Sook is DUE on 
 
 ' SOUTHERN BRANCH, 
 
 STY OF CALIFORNIA, 
 
 LIBRARY, 
 
 ANGELES, CALIF.
 
 ? *

 
 MASTERPIECES OF AMERICAN 
 LITERATURE 
 
 FRANKLIN: IRVING: BRYANT: WEBSTER: EVERETT 
 
 LONGFELLOW: HAWTHORNE: WHITTIER 
 
 EMERSON : HOLMES : LOWELL 
 
 THOREAU' POE: O'REILLY 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
 AND PORTRAITS 
 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 EiDcrfitUe 
 
 57840
 
 Copyright, 1891, 
 BY HOUGHTON, MIFFOK A CO. 
 
 All rights reserved-
 
 -PS 
 
 507 
 
 I 90Z, 
 
 Vn 
 
 c PREFACE. 
 
 n ^ 
 
 f- 
 
 THIS volume owes its existence to the desire of the 
 
 Boston school authorities for a collection of produc- 
 
 X tions from American authors of distinction, especially 
 
 v suitable for use in the most advanced class of the 
 
 '-> grammar schools. Its contents are taken mostly 
 
 from the Riverside Literature Series. 
 
 At the request of the committee on text-books, the 
 board of supervisors, after conferring with the pub- 
 *i . Ushers, planned the book and approved every selec 
 tion. Their action was reported to the committee 
 on text-books, and upon the recommendation of this 
 committee the school board, by a unanimous vote, 
 adopted the proposed book, Masterpieces of Amer 
 ican Literature, as a text -book for reading in the 
 first class of the grammar schools. 
 
 The considerations that guided in the make-up of 
 the book were that the various authors should be 
 represented by characteristic and noted productions ; 
 that these productions, though generally above the 
 present range of the thought and experience of the 
 students, should yet be within their reach ; that they 
 should be inspiring and uplifting in their influence 
 upon life and character, and fitted to serve the great
 
 IT PREFACE. 
 
 purpose of developing a sense of what real literature 
 is, both in form and in spirit. 
 
 While holding to these considerations, it was also 
 kept in mind that the book must be a reading-book, 
 in the school sense. It is to be used for improvement 
 in the art of oral reading as well as for studies in 
 literature. Therefore, a variety of styles in both 
 prose and poetry is needed. This will explain why, 
 in some instances, a particular selection is made from 
 an author rather than some other selection. The 
 more mechanical part of oral reading the devel 
 opment and management of the voice, the rendering 
 flexible the organs of speech and securing precision 
 in their action may receive due attention without 
 much regard to the meaning of the exercises used in 
 practice. But to gain the ability to read well orally 
 to convey exact thought and quicken feeling by the 
 utterance, in appropriate tones, of what another has 
 written requires extended practice upon pieces rich 
 in thought and various in style and sentiment. 
 
 The brief biographical sketches of the thirteen au 
 thors represented here, while helpful for the infor 
 mation which they contain, will, it is hoped, inspire 
 the reader to a further study of the authors and their 
 works. 
 
 As this book has been especially prepared for the 
 advanced class in the grammar schools of Boston to 
 meet an acknowledged want, there can be no doubt 
 that it will render the same good service in classes 
 of similar grade elsewhere.
 
 PREFACE. T 
 
 The selections from the following named authors 
 are used by permission of, and by arrangement with, 
 the authorized publishers of their works : 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING, . . Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 W. C. BRYANT, .... Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. 
 
 J. B. O'liEiLLY, .... The Cassell Publishing Compuj, 
 DAHIEL WEBSTER and 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT, . . . Messrs. Little, Brown & Co. 
 August, 1891. 
 
 NOTB. In response to repeated requests the publishers have added 
 to this book two selections from the writings of Edgar Allan Poe, with 
 a biographical sketch. The text followed in the selections is that of 
 the ten volume edition of Poe's complete Works, issued by Messrs. 
 Herbert S. Stone & C., and is used through the courtesy of the 
 publishers. 
 
 f , 1902.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ...! 
 *v Rip VAN WINKLE . T 
 
 BRYANT. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .....33 
 
 THANATOPBIS .... 37 
 
 To A WATERFOWL .39 
 
 FRANKLIN. 
 
 -/BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . 41 
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC ....... 46 
 
 LETTER TO SAMUEL MATHER . * . . . . 60 
 
 LETTER TO THE REV. DR. LATHROP, BOSTON ... 61 
 
 LETTER TO BENJAMIN WEBB ...... 64 
 
 HOLMES. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH .65 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL BATTLE . . 68 
 THE PLOUGHMAN ......... 80 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS ... 82 
 
 THE IRON GATE 83 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ........ 87 
 
 V/THE GREAT STONE FACE ....... 92 
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA .... 117 
 
 WHITTIER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . ,* . . 127 
 
 SNOW-BOUND 130 
 
 THE SHIP-BUILDERS ........ 1B6 
 
 THE WORSHIP OF NATURE ....... 159 
 
 THOREAU. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 161 
 
 WILD APPLBS ... 136
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 O'REILLY. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . o ...... 199 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS ........ 203 
 
 LOWELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ........ 213 
 
 BOOKS AND T.rRHARTKfl ........ 217 
 
 ESSAY ON LINCOLN [WITH LINCOLN'S GETTYSBURG SPEECH] 238 
 THE VISION OF SIB LAUNFAL ....... 270 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ........ 285 
 
 BEHAVIOR 288 
 
 BOSTON HYMN .309 
 
 WEBSTER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 313 
 
 ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER 
 STONE OF BUNKER HILT. MONUMENT, JUNE 17, 1825 317 
 
 EVERETT. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 347 
 
 FROM "THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON" ... 351 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . 363 
 
 \J EVANGBUNK ......... 366 
 
 POE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ....... 463 
 
 THE RAVEN .467 
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSK or USHEB . . . .476
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 IRVING may be named as the first author in the United 
 States whose writings made a place for themselves in gen 
 eral literature. Franklin, indeed, had preceded him with 
 his autobiography, but Franklin belongs rather to the colo 
 nial period. It was under the influences of that time that 
 his mind and taste were formed, and there was a marked 
 difference between the Boston and Philadelphia of Frank 
 lin's youth and the New York of Irving's time. Politics, 
 commerce, and the rise of industries were rapidly changing 
 social relations and manners, while the country was still 
 dependent on England for its higher literature. It had 
 hardly begun to find materials for literature in its own past 
 or in its aspects of nature, yet there was a very positive ele 
 ment in life which resented foreign interference. There 
 were thus two currents crossing each other : the common life 
 which was narrowly American, and the cultivated taste 
 which was English, or imitative of England. Irving's first 
 ventures, in company with his brothers and Paulding, were 
 in the attempt to represent New York in literature upon the 
 model of contemporary or recent presentations of London 
 " The town " in the minds of these young writers was that 
 portion of New York society which might be construed into 
 a miniature reflection of London wit and amusement. His 
 associates never advanced beyond this stage, but with Wash 
 ington Irving the sketches which he wrote under the signa-
 
 2 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 tore of Jonathan Old Style and in the medley of Sal 
 magundi were only the first experiments of a mind capa 
 ble of larger things. After five or six years of trifling 
 with his pen, he wrote and published, in 1809, A History 
 of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker, which he be 
 gan in company with his brother Peter as a mere jeu d'es- 
 prit, but turned into a more determined work of humor, as 
 the capabilities of the subject disclosed themselves. Grave 
 historians had paid little attention to the record of New 
 York under the Dutch ; Irving, who saw the humorous 
 contrast between the traditional Dutch society of his day 
 and the pushing new democracy, seized upon the early 
 history and made it the occasion for a good-natured 
 burlesque. He shocked the old families about him, but he 
 amused everybody else, and the book, going to England, 
 made his name at once known to those who had the making 
 there of literary reputations. 
 
 Irving himself was born of a Scottish father and English 
 mother, who had come to this country only twenty years 
 before. He was but little removed, therefore, from the tra 
 ditions of Great Britain, and his brothers and he carried on a 
 trading business with the old country. His own tastes were 
 not mercantile, and he was only silent partner in the house ; 
 he wrote occasionally and was for a time the editor of a mag 
 azine, but his pleasure was chiefly in travel, good literature, 
 and good society. It was while he was in England, in 1818, 
 that the house in which he was a partner failed, and he was 
 thrown on his own resources. Necessity gave the slight spur 
 which was wanting to his inclination, and he began with 
 deliberation the career of an author. He had found himself 
 at home in England. His family origin and his taste for 
 the best literature had made him English in his sympathies 
 and tastes, and his residence and travels there, the society 
 which he entered and the friends he made, confirmed him in 
 English habits. Nevertheless he was sturdily American in 
 his principles ; he was strongly attached to New York and
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 8 
 
 his American friends, and was always a looker-on in Eng 
 land. His foreign birth and education gave him significant 
 advantages as an observer of English life, and he at once 
 began the writing of those papers, stories, and sketches 
 which appeared in the separate numbers of The Sketch 
 Book, in Bracebridge Jfall^ an d in Tales of a Traveller. 
 They were chiefly drawn from material accumulated abroad, 
 but an occasional American subject was taken. Irving in 
 stinctively felt that by the circumstances of the time and the 
 bent of his genius he could pursue his calling more safely 
 abroad than at home. He remained in Europe seventeen 
 years, sending home his books for publication, and securing 
 also the profitable results of publication in London. During 
 that time, besides the books above named, he wrote the 
 History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus ; 
 the Voyages and Discoveries of the Companions of Colum 
 bus ; A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada ; and The 
 Alhambra. The Spanish material was obtained while 
 residing in Spain, whither he went at the suggestion of the 
 American minister to make translations of documents relat 
 ing to the voyages of Columbus which had recently been 
 collected. Irving's training and tastes led him rather into 
 the construction of popular narrative than into the work of a 
 scientific historian, and, with his strong American affections, 
 he was quick to see the interest and value which lay in the 
 history of Spain as connected with America. He was emi 
 nently a raconteur, very skilful and graceful in the shaping 
 of old material ; his humor played freely over the surface of 
 his writing, and, with little power to create characters or 
 plots, he had an unfailing perception of the literary capabil 
 ities of scenes and persons which came under his observation. 
 He came back to America in 1832 with an established 
 reputation, and was welcomed enthusiastically by his frienda 
 and countrymen. He travelled into the new parts of Amer 
 ica, and spent ten years at home, industriously working at 
 the material which had accumulated in his hands when
 
 4 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 abroad, and had been increased during his travels in the 
 West. In this period he published Legends of the Con 
 quest of Spain; The Crayon Miscellany, including his 
 Tour on the Prairies, Albotsford and Newstead Abbey; 
 Astoria ; a number of papers in the Knickerbocker Mago> 
 zine, afterwards published under the title of Wolfert's 
 Roost ; and edited the Adventures of Captain Bonneville, 
 U. S. A., in the Rocky Mountains and the Far West. 
 
 In 1842 he went back to Spain as American minister, 
 holding the office for four years, when he returned to Amer 
 ica, established himself at his home, Sunnyside on the banks 
 of the Hudson, and remained there until his death in 1859. 
 The fruits of this final period were Mahomet and his Suc 
 cessors, which, with a volume of posthumous publication, 
 Spanish Papers and other Miscellanies, completed the 
 series of Spanish and Moorish subjects which form a distinct 
 part of his writings ; Oliver Goldsmith, a Biography ; and 
 finally a Life of Washington, which occupied the closing 
 years of his life, years which were not free from physical 
 suffering. In this book Irving embodied his strong admira 
 tion for the subject, whose name he bore and whose blessing 
 he had received as a child ; he employed, too, a pen which had 
 been trained by its labors on the Spanish material, and, like 
 that series, the work is marked by good taste, artistic sense 
 of proportion, faithfulness, and candor, rather than by the 
 severer work of the historian. It is a popular and a fair 
 life of Washington and account of the war for independence. 
 
 Irving's personal and literary history is recorded in The 
 Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by his nephew, 
 Pierre M. Irving. His death was the occasion of many 
 affectionate and graceful eulogies and addresses, a numbei 
 of which were gathered into Irvingiana : a Memorial of 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 ip Van Winkle is from The Sketch Book.
 
 INTRODUCTION TO RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 THE story of Rip Van Winkle purported to have been 
 ivritten by Diedrich Knickerbocker, who was a humorous in 
 vention of Irving's, and whose name was familiar to the pub* 
 lie as the author of A History of New York. The History 
 was published in 1809, but it was ten years more before 
 the first number of The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, 
 Gent., was published. This number, which contained Hip 
 Van Winkle, was, like succeeding numbers, written by Ir 
 ving in England and sent home to America for publication. 
 He laid the scene of the story in the Kaatskills, but he drew 
 upon his imagination arid the reports of others for the scen 
 ery, not visiting the spot until 1833. The story is not ab 
 solutely new ; the fairy tale of The Sleeping Beauty in the 
 Wood has the same theme ; so has the story of Epimenides 
 of Crete, who lived in the sixth or seventh century before 
 Christ. He was said to have fallen asleep in a cave when 
 a boy, and to have awaked at the end of fifty-seven years, 
 his soul, meanwhile, having been growing in stature. There 
 is the legend also of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, Chris 
 tian martyrs who were walled into a cave to which they had 
 fled for refuge, and there were miraculously preserved for 
 two centuries. Among the stories in which the Harz Moun 
 tains of Germany are so prolific is one of Peter Klaus, a 
 goatherd who was accosted one day by a young man who 
 silently beckoned him to follow, and led him to a secluded 
 spot, where he found twelve knights playing, voiceless, at 
 skittles. He saw a can of wine which was very fragrant, 
 and, drinking of it, was thrown into a deep sleep, from 
 which he did not wake for twenty years. The story gives
 
 6 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 incidents of his awaking and of the changes which he found 
 in the village to which he returned. This story, which was 
 published with others in 1800, may very likely have been 
 the immediate suggestion to Irving, who has taken nearly 
 the same framework. The humorous additions which he 
 has made, and the grace with which he has invested the 
 tale, have caused his story to supplant earlier ones in the 
 popular mind, so that Rip Van Winkle has passed into 
 familiar speech, and allusions to him are clearly understood 
 by thousands who have never read Irving's story. The 
 recent dramatizing of the story, though following the out 
 line only, has done much to fix the conception of the char 
 acter. The story appeals very directly to a common senti 
 ment of curiosity as to the future, which is not far removed 
 from what some have regarded as an instinct of the human 
 mind pointing to personal immortality. The name Van 
 Winkle was happily chosen by Irving, but not invented by 
 him. The printer of the Sketch Book, for one, bore the 
 name. The name Knickerbocker, also, is among the Dutch 
 names, but Irving's use of it has made it representative. In 
 The Author's Apology, which he prefixed to a new edition 
 of the History of New York, he says : "I find its very 
 name become a ' household word,' and used to give the 
 home stamp to everything recommended for popular accep 
 tation, such as Knickerbocker societies ; Knickerbocker in 
 surance companies ; Knickerbocker steamboats ; Knicker 
 bocker omnibuses, Knickerbocker bread, and Knickerbocker 
 ice ; and . . . New Yorkers of Dutch descent priding them 
 selves upon being ' genuine Knickerbockers.' "
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 A POSTHTTMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKEBBOCKEB, 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. 
 
 Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thylke day in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre. CABTWBIQHI. 1 
 
 THE following tale was found among the papers of the late 
 Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who 
 was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the 
 manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His his 
 torical researches, however, did not lie so much among books 
 as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his 
 favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and still 
 more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to 
 true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine 
 Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse under 
 a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped vol 
 ume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book-worm. 
 
 The result of all these researches was a history of the province 
 during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published 
 some years since. There have been various opinions as to the 
 literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a 
 whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous 
 accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appear 
 ance, but has since been completely established ; and it is now 
 admitted into all historical collections, as a book or unquestion 
 able authority. 
 
 The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of hia 
 work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm 
 
 1 William Cartwright, 1611-1643, was a friend and disciple ef 
 Ben Jotuon.
 
 8 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 to his memory * to say that his time might have been much bet 
 ter employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride 
 his hobby his own way ; and though it did now and then kick up 
 the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit 
 of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affec 
 tion ; yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in sorrow 
 than in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never in 
 tended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be 
 appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose 
 good opinion is worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit- 
 bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their 
 new-year cakes ; 2 and have thus given him a chance for immor 
 tality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, 
 or a Queen Anne's Farthing. 8 
 
 1 The History of New York had given offence to many old 
 New Yorkers because of its saucy treatment of names which 
 were held in veneration as those of founders of families, and its 
 general burlesque of Dutch character. Among the critics was a 
 warm friend of Irving, Gulian C. Verplanck, who in a discourse 
 before the New York Historical Society plainly said : " It is 
 painful to see a mind, as admirable for its exquisite perception 
 of the beautiful as it is for its quick sense of the ridiculous, wast 
 ing the richness of its fancy on an ungrateful theme, and its 
 exuberant humor in a coarse caricature." Irving took the cen 
 sure good-naturedly, and as he read Verplanck's words just as 
 he was finishing the story of Rip Van Winkle, he gave them this 
 playful notice in the introduction. 
 
 a An oblong seed-cake, still made in New York at New Year's 
 time, and of Dutch origin. 
 
 8 There was a popular story that only three farthings were 
 struck in Queen Anne's reign ; that two were in public keeping, 
 and that the third was no one knew where, but that its lucky 
 finder would be able to hold it at an enormous price. As a mat 
 ter of fact there were eight coinings of farthings in the reign of 
 Queen Anne, and numismatists do not set a high value on the 
 piece.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 9 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must 
 remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dis 
 membered branch of the great Appalachian family, 
 and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling 
 up to a noble height, and lording it over the surround 
 ing country. Every change of season, every change 
 of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces 
 some change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
 mountains, and they are regarded by all the good 
 wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 
 weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue 
 and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
 evening sky ; but sometimes when the rest of the land 
 scape is cloudless they will gather a hood of gray 
 vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of 
 the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of 
 glory. 
 
 At the foot of these fairy 1 mountains, the voyager 
 may have descried the light smoke curling up from a 
 village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, 
 just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into 
 the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
 village of great antiquity, having been founded by 
 some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the 
 province, just about the beginning of the government 
 of the good Peter Stuyvesant, 2 (may he rest in peace !) 
 and there were some of the houses of the original set 
 tlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow 
 
 1 A light touch to help the reader into a proper spirit for re 
 ceiving the tale. 
 
 2 Stuyvesant was governor of New Netherlands from 1647 to 
 1664. He plays an important part in Knickerbocker's History of 
 New York, as he did in actual life. Until quite recently a pear 
 tree was shown on the Bowery, said to have been planted by 
 him.
 
 10 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows 
 and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
 (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
 and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 
 while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, 
 a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van 
 Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles 
 who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of 
 Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege 
 of Fort Christina. 1 He inherited, however, but little 
 of the martial character of his ancestors. I have 
 observed that he was a simple, good-natured man ; he 
 was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen 
 pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance 
 might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained 
 him such universal popularity; for those men are 
 most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, 
 who are under the discipline of shrews at home. 
 Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and mal 
 leable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and 
 a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world 
 for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. 
 A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be 
 considered a tolerable blessing, and if so, Rip Van 
 Winkle was thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all 
 the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the 
 amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; 
 and never failed, whenever they talked those matters 
 
 1 The Van Winkles appear in the illustrious catalogue of 
 heroes who accompanied Stuyvesant to Fort Christina, and were 
 
 " Brimful of wrath and cabbage." 
 
 See History of New York, book VI. chap. viii.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 11 
 
 over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame 
 on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, 
 too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. 
 He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, 
 taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 
 them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. 
 Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was 
 surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, 
 clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks 
 on him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at 
 him throughout the neighborhood. 
 
 The great error in Rip's composition was an insu 
 perable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It 
 could not be from the want of assiduity or persever 
 ance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as 
 long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day 
 without a murmur, even though he should not be en 
 couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowl 
 ing-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging 
 through woods and swamps, and up hill and down 
 dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He 
 would never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the 
 roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country 
 frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone- 
 fences ; the women of the village, too, used to employ 
 him to run their errands, and to do such little odd 
 jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for 
 them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to any 
 body's business but his own ; but as to doing family 
 duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it im 
 possible. 
 
 In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
 farm; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground 
 in the whole country; everything about it went wrong,
 
 12 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences 
 were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would eithei 
 go astray or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure 
 to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the 
 rain always made a point of setting in just as he had 
 some out-door work to do ; so that though his patri 
 monial estate had dwindled away under his manage 
 ment, acre by acre, until there was little more left 
 than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it 
 was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if 
 they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin be 
 gotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the 
 habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was 
 generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's 
 heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galli 
 gaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one 
 hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
 mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
 world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can 
 be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather 
 starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to 
 himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect 
 contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in 
 his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the 
 ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, 
 and night her tongue was incessantly going, and every 
 thing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of 
 household eloquence. Rip had but one way of reply 
 ing to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent 
 use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoul 
 ders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said no 
 thing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 18 
 
 from his wife; so that he was fain to draw off his 
 forces, and take to the outside of the house the only 
 side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. 
 
 Kip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
 was as much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
 Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
 even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause 
 of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in 
 all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was 
 as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods 
 but what courage can withstand the ever-during and 
 all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The mo 
 ment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail 
 drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he 
 sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side 
 long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least 
 flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the 
 door with yelping precipitation. 
 
 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle 
 as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never 
 mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged 
 tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long 
 while he used to console himself, when driven from 
 home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
 sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
 village ; which held its sessions on a bench before a 
 small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His 
 Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in 
 the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking 
 listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
 stories about nothing. But it would have been worth 
 any statesman's money to have heard the profound dia 
 cussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an 
 old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing
 
 14 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the con 
 tents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the 
 school-master, a dapper learned little man, who was 
 not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the 
 dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
 public events some months after they had taken place. 
 
 The opinions of this junto were completely con 
 trolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, 
 and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he 
 took his seat from morning till night, just moving suf 
 ficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a 
 large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by 
 his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is 
 true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe 
 incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great 
 man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and 
 knew how to gather his opinions. When anything 
 that was read or related displeased him, he was ob 
 served to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth 
 short, frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he 
 would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and 
 emit it in light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, tak 
 ing the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
 vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head 
 in token of perfect approbation. 
 
 From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
 length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud 
 denly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage 
 and call the members all to naught ; nor was that 
 august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred 
 from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
 charged him outright with encouraging her husband in 
 habits of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair;
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 15 
 
 and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of 
 the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in 
 hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would 
 sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share 
 the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he 
 sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor 
 Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's 
 life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou 
 shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf 
 would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, 
 and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he recipro 
 cated the sentiment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
 day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the 
 highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was 
 after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the 
 still solitudes had echoed and reechoed with the re 
 ports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw 
 himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, cov 
 ered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow 
 of a precipice. From an opening between the trees 
 he could overlook all the lower country for many a 
 mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
 lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent 
 but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple 
 cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there 
 sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in 
 the blue highlands. 
 
 On the other side he looked down into a deep moun 
 tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 
 with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
 lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
 some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was 
 gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw
 
 16 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that 
 it would be dark long before he could reach the village, 
 and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of en 
 countering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from 
 1 distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van 
 Winkle ! " He looked round, but could see nothing 
 but a crow winging its solitary flight across the moun 
 tain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, 
 and turned again to descend, when he heard the same 
 cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van 
 Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " at the same time Wolf 
 bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked 
 to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the 
 glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
 over him ; he looked anxiously in the same direction, 
 and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the 
 rocks, and bending under the weight of something he 
 carried on his back. He was surprised to see any 
 human being in this lonely and unfrequented place ; 
 but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood 
 in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at 
 the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was 
 a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, 
 and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique 
 Dutch fashion: a cloth jerkin strapped round the 
 waist, several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
 Volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the 
 rides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his 
 shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and 
 made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with 
 the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this 
 new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alae-
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 17 
 
 rity ; and mutually relieving one another, they clam 
 bered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a 
 mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now 
 and then heard long rolling peals like distant thunder, 
 that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
 cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged 
 path conducted. He paused for a moment, but sup 
 posing it to be the muttering of one of those transient 
 thunder-showers which often take place in mountain 
 heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
 they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, sur 
 rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks 
 of which impending trees shot their branches, so that 
 you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the 
 bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and 
 his companion had labored on in silence ; for though 
 the former marvelled greatly what could be the object 
 of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet 
 there was something strange and incomprehensible 
 about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked 
 familiarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
 presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre 
 was a company of odd-looking personages playing at 
 ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish 
 fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with 
 long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor 
 mous breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. 
 Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large 
 beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of 
 another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was 
 surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a 
 little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various 
 shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be
 
 18 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with 
 a weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doub 
 let, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and 
 feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with 
 roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the 
 figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of 
 Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had 
 been brought over from Holland at the time of the 
 settlement. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 
 though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, 
 yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mys 
 terious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy 
 party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
 interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
 the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed 
 along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
 suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him 
 with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, un 
 couth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned 
 within him, and his knees smote together. His com 
 panion now emptied the contents of the keg into large 
 flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com 
 pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they 
 quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then re 
 turned to their game. 
 
 By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. 
 He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to 
 taste the beverage, which he found had much of the 
 flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a 
 thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the 
 draught. One taste provoked another ; and he reiter 
 ated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 19 
 
 senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, 
 his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep 
 sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
 whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. 
 He rubbed his eyes it was a bright, sunny morning. 
 The birds were hopping and twittering among the 
 bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breast 
 ing the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought 
 Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled 
 the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange 
 man with a keg of liquor the mountain ravine 
 the wild retreat among the rocks the woe-begone 
 party at nine-pins the flagon " Oh ! that flagon I 
 that wicked flagon I " thought Rip " what excuse 
 shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ? " 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
 clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire 
 lock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the 
 lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now 
 suspected that the grave roisters of the mountain had 
 put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with li 
 quor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had dis 
 appeared, but he might have strayed away after a 
 squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and 
 shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated 
 his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 
 
 He determined to revisit the scene of the last even 
 ing's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to 
 demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he 
 found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his 
 usual activity. " These mountain beds do not agree 
 with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay 
 me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a
 
 20 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 blessed time with Dame Van "Winkle." "With some 
 difficulty he got down into the glen ; he found the 
 gully up which he and his companion had ascended 
 the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a 
 mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping 
 from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
 murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its 
 sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of 
 birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes 
 tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that 
 twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and 
 spread a kind of network in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine had 
 opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no 
 traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented 
 a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came 
 tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a 
 broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur 
 rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought 
 to a stand. He again called and whistled after his 
 dog ; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock 
 of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree 
 that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in 
 their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
 poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? the 
 morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for 
 want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog 
 and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would 
 not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his 
 head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart 
 full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home 
 ward. 
 
 As he approached the village he met a number of 
 people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur-
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 21 
 
 prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
 with every one in the country round. Their dress, 
 too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
 was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal 
 marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes 
 upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The con 
 stant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involun 
 tarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he 
 found his beard had grown a foot long ! 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
 troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
 after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, 
 too, not one of which he recognized for an old ac 
 quaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very 
 village was altered ; it was larger and more populous. 
 There were rows of houses which he had never seen 
 before, and those which had been his familiar haunts 
 had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors 
 strange faces at the windows, everything was 
 strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to 
 doubt whether both he and the world around him 
 were not bewitched. Surely this was his native vil 
 lage, which he had left but the day before. There 
 stood the Kaatskill Mountains there ran the silver 
 Hudson at a distance there was every hill and dale 
 precisely as it had always been Rip was sorely per 
 plexed " That flagon last night," thought he, " has 
 addled my poor head sadly 1 " 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way 
 to his own house, which he approached with silent 
 awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice 
 >f Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to 
 decay the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, 
 and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that
 
 22 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called 
 him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, 
 and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed 
 "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten 
 me!" 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 
 Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 
 empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso- 
 lateness overcame all his connubial fears he called 
 loudly for his wife and children the lonely cham 
 bers rang for a moment with his voice, and then again 
 all was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old re 
 sort, the village inn but it, too, was gone. A large, 
 rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great 
 gaping windows, some of them broken and mended 
 with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was 
 painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
 Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet 
 little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall 
 naked pole, with something on the top that looked like 
 a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on 
 which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes 
 all this was strange and incomprehensible. He 
 recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of 
 King George, under which he had smoked so many a 
 peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly metamor 
 phosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue 
 and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a 
 sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, 
 and underneath was painted in large characters, GEN 
 ERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
 but none that Rip recollected. The very character of
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 23 
 
 the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bus 
 tling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accus 
 tomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in 
 vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad 
 face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds 
 of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van 
 Bummel, the school-master, doling forth the contents 
 of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, 
 bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand 
 bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citi 
 zens elections members of congress liberty 
 Bunker's Hill heroes of seventy-six and other 
 words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the 
 bewildered Van Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
 his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
 of women and children at his heels, soon attracted 
 the attention of the tavern-politicians. They crowded 
 round him, eying him from head to foot with great 
 curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, draw 
 ing him partly aside, inquired "on which side he 
 voted ? " Rip started in vacant stupidity. Another 
 short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, 
 and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whether 
 he was Federal or Democrat ? " Rip was equally at 
 a loss to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, 
 self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, 
 made his way through the crowd, putting them to the 
 right and left with his elbows as he passed, and plant 
 ing himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, 
 the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp 
 hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, de 
 manded in an austere tone, " what brought him to the 
 election, with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his
 
 24 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the 
 village ? " " Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat 
 dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the 
 place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless 
 him!" 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the bystanders 
 ** A tory I a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! 
 away with him ! " It was with great difficulty that 
 the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
 order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
 brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what 
 he came there for, and whom he was seeking ? The 
 poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, 
 but merely came there in search of some of his neigh 
 bors, who used to keep about the tavern. 
 
 " Well who are they ? name them." 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
 " Where 's Nicholas Vedder ? " 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an old 
 man replied, in a thin, piping voice : " Nicholas Ved 
 der ! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! 
 There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that 
 used to tell all about him, but that 's rotten and gone 
 too." 
 
 " Where 's Brom Dutcher? " 
 
 " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of 
 the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of 
 Stony Point 1 others say he was drowned in a squall 
 at the foot of Antony's Nose. 2 I don't know he 
 never came back again." 
 
 1 On the Hudson. The place is famous for the daring assault 
 >de by Mad Anthony Wayne, July 15, 1779. 
 8 A few miles above Stony Point is the promontory of An 
 tony's Nose. If we are to believe Diedrich Knickerbocker, it
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 36 
 
 " Where 's Van Bummel, the school-master?" 
 
 " He went off to the wars too, was a great militia 
 general, and is now in Congress." 
 
 Kip's heart died away at hearing of these sad 
 changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
 thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him 
 too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and 
 of matters which he could not understand: war 
 Congress Stony Point; he had no courage to ask 
 after any more friends, but cried out in despair, 
 " Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? " 
 
 " Oh, Rip Van Winkle I " exclaimed two or three, 
 ** Oh, to be sure ! that 's Rip Van Winkle yonder, lean 
 ing against the tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
 himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently as 
 lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
 now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
 identity, and whether he was himself or another man. 
 
 was named after Antony Van Corlear, Stuyvesant's trumpeter. 
 " It must be known, then, that the nose of Antony the trum 
 peter was of a very lusty size, strutting boldly from his counte 
 nance like a mountain of Golconda. . . . Now thus it happened, 
 that bright and early in the morning the good Antony, having 
 washed his burly visage, was leaning over the quarter railing of 
 the galley, contemplating it in the glassy wave below. Just at 
 this moment the illustrious sun, breaking in all his splendor 
 from behind a high bluff of the highlands, did dart one of his 
 most potent beams full upon the refulgent nose of the sounder 
 of brass the reflection of which shot straightway down, hissing 
 hot, into the water and killed a mighty sturgeon that was sport 
 ing beside the vessel ! . . . When this astonishing miracle came 
 to be made known to Peter Stuyvesant he ... marvelled ex 
 ceedingly ; and as a monument thereof, he gave the name of 
 Antony's Nose to a stout promontory in the neighborhood, and 
 it has continued to be called Antony's Nose ever since that 
 time." History of New York:, book VI. chap. iv.
 
 26 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
 cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his 
 name? 
 
 " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; " I 'm 
 not myself I 'm somebody else that 's me yonder 
 no that 's somebody else got into my shoes I 
 was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the moun 
 tain, and they 've changed my gun, and everything's 
 changed, and I 'm changed, and I can't tell what 's my 
 name, or who I am ! " 
 
 The bystanders began now to look at each other, 
 nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
 their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 
 securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from 
 doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
 self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some 
 precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely 
 woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at 
 the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her 
 arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. 
 " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the 
 old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the 
 air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened 
 a train of recollections in his mind. " What is your 
 name, my good woman ? " asked he. 
 
 " Judith Gardenier." 
 
 ** And your father's name ? " 
 
 "Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, 
 but it 's twenty years since he went away from home 
 with his gun, and never has been heard of since, 
 his dog came home without him ; but whether he shot 
 himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody 
 can tell. I was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask ; and he put 
 it with a faltering voice :
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 27 
 
 " Where 's your mother ? " 
 
 " Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she 
 broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New Eng 
 land peddler." 
 
 There was a drop of comfort at least, in this intel 
 ligence. The honest man could contain himself no 
 longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his 
 arms. " I am your father ! " cried he " Young Rip 
 Van Winkle once old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does 
 nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ? " 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman tottering out 
 from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
 peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 
 "Sure enough it is Rip Van Winkle it is himself! 
 Welcome home again, old neighbor Why, where 
 have you been these twenty long years ? " 
 
 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
 years had been to him but as one night. The neigh 
 bors stared when they heard it; some were seen to 
 wink at each other, and put their tongues in their 
 cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
 who when the alarm was over, had returned to the 
 field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
 shook his head upon which there was a general 
 shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of 
 old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advan 
 cing up the road. He was a descendant of the histo 
 rian of that name, 1 who wrote one of the earliest 
 accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient 
 inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the 
 wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. 
 He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story 
 1 Adrian Yauderdouk.
 
 28 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the 
 company that it was a fact, handed down from his 
 ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains 
 had always been haunted by strange beings. That it 
 was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first 
 discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of 
 vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the 
 Half -moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the 
 scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon 
 the river and the great city called by his name. 
 That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch 
 dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the moun 
 tain; and that he himself had heard, one summer 
 afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of 
 thunder. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
 and returned to the more important concerns of the 
 election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with 
 her ; she had a snug well-furnished house, and a stout 
 cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected 
 for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his 
 back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of 
 himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed 
 to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary dis 
 position to attend to anything else but his business. 
 
 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
 found many of his former cronies, though all rather 
 the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred 
 making friends among the rising generation, with 
 whom he soon grew into great favor. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
 that happy age when a man can be idle with impu 
 nity, he took his place once more on the bench at the 
 inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 29 
 
 of the village, and a chronicle of the old times " before 
 the war." It was some time before he could get into 
 the regular track of gossip, or could be made to com 
 prehend the strange events that had taken place dur 
 ing his torpor. How that there had been a revolu 
 tionary war that the country had thrown off the 
 yoke of old England and that, instead of being a 
 subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now 
 a f ree citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was 
 no politician ; the changes of states and empires made 
 but little impression on him ; but there was one spe 
 cies of despotism under which he had long groaned, 
 and that was petticoat government. Happily that 
 was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
 matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he 
 pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van 
 Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, how 
 ever, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 cast up his eyes, which might pass either for an ex 
 pression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliv- 
 erance. 
 
 He used to tell his story to every stranger that ar* 
 rived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at 
 first, to vary on some points every time he told it, 
 which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently 
 awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale 
 I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the 
 neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always 
 pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that 
 Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one 
 point on which he always remained flighty. The old 
 Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave 
 it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a 
 thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaats-
 
 30 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 kill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are 
 at their game of ninepins ; and it is a common wish 
 of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when 
 life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have 
 a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
 Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the 
 Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, 1 and the Kypphaiiser moun 
 tain ; the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the 
 tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual 
 fidelity. 
 
 " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, 
 but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity 
 of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to mar 
 vellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many 
 stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson ; all 
 of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have 
 even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw 
 him, was a very old venerable man, and so perfectly rational and 
 consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious 
 person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I havo 
 seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice 
 and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The 
 tory therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 
 
 "D. K." 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book 
 of Mr. Knickerbocker : 
 
 The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a re 
 gion full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of 
 spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds 
 
 1 Frederick I. of Germany, 1121-1190, called Barbarossa, der 
 Rothbart (Redbeard or Rufus), was fabled not to have died but 
 to have gone into a long sleep, from which he would awake 
 when Germany should need him. The same legend was told by 
 the Danes of their Uolger.
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 81 
 
 over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. 
 They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. 
 She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge 
 of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the 
 proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut 
 up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly 
 propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs 
 and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the moun 
 tain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the 
 air ; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in 
 gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, 
 and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, 
 she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of 
 them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; and 
 when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! 
 
 In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
 Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the 
 Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking 
 all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes 
 he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead 
 the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forest and 
 among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho I ho ! 
 leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging 
 torrent. 
 
 The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a 
 great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and 
 from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild 
 flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name 
 of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the 
 haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the 
 sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. 
 This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that 
 the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its pre 
 cincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter, who had lost his 
 way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number 
 of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized 
 and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it 
 fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which 
 washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was 
 dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, 
 and continues to flow to the present day ; being the identical 
 stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill.
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT was born at Cummington, 
 Massachusetts, November 3, 1794 ; he died in New York, 
 June 12, 1878. His first poem, The Embargo, was pub 
 lished in Boston in 1809, and was written when he was but 
 thirteen years old ; his last poem, Our Fellow Worshippers, 
 was published in 1878. His long life thus was a long 
 career as a writer, and his first published poem prefigured 
 the twofold character of his literary life, for while it was in 
 poetic form it was more distinctly a political article. He 
 showed very early a taste for poetry, and was encouraged 
 to read and write verse by his father, Dr. Peter Bryant, a 
 country physician of strong character and cultivated tastes. 
 He was sent to Williams College in the fall of 1810, where 
 he remained two terms, when he decided to leave and enter 
 Yale College ; but pecuniary troubles interfered with his 
 plans, and he never completed his college course. He pur 
 sued his literary studies at home, then began the study of 
 law and was admitted to the bar in 1815. Meantime he 
 had been continuing to write, and during this period wrote 
 with many corrections and changes the poem by which he 
 is still perhaps best known, Thanatopsis. It was published 
 in the North American Review for September, 1817, and 
 the same periodical published a few months afterward bis 
 lines To a Waterfowl, one of the most characteristic and 
 lovely of Bryant's poems. Literature divided his attention 
 with law, but evidently had his heart. In 1821 he was
 
 34 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 invited to read a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society 
 of Harvard College, and he read The Ages, a stately grave 
 poem which shows his own poetic power, his familiarity 
 with the great masters of literature, and his lofty, philoso 
 phic nature. Shortly after this he issued a small volume of 
 poems, and his name began to be known as that of the first 
 American who had written poetry that could take its place 
 in universal literature. His own decided preference for lit 
 erature, and the encouragement of friends, led to his aban 
 donment of the law in 1825, and his removal to New York, 
 where he undei'took the associate editorship of The New 
 York Review and Athenceum Magazine. Poetic genius is 
 not caused or controlled by circumstance, but a purely liter 
 ary life in a country not yet educated in literature was 
 impossible to a man of no other means of support, and in a 
 few months, after the .Review had vainly tried to maintain 
 life by a frequent change of name, Bryant accepted an 
 appointment as assistant editor of the Evening Post. From 
 1826, then, until his death, Bryant was a journalist by pro 
 fession. One effect of this change in his life was to elimi 
 nate from his poetry that political character which was dis 
 played in his first published poem and had several times since 
 shown itself. Thenceafter he threw into his journalistic 
 occupation all those thoughts and experiences which made 
 him by nature a patriot and political thinker ; he reserved 
 for poetry the calm reflection, love of nature, and purity of 
 aspiration which made him a poet. His editorial writing 
 was made strong and pure by his cultivated taste and lofty 
 ideals, but he presented the rare combination of a poet who 
 never sacrificed his love of high literature and his devotion 
 to art, and of a publicist who retained a sound judgment 
 and pursued the most practical ends. 
 
 His life outwardly was uneventful. He made four jour 
 neys to Europe, in 1834, 1845, 1852, 1857, and he made 
 frequent tours in his own country. His observations on his 
 travels were published in Letters from a Traveller, Letters
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 35 
 
 from the East, and Letters from Spain and other Coun 
 tries. He never held public office, except that in 1860 he 
 was a presidential elector, but he was connected intimately 
 with important movements in society, literature, and politics, 
 and was repeatedly called upon to deliver addresses com 
 memorative of eminent citizens, as of Washington Irving, 
 and James Fenimore Cooper, and at the unveiling of the 
 bust of Mazzini in the Central Park. His Orations and 
 Addresses have been gathered into a volume. 
 
 The bulk of his poetry apart from his poetic translations 
 is not considerable, and is made up almost wholly of short 
 poems which are chiefly inspired by his love of nature. R. 
 H. Dana in his preface to The Idle Man says : " I shall 
 never forget with what feeling my friend Bryant some 
 years ago 1 described to me the effect produced upon him by 
 his meeting for the first time with Wordsworth's Ballads. 
 He lived, when quite young, where but few works of poetry 
 were to be had ; at a period, too, when Pope was still the 
 great idol of the Temple of Art. He said that upon open 
 ing Wordsworth a thousand springs seemed to gush up at 
 once in his heart, and the face of nature of a sudden to 
 change into a strange freshness and life." 
 
 This was the interpreting power of Wordsworth suddenly 
 disclosing to Bryant, not the secrets of nature, but his own 
 powers of perception and interpretation. Bryant is in no 
 sense an imitator of Wordsworth, but a comparison of the 
 two poets would be of great interest as showing how indi 
 vidually each pursued the same general poetic end. Words 
 worth's Three Years She Grew in Sun and Shower and 
 Bryant's J?airest of the Rural Maids offer an admirable 
 opportunity for disclosing the separate treatment of similar 
 subjects. In Bryant's lines, musical and full of a gentle rev- 
 ery, the poet seems to go deeper and deeper into the forest, 
 almost forgetful of the " fairest of the rural maids ; " in 
 Wordsworth's lines, with what simple yet profound feeling 
 
 1 This was written in 1833.
 
 86 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 the poet, after delicately disclosing the interchange of nature 
 and human life, returns into those depths of human sympa 
 thy where nature must forever remain as a remote shadow. 
 
 Bryant translated many short poems from the Spanish 
 but his largest literary undertaking was the translation oi 
 the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. He brought to this task 
 great requisite powers, and if there is any failure it is in the 
 absence of Homer's lightness and rapidity, qualities which 
 the elasticity of the Greek language especially favored. 
 
 A pleasant touch of a simple humor appeared in some of 
 his social addresses, and occasionally is found in his poems, 
 as in Robert of Lincoln. Suggestions of personal experi 
 ence will be read in such poems as The Cloud on the Way, 
 The Life that Is, and in the half -autobiographic poem, A 
 Lifetime*
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To him who in the love of Nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she glides a 
 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over the spirit, and sad images w 
 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart 5 
 Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around u 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air 
 Comes a still voice Yet a few days, and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 20 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go M 
 
 To mix for ever with the elements, 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock 
 
 57840
 
 88 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould, a 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, 
 The powerful of the earth the wise, the good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 The venerable woods rivers that move o 
 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
 That make the meadows green; and, poured round 
 
 all, 
 
 Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 45 
 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings so 
 
 Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
 Save his own dashings yet the dead are there : 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 5t 
 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 In their last sleep the dead reign there alone. 
 So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
 In silence from the living, and no friend
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 39 
 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
 The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man w 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
 By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 80 
 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 
 
 WHITHER, midst falling dew, 
 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
 
 Thy solitary way? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
 
 46 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean-side ? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast 
 The desert and illimitable air 18 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. * 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven * 
 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, 
 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, so 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Will lead my steps aright.
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 IN reading the life of Franklin we are constantly sur 
 prised at the versatility of his powers. He achieved an un 
 dying reputation as a man of business, as a scientist, as a 
 writer, as a statesman, and as a diplomatist. It is impossi 
 ble to give here an adequate idea of his greatness or of the 
 debt of gratitude which we all owe him for the help he ren 
 dered our nation in times of sore need. For the events of 
 his life the reader is referred to his Autobiography 1 a 
 classic masterpiece with which every American should be 
 familiar. What follows is a review of Franklin's character 
 by John T. Morse, Jr., at the end of his admirable bio 
 graphy of Franklin, in the American Statesmen Series : 
 
 "Among illustrious Americans Franklin stands pree'mi- 
 nent in the interest which is aroused by a study of his char 
 acter, his mind and his career. One becomes attached to 
 him, bids him farewell with regret, and feels that for such 
 as he the longest span of life is all too short. Even though 
 dead, he attracts a personal regard which renders easily 
 intelligible the profound affection which so many men felt 
 for him while living. It may be doubted whether any one 
 man ever had so many, such constant, and such firm friends 
 as in three different nations formed about him a veritable 
 host. In the States and in France he was loved, and as he 
 grew into old age he was revered, not by those who heard 
 
 1 See Riverside Literature Series, Nos. 19 and 20.
 
 42 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 of him only, but most warmly by those who best knew him. 
 Even in England, where for years he was the arch rebel of 
 all America, he was generally held in respect and esteem, 
 and had many constant friends whose confidence no events 
 could shake. . . . Moral, intellectual, and material boons 
 he conferred in such abundance that few such benefactors 
 of the race can be named, though one should survey all the 
 ages. A man of a greater humanity never lived : and the 
 quality which stood Abou Ben Adhem in good stead should 
 suffice to save Franklin from human criticism. He not only 
 loved his kind, but he also trusted them with an implicit 
 confidence, reassuring if not extraordinary in an observer of 
 his shrewdness and experience. . . . 
 
 " Franklin's inborn ambition was the noblest of all ambi 
 tions : to be of practical use to the multitude of men. The 
 chief motive of his life was to promote the welfare of man 
 kind. Every moment which he could snatch from enforced 
 occupations was devoted to doing, devising, or suggesting 
 something advantageous more or less generally to men. . . . 
 His desire was to see the community prosperous, comfortable, 
 happy, advancing in the accumulation of money and of all 
 physical goods, but not to the point of luxury ; it was by no 
 means the pile of dollars which was his end, and he did not 
 care to see many men rich, but rather to see all men well 
 to do. He was perfectly right in thinking that virtuous liv 
 ing has the best prospects in a well-to-do society. He gave 
 liberally of his own means and induced others to give, and 
 promoted in proportion to the ability of the community a 
 surprising number of public and quasi-public enterprises, 
 and always the fireside of the poor man was as much in his 
 thought as the benefit of the richer circle. Fair dealing and 
 kindliness, prudence and economy in order to procure the 
 comforts and simpler luxuries of life, reading and knowledge 
 for those uses which wisdom subserves, constituted the real 
 essence of his teaching. His inventive genius was ever at 
 work devising methods of making daily life more agreeable,
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 43 
 
 comfortable, and wholesome for all who have to live. In 
 a word, the service of his fellow-men was his constant aim ; 
 and he so served them that those public official functions 
 which are euphemistically called ' public services ' seemed 
 in his case almost an interruption of the more direct and 
 far-reaching services which he was intent upon rendering to 
 all civilized peoples. . . . 
 
 " As a patriot none surpassed him. Again it was the 
 love of the people that induced this feeling, which grew from 
 no theory as to forms of government, no abstractions and 
 doctrines about ' the rights of man.' . . . During the strug 
 gle of the States no man was more hearty in the cause than 
 Franklin ; and the depth of feeling shown in his letters, 
 simple and unrhetorical as they are, is impressive. All that 
 he had he gave. What also strikes the reader of his writ 
 ings is the broad national spirit which he manifested. He 
 had an immense respect for the dignity of America ; he was 
 perhaps fortunately saved from disillusionment by his dis 
 tance from home. But be this as it may, the way in which 
 he felt and therefore genuinely talked about his nation and 
 his country was not without its moral effect in Europe. 
 
 " Intellectually there are few men who are Franklin's peers 
 in all the ages and nations. He covered, and covered well, 
 vast ground. The reputation of doing and knowing various 
 unrelated things is wont to bring suspicion of perfunctori- 
 ness; but the ideal of the human intellect is an under 
 standing to which all knowledge and all activity are ger 
 mane. There have been a few, very few minds which have 
 approximated toward this ideal, and among them Franklin's 
 is prominent. He was one of the most distinguished scien 
 tists who have ever lived. Bancroft calls him ' the greatest 
 diplomatist of his century.' l His ingenious and useful de 
 vices and inventions were very numerous. He possessed t 
 masterly shrewdness in business and practical affairs. He 
 was a profound thinker and preacher in morals and on the 
 
 1 Bancroft, History of the United States, ix. 134.
 
 44 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 conduct of life ; so that with the exception of the founders 
 of great religions it would be difficult to name any persona 
 who have more extensively influenced the ideas, motives, 
 and habits of life of men. He was one of the most, perhaps 
 the most agreeable conversationist of his age. He was a 
 rare wit and humorist, and in an age when 'American 
 humor ' was still unborn, amid contemporaries who have 
 left no trace of a jest, still less of the faintest appreciation 
 of humor, all which he said and wrote was brilliant with 
 both the most charming qualities of the human mind. . . . 
 He was a man who impressed his ability upon all who met 
 him ; so that the abler the man and the more experienced 
 in judging men, the higher did he rate Franklin when 
 brought into direct contact with him ; politicians and states 
 men of Europe, distrustful and sagacious, trained readers 
 and valuers of men, gave him the rare honor of placing con 
 fidence not only in his personal sincerity, but in his broad 
 fairmindedness, a mental quite as much as a moral trait. 
 
 " It is hard indeed to give full expression to a man of such 
 scope in morals, in mind, and in affairs. He illustrates 
 humanity in an astonishing multiplicity of ways at an infi 
 nite number of points. He, more than any other, seems to 
 show us how many-sided our human nature is. No individ 
 ual, of course, fills the entire circle ; but if we can imagine 
 a circumference which shall express humanity, we can place 
 within it no one man who will reach out to approach it and 
 to touch it at so many points as will Franklin. A man of 
 active as well as universal good will, of perfect trustfulness 
 towards all dwellers on the earth, of supreme wisdom 
 expanding over all the interests of the race, none has earned 
 a more kindly loyalty. By the instruction which he gave, 
 by his discoveries, by his inventions, and by his achieve 
 ments in public life he earns the distinction of having ren 
 dered to men varied and useful services excelled by no other 
 one man ; and thus he has established a claim upon the 
 gratitude of mankind so broad that history holds few who 
 can be his rivals."
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 46 
 
 CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL EVENTS IN 
 THE LIFE OF FRANKLIN. 
 
 Born in Boston, Massachusetts . . . January 17, 1706 
 
 Is apprenticed to his brother, a printer ..... 1713 
 
 Begins to write for the " New England Courant " . . 1719 
 
 Runs away to New York, and finally to Philadelphia . . 1723 
 Goes to England and works at his trade as a journeyman 
 
 printer in London ........ 1725 
 
 Returns to Philadelphia 1726 
 
 Marries .... 1 1730 
 
 Establishes the " Philadelphia Gazette " .... 1730 
 First publishes " Poor Richard's Almanac " . . . . 1732 
 Is appointed Postmaster of Philadelphia ''> . . 1737 
 Establishes the Philadelphia Public Library .... 1742 
 Establishes the American Philosophical Society and the Uni 
 versity of Philadelphia . . : ....<* 1744 
 Carries on the investigations by which he proves the identity 
 
 of lightning with electricity ...*... . . 1746-52 
 
 Assists in founding a hospital 1751 
 
 Is appointed Postmaster-General for the Colonies . . . 1753 
 Is sent by the Assembly of the Province of Pennsylvania as an 
 
 emissary to England in behalf of the colonists . . 1757 
 Receives the degree of LL. D. from St. Andrews, Oxford, and 
 
 Edinburgh 1764 
 
 Procures a repeal of the Stamp Act . . . . 1766 
 Is elected F. R. S., and receives the Copley Gold Medal for his 
 
 papers on the nature of lightning 1775 
 
 Is elected to the Continental Congress 1775 
 
 Signs the Declaration of Independence (having been one of the 
 
 committee to draft it) 1776 
 
 Is employed in the diplomatic service of the United States, 
 
 chiefly at Paris 1776-85 
 
 Is President of the Pennsylvania Supreme Council . . 1785-88 
 Is a delegate to the convention to draw up the United States 
 
 Constitution '> 1787 
 
 Die* at Philadelphia April 17, 1790
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 
 
 [Ilf Franklin's lifetime the almanac was the most popular 
 form of literature in America. A few people read newspapers, 
 but every farmer who could read at all had an almanac hanging 
 by the fireplace. Besides the monthly calendar and movements 
 of the heavenly bodies, the almanac contained anecdotes, scraps 
 of useful information, and odds and ends of literature. Franklin 
 began the publication of such an almanac in 1732, pretending 
 that it was written by one Richard Saunders. It was pub 
 lished annually for twenty-five years. " I endeavored," says 
 Franklin, " to make it both entertaining and useful ; and it ac 
 cordingly came to be in such demand, that I reaped considerable 
 profit from it, vending annually near ten thousand. And observ 
 ing that it was generally read, scarce any neighborhood in the 
 province being without it, I considered it as a proper vehicle 
 for conveying instruction among the common people, who 
 bought scarcely any other books ; I therefore filled all the little 
 spaces that occurred between the remarkable days in the calendar 
 with proverbial sentences, chiefly such as inculcated industry and 
 frugality as the means of procuring wealth, and thereby securing 
 virtue ; it being more difficult for a man in want to act always 
 honestly, as, to use here one of those proverbs, ' it is hard for 
 an empty sack to stand upright.' " In the almanac Franklin in 
 troduced his proverbs by the phrase Poor Richard says, as if he 
 were quoting from Richard Saunders, and so the almanac came 
 to be called Poor Richard's Almanac. 
 
 " These proverbs," he continues, " which contain the wisdom 
 of many ages and nations, I assembled and formed into a con 
 nected discourse, prefixed to the almanac of 1757, as the harangue 
 of a wise old man to the people attending an auction. The 
 bringing all these scattered counsels thus into a focus enabled 
 them to make greater impression. The piece, being universally 
 approved, was copied in all the newspapers of the continent 
 [that is, the American continent] ; reprinted in Britain on a
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 41 
 
 broadside, to be stuck up in houses ; two translations were made 
 of it in French, and great numbers bought by the clergy and 
 gentry, to distribute gratis among their poor parishioners and 
 tenants. In Pennsylvania, as it discouraged useless expense in 
 foreign superfluities, some thought it had its share of influence 
 in producing that growing plenty of money which was observable 
 for several years after its publication." 
 
 Franklin's example was followed by other writers, Noah 
 Webster, the maker of dictionaries, among them ; and one can 
 see in the popular almanacs of to-day, such as The Old Farmer's 
 Almanac, the effect of Franklin's style. When the king of France 
 gave Captain John Paul Jones a ship with which to make attacks 
 upon British merchantmen in the war for independence, it was 
 named, out of compliment to Franklin, the Bon Homme Richard, 
 which might be translated Clever Richard. The pages which 
 follow are the connected discourse prefixed to the almanac of 
 1757.] 
 
 COURTEOUS READER : 
 
 I have heard that nothing gives an author so great 
 pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by 
 other learned authors. This pleasure I have seldom 
 enjoyed. For though I have been, if I may say it 
 without vanity, an eminent author of Almanacs annu 
 ally, now for a full quarter of a century, my brother 
 authors in the same way, for what reason I know not, 
 have ever been very sparing in their applauses ; and 
 no other author has taken the least notice of me ; so 
 that did not my writings produce me some solid pud 
 ding, the great deficiency of praise would have quite 
 discouraged me. 
 
 I concluded at length, that the people were the best 
 judges of my merit ; for they buy my works ; and 
 besides, in my rambles, where I am not personally 
 known, I have frequently heard one or other of my 
 adages repeated, with as Poor Richard says at the 
 end of it. This gave me some satisfaction, as it
 
 
 48 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 showed, not only that my instructions were regarded, 
 but discovered likewise some respect for my authority ; 
 and I own, that to encourage the practice of remem 
 bering and repeating those sentences, I have some 
 times quoted myself with great gravity. 
 
 Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified 
 by an incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped 
 my horse lately where a great number of people were 
 collected at a vendue of merchant's goods. The hour 
 of sale not being come, they were conversing on the 
 badness of the times ; and one of the company called 
 to a plain, clean old man with white locks, " Pray, 
 Father Abraham, what think you of the times ? Won't 
 these heavy taxes quite ruin the country? How shall 
 we ever be able to pay them? What would you advise 
 us to?" Father Abraham stood up and replied : " If 
 you would have my advice, I will give it you in short ; 
 for A word to the wise is enough, and Many words 
 won't Jill a bushel, as Poor Richard says." They all 
 joined, desiring him to speak his mind, and gathering 
 round him, he proceeded as follows : 
 
 Friends, says he, and neighbors, the taxes are in 
 deed very heavy, and if those laid on by the govern 
 ment were the only ones we had to pay, we might the 
 more easily discharge them ; but we have many others, 
 and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed 
 twice as much by our IDLENESS, three times as much 
 by our PRIDE, and four times as much by our FOLLY; 
 and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease 
 or deliver us, by allowing an abatement. However, let 
 us hearken to good advice, and something may be done 
 for us; God helps them that helps themselves, as Poor 
 Richard says in his Almanac of 1733. 
 
 It would be thought a hard government that should
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 49 
 
 tax its people one tenth part of their TIME, to be em 
 ployed in its service, but idleness taxes many of ua 
 much more, if we reckon all that is spent in absolute 
 sloth, or doing of nothing ; with that which is spent 
 in idle employments or amusements that amount to 
 nothing. Sloth, by bringing on diseases, absolutely 
 shortens life. Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than 
 labor wears ; while the used key is always bright, as 
 Poor Richard says. But dost thou love life ? then do 
 not squander time, for that 's the stuff life is made of, 
 as Poor Richard says. 
 
 How much more that is necessary do we spend in 
 sleep? forgetting, that the sleeping fox catcjies no 
 poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the 
 grave, as Poor Richard says. If time be of all things 
 the most precious, wasting of time must be, as Poor 
 Richard says, the greatest prodigality; since, as he 
 elsewhere tells us, lost time is never found again ; and 
 what we call time enough ! always proves little enough. 
 Let us then up and be doing, and doing to the purpose ; 
 so, by diligence, shall we do more with less perplexity. 
 Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all 
 things easy, as Poor Richard says ; and He that riseth 
 late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his 
 business at night; while laziness travels so slowly 
 that Poverty soon overtakes him, as we read in Poor 
 Richard ; who adds, Drive thy business f let not that 
 drive thee 1 and 
 
 Early to bed and early to rise 
 
 Makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. 
 
 So what signifies wishing and hoping for better 
 times ? We may make these times better, if we bestir 
 ourselves. Industry need not wish, as Poor Richard 
 says, and He that lives on hope will die fasting.
 
 60 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 There are no gains without pains ; then help, hands! 
 for I have no lands ; or, if I have, they are smartly 
 taxed. And, as Poor Richard likewise observes, He 
 that hath a trade hath an estate, and he that hath a 
 calling hath an office of profit and honor ; but then 
 the trade must be worked at, and the calling well fol 
 lowed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable 
 us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious we shall 
 never starve ; for, as Poor Richard says, At the work 
 ing-man 's house hunger looks in, but dares not enter. 
 Nor will the bailiff or the constable enter, for Industry 
 pays debts, while despair increaseth them. 
 
 What though you have found no treasure, nor has 
 any rich relation left you a legacy, Diligence is the 
 mother of good luck, as Poor Richard says, and God 
 gives all things to industry. 
 
 Then plough deep while sluggards sleep, 
 And you shall have corn to sell and to keep, 
 
 says Poor Dick. Work while it is called to-day, for 
 you know not how much you may be hindered to 
 morrow ; which makes Poor Richard say, One to-day 
 is worth two to-morrows ; and farther, Save you 
 somewhat to do to-morrow ? Do it to-day 1 
 
 If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed 
 that a good master should catch you idle ? Are you 
 then your own master? Be ashamed to catch your 
 self idle, as Poor Dick says. When there is so much 
 to be done for yourself, your family, your country, 
 and your gracious king, be up by peep of day ! Let 
 not the sun look down and say, " Inglorious here he 
 lies ! " Handle your tools without mittens I remem 
 ber that The cat in gloves catches no mice 1 as Poor 
 Richard says.
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 61 
 
 'T is true there is much to be done, and perhaps 
 you are weak-handed ; but stick to it steadily, and you 
 will see great effects ; for Constant dropping wears 
 away stones ; and By diligence and patience the 
 mouse ate in two the cable ; and Little strokes fell 
 great oaks ; as Poor Richard says in his Almanac, 
 the year I cannot just now remember. 
 
 Methinks I hear some of you say, " Must a man 
 afford himself no leisure?" I will tell thee, my 
 friend, what Poor Richard says, JEmploy thy time 
 well, if thou meanest to gain leisure ; and Since thou 
 art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour I 
 Leisure is time for doing something useful ; this lei 
 sure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man 
 never ; so that, as Poor Richard says, A life of leisure 
 and a life of laziness are two things. Do you im 
 agine that sloth will afford you more comfort than 
 labor? No! for, as Poor Richard says, Trouble 
 springs from idleness, and grievous toil from needless 
 ease. Many, without labor, would live by their wits 
 only, but they *ll break for want of stock [i. e. capi 
 tal] ; whereas industry gives comfort, and plenty, and 
 respect. Fly pleasures, and they 'II follow you. The 
 diligent spinner has a large shift ; and 
 
 Now I have a sheep and a cow, 
 Everybody bids me good morrow. 
 
 All which is well said by Poor Richard. But with 
 our industry we must likewise be steady, settled, and 
 careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own 
 eyes, and not trust too much to others ; for, as Poor 
 Richard says, 
 
 / never saw an oft-removed tree 
 
 Nor yet an oft-removed family 
 
 That throve so well as those that settled be.
 
 62 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 And again, Three removes are as bad as a fire ; 
 and again, Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep 
 thee ; and again, If you would have your business 
 done, go; if not, send. And again, 
 
 He that by the plough would thrive, 
 
 Himself must either hold or drive. 
 
 And again, The eye of the master will do more 
 work than both his hands ; and again, Want of care 
 does us more damage than want of knowledge ; and 
 again, Not to oversee workmen is to leave them your 
 purse open. 
 
 Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of 
 many ; for, as the Almanac says, In the affairs of 
 this world men are saved, not by faith, but by the 
 want of it ; but a man's own care is profitable ; for 
 saith Poor Dick, Learning is to the studious, and 
 Riches to the careful ; as well as, Power to the bold, 
 and Heaven to the virtuous. And further, If you 
 would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, 
 serve yourself. 
 
 And again, he adviseth to circumspection and care, 
 even in the smallest matters ; because sometimes, A 
 little neglect may breed great mischief ; adding, for 
 want of a nail the shoe was lost ; for want of a shoe 
 the horse was lost ; and for want of a horse the rider 
 was lost ; being overtaken and slain by the enemy; 
 all for want of a little care about a horse-shoe nail ! 
 
 So much for industry, my friends, and attention to 
 one's own business ; but to these we must add frugal 
 ity, if we would make our industry more certainly suc 
 cessful. A man may, if he knows not how to save as 
 he gets, keep his nose all his life to the grindstone. 
 and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen 
 makes a lean will, as Poor Richard says ; and
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 58 
 
 Many estates are spent in the getting, 
 
 Since women for tea 1 forsook spinning and knitting, 
 
 And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting. 
 
 If you would be wealthy, says he in another Al 
 manac, Think of saving as well as of getting. The 
 Indies have not made Spain rich ; because her out 
 goes are greater than her incomes. 
 
 Away, then, with your expensive follies, and you 
 will not have so much cause to complain of hard 
 times, heavy taxes, and chargeable families; for, as 
 Poor Dick says, 
 
 Women and wine, game and deceit, 
 Make the wealth small and the wants great. 
 
 And farther, What maintains one vice would bring 
 up two children. You may think, perhaps, that a 
 little tea, or a little punch now and then ; a diet a 
 little more costly ; clothes a little more finer ; and 
 a little more entertainment now and then, can be no 
 great matter ; but remember what Poor Richard says, 
 Many a little makes a mickle ; and further, Beware 
 of little expenses; A small leak will sink a great 
 ship ; and again, 
 
 Who dainties love, shall beggars prove ; 
 
 and moreover, Fools make feasts, and wise men eat 
 them. 
 
 Here are you all got together at this vendue of 
 fineries and knick-knacks. You call them goods ; 
 but if you do not take care, they will prove evils to 
 some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap, 
 and perhaps they may for less than they cost ; but, if 
 you have no occasion for them, they must be dear to 
 
 1 Tea at this time was a costly drink, and was regarded as a 
 luxury.
 
 54 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 you. Remember what Poor Richard says : Buy what 
 thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy 
 necessaries. And again, At a great pennyworth pause 
 a while. He means, that perhaps the cheapness is 
 apparent only, and not real ; or the bargain by strait 
 ening thee in thy business, may do thee more harm, 
 than good. For in another place he says, Many have 
 been ruined by buying good pennyworths. 
 
 Again, Poor Richard says, 'T is foolish to lay out 
 money in a purchase of repentance; and yet this 
 folly is practised every day at vendues for want of 
 minding the Almanac. 
 
 Wise men, as Poor Richard says, learn by others' 
 harms; Fools scarcely by their own; but Felix 
 quern faciunt aliena pericula cautum. 1 Many a one, 
 for the sake of finery on the back, has gone with a 
 hungry belly, and half -starved their families. Silks 
 and satins, scarlets and velvets, as Poor Richard 
 says, put out the kitchen fire. These are not the ne 
 cessaries of life ; they can scarcely be called the con 
 veniences ; and yet, only because they look pretty, how 
 many want to have them! The artificial wants of 
 mankind thus become more numerous than the nat 
 ural ; and, as Poor Dick says, For one poor person 
 there are a hundred indigent. 
 
 By these, and other extravagances, the genteel are 
 reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those 
 whom they formerly despised, but who, through in 
 dustry and frugality, have maintained their standing ; 
 in which case it appears plainly, that A ploughman 
 on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees, 
 as Poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a 
 
 1 He 's a lucky fellow who is made prudent by other men's 
 perils.
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 55 
 
 small estate left them, which they knew not the get 
 ting of; they think, 'Tis day, and will never be 
 night ; that a little to be spent out of so much is not 
 worth minding ; (A child and a fool, as Poor Rich 
 ard says, imagine twenty shillings and twenty yeart 
 can never be spent,) but Always taking out of the 
 meal-tub, and never putting in, soon iomes to the 
 bottom. Then, as Poor Dick says, When the well 's 
 dry, they know the worth of water. But this they 
 might have known before, if they had taken his ad 
 vice. If you would know the value of money, go 
 and try to borrow some ; for He that goes a borrow 
 ing, goes a sorrowing, and indeed so does he that 
 lends to such people, when he goes to get it in again. 
 Poor Dick further advises, and says 
 
 Fond pride of dress is, sure a very curse ; 
 Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse. 
 
 And again, Pride is as loud a beggar as Want, and 
 a great deal more saucy. When you have bought 
 one fine thing, you must buy ten more, that your ap 
 pearance may be all of a piece ; but Poor Dick says, 
 ' T is easier to suppress thejlrst desire, than to sat 
 isfy all that follow it. And 't is as truly folly for 
 the poor to ape the rich, as for the frog to swell in 
 order to equal the ox. 
 
 Great estates may venture more, 
 
 But little boats should keep near shore. 
 
 'Tis, however, a folly soon punished; for, Pride 
 that dines on vanity sups on contempt, as Poor Rich 
 ard says. And in another place, Pride breakfasted 
 with Plenty, dined with Poverty, and supped with 
 Infamy. 
 
 And after all, of what use is this pride of appear-
 
 56 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN- 
 
 ance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered ? 
 It cannot promote health or ease pain ; it makes no 
 increase of merit in the person ; it creates envy ; it 
 hastens misfortune. 
 
 What is a butterfly f At best 
 He 's but a caterpillar drest, 
 The gaudy fop 's his picture just, 
 
 as Poor Richard says. 
 
 But what madness must it be to run into debt for 
 these superfluities ! We are offered, by the terms of 
 this vendue, six months' credit ; and that, perhaps, 
 has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot 
 spare the ready money, and hope now to be fine with 
 out it. But, ah ! think what you do when you run in 
 debt : You give to another power over your liberty. 
 If you cannot pay at the time, you will be ashamed to 
 see your creditor ; you will be in fear when you speak 
 to him ; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses, 
 and by degrees come to lose your veracity, and sink 
 into base, downright lying ; for, as Poor Richard says, 
 The second vice is lying, the first is running into 
 debt; and again, to the same purpose, lying rides 
 upon debtfs back ; whereas a free-born Englishman 
 ought not to be ashamed or afraid to see or speak to 
 any man living. But poverty often deprives a man of 
 all spirit and virtue. 'Tis hard for an empty bag to 
 stand upright I as Poor Richard truly says. What 
 would you think of that prince, or the government, 
 who should issue an edict forbidding you to dress like 
 a gentleman or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment 
 or servitude ? Would you not say that you are free, 
 have a right to dress as you please, and that such an 
 edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such a 
 government tyrannical? And yet you are about to
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 57 
 
 put yourself under such tyranny, when you run in 
 debt for such dress ! Your creditor has authority, at 
 his pleasure, to deprive you of your liberty, by con 
 fining you in jail for life, or to sell you for a servant, 
 if you should not be able to pay him. 1 When you 
 have got your bargain, you may, perhaps, think little 
 of payment ; but Creditors (Poor Richard tells us) 
 have better memories than debtors; and in another 
 place says, Creditors are a superstitious set, great ob 
 servers of set days and times. The day comes round 
 before you are aware, and the demand is made before 
 you are prepared to satisfy it ; or, if you bear your 
 debt in mind, the term which at first seemed so long, 
 will, as it lessens, appear extremely short. Time will 
 seem to have added wings to his heels as well as his 
 shoulders. Those have a short Lent, saith Poor 
 Richard, who owe money to be paid at Easter. Then 
 since, as he says, The borrower is a slave to the 
 lender, and the debtor to the creditor, disdain the 
 chain, preserve your freedom, and maintain your in 
 dependency. Be industrious and free ; be frugal 
 and free. At present, perhaps, you may think your 
 self in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear 
 a little extravagance without injury ; but 
 
 For age and want, save while you may, 
 No morning sun lasts a whole day. 
 
 As Poor Richard says, gain may be temporary and 
 uncertain ; but ever, while you live, expense is con 
 stant and certain ; and ' Tis easier to build two chim 
 neys than to keep one in fuel, as Poor Richard says ; 
 so, leather go to bed supperless than rise in debt. 
 
 1 At the time when this was written, and for many years af 
 terward, the laws against bankrupts and poor debtors were ex 
 tremely severe.
 
 58 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 Get what you can and what you get hold; 
 
 ' T is the stone that will turn all your lead into gold, 1 
 
 as Poor Richard says ; and, when you have got the 
 Philosopher's stone, sure, you will no longer complain 
 of bad times or the difficulty of paying taxes. 
 
 This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom ; 
 but, after all, do not depend too much upon your own 
 industry and frugality and prudence, though excel 
 lent things ; for they may all be blasted without the 
 blessing of Heaven ; and therefore, ask that blessing 
 humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at pres 
 ent seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Re 
 member Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous. 
 
 And now, to conclude, Experience keeps a dear 
 school, but fools will learn in no other, and scarce in 
 that ; for it is true, We may give advice, but we can 
 not give conduct, as poor Richard says. However, 
 remember this, They that won't be counselled, can't 
 be helped, as Poor Richard says ; and further, that, If 
 you will not hear reason, she 'II surely rap your 
 knuckles. 
 
 Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The 
 people heard it, and approved the doctrine ; and im 
 mediately practised the contrary, just as if it had been 
 a common sermon. For the vendue opened, and they 
 began to buy extravagantly, notwithstanding all his 
 cautions, and their own fear of taxes. I found the 
 good man had thoroughly studied my Almanacs, and 
 digested all I had dropped on those topics during the 
 course of five-and-twenty years. The frequent men- 
 
 1 In the Middle Ages there was a great search made for the 
 philosopher's stone, as it was called, a mineral which should 
 have the power of turning base metals into gold.
 
 POOR RICHARD'S ALMANAC. 59 
 
 tion he made of me must have tired any one else ; but 
 my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though 
 I was conscious that not a tenth part of the wisdom 
 was my own which he ascribed to me, but rather the 
 gleanings that I had made of the sense of all ages and 
 nations. However, I resolved to be the better for the 
 echo of it ; and, though I had at first determined to 
 buy stuff for a new coat, I went away resolved to 
 wear my old one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt 
 do the same, thy profit will be as great as mine. I 
 am, as ever, thine to serve thee, 
 
 RICHABD SAUNDEBS. 
 July 7, 1757. 
 
 FKOM " POOB RICHARD'S ALMANAC," 1756. 
 
 PLAN FOR SAVING ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND 
 POUNDS. 
 
 As I spent some weeks last winter in visiting my 
 old acquaintance in the Jerseys, great complaints I 
 heard for want of money, and that leave to make 
 more paper bills could not be obtained. Friends and 
 countrymen, my advice on this head shall cost you 
 nothing ; and, if you will not be angry with me for 
 giving it, 1 promise you not to be offended if you do 
 not take it. 
 
 You spend yearly at least two hundred thousand 
 pounds, it is said, in European, East-Indian, and 
 West-Indian commodities. Suppose one half of thip 
 expense to be in things absolutely necessary, the othe; 
 half may be called superflidties, or, at best, conven- 
 iencies, which, however, you might live without for 
 one little year, and not suffer exceedingly. Now, to 
 save this half, observe these few directions :
 
 60 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 1. When you incline to have new clothes, look first 
 well over the old ones, and see if you cannot shift with 
 them another year, either by scouring, mending, or 
 even patching if necessary. Remember, a patch on 
 your coat, and money in your pocket, is better and 
 more creditable than a writ on your back, and no 
 money to take it off. 
 
 2. When you are inclined to buy China ware, 
 chintzes, India silks, or any other of their flimsy, slight 
 manufactures, I would not be so bad with you as to in 
 sist on your absolutely resolving against it ; all I ad 
 vise is, to put it off (as you do your repentance) till 
 another year ; and this, in some respects, may prevent 
 an occasion of repentance. 
 
 TO SAMUEL MATHER. 
 
 PASST, May 12, 1784. 
 
 I received your kind letter, with your excellent ad 
 vice to the people of the United States, which I read 
 with great pleasure, and hope it will be duly regarded. 
 Such writings, though they may be lightly passed over 
 by many readers, yet, if they make a deep impression 
 on one active mind in a hundred, the effects may be 
 considerable. Permit me to mention one little in 
 stance, which, though it relates to myself, will not be 
 quite uninteresting to you. When I was a boy, I met 
 with a book entitled, " Essays to do Good," which I 
 think was written by your father. 1 It had been so 
 little regarded by a former possessor, that several 
 leaves of it were torn out ; but the remainder gave me 
 such a turn of thinking, as to have an influence on my 
 conduct through life, for I have always set a greater 
 J Cotton Mather. ED.
 
 FAMILIAR LETTERS. 61 
 
 value on the character of a doer of good than on any 
 other kind of reputation ; and if I have been, as you 
 seem to think, a useful citizen, the public owes the ad- 
 rantage of it to that book. 
 
 You mention your being in your seventy-eighth year. 
 T am in my seventy-ninth year ; we are growing old to 
 gether. It is now more than sixty years since I left 
 Boston, but I remember well both your father and 
 grandfather, having heard them both in the pulpit 
 and seen them in their houses. The last time I saw 
 your father was in the beginning of 1724, when I 
 visited him after my first trip to Pennsylvania. He 
 received me in his library, and on my taking leave 
 showed me a shorter way out of the house through a 
 narrow passage, which was crossed by a beam over 
 head. We were still talking as I withdrew, he accom 
 panying me behind, and I turning partly towards him, 
 when he said hastily, " Stoop, stoop ! " I did not un 
 derstand him till I felt my head hit against the beam. 
 He was a man that never missed any occasion of giv 
 ing instruction, and upon this he said to me, " You 
 are young, and have the world before you; STOOP 
 as you go through it, and you will miss many hard 
 thumps." This advice, thus beat into my head, has 
 frequently been of use to me ; and I often think of it 
 when I see pride mortified, and misfortunes brought 
 upon people by their carrying their heads too high. 
 
 TO THE BEV. DR. LATHEOP, BOSTON. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, 31 May, 1788. 
 
 REVEREND SIR : I received your obliging favor 
 of the 6th instant by Mr. Hillard, with whose conver 
 sation I was much pleased, and would have been glad 
 to have had more of it if he would have spared it to
 
 62 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 me ; but the short time of his stay has prevented. 
 You need make no apology for introducing any of 
 your friends to me. I consider it as doing me honor, 
 as well as giving me pleasure. I thank you for the 
 pamphlet of the Humane Society. In return, please 
 to accept one of the same kind, which was published 
 while I resided in France. If your Society have not 
 hitherto seen it, it may possibly afford them useful 
 hints. 
 
 It would certainly, as you observe, be a very great 
 pleasure to me if I could once again visit my native 
 town, and walk over the grounds I used to frequent 
 when a boy, and where I enjoyed many of the inno 
 cent pleasures of youth, which would be so brought to 
 my remembrance, and where I might find some of my 
 old acquaintance to converse with. But when I con 
 sider how well I am situated here, with everything 
 about me that I can call either necessary or conven 
 ient ; the fatigues and bad accommodations to be met 
 with and suffered in a land journey, and the unpleas 
 antness of sea voyages to one who, although he has 
 crossed the Atlantic eight times and made many smaller 
 trips, does not recollect his having ever been at sea 
 without taking a firm resolution never to go to sea 
 again ; and that, if I were arrived in Boston, I should 
 see but little of it, as I could neither bear walking nor 
 riding in a carriage over its pebbled streets; and, 
 above all, that I should find very few indeed of my old 
 friends living, it being now sixty-five years since I left 
 it to settle here, all this considered, I say, it seems 
 probable, though not certain, that I shall hardly again 
 visit that beloved place. But I enjoy the company 
 and conversation of its inhabitants, when any of them 
 are so good as to visit me ; for, besides their general
 
 FAMILIAR LETTERS. 63 
 
 good sense, which I value, the Boston manner, turn of 
 phrase, and even tone of voice and accent in pronun 
 ciation, all please, and seem to refresh and revive me. 
 
 I have been long impressed with the same sentiments 
 you so well express of the growing felicity of man- 
 kind, from the improvements in philosophy, morals, 
 politics, and even the conveniences of common living, 
 and the invention and acquisition of new and useful 
 utensils and instruments, so that I have sometimes 
 almost wished it had been my destiny to be born two 
 or three centuries hence ; for invention and improve 
 ment are prolific, and beget more of their kind. The 
 present progress is rapid. Many of great importance, 
 now unthought of, will before that period be pro 
 duced ; and then I might not only enjoy their advan 
 tages, but have my curiosity gratified in knowing what 
 they are to be. I see a little absurdity in what I have 
 just written ; but it is to a friend, who will wink and 
 let it pass, while I mention one reason more for such a 
 wish, which is, that, if the art of physic shall be im 
 proved in proportion to other arts, we may then be 
 able to avoid diseases, and live as long as the patri 
 archs in Genesis, to which I suppose we should have 
 little objection. 
 
 I am glad my dear sister has so good and kind a 
 neighbor. I sometimes suspect she may be backward 
 in acquainting me with circumstances in which I might 
 be more useful to her. If any such should occur to 
 your observation, your mentioning them to me will be 
 a favor I shall be thankful for. 
 
 With great esteem, I have the honor to be, reverend 
 sir, your most obedient and most humble servant, 
 
 B. FRANKLIN.
 
 64 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, 
 
 TO BENJAMIN WEBB. 
 
 PASSY, 22 April, 1784. 
 
 I received yours of the 15th instant, and the memo 
 rial it enclosed. The account they give of your sit 
 uation grieves me. I send you herewith a bill for ten 
 louis d'ors. I do not pretend to give such a sum ; I 
 only lend it to you. When you shall return to your 
 country with a good character, you cannot fail of get 
 ting into some business that will in time enable you 
 to pay all your debts. In that case, when you meet 
 with another honest man in similar distress, you must 
 pay me by lending this sum to him ; enjoining him to 
 discharge the debt by a like operation when he shall 
 be able, and shall meet with such another opportunity. 
 I hope it may thus go through many hands before it 
 meets with a knave that will stop its progress. This 
 is a trick of mine for doing a deal of good with a little 
 money. I am not rich enough to afford much in good 
 works, and so am obliged to be cunning, and make 
 the most of a little. With best wishes for the success 
 of your memorial and your future prosperity, I am, 
 dear sir, your most obedient servant, 
 
 B. FBANKLIN.
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES was born at Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts, August 29, 1809. The house in which he 
 was born stood between the sites now occupied by the Hem- 
 enway Gymnasium and the Law School of Harvard Uni 
 versity, and was of historic interest as having been the head 
 quarters of General Artemas Ward, and of the Committee 
 of Safety in the days just before the Revolution. Upon 
 the steps of the house stood President Langdon, of Har 
 vard College, tradition says, and prayed for the men who, 
 halting there a few moments, marched forward under Colo 
 nel Prescott's lead to throw up intrenchments on Bunker 
 Hill on the night of June 16, 1775. Dr. Holmes's father 
 carried forward the traditions of the old house, for he was 
 Rev. Dr. Abiel Holmes, whose American Annals was the 
 first careful record of American history written after the 
 Revolution. 
 
 Born and bred in the midst of historic associations, 
 Holmes had from the first a lively interest in American his 
 tory and politics, and though possessed of strong humorous 
 gifts often turned his song into patriotic channels, while 
 the current of his literary life was distinctly American. 
 
