'■^J°^i/3J/.Sa7ii 5o-7:i 2/";i-j POEMS OF NATURE AND LIFE JOHN WITT RANDALL »» EDITED BY FRANCIS ELLINGWOOD ABBOT With an Introduction on the Randall Family "Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart" BOSTON GEORGE H. ELLIS 272 Congress Street kt Mi COPYRIGHT, 1899, FKAN'CIS ELLINGWOOD ABBOT. All Rights Reserved. GEO. H.ELLIS, PRINTER, C72 CONGRESS ST., BOSTON. TO J. W. R. JDaxzling the honors of successful crime. Deafening the plaudits of triumphant wrong I But thou, great heart, didst glorify by song A life too short, yet sweet, pure, true, sublime : To Worth — unknown, dead in forgotten time, Tet by one royal soul remembered long. With love and grief that years but made more strong — Thou reardst thy ^^ humble monument of rhymed O Friend I in all this labyrinthine maze Of human follies, falsities, and phlegms. Still looms thine obelisk with stones that blaze — Tr uths more resplendent than those thievish gems That flash superb, proud of Heaven s stolen rays. In coronets, tiaras, diadems. F. E. A. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION: THE RANDALL FAMILY. Page Part I. The "Consolations of Solitude," 1856 . . 9 II. The Randall Genealogy 39 III. Randall and his Early Friends .... 46 IV. A Boy's First Impressions of Randall . 68 V. A Boy's Journals 72 VI. Randall's Letters 99 VII. Brother and Sister in Old Age .... 193 VIII. The Great Use of a Great Fortune . . 208 IX. Randall's Death 216 X. Randall's Message to the World . . . 220 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE. Original Title-page (facsimile) .231 Original Inscription 233 Original Introduction Author to his Book in Early Spring . '. 235 To the Reader 236 Original Index (unchanged). *jt*The brace connects the titles of certain poems placed side by side on account either of resemblance or contrast. Dedication 237 Ode to God 239 Philosopher in Search of a Religion 243 ( Dying Vision of Benedict Arnold . 248 C Last Moments of Nathan Hale 253 CONTENTS Page Retrospect 256 Lament of Orpheus 259 To the Shade of Samuel Adams 263 Marriage of Truth and Beauty . 269 To a Snow-covered Apple-tree . . . • 271 Assabet Brook and River 273 To an Alchemist 282 . To Louis Cornaro 285 Ode to Conscience 287 Morn, Noon, and Night of a Summer's Day 299 The Rivulet 303 New Year's Wish 304 Hermit of Melvern Water . . . . , 305 The Solitary Man 313 Railway Train. First Treatment 320 Railway Train. Second Treatment . 321 The Mountain Journey 324 To a Learned Man dreading Old Age ....... 328 The Experienced Philosopher 330 To the Memory of Washington 334 The Soul's Invocation 335 Ode to Oblivion 339 Spring Morning of a Bereaved Man 342 Robert Burns 348 To a WorldHng Tired of Country Life 351 Poet and Toll-gatherer 353 A Vision of the Western World 358 Medicean Venus 364 Ode to Hope 365 Ode to Fancy 370 The Poet. First Treatment 375 The Poet. Second Treatment 376 The Poet. Third Treatment 379 The Poet. Fourth Treatment 381 CONTENTS 7 Page The River Revisited 385 The Old and the New Hero 390 To the Manes of Marshall Haynau 393 Time Discovering Truth 396 Life 398 A Last Word to " The Waterfowl " 402 Ode to Truth. First Treatment 403 Ode to Truth. Second Treatment 405 Ode to Celestial Love 409 Notes 411 { METAMORPHOSES OF LONGING. Part L The Waking of Fancy in the Spring . . 421 IL The Fairies' Festival ' . . 431 in. Fancy's Kaleidoscope 466 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. The Unbroken Lawn 511 The Old Ship-master 516 The Dream of Orestes 521 Abelard and Eloisa 527 An Early Scene Revisited 539 Regret 549 "Vos non Vobis" 552 The Suicide's Grave 553 Ideal Love 555 Harvard's Procession 559 The Two Temples 564 NOTE. The likeness which is inserted as a frontispiece to the " Con- solations of Solitude " is reproduced from the best of a dozen daguerreotypes, taken as a special gift for me at my request, about 1853, when Dr. Randall w^s forty years old. The fine steel engraving which stands as a general frontispiece to " Poems of Nature and Life" was made from a photograph taken in March or April, 1885, just before his first paralytic stroke, when he was seventy-one. F. E. A. INTRODUCTION. THE RANDALL FAMILY. I. The poems here collected, although published in part more than forty years ago, are in truth now given to the world for the first time. In 1856, a small volume in black or brown cloth binding, very unpretentious in appearance and altogether unheralded by advertisements, was printed and put on sale for a while in Boston by John P. Jewett and Company, well known at the time as the publishers of " Uncle Tom's Cabin." The book was entitled " Consola- tions of Solitude," and went out anonymously to meet the fate which is common to anonymous books, especially when, like this one, they are published at the author's expense and get no help from the trade. A few copies were sold ; more were given away. The author, too proud to permit what he called "puffery," and too jealous of the poet's high calling to sanction the pushing of his work by means which he thought detracted from its dignity, refused to resort even to quite legitimate advertising, and chose to let his strains die unheard rather than to force them, or even seem to force them, on a single unwilling ear. The result could easily be foreseen, and it would be quite unfair to hold the publisher alone responsible for it. Indeed, the poet himself never complained of his pub- lisher for not advertising the book, and, when the vener- I O INTR OB UC TION able Joseph T. Buckingham seemed to m.ake that complaint in his behalf in the "Evening Transcript" of February 15, 1856, wrote this note in a private copy of his own : "This is, perhaps, hardly fair to Mr. Jewett, because the work is a private one, and Mr. Jewett's offer to purchase the right of publishing was not accepted by the author. Jewett's puff- ing system is a real mischief to an honest literature, and an author of self-respect would hardly submit to it ; still I do not know that he is less liberal than other publishers. I am told that none will advertise on a mere commission." But, happening to step into the store where his book was announced to be on sale, and finding no copies there which were not hidden under the counter, the poet ordered all the remaining copies of the edition to be sent to his own residence, and gave them away privately to any persons who desired to read them. Possibly these facts may lend new interest to the introductory poem, " The Author to his Book in Early Spring," and the lines "to the Reader." They show, at least, how singularly sincere were the senti- ments there expressed. But the poems thus noiselessly dropped into the noisy river of modern literature did not altogether fail to reach appreciative minds. Despite the disadvantages of slovenly printing and (it must be confessed) occasional slovenliness of composition, despite some technical defects of structure, form, and expression, and the graver defect of a too fre- quent lapse into the monotone of didacticism, there was yet something in the "Consolations of Solitude" which arrested and held the admiration of undoubtedly competent judges — something of power, originality, beauty, wisdom, true inspiration, which must still charm those who can dis- cern what is most precious in literature. It is altogether fitting, and in truth a sacred duty to the dead, to preserve THE RANDALL FAMILY II in this place some record of the appreciation accorded to these poems more than forty years ago. Mr. Richard Henry Dana, Senior, the venerable author of " The Buccaneers," and one of the founders of the " North American Review" in May, 1815, wrote the following letter to the poet's sister : — My dear Miss Randall, When you called at my house and left for me with your name a copy of your brother's volume of poetry, I was ill, and from that time to the present have scarcely for a day been free from more or less trouble, particularly in the head, which has at times prevented my reading at all. I have of course been in no state for reading poetry, espe- cially that which was new to me. I have, notwithstand- ing, read a few of the pieces, and will no longer delay tell- ing you how much I have been struck with their deep thoughtfulness, which does not seem to be so much awak- ened for the time by an object or subject calling it up as to be a state habitual to the mind, and subjecting to its power whatever comes across that mind. Here is also shown an eye most observant of nature, constantly noting what would pass under most eyes unseen, its minuter forms and subtile changes such as the eye of love alone would see. Here are wise thoughts, too, expressed with a close- ness which comes of strength and imparts strength, and the language is plain mother-English, comforting and re- freshing to one wearied of the so prevalent affected and strained and obscure phraseology of these days. I will not now stay to particularise the pieces which I have read, but I cannot pass by " A Spring Morning " — is it .-* (A friend has my copy.) What a beauty in its tender sadness ! How true in its many and varied objects in nature, follow- I 2 INTR OD UC TION ing one on another as the affections turned towards them or were touched and saddened or soothed by them ! I know not where I have met with anything of the kind which has so deeply, yet so gently moved me. I may not stay to play the critic now, but only to request you to thank your brother in my name for the pleasure he has given me — the kind oi pleasure. With great esteem, Richard H. Dana. 43 Chestnut St., Feb. 15th, 1856. Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote to the poet himself as follows : — Concord, ii Sept. 1856. My dear Sir, I thank you heartily for your kind gift of the Poems, so truly named, and so truly written. I had borrowed them of Elizabeth Hoar, and read them with much interest, as celebrating places and experiences which are mine also ; and I pleased myself that, some day, our walks might meet — you at the extreme of your ramble and I at the extreme of mine. I sent E. H. some note of what I found in the book. Now I shall keep it by me for the weather and mood that require it. I have no verses to send you in re- turn, but shall ask my publisher to send you a copy of my " English Notes," and, if the prose is extreme, I hope you will lay it to the necessities of the theme. With great regard, yours, R.' W. Emerson. Mr. Randall. THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 3 Rev. Jones Very, known to many as a poet of rarest delicacy and beauty of thought, sent this note of acknowl- edgment : Mr. John W. Randall. Dear Sir, — I feel much indebted to you for the volume of your Poems which I received through our common friend Mr. Whipple. Mr. Whipple presented me with a copy of your volume not long after its publication, which I read with much pleasure and highly prize. I sent a short notice of it to the Salem " Gazette " with extracts, wishing to call the attention of others to the work. The "Ode to Conscience" I think striking and subhme. "A Last Word to ' The Waterfowl ' " and others please me. I shall value highly the copy you have sent, especially as containing your last corrections. I hope the opportunity will be given us of becoming personally acquainted. Your friend, Jones Very. Salem, Jan'y 26th, 1857. Mr. Epes Sargent, who had won distinction in almost every branch of literature, acknowledged receipt of a copy of the book in the following terms : — ROXBURY, Jan. 22d, 1856. My dear Randall, Accept my thanks for your beautiful volume of poems. I have read many of the pieces (and expect to read all) with the sincerest pleasure. The opening stanzas (" Dedi- cation") seem to me very beautiful and touching. I have read that and the " Ode to God," together with the two 14 INTRODUCTION introductory pieces, aloud to my wife, and she agrees with me in admiring them. I would like to make a notice of the book for the " Transcript," or some other Boston paper. I shall want to make some extracts, and it will facilitate my purpose if you can give me some loose sneets of the book from the binder, as I cannot think of marring my own copy. I was sorry that I was not at home when you called. It will give me pleasure to see you at my house in Roxbury whenever it is in your power to make me a visit. Should you be able to let me have some of the loose sheets, let your publishers send them to me at Phil- lips, Sampson & Co.'s, 13 Winter St. Believe me, with sincere regard. Your friend, Epes Sargent. J. W. Randall, Esq. Boston. Rev. Dr. Ephraim Peabody, minister of King's Chapel, Boston, who, although not himself an author, was as widely admired for his literary taste as he was deeply venerated for his personal character, thus expressed to the poet his appreciation of the "Consolations of Solitude" : — 54 Chambers St., Jan. 11, 1856. My dear Sir, I cannot better express the pleasure which I have re- ceived from your volume than by saying that, with the exception of one or two pieces, I read the whole of it on the evening I received it, and parts of it twice, and with more gratification the second time than the first. I am delighted with your descriptions of nature, especially " As- sabet Brook and River," "The Mountain Journey," and THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 5 SO forth. I do not know but I like better still the blended contemplative philosophy and poetry of such pieces as the " Ode to God, as he appears to the child," and so forth. Whether or not I was just in the mood for it, I cannot say, but I was charmed with the " Retrospect." I will not, however, refer to particular poems, I will only say in general that, in addition to other things, I am particu- larly impressed by the number of lines and stanzas I should be glad to retain in the memory, on account of their felicitous expression of some striking thought. I am greatly pleased at seeing your self-criticisms in the altera- tions you have made in words. It makes the copy as good as an "engraving before the letter" — is that the phrase .'' I wish that the admirable piece on " The Poet : Fourth Treatment" might be read, studied, and inwardly digested by our modern poets, and that they might then ponder the full meaning of "The Nuptials" of Beauty and Truth. But I am writing a letter instead of a note, and must close with again thanking you for your volume and the pleasure it has given me ; while I beg you to be- lieve me Very respectfully and sincerely yours, E. Peabody. J. W. Randall, Esq. The following two letters from Dr. Samuel Conant Foster, the poet's schoolfellow, classmate at Harvard, and lifelong friend, and one of the most distinguished physi- cians of his generation in New York City, written as they were eight years afterwards, throw great light on the rea- sons why the " Consolations of Solitude " were so little known at the time of publication : — 1 6 INTRO D UCTION New York, Aug. lo, 1864. Dear John, You are a very mean fellow. You are an outrageous curmudgeon. You deserve to be exposed. I have a great mind to (I have more than once vowed that I would) re- view you. What right have you, I should like to know, to keep such poems as these to yourself } They belong to your friends, if not to the public, and it is a wrong to them, and, I insist upon it, a wrong to poor human nat- ure, which has few enough of these " Consolations," to keep them locked up in your desk, or to quarrel with your printer because he wished to make them known. Seriously, your volume has afforded me unmingled de- light. Before I had had the book forty-eight hours, I had read it through, and many of the poems several times. Since then I have recurred to it again and again, and am really annoyed to think it could have been in print so long without my knowing it. During the long period of ill health which I went through, I used often to long for some new poetry, and, if I had had your book, should have got most of it by heart. Now one object of this communication is this : namely, to beg of you to publish the rest of your six volumes and as many more as you can write — to publish them, I say, not merely print them ; and this includes the sending copies to the newspapers in the usual way (which is open to objections, certainly, but, being the usual way, it is un- wise to kick against it). I take it this is a class of your poems. I know it only shows one side of your mind. Let us see, let the public see, the whole of it, or at least such parts as it would not be painful to you to expose. Of course, every man has a right to a private recess in his soul that no mortal may in- THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 7 trude upon ; but I deny his right to pretend that his entire soul is a " holy of holies." It belongs partly to himself and partly to his fellow-beings. If I lived in Boston, wouldn't I unearth you .-* Wouldn't I drag you out of your den ? Hoard up the productions of others' genius as much as you please, and gloat over the possession of this and that and the other treasure — but don't lock up your own inspirations ! Come, you have collected a splendid lot of choice works of art. You have taken thetn out of the world, now I think of it. On the whole, have you not been doing mis- chief all this time in absorbing all these gems } Would they not have delighted a great many more people, if they had knocked about till they got worn out .'' And then you propose to have them decently interred in Harvard College. If you do, by thunder, I will not rest till I see your name painted on a big board, and affixed to some of the college buildings as they do those of munificent donors: vide "Thos. Hollis," " Soc. Prom. Evang." &c, " Wales," and the rest ! But, however you inter your engravings and drawings, I protest against your poems being so interred. And don't let me hear again of your losing volumes of manuscript in " ponds at Stow," or else- where ! Alcott accused T. Carlyle (in a letter to Emerson) of " inhospitality to his thought." We are disposed to be hospitable to your thought, but you deny us the pleasure of its society. Don't do so any more. Get your other poems published. Don't be so unflinchingly unlike every- body else in this matter, at least. I am bound to go to Boston again next summer on purpose to unearth you. So prepare your mind for it. 1 8 INTRODUCTION I meant, when I began this letter, to have pointed out some things in your book that particularly pleased me, but I have no time at present to write more. Do you never come to New York ? I should be glad to see you here, and can give you lodging and bread enough to keep you from starving (I say nothing of butter at present rates!). Try it some time this fall or winter. Yours very sincerely, S. CoNANT Foster. 59 West ssth St. New York, Aug. ii, 1864. Dear John, I wrote you yesterday and sent the letter today. But that is no reason why I should not write you today and send the letter tomorrow, or when I please. I have been reading some of your poems again, and I must write you again. I have not the poetical faculty. But I have, thank God, the faculty of appreciating it wherever I find it, and I should not be doing justice to myself or you, if I did not express what I feel. You know very well, or ought to know, that I am no flatterer ; and you will therefore give me credit for sincerity, when I try to convince you that you ought to give greater publicity to your poems. Shall a man who has the gift of music refuse to let others hear his melodies ? This is the part of a churl, and it is not your spirit. Why, such things as these of yours are the very pabulum of the soul ! I have known you from boyhood, but I have not appre- ciated you hitherto. I have, it is true, always perceived that you were capable of great things, but I did not think THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 9 you would ever accomplish them. I have looked upon you as leading an idle and therefore useless life. But I was wrong. If you should do nothing more than you have done in writing this volume of poems, you will have accomplished more than the majority of men — more, I mean, for the good of the human race. Good food, when taken into a healthy stomach, not only sustains life for the time, but increases the power of digestion and creates an appetite for more. It is the same with the soul's ali- ment. I know when I have dined on roast beef, and can tell by the effect that it is not charlotte-russe and whip- syllabub. I have had more than one hearty meal out of your volume. (Excuse the shop !) Now, if it were nec- essary, in order to induce people to eat roast beef, to puff it in the newspapers, I should certainly advise its being done, that the consumption might not be confined to the enlightened few. My father, being a knowing one, used to eat tomatoes when the rest of the world considered them poisonous. There is no such apprehension in the present case, and all people want is to be invited to par- take of the dish — to have it set before them. I hope that, the next time you make a contract with a publisher, you will let him puff you as much as he likes. What harm does it do you } The judicious understand that that is a mere publisher's expedient to make the book sell. They form their opinions independently. But they might never have had a chance to form any opinions at all in the case, if the matter had not been thrust upon their notice in a way that you would regard, and justly, as a species of charlatanry. It is no use to kick against the pricks ; and, if quackish procedures serve occasionally to bring a good thing into sight that would otherwise remain hidden, there is some good even in quackery. 20 INTRODUCTION Think of these things. Perhaps I am wrong, after all, in supposing that your book is so little known. If so, accuse my unfortunate position here, getting a precarious livelihood out of a commercial community, whose spirit, perhaps, infects me a little, much as I loathe it. Write to me when you have time, and believe me ever Your sincere friend, S. CoNANT Foster. 59 West 35TH St. The few letters already quoted, the only ones which have been preserved, are not the sole record of the impression made at the time by the mingled tenderness and austerity of these poems, in which the love of beauty, the reverence for goodness, and the passion for truth seem contending for the mastery, yet in which there is manifest an almost fierce contempt for meretricious ornament. Among the papers intrusted to me is a retained copy of an undated letter, marked on the outside in the poet's handwriting — " From J. W. R. to Mr. Bryant." This letter is so charac- teristic, so proud and yet so shy, so suggestive of the solitude in which the writer spent his life, that it belongs here. Respected Sir, The esteem which from my youth up I have entertained for your printed poems induces me to ask your acceptance of the little book which accompanies this note, and which a friend kindly offers to place in your hands. I do not know that any apology for so doing is necessary, believing that the motive above suggested has been always accepted THE RANDALL FAMILY 21 among authors and artists as a justification of similar in- trusions. Although personally unknown to you, I may truly say that to me you do by no means seem like a stranger. Your poetical works, old and new, are identi- fied with my most agreeable recollections. Your "Green River," "The Waterfowl," and "The Lapse of Time" were scarcely more familiar to my earliest associations than are "The Crowded Street" and " The Apennines " to my more recent ones ; and I truly wish that the spirit of those pieces might be influential in subduing to the enjoyment of simple and thoughtful pleasures that restless spirit of my countrymen which, impatient of restraint, even that of contemplativeness, pushes ever aimlessly on from excitement to excitement. I do not subscribe my name, because I intend only a tribute of respect. I well know that I have no claims upon your time, and do not wish you to feel it necessary, from motives of courtesy, to give yourself the trouble of acknowledgment. Suffice it to say that, if you should obtain from these little pieces a very small portion of the same kind of pleasure which I have been all my life deriving from your own, it will be to me a source of sub- stantial satisfaction. I am, &c, with great respect. To this unsigned letter, of course, no reply was sent. But the New York' "Evening Post" of December 17, 1856, contained a notice of the new poems which was written by William Cullen Bryant himself, and which for that reason is here reproduced, as follows : — 22 INTRODUCTION "We have here a volume of poems by one who holds the character of the poet in high esteem, remembering the time when 'the sacred name Of Poet and of Prophet was the same,' and believing that great gifts of the mind should only be used for noble purposes. His notion of the proper voca- tion of the poet is expressed in four successive poems, closing with these lines [Mr. Bryant then quoted the three concluding stanzas of 'The Poet : Fourth Treatment']. "The volume before us is published without the name of the author, but it is ascribed to Dr. J. W. Randall, of Boston, who has found time amid more practical studies and pursuits to produce verses worthy of a high place among compositions of their class. They are the offspring of a mind more attentive to the essential forms and elements of beauty than to their decoration. There is not a single scrap of tinsel in the whole volume. The author is not afraid of what is homely, provided it be true ; and in this peculiarity of his genius, or rather in this manly and sincere taste, he reminds us of the older poets of the English language, to whom we turn when wearied with the artificial graces of modern verse. "■ These poems are either descriptive or meditative, and of each the author has given us successful examples. Of the first, 'The Assabet Brook and River' and 'The Morn- ing, Noon, and Night of a Summer's Day ' are among the most remarkable. As a specimen of the other class, we extract the following, not because it is the best, but because it shows the author's power of investing a not very promis- ing subject with beauty." [Mr. Bryant concludes the notice by quoting in full the poem "To Louis Cornaro."] THE RANDALL FAMILY 23 Mr. Edwin P. Whipple, whose reputation at the time stood second to that of no New England writer in respect to delicacy of critical insight or soundness of literary judg- ment, wrote the following notice in some Boston journal of which neither name nor date is preserved in the printed slip here copied : — " These poems are evidently the production of a mind of no common order, a mind which has earned the right to a direct communion with Nature by watching her every mood, and which fearlessly flings at artificial life the moni- tions and sarcasms which are learned in her austere school. Though evidently the work of a man accomplished both in literature and science, it derives little aid from either, if we except the habits of mind which are induced by study. The individuality of the writer is always prominent, lead- ing him to state nothing which he has not himself seen, thought, or experienced, and to toss scornfully, aside the traditional commonplaces and common phrases of poetry. This independence, while it makes him instinctively avoid all pretence, sentimental hypocrisy, and imitation, is not without the wilfulness which independence of mind is so apt to produce. It occasionally leads him to the choice of topics not essentially poetical, to give an undue emphasis to his own moods, to fall into rugged modes of expression in his desire to avoid the stereotyped phraseology and har- monies of versification, and to impress on his woodland notes a character rather rustical than sylvan. But these faults are more than counterbalanced by his power of keen, vigilant and accurate observation, his quaint energy of statement, his sympathy with all those forms of manhood which have in them the tough vitality of New England nature, his frequent depth and delicacy of perception and 24 INTRODUCTION novelty of combination, and his direct grasp and earnest expression of those sentiments and principles which purify, invigorate and elevate life." Mr. Joseph Hale Abbot, formerly professor of English and mathematics in Phillips Exeter Academy and after- wards for a quarter of a century principal of a private school for young ladies in Boston, a member and for two years the recording secretary of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, contributed to the " Boston Daily Ad- vertiser" (then edited by his kinsman, the late Hon. Nathan Hale) the following notice of his friend's poems : — " Mr. Hale : Will you allow me a small space in your columns to call attention to a little book which has recently been pubhshed by John P. Jewett & Co. } It is entitled 'Consolations of Solitude.' Amid the crowd of new books which usher in the year, this little visitant has stolen in so quietly that it is in danger of being overlooked, because very few persons know even of its existence. None of the common means of forestalling opinion and creating a mar- ket have been employed. A very small edition only has been published, and this was heralded by no advertise- ments, while it has been followed by scarcely more. Its unobtrusive name, blank title-page, and simple binding are little suited to attract any but seekers for hidden merit. And, lastly, of this small edition, none, as far as we can find, have been sent to Mr. Jewett' s associated firms or to the other booksellers in this city. These circumstances are trifles, except so far as they indicate the character of the book and the author. We have dwelt upon them be- cause we have been given to understand that it was the THE RANDALL FAMILY 2$ author's wish alone which caused his Httle book to appear so quietly. His feelings, however, can be interpreted by his own address to the reader far better than by any words of mine : — ' If aught here painted to thy soul or sight Of moral truth or natural scenes delight, Welcome ! for thou art straight a comrade grown, Who oft before hath walked with me unknown. Yet, if thy taste reject a thoughtful book, Forbear upon these pictures even to look : Seek not to know me, lest, thy labor o'er, We grow more perfect strangers than before.' " Yet it is no egotistical vanity which leads him to re- fuse to employ the devices, so needful at the present day, to bring any book, however good, before the public gaze- With rare modesty, he says to his book : — ' Farewell ! On none intrude ! The world is wide ; Go uncommended, dressed in plain attire. That none may save ye for a fair outside Who, if mean-clad, had cast ye to the fire. If ye be worthless, ye shall die, no doubt ; If ye be worthy, worth shall find ye out.' "It devolves, then, upon those who love the beautiful and the true to cherish this little stranger all the more tenderly because it comes to them unprotected and a foundling. " Passing from these accessories, which foretell to us the character of the book, one finds what well deserves to be called remarkable poems. The author is no disciple of the modern English school. In his view, truth is far love- lier in her native simplicity than when tricked out with fantastic gauds. It is truly refreshing to turn from the 26 INTRODUCTION tortured strains of some English versifiers and the puerile repetitions of others to these beautiful poems. Their phi- losophy is lofty, but not cold. We feel that we are with one who has loved and suffered much, but whose sorrow has only made him love his race the more. " It is hard to select particular pieces from this collec- tion for especial praise, because almost all, both in power and finish, stand far above the recent poems of the day. The * Lament of Orpheus,' a new treatment of an old subject, is finely conceived. It is written in an original metre of great beauty, and the effect is increased still more by the cumulative structure of the verse. But, if any one piece were to be selected as the great poem of the book, it would be the ' Ode to Conscience.' This rises to absolute grandeur. Its searching keenness pierces all disguise. It deserves to stand side by side with Derz- havin's ' Ode to God,' and the very best poems of Mr. Bryant. " The narrow limits of a newspaper criticism, however, allow no space for an analysis of this most interesting book. If these words shall induce any lover of poetry to read it, he will assuredly find that worth about which the author so modestly doubts. " We are tempted to look back to the day when, printed on coarse paper and bound in pamphlet form, the poems of Mr. Bryant were first given to the world. Time has at length arrayed them in a finer dress. No skill of the en- graver or the binder is now deemed too good to be used in adorning them. Worth has at length found them out. Perhaps the judgment of time will draw these little poems, also, from their retirement, and clothe them, too, in purple and fine linen. To one who reads them attentively, such a fate cannot seem strange, while by one who studies them it is almost to be anticipated." THE RANDALL FAMILY 2/ In the "North American Review" for October, 1856, Article XIII., Mr. Abbot reviewed the " Consolations of Solitude " at somewhat greater length, giving a variety of illustrative extracts. Some passages from this review may be properly added to the foregoing notice : — "The copyright of the volume of poems bearing this unpretending title is secured to John W. Randall, of Bos- ton, who from that circumstance, and from internal evi- dence, may be presumed to be the author. Dr. Randall is known to the public as the writer of several valuable papers on subjects of natural history, and as having been at one time a member of the scientific corps attached to the United States Antarctic Exploring Expedition, under the command of Lieut. Wilkes. The internal evidence to which we refer is the acquaintance with natural history incidentally shown in several of the poems, and, especially, in the admirable notes to 'The Mountain Journey.' These notes, and some of the poems, could have been written only by one whose mind was imbued with a strong love of the beautiful, and at the same time trained by scientific study to be observant of nature, not merely in its more prominent features, but in its minute forms and evanes- cent traits. "The epithet thoughtful applied to the book in these lines [To the Reader] is aptly descriptive of one of its leading characteristics. A deep thoughtfulness, called into vigorous action by whatever subject arrests his attention, and embodying itself in language always simple and per- spicuous, often singularly strong, terse, and elegant, seems to be a predominant feature of the author's mind. In these and other respects, the volume offers a striking con- trast to the inanity, affectation, and obscure and strained 2 8 INTR OD UC TION phraseology of much of the popular verse of the present day. The reader finds in it no far-fetched conceits, no vapid accumulation of mere words, no attempt to disguise commonplace ideas by distorting them into unnatural shapes and decking them out in glaring colors. " One of the most striking, and the only one founded upon a classical theme, is 'The Lament of Orpheus.' It is admirably conceived, and executed with a vividness of imagination and a condensed forcefulness of expression hardly surpassed, we think, by any poem on a classical subject in English literature. The measure in which it is written is original, and is suited to heighten by its cumula- tive structure the effect of the author's conceptions. We extract a few stanzas which describe the spell diffused by the lyre of Orpheus in the infernal regions, whither he had descended to recover his lost Eurydice. The rapid succession and sharp outlines of the pictures, deficient though they be in delicate limning, betray the bold and masterly touch of a genuine artist. "The author seems to have taken a comprehensive survey of human society, and to have acquired by a sort of imaginative induction a keen insight into numerous and diverse types of character. He measures life by a lofty standard, and has a warm sympathy with its highest forms. He pays a noble and just tribute to the memory of Samuel Adams, one of the purest, firmest, most disinterested, and magnanimous patriots of any age or country ; another to the memory of Captain Nathan Hale, who with accom- plishments, talents, and character that gave promise of dis- tinguished eminence, shrank from no service, nor from the imminent hazard of an ignominious death, provided he could be useful to his country, and perished in early man- hood, lamenting that he had but one life to lose in its THE RANDALL FAMILY 29 cause ; and another to the trans cendently great and glori- ous character of Washington, in which he illustrates, by a series of fine analogies, the proneness of mankind to un- derrate that superlative form of greatness in which all its elements, practical, intellectual, and moral, are blended in the truest symmetry and the highest perfection. In strik- ing contrast to these poems is ' The Dying Vision of Bene- dict Arnold,' in which the author portrays with great power the conflicting emotions of that bold, bad man : now scourged by remorse, — now, in total isolation from all human sympathy, cowering before the universal scorn and abhorrence of which he is the conscious object, — now defying mankind in impotent rage, — now courting death with courage borrowed from despair. " The longest poem in the volume is the ' Ode to ■ Con- science,' and we think it the most powerful, though not so artistically constructed and finished throughout as some others. It displays great vigor of conception, keenness of moral vision, and completeness of view, and in some pas- sages a rare clearness, compactness, and force of thought and expression." Some peculiar circumstances attending the publication of the " Consolations of Solitude," which throw light on the strong and proud, yet sensitive and scrupulous in- dividuality of the poet, are related by him in a letter to Mr. Abbot which is worth preserving here. Boston, Oct. 14, 1855. As you are pleased, my kind friend, to take interest in the progress of my negotiation, I will say that my success has equalled that of any man who chooses to put his hand 30 INTRODUCTION into his pocket and pay for his own work. After writing to you, I sent a note to Phillips & Sampson, who returned for answer that they published no original works in verse, but only reprints of foreign ones, and added that they were full of business for many months to come. I next sent a note to Ticknor, who answered that he was too busy to enter into new contracts before next Spring. So, resolved not to delay, and unwilling to abandon my copyright, I proposed to Mr. Jewett that he should be my agent and sell my work on commission, having determined that I would be at the sole expense of my own undertaking. To this he cheerfully assented (he had previously offered to be at all expenses except for stereotyping, and allow me fifteen per cent). After a few days, thinking that, if I allowed him the use of my plates for five years, he might still ad- here to his first offer, I went to him again ; but he said that it was his custom to claim the use of the plates until the expiration of the copyright. But, upon my saying that I might wish to collect into a body my present and future works, he said that a provision could be made to that effect, but that he should much prefer to be my agent than to advance money on the book and have the trouble of contracting for its publication. This he thought I could get done for about $325.00; although, if I was much bent upon it and could not make my own arrangements advan- tageously, he would not withdraw his offer, but, as the last proposition had come from myself, he should prefer to have me abide by my own proposal, I then told him that people were apt not to do those things so efficiently which they undertook for others on commission as when they themselves had a pecuniary interest involved, and asked him whether my affairs would really fare so well in his bands under the new arrangement as under the old. THE RANDALL FAMILY 3 1 Thereupon he laughed, and said he did not see where the difference lay, for whatever he undertook he considered it his duty to have properly performed. "Well," said I, "if you say so, I shall believe you, because you have been re- ported to me as a man of your word." So, as I really pre- ferred him to any other publisher and was pleased with his plain, straightforward way, I concluded to make my own contracts and to have the entire control of my work. Moreover, I was not willing that, if my book failed in his hands, he should owe his loss to any solicitation of mine. If this thought had not weighed with me, I think I could easily have induced him to contract with me for a term of years, as he seemed desirous to have me feel satisfied. I do not know whether I have not erred in making this last proposition. But I am sure that I should not have felt willing to abandon my property in the plates. As my book is a good book, it seems to me that it ought after a while to make its way, especially if any one should review it justly, which I wish that some man like Mr. Ephraim Peabody would do in the " North American," if it were but a few pages. Yet, though I shall send him a copy, and though I feel sure that he will like it, I should not suggest to him the doing of such a thing, because it would put him under a very unpleasant restraint, unless he should first have read it and should have expressed him- self very favorably concerning it. As I have forbidden all puffing, intending that the book shall sink or swim accord- ing to its strength, I should not be surprised if it lay asleep for long ; for I well know that studious and thoughtful persons (and for such it is designed) are the very last to be hunting up and down the earth after new books. Indeed, I scarcely hear of a book myself, till it has been going the rounds for five years. 32 INTRODUCTION As for the newspapers, I am aware that their criticisms go for little, unless the sincerity of the authors of them is perfectly apparent. I suppose, however, that Mr. Hale of the " Advertiser " would be apt to take some notice of a work in which the fate of a near relative of his own forms an important subject. However, although the extensive mention of a book may do much toward hastening its diffusion, I feel sure that it must depend on its own merits at last. As for my own, I am willing to commit it to the care of time ; fortunately, it is not written with expecta- tion of profit. I am aware that there are many other forms of payment for literary labors more gratifying to an author than money, and it is pleasant to perpetuate what one does in an indestructible form, I shall distribute copies of my book among all my friends, as well as others who derive enjoyment from it, and shall feel repaid for my outlay, even if there are not a hundred copies sold. Still, I wish it a better fate, and I cannot help thinking that, out of five hundred copies, many must by degrees reach the hands of the intelligent. Whatever may be its fate, I propose, provided my funds hold out, that five more works shall succeed the present ; and for these the en- graving collection must go lean for a time, if necessary. The next in order has been long since dedicated to Frank, and I anticipate agreeable amusement this winter in completing it. That which I am now about to have printed I have, to save expense, diminished from 375 pages to about 250, and defer the rest to a succeeding collection. It is agreed that Mr, Jewett's name shall be attached as the publisher ; I hope in January to bring a copy with me to Beverly. Mr. Peabody and his daughter called on me last week to look at prints. I find him no ordinary man. He grows THE RANDALL FAMILY 33 upon acquaintance, and I am pleased not only with his good taste, but with a certain vigor of imagination which enables him to regard a subject, not only as it appeals to the senses or understanding, but in its more romantic aspects. I have no doubt that he is a man to be loved by such as well know him. Yours truly, J. W. Randall. Mr. Joseph Hale Abbot, Beverly, Mass. The reply to Dr. Ephraim Peabody's letter of Jan. 1 1, 1856, which has been already given above, was as fol- lows : — Boston, Jan. 1856. My dear Sir, Your kind expression of sympathy with these children of my thoughts touches me, and I cannot help saying a few words in answer. It was indeed much my wish that you might like these little word-pictures, even as you enjoy those which are painted with the brush or etched with the needle, and it is true I did half think that they might please you. Yet I dared not feel quite sure of it, since we often deceive ourselves in such things. So warm an expression of your satisfaction, therefore, is very gratifying to me. Wont in life past to work much in silence, sometimes against opposition, I have at times seemed to myself little dependent on sympathy ; yet for that very reason, perhaps, that of the intelligent is the more agreeable to me. The poetic art seems to me in some things to have advantage over prose, less, perhaps, in pointing out the 34 INTRODUCTION steps by which truth is attained than in summing up its results and supplying the moral, thus winning men to a state of mind favorable to its reception. Without pre- cisely reasoning, it expresses in an apothegm the conclu- sion of reasoning, and this character gives it singular facilities of condensing thought. Thus it convinces, even while it stands aloof from polemics. It paints and sug- gests, yet is dogmatic in nothing. Saying to none, " It is you ! " it forces each one all the rather to say to himself, " It is I ! " It thus escapes the difficulties of debate, where the truth is seldom reached because the passions stand in the way. If poetry has any value, it seems to me to lie chiefly in this. I think it can never be fine, however musical, unless it can be turned at once into good prose ; and, if this be not true of it, it seems to me unworthy of the attention of men of sense. Yet, if it be true, what must be said of those English works which, forgetful that our language is the richest in the world for the purpose of forceful expres- sion, on account of its bold consonantal sounds, its vigorous spondees, its pointed monosyllables, borrow from languages which differ structurally, and vary their terminations in declension, measures which are ridiculous except in such languages, to express monstrous conceits and affectations "i I do not know, however, whether our modern poets have so much corrupted the public taste as they have adapted themselves to it, such as it is. Most of them seem to me as innocent of bad intentions as they are of thinking. I am pleased at the connection in which you refer to my " Poet : Fourth Treatment," and " Nuptials of Truth and Beauty," which you are pleased to refer to the attention of poets. I fear, however, that they would be in general apt to say of such idealisms, as some of the newspapers already THE RANDALL FAMILY 35 say of my poems in general : there is no poetry about them, and the whole might have been as well, or better, expressed in prose ! A reproach which I wish I could re- taliate upon some of their favorites, whose verses, when I undertake to reduce them to prose, evaporate, leaving no residuum. I would always except the works of the admi- rable Bryant. As for the above image of "Nuptials," I think that, when one studies out its variety of analogies, he is struck with their number. Among others, this one strikes me, namely, that the " Beautiful " is easily conceived as the feminine element in all good, by which its essence becomes refined ; by which Honesty becomes Honor, Hope becomes Trust, Love becomes Benevolence, Patriotism becomes Phi- lanthropy, and so forth. But I would not grow tedious, and will merely say that if in two years I shall find fifty affectionate readers, in per- sons disposed to look as kindly on these little pieces as you yourself have done, it will amply reward me for the labor and expense of this and such succeeding volumes as I propose to publish, if health, leisure, and means permit. I believe that the engraving cabinet alone will have any just cause of offence against the poems, which I do not ex- pect will become popular ; nor do I indeed wish this any farther than a real sympathy may exist. On the contrary I like extremely the way in which such a book as " Friends in Council," by A. Helps, travels : namely, very slowly, from hand to hand, and among friends. Or like some books which the world of fashion cares little about, but which some old woman has picked up and causes to be read to her while she sits knitting at the chimney corner, or which, perhaps, some Uncle Joseph or Aunt Dorothy carries gladly back, when, having newly come down from 36 INTRODUCTION the country, it is handed to them by the rich city cousin who has twirled the leaves over and finds no farther occa- sion for it. I believe and I wish that, if among the million things that are written these little pieces should do no good, they may at least do no harm : which last aspiration the con- scientious author can hardly be supposed to utter without emotion — seeing how much worse is an ill book than a bad child, because, forever incapable of reform, it goes forth to do evil, but cannot, like the prodigal son, return penitent to its father. The more able, the more hurtful — while, on the other hand, a good book remains forever good, and no influence can corrupt it. I close with again thanking you for your note, which I have filed away with my precious things. I speak with the more freedom because I feel assured that you yourself will derive pleasure from the thought that your sympathy has afforded so much pleasure to me. Yours truly, dear sir, with the highest respect and esteem, t -vxr x. J. W. Randall. P. S. I am truly sorry to learn from Mrs. Abbot that your health still suffers so much. It would rejoice me, if I could be of any service in lessening the weariness of a few tedious hours. Will you please consider whether you would not derive comfort from having a portfolio of prints from time to time to look over .'' If it should yield you the least pleasure, I will bring and leave at your door one at a time, taking back with me the last when I bring a new one. You might thus in course of time look over the whole collection, except such volumes as are too large to be easily lifted, and these you might easily examine when THE RANDALL FAMILY 37 warm weather enables you to go out again. Please con- sider this point, my dear sir, solely with a view to your own comfort, remembering that it will put me to no trouble to bring them, because I can as well take my daily walk in your direction as elsewhere, and you will not be obliged to fatigue yourself in seeing me. I understand the neces- sity of quiet to those who are unwell. Do not plague yourself with answering this — note, I would have said, but I perceive it is a long letter. I will call at your door when I return from Beverly, whither I go for a few days, and then shall be glad if you can find use for any services of mine. ^ n [J. w. R.] The subjoined letter to Rev. Dr. Andrew P. Peabody, at that time editor of the "North American Review," suf- ficiently explains itself. [Boston, 1856.] My dear Sir, I received a note some days since from Mr. Abbot, of Beverly, stating that he wished to prepare for the N. A. Review an article on a late book of mine, for which he feels a partiality. He says that he has stated his wish to you, and that you have courteously expressed a desire to gratify both him and me, provided there should be room to spare in the Review. I know not whether you are a reader of poetry, nor do I know how far an editor feels responsible for the opinions of others as expressed in his pages. But it seems to me natural that he should like to possess a copy of every book concerning which he publishes a criticism. This motive will, I think, justify me in asking your acceptance of the accompanying volume. I think you are not likely to have 38 INTRODUCTION seen it, partly because few copies are in circulation except- ing such as I have myself distributed, and partly because it has been issued in a manner nearly private, being with- out the name of the author, without advertisement, and so entirely out of the control of any publisher that it is not probable that any of the customary methods of creating a sale, either by puffing or other false pretences, have been or will be employed in relation to it. I ought to say, how- ever, lest I should seem to think the N. A. Review com- mitted to an article on my book (a circumstance which might prove embarrassing), that my ambition is not of a very hungry sort, and that, if either Mr. Abbot's health or engagements should prevent him from preparing such an article as he desires, or if the claims of others (which must be many upon your pages) should make the proposed courtesy inconvenient to you, far from thinking myself slighted, I shall in no degree deem it a just cause of morti- fication, believing that books, like other things, do in the long run reach those whom they concern. I shall in that case feel satisfied, provided anything contained in the volume should increase for you the enjoyment of a leisure hour. r^r 4. 1 [Yours truly, J. W. Randall.] II. The earliest discoverable ancestor of the poet on his father's side appears to be "Widow Elizabeth Randall," who, in 1653, was living in Watertown with her two sons, Stephen and John, and who died there on December 24, 1672, at the age of eighty years. Stephen, the elder son, married Susanna Barron, December 14, 1653, and died in Watertown, February 26, 1708. His will, dated January 13 and proved April 10, mentions three daughters, Eliza- beth Codman, Susanna Shattuck, and Mary Randall, but he had a son Stephen, also, who was born August 20, 1655, ^^'^ di^^ without issue. "Serjeant John Randall," the younger son of "Widow Elizabeth Randall," probably received his military title from service in King Philip's War. There were two sol- diers of that name, one serving under Captain John Hol- brooke, of Weymouth, and the other under Captain Jona- than Poole, of Reading, who were credited for service in that war on the same date, August 24, 1676; and there can be little doubt that one of these was "Serjeant John Randall." His wife Susanna (maiden name and date of marriage unknown) died May 14, 1673. Their children are recorded as follows : — 1. Susanna. 2. Sarah, born August 7, 1659. 3. Stephen. 4. Mary, married Jonathan Tainter, March 15, 1702. 5. Samuel, born March 20, 1669, married Elizabeth Gleason, January 27, 1709, and died January 24, 1730. 6. Eleazer, born April 30, 1672. 40 INTRODUCTION By his will, dated April 22, 1680, and proved October 5, "Serjeant John Randall," who died June 16 of that year, left his youngest son Eleazer to the care of " brother John Kendall," and directed that the two elder sons, Stephen and Samuel, should be apprenticed. Sarah, the second daughter, in 1682, married James Wheeler, and removed with him from Watertown to Stow. It was seemingly the residence of his sister Sarah in the town of Stow that induced Stephen, the eldest son of "Serjeant John Randall," whose apprenticeship must have expired and who was probably between twenty and twenty-five years of age at the time, to apply in the year 1685 for a grant of land in the same town. It is certain, however, that the small farm granted him by the town in that year was immediately adjacent to his brother-in-law's farm, as proved by the terms of the grant, for a copy of which from the town records I am indebted to the present owner of the place, as follows : — " It is voted, ordered, and hereby there is given and granted, the loth of March, 1685, unto Stephen Randall of Watertown, thirty acres of upland and swamg land lying between James Wheeler's and Thos. Daby's lotts on ye south side of ye great River of this town. Twenty acres thereof is for an house lott, and the remaining ten acres of ye sd. thirty is granted to him in lieu of meadow ground, provided he pay to ye use of this town his propor- tion due as others for a twenty acre lott, with all charges arising from time to time as others doo for a twenty acre house lott. This land granted is not to hinder any high- way, and sd. Stephen Randall is to attend ye Hon^'^ Com- mittee's orders." THE RANDALL FAMILY 4 1 Thus were acquired the poet's "poor paternal acres," which, for more than two hundred years, remained in the possession and occupancy of Stephen Randall or his lineal descendants in the male line. Stephen gave to his son John, March 22, 1732, the "southerly part" of the farm (no area given). John gave to his son Silas, October 18, 1772, " 150 A. m. o. 1.," shown on plan of A. Tower, March, 1806, to be 161 A. 105 R. Silas died intestate in 1805, leaving a widow, Elizabeth, and ten children, Betsey, Mary, John, Ebenezer, Silas, Josiah, Jr., Sarah, Marsylvia, Moses, and Eli. His estate, appraised as personal, $989.74, and real, 212 A. and buildings, valued at $5,000, was adminis- tered by his son Josiah, Jr., under appointment of March 12, 1805. Dr. John Randall, the eldest son of Silas and Elizabeth (Witt) Randall, was born at Stow, Massachusetts, Decem- ber 20, 1774, and died at Boston, December 27, 1843. He was graduated at Harvard in the class of 1802, and took the degrees of M.B. in 1806 and M.D. in 1811. As one of the most eminent practising physicians of his time in Boston, he was successful and popular, and acquired by devotion to his profession a handsome competency. On March 12, 1809, he married Elizabeth Wells, by whom he had five children, all born in Boston, as follows : — I. Elizabeth Wells, born Sept. 28, 181 1; married Alfred Gumming, of Augusta, Georgia, September 15, 1836; and died at Springfield, Massachusetts, April 12, 1867. Her husband, who belonged to a distinguished Southern family (his brother, Colonel William Gumming, was severely wounded at the battle of Lundy's Lane, July 25, 1 8 14, became a prominent leader of the Union party in the nullification troubles, and attracted the atten- tion of the whole country by his famous duel with George 42 INTRODUCTION McDuffie, of South Carolina, whom he lamed for life ; while his nephew, General Alfred Gumming, served with distinction in the Confederate army, till disabled by wounds received at the battle of Jonesboro, August 31, 1864), was appointed by President Buchanan, in 1857, Governor of Utah Territory, and sent thither with an escort of twenty- five hundred United States troops under General A. S. Johnston, the celebrated " Utah Expedition " of that year. Governor Gumming held his office till the outbreak of the civil war in 1861, when he was superseded by Stephen S. Harding. He died at Augusta, Georgia, October 9, 1873. No children were born to Governor and Mrs. Gumming. 2. John Witt, born November 6, 1 8 1 3, and died at Rox- bury, Jan. 25, 1892. 3. Belinda Lull, born January 17, 18 16, and died at Roxbury, March 14, 1897. 4. Maria Hayward, born October 5, 1820, and died at Boston, May 25, 1842. 5. Hannah Adams (who changed her own name to Anna Checkley), born June i, 1824, and died at Boston, April 23, 1862. Dr. John Randall, notwithstanding his removal to Boston and his deep interest in his profession, retained a strong affection for his native town, and above all for the home of his ancestors. The prosperity which rewarded his in- dustry enabled him by degrees to buy out all his brothers and sisters, and finally to re-unite the whole of his father's farm under a single owner again. He built a new and more comfortable dwelling-house near the site of the origi- nal homestead, which had fallen into decay ; and it became a cherished summer resort for him and his family. But his home was in Winter Street, Boston, on the site of what is now [1898] the store of Shepard & Norwell, which, THE RANDALL FAMILY 43 on the corner of Winter street and Winter place, is marked by a bronze tablet containing the following inscription : — ON THIS SITE ONCE STOOD THE HOME OF SAMUEL ADAMS, WHO BOUGHT IT IN MAY, 1 784, AND DIED IN IT, OCTOBER 2, 1803. IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF THE FATHER OF THE REVOLUTION, THIS TABLET IS PLACED BY THE MASSACHUSETTS SOCIETY OF THE SONS OF THE REVOLUTION, 1893. iSSAL OP THB ) SoaETY j For, on his mother's side, the poet was the great-grand- son of Samuel Adams. To the kindness of Frank Willing Leach, Esq., of Philadelphia, who has for several years been engaged on a work to be entitled, " The Signers of the Declaration of Independence : their Ancestors and De- scendants," I am indebted for the following genealogical data : — Samuel Adams, Signer of the Declaration of Indepen- dence, born in Boston, September 16 (old style), 1722; died in Boston, October 2, 1803 ; married as his first wife, October 17, 1749, Elizabeth Checkley, daughter of Samuel and Elizabeth (Rolfe) Checkley. She was born in Boston, March 15, 1725, and died in Boston, July 25, 1757. Their issue (all were born and died in Boston) : — I. Samuel, born September 14, 1750, died October 2, 1750. 44 INTROD UCTION 2. Samuel, born October i6, 1751; Harvard College, 1770; M.D. ; surgeon in Continental Army; died without issue, January 17, 1788. 3. Joseph, bom June 23, 1753, died June 24, 1753. 4. Mary, born June 23, 1754, died October 3, 1754. 5. Hannah, born January 21, 1756, died May 28, 1821. Hannah Adams, youngest child and sole surviving de- scendant of Samuel Adams at the time of his death, mar- ried, June 25, 1 78 1, Thomas Wells, son of Francis and Susannah (Welch) Wells. He was bom in Boston, May 23, 1754, and died . Their issue (all were born in Boston, and all died there except S. A. W., who died in Dorchester) : — 1. Elizabeth, born May 25, 1783, died January 29, 1868. 2. Susannah, born April 10, 1785, died Aug. 19, 1786. 3. Samuel Adams, born March i, 1787, died Aug. 12, 1840. 4. Susannah, born November 7, 1788, died June 26, 1789. 5. Thomas, bom March 27, 1791, died March 11, 1861. 