Paris, he goes by Lyons, Nismes, Avignon, to 
 Marseilles, and by steamer to Genoa and Rome. Here 
 he became better acquainted with Mr. William H. 
 Aspinwall and his family, who were kind friends to 
 him then and in the future. But the cloud still 
 hangs over him, and he cannot get away from it by 
 change of place. 
 
 "Owing to my peculiar state of health, I lose a 
 great deal, finding it quite impossible to make use 
 of all the opportunities for improvement that trav- 
 eling affords. I find myself very wretched, wish- 
 ing for nothing so much as death, and yet know- 
 ing not what death is." 
 
 For all these drawbacks, he sees everything Paris, 
 the Louvre, Kachel, Rome, the Carnival, all, and more, 
 that tourists of that day usually saw, and that all the
 
 ^ET. 21] THE SOUTH. 47 
 
 world knows now so well and studied French and 
 Italian as he went. Still doubting and distrusting 
 himself, he thinks he is learning little, while he is 
 absorbing knowledge at every pore. 
 
 " On the Avignon steamer was a motley crowd. 
 Among the soldiers was a small man of fifty-five 
 or sixty, with keen and sharp features, a grizzled 
 moustache, and long imperial, wearing a colonel's 
 uniform, decorated, and in all respects, as I sup- 
 posed, un veritable Chasseur d'Afrique. I learned 
 that this colonel was the painter, Horace Vernet, 
 on his way to make some sketches for the gov- 
 ernment. He is a colonel of the National Guard, 
 and I suppose wears the uniform from fancy. At 
 Avignon, his birthplace, is the famous Mazeppa 
 that you have so often seen engraved." 
 
 "Some, Feb. 3d, 1850. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, Forgive the stupidity of my 
 letters. Attention and observation have become 
 my only faculties; cramming my only occupation. 
 Some time I hope to digest all this. Men are known 
 and formed by the company they keep, and when 
 one's sole companion is John Murray 'the trav- 
 eler's Bible,' what can you expect ? I am staying 
 a little longer here, for the sake of the Carnival, 
 though the feeling of the people will prevent much 
 of the usual gayety ; but you know it would hardly 
 do to miss a thing that one has heard so much 
 about, and one of the great lions of the modern 
 world. The pleasure of my stay in Rome has been 
 very much increased by the kindness of the C 's,
 
 48 ROME. [1850 
 
 and I have a new set of friends in the Aspinwalls. 
 But I must tell you how I got here. It was a 
 lovely sail by steamer from Marseilles to Genoa. 
 That being my first Italian town, interested me 
 extremely, in a thousand different ways the cos- 
 tumes of the men, the picturesque veils of the 
 women, the delightful narrow streets, the palaces, 
 the Vandykes. We landed at Leghorn in a snow- 
 storm, and the next day had to put into the harbor 
 of San Stefano. The country between Civita Vecchia 
 and Rome was the most desolate 1 ever saw or im- 
 agined only a few huts, and shepherds clad in 
 goat skins, more shaggy than the goats they tended, 
 and far more savage than the beautiful gray oxen. 
 With this desert on one side, and the glorious sea 
 on the other, the solitude was strange and intense. 
 I ran about Rome the next day, full of excitement, 
 till I reached the Capitol, and climbed the tower at 
 top, from whence I had all Rome at my feet. There, 
 my dear mother, was the Forum! and between me 
 and it a succession of ruins, triumphal arches, 
 broken pillars ; enough to suggest the ancient mag- 
 nificence; enough to make me feel that this was 
 Rome, and recall a few of the lessons that formed 
 the boy and influenced the young man. The day 
 was superb, and the mountains, covered with snow, 
 made an admirable background; below, the eye lost 
 itself in the great plain of the Campagna, seem- 
 ing like a great lake. Towards the west were 
 the heights of the Janiculum and the Vatican, 
 crowned with stone pines, and to the north Mod-
 
 ^T. 21] ROME. 49 
 
 ern Rome domed up ! After satisfying my eyes 
 with a good long look, I took out my map, and 
 studied the localities, till I felt pretty well at home, 
 and then started for an exploration, in which I will 
 not force you to follow me. You do not want a 
 description of St. Peter's, and I will only say that 
 I was not disappointed, though it seemed some- 
 what different from my preconceived ideas. . . . 
 One thing that impressed me in the sculptures of 
 the Vatican was the wonderful life-like perfection 
 of the animals, and they have been very interest- 
 ing to me. I did not know how admirable in na- 
 ture and expression the lions, tigers, horses, dogs 
 and birds of the ancients were, and so I had an 
 agreeable surprise in the hall of animals; rinding 
 myself in a petrified menagerie, only needing the 
 spell reversed, to let loose their fury upon me. 
 
 "One of the great charms to me in Rome has 
 been the multitude of beautiful views that you 
 have on every side; making new combinations of 
 river, mountain, and the broad expanse of the 
 Campagna, with the mass of the modern city, and 
 the ruins of the old. Any one of these alone were 
 worth coming to Rome for, as I felt while lying 
 this morning in the sun, in front of the church of 
 St. Onofrio, looking down upon the city, and giv- 
 ing myself to quiet enjoyment. Then I entered 
 the church, interesting for some pictures, and par- 
 ticularly as being the place where the poet was 
 buried whom I have to thank for some of my hap- 
 piest hours. It was in the convent of San Onofrio
 
 50 NAPLES. [1850 
 
 that Tasso passed the few last days of his life. You 
 may imagine that I felt some interest in standing 
 by the grave of the man who has Christianized 
 my Dioraed into my Tancred. The monk who was 
 my guide took me into his apartment, which still 
 contains some of his little private effects a pen- 
 case, a reading-glass, a crucifix, an autograph let- 
 ter written just before his death." 
 
 "Naples, Feb. 17th, 1850. 
 
 "The views leaving Home and on the journey 
 were most interesting. I arrived here just too late 
 for a magnificent eruption of Vesuvius, but I has- 
 tened to ascend, in hopes of seeing its effects. The 
 air here is delicious, the sky and water beautiful 
 it is a divine place 'all save the spirit of man ' I 
 have enjoyed the museum, the Pompeian relics of 
 Art, and the noble antique statues." 
 
 These European letters alone would fill a volume, 
 and it is necessary to hasten on, and omit all but what 
 is characteristic of himself. 
 
 "Friday, March 8th. 
 
 " I am at Athens, where I arrived to-day. We 
 had a delightful sail to Messina, down the beauti- 
 ful Bay of Naples and along the purple shores of 
 Sicily. Soon after leaving Messina, we came in 
 sight of a very large mountain, rising far above its 
 neighbors. At first, though its outline seemed 
 strangely familiar, I did not make it out, but as 
 we approached there could be no mistaking Etna !
 
 MT. 21] THE ISLES OF GREECE. 51 
 
 At sunset, its form was still clear against the sky. 
 Next morning we arrived at Malta. This climate 
 is said to be intolerable, the island becomes a sort 
 of griddle, and already, March 5th, it is too warm, 
 and roses in bloom. We left Malta in a beautiful 
 sunset, and I was just able to get on deck the sec- 
 ond evening in time to get a glimpse of the shores 
 of Greece. We were just in view of the southern 
 headlands of Laconia, and next morning were fairly 
 along shore, with the isles of Greece on every side, 
 and between the shores of Argolis and JEgina on 
 one hand, and Sunium on the other. Passing 
 .Egina, we could see the ruins of the temple of 
 Jupiter, Pan Hellenus, and already the Acropolis 
 had been some time in sight. The view in ap- 
 proaching was fine the plain of Athens, sur- 
 rounded by a great semicircle of mountains, 
 with the harbor of the Pireeus in the foreground, 
 filled with ships of different flags, and to the 
 left the bay of Salamis, where the English fleet 
 is lying. 
 
 "The first thing that struck me was the exces- 
 sive barrenness of the country, increased by the 
 intense cold of the past winter, which has de- 
 stroyed almost everything oranges, palms, and 
 even olives; I have been told that the snow lay 
 fourteen inches deep in the streets, and the mer- 
 cury went down to 16 F. To get a good impres- 
 sion of Athens one should enter from Elensis; 
 there the country is more cultivated, and the 
 vVcropolis descends more boldly on that side.
 
 52 A THENS. [1850 
 
 " I strolled about, feeling very miserable after 
 five days of seasickness, until I was restored by 
 seeing the columns of Jupiter Olympus, and I lin- 
 gered about, enjoying the view, till the sun went 
 down most gloriously behind the mountains on the 
 other side, making long shadows from the crags 
 that break the surface of the plain. The Ilissus, 
 you know, is only a brook, dry in the summer, but 
 the ravine is picturesque, and there is a pretty 
 little cascade close by the temple. Altogether 
 the view was beautiful, heightened by the fresh 
 green of the springing wheat, and had accessories 
 that only Athens could show. 
 
 "Next morning we spent several hours at the 
 Acropolis. You can imagine I was glad to stand 
 there, and see with my eyes and my imagination 
 what Pericles saw. Nature has remained the same, 
 and these beautiful shores and waters are now as 
 then. It requires but little help from the fancy to 
 restore and repeople these unrivaled shores. I 
 was surprised to find how large a portion of the 
 ruins remain lying about, so that a great deal could 
 be set up again, but of course it would not be 
 desirable. 
 
 " On Monday we were off with a party for Mara- 
 thon. Leaving Athens we passed over an extensive 
 plain, with Hymettus on our right and Pentelicus 
 just before, with other mountains stretching all 
 about. The scene, with the fine cool morning air, 
 produced with me an exhilaration that was almost 
 childish delight. I go too easily from one extreme
 
 -<ET. 21] MARA THON. 53 
 
 to the other. We passed a grove of very remark- 
 able old olives, ' older than Christianity,' the guide 
 said, gnarled and twisted, and curiously knotted, 
 like cables. The road was the worst I ever saw, 
 and some of the party performed singular feats 
 of horsemanship, rudely severing all ties. After 
 winding for a long time among the rocks, we 
 began to go down an almost precipitous descent, 
 and saw before us the plain of Marathon, with the 
 sea making a most exquisite curve within a point, 
 and in the background the blue heights of Euboea. 
 We had a good gallop over the plain, though some 
 of it is marshy. It is covered with white narcissus, 
 and there were plenty of little daisies and bluebells, 
 to say nothing of the especial flower of Greece, the 
 beautiful anemone or paparona, in all colors, from 
 white, through all the shades of pink, to a deep 
 rich purple and brilliant scarlet, which carpets the 
 ground. 
 
 " A little elevation, called the tomb of the Athe- 
 nians, gives you an excellent view. It seems a 
 capital place for the movements of infantry, though 
 rather heavy for cavalry, and with the rugged 
 heights behind, is an exceedingly strong position. 
 I wish I could tell you more of what I have done, 
 as, for example, the ascent of Pentelicus." 
 
 "April 13th, 1850. 
 
 " I wrote last from Athens, just before starting 
 for a tour in the Morea. Of course we go on horse- 
 back, as there are only three carriage roads in
 
 54 THE MO RE A. [1850 
 
 Greece, and we take a guide and all necessaries 
 with us, as there are no hotels. The road from 
 Athens to Megara is exceedingly beautiful. Leav- 
 ing Athens, you turn up the pass of Daphne, hav- 
 ing a superb view of the Acropolis, the Parthenon, 
 Pentelicus, the town, and the bay, seeing the whole 
 across the green plain, and the olives of the Aca- 
 deme a simple, striking view, that takes hold of 
 the mind and the memory like no other. Passing 
 the little monastery of Daphne, between two hills, 
 you come upon a view different but equally fine 
 the lovely sweep of the bay of Eleusis-Salamis, and 
 the lofty mountains behind Megara; the waters a 
 glorious blue, such as you find only in these seas, 
 and the mountains of clear yet softened tints, as 
 they are always in Greece, like forget-me-nots. I 
 have become by this time enough of a traveler not 
 to be frightened by any place, however dirty, and 
 go everywhere, and look at everything, sure al- 
 ways that what a 'Milordo Americane' does, will 
 always be right. Thus I have got a very good 
 idea of life in Greece. From Megara I started for 
 Corinth, in a violent snow-storm. The roads in 
 Greece are as bad as possible, they are half moun- 
 tain, and half mud. Next day to Nauplia, and 
 the fourth to Argos, and returned to Athens nearly 
 by the same route. I hope ' something to my ad- 
 vantage' may turn up one of these days, and give 
 me an opportunity of seeing all the ivorld. 
 
 "You may think my desires for longer travel 
 absurd with my means, but I have already con-
 
 -Ex. 21] THERMOPYLAE. 55 
 
 suited prudence, and turned back from Constan- 
 tinople arid the Turks. 
 
 " My second tour in Greece was to Thermopylae. 
 The scenery of Greece is almost peculiar to itself. 
 Wood is rather rare, but many of the higher 
 mountains are thickly covered with pines, whose 
 dark foliage contrasts with the brilliant white snow, 
 and the brilliant blue above; soft mists and heavy 
 clouds hang over the summits, and there are num- 
 berless ravines, chasms, gorges, dells, most exquis- 
 itely beautiful, that a thousand times repay for the 
 vexations of the journey. Keturning from Ther- 
 mopylae, the clouds breaking suddenly showed me 
 Parnassus just in front, capped with heavy snow; 
 farther off I could see the familiar outline of Heli- 
 con and its outlying hills, and Cithaeron faintly in 
 the distance. These noble mountains were the 
 grander features of the scene, Parnassus rising 
 abruptly from the lake-like plain, green and un- 
 inclosed. To pay for this we had to put up at a 
 wretched Khan, where the fleas left not an inch 
 untouched as I lay on the floor, an owl hooted all 
 night over my head, and a boy coughed awfully. 
 For one moment I dropped asleep, and the next 
 awoke with a dream that the day of judgment had 
 come. This was on the site of the old Cheronsea. 
 The lovely anemones were my companions for the 
 whole journey." 
 
 "Venice, April 19th, 1850. 
 
 "To-night Venice has been enchanting! Always, 
 even in the remorseless glare of noonday, the Pi-
 
 56 VENICE. [1850 
 
 azza di San Marco is like the vision of a fairy tale, 
 but this evening, moonlight, darkened each mo- 
 ment by passing clouds, has given the scene a ro- 
 mantic charm that no words of mine can present. 
 I walked until my feet ached, trying to stop, but 
 compelled to go on. The moon shone from time 
 to time on the water, and the Salute, and San 
 Giorgio, while on the other side a heavy black 
 mass of clouds shone now and then with sudden 
 lightning, against which the great Campanile stood 
 grandly. Again I say, it was enchanting! The 
 romance that gives interest to the very name of 
 Venice meets with no disappointment when tested 
 by reality. As usual, it is different from your ex- 
 pectations, and you regret the sad decay that shows 
 itself everywhere, but the novelty and real beauty 
 that remain are quite enough to make itmost memor- 
 able among the scenes that a traveler would recall. 
 But this pleasure could not last; a life here, I should 
 think, would be almost insupportable: man is not 
 amphibious, and the perpetual and unstable gon- 
 dola; the canal at every turn, green and muddy, 
 instead of your own little grass-plat; the want of 
 the cheerful rattle and bustle of a crowded city, all 
 this would make Venice a place to wonder at and 
 admire, but where you would feel always afloat, 
 and never have a home feeling. The climate here 
 is very injurious to pictures and marbles, and causes 
 the buildings to decay. Padua is one great studi- 
 ous cloister. Everywhere the country is putting 
 on spring colors, and the horse-chestnut blossoms
 
 ^ST. 21] FLORENCE. 57 
 
 carry me home at once, as I think of the beautiful 
 tree opposite our house." 
 
 Visiting Verona, and all the cities of northern Italy, 
 we find him next at Florence, where, as usual, he ob- 
 serves closely people and things, art and nature, and 
 writes minutely. 
 
 "The situation of Florence is the most beautiful 
 that you can imagine, in the midst of green hills 
 scattered with villas. This is May, the most lovely 
 month in Italy. I begin to understand what the 
 poets mean by May, and also to realize the actual 
 beauty of the highly praised Italian sky. Since 
 the weather has become settled, we have had 
 Claude sunsets in abundance. There is no more 
 clearness, no more brilliant coloring, than at home, 
 ours cannot be equaled for gorgeousness of cloud- 
 scenery, but there is a sort of impalpable haze, 
 that refines the outlines, and makes the tints more 
 delicate, without indistinctness. Just before sun- 
 set, the horizontal rays are intercepted by this me- 
 dium, and it makes itself visible, veiling but not 
 hiding, and throwing a rich golden glow over 
 everything, and giving you exactly the effect that 
 you see in Claude's scenes, but with all the inten- 
 sity of Nature. 
 
 "It would take me a week to tell you all I have 
 seen in the galleries and streets of Florence and 
 Siena. Whether any of the celebrated works of 
 art deserve the enthusiastic admiration lavished 
 upon them I have long ceased to doubt."
 
 58 ITALIAN JOURNEYS. [18-50 
 
 By Pistoja he goes on through lovely scenery to 
 the Baths of Lucca, "the beau ideal of a water- 
 ing-place," to Pisa, " the beauty of whose wonder- 
 ful Piazza, so quiet, solemn, and apart, with its 
 unrivaled group of buildings, the world can hai'dly 
 equal," ran down again to Genoa by the Riviera di 
 Ponente, where " some of the views over land and 
 water are as beautiful as mind can conceive," by 
 the magnificent Gulf of Spezia and Carrara. From 
 Genoa to Nice, to see the Eiviera, which well de- 
 serves all the praise bestowed upon it. Such views 
 are quite indescribable, and the road itself, and the 
 little towns are greatly to be admired." To the 
 modern, brilliant city of Turin, to gay Milan, 
 " where, though you may criticise, you would ra- 
 ther give yourself up to the solemn reverence that 
 a truly Gothic Cathedral, the noblest work of man, 
 inspires. It is a most fairy-like place, the stone 
 seems to lose its quality of weight, while it retains 
 that of stability and strength. This is partly owing 
 to the finish of the details. You begin resolutely 
 to study the lines of the foundation, but before you 
 know it you run up a buttress to its exquisite statue 
 and pinnacle, and lose yourself in the blue sky. I 
 have seen nearly all the best specimens of monu- 
 mental architecture in Italy, many of them hidden 
 carefully under curtains, or a lock and key; here 
 you have a great building quite as delicately 
 wrought, and standing freely in public gaze." 
 
 By the fascinating old towns of Bergamo and 
 Brescia, he makes the tour -of the Italian Lakes.
 
 M-r. 21] SWITZERLAND. 59 
 
 " The world is full of flowers now, the fields scarlet 
 with poppies, the views the loveliest that eyes ever 
 beheld." 
 
 "St. Gall, Switzerland, June 30th, 1850. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, From a fair and lovely spot 
 in this land, whose exquisite beauty and wild 
 grandeur have begun to open upon me, I begin 
 on Sunday morning my first letter from Switzer- 
 land to those I love best. We walked over the 
 Spliigen Pass from Chiavenna. Parts of the pass 
 are richly wooded with chestnuts, then beeches 
 and ashes, whose delicate foliage, in contrast with 
 evergreens, clothes the mountain sides. You soon 
 become so hardened to waterfalls that you hardly 
 notice them. Then come the flowers, and then the 
 stern desolation of the heights, silent and lonely, 
 save for the friendly trickle of some little stream 
 that accompanies you on your way, growing as 
 you descend. And then what a charm the smiling 
 valleys have, with their villages, pastures and or- 
 chards (almost like home), after the stupendous 
 Via Mala ! 
 
 " I am sure there is no river in the world that 
 does so much as the Rhine ! The more I think of 
 this country of Switzerland, the more wonderful 
 it seems to me, the great watershed of Europe, 
 the home of freedom, the strong barrier, and, in the 
 midst of populous lands, a hermitage, a solitude, 
 where man can retire to worship God, and measure 
 
 himself with nature. At Coire, P left me, and 
 
 I got a splendid knapsack, and went on alone to
 
 60 SWITZERLAND. [1850 
 
 the baths of Pf'affers, a most interesting place, 
 where you seem to be let completely into the se- 
 crets of Nature. Leaving this, I follow down the 
 valley of the Rhine, and reach the lovely village 
 ofWildhaus." . . . 
 
 It were pleasant to accompany him in his pedestrian 
 tour through Switzerland; but his minute and enthu- 
 siastic accounts of all the usual and unusual routes, 
 peaks, passes, and glaciers, would occupy too much 
 space. He made the "tour of Monte Kosa," the 
 "tour of Mont Blanc," walked immensely, but made 
 no great ascensions. During the tour of Mont Blanc, 
 he ascended a mountain called the Cramont, famous 
 for one of the best views of the great peak. 
 
 " Getting what I thought sufficient directions, I 
 started off alone, the mountain being directly in 
 front of the village (of Cormayeur). For a couple 
 of hours the ascent was not difficult, and after a 
 pleasant walk, with the view of Mont Blanc grow- 
 ing finer and finer, I found myself at the foot of 
 the precipitous portion of the ascent, a distance of 
 about 2000 feet, the whole height being 8000. 
 Here I found a cowboy who showed me the path 
 to the top, which, making a detour, avoided the 
 precipice by climbing an ascent nearly as steep. 
 It is always one of the pleasant things among the 
 Alps to meet with human faces, and human habi- 
 tations, with their cheerful accompaniments of cow- 
 bells. I pulled up this sharp ascent for nearly an 
 hour, and then found farther progress stopped by
 
 Me. 21] MOUNTAIN ADVENTURES. 61 
 
 a wall of rock ahead, while the path turned round 
 it. I looked up the wall, and supposing it only 
 an affair of a couple hundred feet or so, determined 
 upon an escalade, and picking out a good place 
 began my climb. The wall was very much like 
 the face of East Kock, but being of broken flaky 
 limestone it afforded footing and handhold, though 
 neither very secure, so that after a quarter of an 
 hour of really very hard work, I reached the point 
 which I had supposed to be the summit. Imagine 
 my surprise and almost consternation, when I found 
 that the crag I had attained was nothing more 
 than a bastion of the grand wall, which, higher 
 and more inaccessible, towered above my head. I 
 felt myself 'in a fix.' To descend, I was sure was 
 almost impossible. To get up had been dangerous, 
 and I did not dare to go over it, with the addi- 
 tional impetus of down-hill work. I looked up at 
 the frowning wall before me, and down the one 
 which I had ascended, and knew that if my hand 
 or foot should fail me, or if a stone should give 
 way, it was quite unlikely that I should write any 
 more letters home. The view from this point was 
 very grand, for I had taken my seat upon a point 
 of rock, and could look at it quietly. This side of 
 Mont Blanc is bolder, and less hidden by other 
 summits than that towards Chamounix, the rest 
 of the chain too is very grand, particularly the 
 column-like crag of the Geant, and the serrated 
 edge of the Jorasses. The morning mists had 
 rolled away, and all their snows glittered against
 
 62 MOUNTAIN ADVENTURES. [1850 
 
 the metallic luster of the sky. I could see directly 
 under my feet the chalets I had passed in the morn- 
 ing, and the smoke of some charcoal burners' fires. 
 Even the sound of the bells came up distinctly to 
 my ears. Except a little of the valley of Corma- 
 yeur the rest was all a prison-like wall of rock, a 
 prison with a door large enough indeed, but which 
 opened into a place as disagreeable as would have 
 been the oubliette of a torture chamber, if the un- 
 fortunate culprit could have looked before he leaped. 
 However, it did not take me as long as the writ- 
 ing of these lines to decide, that, as I could not go 
 down, and could not spend my life in this spot, I 
 must go up ; so collecting myself, and putting my 
 trust in Providence, I went at it, tooth and nail. 
 I don't care about tiring you with the rest of my 
 climb I should not like to do it again and when, 
 after an escalade of an hour, I found myself at 
 the summit, my first act was to kneel down and 
 thank God that my life, however useless, had been 
 preserved for a time. After enjoying the superb 
 panorama of mountains from the top, I descended 
 on the back, where for a short distance it is some- 
 what steep, but nothing in comparison 
 
 The next day about three o'clock I found my self quite 
 a lion among some guides, for having already done 
 what they considered a long day's journey, and in- 
 tending to do four hours more. At six, we reached 
 the charming baths of St. Gervais. I was so little 
 tired with my walk of thirteen hours, that I was al- 
 most ready for a dance they got up in the evening."
 
 Mr. 21] GERMANY AND HOLLAND. 63 
 
 Five closely-written sheets do not suffice for his de- 
 light in Chamounix and its excursions, "its sunsets 
 that cannot be described, its unsullied noonday skies." 
 The letter closes at Geneva, the end of his Swiss tour. 
 Again he says, 
 
 " I close this letter at Frankfort, filled with hope- 
 ful thoughts for you all. A year and more has 
 passed since I left home, a year which seems to me 
 like the vision of a dream. I have walked in my 
 sleep, and seen things without knowing how. The 
 autumn begins to come on again, and the wind to 
 have a gloomy sound, so I am glad I have no more 
 space to fill to-day." 
 
 Another very long letter tells of a visit to Strasbourg, 
 to Baden, the Rhine, Heidelberg, Cologne, and takes 
 him to Holland. He finds a resemblance between 
 Amsterdam and New York 
 
 "all but its extreme cleanliness. It shows the 
 corruption of the world that a place should be ad- 
 mired for what ought to be a matter of course. 
 The windmills are the most striking objects. In 
 some directions they seem to be in forests, and woe 
 would it have been to Don Quixote if he had found 
 himself in such a throng; the watermills would 
 have ducked him, the sawmills sliced him, like any 
 bit of tough old timber, the oilmills squeezed the 
 juices out of his hungry carcass, and the gristmills 
 finished the unfortunate hero by making him into 
 sausage meat."
 
 64 PARIS. [1850 
 
 "I close in Paris, where I ana now established, 
 after finishing my tour in Holland, and seeing 
 something of Belgium. I have a room across the 
 river in the Rue de I University for which I am to 
 pay 25 francs a month. My breakfast costs 2 sous, 
 arid my dinner in proportion. Sunday next being 
 Sept. 22d, I attain the age of 22. Such a com- 
 bination of 2's ought to produce good fortune. I 
 am rather young still ! I am studying French, hard, 
 and take a lesson every day. In the past year I 
 have learned a thing or two, and Paris seems to 
 me like an old friend, with whom I can look back 
 upon the past. And yet with what different eyes 
 I look upon it all ! If it were not for the assurance 
 of your love, and the hope of making myself worthy 
 of it, and of showing, to you and to others, that all 
 your thoughtfulness, all your sacrifices, and all the 
 power of your beautiful example, have had their in- 
 fluence in saving me from intellectual and moral 
 worthlessness, if it were not for you and a few 
 others who love me, Life, with its weary weight 
 of mysteries and doubts, of hopeless searchings 
 into an obdurate future, of disgusts and contempts, 
 of unanswerable questionings, would lose all that 
 makes it even endurable. An almost total despair 
 sometimes comes over me ! Can even love, can 
 even Faith, make this existence tolerable?" . . . 
 
 " Paris, Dec. 12th, 1850. 
 
 "Mr DEAR MOTHER, The interval that has elapsed 
 since you last heard from me, did not come from 
 negligence. It was the desire to give you a sur-
 
 M-r.M] HOME AGAIN. 65 
 
 prise. I had thought it out a dozen times how I 
 should reach New York iri the evening, too late 
 for the last train for HOME ! How I should rush 
 over to Staten Island, a terra incognita to me 
 and find them just locking up ; then arriving next 
 morning at New Haven, should enter by the back 
 door, and catch all the family in the midst of their 
 several avocations. With this idea in my mind I 
 refrained from writing, lest I should betray myself. 
 I shall not tell you what steamer I intend to take, 
 expect me till I come ; it will not be so soon as you 
 think, and I want to spare you the anxiety of count- 
 ing days. It seems hard to go home, yet inexpress- 
 ibly joyful ! The very prospect makes my heart 
 almost leap out of my mouth, and writing seems 
 absurd. No more husks ! Hurrah ! fatted calves 
 and best robes, for the Enfant Prodigue is coming 
 home ! Put your best foot foremost, everybody, 
 and take me to your heart again, my beloved 
 mother. T. W." 
 
 On his return home, in Jan., 1851, he writes in his 
 journal: 
 
 "I can now see that I have gained much. I 
 have placed myself on a higher level, whence I 
 can look at my increased forces, and see that they 
 are, in some respects, ready for battle. They are 
 but raw levies, willing, but ignorant and undisci- 
 plined there is nothing of the steadiness of veteran 
 troops about them. It will be a work of time, but 
 I hope they will turn out good soldiers.
 
 66 NEW LIFE. [1851 
 
 " I would not now give up any of the lessons I 
 learned in Europe, and I wish I could remember 
 how I learned them. No more, I hope, shall I waste 
 time in deploring. I shall bewail no more that I 
 have done no more. I shall try to avoid looking back 
 with the morbid self-reproachful feeling, which I 
 have encouraged, rather than checked, thus far. It 
 is a dangerous thing to my progress. I could wish 
 that I had an accurate history of that miserable 
 three months I spent in Paris." 
 
 From this time begins a new era in his life, a time 
 of new resolves, of greater firmness, of greater cheer- 
 fulness and courage. Some poems, written about these 
 days, express this mood, and show also that he had 
 begun to grasp words and rhythm, and to prove his 
 weapons. Not a single poem that he ever wrote ap- 
 pears to be finished, or to have received the last 
 touches from his hand, but were fragments, scribbled 
 on the backs of letters and other scraps of paper, and 
 thrown aside. There is a swing and a life in the fol- 
 lowing lines, as if they were thought out as he paced 
 the deck while nearing the country he loved so well, 
 while his heart burned with the nearness of home, and 
 his blood thrilled at the touch of the land wind. 
 
 Dash ! Dash from wave to onward wave ! 
 
 Eager ship ! not eager as my heart ! 
 Lift freer ! bound bolder ! while the brave 
 
 Comrade gales, wilder, fresher start ! 
 
 Heaving, curling, foaming emerald swells ! 
 Take twilight thro' each jeweled crest !
 
 22] EARLY POEMS. 67 
 
 Shades deepen down the emerald dells, 
 Wild winds come roaring from the west. 
 
 Wild winds ! not wilder than my hope ! 
 
 When summit-poised, I see the shore 
 Glimmer far, plunging down the slope, 
 
 Steep surges greet me with their roar. 
 
 Wandering soul ! who knows what deeper joy, 
 What deeper sorrow now shall test 
 
 Thy manlier manhood ? What if coy 
 
 Love, long sought love, should meet thy quest V 
 
 Tremble not, nor stir thy steady calm: 
 Sad heart, be still ! world saddened heart ! 
 
 Nor dare to lift triumphant psalm 
 
 Thou hast not learned to know thy part ! 
 
 Grand sea ! oh sweep me homeward fast ! 
 
 Mine is a land of surging sweeps, 
 Lone forests, prairies rolling vast, 
 
 Palisades of fortress mountain-steeps. 
 
 Noble land to stride athwart, and wake 
 All its myriads up to nobler thought; 
 
 Dull sleep of thousand hearts to brake, 
 Till great deliverance is wrought ! (1851). 
 
 NOETHEEN LIGHTS. 
 Wild soul of mine, be strong, be brave ! 
 Vast land of mine, thy opening skies 
 Where omen lights dash wave on wave, 
 
 Crowd night with hopes, when daylight dies, 
 Telling me my wings shall yet be free, 
 Nobler far their soaring yet shall be !
 
 68 EARLY POEMS. [1851 
 
 Visions truer than what daylight gives, 
 
 Pace grandly down my shadowy dreams; 
 Trailing light they march, a glow that lives 
 Brightening, till my darkness radiance seems. 
 Call you midnight this ? methinks proud day 
 Proudly thus his noontide might array. 
 
 Cold brilliance of a northern sky, 
 
 Rosier than tropic sunset glows; 
 Spirit pageants bannered gloriously 
 
 Throng heaven with triumph. Ghostly snows 
 Wintry piled in silver swelling mass 
 Flush with golden splendors as they pass. 
 
 Then startling voices rouse my soul: 
 
 "Weird whispers, strangely stirring, breathe 
 Through mazy flashes, to a scroll 
 
 Rune written dancers twine and wreathe, 
 Mortal music never such as this 
 Taught sadness certainty of bliss ! 
 
 Certain bliss, yet nobler effort still ! 
 
 Grander duties, gemmed with finer joys ! 
 Prophet glories nerve me to fulfil 
 True hope, that worthily destroys 
 All the long ignoble bitter past; 
 Merging it in strength and peace at last. 
 
 (1851.) 
 
 DEFEAT? 
 
 Forgotten aspirations ! Faint 
 
 Trembles of bygone tumult, heavings stilled ! 
 Prayers when I deemed myself a saint 1 
 
 Uplifting dreams ! thoughts with broad visions filled !
 
 MT. 22] EARL Y POEMS. 69 
 
 Forgotten ! as the ocean has forgot 
 
 The mastery of winds that raged but now, 
 
 In swaying sunniest calm, that carelessly 
 Dashes with petty shifting smiles its brow. 
 
 Oh shoaling heart ! oh thin 
 
 And sandy, scattered, aimless flowing life ! 
 Even its deeper spots have been 
 
 Fouled darkly by a secret inward strife. 
 
 Once to have heard a tone 
 
 Diviner than a dreamy symphony, 
 Call, thro' the silence of unknown 
 
 Awe, and a grand expectancy, 
 
 To feel a silence thronged with power 
 
 Of thoughts, like to a kneeling legion band, 
 
 Whose vows are war-cries in the hour 
 Of death, of martyrdom for fatherland; 
 
 And then their tramp, their throng 
 
 Bound the brave soul that, marshaling them on, 
 Sweeps forward with an impulse strong 
 
 Those eager souls, till life or death is won ! 
 
 Oh coward heart ! defeat ? 
 
 Better have died than fled ! Better have died 
 Than falsely, weakly struggling, deign to treat 
 
 With those assassin foes you march beside ! 
 
 Therefore they ceased, my grand 
 
 Bursts of exalted, of inspiring thought; 
 
 Hardly a straggler dares to stand 
 
 Hidden, and mourning the vain fight they fought.
 
 70 EARLY POEMS. [18S1 
 
 Sadly I watch the dying sunset paint 
 My hopes with gray, their promise unfulfilled, 
 
 Nor longer catch the glory, lingering faint, 
 Of splendor lost to him who feebly willed. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 So I may only live thro' my despair, 
 And feel the grand revulsion, and repair 
 My weary night watch of dull misery, 
 By one full gaze at unveiled ecstasy, 
 
 So I may know the terrible delight, 
 Intense as madness, of one instant's sight 
 Into the heaven of passion, when like flame 
 Leap the quick pulses quivering thro' my frame; 
 
 For such illumined moments I will grope 
 
 Through gloomiest ways, bearing my half-quenched 
 
 hope, 
 
 Till its charred ashes suddenly awake, 
 And wondrous flashes 'thwart the darkness break. 
 
 Let me not waste in skirmishes my powei-, 
 In petty struggles, rather in the hour 
 Of deadly conflict may I nobly die ! 
 In my first battle perish gloriously ! 
 
 No level life for me, no soft smooth seas, 
 No tender plaintive notes of lulling breeze: 
 I choose the night, so I may feel the gale, 
 Even though it wreck me on my foamy trail.
 
 n- 22] EARLY POEMS. 71 
 
 I cannot tamely, coldly-patient live, 
 
 And all my glowing fire to ashes give ! 
 
 Let ruddy light, fierce, ardent, searching flame 
 
 Arouse the dying pulses of my frame. 
 
 FEAGMENTS. 
 
 Tis grander to have merited renown, 
 Than to have gained it 
 
 If strong desire could conquer fate, I'd conquer 
 
 'Tis the wild battle, 'tis the crashing charge ! 
 The shout of victory, the maddened shout; 
 The ecstatic agony of victor death. 
 
 He stood as a lone island lighthouse stands 
 On a mad midnight sea 
 
 It was the cooling of his religious enthusiasm that 
 he mourned in some of these verses, but if he had not 
 so high an ideal, would he have felt such self-contempt?
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MANHOOD. 
 
 A FTEE settling down at home, and losing the first 
 *- freshness of its novelty, discouragement seemed 
 again to close upon him. He saw no opening in life 
 to satisfy his hope or his eager ambition, or even to 
 make his living. He had become quite intimate in 
 Europe with Mr. W. H. Aspinwall, who took an in- 
 terest in him, as every one did who was brought into 
 his society, and felt the influence of his sweet temper, 
 genial manners, and original mind. He visited at Mr. 
 Aspinwall's house on Staten Island, and it was from 
 thence that the new impulse and new hope was to 
 come. 
 
 Extracts from Journal. 
 
 "April, 1851. I was long uncertain as to what 
 would be my course in life, and almost despaired 
 again; but when things seemed at their worst, I 
 received Mr. Aspinwall's offer and hope revived 
 again. On the first of April, 1851, I began my 
 new life, by entering the office of the Pacific Mail 
 Steamship Company, where I am to be for a time. 
 My occupation has principally been copying papers, 
 and I suppose it will be some time before I am fit
 
 Mi. 22] THE STEAMSHIP COMPANY. ' 73 
 
 for anything else. My education with respect to 
 business is, I think, below the average. Still, if 
 taking pains can teach me, there shall be no lack. 
 I am interested already, and not merely in feeling 
 that I arn settled, and no longer idle, but in the 
 glimpses I get of the management of the most 
 important and varied affairs of the concern. My 
 Spanish studies go on slowly. Mr. Aspinwall com- 
 mands more and more my admiration. I too would 
 be clear and distinct as the form of a fossil fish. 
 Self-command ! attention ! energy ! 
 
 " Men die for three reasons, because they have 
 not, because they cannot, because they will not, 
 achieve their destiny. Blessed are the good aul 
 faithful servants who are numbered in the first 
 class. Not to be despised, but worthy of all com- 
 passion and sympathy, are those feebler ones whom 
 Providence withdraws from the conflict, because 
 they are unequal to it. But cursed, wretched above 
 measure are the traitors, who seeing clearly and 
 knowing fully what they might be, forget their 
 honor, and desert their standards, fighting against 
 their lord. As for me, I would be in the first class, 
 but finding myself in the third, prefer, even with a 
 shock to my pride, to be ranked in the second." 
 
 To his mother he writes: 
 
 New York, April 14th, 1851. 
 
 " I feel that I cannot let another day pass with- 
 out a word from me. I have now been a fortnight 
 in my new place, and begin to be accustomed to its
 
 74 STATEN ISLAND [1851 
 
 ways. Thus far, my employment has been pretty 
 mechanical 
 
 "The company has the control of fourteen or fif- 
 teen large steamers on the Pacific side, and more or 
 less to do with Law's Company on the Atlantic, and 
 >' 'tli parties are building new ones. The enormous 
 receipts that marked the first trips of our steamers, 
 amounting more than once to a clear profit of sev- 
 enty thousand dollars on a single trip, have ceased, 
 but the business is steady, and like to continue so. 
 In the office we have a pleasant set. I have only 
 the evening to myself, and I should of course like 
 more time to study, but I am quite contented, if I 
 were only perfectly well." 
 
 "April, 1851. Staten Island was charming to-day 
 in its fresh verdure.' Spring is a season one hardly 
 knows how to fix; it comes with the first maple 
 blossoms, and goes away with the last violet, soar- 
 ing away on the back of the last bluebird, when it 
 hears the war note of the first mosquito. Shrink- 
 ing back from the first cankerworm, it flies in ter- 
 ror from the first thunderstorm." 
 
 Winthrop remained during the summer in the Steam- 
 ship Company's office, and was also requested by Mr. 
 Aspinwall, who was sincerely desirous to befriend him, 
 to take some supervision of the studies of his son. He 
 did so, and a proposal followed from Mr. Aspinwall 
 that Winthrop should go to Switzerland with his son 
 and nephew, and place them in a school of his own se- 
 lection, still retaining his situation in the office.
 
 Mi. 22] A TALE OF REVENGE. 75 
 
 " S. will have told you of our Jenny Lind con- 
 cert together; to me it was a great enjoyment, mal- 
 gre the loss of my pocket handkerchief (ragged) in 
 the crowd. She is great ! 
 
 " Stolen Island. At Mr. Aspinwall's. The situa- 
 tion of this place is admirable, a constant source of 
 new delight, and the frequent passing of ocean 
 steamers and fine ships seems to bring one into 
 contact with the whole wide world. I feel much 
 better in health. I had a long walk on the beach 
 last night, with a fine surf coming up from sea- 
 ward, and roaring on the shore. I wander about 
 the woods, and see the sunset from the telegraph 
 station, and sometimes feel almost as if happiness 
 were possible. The weather here has been lovely, 
 and the moon exquisite 
 
 " Mr. , who has just returned from Cuba, 
 
 told me the following story, worthy a place in the 
 annals of Eevenge. A certain Pedro Gomez, one 
 of the richest proprietors on the island of Cuba, 
 had injured most deeply one of his countrymen. 
 The latter determined upon revenge, and followed 
 Gomez one day into the Cathedral, where there 
 were but a few persons present, and while he was 
 on his knees, came up behind him, and poured 
 a large bottle of vitriol 011 his head and person. 
 While his victim was writhing in agony at his feet, 
 and before the persons attracted by the screams 
 could secure the fiend, he said to Gomez ' Now I 
 am content! I have looked upon your tortures, 
 and this instant repays me for all you have made
 
 76 SARATOGA. [1851 
 
 me suffer; but my revenge does not end here you 
 will not die, but linger through a life worse than 
 death, deprived even of the pleasure of my pun- 
 ishment. I escape you, and perish with the cer- 
 tainty, the ecstasy of your misery.' As he said 
 this, he swallowed a powerful poison, and fell dead 
 on the spot. Gomez survived, and is still living, 
 a total wreck, and completely blind. This story 
 had a great power over me. It is of the intense 
 and dramatic kind that I love." 
 
 A short vacation took him to visit his brother at 
 Owego, to Niagara, Trenton, Saratoga, etc. 
 
 Letter from Saratoga. 
 
 "Aug., 1851. 
 
 "The gyrations of my route have led me hither- 
 ward, and I am to-day making my first acquaint- 
 ance with an American watering place. It speaks 
 volumes in praise of that ' best thing, Water,' that 
 it should enter of necessity into all the ideas of 
 pleasure and pleasant places, whether as lake, 
 ocean, cataract, broad river, mountain brook, or 
 clear spring. In all, water, the prime object of 
 admiration, proves itself the chief element. Water 
 is spiritualized earth and air, and partakes of the 
 merits of both. I have lately been attracted by 
 water to Niagara and Trenton. I found myself at 
 the former place, very dirty, and without my port- 
 manteau, which the Express had not delivered. 
 When Sunday morning came I was in a quandary. 
 I could visit the falls without a clean shirt, but 
 then there was the great fact of dinner, there was
 
 MT. 22] NIAGARA. 77 
 
 church, there was the uncomfortable sense of being 
 out of uniform, and wanting the white breastplate 
 of a gentleman, which would exclude me from the 
 society of my peers. While I was going upstairs, 
 I saw flitting across the distance the form of a 
 young lady whom I know, and whose mother I 
 also know. Though neither the lady nor her mothei 
 could supply my wants, a ray of hope entered my 
 breast ; she must have a protector, father, brother, 
 lover, somebody. Father it proved to be, and beg- 
 ging an interview with him in the name of his 
 daughter and wife, I unbosomed myself. He in- 
 stantly bosomed me, and, with great kindness, of- 
 fered me everything else. It was a most romantic 
 use for the father of a charmer, and when I pre- 
 sented myself to the ladies with the interior drapery 
 of a man six feet by four, gracefully disposed about, 
 my person, I thought I detected a smile of admira- 
 tion. I became their Esquire during my visit, and 
 had two delightful afternoon strolls. I am rejoiced 
 that I did not see Niagara until capable of swal- 
 lowing it whole. I was delighted with Trenton. 
 Particulars in my next." 
 
 " The day I left you is marked with white in my 
 calendar, for I met D wight Foster at the station 
 and had a delightful journey with him, and we re- 
 viewed the time since our separation. Our lives 
 had been widely different, and interesting to each 
 other. He is most congenial. A noble fellow ! 
 
 "The views from the Staten Island hills are 
 superb, from Toad Hill at sunset, and still more from
 
 78 STATEN ISLAND HILLS. [1851 
 
 Grymes hill above the Quarantine. Here you look 
 upon the bay, the city, and the sea. The bay is 
 like a great lake, and the stretch of water from the 
 Quarantine to Sandy Hook seems like a broad river. 
 To-night, as the great orb of the sun was dipping 
 below the horizon, the blue hills drew a sharp line 
 against the clear sky ; heavy masses of cloud above 
 were penetrated with light, and the broken edges 
 shone like foam caps on sea waves. 
 
 "From the top of the Fort the view is even 
 grander, if less picturesque more ocean and less 
 land. The shores come sweeping round and lock- 
 ing together finely. It is one of the great views 
 of the world " 
 
 The following poems date about this time, and from 
 the South Beach of Staten Island, a haunt of his. 
 
 ON THE BEACH. 
 
 Oh let me look upon that dreamy sea ! 
 
 A wild love-longing for its mystery 
 
 Has mastered, ever thrills and masters me. 
 
 My soul sweeps onward to the infinite, 
 
 Trembling along the delicate delight 
 
 Of waves that brighten onward still, and run 
 
 To fade in mist that is all sky and sun. 
 
 Oh let me gaze upon that dreamy sea ! 
 
 It sends such quivering looks; so smilingly 
 
 Answers my smile, that its broad majesty 
 
 But deepens joy; else it might break, and waste 
 
 In gay and dimpled laughter, that has chased
 
 POEMS. 
 
 79 
 
 Away the nobleness of silence. Now 
 These smile crests fitly gem this royal brow. 
 
 Oh let me look upon that dreamy sea ! 
 
 Life has not crushed and dwarfed me utterly, 
 
 All furled and drooping though my sails may be. 
 
 Let the great winds but strike them, they will bear 
 
 Much baffling yet, so but the pilot dare 
 
 To plunge down twilight drift through darkness on, 
 
 Till some vast summit wave is red with dawn. 
 
 Oh let me dream beside this dreamy sea ! 
 Ever and ever falling soothingly, 
 Hippies are pleading with their melody; 
 The massy breakers cast their might away, 
 And fringing sea-weeds nicker in the sway 
 Of wavering waters, as a maiden's hair 
 Is caught and lifted by the summer air. 
 
 Then voices in the surges speak to me 
 Of struggle, and endurance, and a free 
 Dash at the fates that front us terribly. 
 For we are flung on life as on a surge, 
 Heaved along unknown currents till we merge 
 Our being into vastness then we cease, 
 Yielding and borne down steadier tides of peace, 
 
 But peace of grander action. Dreamily 
 Then let me look beyond this dreamy sea ! 
 Our dreams but shadow what our lives may be : 
 Hopes are more real than what hopes achieve. 
 A vision nobler than we dare believe 
 Sudden will burst on us, of glorious lands, 
 And broad, bright oceans, foaming on their- strands. 
 
 (1851.)
 
 80 DOUBT. [1851 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 Is this the end of all my soul's aspiring, 
 This crushing doubt, this blank dismay? 
 
 And must they shrink and droop my long, untiring 
 Struggles, to upward mount, at last, to day ? 
 
 Speak ! ye pretended prophets ! answer me ! 
 
 If ye indeed the eternal radiance see ? 
 
 Oh ! ye have cheated all our eager longing, 
 And we, deceived, have trusted you ! 
 
 "We came, like pilgrims to a temple thronging, 
 To find our Goddess sullied and untrue. 
 
 Your torches glimmer with no holy gleams, 
 
 Bitterly flow your promised healing streams. 
 
 "Sept. 22d, 1851. My birthday, and on the 
 whole an encouraging one. I have now some 
 hope for my health, though it can never be strong; 
 and for my future. I am twenty-three. Though 
 1 have failed in attaining my ideal, I have not 
 altogether lost sight of it, and even this is better 
 than the entire desertion of noble aims, which is 
 all some persons attain to. Others seem to value 
 me more highly than I do myself, and Mr. Aspin- 
 wall's confidence in the matter of his son's training 
 I esteem a great thing. I shall go abroad with 
 the hope of good success." 
 
 "Sept. 27th, 1851. Saturday was a fine day, and 
 we got off most successfully in the Pacific. The 
 afternoon was pleasant, and the sea calm. Then 
 came sea-sickness, which lasted more or less till 
 the voyage was over, though I kept about."
 
 - 23] EUROPE AGAIN. 81 
 
 I, Oct. 8th, 1851. London. There is 
 no doubt that the English railroads are better than 
 ours, but they are also more expensive. Autumn 
 is fairly begun, and a rich warm hue is over every- 
 thing. The country cannot but be beautiful every- 
 where in England from its wonderful verdure." 
 
 "Thursday, Oct. 9th. Went with early ticket to 
 the Great Exhibition, arid had nearly an hour before 
 the people thronged in. Staid till two started 
 for Paris in the 8.30 P. M. train." 
 
 "Saturday, Oct. llth, 1851. Paris. Dinner with 
 the Hunts. Always pleasant and homelike with 
 them." 
 