 He began to write poetry when in college at Cambridge, 
 and some of his best-known early pieces, like Evening, by a 
 Tailor, The Meeting of the Dryads, The Spectre Pig, were 
 contributed to the Collegian, an undergraduate journal, while 
 he was studying law the year after his graduation. At the
 
 66 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 same time he wrote the well-known poem Old Ironsides, a 
 protest against the proposed breaking up of the frigate Con 
 stitution ; the poem was printed in the Boston Daily Adver 
 tiser, and its indignation and fervor carried it through the 
 country, and raised such a popular feeling that the ship was 
 saved from an ignominious destruction. Holmes shortly 
 gave up the study of law, went abroad to study medicine, 
 and returned to take his degree at Harvard in 1836. At 
 the same time he delivered a poem, Poetry : a Metrical 
 Essay, before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, and 
 ever afterward his profession of medicine and his love of 
 literature received his united care and thought. In 1838 
 he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at 
 Dartmouth College, but remained there only a year or two, 
 when he returned to Boston, married, and practised medi 
 cine. In 1847 he was made Parkman Professor of Anat 
 omy and Physiology in the Medical School of Harvard Col 
 lege, a position which he retained until the close of 1882, 
 when he retired, to devote himself more exclusively to liter 
 ature. 
 
 In 1857, when the Atlantic Monthly was established, 
 Professor Lowell, who was asked to be editor, consented on 
 condition that Dr. Holmes should be a regular contributor. 
 Dr. Holmes at that time was known as the author of a num 
 ber of poems of grace, life, and wit, and he had published 
 several professional papers and books, but his brilliancy as a 
 talker gave him a strong local reputation, and Lowell 
 shrewdly guessed that he would bring to the new magazine 
 a singularly fresh and unusual power. He was right, for 
 The Autocrat of the Breakfast- Table, beginning in the 
 first number, unquestionably insured the Atlantic its early 
 success. The readers of the day had forgotten that Holmes, 
 twenty-five years before, had begun a series with the samd 
 title in Buckingham's New England Magazine, a periodi 
 cal of short life, so they did not at first understand why he 
 should begin his first article, " I was just going to say when
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 67 
 
 I was interrupted." From that time Dr. Holmes was a 
 frequent contributor to the magazine, and in it appeared 
 uccessively, The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, The Pro 
 fessor at the Breakfast-Table, The Professor's Story (after 
 ward called Elsie Venner), The Guardian Angel, The Poet 
 ut the Breakfast- Table, The New Portfolio (afterward called 
 A Mortal Antipathy), Our Hundred Days in Europe, and 
 Over the Teacups, prose papers and stories with occa 
 sional insertion of verse ; here also were first printed the 
 many poems which he wrote so freely and so happily for 
 festivals and pubh'c occasions, including the frequent poems 
 at the yearly meetings of his college class. The wit and 
 humor which have made his poetry so well known would 
 never have given him his high rank had they not been asso 
 ciated with an admirable art which makes every word ne 
 cessary and felicitous, and a generous nature which is quick 
 to seize upon what touches a common life. 
 
 Dr. Holmes died at his home in Boston October 7, 1894. 
 His life has been written by his wife's nephew, John T. 
 Morse, Jr., and is published under the title Life a*id Letters 
 of Oliver Wendell Holmes.
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER HILL 
 BATTLE. 
 
 AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY. 
 
 [This poem was first published in 1875, in connection 
 with the centenary of the battle of Bunker Hill. The bel 
 fry could hardly have been that of Christ Church, since tra 
 dition says that General Gage was stationed there watching 
 the battle, and we may make it to be what was known as 
 the New Brick Church, built in 1721, on Hanover, corner 
 of Richmond Street, Boston, rebuilt of stone in 1845, and 
 pulled down at the widening of Hanover Street in 1871. 
 There are many narratives of the battle of Bunker Hill. 
 Frothingham's History of the Siege of Boston is one of the 
 most comprehensive accounts, and has furnished material 
 for many popular narratives. The centennial celebration 
 of the battle called out magazine and newspaper articles, 
 which give the story with little variation. There are not 
 many disputed points in connection with the event, the prin 
 cipal one being the discussion as to who was the chief 
 officer.] 
 
 T is like stirring living embers when, at eighty, one 
 
 remembers 
 All the achings and the quakings of " the times that 
 
 tried men's souls ; " 
 
 2. In December, 1776, Thomas Paine, whose Common Sense had 
 80 remarkable a popularity as the first homely expression of 
 public opinion on Independence, began issuing a series of tracts 
 called The Crisis, eighteen numbers of which appeared. The fa 
 miliar words quoted by the grandmother must often have been
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 69 
 
 When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the Reid 
 
 story, 
 To you the words are ashes, but to me they 're burn- 
 
 ing coals. 
 
 I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April running 
 
 battle ; 8 
 
 Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red coats 
 
 still; 
 But a deadly chill comes o'er me, as the day looms up 
 
 before me, 
 When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes of 
 
 Bunker's Hill. 
 
 heard and used by her. They begin the first number of The 
 Crisis : " These are the times that try men's souls : the summer 
 soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from 
 the service of his country ; but he that stands it NOW deserves 
 the love and thanks of man and woman." 
 
 3. The terms Whig and Tory were applied to the two parties 
 in England who represented, respectively, the Whigs political 
 and religious liberty, the Tories royal prerogative and ecclesias 
 tical authority. The names first came into use in 1679 in the 
 struggles at the close of Charles II. 's reign, and continued in use 
 until a generation or so ago , when they gave place to somewhat 
 corresponding terms of Liberal and Conservative. At the break 
 ing out of the war for Independence, the Whigs in England op 
 posed the measures taken by the crown in the management of 
 the American colonies, while the Tories supported the crown. 
 The names were naturally applied in America to the patriotic 
 party, who were termed Whigs, and the loyalist party, termed 
 Tories. The Tories in turn called the patriots rebels. 
 
 5. The Lexington and Concord affair of April 19, 1775, when 
 Lord Percy's soldiers retreated in a disorderly manner to 
 Charlestown, annoyed on the way by the Americans who fol 
 lowed and accompanied them.
 
 TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 T was a peaceful summer's morning, when the first 
 
 thing gave us warning 
 Was the booming of the cannon from the river and 
 
 the shore : u 
 
 '* Child," says grandma, " what 's the matter, what is 
 
 all this noise and clatter ? 
 Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder us 
 
 once more ? " 
 
 Poor old soul ! my sides were shaking in the midst of 
 all my quaking, 
 
 To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began to 
 roar: 
 
 She had seen the burning village, and the slaughter 
 and the pillage, 15 
 
 When the Mohawks killed her father with their bul 
 lets through his door. 
 
 Then I said, " Now, dear old granny, don't you fret 
 
 and worry any, 
 For I '11 soon come back and tell you whether this is 
 
 work or play ; 
 There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone a 
 
 minute " 
 For a minute then I started. I was gone the livelong 
 
 day. w 
 
 No tune for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass grima 
 cing; 
 
 16. The Mohawks, a formidable part of the Six Xations, were 
 held in great dread, as they were the most cruel and warlike of 
 all the tribes. In connection with the French they fell upon the 
 frontier settlements during Queen Anne's war, early in the 
 eighteenth century, and committed terrible deeds, long remem 
 bered in New England households.
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 71 
 
 Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half-way 
 to my heels ; 
 
 God forbid your ever knowing, when there 's blood 
 around her flowing, 
 
 How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet house 
 hold feels ! 
 
 In the street I heard a thumping ; and I knew it was 
 
 the stumping 25 
 
 Of the Corporal, our old neighbor, on the wooden leg 
 
 he wore, 
 With a knot of women round him, it was lucky I 
 
 had found him, 
 So I followed with the others, and the Corporal 
 
 marched before. 
 
 They were making for the steeple, the old soldier 
 and his people ; 
 
 The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the creak 
 ing stair, M 
 
 Just across the narrow river Oh, so close it made 
 me shiver ! 
 
 Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday was 
 bare. 
 
 Not slow our eyes to find it ; well we knew who stood 
 behind it, 
 
 Though the earthwork hid them from us, and the stub 
 born walls were dumb : 
 
 Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild upon 
 each other, a 
 
 And their lips were white with terror as they said, 
 THE HOUR HAS COMEl
 
 72 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we 
 
 tasted, 
 And our heads were almost splitting with the cannons* 
 
 deafening thrill, 
 When a figure tall and stately round the rampart 
 
 strode sedately ; 
 It was PRESCOTT, one since told me ; he commanded 
 
 on the hill. 40 
 
 Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw his 
 
 manly figure, 
 With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so 
 
 straight and tall ; 
 Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out for 
 
 pleasure, 
 Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he 
 
 walked around the wall. 
 
 At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red-coats' 
 
 ranks were forming ; 45 
 
 At noon in marching order they were moving to the 
 
 piers ; 
 How the bayonets gleamed and glistened, as we looked 
 
 far down, and listened 
 To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted 
 
 grenadiers ! 
 
 40. Colonel William Prescott, who commanded the detach 
 ment which marched from Cambridge, June 16, 1775, to fortify 
 Breed's Hill, was the grandfather of William Hickling Prescott, 
 the historian. He was hi the field during the entire battle of 
 the 17th, in command of the redoubt. 
 
 42. Banyan a flowered morning gown which Prescott is said 
 to have worn during the hot day, a good illustration of the un- 
 military appearance of the soldiers engaged. His nonchalant 
 walk upon the parapets is also a historic fact, and was for the 
 encouragement of the troops within the redoubt.
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 73 
 
 At length the men have started, with a cheer (it 
 seemed faint-hearted), 
 
 In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks on 
 their backs, so 
 
 And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea- 
 fight's slaughter, 
 
 Round the barges gliding onward blushed like blood 
 along their tracks. 
 
 So they crossed to the other border, and again they 
 formed in order ; 
 
 And the boats came back for soldiers, came for sol 
 diers, soldiers still : 
 
 The time seemed everlasting to us women faint and 
 fasting, 
 
 At last they 're moving, marching, marching proudly 
 up the hill. 
 
 We can see the bright steel glancing all along the 
 
 lines advancing 
 Now the front rank fires a volley they have thrown 
 
 away their shot ; 
 For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls above 
 
 them flying, 
 Our people need not hurry ; so they wait and answer 
 
 not. w 
 
 Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would swear 
 
 sometimes and tipple), 
 He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old French 
 
 war) before, 
 
 62. Many of the officers as well as men on the American side 
 had become familiarized with service through the old French 
 war, which came to an eud in 1763.
 
 74 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all were 
 hearing, 
 
 And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty bel 
 fry floor : 
 
 " Oil ! fire away, ye villains, and earn King George's 
 sliill in's, 65 
 
 But ye '11 waste a ton of powder afore a ' rebel ' falls ; 
 
 You may bang the dirt and welcome, they 're as safe 
 as Dan'l Malcolm 
 
 Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you've splin 
 tered with your balls ! " 
 
 In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepidation 
 
 Of the dread approaching moment, we are well-nigh 
 breathless all ; 70 
 
 Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety bel 
 fry railing, 
 
 We are crowding up against them like the waves 
 against a wall. 
 
 67. Dr. Holmes makes the following note to this line : " The 
 following epitaph is still to be read on a tall gravestone, stand 
 ing as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments of the 
 dead in Copp's Hill Burial Ground, one of the three city [Boston] 
 cemeteries which have been desecrated and ruined within my 
 own remembrance : 
 
 " Here lies buried in a 
 
 Stone Grave 10 feet deep 
 Oapt. DANIEL MALCOLM Mercht 
 Who departed this Life 
 October 23, 1769, 
 Aged 44 years, 
 A true son of Liberty, 
 A Friend to the Publick, 
 An Enemy to oppression, 
 And one of the foremost 
 In opposing the Revenue Acts 
 On America."
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 75 
 
 Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer, 
 
 nearer, nearer, 
 When a flash a curling smoke-wreath then a 
 
 crasjii the steeple shakes 
 The deadly truce is ended ; the tempest's shroud is 
 
 rended ; 75 
 
 Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder-cloud 
 
 it breaks! 
 
 O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black smoke 
 
 blows over ! 
 The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower rakes 
 
 his hay ; 
 Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong crowd 
 
 is flying 
 Like a billow that has broken and is shivered into 
 
 spray. w 
 
 Then we cried, "The troops are routed! they are 
 
 beat it can't be doubted ! 
 God be thanked, the fight is over ! " Ah ! the grim 
 
 old soldier's smile ! 
 " Tell us, tell us why you look so ? " (we could hardly 
 
 speak we shook so), 
 "Are they beaten? Are they beaten? ARE they 
 
 beaten ? " " Wait a while." 
 
 O the trembling and the terror ! for too soon we saw 
 
 our error : 85 
 
 They are baffled, not defeated ; we have driven them 
 
 back in vain ; 
 And the columns that were scattered, round the colors 
 
 that were tattered, 
 Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted 
 
 breasts again. 

 
 76 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 All at once, as we were gazing, lo ! the roofs of Charles- 
 town blazing ! 
 
 They have fired the harmless village ; in an hour it 
 will be down ! w 
 
 The Lord in Heaven confound them, rain his fire and 
 brimstone round them, 
 
 The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn a 
 peaceful town I 
 
 They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see 
 
 each massive column 
 As they near the naked earth-mound with the slanting 
 
 walls so steep. 
 Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noiseless 
 
 haste departed ? * 
 
 Are they panic-struck and helpless ? Are they palsied 
 
 or asleep ? 
 
 Now ! the walls they 're almost under ! scarce a rod 
 
 the foes asunder ! 
 Not a firelock flashed against them ! up the earthwork 
 
 they will swarm ! 
 But the words have scarce been spoken when the 
 
 ominous calm is broken, 
 And a bellowing crash has emptied all the vengeance 
 
 of the storm ! 100 
 
 So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted backwards 
 
 to the water, 
 Fly Pigot's running heroes and the frightened braves 
 
 of Howe; 
 
 102. The generals on the British side were Howe, Clinton, 
 and Pigot.
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 77 
 
 And we shout, " At last they 're done for, it 's their 
 
 barges they have run for : 
 They are beaten, beaten, beaten ; and the battle 's over 
 
 now ! " 
 
 And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough 
 
 old soldier's features, 105 
 
 Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we 
 
 would ask : 
 "Not sure," he said; "keep quiet, once more, I 
 
 guess, they '11 try it 
 Here 's damnation to the cut-throats I " then he 
 
 handed me his flask, 
 
 Saying, " Gal, you 're looking shaky ; have a drop of 
 
 Old Jamaiky ; 
 I 'm afeard there '11 be more trouble afore the job is 
 
 done ; " 110 
 
 So I took one scorching swallow ; dreadful faint I felt 
 
 and hollow, 
 Standing there from early morning when the firing 
 
 was begun. 
 
 All through those hours of trial I had watched a calm 
 
 clock dial, 
 As the hands kept creeping, creeping, they were 
 
 creeping round to four, 
 When the old man said, " They 're forming with their 
 
 bagonets fixed for storming : 115 
 
 It 's the death-grip that 's a coming, they will try 
 
 the works once more." 
 
 With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind them 
 glaring,
 
 78 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 The deadly wall before them, in close array they 
 come ; 
 
 Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold un 
 coiling, 
 
 Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverberating 
 drum! 120 
 
 Over heaps all torn and gory shall I tell the fearful 
 story, 
 
 How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea 
 breaks over a deck ; 
 
 How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out men 
 retreated, 
 
 With their powder-horns all emptied, like the swim 
 mers from a wreck? 
 
 It has all been told and painted ; as for me, they say 
 
 I fainted, 125 
 
 And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with 
 
 me down the stair : 
 When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening 
 
 lamps were lighted, 
 On the floor a youth was ^ying , his bleeding breast 
 
 was bare. 
 
 And I heard through all the flurry, " Send for WAR 
 REN ! huvry ! hurry ! 
 
 Tell him here 's a soldier bleeding, and he '11 come 
 and dress his wound ! " iso 
 
 Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of death 
 and sorrow, 
 
 129. Dr. Joseph Warren, of equal note at the time as a medi 
 cal man and a patriot. He was a volunteer in the battle, and 
 rell there, thft most serious loss on the American side. See pp. 
 328, 329.
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 79 
 
 How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark 
 and bloody ground. 
 
 Who the youth was, what his name was, where the 
 
 place from which he came was, 
 Who had brought him from the battle, and had left 
 
 him at our door, 
 He could not speak to tell us ; but 't was one of OUT 
 
 brave fellows, iss 
 
 As the homespun plainly showed us which the dying 
 
 soldier wore. 
 
 For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 
 
 round him crying, 
 And they said, " Oh, how they '11 miss him I " and, 
 
 " What will his mother do? " 
 Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that has 
 
 been dozing, 
 He faintly murmured, " Mother ! " and I saw 
 
 his eyes were blue. MO 
 
 " Why grandma, how you 're winking ! " Ah, my 
 
 child, it sets me thinking 
 Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow lived 
 
 along ; 
 So we came to know each other, and I nursed him like 
 
 a mother, 
 Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy-cheeked, 
 
 and strong. 
 
 And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant 
 summer weather ; 145 
 
 " Please to tell us what his name was ? " Just 
 
 your own, my little dear,
 
 80 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 There 's his picture Copley painted : we became so 
 
 well acquainted, 
 That, in short, that 's why I 'm grandma, and you 
 
 children are all here ! 
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN. 
 
 ANKTVEBSABY OF THE BERKSHIRE AGRICULTURAL 
 SOCIETY, OCTOBER 4, 1849. 
 
 CLEAR the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam 1 
 Lo ! on he comes, behind his smoking team, 
 With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow, 
 The lord of earth, the hero of the plough ! 
 
 First in the field before the reddening sun, * 
 
 Last in the shadows when the day is done, 
 
 Line after line, along the bursting sod, 
 
 Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod ; 
 
 Still where he treads, the stubborn clods divide, 
 
 The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide ; 10 
 
 Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, 
 
 Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves ; 
 
 Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train 
 
 Slants the long track that scores the level plain ; 
 
 Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay, is 
 
 The patient convoy breaks its destined way ; 
 
 At every turn the loosening chains resound, 
 
 147. John Singleton Copley was a portrait painter of cele 
 brity, who was born in America in 1737, and painted many 
 famous portraits, which hang in private and pnblic galleries in 
 Boston and vicinity chiefly. He lived in England the latter half 
 of his life, dying there in 1815.
 
 THE PLOUGHMAN. 81 
 
 The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round, 
 
 Till the wide field one billowy waste appears, 
 
 And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. a> 
 
 These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings 
 The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings ; 
 This is the page whose letters shall be seen 
 Changed by the sun to words of living green ; 
 This is the scholar whose immortal pen 
 
 Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men ; 
 These are the lines which heaven-commanded Toil 
 Shows on his deed, the charter of the soil ! 
 
 O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast 
 
 Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest, to 
 
 How thy sweet features, kind to every clime, 
 
 Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of time ! 
 
 We stain thy flowers, they blossom o'er the dead ; 
 
 We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ; 
 
 O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn, 
 
 Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn ; 
 
 Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain, 
 
 Still thy soft answer is the growing grain. 
 
 Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms 
 
 Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms 40 
 
 Let not our virtues in thy love decay, 
 
 And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away. 
 
 No ! by these hills, whose banners now displayed 
 
 In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; 
 
 By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests *> 
 
 The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests ; 
 
 By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, 
 
 And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines,
 
 82 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil 
 
 To crown with peace their own untainted soil ; ao 
 
 And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind, 
 
 If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, 
 
 These stately forms, that bending even now 
 
 Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, 
 
 Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, 
 
 The same stern iron in the same right hand, 
 
 Till o'er the hills the shouts of triumph run, 
 
 The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won ! 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 
 
 THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 
 
 Sails the unshadowed main, 
 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 6 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare, 
 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming 
 hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
 
 And every chambered cell, 10 
 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 
 Before thee lies revealed, 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed I 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil is 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 Still, as the spiral grew,
 
 THE IRON GATE. 88 
 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door, M 
 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no 
 more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 
 Child of the wandering sea, 
 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born as 
 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
 
 While on my ear it rings, 
 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
 sings : 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 
 
 As the swift seasons roll! 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past I 
 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting* 
 sea! 36 
 
 THE IRON GATE. 
 
 BEAD AT THE BREAKFAST GIVEN IN HONOR OF DR. HOLMES'S 
 SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY BY THE PUBLISHERS OF THE ATLAN 
 TIC MONTHLY, BOSTON, DECEMBER 3, 1879. 
 
 WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting ? 
 
 Not unfamiliar to my ear his name, 
 Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting 
 
 In days long vanished, is he still the same,
 
 84 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 Or changed by years, forgotten, and forgetting, 
 
 Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought, 
 
 Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting, 
 Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought ? 
 
 Old age, the graybeard I Well, indeed, I know him, 
 Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey ; 10 
 
 In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem, 
 
 Oft have I met him from my earliest day : 
 
 In my old JEsop, toiling with his bundle, 
 His load of sticks, politely asking Death 
 
 Who comes when called for, would he lug or trun 
 dle 15 
 His fagot for him ? he was scant of breath. 
 
 And sad " Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher," 
 Has he not stamped the image on my soul, 
 
 In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher 
 Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl ? 2* 
 
 Yes, long, indeed, I 've known him at a distance, 
 And now my lifted door-latch shows him here ; 
 
 I take his shrivelled hand without resistance, 
 And find him smiling as his step draws near. 
 
 What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us, 25 
 
 Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime ; 
 
 Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us, 
 The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time ! 
 
 Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant, 
 
 Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep, *> 
 
 Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant, 
 Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep I
 
 THE IRON GATE. 86 
 
 Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender, 
 
 Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain, 
 
 Hands yet more helpful, voices grown more tender, as 
 Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous 
 brain. 
 
 Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers, 
 
 Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past, 
 Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers 
 
 That warm its creeping life-blood till the last. 
 
 Dear to its heart is every loving token 
 
 That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold, 
 
 Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken, 
 Its labors ended and its story told. 
 
 Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices, 45 
 
 For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh, 
 And through the chorus of its jocund voices 
 
 Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry. 
 
 As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying 
 
 From some far orb I track our watery sphere, co 
 Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, 
 
 The silvered globule seems a glistening tear. 
 
 But Nature lends her mirror of illusion 
 
 To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, 
 And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion 66 
 
 The wintry landscape and the summer skies. 
 
 So when the iron portal shuts behind us, 
 And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, 
 
 Visions that shunned the glaring noon-day find us, 
 And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl, w
 
 86 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 I come not here your morning hour to sadden, 
 A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff, 
 
 I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden 
 This vale of sorrow with a wholesome laugh. 
 
 If word of mine another's gloom has brightened, es 
 Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message 
 came; 
 
 If hand of mine another's task has lightened, 
 It felt the guidance that it dares not claim. 
 
 But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, 
 
 These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release ; 70 
 
 These feebler pulses bid me leave to others 
 
 The tasks once welcome ; evening asks for peace. 
 
 Time claims his tribute ; silence now is golden ; 
 
 Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre ; 
 Though to your love untiring still beholden, 75 
 
 The curfew tells me cover up the fire. 
 
 And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful, 
 
 And warmer heart than look or word can tell, 
 In simplest phrase these traitorous eyes are tear 
 ful- 
 Thanks, Brothers, Sisters Children and f are- 
 well 1 80
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 IT was Hawthorne's wont to keep note-books, in which he 
 recorded his observations and reflections; sometimes he 
 spoke in them of himself, his plans, and his prospects. He 
 began the practice early, and continued it through life ; and 
 after his death selections from these note-books were pub. 
 lished in six volumes, under the titles : Passages from the 
 American Note-Books of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Passages 
 from the English Note-Books of Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
 and Passages from the French and Italian Note-Books of 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne. In these books, and in prefaces 
 which appear in the front of the volumes containing his col 
 lected stories, one finds many frank expressions of the interest 
 which Hawthorne took in his work, and the author appeals 
 very ingenuously to the reader, speaking with an almost 
 confidential closeness of his stories and sketches. Then the 
 Note-Books contain the unwrought material of the books 
 which the writer put out in his lifetime. One finds there 
 the suggestions of stories, and frequently pages of observa 
 tion and reflection, which were afterward transferred, almost 
 as they stood, into the author's works. It is very interesting 
 labor to trace Hawthorne's stories and sketches back to 
 these records in his note-books, and to compare the finished 
 work with the rough material. It seems, also, as if each 
 reader was admitted into the privacy of the author's mind. 
 That is the first impression, but a closer study reveals two
 
 88 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 facts very clearly. One is stated by Hawthorne himself in 
 his preface to The Snow-Image and other Twice-Told 
 Tales : " I have been especially careful [in my Introduc 
 tions] to make no disclosures respecting myself which the 
 most indifferent observer might not have been acquainted 
 with, and which I was not perfectly willing that my worst 
 enemy should know. ... I have taken facts which relate 
 to myself [when telling stories] because they chance to be 
 nearest at hand, and likewise are my own property. And, 
 as for egotism, a person who has been burrowing, to his 
 utmost ability, into the depths of our common nature for the 
 purposes of psychological romance and who pursues his 
 researches in that dusky region, as he needs must, as well by 
 the tact of sympathy as by the light of observation will 
 smile at incurring such an imputation in virtue of a little 
 preliminary talk about his external habits, his abode, his 
 casual associates, and other matters entirely upon the sur 
 face. These things hide the man instead of displaying him. 
 You must make quite another kind of inquest, and look 
 through the whole range of his fictitious characters, good 
 and evil, in order to detect any of his essential traits." 
 
 There has rarely been a writer of fiction, then, whose per 
 sonality has been so absolutely separate from that of each 
 character created by him, and at the same time has so inti 
 mately penetrated the whole body of his writing. Of no 
 one of his characters, male or female, is one ever tempted 
 to say, This is Hawthorne, except in the case of Miles Cov- 
 erdale in The Blithedale Romance, where the circumstances 
 of the story tempt one into an identification ; yet all Haw 
 thorne's work is stamped emphatically with his mark. 
 Hawthorne wrote it, is very simple and easy to say of all 
 but the merest trifle in his collected works ; but the world 
 has yet to learn who Hawthorne was, and even if he had 
 not forbidden a biography of himself, it is scarcely likely 
 that any Life could have disclosed more than he has chosen 
 himself to reveal.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 89 
 
 The advantage of this is that it leaves the student free to 
 concentrate his attention upon the writings rather than on 
 the man. Hawthorne, in the passage quoted above, speaks 
 of himself as one " who has been burrowing, to his utmost 
 ability, into the depths of our common nature for the pur 
 poses of psychological romance ; " and this states, as closely 
 as so short a sentence can, the controlling purpose and end 
 of the author. The vitality of Hawthorne's characters is 
 derived but little from any external description ; it resides 
 in the truthfulness with which they respond to some perma 
 nent and controlling operation of the human soul. Looking 
 into his own heart, and always, when studying others, in 
 search of fundamental rather than occasional motives, he 
 proceeded to develop these motives in conduct and life. 
 Hence he had a leaning toward the allegory, where human 
 figures are merely masks for spiritual activities, and some 
 times he employed the simple allegory, as in The Celestial 
 Railroad. More often in his short stories he has a spiritual 
 truth to illustrate, and uses the simplest, most direct means, 
 taking no pains to conceal his purpose, yet touching his 
 characters quietly or playfully with human sensibilities, and 
 investing them with just so much real life as answers the 
 purpose of the story. This is exquisitely done in The Snoio- 
 Image. The consequence of this "burrowing into the 
 depths of our common nature " has been to bring much of 
 the darker and concealed life into the movement of his 
 stories. The fact of evil is the terrible fact of life, and its 
 workings in the human soul had more interest for Hawthorne 
 than the obvious physical manifestations. Since his obser 
 vations are less of the men and women whom everybody sees 
 and recognizes than of the souls which are hidden from 
 most eyes, it is not strange that his stories should often lay 
 bare secrets of sin, and that a somewhat dusky light should 
 seem to be the atmosphere of much of his work. Now and 
 then, especially when dealing with childhood, a warm, sunny 
 glow spreads over the pages of his books ; but the reader must
 
 90 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 be prepared for the most part to read stories which lie in 
 the shadow of life. 
 
 There was one class of subjects which had a peculiar in 
 terest for Hawthorne, and in a measure affected his work. 
 He had a strong taste for New England history, and he 
 found in the scenes and characters of that history favorable 
 material for the representation of spiritual conflict. He was 
 himself the most New English of New Englanders, and 
 held an extraordinary sympathy with the very soil of his 
 section of the country. By this sympathy, rather than by 
 any painful research, he was singularly acquainted with the 
 historic life of New England. His stories, based directly 
 on historic facts, are true to the spirit of the times in some 
 thing more than an archaeological way. One is astonished 
 at the ease with which he seized upon characteristic fea 
 tures, and reproduced them in a word or phrase. Merely 
 careful and diligent research would never be adequate to 
 give the life-likeness of the images in Howe's Masquerade. 
 
 There is, then, a second fact discovered by a study of 
 Hawthorne, that while one finds in the Note-Books, for ex 
 ample, the material out of which stories and sketches seem 
 to have been constructed, and while the facts of New Eng 
 land history have been used without exaggeration or distor 
 tion, the result in stories and romances is something far be 
 yond a mere report of what has been seen and read. The 
 charm of a vivifying imagination is the crowning charm of 
 Hawthorne's stories, and its medium is a graceful and often 
 exquisitely apt diction. Hawthorne's sense of touch as a 
 writer is very fine. He knows when to be light, and when 
 to press heavily ; a very conspicuous quality is what one 
 is likely to term quaintness, a gentle pleasantry which 
 seems to spring from the author's attitude toward his own 
 work, as if he looked upon that, too, as a part of the spirit 
 ual universe which he was surveying. 
 
 Hawthorne spent much of his life silently, and there are 
 touching passages in his note-books regarding his sense of
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 91 
 
 loneliness and his wish for recognition from the world. His 
 early writings were short stories, sketches, and biographies, 
 scattered in magazines and brought together into Twice- 
 Told Tales, in two volumes, published, the first in 1837, 
 the second in 1842 ; Mosses from an Old Manse, in 1846 ; 
 The Snow-Image and other Twice- Told Tales, in 1851. 
 They had a limited circle of readers. Some recognized his 
 genius, but it was not until the publication of The Scarlet 
 Letter, in 1850, that Hawthorne's name was fairly before 
 the world as a great and original writer of romance. The 
 House of the Seven Gables followed in 1851 ; The Blithe- 
 dale Romance in 1852. He spent the years 1853-1860 in 
 Europe, and the immediate result of his life there is in Our 
 Old Home : A Series of English Sketches, published in 
 1863, and The Marble Faun, or the Romance of Monte 
 Beni, in 1860. For young people he wrote Grandfather's 
 Chair, a collection of stories from New England history, 
 The Wonder-Book and Tanglewood Tales, containing 
 stories out of classic mythology. There are a few other 
 scattered writings which have been collected into volumes 
 and published in the complete series of his works. 
 
 Hawthorne was born July 4, 1804, and died May 19, 
 1864. 
 
 The student of Hawthorne will find in G. P. Lathrop's 
 A Study of Hawthorne, and Henry James, Jr.'s Hawthorne. 
 in the series English Men of Letters, material which will 
 assist him. Dr. Holmes published, shortly after Haw 
 thorne's death, a paper of reminiscences which is included 
 in Soundings from the Atlantic ; and Longfellow welcomed 
 Twice-Told Todes with a glowing article in the North 
 American Review, xlviii. 59, which is reproduced in his 
 prose works. The reader will find it an agreeable task to 
 discover what the poets, Longfellow, Lowell, Stedman, and 
 others, have said of this man of genius.
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 
 
 ONE afternoon, when the sun was going down, a 
 mother and her little boy sat at the door of their cot 
 tage, talking about the Great Stone Face. They had 
 but to lift their eyes, and there it was plainly to be 
 seen, though miles away, with the sunshine brighten 
 ing all its features. 
 
 And what was the Great Stone Face ? 
 
 Embosomed amongst a family of lofty mountains 
 there was a valley so spacious that it contained many 
 thousand inhabitants. Some of these good people 
 dwelt in log huts, with the black forest all around 
 them, on the steep and difficult hillsides. Others had 
 their homes in comfortable farm-houses, and culti 
 vated the rich soil on the gentle slopes or level surfaces 
 of the valley. Others, again, were congregated into 
 populous villages, where some wild, highland rivulet, 
 tumbling down from its birthplace in the upper moun 
 tain region, had been caught and tamed by human cun 
 ning and compelled to turn the machinery of cotton- 
 factories. The inhabitants of this valley, in short, were 
 numerous, and of many modes of life. But all of 
 them, grown people and children, had a kind of fa 
 miliarity with the Great Stone Face, although some 
 possessed the gift of distinguishing this grand natural 
 phenomenon more perfectly than many of their neigh 
 bors. 
 
 The Great Stone Face, then, was a work of Nature
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 98 
 
 in her mood of majestic playfulness, formed on the 
 perpendicular side of a mountain by some immense 
 rocks, which had been thrown together in such a posi 
 tion as, when viewed at a proper distance, precisely to 
 resemble the features 'of the human countenance. It 
 seemed as if an enormous giant, or a Titan, had sculp 
 tured his own likeness on the precipice. There was 
 the broad arch of the forehead, a hundred feet in 
 height ; the nose, with its long bridge ; and the vast 
 lips, which, if they could have spoken, would have 
 rolled their thunder accents from one end of the val 
 ley to the other. True it is, that if the spectator 
 approached too near he lost the outline of the gigantic 
 visage, and could discern only a heap of ponderous 
 and gigantic rocks, piled in chaotic ruin one upon 
 another. Retracing his steps, however, the wondrous 
 features would again be seen ; and the farther he with 
 drew from them, the more like a human face, with all 
 its original divinity intact, did they appear ; until, as 
 it grew dim in the distance, with the clouds and glori 
 fied vapor of the mountains clustering about it, the 
 Great Stone Face seemed positively to be alive. 
 
 It was a happy lot for children to grow up to man 
 hood or womanhood with the Great Stone Face before 
 their eyes, for all the features were noble, and the 
 expression was at once grand and sweet, as if it were 
 the glow of a vast, warm heart, that embraced all 
 mankind in its affections, and had room for more. It 
 was an education only to look at it. According to the 
 belief of many people, the valley owed much of its 
 fertility to this benign aspect that was continually 
 beaming over it, illuminating the clouds, and infusing 
 its tenderness into the sunshine. 
 
 As we began with saying, a mother and her little
 
 94 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 boy sat at their cottage-door, gazing at the Great 
 Stone Face, and talking about it. The child's name 
 was Ernest. 
 
 " Mother," said he, while the Titanic visage smiled 
 on him, " I wish that it could speak, for it looks so 
 very kindly that its voice must needs be pleasant. If 
 I were to see a man with such a face, I should love 
 him dearly." 
 
 " If an old prophecy should come to pass," an 
 swered his mother, " we may see a man, some time or 
 other, with exactly such a face as that." 
 
 " What prophecy do you mean, dear mother ? " 
 eagerly inquired Ernest. "Pray tell me all about 
 it!" ' 
 
 So his mother told him a story that her own mother 
 had told to her, when she herself was younger than 
 little Ernest ; a story, not of things that were past, 
 but of what was yet to come ; a story, nevertheless, 
 so very old, that even the Indians, who formerly 
 inhabited this valley, had heard it from their fore 
 fathers, to whom, as they affirmed, it had been mur 
 mured by the mountain streams, and whispered by 
 the wind among the tree-tops. The purport was, 
 that, at some future day, a child should be born here 
 abouts, who was destined to become the greatest and 
 noblest personage of his time, and whose countenance, 
 in manhood, should bear an exact resemblance to the 
 Great Stone Face. Not a few old-fashioned people, and 
 young ones likewise, in the ardor of their hopes, still 
 cherished an enduring faith in this old prophecy. But 
 others, who had seen more of the world, had watched 
 and waited till they were weary, and had beheld no 
 man with such a face, nor any man that proved to be 
 much greater or nobler than his neighbors, concluded
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 95 
 
 it to be nothing but an idle tale. At all events, the 
 great man of the prophecy had not yet appeared. 
 
 " O mother, dear mother I " cried Ernest, clapping 
 his hands above his head, " I do hope that I shall live 
 to see him ! " 
 
 His mother was an affectionate and thoughtful 
 woman, and felt that it was wisest not to discourage 
 the generous hopes of her little boy. So she only said 
 to him, " Perhaps you may." 
 
 And Ernest never forgot the story that his mother 
 told him. It was always in his mind, whenever he 
 looked upon the Great Stone Face. He spent his 
 childhood in the log cottage where he was born, and 
 was dutiful to his mother, and helpful to her in many 
 things, assisting her much with his little hands, and 
 more with his loving heart. In this manner, from a 
 happy yet often pensive child, he grew up to be a 
 mild, quiet, unobtrusive boy, and sun-browned with 
 labor in the fields, but with more intelligence bright 
 ening his aspect than is seen in many lads who have 
 been taught at famous schools. Yet Ernest had had 
 no teacher, save only that the Great Stone Face be 
 came one to him. When the toil of the day was over, 
 he would gaze at it for hours, until he began to 
 imagine that those vast features recognized him, and 
 gave him a smile of kindness and encouragement, 
 responsive to his own look of veneration. We must 
 not take upon us to affirm that this was a mistake, 
 although the face may have looked no more kindly at 
 Ernest than at all the world besides. But the secret 
 was, that the boy's tender and confiding simplicity 
 discerned what other people could not see ; and thus 
 the love, which was meant for all, became his peculiar 
 portion.
 
 96 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 About this time there went a rumor throughout the 
 valley, that the great man, foretold from ages long 
 ago, who was to bear a resemblance to the Great 
 Stone Face, had appeared at last. It seems that, 
 many years before, a young man had migrated from 
 the valley and settled at a distant seaport, where, 
 after getting together a little money, he had set up as 
 a shopkeeper. His name but I could never learn 
 whether it was his real one, or a nickname that had 
 grown out of his habits and success in life was 
 Gathergold. Being shrewd and active, and endowed 
 by Providence with that inscrutable faculty which 
 develops itself in what the world calls luck, he became 
 an exceedingly rich merchant, and owner of a whole 
 fleet of bulky-bottomed ships. All the countries of 
 the globe appeared to join hands for the mere purpose 
 of adding heap after heap to the mountainous accu 
 mulation of this one man's wealth. The cold regions 
 of the north, almost within the gloom and shadow of 
 the Arctic Circle, sent him their tribute in the shape 
 of furs ; hot Africa sifted for him the golden sands of 
 her rivers, and gathered up the ivory tusks of her 
 great elephants out of the forests ; the East came 
 bringing him the rich shawls, and spices, and teas, 
 and the effulgence of diamonds, and the gleaming 
 purity of large pearls. The ocean, not to be behind 
 hand with the earth, yielded up her mighty whales, 
 that Mr. Gathergold might sell their oil, and make a 
 profit on it. Be the original commodity what it 
 might, it was gold within his grasp. It might be 
 said of him, as of Midas in the fable, that whatever 
 he touched with his finger immediately glistened, and 
 grew yellow, and was changed at once into sterling 
 metal, or, which suited him still better, into piles of
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 97 
 
 coin. And, when Mr. Gathergold had become so very 
 rich that it would have taken him a hundred years 
 only to count his wealth, he bethought himself of his 
 native valley, and resolved to go back thither, and 
 end his days where he was born. With this purpose 
 in view, he sent a skilful architect to build him such a 
 palace as should be fit for a man of his vast wealth to 
 live in. 
 
 As I have said above, it had already been rumored 
 in the valley that Mr. Gathergold had turned out to 
 be the prophetic personage so long and vainly looked 
 for, and that his visage was the perfect and undeniable 
 similitude of the Great Stone Face. People were the 
 more ready to believe that this must needs be the fact, 
 when they beheld the splendid edifice that rose, as if by 
 enchantment, on the site of his father's old weather- 
 beaten farmhouse. The exterior was of marble, so 
 dazzlingly white that it seemed as though the whole 
 structure might melt away in the sunshine, like those 
 humbler ones which Mr. Gathergold, in his young 
 play-days, before his fingers were gifted with the touch 
 of transmutation, had been accustomed to build of 
 snow. It had a richly ornamented portico, supported 
 by tall pillars, beneath which was a lofty door, studded 
 with silver knobs, and made of a kind of variegated 
 wood that had been brought from beyond the sea. 
 The windows, from the floor to the ceiling of each 
 stately apartment, were composed, respectively, of but 
 one enormous pane of glass, so transparently pure that 
 it was said to be a finer medium than even the vacant 
 atmosphere. Hardly anybody had been permitted to 
 see the interior of this palace ; but it was reported, 
 and with good semblance of truth, to be far more 
 gorgeous than the outside, insomuch that whatever
 
 98 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 was iron or brass in other houses was silver or gold in 
 this; and Mr. Gathergold's bedchamber, especially, 
 made such a glittering appearance that no ordinary 
 man would have been able to close his eyes there. 
 But, on the other hand, Mr. Gathergold was now so 
 inured to wealth, that perhaps he could not have 
 closed his eyes unless where the gleam of it was cer 
 tain to find its way beneath his eyelids. 
 
 In due time, the mansion was finished ; next came 
 the upholsterers, with magnificent furniture; then a 
 whole troop of black and white servants, the harbin 
 gers of Mr. Gathergold, who, in his own majestic per 
 son, was expected to arrive at sunset. Our friend 
 Ernest, meanwhile, had been deeply stirred by the 
 idea that the great man, the noble man, the man of 
 prophecy, after so many ages of delay, was at length 
 to be made manifest to his native valley. He knew, 
 boy as he was, that there were a thousand ways in 
 which Mr. Gathergold, with his vast wealth, might 
 transform himself into an angel of beneficence, and 
 assume a control over human affairs as wide and be 
 nignant as the smile of the Great Stone Face. Full 
 of faith and hope, Ernest doubted not that what the 
 people said was true, and that now he was to behold 
 the living likeness of those wondrous features on the 
 mountain-side. While the boy was still gazing up the 
 valley, and fancying, as he always did, that the Great 
 Stone Face returned his gaze and looked kindly at 
 him, the rumbling of wheels was heard, approaching 
 swiftly along the winding road. 
 
 " Here he comes ! " cried a group of people who. 
 were assembled to witness the arrival. " Here cornea 
 the great Mr. Gathergold ! " 
 
 A carriage drawn by four horses dashed round the
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 99 
 
 turn of the road. Within it, thrust partly out of the 
 window, appeared the physiognomy of a little old 
 man, with a skin as yellow as if his own Midas-hand 
 had transmuted it. He had a low forehead, small, 
 sharp eyes, puckered about with innumerable wrinkles, 
 and very thin lips, which he made still thinner by 
 pressing them forcibly together. 
 
 " The very image of the Great Stone Face ! " 
 shouted the people. " Sure enough, the old prophecy 
 is true; and here we have the great man come, at 
 last ! " 
 
 And, what greatly perplexed Ernest, they seemed 
 actually to believe that here was the likeness which 
 they spoke of. By the roadside there chanced to be 
 an old beggar-woman and two little beggar-children, 
 stragglers from some far-off region, who, as the car 
 riage rolled onward, held out their hands and lifted 
 up their doleful voices, most piteously beseeching 
 charity. A yellow claw the very same that had 
 clawed together so much wealth poked itself out of 
 the coach-window, and dropped some copper coins 
 upon the ground ; so that, though the great man's 
 name seems to have been Gathergold, he might just 
 as suitably have been nicknamed Scattercopper. Still, 
 nevertheless, with an earnest shout, and evidently with 
 as much good faith as ever, the people bellowed, 
 
 " He is the very image of the Great Stone Face ! " 
 
 But Ernest turned sadly from the wrinkled shrewd 
 ness of that sordid visage, and gazed up the valley, 
 where, amid a gathering mist, gilded by the last sun 
 beams, he could still distinguish those glorious features 
 which had impressed themselves into his soul. Their 
 aspect cheered him. What did the benign lips seem 
 to say ?
 
 100 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 " He will come ! Fear not, Ernest ; the man will 
 come ! " 
 
 The years went on, and Ernest ceased to be a boy. 
 He had grown to be a young man now. He attracted 
 little notice from the other inhabitants of the valley ; 
 for they saw nothing remarkable in his way of life, 
 save that, when the labor of the day was over, he still 
 loved to go apart and gaze and meditate upon the 
 Great Stone Face. According to their idea of the 
 matter, it was a folly, indeed, but pardonable, inas 
 much as Ernest was industrious, kind, and neigh 
 borly, and neglected no duty for the sake of indulging 
 this idle habit. They knew not that the Great Stone 
 Face had become a teacher to him, and that the senti 
 ment which was expressed in it would enlarge the 
 young man's heart, and fill it with wider and deeper 
 sympathies than other hearts. They knew not that 
 thence would come a better wisdom than could be 
 learned from books, and a better life than could be 
 moulded on the defaced example of other human lives. 
 Neither did Ernest know that the thoughts and affec 
 tions which came to him so naturally, in the fields 
 and at the fireside, and wherever he communed with 
 himself, were of a higher tone than those which all 
 men shared with him. A simple soul, simple as 
 when his mother first taught him the old prophecy, 
 he beheld the marvellous features beaming adown the 
 valley, and still wondered that their human counter 
 part was so long in making his appearance. 
 
 By this time poor Mr. Gathergold was dead and 
 buried ; and the oddest part of the matter was, that 
 his wealth, which was the body and spirit of his ex 
 istence, had disappeared before his death, leaving 
 nothing of him but a living skeleton, covered over
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 101 
 
 with a wrinkled, yellow skin. Since the melting away 
 of his gold, it had been very generally conceded that 
 there was no such striking resemblance, after all, be 
 twixt the ignoble features of the ruined merchant and 
 that majestic face upon the mountain-side. So the 
 people ceased to honor him during his lifetime, and 
 quietly consigned him to forgetfulness after his de 
 cease. Once in a while, it is true, his memory was 
 brought up in connection with the magnificent palace 
 which he had built, and which had long ago been 
 turned into a hotel for the accommodation of stran 
 gers, multitudes of whom came every summer to visit 
 that famous natural curiosity, the Great Stone Face. 
 Thus, Mr. Gathergold being discredited and thrown 
 into the shade, the man of prophecy was yet to come. 
 It so happened that a native-born son of the val 
 ley, many years before, had enlisted as a soldier, and, 
 after a great deal of hard fighting, had now become an 
 illustrious commander. Whatever he may be called 
 in history, he was known in camps and on the battle 
 field under the nickname of Old Blood-and-Thunder. 
 This war-worn veteran, being now infirm with age and 
 wounds, and weary of the turmoil of a military life, 
 and of the roll of the drum and the clangor of the 
 trumpet, that had so long been ringing in his ears, 
 had lately signified a purpose of returning to his 
 native valley, hoping to find repose where he remem 
 bered to have left it. The inhabitants, his old neigh 
 bors and their grown-up children, were resolved to 
 welcome the renowned warrior with a salute of can 
 non and a public dinner ; and all the more enthusias 
 tically, it being affirmed that now, at last, the likeness 
 of the Great Stone Face had actually appeared. An 
 aide-de-camp of Old Blood-and-Thunder, travelling
 
 102 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 through the valley, was said to have been struck with 
 the resemblance. Moreover the schoolmates and 
 early acquaintances of the general were ready to testify, 
 on oath, that to the best of their recollection, the 
 aforesaid general had been exceedingly like the majes 
 tic image, even when a boy, only that the idea had 
 never occurred to them at that period. Great, there 
 fore, was the excitement throughout the valley ; and 
 many people, who had never once thought of glancing 
 at the Great Stone Face for years before, now spent 
 their time in gazing at it, for the sake of knowing 
 exactly how General Blood-and-Thunder looked. 
 
 On the day of the great festival, Ernest, with all 
 the other people of the valley, left their work, and 
 proceeded to the spot where the sylvan banquet was 
 prepared. As he approached, the loud voice of the 
 Rev. Dr. Battleblast was heard, beseeching a blessing 
 on the good things set before them, and on the dis 
 tinguished friend of peace in whose honor they were 
 assembled. The tables were arranged in a cleared 
 space of the woods, shut in by the surrounding trees, 
 except where a vista opened eastward, and afforded 
 a distant view of the Great Stone Face. Over the 
 general's chair, which was a relic from the home of 
 Washington, there was an arch of verdant boughs, 
 with the laurel profusely intermixed, and surmounted 
 by his country's banner, beneath which he had won 
 his victories. Our friend Ernest raised himself on 
 his tip-toes, in hopes to get a glimpse of the celebrated 
 guest ; but there was a mighty crowd about the tables 
 anxious to hear the toasts and speeches, and to catch 
 any word that might fall from the general in reply ; 
 and a volunteer company, doing duty as a guard, 
 pricked ruthlessly with their bayonets at any particu-
 
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 103 
 
 larly quiet person among the throng. So Ernest, 
 being of an unobtrusive character, was thrust quite 
 into the background, where he could see no more of 
 Old Blood-and-Thunder's physiognomy than if it had 
 been still blazing on the battle-field. To console him 
 self, he turned towards the Great Stone Face, which, 
 like a faithful and long-remembered friend, looked 
 back and smiled upon him through the vista of the 
 forest. Meantime, however, he could overhear the 
 remarks of various individuals, who were comparing 
 the features of the hero with the face on the distant 
 mountain-side. 
 
 " 'T is the same face, to a hair ! " cried one man, 
 cutting a caper for joy. 
 
 " Wonderfully like, that 's a fact I " responded an 
 other. 
 
 " Like ! why, I call it Old Blood-and-Thunder him 
 self in a monstrous looking-glass ! " cried a third. 
 " And why not ? He 's the greatest man of this or 
 any other age, beyond a doubt." 
 
 And then all three of the speakers gave a great 
 shout, which communicated electricity to the crowd, 
 and called forth a roar from a thousand voices, that 
 went reverberating for miles among the mountains, 
 until you might have supposed that the Great Stone 
 Face had poured its thunder-breath into the cry. All 
 these comments, and this vast enthusiasm, served the 
 more to interest our friend ; nor did he think of ques" 
 tioning that now, at length, the mountain-visage had 
 found its human counterpart. It is true, Ernest had 
 imagined that this long-looked-for personage would 
 appear in the character of a man of peace, uttering 
 wisdom, and doing good, and making people happy. 
 But, taking an habitual breadth of view, with all his
 
 104 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 simplicity, he contended that Providence should choose 
 its own method of blessing mankind, and could con 
 ceive that this great end might be effected even by a 
 warrior and a bloody sword, should inscrutable w'a- 
 dom see fit to order matters so. 
 
 " The general ! the general ! " was now the ci 
 u Hush ! silence ! Old Blood-and-Thunder 's ing 
 to make a speech." 
 
 Even so ; for, the cloth being removed, the general's 
 health had been drunk amid shouts of applause, and 
 he now stood upon his feet to thank the company. 
 Ernest saw him. There he was, over the shoulders 
 of the crowd, from the two glittering epaulets and 
 embroidered collar upward, beneath the arch of green 
 boughs with intertwined laurel, and the banner droop 
 ing as if to shade his brow ! And there, too, visible 
 in the same glance, through the vista of the forest, 
 appeared the Great Stone Face ! And was there, in 
 deed, such a resemblance as the crowd had testified ? 
 Alas, Ernest could not recognize it. He beheld a 
 war-worn and weather-beaten countenance, full of en 
 ergy, and expressive of an iron will ; but the gentle 
 wisdom, the deep, broad, tender sympathies, were al 
 together wanting in Old Blood-and-Thunder's visage ; 
 and even if the Great Stone Face had assumed his 
 look of stern command, the milder traits would still 
 have tempered it. 
 
 " This is not the man of prophecy," sighed Ernest 
 to himself, as he made his way out of the throng. 
 " And must the world wait longer yet ? " 
 
 The mists had congregated about the distant moun 
 tain-side, and there were seen the grand and awful 
 features of the Great Stone Face, awful but benignant, 
 AS if a mighty angel were sitting among the hills and
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 105 
 
 enrobing himself in a cloud-vesture of gold and pur 
 ple. As he looked, Ernest could hardly believe but 
 that a smile beamed over the whole visage, with a 
 radiance still brightening, although without motion of 
 the lips. It was probably the effect of the western 
 rnshine, melting through the thinly diffused vapors 
 wlat had swept between him and the object that he 
 gaz at. But as it always did the aspect of his 
 marvellous friend made Ernest as hopeful as if he 
 had never hoped in vain. 
 
 " Fear not, Ernest," said his heart, even as if the 
 Great Face were whispering him, " fear not, Ernest; 
 he will come." 
 
 More years sped swiftly and tranquilly away. 
 Ernest still dwelt in his native valley, and was now 
 a man of middle age. By imperceptible degrees, he 
 had become known among the people. Now, as here 
 tofore, he labored for his bread, and was the same 
 simple-hearted man that he had always been. But he 
 had thought and felt so much, he had given so many 
 of the best hours of his life to unworldly hopes for 
 some great good to mankind, that it seemed as though 
 he had been talking with the angels, and had imbibed 
 a portion of their wisdom unawares. It was visible 
 in the calm and well-considered beneficence of his 
 daily life, the quiet stream of which had made a wide 
 green margin all along its course. Not a day passed 
 by that the world was not the better because this man, 
 humble as he was, had lived. He never stepped aside 
 from his own path, yet would always reach a blessing 
 to his neighbor. Almost involuntarily, too, he had 
 become a preacher. The pure and high simplicity of 
 his thought, which, as one of its manifestations, took 
 shape in the good deeds that dropped silently from his
 
 106 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 hand, flowed also forth in speech. He uttered truths 
 that wrought upon and moulded the lives of those 
 who heard him. His auditors, it may be, never sus 
 pected that Ernest, their own neighbor and familiar 
 friend, was more than an ordinary man ; least of all 
 did Ernest himself suspect it ; but, inevitably as the 
 murmur of a rivulet, came thoughts out of his mouth 
 that no other human lips had spoken. 
 
 When the people's minds had had a little time to 
 cool, they were ready enough to acknowledge their 
 mistake in imagining a similarity between Genera] 
 Blood-and-Thunder's truculent physiognomy and the 
 benign visage on the mountain-side. But now, again, 
 there were reports and many paragraphs in the news 
 papers, affirming that the likeness of the Great Stone 
 Face had appeared upon the broad shoulders of a cer 
 tain eminent statesman. He, like Mr. Gathergold 
 and Old Blood-and-Thunder, was a native of the val 
 ley, but had left it in his early days, and taken up the 
 trades of law and politics. Instead of the rich man's 
 wealth and the warrior's sword, he had but a tongue, 
 and it was mightier than both together. So wonder 
 fully eloquent was he, that whatever he might choose 
 to say, his auditors had no choice but to believe him ; 
 wrong looked like right, and right like wrong ; for 
 when it pleased him he could make a kind of illu 
 minated fog with his mere breath, and obscure the 
 natural daylight with it. His tongue, indeed, was a 
 magic instrument ; sometimes it rumbled like the 
 thunder ; sometimes it warbled like the sweetest music. 
 It was the blast of war, the song of peace ; and it 
 seemed to have a heart in it, when there was no 
 such matter. In good truth, he was a wondrous man ; 
 and when his tongue had acquired him all other im-
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 107 
 
 aginable success, when it had been heard in halls 
 of state, and in the courts of princes and potentates, 
 after it had made him known all over the world, even 
 as a voice crying from shore to shore, it finally per- 
 suaded his countrymen to select him for the Presi 
 dency. Before this time, indeed, as soon as he be 
 gan to grow celebrated, his admirers had found out 
 the resemblance between him and the Great Stone 
 Face ; and so much were they struck by it that through 
 out the country this distinguished gentleman was 
 known by the name of Old Stony Phiz. The phrase 
 was considered as giving a highly favorable aspect to 
 his political prospects ; for, as is likewise the case with 
 the Popedom, nobody ever becomes President without 
 taking a name other than his own. 
 
 While his friends were doing their best to make 
 him President, Old Stony Phiz, as he was called, set 
 out on a visit to the valley where he was born. Of 
 course, he had no other object than to shake hands 
 with his fellow-citizens, and neither thought nor cared 
 about any effect which his progress through the country 
 might have upon the election. Magnificent prepara 
 tions were made to receive the illustrious statesman ; 
 a cavalcade of horsemen set forth to meet him at the 
 boundary line of the State, and all the people left their 
 business and gathered along the wayside to see him 
 pass. Among these was Ernest. Though more than 
 once disappointed, as we have seen, he had such a 
 hopeful and confiding nature, that he was always 
 ready to believe in whatever seemed beautiful and 
 good. He kept his heart continually open, and thus 
 was sure to catch the blessing from on high, when it 
 should come. So now again, as buoyantly as ever, he 
 went forth to behold the likeness of the Great Stone 
 Face.
 
 108 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 The cavalcade came prancing along the road, with 
 a great clattering of hoofs and a mighty cloud of dust, 
 which rose up so dense and high that the visage of 
 the mountain-side was completely hidden from Er 
 nest's eyes. All the great men of the neighborhood 
 were there on horseback ; militia officers, in uniform ; 
 the member of Congress ; the sheriff of the county ; 
 the editors of newspapers ; and many a farmer, too, 
 had mounted his patient steed, with his Sunday coat 
 upon his back. It really was a very brilliant specta 
 cle, especially as there were numerous banners flaunt 
 ing over the cavalcade, on some of which were gor 
 geous portraits of the illustrious statesman and the 
 Great Stone Face, smiling familiarly at one another, 
 like two brothers. If the pictures were to be trusted, 
 the mutual resemblance, it must be confessed, was 
 marvellous. We must not forget to mention that 
 there was a band of music, which made the echoes of 
 the mountains ring and reverberate with the loud 
 triumph of its strains ; so that airy and soul-thrilling 
 melodies broke out among all the heights and hollows, 
 as if every nook of his native valley had found a voice 
 to welcome the distinguished guest. But the grandest 
 effect was when the far-off mountain precipice flung 
 back the music ; for then the Great Stone Face it 
 self seemed to be swelling the triumphant chorus, in 
 acknowledgment that, at length, the man of prophecy 
 was come. 
 
 All this while the people were throwing up their 
 hats and shouting, with enthusiasm so contagious that 
 the heart of Ernest kindled up, and he likewise 
 threw up his hat, and shouted, as loudly as the loud 
 est, " Huzza for the great man ! Huzza for Old 
 Stony Phiz ! " But as yet he had not seen him.
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 109 
 
 " Here he is now ! " cried those who stood near 
 Ernest. "There! There! Look at Old Stony Phiz 
 and then at the Old Man of the Mountain, and see if 
 they are not as like as two twin-brothers ! " 
 
 In the midst of all this gallant array, came an open 
 barouche, drawn by four white horses; and in the 
 barouche, with his massive head uncovered, sat the 
 illustrious statesman, Old Stony Phiz himself. 
 
 " Confess it," said one of Ernest's neighbors to 
 him, "the Great Stone Face has met its match at 
 last!" 
 
 Now, it must be owned that, at his first glimpse of 
 the countenance which was bowing and smiling from 
 the barouche, Ernest did fancy that there was a 
 resemblance between it and the old familiar face upon 
 the mountain-side. The brow, with its massive depth 
 and loftiness, and all the other features, indeed, were 
 boldly and strongly hewn, as if in emulation of a more 
 than heroic, of a Titanic model. But the sublimity 
 and stateliness, the grand expression of a divine sym 
 pathy, that illuminated the mountain visage, and ethe- 
 realized its ponderous granite substance into spirit, 
 might here be sought in vain. Something had been 
 originally left out, or had departed. And therefore 
 the marvellously gifted statesman had always a weary 
 gloom in the deep caverns of his eyes, as of a child 
 that has outgrown its playthings, or a man of mighty 
 faculties and little aims, whose life, with all its high 
 performances, was vague and empty, because no higb 
 purpose had endowed it with reality. 
 
 Still Ernest's neighbor was thrusting his elbow intc 
 his side, and pressing him for an answer. 
 
 " Confess ! confess ! Is not he the very picture of 
 your Old Man of the Mountain? "
 
 110 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 " No ! " said Ernest, bluntly, " I see little or no 
 likeness." 
 
 "Then so much the worse for the Great Stone 
 Face ! " answered his neighbor ; and again he set up a 
 shout for Old Stony Phiz. 
 
 But Ernest turned away, melancholy, and almost 
 despondent; for this was the saddest of his disap 
 pointments, to behold a man who might have fulfilled 
 the prophecy, and had not willed to do so. Mean 
 time, the cavalcade, the banners, the music, the ba 
 rouches swept past him, with the vociferous crowd in 
 the rear, leaving the dust to settle down, and the 
 Great Stone Face to be revealed again, with the gran 
 deur that it had worn for untold centuries. 
 
 " Lo, here I am, Ernest ! " the benign lips seemed 
 to say. " I have waited longer than thou, and am not 
 yet weary. Fear not ; the man will come." 
 
 The years hurried onward, treading in their haste 
 on one another's heels. And now they began to bring 
 white hairs, and scatter them over the head of Ernest ; 
 they made reverend wrinkles across his forehead, and 
 furrows in his cheeks. He was an aged man. But 
 not in vain had he grown old : more than the white 
 hairs on his head were the sage thoughts in his mind ; 
 his wrinkles and furrows were inscriptions that Time 
 had graved, and in which he had written legends of 
 wisdom that had been tested by the tenor of a life. 
 And Ernest had ceased to be obscure. Unsought for, 
 undesired, had come the fame which so many seek, 
 and made him known in the great world, beyond the 
 limits of the valley in which he had dwelt so quietly. 
 College professors, and even the active men of cities, 
 came from far to see and converse with Ernest ; for 
 the report had gone abroad that this simple husband-
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. Ill 
 
 man had ideas unlike those of other men, not gained 
 from books, but of a higher tone, a tranquil and 
 familiar majesty, as if he had been talking with the 
 angels as his daily friends. Whether it were sage, 
 statesman, or philanthropist, Ernest received these 
 visitors with the gentle sincerity that had character 
 ized him from boyhood, and spoke freely with them of 
 whatever came uppermost, or lay deepest in his heart 
 or their own. While they talked together his face 
 would kindle, unawares, and shine upon them, as with 
 a mild evening light. .Pensive with the fulness of 
 such discourse, his guests took leave and went their 
 way ; and passing up the valley, paused to look at the 
 Great Stone Face, imagining that they had seen its 
 likeness in a human countenance, but could not 
 remember where. 
 
 While Ernest had been growing up and growing 
 old, a bountiful Providence had granted a new poet to 
 this earth. He, likewise, was a native of the valley, 
 but had spent the greater part of his life at a distance 
 from that romantic region, pouring out his sweet 
 music amid the bustle and din of cities. Often, how 
 ever, did the mountains which had been familiar to 
 him in his childhood lift their snowy peaks into the 
 clear atmosphere of his poetry. Neither was the 
 Great Stone Face forgotten, for the poet had cele 
 brated it in an ode which was grand enough to have 
 been uttered by its own majestic lips. The man of 
 genius, we may say, had come down from heaven with 
 wonderful endowments. If he sang of a mountain, 
 the eyes of all mankind beheld a mightier grandeur 
 reposing on its breast, or soaring to its summit, than 
 had before been seen there. If his theme were a 
 lovely lake, a celestial smile had now been thrown over
 
 112 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 it, to gleam forever on its surface. If it were the vast 
 old sea, even the deep immensity of its dread bosom 
 seemed to swell the higher, as if moved by the emo 
 tions of the song. Thus the world assumed another 
 and a better aspect from the hour that the poet blessed 
 it with his happy eyes. The Creator had bestowed 
 him, as the last best touch to his own handiwork. 
 Creation was not finished till the poet came to inter 
 pret, and so complete it. 
 
 The effect was no less high and beautiful when his 
 human brethren were the subject of his verse. The 
 man or woman, sordid with the common dust of life, 
 who crossed his daily path, and the little child who 
 played in it, were glorified if he beheld them in his 
 mood of poetic faith. He showed the golden links of 
 the great chain that intertwined them with an angelic 
 kindred ; he brought out the hidden traits of a celes 
 tial birth that made them worthy of such kin. Some, 
 indeed, there were, who thought to show the soundness 
 of their judgment by affirming that all the beauty and 
 dignity of the natural world existed only in the poet's 
 fancy. Let such men speak for themselves, who un 
 doubtedly appear to have been spawned forth by Nature 
 with a contemptuous bitterness ; she having plastered 
 them up out of her refuse stuff, after all the swine were 
 made. As respects all things else, the poet's ideal was 
 the truest truth. 
 
 The songs of this poet found their way to Ernest. 
 He read them after his customary toil, seated on the 
 bench before his cottage door, where for such a length 
 of time he had filled his repose with thought, by gazing 
 at the Great Stone Face. And now as he read stanzas 
 that caused the soul to thrill within him, he lifted his 
 eyes to the vast countenance beaming on him so benig- 
 nantly.
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 118 
 
 " O majestic friend," he murmured, addressing the 
 Great Stone Face, " is not this man worthy to resem 
 ble thee?" 
 
 The Face seemed to smile, but answered not a word. 
 
 Now it happened that the poet, though he dwelt so 
 far away, had not only heard of Ernest, but had med 
 itated much upon his character, until he deemed no 
 thing so desirable as to meet this man, whose untaught 
 wisdom walked hand in hand with the noble simplicity 
 of his life. One summer morning, therefore, he took 
 passage by the railroad, and, in the decline of the 
 afternoon, alighted from the cars at no great distance 
 from Ernest's cottage. The great hotel, which had 
 formerly been the palace of Mr. Gathergold, was close 
 at hand, but the poet, with his carpet-bag on his arm, 
 inquired at once where Ernest dwelt, and was resolved 
 to be accepted as his guest. 
 
 Approaching the door, he there found the good old 
 man, holding a volume in his hand, which alternately 
 he read, and then, with a finger between the leaves, 
 looked lovingly at the Great Stone Face. 
 
 " Good evening," said the poet. " Can you give a 
 traveller a night's lodging ? " 
 
 " Willingly," answered Ernest ; and then he added, 
 smiling, " niethinks I never saw the Great Stone Face 
 look so hospitably at a stranger." 
 
 The poet sat down on the bench beside him, and he 
 and Ernest talked together. Often had the poet held 
 intercourse with the wittiest and the wisest, but never 
 before with a man like Ernest, whose thoughts and 
 feelings gushed up with such a natural freedom, and 
 who made great truths so familiar by his simple utter 
 ance of them. Angels, as had been so often said, 
 seemed to have wrought with him at his labor in the
 
 114 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 fields ; angels seemed to have sat with him by the fire 
 side ; and, dwelling with angels as friend with friends, 
 he had imbibed the sublimity of their ideas, and im 
 bued it with the sweet and lowly charm of household 
 words. So thought the poet. And Ernest, on the 
 other hand, was moved and agitated by the living 
 images which the poet flung out of his mind, and 
 which peopled all the air about the cottage door with 
 shapes of beauty, both gay and pensive. The sym 
 pathies of these two men instructed them with a pro- 
 founder sense than either could have attained alone. 
 Their minds accorded into one strain, and made delight 
 ful music which neither of them could have claimed 
 as all his own, nor distinguished his own share from 
 the other's. They led one another, as it were, into a 
 high pavilion of their thoughts, so remote, and hitherto 
 so dim, that they had never entered it before, and so 
 beautiful that they desired to be there always. 
 
 As Ernest listened to the poet, he imagined that the 
 Great Stone Face was bending forward to listen too. 
 He gazed earnestly into the poet's glowing eyes. 
 
 " Who are you, my strangely gifted guest ? " he said. 
 
 The poet laid his finger on the volume that Ernest 
 had been reading. 
 
 "You have read these poems," said he. "You 
 know me, then, for I wrote them." 
 
 Again, and still more earnestly than before. Ernest 
 examined the poet's features ; then turned towards the 
 Great Stone Face ; then back, with an uncertain as 
 pect, to his guest. But his countenance fell; he 
 shook his head, and sighed. 
 
 " Wherefore are you sad ? " inquired the poet. 
 
 "Because," replied Ernest, "all through life I 
 have awaited the fulfilment of a prophecy ; and, when
 
 THE GREAT STONE FACE. 115 
 
 I fead these poems, I hoped that it might be fulfilled 
 in you." 
 
 " You hoped," answered the poet, faintly smiling, 
 " to find in me the likeness of the Great Stone Face. 
 And you are disappointed, as formerly with Mr. Gath- 
 ergold, and Old Blood-and-Thunder, and Old Stony 
 Phiz. Yes, Ernest, it is my doom. You must add 
 my name to the illustrious three, and record another 
 failure of your hopes. For in shame and sadness 
 do I speak it, Ernest I am not worthy to be typi 
 fied by yonder benign and majestic image." 
 
 "And why?" asked Ernest. He pointed to the 
 volume. " Are not those thoughts divine ? " 
 
 ^ They have a strain of the Divinity," replied the 
 poet. " You can hear in them the far-off echo of a 
 heavenly song. But my life, dear Ernest, has not 
 corresponded with my thought. I have had grand 
 dreams, but they have been only dreams, because I 
 have lived and that, too, by my own choice 
 among poor and mean realities. Sometimes even 
 shall I dare to say it ? I lack faith in the grandeur, 
 the beauty, and the goodness, which my own works 
 are said to have made more evident in nature and in 
 human life. Why, then, pure seeker of the good and 
 true, shouldst thou hope to find me in yonder image 
 of the divine ? " 
 
 The poet spoke sadly, and his eyes were dim with 
 tears. So, likewise, were those of Ernest. 
 
 At the hour of sunset, as had long been his frequent 
 custom, Ernest was to discourse to an assemblage of 
 the neighboring inhabitants in the open air. He and 
 the poet, arm in arm, still talking together as they 
 went along, proceeded to the spot. It was a small 
 nook among the hills, with a gray precipice behind,
 
 116 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 the stern front of which was relieved by the pleasant 
 foliage of many creeping plants, that made a tapestry 
 for the naked rock, by hanging their festoons from 
 all its rugged angles. At a small elevation above the 
 ground, set in a rich framework of verdure, there 
 appeared a niche, spacious enough to admit a hu 
 man figure, with freedom for such gestures as sponta 
 neously accompany earnest thought and genuine emo 
 tion. Into this natural pulpit Ernest ascended, and 
 threw a look of familiar kindness around upon his 
 audience. They stood, or sat, or reclined upon the 
 grass, as seemed good to each, with the departing 
 sunshine falling obliquely over them, and mingling 
 its subdued cheerfulness with the solemnity of a grove 
 of ancient trees, beneath and amid the boughs of 
 which the golden rays were constrained to pass. In 
 another direction was seen the Great Stone Face, with 
 the same cheer, combined with the same solemnity, in 
 its benignant aspect. 
 
 Ernest began to speak, giving to the people of what 
 was in his heart and mind. His words had power, 
 because they accorded with his thoughts; and his 
 thoughts had reality and depth, because they harmo 
 nized with the life which he had always lived. It was 
 not mere breath that this preacher uttered ; they were 
 the words of life, because a life of good deeds and 
 holy love was melted into them. Pearls, pure and rich, 
 had been dissolved into this precious draught. The 
 poet, as he listened, felt that the being and character 
 of Ernest were a nobler strain of poetry than he had 
 ever written. His eyes glistening with tears, he gazed 
 reverentially at the venerable man, and said within 
 himself that never was there an aspect so worthy of a 
 prophet and a sage as that mild, sweet, thoughtful
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 117 
 
 countenance, with the glory of white hair diffused 
 about it. At a distance, but distinctly to be seen, 
 high up in the golden light of the setting sun, ap 
 peared the Great Stone Face, with hoary mists around 
 it, like the white hairs around the brow of Ernest. Its 
 look of grand beneficence seemed to embrace the world. 
 
 At that moment, in sympathy with a thought which 
 he was about to utter, the face of Ernest assumed a 
 grandeur of expression, so imbued with benevolence, 
 that the poet, 1 by an irresistible impulse, threw his 
 arms aloft, and shouted, 
 
 "Behold! Behold! Ernest is himself the like 
 ness of the Great Stone Face ! " 
 
 Then all the people looked and saw that what the 
 deep-sighted poet said was true. The prophecy was 
 fulfilled. But Ernest, having finished what he had 
 to say, took the poet's arm, and walked slowly home 
 ward, still hoping that some wiser and better man 
 than himself would by and by appear, bearing a re 
 semblance to the GREAT STONE FACE. 
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 
 
 NEVER did a pilgrim approach Niagara with deeper 
 enthusiasm than mine. I had lingered away from it, 
 and wandered to other scenes, because my treasury of 
 anticipated enjoyments, comprising all the wonders of 
 
 1 That the poet should have been the one to discover the re 
 semblance accords with the conception of the poet himself in 
 this little apologue. Poetic insight is still separable from integ 
 rity of character, and it was quite possible for this poet to see 
 the ideal beauty in another, while conscious of his own defect. 
 The humility of Ernest, as the last word of the story, completes 
 the certainty of the likeness.
 
 118 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 the world, had nothing else so magnificent, and I waa 
 loath to exchange the pleasures of hope for those of 
 memory so soon. At length the day came. The 
 stage-coach, with a Frenchman and myself on the 
 back seat, had already left Lewiston, and in less than 
 an hour would set us down in Manchester. I began 
 to listen for the roar of the cataract, and trembled 
 with a sensation like dread, as the moment drew nigh, 
 when its voice of ages must roll, for the first time, on 
 my ear. The French gentleman stretched himself 
 from the window, and expressed loud admiration, 
 while, by a sudden impulse, I threw myself back and 
 closed my eyes. When the scene shut in, I was glad 
 to think, that for me the whole burst of Niagara was 
 yet in futurity. We rolled on, and entered the village 
 of Manchester, bordering on the falls. 
 
 I am quite ashamed of myself here. Not that I 
 ran like a madman to the falls, and plunged into the 
 thickest of the spray, never stopping to breathe, till 
 breathing was impossible ; not that I committed this, 
 or any other suitable extravagance. On the contrary, 
 I alighted with perfect decency and composure, gave 
 my cloak to the black waiter, pointed out my baggage, 
 and inquired, not the nearest way to the cataract, but 
 about the dinner-hour. The interval was spent in 
 arranging my dress. Within the last fifteen minutes, 
 my mind had grown strangely benumbed, and my 
 spirits apathetic, with a slight depression, not decided 
 enough to be termed sadness. My enthusiasm was in 
 a deathlike slumber. Without aspiring to immortal 
 ity, as he did, I could have imitated that English trav 
 eller, who turned back from the point where he first 
 heard the thunder of Niagara, after crossing the ocean 
 to behold it. Many a Western trader, by the by, has
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 119 
 
 performed a similar act of heroism with more heroic 
 simplicity, deeming it no such wonderful feat to dine 
 at the hotel and resume his route to Buffalo or Lewis- 
 ton, while the cataract was roaring unseen. 
 
 Such has often been my apathy, when objects, long 
 sought, and earnestly desired, were placed within my 
 reach. After dinner at which an unwonted and 
 perverse epicurism detained me longer than usual I 
 lighted a cigar and paced the piazza, minutely atten 
 tive to the aspect and business of a very ordinary vil 
 lage. Finally, with reluctant step, and the feeling of 
 an intruder, I walked towards Goat Island. At the 
 toll-house, there were farther excuses for delaying the 
 inevitable moment. My signature was required in a 
 huge ledger, containing similar records innumerable, 
 many of which I read. The skin of a great stur 
 geon, and other fishes, beasts, and reptiles ; a collec 
 tion of minerals, such as lie in heaps near the falls ; 
 some Indian moccasons, and other trifles, made of 
 deer-skin and embroidered with beads ; several news 
 papers, from Montreal, New York, and Boston, all 
 attracted me in turn. Out of a number of twisted 
 sticks, the manufacture of a Tuscarora Indian, I 
 selected one of curled maple, curiously convoluted, 
 and adorned with the carved images of a snake and a 
 fish. Using this as my pilgrim's staff, I crossed the 
 bridge. Above and below me were the rapids, a river 
 of impetuous snow, with here and there a dark rock 
 amid its whiteness, resisting all the physical fury, as 
 any cold spirit did the moral influences of the scene. 
 On reaching Goat Island, which separates the two 
 great segments of the falls, I chose the right-hand 
 path, and followed it to the edge of the American cas 
 cade. There, while the falling sheet was yet invisible,
 
 120 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 1 saw the vapor that never vanishes, and the Eternal 
 Rainbow of Niagara. 
 
 It was an afternoon of glorious sunshine, without a 
 cloud, save those of the cataracts. I gained an insu 
 lated rock, and beheld a broad sheet of brilliant and 
 unbroken foam, not shooting in a curved line from the 
 top of the precipice, but falling headlong down from 
 height to depth. A narrow stream diverged from the 
 main branch, and hurried over the crag by a channel 
 of its own, leaving a little pine-clad island and a 
 streak of precipice between itself and the larger sheet. 
 Below arose the mist, on which was painted a dazzling 
 sunbow with two concentric shadows, one, almost 
 as perfect as the original brightness ; and the other, 
 drawn faintly round the broken edge of the cloud. 
 
 Still I had not half seen Niagara. Following the 
 verge of the island, the path led me to the Horseshoe, 
 where the real, broad St. Lawrence, rushing along on 
 a level with its banks, pours its whole breadth over a 
 concave line of precipice, and thence pursues its course 
 between lofty crags towards Ontario. A sort of 
 bridge, two or three feet wide, stretches out along the 
 edge of the descending sheet, and hangs upon the ris 
 ing mist, as if that were the foundation of the frail 
 structure. Here I stationed myself in the blast of 
 wind, which the rushing river bore along with it. The 
 bridge was tremulous beneath me, and marked the 
 tremor of the solid earth. I looked along the whiten 
 ing rapids, and endeavored to distinguish a mass of 
 water far above the falls, to follow it to their verge, 
 and go down with it, in fancy, to the abyss of clouds 
 and storm. Casting my eyes across the river, and 
 every side, I took in the whole scene at a glance, and 
 tried to comprehend it in one vast idea. After an
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 121 
 
 hour thus spent, I left the bridge, and by a staircase, 
 winding almost interminably round a post, descended 
 to the base of the precipice. From that point, my 
 path lay over slippery stones, and among great frag 
 ments of the cliff, to the edge of the cataract, where 
 the wind at once enveloped me in spray, and perhaps 
 dashed the rainbow round me. Were my long desires 
 fulfilled? And had I seen Niagara? 
 
 Oh that I had never heard of Niagara till I beheld 
 it I Blessed were the wanderers of old, who heard its 
 deep roar, sounding through the woods, as the sum 
 mons to an unknown wonder, and approached its awful 
 brink, in all the freshness of native feeling. Had its 
 own mysterious voice been the first to warn me of its 
 existence, then, indeed, I might have knelt down and 
 worshipped. But I had come thither, haunted with a 
 vision of foam and fury, and dizzy cliffs, and an ocean 
 tumbling down out of the sky, a scene, in short, 
 which nature had too much good taste and calm sim 
 plicity to realize. My mind had struggled to adapt 
 these false conceptions to the reality, and finding 
 the effort vain, a wretched sense of disappointment 
 weighed me down. I climbed the precipice, and 
 threw myself on the earth, feeling that I was un 
 worthy to look at the Great Falls, and careless about 
 beholding them again. . . . 
 
 All that night, as there has been and will be for 
 ages past and to come, a rushing sound was heard, as 
 if a great tempest were sweeping through the air. It 
 mingled with my dreams, and made them full of storm 
 and whirlwind. Whenever I awoke, and heard this 
 dread sound in the air, and the windows rattling as 
 with a mighty blast, I could not rest again, till look 
 ing forth, I saw how bright the stars were, and that
 
 122 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 every leaf in the garden was motionless. Never was a 
 Slimmer night more calm to the eye, nor a gale of au 
 tumn louder to the ear. The rushing sound proceeds 
 from the rapids, and the rattling of the casements is 
 but an effect of the vibration of the whole house, 
 shaken by the jar of the cataract. The noise of the 
 rapids draws the attention from the true voice of 
 Niagara, which is a dull, muffled thunder, resounding 
 between the cliffs. I spent a wakeful hour at mid 
 night, in distinguishing its reverberations, and rejoiced 
 to find that my former awe and enthusiasm were reviv 
 ing. 
 
 Gradually, and after much contemplation, I came to 
 know, by my own feelings, that Niagara is indeed a 
 wonder of the world, and not the less wonderful, be 
 cause time and thought must be employed in compre 
 hending it. Casting aside all preconceived notions, 
 and preparation to be dire-struck or delighted, the 
 beholder must stand beside it in the simplicity of his 
 heart, suffering the mighty scene to work its own im 
 pression. Night after night, I dreamed of it, and was. 
 gladdened every morning by the consciousness of a 
 growing capacity to enjoy it. Yet I will not pretend 
 to the all-absorbing enthusiasm of some more fortunate 
 spectators, nor deny that very trifling causes would 
 draw my eyes and thoughts from the cataract. 
 
 The last day that I was to spend at Niagara, before 
 my departure for the Far West, I sat upon the Table 
 Bock. This celebrated station did not now, as of old, 
 project fifty feet beyond the line of the precipice, but 
 was shattered by the fall of an immense fragment, 
 which lay distant on the shore below. Still, on the 
 utmost verge of the rock, with my feet hanging over 
 it, I felt as if suspended in the open air. Never be*
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 123 
 
 fore had my mind been in such perfect unison with 
 the scene. There were intervals, when I was con 
 scious of nothing but the great river, rolling calmly 
 into the abyss, rather descending than precipitating 
 itself, and acquiring tenfold majesty from its unhur 
 ried motion. It came like the march of Destiny. It 
 was not taken by surprise, but seemed to have antic 
 ipated, in all its course through the broad lakes, that 
 it must pour their collected waters down this height. 
 The perfect foam of the river, after its descent, and 
 the ever-varying shapes of mist, rising up, to become 
 clouds in the sky, would be the very picture of con 
 fusion, were it merely transient, like the rage of a 
 tempest. But when the beholder has stood aw.hile, 
 and perceives no lull in the storm, and considers that 
 the vapor and the foam are as everlasting as the rocks 
 which produce them, all this turmoil assumes a sort of 
 calmness. It soothes, while it awes the mind. 
 
 Leaning over the cliff, I saw the guide conducting 
 two adventurers behind the falls. It was pleasant, 
 from that high seat in the sunshine, to observe them 
 struggling against the eternal storm of the lower re 
 gions, with heads bent down, now faltering, now press 
 ing forward, and finally swallowed up in their victory. 
 After their disappearance, a blast rushed out with an 
 old hat, which it had swept from one of their heads. 
 The rock, to which they were directing their unseen 
 course, is marked, at a fearful distance on the exterior 
 of the sheet, by a jet of foam. The attempt to reach 
 it appears both poetical and perilous to a looker-on, 
 but may be accomplished without much more diffi 
 culty or hazard than in stemming a violent north 
 easter. In a few moments, forth came the children 
 of the mist. Dripping and breathless, they crept
 
 124 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 along the base of the cliff, ascended to the guide's cot 
 tage, and received, I presume, a certificate of their 
 achievement, with three verses of sublime poetry on 
 the back. 
 