6. James, born June 28, 1792, died July 4, 1793. Elizabeth Wells, who was the oldest child of Hannah (Adams) Wells, and who was born May 25, 1783, and died Jan. 29, 1868, married, March 12, 1809, John Randall, M.D., son of Silas and Elizabeth (Witt) Randall, who was bom at Stow, December 20, 1774, and died at Boston, December 27, 1843. The list of their children has been THE RANDALL FAMILY 45 already given above. No one of them was married except Elizabeth, wife of Governor Alfred Gumming; and, as this marriage was without issue, this branch of the Ran- dall family became extinct on the death of Belinda Lull, the last survivor, March 14, 1897. III. The story of John Witt Randall's life, although he lived to an advanced age, is itself a short and uneventful one. Even for the telling of this, the materials in my possession are scanty and few. The "Memorials of the Class of 1834, of Harvard Col- lege. Prepared for the Fiftieth Anniversary of their Graduation by Thomas Cushing, at the Request of his Classmates. Boston: David Clapp & Son. 1884," con- tains a brief account which is here transcribed in full : — "John Witt Randall, son of Dr. John (H. C. 1802) and Elizabeth (Wells) Randall, granddaughter of Samuel Adams, the great patriot of the Revolution, was born in Boston, Mass., Nov. 6, 18 13. "He received his preparatory education at the Bos- ton Latin School, in company with many who were after- wards his classmates in college, by whom his peculiar and marked originality of character is well remembered. Though amoiig them, he was not wholly of them, but seemed to have thoughts, pursuits, and aspirations to which they were strangers. "This was also the case after he entered college, where his tastes developed in a scientific direction, entomology being the branch to which he specially devoted himself, though heartily in sympathy with Nature in her various aspects. The college did little at that time to encourage or aid such pursuits ; but Mr. Randall pursued the quiet tenor of his way, till he had a very fine collection of in- sects and extensive and thorough knowledge on that and THE RANDALL FAMILY 47 kindred subjects, while his taste for poetry and the belles- lettres was also highly cultivated. "He studied medicine after graduation, but his acqui- sitions as a naturalist were so well known and recognized that he received the honorable appointment of Professor of Zoology in the department of invertebrate animals in the South Sea Exploring Expedition (called Wilkes's), which the United States were fitting out about this time. "We can all remember the wearisome delays and jeal- ousies which occurred before the sailing of the Expedition, which finally caused Mr. Randall to throw up his appoint- ment. Since that time he has led a quiet and retired life, devoting himself to his favorite pursuits, adding to them also the collection of engravings, of which he has one of the most rare and original collections in this country. .He has also devoted much time to the cultivation and im- provement of an ancestral country seat at Stow, Mass., for the ancient trees of which he has almost an individual friendship. " An account of his life and experiences from Mr. Ran- dall's own pen would have been very interesting as well as amusing and witty ; for in these qualities he excels. In excusing himself from giving this, he writes as follows : — " ' As for myself, my life, having been wholly private, presents little that I care to communicate to others, or that others would care to know. I cannot even say for myself as much as was contained in Professor Teufels- drockh's epitaph on a famous hunter, namely, that in a long life he killed no less than ten thousand foxes. " ' It might have been interesting in former days to have related adventures of my foot journeys as a naturalist, amid scenes and objects then little known or wholly un- known, where the solitary backwoodsman and his family, 48 INTRODUCTION sole occupants of a tract of boundless forest, were often so hospitable as to surrender their only bed to the stranger, and huddle themselves together on the floor. But, since Audubon published his travels and railroads have penetrated everywhere, such accounts cease to be original, and indeed the people themselves have become almost everywhere homogeneous. Itineraries fill all the magazines, and natural curiosities little known forty years ago have become long since familiar to the public. " ' As for my present self, I will say no more than that, for health's sake to be much out of doors, I have been for a long time engaged in hydraulic, planting, building, and other improvements on my grounds, which create, it is true, pleasant occupation, but which when compared with wild nature so varied about me, I am impressed with the conviction how inferior are our artificial pleasures to those simple enjoyments of wood, water, air and sunshine, which we have unconsciously and inexpensively in common with the innumerable creatures equally capable of enjoying them. " * As to my literary works, — if I except scientific papers on subjects long ago abandoned, as one on Crustacea in the Transactions of the Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia ; two on Insects in the Transactions of the Boston Society of Natural History ; one manuscript vol- ume on the Animals and Plants of Maine, furnished to Dr. Charles T. Jackson to accompany his Geological Sur- vey of that State, and lost by him ; Critical Notes on Etchers and Engravers, one volume ; classification of ditto, one volume, both in manuscript, incomplete and not likely to be completed, together with essays and reviews in manuscript not likely to be published, — my doings re- duce themselves to six volumes of poetic works, the first THE RANDALL FAMILY 49 of which was issued in 1856, and reviewed shortly after in the North American, while the others, nearly or par- tially completed at the outbreak of the civil war, still lie unfinished among the many wrecks of Time painful to most of us to look back upon, or reflect themselves on a Future whose skies are as yet obscure.' "Dr. Randall was never married, and resides with his sister in Roxbury." A few personal reminiscences of the poet, in addition to the foregoing record for the Class of 1 8 34, and in re- sponse to my request, were very kindly communicated to me by Mr. Gushing, a short time before his death, who also obtained for me a few more from Dr. Henry Blan- chard, another member of the same Class. These are here inserted in the words of the writers, omitting only Mr. Cushing's direct quotations from the record just printed in full, as follows : — 170 Newbury St., Sept. 25, 1895. Rev. F. E. Abbot : Dear Sir, — Having promised you some account of my school-and-classmate, the late John W. Randall, I do not know that I can begin better than to use the same lan- guage that I used in the " Memorials of the Class of 1834 " in regard to him. . . . Though sitting on the same bench with him, I never penetrated a certain reserve that enveloped him. I have no recollection of ever seeing him join in the sports of his schoolmates or indulge in the light-heartedness of the typical boy. Perhaps he had already begun to gratify the poetical and scientific tastes which afterwards distinguished him. They would certainly have been a great relief to 50 INTRODUCTION the very exclusive studies of the Latin School in those days. Similar peculiarities marked his college life. Nobody professed to be intimate with him or to thoroughly under- stand him. Eccentricities of dress, manner, or conduct were not looked upon in his case as affectations, and gave rise to no special comment. The regular studies of his class gave him no trouble, but we all knew he was more interested in other things. . . . We could not help feeling that we had a remarkable man among us, a genius, perhaps, though we could not fully understand him or sympathize with him. His father being an eminent physician and he an only son, Mr. Randall naturally drifted into the study of medi- cine after his graduation in 1834, and took the degree of M.D. [in 1839]. • • ■ He took no active steps to establish himself in the practice of medicine, but led a quiet and retired life, devoting himself to his favorite scientific pursuits. He subsequently added to these the collection of rare and original engravings which at his death he bequeathed to Harvard College, with a liberal sum for their care. . . . Almost the only thing that drew Dr. Randall out of his secluded life was the Annual Dinner of the Class of 1834, which he always attended while his health permitted. On these occasions, his dry and caustic wit, exercised upon the men and things of the day, showed him to be not unmindful of the outside world, though withdrawn from it. His conversation was the life of his end of the table, and was very much missed after he thought it expedient to absent himself from the Class festival. Paralysis brought an end to his quiet life, as you no doubt know, January 25, 1892. [Thomas Cushing.] THE RANDALL FAMILY 5 1 170 Newbury St., Boston, Sept. 27, 1895. Dear Mr. Abbot, I send you all that occurs to me about my classmate Dr. Randall. Use it, or any part of it, as you please. As far as it goes, I believe it is all true. Nobody knew him intimately, in the usual sense of the word. If you need the place and date of his birth, it was Boston, Nov. 6, 18 13. His father's house was in Winter street, where Shepard & Norwell's store now is. I do not know whether he was born there. He was a great-grand- son of Samuel Adams, the great Revolutionary patriot, by his mother's side. He had two sisters, one of whom, I believe, survives him — very cultivated ladies after the style of half a century ago ; in fact, of any time. I am sorry I cannot do more and better for you in regard to him. Yours very truly, Thomas Gushing. Francis E. Abbot, Ph.D., Cambridge, Mass. Inclosed in the above letter, Mr. Gushing sent a " Gopy of Dr. H. Blanchard's letter in relation to Dr. Randall," as follows, with an occasional parenthesis of his own : — " Now with regard to our classmate Randall. Randall was a marked and unique character, but still there was little variety in it. He was not one of whom you would expect to hear anecdotes, nor was he, as far as I know, ever a subject of or for jokes. As you justly said, he lived mostly in himself and had comparatively few friends. Our classmate Ingersoll, of Gambridge, was his dear friend in Gollege. He was a young man of great purity of char- 52 INTRODUCTION acter, also standing high as a scholar. He died soon after leaving College, March, 1836. " It has happened to be my lot to have what you may call an intermittent familiarity with Randall all the way from college life to the time of his death. I think this intimacy began in the latter part of college life ; for I remember his inviting me one or more times to his father's in Winter street to tea. We used at that time to take walks to- gether, but my recollection of those times is not so dis- tinct as I wish it was. " (Dr. Blanchard then spent a year in Maryland, where he heard nothing of Randall. Then he went to Hallowell, Maine, where he spent a year.) There, too, I met Ran- dall, who was nominally studying medicine with Dr. Nourse, a distinguished physician who in former days had been a medical student under Randall's father. In Hal- lowell, we were together almost all the time, except when otherwise employed. Randall had few associates then, and was seemingly lonesome. At that time he was greatly interested in entomology, and I used much of the time to accompany him in search of beetles, leaving no loose bark or decaying trees unturned, and no crumbling rails or fences uninspected, in searching for new species of the object he was in quest of. Great was his enthu- siasm in finding a new or rare shining specimen. He had a very large collection, and I helped, adding many to it. I really got quite interested in beetle-hunting. I should mention that the ' profane vulgar ' used to point Randall out as the ' bug-man.' " Another pursuit in which we indulged largely at the proper season, and which I enjoyed much, was the collec- tion and study of plants. ''Randall appeared to be in good spirits and quite THE RANDALL FAMILY 53 happy, while I was in Hallo well. He did not go much into society there, if I remember rightly, although at that time there were many very good families open to admis- sion, among them Vaughans, Merricks, Abbots, and so forth. "After leaving Hallowell, I went to Billerica, and did not see Randall again for a year, when I went to Boston to continue my studies. During the two years that I re- mained in Boston, I only met Randall occasionally. " (Dr. Blanchard then went to Marshfield, where he remained twenty years. He then came to Dorchester, and resumed his intimacy with Randall, who was residing in Roxbury.) He called on me often, and I was fre- quently at his residence ; frequently on Sunday he would invite me to dine with him. I think he enjoyed seeing me, and I suppose it was because he had few associates to his taste, and really felt the need of sympathy. In fact, it was the readiness on my part to listen to his conversa- tion, and the sympathy that I was able to extend to him, that so much inclined him to enjoy my company. He was generally very talkative, and liked to have me listen to him. I could not always adopt his views, but did not violently antagonize him. By pursuing a sort of concilia- tory course on my part, he would gradually modify the positiveness of some of his statements and assertions, and perhaps come almost over to my views ; so that our dis- cussions were almost always very satisfactory and pleasant. "I must here say that, during the twenty years that I had not seen Randall, he had changed much in his gen- eral characteristics. Though he had retained all his courteous and friendly feelings towards me, he had be- come somewhat morose, misanthropic, and, as I thought, unhappy. He seemed a perfect pessimist. Nothing suited 54 INTRODUCTrON- him. He criticised hardly men that stood deservedly high in the community, and almost all measures of government ; and in his harangues he was certainly sometimes tedious. If your memory is good, you will recollect instances of this kind at some of the last of the Class Meetings that he attended, I was glad when I did not sit at table next to him, because I had heard the same before. This phase of his character, however, did not long continue, and dur- ing the last years of his life, I am happy to say, it almost entirely disappeared. For the last three years there was a marked change in him. No harshness of criticism was ever heard. He was social, pleasant, subdued in his manner, and interesting in conversation. "And now I will try to say something of Randall which is more to the purpose of what I have in view than any- thing which goes before. I am afraid you have become tired in trying to read thus far, and that you feel your time wasted. Dr. Randall was a very talented man. His read- ing in certain directions was very extensive. I always found, in spite of his eccentricities, his conversation inter- esting. He was a very learned man, and in natural science distinguished, as you know very well. Had he been allowed by his father to follow his inclination, I have little doubt he would have been a distinguished man — distin- guished as a scientist, a more useful and happier man. His father was determined he should adopt medicine as a profession. The son might have enjoyed it as a study, but the practice of it as a pursuit would have been abhor- rent. Our classmate was a good man. If not much of a believer in the Christian Dispensation, he was vastly better than many, I perhaps may say than most, of those who are. He was a firm believer in God, a God of love. His love was unbounded. The volume of verse that he THE RANDALL FAMILY 55 published many years ago will show that his soul was full of love. From long and intimate acquaintance with him, I can truly say he was one of the tenderest-hearted and kindest of men I have ever known. " (I have written these pages under disadvantages — not to be shown, &c. He then gives me leave to impart any- thing to Mr. Abbot that I think may be useful. I have sent the whole.) ^ r^ ' "T. Gushing. An old-fashioned letter, folded as letters used to be before the advent of separate envelopes, sealed with red wax, addressed to "Mr. John W. Randall, Hallowell, Maine," postmarked "Brookline, Mass., Oct. 14," and having the postage noted in ink on the outside as- " Paid i8i," is the only contemporaneous record in my posses- sion of a young friendship as deep, strong, true, and ill- fated as that of Tennyson and Arthur Hallam. The "Memorials of the Class of 1834" contains the following brief story of the writer's life : — "Nathaniel Babcock Ingersoll, son of Nathaniel and Eliza (Babcock) Ingersoll, was born in Brookline, Mass., Dec. 15, 181 3. He was fitted for college at the High School in his native town. During his collegiate course, which was highly creditable to him, he lived with his widowed mother in a modest house within walking distance of the college, where his friends in the class enjoyed a simple and sweet hospitality. His personal appearance, manners, conversation, everything about him, indicated un- common sweetness, purity, and conscientiousness. Every- body loved and respected him, and hoped that, with increasing years, he v/ould acquire a physical vigor that INTRODUCTION seemed to be the only thing necessary to make his virtues and accomplishments of lasting benefit to his friends and society. But the somewhat obscure indications of con- sumption rapidly increased after his graduation. He filled, while he was able, with much success the position of As- sistant in the High School at Brookline, where he was bom and educated, and was the first of the Class to pass the veil, dying in March, 1836, at the early age of twenty- two." Ingersoll's premature death was the first great grief of Randall's life. How deeply the iron entered his soul, how incurable the wound remained after the lapse of a score of years, is revealed in the " Dedication " of the " Consola- tions of Solitude," and no less in the "Retrospect " which tells so much. Fired by a common enthusiasm for all that was noblest and most beautiful in literature, the two friends had planned large enterprises together in the culti- vation and dissemination of it, and looked forward to joint republication of the chief masterpieces of lyrical poetry, as well as to original contributions of their own. This faded pressed-flower, sole glimpse now to be got into a pure young heart long since gone to dust, has a peculiar and pathetic interest of its own, quite apart from the side-light it throws on some aspects of Randall's life which are otherwise lost in obscurity. Here is the letter: — Brookline, Sept. 20, 1835. My dear Friend, Your letter has given me the greatest pleasure — if you knew how great, I think you would write to me often. It seemed, while reading it, as though we were once more together, and I heard you again pouring out your feelings THE RANDALL FAMILY t^'J to one who could sympathize with them, and your ideas and images to one on whom they never fell without excit- ing the liveliest interest, and furnishing food for medita- tion during the many solitary and unemployed hours that for the last three years I have been condemned to spend. The ties of our early friendship, I do fully believe, will never be broken, howsoever distant and dissimilar from each other may be the lines which Destiny shall trace out for us ; and, after long years of evil and vexation shall have passed over us, the present will still become a mirror of the past, reflecting back our schoolday and college asso- ciations unalloyed by any bitterness. I am glad you have not given up literature, it is such an ever-increasing source of delight and instruction. I wish you would compose more often yourself. It is unjust for you, who have the power of drawing such beautiful pictures, so seldom to put pen to paper. I long to read once more myself the "Song of the Two Friends" and "The Water Spirit." Some circumstance or some feeling brings to my mind almost every day lines and images which they contain. The first I remember with the greatest pleasure, but I never see a beautiful and still sheet of water without hearing — " The sea-cave is my dwelling-place, But sunset makes me free." I am glad you like Rebecca's hymn in Ivanhoe, as it is one that I particularly admire. It is the most chaste and classical poem Scott has ever written. As for Cowper, I dare say you may be right ; he is one of the many authors we damned without having read them. Wordsworth has written a volume of new poems. One of them I have seen, " Yarrow Revisited ; " it is the most exquisite thing he has ever written. It is an outpouring of his heart to 58 INTRODUCTION Scott, in company with whom he walked on the banks of the Yarrow immediately before the latter died. I will copy it for you as soon as it is reprinted. You do not say a word respecting the terms upon which you are with Dr. Nourse, and of the manner of employing your time. I have just learned that your father has made you the offer of attending the medical lectures in Boston. I hope you will not accept it, for, although it would be pleasant to you and to your friends to have you spend the winter in Boston, you must (judging by the past) see plainly that your situation at home would in all probability be very uncomfortable, and obstacles might arise to pre- vent you from returning to Hallowell. There must, I think, be some secret reason inducing your father to desire it. I venture to say thus much on the subj ect, notwith- standing I know your opinion respecting advice that is given unasked. I have obtained a very good translation of Schiller's " Honor to Woman," and a little piece from the Persian, the latter of which I found in a young lady's album — the last place where one would expect to meet with anything good. These I will send to your mother to be copied into your blue book. I inquired the price of "The Re- public of Letters ; " it is 6i cents apiece, amounting to $3.00 a year. I will write to you again shortly more at length. Yours most sincerely, N. B. Ingersoll. My mother and grandmother desire me to give you their kindest regards. Little Billy Greenough has been dismissed from college for waywardness. THE RANDALL FAMILY 59 Truly, this was a most refined, delicate, beautiful, lov- able soul, worthy to inspire a deep and indestructible friendship. What a man is shows itself infallibly in what he at heart admires. The young mind which beholds in Rebecca's hymn the culmination of Scott's poetical genius tells its own story to all who can understand. Such a mind is safe from the dreary platitudes and inanities of "art for art's sake alone." It is capable of entering into sympathy with the profound intellect of Goethe, who knew that art is for the sake of truth and beauty in one, — that art is nothing but a mode of expression, and that beauty of form in expression without truth of sub- stance in meaning is nothing but the iridescence of a stagnant and fetid puddle. Emerson wrote in his first book : " The true philosopher and the true poet are one ; and a beauty which is truth and a truth which is beauty is the aim of both." Goethe's exquisite utterance of the same idea is untranslatable, but may be feebly echoed in the following paraphrase : — As in myriad forms and dyes Nature but one God reveals, Protean Art in each disguise One eternal Truth conceals : Truth that her own charms arrays, Viewless else, in Beauty's robe. Loveliest in the brightest blaze Of the all-illuming globe.* Goethe's idea of art, above all of the poetic art, as not for art's sake alone, but for the sake of beauty and truth * Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre, 11. ix. The German is too fine to be withheld: — Wie Natur hn Vielgebilde Einen Gott 7iur offeiibart, So im weiten Kimstgefilde Webt Ein Sin7i der em'gen A rt : 6o INTRODUCTION in one, is easily discernible in Ingersoll's letter, and still more in Randall's poems. They had not derived it from Goethe. It was the natural product of their own minds ; it was the bond of intellectual sympathy between the youthful friends, the foundation of common tastes, the inspiration of common studies and efforts and dreams of future work. Whoever thinks with Goethe that Nature is essentially Artist- Work {Vielgebilde), and that human Art is the expression of True Meaning {Sinn der Wahrheit) in the form of Imaginative Loveliness {sich nnr init Schonem schmucki), will find Goethe's idea quite unconsciously re- produced in Randall's "The Poet : Fourth Treatment," and still more strikingly in "The Nuptials: or, Marriage of the True and the Beautiful," — which in its exquisite simplicity has always seemed to me a well-nigh perfect lyric, and perhaps the poet's most melodious expression of his own ideal. There is very little that I can say of Randall's early days. He used to talk of them at great length and with almost startling freedom, but in such a way that I never clearly knew how much was literal truth and how much was ironical or bantering exaggeration. That his whole boyhood and youth had been embittered by unhappy Dieses ist der Sinn der Wahrheit^ Der sich nur tnii Schonent schmiickt, Und geirost der h'dchsten Klarheit Hellsien Tags enigegenblickt. Carlyle's version of this stanza, which may well have been the origin of Teufelsdrockh and his Clothes-Philosophy, is as follows : — A s all Nature's iliousaud changes - But one changeless God proclaim. So in Arts wide kingdoms ranges One sole meaning still the same ; This is Truth, eternal Reason, Which froTn Beauty takes its dress, A nd serene through time atid season Stands for aye in loveliness. THE RANDALL FAMILY 6 1 relations with his father, I never doubted in the least, and it plainly appears above in Ingersoll's letter. Dr. John Randall was a man of iron will, disguised to the world by great suavity and polish of manner, but manifested to his family in a despotic and often capricious arbitrariness that brought much misery to those whom, doubtless, he sin- cerely loved. This was a state of facts which might well be veiled in charitable and pitying silence, if it had not blasted the hopes, ruined the career, and frustrated the life of one of the most gifted men of our time. The only son possessed a will as inflexible and unconquerable as that of the father ; and the long collision of two such natures, sometimes fierce, always tragical, ended in suffering and defeat for both. The father sank into the grave at last, disappointed in his overmastering desire of seeing his son succeed him in the profession in which he himself had achieved a brilliant success. The son lived on, educated for a professional career he abhorred, diverted from the scientific and literary career he desired, and driven into a seclusion from the world which his early companions beheld in dull, uncomprehending wonder. If Randall had not had a temperament of extraordinary sensitiveness to all impressions from without, combined with an unsur- passed energy of resistance to what influences soever sought to drive or tempt him from his own fixed purpose, — if the untimely death of his friend Ingersoll, to whom he clung with a love passing the love of woman, had not rendered the execution of his fixed purpose impossible, and thus withered his life at the root, — even the father's mis- take would hardly have so injured and embittered the son. An education false to the bent of his strongly individual mind, a tragedy of the heart that brought to him long years of despair : was there reason to wonder, if 62 INTR OD UC TION such a spirit as this fled into the wilderness ? Even poetry itself, in the cultivation of which the two young enthusi- asts had planned so much, became now so linked in Ran- dall's thought with images of sorrow that the idea of pursuing it alone, bereft of the sympathy which had given to it its chief charm, grew hateful to him. All his youth- ful poems he put away out of sight ; and for many years he sought relief in pursuits which should not torture him with constant reminders of what he had lost. Besides this one all-absorbing friendship with Ingersoll, which always appeared to me as fine and memorable as any of which we read, there were three other intimacies of Randall's college days which ought not to be wholly unmentioned here. Two of these were rooted in common scientific interests, and associated him closely for a time with older men. Professor Thomas Nuttall and Doctor Thaddeus William Harris, both famous in their day for their services to Randall's favorite sciences. Nuttall was born in England in 1786, and died there in 1859; but from 1822 to 1828 he was Professor of Natural History and Curator of the Botanical Gardens at Harvard, and afterwards remained in this country till 1842, pursuing his botanical and ornithological investigations, and publish- ing their results in works which brought him an enduring reputation. The rest of his life he spent on his estate of Nutgrove, near Liverpool, which had been bequeathed to him on condition that he should live on it. Randall be- came well acquainted, during his college course, with this distinguished naturalist, and used to accompany him on long excursions in search of plants, insects, and birds, not only in the neighborhood of Boston, but also in the back- vv^oods and lake regions of New England in general ; and he always retained a high respect for Nuttall as a natural- ist and a man. THE RANDALL FAMILY 63 With Dr. Harris, too, he became intimately associated in the pursuit of entomology, sending to him hundreds of specimens of insects, which were acknowledged in long lists by genus and species. At the end of one of these lists, Dr. Harris wrote, in May, 1836: "You will see by the foregoing that a very large number of your Hymenop- tera are new to me. Probably the same may be the case with the Diptera, but I have not had time to examine them. These remarks may induce you to collect as many specimens in these orders as possible, for I am sure you will be able to add much that is new and highly interest- ing in these neglected portions of our entomology." Dr. Harris, who was born at Dorchester in 1795 and died at Cambridge in 1856, was appointed Librarian of Harvard College in 183 1, gave instruction in botany and natural history, founded the Natural History Society among the undergraduates, received in 1837 the appointment of Commissioner for a zoological and botanical survey of Massachusetts, published a catalogue of 2,350 species of Massachusetts insects, and made a highly important and still useful report on "Insects Injurious to Vegeta- tion " which was printed by the State in 1841 (enlarged edition in 1852). To the end of his life, he and Randall maintained the friendliest relations, long after the latter had discontinued the active prosecution of his own investi- gations ; and I well remember the affectionately respectful tone in which he always spoke of the scientific and per- sonal merits of " my old friend. Dr. Harris." The third intimacy alluded to was that with Madam Craigie, one of the most notable personalities at that time in the little university town. Her husband. Colonel Craigie, as I used to hear, had been a rich contractor in the Revolutionary War, and had purchased the famous 54 INTRODUCTION " Craigie House " (from which the present Craigie street derived its name), better known now as "Washington's Headquarters " and " Longfellow's Home," where Madam Craigie herself, originally the daughter of a poor country clergyman, dispensed a generous hospitality to such stu- dents as won her favor. She was a lady of strong character and masculine intelligence, imbued with the free-thinking opinions so rife during and after the Rev- olutionary period, from which Franklin, Washington, j John Adams, Jefferson, and other leadmg spirits, were by ' no means exempt. I have never doubted that Madam Craigie's influence contributed not a little to encourage in Randall's mind that marked tendency to independence of traditional beliefs which is so evident in most of his poems, especially the " Ode to God " and " The Philosopher in Search of a Religion." Dr. Randall the elder was a stanch Unitarian, and had his pew in the once well known but now long vanished edifice of " Church Green," where the Rev. Dr. Alexander Young, eminent otherwise for his " Chronicles of the First Planters of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay, from 1623 to 1636," preached conservatively and drowsily for many years. Here the son heard nothing but authentic exposi- tion of Unitarianism in its early form, safe and highly re- spectable in the Boston of that day ; and one of his own childish ambitions, persistent even into his college life, was, as he himself told me, to become a minister of the Unitarian faith. This vision of a religious ministry, and not by any means his father's ministrations in the sick- room, was what fired his young soul, as he peered into the mysterious future ; and nothing cooled it but the contrast which forced itself on his quick perceptions between the ministry as a comfortable modern profession, a life of THE RANDALL FAMILY 65 routine and respectability and city luxuries, and the minis- try as it was in the primitive church, a life of hardship, self-sacrifice, exile, weary pilgrimage, and perhaps fiery martyrdom at the end. The effect of this contrast on the boy's vivid imagina- tion and sincere heart was profound. It might have dis- appeared in the light of a sober comparison of the differences between the ancient conditions and the con- ditions of modern times ; it might have been transformed into a purpose to take up the essential work of a modern religious ministry, as purification and elevation and self- consecration of human life through the known and felt influence of the Divine, provided the foundations of belief had remained unshaken. Such transformation has taken place in many a saintly soul, to whom the changed condi- tions of this modern period have seemed to need no less than earlier ages the same essential ministry of religion. But the decay of Christian faith through invalidation of the grounds of it, through explosion of the fundamental reasons for it, renders such a transformation of Christianity impossible ; and this is what happened to Randall in his college days. He ceased to dream of becoming a Chris- tian minister because he ceased to believe in the peculiar tenets of the Christian gospel ; and this momentous change in his convictions was certainly due, at least in part, to the frankly acknowledged influence of Madam Craigie. This lady's cool and reasoned scepticism, careful of its own conclusions, but careless equally of persuasion and dissuasion, aroused no reaction of personal pride, no resist- ance of a. will quick to repel control, in the melancholy and sensitive young man ; on the contrary, it did but reinforce the natural influence of his scientific studies, and help to 56 INTRODUCTION destroy in his mind all inherited or traditional belief in that foundation of " miracles " on which the early Unitarianism was so artificially and elaborately built. How far Madam Craigie's negations extended, I never knew, though I sus- pect they were wide and deep ; but, if they went beyond the special doctrines of Christianity and included the thought-substructions of natural religion, they produced little or no effect on Randall's mind. The noble conclu- sion of " The Solitary Man," nay, the pervading religious spirit of all his poems from first to last, testifies to that essential powerlessness. But, whatever was the precise content of Madam Craigie's philosophy, he always highly valued for her sake, and kept hanging above his fireplace to the end, a striking picture (he did not know the artist) which she had bequeathed to him as a memento of their friendship : the figure of a grim old gipsy woman, with half-averted face worthy of Meg Merrilies herself, warming her withered hands over a chafing-dish. Something in that picture connected itself in my boyish imagination, no doubt fantastically, with the weird impression I had got of the mental characteristics of Madam Craigie. Did she ap- point this uncanny and austere old queen-gipsy to be her representative in the home of her youthful friend till his hair grew white, out of some subtile but felt resemblance to herself in those powerful and not ignoble features, fixed there on the canvas in unchanging perpetuity t To this day I half believe it. The Sun gone — no heat or light save in a dimly smouldering handful of Charcoal — what an allegory ! One anecdote, told to me by Miss Randall not long after her brother's death, is indelible in my memory. She herself always retained the impressions of her early relig- THE RANDALL FAMILY 6/ ious instruction and remained a good Unitarian, attending regularly the preaching of the Rev. Dr. Edward Everett Hale, and cherishing, at least in the days when our two families first became intimate, a sweet sisterly hope that her brother might yet be won from strange opinions she could not understand. One evening, she said, there had been visitors in the parlor, and some religious conversation, in the course of which her brother, rendered impatient by dull argumentative opposition, had as usual given utter- ance to his heterodoxies in coruscations of wit, not without sarcasms perilously bold. After the visitors had gone, he walked rapidly up and down the rooms for a long time in evident agitation, but in complete silence. Suddenly he stopped, took his seat by her side on the sofa, leaned towards her with his hands on his knees and with his great blue eyes deep with feeling, and exclaimed very slowly, but in a low tone that was full of suppressed excitement : " Belinda ! I am a religions man — a most religious man ! " Those were his exact words, emphasis and all ; she re- peated them on several occasions in precisely the same manner, and evidently remembered them with a glow of satisfaction. She could not follow his trains of thought, but those words of deep impassioned feeling she under- stood, and "pondered them in her heart." IV. In the absence of written records pertaining to Ran- dall's life prior to our acquaintance, I must rely on memory and a few letters, with some early journals of my own, for such poor pictures as I can make of the most gifted man I have ever known. On January 12, 1850, Dr. Martin Gay died suddenly in Boston, where he was born on February 16, 1803. Dr. Gay was highly and widely esteemed in his native city, not only for his professional skill, but also for his many lovable traits of character. It is recorded of him that " he had a high reputation as an analytical chemist, and his fre- quent testimony as a witness in courts of justice, in cases of death by poisoning, marks an era in the history of medical jurisprudence in this country." An enthusiastic lover of knowledge, he had especially cultivated the sciences of geology and mineralogy throughout his life, and with the help of his noble and devoted wife, who shared his tastes, he had in the course of years accumu- lated a remarkably fine collection of minerals and fossils, which was considered to be of very great value, pecuniary as well as scientific. But, like Agassiz, he had " had no time to make money," and nearly all his savings had gone into this mineralogical collection. At his premature death, therefore, Mrs. Gay found herself obliged to offer it for sale. But some of Dr. Gay's friends, knowing how great a sacri- fice to her feelings it would be to part with a treasure so sacred to her as this, secretly conspired to purchase it at its full value, and then present it to her as a mark of their sym- pathy for herself and their regard for her husband's memory. Among those who volunteered to procure the subscriptions necessary to accomplish this labor of love was my own THE RANDALL FAMILY 69 father ; and it was his call upon Dr. Randall, who had known and valued Dr. Gay, with reference to this sub- scription, that first began a friendship between the two families which grew deeper and stronger to the end. The first time I ever saw Dr. Randall was in Mrs. Gay's house on Essex street, not far from the house of Wendell Phillips, but on the opposite side. It must have been very soon after Dr. Gay's death ; and how I, a little boy only just thirteen years old, came to be there at all, is a mys- tery now past solving. But there I was, sitting quite apart in a corner, and watching visitors who came on errands of sympathy and condolence to the sad-faced lady, alone on the sofa. Only one of these visitors left any last- ing impression on my memory ; all the rest were forms vanishing from an unretentive mirror, but this one left a picture imprinted on a remembering mind. A gentleman of medium height, clad in black, pausing a moment at the opposite parlor door, then slowly moving across the room, taking with great respect the sad-faced lady's hand, sitting down upon a chair near by, speaking something, I know not what, in a voice so deep, rich, and mellow, so musical, so fascinating in its fine modulations, that I seem to hear it still : a pale but striking face under masses of black hair, close-shaven, strong, grandly chis- elled, full of intellect, decision, pride, melancholy, and withal of something quite indescribable, yet visible enough here in the presence of sorrow, that riveted the little boy's gaze, and made him instinctively but unmistakably aware of a great heart, making an outlet for itself through the glance of those kind, grave, penetrating eyes. The child sat in his corner, observing but unobserved ; he had dreamed much of genius ^ — now he felt that he had seen it. All the rest is lost in the abyss of a long-dead past, but that vision stands out fresh as yesterday. 70 INTR OD UC TION Rarely, perhaps, does it happen that two entire families find themselves wholly congenial throughout, but it hap- pened so in this instance. Immediately after Dr. Gay's death and the successful effort to save his collection for Mrs. Gay, intercourse in this case became speedy, fre- quent, and close. Dr. Randall himself came often to our house in Temple Place (then a closed court opening on Tremont street only, except by a flight of steps descending to Washington street), and used to talk with my father till long after midnight. Finding me a constant and absorbed listener until I was reluctantly sent to bed,— hearing that I had never been sent to school, partly because I was not well and partly because I was better taught at home, and that I was a solitary child whose whole playtime went to scribblings of his own, chiefly in rhyme,— Dr. Randall asked me one day, in the early spring, to dine with him, and devoted a whole afternoon and evening to entertaining me in the kindest manner. The result was that most of my Saturday evenings, during the months I was in town, were spent with him. for the next five years. At first he gave these hours to read- ing aloud from the works of those whom he considered masters in literature, not at all for any set purpose of instruction, but simply as a matter of common enjoyment ; and the charm of listening to fine works was wonderfully enhanced by the richness of his voice and the perfectness of his articulation, as well as by the piquancy of his re- marks. When I discovered that he himself had once written poetry, but had turned away from it wholly since the shock of Ingersoll's death, I begged him to resume it now. The spur of sympathy, long unfelt by the lonely man, revived his interest in poetical production. He began once more to write with new zest, looking forward to an eager and appreciative audience of one, when Satur- THE RANDALL FAMILY /I day evening came ; and this continued winter after winter. In his desire to have something written to read to me at our expected Saturday night sessions lay the origin of "The Consolations of Solitude," "The Metamorphoses of Longing," and other poems. In 1855, I entered college, our regular sessions were broken up, and loss of the old stimulus proved practically the end of his effort to produce ; for, while he was more keenly alive than most men to the pleasures of intellectual sympathy grounded in congeniality of nature, he enter- tained for fame, whether present or posthumous, a most genuine and undisguised contempt. More sincere in this than Carlyle, who praised the virtue of " Silence " with the voice of Stentor, Randall never wrote a word for the sake of reputation. If he published a few poems in 1856, it was to please a boy-friend who entreated him not to bury his talent in a napkin ; all the rest he left lying in manu- script, utterly indifferent to their fate. If now, through the same friend no longer a boy, a few more of these are rescued from oblivion, it is only because that friend, in 1 89 1, begged the privilege of saving for mankind what would else have gone to the rubbish-heap. What he wrote in "The Poet: First Treatment" was absolutely true of one man, at least, out of the many millions of our vain and plaudit-loving race : — " What though the scorn of senseless pride Disdain thy poor and humble lot, Though fools thy sacred songs deride, Nay, though by all mankind forgot? Yon tuneful thrush no witness wants, When his wild carols charm the glade ; If steps profane invade his haunts, He wings his way to deeper shade, Where, all unseen within the gloomy wood, His plaintive song delights the savags solitude." V. Pleasant pictures of that kind and hospitable Randall family, now all sleeping side by side in one tomb at Mount Auburn, were drawn, however poorly, in the boy's journals of those early days, worthless except for the authentic re- flections they give of real scenes. No near relative is left to shrink from showing these pictures to the reader ; and my duty to give some glimpses of the poet's lovable char- acter, so little known to his contemporaries, must be my excuse for venturing to insert here a series of extracts from those journals, with all their boyish crudity and gar- rulousness, as follows : — " Wednesday, April JO, 1 8^1. . . . After dinner we went to spend the afternoon with Mr. John W. Randall and his sisters, who invited us a day or two ago. We got there about four o'clock, and after a little while Miss Anna came in. She talked to us, told us queer stories and anecdotes, played on the piano, and, in short, did everything she could to please and amuse us. Emily and I danced together while she played on the piano, and, though we made some mistakes, we enjoyed it highly. When Miss Belinda came into the room, she played beautifully on the piano, and sang. Many of the pieces were Mozart's, and were exquisite. She plays very well indeed, and is one of the best players of our acquaintance. Mr. Randall came in from out-doors a little while before tea, and took us up in his study, where he showed us several beautiful engravings. After supper he played on the piano, and accompanied the music with the most beautiful whistle I ever heard. Miss Belinda played while we danced, and we got into THE RANDALL FAMILY 73 a gale of fun. After a little while, Miss Anna took her seat at the piano, while her sister danced with us. We had a fancy cotillion, and it would put Mr. Papanti into hysterics to see us. The last figure was the ' Car of Jug- gernaut,' and Miss Belinda made this conundrum : * Why is a drunkard like the Car } Because it is> J?ig or noitgJit.' Afterwards Mr. Randall told us stories. He invited me to go with him to his country-seat at Stow to stay a little while. He showed me drawings of his house, and I thought they were quite pretty. About eleven Edwin came for us, and he stayed a little while looking at pictures, after which we came home. Mr. Randall went home with us, and took an umbrella, as it rained. " Saturday, May J, 1851. . . . Mr. Randall had ap- pointed to-day to go to Stow, so I busied myself about putting up some things in a carpet-bag which I thought I should want, but which I afterwards found were an incum- brance. He came at one, or about one, and we went down to the Fitchburg depot, and, as we found there was no hurry, we crossed the bridge and saw the great freight station, of chairs, tubs, pails, &c. We did not stop long, but went back to the cars, which soon started. We passed Charlestown, Somerville, Cambridge, West Cam- bridge, W^altham, Stony Brook, Weston, Lincoln, Concord, and South Acton, where we got out. Mr. Randall wished to see Colonel Faulkner on some business ; so, while they were talking, I went to see the stream which turns the Colonel's mill. It has a very pretty cataract, or, as I sup- pose it is called, dam. It was some time before another train would come along, so Mr. Randall thought that we would walk to the other station, two or three miles distant. On the way he turned into a path in the woods, to show me what a pretty place it was. After admiring it suf- 74 INTRODUCTION' ficiently, Mr. Randall took a paper of sandwiches out of his pocket and invited me to sit down and eat dinner, which I accordingly did. When we were done^ we re- sumed our way and passed a most charming little lake, sunk in a sloping hollow and shaded by trees on all sides. I have very seldom seen a more beautiful little sheet of water. It was so small that it was entirely shaded by the tall trees, and it seemed made for fairies. We stopped at the house of Mr. Randall's cousins, and stayed a little while. As I was very thirsty, I asked for a glass of water, which was very good, but not quite enough. When we left, Mr. Randall told me that one of the ladies I had just seen was a great botanist, and almost equal to Dr. Bige- low. It was so hot that I was soon panting for water, and, coming to a pump, drank pretty freely. After walk- ing about a mile, we came to Assabet, where the railroad station was, and here I saw a very large ice-house, on the shore of a pond formed by a very pretty dam. After waiting a little while, the cars came thundering along, and we took our seats. In a few minutes we got out at Rock- bottom, the name of one of the Stow villages. From thence we walked to Mr. Randall's house through the woods, and we had a very pleasant walk. We got there a little while before dark, and the first thing I did was to go to the pump and get a draught. After supper we talked and read, and, as I felt pretty tired, we went to bed early. I slept with Mr. Randall [and I shall never forget the brilliant and fascinating way in which, during two or three hours, he told me De La Motte Fouque's exquisite story of Undine]. " Sunday, May 4. This morning, as I was quite tired last night, I slept very late, and Mr. Randall told me that he did not like to wake me up. We ate breakfast, and then. THE RANDALL FAMILY 75 as it was too late to go to church [I never knew him to go to church, but that was the way in which he evaded my innocent proposal to go], we went to Dea. Meade's house ; he married Mr. Randall's uncle's widow, and so could claim a kind of relationship. We stayed a little while, and just before tea we went on an excursion on the banks of Boone's lake, a large sheet of water near the Deacon's. It was hard work struggling through the woods and underbrush, but we worked along to the end of the lake. He found me some shells, quite pretty. We returned, and took tea, and afterwards we went home. It rained a little. In the evening Mr. Randall read, in Burns, some of his best pieces. " Monday, May 5- This morning we did not rise with the sun for this reason : the sun did not rise at all to Stow ! It was rather late when we got up, but, when we did, we ate breakfast. Afterwards it was so rainy that Vv^e could not go out, so we stayed at home. Mr. Randall read in 'John Bull,' a book which describes the travels of a gen- uine Englishman in America and is of the Gulliver kind, a humorous satire on travellers' tales. About noon we found that we must have exercise, so we sallied forth for a short walk in the woods, wet as it was. So we went off, and saw a natural causeway, probably built by the first settlers or the Indians. We went home in a little while, and ate supper, after which Mr. Randall read in 'John Bull.' We went to bed about ten or eleven and lay awake till twelve, each composing alternate lines of poetry. " Tuesday, May 6. We were up late this morning, too, and after dressing, as a matter of course, we went down stairs and ate breakfast. When we had done eating, we got into the chaise and rode to Marlborough. I should consider the vehicle unique, as it can be either a four- ^6 INTRODUCTION wheeled chaise or a carry-all. It is the most comfortable one I ever rode in, as it is very springy. We kept rising higher as we went on, until we were about five hundred feet above the sea, and here we paused. We could see very far in some directions, and it was a splendid prospect, but it was not equal to that which we saw farther on. We passed through Marlborough village, which appeared to be very flourishing, as there was a number of new houses building, until we reached Elm street, a street lined with tall and beautiful elms. We went to the end of it, and there we saw a view almost unequalled by any I had yet seen. A rising spot covered by thick trees divided the prospect into two portions, and seemed to form two vistas through which we could gaze. From here we could see sixty miles — it was magnificent. As we were going up or coming home, I forget which, we passed Gate's Pond, or lake, as I should call it. It was a most charming sheet of water, and the green turf came down to the water's edge. I drove coming home, and, as it was growing colder, I drew my cloak, which I take in all my rides with me, over my shoulders. As we were on a hill, I could see a little lake, i.e. not very large, crossed by a causeway or road, lined on either side by young willows, and we passed it our- selves in a little while. It was very pretty. We rode about fifteen miles, and had a nice time, getting home about dusk. In the evening we wrote some poetry to- gether, first Mr. Randall writing a line, and then I. " Wednesday, May y. We got up rather late this morn- ing, and went down stairs, where we had a nice breakfast, thanks to Mrs. Rea, the wife of Mr. Randall's farmer. We started for Cedar Swamp Pond, a lake of about twenty acres, which is growing over with moss, and, as it gets thicker, trees sprout, and it will eventually be entirely THE RANDALL FAMILY 77 covered. It was once very large, and, if a deep well is dug within a quarter of a mile, the water will gush up with great fury. This moss is like a towel spread over a tub, and, if you go upon it, you must run to avoid bearing the moss down by your weight, though there is no danger of its letting you through, as it requires a great deal of exer- tion to force a pole through it. There is one way of ap- proaching the pond without any danger, and Mr. Randall took this way, but unfortunately, owing to the late rains, part of the road was overflowed, and after vainly trying to pass this place, we were obliged to postpone our visit. As we regained the highway, it began to sprinkle, but, as Mr. Randall had an umbrella, it did little harm ; besides, it cleared in a short time. We passed a quagmire which cost the town a great deal of trouble, as it was six years before they could build a road through it ! It was not more than a few rods long, too, but it was very quaking, and a rock thrown in would shake all the earth round. If you were to try to cross it, you might see a clump of grass, and, springing forward to gain a hold, the bog would swallow you up suddenly, and you would never be heard of again. Mr. Randall lost an uncle or grand-uncle in this way. We then went to the Old Dam, as it is called, though I could see little resembling a dam. It is situated on the verge of a very pretty wood, and is made by the Elsebeth [Assabet] Brook ; here it flows into a basin, and in sum- mer it is about up to my neck, forming one of the prettiest bathing-places I ever saw. It is some fifty feet long, and perhaps twenty or thirty feet wide, and is pretty near the same depth throughout. At the time I saw it, it was con- siderably over my head and flowed with great force, so that Mr. Randall said that he could not stand against it. On the banks of this charming place, flowers grew in yS INTRODUCTION abundance, and I, with Mr. Randall's help, collected quite a bouquet. I had violets, anemones, houstonias, cowslips, and ever so many others, together with the blossoms of trees, such as red maple, aronia \sic\y &c. I did not know that so many .flowers were out so early. We crossed the brook and began the ascent of Spindle Hill, a most un- poetical name for a beautiful place. We were about half way up when, behind an angle of a stone wall, Mr. Randall saw something that induced the exclamation, ' Look quick, Frank, there's a skunk ! ' I turned my head, and caught a glimpse of the creature as it darted out of sight. We kept ascending till we reached the top, the prospect grow- ing more beautiful as we advanced, when it was perfectly charming. The adjacent country was spread out like a panorama, and on every side we could see silvery streams, winding through green fields and shaded by trees ; white houses shining, if I may so express myself, among them, and the thick woods beyond ; these formed a scene, at least to me, of almost unparalleled beauty. We could see, Mr. Randall said, fifty towns, perhaps seventy-five. In point of beauty, I think that this most charming prospect was superior to that from the Wilder estate in Bolton, which I afterwards saw. We sat down on a stone, and I gazed in silence on the scene below. The Elsebeth [Assabet] Brook, which we had just left, was coursing in serpentine mazes through green fields, now hid by trees, then appearing beyond — oh, I cannot describe my feel- ings. It was not so magnificent, so splendid, as that at Bolton, but its quiet beauty, its gentle aspect, quite won my heart. It seemed to be among landscapes like the violet among flowers, so enchanting by its fragrance that we forget the stately tulip. When we had looked at it as much as we liked, we started to come home. We came THE RANDALL FAMILY 79 by the road, and we found many flowers by the way though we should hardly expect to find many in such a place. We had gone about half or three quarters of the way, when Mr. Randall pointed to a beautiful valley that lay a little beyond his house, which is one of the most charming, if not the most charming vales I have seen. It is very fertile, and the part that Mr. Randall owns is very valuable. While we were eating supper, it rained a little, and, the sun coming out, of course there was a rainbow. This was a very good one, strongly marked and arching from one hand completely to the other. Mr. Randall and I went out to see it more distinctly, and we went off some way, up the hill near the woods. But it cleared off en- tirely, and we had a splendid sunset. The moon came up, and we wandered off into the woods in the direction of the Assabet River, which runs by Mr. Randall's farm. We strolled to the banks of the stream, our arms round each other's waist, and went into a beautiful grove of enormous pines, some one hundred and twenty-five feet high ! The partridges were about, and we heard the whirr of a good many, besides the hoot of an owl. It was very pleasant to walk so at evening, I thought. We walked nearly ten miles during the day, and read * Flowers of Travel ' after we got home. " Thursday, May 8. This morning we did not rise with the sun, but, when we did, we proceeded down stairs and partook of a nice breakfast. Afterwards we sat by the fire and talked, while Mr. Rea was harnessing the horse ; for we were going to the Wilder estate in Bolton, the place I referred to in the account of Wednesday. When the horse was harnessed, I took my cloak and put it into the carriage, where I shortly after put myself. I forget whether I drove going or not, but I am certain that I did 8o INTRODUCTION coming back, and it is my impression I did going. We rode to Bolton, Mr. Randall telling all the things of in- terest as we passed them. At Bolton he showed me an academy built by money left to the town by a clergyman, with the proviso that the families of seven persons whom he disliked should not for several generations have the priv- ilege of attending. I think he displayed the Christian spirit of forgiveness in a high degree. We passed several pretty places on the road, and I enjoyed myself highly. Before long we began to ascend, and, as we rode higher, I could catch glimpses of what afterwards was to constitute the finest prospect that I had seen. At last we gained the top of the hill, and I was almost transported at the vastness of the scene. I could see one hundred miles in some directions ; Vermont, New Hampshire, and northern Massachusetts lay before me with their countless moun- tains, the beautiful valley between them and us. There was Wachusett about twelve miles distant, rearing his bulky form against the sky, Monadnoc with his sharp peak, and the dim outlines of the central peaks of New Hamp- shire, looking so faint and blue in the distance. Then nearer were the villages and towns. Lancaster with its beautiful temple to God was lying amid the trees so still and silent, and the quiet Nashua winding through the midst. It was the most magnificent view I ever saw. By moonlight it must be perfectly enchanting. There is an old mansion house here which is very imposing in its gen- eral appearance. It was long, very long, and did not look any more like a country-house, such as we see in this country, than a brick house would. It seemed like the residences of the gentry in England, it was so stately. The man who formerly owned this place built a church and parsonage for his own use, and he hired a clergyman to THE RANDALL FAMILY 8 1 preach to him and his family alone ! After examining the grounds as much as we cared to, we went to Lancaster, about three miles off, through a most charming road shaded by trees. We crossed the Nashua River through an old bridge, or rather over it, though we did pass under cover all the way. We saw the church, which is the thing of interest, together with the town house, which was built in a very chaste style, both of brick. We did not stay long after we saw the church, but returned to Bolton the same pretty road. Here we took a last lingering look at the splendid view, and then we passed on. We came home through Feltonville [now Hudson], a rather pretty town, and saw the falls, which looked very well indeed. Mr. Randall stopped a little while at Rockbottom, and then we proceeded ; and, as the moon shone, we had a very pleasant ride. We read * Flowers of Travel ' after we got home. We rode about thirty miles. "Friday^ May g. This morning, after breakfast, Mr. Randall had the chaise got ready, and we started for White Lake, which is some seven or eight miles by the way we went. We passed through the village of Stow, as Mr. Randall wished to call on Dr. Bass, who used to live in Boston ; I drove all the way, going and coming. We stopped there, and saw him and his daughter ; they showed us their shells, library, &c., and also some beautiful china- ware. After staying two or three hours, we went on, and arrived at White Lake, where we rode into the water. Our horse, who \sic\ was rather sedentary, by the way, seemed to like it very well. The water was too high to see the beach, so we did not stay long, but came back and ate supper. In the evening, we wrote a little poem to 'Friendship,' of which Mr. Randall wrote six verses and I wrote four [his six stanzas being, as is self-evident, the first, third, fifth, seventh, ninth, and tenth] : — 82 INTRODUCTION FRIENDSHIP. 1 . Why yearns my soul, what void is here ? No cares, no sorrows vex my mind, Yet Hope lags arm in arm with Fear : Something I seek I cannot find. 2. It is not power, pleasure, gold. That I would seek my soul to free From loneliness that rests untold, But I would have sweet sympathy. 3. As the deep sea reflects the sky, As in a glass forms reappear, So in some heart would I descry The image of my Hope and Fear. 4. O Nature, thou art mild and fair, Thy woods and streams, thy hills and vales. Yet I alone could not live there Amidst thy fairest, sweetest dales. 5. If love be absent, even thy lay. Sweet thrush, can lend mine ear no charm ; Like sunshine on a wintry day. It gilds my life, but cannot warm. 6. Not mine the love that fades and dies And perishes within an hour, Nor mine the friend that timid flies, When threatened by misfortune's power : 7. But love that lasts, calm, warm, and bright. Through green age and through gray — That beam divine which, like thy light, Sweet Truth, survives decay. 8. O Love, when bowed by sorrow low, By weakness led to sin. Then thou canst teach us back to go, Canst lead us back to Him. THE RANDALL FAMILY Z^ 9. When passions wild tlie soul enslave, Thou, Love, canst set us free ; Thy steadfast hands shall dig the grave Of cold Hypocrisy. 10. By thee the world was made, by thee All things around, above ; Thou rul'st o'er air, earth, fire, and sea ; Lo, God himself is Love. " Saturday, May 10. We got up late this morning, too> and after breakfast went out to take a walk in the woods. It was very hot, and I was glad to get under the trees, though it was harder walking than in the open spaces. Mr. Randall helped me get flowers, and, as we were com- ing home to-day, I wished to have a good bouquet to present to mother. I am sure my wish was gratified, for I had a very large nosegay, and a very pretty one, too. We walked a long way, and, as we were in the midst of a wood, we saw a large black-snake ! I forgot all my fatigue,, and looked eagerly round for a stick, but Mr. Randall restrained me, saying that a black-snake will bite severely, I was so sorry when Mr. Randall, who was going to give him a quietus, was baulked by the snake's running off very fast. He was a monstrous fellow, and he, Mr. Ran- dall, called him five feet long. At last we went towards home, and, passing a murmuring brook, I quickly knelt down and drank a long time. ' Frank,' said Mr. Randall, ' wouldn't you like to go into the woods and take a bath .'' ' * Yes, sir,' said I, * I should very much, if you think that we should not take cold.' ' I don't think that we should, but do as you think best about it. If you are afraid to, I wouldn't.' So, after much consultation, we agreed to go down. We accordingly went, I leaving my bunch of 84 INTRODUCTION flowers in the brook, in what I thought a safe place. After we got down there, we had to adjust some boards, &c., before we could go in, but, preliminaries being ar- ranged, we boldly entered. I at once ducked under, and so I lost the chill which usually accompanies going in. It was a beautiful place, retired and completely shaded by trees, a brook with a gravelly bottom and with water quite warm for the season. Mr. Randall, however, delayed ducking for some time, and I had great fun enjoying his dread, as I had got over it all myself and could afford to laugh. After staying in as long as it was comfortable and prudent, we came out and dressed. I felt better for it all day. We went back to where I left my flowers, but, alas, no flowers were there. I espied them between two rocks, some way down the brook, and I hastily secured them. They were improved by their bath, too. I was glad to find them, you may be sure, fair reader. We went home and lunched, after which Mr. Rea's son drove us down to the station, where I weighed myself, and found I had gained three pounds in eight days. I weighed ninety-six pounds and a half. Now for a few statistics, for which I have the authority of Mr. Randall. While I was at Stow, I walked over fifty miles ; we added it up, and so I can vouch for it ; and we rode in a carriage sixty miles and in the cars sixty-two more, making one hundred and seventy- two miles in all. Now for me this is a good round sum to do in a week. Well, we got into the cars, and went to South Acton, where we got out, as we should have to stop for another train. Here a young lady accosted me, and asked what kind of flowers those yellow ones were. I told her that they were cowslips, so she very prettily inquired if I * would be so good as to give her one, as she had never seen one before.' Of course I did, and I should have THE RANDALL FAMILY 85 given her others, but she declined. I got home about dusk, and ate supper after seeing all my 'folks.' Mr. Randall called in the evening, and very kindly gave me a silver pencil-case, together with two boxes of leads. I went to bed, and next day woke up in — Boston. " Tuesday, May IJ. This morning I studied till dinner time, excepting of course time for exercise. In the after- noon. Mother, Emily, Stanley and myself went to Mr. Randall's to spend the evening. I went some time before they did, and found him at home, and in a little while he took me up in his study. Here Mr. Randall showed me portraits of distinguished persons, and among them that of Raphael Sanzio the 'divine.' Pretty soon Emily and Stanley came in, and he showed us a great many curiosi- ties ; a great variety of coins and medals (one of the latter was a Whitefield medal, worth fifty dollars and almost unique, of copper), and a knife belonging to Samuel Adams, from whom Mr. Randall is lineally descended. He sent Emily and Stanley up in the observatory with the spy-glass, and, while they were gone, he gave me a beautiful portfolio, embossed and imported from England, with ' Gems ' on the cover, most splendidly done. He opened it, and I saw that the title was very appropriate, as it contained about a dozen charming pictures, some en- gravings, some etched, and one of his own. I was de- lighted with it, and of course thanked him in strong terms. Mrs. Willard and her son Robert, who is rather younger than I am, were also there ; so, pretty soon after Emily and Stanley came down from the observatory, we all went into the parlor. Here we conversed until supper, after which Mr. Randall and Mrs. Willard had quite a discus- sion with regard to the character of the ' Pilgrim Fathers.' The former thought them quite like other men. They 86 INTRODUCTION kept it up quite long, and then he showed the older part of the company some engravings, while we juveniles played games with Miss Anna. Father came before tea. We went home about eleven. " Thursday, May I^. This morning Mother went to Beverly, and Grandfather and Stanley went with her. She intends to return a week from to-morrow and in a few days take us back again to stay. After she was gone, we went to our books, and after our exercise studied till two or three o'clock, when we had dinner. In a little while, I took my books to Father and recited till about half past four, when Mr. Randall called for me to take a walk with him to Parker's Hill, Roxbury. Having obtained Father's consent, I posted off, and went to Mr. Randall's house, which, by the way, is 107 Harrison Avenue. Here he made me eat an orange, and put two or three oranges and five or six sticks of candy into my pocket ! He told me that they would not come amiss on the way, and I found that he was no false prophet. We walked out on the Neck, and up to Parker's Hill, where I had never been, though I did live two years in Roxbury. We kept ascend- ing by beautiful roads, until we stopped on the way and lay down on a bank, Mr. Randall took out his spy-glass, which he had brought, and we examined the adjacent country. The prospect was fine, but he said it would be much finer by and by. We continued our tour until we reached the summit, and here we were well rewarded for our pains. We had a capital view of Boston and its vicin- ity. Here there were some very pretty woods, small, but very thick. We did not stay long, but came back to the town itself about dusk. Mr, Randall stopped at the house of some acquaintances, ladies, who were delightful people. We left a little after — I do not exactly remember what THE RANDALL FAMILY 8/ time it was. We had a very pleasant walk of eight miles total, and, after I got at Mr. Randall's, we ate supper. He gave me six oranges and nine sticks of candy more. I got home about half -past eleven o'clock, ^* Monday, May /p. [Walk to Chelsea and back to- gether.] " Wednesday^ May 21. After taking our exercise this morning, we studied till dinner-time. In the afternoon, Emmie and I went to spend the rest of the day at Miss Anna Randall's. I think that we are in enough with that family, don't you, gentle reader? We had hardly been there two minutes before she kindly asked us if we should not like some ice-creams. As we replied in the affirmative, she immediately took us to the confectioner's, and in a moment we were supplied. We chatted very agreeably, and, when we were done, she went to walk with us, • and I think that she walked too far, as she was quite tired when we got at the house. We saw Mr. Randall, and he gave Emily a set of pictures. After supper, I went out into the back-yard with Miss Anna, and we had a council about where to plant her flowers. We came home about half past eight, and I went to bed directly, as my head ached severely. ''Monday, May 26. [Walk with Mr. Randall to Dor- chester.] " Wednesday, June /f. Mr, Randall has been here [at Beverly] for a week, and so I have not had time to write in my diary for a great while. These are some of the most notable days. " Last Wednesday Mother and Emily came down from Boston, and the day after Edwin came. To-day we agreed to have a ride ; so, in the afternoon, after lessons were got, we rode to the Farms to stay till evening. . . . Just before 88 INTRODUCTION tea, as we were looking out of the window, whom should we see but Mr. Randall ! I was very glad to see him, and jumped out of the house in pretty quick time. We all went up on the hill just behind the house and looked at the prospect, and then came down and had tea. We started to come home about an hour before sundown, and came by the Montserrat road, as it is called. While we were passing through Cow Lane, it rained harder than I ever saw it before, and right in our faces, too. Edwin and Mr. Randall were wet through to the skin, I in a less de- gree [because Mr. Randall shielded me all he could with his own coat]. Stanley crawled under the boot, and es- caped unhurt. When we got home, we changed our clothes, and did not take any cold in consequence of our wetting. " Tuesday, June 10. When Mr. Randall came down here last Wednesday, he said that he only intended to stay three hours ; but he has extended his visit until the pres- ent time. Edwin went home yesterday, as his vacation ended on Monday, and so he went up early to go to school. To-day Mr. Randall proposed to go home, and after break- fast he said to me, * Come, Frank, let's take a little walk.' We went down to Bass River and walked along on the railroad, looking for flowers. On one bank, we found some very pretty lupines, and further on we found geraniums in plenty. As we were looking at the prospect, Mr. Ran- dall saw * Brown's Folly,' a hill two or three or four miles from Grandfather's house, and proposed a jaunt thither. " I was glad to go, and so we set out. We stopped at Isabel's Island, a pretty spot with a pretty name, and here we found the Star-of-Bethlehem, and other flowers. Just beyond the mill we left the road and rambled over the fields, going here and there in search of flowers, of THE RANDALL FAMILY 89 which we found a great many. This, of course, greatly lengthened our walk, and, before we could get to the hill, we had to pass through a great many morasses, or rather we had to go round them, because they were over a man's head in depth. Among these wet places we found an aspen-tree, and I brought home some, as I never saw any before. Mr. Randall found a little blossom which he said was very rare ; it looked very much like a strawberry blos- som, and what seemed to be the petals was in fact a part of the calyx, the real petals being very minute. We found, also, a disease on some low trees, which looked and felt very much like wax-work, it was so hard and smooth. "After wandering till twelve o'clock among the fields and hollows, we arrived at the summit of Brown's Folly, and here we had a fine view of Dan vers and Beverly. There was one solitary tree on the top of this elevation, and here we lay down under its shade for an hour and a half. Mr. Randall was looking at Danvers, and said to me, * Frank, let's walk back through it, and then we can go through Salem.' *Yes, and that will be a good long walk,' said I, for I was anxious to achieve a good long peregrination, so that I could have something to boast of when I got home ; ' that will be capital.' " We walked through all the villages of Danvers, and at one Mr. Randall bought three ginger-cakes apiece, which we ate as we walked along. I felt very thirsty, and drank at nearly every pump we passed. It was a very fine day, though I thought that I should like to have it cooler. At one place, there was a dam across a river, or rather a large brook, and, as I felt almost suffocated from thirst, I climbed up and took a long draught, which lasted some time. The walk from Danvers to Salem was not so agreeable, as it was quite warm. 90 INTRO D UCTION "When we arrived at Salem, Mr, Randall bought two glasses of spruce beer, which greatly refreshed us. Then we had some oysters, and proceeded on our way, passing through Chestnut Street, the handsomest street in Salem, which is not saying a great deal, though. It is full of old mansion houses, and is bordered on both sides with fine trees, so as to form a good shade. We passed the witches' hill, where the witches are reputed to have been hanged, until we came to the North Salem graveyard. Here we looked around for the grave of Elizabeth Whitman, alias Eliza Wharton ; and found that a path had been worn to the stone, and what was worse, it was very much defaced, so that we could hardly read the inscription. A large number visit it every day, and they break off pieces from the stone ; so Mr, Randall copied the epitaph, and carried off some of the fragments of the stone which had been left by the barbarians. We stayed about an hour, and came back through Harmony Grove into the city. Mr, Randall bought some crackers and milk. We came home over the bridge ; and, adding all up, we found that we had walked eighteen miles, the longest walk I have yet taken. We got home about nine o'clock, and I did not feel very tired. ^^ Boston, Monday, July l^, 1 8^ I. I have been prepar- ing this winter to enter the Public Latin School, and I was to be examined to-day ; so, after breakfast, about nine o'clock. Father went to the school-house with me, [The long and very full account of this examination here given, though of some value as throwing light on the methods in vogue a half-century ago, is of course omitted here.] So now I am a member of the Latin School. That is off my mind. "About the middle of the afternoon, Emily, Stanley and I went to Mr. Randall's and found Miss Anna at THE RANDALL FAMILY 9 1 home, who asked us if we would not go with her and have an ice-cream. We thanked her when we had done, and returned to the house, and in a little while had tea. In the evening Father and Mother came, and I suppose Edwin would have come, too, if he was not being exam- ined at Cambridge for admission to Harvard University. Several other persons were there, among whom were Mrs. Willard and her daughter. Miss Dora. Miss Belinda Ran- dall played most beautifully on the piano, and sang some of the most beautiful songs I ever heard. I wish that I could hear such beautiful music every night, or else could play for myself. We passed a very pleasant evening, and went home about eleven o'clock, as we usually do, and I soon forgot all my examination and its attendant trials. ' ' Wednesday^ July 16. This afternoon Mr. Randall came to carry me off to Stow. He came for me about twenty minutes before four, so I had to bid them all a hasty goodby and hurry down to the Fitchburg railroad station in time to take the four o'clock train. I was much inconvenienced by a heavy carpet-bag, which blistered my hands. My collar was as wet, when I got there, with perspiration, as if I had dipped it in a water-pail. My head ached some, so I did not enjoy my journey up there as much as I otherwise should. After I had left my bag at the house, we went down to the Assabet river and went in, and had a very good time. It felt very refresh- ing to my aching head, and we stayed in a pretty long while. After we got home, we ate supper, and then went to bed, where we talked an hour or two before going to sleep. " Saturday, July ig. Edwin arrived this morning, and of course I was glad to see him. ... In the afternoon, Mr. Randall went to Feltonville in the carriage, and took 92 INTRODUCTION US with him ; Edwin drove. After the former had bought some things there, we went to Marlborough and saw those fine views which I have described as well as I could before." Here the journal abruptly ended, not to be resumed for several years. One other carmen amoebaeum, belonging to the same year 1 8 5 1 , deserves to be preserved here for the sake of Mr, Randall's part in it. With much diffidence, I brought to him the first of the two following stanzas. He smiled kindl)^ at the poor little thing, took a pencil, and wrote the second stanza offhand. I love to stand at eve beside the shore, And mark the billows as they idly play ; They sport a moment and are seen no more, Yet, as they go, they sadly seem to say : " Our little space of life is quickly o'er, We have our hour, and then we melt away." But love sincere can never know decay. Yet when, from false, true love I fain would tell, The task seems hard, tinsel so gay appears ; Lo, day by day that which I loved full well Melts from my view, and leaves me nought but tears. Then, Truth, be thou my aid, these doubts dispel — If thou with Love unite, farewell all fears ! This bond shall last, not limited by years. That first visit of a week at Stow, in May, 1851, was a great event in my boyhood. It was the definite beginning of a friendship which lasted, without even a transient cloud, for more than forty years — a close and intimate com- panionship to which I owed much of the best happiness and strongest intellectual stimulus of my early life. For THE RANDALL FAMILY . 