 "Oct. 12th, 1851. Diligence started at 9 A. M. 
 The day was perfect, the course of the road love- 
 ly. The night ride very agreeable. About 3 A. M. 
 we began to ascend the mountains, and 1 had 
 a beautiful walk of nearly an hour, by full moon- 
 light, between lofty broken hills very grand, but 
 the dawn and the sunrise still more fine. Noth- 
 ing could be lovelier than the morning; we were 
 above the mists of the valley, which hung in broad 
 river courses, or lake-like expanses, gradually lift- 
 ing and revealing the soft fair country, the many- 
 colored richness of the vine-clad hills. Some of 
 the vines a dark winy purple the people rejoicing 
 in the vintage. When we were fairly in the Jura, 
 a grand wall rose before us all clad with glowing 
 leafage, varied with dark pines and white limestone 
 cliffs seen through. The Jura lacks the majesty 
 of the higher Alps; no snowy mountains, no awful
 
 82 THE JURA. [1851 
 
 solitudes. But in place of these, soft sloping de- 
 scents, wooded mountain sides, crags, and steep 
 ravines, not too mighty for the picturesque. About 
 ten o'clock this morning we came in sight of the 
 snowy Alps, through a gap in the mountains, and 
 continued to descend with the chain full in view, 
 for two hours down a zigzag road, admirably con- 
 structed. I was amused to see that the Swiss, to 
 be superior to the French, had planted trees along 
 the roadside, as soon as their territory began, and 
 that the stone posts were better and more frequent. 
 I have been told, that formerly in Switzerland, when 
 a man married, he planted a tree by the roadside. 
 I climbed upon the top of the diligence, unmindful 
 of the grumbling of the conductor, and took my 
 fill of the scene. The sun of broad day brought 
 into full relief the snowy summits of the loftier 
 peaks, while the darker mountains below carried 
 the eye up to their glittering field, sparkling 
 against the living blue of the sky. A faint veil 
 of mist still hid the lake, which dispersed as we 
 descended, and we reached at last its banks be- 
 tween the vine-clad slopes which lined the road. 
 Nothing could be richer, more gay and smiling, 
 than this autumn scene. We arrived in Geneva 
 about two, and found the town as lovely as ever, 
 arid the sunset glorious. The Jura became a broad 
 mass of the softest, most exquisite blue, outlined 
 against the clear sky, to call whose soft brilliancy 
 golden, would be defamation worthy of the debased 
 imagination of some California Midas."
 
 ^ET. 23] GENEVA. 83 
 
 "Oc. 14th, 1851. I must make short work of 
 these days. Occupied pretty much all day in my 
 search for a school, and feeling the great difficulties 
 of a proper choice. Saw Merle D'Aubigne, a man 
 of fine appearance, decidedly national." 
 
 "Tuesday, Oct. 21st. Went to Nijou. Eefusal of 
 Rosin uncertainty and distress of mind. If this 
 question were of my own interests, I could bear 
 better the thought of failure. There was a large 
 party of English (continentalized) on board, among 
 them a fine daring girl of sixteen. They were evi- 
 dently determined to be amused, and were quite 
 noisy, running here and there with spyglass in 
 hand, calling each other's attention in a way that 
 English or Americans would have called horridly 
 vulgar in Continental or American people, but 
 which I only considered pleasant, especially when 
 there were so few on board. Returning from Nijou, 
 I spent some time in balancing the advantages of 
 the different schools, Rosin having again refused. 
 
 " Talked with Collyer on religious subjects. He 
 thought it made very little difference about a man's 
 religious profession, provided he was true and just 
 in his dealings, and he had found Quakers uniform- 
 ly so. We have churches, because there is no true 
 religion. What we have is so apart from our daily 
 life that we take it up at the door of a church, 
 and lay it down on coming out. 
 
 " I went to the Cathedral and saw them vote 
 quietly enough. If things were as they should be, 
 voting on Sunday and in church would not seem
 
 84 THE VINTAGE. [1851 
 
 wrong. As to European politics at this moment, 
 we can only wait to see what will come next." 
 
 "Geneva, Nov. 3d, 1851. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, Already I have been a month 
 away from home, but so rapid have been my mo- 
 tions that it seems very brief. I have all the time 
 occupied myself with the object of my journey; 
 arranging matters with one schoolmaster after an- 
 other, only to find that his final judgment was 
 against taking Yankee boys of that age; then 
 beginning with another, and with no better result. 
 This has been very amazing to me, and I shall at 
 last be obliged to content myself with a place that 
 is good, but not the one I should have chosen, had 
 choice been untrammeled. I hope soon to arrange 
 matters so as to come away, for I do not find this 
 shifting kind of life very agreeable. The air here 
 is mild and warm, and when the sun is out you 
 enjoy basking. The trees and vines still rich in 
 coloring, and the grass green and fresh as spring. 
 
 "The vintage is nearly over there is a kind 
 of tipsy odor everywhere, and stacks of squeezed 
 grapes along the road-sides. The first punches 
 are given to the grapes by a flat wooden piston, 
 which brings out the more delicate juice; this 
 makes the finer wine, and then it is put into a 
 press and the rest is squeezed out, 1 tasted both 
 lands of must, and the difference was like that 
 between your best Madeira and a hotel's best. I 
 hope to see you in three weeks or so. My present
 
 ^ET. 23] JOURNAL. 85 
 
 journey has not been prolific in adventures. I 
 have spent my time quietly here, reading a little, 
 and swinging about when I had no schools to visit. 
 We have pleasant people at the hotel, and dinner 
 is always an agreeable reunion. Love to all. 
 
 "T W" 
 
 Fragments from Journal. 
 
 " I well remember when I first resolved to be- 
 come an author. I had just recovered from a 
 severe fit of sea-sickness, and was being coddled 
 at a friend's house oatmeal gruel with raisins was 
 before me. I was free from all care, and separated 
 from the old by the great gulf of the ocean. I was 
 comfortable, as an irresponsible convalescent. I 
 remember when I first thought of writing a book, 
 but do I remember why ? If I had the results of 
 a long life of experience to impart, it might be 
 my duty. But I am only a fledgeling. I can 
 have no experience. But there are other motives, 
 money, fame, the trophies of Miltiades. Who can 
 thoroughly know his motives ? " 
 
 " A man may have been falling a long time, but 
 he first knows it when he strikes upon the ground." 
 
 " I never shall forget the change which came 
 over my childish dream, when I went to the Mu- 
 seum with my cousin, and he, the younger by a 
 month and the taller by a foot, went in like a man, 
 while I was considered under his protection, and 
 admitted for half price." 
 
 Returning to America, he writes to his mother:
 
 86 RETURN HOME. [1851 
 
 December 9th, 1851. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, On my arrival, after a long 
 sea-sickness followed by a swelled face and one or 
 two feverish nights, I felt so ill as to be rejoiced 
 to accept Mr. Aspinwall's kind invitation to be 
 nursed at his house. I hope in a few days to be 
 out again. I should have gone to New Haven if 
 I had felt able, but shall now wait to see you till 
 we all meet at Christmas. My journey has been 
 on the whole not disagreeable, yet I cannot call 
 it a pleasant one, and the ocean passages were not 
 unpleasant, though I suffered a good deal from 
 sickness. My stay in Geneva I enjoyed, except 
 the great responsibility that I felt, from the in- 
 dependence and expectations of indulgence of the 
 boys, which made me appreciate better the influ- 
 ences of my own home education. I liked both 
 boys, and sympathized with them. 1 had a frozen 
 journey from Geneva to Paris, where I spent several 
 days with the Hunts enjoying them, as I always 
 do, pleasantly also seeing the Woolseys. I had 
 only part of a day in London. Found pleasant 
 people on board the Pacific. The family here are 
 all exceedingly kind, and I am afraid that all this 
 clover will spoil me for a humble diet in some 
 cheap boarding house, which I shall have to look 
 up, as soon as I go out. My life for the past two 
 years has cultivated my taste for comfort rather 
 beyond my means to gratify it. 
 
 " Yours with much love, 
 
 "T. WlNTHROP."
 
 ^T. 23] POEMS. 87 
 
 It is difficult to fix the dates of all the poems, but 
 the following appear to have been written about this 
 time. 
 
 NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA. 
 
 Aye, smile, ye bubbling ripples at my fate, 
 And waste your petty sneers along the shore ! 
 
 He whom you fettered hold was strong and great, 
 Till the awed world could bear his might no more. 
 
 Power vast and terrible alone I swayed, 
 Princes and monarchs were to me but men, 
 
 I crushed or used them, while their clans obeyed 
 The man whom destiny had called to reign. 
 
 My will was empire; man would faint and fail 
 Without some force heroic, to support 
 
 His insufficiency. The world grew pale, 
 
 Then yielded to the man who shrunk from naught. 
 
 I was the master. As my circle spread, 
 
 And thousand thousands drew within my sphere, 
 
 By some magnetic power all souls were led, 
 An adamantine influence held them there. 
 
 I moved them by their weakness and their strength, 
 I led them by their glory and their shame, 
 
 Woke hopes, and played on passions, till at length 
 This best exponent I to each became. 
 
 Brave was he ? I was braver ! In the field 
 Of bloodiest carnage, when the battle din 
 
 Roared loudest; ranks in glittering cuirass stesled 
 Shrank from the man whose armor was within.
 
 86 RETURN HOME. [1851 
 
 December 9th, 1861. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, On my arrival, after a long 
 sea-sickness followed by a swelled face and one or 
 two feverish nights, I felt so ill as to be rejoiced 
 to accept Mr. Aspin wall's kind invitation to be 
 nursed at his house. I hope in a few days to be 
 out again. I should have gone to New Haven if 
 I had felt able, but shall now wait to see you till 
 we all meet at Christmas. My journey has been 
 on the whole not disagreeable, yet I cannot call 
 it a pleasant one, and the ocean passages were not 
 unpleasant, though I suffered a good deal from 
 sickness. My stay in Geneva I enjoyed, except 
 the great responsibility that I felt, from the in- 
 dependence and expectations of indulgence of the 
 boys, which made me appreciate better the influ- 
 ences of my own home education. I liked both 
 boys, and sympathized with them. I had a frozen 
 journey from Geneva to Paris, where I spent several 
 days with the Hunts enjoying them, as I always 
 do, pleasantly also seeing the Woolseys. I had 
 only part of a day in London. Found pleasant 
 people on board the Pacific. The family here are 
 all exceedingly kind, and I am afraid that all this 
 clover will spoil me for a humble diet in some 
 cheap boarding house, which I shall have to look 
 up, as soon as I go out. My life for the past two 
 years has cultivated my taste for comfort rather 
 beyond my means to gratify it. 
 
 " Yours with much love, 
 
 "T. WlNTHROP."
 
 .Ex. 23] POEMS. 87 
 
 It is difficult to fix the dates of all the poems, but 
 the following appear to have been written about this 
 time. 
 
 NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA. 
 
 Aye, smile, ye bubbling ripples at my fate, 
 And waste your petty sneers along the shore ! 
 
 He whom you fettered hold was strong and great, 
 Till the awed world could bear his might no more. 
 
 Power vast and terrible alone I swayed, 
 Princes and monarchs were to me but men, 
 
 I crushed or used them, while their clans obeyed 
 The man whom destiny had called to reign. 
 
 My will was empire; man would faint and fail 
 Without some force heroic, to support 
 
 His insufficiency. The world grew pale, 
 
 Then yielded to the man who shrunk from naught. 
 
 I was the master. As my circle spread, 
 
 And thousand thousands drew within my sphere, 
 
 By some magnetic power all souls were led, 
 An adamantine influence held them there. 
 
 I moved them by their weakness and their strength, 
 I led them by their glory and their shame, 
 
 Woke hopes, and played on passions, till at length 
 This best exponent I to each became. 
 
 Brave was he '? I was braver ! In the field 
 Of bloodiest carnage, when the battle din 
 
 Roared loudest; ranks in glittering cuirass steeled 
 Shrank from the man whose armor was within.
 
 3 POEMS. [1851 
 
 Wise was lie ? I was wiser ! In my voice 
 Senate's conviction and intention spoke; 
 
 With me was no uncertainty of choice, 
 No feeble echoes from my soul awoke. 
 
 KATHARINE TERESA. 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 And this they call to be a queen; to rule ! 
 Am I a meek thing to be ever schooled 
 To duncehood ? Are these trammels, law ? 
 These bonds of nobleness ? No ! Faugh ! 
 I trample them ! I am a queen ! 
 Why throned, if stolidness can screen 
 What I am raised a step to see, 
 If selfishness can darken me ? 
 Wise counsels from my father's friend ? 
 Yes, feebly wise ! would I could strip 
 That smile, half sneer, from his gray lip ! 
 When my blood kindles to a flush, 
 When great thoughts stir me like a rush 
 Of mighty winds on seas that sleep, 
 And my soul leaps as surges leap; 
 He dallies all my passion back ! 
 Is prudence all ? No melody of hope 
 To catch the errant music of each breeze ? 
 Nothing intenser than the silken slack 
 Clue of my babyrinth of ease ? 
 Better his path who darkly gropes 
 In the dread of caverns, till light opes
 
 T. 23] POEMS. 
 
 Sudden beyond. Let me be free 
 For soaring, not for fluttering glee ! 
 Upward I must ! 
 
 Oh for one soul ! 
 
 One single soul of truth and trust ! 
 The woman in me is not strong to thrust 
 And trample their false duties down to dust. 
 Gladly, oh God ! would I enroll 
 My queenhood in their ranks who stand 
 Beckoning the world with guiding hand, 
 Upward, and onward ! Oh ! I cannot die 
 And have done nothing, nothing gloriously ! 
 
 Deeds wait who dares in the wide world ! 
 
 I know not what I dare not; for the deed 
 
 There lies a woman's power, but for the plan, 
 
 On large thought based, and cautious head, 
 
 The scheme to meet a giant nation's need, 
 
 This asks the wider wisdom of a man. 
 
 Oh, solitude of high desire ! 
 
 Such find I none. Grant me young death, 
 
 Ye fates ! if passionate desire 
 
 For hero life must utterly expire 
 
 With youth. Just now my eager breath 
 
 Was voiceless to my faster beating heart, 
 
 Ardently scheming to my counselor, 
 
 Of freer life, in palace and in mart, 
 
 In field and forest. To the core 
 
 Of our great land a light should stride 
 
 And tame my people out of ignorance ! 
 
 My people ? God's ! by me whom chance 
 
 Made queen, not slave. But he replied, 
 
 Smiling, and fondling stars upon his breast,
 
 90 POEMS. [1851 
 
 Sneering the people down, " 'Twere best 
 My girlish dreams were o'er, if this 
 Folly they taught and dreaminess. 
 He had known life, and men, and null 
 Was fancied freedom for the mean of men. 
 To form us Kings and Princes, fate did cull 
 Her best, her bravest, her most beautiful. 
 Others were fitly slaves and wisely dull 
 For our more glowing radiance " .... 
 
 Crush not, oh God, my earnest soul ! 
 Oh firmly true, might I enroll 
 My queenhood in their ranks who stand, 
 Beckoning the world with guiding hand 
 Onward and upward ! Oh I will not die, 
 Nor have done aught to yield life worthily ! 
 Die ! death ? No, I must live, for I can find 
 No charm in lonely heaven ! But my mind 
 Touched with strong passion, throbs too fast 
 For thought. Forth I must ride, and freely cast 
 My troubles to the freedom of the winds. 
 
 Ho! friend! 
 
 I will not call thee slave ! attend ! 
 Tell them to bring me a horse ! 
 One that can gallop ! 
 
 FEAGMENT. 
 
 Lift, Father Ocean ! lift another sail, 
 
 One far white sail o'er yonder lucent rim ! 
 
 Ah me ! these faint and fainter hopes will fail, 
 Die with this dying day, this twilight dim.
 
 23] POEMS. 91 
 
 Oh, Father Ocean ! listen to my song ! 
 
 Are there no voyagers who climb thy waves ? 
 No more who steer thy golden coasts along ? 
 
 Not one heroic bark the tempest braves ? 
 
 And that dear destined sailor that I wait 
 So long, alas ! these cold ignoble years; 
 
 That only loyal lover ! Ah, too late ! 
 
 He stays unknown, and all my life is tears.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE TROPICS. 
 
 TT7INTHKOP remained in the employment of the 
 ' ' Pacific Mail Steamship Company, living some- 
 times in New Tok and sometimes on Staten Island, 
 until he was sent, during the following summer, by 
 the Company, to their station at Panama. 
 
 "August 25th, 1852. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I have just received your note, 
 and shall go to New Haven on Saturday afternoon. 
 I have only a moment just now to be with you, as 
 I have some preparations to make. In many re- 
 spects the plan is a good one. The climate of 
 Panama is not dangerous, if proper care is taken, 
 and no serious illness of an employee has occurred. 
 I shall have plenty to do, and a good salary. I 
 shall be, for the present, cashier and ticket clerk in 
 the Company's office, and anything that may turn 
 up later will be for my advantage. Panama offers 
 just now things apart from my employ, of which 
 I will talk further when we meet. I go on the 
 first September. 
 
 " Yours always, 
 
 "T.W."
 
 Err- 23] ASPINWALL. 93 
 
 "Aspinwatt, Sept. 9th. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, Terra firma, even the terra 
 firm a of a coral reef and railroad embankment, is 
 delightful, when one has been tossed on a ship 
 crowded with emigrants. Life turns out rather 
 queer. I never expected to squabble for the meals 
 of a sea-sick man, with Jews and Barbarians, and 
 find my best society with Nan tucket whalers and 
 express agents. We had very fine weather down, 
 though increasingly hot, until now the movement 
 of my pen over the paper is sudorific, and my vain 
 efforts to slaughter mosquitoes, the defenders of 
 their country, gives me a vapor bath. The United 
 States is a fast but small steamer, and as there 
 were two hundred on board, the crowd was trouble- 
 some, and compounded of vile elements mostly. I 
 was sea-sick too, and but for the kindness of the 
 Captain and one or two others, should have been 
 desperate but I will not dwell upon this. 
 
 " This place is hardly raised above the water, but 
 there are fine wharves, a beacon, hotel, houses, 
 etc. I go on to-morrow to Panama, and will write 
 at once." 
 
 Extracts from a letter of sixteen pages. 
 
 "Panama, Sept. 12th, 1852. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I wrote you hastily from Aspin- 
 wall, and you will probably receive this at the same 
 time. It seemed strange to be greeted there by 
 the whistle of an engine, issuing from a tropic for- 
 est, and still more to be hurrying through a swamp
 
 94= THE ISTHMUS. [1852 
 
 of broad-leaved plants, such as we have only seen 
 before in a conservatory. The road for somo dis- 
 tance passes through a festering swamp, and the 
 air is heavy. It is entirely built upon piles, but 
 they are packing it rapidly with red clay, which 
 bakes like brick. This swamp is most desolate, 
 and like a rich garden, abandoned to weeds. Some- 
 times a glade would open, among large trees, the 
 finest I have ever seen, with glittering leaves. 
 The plumes of the cocoa palm, wild banana, and 
 plantain, were the tropical elements of the scene. 
 Numberless creepers, like squashes and melons, 
 covered broad spots, and cypress vines and splen- 
 did purple morning-glories twice the size of ours. 
 Where there was a cutting, they draped the banks 
 with festoons. 
 
 "To the Chagres river, the present terminus, our 
 crowded train, was one and three-quarter hours. 
 The crossing is at a beautiful spot the banks are 
 high and bare, with deeply wooded hills behind, 
 and on both sides of the river a broad meadow with 
 park like trees, cattle feeding, and a native village. 
 The natives are far better looking than I expected, 
 and bear the climate better than our imported la- 
 borers. The boatmen on the Chagres are powerful 
 and active. They wear their hair in long black 
 braids, and their dresses are of loose hanging folds 
 of muslin. Eight of us filled a small boat, and we 
 were off for Chagres, up the chocolate-colored 
 stream, about half-past twelve. Our progress was 
 slow, but in the novelty of everything you might
 
 -ZBT. 23] TROPICAL SCENES. 95 
 
 wish it slower. The river winds and doubles, so 
 that a fine view-point is always before you. Now 
 a low bank, with marshy growth, then a conical 
 hill, hidden in deep dark forests, then feathery 
 palms and bamboos, then a village with its plan- 
 tations. The river is most beautiful, lonely and 
 grand. We saw few birds, two or three scarlet 
 flamingoes, and towards evening a flock of scream- 
 ing paroquets. Our boat was the second to arrive 
 at Crudes, thinking ourselves fortunate to pass the 
 rapids before dark. Crimes is a town of two- 
 thousand inhabitants, who live in huts along the 
 river. The hotels are barracks, built of reeds with- 
 out any floors, the display of liquors terrific. 
 
 " We left Cru9es in the morning, and plunged at 
 once into a shady wood, sparkling with dewdrops. 
 Some part of the road is an old rough pavement, 
 covered with muddy water, other parts are like 
 the worst of Irish bogs, up to the mules' bellies. I 
 was a little anxious about these bad spots, and I 
 tried to guide my mule, but soon gave it up, and 
 yielded to her entirely, only lifting my rubber- 
 covered legs when the mud was deepest. The 
 weather was very tine, and the 'clear sky, the 
 sparkling light and the broad leaves of unknown 
 plants with gigantic shadows delighted me. Some- 
 times the mule track ran through defiles so narrow 
 that there was only room to clear one's legs, and 
 if the animal entered with the wrong foot foremost 
 he was obliged to stop and change, each track being 
 formed to fit the feet. Through these places a cool
 
 98 PANAMA. [1852 
 
 willingly stay. I like to see and realize all these 
 places, and if anything more comes of my trip, it 
 is so much gained. We have a nice set of men 
 here, and there is some amusement always on 
 hand. With love to all, dear mother, 
 " Yours, 
 
 "THEO. WINTHROP." 
 
 "Panama, Sept. 26th, 1852. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, I have described to you my 
 first impressions; now I can speak as an old resi- 
 dent. I am reasonably well, and quite contented ; 
 much more so than during my last year in New 
 York. As this is the dull season for passengers, 
 I have time for studying Spanish, and reading, as 
 much as the indolent climate will permit. The 
 society in the office is pleasant, and our chat at 
 meals amusing. My foremost interest here was 
 certainly the great Western Ocean, which of course 
 I expected to find on the west, and to know that 
 the sun, when it sunk every night, was on its way 
 to wake up the Japanese, without any work to do, 
 but to see its own broad face on the shifting swells. 
 I was surprised to see the ocean on the east. This 
 is owing to the shape of the coast, as you can see 
 on the map. The town lies upon a point of land, 
 terminating in a reef at low tide a mile long, but 
 as there is a rise of twenty-two feet, the water at 
 high tide bathes the foot of the walls. The circuit 
 of these old walls is nearly a mile, and you can 
 still walk round them, though they are somewhat 
 ruined. The fine bastions are tolerably preserved,
 
 -ZET. 24] TABOGA. 99 
 
 and they are surrounded on all three sides by water, 
 so that they give a fine promenade and view. Some 
 twenty grand old bronze cannon are mounted there, 
 and the sea dashes round the base, thirty or forty 
 feet below, or retiring, leaves the reef bare, and cov- 
 ered with little shell fish. On the northern side of 
 the town is a fine crescent-shaped beach, of four 
 miles in circuit, terminating in a rocky point, be- 
 hind which is the site ot old Panama. Low trees 
 grow down to the sand. There is a great variety 
 of shells, and crabs are as thick as ants in an ant 
 hill. Above the town are concentric ranges of 
 hills, thickly covered with forests, solitary and 
 impressive, from which there is an extensive view 
 over this vast sweep of the lonely bay, and the tile- 
 covered roofs of the town under your feet. Panama 
 is like an old Spanish town. The bay is beautiful. 
 Six large islands rise from the water, besides sev- 
 eral little rock islets. Taboga, the most distant 
 and the largest, is lofty, rising twelve hundred 
 feet, and thickly and richly wooded nearly to the 
 top. The houses of its natives are clustered near 
 the beach, in front of the palm groves, and about 
 a gun shot from shore lie the ships at anchor, so 
 there is always a busy look. It is the ideal of a 
 tropical island. The night I spent there, I arose 
 after feverish tossings, and dreams, and with Mr. 
 , followed up the valley or rather ravine of a 
 clear mountain stream, with the early sunlight 
 touching the massive foliage of unknown trees, to 
 some nymph baths in the cavities of the rocks.
 
 100 TABOGA. [1852 
 
 My bath was a deep rock-pool, a basin which I 
 could span with my arms, and the water just over 
 my head. Into this a slender cascade fell four or 
 five feet down, with an accommodating ledge to sit 
 upon, and receive the douche. It was the luxury 
 of a bath. 
 
 " Taboga is nine miles from Panama. A small 
 steamer runs there once a day, passing the other 
 islands, some of which rise in conical form, four 
 or five hundred feet from the water. You can 
 easily imagine that, with these green outlines; the 
 heavy hill masses in the background; the faint 
 line of the distant shore of the bay, blue upon 
 the horizon; the old rusty city and its batteries, 
 the view is in the highest degree beautiful. It is, 
 however, the beauty of the volcanic tropic ; far dif- 
 ferent from the picturesque north. It has a certain 
 sameness that might become wearisome, just as 
 the unchanging summer might make one sigh for 
 the bracing air of our December. I find it impos- 
 sible to persuade myself that this hot weather will 
 last forever like this. Yet, for a hot climate, it is 
 a delightful one. Exertion and exercise are im- 
 possible, and the sun at midday cannot .be borne, 
 but as soon as instantaneous evening has come 
 on, a cool breeze from the land falls over the hill, 
 and the night is restoring. The showers come on 
 at noon, and for half an hour the Plaza is afloat, 
 and a river runs by our office to the bay. Great 
 black tumbling clouds pursue the ranges down to 
 the coast, and then break away into masses all
 
 ^T. 24] PANAMA. 101 
 
 over the sky, which at this season is almost al- 
 ways watery. I have found in the woods many 
 beautiful flowers. The fruit trees combine beauty 
 with utility, and are the handsomest of the forest. 
 One could make here a true garden of the Hes- 
 perides. We have tropical fruits and vegetables 
 in abundance, with fish and poultry meat is poor. 
 I tell you these things just as I think of them, and 
 shall reserve other matters for chapters in my Book ! ! 
 I have killed one scorpion, mosquitoes are steady, 
 but not very venomous. Fire crackers are abun- 
 dant and noisy so are bells. Riding is the only 
 exercise possible, so it is necessary for the preser- 
 vation of health, but enormously expensive. Rents 
 are enormous so are provisions so is everything 
 else. I have assisted in the dispatch of one steam- 
 er, and got the run of matters. We had really 
 quite an exciting time of it. 
 
 "The ships are in tip-top order; the enormous 
 crowd they sometimes carry is the only difficulty. 
 If I keep my health I shall do very well here, though 
 I cannot feel settled yet. As I may not have time 
 to-morrow and cannot say more to-night, I will 
 close, with best love for all. 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 "THEO. WlNTHROP." 
 "Panama, Oct. 3d, 1862. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, since I wrote to you I have 
 been for a short time quite ill, but am now very- 
 well, and the better for the attack and the warn- 
 ing. I shall enjoy riding here when the dry sea-
 
 102 PANAMA. [1852 
 
 son comes. To the north of the town are wide, 
 undulating plains called Llanos. These are quite 
 uninclosed. The soil is red clay, only very short 
 grass grows on it. At intervals groves and thickets 
 of shrubs are sprinkled about, and the same rich 
 vegetation covers the conical hills that give variety 
 to the landscape. Occasionally a green ravine marks 
 the course of a small stream. Nothing could be 
 more beautiful than these parks of nature, and a 
 ride over them, on one of the quick-pacing horses 
 of the country, is exhilarating. You go this way 
 and that on chance trails, meeting only a native or 
 two. To the south of the town the country is marsh 
 or forest as far as the eye can reach, over the plains 
 and over the hills. I am glad to hear such good 
 accounts from all at home. I suffer less from the 
 heat than at first, and continue to be in good spirits 
 and happy, and could be contented here for an in- 
 definite time." 
 
 "Panama, Oct. 13th, 1852. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, I have learned something by 
 this journey, apart from the knowledge of a new 
 part of the world. There is a direct contact with 
 men here which cannot fail to sharpen the facul- 
 ties, and I may possibly be, if I stay, disciplined 
 into discretion and self-command, both of which 
 I need. Our family of men does not allow the self- 
 ishness which both solitary and domestic life en- 
 courage. I am now pretty well, and expect to 
 continue so. Men are ill and die here principally 
 on account of the lives they lead. I have not been
 
 ^T. 24] PANAMA. 103 
 
 about much, for the rains have been more violent 
 and frequent. Just at the hour for going out, veri- 
 table deluges fall. It is fun to see how all the 
 world runs. Nobody has far to go, and so they 
 wait till the last minute, and then take to their 
 heels, from the lank, pedagogical, cat-smiling Don, 
 to the aboriginal little varmint with half a shirt 
 and a tray of plantains on his head. The Don 
 takes shelter in his counting-house, the varmint 
 sheds his shirt and mounting a stick rides boldly 
 forth through the shower, an agile little brownie. 
 Presently, squads of these imps appear, and as a 
 great spout of water begins to gush from the gur- 
 ffosle of the Cathedral each one takes his station 
 
 C5 O 
 
 and gets a douche, that I, for one, envy. 
 
 "The only fault I have to find with Panama is 
 the uncertainty of my position, which I hope the 
 next steamer will remedy. Meanwhile I am ac- 
 climating. Nothing I can do here, as I have said, 
 is so delightful as riding over the undulating sa- 
 vannas about the town, long land-swells of soft 
 grass, just as the sun is setting, and the cool of the 
 evening coming on. A couple of miles from town 
 is the farm house called San Jose di Dios, formerly 
 an old Jesuit country house, commanding the whole 
 sweep of the country and bay. Don Carlos Zachris- 
 san, a Swede and former merchant, lives there, and 
 we occasionally pay him a visit. No lovelier site 
 could be found for a house. The ground-floor is high 
 and open, serving for shed, etc., and the upper floor 
 alone, as is usual here, is inhabited by the family.
 
 104 A PICNIC. [1852 
 
 "Last week, being at Taboga, I joined a picnic 
 party with some of our employees, to go to the 
 island of Taboguilla, about three miles off. In the 
 rainy season, it will not do to be out of the reach 
 of shelter, so we took our new specie scow, a great 
 lubberly craft, but with a covered hold. Poco Ti- 
 empo is the word here, so our jolly party did not 
 start till the morning breeze was just dying away, 
 and half a mile from the shore had to tow her with 
 a row-boat we had brought along, I volunteering 
 for bow-oar, which I found no joke, against a tide 
 rising twenty feet. The grand object of the expe- 
 dition was a real Down East chowder, and fish was 
 to be caught for the purpose; but as I did not like 
 the hot sun, I preferred landing with the shore 
 party. Two rocky points inclosed a smooth white 
 beach behind which a grove of cocoa palms drew 
 along under the hill. There was a hut of reeds 
 for our dining-room and kitchen, and our provender 
 being placed in the hands of our cook, I started 
 with the wooden-legged commander of our coal- 
 hulks, a capital fellow, on a foraging expedition. 
 There was a sort of garden on the island, where I 
 found some small tomatoes and red peppers for our 
 stew. As I went farther, I found myself in an im- 
 mense grove of plantains and bananas, growing 
 about twelve feet high, and forming a complete 
 protection from the sun and rain. The fruit is 
 plucked before it is quite ripe, by the summary 
 process of cutting down the plant, from whose 
 roots new shoots spring. The bunches are then
 
 <ET. 24] LANDING GOLD. 105 
 
 hung in the sun to ripen. Arming myself with 
 some fruit, I came down to the party, and though 
 the fishermen got nothing, we had a capital din- 
 ner and speeches in plenty. Going home, the skies 
 fell upon us, and then the wind falling after, we 
 took to the boats and pulled away a four-oared 
 man-of-war stroke home in the cool dark night. 
 Sea-going men love to talk when they can get any 
 one to listen, and as I am a pretty good listener, I 
 have plenty of amusement with some of our people, 
 who are a capital set. The history of this coast, 
 with which our company is identified, is of itself a 
 most romantic one." 
 
 " October 17th, 1852. 
 
 " The Tennessee arrived yesterday, and not being 
 able to take the treasure ($2,000,000) from the specie 
 launch that night, several of us guarded it on board, 
 keeping watch under the stars with 'sword and 
 pistol by our side.' It was rather exciting to sleep 
 on a blanket on deck in turn, and to look up be- 
 tween dozes to see that the others were wide awake, 
 and to land IT, as the mild broad splendor of the 
 morning brightened into dawn, glowing across the 
 bay. It is always a most picturesque scene, this land- 
 ing treasure. I will describe it hereafter. With 
 best love, and hopes to hear from you soon, 
 " Yours, 
 
 "THEO. WINTHROP." 
 
 Extracts from Journal. 
 
 "Panama, Nov. 9th, 1853. With what pleas- 
 ure shall I some time recollect these scenes in
 
 106 CLIMATE. [1852 
 
 which I have entered upon a completely new 
 life, and having begun by making many mistakes, 
 am now beginning to control and direct myself. 
 With a pure and single mind, a man may be 
 happy anywhere. I was surprised to find at the 
 time of the yellow fever that I felt no fear, and 
 was callous to the fact of the constant deaths around 
 me. Perhaps it was because I did not see death. 
 God preserve in my absence all at home ! I could 
 not return to a desolate fireside, and home is my 
 only bond to anything good." 
 
 "The effect of this climate is that one loses that 
 glad self-imposition of labor which one finds in a 
 cold climate. I have the spirit of travel strong 
 within me. Here I gain nothing; there is little to 
 do, and usually 1 am positively idle. The uncer- 
 tainty of my residence here keeps my mind em- 
 ployed in planning for the future, and I now hope 
 they may not keep me to my present employment, 
 as I can do much better for myself. Energy is 
 sunk, when a man works on a salary without the 
 spur of personal interest. I am sure of doing well 
 in the course I propose. This will probably require 
 my return to New York for a time. Why do men 
 live? Just tell me that if you please, and I will 
 go home, and save myself all the lifelong labor of 
 the inquiry." 
 
 " How warm-bath like it was yesterday evening 
 at the ball ! The Flexibles or Lancasterianos were 
 in full feather, the lions of the occasion. Hence- 
 forth I have new ideas of the Polka, as danced
 
 ^ET. 24] TABOGA. 107 
 
 with the mercury at 85, while turning a stout 
 lady who danced stiffly. But really a dance like 
 that was a very agreeable variety here. The even- 
 ings and nights continue to be delicious. How 
 shall I ever be contented where fires are. The last 
 days of the Carnival have been quite gay among 
 the natives, the plazas full of people in their best 
 clothes. All night they keep up their fandangoes." 
 
 " Delightful to watch the approach of day ori a 
 coal ship, and lie in a hammock all day and listen 
 to the grumbles and yarns of our one-legged com- 
 mander. All around swim processions of beautiful 
 fish, irresponsive however to my hook." 
 
 " The shores of Taboga away from the port are 
 much bolder, the heights fall down almost perpen- 
 dicularly, and a rich warm covering of trees, many 
 of them fringed with moss, droop beautifully down 
 the sides. The dark green water breaks grandly 
 on the sunken rocks, and roars in the crevices. 
 There is said to be a cave under the cliffs, filled 
 with human bones and " mucho oro." No one on 
 the island appears to have entered it, they were 
 afraid. I provided myself with candles to explore 
 it, but the state of the tide prevented me from land- 
 ing, and I had to content myself with listening to 
 the roar of the surf in the subterranean chamber, 
 though I doubt if it is of any great extent. I cannot 
 describe the beauty of the woods that follow down 
 the little brooks in the island, nor the feathery 
 foliage of an old grove of tamarind trees on the 
 sand near the shore, nor an orange orchard near to
 
 108 TABOGA. [1852 
 
 these. The view from the summit of Taboga is 
 beautiful indeed. The outlook is unimpeded over 
 the sea that foams and dashes silently below." 
 
 "All the islands of the bay are visible, and the 
 village of Taboga and its shipping look to you as 
 they do to the eyes of the Turkey buzzards, lazily 
 flapping over the top. The pearl islands are blue 
 clouds to seaward, the long line of the coast 
 stretches far up and down in a succession of conical 
 peaks, as wild and solitary as when the Spaniards 
 first landed there. We descended in a break-neck 
 line through a wood, and at dusk came, pine-ap- 
 ple-serrated-leaf-leg-scratchedly down to the vil- 
 lage. To-day is Sunday, but it has been a busy one. 
 We have been all day landing the treasure from 
 the steamer Oregon. The pull on board ship in 
 the cool morning was delightful. We send the 
 treasure ashore from the steamer anchorage, two 
 or three miles, in a large flat-bottomed launch. We 
 bring it as near the shelving beach as possible, and 
 then our principal man, Jose Maria, an athletic, in- 
 telligent native, strips, and shoulders out the heavy 
 boxes. His assistants carry it to the place where 
 the mules are waiting. We of the Pacific Mail 
 Steamship Company, stand all along the line and 
 watch each precious box with jealous care. It is 
 put on the mules, a box weighing from seventy to 
 one hundred pounds on each side." 
 
 "Panama, Nov. 2d, 1852. 
 
 ''DEAR MOTHER, In the morning, after closing 
 my last letter, I got up at 3 A. M., and soon started
 
 &T. 24] THE GOLD TRAIN. 109 
 
 with Mr. , at five, to accompany the gold train. 
 
 At five it is quite light in these latitudes. We had 
 let the trains get perhaps half an hour in advance, 
 and had heard the arrieros go singing off in the 
 dusk. Everything was carefully packed, and I ig- 
 norantly thought that all was arranged for the trip, 
 but just outside the town we found everything in 
 confusion. The whole fifty or sixty mules with 
 twenty men were brought to a stand still. The 
 mules are tied nose and tail, four or five together, 
 and any disarrangement in the fixtures of one 
 puts a brake on the progress of all. The lashings 
 by which the boxes are attached to the animal are 
 as complicated as the darns of an old blue woolen 
 stocking, or the lacings of a Greek herdsman's 
 sandal, and they fasten, not only the boxes, but 
 all the traps of the muleteers, and perhaps a live 
 chicken or two by the leg. All was at loose ends, 
 some muleteers eating breakfast, some standing 
 about, and saying l poco tiempo.' 1 Mr. how- 
 ever soon put a very different face upon the matter, 
 by riding about and slashing men and mules in- 
 discriminately, and pres'ently we were off, the mule- 
 teers tugging at the leading ropes, and the guards 
 punching in the rear. There was profundity of 
 mud all along, and the beasts (now united), avoid- 
 ing the depths, strayed everywhere among the 
 bushes, necessitating hurry-scurry pursuit by half 
 naked drivers, with shouts and screams. The morn- 
 ing was as early mornings are here, the sky varied 
 with heavy clouds and mists, coloi-ed by the sun-
 
 110 THE RIVER CROSSING. [1852 
 
 rise, the forest hills holding the wreaths of mist 
 like patches of melting snow. Nothing could be 
 worse than the road, and so thought the pedes- 
 trians, California bound, who, lifting up sadly the 
 patches of torn boot that still adhered to their legs, 
 asked despairingly the distance to Panama. A lit- 
 tle out of the town we met a large party, some 
 twenty hand-organs, with their Italian grinders 
 then parties of tired men and women, the latter in 
 Amazonian attire and sitting ' Califourchon ' on 
 their mules, a little uncertain whether to laugh 
 or blush, and oh, how dirty ! Making progress of 
 a mile and a half an hour, we came about nine 
 o'clock to the river Cardenas, where we overtook 
 the whole train mustering in the stream, now 
 about two hundred feet wide. The scene was 
 very picturesque the river is rapid, arid winds in 
 a spot where the thicket has given place to enor- 
 mous trees that embower its current, under these, 
 and around a hut, all the mules and their drivers 
 are grouped, and just as we turned into the open- 
 ing a body of California-bound came down into 
 the water, among whom I recognized the Eev. 
 , half-cracked, bedraggled and benevo- 
 lent, (looking very different from the last time I 
 saw him in spotless surplice, saying 'Dearly be- 
 loved,') who had given up his mule to a woman 
 in distress. There was also a sturdy Paddy woman, 
 who marched right through the stream, disdaining 
 to hold up her skirts, which the flowing river washed 
 as she went. She called encouragingly to her friend,
 
 ^T. 24] MALAPROPS. Ill 
 
 who followed, ' Here, Mrs. McGarvey ! this way, Mrs. 
 McGarvey ! never mind, my dare.' 
 
 "Next day the balconies of the hotel were draped 
 with wet clothes, and the town pervaded by their 
 odor. Having seen the gold (the largest quantity 
 ever sent) safely started, we turned back, and 
 splashing through the mud, with the help of big 
 spurs and whips accomplished the six miles in an 
 hour and a half.' 
 
 " We met the mail agent, famous for his Malaprops. 
 These are authentic. ' I hope the Department will 
 let me stop over one trip, as I have provided a sub- 
 terfuge. 'Yes, sir! I like the Oregonl On board 
 I was treated with perfect impunity.' ' No, sir ! I 
 did not strike him, sir; but I loaded him with op- 
 probrious epitaphs ! ' 
 
 " For a man who is capable of seeing and grasp- 
 ing opportunities, Panama is the focus of two Amer- 
 icas. It commands the Australian continent, and 
 is within easy reach of the Indies. South America 
 is at hand with inexhaustible wealth, untouched 
 as at the creation. This very Isthmus, small as 
 it looks on the map, has miles and miles of the 
 richest soil, capable of producing everything that 
 a warm climate allows." 
 
 "Panama, Nov. 17th, 1852. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, You are perhaps shivering along 
 to church, and on your return, sitting by the good 
 old grate in the dear old parlor, which existed when 
 I was a boy, and which still, on the domestic Sun- 
 day evening, retains its ancient privilege of assem-
 
 112 TROPICAL NIGHTS. [1852 
 
 bling the family, for the enjoyment that family af- 
 fection can give to those who know what it is. 
 While I, deprived of these pleasures, sit in my 
 thinnest clothes, and try to catch each puff of the 
 southerly breeze. This is no cold November blast 
 but a delicious fresh wind, accompanied by the roar 
 of the surf that glitters, wind scattered. I appre- 
 ciate the nature of the day, though I have just run 
 away from our church, where a half-cracked Bap- 
 tist, dressed in a queer white ascension robe fas- 
 tened by nine gold clasps, after thanking God that 
 he was not as other men are, began giving out his 
 own version of the Bible, beginning with the first 
 chapter of Genesis. I miss very much the quiet 
 rational pleasures of life at home. 
 
 " As the dry season approaches, the rains become 
 less frequent, the sky clearer. At night the stars 
 are most brilliant and twinkle more than ours. 
 Sirius flickers like the flame of a blown candle and 
 seems almost extinguished, then bursting out in 
 splendor. Now too, for the first time, I see the 
 clear moonlight the days of parching glare are 
 approaching. There are many things pleasant in 
 my life here, such as, this morning, tumbling up 
 at dawn and pulling out in the beautiful coolness 
 to the steamer, with the addition of the excitement 
 of the news. On the beach all was bustle native 
 porters squabbling, boatmen shouting." 
 
 "But on the water, and over the soft wash of 
 the swells, all was quiet the hills and islands 
 softly veiled in mist; the steamer and the ships
 
 &T. 24] SUNDAYS. 113 
 
 swinging with indolent grace to their anchors. On 
 board was worse confusion. An exodus of gold 
 diggers with their luggage were pushing across the 
 narrow gangway, while, as man after man issued 
 from the press, they were received and dismembered 
 by the boatmen below clamorously. Homer would 
 have added an 'as when.' Or the morning when 
 I turned out at 1 A. M., and in the delicious tropical 
 night, pulled to the California, bringing the largest 
 treasure yet, $2,600,000, and shipping it by pictur- 
 esque lamplight and by the clear beam of moon- 
 like Lucifer. These things are so delightful to me 
 that I fear lest I shall tire you by my description." 
 
 " Nov. 21st, 1852. I rejoice that my residence in 
 Panama is drawing to a close, but I shall not re- 
 turn without seeing San Francisco. This is Sunday, 
 but the quiet of the day is disturbed by the festiv- 
 ities of the New Granadian Independence, and fire- 
 works, crackers, and a ball, are the order of the day, 
 while the troops, clad in a sweltering uniform, are 
 marching and firing." 
 
 " All the church ceremonies, and many of the 
 customs here are ridiculous, from their not being 
 adapted to the climate, but formed on European 
 models. The only peculiar and pretty thing is the 
 costume of the ladies, who discard the bonnet, and 
 wearing instead the veil, add much to their charms. 
 To-day, as they knelt, in heaps of muslin and lace, 
 on the cathedral floor, they looked very attractive." 
 
 " I am now awaiting further advices from Mr. 
 Aspinwall as to my future movements. He wrote
 
 114 DISCONTENTED. [1852 
 
 that I would probably not remain in Panama. But 
 love to all. I cannot write in good spirits, though 
 I danced off the last remains of my fever, and had 
 a jolly time with the fair ladies of Panama last 
 night. I have been ill; but what right have I to 
 make you unhappy by my despondency. I am los- 
 ing all my friends' weddings when will my turn 
 come? " 
 
 " December 4th, 1852. Summer is approaching, 1 
 feel misplaced here and discontented." .... 
 
 The place in the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, 
 and still more at Panama, seems to have been made for 
 Winthrop by the kindness of Mr. Aspinwall, and his 
 sincere desire to serve him, without the certainty that 
 there was really a suitable opening for him. On ar- 
 rival he found that there was really no sufficient opening, 
 that the gentleman he was expected to replace wished 
 to return to Panama, having the right to do so, and 
 that his position was not altogether a pleasant one 
 for a man of delicacy. He was treated with great 
 kindness, however, by every one there, and found his 
 residence, on the whole, agreeable, but there was not 
 enough for him to do, nor was there any future for 
 a man of his stamp, nor any reason to remain and lose 
 his time and health, simply to be a ticket agent, or 
 policeman of treasure. 
 
 "December 24th, 1852. 
 
 " I have been absent sixteen days in the interior, 
 in that part of the Isthmus above Panama, and had 
 a most interesting tour in a novel country. I took 
 a primitive coasting canoe, rigged with low, square
 
 ^T. 24] AN EXCURSION. 115 
 
 sails very fast to a point some hundred miles 
 distant, and buying a horse, returned by land, stop- 
 ping at all the towns and villages. The country 
 was quite different from my expectations, and my 
 tour has fortified my health decidedly. You must 
 not have toe high an idea of the beauty of the in- 
 land scenery. The forests are usually destitute of 
 fine trees, the very luxuriance of the vegetation 
 impeding its grandeur, and there is a look of 
 tangled neglect in the thickets of vines. But the 
 broad sweeping plains, grazed by thousands of cat- 
 tle, are very fine, spreading unbroken sometimes as 
 far as the eye can reach, and sometimes undulat- 
 ing softly to the base of the range of mountains 
 that lifts itself in the background. Like islands 
 upon these seas of verdure, lie scattered villages, 
 sheltered by groves of palms of ever-rustling foli- 
 age. The people are lively and picturesque; their 
 wealth consists in large herds of cattle, and the 
 style of life is simple and patriarchal, a little viti- 
 ated by rumors of civilization and California. I 
 have seldom passed a fortnight of more amusement 
 and instruction combined. 
 
 "Two gentlemen of my acquaintance were about 
 to make a business tour, and I, having nothing to 
 do, seized the opportunity to go with them. Sail- 
 ing very fast before the light airs prevailing along 
 shore, in our primitive and picturesque craft, and 
 listening to the monotonous chant which our crew 
 kept up hour after hour, one forgets the present 
 and is carried back to the early ages of the world.
 
 116 THE INTERIOR. [1852 
 
 We were two beautiful nights and one blazing day 
 reaching our destination on the upper side of the 
 bay, and were glad to leave the cramped craft and 
 stretch our legs a little on shore. After waiting 
 some time at the mouth of a small river for the tide 
 to rise, we ascended its rapid course for four miles 
 or so, to the landing. The low banks were covered 
 with swampy bushes or large trees, and every few 
 minutes an unwieldy alligator would tumble him- 
 self into the stream ; from the hide of one of these 
 fellows my ball glanced off, as from a coat of mail. 
 
 " Over the green savannas, after a day or two of 
 dry weather, you can gallop as on a race course, 
 but in the swamps are horrid bits, where we went 
 plunging through the mud up to our horses' bellies. 
 The mountains, which form the backbone of the 
 Isthmus, from some of the higher peaks of which 
 both oceans can be seen, are bare, and not very 
 bold, though one striking serrated range accom- 
 panied us for several days. There is a little gold 
 in these mountains, but the valuable mines are 
 further south, where in the province of Chico and 
 on the banks of the Atrato are fabulous treasures. 
 
 " We met with hospitality everywhere and the 
 fat of the land. The houses, one story high, un- 
 ceiled, with earthen or tiled floors, are composed 
 generally of one living room and small ones ad- 
 joining cooking is done in a shed. All the towns 
 are near a stream of water. The Indians live in 
 palm-leaf huts. The life seems indolent, but the 
 people do all that their nature requires, and live
 
 JET. 24] THE INTERIOR. 117 
 
 content what more is necessary. We were gazed 
 on with curiosity by whole villages. 
 
 "Oar return trip Avas made on horseback, and it 
 would be long to tell all our adventures. How my 
 half-broken yellow horse performed sundry capers, 
 how we rode to the festival of Penonome with the 
 jolliest of galloping priests, where we saw all the 
 prettiest girls in the country, and an assemblage 
 of pure Indians Cholos from the mountains else- 
 where hardly seen. How comical was the proces- 
 sion of alcaldes of these little towns, elegantly at- 
 tired in antediluvian cloth coats, and followed by 
 ushers with long black rods, going to offer the first 
 fruits of their villages to the Padre. How I grew 
 fat on rice stewed in liquid lard, sancoche, eggs, 
 maize bollos, and tamal, with yard after yard of 
 jerked beef, and relays of plantains in every form. 
 How I thought oranges rather dear at sixteen the 
 half-dime. How, finding my companions were to 
 stay rather too long at Penonome, I straddled my 
 nag and went to Panama alone, with a boy I hired. 
 How I enjoyed it, though the roads were severe. 
 How I rode over seven leagues of glorious sea 
 beach, part by blazing daylight, and part by the 
 stars, and then slung my hammock and waited for 
 the dawn. How lovely were all the dawns and all 
 the nights on the broad plains. I could fill a volume 
 with this journey! Stewing with heat on this last 
 day of 1852, I am 
 
 " Yours ever, 
 
 "TflEO. WlNTHROP."
 