 My contemplations were often interrupted by stran 
 gers who came down from Forsyth's to take their first 
 view of the falls. A short, ruddy, middle-aged gen 
 tleman, fresh from Old England, peeped over the rock, 
 and evinced his approbation by a broad grin. His 
 spouse, a very robust lady, afforded a sweet example 
 of maternal solicitude, being so intent on the safety of 
 her little boy that she did not even glance at Niagara. 
 As for the child, he gave himself wholly to the enjoy 
 ment of a stick of candy. Another traveller, a native 
 American, and no rare character among us, produced 
 a volume of Captain Hall's tour, and labored earnestly 
 to adjust Niagara to the captain's description, depart 
 ing, at last, without one new idea or sensation of his 
 own. The next comer was provided, not with a 
 printed book, but with a blank sheet of foolscap, from 
 top to bottom of which, by means of an ever-pointed 
 pencil, the cataract was made to thunder. In a little 
 talk which we had together, he awarded his approba 
 tion to the general view, but censured the position of 
 Goat Island, observing that it should have been thrown 
 farther to the right, so as to widen the American falls, 
 and contract those of the Horseshoe. Next appeared 
 two traders of Michigan, who declared, that, upon the 
 whole, the sight was worth looking at ; there certainly 
 was an immense water-power here ; but that, after all, 
 they would go twice as far to see the noble stone- works 
 of Lockport, where the Grand Canal is locked down a 
 descent of sixty feet. They were succeeded by a young 
 fellow, in a homespun cotton dress, with a staff in his
 
 MY VISIT TO NIAGARA. 125 
 
 hand, and a pack over his shoulders. He advanced 
 close to the edge of the rock, where his attention, at 
 first wavering among the different components of the 
 scene, finally became fixed in the angle of the Horse 
 shoe falls, which is, indeed, the central point of inter 
 est. His whole soul seemed to go forth and be trans 
 ported thither, till the staff slipped from his relaxed 
 grasp, and falling down down down struck 
 upon the fragment of the Table Rock. 
 
 In this manner I spent some hours, watching the 
 varied impression, made by the cataract, on those who 
 disturbed me, and returning to unwearied contempla 
 tion, when left alone. At length my time came to de* 
 part. There is a grassy footpath through the woods, 
 along the summit of the bank, to a point whence a 
 causeway, hewn in the side of the precipice, goes wind 
 ing down to the Ferry, about half a mile below the 
 Table Rock. The sun was near setting, when I 
 emerged from the shadow of the trees, and began the 
 descent. The indirectness of my downward road con 
 tinually changed the point of view, and showed me, in 
 rich and repeated succession, now, the whitening rap 
 ids and majestic leap of the main river, which ap 
 peared more deeply massive as the light departed; 
 now, the lovelier picture, yet still sublime, of Goat 
 Island, with its rocks and grove, and the lesser falls, 
 tumbling over the right bank of the St. Lawrence, like 
 a tributary stream ; now, the long vista of the river, 
 as it eddied and whirled between the cliffs, to pass 
 through Ontario toward the sea, and everywhere to 
 be wondered at, for this one unrivalled scene. The 
 golden sunshine tinged the sheet of the American cas 
 cade, and painted on its heaving spray the broken 
 semicircle of a rainbow, heaven's own beauty crown-
 
 126 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 ing earth's sublimity. My steps were slow, and I 
 paused long at every turn of the descent, as one lin 
 gers and pauses who discerns a brighter and brighten 
 ing excellence in what he must soon behold no more. 
 The solitude of the old wilderness now reigned over 
 the whole vicinity of the falls. My enjoyment be 
 came the more rapturous, because no poet shared it, 
 nor wretch devoid of poetry profaned it ; but the spot 
 so famous through the world was all my own I
 
 JOHN GREENLEAP WHITTIER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, of Quaker birth in Puri 
 tan surroundings, was born at the homestead near Haver- 
 hill, Massachusetts, December 17, 1807. Until his eigh 
 teenth year he lived at home, working upon the farm and in 
 the little shoemaker's shop which nearly every farm then had 
 as a resource in the otherwise idle hours of winter. The 
 manual, homely labor upon which he was employed was in 
 part the foundation of that deep interest which the poet 
 never has ceased to take in the toil and plain fortunes of the 
 people. Throughout his poetry runs this golden thread of 
 sympathy with honorable labor and enforced poverty, and 
 many poems are directly inspired by it. While at work 
 with his father he sent poems to the Haverhill Gazette, and 
 that he was not in subjection to his work is very evident by 
 the fact that he translated it and similar occupations into 
 Songs of Labor. He had two years' academic training, and 
 in 1829 became editor in Boston of the American Manu 
 facturer, a paper published in the interest of the tariff. In 
 1831 he published his Legends of New England, prose 
 sketches in a department of literature which has always 
 had strong claims upon his interest. No American writer, 
 unless Irving be excepted, has done so much to throw a 
 graceful veil of poetry and legend over the country of hia 
 daily life. Essex County, in Massachusetts, and the beaches 
 lying between Newburyport and Portsmouth blossom with 
 flowers of Whittier's planting. He has made rare use of
 
 128 JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 the homely stories which he had heard in his childhood, and 
 learned afterward from familiar intercourse with country 
 people, and he has himself used invention delicately and in 
 harmony with the spirit of the New England coast. Al 
 though of a body of men who in earlier days had been perse 
 cuted by the Puritans of New England, his generous mind 
 has not failed to detect all the good that was in the stern 
 creed and life of the persecutors, and to bring it forward into 
 the light of his poetry. 
 
 In 1836 he published Mogg Megone, a poem which stood 
 first in the collected edition of his poems issued in 1857, and 
 was admitted there with some reluctance, apparently, by the 
 author. In that and the Bridal of Pennacook he draws his 
 material from the relation held between the Indians and the 
 settlers. His sympathy was always with the persecuted and 
 oppressed, and while historically he found an object of pity 
 and self-reproach in the Indian, his profoundest compassion 
 and most stirring indignation were called out by African slav 
 ery. From the earliest he was upon the side of the abolition 
 party. Year after year poems fell from his pen in which 
 with all the eloquence of his nature he sought to enlist his 
 countrymen upon the side of emancipation and freedom. It 
 is not too much to say that in the slow development of pub 
 lic sentiment Whittier's steady song was one of the most 
 powerful advocates that the slave had, all the more power 
 ful that it was free from malignity or unjust accusation. 
 
 Whittier's poems have been issued in a number of small 
 volumes, and collected into single larger volumes. Besides 
 those already indicated, there are a number which owe their 
 origin to his tender regard for domestic life and the simple 
 experience of the men and women about him. Of these 
 Snow-Bound is the most memorable. Then his fondness for 
 a story has led him to use the ballad form in many cases, 
 and Mabel Martin is one of a number, in which the narra 
 tive is blended with a fine and strong charity. The catholic 
 mind of this writer and his instinct for discovering the pure
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 129 
 
 moral in human action are disclosed by a number of poems, 
 drawn from a wide range of historical fact, dealing with a 
 great variety of religious faiths and circumstances of life, 
 but always pointing to some sweet and strong truth of the 
 divine life. Of such are The Brother of Mercy, The Gift of 
 Tritemius, The Two Rabbis, and others. Whittier's Prose 
 Works are comprised in three volumes, and consist mainly 
 of his contributions to journals and of Leaves from Mar 
 garet Smith's Journal, a fictitious diary of a visitor to New 
 England in 1678.
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 
 
 A WINTER IDYL. 
 
 *' As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so good 
 Spirits which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the 
 Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood fire : 
 and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this 
 oar Fire of Wood doth the same." COR. AGRIPPA, Occult 
 Philosophy, Book I. ch. v. 
 
 " Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
 Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, 
 Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, 
 And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
 Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
 Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm." 
 
 EMBESON, The Snow-Storm. 
 
 THE sun that brief December day 
 
 Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 
 
 And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
 
 A sadder light than waning moon. 
 
 Slow tracing down the thickening sky s 
 
 Its mute and ominous prophecy, 
 
 A portent seeming less than threat, 
 
 It sank from sight before it set. 
 
 A chill no coat, however stout, 
 
 Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, 10
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 131 
 
 A hard, dull bitterness of cold, 
 
 That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 
 Of life-blood in the sharpened face, 
 
 The coming of the snow-storm told. 
 
 The wind blew east ; we heard the roar IB 
 
 Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 
 
 And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
 
 Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 
 
 Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, 
 
 Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
 
 Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
 
 Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows : 
 
 Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; 
 
 And, sharply clashing horn on horn, 
 
 Impatient down the stanchion rows * 
 
 The cattle shake their walnut bows ; 
 
 While, peering from his early perch 
 
 Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
 
 The cock his crested helmet bent 
 
 And down his querulous challenge sent. 
 
 Unwarmed by any sunset light 
 
 The gray day darkened into night, 
 
 A night made hoary with the swarm 
 
 And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 
 
 As zigzag wavering to and fro * 
 
 Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
 
 And ere the early bedtime came 
 
 The white drift piled the window-frame, 
 
 And through the glass the clothes-line posts 
 
 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 41 
 
 So all night long the storm roared on : 
 The morning broke without a sun;
 
 132 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 In tiny spherule traced with lines 
 
 Of Nature's geometric signs, 
 
 In starry flake and pellicle t 
 
 All day the hoary meteor fell ; 
 
 And, when the second morning shone, 
 
 We looked upon a world unknown, 
 
 On nothing we could call our own. 
 
 Around the glistening wonder bent 
 
 The blue walls of the firmament, 
 
 No cloud above, no earth below, 
 
 A universe of sky and snow ! 
 
 The old familiar sights of ours 
 
 Took marvellous shapes ; strange domes and towers 
 
 Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, sc 
 
 Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 
 
 A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 
 
 A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
 
 The bridle-post an old man sat eo 
 
 With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 
 
 The well-curb had a Chinese roof ; 
 
 And even the long sweep, high aloof, 
 
 In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
 
 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 65 
 
 A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
 Our father wasted : " Boys, a path ! " 
 
 65. The Leaning Tower of Pisa, in Italy, which inclines from 
 the perpendicular a little more than six feet in eighty, is a cam 
 panile, or bell-tower, built of white marble, very beautiful, but 
 so famous for its singular deflection from perpendicularity as to 
 be known almost wholly as a curiosity. Opinions differ as to 
 the leaning being the result of accident or design, but the better 
 judgment makes it an effect of the character of the soil on 
 which it is built. The Cathedral to which it belongs has suf 
 fered so much from a similar cause that there is not a vertical 
 Hue in it.
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 133 
 
 Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy 
 
 Count such a summons less than joy ?) 
 
 Our buskins on our feet we drew ; TO 
 
 With mittened hands, and caps drawn low 
 To guard our necks and ears from snow, 
 
 We cut the solid whiteness through. 
 
 And, where the drift was deepest, made 
 
 A tunnel walled and overlaid i 
 
 With dazzling crystal : we had read 
 
 Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, 
 
 And to our own his name we gave, 
 
 With many a wish the luck were ours 
 
 To test his lamp's supernal powers. M 
 
 We reached the barn with merry din, 
 
 And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
 
 The old horse thrust his long head out, 
 
 And grave with wonder gazed about ; 
 
 The cock his lusty greeting said, 86 
 
 And forth his speckled harem led ; 
 
 The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, 
 
 And mild reproach of hunger looked ; 
 
 The horned patriarch of the sheep, 
 
 Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, w 
 
 Shook his sage head with gesture mute, 
 
 And emphasized with stamp of foot. 
 
 All day the gusty north-wind bore 
 
 The loosening drift its breath before ; 
 
 Low circling round its southern zone, 96 
 
 The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone, 
 
 No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
 
 90. Amun, or Amraon, was an Egyptian being, representing 
 an attribute of Deity under the form of a ram.
 
 184 JOHN GREEN LEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 To the savage air, no social smoke 
 
 Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 
 
 A solitude made more intense too 
 
 By dreary-voiced elements, 
 
 The shrieking of the mindless wind, 
 
 The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
 
 And on the glass the unmeaning beat 
 
 Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. IDS 
 
 Beyond the circle of our hearth 
 
 No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
 
 Unbound the spell, and testified 
 
 Of human life and thought outside. 
 
 We minded that the sharpest ear uo 
 
 The buried brooklet could not hear, 
 
 The music of whose liquid lip 
 
 Had been to us companionship, 
 
 And, in our lonely life, had grown 
 
 To have an almost human tone. tu 
 
 As night drew on, and, from the crest 
 
 Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
 
 The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
 
 From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
 
 "We piled with care our nightly stack uo 
 
 Of wood against the chimney-back, 
 
 The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
 
 And on its top the stout back-stick ; 
 
 The knotty forestick laid apart, 
 
 And filled between with curious art its 
 
 The ragged brush ; then, hovering near, 
 
 We watched the first red blaze appear, 
 
 Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
 
 On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
 
 Until the old, rude-furnished room lao
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 186 
 
 Burst, flower-like, into rosy blooin ; 
 
 While radiant with a mimic flame 
 
 Outside the sparkling drift became, 
 
 And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
 
 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. > 
 
 The crane and pendent trammels showed, 
 
 The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed ; 
 
 While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
 
 The meaning of the miracle, 
 
 Whispered the old rhyme : " Under the tree u 
 
 When fire outdoors burns merrily, 
 
 There the witches are making tea." 
 
 The moon above the eastern wood 
 
 Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 
 
 Transfigured in the silver flood, MB 
 
 Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 
 
 Dead white, save where some sharp ravine 
 
 Took shadow, or the sombre green 
 
 Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 
 
 Against the whiteness of their back. no 
 
 For such a world and such a night 
 
 Most fitting that unwarming light, 
 
 Which only seemed where'er it fell 
 
 To make the coldness visible. 
 
 Shut in from all the world without, i 
 
 We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
 
 Content to let the north-wind roar 
 
 In baffled rage at pane and door, 
 
 While the red logs before us beat 
 
 The frost-line back with tropic heat ; i 
 
 And ever, when a louder blast 
 
 Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
 
 136 JOHN GREENLEAF WHIT TIER. 
 
 The merrier up its roaring draught 
 
 The great throat of the chimney laughed, 
 
 The house-dog on his paws outspread IM 
 
 Laid to the fire his drowsy head, 
 
 The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
 
 A couchant tiger's seemed to fall ; 
 
 And, for the winter fireside meet, 
 
 Between the andirons' straddling feet, wo 
 
 The mug of cider simmered slow, 
 
 The apples sputtered in a row, 
 
 And, close at hand, the basket stood 
 
 With nuts from brown October's wood. 
 
 What matter how the night behaved ? m 
 
 What matter how the north-wind raved ? 
 
 Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 
 
 Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 
 
 O Time and Change ! with hair as gray 
 
 As was my sire's that winter day, iso 
 
 How strange it seems, with so much gone 
 
 Of life and love, to still live on ! 
 
 Ah, brother ! only I and thou 
 
 Are left of all that circle now, 
 
 The dear home faces whereupon i 
 
 That fitful firelight paled and shone. 
 
 Henceforward, listen as we will, 
 
 The voices of that hearth are still ; 
 
 Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, 
 
 Those lighted faces smile no more. 190 
 
 We tread the paths their feet have worn, 
 We sit beneath their orchard trees, 
 We hear, like them, the hum of bees 
 
 And rustle of the bladed corn ; 
 
 We turn the pages that they read, MB
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 187 
 
 Their written words we linger o'er, 
 But in the sun they cast no shade, 
 No voice is heard, no sign is made, 
 
 No step is on the conscious floor ! 
 Yet Love will dream and Faith will trust 
 
 (Since He who knows our need is just) 
 That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 
 Alas for him who never sees 
 The stars shine through his cypress-trees I 
 Who, hopeless, lays his dead away, ** 
 
 Nor looks to see the breaking day 
 Across the mournful marbles play I 
 Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, 
 
 The truth to flesh and sense unknown, 
 That Life is ever lord of Death, aw 
 
 And Love can never lose its own I 
 
 We sped the time with stories old, 
 
 Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told, 
 
 Or stammered from our school-book lore 
 
 " The chief of Gambia's golden shore.'* tu 
 
 How often since, when all the land 
 
 Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand, 
 
 As if a far-blown trumpet stirred 
 
 The languorous, sin-sick air, I heard : 
 
 " Does not the voice of reason cry, 220 
 
 Claim the first right which Nature gave, 
 From the red scourge of bondage fly, 
 
 Nor deign to live a burdened slave I " 
 Our father rode again his ride 
 
 215. This line and lines 220-223 are taken from The African 
 Chief, a poem by Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Morton, which was 
 included in Caleb Bingham's The American Preceptor, a school- 
 book used in Whittier's boyhood.
 
 138 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Oil Memphremagog's wooded side ; 225 
 
 Sat down again to moose and samp 
 
 In trapper's hut and Indian camp ; 
 
 Lived o'er the old idyllic ease 
 
 Beneath St. Francois' hemlock-trees; 
 
 Again for him the moonlight shone MO 
 
 On Norman cap and bodiced zone ; 
 
 Again he heard the violin play 
 
 Which led the village dance away, 
 
 And mingled in its merry whirl 
 
 The grandam and the laughing girl. as 
 
 Or, nearer home, our steps he led 
 
 Where Salisbury's level marshes spread 
 
 Mile-wide as flies the laden bee ; 
 
 Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
 
 Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along 2*0 
 
 The low green prairies of the sea. 
 
 We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, 
 And round the rocky Isles of Shoals 
 The hake-broil on the driftwood coals ; 
 
 The chowder on the sand-beach made, au 
 
 Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, 
 
 With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. 
 
 We heard the tales of witchcraft old, 
 
 And dream and sign and marvel told 
 
 To sleepy listeners as they lay 
 
 Stretched idly on the salted hay, 
 
 Adrift along the winding shores, 
 
 When favoring breezes deigned to blow 
 The square sail of the gundelow, 
 
 And idle lay the useless oars. a* 
 
 Our mother, while she turned her wheel 
 Or run the new-knit stocking heel,
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 139 
 
 Told how the Indian hordes came down 
 
 At midnight on Cochecho town, 
 
 And how her own great-uncle bore >w 
 
 His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 
 
 Recalling, in her fitting phrase, 
 
 So rich and picturesque and free 
 
 (The common unrhymed poetry 
 Of simple life and country ways), i 
 
 The story of her early days, 
 She made us welcome to her home ; 
 Old hearths grew wide to give us room ; 
 We stole with her a frightened look 
 At the gray wizard's conjuring-book, 
 
 The fame whereof went far and wide 
 Through all the simple country-side ; 
 We heard the hawks at twilight play, 
 The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 
 
 The loon's weird laughter far away ; in 
 
 We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
 What flowers in wood and meadow grew, 
 What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 
 She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 
 Saw where in sheltered cove and bay aai 
 
 The duck's black squadron anchored lay, 
 And heard the wild geese calling loud 
 Beneath the gray November cloud. 
 Then, haply, with a look more grave, 
 And soberer tone, some tale she gave 
 
 From painful Sewel's ancient tome, 
 
 259. Dover in New Hampshire. 
 
 286. William Sewel was the historian of the Quakers. Charles 
 Lamb seemed to have as good an opinion of the book as Whit- 
 tier. In his essay A Quakers' Meeting, in Essays of Elia, he says : 
 " Header, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend
 
 140 JOHN GREENLEAF WHIT TIER. 
 
 Beloved in every Quaker home, 
 
 Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, 
 
 Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, 
 
 Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint ! aw 
 
 Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, 
 
 And water-butt and bread-cask failed, 
 
 And cruel, hungry eyes pursued 
 
 His portly presence, mad for food, 
 
 With dark hints muttered under breath sw 
 
 Of casting lots for life or death, 
 
 to you, above all church-narratives, to read Sewel's History of the 
 Quakers. ... It is far more edifying and affecting than any 
 thing you will read of Wesley or his colleagues." 
 
 289. Thomas Chalkley was an Englishman of Quaker parent 
 age, born in 1675, who travelled extensively as a preacher, and 
 finally made his home in Philadelphia. He died in 1749 ; his 
 Journal was first published in 1747. His own narrative of the 
 incident which the poet relates is as follows : " To stop their mur 
 muring, I told them they should not need to cast lots, which was 
 usual in such cases, which of us should die first, for I would freely 
 offer up my life to do them good. One said, ' God bless you ! 
 I will not eat any of you.' Another said, ' He would rather die 
 before he would eat any of me ; ' and so said several. I can 
 truly say, on that occasion, at that time, my life was not dear to 
 me, and that I was serious and ingenuous in my proposition : and 
 as I was leaning over the side of the vessel, thoughtfully consid 
 ering my proposal to the company, and looking in my mind to 
 Him that made me, a very large dolphin came up towards the 
 top or surface of the water, and looked me in the face ; and I 
 called the people to put a hook into the sea, and take him, for 
 here is one come to redeem me (I said to them). And they put 
 a hook into the sea, and the fish readily took it, and they caught 
 him. He was longer than myself. I think he was about six 
 feet long, and the largest that ever I saw. This plainly showed 
 us that we ought not to distrust the providence of the Almighty. 
 The people were quieted by this act of Providence, and mur 
 mured no more. We caught enough to eat plentifully of, till we 
 got into the capes of Delaware."
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 141 
 
 Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies, 
 
 To be himself the sacrifice. 
 
 Then, suddenly, as if to save 
 
 The good man from his living grave, n. 
 
 A ripple on the water grew, 
 
 A school of porpoise flashed in view. 
 
 " Take, eat," he said, " and be content ; 
 
 These fishes in my stead are sent 
 
 By Him who gave the tangled ram * 
 
 To spare the child of Abraham." 
 
 Our uncle, innocent of books, 
 
 Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, 
 
 The ancient teachers never dumb 
 
 Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. no 
 
 In moons and tides and weather wise, 
 
 He read the clouds as prophecies, 
 
 And foul or fair could well divine, 
 
 By many an occult hint and sign, 
 
 Holding the cunning-warded keys us 
 
 To all the woodcraft mysteries ; 
 
 Himself to Nature's heart so near 
 
 That all her voices in his ear 
 
 Of beast or bird had meanings clear, 
 
 Like Apollonius of old, 120 
 
 Who knew the tales the sparrows told, 
 
 Or Hermes, who interpreted 
 
 310. The measure requires the accent ly'ceum, but in stricter 
 use the accent is lyce'um. 
 
 320. A philosopher born in the first century of the Christian 
 era, of whom many strange stories were told, especially regard 
 ing his converse with birds and animals. 
 
 322. Hermes Trismegistus, a celebrated Egyptian priest and 
 philosopher, to whom was attributed the revival of geometry, 
 arithmetic, and art among the Egyptians. He was little later 
 than Apollouius.
 
 142 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 What the sage cranes of Nilus said ; 
 
 A simple, guileless, childlike man, 
 
 Content to live where life began ; aas 
 
 Strong only on his native grounds, 
 
 The little world of sights and sounds 
 
 Whose girdle was the parish bounds, 
 
 WTiereof his fondly partial pride 
 
 The common features magnified, no 
 
 As Surrey hills to mountains grew 
 
 In White of Selborne's loving view, 
 
 He told how teal and loon he shot, 
 
 And how the eagle's eggs he got, 
 
 The feats on pond and river done, 
 
 The prodigies of rod and gun ; 
 
 Till, warming with the tales he told, 
 
 Forgotten was the outside cold, 
 
 The bitter wind unheeded blew, 
 
 From ripening corn the pigeons flew, n 
 
 The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink 
 
 Went fishing down the river-brink. 
 
 In fields with bean or clover gay, 
 
 The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, 
 
 Peered from the doorway of his cell ; 
 
 The muskrat plied the mason's trade, 
 And tier by tier his mud-walls laid ; 
 And from the shagbark overhead 
 
 The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. 
 
 Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer SM 
 
 And voice in dreams I see and hear, 
 
 332. Gilbert White, of Selborue, England, was a clergyman 
 who wrote the Natural History of Selborne, a minute, affection 
 ate, and charming description of what could be seen, as it were, 
 from his own doorstep. The accuracy of his observation and the 
 deligktf ulness of his manner have kept the book a classic.
 
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 143 
 
 The sweetest woman ever Fate 
 
 Perverse denied a household mate, 
 
 Who, lonely, homeless, not the less 
 
 Found peace in love's unselfishness, 
 
 And welcome whereso'er she went, 
 
 A calm and gracious element, 
 
 Whose presence seemed the sweet income 
 
 And womanly atmosphere of home, 
 
 Called up her girlhood memories, i a 
 
 The huskings and the apple-bees, 
 
 The sleigh-rides and the summer sails, 
 
 Weaving through all the poor details 
 
 And homespun warp of circumstance 
 
 A golden woof-thread of romance. 
 
 For well she kept her genial mood 
 
 And simple faith of maidenhood ; 
 
 Before her still a cloud-land lay, 
 
 The mirage loomed across her way ; 
 
 The morning dew, that dried so soon wo 
 
 With others, glistened at her noon ; 
 
 Through years of toil and soil and care, 
 
 From glossy tress to thin gray hair, 
 
 All unprofaned she held apart 
 
 The virgin fancies of the heart. w 
 
 Be shame to him of woman born 
 
 Who hath for such but thought of scorn. 
 
 There, too, our elder sister plied 
 
 Her evening task the stand beside ; 
 
 A full, rich nature, free to trust, w 
 
 Truthful and almost sternly just, 
 
 Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act, 
 
 And make her generous thought a fact, 
 
 Keeping with many a light disguise
 
 144 JOHN GREEN LEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 The secret of self-sacrifice. 
 
 heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best 
 That Heaven itself could give thee, rest, 
 Rest from all bitter thoughts and things 1 
 
 How many a poor one's blessing went 
 With thee beneath the low green tent *at 
 
 Whose curtain never outward swings ! 
 
 As one who held herself a part 
 Of all she saw, and let her heart 
 
 Against the household bosom lean, 
 Upon the motley-braided mat 
 
 Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
 Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 
 
 Now bathed within the fadeless green 
 And holy peace of Paradise. 
 Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 400 
 
 Or from the shade of saintly palms, 
 
 Or silver reach of river calms, 
 Do those large eyes behold me still? 
 With me one little year ago : 
 The chill weight of the winter snow 
 
 For months upon her grave has lain ; 
 And now, when summer south-winds blow 
 
 And brier and harebell bloom again, 
 
 1 tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
 
 I see the violet-sprinkled sod, <io 
 
 Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
 
 The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 
 
 Yet following me where'er I went 
 
 With dark eyes full of love's content. 
 
 The birds are glad ; the brier-rose fills <u 
 
 398. Th' unfading green would be harsher, but more correct, 
 since the termination less is added to nouns and not to verbs.
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 145 
 
 The air with sweetness ; all the hills 
 
 Stretch green to June's unclouded sky ; 
 
 But still I wait with ear and eye 
 
 For something gone which should he nigh, 
 
 A loss in all familiar things, 
 
 In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
 
 And yet, dear heart ! remembering thee, 
 
 Am I not richer than of old ? 
 Safe in thy immortality, 
 
 What change can reach the wealth I hold ? 425 
 
 What chance can mar the pearl and gold 
 Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 
 And while in life's late afternoon, 
 
 Where cool and long the shadows grow, 
 I walk to meet the night that soon 430 
 
 Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
 I cannot feel that thou art far, 
 Since near at need the angels are> 
 And when the sunset gates unbar, 
 
 Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 435 
 
 And, white against the evening star, 
 
 The welcome of thy beckoning hand? 
 
 Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 
 
 The master of the district school 
 
 Held at the fire his favored place ; 4o 
 
 Its warm glow lit a laughing face 
 
 Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 
 
 The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
 
 He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 
 
 Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat, MS 
 
 Sang songs, and told us what befalls 
 
 In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 
 
 Born the wild Northern hills among,
 
 146 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 
 
 From whence his yeoman father wrung 
 
 By patient toil subsistence scant, 450 
 
 Not competence and yet not want, 
 
 He early gained the power to pay 
 
 His cheerful, self-reliant way ; 
 
 Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 
 
 To peddle wares from town to town ; 455 
 
 Or through the long vacation's reach 
 
 In lonely lowland districts teach, 
 
 Where all the droll experience found 
 
 At stranger hearths in boarding round, 
 
 The moonlit skater's keen delight, MO 
 
 The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 
 
 The rustic party, with its rough 
 
 Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff, 
 
 And whirling plate, and forfeits paid, 
 
 His winter task a pastime made. 465 
 
 Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 
 
 He tuned his merry violin, 
 
 Or played the athlete in the barn, 
 
 Or held the good dame's winding yarn, 
 
 Or mirth-provoking versions told o 
 
 Of classic legends rare and old, 
 
 Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 
 
 Had all the commonplace of home, 
 
 And little seemed at best the odds 
 
 Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods ; 475 
 
 Where Pindus-born Arachthus took 
 
 The guise of any grist-mill brook, 
 
 And dread Olympus at his will 
 
 476. Pindus is the mountain chain which, running from north 
 to south, nearly bisects Greece. Five rivers take their rise from 
 the central peak, the Adas, the Arachthus, the Haliacmon, the 
 Pene'us, and the Achelous.
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 147 
 
 Became a huckleberry hill. 
 
 A careless boy that night he seemed ; 4M 
 
 But at his desk he had the look 
 And air of one who wisely schemed, 
 
 And hostage from the future took 
 
 In trained thought and lore of book. 
 Large-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he < 
 
 Shall Freedom's young apostles be, 
 Who, following in War's bloody trail, 
 Shall every lingering wrong assail ; 
 All chains from limb and spirit strike, 
 Uplift the black and white alike ; , j* , m 
 
 Scatter before their swift advance 
 The darkness and the ignorance, 
 The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth, 
 Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, 
 Made murder pastime, and the hell 
 
 Of prison-torture possible ; 
 The cruel lie of caste refute, 
 Old forms remould, and substitute 
 For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, 
 For blind routine, wise-handed skill ; MI 
 
 A school-house plant on every hill, 
 Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence 
 The quick wires of intelligence ; 
 Till North and South together brought 
 Shall own the same electric thought, MB 
 
 In peace a common flag salute, 
 
 And, side by side in labor's free 
 
 And unresentful rivalry, 
 Harvest the fields wherein they fought. 
 
 Another guest that winter night w 
 
 Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light.
 
 148 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Unmarked by time, and yet not young, 
 
 The honeyed music of her tongue 
 
 And words of meekness scarcely told 
 
 A nature passionate and bold, 
 
 Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, 
 
 Its milder features dwarfed beside 
 
 Her unbent will's majestic pride. 
 
 She sat among us, at the best, 
 
 A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, BO 
 
 Rebuking with her cultured phrase 
 
 Our homeliness of words and ways. 
 
 A certain pard-like, treacherous grace 
 
 Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the lash, 
 Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash ; SK 
 
 And under low brows, black with night, 
 Rayed out at times a dangerous light ; 
 
 The sharp heat-lightnings of her face 
 
 Presaging ill to him whom Fate 
 
 Condemned to share her love or hate. so 
 
 A woman tropical, intense 
 In thought and act, in soul and sense, 
 She blended in a like degree 
 The vixen and the devotee, 
 Revealing with each freak or feint 
 
 The temper of Petruchio's Kate, 
 The raptures of Siena's saint. 
 
 Her tapering hand and rounded wrist 
 
 Had facile power to form a fist ; 
 
 The warm, dark languish of her eyes MI 
 
 Was never safe from wrath's surprise. 
 
 Brows saintly calm and lips devout 
 
 536. See Shakespeare's comedy of the Taming of the Shrew. 
 637. St. Catherine of Siena, who is represented as having 
 wonderful visions. She made a vow of silence for three years.
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 149 
 
 Knew every change of scowl and pout ; 
 
 And the sweet voice had notes more high 
 
 And shrill for social battle-cry. MS 
 
 Since then what old cathedral town 
 
 Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown, 
 
 What convent-gate has held its lock 
 
 Against the challenge of her knock 1 
 
 Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares, o 
 
 Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs, 
 
 Gray olive slopes of hills that hem 
 
 Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, 
 
 Or startling on her desert throne 
 
 The crazy Queen of Lebanon w 
 
 With claims fantastic as her own, 
 
 Her tireless feet have held their way ; 
 
 And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, 
 
 She watches under Eastern skies, 
 
 With hope each day renewed and fresh, aa 
 
 The Lord's quick coming in the flesh, 
 
 Whereof she dreams and prophesies ! 
 
 555. An interesting account of Lady Hester Stanhope, an 
 English gentlewoman who led a singular life on Mount Lebanon 
 in Syria, will be found in Kinglake's Eothen, chapter viii. 
 
 562. This not unfeared, half-welcome guest was Miss Harriet 
 Livermore, daughter of Judge Livermore of New Hampshire. 
 She was a woman of fine powers, but wayward, wild, and enthu 
 siastic. She went on an independent mission to the Western 
 Indians, whom she, in common with some others, believed to be 
 remnants of the lost tribes of Israel. At the time of this narra 
 tive she was about twenty-eight years old, but much of her life 
 afterward was spent in the Orient. She was at one time the 
 companion and friend of Lady Hester Stanhope, but finally 
 quarrelled with her about the use of the holy horses kept in the 
 stable in waiting for the Lord'a ride to Jerusalem at the second 
 advent
 
 150 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Where'er her troubled path may be, 
 
 The Lord's sweet pity with her go I 
 The outward wayward life we see, MS 
 
 The hidden springs we may not know. 
 Nor is it given us to discern 
 
 What threads the fatal sisters spun, 
 
 Through what ancestral years has run 
 The sorrow with the woman born, an 
 
 What forged her cruel chain of moods, 
 What set her feet in solitudes, 
 
 And held the love within her mute, 
 What mingled madness in the blood, 
 
 A lifelong discord and annoy, m 
 
 Water of tears with oil of joy, 
 And hid within the folded bud 
 
 Perversities of flower and fruit 
 It is not ours to separate 
 
 The tangled skein of will and fate, m 
 
 To show what metes and bounds should stand 
 Upon the soul's debatable land, 
 And between choice and Providence 
 Divide the circle of events ; 
 
 But He who knows our frame is just, ass 
 
 Merciful and compassionate, 
 And full of sweet assurances 
 And hope for all the language is, 
 
 That He remembereth we are dust ! 
 
 At last the great logs, crumbling low, c 
 
 Sent out a dull and duller glow, 
 
 The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, 
 
 Ticking its weary circuit through, 
 
 Pointed with mutely-warning sign 
 
 Its black hand to the hour of nine.
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 151 
 
 That sign the pleasant circle broke : 
 
 My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, 
 
 Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray, 
 
 And laid it tenderly away, 
 
 Then roused himself to safely cover w 
 
 The dull red brand with ashes over. 
 
 And while, with care, our mother laid 
 
 The work aside, her steps she stayed 
 
 One moment, seeking to express 
 
 Her grateful sense of happiness * 
 
 For food and shelter, warmth and health, 
 
 And love's contentment more than wealth, 
 
 With simple wishes (not the weak, 
 
 Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 
 
 But such as warm the generous heart, o 
 
 O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) 
 
 That none might lack, that bitter night, 
 
 For bread and clothing, warmth and light 
 
 Within our beds awhile we heard 
 
 The wind that round the gables roared, tai 
 
 With now and then a ruder shock, 
 
 Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
 
 We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
 
 The board-nails snapping in the frost ; 
 
 And on us, through the unplastered wall, eao 
 
 Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall, 
 
 But sleep stole on, as sleep will do 
 
 When hearts are light and life is new ; 
 
 Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, 
 
 Till in the summer-land of dreams 
 
 They softened to the sound of streams, 
 
 Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, 
 
 And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
 
 162 JOHN OREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Next morn we wakened with the shout 
 
 Of merry voices high and clear ; CM 
 
 And saw the teamsters drawing near 
 
 To break the drifted highways out. 
 
 Down the long hillside treading slow 
 
 We saw the half-buried oxen go, 
 
 Shaking the snow from heads uptost, 6 
 
 Their straining nostrils white with frost 
 
 Before our door the straggling train 
 
 Drew up, an added team to gain. 
 
 The elders threshed their hands a-cold, 
 
 Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes o 
 
 From lip to lip ; the younger folks 
 
 Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled, 
 
 Then toiled again the cavalcade 
 
 O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, 
 
 And woodland paths that wound between s 
 
 Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. 
 
 From every barn a team afoot, 
 
 At every house a new recruit, 
 
 Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law, 
 
 Haply the watchful young men saw a 
 
 Sweet doorway pictures of the curls 
 
 And curious eyes of merry girls, 
 
 Lifting their hands in mock defence 
 
 Against the snow-balls' compliments, 
 
 And reading in each missive tost 
 
 The charm with Eden never lost. 
 
 We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound ; 
 
 And, following where the teamsters led, 
 The wise old Doctor went his round, 
 
 659. The wise old Doctor was Dr. Weld of Haverhill, an able 
 jian, who died at the age of ninety-six.
 
 SNOW-BOUND. 153 
 
 Jnst pausing at our door to say m 
 
 In the brief autocratic way 
 
 Of one who, prompt at Duty's call, 
 
 Was free to urge her claim on all, 
 
 That some poor neighbor sick abed 
 At night our mother's aid would need. s 
 
 For, one in generous thought and deed, 
 
 What mattered in the sufferer's sight 
 
 The Quaker matron's inward light, 
 The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed ? 
 All hearts confess the saints elect o 
 
 Who, twain in faith, in love agree, 
 And melt not in an acid sect 
 
 The Christian pearl of charity I 
 
 So days went on : a week had passed 
 
 Since the great world was heard from last. are 
 
 The Almanac we studied o'er, 
 
 Bead and reread our little store 
 
 Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score j 
 
 One harmless novel, mostly hid 
 
 From younger eyes, a book forbid, e 
 
 And poetry, (or good or bad, 
 
 A single book was all we had,) 
 
 Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, 
 
 A stranger to the heathen Nine, 
 
 Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, 6 
 
 683. Thomas Ellwood, one of the Society of Friends, a con 
 temporary and friend of Milton, and the suggestor of Paradise 
 Regained, wrote an epic poem in five books, called Davideis, the 
 life of King David of Israel. He wrote the book, we are told, 
 for his own diversion, so it was not necessary that others should 
 be diverted by it. Ellwood's autobiography, a quaint and de 
 lightful book, is included in Howells's series of Choice Autobio 
 graphies.
 
 154 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIEB. 
 
 The wars of David and the Jews. 
 
 At last the floundering carrier bore 
 
 The village paper to our door. 
 
 Ix> I broadening outward as we read, 
 
 To warmer zones the horizon spread 3 ' 
 
 In panoramic length unrolled 
 
 We saw the marvels that it told. 
 
 Before us passed the painted Creeks, 
 
 And daft McGregor on his raids 
 
 In Costa Eica's everglades. 
 
 And up Taygetus winding slow 
 Bode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, 
 
 A Turk's head at each saddle bow I 
 Welcome to us its week old news, 
 Its corner for the rustic Muse, TOO 
 
 Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, 
 Its record, mingling in a breath 
 The wedding knell and dirge of death } 
 Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, 
 The latest culprit sent to jail ; TO 
 
 Its hue and cry of stolen and lost, 
 Its vendue sales and goods at cost, 
 
 And traffic calling loud for gain. 
 We felt the stir of hall and street, 
 The pulse of life that round us beat ; flo 
 
 The chill embargo of the snow 
 
 693. Referring to the removal of the Creek Indians from 
 Georgia to beyond the Mississippi. 
 
 694. In 1822 Sir Gregor McGregor, a Scotchman, began an 
 ineffectual attempt to establish a colony in Costa Rica. 
 
 697. Taygetus is a mountain on the Gulf of Messenia in 
 Greece, and near by is the district of Maina, noted for its rob 
 bers and pirates. It was from these mountaineers that Ypsilanti, 
 a Greek patriot, drew his cavalry in the struggle with Turkey 
 which resulted in the independence of Greece.
 
 SNO W-BOUND. 166 
 
 Was melted in the genial glow ; 
 Wide swung again our ice-locked door, 
 And all the world was ours once more I 
 
 Clasp, Angel of the backward look n* 
 
 And folded wings of ashen gray 
 
 And voice of echoes far away, 
 The brazen covers of thy book ; 
 The weird palimpsest old and vast, 
 Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past ; nt 
 
 Where, closely mingling, pale and glow 
 The characters of joy and woe ; 
 The monographs of outlived years, 
 Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, 
 Green hills of life that slope to death, 
 
 And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees 
 
 Shade off to mournful cypresses 
 With the white amaranths underneath. 
 Even while I look, I can but heed 
 
 The restless sands' incessant fall, "m 
 
 Importunate hours that hours succeed, 
 Each clamorous with its own sharp need, 
 
 And duty keeping pace with all. 
 Shut down and clasp the heavy lids ; 
 I hear again the voice that bids T 
 
 The dreamer leave his dream midway 
 
 For larger hopes and graver fears : 
 
 Life greatens in these later years, 
 The century's aloe flowers to-day I 
 
 Yet, haply, in some lull of life, 74* 
 
 Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, 
 
 741. The name is drawn from a historic compact in 1010, 
 when the Church forbade barons to make any attack on each
 
 156 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 The worldling's eyes shall gather dew, 
 
 Dreaming in throngf ul city ways 
 Of winter joys his boyhood knew ; 
 And dear and early friends the few 145 
 
 Who yet remain shall pause to view 
 
 These Flemish pictures of old days ; 
 Sit with me by the homestead hearth, 
 And stretch the hands of memory forth 
 
 To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze 1 m 
 
 And thanks untraced to lips unknown 
 Shall greet me like the odors blown 
 From unseen meadows newly mown, 
 Or lilies floating in some pond, 
 Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; i 
 
 The traveller owns the grateful sense 
 Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, 
 And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
 The benediction of the air. 
 
 THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 
 
 THE sky is ruddy in the east, 
 
 The earth is gray below, 
 And, spectral in the river-mist, 
 
 The ship's white timbers show. 
 Then let the sounds of measured stroke 6 
 
 And grating saw begin ; 
 
 other between sunset on Wednesday and sunrise on the following 
 Monday, or upon any ecclesiastical fast or feast day. It also 
 provided that no man was to molest a laborer working in the 
 fields, or to lay hands on any implement of husbandry, on pain 
 of excommunication. 
 
 747. The Flemish school of painting was chiefly occupied with 
 homely interiors.
 
 THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 157 
 
 The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, 
 The mallet to the pin ! 
 
 Hark ! roars the bellows, blast on blast, 
 
 The sooty smithy jars, 10 
 
 And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, 
 
 Are fading with the stars. 
 All day for us the smith shall stand 
 
 Beside that flashing forge ; 
 All day for us his heavy hand * 
 
 The groaning anvil scourge. 
 
 From far-off hills, the panting team 
 
 For us is toiling near ; 
 For us the raftsmen down the stream 
 
 Their island barges steer. 
 
 Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke 
 
 In forests old and still ; 
 For us the century-circled oak 
 
 Falls crashing down his hill. 
 
 Up ! up I in nobler toil than ours 
 
 No craftsmen bear a part : 
 We make of Nature's giant powers 
 
 The slaves of human Art. 
 Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 
 
 And drive the treenails free ; ft 
 
 Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 
 
 Shall tempt the searching sea ! 
 
 Where'er the keel of our good ship 
 
 The sea's rough field shall plough ; 
 Where'er her tossing spars shall drip 
 
 With salt-spray caught below ;
 
 158 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 That ship must heed her master's beck, 
 
 Her helm obey his hand, 
 And seamen tread her reeling deck 
 
 As if they trod the land. 
 
 Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak 
 
 Of Northern ice may peel ; 
 The sunken rock and coral peak 
 
 May grate along her keel ; 
 And know we well the painted shell 
 
 We give to wind and wave, 
 Must float, the sailor's citadel, 
 
 Or sink, the sailor's grave ! 
 
 Ho I strike away the bars and blocks, 
 
 And set the good ship free ! 
 Why lingers on these dusty rocks 
 
 The young bride of the sea ? 
 Look I how she moves adown the grooves, 
 
 In graceful beauty now ! 
 How lowly on the breast she loves 
 
 Sinks down her virgin prow I 
 
 God bless her ! wheresoe'er the breeze 
 
 Her snowy wing shall fan, 
 Aside the frozen Hebrides, 
 
 Or sultry Hindostau ! 
 Where'er, in mart or on the main, 
 
 With peaceful flag unfurled, 
 She helps to wind the silken chain 
 
 Of commerce round the world 1 
 
 Speed on the ship ! But let her bear 
 No merchandise of gin,
 
 THE WORSHIP OF NATURE. 159 
 
 No groaning cargo of despair 
 
 Her roomy hold within ; 
 No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, 
 
 Nor poison-draught for ours ; to 
 
 But honest fruits of toiling hands 
 
 And Nature's sun and showers. 
 
 Be hers the Prairie's golden grain, 
 
 The Desert's golden sand, 
 The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, . 75 
 
 The spice of Morning-land ! 
 Her pathway on the open main 
 
 May blessings follow free, 
 And glad hearts welcome back again 
 
 Her white sails from the sea I eo 
 
 THE WORSHIP OF NATURE. 
 
 THE harp at Nature's advent strung 
 
 Has never ceased to play ; 
 The song the stars of morning sung 
 
 Has never died away. 
 
 And prayer is made, and praise is given, 
 
 By all things near and far ; 
 The ocean looketh up to heaven, 
 
 And mirrors every star. 
 
 Its waves are kneeling on the strand, 
 
 As kneels the human knee, II 
 
 Their white locks bowing to the sand, 
 The priesthood of the sea I 
 
 They pour their glittering treasures forth, 
 Their gifts of pearl they bring,
 
 160 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 And all the listening hills of earth u 
 
 Take up the song they sing. 
 
 The green earth sends her incense up 
 
 From many a mountain shrine ; 
 From folded leaf and dewy cup 
 
 She pours her sacred wine. 
 
 The mists above the morning rills 
 
 Rise white as wings of prayer ; 
 The altar-curtains of the hills 
 
 Are sunset's purple air. 
 
 The winds with hymns of praise are loud, 25 
 
 Or low with sobs of pain, 
 The thunder-organ of the cloud, 
 
 The dropping tears of rain. 
 
 With drooping head and branches crossed 
 
 The twilight forest grieves, w 
 
 Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost 
 From all its sunlit leaves. 
 
 The blue sky is the temple's arch, 
 
 Its transept earth and air, 
 The music of its starry march 
 
 The chorus of a prayer. 
 
 So Nature keeps the reverent frame 
 
 With which her years began, 
 And all her signs and voices shame 
 
 The prayerless heart of man.
 
 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 THERE died at Concord, Massachusetts, in the year 1862, 
 a man of forty-five who, if one were to take his word for it, 
 need never have gone out of the little village of Concord to 
 see all that was worth seeing in the world. Lowell, in hia 
 My Garden Acquaintance, reminds the reader of Gilbert 
 White, who, in his Natural History of Selborne, gave mi 
 nute details of a lively world found within the borders of a 
 little English parish. Alphonse Karr, a French writer, has 
 written a book which contracts the limit still further in 
 A Journey round my Garden, but neither of these writers 
 so completely isolated himself from the outside world as 
 did Thoreau, who had a collegiate education at Harvard, 
 made short journeys to Cape Cod, Maine, and Canada, 
 acted for a little while as tutor in a family on Staten Island, 
 but spent the best part of his life as a looker-on in Concord, 
 and during two years of the time lived a hermit on the 
 shores of Walden Pond. He made his living, as the phrase 
 goes, by the occupation of a land surveyor, but he followed 
 the profession only when it suited his convenience. He di(? 
 not marry ; he never went to church ; he never voted ; hfr 
 refused to pay taxes ; he sought no society ; he declined 
 companions when they were in his way, and when he had 
 anything to say in public, went about from door to door and 
 invited people to come to a hall to hear him deliver his 
 word. 
 
 That he had something to say to the world at large is
 
 162 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 pretty evident from the books which he has left, and it ia 
 intimated that the unpublished records of his observation 
 and reflection are more extensive. Thus far his published 
 writings are contained in ten volumes. The first in appear, 
 ance was A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. 
 It was published in 1849 and built upon the adventures of 
 himself and brother ten years before, when, in a boat of 
 their own construction, they had made their way from Con 
 cord down the Concord River to the Merrimack, up that to 
 its source, and back to the starting point. It will readily 
 be seen that such an excursion would not yield a bookful of 
 observation, and though Thoreau notes in it many trivial 
 incidents, a great part of the contents is in the reflections 
 which he makes from day to day. He comes to the little 
 river with its sparse border of population and meagre his 
 tory, and insists upon measuring antiquity and fame by it. 
 AH of his reading he tests by the measure of this stream, 
 and undertakes to show that the terms, big and little, are 
 very much misapplied, and that here on this miniature scale 
 one may read all that is worth knowing in life. His voy 
 age is treated with the gravity which one might use in re 
 cording a journey to find the sources of the Nile. 
 
 Between the date of the journey and the publication of 
 the book, Thoreau was engaged upon an experiment still 
 more illustrative of his creed of individuality. In 1845 he 
 built a hut in the woods by Walden Pond, and for two 
 years lived a self-contained life there. It was not alto 
 gether a lonely life. He was within easy walking distance 
 of Concord village, and the novelty of his housekeeping at 
 tracted many visitors, while his friends who valued his con 
 versation sought him out in his hermitage. Besides and 
 beyond this Thoreau had a genius for intercourse with 
 humbler companions. There have been few instances in 
 history of such perfect understanding as existed between 
 him and the lower orders of creation. It has been said of 
 him : " Every fact which occurs in the bed [of the Concord
 
 " . ^^
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 163 
 
 River], on the banks, or in the air over it ; the fishes, and 
 their spawning and nests, their manners, their food ; the 
 shad-flies which fill the air on a certain evening once a year, 
 and which are snapped at by the fishes so ravenously that 
 many of these die of repletion, the conical heaps of small 
 stones on the river-shallows, one of which heaps will some 
 times overfill a cart, these heaps the huge nests of small 
 fishes, the birds which frequent the stream, heron, duck, 
 sheldrake, loon, osprey ; the snake, muskrat, otter, wood- 
 chuck, and fox on the banks; the turtle, frog, hyla, and 
 cricket which made the banks vocal, were all known to 
 him, and, as it were, townsmen and fellow-creatures. . . . 
 His power of observation seemed to indicate additional 
 senses. He saw as with microscrope, heard as with ear- 
 trumpet, and his memory was a photographic register of 
 all he saw and heard. . . . His intimacy with animals sug 
 gested what Thomas Fuller records of Butler the apiolo- 
 gist, that ' either he had told the bees things or the bees 
 had told him ; ' snakes coiled round his leg ; the fishes swam 
 into his hand, and he took them out of the water ; he pulled 
 the woodchuck out of its hole by the tail, and took the 
 foxes under his protection from the hunters." l 
 
 Walden, published in 1854, is the record of Thoreau's 
 life in the woods, and inasmuch as that life was not ex 
 hausted in the bare provision against bodily wants, nor in 
 the observation even of what lay under the eye and ear, but 
 was busied about the questions which perplex all who would 
 give an account of themselves, the record mingles common 
 fact and personal experience, the world without and the 
 world within. Thoreau records what he sees and hears in 
 the woods, but these sights and sounds are the texts for 
 sermons upon human life. He undertook to get at the ele 
 mentary conditions of living, and to strip himself as far as 
 he could of all that was unnecessary. In doing this he dis 
 covered many curious and ingenious things, and the unique 
 1 Emerson's Biographical Sketch.
 
 164 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 method which he took was pretty sure to give him glimpses 
 of life not seen by others. But the method had its disad 
 vantages, and chiefly this, that it was against the common 
 order of things, and therefore the results reached could not 
 be relied upon as sound and wholesome. 
 
 The great value of Walden, and indeed of all Thoreau's 
 books, is not in the philosophy, which is often shrewd and 
 often strained and arbitrary, but in the disclosure made of 
 the common facts of the world about one. He used to say, 
 "I think nothing is to be hoped from you, if this bit of 
 mould under your feet is not sweeter to you to eat than any 
 other in this world, or in any world ; " and the whole drift 
 of his writing is toward the development of the individual 
 in the place where he happens to be. Thoreau's protesting 
 attitude, and the stout resistance which he made to all in 
 fluences about him except the common ones of nature, be 
 tray themselves in the style of his writing. He has a way, 
 almost insolent, of throwing out his thoughts, and growling 
 forth his objections to the conventions of life, which ren 
 ders his writing often crabbed and inartistic. There is a 
 rudeness which seems sometimes affected, and a carelessness 
 which is contemptuous. Yet often his indifference to style 
 is a rugged insistence on the strongest thought, and in his 
 effort to express himself unreservedly he reaches a force 
 and energy which are refreshing. 
 
 A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers and 
 Walden were the only writings of Thoreau published in 
 his lifetime. He printed contributions to the magazines 
 from time to time, and out of these and his manuscripts 
 have been gathered eight other volumes, Excursions in Field 
 and Forest, The Maine Woods, Cape Cod, Letters to Va 
 rious Persons, A Yankee in Canada, Early Spring in 
 Massachusetts, Summer and Winter. To Excursions was 
 prefixed a biographical sketch by R. W. Emerson, which 
 gives one a very vivid portrait of this unique man. Cape 
 Cod, which is the record of a walk taken the length of the
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 165 
 
 Cape, and Walden are likely to remain as the most finished 
 and agreeable of Thoreau's books. All of his writings, 
 however, will be searched for the evidence which they give 
 of a mind singular for its independence, its resolute con 
 fronting of the problems of life, its insight into nature, its 
 Violation, and its waywardness.
 
 WILD APPLES. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF THE APPLE-TREE. 
 
 IT is remarkable how closely the history of the 
 Apple-tree is connected with that of man. The geolo 
 gist tells us that the order of the fiosacece, which 
 includes the Apple, also the true Grasses, and the 
 Labiatce^ or Mints, were introduced only a short time 
 previous to the appearance of man on the globe. 
 
 It appears that apples made a part of the food of 
 that unknown primitive people whose traces have 
 lately been found at the bottom of the Swiss lakes, 
 supposed to be older than the foundation of Borne, so 
 old that they had no metallic implements. An entire 
 black and shrivelled Crab-Apple has been recovered 
 from their stores. 
 
 Tacitus says of the ancient Germans that they sat 
 isfied their hunger with wild apples, among other 
 things. 
 
 Niebuhr l observes that " the words for a house, a 
 field, a plough, ploughing, wine, oil, milk, sheep, 
 apples, and others relating to agriculture and the gen 
 tler ways of life, agree in Latin and Greek, while the 
 Latin words for all objects pertaining to war or the 
 chase are utterly alien from the Greek." Thus the 
 apple-tree may be considered a symbol of peace no 
 less than the olive. 
 
 1 A Germaii historical critic of ancient life.
 
 WILD APPLES. 161 
 
 The apple was early so important, and so generally 
 distributed, that its name traced to its root in many 
 languages signifies fruit in general. MJ}\OV [Melon], 
 in Greek, means an apple, also the fruit of other 
 trees, also a sheep and any cattle, and finally riches in 
 general. 
 
 The apple-tree has been celebrated by the Hebrews, 
 Greeks, Romans, and Scandinavians. Some have 
 thought that the first human pair were tempted by its 
 fruit. Goddesses are fabled to have contended for it, 
 dragons were set to watch it, and heroes were em 
 ployed to pluck it. 1 
 
 The tree is mentioned in at least three places in the 
 Old Testament, and its fruit in two or three more. 
 Solomon sings, "As the apple-tree among the trees 
 of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons." And 
 again, " Stay me with flagons, comfort me with ap 
 ples." The noblest part of man's noblest feature is 
 named from this fruit, " the apple of the eye." 
 
 The apple-tree is also mentioned by Homer and 
 Herodotus. Ulysses saw in the glorious garden of 
 Alcinoiis "pears and pomegranates and apple-trees 
 bearing beautiful fruit." And according to Homer, 
 apples were among the fruits which Tantalus could 
 not pluck, the wind ever blowing their boughs away 
 from him. Theophrastus knew and described the 
 apple-tree as a botanist. 
 
 According to the prose Edda, 2 " Iduna keeps in a 
 box the apples which the gods, when they feel old age 
 approaching, have only to taste of to become young 
 again. It is in this manner that they will be kept in 
 
 1 The Greek myths especially referred to are The Choice ol 
 Paris and The Apples of the Hesperides. 
 a The stories of the early bcaiidiuaviaua.
 
 168 HENRY DAVID THOEEAU. 
 
 renovated youth until Ragnarok " (or the destruction 
 of the Gods). 
 
 I learn from Loudon 1 that "the ancient Welsh 
 bards were rewarded for excelling in song by the 
 token of the apple-spray ;" and "in the Highlands 
 of Scotland the apple-tree is the badge of the clan 
 Lamont." 
 
 The apple-tree belongs chiefly to the northern tem 
 perate zone. Loudon says, that " it grows spontane 
 ously in every part of Europe except the frigid zone, 
 and throughout Western Asia, China and Japan." 
 We have also two or three varieties of the apple indi 
 genous in North America. The cultivated apple-tree 
 was first introduced into this country by the earliest 
 settlers, and is thought to do as well or better here 
 than anywhere else. Probably some of the varieties 
 which are now cultivated were first introduced into 
 Britain by the Romans. 
 
 Pliny, adopting the distinction of Theophrastus, 
 ays, " Of trees there are some which are altogether 
 wild, some more civilized." Theophrastus includes 
 the apple among the last ; and, indeed, it is in this 
 sense the most civilized of all trees. It is as harmless 
 AS a dove, as beautiful as a rose, and as valuable as 
 flocks and herds. It has been longer cultivated than 
 liny other, and so is more humanized ; and who knows 
 but, like the dog, it will at length be no longer trace 
 able to its wild original? It migrates with man, like 
 the dog and horse and cow ; first, perchance, from 
 Greece to Italy, thence to England, thence to America ; 
 and our Western emigrant is still marching steadily 
 toward the setting sun with the seeds of the apple in 
 
 1 An English authority on the culture of orchards and gar* 
 
 MM.
 
 WILD APPLES. 169 
 
 his pocket, or perhaps a few young trees strapped to 
 his load. At least a million apple-trees are thus set 
 farther westward this year than any cultivated ones 
 grew last year. Consider how the Blossom-Week, 
 like the Sabbath, is thus annually spreading over the 
 prairies ; for when man migrates he carries with him 
 not only his birds, quadrupeds, insects, vegetables, 
 and his very sward, but his orchard also. 
 
 The leaves and tender twigs are an agreeable food 
 to many domestic animals, as the cow, horse, sheep, 
 and goat ; and the fruit is sought after by the first, 
 as well as by the hog. Thus there appears to have 
 existed a natural alliance between these animals and 
 this tree from the first. " The fruit of the Crab in the 
 forests of France " is said to be " a great resource for 
 the wild boar." 
 
 Not only the Indian, but many indigenous insects, 
 birds, and quadrupeds, welcomed the apple-tree to 
 these shores. The tent-caterpillar saddled her eggs on 
 the very first twig that was formed, and it has since 
 shared her affections with the wild cherry ; and the 
 canker-worm also in a measure abandoned the elm to 
 feed on it. As it grew apace, the bluebird, robin, 
 cherry-bird, king-bird, and many more, came with 
 haste and built their nests and warbled in its boughs, 
 and so became orchard-birds, and multiplied more 
 than ever. It was an era in the history of their race. 
 The downy woodpecker found such a savory morsel 
 under its bark, that he perforated it in a ring quite 
 round the tree before he left it, a thing which he 
 had never done before, to my knowledge. It did not 
 take the partridge long to find out how sweet its buds 
 were, and every winter eve she flew, and still flies, 
 from the wood, to pluck them, much to the farmer's
 
 170 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 sorrow. The rabbit, too, was not slow to learn the 
 taste of its twigs and bark ; and when the fruit was 
 ripe, the squirrel half -rolled, half -carried it to his hole ; 
 and even the musquash crept up the bank from the 
 brook at evening, and greedily devoured it, until he 
 had worn a path in the grass there ; and when it was 
 frozen and thawed, the crow and the jay were glad to 
 taste it occasionally. The owl crept into the first 
 apple-tree that became hollow, and fairly hooted with 
 delight, finding it just the place for him ; so, settling 
 down into it, he has remained there ever since. 
 
 My theme being the Wild Apple, I will merely 
 glance at some of the seasons in the annual growth of 
 the cultivated apple, and pass on to my special prov 
 ince. 
 
 The flowers of the apple are perhaps the most beau 
 tiful of any tree, so copious and so delicious to both 
 sight and scent. The walker is frequently tempted to 
 turn and linger near some more than usually hand 
 some one, whose blossoms are two thirds expanded. 
 How superior it is in these respects to the pear, whose 
 blossoms are neither colored nor fragrant ! 
 
 By the middle of July, green apples are so large as 
 to remind us of coddling, and of the autumn. The 
 sward is commonly strewed with little ones which fall 
 still-born, as it were, Nature thus thinning them for 
 us. The Koman writer Palladius said : " If apples 
 are inclined to fall before their time, a stone placed in 
 a split root will retain them." Some such notion, still 
 surviving, may account for some of the stones which 
 we see placed to be overgrown in the forks of trees 
 They have a saying in Suffolk, England, 
 
 * At Michaelmas time, or a little before, 
 Half aii apple goes to the core."
 
 WILD APPLES. 171 
 
 Early apples begin to be ripe about the first of 
 August ; but I think that none of them are so good 
 to eat as some to smell. One is worth more to scent 
 your handkerchief with than any perfume which they 
 sell in the shops. The fragrance of some fruits is not 
 to be forgotten, along with that of flowers. Some 
 gnarly apple which I pick up in the road reminds me 
 by its fragrance of all the wealth of Pomona, 1 car 
 rying me forward to those days when they will be 
 collected in golden and ruddy heaps in the orchards 
 and about the cider-mills. 
 
 A week or two later, as you are going by orchards 
 or gardens, especially in the evenings, you pass through 
 a little region possessed by the fragrance of ripe ap 
 ples, and thus enjoy them without price, and without 
 robbing anybody. 
 
 There is thus about all natural products a certain 
 volatile and ethereal quality which represents their 
 highest value, and which cannot be vulgarized, or 
 bought and sold. No mortal has ever enjoyed the per 
 fect flavor of any fruit, and only the godlike among 
 men begin to taste its ambrosial qualities. For nectar 
 and ambrosia are only those fine flavors of every 
 earthly fruit which our coarse palates fail to perceive, 
 just as we occupy the heaven of the gods without 
 knowing it. When I see a particularly mean man 
 carrying a load of fair and fragrant early apples to 
 market, I seem to see a contest going on between him 
 and his horse, on the one side, and the apples on the 
 other, and, to my mind, the apples always gain it. 
 Pliny says that apples are the heaviest of all things, 
 and that the oxen begin to sweat at the mere sight of 
 ft load of them. Our driver begins to lose his load 
 1 The Roman goddess of fruit and fruit-trees.
 
 172 VKNRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 the moment he tries to transport them to where they 
 do not belong, that is, to any but the most beautiful. 
 Though he gets out from time to time, and feels of 
 them, and thinks they are all there, I see the stream 
 <>f their evanescent and celestial qualities going to 
 /leaven from his cart, while the pulp and skin and 
 ?ore only are going to market. They are not apples, 
 but pomace. Are not these still Iduna's apples, the 
 taste of which keeps the gods forever young? and 
 think you that they will let Loki or Thjassi carry 
 them off to Jotunheim, 1 while they grow wrinkled and 
 gray ? No, for Ragnarok, or the destruction of the 
 gods, is not yet. 
 
 There is another thinning of the fruit, commonly 
 near the end of August or in September, when the 
 ground is strewn with windfalls; and this happens 
 especially when high winds occur after rain. In some 
 orchards you may see fully three quarters of the whole 
 crop on the ground, lying in a circular form beneath 
 the trees, yet hard and green, or, if it is a hillside, 
 rolled far down the hill. However, it is an ill wind 
 that blows nobody any good. All the country over, 
 people are busy picking up the windfalls, and this 
 will make them cheap for early apple-pies. 
 
 In October, the leaves falling, the apples are more 
 distinct on the trees. I saw one year in a neighboring 
 town some trees fuller of fruit than I remember to 
 have ever seen before, small yellow apples hanging 
 over the road. The branches were gracefully droop 
 ing with their weight, like a barberry-bush, so that 
 
 1 Jotunheim (Ye(r)if^un-hime) in Scandinavian mythology was 
 the home of the Jotun or Giants. Loki was a descendant of the 
 gods, and a companion of the Giuiits. Thjassi ( Tee-assy) wa 
 a giant.
 
 WILD APPLES. 173 
 
 the whole tree acquired a new character. Even the 
 topmost branches, instead of standing erect, spread 
 and drooped in all directions ; and there were so many 
 poles supporting the lower ones, that they looked lik* 
 pictures of banian-trees. As an old English manu 
 script says, "The mo appelen the tree bereth the, 
 more sche boweth to the folk." 
 
 Surely the apple is the noblest of fruits. Let the 
 most beautiful or the swiftest have it. That should 
 be the " going " price of apples. 
 
 Between the fifth and twentieth of October I see 
 the barrels lie under the trees. And perhaps I talk 
 with one who is selecting some choice barrels to fulfil 
 an order. He turns a specked one over many times 
 before he leaves it out. If I were to tell what is pass 
 ing in my mind, I should say that every one was 
 specked which he had handled ; for he rubs off all the 
 bloom, and those fugacious ethereal qualities leave it. 
 Cool evenings prompt the farmers to make haste, and 
 at length I see only the ladders here and there left 
 leaning against the trees. 
 
 It would be well if we accepted these gifts with 
 more joy and gratitude, and did not; think it enough 
 simply to put a fresh load of compost about the tree. 
 Some old English customs are suggestive at least. I 
 find them described chiefly in Brand's " Popular An 
 tiquities." It appears that "on Christmas eve the 
 farmers and their men in Devonshire take a large 
 bowl of cider, with a toast in it, and carrying it in 
 state to the orchard, they salute the apple-trees with 
 much ceremony, in order to make them bear well the 
 next season." This salutation consists in " throwing 
 some of the cider about the roots of the tree, placing 
 bits of the toast on the branches," and then, " encir-
 
 174 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 cling one of the best bearing trees in the orchard, 
 they drink the following toast three several times : 
 
 " ' Here 's to there, old apple-tree, 
 
 Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow, 
 And whence thou mayst bear apples enow 1 
 Hats-full! caps-full! 
 Bushel, bushel, sacks-full ! 
 And my pockets full, too I Hurra! ' " 
 
 Also what was called " apple-howling " used to be 
 practised in various counties of England on New- 
 Year's eve. A troop of boys visited the different 
 orchards, and, encircling the apple-trees, repeated the 
 following words : 
 
 " Stand fast, root ! bear well, top ! 
 Pray God send us a good howling crop : 
 Every twig, apples big ; 
 Every bow, apples enow 1 " 
 
 " They then shout in chorus, one of the boys accom 
 panying them on a cow's horn. During this cere 
 mony they rap the trees with their sticks." This is 
 called *' wassailing " the trees, and is thought by some 
 to be "a relic of the heathen sacrifice to Pomona." 
 
 Herrick sings, 
 
 " Wassaile the trees that they may beare 
 You many a plum and many a peare ; 
 For more or less fruits they will bring 
 As you so give them wassailing." 
 
 Our poets have as yet a better right to sing of cider 
 than of wine ; but it behooves them to sing better than 
 English Phillips did, else they will do no credit to 
 their Muse. 
 
 THE WILD APPLE. 
 
 So much for the more civilized apple-trees (urbaf 
 mores, as Pliny calls them). I love better to go
 
 WILD APPLES. 175 
 
 through the old orchards of ungrafted apple-trees, at 
 whatever season of the year, so irregularly planted : 
 sometimes two trees standing close together ; and the 
 rows so devious that you would think that they not 
 only had grown while the owner was sleeping, but had 
 been set out by him in a somnambulic state. The 
 rows of grafted fruit will never tempt me to wander 
 amid them like these. But I now, alas, speak rather 
 from memory than from any recent experience, such 
 ravages have been made I 
 
 Some soils, like a rocky tract called the Easter- 
 brooks Country in my neighborhood, are so suited to 
 the apple, that it will grow faster in them without any 
 care, or if only the ground is broken up once a year, 
 than it will in many places with any amount of care. 
 The owners of this tract allow that the soil is excel 
 lent for fruit, but they say that it is so rocky that 
 they have not patience to plough it, and that, together 
 with the distance, is the reason why it is not culti 
 vated. There are, or were recently, extensive or 
 chards there standing without order. Nay, they spring 
 up wild and bear well there in the midst of pines, 
 birches, maples, and oaks. I am often surprised to 
 see rising amid these trees the rounded tops of apple- 
 trees glowing with red or yellow fruit, in harmony 
 with the autumnal tints of the forest. 
 
 Going up the side of a cliff about the first of No 
 vember, I saw a vigorous young apple-tree, which, 
 planted by birds or cows, had shot up amid the rocks 
 and open woods there, and had now much fruit on it, 
 uninjured by the frosts, when all cultivated apples were 
 gathered. It was a rank wild growth, with many green 
 leaves on it still, and made an impression of thorni- 
 ness. The fruit was hard and green, but looked as if
 
 176 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 it would be palatable in the winter. Some was dan 
 gling on the twigs, but more half-buried in the wet 
 leaves under the tree, or rolled far down the hill amid 
 the rocks. The owner knows nothing of it. The 
 day was not observed when it first blossomed, nor 
 when it first bore fruit, unless by the chickadee. 
 There was no dancing on the green beneath it in its 
 honor, and now there is no hand to pluck its fruit, 
 which is only gnawed by squirrels, as I perceive. It 
 has done double duty, not only borne this crop, but 
 each twig has grown a foot into the air. And this is 
 such fruit ! bigger than many berries, we must admit, 
 and carried home will be sound and palatable next 
 spring. What care I for Iduna's apples so long as I 
 can get these ? 
 
 When I go by this shrub thus late and hardy, and 
 see its dangling fruit, I respect the tree, and I am 
 grateful for Nature's bounty, even though I cannot 
 eat it. Here on this rugged and woody hillside has 
 grown an apple-tree, not planted by man, no relic of 
 a former orchard, but a natural growth, like the pines 
 and oaks. Most fruits which we prize and use de 
 pend entirely on our care. Corn and grain, potatoes, 
 peaches, melons, etc., depend altogether on our plant 
 ing ; but the apple emulates man's independence and 
 enterprise. It is not simply carried, as I have said, 
 but, like him, to some extent, it has migrated to thif 
 New World, and is even, here and there, making its 
 way amid the aboriginal trees ; just as the ox and 
 dog and horse sometimes run wild and maintain them* 
 selves. 
 
 Even the sourest and crabbedest apple, growing in 
 the most unfavorable position, suggests such thoughts 
 as these, it is so noble a fruit.
 
 WILD APPLES. 17? 
 
 THE CRAB. 
 
 Nevertheless, our wild apple is wild only like myself, 
 perchance, who belong not to the aboriginal race here, 
 but have strayed into the woods from the cultivated 
 stock. Wilder still, as I have said, there grows else 
 where in this country a native and aboriginal Crab- 
 Apple, " whose nature has not yet been modified by 
 cultivation." It is found from Western New York to 
 Minnesota and southward. Michaux 1 says that its 
 ordinary height " is fifteen or eighteen feet, but it is 
 sometimes found twenty-five or thirty feet high," and 
 that the large ones "exactly resemble the common 
 apple-tree." "The flowers are white mingled with 
 rose-color, and are collected in corymbs." They are 
 remarkable for their delicious odor. The fruit, ac 
 cording to him, is about an inch and a half in diame 
 ter, and is intensely acid. Yet they make fine sweet 
 meats, and also cider of them. He concludes, that 
 "if, on being cultivated, it does not yield new and 
 palatable varieties, it will at least be celebrated for 
 the beauty of its flowers, and for the sweetness of its 
 perfume." 
 
 I never saw the Crab- Apple till May, 1861. I had 
 heard of it through Michaux, but more modern bot 
 anists, so far as I know, have not treated it as of any 
 peculiar importance. Thus it was a half-fabulous tree 
 to me. I contemplated a pilgrimage to the " Glades," 
 a portion of Pennsylvania, where it was said to grow 
 to perfection. I thought of sending to a nursery for 
 it, but doubted if they had it, or would distinguish it 
 from European varieties. At last I had occasion to 
 go to Minnesota, and on entering Michigan I began 
 1 Pronounced mee-sW ; a French botanist and traveller.
 
 178 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 to notice from the cars a tree with handsome rose- 
 colored flowers. At first I thought it some variety of 
 thorn ; but it was not long before the truth flashed on 
 me, that this was my long-sought Crab-Apple. It 
 was the prevailing flowering shrub or tree to be seen 
 from the cars at that season of the year, about the 
 middle of May. But the cars never stopped before 
 one, and so I was launched on the bosom of the Mis 
 sissippi without having touched one, experiencing the 
 fate of Tantalus. On arriving at St. Anthony's Falls, 
 I was sorry to be told that I was too far north for the 
 Crab-Apple. Nevertheless I succeeded in finding it 
 about eight miles west of the Falls ; touched it and 
 smelled it, and secured a lingering corymb of flowers 
 for my herbarium. This must have been near its 
 northern limit. 
 
 HOW THE WILD APPLE GROWS. 
 
 But though these are indigenous, like the Indians, 
 I doubt whether they are any hardier than those back 
 woodsmen among the apple-trees, which, though de 
 scended from cultivated stocks, plant themselves in 
 distant fields and forests, where the soil is favorable 
 to them. I know of no trees which have more diffi 
 culties to contend with, and which more sturdily resist 
 their foes. These are the ones whose story we have 
 to tell. It oftentimes reads thus : 
 
 Near the beginning of May, we notice little thickets 
 of apple-trees just springing up in the pastures where 
 cattle have been, as the rocky ones of our Easter- 
 brooks Country, or the top of Nobscot Hill in Sud- 
 bury. One or two of these perhaps survive the 
 drought and other accidents, their very birthplace 
 defending them against the encroaching grass and 
 some other dangers, at first.
 
 WILD APPLES. 179 
 
 In two years' time 't had thus 
 Reached the level of the rocks, 
 
 Admired the stretching world, 
 Nor feared the wandering flocks. 
 
 But at this tender age 
 
 Its sufferings began : 
 There came a browsing ox 
 
 And cut it down a span. 
 
 This time, perhaps, the ox does not notice it amid the 
 grass ; but the next year, when it has grown more 
 stout, he recognizes it for a fellow-emigrant from the 
 old country, the flavor of whose leaves and twigs he 
 well knows ; and though at first he pauses to welcome 
 it, and express his surprise, and gets for answer, " The 
 same cause that brought you here brought me," he 
 nevertheless browses it again, reflecting, it may be, 
 that he has some title to it. 
 
 Thus cut down annually, it does not despair ; but, 
 putting forth two short twigs for every one cut off, it 
 spreads out low along the ground in the hollows or 
 between the rocks, growing more stout and scrubby, 
 until it forms, not a tree as yet, but a little pyramidal, 
 stiff, twiggy mass, almost as solid and impenetrable 
 as a rock. Some of the densest and most impenetra 
 ble clumps of bushes that I have ever seen, as well 
 on account of the closeness and stubbornness of their 
 branches as of their thorns, have been these wild-apple 
 scrubs. They are more like the scrubby fir and black 
 spruce on which you stand, and sometimes walk, on 
 the tops of mountains, where cold is the demon they 
 contend with, than anything else. No wonder they 
 are prompted to grow thorns at last, to defend them 
 selves against such foes. In their thorniness, how 
 ever, there is no malice, only some malic acid.
 
 180 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 The rocky pastures of the tract I have referred t% 
 for they maintain their ground best in a rocky 
 field are thickly sprinkled with these little tufts, 
 reminding you often of some rigid gray mosses or 
 lichens, and you see thousands of little trees just 
 springing up between them, with the seed still at 
 tached to them. 
 
 Being regularly clipped all around each year by the 
 cows, as a hedge with shears, they are often of a per 
 fect conical or pyramidal form, from one to four feet 
 high, and more or less sharp, as if trimmed by the 
 gardener's art. In the pastures on Nobscot Hill and 
 its spurs they make fine dark shadows when the sun 
 is low. They are also an excellent covert from hawks 
 for many small birds that roost and build in them. 
 Whole flocks perch in them at night, and I have seen 
 three robins' nests in one which was six feet in dia 
 meter. 
 
 No doubt many of these are already old trees, if 
 you reckon from the day they were planted, but in 
 fants still when you consider their development and 
 the long life before them. I counted the annual rings 
 of some which were just one foot high, and as wide as 
 high, and found that they were about twelve years 
 old, but quite sound and thrifty ! They were so low 
 that they were unnoticed by the walker, while many 
 of their contemporaries from the nurseries were al 
 ready bearing considerable crops. But what you gain 
 in time is perhaps in this case, too, lost in power, 
 that is, in the vigor of the tree. This is their pyram 
 idal state. 
 
 The cows continue to browse them thus for twenty 
 years or more, keeping them down and compelling 
 them to spread, until at last they are so broad that
 
 WILD APPLES. 181 
 
 they become their own fence, when some interior 
 shoot, which their foes cannot reach, darts upward 
 with joy : for it has not forgotten its high calling, and 
 bears its own peculiar fruit in triumph. 
 
 Such are the tactics by which it finally defeats its 
 bovine foes. Now, if you have watched the progress 
 of a particular shrub, you will see that it is no longer 
 a simple pyramid or cone, but out of its apex there 
 rises a sprig or two, growing more lustily perchance 
 than an orchard-tree, since the plant now devotes the 
 whole of its repressed energy to these upright parts. 
 In a short time these become a small tree, an inverted 
 pyramid resting on the apex of the other, so that the 
 whole has now the form of a vast hour-glass. The 
 spreading bottom, having served its purpose, finally 
 disappears, and the generous tree permits the now 
 harmless cows to come in and stand in its shade, and 
 rub against and redden its trunk, which has grown in 
 spite of them, and even to taste a part of its fruit, and 
 so disperse the seed. 
 
 Thus the cows create their own shade and food ; 
 and the tree, its hour-glass being inverted, lives a sec 
 ond life, as it were. 
 
 It is an important question with some nowadays, 
 whether you should trim young apple-trees as high as 
 your nose or as high as your eyes. The ox trims 
 them up as high as he can reach, and that is about 
 the right height, I think. 
 
 In spite of wandering kine and other adverse cir 
 cumstance, that despised shrub, valued only by small 
 birds as a covert and shelter from hawks, has its 
 blossom-week at last, and in course of time its har 
 vest, sincere, though small. 
 
 By the end of some October, when its leaves have
 
 182 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 fallen, I frequently see such a central sprig, whose 
 progress I have watched, when I thought it had for 
 gotten its destiny, as I had, bearing its first crop of 
 small green or yellow or rosy fruit, which the cows can 
 not get at over the bushy and thorny hedge which sur 
 rounds it ; and I make haste to taste the new and unde- 
 scribed variety. We have all heard of the numerous 
 varieties of fruit invented by Van Mons 1 and Knight. 2 
 This is the system of Van Cow, and she has invented 
 far more and more memorable varieties than both of 
 them. 
 
 Through what hardships it may attain to bear a 
 sweet fruit ! Though somewhat small, it may prove 
 equal, if not superior, in flavor to that which has 
 grown in a garden, will perchance be all the sweeter 
 and more palatable for the very difficulties it has had to 
 contend with. Who knows but this chance wild fruit, 
 planted by a cow or a bird on some remote and rocky 
 hillside, where it is as yet unobserved by man, may be 
 the choicest of all its kind, and foreign potentates 
 shall hear of it, and royal societies seek to propagate 
 it, though the virtues of the perhaps truly crabbed 
 owner of the soil may never be heard of, at least, 
 beyond the limits of his village? It was thus the 
 Porter and the Baldwin grew. 
 
 Every wild-apple shrub excites our expectation thus, 
 somewhat as every wild child. It is, perhaps, a prince 
 in disguise. What a lesson to man ! So are human 
 beings, referred to the highest standard, the celestial 
 fruit which they suggest and aspire to bear, browsed 
 on by fate ; and only the most persistent and strong 
 est genius defends itself and prevails, sends a tender 
 
 1 A Belgian chemist and horticulturist. 
 * An English vegetable physiologist.
 
 WILD APPLES. 183 
 
 scion upward at last, and drops its perfect fruit on 
 the ungrateful earth. Poets and philosophers and 
 statesmen thus spring up in the country pastures, and 
 outlast the hosts of unoriginal men. 
 
 Such is always the pursuit of knowledge. The ce 
 lestial fruits, the golden apples of the Hesperides, are 
 ever guarded by a hundred-headed dragon which never 
 sleeps, so that it is an herculean labor to pluck them. 
 
 This is one and the most remarkable way in which 
 the wild apple is propagated ; but commonly it springs 
 up at wide intervals in woods and swamps, and by the 
 sides of roads, as the soil may suit it, and grows with 
 comparative rapidity. Those which grow in dense 
 woods are very tall and slender. I frequently pluck 
 from these trees a perfectly mild and tamed fruit. 
 As Palladius says, "And the ground is strewn with 
 the fruit of an unbidden apple-tree." 
 
 It is an old notion, that, if these wild trees do not 
 bear a valuable fruit of their own, they are the best 
 stocks by which to transmit to posterity the most highly 
 prized qualities of others. However, I am not in 
 search of stocks, but the wild fruit itself, whose fierce 
 gust has suffered no " inteneration." It is not my 
 
 " highest plot 
 To plant the Bergamot." 
 
 THE FRUIT, AND ITS FLAVOR. 
 
 The time for wild apples is the last of October and 
 the first of November. They then get to be palatable, 
 for they ripen late, and they are still, perhaps, as 
 beautiful as ever. I make a great account of these 
 fruits, which the farmers do not think it worth the 
 while to gather, wild flavors of the Muse, vivacious 
 and inspiriting. The farmer thinks that he has better
 
 184 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 in his barrels ; but he is mistaken, unless he has a 
 walker's appetite and imagination, neither of which 
 can he have. 
 
 Such as grow quite wild, and are left out till the 
 first of November, I presume that the owner does not 
 mean to gather. They belong to children as wild as 
 themselves, to certain active boys that I know, 
 to the wild-eyed woman of the fields, to whom nothing 
 comes amiss, who gleans after all the world, and, 
 moreover, to us walkers. We have met with them, 
 and they are ours. These rights, long enough insisted 
 upon, have come to be an institution in some old 
 countries, where they have learned how to live. I 
 hear that "the custom of grippling, which may be 
 called apple-gleaning, is, or was formerly, practised in 
 Herefordshire. It consists in leaving a few apples, 
 which are called the gripples, on every tree, after the 
 general gathering, for the boys, who go with climbing- 
 poles and bags to collect them." 
 