93 seven or eight successive years, we spent several weeks together in the summer-time at Stow, mostly alone with each other, talking, reading, walking and driving about the country for many miles in all directions. Stow itself was an insignificant and out-of-the-way farming town of about a thousand inhabitants, with a small cotton factory in the village of Rockbottom, a mile or so distant from the Randall place. The entire region was beautifully rural, and we left scarcely a single country road unexplored throughout the neighboring towns of Berlin, Bolton, Lan- caster, Boylston, Marlborough, Sterling, Harvard, Acton, Littleton, Concord, Sudbury, Framingham, Boxborough, and so forth. The house (in later years changed almost beyond recognition) was a square two-story dwelling, with a long ell of many rooms in the rear for the farmer's family, and with a long verandah on three sides of the main building. On this verandah we took our exercise in rainy weather, walk- ing up and down for hours at a time in animated conversa- tion. There was a charming and airy library room, built by Mr. Randall himself as a one-story addition, in which we spent much of our time indoors, and near which grew on a mound of its own the tree which prompted his poem "To a Snow-covered Apple-tree." Life at Stow was delightfully Bohemian. We rose when we pleased, had our meals when we pleased, and did exactly what we pleased. Our long drives of twenty or thirty miles often brought us back late in the evening, when we took our supper, and afterwards talked or read far into the small hours of the morning. There were no neighbors except the honest (or dishonest) farmers of the town in their widely scattered farm-houses. Randall in- dulged in no illusions as to the superior virtuousness of country life as such, and was full of amusing stories as to 94 INTRODUCTION the small cunning of the country mind ; but he let its occasional petty impositions on himself go unreproved and apparently undetected, except when he dropped some jest or biting sarcasm for my private benefit. He was always a kind and goodnatured neighbor, and cherished a sincere esteem for many of his fellow-townsmen, among whom he chose to make his legal domicile. In fact, he had a deep affection for this home of his ancestors, and often spoke to me in those years of the benefactions, afterwards realized by the faithful devotion of Miss Randall to her brother's memory, which he meditated towards the town of Stow. Nothing could surpass the piquancy and brilliancy, sometimes the whimsicality and even extravagance, of Randall's conversation. Wit and imagination sparkled through his talk on the gravest as well as on the most trivial topics, and sometimes ran away with him, par- ticularly if opposed. To question a statement of his in an antagonistic tone at once invited a re-statement of it with twofold emphasis, usually with additions still more startling. But I never knew a mind more candid or reasonable in the main. Reverence for truth was its pre- dominant trait, I never opposed him in an offensive way, or felt the shghtest impulse to do so ; I was a charmed listener to his long monologues, understood him, made my own mental allowances for the sometimes too vividly colored assertions, and appreciated the essential ration- ality of his real meaning. For this reason we had no quarrels. Never but in one instance, so far as I can remember, did we ever approach the brink of one. In the summer of 1853, we took together a ten days' walking trip through the White Mountain region, starting at Plymouth, following up the Pemigev/asset Valley, climbing Mount Lafayette, passing THE RANDALL FAMILY 95 down from Bethlehem through the White Mountain Notch, and walking back through Bartlett and Jackson to Gorham, where we took the railway train to return. On the walk from Jackson to Gorham, the road was fright- fully and continuously muddy, to the depth of some inches. In the discomfort of tramping through this Ser- bonian bog, we lost our tempers a little, separated, and for some hours splashed through the mire one behind the other, he in front and I some rods behind. I dare say the fault was wholly mine. When we reached the Glen House, we were on our usual terms, and neither of us ever referred to the matter again. That was our first, last, and only quarrel. Not a bad record that for a friendship of two score years ! But there never was and never could have been any excuse for quarrelling with John Randall, who, rigid as steel in resisting aggression or encroachment, was even painfully conscientious in refraining from disregard of the infinite or infinitesimal rights of others. If ever anybody loved justice more than his profit or his pleasure or even his whims, he was certainly the man ; and his sym- pathy for all who suffered, whether justly or unjustly, was quick and active even to the verge of weakness. That is, he not only refused to take revenge on any man, but even to inflict deserved penalties on poor or distressed offenders. I used to wonder at his leniency towards former agents of his who had cheated him in the management of his farm, especially in cutting down woods he loved and would have spared, and putting the proceeds into their own pockets. But he checked my indignation by saying he pitied them because they were poor as well as mean, and really in need of money for the sake of their families. In truth, fierce as he was against opposition from the 96 INTR OD UCTION Strong, his heart was as pitiful and merciful as a woman's to all who were weak. It so happened that Randall was exactly twenty-three years my senior ; our birthdays fell on the same day of the same month. This coincidence greatly impressed my imagination, and lent a romantic tinge to our singular friendship. Notwithstanding the great disparity of our ages, the man of thirty-seven chose to treat the boy of fourteen on a footing of perfect equality in all respects. When my father wished to put me under his charge and delegate to him his own parental authority during our stay in Stow, Randall altogether declined that relationship. He insisted that I should be his guest, not his pupil or depend- ent. It goes without saying that such an arrangement would delight any boy. Moreover, from the time of that first visit he insisted that I should call him " John," and not "Mr. Randall," — much less "Dr. Randall," a title which reminded him unpleasantly of his own compulsory medical education. A few years later, when I was about to enter college under difficulties, in 1855, I shall never forget how delicately and kindly he proposed to me one evening, as we were taking a walk over West Boston bridge, to defray all the expenses of my college education, nor how touched he was, when I replied impetuously that I could not accept this — that I could not afford to ex- change our relation as equal friends for the relation of benefactor and beneficiary. This feeling he respected ever after to the day of his death, and never again offered (except in one instance, in a letter, when the offer was again declined) pecuniary assistance under any circum- stances. No man ever better understood the deep truth of Cicero's words, solem enim e mundo toller e videntur qui amicitiavt c vita tollnnt, qua nihil a diis immortalibus THE RANDALL FAMILY 9/ melius kabemus, nihil jucundius ; and no man ever better knew or obeyed Cicero's fundamental law of friendship, maxitnum est in amicitia parent esse inferiori. A signal instance of this putting of himself on the ground of perfect equality with one so much his inferior in age and in knowledge occurs to me. We spent several weeks together at Stow in the summer of 1855, occupying ourselves in the final revision of the " Consolations of Soli- tude " for the press. Over a hundred and fifty changes and corrections were made in the manuscript poems, and certainly as many more ought to have been made. In discussing and remedying the errors we discovered, I was profoundly impressed with one quality of John's mind — its singular freedom from the sensitiveness and irritable vanity which are often supposed to be inherent in the poetic temperament. To this discussion of imperfections in his own work, he brought what Virchow well described as the "spirit of the coldest objectivity" — the tempera- ment of a scientific man rather than that of a poet. A stanza on the paper was to him a purely objective fact, to be studied as coolly and critically as an insect, a plant, a shell. It did not seem to occur to him that he had any proprietorship or personal interest in it ; the only point to be considered was the goodness or badness of the stanza as a stanza, as a rhythmical expression of a poetical idea, and the possibility of making it any truer or more beau- tiful. What charmed me most of all, however, was the can- dor, the simplicity, the hospitality, the recognition of my equality with himself as an independent critic, with which he received my suggestions, however immature or value- less ; for I was only eighteen at the time. Many of these suggestions he actually adopted ; more, of course, he had to reject. But in all those weeks his only test of accept- 98 INTRODUCTION ance or rejection was the intrinsic value of the suggestion itself ; and I do not remember that in a single case I dis- sented from his judgment of this at last, after we had talked the matter over in all its lights. Daily intercourse with such a mind, so strong, so free, so imbued with the love of truth and beauty for their own pure sakes, was in itself an education. Now that my friend is dead, it may be permitted to me here to confess my gratitude to him for incalculable benefits that no words of mine can fitly describe. At my request, he gave me the original manuscripts of the " Consolations of Soli- tude " after the printers had got through with them, some in his own writing, some in that of his devoted sister Belinda. One of these poems in pencil, " A New Year's Wish," he told me he had written for me, the friend whom he held second to his lost Ingersoll alone ; and I was more than glad to hold the second place in that great heart. VI. But a truer impression of what John Witt Randall was than can be got from any statements of mine will be derived from his own words. His letters (he had few correspondents and did not write frequently even to me) reveal his character as nothing else can. Almost all I have are addressed to myself, and every sentence, so peculiar and original is the style, is like a photograph of him. As I must use these or none, I begin with the first he ever wrote to me — those between 1864 and 1876 are for the present hopelessly mislaid, though they can hardly be lost. Boston, May 31st, 1852. Dear Frank, I remember that you said at Stow that, of all the books which you wished to get with your Lawrence prize money, Bryant's Poems stood among the first. Now, as this author was the delight of my childhood and one whose best pieces I had by heart when twelve years old, I have a strong wish to connect myself in your fancy with my favorite poet, feeling sure that you will accept so trifling a tribute to that uncommon affection which you are pleased so constantly to lavish upon me. Another use might easily occur to my mind as one you may find for these poems, for, as they are emblems of a severe purity of imagination, so can no one read them without becoming the better for them ; and as such were they the delight of my earliest youth. But, perhaps, my sensibility may have become less keen ; and, as we do not to/C. lOO INTRODUCTION always grow better as we grow older, so my life may far less conform to that beautiful model which this poet sets so constantly before our eyes than even at a much earlier period of existence. Thus, then, you may try me before my own court, and see wherein I vary from strict right ; for I am much more certain of the strength of my affec- tion for you than of the absolute safety of my guidance. I have never been accustomed to be pilot to any one, and, when I would guide myself, have not infrequently been cast upon the rocks. So, though I would fain avoid the vice of meanness, you will find me not a little, as you have described yourself to be, under the dominion of impulse and feeling. Please, therefore, love me without putting too implicit faith in my judgment. For you will surely find that fools are of no particular age, and that there is abundance of them of all ages. But, whatever causes may lead us into aberrations, truly do I believe, and have found, that the love of poetry does of itself incline us to love all that is good. It softens every grief. It adorns philosophy, and inspires it with life and soul. It lightens every affliction except that of a wounded conscience, but lends wings even to that, by which it is enabled to soar all the higher after its fall. A pleasing thought indeed it is to me that, as we grow nearer and dearer to each other, every day the more and more may ■ we be united together in the love of the beautiful and the ' true. Certain I am that sincere love does constantly lead ' those whom it binds more and more toward pure lives, and the image is not inappropriate by which heaven itself is likened to love. Yet, dearest friend, I cannot forget that joy as well as \ sorrow is the mother of tears. Only in apathy are we ^ independent. When we have given our hearts away, then THE RANDALL FAMILY lOI first are we anxious, fearing some great disaster, and dread- ing those various accidents by which they may be broken. Roaming about early in life in quest of friendship and amidst innumerable objects of choice, dissatisfied with all ordinary relations, it was my happy lot, after many dis- appointments, to find over and over again all that my heart could wish — kind, loving, devoted friends dearer to me than life, the companions of all my pursuits. But merci- less Death has deprived me of nearly all, Estrangement (always less desirable than Death) of one ; yet I feel happy not to have shut up my sympathies on that account. I still love the dead in their graves without feeling less of affection for the living ; and, of all the living out of my own family, I do nowhere feel so bound in sympathy as in yours — so many and so kind hearts, from whom if I am ever long absent, I feel a sensation wholly unknown to my childhood. I mean that of homesickness. Much does the thought please me that warm affections will continually more and more bind us all together. Far, then, be the day when the inevitable law of nature shall be put in operation against us by which flowers at the fulness of bloom presently fade, by which ripe fruits fall to the ground, by which the candle's brightest beam is quenched suddenly in darkness, and by which the very climax of health itself sinks thence into decay, and life itself, when fullest of action, hastens soonest into the arms of Death. One boon is still granted us, however, which is this : so to serve our friends while they live with loving kindness that, when they die, we may lament only our loss, and not our delinquency. Rejoice with me in this, and keep your heart cheerful ; for many love you besides the friend whose hand here writes as his lips cannot speak, when, during the pleasure of seeing you, he occupies him- I O 2 INTR OD UC TIOAT self with the enjoyment and reciprocity of affection, and who writes these few Hnes, thinking that it will be a pleasure and comfort to you to have somewhat to re- mind you of him, while study and distance prevent you from seeing his face so continually as you have lately been accustomed. Please close all I would say by reading with me the last lines of the beautiful poem of Thanatopsis. I need not say with how much love to you I remain, J. w. R. Boston, Thursday, Sept. ist, 1853. Dear Frank, Anna invites you and Stanley to come to us when your school term commences. My mother expresses satisfac- tion at the invitation, and says that your coming will give her no inconvenience. So there need be no fastidiousness on that point. Belinda is at Stow. Please say to your mother that she sends love to her, and asks if none of your family are coming to Stow while she stays. She will be glad to see your father and grandfather, if either shall be pleased to come, and it is now the season when drives are most pleasant. I shall ere many days be there myself, and can aid in making time pass pleasantly to them. Tell your grandfather that we now have opportunity to use a better horse than could be obtained when he was at Stow before, and that I desire to have him see some of the neighboring towns, which present prospects such as you are as well able to describe to him as I. Love to all. ,- . , „ . Yours with affection, J. w. R. N.B. Don't get drowned. THE RANDALL FAMILY IO3 Boston, August ist, Tuesday afternoon, 1854. Dear Frank, I but now got your letter. Held back by vexatious de- lays, I have not yet been able to go to the country. This afternoon I may perhaps be free, but this depends on the punctuality of others. As time will not permit to send you word, it would be pity you should delay going to Wil- ton. So, in the hope that after a few days I shall at any rate be untied, let us arrange it so that you go now to Wil- ton, and in a fortnight I will expect you all at Stow. To make assurance sure, I will direct a line to Edwin at Wil- ton on the day that I leave for Stow, which he may perhaps have to lie in wait for, as I know not to whose care I may direct it. For a few days still I may perhaps have occasion to be envious of Time, who is reputed to wait for no man. But the country will perhaps seem all • the pleasanter, and all the more should the weather be hotter, i.e. if such a thing be possible. Meantime I hope you will get entirely well, for which I think so long a vacation will furnish facilities. As to the pleasure of meeting, it will doubtless be as mutually agreeable as ever; and since, between us, a settled confidence precludes the ne- cessity of the customary assurances of love and esteem, I will only request to be kindly remembered to each and every one in the family, and am, as ever. Yours and theirs affectionately, John W. Randall. Please notice if the old woman on the beech yet lives, and in what condition is the house. 1 04 IN TROD UC riOxV Boston, July 30th, 1S56. Dear Frank, I know of nothing to prevent me from going to Stow on Monday. I have wished to do so for the past ten days, but have dreaded all motion on account of the heat. Last night was, I think, the most uncomfortable of the season. I did not sleep a moment, but spent the latter part of the night in strolling about. Near day-break I found myself at the end of Long Wharf. The deathlike calmness of the air gave to the motionless water a beautiful silvery as- pect. The ships seemed to be asleep, as they lay scattered over the vast bay, or, melting into the far distance like ghosts, were scarcely to be distinguished from the mists that enveloped them. Vemet and Lacroix would have delighted to paint such a scene. No sun was visible, but the murky sky was here and there dashed with large red patches, like the light of a conflagration. The ground was strewed with grain from the vessels which had been unloading, and the pigeons seemed in number almost infinite. A single motion of the hand would cause them to rise in one huge cloud, with an im- mense roaring of wings ; but with a short circuitous flight they would alight all together, nearly on the same spot where they rose. The suddenness and unanimity of motion in such vast multitudes was very picturesque. They seemed to display but little fear, and were no small annoyance to a sailor who had lain down to sleep upon some old canvas lying on the wharf, and upon a spot where the grain seemed most to abound. Him they literally covered, teazing him on all sides ; but he was too lazy to get out of their way, and seemed at a distance like some dead animal amidst clouds of carrion birds. I am glad that you enjoy yourself, and hope that the THE RANDALL FAMLLY I05 speedy arrival of a new servant may yet enable Emily to go to Stow, where Belinda thinks she may herself meet us. I shall remain at the farm some little time after you leave for Wilton, and shall be glad to have Stanley come and take your place. Please invite him to do so. He may chance to see Mr. Simmons, and perhaps others there, and, if not, will, I dare say, be glad to spend some time in turtle-hunting, or otherwise. Love to all. _^ , Yours truly, ■' J. W. R. Boston, Jan. 9, 1857. Dear Frank, Your desire to hear from me induces me to push myself up to the exertion of writing. I suppose you feel a little lonely at a distance from your friends, yet probably less so than if you were not busily employed. Indeed, if one could choose one's scholars, I should think teaching by no means the least agreeable of drudgery. I am glad you take so much pleasure in your new friend, nor do I think that a hundred can be of any harm to a sincere person, even though it reduce friendship to a general benevolence — a delightful sensation, however diffusive. I know from experience that it is a pleasant thing to grow up with a companion of one's own age ; and a similarity in the moral nature with a difference of tem- perament I have found to present the most favorable conditions for the continuance of friendship. Now, in- deed, equality of age has to me ceased to be important, and I contemplate with pleasure the variety of my com. panions, which presents a different object of attachment in all the ages of men, representing many different ex- 1 06 INTR OD UC TION periences and characters as well as stages of life. As regards you and me, the gradual annihilation of difference which time produces, and which you refer to with satis- faction, is to me, also, highly agreeable. The twenty years which divide us seemed a great gulf a while ago, but now much narrower ; ten years hence it will be easily jumped, and in a hundred the ground will have cloSed, not only up to us, but over us. As regards your teaching, I wish it may add comfort when I say that I have often inclined to regret that, after graduating, I suffered my father to tempt me [by an offer of five thousand dollars, as he once remarked] from the ushership to which I was about engaging myself for a single year. The exercise would have operated as a review of past studies, and would have fixed in the memory many things valuable to be remembered, but which a great variety of new studies have long either driven out of my head or rendered faint and imperfect in their impressions. It must be true that there is no " faculty " of Memory, which I doubt not depends wholly on association ; and I think it true that the associations of maturity are yet more strongly affined than those of child- hood, but they are more under the dominion of preconcep- tion and purpose. The relations of words, of thoughts, and of things are more influenced by our experiences and our philosophy, and it is harder to learn a new language or to remember absolute definitions. The mind inclines to generalization, and desires to have its facts previously stored up for use. I therefore shall not pity your situation. I believe that you have already discovered how desirable a thing it is to be personally independent, and I think that you will derive not less satisfaction ten years hence in being master of THE RANDALL FAMILY I07 that wealth which consists, not in money, but in a multi- tude of exact ideas, a less alienable possession. How often have we expressed our disgust at the shallow thoughts (if want of thought may be so named), the deficient method, and the empty conceits of modern poetry, and observed how useless are the labors of gen- ius itself, when it totally rejects science ! Yet I will not go so far as Mr. Nuttall, who complained of Bryant's "Waterfowl" because the species of goose was not stated ; nor perhaps should I wholly admire the new poet whom you mentioned, Mr. Titcomb or Whitman or what's-his-name, who chiefly excels in enumerating facts. By the way, it may interest you to know that about a month ago there was in Mr. Bryant's paper a somewhat extended notice of " Consolations of Solitude." The re- mark that it is impossible to find a single scrap of tinsel in the whole volume was to me more satisfactory than if it could be said, with truth, that it is a performance highly finished and lacking nothing for its perfection save ideas. I am glad you called on Mr. Emerson. I have been pleased, like yourself, with his courteous and affable man- ners. His personal character stands high with those who know him, as being the farthest removed from meanness. I think you will find Miss Elizabeth Hoar an agreeable person to visit. Her father was a classmate of my own father, and has with all his family been held for many years in the most friendly esteem by all the members of our own. If it were summer, I should wish you to walk half a mile to the junction of rivers, where our lively Assabet joins the Sudbury and forms the Concord river ; also, to the battle monument in the opposite direction between Mr. Simmons' s house and the old Ripley mansion-house ; I08 INTRODUCTION also, one mile to Walden Lake, if the woods had not been cut away. It was formerly celebrated for its depth and beauty, as well as for being near the residence of the Mr. Thoreau at whose house you live, and who passed a studi- ous year upon its banks. But its beauty is now almost wholly gone, nor can it present the same aspect when the woods have grown again, since Nature plants in the place of an old one, not only a new tree, but one of a different race ; and, as the landscape derives much of its peculiarity from the character of its foliage, I find that many beautiful scenes endeared to memory for the eternal green of the pines, which relieved the desolation of winter, have now lost their interest, since black oaks and chestnuts intrude themselves in the place of the old inhabitants. Let us sometimes please ourselves with the idea of vis- iting together, before we go to Europe, some of the beauti- ful scenes in our own country which you have not seen, such as the Rumford Falls, Montmorency, Niagara, the Katahdin and Bigelow and Saddle Mountains, Moosehead Lake, etc., which in foreign travelling will become interest- ing objects of comparison. I hope you have your guitar with you, which I think might be a resource at evening; yet, as to proficiency as a performer, I do not think much of it, for an amateur will not by long practice learn to play as well as he may hear at almost any concert, and the study of the science of music easily enables him to enjoy reading and composing as he would a book. If it is as cold in Concord as it is here, you must, I fear, sometimes be uncomfortable. How pleasant is the fancy of a bitter night, a bright fire, and a circle of fond com- panions, all cultivated, all generous, and united all the more closely for the inclemency of the season ! But how seldom do we realize visions so delightful to the fancy ! Is it not THE RANDALL FAMILY 109 singular to see all mankind longing for the Utopian de- lights of brotherly love, which it seems to require but an effort of the will to attain, yet is almost impossible to reach ? How interesting an object is man at a safe and goodly distance, and how generally a bore in actual fellow- ship ! But my paper gives out. I hope you can soon make us a visit. I have put a new and handsome iron bed in the chamber where you sleep, with a brisk spring, and very convenient, and so ingeniously made that, by pulling out a pin, the frame suddenly leaps forward like a trap, and snaps off the head of the person who lies asleep. Yours truly, J. W. Randall. I hope you will find Mr. Thoreau a pleasant companion. I have met him at Mr. Hoar's, and was pleased with the accuracy of his botanical observations. He seemed to know what he knew — by no means, I think, the most common of characteristics. Boston, Feb. 5th, 1857. Dear Frank, I write to you the earlier, supposing that you find things a little new in Concord, and probably like to hear from old friends. . . . Belinda and I went to hear Thalberg a few nights ago, who plays with more taste and less labor than the other pianoforte players that I have heard. He has an interesting countenance, not wholly unlike that of Dr. Gay. We have also heard Mozart's Requiem per- formed by the Handel and Haydn Society, a composition in which we were much disappointed. It seems to me to no INTRODUCTION have less of character than what else I have heard of Mozart's ; and it was refreshing to hear after it the "Grand Hallelujah Chorus" of Handel, although the effect is much less good in the Music Hall, where it is lost in space, than in the Melodeon or the old Boylston- market Hall. To my ear, solos of all kinds grow less and less interesting, when heard in great modern buildings ; they, and above all the pianoforte, are adapted only to private rooms. In public, one desires to hear orchestral music. It is pleasant to see a growing improvement among us in the selection and proportion of the instruments. For- merly two or three trombones were deemed essential in the smallest band, owing doubtless to a desire that people should get their money's worth in quantity, whatever might be the quality. To my ear, nothing is finer than a grand chorus, aided by a full orchestra and a fine organ, when a cloud of violins quivers in the foreground, enclos- ing within its folds the viols and violoncellos, behind which the horns, the bassoons, the orphoeleides \sic\ are heard, flanked by the flutes, the oboes, the clarinets, etc., while behind all these the shrill octave pierces the mass of trumpets, trombones, and clarions that enfold it all around. Meantime, on either side, are mingled the murmurs of hundreds of voices ; I should place the female ones be- hind, as being the shrillest. When all these are harmon- ized and brought into a mighty current by the huge waves of the organ which overwhelms from behind, like the rushing waters of the ocean, then I think one grows soon to disdain for a time all lesser sounds, and would defer even the most pleasing melody to a future occasion and to social meetings in small rooms, when the sense of weight and volume in sounds had gone out of the ears. I should THE RANDALL FAMILY III like well that we could have heard together the great concert of three thousand performers that many years ago celebrated in London the birthday of Haydn, of which Bombet gives an account. It is my wish that you should take care of your health, a thing easily lost and with difficulty regained. I hear that you have a bad cough, and think that cold affusions applied frequently to the throat would make you less sen- sitive in this respect. I see your father now and then, and I do not remember to have seen him so well at any time as he now appears. I have no doubt that a diminution of care has been highly useful to him. Our conversations are not without inter- est, as we equally enjoy the sense of an accurate concep- tion both of our ideas and impressions. I find myself drawn more and more to books this winter, which afford me employment so quiet that the days seem to succeed one another without events, and with an ever increasing rapidity. From time to time I look forward, at I know not what distance, to that preci- pice at the end of life's journey which to the majority of men seems so terrible, but which, when it is reached, is seldom regarded with terror. For Nature at that time is apt kindly to throw a veil over our senses, and in a general dissolution of the vital force to diminish the keen- ness of all impressions. I scarcely know whether the con- quest of hope or a submission to its delusions affords man the most pleasure ; but I have never found in myself the faculty of realizing to my belief anything which was not demonstrated to my understanding. This gives me a less vivid notion of the geographical peculiarities of the unseen world than is enjoyed by many. But it perhaps increases my disposition to a reverential confidence in that all- I I 2 INTRO D UCTIOiV pervading Power whom I name without comprehending and trust without questioning ; and it only strengthens my faith that evil is merely apparent, and hangs as a light cloud over the path which leads to good, as yet incomplete and by man imperfectly apprehended. Perhaps, therefore, I am less concerned about damnation than to many would seem prudent. A study of any of the natural sciences tends strongly to confirm us in fixed ideas of a universal order, and I cannot but think that you would find the pur- suit of some of these a great resource in solitude and a great aid in giving vivacity to all the impressions of the senses. I do not at present meddle greatly with the fine arts, which is in accordance with my habit of resting myself by a frequent change of pursuits. I find that a few minutes are sufficient to concentrate my mind on almost any sub- ject. Poetry, of course, lags somewhat, the rather that you are not in the way. But, though much immersed in other studies, I am not wholly idle even in this. I talk about myself because I am but little out of my own society, and, in the present time of quiet, out-of-door mat- ters offer but little to say. Let me hear also about your own self. I suppose we shall meet ere long, and am meantime. ^^ . , , Your friend, J. W, Randall. Boston, Friday, Feb. 26, 1857. Dear Frank, I answer you thus speedily because I suppose you would like to hear from me once more before you take final leave of Concord, which is, I suppose, before many days. Having nothing important to relate, I open your last THE RANDALL FAMILY II3 letter and allow it to suggest somewhat. You speak of writing, and of a disposition in yourself thereto in excess of present ability — which, as I take it, is only in the usual order of things. Humboldt declares that his disposition to scientific discovery in South America was excited by the interesting voyages of George Forster, and that his desire for travel continually increased with thinking of it ; nor did he regard the dangers of so many kinds which threaten under the equator, because the objects were so interesting to him. So, also, the results of his journeys were proportionally great, and he did not undertake them until he had become well grounded in various sciences and had made previous expeditions in parts not so far from home. I also perceive in him some results other than those which he had specially in view, one of which is the attainment of a style in writing far more agreeable' than can ever be reached by unvaried brooding over mere liter- ary pursuits, and which becomes picturesque from the multitude of ideas, the result of immense observation and experience. Indeed, his general narrative becomes at times almost too crowded to permit the single points to be enough isolated. It is thus that a mind not poetical by nature becomes so through the nature of what it attains and the mode of attaining. I do not know that it is possible to express by the word poetical any idea which will command general assent, except as regards form, seeing that each person gives to himself a different interpretation. I am sure that what you and I would call poetry would hardly appear such to the majority, and what they would so call would seem to us as better deserving the title of folly, But, as I view it, no literary labors can seem highly poetical to persons of thought and experience, except their authors be also per- 114 INTRODUCTION sons of thought and experience. This is because in its nature everything is a subject of poetry, and gains its poetical adornment solely from the riches of the mind and the scientific skill of the artist who employs them. Hence, as I take it, comes the reason why young persons are never even the best poets, not because there is lack of imagination (indeed this faculty, one of the most cultivable of all, is in youth exceedingly active) , but simply for want of material. Can we wonder, then, that so great a number of persons favored by nature and fortune, and who for a time seem to promise somewhat, should soon wholly flatten away, when we see how few of such escape the domination of vanity and idleness ? I have often observed that, where the mind acquires no wealth, the habits grow only proportionally worse as life advances. Thus all things advance or recede, and, of two bad men, the man of sixty can scarcely fail to be worse than the one of thirty. So, too, if poetry is applied to no other objects than are the vernal songs of birds, and one should believe, with T. F. and Dr. M., that there is no such thing as poetry save a woman be in the case, we should not expect from such a source an " Ancient Mariner," a " Deserted Vil- lage," a " Comus," or a " Cymbeline." If we should be surprised, in looking at the long list of English poets, to: find so little in them that is valuable, we shall be less so, I think, if we admit Johnson to have justly unfolded their lives. Yet the old seems to me for the most part to be even better than the new. Poetry itself is, I am convinced, sus- ceptible of improvement to a point far beyond what it has yet attained, but not in the hands of the persons who are at present chiefly occupied with it. But I am more and. THE RANDALL FAMILY II5 more struck with the influence a few simple and sublime ideas have over us in controlling and giving form to a mul- titude of impressions. Thus a few laws whose discovery is due to science, such as that of gravitation, that which pro- duces roundness and which has its sublimest example in planetary motion, that which unfolds the convertibility of certain organs into each other as in the metamorphoses of plants and of the Crustacea, that of the principle of life and of the harmony and connection of all organized forms, that of universality as of morals, that of sounds and of colors, etc. etc., — these transcend in their simple sublimity all the efforts of poetry ; and their contemplation, while it inspires, perhaps, a contempt for the ceremonious religions of men, conducts us only to a higher altar where reverence reigns supreme, unmingled with superstition or even selfishness. I aver it — I do not believe that poetry or any other art, if we except the simple pleasures derived from skill in applying the laws of perspective in drawing, of defini- tion in language, etc. etc., is capable of occupying to its full satisfaction an enlightened mind, except under the domin- ion of these simple and sublime ideas which alike dignify the conceptions in all arts, all sciences. All the matters of rhythm, rhyme, and so forth, are like what people call finish in drawing ; any fool can attain them. But to give character by a few free strokes and touches or expression by a learned arrangement of the lines, or to impress the understanding by the moral force of some prevailing idea, — this can be done only by the artist familiar both with his science and his practice. Does it seem, then, that I have confounded the art with the science, what affects the feel- ings with what occupies the reason .? Very well. I am certain that you yourself will be no more willing to discon- nect them than I ; and I look at your present desire and 1 1 6 INTROD UCTION position to obtain knowledge, in proportion as the field is widened and extended, as precisely to your purpose in aid- ing whatever objects you may have as an artist. And I am pleased to see that you seem yourself to have much the same opinion concerning it. What you say about self-approbation I entirely accord with. Perhaps I may not wholly agree with you about vanity. For, though the good opinion of others can in no manner repay to us the loss of our own, yet the desire of pleasing is, within certain limits, at least amiable. We shall doubtless not disagree about the respectability of that sentiment which leads men to wish that what they think to be true may also be extended, and acquire as far as possible a universal assent. In this view I cannot avoid some re- spect for the labors of many ignorant and superstitious persons who conscientiously strive to extend the dominion of darkness, sometimes, it would seem, not wholly without success. But my paper is coming short, and, as I began without having anything in particular to say, so I end with- out any special disposition to go on. If I have written without method, so I began without an object, further than that of sending you a letter, probably the last which you will expect from me at present. So, as I soon hope to see you more often, I shall not say goodby, nor is it necessary at any time that I should subscribe myself Yours truly, J. W. Randall. T-. T- Boston, March i, 1858. Dear Frank, The weather seems altogether too bad to make a voyage to Beverly desirable. It is difficult here to take a daily walk without getting a severe cold, and I fear that in your THE RANDALL FAMILY WJ knee- deep mud and melting snow one must be confined altogether to the house. I think it will be best to visit Beverly when the weather is more settled, next Spring or Summer rather than in this comfortless season. As I learn that your vacation is about finished, I probably should see you but a day or so, after which you will not be far away. Meantime I am busy in certain Natural His- tory studies which I ought scarcely to break in upon, as it is the chiefly industrious season of my year. But I shall try ere many weeks to make your mother a little visit. I am glad to hear that Emily is better, and I suppose it is a satisfaction to you to have afforded some amusement. In a few weeks more the season for out-of-door exercise will commence, and I suppose she will then be able to re- establish her health. I shall bespeak your grandfather beforehand, that he may give us his company next May, at such time as when the conclave of the pious meets at Boston and sanctifies the city by its presence, when the good angels are buzzing about by day and the evil ones are asleep at night — all save those which, in the shape of torn and tabby cats, so bedin the woodsheds with their howling. It may interest you to know that, it having been discov- ered that Dr. bears the closest resemblance to the painter Correggio, Mr. Tudor of Nahant has seen fit to em- ploy an eminent English artist to copy the Dr.'s visage on canvas while he " yet lives," and thus in a manner kill two birds with one stone, i.e. the two birds Dr. and Cor- reggio. The picture has been finished. I have not seen it, but it is said, either from deficient talent in the painter or from some other cause, not to be handsome. ... Yours truly, J. w. R. I I 8 INTR OD UC TION Boston, March 8, 1861. Dear Frank, Stanley tells me that you say you have received no letter from me, but have written me two or three times. I have, however, received only one letter from you, some two or three months since, and I wrote you several weeks ago a very long letter, accompanied by two long poems, thinking it a good opportunity to put into your hands from time to time copies of such poems as I prepared for the next book. I am sorry if they have miscarried, as they made tedious work. I was at Beverly a few weeks ago, and found your grandfather better than I expected to see him, though feeble, of course. I should like to hear about your suc- cess in your new place, of which you said little in your letter. As for myself, I jog on in the old way, digging in cold weather and preparing journeys for the warm. I be- lieve I told you in my last that I met Mr. Bryant, the poet, some time ago, and will say more about it when I see you. O. W. Holmes, Jr., also, has a few times called and spoken of many matters and things, and has written about others. Dr. comes more seldom, but I do not think he has gone to Charleston, S.C., because, though he much approves of shelling that place, he thinks himself excused because a physician, as also because there will be a great rush of volunteers to go, nor less because he thinks Mr. Tudor will not permit it ; yet any of these reasons I take to be sufficient. As he is still employed upon his etchings, and has sent, as I learn, some of his pictures to the Exhibition at Paris, I doubt not he is bet- ter employed. Our friend Mr. is, I hear, still in Dedham, devoted to painting, but I fear does not receive thereby such in- THE RANDALL FAMILY II9 come as he deserves. He gets something, however, for conducting the choir at church, and has such sincerity about his tastes that, for the exercise of them, he would at all times be contented with a bare living. Indeed, the Dr., as I think, grazes in fatter pasture than any of our other artists. James Reed is in his new house, which seems to fit him exactly. I spent an evening with him some time ago, and had a very pleasant talk. He does not seem to be in any way altered. I have lately made acquaintance with a bright young fellow, the grandson of Gedney King, a former well known citizen of this place. He has a great passion for pictures, especially etchings — takes out his note book and spends the whole evening in setting down the names of masters, their schools, coun- tries, and styles. It is a pleasure to instruct a person who goes into the thing with so much gusto, and I enjoy his pleasure in what he examines. I suppose that you, also, have pupils that are a pleasure to teach ; and, truly, it must be more pleasant to instruct the intelligent without a fee than to get a good salary from fools. Most of my acquaintances seem to be among the boys, who, partly because they take more cheerful views of life (so, conse- quently, of death), and partly because they have less to conceal or are less able to conceal, are more agreeable to me than the men. But I have not yet got down so low as to take to those very small children of whom the Bible so highly commends the imitation, and whom I prefer to leave in the domain of blubberings, diapers, and dirty noses. I partially agree with Montaigne that most of mankind become befogified so early that to oblige one to wait till twenty-five before receiving an office is to abandon affairs to the stupid ; and here Swift's satire of the Struld- bruggs is in point. Most people I have known are greedy I20 INTRODUCTION of knowledge up to twenty-five, more careless after that time, and by thirty impervious to thumps or any other mode of getting ideas into them, living on through the rest of their lives in a condition of crystallized prejudice. How beautiful, then, seem the few instances of people who retain their simplicity and power of metamorphosis to the end ! I send you only a letter of miscellanies, which will do as well to go to the dead letter office as something better ; and before I send any more poems I will wait to see if you get this. There cannot be, I think, another Mead- ville in Pennsylvania, but, if the simple direction is not enough, let me know. Your father and I spend occasion- ally a pleasant and long evening together. Remember me to your wife, and make my respects to Miss Sarah, whom I have seen, though but once ; and remember me Yours as ever, J. W. Randall. Boston, Monday, Aug. 19, 1861. Dear Frank, I have had some thought of going westward and of stopping to see you ; but Stanley, whom I proposed to my- self to take with me, was obliged to go to Wilton, and, as we had both just taken a long tramp together, I have not felt greatly inclined to take another journey so soon, Stanley has now seen a large portion of the ground we went over together some years ago, together with other country which you have not seen. In our recent jaunt we climbed Mt. Washington, and remained on its top all night ; a wearisome journey for a hot day. I think there is rot a descending step in the THE RANDALL FAMILY 121 whole route of eight miles up the mountain. I have now mounted it from both sides, and think it less interesting than most of its neighbors, whether for scenery or botany. We stopped two or three days in the Glen, and visited the two falls. The Peabody river fall, which you and I missed, you will be glad to learn is rather difficult of access and not greatly worth seeing, while the other. Glen Ellis, which you saw, seemed even more beautiful than formerly. We also made a several days' ramble down the Androscoggin and back, visiting the famous cataract at Rumford. The volume of water is immense and the fall great, overcoming 165 feet in two points, each of a few rods in length ; but I am sorry to say that the grand central rock, which divided the fall, has been blasted away to admit the passage of logs. Its most beautiful feature, therefore, will be seen no more. This brings to mind various of those little poems in which the bards are accustomed to contrast the variable- ness of human fate with the fixed aspects of Nature. Yet she herself is scarcely less changeable, and I rarely re- member a scene which, revisited after some years, had not undergone great alterations, not only in vegetation, but in the shapes of the very rocks. Niagara itself does not appear to ourselves as to the generation which preceded us, nor even to some of our friends who saw it before we did. Far different still was it to the eyes which saw it plunge directly into Lake Ontario, and yet greater will be the change to those which shall regard it at a future day when every vestige of Goat Island shall be swept away — an event whose distance in time is susceptible of an approximate calculation. At Bethel (not Big Bethel, but bigger) we spent two nights — saw in the distance the lofty pyramidal peak of 1 2 2 JNTR OD UCTION the Goose-eye, with the Flat-cap, the Speckled Mountain chain, and other tall mountains which environ the great chain of the Umbagog lakes, and were both well pleased to terminate a hot and dusty journey of eleven days and return safe and sound, without being taken by the priva- teer "Jeff Davis," of which there seemed to be some danger. ... I met one object of interest in a scrofulous boy with a bloated thigh and a shortened and withered leg, keeping school for a living, if board and $25. per annum may be deemed a living. He was extremely intelligent and manly, and very desirous of a college education. I advised him to go to Exeter, and promised to procure him some good advice about his leg. He seemed not discon- tented, however, and his case is a commentary on the major- ity of human ills, which are ill borne in proportion to their being imagined or invented. Very real is evil, as I be- lieve ; but selfishness duplicates it by tenfold, as I have opportunity day by day to observe. I have recently made the acquaintance of Mr. Nichols, a young man studying medicine, a Swedenborgian, I heard him say — I did not ask him. He shows much taste and fondness both for books and engravings, sees the merit m good etchings, and is agreeable in his manners. He has a scholarly turn, and I think will easily master what he undertakes. Your friend Foote has occasionally dined with me, and has acquired my esteem. I suppose, how- ever, that I shall now see him no more, as he goes to preach in Portsmouth. Massachusetts at this time resembles a great military camp, not only in the cities, but even in towns like Stow. Marlborough has sent three hundred men to the war, Natick as many, Lowell and Lawrence whole regiments, and other towns in proportion. Five thousand men leave THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 23 Boston tomorrow for Washington (I fear it should be Bal- timore, which I suppose would have been burned long since, if Louis Napoleon had commanded the Union troops). General Butler was quartered on my friend Don- aldson at Elk Ridge, Business is nearly at a stand-still ; all the mills of Lowell stop this week, to be followed by most others in the State. Railroad travel has fallen off one half, and a great part of our banking capital is loaned only to government. ... It is much more easy to predict a general bankruptcy than a speedy end to the war. Massa- chusetts will soon have nearly 30,000 men in the field, yet so rapidly are they emptied from the workshops that I think it likely that even twice that number may be en- listed before winter is over. The principal drunkards of Stow have, I learn, become patriots and enlisted ; those of Centre Harbor, N.H., as I learned in that place, have al- ready gone to the war — truly a better business ; and many thousands who are not drunkards have followed their ex- ample. The money part of the business will present the greatest diflficulties, and, as repudiation is much to be dreaded in case the war continues for several years, I wish that the government might be rapid and vigorous enough to end it before next summer, though I think it unlikely. My friend Charles Simmons has gone as adju- tant to Col. Wm. Greene's regiment, and Arthur Fuller fills the ornamental office of chaplain to the Mass. i6th. Mrs. Gumming is with us, her husband having left Utah and his governorship. We are all making ready to grow poor, and it is not easy to see how taxation can ever again be light or imported products cheap, unless our debts end in repudiation. But the country will not feel any serious effects from the war before next winter, , , , I am sorry to see politicians, stum.p orators, and militia men receiving 124 IN7R0D UC TION the most important military offices. But it belongs essen- tially to the spirit of our people, with whom natural gen- iuses without education are ever preferred to those persons who do things because they have learned how. A series of timely disasters will teach us a valuable lesson. Your grandfather, as I learn, slowly fails, destined, as I suppose, ere long to leave behind him the memory of a life by its simple benevolence and worth more adorned than that of many who make noise in the world. As to the poems you spoke of to Belinda, I informed you, in a letter that missed you, that I was going to Europe last Spring (the war detained me), and I wished you to have copies of whatever the next book might contain ; and I intended to provide funds for their publication in case I returned not, and to request you to superintend the doing of it. But, as I am as yet here, it becomes for the present less necessary. I told you also of my meeting Mr. Bryant, and said I would speak more of it when I saw you. My regards to your wife. .^, <- • i •^ Your friend, J. W. Randall, N.B. The creepers at Stow veil the piazza more and more, and I now feed with my hands the birds that build nests among the leaves. Dr. has in magazine at his own charges several ounces of Dupont's Best, for defence of Nahant, and was elected Captain of the " Invin- cibles " of that place, but declined. He grows fat and hearty. THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 25 Boston, P>b. 4, 1862. Dear Frank, . . , You speak of the war, and first of the liberation of the slaves. I also think that the government will at last be compelled to declare their freedom as a war measure, though, to be sure, it overturns our Constitution and leaves us to mob law, and though its efficiency is uncertain be- cause we can only free the slaves as fast as we reach them. I think the rebels can have very little dread of such slaves as do not become intermingled with our armies ; these, of course, are ever subject and accustomed to obey their mas- ters and even their masters' children. Field hands, I think, would be more difficult of control than house ser- vants ; yet rebellion is no easy thing against a watchful and domineering race. Even our own rebellion could only have succeeded amidst the freedom of a quasi-republic, foreign aid, and the distance of the rulers. Whether we succeed or not in the conquest of the rebel States (a con- quest it must be, while the success of it is uncertain), one thing is certain : namely, unless we subdue them soon, bankruptcy stares us in the face. For, at the rate we go on, three or four years will create us a debt equal to that of England, for we fight at ten times the cost per annum of the wars of European nations. Yet, long before it reaches that point, it will be impossible to raise money because there is no means of compelling the people to pay the requisite taxes, unless the army are sent to collect them at the point of the bayonet, when the question might arise whether we were still a republic. No law making paper a legal tender can prevent it from depreciating. As regards the Western States, I even doubt their ability to pay ; they have not yet paid to the East their last year's shoe debts. In this case we may yet have 126 INTRODUCTION secessions among ourselves. But I will suppose that we conquer the Southern States : then the difficulty occurs which troubled the man who inherited the elephant, and who was ruined by his board bills. We must keep a great army among them, and pay the South for feeding it. Now all people who must be borne down to the dust by taxation are slaves, the natural escape from which state would be in our case repudiation. Perhaps some dictator will yet arise whose control of the army may render that escape impossible ; nevertheless, I do not see any way of bringing the war to a close save by conquest on one side or the other, or at least an adjournment through total exhaustion, because no geographical line can be drawn between the combatants and no compromise can be made satisfactory for long to both parties. 'Tis the battle of the Kilkenny cats to determine the end of whose tail shall survive as a trophy of victory ; thus far we devour each other pretty fast. 'Tis useless now to speculate, but I think that the number of Union men at the South is not great ; many may bear this name, but not precisely in our Northern sense. After actual separation, they will take part with their own people. Neither do I see how a division can be made into free and slave States, except by expulsion or confirmation of slavery in the Border States. Which side will ever willingly consent to abandon the so-called Border States to the other } We stand in need, truly, of much hope ; for I doubt not that each side is perfectly united against the other. Were it not for the Border States, a separation would be prob- ably at last agreed on. Meantime I wish that the bigger cats across the water may keep the peace, but fear they will not ; yet I do not believe the British government can easily draw their people into war with us. THE RANDALL FAMILY 12/ I have thus compressed into fewest words, at risk of obscurity, what in conversation would employ many ; but I would only condense our perspective as we look down into the bottomless pit. Let us, however, be glad that two vices are likely to be corrected in us by the war : namely, that of bragging, and the universal pride, wastefulness and extravagance of both sexes, which I think will ere long lack somewhat to feed on. Yet may we be saved from an aris- tocracy hereafter of horse-jockeys, shoddy-makers, and other swindlers, between whose jaws we are now crunched ! And may the army of 700,000 men who fight at ;^ 1 5 per month and found (against sixpence per diem in the British army) find some way at last of peaceably subsiding, with- out demanding the continuance of their pay as the price of sparing our towns and cities from sack ! For, though the war is as natural and I think on our side as just a one as any that I remember, except such as have been undertaken to repel absolute invasion, it would be a great error to sup- pose that the price we pay in many ways is not an enor- mous one, whether we gain or lose. But to other matters. Since Stanley's absence from college, I have scarcely seen any of your family until your father made us a visit a few weeks since, much to our pleasure, looking uncommonly well. Various picture-lov- ing friends make the evenings pass pleasantly. Mr. Nichols, a medical student from Brookline and a Sweden- borgian, enters into the matter with delight, so that we have been absorbed together the whole night, until the rising sun interrupted our employment by putting out our lamp-light. He is a person highly intelligent and agree- able. Young Mr. King, also, lately a lieutenant of Zou- aves, but recently turned farmer, comes into town once a fortnight and spends Saturday and Sunday nights with 128 INTRODUCTION' me, greedily devouring, not only the collection, but infor- mation of other kinds, with which he loads his note-books. He will, I think, educate himself to some advantage. Thus, you see, I continue to spin out enjoyment with persons younger than myself — the boys who, susceptible both of head and heart, form an agreeable counterpart to the fossil and fogyish state into which so many persons have fallen whom, as a boy or young man, I looked up to with respect. Yet who knows } Perhaps some of these younger ones are destined in a few years to fall into the same Struldbruggish condition. I am sorry to learn that the Swedenborgians have dis- missed from his little church my good old master, T. B. Hayward, a kind and a learned man, and a most excellent teacher. It could not be, I think, because he saw more ghosts than his congregation, though he had written a pamphlet lately, as I learn, concerning the war, in which he expressed the opinion that the Sprites would ere long put an end to it. I wish they may ! We have at last the Female Moral Reform — woman's rights — down with the men, up with the petticoat — cleri- colegomedicophilosophical associations in full blast once more, petitioning the legislature for the rights of voting and of superiority to men, etc. etc., refusing to be longer taxed without being represented, and all under the name of woman's rights, as if we had any of us any rights except those of duty, or as if all so-called rights in civil society were aught but policies. How strange that they should not see that the re-enslavement of women com- mences at the point of their competition with men, and that their real influence is only derived from beauty, grace, affection, gentleness, and sympathy, which when they wholly lose, they become monsters and are so regarded of THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 29 men — as if strength and courage in the male, and feeble- ness, modesty, even timidity in the female, were not the soul and substance of solid attachment between the sexes ! True, there are cases where the man looks up to the wife and is even the younger, and where the wife looks down on, perhaps pets, the , husband — where the woman yields the support and the man lives on the woman's money. But the relation is ridiculous for both, and I should respect a man who inclined to avoid an engagement with a woman he loves, if richer than he, unless she con- sented to arrange that the full benefits of her own fortune should be first settled upon herself. However, we have at last grown so effeminate that the men leave the farms to measure tape by the yard and to become fortune-hunters, and scarcely any one will marry save to acquire property thereby — an evil ever enhanced by the ever increasing extravagance of all classes. But the woman's rights societies will not mend the matter; they only make it worse. If any of them have married sneaks, let them get divorced. If the trouble of others grows simply from being old maids — that they may scratch round till they claw up husbands, is the worst wish I wish them. But their present unamiable attitude is the very last that will obtain them such. This reminds me of certain errors here prevalent con- cerning education. One of these is a disposition to make them learned. Women are incapable of great concentra- tion of mind, and the attempt to produce it, if successful, is an injury to their constitutions. Such females are apt to be childless. Now a good education I take to be that which enables people to do the duties they are destined to perform. Hence a knowledge of housekeeping is the essential and the attractive part of a woman's education. 130 JNTRODUCTION As to the so-called accomplishments, if she is good for anything, her first baby will drive them all out of her head. The better sort of men recognize this law every- where, and we may perceive their taste in the kind of women they love, who are never learned nor disputative, but always domestic and of gentle dispositions, as well as neat in dress and person. Now I lay much of this woman's rights business to a disposition natural to Repub- lics to over-educate or rather falsely educate the female sex, by which their heads become turned, their natural dis- positions perverted ; they become undomestic, unfeminine, ambitious, and repulsive, the competitors rather than the lovers of men. Many of them know Latin, but not how to make a loaf of bread. Some, inclined to fashionable vices, spend their lives at watering and such-like places, and resemble in time a sort of damaged goods which have for long been put up at auction without bidders. Others by their shoes, tight dresses, close stoves, air-tight rooms, balls, late suppers, endless sitting, and other indolence, ruin themselves in such numbers that the health of Ameri- can women is a proverb for its badness. Can such per- sons either love or become mothers ? I do not object to an education in languages and elements of sciences for women, but only for social purposes, and not that they may become learned. Now this war and dire necessity are likely to prove the natural and the only possible cure for all these things, and perhaps in this will lie its chief advantages. The late Mar- garet Fuller was a good specimen of a woman crammed with book learning, which was of course ill enough di- gested. Naturally tough as a washerwoman, ill habits both of study and thought broke up her health and pro- duced a real imbecility. She became contentious, sarcas- THE RANDALL FAMILY l^T tic, and of course disagreeable. I have never known a woman more truly unhappy, and, notwithstanding some generous traits, I should propose her as an example to be^ shunned rather than as a model to be imitated by her sex. Indeed, the ambition to become a writer seems always un- fortunate for women, as being by no means suitable to their natural characters or aspirations. Were I to except: any, it would be, not Madame de Stael, but perhaps Miss Austen the novelist, and above all Miss Edgeworth, to my mind the best of all female writers because the most womanly. . . . On my return [from the White Mountains in October], I stopped at the house of the young artist girl where Stan- ley and I stopped in the summer ; and here I found myself so welcome that it was not easy to get away. The young, woman expressed great longing to see an etching and learn what it looked like ; so I have since sent her a little collection, and have been pleased to notice that her nat- ural taste has been good enough to distinguish what was. best with perfect propriety of gradation. Yet she has- before seen nothing but what the artists who board there, in summer have done, few of whom are likely to set the world on fire. She designs to teach drawing, and would fain come to Boston to learn etching, a project from which I should like to dissuade her, if I had the right. For she will be disappointed, I think, when she leaves the beauti- ful farm, to which I suppose she is heir, to become an upper servant of the richer vulgar. Though it is delight- ful to acquire knowledge of all kinds, yet to teach the A B C of it forever, and mostly to the stupid, is another affair. Were she my relative, I should wish her to marry some intelligent and thrifty farmer of her neighborhood, and remain in the beautiful country where she lives. 