 118 THE NEW YEAR. [1853 
 
 "Panama, Jan. 2d, 1853. 
 
 " It seems fitting, my dear mother, that I should, 
 with the New Year, renew my allegiance to you, 
 and offer you my services for what they are worth. 
 If it were a new situation, I might think it nec- 
 essary to recommend myself, and recount my qual- 
 ifications. Such an experiment would be useless 
 with one who has always known me better than I 
 know myself. So, my dear mother, if you will 
 have another year of the old servant, who has been 
 in your family more than twenty-four years, you 
 must take him, good, bad or indifferent, and make 
 the best of him. He cannot do much, but the 
 wages he requires are precious, nothing less than 
 your love will satisfy his grasping desire, and if 
 you deny him this, he will be in despair. For 
 then, not only will he lose the direct benefits of 
 the service, but the companionship of those who 
 have gladly shared it with him, friendly rivals for 
 the favor of their mistress. Accept then my alle- 
 giance for A. D. 1853. 
 
 "Panama is crowded to-day by muddy Ameri- 
 cans, wetted to the skin by an expiring -deluge of 
 the rainy season, which, by almanac, should have 
 ended a month ago. The New Year was marked 
 only by an unusual clatter of bells. There was a 
 band of exiled Jesuits here yesterday, dismissed 
 from the South American Republics. Ecuador was 
 the last to find them dangerous, and dispatched 
 these thirty-four fellows to Panama, and Panama 
 pitilessly hurried them away in their priestly robes,
 
 ^T. 24] PANAMA. 119 
 
 topped with striped ponchos, and they filed away 
 on mule-back, certainly more intelligent, and prob- 
 ably more virtuous than the established priesthood. 
 You must not expect much of a letter, for I was 
 dancing till five A. M., and rose at eight to go to a 
 funeral. There are quite charming young ladies 
 here, and though they have not much education, 
 yet banalities sound quite prettily, lisped in their 
 exquisite language. 
 
 " Do send me some books, especially travels in 
 South America and Mexico. I have plenty of time, 
 and want to inform myself about the countries of 
 this continent, becoming more and more important 
 every day. One of the [>leasantest things here, is 
 the arrival of relay a'ter relay of our officers from 
 the steamers. They generally stay with us, and 
 make part of the family. They are sometimes 
 jolly rough diamonds, but usually educated and 
 agreeable. 
 
 " The world appears to be boiling up pretty well, 
 but we lead a life apart from all except the interests 
 of the company, and the small commerce of Pan- 
 ama. Almost every one in the town is engaged in 
 some peddling business, or endeavoring to prey 
 upon the public in some official capacity. The 
 future of New Granada, if it is to have one, will 
 not come from the men of Panama, but from the 
 interior provinces. I am disposed to believe that 
 the capital, Bogota, is much more enlightened than 
 this place. If I should recall here what I said and 
 express my wish to escape, you will no doubt think
 
 120 PANAMA. [1853 
 
 me inconsistent. I want to go because I have no 
 settled position in the office, and consequently 
 must be often idle. I am not gaining much in 
 business experience, and in a mongrel place like 
 this I have no good opportunity to improve in 
 Spanish. I should feel better if I thought my salt 
 was fairly earned here. I am content to stay only 
 so long as I make myself so, and am falling into 
 indifference. I have seen a good deal of life here, 
 and manage to pass away the time, if without pro- 
 fit, without ennui. I am in, probably, for an ab- 
 sence more or less long from home, but I may stay 
 here for some time longer, if^I have anything to 
 gain by it. I have still the promise of a vacancy in 
 a purser's berth, and my passage to San Francisco. 
 "Jan. 24th. I spent the whole of Saturday on 
 the gangway of the steamer, receiving passengers 
 and disposing of them there were some three 
 hundred and seventy and then was up all night 
 on board until the ship left. The dispatch of one 
 of these crowded vessels is something you can 
 have no idea of; such thronging, such crushing, 
 such shirking payment. Now that I am get- 
 ting well into it, I find it a very agreeable life. 
 The climate suits my stomach, and I am prudent 
 and tip-toppish. You must be tired of my raptures 
 about the nights, but I am never tired of them. 
 It is perfect bliss to exist. As soon as the sun sets 
 a roseate flush, passing into the tenderest lilac, 
 covers the sky nearly to the zenith, and then 
 changes gradually to a golden light, only giving
 
 Mi. 24] ASPINWALL. 121 
 
 way to the moon. Then the delicious cooling 
 breeze comes down from the mountains and rustles 
 over the water. Though there is a monstrous im- 
 provement in the people who go to California, yet 
 it is still bad enough. The close contact with all 
 sorts of characters on these crowded steamers is 
 very demoralizing; there is a dreadful degree of 
 familiarity, and if I were taking out a lady, I should 
 wish to do so round the Gape, in one of those fine 
 ships. This will be changed when the railroad is 
 finished. Five sheets of stuff is pretty well for one 
 letter ! Eh, madame ? " 
 
 "Aspinwall, Jan. 29th, 1853. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I am once more within hailing 
 distance of you, though really no nearer than usual. 
 It is the Atlantic that is tumbling so furiously on 
 the beach, and here is an American town, with 
 Yankee houses, and Yankee enterprise. A friend's 
 wife was expected in the steamer from New York, 
 and I came down krescort her across the Isthmus 
 
 to her husband, Capt. P , who could not leave 
 
 the steamer. Since I was here in September the 
 town has been increasing, and the railroad extend- 
 ing. No one can have an idea of the enormous 
 difficulties of this immense enterprise, nor of the 
 dreadful sacrifice of life it cost. It was commonly 
 said to be built of dead men's bones or on human 
 sleepers. Imagine that at one station of some two 
 hundred and twenty men, there were, day before 
 yesterday, one hundred and eighty sick. But all 
 the gentlemen of the corps are in good health. It
 
 122 NIGHT IN THE FOREST. [1853 
 
 will be another year's work, and hardly before the 
 year 1854 will the first train make its triumphal 
 entry into Panama. Aspinwall, like Venice, is a 
 city in the sea, and now, with a norther blowing 
 hard, there is a heavy swell tumbling in every- 
 where and wetting you as you go. I found there 
 had been some mistake about the arrangements 
 
 for Mrs. P , so I volunteered to come, and 
 
 started about 1 p. M. on the 29th. My mule was 
 rather slow, and evening overtook me in the worst 
 part of the road. It was at first very pleasant, as 
 twilight rapidly faded away, to pass through these 
 cool dim depths, but as it grew darker and darker, 
 I at first lost sight of my path, (which was just 
 as well, for the condition of it was awful,) and then 
 of my white mule; so I thought it time to stop. It 
 was exciting and romantic, but dangerous, though 
 one has confidence in these animals; so, coming to 
 a native hut, I decided to wait till the moon rose. 
 I fortunately had a crust of bread and a drop of 
 brandy, so dividing my corner of a loaf with my 
 host, I made a light supper, and went to bed on a 
 hide spread on the ground. About nine o'clock, 
 after a short nap, the moon just lighting the depths 
 of the forest, I started again, and enjoyed the re- 
 mainder of the scramble. The neglected woods 
 were beautiful in the concealing light and shadow, 
 and the vines and creepers, ragged by day, were 
 graceful and delicate in the mysterious moonlight. 
 It was well worth seeing, but I was not sorry to 
 change total solitude for the huts of Crudes on the
 
 JET. 24] A SPIN WALL. 123 
 
 Chagres River. Here I found my friend Mr. V , 
 
 and we made an alliance for the rest of the journey. 
 Next morning we started down the river in a 
 canoe, talking away the time very pleasantly, till 
 the distant whistle of the engine put him on the 
 qui vive for his first sight of a railway a great 
 event in a man's life. Much has been done tow- 
 ards the completion of the road since I was here. 
 It was quite refreshing to be taken back to civili- 
 zation, and to see the interest that my companion 
 took in everything. 
 
 " Aspinwall is upon Manzanilla Island, which is 
 very low, in some parts below the level of the sea, 
 that filters through the coral reef, and has heaped 
 up a dike of sand against its own encroachments. 
 Much of it is nothing but a mangrove swamp, to 
 be filled in hereafter, before the place can be really 
 healthy ; some of these swamps, where the bushes 
 have been cut away, and only the small tangled 
 stumps remain, are the most absolutely desolate 
 places the mind can conceive. But there is a look 
 of progress and energy here which astonishes me, 
 
 coming from Panama. Last night, Capt. P 
 
 arrived, relieving me from responsibility. The gale 
 is still blowing grandly, with interval torrents of 
 rain. Just now it is a fine sight to see the steamer 
 come rolling and pitching into the harbor. If with 
 these rains, which prevail at least eight months of the 
 year, we had the same temperature as you, the coun- 
 try would be almost uninhabitable, but the air is soft 
 and balmy, and the fresh dampness most luxurious.
 
 124 ASPINWALL. [1853 
 
 "Last night, at eight, the Ohio arrived, and I 
 went down to the wharf with three gentlemen who 
 expected their wives. It was not without difficulty 
 
 and danger that Capt. P and I went on board, 
 
 he to be disappointed of his wife's coming, and 
 saddened, poor fellow, by the news of his child's 
 fatal illness. I got your welcome letters. It was 
 refreshing to be a few minutes with ladies. The 
 arrival of two steamers from New York, and one 
 from California, with an aggregate of two thou- 
 sand people, puts this place in an uproar, increased 
 by the small space terra firma affords, all the dry 
 spots being in demand as the storm continues. 
 What a variety of life one sees here! Jews are in 
 throngs. The temperature is several degrees lower 
 than in Panama. Keep me informed of what goes 
 on in the world. 
 
 "T. W." 
 
 "DEAR S : It is quite refreshing to think of 
 
 an intelligent lively Yankee young lady, such as I 
 hope you are, in this land of languor, and would 
 be doubly so, could I have the tonic of a personal 
 interview. However, I try sometimes to be with 
 you in spirit, and imagine the dear happy fireside. 
 The confidence in each other that rules in such a 
 home is particularly blissful to dwell on, in this 
 outer world, where every man's hand is against his 
 neighbor. At home, one can, for a while, unbuckle 
 the hard cuirass of defensive armor, and rest se- 
 cure from a treacherous attack."
 
 Mi. 24] PANAMA. 125 
 
 "Panama, Feb. 12th, 1853. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, You can hardly imagine how 
 dead Panama becomes in these fortnightly inter- 
 vals between steamers. Never in my life have I 
 been so thoroughly indolent as here, and I am be- 
 coming heartily tired of it. I cannot possibly make 
 more than one good day's work of all I have to do 
 in the fortnight. Your wishes, and my own un- 
 willingness to lose nearly two years passed in my 
 present employ, keep me here with the uncomfor- 
 table feeling that I am after all dependent on a 
 patron. The sinecure that I at present hold has 
 the same influence as an office under government 
 would have, it makes me careless and irresponsi- 
 ble. Discontented, and conscious that I cannot 
 continue so long, I am all the time on the anxious 
 seat. By every steamer I look for some orders that 
 never come, and I cannot make any settled plan for 
 the future. What is a man to do, who at the very 
 period of life when he ought to be in the straight, 
 well-known path of certain and steady employment, 
 when he should have the self-guidance of a nearly 
 completed development, what is a man to do, who, 
 instead of all this, is still afloat, without any rud- 
 der? I have always supposed, that, at twenty-five, 
 the manly character would have taken its tone, as 
 the physical is then complete. I know this is pain- 
 ful to you, but I must sometimes relieve myself of 
 gnawing thoughts, or I shall eat my heart out, 
 here. My health is good, and I have one source 
 of pleasure, my daily rides. After a hard, hot, glar-
 
 126 ON A HAND-CAR. [1853 
 
 ing day, we dine at four, and then I ride; passing 
 the suburb with its straggling huts, I come upon 
 the plain with the cool wind blowing soft in my 
 face. The level light of the declining sun gives a 
 magic brilliancy to the green of the undulating 
 savanna, and falls upon the bold islands and 
 sparkling waters of the bay. Then, when I turn 
 back, the sun sets, the wooded hills silhouette 
 themselves on the horizon, the softly shaded glow 
 fades and gives place to the violet of the tropics, 
 where the new moon hangs. Soon, suddenly, all 
 is darkness around her faint fire." 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I have been again to Aspinwall, 
 part of the way on a hand-car 
 
 " I walked along in search of the employees 
 house, but by some means passed it, and went 
 stumbling over the track, till discovering my mis- 
 take I found I had walked three miles through the 
 solitude. I can never forget that starlight walk, 
 though part of the time I was uncommonly sleepy. 
 Returning, I found the world stirring in the dawn, 
 and receiving many cautions about trains, I tum- 
 bled into a crack-wheeled hand-car, and rolled off. 
 It was the luxury of traveling, to be whirled along 
 against the fresh morning breeze that my own prog- 
 ress created, down the long narrow vista of the 
 forest. The great buttressed trees seemed to have 
 withdrawn astonished from the path, while deep 
 among the mazes of the untouched woods I could 
 see that the large-leaved vines had climbed up to
 
 Mr. 24] ASPINWALL. 127 
 
 the tree-tops to see this wonderful band of sun- 
 light. Some of these vines, fell down, smooth, leaf- 
 less, and straight as a rope, a hundred feet to the 
 ground. I was so utterly overcome by sleep that 
 I lay down flat in the car, and telling my two 
 Carthagenians that I would give them a dollar 
 each, if I arrived by a certain time, I enjoyed one 
 of the soundest and most blissful sleeps of my life. 
 I was awakened by the stopping of the car to al- 
 low another to pass, and then wide awake, I be- 
 thought myself of my toilet. A muddy mule-ride 
 and a boat trip had not tended to cleanse my per- 
 son, and much to the astonishment of the men, I 
 opened rny saddle-bags, and taking out-clean clothes, 
 completely arrayed my self alfresco. By and by, we 
 began to keep a sharp lookout for the train pres- 
 ently we saw it, just it time to tumble the car off, 
 and let it hurry by. Soon bustling and American- 
 ized Aspinwall came in view. I had about an hour 
 there and returned in the train at 11 A. M. 
 
 " Aspin wall, March, 1st, 1853. This place has 
 such a home feeling that I enjoy my visits particu- 
 larly. Last evening we had a jolly ' American 
 time,' and some sham spiritual manifestations. I 
 determined on this trip to vary my route a little, 
 and joined a party of natives who were going down 
 to Gorgona to hire their mules to passengers. We 
 went off through the very thickest of the woods, 
 by the land route, impassable except in the dry 
 season, and pretty bad now. Up and down tre- 
 mendously steep pitches, slippery with mud, and
 
 128 PANAMA. [1853 
 
 hung with nooses of straggling vines, that would 
 now and then try to hang a fellow before his time. 
 They had forgotten my crupper, and I often nearly 
 slipped forward over the mule's head, while Can- 
 dido, my old black guide, slipped backwards to the 
 tail of his. The heat has brought out some new 
 flowers, especially a splendid scarlet passion flower, 
 but the variety has never been so great as I ex- 
 pected. An hour and a half of this riding brought 
 me to the river, and thence the way was easy, 
 across a fine meadow, sprinkled with trees. I wrote 
 from Panama that I had determined to go to San 
 Francisco. I ought to see it, and to learn the Com- 
 pany's mode of business there. But I find that 
 after all I have become very much attached to 
 Panama, with all its disadvantages. There is talk 
 now of weekly steamers, which will give more in- 
 terest to the life there. This is my sixth trip across 
 the Isthmus. We had the yellow fever badly at 
 Panama, six weeks ago, but only among the pas- 
 sengers. The great obstacle to my success here 
 is my own unsettled feeling. I want to be seeing 
 the world." 
 
 "Panama, March 8th, 1853. To-day I start for 
 San Francisco in the California, one of our best 
 ships. I have not left the Company's employ, and 
 shall have the same option that I have here, of 
 taking a pursership, when there is one, or any 
 other chance that may offer. I have not left Pan- 
 ama without reflection. I have been here six months, 
 and know the place and all in it, and there is noth-
 
 J&r. 24] ACAPULCO. 129 
 
 ing more for me to do here. Yet I leave the place 
 and many friends with sincere regret." 
 
 " Acapulco, March 14th, 1853. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, Nearly half way to cool 
 weather again, and looking to the positive enjoy- 
 ment of putting on warm clothes and finding pleas- 
 ure in a fast walk. Panama is fading already in 
 my recollection, and the existence apart that I led 
 there is becoming like a dream. Yet it was diffi- 
 cult to tear myself away, and I shall long remem- 
 ber the Cathedral Plaza and the life around it. 
 My heart always sinks when I remember how lit- 
 tle my health fits me to join battle with the giants 
 I see around me, but as I am seeking my fortune, 
 I must not allow apprehensions." 
 
 " Our voyage' thus far has been agreeable, with 
 few passengers, and pleasant company among the 
 officers. The ocean has been strictly Pacific, hardly 
 broken by a ripple. We have sailed along with a 
 remorseless glare of sunlight, and I have felt the 
 heat on this trip more than at any time in Panama. 
 At first we passed along a bold hilly shore, thickly 
 wooded and completely solitary; then between 
 rocky islands, and then leaving the land blue in 
 the distance, and striking across the Bay of Tehuan- 
 tepec, we are now in sight of the distant Mexican 
 coast. We have had no events; a few flying fish, 
 a couple of water spouts, stretching down slender 
 arms of cloud, like sherry cobbler tubes, into the 
 water. The sea is beautifully blue, the horizon 
 cloudless, the nights fine, with a young moon."
 
 130 SAN FRANCISCO. [1853 
 
 " I feel very far from home and have no idea 
 what I shall do in San Francisco. As we approach 
 Acapulco, sailing- down a broad belt of moonlight, 
 numerous fires of burning brush blaze wildly on the 
 shore. At midnight, we plunged into the land, 
 and all at once, a way opening, found ourselves in 
 a smooth lake, surrounded by hills, with no appar- 
 ent exit. We lay still till morning and then I went 
 ashore with the purser. The town is surrounded 
 by hills, barren and burnt, as if volcanic fires had 
 just passed over them, and the irregular town with 
 many cracked and ruined edifices, shows traces of 
 the late earthquakes. Everything is parched, the 
 houses of one story, the people live lazily in the 
 shade of their corridors. We shall soon be off, and 
 1 shall write from San Francisco." 
 
 "San Francisco. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, I arrived here on Thursday 
 evening, March 24th. We had fine weather, and 
 a fine coast, from Acapulco till we crossed the gulf 
 of California. At San Diego we saw American 
 California; shores like downs, bare of all but grass, 
 backed by high hills, sprinkled with snow. The 
 change to really cold weather, mercury 45 was se- 
 vere but refreshing, and I felt new life when I could 
 button together what the moths of Panama have left 
 of my overcoat, and walk the deck rapidly. San 
 Diego is desolate and uninteresting. The harbor, 
 confined with sand bars, is perfectly land-locked. 
 Approaching Monterey, the coast became appar- 
 ently more fertile, there were some trees, princi-
 
 JET. 24] SAN FKANCISCO. 131 
 
 pally pines, and more verdure, the hills too were 
 higher and finer in outline and the rocky points 
 brilliant with surf. Monterey is prettily situated 
 on a sweep of the Bay, wooded with pines a green 
 and smiling country round it, with all the fresh- 
 ness of spring. But the coast is generally bare, 
 and the fertility and beauty of the country are 
 said to be behind the coast range. About 1 p. M., 
 on the 24th, we began to see the Heads at the en- 
 trance of the Bay of San Francisco. There had 
 been a gale, and the day was splendidly clear of 
 the fogs that beset the coast, and have recently 
 caused the loss of our Steamship, Tennessee. The 
 entrance is fine indeed, and worthy the noble bay. 
 On the south the shore is barren and sand-hilly, 
 with a certain wild look; on the north, the cliffs 
 come precipitately down to the water, and the en- 
 trance is somewhat beset with rocks that are cov- 
 ered with birds, and basking seals. After the first 
 set of points, the coast trends inward to another 
 set, the real ' Golden Gate,' equally bold and fine, 
 and about as wide as the Narrows ; this continues 
 perhaps two miles, when you begin to discern the 
 shipping and the town, creeping round the point, 
 and the whole breadth of the lake-like bay opens 
 grandly before you. The effect is simple in its 
 elements, an expanse of calm water, bounded by 
 sharply defined hills. From the summits over- 
 looking the town you have striking panoramic views 
 over the bay, and down upon this wonderful city, 
 a realization in rapidity of growth, if not in splen-
 
 132 SAN FRANCISCO. [1853 
 
 dor, of our fairy tales. On arriving, we found all 
 the paraphernalia of civilization ; we were boarded 
 by news boats, and our arrival announced by tele- 
 graphs. Firing our gun, and rounding the point, 
 I was astonished to find an array of shipping ap- 
 parently as great as in New York. Fine ships 
 were lying out in the stream, and blocking up the 
 crowded wharves, and back of them stretched an 
 extent of city seeming interminable, and exagger- 
 ated by the evening mist and smoke. The wharf 
 and steamers alongside were filled with people 
 awaiting our arrival, and there was far more bus- 
 tle, and noise, and throng, than on a similar occa- 
 sion at home. In fact the activity of this place is 
 appalling. The original town was built upon a 
 narrow, crescent-shaped piece of ground backed 
 by steep hills, but as it extended, the hills were 
 cut away, and the water filled up, till our office, 
 which was on the shore, is now half a mile from 
 the wharves. But they could not fill in rapidly 
 enough, and a very large part of the town is plank- 
 ing, upon piles. But further in, upon terrafirma^are 
 broad streets and substantial edifices of brick and 
 stone, of good appearance. Everywhere construc- 
 tion and destruction are going on together. People 
 are generally convinced that the town is a fixed 
 fact, and are making their arrangements accord- 
 ingly. The hills are being dug down, and in mak- 
 ing a call yesterday, I found the easiest method of 
 getting away was to plunge down a sand bank 
 eight feet high. It is indeed a most astonishing
 
 ^T. 24] SAN FRANCISCO. 133 
 
 place, and coming from the poco tiempo of Panama, 
 the contrast was striking. But the whole thing 
 appears unsubstantial. It is generally agreed that 
 the emplacement of the town is by no means the 
 best, and there are persons who expect that the 
 whole will be abandoned, and Benecia, or some 
 other locality chosen. 
 
 "March 27th. 
 
 "To-day it rains, but the temperature is pleas- 
 ant. The two previous days fine, much like our 
 October weather. It suits me exactly. San Fran- 
 cisco is even more alive by night than by day, the 
 shops and gambling houses in full blast; with night 
 auctions of all sorts of Jew-wares, and old clothes 
 and new. To-morrow or next day I shall go to Be- 
 necia, and perhaps begin my little journey to the 
 mines, and perhaps home. A few days will settle 
 the matter. I might find something to do if I 
 staid here. I cannot think of anything else but 
 how to get on respectably, and to have something 
 better than my miserable life for the past two 
 years. Having no profession, and no mercantile 
 education or experience, I have nothing to fall 
 back upon." 
 
 "San Francisco, April 14th, 1853. 
 
 "My DEAR MOTHER: I have given you my first 
 impressions of San Francisco. My second corres- 
 pond with these so far as in being agreeably dis- 
 appointed in the town and its surroundings. In 
 respect to mere position the place has not much to 
 boast of. It began upon the sandy beach of a cove
 
 134 SAN FXANCISCO. [1853 
 
 in the bay, at the foot of some sandhills, and as the 
 city progressed they cut down the hills and threw 
 the sand into the water, making a flat of half a 
 mile in advance of the old front. The hills that 
 remain, partly excavated above the town are bar- 
 ren, and scantily covered with grass and stunted 
 bushes. The prettiest of these is called the Cali- 
 fornia lilac (Ceanothus?) bearing a pretty bluish 
 flower, delightfully fragrant. These hills, destined 
 soon to fall before the encroaching city, overhang 
 it, and give a bird's eye view of its rectangular 
 plan and unfinished appearance. The general tone 
 is bricky and dusty. The prevailing element is pul- 
 verized sphere, and it may be safely called the dir- 
 tiest place in the world. A single day will trans- 
 form it from a slough, navigable only in a pair of 
 gaff-topsail boots, to an ankle-deep dustpan, and 
 when you consider that besides the immense street 
 traffic, there is not a block where they are not fill- 
 ing up or pulling down, you may imagine that the 
 springy plank pavements send up dust as thick as 
 a London fog. But the same hills give you also 
 views beyond this waste, across the quiet waters 
 of the inland sea, to the smooth treeless hills that 
 like carefully kept green pastures surround it. The 
 forms of these, not bold or picturesque, are grace- 
 ful and lovely indeed, and in this atmosphere, clear 
 but soft, they assume a richness of hue that re- 
 minds me of the shores of Greece. In this land- 
 scape there are no picturesque effects, no spots or 
 nooks of beauty, its grand characteristic is breadth,
 
 JET- 24] BENECIA. 135 
 
 outline, panoramic effect. Along the southern coast 
 of the bay the same forms prevail, but the soil is 
 richer, and now in spring, they are either beauti- 
 fully green, or thickly carpeted with flowers, among 
 which the golden glow of the escholtzia is con- 
 spicuous. There are no inclosures, and you can 
 ride or walk where you like. Most of the flowers 
 are new, but I find my old favorite the Bartsia,* 
 large yellow pansies, and lupines, blue and white. 
 I spent my second Sunday at Benecia, where there 
 was an attempt to make a city that would rival 
 San Francisco, which is a failure. Some persons 
 interested in real estate persuaded the Pacific Mail 
 Steamship Company to establish its depot there, 
 bribing it by the present of a large peat bog. 
 The emplacement of the town is good, for an in- 
 land one, and it may in time be important, but 
 meanwhile the company has wasted enormous 
 sums of money in establishing the works there, 
 thirty miles from San Francisco. The steamboats 
 that ply on the bay are as complete as our own. 
 They are fast and explosive. The sail up the bay 
 at evening is very beautiful; everything on a 
 grander scale than the Bay of Panama. Benecia 
 lies just above the entrance of Suisun Bay which 
 is formed by the junction of Sacramento and St. 
 Joaquin rivers, on the slope of the low hills; a 
 straggling town without a tree. The bend of the 
 river here is very beautiful, and the opposite bank, 
 rising abruptly, and sprinkled with low trees, looks 
 
 * Castllleia (Gray).
 
 136 THE GOLDEN GATE. [1853 
 
 like a park. In the background are the two fine 
 summits of Monte Diabolo, two thousand feet high, 
 distant thirty miles, but immediate in the clear air. 
 The water of the river is muddy, but from a height, 
 it has, when the sun falls upon it, a pink color, 
 something like this blotting-paper, novel to me, 
 and pretty. The same soft hills covered with 
 flowers rise above the town, and with a friend 
 I lay basking in the sun, enjoying the view, and 
 thinking that this part of California at least was 
 worthy of the name." 
 
 ''April 16th. Last Sunday I had a fine long walk 
 down the bay we walked about fifteen miles, and 
 collected enormous bunches of flowers. The sea- 
 ward views are noble, particularly from Fort Point, 
 one of the heads of the Golden Gate, where the 
 United States is building a lighthouse. Here you 
 look near two hundred feet down a precipice. 
 There is a grand beach and ocean swell outside, 
 beyond the outer heads of the bay. The confor- 
 mation of some of these sandhills is singular, and 
 in some places they sweep away inland, advancing 
 like .a cataract of water, smooth and softly rounded 
 to the top, and then breaking precipitously. The 
 weather has been almost perfect since my arrival, 
 exactly the thing for exercise, making me regret 
 my tiresome confinement to the office, and urging 
 me to terminate it, and begin my wanderings. 
 You need not be surprised to see me at home tow- 
 ards autumn, if I should come home across the 
 plains, or by Mexico."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 "Portland, Oregon, April 29th, 1853. 
 
 DEAR MOTHER, I left San Francisco on Sun- 
 day the 24th April, in the Columbia. Outside 
 the bay we met a stiff norwester that made me sea- 
 sick as usual, and put us back nicely. The steamer 
 follows the coast at a distance of from three to ten 
 miles. The shores are mostly bold and harborless. 
 The coast range of mountains is clothed with in- 
 exhaustible forests, all the way to the Columbia 
 and beyond, and already the lumber trade is be- 
 coming important, both along the coast and on the 
 Columbia, where numberless sawmills are fast 
 opening little breathing-holes in the sunless for- 
 est. The size of the red wood pines is almost 
 fabulous. What do you think of one here at 
 Portland, ninety-six feet in circumference, one at 
 Humboldt fifty-five feet in diameter, and one three 
 hundred and thirteen feet long. Here at Portland, 
 more than one hundred and twenty miles from the 
 sea, ships are freighted with spars and timbers for 
 China. For ages, Oregon will supply lumber to 
 the Pacific world. These deep pine woods give a 
 gloomy look to the coast. The shores are bold and
 
 138 THE PACIFIC COAST. [1853 
 
 dangerous, and the sea roars and dashes heavily 
 on the outlying rocks. We stopped in the night at 
 Port Oxford, where is a small military post. Some 
 of the headlands are precipitous and striking. The 
 bar at the mouth of the Columbia is a very dan- 
 gerous one, and even crossing with the most fa- 
 vorable wind and tide, the swell and roar of the 
 breakers was grand. Passing this you enter a spa- 
 cious estuary, inclosed between a low piny point 
 and a high wooded bluff, and to the south end- 
 ing in a clear green spot; an old battle-ground of 
 the Indians. You look out upon a beautiful ex- 
 panse of water, surrounded by low mountains, 
 black with pines, in the distance, and more than 
 one hundred miles inland, the superb cone of St. 
 Helen's, one of the noblest of snowy mountains, is 
 a crown to the view. The river at this point is 
 very grand and solitary, worthy of being the 
 great stream of the Pacific coast. Proceeding, you 
 bend to the right, and find in a small cove, the 
 few houses of Astoria. The situation is not fitted 
 for a town, and the anchorage and channel will 
 hinder, if not prevent, its becoming the site of a 
 great place, such as must arise at this mouth of 
 the Columbia. Just above is a pretty promontory 
 called Tongue point, on the technical left bank of 
 the river, with bays above and below, and com- 
 manding its whole sweep Five miles or so brings 
 you to the real course of the stream, from one to 
 three miles in width. As it narrows, some bold 
 basaltic cliffs rise above in three terraces with deep
 
 Mi. 24] THE COLUMBIA. 139 
 
 water at the base, and covered with thick firs. 
 The opposite banks are low, with deciduous trees 
 in their fresh spring foliage. Two or three little 
 threads of cascades fall down the cliif. The scen- 
 ery all along is of a similar character, wild and im- 
 posing, as the course of a great river should be. 
 The first stopping-places are nothing more than a 
 house and a sawmill. Opposite the mouth of the 
 Cowlitz, a village called Kanier is growing up. 
 At this point the grand peak of St. Helen's came 
 out brilliantly against the sky. It is a rounded 
 cone, of which you see nothing but the snowy sum- 
 mit, one third of the mountain, above surrounding 
 ranges. It is a volcano, and still occasionally 
 smokes. At the town of St. Helen's, the course 
 of the river brings the peak exactly opposite, and 
 in full view across, a grand object for perpetual 
 admiration. The clouds hid the others, Mt. Hood 
 and Mt. Eanier, from view. St. Helen's, which 
 has now about thirty houses, is at the proper head 
 of navigation for large ships, and is likely to be- 
 come the important point. Here the bank is a 
 rock of basalt of twenty feet high, affording an ad- 
 mirable locality for a town and port. One mouth 
 of the Willamette comes in here. From this point 
 it became too dark to see. Portland, up the Willam- 
 ette, the farthest point to which vessels of any 
 size can go, struggles along the bank of the river, 
 a thriving place of fifteen hundred people. Above, 
 the river becomes shallow, and there are bad rapids, 
 only passable by small steamers. There is a very
 
 140 OREGON. [1853 
 
 large trade up the river, but the sooner they have 
 good roads, to escape navigation, the better." 
 
 "Portland, Oregon, April 29th, 1853. 
 
 " DEAR SISTER, It was a very natural thing for 
 me to have gone to California, when on the Pacific 
 coast, but coming here, to a country once so much 
 more thought of than California, and of late so little 
 in comparison, has a different effect. Oregon still 
 seems distant from the old United States, and there 
 is a feeling of grandeur connected with the forests, 
 the mountains, and the great continental river of 
 this country that belongs to nothing in the land 
 of Gold. The Columbia, as I have said before, is a 
 most imposing river in its lower course, a great broad 
 massive stream, whose scenery has a breadth and a 
 wild powerful effect every way worthy of it. It 
 will be cultivated worthily also, and some thousand 
 years hence, the beauty of its highly finished shores 
 will be exquisite, backed by the snow peaks. There 
 is a heartiness and rough sincerity impressed upon 
 people by the kind of life they lead in new coun- 
 tries. An easy hospitality given and received 
 without much ceremony is a thing of course. The 
 prices are so high that all the old ideas of economy 
 are thrown aside. Money is easily made and freely 
 spent. A dollar is absolutely nothing. All the 
 men of the country are young, and almost all pros- 
 perous. The population on the whole is perhaps 
 not of the most valuable kind, consisting largely 
 of the successors of the pioneers, a sort of semi-
 
 Mi. 24] OREGON. 141 
 
 civilized race who have not the intelligence or en- 
 ergy of a real farming people, but are half nomad 
 still, without much local attachment. The very 
 bad land system, formed to prevent speculation, 
 has prevented investment in land by settlers who 
 could not wait till a residence of four years upon a 
 spot gave them ownership, or of two the privilege 
 of purchase. At present, no one .not living upon a 
 spot of land can possess it; there are no titles even 
 to house lots in towns. The prosperous people are 
 the farmers of cattle and produce, who live princi- 
 pally upon the valley of the Willamette. Every- 
 thing they can raise meets a ready market and 
 high prices. It is the paradise of farmers. Lum- 
 bering also is lucrative, store-keeping, and manual 
 labor of all kinds. There must always be a marked 
 difference between the character of this people and 
 the Californians. In a few minutes, when I get a 
 little colder, I will turn in between the blankets of 
 my host, who has a large country store here. On 
 the whole, I will turn in now. Good night. 
 
 "T. W." 
 
 "April 30th. 
 
 " My plans are quite grand for a tour in these re- 
 gions till my money is all gone. On the steamer, 
 coming here, I met quite a character, a pioneer of 
 this country, with all the typical qualities of the 
 class. Born in Kentucky, educated as a surveyor, 
 and passing the earlier part of his life on the fron- 
 tier, he moved to this country fifteen years ago in 
 the first emigration, took up a whole claim, and by
 
 142 VANCOUVER. [1853 
 
 the sudden colonization of the country, finds him- 
 self a rich man. He is rough and back woodsy, but 
 has the real love of nature and freedom, with a 
 tinge of romance. I am off across the plains, and 
 may return home that way. Hurrah for freedom 
 and a wild life ! ! T. W." 
 
 " Vancouver, Washington Territory, May 1st, 1853. 
 
 "My DEAR MOTHER, I arrived here from Portland 
 yesterday. The distance is eight miles by land, 
 sixteen by water. I got a pony and lashed him 
 for a moment to a wheelbarrow which he found so 
 tempting that he dashed off, dragging it, and de- 
 tained me till he was caught. Vancouver is the 
 headquarters of the Hudson's Bay Co. as well as 
 of the U. S. Army for Oregon and Washington 
 Territories. It is upon the right, or north bank 
 of the Columbia, six miles above the Willamette. 
 Having been long settled by the Company, they 
 have cleared a large space of land, taken out the 
 stumps, and given to the broad meadow on the 
 river bank, the beautiful smoothness of an English 
 lawn. There is a belt of fine trees along the river, 
 and .behind the ground rises in a gentle terrace to 
 the U. S. Barracks. Below, upon the flat, are the 
 stockades and buildings of the Hudson's Bay Co. 
 When the Indians were dangerous, these stock- 
 ades were necessary, but now their tribes have 
 dwindled away into total insignificance. Back 
 of all is the deep pine forest, with some fine outly- 
 ing trees. I had a letter of introduction from Gen. 
 Hitchcock to % the commanding officer, Col. Boniie-
 
 Mr. 24] VANCOUVER. 143 
 
 ville, who received me very kindly, and gave me 
 quarters in his house, and I was soon at home with 
 all the officers. I had also a letter to Gov. Ogden 
 of the H. B. Co., a British subject, all his life in 
 the service, who looks like an old gray lion. I 
 had intended to stop and go up the Columbia 
 only as far as the Cascades and the Dalles, but I 
 found that Capt. Brent with a small party of men 
 was going up to Fort Hall and thence to Salt Lake 
 and to return thence to California, and I decided 
 to go with them as a most excellent chance. The 
 Hon. Mr. Fitz William, a young Englishman of my 
 own age is also of the party, on his way across the 
 plains, and we shall travel as pleasantly as possible. 
 Capt. Brent is on government service, and we shall 
 see some of the most interesting parts of the less 
 visited Indian country. I have not yet decided 
 whether to go on with FitzWilliam across the 
 plains and report to you, via. St. Louis, or return to 
 California. Most likely the latter. We shall travel 
 expedite, and be about thirty days from the Dalles 
 to Salt Lake, where, if sufficient inducement offers, 
 I shall turn Mormon. Once off, you may not hear 
 from me for a long time, but you need have no 
 anxiety, as we travel with perfect security, in the 
 good season. I expect to gain health and strength 
 enough to last the rest of my life. I should come 
 of course straight on with F. W., but I have left all 
 my traps in California, and seen nothing of that 
 country, not even the mines. However, quien 
 sabe? I shall rap the old knocker at your door
 
 144 THE DALLES. [1853 
 
 about the end of July, in a flannel shirt and buck- 
 skin breeches. Yours, T. W." 
 
 "Dalles of the Columbia, May 10th, 1853. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, I wrote you last from Vancou- 
 ver. We left there on Monday morning in the lit- 
 tle steamer Multnomah At 4 P. M. we reached 
 the landing at the foot of the rapids in the midst 
 of the Cascade Mountains. These mountains are 
 of trap formation and present bold crags and pre- 
 cipitous fronts. The scenery had already been 
 bolder and wilder than any river I had seen, 
 and it became more and more singular and strik- 
 ing. I have only time for a line. These moun- 
 tains are from one thousand five hundred, to four 
 or five thousand feet high, and the great river 
 forces its way through them in a wild pine-clad 
 gorge for sixty miles. We encamped at the land- 
 ing, and next day took the luggage of the party 
 up to the foot of the principal rapid in small boats, 
 where we portaged them on a rude tram-road. 
 The company being large, Capt. Brent's party, 
 with one hundred days' provisions, and Capt Wal- 
 ler's company of infantry, with baggage, ammuni- 
 tion, caissons, etc., the process occupied two entire 
 days, till we got on board a flat boat. It was nav- 
 igated by two ignorami, and we had to stop and 
 cut a big steering oar in the woods. It blew a gale 
 our flat came very near being wrecked, which 
 would have been awkward with sixty men on 
 board, and we put into port about seven miles 
 up, where we encamped and had a pleasant time.
 
 2Er. 24] THE DALLES. 145 
 
 Next morning, with scenery growing still wilder, 
 we went up "stream, the strong wind helping our 
 crazy craft to struggle. About noon, we put into 
 port again, waiting for the wind to fall, and I had 
 time to climb a mountain and see the course of the 
 river. We got away in the afternoon, and camped 
 out, twenty miles up, in a splendid place. The 
 tents and numerous camp-fires made the woods 
 and crags most animated. Many pretty cascades 
 came tumbling into the river. On the third day we 
 reached the Dalles, and were most hospitably en- 
 tertained at the Barracks, I being quartered with 
 Major Alvoord, to whom I had a letter. The cam- 
 paign thus far has been delightful, with a pleasant 
 and lively set of officers, and all the excitement of 
 a small military expedition. We find that there 
 need be no apprehensions about the Indians. The 
 Cascades of the Columbia are rapids, not falls, but 
 very picturesque. Here at the Dalles, the river is 
 drawn into a narrow compass between walls of trap, 
 about forty feet high, and at the Dalles proper, is 
 confined in a space of about eighty -five yards; I 
 will visit that to-day. We start into the wilder- 
 ness in two or three days; everything propitious, the 
 party most harmonious. You will not hear from me 
 for a long time." 
 
 "Portland, Oregon, June 13th, 1853. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, ' Ehomme propose. Dieu dis- 
 pose!' Never more true! I made my prepara- 
 tions to return across the plains, and reached 
 the Dalles, as I have written you, but went no fur-
 
 146 ILLNESS. [1853 
 
 ther. There I had, very mildly, the small pox, 
 which I probably caught from a friend, whom I 
 visited in Portland at the moment when the dis- 
 ease was most infectious. He, poor fellow, had it 
 terribly in the confluent form, but with me, the 
 fever was slight, and the eruption has left almost 
 no traces, so that you would not notice that I had 
 had the malady. The day after I wrote you, in 
 fact that very day I had a slight attack of fever, 
 so that I was hardly able to keep my saddle in a 
 ride we took to the Dalles, and on returning I felt 
 so ill as to lie down. I was quartered with Major 
 Alvoord, who commanded the post, and on the 
 disease pronouncing itself, he gave up his room to 
 me and camped out. From him and all the other 
 officers, as well as Dr. Summers, I received every 
 kindness and sympathy, though of course they 
 had to avoid me. I am still anxious lest I should 
 have given the complaint to some of them. It 
 has been very virulent here, the Indians dying in 
 crowds almost always fatal. With me, except 
 the slight irritation caused by the eruption, the 
 illness was nothing; the chief discomfort was the 
 idea of having a dangerous malady, and the fear 
 of giving it to others. Of course I was very much 
 disappointed in not being able to go with Brent 
 and FitzW. The party would have been perfect. 
 They waited a week, but could delay no longer. 
 In about three weeks I was pronounced safe, and 
 left my confinement with no other symptom than 
 an all-grasping appetite. When I was well enough
 
 MT. 24] DISAPPOINTMENT. 147 
 
 to travel, it was useless to undertake to overtake 
 my party, so I determined at least to defer the 
 trip. The country about the Dalles is desolate 
 and wild in the extreme, and sad must be the 
 disappointment of the emigrants, who arrive there 
 in the autumn when every green thing is parched, 
 themselves way-worn, their wealth of cattle become 
 poverty half starved and almost hopeless. But the 
 beauty of Oregon is further on, and if the rest of the 
 Willamette and the adjoining valleys, corresponds 
 with what I have seen, Oregon is one of the loveli- 
 est places on earth. While I was ill, the Columbia 
 rose enormously with its regular June flood from the 
 melting snows. This made a difference of thirty 
 feet in the water level, and the country below 
 Vancouver is now a vast lake. The narrow chan- 
 nels of the Dalles were filled almost to the brim 
 and the Rapids almost obliterated. At the Dalles, 
 the river is confined in three narrow rifts in the 
 rook, the widest only sixty feet, the others almost 
 jumpable. The difference of level between high 
 and low water is sixty feet. It must bewilder and 
 stranger when the river is low. There is nothing 
 beautiful except the grandeur of the mighty rushing 
 torrent mass. The barracks are on a hillside, scant- 
 ily wooded, with a noble view of Mt. Hood, always 
 magnificent with its unsullied snows, and just at 
 the angle of the Columbia below, the rounded 
 cone of Mt. Adams fills up the gap of the range. 
 These snowy summits are all isolated, not forming 
 the beautiful ranges of the Alps they rise singly
 
 148 THE DALLES. [1853 
 
 and apart, and it is only at a certain elevation that 
 you command more than one or two at a view. As 
 single peaks, all are very fine, but I have not yet 
 seen any really picturesque high-mountain scenery. 
 
 " At the Dalles, when I was there, high disagree- 
 able winds came down over the mountains, mak- 
 ing the weather chilly when the mercury stood at 
 90. This wind prevails during the summer on the 
 whole course of the Columbia. After I was con- 
 valescent, I took several long rides over the hills, 
 treeless and only scantily covered with grass, 
 and with many flowers, some of them pretty and 
 peculiar 
 
 "I left the Dalles on June 4th, in one of the H. B. 
 Co.'s boats carrying furs, collected during the win- 
 ter by a fine specimen of a Highlander who has 
 charge of Fort Coleville, followed by a fine tail of 
 half-breeds and Indians with one picturesque old 
 white-headed Canadian, of whom 1 bought a noble 
 pair of buckskin pantaloons. The free life that 
 these men lead in the wilderness has great charms 
 for me. We had a pleasant trip down the River, 
 floating almost fast enough, though the Indians 
 pulled like good fellows. We stopped several times 
 for them to "muck or muck,"* which they are 
 ready for forty times a day. Soon after noon we 
 reached the Cascades, and making the portage, 
 while the lightened boat shot the Rapids, got 
 away on the lower river. The rise of the water 
 had changed the look of things a house where 
 we had slept was .up to the second story in water. 
 * To eat, iu Chinook.
 
 ET. 24] THE COLUMBIA. 149 
 
 The evening was most lovely. At nightfall the 
 Indians all went to sleep in the bottom of the boat, 
 and we floated rapidly down stream all night, by 
 starlight, dozing in our blankets. At 4 A. M. we 
 landed at Vancouver, where I was kindly received 
 again by Gov. Ogden, and had plenty of condolence 
 for my illness. The flood had been very destruc- 
 tive to the crops, and the whole of the lovely 
 meadow was a great lake. The officers of Van- 
 couver are pleasant company, and the H. B. Co. 
 live in solid comfortable style, with plenty of good 
 beer. I enjoyed my final convalescence. 
 
 "The Indians of the Columbia are a miserable 
 race, living on salmon and roots. The fishery at 
 the Cascades is fabulously productive, and the 
 lodges for drying the richly colored fish are really 
 curiosities. The fish are caught in a scoop net, 
 Avhich an Indian standing on a framework, built 
 over the most rapid spots sweeps down against 
 the stream, till he catches his quantum. I have 
 seen them take four or five splendid fish in as 
 many minutes. The whole world lives upon Sal- 
 mon till it is tired of it. ... With my say half 
 said, Yours, T. W. 
 
 " My plans are unformed as yet after my forced 
 return to Oregon, and I don't know what route I 
 shall take to get home." 
 
 g t Umpqua River, June 28th, 1853. 
 
 " My letters come to you from places you never 
 heard of perhaps, but of more or less importance 
 in this growing country. This is a town just cut
 
 150 THE WILLAMETTE. [1853 
 
 out of the woods, rough enough in appearance, and 
 almost inaccessible at times, but a large business 
 is done here. It is one of the principal points of 
 supply for the North California and Oregon mines, 
 and for a large and beautiful farming country on 
 the upper Umpqua River. Leaving Portland, I 
 followed up the Willamette valley. The scenery 
 is lovely. Of the River I did not see much, as it 
 flows between banks thickly wooded with firs, the 
 deep black woods of the country, but the valley is 
 composed of beautiful smooth prairies, sprinkled 
 with belts of heavy timber, or open groves of oaks. 
 This is the general character of the country smooth 
 grazing meadows, suitable for any kind of farming. 
 The plains are broken by frequent water-courses, 
 and you can hardly go a mile without finding a 
 brook, or spring. On one side, the coast range 
 closes the view, a rough and rather desolate chain, 
 on the other, the Cascade Mountains higher and 
 more distant defined by the great snow peaks 
 rising almost isolated, and nearly at regular inter- 
 vals so much higher are they than the main 
 range. From many spots and slight elevations, I 
 could see several of these peaks, far off on the hor- 
 izon. From one hill near Salem, I could see seven 
 of them. At this great distance nearly two hun- 
 dred miles, the smooth rounded cone of St. Helen's 
 is particularly fine, rising as if at once from the 
 plain, superbly defined against the sky in the blue 
 distance. Looking at these peaks so far off, they 
 are even more imposing than a connected range,
 
 Mi. 24] OREGON. 151 
 
 and I have seen few more striking views than that 
 one near Salem, where the eye could command all 
 of them, and a vast expanse of plain and forest, 
 sprinkled with cultivated spots, and backed by 
 hills and the far chains of the Mountains. It is 
 the part of the world to live in ! Most of the val- 
 ley being open, excellent roads were made merely 
 by driving wagons over the grass till a track is 
 worn, and to a traveler on horseback, progress is very 
 easy. The donation law, giving to every family 
 settled before 1849, a section of land, and to every 
 single man a half section, has strung along cabins 
 at a distance of a mile or so, with their little spots 
 of cultivation, but in general, the wide plains are 
 grazed by herds of the finest cattle. The stock 
 here is exceedingly good, the best alone support- 
 ing the journey across, and being improved by it, 
 and by the excellent pastures of the country. 
 Though the Willamette valley is not very wide, 
 each of the small streams which flows into it has 
 its own little spot of smooth verdure in the forest, 
 with a supply of fine oak and fir timber for the 
 cabins, and a rill of water flowing by the door. 
 Labor is dear, and the prices of provisions high. The 
 old farmers found themselves suddenly rich on the 
 discovery of gold, and became lazy, consequently 
 nothing has been done to develop the country in 
 proportion to its resources. Many of the settlers 
 are half-breeds and Canadians of the H. B. Co., and 
 there is one extensive district called the French 
 Prairie, where you naturally call for a glass of
 
 152 OREGON. [1853 
 
 water in that language. A few Indians remain, 
 but they are lazy and good-for-nothing, and the 
 salmon fishing makes them comparatively rich. 
 In the lower country they are more powerful and 
 dangerous. I bought a fine American mare, and 
 started one morning up the Willamette Kiver. 
 The short interval between the farm-houses makes 
 it always possible to get something to eat, and if 
 there is a lady of the house, she is always captivated 
 by talking of the trip across the plains, which al- 
 most all the Oregon women have made. You 
 turn your horse into the rich pastures, and take a 
 nooning under the trees, or a bath in some 
 living brook. In the forests, the fern is usually 
 breast deep. The weather has been delicious, the 
 heat bearable except at noon, the nights cool 
 enough for blankets. My first night brought me 
 to Salem, the present capital, a village of less than 
 one thousand people, on one of these exquisite 
 plains. The streets are wide, and the original oak 
 trees have been left about. Mount Hood is every- 
 where in plain sight. My second day carried me 
 through a region of equal beauty, to Marysville, the 
 head of high- water steam navigation on theWillam- 
 ette, on another tine plain, where the coast range 
 comes nearer. Whenever one has hit on a good 
 site for a town, his next neighbor starts a rival one, 
 so that there are often two settlements within a 
 quarter of a mile in open warfare if you buy a 
 lot in one, you lose the good opinion of everybody 
 in the other. I stopped the third night at a
 
 Sfr- 24 ] OREGON. 153 
 
 farmer's a backwoodsman enriched by the mines, 
 and not even taking trouble to milk his cows, ex- 
 cept for the household. Kough enough some of 
 these rich farmers are Pike County men, as they 
 say, who have fallen into pleasant places. My 
 fourth night I was to have spent at the house of 
 an acquaintance, but I missed it, and as it was a 
 splendid night, I turned my horse to graze, and 
 finding a nice oak grove, made a fine fire in a 
 hollow tree, and a capital bed with my blankets and 
 saddle cover; ate two soda biscuits, and when I was 
 tired of admiring the light of the full moon, turned 
 in for the night. Next morning I had nothing to 
 do but to shake myself, saddle and ride to Youcalla, 
 to my friend's house to breakfast. He was one of 
 the emigration of '43, and is a man of remarkable 
 intelligence and energy, who looks like a back- 
 woodsman and thinks like the most cultivated. 
 He has nearly confirmed my intention of settling 
 in this country. His farm is meadow, completely 
 encompassed by hills covered with grass, serving 
 as a range for the cattle that form his wealth." 
 