 As for those I speak of, I pluck them as a wild 
 fruit, native to this quarter of the earth, fruit of 
 old trees that have been dying ever since I was a boy 
 and are not yet dead, frequented only by the wood 
 pecker and the squirrel, deserted now by the owner, 
 who has not faith enough to look under their boughs. 
 Prom the appearance of the tree-top, at a little dis 
 tance, you would expect nothing but lichens to drop 
 from it, but your faith is rewarded by finding the 
 ground strewn with spirited fruit, some of it, per 
 haps, collected at squirrel-holes, with the marks of their 
 teeth by which they carried them, some containing 
 a cricket or two silently feeding within, and some, 
 especially in damp days, a shelless snail. The very 
 ticks and stones lodged in the tree-top might have
 
 WILD APPLES. 186 
 
 convinced you of the savoriness of the fruit which has 
 been so eagerly sought after in past years. 
 
 I have seen no account of these among the " Fruits 
 and Fruit-Trees of America," though they are more 
 memorable to my taste than the grafted kinds ; more 
 racy and wild American flavors do they possess, when 
 October and November, when December and January, 
 and perhaps February and March even, have assuaged 
 them somewhat. An old farmer in my neighborhood, 
 who always selects the right word, says that "they 
 have a kind of bow-arrow tang." 
 
 Apples for grafting appear to have been selected 
 commonly, not so much for their spirited flavor, aa 
 for their mildness, their size, and bearing qualities, 
 not so much for their beauty, as for their fairness and 
 soundness. Indeed, I have no faith in the selected 
 lists of pomological gentlemen. Their " Favorites " 
 and " Non-suches " and " Seek-no-farthers," when I 
 have fruited them, commonly turn out very tame and 
 forgetable. They are eaten with comparatively little 
 zest, and have no real tang nor smack to them. 
 
 What if some of these wildings are acrid and puck- 
 ery, genuine verjuice, do they not still belong to the 
 Pomacece, which are uniformly innocent and kind to 
 our race? I still begrudge them to the cider-mill. 
 Perhaps they are not fairly ripe yet. 
 
 No wonder that these small and high-colored apples 
 are thought to make the best cider. London quotes 
 from the Herefordshire Report that " apples of a 
 small size are always, if equal in quality, to be pre 
 ferred to those of a larger size, in order that the rind 
 and kernel may bear the greatest proportion to the 
 pulp, which affords the weakest and most watery 
 juice." And he says, that, " to prove this, Dr. Sy-
 
 186 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 monds of Hereford, about the year 1800, made one 
 hogshead of cider entirely from the rinds and cores of 
 apples, and another from the pulp only, when the first 
 was found of extraordinary strength and flavor, while 
 the latter was sweet and insipid." 
 
 Evelyn l says that the " Red-strake " was the favor 
 ite cider-apple in his day ; and he quotes one Dr. New- 
 burg as saying, " In Jersey 't is a general observation, 
 as I hear, that the more of red any apple has in its 
 rind, the more prooer it is for this use. Pale-faced 
 apples they exclude as much as may be from their 
 cider-vat." This opinion still prevails. 
 
 All apples are good in November. Those which 
 the farmer leaves out as unsalable, and unpalatable to 
 those who frequent the markets, are choicest fruit to 
 the walker. But it is remarkable that the wild apple, 
 which I praise as so spirited and racy when eaten in 
 the fields or woods, being brought into the house, has 
 frequently a harsh and crabbed taste. The Saunter- 
 er's Apple not even the saunterer can eat in the house. 
 The palate rejects it there, as it does haws and acorns, 
 and demands a tamed one ; for there you miss the No 
 vember air, which is the sauce it is to be eaten with. 
 Accordingly, when Tityrus, seeing the lengthening 
 shadows, invites Meliboeus to go home and pass the 
 night with him, he promises him mild apples and soft 
 chestnuts. I frequently pluck wild apples of so rich 
 and spicy a flavor that I wonder all orchardists do not 
 get a scion from that tree, and I fail not to bring 
 home my pockets full. But perchance, when I take 
 one out of my desk and taste it in my chamber I find 
 it unexpectedly crude, sour enough to set a squir 
 rel's teeth on edge and make a jay scream. 
 
 1 An English writer of the seventeenth centuiy.
 
 WILD APPLES. 187 
 
 These apples have hung in the wind and frost and 
 rain till they have absorbed the qualities of the weather 
 or season, and thus are highly seasoned, and they 
 pierce and sting and permeate us with their spirit. 
 They must be eaten in season, accordingly, that is, 
 out-of-doors. 
 
 To appreciate the wild and sharp flavors of these 
 October fruits, it is necessary that you be breathing 
 the sharp October or November air. The out-door air 
 and exercise which the walker gets give a different 
 tone to his palate, and he craves a fruit which the 
 sedentary would call harsh and crabbed. They must 
 be eaten in the fields, when your system is all aglow 
 with exercise, when the frosty weather nips your fin 
 gers, the wind rattles the bare boughs or rustles the 
 few remaining leaves, and the jay is heard screaming 
 around. What is sour in the house a bracing walk 
 makes sweet. Some of these apples might be labelled, 
 " To be eaten in the wind." 
 
 Of course no flavors are thrown away ; they are in 
 tended for the taste that is up to them. Some apples 
 have two distinct flavors, and perhaps one-half of 
 them must be eaten in the house, the other out-doors. 
 One Peter Whitney wrote from Northborougb in 
 1782, for the Proceedings of the Boston Academy, de 
 scribing an apple-tree in that town " producing fruit 
 of opposite qualities, part of the same apple being fre 
 quently sour and the other sweet ; " also some all sour, 
 and others all sweet, and this diversity on all parts oi 
 the tree. 
 
 There is a wild apple on Nawshawtuck Hill in my 
 town which has to me a peculiarly pleasant bitter 
 tang, not perceived till it is three-quarters tasted. It 
 remains on the tongue. As you eat it, it smells ex-
 
 188 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 actly like a squash-bug. It is a sort of triumph to eat 
 and relish it. 
 
 I hear that the fruit of a kind of plum-tree in Pro- 
 rence is " called Prunes sibarelles, because it is im 
 possible to whistle after having eaten them, from their 
 sourness." But perhaps they were only eaten in the 
 house and in summer, and if tried out-of-doors in a 
 stinging atmosphere, who knows but you could whistle 
 an octave higher and clearer ? 
 
 In the fields only are the sours and bitters of Na 
 ture appreciated ; just as the wood-chopper eats his 
 meal in a sunny glade, in the middle of a winter day, 
 with content, basks in a sunny ray there, and dreams 
 of summer in a degree of cold which, experienced in a 
 chamber, would make a student miserable. They who 
 are at work abroad are not cold, but rather it is they 
 who sit shivering in houses. As with temperatures, 
 so with flavors ; as with cold and heat, so with sour 
 and sweet. This natural raciness, the sours and bit 
 ters which the diseased palate refuses, are the true 
 condiments. 
 
 Let your condiments be in the condition of your 
 senses. To appreciate the flavor of these wild apples 
 requires vigorous and healthy senses, papillce 1 firm 
 and erect on the tongue and palate, not easily flattened 
 and tamed. 
 
 From my experience with wild apples, I can under 
 stand that there may be reason for a savage's prefer 
 ring many kinds of food which the civilized man re 
 jects. The former has the palate of an out-door man. 
 It takes a savage or wild taste to appreciate a wild 
 fruit. 
 
 1 A Latin word, accent on thfc second syllable, meaning here 
 the rough surface of the tongue and palate.
 
 WILD APPLES. 189 
 
 What a healthy out-of-door appetite it takes to rel 
 ish the apple of life, the apple of the world, then 1 
 
 " Nor is it every apple I desire, 
 
 Nor that which pleases every palate best ; 
 'T is not the lasting Deuxan I require, 
 
 Nor yet the red-cheeked Greening I request, 
 Nor that which first beshrewed the name of wife, 
 Nor that whose beauty caused the golden strife : 
 No, no ! bring me an apple from the tree of life." 
 
 So there is one thought for the field, another for the 
 house. I would have my thoughts, like wild apples, 
 to be food for walkers, and will not warrant them to 
 be palatable, if tasted in the house. 
 
 THEIR BEAUTY. 
 
 Almost all wild apples are handsome. They can 
 not be too gnarly and crabbed and rusty to look at. 
 The gnarliest will have some redeeming traits even to 
 the eye. You will discover some evening redness 
 dashed or sprinkled on some protuberance or in some 
 cavity. It is rare that the summer lets an apple go 
 without streaking or spotting it on some part of its 
 sphere. It will have some red stains, commemorating 
 the mornings and evenings it has witnessed ; some 
 dark and rusty blotches, in memory of the clouds and 
 foggy, mildewy days that have passed over it ; and a 
 spacious field of green reflecting the general face of 
 Nature, green even as the fields; or a yellow 
 ground, which implies a milder flavor, yellow as the 
 harvest, or russet as the hills. 
 
 Apples, these I mean, unspeakably fair, apples 
 not of Discord, but Concord I Yet not so rare but 
 that the homeliest may have a share. Painted by 
 the frosts, some a uniform clear bright yellow, or red,
 
 190 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 or crimson, as if their spheres had regularly revolved, 
 and enjoyed the influence of the sun on all sides alike, 
 some with the faintest pink blush imaginable, 
 some brindled with deep red streaks like a cow, or 
 with hundreds of fine blood-red rays running regularly 
 from the stem-dimple to the blossom-end, like merid 
 ional lines, on a straw-colored ground, some touched 
 with a greenish rust, like a fine lichen, here and there, 
 with crimson blotches or eyes more or less confluent 
 and fiery when wet, and others gnarly, and freckled 
 or peppered all over on the stem side with fine crim 
 son spots on a white ground, as if accidentally sprin 
 kled from the brush of Him who paints the autumn 
 leaves. Others, again, are sometimes red inside, per 
 fused with a beautiful blush, fairy food, too beautiful 
 to eat, apple of the Hesperides, apple of the even 
 ing sky 1 But like shells and pebbles on the sea-shore, 
 they must be seen as they sparkle amid the withering 
 leaves in some dell in the woods, in the autumnal air, 
 or as they lie in the wet grass, and not when they 
 have wilted and faded in the house. 
 
 THE NAMING OF THEM. 
 
 It would be a pleasant pastime to find suitable 
 names for the hundred varieties which go to a single 
 heap at the cider-mill. Would it not tax a man's 
 invention, no one to be named after a man, and 
 all in the lingua vemacula ? l Who shall stand god 
 father at the christening of the wild apples ? It would 
 exhaust the Latin and Greek languages, if they were 
 used, and make the lingua vemacula flag. We 
 should have to call in the sunrise and the sunset, the 
 rainbow and the autumn woods and the wild flowers, 
 1 Lingua vernac'ula, common speech.
 
 WILD APPLES. 191 
 
 and the woodpecker and the purple finch, and the 
 squirrel and the jay and the butterfly, the November 
 traveller and the truant boy, to our aid. 
 
 In 1836 there were in the garden of the London 
 Horticultural Society more than fourteen hundred 
 distinct sorts. But here are species which they have 
 not in their catalogue, not to mention the varieties 
 which our Crab might yield to cultivation. Let us enu 
 merate a few of these. I find myself compelled, after 
 all, to give the Latin names of some for the benefit of 
 those who live where English is not spoken, for 
 they are likely to have a world-wide reputation. 
 
 There is, first of all, the Wood-Apple (Mains syl- 
 vatica) ; the Blue-Jay Apple; the Apple which grows 
 in Dells in the Woods (sylvestrivallis), also in Hol 
 lows in Pastures (campestrivallis) ; the Apple that 
 grows in .an old Cellar-Hole (Mains cellaris) ; the 
 Meadow- Apple ; the Partridge-Apple ; the Truant's 
 Apple ( Cessatoris), which no boy will ever go by 
 without knocking off some, however late it may be ; 
 the Saunterer's Apple, you must lose yourself be 
 fore you can find the way to that ; the Beauty of the 
 Air (Decus Aeris) ; December-Eating ; the Frozen- 
 Thawed (gelato-soluta), good only in that state ; the 
 Concord Apple, possibly the same with the Muslceta- 
 quidensis ; the Assabet Apple ; the Brindled Apple $ 
 Wine of New England ; the Chickaree Apple ; the 
 Green Apple (Mains viridis) ; this has many 
 synonyms ; in an imperfect state, it is the Cholera 
 morbifera aut dysenterifera, puerulis dilectissima ; l 
 the Apple which Atalanta stopped to pick up ; the 
 Hedge - Apple (Mains Sepiurn) ; the Slug - Apple 
 
 1 The apple that brings the disease of cholera and of dysen 
 tery, the fruit that small boys like beet.
 
 192 HER-RY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 (limacea) ; the Railroad-Apple, which perhaps came 
 from a core thrown out of the cars ; the Apple whose 
 Fruit we tasted in our Youth ; our Particular Apple, 
 not to be found in any catalogue, Pedestrium So 
 latium ; 1 also the Apple where hangs the Forgotten 
 Scythe ; Iduna's Apples, and the Apples which Loki 
 found in the Wood ; 2 and a great many more I have 
 on my list, too numerous to mention, all of them 
 good. As Bodaeus exclaims, referring to the culti 
 vated kinds, and adapting Virgil to his case, so I, 
 adapting Bodaeus, 
 
 " Not if I had a hundred tongues, a hundred mouths, 
 An iron voice, could I describe all the forms 
 And reckon up all the names of these wild apples" 
 
 THE LAST GLEANING. 
 
 By the middle of November the wild apples have 
 lost some of their brilliancy, and have chiefly fallen. 
 A great part are decayed on the ground, and the 
 sound ones are more palatable than before. The 
 note of the chickadee sounds now more distinct, ae 
 you wander amid the old trees, and the autumnal 
 dandelion is half-closed and tearful. But still, if you 
 are a skilful gleaner, you may get many a pocket-full 
 even of grafted fruit, long after apples are supposed 
 to be gone out-of-doors. I know a Blue-Pearmain 
 tree, growing within the edge of a swamp, almost as 
 good as wild. You would not suppose that there was 
 any fruit left there, on the first survey, but you must 
 look according to system. Those which lie exposed 
 are quite brown and rotten now, or perchance a few 
 still show one blooming cheek here and there amid 
 the wet leaves. Nevertheless, with experienced eyes, 
 1 The tramp's comfort. See p. 172.
 
 WILD APPLES. 193 
 
 I explore amid the bare alders and the huckleberry- 
 bushes and the withered sedge, and in the crevices of 
 the rocks, which are full of leaves, and pry under the 
 fallen and decaying ferns, which, with apple and 
 alder leaves, thickly strew the ground. For I know 
 that they lie concealed, fallen into hollows long since 
 and covered up by the leaves of the tree itself, a 
 proper kind of packing. From these lurking-places, 
 anywhere within the circumference of the tree, 1 
 draw forth the fruit, all wet and glossy, maybe nib* 
 bled by rabbits and hollowed out by crickets and 
 perhaps with a leaf or two cemented to it (as Curzon 1 
 an old manuscript from a monastery's mouldy cellar), 
 but still with a rich bloom on it, and at least as ripe 
 and well kept, if not better than those in barrels, 
 more crisp and lively than they. If these resources 
 fail to yield anything, I have learned to look between 
 the bases of the suckers which spring thickly from 
 some horizontal limb, for now and then one lodges 
 there, or in the very midst of an alder-clump, where 
 they are covered by leaves, safe from cows which may 
 have smelled them out. If I am sharp-set, for I do 
 not refuse the Blue-Pearmain, I fill my pockets on 
 each side ; and as I retrace my steps in the frosty 
 eve, being perhaps four or five miles from home, I 
 eat one first from this side, and then from that, to 
 keep my balance. 
 
 I learn from Topsell's Gesner, whose authority ap 
 pears to be Albertus, that the following is the way in 
 which the hedgehog collects and carries home his 
 apples. He says : " His meat is apples, worms, or 
 
 1 Robert Curzon was a traveller who searched for old manu 
 scripts in the monasteries of the Levant. See his book, An* 
 went Monasteries of the East.
 
 194 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 grapes : when he findeth apples or grapes on the earth, 
 he rolleth himself upon them, until he have filled all 
 his prickles, and then carrieth them home to his den, 
 never bearing above one in his mouth ; and if it for 
 tune that one of them fall off by the way, he likewise 
 shaketh off all the residue, and walloweth upon them 
 if resh, until they be all settled upon his back again. 
 So, forth he goeth, making a noise like a cart-wheel ; 
 and if he have any young ones in his nest, they pull 
 off his load wherewithal he is loaded, eating thereof 
 what they please, and laying up the residue for the 
 lime to come." 
 
 THE " FROZEN-THAWED " APPLE. 
 
 Toward the end of November, though some of the 
 sound ones are yet more mellow and perhaps more 
 edible, they have generally, like the leaves, lost their 
 beauty, and are beginning to freeze. It is finger-cold, 
 and prudent farmers get in their barrelled apples, and 
 bring you the apples and cider which they have en 
 gaged ; for it is time to put them into the cellar. 
 Perhaps a few on the ground show their red cheeks 
 above the early snow, and occasionally some even 
 preserve their color and soundness under the snow 
 throughout the winter. But generally at the begin 
 ning of the winter they freeze hard, and soon, though 
 undecayed, acquire the color of a baked apple. 
 
 Before the end of December, generally, they ex 
 perience their first thawing. Those which a month 
 ago were sour, crabbed, and quite unpalatable to the 
 civilized taste, such at least as were frozen while 
 sound, let a warmer sun come to thaw them, for they 
 are extremely sensitive to its rays, are found to be 
 filled with a rich, sweet cider, better than any bottled
 
 WILD APPLES. 195 
 
 cider that I know of, and with which I am better 
 acquainted than with wine. All apples are good in 
 this state, and your jaws are the cider-press. Others, 
 which have more substance, are a sweet and luscious 
 food, in my opinion of more worth than the pine 
 apples which are imported from the West Indies. 
 Those which lately even I tasted only to repent of it, 
 for I am semi-civilized, which the farmer will 
 ingly left on the tree, I am now glad to find have the 
 property of hanging on like the leaves of the young 
 oaks. It is a way to keep cider sweet without boil 
 ing. Let the frost come to freeze them first, solid as 
 stones, and then the rain or a warm winter day to 
 thaw them, and they will seem to have borrowed a 
 flavor from heaven through the medium of the air in 
 which they hang. Or perchance you find, when you 
 get home, that those which rattled in your pocket 
 have thawed, and the ice is turned to cider. But 
 after the third or fourth freezing and thawing they 
 will not be found so good. 
 
 What are the imported half -ripe fruits of the torrid 
 South to this fruit matured by the cold of the frigid 
 North ? These are those crabbed apples with which 
 I cheated my companion, and kept a smooth face that 
 I might tempt him to eat. Now we both greedily fill 
 our pockets with them, bending to drink the cup 
 and save our lappets from the overflowing juice, 
 and grow more social with their wine. Was there 
 one that hung so high and sheltered by the tangled 
 branches that our sticks could not dislodge it ? 
 
 It is a fruit never carried to market, that I am 
 aware of, quite distinct from the apple of the 
 markets, as from dried apple and cider, and it ia 
 not every winter that produces it in perfection.
 
 196 HENRY DAVID THOREAU. 
 
 The era of the Wild Apple will soon be past. It 
 is a fruit which will probably become extinct in New 
 England. You may still wander through old orchards 
 of native fruit of great extent, which for the most 
 part went to the cider-mill, now all gone to decay. I 
 have heard of an orchard in a distant town, on the 
 side of a hill, where the apples rolled down and lay 
 four feet deep against a wall on the lower side, and 
 this the owner cut down for fear they should be made 
 into cider. Since the temperance reform and the 
 general introduction of grafted fruit, no native apple- 
 trees, such as I see everywhere in deserted pastures, 
 and where the woods have grown up around them, are 
 set out. I fear that he who walks over these fields a 
 century hence will not know the pleasure of knocking 
 off wild apples. Ah, poor man, there are many plea 
 sures which he will not know I Notwithstanding the 
 prevalence of the Baldwin and the Porter, I doubt if 
 so extensive orchards are set out to-day in my town as 
 there were a century ago, when those vast straggling 
 cider-orchards were planted, when men both ate and 
 drank apples, when the pomace-heap was the only 
 nursery, and trees cost nothing but the trouble of set 
 ting them out. Men could afford then to stick a tree 
 by every wall-side and let it take its chance. I see 
 nobody planting trees to-day in such out-of-the-way 
 places, along the lonely roads and lanes, and at the 
 bottom of dells in the wood. Now that they have 
 grafted trees, and pay a price for them, they collect 
 them into a plat by their houses, and fence them in, 
 and the end of it all will be that we shall be com 
 pelled to look for our apples in a barrel. 
 
 This is " The word of the Lord that came to Joe] 
 the son of Pethuel.
 
 WILD APPLES. 197 
 
 ** Hear this, ye old men, and give ear, all ye in 
 habitants of the land ! Hath this been in your days, 
 or even in the days of your fathers ? . . . 
 
 " That which the palmer- worm hath left hath the 
 locust eaten ; and that which the locust hath left hath 
 the canker-worm eaten ; and that which the canker- 
 worm hath left hath the caterpillar eaten. 
 
 " Awake, ye drunkards, and weep ! and howl, all 
 ye drinkers of wine, because of the new wine ! for it 
 is cut off from your mouth. 
 
 " For a nation is come up upon my land, strong, 
 and without number, whose teeth are the teeth of a 
 lion, and he hath the cheek-teeth of a great lion. 
 
 " He hath laid my vine waste, and barked my fig- 
 tree ; he hath made it clean bare, and cast it away ; 
 the branches thereof are made white. . . . 
 
 "Be ye ashamed, O ye husbandmen ! howl, O ye 
 vine-dressers ! . . . 
 
 " The vine is dried up, and the fig-tree languish- 
 eth ; the pomegranate-tree, the palm-tree also, and the 
 apple-tree, even all the trees of the field, are with 
 ered : because joy is withered away from the sous oi 
 men." 1 
 
 1 Joel, chapter i., verses 1-12.
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 1 
 
 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY was born on June 28, 1844, in 
 Dowth Castle, four miles above the town of Drogheda, Ire 
 land. His parents were cultured and talented. He inher 
 ited a good constitution, and was passionately fond of out- 
 of-door sports. Among the boys of his neighborhood no one 
 was more daring or skilful than the handsome, rosy-cheeked, 
 curly-haired, dark-eyed John. At the age of eleven he left 
 home to become an apprentice hi the printing-office of the 
 Drogheda Argus, at a salary of two shillings and sixpence 
 a week, which did not include board and lodging ; his salary 
 was increased sixpence a week every year. 
 
 After nearly four years of service the death of his em 
 ployer released him from the obligations of his apprentice 
 ship. In 1859 he went to Preston, England, the home of 
 his uncle, Captain Watkinson, where he obtained a situation 
 as an apprentice in the office of the Cruardian. Three 
 years later he graduated from the printer's case and became 
 a reporter, having learned shorthand and otherwise equipped 
 himself for the work of a journalist. In March, 1863, he 
 obeyed a call from his father to return home to Ireland. 
 
 He had become deeply imbued with the revolutionary 
 principles then so freely adopted by patriotic Irishmen. It 
 
 1 The information given in this brief sketch has been gleaned 
 from the Life of John Boyle O'Reilly, by James Jeffrey Roche, 
 published by the Cassell .Publishing Company, of New York*
 
 200 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 was hoped that disaffection would be sowed in the ranks of 
 the British army, of which more than thirty per cent were 
 Irishmen. Accordingly in May, 1863, O'Reilly enlisted as 
 a trooper in the Tenth Hussars, where he became a model 
 soldier, quick to learn and punctual to obey orders. In 
 February, 1866, he was arrested on the charge of " having 
 at Dublin in January, 1866, come to the knowledge of an 
 intended mutiny in Her Majesty's Forces in Ireland, and 
 not giving information of said intended mutiny to his com 
 manding officer." On June 27th, of the same year, the day 
 preceding his twenty-second birthday, his trial by court- 
 martial began. On July 9, 1866, formal sentence of death 
 was passed upon him. The same day the sentence was com 
 muted to life imprisonment, and afterwards to twenty years' 
 penal servitude. For about fifteen months he was confined 
 in the prisons of Mountjoy, Pentonville, Millbank, Chatham, 
 Portsmouth, Dartmoor, and Portland. He suffered in 
 tensely from poor food, hard work, foul air, and inhuman 
 jailers. He made two unsuccessful attempts to escape, for 
 which he was severely punished by solitary confinement and 
 a diet of bread and water. 
 
 In October, 1867, he and sixty-two other political prison 
 ers were embarked on the Hougoumont for Australia. His 
 popularity among the guards secured for him kindly treat 
 ment on the voyage. He arrived at Freemautle on the 
 morning of January 10, 1868, and four weeks later was sent 
 to Bunbury, thirty miles away, where he led the life of a 
 convict among some of the most degraded of humankind 
 murderers, burglars, offenders of every grade and color of 
 vice. But ill fortune instead of blighting had nourished in 
 him the growth of the instincts of pure humanity. He soon 
 won the respect of the officer over him, became of assistance 
 in clerical work, and was appointed a " constable," or aid to 
 an officer in charge of a working party. Not long after 
 the following advertisement appeared in the Police Gazette 
 of Western Australia :

 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 201 
 
 ABSCONDERS. 
 
 20 John B. O'Reilly, registered No. 9843, imperial convict; 
 arrived in the colony per convict ship Hougoumont in 1868 ; sen 
 tenced to twenty years, 9th July, 1866. Description Healthy 
 appearance ; present age 25 years ; 5 feet 7| inches high, black 
 hair, brown eyes, oval visage, dark complexion : an Irishman. 
 Absconded from Convict Road Party, Bunbury, on the 18th of 
 February, 1869. 
 
 O'Reilly had escaped through the Bush to the seashore, 
 and after a disappointing delay and much suffering from 
 hunger and thirst he was taken on hoard the Gazelle, a Ne\r 
 Bedford whaler commanded by Captain Gifford. Two 
 months later, in the harbor of Roderique, he escaped cap 
 ture through a well-planned ruse of his friend, Mr. Hatha 
 way, the third mate of the Gazelle. To avoid the danger 
 of capture at St. Helena, the next port for the Gazelle, 
 O'Reilly was reluctantly transferred, by Captain Gifford, on 
 July 29th, to the Sapphire, of Boston, bound for Liverpool. 
 After a short stay at Liverpool he embarked as third mate 
 on the Bombay, and on November 23, 1869, landed at 
 Philadelphia. His first act after landing was to present 
 himself before the United States District Court and take out 
 his first naturalization papers. He soon went to New York, 
 where by the invitation of the Fenians he delivered a lecture 
 to over two thousand persons at the Cooper Institute, on 
 December 16, 1869. We next find him in Boston as clerk 
 in the office of the Inman Line Steamship Company. After 
 four or five weeks of satisfactory work he was discharged 
 by orders received from the general office of the company in 
 England, whither news had been sent that John Boyle 
 O'Reilly, an escaped convict, was in the employment of the 
 company at Boston. In the spring of 1870, after having 
 lectured successfully in Boston, Providence, Salem, Law 
 rence, and other places, he was employed by Mr. Donahoe, 
 the editor and proprietor of the Boston Pilot, as a reporter
 
 202 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 and general writer. In June, 1870, he took part in the in 
 vasion of Canada by the Fenians, as war-correspondent of 
 the Pilot. His frank criticism of friends and foes at this 
 time, and his wise and temperate reports to the Pilot at 
 tracted much attention. 
 
 In February, 1876, O'Reilly, in his thirty-second year, 
 became one of the proprietors of the Pilot. In 1879 he 
 was President of the Papyrus Club, which he had helped to 
 found, and also of the Boston Press Club. His literary 
 work was not confined to the Pilot. He made many contri 
 butions, in both poetry and prose, to some of the leading 
 magazines of the United States, and delivered a number of 
 notable addresses on public occasions. A large part of his 
 poems found a permanent form in the volumes entitled 
 Songs of the Southern Seas, The Statues in the Block and 
 In Bohemia. He also published Moondyne, a novel, and 
 some other books. His reputation as an editor, lecturer, 
 poet, and leader of the Irish-American people continued to 
 increase until his death, which occurred on tbe nigbt of 
 August 9, 1890. 
 
 On August 15, 1872, he was married to Miss Mary Mur 
 phy, of Charlestown, Massachusetts. They had four daugh 
 ters, all of whom survived their father. 
 
 Of the many noble poems written by Mr. O'Reilly, the 
 Pilgrim Fathers, read August 1, 1889, at the dedication of 
 the national monument to the Pilgrim Fathers at Plymouth, 
 Massachusetts, is described as the crowning work of his life 
 as an American singer. This poem is given in full in the 
 following pages.
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 ONE righteous word for Law the common will ; 
 One living truth of Faith God regnant still ; 
 One primal test of Freedom all combined ; 
 One sacred Revolution change of mind ; 
 One trust unfailing for the night and need 
 The tyrant-flower shall cast the freedom-seed. 
 
 So held they firm, the Fathers aye to be, 
 From home to Holland, Holland to the sea ; 
 Pilgrims for manhood, in their little ship, 
 Hope in each heart and prayer on every lip. i 
 
 They could not live by king-made codes and creeds ; 
 They chose the path where every footstep bleeds. 
 Protesting, not rebelling ; scorned and banned ; 
 Through pains and prisons harried from the land ; 
 Through double exile, till at last they stand it 
 
 Apart from all, unique, unworldly, true, 
 Selected grain to sow the earth anew ; 
 A winnowed part, a saving remnant they ; 
 Dreamers who work, adventurers who pray I 
 
 What vision led them? Can we test their prayers? 
 Who knows they saw no empire in the West ? 
 The later Puritans sought land and gold, 
 And all the treasures that the Spaniard told ; 
 What line divides the Pilgrims from the rest? 
 
 We know them by the exile that was theirs ; 25 
 
 Their justice, faith, and fortitude attest;
 
 204 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 And those long years in Holland, when their band 
 
 Sought humble living in a stranger's land. 
 
 They saw their England covered with a weed 
 
 Of flaunting lordship both in court and creed. M 
 
 With helpless hands they watched the error grow, 
 
 Pride on the top and impotence below ; 
 
 Indulgent nobles, privileged and strong, 
 
 A haughty crew to whom all rights belong ; 
 
 The bishops arrogant, the courts impure, 
 
 The rich conspirators against the poor ; 
 
 The peasant scorned, the artisan despised ; 
 
 The all-supporting workers lowest prized. 
 
 They marked those evils deepen year by year : 
 
 The pensions grow, the freeholds disappear, 
 
 Till England meant but monarch, prelate, peer. 
 
 At last the Conquest ! Now they know the word : 
 
 The Saxon tenant and the Norman lord ! 
 
 No longer Merrie England : now it meant 
 
 The payers and the takers of the rent ; 45 
 
 And rent exacted not from lands alone 
 
 All rights and hopes must centre in the throne : 
 
 Law-tithes for prayer their souls were not their own ! 
 
 Then o'er the brim the bitter waters welled ; 
 The mind protested and the soul rebelled. 
 
 And yet, how deep the bowl, how slight the flow 1 
 A few brave exiles from their country go ; 
 A few strong souls whose rich affections cling, 
 Though cursed by clerics, hunted by the king ; 
 Their last sad vision on the Grimsby strand 
 
 Their wives and children kneeling on the sand. 
 
 Then twelve slow years in Holland changing 
 years
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 205 
 
 Strange ways of life strange voices in their ears ; 
 
 The growing children learning foreign speech ; 
 
 And growing, too, within the heart of each 
 
 A thought of further exile of a home 
 
 In some far land a home for life and death 
 
 By their hands built, in equity and faith. 
 
 And then the preparation the heart-beat 
 Of wayfarers who may not rest their feet ; 
 
 Their pastor's blessing the farewells of some 
 Who stayed in Leyden. Then the sea's wide blue : 
 " They sailed," writ one, " and as they sailed they 
 
 knew 
 That they were Pilgrims I " 
 
 On the wintry main 
 
 God flings their lives as farmers scatter grain. 
 
 His breath propels the winged seed afloat ; 
 His tempests swerve to spare the fragile boat ; 
 Before his prompting terrors disappear ; 
 He points the way while patient seamen steer ; 
 Till port is reached, nor North, nor South, but 
 HERE! * 
 
 Here, where the shore was rugged as the 
 Where frozen nature dumb and leafless lay, 
 And no rich meadows bade the Pilgrims stay, 
 Was spread the symbol of the life that saves : 
 To conquer first the outer things ; to make 
 Their own advantage, unallied, unbound ; 
 Their blood the mortar, building from the ground ; 
 Their cares the statutes, making all anew ; 
 To learn to trust the many, not the few ; 
 To bend the mind to discipline ; to break
 
 206 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 The bonds of old convention, and forget 
 
 The claims and barriers of class ; to face 
 
 A desert land, a strange and hostile race, 
 
 And conquer both to friendship by the debt 
 
 That nature pays to justice, love, and toil. 90 
 
 Here, on this rock, and on this sterile soil, 
 Began the kingdom not of kings, but men : 
 Began the making of the world again. 
 Here centuries sank, and from the hither brink 
 A new world reached and raised an old-world link, 
 When English hands, by wider vision taught, 
 Threw down the feudal bars the Normans brought, 
 And here revived, in spite of sword and stake, 
 Their ancient freedom of the Wapentake ! 
 Here struck the seed the Pilgrims' roofless town, iw 
 Where equal rights and equal bonds were set, 
 Where all the people equal-f ranchised met ; 
 Where doom was writ of privilege and crown ; 
 Where human breath blew all the idols down ; 
 Where crests were nought, where vulture flags were 
 furled, IM 
 
 And common men began to own the world I 
 
 All praise to others of the vanguard then ! 
 
 To Spain, to France ; to Baltimore and Penn ; 
 
 To Jesuit, Quaker, Puritan and Priest ; 
 
 Their toil be crowned, their honors be increased ! 111 
 
 We slight no true devotion, steal no fame 
 
 From other shrines to gild the Pilgrims' name. 
 
 As time selects, we judge their treasures heaped ; 
 
 Their deep foundations laid ; their harvests reaped ; 
 
 Their primal mode of liberty ; their rules m 
 
 Of civil right ; their churches, courts, and schools :
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 207 
 
 Their freedom's very secret here laid down, 
 
 The spring of government is the little town ! 
 
 They knew that streams must follow to a spring ; 
 
 And no stream flows from township to a king. w 
 
 Give praise to others, early-come or late, 
 
 For love and labor on our ship of state ; 
 
 But this must stand above all fame and zeal : 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers laid the ribs and keel. 
 
 On their strong lines we base our social health, us 
 
 The man the home the town the common wealth I 
 
 Unconscious builders ? Yea : the conscious fail ! 
 
 Design is impotent if Nature frown. 
 
 No deathless pile has grown from intellect. 
 
 Immortal things have God for architect, wo 
 
 And men are but the granite he lays down. 
 
 Unconscious ? Yea ! They thought it might avail 
 
 To build a gloomy creed about their lives, 
 
 To shut out all dissent ; but naught survives 
 
 Of their poor structure ; and we know to-day iss 
 
 Their mission was less pastoral than lay 
 
 More Nation-seed than Gospel-seed were they ! 
 
 The faith was theirs : the time had other needs. 
 The salt they bore must sweeten worldly deeds. 
 There was a meaning in the very wind lie 
 
 That blew them here, so few, so poor, so strong, 
 To grapple concrete work, not abstract wrong. 
 Their saintly Robinson was left behind 
 To teach by gentle memory ; to shame 
 The bigot spirit and the word of flame ; ii 
 
 To write dear mercy in the Pilgrims' law ; 
 To lead to that wide faith his soul foresaw, 
 That no rejected race in darkness delves ;
 
 208 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 There are no Gentiles, but they make themselves ; 
 That men are one of blood and one of spirit ; iv 
 
 That one is as the whole, and all inherit ! 
 
 On all the story of a life or race, 
 
 The blessing of a good man leaves its trace. 
 
 Their Pastor's word at Ley den here sufficed : 
 
 " But follow me as I have followed Christ ! " iss 
 
 And, " I believe there is more truth to come ! " 
 
 O gentle soul, what future age shall sum 
 
 The sweet incentive of thy tender word 1 
 
 Thy sigh to hear of conquest by the sword ; 
 
 " How happy to convert, and not to slay ! " i 
 
 When valiant Stand ish killed the chief at bay. 
 
 To such as thee the fathers owe their fame ; 
 
 The nation owes a temple to thy name. 
 
 Thy teaching made the Pilgrims kindly, free, 
 
 All that the later Puritans should be. IM 
 
 Thy pious instinct marks their destiny. 
 
 Thy love won more than force or arts adroit, 
 
 It writ and kept the deed with Massasoit ; 
 
 It earned the welcome Samoset expressed ; 
 
 It lived again in Eliot's loving breast ; w 
 
 It filled the Compact which the Pilgrims signed 
 
 Immortal scroll ! the first where men combined 
 
 From one deep lake of common blood to draw 
 
 All rulers, rights, and potencies of law. 
 
 When waves of ages have their motive spent MI 
 
 Thy sermon preaches in this Monument, 
 Where Virtue, Courage, Law, and Learning sit ; 
 Calm Faith above them, grasping Holy Writ ; 
 White hand upraised o'er beauteous, trusting eyes, 
 And pleading finger pointing to the skies ! iso
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 209 
 
 The past is theirs, the future ours ; and we 
 
 Must learn and teach. Oh, may our record be 
 
 Like theirs, a glory, symbolled in a stone, 
 
 To speak as this speaks, of our labors done. 
 
 They had no model ; but they left us one. IBS 
 
 Severe they were ; but let him cast the stone 
 
 Who Christ's dear love dare measure with his own. 
 
 Their strict professions were not cant nor pride. 
 
 Who calls them narrow, let his soul be wide ! 
 
 Austere, exclusive ay, but with their faiil** 1 * 
 
 Their golden probity mankind exalts. 
 
 They never lied in practice, peace, or strife , 
 
 They were no hypocrites ; their faith was clear ; 
 
 They feared too much some sins men ought to fear : 
 
 The lordly arrogance and avarice, ii 
 
 And vain frivolity's besotting vice; 
 
 The stern enthusiasm of their life 
 
 Impelled too far, and weighed poor nature down ; 
 
 They missed God's smile, perhaps, to watch his frown. 
 
 But he who digs for faults shall resurrect aw 
 
 Their manly virtues born of self-respect. 
 
 How sum their merits ? They were true and brave ; 
 
 They broke no compact and they owned no slave. 
 
 They had no servile order, no dumb throat ; 
 
 They trusted first the universal vote ; ** 
 
 The first were they to practice and instil 
 
 The rule of law and not the rule of will ; 
 
 They lived one noble test : who would be freed 
 
 Must give up all to follow duty's lead. 
 
 They made no revolution based on blows, 
 
 But taught one truth that all the planet knows, 
 
 That all men think of, looking on a throne 
 
 The people may be trusted with their own 1
 
 210 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 
 
 In every land wherever might holds sway 
 The Pilgrims' leaven is at work to-day. as 
 
 The Mayflower's cabin was the chosen womb 
 Of light predestined for the nations' gloom. 
 God grant that those who tend the sacred flame 
 May worthy prove of their Forefathers' name. 
 More light has come, more dangers, too, perplex : 
 New prides, new greeds, our high condition vex. 
 The Fathers fled from feudal lords, and made 
 A freehold state ; may we not retrograde 
 To lucre-lords and hierarchs of trade. 
 May we, as they did, teach in court and school, 
 There must be classes, but no class shall rule : 
 The sea is sweet, and rots not like the pool. 
 Though vast the token of our future glory, 
 Though tongue of man hath told not such a story, 
 Surpassing Plato's dream, More's phantasy, still 
 we MO 
 
 Have no new principles to keep us free. 
 As Nature works with changeless grain on grain, 
 The truths the Fathers taught we need again. 
 Depart from this, though we may crowd our shelves, 
 With codes and precepts for each lapse and flaw, i 
 And patch our moral leaks with statute law, 
 We cannot be protected from ourselves I 
 Still must we keep in every stroke and vote 
 The law of conscience that the Pilgrims wrote ; 
 Our seal their secret : LIBKRTY CAN BE ; *H 
 
 THE STATE is FREEDOM IF THE TOWN is FREE. 
 The death of nations in their work began ; 
 They sowed the seed of federated Man. 
 Dead nations were but robber-holds ; and we 
 The first battalion of Humanity ! MS 
 
 All living nations, while our eagles shine,
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 211 
 
 One after one, shall swing into our line ; 
 
 Our freeborn heritage shall be the guide 
 
 And bloodless order of their regicide ; 
 
 The sea shall join, not limit ; mountains stand 
 
 Dividing farm from farm, not land from land. 
 
 O people's Voice ! when farthest thrones shall hear ; 
 When teachers own ; when thoughtful rabbis know ; 
 When artist minds in world-wide symbol show ; 
 When serfs and soldiers their mute faces raise ; w 
 When priests on grand cathedral altars praise ; 
 When pride and arrogance shall disappear, 
 The Pilgrims' Vision is accomplished here 1
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born February 22, 1819, 
 at Elmwood, Cambridge, Massachusetts, in tbe house where 
 he died August 12, 1891. His early life was spent in Cam 
 bridge, and he has sketched many of the scenes in it very 
 delightfully in Cambridge Thirty Years Ago, in his volume 
 of Fireside Travels, as well as in his early poem, An Indian 
 Summer Reverie. His father was a Congregationalist min 
 ister of Boston, and the family to which he belonged has had 
 a strong representation in Massachusetts. His grandfather, 
 John Lowell, was an eminent jurist, the Lowell Institute of 
 Boston owes its endowment to John Lowell, a cousin of the 
 poet, and the city of Lowell was named after Francis Cabot 
 Lowell, an uncle, who was one of the first to begin the man 
 ufacturing of cotton in New England. 
 
 Lowell was a student at Harvard, and was graduated in 
 1838, when he gave a class poem, and in 1841 his first vol 
 ume of poems, A Year's Life, was published. His bent 
 from the beginning was more decidedly literary than that of 
 any contemporary American poet. That is to say, the his 
 tory and art of literature divided his interest with the pro 
 duction of literature, and he carries the unusual gift of rare 
 critical power, joined to hearty, spontaneous creation. It 
 may indeed be guessed that the keenness of judgment and 
 incisiveness of wit which characterize his examination of lit 
 erature have sometimes interfered with his poetic power,
 
 214 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 and made him liable to question his art when he would 
 rather have expressed it unchecked. In connection with 
 Robert Carter, a litterateur who has lately died, he began, 
 in 1843, the publication of The Pioneer, a Literary and 
 Critical Magazine, which lived a brilliant life of three 
 months. A volume of poetry followed in 1844, and the 
 next year he published Conversations on Some of the Old 
 Poets, a book which is now out of print, but interesting 
 as marking the enthusiasm of a young scholar, treading a 
 way then almost wholly neglected in America, and intimat 
 ing a line of thought and study in which he afterward made 
 most noteworthy ventures. Another series of poems fol 
 lowed in 1848, and in the same year The Vision of Sir 
 Launfal. Perhaps it was in reaction from the marked sen 
 timent of his poetry that he issued now a jeu d'esprit, A 
 Fable for Critics, in which he hit off, with a rough and 
 ready wit, the characteristics of the writers of the day, not 
 forgetting himself in these lines : 
 
 " There is Lowell, who *s striving Parnassus to climb 
 With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme ; 
 He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, 
 But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders ; 
 The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 
 Till he learns the distinction 'twixt .singing and preaching J 
 His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well, 
 But he 'd rather by half make a drum of the shell, 
 And rattle away till he 's old as Methusalem, 
 At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem." 
 
 This, of course, is but a half serious portrait of himself, 
 and it touches but a single feature ; others can say better 
 that Lowell's ardent nature showed itself in the series of 
 satirical poems which made him famous, The Biglow Pa 
 pers, written in a spirit of indignation and fine scorn, when 
 the Mexican War was causing many Americans to blush 
 with shame at the use of the country by a class for its own 
 ignoble ends. The true patriotism which marked these and
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 215 
 
 other of his early poems burned with a steady glow in after 
 years, and illumined poems of which we shall speak pres 
 ently. 
 
 After a year and a half spent in travel, Lowell was ap 
 pointed in 1855 to the Belles Lettres professorship at Har 
 vard, previously held by Longfellow. When the Atlantic 
 Monthly was established in 1857 he became its editor, and 
 soon after relinquishing that post he assumed part editorship 
 of the North American Review. In these two magazines, 
 as also in Putnam's Monthly, he published poems, essays, 
 and critical papers, which have been gathered into vol 
 nmes. His prose writings, besides the volumes already 
 mentioned, include two series of Among my Books, histori 
 cal and critical studies, chiefly in English literature ; and 
 My Study Windows, including, with similar subjects, obser 
 vations of nature and contemporary life. During the war 
 for the Union he published a second series of the Biglow 
 Papers, in which, with the wit and fun of the earlier series, 
 there was mingled a deeper strain of feeling and a larger 
 tone of patriotism. The limitations of his style in these sa 
 tires forbade the fullest expression of his thought and emo 
 tion ; but afterward in a succession of poems, occasioned by 
 the honors paid to student-soldiers in Cambridge, the death 
 of Agassiz, and the celebration of national anniversaries 
 during the years 1875 and 1876, he sang in loftier, more 
 ardent strains. The interest which readers have in Lowell 
 is still divided between his rich, abundant prose, and biff 
 thoughtful, often passionate verse. The sentiment of his 
 early poetry, always humane, was greatly enriched by larger 
 experience ; so that the themes which he chose for his later 
 work demanded and received a broad treatment, full of 
 sympathy with the most generous instincts of their time, 
 and built upon historic foundations. 
 
 In 1877 he went to Spain as Minister Plenipotentiary. 
 In 1880 he was transferred to England as Minister Pleni 
 potentiary near the Court of St. James. His duties as
 
 216 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 American Minister did not prevent him from producing oc 
 casional writings, chiefly in connection with public events. 
 Notable among these are his address at the unveiling of a 
 statue of Fielding, and his address on Democracy. 
 
 Mr. Lowell returned to the United States in 1885, and 
 was not afterward engaged in public affairs, but passed the 
 rest of his life quietly in his Cambridge home, prevented 
 by failing health from doing much literary work. He made 
 a collection of his later poems in 1888, under the title 
 Heartsease and Rue, and carefully revised his complete 
 works, published in ten volumes in 1890.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 
 
 AN ADDRESS GIVEN AT THE OPENING OF THE FREE PTJB 
 LIC LIBRARY IN CHELSEA, MASS., 22 DECEMBER, 1885. 
 
 A FEW years ago my friend, Mr. Alexander Ire 
 land, published a very interesting volume which ho 
 called The Book- Lover's Enchiridion, the hand 
 book, 1 that is to say, of those who love books. IT 
 was made up of extracts from the writings of a great 
 variety of distinguished men, ancient and modern, in 
 praise of books. It was a chorus of many voices in 
 many tongues, a hymn of gratitude and praise, full 
 of such piety and fervor as can be paralleled only in 
 songs dedicated to the supreme Power, the supreme 
 Wisdom, and the supreme Love. Nay, there is a glow 
 of enthusiasm and sincerity in it which is often pain 
 fully wanting in those other too commonly mechani 
 cal compositions. We feel at once that here it ia 
 out of the fulness of the heart, yes, and of the head 
 too, that the mouth speaketh. Here was none of that 
 compulsory commonplace which is wont to charac 
 terize those " testimonials of celebrated authors," by 
 means of which publishers sometimes strive to linger 
 out the passage of a hopeless book toward its requi- 
 escat z in oblivion. These utterances which Mr. Ire- 
 
 1 Handbook is a translation of the Greek word enchiridion. 
 8 It was once more common than now to place upon tomb 
 stones the Latin words Requiescat in pact: May he rest in
 
 218 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 land has gathered lovingly together are stamped with 
 that spontaneousness which is the mint-mark of all 
 sterling speech. It is true that they are mostly, as 
 is only natural, the utterances of literary men, and 
 there is a well-founded proverbial distrust of herring 
 that bear only the brand of the packer, and not that 
 of the sworn inspector. But to this objection a cynic 
 might answer with the question, " Are authors so 
 prone, then, to praise the works of other people that 
 vre are to doubt them when they do it unasked ? " 
 Perhaps the wisest thing I could have done to-night 
 would have been to put upon the stand some of the 
 more weighty of this cloud of witnesses. But since 
 your invitation implied that I should myself say 
 something, I will endeavor to set before you a few of 
 the commonplaces of the occasion, as they may be 
 modified by passing through my own mind, or by hav 
 ing made themselves felt in my own experience. 
 
 The greater part of Mr. Ireland's witnesses testify 
 to the comfort and consolation they owe to books, to 
 the refuge they have found in them from sorrow or 
 misfortune, to their friendship, never estranged and 
 outliving all others. This testimony they volunteered. 
 Had they been asked, they would have borne evi 
 dence as willingly to the higher and more general uses 
 of books in their service to the commonwealth, as well 
 as to the individual man. Consider, for example, 
 how a single page of Burke may emancipate the 
 young student of politics from narrow views and 
 merely contemporaneous judgments. 1 Our English 
 ancestors, with that common-sense which is one of the 
 
 1 An interesting reference to Burke as a political thinker will 
 be found in Mr. Lowell's paper, The Place of the Independent in 
 Politics, in his volume of Political Essays.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 219 
 
 most useful, though not one of the most engaging, 
 properties of the race, made a rhyming proverb, which 
 says that 
 
 " When land and goods are gone and spent 
 Then learning is most excellent ; " 
 
 and this is true so far as it goes, though it goes per 
 haps hardly far enough. The law also calls only the 
 earth and what is immovably attached to it real 1 
 property, but I am of opinion that those only are real 
 possessions which abide with a man after he has been 
 stripped of those others falsely so called, and which 
 alone save him from seeming and from being the mis 
 erable forked radish to which the bitter scorn of Lear 
 degraded every child of Adam. 2 The riches of schol 
 arship, the benignities of literature, defy fortune and 
 outlive calamity. They are beyond the reach of thief 
 or moth or rust. As they cannot be inherited, so 
 they cannot be alienated. But they may be shared, 
 they may be distributed, and it is the object and office 
 of a free public library to perform these beneficent 
 functions. 
 
 " Books," says Wordsworth, " are a real world," 3 
 and he was thinking, doubtless, of such books as are 
 not merely the triumphs of pure intellect, however 
 supreme, but of those in which intellect infused with 
 the sense of beauty aims rather to produce delight 
 than conviction, or, if conviction, then through intui 
 tion rather than formal logic, and, leaving what Donne 
 wisely calls 
 
 1 What is personal property or estate, as distinguished fron_ 
 real f 
 
 3 See King Lear, Act HE. sc. 4 ; but see King Henry IV ^ 
 Part II., Act III. sc. 2. 
 
 * In what poem ?
 
 220 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 " Unconcerning things, matters of fact," l 
 to science and the understanding, seeks to give ideal 
 expression to those abiding realities of the spiritual 
 world for which the outward and visible world serves 
 at best but as the husk and symbol. Am I wrong in 
 using the word realities ? wrong in insisting on the 
 distinction between the real and the actual ? in assum 
 ing for the ideal an existence as absolute and self- 
 subsistent as that which appeals to our senses, nay, 
 so often cheats them, in the matter of fact ? How 
 very small a part of the world we truly live in is 
 represented by what speaks to us through the senses 
 when compared with that vast realm of the mind 
 which is peopled by memory and imagination, and 
 with such shining inhabitants ! These walls, these 
 faces, what are they in comparison with the countless 
 images, the innumerable popidation which every one 
 of us can summon up to the tiny show-box of the 
 brain, in material breadth scarce a span, yet infinite 
 as space and time ? and in what, I pray, are those we 
 gravely call historical characters, of which each new 
 historian strains his neck to get a new and different 
 view, in any sense more real than the personages of 
 fiction ? Do not serious and earnest men discuss 
 
 1 A line in the poem Of the Progress of the Soul. The passage 
 Should be read in full. 
 
 " We see in authors, too stiff to recant, 
 A hundred controversies of an ant ; 
 And yet one watches, starves, freezes, and sweats, 
 To know but catechisms and alphabets 
 Of unconcerning things, matters of fact, 
 How others on our stage their parts did act, 
 What Caesar did, yea, and what Cicero said : 
 Why grass is green, or why our blood is red, 
 Are mysteries which none have reached unto ; 
 In this low form, poor t.oul, what wilt thou do ? 
 Oh 1 when wilt thou shake off this pedantry, 
 Of being taugiit by Miuae and lauUay T "
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 221 
 
 Hamlet as they would Cromwell or Lincoln? Does 
 Caesar, does Alaric, hold existence by any other or 
 stronger tenure than the Christian of Bunyan, or the 
 Don Quixote of Cervantes, or the Antigone of Sopho 
 cles? Is not the history which is luminous because 
 of an indwelling and perennial truth to nature, be 
 cause of that light which never was on sea or land, 1 
 really more true, in the highest sense, than many a 
 weary chronicle with names and date and place in 
 which " an Amurath to Amurath succeeds " ? Do we 
 know as much of any authentic Danish prince as of 
 Hamlet? 
 
 But to come back a little nearer to Chelsea and the 
 occasion that has called us together. The founders 
 of New England, if sometimes, when they found it 
 needful, an impracticable, were always a practical 
 people. Their first care, no doubt, was for an ade 
 quate supply of powder, and they encouraged the 
 manufacture of musket bullets by enacting that they 
 should pass as currency at a farthing each, a coin 
 age nearer to its nominal value and not heavier than 
 some with which we are familiar. Their second care 
 was that " good learning should not perish from among 
 us," and to this end they at once established the 
 Grammar (Latin) School 2 in Boston, and soon after 
 the college at Cambridge. The nucleus of this was, 
 as you all know, the bequest in money by John Har 
 vard. Hardly less important, however, was the legacy 
 of his library, a collection of good books, inconsideiv 
 
 1 See Wordsworth's poem, Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a 
 Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm. 
 
 8 An interesting account of this school may be read in The 
 Oldest School in America, containing a notable historical addrew 
 by Phillips Brooks.
 
 222 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 able measured by the standard of to-day, but very 
 considerable then as the possession of a private per 
 son. From that little acorn what an oak has sprung, 
 and from its acorns again what a vocal forest, as old 
 Howell would have called it I old Howell, whom I 
 love to cite, because his name gave their title to the 
 Essays of Elia? and is borne with slight variation 
 by one of the most delightful of modern authors. It 
 was, in my judgment, those two foundations, more 
 than anything else, which gave to New England char 
 acter its bent, and to Boston that literary supremacy 
 which, I am told, she is in danger of losing, but which 
 she will not lose till she and all the world lose Holmes. 
 The opening of a free public library, 2 then, is a 
 most important event in the history of any town. A 
 college training is an excellent thing ; but, after all, 
 the better part of every man's education is that which 
 he gives himself, and it is for this that a good library 
 should furnish the opportunity and the means. I have 
 sometimes thought that our public schools undertook 
 to teach too much, and that the older system, which 
 taught merely the three R's, and taught them well, 
 leaving natural selection to decide who should go 
 farther, was the better. However this may be, all 
 
 1 Mr. Lowell here conjectures that Lamb, who was at home 
 in quaint English literature, adopted his signature of Elia from 
 the Epistolce Ho-Eliance of James Howell, a writer of the former 
 half of the seventeenth century ; but Lamb himself, in a letter 
 to his publishers, states that he took the name of Elia, which he 
 tells them to pronounce Ellia, from a former fellow-clerk of his 
 At the India House, an Italian named Elia. 
 
 * It would be an interesting study for any one to trace the 
 rise and growth of public libraries in the United States. Abun 
 dant material will be found in a Special Report issued by the 
 Bureau oi Education at Washington in 1876.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 223 
 
 that is primarily needful in order to use a library is 
 the ability to read. I say primarily, for there must 
 also be the inclination, and, after that, some guidance 
 in reading well. Formerly the duty of a librarian 
 was considered too much that of a watch-dog, to keep 
 people as much as possible away from the books, and 
 to hand these over to his successor as little worn by 
 use as he could. Librarians now, it is pleasant to see, 
 have a different notion of their trust, and are in the 
 habit of preparing, for the direction of the inexperi 
 enced, lists of such books as they think best worth 
 reading. Cataloguing has also, thanks in great mea 
 sure to American librarians, become a science, and 
 catalogues, ceasing to be labyrinths without a clew, 
 are furnished with finger-posts at every turn. Sub 
 ject catalogues again save the beginner a vast deal of 
 time and trouble by supplying him for nothing with 
 one at least of the results of thorough scholarship, the 
 knowing where to look for what he wants. I do not 
 mean by this that there is or can be any short cut to 
 learning, but that there may be, and is, such a short 
 cut to information that will make learning more easily 
 accessible. 
 
 But have you ever rightly considered what the mere 
 ability to read means ? That it is the key which ad 
 mits us to the whole world of thought and fancy and 
 imagination ? to the company of saint and sage, of the 
 wisest and the wittiest at their wisest and wittiest mo 
 ment? That it enables us to see with the keenest 
 eyes, hear with the finest ears, and listen to the sweet 
 est voices of all time ? More than that, it annihilates 
 time and space for us; it revives for us without a 
 miracle the Age of Wonder, endowing us with the 
 shoes of swiftness and the cap of darkness, so that we
 
 224 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 walk invisible like Fern-seed, 1 and witness unharmed 
 the plague a at Athens or Florence or London ; ac 
 company Caesar on his marches, or look in on Catiline 
 in council with his fellow-conspirators, or Guy Fawkes 
 in the cellar of St. Stephen's. We often hear of peo 
 ple who will descend to any servility, submit to any 
 insult, for the sake of getting themselves or their chil 
 dren into what is euphemistically called good society. 
 Did it ever occur to them that there is a select society 
 of all the centuries to which they and theirs can be 
 admitted for the asking, a society, too, which will not 
 involve them in ruinous expense, and still more ruin 
 ous waste of time and health and faculties ? 
 
 Southey tells us that, in his walk one stormy day, 
 he met an old woman, to whom, by way of greeting, 
 he made the rather obvious remark that it was dread 
 ful weather. She answered, philosophically, that, in 
 her opinion, " any weather was better than none ! " 
 I should be half inclined to say that any reading was 
 better than none, allaying the crudeness of the state 
 ment by the Yankee proverb, which tells us that, 
 though " all deacons are good, there 's odds in dea 
 cons." Among books, certainly, there is much variety 
 of company, ranging from the best to the worst, from 
 Plato to Zola ; and the first lesson in reading well is 
 that which teaches us to distinguish between litera 
 ture and merely printed matter. The choice lies 
 wholly with ourselves. We have the key put into 
 our hands; shall we unlock the pantry or the ora- 
 
 1 Any good collection of fairy tales will enable one to re 
 count the stories which make use of the shoes, the cap, and the 
 fern-seed. 
 
 1 Thacydides describes the plague at Athens ; Defoe, the 
 plague at London.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 225 
 
 tory? There is a Wallachian legend which, like 
 most of the figments of popular fancy, has a moral in 
 it. One Bakala, a good-for-nothing kind of fellow in 
 his way, having had the luck to offer a sacrifice espe 
 cially well pleasing to God, is taken up into heaven. 
 He finds the Almighty sitting in something like the 
 best room of a Wallachian peasant's cottage there 
 is always a profound pathos in the homeliness of the 
 popular imagination, forced, like the princess in the 
 fairy tale, to weave its semblance of gold tissue out 
 of straw. On being asked what reward he desires 
 for the good service he has done, Bakala, who had 
 always passionately longed to be the owner of a bag 
 pipe, seeing a half worn-out one lying among some 
 rubbish in a corner of the room, begs eagerly that it 
 may be bestowed on him. The Lord, with a smile of 
 pity at the meanness of his choice, grants him his 
 boon, and Bakala goes back to earth delighted with 
 his prize. With an infinite possibility within his 
 reach, with the choice of wisdom, of power, of beauty 
 at his tongue's end, he asked according to his kind, 
 and his sordid wish is answered with a gift as sordid. 
 Yes, there is a choice in books as in friends, and the 
 mind sinks or rises to the level of its habitual society, 
 is subdued, as Shakespeare says of the dyer's hand, 
 to what it works in. 1 Cato's advice, cum bonis am- 
 Tmla (consort with the good), is quite as true if we 
 extend it to books, for they, too, insensibly give away 
 their own nature to the mind that converses with 
 them. They either beckon upwards or drag down. 
 Du gleichst dem Geist den du begreifst? says the 
 World Spirit to Faust, and this is true of the ascend- 
 
 1 Sonnet cxi. 
 
 * Thou 'rt like the Spirit whom thou conceivest.
 
 226 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 ing no less than of the descending scale. Every book 
 we read may be made a round in the ever-lengthen 
 ing ladder by which we climb to knowledge, and to 
 that temperance and serenity of mind which, as it is 
 the ripest fruit of Wisdom, is also the sweetest. But 
 this can only be if we read such books as make us 
 think, and read them in such a way as helps them to 
 do so, that is, by endeavoring to judge them, and thus 
 to make them an exercise rather than a relaxation of 
 the mind. Desultory reading, except as conscious 
 pastime, hebetates the brain and slackens the bow 
 string of Will. It communicates as little intelligence 
 as the messages that run along the telegraph wire to 
 the birds that perch on it. Few men learn the high 
 est use of books. After lifelong study many a man 
 discovers too late that to have had the philosopher's 
 stone availed nothing without the philosopher to use 
 it. Many a scholarly life, stretched like a talking 
 wire to bring the wisdom of antiquity into communion 
 with the present, can at last yield us no better news 
 that the true accent of a Greek verse, or the transla 
 tion of some filthy nothing scrawled on the walls of 
 a brothel by some Pompeian idler. And it is cer 
 tainly true that the material of thought reacts upon 
 the thought itself. Shakespeare himself would have 
 been commonplace had he been paddocked in a thinly- 
 shaven vocabulary, and Phidias, had he worked in 
 wax, only a more inspired Mrs. Jarley. A man is 
 known, says the proverb, by the company he keeps, 
 and not only so, but made by it. Milton makes his 
 fallen angels grow small to enter the infernal council 
 room, 1 but the soul, which God meant to be the spa 
 cious chamber where high thoughts and generous aspi- 
 1 See Paradise Lost, Book I. lines 776-798.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 227 
 
 rations might commune together, shrinks and narrows 
 itself to the measure of the meaner company that is 
 wont to gather there, hatching conspiracies against 
 our better selves. We are apt to wonder at the 
 scholarship of the men of three centuries ago, and at 
 a certain dignity of phrase that characterizes them. 
 They were scholars because they did not read so many 
 things as we. They had fewer books, but these were 
 of the best. Their speech was noble because they 
 lunched with Plutarch and supped with Plato. We 
 spend as much time over print as they did, but in 
 stead of communing with the choice thoughts pf 
 choice spirits, and unconsciously acquiring the grand 
 manner of that supreme society, we diligently inform 
 ourselves, and cover the continent with a cobweb of 
 telegraphs to inform us, of such inspiring facts as 
 that a horse belonging to Mr. Smith ran away on 
 Wednesday, seriously damaging a valuable carryall j 
 that a son of Mr. Brown swallowed a hickory nut 
 on Thursday ; and that a gravel bank caved in and 
 buried Mr. Eobinson alive on Friday. Alas, it is we 
 ourselves that are getting buried alive under this 
 avalanche of earthy impertinences! It is we who, 
 while we might each in* his humble way be helping 
 our fellows into the right path, or adding one block 
 to the climbing spire of a fine soul, are willing to 
 become mere sponges saturated from the stagnant 
 goose-pond of village gossip. This is the kind of 
 news we compass the globe to catch, fresh from Bung- 
 town Centre, when we might have it fresh from 
 heaven by the electric lines of poet or prophet ! l It is 
 
 1 It might not be uninstructive for one to make such compu 
 tations as these : How much time does it take to read my cus 
 tomary local newspaper ? What is the shortest time I can give
 
 228 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 bad enough that we should be compelled to know so 
 many nothings, but it is downright intolerable that 
 we must wash so many barrow-loads of gravel to find 
 a grain of mica after all. And then to be told that 
 the ability to read makes us all shareholders in the 
 Bonanza Mine of Universal Intelligence ! 
 
 One is sometimes asked by young people to recom 
 mend a course of reading. My advice would be that 
 they should confine themselves to the supreme books 
 in whatever literature, or still better to choose some 
 one great author, and make themselves thoroughly 
 familiar with him. For, as all roads lead to Rome, 
 so do they likewise lead away from it, and you will 
 find that, in order to understand perfectly and weigh 
 exactly any vital piece of literature, you will be 
 gradually and pleasantly persuaded to excursions and 
 explorations of which you little dreamed when you 
 began, and will find yourselves scholars before you are 
 aware. For remember that there is nothing less 
 profitable than scholarship for the mere sake of 
 scholarship, nor anything more wearisome in the at 
 tainment. But the moment you have a definite aim, 
 attention is quickened, the mother of memory, and 
 all that you acquire groups and arranges itself in an 
 order that is lucid, because everywhere and always it 
 is in intelligent relation to a central object of con 
 stant and growing interest. This method ako forces 
 upon us the necessity of thinking, which is, after all, 
 
 bo it and get the really important things out of it ? How many 
 (lumbers of my newspaper would correspond in time of reading 
 with Shakespeare's Tempest ? How much should I remember of 
 the papers a month afterward ? how much of The Tempest f But 
 newspapers are not to be despised ; only we are to atudy ucon- 
 omy in the using of them.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 229 
 
 the highest result of all education. For what we 
 want is not learning, but knowledge ; that is, the 
 power to make learning answer its true end as a 
 quickener of intelligence and a widener of our intel 
 lectual sympathies. I do not mean to say that every 
 one is fitted by nature or inclination for a definite 
 course of study, or indeed for serious study in any 
 sense. I am quite willing that these should " browse 
 in a library," as Dr. Johnson called it, to their hearts* 
 content. It is, perhaps, the only way in which time 
 may be profitably wasted. But desultory reading 
 will not make a " full man," as Bacon understood it, 
 of one who has not Johnson's memory, his power of 
 assimilation, and, above all, his comprehensive view of 
 the relations of things. " Read not," says Lord Bacon 
 in his Essay of Studies? " to contradict and confute j 
 nor to believe and take for granted ; nor to find talk 
 and discourse ; but to weigh and consider. Some books 
 are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some 
 few to be chewed and digested ; that is, some books 
 are to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but 
 not curiously [carefully], and some few to be read 
 wholly and with diligence and attention. Some books 
 also may be read by deputy" This is weighty and 
 well said, and I would call your attention especially 
 to the wise words with which the passage closes. Tho 
 best books are not always those which lend themselves 
 to discussion and comment, but those (like Mon 
 taigne's Essays) which discuss and comment our 
 selves. 
 
 I have been speaking of such books as should be 
 
 1 It is in this essay that the reference to the "full man" 
 occurs, and as the essay is not long, it would be a good one to 
 emmit to memory.
 
 230 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 chosen for profitable reading. A public library, ol 
 course, must be far wider in its scope. It should con 
 tain something for all tastes, as well as the material 
 for a thorough grounding in all branches of know 
 ledge. It should be rich in books of reference, in 
 encyclopaedias, 1 where one may learn without cost of 
 research what things are generally known. For it is 
 far more useful to know these than to know those that 
 are not generally known. Not to know them is the 
 defect of those half-trained and therefore hasty men 
 who find a mare's nest on every branch of the tree of 
 knowledge. A library should contain ample stores of 
 history, which, if it do not always deserve the pomp 
 ous title which Bolingbroke gave it, of philosophy 
 teaching by example, 2 certainly teaches many things 
 profitable for us to know and lay to heart ; teaches, 
 among other things, how much of the present is still 
 held in mortmain by the past ; teaches that, if there 
 be no controlling purpose, there is, at least, a sternly 
 logical sequence in human affairs, and that chance has 
 but a trifling dominion over them ; teaches why things 
 are and must be so and not otherwise, and that, of all 
 hopeless contests, the most hopeless is that which fools 
 are most eager to challenge, with the Nature of 
 Things; teaches, perhaps more than anything else, 
 the value of personal character as a chief factor in 
 what used to be called destiny, for that cause is strong 
 
 1 A capital subject for discussion would be the comparative 
 merits of the many encyclopaedias to be found in a good public 
 library ; not to determine which is the best, but what is the 
 charncteristic of each. 
 
 a There is another suggestive definition of history made by 
 the English historian E. A. Freeman, and used as a motto on 
 the title-page of the various Johns Hopkins University Studies in 
 Historical and Political Science.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 231 
 
 which has not a multitude but one strong man behind 
 it. History is, indeed, mainly the biography of a few 
 imperial men, and forces home upon us the useful 
 lesson how infinitesimally important our own private 
 affairs are to the universe in general. History is 
 clarified experience, and yet how little do men profit 
 by it ; nay, how should we expect it of those who so 
 seldom are taught anything by their own 1 Delusions, 
 especially economical delusions, seem the only things 
 that have any chance of an earthly immortality. I 
 would have plenty of biography. It is no insignificant 
 fact that eminent men have always loved their Plu 
 tarch, since example, whether for emulation or avoid 
 ance, is never so poignant as when presented to us in 
 a striking personality. Autobiographies are also in 
 structive reading to the student of human nature, 
 though generally written, by men who are more inter 
 esting to themselves than to their fellow-men. I have 
 been told that Emerson and George Eliot agreed in 
 thinking Rousseau's Confessions the most interesting 
 book they had ever read. 
 
 A public library should also have many and full 
 shelves of political economy, for the dismal science, 
 as Carlyle called it, if it prove nothing else, will go 
 far towards proving that theory is the bird in the 
 bush, though she sing more sweetly than the night 
 ingale, and that the millennium will not hasten its 
 coming in deference to the most convincing string of 
 resolutions that were ever unanimously adopted in 
 public meeting. It likewise induces in us a profound 
 and wholesome distrust of social panaceas. 
 
 I would have a public library abundant in transla 
 tions of the best books in all languages, for, though 
 no work of genius can be adequately translated, be-
 
 232 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 cause every word of it is permeated with what Milton 
 calls " the precious life-blood of a master spirit " which 
 cannot be transfused into the veins of the best trans 
 lation, yet some acquaintance with foreign and ancient 
 literatures has the liberalizing effect of foreign travel. 1 
 He who travels by translation travels more hastily 
 and superficially, but brings home something that if 
 worth having, nevertheless. Translations properly 
 used, by shortening the labor of acquisition, add as 
 many years to our lives as they subtract from the pro 
 cesses of our education. Looked at from any but the 
 aesthetic point of view, translations retain whatever 
 property was in their originals to enlarge, liberalize, 
 and refine the mind. At the same time I would have 
 also the originals of these translated books, as a temp 
 tation to the study of languages, which has a special 
 Use and importance of its own in teaching us to under 
 stand the niceties of our mother-tongue. The prac 
 tice of translation, by making us deliberate in the 
 choice of the best equivalent of the foreign word in 
 our own language, has likewise the advantage of con 
 tinually schooling us in one of the main elements of a 
 good style, precision ; and precision of thought is 
 not only exemplified by precision of language, but is 
 largely dependent on the habit of it. 
 
 In such a library the sciences should be fully repre 
 sented, that men may at least learn to know in what 
 a marvellous museum they live, what a wonder-worker 
 is giving them an exhibition daily for nothing. Nor 
 let Art be forgotten in all its many forms, not as the 
 antithesis of Science, but as her elder or fairer sister, 
 
 1 Emerson, in his essay entitled Books, in the volume Society 
 mnd Solitude, has something to say about translations, and his 
 temark often is quoted.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 233 
 
 whom we love all the more that her usefulness cannot 
 be demonstrated in dollars and cents. I should be 
 thankful if every day-laborer among us could have 
 his mind illumined, as those of Athens and of Flor 
 ence had, with some image of what is best in archi 
 tecture, painting, and sculpture, to train his crude 
 perceptions and perhaps call out latent faculties. I 
 should like to see the works of Ruskin within the 
 reach of every artisan among us. For I hope some 
 day that the delicacy of touch and accuracy of eye 
 that have made our mechanics in some departments 
 the best in the world, may give us the same supremacy 
 in works of wider range and more purely ideal scope. 
 
 Voyages and travels I would also have, good store, 
 especially the earlier, when the world was fresh and 
 unhackneyed and men saw things invisible to the 
 modern eye. They are fast-sailing ships to waft away 
 from present trouble to the Fortunate Isles. 
 
 To wash down the drier morsels that every library 
 must necessarily offer at its board, let there be plenty 
 of imaginative literature, and let its range be not 
 too narrow to stretch from Dante to the elder Dumas. 
 The world of the imagination is not the world of ab 
 straction and nonentity, as some conceive, but a world 
 formed out of chaos by a sense of the beauty that is 
 in man and the earth on which he dwells. It is the 
 realm of Might-be, our haven of refuge from the short- 
 comings and disillusions of life. It is, to quote Spen 
 ser, who knew it well, 
 
 44 The world's sweet inn from care and wearisome turmofl." 
 
 Do we believe, then, that God gave us in mockery 
 this splendid faculty of sympathy with things that are
 
 234 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 a joy forever ? J For my part, I believe that the love 
 and study of works of imagination is of practical 
 utility in a country so profoundly material (or, as we 
 like to call it, practical) in its leading tendencies as 
 ours. The hunger after purely intellectual delights, 
 the content with ideal possessions, cannot but be good 
 for us in maintaining a wholesome balance of the 
 character and of the faculties. I for one shall never 
 be persuaded that Shakespeare left a less useful leg 
 acy to his countrymen than Watt. We hold all the 
 deepest, all the highest satisfactions of life as tenants 
 of imagination. Nature will keep up the supply of 
 what are called hard-headed people without our help, 
 and, if it come to that, there are other as good uses 
 for heads as at the end of battering rams. 
 
 I know that there are many excellent people who 
 object to the reading of novels as a waste of time, if 
 not as otherwise harmful. But I think they are try 
 ing to outwit nature, who is sure to prove cunninger 
 than they. Look at children. One boy shall want a 
 chest of tools, and one a book, and of those who want 
 books one shall ask for a botany, another for a ro 
 mance. They will be sure to get what they want, 
 and we are doing a grave wrong to their morals by 
 driving them to do things on the sly, to steal that 
 food which their constitution craves and which is 
 wholesome for them, instead of having it freely and 
 frankly given them as the wisest possible diet. If 
 we cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, so 
 neither can we hope to succeed with the opposite 
 experiment. But we may spoil the silk for its legiti 
 mate uses. I can conceive of no healthier reading 
 
 1 The first line of Keats's poem Endymion suggested this 
 phrue.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 286 
 
 for a boy, or girl either, than Scott's novels, or 
 Cooper's, to speak only of the dead. I have found 
 them very good reading at least for one young man, 
 for one middle-aged man, and for one who is growing 
 old. No, no banish the Antiquary, banish Leather 
 Stocking, and banish all the world ! * Let us not go 
 about to make life duller than it is. 
 
 But I must shut the doors of my imaginary library 
 or I shall never end. It is left for me to say a few 
 words of cordial acknowledgment to Mr. Fitz for his 
 judicious and generous gift. I have great pleasure 
 in believing that the custom of giving away money 
 during their lifetime (and there is nothing harder for 
 most men to part with, except prejudice) is more com 
 mon with Americans than with any other people. 
 It is a still greater pleasure to see that the favorite 
 direction of their beneficence is towards the founding 
 of colleges and libraries. My observation has led me 
 to believe that there is no country in which wealth is 
 so sensible of its obligations as our own. And, as 
 most of our rich men have risen from the ranks, may 
 we not fairly attribute this sympathy with their kind 
 to the benign influence of democracy rightly under 
 stood? My dear and honored friend, George Wil 
 liam Curtis, told me that he was sitting in front of 
 the late Mr. Ezra Cornell in a convention, where one 
 of the speakers made a Latin quotation. Mr. Cornell 
 leaned forward and asked for a translation of it, 
 .which Mr. Curtis gave him. Mr. Cornell thanked 
 him, and added, "If I can help it, no young man 
 shall grow up in New York hereafter without the 
 
 1 In Shakespeare's King Henry IV., Part /., Act II. sc. 4, will 
 be found the phrase which was in Mr. Lowell's mind when ha 
 Wrote this.
 
 236 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 chance, at least, of knowing what a Latin quotation 
 means when he hears it." This was the germ of 
 Cornell University, 1 and it found food for its roots in 
 that sympathy and thoughtfulness for others of which 
 I just spoke. This is the healthy side of that good 
 nature which democracy tends to foster, and which is 
 so often harmful when it has its root in indolence 
 or indifference ; especially harmful where our public 
 affairs are concerned, and where it is easiest, because 
 there we are giving away what belongs to other peo 
 ple. It should be said, however, that in this country 
 it is as laudably easy to procure signatures to a sub 
 scription paper as it is shamefully so to obtain them 
 for certificates of character and recommendations to 
 office. And is not this public spirit a national evolu 
 tion from that frame of mind in which New England 
 was colonized, and which found expression in these 
 grave words of Robinson and Brewster, 2 " We are 
 knit together as a body in a most strict and sacred 
 bond and covenant of the Lord, of the violation of 
 which we make great conscience, and by virtue 
 whereof we hold ourselves strictly tied to all care of 
 each other's good and of the whole " ? Let us never 
 forget the deep and solemn import of these words. 
 The problem before us is to make a whole of our 
 many discordant parts, our many foreign elements; 
 and I know of no way in which this can better be 
 done than by providing a common system of educa 
 tion, and a common door of access to the best books 
 by which that education may be continued, broadened, 
 
 1 The motto about the seal of Cornell University indicates 
 Mr. Cornell's conception of that institution. 
 
 8 In a letter signed jointly by them to Sir Edwin Sandys, to 
 be found in Bradford's History of Plymouth Plantation, page 20.
 
 BOOKS AND LIBRARIES. 23? 
 
 and made fruitful. For it is certain that, whatever 
 we do or leave undone, those discordant parts and 
 foreign elements are to be, whether we will or no, 
 members of that body which Robinson and Brewster 
 had in mind, bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh, 
 for good or ill. I am happy in believing that demo 
 cracy has enough vigor of constitution to assimilate 
 these seemingly indigestible morsels, and transmute 
 them into strength of muscle and symmetry of limb. 1 
 
 There is no way in which a man can build so secure 
 and lasting a monument for himself as in a public 
 library. Upon that he may confidently allow "Re- 
 surgain " 2 to be carved, for, through his good deed, 
 he will rise again in the grateful remembrance and in 
 the lifted and broadened minds and fortified characters 
 of generation after generation. The pyramids may 
 forget their builders, but memorials such as this have 
 longer memories. 
 
 Mr. Fitz has done his part in providing your library 
 with a dwelling. It will be for the citizens of Chelsea 
 to provide it with worthy habitants. So shall they, 
 too, have a share in the noble eulogy of the ancient 
 wise man : " The teachers shall shine as the firmament, 
 and they that turn many to righteousness as the stars 
 forever and ever." 
 
 1 For a fuller statement of Mr. Lowell's faith, see his afldress 
 Democracy. 
 
 2 This Latin word, " I shall rise again," reappears in the word 
 resurrection.
 
 288 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 1 
 
 THERE have been many painful crises since the im 
 patient vanity of South Carolina hurried ten prosper. 
 ous Commonwealths into a crime whose assured retri 
 bution was to leave them either at the mercy of the 
 nation they had wronged, or of the anarchy they had 
 summoned but could not control, when no thoughtful 
 American opened his morning paper without dreading 
 to find that he had no longer a country to love and 
 honor. Whatever the result of the convulsion whose 
 first shocks were beginning to be felt, there would still 
 be enough square miles of earth for elbow-room ; but 
 that ineffable sentiment made up of memory and 
 hope, of instinct and tradition, which swells every 
 man's heart and shapes his thought, though perhaps 
 never present to his consciousness, would be gone 
 from it, leaving it common earth and nothing more. 
 Men might gather rich crops from it, but that ideal 
 harvest of priceless associations would be reaped no 
 longer ; that fine virtue which sent up messages o 
 courage and security from every sod of it would have 
 evaporated beyond recall. We should be irrevocably 
 cut off from our past, and be forced to splice the 
 ragged ends of our lives upon whatever new conditions 
 chance might leave dangling for us. 
 
 We confess that we had our doubts at first whether 
 the patriotism of our people were not too narrowly 
 provincial to embrace the proportions of national 
 
 1 This paper was published by Mr. Lowell originally in the 
 North American Review for January, 1864. When he reprinted it 
 B his volume, My Study Windows, he added the filial paragraph, 
 and inserted a few sentences eW where.
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 239 
 
 peril. We felt an only too natural distrust of im 
 mense public meetings and enthusiastic cheers. 
 
 That a reaction should follow the holiday enthusi 
 asm with which the war was entered on, that it should 
 follow soon, and that the slackening of public spirit 
 should be proportionate to the previous over-tension, 
 might well be foreseen by all who had studied human 
 nature or history. Men acting gregariously are al 
 ways in extremes ; as they are one moment capable of 
 higher courage, so they are liable, the next, to baser 
 depression, and it is often a matter of chance whether 
 numbers shall multiply confidence or discouragement. 
 Nor does deception lead more surely to distrust of 
 men, than self-deception to suspicion of principles. 
 The only faith that wears well and holds its color in 
 all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and 
 set with the sharp mordant of experience. Enthusi 
 asm is good material for the orator, but the statesman 
 needs something more durable to work in, must be 
 able to rely on the deliberate reason and consequent 
 firmness of the people, without which that presence of 
 mind, no less essential in times of moral than of ma 
 terial peril, will be wanting at the critical moment. 
 Would this fervor of the Free States hold out ? Was 
 it kindled by a just feeling of the value of constitu 
 tional liberty ? Had it body enough to withstand the 
 inevitable dampening of checks, reverses, delays? 
 Had our population intelligence enough to comprehend 
 that the choice was between order and anarchy, be 
 tween the equilibrium of a government by law and the 
 tussle of misrule by pronunciamiento ? Could a war 
 be maintained without the ordinary stimulus of hatred 
 and plunder, and with the impersonal loyalty of prin 
 ciple ? Those were serious questions, and with no pre 
 cedent to aid in answering them.
 