132 JNTRODUC TION However, 'twill do for a change. She will be tired of it in time, and value independence even more than experi- ence. I am sorry to say that my young friend Ellen Richard- son, whose sister Emily will remember, is near death from phthisis, and, though blue-eyed (which gives hope — for black eyes give none), is, I fear, too far gone to be saved. Mr. Gumming, also, who has resigned his governorship, and has been deeply depressed on account of the destruction of the Union, has been lying at the Revere House so near death that we had till now no hopes of his recovery. His case is still critical. But I have no room to say more. Thank your wife and Emily for their remembrance of us all, and reciprocate it. As for you and me, our friendship was long in blossoming, and I suppose fruit may be ex- pected to succeed blossom. We have associations with too many mutual enjoyments easily to forget them. When you write, tell me if you have received this letter ; for I should be vexed to be obliged to replace it by another as long. We shall all look to see you among us next summer. ,,. . . , Your friend, John W. Randall. Boston, Wednesday, Feb. 8, 1862. Dear P^rank, I perceive by your last that you are a little out of spirits. Perhaps my last week's letter miscarried, but the present may reach you. I trust, however, to being so well known by you, as you by me, that we shall not be obliged to scrape acquaintance from time to time, like traders rarely met. You need not fear to be forgotten by THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 33 me, being little fickle or capricious, so that those who once have me find it as difficult to lose me as, once lost, to regain me. It is true I thought ill of your going to the Divinity School, as I should still, not on account of my private opinions, which, being of a negative character, are not likely to create a passion for proselytizing like any posi- tive enthusiasm. I knew you could not afford the luxury of the thing, and, if you should have doubts upon graduat- ing, must either elect bankruptcy, hypocrisy, or stultifica- tion, all of which I knew would be as painful to you as ever to me. I knew, also, from experience, that we may become hypocrites without knowing it. I knew that, being nervous, reaction would be violent in you, and that what we call a morbid conscientiousness is generally the result of having done wrong rather than of fearing to do so, and that an obtuse person may escape the penalty of great errors better than one of sensibility can that of small ones. Furthermore, I never thought, more than the Greeks and Romans did, that boys were well adapted to instruct ma- ture people in morals or politics, and still less so when either were made a business. I felt sure that the author of Christianity did not authorize salaried preachers, but only itinerant ones, because a religion for the poor requires preachers in the condition of the people to whom they preached, and that this habit was not greatly varied from, till the Bishops of Rome usurped the throne of the Em- perors ; also, that the declaration that "the laborer is worthy of his hire" applied only to food and raiment — in which opinion I am still more confirmed by the recent careful reperusal of the so-called four gospels. I knew, also, from many instances, that those persons who sought literary ease in the church necessarily fell between two 1 34 INTRODUCTION Stools, and that, without the piety of fanatics, neither had they that noble and stoical independence necessary to the lofty tempers of the higher sort of literary men (though not to hack-writers or poetasters, who, like actors, having in themselves no substance, are not capable of superiority to popular opinion). I knew that the wise scholar must be as self-denying and devoted as the poor preachers. In short, according to the Bible phrase, we cannot serve God and Mammon. . . . I had employed myself the same self-denial, though with a struggle, and I knew, therefore, that I could pre- sent the subject in a light so strong as not easily to be obscured. Others who seemed to stand on my ground objected only to the creed (or no creed) you had adopted, but would have been satisfied if you had adopted theirs. But, as I, like Bayle, was a universal protest ant, I could present the subject, also, in a universal application. Still, had you disagreed with me, it would have made no change in my friendship for you, because that had been earned by the reciprocity of years and the affection you still enter- tained for me. Your present position, however, I regard with respect as a highly useful and therefore honorable one, and think it even less unpleasant than most other ways of getting a living. All modes of earning one's bread are but mere drudgery, for people pay others for doing that which is troublesome to themselves, but what is pleasant to do they are loth to commit to other hands, still less to pay them for it. You may, therefore, be sure that you at present have in all respects my sympathy and affection, and even the more as holding the honorable relation of husband and father, a condition which, while it takes nothing from friendship, at all times constitutes in both sexes a more important claim to the confidence of THE RANDALL FAMILY I35 society than that of celibacy. Have, therefore, no doubts nor fears about me ; you were never more dear to me than at this moment, and, if my relations to you should ever materially change, you will be certain speedily to discover it. But (to change the subject) I will suggest to you, as it is probable the Senate will pass the legal tender bill, a meas- ure which must soon create the most enormous inflation of the currency, and enhance the prices of all the necessaries of life, no less than the expenses of the government itself, it would be well to supply at once such things as are wanted in a family and are susceptible of preservation. I have myself done so in some things. The law will affect different classes of the people in different ways. Those who live on fixed salaries and stated incomes will suffer most ; also those who have debts not matured due them or rents on long leases. But the grocer, butcher, baker, who will also take the rag money at par, will demand a price for their goods in proportion to its deterioration. As to cotton goods, hope not to see those of a good quality low till the war is over; for there is little good cotton in the world but that of our Southern States, nor any means of making it better, since it everywhere deteri- orates but in its native soil. Even the Peruvian plant ceases to be productive when transferred to another soil The recent Union victories must be quite gratifying to your Meadville people as well as to ours. It would be curious if the Union should ever be preserved by the middle or fence men who take no side, but go with the victors. As to large slaveholders, who were mostly con- servative, like all holders of property, I take it the number of loyal ones is now fewer, in proportion to the sacrifices they have made and the poorer condition they have reached ; but the real war I take to be with the poorer classes, i.e. 136 INTRODUCTION the crackers or "one slave and one bale of cotton men" and their educated though moneyless leaders. By the by, our Bible-reading in schools question has come up again with us, and the Catholics press their pretension as a claim. I see no objection to dropping both Bibles, leaving the instruction in that matter or the omission of it to parental prejudice. Catholicism spreads a good deal amongst us, and I am not surprised. Most men do not like the responsibility of their own consciences, and like also to have their imaginations excited. It is only a few superior minds that repel the seductions of mystery. For my own part, I do not see how the com- mon people could ever have got rid of their faith in that church, if the self-interest of their leaders had not forced them out of it. Indeed, the Episcopal church would not have existed except for the desire of Henry VIII. to commit adultery ; and I am little surprised that, among Protestants themselves, Calvinism should drive out the Unitarian creed (a more refined, but indefinite one). The more appreciable and diffusive stimulant of fire and brimstone will probably for a long time be deemed necessary to make ignorant people obey the laws. As for the Catholic system, it is evident that pure force alone could in any age have rooted it out. The ingenuity in its details of government is striking, and wholly delu- sive to the unreflecting, — the requiring that a priest should be in all respects a perfect man, for instance. A lusty priest perfect in all his organs and in excellent health must be naturally superstitious and with a small intellect, before he puts himself under discipline ; he is, therefore, a safe man. This law, therefore, excludes those intellectual men who from over-study, bad habits, or misfortune, fly to the -church in a state of temporary morbidity, but who would THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 37 relapse when well. So, too, the eating of fish and vege- tables, and abstinence from meat for long periods, is an excellent way of keeping people effeminate and debilitated, and therefore easily managed ; while the obligation to fast, being broken and discovered at the confessional, not from the culprit, but from the females of his family, is an excel- lent mode of determining the incipient heretic, who is therefore suspected and watched. How could any nation ever have escaped from such a system save through out- side force, and how easily, when that force is withdrawn, does it slide back again under priestly government ! The Jesuits, however, whose system of education de- serves careful study for its efficiency in making scholars learned and exact through its simple habits, severe dis- cipline, and the democratic equality of its pupils, were, I think, plainly the enemies of the Catholic church, except in as far as its doctrine and discipline might enable them to build up their society on its ruins. Their casuistry as exposed by Pascal would appear like an amusement of wit, if its profound schemes of mischief had not been plainly unveiled in the exposure of their doctrines of " proba- bility," " next power," etc. One of the exposed sophis- tries is very amusing : namely, Molina, Escobar, Lessius [.-*], and other Jesuits, taught seriously that a judge has a right to take a bribe to render an unjust verdict, but never for giving a just one, because a judge owes justice to all men, he therefore has no right to sell it, but he does not owe injustice to any man, he may therefore with perfect propriety sell that. Thursday, gth. Today I receive your second letter, and perceive you have recovered your spirits and gotten my letter. I will, however, complete in some manner my sheet, and thus pay up, I think, whatever debts I may owe I 3 8 INTRO D UCTION of this sort. Perhaps the ugliness of the baby which you describe may disappoint you, but all babies newly born are more ugly than kittens and puppies of the same age, and the rather because they reach their climax only by a more elaborate development. The brick-dust and mud color will be replaced in a few days by a clearer complexion. As for resemblance, a baby has no right greatly to resemble under several months either its father or its mother, unless they be natural fools ; but it will rapidly increase in comeliness and intelligence, and, as every child must resemble both its father and mother, you cannot fail to share with the mother after a time the resemblance. Friday, lOth. Among other things you allude to the feminine intellect, and its relation to companionship as being altogether of a different kind from the masculine ; and in your school you must have as good opportunities as your father had for observing it. I perceive he has in many points done so, as I think, with much accuracy. I think the word intellect may mislead, when we employ it to denote, not a simple, but a compound faculty. I re- member that old metaphysicians have confounded, and old painters have allegorized, as three simple faculties. Intel- lect, Will, and Memory. But every faculty has its own intuition, each has its will, and memory is no faculty at all, but the result of the activity of, and limited or extended by, the variety of our associations. Now I doubt not that in the sense of causality women are deficient. They make in general bad reasoners, as Mrs. Craigie and many other sensible women have observed. With abstraction they have little business, for their want of concentrativeness does not admit of it. Indeed, even as regards the arts, I never remember to have read the finest verse or prose, " where more is meant than meets the eye," but that the THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 39 very best of them, in the passages deserving the closest attention, would frequently, sometimes constantly, digress to the crimping of a tucker, the color of a ribbon, the pre- cise pitch of a petticoat, or the bobbing of a bonnet, as much to the annoyance of the reader as was to Peter Pindar the frivolity of the ladies who came to London to see St. Paul's, which is so well taken off in his little poem on the subject. Women possess fancy, but not imagina- tion, and this is why they lack the constructive power which composition in all the fine arts requires. They are practical rather than romantic, and it is a remarkable delu- sion that the imagination of men always attributes romance to women, when in fact they are only invested with it by the imagination of the lover. An elderly gentleman of wide and various experience recently remarked that, while the lover under the stimulus of his passions invested his beloved with every imaginable perfection, she, on the con- trary, was chiefly concerned with the style of the future baby's clothes : a very general but happy illustration of Nature. There is one kind of intellect, however, more peculiar to women than men, and that is intuition through observation rather than reflection. The finest women, I have noticed, are intensely though imperceptibly observant — a faculty which their physical weakness and need of protection make indispensably necessary to them. Little patient in analy- sis and little adapted to generalization, they mostly make awkward work of such matters when they set about them. As Mr, Hammatt of Ipswich happily, remarked, "They know few things for certain " (I merely substitute " few things" for "nothing"). However, it is certain that, if women and men had the same qualities, they would have but little desire for each 1 40 JNTR OD UCTION Other. This is a sufficient answer to those who put forth the notion of human perfectibility. The human race must become soon extinct, if in all qualities each individual were perfect, for two equally perfect beings could only be a hindrance, and not a help, to each other. Each must bring to the partnership what the other has not got, which is precisely what each desires. I told you before that I was opposed to cramming a girl's head with learning, an easy way of producing that anomalous animal, a " blue- stocking." But I am certain that whatever things she does learn should be learned thoroughly. If I had daugh- ters of my own, what I should most desire to see in them as children would be a passion for a doll, for on this hang all the virtues of the future woman. From this comes her gentleness of temper, from this her companionship to man, from this her efficiency as a housewife, and from the con- stant dressing and undressing of it comes that taste in attire without which the most beautiful woman has but small power of securing the attachment of men. Want of this and of the strictest cleanliness, or even a slovenly mode of dressing the ankles, is alone sufficient to render a woman repulsive. I know a very intelligent woman whose intelligence helps her not, because she looks in walking like a travelling coat and hat stand. In this way the best figure is spoiled, while, on the contrary, a poor one becomes passable by a dress cheap but well-fitted. Of course, no tricks of attire can deceive a physiological eye as to the real shape, because face, feet, and hands with certainty indicate it. The next thing for my girls would be abundant exposure to the air. Even with a boy, take care of his constitution, and that will take care of his genius. There never was nor will be a perfect mind in an imperfect body, nor health in persons who live in the house. THE RANDALL FAMILY I4I Next should come the English .language critically studied, the absolute essential to a refined woman ; next, arithmetic enough to pay the butcher and the baker and keep ordinary accounts ; then, the French language and music and drawing, only if there was a taste for it. I should add dancing by all means, not because it gives grace, for the mind and the character of the company she keeps has more to do with that, but because it is healthful. I add, also, in winter, skating, also the knowledge of driv- ing and of riding a horse. Housekeeping at all times, with its accompaniments of sewing, embroidery, knitting, cookery, etc. etc. After this, I should wish them warmth enough to love and to marry, as the most certain means of happiness to them, notwithstanding the occasional misery of that relation. (I omitted reading and writing and speaking with propriety, accomplishments the rarest of all because they require intellect). I should also, both with girls and boys, let them earn by useful industry their own pocket money, a thing I wonder is not more attended to ; for it is one of the most im- portant means of producing habits of industry and giving ideas of the business of life and the reason of that economy the want of which is the ruin of so many. Let the girls by sewing, picking berries, taking the place of cook and housemaid, etc. etc., as the boys by sawing and splitting wood, going on errands, working in the garden, tackling the horses and taking care of the team, or in the city by copying, earn their little funds for amusement, to be expended in their own way. In this way we render labor delightful, and the thought of it as the primal curse never enters the head. Indeed, I have often thought that, if I had naturally good children to bring up (I will not an- swer for bad), I could mitigate many of those discomforts 1 42 INTR on UCTION which make early life impotent and unhappy, and later years regretful. This brings me to a point where, as paper begins to fail, I think I can condense what more I would say, and more agreeably, into verse, unless I should fail in making the whole composition as happy as the stanza which now occurs to me. Of course, I shall hardly expect in a rough draft the finish of which the idea is susceptible. Planter of grief ! why ceaseless tell The woes that make thee weep ? Ourselves create our heaven and hell ; 'Tis as we sow we reap. Make not this world as sad as night, In hope of future bliss ; Him best a better will delight Who makes the best of this. From yonder rose all blushing red, From yonder sky so blue, No real tints their radiance shed : Our eyes create the hue. So, as the hours fly on, they cast Few joys, few griefs behind ; They but reflect, while fluttering past. The colors of the mind. Canst thou no sorrow, then, relieve. No happiness enhance. No mind from error undeceive, No germs of truth advance ? Whose cares are these with calm delight May ponder on the past, And still escape the dreaded night Of dotagfe at the last. THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 43 As Art by light and heat maintains Its triumph o'er decay, And Summer's fragrant bloom detains, When she hath passed away : So in old age may we our youth Prolong with kindly skill. Lend warmth to love and light to truth, Shall keep Life blooming still. Who doth not scent the new-mown hay, Though on another's ground ? What though we give our flowers away ? They still shed sweetness round. We, too, their bloom, their fragrance share, Though for another strown. And, while we soothe another's care. We lull to sleep our own.* Our winter has been very damp and open, and has pro- duced much illness. I, too, have been unfit this winter for other work than reading, and after suffering for a long time with a violent cough have been obliged to wear flan- nels, as creating an irritation less dangerous. This has cured me. You would not know my old library room at present, it has grown so cosy. A change of place in sev- * The subjective aspect of the truth presented in this lovely poem is, of course, typically modem ; while the objective aspect is exhibited in Greek tragedy, with its harrowing delinea- tion of the woes that proceed, not from "the colors of the mind," but from Fate, regnant above both men and gods. This momentary separation of aspects is necessitated by the nature of Art, which, in poetry scarcely less than in painting or sculpture, can exhibit only a single aspect at a time to the imagination ; it is reserved for Philosophy to unite both aspects com- pletely in the synthesis of reason. That Randall was fully alive to the charm of the classi- cal spirit, and by no means blind to the objective aspect of the truth, appears plainly enough in the "Lament of Orpheus" and the "Dream of Orestes;" while both aspects receive, perhaps, their highest practicable combination in the " Spring Morning of a Bereaved Man." The above lyric is repeated among the " Miscellaneous Poems" ; but I leave it here, also, imbedded in a private letter, as one might leave a spray of the Epigaa reverts to live its little life unmolested among the dead leaves of its native woods. 1 44 INTROD UCTION eral of the book-cases has caused my windows to cast their light into alcoves, which also gives room for a sideboard, several what-nots, tables, and arm-chairs, etc. etc. I have put my rotary centre-table into the garret, and have a new one in its place. Most of the pieces are of old mahogany, got to correspond with the other old furniture of the house, some of it being in the fourth generation. Astral lamps at night light all parts of the room, so that I can read at any of my tables, shifting position as I please ; while a nice lounge, covered with cool patent leather deeply stuffed with hair, and great pillows, and india rubber surplus seats, yield in summer a pleasant rest. In winter, my great stuffed arm-chairs, with stands on either side containing undershelves for reference books, with my sea-coal fire blazing through the night, allow the hours of one, two, three, and four to pass sometimes unheeded. Give my love to Emily, and thank your wife for remem- bering us all, and be pleased to assure her of our reci- •'' Your friend, John W. Randall. Boston, 28th April to 3rd May, iSb*. Dear Frank, It was in my mind for several days to write you in ex- pression of my respect and affection for your grandfather, when another blow was struck of which I regret to inform you. Our sister Anna died on the 23rd instant. She had gone to the afternoon concert at the Music Hall, having been for a year in constantly improving health and spirits. Finding no one desirous of going with her, she reluctantly went alone. A little before the close of THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 45 the concert (probably faint from close air), she left ; and two hours afterward, on opening the house door, I met a man who asked me if I had a sister of such age and aspect as he described. Not identifying her by the description, I directed him elsewhere, supposing some one of our name owed him a debt ; but, as about to close the door, I said, "And what of her, supposing you seek my sister?" "Nothing more," said he, "than to tell you that she just dropped dead in the street, and now lies in a coffin at the undertaker's, awaiting identification." Just then Mrs, Gumming passed us to go out, who, hear- ing the last words, went with me, but in great excitement, to the place. Much to my alarm, the lid was upon the coffin, and upon its removal we saw Anna, pale with death, yet warm with life. She was at once brought home, and the whole night was spent by my surviving sisters in evi- dently useless efforts to restore her. Upon inquiring in Winter street, it was found that she had reached the front of the stone steps of the church [long since torn down], when she was seen to fall upon her face, having thrown out her hands to ward off the blow. Convulsions instantly came on, and she was borne to the opposite side of the street, and carried into a store where, with one or two in- effectual efforts to speak, in a few minutes she subsided into perfect repose. Dr. Storer had been at once called, who, after working half an hour, pronounced her dead, but did not recognize her ; and it so happened, my dear friend, that she died on the very spot where we were born, but where she was now a stranger to all, so that the evening papers announced the death of an " unknown lady." We at first supposed the cause of death to be a valvular disease of the heart. But, upon an examination by Drs. Ellis and Storer, no disease was found either there or else- 146 INTRODUCTION where ; no apoplexy, the vessels were whole, but the top of the brain filled with congested blood ; so that the conclu- sion was that she had succeeded in sustaining herself just to the point where, for about ten feet width, the church steps are not covered with the baskets of a peddler. At this point, it had been seen that she was about to sit down, but instead thereof fell, striking the junction of the forehead with the root of the nose, into the hollow of which the edge of the stone fitted. Congestion was in- stantaneous, and I suppose one might fall a hundred thou- sand times without meeting with a blow in a part so well protected. It is a little remarkable that not only did the death occur on soil once occupied by the mansion of her ances- tors, but that your letter just received nearly corresponds with the date of it, and that your father should have come with Willie to spend the night with us, arriving within half an hour of the news of her death and arrival of her body. He sat up with me all night, which was a great comfort to me, and gave me time to collect myself and summon that concentration of oneself which people call absence of mind, as well as that stupidity, like dreaming, which accompanies great and sudden shocks. The next day he spent in Roxbury, but on the night of it slept in the house with us. Saturday night gave me time to put but one notice in the three evening papers, which, however, brought so great a number of friends that the two parlors could not well contain them ; and our cousin, Mrs. Adams, who received the Boston papers from cousin Henry Skinner after she had gone to bed and was asleep, arose at dawn, and, there being no railroad train (it being Sunday), rode twenty-five miles in her own carriage to attend the funeral. Most of THE RANDALL FAMILY l^'J Anna's intimate friends were present, and especially those she had acquired while they were suffering afar from home from illnesses resembling her own. The last conversation we had together happened to be about you and Stanley, the night before. It will please you to know that, as it is unpleasant to have present even in the laying out of a body persons unfeeling and mechanical, the woman whom your father and I summoned, long after midnight, to come to the house when no hope of restoring life remained, re- marked that she would go any distance to perform a ser- vice on Anna's account, though she would have preferred any other. For it so happened that this poor woman had been robbed by burglars of $150, all she possessed ; which, being published in the paper, was seen by Anna, who called, and, having expressed the pleasure she should have felt if some stranger, having learned such a fact about her- self, should have called for the same object, put money in her hand, requesting that she might make up a little of the loss, and, finding that she had been used among other things to take in washing, procured her afterward all the business she could, which proved a great help ; and this leads me to say, etc. etc. Acton, April 2gth. (Having engaged to return with Mrs. Adams, I continue from Acton.) This leads me to say that Anna's little charities, which generally took the most of her small income of five hundred dollars per annum (so that she would often, in her last quarter, be straightened for money), formed the chief pleasure of her life. Though often blamed by us for want of calculation and prudence, I do not know that one of us was in reality more economical of the means of pleasure. Where I bought prints, and others buy oyster suppers and fine clothes, she laid out her money in provisions and other 148 INTRODUCTION comforts for the poor persons whom her own ill health or other infirmity had led her to seek out and to associate with. As the disposition to benevolence is so certain a conductor to enjoyment that no one without it ever was or will be truly happy (indeed, all selfish persons are melan- choly), I think she may have been wiser than any of us as to the mode of attaining the pleasures of life. I notice in your letter that you speak of persons who, by meditating on morals, become naturally the teachers, etc. ; also, of preaching because of a regard for the character of Christ, whom on that account you would call master. I think one has a right to call any man master, whether he regards his character or not; but I think something more is necessary to a disciple of any religion. When I gradu- ated, I perhaps had a similar degree of respect, etc., but I could not conscientiously join the company of the preachers. I do not know that I much disagree with the doctrines of Theodore Parker, but I should have considered it an in- sult on that account to have called myself a Christian minister. A Christian, as I suppose, believes that Christ was inspired directly from God ; that he came on earth to save sinners, who, however, must believe in his capacity to do so ; that he performed many miracles, was crucified, buried, and rose again on the third day, becoming the first fruits of them that slept. " Whoso believeth in me shall be saved," said Mr. James Freeman Clarke, in his services over Anna; but, if he had said, "Whosoever thinks ap- provingly of the personal character of Christ shall be saved," I should have been inclined to absent myself, as from an unfaithful Christian who did not half believe his religion, and was ill adapted to speak for her, provided she believed hers. I think there might be found adherents enough of THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 49 Parker's views to form one congregation in Boston, and one in New York, and no others in the United States ; and I think that his followers were those who mostly love the world, but become sentimentally pious during three weeks after affliction, and then fly back to the world again. I think that Parker might with propriety have called him- self a lecturer, and have spoken at Lyceums as often as invited ; but, had I been a preacher of Christian doctrine, I could not have conscientiously invited him to take my place at preaching. It seems to me that, as far as you state to me a faith, it would be perfectly right for you to gain first an independence by your school, which seems well adapted to give it, and then, as an amateur, to preach what you like. But I know that in our towns the preachers are all the time beset with those who seek explanations of texts and reasons for their faith, and who would never be satisfied with a minister who could give them no other hope than in the personal character whether of Christ or of Socrates. That you would consent to state more than you believed to them, I, of course, cannot for a moment suspect ; but an unsubstantial consolation is no consola- tion at all. As for lecturers on morals, I believe with Dr. Johnson that all or at least most men are moralists. Nevertheless, so entirely do I believe in the necessity of being governed by conscience, that I assure you that, whether you should believe it your duty to preach as a Unitarian, a Catholic, a Calvinist, or a Mussulman, it will in no way affect my friendship for you, as long as conscience, and not vanity or hypocrisy, is your motive, even if it calls you to some White Mountain town on one hundred dollars a year. But I should wish that, when duty so decided, interest should not call you away again, even to the " King's " own 150 INTK on UC TION "Chapel" (I intend a sarcasm on no one). So, as you have heretofore found me not forgetful because I did not often write, you may now deem me not unfriendly because I do not express coincidence of opinion. Nevertheless, I am certain of the force of what I say. But perhaps, doubtful of sympathy, you have omitted to intrust me with all you would confide in another. Yet I know not — perhaps the whole is a transient impulse. But, if you can modify my opinion, do so ; for I am ever a learner, and I believe, from all the habits of my life, incapable of maintaining prejudice against proof. And now, my dear friend, I advert to a former letter in which you speak of having received an unfriendly letter from a person whom you have loved. Both you and I, being irritable, seek the calm ; and, though I confess that calmness seemed to reach coldness in that person, I hope that, if anything deserving the name of friendship exists between you, you will not throw it away. If it does not exist, that is another thing. The recent deaths in both our families remind me to say that we shall not always be together. Which of us goes first, we know not. In order of time, it should be I. But, as the majority of mankind die even while children, and as persons are still more likely to live between forty and sixty than between twenty and forty, not even a guess can be formed in regard to it. None of your family easily make new friends, and, if I should be the first to depart, I can easily see that you (unlike me, who have lost at an early age my best and dearest friends) may even lose in me the first person out of your own family whom you much loved. But, even if I survive to you, the time is near, and must soon come, when in the natural order of things you must lose others, and, as we do not easily replace friends, I consider their estrange- THE RANDALL FAMILY 151 ment hardly less disagreeable than their death. I truly think that a friend should be kept, unless wholly uncon- genial or unless he estranges himself. I know well my- self the sorrow of mourning. I know well how the nights and the days, as they succeed one another, enhance weari- ness and diminish hope, and how life wastes itself away without delight and without object ; and I have nothing in me which could ever desire such a state for another. All persons to whom the affections are anything must go through with it, and, though love becomes somewhat sub- divided among a multitude of friends, yet their number helps greatly to endure the loss of each. The Christian is told not to mourn as those who have no hope. The Par- kerites, I suppose, are also told not to mourn, though they have no hope but in the personal character of Christ — being, as I suppose, persons who sit between the two stools of philosophy and religion, but without the consola- tion of either. I do not see why the philosopher need mourn, at least, any more than the last, seeing that he would not dare change the lot of humanity if he could, and must perforce believe all is for the best, while depending on the personal character of no one. As for myself, you will desire, perhaps, to know how I (after a week's interval, for I am now finishing my letter at Boston after an interruption of several days) — how I bear this loss ; and I will tell you. I bear it as one who cannot help himself, and has been even more severely afflicted several times before. It were unmanly to lament ; the event was impossible to be helped, inevitable in pros- pect ; and I am ashamed to murmur. There has not been a day, perhaps not an hour, since I was a child, that Death has not been present in my thought. In experience he has made himself even more severely felt. While I 152 INTRODUCTION am aware that there is no relationship we can assume, whether of the husband, the wife, the father, the neighbor, or even the citizen, which carries not a penalty for all the pleasure we enjoy in it, — in short, while pain is but the background on which pleasure is painted, — I perceive but one choice of alternatives : either to fly to the wilderness, there like an anchorite to rust until I rot, or to interchange the affections of life vidth the assumption of all the risks that attend them. When we, as you say, a dozen years ago began a relation which has yielded much enjoyment to both, we did not count the cost ; and, when death has divided us, I do not believe that the survivor would will- ingly forfeit the past for the sake of avoiding the future. It is human fate. We must acquiesce. Even the Chris- tian does not find in his Bible the promise of meeting his friends hereafter, and he believes it because Hope is of such a nature that it permits men to believe anything they are inclined to. But there is one consolation for all, which consists in doing our duty and in the consciousness of benevolence ; we can at least treat our friends in such a manner as to escape remorse when we have lost them. Even when left friendless in the world, we can take an interest in mankind, and find some enjoyment in well wishing ; for I truly believe that the love of the neighbor, so prated of and so disdained, is essential to happiness, let religions be what they will. Adding to another's enjoy- ment enhances our own, and he who limits his pleasures to himself has in the very act reduced them to the lowest degree, nor unintermingled with fear, like the cat which de- vours her bone in the comer, ever growling with alarm lest the selfishness of another shall rob her even of so transient a pleasure. When I survey the past, the present, and the future. THE RANDALL FAMILY I 53 and they are never absent from my thought, I feel as a child in some great manufactory filled with machinery. He sees with alarm an endless and complicated activity, universal motion ; he dares not move, lest he should be caught up by some wheel or belt, but never doubts the wisdom of each contrivance, though he knows it to be the work of human hands. So in the vast workshop of the world stand I, astonished, admiring, not daring to lift a finger even to avert my own fate, lest I should be drawn in and realize my fear. As the poet represents the lamb as kissing the hand that sheds its blood, so would I rev- erently submit myself to that inscrutable Intelligence whose designs I cannot fathom, and whose will I have not even the heart to resist. I believe — I hope — I had almost said I fear — all is for the best. 'Tis all I can say. I know no more. Congratulate your wife for me on the recovery of her health, and Emily on that of her foot, I hope your wife will enjoy her piano, yet more the tossing of her baby. Tell her that Nature invented this tossing that the baby might be sure of exercise, while in a state too feeble to use its own limbs ; and doubt not that the child will also receive from me, though unseen, some faint reflection, at least, of that affection which I so long ago invested in its father. As for your desire to be with us, it is not greater than ours to meet you. Give my kind remembrance to your wife and sister. I bid you farewell for Anna, who also loved you, and am as ever, Your friend, J. W. Randall. I 5 4 IN TROD UC TION Boston, 17th June, 1862. Dear Frank, Thinking to take a little journey ere long, I write you while in the mood of it, and on this score shall not, I think, seem remiss, at least for the present. First, it occurs to me how favorable is your present situation for studying and teaching botany. Many plants grow in your region not found here, indeed almost a new flora, as an herbarium made in and about Meadville would testify, and must, I think, agreeably amuse you to prepare. How happy, if these peaceful pursuits might be now engaging the time of many whose restless dispositions find occupation only in spreading death and despair through the land, or who, in the fine language of Cuvier, spend their lives in the pursuit after vain combinations whose very traces a few years are destined utterly to sweep away ! Yet among many evils perhaps this good may come, when a race that has waxed fat through too great prosperity will out of its self-created disasters learn more humility, more respect for other nations, more regard for social as the foundation of public happiness, and less concern for political combina- tions. But how can we help regretting the loss of so many thousands of lives, and that civil war which, while it de- vours the substance of society, is consuming also the whole generation of young men on whom depends its production } When the taxes commence to be laid, what new evils, what new dissolutions have we not to dread .-' If anarchy should arrive, what successful general is it who is to be created dictator over us all? But it is useless to anticipate evil. We may at least comfort ourselves that whatever we suffer is still but our destiny, or, if "young America" like it better, "manifest destiny" — a term which they may for some time to come be ashamed to abuse. Thus nations THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 55 which have inherited too much die of dissipation, like in- dividuals. But, to avoid declamation, I will say that I think it very possible that the South may be broken as a military power, though the conquest of Virginia will not do it. Neither must we look for Union men in our sense. The Southern people believe themselves in the right as much as we do ourselves. The doctrine of State rights in opposition to National is not now new with them. Neither can it be sup- posed that Davis and his comrades have power to coerce 400,000 unwilling men into their army ; which is evidently better officered than ours, and does not permit itself, like ours, to be ever weakest at the point of attack. Neither do I think that the proclamation of abolition will reduce the enemy; for the slaves are among them, and they will doubtless invite us to come and take them. Moreover, in whatever points we abandon the Constitu- tion, on the plea that they deserve none, we also abandon it for ourselves, and shall find it difficult enough to create another. 'Tis like going out to sea in a boat with an- other, and there scuttling it to sink him. If we cannot put down this rebellion by constitutional means, we are plainly either dissolved or we hold the South by conquest. When the question comes what to do with it, we shall be deep enough in debt without keeping a garrison of 200,000 men to hold useless dependencies. I think indeed that, if we can secure the Border States, we may colonize the rebel parts of them and induce the disaffected to leave. But I do not see what we can do with the Southern States proper, which will gain strength when their armies are kept within their own borders. Meantime many of our men will settle at the South, which will be a good thing. The West will also gain 156 IN TROD UC TION population by the war, while our Eastern States seem likely to lose very many inhabitants. A great emigration is going on. And we have little work for the people. All the factory districts are almost at a standstill, even in the populous and lately flourishing country about Worcester. Cotton begins to arrive from India to supply what little demand there is for it. Yet it is poor stuff, and will be abandoned when a supply shall be again obtained from the South. I notice that Beverly has lost not a few of its citizens by the war. Indeed, all Essex County, in which the people are mostly out of employ, has poured out its strength in thousands of men. Among other towns, Marblehead has, I think, sent away more than half its whole male popula- tion. The number who go must constantly increase till the war ends, since men will prefer fighting to starving. . . . A simple question lately presented to me suggested an answer which twenty years ago would have seemed to carry little force. A near relative, brought up amidst all the comforts of life and among educated persons, but who married in New York a poor Irish physician of but mid- dling morality, now lives reduced (he being dead after hav- ing spent her fortune) to extreme poverty, and in great measure dependent on her relatives for support. Being visited lately, she did not so much complain of poverty as of the shortness of the lessons which her boy was made to recite at the public school, and at this she shed tears, bewailing it as a great disaster, and thus illustrating the passion for education which ever exists in the descendants of educated families. In thinking over what advice was best to be given, I asked myself whether my own happiness had been in- creased by an education which began I cannot remember THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 5/ when, and which I still pursue in one or another form. I was obliged to confess that I am probably less happy with what I have acquired than if I had lived among boors, bat- ing only the dissatisfaction which might have attended an ungratified aspiration. I certainly am less hopeful in grow- ing more critical, and incline to regard ignorance as no disaster whatever, seeing that we begin life with it, and after many years of acquirement travel back to it again, but only to find the later darkness more profound than the earlier. So I concluded to advise that the boy should learn only reading, writing, and arithmetic, and then be put to what business he is destined to follow, and learn that well ; for I esteem that to be a good education which fits us for the business we are to earn our livings by. Had it been a girl, I should have left out the arithmetic ; in- deed, I am of Mr. Samuel Adams's opinion that, if girls are but good housekeepers, they know enough. A super- ficial literary education makes them but blue-stockings, and a profound one unfits them for their natural duties. 'Twas long ago observed by physiologists that intellectual women seldom, if married, become mothers, and it is equally certain that men even less often will ever love them enough to wed them. Now this boy is but twelve, so has not one chance in five of living till forty ; though, if he were forty, it would be far better for his living to sixty-five. The subject of vital statistics, with which I have amused myself, nat- urally leads to such reflections, not much made by the mass of men. Truly, what are we but bubbles, so soon destined to break that we may almost doubt if life be a boon worth the trouble of accepting ? This leads me to say that, since " evils come not alone," as the proverb goes, I have no hope of ever seeing again I 5 8 INTR OD UCTION my esteemed friend, Charles F. Simmons. Geoffrey's ex- clamation, "Vale, vale, O amice, vale in aeternum !" rings in my ears and weighs upon my spirits. A victim of this dreadful war, after having practised the law just suffi- ciently to gain a support as a bachelor until there was little law to be practised, he joined the regiment of his friend Col, Greene, an educated West Point officer, and went as an adjutant to Virginia. Hard work, exposure and camp fever soon broke him down. Spitting of blood came on, and he left our coast for Cuba last February, and was doubtless lost in the Gulf Stream in the great tem- pest of that month. I have seen him devoting his small means to an edition of his brother's sermons, left to be published as a farewell token to his parishioners, anxiously attentive to every detail and regardless of expense in his labor of love. I have seen him unsparing of time and trouble in securing the comfort of his mother's last years. I have observed with pleasure his critical discernment in judging of a composition, whether of a picture or of a poem. He himself, also, had ability as a draughtsman, and has been for long my guest and companion, and has spent the nights with me in enjoying the collections with which I have surrounded myself. Thus the procession of our friends passes away in series and disappears. First, your grandfather, who went not unexpectedly, and for whom I did not overestimate my regard, and who was still more to me because he was not mine, and in whose departure Beverly will seem to have lost no little of its attraction. Next went my sister, of whom I said enough in my last ; and now Simmons ; and in a few months, or even weeks, I fear, Mr. Gumming, who does not recover, but thus far declines steadily. Yet, as we begin to die from the moment we are born, and THE RANDALL FAMILY I 59 cannot determine the precedence of exit, I am loth to look on death as an evil, though the omission to perform our work according to our talents may, perhaps, be one. To Simmons, however, death has come prematurely. He had longed to go to Europe, fearing life might be short, but losses and a narrow income forbade. The means, however, would have been raised in a day, but he would accept of nothing. Yet, had he for once waived objection, there had now been no need of contemplating his form as being devoured by the monsters of the deep and his bones as tossing restless among the billows. But help is too late. 'Twas his fate, and must be so. Had he gone to Europe, he would have brought back very varied and accurate information, which would have made him better company than ever ; for he was an observant man, refined and subtile in perception. One more cir- cumstance here occurs. Two years ago, a factory case was offered him which would pay him two thousand dol- lars for three weeks' labor. But he positively refused it, saying that Mr. Curtis took such cases, and could give as good an opinion in three hours as himself in three weeks, and it would be to defraud them to take up unnecessary time. You may judge from this circumstance for what qualities I so highly esteemed him. I can remember, when in college, the great pleasure which attended imaginary sorrows. But, since real ones commenced, I have ill been able to afford the others. Even the real may, I have found by long habit and effort, be so far modified as to affect but little the main ends of our lives. Thus selfish indulgence, which characterizes youth, becomes less ; as we pass into middle life, our identity is less precious to us, and we become more and more blended with the great mass of humanity around us. l60 INTRODUCTION The individual becomes of less consequence, and the sor- rows which he once deemed peculiar grow also of less value and become dissolved in the great tide of human suffering ; so that the man no longer says, " What will my father leave me ? " and, " How shall I enjoy myself when my own master?" nay, scarcely even, "What will be my fate?" His very disinthralment inthralls him, and he cannot even be his own master till he has enslaved his own sensi- bilities ; and many perish in the process. I deem him a happy man, therefore, whose sensitiveness becomes limited to conscience alone, and has little to do with moods. His moral and physical health will fare best who, not too anxious about his own prosperity, finds his conscience, like his stomach, easily moved, that each may throw off readily whatever offends it. I think that one great cause of the miseries of so-called " genius " is that reason and con- science are too little active, while vanity, imagination, and the desires that are begotten of them, are too much so. But I change the subject. You may remember that, when at last you were all outgrowing me as pets, and passing into that state when great changes in our social relations commence, so that, as is usual in families, I found some of you advancing still nearer and others receding farther from me, I attempted to fix by a little poem the landmarks of former relations, and preserve to memory a picture of a group not likely to be collected in the future into a mass so entire or so congenial as before. In this poem ["The Unbroken Lawn"], the little plot in the graveyard was referred to with the expression of the hope that it might yet for long remain unbroken. You ex- pressed great pleasure in this poem. But at last the sod has been broken. I was finishing the second part of that poem in another, expressive of my esteem for your grand- THE RANDALL FAMILY l6l father, when the sudden death of my sister, under cir- cumstances not a little shocking and calculated to scatter for a time, if not confuse, the train of ideas, caused me to suspend it. But, as my thoughts reassemble themselves and pursue their flight once more along their accustomed courses, I have prepared a rough draft without regard to final polish, thinking that the subject, at least, may please you, whatever you think of the treatment. If the tribute seems a warm one, it is also hearty, and I hereto append it for your perusal. [Here follows " The Old Ship-Master," which is too long to be here repeated, but which, with its companion piece, "The Unbroken Lawn," is given in full among the "Mis- cellaneous Poems,"] In a sentence extracted by your mother from a letter of your brother Henry, the expression occurs — " more precious because our own." So will most people say. If universally true, then my eighteenth stanza — " Thou wast not mine ; no claim of kindred drew Applause from prejudice ; the gift is free. I'm glad 'tis so ! As by the summer rain The fields are freshened, so my heart by thee ; And, if my mind hath aught in thee admired, 'Twas thy benignant character inspired — " will be in error, and your relationship to me, of course, will be inferior to a natural one. I am better satisfied, however, with my own sentiment. I see Mary Wells frequently. She inquires kindly after you, and I take much pleasure in her society. She is a good illustration of a class of persons that never grow old. I can scarcely imagine why so fine a woman was never married, — a warm, genial, frank, faithful, affectionate 1 6 2 INTR OD UC TION nature, capable of enlivening society and comforting her friend. What a contrast to those mute, pale-faced lym- phophlegmatic women so common about us whose uncon- genial silence is oft dignified with the name of reserve! 'Tis a pleasant thing to one whom nine-tenths of women re- pel, however pleased with the other tenth, to find living specimens of what they should be. How often the forceful expression of Milton, in his work on divorce, occurs to me, where he speaks of men little versed in the world who, v/hen they hoped to find in marriage a cheerful and con- fiding relation, discover themselves to be wedded only to an unsympathizing mixture of earth and phlegm ! My friend Nichols, having taken his degree, has gone as surgeon to the war. King longs to go, but farming for- bids. Dr. looks well, and kindly invites me to Na- hant, but the season is awfully cold, and until it is warmer he will pipe to one that will not dance. He says that he raises strawberries there, which I should hardly have thought. I live nearly alone at present, and take most of my meals alone, for my mother has her meals sent up to her, as leaving her more quiet, and Belinda keeps her company. If not very good society to myself, I should be tempted to travel or marry. The former I hope to do in spite of war, if war lasts two or three years; as for the last, I hope never to herd with one that loves me not. Cousin Henry Skinner asks after you. He is erecting new buildings and surrounding himself with every comfort, and has a white cock he makes come at command. The creepers at Stow have nearly veiled the house, and last year's birds build anew amid their leaves. The roses would cover the roof, if I let them, and promise thousands of blossoms. Our beds in Boston are full of Anna's THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 63. flowers, for they, like children, survive those who have' educated them. You also, I suppose, have a garden, and perhaps raise your own peas and beans. I have put by a few of Anna's larger engravings, and so forth, as keep- sakes for her friends, and for you Hoogland's portrait in folio of Rev. Dr. C banning, but a different one if you pre- fer. I have seen more of Stanley since you left. We like each other, as I think, not a little, of which I fear not you will be jealous. H has gone again to the wars, and, when he has grown lean again on husks among the swine of Virginia, he will be glad to sit down to a fatted calf in Massachusetts — perhaps may even return one. Stanley longs to go to the wars, but I hardly like he should do so, as his constitution is particularly liable to the low fevers of a camp. As to the loss of a year or so in college, that is something, but not so much. But I must end. My remembrances to your wife and sister. I am sorry you come not here this summer. I may yet be obliged to go to you. Yours, dear friend, J. W. Randall. Boston, March 13, 1863. Dear Frank, In your last letter, now long unanswered, I observe you close with asking my mind on certain religious opinions which I am not competent to judge of. You know that I am of no sect, but am a universal protestant, very like what Bayle was. I quoted Mr. Clarke, not as agreeing with him, but with relation to the expression, " He who believeth in me shall be saved," with the implied commen- tary and fair inference that no others shall be. You ask if I think your theory foolish or unreasonable. I think 164 IN7R0DUCTI0N nothing foolish or unreasonable which is true ; but, as for truth, nothing with me is true which is not proven. As to the nature of Christ, I think it not important to discuss, nor indeed any other doctrinal point. The several hundred opinions of the several hundred religious sects present to me nothing of a scientific character, and each one must be left to explain as deduction and inclination lead him. I perceive, however, that the Bible claims Christ to be not a man, but God, in short, one of the three persons of the Trinity ; and, if I were a Christian, I suppose I should so believe. I do not, however, see much in the conduct or conversation of Christians about me to give me much re- spect for their religion. Their priests were required to be poor, but the Catholics alone have kept their priests so, and these only the inferior ones. The Quakers, to be sure, come nearer the demands of their creed, speaking to one another as "the Spirit moves them " ; so their phrase goes. But, as to leading sects, preaching is as much a trade among them as is any other, and I should think that, if their Master were to come again upon the earth, they would be the first to stone him. At least, I think no sane man would dare to drive money-changers out of our temples at this day. The Catholic religion seems to me to be in several re- spects most in accordance with the Christian Bible one : in the stress laid on both faith and works as against Lutherans, excepting, however, works of supererogation ; another in the close union between the priests and the people, whose poverty they are forced to imitate (the chief source of their influence), and it was for the poor, that is, for the people, the Book declares itself to have been made ; third, the itinerant character of the clergy, as being in harmony with the whole spirit of the Christian religion, THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 65 which requires it. But I presume that religionists at the present day think it not more necessary to be bound by their written constitution than the government of the United States do by theirs. Perhaps both will fare alike. As for what you say of man's moral and religious nature being a test of truth in fact, I think it no more so than that Hope and Imagination are tests of fact. Both indicate only faculties. So, as to abstract morals, I think with Mr. Walker that a morality is such but by its results. As to another point, regarding laborers in piety, it is evident that salaries are certain means of calling hypocrites into the church, and here again I commend the practice of the Quakers. As to the employment in a special profession for teaching men their duties, I agree with Dr. Johnson that all men are moralists and doubt but little what are their duties, and I am of the opinion that to practise our own is the best instruction we can give on that head. The office of the religious teacher is plainly not founded on morality, but on religion, and in this merely to inculcate special tenets ; for, as to the religious or reverential faculty, I take it all the priests on earth could not suppress it. Indeed, the masses have the most of it, and it is modified but by reflection and education. Neither do the people owe their tenets to their preachers. They first congregate in accordance with their instincts, and next invite a preacher among them who agrees with them, and they dismiss him when he disagrees. Formerly, it is true, he was expected to possess the character of a pastor or shepherd, but no longer save among Catholics. Rhetorical qualities are now alone demanded, and ever most in a republic like ours, where the people add presump- tion to ignorance and are captivated by words rather than by wisdom. To gratify this appetite there are abundant 1 66 INTR on UC TIOjV caterers. We are faithful copyists of the Greeks and Romans, whose wiser men disdained, but did not oppose, the creeds of the people. Such must be still more the condition of nations where all read, and few think. This covers by reference all the special points to which you called my attention, which it would be, of course, idle to think to exhaust in a letter. I would hurry to some- what more interesting, and say only, further, that I care not a penny for men's opinions except as they are made just and humane by them, A good disposition, even more than a good understanding, is my chief delight in a friend or companion. I visited Beverly last December, I believe for but the second time since you left Massachusetts. 'Tis much changed from my old associations, a duller place. With neither you nor Stanley nor your grandfather, I missed my most frequent companions ; no bedfellow at night, no welcome smile of the good old man by day, so that I woke up glum as at home for lack of chat. I viewed the coast and the clear shining bay with chattering teeth, but the back river with its jagged bosom of muddy ice was dreary enough. The weather was so cold that the popular image of Hell was to me, as to the Greenlanders, scarcely repul- sive. The arrival of a Mr. Barrett, a preacher, had at first nearly driven me away, but I found him a jovial man, fond of his joke, ever good testimony to an innocent character, as sour (not grave) faces are of self-dissatisfaction. Your mother seems well, but works too hard for others ; your father never better nor yet so cheerful — we had two or three long and pleasant night-chats. He, too, seems too hard worked at his school, and his salary ought to be raised in these times when paper is so depreciated ; but I suppose the people there, as everywhere else, are poorer than before THE RAiVDALL FAMILY \6j the dissolution of the Union. Indeed, only contractors now grow rich. This class are likely to devour half the wealth of the nation. I hope your pupils no farther fall off; the fixed salary seems to me justly yours while a single pupil remains at the school. I shall be glad to see you among us once more, though not at the sacrifice of your interests. I was about going to Europe just as this war broke out, and would fain miss the missing of it. But it becomes an American to be as yet at home, till either he again finds a country, or a universal war spreading into every district and family of the land induce him to become an unwilling exile. Our people seem depressed. Even food is getting dear, the factories are all idle, and soon heavy taxation must be submitted to. However, the night amusements do not slacken, for people in this as in all other revolu- tions delight to drown in pleasure the depression of the day. I visited in Beverly your grandfather's grave. It con- tains a white stone resembling the two others already standing there, and inscribed thus : " His life was an epistle wherein it was plainly written and easily read that he truly loved God and his fellow men." The defects are apparent, and I drew another on the spot in my note book, which, altering not the sense, has more force, and is more economical of words, thus : "His life was a history wherein was plainly written, he reverenced God and loved his fellow men." I object not in poetry to the use of "love of God and man" as in the same breath, when me- chanical difficulties make it necessary, but like it ill in prose, because confounding different sentiments, namely, Reverence and Benevolence. I commenced repairs at Stow last fall, that the family 1 68 JNTROD UCTION might at the worst find a refuge. But the cold of Decem- ber cut me short, and all materials are now so dear that I know not when I shall recommence. The mason work, however, is done, and the house is handsomely stuccoed. The vines inclosed last summer a complete solitude within the piazza, but I have now laid them all down. I hope we may yet have pleasant times again there. But a funny conversation now occurs to me which will remind you of Mr. Ray, but he, poor man, died last fall. . . . G. — Well, Mr. R., we hear there's pretty stirring times in Boston about the Draft. Massachusetts ought to send at least 2,000,000 of men to the war. R.— She would do so, Mr. G., if her population were not limited to 1,200,000. G. — I think not. There's more than 100,000 could be raised in the towns round Stow, and never be missed. R, — We must not send so many that our own troops will bring back a dictator to govern us. G. — Oh, the people will take care of that. They could raise a pretty big mob here to settle that business. R. — But it is out of mob law, Mr. G., that the anarchy comes which makes such things necessary. G. — Well, now, Mr. R., I've hearn 'em talk down town a good deal about this anichy, as they call it, but I don't see how any such thing can ever come about here. If them fellers was to choose a dictator, there's more than 50 would go from Stow with loaded rifles and shoot him down. R. — Then they would elect another, - G. — Well, they'd shoot him, too, R. — And another. G. — Well, they'd keep a-shooting on 'em as fast as they was set up. THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 69 R. — That's the very thing they call anarchy, Mr. G. G. — Oh, is that it ? Well, then, I think it's a pretty good thing, for the people's a-going to rule this country anyhow, and they'll soon begin with hanging that traitor, McClellan, and then, by gosh, I hope they'll shoot all the rest on 'em, and let the common soldiers choose the smart- est ones for leaders. G. — senior (somewhat boozy) — Yes, by golly, the common people's waited long enough to get the power out o' the hands of the damned lawyers and speculators, and now we're goin' to rule — yes, we be ! (Exit, unsteady.) The above varies not greatly from the style of the con- versation as I heard it, and so we may rejoice that liberty is at hand. _, r • , Your friend, J. W. Randall. ^ ^ Boston, July 23rd, 1863. Dear Frank, I have now waited several days in hopes of gaining suffi- cient composure to write to you. I have already written to your mother, and am glad that I now end for the present the duty of writing. I suppose that you (though not I) now realize, as Adam is fabled to have done, that Death has first entered into the world, at least into your world, which is also mine. For your Abel and my Abel is dead. If by walking arm in arm round the circumference of the earth we could find him again at his hearthstone, how cheerfully should we undertake the journey ! He has been the victim of a war which he deemed wholly unnecessary, as also do I ; but, though he condemned the spirit of faction on both sides, which brought it about contrary to the wishes of the great I 'J o INTR OD UC TION mass of the nation, he yet deemed the Union so important that he was willing to yield up his life for it. I urged him to finish his college studies, but he was resolved to go. When I calculated the risk, he said that most men were in search of an honorable death. When I could not restrain him, I gave him what encouragement I could, but I regret that I did not insist on his wearing a bullet-proof vest. The Stanley now dead is not precisely the Stanley whom you remember when you went away, nor was he now what he promised to be ten years hence. You will remember when he was my dear little pet of nine years old, and when he used to sit astride on my knees, and gleefully he would enter upon the occupation of rubbing noses, and how amiably he would endure the playful whippings you gave him when we lay three in a bed in the upper front chamber ; and you remember him later when, misliking the prospects of his life, he seemed for a time to have lost all happiness. He told me afterwards that he had lived miserably for two whole years. After this time a new life began. We strolled together almost a whole week before he went to Exeter, and he expressed delight at the prospect of going to college ; and from this time my later intimacy with him began. A boating affair at Stow, where he was near being drowned, yet would not alarm me, disclosed to me his generosity and to Jmn the intensity of my anxiety for him. As we went home clasping each other mid thunder and lightning, drenched with rain and in the deepest dark- ness, delighting to perceive I loved him, he would try me yet further, wantonly exclaiming that I should not probably have him long, for he was apt to stumble into danger ; and it vexed me not that he would make himself dear to me as possible. A little while before, thinking he meant to in- THE RANDALL FAMILY I /I suit me, I expressed great indignation, when he pleasantly said, I should have a right to be angry if he meant what I supposed, but that I was really mistaken ; and we instantly made it up together. 'Twas the only disagreement we ever had, and was but momentary. To know him better, I secured him for the next season to go with me to the Mountains. I there learned how excellent was his taste in scenery, how active and accurate were all his senses. He was so social and affectionate, and so good-tempered under fatigue, that (what is very rare upon foot journeys) we had not an ill-natured word together during the whole time. I engaged him to go with me again in the following season, but he was prevented from doing so. Yet we fre- quently met, and he seemed ever to yearn for a deeper and deeper relation to me, and I, nothing loth, made the way into my heart open and easy as I could, and would have him dive there deep as he would go. I invited him to take your place with me during your absence, and, when you returned, I hoped to walk between you both through the roadway of life into the valley of death, and to sail together, if it might be permitted, through the ocean of eternity. But the little band is broken up. The dear companion who has joined both of us since we started upon the path of life has wandered from us, and whither I know not. The star that for a time brightened our way is veiled in clouds, and we must enter the shades of night with what comfort we can. Yet I am glad to find little cause of reproach to myself in the past, for I made him as happy as I could. Our friend had acquired in a desultory way no small amount of historical knowledge. He had studied with some care Napoleon's apothegms, and applied them aptly 172 INTRODUCTION to the various events of the war. I doubt not he would rapidly have risen as a soldier, and, could he have sur- vived this struggle, the clearness of his ideas and his correct and forcible expression of them would have well fitted him to write the military memoirs of the time. So full of life — how can we imagine him dead } I once could have wished he might remain forever a child ; but, when he began to feel himself a man, and, on the inter- ruption of others, gently drew my arm from his waist and locked it in his own, or sat, as you and I were used to, with hand clasped in hand, though he was becoming another being, I did not wish him back again. And now it seems hard, when we heard he was not seriously wounded, and when I was planning to join in nursing him, and to supply him with comforts, and to read to him when he grew better, and when I hoped to have erelong a good carriage drive to the Mountains with him, and with you to go with us, and, when the journey had restored him to health and vigor, to bring him back to your mother in condition to enjoy life and his friends with more zest than ever, to hear after all that he is dead ! I stood by his coffin with Mr. Whipple, who had seen him but two or three times and took the strongest interest in him. After leaving a while, I came back again to stand once more by the cofhn, and I laid my hand upon it, and imagined him there in communion with me once more. When they put it into the wagon, I stood by the wagon, and while there Mr. Webster came up to me, and asked if I was waiting for Edwin, who was in the church. I told him I was there because Stanley was there, and that I never had been so near to him before when he had not spoken. " But he is not there," said he, •' and 'tis lucky enough that he is not nailed in there." Perhaps he THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 73 thought I was waiting for him to come out, but I knew better than he why I was waiting there. I felt Hke King Lear, when he held the feather to the lips of Cordelia and exclaimed, "She lives!" and I thought, as he, "Were it but so, it were a chance that would redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt." " Oh, thou wilt come no more, never, never, never, never, never!" Enough — I shall lose my composure again. I loved him, I understood him. He knew that I loved him. He knew that I understood him. And I felt that he loved and understood me, and I wished that you were with me, for I said, " I might then weep with them that could weep." Your father was with us most of the week, and was a great comfort to me, and I hope and trust I was also a comfort to him. And now, since our friend has left us to tread the wine- press alone, and exists for us only in the Kingdom of Love, we must do something to adorn his memory, and present to it some visible symbol of our unforgetfulness. Suppose, then, that I dedicate to him my volume of " The Delights," which lies mostly written or in outline. I would include in it the poem to the memory of your grandfather, and prelude it with another to himself. There would then be left " The Seasons " for you. But I am so shattered by this event that I may likely not work for some months. Still, a more peaceful time will come at last, when sor- row seen in perspective shall blend in the horizon of time with objects less mournful, colors less vivid, and an atmos- phere made softer by distance. You and I are still left to each other, but let us share nothing that was Stanley's ; let us commit to him in the grave the affections that were his, as anciently men buried their precious jewels with their deceased friends. 