 "Fort Vancouver. 
 
 " I wish I had time to describe to you my trip 
 to Scottsburg, with my sail down the Umpqua, to 
 the mouth, my journey up the river, by another 
 route to Winchester, whence want of time prevented 
 me from going to the mines. I returned another 
 way, down the left bank of the Willamette, through 
 the beautiful Yamhill country, diverged across the 
 Tualtin plains, and the Ikapoose mountain to the
 
 154 PORTLAND. [1853 
 
 town of St. Helen's on the Columbia, and stopped to 
 ascend the Chehallis mountain whence there is a 
 noble panorama of the plains and snow peaks, 
 worthy of the Alps. If I had a home, a wife, and 
 something to fix me to a local habitation, I should 
 most certainly establish myself here in Oregon. 
 But until then, I shall probably be a rolling stone. 
 I believe, if I could make up my mind to stay here, 
 I could have a small fortune in six months. I am 
 now at the Hudson's Bay Co., where I am always 
 at home, and find it pleasant. I have never felt 
 better. I close in Portland, in splendid weather." 
 
 " Portland, July 12th, 1853. 
 
 " MY DEAR BROTHER : I wish that you could see 
 the great brick of these parts, Governor Ogden of 
 the Hudson Bay Co., and other minor bricks of the 
 same certainly the nicest set of men whom I have 
 had the good fortune to know, free and hospitable, 
 full of fun and good sense. This Oregon is a noble 
 country ! The summer climate almost perfection, 
 and the winter, though rainy, not severe or dis- 
 agreeable. It offers a grand field for a man who 
 is either a world in himself, or who can have his 
 own world about him. There are very few educa- 
 ted or enlightened men here, so that one might 
 want society, yet any man who unites sense to 
 education can do anything he pleases. It would 
 take but little to induce me to give up the old 
 country and live here, but my unhappy, unsettled 
 disposition is always in the way. Look me up a
 
 JET. 24] PUGET SOUND. 155 
 
 charming young woman, who has no objection to 
 a red beard, and can do anything, from preaching 
 to dancing the polka, from making a cocktail to 
 running a steam-engine, marry her by proxy and 
 lock up till demand. Boston is said to be a good 
 place, so look out for me there. If I return this 
 summer, it will be with the intention of coming 
 out again with a plan, formed on my knowledge 
 of the country. 
 
 "T. W." 
 
 " Fort NisqwMy, Puget Sound, July 23d, 1853. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I am still on the move as you 
 see. Who knows where I shall stop ? My last was 
 from Vancouver. We went down the river that 
 morning in a small steamer that deposited us at 
 Monticello, among the mosquitoes. Next day we 
 went up the river, thirty miles in a canoe, with 
 four Indians to paddle ; the stream flows through 
 dense forests, buzzing with mosquitoes ; very rapid 
 current, and slow progress. The Indian lodges of 
 the better class are entirely above ground, built 
 of boards, with bunks, mats, blankets, and other 
 comforts, according to the wealth of the owner. 
 All understand the Chinook jargon the most com- 
 ical of all languages, if it can be called one, con- 
 taining words from most languages, and answering 
 to the Pigeon English of the Chinese.* At Cowlitz, 
 the head of navigation, we spent a tedious day wait- 
 ing for horses, until the next evening, when we 
 rode eight miles to Jackson's prairie, passing the 
 * See Vocabulary in "Canoe and the Saddle."
 
 156 PUGET SOUND. [1853 
 
 Hudson's Bay Co.'s beautiful farms there, rich with 
 ripe grain. Over the trees that belted the river, 
 nearer than ever rose graceful St. Helen's, and now 
 first clearly seen, the immense bulk of Kanier, the 
 most massive of all grand, grand above the plain! 
 Mr. Jackson is an old settler and has a splendid 
 farm. All the scanty population is alive with hopes 
 and questions about the great Eailroad, and the 
 exploring parties, and every man is certain that 
 it must come through his place. Next morning, 
 rode through a country of cedar trees. Stop and 
 noon at Ford's, and then in the cool of the hottest 
 of days ride till midnight by moon fifty-two miles 
 to Olympia. Four miles from Ford's are the mound 
 prairies spotted with small mounds at first just 
 distinguishable becoming as we go on fifty feet 
 in diameter and ten to fifteen feet high, covering 
 an immense extent of country. The mound prairie 
 is marked by a mound of another class fifty feet or 
 much more in height, almost perfectly regular, 
 with some large trees on it. A Yankee has built 
 a house on the apex, and means to make a nursery 
 of fruit trees on its fertile sides. About eleven 
 p. M. the roar of a cascade announced our arrival at 
 Olympia, at the head of the Sound. We could just 
 see a pretty little fall, a mill, and the great expanse 
 of the Sound. A few houses make Olympia a thriv- 
 ing lumbering village, cleared from the woods, with 
 stumps in the main street. Plenty of oysters and 
 large queer clarns. Puget Sound here terminates 
 in a point, spreading below to a great lake with
 
 -SJT. 24] OREGON: 157 
 
 low banks, thick with firs. Tide rises nearly twenty- 
 feet, water clear low tide leaves a great mud flat 
 below the place. Stopped a day. I was with Capt. 
 Trowbridge, who had come to make tidal observa- 
 tions on the Sound. Next day we started in a noble 
 clipper of a canoe for Steilacoon, the U. S. Fort. 
 Paddled along against tide. Indians took it easy 
 shot a duck and a pole cat pulled up a gigantic 
 purple star-fish made a vocabulary of the Inoo- 
 squamish language. Had a jolly time splendid 
 sheet of water with islands and nooks of bays. 
 Mt. Ranier hung up in the air. Landed nine p. M., 
 walked two miles through the woods to the Bar- 
 racks waked an officer supper, and bed. To-day 
 walked to Fort Nisqually a Hudson's Bay Co. 
 farm and station. Dr. Tolmie in charge going to 
 Vancouver's Island to-morrow, invited me to go, 
 probably shall and join the other party there. 
 
 " These disjointed words were written by vio- 
 lent effort in a small house, with mercury at 90 F. 
 With best love to all, and assurances of reasonable 
 well being, Yours, 
 
 "T. W." 
 
 Tictoria, rancouver's Island, Aug. 15th, 1852. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I can hardly represent to my- 
 self the summer life at home, the dusty streets, 
 quenched by an occasional shower, to the joy of 
 the party assembled in the porch, just out of reach 
 of the sprinkles; the delicious evenings, just cool 
 enough to restore after the sultriness of the glar-
 
 158 WILD LIFE. [1853 
 
 ing day, with open windows and music, or a moon- 
 light walk ; the crush of Commencement, the after 
 calm. A year passed without a winter seems to 
 have no right to a summer, and I am hardly con- 
 scious of its having come and gone. The weather 
 just now is like a New England October, the days 
 warm and cloudless, but the nights so cool that 
 two blankets do not come amiss. A heavy smoke 
 from the burning woods casts a haze over every- 
 thing, as in our Indian summer. The arm of the 
 sea upon which Victoria is looks beautiful in the 
 sunny afternoon, with the smoke just obscuring 
 the rocky, too barren shores, and veiling the white 
 houses of the village. 
 
 " Since I last wrote, I have, besides cruising 
 about the Island, seeing the points and the settle- 
 ments, taken a trip over to the American shore to 
 the coal mines on Bellington Bay. I took a large 
 clipper canoe, and five Indians, with one wife, and 
 provisions, etc., and started one fresh blowing morn- 
 ing when they thought it something of a risk to 
 go. It looked rather squally at first, but I soon 
 got confidence in my vessel, which went nobly 
 over the heavy swells, just on the safe side of dan- 
 ger the Indians highly excited as the seas struck 
 her. We crossed a somewhat dreaded traverse be- 
 tween this and a neighboring island, and then gen- 
 tly glided along among the smaller islands of the 
 archipelago. Everywhere the Indians were salmon 
 fishing, sometimes with a small flat net, extended 
 between two large canoes, and sometimes singly, in
 
 E-r. 24] WILD LIFE. 159 
 
 great fleets of little canoes, trolling with the line fas- 
 tened to a paddle. My Indians were of the Nook 
 Lummi tribe, and were in good spirits, as they 
 were going to visit their friends. Like all on that 
 coast, they were a careless, jolly, happy race, amus- 
 ing themselves with jokes and me with songs, some 
 of which were pretty and original. I tried to write 
 down the notes of one, and on laying down my 
 paper, one of them with a most quizzical look, pre- 
 tended to be able to sing it, the rest roaring with 
 laughter. Towards evening we landed in a deep, 
 quiet, solitary, tarn-like cove, walled in by rocks 
 and overhung by great pine trees. As the canoe 
 entered, thousands of ducks rose from the water, 
 and flew screaming about; but the door was shut 
 by the canoe ; when we fired, the whole place was 
 alive with echoes. As we landed, a young Indian 
 stepped on the cover of a box and split it; where- 
 upon the owner of the box and he became ' silex ' 
 or in the sulks; the former wrapped himself up in 
 his blanket toga, like the dying Caesar, and lying 
 down in the bottom of the boat, refused to be com- 
 forted; neither of them would eat anything, like a 
 pair of pouting children. After a while they re- 
 laxed, and were very glad to get some prog that 
 was put away for them. It was a capital evening, 
 and my kibobs of fresh mutton relished amazingly. 
 Then in the dim twilight we floated on, some pad- 
 dling and some sleeping, and made the destined 
 shore about midnight. Next morning I found that 
 by some misunderstanding (tremen. long word
 
 160 WILD LIFE. 1853] 
 
 that) we had come to the wrong part of the Bay, 
 or rather, were not in the Bay at all. Our course 
 then was inland, up a good sized river, thickly 
 shrouded with almost tropical vegetation. Pres- 
 ently we came to an Indian salmon weir, a high 
 framework of poles reaching across the stream, and 
 serving also as a light foot bridge at intervals, 
 wicker-work shields are suspended in the water, 
 and just against them, baskets, like a lobster pot; 
 the salmon, rushing up stream, is met by the shield, 
 and turning, falls into the pot. This fishery be- 
 longed to one of my men, and as we came, an In- 
 dian was just taking a noble salmon out; we ac- 
 cepted the invitation to breakfast, and such a 
 kettle of fish! of which a mighty portion was first 
 served out to me, sitting in state on a mat-covered 
 dais, in a hut neither clean nor well ventilated. 
 Hurrah for savage life ! " 
 
 "Dalles, Aug. 31st, 1853. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, I arrived here to-day across the 
 mountains from Nisqually, after an adventurous 
 and rather arduous journey of several days, in the 
 course of which I was pretty much thrown on my 
 own resources my Indian guide having left me 
 to shift for myself in the middle of a great prairie. 
 I have no time to give a full account. I arrived 
 to-day, and start to-morrow for Salt-Lake with the 
 mail carriers, and shall leave there, Oct. 1st, for 
 home, likewise with the mail. Write me to St. 
 Louis, so that I shall have news on my arrival.
 
 ^T. 24] RETURN. 161 
 
 No false start this time, I hope ! I am in much 
 haste to make my preparations for the morrow. 
 Captain Brent has just returned, and gives me an 
 excellent account of his trip." 
 
 Here for a time the letters cease, and the reader 
 must be referred to the pages of " The Canoe and the 
 Saddle," which contains Theodore Winthrop's own ac- 
 count of this wild journey across the Cascade Moun- 
 tains, with some notes upon the Dalles and their 
 legends, and a very amusing vocabulary of the be- 
 wildering Chinook Jargon, which is a true confusion 
 6f tongues. One of the legends is a weird reproduc- 
 tion in Indian folk lore of the tale of Eip Van Winkle, 
 a story so old and universal that it might have been 
 told by the shores of Atlantis. Another relates some 
 of those wonderful and supernatural leaps across chasms 
 such as we always hear of in mountain countries. The 
 volume also contains a sketch of life in the Isthmus, 
 which, like the other sketch, was written and thrown 
 aside (a fragment perhaps of some larger plan,) and 
 never prepared for publication. It seems fitting to 
 close this period of his life with his own words. 
 
 " So, on the morrow, I mounted a fresh horse, and 
 went galloping along on my way across the con- 
 tinent. With my comrades, a pair of frank, hearty, 
 kindly roughs, I rode over the dry plains of the 
 upper Columbia, beyond the sight of Mt. Hood and 
 Tacoma the less, across John Day's river and the 
 Umatilla, day after day, through throngs of emi- 
 grants with their flocks and their herds and their 
 little ones in great patriarchal caravans, with
 
 162 THE CANOE AND THE SADDLE. [1853 
 
 their white-roofed wagons strewed over the sur- 
 ging prairie, like sails on a populous sea, moving 
 away from the tame levels of mid America to 
 regions of fresher and more dramatic life on the 
 slopes toward the Western sea. I climbed the 
 Blue Mountains, looked over the lovely valley of 
 the Grande Ronde, wound through the stern denies 
 of the Burnt River Mountains, talked with the great 
 chiefs of the Nez Perces at Fort Boisee, dodged 
 treacherous Bannacks along the Snake, bought sal- 
 mon and otter skins of the Shoshonees at the 
 Salmon Falls, shot antelope, found many oases of 
 refreshing beauty along the breadth of that desolate 
 region, and so, after much adventure, and at last 
 deadly sickness, I came to the watermelon patches 
 of the Great Salt Lake valley, and drew recovery 
 thence. I studied the Utah landscape, Oriental, 
 simple and severe. I talked with Brother Brigham, 
 a man of very considerable power, practical sense 
 and administrative ability. I chatted with the 
 buxom thirteenth of a Boss Mormon and was not 
 proselyted. And then, in delicious October, I has- 
 tened on over the South Pass, through the buffalo, 
 over prairies on fire quenched at night by the first 
 snows of autumn. For two months I rode, with 
 days sweet and cloudless, and every night I 
 bivouacked beneath the splendor of unclouded stars. 
 And in all that period, when I was so near to Nature, 
 the great lessons of the wilderness deepened into 
 my heart, day by day, the hedges of conventionalism 
 withered away from my horizon, and all the ped-
 
 -3BT.26] ST. LOUIS. 163 
 
 antries of scholastic thought perished out of my 
 mind forever." ("Canoe and Saddle." Finis.) 
 
 Here then was a turning-point in Winthrop's career, 
 or at least in his mental experience, and one of which 
 he was himself conscious, if not at the moment, at 
 least not long after. Few records of this time can be 
 found in letters and journals, but the seed sown then 
 bore abundant fruit upon the pages of " John Brent." 
 
 At St. Louis he stopped awhile with kind friends and 
 relatives, and enjoyed the society of his classmate and 
 dear friend Henry Hitchcock, who had settled there 
 a nephew of Gen. Hitchcock, U. S. A. This visit to 
 St. Louis had much influence upon his future life, and 
 movements. He has often spoken of his delight in 
 being with his friends once more and among culti- 
 vated people and lovely women. About this time his 
 mind began to be full of the visions of authorship, or 
 rather the visions he had always had began to take 
 form and to become plans. On his return home, at a 
 white heat with the excitement of his adventurous 
 journeys, he began to write or sketch out many 
 things, some of which afterward arranged themselves 
 into permanent shape. It is impossible to fix the dates 
 of these first ideas. Many of them doubtless darted 
 into his mind as he galloped over the great plains, 
 or through the tangled tropic forests, and others were 
 long seething in his brain, before anything was put 
 upon paper. He was at Salt Lake City on Sept. 28th, 
 1853, and returned home on Nov. 28th, stopping at 
 Fort Bridger, and staying awhile at the. hospitable 
 Fort Laramie, where his visit is still talked of, and 
 the house where he lived pointed out. The pictures
 
 164 POEMS. [1853 
 
 of that journey, live upon his pages of after days the 
 Indian, the settler, the lonely fort, the slow moving 
 caravan, the Mormon fanatic. Some of his poems 
 belong to this period, and are full of reminiscences of 
 the Plains, such as these. 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Dreamy, dreamy moonlight over plain, 
 
 Over river softly shifting light; 
 Dreamy dark, the forest mountain chain 
 
 Marks glimmering outlines on the night. 
 
 Dreamy hopes of unimagined bliss 
 Breathe, passing into mournful sighs, 
 
 Breezes whisper hopes of happiness; 
 Catch the sweet murmur ere it dies ! 
 
 Brief, oh too faintly, sadly brief, 
 
 Fitful dreams drifted, drifted on, 
 Swift as the flicker of a leaf, 
 
 Shook glancing hope and then were gone ! 
 
 Stay, tender dreamy moonlight peace ! 
 
 Queenly calmness, sweep along my sky ! 
 Day blasts me, action will not cease, 
 
 March we must, ever wearily ! 
 
 March we will, true men will be true ! 
 
 Yet in our harsh and bitter days, 
 Sweetly pausing moments will renew 
 
 Gleams of these soothing moonlight rays. 
 
 Never fairer, dim dreamy world ! 
 
 Banners of man's hostile daylight strife 
 Droop listless, all peaceful furled, 
 
 Sweet grows the friendliness of life.
 
 MT. 25] POEMS. 165 
 
 FOKEST FIBE. 
 
 Oh ! glorious comrade ! how we welcomed him ! 
 The broad and friendly glow, the smile, the laugh, 
 The speaking sparkles. Not a moment still, 
 But merrier than gayest merriment, 
 And startling oft, as thoughts seize name and live, 
 Live in the soul, till gloom falls utterly. 
 Welcome, divine one ! banquet brilliantly, 
 Feast thou, the festal hero ! now we stand 
 Most willing servitors. Be lavish long 
 
 FIEE UP! 
 
 Eevelry ! revelry ! 
 O ! might my soul be like a flame ! 
 
 Making gloom glory, 
 To engulf with light the shame 
 
 Of a world's dark story ! 
 
 Oh splendor, brilliancy ! 
 
 Shout with me victory ! 
 Suddenly victor, one flash, 
 
 And circles shrinking, 
 Of night from that patriot dash, 
 
 Nightward are sinking. 
 
 Eevelry ! revelry ! 
 Yes, noble knight, thou hast won ! 
 
 Take thy grand pleasure, 
 Mantle with splendor the dim, 
 
 Lavish thy treasure !
 
 166 FRAGMENTS. [1853 
 
 Fading, soon fading ! 
 Torture as keen will be thine, 
 
 When dying flame lashes 
 Its death for one fleeting shine, 
 
 Then sinks to ashes. 
 
 PEOSE FRAGMENT. 
 
 (Supposed Fragment of a Tale.) 
 
 Out of the forest on fire, on to the plain, the wide 
 plain sweeping up to the swelling hills, restless surg- 
 ing hills, tending to limitless horizons beyond the edge 
 of the world, I came alone, off from the snow peaks, 
 down across the piny mountains. The chill wind 
 blew, bringing dismal snow squalls from the wintry 
 sky, a torn angry sky, frowning upon the flaming 
 woods. Hot blasts came, mingled with cold snow- 
 flakes. Alone and objectless I went. I passed the 
 hills, utterly cold, cold as my heart, and came among 
 the desolate rocks over the river, desolate as the 
 world's end black volcanic rocks. And the river had 
 fled, and was ever flying, bursting in agonized strug- 
 gles through the harsh rocks ! Alone and hopeless I 
 rode. Why should I struggle further. Let me die 
 here, of cold and despair. I mounted the last hill, 
 vast swelling hill, broad curving hill, brown with 
 parched grass that died long ago when there was 
 summer, and looked upon the valley of Death, worse 
 than death, of no life, lone and horrible as a deserted 
 hell. Here let me starve and die. I looked my last 
 upon the ice peaks, that leagues upon their further
 
 ^ET. 25] FRAGMENTS. 167 
 
 side, looked on the vales of my youth and peace, be- 
 fore I murdered all my hopes, and went wandering 
 haunted 
 
 FBAGMENTS DAWN. 
 
 Dawn glimmers through the forest edge of plains, 
 The thinly crisping waves gleam with faint light, 
 
 Singly the stars are captured, as day gains 
 
 Its upward marches. Shivering flies the night. 
 
 Broad golden dawn above a waste of snow, 
 Showers of gold upon a glittering field, 
 
 As when a peerless lady smiles her love 
 
 On her true knight who wears a silver shield. 
 
 Then a bold sunrise. Mists fall down and drift 
 Low on the earth, as doubts desert the sky 
 
 "When the old darkness of the world is rift 
 
 To brave youth, looking with hope-lighted eye. 
 
 FEAGMENTS. 
 
 'Tis the wild battle, 'tis the crashing charge 
 The shout of victory the maddened shout 
 The ecstatic agony of victor death. 
 
 Down the valley we came at a run, 
 Sunset behind and the water before, 
 
 "Wild hills beside us one by one; 
 
 We could race with night but a moment more.
 
 168 FRAGMENTS. [1853 
 
 A stony valley ! skeletons lay 
 
 Where weary cattle had sunk to death; 
 
 Ghastlier seemed the twilight gray, 
 Drearier night drew over the heath 
 
 Men have called Death the relentless, a Eeaper, 
 But too hasty, he gathers unripened his grain, 
 
 Or himself stern and fleshless, cares not for his harvest, 
 And strides with delight o'er a desolate plain. 
 
 Sorrows are servants of Death, not so daring, 
 
 As they stay the fresh hopes our bright comrades 
 of life, 
 
 And the soul stands as lonely as in a burned forest 
 Uprises a pine tree, unscorched from the strife. 
 
 "A bounding gallop is good 
 
 Over wide plains; 
 A wild free sail is good 
 
 'Mid gales and rains; 
 A dashing dance is good 
 
 Broad halls along, 
 Clasping and whirling on, 
 
 Through the gay throng. 
 But better than these, 
 When the great lakes freeze, 
 By the clear sharp light, 
 Of a starry night, 
 O'er the ice spinning,
 
 25] EAST AND WEST. 169 
 
 With a long free sweep, 
 Cutting and ringing, 
 Forward we keep ! 
 Or round and around, 
 "With a sharp clear sound, 
 To fly like a fish in the sea, 
 Ah, this is the sport for me ! 
 
 (Printed in ST. NICHOLAS, Jan., 1880.) 
 
 THE EAST AND THE WEST. 
 
 (Printed in the ATLANTIC MONTHLY, April, 1863.) 
 
 We of the East spread our sails to the sea, 
 
 You of the West stride over the land, 
 Both are to scatter the hopes of the free 
 
 As the sower sheds golden grain from his hand. 
 
 'Tis ours to circle the stormy bends 
 Of a continent, yours its ridge to cross; 
 
 We must double the capes where a long world ends, 
 Lone cliffs, where two enemy oceans toss. 
 
 They meet and are baffled 'mid tempest and wrath; 
 
 Breezes are skirmishing, angry winds roar, * 
 While poised on some desperate plunge of our path 
 
 We count up the blackening wrecks on the shore. 
 
 And you, through dreary and thirsty ways 
 Where rivers are sand, and winds are dust, 
 
 Through sultry nights and feverish days 
 Move westward still, as the sunsets must.
 
 170 EAST AND WEST. [1853 
 
 Where the scorched air quivers along the slopes, 
 Where the slow-footed cattle lie down and die, 
 
 Where horizons draw backward, till baffled hopes 
 Are weary of measureless waste and sky. 
 
 Yes ! ours to battle relentless gales, 
 
 And yours the brave and the patient way; 
 
 But we hold the storms in our trusty sails, 
 And for you, the life-giving fountains play. 
 
 There are stars above us, and stars for you, 
 Best on the path and calm on the main; 
 
 Storms are but zephyrs when hearts are true: 
 We are no weaklings, quick to complain, 
 
 When lightnings flash bivouac fires into gloom, 
 And with crashing of forests the rains sheet down; 
 
 Or when ships plunge onward where night clouds 
 
 loom, 
 Defiant of darkness, and meeting its frown. 
 
 These are the days of motion, and march; 
 
 Now we are ardent, and young and brave; 
 Let those who come after us build the arch 
 
 Of our triumph, and plant with the laurel our grave. 
 
 Time enough to rear temples when heroes are dead; 
 
 Time enough to sing paeans after the fight; 
 Prophets urge onward the future's tread; 
 
 We we are to kindle its beacon light ! 
 
 Our sires lit torches of quenchless flame, 
 
 To illumine our darkness, if night should be, 
 
 But day is a friend to our standards, and shame 
 Be ours, if we win not the victory !
 
 JET. 25] EAST AND WEST. 171 
 
 Man is nobler than men have been, 
 
 Souls are vaster than souls have dreamed, 
 
 There are broader oceans than eyes have seen, 
 Noons more glowing than yet have beamed. 
 
 Creeping shadows cower low on our land: 
 
 These shall not dim our grander day; 
 Stainless knights must be those who stand 
 
 Full in the van of a world's array ! 
 
 When shall we cease our meager distrust ? 
 
 When to each other our true hearts yield? 
 To make this world an Eden, we must 
 
 Fling away each weapon and shield, 
 
 And meet each man as a friend and mate; 
 
 Trample and spurn and forget our pride, 
 Glad to accept an equal fate, 
 
 Laboring, conquering, side by side !
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DAEIEN. 
 
 AGAIN the noble and prophetic images of a soldier's 
 life and an early death arise in his mind, but only 
 as apt thoughts and fancies, not at all as presentiments. 
 His mind was too healthy for presentiments, yet the 
 constant use of these metaphors seems singular after 
 the fact. But even thoughts, visions, or preparations 
 for authorship, could not quench the thirst for adven- 
 ture that was not yet assuaged in his heart. The white 
 heat was not yet cooled, nor was the fire indeed ever 
 burned out. He received an offer to join the Darien 
 Expedition, under Lieutenant Strain, to prospect for 
 a ship canal across the Isthmus. His friend Mr. As- 
 pinwall was desirous to have him go, in order that the 
 facts regarding the possibility of the route might be 
 well understood. The Panama E. R Co. could not 
 well be in favor of any other route than their own 
 across the Isthmus at that tune, and was naturally de- 
 sirous to know if any other was practicable. But it 
 was for the adventure and the experience of the thing, 
 more than for any other reason, that Theodore Win- 
 throp started again on a voyage at the end of Decem- 
 ber 1853, having been little more than a month at home. 
 
 "New York, Dec. 1853. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, I am off again once more for 
 the tropics, as a volunteer in the U. S. Commission
 
 Mr. 25] THE CYANE. 173 
 
 for Survey of the proposed canal route across the 
 Isthmus of Darien, sixty miles or so to the south 
 of Panama. As a volunteer I get no pay, but have 
 all my expenses paid. We sail on Monday in the 
 sloop-of-war Cyane, Captain Hollins. Lieutenant 
 Strain is the ship engineer. My few minutes con- 
 versation with him shows him to be a gentleman. 
 The way of it was this : I heard incidentally at the 
 Panama R. R. office, that there was an agent here 
 on the part of the British Company for the canal, 
 and called upon him to inquire, ending by offer- 
 ing my services, should the thing be carried out. 
 He also told me that the Cyane had not sailed, and 
 after thinking over the matter, I went back and 
 told him I should like to go down in her. We met 
 Mr. Strain, and the arrangement was made in two 
 minutes. They were very glad to have me go, and 
 I do so with especial reference to future employ in 
 their Company. I wish you would come down to- 
 morrow and see me before I go. I shall be at very 
 little expense a few flannel shirts. Don't fail to 
 come. My place is that of any officer employed in 
 the Expedition, except that I shall have no respon- 
 sibility, and no pay. We shall be gone about three 
 months. It is the most favorable season." 
 
 "U. S. Sloop-of-War CYANE, i 
 "Mono, Passage, Jan. 1st, 1854. 1 
 
 "Ten knots an hour down the N. E. trades, shel- 
 tered under a sail from the sun of the tropics, a 
 fresh cool breeze following fast, a brilliant sea with 
 sparkling foam-crests, a clean ship, with black con-
 
 174 THE CYANE. [1854 
 
 trast of battery, plenty of sailor life strewed over 
 the decks in Sunday rig, a dim outline of Hayti 
 on the starboard quarter, hopes of Cartagena in a 
 few days, these are the pleasures of our New 
 Year's day, and go to counterbalance the minor 
 discomforts of our sea life. Its outset was not so 
 agreeable. The second day we thrust ourselves 
 into a Hatteras hurricane, and I passed the second 
 miserable night of my life. Lying loose upon the 
 wet floor of the Wardroom, suffering agonies of 
 seasickness, conscious that a most fearful gale was 
 blowing, and we might be wrecked; with rushes 
 of water pouring down all the hatches, as the big 
 seas washed fore and aft, I half died, till we pitched 
 and rolled out of trouble, and all there was to trouble 
 had been pitched and rolled out of me. Thence- 
 forward we had better fortune. The marrow-chill- 
 ing cold of our first days gave place to warmth. 
 Warmth is now heat, till I am conscious that cravats 
 are only a martyr's sacrifice to northern civilization, 
 and regret that my stock of thin coats will be half 
 out when this one is dirty. Being supernumeraries 
 on board a man-of-war, where there is no room to 
 spare, our party of ten has to take up with very 
 scanty accommodations, but we manage to bring 
 into play, 'the more the merrier,' we rough it 
 really, in fare as well as space, but have always 
 fine weather and a clear deck, with the run of the 
 officers' quarters. Captain Hollins is a rough sort 
 of jolly customer. The Lieutenants I find all good 
 lei Iowa
 
 . 25] SEA LIFE. 175 
 
 "The magnificent weather continues. We have 
 a glorious breeze, and sail nobly away, hoping to 
 make one of the shortest passages on record to 
 Cartagena. On deck the air is delicious, but 
 below very hot. Life on board a man-of-war is 
 much more varied than on a passenger ship. Ex- 
 ercising at the guns, inspections, and the general 
 discipline of a ship's company of two hundred men 
 break completely upon any possible monotony. 
 We have gone so fast and so favorably, that we 
 have had no time to be bored. To-day we have 
 awnings spread, and lie about, chatting on the 
 decks. I dined with the Captain, and sat all the 
 evening, having a very pleasant time. He has 
 seen a great deal of service, beginning on board 
 the President, and was in the action when she was 
 captured by the British squadron. The last few 
 days have been delightful. We had constant 
 showers, but were protected by the awning. The 
 nights were brilliant, the stars soft, the moon was 
 lovely, and the ship sailing always with a fine ten 
 or twelve knot trade. The night of the third, the 
 wind being almost a gale, we lay to, for fear of 
 overrunning the port, and next morning in view 
 of the low coast, sailed along, until about mid-day 
 we came in sight of the town. It lies on low ground, 
 directly upon the beach, where a heavy surf was 
 rolling, but the harbor is back of the town, and 
 entered by the Boca Chica, a narrow passage, de- 
 fended by two noble batteries. Through this you
 
 176 CARTAGENA [1854 
 
 enter a noble bay, landlocked like a lake, in the 
 bosom of the deep forest, which rises on hills of 
 considerable elevation. Down this great bay we 
 beat against the wind, which, a gale outside, was 
 tempered by the land into a breeze. We were 
 abreast of the city at noon, but it was sunset when 
 we left the Cyane, now gliding along as quietly as 
 if she had never known what tumult was, and 
 pulled ashore in the cool evening, delighted with 
 terrafirma" 
 
 "Cartagena, Jan. 7th. 
 
 " Above the town and about three miles inland is 
 a high ridge, terminating in a precipice, a striking 
 object, and giving a noble view of the expanse of 
 the inland lake in its setting of green woods. I 
 have just returned from a before-breakfast ride to 
 the top of this hill, La Popa. A narrow winding 
 path leads to the top where there is a telegraph 
 station, and an old ruined convent the old and 
 the new meet there as elsewhere. The old fortifi- 
 cations are massive and magnificent. They are 
 built partly of coral rock and there is a grand 
 broad battery looking out to sea, which would be 
 the glory of any American town. There is a gen- 
 eral air of shabbiness and decay. The houses are 
 like what I desci-ibed to you in Panama, of two 
 stories, and with projecting balconies, and great 
 door- windows; entered below through a heavy 
 portal, and are built on arches, and round a court. 
 It is evident that the city has been rich and splen- 
 did, and even now, a little prosperity would make
 
 ^T. 25] CARTAGENA. 177 
 
 it a fine place. However decayed these old towns 
 may be, to me they are always interesting roman- 
 tically ruinous, with their neglected gardens and 
 shrubs, in the courts where the sun hardly enters. 
 The old Viceroyal palace has been imposing, with 
 its double arcade, but looks shabby now. Though 
 the heat here is intense in the day, there are cool 
 sea breezes, and the moonlight nights are perfect. 
 The day after our arrival, there was an official in- 
 terview with the Governor. No U. S. Man-of-war 
 has been here for many years, and we created 
 quite a sensation. We do not, however, get much 
 information about our destination nobody here 
 has been there, and they are afraid of the Indians 
 but we do not need it, as our party will probably 
 be the first to cross. We learn fhat an English, 
 arid probably a French man-of-war, will rendezvous 
 on this side, to aid in the survey, and the Virago, 
 that I met at Vancouver, has already been dis- 
 patched to the Gulf of San Miguel on the other 
 side. The Governor informs us that an officer of 
 New Granada with a party wishes us to wait. He 
 is expected daily, but we shall probably have to 
 stay till the latter part of next week. I still regard 
 the success of the expedition as very doubtful. Most 
 of the party have come on shore and are at the 
 Hotel. Last night, Twelfth Night, was dis- 
 tinguished by a half-masked ball, given under a 
 tent or awning, in front of the old Palace of the 
 Inquisition. The square was full of the common 
 people gambling and dancing, and the town lighted,
 
 178 CALEDONIA BAY. [1854 
 
 and crowded with promenaders and maskers, looked 
 quite lively. There was not so much beauty as 
 we used to see in Panama. I am very glad to 
 see this noble old place, one of the great centers 
 of old Spanish commerce." 
 
 "Feb. 16th, 1854. 
 
 " We have been lying quietly some time in 
 Caledonia Bay the survey of the harbor proceed- 
 ing rapidly. There is no definite news of our 
 exploring party, absent now nearly four weeks 
 my anxiety about them is becoming intense. 
 Knowing the character of the country, I cannot 
 but fear for their safety, especially as the rumors 
 from the Indians are in general unfavorable. This 
 is a most beautiful bay, and the presence of four 
 men-of-war, with their boats constantly moving, 
 gives life to the scene. We lie here as in a smooth 
 lake, stretching some ten miles up the coast, and 
 sheltered to seaward by a range of coral " cayes," 
 covered with impenetrable mangroves, and trav- 
 ersed by numberless channels, exquisite narrow 
 lanes of water, through which the boat slips, her 
 oars almost touching either side. The main land 
 of the Isthmus lies to the south-west mountain 
 rising above mountain, covered with the dark 
 foliage of this climate. These dark woods look 
 imposing in the distance, but gloomy enough when 
 you are encamped in their untrodden recesses. 
 Their color is relieved by some purple flowering 
 trees, and by the wheel of the graceful cocoa palm. 
 If one were asked to pick out a spot seemingly im-
 
 -&T. 25] CALEDONIA BAY. 179 
 
 practicable for a canal, he could hardly find one 
 more completely so than this Isthmus, as we see 
 it from the ship. The eye hardly finds a resting- 
 place of level ground, in following back the suc- 
 cessive ridges that lead up to the Cordillera, the 
 back bone of the Isthmus, that within ten miles of 
 the shore, rises to the height of two thousand to 
 four thousand feet. As you advance into the in- 
 terior you find the anticipated difficulties realized, 
 the mountains are solid, craggy, lofty; the for- 
 ests are impenetrable, except as you cut your 
 way through their net work; the rivers are tor- 
 rents, up whose beds and over whose slippery 
 rocks walking is no joke. But to begin at the 
 beginning. 
 
 " We sailed from Cartagena on Jan. 13th. Early 
 on the 17th, we cast anchor in this Bay. A few 
 Indians came on board and begged the Captain 
 not to land, till they should have communicated 
 with their chiefs. They are a small race, with 
 slight but active forms, brown flat Indian faces, 
 shapeless features, but bright quick eyes, noticing 
 everything. They navigate in good canoes, made 
 of coarse mahogany. Capt. Hollins agreed to re- 
 ceive on board a council of chiefs, a boat being 
 dispatched fifteen miles, to bring a 'great old 
 man.' I went also. We had a dangerous time 
 among the breakers in a heavy swell, but the trip 
 was interesting. The weather was too bad to re- 
 turn the same day, so we staid aboard a small 
 schooner at anchor in the Bay the Indians re-
 
 180 CALEDONIA BAY. [1854 
 
 questing us not to land. We lost however the 
 council of chiefs they came on board at eleven 
 A. M. and staid till about midnight, discussing, 
 without food, when they agreed that we should 
 enter the country, on Capt. Rollins' assurance that 
 he would do so at all events. This deference to 
 the Indians, was in accordance with the instruc- 
 tions of the Secretary of the Navy, who expressly 
 forbade any leading to hostilities. We attributed 
 the unwillingness of the Indians to policy, but 
 afterwards found that they feared punishment for 
 the murder of four English sailors from the Virago. 
 The council was described as very amusing the 
 gravity of the Indians, and their emphatic in- 
 articulate language, their odd state dresses, old 
 European coats and no trowsers. They live com- 
 fortably in good huts, have plenty of food, and 
 trade for shirts, arms, etc. This insignificant race 
 is the only one, except the Japanese, that has kept 
 itself isolated from all intercourse with strangers, 
 save a little trading along shore. We were now 
 to enter the forests of their unknown country, 
 where one Indian is an army, and even with all 
 their assurances, much caution is necessary. They 
 appeared to think a canal not very easy. 'Too 
 much hill 'pose Jesus Christ He want um canal 
 He make um, He no want um, He no make um.' 
 They have very little idea of religion, and show a 
 sort of respect to rude wooden idols, painted in 
 coats, pants, and hats. There is something re- 
 spectable in the proud independence they show,
 
 Mr. 25] TROPICAL NIGHT. 181 
 
 refusing presents, refusing to trade, and deserting 
 their homes while we are here. 
 
 "On the evening of January 19th we disem- 
 barked in the heavy surf on the beach no good 
 landing-place having as yet been discovered and 
 some of them got everything wet. I had already 
 satisfied myself, on board ship, that the party was 
 badly provided, and would be badly managed on 
 shore, and anticipated trouble. We camped that 
 night in some huts on the beach, and about noon, 
 started, part paddling, part dragging a canoe up 
 the Caledonia, a considerable stream, the bed of 
 the proposed canal. At evening, having made 
 about five miles, we came to a charming cacao- 
 grove,* and a large hut, just abandoned, where we 
 were glad to colonize. The cacao is a pretty, reg- 
 ular tree about thirty feet high, with a large oval 
 leaf. The great rough, red pod that holds the fruit 
 hangs all over the tree, and grows frequently out 
 of the trunk. Up to this point, the river, clear as 
 crystal, had been easy in its descent, though rapid. 
 I shall never forget that first night ! My watch 
 was from twelve to two o'clock; the moon had just 
 risen ; it was the type of a tropical night, soft and 
 clear, a glow of starlight, and from time to time 
 clouds passing over the moon made everything look 
 weird and strange. Every now and then one of 
 the men would think he saw something moving in 
 the woods, which I found to be moonshine. A 
 dense forest surrounded us, and from it came in- 
 
 Cacao tree, not cocoa palnj,
 
 182 EXPLORING. [3854 
 
 numerable sounds of insect life, with strange 
 screams of monkeys, and occasionally the cat-like 
 rnew of the tiger. The party lay snoring, each 
 man according to his own idea of music. Next 
 morning we marched one and a half miles up the 
 river, to the junction of branches, following first 
 the east branch, till it became such a mere torrent as 
 to stop the Ship Canal in that quarter. Some of the 
 party pursued the branch with me, further, finding 
 it a clear mountain stream, falling some one hun- 
 dred feet to the mile, down a gorge in the chain. 
 It was a New England stream in the tropics, over- 
 hung with drooping palms and vine canopies very 
 unfit for clipper ships. Keturning we took the 
 other branch. This is the hardest walking one can 
 do, and when you add to wading for hours in the 
 stony bed of a rapid stream, the load of your knap- 
 sack with ten days' prog, change of clothes, pistol, 
 ammunition and carbine, all with the mercury at 
 80 ' F., it is indeed wearisome. Most glad we were 
 to come to camp in a charming spot on the west 
 branch. Next morning we pursued the stream, 
 and in two hours, coming to a gorge which we 
 could not pass in the river bed, the word was given 
 to take to the hillside. This was very steep and 
 thickly wooded, and when I had, with much diffi- 
 culty clambered round into the stream again, I 
 found I was joined by only four of the party. 
 Here we stopped, and waited for the rest, firing 
 the concerted signal. After waiting nearly two 
 hours and finding the shots apparently tending up
 
 ^T. 25] EXPLORING. 183 
 
 stream, and above us, still in pursuance of orders, 
 we followed slowly up, expecting every moment to 
 overtake them. 
 
 " But we saw nothing of them, and following up 
 the whole of that day, passed the night on a little 
 bit of smooth rock, the only spot large enough to 
 hold us. Above, the stream came falling in a suc- 
 cession of tumbling cascades, and on each side rose 
 high mountains. Up the mountain, to the right, 
 we cut a path next morning, finding a summit of, 
 say two thousand feet. From a tree on the top, we 
 could see nothing but similar mountains, clothed 
 with profound forests. Mr. Holcomb, one of our 
 five, has been many years in these countries, as 
 engineer on canals and railroads, and volunteered 
 to join us. He knew more of the country and how 
 to proceed than all the rest put together. I had 
 some experience by this time, and we two could 
 decide best as to a safe course. We had reached 
 a point where no further progress was possible up 
 the stream, and had no compass to guide us for- 
 ward or backward in these forests, where a vertical 
 sun is no help, and there are none of the indications 
 of northern woods. We had only one hatchet for 
 cutting our path, and perhaps three days' provisions. 
 So we decided to retrace our steps to the ship, 
 searching by the way for traces of the party, and 
 succeeded in reaching it the following day. Hav- 
 ing made our report, Capt. Hollins dispatched two 
 parties on our recommendation, one to follow fur- 
 ther the east branch, and the other, with Holcomb
 
 184 EXPLORING. [1854 
 
 and myself, to try and discover the route taken by 
 our main party, and carry them relief During our 
 absence H. M. Brig Espiegk and French steamer 
 Chimere had arrived bringing the English engi- 
 neers. We had met their exploring party, some 
 sixty in number, as we came down to the beach. 
 
 " When we arrived at the forks of the Kiver, the 
 officer in command, who had been instructed to 
 detach certain men with relief for Strain, for rea- 
 sons of his own, diminished our number and stores. 
 However, Holcomb and I determined to push on, 
 and even if we could not find the other party, to 
 explore something of the interior. This time we 
 had four men and three gentlemen, a compass, and 
 for want of ' machete^,' shai-p cutlasses to cut paths, 
 extra shoes, but not the proper amount of provi- 
 sions." 
 
 " By making long marches the first and second 
 days, and cutting into the woods, we managed to 
 strike, near the spot where the party had separated, 
 an Indian trail, which they had followed. We 
 traced it, though little marked by them, up and 
 down high hills, for about two hours, till we came 
 to a email stream, flowing apparently into the Pa- 
 cific. Here we found their camp, and a note in a 
 forked stick. The only way we can account for 
 their turning off so suddenly is, that overjoyed at 
 finding this trail, Mr. Strain forgot that some of 
 the party must according to his orders be follow- 
 ing the stream, and pushed on, trusting to his fir- 
 ing to bring us along, whereas, had he thought of
 
 JET. 25] THE SEARCH. 185 
 
 sending a messenger up stream, he would have 
 found us waiting for him. His note said that he 
 would follow down the small stream, thinking it a 
 tributary to the Kiver we were in search of, the 
 Savanna, leaving it, and cutting across, should its 
 course prove unfavorable. On examining every- 
 thing carefully, our conclusion was to cut in a 
 diagonal on our course, thinking we might fall in 
 with traces of the party. We proceeded all day 
 across the ridges, cutting our path slowly, over 
 places that were nearly precipitous, and then were 
 obliged to camp on a sloping mountain side, so 
 steep that I was constantly obliged to pull myself 
 back into place. We cut down palm leaves for a 
 bed, but there was poor sleep for any one. A fire 
 was essential, to keep off tigers. 
 
 " The next day we cut our way to the summit 
 of the ridge, about three thousand feet high, and 
 clearing away the trees, got a view of the bay and 
 ships, eleven or twelve miles off at the least. You 
 can have no idea of the thickness of these woods ; 
 sometimes not a step in advance is possible, unless 
 you cut your way through matted vines and bushes, 
 and worse, the long sword-like leaves of the prickly 
 pinuela. Proceeding a little further, we cut our 
 way to the west, hoping to have a view likewise 
 toward the Pacific, but we saw nothing but more 
 mountains. There was a long valley in our course, 
 which we followed down till we found a little level 
 where we camped early and rested. I made my 
 bed under an exquisite young palm, but he did not
 
 186 THE SEARCH. [1854 
 
 shelter me from the showers which are frequent 
 here. Next morning we started, everything wet, 
 and pitching down a precipice of one thousand feet 
 by aid of trees and vines, came to the romantic 
 gorge of our stream. Its course was exactly what 
 we wished, and receiving almost immediately sev- 
 eral branches, it became a considerable river, flowing 
 through the most romantic scenery. From all we 
 had heard we inferred that this river was the Sa- 
 vanna, and followed it, almost certain of overtaking 
 our party. For two days and a half we followed 
 the River, which wound more and more, finding 
 occasionally traces of Indians, and one small plan- 
 tain patch, whence we heard a gun, which we 
 supposed was a signal from our party. On pro- 
 ceeding to the spot the Indian had made tracks. 
 On the second day we became convinced that the 
 river was not the Savanna but the Chaqunque, 
 which, according to the English engineers, ought 
 to have been in quite another place. But nothing 
 could exceed the unreliability of our information 
 it was all wrong. We determined to follow this 
 stream as long as our provisions would allow. As 
 the Eiver grew larger, we could no longer march 
 in its bed, but had to leave it constantly and cut. 
 On the noon of the third day's march down the 
 River, Holcomb and I left the party, and, climbing 
 to the top of the highest hill, took a survey of the 
 country to the west. No level, but a high coast 
 range shut out the view. A point had now been 
 reached beyond which it was not safe to venture,
 
 JEi. 25] THE SEARCH. 187 
 
 without risking our lives; our provisions barely 
 sufficed for our return, and to cut our way across 
 to some unknown point on the Gulf of San Miguel 
 might be perilous. So we turned back, repassing 
 the same way, and seeing some game, wild turkeys, 
 deer, monkeys, ducks, and tracks of wild hog, 
 tigers and tapirs. Reaching the Indian's hut again, 
 still deserted, we were glad to borrow some of his 
 plantains to make a grand feast, and started, re- 
 freshed, carrying some with us. It was always 
 difficult to sleep, from watchfulness, fatigue, and 
 the noises of the woods, and I used to move in the 
 morning, very seedy." 
 