 240 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 At the beginning of the war there was, indeed, oc 
 casion for the most anxious apprehension. A presi 
 dent known to be infected with the political heresies, 
 and suspected of sympathy with the treason, of the 
 Southern conspirators, had just surrendered the reins, 
 we will not say of power, but of chaos, to a successor 
 known only as the representative of a party whose 
 leaders, with long training in opposition, had none in 
 the conduct of affairs ; an empty treasury was called 
 on to supply resources beyond precedent in the history 
 of finance ; the trees were yet growing and the iron 
 unmined with which a navy was to be built and ar 
 mored ; officers without discipline were to make a mob 
 into an army ; and, above all, the public opinion of 
 Europe, echoed and reinforced with every vague hint 
 and every specious argument of despondency by a 
 powerful faction at home, was either contemptuously 
 sceptical or actively hostile. It would be hard to 
 overestimate the force of this latter element of disin 
 tegration and discouragement among a people where 
 every citizen at home, and every soldier in the field, is 
 a reader of newspapers. The pedlers of rumor in the 
 North were the most effective allies of the rebellion. 
 A nation can be liable to no more insidious treachery 
 than that of the telegraph, sending hourly its electric 
 thrill of panic along the remotest nerves of the com 
 munity, till the excited imagination makes every real 
 danger loom heightened with its unreal double. 
 
 And even if we look only at more palpable difficul 
 ties, the problem to be solved by our civil war was so 
 vast, both in its immediate relations and its future 
 consequences ; the conditions of its solution were so 
 intricate and so greatly dependent on incalculable and 
 uncontrollable contingencies ; so many of the data,
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 241 
 
 whether for hope or fear, were, from their novelty, 
 incapable of arrangement under any of the categories 
 of historical precedent, that there were moments of 
 crisis when the firmest believer in the strength and 
 sufficiency of the democratic theory of government 
 might well hold his breath in vague apprehension of 
 disaster. Our teachers of political philosophy, sol 
 emnly arguing from the precedent of some petty Gre 
 cian, Italian, or Flemish city, whose long periods of 
 aristocracy were broken now and then by awkward 
 parentheses of mob, had always taught us that demo- 
 craoifes were incapable of the sentiment of loyalty, of 
 concentrated and prolonged effort, of far-reaching 
 conceptions ; were absorbed in material interests ; im 
 patient of regular, and much more of exceptional re 
 straint ; had no natural nucleus of gravitation, nor any 
 forces but centrifugal ; were always on the verge of 
 civil war, and slunk at last into the natural almshouse 
 of bankrupt popular government, a military despotism. 
 Here was indeed a dreary outlook for persons who 
 knew democracy, not by rubbing shoulders with it 
 lifelong, but merely from books, and America only by 
 the report of some fellow-Briton, who, having eaten a 
 bad dinner or lost a carpet-bag here, had written to 
 The Times demanding redress, and drawing a mourn 
 ful inference of democratic instability. Nor were men 
 wanting among ourselves who had so steeped their 
 brains in London literature as to mistake Cockneyism 
 for European culture, and contempt of their country 
 for cosmopolitan breadth of view, and who, owing all 
 they had and all they were to democracy, thought it 
 had an air of high-breeding to join in the shallow 
 epicedium that our bubble had burst. 
 
 But beside any disheartening influences which might
 
 242 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 affect the timid or the despondent, there were reasons 
 enough of settled gravity against any over-confidence 
 of hope. A war which, whether we consider the 
 expanse of the territory at stake, the hosts brought 
 into the field, or the reach of the principles involved, 
 may fairly be reckoned the most momentous of mod 
 ern times was to be waged by a people divided at 
 home, unnerved by fifty years of peace, under a chief 
 magistrate without experience and without reputation, 
 whose every measure was sure to be cunningly ham 
 pered by a jealous and unscrupulous minority, and 
 who, while dealing with unheard-of complications at 
 home, must soothe a hostile neutrality abroad, waiting 
 only a pretext to become war. All this was to be 
 done without warning and without preparation, while 
 at the same time a social revolution was to be accom 
 plished in the political condition of four millions of 
 people, by softening the prejudices, allaying the fears, 
 and gradually obtaining the cooperation, of their un 
 willing liberators. Surely, if ever there were an occa 
 sion when the heightened imagination of the historian 
 might see Destiny visible intervening in human affairs, 
 here was a knot worthy of her shears. Never, per 
 haps, was any system of government tried by so con 
 tinuous and searching a strain as ours during the last 
 three years ; never has any shown itself stronger ; 
 and never could that strength be so directly traced to 
 the virtue and intelligence of the people, to that 
 general enlightenment and prompt efficiency oi public 
 opinion possible only under the influence of a political 
 framework like our own. We find it hard to under 
 stand how even a foreigner should be blind to the 
 grandeur of the combat of ideas that has been going 
 on here, to the heroic energy, persistency, and self-
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 reliance of a nation proving that it knows how much 
 dearer greatness is than mere power ; and we own that 
 it is impossible for us to conceive the mental and 
 moral condition of the American who does not feel 
 his spirit braced and heightened by being even a 
 spectator of such qualities and achievements. That a 
 steady purpose and a definite aim have been given to 
 the jarring forces which, at the beginning of the war, 
 spent themselves in the discussion of schemes which 
 could only become operative, if at all, after the war 
 was over ; that a popular excitement has been slowly 
 intensified into an earnest national will ; that a some 
 what impracticable moral sentiment has been made 
 the unconscious instrument of a practical moral end ; 
 that the treason of covert enemies, the jealousy of 
 rivals, the unwise zeal of friends, have been made not 
 only useless for mischief, but even useful for good ; 
 that the conscientious sensitiveness of England to the 
 horrors of civil conflict has been prevented from com 
 plicating a domestic with a foreign war ; all these 
 results, any cne of which might suffice to prove great 
 ness in a ruler, have been mainly due to the good 
 sense, the good-humor, the sagacity, the large-minded- 
 ness, and the unselfish honesty of the unknown man 
 whom a blind fortune, as it seemed, had lifted from 
 the crowd to the most dangerous and difficult eminence 
 of modern times. It is by presence of mind in un 
 tried emergencies that the native metal of a man is 
 tested ; it is by the sagacity to see, and the fearless 
 honesty to admit, whatever of truth there may be in 
 an adverse opinion, in order more convincingly to 
 expose the fallacy that lurks behind it, that a reasoner 
 at length gains for his mere statement of a fact the 
 force of argument ; it is by a wise forecast which
 
 244 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 allows hostile combinations to go so far as by the in 
 evitable reaction to become elements of his own power, 
 that a politician proves his genius for state-craft ; and 
 especially it is by so gently guiding public sentiment 
 that he seems to follow it, by so yielding doubtful 
 points that he can be firm without seeming obstinate 
 in essential ones, and thus guin the advantages of com 
 promise without the weakness of concession ; by so in 
 stinctively comprehending the temper and prejudices 
 of a people as to make them gradually conscious of 
 the superior wisdom of his freedom from temper and 
 prejudice, it is by qualities such as these that a 
 magistrate shows himself worthy to be chief in a com 
 monwealth of freemen. And it is for qualities such 
 as these that we firmly believe History will rank Mr. 
 Lincoln among the most prudent of statesmen and the 
 most successful of rulers. If we wish to appreciate 
 him, we have only to conceive the inevitable chaos in 
 which we should now be weltering had a weak man or 
 an unwise one been chosen in his stead. 
 
 " Bare is back," says the Norse proverb, " without 
 brother behind it ; " and this is, by analogy, true of 
 an elective magistracy. The hereditary ruler in any 
 critical emergency may reckon on the inexhaustible 
 resources of prestige, of sentiment, of superstition, of 
 dependent interest, while the new man must slowly 
 and painfully create all these out of the unwilling 
 material around him, by superiority of character, by 
 patient singleness of purpose, by sagacious presenti 
 ment of popular tendencies and instinctive sympathy 
 with the national character. Mr. Lincoln's task was 
 one of peculiar and exceptional difficulty. Long 
 habit had accustomed the American people to the 
 notion of a party in power, and of a President as its
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 245 
 
 creature and organ, while the more vital fact, that the 
 executive for the time being represents the abstract 
 idea of government as a permanent principle superior 
 to all party and all private interest, had gradually 
 become unfamiliar. They had so long seen the pub 
 lic policy more or less directed by views of party, and 
 often even of personal advantage, as to be ready to 
 suspect the motives of a chief magistrate compelled, 
 for the first time in our history, to feel himself the 
 head and hand of a great nation, and to act upon the 
 fundamental maxim, laid down by all publicists, that 
 the first duty of a government is to defend and main 
 tain its own existence. Accordingly, a powerful wea 
 pon seemed to be put into the hands of the opposition 
 by the necessity under which the administration found 
 itself of applying this old truth to new relations. Nor 
 were the Opposition his only nor his most dangerous 
 opponents. 
 
 The Republicans had carried the country upon an 
 issue in which ethics were more directly and visibly 
 mingled with politics than usual. Their leaders were 
 trained to a method of oratory which relied for its 
 effect rather on the moral sense than the understand 
 ing. Their arguments were drawn, not so much from 
 experience as from general principles of right and 
 wrong. When the war came, their system continued 
 to be applicable and effective, for here again the rea 
 son of the people was to be reached and kindled 
 through their sentiments. It was one of those periods 
 of excitement, gathering, contagious, universal, which, 
 while they last, exalt and clarify the minds of men, 
 giving to the mere words country, human rights, de 
 mocracy, a meaning and a force beyond that of sober 
 and logical argument. They were convictions, xuuiii-
 
 246 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 tained and defended by the supreme logic of passion. 
 That penetrating fire ran in and roused those primary 
 instincts that make their lair in the dens and caverns 
 of the mind. What is called the great popular heart 
 was awakened, that indefinable something which maj 
 be, according to circumstances, the highest reason or 
 the most brutish unreason. But enthusiasm, once cold, 
 can never be warmed over into anything better than 
 cant, and phrases, when once the inspiration that 
 filled them with beneficent power has ebbed away, 
 retain only that semblance of meaning which enables 
 them to supplant reason in hasty minds. Among the 
 lessons taught by the French Revolution there is none 
 sadder or more striking than this, that you may make 
 everything else out of the passions of men except a 
 political system that will work, and that there is no 
 thing so pitilessly and unconsciously cruel as sincerity 
 formulated into dogma. It is always demoralizing to 
 extend the domain of sentiment over questions where 
 it has no legitimate jurisdiction ; and perhaps the se 
 verest strain upon Mr. Lincoln was in resisting a ten 
 dency of his own supporters which chimed with his 
 own private desires while wholly opposed to his con 
 victions of what would be wise policy. 
 
 The change which three years have brought about 
 is too remarkable to be passed over without comment, 
 too weighty in its lesson not to be laid to heart. 
 Never did a President enter upon office with less 
 means at his command, outside his own strength of 
 heart and steadiness of understanding, for inspiring 
 confidence in the people, and so winning it for him 
 self, than Mr. Lincoln. All that was known of him 
 was that he was a good stump-speaker, nominated for 
 his availability > that is, because he had no history,
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 247 
 
 and chosen by a party with whose more extreme 
 opinions he was not in sympathy. It might well be 
 feared that a man past fifty, against whom the inge 
 nuity of hostile partisans could rake up no accusation, 
 must be lacking in manliness of character, in decision 
 of principle, in strength of will ; that a man who was 
 at best only the representative of a party, and who yet 
 did not fairly represent even that, would fail of politi 
 cal, much more of popular, support. And certainly 
 no one ever entered upon office with so few resources 
 of power in the past, and so many materials of weak 
 ness in the present, as Mr. Lincoln. Even in that 
 half of the Union which acknowledged him as Presi 
 dent, there was a large, and at that time dangerous 
 minority, that hardly admitted his claim to the office, 
 and even in the party that elected him there was also 
 a large minority that suspected him of being secretly 
 a communicant with the church of Laodicea. 1 All 
 that he did was sure to be virulently attacked as ultra 
 by one side ; all that he left undone, to be stigmatized 
 as proof of lukewarmness and backsliding by the other. 
 Meanwhile he was to carry on a truly colossal war by 
 means of both ; he was to disengage the country from 
 diplomatic entanglements of unprecedented peril un 
 disturbed by the help or the hinderance of either, and 
 to win from the crowning dangers of his administra' 
 tion, in the confidence of the people, the means of his 
 safety and their own. He has contrived to do it, and 
 perhaps none of our Presidents since Washington haa 
 stood so firm in the confidence of the people as he 
 does after three years of stormy administration. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln's policy was a tentative one, and 
 rightly so. He laid down no programme which must 
 1 See the Book of Revelation, chapter 3, verse 15.
 
 248 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 compel him to be either inconsistent or unwise, nc 
 cast-iron theorem to which circumstances must be 
 fitted as they rose, or else be useless to his ends. He 
 seemed to have chosen Mazarin's motto, Le temps et 
 moi. 1 The moi^ to be sure, was not very prominent 
 at first ; but it has grown more and more so, till the 
 world is beginning to be persuaded that it stands for a 
 character of marked individuality and capacity for af 
 fairs. Time was his prime-minister, and, we began to 
 think, at one period, his general-in-chief also. At first 
 he was so slow that he tired out all those who see no 
 evidence of progress but in blowing up the engine; 
 then he was so fast that he took the breath away from 
 those who think there is no getting on safely while 
 there is a spark of fire under the boilers. God is the 
 only being who has time enough ; but a prudent man, 
 who knows how to seize occasion, can commonly make 
 a shift to find as much as he needs. Mr. Lincoln, as 
 it seems to us in reviewing his career, though we have 
 sometimes in our impatience thought otherwise, has 
 always waited, as a wise man should, till the right mo 
 ment brought up all his reserves. Semper nocuit dif- 
 ferre paratis? is a sound axiom, but the really effi 
 cacious man will also be sure to know when he is not 
 ready, and be firm against all persuasion and reproach 
 till he is. 
 
 One would be apt to think, from some of the criti 
 cisms made on Mr. Lincoln's course by those who 
 mainly agree with him in principle, that the chief ob 
 ject of a statesman should be rather to proclaim his 
 adhesion to certain doctrines, than to achieve their 
 
 1 Time and I. Cardinal Mazarin was prime-minister of Louis 
 XIV. of France. Time, Mazarin said, was his prime-minister. 
 * It is always bad for those who are ready to put off action.
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 249 
 
 triumph by quietly accomplishing his ends. In our 
 opinion, there is no more unsafe politician than a con 
 scientiously rigid doctrinaire, nothing more sure to 
 nd in disaster than a theoretic scheme of policy that 
 admits of no pliability for contingencies. True, there 
 is a popular image of an impossible He, in whose plas 
 tic hands the submissive destinies of mankind become 
 as wax, and to whose commanding necessity the tough 
 est facts yield with the graceful pliancy of fiction ; but 
 in real life we commonly find that the men who con 
 trol circumstances, as it is called, are those who have 
 learned to allow for the influence of their eddies, and 
 have the nerve to turn them to account at the happy 
 instant. Mr. Lincoln's perilous task has been to carry 
 a rather shaky raft through the rapids, making fast 
 the unrulier logs as he could snatch opportunity, and 
 the country is to be congratulated that he did not 
 think it his duty to run straight at all hazards, but 
 cautiously to assure himself with his setting-pole where 
 the main current was, and keep steadily to that. He 
 is still in wild water, but we have faith that his skill 
 and sureness of eye will bring him out right at last. 
 
 A curious, and, as we think, not inapt parallel, 
 might be drawn between Mr. Lincoln and one of the 
 most striking figures in modern history, Henry IV. 
 of France. The career of the latter may be more pic 
 turesque, as that of a daring captain always is ; but in 
 all its vicissitudes there is nothing more romantic than 
 that sudden change, as by a rub of Aladdin's lamp, 
 from the attorney's office in a country town of Illinois 
 to the helm of a great nation in times like these. The 
 analogy between the characters and circumstances of 
 the two men is in many respects singularly close. 
 Succeeding to a rebellion rather than a crown, Henry's
 
 250 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 chief material dependence was the Huguenot party, 
 whose doctrines sat upon him with a looseness dis 
 tasteful certainly, if not suspicious to the more fanati 
 cal among them. King only in name over the greater 
 part of France, and with his capital barred against 
 him, it yet gradually became clear to the more far- 
 seeing even of the Catholic party that he was the only 
 centre of order and legitimate authority round which 
 France could reorganize itself. While preachers who 
 held the divine right of kings made the churches of 
 Paris ring with declamations in favor of democracy 
 rather than submit to the heretic dog of a Bearnois, 1 
 much as our soi-disant Democrats have lately been 
 preaching the divine right of slavery, and denouncing 
 the heresies of the Declaration of Independence, 
 Henry bore both parties in hand till he was convinced 
 that only one course of action could possibly combine 
 his own interests and those of France. Meanwhile 
 the Protestants believed somewhat doubtfully that he 
 was theirs, the Catholics hoped somewhat doubtfully 
 that he would be theirs, and Henry himself turned 
 aside remonstrance, advice, and curiosity alike with a 
 jest or a proverb (if a little high, he liked them none 
 the worse), joking continually as his manner was. 
 We have seen Mr. Lincoln contemptuously compared 
 to Sancho Panza by persons incapable of appreciating 
 one of the deepest pieces of wisdom in the prof oundest 
 romance ever written ; namely, that while Don Qui 
 xote was incomparable in theoretic and ideal states 
 manship, Sancho, with his stock of proverbs, the 
 ready money of human experience, made the best pos 
 sible practical governor. Henry IV. was as full of 
 
 1 One of Henry's titles was Prince of Be'arn, that being the 
 old province of France from which he came.
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 251 
 
 wise saws and modern instances as Mr. Lincoln, but 
 beneath all this was the thoughtful, practical, humane, 
 and thoroughly earnest man, around whom the frag 
 ments of France were to gather themselves till she 
 took her place again as a planet of the first magnitude 
 in the European system. In one respect Mr. Lincoln 
 was more fortunate than Henry. However some may 
 think him wanting in zeal, the most fanatical can find 
 no taint of apostasy in any measure of his, nor can 
 the most bitter charge him with being influenced by 
 motives of personal interest. The leading distinction 
 between the policies of the two is one of circumstances. 
 Henry went over to the nation ; Mr. Lincoln has stead 
 ily drawn the nation over to him. One left a united 
 France ; the other, we hope and believe, will leave a 
 reunited America. We leave our readers to trace the 
 further points of difference and resemblance for them 
 selves, merely suggesting a general similarity which 
 has often occurred to us. One only point of melan 
 choly interest we will allow ourselves to touch upon. 
 That Mr. Lincoln is not handsome nor elegant, we 
 learn from certain English tourists who would consider 
 similar revelations in regard to Queen Victoria as 
 thoroughly American in their want of bienseance. It 
 is no concern of ours, nor does it affect his fitness for 
 the high place he so worthily occupies ; but he is 
 certainly as fortunate as Henry in the matter of good 
 looks, if we may trust contemporary evidence. Mr. 
 Lincoln has also been reproached with Americanism 
 by some not unfriendly British critics ; but, with al) 
 deference, we cannot say that we like him any the 
 worse for it, or see in it any reason why he should 
 govern Americans the less wisely. 
 
 People of more sensitive organizations may be
 
 252 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 shocked, but we are glad that in this, our true war of 
 independence, which is to free us forever from the Old 
 World, we have had at the head of our affairs a man 
 whom America made, as God made Adam, out of the 
 very earth, unancestried, unprivileged, unknown, to 
 show us how much truth, how much magnanimity, and 
 how much statecraft await the call of opportunity in 
 simple manhood when it believes in the justice of God 
 and the worth of man. Conventionalities are all very 
 well in their proper place, but they shrivel at the touch 
 of nature like stubble in the fire. The genius that 
 sways a nation by its arbitrary will seems less august 
 to us than that which multiplies and reinforces itself in 
 the instincts and convictions of an entire people. Au 
 tocracy may have something in it more melodramatic 
 than this, but falls far short of it in human value and 
 interest. 
 
 Experience would have bred in us a rooted distrust 
 of improvised statesmanship, even if we did not believe 
 politics to be a science, which, if it cannot always com 
 mand men of special aptitude and great powers, at 
 least demands the long and steady application of the 
 best powers of such men as it can command to master 
 even its first principles. It is curious, that, in a coun 
 try which boasts of its intelligence, the theory should 
 be so generally held that the most complicated of hu 
 man contrivances, and one which every day becomes 
 more complicated, can be worked at sight by any man 
 able to talk for an hour or two without stopping to 
 think. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln is sometimes claimed as an example of 
 a ready-made ruler. But no case could well be less in 
 point ; for, besides that he was a man of such fair- 
 mindedness as is always the raw material of wisdom,
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 253 
 
 he had in his profession a training precisely the oppo 
 site of that to which a partisan is subjected. His ex 
 perience as a lawyer compelled him not only to see 
 that there is a principle underlying every phenomenon 
 in human affairs, but that there are always two sides 
 to every question, both of which must be fully under 
 stood in order to understand either, and that it is of 
 greater advantage to an advocate to appreciate the 
 strength than the weakness of his antagonist's position. 
 Nothing is more remarkable than the unerring tact 
 with which, in his debate with Mr. Douglas, he went 
 straight to the reason of the question ; nor have we 
 ever had a more striking lesson in political tactics than 
 the fact, that opposed Co a man exceptionally adroit in 
 using popular prejudice and bigotry to his purpose, 
 exceptionally unscrupulous in appealing to those baser 
 motives that turn a meeting of citizens into a mob of 
 barbarians, he should yet have won his case before a 
 jury of the people. Mr. Lincoln was as far as possi 
 ble from an impromptu politician. His wisdom was 
 made up of a knowledge of things as well as of men ; 
 his sagacity resulted from a clear perception and hon 
 est acknowledgment of difficulties, which enabled him 
 to see that the only durable triumph of political opin 
 ion is based, not on any abstract right, but upon so 
 much of justice, the highest attainable at any given 
 moment in human affairs, as may be had in the bal 
 ance of mutual concession. Doubtless he had an 
 ideal, but it was the ideal of a practical statesman, 
 to aim at the best, and to take the next best, if he is 
 lucky enough to get even that. His slow, but singu 
 larly masculine intelligence taught him that precedent 
 is only another name for embodied experience, and 
 that it counts for even more in the guidance of com-
 
 254 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 munities of men than in that of the individual life. 
 He was not a man who held it good public economy to 
 pull down on the mere chance of rebuilding better. 
 Mr. Lincoln's faith in God was qualified by a very 
 well-founded distrust of the wisdom of man. Perhaps 
 it was his want of self-confidence that more than any 
 thing else won him the unlimited confidence of the 
 people, for they felt that there would be no need of 
 retreat from any position he had deliberately taken. 
 The cautious, but steady, advance of his policy during 
 the war was like that of a Roman army. He left be 
 hind him a firm road on which public confidence could 
 follow ; he took America with him where he went ; 
 what he gained he occupied, and his advanced posts 
 became colonies. The very homeliness of his genius 
 was its distinction. His kingship was conspicuous by 
 its workday homespun. Never was ruler so absolute 
 as he, nor so little conscious of it ; for he was the in 
 carnate common-sense of the people. With all that 
 tenderness of nature whose sweet sadness touched 
 whoever saw him with something of its own pathos, 
 there was no trace of sentimentalism in his speech or 
 action. He seems to have had but one rule of con 
 duct, always that of practical and successful politics, 
 to let himself be guided by events, when they were 
 sure to bring him out where he wished to go, though 
 by what seemed to unpractical minds, which let go the 
 possible to grasp at the desirable, a longer road. 
 
 Undoubtedly the highest function of statesmanship 
 is by degrees to accommodate the conduct of commu 
 nities to ethical laws, and to subordinate the conflict 
 ing self-interests of the day to higher and more per 
 manent concerns. But it is on the understanding, 
 and not on the sentiment, of a nation that all safe
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 265 
 
 legislation must be based. Voltaire's saying, that " a 
 consideration of petty circumstances is the tomb of 
 great things," may be true of individual men, but it 
 certainly is not true of governments. It is by a mul 
 titude of such considerations, each in itself trifling, but 
 all together weighty, that the framers of policy can 
 alone divine what is practicable and therefore wise. 
 The imputation of inconsistency is one to which every 
 sound politician and every honest thinker must sooner 
 or later subject himself. The foolish and the dead 
 alone never change their opinion. The course of a 
 great statesman resembles that of navigable rivers, 
 avoiding immovable obstacles with noble bends of con 
 cession, seeking the broad levels of opinion on which 
 men soonest settle and longest dwell, following and 
 marking the almost imperceptible slopes of national 
 tendency, yet always aiming at direct advances, always 
 recruited from sources nearer heaven, and sometimes 
 bursting open paths of progress and fruitful human 
 commerce through what seem the eternal barriers of 
 both. It is loyalty to great ends, even though forced 
 to combine the small and opposing motives of selfish 
 men to accomplish them ; it is the anchored cling to 
 solid principles of duty and action, which knows how 
 to swing with the tide, but is never carried away by it, 
 that we demand in public men, and not sameness 
 of policy, or a conscientious persistency in what is im 
 practicable. For the impracticable, however theoreti 
 cally enticing, is always politically unwise, sound 
 statesmanship being the application of that prudence 
 to the public business which is the safest guide in that 
 of private men. 
 
 No doubt slavery was the most delicate and embar 
 rassing question with which Mr. Lincoln was called
 
 266 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 on to deal, and it was one which no man in his posi 
 tion, whatever his opinions, could evade ; for, though 
 lie might withstand the clamor of partisans, he must 
 sooner or later yield to the persistent importunacy of 
 circumstances, which thrust the problem upon him at 
 every turn and in every shape. 
 
 It has been brought against us as an accusation 
 abroad, and repeated here by people who measure 
 their country rather by what is thought of it than by 
 what it is, that our war has not been distinctly and 
 avowedly for the extinction of slavery, but a war rather 
 for the preservation of our national power and great 
 ness, in which the emancipation of the negro has been 
 forced upon us by circumstances and accepted as a 
 necessity. We are very far from denying this ; nay, 
 we admit that it is so far true that we were slow to 
 renounce our constitutional obligations even toward 
 those who had absolved us by their own act from the 
 letter of our duty. We are speaking of the govern- 
 ment which, legally installed for the whole country, 
 was bound, so long as it was possible, net to overstep 
 the limits of orderly prescription, and could not, with 
 out abnegating its own very nature, take the lead in 
 making rebellion an excuse for revolution. There 
 were, no doubt, many ardent and sincere persons who 
 seemed to think this as simple a thing to do as to lead 
 off a Virginia reel. They forgot, what should be for 
 gotten least of all in a system like ours, that the ad 
 ministration for the time being represents not only 
 the majority which elects it, but the minority as well, 
 a minority in this case powerful, and so little ready 
 for emancipation that it was opposed even to war. 
 Mr. Lincoln had not been chosen as general agent of 
 an anti-slavery society, but President of the United
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 257 
 
 States, to perform certain functions exactly defined by 
 law. Whatever were his wishes, it was no less duty 
 than policy to mark out for himself a line of action 
 that would not further distract the country, by raising 
 before their time questions which plainly would soon 
 enough compel attention, and for which every day 
 was making the answer more easy. 
 
 Meanwhile he must solve the riddle of this new 
 Sphinx, or be devoured. Though Mr. Lincoln's policy 
 in this critical affair has not been such as to satisfy 
 those who demand an heroic treatment for even the 
 most trifling occasion, and who will not cut their coat 
 according to their cloth, unless they can borrow the 
 scissors of Atropos, 1 it has been at least not unworthy 
 of the long-headed king of Ithaca. 2 Mr. Lincoln had 
 the choice of Bassanio 3 offered him. Which of the 
 three caskets held the prize that was to redeem the 
 fortunes of the country ? There was the golden one 
 whose showy speciousness might have tempted a vain 
 man ; the silver of compromise, which might have de 
 cided the choice of a merely acute one; and the 
 leaden, dull and homely-looking, as prudence al 
 ways is, yet with something about it sure to attract 
 the eye of practical wisdom. Mr. Lincoln dallied 
 with his decision perhaps longer than seemed needful 
 to those on whom its awful responsibility was not to 
 rest, but when he made it, it was worthy of his cau 
 tious but sure-footed understanding. The moral of 
 the Sphinx-riddle, and it is a deep one, lies in the 
 childish simplicity of the solution. Those who fail in 
 guessing it, fail because they are over-ingenious, and 
 
 1 One of the three Fates. 
 
 1 Odysseus, or Ulysses, the hero of Homer's Odyssey. 
 
 * See Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice.
 
 268 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 cast about for an answer that shall suit their own no 
 tion of the gravity of the occasion and of their own 
 dignity, rather than the occasion itself. 
 
 In a matter which must be finally settled by public 
 opinion, and in. regard to which the ferment of preju 
 dice and passion on both sides has not yet subsided to 
 that equilibrium of compromise from which alone a 
 sound public opinion can result, it is proper enough 
 for the private citizen to press his own convictions 
 with all possible force of argument and persuasion ; 
 but the popular magistrate, whose judgment must be 
 come action, and whose action involves the whole 
 country, is bound to wait till the sentiment of the 
 people is so far advanced toward his own point of 
 view, that what he does shall find support in it, in 
 stead of merely confusing it with new elements of di 
 vision. It was not unnatural that men earnestly de 
 voted to the saving of their country, and profoundly 
 convinced that slavery was its only real enemy, should 
 demand a decided policy round which all patriots 
 might rally, and this might have been the wisest 
 course for an absolute ruler. But in the then unset 
 tled state of the public mind, with a large party de 
 crying even resistance to the slaveholders' rebellion as 
 not only unwise, but even unlawful ; with a majority, 
 perhaps, even of the would-be loyal so long accus 
 tomed to regard the Constitution as a deed of gift 
 conveying to the South their own judgment as to pol 
 icy and instinct as to right, that they were in doubt at 
 first whether their loyalty were due to the country or 
 to slavery ; and with a respectable body of honest and 
 influential men who still believed in the possibility of 
 conciliation, Mr. Lincoln judged wisely, that, in 
 laying down a policy in deference to one party, ha
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 259 
 
 should be giving to the other the very fulcrum for 
 which their disloyalty had been waiting. 
 
 It behooved a clear-headed man in his position not 
 to yield so far to an honest indignation against the 
 brokers of treason in the North as to lose sight of the 
 materials for misleading which were their stock in 
 trade, and to forget that it is not the falsehood of 
 sophistry which is to be feared, but the grain of truth 
 mingled with it to make it specious, that it is not 
 the knavery of the leaders so much as the honesty of 
 the followers they may seduce, that gives them power 
 for evil. It was especially his duty to do nothing 
 which might help the people to forget the true cause 
 of the war in fruitless disputes about its inevitable 
 consequences. 
 
 The doctrine of State rights can be so handled by 
 an adroit demagogue as easily to confound the distinc 
 tion between liberty and lawlessness in the minds of 
 ignorant persons, accustomed always to be influenced 
 by the sound of certain words, rather than to reflect 
 upon the principles which give them meaning. For, 
 though Secession involves the manifest absurdity of 
 denying to a State the right of making war against 
 any foreign power while permitting it against the 
 United States ; though it supposes a compact of mu 
 tual concessions and guaranties among States without 
 any arbiter in case of dissension ; though it contra 
 dicts common-sense in assuming that the men who 
 framed our government did not know what they meant 
 when they substituted Union for Confederation ; 
 though it falsifies history, which shows that the main 
 opposition to the adoption of the Constitution was based 
 on the argument that it did not allow that indepen 
 dence in the several States which alone would justify
 
 260 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 them in seceding ; yet, as slavery was universally 
 admitted to be a reserved right, an inference could be 
 drawn from any direct attack upon it (though only in 
 self-defence) to a natural right of resistance, logical 
 enough to satisfy minds untrained to detect fallacy, 
 as the majority of men always are, and now too much 
 disturbed by the disorder of the times, to consider that 
 the order of events had any legitimate bearing on the 
 argument. Though Mr. Lincoln was too sagacious to 
 give the Northern allies of the Rebels the occasion 
 they desired and even strove to provoke, yet from the 
 beginning of the war the most persistent efforts have 
 been made to confuse the public mind as to its origin 
 and motives, and to drag the people of the loyal States 
 down from the national position they had instinctively 
 taken to the old level of party squabbles and antipa 
 thies. The wholly unprovoked rebellion of an oli 
 garchy proclaiming negro slavery the corner-stone of 
 free institutions, and in the first flush of over-hasty 
 confidence venturing to parade the logical sequence of 
 their leading dogma, " that slavery is right in princi 
 ple, and has nothing to do with difference of com 
 plexion," has been represented as a legitimate and 
 gallant attempt to maintain the true principles of de 
 mocracy. The rightful endeavor of an established 
 government, the least onerous that ever existed, to 
 defend itself against a treacherous attack on its very 
 existence, has been cunningly made to seem the wicked 
 effort of a fanatical clique to force its doctrines on 
 an oppressed population. 
 
 Even so long ago as when Mr. Lincoln, not yet con 
 vinced of the danger and magnitude of the crisis, was 
 endeavoring to persuade himself of Union majorities at 
 the South, and to carry on a wax that was half peace
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 261 
 
 In the hope of a. peace that would have been all war, 
 while he was still enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law, 
 under some theory that Secession, however it might 
 absolve States from their obligations, could not es 
 cheat them of their claims under the Constitution, and 
 that slaveholders in rebellion had alone among mortals 
 the privilege of having their cake and eating it at the 
 same time, the enemies of free government were 
 striving to persuade the people that the war was an 
 Abolition crusade. To rebel without reason was pro 
 claimed as one of the rights of man, while it was care 
 fully kept out of sight that to suppress rebellion is the 
 first duty of government. All the evils that have 
 come upon the country have been attributed to the 
 Abolitionists, though it is hard to see how any party 
 can become permanently powerful except in one of 
 two ways, either by the greater truth of its princi 
 ples, or the extravagance of the party opposed to it. 
 To fancy the ship of state, riding safe at her constitu 
 tional moorings, suddenly engulfed by a huge kraken 
 of Abolitionism, rising from unknown depths and 
 grasping it with slimy tentacles, is to look at the nat 
 ural history of the matter with the eyes of Pontop- 
 pidan. 1 To believe that the leaders in the Southern 
 treason feared any danger from Abolitionism, would 
 be to deny them ordinary intelligence, though there 
 can be little doubt that they made use of it to stir the 
 passions and excite the fears of their deluded accom 
 plices. They rebelled, not because they thought slav 
 ery weak, but because they believed it strong enough, 
 not to overthrow the government, but to get posses 
 sion of it ; for it becomes daily clearer that they used 
 rebellion only as a means of revolution, and if they 
 1 A Dauish antiquary and theologian.
 
 262 TAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 got revolution, though not in the shape they looked 
 for, is the American people to save them from its con 
 sequences at the cost of its own existence ? The elec 
 tion of Mr. Lincoln, which it was clearly in their 
 power to prevent had they wished, was the occasion 
 merely, and not the cause of their revolt. Abolition 
 ism, till within a year or two, was the despised heresy 
 of a few earnest persons, without political weight 
 enough to carry the election of a parish constable; 
 and their cardinal principle was disunion, because 
 they were convinced that within the Union the posi 
 tion of slavery was impregnable. In spite of the 
 proverb, great effects do not follow from small causes, 
 that is, disproportionately small, but from ade 
 quate causes acting under certain required conditions. 
 To contrast the size of the oak with that of the parent 
 acorn, as if the poor seed had paid all costs from its 
 slender strong-box, may serve for a child's wonder ; 
 but the real miracle lies in that divine league which 
 bound all the forces of nature to the service of the 
 tiny germ in fulfilling its destiny. Everything has 
 been at work for the past ten years in the cause of 
 anti-slavery, but Garrison and Phillips have been far 
 less successful propagandists than the slaveholders 
 themselves, with the constantly growing arrogance of 
 their pretensions and encroachments. They have 
 forced the question upon the attention of every voter 
 in the Free States, by defiantly putting freedom and 
 democracy on the defensive. But, even after the 
 Kansas outrages, there was no wide-spread desire on 
 the part of the North to commit aggressions, though 
 there was a growing determination to resist them. 
 The popular unanimity in favor of the war three yeart 
 ago was but in small measure the result of anti-slaver}
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN". 268 
 
 sentiment, far less of any zeal for abolition. But 
 every month of the war, every movement of the allies 
 of slavery in the Free States, has been making Aboli 
 tionists by the thousand. The masses of any people, 
 however intelligent, are very little moved by abstract 
 principles of humanity and justice, until those prin 
 ciples are interpreted for them by the stinging com 
 mentary of some infringement upon their own rights, 
 and then their instincts and passions, once aroused, 
 do indeed derive an incalculable reinforcement of 
 impulse and intensity from those higher ideas, those 
 sublime traditions, which have no motive political 
 force till they are allied with a sense of immediate 
 personal wrong or imminent peril. Then at last the 
 stars in their courses begin to fight against Sisera. 
 Had any one doubted before that the rights of human 
 nature are unitary, that oppression is of one hue the 
 world over, no matter what the color of the oppressed, 
 had any one failed to see what the real essence of 
 the contest was, the efforts of the advocates of slav 
 ery among ourselves to throw discredit upon the fun 
 damental axioms of the Declaration of Independence 
 and the radical doctrines of Christianity, could not 
 fail to sharpen his eyes. 
 
 While every day was bringing the people nearer to 
 the conclusion which all thinking men saw to be inev 
 itable from the beginning, it was wise in Mr. Lincoln 
 to leave the shaping of his policy to events. In this 
 country, where the rough and ready understanding of 
 the people is sure at last to be the controlling power 1 , 
 a profound common-sense is the best genius for states 
 manship. Hitherto the wisdom of the President's 
 measures has been justified by the fact that they have 
 always resulted in more iirinly uniting public opinion.
 
 264 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 One of the things particularly admirable in the public 
 utterances of President Lincoln is a certain tone of 
 familiar dignity, which, while it is perhaps the most 
 difficult attainment of mere style, is also no doubtful 
 indication of personal character. There must be 
 something essentially noble in an elective ruler who 
 can descend to the level of confidential ease without 
 losing respect, something very manly in one who can 
 break through the etiquette of his conventional rank 
 and trust himself to the reason and intelligence of 
 those who have elected him. No higher compliment 
 was ever paid to a nation than the simple confidence, 
 the fireside plainness, with which Mr. Lincoln always 
 addresses himself to the reason of the American people. 
 This was, indeed, a true democrat, who grounded him 
 self on the assumption that a democracy can think. 
 " Come, let us reason together about this matter," has 
 been the tone of all his addresses to the people ; and 
 accordingly we have never had a chief magistrate who 
 so won to himself the love and at the same time the 
 judgment of his countrymen. To us, that simple con 
 fidence of his in the right-mindedness of his fellow- 
 men is very touching, and its success is as strong an 
 argument as we have ever seen in favor of the theory 
 that men can govern themselves. He never appeals 
 to any vulgar sentiment, he never alludes to the hum 
 bleness of his origin ; it probably never occurred to 
 him, indeed, that there was anything higher to start 
 from than manhood ; and he put himself on a level 
 with those he addressed, not by going down to them, 
 but only by taking it for granted that they had brains 
 and would come up to a common ground of reason. 
 In an article lately printed in The Nation, Mr. Bay 
 ard Taylor mentions the striking fact, that in the
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 265 
 
 foulest dens of the Five Points he found the portrait 
 of Lincoln. The wretched population that makes its 
 hive there threw all its votes and more against him, 
 and yet paid this instinctive tribute to the sweet hu 
 manity of his nature. Their ignorance sold its vote 
 and took its money, but all that was left of manhood 
 in them recognized its saint and martyr. 
 
 Mr. Lincoln is not in the habit of saying, " This is 
 my opinion, or my theory," but " This is the conclu 
 sion to which, in my judgment, the time has come, and 
 to which, accordingly, the sooner we come the better 
 for us." His policy has been the policy of public 
 opinion based on adequate discussion and on a timely 
 recognition of the influence of passing events in shap 
 ing the features of events to come. 
 
 One secret of Mr. Lincoln's remarkable success in 
 captivating the popular mind is undoubtedly an un 
 consciousness of self which enables him, though under 
 the necessity of constantly using the capital /, to do 
 it without any suggestion of egotism. There is no 
 single vowel which men's mouths can pronounce with 
 such difference of effect. That which one shall hide 
 away, as it were, behind the substance of his dis 
 course, or, if he bring it to the front, shall use merely 
 to give an agreeable accent of individuality to what 
 he says, another shall make an offensive challenge to 
 the self-satisfaction of all his hearers, and an unwar 
 ranted intrusion upon each man's sense of personal 
 importance, irritating every pore of his vanity, like 
 a dry northeast wind, to a goose-flesh of opposition 
 and hostility. Mr. Lincoln has never studied Quin- 
 tilian ; J but he has, in the earnest simplicity and un 
 affected Americanism of his own character, one art 
 1 A famous Latin writer on the Art of Oratory.
 
 266 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 of oratory worth all the rest. He forgets himself so 
 entirely in his object as to give his / the sympathetic 
 and persuasive effect of We with the great body of 
 his countrymen. Homely, dispassionate, showing all 
 the rough-edged process of his thought as it goes 
 along, yet arriving at his conclusions with an honest 
 kind of every-day logic, he is so eminently our repre 
 sentative man, that, when he speaks, it seems as if the 
 people were listening to their own thinking aloud. 
 The dignity of his thought owes nothing to any cere 
 monial garb of words, but to the manly movement 
 that comes of settled purpose and an energy of reason 
 that knows not what rhetoric means. There has been, 
 nothing of Cleon, still less of Strepsiades 1 striving to 
 underbid him in demagogism, to be found in the pub 
 lic utterances of Mr. Lincoln. He has always ad 
 dressed the intelligence of men, never their prejudice, 
 their passion, or their ignorance. 
 
 On the day of his death, this simple Western attor 
 ney, who according to one party was a vulgar joker, 
 and whom the doctrinaires among his own supporters 
 accused of wanting every element of statesmanship, 
 was the most absolute ruler in Christendom, and this* 
 solely by the hold his good-humored sagacity had laid 
 on the hearts and understandings of his countrymen. 
 Nor was this all, for it appeared that he had drawn 
 the great majority, not only of his fellow-citizens, but 
 of mankind also, to his side. So strong and so per 
 suasive is honest manliness without a single quality of 
 romance or unreal sentiment to help it ! A civilian 
 
 1 Two Athenian demagogues, satirized by the dramatist Aris 
 tophanes.
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S SPEECH. 267 
 
 during times of the most captivating military achieve' 
 ment, awkward, with no skill in the lower technicali 
 ties of manners, he left behind him a fame beyond 
 that of any conqueror, the memory of a grace higher 
 than that of outward person, and of a gentlemanliness 
 deeper than mere breeding. Never before that star 
 tled April morning did such multitudes of men shed 
 tears for the death of one they had never seen, as if 
 with him a friendly presence had been taken away from 
 their lives, leaving them colder and darker. Never 
 was funeral panegyric so eloquent as the silent look 
 of sympathy which strangers exchanged when they 
 met on that day. Their common manhood had lost a 
 kinsman. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S SPEECH 
 
 AT THE DEDICATION OF THE NATIONAL CEMETERY, GET 
 TYSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA, NOVEMBER 19, 1863. 
 
 [THE great battles fought at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, 
 in July, 1863, made that spot historic ground. It was early 
 perceived that the battles were critical, and they are now 
 looked upon by many as the turning-point of the war for the 
 Union. The ground where the fiercest conflict raged was 
 taken for a national cemetery, and the dedication of the 
 place was made an occasion of great solemnity. The ora 
 tor of the day was Edward Everett, who was regarded as 
 the most finished public speaker in the country. Mr. Ever 
 ett made a long and eloquent address, and was followed by 
 the President in a little speech which instantaneously af 
 fected the country, whether people were educated or unlet 
 tered, as a great speech. The impression created has deep 
 ened with time. Ralph Waldo Emerson in his essay on 
 Eloquence says : " I believe it to be true that when any
 
 3G8 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 orator at the bar or the Senate rises in his thought, he de 
 scends in his language, that is, when he rises to any height 
 of thought or passion, he comes down to a language level 
 with the ear of all his audience. It is the merit of John 
 Brown and of Abraham Lincoln one at Charlestown, one 
 at Gettysburg in the two best specimens of eloquence we 
 have had in this country." 
 
 It is worth while to listen to Mr. Lincoln's own account 
 of the education which prepared him for public speaking. 
 Before he was nominated for the presidency he had at 
 tracted the notice of people by a remarkable contest in 
 debate with a famous Illinois statesman, Stephen Arnold 
 Douglas. As a consequence Mr. Lincoln received a great 
 many invitations to speak in the Eastern States, and made, 
 among others, a notable speech at the Cooper Union, New 
 York. Shortly after, he spoke also at New Haven, and the 
 Rev. J. P. Gulliver, in a paper in the New York Indepen 
 dent, Sept. 1, 1864, thus reports a conversation which "he 
 held with him when travelling inthe same railroad car : 
 
 " ' Ah, that reminds me,' he said, ' of a most extraordi 
 nary circumstance, which occurred in New Haven, the other 
 day. They told me that the Professor of Rhetoric in Yale 
 College a veiy learned man, is n't he ? ' ' Yes, sir, and 
 a very fine critic, too.' ' Well, I suppose so ; he ought to 
 be, at any rate They told me that he came to hear me 
 and took notes of my speech, and gave a lecture on it to his 
 class the next day ; and, not satisfied with that, he followed 
 me up to Meriden the next evening, and heard me again for 
 the same purpose. Now, if this is so, it is to my mind very 
 extraordinary. I have been sufficiently astonished at my 
 success in the West. It has been most unexpected. But I 
 had no thought of any marked success at the East, and least 
 of all that I should draw out such commendations from lit 
 erary and learned men ! ' 
 
 " ' That suggests, Mr. Lincoln, an inquiry which has sev- 
 iral times been upon my lips during this conversation. I
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S SPEECH. 269 
 
 want very much to know how you got this unusual power of 
 " putting things." It must have been a matter of educa* 
 tion. No man has it by nature alone. What has your edu 
 cation heen ? ' 
 
 " * Well, as to education, the newspapers are correct. I 
 never went to school more than six months in my life. But, 
 as you say, this must be a product of culture in some form. 
 I have been putting the question you ask me to myself while 
 you have been talking. I say this, that among my earliest 
 recollections, I remember how, when a mere child, I used to 
 get irritated when anybody talked to me in a way I could 
 not understand. I don't think I ever got angry at anything 
 else in my life. But that always disturbed my temper, and 
 has ever since. I can remember going to my little bedroom, 
 after hearing the neighbors talk of an evening with my 
 father, and spending no small part of the night walking up 
 and down, and trying to make out what was the exact mean 
 ing of some of their, to me, dark sayings. I could not 
 sleep, though I often tried to, when I got on such a hunt 
 after an idea, until I had caught it ; and when I thought 
 I had got it, I was not satisfied until I had repeated it 
 over and over, until I had put it in language plain enough, 
 as I thought, for any boy I knew to comprehend. This was 
 a kind of passion with me, and it has stuck by me, for I 
 am never easy now, when I am handling a thought, till I 
 have bounded it north and bounded it south and bounded ik 
 east and bounded it west. Perhaps that accounts for the 
 characteristic you observe in my speeches, though I never 
 put the two things together before.' " But to the speech it 
 self.] 
 
 FOURSCORE and seven years ago, our father 
 brought forth on this continent a new nation, con 
 ceived in liberty, and dedicated to the propositioi 
 that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged 
 in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, ol
 
 270 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long 
 endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that 
 war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that 
 field as a final resting-place for those who here gave 
 their lives that that nation might live. It is alto 
 gether fitting and proper that we should do this. 
 But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot 
 consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave 
 men, living and dead, who struggled here, have conse 
 crated it far above our poor power to add or detract. 
 The world will little note, nor long remember, what 
 we say here, but it can never forget what they did 
 here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated 
 here to the unfinished work which they who fought 
 here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather 
 for us to be here dedicated to the great task remain 
 ing before us, that from these honored dead we take 
 increased devotion to that cause for which they gave 
 the last full measure of devotion, that we here 
 highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in 
 vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new 
 birth of freedom, and that government of the peo 
 ple, by the people, for the people, shall not perish 
 from the earth. 
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 
 
 [AUTHOR'S NOTE. According to the mythology of the 
 Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, was the cup out 
 of which Jesus Christ partook of the last supper with his 
 iisciples. It was brought into England by Joseph of Arima- 
 thea, and remained there, an object of pilgrimage and ado 
 ration, for many years, in the keeping of his lineal descend 
 ants. It was incumbent upon those who had charge of it
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 271 
 
 to be chaste in thought, word, and deed ; but one of the 
 keepers having broken this condition, the Holy Grail dis 
 appeared. From that time it was a favorite enterprise of 
 the Knights of Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir 
 Galahad was at last successful in finding it, as may be read 
 in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King Arthur. 
 Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the subject of one of the 
 most exquisite of his poems. 
 
 The plot (if I may give that name to anything so slight) 
 of the following poem is my own, and, to serve its purposes, 
 I have enlarged the circle of competition in search of the 
 miraculous cup in such a manner as to include not only othei 
 persons than the heroes of the Bound Table, but also a 
 period of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's 
 reign.] 
 
 PRELUDE TO PART FIRST. 
 
 OVER his keys the musing organist, 
 
 Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
 First lets his fingers wander as they list, 
 
 And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay : 
 Then, as the touch of his loved instrument fi 
 
 Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
 First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent 
 
 Along the wavering vista of his dream. 
 
 Not only around our infancy 
 
 Doth heaven with all its splendors lie ; IB 
 
 9. In allusion to Wordsworth's 
 
 " Heaven lies about us in our infancy," 
 
 in his ode, Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early 
 Childhood.
 
 272 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 Daily, with souls that cringe and plot, 
 We Sinais climb and know it not. 
 
 Over our manhood bend the skies ; 
 
 Against our fallen and traitor lives 
 The great winds utter prophecies : II 
 
 With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; 
 Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 
 
 Waits with its benedicite ; 
 And to our age's drowsy blood 
 
 Still shouts the inspiring sea. 
 
 Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 
 
 The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
 The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, 
 
 We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 
 At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
 
 Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 
 
 For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
 Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking : 
 
 'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
 'T is only God may be had for the asking ; 
 
 No price is set on the lavish summer ; 
 June may be had by the poorest comer. 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
 
 27. In the Middle Ages kings and noblemen had in their 
 courts jesters to make sport for the company ; as every one 
 then wore a dress indicating his rank or occupation, so the jester 
 wore a cap hung with hells. The fool of Shakespeare's plays is 
 the king's jester at his best.
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 273 
 
 Whether we look, or whether we listen, 
 We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
 Every clod feels a stir of might, 
 
 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
 And, groping blindly above it for light, 
 
 Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
 The flush of life may well be seen 
 
 Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
 The cowslip startles in meadows green, 
 
 The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
 And there 's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 
 
 To be some happy creature's palace ; 
 The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
 
 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
 
 And lets his illumined being o'errun 
 
 With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
 His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 
 And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, M 
 In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? 
 
 Now is the high-tide of the year, 
 
 And whatever of life hath ebbed away 
 Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 
 
 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; M 
 
 Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 
 We are happy now because God wills it ; 
 No matter how barren the past may have been, 
 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
 We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 65 
 
 How the sap creeps up and blossoms swell ; 
 We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
 That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 
 The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
 
 274 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 That dandelions are blossoming near, 
 
 That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, 
 That the river is bluer than the sky, 
 That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 
 And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
 For other couriers we should not lack ; 
 
 We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, 
 And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
 Warmed with the new wine of the year, 
 
 Tells all in his lusty crowing*! 
 
 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ; 
 Everything is happy now, 
 
 Everything is upward striving ; 
 'T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
 As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 
 
 'T is the natural way of living : 
 Who knows whither the clouds have fled ? 
 
 In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ; 
 And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 
 
 The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
 The soul partakes of the season's youth, 
 
 And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
 Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
 
 Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
 What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
 Remembered the keeping of his vow ? 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 14 MY golden spurs now bring to me, 
 And bring to me my richest mail,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 276 
 
 For to-morrow I go over land and sea 
 
 In search of the Holy Grail ; 
 
 Shall never a bed for me be spread, m 
 
 Nor shall a pillow be under my head, 
 Till I begin my vow to keep ; 
 Here on the rushes will I sleep, 
 And perchance there may come a vision true 
 Ere day create the world anew." tot 
 
 Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, 
 
 Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 
 And into his soul the vision flew. 
 
 n. 
 
 The crows flapped over by twos and threes, 
 
 lu the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 110 
 
 The little birds sang as if it were 
 
 The one day of summer in all the year, 
 And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees : 
 The castle alone in the landscape lay 
 Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray : us 
 
 'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, 
 And never its gates might opened be, 
 Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 
 Summer besieged it on every side, 
 But the churlish stone her assaults defied j nt 
 
 She could not scale the chilly wall, 
 Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 
 Stretched left and right, 
 Over the hills and out of sight; 
 
 Green and broad was every tent, i* 5 
 
 And out of each a murmur went 
 Till the breeze fell off at night.
 
 276 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 m. 
 
 The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, 
 And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 
 Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, ix 
 
 In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
 It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
 Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 
 
 In his siege of three hundred summers long, 
 And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, ua 
 
 Had cast them forth : so, young and strong, 
 And lightsome as a locust-leaf, 
 Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail, 
 To seek in all climes for the Holy GraiL 
 
 rv. 
 
 It was morning on hill and stream and tree, iw 
 
 And morning in the young knight's heart ; 
 
 Only the castle moodily 
 
 Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 
 And gloomed by itself apart ; 
 
 The season brimmed all other things up us 
 
 Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 
 
 V. 
 
 As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, 
 
 He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, 
 Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate ; 
 
 And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; is 
 
 The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, 
 
 The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and crawl, 
 And midway its leap his heart stood still 
 
 Like a frozen waterfall ; 
 For this man, so foul and bent of stature, J
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 277 
 
 Hasped harshly against his dainty nature, 
 
 And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, - 
 
 So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The leper raised not the gold from the dust : 
 
 * Better to ma the poor man's crust, 18 <M 
 
 Better the blessing of the poor, 
 
 Though I turn me empty from his door ; 
 
 That is no true alms which the hand can hold ; 
 
 He gives nothing but worthless gold 
 
 Who gives from a sense of duty ; m 
 
 But he who gives but a slender mite, 
 And gives to that which is out of sight, 
 
 That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
 Which runs through all and doth all unite, 
 The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, in 
 
 The heart outstretches its eager palms, 
 For a god goes with it and makes it store 
 To the soul that was starving in darkness before." 
 
 PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. 
 
 DOWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, 
 From the snow five thousand summers old ; in 
 
 On open wold and hill-top bleak 
 It had gathered all the cold, 
 
 And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek : 
 
 It carried a shiver everywhere 
 
 174. Note the different moods that are indicated by the two 
 preludes. The one is of June, the other of snow and winter. 
 By these preludes the poet, like an organist, strikes a key whiob 
 he holds in the subsequent parts.
 
 278 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; m 
 
 The little brook heard it and built a roof 
 
 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof ; 
 
 All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 
 
 He groined his arches and matched his beams ; 
 
 Slender and clear were his crystal spars i ws 
 
 As the lashes of light that trim the stars j 
 
 He sculptured every summer delight 
 
 In his halls and chambers out of sight ; 
 
 Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
 
 Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, iw 
 
 Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 
 
 Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 
 
 Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 
 
 But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 
 
 Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief IM 
 
 With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf ; 
 
 Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 
 
 For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and 
 
 here 
 
 He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 
 And hung them thickly with diamond-drops, a 
 
 That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 
 And made a star of every one : 
 No mortal builder's most rare device 
 Could match this winter-palace of ice ; 
 'T was as if every image that mirrored lay a* 
 
 In his depths serene through the summer day, 
 Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky, 
 Lest the happy model should be lost, 
 
 203. The Empress of Russia, Catherine II., in a magnificent 
 freak, built a palace of ice, which was a nine-days' wonder. 
 Cowper has given a poetical description of it in The Task, Book 
 V. lines 131-176.
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 279 
 
 Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
 By the elfin builders of the frost. fit 
 
 Within the hall are song and laughter, 
 
 The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, 
 And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 
 
 With lightsome green of ivy and holly; 
 Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide au 
 
 Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
 The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 
 
 And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
 Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 
 
 Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; w 
 
 And swift little troops of silent sparks, 
 
 Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
 Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 
 
 Like herds of startled deer. 
 
 But the wind without was eager and sharp, as 
 
 Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
 And rattles and wrings 
 The icy strings, 
 
 Singing, in dreary monotone, 
 
 A Christmas carol of its own, m 
 
 Whose burden still, as he might guess, 
 
 Was " Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless I " 
 The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
 As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
 
 216. The Yule-log was anciently a huge log burned at the 
 feast of Juul (pronounced Yule) by our Scandinavian ancestors 
 in honor of the god Thor. Juul-tid (Yule-time) corresponded 
 in time to Christmas tide, and when Christian festivities took the 
 place of pagan, many ceremonies remained. The great log, still 
 called the Yule-log, was dragged in and burned in the fireplace 
 alter Thor had been forgotten.
 
 280 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 23* 
 
 The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold, 
 Through the window-slits of the castle old, 
 
 Build out its piers of ruddy light, 
 Against the drift of the cold. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 THERE was never a leaf on bush or tree, i* 
 
 The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 
 The river was dumb and could not speak, 
 
 For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun. 
 A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
 
 From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; >* 
 Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 
 As if her veins were sapless and old, 
 And she rose up decrepitly 
 For a last dim look at earth and sea. 
 
 n. 
 
 Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, se 
 
 For another heir in his earldom sate ; 
 
 An old, bent man, worn out and frail, 
 
 He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 
 
 Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 
 
 No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, m 
 
 But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
 
 The badge of the suffering and the poor. 
 
 m. 
 
 Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
 Was idle mail 'gainst the Larbed air,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 281 
 
 For it was just at the Christmas time: m 
 
 So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 
 
 And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 
 
 In the light and warmth of long-ago ; 
 
 He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 
 
 O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 
 
 Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 
 
 He can count the camels in the sun, 
 
 As over the red-hot sands they pass 
 
 To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 
 
 The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, i 
 
 A.nd with its own self like an infant played, 
 
 And waved its signal of palms. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; '* 
 
 The happy camels may reach the spring, 
 
 But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, M 
 
 The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, 
 
 That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
 
 And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 
 
 In the desolate horror of his disease. 
 
 v. 
 
 And Sir Launfal said, "I behold in thee o 
 
 An image of Him who died on the tree; 
 
 Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, 
 
 Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scorns, 
 
 And to thy life were not denied 
 
 The wounds in the hands and feet and side : a* 
 
 Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me ; 
 
 Behold, through him, I give to Thee 1 "
 
 282 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
 
 And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
 Remembered in what a haughtier guise an 
 
 He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
 When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 
 And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
 The heart within him was ashes and dust ; 
 He parted in twain his single crust, 
 
 He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink, 
 And gave the leper to eat and drink : 
 'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 
 
 'T was water out of a wooden bowl, 
 Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, a 
 
 And 't was red wine he drank with his thirsty souL 
 
 VII. 
 
 As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 
 
 A light shone round about the place ; 
 
 The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
 
 But stood before him glorified, m 
 
 Shining and tall and fair and straight 
 
 As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, 
 
 Himself the Gate whereby men can 
 
 Enter the temple of God in Man. 
 
 vra. 
 
 His words were shed softer than leaves from the 
 pine, 3io 
 
 And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the brine, 
 That mingle their softness and quiet in one 
 With the shaggy unrest they float down upon ; 
 And the voice that was calmer than silence said,
 
 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 288 
 
 " Lo, it is I, be not afraid ! a* 
 
 In many climes, without avail, 
 
 Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ; 
 
 Behold, it is here, this cup which thou 
 
 Didst fill at the streamlet for Me but now ; 
 
 This crust is My body broken for thee, m 
 
 This water His blood that died on the tree ; 
 
 The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
 
 In whatso we share with another's need : 
 
 Not what we give, but what we share, 
 
 For the gift without the giver is bare ; 
 
 Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, 
 
 Himself, his hungering neighbor, and Me." 
 
 rx. 
 
 Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : 
 
 " The Grail in my castle here is found! 
 
 Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 
 
 Let it be the spider's banquet- hall ; 
 
 He must be fenced with stronger mail 
 
 Who would seek and find the Holy Grail.*' 
 
 The castle gate stands open now, 
 
 And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 
 
 As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough : 
 No longer scowl the turrets tall, 
 
 The Summer's long siege at last is o'er ; 
 
 When the first poor outcast went in at the door, 
 
 She entered with him in disguise, 
 
 And mastered the fortress by surprise ; 
 
 There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 
 
 She lingers and smiles there the whole year round j
 
 284 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
 Has hall and bower at his command ; M 
 
 And there 's no poor man in the North Countree 
 But is lord of the earldom as much as he.
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON was born in Boston, May 25, 
 1803. His father, his grandfather, and his great-grand 
 father were all ministers, and, indeed, on both his father's 
 and mother's side he belongs to a continuous line of minis 
 terial descent from the seventeenth century. At the time of 
 his birth, his father, the Rev. William Emerson, was minis 
 ter of the First Church congregation, but on his death a few 
 years afterward, Ralph Waldo Emerson, a boy of seven, 
 went to live in the old manse at Concord, where his grand 
 father had lived when the Concord fight occurred. The old 
 manse was afterward the home at one time of Hawthorne, 
 who wrote there the stories which he gathered into the vol 
 ume, Mosses from an Old Manse. 
 
 Emerson was graduated at Harvard in 1821, and after 
 teaching a year or two gave himself to the study of divinity. 
 From 1827 to 1832 he preached in Unitarian churches, and 
 was for four years a colleague pastor in the Second Church 
 in Boston. He then left the ministry and afterward devoted 
 himself to literature. He travelled abroad in 1833, in 1847, 
 and again in 1872, making friends among the leading think 
 ers during his first journey, and confirming the friendships 
 when again in Europe ; with the exception of these three 
 journeys and occasional lecturing tours in the United States 
 he lived quietly at Concord until his death, April 27, 1882. 
 
 He had delivered several special addresses, and in his 
 early manhood was an important lecturer in the Lyceum
 
 286 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 courses which were so popular, especially in New England, 
 forty years ago, but his first published book was Nature, in 
 
 1839. Subsequent prose writings were his Essays, under 
 that title, and in several volumes with specific titles, Repre 
 sentative Men, and English Traits. In form the prose is 
 either the oration or the essay, with one exception. Eng 
 lish Traits records the observations of the writer after his 
 first two journeys to England ; and while it may loosely be 
 classed among essays, it has certain distinctive features 
 which separate it from the essays of the same writer; there 
 is in it narrative, reminiscence, and description, which make 
 it more properly the note-book of a philosophic traveller. 
 
 It may be said of his essays as well as of his deliberate 
 orations that the writer never was wholly unmindful of an 
 audience ; he was conscious always that he was not merely 
 delivering his mind, but speaking directly to men. One is 
 aware of a certain pointedness of speech which turns the 
 writer into a speaker, and the printed words into a sounding 
 voice. 
 
 He wrote poems when in college, but his first publication 
 of verse was through The Dial, a magazine established in 
 
 1840, and the representative of a knot of men and women 
 of whom Emerson was the acknowledged or unacknow 
 ledged leader. The first volume of his poems was pub 
 lished in 1847, and included those by which he is best 
 known, as The Problem, The Sphinx, The Rhodora, The 
 Humble Bee, Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Con 
 cord Monument. After the establishment of the Atlantic 
 Monthly in 1857, he contributed to it both prose and poetr; , 
 and verses published in the early numbers, mere enigmas to 
 some, profound revelations to others, were fruitful of discus 
 sion and thought ; his second volume of poems, May Day 
 and other Pieces, was not issued until 1867. Since then a 
 volume of his collected poetry has appeared, containing most 
 of those published in the two volumes, and a few in addi 
 tion. We are told, however, that the published writings of
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 287 
 
 Emerson bear but small proportion to the unpublished. 
 Many lectures have been delivered, but not printed ; many 
 poems written, and a few read, which have never been pub 
 lished. The inference from this, borne out by the marks 
 upon what has been published, is that Mr. Emerson set a 
 high value upon literature, and was jealous of the preroga 
 tive of the poet. He is frequently called a seer, and this 
 old word, indicating etymologically its original intention, is 
 applied well to a poet who saw into nature and human life 
 with a spiritual power which made him a marked man in 
 his own time, and one destined to an unrivalled place in life- 
 erature. He fulfilled Wordsworth's lines : 
 
 " With an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy 
 We see into the life of things."
 
 
 BEHAVIOR. 
 
 GBACE, Beauty, and Caprice 
 
 Build this golden portal ; 
 
 Graceful women, chosen men, 
 
 Dazzle every mortal : 
 
 Their sweet and lofty countenance 
 
 His enchanting food ; 
 
 He need not go to them, their forma 
 
 Beset his solitude. 
 
 He looketh seldom in their face, 
 
 Hia eyes explore the ground, 
 
 The green grass is a looking-glass 
 
 Whereon their traits are found. 
 
 Little he says to them, 
 
 So dances his heart in his breast, 
 
 Their tranquil mien bereaveth him 
 
 Of wit, of words, of rest. 
 
 Too weak to win, too fond to shun 
 
 The tyrants of his doom, 
 
 The much-deceived Endymion 
 
 Blips behind a tomb. 
 
 THE soul which animates Nature is not less signifi 
 cantly published in the figure, movement, and gesture 
 of animated bodies, than in its last vehicle of articulate 
 speech. This silent and subtile language is Manners ; 
 hot what, but how. Life expresses. A statue has no 
 tongue, and needs none. Good tableaux do not need 
 declamation. Nature tells every secret once. Yes, 
 but in man she tells it all the time, by form, attitude, 
 gesture, mien, face, and parts of the face, and by tbo 
 whole action of the machine. The visible carriage or 
 action of the individual, as resulting from his organi 
 zation and his will combined, we call manners. What 
 are they but thought entering the hands and feet, con 
 trolling the movements of the body, the speech and 
 behavior ?
 
 BEHA VIOR. 289 
 
 There is always a best way of doing everything, if 
 it be to boil an egg. Manners are the happy ways of 
 doing things ; each, once a stroke of genius or of love, 
 now repeated and hardened into usage. They form 
 at last a rich varnish, with which the routine of life is 
 washed, and its details adorned. If they are super 
 ficial, so are the dewdrops which give such a depth to 
 the morning meadows. Manners are very communi 
 cable ; men catch them from each other. Consuelo, 
 in the romance, 1 boasts of the lessons she had given 
 the nobles in manners, on the stage ; and, in real life, 
 Talma 2 taught Napoleon the arts of behavior. Genius 
 invents fine manners, which the baron and the baron 
 ess copy very fast, and, by the advantage of a palace, 
 better the instruction. They stereotype the lesson 
 they have learned into a mode. 
 
 The power of manners is incessant, an element 
 as unconcealable as fire. The nobility cannot in any 
 country be disguised, and no more in a republic or a 
 democracy than in a kingdom. No man can resist 
 their influence. There are certain manners which are 
 learned in good society, of that force, that, if a person 
 have them, he or she must be considered, and is every 
 where welcome, though without beauty, or wealth, or 
 genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments, 
 and you give him the mastery of palaces and fortunes 
 where he goes. He has not the trouble of earning or 
 owning them ; they solicit him to enter and possess. 
 We send girls of a timid, retreating disposition to the 
 boarding-school, to the riding-school, to the ball-room, 
 or wheresoever they can come into acquaintance and 
 nearness of leading persons of their own sex ; where 
 
 1 Of the same name, by George Sand. 
 * A celebrated actor.
 
 290 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 they might learn address, and see it near at hand. 
 The power of a woman of fashion to lead, and also to 
 daunt and repel, derives from their belief that she 
 knows resources and behaviors not known to them ; 
 but when these have mastered her secret, they learn to 
 confront her, and recover their self-possession. 
 
 Every day bears witness to their gentle rule. People 
 who would obtrude, now do not obtrude. The medi 
 ocre circle learns to demand that which belongs to a 
 high state of nature or of culture. Your manners are 
 always under examination, and by committees little 
 suspected, a police in citizens' clothes, but are 
 awarding or denying you very high prizes when you 
 least think of it. 
 
 We talk much of utilities, but 't is our manners that 
 associate us. In hours of business, we go to him who 
 knows, or has, or does this or that which we want, and 
 we do not let our taste or feeling stand in the way. 
 But this activity over, we return to the indolent state, 
 and wish for those we can be at ease with ; those who 
 will go where we go, whose manners do not offend us, 
 whose social tone chimes with ours. When we reflect 
 on their persuasive and cheering force ; how they rec 
 ommend, prepare, and draw people together ; how, in 
 all clubs, manners make the members ; how manners 
 make the fortune of the ambitious youth ; that, for the 
 most part, his manners marry him, and, for the most 
 part, he marries manners ; when we think what keys 
 they are, and to what secrets ; what high lessons and 
 inspiring tokens of character they convey ; and what 
 divination is required in us, for the reading of this 
 fine telegraph, we see what range the subject has, and 
 what relations to convenience, power, and beauty. 
 
 Their first service is very low, when they are the
 
 BEHA VIOR. 291 
 
 minor morals : but 't is the beginning of civility, to 
 make us, I mean, endurable to each other. We prize 
 them for their rough-plastic, abstergent force ; to get 
 people out of the quadruped state ; to get them washed, 
 clothed, and set up on end; to slough their animal 
 husks and habits; compel them to be clean; overawe 
 their spite and meanness, teach them to stifle the base, 
 and choose the generous expression, and make them 
 know how much happier the generous behaviors are. 
 
 Bad behavior the laws cannot reach. Society is 
 infested with rude, cynical, restless, and frivolous per 
 sons who prey upon the rest, and whom a public opinion 
 concentrated into good manners forms accepted by 
 the sense of all can reach: the contradictors and 
 railers at public and private tables, who are like ter 
 riers, who conceive it the duty of a dog of honor to 
 growl at any passer-by, and do the honors of the house 
 by barking him out of sight ; I have seen men who 
 neigh like a horse when you contradict them, or say 
 something which they do not understand : then the 
 overbold, who make their own invitation to your 
 hearth ; the persevering talker, who gives you his 
 society in large, saturating doses ; the pitiers of them 
 selves, a perilous class ; the frivolous Asmodeus, 
 who relies on you to find him in ropes of sand to 
 twist ; the monotones ; in short, every stripe of ab 
 surdity ; these are social inflictions which the magis 
 trate cannot cure or defend you from, and which must 
 be intrusted to the restraining force of custom, and 
 proverbs, and familiar rules of behavior impressed on 
 young people in their school-days. 
 
 In the hotels on the banks of the Mississippi, they 
 print, or used to print, among the rules of the house, 
 that ^ no gentleman can be permitted to come to the
 
 292 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 public table without his coat ; " and in the same coun 
 try, in the pews of the churches, little placards plead 
 with the worshipper against the fury of expectoration. 
 Charles Dickens self-sacrificingly undertook the refor 
 mation of our American manners in unspeakable par 
 ticulars. I think the lesson was not quite lost ; that 
 it held bad manners up, so that the churls could see 
 the deformity. Unhappily, the book had its own de 
 formities. It ought not to need to print in a reading- 
 room a caution to strangers not to speak loud ; nor to 
 persons who look over fine engravings, that they 
 should be handled like cobwebs and butterflies' wings ; 
 nor to persons who look at marble statues, that they 
 shall not smite them with canes. But, even in the 
 perfect civilization of this city, such cautions are not 
 quite needless in the Athenaeum and City Library. 
 
 Manners are factitious, and grow out of circum 
 stance as well as out of character. If you look at the 
 pictures of patricians and of peasants, of different 
 periods and countries, you will see how -well they 
 match the same classes in our towns. The modern 
 aristocrat not only is well drawn in Titian's Venetian 
 doges, and in Roman coins and statues, but also in the 
 pictures which Commodore Perry brought home of 
 dignitaries in Japan. Broad lands and great interests 
 not only arrive to such heads as can manage them, but 
 form manners of power. A keen eye, too, will see 
 nice gradations of rank, or see in the manners the 
 degree of homage the party is wont to receive. A 
 prince who is accustomed every day to be courted and 
 deferred to by the highest grandees, acquires a corre 
 sponding expectation, and a becoming mode of receiv 
 ing and replying to this homage. 
 
 There are always exceptional people and modes.
 
 BEHA VI OR. 293 
 
 English grandees affect to be farmers. Claverhouse 
 is a fop, and, under the finish of dress, and levity of 
 behavior, hides the terror of his war. But Nature 
 and Destiny are honest, and never fail to leave their 
 mark, to hang out a sign for each and for every qual 
 ity. It is much to conquer one's face, and perhaps 
 the ambitious youth thinks he has got the whole secret 
 when he has learned that disengaged manners are 
 commanding. Don't be deceived by a facile exterior. 
 Tender men sometimes have strong wills. We had, 
 in Massachusetts, an old statesman, who had sat all 
 his life in courts and in chairs of state, without over 
 coming an extreme irritability of face, voice, and bear 
 ing ; when he spoke, his voice would not serve him ; it 
 cracked, it broke, it wheezed, it piped : little cared he ; 
 he knew that it had got to pipe, or wheeze, or screech 
 his argument and his indignation. When he sat down, 
 after speaking, he seemed in a sort of fit, and held on 
 to his chair with both hands ; but underneath all this 
 irritability was a puissant will, firm and advancing, 
 and a memory in which lay in order and method like 
 geologic strata every fact of his history, and under the 
 control of his will. 
 
 Manners are partly factitious, but, mainly, there 
 must be capacity for culture in the blood. Else all 
 culture is vain. The obstinate prejudice in favor of 
 blood, which lies at the base of the feudal and mon 
 archical fabrics of the Old World, has some reason 
 in common experience. Every man mathematician, 
 artist, soldier, or merchant looks with confidence 
 for some traits and talents in his own child, which he 
 would not dare to presume in the child of a stranger. 
 The Orientalists are very orthodox on this point. 
 "Take a thorn-bush," said the emir Abdel-Kader,
 
 294 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 *' and sprinkle it for a whole year with water ; it will 
 yield nothing but thorns. Take a date-tree, leave it 
 without culture, and it will always produce dates. 
 Nobility is the date-tree, and the Arab populace is a 
 bush of thorns." 
 
 A main fact in the history of manners is the won 
 derful expressiveness of the human body. If it were 
 made of glass, or of air, and the thoughts were written 
 on steel tablets within, it could not publish more truly 
 its meaning than now. Wise men read very sharply 
 all your private history in your look and gait and be 
 havior. The whole economy of nature is bent on ex 
 pression. The tell-tale body is all tongues. Men are 
 like Geneva watches with crystal faces which expose 
 the whole movement. They carry the liquor of life 
 flowing up and down in these beautiful bottles, and 
 announcing to the curious how it is with them. The 
 face and eyes reveal what the spirit is doing, how old 
 it is, what aims it has. The eyes indicate the antiquity 
 of the soul, or through how many forms it has already 
 ascended. It almost violates the proprieties, if we 
 say above the breath here, what the confessing eyes 
 do not hesitate to utter to every street passenger. 
 
 Man cannot fix his eye on the sun, and so far seems 
 imperfect. In Siberia, a late traveller found men 
 who could see the satellites of Jupiter with their un 
 armed eye. In some respects the animals excel us. 
 The birds have a longer sight, beside the advantage 
 by their wings of a higher observatory. A cow can 
 bid her calf, by secret signal, probably of the eye, to 
 run away, or to lie down and hide itself. The jockeys 
 say of certain horses, that " they look over the whole 
 ground." The out-door life, and hunting, and labor, 
 give equal vigor to the human eye. A farmer looks
 
 BEHA VIOR. 295 
 
 out at you as strong as the horse ; his eye-beam is like 
 the stroke of a staff. An eye can threaten like a 
 loaded and levelled gun, or can insult like hissing or 
 kicking ; or, in its altered mood, by beams of kind 
 ness, it can make the heart dance with joy. 
 
 The eye obeys exactly the action of the mind. 
 When a thought strikes us, the eyes fix, and remain 
 gazing at a distance ; in enumerating the names of 
 persons or of countries, as France, Germany, Spain, 
 Turkey, the eyes wink at each new name. There 
 is no nicety of learning sought by the mind which 
 the eyes do not vie in acquiring. " An artist," said 
 Michel Angelo, " must have his measuring tools not 
 in the hand, but in the eye ; " and there is no end to 
 the catalogue of its performances, whether in indolent 
 vision (that of health and beauty), or in strained vi 
 sion (that of art and labor). 
 
 Eyes are bold as lions, roving, running, leaping, 
 here and there, far and near. They speak all lan 
 guages. They wait for no introduction ; they are no 
 Englishmen ; ask no leave of age or rank ; they re 
 spect neither poverty nor riches, neither learning nor 
 power, nor virtue, nor sex, but intrude, and come 
 again, and go through and through you, in a moment 
 of time. What inundation of life and thought is dis 
 charged from one soul into another, through them I 
 The glance is natural magic. The mysterious com 
 munication established across a house between two 
 entire strangers, moves all the springs of wonder. 
 The communication by the glance is in the greatest 
 part not subject to the control of the will. It is the 
 bodily symbol of identity of nature. We look into 
 the eyes to know if this other form is another self, 
 and the eyes will not lie, but make a faithful confes-
 
 296 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 sion what inhabitant is there. The revelations are 
 sometimes terrific. The confession of a low, usurping 
 devil is there made, and the observer shall seem to 
 feel the stirring of owls, and bats, and horned hoofs, 
 where he looked for innocence and simplicity. 'T is 
 remarkable, too, that the spirit that appears at the. 
 windows of the house does at once invest himself in 
 a new form of his own, to the mind of the beholder. 
 
 The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues, 
 with the advantage, that the ocular dialect needs no 
 dictionary, but is understood all the world over. 
 When the eyes say one thing, and the tongue another, 
 a practised man relies on the language of the first. 
 If the man is off his centre, the eyes show it. You 
 can read in the eyes of your companion, whether 
 your argument hits him, though his tongue will not 
 confess it. There is a look by which a man shows he 
 is going to say a good thing, and a look when he has 
 said it. Vain and forgotten are all the fine offers 
 and offices of hospitality, if there is no holiday in the 
 eye. How many furtive inclinations avowed by the 
 eye, though dissembled by the lips ! One comes away 
 from a company, in which, it may easily happen, he 
 has said nothing, and no important remark has been 
 addressed to him, and yet, if in sympathy with the 
 society, he shall not have a sense of this fact, such a 
 stream of life has been flowing into him, and out from 
 him, through the eyes. There are eyes, to be sure, 
 that give no more admission into the man than blue 
 berries. Others are liquid and deep, wells that a 
 man might fall into ; others are aggressive and de 
 vouring, seem to call out the police, take all too much 
 notice, and require crowded Broadways, and the se 
 curity of millions, to protect individuals against them.
 
 BEHAVIOR. 297 
 
 The military eye I meet, now darkly sparkling under 
 clerical, now under rustic, brows. 'Tis the city of 
 Lacedsemon ; 't is a stack of bayonets. There are 
 asking eyes, asserting eyes, prowling eyes ; and eyes 
 full of fate, some of good, and some of sinister, 
 omen. The alleged power to charm down insanity, or 
 ferocity in beasts, is a power behind the eye. It must 
 be a victory achieved in the will, before it can be sig 
 nified in the eye. 'T is very certain that each man 
 carries in his eye the exact indication of his rank in 
 the immense scale of men, and we are always learning 
 to read it. A complete man should need no auxilia 
 ries to his personal presence. Whoever looked on 
 him would consent to his will, being certified that his 
 aims were generous and universal. The reason why 
 men do not obey us, is because they see the mud at 
 the bottom of our eye. 
 
 If the organ of sight is such a vehicle of power, the 
 other features have their own. A man finds room in 
 the few square inches of the face for the traits of all 
 his ancestors ; for the expression of all his history, 
 and his wants. The sculptor, and Winckelmann, and 
 Lavater, will tell you how significant a feature is the 
 nose ; how its form expresses strength or weakness 
 of will and good or bad temper. The nose of Ju 
 lius Caesar, of Dante, and of Pitt suggest " the ter 
 rors of the beak." What refinement, and what 
 limitations, the teeth betray ! " Beware you don't 
 laugh," said the wise mother, " for then you show all 
 your faults." 
 
 Balzac left in manuscript a chapter, which he called 
 " Theorie de la demarche" in which he says : " The 
 look, the voice, the respiration, and the attitude or 
 walk are identical. But, as it has not been given to
 
 298 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 man, the power to stand guard, at once, over these 
 four different simultaneous expressions of his thought, 
 watch that one which speaks out the truth, and you 
 will know the whole man." 
 
 Palaces interest us mainly in the exhibition of man 
 ners, which in the idle and expensive society dwelling 
 in them are raised to a high art. The maxim of 
 courts is that manner is power. A calm and resolute 
 bearing, a polished speech, and embellishment of tri 
 fles, and the art of hiding all uncomfortable feeling, 
 are essential to the courtier, and Saint Simon, anci. 
 Cardinal de Retz, and Roederer, and an encyclopaedia 
 of Memoires will instruct you, if you wish, in those 
 potent secrets. Thus, it is a point of pride with kings 
 to remember faces and names. It is reported of one 
 prince, that his head had the air of leaning down 
 wards, in order not to humble the crowd. There are 
 people who come in ever like a child with a piece of 
 good news. It was said of the late Lord Holland, 
 that he always came down to breakfast with the air 
 of a man who had just met with some signal good for 
 tune. In Notre Dame the grandee took his place 
 on the dais, with the look of one who is thinking of 
 something else. But we must not peep and eavesdrop 
 at palace^doors. 
 
 Fine manners need the support of fine manners in 
 others. A scholar may be a well-bred man, or he may 
 not The enthusiast is introduced to polished scholars 
 in society, and is chilled and silenced by finding him 
 self not in their element. They all have somewhat 
 which he has not, and, it seems, ought to have. But 
 if he finds the scholar apart from his companions, it 
 is then the enthusiast's turn, and the scholar has no 
 defence, but must deal on his terms. Now they must
 
 BEHA VI OR. 299 
 
 fight the battle out on their private strength. What 
 is the talent of that character so common, the suc 
 cessful man of the world, in all marts, senates, and 
 drawing-rooms ? Manners : manners of power ; sense 
 to see his advantage, and manners up to it. See him 
 approach his man. He knows that troops behave as 
 they are handled at first ; that is his cheap secret ; 
 just what happens to every two persons who meet on 
 any affair, one instantly perceives that he has the key 
 of the situation, that his will comprehends the other's 
 will, as the cat does the mouse, and he has only to use 
 courtesy, and furnish good-natured reasons to his vic 
 tim to cover up the chain, lest he be shamed into re 
 sistance. 
 