174 INTR on UC TION And now your letter just comes to hand, in which I am glad to see that you will soon mount above the drearier shadows of affliction, though not at once. The first mo- ment of a bereavement stuns us, the next wakes us to only general impressions. It is not till the imagination has ex- plored the past, and gathered up every circumstance of endearment, that we reach the keenest sense of our sorrows. If there has been one moment in the past of a quality more tender and invested with a pathos more touching than the rest, the mind reverts to it ever, over and over again, till, having been rendered familiar, it gradually ceases to torment us. My memory is in possession of such moments, and, if they add bitterness to the present, I should still be loth to strike them out of the past. I know not whether you gain or lose most in not having seen Stanley for nearly three years. You miss something in further knowledge of him, and you gain some peace of mind by removal of your associations with him to a greater distance backward. It is of no use now to lament the war. I have lost whatever I had in it precious to me. Had I lost only Simmons, it could not be made up to me ; but the worst thing about it is that it was unnecessary. If it could not have been compromised, it were better to have resolved the country into its original elements, and have allowed the States to form new associations. After the Sumter fight, there was no further hope. As to the future of this country, those who know the effects of universal suffrage in the past will have opinions of their own. Fac- tion is necessary to us, and faction has for fifty years beenl engaged in ruining us. This whole war has displayed the dreadful effects of faction. The substitution of inefficient for efficient generals through the influence of faction has j induced most of our catastrophes, and the generals them- THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 75 selves (chiefly politicians) have been equally employed in undermining each other. Could there have been such a thing as a really patriotic party, things would not have come to this pass. Nay, even had honest fanatics held sway, it would not have been so bad. As to philanthropy, it has been a mere pretence to serve the purposes of those who have been amassing wealth by swindling the country. The late treatment of negroes in the North will, I think, cure the slaves of whatever confi- dence they may have had in their pretended friends. We have lost but few of the sneaks and drunkards who have gone to the war, and almost none of the fanatics who dragged us into it, and who, I wish, had been themselves forced to fight it out. The war has been fatal chiefly to the brave and the loyal, and the new generation will come upon the stage bereft of its chiefest ornaments. Tens of thousands who, like Stanley, fought to protect their coun- try have been made a sacrifice to the selfishness of indi- viduals. The laws disregarded in high places are now dis- regarded in low ones, and a new revolution in the North, which was easily to have been predicted, seems to threaten what little yet remains of Liberty and Union. It was once the boast of our country that a poor man could secure com- petency in it ; but the enormous debt, if paid (and univer- sal suffrage will not, I think, pay it), must keep back the poor and advance the rich. When a contest shall com- mence between the poor and the rich, the taxpayers and the debtholders, what else will capital do save unite itself to military power and secure stability by despotism } The end of things is as yet wholly shut out from us. The re- lations of the West to the East are yet to be determined, and no man can foresee the result. Let us turn from the picture to those social relations 176 INTRODUCTION whose combinations are yet within our power. Whatever may be the destiny of our political life, to the enlightened few a private one will still be left. I shall delight to see you again, but am willing to defer our meeting to your own convenience and interest. Were you still to remain long absent, I should travel to see you, and take lodgings for a time in your neighborhood. I am glad you have seen a prairie, and wish you would preserve a clear picture of it to describe to me, as also of the effects of the syca- more and the cottonwoods, if you saw them growing there. I hope you will keep your mind tranquil by contemplating in every detail the object and the event which now disturb us. I have never found that losing myself in an unnatural activity soothed such afflictions to me, but, by rendering the imagination familiar with every moving circumstance, we become calm through familiarity with our own associa- tions, yet not cold ; even as a tragedy by frequent reading fails to excite tears, yet never destroys in the mind the sense of its pathos. Do you remember the rhyme where I dotted your little grass plot at Beverly with graves } I hope the event there foreshadowed will not yet prove true. But the two ex- tremes of the group have now met there. I like not to dwell on it, and must drive out of mind the thought. How much of anticipated pleasure I have buried there ! James Reed called on me last night. He evidently loved Stanley, and through fondness for him displayed all the warmer affection for me. It was a meeting too kindly to be forgotten. I regret that you should have resigned a portion of your salary, and think it not a good business movement. The seven hundred dollars was given as a retaining fee. The only pecuniary loss you should have incurred should have THE RANDALL FAMLLY 1 77 been from the loss of pupils. Nobody else does in this way, and, had I been the Trustee, I should have been ashamed to have made the deduction. Why should he profit by a violation of his own agreement .'' " They also serve who only stand and wait." I am glad you are making journeys, and think you must be dry of funds ; if so, draw on me for a hundred dollars, and more by and by. I saved last year money for printing books, and a sum to lay out in a long journey with Stanley. The war delays the one, and death denies the other. I can meet the heavy taxes of this year and have spare funds, and next year I anticipate the resurrection of one of my long buried investments, in which case I shall be better off in income than ever before. I find, also, little chance in these times to increase my collections, so that, except for the enhanced price of necessaries, a small sum would yield me a com- petency, and, when I have lost all my friends, a still smaller. I should like to hear, before you leave Detroit, if you get this letter ; as I know not when you leave. Your friend, J. W. Randall. My mother and Belinda send their love to you. ^ ^ Boston, August 3rd, 1863. Dear Frank, I esteemed it a satisfaction that I need write but two let- ters on Stanley's death, one to your mother and another to yourseK. But, as you say it would comfort you to hear more from me, I write you again, though scarcely under- standing how a person so little under the "delusions of hope " as I am can well be a comfort to any one sharing I 7 8 INTR OD UC 7 ION with him a bereavement for which he can give no consola- tion to himself. You wished to know something of Stanley's views con- cerning the war. I can only say they were more sensible than romantic, and needed perhaps but five years of experi- ence to have saved his life. I will not enlarge on these till I see you, but simply say that he defended the right of Revolution, as of the South against the North, and also the right of saving the Union, as of the North against the South. To my doubts of the result, he replied that he be- lieved in mathematics, and that, after the loss of a whole generation of men, the North would subdue the South. Unhappily, he noticed not that the unknown quantities in the calculation were out of proportion to the known, and that there was no algebra applicable to them. At first he defended slavery on the ground that every nation should adopt the system most favorable to its own agri- culture. But, upon my applying the idea to his uncle's farm at Wilton, and remarking that it would doubtless thrive better if he himself were impressed to work on it, he did not insist on the notion. His views, therefore, in enlisting, were purely patriotic, not the most comprehensive among human motives, but certainly the most admired and necessarily unselfish. As he was too much given to argumentation, and had a very inquisitive mind, I do not doubt that he said many things with a purpose of posing me ; but he was very ready to admit any new idea that seemed to him true. When I enlarged on the dangers of a great national debt in a country which had only universal suffrage to back the obligation, and on the impossibility of fixing the legal tender of paper at the par value of gold, oft tried in the past, he did not see t;he force of the suggestion, expressing his conviction of the THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 79 all-subduing power of the government. When I urged that this all-subduing power must necessarily, if successful, over- ride the constitution, of which we have already observed symptoms, and be drawn without desiring it into despotism, to which end the capital of the country and the army might readily unite for the sake of order, he admitted the proba- bility, but did not much object to it, as he was less inter- ested in the nature of the government than the grandeur and stability of the country. He was very desirous, however, of maintaining the war in accordance with law. He saw that, whatever might be thought of slavery, it was in accordance with the law, and that it would be impossible to employ the constitution in quelling the violators of it, if we violated it ourselves. He also saw that its persistent violation necessarily led to anarchy, and that this would as necessarily lead to despo- tism. He was also aware that faction was indissolubly united with republican government, that it had been the ruin of old republics and probably would be of this. In one of his last letters to his family during the invasion of Pennsylvania, he utters the heartfelt exclamation, " O that men would forget their parties, and unite in one brother- hood for the good of their country ! " Upon the appointment of General Meade, he says that he may perhaps be the wished-for man, but is simply imknown, and then exclaims, " O for McClellan ! Why not appoint a commander at once in whom the whole army has confidence .■' " So sensible views, I confess, greatly improved my opinion of his judgment. He could not be expected to have at his age mastered the whole principles of political science, known to so few and violated by so many. I saw in what he did know more knowledge and reflection than I 1 8o INTROD UCTION had expected of him three years ago, and more than most older heads than his do as yet know. I assure you that one needed to have his weapons well sharpened who would fence with him. He inclined to think for himself, and was naturally of an independent character. He had no small knowledge of history. In the military part of his acquire- ments, he had reduced the general principles he had at- tained to so much of system, that he was at no loss in criticising the movements of the armies and plans of at- tack, which he studied day by day in connection with the history and geography of the country. But all else of this sort I will defer speaking of till conversation favors, and will simply remark that he united in himself the tenacity of your brother Edwin's constitution with a sanguineous warmth which, so far as I know, exists in no other member of his family, unless your brother Henry should have it, and which begot that fine temperament in which calmness of demeanor was accompanied with energy in action, the most appropriate character of an officer ; while the warmth and persistency of his affections, apparent in the little boy even as in the young man, rendered his real friendship something well worth possessing and not to be forgotten by any one who possessed a heart capable of reciprocity. I liked it well that he did not deign to fling himself upon the unworthy. He knew well he owned something which rendered him valuable, and he wanted the worth of it in exchange ; and he well knew that those who were worthy of his love would never be willing to share it save by making an equal exchange. It is natural to me to incline to well-defined traits of character rather than to the simple so-called good traits, and I believe that the hard intellectual pleases neither of us. I declare to you that, of all the images which the past gives me back, I find very THE RANDALL FAMILY l8l few that at this moment stand like his so isolated in my imagination as possessing the materials of character (I speak of combinations, not of special talents). The army- will never know what it has lost ; a few retired persons will know what they have lost, and I almost wish that I myself could not say that I know. In such a death as this, I naturally recur to an old remark in which I justify no war except one of self- defence against invasions. Even a just war is the brutal- izer of a nation, and the greatest of curses. I know 'twas hard to avoid it ; but time will, as I think, show more and more the pity that it ever took place. For my own part, I would rather separate from my enemy than enter into partnership with him. This war will be but as that battle which came of an error, in the ballad of King Arthur's death, where — " An addere creppit from a bush, Stung one of the King's men in the knee," etc. and went on with — " On one side there were left but three." The very means taken to end it seem like blowing a great conflagration with a bellows. Even when all the fighting is over, words must settle the question. If we are to hold the rebels in subjection, they will prove, as I think, the costliest of elephants. The cowards, the knaves, and the makers of shoddy will survive, and the whole ornament of this generation will have perished — nay, has mainly already perished. F'inally, it renders indeterminate the relations between the West and the East, which may at some future day produce more seces- sion. Who supposes that the Union or anything else in 1 8 2 INTR OD UC TION the world is permanent ? However, I have long ceased to regard the metamorphoses of nations. They are neces- sary, like all other metamorphoses, and, if mankind ever attain wisdom, they will not contend about them. The history of the United States presents to my mind a picture, not so much of greatness, as of very great thrift, at least, and probably of less real happiness than is en- joyed by any other civilized nation. In it the poor thrive only because labor is not over-abundant. This thrift might have continued, if Massachusetts and South Caro- lina could have been tied together neck and heels, and forced to fight the war out by themselves. But I hurry from this to say a few more words on the subject that haunts me. Stanley was not difficult to understand. No one easier. But, though very social, he was reserved except with people with whom he sympathized. I have seldom seen so much sensibility and vigor united. His will and his affections were ever struggling together — a beautiful strife ! Though in many other ways well endowed, I have never known any one more magnanimous, at one and the same time just, generous, and genial. He possessed an easy yet noble good-nature, was confiding yet cautious, impulsive yet calm. Courteous by nature, humor and good sense were mingled in him in so just a proportion that the country people, wherever I took him, were charmed with it, and, when I repeated alone my journey to the north, autumn before last, everybody at whose house we had stopped remembered him. Says Goodwin at the Glen, "Where is the little fellow.? Why have you not brought him } " Says the old landlady at Bethel, " Pray why did not your young friend come with you .'' " And says Judge Ingalls at Shelburne, " Your son " (for so he thought him) "is now, I suppose, at Harvard THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 83 College, and could not come." He might have been my son, and now I would he had been, for he should not have died. Everybody missed him that had once seen him, and, having noticed us so closely nailed together, had regarded him as part of me. These country folks are quick to see fine traits, though they do not readily define them. When I next see them, what shall I say .? Truly he was become a part of me — O my gentle, my generous, my brave, my honorable, my faithful, my loving and dearly loved com- panion, must I see you no more .-* Ah, how much of mean- ness, ever despised by you, will survive you ! " Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, and thou no breath at all.? Thou wilt come no more." that he who slew him had but known him ! How would he have cursed the hand that extinguished so sweet a life ! And, had he known him, be he who he might, then might this loyal heart still have beat. Nay, perhaps the rebel who killed him was of all men made to love him. Such are the bitter results of war, where the hand of him who loves the virtues of a rare man is uplifted ignorantly to annihilate, perhaps, the rare man whom he has all his life been in search of. 1 do not wish to replace him. 'Tis enough to have loved and lost. In general I ill make friends with middle-aged people, who for the most part become petrified, like Gul- liver's Struldbruggs, at forty. But I delight in the young when they are innocent, sensible, and unaffected, and would fain detain them forever in that so interesting condition, or at least secure to them, when they change their childish state, that simplicity and sincerity which, when once lost, leaves the man a spoiled and valueless thing. The freedom of our intercourse was perfect. I was so careful that we might be on equal terms that I sought his 1 84 INTRODUCTION judgment and advice in all sorts of little matters, and it was o-ood When he sought mine, I was careful not to assume, and it was truly pleasant to be able to say I " did not know ; " for he a little looked up to me in some things, and I was fearful lest he should over-appraise me, and then he might grow less genial and confiding. When he saw he began to miss me when absent, I was glad that he wanted me, and was fain to become to him whatever he would. He out- grew after a time the child's habit of embracing, but, if he found his friend would caress him, he was not loth, if no stranger was near ; for love he wanted, and was little dis- posed to quarrel with the manner of expressing it, if only real. He loved to yield, and he loved to resist, and was capable of both as the case might require. He read char- acter quickly, and in little things ; perceived the ridiculous instantly ; was quick-witted in all manner of contrivance, merry and mirthful, sharp in jest, but careful not to wound ; could endure fatigue, and grew not irritable under it ; was alive in all his senses, and hence the most delightful of travelling companions. His sense of honor was so nice that I studied myself in little matters with the more care, lest he find flaws in me, and the more because he would have been silent about them. This is another of the precious uses of young people, if they are what they should be : namely, that their senti- ments of right and wrong are much truer than in most older persons, who, having endured the friction of the world, become corrupted by it, and at last grow not only not ashamed of doing what is mean, but not even of being seen to do it. Alas, his innocence was his death ! Could he but have observed for a few weeks the movement of the springs which keep our base American political ma- chine in motion, he would have disdained the war and the wire-pullers that kept it in action. THE RANDALL FAMILY 185 I will tell you a little anecdote which will show you how much I was influenced by him. On the Mount Washing- ton road there is a toll. When we went up, the toll- house was shut, and the road not quite completed. When we came down, I proposed to turn off at a path which reached our hotel by the hypothenuse of a triangle, but he thought it wet and took the main road. I took the other. After a long and difficult walk, I put on glasses, and, look- ing back, thought I saw the toll-house open. After reflec- tion, I turned about, for I said to myself, " Stanley will think I have avoided the toll." When I reached home, he was in bed. "Well," said he, "how was the path.?" I told him why I had returned, and handed him his own toll, because, as he went by my invitation, the least ex- penses were properly mine. He saw at once the propri- ety of accepting it, but said he had never thought of accusing me to himself. "Well," said I, "I didn't think you would, but I mean, also, you shall have no chance." Then he said he should truly have thought poorly of any one's dodging the toll. This little affair was well for both of us. But, if I had been alone, I should not have returned so far, but waited till, in going down the Glen, I should pass the toll-house again. Conceive for an instant how we observed and measured each other, how we sustained each other, and how fast by these things our love and trust in each other was growing, and you can measure my loss. I tell it all because otherwise you could only estimate your own. Daily my eye searches each passer-by to discover him again in the outward world. I sought him in the throngs that passed on Sunday, but he was not there. In the crowds returning from a fire I looked everywhere for him, I saw the world in good clothes and in rags, but Stanley 1 86 INTRODUCTION nowhere. On one day, some one like him seemed to pass the house. I went out and overtook him, but the resem- blance ceased. In a little boy whittling a fence I saw the broad back head and thick black hair and warm com- plexion of Stanley at twelve years old, but the front face dispelled the illusion, and the boy went away, thinking me a police officer. While he lived, he was enough for me and I never looked for his likeness, and, now that he is dead, I search the world for it in vain. So, also, does he come in morning dreams. At one time, he is offered me, if I will go toward the poles for him, but, ere I commence the anxious journey, I discover it to be illusion. At another time, 'tis offered me to receive in my arm the shot that killed him, and I give my arm to gain my friend, and I think, " He will henceforth be an arm to me," and then this, also, passes away. Again, he comes and sends me word 'twas a false report, and that another had been mistaken for him — I learn no more, and Death straightway comes to claim him. So, also, at times, does he come back embodied in ancient fable, and it would seem something only to change him into a laurel, one of those with which he would have delighted to be crowned. How pleasant seems even the vague idea of seeing him live to old age, the delight of all about him, to be changed at last into a tree ! But, alas, no tree shall ever stand for us in the place of our Phile- mon, who died a sapling and withered in the greenness of Spring. Do I seem to you as one in love with a woman ? It is rarely, my friend, that any woman is laved so well. You need not fear I shall be cracked. Our love was as yet incomplete ; five years more would have perfected it, and this thought seems hardest of all. In the last two years most of my plans for giving him enjoyment have THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 8/ failed, on account of his illness at college and his leaving for the war. Last year I was to have gone with him to Niagara, and this year, as I hoped, to Canada, or vice versa. Mere trifle as it now is, I feel regret that, ere he died, he could not have stood with me in the tower between the two falls, and have witnessed in this world the most beautiful scene in Nature. Think not I shall succumb to despair. I acquiesce as much as you in the great Law. I admit I would alter it, if permitted ; but, if permitted, it would then be right. I acquiesce in necessity, and, after I have exercised my im- agination about him in every possible way, I shall at last find my old self again, though never more shall I find him. I shall be as a man with one arm. The woman who lost her piece of silver had thirty-eight pieces left, but we have lost our pet lamb. It is true that, when the hard sense of this loss comes to me unadorned, there are times when my words, though mute, seem striving to strangle me, and my heart with its accumulated heaviness would seem kind if it could break ; but this is not constant, and I am daily gain- ing self-control. A stranger would perceive little differ- ence in me, and I am loth in this wandering state of mind to write you a second time. I do it at your request, and now I shall not write again, but wait till I see you, when I have some things to say less proper to be written. I am sorry you are alone in Detroit, but trust it will not be long. Society, though at first undesired, is a great softener of grief. Meantime I hope you will not reject the well-meant sympathy of strangers, for it is far better than no sympathy at all. You will here perceive the Ego everywhere, but I doubt not you will discover the Tu, also. I give you purposely an unfashioned fragment of myself, because I know it will soothe you more than if you had me 1 8 8 INTR OD UC TION in a mould. But I hope, when I see you, I shall be as you have known me, for no part of a man's life ought to be long incoherent or overcast with clouds. As to your going to the war as a private, to mix with the nastiest rough scuff of all mankind, I regard it as wild. You are under excitement, and cannot in this way pay yourself for the loss of Stanley. He is a reality not to be dispelled by enthusiasm. The shallow can do thus, but not you or I. The day will come when you will hold dearer what you have lost than the rotten political combina- tions of the hour ; and, when you would sacrifice to an abstraction all the generosity and genius of this age, I think you deceive yourself as to the nature and value of the exchange. I regard it as the loss of that selected seed from which alone a finer race of men is capable of spring- ing up. I do not believe that all the goats live south of Mason Sz: Dixon's line, nor all the sheep north of it. As for the many towns and cities you saw at the West, and for whose advantage you would lay down your life, I imagine they will continue to be there and to grow, whatever may become of you or me or the war. To enlist as a chaplain would be still more out of place, and I know not of what use a religion of love can be to people whose express busi- ness it is but to kill one another. Well — the war will fizzle out by and by, but there will be no fizzling back of the energetic and countless race that has perished in it. Should you join them, bequeathing your family to the country, I take it the tax-payers will little thank you, but would gladly spare your life to relieve themselves of the burden. I am glad to find no room to say more. Your friend, J. W. Randall. THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 89 This may not be readable, and is disjointed enough, but I cannot rewrite. seems to suffer much on account of Stanley, and I like him the better for it. I know not that Swedenborg can cure his disciples of natural emotion any more than the rest of us can ourselves, whose withers must needs be wrung without recourse. Until the missing package of Randall's letters is found, which may be available for a future edition, no further citations can be made here now except the following : — ROCKBOTTOM, Mass., June 3rd, 1879. Dear Frank, I doubt not the benefit of your voyage, and suppose it would be as easy to spare you for three months in that way as to live near without seeing you as now, except that, while near each other, we can meet on special occasions. ... I wish you a pleasant voyage, and hope you will retain health and your wife recover hers. Remember me to her, and to the boys, and all. I hope to see more of you on your return. I steadily go on with improvements at Stow, and 'find in Mr. Willard a capable and accomplished superintendent, and a sensible and companionable man. It will be very pleasant to see you with us again, and Mr. "Willard, who possesses some knowledge of you, will also be glad to see you, and will help to make you, as he does others, happy — a disposition greatly marked in him, which daily in- creases my esteem for him. ^^ . . ■' Your friend, J. W. R. 190 INTRODUCTION P.S. There is little that you will remember here, save the old house and me. Yet you will readily acquiesce in the loss of old associations, when you see how much we are improving the opportunity for newer and more inter- esting ones. Indeed, the future I ever look onward to, though it discloses so little. The past offers much to disgust, and I dwell but little on retrospection. But Imagination and Reason both join in the faith that the greatest powers cannot fail to be the best. They therefore dare ask for nothing, save that all may be what it is des- tined to be ; so that even to wish seems almost an im- piety, and Right so foredoomed to reign that one man has a right to command the universe, if that go wrong and he be still in harmony with Right. J. w. R. With that noble conclusion, this series of extracts might well conclude. For it supplies the needed correction of his own words, as given above in his letter of March 13, 1863 : "As for what you say of man's moral and religious nature being a test of truth in fact, I think it no more so than that Hope and Imagination are tests of fact. Both indicate only faculties." If " Right " is known to be " so foredoomed to reign that one man has a right to command the universe, if that go wrong and he be still in harmony with Right," then it would follow necessarily that man's moral and religious nature, through which alone that fore- doomed reign of Right can be made known to us, becomes itself the test of truth with respect to that supreme fact of facts. Solely through the Moral Law in Man, taken as the object of rational consideration, can we know the Moral Law in Nature, as its necessary condition, ground, or rea- son ; solely through the ethical organization of the individ- THE RANDALL FAMILY I9I iial and of society, as living facts, can we understand the ethical constitution of the universe itself, as the absolute condition of those living facts. This, at bottom, despite all semblance to the contrary, was Randall's substantial and abiding conviction, shining through all he ever said or wrote, shining brightly in the close of his letter above, and shining most brightly of all in the sublime prayer with which he ends " The Metamorphoses of Longing," and of which the close of this letter is but a paraphrase in prose. He was never, except in fleeting moods, an agnostic. But I will give here the last letter I ever had from my friend, about five years before his death : — Boston, Wednesday, [March] 23rd, 1887. Dear Frank, Your letter was received some time ago, and I arrived soon after [from Stow]. Indeed, I was staying only on necessary business, and for as brief a time as possible. Annie, having become sick, left me and my sister wholly alone about a week ago, and I could not well answer you sooner. I notice you say that you "think much," and must have made up your opinion on the apparently ap- proaching revolution ; on which I had written four pages, when, remembering that you only asked about my health, I will say that there is no marked change, and I know not that there is likely to be. I will ask if the direction on my note is the right one, for I know not if you or the dead letter office will receive it. In regard to the famous letter written many years ago by Lord Macaulay to Henry S. Randall, author of " Life of Jefferson," the " Transcript " says that the demand for it is so great that it publishes it periodically. This it did about a week ago, and I have had it put within reach. I have had frequent occasion for it for many years past. 192 INTRODUCTION I suppose you incline to a strict regularity in your meals. If, therefore, on some Saturday, you could engage me to be present, we could arrange an early tea at any hour con- venient to you. You can arrange with relation to your dinner at home. My letter of four pages I will keep to give to you, as I desire all the credit which great labor deserves, for I scarcely know how I can have compelled myself to write four compact pages on any subject. When Annie returns, I hope to renew with you our former rela- tions, always excepting correspondence, which has never been frequent between us. And meantime I remain, Your friend as ever, J, W. Randall. VII. When, after a residence of thirteen years in other States, I returned to Massachusetts, in 1873, to make my home in Cambridge, so near to my old friend as to render correspondence more rare than ever, I found the Randall family sadly reduced in number. Anna had died in 1862, Mrs. Gumming in 1867, the venerable Mrs. Randall in 1868, and Governor Gumming in 1873. On May i, 1869, a little more than a year after their mother's death, John and Belinda broke up the old home in Harrison Avenue (so utterly different once from what that quarter was then rapidly becoming), and removed to Mount Pleasant, in Roxbury. Here, in a retired and almost rural district, they selected one of the attractive old houses of the place on Dennis street, at the corner of the now extended More- land street, and made it their home for twenty-three years. Even after John's death, notwithstanding the fact that this neighborhood, too, had been very disagreeably invaded. Miss Randall continued to live there two years longer, and then purchased, in 1894, the house on Moreland street numbered twenty-seven, where she died three years later. In this quiet retreat the brother and sister, now all in all to each other, passed the long evening of their days in a very modest manner, indifferent to the fashionable world in which, if they had been so disposed, they had every right to shine. Education, culture, manners, taste, af- fluence, birth, they possessed what so many sigh for in vain ; but they lacked wholly what makes the many sigh for it — social ambition, the enjoyment of display, the vanity which makes the peacock strut. John Randall was 194 INTR ODUC TION too proud to be vain. To every man, however humbb in worldly eyes, who refrained from aggression on his sensi- tive self-respect, he was all courtesy and kindness ; to the impertinent and the boorish, to any man who purposely or even stupidly trod upon him, he blazed out in pitiless, bit- ing, scorching sarcasm. But he never took revenge. To meanness of whatever kind, to inhumanity, duplicity, hypocrisy, treachery, or injustice, he was as implacable as death, and neither forgot nor forgave. But to weak- ness and suffering, to errors of feebleness rather than of deliberate intention, even to deliberate knavery that was born of misery or misfortune and victimized nobody but himself, he was tender and pitiful as a woman. He knew as few know how to protect his own individuality ; and, what is even rarer, he knew how never to infringe upon the individuality of others. The factitious virtue of non-resistance he repudiated, as worthy only of slavish spirits ; but he prized as of supreme beauty and worth the real virtue of non-aggression. He was " one of Plutarch's men," as nobody will doubt who appreciates his poem, " To the Shade of Samuel Adams." Indeed, whoever can read the letters above printed without penetrating to the extraordinary combination of strength and sweetness in this man's nature would seem to be dull of mind and cold of heart. It is not necessary at all to agree with all of his opinions ; he touches on too many subjects, treats them too rapidly and from too un- conventional a standpoint, to permit that. But who can help seeing in those letters the unconscious self-portrait- ure, not only of a man of genius, but also of a man who was astonishingly manly, sincere, deep-hearted and deep- thoughted, in the midst of a highly superficial and not altogether admirable civilization ? It may have made me THE RANDALL FAMILY I95 wince to share those letters with the world ; I will not pre- tend to say it does not. But my friend is dead, and my debt to him and to his memory is great. Proudly disdain- ful as he was of fame, I do not seek that for him now. But the history of this human world of ours is not so bright with luminaries of the spiritual order that it can afford to lose the light of this candle, though so long hid- den under a bushel. Much is due to the sacred privacy of a deep and rare friendship ; but even more is due to the dumb, half -conscious, still more sacred needs of the human spirit, in an age when things of the greatest worth are least valued and human life tends to be smothered by trifles or worse. Powerful minds are not so very rare among men; tender hearts are even less rare among women ; religious spirits may still be found here and there, even in an epoch when genuine religiousness for the most part shrinks out of sight. But the actual luminous union in one man of the powerful mind, the tender heart, and the deeply religious spirit, is a fact too preciously helpful, for many who need to know the possibility of such a fact in these modern days, to permit me now to bury those letters any longer in a private drawer. The time has come to let this light shine wherever it may be needed, without fear that it will not be gratefully welcomed and profoundly reverenced, at least by a noble few. There is very little, almost nothing, in fact, to relate of that quiet life, for nearly a quarter of a century, in the Dennis street home. The distance between Roxbury and Cambridge was not great, but, practically increased by in- convenient transportation and my own close engagements, great enough to prevent very frequent visits, especially during the seventies. Later, as time went on and left deepening marks on these friends of my early days, I 196 IN TROD UC TION seized every opportunity to dine and spend an evening with them, occasionally staying all night. They lived alone in unostentatious comfort, with only one servant ; and it was touching to see how soon this one became deeply attached to the slowly aging couple. I do not think a change of servants was made more than two or three times in the whole period ; and the last faithful soul, Annie Kelleher by name (I believe she will be only glad to be so remembered here), who had almost ruined her own health by her long devotion, was valued at her worth by both John and Belinda, and left with an ample life-annuity at the latter' s death. Nothing could better interpret the pervading spirit of the Dennis street home and its occupants than Wordsworth's protest against the conventionality and commercialism of the age, a protest which is set to the same key as what some took to be Randall's "pessimism." Pessimism his phi- losophy never was, but rather satirism of the present for not being the ideal future. His ideal too often took the form of a stinging satire of the actual, but by no means always or even prevailingly. These noble sonnets of Wordsworth are quite in Randall's vein : — O Friend ! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being as I am opprest, To think that now our Life is only drest For show, mean handiwork of craftsman, cook, Or groom ! We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; The wealthiest man among us is the best ; No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry, and these we adore ; Plain living and high thinking are no more; The homely beauty of tlie good old cause Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws. THE RANDALL FAMILY 1 97 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; Little we see in Nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon. The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are upgathered now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything we are out of tune : It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn — So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn, Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea. Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. There was to me an inexpressible charm in the mode of life pursued so many years in that quiet retreat. It was soothing and restful to get out of the noisy Boston, with its rush of business and roar of wheels and hurrying crowds all intent on momentous nothings, and slip into an atmos- phere of music, of books, of ideas and ideals that concerned the high permanent interests of human existence. The relation between the sister and the brother was beautiful in the extreme, not in the least disturbed by occasional nervous irritability on John's part, which never went beneath the surface or inflicted a sting. They knew each other too well for that. Each was devotedly fond of the other, she proud of his genius and noble personal aspect, he grateful for her untiring care, and humbly reverential of her instantaneous yet unerring moral intuitions. " Dear brother ! How handsome he is ! " said poor Belinda, as we stood together beside him on the evening after he had died ; and she stooped to kiss the marble brow, stroking tenderly the long white hair. "Belinda has not a great intellect," John said to me again and again from my boyhood down. 198 INTRODUCTION " but in her a great conscience does all the best work of the intellect. She never left a duty undone." That is much to say, but I have heard no saying that seems to me more absolutely true. It has been declared that no woman ever understands a man's nice sense of honor. Yet I would have taken Belinda Randall's deci- sion, on the nicest point of honor ever mooted, against the counter-decision of any man I have ever met. John's veneration for his sister's " moral sentiment " knew no limit, nor mine either. But there was nothing hard, cen- sorious, or uncharitable in her ; the quick flash of her conscience was accompanied by so sweet and gracious a glow of ever-present womanliness that every one who came to know her, gentle and shrinking and self-distrustful as she was, was charmed into an affection which had in it no particle of fear. All her life she lived for others. At the age of sixteen, she seriously impaired her health in nurs- ing her sister Maria, who died in 1842, and still more in nursing her father, who died in the following year ; a slight curvature of the spine was the result of her over- exertions. In devoted and unrelaxing attention to those who remained, she spent her whole energies, uncomplain- ing, untiring, loving, beautiful to behold, until she had seen her only brother and last survivor of her family, save herself alone, borne to Mt. Auburn. Then, with a fortune of nearly half a million of her own, and with another twice as large left to her by him, she devoted herself unweariedly to making arrangements for the final disposition of a vast wealth which to her was valueless. By a true instinct, she selected for her legal adviser the one man in Boston best fitted by nature and by education to help her without embarrassing her, the late Francis Vergnies Balch of Jamaica Plain. With glowing gratitude she expressed to THE RANDALL FAMLLY 1 99 me her thankfulness for his delicate, considerate, tender care for her, — above all, in never opposing her desires, or seeking to influence them according to his own ideas, but only aiming from first to last to help her do effectively the things she wanted to do. I never heard her say so much, in praise of any other man, as she more than once said of him. When, after a couple of years, this great labor was done, all her brother's wishes most faithfully observed, and all her own benevolent intentions put in the way of sure accomplishment, the poor, over-taxed, over-wearied frame gave way, and she fell into a state of melancholy, aggra- vated by hallucinations mostly painful, but soothed by the care of faithful, tender, and deeply attached nurses, from which she was at last released by death. Never on this earth did a life so full of the divine beauty of unselfishness pass into an eclipse more pathetic. But whatever in the life invisible may come to the " good and faithful servant " in this life below will surely come to this humble, loyal, exquisitely lovely soul. There is a charming glimpse of Miss Randall, in her singing days, at the age of twenty-eight, contained in a letter of George William Curtis which was written while he and his brother were living on Captain Nathan Bar- rett's farm at Concord. From this letter, published in "Harper's Monthly Magazine" for December, 1897, and dated " Concord, Friday Ev'g, May loth, 1844," the fol- k)wing passage belongs here : — " For the last three evenings I have been in the village hearing Belinda Randall play and sing. With the smallest voice, she sings so delicately, and understands her power so well, that I have been charmed. It was a beautiful crown to my day, not regal and majestic like Frances O.'s in the ripe Summer, but woven of Spring flowers and 200 INTRODUCTION buds. Last night I saw her at Mr. Hoar's, only herself and Miss E. Hoar, G. P. Bradford, Mr. and Mrs. Emerson, and myself and Mr. Hoar. She played Beethoven, sang the 'Adelaide' serenade, 'Fischer Madchen,' 'Amid this Green Wood.' I walked home under the low, heavy gray clouds, but the echo lingered about me like starlight." One more testimony to the peculiarly ethereal quality of Miss Randall's music, which I never heard equalled, much less surpassed, I venture to extract from a letter of my sister, sure of her forgiveness beforehand : " I see that dear Belinda is released, and rejoice for her. But how many thoughts of long past times it brings vividly before one, with her unfailing delicate kindness and thoughtful- ness for us all ! I can see her now at the piano, as she gently swayed with the feeling of her music, and can hear her sweet voice in ' Waft her, angels, through the skies ! ' — the song for which father always asked." That song from Handel's "Jephthah," which I had not happened to hear since Miss Randall used to sing it, forty years before, I heard at a Symphony Concert Rehearsal in Music Hall only a fortnight after her death, and the marvellous sweet- ness of its melody came as a fitting last farewell from a world unconscious of what it had lost to one of the sweetest lives it had ever held. " Waft her, angels, through the skies, Far above yon azure plain, Glorious there, like you, to rise, There, like you, forever reign — Waft her, angels, through the skies ! " In truth, every member of the Randall family was ex- ceptionally musical. John used to say that Maria, the beautiful sister who, to his passionate regret, died of con- THE RANDALL FAMILY 20I sumption at the age of twenty, possessed the greatest genius of them all, not only in music, but in everything else. Elizabeth, before her marriage to a Southerner (to which her father was never reconciled), was a famous belle and the most brilliant piano-player in the Boston society of that time. Belinda's voice was not powerful, but of ex- quisite quality ; and, whether in playing or in singing, her musical expression was so deep, delicate, and true, that it fascinated and thrilled every listener who was capable of appreciating it. A song from her seemed, indeed, like a voice from the skies. In my boyish evenings, she was so kind as to play and sing to me for hours at a time in the dimly lighted front parlor, while John was showing engrav- ings in the back parlor to his guests ; much as Miss Cann used to play to John James Ridley in the " Newcomes," except that the music was so much finer and the listener's visions so much less gorgeous, though quite as — vision- ary.* Even Anna, the youngest and least trained of the family, played well on the piano, though I do not remember hearing her sing. John himself had learned to play no instrument, but the whistling with which he sometimes accompanied Belinda's piano was more wonderful than any instrument, and for volume, depth, range, fire, and sweetness, surpassed any bird-music I ever heard. He knew not a little about musical composition, and once, at least, composed a piece for the piano, as an accompaniment for the " Coranach " in "The Lady of the Lake," which extorted admiration from * Since writing the above, I have stumbled on an old letter of mine of Feb. 21, 1857, which is in place here: "Whenever I am listening to beautiful music, I want to hold my tongue, and hate to hear people exclaiming, 'How charming! How beautiful! How lovely! ' and all the other commonplaces in everybody's mouth. That is one reason why I enjoy Belinda Randall's music so intensely; for she will play to me hour after hour, with- out telling me she has not her notes, is out of practice, etc., but lets me sit still and drink my fill of beauty." 202 INTRODUCTION Others than partial friends. In a letter from Fort Indepen- dence, Boston Harbor, April 24, 1856, Mrs. Thesta Dana, wife of Lieutenant (afterwards General) James J. Dana, U.S.A., wrote to him: "Dr. Dana, of Lowell, my hus- band's father, who as a chemist may not be unknown to you, has also a good taste in literature. Once, when I was at his house, I was trying to render in my poor way the beautiful music you made to Scott's ' Coranach.' He stopped me and said, ' Who made that music ? ' I told him, and he said, ' I should like to know the man who could do that ! ' " A copy of this little composition, at my request. Miss Randall wrote out from memory for me after her brother's death, and, if it were known to musicians, could hardly fail to charm many by its pathos and perfect adaptation to Scott's perfect words. One of Miss Randall's lifelong friends, whose devoted ministrations to the very last did all that human love could do to comfort and cheer the sadness inseparable from the lot of one who had lived to be " the last of her name," — the venerated Mrs. Robert B. Storer, 7iee Sarah Sherman Hoar, sister of United States Senator George Frisbie Hoar and the late Judge Ebenezer Rockwood Hoar, — contrib- uted to the Boston "Transcript" a short memorial of her friend which I cannot persuade myself not to preserve in full, in her own words, in these pages. It was as follows : — "The present generation of young people will probably never see a lady of the rare sweetness, delicate refinement and humility which characterized the old-fashioned gentle- woman, Miss Belinda Lull Randall, who died last Sunday. But the young generation, even with its advantages of the 'higher education,' must have respected the thoroughness of her knowledge and accomplishments. She was the daughter of Dr. John Randall, whom a few people still THE RANDALL FAMILY 203 remember as a skilful family physician. Her mother was the grand-daughter of Samuel Adams, and Miss Randall's childhood and youth were spent on the Adams estate in Winter street, where fifty years ago were a large garden as well as a stately house, and in summer she enjoyed the Randall farm in Stow, which has been in the family since 1640 [the town grant was on March 10, 1685, as cited above]. She was a lady who did no discredit to her distinguished ancestor. She inherited a large fortune, which she held as a trust, not as a means of her own aggrandizement. Simple in her tastes, never wasteful in her expenditure, she sought to benefit those less fortu- nate than herself. She gave a beautiful library to Stow, her father's native town, as a memorial of him and her brother. Her family of three sisters and one brother had great musical talent and thorough training. Miss Randall's own rendering of music, both vocal and instrumental, had an indescribable charm for all her friends and for any fortunate listener. Her brother, John Witt Randall, with whom she lived until his death, was a poet, a naturalist, a musician, and an art connoisseur. His collection of en- gravings, forming a continuous history of the art of engrav- ing — one of the finest private collections in the country — was given to Harvard University with provision for its future care. The secluded life which both sister and brother preferred, fostered their originality and the depth of their learning. They shared each other's interests and pursuits, and their house seemed like a home of the Muses. It has been said that there were ' enough knowledge and accomplishments in the Randall family to stock a whole town.' It is sad to think that there are no descendants of this remarkable family." 204 INTRODUCTION In a little pocket diary started just before sailing for the Azores, these words were jotted down by my mother on March 21, 1865 : "Spent the day with the Randalls — en- joyed it. J. says he never will attach himself to any young life again as he did to dear Stanley." This resolve held to the end. Stanley had no successor in John Randall's heart. The shock of his death at Get- tysburg (the story of which is told in the "Harvard Memorial Biographies " ) in no way weakened Randall's earlier friendships, but did prevent the formation of new ones of equal strength. Intensity and tenacity, whether of thought or purpose or affection, were the sovereign traits of his character ; and, when they encountered the inevitable, the result was a volcanic eruption which wrought a desola- tion like that of the " Mysterio," the lava beds at Fayal, where no green thing has grown in two hundred years. How few there are who can comprehend such a nature as this aright ! It is the fate of such to be misunderstood to the end, because so few human souls are capable of a great love or a great grief. In reality, this second great bereavement of Randall's life goes far to explain what was to me its most puzzling phenomenon — the apparent diversion of a most serious, lofty, and unworldly spirit to the accumulation of worldly wealth. By his own ability and indomitable energy, he multiplied the comfortable family inheritance into a great fortune, ten times as large as he found it. From the period of the civil war, he almost wholly ceased to increase his invaluable art collections or to take much interest in the writing of poetry. In the summers I found him plunged in extensive and expensive alterations in the house at Stow, which he himself regretted in his last years — "but it was an amusement," he added, "even if it did cost THE RANDALL FAMILY 205 thirty thousand dollars." In the winters, I found him, when I entered his study, bending grimly over a vast mass of maps, railroad reports, statistical tables, and business docu- ments of all sorts. He was studying out for himself, at first hand, the foundations and elements and necessary conditions of all that vast activity in railroad development Avhich in a generation created a new America. He was doing this precisely in the spirit in which he had once studied botany, entomology, conchology, natural history, with all the thoroughness and indefatigable energy of the original investigator in science. But his aim now was no longer that of the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake ; it was intensely practical ; it was occupied with invest- ments. The immense force of the man had taken a new direction. What did it all mean .'' It was seemingly a vast change, full of significance of some sort. It filled me with wonder, and not a little anxiety and regret. But, when I saw with what indiffer- ence he flung aside all these Gradgrind pursuits on my entrance, and with what avidity he took up once more our old themes of friendly communion, my anxiety turned into a pity I never ventured to express. Gradually I came to understand, as I believed, the causes of this strange meta- morphosis in my great-soul ed friend. I noticed, in the first place, that he was never gambling or speculating at any time or in any degree ; he was busied exclusively with legitimate business enterprises for the development of this wonderful country of ours ; he was never seeking sudden profits at somebody else's expense out of the swift fluctuations of the stock market, but saga- ciously scrutinizing the actual state of things to find out what enterprises would bring fair, honest, and well-earned returns to all the stockholders in common ; he was the 2o6 INTRODUCTION- same proud devotee of integrity, the same grand lover of equal justice, the same eagle-eyed hater of shams and frauds and meannesses and cruelties of every kind, that he had always been. Next, I remembered how he had always shown a certain terror in the consciousness of his own economic helpless- ness ; how he had again and again lamented that his medi- cal profession was to him practically worthless, and that his father had never taught him any occupation by which, in case of reverses, he could earn his own bread by the sweat of his brow ; how nervously and even morbidly anxious he had been at the thought of losing his mother's and sisters' property by some mismanagement of his, as their guardian. I remembered how the fear of bringing them to poverty and of losing what he most prized for himself, independence, had evidently contributed not a little to those political views of the civil war which sometimes took on a pessimistic hue, and had evidently been dark- ened by the political and financial bungling of the " recon- struction " period. I could well understand how deep dis- trust of himself as a bread-winner and deep distrust of the political, financial, and economical condition of the country, should create in a highly imaginative nature like his a thoroughly morbid dread of coming to beggary, and turn into quite new channels the restless and victorious energies of his powerful mind. But most of all, perhaps, I saw in Randall's almost feverish throwing of himself into the pursuit of wealth an unconscious drawing of the veil that hid a corrosive pain in the heart. Such a volcanic nature as his always goes to extremes. From deep distress of feeling he was driven to seek relief in that which is the farthest removed from feeling — in a reckless plunge into the world of dry facts THE RANDALL FAMILY 20/ and figures, dollars and cents, machinery and traffic and railroad management and business details of every kind. Natures less intense and tenacious than his will not easily understand this, and natures less imaginative will not understand it at all. But so it was with him. The whole world of sentiment and imagination and romance, in which this true poet-soul naturally lived and moved and had its being, had become so terribly darkened for a love which sought its object in vain, that he fled from it in despair. Nothing but its exact opposite could for a time yield him a refuge or restore to him the " composure " he prized. It was Lear's flight from the agony of his daughter's ingrati- tude into the more congenial terrors of the storm : " Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks ! " It was not madness, unless it be that madness to which all genius is akin ; but it was a profound sensitiveness which is a sealed book to the prosaic temperament. If I could not have understood it, Randall would never have made me his friend. It took all these causes combined, — distrust of himself as a bread- winner, distrust of the inflation-prosperity which followed the civil war, a deep sense of responsibility for those de- pendent on him, a morbid fear of losing his independence through poverty, and above all the vehemence of a sorrow which had turned the bright world of romance into a tort- ure-chamber, — it took all these causes to explain the sud- den plunge of such a soul into that maelstrom of money- getting which was alien to his every instinct. VIII. Be all this as it may, that was my own belief, and it allayed what would otherwise have been a deep regret. No man in this world ever felt a profounder repugnance than Randall for the money-loving spirit, or a more superb disdain for greed of that which has no value but in its uses. The habits of his whole life were totally unchanged to the last, simple, economical, almost parsimonious, utterly averse to pride or love of power or luxury or ostentation of any sort. Neither had he in his constitution the slightest taint of miserliness ; he cared nothing for acquisition except as a bulwark against actual want, and was very generous wherever want was brought to his knowledge. The in- herited fortune of his family, of which he was sole guardian and administrator, was some hundred and fifty thousand dollars ; he left it, in all, nearly a million and a half, and probably had lost quite as much more through the army of railroad-wreckers that preyed on honest investors so re- morselessly after the war. He told of his losses so freely that, until after his death, I constantly feared he might indeed lose all that he had before he died, and lose with it the independence which to him was priceless. I doubt greatly if he really knew himself, in the later years of his life, how sagaciously he had made his invest- ments in spite of the railroad-wreckers, for more than once he casually remarked to me (never in answer to an in- quiry) : " I shall make no will. The law makes the best will. Belinda will have everything, and she will need it all — all ! " Absurd as this was, he believed it so evidently that I supposed he had lost all but a small competency. THE RANDALL FAMILY 209 It was with amazement that others as well as myself learned of the great fortune he had in fact acquired. I fancy he himself would have been quite as much amazed as we. After his first stroke of paralysis in May, 1885, he was disabled from attending to his business interests any further than to deposit his dividends in the bank ; and, as Belinda told me, they simply accumulated there in seven years to the amount of a quarter-million. If he had only been able then to make a will, she said it would have spared her a very heavy and distressing responsibility, for she had more than enough of her own and needed nothing of his. Justice to the memory of this uncanonized saint requires some mention here of the way in which her hum- ble yet heroic conscientiousness enabled her, in spite of physical infirmity and constitutional self-distrust and poignant sorrow for the loss of her brother, to discharge what to her was the last great duty of her life — a life in which the monitions of blended duty and love had been "a still, small voice," ever heard and ever heeded. Knowing always that her brother intended to make no will, but to leave to her the final disposition of his estate, Miss Randall had for many years treasured up in her memory every slightest indication of his wishes, whether dropped in casual remarks from time to time or jotted carelessly or even enigmatically on scraps of paper. I remember her telling me she had found what she took to be a memorandum of some wish or intention of his, a bit of torn paper with ";^ 1,000" pencilled on it in one place, and in quite another place two or three names without further entry : to each of the persons named she sent a cheque of that amount ! Was there ever a fidelity more scrupulous .'' When after a month or two of silent and anxious deliberation she had selected Mr. Balch as her 2 1 IN TROD UCTION confidential legal adviser, she found in him the wisest of advisers and much more than that — a friend who could understand her sensitive and timid nature, respect her very clearly defined wishes, avoid disturbing her by sug- gestions inconsistent with them, and with delicate con- sideration and sympathy help her to carry them out in effective legal form. It took just such a counsellor to meet the needs of such a client, and her vivid gratitude was his prized reward. What they said of each other in spontaneous expression to one who knew them both, it was a delight to hear. In conformity with Mr. Balch's advice, Miss Randall created a trust fund of about 1^500,000, on April 27, 1892, for certain specified uses. The two trustees whom she appointed, Mr. Balch himself and Mr. William Minot, Jr., were to devote part of this sum to "such charitable purposes as shall be determined by a Board to be called the Board of the J. W. Randall Fund," to consist of seven or more members. She nominated as the original mem- bers of this Board Professor Francis G. Peabody, Professor Robert H. Richards, Mr. Charles W. Birtwell, Mr. Edward W. Hooper, Major Henry L. Higginson, Mr. George S. Hale, and Miss Annette P. Rogers. In the trust deed itself, she thus expressed her general intentions : — "My wish is that they shall either apply the fund, in whole or part, to some charitable object such as a trade or industrial school, or other charitable purpose they may think preferable, or shall apply the income from time to time for charity or in aid of charitable institutions in such way as they deem best. If they think best, the fund in whole or part may be transferred to any corporation or body organized for like charitable purposes to those they wish to carry out, and in such case the Board may dissolve THE RANDALL FAMILY 211 or continue itself as a Board of Visitors. I hope that in any case my brother's name may be connected with the use that may be determined on. "Should it be deemed best to apply the fund or its income to various objects, I would mention as objects which have interested me, but without meaning at all to hamper the Board, the North End Mission ; the Watch and Ward Society ; the Avon Street Home, Cambridge ; Home for Aged Colored Women, Boston ; Roxbury Home for Aged Women and for Children ; Mr. Angell's Society for Humane Education and Prevention of Cruelty to Animals ; South Congregational Society for their Industrial School and Vacation School, and for Vacation Schools in Roxbury ; education at the South, as at Hampton and Tuskegee ; the effort in Boston to save children here from degrading conditions ; the Ramabai Association. " Should such a destination of the whole fund be thought advisable, a Trade or Industrial School, either under the auspices of the Institute of Technology or other body, or independent of any other body, would seem to me to be very useful. I desire, however, to leave the matter wholly to the Board." Acting under the general provisions of this trust deed, the "Board of the J. W. Randall Fund" became finally constituted as "The John W. and Belinda L, Randall Charities Corporation," comprising Francis G. Peabody, Francis V. Balch, Charles W. Birtwell, Annette P. Rogers, George S. Hale, Robert H. Richards, and Henry L. Hig- ginson, for whom Mr. Balch acted as Treasurer. This cor- poration has applied a portion of the fund, on condition in each case of connecting the names of the brother and sister with whatever use may be made of the money, as fol- lows : — 212 INTR ODUC TION New England Watch and Ward Society $10,000 Home for Aged Colored Women 1,000 Roxbury Home for Children and Aged Women .... 500 Avon Home of Cambridge, Mass 1,000 South End Industrial School 1,000 Boston North End Mission 500 Ramabai Association 500 Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute 25,000 Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute 20,000 Calhoun Colored School 5,000 Prospect Union Association, Cambridge 20,000 Boston Children's Aid Society 50,000 Harvard College, for new and cheap Commons Hall . . 