 "We made some terrible marches on our re- 
 turn, putting two and a half days' march into one, 
 being able to do it on account of the path we had 
 cut, and reached the ship on the evening of the 
 ninth day. Both the other parties had arrived 
 before us, without penetrating more than ten miles 
 or so into the Cordillera, and that not in a direct 
 line. At the lowest estimate, we had gone, say 
 forty-five miles, more than far enough to have 
 reached tide water on the Pacific had we been in 
 the right way, and not misinformed. If nothing 
 should be heard of our first party, these falsities will 
 be one cause of their loss. For there is now reason 
 to fear that they have met with some dreadful fate, 
 though we by no means give up hope. Since the 
 note we found, which was dated Jan. 24th, up to 
 to-day, Feb. 17th, nothing has been heard of the 
 party, and we fear starvation, exhaustion, or pos-
 
 188 CALEDONIA BAY. [1854 
 
 sibly violence from the Indians, may have destroyed 
 them. One of the engineers has started for the 
 interior with an Indian guide. 
 
 "Feb. 19th. We have now in port the Cyane, 
 the British brig Devastation and surveying schoon- 
 er Scorpion French steamer Chimere, a coasting 
 steamer, and a New Grenadian force of about eighty 
 men. Nothing is doing but the survey of the bay, 
 nothing is heard of the missing party. It is prob- 
 able that in a few days a carefully equipped party 
 will be dispatched in search of them. Time hangs 
 heavy, for anxiety about their fate is always pres- 
 ent to my mind, but it is pleasant on board, the 
 climate is delightful, with a fresh breeze, mercury 
 at 80 R, ship in fine order, Capt. Rollins very 
 amusing, sensible, and full of jolly yarns. Civili- 
 ties pass between the vessels, and I have the pleas- 
 antest kind of intercourse with the officers. We 
 vary the monotony by a sail, or a little fishing or 
 shooting." 
 
 " Caledonia Bay, Feb. 22d, 1854. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER: It gives me a strange feeling 
 to think of the possibility of the loss of our whole 
 party, and that if Holcomb and I had not been 
 separated from them, there was much more chance 
 of their safety. Why should five out of the twenty- 
 seven have been saved by the merest accident, and 
 the remainder have perished, as we fear, by the most 
 dreadful of deaths ? Life is of very little value to 
 me, as I shall never accomplish anything in it, but 
 there is something very desperate in the idea of
 
 M-r. 25] SEARCH RELINQUISHED. 189 
 
 death in this wilderness. There is still a possibility 
 of their safety, all our anxiety may be thrown away, 
 and I endeavor to put away desperate thoughts. A 
 very few days will decide. Meantime everything 
 goes on quietly on board. It is tedious, but I must 
 wait till I hear of the party, though I have been 
 offered a passage in the Espiegle." 
 
 From printed Account. 
 
 "It is difficult to imagine how any men in their 
 senses could have been so totally deceived with re- 
 gard to the whole character of the Isthmus as those 
 two engineers. If there is no better passageway 
 than this, the ship canal is impracticable. We of- 
 fered to refit and continue the search, but this was 
 not considered necessary by Capt. Hollins. Mr. 
 Holcomb, finding that nothing remained to be done, 
 and thinking Lieut. Strain must have crossed safely 
 to the Pacific, took passage in a coasting vessel to 
 Aspinwall. No further search was undertaken 
 while the Cyane lay in Caledonia Bay. As time 
 passed, great anxiety began to be felt, but it was 
 not till she had sailed to Aspinwall that we were 
 convinced of their loss. Capt. Hollins distinctly 
 informed me that no further search would be un- 
 dertaken, and that the expedition was at an end. I 
 therefore requested and received from him a formal 
 letter of discharge, and took passage, with Messrs. 
 Holcomb and Bird in a steamer for New York. 
 Shortly after my arrival, I received letters from 
 the Cyane. stating that their plans had been unex-
 
 190 RETURN HOME. [1854 
 
 pectedly changed and that they should renew the 
 search. I subsequently heard of the arrival of Lieut. 
 Strain and his party on the Pacific, without aid 
 from the ship. The above is a plain statement of 
 facts. Justice to myself and the gentlemen placed 
 in a similar position renders it necessary to make 
 this explicit denial of any wish to separate from 
 Lieut. Strain's party, or of our neglect to do all 
 in our power to search for, and relieve him. We 
 acted through all under the orders and with the 
 approval of Capt. Hollins." 
 
 Lieut. Strain reached the Pacific in safety, after un- 
 dergoing great hardships and losing several men by 
 exhaustion and starvation, and the whole expedition 
 was a failure. 
 
 Theodore Winthrop reached home in March, 1854. 
 Here ends his period of travel and adventure; and 
 after this time his mind was occupied in using this ma- 
 terial, and in making various essays toward the liter- 
 ary life he longed for, in planning and beginning tales 
 and novels, and finally in writing the novels which 
 gave him posthumous fame. They were most care- 
 fully written and re-written, cast and re-cast. He used 
 to say that he could not sleep at night sometimes, for 
 the plots of stories that ran in his head. Among his 
 writings are dozens of these, sketched out or hinted 
 at, and often several different beginnings, apparently 
 for the same story. His note-books of travel with their 
 covers of rough deerskin and birch bark contain many 
 such hints and ideas. 
 
 Soon after his return home he began to study law 
 with Mr. Charles Tracy of New York, and his mother's
 
 m-s. 25-6] STATEN ISLAND. 191 
 
 family removed, in the autumn of the same year, from 
 New Haven, to Staten Island, where they formed one 
 family with the branch then residing there, an arrange- 
 ment adding greatly to the comfort and happiness of 
 all parties. During the winter a course of free lec- 
 tures was given on Staten Island, and Winthrop gave 
 two lectures, one called " Adventure," in which he led 
 his hearers through the mazes of a tropic forest, and 
 the other on the subject of " The Fine Arts in America." 
 
 His brother William, who had been admitted to the 
 Boston Bar, and had afterwards come to New York, 
 lived there also, and the brothers, with their brother- 
 in-law, W. Templeton Johnson, had much outdoor life 
 together; they enjoyed rowing in the old-fashioned 
 way, before the swift and unsocial " shell " and canoe 
 were invented. The three were good walkers, and 
 would often on a Sunday or holiday morning have 
 pleasant tramps of twenty or thirty miles over the hills 
 of Staten Island, exploring them pretty thoroughly, 
 and breathing their pure air. 
 
 For the summer holidays of 1855, an expedition was 
 planned to Mt. Desert by Mr. Tracy, a place of which 
 he and some of his friends may be said to have been 
 the discoverers in the year 1854, though artists like 
 Church and Kensett had been there already. They 
 sent, early in the spring of 1855, to have preparations 
 made for a large party, in the houses of several farmers 
 of the place, to whom summer boarders were till then 
 unknown, even sending vegetable seeds to be planted 
 and providing various stores for their own use. The 
 party consisted of Mr. Tracy and Mr. Titus with their 
 families, F. E. Church, just rising into fame as a painter, 
 Winthrop and his brother, and other young people,
 
 192 MT. DESERT. [1835 
 
 altogether numbering about thirty persons, who took 
 possession of the island of Mt. Desert, and must indeed 
 have made its echoes ring. So carefully planned and 
 well selected a party could not fail to be a success, and 
 in fact, its members that remain still look fondly back 
 to the Mt. Desert expedition as the happiest frolic of 
 their lives. The aborigines marveled, and yet were 
 delighted to see pleasures and goings on, the like of 
 which they had never imagined before, and when the 
 gay summer was ended by a grand ball, given by the 
 party to all the inhabitants of Bar Harbor in a big 
 barn, with decorations by Church, jokes by Winthrop, 
 and dancing by everybody, the island thought that 
 nothing half so " splendid " had ever happened to it 
 before. Since then tourists have taken possession, it 
 has become a watering place, "and lots have risen in 
 value, but it is not likely that any party has ever been so 
 happy on its lovely shores again. Not long after this 
 summer holiday, Winthrop's first novel, " Mr. Waddy's 
 Return," was projected and written, the scene of which 
 is partly laid at Mt. Desert. It has never been pub- 
 lished. The following little poems are also memorials 
 of this unique summer. 
 
 Droop lower, gloom, and hide 
 
 Past years, that drowning creep o'er years to be ! 
 This urgent future, like a tide 
 
 Whelms my faint struggles with eternity. 
 
 Wrap closer, mists! not one 
 
 Fair weather consort hope of mine is nigh. 
 Their white sails faded with the sun, 
 
 And I drift where I lost them, cheerlessly.
 
 Mr. 26] POEMS. 193 
 
 Thus mused I, when a gush 
 
 Of girlish laughter danced along the air, 
 Voices as radiant as a flush 
 
 Of sunbeams, that the ripples cannot bear 
 
 To see, and smile not. Sounds 
 
 Of finest graceful gladness, they awake 
 
 Quivers of joy-throbs, wider bounds, 
 
 All pulsing upwards, till our stirred hearts make 
 
 One leap to ecstasy! 
 
 And poising like an eaglet on a breeze 
 Are fanned thro' realms of fantasy 
 
 Heavenward sweeping over sparkling seas, 
 
 Then sink in pensive peace ! 
 
 Thanks, gentle melody ! My gloom is fled. 
 Delicate laughter, never cease ! 
 
 Or live in echoes, circling overhead; 
 
 As faint gold haloes crown 
 
 The saintliness of maidens, only seen 
 When star-like eyes look down 
 
 And recognize on earth a sister sheen. 
 
 Drifting and sailing like a sleep, 
 
 Uncertain as a dream, 
 Slowly along the wooded steep, 
 Lowly the mist wreaths trail and creep, 
 
 Clinging above the stream. 
 Now dawn will boldly leap; 
 
 We wait its gleam.
 
 194 POEMS. [1855 
 
 Brighter and broader, fairest light ! 
 
 Grow to a grander noon: 
 Hope of young day most exquisite, 
 Spring to a future radiantly bright, 
 
 Mantle the earth with princely boon 
 Of glowing splendor ! Yes, our night 
 
 Will vanish soon. 
 
 Backward, and downward, oh they fall ! 
 
 The saddening mists return ! 
 Were they our hopes that vanished all? 
 Or gloomy draped in funeral pall 
 
 Mourners became ? A present, stern 
 With hopelessness, makes us its thrall. 
 
 Fair dawn ! return ! 
 
 Watching and hoping wait we still ! 
 
 Light is not perished yet: 
 Count its great heart-beats by the thrill 
 Of stars, that ever eager trembling, will 
 
 Pay with quick messages the debt 
 Of starry duty, glimmering until 
 
 Night rolls its veil of jet. 
 
 Yonder our shout has waked a tone 
 Of gentle answer. They seemed lone, 
 Those words. A misty sunset wreath 
 Stole their faint life, and underneath 
 Left ghostly twilight. But we spoke 
 Then silence instant into music woke. 
 Not melody unsyllabled that falls 
 Shaken in ripples from among the leaves,
 
 MT. 26] POEMS. 195 
 
 Wlieii winds are breathing forth their whisper-calls; 
 
 But a familiar voice the silence cleaves, 
 
 And echoes o'er the shadowy moveless lake, 
 
 Soothed into calmness, for the sake 
 
 Of those soft voices exquisite; 
 
 Most gayly sweet in shrill delight 
 
 Of song and pause, till words far lost 
 
 Deep in the forest back were tost; 
 
 But faint, as if the woods unwillingly 
 
 Answering, parted with that harmony ; 
 
 So, when our souls stand on the brink 
 
 Of silence, and our glances shrink 
 
 From awe beyond, we timid cast 
 
 A longing question through the vast 
 
 Unknown. Then listen ! fading fly 
 
 Tkose answer echoes. Ah, they die ! 
 
 And silence comes again, and mystery. 
 
 Oh voiceful silence ! Let it yield to thee 
 
 The secret, in revealing echoes sent ! 
 
 Such longings were their own accomplishment.
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 TWO WORLDS. 
 
 ALONG poem, which he called by the title of " Two 
 Worlds," appears to have been Winthrop's next 
 sustained effort. It was evidently written with a view 
 to publication and afterwards thrown aside, as he be- 
 came more fascinated with the idea of prose writing, 
 or more aware of the difficulties of this undertaking. 
 It appeared at first too unfinished to give to the public, 
 but upon careful study it seemed only necessary to cut 
 off redundancies to show that it is one of his best works, 
 and worthy of his reputation. A sort of novel in blank 
 verse, it is full of youth, force, and the fresh spirit of 
 life and travel, noble soldierly thoughts, and strange 
 presentiments; the retreating wave of adventure, carry- 
 ing with it the rich experience of these varied, crowded 
 years. The prophetic references to a soldier's death 
 cannot fail to strike every reader. 
 
 The Poem is tinged with melancholy almost too 
 deep for one so young, but he had, even at the 
 threshold of life, already felt and suffered much. The 
 time was one of discouragement to the thoughtful 
 and sympathetic, who had faith in humanity. Win- 
 throp, though but a tourist, had seen in Europe the 
 failure of the wild hopes of 1848, the disappointment,
 
 .ET. 27] TWO WORLDS. 197 
 
 the reaction, the despair; and it had sunk very far 
 into his young soul. And as those years passed on, 
 the skies still grew darker, till now, in 1855, he could 
 find little to cheer. Napoleon III. was weaving those 
 webs that took all kingdoms into his toils, and be- 
 witching his country with the magic of a name not 
 rightly his own. England, the great beating heart 
 of the world, pulsating through all her arteries to 
 its extremities, was learning slowly her lesson, while 
 France, the brain of Europe, was dulled with false- 
 hood's opiates. The futile Crimean war had begun, 
 the red dawn in Italy was darkened with clouds, and 
 Cavour's far-reaching plans were as yet unknown. 
 The master-currents that now sweep all seas, and 
 have already borne away so much that was impure 
 and evil, were then but under-currents, murmuring 
 in the night. America, disgraced, and drifting as 
 if to total wreck, stood with the slave-whip in her 
 hand, upon a sinking deck; no more the hope of Free- 
 dom and the world. It was the darkness before dawn ; 
 yet the morning star was rising in Kansas, for those 
 whose eyes, half blinded with tears, were searching 
 everywhere for light, and quick ears could hear the low 
 whisper of the great prairie winds, soon to swell into 
 the roar of the storm. Save this gleam, all was gloom 
 upon our little ball, where we are held by force so 
 irresistible, that we cannot leave it, even to explore 
 our own forlorn, dead moon, still less to learn one 
 moment's history of the milh'on worlds that fill the 
 boundless space beyond. Such was the time in which 
 this Poem was written.
 
 198 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 TWO WOELDS. 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 The prairies. Storms at war with sunset. Night, 
 
 Stern despot of the Orient, watched to crush 
 
 All the stern glory of that battling west. 
 
 But light was born to be a Victor, now 
 
 Is Victor, who can say it shall not be ? 
 
 Vain the slant javelins of showers, and vain 
 
 Drifting bewilderment of skirmishers. 
 
 There was a master radiance in the sky, 
 
 A dash of beaming sabers into gloom. 
 
 Oh, brilliant charge ! See, they are struggling through ! 
 
 Clouds break in gorgeous pageantry of night; 
 
 Pennon and plume and lance and morion 
 
 Glittered, then swiftly fled, to die forlorn; 
 
 Fled, as a melting army vanishes, 
 
 So passed the hero Sun to due repose. 
 
 Then came a brightening forth of stars, as flowers 
 
 Peep timid from a trodden battle-field, 
 
 The sweeter for the horror that was there. 
 
 The prairies. Sunset. Massy, surging lands 
 Swept level westward into boundlessness. 
 Oh ! glorious wildness of those rolling plains ! 
 A sea of land, mighty and beaconless, 
 But the bold race that fate has launched on it 
 Shall chase, and grapple with the sunset fires, 
 And face to face with virgin nature, find 
 Such unwooed beauty as in paradise.
 
 ^T. 27] GRIEF. 199 
 
 Twilight upon the prairies. Silently 
 Forth passed a melancholy mourning train; 
 From some rude frontier fort the funeral came. 
 There are some carrion souls who greedily 
 Trample and foul dear memories of the dead; 
 But this grave must be sacred, and they chose 
 A thin grove that the river islanded. 
 A river, purposeless; not urgently 
 Through chasms flying; fled; while melody 
 Of lingering echoes, trembled up the gorge 
 Not thus, but over sandy levels spread 
 Dwindled along to shallow vanishings, 
 To such an idleness of unlinked pools, 
 As thoughtless summer leaves to parch and die, 
 Or hopeless waters on a seaside waste, 
 Where hasty, cruel tides abandoned them. 
 
 A desolate grave, barren and lone as death, 
 Where no familiar landscape soothed the soul 
 With memories bitter-sweet of boyish days, 
 Where never Nature could conspire with time; 
 There were they buried. No half sacrifice, 
 Manhood and beauty immolated both ! 
 Fate dared not leave that lonely woman there. 
 
 A soldier's grave, a soldier's funeral! 
 His troop fired harsh farewell, then shrank away 
 Leaving an orphan 'wildered by his grief, 
 Listening amazed to the low-tapping drum, 
 That like his heart-beats marked a dirge 
 
 Alone, upon a desert reach of plain 
 Stood the rude outwork fort* a nation's march 
 One day may leave a sudden city there. 
 * Fort Laramie.
 
 200 TWO WOKLDS. [1855 
 
 Far wavering dimness of a tropic laud, 
 
 On the weird stormy edge of a wild sea, 
 
 May silence gray despair with sober hope, 
 
 For men who tread a slowly-sinking deck; 
 
 But never such more welcome to the wrecked, 
 
 Than this lone fort, when hope's last buoyancy 
 
 Has sunk away from some poor lost one, drowned 
 
 And mastered by the long land surges power. 
 
 Terribly lightless skies gloom over him, 
 
 The wail of winds has saddened to a dirge, 
 
 His glance, like drowsy sailors, careless falls, 
 
 Haply to spy, now lift now sink again, 
 
 Far white sails of a distant caravan, 
 
 Chasing the west wind. Ah, in vain, in vain ! 
 
 Gladly would he despair, and sleep and die 
 
 When hope dies, souls die but his weary frame 
 
 Inertly rouses for one effort more. 
 
 No ! can it be ? A smoke ! The fort ! Life ! Life ! 
 
 Dull sense of safety first, then every pulse 
 
 Trembles to music of a new-born joy, 
 
 To meet that lonely fort's warm welcoming; 
 
 For kindly influence was there, more sweet 
 
 Than even soldier's hospitality : 
 
 A woman's hand, a woman's heart ruled there 
 
 Strange contrast fates that brought her there to die ! 
 
 Moon rising on the prairies. As a ghost 
 Peering to watch if it were yet her hour, 
 Pale she arose, and chilled each shuddering star. 
 A breeze as soft, and sadder than the night, 
 Swept, gathering moans of an all-weary world, 
 To sigh them forth where 'twas most desolate. 
 But grief was there far wilder than the winds,
 
 /ET. 27] GRIEF. 203 
 
 It struck them dumb with keener wail than theirs; 
 Oh, autumn winds ! unmusical with leaves, 
 Bring back the tender love that yesterday 
 Was better than all hope to this poor boy, 
 To-day an orphan, friendless and alone. 
 
 Ho ! for the prairies ! How I long again 
 
 From dawn to dusk to gallop freely there, 
 
 With my heart in my throat, dashing, not beating. 
 
 Dreaming myself, perhaps, some virgin knight, 
 
 Who after vigils, noble with resolves, 
 
 Scarfed by his mistress, breathes a sword-hilt prayer, 
 
 Springs to his horse and hies to chivalry, 
 
 Voicing his joy in shouts, his love in songs. 
 
 Ho ! for the prairies ! To the chase they sped 
 
 At dawn, the father and the son. The hosts 
 
 Of shaggy bearded buffaloes afar 
 
 Were cropping dainty pleasure amid flowers. 
 
 Soon tainted breezes warned them. Hence, away ! 
 
 And panic trembled on from group to group. 
 
 A sound of the gallop of horses came with the wind, 
 
 The ponderous thousands fled all terrorstruck. 
 
 They knew untrodden valleys far away, 
 
 Maiden tressed meadows, soothed by amorous airs, 
 
 Slow drifting eagles overhead might deem 
 
 Those vales fair lakes of mountain loveliness, 
 
 Such sun-shot ripples trembled over them. 
 
 Thither their flight was surging. Suddenly 
 
 A hunter on a hill crest full in front, 
 
 An errant savage stood against the sky. 
 
 New panic swerved the herd. They trampled back 
 
 What recked they of the prairie flowers they crushed ?
 
 202 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Fled bellowing along to solitude. 
 At last, slow thought of safety gave them rest. 
 Their dark bulk islanded the vale. They grazed, 
 While champions held unwieldy tournament. 
 Back on the prairie, crushed to utter horror, 
 Speechlessly striving for a ruined smile, 
 The father died and the son knelt by him 
 Utterly wrecked, upon that rolling sea. 
 
 The boy and that grave savage bore him home, 
 But there was one who watched for their return, 
 And half divined a coming agony, 
 That neared her with a sure slow step, like fate. 
 Oh could her throbbing heart throb life to his ! 
 Marble, not death, has love touched into life. 
 Silently dead ! not even a farewell word ! 
 No answer ! horrible, dark, dreamless sleep ! 
 The blank dead loneliness that circled her 
 She could not dwindle, and endure. Her soul 
 Had no long banishment of waiting years. 
 Life's giant secret trembled at her lips. 
 Oh for one instant to endow her son ! 
 To robe him with her ermine, breathe to him 
 One dying promise of love's deathlessness ! 
 Then grief arose wrapping blank night around 
 The orphan until sleep, like low wild strain 
 Of melancholy music, stole his thoughts, 
 Sighing him down a river of repose. 
 
 He woke to strange bewilderment. 
 
 Dead! dead! 
 
 The slow recurrence of that crushing word 
 Fell steadily upon his shivering soul,
 
 2Ei. 27] GRIEF 203 
 
 As waves in dim gray ghostly northern seas 
 
 Hammer against their ice walls. Thus, all through 
 
 The unlinked moments of that shattered day 
 
 A sunken look, as though of madness, warned 
 
 Aloof all sympathy. If they had come 
 
 With paltry talk of pity, with pretence 
 
 Of sorrow wept away and half consoled, 
 
 Sternly repellant iciness had struck 
 
 And curdled colder through him. Memory 
 
 Of festivals spurns meager charity, 
 
 Starving alone. The fort, the plain, the chase, 
 
 The crash, the death-like pictures on the air 
 
 Of deserts, rose and fell unreal to him; 
 
 Slow blending to a void, a heavy void 
 
 That clasped and crushed him like a prison dream, 
 
 So hours toiled up to look on drearier wastes. 
 
 Weird moonlight on the prairies. On the grave 
 
 Alone, alone he sank and wept away, 
 
 Each fondly treasured hope of life-long love, 
 
 Wasted with tears, swifter than tears. Then sobs 
 
 Followed, as moaning winds come after rains. 
 
 Passionate grief , utterly desolate ! 
 
 When man despairs with manhood's stern despair, 
 
 There comes an airy dagger of a thought, 
 
 With hint of instant keen release, and some 
 
 Have sheathed this ice within their colder breast 
 
 When they have proved and scorned this beggar, life. 
 
 Fearful release ! whisper it not to him ! 
 
 But whisper, whisper winds, how future suns 
 
 Shall draw sweet blossoms out of wintriness. 
 
 Poor boy! he cannot cleave through dark to light. 
 
 He droops amid the marble ghastliness
 
 204 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Of ruined shrines where faith found shelter late. 
 Poor boy ! may he find sympathy ! Till now, 
 His life was stellar as far western plains, 
 Where golden poppies sprinkle golden soil, 
 Amazing timid spring with bounteousness. 
 One violet eve the pale sierras blushed 
 Shame for waste winter, love for summer near. 
 But ah! a traitor yet was lingering there; 
 A laggard storm, a sullen malcontent, 
 Nursing his lonely ruthlessness, till he 
 Felt shivering summer hedge him closer in, 
 Then burst away with lavish cruelty, 
 Leaving the hillsides torn and gaunt and gray 
 With the fierce landslide and its path of wreck. 
 
 Full moonlight on the prairie. On the grave, 
 
 As if his mother's spirit gently there 
 
 Caressed him, breathed the night wind soothingly; 
 
 He raised his wistful face that tears had paled, 
 
 Wild glancing heavenward, as souls will look 
 
 W _ien earth is blank of omens. Was there peace 
 
 Where proudly mournful dwelt the lonely moon, 
 
 That sad pale moon whose light is memory ? 
 
 His mother taught him prayers by moonlight; could 
 
 These speak for him ? " God, if thou hearest me, 
 
 Why hast thou taken from me all I loved '? " 
 
 He listened. Answer none. The silence brought 
 
 The aimless rippling of that shallow stream. 
 
 Stern Heaven had no reply. He must endure, 
 
 Weary to fainting with the waste of tears. 
 
 Oh dull, cold Heaven ! cruelly bitter cold ! 
 
 To him a ceremonial friend that speaks 
 
 Of grief outlived, ( and buys him decent weeds.
 
 JET. 27] GRIEF. 205 
 
 And that white moon, forlorn as soiled ghost 
 
 Pallid and wayworn on the steely sky, 
 
 He cursed her sorrowful calm. His heart was lashed 
 
 With fierce rebellion shifting to despair. 
 
 I've stood beside the weary moaning sea 
 
 When every ship had folded its white wings 
 
 To nestle with its comrades. Measured beat 
 
 Of waves fell waste as days, and years, and lives, 
 
 When hope has had its sunset. Far I looked 
 
 Beyond, beyond the verge of night, and still 
 
 One throng, one haste for that brief sighing plash, 
 
 Joining the long slow wail of ocean waves. 
 
 His moments grew to such wide dreariness. 
 
 Ah ! myriad love tones he shall never hear 
 Nor utter. Melody of mother's love 
 Shall faintly die amid life's jar and crash. 
 No sister's arms around him flung, shall yet 
 Quell the insurgent wildness of his soul 
 With all the gentle pity of a look. 
 Yes, he must march untrammeled by a joy; 
 Bare as an athlete. No spoiled nursling he, 
 Toyed into unweaned manhood, to become 
 A well conditioned child of circumstance, 
 Bolstered to smoothed respectability, 
 Who fondly deems his feeble self a sage, 
 And gulls the world with wisdom 
 
 Go then, unshielded, orphaned innocent ! 
 Buy with your heart's blood surety of distrust, 
 Aye ! there are some stern lessons manhood earns, 
 Wrenched out of pain and sorrow. We must gain 
 Not' flimsy immortality of fame,
 
 206 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 But the high royalty of self-control, 
 
 A God's inheritance of self-control. 
 
 So the soul stands amid its passion throngs, 
 
 Like some wild nation's bold-eyed orator: 
 
 He lifts his hand; men hush, listening him breathe 
 
 Words as of God. Ah ! self-control too late ! 
 
 Where wert thou, laggard ally, while we fought? 
 
 What comfort now, when lost and routed all 
 
 We mourn our bravest, fallen one by one, 
 
 That should have led us with dim evening forth 
 
 To thunder down the hill, and shout, and catch 
 
 Keen sunset on our sabres. We creep back 
 
 Seeking our dead, for torchlight burial. 
 
 The mists of midnight thickened round the grave; 
 
 Dim cheerless presages enshrouded him. 
 
 Oh mystery of grief ! The air was filled 
 
 With rustling silence. Trembles musical, 
 
 Of whispers, gushing to fine utterance, 
 
 Faded in sighs. Oh for one tone, from out 
 
 The wide unknown, to echo on forever, 
 
 From life's grand undervoice of melody ! 
 
 But no ! all unrevealed, all dark, all chill, 
 
 All shadowy stillness, like that ghostly plain. 
 
 n. 
 
 DEPARTURE. 
 
 Oh ! pearly are the gold-linked hours of youth 
 Lit by fine gleams of sympathy ! Alas, 
 Orphaned of these, life drags and clanks its years, 
 Rests but to count such fetters. Richard lived.
 
 Eh. 27] DEPARTURE. 207 
 
 No love glance dwelt upon his industry; 
 Nature's deep harmonies were harshness all, 
 Unguided to his thirsty heart by love. 
 A comrade, spectral dimness, dwelt with him, 
 Dimness more terrible than darkness is. 
 To grope in cavern light not light to step 
 Carefully, shudderingly, lest yo\i touch 
 Something that will with fleshless arms embrace 
 Your form, and leap into the void and sink 
 Forever ? Better blank forgetfulness ! 
 
 Madness, crime, sorrow to one isolate, 
 On these, life drifts an idle pageant by. 
 Caught on the brink of torrents masterful 
 Lie rotting giant trunks whose graceful strength 
 Could bear a nation's standard through the fight; 
 Pines that the woodman far away descried, 
 And traced along the sighing winter woods, 
 Then proudly smote them down, and saw the sky 
 Flash blue above, where late the shadows hung. 
 Shall this young soul waste utterly, or shall 
 The maddening gush of life sweep it along ? 
 Or calm, majestic, searching floods uplift, 
 And into seas eternal nobly bear ? 
 
 He had known starving pangs: when others whined 
 
 At lessened luxury, he smiled contempt. 
 
 His was a strangely mingled nature, all 
 
 A father's power, a mother's passion. She 
 
 Was nurtured in the halls of Italy. 
 
 Embrace less vestal than chaste moonbeams, ne'er 
 
 Had taught her heart the tremble of great bliss. 
 
 The breeze that lingered near her, fragrance caught
 
 208 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 From leagues of vineyards hung with bursting grapes, 
 
 From orange flowers beside the golden fruit. 
 
 Whene'er at noonday, dreaming pensively, 
 
 She asked her virgin soul what love might be, 
 
 Its depth, aye and its madness, she might read 
 
 In dark-eyed portraits gravely studying her, 
 
 As if their memory clung to that dim hall, 
 
 That race, whose old inheritance was love. 
 
 In her fair echo-haunted land, all sounds 
 
 Were music, every sight was art. Her soul 
 
 Was throbbing full of unvoiced melodies; 
 
 She closed her eyes and gave their pictures back 
 
 To memory, stealing thus from every scene 
 
 A filmy semblance of their beauty; thus 
 
 When after exiled years were dreariest, 
 
 One magic whisper could uncurtain all 
 
 Those sunny streets and shadowy palaces. 
 
 But when she sat at twilight, all alone, 
 
 Her thought as vague as twilight, suddenly 
 
 Her look dashed through the darkness to a star 
 
 Unknown until it shot, and fell, and died. 
 
 She watched its vanishing. Her eyes were filled 
 
 With softly darkling boldness flashing far. 
 
 Life swept and broadened to eternity; 
 
 Night's noble voice of silence spoke to her; 
 
 Heart echoes answered back heroic vows. 
 
 Oh, had you seen her then, her white hands clasped 
 
 All proudly pale, like a scorned sybil, scarce 
 
 One could have whispered of the damning wrongs 
 
 That murdered freedom in her fatherland: 
 
 Lest she should pass and leave you silently, 
 
 Flitting, a white revenge, from shade to shade, 
 
 And while the tyrant's guards were shuddering,
 
 ^T. 27] DEPARTURE. 2l 
 
 A scream should ring along his silent halls ! 
 And she be found, a kneeling martyr, faint 
 With noble murder, she had dared to do. 
 
 Her father was a dreamy soul, he built 
 
 Proud schemes on fancied perfectness of man. 
 
 Such scholar patriot as may be in lands 
 
 Where thinkers peep at life through theories. 
 
 In fondest parent converse with his child 
 
 He painted their dear land an Arcady; 
 
 His calmly sailing hopes touched golden sands 
 
 Of peace, nor saw the baffling present, thick 
 
 With flashing gloom of toppling storm clouds piled. 
 
 But the day came at last, as such days come. 
 
 A thought had quivered like a dagger drawn; 
 
 A thought and word had stolen from man to man, 
 
 And whispers grew to shouts; the shout heaved on 
 
 Thro' that fair city, richly historied, 
 
 Circling the palace, like the roar that folds 
 
 Crags, on the edges of a cataract. 
 
 Oh ! fools ! fools ! why came ye with honest hopes 
 
 Unweaponed, but with cries for justice, blind 
 
 Against the steely hedges of a throne ? 
 
 The King came forth upon the balcony 
 
 The King came forth. Had he a soul in him 
 
 To see those pleading looks and not be moved ? 
 
 Then shouted they, Listen, oh majesty ! 
 
 Our wrongs must speak ! One honest pledge to us 
 
 Of royal faith shall send us peaceful home. 
 
 Aye ! say you so, my friends ! answered the King, 
 I'll send you quicker. Men ! fire on this mob !
 
 210 TWO WORLDS. 
 
 One breathless, pulseless beat of time, and then 
 Expectant stillness quivered with a flash 
 Of death's impassive enginery, then death 
 "Was hurled among the men who fronted it. 
 And when the smoke drifted reluctantly, 
 Except some corpses, now and then a moan, 
 And something in the air that said, Revenge ! 
 The spot was left to utter loneliness. 
 Calm stood the palace, with its wealth of mild 
 Madonnas, shrined upon the carven walls. 
 Sweet faces, saddened with the thought of death. 
 
 Not thus the contest ended. Thro' the streets, 
 Were wailing cries of grief, that wrought themselves 
 To cries for vengeance. Arming hastily 
 "With hasty arms. Tumultuous gatherings. 
 Blood-maddened crowds. Counsels precipitate. 
 Bold deeds. Each house a fortress. Every square 
 A battle-field. Heroes unknown till now. 
 Delicate women brave as bravest men 
 Women bereaved, fiercer than fiercest men. 
 Yet a few words, a little yielding then, 
 One honest purpose could have spared this blood 
 Joy then in homes where pale and silent now 
 Mothers were wailing horror. Yet kings sit 
 Wrapped in the heritage of self and pride, 
 And lying to their false luxurious souls, 
 Call desolation, order; ruin, peace. 
 
 Her father was the noblest noble there, 
 Among the highest of the counselors. 
 Now, there was fear among them, as a child 
 Shudders along the crinkling smooth of waves,
 
 -2ET. 27] DEPARTURE. 211 
 
 Ere the assaulting gale comes thick and fast. 
 
 The Marquis, pleading, came before the King, 
 
 " O spare them ! man of this our grand old town ! 
 
 Brief is a blood-gained victory, and soon 
 
 The current sweeps to ruin. You will learn 
 
 That eddies struggle vainly against tides. 
 
 Back to brave faith ! Nobly go forth to them, 
 
 Say you have erred ! Oh ! never such a shout 
 
 As then shall seal their new-born loyalty. 
 
 But if they hear not, then in God's name die ! 
 
 Nor let assassin-haunted years creep on." 
 
 " Marquis," the King replied, " came you to court 
 
 More often, you would use more courtly words 
 
 We pardon you, for ancient services, 
 
 And that fair daughter, whom we favor much. 
 
 As for these noisy fools, we'll have the streets 
 
 Swept of their idling. We have charged our troops 
 
 To burn and level, for we need a site 
 
 For our new hall of sculpture." Sneeringly 
 
 He spoke, but fear played round his ashen lips, 
 
 Killing the sneer. 
 
 Fiercer the conflict raged 
 Without, a sound of myriad utterance blent. 
 Where shouts with shrieks and curses mingling rose, 
 And roars with death shots. 
 
 " Oh ! God pardon me, 
 " That I have dallied thus ! Tyrant, I go ! " 
 And thro' the panic strode with step so firm 
 None dared to stay him. Then he flung his life 
 On battle-surges, learning now at lastj 
 How the Crusader's blood flowed restlessly 
 Beneath his calmness.
 
 212 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Ah how vainly vain ! 
 
 This dainty Freedom would not tread on blood, 
 So the revolt was crushed. 
 
 Was it for this, 
 
 The pageantry of gorgeous, martial shows? 
 They could not know, the people, drunken with 
 Magnificence, all thrilling with the crash 
 Of military music, dazed with show 
 Of sabres, plumes and flashing cavalry, 
 The purpose of this two-edged instrument 
 Driving to deeper slavery. Like fate, 
 Steady and ruthless on the squadrons marched, 
 And left behind them maidens whose white innocence 
 Felt the swift bullet as their earliest pang; 
 And silver, reverend age all unrevered. 
 Fair children too ! oh waste ! And yet there stared 
 That ever glorious heaven overhead. 
 No blasting vengeance fell. Damnable fate ! 
 Master of Misery. I cannot look 
 With stony eyes of monster calmness on 
 These horrors of hell; they madden, madden me ! 
 Oh G-od ! thou wrongest us with this devil world. 
 
 Night and despair. 
 
 'Neath the dim palaces, 
 
 Some trembling ones with torches sought their dead. 
 Silence, unquivered by their whispers, harked 
 For the faint terror of a distant scream. 
 Oh bitter hopelessness of noble hope ! 
 Our cresting souls touch immortality 
 Then slide and sink to bitterness again. 
 Perhaps the Marquis thus had yielded, died, 
 But as his thoughts voyaged a starless waste,
 
 &T. 27] DEPARTURE. 213 
 
 Sudden, love anchored him to deeper faith. 
 My daughter ! Oh if some stray hope can say 
 God is not ever thus, she shall be saved. 
 Then his wild haste was 'ware of forms like hers 
 Lying all still. He shuddered, hurrying on. 
 
 No glimmer in his palace halls. The dark 
 
 Made him recoil in terror. But as he 
 
 Came near, a man, a friend that lurked within 
 
 The shadow, met him. She is safe, we wait, 
 
 I wait. They entered secretly, where she 
 
 With steady tearlessness had watched. She thought 
 
 Her woman's heart all steeled heroical, 
 
 A shield, not to be shielded. Now her veil 
 
 Of sternness fell away in blissful tears. 
 
 Child ! Father ! Oh fond instant ! They have met. 
 
 Safety is sure but for the moment now. 
 
 And fly we must ! Yet death were easier far 
 
 Than brave enduring of a hopeless life ! 
 
 Hopeless? Nay hopeful! Exiles, we may wake, 
 
 Urge, goad our nation's sleep, a giant's sleep. 
 
 Calm on their flight those grand old portraits looked 
 
 Perhaps they saw far off a brighter day, 
 
 Perhaps they cared not, knowing that events, 
 
 And all the vexed machinery of a world, 
 
 Are nothing, if not triers of the soul. 
 
 I've dreamed or known a tale of one who ran 
 
 The scourging gauntlet of a life; and friends, 
 
 And foes, and hopes, and fears, and circumstance, 
 
 And his own fiery passions stood, and smote 
 
 Him as he passed. But when he struggled thro' 
 
 And plunged his lacerated soul in death
 
 214 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 He climbed upon the further brink and saw 
 
 Eternity. 
 
 And there stood growing to a God-like calm, 
 Himself the peer of any crowned one there. 
 
 They fled in sad perplexity of night, 
 
 Through streets where many a deed of blood was done, 
 
 Ghastly with faint historic terrors, now 
 
 Ghastlier with present horror of the dead; 
 
 Protected by the friend that helped their flight, 
 
 A boldly-thoughtful, self-reliant friend. 
 
 A traveler from a newer world he came 
 To look on history. Europe is history 
 To us, the children of the present. We 
 Were heirs to what they toil and err for still. 
 Eicher than dreams were those fair treasuries 
 Of art, and clouds of golden romance, kept 
 In memory of sunsets unforgot. 
 But there, as one in ruddy autumn strays 
 Through western forests flaming gorgeously, 
 With purple rich as wine that holds the sun, 
 With fruity orange, crimson like a blush, 
 When cheeks reflect the glow of ardent lips, 
 As one thus wandering not beguile 1 from thought 
 That spring and hope are fairer, sees beneath 
 Dead leaves the quivering pureness of a fount; 
 He found a fresh soul 'neath the gorgeousness, 
 The ripened splendors of a fading land. 
 
 Quick as the light that strikes from soul to soul 
 Love-kindled fires die never, never. Even 
 From sadly quenching tears their ashes find 
 Strange and rekindling life. Not so to these.
 
 .Ex. 27] DEPARTURE. 215 
 
 To them dawn deepened into sunny day 
 Love sweeping thro' their heaven like a sun. 
 
 A city by the sea-side, proudly fair, 
 
 Gave refuge. There the Marquis loved to learn 
 
 A soothing sadness in the cadenced waves, 
 
 Their sweet low murmur soothed his soul, and then 
 
 The sprinkling sparkles made him glad again. 
 
 Ever beneath their brilliant surface-play 
 
 And flash and glitter, grew the undertone 
 
 Of vastness, as below the gayest life, 
 
 Eternity speaks thro' the intervals. 
 
 Breezes said, peace, to him. Waves sped to kiss. 
 
 Kocks told of firm endurance. Waves and breeze, 
 
 Of seas and skies all tranquil after storms. 
 
 Ah, transient, traitor calm ! brief, false delight ! 
 
 Betrayed ! A group of seeming fishermen, 
 
 Idle as noon, were lounging there, and songs 
 
 Droned into fitful chorus drowsily. 
 
 They stole upon him in his reverie, 
 
 Seized, bound him, dragged him where a lazy bark 
 
 Seemed waiting for a wind. Then spread white sails, 
 
 And swifter than a sea-bird, vanished far, 
 
 O'er the horizon, and were seen no more. 
 
 A child was gathering pebbles by the shore, 
 
 Waves freshened them to gems. He saw the deed. 
 
 Athwart his innocence a shadow fell, 
 
 A first wrong chilled his spirit, and his tale 
 
 Went murmuring thro' the city : hardly waked 
 
 Surprise or pity in that land of wrongs. 
 
 But she, his daughter, oh ! a tenderest calm 
 Effaced all tremors of distrust, and love
 
 216 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Was sinking, wavering, deepening thro' her soul, 
 
 As suns thro' placid waters. The delight 
 
 Of listening while a lover speaks, she proved, 
 
 Nor knew that dear, dear whisper yet was love. 
 
 The stranger told her of his noble land, 
 
 A queenly Virgin for the manliest love. 
 
 A Land he worshiped with a rapturous love; 
 
 Grand with the gloom of forest's mysteries, 
 
 Grand with the sweep of billowy boundless plains, 
 
 Surging on westward like a rolling sea. 
 
 Hopes of a world are launched and sailing there. 
 
 And then a legendary tale of love 
 
 He told, of Nature's sympathies unseen, 
 
 For not all aimless are the wandering airs, 
 
 The North flies wooing to the sunny South, 
 
 Flower to sweet floweret nods and becks and bends, 
 
 With tender look and tone love-musical. 
 
 The stranger drew such symbols from the scenes 
 
 Of home. Thus covertly his story plead 
 
 For him who told it. But for her, whom Love 
 
 Had guarded as some latest dearest prize, 
 
 When lesser hearts were vanquished, now she feels 
 
 New thoughts were nestling in her inmost heart. 
 
 His gaze was on her, but she dared not lift 
 
 Timid concealment from her eyes, and show 
 
 Another, what she shrank herself to know. 
 
 Could this be love, young love ? She blushed, as clouds, 
 
 Belated night-clouds unarrayed for day, 
 
 Blush at intrusive sunrise. 
 
 All his soul 
 Was trembling at his lips. They had no voice
 
 2ET.27] DEPARTURE. 217 
 
 For such emotion. These are moments when 
 We strip us of our poverty of words, 
 And let our unrobed spirits meet and clasp 
 In a voiceful silence. Silence oh how sweet ! 
 That shall be breathed away by silver tones, 
 Waking the matinal of purer life. 
 
 Across the peace of that fair moment's pause, 
 There came an evil-omened messenger, 
 Such as ill tidings always find themselves, 
 To tell her father's capture, but his child, 
 Perplexed in mazes of his pitiful 
 And droning tale, was lured along, till doubt 
 Grew lurid sudden with harsh certainty. 
 
 Shoreward she fled, not swift as her despair. 
 It was no idly cruel tale : she looked 
 To far horizons where hope ever flies, 
 For sunlit gleams of his departing sail. 
 As mariners, when shores are fading fast, 
 Watch the white waving of a loved one's hand. 
 Gone ! gone ! the careless ripples had erased 
 His struggling footsteps. Nought but happiness 
 Smiled on the dimpling face of ocean. 
 What mockery is other's bliss, when we 
 Mourn unto death ! Oh futile exile now ! 
 Now icy darkening dread swept endlessly 
 Down unknown futures that she dimly saw; 
 Such voids of darkness where the soul may grope, 
 And doubt its God, and doubt if death be peace. 
 Alone ! she moaned it to the winds and waves, 
 Alone ! came sadly echoing down the winds, 
 Alone ! each slender wavelet sighing said.
 
 218 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 i 
 
 Alone but for an instant; by her side 
 A deep voice whispered, crushing to deep calm 
 Its passion, bringing hope to her despair. 
 His kind permitted manly firm embrace 
 Protected her, and then those words were breathed 
 Which he who has not said, and she, who has 
 Not heard, or dreamed, and longed to hear, may wait 
 For new creation in some other life, 
 In this all undeveloped. Sweet is love, 
 "When beauty, queenly proud and coldly fair, 
 Learns first its womanhood, and tenderness, 
 And yields to love that knows no king or queen, 
 But greater love. And beautiful is love, 
 When happy lovers stealing out at eve 
 Sigh out their soft vows underneath the moon, 
 She smiling on them with her silver smile, 
 Cheerer of love for ages. Sweet is love 
 Whose calmful rest and placid gentleness 
 Flows steady on or dallies sunnily, 
 But oh ! how doubly dearest dear is love, 
 The refuge of a lone and banished soul, 
 Exiled from by-gone bliss, and shivering on 
 The cold world's edge; cold, cold, ah cold to her! 
 She trembled back to hope that waited her, 
 Flinging sweet sunlight even through her tears, 
 The myriad ripples crowded up, and cast 
 Tribute of sympathy. The ocean sees 
 So much despair of hopeless drifting wrecks, 
 Such cruel selfishness, such dull dismay, 
 That it must long to look on happiness 
 Like this; not joy, but pity, rescue, love. 
 Then, as she saw her love-illumined soul, 
 It dazzled her; at every word, her heart
 
 3T. 27] DEPARTURE. 219 
 
 Throbbed to be worthy its eternity. 
 His voice was peace beneath his burning words. 
 Alone no more, for love was clasping her; 
 Love ! winds came murmuring and breathing it ! 
 Love ! it was this the thronging wavelets plashed ! 
 Love ! farther, deeper, fainter, echoing on, 
 And knocking at her spirit's silent shrine. 
 
 Who would not change such sorrow for such joy ? 
 And ah ! when we touch back o'er happy hours, 
 Waking again their well-known melody, 
 Again we see that tropic violet fade, 
 Again that tall chill shadow's steady march. 
 Light after night, night after light again. 
 So by their rapture sat the angel-fiend, 
 Grief sat with folded arms till they were calm, 
 And whispered, ye are one, and both are mine. 
 Gravely they sought through dim perplexity. 
 Follow ? we might, but that were desperate. 
 I've heard the tyrant looked upon you once. 
 Perhaps he'd make conditions, that you both 
 Would spurn. Your race is noble, old in fame. 
 His safety lies in this, the King might fear 
 Your father's friends, who still have influence. 
 Patience he taught with many words like these, 
 Patience, that poor thin curtain of despair. 
 So might she hope, and hope, till poignant grief 
 Should blunt and tarnish like a patriot's blade, 
 Waiting heroic days that shall not be. 
 
 Not many days had passed when came a friend, 
 The same ill-omened friend; for once, he brought 
 Tidings but half of sadness, 'twas a scroll 
 A seeming peasant gave him secretly.
 
 220 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 " My death they dared not. I shall see thee yet, 
 Oh daughter of my heart ! This is my doom : 
 Unnumbered years of prison. Exile then. 
 Trust in the stranger, dear one. He has told 
 A. love as true as faith is. Go with him 
 To that young kindly refuge-land of his. 
 There wait me, for my long revengeful years 
 Are passed, annuled in hope. Children, depart." 
 
 I've looked o'er pathless woods, shadowed and dim, 
 
 To one white peak as lonely as a thought, 
 
 Eosy and luminous at dawn and eve, 
 
 Queening sublimely o'er the solemn pines, 
 
 Then down columnar vistas deep and dark, 
 
 Where there was sunless silence, league on league, 
 
 At last in moonlit glory overhead 
 
 Suddenly shone the mount like God's calm face. 
 
 Ah! shall these loving ones then -meet again! 
 
 Since that first hour of passion and despair, 
 
 Then lit with heaven thro' its luridness, 
 
 Her lover came not as a lover. Friend 
 
 Was calmer, almost closer. Tenderly 
 
 He watched, and cheered, and roused, and quieted; 
 
 Soothed when her flashing looks indignant came. 
 
 Oh God ! I cannot bear this wrong ! this wrong ! 
 
 Then tears that burned like blood burst fiercely vain. 
 
 Grief was the master; yet the drowning crush 
 
 Of certainty was better than despair. 
 
 Life they had left him. Years and exile; these 
 
 Were pain, yet pain we scorn and bear. 
 
 And love, 
 Thither her soul bent drooping, and its warmth
 
 -ET. 27] DEPARTUKE. 221 
 
 Was sweeter than its shelter. "Warmth that drew 
 AJ1 blossoms back, unfolding tear-bedimmed, 
 And fairer for the vanishing of tears. 
 Had love not been ? Oh God ! that could not be ! 
 Love was, and faith, not dim and utter blank. 
 Her soul went wandering down the labyrinth, 
 Conscious, yet careless be they thorns or flowers. 
 