 The theatre in which this science of manners has a 
 formal importance is not with us a court, but dress- 
 circles, wherein, after the close of the day's business, 
 men and women meet at leisure, for mutual entertain 
 ment, in ornamented drawing-rooms. Of course, it 
 has every variety of attraction and merit; but, to 
 earnest persons, to youths or maidens who have great 
 objects at heart, we cannot extol it highly. A well- 
 dressed, talkative company, where each is bent to 
 amuse the other, yet the high-born Turk who came 
 hither fancied that every woman seemed to be suffer 
 ing for a chair ; that all talkers were brained and ex 
 hausted by the de-oxygenated air ; it spoiled the best 
 persons : it put all on stilts. Yet here are the secret 
 biographies written and read. The aspect of that 
 man is repulsive ; I do not wish to deal with him. 
 The other is irritable, shy, and on his guard. The 
 youth looks humble and manly : I choose him. Look 
 on this woman. There is not beauty, nor brilliant say 
 ings, nor distinguished power to serve you ; but all see
 
 300 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 her gladly ; her whole air and impression are health 
 ful. Here coine the sentimentalists, and the invalids, 
 .iere is Elise, who caught cold in coming into the 
 rorld, and has always increased it since. Here are 
 ,Teep-mouse manners ; and thievish manners. " Look 
 it Northcote," said Fuseli ; " he looks like a rat that 
 has seen a cat." In the shallow company, easily ex 
 cited, easily tired, here is the columnar Bernard : the 
 A.lleghanies do not express more repose than his be 
 havior. Here are the sweet, following eyes of Cecile : 
 it seemed always that she demanded the heart. No 
 thing can be more excellent in kind than the Corin 
 thian grace of Gertrude's manners, and yet Blanche, 
 who has no manners, has better manners than she ; 
 for the movements of Blanche are the sallies of a 
 spirit which is sufficient for the moment, and she can 
 afford to express every thought by instant action. 
 
 Manners have been somewhat cynically defined to 
 be a contrivance of wise men to keep fools at a dis 
 tance. Fashion is shrewd to detect those who do not 
 belong to her train, and seldom wastes her attentions. 
 Society is very swift in its instincts, and, if you do not 
 belong to it, resists and sneers at you ; or quietly 
 drops you. The first weapon enrages the party at 
 tacked ; the second is still more effective, but is not 
 to be resisted, as the date of the transaction is not 
 easily found. People grow up and grow old under 
 this infliction, and never suspect the truth, ascribing 
 the solitude which acts on them very injuriously to 
 any cause but the right one. 
 
 The basis of good manners is self-reliance. Neces 
 sity is the law of all who are not self-possessed. Those 
 who are not self-possessed obtrude and pain us. Some 
 men appear to feel that they belong to a Pariah caste.
 
 BEHA VIOR. 301 
 
 They fear to offend, they bend and apologize, and 
 walk through life with a timid step. 
 
 As we sometimes dream that we are in a well- 
 dressed company without any coat, so Godfrey acts 
 ever as if he suffered from some mortifying circum 
 stance. The hero should find himself at home, wher 
 ever he is ; should impart comfort by his own security 
 and good-nature to all beholders. The hero is suffered 
 to be himself. A person of strong mind comes to per 
 ceive that for him an immunity is secured so long as 
 he renders to society that service which is native and 
 proper to him, an immunity from all the observ 
 ances, yea, and duties, which society so tyrannically im 
 poses on the rank and file of its members. " Euripi 
 des," says Aspasia, " has not the fine manners of 
 Sophocles : " but," she adds, good-humoredly, " the 
 movers and masters of our souls have surely a right 
 to throw out their limbs as carelessly as they please on 
 the world that belongs to them, and before the crea 
 tures they have animated." l 
 
 Manners require time, as nothing is more vulgar 
 than haste. Friendship should be surrounded with 
 ceremonies and respects, and not crushed into corners. 
 Friendship requires more time than poor busy men 
 can usually command. Here comes to me Roland, 
 with a delicacy of sentiment leading and inwrapping 
 him like a divine cloud or holy ghost. 'T is a great 
 destitution to both that this should not be entertained 
 with large leisures, but contrariwise should be balked 
 by importunate affairs. 
 
 But through this lustrousf varnish, the reality is evei 
 shining. 'T is hard to ke, p the what from breaking 
 through this pretty painting of the how. The core 
 1 LauJor, Pericles and Aspasia.
 
 302 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 will come to the surface. Strong will and keen per 
 ception overpower old manners, and create new ; and 
 the thought of the present moment has a greater value 
 than all the past. In persons of character we do not 
 remark manners, because of their instantaneousness. 
 We are surprised by the thing done, out of all power 
 to watch the way of it. Yet nothing is more charming 
 than to recognize the great style which runs through 
 the action of such. People masquerade before us in 
 their fortunes, titles, offices, and connections, as aca 
 demic or civil presidents, or senators, or professors, or 
 great lawyers, and impose on the frivolous, and a good 
 deal on each other, by these fames. At least, it is a 
 point of prudent good manners to treat these reputa 
 tions tenderly, as if they were merited. But the sad 
 realist knows these fellows at a glance, and they know 
 him ; as when in Paris the chief of the police enters a 
 ball-room, so many diamonded pretenders shrink and 
 make themselves as inconspicuous as they can, or give 
 him a supplicating look as they pass. " I had re 
 ceived," said a sibyl, "I had received at birth the 
 fatal gift of penetration ; " and these Cassandras are 
 always born. 
 
 Manners impress as they indicate real power. A 
 man who is sure of his point carries a broad and con 
 tented expression, which everybody reads. And you 
 cannot rightly train one to an air and manner except 
 by making him the kind of man of whom that manner 
 is the natural expression. Nature forever puts a pre 
 mium on reality. What is done for effect is seen to 
 be done for effect ; what ^ done for love is felt to be 
 done for love. A man i oires affection and honor, 
 because he was not Iyin in wait for these. The 
 things of a man for which we visit him, were done in
 
 BEHAVIOR. 303 
 
 the dark and the cold. A little integrity is better 
 than any career. So deep are the sources of this sur 
 face-action, that even the size of your companion seems 
 to vary with his freedom of thought. Not only is he 
 larger, when at ease, and his thoughts generous, but 
 everything around him becomes variable with expres 
 sion. No carpenter's rule, no rod and chain, will 
 measure the dimensions of any house or house-lot : go 
 into the house : if the proprietor is constrained and 
 deferring, 't is of no importance how large his house, 
 how beautiful his grounds, you quickly come to the 
 end of all ; but if the man is self-possessed, happy, and 
 at home, his house is deep-founded, indefinitely large 
 and interesting, the roof and dome buoyant as the sky. 
 Under the humblest roof, the commonest person in 
 plain clothes sits there massive, cheerful, yet formi 
 dable like the Egyptian colossi. 
 
 Neither Aristotle, nor Leibnitz, nor Junius, nor 
 Champollion has set down the grammar-rules of this 
 dialect, older than Sanscrit ; but they who cannot yet 
 read English, can read this. Men take each other's 
 measure, when they meet for the first time, and 
 every time they meet. How do they get this rapid 
 knowledge, even before they speak, of each other's 
 power and dispositions ? One would say that the per 
 suasion of their speech is not in what they say, or, 
 that men do not convince by their argument, but by 
 their personality, by who they are, and what they said 
 and did heretofore. A man already strong is listened 
 to, and everything he says is applauded. Another 
 opposes him with sound argument, but the argument 
 is scouted, until by and by it gets into the mind of 
 some weighty person; then it begins to tell on the 
 community.
 
 304 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 Self-reliance is the basis of behavior, as it is the 
 guaranty that the powers are not squandered in ton 
 much demonstration. In this country, where schoo< 
 education is universal, we have a superficial culture, 
 and a profusion of reading and writing and expres 
 sion. We parade our nobilities in poems and ora 
 tions, instead of working them up into happiness. 
 There is a whisper out of the ages to him who can 
 understand it, " Whatever is known to thyself 
 alone has always very great value." There is some 
 reason to believe that, when a man does not write his 
 poetry, it escapes by other vents through him, instead 
 of the one vent of writing; clings to his form and 
 manners, whilst poets have often nothing poetical 
 about them except their verses. Jacobi said, that 
 " when a man has fully expressed his thought, he has 
 somewhat less possession of it." One would say, the 
 rule is, What a man is irresistibly urged to say, 
 helps him and us. In explaining his thought to others, 
 he explains it to himself : but when he opens it for 
 show, it corrupts him. 
 
 Society is the stage on which manners are shown ; 
 novels are their literature. Novels are the journal or 
 record of manners ; and the new importance of these 
 books derives from the fact that the novelist begins to 
 penetrate the surface, and treat this part of life more 
 worthily. The novels used to be all alike, and had 
 a quite vulgar tone. The novels used to lead us on to 
 a foolish interest in the fortunes of the boy and girl 
 they described. The boy was to be raised from a 
 humble to a high position. He was in want of a wife 
 and a castle, and the object of the story was to supply 
 him with one or both. We watched sympathetically, 
 step by step, his climbing, until, at last, the point is
 
 BEHA VIOR. 305 
 
 gained, the wedding day is fixed, and we follow the 
 gala procession home to the bannered portal, when the 
 doors are slammed in our face, and the poor reader is 
 left outside in the cold, not enriched by so much as an 
 idea, or a virtuous impulse. 
 
 But the victories of character are instant, and vic 
 tories for all. Its greatness enlarges all. We are 
 fortified by every heroic anecdote. The novels are as 
 useful as Bibles, if they teach you the secret, that the 
 best of life is conversation, and the greatest success is 
 confidence, or perfect understanding between sincere 
 people. 'T is a French definition of friendship, rien 
 que s'entendre, good understanding. The highest 
 compact we can make with our fellow is, " Let there 
 be truth between us two for evermore." That is the 
 charm in all good novels, as it is the charm in all good 
 histories, that the heroes mutually understand, from 
 the first, and deal loyally and with a profound trust in 
 each other. It is sublime to feel and say of another, 
 I need never meet, or speak, or write to him : we need 
 not reinforce ourselves, or send tokens of remem 
 brance : I rely on him as on myself : if he did thus, or 
 thus, I know it was right. 
 
 In all the superior people I have met, I notice di 
 rectness, truth spoken more truly, as if everything of 
 obstruction, of malformation, had been trained away. 
 What have they to conceal ? What have they to ex 
 hibit ? Between simple and noble persons there is al 
 ways a quick intelligence : they recognize at sight, and 
 meet on a better ground than the talents and skills 
 they may chance to possess, namely, on sincerity and 
 uprightness. For, it is not what talents or genius 
 a man has, but how he is to his talents, that consti 
 tutes friendship and character. The man that stands
 
 306 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 by himself, the universe stands by him also. It is re 
 lated of the monk Basle, that, being excommunicated 
 by the Pope, he was, at his death, sent in charge of an 
 angel to find a fit place of suffering in hell ; but, such 
 was the eloquence and good-humor of the monk, that 
 wherever he went he was received gladly, and civilly 
 treated, even by the most uncivil angels : and, when 
 he came to discourse with them, instead of contradict 
 ing or forcing him, they took his part, and adopted 
 his manners ; and even good angels came from far, to 
 see him, and take up their abode with him. The an 
 gel that was sent to find a place of torment for him 
 attempted to remove him to a worse pit, but with no 
 better success ; for such was the contented spirit of the 
 monk, that he found something to praise in every 
 place and company, though in hell, and made a kind 
 of heaven of it. At last the escorting angel returned 
 with his prisoner to them that sent him, saying that 
 no phlegethon could be found that would burn him ; 
 for that in whatever condition, Basle remained incor 
 rigibly Basle. The legend says, his sentence was re 
 mitted, and he was allowed to go into heaven, and 
 was canonized as a saint. 
 
 There is a stroke of magnanimity in the correspon 
 dence of Bonaparte with his brother Joseph, when the 
 latter was King of Spain, and complained that he 
 missed in Napoleon's letters the affectionate tone 
 which had marked their childish correspondence. " I 
 am sorry," replies Napoleon, "you think you shall 
 find your brother again only in the Elysian Fields. 
 It is natural, that at forty, he should not feel towards 
 you as he did at twelve. But his feelings towards you 
 have greater truth and strength. His friendship has 
 the features of his mind."
 
 BEHA VIOR. 
 
 How much we forgive in those who yield us the 
 rare spectacle of heroic manners ! We will pardon 
 them the want of books, of arts, and even of the gen 
 tler virtues. How tenaciously we remember them I 
 Here is a lesson which I brought along with me in 
 boyhood from the Latin School, and which ranks with 
 the best of Roman anecdotes. Marcus Scaurus was 
 accused by Quintus Varius Hispanus, that he had ex 
 cited the allies to take arms against the Republic. 
 But he, full of firmness and gravity, defended himself 
 in this manner : " Quintus Varius Hispanus alleges 
 that Marcus Scaurus, President of the Senate, excited 
 the allies to arms : Marcus Scaurus, President of the 
 Senate, denies it. There is no witness. Which do 
 you believe, Romans ? " " Utri creditis, Quirites ? " 
 When he had said these words, he was absolved by 
 the assembly of the people. 
 
 I have seen manners that make a similar impression 
 with personal beauty ; that give the like exhilaration, 
 and refine us like that; and, in memorable experi 
 ences, they are suddenly better than beauty, and make 
 that superfluous and ugly. But they must be marked 
 by fine perception, the acquaintance with real beauty. 
 They must always show self-control : you shall not be 
 facile, apologetic, or leaky, but king over your word ; 
 and every gesture and action shall indicate power at 
 rest. Then they must be inspired by the good heart. 
 There is no beautifier of complexion, or form, or be 
 havior, like the wish to scatter joy and not pain 
 around us. 'T is good to give a stranger a meal, or a 
 night's lodging. 'T is better to be hospitable to his 
 good meaning and thought, and give courage to a 
 companion. We must be as courteous to a man as 
 we are to a picture, which we are willing to give the
 
 808 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 advantage of a good light. Special precepts are not 
 to be thought of: the talent of well-doing contains 
 them all. Every hour will show a duty as paramount 
 as that of my whim just now ; and yet I will write it, 
 that there is one topic peremptorily forbidden to 
 all well-bred, to all rational mortals, namely, their 
 distempers. If you have not slept, or if you have 
 slept, or if you have headache, or sciatica, or leprosy, 
 or thunder-stroke, I beseech you, by all angels, to hold 
 your peace, and not pollute the morning, to which all 
 the housemates bring serene and pleasant thoughts, by 
 corruption and groans. Come out of the azure. 
 Love the day. Do not leave the sky out of your land 
 scape. The oldest and the most deserving person 
 should come very modestly into any newly awaked 
 company, respecting the divine communications, out of 
 which all must be presumed to have newly come. An 
 old man, who added an elevating culture to a large 
 experience of life, said to me : " When you come into 
 the room, I think I will study how to make humanity 
 beautiful to you." 
 
 As respects the delicate question of culture, I do 
 not think that any other than negative rules can be 
 laid down. For positive rules, for suggestion, Nature 
 alone inspires it. Who dare assume to guide a youth, 
 a maid, to perfect manners ? the golden mean is so 
 delicate, difficult, say frankly, unattainable. What 
 finest hands would not be clumsy to sketch the genial 
 precepts of the young girl's demeanor ? The chances 
 seem infinite against success ; and yet success is con 
 tinually attained. There must not be secondarines^ 
 and 't is a thousand to one that her air and manner 
 will at once betray that she is not primary, but that 
 there is some other one or many of her class, to whom
 
 BOSTON HYMN. 309 
 
 she habitually postpones herself. But Nature lifts 
 her easily, and without knowing it, over these impos 
 sibilities, and we are continually surprised with graces 
 and felicities not only unteachable, but undescribable. 
 
 BOSTON HYMN. 
 
 BEAD IN MUSIC HALL, JANUARY 1, 1863. 
 
 THE word of the Lord by night 
 To the watching Pilgrims came, 
 As they sat by the seaside, 
 And filled their hearts with flame. 
 
 God said, I am tired of kings, I 
 
 I suffer them no more ; 
 
 Up to my ear the morning brings 
 
 The outrage of the poor. 
 
 Think ye I made this ball 
 A field of havoc and war, w 
 
 Where tyrants great and tyrants small 
 Might harry the weak and poor? 
 
 My angel, his name is Freedom, 
 Choose him to be your king ; 
 He shall cut pathways east and west M 
 
 And fend you with his wing. 
 
 Lo ! I uncover the land 
 
 Which I hid of old time in the West, 
 
 As the sculptor uncovers the statue 
 
 When he has wrought his best ; M
 
 310 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 I show Columbia, of the rocks 
 Which dip their foot in the seas 
 And soar to the air-borne flocks 
 Of clouds and the boreal fleece. 
 
 I will divide my goods ; 
 Call in the wretch and slave : 
 None shall rule but the humble, 
 And none but Toil shall have. 
 
 I will have never a noble, 
 No lineage counted great ; 
 Fishers and choppers and ploughmen 
 Shall constitute a state. 
 
 Go, cut down trees in the forest 
 And trim the straightest boughs ; 
 Cut down trees in the forest 
 And build me a wooden house. 
 
 Call the people together, 
 The young men and the sires, 
 The digger in the harvest field, 
 Hireling and him that hires ; 
 
 And here in a pine state-house 
 They shall choose men to rule 
 In every needful faculty, 
 In church and state and school. 
 
 Lo, now ! if these poor men 
 Can govern the land and sea 
 And make just laws below the sun, 
 As planets faithful be.
 
 BOSTON HYMN. 311 
 
 And ye shall succor men ; 
 'T is nobleness to serve ; 
 
 Help them who cannot help again : 
 Beware from right to swerve. 
 
 I break your bonds and masterships, 
 And I unchain the slave : 
 Free be his heart and hand henceforth N 
 As wind and wandering wave. 
 
 I cause from every creature 
 
 His proper good to flow : 
 
 As much as he is and doeth, 
 
 So much he shall bestow. 
 
 But, laying hands on another 
 To coin his labor and sweat, 
 He goes in pawn to his victim 
 For eternal years in debt. 
 
 To-day unbind the captive, 
 
 So only are ye unbound ; 
 
 Lift up a people from the dust, 
 
 Trump of their rescue, sound 1 
 
 Pay ransom to the owner 
 And fill the bag to the brim. 
 
 Who is the owner ? The slave is owner, 
 And ever was. Pay him. 
 
 O North I give him beauty for rags, 
 And honor, O South ! for his shame ; 
 Nevada ! coin thy golden crags n 
 
 With Freedom's image and name.
 
 312 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 Up ! and the dusky race 
 That sat in darkness long, 
 Be swift their feet as antelopes, 
 And as behemoth strong. 
 
 Come, East and West and North, 
 By races, as snow-flakes, 
 And carry my purpose forth, 
 Which neither halts nor shakes. 
 
 My will fulfilled shall be, 
 For, in daylight or in dark, 
 My thunderbolt has eyes to see 
 His way home to the mark.
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 " IN the last year of the Revolutionary "War, on the 18th 
 of January, 1782, Daniel Webster was born, in the home 
 which his father had established on the outskirts of civiliza 
 tion. 1 If the character and situation of the place, and the 
 circumstances under which he passed the first years of his 
 life, might seem adverse to the early cultivation of his ex 
 traordinary talent, it still cannot be doubted that they pos 
 sessed influences favorable to elevation and strength of char 
 acter. The hardships of an infant settlement and border 
 life, the traditions of a long series of Indian wars, and of 
 two mighty national contests, in which an honored parent 
 had borne his part, the anecdotes of Fort William Henry, 
 of Quebec, of Bennington, of West Point, of Wolfe and 
 Stark and Washington, the great Iliad and Odyssey of 
 American Independence, this was the fireside entertain 
 ment of the long winter evenings of the secluded village 
 home. . . . 
 
 " Something that was called a school was kept for two or 
 three months in the winter, frequently by an itinerant, too 
 often a pretender, claiming only to teach a little reading, 
 writing, and ciphering, and wholly incompetent to give any 
 valuable assistance to a clever youth in learning either. 
 
 " Such as the village school was, Mr. Webster enjoyed its 
 advantages, if they could be called by that name. It was, 
 1 Salisbury (now Franklin), N. H.
 
 814 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 however, of a migratory character. When it was near his 
 father's residence it was easy to attend ; but it was some 
 times in a distant part of the town, and sometimes in another 
 town. . . . Poor as these opportunities of education were, 
 they were bestowed on Mr. Webster more liberally than on 
 his brothers. He showed a greater eagerness for learning ; 
 and he was thought of too frail a constitution for any robust 
 pursuit. ... It is probable that the best part of his educa 
 tion was derived from the judicious and experienced father, 
 and the strong-minded, affectionate, and ambitious mo 
 ther." 1 
 
 His attitude toward books is well shown by the following 
 extract from his Autobiography: "I remember that my 
 father brought home from some of the lower towns Pope's 
 Essay on Man, published in a sort of pamphlet. I took it, 
 and very soon could repeat it from beginning to end. We 
 had so few books, that to read them once or twice was no 
 thing. We thought they were all to be got by heart." 
 
 In 1796 Webster went to Exeter Academy, but poverty 
 at home caused his withdrawal in February, 1797. He then 
 studied in the neighboring town of Boscawen, under the 
 Rev. Samuel Wood, whose entire charge for board and in 
 struction was $1.00 a week. In 1797 he entered Dart 
 mouth College, where he was graduated in 1801, after four 
 years of hard and telling work ; his winter vacations were 
 spent in teaching school. 
 
 Webster next studied law, but the need of money by him 
 self and his brother Ezekiel compelled him to accept an 
 offer to take charge of an academy at Fryeburg, Maine, at 
 a salary of about a dollar a day ; he supported himself by 
 copying deeds, and thus was able to save all his salary as a 
 fund for the further education of himself and his brother. 
 
 1 See Biographical Memoir, by Edward Everett. From thia 
 Memoir, and from Lodge's Life of Webster, in the American 
 Statesmen Series, most of the material of thia sketch has been 
 taken.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 815 
 
 He resumed the study of law in September, 1802, and in 
 the spring of 1805 was admitted to the bar at Boston. He 
 opened an office at Boscawen, N. H., but in September, 
 1807, moved to Portsmouth, where he at once rose to the 
 head of his profession, and for nine successive years had a 
 large though not very lucrative practice. 
 
 In 1808 he was married to Miss Grace Fletcher of Hop- 
 kinton, N. H. 
 
 In November, 1812, he was elected a member of the 
 National House of Representatives, where his great talents 
 were at once recognized ; he was reflected in 1814. From 
 1823 until his death in 1852, with the exception of about 
 two years, he was constantly in public life, as congressman, 
 senator, and secretary of state. 
 
 In 1816 he moved to Boston, and soon took a command 
 ing position in his profession of the law. He had a choice 
 of the best business of the whole country. He distin 
 guished himself especially in the realm of Constitutional 
 Law, by which the rights of States and individuals under 
 the Constitution were defined. In 1818 he argued the 
 famous Dartmouth College case, and secured a decision 
 declaring unconstitutional, on the ground of impairing the 
 obligation of a contract, an act of the New Hampshire 
 Legislature altering the charter of the college. He was 
 thereafter retained in almost every important case argued 
 before the Supreme Court at Washington. 
 
 On December 22, 1820, the two hundredth anniversary 
 of the landing of the Pilgrims, he delivered his famous 
 Plymouth Oration, the first of a series of noble, patriotic 
 addresses which showed him to be the greatest orator Amer 
 ica ever produced. On June 17, 1825, he delivered an or 
 tion at the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill 
 Monument, and on August 2, 1826, his eulogy on the Ex- 
 Presidents John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, who died 
 within a few hours of each other, on July 4, 1826, the fif 
 tieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. In
 
 316 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 1830, he made, in the United States Senate, his celebrated 
 Reply to Hayne, in which he repelled insinuations against 
 New England, and argued against the right of nullification. 
 
 In 1850 he delivered in the Senate Chamber, at Wash- 
 pgton, what is known as his Seventh of March Speech. 
 flenry Cabot Lodge says, in his Life of Webster, that at this 
 time Webster's place was at the head of a new party based 
 on the principles which he had himself formulated against the 
 extension of slavery ; that he did not change his party, and 
 therefore had to change his opinions. In the Seventh of 
 March Speech, he spoke in favor of enforcing the Fugitive 
 Slave Law, and against the Wilmot Proviso, by which 
 slavery was to be excluded from all territory thereafter ac 
 quired. He depicted at length the grievances of the South, 
 and said but little about those of the North. Mr. George 
 T. Curtis, in his Biography, says that a great majority of 
 Webster's constituents, if not of the whole North, disap 
 proved of this speech. The judgment of many was 
 summed up in Whittier's great poem, Ichabod. In con 
 nection with this should be read the same poet's verses, 
 The Lost Occasion. Both of these poems refer to Web 
 ster. 
 
 Webster as an orator had no equal, and as a lawyer no 
 superior. His reputation as a statesman, though for the 
 most part grand and glorious, was, in the eyes of many, 
 dimmed by his change of base on the slavery question. His 
 personal appearance was very remarkable ; he had a swarthy 
 complexion and straight black hair ; his head was large and 
 of noble shape, with a broad and lofty brow ; his features 
 were finely cut and full of massive strength, and his eyes 
 were dark and deep set. Mr. Lodge says, " There is no 
 man in all history who came into the world so equipped 
 physically for speech." 
 
 Webster died at Marshfield, Mass., October 24, 1852, 
 ffhile holding the office of secretary of state under Presi 
 dent Filltuore.
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 AJf ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE LATINO OF THE CORNER 
 STONE OF THE BUNKER HELL MONUMENT AT CHARLES- 
 TOWN, MASS., ON THE 17TH OF JUNE, 1825. 
 
 [As early as 1776, some steps were taken toward the com 
 memoration of the Battle of Bunker Hill and the fall of 
 General Warren, who was buried upon the hill the day after 
 the action. The Massachusetts Lodge of Masons, over 
 which Warren had presided, applied to the provisional gov 
 ernment of Massachusetts for permission to take up his re 
 mains and to bury them with the usual solemnities. The 
 council granted this request, on condition that it should be 
 carried into effect in such a manner that the government of 
 the Colony might have an opportunity to erect a monument 
 to his memory. A funeral procession was had, and a eulogy 
 on General Warren was delivered by Perez Morton, but no 
 measures were taken toward building a monument. 
 
 A resolution was adopted by the Congress of the United 
 States on the 8th of April, 1777, directing that monuments 
 should be erected to the memory of General Warren, in 
 Boston, and of General Mercer, at Fredericksburg ; but this 
 resolution has remained to the present time unexecuted. 
 
 On the llth of November, 1794, a committee was ap 
 pointed by King Solomon's Lodge, at Charlestown, 1 to take 
 measures for the erection of a monument to the memory of! 
 General Joseph Warren, at the expense of the lodge. Thi? 
 resolution was promptly carried into effect. The land fox 
 
 1 General Warren, at the time of his decease, was Grand 
 Master of the Masonic Lodges in America.
 
 318 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 this purpose was presented to the lodge by the Hon. James 
 Russell, of Charlestown, and it was dedicated with appro 
 priate ceremonies on the 2d of December, 1794. It was a 
 wooden pillar of the Tuscan order, eighteen feet in height, 
 raised on a pedestal eight feet square, and of an elevation 
 of ten feet from the ground. The pillar was surmounted 
 by a gilt urn. An appropriate inscription was placed on the 
 south side of the pedestal. 
 
 In February, 1818, a committee of the legislature of 
 Massachusetts was appointed to consider the expediency of 
 building a monument of American marble to the memory 
 of General Warren, but this proposal was not carried into 
 effect 
 
 As the half-century from the date of the battle drew to 
 ward a close, a stronger feeling of the duty of commemo 
 rating it began to be awakened in the community. Among 
 those who from the first manifested the greatest interest in 
 the subject was the late William Tudor, Esq. He expressed 
 the wish, in a letter still preserved, to see upon the battle 
 ground " the noblest monument in the world," and he was 
 so ardent and persevering in urging the project, that it has 
 been stated that he first conceived the idea of it. The steps 
 taken in execution of the project, from the earliest private 
 conferences among the gentlemen first engaged in it to its 
 final completion, are accurately sketched by Mr. Richard 
 Frothingham, Jr., in his valuable History of the Siege of 
 Boston. All the material facts contained in this note are 
 derived from his chapter on the Bunker Hill Monument. 
 After giving an account of the organization of the society, 
 the measures adopted for the collection of funds, and the 
 deliberations on the form of the monument, Mr. Frothing 
 ham proceeds as follows : 
 
 " It was at this stage of the enterprise that the directors 
 proposed to lay the corner-stone of the monument, and 
 ground was broken (June 7th) for this purpose. As a 
 mark of respect to the liberality and patriotism of King
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 319 
 
 Solomon's Lodge, they invited the Grand Master of the 
 Grand Lodge of Massachusetts to perform the ceremony. 
 They also invited General Lafayette to accompany the 
 President of the Association, Hon. Daniel Webster, and 
 assist in it. 
 
 "This celebration was unequalled in magnificence by 
 anything of the kind that had been seen in New England. 
 The morning proved propitious. The air was cool, the sky 
 was clear, and timely showers the previous day had bright 
 ened the vesture of nature into its loveliest hue. Delighted 
 thousands flocked into Boston to bear a part in the proceed 
 ings, or to witness the spectacle. At about ten o'clock a 
 procession moved from the State House towards Bunker 
 Hill. The military, in their fine uniforms, formed the van. 
 About two hundred veterans of the Revolution, of whom 
 forty were survivors of the battle, rode in barouches next 
 to the escort. These venerable men, the relics of a past 
 generation, with emaciated frames, tottering limbs, and 
 trembling voices, Constituted a touching spectacle. Some 
 wore, as honorable decorations, their old fighting equip 
 ments, and some bore the scars of still more honorable 
 wounds. Glistening eyes constituted their answer to the en 
 thusiastic cheers of the grateful multitudes who lined their 
 pathway and cheered their progress. To this patriot band 
 succeeded the Bunker Hill Monument Association. Then 
 the Masonic fraternity, in their splendid regalia, thousands 
 in number. Then Lafayette, continually welcomed by tokens 
 of love and gratitude, and the invited guests. Then a long 
 array of societies, with their various badges and banners. 
 It was a splendid procession, and of such length that the 
 front nearly reached Charlestown Bridge ere the rear had 
 left Boston Common. It proceeded to Breed's Hill, where 
 the Grand Master of the Freemasons, the President of the 
 Monument Association, and General Lafayette performed 
 the ceremony of laying the corner-stone, in the presence of 
 a vast concourse of people."
 
 320 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 The procession then moved to a spacious amphitheatre 
 on the northern declivity of the hill, where the following 
 address was delivered by Mr. Webster, in the presence of 
 as great a multitude perhaps as was ever assembled within 
 the sound of a human voice.] 
 
 THIS uncounted multitude before me and around 
 me proves the feeling which the occasion has excited. 
 These thousands of human faces, glowing with sym 
 pathy and joy, and from the impulses of a common 
 gratitude turned reverently to heaven in this spacious 
 temple of the firmament, proclaim that the day, the 
 place, and the purpose of our assembling have made 
 a deep impression on our hearts. 
 
 If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit 
 to affect the mind of man, we need not strive to re 
 press the emotions which agitate us here. We are 
 among the sepulchres of our fathers. We are on 
 ground distinguished by their valor, their constancy, 
 and the shedding of their blood. We are here, not 
 to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor to draw 
 into notice an obscure and unknown spot. If our 
 humble purpose had never been conceived, if we our 
 selves had never been born, the 17th of June, 1775, 
 would have been a day on which all subsequent his 
 tory would have poured its light, and the eminence 
 where we stand a point of attraction to the eyes of 
 successive generations. But we are Americans. We 
 live in what may be called the early age of this great 
 continent ; and we know that our posterity, through 
 all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the allotments 
 of humanity. We see before us a probable train of 
 great events ; we know that our own fortunes have 
 been happily cast ; and it is natural, therefore, that
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 321 
 
 we should be moved by the contemplation of occur 
 rences which have guided our destiny before many of 
 us were born, and settled the condition in which we 
 should pass that portion of our existence which God 
 allows to men on earth. 
 
 We do not read even of the discovery of this con 
 tinent, without feeling something of a personal inter 
 est in the event ; without being reminded how much 
 it has affected our own fortunes and our own exist 
 ence. It would be still more unnatural for us, there 
 fore, than for others, to contemplate with unaffected 
 minds that interesting, I may say that most touch 
 ing and pathetic scene, when the great discoverer of 
 America stood on the deck of his shattered bark, the 
 shades of night falling on the sea, yet no man sleep 
 ing ; tossed on the billows of an unknown ocean, yet 
 the stronger billows of alternate hope and despair 
 tossing his own troubled thoughts ; extending forward 
 his harassed frame, straining westward his anxious 
 and eager eyes, till Heaven at last granted him a mo 
 ment of rapture and ecstasy, in blessing his vision 
 with the sight of the unknown world. 
 
 Nearer to our times, more closely connected with 
 our fates, and therefore still more interesting to our 
 feelings and affections, is the settlement of our own 
 country by colonists from England. We cherish every 
 memorial of these worthy ancestors ; we celebrate their 
 patience and fortitude ; we admire their daring enter 
 prise ; we teach our children to venerate their piety ; 
 and we are justly proud of being descended from 
 men who have set the world an example of founding 
 civil institutions on the great and united principles of 
 human freedom and human knowledge. To us, their 
 children, the story of their labors and sufferings can
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 never be without interest. We shall not stand un 
 moved on the shore of Plymouth, while the sea con 
 tinues to wash it ; nor will our brethren in another 
 early and ancient Colony forget the place of its first 
 establishment, till their river shall cease to flow by it. 1 
 No vigor of youth, no maturity of manhood, will lead 
 the nation to forget the spots where its infancy was 
 cradled and defended. 
 
 But the great event in the history of the continent, 
 which we are now met here to commemorate, that 
 prodigy of modern times, at once the wonder and the 
 blessing of the world, is the American Revolution. 
 In a day of extraordinary prosperity and happiness, 
 of high national honor, distinction, and power, we are 
 brought together, in this place, by our love of country, 
 by our admiration of exalted character, by our grati 
 tude for signal services and patriotic devotion. 
 
 The Society whose organ I am 2 was formed for the 
 purpose of rearing some honorable and durable monu 
 ment to the memory of the early friends of American 
 Independence. They have thought that for this ob 
 ject no time could be more propitious than the present 
 prosperous and peaceful period ; that no place could 
 
 1 An interesting account of the voyage of the early emigrants 
 to the Maryland Colony, and of its settlement, is given in the 
 official report of Father White, written probably within the first 
 month after the landing at St. Mary's. The original Latin man 
 uscript is still preserved among the archives of the Jesuits at 
 Rome. The Ark and the Dove are remembered with scarcely 
 less interest by the descendants of the sister colony, than is the 
 Mayflower in New England, which thirteen years earlier, at the 
 same season of the year, bore thither the Pilgrim Fathers. 
 
 8 Mr. Webster was at this time President of the Bunker Hill 
 Monument Association, chosen on the death of Governor John 
 Brooks, the first President
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 828 
 
 claim preference over this memorable spot ; and that 
 no day could be more auspicious to the undertaking, 
 than the anniversary of the battle which was here 
 fought. The foundation of that monument we have 
 now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, 
 with prayers to Almighty God for his blessing, and in 
 the midst of this cloud of witnesses, we have begun 
 the work. We trust it will be prosecuted, and that, 
 springing from a broad foundation, rising high in mas 
 sive solidity and unadorned grandeur, it may remain 
 as long as Heaven permits the works of man to last, 
 a fit emblem, both of the events in memory of which 
 it is raised, and of the gratitude of those who have 
 reared it. 
 
 We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious ac 
 tions is most safely deposited in the universal remem 
 brance of mankind. We know, that if we could cause 
 this structure to ascend, not only till it reached the 
 skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces could 
 still contain but part of that which, in an age of know 
 ledge, hath already been spread over the earth, and 
 which history charges itself with making known to all 
 future times. We know that no inscription on entab 
 latures less broad than the earth itself can carry in 
 formation of the events we commemorate where it has 
 not already gone ; and that no structure, which shall 
 not outlive the duration of letters and knowledge 
 among men, can prolong the memorial. But our ob 
 ject is, by this edifice, to show our own deep sense of 
 the value and importance of the achievements of our 
 ancestors ; and, by presenting this work of gratitude 
 to the eye, to keep alive similar sentiments, and to 
 foster a constant regard for the principles of the Rev 
 olution. Human beings are composed, not of reason
 
 824 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 only, but of imagination also, and sentiment ; and that 
 is neither wasted nor misapplied which is appropri 
 ated to the purpose of giving right direction to senti 
 ments, and opening proper springs of feeling in thfc 
 heart. Let it not be supposed that our object is to 
 perpetuate national hostility, or even to cherish a mere 
 military spirit. It is higher, purer, nobler. We con 
 secrate our work to the spirit of national indepen 
 dence, and we wish that the light of peace may rest 
 upon it for ever. We rear a memorial of our convic 
 tion of that unmeasured benefit which has been con 
 ferred on our own land, and of the happy influences 
 which have been produced, by the same events, on the 
 general interests of mankind. We come, as Ameri 
 cans, to mark a spot which must forever be dear to us 
 and our posterity. We wish that whosoever, in all 
 coming time, shall turn his eye hither, may behold 
 that the place is not undistinguished where the first 
 great battle of the Revolution was fought. We wish 
 that this structure may proclaim the magnitude and 
 importance of that event to every class and every age. 
 We wish that infancy may learn the purpose of its 
 erection from maternal lips, and that weary and with 
 ered age may behold it, and be solaced by the recol 
 lections which it suggests. We wish that labor may 
 look up here, and be proud, in the midst of its toil. 
 We wish that, in those days of disaster, which, as they 
 come upon all nations, must be expected to come upon 
 us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hith- 
 erward, and be assured that the foundations of our 
 national power are still strong. We wish that this 
 column, rising towards heaven among the pointed 
 spires of so many temples dedicated to God, may con 
 tribute also to produce, in all minds, a pious feeling
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 825 
 
 of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally, that 
 the last object to the sight of him who leaves his na 
 tive shore, and the first to gladden him who revisits it, 
 may be something which shall remind him of the lib 
 erty and the glory of his country. Let it rise ! let it 
 rise, till it meet the sun in his coming ; let the earliest 
 light of the morning gild it, and parting day linger 
 ,ind play on its summit. 
 
 We live in a most extraordinary age. Events so 
 various and so important that they might crowd and 
 distinguish centuries are, in our times, compressed 
 within the compass of a single life. When has it 
 happened that history has had so much to record, in 
 the same term of years, as since the 17th of June, 
 1775 ? Our own revolution, which, under other cir 
 cumstances, might itself have been expected to occa 
 sion a war of half a century, has been achieved ; 
 twenty-four sovereign and independent States erected ; 
 and a general government established over them, so 
 safe, so wise, so free, so practical, that we might well 
 wonder its establishment should have been accom 
 plished so soon, were it not far the greater wonder 
 that it should have been established at all. Two or 
 three millions of people have been augmented to 
 twelve, the great forests of the West prostrated be 
 neath the arm of successful industry, and the dwellers 
 on the banks of the Ohio and the Mississippi become 
 the fellow-citizens and neighbors of those who culti 
 vate the hills of New England. 1 We have a commerce 
 
 1 That which was spoken of figuratively in 1825 has, in the 
 lapse of a quarter of a century, by the introduction of railroads 
 and telegraphic lines, become a reality. It is an interesting 
 circumstance, that the first railroad on the Western Continent 
 was constructed for the purpose of accelerating the erection of 
 this monument. Edward Everett, in 1851.
 
 826 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 that leaves no sea unexplored ; navies which take no 
 law from superior force ; revenues adequate to all the 
 exigencies of government, almost without taxation; 
 and peace with all nations, founded on equal rights 
 and mutual respect. 
 
 Europe, within the same period, has been agitated 
 by a mighty revolution, which, while it has been felt 
 in the individual condition and happiness of almost 
 every man, has shaken to the centre her political fab 
 ric, and dashed against one another thrones which 
 had stood tranquil for ages. On this, our continent, 
 our own example has been followed, and colonies have 
 sprung up to be nations. Unaccustomed sounds of 
 liberty and free government have reached us from be 
 yond the track of the sun ; and at this moment the 
 dominion of European power in this continent, from 
 the place where we stand to the south pole, is annihil 
 ated for ever. 1 
 
 In the mean time, both in Europe and America, 
 such has been the general progress of knowledge, such 
 the improvement in legislation, in commerce, in the 
 arts, in letters, and, above all, in liberal ideas and the 
 general spirit of the age, that the whole world seems 
 changed. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding that this is but a faint ab 
 stract of the things which have happened since the day 
 of the battle of Bunker Hill, we are but fifty years 
 removed from it ; and we now stand here to enjoy al 
 the blessings of our own condition, and to look abroad 
 on the brightened prospects of the world, while we 
 still have among us some of those who were active 
 agents in the scenes of 1775, and who are now here, 
 
 1 This has special reference to the Monroe Doctrine, then 
 fresh iu the minds of Mr. Webster and his hearers.
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 327 
 
 from every quarter of New England, to visit once more, 
 and under circumstances so affecting, I had almost 
 said so overwhelming, this renowned theatre of their 
 courage and patriotism. 
 
 VENERABLE MEN ! you have come down to us from a 
 former generation. Heaven has bounteously length 
 ened out your lives, that you might behold this joyous 
 day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, 
 this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors} 
 shoulder to shoulder, in the strife for your country. 
 Behold, how altered I The same heavens are indeed 
 over your heads ; the same ocean rolls at your feet ; 
 but all else how changed ! You hear now no roar of 
 hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes of smoke and 
 flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground 
 strewed with the dead and the dying ; the impetuous 
 charge ; the steady and successful repulse ; the loud 
 call to repeated assault ; the summoning of all that is 
 manly to repeated resistance ; a thousand bosoms 
 freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever 
 of terror there may be in war and death ; all these 
 you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. 
 All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, 
 its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with 
 wives and children and countrymen in distress and 
 terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the 
 issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with 
 the sight of its whole happy population, come out to 
 welcome and greet you with a universal jubilee. Yon 
 der proud ships, by a felicity of position appropriately 
 lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to 
 cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, 
 but your country's own means of distinction aud
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 defence. 1 All is peace ; and God has granted yon 
 this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber 
 in the grave. He has allowed you to behold and to 
 partake the reward of your patriotic toils ; and he has 
 allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you 
 here, and in the name of the present generation, in the 
 name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank 
 you! 
 
 But, alas ! you are not all here ! Time and the 
 sword have thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, 
 Stark, Brooks, Bead, Pomeroy, Bridge ! our eyes seek 
 for you in vain amid this broken band. You are 
 gathered to your fathers, and live only to your coun 
 try in her grateful remembrance and your own bright 
 example. But let us not too much grieve, that you 
 have met the common fate of men. You lived at 
 least long enough to know that your work had been 
 nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived to 
 see your country's independence established, and to 
 sheathe your swords from war. On the light of Lib 
 erty you saw arise the light of Peace, like 
 
 " another morn, 
 Risen on mid-noon ; " 
 
 and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloud 
 less. 
 
 But, ah ! Him ! the first great martyr in this great 
 cause ! Him ! the premature victim of his own self- 
 devoting heart ! Him ! the head of our civil councils, 
 and the destined leader of our military bands, whom 
 nothing brought hither but the unquenchable fire of 
 his own spirit ! Him ! cut off by Providence in the 
 
 1 It is necessary to inform those only who are unacquainted 
 with the localities, that the United States Navy Yard at 
 Charlestowu is situated at the base of Bunker Hill.
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 329 
 
 hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick gloom ; fall 
 ing ere he saw the star of his country rise ; pouring 
 out his generous blood like water, before he knew 
 whether it would fertilize a land of freedom or of 
 bondage ! how shall I struggle with the emotions 
 that stifle the utterance of thy name I l Our poor 
 work may perish ; but thine shall endure ! This mon 
 ument may moulder away ; the solid ground it rests 
 upon may sink down to a level with the sea ; but thy 
 memory shall not fail ! Wheresoever among men a 
 heart shall be found that beats to the transports of 
 patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim 
 kindred with thy spirit. 
 
 But the scene amidst which we stand does not per 
 mit us to confine our thoughts or our sympathies to 
 those fearless spirits who hazarded or lost their lives 
 on this consecrated spot. We have the happiness to 
 rejoice here in the presence of a most worthy repre 
 sentation of the survivors of the whole Revolutionary 
 army. 
 
 VETERANS ! you are the remnant of many a well- 
 fought field. You bring with you marks of honor 
 from Trenton and Monmouth, from Yorktown, Cam- 
 den, Bennington, and Saratoga. VETERANS OP HALF 
 A CENTURY! when in your youthful days you put 
 every thing at hazard in your country's cause, good as 
 that cause was, and sanguine as youth is, still your 
 fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour like 
 this ! At a period to which you could not reasonably 
 have expected to arrive, at a moment of national pros 
 perity such as you could never have foreseen, you are 
 now met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, 
 and to receive the overflowings of a universal gratitude. 
 
 1 The name of Joseph Warren waa very dear to Americana 
 of Webster's day.
 
 330 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 But your agitated countenances and your heaving 
 breasts inform me that even this is not an unmixed 
 joy. I perceive that a tumult of contending feelings 
 rushes upon you. The images of the dead, as well 
 as the persons of the living, present themselves before 
 you. The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from it. 
 May the Father of all mercies smile upon your declin 
 ing years, and bless them ! And when you shall here 
 have exchanged your embraces, when you shall once 
 more have pressed the hands which have been so often 
 extended to give succor in adversity, or grasped in 
 the exultation of victory, then look abroad upon this 
 lovely land which your young valor defended, and 
 mark the happiness with which it is filled ; yea, look 
 abroad upon the whole earth, and see what a name you 
 have contributed to give to your country, and what 
 a praise you have added to freedom, and then rejoice 
 in the sympathy and gratitude which beam upon your 
 last days from the improved condition of mankind ! 
 
 The occasion does not require of me any particular 
 account of the battle of the 17th of June, 1775, nor 
 any detailed narrative of the events which immedi 
 ately preceded it. These are familiarly known to all. 
 In the progress of the great and interesting contro 
 versy, Massachusetts and the town of Boston had be 
 come early and marked objects of the displeasure of 
 the British Parliament. This had been manifested 
 in the act for altering the government of the Pro 
 vince, and in that for shutting up the port of Boston. 
 Nothing sheds more honor on our early history, and 
 nothing better shows how little the feelings and sen 
 timents of the Colonies were known or regarded in 
 England, than the impression which these measures 
 everywhere produced in America. It had been anti-
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 331 
 
 cipated, that while the Colonies in general would be 
 terrified by the severity of the punishment inflicted 
 on Massachusetts, the other seaports would be gov 
 erned by a mere spirit of gain ; and that, as Boston 
 was now cut off from all commerce, the unexpected 
 advantage which this blow on her was calculated to 
 confer on other towns would be greedily enjoyed. 
 How miserably such reasoners deceived themselves ! 
 How little they knew of the depth, and the strength, 
 and the intenseness of that feeling of resistance to 
 illegal acts of power, which possessed the whole Amer 
 ican people ! Everywhere the unworthy boon was 
 rejected with scorn. The fortunate occasion was 
 seized, everywhere, to show to the whole world that 
 the Colonies were swayed by no local interest, no par 
 tial interest, no selfish interest. The temptation to 
 profit by the punishment of Boston was strongest to 
 our neighbors of Salem. Yet Salem was precisely 
 the place where this miserable proffer was spurned, 
 in a tone of the most lofty self-respect and the most 
 indignant patriotism. " We are deeply affected," 
 said its inhabitants, "with the sense of our public 
 calamities ; but the miseries that are now rapidly has 
 tening on our brethren in the capital of the Province 
 greatly excite our commiseration. By shutting up the 
 port of Boston some imagine that the course of trade 
 might be turned hither and to our benefit ; but we 
 must be dead to every idea of justice, lost to all feel 
 ings of humanity, could we indulge a thought to seize 
 on wealth and raise our fortunes on the ruin of our 
 Buffering neighbors." These noble sentiments were 
 not confined to our immediate vicinity. In that day 
 of general affection and brotherhood, the blow given 
 to Boston smote on every patriotic heart from one
 
 332 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 ?nd of the country to the other. Virginia and the 
 Carolinas, as well as Connecticut and New Hampshire, 
 felt and proclaimed the cause to be their own. The 
 Continental Congress, then holding its first session in 
 Philadelphia, expressed its sympathy for the suffering 
 Inhabitants of Boston, and addresses were received 
 from all quarters, assuring them that the cause was a 
 common one, and should be met by common efforts 
 and common sacrifices. The Congress of Massachu 
 setts responded to these assurances ; and in an address 
 to the Congress at Philadelphia, bearing the official 
 signature, perhaps among the last, of the immortal 
 Warren, notwithstanding the severity of its suffering 
 and the magnitude of the dangers which threatened it, 
 it was declared that this Colony " is ready, at all times, 
 to spend and to be spent in the cause of America." 
 
 But the hour drew nigh which was to put profes 
 sions to the proof, and to determine whether the au 
 thors of these mutual pledges were ready to seal them 
 in blood. The tidings of Lexington and Concord had 
 no sooner spread, than it was universally felt that the 
 time was at last come for action. A spirit pervaded 
 all ranks, not transient, not boisterous, but deep, sol* 
 emn, determined, 
 
 " Totamque inf usa per artus 
 Meiis agitat mole in, et magno se corpore miscet." * 
 
 War on their own soil and at their own doors, was, 
 indeed, a strange work to the yeomanry of New Eng 
 land ; but their consciences were convinced of its ne 
 cessity, their country called them to it, and they did 
 not withhold themselves from the perilous trial. The 
 
 1 "And a Mind, diffused throughout the members, gives en 
 ergy to the whole mass, and mingles with the vast body."
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 383 
 
 ordinary occupations of life were abandoned \ the 
 plough was stayed in the unfinished furrow ; wives 
 gave up their husbands, and mothers gave up their 
 sons, to the battles of a civil war. Death might come 
 in honor, on the field ; it might come, in disgrace, on 
 the scaffold. For either and for both they were pre 
 pared. The sentiment of Quincy was full in their 
 hearts. " Blandishments," said that distinguished son 
 of genius and patriotism, " will not fascinate us, nor 
 will threats of a halter intimidate ; for, under God, 
 we are determined, that, wheresoever, whensoever, or 
 howsoever, we shall be called to make our exit, we will 
 die free men." 
 
 The 17th of June saw the four New England Colo 
 nies standing here, side by side, to triumph or to fall 
 together 5 and there was with them from that moment 
 to the end of the war, what I hope will remain with 
 them for ever, one cause, one country, one heart. 
 
 The battle of Bunker Hill was attended with the 
 most important effects beyond its immediate results as 
 a military engagement. It created at once a state of 
 open, public war. There could now be no longer a 
 question of proceeding against individuals, as guilty 
 of treason or rebellion. That fearful crisis was past. 
 The appeal lay to the sword, and the only question 
 was, whether the spirit and the resources of the people 
 would hold out till the object should be accomplished. 
 Nor were its general consequences confined to our own 
 country. The previous proceedings of the Coloniea 
 their appeals, resolutions, and addresses, had made, 
 their cause known to Europe. Without boasting, we 
 may say, that in no age or country has the public 
 cause been maintained with more force of argument, 
 more power of illustration, or more of that persuasion
 
 334 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 which excited feeling and elevated principle can alone 
 bestow, than the Revolutionary state papers exhibit. 
 These papers will forever deserve to be studied, not 
 only for the spirit which they breathe, but for the 
 ability with which they were written. 
 
 To this able vindication of their cause, the Colonies 
 had now added a practical and severe proof of their 
 own true devotion to it, and given evidence also of the 
 power which they could bring to its support. All now 
 saw, that if America fell, she would not fall without a 
 struggle. Men felt sympathy and regard, as well as 
 surprise, when they beheld these infant states, remote, 
 unknown, unaided, encounter the power of England, 
 and, in the first considerable battle, leave more of their 
 enemies dead on the field, in proportion to the number 
 of combatants, than had been recently known to fall 
 in the wars of Europe. 
 
 Information of these events, circulating throughout 
 the world, at length reached the ears of one who now 
 hears me. 1 He has not forgotten the emotion which 
 the fame of Bunker Hill, and the name of Warren, 
 excited in his youthful breast. 
 
 Sir, we are assembled to commemorate the establish 
 ment of great public principles of liberty, and to do 
 honor to the distinguished dead. The occasion is too 
 severe for eulogy of the living. But, Sir, your inter 
 esting relation to this country, the peculiar circum 
 stances which surround you and surround us, call on 
 me to express the happiness which we derive from 
 your presence and aid in this solemn commemoration. 
 
 1 Among the earliest of the arrangements for the celebration 
 of the 17th of June, 1825, was the invitation to General La 
 fayette to be present ; and he had so timed his progress through 
 the other States as to return to Massachusetts in season for the 
 great occasion.
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 335 
 
 Fortunate, fortunate man! with what measure of 
 devotion will you not thank God for the circumstances 
 of your extraordinary life ! You are connected with 
 both hemispheres and with two generations. Heaven 
 saw fit to ordain that the electric spark of liberty 
 should be conducted, through you, from the New 
 World to the Old ; and we, who are now here to per 
 form this duty of patriotism, have all of us long ago 
 received it in charge from our fathers to cherish your 
 name and your virtues. You will account ft an in 
 stance of your good fortune, Sir, that you crossed the 
 seas to visit us at a time which enables you to be pres 
 ent at this solemnity. You now behold the field, the 
 renown of which reached you in the heart of France, 
 and caused a thrill in your ardent bosom. You see 
 the lines of the little redoubt thrown up by the incred 
 ible diligence of Prescott; defended, to the last ex 
 tremity, by his lion-hearted valor ; and within which 
 the corner-stone of our monument has now taken its 
 position. You see where Warren fell, and where 
 Parker, Gardner, McCleary, Moore, and other early 
 patriots fell with him. Those who survived that day, 
 and whose lives have been prolonged to the present 
 hour, are now around you. Some of them you have 
 known in the trying scenes of the war. Behold ! they 
 now stretch forth their feeble arms to embrace you. 
 Behold! they raise their trembling voices to invoke 
 the blessing of God on you and yours forever. 
 
 Sir, you have assisted us in laying the foundation 
 of this structure. You have heard us rehearse, with 
 our feeble commendation, the names of departed patri 
 ots. Monuments and eulogy belong to the dead. We 
 give then this day to Warren and his associates. On 
 other occasions they have been given to your more
 
 886 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 immediate companions in arms, to Washington, to 
 Greene, to Gates, to Sullivan, and to Lincoln. We 
 have become reluctant to grant these, our highest and 
 last honors, further. We would gladly hold them yet 
 back from the little remnant of that immortal band. 
 ** Serus in ccelum redeas." l Illustrious as are your 
 merits, yet far, O, very far distant be the day, when 
 any inscription shall bear your name, or any tongue 
 pronounce its oulogy ! 
 
 The leading reflection to which this occasion seems 
 to invite us, respects the great changes which have 
 happened in the fifty years since the battle of Bunker 
 Hill was fought. And it peculiarly marks the char 
 acter of the present age, that, in looking at these 
 changes, and in estimating their effect on our condi 
 tion, we are obliged to consider, not what has been 
 done in our country only, but in others also. In these 
 interesting times, while nations are making separate 
 and individual advances in improvement, they make, 
 too, a common progress ; like vessels on a common 
 tide, propelled by the gales at different rates, accord 
 ing to their several structure and management, but all 
 moved forward by one mighty current, strong enough 
 to bear onward whatever does not sink beneath it. 
 
 A chief distinction of the present day is a commun 
 ity of opinions and knowledge amongst men in differ 
 ent nations, existing in a degree heretofore unknown. 
 Knowledge has, in our time, triumphed, and is tri 
 umphing, over distance, over difference of languages, 
 over diversity of habits, over prejudice, and over big 
 otry. The civilized and Christian world is fast learn 
 ing the great lesson, that difference of nation does not 
 imply necessary hostility, and that all contact need not 
 1 "Late may you return to heaven."
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 887 
 
 be war. The whole world is becoming a common field 
 for intellect to act in. Energy of mind, genius, power, 
 wheresoever it exists, may speak out in any tongue, 
 and the world will hear it. A great chord of senti 
 ment and feeling runs through two continents, and 
 vibrates over both. Every breeze wafts intelligence 
 from country to country, every wave rolls it ; all give 
 it forth, and all in turn receive it. There is a vast 
 commerce of ideas ; there are marts and exchanges for 
 intellectual discoveries, and a wonderful fellowship of 
 those individual intelligences which make up the mind 
 and opinion of the age. Mind is the great lever of 
 all things ; human thought is the process by which 
 human ends are ultimately answered ; and the diffu 
 sion of knowledge, so astonishing in the last half- 
 century, has rendered innumerable minds, variously 
 gifted by nature, competent to be competitors or fellow- 
 workers on the theatre of intellectual operation. 
 
 From these causes important improvements have 
 taken place in the personal condition of individuals. 
 Generally speaking, mankind are not only better fed 
 and better clothed, but they are able also to enjoy 
 more leisure ; they possess more refinement and more 
 self-respect. A superior tone of education, manners, 
 and habits prevails. This remark, most true in its 
 application to our own country, is also partly true 
 when applied elsewhere. It is proved by the vastly 
 augmented consumption of those articles of manufac 
 ture and of commerce which contribute to the comforts 
 and the decencies of life ; an augmentation which has 
 far outrun the progress of population. And while the 
 unexampled and almost incredible use of machinery 
 would seem to supply the place of labor, labor still 
 finds its occupation and its reward; so wisely has
 
 338 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 Providence adjusted men's wants and desires to their 
 condition and their capacity. 
 
 Any adequate survey, however, of the progress made 
 during the last half-century in the polite and the me 
 chanic arts, in machinery and manufactures, in com 
 merce and agriculture, in letters and in science, would 
 require volumes. I must abstain wholly from these 
 subjects, and turn for a moment to the contemplation 
 of what has been done on the great question of poli 
 tics and government. This is the master topic of the 
 age ; and during the whole fifty years it has intensely 
 occupied the thoughts of men. The nature of civil 
 government, its ends and uses, have been canvassed 
 and investigated; ancient opinions attacked and de 
 fended ; new ideas recommended and resisted, by 
 whatever power the mind of man could bring to the 
 controversy. From the closet and the public halls the 
 debate has been transferred to the field ; and the world 
 has been shaken by wars of unexampled magnitude, 
 and the greatest variety of fortune. A day of peace 
 has at length succeeded ; and now that the strife has 
 subsided, and the smoke cleared away, we may be 
 gin to see what has actually been done, permanently 
 changing the state and condition of human society. 
 And, without dwelling on particular circumstances, it 
 is most apparent, that, from the before-mentioned 
 causes of augmented knowledge and improved indi 
 vidual condition, a real, substantial, and important 
 change has taken place, and is taking place, highly 
 favorable, on the whole, to human liberty and human 
 happiness. 
 
 The great wheel of political revolution began to 
 move in America. Here its rotation was guarded, 
 regular, and safe. Transferred to the other continent,
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 339 
 
 from unfortunate but natural causes, it received an 
 irregular and violent impulse ; it whirled along with 
 a fearful celerity ; till at length, like the chariot- 
 wheels in the races of antiquity, it took fire from the 
 rapidity of its own motion, and blazed onward, spread 
 ing conflagration and terror around. 
 
 We learn from the result of this experiment, how 
 fortunate was our own condition, and how admirably 
 the character of our people was calculated for setting 
 the great example of popular governments. The pos 
 session of power did not turn the heads of the Amer- 
 can people, for they had long been in the habit of ex 
 ercising a great degree of self-control. Although the 
 paramount authority of the parent state existed over 
 them, yet a large field of legislation had always been 
 open to our Colonial assemblies. They were accus 
 tomed to representative bodies and the forms of free 
 government ; they understood the doctrine of the divi 
 sion of power among different branches, and the neces 
 sity of checks on each. The character of our country 
 men, moreover, was sober, moral, and religious ; and 
 there was little in the change to shock their feelings 
 of justice and humanity, or even to disturb an honest 
 prejudice. We had no domestic throne to overturn, 
 no privileged orders to cast down, no violent changes 
 of property to encounter. In the American Revolu 
 tion, no man sought or wished for more than to de 
 fend and enjoy his own. None hoped for plunder or 
 for spoil. Rapacity was unknown to it ; the axe was 
 not among the instruments of its accomplishment ; and 
 we all know that it could not have lived a single day 
 under any well-founded imputation of possessing a 
 tendency adverse to the Christian religion. 
 
 It need not surprise us, that, under circumstances
 
 340 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 less auspicious, political revolutions elsewhere, even 
 when well intended, have terminated differently. It 
 is, indeed, a great achievement, it is the masterwork 
 of the world, to establish governments entirely popu- 
 lar on lasting foundations ; nor is it easy, indeed, to 
 introduce the popular principle at all into govern 
 ments to which it has been altogether a stranger. It 
 cannot be doubted, however, that Europe has come 
 out of the contest, in which she has been so long en 
 gaged, with greatly superior knowledge, and, in many 
 respects, in a highly improved condition. Whatever 
 benefit has been acquired is likely to be retained, for 
 it consists mainly in the acquisition of more enlight 
 ened ideas. And although kingdoms and provinces 
 may be wrested from the hands that hold them, in the 
 same manner they were obtained ; although ordinary 
 and vulgar power may, in human affairs, be lost as it 
 has been won ; yet it is the glorious prerogative of the 
 empire of knowledge, that what it gains it never loses. 
 On the contrary, it increases by the multiple of its 
 own power ; all its ends become means ; all its attain 
 ments, helps to new conquests. Its whole abundant 
 harvest is but so much seed wheat, and nothing has 
 limited, and nothing can limit, the amount of ultimate 
 product. 
 
 Under the influence of this rapidly increasing know 
 ledge, the people have begun, in all forms of govern 
 ment, to think, and to reason, on affairs of state. Re 
 garding government as an institution for the public 
 good, they demand a knowledge of its operations, and 
 a participation in its exercise. A call for the repre 
 sentative system, wherever it is not enjoyed, and where 
 there is already intelligence enough to estimate its 
 value, is perseveringly made. Where men may speak
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 341 
 
 out, they demand it; where the bayonet is at their 
 throats, they pray for it. 
 
 When Louis the Fourteenth said, " I am the State," 
 he expressed the essence of the doctrine of unlimited 
 power. By the rules of that system, the people are 
 disconnected from the state ; they are its subjects, it 
 is their lord. These ideas, founded in the love of 
 power, and long supported by the excess and the abuse 
 of it, are yielding, in our age, to other opinions ; and 
 the civilized world seems at last to be proceeding to 
 the conviction of that fundamental and manifest truth, 
 that the powers of government are but a trust, and 
 that they cannot be lawfully exercised but for the 
 good of the community. As knowledge is more and 
 more extended, this conviction becomes more and 
 more general. Knowledge, in truth, is the great sun 
 in the firmament. Life and power are scattered with 
 all its beams. The prayer of the Grecian champion, 
 when enveloped in unnatural clouds and darkness, is 
 the appropriate political supplication for the people of 
 every country not yet blessed with free institutions : 
 " Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore, 
 Give me TO SEE, and Ajax asks no more." 
 
 We may hope that the growing influence of en 
 lightened sentiment will promote the permanent peace 
 of the world. Wars to maintain family alliances, to 
 uphold or to cast down dynasties, and to regulate suc 
 cessions to thrones, which have occupied so much 
 room in the history of modern times, if not less likely 
 to happen at all, will be less likely to become general 
 and involve many nations, as the great principle shall 
 be more and more established, that the interest of the 
 world is peace, and its first great statute, that every 
 nation possesses the power of establishing a govern-
 
 342 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 ment for itself. But public opinion has attained also 
 an influence over governments which do not admit the 
 popular principle into their organization. A neces 
 sary respect for the judgment of the world operates, 
 hi some measure, as a control over the most unlimited 
 forms of authority. It is owing, perhaps, to this 
 truth, that the interesting struggle of the Greeks has 
 been suffered to go on so long, without a direct inter 
 ference, either to wrest that country from its present 
 masters, or to execute the system of pacification by 
 force ; and, with united strength, lay the neck of 
 Christian and civilized Greek at the foot of the bar 
 barian Turk. Let us thank God that we live in an 
 age when something has influence besides the bayonet, 
 and when the sternest authority does not venture to 
 encounter the scorching power of public reproach. 
 Any attempt of the kind I have mentioned should be 
 met by one universal burst of indignation ; the air of 
 the civilized world ought to be made too warm to be 
 comfortably breathed by any one who would hazard it. 
 It is, indeed, a touching reflection, that, while, in 
 the fulness of our country's happiness, we rear this 
 monument to her honor, we look for instruction in our 
 undertaking to a country which is now in fearful con 
 test, not for works of art or memorials of glory, but 
 for her own existence. Let her be assured, that she 
 is not forgotten in the world ; that her efforts are ap 
 plauded, and that constant prayers ascend for her 
 success. And let us cherish a confident hope for her 
 final triumph. If the true spark of religious and civil 
 liberty be kindled, it will burn. Human agency can 
 not extinguish it. Like the earth's central fire, it 
 may be smothered for a time ; the ocean may over 
 whelm it ; mountains may press it down ; but its in-
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 
 
 herent and unconquerable force will heave both the 
 ocean and the land, and at some time or other, in some 
 place or other, the volcano will break out and flame 
 up to heaven. 
 
 Among the great events of the half-century, we 
 must reckon, certainly, the revolution of South Amer 
 ica ; and we are not likely to overrate the importance 
 of that revolution, either to the people of the country 
 itself or to the rest of the world. The late Spanish 
 colonies, now independent states, under circumstances 
 less favorable, doubtless, than attended our own revo 
 lution, have yet successfully commenced their national 
 existence. They have accomplished the great object 
 of establishing their independence ; they are known 
 and acknowledged in the world ; and although in re 
 gard to their systems of government, their sentiments 
 on religious toleration, and their provision for public 
 instruction, they may have yet much to learn, it must 
 be admitted that they have risen to the condition of 
 settled and established states more rapidly than could 
 have been reasonably anticipated. They already fur 
 nish an exhilarating example of the difference between 
 free governments and despotic misrule. Their com 
 merce, at this moment, creates a new activity in all 
 the great marts of the world. They show themselves 
 able, by an exchange of commodities, to bear a useful 
 part in the intercourse of nations. 
 
 A new spirit of enterprise and industry begins to 
 prevail; all the great interests of society receive a 
 salutary impulse ; and the progress of information not 
 only testifies to an improved condition, but itself con 
 stitutes the highest and most essential improvement. 
 
 When the battle of Bunker Hill was fought, the 
 existence of South America was scarcely felt in the
 
 844 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 civilized world. The thirteen little colonies of North 
 America habitually called themselves the "continent.'* 
 Borne down by colonial subjugation, monopoly, and 
 bigotry, these vast regions of the South were hardly 
 visible above the horizon. But in our day there has 
 been, as it were, a new creation. The southern hemi 
 sphere emerges from the sea. Its lofty mountains be 
 gin to lift themselves into the light of heaven; its 
 broad and fertile plains stretch out, in beauty, to the 
 eye of civilized man, and at the mighty bidding of the 
 voice of political liberty the waters of darkness retire. 
 
 And now, let us indulge an honest exultation in the 
 conviction of the benefit which the example of our 
 country has produced, and is likely to produce, <ti hu 
 man freedom and human happiness. Let us endeavor 
 to comprehend in all its magnitude, and to feel in all 
 its importance, the part assigned to us in the great 
 drama of human affairs. We are placed at the head 
 of the system of representative and popular govern 
 ments. Thus far our example shows that such govern 
 ments are compatible, not only with respectability and 
 power, but with repose, with peace, with security of 
 personal rights, with good laws, and a just adminis 
 tration. 
 
 We are not propagandists. Wherever other sys 
 tems are preferred, either as being thought better in 
 themselves, or as better suited to existing conditions, 
 we leave the preference to be enjoyed. Our history 
 hitherto proves, however, that the popular form is 
 practicable, and that with wisdom and knowledge men 
 may govern themselves ; and the duty incumbent on 
 us is to preserve the consistency of this cheering ex 
 ample, and take care that nothing may weaken its 
 authority with the world. If, in our case, the repre-
 
 THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. 345 
 
 sentative system ultimately fail, popular governments 
 must be pronounced impossible. No combination of 
 circumstances more favorable to the experiment can 
 ever be expected to occur. The last hopes of man- 
 kind, therefore, rest with us ; and if it should be pro 
 claimed, that our example had become an argument 
 against the experiment, the knell of popular liberty 
 would be sounded throughout the earth. 
 
 These are excitements to duty ; but they are not 
 suggestions of doubt. Our history and our condition, 
 all that is gone before us, and all that surrounds us, 
 authorize the belief, that popular governments, though 
 subject to occasional variations, in form perhaps not 
 always for the better, may yet, in their general char 
 acter, be as durable and permanent as other systems. 
 We know, indeed, that in our country any other is 
 impossible. The principle of free governments adheres 
 to the American soiL It is bedded in it, immovable 
 as its mountains. 
 
 And let the sacred obligations which have devolved 
 on this generation, and on us, sink deep into our 
 hearts. Those who established our liberty and our 
 government are daily dropping from among us. The 
 great trust now descends to new hands. Let us apply 
 ourselves to that which is presented to us, as our ap 
 propriate object. We can win no laurels in a war 
 for independence. Earlier and worthier hands have 
 gathered them all. Nor are there places for us by the 
 side of Solon, and Alfred, and other founders of states. 
 Our fathers have filled them. But there remains to 
 us a great duty of defence and preservation ; and there 
 is opened to us, also, a noble pursuit, to which the 
 spirit of the times strongly invites us. Our proper 
 business is improvement. Let our age be the age of
 
 846 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 improvement. In a day of peace, let us advance the 
 arts of peace and the works of peace. Let us develop 
 the resources of our land, call forth its powers, build 
 up its institutions, promote all its great interests, and 
 see whether we also, in our day and generation, may 
 not perform something worthy to be remembered. 
 Let us cultivate a true spirit of union and harmony. 
 In pursuing the great objects which our condition 
 points out to us, let us act under a settled conviction, 
 and an habitual feeling, that these twenty-four States 
 are one country. Let our conceptions be enlarged to 
 the circle of our duties. Let us extend our ideas over 
 the whole of the vast field in which we are called to 
 act. Let our object be, OUR COUNTRY, OUE WHOLE 
 
 COUNTRY, AND NOTHING BUT OUR COUNTRY. And, 
 
 by the blessing of God, may that country itself be 
 come a vast and splendid monument, not of oppression 
 and terror, but of Wisdom, of Peace, and of Liberty, 
 upon which the world may gaze with admiration for 
 ever I
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 EDWARD EVEBETT was born at Dorchester, Mass., April 
 11, 1794. At the age of eight he was, for a short time, a 
 pupil of Daniel Webster, who was twelve years his senior. 
 The acquaintance then begun between these embryo orators 
 ripened into a lasting friendship. 
 
 His son, Dr. William Everett, says in a speech made at 
 the Harvard Commencement Dinner of 1891 : " My father's 
 connection with Harvard College began eighty-seven years 
 ago, when he was a child of ten. His older brother was in 
 college, living in the south entry of Hollis. The child 
 was to begin the study of Greek in the winter vacation. 
 The family were too poor to afford two Greek grammars ; 
 and little Edward had to walk in the depth of winter from 
 the corner of Essex and Washington streets in Boston over 
 the then most lonely road to the college and secure the 
 prized volume. From that day his connection with Har 
 vard College was scarcely broken till his death. He was 
 four years an undergraduate, . . . two years a tutor, nine 
 years a professor, three years president, and at two differ 
 ent times an overseer ; at his death he held an appointment 
 as college lecturer." 
 
 The older brother referred to above was Alexander Hill 
 Everett, who was graduated with the highest honors at the 
 age of fourteen. Five years later (in 1811) Edward was 
 graduated with the highest honors at the age of seventeen ; 
 he was regarded in college as a prodigy of youthful genius.
 
 348 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 In 1812 he became a tutor at Harvard, and at the same 
 time a student of theology. On February 9, 1814, at the 
 youthful age of nineteen, he was ordained as pastor of the 
 Brattle Street Church, at Boston, where he immediately 
 rose to distinction as an eloquent and impressive pulpit 
 orator. 
 
 In March, 1815, he accepted the Eliot Professorship of 
 Greek at Harvard College. In order to become better pre 
 pared for the duties of the position he travelled and studied 
 in Europe until 1819. While abroad he pursued an exten 
 sive range of study at the principal centres of learning, and 
 he took the degree of Ph. D. at the University of Gottingen. 
 His return to Cambridge was hailed with delight, and gave 
 a wonderful impulse to American scholarship. In addition 
 to his duties as ^..ofessor he took charge of the North 
 American Review, which he conducted for five years. 
 
 In 1824 he delivered his celebrated Phi Beta Kappa ora 
 tion at Cambridge, Mass., to an immense audience, including 
 General Lafayette, in which he portrayed in eloquent and 
 patriotic terms the political, social, and literary future of 
 our country. In the same year he was elected a member 
 of the National House of Representatives ; after four re- 
 elections and a valuable service of ten years as Congressman 
 he was chosen Governor of Massachusetts. He was annu 
 ally reflected Governor until 1839, when he was defeated 
 by a majority of one vote. 
 
 In 1841, after nearly a year's sojourn in Europe, he was 
 appointed Minister Plenipotentiary to Great Britain, under 
 General Harrison as President and his friend Daniel Web 
 ster as Secretary of State. In 1845 he returned to America 
 and became for three years President of Harvard College. 
 In 1850 he published his speeches and orations in two vol 
 umes, and at about the same time edited Daniel Webster's 
 works in six volumes, for which he prepared an elaborate 
 memoir. Upon the death of Webster in 1852, Everett took 
 his place as Secretary of State under President Fiilmore.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 849 
 
 From March, 1853, to May, 1854, he was in the United 
 States Senate. 
 
 On February 22, 1856, he delivered in Boston an address, 
 on the Character of Washington, which he repeated in dif 
 ferent cities and towns nearly one hundred and fifty times. 
 He gave the entire proceeds of this address toward the pur 
 chase of Mt. Vernon, the home of Washington, for the gen 
 eral government. He also gave for the same purpose 
 $10,000 received for articles written for the New York 
 Ledger, thus raising the entire amount contributed by him 
 to over $100,000. In 1857 and 1858 he gave to different 
 charitable associations the proceeds of other addresses, 
 amounting to nearly $20,000. 
 
 In 1860 he was nominated for the Vice-Presidency on the 
 ticket with John Bell, of Tennessee, but was defeated. 
 Though anxious for peace while there was a chance to avoid 
 war, he threw the whole weight of his powers into a support 
 of the Union after the War of Secession began, and won 
 the gratitude of his countrymen by the fervent, patriotic 
 eloquence of his speeches in all the principal cities of the 
 North. His death occurred on January 15, 1865, and re 
 sulted from a cold caught on the evening of January 9, 
 while delivering an address in aid of the suffering inhabi 
 tants of Savannah, which had just been captured by Gen. 
 Sherman. 
 
 Edward Everett's life of seventy-one years spanned a larg 
 portion of the youth of our nation. Born in the administra 
 tion of Washington, he lived to see the War of Secession 
 practically ended under Lincoln. Although thirty-six years 
 old before the first locomotive engine made its appearance 
 in the United States, he lived to see our country covered 
 with a network of over thirty-five thousand miles of rail 
 ways. During his life the population of the United States 
 increased from about four to thirty millions, and the number 
 of States from fifteen to thirty-six. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at that he was fired with an in-
 
 350 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 tense feeling of patriotism, or that his noble utterances struck 
 responsive chords in the hearts of his listeners. He had a 
 theory that man can do fairly well anything that he honestly 
 tries to do ; his own practice was to undertake whatever 
 work lay before him, and so extraordinary was the versatility 
 of his great mental power that he did remarkably well what 
 ever he undertook. He achieved distinction as an orator, 
 a man of letters, a statesman, and a diplomatist, but the 
 single title which describes him best is that of orator. Had 
 he labored continuously in some chosen field he would have 
 left behind him even a greater monument of his remarkable 
 power than is to be found in his numerous speeches and 
 orations.
 
 j'ROM "THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON." 
 
 COMMON sense was eminently a characteristic of 
 Washington ; so called, not because it is so very com 
 mon a trait of character of public men, but because it 
 is the final judgment on great practical questions to 
 which the mind of the community is pretty sure even 
 tually to arrive. Few qualities of character in those 
 who influence the fortunes of nations are so conducive 
 both to stability and progress. But it is a quality 
 which takes no hold of the imagination ; it inspires no 
 enthusiasm, it wins no favor ; it is well if it can stand 
 its ground against the plausible absurdities, the hol 
 low pretences, the stupendous impostures of the day. 
 
 But, however these unobtrusive and austere virtues 
 may be overlooked in the popular estimate, they be 
 long unquestionably to the true type of sterling great 
 ness, reflecting as far as it can be done within the 
 narrow limits of humanity that deep repose and silent 
 equilibrium of mental and moral power which governs 
 the universe. To complain of the character of Wash 
 ington that it is destitute of brilliant qualities, is to 
 complain of a circle that it has no salient points and 
 no sharp angles in its circumference ; forgetting that 
 it owes all its wonderful properties to the unbroken 
 curve of which every point is equidistant from the 
 centre. 1 Instead, therefore, of being a mark of infe- 
 
 1 I was not aware, when I wrote this sentence, that I had ever 
 read Dryden's " Heroic Stanzas consecrated to the Memory of 
 his Highness Oliver, late Lord Protector of this Commonwealth,
 
 352 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 riority, this sublime adjustment of powers and virtues 
 in the character of Washington is in reality its glory. 
 It is this which chiefly puts him in harmony with 
 more than human greatness. The higher we rise in 
 the scale of being, material, intellectual, and moral, 
 the more certainly we quit the region of the bril 
 liant eccentricities and dazzling contrasts which belong 
 to a vulgar greatness. Order and proportion charac 
 terize the primordial constitution of the terrestrial sys 
 tem ; ineffable harmony rules the heavens. All the 
 great eternal forces act in solemn silence. The brawl 
 ing torrent that dries up in summer deafens you with 
 its roaring whirlpools in March ; while the vast earth 
 on which we dwell, with all its oceans and all its con 
 tinents and its thousand millions of inhabitants, re 
 volves unheard upon its soft axle at the rate of a thou 
 sand miles an hour, and rushes noiselessly on its orbit a 
 million and a half miles a day. Two storm-clouds en 
 camped upon opposite hills on a sultry summer's even 
 ing, at the expense of no more electricity, according 
 to Mr. Faraday, than is evolved in the decomposition 
 of a single drop of water, will shake the surrounding 
 atmosphere with their thunders, which, loudly as they 
 rattle on the spot, will yet not be heard at the distance 
 of twenty miles ; while those tremendous and unutter 
 able forces which ever issue from the throne of God, 
 and drag the chariot-wheels of Uranus and Neptune 
 along the uttermost pathways of the solar system, per 
 vade the illimitable universe in silence. 
 
 written after celebrating his funeral," one of which is as fol 
 lows : 
 
 " How shall I then begin or where conclude, 
 
 To draw a fame BO truly circular, 
 For in a round what order can be shewed, 
 When all the parts so equal perfect are ? "
 
 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 353 
 
 This calm and well-balanced temperament of Wash 
 ington's character is not badly shadowed forth in the 
 poet's description of Cicero : 
 
 " This magistrate hath struck an awe into me, 
 And by his sweetness won a more regard 
 Unto his place, than all the boisterous mood* 
 That ignorant greatness practiseth to fill 
 The large unfit authority it wears. 
 How easy is a noble spirit discerned 
 From harsh and sulphurous matter, that flies out 
 In contumelies, makes a noise, and bursts." l 
 
 And did I say, my friends, that I was unable to fur 
 nish an entirely satisfactory answer to the question, in 
 what the true excellence of the character of Washing 
 ton consists? Let me recall the word as unjust to 
 myself and unjust to you. The answer is plain and 
 simple enough ; it is this, that all the great qualities 
 of disposition and action, which so eminently fitted 
 him for the service of his fellow-men, were founded on 
 the basis of a pure Christian morality, and derived 
 their strength and energy from that vital source. He 
 was great as he was good ; he was great because he 
 was good ; and I believe, as I do in my existence, that 
 it was an important part in the design of Providence 
 in raising him up to be the leader of the Revolution 
 ary struggle, and afterwards the first President of the 
 United States, to rebuke prosperous ambition and suc 
 cessful intrigue ; to set before the people of America, 
 in the morning of their national existence, a living ex 
 ample to prove that armies may be best conducted, 
 and governments most ably and honorably adminis 
 tered, by men of sound moral principle ; to teach to 
 gifted and aspiring individuals, and the parties they 
 lead, that, though a hundred crooked paths may con- 
 1 Ben Jonson's Catiline.
 
 354 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 duct to a temporary success, the one plain and straight 
 path of public and private virtue can alone lead to a 
 pure and lasting fame and the blessings of posterity. 
 
 Born beneath an humble but virtuous roof, brought 
 up at the knees of a mother not unworthy to be named 
 with the noblest matrons of Rome or Israel, the " good 
 boy," as she delighted to call him, passed uncorrupted 
 through the temptations of the solitary frontier, the 
 camp, and the gay world, and grew up into the good 
 man. Engaging in early youth in the service of the 
 country, rising rapidly to the highest trusts, office and 
 influence and praise passing almost the bounds of hu 
 man desert did nothing to break down the austere sim 
 plicity of his manners or to shake the solid basis of his 
 virtues. Placed at the head of the suffering and dis 
 contented armies of his country, urged by the tempter 
 to change his honest and involuntary dictatorship of 
 influence into a usurped dictatorship of power, reluc 
 tantly consenting to one reelection to the Presidency 
 and positively rejecting a second, no suspicion ever 
 crossed the mind of an honest man, let the libellers 
 say what they would, for libellers I am sorry to say 
 there were in that day as in this, men who pick 
 their daily dishonorable bread out of the characters of 
 men as virtuous as themselves, and they spared not 
 Washington, but the suspicion never entered into 
 the mind of an honest man, that his heart was open to 
 the seductions of ambition or interest ; or that he was 
 capable in the slightest degree, by word or deed, of 
 shaping his policy with a view to court popular favor 
 or serve a selfish end ; that a wish or purpose ever 
 entered his mind inconsistent with the spotless purity 
 of his character.
 
 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 355 
 
 " No veil 
 
 He needed, virtue proof, no thought infirm 
 Altered his cheek." 
 