70,000 Harvard College, for encouragement of philanthropic work by the students, $10,000 to go towards the Phillips Brooks House 15,000 Massachusetts Institute of Technology 50,000 RadclifEe College 10,000 Phillips Exeter Academy 5,ooo At the Commencement dinner of the alumni of Harvard, in 1897, President Eliot thus referred to Miss Randall's gift to the University : — " Another gift we anticipate is from a woman who, through a body of trustees, has chosen to give $70,000 to Harvard for the purpose of building a new dining hall for the benefit of those students who desire to and must econo- mize during their college life. Miss Randall said she wanted her money devoted to charities, and her trustees have decided that that is a charity. It is the best kind of a charity, for it is a charity which is a preventive rather than a palliative of evil." Besides the above varied and great benefactions made through her trustees after her death. Miss Randall made many others during her lifetime, in conformity to what she knew to be her brother's wishes as well as her own. To the Boston Society of Natural History, in which he THE RANDALL FAMILY 213 had always been interested, she gave ^5,000 for library purposes. To Harvard College she gave many of his books, his magnificent collection of etchings and engrav- ings, and a special fund of $30,000 to provide for their careful preservation and custody. To the Children's Aid Society and to the Avon Home, she gave an additional $2,000 each. To the Art Museum she gave a portrait of Mrs. Samuel Adams, and a great china punch bowl, hold- ing a gallon and covered with Chinese decorations in pink and blue, together with a salver of different ware, both of which had been presented to Samuel Adams by the Mar- quis de la Fayette. To the Boston Public Latin School, at which her brother had been taught, she gave $200 through the Public School Art League, to decorate a room with Revolutionary pictures and portrait busts, a fac-simile of the Declaration of Independence, a small reproduction of French's Minute Man, and so forth, on condition that the room be called in her brother's memory the " Randall Room." To the town of Stow she sent, almost imme- diately after his death, a cheque for 1^55,000, of which she wished $25,000 to be applied to building and maintaining a public library, $10,000 to aid of the worthy poor, and $20,000 to general town purposes. To the officers of the bank with which her brother had chiefly dealt, from the president down to the colored porter who opened the door for him, she sent cheques in fit but very generous propor- tions. And to numerous private persons, relatives and non-relatives, needy or not needy, to whom she remem- bered or imagined he would wish to do a kindness, she did the same. To do kindnesses in ways that would have pleased him seemed now to be her sole aim in life. It was marvellous — it was beautiful to behold. On February 22, 1894, a little more than two years after her brother's death, Miss Randall attended the dedi- 214 INTRODUCTION cation of the town library she had caused to be erected. To preserve here some incidents of the occasion which I think gave pleasure even to her shrinking and modest spirit, I must cite my private record of it : " At Belinda's invitation, I met her at the Fitchburg Station at 1 1 : 03 A.M., to go to the dedication of the Randall Library at Stow, which is built with $25,000 from John's estate by her act. Met Mrs. R. B. Storer and Miss Fanny Storer, also John's friend Mr. Harris, cashier of the Bank of Commerce, who were going to Stow for the same pur- pose. Belinda was accompanied by Miss O'Reilly, Mrs. Aymar, and Annie Kelleher. B. was very glad to see me. We were met at South Acton and driven in two carriages to Stow Centre. The chairman of the committee, Mr. F. W. Warren, of Stow, gave us all eight a very nice lunch at his house at one ; and at half past one we all went to the Town Hall packed with the inhabitants of the little village. All the speaking was by local worthies, chiefly ministers. Rev. G. F. Clark, once Unitarian minister there, best expressed the town's gratitude to John — ' God bless his name ! God bless his memory ! ' Deacon Goodale, after all had spoken, said that one thing had been left unsaid — no mention had been made of the sister who had joined in the great benefaction. Then Rev. W, W. Colburn, the chief speaker, came forward and said : ' Our lips have all been padlocked. We have all had her in our hearts — we all think more of her than you do ! ' This was well said, for Belinda has striven to keep her name unmen- tioned. The occasion was crude, awkward, inelegant, but it was very sincere and grateful — which gave it grace and made it a success. At 3 : 40, we all went to the pretty building itself hard by ; all is in excellent taste, and a beautiful monument to John and Belinda in the blessing of the old town. Portraits of John and Belinda, of old THE RANDALL FAMILY 21 5 Dr. Randall and his brother Eli, and of Maria, are on the walls. At 4:15, we were driven again to South Acton, and came back to Boston." Beside all these public and private benefactions, Miss Randall took the utmost pains, in her will of June 10, 1892, to provide generously for each and every relative, however distant. With no brother, no sister, no nephew, no niece, and, I believe, with only one first cousin surviving, she gave or bequeathed some ;^300,ooo to over a score of remoter connections, besides remembering many personal friends and leaving a handsome remainder to her residuary legatee. Patiently and indefatigably she had given herself for more than two years to the most tiresome details of all this weary business, so utterly alien to her tastes and habits of life and so painful to her sad heart, under the sagacious direction and with the sympathetic help of Mr. Balch. How she dreaded and shrank from a duty which she yet felt to be a most sacred one, and how heroically she did it, — how, her duty done and her strength ex- hausted, she broke down completely in August, 1894, living nearly three years longer in secluded suffering, yet tended by two faithful nurses who soon came to feel for her the attachment of devoted daughters, — none knew this at the time except Mr, Balch and the little knot of friends who did for her the little that could be done by reverence and love. But countless lives for many genera- tions to come, unconscious what they owe to this wonder of gentle and saintly womanhood, will be made brighter, happier, and more fruitful because Belinda Lull Randall, conceiving herself in all humility to be merely her brother's agent, so well read his heart and obeyed his benevolent spirit and did his unfinished work in deeds of light. IX. From May, 1885, when Randall suffered a slight stroke of paralysis on the railway train going to Stow, and yet succeeded in reaching home without much assistance, he experienced considerable dii^culty in conversing, not from any apparent failure in intelligence, but from some inability to command as readily as before his unusually large and rich vocabulary, and still more from a lack of command over the muscles involved in speech. These difficulties gradually wore away to a large extent, but he never again indulged himself in those long and varied mono- logues which had always possessed a singular fascination for others as well as myself. A beautiful gentleness came over him. His fiery sarcasms on men and things that stirred his moral indignation, his flashes of wit on general topics, his flights of exuberant imagination, some- times humorous, sometimes grotesque, sometimes lofty, but always original and unlike anybody else's, were soft- ened to a mild reflectiveness that let the benevolence of his nature shine out more purely than ever. What never lost its native energy in the least was the moral sentiment ; his moral perceptions, his astonishing penetra- tion into the core of every character that came under his observation, his insight into private and public conduct, were keen as in his palmiest days. Shams were as trans- parent to him as they ever were, but the old fierceness of wrath at all falsehood or meanness was toned down into a calm pity, a quiet irony, or a tolerant charity that had ceased to expect too much of the "heedless world." The spirit of his old age took on the beauty of the Indian sum- THE RANDALL FAMILY 21/ mer, throwing a merciful haziness over the too sharp out- lines of the mean, the false, and the inhumane in human life. But I saw it tired him too much to converse very long, and I soon learned to suggest the reading aloud of his old poetical manuscripts to me, which to my surprise did not seem to tire him in the least. Most of these manuscripts, however, had become a puzzle to him ; more than once he complained that, in the removal from Boston, the servants must have " shuffled the leaves together — he could make neither head nor tail to them." The confusion, indeed, exists, as I have since found to my cost. But some of them he could make out, and I listened to these again and again, not only without satiety, but with a deeper enjoy- ment at every reading. Perhaps sometimes the past mingled with the present, as I sat watching the white, venerable, noble head, and listening to the wonderful voice which had lost nothing of its depth, richness, or sweetness, — nothing, even, of the perfect articulation or feeling emphasis that had once thrilled me in the olden days. To me it was perfect music, and I listened to it just as I had listened to Belinda's playing in the dimly lighted parlor of the old Boston home. It gave the aged poet no little pleasure to be thus listened to. Something of the long unheeded charm of poetry asserted itself afresh in his heart, and he welcomed my unobtrusive coming. I was his solitary auditor, for Belinda seldom, if ever, remained to hear. Feeble as he was, he took pains to copy out for me a complete copy of " The Metamorphoses of Longing " in ink, though he preferred a pencil, and gave it to me on the first of March, 1890, as a memento of our long companionship. This stirred many thoughts. I have brief memoranda of my last two visits while he yet lived. 2 1 8 JNTR OB UC TION " Saturday, Nov. 7, l8gi. Made a visit on the Randalls this afternoon, and stayed to dinner. John is very feeble, but shows very little signs now of his paralytic stroke. His mind is as clear as ever. He read aloud to me some of his poetry. Both he and Belinda welcome me as if I were a brother born. I asked him if he was willing to put his MSS. in my hand by and by to prepare for the press, as a labor of love for him, — said I knew that he was care- less of fame, but that I thought such works of beauty as his poems ought not to be allowed to die. He answered emphatically, yes, and mentioned particularly a review of Bryant, intended to be printed before Bryant's death, but never published." " Monday, Dec. 28, l8gi. ... I then went on alone to visit the Randalls. It was after five when I got there, and very dark. No light was at any window, and I was struck with a nameless fear of disaster. After twice ringing, however, Belinda came to the door. She said she and John have both been very sick, with only the servant Annie to tend them. I urged employing a special attendant who should be on hand in case of necessity. She objected that they had no room they could warm [for an attendant], and did not want a stranger around. I was distressed at the lonely and helpless situation of this dear old couple, the danger of the grippe, their insensibility to this danger. I begged them to send for me instantly if anything happened — I would come without fail, like a son, for I was unspeak- ably grateful to them for all they did for me in my boy- hood and loved them with unquenchable affection. John looked at mxC with his great blue eyes, softened and lu- minous ; Belinda saw my emotion, her eyes filled with tears, and she said — ' Your father once said to me [so and so] ' — she repeated this saying again '[so and so].' I was THE RANDALL FAMILY 219 Startled and confused. But she promised to send for me, and said several times she felt better for my coming. After a dinner of special little dainties (she insists on that) , John read Part III. of the 'Metamorphoses of Longing.' I came home at ten. Dear, dear old friends ! " The next I heard from either — I was kept by inexorable duties from going again meanwhile to Roxbury — was this note from Miss Randall : — Monday Mornikg, 5 O'clock, Dear Frank, Jan'y 25, 1892. My poor brother passed away at about 4:15 this morn- ing (I of an hour ago) . Two or three days ago he said he should undoubtedly be out in a few days. His disease was bronchial pneumonia. At first, two or three days ago, he lost the use of his limbs, but came down stairs, and was lifted about, and then helped up to bed. To-day came pneumonia, and he has said no word to-day, and died without pain, it is supposed. I can say no more now. Come and see us. Yours sincerely, B. L. Randall. " Should undoubtedly be out in a few days " — how true that was ! Truer than speaker or hearer dreamed ! What mortal man can gauge the depth of that truth } On Thursday, January 28, a small company gathered at the house. The funeral services were conducted by Rev. Dr. Edward Everett Hale, and all that could die of John Witt Randall was laid to rest at Mount Auburn. Three of us, Miss Randall with Miss O'Reilly and myself, followed him together in one carriage, at her own request, to the family tomb. X. But in this volume, I believe, there is something of John Witt Randall which the world will not willingly let die. Out of the chaos of his manuscripts, what is here preserved is all that seems to be available. In about a dozen copies of the " Consolations of Solitude," used in- discriminately, it was his habit from time to time to write corrections, interlineations, and notes. These have been carefully collated, and, where there were many varying readings, those which seemed the best (there are no in- dications of date to guide to the latest) have been selected. Still more difficult has it been to deal with the previously unpublished poems. All I can say is that I have done the best I could with minute and faint pencillings, incredi- bly close writing, half -erasures, unnumbered pages, inter- minable variations of lines and stanzas, unfinished work begun over and over again, and a general state of confusion out of which Randall himself despaired of ever educing order. Under such conditions, there are masses of manu- script that I must surrender as defying ray best efforts. All that is here published has had to be freshly copied for the printer, a labor impossible to delegate to another hand. I must crave indulgence for probable failures of judgment, but believe I need ask none for failure of faithful effort to discharge a very perplexing duty. For the poems themselves, as such, it would be rash for a personal friend to make exaggerated claims. Their superlative value lies, I conceive, in the man they reveal — in the self-reporting quality of his nature and his character. Like the Bryant whom he admired, there is more of the THE RANDALL FAMILY 221 Doric than of the Corinthian in his mind and in his works. Many graces and beauties and elegances which are sup- posed to be essential in modern poetry are very sparingly, if at all, presented here. But that highest beauty of all which consists in transparent truth to the highest ethical ideal, and by which all works of art must be at last measured, notwithstanding the frantic efforts made by some to emancipate art from the trammels of ethics, is not here lacking. Randall believed, as every fine spirit must, that the ethical ideal is itself the marriage of beauty and truth — that the unethical can never be other than the inartistic, intrinsically as ugly as it is false. To those who can appreciate a mind of this order, and sympathize with its free self-expression, it will be easy to overlook an excess of didacticism and pardon many real defects. There is nothing, however, in Randall's poetry that could at any time dazzle a novelty-loving public or make him widely popular. It is far too severe and high, too exigent of loftiness in the minds of his readers, to permit even a hope that the name of these readers will prove to be legion. But I believe, nay, I know, that his message will reach some, if not many, whose need of it is great. Sim- plicity, sincerity, supreme truthfulness, proud directness as of a bullet speeding to its mark, — these are not qualities so common, in a modern literature which with some reason suspects itself of "decadence," that they should be con- signed to oblivion when they appear. Whoever is thought- ful, serious, earnest, hungry for light in an age when the torches of ancient religions are waxing smoky and dim, will be wise to make a friend of John Witt Randall — if not altogether as a poet (for I disguise not from myself that certain " decadent " schools will challenge his right to that title in a supreme sense), yet as a prophet of the 222 INTRODUCTION " eternal verities " — as "a friend of those who would live in the spirit." For, say what the critics may, Randall belonged to the high society of Emerson and Carlyle, little as they or he became aware of it in their lives. The nineteenth century stands pre-eminently for a widely prevalent emphasis on the Mechanical ; these three seers, living and dying in the very heart of it, stand pre-eminently for an almost passion- ate individual emphasis on the Moral, This is not the place to enlarge on that topic, but the sagacious reader of the three will not fail to perceive, in the midst of their deep differences, their deeper identities, too. Others may more effectively interpret the spirit of the age, but these three, for such as have ears to hear, utter the profounder spirit of the ages. To quote almost at random, take short extracts for examples. From Emerson, on July 15, 1838 : — " A more secret, sweet, and overpowering beauty appears to man when his heart and mind open to the sentiment of virtue. Then he is instructed in what is above him. He learns that his being is without bound ; that to the good, to the perfect, he is born, low as he now lies in evil and weakness. That which he venerates is still his own, though he has not realized it yet. He ought. He knows the sense of that grand word, though his analysis fails to render account of it. When in innocency or when by intellectual perception he attains to say : ' I love the Right ; Truth is beautiful within and without forevermore. Virtue, I am thine ; save me ; use me ; thee will I serve, day and night, in great, in small, that I be not virtuous, but virtue,' — then is the end of the creation answered, and God is well pleased. ... If a man is at heart just, then in so far is he God ; the safety of God, the immortality of God, the majesty of God do enter into that man with justice." THE RANDALL FAMILY 223 From Carlyle, on May 8, 1840: — ^^^ Allah akbar, God is great,' — and then also 'Islam,' That we must submit to God, That our whole strength lies in resigned submission to Him, whatsoever He do to us. For this world, and for the other! The thing he sends to us, were it death and worse than death, shall be good, shall be best ; we resign ourselves to God, — ' If this be Islam,' says Goethe, *do we not all live in Islam?' Yes, all of us that have any moral life ; we all live so. It has ever been held the highest wisdom for a man not merely to submit to Necessity, — Necessity will make him submit, — but to know and believe well that the stern thing which Necessity had ordered was the wisest, the best, the thing wanted there. To cease his frantic pretension of scanning this great God's-World in his small fraction of a brain ; to know that it /lad verily, though deep beyond his soundings, a Just Law, that the soul of it was Good ; — that his part in it was to conform to the Law of the Whole, and in devout silence follow that ; not questioning it, obey- ing it as unquestionable. " I say, this is )let the only true morality known, , , . We are to take no counsel with flesh and blood ; give ear to no vain cavils, vain sorrows and wishes : to know that we know nothing ; that the worst and the cruelest to our eyes is not what it seems ; that we have to receive whatsoever befalls us as sent from God above, and say. It is good and wise, God is great ! * Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.' Islam means in its way Denial of Self, Annihilation of Self. This is yet the highest Wisdom that Heaven has revealed to our Earth." From Randall, probably about 1856, at the close of " The Metamorphoses of Longing " : — 224 INTRODUCTIO.V " PRAYER. " Father of All, within thy hand How blest submissively to stand ! Here or hereafter, let all be Even as thou wilt ! 'Tis not for me To meddle with one wheel or key In thy vast world's machinery. Be lastly this my only prayer : Grant me I know not what nor care ! The fate thou wilt is what I would — I dare not change it if I could. Henceforth be all life's longings still, And let my wishes be Thy Will." And again, in 1879 • — "Imagination and Reason join in the faith that the greatest powers cannot fail to be the best. They therefore dare ask for nothing, save that all may be what it is des- tined to be ; so that even to wish seems almost an impiety, and Right so foredoomed to reign that one man has a right to command the universe, if that go wrong and he be in harmony with Right." I cannot imagine how any thoughtful mind could fail to perceive the substantial identity of message in these diverse forms of utterance, their essential coincidence of content, their equal intensity, veracity, elevation of spirit and tone. Yet Randall was as little conversant with the writings of Carlyle and Emerson as they were with his. His reading, wide as it was, never extended far in their direction ; I never heard him speak of Emerson, except as a gentleman of exceptionally fine personality, nor of Carlyle at all, though he quotes him once above. I believe the identical message sprang out of equally original and deeply ethical natures, which reacted vigorously and with equal force THE RANDALL FAMILY 225 against an age grown sceptical of moral values, yet which all three yielded more or less to the influence of its reasoned or unreasoned agnosticism in things intellectual. " Analysis fails to render account of it [the Ought]," says Emerson, above. " Frantic pretension of scanning this great God's- World," says Carlyle, above. " I believe — I hope — I had almost said I fear — all is for the best. 'Tis all I can say. I know no more," says Randall, above, writing at Acton, April 29, 1862. If the coming twentieth century shall aim to better this wholly untraditional yet intellectually blind Faith-Message from the nineteenth, with its passionately ethical yet rationally ungrounded affirmation that the " Law of the Whole" is a "Just Law," — that Man "knows the sense," but not the foundation, " of that grand word Oughts — that his highest wisdom is to "let my wishes be Thy Will," without knowing the necessary rectitude of that Will, — how is its success to be so much as hoped for, if it dare not put knowledge in the place of faith ? I con- ceive that the crying need of this modern world, as the prime condition of all social betterment, is intellectual courage, and that the next century must either acquire this courage and press forward to a victorious philosophi- cal grounding of the Moral Law, or else share the fate of all cowards. If the "Law of the Whole" is indeed a "Just Law," it can only be just for reasons; and, if reasons exist, they can be found. To despair of itself is the one unpardonable sin of the human intellect, and its penalty is social catastrophe. On the heels of intellectual agnosticism treads ethical agnosticism ; the force of every law is at bottom the force of its reasons, and, if these cannot be found, the law itself loses all force. How long will human society consent to be bound by a Moral Law 226 INTRODUCTION which is by open confession without a reason ? Hitherto men's reverence and obedience to that law have rested on tradition, authority, convention, self-interest, unquestioning habit, as its sufficient reason ; but, these reasons once invalidated, how will it be with no reason at all ? What in this case will, nay, must happen appears to be not in the least doubtful. An example will show. There is in this country a so-called " ethical culture movement " which, repudiating all claims of tradition and authority and curiously supposing itself to be leader of the world's highest advance, aims to create a religion out of ethics pure and simple on the general foundation of the Kantian agnosticism, — that is, the assumed impossibility of assign- ing an intellectual or conceptual reason, an intelligible and valid ground in human knowledge as such, for the Moral Law. It thus gives us an ethics founded on irrationalism. To the founder and leader of this movement, an able, eloquent, and generally high-minded man, an appeal for "justice" was made in a case in which he was personally interested, and in which he had some power of decision. The appeal was refused, and the appellant was dismissed on the ground that he was "a fanatic for justice " ! Such a decision in practice, made on such a ground in theory, would seem to be the reductio ad absurdutn of the attempt to create a religion out of agnostic or irrational ethics ; for the very conception of "a fanatic for justice" shows that, in the mind of the founder himself, there is something more important than justice, something more valuable than ethics, some concept or notion of a utility higher than Right, out of which, and not out of ethics, it would seem that his new religion should be created. Now, if the very highest that can be said of the " Law of the Whole" is that it is a "Just Law," — if justice THE RANDALL FAMILY 22/ itself is the highest possible law, and in all places and all times the absolutely sovereign interest of every moral being, — then it is clear enough that, when we complain of "fanatics for justice," we are complaining of ethics itself. What else can an ethical religion aim at than just to make "a fanatic for justice" out of every man, woman, and child on the face of the earth ? The cynical contempt for the essence of all ethics which is conveyed in that strange expression, "fanatic for justice," simply betrays in the utterer's mind that melancholy breakdown of the ethical idea itself which must inevitably, both in the in- dividual and in society, follow denial or disregard of all intellectual reasons for it. What, on the whole, must hap- pen, whenever men at large begin to ask for some rational ground for the Moral Law, and yet ask in vain ? Can it be anything else than a general falling-back on self-interest, on convention, on passion, on pleasure, on anything rather than a reasonless and forceless law? Nevertheless, the welfare of the world hangs on knowledge of and obedi- ence to that "Law of the Whole" which is at bottom a " Just Law ; " and, when a so-called " ethical culture movement" slights the "fanatic for justice," it writes itself down a sham, because in him it disregards that very " Sovereignty of Ethics " on which it professes to build. Randall is worth to the world a hundred " ethical culture movements," just because he was a "fanatic for justice" — just because he put justice on the throne of the uni- verse. If any man doubts this, let him read the " Ode to Conscience." In truth, despite all semblance to the contrary, Randall himself anticipates the demand of the next century for a rational foundation of the Moral Law, a knowable and known reason for it, as the necessary condition of its 228 INTRODUCTION validity in thought and its abiding supremacy in conduct. When he writes, April 29, 1862, "I believe — I hope — I had almost said I fear — all is for the best," we must remember that he had already written, February 5, 1857, "I have never found in myself the faculty of realizing to my belief anything which was not demonstrated to my understanding;" again, March 13, 1863: "As for truth, nothing with me is true which is not proven ; " and again, June 3, 1879, "Imagination and Reason join in the faith that the greatest powers cannot fail to be the best." These are stronger, bolder, and truer statements than I can recall in Emerson or in Carlyle, neither of whom, I fancy, would have made them. In Carlyle, there was a mystical background of " faith ; " in Emerson, there was a transcendental background of "intuition;" but in Ran- dall there was a scientific background of " the understand- ing." If, taken as a general principle, Randall's statement means that, for the intelligent, strength of belief is inevita- bly and necessarily proportioned to strength of evidence, it shows clearly to what test belief in the Moral Law must be submitted when the world becomes on a wide scale intelligent: namely, the test of human reason. Is not that principle fundamental to all science and all philosophy.? If so, and if the world continues to become more scientific as it becomes older, then Randall is in this age prophetic of the age that is at hand. No observant student of the times can doubt that men's hitherto traditional or instinctive or conventional accept- ance of the Moral Law is destined to undergo in the immediate future a severer trial than it has ever yet undergone. The call now is for courage — for undaunted and resolute reliance on the power of human reason to meet the profoundest intellectual needs of human life, and THE RANDALL FAMILY 229 to fight its way, despite the shrieks of the frightened or the scoffs of the incredulous, to the deep rational yet cos- mical foundations of the ethical ideal. If that ideal is not founded objectively in the permanent real constitution of this universe, wholly independent of man, his works and his ways and his opinions, it must vanish like every other superstition ; but, if it is, then the discovery of its objective foundation is the very highest work for which human reason exists. Randall thus stands equally for the Sovereignty of Ethics and the Sovereignty of Reason : it needs but to apply Reason to Ethics, and to discern the rational foun- dation of the ethical ideal in the constitution of the real universe, in order to make these two sovereignties melt into one in the Cosmical-Rational Ethics of the future. This task is that of Scientific Theism ; it ought to be done ; it can be done and it will be done, all imbecile agnosticisms and illogical idealisms and unscientific ma- terialisms to the contrary notwithstanding. But this is not the place to dwell on the subject further. Enough to say now that, though not in the least a systematic thinker, Randall's essential aim is that of all science and all genuinely scientific ethics, and makes him, in my own opinion at least, the ethical pioneer of his generation, its Poet of the Moral Life. What Matthew Arnold says in the preface to his Wordsworth is profoundly true : " A poetry of revolt against moral ideas is a poetry of revolt against life ; a poetry of indifference towards moral ideas is a poetry of indifference towards life." Only he who knows that conduct is not three-fourths merely, but the whole of life, will fully appreciate Randall. As a " fanatic for justice," as a prophet who declares the seat of justice to be the throne of the universe, as a seer who proclaims 230 INTRODUCTION with Emerson — " If a man is at heart just, then in so far is he God ; the safety of God, the immortahty of God, the majesty of God do enter into that man with justice," — Randall completely identifies the moral and the religious sentiments on the warrant of "the understanding." He thereby makes himself the loftiest and truest exponent of ethical religion in our time. Nay, more : unless from the literature of the past there can be produced a poem which in terrible truthfulness to experience and in ethical gran- deur of conception and in poetic fire shall be at least an equal to the " Ode to Conscience," I see not how to with- hold from Randall the laurel which is due to the most inspired bard of the Moral Law. Two whole centuries of New England Puritanism, filtered through the soul of Samuel Adams, transmitted to the soul of his descendant, and there etherealized in the fierce heat and light of modern thought, are needed to account for the unsurpassed sublimity of moral imagination in this closing apostrophe to Conscience : — *' Thou reignest in heaven, the archangels worship thee, Twin child with Love, first-born of Deity ! No seraph from thy face so far can fly But thou dost fix and hold him with thine eye, Wilt find him out in the most secret place — Where'er he turns, he must behold thy face. Thou art o'er all, in all, throughout all Time and Space ; And, if this earth and the sweet light of day E'er in chaotic darkness melt away. Thy deep low voice, 'mongst the celestial spheres, Will still sound on throughout the unending years. There wilt thou dwell the immortal hosts among. Uttering thy runes severe in deathless song, Falsehood from truth unravelling, right from wrong." F. E. A. Cambridge, Mass., June i, 1898. [facsimile of okiginal txtlb-pagk.] CONSOLATIONS SOLITUDE. Oa tenerum pueri balbumque poeta figurat ; Torquet ab obscenis jam nunc sermonibus aurem : Mox etiam pectus prsBceptis format amicia ; Aspcritatis et inyidise corrector et irse ; Recte facta refert, orientia tempora notis Instruit exemplis ; inopem solatur et segrum. Q. Iloratii Epist. prim, ad Augustum. BOSTON: JOHN P. JEWETT & COMPANY. 1856. 2>e&fcatc& TO THE MEMORY OF N. B. I. BY HIS SCHOOLMATE, CLASSMATE, AND FRIEND. THE AUTHOR INTRODUCTION. AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK IN EARLY SPRING. Fly with the winds, frail leaves ! The wintry hours Need ye no more ; let green ones take your place, Since Nature opes once more her book of flowers. And muffled February, with slow pace Hobbling in storms away, lifts his white sock From the moist field, and now from all the hills Trickles the new-thawed ice, and down the rock In every glen some crystal cataract spills. The earth from its long sleep once more is free ; I, too, would break the spell of poesy. Go, wanderers ! I ask none to take ye in, But welcome all to harbor ye who will ; And who cares least your fellowship to win Is welcome most to leave ye fluttering still. Farewell ! On none intrude ! The world is wide ,• Go uncommended, dressed in plain attire, That none may save ye for a fair outside Who, if mean clad, had cast ye to the fire. If ye be worthless, ye shall die, no doubt ; If ye be worthy, worth shall find ye out. TO THE READER. If aught here painted to thy soul or sight Of moral truth or natural scenes delight, Welcome ! for thou art straight a comrade grown, Who oft before hath walked with me unknown. Yet, if thy taste reject a thoughtful book, Forbear upon these pictures even to look ; Seek not to know me, lest, thy labor o'er. We grow more perfect strangers than before. CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE. DEDICATION. Tell me, thou cold and senseless clay, — If speech can rend those realms of night Where Fate, that snatched thy breath away, Hides thee so darkly from my sight, — Where has the cheerful spirit fled Which made that mouldering form so dear ? Is it even like thine ashes dead ? Lends it to love no listening ear ? Yet, since those moveless lips decline To answer from the earth's cold womb. Speak, soul, thyself, and give some sign Shall pierce the mists that veil the tomb — Some whisper through the gloom profound I Say, dost thou value friendship yet ? Or, when thy temple fell to ground, Didst thou all love with life forget ? 'Tis vain ; no sound, no symbol speaks From those dull shades at mortal bid ; Well, then, till time the silence breaks, Still keep thy secret, wiselier hid. If, purified from earthly stain, Thou hast no care for mortal lot, — 238 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Lifted above all sense of pain, Sorrow and sin alike forgot, — Then to the sacred past I'll fly, And to long-buried years go back, In fancied youth will deem thee nigh, And meet thee in each wonted track. If, mingled Avith the viewless wind. Both soul and sense have ceased to be, Why, then, farewell — the Muse must find Some moral prototype of thee, And, since were thine both truth and love, To truth and love shall she appeal ; Alas ! though truth the sense approve, Love can no more be near to feel. Howe'er, where'er, whate'er thou art, This tribute take — 'twas thine of old. And to thine image in my heart I yield it now, since thou art cold. Although the flame less bright may burn Than when, by youthful impulse fired. Fancy to friendship's torch could turn, And with new light become inspired, — Still claim such gifts as Care permits, Since thou art fled, while day by day, Fixed at my side she mutely sits, And with the dark hair twines the gray. Speak, comrade — is there not, in truth. For faithful hearts some hallov/ed shore 4 ODE TO GOD 239 Where, with the warmth of life's first youth, Old friends may yet shake hands once more ? None ? Then farewell ! Yet let my speech Seem not presumptuous nor profane ; Nor deem that selfishness can teach My heart to wish thee back again. Yet, as the sailor's faithful hand Drags a few stones, with tears besprent, And builds, upon some barren strand, To friendship a rude monument : So I, who mourned thy loss full long. Lone wandering where the sea of time Sweeps drearier shores, now build in song This humble monument of rhyme. ODE TO GOD, AS HE APPEARS TO THE CHILD, AS HE RECEDES FROM THE YOUTH, AND AS HE RETURNS TO THE MAN. Where shall I look for thee, since now no more I see thee in man's likeness, Great Unknown .-' Each day I'm floating farther from the shore Of my fair land of dreams ; life's Spring is o'er, And thou art gone. Ah, once from the blue waves how glowing bright Thy face uprose in yon fair orb of day ! And on the hill-top, with approaching night, I saw thy parting smile in reddening light Melt slow away. 240 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Fast by the holy font wouldst thou appear ; Up the long aisle I saw thee as a dove ; In the grand organ I thy voice could hear, Through painted windows saw thee shining clear ; Thou wast all love. In the dark night full oft — I scarce knew how — Thou cam'st in dreams, and, all unheard of men, Named me thy child ; thy bright wings fanned my brow ; Thou com'st at last no more — a Ruler now — A Father then. Wast thou not wont each year, on first of May, To dress my flower plat, where the ice first thaws. And drench my vines ? Now, since thou'rt fled away, Love does the work no more, but clouds of gray. And natural laws. Then I knew nought ; the sky, the grove, the stream, Were peopled all by phantasms ; then I saw, But sought no cause ; things were but what they seem, Yet few unlovely. Fancy's wayward dream Explained each law. No longer wilt thou smile nor stoop to bless, But from afar each day dost set my task ; Each day thou growest greater, and I less ; Thou dost command, and if I acquiesce Thou dost not ask. Yet still I feel thee in the freshening breeze, Still hear thee in each wave that sweeps the shore ; Still in thy works mine eye thy finger sees ; But now thou art the Master of all these — Father no more. ODE TO GOD 241 Resounding on all sides thy praise I hear ; I see pale Terror kneel to kiss thy rod ; Yet, sanctified far less by faith than fear, Man's worship dreads, but doth not deem thee dear, Unlike that God Whom love names '* Father ; " sages, " the All-wise ; " The afflicted, " Comforter ; " while I've forgot All titles for thee. With admiring eyes, I view thine earth, thy seas, thy stars, thy skies. And name thee not. I feel thy wings upon the wintry blast ; I hear thy chariot in the rattling thunder — Think on thine infinite worlds, so bright, so vast. Thine endless future and thy boundless past. And mutely wonder. Why should I dread thee, all-pervading Mind ? Or whither go ? Bereft of thee, how lone 1 All dark without thy light, yet with it blind, I cannot fly thee, and I cannot find, Thou Infinite One. Forever round and round thy planets sail — Thou'rt far away, yet ever near dost dwell. Strange Mystery ! To solve thee I must fail ; I see thee, but can neither bid thee hail. Nor yet farewell. But now, methinks, once more the mists profound Are scattering, and I see thy smile returning. O, wonderful ! Mine eyes behold no bound ; Millions of stars encompass thee around. All brightly burning. 242 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Each star a world, and all within thy sight In reverence mute from age to age revolving — Spheres twinkling numberless, from night to night Reflecting thine unfathomable light, Nor e'er dissolving. All hail to thee once more ! I see thy face Benignant still ; but now thou dost appear No longer shut within a narrow place, But in each atom, through all boundless space, Again art near, Parent once more ! since, though beyond my sight, On unknown worlds thou shinest, yet even there A Parent still ; they, too, in thee delight ; 'Twas but thy brightness that begat my night ; Thou'rt everywhere. Henceforth thus would I know thee. Sire of all. Nor question make of thee ; so speaks my heart. All is in thee, and in thee nought can fall, And thou in every thing, or great or small. Wast, wilt be, art. Yes, I again behold thee, night and day, One and the same in wisdom as in will, Watering my flowers once more in morning gray, Melting at eve in mellow light away, A Father still I THE PHILOSOPHER IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION 243 THE PHILOSOPHER IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION, Forbear, O Faith, lest falsely thou direct The unschooled reverence of a mind which sees Thy votaries through the world, with blind respect, Bending the knee but to false deities, And veneration made a senseless tool In the misguiding hands of knave and fool. If to the east I turn, the turbaned sage Meets me with sword in hand, and bids me place My trust in selfish doctrines, and with rage Unbrotherly wage war 'gainst half my race, To gain a heaven, when from this earth I flee, Whose bliss is brutish sensuality. The timorous Brahmin, shocked at deeds like these. Points to Surat, where fruit-fed Banians wait And waste on vermin all life's charities. Their hope's sole aim with these to change their state. And claim requital when the rats and mice Bequeath their holes to be man's paradise. Another drives me from this patient task To worship Mumbo Jumbo, or fall down 'Neath car of Juggernaut, or prostrate ask The favor of rude idols, and to crown The head of bull, or ass, or grinning ape. Whose hideousness transcends all beastly shape. Another with remorseless hands would stain With human blood my altar, with raised knife Red homage yield, and pay, like hated Cain, Death-offering to the glorious Source of Life. Another calls me to a different scene. Where lewd Priapus holds his court unclean. 244 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE If from rude hordes to Christian lands I look, The bigot, though more polished, is the same ; A hundred clamorous sects, with cross and book, Shout each a different doctrine, but one name. Each bids me God in his own idol see, Or in his demon seek my Deity. If the dark page of history I explore, What horrid tale it tells ! With what fierce speed, Strife, Treachery, Hatred haste from shore to shore, Life in the doctrine, death in every deed ! Such mischiefs in each moment brought to birth, The wonder is, man still should cumber earth. Here, chained 'midst flaming fagots to the stake, The mangled martyr sinks in smothering fires ; There, locked in dungeons for Christ's mercy's sake. With shrieks and groans some tortured wretch expires, Doomed with but this consoling thought to sink. That 'midst a senseless race he dared to think. Here Sorcery and Witchcraft spread their toils ; There Heresy would blast the good man's name ; While 'neath religion's cloak, grown fat on spoils, The priestly robber pilfers without shame. And, with earth's potentates joined hand in hand, Drives truth and virtue out from every land. Here cunning Avarice feigns to balance power. And steals from either side to make all even ; There Craft monopolizes earthly dower. And pays the plundered with a pass to heaven, And, on the spoils of others bloated grown. Deeds lands in realms it ne'er shall see nor own. THE PHILOSOPHER IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION 245 How worthless an Elysium to the wise, Peopled by such ! Sure 'twere small joy to meet Tyrants and hypocrites with upturned eyes, Puffing with pride on each celestial seat ; 'Twere a far happier destiny to dwell, With wise and good, in a more virtuous hell. Lo, where, by all despised, the homeless Jew Views wistfully the lost land of his birth ; Faithful to old things rather than to new, Oppressed by all, he wanders o'er the earth, Shunned e'en by him whose doctrine is but love ! Surely, the serpent hath devoured the dove. Slaves 'neath the cross, Ham's sons, by Heaven's command, Water a stranger soil with sweat and tears ; Slaves 'neath the crescent, Japhet's children stand ; For truth in Spain grows falsehood in Algiers. In each, to piety fraud makes profession ; Power never yet lacked reasons for oppression. Still Avarice in extortion must grow gray. And Virtue fly to solitude from wrong ; For Innocence is Cunning's natural prey. The weak find ever bloodhounds in the strong ; While Self, the hunter, with the whip of creed, Lashes his dogs to ravage at full speed. See, through the world, what endless train of ills Mankind to a blind fate ascribe — the wise To Ignorance, whom his own letter kills ; Doomed slave of craft, and with hoodwinked eyes Led on by armed Religion to defend Fraud, force, and hate, in guilt that hath no end. 246 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Yet, when the book I open, and begin, Through cloud of comment, the commands to read : "Let him who would cast stones be free from sin," " Clothe ye the naked and the hungry feed," Or, " As ye love yourselves your neighbors love," Or, " Be ye perfect even as God above ; " Still farther when I read : " Do to another As thou wouldst have another do to thee," And find that man is named of man the brother, And all mere outcasts who lack charity ; While the great Father, imaged as a dove. Proclaims the peaceful government of love, — Then do I learn that every mn.n his creed Less from its doctrine than his heart derives ; 'Tis still the wish is father to the deed ; Our gods are but the portraits of our lives ; And different natures from the self-same law Their different acts and different motives draw. Yet, if from precepts to great Nature's face I turn my gaze, what glorious scene appears ! What beautiful diversity of race Through the wide world the boundless prospect cheers Herb, mineral, animal, in infinite kind. Ranged orderly by one creative Mind ! If I look farther, I perceive I stand Upon a frail, unpropped, revolving ball, - Where sea is ever battling with the land. Earth a mere crust, like an o'erarching wall That spans a vault so thin, almost a breath The shell could shatter, flaming fire beneath. THE PHILOSOPHER IN SEARCH OF A RELIGION 247 And if I look beyond this narrow bound, Which seems to men so vast, through endless space, I see, revolving ever round and round. Spheres following spheres, which whirl in endless race — All, all afloat, yet all upheld, like me. By the same law of central gravity. And if, unwearied, still I strain my flight Beyond those marvellous milky drifts where float Bright worlds that swarm like snowflakes, day and night Each urging through blank space its little boat, Oarless and rudderless, yet each in fine Destined to reach its port by love divine, — Great Father, have I found thee ? There's no shore. Interminable space, yet light to light Answering beyond for aye. I can no more ; Fancy can find no wings for such a flight ; Thy beacon fires, more far than thought can flee, Flash on and onward to infinity. Now to that spark would I look back once more, By men called Earth, pale glimmering as a star. One moment bright, the next all clouded o'er. Scarce a mere speck, so infinitely far ; And now, my poor paternal acres, where, Where arc ye, that once cost me so much care .-' Where what earth's fools name wealth ? How passing small Man's works ! How weak his passions, vain his troubles ! Earth, sun, moon, stars, the heavens, m.ere nothings all ; The world itself, one of ten million bubbles. Lit up by God's own beam, one moment bright ; 'Tis all I know — the rest is dark as night. 248 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Forbear ! Man's temples must be mine no more ! My fane I'll seek in yon blue vault immense, Hymns in the chiming spheres ; my search is o'er ; I've found Him, but in such magnificence That sight grows dark. His veil I cannot rend ; He lives, but without origin or end. THE DYING VISION OF BENEDICT ARNOLD. Come, pierce this bosom, welcome Death ! No enemy thou art ; Thou stiflest but the hated breath Of one whose broken heart No refuge finds but in despair — Abhorred, detested everywhere. Where'er I go, men frown on me ; I walk like Cain on earth ; All shudder when my face they see ; Even in the halls of mirth. At sight of me, the voices gay In secret whispers die away. When on some gala day I hear Men cry, " God save the king ! " The very mob, if I come near. Point at the hated thing. Shrink at my vile name's very sound. And empty space straight girds me round. O that, in hot pursuit close pressed, I might but make my stand, Bare to the stroke a warrior's breast. And lift a warrior's hand, And, bravely fighting with my foes. Hail the swift shot that brought repose I THE DYING VISION OF BENEDICT ARNOLD 249 But no ! I must not feel man's wrath ; My fate is more forlorn ; Each hastes in horror from my path, Or stares in silent scorn ; And, if a soldier meets my glance, He turns his back as I advance. If to my thoughts for peace I fly, Still peace and I must part ; A hungry worm that will not die Is gnawing at my heart ; And conscience' self proclaims my ban, Forever whispering, " Thou'rt the man ! " When quiet night outspreads her wings, I blush beneath the moon ; Refreshing morn no solace brings, Nor the bright blaze of noon. The very sun, as if in wrath, Frowns like a shadow on my path. Scarce do I deem, when I am dead, I shall escape despair ; If in the grave I make my bed. Can there be peace even there For one with whom the good, the just. Deign not to mingle even in dust ? Were there but hope to die unknown — That, when the sexton's hand Placed o'er my grave a nameless stone, I, in the stranger's land, Might thus, even though by stealth, be sure To moulder 'mongst the good and pure ! 250 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE But no ! man's hate will grudge me stones ; My fate hath long been sealed ; Scarce will the ploughman let my bones Lie scattered on his field, Lest they should breed his harvest's bane, Wither his grass, and blight his grain. Poor Andrd, whose untimely fate Was blest compared with mine ! In brooding on my lonely state, How do I envy thine ! For thou wast loved and mourned, at least, Not shunned like some wild, treacherous beast. O, native land, forever lost ! For thee I heave no sigh, Yet still must think at what dear cost I'm forced from thee to fly ; Doomed to a traitor's deathless fame, Millions unborn shall curse my name. My sword is rusty with the gore Of countrymen and brothers ; I've made full many a sire deplore. And many weeping mothers ; But this I long have ceased to prize ; In my revenge none sympathize. Curst day, when to the foe I fled ! Scarce had I left the boat, When each that knew me turned more red Than his own scarlet coat. The men drawn up before my tent Blushed at the order, " Arms present 1 " THE DYING VISION OF BENEDICT ARNOLD 251 And when, the foremost in the fight, I bade all bravely stand, Each officer looked black as night ; All shrank from my command, And would have served, I well could see, Under a dogr more soon than me. The ungrateful knaves for whom I bled Scowled at me when I passed ; They grudged that swords my blood should shed. Still longing to the last To see me by the halter strung, And to the hounds like carrion flung. I hate them all ; I hate mankind, Hate every living thing ; Yet, though to infamy consigned. Still to my pride I cling. O soul ! be stubborn, nor deplore The loss of honor, thine no more. The thirst of gold hath been my bane ; Yet 'twas not wealth I prized, But rank and power I sought to gain — Vain things, long since despised. There's not a man so poor, so mean, That v/ould as Arnold's guest be seen. No ! should I meet the very groom Did once my stables tend, He, too, would give me elbow room. But scorn to be my friend. Would that in earth I might but rot, Alike by God and man forget ! 252 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE My life is like a darksome night, A cave without a vent ; No glimmering streak of cheerful light Across my track is sent, To dash the gloom through which I stray With a few droos of transient day. I will not shed unmanly tears ; Yet, like the Wandering Jew, Might I but roam ten thousand years, And then my life renew, A happy, careless child once more — But no ! The days of hope are o'er. Peace, soldier, peace ! these transports cool ; Let men deride thy name ; Thou conquered'st armies — wherefore, fool. Canst thou not conquer shame ? Fall at thy post, nor feel regret ; Be thy soul's heaven but to forget. And, though thine enemies thy head To carrion crows may give. They do to thee but that, when dead, They dared not when alive. So the mind sleep, let crows refresh Their hungry stomachs with my flesh. My senses reel ; a flickering mist Like dusk o'erspreads mine eyes,; But hark ! what steps approach ? Hist, hist 1 Armed files around me rise. Comrades, forgive, and grasp my hand ! What, none "i All mute and shuddering stand ! THE LAST MOMENTS OF NATHAN HALE 253 Then, since none other deigns me touch, Despatch me, Death, at last ! Once I'd have done for thee as much ; Thy firelock load — stand fast ! Now give me all my soul's desire : Captain, make ready — aim — and fire ! THE LAST MOMENTS OF NATHAN HALE.' One short half hour — 'tis all is left Of my brief soldier life ; Then must I fall, of sense bereft, While o'er my grave the strife Shall rage as fiercely as before, But me the trump shall wake no more. No friend will follow in the host That bears me forth to death ; 'Midst jeering foes I yield my ghost ; Rough hands will choke my breath. There's none 'mongst all that see me die Will drop a tear or heave a sigh. Yet were I firm, save but for one Who loves me far away ! O mother ! thou wilt mourn thy son, Lamenting night and day ; Yet thou shalt learn, with sorrowing pride, Thy soldier triumphed as he died. 'Tis true, the gallows' highway seems An ill road to the grave ; 'Tis true, my manhood's morning dreams A fairer promise gave. And bade me leap, at Freedom's call, In her first ranks to fight and fall. 254 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Yet to the wise it matters nought What way he goes to dust ; ; The sole thing worthy of his thought Is, if his cause be just ; And, if he's right, he'll act, nor think Whether he's doomed to swim or sink. Dear countr)'-, nought in death I dread, Save that but once I fall, And slumber idly with the dead, When thou hast need of all ; Thy living sons shall all defend. While I with senseless earth must blend. Thy cause requires a million hands To battle with thy foes, Lives numerous as the ocean sands ; I have but one to lose. Yet, though the sacrifice be small, Disdain not, since I give thee all. O that my blood from out the ground, 'Neath God's inspiring breath, Might at thy trumpet's piercing sound One instant leap from death, Each drop a man, each man a spy. Foredoomed in thy great cause to die. How blest even so to serve thee still, Slain o'er, and o'er, and o'er ! From field to field, from hill to hill, I'd chase thy cannon's roar. And shed my blood like showers of rain, And fall, and rise, and fall again. THE LAST MOMENTS OF NA THAN HALE 255 And when from all thy foes once more Thy blood-stained soil was free, And hill and dale, from shore to shore, In peace dwelt tranquilly, Gladly I'd die with war's last thunder, And soundly sleep thy green earth under. But hark ! I hear the muffled drum Roll like a smothered wave ; And there the columns marching come That bear me to my grave. Farewell, dear native land ! This heart Feels but one pang as now we part. I only grieve because my eyes Thy glory may not see — That I can serve thee but with sighs, Nor more lift sword for thee ! I mourn because life's fleeting breath Permits me but a single death. Farewell, dear friends ! sweet light, farewell ! Earth, take once more thy child ; Brief is the tale my life can tell : Thou hast me undefiled. Death, I forgive thine early spoil ; Thanks that I sleep on mine own soil. Sergeant, I come ; all dread is o'er ; Once, once again, farewell, Land of my birth ! I love thee more, O, more than tongue can tell ! Now love's last dying gift receive ; Alas ! I've nought but love to leave. 256 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE RETROSPECT. The gulf's far shore my straining sight Scarce reaches through the deepening shades, And, mingling with the growing night, The gorgeous glow of sunset fades. The lowing kine have ceased their moan ; The furnace fires have lit the brine ; And the quick chimes, with cheerful tone, Ring out the evening hour of nine. The marshy tribes renew their tune. And spring with fragrance fills the breeze ; And in full sail the ascending moon Glides on her course through airy seas. And now the sister Pleiads sink ; The lighthouse beacons flash and fade ; And, bending o'er the water's brink. The cedars frown in darker shade. Ah, once again through streaming tears My thoughts retrace their ancient track, And through the mists of by-gone years To well-remembered scenes go back. This is the spot — I marked it well ; Thy face was sad, thine eyes were wet, When thy voice, mingling with the bell. Breathed its " Good-by ! " and " Don't forget ! " Dim on the wave the barge receded That bore thee swiftly from the shore, And the light breeze brought back unheeded The sullen plashing of the oar ; But, when once more I stood alone, Where both so oft of old had met, RETROSPECT 257 Silence recalled thy look and tone ; " Fear not," I said, " I'll not forget." Long years between our lives have swept ; I've looked for thee and found thee not — Lost thee in dreams, and waking wept, Till I half wished thou wert forgot. Oft, while the bird of night sings clear, And the pale mists sweep o'er the wave. Thy voice comes sighing on mine ear. Like a sad whisper from the grave. How oft I've stood and scanned the bay. And fancied thou wert ferrying o'er — Seen the tides swell and sink away ; And, when I knew thou wast no more. Still faithful to unfriendly time, I'd haunt the beach that skirts the main. And hear the hope-deceiving chime Sing, " He will yet come back again." " Forget me not ! " Ah, not alone The yearning heart or plaintive bells Echo those words ! With solemn tone All Nature's voice the chorus swells. Thy mournful warning fain to mock With myriad tongues of subtile skill. Which, restless as the ticking clock, Keep the tired mind remembering still. The fading flower, the withering leaf. Yon crumbling arch, those grassy graves, Comrades resigned with tears and grief. Some laid in earth, some whelmed in waves, 258 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Old friends whom now estranged I see, The time-worn clock that tells the hour, The moss-grown wall, the mouldering tree, The roofless cot, the ruined tower, — The murmuring wave, the autumn breeze, Those wedged ranks which high o'erhead In screaming armies cross the seas. Each tolling bell that wails the dead. Old faces once so fresh and bright, Now sallow, wrinkled, lean, and wan. Each parting day, each passing night. All works of nature and of man, — Sorrows and cares that will not slumber. Sweet life that like yon sun must set, And faults and follies without number, All ceaseless clamoring, " Don't forget ! " Ah, friend, if wearied memory clings With its first fondness thus to thee, 'Midst hosts of so distracting things, That memory must immortal be ! Yet, as the primrose scents the air More sweetly when the sun is fled, Remembrance thus to my despair Makes thee more dear that thou art dead. Thine image flits amongst these trees ; Yon chimes each evening ring thy knell ; And o'er the dusky bay the breeze Comes laden with thy last farewell. Hark ! The deep bells once more are pealing ; The winds are hushed, the waves are bright ; And, o'er the dreamy waters stealing. That voice, upon the wings of night. THE LAMENT OF ORPHEUS 259 Names me once more. Old friend, I'm near ; Speak once again ; O, fly not yet ! 'Tis hushed ; no other sound I hear Save that faint whisper, " Don't forget ! '" But now no lingering beam betrays The footsteps of the sunken sun ; And, through the soft and silvery haze. The stars come twinkling one by one. Farewell ! Yet, if I might behold Through the long past, without regret. All fair as thou — but eve grows old ; I must remember to forjret. THE LAMENT OF ORPHEUS. What now avails it me. To have been born of thee, Calliope.'' O, why so well Learned I to touch the tuneful shell. By thee and by thy sister Muses taught ? Ah, woful day, when first these fingers caught From great Apollo's hand the lyre so richly wrought ! And what avails it now To have smoothed the rugged brow Of the fierce dragon, that in sleep Forgot what he was set to keep. While 'neath the cliffs, above our heads that hung. The hard-bound ship upon the waves I swung. And the rocks ceased to move, and listened while I sung > Or that in Thracian cave, Immured in living grave. 26o CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE I tamed the rude, ferocious race That roamed like beasts about the place, Softening their rage to sympathetic mood, Till to unwonted tears they were subdued, Leaving their bloody rites for mutual brotherhood? Ye gods ! Why thus unjust To them that in you trust ? Did not I first from tinklings vain Turn Music's voice to heavenly strain, And teach the sacred hymn on earth to sound ? Sorrow is all the recompense I've found. Ever the fate of those whose brows with bays are crowned. Not soon shall I forget The horrors of that pit ! The demons, round me gathering fast, Winked at each other when I passed, And sneering said, " Here comes one more to dwell With the delightful brotherhood of hell." But all the din grew hushed, when thee I woke, sweet shell 1 Now must I mourn for thee. Poor lost Eurydice ! Serpent shall never sting thee more, Roving that dark and joyless shore. Ah, how each listening ghost, 'midst twilight pale, Wailed, gazing from his melancholy jail ! V\^hile Charon, resting on his oar, forgot to sail. The torturers, at the tone. Seemed as if changed to stone. And backward turned to hear the strain. And dropped their instruments of pain. Those sooty depths ne'er heard such sounds before ; The very damned dared dream of bliss once more. And, in amazement hushed, some time forgot to roar. THE LAMENT OF ORPHEUS 26 1 The blood-born sisters listening, Their eyes with pity glistening, Looked upward from their iron bench, And ceased the mangled wretch to wrench ; Their dark cheeks were bestained with crimson tears ; The clustering snakes uncoil ; each, as he hears, Hangs nodding to the time, prone o'er his mistress* ears ; Until all, soothed to rest. Droop down each Fury's breast. Then, through the vast, unechoing deep. Pain and despair were hushed to sleep ; And the charmed dog, on his three chins asprawl, Crouched to the ground, and toward the sounds 'gan crawl, Low whining to the chords in many a lengthening drawl. Sweet lyre, thou even didst move The pitying Fates above, Till Atropos attentive hears. Looks up, and on inverted shears Rests her lean hand, and with a long-drawn sigh Says, " Let the poor thing go ; she shall not die ; Go both, be free, but look not backward while ye fly." I heard those words of peace, Solace ere long to cease ; Full soon, alas ! upon my tongue The glad Eureka died unsung. Yet now, ere from these glooms we 'gan to creep, What fearful silence filled the murky deep. Those wastes so still that even the Furies fell asleep ! But while, in silent pleasure, I clasped my long-lost treasure, Those dreadful women woke, full fain To be at their old task again ; 262 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE The tear, half started, in their eyes shrunk back ; The writhing snakes grew to a deeper black, And, at full length outstretched, loud hissed along our track. Again the mournful cries All round about us rise ; Loud Charon chides his lingering train ; Awakened pity sleeps again ; And, as we hasten through the gates of hell. Far off the red-eyed dog begins to yell. And with his bark, sweet bride, is blent thy last farewell. Swift as a flash of light, Snatched to the realms of night, With anguished looks and outstretched hands, She mingled 'mongst the infernal bands ; And, on their screaming hinges turning round. Loud crashed the ponderous gates with awful sound, And echo with ten thousand thunders shook the ground. O, why remember more, Since time will ne'er restore Life's lost delights ? Let men from this Learn not to trifle with their bliss. I deemed her mine ; my toil was almost crowned ; Forgetful but one instant, I looked round, And lost my all for aye, even at woe's farthest bound. Learn from my doom to obey ; In fortune's brightest day. Let no one count on certain joy ;- Fate in an instant can destroy ; And, though with tuneful art thy master skill All hell entrance, and make the heavens grow still, All shall be nought to him who once forgets Jove's will. 1 TO THE SHADE OF SAMUEL ADAMS 263 TO THE SHADE OF SAMUEL ADAMS-^" Patriot and sage ! Forgive ungrateful time, Whose wing so darkly o'er thy memory broods ; Nor be thy ghost disturbed because this rhyme Upon thy sacred privacy intrudes, From mists of years thus dragging forth the name Of one who from the insulting breath of Fame Had shrunk, as if good deeds, when trumpeted, were shame. Yet would I men might more revere that band. Whose heroes, self forgetting, seek for good But in great principles, since Nature's hand Forms such so sparingly, least understood, Rarest of all her works that earth adorn. How few are in whole generations born Who can like heroes live, while yet the name they scorn ! Which one of all thine acts shall I first mention, Which of thy sayings first, since to relate Great things of thee doth not demand invention ? Self didst thou sacrifice to save the state ; Yet this men know, and now I would recall Forgotten things, if so it may befall. By lesser stars eclipsed, thou shalt not perish all. But scarcely for thy sake, since thou wert last 'Mongst men to wish in mouths of men to be. Yet would I that the virtue of the past Live to inspire a late posterity, Till, grown in love with justice, men may deem Still best to be whate'er 'tis best to seem. Lest truth be deemed a name, and virtue but a dream. 264 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Shall I relate how, while e'en yet a youth, The rights of man by thee were understood, Arguing that much-vexed question, if, forsooth, Men may resist the laws ? ^ "If public good Demand it, then they may, and, to be free, O'erthrow the rulers." Thus, though young, by thee Foreshadowed was the march of human liberty. Or shall I tell how trifling in thine eyes Seemed worldly wealth .'' ^ Yet that thou didst not fall A slave to mammon will no man surprise. In one who for the nation's good gave all, Preferring to live poor, so it might be, When he was gone, his country might live free ; The wise would surely smile, should I tell this of thee. Or that with bribes they tempted thee in vain The sacred cause of freedom to betray s — In vain with threats would bend thee ? That the stain Of traitor lay not on thee, shall I say 1 This were to place thee at the bankrupt's side. Whom men reward when debts are satisfied. O, no ! To praise thee thus were only to deride. For how shall rank or riches him seduce Whom his own safety tempts not? Yet I joy In those proud words thou spakest, when abuse They heaped on thee, even threatening to destroy. When in thine ear " Expect no pardon ! " rings, Thou say'st, " Think not that I shall fear such things; My peace has long been made with the great King of kings." Was not thy soul delighted on that day. When the alarm bells rang from every steeple, And thou to the scared governor didst say, " I wait thine answer to the impatient people ? " ^ TO THE SHADE OF SAMUEL ADAMS 26$ While he, abashed, quailed thy stern glance beneath, And men scarce dared break silence by a breath, Thou, fixed as fate, resolv'dst on liberty or death. No less 'tis true that, throughout all the land, Thou soughtest in one will all men to bind,^ That each by each in brotherhood might stand, " And that, the struggle o'er, thou wast resigned To live obscure ; men needed thee no more. So live the unselfish when, all danger o'er. The world, grown safe, goes back to follies loved before. Nor less devoted wast thou on that day When, through the plains of Lexington, thy foes In many a troop did circumvent thy way. Bright o'er the hills the beauteous sun uprose ; Freedom's first gun was fired, and thou didst say To thy companion, " 'Tis a glorious day 1 " 9 He answered, "Yes, 'tis beautiful," but thou saidst, "Nay! " I meant not that, though every work of God, 'Tis true, is beautiful ; but for this land, I meant, a glorious day. Henceforth the rod Of tyranny is broke, and we shall stand, As God means man shall stand, self-ruling, free ; Henceforth our country shall a refuge be For all the oppressed on earth whose hearts love liberty." Perchance the hope of freedom for mankind Is but a dream, and nations still must be Forever led in blindness by the blind. If so, still all the more I honor thee. And men like thee, who, though they cannot know Whether our race shall to perfection grow, Ne'er lose their trust in good, but hope it shall be so. 266 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Prosperity ne'er found thee too elate ; Adversity still met thee undepressed ; Pure was thy life above all fear of fate ; Thy heart was true, thy soul so self-possessed, That, if the earth but one man owned like thee, And all beside should slaves and tyrants be, He had loved virtue still ; such through all time are free. Didst thou not say : " If, of a thousand, all '° Must sink in freedom's struggle save but one, Best still to fight, best the whole race should fall Save one free household ; liberty alone. Grafted on such a stock, would give creation To happiness more great than a whole nation Of cowering slaves could feel through a long generation " ? Such was thy thought. Freedom thou hadst defended, Till to the polar seas thou hadst been pressed ; And, when her reign upon the land was ended. Thou wouldst have climbed the glassy iceberg's breast. And on thy crystal raft have sought repose In frozen regions where no herbage grows, And the white bear roams wild midst everlasting snows. Such once men knew thee, though thy name, o'ergrown With weeds of time, hath rusted in this age ; Yet would I speak of some few things less known. Nor e'er yet written upon history's page, — Alas, how few ! because thou gav'st to flame " Each record, howe'er precious to thy fame. Which on another's cheek could raise the blush of shame. Yet some wise words, by filial reverence shrined In memory's casket, would the muse unfold. Though trifling. Sure thy shade no fault will find, But rather smile that such things should be told, TO THE SHADE OF SAMUEL ADAMS 26/ Unless, with Hampden and with Sidney met, Rejoicing 'neath a sun that shall not set, Thou dost at freedom's fount all things of earth forget. I would relate thy words upon that day, When some were mourning for that fragrant weed Which now in Neptune's cauldron boiling lay. They deemed it hard to flout the people's need, And waste their wealth on ocean's deity. Who scarce would thank them while he quaffed their tea Why full-fed comfort yield for a starved liberty ? Then 'mongst the citizens didst thou arise, And say : " To selfish counsels give no heed ; Lust not for Egypt's flesh pots, but be wise ; Be free alike in thought, and word, and deed. Let us abandon bread if needs must be. And, like our ancestors, by yon blue sea Feast on her cast-up clams, ere we pay tax on tea ! " Wise also were the words which thou one day Didst to thy daughter utter. " Father," said she, " Answer this question : Do they rightly say, Who bid us shun all singularity ? " " In trifles to be strange," thou saidst, "were rude Then, smiling, thou didst add, " be't understood, '3 'Tis right, my child, that we be singularly good." Such was thy thought, v»'hen men once strove to unloose '■♦ Thy horses, and through reverence in their place Harnessed themselves ; amazed, thou didst refuse Farther to go, and, at the deep disgrace Indignant blushing, didst exclaim : " Give o'er If we are beasts, not men, let us restore To our lost lords their mules, and bondage claim once more." 268 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Not spoken vauntingly ! Thou wast impelled By love of thine own kind ; the rights of men By thee were in such estimation held, That life without them but as death had been. Still lenient in all trifling things, from thee Well-meaning weakness needed ne'er to flee ; Guilt only feared thy frown, and soulless tyranny. '5 Yet why should I such things of thee relate .'' They scarce can add new lustre to thy name ; I would not that a life so truly great Seem blown to greatness by the breath of Fame, Which cannot more ennoble men like thee : Such scarce are honored by celebrity. O, no 1 true virtue still its own reward must be. I'm glad thou didst die poor, that flattery's voice Deigns scarcely to applaud ; for, if the upright Might always in prosperity rejoice. Life would no moral point, would shed no light ; Selfish and wise would be as one, and then The good would seem but what the bad have been — Well-doers, not for good's sake, but to be seen of men. Here will I leave thee, then, without a sigh For what is lost, but what lives of thee cherish ; Since with thy words thine influence shall not die, I am content ; thou shalt not wholly perish. Each good life doth lost faith in good restore, And that good men have lived, though now no more. Impels to greater worth than earth hath known before. Sleep on — no monument of marble pride To mark thy grave, no flattering tongues nor pens To praise thee! Thus thou wouldst have lived — thus died' One amongst undistinguished citizens. THE NUPTIALS 269 Thy memory sacred in their hearts shall be Who through all time most reverence liberty ; And who best love mankind will ever best love thee. No idle statue apes thine air — no bust '^ Mocks thy calm smile. Thou died'st with good outworn, And o'er the uncolumned tomb that holds thy dust '7 Thousands of freemen pass each night and morn, Trampling the pavement with unceasing tread In never-ending armies o'er thy head, To whom thy very name is, like thine ashes, dead. What matters it ? Thy wishes are fulfilled ! A living tide sweeps o'er thee like a wave ; And Freedom, for whom so much blood was spilled, Seems chanting thus the requiem o'er thy grave : " These streams of life were first inspired by thee ; Thou taughtest first the fathers to be free. Be this thy monument — the children's liberty." THE NUPTIALS: OR, MARRIAGE OF THE TRUE AND THE BEAUTIFUL. I saw, as in a waking dream. When mingles morn with night. The sun and moon, with mutual beam, Burst on my dazzled sight ; And, wide unrolling in the blaze, The heavens seemed open to my gaze. And a fair maid, of graceful mien, Stood with a youth in white ; And all around heaven's hosts were seen, Clothed in celestial light. 