 Thus he began his tale of love; a tale 
 That life shall daily wreathe with episode. 
 He saw her first enhaloed; oh how fail- 
 Is woman who forgets herself in prayer ! 
 It chanced he entered out of sunlight, where, 
 Dazzled with marbled vastness, dome on dome, 
 He found the somber, spacious, vaulted aisles, 
 Silent and solemn with the thought of God, 
 As when in forest temples life grows wide. 
 
 Then silence felt the rustling of a tone 
 
 Soft as the shiver of moonlighted leaves, 
 
 And voices linked them to it as it rose, 
 
 Sweetness embodied into power. Deep 
 
 And pouring grander surges on and on, 
 
 Till sudden as some angel messenger, 
 
 Again the one sweet utterance soared up, 
 
 Poised over awfulness, telling of faith 
 
 So gently keen and piercing delicate, 
 
 It found the guarded fountain of his tears; 
 
 And these came purely as a child's. He shrank 
 
 Back to a chapel where a woman knelt. 
 
 With few brief bitter words, self-scorning words, 
 
 He showed his soul to God.
 
 222 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 And turning thence 
 
 He met one glance from that fair kneeling one. 
 Dark eyes met his with pitying earnestness, 
 And knew him nobler than his wild remorse. 
 Thus he began his tale of love for her. 
 
 So they were joined in marriage, sadly, yet 
 
 With hope and joy that needed not be gay. 
 
 The raven presence of that grave old friend 
 
 Croaked its congratulations, all presage 
 
 Of grief in sorrow lost to them and then 
 
 A last farewell to Italy. To streets 
 
 Kich with the shadows of their palaces; 
 
 To sunny shores, where life is laughed away; 
 
 To churches jewel bright as fairy caves; 
 
 A last farewell, not all unanswered yet, 
 
 To that blue-green entrancing, murmuring sea, 
 
 Beloved of poets since Homer; where the hopes 
 
 Of earliest man were launched, awhile to float 
 
 And spread their sails to softer gales, before 
 
 Their ocean ventures. Bitterly, farewell ! 
 
 For bitterer than parting is the thought 
 
 Of wrong that parts us; of our traitor friends, 
 
 Of cowards, treason, and ingratitude. 
 
 Westward they went where no dead past could come 
 
 To bring them burdens more than they could bear. 
 
 His was a soldier's life; on the frontier 
 
 Was fascinating peril. Dwelling there 
 
 Alone, with nothing but each other's love, 
 
 God gave them a dear child, a son, in whom 
 
 Each saw the other's image glorified. 
 
 Not wholly happy; thoughts would come uncalled
 
 JET. 27] DEPARTURE. 223 
 
 In tenderer moments, of that prisoned one. 
 But years will pass, and life will fade, and time 
 "Was linking on his iron round for him. 
 
 At last came sudden sweet bewilderment 
 
 Of freedom, when all hope seemed desperate, 
 
 Released he stood, all hesitant, as one 
 
 "Who looks from crags where rich vales smiling lie 
 
 But mists and surging clouds dawn-lit with rose 
 
 Are enviously beautiful between. 
 
 Ah ! were it then another prison dream ? 
 
 They met. It was then true, the blessed dream ? 
 
 No more to end in maddening tears; no more 
 
 The cruel bitterness of vision shone 
 
 Upon his prison wall, to fade with day. 
 
 Their treasured fondness softly rained on him; 
 
 Soft came love touches, sweet a daughter's kiss, 
 
 Sweet, manly cherishing, and dearer yet 
 
 That shyly playful infantile respect. 
 
 A child for weary age ! Ah, worn away 
 
 Were manhood's fresher graces, and harsh lines 
 
 Wrought by the chisel on his prison walls, 
 
 Had writ themselves in wrinkles on his face. 
 
 But smooth broad skies were over him at last, 
 
 And smiles responsive to his children's smiles 
 
 Calmed him to reverend beauty. Now not less 
 
 He loved his much-loved land, but life had taught 
 
 A martyr patience. He had torn his heart 
 
 With vulture fury, clanking at his chain 
 
 To bitter waiting; as he paused, not prayed, 
 
 In nights of watching, angels came to him, 
 
 And down far narrowing vistas slowly led.
 
 224 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Madness was tamed at last to hope and faith, 
 Cycles count brief beside eternity, 
 And years are nought, and God is calmly true, 
 And light is born to be a victor, still. 
 
 A noble presence his; a brave firm soul, 
 
 That grief had proved, but crushed not. Dignity 
 
 Of thought too stern, as of some granite front 
 
 Where storms have wintered, yet its purple walls 
 
 "Wait but for level suns and kindlier beams 
 
 To wave with gentle aspens tender green. 
 
 Oh ! sweet to live again fresh childhood o'er 
 
 With that young comrade now so doubly his. 
 
 No music like his childish questioning 
 
 (Young romance dawning in devouring eyes) 
 
 Of the old lands of Art and History, 
 
 Of the old plains of Syria or of Greece, 
 
 The battle-fields of Marathon and Troy, 
 
 Plains lone as ours, but far more desolate, 
 
 For theirs is solitude deserted, ours 
 
 Unvisited, save by long moving herds. 
 
 Thus picturing on, he told of ancient fanes, 
 
 Marble, and nobly set on marble hills. 
 
 Of marble islands in a dazzling sea, 
 
 Homes of bright gods, whose temples saw the sun 
 
 At eve, when every vale was dim with night 
 
 Inevitable, and at morn, ere light 
 
 Inevitable, conquered gloom. And then 
 
 He spoke of goddess statues, marble cold, 
 
 Else we might hate mortality, and forms 
 
 Whose saintly distance, love, not passion roused, 
 
 And pictures, where some brilliant scene was staid 
 
 Aglow with finer splendors than its own;
 
 ^T. 27] DEPARTURE. 225 
 
 And portraits, where like sunbeam, genius looked 
 
 Thro' robes of life, to know and stamp the man 
 
 World without end, a slave, or hero still. 
 
 And then he stirred the boy to fervidness 
 
 Of pure ambition with his histories. 
 
 How noble men, his sires, had writ their names 
 
 Aloft on hopes, as Christian voyagers 
 
 Mark symbol crosses in the wilderness. 
 
 He taught him too the poets of Italy, 
 
 Most sadly musical voice of the past. 
 
 Dearest the boy loved Tasso, and would dream 
 
 Himself a pilgrim warrior, pure and true, 
 
 Like Tancred, pure as love, and true as faith. 
 
 Oh trebly happy childhood ! Age bestowed 
 Its lessons from the past; that shadowy past 
 Perhaps had stood 'twixt him and life, a veil 
 Kich tapestried with splendid pageantry; 
 But a brave present, and its manliness 
 His father taught. See how the living stand 
 In onward fronts of battle. Plains behind 
 Are strewed with corpses where our own shall lie 
 When life is fought away. Watch and behold, 
 In faint weird light that comes before the moon 
 They lie, far scattered; men, heroes perchance, 
 Forgotten. Know, my son, he said, that we 
 Men of to-day are good and bad, are mean 
 And great, no more, no less, than all that were 
 Before, and are to be. Regret not then 
 Past days, nor waste thy soul in longings vague. 
 None nobler have been, may be, than thou may'st. 
 To-day is mightier than eternities.
 
 226 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 But beautifully hovering ever near, 
 
 His mother's spirit, and her presence dwelt 
 
 Most gently merciful, with sheltering arms. 
 
 Oh ! she would guard him from the cruelty 
 
 Of slow, of sad, of difficult return 
 
 Back to the paths his soul was planted in. 
 
 Touched by hope's prophet wand, she saw for him 
 
 The stately grandeur of a noble mind, 
 
 To claim dominion on its wakening. 
 
 Such were these boyhood's years, love sentineled. 
 
 Life is not wasteful of its happy hours. 
 Brief placid days, calm and pathetic rest, 
 The grandsire knew, ere death came peacefulest. 
 Death, Lethe of the long dark bitter years, 
 Death, Life's quick, clear, bold, sure interpreter. 
 
 Then came the orphan horror of strange fate; 
 As when a slumberer, starry canopied, 
 Startled to waking by some nameless thrill, 
 Wakes prisoner 'mid dusky savage forms, 
 That bend and glide before his startled eyes. 
 Slowly checked heart-beats tremble to new life, 
 Void outstretched arms grope slow to new embrace. 
 Slow chime new voices with departed tones, 
 And dreary to the boy were wanderings 
 To seek from lower levels friendly draughts. 
 Love sprang so sparkling from his native earth, 
 So eager fresh, that kindly pity seemed 
 Only less bitter than indifference; 
 And manhood came with hasty harshness on, 
 Exhausted with its own rebelliousness.
 
 Mi. 27] PASSION. 227 
 
 There grew a longing in his soul for peace, 
 Peace in that calming South, his mother's home. 
 A thicket present urged him back; he longed 
 To bask in suns that ripen orange blooms, 
 To gaze on seas deep blue and tremulous, 
 To soothe dead grief with Art that cannot die, 
 To leave the future blank awhile, and learn 
 Content, at least control, silent and stern. 
 
 Friends too there were, and words of kindliness 
 
 Had simply come from him who herited 
 
 His grandsire's rank, and old memorial halls. 
 
 Such cherished longings came most musical, 
 
 And called his doubting soul. Come ! Follow us ! 
 
 Vain are tumultuous days; vain owlish nights, 
 
 Idle is bustling under steely skies, 
 
 Ignoble progress, soulless energy. 
 
 Better be cradled on a tideless sea. 
 
 The old world has what we are striving for. 
 
 Then yielding bitterly, alone he went 
 
 Went sailing eastward, flying to the Past. 
 
 m. 
 
 PASSION. 
 
 Marquis. The hour for council now. I leave you, sir; 
 
 Pardon this hasty welcome till we meet, 
 
 Then I may urge and prove its earnestness. 
 
 Meanwhile, I give you to a fairer guide, 
 
 My wife will show you thro' the galleries: 
 
 You are as near allied as we to these 
 
 Herited splendors. For an hour, adieu !
 
 228 TWO WOKLDS. [1855 
 
 Beatrice. 'Tis best your flush of wonder first should fall 
 
 Upon the noblest works, and afterward 
 
 Give quiet thought to lesser things of grace. 
 
 First I will dazzle you with Titian's glow 
 
 A glorious crash shall rouse our sympathy; 
 
 Then through that golden thrill and radiance, 
 
 Shall enter pureness delicately sweet; 
 
 Calmness of tender maiden majesty, 
 
 A Raphael dreamed her whom we idolize. 
 
 The pageant chorus of the Veronese 
 
 Shall crowd our vision next: we'll follow thus 
 
 The changes of a music-fantasy. 
 
 [They pass into the Gallery.] 
 
 Richard. I ask a sadder pleasure first. You have 
 A portrait of my mother, ere she fled. 
 
 Beatrice. I longed to show you this, but dared not dim 
 
 My welcome. Oh ! I love that sybil face ! 
 
 She is the guardian saint of all my dreams ! 
 
 That portrait veiled is hers. Poor boy, he weeps ! 
 
 I thought him cold to our warm greeting. No J 
 
 This deep emotion waited. How it flings 
 
 Back thought on self, to see another's grief. 
 
 And I is there another life on earth 
 
 That I should passionately weep like this? 
 
 Mother ! Ah bitter shame ! Ah lonely home ! 
 
 Mine deemed me but a rival and a spy; 
 
 She cursed me for her waning charms, she sold 
 
 My young hope to a master overkind. 
 
 Whom could I weep with such dear bitterness ? 
 
 Sad I might be, but nothing desolate. 
 
 Yet as I look upon that weeping boy,
 
 JET. 27] PASSION. 229 
 
 There starts and writhes within my soul the thought 
 That griefs may be, whose sudden fatal coil 
 May murder life and hope. How strangely like 
 That mother guardian of my dreams he is. 
 
 Richard. Sweet mournful vision ! gentle comforter ! 
 
 Oh ! heaven grows dearer now ! Keen memory 
 
 Has pierced the mist, and side by side they stand, 
 
 A mother in her hour of agony, 
 
 A maiden here in dreamy innocence, 
 
 Forever purely blending in my love. 
 
 Oh lady ! pardon me and pity me ! 
 
 Yes, I am lonely, lonely ! but till now 
 
 Proudly alone. This fair pathetic face, 
 
 A mother's, makes all pity sweet to me. 
 
 Kind lady ! may I shelter me in yours ? 
 
 Beatrice. My pity? Sisterly I give it! More, 
 If such a shallow heart as mine can bear 
 The burden of such grief, oh ! trust in me ! 
 Are we not kinsfolk? Must we not be friends? 
 It seems that I might hold a brother's love 
 Nearer my heart than all its idle dreams. 
 
 Richard. Alas ! how many said they pitied me, 
 
 And turned away to their own happiness, 
 
 Which smiling bent to meet them. Mourners greet 
 
 But mourners, and their joy, their warmth, their love, 
 
 Is swiftly stolen while the jailer waits, 
 
 That shadowy comrade ever whispering 
 
 Haste ! 'tis the hour for solitude and self, 
 
 A life like yours must not be darkened thus.
 
 230 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Beatrice. A life like mine ! 'Tis full of gayety, 
 
 And futile laughter, dallying thought away 
 
 From what it dares not picture. No, my friend ! 
 
 No heart is sadder than an empty heart. 
 
 Not that my heart is empty. No, I have 
 
 My husband, and my house, a troop of friends, 
 
 The sunniest, dearest city for my home ! 
 
 This be it mine to show you. We have talked 
 
 Too tearfully. Not saddening, but to cheer 
 
 Should be our converse. Come, the gallery ! 
 
 This is our Raphael, our pride. 
 
 Eichard. A face 
 
 Of virgin vision, ever worshiping 
 
 With thought dilate and gazing on her dreams, 
 
 Till some wild leaping light of life shot forth, 
 
 Her stainless hope emboding in a God. 
 
 Madonna ! Canst thou save the motherless? 
 
 Beatrice. Oh she can save ! In my deep-yearning hours, 
 
 I soared upon the eternal music, on 
 
 And breathless ever on, seemed close to God. 
 
 But sudden, checked, and falling like a star, 
 
 Saw God, so cold and stern and far away, 
 
 Heard all the world's old sneer and jar again. 
 
 Then how her look seemed listening to my heart, 
 
 Whose prayerswere tears! Say shall we look once more? 
 
 Art cannot be all pure; but Pagans come 
 
 And study on these Venuses for hours. 
 
 Richard. This morning, as I came with stranger steps 
 It chanced I passed a church, and entered there : 
 Dim incense with its odor clogged the air; 
 Softly along the edge of kneeling throngs
 
 MT. 27] PASSION. 231 
 
 I moved toward a chapel, cavern like. 
 Statues watched there, and one pale sentinel, 
 Leaning his head upon his hand, was still, 
 As dreaming of the things that are not known 
 Nor ever shall be to the living known, 
 Bewildered by some chaos of despair. 
 Great dread went shivering to my heart, for I 
 Have looked into such voids, and gazing there 
 Deemed life was death a blank; eternity. 
 Oh what a mind was his who knew it all, 
 And could revenge him in immortal forms ! 
 
 Beatrice. Yes, Angelo ! For him and Dante, life 
 Was bitter, love and country all were lost. 
 They hid their shame and sorrow in their art. 
 He would have stony sleep, nor feel nor see. 
 Ah what a tale that solemn chapel holds ! 
 That marble man his master ! Think of it ! 
 
 Richard. These portraits! I may trace myself, in 
 
 them; 
 
 Perchance the passion of our race may gleam 
 Thro' generations, from the hard old eyes 
 Of some grim grandsire with a pointed beard, 
 First of his name; or some foul gnawing worm 
 Of baseness I am sometimes conscious of, 
 May lurk behind the purest seeming smile 
 Of yon fair dame, blue eyed and sunny haired, 
 But I must glance, and leave you. 
 
 Beatrice. To return 
 
 And make our home your own. We purpose this. 
 New friends must fain be despots. You must dwell 
 In sunshine with us, leaving grief behind.
 
 232 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Richard. You are too good to me. Oh can it be 
 My past is passing from me in this hour, 
 Nor need I drain the last, the bitterest drops ? 
 Pardon this selfishness. But at your voice 
 Opens my heart responsive, as one note, 
 A bird's first matin song, breathed timidly 
 Awakes the burst that fills the silent woods. 
 I will not turn again to what I was. 
 But I should go. Adieu ! 
 
 Beatrice. We meet 
 
 So soon, I will not say adieu. 
 [He goes.'] 
 
 Strange youth ! 
 
 What eager looks and wild words chasing them, 
 As if some starving tropic wanderer 
 Had pierced thro' thorny thickets, the dark lairs 
 Of fierce wild beasts and reptiles, and beyond 
 Beheld a glade feathered with whispering palms, 
 Where gentle dusky forms gave signs of peace. 
 May I be peace to him, if there is peace. 
 But I too must be calm, 'twill be a task. 
 I dare not be ennobled now, I live 
 Perhaps content. I dare not plunge to life. 
 Oh leave me in the playful shallows still. 
 I cannot meet the storm. How sad he is ! 
 Yes, I will cheer him. We will make him tell 
 The wonders of his savage land, and we 
 Will guide him thro' the loveliness of ours. 
 The dear old Marquis loves a listener. 
 Poor boy ! No mother, sister, friend, and I 
 His senior by a year of matronhood. 
 He said the world was cold. Was his the fault?
 
 Mr. 27] PASSION. 233 
 
 He shall not find us so. I think my heart 
 Unfolds itself in sunshine like a flower 
 And loves to blossom all the summer's day. 
 Ah ! is it then all unattainable 
 To cast self utterly upon a friend, 
 Sobbing, oh comfort me for what I am, 
 And what I cannot be ? to feel some heart 
 Throb tenderness to mine ? It may not be. 
 
 Know you how storms steal on the helpless world? 
 Calm waves are dimpled o'er with agate cells, 
 Capricious sails flap idly here and there. 
 Sleep pilot, by your vacillating helm, 
 Or waking, whistle to the dallying gale ! 
 It comes across the tired flowers. It comes 
 With distant sparkles kindling as they near. 
 It stays, the sails flap dazzling sunshine out. 
 Sudden the fierce black squall screams thro' the yards. 
 Fond pilot ! where is now thy sunlit sail ? 
 I pace the sullen beach, 'twixt foam and surge; 
 The sky is voiceless. Ah, remorseful sea ! 
 No crash can hide thy pleading undertone. 
 There helpless in the valleys of the waves, 
 There battered, tossed upon their leaden green, 
 There is a dead man floating helplessly 
 Back to the beaches of his boyhood's play. 
 
 Some have told strangest talcs of hearts asleep 
 In innocence, by angel dreams o'erhung, 
 Whereat their parted rose lips smiled the more : 
 Or devils whispered, till in slumber deep 
 They muttered strange and guilty words of shame. 
 Tossing in agony that cannot wake,
 
 234 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Ah, Beatrice, it is no fiend that comes, 
 No tempter this: his soul would shrink like thine, 
 And folding, quiver back from touch that harms. 
 Ye both are noble still, unsullied hearts 
 Your scorn, all proudly pure, would wither one 
 "With devil's whisper, hinting of a sin. 
 
 So dwelt they through a summer of delight; 
 
 Days exquisite; days ripening to their close; 
 
 Noons in cool lofty galleries, where thought 
 
 "Was calmed with beauty and grew reverent. 
 
 Art wooed them to delight, till wearying 
 
 They wandered forth, strewing long rose-leaf trails, 
 
 Through the fair garden's bosky trellises, 
 
 By cave, and wilderness, where statues seemed 
 
 Listening to their worn fountain's babbling flow. 
 
 Such wanderings brought deeper sympathy; 
 Betrayed to new and tropic summer life 
 These children, guiltless of experience. 
 Twilights of dreaminess came after noons; 
 Green glowed the west beyond the olive-hills. 
 Passion unknown flamed through him suddenly, 
 His hopes took hers by hand; we dare not tell 
 Save in such moments what wild hopes we have 
 For our own country in the sunset- west, 
 "Where thought outmarching sunset, makes high day 
 As love makes all things new. Oh holiest home ! 
 No waymark ruins glimmer down our past; 
 Our day was hardly dawning when it nooned, 
 Light came as in a forest when pines fall. 
 Light, virgin light. Perish the darkness then !
 
 -33T. 27] PASSION. 235 
 
 Noons thus, thus twilight dreams, then grew the moon 
 
 From when it seemed the circlet to a star, 
 
 Grew like a wish unspoken, until day 
 
 Looked farewell kindly; delicately then 
 
 Sweet pallor gently stole to be the queen, 
 
 And all the world was homage. Fairer scene 
 
 From all her skies she never saw than this : 
 
 Lily pale Beatrice, pure as herself, 
 
 Steadily gazing on the trembling stars, 
 
 And one beside her finding heaven with her. 
 
 Wild heart-beats sent no roses to her cheeks; 
 
 The breath of love brings roses, but not yet 
 
 Love breathed, to bloom the rose or wither it. 
 
 Delicious days ! days calm with drowsiness 
 Of sunshine, where warm airs are slumbering too. 
 Days made for idleness and confidence, 
 When youth may sit and babble of itself, 
 While gentle eyes draw every secret out. 
 The world untried is but your plaything then; 
 Thro' life's illumined shallows you will wade 
 Onward to shore, and bolder as you stride. 
 Death you would leap, as leaps a mountaineer 
 Green glacier chasms, onward still to climb, 
 Forever upward to eternal hills. 
 
 It could not be but oft caressingly, 
 
 With fondness inexpressible, she laid 
 
 Her hand on his, or touched his cheek, for still 
 
 She kept the fancy of a sister's love 
 
 Nor knew the cheat. Yet tremors of delight 
 
 Came with that gentle pressure. Starting thence
 
 236 TWO WORLDS. 
 
 She drew away, while all her passionate heart 
 Stood waiting at her lips, as stays a cloud, 
 Curbing the whirling madness of the storm. 
 
 It could not "be but oftentimes she sang 
 
 Music of Italy, that land's own voice, 
 
 Where life seems born to sweetly sing away, 
 
 Unmindful of its tragedy. She sang, 
 
 And ecstasy chilled through him like a burst 
 
 Of earliest sunshine over opening buds. 
 
 He clung and trembled on the edge of bliss 
 
 So keen, one throb had made it agony. 
 
 She lost all presence in the flow of song, 
 
 Till suddenly she felt his eager look, 
 
 And blushingly glanced downward, with a strain 
 
 Of half despair, hid in a daring song, 
 
 Drooping and dying into quietude. 
 
 Then silence, while their hearts heard echoes fall. 
 
 Then burst defiant strains, bold martial notes, 
 
 Strains that might shake a nation's banner out, 
 
 And call battalions of brave thoughts to arms. 
 
 But when the battle music died away, 
 
 Brave thoughts, too loyal, trusting, sank to rest, 
 
 And passion, that from poisoned ambush crept, 
 
 Came back to conquer them in sleep 
 
 I have been bitter oftener than is well, 
 "When the thorn labyrinth we wander in 
 Had lost its clue of flimsy spider threads. 
 Then have I closed my eyes, and listening, 
 Heard the eternal music. Many times 
 It lay all hidden in its purity 
 Beneath a maiden's song. And sterner oft,
 
 ^T. 27] PASSION. 237 
 
 When crowds were gay and brazen instruments 
 
 Crashed welcome to a gorgeous tyranny, 
 
 The pauses whispered, God is vengeance ! Oft 
 
 Fleet winds have been my harpers. Eustling grain 
 
 I've heard to whisper thanks for harvest time, 
 
 And I have heard a tremble thro' the woods 
 
 Methought bright-winged sunbeams fluttered down, 
 
 For leaves were ah 1 astir, with simple joy, 
 
 And silvery laughter gay. Then glancing down, 
 
 "Water, the best andloveliest,like a girl 
 
 Came dancing on from mossy darkness, 'mid 
 
 Old autumn leaves and pebbles opaline. 
 
 And evermore enchantingly the song, 
 
 Delicate music, sweet as smiles I heard, 
 
 And low deep undertones from far away. 
 
 For grander now the stream was flowing on 
 
 At call of destiny. So drifting down, 
 
 My errant sylvan river guiding me, 
 
 And master now, at last there seemed to be 
 
 A noontide sunrise all along the south; 
 
 Two heavens met cinctured with a belt of gold; 
 
 Thence came the eternal music, and the blue, 
 
 The hither blue was counting on its shore 
 
 Beats of wild melody. Die nobly here, 
 
 Beautiful river, in eternity. 
 
 Be lost in broader music evermore. 
 
 Like swallows bounding, bounding over light, 
 Skimming the white and billowy air along, 
 Eagerly full of bursting darting song, 
 Soared Beatrice and her wild lover; nay, 
 Not lover. Lifted over floods of song, 
 And borne away by melody, to coasts
 
 238 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Unknown of earthly unillumined souls, 
 They dwelt where symphonies eternally 
 Eternal seas are sounding 
 
 Oh innocently, innocently, love 
 
 Stole to their hearts, of pity born and thanks; 
 
 For pity grew, like some transcendent flower, 
 
 Blameless for poison till one plucked and died. 
 
 Easy is erring over plains of flowers, 
 
 Slowly the lost are lost, and sadly trace 
 
 Their backward path by blossoms plucked, now dead. 
 
 Slowly it clouded over Beatrice, 
 
 The love that was not sunshine: prisoner 
 
 In fine and golden web herself had wove ; 
 
 It seemed to deck her like sweet tracery 
 
 Of bridal lace. She dreamed all carelessly 
 
 Those filmy bonds to breathe away. Alas, 
 
 Her pure pride lied to her that she might check, 
 
 Still cherishing her honest tenderness. 
 
 She stood beside the hearth where smouldering fire, 
 
 Ashes and embers lay which should have warmed 
 
 Her home of marriage, over these she bent, 
 
 Too heart-chilled even to have one fluttering breath 
 
 To strive and pant to kindle them again. 
 
 It was a noble palace, and its lord 
 
 A kind old man. And when she came at first 
 
 He led her over tessellated halls, 
 
 She turning childlike here and there, and gay 
 
 She flew along her new and wider cage, 
 
 Singing to prove how bird-like free she was. 
 
 In pauses of her song she asked for love; 
 
 Alas! it came not. Kindness, fondness, these 
 
 Were grateful. Tokens sweet, betokening
 
 MT. 27] PASSION. 239 
 
 Little from his slow heart, all mossed with age. 
 Oh mystery ! and she was all alone. 
 The priest appears, the magic words are said 
 Open the ivory gates, all void within. 
 
 Could it be wrong to give the heart away, 
 So it was but a heart ? That kind old man 
 Was harmless of heart craving; so it seemed 
 She was what he would have, a brilliant thing 
 For throngs to envy, nor the less to him 
 A prattling comrade. With an unconfessed 
 Remorse, to reparation urging her, 
 Hardly self convict of a traitor thought, 
 More gently than in friendliest moments past 
 She laid her hand in his, and cheered and soothed 
 His trifle flurried panics, sang him songs, 
 Listened indulgently to critic doubts, 
 And talk of ladies who when he was young 
 Had higher notes, trills more articulate 
 Than hers, all dimmed for his old ears. At times 
 She wept for him, for pity. Wasted pearls ! 
 Waste as the unprized priceless love he lost, 
 Serene, contented in his littleness. 
 
 But when with night came dreams, wild stormy dreams, 
 
 Ever one haunting form before her eyes 
 
 Came in her troubled sleep. She dreamed of flight 
 
 Over red deserts, over wastes of blood; 
 
 A steady tramp came closing after her, 
 
 And a fiend's face more terrible than death 
 
 Looked o'er her shoulder, or she fell down, down, 
 
 Through horrible abysses, clasped with him 
 
 Who was her own, yet changed to pallid death.
 
 240 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Dreams such as these the master- thought betrayed; 
 For dreams are never wholly dreams, but shapes 
 Mystic, distorted from our daylight hopes. 
 
 But what of Eichard ? Oh ! forgive the boy, 
 If when a winning syren sang delight, 
 Along his heart, shrine after holy shrine 
 Opening received and echoed ecstasy. 
 He thought not of an angel visitant 
 One purely came. Could aught but worship be ? 
 She was so heavenly stainless ! Not misled 
 Was that young heart of his by elder sneers 
 That beauty was but veiled impurity. 
 
 Merciful beauty ! Angel of mean earth, 
 Divine, divinest ! On his loneliness, 
 Exhaustless bounty she had kindly showered; 
 His bliss seemed questionless, his right, his own. 
 Terrible beauty! Fiend all serpent-like; 
 No evil hiss is in thy delicate voice, 
 Glorious maddening tempter. Calm as fate 
 Thou strikest thy deep fangs when strikes the hour, 
 Changing from woman to a monster vile. 
 
 He could not choose but love, love, love; red fate; 
 
 A tyrant, treads on choice. His spirit prayed 
 
 Peace ! peace ! I bore my other misery, 
 
 But this I cannot bear, this torture Love. 
 
 No choice but love ! Ah ! warm and friendly foe, 
 
 That smiles so on us with unconscious eyes ! 
 
 To check such instinct passion ere it grew 
 
 For this were need of man's firm wisdom. He 
 
 Took but his heart for leader. Were life true ? 
 
 Beautiful, white-plumed chieftain, we would march
 
 En- 27] PASSION. 241 
 
 With thee, through fight, to safety ! But 'tis false 
 There is no guide, not any, save to err. 
 
 It pleased the Marquis that his wife could find 
 A comrade in his kinsman whom he loved, 
 And Richard, full of kindly gratefulness, 
 Held out his sturdy arm and sturdier mind, 
 Sonlike for him to cling. Not yet was wrong. 
 
 There had been loud wild gales till noon, and leaves, 
 
 Autumnal leaves, were whirling on the air; 
 
 But after noon the winds were still, and mist, 
 
 The slumbrous haze of autumn slow enwrapped, 
 
 Enshrouded earth. So calm the day became, 
 
 So lulled into such indolent repose, 
 
 Such dull luxurious entrancement, such 
 
 Hot breathlessness, such pause of time and life, 
 
 As level rivers know when near the sea. 
 
 Slow lagged the sluggish blood thro' half-closed veins. 
 
 Keen blasts that stir the ardent spirits up 
 
 Had fallen blunted, and each drowsy flower 
 
 Had folded eyelid over eye, in sleep. 
 
 It was such eve as this. Irresolute 
 
 The oval sun had vainly sunk away; 
 
 A pall closed in his parting. Lowering 
 
 Dull skies athwart their lurid reaches watched; 
 
 No dewy freshness came from twilight dells, 
 
 Alone they sat. Oh, lovers surely now, 
 
 And fearfully alone. The walls they built 
 
 Crushed them like chaos. None, it seemed, could pass 
 
 Forever. But without a magic word, 
 
 Two souls are prisoned there, forever damned 
 
 Never shall Heaven visit them, nor hope.
 
 242 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 They sat in terrible twilight. Nevermore 
 Can any steady look between them pass 
 Forever tremors bring betrayal near. 
 They heard an old man's step along the walk. 
 He came to warn them kindly of the mists 
 Of autumn, fevered dews, pestiferous moons. 
 His tread came somewhat slowly on, a doom 
 That tramped along the chamber of their souls, 
 To bar back life. They heard his rustling feet 
 Among the dead leaves coming, and he seemed 
 To count the pebbles as he dragged along. 
 He came, and looking westward as he spoke, 
 Said simply, " This may be our last fine night; 
 The lurid west foretells great storms to come ; 
 Winter must soon be with us. Eichard, we 
 Like not your talk of parting. You will find 
 No city fair as this. Not ruined Rome, 
 Not Naples with its fevers and its fires, 
 Not stagnant Venice, nor Milan, whose dome 
 Has gone to seed with pinnacles. No, stay 
 With us, your kinsfolk. Beatrice and I 
 Both love you as a son. Yes, be our son ! 
 Forget your savage land. Your home is here, 
 Among the civilized. She prays it too; 
 Yes, cheer my age, my heart, and be our son." 
 
 " His son ! O God ! My son ! oh God ! " 
 She turned; 
 
 There was a ghastly moon low in the sky, 
 Just risen, not so ghastly as her face. 
 Grasp not so chilly at her tender heart ! 
 Back ! grim Eemorse ! Back ! seize that cowering one ! 
 In mercy hide him from the self he hates !
 
 -2ET. 27] PENANCE. 243 
 
 The living silence was as still as death; 
 Paleness drooped over her as falls a shroud; 
 A mask it seemed; despair quenched agony. 
 Parting without forgiveness ? not a look ? 
 Her life was feebly fluttering at her heart, 
 She fell and she was dead. Not yet. They stooped; 
 Lifting her tenderly. Her eyes unclosed, 
 Life had one message more. It was for him. 
 With one last throb heart said farewell to heart, 
 Death waited carelessly. Kind Heaven had met 
 Her pardoned spirit, pardoned ere she erred. 
 Mercy unmasked the sternness from her lips, 
 One last flush tinged her pallor, and she smiled. 
 There came a smile yes, even for him a smile 
 He will remember always. But her hand 
 Was clasped within her husband's. 
 
 So she died. 
 
 IV. 
 
 PENANGE. 
 
 Penance for sins not ours ! Sorrow for crimes 
 We hated when we did ! Regret for bliss 
 Our ruthless ignorance has cast away. 
 Remorse for harmful deeds that guiltlessly 
 Murdered pure joy in others' hearts and ours. 
 Despair alone 'mid corpses of its hopes, 
 As in a plague-struck city's lonely square, 
 A mother sits, her children round her, dead. 
 
 Why was I born to be the butt of fate ? 
 Make answer, life! Art thou one giant lie? 
 Thou hast been villain false to me ! Alas
 
 244 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 I see no truth, not any. Everywhere 
 Is bubbling laughter of the idiot soul. 
 Yet merry, merry is youth, and lovelier 
 Than any birds are childish melodies. 
 How lightsome were my days. Visions too soon 
 In childhood gave me longing to be cursed 
 With knowledge, but my mother's sunny smile 
 Shone then and I was happy. 
 
 Ne'er again, 
 
 Gallops of glory, shall ye lead me on, 
 Thoughtless of sunset, over prairie crests. 
 Eight through the stirring foeinan wind I rode, 
 Till my horse stopped at once with eyes of flame, 
 Instantly still was I, for fronting me 
 Sunset was sadly grand, like heaven we lose, 
 Too far, too far. But brief was sadness then, 
 As home I flew beneath the comrade stars. 
 
 How dear to live again the old delights ! 
 
 Ah that this trembling peace across my brow 
 
 Were more than memory of a mother's kiss ! 
 
 Oh mother of my early dawning love ! 
 
 Oh mother of my questioning young heart ! 
 
 Oh mother of my lofty eager hopes ! 
 
 Oh angel guide ! When stars grew large and deep, 
 
 Longing to speak their mystery, thy soft 
 
 Dark eyes how tender true, how faithful calm, 
 
 How tortureless beside their restless glow. 
 
 Never again my youth shall meet its mate ! 
 
 My brother-father, ardent, manly, wise, 
 
 Sincere in all emotions, chivalrous, 
 
 Not curdled o'er with trifling maxims, such 
 
 As moulder down broad natures into mean.
 
 2Eec. 27] PENANCE. 245 
 
 Not with weak warnings did he fright my life. 
 He said, be true, be bold ! For he who trusts 
 His truth of heart, himself to self a friend, 
 Gleans through the treacherous melee of the world 
 A chief, of argent shield and stainless plume. 
 
 Ah ! near was heaven to our far bivouacs ! 
 Stars overhung us graciously, and fleet 
 Came answer by them to the hope of light, 
 Inner, eternal. Boundless hours we passed; 
 All my impassioned boyhood silently 
 Followed his earnest manhood, as he told 
 How the world-wise and dwarfish creature man 
 Starts up to gianthood antean, when 
 Bare nature wrestles with the recreant. 
 
 We face to face with virgin nature stand, 
 
 Wooing the unwooed beauty, we would tame. 
 
 Ourselves the while must simpler be, as those 
 
 Bold knights, companions to the nymphs and fauns. 
 
 Be nature now thy boyhood's love, my son; 
 
 Go with her, hand in hand, and heart to heart; 
 
 Follow, where lapt in ferny nooks she hides 
 
 A maiden fragile as anemones. 
 
 Follow, where underneath the fragrant pines 
 
 She sings a sighing lay as soft as theirs, 
 
 Within the holies of those vista'd aisles. 
 
 And follow her where over prairie land, 
 
 Her feet with dawn-lit dews impearled, she flies, 
 
 And ever flings behind a lure of flowers. 
 
 Follow with love relentless. When at last 
 
 You win the dear delight of heart to heart,
 
 246 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Oh ! in her wondrous eyes, all mysteries 
 
 Of beauty deeper than your dreams, will look 
 
 Intensest answer to your earnest quest, 
 
 All life immortalized with ecstasy. 
 
 In this wild world of ours are stirring scenes 
 
 Where manly souls meet nature. Bivouacs, 
 
 The march, the night watch, soldier's fare, the tale 
 
 Round gleaming camp fires. Up ! away at dawn ! 
 
 Westward from orient, onward with the sun ! 
 
 Noon gallops. Thirst and weariness; the flood; 
 
 The plunge to save a maddened drowning horse, 
 
 The mountain pass. Snow perils, starving days, 
 
 The hearty savagery of appetite; 
 
 Exalting glimpses over lands unknown; 
 
 Long vales that slope in green to inland seas; 
 
 Sweet prairie shrines, watched round by evergreens, 
 
 One noblest pine standing a sentinel, 
 
 Where as you ride a doe bounds up and flies, 
 
 Pauses with pleading look, then flies again. 
 
 And know, my son, if ere it be thy heart 
 
 Is echoless when pine trees sigh to thee, 
 
 Is echoless to voices of the groves, 
 
 And in God's silences jars, worldly-false, 
 
 Eemember penitence may grow remorse, 
 
 Eemorse, despair. Go then, and seek thy love, 
 
 Kneeling in forest shrine, or where the grand 
 
 Uplifting of her snow peak queens afar. 
 
 There came a day in autumn, dashed with spring, 
 Sunny with sparkles through its living air. 
 My father ! oh my father ! Hopefully 
 Forth on the gallop to the hunt we rode, 
 All wild with vigor as we faced the hills.
 
 2Ei. 27] PENANCE. 247 
 
 Back rolled the black and roaring multitude ! 
 Trampled to death ! O God ! I see him yet ! 
 My hero ! crushed and utterly defaced, 
 And struggling thro' his agony to smile, 
 To speak to me, and moan one parting word. 
 Oh, dare I trace again that dizzy hour 
 That brings again my terror worse than death, 
 When she we loved came flying like a wind 
 Glancing on me as if from far away, 
 
 Then died there ? 
 
 Was not this enough, oh God ? 
 
 Must I step blindly down to darker fate, 
 
 Groping to my own dungeon ? With a clang 
 
 The heavy doors closed, leaving hope behind, 
 
 Tomb like. My love lies buried in that grave. 
 
 Another grave I see, an old man's grave, 
 
 One that I wronged. He seemed to know it not, 
 
 And ever grasped my hand and called me, son. 
 
 Most feebly smiling, said, " She loved me much, 
 
 That he would die, and say how kind I was, 
 
 He feared his love had blighted all her youth 
 
 Will she not come from heaven with pardoning words ? 
 
 Pardon for me ! oh pardon ! " Words of peace 
 
 I spoke to him, that were my agony, 
 
 So sorrowed briefly all his life away. 
 
 And this was love? An agony ! At first 
 
 How sweet and pure that tempting current flowed, 
 
 We floating innocent through hanging boughs, 
 
 The river of our love a sunlit way, 
 
 All fringed with water-lilies. Down we passed 
 
 To other zones all rich with tropic flowers; 
 
 About us closed a murmuring melody
 
 248 TWO IVOKLDS. [1855 
 
 Lulling, prophetic, warning; over us 
 
 Winds tossed us rose leaves, bridal orange blooms; 
 
 Ever our boat on its own ripples pressed; 
 
 Its ripples made a singing as it went. 
 
 We saw the beautiful world. Her magic charm 
 
 Wooed sunshine thro' each shade, if shade there were. 
 
 I listened to my voice that spoke to her 
 
 From its delicious deeps of passion calm, 
 
 Then silent with heart trembles, till her voice 
 
 Thrilled thro' my being like a silver flood 
 
 Of moonlit waters in a shadowy dell. 
 
 Then we grew conscious suddenly of stern 
 
 And master currents, and a steely cliff 
 
 Drew to inevitable plunge beyond. 
 
 On! all forgot save love! Electric airs 
 
 Became a tempest. Cruel, strong as Death, 
 
 The dash, the struggle wild and desperate ! 
 
 I saw her drowning look grow horrible, 
 
 Her smile but softly veiled it, but she gave 
 
 One death gift. On her cheek that paled by mine 
 
 One pearl-white rose just blushing at the heart. 
 
 She paid the vengeance ! Did I murder her ? 
 
 My love ! My passion ! Better both had died 
 
 Than met for ruin, bitterness, remorse. 
 
 Pale loveliness, more pale for long black hair, 
 
 Night shrouded with her hair we buried her. 
 
 One tearless, one so crushed and old and sad; 
 
 The world became to me one wide unrest. 
 
 I saw my future waste and trackless grow, 
 
 More desert than the desert there before. 
 
 Methought, could I save one, my penance might 
 Be angel-lifted briefly; so I plead
 
 ^ET. 27] PENANCE. 249 
 
 With brother or with sister, pointing them 
 
 To nobler selves and lives; but each had chosen; 
 
 One called choice, Fate; one, careless, turned aside 
 
 Forgetting; till in sorrowful contempt 
 
 I listened to the voices of the world. 
 
 I stood by hearths called happy, but beheld 
 
 Shy discord lurking in indifference, 
 
 Endurance, merged in hate, or in despair. 
 
 Holding the tarnished mirror of my heart 
 
 To others' hearts, still more they clouded it; 
 
 I saw the very soul of. souls to cringe 
 
 In holy hypocrites, who dare not say 
 
 In large outspoken truth that Faith was dead. 
 
 Sneers made truth lies, and every earnestness 
 
 Was met with bitter laughter. Paltry life ! 
 
 How would I shrink from thee and know myself 
 
 Had I one hour of peace, one blessed hour, 
 
 Ere I drink Lethe in the vale of death. 
 
 Not this for me ! I would not heal one scar, 
 
 Where searching flames have nerved me resolute, 
 
 Were I but brave to all endurance. No ! 
 
 I dare not curse e'en memory, or the sting 
 
 When coiled remorse lifts up a pale dead face 
 
 And hisses, Barest thou hope for peace ? Despair ! 
 
 For I am near thee always ! 
 
 I have sought, 
 
 Striding o'er science like a field, to know. 
 I fought against the infinite of heaven 
 With miserable measurements, and tried 
 To comprehend celestial symmetry 
 In vain mysterious, crowded, tremulous voids, 
 Ye harshly watch me with unblenching eyes, 
 Keen, cruel, unresponsive, omenless.
 
 250 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Poor lagging science following in the steps 
 
 Of all this terrible and hostile life, 
 
 Canst thou defend us with thy half-drawn sword, 
 
 Thou hast not strength to lift, and darest not strike ? 
 
 It is an utter dreary thing to read 
 
 Those sad apologies called histories. 
 
 Nations have failed, the wise men say, and thus 
 
 'Twill ever be. Yet on a battle-field 
 
 Clear bugle notes amid the tumult sound 
 
 Calling a charge, and thus, amid the crash 
 
 Of cycles, has been heard the thrilling voice 
 
 Of some great prophet, shouting to his age 
 
 To march to what it might, but will not be. 
 
 He fails ! How sad for a great heart to fail ! 
 
 He fails ! and drinks his poisoned cup and dies. 
 
 He fails ! his nation perishes unknown 
 
 For what they might have been, had they been men. 
 
 The past is wholly comfortless. There has 
 Been labor. Centuries are filled with days 
 And nights of toilsome toil; but every day 
 And night some laborer lay down and cried 
 To what he called his God, Give rest ! give rest ! 
 All this is fruitless. I am weary. Death 
 This gave the gods. "Who knows if it be rest? 
 Who knows ? we question vainly, bitterly; 
 Our answers are Fate, Mystery and Death, 
 Our guide is Fate, our world is Mystery, 
 And only Death can tell what Death may be. 
 One joy is here, that neither Fate nor Death 
 Can conquer any so ul forever, if he dares 
 To stand and not to yield. Thus Eichard stood.
 
 ET - 27] LOVE. 251 
 
 First love lias burned to ashes, and then Faith, 
 That would relight Love's dead and trampled torch, 
 Fell and was lost amid the deepening gloom. 
 Then, in the blackness, with one flickering hope 
 The wanderer passed along. 
 
 V. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 She wandered by the sea-shore all alone, 
 
 And murmured thoughtful songs to her true heart. 
 
 Her voice was low and full of pensiveness, 
 
 And soft as if some fairy sprite within, 
 
 A dewdrop exiled from the skies, had breathed 
 
 A sigh in falling. Margaret. Not such, 
 
 Not such a Margaret as one I know, 
 
 With tendril curls like her exquisite thoughts, 
 
 With opalescent eyes, not ignorant 
 
 Of flashes, when the torrent words, too slow, 
 
 Dart leaping glances into caves of Truth, 
 
 And startle unimagined beauty forth. 
 
 As darkly-fair, as delicately-bright, 
 
 As the keen edge of a Damascus blade 
 
 Engraved with tracery of flowers, and sharp 
 
 To cut the films of doubt and fear, and show 
 
 All nobleness. The Margaret of my tale 
 
 Was lovely, not the same; the world is full 
 
 Of lovely women as the air with dew. 
 
 She wandered by the sea-shore happily 
 She knew the ocean infinite. It smiled 
 Brighter than her young gayety could smile.
 
 252 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 All moods her noble comrade shared with her, 
 
 But most his calmness and his majesty 
 
 She loved as Godlike. When the waking breeze 
 
 Shook down a golden veil before her eyesj 
 
 Her eyes as blue as shadows on the snow, 
 
 And white sails ever came and went, her thoughts 
 
 Swept grandly seaward with the tall swift ships; 
 
 But swifter darting, voyaged round the world, 
 
 And ere the ships had vanished, had embarked 
 
 On richly freighted vessels homeward bound, 
 
 And passed the outward sailor in the bay. 
 
 Sometimes she dreamed herself a tropic bird, 
 
 Heralding sunrise with a sun-flushed whig. 
 
 Happy the soul that welcomes the divine, 
 
 And such was Margaret's; but most of all 
 
 The voiceful spirits of the sea became 
 
 Her teachers. They brought wealth as seas have 
 
 poured 
 
 Gifts on the verdant island where our race 
 Was cradled. God save that fair isle ! But still, 
 Accepting joyfully all outward forms, 
 She longed for the unseen, unspoken. Love 
 Must have its meeting with another heart, 
 Ere life is circled to the perfect orb. 
 No magic words perhaps are uttered then, 
 But thoughts leap into being. Margaret 
 Looked on the sea as on a nobler life, 
 Beyond the gayety of girlhood's dream. 
 Each lifting sail bore her a hope that came, 
 Or bore a hope away, and still, adrift 
 Upon a life yet heaving after storms, 
 She wandered by the sea-shore, dreamily, 
 Lulled by the whisperings of her comrade, sea.
 
 2Er. 27] LOVE, 253 
 
 Along the sunlit edges of his waves, 
 
 Dipping its canvas as it went, there shot 
 
 A cutter, lightly playing near the beach. 
 
 Kichard was there alone upon the sea, 
 
 And eagle-eyed he gazed upon her face, 
 
 As she stood there alone upon the sand. 
 
 Her sleep that night was full of hoverings 
 
 Of snow-winged boats that bore her gifts of flowers. 
 
 She wandered by the sea-side, hopefully, 
 
 Again, as birds fly back to summer, came 
 
 The eager boat. Steady, for it had found 
 
 Its star, hung in a sky of hope; again, 
 
 No longer wandering carelessly, no more 
 
 Koving adrift, each came, only a glance, 
 
 No word, but when apart, at night, they watched 
 
 The slow, sad parting of the sea and moon, 
 
 He knew his soul had found its mistress; she 
 
 Confessed the sov'reign of her soul had come. 
 
 Heedless we step into our shallow joys, 
 
 But tarry ere we plunge into the depths. 
 
 Hearts that when joined are one eternally, 
 
 Shrink from the fateful instant that unites: 
 
 So Eichard hastened not to further bliss, 
 
 Content with fullness of the present hour. 
 
 A chance brought them together then. He went 
 To a friend's mansion on a beacon hill 
 O'erlooking the broad bay all thick with sails 
 Innumerable, come from many lands; 
 A worthy mansion for a merchant prince, 
 And queened by a fair woman, full of grace. 
 They sat within the porch. Dim evening came, 
 The moon sailed upward like a noble thought
 
 254 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 They listened to the waves upon the beach 
 
 Booming the warning of the coming storm. 
 
 A pensive silence hung upon the group, 
 
 And Eichard came. The talk was grave and sad; 
 
 Of past and future life, and death, and hope; 
 
 And he had spoken somewhat desperately, 
 
 Spurning beliefs to him all utter void; 
 
 But from the darkness came a firm, sweet voice, 
 
 That chided him all innocently bold. 
 
 Speaking the intuitions of a fresh, 
 
 Pure maidenhood, wise in simplicity. 
 
 And all his sharp array of argument 
 
 Did martial homage to her victory. 
 
 " What if your lamps of life are dim ? " she said, 
 
 " "We know that God made light, and light is still 
 
 The victor. Dai'kness is but vanished light, 
 
 And doubtless it will shine again for you." 
 
 She paused; her low and richly gentle voice 
 
 Drew harmony over their troubled minds. 
 