 And is the judgment of mankind so depraved, is their 
 perception of moral worth so dull, that they can with 
 hold their admiration from such a character and be 
 stow it, for instance, upon the hard-hearted, wondrous 
 youth of ancient renown, who when he had trampled 
 the effeminate rabble of the East under the iron feet 
 of his Macedonian Phalanx, and that world which he 
 wept to conquer was in fact grovelling at his footstool ; 
 when he might have founded a dynasty at Babylon 
 which would have crushed the Roman domination in 
 the bud, and changed the history of the world from 
 that time to this, could fool away the sceptre of uni 
 versal dominion which Providence was forcing into 
 his hand in one night's debauch, and quench power 
 and glory and reason and life in the poisonous cup of 
 wine and harlotry ? 
 
 Can men coldly qualify their applause of the patriot 
 hero of the American Revolution, who never drew his 
 sword but in a righteous defensive war, and magnify 
 the name of the great Roman Dictator who made the 
 " bravo's trade " the merciless profession of his life, 
 and trained his legions in the havoc of unoffending 
 foreign countries for the " more than civil wars " in 
 which he prostrated the liberties of his own ? 
 
 Can they seriously disparage our incorruptible 
 Washington, who would not burden the impoverished 
 treasury of the Union by accepting even the frugal 
 pay of his rank ; whose entire expenditure charged to 
 the public for the whole war was less than the cost of 
 the stationery of Congress for a single year ; whom all 
 the gold of California and Australia could not have
 
 356 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 bribed to a mean act, can they seriously disparage 
 him in comparison with such a man as the hero oi 
 Blenheim, the renowned English commander, the ablest 
 general, the most politic statesman, the most adroit 
 negotiator of the day, of whom it has been truly 
 said that he never formed the plan of a campaign 
 which he failed to execute, never besieged a city which 
 he did not take, never fought a battle which he did 
 not gain, and who, alas ! caused the muster-rolls of his 
 victorious army to be fraudently made out, and pock 
 eted the pay which he drew in the names of men who 
 had fallen in his own sight four years before. 
 
 There is a splendid monumental pile in England, 
 the most magnificent perhaps of her hundred palaces, 
 founded in the time of Queen Anne at the public cost, 
 to perpetuate the fame of Marlborough. The grand 
 building, with its vast wings and spacious courts, cov 
 ers seven acres and a half of land. It is approached 
 on its various sides by twelve gates or bridges, some 
 of them triumphal gates, in a circumference of thirteen 
 miles, enclosing the noble park of twenty-seven hun 
 dred acres (Boston Common has forty-three), in which 
 the castle stands, surrounded by the choicest beauties 
 of forest and garden and fountain and lawn and 
 stream. All that gold could buy, or the bounty of 
 his own or foreign princes could bestow, or taste de 
 vise, or art execute, or ostentation could lavish, to per 
 fect and adorn the all but regal structure, without 
 and within, is there. Its saloons and its galleries, ita 
 library and its museum, among the most spacious ir 
 England for a private mansion, are filled with the 
 rarities and wonders of ancient and modern art. Elo 
 quent inscriptions from the most gifted pens of the 
 age the English by Lord Bolingbroke, the Latin, I
 
 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 357 
 
 believe, by Bishop Hoadley set forth on triumphal 
 arches and columns the exploits of him to whom the 
 whole edifice and the domains which surround it are 
 one gorgeous monument. Lest human adulation 
 should prove unequal to the task, Nature herself has 
 been called in to record his achievements. They have 
 been planted, rooted in the soil. Groves and coppices, 
 curiously disposed, represent the position, the num 
 bers, the martial array of the hostile squadrons at 
 Blenheim. Thus, with each returning year, Spring 
 hangs out his triumphant banners. May's JEolian 
 lyre sings of his victories through her gorgeous foli 
 age ; and the shrill trump of November sounds " Mai- 
 brook " through her leafless branches. 
 
 Twice in my life I have visited the magnificent res 
 idence, not as a guest ; once when its stately porticos 
 afforded a grateful shelter from the noonday sun, and 
 again, after thirty years' interval, when the light of 
 a full harvest moon slept sweetly on the bank once 
 shaded by fair Rosamond's bower, so says tradition, 
 and poured its streaming bars of silver through the 
 branches of oaks which were growing before Columbus 
 discovered America. But to me, at noontide or in 
 the evening, the gorgeous pile was as dreary as death, 
 its luxurious grounds as melancholy as a churchyard. 
 It seemed to me, not a splendid palace, but a dismal 
 mausoleum, in which a great and blighted name lies 
 embalmed like some old Egyptian tyrant, black and 
 ghastly in the asphaltic contempt of ages, serving but 
 to rescue from an enviable oblivion the career and 
 character of the magnificent peculator and miser and 
 traitor to whom it is dedicated ; needy in the midst of 
 his ill-gotten millions ; mean at the head of his victo 
 rious armies : despicable under the shadow of his
 
 358 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 thick-woven laurels ; and poor and miserable and blind 
 and naked amidst the lying shams of his tinsel great 
 ness. The eloquent inscriptions in Latin and English 
 as I strove to read them seemed to fade from arch 
 and column, and three dreadful words of palimpsestic 
 infamy came out in their stead, like those which 
 caused the knees of the Chaldean tyrant to smite to 
 gether, as he beheld them traced by no mortal fingers 
 on the vaulted canopy which spread like a sky over 
 his accursed revels ; and those dreadful words were, 
 
 Avarice, Plunder, Eternal Shame 1 
 
 There is a modest private mansion on the bank of 
 the Potomac, the abode of George Washington and 
 Martha his beloved, his loving, faithful wife. It 
 boasts no spacious portal nor gorgeous colonnade, 
 nor massy elevation, nor storied tower. The porter's 
 lodge at Blenheim Castle, nay, the marble dog-ken 
 nels, were not built for the entire cost of Mount Ver- 
 non. No arch nor column, in courtly English or 
 courtlier Latin, sets forth the deeds and the worth of 
 the Father of his Country ; he needs them not ,* the 
 unwritten benedictions of millions cover all the walls. 
 No gilded dome swells from the lowly roof to catch 
 the morning or evening beam ; but the love and grati 
 tude of united America settle upon it in one eternal 
 sunshine. From beneath that humble roof went forth 
 the intrepid and unselfish warrior, the magistrate 
 who knew no glory but his country's good ; to that he 
 returned happiest when his work was done. There 
 he lived in noble simplicity ; there he died in glory 
 and peace. While it stands the latest generations of 
 the grateful children of America will make their pil 
 grimage to it as to a shrine ; and when it shall fall, if
 
 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 359 
 
 fall it must, the memory and the name of Washington 
 shall shed an eternal glory on the spot. 
 
 Yes, my friends, it is the pure morality of Wash 
 ington's character in which its pecular excellence re 
 sides ; and it is this which establishes its intimate rela 
 tions with general humanity. On this basis he ceases 
 to be the hero of America, and becomes the hero of 
 mankind. I have seen it lately maintained by a re* 
 spectable foreign writer, that he could not have led 
 the mighty host which Napoleon marched into Russia 
 in 1812 ; not so much one army as thirteen armies, 
 each led by its veteran chief, some of them by tribu 
 tary kings, and all conducted to their destination 
 across continental Europe without confusion and 
 without mutual interference, by the master mind, the 
 greatest military array the world has ever seen. That 
 Washington, who never proved unequal to any task, 
 however novel or arduous, could not have led that 
 gigantic army into Russia I am slow to believe. I 
 see not why he who did great things with small means 
 is to be supposed to be incompetent to do great things 
 with large means. That he would not, if it depended 
 on him, have plunged France and Europe into that 
 dreadful war, I readily grant. But allowing what 
 cannot be shown, that he was not as a strategist equal 
 to the task in question, I do not know that his mili 
 tary reputation is more impeached by this gratuitous 
 assumption, that he could not have got that mighty 
 host into Russia, than Napoleon's by the historical 
 fact that he could not and did not get it out of 
 Russia. 
 
 At any rate, whatever idle comparisons between 
 Napoleon and Washington, unfavorable to the mili 
 tary genius of the latter, may be instituted, Washing-
 
 860 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 ton himself, modest as he was, deriving conscious 
 strength from the pure patriotism which formed the 
 great motive of his conduct, did not fear to place him 
 self in a position which he must have thought would, 
 hi all human probability, bring him into collision 
 with the youthful conqueror of Italy, fresh from the 
 triumphs of his first, and, all things considered, his 
 most brilliant campaigns. The United States, I need 
 not remind you, were on the verge of a war with 
 France in 1798. The command of the armies of the 
 Union was pressed by President Adams on Washing 
 ton, and he consented to take command in the event 
 of an invasion. In a very remarkable letter written 
 in July, 1798, he mentions the practice " adopted by 
 the French (with whom we are now to contend), and 
 with great and astonishing success, to appoint generals 
 of juvenile years to command their armies." l He had 
 every reason at that time to suppose, and no doubt did 
 suppose, that in the event of a French invasion, the 
 armies of France would have been commanded by the 
 youngest and most successful of those youthful gen 
 erals. 
 
 A recent judicious French writer (M. Edouard La- 
 boulaye), though greatly admiring the character of 
 Washington, denies him the brilliant military genius 
 of Julius Caesar. For my own part, considering the 
 disparity of the means at their command respectively 
 and of their scale of operations, I believe that after 
 times will, on the score of military capacity, assign as 
 high a place to the patriot chieftain who founded the 
 Republic of America, as to the ambitious usurper who 
 overturned the liberties of Rome. Washington would 
 not most certainly have carried an unprovoked and 
 1 Washington's Works, vol. xi. p. 249.
 
 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 361 
 
 desolating war into the provinces of Gallia, chopping 
 off the right hands of whole populations guilty of no 
 crime but that of defending their homes ; he would 
 not have thrown his legions into Britain as Caesar 
 did, though the barbarous natives had never heard of 
 his name. Though, to meet the invaders of his coun 
 try, he could push his way across the broad Delaware, 
 through drifting masses of ice in a December night, 
 he could not, I grant, in defiance of the laws of his 
 country, have spurred his horse across the " little Ru 
 bicon " beneath the mild skies of an Ausonian winter. 1 
 It was not talent which he wanted for brilliant mili 
 tary achievement ; he wanted a willingness to shed 
 the blood of fellow-men for selfish ends ; he wanted 
 unchastened ambition ; he wanted an ear deaf as the 
 adder's to the cry of suffering humanity ; he wanted 
 a remorseless thirst for false glory ; he wanted an iron 
 heart. 
 
 But it is time, my friends, to draw these contem 
 plations to a close. When the decease of this illus 
 trious and beloved commander-in-chief, in 1799, was 
 officially announced to the army of the United States 
 by General Hamilton, who of all his honored and 
 trusted associates stood highest, I think, in his affec 
 tions and confidence, it was truly said by him in his 
 general orders, that "the voice of praise would in 
 vain endeavor to exalt a name unrivalled in the lists 
 of true glory." It is for us, citizens of the country 
 which he lived but to serve, children of parents who 
 saw him face to face, enjoying ourselves the inestima 
 ble blessings which he did so much to secure and per 
 petuate, to reflect lustre upon his memory in the only 
 way in which it is possible for us to do so, by showing 
 1 Ut veutum est parvi Rubicoutis ad uuda.ni. Lucan, i. 185.
 
 362 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 that his example and his counsels, instead of losing 
 their influence by the lapse of years, are possessed of 
 an ever-during vitality. Born into the family of na 
 tions in these latter days, inheriting from ancient 
 times and from foreign countries the bright and in, 
 structive example of all their honored sons, it has been 
 the privilege of America, in the first generation of her 
 national existence, to give back to the world many 
 names whose lustre will never fade, one of which the 
 whole family of Christendom is willing to acknow 
 ledge the preeminence ; a name of which neither 
 Greece nor Rome, nor republican Italy, Switzerland 
 nor Holland, nor constitutional England can boast the 
 rival. " A character of virtues so happily tempered 
 by one another " (I use the words of Charles James 
 Fox), " and so wholly unalloyed with any vices as 
 that of Washington, is hardly to be found on the 
 pages of history.'*
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born in Portland, 
 Maine, February 27, 1807. He was a classmate of Haw 
 thorne at Bowdoin College, graduating there in the class of 
 1825. He began the study of law in the office of his father, 
 Hon. Stephen Longfellow ; but receiving shortly the ap 
 pointment of professor of modern languages at Bowdoin, 
 he devoted himself after that to literature, and to teaching 
 in connection with literature. Before beginning his work 
 at Bowdoin he increased his qualifications by travel and 
 study in Europe, where he stayed three years. Upon his 
 return he gave his lectures on modern languages and litera 
 ture at the college, and wrote occasionally for the North 
 American Review and other periodicals. The first volume 
 which he published was an Essay on the Moral and Devo 
 tional Poetry of Spain, accompanied by translations from 
 Spanish verse. This was issued in 1833, but has not been 
 kept in print as a separate work. It appears as a chapter 
 in Outre-Mer, a reflection of his European life and travel, 
 the first of his prose writings. In 1835 he was invited to 
 succeed Mr. George Ticknor as professor of modern lan 
 guages and literature at Harvard College, and again went 
 to Europe for preparatory study, giving especial attention 
 to Switzerland and the Scandinavian countries. He held 
 his professorship until 1854, but continued to live in Cam 
 bridge until his death, March 24, 1882, occupying a house 
 known from a former occupant as the Craigie house, and
 
 364 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 also as Washington's headquarters, that general having so 
 used it while organizing the army that held Boston in siege 
 at the beginning of the Revolution. Everett, Sparks, and 
 Worcester, the lexicographer, at one time or another lived 
 in this house, and here Longfellow wrote most of his works. 
 In 1839 appeared Hyperion, a Romance, which, with 
 more narrative form than Outre-Mer, like that gave the 
 results of a poet's entrance into the riches of the Old World 
 life. In the same year was published Voices of the Night, 
 a little volume containing chiefly poems and translations 
 which had been printed separately in periodicals. The 
 Psalm of Life, perhaps the best known of Longfellow's 
 short poems, was in this volume, and here too were The 
 Beleaguered City and Footsteps of Angels. Ballads and 
 other Poems and Poems on Slavery appeared in 1842; 
 The Spanish Student, a play in three acts, in 1843 ; The 
 Belfry of Bruges and other Poems in 1846 ; Evangeline 
 in 1847 ; Kavanagh, a Tale, in prose, in 1849. Besides 
 the various volumes comprising short poems, the list of Mr. 
 Longfellow's works includes The Golden Legend, The Song 
 of Hiawatha, The Courtship of Miles Standish, Tales of 
 a Wayside Inn, The New England Tragedies, and a trans 
 lation of Dante's Divina Commedia. Mr. Longfellow's 
 literary life began in his college days, and he wrote poems 
 almost to the day of his death. A classification of his poems 
 and longer works would be an interesting task, and would 
 help to disclose the wide range of his sympathy and taste ; 
 a collection of the metres which he has used would show 
 the versatility of his art, and similar studies would lead one 
 to discover the many countries and ages to which he went 
 for subjects. It would not be difficult to gather from the 
 volume of Longfellow's poems hints of personal experience, 
 that biography of the heart which is of more worth to us 
 than any record, however full, of external change and adven 
 ture. Such hints may be found, for example, in the early 
 lines, To the JRiver Charles, which may be compared with
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 865 
 
 his recent Three Friends of Mine, rv., v. ; in A Gleam of 
 Sunshine, To a Child, The Day is Done, The Fire of 
 Driftwood, Resignation, The Open Window, The Ladder 
 of St. Augustine, My Lost Youth, The Children's Hour, 
 Weariness, and other poems ; not that we are to take all 
 sentiments and statements made in the first person as the 
 poet's, for often the form of the poem is so far dramatic 
 that the poet is assuming a character not necessarily his own, 
 but the recurrence of certain strains, joined with personal 
 allusions, helps one to penetrate the slight veil with which 
 the poet, here as elsewhere, half conceals and half reveals 
 himself. The friendly associations of the poet may also be 
 discovered in several poems directly addressed to persons or 
 distinctively alluding to them, and the reader will find it 
 pleasant to construct the companionship of the poet out of 
 such poems as The Herons of Elmwood, To Wittiam E. 
 Channing, The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz, To Charles 
 Sumner, the Prelude to Tales of a Wayside Inn, Haw 
 thorne, and other poems. An interesting study of Mr. 
 Longfellow's writings will be found in a paper by W. IX 
 Howells, in the North American Review, vol. cir.
 
 EVANGELINE: A TALE OF ACADIE. 
 
 HISTORICAL INTRODUCTIOM. 
 
 [THE country now known as Nova Scotia, and called 
 formerly Acadie by the French, was in the hands of the 
 French and English by turns until the year 1713, when, by 
 the Peace of Utrecht, it was ceded by France to Great Brit 
 ain, and has ever since remained in the possession of the 
 English. But in 1713 the inhabitants of the peninsula were 
 mostly French farmers and fishermen, living about Minas 
 Basin and on Annapolis River, and the English government 
 exercised only a nominal control over them. It was not till 
 1749 that the English themselves began to make settlements 
 in the country, and that year they laid the foundations of 
 the town of Halifax. A jealousy soon sprang up between 
 the English and French settlers, which was deepened by the 
 great conflict which was impending between the two mother 
 countries ; for the treaty of peace at Aix-la-Chapelle in 
 1748, which confirmed the English title to Nova Scotia, waa 
 scarcely more than a truce between the two powers which 
 had been struggling for ascendency during the beginning 
 of the century. The French engaged in a long controversy 
 with the English respecting the boundaries of Acadie, which 
 had been defined by the treaties in somewhat general terms, 
 and intrigues were carried on with the Indians, who were 
 generally in sympathy with the French, for the annoyance 
 of the English settlers. The Acadians were allied to the 
 French by blood and by religion, but they claimed to have 
 the rights of neutrals, and that these rights had been
 
 EVANGELINE. 867 
 
 granted to them by previous English officers of the crown. 
 The one point of special dispute was the oath of allegiance 
 demanded of the Acadians by the English. This they re 
 fused to take, except in a form modified to excuse them 
 from bearing arms against the French. The demand was 
 repeatedly made, and evaded with constant ingenuity and 
 persistency. Most of the Acadians were probably simple- 
 minded and peaceful people, who desired only to live undis 
 turbed upon their farms ; but there were some restless spir 
 its, especially among the young men, who compromised the 
 reputation of the community, and all were very much under 
 the influence of their priests, some of whom made no secret 
 of their bitter hostility to the English, and of their deter 
 mination to use every means to be rid of them. 
 
 As the English interests grew and the critical relations 
 between the two countries approached open warfare, the 
 question of how to deal with the Acadian problem became 
 the commanding one of the colony. There were some who 
 coveted the rich farms of the Acadians ; there were some 
 who were inspired by religious hatred ; but the prevailing 
 spirit was one of fear for themselves from the near presence 
 of a community which, calling itself neutral, might at any 
 time offer a convenient ground for hostile attack. Yet to 
 require these people to withdraw to Canada or Louisburg 
 would be to strengthen the hands of the French, and make 
 these neutrals determined enemies. The colony finally re 
 solved, without consulting the home government, to remove 
 the Acadians to other parts of North America, distributing 
 them through the colonies in such a way as to preclude any 
 concert amongst the scattered families by which they should 
 return to Acadia. To do this required quick and secret 
 preparations. There were at the service of the English 
 governor a number of New England troops, brought thither 
 for the capture of the forts lying in the debatable land about 
 the head of the Bay of Fundy. These were under the com 
 mand of Lieutenant-Colonel John Winslow, of Massachu-
 
 868 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 setts, a great-grandson of Governor Edward Winslow, of 
 Plymouth, and to this gentleman and Captain Alexander 
 Murray was intrusted the task of removal. They were in 
 structed to use stratagem, if possible, to bring together the 
 various families, but to prevent any from escaping to the 
 woods. On the 2d of September, 1755, Winslow issued a 
 written order, addressed to the inhabitants of Grand-Pre", 
 Minas, River Canard, etc., " as well ancient as young men 
 and lads," a proclamation summoning all the males to 
 attend him in the church at Grand-Pre" on the 5th instant, 
 to hear a communication which the governor had sent. As 
 there had been negotiations respecting the oath of allegiance, 
 and much discussion as to the withdrawal of the Acadians 
 from the country, though none as to their removal and dis 
 persal, it was understood that this was an important meet 
 ing, and upon the day named four hundred and eighteen 
 men and boys assembled in the church. Winslow, attended 
 by his officers and men, caused a guard to be placed round 
 the church, and then announced to the people his majesty's 
 decision that they were to be removed with their families 
 out of the country. The church became at once a guard 
 house, and all the prisoners were under strict surveillance. 
 At the same time similar plans had been carried out at Pisi- 
 quid under Captain Murray, and less successfully at Chig- 
 necto. Meanwhile there were whispers of a rising among 
 the prisoners, and although the transports which had been 
 ordered from Boston had not yet arrived, it was determined 
 to make use of the vessels which had conveyed the troops, 
 and remove the men to these for safer keeping. This was 
 done on the 10th of September, and the men remained on 
 the vessels in the harbor until the arrival of the transports, 
 when these were made use of, and about three thousand 
 souls sent out of the country to North Carolina, Virginia, 
 Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, and Mas 
 sachusetts. In the haste and confusion of sending them off, 
 a haste which was increased by the anxiety of the offi-
 
 EVANGELINE. 869 
 
 cers to be rid of the distasteful business, and a confusion 
 which was greater from the difference of tongues, many 
 families were separated, and some at least never came to 
 gether again. 
 
 The story of Evangeline is the story of such a separation. 
 The removal of the Acadians was a blot upon the govern 
 ment of Nova Scotia and upon that of Great Britain, which 
 never disowned the deed, although it was probably done 
 without direct permission or command from England. It 
 proved to be unnecessary, but it must also be remembered 
 that to many men at that time the English power seemed 
 trembling before France, and that the colony at Halifax 
 regarded the act as one of self-preservation. 
 
 The authorities for an historical inquiry into this subject 
 are best seen in a volume published by the government of 
 Nova Scotia at Halifax in 1869, entitled Selections fror.* 
 the Public Documents of the Province of Nova Scotia, 
 edited by Thomas B. Akins, D. C. L., Commissioner of 
 Public Records ; and in a manuscript journal kept by Col 
 onel Winslow, now in the cabinet of the Massachusetts His 
 torical Society in Boston. At the State House in Boston 
 are two volumes of records, entitled French Neutrals, which 
 contain voluminous papers relating to the treatment of the 
 Acadians who were sent to Massachusetts. Probably the 
 work used by the poet in writing Evangeline was An His~ 
 torical and Statistical Account of Nova Scotia, by Thomas 
 C. Haliburton, who is best known as the author of The Clock- 
 Maker, or The Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick of 
 Slickville, a book which, written apparently to prick the 
 Nova Scotians into more enterprise, was for a long while the 
 chief representative of Yankee smartness. Judge Halibur- 
 ton's history was published in 1829. A later history, which 
 takes advantage more freely of historical documents, is A 
 History of Nova Scotia, or Acadie, by Beamish Murdock, 
 Esq., Q. C., Halifax, 1866. Still more recent is a smaller, 
 well-written work, entitled The History of Acadiafrom its
 
 370 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 First Discovery to its Surrender to England by the Treaty 
 of Paris, by James Hannay, St. John, N. B., 1879. W. J. 
 Anderson published a paper in the Transactions of the Lit 
 erary and Historical Society of Quebec, New Series, part 7, 
 1870, entitled Evangeline and the Archives of Nova Sco 
 tia, in which he examines the poem by the light of the vol 
 ume of Nova Scotia Archives, edited by T. B. Akins. The 
 sketches of travellers in Nova Scotia, as Acadia, or a Month 
 among the Blue Noses, by F. S. Cozzens, and Baddeck, by 
 C. D. Warner, give the present appearance of the country 
 and inhabitants. 
 
 The measure of Evangeline is what is commonly known 
 as English dactylic hexameter. The hexameter is the mea 
 sure used by Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey, and by 
 Virgil in the &neid, but the difference between the Eng 
 lish language and the Latin or Greek is so great, especially 
 when we consider that in English poetry every word must 
 be accented according to its customary pronounciation, 
 while in scanning Greek and Latin verse accent follows the 
 quantity of the vowels, that in applying this term of hexa 
 meter to Evangeline it must not be supposed by the reader 
 that he is getting the effect of Greek hexameters. It is the 
 Greek hexameter translated into English use, and some 
 have maintained that the verse of the Iliad is better repre 
 sented in the English by the trochaic measure of fifteen syl 
 lables, of which an excellent illustration is in Tennyson's 
 Locksley Hatt ; others have compared the Greek hexameter 
 to the ballad metre of fourteen syllables, used notably by 
 Chapman in his translation of Homer's Iliad. The mea 
 sure adopted by Mr. Longfellow has never become very 
 popular in English poetry, but has repeatedly been at 
 tempted by other poets. The reader will find the subject 
 of hexameters discussed by Matthew Arnold in his lectures 
 On Translating Homer ; by James Spedding in English 
 Hexameters, in his recent volume, Reviews and Discus 
 sions, Literary, Political and Historical, not relating to
 
 EVANGELINE. 871 
 
 Bacon ; and by John Stuart Blackie in Remarks on Eng 
 lish Hexameters, contained in his volume Horce Hette- 
 nicce. 
 
 The measure lends itself easily to the lingering melan 
 choly which marks the greater part of the poem, and the 
 poet's fine sense of harmony between subject and form is 
 rarely better shown than in this poem. The fall of the 
 verse at the end of the line and the sharp recovery at the 
 beginning of the next will be snares to the reader, who 
 must beware of a jerking style of delivery. The voice nat 
 urally seeks a rest in the middle of the line, and this rest, 
 or caesural pause, should be carefully regarded ; a little 
 practice will enable one to acquire that habit of reading the 
 hexameter, which we may liken, roughly, to the climbing of 
 a hill, resting a moment on the summit, and then descend 
 ing the other side. The charm in reading Evangeline 
 aloud, after a clear understanding of the sense, which is the 
 essential in all good reading, is found in this gentle labor of 
 the former half of the line, and gentle acceleration of the 
 latter half.] 
 
 THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines 
 and the hemlocks, 
 
 Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct 
 in the twilight, 
 
 Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and pro 
 phetic, 
 
 1. A primeval forest is, strictly speaking, one which has never 
 been disturbed by the axe. 
 
 3. Druids were priests of the Celtic inhabitants of ancient 
 Gaul and Britain. The name was probably of Celtic origin, but 
 its form may have been determined by the Greek word drus, an 
 oak, since their places of worship were consecrated groves of 
 oak. Perhaps the choice of the image was governed by the 
 analogy of a religion and tribe that were to disappear before a 
 stronger power.
 
 372 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their 
 bosoms. 
 
 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neigh 
 boring ocean 5 
 
 Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail 
 of the forest. 
 
 This is the forest primeval; but where are the 
 hearts that beneath it 
 
 Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland 
 the voice of the huntsman ? 
 
 Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Aca 
 dian farmers, 
 
 Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the 
 woodlands, 10 
 
 Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image 
 of heaven ? 
 
 Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for 
 ever departed ! 
 
 Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts 
 of October 
 
 Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them 
 far o'er the ocean. 
 
 Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village 
 of Grand-Pre. is 
 
 Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, 
 and is patient, 
 
 4. A poetical description of an ancient harper will be found 
 in the Introduction to the Lay of the Last Minstrel, by Sir Walter 
 Scott. 
 
 8. Observe how the tragedy of the story is anticipated by this 
 picture of the startled roe.
 
 EVANGELINE. 373 
 
 Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's 
 
 devotion, 
 List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines 
 
 of the forest ; 
 List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 IN the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin of 
 
 Minas, 20 
 
 Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand-Pre 
 Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched 
 
 to the eastward, 
 Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks 
 
 without number. 
 Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised with 
 
 labor incessant, 
 
 19. In the earliest records Acadie is called Cadie ; it after 
 wards was called Arcadia, Accadia, or L' Acadie. The name is 
 probably a French adaptation of a word common among the 
 Micmac Indians living there, signifying place or region, and used 
 as an affix to other words as indicating the place where various 
 things, as cranberries, eels, seals, were found in abundance. The 
 French turned this Indian term into Cadie or Acadie ; the Eng 
 lish into Quoddy, in which form it remains when applied to the 
 Quoddy Indians, to Quoddy Head, the last point of the United 
 States next to Acadia, and in the compound Passamaquoddy, or 
 Pollock-Ground. 
 
 21. Compare, for effect, the first line of Goldsmith's The 
 Traveller. Grand-Pre" will be found on the map as part of the 
 township of Horton. 
 
 24. The people of Acadia are mainly the descendants of the 
 colonists who were brought out to La Have and Port Royal by 
 Isaac de Razilly and Charnisay between the years 1633 and 1638.
 
 374 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Shut out the turbulent tides ; but at stated seasons the 
 
 flood-gates M 
 
 Opened and welcomed the sea to wander at will o'er 
 
 the meadows. 
 West and south there were fields of flax, and orchards 
 
 and cornfields 
 Spreading afar and unf enced o'er the plain ; and away 
 
 to the northward 
 Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on the 
 
 mountains 
 Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the mighty 
 
 Atlantic 30 
 
 Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their sta 
 tion descended. 
 There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Acadian 
 
 village. 
 Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak and 
 
 of hemlock, 
 Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign 
 
 of the Henries. 
 
 These colonists came from Rochelle, Saintonge, and Poitou, so 
 that they were drawn from a very limited area on the west coast 
 of France, covered by the modern departments of Vende'e and 
 Charente Infe'rieure. This circumstance had some influence on 
 their mode of settling the lands of Acadia, for they came from a 
 country of marshes, where the sea was kept out by artificial 
 dikes, and they found in Acadia similar marshes, which they dealt 
 with in the same way that they had been accustomed to practise 
 in France. Hannay's History of A cadla, pp. 282, 283. An excel 
 lent account of dikes and the flooding of lowlands, as practised 
 in Holland, may be found in A Farmer's Vacation, by George E. 
 Waring, Jr. 
 
 29. Bldmirfon is a mountainous headland of red sandstone, sur 
 mounted by a perpendicular wall of basaltic trap, the whole about 
 four hundred feet in height, at the entrance of the Basin of 
 
 Minim.
 
 E VA NGELINE. 375 
 
 Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows; and 
 gables projecting 
 
 Over the basement below protected and shaded the 
 doorway. 
 
 There in the tranquil evenings of summer, when 
 brightly the sunset 
 
 Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on the 
 chimneys, 
 
 Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and in 
 kirtles 
 
 Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning the 
 golden <o 
 
 Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles 
 within doors 
 
 Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels and 
 the songs of the maidens. 
 
 Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and 
 the children 
 
 Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to 
 bless them. 
 
 Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose ma 
 trons and maidens, * 
 
 Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate 
 welcome. 
 
 Then came the laborers home from the field, and se 
 renely the sun sank 
 
 36. The characteristics of a Normandy village may be further 
 learned by reference to a pleasant little sketch-book, published 
 a few years since, called Normandy Picturesque, by Henry Black 
 burn, and to Through Nvrmandy, by Katharine S. Macquoid. 
 
 39. The term kirtle was sometimes applied to the jacket only, 
 sometimes to the train or upper petticoat attached to it. A full 
 kirtle was always both ; a half kirtle was a term applied to 
 either. A man's jacket was sometimes called a kirtle ; here the 
 reference is apparently to the full kirtle worn by women.
 
 376 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon from 
 
 the belfry 
 Softly the Angelus sounded, and over the roofs of the 
 
 village 
 Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense 
 
 ascending, so 
 
 Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace and 
 
 contentment. 
 Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian 
 
 farmers, 
 Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were 
 
 they free from 
 Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the vice 
 
 of republics. 
 Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to their 
 
 windows ; M 
 
 But their dwellings were open as day and the hearts 
 
 of the owners ; 
 There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived in 
 
 abundance. 
 
 Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer the 
 
 Basin of Minas, 
 Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of 
 
 Grand-Pre, 
 Dwelt on his goodly acres ; and with him, directing 
 
 his household, o 
 
 Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of 
 
 the village. 
 
 49. Angelus Domini is the full name given to the bell which, at 
 morning, noon, and night, called the people to prayer, in com 
 memoration of the visit of the angel of the Lord to the Virgin 
 Mary. It was introduced into France in its modern form in the 
 sixteenth century.
 
 EVANGELINE. 377 
 
 Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy 
 
 winters ; 
 Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with 
 
 snow-flakes ; 
 White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as 
 
 brown as the oak-leaves. 
 
 Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen sum 
 mers ; es 
 Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the 
 
 thorn by the wayside, 
 Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown 
 
 shade of her tresses ! 
 Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that feed 
 
 in the meadows. 
 When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers at 
 
 noontide 
 Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth was the 
 
 maiden. 70 
 
 Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the bell 
 
 from its turret 
 Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest with 
 
 his hyssop 
 Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon 
 
 them, 
 Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet of 
 
 beads and her missal, 
 Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, and 
 
 the ear-rings 75 
 
 Brought in the olden time from France, and since, as 
 
 an heirloom, 
 
 Handed down from mother to child, through long gen 
 erations. 
 
 But a celestial brightness a more ethereal beauty 
 Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after 
 
 confession,
 
 378 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Homeward serenely she walked with God's benedic 
 tion upon her. si 
 
 When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of 
 exquisite music. 
 
 Firmly builded with rafters of oak, the house of 
 
 the farmer 
 Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; and 
 
 a shady 
 Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine wreath- 
 
 ing around it. 
 Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath ; and 
 
 a footpath ss 
 
 Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in the 
 
 meadow. 
 Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by a 
 
 penthouse, 
 Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the 
 
 roadside, 
 Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image of 
 
 Mary. 
 Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well 
 
 with its moss-grown a* 
 
 Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough for 
 
 the horses. 
 Shielding the house from storms, on the north, were 
 
 the barns and the farm-yard ; 
 There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the antique 
 
 ploughs and the harrows ; 
 There were the folds for the sheep ; and there, in his 
 
 feathered seraglio, 
 
 93. The accent is on the first syllable of antique, where it re 
 mains in the form antic, which once had the same general mean 
 ing.
 
 EVANGELINE. 379 
 
 Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, with 
 the selfsame 95 
 
 Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent 
 Peter. 
 
 Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a vil 
 lage. In each one 
 
 Far o'er the gal le projected a roof of thatch ; and a 
 staircase, 
 
 Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous corn- 
 loft. 
 
 There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and inno 
 cent inmates io 
 
 Murmuring ever of love ; while above in the variant 
 breezes 
 
 Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang of 
 mutation. 
 
 Thus, at peace with God and the world, the farmer 
 
 of Grand-Pre* 
 Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline governed 
 
 his household. 
 Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and opened 
 
 his missal, its 
 
 Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deepest 
 
 devotion ; 
 
 99. Odorous. The accent here, as well as in line 403, is npon 
 the first syllable, where it is commonly placed ; but Milton, who 
 of all poets had the most refined ear, writes 
 
 " So from the root 
 
 Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves 
 More airy, last the bright consummate flower 
 Spirits odorous breathes." 
 
 Par. Loit, Book V., lines 479-48*. 
 
 But he also uses the more familiar accent in other passages, 
 as, " An amber scent of ddorous perfume," in Samson Agonigtet, 
 line 720.
 
 380 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Happy was he who might touch her hand or the hem 
 of her garment ! 
 
 Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness be 
 friended, 
 
 And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound of 
 her footsteps, 
 
 Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the 
 knocker of iron ; 110 
 
 Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the vil 
 lage, 
 
 Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance as he 
 whispered 
 
 Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the 
 music. 
 
 But among all who came young Gabriel only was 
 welcome ; 
 
 Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the black 
 smith, m 
 
 Who was a mighty man in the village, and honored 
 of all men ; 
 
 For since the birth of time, throughout all ages and 
 nations, 
 
 Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by the 
 people. 
 
 Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from 
 earliest childhood 
 
 Grew up together as brother and sister ; and Father 
 Felician, 120 
 
 Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had taught 
 them their letters 
 
 \Jut of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the 
 
 church and the plain-song. 
 (22. The plain-song is a monotonic recitative of the collects.
 
 EVANGELINE. 381 
 
 But when the hymn was sung, and the daily lesson 
 
 completed, 
 Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil the 
 
 blacksmith. 
 There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes to 
 
 behold him 135 
 
 Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a 
 
 plaything, 
 Nailing the shoe in its place ; while near him the tire 
 
 of the cart-wheel 
 Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of 
 
 cinders. 
 Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gathering 
 
 darkness 
 Bursting with light seemed the smithy, through every 
 
 cranny and crevice, iso 
 
 Warm by the forge within they watched the laboring 
 
 bellows, 
 And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired in 
 
 the ashes, 
 Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going into 
 
 the chapel. 
 Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of the 
 
 eagle, 
 Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er the 
 
 meadow. 135 
 
 Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous nests 
 
 on the rafters, 
 Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, which 
 
 the swallow 
 Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the sight 
 
 of its fledglings ; 
 
 133. The French have another saying similar to this, that they 
 were guests going into the wedding.
 
 882 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of the 
 
 swallow ! 
 Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer 
 
 were children. uo 
 
 He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face of 
 
 the morning, 
 gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened 
 
 thought into action. 
 She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes of a 
 
 woman. 
 *' Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for that 
 
 was the sunshine 
 Which, as the farmers believed, would load their 
 
 orchards with apples ; i 
 
 She too would bring to her husband's house delight 
 
 and abundance, 
 Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of children. 
 
 II. 
 
 Now had the season returned, when the nights grow 
 
 colder and longer, 
 
 And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion en 
 ters. 
 
 139. In Pluquet'a Contes Populaires we are told that if one of 
 a swallow's young is blind the mother bird seeks on the shore of 
 the ocean a little stone, with which she restores its sight ; and 
 he adds, " He who is fortunate enough to find that stone in a 
 swallow's nest holds a wonderful remedy." Pluquet's book 
 treats of Norman superstitions and popular traits. 
 
 144. 1'luquet also gives this proverbial saying : 
 
 " Si le soleil rit le jour Sainte-Eulalie, 
 n y aura pommes et cidre 4 folie." 
 
 (If the sun smiles on Saint Eulalie's day, there will be plenty 
 of apples, and cider enough.) 
 
 fiaint Eulalie's day is the 12th of February.
 
 EVANGELINE. 383 
 
 Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from 
 the ice-bound, IM 
 
 Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical is 
 lands. 
 
 Harvests were gathered in ; and wild with the winds 
 of September 
 
 Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with 
 the angel. 
 
 All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 
 
 Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded 
 their honey i 
 
 Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters as 
 serted 
 
 Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the 
 foxes. 
 
 Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that 
 beautiful season, 
 
 Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of 
 All-Saints ! 
 
 Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light ; 
 and the landscape i 
 
 Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of child 
 hood. 
 
 Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless 
 heart of the ocean 
 
 Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in 
 harmony blended. 
 
 Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the 
 farm-yards, 
 
 169. The Summer of All-Saints is oar Indian Summer, All- 
 Saints Day being November 1st. The French also give this sea 
 son the name of Saint Martin's Summer, Saint Martin's Day 
 being November llth.
 
 384 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of 
 pigeons, IK 
 
 All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, 
 and the great sun 
 
 Looked with the eye of love through the golden va 
 pors around him ; 
 
 While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and 
 yellow, 
 
 Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree 
 of the forest 
 
 Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with 
 mantles and jewels. no 
 
 Now recommenced the region of rest and affection 
 and stillness. 
 
 Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twi 
 light descending 
 
 Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the 
 herds to the homestead. 
 
 Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks 
 on each other, 
 
 And with their nostrils distended inhaling the fresh 
 ness of evening. m 
 
 Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful 
 heifer, 
 
 Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that 
 waved from her collar, 
 
 Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human 
 affection. 
 
 170. Herodotus, in his account of Xerxes' expedition against 
 Greece, tells of a beautiful plane-tree which Xerxes found, and 
 was so enamored with that he dressed it as one might a woman, 
 and placed it under the care of a guardsman (vii. 31). Another 
 writer, .<Elian, improving on this, says he adorned it with a neck 
 lace and bracelets.
 
 EVANGELINE. 385 
 
 Then came the shepherd back with his hleating flocks 
 from the seaside, 
 
 Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them fol 
 lowed the watch-dog, is 
 
 Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of 
 his instinct, 
 
 Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and 
 superbly 
 
 Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the strag 
 glers; 
 
 Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; 
 their protector, 
 
 When from the forest at night, through the starry 
 silence, the wolves howled. iss 
 
 Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from 
 the marshes, 
 
 Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor. 
 
 Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes 
 and their fetlocks, 
 
 While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and pon 
 derous saddles, 
 
 Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels 
 of crimson, 190 
 
 Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with 
 blossoms. 
 
 Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their 
 udders 
 
 Unto the milkmaid's hand ; whilst loud and in regular 
 cadence 
 
 193. There is a charming milkmaid's song in Tennyson's drama 
 of Queen Mary, Act III., Scene 5, where the streaming of the 
 milk into the sounding pails is caught in the tinkling k's of such 
 
 lines as 
 
 "And you came and kissed me, milking the cow."
 
 386 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets de 
 scended. 
 
 Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in 
 the farm-yard, tat 
 
 Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into 
 stillness ; 
 
 Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the 
 barn-doors, 
 
 Battled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent. 
 
 In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, idly 
 the farmer 
 
 Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames 
 and the smoke-wreaths 200 
 
 Struggled together like foes hi a burning city. Be 
 hind him, 
 
 Nodding and mocking along the wall with gestures 
 fantastic, 
 
 Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away into 
 darkness. 
 
 Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his arm 
 chair 
 
 Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates 
 on the dresser 205 
 
 Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies 
 the sunshine. 
 
 Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of 
 Christmas, 
 
 Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before 
 him 
 
 Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian 
 vineyards. 
 
 Close at her father's side was the gentle Evangeline 
 seated, 210
 
 EVANGELINE. 887 
 
 Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the corner 
 
 behind her. 
 Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its diligent 
 
 shuttle, 
 While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like the 
 
 drone of a bagpipe, 
 Followed the old man's song, and united the fragments 
 
 together. 
 
 As in a church, when the chant of the choir at inter 
 vals ceases, as 
 Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the priest 
 
 at the altar, 
 So, in each pause of the song, with measured motion 
 
 the clock clicked. 
 
 Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, and, 
 
 suddenly lifted, 
 Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung back 
 
 on its hinges. 
 Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Basil 
 
 the blacksmith, 220 
 
 And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who was 
 
 with him. 
 " Welcome ! " the farmer exclaimed, as their footsteps 
 
 paused on the threshold, 
 u Welcome, Basil, my friend ! Come, take thy place 
 
 on the settle 
 Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty 
 
 without thee ; 
 Take from the shelf overhead thy pipe and the box of 
 
 tobacco ; 225 
 
 Never so much thyself art thou as when, through the 
 
 curling 
 Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and jovial 
 
 face gleams
 
 388 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Bound and red as the harvest moon through the mist 
 
 of the marshes." 
 Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Basil the 
 
 blacksmith, 
 
 Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the fire 
 side : wo 
 " Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and 
 
 thy ballad ! 
 Ever in cheerf ullest mood art thou, when others are 
 
 filled with 
 Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before 
 
 them. 
 Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up 
 
 a horseshoe." 
 Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evangeline 
 
 brought him, 235 
 
 And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he 
 
 slowly continued : 
 " Four days now are passed since the English ships 
 
 at their anchors 
 Ride in the Gaspereau's mouth, with their cannon 
 
 pointed against us. 
 What their design may be is unknown ; but all are 
 
 commanded 
 On the morrow to meet in the church, where his 
 
 Majesty's mandate 2 
 
 Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas 1 in the 
 
 mean time 
 Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the pec 
 
 pie." 
 Then made answer the farmer : " Perhaps some 
 
 friendlier purpose 
 
 239. The text of Colonel Winslow's proclamation will be found 
 in Haliburion, i. 175.
 
 EVANGELINE. 389 
 
 Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the har 
 vests in England 
 
 By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been 
 blighted, MS 
 
 And from our bursting barns they would feed their 
 cattle and children." 
 
 "Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said warmly 
 the blacksmith, 
 
 Shaking his head as in doubt ; then, heaving a sigh, 
 he continued : 
 
 " Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor 
 Port Royal. 
 
 Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on its 
 outskirts, 25* 
 
 Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of to 
 morrow. 
 
 Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weapons 
 of all kinds ; 
 
 Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the 
 scythe of the mower." 
 
 Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jovial 
 farmer : 
 
 249. Louisburg, on Cape Breton, was built by the French as a 
 military and naval station early in the eighteenth century, but 
 was taken by an expedition from Massachusetts under General 
 Pepperell in 1745. It was restored by England to France in the 
 treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, and recaptured by the English in 
 1757. Beau Se'jour was a French fort upon the neck of land 
 connecting Acadia with the mainland which had just been cap 
 tured by Winslow's forces. Port Royal, afterwards called Anna 
 polis Royal, at the outlet of Annapolis River into the Bay of 
 Fundy, had been disputed ground, being occupied alternately by 
 French and English, but in 1710 was attacked by an expedition 
 from New England, and after that held by the English govern 
 ment and made a fortified place.
 
 390 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks 
 
 and our cornfields, 25* 
 
 Safer within these peaceful dikes besieged by the ocean, 
 Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the enemy's 
 
 cannon. 
 Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no shadow 
 
 of sorrow 
 Fall on this house and hearth ; for this is the night 
 
 of the contract. 
 Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads of 
 
 the village IN 
 
 Strongly have built them and well ; and, breaking the 
 
 glebe round about them, 
 Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food for 
 
 a twelvemonth. 
 Bene" Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers and 
 
 inkhorn. 
 Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy of 
 
 our children ? " 
 As apart by the window she stood, with her hand in 
 
 her lover's, ws 
 
 Blushing Evangeline heard the words that her father 
 
 had spoken, 
 
 And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary en 
 tered. 
 
 in. 
 
 Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of 
 the ocean, 
 
 267. A notary is an officer authorized to attest contracts or 
 writings of any kind. His authority varies in different coun 
 tries ; in France he is the necessary maker of all contracts where 
 the subject-matter exceeds 150 francs, and his instruments, 
 which are preserved and registered by himself, are the origi 
 nals! the parties preserving only copies.
 
 EVANGELINE. 391 
 
 Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the no 
 tary public ; 
 
 Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the 
 maize, hung 270 
 
 Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and 
 glasses with horn bows 
 
 Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal. 
 
 Father of twenty children was he, and more than a 
 hundred 
 
 Children's children rode on his knee, and heard his 
 great watch tick. 
 
 Four long years in the times of the war had he lan 
 guished a captive, 275 
 
 Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend of 
 the English. 
 
 Now, though warier grown, without all guile or sus 
 picion, 
 
 Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, and 
 childlike. 
 
 He was beloved by all, and most of all by the chil 
 dren ; 
 
 For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the for 
 est, 280 
 
 275. King George's War, which broke out in 1744 in Cape 
 Breton, in an attack by the French upon an English garrison, 
 and closed with the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748 ; or, the 
 reference may possibly be to Queen Anne's war, 1702-1713> 
 when the French aided the Indians in their warfare with the col 
 onists. 
 
 280. The Loup-garou, or were-wolf , is, according to an old su 
 perstition especially prevalent in France, a man with power to 
 turn himself into a wolf, which he does that he may devour chil 
 dren. In later times the superstition passed into the more inno 
 cent one of men having a power to charm wolves.
 
 392 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And of the goblin that came in the night to water the 
 
 horses, 
 And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child who 
 
 unchristened 
 Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the chambers 
 
 of children ; 
 And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the 
 
 stable, 
 And how the fever was cured by a spider shut up in 
 
 a nutshell, ass 
 
 And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved clover 
 
 and horseshoes, 
 
 With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the village. 
 Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil the 
 
 blacksmith, 
 
 Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly extend 
 ing his right hand, 
 "Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, " thou hast heard 
 
 the talk in the village, 290 
 
 And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these ships 
 
 and their errand." 
 Then with modest demeanor made answer the notary 
 
 public, 
 " Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am never 
 
 the wiser ; 
 
 282. Pluquet relates this superstition, and conjectures that the 
 white, fleet ermine gave rise to it. 
 
 284. A belief still lingers among the peasantry of England, as 
 well as on the Continent, that at midnight, on Christmas eve, the 
 cattle in the stalls fall down on their knees in adoration of the 
 infant Saviour, as the old legend says was done in the stable at 
 Bethlehem. 
 
 285. In like manner a popular superstition prevailed in Eng 
 land that ague could be cured by sealing a spider in a goose- 
 quill and hanging it about the neck.
 
 EVANGELINE. 893 
 
 And what their errand may be I know no better than 
 others. 
 
 Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil inten 
 tion aw 
 
 Brings them here, for we are at peace ; and why then 
 molest us ? " 
 
 "God's name ! " shouted the hasty and somewhat iras 
 cible blacksmith ; 
 
 " Must we in all things look for the how, and the why, 
 and the wherefore ? 
 
 Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of the 
 strongest ! " 
 
 But, without heeding his warmth, continued the notary 
 public, w 
 
 " Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally justice 
 
 Triumphs ; and well I remember a story, that often 
 consoled me, 
 
 When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at 
 Port Royal." 
 
 This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved to 
 repeat it 
 
 When his neighbors complained that any injustice was 
 done them. * 
 
 " Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer re 
 member, 
 
 liaised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Justice 
 
 Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in its 
 left hand, 
 
 And in its right a sword, as an emblem that justice 
 presided 
 
 Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and homes 
 of the people. 
 
 302. This is an old Florentine story ; in an altered form it is 
 the theme of Rossini's opera of La Gazza Ladra.
 
 394 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Even the birds had built their nests in the scales of 
 the balance, 
 
 Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the sun 
 shine above them. 
 
 But in the course of time the laws of the land weta 
 corrupted ; 
 
 Might took the place of right, and the weak were 
 oppressed, and the mighty 
 
 Kuled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a noble 
 man's palace sis 
 
 That a necklace of pearls was lost, and ere long a sus 
 picion 
 
 Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the house 
 hold. 
 
 She, after form of trial condemned to die on the scaf 
 fold, 
 
 Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue of 
 Justice. 
 
 As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit as 
 cended, ao 
 
 Lo I o'er the city a tempest rose ; and the bolts of the 
 thunder 
 
 Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath from 
 its left hand 
 
 Down on the pavement below the clattering scales of 
 the balance, 
 
 And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a 
 magpie, 
 
 Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls was 
 inwoven." 
 
 Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was ended, 
 the blacksmith 
 
 Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth 
 no language ;
 
 EVANGELINE. 395 
 
 All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his face, 
 
 as the vapors 
 Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the 
 
 winter. 
 
 Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the 
 table, 330 
 
 Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with 
 home-brewed 
 
 Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in the 
 village of Grand-Pre ; 
 
 While from his pocket the notary drew his papers and 
 inkhorn, 
 
 Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of the 
 parties, 
 
 Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep and 
 in cattle. 335 
 
 Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well were 
 completed, 
 
 And the great seal of the law was set like a sun on 
 the margin. 
 
 Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw on the 
 table 
 
 Three times the old man's fee in solid pieces of sil 
 ver; 
 
 And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and 
 bridegroom, MO 
 
 Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their 
 welfare. 
 
 Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed and 
 departed, 
 
 While in silence the others sat and mused by the fire 
 side,
 
 #96 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of its 
 
 corner. 
 Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention 
 
 the old men MS 
 
 Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful manosuvre, 
 Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach was 
 
 made in the king-row. 
 Jleanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a window's 
 
 embrasure, 
 Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding the 
 
 moon rise 
 
 Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the mead 
 ows. 50 
 Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, 
 Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the 
 
 angels. 
 
 Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell from 
 
 the belfry 
 Bang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and 
 
 straightway 
 Rose the guests and departed ; and silence reigned in 
 
 the household. 
 
 344. The word draughts is derived from the circumstance of 
 drawing the men from one square to another. 
 
 354. Curfew is a corruption of couvre-feu, or cover fire. In 
 the Middle Ages, when police patrol at night was almost un 
 known, it was attempted to lessen the chances of crime by mak 
 ing it an offence against the laws to be found in the streets in 
 the night, and the curfew bell was tolled, at various hours, ac 
 cording to the custom of the place, from seven to nine o'clock in 
 the evening. It warned honest people to lock their doors, cover 
 their fires, and go to bed. The custom still lingers in many 
 places, even in America, of ringing a bell at nine o'clock in the 
 evening.
 
 EVANGELINE. 897 
 
 Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on the 
 door-step 
 
 Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it w"*th 
 gladness. 
 
 Carefully then were covered the embers that glowed 
 on the hearth-stone, 
 
 And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of the 
 farmer. 
 
 Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangel ine fol 
 lowed. S80 
 
 Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the dark 
 ness, 
 
 Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of the 
 maiden. 
 
 Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the 
 door of her chamber. 
 
 Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of white, 
 and its clothes-press 
 
 Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were care 
 fully folded 865 
 
 Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evangeline 
 woven. 
 
 This was the precious dower she would bring to her 
 husband in marriage, 
 
 Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her skiU 
 as a housewife. 
 
 Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow and 
 radiant moonlight 
 
 Streamed through the windows, and lighted the room, 
 till the heart of the maiden 370 
 
 Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous tide 
 of the ocean. 
 
 Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as sb' 
 stood with
 
 898 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of he* 
 
 chamber ! 
 Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of the 
 
 orchard, 
 Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of her 
 
 lamp and her shadow. ns 
 
 Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feeling 
 
 of sadness 
 Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in 
 
 the moonlight 
 Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a 
 
 moment. 
 And, as she gazed from the window, she saw serenely 
 
 the moon pass 
 Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow 
 
 her footsteps, wo 
 
 As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered 
 
 with Hagar. 
 
 W. 
 
 Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the village 
 
 of Grand-Pre*. 
 Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin of 
 
 Minas, 
 Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, were 
 
 riding at anchor. 
 Life had long been astir in the village, and clamorous 
 
 labor sss 
 
 Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates 
 
 of the morning. 
 Now from the country around, from the farms and 
 
 neighboring hamlets, 
 Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian 
 
 peasants.
 
 EVANGELINE. 899 
 
 Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from the 
 young folk 
 
 Made the bright air brighter, as up from the numer 
 ous meadows, m 
 
 Where no path could be seen but the track of wheels 
 in the greensward, 
 
 Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed on 
 the highway. 
 
 Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor were 
 silenced. 
 
 Thronged were the streets with people; and noisy 
 groups at the house-doors 
 
 Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped to 
 gether. 395 
 
 Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and 
 feasted ; 
 
 For with this simple people, who lived like brothers 
 together, 
 
 All things were held in common, and what one had 
 was another's. 
 
 Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more 
 abundant : 
 
 396. "Real misery was wholly unknown, and benevolence 
 anticipated the demands of poverty. Every misfortune was re 
 lieved as it were before it could be felt, without ostentation on 
 the one hand, and without meanness on the other. It was, in 
 short, a society of brethren, every individual of which was 
 equally ready to give and to receive what he thought the com 
 mon right of mankind." From the Abbe" Raynal's account oi 
 the Acadians. The Abbe" Guillaume Thomas Francis Raynal 
 was a French writer (1711-1796), who published A Philosophi 
 cal History of the Settlements and Trade of the Europeans in the 
 East and West Indies, in which he included also some account of 
 Canada and Nova Scotia. His picture of life among the Aca 
 dians, somewhat highly colored, is the source from which after 
 writers have drawn their knowledge of Acadian manners.
 
 400 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 For Evangeline stood among the guests of her 
 father ; 400 
 
 Bright was her face with smiles, and words of wel 
 come and gladness 
 
 Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup as 
 she gave it. 
 
 Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the 
 orchard, 
 
 Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of be 
 trothal. 
 
 There in the shade of the porch were the priest and 
 the notary seated; 405 
 
 There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the black 
 smith. 
 
 Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press and 
 the beehives, 
 
 Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of 
 hearts and of waistcoats. 
 
 Shadow and light from the leaves alternately played 
 on his snow-white 
 
 Hair, as it waved in the wind ; and the jolly face of 
 the fiddler 410 
 
 Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown 
 from the embers. 
 
 Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of his 
 fiddle, 
 
 Tons les Bourgeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de 
 Dunkerque, 
 
 413. Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres was a song written by 
 Ducauroi, maltre de chapette of Henri IV., the words of which 
 are: 
 
 Vous cotmaissez Cybele, 
 Qui eut fixer le Temps ; 
 On la diaait fort belle, 
 Mgme dans ae> vieux ana.
 
 EVANGELINE. 401 
 
 And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the 
 
 music. 
 Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzying 
 
 dances <is 
 
 Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the 
 
 meadows ; 
 Old folk and young together, and children mingled 
 
 among them. 
 Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Benedict's 
 
 daughter ! 
 Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the 
 
 blacksmith ! 
 
 So passed the morning away. And lo ! with a sum 
 mons sonorous 420 
 
 Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the mead 
 ows a drum beat. 
 
 Thronged ere long was the church with men. With 
 out, in the churchyard, 
 
 Cette divinit, quoique deja grand' mere 
 Avait lea yeux douz, le teint fraia, 
 Avait indue certains attraita 
 Fermes comme la Terre. 
 
 Le Carillon de Dunkerque was a popular song to a tune played 
 on the Dunkirk chimes. The words are : 
 Imprudent, te'me'raire 
 A 1'instant, je 1'espere 
 Dans mon juate courrouz, 
 Tu vaa tomber sous rues coups 1 
 Je brave ta menace. 
 Btre moi ! quelle audace t 
 Avance done, poltron I 
 Tu trembles ? non, non, non. 
 J'etouffe de colere ! 
 Je ris de ta colere. 
 
 The music to which the old man sang these songs will be fonnfc 
 in La Cle du Caveau, by Pierre Capelle, Nos. 564 and 739. 
 Paris : A. Cotelle,
 
 402 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Waited the women. They stood by the graves, and 
 
 hung on the headstones 
 Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh from 
 
 the forest. 
 Then came the guard from the ships, and marching 
 
 proudly among them 42s 
 
 Entered the sacred portal. With loud and dissonant 
 
 clangor 
 Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceiling 
 
 and casement, 
 
 Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous por 
 tal 
 Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will of 
 
 the soldiers. 
 Then uprose their commander, and spake from the 
 
 steps of the altar, 430 
 
 Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the royal 
 
 commission. 
 
 " You are convened this day," he said, " by his Maj 
 esty's orders. 
 Clement and kind has he been ; but how you have 
 
 answered his kindness 
 Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make and 
 
 my temper 
 Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must 
 
 be grievous. 435 
 
 Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of our 
 
 monarch : 
 Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and cattle 
 
 of all kinds 
 Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you yourselves 
 
 from this province 
 
 432. Colonel Winslow has preserved in his Diary the speech 
 which he delivered to the assembled Acadians, and it is copied 
 by Halibui ton in his History of Nova Scotia, i. 166, 167.
 
 EVANGELINE. 403 
 
 Be transported to other lands. God grant you may 
 
 dwell there 
 
 Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable peo 
 ple ! 440 
 Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majesty's 
 
 pleasure ! " 
 As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of 
 
 summer, 
 Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of the 
 
 hailstones 
 Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and shatters 
 
 his windows, 
 Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with thatch 
 
 from the house-roofs, 445 
 
 Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their en 
 closures ; 
 So on the hearts of the people descended the words of 
 
 the speaker. 
 Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, and 
 
 then rose 
 
 Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and anger, 
 And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to the 
 
 door-way. 450 
 
 Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce 
 
 imprecations 
 Rang through the house of prayer ; and high o'er the 
 
 heads of the others 
 Rose, with his arms uplifted, the figure of Basil the 
 
 blacksmith, 
 
 As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the billows. 
 Flushed was his face and distorted with passion ; and 
 
 wildly he shouted, 455 
 
 " Down with the tyrants of England I we never have 
 
 sworn them allegiance !
 
 404 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on om 
 
 homes and our harvests ! " 
 More he fain would have said, but the merciless hand 
 
 of a soldier 
 Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him down t 
 
 the pavement. 
 
 In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry con 
 tention, 460 
 Lo I the door of the chancel opened, and Father Feli- 
 
 cian 
 Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the steps of 
 
 the altar. 
 Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he awed 
 
 into silence 
 All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to his 
 
 people ; 
 Deep were his tones and solemn ; in accents measured 
 
 and mournful 465 
 
 Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly the 
 
 clock strikes. 
 " What is this that ye do, my children ? what madness 
 
 has seized you ? 
 Forty years of my life have I labored among you, and 
 
 taught you, 
 
 Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one another ! 
 Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and prayers 
 
 and privations ? o 
 
 Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and 
 
 forgiveness ? 
 This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and woult 
 
 you profane it 
 Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing with 
 
 hatred?
 
 EVANGELINE. 405 
 
 Ix>t where the crucified Christ from His cross is ga&- 
 
 ing upon you ! 
 >ee ! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and holy 
 
 compassion I 475 
 
 lark 1 how those lips still repeat the prayer, * O 
 
 Father, forgive them I ' 
 Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the wicked 
 
 assail us, 
 Let us repeat it now, and say, * O Father, forgive 
 
 them!'" 
 Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the hearts 
 
 of his people 
 
 Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the pas 
 sionate outbreak, 4so 
 While they repeated his prayer, and said, " O Father, 
 
 forgive them I " 
 
 Then came the evening service. The tapers gleamed 
 
 from the altar ; 
 Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and the 
 
 people responded, 
 Not with their lips alone, but their hearts; and the 
 
 Ave Maria 
 Sang they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, 
 
 with devotion translated, 5 
 
 Rose on the ardor of prayer, like Elijah ascending to 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings of 
 
 ill, and on all sides 
 Wandered, wailing, from house to house the women 
 
 and children. 
 Long at her father's door Evangeline stood, with her 
 
 right hand
 
 406 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, 
 
 that, descending, 490 
 
 Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, 
 
 and roofed each 
 Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and emblazoned 
 
 its windows. 
 iLong within had been spread the snow-white cloth on 
 
 the table ; 
 There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fragrant 
 
 with wild flowers ; 
 There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese fresh 
 
 brought from the dairy ; 495 
 
 And at the head of the board the great arm-chair of 
 
 the farmer. 
 Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as the 
 
 sunset 
 Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad am- 
 
 brosial meadows. 
 
 Ah I on her spirit within a deeper shadow had fallen, 
 And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celestial 
 
 ascended, sw 
 
 Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgiveness, 
 
 and patience I 
 
 Then, all forgetful of self, she wandered into the vil 
 lage, 
 Cheering with looks and words the mournful hearts of 
 
 the women, 
 As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps they 
 
 departed, 
 Urged by their household cares, and the weary feet of 
 
 their children. sos 
 
 492. To emblazon is literally to adorn anything with ensigns 
 armorial. It was often the custom to work these ensigns into 
 the design of painted windows.
 
 EVANGELINE. 407 
 
 Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, glimmer 
 ing vapors 
 
 Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet descend 
 ing from Sinai. 
 
 Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelas 
 sounded. 
 
 Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church Evange- 
 
 line lingered. 
 All was silent within ; and in vain at the door and the 
 
 windows ao 
 
 Stood she, and listened and looked, until, overcome by 
 
 emotion, 
 " Gabriel ! " cried she aloud with tremulous voice ; 
 
 but no answer 
 Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloomier 
 
 grave of the living. 
 Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless house 
 
 of her father. 
 Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board was 
 
 the supper untasted. sis 
 
 Empty and drear was each room, and haunted with 
 
 phantoms of terror. 
 Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of her 
 
 chamber. 
 In the dead of the night she heard the disconsolate 
 
 rain fall 
 Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree by 
 
 the window. 
 Keenly the lightning flashed ; and the voice of the 
 
 echoing thunder sat 
 
 Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the 
 
 world He created!
 
 408 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Then she remembered the tale she had heard of the 
 
 justice of Heaven ; 
 Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully 
 
 slumbered till morning. 
 
 v. 
 
 Four times the sun had risen and set ; and now on 
 the fifth day 
 
 Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the 
 farm-house. 525 
 
 Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful pro 
 cession, 
 
 Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the 
 Acadian women, 
 
 Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to 
 the sea-shore, 
 
 Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their 
 dwellings, 
 
 Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and 
 the woodland. 530 
 
 Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on 
 the oxen, 
 
 While in their little hands they clasped some frag 
 ments of playthings. 
 
 Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and 
 
 there on the sea-beach 
 Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the 
 
 peasants. 
 All day long between the shore and the ships did the 
 
 boats ply ; s 
 
 All day long the wains came laboring down from the 
 
 Tillage. 
 Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to hia 
 
 setting,
 
 EVANGELINE. 409 
 
 Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from 
 the churchyard. 
 
 Thither the women and children thronged. On a sud 
 den the church-doors 
 
 Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching in 
 gloomy procession MO 
 
 Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian 
 farmers. 
 
 Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes 
 and their country, 
 
 Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary 
 and wayworn, 
 
 So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants de- 
 scended 
 
 Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives 
 and their daughters. MS 
 
 Foremost the young men came ; and, raising together 
 their voices, 
 
 Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic 
 Missions : 
 
 " Sacred heart of the Saviour ! O inexhaustible foun 
 tain! 
 
 Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission 
 and patience ! " 
 
 Then the old men, as they marched, and the women 
 that stood by the wayside e 
 
 Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sun 
 shine above them 
 
 Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits 
 departed. 
 
 Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in 
 
 silence, 
 
 Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of 
 affliction,
 
 410 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession ap 
 proached her, 5a 
 
 And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with emotion. 
 
 Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running to 
 meet him, 
 
 Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his 
 shoulder, and whispered, 
 
 "Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we love one 
 another 
 
 Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mischances 
 may happen ! " seo 
 
 Smiling she spake these words ; then suddenly paused, 
 for her father 
 
 Saw she, slowly advancing. Alas ! how changed was 
 his aspect ! 
 
 Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire from 
 his eye, and his footstep 
 
 Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy heart 
 in his bosom. 
 
 But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck and 
 embraced him, sas 
 
 Speaking words of endearment where words of com 
 fort availed not. 
 
 Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mourn 
 ful procession. 
 
 There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of 
 
 embarking. 
 
 Busily plied the freighted boats ; and in the confusion 
 Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, 
 
 too late, saw their children 570 
 
 Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest 
 
 entreaties. 
 So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried.
 
 EVANOELINE. 411 
 
 While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with 
 
 her father. 
 Half the task was not done when the sun went down, 
 
 and the twilight 
 Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the 
 
 refluent ocean 975 
 
 Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the 
 
 sand-beach 
 Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slip- 
 
 pery sea-weed. 
 Farther back in the midst of the household goods and 
 
 the wagons, 
 
 Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 
 All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near 
 
 them, DM 
 
 Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian 
 
 farmers. \<'- 
 
 Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing 
 
 ocean, 
 Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and 
 
 leaving 
 Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the 
 
 sailors. 
 Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from 
 
 their pastures ; s 
 
 Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk 
 
 from their udders ; 
 Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars 
 
 of the farm-yard, 
 Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand 
 
 of the milkmaid. 
 Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no 
 
 Angelus sounded, 
 Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights 
 
 from the windows. ON
 
 412 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had 
 
 been kindled, 
 Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from 
 
 wrecks in the tempest. 
 "Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were 
 
 gathered, 
 Toices of women were heard, and of men, and the 
 
 crying of children. 
 Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in 
 
 his parish, sw> 
 
 Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing 
 
 and cheering, 
 
 Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea 
 shore. 
 Thus he approached the place where Evangeline sat 
 
 with her father, 
 And in the flickering light beheld the face of the old 
 
 man, 
 Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either 
 
 thought or emotion, MO 
 
 E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands have 
 
 been taken. 
 Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses to 
 
 cheer him, 
 Vainly offered him food ; yet he moved not, he looked 
 
 not, he spake not, 
 But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering 
 
 fire-light. 
 
 " Benedicite ! " murmured the priest, in tones of com 
 passion. 60S 
 More he fain would have said, but his heart was full, 
 
 and his accents 
 Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child 
 
 on a threshold.
 
 EVANOELINE. 413 
 
 Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful pres 
 ence of sorrow. 
 
 Silently, therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the 
 maiden, 
 
 Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that above 
 them BIO 
 
 Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs and 
 sorrows of mortals. 
 
 Then sat he down at her side, and they wept together 
 in silence. 
 
 Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn 
 
 the blood-red 
 Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the 
 
 horizon 
 Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mountain 
 
 and meadow, MS 
 
 Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge 
 
 shadows together. 
 Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of 
 
 the village, 
 Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships that 
 
 lay in the roadstead. 
 Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of 
 
 flame were 
 Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the 
 
 quivering hands of a martyr. ew 
 
 615. The Titans were giant deities in Greek mythology who 
 attempted to deprive Saturn of the sovereignty of heaven, and 
 were driven down into Tartarus by Jupiter, the son of Saturn, 
 who hurled thunderbolts at them. Briareus, the hundred- handed 
 giant, was in mythology of the same parentage as the Titans, 
 but was not classed with them.
 
 414 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning 
 thatch, and, uplifting, 
 
 Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a 
 hundred house-tops 
 
 Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame inter 
 mingled. 
 
 These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the 
 shore and on shipboard. 
 
 Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their 
 anguish, 625 
 
 " We shall behold no more our homes in the village of 
 Grand-Pre ! " 
 
 Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm 
 yards, 
 
 Thinking the day had dawned ; and anon the lowing 
 of cattle 
 
 Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs 
 interrupted. 
 
 Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleep 
 ing encampments eso 
 
 Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the 
 Nebraska, 
 
 When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the 
 speed of the whirlwind, 
 
 621. Gleeds. Hot, burning coals ; a Chaucerian word : 
 
 "And wafres piping hoot out of the gleede." 
 
 Canterbury Tale*, 1. 3379. 
 
 The burning of the houses was in accordance with the instruc 
 tions of the Governor to Colonel Winslow, in case he should fail 
 in collecting all the inhabitants : " You must proceed by the most 
 vigorous measures possible, not only in compelling them to em 
 bark, but in depriving those who shall escape of all means of 
 shelter or support, by burning their houses and by destroying 
 everything that may afford them the means of subsistence in the 
 oantry."
 
 EVANGELINE. 415 
 
 Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the 
 
 river. 
 Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the 
 
 herds and the horses 
 Broke through their folds and fences, and madly 
 
 rushed o'er the meadows. s 
 
 Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, the 
 priest and the maiden 
 
 Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and 
 widened before them ; 
 
 And as they turned at length to speak to their silent 
 companion, 
 
 Lo 2 from his seat he had fallen, and stretched abroad 
 on the seashore 
 
 Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had de 
 parted. 
 
 Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and the 
 maiden 
 
 Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in her 
 terror. 
 
 Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head on 
 his bosom. 
 
 Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious 
 slumber ; 
 
 And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a 
 multitude near her. e 
 
 Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully gaz 
 ing upon her, 
 
 Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest com 
 passion. 
 
 Still the blaze of the burning village illumined the 
 landscape,
 
 416 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the faces 
 
 around her, 
 And like the day of doom it seemed to her wavering 
 
 senses. KM 
 
 Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the peo 
 ple, 
 " Let us bury him here by the sea. When a happier 
 
 season 
 Brings us again to our homes from the unknown land 
 
 of our exile, 
 Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the 
 
 churchyard." 
 Such were the words of the priest. And there in 
 
 haste by the sea-side, ess 
 
 Having the glare of the burning village for funeral 
 
 torches, 
 But without bell or book, they buried the farmer of 
 
 Grand-Pre. 
 And as the voice of the priest repeated the service of 
 
 sorrow, 
 Lo ! with a mournful sound like the voice of a vast 
 
 congregation, 
 Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with 
 
 the dirges. eeo 
 
 'T was the returning tide, that afar from the waste of 
 
 the ocean, 
 
 With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hur 
 rying landward. 
 Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of 
 
 embarking ; 
 
 667. The bell was tolled to mark the passage of the soul into 
 the other world ; the book was the service book. The phrase 
 " bell, book, or candle " was used in referring to excommunica 
 tion.
 
 EVANGELINE. 417 
 
 And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of 
 
 the harbor, 
 Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the 
 
 village in ruins. MS 
 
 PAKT THE SECOND. 
 
 I. 
 
 MANY a weary year had passed since the burning of 
 
 Grand-Pre, 
 
 When on the falling tide the freighted vessels de 
 parted, 
 Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into 
 
 exile, 
 Exile without an end, and without an example in 
 
 story. 
 Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians 
 
 landed ; ero 
 
 Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when the 
 
 wind from the northeast 
 Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the Banks 
 
 of Newfoundland. 
 Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered from 
 
 city to city, 
 From the cold lakes of the North to sultry Southern 
 
 savannas, 
 From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands where 
 
 the Father of Waters ers 
 
 Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them down to 
 
 the ocean, 
 Deep in their sands to bury the scattered bones of the 
 
 mammoth. 
 677. Bones of the mastodon, or mammoth, have been found
 
 418 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Friends they sought and homes ; and many, despairing, 
 heart-broken, 
 
 Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a friend 
 nor a fireside. 
 
 Written their history stands on tablets of stone in the 
 churchyards. eat 
 
 Long among them was seen a maiden who waited and 
 wandered, 
 
 Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering all 
 things. 
 
 Fair was she and young ; but, alas ! before her ex 
 tended, 
 
 Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with its 
 pathway 
 
 Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed and 
 suffered before her, sss 
 
 Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead and 
 abandoned, 
 
 As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is 
 marked by 
 
 Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach in 
 the sunshine. 
 
 Something there was in her life incomplete, imperfect, 
 unfinished ; 
 
 As if a morning of June, with all its music and sun 
 shine, 690 
 
 Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly de 
 scended 
 
 Into the east again, from whence it late had arisen. 
 
 Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by the 
 fever within her, 
 
 scattered all over the territory of the United States and Canada, 
 but the greatest number have been collected in the Salt Licks of 
 Kentucky, and in the States of Ohio, Mississippi, Missouri, and 
 
 Ala.hfl.Tnn.-
 
 EVANQELINE. 419 
 
 Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst of 
 the spirit, 
 
 She would commence again her endless search and en 
 deavor ; 695 
 
 Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on the 
 crosses and tombstones, 
 
 Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that perhaps 
 in its bosom 
 
 He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber be 
 side him. 
 
 Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whis 
 per, ^ 
 
 Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her for 
 ward. 700 
 
 Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her be 
 loved and known him, 
 
 But it was long ago, in some far-off place or forgot 
 ten. 
 
 " Gabriel Lajeunesse I " they said ; " Oh, yes I we have 
 seen him. 
 
 He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have gone 
 to the prairies ; 
 
 Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters and 
 trappers.'* T 
 
 699. Observe the diminution in this line, by which one is led 
 to the airy hand in the next. 
 
 705. The coureurs-des-bois formed a class of men, very early in 
 Canadian history, produced by the exigencies of the fur-trade. 
 They were French by birth, but by long affiliation with the In 
 dians and adoption of their customs had become half-civilized 
 vagrants, whose chief vocation was conducting the canoes of the 
 traders along the lakes and rivers of the interior. Bushrangers 
 is the English equivalent. They played an important part in the 
 Indian wars, but were nearly as lawless as the Indians them 
 selves. The reader will find them frequently referred to in
 
 420 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said others ; " Oh, yes 1 we 
 
 have seen him. 
 
 He is a voyageur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 
 Then would they say, " Dear child ! why dream an<? 
 
 wait for him longer ? 
 
 Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? others 
 Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits as 
 
 loyal ? TIG 
 
 Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who has 
 
 loved thee 
 Many a tedious year ; come, give him thy hand and be 
 
 happy! 
 Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's 
 
 tresses." 
 Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but sadly, 
 
 " I cannot ! 
 Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, 
 
 and not elsewhere. 715 
 
 For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and 
 
 illumines the pathway, 
 Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in 
 
 darkness." 
 
 Thereupon the priest, her friend and father confessor, 
 Said, with a smile, "O daughter! thy God thus 
 
 speaketh within thee ! 
 Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was 
 
 wasted ; wo 
 
 Farkman's histories, especially in The Conspiracy of Pontiac, 
 The Discovery of the Great West, and Frontenac and New France 
 under Louis XIV. 
 
 707. A voyageur is a river boatman, and is a term applied 
 usually to Canadians. 
 
 713. St. Catherine of Alexandria and St. Catherine of Siena 
 were both celebrated fbr their vows of virginity. Hence the say 
 ing to braid St. Catherine's tresses, of one devoted to a single life.
 
 EVANGELINE. 421 
 
 If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, re 
 turning 
 
 Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full 
 of refreshment ; 
 
 That which the fountain sends forth returns again to 
 the fountain. 
 
 Patience ; accomplish thy labor ; accomplish thy work 
 of affection ! 
 
 Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance 
 is godlike. 725 
 
 Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart 
 is made godlike, 
 
 Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more 
 worthy of heaven ! " 
 
 Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline labored 
 and waited. 
 
 Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of the 
 ocean, 
 
 But with its sound there was mingled a voice that 
 whispered, " Despair not ! " 730 
 
 Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheer 
 less discomfort, 
 
 Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns of 
 existence. 
 
 Let me essay, O Muse ! to follow the wanderer's foot 
 steps ; 
 
 Not through each devious path, each changeful year 
 of existence ; 
 
 But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course through 
 the valley : 735 
 
 Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam of 
 its water 
 
 Here and there, in some open space, and at intervals 
 only;
 
 422 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan glooms 
 
 that conceal it, 
 Though he behold it not, he can hear its continuous 
 
 murmur; 
 Happy, at length, if he find a spot where it reaches 
 
 an outlet 741 
 
 n. 
 
 It was the month of May. Far down the Beautiful 
 River, 
 
 Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the Wa- 
 bash, 
 
 Into the golden stream of the broad and swift Mis 
 sissippi, 
 
 Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Acadian 
 boatmen. 
 
 It was a band of exiles : a raft, as it were, from the 
 shipwrecked 74* 
 
 Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating to 
 gether, 
 
 Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a com 
 mon misfortune ; 
 
 Men and women and children, who, guided by hope 
 or by hearsay, 
 
 Sought for their kith and their kin among the few- 
 acred farmers 
 
 On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair Ope- 
 lousas. o 
 
 741. The Iroquois gave to this river the name of Ohio, or the 
 Beautiful River, and La Salle, who was the first European to 
 discover it, preserved the name, so that it was transferred to 
 maps very early. 
 
 750. Between the 1st of January ind the 13th of May, 1766, 
 about six hundred and fifty Acadiaus had arrived at New Or-
 
 EVANGELINE. 423 
 
 With them Evangeline went, and her guide, the 
 Father Felician. 
 
 Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness 
 sombre with forests, 
 
 Day after day they glided adown the turbulent river ; 
 
 Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped on 
 its borders. 
 
 Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, 
 where plumelike 755 
 
 Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they swept 
 with the current, 
 
 Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery sand 
 bars 
 
 Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves of 
 their margin, 
 
 Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of pel 
 icans waded. 
 
 Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of the 
 river, TOT 
 
 Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant gar 
 dens, 
 
 Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins and 
 dove-cots. 
 
 They were approaching the region where reigns per 
 petual summer, 
 
 leans. Louisiana had been ceded by France to Spain in 1762, 
 but did not really pass under the control of the Spanish until 
 1769. The existence of a French population attracted the wan 
 dering Acadians, and they were sent by the authorities to form 
 settlements in Attakapas and Opelousas. They afterward formed 
 settlements on both sides of the Mississippi from the German 
 Coast up to Baton Rouge, and even as high as Pointe Coupe"e. 
 Hence the name of Acadian Coast, which a portion of the banks 
 of the river still bears. See Gayarre"s History of Louisiana : 
 The French Dominion, vol. ii.
 
 424 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of 
 orange and citron, 
 
 Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the east 
 ward. 76i 
 
 They, too, swerved from their course ; and, entering 
 the Bayou of Plaquemine, 
 
 Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious 
 waters, 
 
 Which, like a network of steel, extended in every 
 direction. 
 
 Over their heads the towering and tenebrous boughs 
 of the cypress 
 
 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid 
 air TTO 
 
 Waved like banners that hang on the walls of ancient 
 cathedrals. 
 
 Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save by 
 the herons 
 
 Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning at 
 sunset, 
 
 Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with demoniac 
 laughter. 
 
 Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed 
 on the water, 775 
 
 Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sustain 
 ing the arches, 
 
 Down through whose broken vaults it fell as through 
 chinks in a ruin. 
 
 Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things 
 around them ; 
 
 And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of wonder 
 and sadness, 
 
 Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot be 
 compassed. no
 
 EVANGELINE. 425 
 
 As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of the 
 
 prairies, 
 Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking: 
 
 O 
 
 mimosa, 
 So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of 
 
 evil, 
 Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom 
 
 has attained it. 
 But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, that 
 
 faintly TW 
 
 Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on through 
 
 the moonlight. 
 It was the thought of her brain that assumed the 
 
 shape of a phantom. 
 Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wandered 
 
 before her, 
 And every stroke of the oar now brought him nearer 
 
 and nearer. 
 
 Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose one 
 
 of the oarsmen, 799 
 
 And, as a signal sound, if others like them peradven- 
 
 ture 
 Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew a 
 
 blast on his bugle. 
 Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors leafy 
 
 the blast rang, 
 Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to the 
 
 forest. 
 Soundless above them the banners of moss just stirred 
 
 to the music. 795 
 
 Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the distance, 
 Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverberant 
 
 branches ;
 
 426 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the 
 
 darkness ; 
 And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain 
 
 was the silence. 
 Then Evangeline slept ; but the boatmen rowed 
 
 through the midnight, soo 
 
 Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian boat- 
 songs, 
 
 Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian rivers, 
 While through the night were heard the mysterious 
 
 sounds of the desert, 
 Far off, indistinct, as of wave or wind in the 
 
 forest, 
 Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar of 
 
 the grim alligator. a 
 
 Thus ere another noon they emerged from the 
 shades ; and before them 
 
 Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atchaf alaya. 
 
 Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight undula 
 tions 
 
 Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in beauty, 
 the lotus 
 
 Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the boat 
 men. 8H 
 
 Faint was the air with the odorous breath of magno 
 lia blossoms, 
 
 And with the heat of noon ; and numberless sylvan 
 islands, 
 
 Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming 
 hedges of roses, 
 
 Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to 
 slumber. 
 
 Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were sus 
 pended. *
 
 EVANGELINE. 427 
 
 Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew by 
 the margin, 
 
 Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about on 
 the greensward, 
 
 Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travell' 
 slumbered. 
 
 Over them vast and high extended the cope of a 
 cedar. 
 
 Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower and 
 the grapevine 820 
 
 Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of 
 Jacob, 
 
 On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, de 
 scending, 
 
 Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from blos 
 som to blossom. 
 
 Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slumbered 
 beneath it. 
 
 Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of an 
 opening heaven sas 
 
 Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions 
 celestial. 
 
 Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless islands, 
 Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the 
 
 water, 
 Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters 
 
 and trappers. 
 Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the 
 
 bison and beaver. wo 
 
 At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thoughtfu 7 
 
 and careworn. 
 Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, and 
 
 a sadness
 
 428 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legibly 
 written. 
 
 Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy and 
 restless, 
 
 Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and of 
 sorrow. sx 
 
 Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of the 
 island, 
 
 But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of pal 
 mettos ; 
 
 So that they saw not the boat, where it lay concealed 
 in the willows ; 
 
 All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and unseen, 
 were the sleepers ; 
 
 Angel of God was there none to awaken the slumber 
 ing maiden. MO 
 
 Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud on 
 the prairie. 
 
 After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died 
 in the distance, 
 
 As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and the 
 maiden 
 
 Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, " O Father 
 Felician I 
 
 Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel 
 wanders. MS 
 
 Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague superstition ? 
 
 Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to my 
 spirit ? " 
 
 Then, with a blush, she added, "Alas for my credu 
 lous fancy ! 
 
 Unto ears like thine such words as these have no 
 meaning." 
 
 But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled as 
 he answered,
 
 EVANGELINE. 429 
 
 " Daughter, thy words are not idle ; nor are they to 
 
 me without meaning, 
 Feeling is deep and still ; and the word that floats on 
 
 the surface 
 Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the anchor 
 
 is hidden. 
 Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world 
 
 calls illusions. 
 Gabriel truly is near thee ; for not far away to the 
 
 southward, & 
 
 On the banks of the Teche, are the towns of St. Maur 
 
 and St. Martin. 
 There the long-wandering bride shall be given again 
 
 to her bridegroom, 
 There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and his 
 
 sheepfold. 
 Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests of 
 
 fruit-trees ; 
 Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest of 
 
 heavens see 
 
 Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls of 
 
 the forest. 
 They who dwell there have named it the Eden of 
 
 Louisiana.'* 
 
 With these words of cheer they arose and continued 
 their journey. 
 
 Softly the evening came. The sun from the western 
 horizon 
 
 Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er the 
 landscape ; MS 
 
 Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and forest 
 
 Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and min 
 gled together.
 
 430 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of 
 silver, 
 
 Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the mo 
 tionless water. 
 
 Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible sweet 
 ness. 870 
 
 Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains of 
 feeling 
 
 Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and waters 
 around her. 
 
 Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, 
 wildest of singers, 
 
 Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er the 
 water, 
 
 Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious 
 
 music, 875 
 
 That the whole air and the woods and the waves 
 
 seemed silent to listen. 
 Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then soaring 
 
 to madness 
 Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied 
 
 Bacchantes. 
 
 Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low lam 
 entation ; 
 Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad 
 
 in derision, sso 
 
 As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the 
 
 tree-tops 
 Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on 
 
 the branches. 
 
 878. The Bacchantes were worshippers of the god Bacchus, 
 'ho in Greek mythology presided over the vine and its fruits, 
 i'hey gave themselves up to all manner of excess, and their 
 longs and dances were to wild, intoxicating measures.
 
 EVANGELINE. 431 
 
 With such a prelude as this, and hearts that throbbed 
 with emotion, 
 
 Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows through 
 the green Opelousas, 
 
 And, through the amber air, above the crest of the 
 woodland, sss 
 
 Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neighbor 
 ing dwelling ; 
 
 Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant lowing 
 of cattle. 
 
 in. 
 
 Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by oaks 
 from whose branches 
 
 Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe 
 flaunted, 
 
 Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets at 
 Yule-tide, ew 
 
 Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herdsman. 
 A garden 
 
 Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant blos 
 soms, 
 
 Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself was 
 of timbers 
 
 Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted to 
 gether. 
 
 Large and low was the roof ; and on slender columns 
 supported, sas 
 
 Rose-wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spacious 
 veranda, 
 
 Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended 
 around it. 
 
 A.t each end of the house, amid the flowers of the 
 garden,
 
 432 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual gym. 
 bol, 
 
 Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions of 
 rivals. 900 
 
 Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow 
 and sunshine 
 
 Ran near the tops of the trees ; but the house itself 
 was in shadow, 
 
 And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly ex 
 panding 
 
 Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke 
 rose. 
 
 In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, ran a 
 pathway aos 
 
 Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of the 
 limitless prairie, 
 
 Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly descend 
 ing. 
 
 Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy 
 canvas 
 
 Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless calm 
 in the tropics, 
 
 Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of 
 grapevines. 910 
 
 Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf of 
 
 the prairie, 
 Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and 
 
 stirrups, 
 Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of 
 
 deerskin. 
 Broad and brown was the face that from under the 
 
 Spanish sombrero 
 Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look of 
 
 its master. sis
 
 EVANGELINE. 433 
 
 Round about him were numberless herds of kine that 
 were grazing 
 
 Quietly in the meadows, and breathing the vapory 
 freshness 
 
 That uprose from the river, and spread itself over the 
 landscape. 
 
 Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and ex 
 panding 
 
 Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that re 
 sounded 920 
 
 Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp air 
 of the evening. 
 
 Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of the 
 cattle 
 
 Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of 
 ocean. 
 
 Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed 
 o'er the prairie, 
 
 And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in the 
 distance. MS 
 
 Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, through 
 the gate of the garden 
 
 Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden ad 
 vancing to meet him. 
 
 Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amaze 
 ment, and forward 
 
 Pushed with extended arms and exclamations of won 
 der; 
 
 When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil the 
 blacksmith. wo 
 
 Hearty his welcome was, as he led his guests to the 
 garden. 
 
 There in an arbor of roses with endless question and 
 answer
 
 434 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed thei? 
 
 friendly embraces, 
 Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting silent and 
 
 thoughtful. 
 Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark 
 
 doubts and misgivings 935 
 
 Stole o'er the maiden's heart ; and Basil, somewhat 
 
 embarrassed, 
 Broke the silence and said, "If you came by the 
 
 Atchafalaya, 
 How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's 
 
 boat on the bayous ? " 
 Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a shade 
 
 passed. 
 
 Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a trem 
 ulous accent, 940 
 " Gone ? is Gabriel gone ? " and, concealing her face 
 
 on his shoulder, 
 All her o'erburdeued heart gave way, and she wept 
 
 and lamented. 
 Then the good Basil said, and his voice grew blithe 
 
 as he said it, 
 " Be of good cheer, my child ; it is only to-day he 
 
 departed. 
 Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds and 
 
 my horses. 945 
 
 Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, his 
 
 spirit 
 
 Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet exis 
 tence. 
 
 Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful ever, 
 Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troubles, 
 He at length had become so tedious to men and to 
 
 maidens, MO
 
 EVANGELINE, 435 
 
 Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought me, and 
 
 sent him 
 ^Tnto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with the 
 
 Spaniards. 
 *hence he will follow the Indian trails to the Ozark 
 
 Mountains, 
 Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping the 
 
 beaver. 
 
 Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the fugi 
 tive lover ; 955 
 He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the 
 
 streams are against him. 
 Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew of 
 
 the morning, 
 We will follow him fast, and bring him back to his 
 
 prison." 
 
 Then glad voices were heard, and up from the 
 
 banks of the river, 
 Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Michael the 
 
 fiddler. * 
 
 Long under Basil's roof had he lived, like a god on 
 
 Olympus, 
 
 Having no other care than dispensing music to mor 
 tals. 
 Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his 
 
 fiddle. 
 " Long live Michael," they cried, " our brave Acadian 
 
 minstrel ! " 
 As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; and 
 
 straightway 9 
 
 Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greeting 
 
 the old man 
 Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, 
 
 enraptured,
 
 436 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and gos 
 sips, 
 
 Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers and 
 daughters. 
 
 Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the ci-devant 
 blacksmith, 970 
 
 All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal 
 demeanor ; 
 
 Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil and 
 the climate, 
 
 And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were his 
 who would take them ; 
 
 Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would go 
 and do likewise. 
 
 Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the breezy 
 veranda, 975 
 
 Entered the hall of the house, where already the sup 
 per of Basil 
 
 Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted 
 together. 
 
 Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness de 
 scended. 
 All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape 
 
 with silver, 
 Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; but 
 
 within doors, sso 
 
 Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in the 
 
 glimmering lamplight. 
 Then from his station aloft, at the head of the table, 
 
 the herdsman 
 Poured forth his heart and his wine together in endless 
 
 profusion. 
 Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Natchi- 
 
 toches tobacco,
 
 EVANGELINE. 437 
 
 Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and smiled 
 
 as they listened : MS 
 
 " Welcome once more, my friends, who long have been 
 
 friendless and homeless, 
 
 Welcome once more to a home, that is better per 
 chance than the old one I 
 Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like the 
 
 rivers ; 
 Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the 
 
 farmer ; 
 Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, as a 
 
 keel through the water. wo 
 
 All the year round the orange-groves are in blossom ; 
 
 and grass grows 
 
 More in a single night than a whole Canadian summer. 
 Here, too, numberless herds run wild and unclaimed 
 
 in the prairies ; 
 Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and 
 
 forests of timber 
 With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed 
 
 into houses. ws 
 
 After your houses are built, and your fields are yellow 
 
 with harvests, 
 No King George of England shall drive you away from 
 
 your homesteads, 
 Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing your 
 
 farms and your cattle." 
 Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud from 
 
 his nostrils, 
 While his huge, brown hand came thundering down 
 
 on the table, woo 
 
 So that the guests all started ; and Father Felician, 
 
 astounded, 
 Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way to 
 
 his nostrils.
 
 438 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were 
 milder and gayer : 
 
 '* Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware of the 
 fever ! 
 
 For it is not like that of our cold Acadian climate, loot 
 
 Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck in a 
 nutshell!" 
 
 Then there were voices heard at the door, and foot 
 steps approaching 
 
 Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the breezy 
 veranda. 
 
 It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian 
 planters, 
 
 Who had been summoned all to the house of Basil the 
 herdsman. 1010 
 
 Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and 
 neighbors : 
 
 Friend clasped friend in his arms; and they who 
 before were as strangers, 
 
 Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends to each 
 other, 
 
 Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country 
 together. 
 
 But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, pro 
 ceeding 1014 
 
 From, the accordant strings of Michael's melodious 
 fiddle, 
 
 Broke up all further speech. Away, like children 
 delighted, 
 
 All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves to 
 the maddening 
 
 Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and swayed to 
 the music, 
 
 Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of flutter 
 ing garments. UN
 
 EVANGELINE. 439 
 
 Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the priest 
 
 and the herdsman 
 Sat, conversing together of past and present and 
 
 future ; 
 While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for within 
 
 her 
 Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of the 
 
 music 
 
 Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepres 
 sible sadness ww 
 Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth into 
 
 the garden. 
 Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of 
 
 the forest, 
 Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On 
 
 the river 
 Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous 
 
 gleam of the moonlight, 
 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and 
 
 devious spirit. low 
 
 Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers 
 
 of the garden 
 Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers 
 
 and confessions 
 Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent 
 
 Carthusian. 
 
 1033. The Carthusians ate a monastio order founded in the 
 twelfth century, perhaps the most severe in its rules of all reli 
 gious societies. Almost perpetual silence is one of the vows; the 
 monks can talk together but once a week ; the labor required of 
 them is unremitting and the discipline exceedingly rigid. The 
 first monastery was established at Chartreux near Grenoble in 
 France, and the Latinized form of the name has given us the 
 word Carthusian.
 
 440 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 
 shadows and night-dews, 
 
 Hung the heart of the maiden, The calm and the 
 magical moonlight 1035 
 
 Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable long 
 ings, 
 
 As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade 
 of the oak-trees, 
 
 Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure 
 less prairie. 
 
 Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies 
 
 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite 
 numbers. IMO 
 
 Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the 
 heavens, 
 
 Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel 
 and worship, 
 
 Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of 
 that temple, 
 
 As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, 
 "Upharsin." 
 
 And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and 
 the fire-flies, IMS 
 
 Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel ! O my 
 beloved ! 
 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold 
 thee? 
 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not 
 reach me ? 
 
 Ah I how often thy feet have trod this path to the 
 prairie ! 
 
 Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood 
 lands around me ! 105* 
 
 Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor,
 
 EVANGELINE. 441 
 
 Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in 
 
 thy slumbers ! 
 When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded 
 
 about thee ? " 
 Loud and sudden and near the note of a whippoor- 
 
 will sounded 
 Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through the 
 
 neighboring thickets, io 
 
 Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into 
 
 silence. 
 
 " Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracular cav 
 erns of darkness ; 
 And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 
 
 " To-morrow ! " 
 
 Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flowers 
 of the garden 
 
 Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed 
 his tresses loeo 
 
 With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases 
 of crystal. 
 
 "Farewell!" said the priest, as he stood at the 
 shadowy threshold ; 
 
 "See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from his 
 fasting and famine, 
 
 And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the 
 bridegroom was coming." 
 
 "Farewell! " answered the maiden, and, smiling, with 
 Basil descended low 
 
 Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen already 
 were waiting. 
 
 Thus beginning their journey with morning, and sun 
 shine, and gladness, 
 
 Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was speed 
 ing before them.
 
 442 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over tht 
 
 desert. 
 Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that sue 
 
 ceeded, 1079 
 
 Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest or 
 
 river, 
 Nor, after many days, had they found him ; but vague 
 
 and uncertain 
 Rumors alone were their guides through a wild and 
 
 desolate country ; 
 
 Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of Adayes, 
 Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from the 
 
 garrulous landlord IOTS 
 
 That on the day before, with horses and guides and 
 
 companions, 
 Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the 
 
 prairies. 
 
 rr. 
 
 Far in the "West there lies a desert land, where the 
 
 mountains 
 
 Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and lumi 
 nous summits. 
 Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the 
 
 gorge, like a gateway, IOM 
 
 Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emigrant's 
 
 wagon, 
 Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway and 
 
 Owyhee. 
 Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind-river 
 
 Mountains, 
 Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate leaps the 
 
 Nebraska ; 
 And to the south, from Fontaiue-qui-bout and the 
 
 Spanish sierras* to*
 
 EVANGELINE. 443 
 
 Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the wind 
 of the desert, 
 
 Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, descend to 
 the ocean, 
 
 Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and solemn 
 vibrations. 
 
 Spreading between these streams are the wondrous, 
 beautiful prairies, 
 
 Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and sun 
 shine, 1090 
 
 Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and purple 
 amorphas. 
 
 Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the elk 
 and the roebuck ; 
 
 Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of rider 
 less horses ; 
 
 Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are weary 
 with travel ; 
 
 Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishmael's 
 children, 1095 
 
 Staining the desert with blood ; and above their terri 
 ble war-trails 
 
 Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the vul 
 ture, 
 
 Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaughtered 
 in battle, 
 
 By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the heav 
 ens. 
 
 Here and there rise smokes from the camps of these 
 savage marauders ; 1100 
 
 Here and there rise groves from the margins of swiff 
 running rivers ; 
 
 And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk 01 
 the desert,
 
 444 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots by 
 
 the brook-side, 
 And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline 
 
 heaven, 
 Like the protecting hand of God inverted above 
 
 them. n6 
 
 Into this wonderful land, at the base of the Ozark 
 
 Mountains, 
 Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trappers 
 
 behind him. 
 Day after day, with their Indian guides, the maiden 
 
 and Basil 
 Followed his flying steps, and thought each day to 
 
 o'ertake him. 
 Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the smoke 
 
 of his camp-fire uio 
 
 Rise in the morning air from the distant plain ; but 
 
 at nightfall, 
 When they had reached the place, they found only 
 
 embers and ashes. 
 And, though their hearts were sad at times and their 
 
 bodies were weary, 
 
 Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata Morgana 
 Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated and 
 
 vanished before them. ms 
 
 1114. The Italian name for a meteoric phenomenon nearly 
 allied to a mirage, witnessed in the Straits of Messina, and less 
 frequently elsewhere, and consisting in the appearance in the 
 air over the sea of the objects which are upon the neighboring 
 coasts. In the southwest of onr own country, the mirage is very 
 common, of lakes which stretch before the tired traveller, and 
 the deception is so great that parties have sometimes beckoned 
 to other travellers, who seemed to be wading knee-deep, to come 
 over to them where dry land was.
 
 EVANQELINE. 445 
 
 Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there silently 
 
 entered 
 
 Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose features 
 Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as great as 
 
 her sorrow. 
 She was a Shawnee woman returning home to her 
 
 people, 
 From the far-off hunting-grounds of the cruel Ca- 
 
 manches, 1120 
 
 Where her Canadian husband, a coureur-des-bois, 
 
 had been murdered. 
 Touched were their hearts at her story, and warmest 
 
 and friendliest welcome 
 Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and 
 
 feasted among them 
 On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on the 
 
 embers. 
 But when their meal was done, and Basil and all his 
 
 companions, 1125 
 
 Worn with the long day's march and the chase of the 
 
 deer and the bison, 
 Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept where 
 
 the quivering fire-light 
 Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms 
 
 wrapped up in their blankets, 
 
 Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat and re 
 peated 
 
 Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of her In 
 dian accent, iiso 
 All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and pains, 
 
 and reverses. 
 Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know that 
 
 another 
 Hapless heart like her own had loved and had been 
 
 disappointed.
 
 446 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and woman's 
 
 compassion, 
 Yet in her sorrow pleased that one who had suffered 
 
 was near her, UK 
 
 She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 
 Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when she had 
 
 ended 
 
 Still was mute ; but at length, as if a mysterious hor 
 ror 
 Passed through her brain, she spake, and repeated the 
 
 tale of the Mowis ; 
 Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and wedded 
 
 a maiden, mo 
 
 But, when the morning came, arose and passed from 
 
 the wigwam, 
 Fading and melting away and dissolving into the sun- 
 
 shine, 
 Till she beheld him no more, though she followed far 
 
 into the forest. 
 Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like a 
 
 weird incantation, 
 Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was wooed 
 
 by a phantom, 1145 
 
 That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, in the 
 
 hush of the twilight, 
 Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered love to 
 
 the maiden, 
 Till she followed his green and waving plume through 
 
 the forest, 
 And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by her 
 
 people. 
 
 1146. The story of Lilinau and other Indian legends will b 
 found in H. R. Schoolcraft's Algic Retearchei,
 
 EVANGELINE. 447 
 
 Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evangeline 
 listened uso 
 
 To the soft flow of her magical words, till the region 
 around her 
 
 Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy guest 
 the enchantress. 
 
 Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the 
 moon rose, 
 
 Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious splen 
 dor 
 
 Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and filling 
 the woodland. lisa 
 
 With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and the 
 branches 
 
 Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible whis 
 pers. 
 
 Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's 
 heart, but a secret, 
 
 Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite terror, 
 
 As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest of 
 the swallow. uso 
 
 It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region of 
 spirits 
 
 Seemed to float in the air of night ; and she felt for a 
 moment 
 
 That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing a 
 phantom. 
 
 With this thought she slept, and the fear and the 
 phantom had vanished. 
 
 Early upon the morrow the march was resumed, and 
 the Shawnee uw 
 
 Said, as they journeyed along, " On the western 
 slope of these mountains
 
 448 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief of 
 
 the Mission. 
 Mnch he teaches the people, and tells them of Mary 
 
 and Jesus ; 
 Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with pain, 
 
 as they hear him." 
 Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evangeline 
 
 answered, 1170 
 
 " Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings 
 
 await us I " 
 Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a spur 
 
 of the mountains, 
 Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur of 
 
 voices, 
 And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank of a 
 
 river, 
 Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the Jesuit 
 
 Mission. 1175 
 
 Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of the 
 
 village, 
 Knelt the Black Kobe chief with his children. A 
 
 crucifix fastened 
 High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed by 
 
 grapevines, 
 
 Looked with its agonized face on the multitude kneel 
 ing beneath it. 
 
 This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the intri 
 cate arches uso 
 Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their vespers, 
 Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and sighs of 
 
 the branches. 
 Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, nearer 
 
 approaching, 
 Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the evening 
 
 devotions.
 
 EVANGELINE. 449 
 
 But when the service was done, and the benediction 
 had fallen iiu 
 
 Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed from the 
 hands of the sower, 
 
 Slowly the reverend man advanced to the strangers, 
 and bade them 
 
 Welcome ; and when they replied, he smiled with be 
 nignant expression, 
 
 Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother-tongue in 
 the forest, 
 
 And, with words of kindness, conducted them into his 
 wigwam. 1190 
 
 There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on cakes 
 of the maize-ear 
 
 Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water-gourd 
 of the teacher. 
 
 Soon was their story told ; and the priest with solem 
 nity answered : 
 
 " Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, seated 
 
 On this mat by my side, where now the maiden re 
 poses, 1195 
 
 Told me this same sad tale ; then arose and continued 
 his journey ! " 
 
 Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake with an 
 accent of kindness ; 
 
 But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in winter 
 the snow-flakes 
 
 Fall into some lone nest from which the birds have 
 departed. 
 
 " Far to the north he has gone," continued the priest ; 
 " but in autumn, 1200 
 
 When the chase is done, will return again to the Mis 
 sion." 
 
 Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek and 
 submissive.
 
 460 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad and af 
 flicted." 
 
 So seemed it wise and well unto all ; and betimes on 
 the morrow, 
 
 Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian guides 
 and companions, 1205 
 
 Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline stayed at 
 the Mission. 
 
 Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each 
 
 other, 
 Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of maize 
 
 that were springing 
 Green from the ground when a stranger she came, 
 
 now waving about her, 
 Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves interlacing, 
 
 and forming mo 
 
 Cloisters for mendicant crows and granaries pillaged 
 
 by squirrels. 
 Then in the golden weather the maize was husked, 
 
 and the maidens 
 Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened a 
 
 lover, 
 But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief in 
 
 the corn-field. 
 Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought not her 
 
 lover. MIS 
 
 * Patience ! " the priest would say ; " have faith, and 
 
 thy prayer will be answered ! 
 Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head from 
 
 the meadow, 
 See how its leaves are turned to the north, as true as 
 
 the magnet ;
 
 EVANGELINE. 451 
 
 This is the compass-flower, that the finger of God has 
 
 planted 
 Here in the houseless wild, to direct the traveller's 
 
 journey 1220 
 
 Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of the 
 
 desert. 
 Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms of 
 
 passion, 
 Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and fuller of 
 
 fragrance, 
 But they beguile us, and lead us astray, and their 
 
 odor is deadly. 
 
 Only this humble plant can guide us here, and here 
 after 1225 
 Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet with the 
 
 dews of nepenthe." 
 
 So came the autumn, and passed, and the winter 
 
 yet Gabriel came not ; 
 Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of the 
 
 robin and bluebird 
 Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet Gabriel 
 
 came not. 
 But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor was 
 
 wafted 1230 
 
 1219. SUphium laciniatum or compass-plant is found on the 
 prairies of Michigan and Wisconsin and to the south and west, 
 and is said to present the edges of the lower leaves due north 
 and south. 
 
 1226. In early Greek poetry the asphodel meadows were 
 haunted by the shades of heroes. See Homer's Odyssey, zziy. 
 13, where Pope translates : 
 
 " In ever flowering meads of Asphodel." 
 
 The asphodel is of the lily family, and is known also by the 
 name king's spear.
 
 452 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of blos 
 som. 
 Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michigan 
 
 forests, 
 Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the Saginaw 
 
 River. 
 And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes of 
 
 St. Lawrence, 
 Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the Mis. 
 
 sion. 1235 
 
 When over weary ways, by long and perilous 
 
 marches, 
 She had attained at length the depths of the Michigan 
 
 forests, 
 Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and fallen to 
 
 ruin I 
 
 Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in sea 
 sons and places 
 Divers and distant far was seen the wandering 
 
 maiden ; 12*0 
 
 Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian 
 
 Missions, 
 Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of the 
 
 army, 
 Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous 
 
 cities. 
 Like a phantom she came, and passed away unremem- 
 
 bered. 
 Fair was she and young, when in hope began the long 1 
 
 journey ; 1245 
 
 Faded was she and old, when in disappointment it 
 
 ended. 
 1241. A rendering of the Moravian Gnadenhiitteu.
 
 EVANGELINE. 458 
 
 Each succeeding year stole something away from her 
 beauty, 
 
 Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the gloom and 
 the shadow. 
 
 Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of gray 
 o'er her forehead, 
 
 Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly hor 
 izon, 1250 
 
 As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of the 
 morning. 
 
 v. 
 
 In that delightful land which is washed by the Dela 
 ware's waters, 
 
 Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the 
 apostle, 
 
 Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city 
 he founded. 
 
 There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem 
 of beauty, 1255 
 
 And the streets still reecho the names of the trees of 
 the forest, 
 
 As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose 
 haunts they molested. 
 
 There from the troubled sea had Evangeline landed, 
 an exile, 
 
 Finding among the children of Penn a home and a 
 country. 
 
 There old Rene* Leblanc had died; and when he 
 departed, 1260 
 
 Saw at his side only one of all his hundred descend 
 ants. 
 
 1256. The streets of Philadelphia, as is well known, are many 
 of them, especially those running east and west, named for trees, 
 s Chestnut, Walnut, Locust, Spruce, Pine, etc.
 
 454 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Something at least there was in the friendly streets of 
 the city, 
 
 Something that spake to her heart, and made her no 
 longer a stranger ; 
 
 And her ear was pleased with the Thee and Thou 01 
 the Quakers, 
 
 For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country, ws 
 
 Where all men were equal, and all were brothers and 
 sisters. 
 
 So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed en 
 deavor, 
 
 Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, uncom 
 plaining, 
 
 Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her 
 thoughts and her footsteps. 
 
 As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the morn 
 ing 1270 
 
 Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape below us, 
 Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and ham 
 lets, 
 So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the 
 
 world far below her, 
 Dark no longer, but all illumined with love ; and the 
 
 pathway 
 Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and fail' 
 
 in the distance. 1275 
 
 Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart was h>". 
 
 image, 
 Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last sne 
 
 beheld him, 
 Only more beautiful made by his deathlike silence and 
 
 absence. 
 Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for it wi. . 
 
 not.
 
 EVANGELINE. 455 
 
 Over him years had no power , he was not changed, 
 
 but transfigured ; 123* 
 
 He had become to her heart as one who is dead, and 
 
 not absent ; 
 
 Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to others, 
 This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had 
 
 taught her. 
 So was her love diffused, but, like to some odorous 
 
 spices, 
 Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air with 
 
 aroma. uu 
 
 Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but to follow, 
 Meekly with reverent steps, the sacred feet of her 
 
 Saviour. 
 
 Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy ; fre 
 quenting 
 Lonely and wretched roofs in the crowded lanes of 
 
 the city, 
 Where distress and want concealed themselves from 
 
 the sunlight, 1290 
 
 Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished neg 
 lected. 
 Night after night when the world was asleep, as the 
 
 watchman repeated 
 Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well in 
 
 the city, 
 High at some lonely window he saw the light of her 
 
 taper. 
 Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow 
 
 through the suburbs iw 
 
 Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruits 
 
 for the market, 
 Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its 
 
 watchings.
 
 466 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell on the 
 city, 
 
 Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks of 
 wild pigeons, 
 
 Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in their 
 craws but an acorn. 1300 
 
 And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of Sep 
 tember, 
 
 Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a lake 
 in the meadow, 
 
 So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural mar 
 gin, 
 
 Spread to a brackish lake the silver stream of ex 
 istence. 
 
 Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, 
 the oppressor ; uw 
 
 But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his 
 anger ; 
 
 Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor at 
 tendants, 
 
 Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the 
 homeless. 
 
 Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows 
 and woodlands ; 
 
 1298. The year 1793 was long remembered as the year when 
 yellow fever was a terrible pestilence in Philadelphia. Charles 
 Brockden Brown made his novel of Arthur Mervyn turn largely 
 upon the incidents of the plague, which drove Brown away from 
 home for a time. 
 
 1308. Fhiladelphians have identified the old Friends' alms- 
 house on Walnut Street, now no longer standing, as that in which 
 Evangeline ministered to Gabriel, and so real was the story that 
 Some even ventured to point out the graves of the two lovers. 
 See Westcott's The Historic Mansions of Philadelphia, pp. 101, 
 102.
 
 EVANGELINE. 457 
 
 Now the city surrounds it ; but still, with its gateway 
 and wicket uu 
 
 Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem 
 to echo 
 
 Softly the words of the Lord : " The poor ye al 
 ways have with you." 
 
 Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of 
 Mercy. The dying 
 
 Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to be 
 hold there 
 
 Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with 
 splendor, ms 
 
 Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and 
 apostles, 
 
 Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. 
 
 Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celes 
 tial, 
 
 Into whose shining gates erelong their spirits would 
 enter. 
 
 Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, de 
 serted and silent, IHO 
 
 Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the 
 almshouse. 
 
 Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in 
 the garden, 
 
 And she paused on her way to gather the fairest 
 among them, 
 
 That the dying once more might rejoice in their fra 
 grance and beauty. 
 
 Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, 
 cooled by the east-wind, iszs 
 
 Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the 
 belfry of Christ Church,
 
 468 HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 While, intermingled with these, across the meadows 
 
 were wafted 
 Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in 
 
 their church at Wicaco. 
 Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on 
 
 her spirit ; 
 Something within her said, " At length thy trials are 
 
 ended ; " mo 
 
 And, with light in her looks, she entered the cham 
 bers of sickness. 
 
 Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attend 
 ants, 
 Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and 
 
 in silence 
 Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing 
 
 their faces, 
 Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow 
 
 by the roadside. ISM 
 
 Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, 
 Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, 
 
 for her presence 
 Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls 
 
 of a prison. 
 And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the 
 
 consoler, 
 Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it 
 
 forever. 1340 
 
 1328. The Swedes' church at Wicaco is still standing, the 
 oldest in the city of Philadelphia, having been begun in 1698. 
 Wicaco is within the city, on the banks of the Delaware River. 
 An interesting account of the old church and its historic associa 
 tions will be found in Westcott's book just mentioned, pp. 56-67. 
 Wilson the ornithologist lies buried in the churchyard adjoining 
 the church.
 
 EVANGEL1NE. 459 
 
 Many familiar forms had disappeared in the night 
 
 time ; 
 Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers. 
 
 Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of 
 
 wonder, 
 Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a 
 
 shudder 
 Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets 
 
 dropped from her fingers, 1345 
 
 And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of 
 
 the morning. 
 
 Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terri 
 ble anguish, 
 That the dying heard it, and started up from their 
 
 pillows. 
 On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an 
 
 old man. 
 Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded 
 
 his temples ; ISM 
 
 But, as he lay hi the morning light, his face for a 
 
 moment 
 Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier 
 
 manhood : 
 So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are 
 
 dying. 
 Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the 
 
 fever, 
 As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled 
 
 its portals, i* 5 * 
 
 That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass 
 
 over. 
 Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit 
 
 exhausted
 
 4GO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in 
 
 the darkness, 
 Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and 
 
 sinking. 
 Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied 
 
 reverberations, iseo 
 
 Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that 
 
 succeeded 
 
 Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint 
 like, 
 
 "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into si 
 lence. 
 Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of 
 
 his childhood ; 
 Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among 
 
 them, 1365 
 
 Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, walking 
 
 under their shadow, 
 As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his 
 
 vision. 
 Tears came into his eyes ; and as slowly he lifted his 
 
 eyelids, 
 Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his 
 
 bedside. 
 Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents 
 
 unuttered 1370 
 
 Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his 
 
 tongue would have spoken. 
 Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling 
 
 beside him, 
 
 Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. 
 Sweet was the light of his eyes ; but it suddenly sank 
 
 into darkness, 
 As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a 
 
 casement. u
 
 EVANOELINE. 461 
 
 All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the 
 
 sorrow, 
 All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied 
 
 longing, 
 All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of 
 
 patience ! 
 And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her 
 
 bosom, 
 Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, " Father, 
 
 I thank thee 1 " uao 
 
 Still stands the forest primeval ; but far away from 
 its shadow, 
 
 Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are 
 sleeping. 
 
 Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church 
 yard, 
 
 In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and un 
 noticed. 
 
 Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside 
 them, IMS 
 
 Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at 
 rest and forever, 
 
 Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer 
 are busy, 
 
 Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased 
 from their labors, 
 
 Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed 
 their journey ! 
 
 Still stands the forest primeval; but under the 
 
 shade of its branches ISM 
 
 Dwells another race, with other customs and language.
 
 462 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Only along the shore of the mournful and misty 
 
 Atlantic 
 Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from 
 
 exile 
 Wandered back to their native land to die in its 
 
 bosom. 
 In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still 
 
 busy ; 1395 
 
 Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles 
 
 of homespun, 
 
 And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, 
 While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neigh 
 boring ocean 
 Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail 
 
 of the forest.
 
 EDGAR ALLAN FOR 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 EDGAR POE was born January 19, 1809, in Boston. His 
 father, David Poe, the runaway son of General David Poe 
 of Baltimore, was an actor ; his mother was a young actress 
 of English descent. Soon after Edgar's birth his father 
 died, and at his mother's death, about three years later, the 
 boy was adopted into the family of John Allan, a wealthy 
 merchant of Richmond. Mr. Allan seems to have be 
 stowed on his adopted son everything he would have given 
 his own child, although regarding him with pride, per 
 haps, rather than affection, and Poe's early years were 
 happy ones. He received an excellent education at the 
 Manor House School, in Stoke Newington, during the 
 five years (1815-1820) that the family was in England, 
 and for the next five years at a classical school in Rich 
 mond. In 1826 he entered the schools of ancient and 
 modern languages in the University of Virginia, which had 
 just opened its doors, with Thomas Jefferson in the presi 
 dent's chair. There Poe's quick and brilliant scholarship 
 won for him the highest honors in Latin and French ; but 
 he was not a diligent student, nor was he enamored of ac 
 curacy, and although he seems never to have come under 
 the notice of the faculty in a way to invite censure, he 
 was nevertheless not allowed to return for his second year, 
 but was kept at home by his guardian and put to work in 
 the counting-room. 
 
 This work proved unbearable to Poe, and he soon ran
 
 464 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 away, as his father had done before him, and went to Bos 
 ton. There he appears to have lived under an assumed 
 name. His first book, Tamerlane and Other Poems, was 
 published in 1827 under the pseudonym of '" A Bostonian," 
 not even the printer knowing the author's real name, and in 
 the same year Poe enlisted in the United States Army as 
 Edgar A. Perry, giving his age as twenty-two. 
 
 His military career covers a period of four years, and 
 is not without incident. When he enlisted, he was assigned 
 to the First Artillery, and he served with this command at 
 Fort Independence in Boston Harbor, and later at Fort 
 Moultrie and Fortress Monroe, rising to the rank of ser 
 geant-major. Mr. Allan learned of his whereabouts in 
 1829, and secured his discharge from the army. In the 
 same year Poe published at Baltimore, under his own name, 
 a second volume of his poems, entitled Al Aaraaf, Tamer 
 lane, and Minor Poems. In 1830 he entered the Military 
 Academy at West Point, where he stayed about six months. 
 Deliberate, prolonged neglect of duty then caused him to 
 be court-martialed and dismissed. Reconciliation with Mr. 
 Allan was this time impossible, and Poe was thrown finally 
 on his own resources. 
 
 Immediately after leaving West Point, Poe went to New 
 York, and there published a volume with the simple title 
 Poems, calling it a second edition, although it was really a 
 third. He then settled at Baltimore, where in October, 
 1833, he won a prize of 100 by his story entitled A MS. 
 found in a Bottle. He began, also, to write for The 
 Southern Literary Messenger, a new periodical published 
 at Richmond, and after a short time he removed to that city 
 and became the Messenger's assistant editor. He was well 
 fitted for editorial work, and his many tales, criticisms, and 
 poems soon made the magazine famous. Much of this work 
 was done under pressure and is of little interest now ; a few 
 of the poems strike a new note, and a half dozen of the 
 tales have been preserved in the Tales of the Folio Club.
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 465 
 
 Bat his book reviews made the new Southern monthly a 
 magazine of national reputation. They were of a sort not 
 previously known in this country, hold, keen, and effective ; 
 they aroused much interest, and they made Poe's name 
 known throughout the land. During this period of prosperity 
 Poe married, on May 16, 1836, his cousin, Virginia Clemm, 
 who was then less than fourteen years old. 
 
 In January, 1837, however, the prosperity ended. Poe's 
 eccentric nature caused him to leave the Messenger, and he 
 went to New York to live. He stayed in New York one 
 year, publishing his longest story, The Narrative of Arthur 
 Gordon Pym, and then removed to Philadelphia. During 
 the six years of his residence there he contributed to various 
 magazines and did much editorial work. He published 
 Tales of the Arabesque and Grotesque (1840) ; he edited 
 The Gentleman's Magazine, reprinting his old work some 
 times with changed titles and slightly revised text ; he tried 
 without success to start a journal of his own ; he edited also, 
 for a short time, Graham's Magazine, then a leading literary 
 journal. In 1843 he won another prize of $100 with The 
 Gold-Bug. 
 
 Poe's popularity was growing, and it reached its height 
 in 1844, when he returned to New York and formed a con 
 nection with The Mirror. In January, 1845, this paper 
 published The Raven, which brought the author instanta 
 neous fame. He became the literary success of the day, 
 and his works were published and sold in new editions. 
 But despite these apparently brilliant prospects, worldly 
 success was as far distant as ever. For a few months Poe 
 was one of the editors of a new weekly, The Broadway 
 Journal, but he broke with his partner, and an attempt to 
 conduct the paper alone resulted in failure. During this 
 year he published a volume of Tales and The Raven and 
 Other Poems. 
 
 Early in 1846 Poe removed to the famous cottage at 
 Fordham, New York, and here, on January 30, 1847, his
 
 466 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 young wife died amid scenes of direst poverty. The brief 
 remainder of Foe's life was marked by a feverish eagerness 
 approaching very near to insanity. He wrote for various 
 magazines, publishing among many other things The Sells 
 and Eureka. His life became more and more erratic ; on 
 the 3d of October, 1849, he was found in delirium in Balti 
 more, and four days later he died in a hospital in that city. 
 ^f Poe's writings, whether prose or verse, always reflect the 
 nature of the man. He was reserved, isolated, and dreamy, 
 with high-strung nerves and a longing for solitude, and his 
 writings show a wildness of genius and a fondness for 
 scenes of mystery and desolation. The body of his poeti 
 cal work is slight, but it is marked by a weird melody 
 hardly to be found elsewhere in English. His prose is more 
 considerable in amount, and consists of criticisms and of a 
 morbidly imaginative and sombrely supernatural fiction. 
 His critical work, appearing at a time when true criticism 
 was almost unknown in America, was long considered his 
 best work, but is now little read. The themes of his tales 
 are to many readers forbiddingly remote ; he dwells on 
 scenes of physical decay that are sometimes repulsive and 
 loathsome. But to persons of sensitive imagination they 
 have a notable charm, and they have served as models for 
 a whole class of weird and mysterious literature. Poe will 
 be known by most readers as the author of a few curious 
 poems and many short pieces of powerful and uncanny fic 
 tion ; but the beauty and rhythm of these few poems, and 
 the power and intensity of the tales, make secure Poe's place 
 among the immortals of American literature.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 THE RAVEN.* 
 
 ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak 
 and weary, 
 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 
 lore, 
 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 
 a tapping, 
 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my cham 
 ber door. 
 
 "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my 
 chamber door : * 
 
 Only this and nothing more." 
 
 * The Raven was first formally published in the American 
 Whig Review for February, 1845, but had been copied by pep- 
 mission in the Evening Mirror for January 29, of the same 
 year. Later in the year it was the title poem of a volume con 
 taining most of Poe's work in verse. Many stories are told with 
 regard to the circumstances of its composition, none of which 
 deserves much more credence than Poe's own account in hia 
 Philosophy of Composition, which, if taken literally, would prove 
 the poem to be little more than a tour de force. Poe did 
 probably apply, in a semi-conscious way, certain principles of 
 style and versification that he had partly developed for himself, 
 and he may have owed something to an obscure poet named 
 Chivers, over and above what he owed Coleridge and Mrs. 
 Browning ; but, when all is said, the world has not been wrong 
 in regarding The Raven as a highly original and powerfully 
 moving poem, and in according it a popularity second only to 
 that which it has long granted to Gray's Elegy. Like the Elegy,
 
 468 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Decem 
 ber, 
 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 
 upon the floor. 
 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought 
 to borrow 
 
 From my books surcease of sorrow sorrow for the 
 lost Lenore, 10 
 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
 name Lenore : 
 
 Nameless here for evermore. 
 
 The Raven does not in all probability represent the highest 
 reaches of its author's art (there are lines in Israfel, in the 
 lyric To Helen, and in the exquisite stanzas To One in Paradise 
 that are unmatched in The Raven), but the felicitous moralizing 
 of the one poem and the dramatic interest and weird intensity of 
 the other abundantly justify the public in its preferences. Poe's 
 art, too, if not seen at its highest in The Raven, receives therein 
 its most adequate and characteristic expression outside of Ula- 
 Itane, which the public has never taken quite seriously. The 
 student may be referred to a chapter in Professor C. A. Smith's 
 Repetition and Parallelism in English Verse for full details with 
 regard to style. Professor Smith brings out admirably Poe's 
 kinship with the balladists, and gives a satisfactory account of 
 his use of that time-honored poetic artifice, the repetend, an 
 artifice which is as plainly seen in the 
 
 Abstineaa avidas, Mora precor atra, tnumm. 
 Abstineas, Mors atra, precor, 
 
 of Tibullus (El. I, iii.) as in any stanza of The Raven. 
 
 10. Burger wrote a ballad of Lenore from which Poe may 
 have got this name. The idea of celebrating, whether in verse or 
 in melancholy sentiment, the death of a beautiful young woman 
 seems to have been with him from boyhood, and in his manhood 
 he maintained that such a subject " is, unquestionably, the most 
 poetical topic in the world." It was so for him, at any rate, 
 both in his verse and in his prose-poems such as Ligeia and 
 Eleonora.
 
 THE RAVEN. 469 
 
 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple 
 
 curtain 
 Thrilled me filled me with fantastic terrors never 
 
 felt before , 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
 
 repeating is 
 
 " 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 
 door, 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 
 door: 
 
 This it is and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no 
 
 longer, 
 '* Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I 
 
 implore ; 
 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came 
 
 rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my 
 
 chamber door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you " here I opened 
 
 wide the door : 
 
 Darkness there and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there 
 
 wondering, fearing, 25 
 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to 
 
 dream before ; 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave 
 
 no token, 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered 
 
 word, " Lenore ? " 
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 
 
 word, " Lenore : " 
 
 Merely this and nothing more.
 
 470 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
 
 burning, 
 Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than 
 
 before. 
 " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my 
 
 window lattice ; 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery 
 
 explore ; 
 Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery 
 
 explore : 
 
 'T is the wind and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a 
 
 flirt and flutter, 
 In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of 
 
 yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped 
 
 or stayed he ; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 
 
 chamber door, 40 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 
 door: 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
 
 smiling 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it 
 
 wore, 
 "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I 
 
 said, " art sure no craven, 
 
 45. By this and other touches Poe intended, as he tells us, to 
 give his verses, for the sake of contrast, " an air of the fantastic, 
 approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible." That 
 the Raven, though shorn like a monk, was no coward is made 
 evident by his cavalier entrance into an unknown place.
 
 THE RAVEN. 471 
 
 Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the 
 Nightly shore : 
 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu 
 tonian shore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 
 
 so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning little relevancy 
 
 bore ; so 
 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
 
 being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his 
 
 chamber door, 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
 
 chamber door, 
 
 With such name as " Nevermore." 
 
 But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, 
 
 spoke only M 
 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 
 
 outpour, 
 Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then 
 
 he fluttered, 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 
 
 have flown before ; 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have 
 
 flown before." 
 
 Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 
 
 47. Pluto was god of Hades of the infernal regions 
 hence the epithet conveys the ideas of darkness and mystery. 
 Cf . Horace, Cam. I, iv. : " Et domns ezilis Plutonia." 
 
 49. Ravens make very intelligent pets (cf. Barndby Rudge) 
 and can be taught to imitate speech somewhat. As an omen of 
 ill fortune the bird figures frequently in English literature from
 
 472 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly 
 
 spoken, 
 ** Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock 
 
 and store, 
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful 
 
 Disaster 
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one 
 
 burden bore : 
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden 
 
 bore a 
 
 Of ' Never nevermore.' " 
 
 But the Eaven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 
 
 and bust and door ; 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
 
 linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of 
 
 yore, 70 
 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 
 
 bird of yore 
 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex 
 pressing 
 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
 bosom's core ; 
 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
 reclining 75 
 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light 
 gloated o'er, 
 
 the time of the Anglo Saxon poets, who continually refer to it in 
 their martial verses. 
 
 64. Bur den = refrain. 
 
 76. That is, cast a sidelong ray over, unless Foe wished to
 
 THE RAVEN. 473 
 
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light 
 gloating o'er 
 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore I 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 
 
 an unseen censer 
 Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the 
 
 tufted floor. so 
 
 "Wretch," I cried,. "thy God hath lent thee by 
 
 these angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of 
 
 Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this 
 
 lost Lenore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 Prophet! " said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if 
 bird or devil ! as 
 
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
 here ashore, 
 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en 
 chanted 
 
 On this home by Horror haunted tell me truly, I 
 implore : 
 
 Is there is there balm in Gilead ? tell me tell 
 me, I implore ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." *> 
 
 attribute to the light some furtive or sinister character. From 
 any point of view the use of the word is rather questionable. 
 
 83. Nepenthe, a " sorrow-dispelling " drink mentioned in the 
 Odyssey (iv. 219-30). Cf. Comus, 11. 675-6 : 
 
 " That Nepenthes which the wife of Theme 
 In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena." 
 
 89. Balm In Gilead. See Century Dictionary and cf. Jere 
 miah viii. 22: "Is there no balm in Gilead? is there no 
 cian there ? "
 
 474 EDGAR ALLAN FOB. 
 
 " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil prophet still, if 
 
 bird or devil ! 
 By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we 
 
 both adore, 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant 
 
 Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore : 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
 
 name Lenore ! " 95 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I 
 shrieked, upstarting: 
 
 " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plu 
 tonian shore! 
 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
 hath spoken ! 
 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above 
 my door ! 100 
 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
 from off my door ! " 
 
 Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
 
 sitting 
 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 door ; 
 
 93. Aidenn, some distant place of pleasure, Eden or Aden, 
 of which it is a fanciful variant. 
 
 96. Poe tells us in his curious account of the evolution of his 
 poem that this stanza was the first that he wrote out. 
 
 101. " It will be observed," says Poe, " that the words ' from 
 out my heart ' involve the first metaphorical expression in the 
 poem. . . . The reader begins now to regard the Raven as em 
 blematical " [" of Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance ""].
 
 THE RAVEN. 475 
 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that 
 is dreaming, ioe 
 
 And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his 
 shadow on the floor : 
 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
 on the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted nevermore I
 
 476 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 1 
 
 Son CGBUT eat on luth suspends ; 
 Sitot qu'on le touche il rdsonne. 
 
 Stranger? 
 
 DuBING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless 
 day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung 
 oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing 
 alone, on horseback, 3 through a singularly dreary tract 
 of country ; and at length found myself, as the shades 
 of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy 
 House of Usher. I know not how it was, but, with 
 the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insuffer 
 able gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable ; 
 
 1 The Fall of the House of Usher was first published in Burton's 
 Gentleman's Magazine for September, 1839, t. e., just one yeax 
 after the appearance of the weird tale usually coupled with it, 
 Ligeia. The latter story seems to have been Poe's favorite, but 
 the public has on the whole preferred the House of Usher. Both 
 represent Foe's morbid but etherealized supernaturalisro at its 
 height; yet, while Ligeia is perhaps stronger in direct personal 
 appeal, and is thus a more characteristic product of its author's 
 intense poetic subjectivity, Usher is probably superior in artistic 
 evolution, and in the perfect concord of its haunting harmonies 
 of sound and color. Foe would have made a name for himself 
 in literature had he written merely The Purloined Letter and 
 the Descent into the Maelstrom ; when, however, we consider that 
 he is likewise the author of Usher, Ligeia, The Masque of the 
 Red Death, and Shadow, we must concede that, even without his 
 poetry, he would have won for himself not merely a position in 
 literature, but a place high and apart and practically inaccessible. 
 
 3 " His heart is a suspended lute; as soon as it is touched it 
 resounds." J. P. de Be'ranger (1780-1857) was a very popular 
 French lyric poet of democratic proclivities. 
 
 * It is amusing to find Poe giving his fine tale the cachet of 
 6. P. R. James, whose habit of opening his stories with a solitary 
 horseman has been much ridiculed.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 477 
 
 for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half- 
 pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment with which the 
 mind usually receives even the sternest natural images 
 of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene 
 before me upon the mere house, and the simple 
 landscape features of the domain, upon the bleak 
 walls, upon the vacant eye-like windows, upon a few 
 rank sedges, and upon a few white trunks of decayed 
 trees with an utter depression of soul which I can 
 compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to 
 the after-dream of the reveler upon opium : the bitter 
 lapse into every-day life, the hideous dropping off of 
 the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening 
 of the heart, an unredeemed dreariness of thought, 
 which no goading of the imagination could torture into 
 aught of the sublime. What was it I paused to 
 think what was it that so unnerved me in the con 
 templation of the House of Usher ? It was a mystery 
 all insoluble ; nor could I grapple with the shadowy 
 fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was 
 forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion 
 that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of 
 very simple natural objects which have the power 
 of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power 
 lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was 
 possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrange 
 ment of the particulars of the scene, of the details of 
 the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps 
 to annihilate, its capacity for sorrowful impression, 1 
 and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the 
 precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn 2 that lay 
 
 1 Poe means "for producing sorrowful impressions." The 
 word may be used, however, in an active sense. 
 
 a A small mountain lake, generally one that has no visible 
 feeders. Poe is fond of this poetic word.
 
 478 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 in unruffled lustre by the dwelling, and gazed down 
 but with a shudder even more thrilling than before 
 
 upon the remodeled and inverted images of the 
 gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant 
 and eye-like windows. 
 
 Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now pro 
 posed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its pro 
 prietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon 
 companions in boyhood ; but many years had elapsed 
 since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately 
 reached me in a distant part of the country a letter 
 from him which in its wildly importunate nature 
 had admitted of no other than a personal reply. The 
 MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The writer 
 spoke of acute bodily illness, of a mental disorder 
 which oppressed him, and of an earnest desire to see 
 me, as his best and indeed his only personal friend, 
 with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of my 
 society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the 
 manner in which all this, and much more, was said - 
 it was the apparent heart that went with his request 
 
 which allowed me no room for hesitation ; and I 
 accordingly obeyed forthwith what I still considered 
 a very singular summons. 
 
 Although as boys we had been even intimate asso 
 ciates, yet I really knew little of my friend. His 
 reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I 
 was aware, however, that his very ancient family had 
 been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensi 
 bility of temperament, displaying itself, through long 
 ages, in many works of exalted art, and manifested of 
 late in repeated deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive 
 charity, as well as in a passionate devotion to the 
 intricacies, perhaps even more than to the orthodox
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 479 
 
 and easily recognizable beauties, of musical science. 
 I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact that the 
 stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was, had 
 put forth at no period any enduring branch ; in other 
 words, that the entire family lay in the direct line of 
 descent, and had always, with a very trifling and very 
 temporary variation, so lain. 1 It was this deficiency, 
 I considered, while running over in thought the per 
 fect keeping of the character of the premises with the 
 accredited character of the people, and while speculat 
 ing upon the possible influence which the one, in the 
 long lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon the 
 other, it was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral 
 issue, and the consequent undeviating transmission 
 from sire to son of the patrimony with the name, which 
 had at length so identified the two as to merge the 
 original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal 
 appellation of the " House of Usher," an appellation 
 which seemed to include, in the minds of the peas 
 antry who used it, both the family and the family 
 mansion. 
 
 I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat 
 childish experiment, that of looking down within the 
 tarn, had been to deepen the first singular impression. 
 There can be no doubt that the consciousness of the 
 rapid increase of my superstition for why should 
 I not so term it ? served mainly to accelerate the 
 increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the para 
 doxical 2 law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. 
 And it might have been for this reason only, that, 
 
 1 Notice the emphatic periodicity of this sentence, as well as 
 the loose use of " people " in the sentence that follows. 
 
 1 That is, apparently absurd, yet on investigation proved to 
 be trne.
 
 480 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 when I again uplifted my eyes to the house itself 
 from its image in the pool, there grew in my mind a 
 strange fancy, a fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I 
 but mention it to show the vivid force of the sensa 
 tions which oppressed me. I had so worked upon my 
 imagination as really to believe that about the whole 
 mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere pecu 
 liar to themselves and their immediate vicinity : an 
 atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of 
 heaven, but which had reeked up from the decayed 
 trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn ; a pesti 
 lent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly discern 
 ible, and leaden-hued. 
 
 Shaking off from my spirit what must have been 
 a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of 
 the building. Its principal feature seemed to be that 
 of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages 
 had been great. Minute fungi overspread the whole 
 exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the 
 eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordi 
 nary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had 
 fallen ; and there appeared to be a wild inconsistency 
 between its still perfect adaptation of parts and the 
 crumbling condition of the individual stones. In this 
 there was much that reminded me of the specious to 
 tality of old wood-work which has rotted for long years 
 in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the 
 breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of 
 extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token 
 of instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing ob 
 server might have discovered a barely perceptible fis 
 sure, which, extending from the roof of the building in 
 front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, 
 until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 481 
 
 Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway 
 to the house. A servant in waiting took my horse, 
 and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A 
 valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted me in silence 
 through many dark and intricate passages in my 
 progress to the studio of his master. Much that I 
 encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, 
 to heighten the vague sentiments of which I have al 
 ready spoken. While the objects around me while 
 the carvings of the ceiling, the sombre tapestries of 
 the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the 
 phantasmagoric 1 armorial trophies which rattled as I 
 strode, were but matters to which, or to such as which, 
 I had been accustomed from my infancy, while I 
 hesitated not to acknowledge how familiar was all 
 this, I still wondered to find how unfamiliar were 
 the fancies which ordinary images were stirring up. 
 On one of the staircases I met the physician of the 
 family. His countenance, I thought, wore a min 
 gled expression of low cunning and perplexity. He 
 accosted me with trepidation and passed on. The 
 valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the 
 presence of his master. 
 
 The room in which I found myself was very large 
 and lofty. The windows were long, narrow, and 
 pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black 
 oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. 
 Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way 
 through the trellised panes, and served to render 
 sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around ; 
 the eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the re 
 moter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the 
 vaulted and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung 
 1 This is one of Poe's favorite words.
 
 482 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, 
 comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books and 
 musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to 
 give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed 
 an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and 
 irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all. 1 
 
 Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on 
 which he had been lying at full length, and greeted 
 me with a vivacious warmth which had much in it, 
 I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality, of the 
 constrained effort of the ennuye man of the world. 
 A glance, however, at his countenance, convinced me 
 of his perfect sincerity. We sat down ; and for some 
 moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with 
 a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely man had 
 never before so terribly altered, in so brief a period, 
 as had Roderick Usher ! It was with difficulty that I 
 oould bring myself to admit the identity of the wan 
 being before me with the companion of my early boy 
 hood. Yet the character of his face had been at all 
 times remarkable. A cadaverousness of complexion ; 
 an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison ; 
 lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a surpass 
 ingly beautiful curve ; a nose of a delicate Hebrew 
 model, 2 but with a breadth of nostril unusual in sim 
 ilar formations ; a finely-moulded chin, speaking, in 
 its want of prominence, of a want of moral energy ; 
 
 1 Poe does not here indulge himself, as in Ligeia and the 
 Red Death, in describing a bizarre luxury which he had certainly 
 had little opportunity of enjoying in a concrete fashion. He 
 has been working up to a description of Usher, and to that, like 
 a true artist, he devotes his powers. 
 
 3 " I looked at the delicate outlines of the nose, and nowhere 
 but in the graceful medallions of the Hebrews had I beheld a 
 similar perfection." Ligeia.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 483 
 
 hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity, 
 these features, with an inordinate expansion above the 
 regions of the temple, made up altogether a counte 
 nance not easily to be forgotten. And now in the 
 mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these 
 features, and of the expression they were wont to con 
 vey, lay so much of change that I doubted to whom I 
 spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the 
 now miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things 
 startled and even awed me. The silken hair, too, had 
 been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild 
 gossamer texture, it floated rather than fell about the 
 face, I could not, even with effort, connect its ara 
 besque expression with any idea of simple humanity. 
 
 In the manner of my friend I was at once struck 
 with an incoherence, an inconsistency ; and I soon 
 found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile 
 struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy, an ex 
 cessive nervous agitation. For something of this 
 nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by hia 
 letter than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, 
 and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar physical 
 conformation and temperament. His action was alter 
 nately vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly 
 from a tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits 
 seemed utterly in abeyance) to that species of ener 
 getic concision that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and 
 hollow - sounding enunciation, that leaden, self-bal 
 anced, and perfectly modulated guttural utterance 
 which may be observed in the lost drunkard, or the 
 irreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods of his 
 most intense excitement. 
 
 It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit,
 
 484 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 of his earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he 
 expected me to afford him. He entered at some 
 length into what he conceived to be the nature of his 
 malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family 
 evil, and one for which he despaired to find a remedy, 
 a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, 
 which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed 
 itself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of 
 these, as he detailed them, interested and bewildered 
 me; although, perhaps, the terms and the general 
 manner of the narration had their weight. He suf 
 fered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses ; 
 the most insipid food was alone endurable ; he could 
 wear only garments of certain texture ; the odors of 
 all flowers were oppressive ; his eyes were tortured 
 by even a faint light ; and there were but peculiar 
 sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which 
 did not inspire him with horror. 
 
 To an anomalous species of terror I found him a 
 bounden 1 slave. "I shall perish," said he, "I must 
 perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not 
 otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the 
 future, not in themselves, but in their results. I 
 shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, 
 incident, which may operate upon this intolerable 
 agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of 
 danger, except in its absolute effect, in terror. In 
 this unnerved, in this pitiable condition, I feel that 
 the period will sooner or later arrive when I must 
 abandon life and reason together in some struggle 
 with the grim phantasm, FEAR." 
 
 I learned moreover at intervals, and through 
 
 1 This form is now archaic, save in the familiar phrase 
 "bounden duty." Foe uses the same expression in Ligcia.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 485 
 
 broken and equivocal hints, another singular feature 
 of his mental condition. He was enchained by certain 
 superstitious impressions in regard to the dwelling 
 which he tenanted, and whence for many years he 
 had never ventured forth, in regard to an influence 
 whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too 
 shadowy here to be restated, an influence which 
 some peculiarities in the mere form and substance of 
 his family mansion had, by dint of long sufferance, 
 he said, obtained over his spirit ; an effect which the 
 physique of the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim 
 tarn into which they all looked down, had at length 
 brought about upon the morale of his existence. 
 
 He admitted, however, although with hesitation, 
 that much of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted 
 him could be traced to a more natural and far more 
 palpable origin, to the severe and long-continued 
 illness, indeed to the evidently approaching dissolu 
 tion, of a tenderly beloved sister, his sole companion 
 for long years, his last and only relative on earth. 
 " Her decease," he said, with a bitterness which I can 
 never forget, " would leave him (him, the hopeless and 
 the frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers." 
 While he spoke, the lady Madeline l (for so was she 
 called) passed slowly through a remote portion of the 
 apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, 
 disappeared. I regarded her with an utter astonish 
 ment not unmingled with dread, and yet I found it> 
 
 1 The student will find it interesting to make a comparative 
 examination of Foe's shadowy, high-born heroines with their 
 superlative, uncommon characteristics of mind and body, and 
 their melodious, unfamiliar names, of his Madelines, and Li- 
 geias, and Berenices, and Eleonoras, and Morellas, and Lenores. 
 All seem to have sprung from a single prototype.
 
 486 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 impossible to account for such feelings. A sensa 
 tion of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed 
 her retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed 
 upon her, my glance sought instinctively and eagerlj 
 the countenance of the brother ; but he had buried 
 his face in his hands, and I could only J perceive that 
 a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread the 
 emaciated fingers through which trickled many pas 
 sionate tears. 
 
 The disease of the lady Madeline had long baf 
 fled the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, 
 a gradual wasting away of the person, and frequent 
 although transient affections of a partially cataleptical 
 character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she 
 had steadily borne up against the pressure of her 
 malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed ; 
 but, on the closing-in of the evening of my arrival 
 at the house, she succumbed (as her brother told me 
 at night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrat 
 ing power of the destroyer ; and I learned that the 
 glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus prob 
 ably be the last I should obtain, that the lady, at 
 least while living, would be seen by me no more. 
 
 For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned 
 by either Usher or myself ; and during this period I 
 was busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate the mel 
 ancholy of my friend. We painted and read together ; 
 or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild improvisa 
 tions 2 of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer 
 and still closer intimacy admitted me more unre 
 servedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more 
 bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at 
 cheering a mind from which darkness, as if an inherent 
 
 1 Is this adverb properly placed ? * See page 54, note 1.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 487 
 
 positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the 
 moral and physical universe, in one unceasing radia 
 tion of gloom. 
 
 I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many 
 solemn hours I thus spent alone with the master of 
 the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any at 
 tempt to convey an idea of the exact character of the 
 studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved 
 me, or led me the way. An excited and highly dis 
 tempered ideality threw a sulphureous lustre over all. 
 His long, improvised dirges will ring forever in my 
 ears. Among other things, I hold painfully in mind 
 a certain singular perversion and amplification of the 
 wild air of the last waltz of Von Weber. 1 From the 
 paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and 
 which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses at which 
 I shuddered the more thrillingly because I shuddered 
 knowing not why, from these paintings (vivid as 
 their images now are before me) I would in vain 
 endeavor to educe more than a small portion which 
 should lie within the compass of merely written words. 
 By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his de 
 signs, he arrested and overawed attention. If ever 
 mortal painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick 
 Usher. For me at least, in the circumstances then 
 surrounding me, there arose, out of the pure abstrac 
 tions which the hypochondriac contrived to throw 
 upon his canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no 
 shadow of which felt I ever yet in the contemplation 
 of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of 
 Fuseli. 2 
 
 Karl Maria, Baron von Weber (1786-1826), the celebrated 
 German composer. 
 
 1 Henry Fuseli (1741-1825) born in Zurich as Heinrich
 
 488 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my 
 friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of ab 
 straction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in 
 words. A small picture presented the interior of an 
 immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with 
 low walls, smooth, white, and without interruption or 
 device. Certain accessory points of the design served 
 well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an 
 exceeding depth below the surface of the earth. No 
 outlet was observed in any portion of its vast extent, 
 and no torch, or other artificial source of light, was 
 discernible ; yet a flood of intense rays rolled through 
 out, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappro 
 priate splendor. 
 
 I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the 
 auditory nerve which rendered all music intolerable 
 to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of 
 stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, the narrow 
 limits to which he thus confined himself upon the 
 guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the 
 fantastic character of his performances. But the fer 
 vid facility of his impromptus could not be so ac 
 counted for. They must have been, and were, in the 
 notes as well as in the words of his wild fantasias 
 (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with 
 xhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that 
 intense mental collectedness and concentration to 
 which I have previously alluded as observable only in 
 particular moments of the highest artificial excitement. 
 The words of one of these rhapsodies I have easily 
 remembered. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly im 
 pressed with it as he gave it, because, in the under or 
 
 Fnessly, an artist of great power, and professor of painting at 
 the Royal Academy in London.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 489 
 
 mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I per 
 ceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness, on 
 the part of Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason 
 upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled 
 " The Haunted Palace," l ran very nearly, if not ac 
 curately, thus : 
 
 In the greenest of our valleys 
 
 By good angels tenanted, 
 Once a fair and stately palace 
 
 Radiant palace reared its head. 
 In the monarch Thought's dominion, 
 
 It stood there ; 
 Never seraph spread a pinion 
 
 Over fabric half so fair. 
 
 Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 
 
 On its roof did float and flow 
 (This all this was in the olden 
 
 Time long ago), 
 And every gentle air that dallied, 
 
 In that sweet day, 
 Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 
 
 A winged odor went away. 
 
 Wanderers in that happy valley 
 
 Through two luminous windows saw 
 
 Spirits moving musically 
 To a lute's well-tuned law, 
 
 1 These verses were first published in the Baltimore Museum 
 for April, 1839. They rank among the best of Poe's poems, and 
 fit their prose setting so well that, as Mr. Stedman has remarked, 
 it might almost seem that the tale was written to set off the 
 poem. Some critics have seen in the verses a symbolical descrip 
 tion of the ravages wrought by drink in the poet's own char 
 acter.
 
 490 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 Round about s throne, where sitting, 
 
 Porphyrogene, 1 
 In state his glory well befitting, 
 
 The ruler of the realm was seen. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
 
 Was the fair palace door, 
 Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 
 
 And sparkling evermore, 
 A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 
 
 Was but to sing, 
 In voices of surpassing beauty, 
 
 The wit and wisdom of their king. 9 
 
 V. 
 
 But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 
 
 Assailed the monarch's high estate; 
 (Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 
 
 Shall dawn upon him, desolate !) 
 And, round about his home, the glory 
 
 That blushed and bloomed 
 Is but a dim-remembered story 
 
 Of the old time entombed. 
 
 And travellers now within that valley 
 
 Through the red-litten 8 windows seo 
 Vast forms that move fantastically 
 
 To a discordant melody ; 
 While, like a ghastly rapid river, 
 
 Through the pale door, 
 A hideous throng rush out forever, 
 
 And laugh but smile no more. 
 
 * That is, born in the purple, of royal birth. 
 
 * " When (like committed linnets) I 
 With shriller throat shall sing 
 The sweetness, mercy, majesty 
 And glories of my King." 
 
 LOVELACE, To Altheafrom Prison, 
 
 * Note the archaic, and so poetic, form of the participle.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 491 
 
 I well remember that suggestions arising from this 
 ballad led us into a train of thought, wherein there 
 became manifest an opinion of Usher's which I men 
 tion, not so much on account of its novelty (for other 
 men 1 have thought thus) as on account of the perti 
 nacity with which he maintained it. This opinion, in 
 its general form, was that of the sentience of all vege 
 table things. But in his disordered fancy, the idea 
 had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, 
 under certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inor- 
 ganization. 2 I lack words to express the full extent 
 or the earnest abandon of his persuasion. The belief, 
 however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) 
 with the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. 
 The conditions of the sentience had been here, he 
 imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of 
 these stones, in the order of their arrangement, as 
 well as in that of the many fungi which overspread 
 them, and of the decayed trees which stood around ; 
 above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this 
 arrangement, and in its reduplication in the still 
 waters of the tarn. Its evidence the evidence of 
 the sentience was to be seen, he said (and I here 
 
 1 Watson, Dr. Percival, Spall an zani, and especially the Bishop 
 of Llandaff. See Chemical Essays, vol. v. [Of the authors 
 mentioned by Poe, Richard Watson (1737-1816) was the cele 
 brated Bishop of Llandaff, the liberal statesman, the opponent 
 of Tom Paine, who early in life was made professor of chemis 
 try at Cambridge, although he knew nothing of the subject, 
 and succeeded in writing very popularly about the science ; 
 Dr. James Gates Percival (1795-1856) was an American poet 
 and scientist of great versatility ; and Lazaro Spallanzani (1729- 
 1799) was a noted traveler, collector, teacher, and writer on 
 many scientific subjects.] 
 
 * That is, the mineral kingdom.
 
 492 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 started as he spoke), in the gradual yet certain con 
 densation of an atmosphere of their own about the 
 waters and the walls. The result was discoverable, 
 he added, in that silent yet importunate and terrible 
 influence which for centuries had moulded the desti 
 nies of his family, and which made him what I now 
 saw him, what he was. Such opinions need no com 
 ment, and I will make none. 
 
 Our books the books which for years had formed 
 no small portion of the mental existence of the invalid 
 were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with 
 this character of phantasm. We pored together over 
 such works as the Ververt and Chartreuse of Gresset ; 
 the Belphegor of Machiavelli ; the Heaven and Hell 
 of Swedenborg ; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas 
 Klimm by Holberg ; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, 
 of Jean D'Indagine, and of De la Chambre ; the 
 Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck ; and the 
 City of the Sun of Campanella. One favorite volume 
 was a small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisi- 
 torum, by the Dominican Eymeric de Gironne ; and 
 there were passages in Pomponius Mela, about the old 
 African Satyrs and JEgipans, over which Usher would 
 sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, 
 was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and 
 curious book in quarto Gothic, the manual of a for 
 gotten church, the Vigilice Mortuorum secundum 
 Chorum Ecclesice MaguntinoB. 1 
 
 1 Of the books mentioned by Poe, some at least of which he 
 probably never saw, as they are inappropriate to his purposes, 
 a brief account will be sufficient. Ver-vert and Ma Chartreuse 
 are two poems by Jean Baptiste Gresset (1709-77), the former 
 of which gives an amusing account of the adventures of a pro 
 fane parrot in a convent of nuns, which brought upon the author 
 the censure of the church. The Belfagor of the celebrated states-
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 493 
 
 I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this 
 work, and of its probable influence on the hypochon 
 driac, when one evening, having informed me ab 
 ruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, he stated 
 his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, 
 
 man and writer Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527) is a satire 
 concerning marriage, the Devil being forced to admit that hell is 
 preferable to his wife's society. The Heaven and Hell of Eman- 
 uel Swedenborg (1688-1772), the great Swedish mystic and 
 founder of the sect that bears his name, consists of extracts from 
 his more important work, the Arcana Ccdestia. The Nicolai 
 Klimmi Iter Subterraneum was a widely celebrated poem by the 
 great poet and scholar, Ludwig Holberg (born at Bergen in Nor 
 way, 1684, died at Copenhagen, 1754), who is preeminent among 
 the earlier Scandinavian writers for his genius and his erudition. 
 Chiromancy means divination by means of the hand (palmistry 
 applied to the future) ; and Poe refers to works on physiognomy 
 (hardly, it would seem, to specific books on chiromancy) by the 
 English mystic, Robert Fludd (1574-1637), and by two conti 
 nental writers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries respec 
 tively. The work of Ludwig Tieck (1773-1853), the great 
 German romanticist to which Poe refers, may be found in his 
 Works (1852-54) vol. viii. The Civitas iSolis is a celebrated 
 sketch of an ideal state (cf . Plato's Republic and Here's Utopia) 
 by the great Italian philosopher, Tomaso Campanella (1568- 
 1639), whom the Inquisition persecuted with horrible severity. 
 The work cited, with inverted title, with regard to this terrible 
 institution, is a minute account of its methods by N. Eymerich, 
 inquisitor-general for Castile in 1356. Pomponius Mela was a 
 Spaniard who wrote a famous work on geography (De Situ Or- 
 bis) in the first century A. D. (^Egipan, by the way, is really 
 nothing but an epithet applied to Pan because he guarded goats.] 
 The Vigilice Mortuorum has not been discovered by Professoi 
 Woodberry under the title Poe gives at length, but books of & 
 similar character exist which probably supplied Poe with a hint 
 for his own title. The expression " quarto Gothic " means that 
 the book was a quarto (t. e. one in which the leaf is a fourth 
 part of a sheet), and printed in an early form of black- faced 
 and pointed letters. (The epithet " Gothic " can hardly hare 
 its liturgic use here.)
 
 494 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 (previously to its final interment) in one of the nu 
 merous vaults within the main walls of the building. 
 The worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular 
 proceeding was one which I did not feel at liberty to 
 dispute. The brother had been led to his resolution 
 (so he told me) by consideration of the unusual char 
 acter of the malady of the deceased, of certain ob 
 trusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medi 
 cal men, and of the remote and exposed situation of 
 the burial-ground of the family. I will not deny that 
 when I called to mind the sinister countenance of the 
 person whom I met upon the staircase, on the day of 
 my arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose 
 what I regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no 
 means an unnatural, precaution. 
 
 At the request of Usher, I personally aided him 
 in the arrangements for the temporary entombment. 
 The body having been encoffiued, we two alone bore 
 it to its rest. The vault in which we placed it (and 
 which had been so long unopened that our torches, 
 half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us 
 little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, 
 and entirely without means of admission for light ; 
 lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that por 
 tion of the building in which was my own sleeping 
 apartment. It had been used apparently, in remote 
 feudal times, for the worst purposes of a donjon-keep, 
 and in later days as a place of deposit for powder, 
 or some other highly combustible substance, as a 
 portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a long 
 archway through which we reached it, were carefully 
 sheathed with copper. The door, of massive iron, had 
 been also similarly protected. Its immense weight 
 caused an unusually sharp grating sound as it moved 
 upon its hinges.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 495 
 
 Having deposited our mournful burden upon tres- 
 sels within this region of horror, we partially turned 
 aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked 
 upon the face of the tenant. A striking similitude 
 between the brother and sister now first arrested my 
 attention ; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, 
 murmured out some few words from which I learned 
 that the deceased and himself had been twins, and 
 that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had 
 always existed between them. Our glances, however, 
 rested not long upon the dead, for we could not 
 regard her unawed. The disease which had thus en 
 tombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as 
 usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical charac 
 ter, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and 
 the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon 
 the lip which is so terrible in death. We replaced and 
 screwed down the lid, and having secured the door of 
 iron, made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less 
 gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house. 
 
 And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, 
 an observable change came over the features of the 
 mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary man 
 ner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were 
 neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to 
 chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless step. 
 The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possi 
 ble, a more ghastly hue, but the luminousness of his 
 eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional hus- 
 kiness of his tone was heard no more ; and a tremu 
 lous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually char 
 acterized his utterance. There were times, indeed, 
 when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was 
 laboring with some oppressive secret, to divulge
 
 496 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 which he struggled for the necessary courage. At 
 times, again, I was obliged to resolve all into the mere 
 inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him 
 gazing upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of 
 the prof oundest attention, as if listening to some ima 
 ginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition 
 terrified that it infected me. I felt creeping upon 
 me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of 
 his own fantastic yet impressive superstitions. 
 
 It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the 
 night of the seventh or eighth day after the placing 
 of the lady Madeline within the donjon, 1 that I ex 
 perienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep 
 came not near my couch, while the hours waned and 
 waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervous 
 ness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to 
 believe that much if not all of what I felt was due to 
 the bewildering influence of the gloomy furniture of 
 the room, of the dark and tattered draperies which, 
 tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tem 
 pest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the walls, and 
 rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. 
 But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepressible tremor 
 gradually pervaded my frame; and at length there 
 sat upon my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless 
 alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, 
 I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering ear 
 nestly within the intense darkness of the chamber, 
 hearkened I know not why, except that an instinct 
 ive spirit prompted me to certain low and indefinite 
 sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, 
 at long intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered 
 
 1 The inner stronghold of a castle. The word is a variant of 
 "dungeon." See page 80, line 27.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 497 
 
 by an intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet 
 unendurable, I threw on my clothes with haste (for I 
 felt that I should sleep no more during the night), 
 and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable 
 condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly 
 to and fro through the apartment. 
 
 I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a 
 light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my atten 
 tion. I presently recognized it as that of Usher. In 
 an instant afterward he rapped with a gentle touch at 
 my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His counte' 
 nance was, as usual, cadaverously wan but, more 
 over, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes, 
 an evidently restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. 
 His air appalled me but anything was preferable to 
 the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even 
 welcomed his presence as a relief. 
 
 "And you have not seen it?" he said abruptly, 
 after having stared about him for some moments in 
 silence, " you have not then seen it ? but, stay 1 
 you shall." Thus speaking, and having carefully 
 shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, 
 and threw it freely open to the storm. 
 
 The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly 
 lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestu 
 ous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singu 
 lar in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had 
 apparently collected its force in our vicinity, for there 
 were frequent and violent alterations in the direction 
 of the wind ; and the exceeding density of the clouds 
 (which hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the 
 house) did not prevent our perceiving the life-like 
 velocity with which they flew careering from all points 
 against each other, without passing away into the
 
 498 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 distance. I say that even their exceeding density 
 did not prevent our perceiving this ; yet we had no 
 glimpse of the moon or stars, nor was there any flash 
 ing forth of the lightning. But the under surfaces of 
 the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all ter 
 restrial objects immediately around us, were glowing 
 in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and dis 
 tinctly visible gaseous exhalation which hung about 
 and enshrouded the mansion. 
 
 "You must not you shall not behold this!" said 
 I shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him with a gentle 
 violence from the window to a seat. " These appear 
 ances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical phe 
 nomena not uncommon or it may be that they have 
 their ghastly origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. 
 Let us close this casement ; the air is chilling and 
 dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favor 
 ite romances. I will read, and you shall listen; 
 and so we will pass away this terrible night together." 
 
 The antique volume which I had taken up was 
 the " Mad Trist " of Sir Launcelot Canning ; 1 but I 
 had called it a favorite of Usher's more in sad jest 
 than in earnest ; for, in truth, there is little in its 
 uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have 
 had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my 
 friend. It was, however, the only book immediately 
 at hand ; and I indulged a vague hope that the ex 
 citement which now agitated the hypochondriac might 
 find relief (for the history of mental disorder is full 
 of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of the 
 folly which I should read. Could I have judged, 
 indeed, by the wild, overstrained air of vivacity with 
 
 1 Professor Woodberry has not found this book, and it is more 
 than likely that Poe invented both the title and the extracts.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 499 
 
 which he hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the 
 words of the tale, I might well have congratulated 
 myself upon the success of my design. 
 
 I had arrived at that well-known portion of the 
 story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having 
 sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwell 
 ing of the hermit, proceeds to make good an entrance 
 by force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of 
 the narrative run thus : 
 
 " And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty 
 heart, and who was now mighty withal on account of 
 the powerfulness of the wine which he had drunken, 
 waited no longer to hold parley with the hermit, who, 
 in sooth, was of an obstinate and malicef ul turn, but, 
 feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the 
 rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and 
 with blows made quickly room in the plankings of the 
 door for his gauntleted hand ; and now, pulling there 
 with sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all 
 asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding 
 wood alarumed 1 and reverberated throughout the for 
 est." 
 
 At the termination of this sentence I started, and 
 for a moment paused ; for it appeared to me (al 
 though I at once concluded that my excited fancy had 
 deceived me) it appeared to me that from some 
 very remote portion of the mansion there came, indis 
 tinctly, to my ears, what might have been in its exact 
 similarity of character the echo (but a stifled and 
 dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping 
 sound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly de 
 scribed. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence alone 
 
 1 That is, alarmed. The whole tone of the passage suggests an 
 intentional heightening of what was at best an absurd style.
 
 500 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 which had arrested my attention ; for, amid the rat 
 tling of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary 
 commingled noises of the still increasing storm, the 
 sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should 
 have interested or disturbed me. I continued the 
 story: 
 
 " But the good champion Ethelred, now entering 
 within the door, was sore enraged and amazed to per 
 ceive no signal of the maliceful hermit ; but, in the 
 stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious de 
 meanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard 
 before a palace of gold with a floor of silver ; and 
 upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass 
 with this legend en written : 
 
 Who eutereth herein, a conqueror hath bin ; 
 Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. 
 
 And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the 
 head of the dragon, which fell before him, and gave 
 up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, 
 and withal so piercing, that Ethelred had fain l to close 
 his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of 
 it, the like whereof was never before heard." 
 
 Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feel 
 ing of wild amazement, for there could be no doubt 
 whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear 
 (although from what direction it proceeded I found 
 it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant. 
 but harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming 01 
 grating sound, the exact counterpart of what my 
 fancy had already conjured up for the dragon's un 
 natural shriek as described by the romancer. 
 
 Oppressed as I certainly was, upon the occurrence 
 of this second and most extraordinary coincidence, 
 1 Generally " was fain," f. e. was glad, or content
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 501 
 
 by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder 
 and extreme terror were predominant, I still retained 
 sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any 
 observation, the sensitive nervousness of my com 
 panion. I was by no means certain that he had 
 noticed the sounds in question ; although, assuredly, 
 a strange alteration had during the last few minutes 
 taken place in his demeanor. From a position front 
 ing my own, he had gradually brought round his chair, 
 so as to sit with his face to the door of the chamber ; 
 and thus I could but partially perceive his features, 
 although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were 
 murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon 
 his breast ; yet I knew that he was not asleep, from 
 the wide and rigid opening of the eye as I caught a 
 glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, 
 was at variance with this idea, for he rocked from 
 side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform 
 sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I 
 resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus 
 proceeded : 
 
 " And now the champion, having escaped from the 
 terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the 
 brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchant 
 ment which was upon it, removed the carcass from out 
 of the way before him, and approached valorously 
 over the silver pavement of the castle to where the 
 shield was upon the wall ; which in sooth tarried not 
 for his full coming, but fell down at his feet upon the 
 silver floor, with a mighty great and terrible ringing 
 sound." 
 
 No sooner had these syllables passed my lips than 
 as if a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, 
 fallen heavily upon a floor of silver I became aware
 
 502 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous yet 
 apparently muffled reverberation. Completely un 
 nerved, I leaped to my feet ; but the measured rock 
 ing movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed 
 to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent 
 fixedly before him, and throughout his whole counte 
 nance there reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed 
 my hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong 
 shudder over his whole person ; a sickly smile quiv 
 ered about his lips ; and I saw that he spoke in a low, 
 hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of 
 my presence. Bending closely over him, I at length 
 drank in the hideous import of his words. 
 
 " Not hear it ? yes, I hear it, and have heard it. 
 Long long long many minutes, many hours, 
 many days, have I heard it, yet I dared not oh, 
 pity me, miserable wretch that I am ! I dared not 
 I dared not speak ! We have put her living in the 
 tomb ! 1 Said I not that my senses were acute ? I 
 now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in 
 the hollow coffin. I heard them many, many day? 
 ago yet I dared not I dared not speak ! And 
 now to-night Ethelred ha ! ha ! the break 
 ing of the hermit's door, and the death-cry of the 
 dragon, and the clangor of the shield ! say, rather, 
 the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron 
 hinges of her prison, and her struggles within the 
 coppered archway of the vault ! Oh, whither shall I 
 fly ? Will she not be here anon ? Is she not hurry 
 ing to upbraid me for my haste ? Have I not heard 
 
 1 Poe was morbidly interested in the subject of supposed 
 deaths and premature burials. He introduces it, for example, in 
 the present tale, in Ligeia, in Premature Burial, and in the ex 
 travaganza, Loss of Breath.
 
 THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. 508 
 
 her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish that 
 heavy and horrible beating of her heart ? Madman ' " 
 here he sprang furiously to his feet, and shrieked 
 out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up 
 his soul " Madman ! I tell you that she now stands 
 without the door ! " 
 
 As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance 
 there had been found the potency of a spell, the 
 huge antique panels to which the speaker pointed 
 threw slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous 
 and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing 
 gust but then without those doors there did stand 
 the lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline 
 of Usher ! There was blood upon her white robes, 
 and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every 
 portion of her emaciated frame. For a moment she 
 remained trembling and reeling to and fro upon the 
 threshold then, with a low moaning cry, fell heavily 
 inward upon the person of her brother, and, in her 
 violent and now final death agonies, bore him to the 
 floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had 
 anticipated. 
 
 From that chamber and from that mansion I fled 
 aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its wrath 
 as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Sud 
 denly there shot along the path a wild light, and I 
 turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have 
 issued ; for the vast house and its shadows were 
 alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, 
 setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly 
 through that once barely-discernible fissure, of which 
 I have before spoken as extending from the roof of 
 the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While 
 I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened there came
 
 504 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 a fierce breath of the whirlwind the entire orb of 
 the satellite burst at once upon my sight my brain 
 reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder 
 there was a long, tumultuous shouting sound like the 
 voice of a thousand waters and the deep and dank 
 tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the 
 fragments of the " House of Usher.'*
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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