270 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE The skies with sphery music rang, And all the stars together sang. But soon the strains more softly flow, And in rich cadence close. When Heaven's high priest, in robes of snow, Upon his feet uprose ; The hosts closed round him like a cloud, While thus he raised his voice aloud : — ** Wilt thou, O Truth, this maiden take To be thy wedded wife. And, all renouncing for her sake, Make glad with her thy life ? " He spoke, and all the heavens grew still : Truth answered solemnly, " I will ! " " Beauty, wilt thou," the archangel cried, " Accept this willing youth ? Wilt thou renounce all loves beside, And cling for aye to Truth, Content his days to adorn and bless ? " And Beauty, blushing, answered, " Yes ! " Then, with a shout that shook the skies. Rejoiced the seraph bands ; The two stood mute, with downcast eyes ; The archangel joined their hands, And blessed them both, and said, " 'Tis done ; Beauty and Truth, henceforth be one ! " As for what more I saw, if aught. My senses have forgot ; And oft I ponder in my thought. If 'twere a dream or not. Yet, when the Beautiful I view, She still seems wedded to the True. TO A SNOW-COVERED APPLE TREE 27 1 TO A SNOW-COVERED APPLE TREE. Poor trunk, half hid in snowy wreath, So late my favorite tree. When your red-fruited boughs beneath I rested carelessly — How mournfully the howling blast. This desolated scene, And that cold, icy cowl, contrast With days when you were green ! Here plucked I the first flowers of spring. Here took my summer's nap. Whilst you in playfulness would fling Your apples in my lap. Or with a sudden whisper break The sleep that bound too long, When cuckoos through the groves would wake Their rain-foretelling song. And here, through autumn's golden hours. You've cast your ripened store, And, ere half gathered, with new showers Would still give more and more. And oft, to make dull days rejoice. With tales the time you'd cheer ; And still more lively grew your voice. As winter grew more near. And when October, clear and cold. Had chilled my grassy seat, 2/2 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE How oft you've plucked your locks of gold, And cast them at my feet ! Whene'er with friends, in pleasant speech, I 'neath your shade reclined, Your outstretched arms o'er all would reach, In benediction kind. And, if the fate of loved ones dead At eve we would recall. In dews, upon each downcast head, How fast your tears would fall ! And, while we've talked of days gone by. Or spoke in freedom's cause. How oft you've answered with a sigh, Or murmured your applause ! Here was I wont to quaft my wine, So luscious to the taste — A present from the graceful vine That clung around your waist — And still that clings, and seems to love. Though faded all your charms, Still reaching these deep snows above, To clasp you in her arms. Yet why should I bewail you here. Or mourn o'er your decay. Since the fond friends that made you dear Have also passed away ? An equal fate we're doomed to know, The self-same lot we share : THE ASSABET BROOK AND RIVER 273 You Stand forlorn in wastes of snow, And I in wastes of care. Time's frosts must bleach my locks of black, As snows your every bough ; To vanished joys we both look back, And ask, " Where are they now ? " THE ASSABET BROOK AND RIVER. '^ Born on hills and nursed by springs, Its little waves, like outstretched wings Feathered with foam, all snowy white, Waft it adown, how swift ! how light ! From uplands brown, where browsing flocks Crop a scant meal amongst the rocks, To meadows green and fertile fields. Where earth her richest harvest yields, Until its waters, clear and cool, Enter my favorite bathing pool. Here in content so still they lie, Reflecting a scarce ruffled sky, That in calm days the place might pass For fair Narcissus' looking-glass — All mute, save where a tinkling fall Spills amongst hemlocks dark and tall. And round the roots of each old tree Curls with a whispering melody. Where the trunk of blasted pine, Wreathed around with many a vine, All of boughs and bark bereft, Weak and trembling, spans the cleft, While yet another mounted higher, Propped by green banks of sweetbrier, 274 CONSOLATIONS OF SOL J TUBE Quakes beneath the trembling hands Of him that on the frail bridge stands, There, the tottering rail below, The limpid waters wreathing flow, Now hid from sight in piny shroud. Now 'neath the light and quivering cloud Of bending aspens glimmering pale ; There swift the fleecy foam-balls sail, Till, with the current clear and thin, They plunge my little basin in, And on the pool so smooth and deep Lie settled in a tranquil sleep. That pool, so pleasant to the sight. At last shall stranger eyes delight, Since now the artist's skilful hand '9 Hath made its placid breast expand In mimic floods, on painted vales, Where winds the rill through sepia dales ; And now its little cataracts rush O'er barriers built with pen and brush. 'Midst pencilled woods and inky grass, Unheard, though seen, its waters pass, And oft recall, in wintry hours. Its merry route 'twixt banks of flowers. But endless peace on earth below Were bliss nor thou nor I must know ; Fate such boon hath granted not Or to man's or nature's lot. Thou, too, bright and beauteous brook Oft dost lose thy tranquil look, Destined in a sterner course Force to overcome with force. When, beneath a three days' shower. Driven before the freshet's power, THE ASS ABET BROOK AND RIVER 2^$. Who shall dare thy waves restrain, Lashed along by wind and rain ? Then the whirlpool, boiling round, Swells above the basin's bound ; Bursting through its prison doors, Down the rocky gulf it roars, And the waves so wildly toss, Human footsteps dare not cross. Thus in spring-time's earliest green Assabet's fair brook is seen. Ere its greater namesake hides In her breast its tiny tides. But, when both, their floods combined. In a river's strength are joined. Then its voice more silent grows ; In a deeper bed it flows. Sweeping on through glen and glade, Now in light, and now in shade. Plunging here 'neath buzzing mill, There in broad pool resting still, Till at last, in Acton's grove, Scarce the current seems to move. And its azure breast expands To a placid lake, and stands So still, that scarce a tiny wave Ripples above the river's grave. There from the east, with solemn frown, Sudbury's pine-clad hills look down ; While to the west, in shadows deep. The fields long after sunrise sleep. Sweet, in the morn of sultry day. To that o'erarching shade to stray, Where the causeway spans the tide. 276 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Flanked with elms on either side. There, circling slow round islands green, Fixed their foamy tracks between. Poured through channels three, the torrent Rushes in a triple current : One checked when, shut across at night. The sluicegate bars the water's flight ; One almost dead, save when it drains The vernal snows and autumn rains ; While through the third the full stream gushes, And to its steep plunge boldly rushes. Here, as the torrent wildly tears Down its rocky flight of stairs, Low on either margin bending. Drooping elms, their dark boughs blending. Lock their long arms the gorge across, And, as the breeze-fanned branches toss. The green leaves fluttering to and fro But half conceal the surge below. Whiter than the drifted snow ; While the pale mists, all silvery gray. Brood o'er the gulf of boiling spray. Sweeter, on some still night in June, When full-grown leaves half hide the moon, And every star his watch doth keep. And all the house is wrapped in sleep. To view without the cheerful light, And see the ripples glancing bright. When the dripping wheel hangs still In the crazy old gristmill. Where, trickling 'mongst the mouldering beams. The flood sinks in a hundred streams ; While far away the screech-owl shrill Cries from the orchard 'neath the hill, THE ASS A BET BROOK AND RIVER Z'J'J And the near cataract all night long Lulls the ear with murmuring song. Most beauteous, when the uprisen sun Begins at morn his race to run, And, levelling his arrowy beam. Pierces the pines with fitful gleam, Where, towering up the steep ascent, Their tall tops sweep the firmament. But soon the rays spill softly o'er, And stream along the opposing shore, Scattering in air the misty wreath That broods upon the lake beneath. On whose fair bosom night and day Both at once their charms display. Gleaming half like molten gold. Shrouded half in shadows cold ; While the broad hill, so darkly brown, Dips in the wave its pine-capped crown, And dives full many a fathom down. Such, at least in days of yore. Was the look the landscape wore ; Such a look it wears no more. Long ago the hands of men Lopped the elms, laid waste the glen. Swept the forest from the hill, Closed the sluiceway, shut the mill. All its beauties are defaced ; Now the scene 's a naked waste. Sweet Acton vales and woods, farewell ! No more the autumn breeze shall swell Through your green boughs ; no sign appears Of all I loved in earlier years, Save where even yet the maples sigh 2/8 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE To the swift river sweeping by, Or where the flume, with its dull moan, Lends to the winds a deeper tone. No more, through boughs the walks that lined, I see the millwheel far behind. In its white halo whirling round, While the swift clapper's lively sound Blent with the roar of the bright fall That glittered through its leafy wall. Still on the river's banks below, Where, near the verge, the ball-flowers blow," The little gravel walk that winds Close on the brink even yet reminds Of those blest days when, far from home, I, as a school boy, loved to roam Through the green pathway wet with foam, While o'er the wave the grapevines hung. Far out of reach. How tempting swung The purple clusters, fain to sweep The frothy flakes from out the deep, So low they dangled ! But at last, A hundred lovely arbors past, The flowery footpath devious wound To a lone meadow, where no sound Broke on the ear ; where, broad and high, Dense-wooded hills cut off the sky. Here the deep stream flowed mute as death ; The very storm-winds held their breath, And human feet drew seldom near ; The autumn breeze scarce whispered here ; And the deep waters, darkly blue. With funeral pace went marching through, Opening two vistas. Upward far. The flume fell twinkling like a star ; THE ASS ABET BROOK AND RIVER 2/9 Downward, one long bright streak was seen, Flashing 'twixt walls of living green. Farewell, brave woods the walks that shaded 1 Since the rude axe your peace invaded ; Farewell, sweet vale ! No more to brood Recluse shall seek thy solitude. The noisy highway ploughs thy breast ; The lumbering cart-wheel breaks thy rest ; And, in the solemn shades below Where May beheld the unmelted snow, Ten times a day, through hill and dale, With fiery breath and clattering tail, A dragon black glides yelling through, Soiling with dust the morning dew. And, from a throat that reeks with steam. At thy green gate sends forth his scream, Hideous to hear. O, never more Shall time thy loveliness restore ! Yet why should I such fate lament. Who, ere youth's dreamy days were spent, Learned to foresee in each to-morrow An equal chance for joy and sorrow. 'Tis sure small reason now for tears That thou art changed in twenty years, When I have known one single night Snatch from my arms life's best delight. I, too, am changed, nor more despair Because things are not what they were, Since with each change, howe'er bereft, I count unnumbered blessings left ; And, prone to hope, I live at last More in the future than the past. Yet 'twould some pleasure yield, I deem, Were I but master of life's stream, 28o CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE As thou of thine, blue smilinj^ river, That flowest gayly still as ever. In vain shall man his hands employ All thy beauty to destroy ; Still in the groves thy steps are free ; He hath not locked thee there ; I see Thine untamed strength, delighting still To sweep the vale and cleave the hill, Where, laughing loud in joyous song. Thou flashest the green fields along, Till, in old Concord's battle plain. Thy gladsome face grows grave again. There, joined with Sudbury's sluggish tides, In statelier march thy current glides. Near that gray column, rude and low,^' Where Freedom struck her earliest blow, Thy reverential waters pass Smooth as a lake of molten glass. But here, fair stream, I heed thee not ; Flow on thy course, henceforth forgot. Soon shalt thou hear amongst the hills The clattering of a hundred mills. There fated for some while to be Tamed to a transient industry. Trained to the trench to feed the flume. Twirl the spindle, work the loom. But tyrants cannot rein thee long ; Thou dost remember thine old song, Which first was taught thee by the fountain That fed thee on her native mountain ; Not long contented thus to be Bound to a toilsome slavery, Sudden thou leapest on the back Of the mighty Merrimack, Who bears thee on in laughing glee, Glad of his new-found company. THE ASS ABET BROOK AND RIVER 28 1 Soon shalt thou hear the surges roar Where the great billows lash the shore ; There Neptune waits, and with delight Sees his descendants heave in sight; Alas, thou dost not know his face, The kingly grandsire of thy race ! He was the father of the fountain That first begat thee on the mountain. 'Tis done ; old Newbury's sandbars crossed. Soon shall the ship-lined shore be lost. Farewell ! The old sea king claims thy charms ; Thou'rt clasped in thy great grandsire's arms. Lost for a while, thou shalt not perish ; Ocean's care thy life shall cherish ; And, though thou seem like one entombed, Not to dissolution doomed. But exhaled, and soaring high. Thou shalt mount the azure sky, And, to life eternal fated. O'er and o'er shalt be created. Sometimes in fierce torrents pouring, When the winds and waves are roaring. Thou, 'midst thunders bellowing loud, Shalt leap in lightnings from the cloud. Then in gentle showers of rain. Softly shalt descend again, To refresh the thirsty earth. And bring the buried flowers to birth. Happy river ! Well in thee May imagination see, Mirrored, mortal destiny. In alternate peace and strife, Floweth thus the stream of life ; 282 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And what erring men call death Is renewal of our breath. Just as vapors from the main Soar in mist that sank in rain, So in death life shall not rust, But, exhaled from worthless dust, From earth's bosom it shall rise O'er again to greet the skies, And its Almighty Author bless. Father of life and happiness. Farewell, sweet Assabet ! I see Pictured in ocean, and in thee. An emblem of eternity. TO AN ALCHEMIST, SEEKING THE ELIXIR OF LIFE. And wouldst thou seek, misguided man To immortalize this earthly life — A life, even now, whose little span Suffices for unending strife 1 O, spare thy labor, lest I see Man's direst enemy in thee. Full soon, even now, our years grow old ; Life's joys are spent before its breath ; And, long before the blood grows cold, The heart is oft consigned to death. Should fate forget life's thread to sever. Then guilt and grief would last forever. Teach how to kill both time and care ; Then will I hail thee as a friend ! TO AN ALCHEMIST 283 But life will drive us to despair, If Time himself must know no end. O, curse not thou the race of men With more than threescore years and ten I If from the throats of one another Thou couldst awhile the fangs restrain With which each wolf devours his brother, To make men happy still were vain ; For, all the fiercer passions past, The beast turns miser at the last. O, transient life of man ! How vain Thy miserable days appear — Record of guilt, despair and pain, Still lengthening on from year to year 1 Ah, who would stay the hand of fate. And give to woe an endless date ? I see the infant doomed to weep, Scared by a thousand causeless fears ; Life's happier half benumbed with sleep. The rest consumed in useless tears ; Wanting it knows not what, nor why, Oft doubting if to laugh or cry. The child his time in wishing wastes, Still building castles in the air ; The youth is restless till he tastes The cup whose waters breed despair ; Both weaklings, doomed full oft to stand Misguided by another's hand. I see the man but as a child More shameless grown ; he wastes life's hour In aimless schemes or actions wild, Tormenting through abuse of power, 284 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Tormented by his lusts, and torn By passions of the Furies born. I see the old man but wise in name, Crabbed and sour and disappointed, Cowardly, covetous ; his frame Crazy and cracked and all disjointed. His wits unsound, his love unprized. Despising youth, by youth despised ; And, if extended to fourscore Upon life's rack, a lengthening train Of bodily ills ! What wouldst thou more ? Chill rheumatism's dull chronic pain. Gravel, and cramps, and twinging gout. Rack the dry bag of bones about. Then life goes back to its first tears ; The dotard starves himself, in dread Lest starve he may, forsooth, and fears There's none will bury him when dead. Nor dreams his heirs may well be tasked With work they'll gladly do unasked. Good God ! Beyond this living death Wouldst thou have more ? Thy search forbear ; Even let me earlier yield my breath, Following the gentle and the fair. Since such is life, 'twas wisely sung, " He in whom Jove delights dies young." Good alchemist, even hold thy hand ; Yield death his due ; hard lot 'twould be, If life's vast lazar-house should stand Uncleansed to all eternity ; And, if thou wouldst control man's fate, O shorten, not extend his date ! TO LUDOVICO CORNARO 285 TO LUDOVICO CORNARO. O thou that for an hundred years Didst lightly tread the ancestral hall, Yet sawest thy brethren bathed in tears, Cut down ere ripe, and round thee fall, — Well didst thou deem long life the measure Of long enjoyment to the wise, To fools alone devoid of pleasure ; Thou wouldst not die as the fool dies. Robbed of thy titles, lands, and health, With man and fortune in disgrace, In wisdom didst thou seek thy wealth. Thy peace in friendship to thy race. With thine eleven grandchildren met, Thou couldst at will become the boy ; And, thine own sorrows to forget, Couldst lose thyself in others' joy, — Couldst mount thy horse when past fourscore, And climb steep hills, and on dull days Cheer the long hours with learned lore. Or spend thy wit on tales and plays. In summer, thou wast friend of flowers, And, when the winter nights grew long, And music cheered the evening hours. Still clearest was the old man's song. Thus, while thy calm and thoughtful mind The ravages of time survived. Three generations of mankind Dropped round thee, joyless and short-lived. 286 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Thou sawest the flowers of youth decay, Half dried and withered through excess, Till, nursed by virtue's milder ray, Thy green age grew to fruitfulness. Thou sawest life's barque on troubled seas Long tossed ; care's clouds thy skies o'ercast ; But calm content, with moderate breeze, Brought thee to wisdom's port at last. Life's evening, wherein most behold Their season of regrets and fears, Became for thee an age of gold, And gave thee all thy happiest years. As gentle airs and genial sun Stay winter's march when leaves grow sere, And, when the summer's race is run, With a new summer crown the year ; So temperance, like that lingering glow Which makes the October woods so bright, Did on thy vale of years bestow A glorious autumn of delight. What useful lessons might our race From thy so sage experience draw ! Earth might become a joyous place, Would man but reverence nature's law. Soar folly, self, and sense above ; Govern each mutinous desire ; Nor let the sacred flame of love In passion's hurricane expire. ODE TO CONSCIENCE 28/ No wondrous works of hand or mind Were thine ; God bade thee stand and wait, A living proof to all thy kind That a wise man may master fate. Happy that life around whose close The virtues all their rainbows cast, While wisdom and the soul's repose Make age more blest than all the past ! ODE TO CONSCIENCE. Mysterious monitor, that in the crowd Art silent most while other tongues are loud, But in still seasons, when there's none to hear. At night, and in lone solitudes, art near. Startling the drowsy soul with speech severe ! O how shall he who fears thee from thee 'scape.'' How learn to shun thee, thou that hast no shape ? If he would fly, the whirlwind thou outridest ; If he would hide, in his own heart thou bidest. Who swiftest runs is soonest with thee met. Remembering most when most he would forget. If pleasure beckons, straightway thou intrudest — If business, thou on privacy dost press ; If sleep beguiles, then in a dream thou broodest. Most dreadful in most absolute emptiness. Knocking at no man's door, where thou wilt stay. There enterest thou, nor wilt be driven away. Sometimes in midnight dark thou dost mount horse, Riding fierce nightmare with thy fiend. Remorse ; 288 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Sometimes thou dost come sailing through the air, Borne on the black wings of thy bird, Despair. Yet ever without din, Unseen, thou enterest in, Most like a noiseless breath, When all is mute as death, And he who hears thy still small voice Reproaching can no more rejoice. Although he scours away in dread, Soft as the step of thief, thy tread His frightened fancy hears, and feels Closely pursuing at his heels ; Or, like one riding on his back, Thou'rt with him though he shifts his track, And thy upbraidings, whispered clear, Are ever ringing in his ear, Like the continuous knell Of never-ending bell. When old Night her watch doth keep, And the world is wrapped in sleep, Flitting the eye and ear between. Like a thing half heard, half seen, — Now real, now unreal, — in a dream Thou harpest on some dim-remembered theme Of evil, dead and buried long, Which thou wilt weave in solemn song. Recalling what we would remember not, Making most clear what was most long forgot, And in the breast Breed such unrest. As thrills the night when some great wave's commotion Sends its vast whispers from the heaving ocean. No evil doth so hidden lie But thy keen sight can it descry, ODE TO CONSCIENCE 289 And from the dark void of the past Thou wilt draw out the thing at last, Even as a dog brings stones that in the waves are cast, And o'er and o'er the action will repeat. And drop them reeking at his master's feet. Or, as from deep earth out of sight He drags a murdered corpse to light. So from the guilty past thou drawest, unbid. The thought that from its very self was hid. And before blushing memory's eyes wilt lay The hateful thing in the full glare of day. Through stole and cassock thou canst see The cold heart of hypocrisy ; Thou dost rend off the covering thin Of vanity's gay, painted skin, And what a virtue seemed wilt show a sin. Pride thou detectest in humility. Fraud in sweet smiles, and selfishness canst see In what the world deemed magnanimity. The false, midst praise, still hear thy voice condemn. Saying, " Woe betide thy deeds 1 Thou wouldst be seen of men." Names in thy thought do not for natures stand ; What men deem gold to thee is glistering sand ; And whom the world calls fair, or just, or wise, When tried by thee, thou dost so worthless prize, That ugliness grows foul in its own eyes. Who so just that can be sure In thy judgment to stand pure r Sole court whose verdicts none can doubt, Setting our sins to find us out, Thou doomest each, howe'er he err, 290 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE To be self-executioner, Sure that the guilty will invent Their own severest punishment, And that no retribution he shall lack Who is but left to find the rod for his own back. Thou restless one, begone, and sleep In desert wild or forest deep ! In my heart why wilt thou lie, Like a worm that will not die ? Why vex my unrefreshing slumber ? Nightly thou my faults dost number ; And, if I bid thee come no more. Thou countest plainer than before. Thou dost even creep into the house of mirth, Hover unwelcome round the social hearth ; Oft in laughter wilt thou wail. Making the rosy cheek turn pale, And the affrighted soul wilt mock In the ticking of the clock, — Wilt in embers, while they die, From the ashes seem to sigh. Ever present, though unsought, Thou hauntest each most secret thought, Breaking with these harsh words our peace : "Thou and thine evil soon must cease." Even at the feast, in flowing bowl, Thou dost appall the guilty soul, — Wilt join the dance with noiseless tread, And, with dull sighs and moanings dread, Wilt mingle with the music's sweetest breath. And change the gayest notes to the deep wail of death, Bid lights burn blue, ghosts dance upon the wall, And curtain every window with a pall. ODE TO CONSCIENCE 29! But with a pang how fierce Thy vengeance loves to pierce Their flinty hearts, whose selfish pride Would human sufferings deride ! When some unwonted grief is brought to birth, Shrouding in sudden gloom the joys of earth, The reckless wrong that roused no dread, While false prosperity protected, Back upon the guilty head Recoils, resistless, unexpected. And oft, in hours of discontent, When passion its last force hath spent, Or when man's childish rage Dissolves in hoary age. And care no more can be forgot in jollity, Thy frown can dotage fright from its frivolity ; Thou like a breaker from the past wilt roll. And with sad memories overwhelm the soul. And o'er thy surging waves the will hath no control The man whose power oppressed the weak, Whose face the humble durst not seek. Ready to crush his rival, scourge his slave, Yet by the world named chivalrous and brave. Who, proud of lofty look and lordly eye, Ne'er dreamed that insignificance could fly To higher laws from human tyranny, — He who waxed fat in days of strength. Reduced to helplessness at length, — Trembles with terror as he hears Thy low voice whispering in his ears. For thou wilt come in hour forlorn. And him that laughed thy power to scorn Thou wilt make sweat with fear and dread. Even while he walks with towering head ; 292 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And, while his countenance betrays No signs of restless nights and days, While in his pomp vain worldlings see The bright smiles of prosperity, Thou, lurking 'neath that outside gay, Wilt lie concealed, and day by day Gnaw peace, and hope, and health away. Thou wilt even search that dullard out Who of his error lives in doubt, — Whose empty, undistinguished life Is spent afar from noise and strife, — Who deems himself of saintly kind, Since evil, lurking in his mind, Ne'er into world-wide action grew, Rejoicing that his crimes are few ; Yet who, by sophistry acquitted. Long did such evil as he durst ; A tyrant where the law permitted. His enmities in secret nursed. And, shrinking from the open blow, Sought but to undermine his foe ; A wretch who fain from danger's face would flee, But never spared a prostrate enemy. He did not murder, nor at midnight steal, He ne'er rebelled against the common weal. Was no adulterer, and detested dice ; Yet each mock virtue, gendered of some vice, Can claim no ancestor save cowardice. This man thanks God that he hath been No profligate, like other men, Since with less warmth, less love than they, No strong temptations led astray ; " Favored by grace ! " as if Heaven's smile E'er beamed benignant on the vile ! ODE TO CONSCIENCE 293 O thou, who with sharp eyes canst see Each mean shift of hypocrisy, Who, sparing oft the man of action. Pitying the angry feuds of faction, Art still most terrible to these, Who would both God and mammon please ! Even though thou sleep, thou see'st, and wilt awaken, And judge ; few e'er by thee are long forsaken. Yes, thou wilt rouse, relentless even to those Who fain had wronged, but failed to reach their foes. Who pondered evil, but the deed refrained. Who only wished, while chance or fear restrained. Thou wilt disdain to ask, "Was crime committed? " Who but designed, or willingly permitted, Hath done the deed, and may not go acquitted. He starved the famished that refused him bread. And he hath stolen who only coveted ; He stabs his victim who but hides the knife ; He slays his foe that will not save his life ; For 'tis the mind that murders, in thy sight ; The heart is guilty, though the hands are white. Man is deceived ; he sees, as in a dream. Not what things are, but only what they seem. He knows the act, but cannot judge the will. The thief who walks in light loves darkness still ; Hatred can smile, hypocrisy can pray. Silence can lie, embraces can betray. And fraud, even with true words, from truth can lead astray. But thou wilt track imposture ; thou wilt trace Guile to the altar's self, and face to face Wilt meet, and wilt unmask, reckless of time and place. Thou dost deem great what oft the world deems least ; Fierce words, harsh thoughts, even cruelty to a beast, The unnecessary blow, the wanton wound. 294 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE The shot that felled some creature to the ground, That choked yon harmless thrush's music sweet, And laid the songster lifeless at our feet. Thou askest by what right we do such wrong. Shattering God's beauteous instrument of song ; And, when mischance with some unwonted pain The wanton sport revenges not in vain. Then these small wrongs will breed such melancholy As health had laughed at for an idle folly. All will come back ; each creature's dying moan Will haunt us with a sad, reproachful tone. Things that seemed little in our eyes Will swell in thought to monstrous size ; And faults for which we felt ashamed to care Will, in the hour of anguish, breed despair. O pitiless one, that wouldst be sighing In the dull ears of sick and dying, Ever vexing most the breast That hath greatest need of rest ! Wilt not thou, too, die at last, When the din of life is past ? Or, in the gloomy shades below, Wilt thou forever to and fro Pursue the viewless, voiceless band That ghastly roams the Stygian strand ? Alas for man's poor, persecuted race. If it shall ne'er escape thy tireless chase ! Might we but feel thy blows, thy countenance see, 'Twere comfort, even though vain from thee to flee; But dreadful is the thought of unseen enemy. Art thou, then, foe To all men ? No ! To them that are born blind, Stern one, thou canst be kind, ODE TO CONSCIENCE 295 Friend of the generous, just and wise ; The upright alone with fearless eyes Greet thine approach, and who can gain Thy friendship may scorn earthly pain, In desert wastes or prison cell Need not discontented dwell, Nor dread, if he but do thy will, Them that the body only kill. Even Error's self within thy sight Walks guiltless, so he meant the right, Even though, unshocked and unrelenting, He hath stood by with mind consenting To the destruction of the good ; Even though bestained with innocent blood, Thou lettest him escape unchid. Because he knew not what he did. But, above all, is dear to thee Plain truth and frank sincerity ; The wish benign, the action kind, Ever a friend in thee will find. Thou hast no care for human creeds. Loving good will and generous deeds ; None ever yet with man dwelt as a brother, But found thee kind and gentle as a mother ; For thou, like God above, Ever best lovest love. And thou and he will much forgive To them that with much love shall live. Whom thou befriendest ever walks in light ; His morn is not more lovely than his night ; Long, solitary years canst thou beguile. Where thou wilt grant one fond, approving smile. O when, 'neath wintry moonbeams pale, Thou deignest thy dread face to unveil, 296 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Let it not be with that sad look At which repentant Peter shook, When the cock crew ! That awful glance, Keen and piercing as a lance, Might make even Satan leer askance, Met while on wicked errand bent, — Glance to strike dumb the irreverent, And guilt make mad, as, blood-defiled. From realm to realm, from wild to wild. Fled Clytaemnestra's hapless child, Remorse forever on his track And all the Furies at his back. Nor eye me with that gaze intent Which can fright even the innocent, And drive Dejection to despair, When, deeming heaven disdains her prayer, She vaguely wails some shadowy sin That may no pitying pardon win. Ah, while thy face unveiled I see. If thou shouldst speak, let it not be With that stern voice which, like a knell. On ears of traitor Judas fell, When thou didst bid the wretch farewell, - But Avith approving smile and speech, Such as could suffering patience teach To his mild Master, on that morn Which saw him unresisting torn With bloody scourge and crown of thorn ; Such as, in Truth's great service, gave To Socrates a soul to brave Hate, persecution, and the grave ; Such as sustained the steadfast mind Of Belisarius, old and blind, Who begged his bread with humble mien ODE TO CONSCIENCE 297 Where once he had a conqueror been ; Or such as could sweet hope reveal To virtuous Galas, doomed to feel The terrors of the torturing wheel ; Or such as solaced Orleans' maid, When, not in arms, but flames arrayed, She met her sad fate undismayed; Or such as in these later years Could nerve the hand and calm the fears Of that fair girl of Normandy, Who, with a dauntless soul and free, Left home and friends, and, knife in hand. Burning to save her ravaged land From License, that with ruthless tread Strode o'er the grave of Freedom dead, Flaunting her cap upon his head. Slew, as she hoped, even in his den, That dragon gorged with flesh of men — In vain ; too numerous was the brood Of savage beasts that raged for blood. O, tranquil yet relentless Power, Reverenced even in childhood's hour. Although, some time from thee estranged, I knew thee long with countenance changed ! Let me walk humbly in thy sight. With honest thought and heart upright. None can avoid thee ; though he fly Beyond the realms of space, thine eye Shall follow there, and all his ways descry. If with forgetfulness, to shun despair. Listless he dwells, lo ! thou art present there, Still following like his shadow ; who from thee Hopes to escape first from himself must flee. Where'er I bide, thy still sm.all voice I hear, 298 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Accusing or excusing, ever near, Judging my love, my hate, my hope, my fear, Sifting even dreams as well as thought and action, Compacts dissolving, sundering the bands of faction. With noiseless flight, thy spirit on viewless wings Strengthens weak hands, and the strong arm unstrings, Makes slaves go free,' and can make slaves of kings. Thou governest all — the sailor on the wave. The soldier in his tent, the hermit in his cave. The conqueror at his feast, the mourner at the grave. Thou reignest in heaven, the archangels worship thed. Twin child with Love, first-born of Deity ! No seraph from thy face so far can fly. But thou wilt fix and hold him with thine eye, Wilt find him out in the most secret place, — Where'er he turns, he must behold thy face. Thou art o'er all, in all, throughout all Time and Space; And, if this earth and the sweet light of day E'er in chaotic darkness melt away. Thy deep low voice, 'mongst the celestial spheres, Will still sound on throughout the unending years. There wilt thou dwell the immortal hosts among, Uttering thy runes severe in deathless song. Falsehood from truth unravelling, right from wrong. A SUMMER'S DAY 299 IHE MORNING, NOON, AND NIGHT OF A SUM- MER'S DAY. MORNING. Fair is the face of morn, When, from his watch retreating, the day-star Quenches his lamp, and echoing hounds and horn Ring o'er the hills afar ! Still sleeps the cloudy fold Whose fleecy flocks o'er all the hills lie spread, When, scarce concealed behind her veil of gold, Aurora leaves her bed ; But when, with saffron locks. From his cold bath upsprings the god of day, All drenched in showers of light, the frightened flocks Scatter in mists away. Now, like a spark of fire. His wheel above the plain begins to rise ; And now the flames, his chariot mounting higher, Illumine all the skies, Redden each rocky steep. Spill down each slope, and fill with golden fire The glen, the gorge, steal through the forest deep, And wake each feathered choir. Nor beauteous less, in days When drifting fogs obscure the morn awhile, And when, in mellow gleams, the silvery haze Is softened to a smile. JOO CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Sometime, in vapory shroud, The drizzly mists o'er all the meadows hang ; While, through the brooding rift, booms doubly loud The distant clock-tower's clang. Soon from the valleys green The reek, dispersed, floats drifting far and wide ; And now once more the pearly lake is seen, Now the dark mountain's side ; And now the sudden blaze. From yon blue rent, fires up the sparkling grass ; And, as the sun, unveiled, begins to gaze Down in his watery glass. Slowly from all the scene The hoary vapors high in heaven uprise, And in blue hills, dark woods, and valleys green. The boundless landscape lies. NOON. Sweet is the hush of noon, When light hath searched each solitary nook, And the brown oak scarce whispers to the tune Of the light-babbling brook, — When cattle on the hill Have gathered round the roots of each old tree,- Mute all, save the woodpecker's hammering bill, Or buzz of humming bee, — When in the quiet wood The turtles gather where the brook flows by. All life retired to deepest solitude To shun the sultry sky. A SUMMER'S DAY 30I Then in some grove forlorn, Whose shade the bosom of the stream embowers, 'Mid glooms so deep that color sleeps unborn In the night-shrouded flowers, Where clustering vines enwreath Some aged oak, I also would retreat. And, undisturbed the leafy arch beneath, A prostrate log my seat, Retired with friend or book, I'd shun the busy wilderness of men — Though fain sometimes to quit the wood, the brook. The gloom-inspiring glen, For the deep-vollied roar Of lengthening waves that thunder on the beach. Or breezy lake, so broad that the far shore The tired sight scarce can reach, Save that, 'twixt isles of green. Through vistas blue the eyes delighted stray To where huge misty mountains bound the scene, And soar in heaven away. NIGHT. Fair, too, is mellow eve. When dusky shades o'er all the landscape creep, And the bright clouds their rosy radiance leave Upon the reddening deep ! The cricket sleepless sings, The glimmering firefly dimly lights the vale. And ghostly wraiths outstretch their vapory wings, And up the meadows sail. 302 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Now living things seem dead, And dead ones to a dreamy life are born, And shapeless visions sweep the air o'erhead, Or walk the earth forlorn ; Till from her cloudy cave Comes out in silvery robes night's beauteous queen, While each pale star peeps from his airy grave Forth on the night serene. But, hark ! that bird I hear, Which ever mourns at either end of day, Chiding the stars, or whether they appear, Or whether fade away. Sweet day ! Morn, noon, and night, Thou art all beautiful ! Through all thy range, Thus let me ever deem thee, with delight Viewing thine every change ! And, should that day arrive When nature can no longer make me gay, May men regard me as no more alive, And say, " He died that day." THE RIVULET 303 THE RIVULET. How merrily the streamlet flows, Light prattling at my feet ! Now in a double track it goes, And now its waters meet ; So, changing oft from side to side, Its floods now mingle, now divide. To a deep river grown at last, Its currents part no more. But, blent in one, go journeying fast To swell old ocean's roar. So, did I deem, love's growing strength Might of us two make one at length — That we together, side by side, Might tread with equal pace. Each other's joys and griefs divide ; Till, having run life's race. Commingling in Death's ocean wave, We both might sleep in the same grave. But, no ! our currents, sundered long, Flow on by different ways ; Thine to the east runs swift and strong. While mine far westward strays. Each hies to reach a different main. Nor more on earth shall meet again. Farewell, till from Time's tides we mount Exhaled to upper air, Like streams which thus at their first fount Their wasted strength repair. And, born anew in vernal showers, Meet once again in fields of flowers ! 304 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE NEW YEAR'S WISH. Companion of my heart, behold How swift the seasons take their flight I The new year overtakes the old, As day treads on the steps of night. Alas, my friend, no force of art Can long arrest life's fleeting day ; The road divides where soon we part, Each travelling to his house of clay. Transient is all that hope would cherish ; Life stands upon destruction's brink, Doomed in the arms of death to perish, As light in evening's lap must sink. Are the leaves fallen, the flowers decayed ? So friends, once many, fast grow few ; Life's sunshine darkens into shade ; Must life's affections perish, too ? Must hearts long tried forget to blend, Companions cease to know each other "i Must thou forget the name of friend, And I thy faithful fondness, brother ? Nay, trust it not ! 'Twas God above Who bade our hearts harmonious beat ; He who himself is boundless love Shall find for love some calm retreat. Yet, since the future is not ours, And all life's joys we briefly borrow, THE HERMIT OF MELVERN WATER 305 Let kindness water friendship's flowers, Whose scent may haply sweeten sorrow. As two good clocks in equal time Together click, nor slow nor fast, Strike all the hours in even chime, Ringing together to the last. So let our hearts, with faithful skill. In union beat till life shall end. And, mingling with united will, Heed not Time's weights as they descend. THE HERMIT OF MELVERN WATER. Two friendly travellers, side by side. Went forth to shun the city's noise, One thoughtful, pale, and gentle-eyed, The other flushed with manly pride — Both blithe as boys. They journeyed many a weary mile, Each to the other like a brother ; They leaped the dyke, they climbed the stile. Laughing and talking all the while With one another ; Until they reached the rocky glen Where Melvern waters foam and roar. Here long ago, when younger men. They'd roamed before — to roam again Now came once more. 306 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE The way with solemn shade was fraught, And for a while no words they spoke ; Each for some well known object sought; Each mused, but neither told his thought, Nor silence broke. But, when the hermit's hut they reach, Fixed in the mountain's deepest hollows. Each to himself thus framed his speech — The grave, the gay ; but each from each Concealed what follows. THE GAY. There stands the ancient hermit man, Still dreaming lone beneath the hill ! Where first his worthless life began, There lives he yet ; he hath no plan, An idler still. He moves as if he were in doubt Which way to go, and 'mongst the trees For squirrel-holes he hunts about, Sees some go in and some come out — Smiles as he sees. Thus, crutch in hand, he jogs alone, Now stops on silly flowers to pore. Now with his staff he strikes a stone. Now moralizes on a bone, But nothing more. Thou selfish soul ! 'Tis life's abuse To spend thy time in such a way ; Thy dreams are but a poor excuse For one who might have been of use In his longr dav. THE HERMIT OF MELVERN WATER 307 THE GRAVE. The second mused ; O, hermit sage, Who, wearied with the rancorous strife Which men with men unceasing wage, Hast here retired to spend thine age — An envied life ! Thou seemest youthful as a boy, Whilst gazing with so sweet a smile ; And, though thy hands find small employ, Yet in this dull world to enjoy Is worth life's while. When all our idle lives are o'er. Whoe'er can say he hath done as much, Need scarcely for lost time deplore ; Nine tenths of all the world, and more. Do worse than such. THE GAY. In his dark log house, low and mean. With no companion but a cat. He on his daily bread grows lean. While she her daily mouse picks clean, Half starved at that. Yet still she follows at his heel, Purrs, and sits by him like a wife ; Honest she is — there's nought to steal ; Courts not the fire — there's none to feel ; Such is their life. No neighbors near his joys enhance ; No faithful friend his arms receive ; 308 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE No wife, no babes, to greet his glance ; No village children come to dance, And bless his eve. No music cheers his hours forlorn, Save when some bullfrog's croak he hears , Or when, from early eve till morn The shrill mosquito winds its horn Full in his ears. Sad fate, to dwell like one that's dead, Unknown except to wolf or fox, Or woodpecker that taps o'erhead, Or wildcat that, with stealthy tread. Prowls 'mongst the rocks ! I'd rather drown me in the sea, Than dwell in such a cheerless gloom. Sure, man was made with man to be, To live in sweet society, Not in the tomb. THE GRAVE. Ah, what a blessed life, I ween, 'Mongst harmless birds to live like one I No bickerings blight the peaceful scene ; No blood bestains the herbage green ; Hated by none. Silent he wanders day by day. Bent on God's glorious works to brood Where harmless conies skip and play, Fearless and free, and far away From black ingratitude. i THE HERMIT OF MELVERN WATER 309 More blest than he who, doomed to roam 'Midst jostling crowds, can find no brother, Town on all sides, yet ne'er a home ; Where each lives for himself in gloom. None for another. THE GAY, I've seen him stroll with thumb-worn book At least five miles from any house, And for whole hours he'll stand and look In the bright waters of the brook, Still as a mouse. Sure no Narcissus glances back ! That leathern skin and visage weird Might almost turn the waters black. How hooked his nose 1 How crooked his back ! What frowsy beard ! THE GRAVE. Lovely to see, in streamlet fair, Wisdom beholding its own face ! Gleams back no hatred, no despair ; Smiles only are reflected there. And virtue's grace. THE GAY. What an unthrifty life he leads ! But one small patch of beans and peas ! He plants a few poor garden seeds, His radish beds are full of weeds, His own of fleas. 3IO CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE He hath no silver and no gold, All kinds of wealth, all power doth lack ; No house, no barns, no crops, no fold, Not even a cloak, to keep the cold From his old back. To live in such a lonely state, Like some wild creature in its hole. And be content with such a fate, This to my mind doth indicate A grovelling soul. THE GRAVE. Divided still 'twixt thought and toil. This man I deem most truly wise. He wastes no words, he spends no oil, And all he wants the fruitful soil Each day supplies. He fears no loss, he feels no cares. Hath no false friends, no foes to dread ; No crafty knaves here set their snares ; No creditors, no hungry heirs, Grudge him his bread. No passions to disturb repose, — No fear of war, wind, wave, or fire, — His placid life in calmness flows 'Midst gentle showers and silent snows, Without desire. THE GAY. In this rich world to have no choice, With none to help, with none to love, — THE HERMIT OF MEL VERN WA TER 3 1 1 What joy is this, where none rejoice ? There's none to listen to his voice, Save God above ; And, if he mourns, there's none to cheer, And, when he dies, there's none to weep. His dust, unmoistened by a tear. Must drift ungraved ; there's no one near To mark his sleep, Unless perhaps the wolf or crow, That dragged his corpse 'mongst yonder stones, For some brief time his fate might know, Till dropping leaves and drizzly snow Enshroud his bones. THE GRAVE. No false opinions here divide. In friendly peace live man and brute : He and his cat are of one side. And, were they not, the world is wide — There's no dispute. If he is sick, no man of skill Shall come to thump and to explore, With purge and plaster, drop and pill. To order things but as God's will Ordered before. The thought of Death will breed no fear, He'll wait his tap with a mind steady. A trifling change it will appear To one who was so long, while here, Half dead already. 312 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE No base dependants shall embrace, Nor brew with pungent drugs mock tears ; No canting priest, with lengthening face, Shall preach of the soul's hopeless case To dying ears. Nor bustling relatives draw nigh, To shrug with simulated dread. Or, with false tongue and long-drawn sigh. Exclaim, " Pray God he may not die ! " Yet wish him dead. And, when life's worn and crazy mill Hath shut her gate and slacked her wheel, No curious throngs the house shall fill, To hear the reading of his will, Longing to steal. No funeral guests the train shall swell, To bear him back to nature's womb, 'Midst tramp of feet and toll of bell ; Nor in rich garments shall he dwell In a foul tomb. But midst these hills and forests wild His aged eyes in peace shall close ; Death shall approach with manner mild, And take him as one bears a child To sweet repose. And, while his shroud pale winter weaves. Summer with showers his limbs shall lave ; Autumn shall pile in graceful sheaves Her wealth of many-colored leaves, To grace his grave. THE SOLITARY MAN 3x3 So shall my thoughts the sage revere Who nature viewed with loving eyes, Content to live on homely cheer, Regarding with delight sincere God's earth and skies. And now they reached the pathway bar — Leaped o'er — but neither spoke his mind. The hermit's pool gleamed back afar, In distance twinkling like a star, Their path behind. Each turns to look once more, and sees The lean old man far down the hill, His white locks waving in the breeze ; And at the squirrels in the trees He gazes still. THE SOLITARY MAN. What dost thou there alone Seated on mossy stone. Intent to view the flowery ground And grassy hummocks scattered round. Or, half asleep beside the murmuring rill, To watch the cattle feeding on the hill ? Thine eyes have gazed all day, yet have not seen their fill. An idler, thou, I'm told, Sad, solitary, cold ; A man, they say, who hath few friends, Who little gives and nothing lends. 314 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And lives alone ; men sneering pass thee by, And yet, old man, methinks I can descry Somewhat humane and wise within thy clear, gray eye. 'Tis true, the proud, the great, Disdain thy low estate ; They lawfully that rob the poor. And scorn the humble, call thee boor. Perhaps yon factor, deaf to sighs and prayers. Yon usurer grown lean to feed his heirs, Deem worthless one like thee, who only dreams and bears. Honest thou art and civil, Dreading nor man nor devil. No patron hast thou in the great ; Why shouldst thou care for church and state ? None knocking at thy door I ever see. Save those that come for taxes, tithes, or fee. Why, since thou'rt nought to men, should men be aught to thee ? Yet this, old man, thou provest : Them that love thee thou lovest 1 Or else thou wert not there alone, So long upon thy mossy stone. Plainly so full of joy from morn till night, Gazing on nature's face with such delight, That I feel friendly grown with thee, even at the sight. The sighing breezes woo thee. The light brook babbles to thee. The fearless squirrels round thee leap, And birds come singing thee to sleep : The shagbarks their ripe nuts around thee shed, While whispering oaks and murmuring pines o'erhead, To make thy couch more soft, the earth with dry leaves spread. THE SOLITARY MAN 315 The conies, clustering near, Sport round thee without fear, And clouds of crows that round thee rise Respect thy sleep and spare thine eyes. Each dumb thing here regards thee as a brother ; Nature alone hath been to thee a mother ; Therefore thou lovest her as thou dost love none other. The scenes that charm thee here Were to thy childhood dear ; Thy youth, thy manhood here were spent. And age here found thee still content ; Yon graves claim all thy tears, these fields thy pride ; Thy loved ones in yon cottage lived and died ; Each rock, each tree, hath some fond feeling sanctified. O, lone one, thou dost teach This doctrine without speech, That man in much is sport of chance ; That accident and circumstance Our lives control ; that past associations Form of our good and evil the foundations ; These elevate and these depress both men and nations. Who would judge men must learn If fate was kind or stern ; Nature and habit, not reflection, Direct in most the soul's affection. To know the man we must have known the boy, The sources of his sorrow and his joy ; Harsh judgments both our own and others' peace destroy. Our thoughts, even as our laws, Judge acts, but not the cause. We view with a contemptuous face Men not of our own creed or race. 3l6 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Nature hath made man's bitterest foe his brother, And custom, siding with our partial mother. Widens still more the breach that parts us from each other. All ignorant of God's will, Man is presumptuous still. A narrow judge of good and evil, He this one angel names, that devil, Though some, not bad, hard fate hath forced astray, And some, not good, were saints deem.ed in their day ; A destiny hath shaped our lives, even as our clay. He learns in an ill school That scorneth even the fool ; Both on life's sea are doomed to float As messmates in a leaky boat ; Bound to some goal unknown, the wise asks, " Where "i " His question answered is by empty air ; The fool, with cheerful face, glides on and doth not care. The one, with haughty looks. Points to his musty books, And cries with a contracted brov.-, " Stand off ! I better am than thou 1 " But God, the infinitely good and wise. Pities them both, forbearing to despise ; Both are as fools alike in his all-seeing eyes. He who in narrow bound Hath life's experience found. Ne'er summoned to affairs of state, Or on grave things to meditate. Who finds his love, his hate, his hope, his fear, All in a little hamlet, yet even here May prove a soul sublime, though in a narrow sphere. THE SOLITARY MAN 317 Each hath a destined lot, By self determined not, — The base oft born to rule a nation, The princely soul to humble station ; The king himself may die at last a boor. The wise philosopher finds nothing sure, Save a calm, steadfast mindj to the upright and pure. Some, born to high estate, Have been by unkind Fate So cramped that spiders, toads, and flies, Grew dear companions in their eyes. There have been men who, made with healthy sight. Have had their day so long obscured by night, That they have learned at last in darkness to delight. There have been men sincere Whose lot was so severe. That they have lost that joy in others We feel for parents, friends, and brothers. But yet with loathsome things delighted grew ; For love is still life's want, as Plutarch knew. Who said, they seek the false who have not found the true.^^ Yet he who dog or cat Can love loves God in that. . 'Tis a good shepherd loves his fold ; Hypocrisy alone is cold. And who shut out from man his life hath spent, Yet to his herds hath been benevolent, Enjoys, though in a low degree, God's own content How much more fool than thou Yon wight with wrinkled brow, Who to all science makes pretension, Yet love's blest art of self-extension 3l8 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Ne'er yet conceived, — who seeks the health's protection Rather in drugs, prescribed with grave direction, Than in a heart which feels for all God's works affection. Even they that call thee cold Less love mankind than gold ; In the drear haunts of social life, Bound but by fellowship of strife, They spend their days reviling and reviled. The worldling loves but self in his own child, And thought's sweet solitudes he deems a pathless wild. Yet none hate truth or right ; Even they that shun the light Look wistful back toward virtue's star — The good themselves, forsooth, how far From perfect goodness ! Yet from age to age Truth still advances, and earth's wisest sage Needs with each generation a new pupilage. Poor soul ! Thy narrow mind, By narrow views confined. Ne'er soared beyond thy little field. And history's book to thee is sealed. Thou lovest that which lies about thy door. And best whate'er thou hast loved best of yore — So art a faithful friend ; pray, how canst thou be more 1 The patriot, sacred name ! No merit more can claim ; He to a greater interest clings. Whilst thou art true to trifling things ; But at his country's bound he makes his stand, For her alone he lifts his voice or hand ; He cares not what befalls men of another land. THE SOLITARY MAN 3x9 Yet larger love of men Hath the world-citizen. He moves within a wider sphere, And all mankind to him are dear. He who the men of many climes hath known Finds virtue's flowers in other lands have grown, While he who stays at home all goodness deems his own. But who, with calm delight. Views through his glass at night The silent heavens, and sees the skies All twinkling with ten thousand eyes, And deems each one a living world to be. He'll scarce be bound to earth ; his soul would flee To dwell with distant stars in loving harmony. While God, who from on high Holds all things in his eye, From the vast chain of circling spheres To the small orbs of human tears. To such an infinite sympathy expands, His charity all space, all time, commands. And loves the world the more, since wrought by his own hands. Good soul ! Still all alone. Muse on thy mossy stone. Why should I thy sweet peace deride .'' Still watch thy cows ; the world is wide ; And, if I e'er mount nearer heaven than thou. This is my shame, to wear a cloudy brow, Whilst thou art worshipping as well as thou knowest how. Nay, even yon hare hard by. Who cannot look more high Than the green herbs that brush his nose, Cropping the fresh leaves as he goes, 320 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Hath also his religion, and, I fear. His pleasure to pure worship comes more near Than upturned eyes, long prayers, and looks austere. THE RAILROAD TRAIN. FIRST TREATMENT. What war-ship through the valley rides, Blazing afar midst fog and thunder? Now o'er the hills in air it glides, Now dives the lofty mountains under. How fast she flies, by fiery tempests fanned ! Filled by their breath, her smoky sails expand, And bear her proudly on o'er oceans of dry land. Hath sea-god or enchanter's wand Thus driven thee from thy native main, In haste so hot to invade the land And cast thy anchors on the plain ? Yet now no ship of war thou seem'st to be. But some rich argosy from Indian sea, By favoring gales impelled, and freighted weightily. Thy long train, like a fleet of boats. Moves upon many a shining keel ; Each on a magic river floats, By wizard spells transformed to steel. And now they skim the fields 'midst clouds of soot, Now swim the stream, now through the gorge they shoot, To reach their inland port, even at the mountain's foot. Down from the hills I see thee sail. And, joined by mates from every side, THE RAILROAD TRAIN 32 1 Each by a self-created gale Drive swiftly on to reach the tide, Freighted with many a stately tree, And from a grassy to a watery sea Bearing, as by free will, the works of industry, — And to those hills swift bringing back The wealth from every clime that flows. Each beacon light from mast of black Now through a dusty tempest glows ; And now 'mongst billowy rocks thy sails expand, And now thy bright keels spurn the desert strand. To plough through flinty spray o'er bays of glittering sand. THE RAILROAD TRAIN. SECOND TREATMENT. What fiery steed comes clattering past. With reeking breath and streaming mane ? His snort is like the wintry blast. His flight outstrips the hurricane. Breathless he pants, yet seems to sail, With force so smooth he cuts the wind. There, like a dragon's, glides the tail. Outstretched in ponderous length behind. And now the huge beast checks his speed. And stops to drink at yonder trough, And on his meal of logs to feed ; And now once more, with husky cough, 322 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE He starts afresh, and, whinnying loud, Pierces the air with shrilly neigh, — Now, like the lightning from a cloud. Flashes amongst the hills away. I hear him still, though out of sight, Through the cleft mountain thundering on ; Now a thin wreath of misty white Curls o'er the hill-top, and he's gone. Hark from afar that piercing scream I From five miles off he bids farewell — Such speed will bear the fiend, I deem, Ere nightfall to his native hell. Such yon poor Indian's wish, no doubt, Who hears from far the frightful sound. And fears lest he shall be cast out Ere long from his last hunting-ground. Well might he dread thy voice to hear, Who deemed thee by man's hand untrained, Free thine own reckless course to steer, And scatter mischief unrestrained. Thy head erect and hide of black Oft filled the unwonted SAvain with dread ; The scared flocks scamper from thy track, Wild beasts in terror hear thy tread, And to more secret shades take flight, When thou through dark com'st rumbling nigh, While, fitful breathing on the night. The fire-sparks from thy nostrils fly. THE RAILROAD TRAIN 325 Yet, sooty monster, such alone Have cause to fear 1 With service fine. Of all philanthropists, not one Can prove beneficence like thine. Thou sea to sea, and land to land, And state to state dost firmly bind ; Through thee shall earth and ocean stand In a more steadfast friendship joined. Thou hastenest news of good and ill, And scatterest knowledge in thy flight ; Through thee shall man's industrious skill Earth's hidden treasures bring to light. By thee made tame, each jarring race Its old hostilities shall quell ; Thou shalt subdue both time and space, And dark delusion's mists dispel. O swift-winged Messenger, or whether A thinking or a thoughtless thing, That thus so speedily together The tribes of all the earth canst bring, Till through repeated intercourse Men are more friendly grown each day ! Well may we thank, O iron horse, The chief who taught thee to obey, — Who noosed thee in thy native wild, And tamed thy rage with patient skill, And made thee gentle as a child. The servant of a wiser will. 324 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE But see ! He slacks his pace at length, And answers shrill his master's call, And slowly drags his giant strength. With noisy raptures, to his stall. There rest, until the groom's stout arm Shall harness thee to early toil, With a hot breakfast make thee warm, And rub thy stiffened joints with oil. Then, tugging at thy task once more, Upon thy destined journey press. And make the joyful mountains roar, — Give voice to the lone wilderness, • Where drowsy Echo startling wakes, And cheers thee on with deafening screams, While from thy nostrils the hot flakes Sweep o'er her hills in fiery streams ! THE MOUNTAIN J0URNEY.*3 Reader, hast thou e'er sought to gain The summit of some giant hill. When all thy comrades toiled in vain, Though firm of foot and strong of will, Gave up their purpose in despair. And left thee lonely climbing there ? Sometimes the tangled pathway wound O'er narrow ridge or dizzy steep. Where oft the frail and slippery ground Forced thee on hands and knees to creep, THE MOUNTAIN JOURNEY 325 And from the precipice's brink Oft threatened 'neath thy feet to sink. Sometimes before thine eyes uprose Majestic slopes, dark robed in firs, Which on all sides the prospect close In stately amphitheatres, While down their sides each cataract pale Glows like some distant comet's tail. No poisonous shrub of sickly hue ^-^ Mounts from the plain to meet us here, But gold and red and heavenly blue Smiling along the path appear. Surely thou saw'st, with deep surprise, The road so fair to reach the skies ! But, passed the pine and birchen grove,^s The scene begins to grow less gay; The trees that swept the skies above Now dwindle, and next die away ; Till, of all other growth bereft, The stunted firs alone are left. A squalid, straggling, rigid band Of aged dwarfs around thee stood, Such as of old, in fairy-land. Oft dwelt beneath the enchanted wood, Some seen from caves sly peeping out. While some the hillside strolled about. But soon in line the dwindling host Stands right across thy path, thick set. Where each, firm planted at his post, Receives thee with fixed bayonet. 326 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE That hope forlorn who would subdue Must climb the ranks, for none break through. And, lastly, nought thine eyes behold Save blasted stocks that gird thee round, A treeless waste, where breezes cold Sweep o'er the bleached and shrubless ground. Didst thou not deem that thriftless soil But ill repaid thy weary toil ? Yet, on the landscape looking round. What splendid prospect meets the eyes, Where, steep and high and hoary-crowned, A thousand mountains round thee rise, Each gazing o'er some neighbor's head, In ranks on ranks unlimited ! And now 'tis but a dreary route, Rocky and wild and wasted all ; And, clambering slow, thou'rt oft in doubt Or whether thou shalt stand or fall ; Whilst clouds encompassing the way Sometimes obscure the light of day, — Sometimes are changed to silvery dew, When sunlight bursts their folds of gray, Glances the grizzly spectres through. Or gilds their wings with glittering ray ; Sometimes the storm-king, bellowing loud. Shoots at thee from the darkest cloud. Here thy last comraae turns about, And downward gropes his drizzly way ; Thou ploddest still, till with a shout Thy glad eyes pierce that veil of gray, THE MOUNTAIN JOURNEY 327 And, gazing through the cloudy reek, Behold the mountain's topmost peak. 'Tis reached, and the pleased eye explores What glorious, soul-enchanting scene ! Far, far below the tempest roars, Above the blue heavens smile serene ; Whilst snow-white blossoms round thee blow Thine eyes had never seen below. Around thy feet thou seest no trace Of the green land thou late didst leave. All new ! The very insect race ^^ Are strangers to the vales beneath, And the fair flowers that round thee grow Have left their friends in lands of snow. Here, as the clouds beneath thy feet ^^ Their dark folds open now and then. Thou seest the driving rain-storm beat Upon the lower world of men. Whilst thou, enthroned in heaven's high arch, Behold'st unmoved the tempest's march. O say, if afterward this thought Ne'er struck thee amongst wrangling crowds ? So virtue's path with storms is fraught, The way to truth is veiled in clouds. And he who would their glories viev/ Must strain his strength, and struggle through. Weary and faint, without a friend, And guideless, must he travel still, The journey rugged to its end, But beauteous flowers crown all the hill ; 328 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And, to reward him for the past, His peace shall perfect be at last. Like them that climb the mountain's height, He from a safe but rocky steep Beholds far down delusion's light, From error's clouds that 'neath him sweep, Darting through storms its vivid flash. Followed by passion's thunder-crash. Yet, o'er the tempest raised secure, He, lordly throned in worlds serene, Looks from a cloudless sky and pure Upon the wild, distracting scene. As calmly as his eyes survey The sunset of a summer's day. TO A LEARNED MAN DREADING THE APPROACH OF OLD AGE. And dost thou grieve, because old age Comes travelling on so fast, Because life's weary pilgrimage Must wear thee out at last ? Do wrinkled brows and locks of gray Thy troubled fancy fright ? The sun hath beamed on all thy day — Why dread the moon at night .'' No, let the bad, the vain, the weak. The flight of time regret, In pleasure's ranks who vainly seek Their errors to forget. TO A LEARNED MAN DREADING OLD AGE 329 Who tares have planted in the past Must reap the worthless weed, — Who force in spring life's flowers too fast Harvest no ripened seed. But thou, that on grave wisdom's track Hast gleaned such precious store, And, on life's highway looking back, Seest little to deplore, Down to the vale of years mayst v/end Thy way, and smile at care ; 'Tis what we have been, valued friend. That makes us what we are. He who in folly's train hath danced, Or lived the slave of gain, Who ne'er another's joy enhanced, Nor soothed another's pain, — The envious man whose heart impure Corrodes within his breast, — Of all the miseries such endure. Decrepitude's the least. But wise old age, more blest than youth. Through error's mists can see, And, having faithful been to truth. From prejudice is free ; The quiet mind resists decay, And still is health's defence ; It thaws the frosts of time away By mild benevolence. And, as the late sun, glowing bright, Melts on the ocean's breast. And casts his glory half the night O'er all the reddeninsr west, 330 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE So virtuous age sinks calmly down, Refulgent to the last, And leaves the light of worth's renown To beautify the past. THE EXPERIENCED PHILOSOPHER. HIS REPROOF OF THE WISH TO COMMENCE LIFE ANEW. How has thy life been spent, that, in those years When time should hail thee master, thou wouldst still Tread backward to the senseless age of tears, To be once more the slave of others' will, And live a creeping, weeping, cowering thing, Rather than crown thyself o'er self a king ? What art hath childhood or to soften fate Or force subdue — reason with will at strife ? And wouldst thou fly from thought to thoughtless state ? Ah, brief at best the years of rational life ! Full soon shall dreary dotage seal each sense In a dull, fretful, drivelling impotence. Yet, if to 'scape from sorrow thou wouldst fly From life's gray, sober landscape to the green, Even children, too, are doomed full oft to cry; The cause though light, the suffering is as keen. Sorrows, like dogs, will track us till we die — The only friends of man that ne'er will fly. Or dost thou long in loving arms to rest From labor and a self-dependent state ? Or art thou friendless ? The fond nurse's breast Seems for the child more miserable fate, THE EXPERIENCED PHILOSOPHER 33 I Since, for the rapture of a fond caress, It pays the penalty of helplessness. Dost thou lament thine errors, fain once more At life's first source thy virtue to renew ? Will childhood thy lost innocence restore ? Thou changest evening damps for morning dew. Yon fretful babe might tell thee, could it speak, In this consists its innocence — 'tis weak. Rather rejoice that time hath set thee free From blind obedience to each tyrant fool, Whether to nurse or parent it may be, Or to the petty despot of a school, Who oft with misspent toil life's field prepares, And scatters wide the seeds of future tares. Art thou so fond of servitude, mankind Will scarcely fail to enslave thee, chaining down Thy faith to false opinion, till the mind Less loves the truth than fears the false world's frown. Masters enough will bind thee, soul and sense, Till reason claim thy sole obedience. Yet, wouldst thou truly be renewed, even now, As chemic art can change the natural night To greater than noon's brightness, so mayst thou Life's waning hours illume with moral light, Whose influence mild shall cheer thy latest day, And keep thee all unwasted by decay. Come, then ! And first, if thou life's art wouldst learn, Keep thy neglected body in good health. Or truth thy jaundiced eyes shall scarce discern. Next, knowledge seek, which can bestow such wealth 332 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE As thou from prowling thief need'st ne'er conceal, Nor moth, nor rust, nor Time himself shall steal. Next, be thou cheerful, nor let sullen eyes Scatter black clouds to darken all life's joy ; The proud, the envious, and the seeming-wise, By frowns their own and others' peace destroy. But cherish Hope, of placid Temperance born. Who reins life's sun within a lingering morn. Next, be humane, and with no evil eye Look on thy fellows ; hatred's glance can chill The warmest sunbeam of life's morning sky ; While love care's darkest day with light can fall, And 'gainst the night of age make sure defence With the soft moonlight of benevolence. Nor ever wander far from Reason's side, But walk with Truth as with a bosom friend ; With these and Love divine thy life divide. And wait in blest tranquillity thine end, Not hurried madly on by passion's blast, But warmed with virtue's sunshine to the last. So mayst thou live undazzled by the light Of vain delusion ; Fancy near shall stand But as thy handmaid, ever in thy sight To wait and serve thee, never to command. Thus shalt thou quite surmount men's foolish fears, Lord of thy pleasures, passions, smiles, and tears. In short, be perfect ; for the race of men Shall ne'er o'ermaster evil till that day When God it copies ! 