 The surf burst with an echo grand afar 
 
 Of her sweet voice; a voice like that, he thought, 
 
 Might come from that fair lady of the shore. 
 
 Men have made many instruments, and joined 
 
 Strange elements of sound in harmony, 
 
 But over all in fuller majesty, 
 
 Arousing and subduing, breathes the voice, 
 
 When God has gifted one with melody. 
 
 It seemed to them as if an angel came 
 
 Swiftly by moonlight over ruined shrines, 
 
 To build them new, of marble. Then glad hearts 
 
 Leaped quick to gayety, and asked for song. 
 
 He stood without and listened as she sang
 
 ^ET.27] LOVE. 255 
 
 Birdlike. Then lie must sing. He chose a chant 
 Sung by the tropic Indians, when they dip 
 Their lazy paddles in a lingering stream; 
 Monotonous, and wild with passion hid. 
 So pleasant converse wore away the eve, 
 In which she sparkled brightest, fluttering 
 Like an excited bird that fears the cage. 
 But he was silent, wondering at his bliss; 
 And paradise was there, as it must be 
 When love creates a soul anew. She went. 
 She wandered by the sea-shore once again, 
 An orphan, like her lover. There are times 
 In men's and nation's lives, when anarchy 
 Keigns tyrant, but some still, heroic thought 
 "Rises, and there is quiet; as when waves 
 Raging more madly for the darkness, see 
 A stranger orb, dim and majestical, 
 As if some spirit from a calmer sphere, 
 Look wonder on the uproar, and they cease. 
 So rose her silent beauty on his soul, 
 And he went steering shoreward, seeking her. 
 
 Was it not then enough that all his youth 
 Was blasted, and enough his long despair ? 
 Was it not that his torture of remorse 
 Had conquered fate ? She welcomed him 
 With a firm gracefulness, like thinnest veil 
 Before the sunshine warmth of her full smile. 
 They met, and lingering paced along the sand, 
 Slow as two lovers ere they say adieu. 
 He rather chose to listen than to speak, 
 And hear the breezy gladness of her voice 
 Soothe every tremor of his life to peace.
 
 256 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Her deep joy made her gay, as rippling waves 
 
 Sparkling with inward light of sunbeams play. 
 
 They talked of ocean by its mystic marge; 
 
 The sea, her comrade, with its voice of waves 
 
 "Wooed her to speak of him, and Eichard knew 
 
 The secrets of the sea in calm and storm; 
 
 And many a lovely palm-clad island stood 
 
 Within his memory. And well he knew 
 
 The secrets of the desert wastes, and all 
 
 The strange wild knowledge of the traveler. 
 
 She listened eagerly, but as he talked 
 
 She saw that all his voyages were naught 
 
 But aimless floatings on a sea of grief, 
 
 Wild chasings of an ever-flying hope, 
 
 Long, reckless, lonely flights from haunting thoughts. 
 
 A woman's heaven-taught wisdom is not bought 
 
 By bitter trials of experience; 
 
 Its flower it opens to the sun of Love 
 
 "Unconsciously; and Margaret divined 
 
 Some hidden sorrow which her hand could cure, 
 
 Touching with sympathy, not probing harsh. 
 
 She swept the discords of his heart, they rang 
 
 With a grand harshness, like the broken sounds 
 
 Before the sweetness of a symphony, 
 
 Until he threw all hesitance awa3 r , 
 
 And leaped into the flood of his life's tale; 
 
 Telling the whole sad story to her heart. 
 
 Then, " Let me know you pardon ! I can wait 
 
 Till G-od and angels do." In her blue eyes 
 
 The quick tears dashed a shower. Grave womanhood, 
 
 Tenderly true and firm stood trial now. 
 
 She said, " God pardons, I can pity you !
 
 &* 27] LOVE. 257 
 
 And oh, if any wish of mine, if hope, 
 
 Faith in your final conquest can arouse 
 
 A better-omened struggle, take all these." 
 
 And she stretched out her hand in pledge of troth. 
 
 Faith for another till he perishes, 
 
 Is better than a cold abandonment; 
 
 But when a man has proved the world, and self, 
 
 And found both wanting, and has hated both, 
 
 Then there is but one savior for despair. 
 
 Love, only love, a breathless messenger 
 
 Can come and wave its snow-white flag between 
 
 The bristling ranks of war. His heart stood still. 
 
 His soul was lifted on a wave of hope 
 
 He could not bear its sinking, and he sprang 
 
 Before it, venturing. " Ah lady, were I strong 
 
 With untried manhood, did I march all bold 
 
 In my young knighthood, it were victory ! 
 
 But I have fought already, and have lost. 
 
 Alone I dare not yet renew the fight 
 
 No arms, no standard, it were hopeless strife 
 
 Oh save me ! Dare I ask you for your love ? " 
 
 He ceased. As eager trembling light of stars 
 Shot earthward, came her look, and cloudy gloom 
 Opened, and full-orbed love meridian shone. 
 
 So they were joined forever. He had learned 
 All that distrust, regret, remorse could teach. 
 Pardon is God's own gift, but blest the man 
 Who need not wait for death. By love alone 
 The mysteries are solved. He stands above 
 All doubt, like some tall sunlit peak that lifts
 
 258 TWO WORLDS. [1855 
 
 Its head above the chaos of the storm. 
 
 Her voice all full of peace, came with her look, 
 
 As breezes come with sunrise. Winged words 
 
 Made harmony of silence; faintly then 
 
 She murmured, for her boldness shrank away, 
 
 To utter all her timid secret out. 
 
 " Speak not of severed hopes, for yours are mine," 
 
 She said, " and yours shall brighten twined with mine. 
 
 And oh ! if this is love, that I have longed 
 
 To find, why need I longer veil my heart"? 
 
 First and forever you are there enshrined.'-' 
 
 He waited, hardly daring to believe 
 
 His happiness, then shook off the dead past, 
 
 And took her to his heart eternally. 
 
 I leave their perfect union; they shall find 
 Broad regions of illumined life, with glow 
 Of starry radiance from her vestal fires, 
 Rekindling his quenched life; for noble deeds 
 Wait him who dares to do them; a sad world 
 To cheer and cherish. Leaderless and lost 
 Brave bands of warriors straggle on the field 
 Unrallied, but let an Achilles' shout 
 Stagger the ranks opposed, a hero youth 
 Brandish a hope of victory, there are 
 Enough to throng around and charge with him ! 
 
 Evening had stolen on. Distracting day 
 
 Had sunk below the world. Night veiled the earth. 
 
 The vast unknown of skies was hid with stars, 
 
 Belted Orion strode along the blue. 
 
 No moon was risen in the east, they saw
 
 ^T. 27] LOVE. 259 
 
 Only the infinite sky, only the stars. 
 
 Her hand in his, as surety of love, 
 
 They walked in trance of silence, or with words 
 
 Rushing too swiftly in tumultuous bliss. 
 
 She told him of the God who had been near 
 
 Her childhood oh how far from his hot youth ! 
 
 Of duty stern, but true as faithful friend; 
 
 All she had dreamed of woman's tenderness 
 
 For noble man, ideal till he came. 
 
 She tui'ned the pages of pure maiden thought 
 
 Fair as a missal delicately wrought 
 
 By some secluded convent's patient love. 
 
 His leng forgotten prayers returned, as free 
 
 As when a ship, long tugging at her chains, 
 
 Sails onward, white winged, over boundless deeps.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LAW AND AUTHORSHIP. 
 
 DURING the summer of 1855, and just before going 
 to Mount Desert, Winthrop was admitted to the 
 bar of New York and he continued in the office of 
 Mr. Tracy for a year or more. The Fremont Presi- 
 dential campaign found him, with all the ardent youth 
 of the North, awake and alive to the issues, that were to 
 be fought out, as was then supposed, by the ballot alone. 
 Already the prairie fires of Kansas were kindling and 
 spreading over the land, farther and wider than we 
 knew. Winthrop went first to the Adirondacks, and 
 then to Maine, with his dear friend Frederic E. Church, 
 where they spent some weeks in fishing, camping out, 
 and enjoying life in the wilderness, upon the lakes and 
 rivers with unpronounceable names that they delighted 
 in. A charming sketch of this tour may be found in 
 the volume of Winthrop 's works called " Life in the 
 Open Air," which also contains his critique, written 
 con amove, of his friend Church's famous " Heart of the 
 Andes," where he shows in his prose picture, that his 
 knowledge of mountains and their architecture < was 
 equal to that of the painter. Finding that stump 
 speakers were wanted in Maine, he made his first 
 essay in that direction, on the edge of the great 
 Northern wilderness, before small assemblies of farmers
 
 ^T- 27] A STUMP ORATOR. 261 
 
 and lumbermen, in townships now probably flourish- 
 ing, but till then hardly ever heard of beyond their 
 state. The following letter relates some of his experi- 
 ences as a stump orator. 
 
 " MB. ABNER TOOTHAKER'S, 
 "Rungely, Maine. 
 "Aug. 20th, 1856. 
 
 " DEAR MOTHER, After a progress up the Andros- 
 coggin, through lakes U'mbagog, Allegundebagog, 
 Weelokenabacook, Mollyclumkamug, Moosetock- 
 maguntiok, and Oquossok or Lakwockit, and after 
 being obliged to pronounce these jaw-breakers con- 
 stantly, we find ourselves naturally at home with 
 Mr. Toothaker. His beautiful farm lies sloping 
 down to the bank of the last named lake, with an 
 exquisite view of the same, and noble mountain 
 possibilities, just now obscured by the dark mists 
 of a North Easterly storm. This stays us here 
 now the second day, in the comfortable quarters 
 of a thriving farmer. 
 
 "Church has of course made himself popular with 
 all hands. The bag- wrinkled, leathern-skinned hag 
 of a grandmother has told us her history several 
 comical times. Mr. Toothaker had just returned 
 from a Fremont meeting, at the neighboring county 
 town, when we arrived, and finding me sympathiz- 
 ing, he immediately proposed to get up a meeting 
 here. Yesterday proved rainy and not a hay day, 
 and accordingly a man arrived in a curious gig 
 (which himself had manufactured the afternoon 
 
 before). Mr. T chartered him for a dollar to 
 
 go round and beat up the country with the news
 
 262 THE RED SCHOOL HOUSE. [1856 
 
 that Mr. T. W of New York would give a lec- 
 ture on politics at the Red School House in the 
 Maple lot at five p. M. The weather continuing 
 favorably rainy, our hardy fellow citizens turned 
 out from a circuit of about ten miles about sixty 
 men and twenty women with three crybabies, who 
 coming with applause in the wrong place, were 
 put out, (as were the mothers). I spoke an hour 
 and three quarters currently, covering briefly the 
 whole ground of controversy and invented one an- 
 ecdote about a man and wife and son Johnny. 
 The audience seemed to think it was about right 
 in length and style, and we closed with great good 
 humor and three cheers. Mr. Toothaker seemed 
 to think I had converted all the doubters, includ- 
 ing ' Winthrop Elder,' 'who always thinks as 
 the last man tells him.' The men of Maine are 
 freemen, and pretty decided for freedom, whenever 
 they are thoroughly informed about the exact state 
 of the case. The first part of our journey in the 
 Adirondacks paid only moderately, though we had 
 some good things, including the self-explored ascent 
 of the highest summit. We came across to Mont- 
 pelier, where we parted from the Tracy family, they 
 going to Mount Desert. Thence by stage, a beau- 
 tiful trip, across to Lake Memphremagog and so 
 through wild country, up the chain of Lakes; hir- 
 ing boats and making portages. Well and hearty; 
 battening on pork and blueberry pies. 
 " Yours affectionately, 
 
 "THEO. WINTHROP."
 
 ^Ex. 28] DISAPPOINTMENT. 263 
 
 During the remainder of the Autumn he spoke for 
 Fremont on Staten Island and elsewhere. Several 
 fragmentary poems express the feelings of this hour 
 of struggle and failure. 
 
 Low as the earliest whispers of a gale, 
 Faint as the sunrise greetings of a dove, 
 Soft as the questions of uncertain love, 
 
 Thin as a dream, and as a fancy, frail, 
 
 So low is a young nation's whispered voice, 
 So faint are the first warnings that it hears, 
 So soft its questioned hopes, subdued by fears, 
 
 So thin its new ideals, frail its choice. 
 
 But soon a gale raves madly through the sky, 
 "Weird sunrise enters, choired by myriad birds, 
 Leaves whisper hopes, and mutter boding words, 
 
 Wild clouds their blood-red banners wave on high. 
 
 Oh how it sweeps along the land ! 
 
 Voice of a race that will be free ! 
 Vaster growing on every hand 
 
 The master-roar of Liberty. 
 
 Shame ! shame ! shame over all the land ! 
 
 Shame for the trust we make a lie ! 
 Dare we longer faithless, faithless stand 
 
 Claiming van-guard posts of Liberty ? 
 
 Shame for the careless yielding North, 
 Weakly pitying darkest, darkest wrong, 
 
 Shame for the cowards, peeping shivering forth 
 To stare with blinking eyes upon the strong.
 
 264 ST. LOUIS. [185G 
 
 In the autumn of 1856, after the ending of the Fre- 
 mont campaign had crushed the ardent hopes for a 
 peaceful solution of the great questions that were 
 torturing all minds and hearts for truly they were 
 heartfelt and vital and it even seemed to some, that 
 submission to the slave power was inevitable, Winthrop 
 received a generous invitation from his dear friend 
 Henry Hitchcock of St. Louis, to come to him and 
 become his law partner. Hitchcock was already a 
 well-known and successful lawyer there, and "Winthrop, 
 delighted with the offer, went to St. Louis, full of his 
 usual sanguine hopes of success. He had relatives 
 there who were kind to him, and the society of that 
 hospitable city was very pleasant. As the warm 
 weather came on, however, he became seriously ill, 
 and the climate proved so injurious and unhealthy to 
 him that he decided to return to New York, and re- 
 main there, taking an office with his brother and 
 brother-in-law. 
 
 While in St. Louis he became deeply attached to a 
 young lady whose discouragement of his suit may have 
 had something to do with his leaving that place. She 
 spent the following winter, however, in New York, and 
 they became engaged to be married, if on her side it 
 could have been called an engagement. Winthrop 
 certainly considered it so, and was very happy in it, 
 not dreaming that she could prove vacillating or false 
 to him. But during the following year she suddenly 
 broke off the affair, unwilling probably to wait till 
 fortune came to him, and caused him great sorrow 
 and misery. He took refuge from his grief in literary 
 work, and his stories of " Cecil Dreeme," and " Edwin 
 Brothertoft," show how he worked off the bitterness
 
 MT. 28] LOVE POEMS. 265 
 
 of his soul, caused by what he felt to be treachery and 
 betrayal of his confidence. Doubtless in time he came 
 to consider that what had happened was for the best, 
 since the heart he trusted was unworthy of his love. 
 A crayon sketch by Rowse was taken of him not 
 long after this disappointment, and bears the marks 
 of sorrow, in the pathetic and beautiful face.* Many 
 love poems naturally had birth during this period of 
 hope and grief. Here are a few of them. 
 
 TO ONE I KNOW. 
 
 It was not love, not love I told; 
 
 Perhaps she had not listened then. 
 My voice was low, my words were cold, 
 With dread lest she should deem me bold, 
 
 And frown, whene'er I spoke again. 
 
 I crushed the fire that would have broke, 
 
 My words were firmly, coldly calm, 
 
 No tender tone stole through and woke 
 
 My heart's resistless maddening stroke, 
 
 To dash her peace with wild alarm. 
 
 Thanks, lady ! truest thanks, I said; 
 
 Oh ! gloom and faithless death were mine, 
 Till some peace-angel gracious, led 
 Thy radiant presence here, to shed 
 
 Pure glory, radiantly divine ! 
 
 Oh ! hearts like thine, all proudly pure, 
 All purely proud, and maiden free, 
 
 Need not such gentle touch to cure 
 
 Their torture, teaching to endure. 
 
 My heart was touched to peace by thee. 
 * The engraved portrait is taken from this.
 
 266 LOVE POEMS. [185G 
 
 Thanks ! we have met, and worthier now 
 
 I pass to front and conquer fate. 
 Be life or pain, or bliss, my brow 
 Shall wear the hopes thy hopes endow, 
 
 The strength thy words create. 
 
 (July 26th, 1856.) 
 
 HOMAGE. 
 
 Pauses in that brilliant music came 
 Whose brazen wildness set my soul aflame, 
 We sat where solemnly the moonlight fell; 
 Around us eddying the silken throng. 
 
 Softly white moonlight slept upon the hills, 
 Paly fair moonlight dreamed the vales along; 
 
 Kare breezes came with shadow-stirring thrills. 
 
 And I was whispering in so low a tone, 
 It seemed the echo of my soul alone. 
 I dared not look into her large dark eyes, 
 So dreamy earnest, sweetly tender, they 
 
 Were bending moonbeams toward her vestal soul, 
 Were learning holier things than I could say; 
 
 New lights from gentle moonlit heaven they stole. 
 
 'Twas not of love I spoke of deepest thanks; 
 The days I marshaled into kneeling ranks, 
 Each murmuring thanks for every joy she gave. 
 Oh ! they had linked along in dreary tramp, 
 
 To gloom, (sad captives,) and uncertainty, 
 Chained, marching to the future as a camp 
 
 Of foes, but queenly then she set them free.
 
 ^Ei. 28] LOVE POEMS. 267 
 
 So, kindly thus we parted; she had known 
 That not without one triumph life had flown. 
 Her keenly-brilliant dazzling thoughts had stirred 
 One chaos, and my heart's blood richly flowed 
 
 To beats of noble music, grandly pure. 
 The gift of faith o'er days of darkness glowed, 
 
 Imperishably cheering, to endure. 
 
 Again she passed the brilliant crowd among; 
 Around her pressed the eager listening throng, 
 She queenliest; but her backward glances turned, 
 And then were softer, sweeter, where I stood, 
 
 Calm in my yielded thought, and dreamier then 
 Life, death, love, heaven, with an errant brood 
 
 Of hopes, made thought a labyrinth again. 
 
 LOVE COMES! 
 
 Love comes as thoughts come; unperceived at first, 
 They live within, and grow, absorbing all 
 Our life. Astonished we perceive ourselves 
 Their slaves. Some, sudden burst, full voiced 
 Upon the mind, as birds gush forth in song, 
 Far in a deep and silent wilderness. 
 
 Love comes like music ! stealing thro' the night, 
 And drawing nearer, nearer, till we seem 
 Involved in harmony, fast bound in song, 
 Willing, yet prisoned. Or like martial tones 
 Bursting forth wild, and making silence sweet 
 With gushing thrills and eager trembling swells. 
 Silence that longed and waited for its power.
 
 268 LOVE POEMS. [1857 
 
 Love comes as winds come ! There are gentle winds, 
 
 Breathed soft as children's laughter on the air, 
 
 Upon our souls, that stronger, mightier grow, 
 
 And sweep us with them, and will bear us on 
 
 To havens in eternity then die 
 
 In the pure ether that is life and love 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Listen, listen, listen while I sing ! 
 There's mirth, mirth in everything ! 
 In laughing eyes, quick glance, 
 In dashing thro' a dance, 
 Mirth ever doth my soul entrance. 
 
 Listen, listen, listen while I sing ! 
 
 There's joy, joy in everything ! 
 
 In bubbling of fresh streams, 
 
 In flashing sunlight beams: 
 
 Joy sparkles through my pensive dreams. 
 
 Listen, listen, listen while I sing ! 
 There's hope, hope in everything ! 
 In gloom and chill and night, 
 When lost the guiding light, 
 Hope rises, radiantly bright. 
 
 Listen, listen, listen while I sing ! 
 There's love, love in everything ! 
 If joy and hope must die, 
 Still I can upward fly; 
 Love lifts my spirit to the sky !
 
 . 29] LOVE POEMS. 269 
 
 HER VOICE. 
 
 It chanced in bitter mood I sadly gazed 
 Upon a scene whose winter chilled my heart, 
 Me thought I wandered in a desert maze; 
 Aimless and hopeless there I strayed apart. 
 
 Aimless, down lonely, gray, and solemn wastes, 
 No landmarks there save mounds of those who died, 
 No fountains save of death to him who tastes, 
 Lured by false sweetness in the poisoned tide. 
 
 Whereat I paused, and dwelt with folded hands, 
 And said, I will be coward, lingering here; 
 To-day less darkling than to-morrow stands; 
 Let me a moment cheat the fate I fear. 
 
 Strange souls of ours ! It was no despot voice, 
 Harsh, urgent, full of discord, like the tone 
 Of battle trumpet, that recalled my choice, 
 To march, to war, to win a grave, or throne ! 
 
 A gentle music lured me on, and lo ! 
 With light beyond, as caught from lovely eyes 
 I saw a path across the deserts grow, 
 Beyond them, mountain vales of freshness rise. 
 
 And listening to those tones my heart grew calm, 
 And following still those eyes, my vision clear 
 Saw pictures of the future sweep along, 
 Tender, and fair, and sweet, as Thou most dear !
 
 270 LOVE POEMS. [1857 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Thy words of peacefulness have been my stay, 
 On thy sweet features long my heart has dwelt, 
 Till all their soft enchantment it has felt, 
 Nor from these tender bonds can I away. 
 Strong fetters I could burst like giant play, 
 But thou hast thrown, until I cannot move, 
 Round me the silken bondage of thy love, 
 And ever thou recall'st me when I stray. 
 Gladly henceforth my wanderings I resign; 
 For we are ever wandering after bliss; 
 But is there purer happiness than this, 
 That I have won thee, and can call thee mine ? 
 Since from thy radiance a wakening ray 
 Burst through my night and changed it into day ! 
 
 At her shrine 
 
 He knelt and vowed a noblest worthiness. 
 Thoughts of a future fell upon his soul, 
 Like soundings of a far-off, mighty sea. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Tell me, wide wandering soul, in all thy quest 
 Sipping or draining deep from crystal rim 
 Where pleasure sparkled, when did overbrim 
 That draught its goblet with the fullest zest ? 
 Of all thy better bliss what deem'st thou best ? 
 Then thus my soul made answer. Ecstasy 
 Comes once, like birth, like death, and once have I 
 Been, oh! so madly happy, that the rest
 
 *fr. 29] LOVE POEMS. 271 
 
 Is tame as surgeless seas. It was a night 
 Sweet, beautiful as she, my love, my light; 
 Fair as the memory of that keen delight. 
 Through trees the moon rose steady, and it blessed 
 Her forehead chastely. Her uplifted look, 
 Calm with deep passion, I for answer took, 
 Then sudden heart to heart was wildly pressed. 
 
 He who has known great grief 
 Never can be too happy ! For he shrinks 
 From bliss, lest it should light upon his hearth 
 Then fly and leave it lonely. 
 
 HOPES. 
 
 Dare I breathe it softly sweet ? 
 Listen, heart of mine, my secret-hear ! 
 Soon nobler' tones my soul shall greet ! 
 Soon that dear music shall be near; 
 
 One is coming from the sunset that I love ! 
 
 Trembling at the bliss that waits, 
 
 Ah ! might I boldly enter in ! 
 
 Needs there pureness, penance at the gates ? 
 
 Painless may I heaven hope to win ? 
 
 "When from sunset comes the angel of my love ? 
 
 Only hopes, delicious hopes? 
 False ? No ! that can never be ! 
 Fatal word ! how sudden darkness opes 
 Downward, to a drear eternity ! 
 
 Night falls upon the sunset of my love !
 
 272 LOVE POEMS. [1858 
 
 Oh ! 'tis kind 
 
 In Nature, that the mind must slowly sound 
 The deepest depth of sorrow, ere the heart 
 Begins to know its misery. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 This is my song of love ! 
 
 The dawn of love ! 
 
 Chill dawn of love ! 
 Shiver my icy heart; 
 As the cold mists depart, 
 Blushes the sky. 
 
 This is my song of love 1 
 
 Sunrise of love ! 
 
 Bright radiant love ! 
 Oh ! sudden beauty everywhere ! 
 Fair earth, and heaven still more fair 
 Life ever new ! 
 
 This is my song of love ! 
 
 Eich noon of love ! 
 
 Fullness of love ! 
 My tidal passion's flow 
 Quivers with radiant glow ! 
 Oh ! nobly bright ! 
 
 This is my song of love ! 
 
 Sinking of love ! 
 
 Dwindling of love ! 
 Thinner and thinner streams, 
 Fainter and fainter gleams, 
 Fading away !
 
 JET. 29-30] AUTHORSHIP. 273 
 
 This is my song of love ! 
 
 The night of love ! 
 
 Black gloom of love ! 
 Still stands my dying heart. 
 Hopes utterly depart! 
 Terror returns! 
 
 This is my curse of love ! 
 
 Traitor and liar, love ! 
 
 My clenched curse of love ! 
 Oh God! I cannot die! 
 Thine heaven is agony ! 
 No love ! No love ! 
 
 Taking courage after a while, he went on with his law 
 practice, and most of all with his writings; steadily, dur- 
 ing the few more years that were left to him, prepar- 
 ing his published writings for the press. They were 
 rejected by several publishers, but he remained quiet, 
 waiting and re-casting them again. One publisher ac- 
 cepted "John Brent," on the condition that the epi- 
 sode of the death of the horse Don Fulano, killed in 
 being the instrument of saving a fugitive slave, should 
 be left out of the book. It was a temptation to Win- 
 throp, who wished above all things to gain a hearing, 
 and find a resting-place for his lever, but he resisted 
 it, strengthened in his resolution by one of his family, 
 and the lever was not firmly placed till the hand that 
 had held it was cold in death. 
 
 One opening, however, he found, and it cheered and 
 comforted him immensely. In 1860, or early in the 
 spring of 1861, he sent the manuscript of " Love and
 
 274 HIS WORKS. [I860 
 
 Skates" to James Eussell Lowell, then editor of the 
 Atlantic: who received it gladly and with a few words 
 of kindness and praise that went to his heart* 
 
 The stories of " Cecil Dreeme " and " Edwin Brother- 
 toft " were written when his heart was wrung by dis- 
 appointment, and are pathetic and strong. Man de- 
 lights me not nor woman neither, was the tone of his 
 feeling at that period, but in "John Brent," "Love 
 and Skates," and the opening chapters of " Brightly 's 
 Orphan " printed in " Life in the Open Air " he is 
 cheerful, playful, hopeful, as was natural to his really 
 healthy mind. Like Hawthorne, even when he is sad- 
 dest, he is not morbid; the powers of evil never con- 
 quer; "Densdeth" and "Jane Billup " never win the 
 day, but show us with almost Puritan and Biblical stern- 
 ness, though with far from Puritan creed, how sin is 
 its own punishment. Even sorrow is not utter dark- 
 ness: light prevails in the end, and his stories are 
 never tragedies. There are few American books that 
 have more of the true spirit of American life than 
 these; of the East and the West, of the Plains, and 
 their atmosphere and scenery which Joaquin Miller 
 has well said, resemble the Holy Land, where some 
 
 * As Mr. Lowell is absent from the country as Minister Pleni- 
 potentiary to England, his leave to publish the following note is 
 assumed, with apology. 
 
 "Cambridge, 25th March, 1861. 
 "Mi DEAB SIB: 
 
 "You need have no misgivings about stamps. I shall not 
 let so good a story escape me so easily. I was particularly 
 pleased with it, and shall try to print it in June. The May 
 number is already full. 
 
 "Very truly yours, 
 
 J. E. LOWELL." 
 " MB. WDJTHBOP."
 
 3h. 32] HIS WORKS. 275 
 
 day the prophet of a new revelation may be born, 
 as of old in lonely desert places; of the times 
 of the Eevolutionary war and the life of that strong 
 period, of the broad, brimming, Hudson Eiver, and the 
 world of things past and present which it floats down 
 to us; of the great city of New York, the wonderful 
 natural scenery that surrounds it, and its inner life, so 
 little understood by most writers of fiction. Beneath 
 its busy, mercantile and rather scampish surface he 
 could see Truth, Beauty, Eomance, in short Humanity 
 as it is, and is everywhere, not exceptional rottenness. 
 Is it not apparent and notable that one of the great 
 merits of Winthrop's writings is the quality of con- 
 struction; that in the poems, as well as the prose writ- 
 ings, in parts as well as in wholes, evolution and struc- 
 ture are evident ? They are not sketches lightly thrown 
 off; however unfinished some of those may be, which 
 he never thought of printing in their present form. 
 The shorter poems are of course only momentary ex- 
 pressions of feeling, and valuable not so much for 
 themselves, as being illustrations of his life, but in 
 " Two Worlds," this quality is plainly visible, and still 
 more in the Tales. None of the minor characters 
 could be left out, none of the circumstances omitted. 
 Armstrong in " John Brent," for instance, is necessary 
 to give a certain element of white fury and strength 
 to that immortal ride for succor and love. His sim- 
 plicity of revenge brings some one in to " do the kill- 
 ing," that must have made a dark blood stain upon 
 the lives of Brent and his companion, which they surely 
 would have regretted forever. When he says of his 
 brother's murder, " P'r'aps his ghost come round and 
 told 'em 'twarnt the fair thing they'd been at; and
 
 276 HIS WORKS. [I860 
 
 'TWARNT; " the volume of simple meaning and pathos 
 in that last word is as fine as anything in the book. 
 The characters also of George Short and Padiham 
 could not be omitted in bringing out the denouement, 
 while in detail they are most admirable. The affection 
 of Winthrop for his brother can be read between all 
 the lines about Armstrong, and lend a touching mean- 
 ing to them. Armstrong must have been taken from 
 the life, one of the fine fellows among the pioneers 
 and " kindly roughs " he met on the Umpqua, or the 
 Willamette. The personal appearance of Ellen Clitheroe 
 is described from a beautiful woman, a true and kind 
 friend of his, who is also pictured in the last Chap- 
 ter (V.) of "Two Worlds." 
 
 "Not such a Margaret as one I know, 
 With tendril curls like her exquisite thoughts; 
 With opalescent eyes, not ignorant 
 Of flashes, when the torrent words, too slow, 
 Dart leaping glances into caves of Truth, 
 And startle unimagined beauty forth. 
 As darkly-fair, as delicately-bright, 
 As the keen edge of a Damascus blade, 
 Engraved with tracery of flowers, and sharp 
 To cut the films of doubt and fear, and show 
 All nobleness." 
 
 None of his characters were taken from real life 
 however, though they were often supposed to be. 
 His imagination sufficed. But it is useless to attempt 
 a critique of works which have been before the public 
 for twenty years and more, which stand on their own 
 merits, and have lived far beyond an ephemeral day,
 
 En. 32] HIS WORKS. 277 
 
 and become American classics. Winthrop's life was 
 now fast hastening to a close, though those that knew 
 him little dreamed that this brilliant blooming, and 
 vigorous fruit, told of a coming end. And, indeed, it 
 was not so. His life, cut off in its early prime, would 
 have blossomed more abundantly, would have brought 
 forth more perfect fruit, mellow, fully ripened, always 
 wholesome. He wished to do good in his day and gen- 
 eration, especially to the young men of his country, 
 and also to do real artistic literary work, and to gain 
 fame. " I wish," said he, " to form a truly American 
 style, good and original, not imitated." Of " Brightly 's 
 Orphan " he said, " I have written sad things enough 
 I am going to write something cheerful." If his Tales 
 show the traces of despair, they also show the marks of 
 recovery, of new life and hope. He fought his doubts 
 of human nature, and gathered strength to believe 
 again in man and woman indeed a book that con- 
 tains such characters as Churm and Clara Denman, 
 rocks of integrity, from which fresh springs flow, 
 cannot be said to be morbid or despairing in any 
 sense. 
 
 Of Theodore Winthrop's works, "Cecil Dreeme," 
 the first volume published, was the last written. 
 "John Brent," "Love and Skates," and "Edwin 
 Brothertoft" were separate tales in a book called 
 " Brothertoft Manor," and all bound together by their 
 connection with an old house on the Hudson, where the 
 personages meet and tell stories. Peter Skerret tells 
 the tale of the house and of his ancestors, Richard 
 Wade his experience on the plains, and the story of 
 his friend John Brent, "Love and Skates" follows 
 as the sequel, and history of Richard Wade himself.
 
 278 CRITIQUE. [I860 
 
 Afterwards this book was recast, the stories separated 
 by Winthrdp, and put into their present form; the 
 same characters appearing in all. This method of 
 bringing in the same people in successive books, till 
 they seem like familiar friends, is a pleasant one, and 
 has been practiced by Thackeray, Trollope, and others. 
 " Cecil Dreeme " was a separate story, and yet Churm 
 appears again, and Mary Darner is alluded to, in that 
 book, the best, perhaps, though not the most popular, 
 of Winthrop's stories. 
 
 The sketches of travel were written at different times, 
 and their dates are uncertain. Ah 1 his works were pub- 
 lished posthumously, and none of them received his 
 last touches, except "Love and Skates" and the 
 sketches in the Atlantic Monthly. His name of " Broth- 
 ertoft Manor," was changed to " Edwin Brother toft," 
 by the desire of Mr. James T. Fields, who also sug- 
 gested the titles for the two volumes of " The Canoe 
 and the Saddle," and "Life in the Open Air." 
 
 His friend George William Curtis wrote an exquisite 
 sketch of 'his life and character, which was printed with 
 the first published story, " Cecil Dreeme." It would 
 be impossible to improve upon it, for it is done with 
 the tenderness and affection of a friend and the skill 
 of a finished writer. A volume might be made of the 
 press notices of his death and of his writings, but such 
 things are ephemeral. Theophilus Parsons, George 
 Bungay, George W. Curtis and others wrote beautiful 
 occasional poems. 
 
 Professor John Nichol of Glasgow, in his interesting 
 work on American Literature, a book which we would 
 do weh 1 to ponder, gives the following critique upon 
 the writings of Theodore Winthrop whom he calls " a
 
 ZET. 32] CRITIQUE. 279 
 
 novelist, traveler, and soldier, hindered by the short 
 span of his innocently erratic life, from securing the 
 place in his country's literature, to which, in the es- 
 timate of those who knew him best, he was, by his 
 genius and character, entitled to aspire. I give an 
 outline of his career, condensed or quoted from the 
 biographical cameo, prefixed to the edition of his 
 
 works by his friend G. "W. Curtis.* 
 
 " Winthrop's wandering life was a hindrance to the 
 concentration of his energies; even to the perfection 
 of his style, which is always fresh and clear, but some- 
 times rugged and dashing. On the other hand the 
 adventurous activity of his nature is the source of 
 much of the charm of his work, which like that of 
 Sydney, to whom Mr. Curtis is fond of comparing 
 him, was more than a mere promise. His claim to re- 
 cognition lies not merely in his having been an actor 
 as well as a dreamer, but in the fact that he has done 
 substantial and peculiar, though imperfectly appre- 
 ciated, work. He belonged in part to the class of the 
 older writers in whose minds incident predominated, 
 but he was also an analyst of the school of Hawthorne 
 and might, with length of years, have been his most 
 legitimate successor. The first phase is represented 
 in his novel, ' John Brent,' in great measure a graphic 
 record of his experiences in the far West, mingled with 
 imaginative romance. The descriptive passages in this 
 
 * Professor Nichol, who has the chair of English Literature in 
 Glasgow University, and who is well known among authors and 
 literary men in Scotland, traveled in this country during the 
 early part of the Civil War, and was deeply interested and 
 moved by the crisis. Keturning home, he took an active part 
 in the endeavors of the friends of our country in Scotland to 
 prevent injury to its cause, by measures that nearly brought 
 about serious difficulties with Great Britain.
 
 280 CRITIQUE. [I860 
 
 book, especially that of the chase, rivet our attention 
 because they are brought into contrast with scenes of 
 emotion and passion, and are not mere transcripts of 
 still life." 
 
 Of " Edwin Brothertoft " he makes the following re- 
 mark, among others too long to quote. 
 
 " The flame latent in the shadowy race, the force 
 under gentleness which is the theme of the book here 
 leaps up, as the hero turns toward Vandyke's portrait 
 of his great ancestor, ' I love England, I love Oxford; 
 the history, the romance, and the hope of England are 
 all packed into that grand old casket of learning; but 
 the Colonel embarked us on the Continent. He would 
 frown if we gave up the great ship, and took to the 
 little pinnace again.' 'Cecil Dreeine,' less startling in 
 its episodes, which are yet of sufficient interest, is a 
 novel of a finer grain than Brothertoft. It is more 
 mature and subdued in style, and more free from 
 violences: mystery takes the place of horror 
 
 " Apart from its startling situations, the book teems 
 with passages of power, penetration, and pastoral beau- 
 ty, e. g., the chapter called ' Nocturne,' with the de- 
 scription of night, ' the day of the base, the guilty and 
 the desolate;' that headed 'Lydian Measures,' or the 
 previous reference to the effect of a fragrance, a far- 
 away sound, a weft of cloud, the leap of a sunbeam, 
 or the carol of a bird in arresting a treachery or a 
 crime; nor is the book wanting in occasional touches 
 of even broad humor. With all its defects of irregular 
 construction, this novel is marked by a more distinct 
 vein of original genius than any American work of 
 fiction known to us that has appeared since the au- 
 thor's death. Winthrop's nature was essentially sad,
 
 ^T. 32] CRITIQUE. 281 
 
 though robust, his cynicism was healthy, because he 
 believed in goodness, his strength in its excess may 
 be charged, though rarely, with coarseness, but he is 
 incapable of vulgarity. He has not the almost un- 
 erring taste of Hawthorne; his phrases are sometimes 
 flippant, his occasional mannerisms not free from pe- 
 dantry, but he is exceptionally genuine : his rare cheer- 
 fulness exhilarates, his prevailing melancholy takes 
 possession. of the reader. His 'Life in the Open Air' 
 and minor sketches are inspired by the nature-worship 
 of Thoreau, animated by a broader humanity. An 
 American to the core, Winthrop has all the artistic 
 fondness for Europe that pervades the 'Marble Faun' 
 of his predecessor; his memory lingers over the 'fair 
 spires and towers, and dreamy cloisters, dusky chapels, 
 and rich old halls of beautiful Oxford.' 
 
 " Manliness and intensity are the leading character- 
 istics of this 'fresh, earnest, unflinching' spirit, who 
 foreshadows in these words the close and crown of 
 his brief and bright career: 
 
 '"If ihe soul in the man has good hope and good 
 courage, through all his tones sounds the song of hope, 
 and the paean of assured victory 
 
 " Whoever has lived, knows that timely death is 
 the great prize of life; who can regret, when a worthy 
 soul wins it ? " * 
 
 The possibility of such a horse as Don Fulano has 
 been denied, but he is described in his note-books and 
 more fully in the " Canoe and the Saddle," as a reality, 
 and his wonderful leap through the lasso, as an act- 
 
 * "American Literature," by John Nichol, LL.D., Prof, of 
 Eng. Lit. in the University of Glasgow. Page 370.
 
 282 INCOMPLETE TALES. [I860 
 
 ual fact. Luggernel alley on the other hand, is now 
 pointed out at the West, it is said, though Winthrop 
 drew it from his imagination, not having seen exactly 
 such a place. It was partly like several such wild glens, 
 which he had seen, and heard of, and resembles some- 
 what the valley of Manitou near Colorado Springs, where 
 he had probably never been. Among his unpublished 
 writings are three chapters of a story called " The 
 Hemlocks," the beginning of another called "The 
 Stoningers," a chapter or two of " Steers Flotsam and 
 how he came to Port," printed posthumously in the 
 St. Nicholas Magazine, Dec. 1879, under the title of 
 " Bowing against Tide," and various other fragments, 
 besides " Mr. Waddy's Return," his first novel, before 
 spoken of. Soon after his death the house of Ticknor 
 & Fields of Boston requested to become the publishers 
 of any posthumous works of his that might remain, 
 and this offer was accepted. They proved tender and 
 enthusiastic friends and guardians of his name and 
 fame.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE WAR. 
 
 A FTER his return from St. Louis, Theodore Win- 
 -Li- throp remained quietly upon the north shore of 
 Staten Island, where the large and united family lived 
 together in one home. A pleasant social circle sur- 
 rounded them. Frederic Church was their frequent 
 visitor, Francis George Shaw, Sydney Howard Gay, 
 George William Curtis, and other true and tried 
 friends were constantly with them, and the little 
 band of earnest thinkers and ardent lovers of their 
 country had long talks and consultations, as the po- 
 litical horizon grew darker, while fears of war, min- 
 gled with fears of what was worse, some shameful 
 compromise, infected even the children of the house 
 with a vague anxiety. Thus the long, long winter 
 wore away, and that spring came at last. 
 
 Who does not remember the opening year of 1861, 
 when war was gathering in the air, when " men's hearts 
 failed them for fear, and for looking for the things that 
 were coming on the earth," when the warmth of that 
 wonderfully early spring seemed portentous, and the 
 premature thunder-storms, omens of evil ? Yet no one 
 really dreamed of what was coming. Some said, it will 
 be a short struggle and soon over, and many slept.
 
 284 PARTING [1861 
 
 "What need to tell the still familiar story. The Guns of 
 Sumter awoke the North, and their echo reached even 
 quiet Staten Island, where the Lotos is the common 
 food of the inhabitants. "Winthrop came to his mother 
 and friends, as soon as he heard of the call for troops, 
 to say that he and his brother William had decided to 
 join the Seventh Kegiinent, and they both, only sons 
 of their mother, marched away on April 17th, gayly, 
 yet gravely too, as became good soldiers. He said to 
 his mother at parting, " I do not take this step lightly," 
 and to his uncle Theodore Woolsey he wrote, " I go 
 to put an end to slavery." 
 
 How few then felt the real nature of the conflict, or 
 prophesied the agony almost to death, that was to 
 come for our Mother Country, when she wept for her 
 children, both for those who deserted her, and for 
 those who gave her their li ves ! How little those who 
 saw those beautiful boys march away on that April 
 morning, down the crowded streets of New York ring- 
 ing with shouts and bright with flags, dreamed how 
 many of them would never see another opening spring ! 
 Some of them, doubtless, viewed their departure as a 
 frolic, but with many it was a serious step, undertaken 
 thoughtfully, knowing, yet not knowing, ah 1 that they 
 were doing. Eobert Shaw was with them, and many 
 more, who afterwards did the noblest things, were 
 the foremost that day to make the only decision that 
 could have been made by manly and patriotic young 
 men. But how little we knew ! How could our Coun- 
 try, after so many years of peace and prosperity, lying 
 half asleep in her own waving cornfields, how could she 
 see, until her eyes were touched with fire by the dark 
 angel ! Some had listened to the clank of chains, but
 
 JET. 32] THE "SEVENTH." 285 
 
 they were few. Even the great man who said, "Irre- 
 pressible conflict," said also, " It will be a six weeks' 
 affair." Most people thought that the struggle would 
 be short and sharp, that the North would overthrow 
 Secession with the wind of its advance, nor deemed 
 how terribly in earnest was the South in its delusion, 
 how the desire for Secession had become a " fixed idea," 
 and one of the strongest that the world has known, 
 which would need other logic than that of Time and 
 Eeason to overthrow it, which would destroy a gener- 
 ation of men, burn up the gains of half a century, and 
 bring sorrow to every hearth in the land, so that the 
 nations would hold their breath with wonder. There 
 were "great searchings of heart," there were warn- 
 ings too, if there had been skill to read them, but per- 
 haps it was better not to know. Though all were 
 patriots in those days, what heart would not have 
 failed that had pictured the length and depth and 
 breadth of the chasm, and the ranks upon ranks of 
 our best and bravest that were to leap into that gulf, 
 ere it should be closed! It is slowly closing, thank 
 heaven! and a new life is springing up around its 
 scarred and ragged sides; but ah! let North and 
 South, East and "West, never forget the lessons of 
 that day. 
 
 In the brilliant papers on the " March of the Seventh 
 Eegiment," and " Washington as a Camp," written by 
 Theodore Winthrop for the Atlantic Monthly, we can 
 find a better story of their bright, boyish life than can 
 be told to-day in any other words than his own. They 
 were a crowd of willing, eager, inexperienced youths, 
 who were to be tried, when their short month of ser-
 
 286 THE "SEVENTH." [1861 
 
 vice was over, by harder ordeals, and not to be found 
 wanting. 
 
 When the Seventh Regiment returned, Winthrop 
 was not among them. So ardent was he, that he 
 could not bear to turn his back even for a moment 
 upon the scene of conflict, and rather than do nothing, 
 and not be in the midst of things, he staid behind as 
 Military Secretary to Gen. Butler, at Fortress Monroe, 
 hoping to find some place for himself at the front. 
 The following letters were received from him while in 
 Camp and at Fortress Monroe. 
 
 Extract. 
 
 " We drill now constantly. It is a fine eight, 
 our camp and its work. Washington makes it the 
 fashion. But Billy and 1 both want to be where 
 we can make sure of the hard work of the campaign. 
 The Seventh, with careful secrecy be it said, has as 
 yet but little stomach for real service. . . . They 
 would fight well enough, but half the men in it 
 fancy themselves Hannibals, and fit to lead armies, 
 not to march in ranks. They have the faults and 
 the merits of volunteers, and sigh for their home- 
 comforts quite too much, though with plenty of 
 good material. I got the Field Artillery many 
 thanks; it was what 1 wanted. Give my love to 
 George Curtis, and say I will write to him to-mor- 
 row. Also to Gay, and ask him to do what he can 
 for me in his cavalry or elsewhere. I want to get 
 into the army. My chance is good, but who knows ? 
 " In haste, 
 
 WINTHROP."
 
 ^T. 32] THE "SEVENTH." 287 
 
 " CAMP CAMEHON, Near Washington, May 10th, 1861. 
 
 "DEAR MOTHER, I have been disabled from writ- 
 ing for several days by an inflamed eye. I had used 
 it too much in writing in the Capitol by imperfect 
 light, and the smoke of a guard fire on a wet night 
 finished me. So, for a few days, I was invalided, 
 and took refuge in town with a friend. He is an 
 old soldier, and a fellow of infinite experience, and 
 I have had a capital time with him. At camp 
 things go on in order, and all our friends look 
 finely. 
 
 " Mr. Fiske sent me a letter to Seward. I have 
 seen him twice, and am more than ever convinced 
 of his capability to do his part in the crisis. You 
 have read his masterly letters to Dayton. That is 
 the only ground to take, as you know I have be- 
 lieved from the first. Seward and the others avow 
 that they did not anticipate this total defection of 
 one side, nor the total adhesion of the other, and 
 so at first we were paralyzed. Now, everything 
 will advance as fast as it can. 
 
 "Mr. Seward gave me a letter to Cameron. 1 
 hope to get a Captaincy in the new army. But 
 who can say? there are a dozen applications to one 
 place. I shall manage somehow to see service. 
 Active service for the army now collected here is 
 hardly likely just yet, unless we are attacked, 
 which we do not expect. Perhaps there will be 
 before long an attack on Harper's Ferry. Great 
 military movements southward will not take place 
 before fall, so the chiefs say. For we are regiments,
 
 288 FORTRESS MONROE. [1861 
 
 and not an array as yet, and we must move in an 
 impregnable body, to reclaim the country." 
 
 The following, Winthrop's Good-Bye to the Seventh 
 Regiment, is taken from " Washington as a Camp." 
 
 " Here I must cut short my story. So Good-bye 
 to the Seventh, and thanks for the fascinating 
 month I have passed in their society. In this 
 pause of the war, our camp-life has been to me as 
 brilliant as a permanent picnic. 
 
 " Good-bye to Company I, and all the fine fellows, 
 rough and smooth, cool old hands, and recruits ver- 
 dant but ardent ! Good-bye to our Lieutenants, to 
 whom I owe much kindness ! Good-bye, the Or- 
 derly, so peremptory on parade, so indulgent off! 
 Good-bye, everybody ! And so, in haste, I close." 
 
 The few remaining " last letters," full of life and ac- 
 tivity, come from Fortress Monroe and cover a period 
 of less than two weeks more. 
 
 "Fortress Monroe, May 31st, 1861. 
 
 " DEAR L., Thanks for your kind letter and the 
 hamper. I saw Gen. Butler at Washington. He 
 invited me here when the Seventh should return, 
 and here am I, acting as his Military Sec'y pro tern. 
 He will find me something to do. He is a charac- 
 ter, and really was the man who saved Washington 
 by devising the march to Annapolis a place which 
 nobody had ever heard of.
 
 #!T. 32] LAST LETTERS. 289 
 
 " By Liberty ! bat it is worth something to be 
 here at this moment, in the center of the center ! 
 Here we scheme the schemes ! Here we take the 
 secession flags, the arms, the prisoners ! Here we 
 liberate the slaves virtually. I write at ten p. M. 
 We have just had a long examination of a pom- 
 pous Virginian, secessionist and slave owner, who 
 came under safe conduct to demand back his twenty 
 niggers who had run over to us. Half of his slaves 
 he had smuggled over to Alabama for sale a week 
 ago. But he was not lively enough with the sec- 
 ond score. He said, with a curious mock pathos 
 'One boy, sir, staid behind, sir, and I said to him, 
 John, they're all gone, John, and you can go if you 
 like; I can't hold you. No, master, says John, I'll 
 stay by you, master, till I die ! But, sir, in the 
 morning John was gone, and he'd taken my best 
 horse with him ! Now, Colonel,' said the old chap, 
 half pleading and half demanding, ' I'm an invalid, 
 and you have got two of my boys, young boys, sir, 
 not over twelve no use to you except perhaps to 
 black a gentleman's boots. I would like them 
 very much, sir, if you would spare them. In fact, 
 Colonel, sir, I ought to have my property back.' 
 
 " It would have done Gay's heart good to have 
 heard what Gen. Butler said, when this customer 
 was dismissed. Then we had an earnest, simple 
 fellow, black as the ace of spades, with whites 
 of eyes like holes in his head, and sunshine seen 
 through; who had run away from the batteries at 
 Yorktown, and came to tell what they were doing
 
 290 LAST LETTERS. [1861 
 
 there. It is prime, and growing primer all the 
 time. I wish I could write more, but I am at 
 hard work most of the day. In the afternoon I 
 ride about, and the sentries present arms, though 
 I am still in my uniform of a private. I left Billy 
 in Washington. It broke my heart to leave the 
 boy, but 1 shall work with him again. Dearest 
 love to all in the house and region, 
 
 " Yours, 
 
 "T. W." 
 
 " HEADQUABTEBS DEPT. OF VIRGINIA, 
 "Fortress Monroe, June 1st, 1861. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, Somehow I find myself 
 here on Gen. Butler's staff, acting military sec- 
 retary at present, and here I shall stay, if the 
 business remains as intensely interesting as now. 
 Billy also writes me from Washington that I am 
 to be appointed First Lieutenant in the Army. 
 My rank as Secretary is, I suppose, Captain or 
 perhaps Major, so you see I am in the line of pro- 
 motion. Please write to me here, dear mother, 
 at once. I cannot take time to write, for things 
 thicken all the while. We shall not have fight- 
 ing, but the preparations are busy. All the man- 
 uscripts in the drawer and the trunk please pre- 
 serve with care, as they must make my fortune 
 when I am a half-pay officer, with no arms or legs. 
 Lively work presently. Address me for the present 
 simply T. W., Care Maj.-Gen. Butler, Fortress Mon 
 roe, Virginia."
 
 JET- 32] LAST LETTERS. 291 
 
 "Fortress Monroe, June 9th, 1861. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, Every day brings fresh 
 activity arid fresh responsibility. You would 
 smile to see your mild son commanding regi- 
 ments, rowing officers, careering about the camp 
 and the limited range of our debatable country 
 on dragoon horses, carrying steamers and tugs 
 over seas, and in short doing the aide-de-camp 
 broadly. It is grand, and stirs me up to my 
 fullest. I seize a moment to scribble a line be- 
 fore a movement, the most important thus far, 
 of our campaign. We march to-night in two de- 
 tachments, to endeavor to surround and capture 
 a detachment of the Secession Army, estimated at 
 from three or four hundred to twenty-five hundred. 
 If we find them where we expect, we shall bag 
 some. If we meet them on the way we shall have 
 a sharp scrimmage, or half a battle. If I come 
 back safe, I will send you my notes of the Plan 
 of Attack, part made up from the General's notes, 
 part from my own fancies. We march at midnight 
 to attack, eight miles hence, at dawn. We hope 
 to bring in field-pieces, prisoners, horses, and burn 
 a church or so. If I don't come back, dear mother, 
 dear love to everybody. General Butler has treated 
 me with great kindness and confidence and so have 
 all the officers. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 
 "THEO. WlNTHROP."
 
 292 GREAT BETHEL. [1861 
 
 Copy, in Winthrop s Handwriting, of one of Gen. 
 
 Butler s Orders. 
 
 " Major Winthrop, acting on my staff, will report 
 on board the Steamer Yankee, and communicate the 
 details of my orders for operations on Back river 
 to the officer in command. The commander of the 
 Yankee will proceed up Back river to the officer in 
 command of the troops there, under Major Win- 
 throp's directions ; he being fully informed of the 
 movement intended. 
 
 " BEN. F. BUTLER, 
 
 " Maj.-Gen. Commanding." 
 
 The plan of this reconnoissance under Gen. Butler 
 may have been good, but it was executed hastily and 
 without experience. Winthrop was not at all obliged, 
 as secretary or staff officer, to have anything to do with 
 it, but his ardent spirit could not stay behind, and he 
 got leave to accompany the expedition as a volunteer. 
 In the darkness, two companies of our troops fired 
 upon each other and alarmed the enemy. Finding a 
 battery and detachment of the enemy at Great Bethel 
 the party were about to be driven back " when Major 
 Winthrop," as said by Gen Magruder, "was distinctly 
 seen for some time, leading a body of men to the 
 charge, and had mounted a log, and was waving his 
 sword and shouting to his men to ' Come on,' when a 
 North Carolina drummer boy borrowed a gun, leaped 
 on to the battery, and shot him deliberately in the 
 breast. He fell nearer to the enemy's works than any 
 other man went during the fight.* The battery was 
 * His body was left in the hands of the enemy.
 
 JE*. 32] GREAT BETHEL. 293 
 
 constructed and served by Maj. Randolph, and the 
 battle was fought principally by North Carolina troops " 
 (Gen. Magruder, in command at Yorktown). 
 
 PRESS ACCOUNTS. 
 
 N. Y. Evening Post. "Major Winthrop was shot 
 by a Louisiana rifleman, while heading a vigorous 
 charge. He fell mortally wounded in the arms of 
 a Vermont volunteer." 
 
 N. T. Tribune, June 16th, 1861. " I made a recon- 
 noissance with Maj. Winthrop about twelve o'clock 
 in the day, and can testify to his bravery and dar- 
 ing. He was very much exhausted, having wanted 
 for sleep, food, and water; and the day had turned 
 out very hot. We stuck our heads out of some un- 
 derbrush, and instantly there was a shower of balls 
 rained upon us, which compelled us to withdraw 
 a few paces. Major Winthrop laid himself behind 
 a tree, saying, if he could only sleep for five min- 
 utes he would be all right. He remarked as he 
 did this, that he was going to see the inside of that 
 intrench ment before he went back to the fortress 
 his manner being that of cool, ordinary conversa- 
 tion. He continued self-possessed and cool through- 
 out the whole engagement up to the time when he re- 
 ceived his death wound, which happened by the side 
 of Lieut. Herringen, Company E., who remained 
 with him and cared for him till life had fled." 
 
 N. T. Tribune, June 17th. "The gallantry of 
 Maj. Winthrop is the subject of universal admira- 
 tion both with the federal and the rebel forces.
 
 294 GREAT BETHEL. [1861 
 
 The rebel riflemen in the pits before Big Bethel 
 state that they several times took deliberate aim 
 at him, as he was all the time conspicuous at the 
 head of the advancing federal troops, loudly cheer- 
 ing them on to the assault. 
 
 " Lieut. Greble, a brave officer of the Eegular 
 Army, educated at West Point, was also killed in 
 the same engagement, with several other soldiers." 
 
 The Fortress Monroe correspondent of the Boston 
 Journal says of Major Winthrop: "On going out 
 upon a somewhat hazardous expedition a few days 
 since, he laughingly handed me his keys and his 
 pocket- valuables, telling me to take care of them 
 if he did not return. From that enterprise he re- 
 turned in safety, and immediately entered with 
 singular zeal into the projected expedition to the 
 Bethel. This scheme was a favorite of his; in pre- 
 paring for it he devoted his whole energy on 
 Saturday and Sunday, first giving me more ela- 
 borate instructions for the disposition of his affairs, 
 in case he should fall, than before, and in a manner 
 which impressed me with the idea that he believed 
 he should not return. He last used his pen to write 
 to his mother, but before the letter was mailed he 
 was no more. He was slain very nearly at the 
 time, nay possibly after the time, when the order 
 for retreat was given, and while fighting with des- 
 perate energy, almost under the guns of the Rebel 
 battery with a Sharp's rifle which he carried with 
 him. No truer, braver man ever fell on the field
 
 JET. 32] GREAT BETHEL. 295 
 
 of battle." This correspondent gives on another 
 day the notes of Winthrop from which he says the 
 plan of the movement was formed. He then says : 
 "this was the last instruction that the battery at 
 Big Bethel was not to be attacked unless success 
 was certain as I happen to know, having been 
 present at the time, given by General Butler to 
 Major Winthrop. ' Be as brave as you please,' 
 said the General, ' but run no risks.' 
 
 '""Be bold, be bold but not too bold," 
 " ' shall be our motto,' responded Winthrop, and 
 upon instructions of which the foregoing are the 
 substance, the two expeditions started. The object 
 of a surprise was entirely defeated by Colonel Ben- 
 dix's blunder, yet in defiance of all the rules of war 
 they kept on : they destroyed the Little Bethel, and 
 then, it seems to me, somebody, entirely on his own 
 responsibility, decided to proceed to attack Big 
 Bethel. But even this would appear to be scarcely 
 
 improper 
 
 I have yet to meet an intelligent and competent 
 officer who does not believe that the place might 
 have easily been taken. This might have been 
 accomplished first, by turning it upon our right, 
 as Mr. Winthrop was attempting to do when he 
 fell. That attempt might have succeeded. To use 
 the language of Colonel Levy of Louisiana as nearly 
 as I remember it, ' Had you had a hundred men as 
 brave as Winthrop, and one to lead when he 
 fell, I should be in Fortress Monroe a prisoner of 
 war to-night.' Second, it might have been ac-
 
 296 GREAT BETHEL. [1861 
 
 complished still more easily upon the left. Captain 
 Haggerty had discovered this, had suggested it to 
 General Pierce, had after some difficulty secured 
 General Townshend's co-operation, when this plan 
 was defeated by the gross blunder of whoever was 
 in command of Townshend's left a Captain, I be- 
 lieve, in allowing three companies to become de- 
 tached from the main body by a thicket. From 
 this circumstance, Townshend was led to believe, 
 as he saw the bayonets of his own men glistening- 
 through the foliage, that he was outflanked. He 
 retreated and that was the end of the battle." 
 
 Whether this account of the battle by a civilian is 
 correct or not, it is certain that somebody "blundered, 
 if not almost everybody, and "Wmthrop alone could 
 not have retrieved the day, even if he had lived. Still, 
 many thought it possible. The accounts of the battle 
 by the Secessionists, though they vary in many respects 
 from ours, agree with them in giving him the honors 
 of the day. In an article in the Richmond Despatch 
 for June 25th, 1861, which describes the battle mi- 
 nutely, there is this remark " as far as my observation 
 extended, he (Winthrop) was the only one of the ene- 
 my who exhibited even an approximation to courage 
 during the whole day." This of course is absurd, but 
 it is evident that the moment of his fall was a critical 
 one, and that a total rout immediately followed it. 
 
 His body was left in the hands of the enemy, and was 
 buried by them the day after the battle. So great was 
 the eagerness of the people to obtain trophies of their 
 first victory, that his watch, sword and pistol had been
 
 32T. 32] LETTERS. 297 
 
 already distributed through the country, when, with 
 a flag of truce, a request was made for his personal 
 property. The watch, which had been sent to North 
 Carolina, to the mother of a soldier, was returned in 
 the course of a month, by Colonel Hill, of the Confed- 
 erate Army, to General Butler, who sent it at once to 
 the family of Major Winthrop. The watch was re- 
 turned to Colonel Hill by Mr. Archibald McLean, who 
 writes to him thus, " I trouble you with this long ex- 
 planation of my agency in bringing the watch away, 
 lest it might be supposed I was indifferent as to the 
 -value, innocent (perhaps) members of the deceased's 
 family might place upon a relict of one, who though 
 an enemy of ours, was held dear by them." 
 
 The following letters were sent by General Butler, 
 who also wrote a long and elaborate letter of condo- 
 lence, to Mrs. Winthrop. 
 
 Letter to Mrs. Francis B. Winthrop, Staten Island. 
 
 " HEADQUARTEBS DEPT. OP VIBGINIA, ETC., i 
 "fortress Monroe, July 6th, 1861. 1 
 
 " MY DEAE MADAM, I send you with this the watch 
 of your son, Major Winthrop, with copies of letters, 
 showing how it came into my hands, and a letter of 
 a Mr. McLean to Col. Hill of North Carolina account- 
 ing for the delay in returning it. Col. Hill's letter, 
 improper as it is in its tone, is another proof of the 
 admiration and respect your son's gallantry won even 
 from his enemies, 
 
 " With warmest good wishes, I remain, 
 
 "Your obedient Servant, 
 
 F. BUTLER."
 
 298 LETTERS. [1861 
 
 " HEADQUABTEBS YORKTOWN, \ 
 " July 5th, 1861. J 
 
 "GEN'L B. F. BUTLER. 
 
 "Oomm'ing Fort Monroe and Suburbs. 
 
 " SIR, I have the honor herewith to send the watch 
 of young Winthrop, who fell while gallantly leading a 
 party in the vain attempt to subjugate a free people. 
 The accompanying letter will explain to you the cause 
 of the delay in the return of the watch. 
 
 " Bespectfully, 
 
 "D. H. HILL, 
 "Commanding Post." 
 
 " HEADQUABTEBS DEPT. OF VIBGINIA, ) 
 "fortress Monroe, July 6th, 1861. J 
 
 "CoL. D. H. HILL. 
 
 "Commanding Post at Yorktown. 
 
 " SIR, I have the honor to own receipt of the watch 
 of Major Winthrop, who lost his life in the service of 
 his country, against the rebels to her government. 
 The explanations of the delay are quite satisfactory. 
 The trinket will be forwarded to his mother, with the 
 letter accompanying it. She will take a very different 
 view of her son's duties and services from that fore- 
 shadowed by your letter. I must beg your attention, 
 as I did that of your predecessor at Yorktown, to the 
 fact, that my official title is, 'Major-General Com- 
 manding the Department of Virginia.' 
 
 " I have the honor to be, very respectfully, 
 
 "Your obedient servant, 
 
 F. BUTLER." 
 
 From the New York Tribune. 
 "On Monday morning, June 17th, 1861, William 
 Winthrop, and Theodore Weston his brother-in-
 
 En. 32] HIS BURIAL. 299 
 
 law, accompanied by Lieut. Butler, the aid of 
 General Butler, proceeded with a flag of truce to 
 Great Bethel. Word having been transmitted to 
 the intrenchments, officially, of their errand, Col. 
 Magruder appeared with his staff, and formally 
 received the party. The body was then escorted 
 to a house, by two companies of Southern troops. 
 Col. Magruder tendered the party an escort as far 
 as our lines, but this was declined. Lieut. Butler 
 and Mr. Winthrop were received with the utmost 
 courtesy by the secession officers, and every facil- 
 ity was given them. They were received with 
 military honors on returning to Fortress Monroe, 
 and arrived in New York with a military escort on 
 June 19th. On Friday there was a military funeral, 
 the Seventh Kegiment acting as a guard of honor." 
 
 He wore at the time of his death, and was buried 
 in, the gray uniform of the Seventh Eegiment of New 
 York. His body was also received at New Haven with 
 military honors and followed to the grave by the stu- 
 dents of Yale, and crowds of his fellow citizens. The 
 whole town was deeply and sincerely moved. He was 
 laid in the family burial plot in the New Haven Ceme- 
 tery. An address was delivered by Prof. Porter of Yale 
 College (now President), and the peaceful and scholarly 
 old town put on mourning for her son, and gave him 
 all the honor she could bestow. He had once said to 
 his mother, " When I die, put a granite cross over 
 my grave." This wish was held sacred, and in due 
 time a very beautiful one, designed by Upjohn, was 
 placed upon the spot, sculptured with the endless cord,
 
 300 THE END. [1861 
 
 the emblem of eternity, but having no inscription save 
 his name and the date and place of his death. 
 
 He was left beneath the shadow of the old ehns he 
 loved so well, and under the tender care of his Alma 
 Mater. His age was thirty-two years and nine months 
 when he fell 
 
 Was it a fitting end ? Was it just that all this gayety 
 and energy, this genius and hope, should have been 
 quenched by a chance shot, that the heart beating with 
 life, youth and patriotism should be stilled so soon, 
 that his military and literary fame should have been 
 ended when just begun ? He might have been a leader, 
 he might have been the historian or the novelist 
 of those stirring days. So full of vitality, that when 
 the telegram came Missing it seemed incredible ; it 
 seemed impossible, in those living, glowing June days. 
 Some felt even that he threw away his life, so intoler- 
 able did it seem that all should be over in one brief 
 moment. Was it a fitting end? Ah! had he heard 
 his country's call and not obeyed it, where was he? 
 Could he have done otherwise? It was not done, 
 lightly; his love for his country was a passion, his 
 words were no empty phrases, he took his life in his 
 hand for her sake, he proved his sincerity. And the 
 effect of his death was worthy of the sacrifice. He was 
 idealized, worshiped by the young men of that day, 
 he was the representative man of the hour. He showed, 
 as he says in " John Brent," " how easy it is for noble 
 souls to be noble," and his example to our young 
 men was worth even such a life as his, and such as 
 the noble lives that followed after. " We rather seem 
 the dead, that staid behind ! "
 
 ^T. 32] THE LOSS. 301 
 
 "What price was Ellsworth's, young and brave ? 
 How weigh the gift that Lyon gave ? 
 Or count the cost of Winthrop's grave ? 
 
 "Then Freedom sternly said, I shun 
 No strife nor pang beneath the sun 
 Where human rights are staked and won." 
 
 (WhUtier). 
 
 "When all the hopes of the lovely life of Eobert 
 Shaw were "buried with his niggers," were not the 
 fair white daisies that sprung from his grave, symbols 
 that his pure life and holy death would bring forth 
 the flower, last to blossom, of freedom for that race 
 for whom he died ! Winthrop's was the first, but how 
 far from the last precious life * that our Mother Land 
 was called to sacrifice ! And when we think of the 
 love that was felt for her, the reality of the patriotism 
 that burned in so many hearts, the clasping of hands 
 and warming of young souls, one would almost wish 
 not for those days to return, ah no ! but that some- 
 thing might again kindle a spark of that passion in 
 the cold hearts of the men of to-day ! Perhaps it only 
 slumbers, and our Mother's children -would again 
 spring to their feet if a foe from without or within 
 should lift its head to endanger her life or her peace. 
 May it be so. And when she calls again the Hero soul, 
 and says, "Here is your opportunity; prove your de- 
 votion to the truth you have professed ! While others 
 skulk and hide, you must forget self, and toil, and die, 
 if you are called to do it. Life may be given in many 
 
 * The last officer who fell in the Civil War was Brigadier-Gen'l 
 Frederic Winthrop, own cousin of Theodore Winthrop, who was 
 killed in the battle of Seven Pines, before Richmond, and was 
 a brave and valuable General.
 
 302 THE GAIN. [1861 
 
 ways, but a man can give after all, no more, no less, 
 than his life. Prove then your truth ! Give me your 
 life ! " will there not be many a brave heart to reply, 
 " Be it unto me even as Thou wilt ? " 
 
 And truly it made amends for all, and shall be so 
 world without end, to feel, as our people felt then, 
 that our Country was something real, something worth 
 living for, worth dying for, to have those thoughts 
 stirring in every heart to which Lowell has given ex- 
 pression in the close of his noble Commemoration Ode. 
 
 " Oh Beautiful ! my country ! ours once more ! 
 Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair 
 O'er such sweet brows as never other wore. 
 
 And letting thy set lips 
 
 Freed from wrath's pale eclipse 
 The rosy edges of their smile lay bare. 
 
 " What words divine of lover or of poet 
 Could tell our love and make thee know it, 
 Among the nations bright beyond compare ? 
 
 What were our lives without thee ? 
 
 What all our lives to save thee ? 
 
 We reck not what we gave thee ! 
 
 We will not dare to doubt thee ! 
 But ask whatever else, and we will dare ! "
 
 INDEX.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Acapulco, Bay and town of, 130. 
 
 Achilles, 258. 
 
 Acropolis of Athens, 51-52. 
 
 Adams, Mt., 7. 
 
 Adirondacks. 260. 
 
 Admetus, 26. 
 
 Alcestis, 26. 
 
 Alabama, 289. 
 
 Alma Mater, 300. 
 
 Alps compared with Oregon 
 
 Mts., 154. 
 Alston, Washington, Picture of 
 
 St. Peter and the Angel, 6. 
 Alvoord, Major, U. S. A., 145- 
 
 146. 
 
 America disgraced, 197. 
 Ames, Fisher, 28. 
 Amsterdam, its resemblance to 
 
 New York, 63. 
 Andes, Heart of the, 260. 
 Angelo, Michael, 231. 
 Annapolis, 288. 
 Argos, 54, 
 Argolis, 51. 
 Armstrong, in "John Brent," 
 
 275-276. 
 Army, U. S. A., Headquarters, 
 
 in Oregon, 142. 
 Arnold, Dr., 18. 
 Arthur's Seat, atEdinboro', 7. 
 Aspinwall, town of, 127, 93-121. 
 Aspinwall, William H., 43, 46, 
 
 48, 72, 73, 75, 80, 86, 172. 
 Astoria, Oregon, 138. 
 Athens, 50 ; view of, 54; plain of, 
 
 51; Acropolis, 51. 
 Atlantic Monthly, 274, 278, 285. 
 Atlantis, 161. 
 Avignon, 46. 
 
 B. 
 
 Back River, 292. 
 
 Bannack Indians, 162. 
 
 Bar Harbor, 192. 
 
 Barracks, U. S. Army, 145. 
 
 Bath Donkeys, 39. 
 
 Beachy Head, 32. 
 
 Bellington Bay, 188. 
 
 Bendix, Colonel, 295. 
 
 Beaecia, 135. 
 
 Bergamo, 58. 
 
 Berkeleian Scholarship, Yale 
 
 College, 20. 
 Big Bethel, 295. 
 Billup, Jane, 274. 
 Blue Mts., 162. 
 Boca Chica, 175. 
 Bogota, 119. 
 Boise'e, Fort, 162. 
 Bonneville, Colonel, 142-3. 
 Bonticue, Mrs., 10-11. 
 Boston, 155. 
 Boston Journal, Correspondent 
 
 of, on Winthrop, 294. 
 Both, J., painter, 6. 
 Boulevards, Paris, 44. 
 Brent, Captain, 143, 144, 161. 
 Brescia, 58, 
 Bridger, Fort, 161. 
 " Brightly's Orphan," 274, 277. 
 Brothertoft Manor, 277. 
 Bulwer's "Last of the Barons," 
 
 14. 
 
 Bungay, George, 278, 
 Burns, Kobert, 14. 
 Burnt Eiver Mts., 162. 
 Butler, Benjamin F., Major 
 
 Gen'L, 286, 288, 289, 290, 
 
 letters of, 297, 298. Order 
 
 of, 292.
 
 306 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Butler, Bishop, Works, 17. 
 Butler, Lieut., Aid of Gen'l 
 Butler, 299. 
 
 C. 
 
 Caledonia Bay, 178;Kiver, 181. 
 California, 22, 25, 124, 130, 
 
 140, 143; the steamer, 113; 
 
 mines, 150. 
 Cameron, Simon, Sec'y of War, 
 
 287. 
 
 Campanile di San Marco, 56. 
 "Canoe and Saddle," 161, 162, 
 
 281. 
 
 Canoe Voyage, 158. 
 Carbonari, 12. 
 Carlyle, Thomas, 25, 26. 
 Carnival in Panama, 106. 
 Cartagena, 174, 175, 179, 189. 
 Cascade Mts., 144, 150, 161. 
 Cascades of the Columbia Riv- 
 er, 143, 145. 
 Cavour, 13, 197. 
 "Cecil Dreeme," 274, 277, 281. 
 Chagres River, 94, 123; town 
 
 of, 95. 
 
 Chamounix, 61, 63. 
 Chaqunque, 186. 
 Charing Cross to the Bank, 34. 
 Chatsworth, 38. 
 ChehallisMt., 154. 
 Cheronsea, 55. 
 
 Chico and Atrato Mines, 116. 
 Chime're, French Steamer, 184. 
 Chinook Jargon, 155-161. 
 Church, Frederic E., 91, 260, 
 
 283. 
 
 Cithseron, 55. 
 Civil War, 1, 279, 280. 
 Civita Vecchia, 48. 
 Class of 1848, Yale College, 15. 
 Claude Lorraine Sunsets, 57. 
 Clitheroe, Ellen, 276. 
 Coal Mines of Bellington Bay, 
 
 158. 
 
 Coire, 59. 
 Coleridge, 18. 
 
 Coleville, Fort and Rapids, 148. 
 College Themes, 15. 
 Collyer, Robert, 83. 
 
 Colorado Springs, 282. 
 Colton, Rev. Henry, 20. 
 Columbia River, 75, 137, 138, 
 
 140, 142; Cascades of the, 
 
 143, 145; Flood of the, 147. 
 Columbia, Upper, 101. 
 Columbia, the Steamer, 137. 
 Commemoration Ode, 302. 
 Commencement Oration, 16. 
 Confederate Army, 297. 
 Confirmation, 20. 
 Constantinople, 55. 
 Cordillera, 179, 187. 
 Corinth, 54. 
 
 Cormayeur, village of, 60. 
 Cowlitz, town and River, 139, 
 
 155. 
 
 Cramont, the, 60. 
 Crimean War, 197. 
 Critique by Prof. Nichol, 278, 
 
 279. 
 
 Cru9es Road, 122. 
 Curtis, George William, 278, 
 
 283, 286. 
 Cyane, Sloop of War, 173, 176, 
 
 188, 189. 
 
 D. 
 
 Dalles of the Columbia, 143, 
 
 145, 146, 148, 160. 
 Dangerous Climb, A, 62. 
 Daphne, pass and monastery 
 
 of, 54. 
 
 Darien Expedition, 172. 
 Dayton, Seward's letters to, 287. 
 Death of Winthrop's Father, 
 
 19. 
 
 Densdeth, 274. 
 Diabolo Mountain, 136. 
 Diomed, 50. 
 
 Disappointment in ^Love, 205. 
 Dismissed from Yale College, 
 
 19. 
 
 Donation Law of Oregon, 151. 
 Don Fulano, 273, 281. 
 Don Quixote, 63. 
 Dosoris, Long Island, 3. 
 Dwight, Elizabeth Woolsey, 3. 
 Dwight, Theodore, 6. 
 Dwight, Timothy, 3.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 307 
 
 E. - 
 
 East Kock, 7, 61. 
 Edict of Nantes, 4. 
 Edinboro', 35. 
 Edwards, Jonathan, 5, 19. 
 "Edwin Brothertoft," 274, 277. 
 Egina, 51. 
 Elensis, 51. 
 
 Emigration of 1843, 153. 
 England, 197, 280. 
 English Engineers, 186. 
 English Fleet, 51; Inns, 38; 
 
 Parks, 39. 
 
 Espiegle, H. M. Brig, 184, 189. 
 Etna, 50. 
 Eubcea, 53. 
 
 Euston Square, E. E. Sta., 34. 
 Exhibition, Great, of 1851, 81. 
 
 F. 
 
 Far West, 5. 
 
 Field Artillery, 281 
 
 Fields, James T., 278. 
 
 Fingal's Cave, 36. 
 
 Fisheries, Salmon, 149. 
 
 Fiske, Oliver, 287. 
 
 Florence, 57. 
 
 Foster, Dwight, 27, 77. 
 
 Foster, Mr., 27. 
 
 Fords, 156. 
 
 Forest Journey, 128. 
 
 Fort Hall, 143. 
 
 Fort Point, 136. 
 
 Fort Wadsworth, view from, 78. 
 
 Fountain's Abbey, 37. 
 
 Fortress Monroe, 286, 288, 290, 
 295, 297. 
 
 Fragments, 167, 168, 169. 
 
 France, 197. 
 
 Frankfort, 63. 
 
 Franklin, Benjamin, 3. 
 
 Fremont Presidential Cam- 
 paign, 260. 
 
 French language, study of, 64, 
 97. 
 
 French Eevolutions, 25. 
 
 G. 
 
 Garibaldi, 13. 
 
 Gay, Sidney Howard, 283, 286. 
 
 Genealogy, 4. 
 
 Geneva, 63; journey to, 81, 82. 
 
 Genoa, 48. 
 
 Glencoe, pass of, 37. 
 
 Gloucester Cathedral, 39. 
 
 Golden Gate, 131. 
 
 Goldsmith's "History of Eng- 
 land," 11. 
 
 Gold Trains, 109, 110. 
 
 Grande Eonde Valley of, 1G2. 
 
 Great Bethel, 2, 292, 299. 
 
 Greble, Lieutenant, U. S. A., 
 294. 
 
 Greece, travels in, 51-55; Isle 
 of, 51; wild flowers of, 53. 
 
 Grote's "Hist, of Greece," 26. 
 
 Gulf of Spezia, 58. 
 
 H. 
 
 Haddon Hall, 38. 
 Haggerty, Captain, 296. 
 Hamilton, Sir William, 35. 
 Hand Car, journey on. 126, 
 
 127. 
 
 Harper's Ferry, 287. 
 Hatteras Hurricane, 174. 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 6, 281, 
 
 274. 
 
 Hayti, 174. 
 
 Head of Puget Sound, 156. 
 Health, Failure of, 16. 
 Heeren's "Asia," 23. 
 Helicon, 55. 
 Hemlocks, the, 282. 
 Herringen, Lieut. Company 
 
 E., 293. 
 
 Hill, Colonel D. H., 297. 
 Hitchcock, General, 103, 142. 
 Hitchcock, Henry, 27, 163, 
 
 264. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 6. 
 Holcomb, Mr., 183, 184, 188, 
 
 189. 
 Hollins, Captain, 173, 174, 179, 
 
 188, 189. 
 
 Hood, Mt., 139, 147, 161, 152. 
 Hill. Colonel, Letter of, 298. 
 Hudson's Bay Co., 142, 154. 
 
 156. 
 Hudson Eiver, 24, 275, 277.
 
 308 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Huguenots, 4. 
 Humboldt, Town of, 137. 
 Hunt, Family in Paris, 46; Bich- 
 
 ard, 43, 44, 45, 46; William, 
 
 43, 45. 
 
 Hyde Park, 33. 
 Hymettus, 52. 
 
 I. 
 
 Ikapoose Mountain, 153. 
 
 Illissus, 285. 
 
 Indian Battle ground, 138; Fish- 
 eries, 158; Folk Lore, 161; 
 Lodges, 155; Murder, 180; 
 Trail, 184. 
 
 Indians, of the Columbia, 149 ; 
 of the Isthmus, 179. 
 
 Inland Journey, 114; 115, 116, 
 117. 
 
 Inoosquamish Language, 157. 
 
 Irrepressible Conflict, 285. 
 
 Italy's Dawn, 197. 
 
 Italian Journey, 55-58; Skies, 
 57; Lakes, Tour of, 58. 
 
 Isthmus, Backbone of the, 177. 
 
 Isthmus Canal Survey, 172. 
 
 Isthmus life, 161. 
 
 Italy, United, 13. 
 
 Ivy stems, 38. 
 
 J. 
 
 Jacobite old Lady, 35. 
 
 Jackson, Mr., 156. 
 
 Jackson's Prairie, 155. 
 
 Janiculum, Mt., 48. 
 
 Japanese, 180. 
 
 Jay's Treaty, 28. 
 
 Jesuit Exiles, 118. 
 
 Joaquin Biver, 135. 
 
 "John Brent," 163, 273, 274, 
 275, 277, 279, 300. 
 
 John Bull, 36. 
 
 John Day's Eiver, 161. 
 
 Johnson, William Templeton, 
 191. 
 
 Johnson, Samuel William, Pres. 
 of Columbia College, 6. 
 
 Jones, Sir Wm. , ' 'Sacontala, ' ' 23. 
 
 Journey with Capt. Brent re- 
 linquished, 146. 
 
 Jupiter Pan Hellonus, Temple 
 
 of, 51. 
 Jupiter Olympus, Temple of, 52. 
 
 K. 
 
 Kansas, 197, 260. 
 Kensett, Mr. J., 91. 
 Kindergarten, 10, 
 Kirkstall Abbey, 38. 
 Kyrle, Mr., the Man of Boss, 40. 
 
 Laconia, 51. 
 
 La Popa, 176. 
 
 Landing treasure from Steam- 
 ship Oregon, 108. 
 
 Laramie, Fort, 163. 
 
 Law, George, his company, 74. 
 
 Lectures, Two, on Adventure, 
 and Fine Arts in America, 
 191. 
 
 Legation, Sec'y of, 43. 
 
 Leghorn, 48. 
 
 Legion of Honor, 45. 
 
 Levy, Colonel, of Louisiana, 293. 
 
 "Life in the Open Air, " 260, 274. 
 
 Lind, Jenny, 25. 
 
 Little Bethel, 293. 
 
 Lispenard, Anthony, 4; Cor- 
 nelia, 4; Leonard, 4. 
 
 Llanos of the Isthmus, 102. 
 
 London, 81, 82; driving in, 42. 
 
 Long Island Families, 4. 
 
 Long Wharf, 8. 
 
 Louisiana Bifleman, 293. 
 
 Louis Philippe's portrait, 46. 
 
 Louvre, The, 44, 45. 
 
 "Love and Skates," 274, 277. 
 
 Lowell, James Bussell, 274,302. 
 
 Lowlands, 37. 
 
 Lucca, Baths of, 58. 
 
 Luggernel Alley, 282. 
 
 Lung' Arno, 8. 
 
 Lydian Measures, 280. 
 
 M. 
 
 McLean's letter, extract, 297. 
 Magruder, General, 292, 293. 
 Maine, Tour in, 260; Lakes of, 
 261.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 309 
 
 Malaprops, 211. 
 Malta, 51. 
 Manitou, 282. 
 Manzanilla Island, 123. 
 Marathon, 52; Plain of, 53, 224. 
 Marble Faun, 281. 
 Margaret, 276. 
 Marietta, Ohio, 15, 19. 
 Marston, John, 4; Alice, 4. 
 Mary Darner, 278. 
 Mazzini, 13. 
 Megara, 54. 
 Melrose, 35. 
 Memphremagog, 262. 
 Merchants of New York, 3. 
 Merle d'Aubigne, 83. 
 Messina, 50. 
 Mexico, 22, 136. 
 Milan Cathedral, 58. 
 Mill's Logic, 21. 
 Miller, Jouquin, 274. 
 Milrnan's Nala and Damayanta, 
 
 23. 
 
 Miltiades, Trophies of, 65. 
 Mines of California and Oregon, 
 
 150. 
 
 Modern Painters, 23. 
 Mona Passage, 173. 
 Mont Blanc, Tour of, 60; view 
 
 of, 60. 
 
 Monte Kosa, Tour of, 60. 
 Monterey, 130, 131. 
 Monticello, 155. 
 Morea, 53. 
 Morley's, 33. 
 Mormons, 143, 
 Mosquito Question, 42. 
 Mound Prairies, 156. 
 Mount Desert, 191, 192, 260. 
 Murray, John, 47. 
 
 N. 
 
 Naples, 2, 50. 
 Napoleon I., 87. 
 Napoleon, Louis, 25, 46, 197. 
 Nauplia, 54. 
 Navy, Sec'y of, 180. 
 New England, 3, 5, 8; Dame 
 
 School, 9. 
 New Granada, 177. 
 
 New Haven, 7, 8, 12, 15, 86, 191. 
 New Haven Cemetery, 299. 
 New Haven, England, 32. 
 New York, 3, 4, 7, 13, 73, 113, 
 
 118, 119, 124, 132, 172, 173, 
 
 189, 264, 275, 284. 
 New Rochelle, Settlement of, 4. 
 Nez Perce'es Indians, 162. 
 Niagara Falls, 76. 
 Nice, 58. 
 Nichol, Prof. John, on Win- 
 
 throp's writings, 278, 279. 
 Nisqually, Fort, 155, 157, 160. 
 North Carolina, 297; drummer, 
 
 292. 
 North East Trades, The, 173. 
 
 0. 
 
 Ogden, Governor, 143, 149, 154. 
 
 Ohio, 15; the Steamer, 124. 
 
 Old Olive Trees, 53. 
 
 Olympia, 156. 
 
 Onofrio, St., Church of, 49. 
 
 Oregon, 140, 149, 154; Land 
 Ownership, 141 ; Beauty of, 
 147; Mines, 150; Women 
 of, 152; Lumber Trade of, 
 137; Old Settlers in, 151. 
 
 Oxford, 40, 281. 
 
 P. 
 
 Pacific Coast, 138, 140; Mail 
 S.S. Co., 72, 92, 94; Ocean, 
 21, 184, 187, 190. 
 
 Padiham, 276. 
 
 Padua, 56. 
 
 Paley's Works, 17. 
 
 Panama, 92, 93, 125, 176; Cli- 
 mate of, 100, 101, 106; Cos- 
 tumein Churches, 113 ;Life, 
 94, 97, 98, 99: Kuins, 102; 
 Suburbs, 103 ;R.K. Co., 172. 
 
 Parks and Seats, English, 39. 
 
 Paris, 43, 46; Rue 1' University 
 64. 
 
 Parnassus, 55. 
 
 Parsons, Theophilus, 278. 
 
 Pedro Gomez, 75. 
 
 Pellico, Silvio, 13.
 
 310 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Penonom^, 117. 
 
 Pentelicus, 52. 
 
 Percy's Beliques, 14. 
 
 Pericles, 52. 
 
 Peru, 22. 
 
 Pestallozzi, 10. 
 
 Peter Parley's Geography, 11. 
 
 Pfaffers, Baths of, 60. 
 
 Piazza di San Marco, 56. 
 
 Pickwick Club, 39. 
 
 Pierce, General, 296. 
 
 Pigeon English, 155. 
 
 Pike County Men, 153. 
 
 Pindar, 25. 
 
 Piraeus, 9, 51. 
 
 Pisa, 58. 
 
 Pistoja, 58. 
 
 Poems, Early, Dash, Dash! 
 66; Northern Lights, 67; 
 Defeat, 68; Waiting, 69; 
 Fragments, 70, 71; On the 
 Beach, 78; Doubt, 80; Na- 
 poleon at St. Helena, 87; 
 Katherine Teresa, 88 ; Frag- 
 ment, 90; Moonlight, 164; 
 Forest Fire, 165; Fire Up, 
 165; Prose Fragment, 166; 
 Fragments, 167, 168; The 
 East and the West, 169; 
 192; 193; 194; 195; Frag- 
 ments, 263. Love, To One 
 I Know, 265; Homage, 266; 
 Love Comes, 267; Song, 
 268; Her Voice, 269; Son- 
 net, Sonnet, 270; Hopes, 
 271 ; Finis, 272 ; Two Worlds, 
 Part I., Grief, 198-206 ; Part 
 II., Departure, 206-227; 
 Part HI., Passion, 227- 
 243; Part IV., Penance, 
 243-251; Part V., Love, 
 251-259. 
 
 Porter, Prof., of Yale, 16, 299. 
 
 Portland, Oregon, 137, 139, 142, 
 150, 154. 
 
 Port Oxford, 138. 
 
 Presbyterians, Old School, 3. 
 
 President, The Ship, 175. 
 
 Press Notices, 293, 294, 295, 
 
 Puget Sound, 155. 
 "Punch," The London, 42. 
 Puritans, The, 4. 
 
 Q. 
 Quinippiac Eiver, 7. 
 
 E. 
 
 Eailroad, The great Pacific, 15G. 
 Bainer, Mt., 139, 156, 157; Towu 
 
 of, 139. 
 
 Eaphael, 228, 230. 
 Bed School House, 262. 
 Bed wood trees, 137. 
 Bevolutionary War, 5, 275. 
 Bhine Eiver, 59; Valley, 60. 
 "Eichmond Dispatch," 296. 
 Eipon, 38. 
 
 Bip Van Winkle, 161. 
 Biviera di Ponente, 58. 
 Bobespierre, 25. 
 Borne, Capitol of, 48; Carnival 
 
 of, 47; Campagna of, 48; 
 
 Forum of, 48; Modern, 49. 
 "Bowing against Tide," 282. 
 Bowse, Samuel, his portrait of 
 
 Winthrop, 265. 
 Bugby, 41. 
 Buskin, 18, 41. 
 
 Sacramento Biver, 135. 
 
 Salamis, 51 ; Bay of, 54. 
 
 Salem, 150, 152. 
 
 Salmon-feasting, 160; falls, 162. 
 
 Salt Lake, 160, 162; City, 143; 
 valley, 162. 
 
 Salute, Church of, 56. 
 
 San Diego, 130. 
 
 San Francisco, City of, 130; 
 Bay of, 131; activity of, 
 132; climate of, 133; sub- 
 urbs of, 134. 
 
 San Giorgio, 56. 
 
 San Miguel, 177, Gulf of, 187. 
 
 San Stefano, 48. 
 
 "Sartor Besartus," 25. 
 
 Seward's letters to Dayton, 287. 
 
 Scholarships. 17, 18. 
 
 Schools at Nijon, etc., 83.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 311 
 
 School of Mr. Silas French, 
 
 13, 19. 
 
 Scotland, 36. 
 Scottsburg, 149, 153. 
 Scott, Sir Walter, 14, 35. 
 Sea Kings, 4. 
 Secession Army, 291. 
 Seventh Regiment, The, 284; 
 
 March of the, 285; Re- 
 
 turn of, 286; Guard of the, 
 
 299. 
 
 Seward, William H., 287. 
 Shaw, Francis George, 283. 
 Shaw, Robert G., 284, 301. 
 Sheffield, 35. 
 Ship Canal, Prospecting for, 
 
 181, 182, 183. 
 Shoshonee Indians, 162. 
 Sicily, 50; Siena, 57. 
 Skerrett, Peter, 277. 
 Skye, Island of, 36. 
 Smallpox, attack of, 145. 
 Snake River, 162. 
 Society for- Prevention of Cru- 
 elty to Children, 4. 
 South Pass, 162. 
 Southey, Robert, 14, 18. 
 Spanish Commerce, Old, 178. 
 Spenser's "Faerie Queen," 14. 
 Spliigen Pass, 59. 
 Staffa, Island of, 36. 
 Staten Island, 65, 72, 74, 92, 
 
 191, 284. 
 
 Steers Flotsam, 282. 
 Steilacoon, U. S. Fort, 157. 
 Stirling Castle, 37. 
 Stoningers, The, 282. 
 St. Catherine's Light, 32. 
 St. Gervais, Baths of, 62. 
 St. Helen's, Mount, 138, 139, 
 
 150, 154, 156. 
 
 St. Louis, 143, 160, 262, 264. 
 St. Nicholas Magazine, 282. 
 St. Paul's Cathedral, 33. 
 St. Peter's, at Rome, 49. 
 Strain, Lieut. Edward, 172, 
 
 184, 189, 190. 
 Stratford-on-Avon, 38. 
 Streets, Anthony, Leonard, and 
 
 Lispenard, 4. 
 
 Stump Speeches in Maine, 262; 
 
 on Staten Island, 263. 
 Suisun Bay, 135. 
 Sumter, Fort, 284. 
 Summers, Doctor, 146. 
 Sunium, 51. 
 
 Swiss Journey, Second, 74. 
 Switzerland, 59. 
 Syria, 224. 
 
 T. 
 
 Taboga, Island of, 100, 104, 
 107, 108. 
 
 Tacoma, the less, 161. 
 
 Tancred, 50, 225. 
 
 Tasso, 50, 225. 
 
 Tennessee, the Steamer, Loss 
 of, 131. 
 
 Tennyson's Poems, 26. 
 
 Thackeray, W. M., 277. 
 
 Thermopylae, 55. 
 
 Thoreau, Henry, 13, 281 
 
 Ticknor & Fields, 282. 
 
 Tidal Observations, 157. 
 
 Titian, 228. 
 
 Titus, Mr. George, 191. 
 
 Toad Hill, Staten Island, View 
 from, 77, 78. 
 
 Tolmie, Doctor, 157. 
 
 Tomb of the Athenians, 53. 
 
 Tongue Point, 138. 
 
 Toothaker, Mr., 261. 
 
 Tour of Mt. Blanc, 60; Monte 
 Rosa, 60; Germany, Hol- 
 land, and Belgium, 63. 
 
 Townshend, General, 296. 
 
 Tractarian Movement, 41. 
 
 Tracy, Mr. Charles, 105, 190, 
 191, 260. 
 
 Trees, 7. 
 
 Tribune, The, New York, 293, 
 297, 298, 299. 
 
 Trollope, Anthony, 277. 
 
 Tropical night, 122; twilight, 
 120. 
 
 Tropics, The, 92. 
 
 Trowbridge, Captain, 157. 
 
 Troy, 224. 
 
 Tualtin plains, 153. 
 
 Turin, 58.
 
 312 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Twelfth night, 177. 
 Twentyman, Name of, 37. 
 Typical Pioneer, 141. 
 Tyre and Sidon, 19. 
 
 U. 
 
 Umatilla Eiver, 161. 
 Umpqua River, 150, 153, 276. 
 United Italy, 13. 
 United States, The Steamer, 93. 
 Unter den Linden, 8. 
 Upjohn, Richard, 296 
 Utah Landscape, 162. 
 
 Vacation Tour, 76. 
 
 Vancouver's Island, 144, 147, 
 149, 153, 157, 177. 
 
 Vandykes in Genoa, 48. 
 
 Vatican Museum, The, 49. 
 
 Venice, 55, 242. 
 
 Vermont, Volunteer, A, 293. 
 
 Vernet, Horace, 47. 
 
 Veronese, Paul, 228. 
 
 Verona and cities of North It- 
 aly, 57. 
 
 Vesuvius, 50. 
 
 Via Mala, 59. 
 
 Vice Royal Palace, of Carta- 
 gena, 177. 
 
 Victor Emanuel, 13. 
 
 Victoria, Vancouver's Island, 
 157. 
 
 Virago, British Man of War, 
 177, 180. 
 
 Virginian Slave Holder, 289. 
 
 Voyage to Europe, Second, 80. 
 
 W. 
 Waddy's, Mr., Return, 192, 
 
 282. 
 
 Wade, Richard, 277. 
 Waller, Captain, 144. 
 War, Civil, 1, 279, 280. 
 Washington, 286, 290. 
 Washington as a camp, 285, 
 
 Watch returned, 297. 
 Webster's Spelling Book, 11. 
 Westminster Abbey, 33, 
 
 West Point, 294. 
 
 Weston, Theodore, 298. 
 
 West " Stingy s," 8. 
 
 Whittier, J. G., 301. 
 
 Willamette River, 139, 141, 
 142, 276. 
 
 Willamette valley, 150,151, 152, 
 153. 
 
 Winchester, 153. 
 
 Wine Making, 84. 
 
 Wiuthrop's Good-bye, 288. 
 
 Winthrop, Charles Archibald, 
 18. 
 
 Winthrop, Rev. Edward, 15, 19. 
 
 Winthrop, Francis Bayard, 2, 
 6, 12; family of, 3. 
 
 Winthrop, Mrs. Francis Bay- 
 ard, 297. 
 
 Winthrop, John, First Gov- 
 ernor of Massachusetts, 2. 
 
 Winthrop, John, First Gov- 
 ernor of Connecticut, 2; 
 Second Governor of Con- 
 necticut, 2. 
 
 Winthrop, Judge Wait Still, 3. 
 
 Winthrop, Professor, at Har- 
 vard, 3. 
 
 Winthrop, Robert Charles, 5. 
 
 Winthrop, Theodore, elder 
 brother, 9. 
 
 Winthrop, Theodore, his birth, 
 2; his father, 2; his de- 
 scent, 3; his mother, 3; 
 his family history, 3-6; 
 first school days, 9; enters 
 college, 15; Greek compo- 
 sition, 15: religious expe- 
 rience, 16; graduation, 16; 
 his journal begins, 17; 
 study, 18; his twenty-sec- 
 ond birthday, 18; first 
 love, 20; early dreams, 22; 
 choice of a profession, 28 ; 
 loss of health, 27; the 
 remedy, 30; departure for 
 Europe, 31 ; attache* to the 
 embassy, 42; home again, 
 65; manhood, 72; with the 
 steamship company, 73 ; 
 a tale of revenge, 75; his
 
 INDEX. 
 
 313 
 
 Winthrop, Theo., continued. 
 twenty-third birthday, 80; 
 in Europe again, 81; first 
 dreams of authorship, 85, 
 arrival in Panama, 97; 
 landing gold, 105 ; the gold 
 train, 109; excursion into 
 the interior, 115; discour- 
 aged, 125; on a hand car, 
 12f>; starts for San Fran- 
 cisco, 128-129 ; impressions 
 of San Francisco, 131; on 
 the Pacific coast, 138; wild 
 life, 157; return home, 
 161; " The Canoe and the 
 Saddle," 162; with Darien 
 Expedition; 172; explor- 
 ing, 183-184; search for 
 Lieut. Strain, 185; admis- 
 sion to the New York 
 Bar, 160; stump speeches, 
 261-262; Authorship, 273. 
 his works, 275 ; incomplete 
 tales, 282; the war, 283; 
 parting, 284: the Seventh 
 Regiment, 285; Fortress 
 Monroe, 288; his last let- 
 ters, 289, 290-291;. Great 
 
 Winthrop, Theo., continued. 
 Bethel, 292-296; appointed 
 First Lieut., 290; letters 
 concerning his watch, 297; 
 his burial, 299; commem- 
 oration ode, 302. 
 
 Winthrop, Thomas Lindall, 5. 
 
 Winthrop, Col. William, 191, 
 284, 298. 
 
 Woolsey, Benjamin, 3. 
 
 Woolsey, Elizabeth Dwight, 3. 
 
 W r oolsey, Dr. Theodore D, 5, 
 14, 16, 21, 284. 
 
 Woolsey, William Walton, 3. 
 
 Woodbury. Conn., 43. 
 
 Wooster St., New Haven, 7. 
 
 Worcester, Mass., 27. 
 
 Wordsworth, William, 18. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Yale College, 3, 6, 12, 19. 
 Yale students, 299. 
 Yamhill County, Oregon, 153. 
 Yankee, the Steamer, 292. 
 York, 35. 
 Yorktown, 295. 
 Youcalla, 153. 
 Young, Brigham, 162.
 
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