'Twill discover then. No tyrant's will hath forced it to obey. THE EXPERIENCED PHILOSOPHER 333 Men will love truth, as God loves to be just : 'Tis best — the only reason why they must. And, when thou hast advanced to that last bound Where Reason's self her way hath lost in light, Where worlds in order circling round and round Confirm thy faith in an All-Ruling Right, Then wisely mayst thou thine old wish restore To be on earth a little child once more. Yet not the child that frets with fruitless tears, Doomed like a reptile on the ground to crawl, But one that shall be master of the years, Hoping all things, enduring, trusting all, And bound to all by the great law of love — Wise as the serpent, harmless as the dove. Then shalt thou reverence rightly, when thy mind Feels this vast world so little in its thought, And God unlimited ; then will it find The cause of Wisdom's boast that she knows nought, And fold its wing, content henceforth to see All this vast world a boundless mystery. Then shalt thou in true charity delight. Last of its wants, which yet transcends all others ; Here fools and wise may truthfully unite In one conclusion — that they both are brothers. Fools nothing know, but fail to find it out ; The wise that they know nothing feel no doubt. 334 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE TO THE MEMORY OF WASHINGTON. O, wise of counsel ! With unseemly speech Men still describe thee, though thy worth they know, And, ranking thee with heroes, yet would teach That thou wast great but by not being so — As if than wisdom aught can greater be, More perfect aught than perfect symmetry! Some would deny thee genius, friend of right ! Since with firm will thy passions thou couldst sway; Such genius deem but some erratic light, That darts across the heavens and dies away. Fond of the strange, they think the master mind Must needs be something of the monstrous kind. But 'tis distorted objects seem most great, Like hunchback dwarfs scarce even a cubit high ; While Antwerp's proudest fane men underrate. Whose lofty pinnacles transfix the sky. Just forms appear not bulky to our eyes. While shapes uncouth seem swelled to monstrous size. So distance cheats. The mountain viewed from far Seems low ; experience wise seems m.ean to youth, Small to the naked eye each distant star. Dark to the ignorant mind the light of truth. Fools deem them weak that godlike wisdom teach ; All things seem least that lie most out of reach. By the same law, the vain and narrow mind, Skilled in one art, will noisiest praise command. Most to the greater beautiful are blind, Despising where they do not understand. THE sours INVOCATION- 335 Earth's wisest sage a weakling seems to such — One who knows nought because he knows so much. O just man, whom thy countrymen name father ! No common type can I behold in thee ; Like some colossal statue art thou, rather, Standing alone in simple majest)^ So well proportioned that the common eye In thee could but a common man descry, Save that to reach thee it must look so high. THE SOUL'S INVOCATION. A GLANCE DOWN THE RIVER OF LIFE INTO THE OCEAN BEYOND. Master unknown, whose power divine Framed from the dust this form of mine, And on Life's river spread my sail. Where, swiftly driven before the gale. My keel glides on ! I feel thy breath Impel me toward the straits of death. Beyond whose narrow pass my soul Beholds the billowy ages roll. But sees no end ; there Fancy's eye Throxigh the dim distance can descry Only dense vapors, wastes profound, A world of waters, and no bound. Fate flies before, and I behind ; Her wings, outstretched upon the wind, O'ercloud the skies, and, rushing fast. Each landmark sweeps into the past. Upon the river's banks each day Life's ever-changing flowers decay ; 336 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And, as the gardens of delight On either margin heave in sight, My bark so swiftly shoots ahead, Scarce can I look ere all is fled. The verdant shores behind me glide ; Each hour the river grows more wide ; And now the castles of Despair, With frowning towers, rough, bleak, and bare, Loom from the desolate wastes of Care. I see gay Pleasure's winged train Cleaving the gale above the main ; The wedged phalanx high o'erhead Soars on its course, all backward sped To greet the spring on youth's green shore, A land I must behold no more. Now in the mist it melts away, Shrunk to a speck of dusky gray. Now lost in clouds. O beauteous day I I see thy sun, which rose like gold. Set in the distance, pale and cold. The shades of night around me creep ; The fogs come drifting o'er the deep ; Fain would I turn my prow ; 'tis vain ; The current drives me toward the main, Never, ah, never to return again ! Along the river shining clear, A row of lighthouses appear. One at the boundary of each year, Whose moving lantern ceaseless burns, Where every season glows by turns : Now the green lights of spring appear ; Now summer's gold burns bright and clear ; Now autumn gleams with purple hue, Now the dull blaze of wintry blue. Swiftly each beacon light is past ; Another, turning like the last, THE SOUL'S INVOCATION 337 Glares on the wave ; and, as I go, Each glides behind me, till the row Dwindles at last to two or three — Beyond, illimitable sea. Now, at the last revolving light, The gray expanse grows dark with night ; I see the fast receding shore ; I hear the distant breakers roar ; And soon, on greater billows tossed, Like one who hath some causeway crossed, I see the glowing path behind, With its long row of lanterns lined, Where the lights blend their colored rays. Outstretched in long, continuous blaze. Before me all is hid from sight By brooding mists, a moonless night, Floods fathomless and infinite. And now, how shall I find my way. Shut from the light of cheerful day ? When storms arise and tempests blow. Without a pilot must I go ? Fierce raging, passion's tempest-brood . Raise hurricanes upon the flood, And mountain waves that round me sweep Toss my frail vessel on the deep, Wash from life's blasted bark the helm, And in their trough my decks o'erwhelm. Lo, amongst craggy islands lost. By contrary currents wildly tossed, No helper near, no beacon guide, Toward Destruction's rocks I ride. And now even courage, trembling, quails ; Wrenched from the yards, the shattered sails Fly drifting with the wind ; .338 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Loud through the blast the breakers roar, Huge precipices lower before, A ragged coast behind. Author of Life, with veiled face That from thine unseen dwelling-place The track of destiny dost trace ! Grant, when I reach the boundless sea Of unexplored eternity, And join at last the ghostly train Which ploughs that all unmeasured maiii, That I to thee with cheerful trust Commit my freight of cumbrous dust ! Yet, when I cross that dismal sea. Let me not unattended be. Nor, when I bid farewell to land, Ship with the Passions' boisterous band ! Ill company such mutinous crew. On unknown seas, when tempests brew. Far different messmates would I know : Let Truth and Justice with me go — Justice to steer, while at the bow Truth looks ahead with piercing sight. Watching for breakers through the night. And, Conscience, do thou there attend, Parent of Truth, and Justice' friend! Wide awake while others sleep. Thou the compass safe must keep, Still watchful, lest we veer too far From the fixed light of Virtue's star. And let mild Resignation go with me, Of temper tranquil in the stormiest sea ; She, through the voyage so rough and long, Shall lull the hours with plaintive song. And, without fail, let Love be near. ODE TO OBLIVION 339 Who hath of wind and wave no fear ; She, our physician, whose mild skill Shall keep the crew all healthful still. But, above all, let Hope be there ; She, 'midst the whirlpools of despair, To thread each narrow channel knows ; She cares not for the whirlwind's shocks. And safe o'er shoals and sunken rocks Ploughs singing as she goes. Truth for our captain, and I'll trust the sea. But let far-seeing Hope the pilot be ; With her for guide, all dangers shall be past ; With fearless skill she'll come to port at last, And in heaven's azure wave her golden anchor cast. ODE TO OBLIVION. O Night-descended, that with sable wing Through the far past art veiling everything ! How briefly, as thy mists roll onward, aught Shines through their depths, or work of hands or thought 1 As clouds that cast afar their shadows gray Sweep the bright sunbeams from the hills away. So truth thou veilest, light grows dark in thee, And History hides in thine obscurity. All things melt in thee ; an unnumbered host Time urges on, till all in thee are lost ; His children all, the days, the months, the years, Thou dost o'erwhelm, heedless of prayers and tears ; Each in thy silent realm in darkness disappears. Fame, strength, power, beauty, in thine eyes are nought ; Worthless all works that genius' hand hath wrought. 340 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Lo, where yon once proud temples crumbling stand, In ruined beauty smiling o'er the land, Whose mouldering shafts, with green vines gayly decked, Even yet amaze, tottering, but still erect, While fragment poised on fragment high in air The grass-crowned capitals can scarcely bear, Soon hurled to ruin, all in dust shall lie, And lastly Nature's self, like Art, must die. There's nothing but is destined to decay ; Time, thine old servant, forced by thee to obey, Mows with reluctant scythe all his own works away. Yet spare awhile yon stone and flowery bed, Where Love with anxious hand adorns the dead ; And spare yon obelisk, o'ergrown with weeds, Which tells the inspiring tale of virtuous deeds ; And save yon vine-clad oak from wintry blast, Sacred so long to friendship in the past. Whose whispering boughs oft sighed to song and tale. Ere at Death's touch the tuneful lips grew pale. Seize first those towers that, raised in air sublime, Tell of a long antiquity of crime. O, vain to arrest thee, since thy power unbounded All undermines, however firmly grounded : All in one common wreck shall be confounded. Yet from thy boundless charnel house once more Time shall his buried Beautiful restore. Thou also hast a master ; pitying Fate Permits thee not all good to annihilate ; The just man's fame some fragrance leaves behind, That with each age grows sweeter to mankind ; And from the seeds of loveliness the earth. Year after year, new beauty brings to birth ; The rough rocks into temples rise once more ; ODE TO OBLIVION 34 1 Men build their fanes more stately than before. Thou canst consume but Beauty's grosser part ; Lo, all that is most excellent in art Survives thy power unharmed, deep in the human heart. In vain, great enemy, dost thou employ Thy might to undermine and to destroy ! Truth says, he vainly works who seeks to spoil ; Her sacred law at last shall thwart thy toil. Even in long-buried ashes man can trace The lines that teach the history of his race. Old Egypt's records thou hadst hid in caves — The tale is whispered from the mummies' graves ; Thy lavas turned vast cities to a tomb — Earth cannot keep the secret in her womb ; Not even thy hottest fires have proved so strong, But Science' eye, the cindered scrolls among, ''^ Reads plainly out once more the poet's idlest song. Nature still more defies thee, where the past Heaves forth its rifted wreck of reptiles vast. Huge elephants, and many a beastly shape. Whose bones thy slow-consuming grasp escape, But shows no sign of intellectual man, — Life most ignoble where life first began, And Reason latest born. Hence men may see Foreshadowed a more bright futurity ; The world's great Builder doth his work restore. In every age more perfect than before. Till life at last shall quite forget its tears. More beauteous forms shall move through Avider spheres, Drawing nearer and more near to God through endless years. Out then, poor child of Discord ! since God's thought Hath reasons for each work his hand hath wrought. ]42 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And shall I fear his wisdom is perplexed, Since of his acts I cannot learn the next ? He made all for some end — his love divine Knows best for what ; it is no care of mine. Enough, I'll trust, and laugh at thee, whose power, O universal foe ! must have its hour, And cease. How weak, whom mortals deem so strong ! Awhile thou shalt o'erwhelm, yet nothing long ; Thy work began ten billion years ago. But earth more fair with every age doth grow ; Scarce canst thou sweep yon frail bridge from on high, Upon whose arch 'tis writ, life shall not die, But God, in storm-clouds veiled, rebuilds it in the sky. THE SPRING MORNING OF A BEREAVED MAN. Merry swallow, that wast twittering half the night beneath my eaves, And art thou come again, old friend, to greet the opening leaves ? How gladly would I welcome thee, sweet harbinger of spring, That tellest me my garden flowers again are blossoming ! Last year thy song delighted — it is nothing to me now; My flowers are out of mind, and no welcome guest art thou. For all things now seem saddest that were sweetest to me then ; Fair swallow, fly away and seek the roofs of happier men ! Let friends that ne'er were parted, let the joyous welcome thee — O fly away, fly quickly, with thy chattering company ! The morning breeze blows freshly, bearing music on its wing ; But the voice is hushed to silence that was wont for me to SPRING MORNING OF A BEREAVED MAN 343 The fountains are all gushing, just filled with showers of rain ; But the spring my life that comforted will never flow again. My flower that blossomed all the year last winter dropped away, And withers now within the grave ; O why art thou so gay ? The hand that hath caressed thee, that hath fed thee o'er and o'er. Lies stiff and cold beneath the mould ; thy mistress comes no more. She loved thee, too, and, hadst thou died, she would have wept for thee ; Then why dost thou, so thoughtless now, chirrup thus merrily ? The summer shall come back again, the valleys shall grow gay, And the vine shall stoop and lowly droop to mingle with the spray. The oriole in the branching elm shall waken me from slumber, And all the trees shall fill the breeze with voices without number ; And from his bed, all rosy red, the sun shall rise at morn. And as of old shall paint with gold our field of waving corn ; And, when above in shady grove the plaintive wood-thrush sings, O'er lawn and lake his voice shall wake a host of happy things. But what delight in sound or sight can nature have for me. To whom the very grasshopper a burden seems to be ? Then, lost one, when red twilight melts to the dull gray of eve, The whippoorwill shall wail again, and seem for thee to grieve. Thy mournful shade will come, sweet maid, with the declining light, And the ticking clock thy step will mock through all the lone- some night. Thy voice will whisper in the breeze, will murmur in the rain ; Earth will seem full of thee, but thou wilt never come again. 344 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE The sun so bright, the stars at night, a mournful look must wear, For every grace in Nature's face grows loveless to despair. Great God of love 1 thy world above would seem less fair to be, Save that the dear can with us here in union worship thee. But the green will grow to gray again, when autumn hath come back, And the chestnut sheds in prickly beds its burs upon my track. Then birds that lately were so blithe shall cry with mournful sound, While falling leaves in every breeze fly whirling round and round. And the waterfowl in clouds shall howl, slow trailing through the sky, While warblers light in gusty flight to warmer regions fly. O, gladly would I join their train in foreign lands to roam. And amongst thoughtless things forget the solitude of home ! They shall sing the songs of summer, they shall prate on every tree, While I, in the lone greenwood, must ponder silently. And grove and wood as red as blood shall next October glow, When morning bright shall chase the night through mists as white as snow ; When the wain comes creaking through the field and ripe fruits have grown mellow. And the maples flout their boughs about in crimson and in yellow. And red oaks, mingling with the mists that all the mountains crown. Shall change their hue of vapory blue to a deep russet brown ; When the sumach on the hillside glows like a flaming cloud. And the mill-wheel plies merrily, and the cataract grows loud. SPUING MORNING OF A BEREAVED MAN 345 Fair forests ! Once in happier days how sweet ye seemed when sere ! Ye mind me now of vanished joys ; ah, why were ye so dear ? And the merry trout shall sport about within our favorite brook, Where oft we sat on leafy mat to ponder o'er our book. While the partridge roamed the forest and the squirrel chat- tered shrill, And over head the boughs hung dead, and all the winds were still. When the flowerless clematis, grown old, has gained a bristly beard. And the crow screams loud, from leafy shroud of the dark pine groves heard ; When, hushed around, all other sound is silent as the grave, . And asters blue shall mock the hue that gleams beneath the wave, All I shall see that gladdened me, except one well-known face ; When autumn weaves our couch of leaves, thy seat is empty space. I shall tread back the well-known track, the book shall be forgot ; My feet shall pass through rustling grass to reach our lonely cot; The light shall spill o'er every hill in showers of dazzling rays. And from each sod the golden-rod in every field shall blaze ; And katydid, through daylight hid, at eve his song shall sing. And full of mirth before the hearth shall make the twilight ring; While in the orchard the red owl mews from his apple-tree, And the gray one in the deep pine wood sits neighing mourn- fully; 346 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE To sound thy knell each voice shall swell, but thine no more I hear. Fond friends, to dust return ye must ! O why are ye so dear ? And when the boisterous winter winds around the house shall howl, And placed before thy empty seat is seen an empty bowl, When through the sky the clouds shall lie in one broad sheet of gray. And the keen blast to the dead past hath swept all bloom away, When in deep rest the river's breast lies cased in glassy shield. Ice far and wide on every side incrusting every field, When all around o'er trackless ground the drifted snows are piled. Through all the day no step to stray across the pathless wild, Until at last, light ebbing fast, Night's silent shadows fall. And spectres grim through firelight dim dance flickering on the wall, — Then must I grieve through the long eve, and spend the hours alone ; In gusts my ear shall seem to hear a fond, familiar tone. The poems we were wont to read I shall be musing o'er. But shut the book at those sad words, " Farewell, we meet no more ! " And when, grown old, December cold his dreariest look shall wear. And the merry chime of Christmas time comes ringing through the air, All round about, within, without, the carol, sounding clear. Shall seem to moan, " Thou'rt all alone — a weary wanderer here ! " Thy voice through silent space will sound, thy tread in every track ; Despair will ever call on thee, but thou wilt ne'er come back. SPRIJVG MORNING OF A BEREAVED MAN 347 At last the spring o'er everything shall sweetly smile once more ; Her fragrant breath and winter's death shall Nature's bloom restore ; And budding flowers 'neath April showers shall wake from wintry sleep, And the rustling vine aloft shall twine and round the windows creep. Then the brown butterfly shall light on the last bank of snow,-'^ And 'neath the shady pines the pale anemone shall blow. The tree, the flower, the bee, the bower, the sea-fowl o'er the main, The skies of blue, the squirrel, too, shall all come back again ; And then, they say, the newborn May shall solace bring to woe, — The flight of years dries human tears as Spring drinks up the snow. Why then, fair swallow, come again, if grief be then grown old; Yet, foolish thing, what use to sing to one whose heart is cold ? Can it delight, in sunshine bright, to see thee dive and soar Among my trees, when thou and these love's raptures wake no more .'' Many there be will welcome thee, then let the song be theirs 1 Forbear thy strain ! Thou'lt soothe in vain a spirit that de- spairs. Farewell, and thanks to thee, yet sing no more beneath the eaves — wake me not ! I'd sleep forgot, as sound as last year's leaves ! 1 cannot bid thee welcome, merry harbinger of spring. For a robe of woe my feelings throw round thee and every- thing. 348 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE ROBERT BURNS. A VISION OF HIS MAUSOLEUM AT DUMFRIES. What marble dome salutes mine eyes, Tipped with the pallid glow of eve ? They tell me here a poet lies, Whose fate untimely bids me grieve. Yet let me first thy history know, Or ere I deign to mourn for thee ; Speak, shade of him that lies below ! For many kinds of bards there be ; Some, bravely free, have trod the earth like kings, While some have cringed and crawled like grovelling things. Didst thou with mercenary rhymes Pander to power or to thine age ? Or, silent at the oppressor's crimes, Wast thou puffed up by patronage ? Did wrong win thine applause, forsooth ? Did merit rouse thy pride or spleen t Wouldst thou have gagged the mouth of truth With caustic wit or satire keen ? Then I'll not waste my time to read thy name ; Oblivion were for thee more fit than fame. The more melodious were thy song. The less to hear should I have heart ; To the grand sum of human wrong Thou hast contributed thy part. To wear the bays thou wast unfit ; Thy brows had soiled the wreath divine ; At no pure shrine thy torch was lit ; Sleep on ! Thou hast no tears of mine. ROBERT BURNS 349 Though sad thy tale, my heart no grief shall borrow; Too well I know that guilt is sire of sorrow. But didst thou lift or hand or voice To uphold the right or aid the oppressed ? With woe didst weep, with joy rejoice ? If kind affections warmed thy breast, If thou hast sought to save from death The memory of neglected worth. Or if thy muse, with honest breath. Called truth despised from darkness forth ■ — Whate'er thy faults, still will I honor thee. So thou didst not desert sweet charity. Even though, in error's wilds benighted. The senses bound thee as their slave, Till reason dimmed and memory blighted Left thee in degradation's grave ; Still be thy name to feeling dear. Still be thou pure in sight of heaven ; For thee let pity drop the tear ; Thou hast loved much, and art forgiven. Let no rude tongue disturb thy last repose, Nor slight the debt mankind to genius owes. Alas, poor bard ! I know thee now ; No mean, no hated name was thine ; Yet, though the bays were on thy brow, I feel thou wast but half divine. Whom in my inmost heart I prize, From passion's thraldom must live free, Himself must never need despise, Nor live even his own enemy, — Must rather dwell unknown, from fame exempt, Than sue to pity for her mild contempt, — 350 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Must deem the bard's, the hero's bays, Compared with truth, a worthless prize, And scorn the breath of human praise Where self to self applause denies. O, child of genius, at what price Thou buildest upon empty sound ! Rather let cold oblivion's ice Congeal me nameless in the ground, Than that ambition should prefer a tear To reverence mute wrested from minds severe. Speak, generous bard of Ayr, and say. Did those sweet lines with truth agree,3° Which said, Heaven's light could lead astray ? Was heavenly light thus false to thee ? Where, by old Dumfries' hallowed fane, Thy mouldering bones the cold sods press, Thou sayest — nor be the warning vain ! — " The bane of genius is excess ; But who casts stones at me ? " Ah, judgment halts, And bids me love thee still, whate'er thy faults, — Nor join that cold and heartless band Who scorn thy sweet and simple rhymes, And thank the Almighty that they stand Convicted but of lawful crimes. They only steal the poor man's bread. Or lick the filthy feet of power, Unhouse the friendless orphan's head. And rob the widow of her dower. Yes, watchful Fame brings genius' faults to light. While mean men's crimes oblivion hides in night. TO A WORLDLING, TIRED OF COUNTRY LIFE 351 TO A WORLDLING, TIRED OF COUNTRY LIFE. O, who art thou, that 'mongst these trees Canst find for thought no calm retreat ? These boughs to thee are but " ship knees," The grass mere hay beneath thy feet. These mighty oaks, of shade immense, Thou reckonest meanly by the cord ; These hemlocks thou dost count in pence ; To gold thou turnest even the sward. O modern Midas ! thou art one Whose glance profanes these groves and streams, To whose bleared eye yon golden sun But a gigantic dollar seems. These fragrant flowers that scent the air. These shady bowers, yield thee no pleasure ; And from yon height the landscape fair Only in acres canst thou measure. To thee yon mountain seems a mine, Those greenwoods planks all straight and sound, And the rich clusters of yon vine Hang each a shilling in the pound. Thou in these fertile fields dost stand, And mourn the peace that is not thine. O fool ! As if wise Nature's hand E'er casts her priceless pearls to swine ! Like scum, thou mountest upward still. To live with Nature at topmast, — 352 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Buildest upon the highest hill, Thy neighbor into shame to cast. When the bright autumn days draw nigh, And woods their golden tints unfold, Swift as the wild goose dost thou fly To gloat on less unreal gold. Thou grow'st more wretched day by day ; Much dost thou get, yet naught enjoy ; And, when at last age makes thee gray, Once more through dotage grown a boy, Thy schoolmaster is cankered care. Thy learning, how life's joys to stint ; Thy sole resource against despair Is to live cold and hard as flint. Go, man of dross, and be less proud ! Be less the slave of spleen and pelf ; First learn, amidst the bustling crowd. To love thy neighbor like thyself. Then come once more, these slopes ascend, Once more thy woodland walks renew ; If thou art grown of man the friend. Then mayst thou dwell with Nature, too. Oft from these hilltops hast thou seen Her face all fresh with vernal glow ; Come when the earth, no longer green. Presents a boundless waste of snow. If thou hast cleansed thy sordid heart. These prospects still shall yield delight ; POET AND TOLL-GATHERER 353 Earth shall seem fair in every part, The summer's green, the winter's white. Then shall thy mind, grown pure at last, Enjoy grave wisdom's greatest boon. And dark December's icy blast Seem kind as these sweet airs of June. Fearless on Fortune's sea thy soul Shall breast the breeze adverse and cold, Unmoved shall hear Fate's thunders roll, Disaster's lightning flash behold. O'er self a king, 'mongst mortals blind The mightiest monarch shalt thou be ; For Destiny, that rules mankind. Herself shall own a lord in thee. POET AND TOLL-GATHERER. A CONVERSATION AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT PARNASSUS. " Friend, ope thy gate and let me pass, And what's to pay for climbing here?" " Not much, one as ; mind, not one ass,3' For that I trow would cost thee dear ; Were I so paid by each who passes, I now were worth a million asses." " Nay, nay ! lead forth that horse, I pray. Whose back all bards are wont to mount ; It is my wish to reach this day The waters of that crystal fount. Around whose brink the Muses nine Are wont to sing their hymns divine." 354 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE «' Now tell me, stranger, in what land. Ne'er trod by traveller's foot, thou dwellest ? That in these days wouldst seek the band Of those lost maids of whom thou tellest ? They, and the horse, for aught I know, Were dead three thousand years ago. " But scarce a hundred thousand horses. Though saddled all through night and day, Could carry the unnumbered forces That daily up this hillside stray To notch their names upon the stair Of the old ruined Temple there." " Good man, I, too, have come full far. Humbly Apollo's grace to claim, But not his sacred stones to mar By carving there my worthless name. Yet, now, I pray thee, briefly say How I may mount the easiest way." " If thou art rich, some brother drudge Will gladly stoop to be thy hack ; If poor, bear others, for I judge Thy brains will scarcely break thy back. We hope to have a railroad soon, That calves may reach their native moon. " Ofttimes a dozen, halt or lamed,^- Some of left legs, and some of right. Go up, a chain-gang brisk, though maimed, And thus the journey grows more light; For each, well dovetailed to his brothers. With his one leg helps all the others. POET AND TOLL-GATHERER 355 " And he who must have stayed below, If with one foot obliged to delve, Though he be blind, thus safe may go. And climb the rugged mount on twelve ; Still easier task, when from behind Blown onward by opinion's wind. " Thou couldst join these." " Churl, curb thy speech, Or I'll report thee to the god. And tell him, when the top I reach, His servant's back requires a rod." " O would e'en now he might appear, To stay this mob from mounting here ! " All night their gongs and yells and cries Keep me awake." " What ! on this hill No longer to the listening skies Chant those fair maids v/hen winds are still t Tell me, and hath the offended god In sorrow left his blest abode ? " " Thou'lt find him not." " Then who will teach .? " " Fear not ! there bores of every nation Thou'lt meet, there hear all Babel's speech ! Yet, friend, if bent on education, Thou'lt find, in many a lonely nook, Viol and lute and music book. *' For on this god-abandoned hill Are many mansions. Wise and weak Here worship Phoebus' image still ; His followers many a language speak ; And each an instrument can find Tuned to such airs as suit his mind. 3S6 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE " Through pipes of clay, and trumps of tin, The windy voice of some is sent ; Some try the cymbal's crashing din, Or trombone, noisy instrument, Which the stunned god long kept concealed, Till lost Pompeii's wrecks revealed. ^3 " Some, mellower-eared, aspire to sound The flute, or oboe clear and thin ; Some the deep viol's tone profound, Some the light wreathing violin ; While some attune the sacred rhyme To the grand organ's voice sublime. " But most now herd with that new school, Which roams from sense and sound astray ; Whose rambling tunes, despising rule, Howl like some Chinese orchestra. More harsh than angry cats that fright The stillness of a summer's night. " Yet, while the sounds so different be, Still less in concord with each other The thoughts and sentiments agree ; Seldom, in bard, bard finds a brother. 'Twixt false and true such friendship grows As holds 'twixt nightingales and crows. " There shalt thou find, in conclave joined, That class whom Plato hath derided,^^ Whose sense is from the sage purloined ; There those who, by no reason guided, Are but as mouthpieces admired. And bray, like Balaam's ass inspired. POET AND TOLL-GATHERER 357 " Still others mar the sacred hymn With hateful words and fiendish clang, Or else, with accents harsh and grim, Join doleful drawl to pious twang, Their brains, in taste or sense unskilled, By cramming, like a sausage, filled. " Here some, absorbed in dreams unclean, To Bacchus vow the hymn unblest ; This one invokes love's fickle queen, And that the demon of unrest ; While few to master-skill aspire. Touched with the warmth of heavenly fire. " Such state of things, endured for long, The god beheld with silent pain. Few sought his seat through love of song, While oft the vile, through lust of gain, Scorning the sacred spring to taste. Sought but to lay his temple waste. ** They bore his sacred urns away ; His shafts they break, his bays they lop ; Each senseless idler fain would say He'd bellowed from the mountain's top. And, to reward his worthless toil, Our priceless relics needs must spoil ; " Until at last the god, grown tired. Went down to dwell in secret places, And now, in glens and groves retired. Afar from noise and brazen faces, Roams where his harmonies allure None save the humble and the pure." 358 CONSOLATIONS OF SOL/TUDE " How can this be, O ancient man ? For we below are wont to hear That the god bids all climb who can, And drink those waters fresh and clear. Hath he not willed that all who mount Shall grow inspired at his own fount?" " Deem not Castalia's crystal tides E'er yet the gift of song inspired ! Thither the crafty serpent glides, Where once the thirsty god retired ; The soaring and the creeping thing Both stoop to drink at the same spring. " Both rise refreshed — the snake to bite, The god more fit for sacred duty ; One hastens straight to shun the light, The other seeks the world of beauty. Each strengthened, or for good or ill. Departs — what Nature made him still ! " A VISION OF THE WESTERN WORLD. Where, in the far and boundless west. The sire of waters proudly flows. Bears the tall ship upon his breast, And scatters plenty as he goes, — Where 'twixt green plains and headlands bleak The raft glides like a floating town, While steamers swift, with piercing shriek. In panting haste ply up and down, — A VISION- OF THE WESTERN WORLD 359 Where the palmetto lightly ploughs With fan-like leaves the zephyr's breath, And the dark cypress' moss-grown boughs Droop o'er the turbid wave beneath,— There once I stood, when life was new, And gazed upon the boundless tide ; The earth was wet with evening dew ; My gun lay idly at my side. Over the shades that round me fell The moon her silvery mantle cast, And whippoorwill her tale 'gan tell To the swift current sweeping past. Then, lo ! advancing on the wave, A wondrous vision met my sight ; All mute and tranquil as the grave, It moved upon the waters bright. A silvery mist the deep o'erspread. And, down the river moving slow, A reverend and majestic head Leaned on a hand as white as snow. The countenance was mildly grave, Like what the ancient sculptor wrought, Who life to that pale marble gave 35 Where glows old Tiber's face of thought. Serene and godlike was the brow ; In drizzly flume his locks descended ; His beard, which did his breast o'erflow. In glittering icicles depended. 360 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Struck at the sight with awe profound, My wandering eyes beheld entranced ; I kneeled with reverence on the ground, While slow the stately form advanced. I watched his proud and lofty air, Scarce deemed such nobleness could be, Transcending all things bright and fair, Such wonderful tranquillity. Now I, though but an idle wight, Yet loved all excellence to see ; And, though I toyed with trifles light. The beautiful was dear to me. But yet, although to manhood grown, My troubled spirit knew no rest ; No guiding law my thoughts had known. And aimless longings filled my breast. Bereft of hope I careless roved. And every formless phantom chased ; Onward a dreaming ghost I moved ; The world seemed but a tangled waste. " O, give me, Heaven ! " I of t would say, " Some sacred truth to feel and know, That I may follow night and day, Till life shall like these waters flow." So, when I saw that spirit's face, ' All beaming with the inward mind, Gladly would I have run his race, And all earth's cares have left behind. A VISION' OF THE WESTERN WORLD 36 1 The spirit read my inmost thought, And on the waters rested still. These words the whispering breezes brought : " Thou hast the wish, but lackest will. " Born in the mountain's lap was I, Far in the cold and gloomy north, Where drifted snows unmelting lie. And restless winds go howling forth, — " Where sun-gilt cliffs, gray, steep, and tall, Stand frowning o'er the torrent's foam, Where, by the deafening waterfall, The bravest hunter fears to roam. " From the dark cavern's deep recess I issued first a babbling rill, Well pleased my onward course to press, And gayly plunge o'er height and hill. " Sometimes compressed in narrow glen. My angry waves would boil and hiss. But soon I'd break my bounds, and then Leap laughing down the deep abyss. " Sometimes I flowed through forests green. Where earth her loneliest aspect wears. And nought disturbs the silent scene Save haggard wolves and grizzly bears. " Sometimes, walled up in basin wide. My restless steps ran round and round, Then would I burst the mountain's side, And headlong dash to depths profound. 362 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE " At last the busy hand of man Would stay my course or fix my bound ; Swift would I break the obstructing dam, And scatter desolation round. " The ruined village there behold, The tottering spire, the uprooted tree ; The shepherd vainly seeks his fold ; The husbandman no crop shall see. " Long since grown tame, my noiseless ware Disdains to scatter waste and woe. I seek not to destroy, but save. Dispensing blessings as I go. " For I, with life, have gathered strength, And strength should scorn the weak to oppress ; My foes all vanquished now, at length I seek to fertilize and bless. " No longer violent and wild. My course is straight, and calm, and still ; The man hath put away the child ; I carve the valley at my will. " Within my bosom deep and wide. My power protects each entering rill ; Its work I teach, each movement guide, That all their duty may fulfil. " Swift o'er my breast the steamer glides ; Joyous the snowy sail expands ; I bear the ship to ocean's tides, And urge her on to distant lands. A VISION OF THE WESTERN WORLD 363 " So do I live from day to day, Nor think how long my task may be, Working for good through all my way. Farewell! I seek my destiny." " Spirit," I cried, " one moment stay ! O, tell me, whither dost thou tend ? Answer, if thou hast power to say ! Where will thy life's long labors end ? " " Ask Him," said he, " who bade me wend My way unquestioned to the sea. With the broad ocean soon I blend, There wait what work remains for me. " Perhaps in clouds and mist my form Shall from the ocean's breast exhale, Descend once more in gloom and storm, And bless once more each thirsty vale. " Perhaps, absorbed within the sea, My restless waves shall cease to roll, And, mingling with immensity. Blend formless in the unbounded whole. " Ask me not how, nor when, nor where ; Still to flow on is my behest ; Duty — 'tis but for that I care ; To the world's God I leave the rest." Fain had I spoke once more, but he Had vanished on the floods away ; Nought but the moonlight could I see. That gleamed upon the glittering spray. 364 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Full long I viewed the waves afar, Till, fain to seek my grassy bed, I woke ! There was nor moon nor star — The sun was risen an hour o'erhead. A CHAT WITH THE MEDICEAN VENUS. " Whence art thou, maiden, that, with fix^d gaze, Dreadest intruding foot ? Feel thou no fear ! One only to admire thee hither strays ; No ruffian comes — there is no tempter near." " Ah, sir, full many an age a maid I stand. Nor yet grow old. I am as life in death, And wait here at Cleomenes' command, Who gave existence, but forgot my breath, " Deep in the solid rock my limbs were bound, Till that deliverer came to set me free ; At last my prison cell his chisel found, And gladly I sprang forth to liberty. " Alas, good man ! he labored many a day My glossy limbs their gracefulness to teach ; But Pluto snatched him from this earth away, Just as my lips he would have formed for speech. " So to thy mind mine eyes must dart my thought, Since by my tongue to express them I'm not free; Full many an age his countenance I've sought, But all in vain. Good stranger, should you see, ODE TO HOPE 365 *' Ask for my tongue." " Nay, now, excuse ! For know. Thy chiefest charm I in thy silence see ; Speech had dispersed thy lovers long ago ; Full half the world have cause to envy thee. " Rejoice, then, in thy silence, and excuse Thine author, since one greater lack remains : The man was wise who did a tongue refuse. Where he had been so niggardly of brains." J^ ODE TO HOPE. Daughter of Joy ! If she who grasped thy wings, Lest thou to Heaven shouldst 'scape from that dark den Whence sped o'er earth such hosts of hateful things, No other service may have done for men, Still were it right that frail Pandora's name Should be immortal on the rolls of Fame, Since her blest gift to man all others puts to shame. And, if my mind the unjust decree of Fate Condemns, that caged a spirit born to aspire. And doomed thee long to herd in loathsome state With Sin and Sorrow, may it more admire That worth whose loss filled those sad sprites with dread ! Hell was half happy till it deemed thee dead. Nor wholly hateful grew till thou for aye hadst fled O blessed spirit, that canst spotless live In the same house with Evil ! Hating not. Pitying whom Charity can scarce forgive, And cheering those thy sisters had forgot. Thou in the worst some germs of good wilt see ; 366 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And still with sighs all these remember thee, * And love, even while they scorn both Faith and Charity. Yet now, ah me ! the gift I half despise — Thy speech so fair, yet ever filled with lies ; Why dost thou promise good, but ne'er fulfil ? Thou soothest, cheerest, yet deceivest still. See, through the world, toward thee what lengthening train Of wearied wretches turn their wistful eyes, — Where Freedom falls, and Justice pleads in vain, Where blue-eyed Peace from armed Oppression flies. And Truth, though chained, still calm, in Error's dungeon lies. I see her friendless, yet with stately air. Stern-faced and proud, disdaining to despair ; Lo, through her grate, across the trackless waste, She views thee, and forgets the guilty past, Deeming in death's long sleep her foe shall rest at last. I, also, knew thee in those years When the young Hours, in smiles and tears. Moved slowly on ! But since, at last, With swifter feet they hurry past. With faces grave and eyelids dry. No longer stirred to smile or sigh. More and more rarely comest thou 1 Dim grows the wreath that crowns thy brow, And scarce I dare to seek thee nov/, Since wont companionless to rove In the deep shadows of that grove Where bearded Science spends his age, Absorbed in book or pictured page, ODE TO HOPE 367 Or, armed with microscope, to note Those tiny living swarms that float Within the compass of a tear, Or count the nations that appear Beneath the surface of that main Whose tides flow in a drop of rain, Living whole ages in an hour, Hung from the petals of a flower, Where the light wings of summer-shower Have cast their globe to shine, and die When the first sunbeam bursts the sky. Or, with that greater glass when I survey Those glittering orbs that swim through night and day In endless space, to which our distant sphere Seems scarcely larger than a trickling tear, Alas, the world seems grown so vast. And man so mean, that now at last Thou seemest fled to some far shore — I must gaze after thee no more. Yet midst my night I feel thy wavy wing, And seem to hear thy sweet voice whispering : " Even in that little drop am I, Cheering the tiniest atomy." Yes, in all life I feel thou art. Beating throughout all Nature's heart ! In sun, and moon, and twinkling star. And every planet, near or far. Even in this drop of vinegar That teems with life, I scarce can doubt The pygmies there have found thee out, Boasting like men, with vain and solemn airs, That the whole boundless universe is theirs — Each deeming his own world God's only sphere, Each with some faith, perhaps, which he holds dear, 368 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE While priests, inspired by thee to teach, Go forth to proselyte and preach, And the decaying faith renew, All in a tiny drop of dew. Who knows ? Not I ! Yet in my sight They wheel and whirl in such delight, That, howe'er trifling be their care. Almost I deem thou must be there ; And, since all Nature joys in thee, I, also, of thy train would be. O come, with heaven-born Trust, and scare From earth the demons of Despair, Doubt, that hath lost all faith in good. Despondency, that loves to brood, A gloomy monster that begat Pale Fear, and him, that other brat. Suspicion, foe to Love and thee. And, when all these from earth shall flee, Do thou and Charity once more Her golden crown to Peace restore — Not Chaos' child, but Truth's, on earth unknown of yore, When oft through lack of joy Men would themselves destroy, And, wanting thee, would fly to strife, Doomed to a brief and brutish life. Again from heaven descend, A fond, a faithful friend, And tame those restless passions, which in vain Unaided Virtue struggles to restrain ! Descend, a spirit fair and bright. Outstretch o'er all the earth thy wings of light. And chase away for aye the darkness of our night ! ODE TO HOPE 369 For thou canst soothe the weary hours Of all who climb life's rugged hill, Canst strew its downward path with flowers : Oh, cease not to deceive us still ! When first the new-waked Sun to birth Emerged from chaos dark and wild, Thy beauty charmed the infant Earth ; On thee the face of Nature smiled. Thy visions cheer the enraptured eyes Of hermit lone in desert den ; Inspired by thee, he can despise The frowns of Fate, the smiles of men. Toward thee, from self-inflicted pain, Yon fast-worn Fakir lifts his eyes ; The pilgrim, sinking on the plain, To thee looks up and joyful dies. Thou canst the sailor's fears assuage ; Through thee, while sinking in the wave, He can defy the tempest's rage. And smile to meet a watery grave. Thou, in the soldier's battle-hour, When death most pitiless appears. Canst make him brave the fiery shower. And yield his breath with shouts and cheers. Thou even the grave with flowers canst deck, And warm the depths of Earth's cold womb, When, smiling over Nature's wreck. Thou sittest sinsinsr on the tomb. 370 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Since first the new-created bow Spanned with bright arch the storm below, Men's tongues have hymned thy praise. There, smiUng upon Nature's birth, Thou gavest the rejoicing Earth Promise of happier days. Come, then, unload this weight of care, And from the deep caves of Despair, Oh, lift my spirit up ! Come, in thy gayest dress appear. And quick, my fainting soul to cheer. Present thy nectared cup ! Be present, too, in dying hour ! For thou alone, sweet Hope, hast power To cheer the parting breath, To make the enshackled soul smile to be free, Rend from the pitiless Grave his victory, And steal the sting from Death. ODE TO FANCY. Farewell, Enchantress ! Reason hath forbid Me in thy temples more to bend the knee ; Until at last thy countenance is hid, And, if I sought, thou scarce wouldst smile on me. Thy reign is past ; Thy fires are quenched ; thy golden dreams are o'er ; The days of rapture must return no more, Too bright to last. ODE TO FANCY 3/1 No gorgeous landscapes as of old appear, Seen through thy oriels, warm with rosy stain. The light that guides me now is coldly clear ; Thy glorious visions come not back again ; Their tints decay. Thy painted windows Truth hath oped so wide, That the gay colors melt on every side To leaden gray. My castles built in air are vanishing ; The spirit voices of the evening cease ; The sphery music will no longer ring ; Yon bow hath broke its covenant of peace. Though radiant still. The bond 'twixt man and the immortal powers Hath grown to be the work of sportive showers That sweep the hill. Thine eye, averted now, no more from far Will read my fortune in some twinkling star ; No Naiad sports upon the flood, The elves are banished from the wood, No mermaids sing in coral caves. No sea-god rides upon the waves. And nymphs that guarded grove and rill. And dwarfs that peopled every hill. And knights of fairy land, and ladies gay, — All fled ! The enchanted gardens fade away. And only leave behind sad visions of decay. And yet, why should I mourn, joy of my youth, That thou hast found an enemy in Truth ? Thine uncurbed brood, through ages drear and blind, Have ruled as ruthless tyrants o'er mankind. Ah, happy when, no more misled by thee, 3/2 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Men shall forget their feuds and cruelty ! Truth from the earth hath purged the darker crimes Caused by thy wild caprice in former times. The age of feudal servitude is past ; No guiltless wretches to the flames are cast ; Wizard and witch with thy false lights have vanished ; And, when her patron, Ignorance, shall be banished, Shall Superstition from her throne be hurled, Thy bastard child who long hath ruled the world — She, of thy base-born progeny the last, And coward Fear shall fly, and Error's reign be past. Ah, when those baleful sprites are fled, And, like one risen from the dead. Love without rod shall rule mankind, And all in brotherhood shall bind ; When ancient evil is forgot, And guilt and grief remembered not, And godlike Reason peoples earth With beings of diviner birth ; Why, then, sweet Fancy, come once more ! Not crowned a monarch, as of yore. Do thou on Wisdom's steps attend Rather as servant than as friend. Contented at his feet to sit, And with thy brethren. Mirth and Wit, Sometimes to drown with jest and tale The growling storm or whistling gale ! Then once more to thine ancient fanes retire. Thine altars bright with no unhallowed fire, The Virtues by thy side ; and at the feast Stand thou a courteous host, no more high-priest, And, dressed in robes of purest white That cast a lustre on the night. ODE TO FANCY 3/3 Wait, leaning on the arm of sacred Truth, To inspire once more the glorious dreams of youth- Let not thine ornaments allure Either to acts or thoughts impure ; But through the broad, well-builded hall. Adorn each niche and pedestal With busts of many a saint and sage, The glory of a by-gone age, Becrowned with flowers and garlands gay. Plucked freshly from the lap of May ; And paint the walls and windows o'er More brightly than thou didst of yore, Nor only let thy pictures please the eye. But charm the soul, and lift it to the sky. Alas, if thou with Virtue must be friended Ere with mankind, thy days on earth are ended ! Then fly not yet, nor cease to smile. But fold thy wings and wait awhile. Lest reason, robbed of thee, seem too severe. Lest love grow cold when thou no more art near. And life a dreary void, without a smile or tear. Steal on yon wight in furry robe, Whose eyes are fixed on map and globe, And kindle up his twilight gray With light that never leads astray. Intrude not, decked with gaudy hue Of purple, crimson, green and blue. But, with a lustre pale and mild. Illume his cell for Science' child. Come smiling, clad in mellowest light Of sunny gold or silvery white ; There sport amidst the rays that fall Through stained glass of cloistered hall. 374 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Where, 'neath the dusty, gUmmering beams, That slanting float in hazy streams. Built round with books, the hoary sage Sits poring o'er his musty page. Shut in some antique hermitage. Nor less cheer yon poor wretch, whose unschooled thought By Art or Science' tongue was never taught ; Who, tired and worn with ceaseless toil. No longer ploughs the fallow soil, But by the chimney corner sits. And sleeps, and wakes, and sighs, by fits. Come to that lonely one in gay attire. Sweeten his cup, enliven his dull fire, Teach him how, loosed from inward strife, He may spin out the hours of life To a long autumn of content, Till Death, on fatal errand sent. Shall deem Fate hath misread the hour, And, loath to spoil so fresh a flower. Even turn his back upon the door. Resolved to wait some ten years more. Visit the prisoners, who in dungeon damp Pine ceaseless ; trim for these Hope's dying lamp ! Soothe yon sad son of trade, who longs to flee From eating cares and lean anxiety : Cheer the desponding ; warn the too elate ; For poor and rich, the humble and the great. Need thee alike ! Nay, even the wise, forsooth ! Who scorns to fear, needs other friend than Truth, Would he enjoy in age the cheerful glow of youth. I, too, if in this vale of tears I should wear out my fourscore years. THE POET 375 At last may thank thee for thine aid. Not now, O come not yet, fair maid ! But, when I shall grow weak and old, And in my veins the blood runs cold, And, long secluded from delight, I shall have learned to read aright In Wisdom's book, — become so wise That marvels can no more surprise, Still following Truth in all her range. Till nought in Nature shall seem strange, — Then, Fancy, once again I'll woo thee. More warmly that I need not rue thee ! When I, in Learning's cause grown gray, No more shall fear to go astray. And thou, in sage Experience' school, Shalt have forgot to play the fool, Firm friends once more, I in thy once loved bowers Again will pluck the long neglected flowers. And with thy sparkling cup cheer worn-out life's last hours. THE POET. First Treatment. the love of art rewards the pursuit of it. Guest of the gods ! Men say thy lot Was ever hard and friendless found. Doomed on that earth to dwell forgot Which thou hast made all hallowed ground — As if the debt men owe thy strains In gold or praises can be paid ! Thy music falls like freshening rains, Or sunlight in the forest shade. 376 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE He hath enough who holds a gift so high, The good to cheer, the bad to purify. The Ijn-e is in itself a treasure Of priceless value to the bard ; The artist's skill his wealth must measure ; The song must be its own reward. They little know thy joys divine That live for vanity's display ; Opinion makes their wealth, while thine Man cannot give nor take away. Even kings themselves have begged a song of thee, To soothe the sense of the soul's poverty. What though the scorn of senseless pride Disdain thy poor and humble lot — Though fools thy sacred songs deride, Nay, though by all mankind forgot ? Yon tuneful thrush no witness wants, When his wild carols charm the glade ; If steps profane invade his haunts, He wings his way to deeper shade, Where, all unseen within the gloomy wood, His plaintive song delights the savage solitude. THE POET. Second Treatment. a reproof of melancholy. O thou that know'st with stately strain To soothe the restless hours of care ! Why waste thy skill on meanings vain ? Why wake the accents of despair .? THE POET Z77 The cheerful lyre was lent thee but to bless ; Why add new pangs to human wretchedness ? Nay ! Had the bard this calling only, To make dull days more dark appear, And cheerless solitudes more lonely, And dreary prospects doubly drear, I'd fly the Muses and their dark-draped halls For blithe Silenus and his bacchanals. Since time is brief, let man enjoy ; The wise disdain the sullen mood. Waits Evil, watching to destroy ? Let us o'ercome him, then, with good, And leave the bad to frown through life's fair day, Or waste in moping the swift hours away. Ope not thy lips, sad child of song ! I know what answer thou wilt make ; Thou'lt say, the sight of ceaseless wrong Bids thee lament for others' sake. Because, the wide world through, thine eyes can see No spot unsoiled by crime and misery ; That in the strife for wealth and power The worst must still triumphant be ; That Virtue lives so brief an hour, While Guilt a lengthened date doth see. Sad fool ! Forbear thy melancholy rhyme ; Good cannot find an enemy in Time, — Who hath no temper of his own. But from our thoughts each mood derives. Be sure all reap as they have sown. In fruits of good or evil lives ; 378 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And he who most hath thwarted Nature's plan Is oftenest still the disappointed man. Virtue can make misfortune gay, And Love the load of sorrow light ; And with these two Hope loves to stay, Him cheering who keeps these in sight. 'Tis true, each morrow dawns on scenes untried, But the wise mind will view the brightest side. Yet, if thy wayward, restless soul Would thine own war with wisdom wage, Spurn sickly Fancy's weak control — Be less of bard, and more of sage ! Live just and free, and, though thy path be rough, Be of good cheer — to be a man's enough ! Though song's sad children pass away. Time can their wasted ranks renew ; But Nature's self must feel decay, When stern and vigorous wills grow few. Truth vainly speaks in sweet, prophetic numbers, When courage fails and godlike reason slumbers. Great gods, when ye your gifts recall, May I with cheerfulness resign The joys of sense ! Yes, take them all — Leave only Truth and Love divine ! Hide in the bowels of a frozen earth The pencil's charm, the chisel's marble birth; Melt poesy in air away. Let music to the tempests fly, Let Nature's every charm decay, And in eternal winter lie ; THE POET 379 But leave these two, and courage to live free, That human life lose not its poetry ! Then, though each muse have hid her face, The rosy hours, the days, the years, With a new joy shall run their race; Grief shall almost forget her tears ; And Truth, and Love, and Liberty sublime. When the last Poet's runes have ceased to chime, With sweeter strains shall smooth the wrinkled brow of Time. THE POET. Third Treatment. wherein he boasts his destiny. O thou with brows as black as night That hurriest 'mongst the busy throng, Whose ear no music can delight. Still following Mammon all day long. Seeking for comfort out of care ! Thou still on sorrow's path dost press, Thinking to drive away despair By an industrious idleness. O son of strife ! Will all this broil The joys or hours of life prolong ? Thou canst not reach, with all thy toil, The raptures of my idlest song. Born on misfortune's barren wild, I'm happy, though my path be rough ; 380 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE When Phcebus on his favorite child Bestowed the lyre, he gave enough. In me doth Childhood's heart delight, While Age forgets his slow decay ; I nerve the soldier's arm in fight, I bless the pilgrim on his way. When fierce Oppression's hated brood The ages chain in hopeless night, Till man at last despairs of good. And scarcely dares to dream of light. My voice can pierce the gloom profound, And with new hope fill every heart ; The trump of Liberty I sound, And make the affrighted tyrant start. I melt the soul at Pity's tale. Make man his selfishness forget. Where'er Affliction makes her wail, Or earth with human tears is wet, Swift as the wind, lo, there am I ! And, while my strings their strains prolong. Pale Care entranced forgets to sigh. And Sorrow's voice is drowned in song. And, when at last I yield my breath, I still shall live in glorious rhyme, And, through the gloomy gates of death. Sail singing down the stream of time. Great Jove hath named me child of Heaven, And bids me pass his portals free THE POET 381 And Fate hath to the poet given A twofold immortaUty. For, while with gods his spirit lives, Men's tongues shall his loved strains prolong ; Thus in two spheres the bard survives, Deathless alike in soul and song. THE POET. Fourth Treatment. a receipt for making one. And wouldst thou join the immortal band That wake the lyre with master skill "i Full many a bard, though bold of hand And light of touch and firm of will, Hath failed to urge the magic strings Beyond the clink of tinkling things ! Then first, ere thou begin, be sure That on thy hopes the muses smile ; For, \% thy love of song be pure. Though thou wert wrecked on desert isle, The tuneful shell would charm thine ear, When none but savage beasts could hear. Next, learn with reverent love to prize The lyre that Heaven hath briefly lent ; He who to highest skill would rise Must not despise his instrument. Hence perfect grew the immortal choirs, Whom love of their own art inspires. 382 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Next, be upright ; for, though thy hand Great Phoebus' self should stoop to train, No excellence canst thou command, Dost thou the simple truth disdain, — Still must thou yield to him whose thought By plain sincerity is taught. For to the false, the vain, the weak. The gods' own lyre yields no sweet voice ; Not genius' self can make it speak Save with a wild, discordant noise. Till the musician's soul shall be Tuned with his harp in harmony. Next, Science seek, though fools deride. For she to truth must lead the way ; And never roam from Reason's side, Lest Fancy tempt thy steps astray ; But let thy wit be well content To serve as wisdom's ornament. Let not Prosperity seduce ; Receive her as a formal guest ; And to Adversity's abuse Present a spirit undepressed ; And ever live from brawls exempt; Hold rank and riches in contempt. Live free, and strive to make men so, Though driven to dwell with nations rude : No flowers of poesy can grow On the bleak wastes of servitude. Learn to disdain all worthless things, And flatter neither mobs nor kino:s. THE POET 383 Love beauty, which is truth to love ; These of perfection parents are ; Yet must thou soar gross sense above, Whilst charmed with all things good and fair. Thy temper restless must aspire. Yet rule a monarch o'er desire. Revere the All- Wise, but feel no fear ; Serve neither creed, nor clique, nor place, But live half jovial, half austere. Teacher and friend of all thy race ; So mingling tenderness with truth, That both may love thee, Age and Youth. Next, learn betimes in Nature's face Each nicer feature to descry, Each transient character to trace ; Hold fellowship with cloud and sky. With bird, and beast, and flower, and tree. The running brook, and roaring sea. Often in solitude to wander. Often in watches of the night Upon God's works and laws to ponder, Till Silence' self shall yield delight, Retire betimes ; yet in such mood As feels in all that each is good. Until at last, grown old and wise, Thy skill such solace shall impart. That thou in prophecy shalt rise Above the fame of Orpheus' art : He feeling taught to rock and tree, But they shall gain a tongue from thee. 384 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Methinks thou sayest, *' Restrain thy speech ; The bard was ever but a fool ! Thy dull philosophy go teach To them that throng the sage's school ! " If such thy thought, my task is done ; For sage and perfect bard are one. But, if the spirit pricks thee still. And to go farther thou hast heart, Then add to Wisdom's higher skill The special secrets of thine art ; For without these an angel's speech Must fail the loftiest strains to reach. Teach the truth clearly, not like them That wrap the thought in wordy cloud Fear rather lest the wise condemn, Than court the clamors of the crowd- That he who runs can read thy sense. Deem thou thy greatest excellence. Yet think not truth, or sense alone. Will satisfy the tasteful mind ; The varying notes with truthful tone Must in rich harmony be joined, Till in such lofty strains they roll As charm the ear, and chain the soul. Thy skill must blend the sense and sound In a sweet concord, chaste, severe. Till poesy from earthly ground Mounts to a more celestial sphere. And less like mortal language seems Than music from the land of dreams. THE RIVER REVISITED 385 Yet, while thou soar'st in heaven afar, Thy brethren thou must ne'er forget, But backward to thy native star Must look with fond affection yet. Be this the climax of thine art — To teach the mind, yet touch the heart. For all delights of soul or sense, All good that wealth or power commands, All forms of glorious excellence, Moulded by thought or made with hands. On earth beneath, in heaven above, — All are as nothing without love. THE RIVER REVISITED. OR, life's experience. The clouds have capped the mountain's brow, The stream runs darkly clear below ; So rested they, so flowedst thou, Sweet river, twenty years ago, When, standing on thy flowery bank, Ere I had learned life's storms to brave. Grief's gushing floods thy current drank, And salt tears mingled with thy wave. " O, stream that hast my tears," I sighed, " And hastenest with them to the sea ! Would that thy depths might sorrow hide, And all life's cares be drowned in thee ! 386 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE " But thou wouldst scorn to mate with sorrow ; Peaceful thou journeyest on thy way ; No thought thou takest for the morrow, Flowing unruffled day by day. " Would that life's river, smooth as thine. Might waft me to some tranquil scene Where the sweet light of hope might shine. As yon sun in thy floods serene ! " While each mute thing forgets its troubles, Thought's favored child his watch must keep, His joys as transient all as bubbles, Sole of all creatures doomed to weep." 3? Just twenty years ! And now at last Time's hand the load of life hath lightened, And memory, smiling o'er the past, Hath all the backward landscape brightened. And now thine ancient guest once more Hath come to view thy waters wild ; A child he roamed thy banks of yore. And he returns to thee a child. Still frank, still fond, as in those years When first thy flowery marge he ranged, He brings thee all again but tears ; Passion is dead, but love unchanged. Fair as thou wast he finds thee still, , The fields, the flowers as fresh as ever; The same dark pines tower up yon hill ; Thou art the same pure, placid river. THE RIVER REVISITED 387 Thy smooth and glassy breast gives back The image of the same blue sky ; As brownly darkening o'er thy track, The rocks o'erhangthee from on high. O, why no longer in my breast Dost thou a pleasing grief excite ? I see thee, but my soul's at rest ; I view thee with a calm delight. Have grander prospects made thee tame ? Or hath experience me made dull ? Sweet stream, thou art in all the same ; I still can deem thee beautiful. But tears and raptures yield at last To weight of more substantial care ; And love, more poor than in the past, Foregoes the luxury of despair. Through Fancy's glass of magic dyes So oft false colors have I seen, Which changed, when viewed with naked eyes, From rosy red to faded green, — So oft I've known fair skies o'ercast. And the warm sunshine veiled in showers, So oft have found a naked waste, Where distance clothed the scene with flowers, — So oft, ere youth's first years were past, I laid my loved ones in the dust, That I have learned, fair stream, at last To look on all things with distrust. 388 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Reason hath taught me without dread My day o'erwhelmed with clouds to see, And with a careless step to tread The bleak wastes of adversity, — To make the most of flower and tree, The rather that so soon they fade, And, when a beauteous morn I see, To whisper, "It must end in shade." Therefore I husband it with care, Still lengthening pleasure to the last ; And, when 'tis o'er, I ne'er despair. But seek my sunshine in the past. Or forward, in a fair to-morrow The cloudy present I forget. Nor for one instant harbor sorrow ; For I have learned, O rivulet ! That absent pain is life's chief pleasure ; Who 'scapes remorse or dire distress Hath found on earth no common treasure • Few reach so mean a happiness. In humblest things I find delight, Nor seek in man nor thee perfection, And keep my day, now near its night. Warm with a more diffused affection. Though no too brilliant scenes entrance, No dull ones cast too deep a shade ; Onward I tranquilly advance, Admiring nought, of nought afraid. THE RIVER REVISITED 389 I live like one that doubts of joy — Ne'er grasp at bliss, but lightly touch ; The man, grown wiser than the boy, True pleasure finds in " not too much." Flow unadmired, then, at my feet ; Of my old raptures I've repented ; Henceforth, O never seem more sweet Than just enough to seem contented. Yet, though my ecstasies are o'er. Love now is from delusion free. And this calm joy approves thee more Than though my tears should fill the sea. Fair as of old, still freshly flow Unchanged, while I, with each new morrow, Will hear thy wild voice laugh at woe. And charm away all sense of sorrow. And now farewell, till coming Night Upon thy breast shall softly sigh, And for her brother's dying light Weep silent tears of dew, while I, Who love ye both, will shed no tears. Ah, not in rain life's sun must set ! I can but watch with you. Long years Have dried the fountains of regret — Taught me to bear, and to forget. 390 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE THE OLD AND THE NEW HERO. 'Mid the thick dust of battle I saw thy tall steed Bear thee onward, brave chieftain 1 to wound and to bleed. Fire and smoke dimmed thy path, and the trumpet's loud blast Sang shrill 'midst the death-strokes that round thee fell fast. Thy sword gleamed afar, and thy sun-gilded crest Spilled its feathers, like waterfalls, white o'er thy breast. Now soaring, now sinking, now heard, and now lost, Still thy voice through the clangor loud called to thine host. Rank on rank they pressed forward till lost to mine eye, For the smoke-clouds had swept the bright sun from the sky. But when evening crept on, veiled in shadows of gray. The smouldering reek drifted slowly away. And the roar of the battle had melted to moans, Where the wounded all night vexed the air with their groans. No flames from thy musketry glared on the night, But the fireflies, all flashing with innocent light, Mocked their blaze, and the thunders that roared from the hill Were changed to the chant of the lone whippoorwill, And, while dead men heaped up lay in piles far and wide, The hedge cricket sang his short psalm at their side. Next year, when I roamed through that sorrowful scene, Where rivers of red threaded valleys of green, The fresh, blooming fields showed no signs of decay ; All traces of slaughter had vanished away. The rank vines had woven their leaves into bowers. And the forms of the slain were converted to flowers. All was tranquil : the wounded had ceased from their groans, Each slept unmolested, a hillock of bones. Ten thousand strong men, clad in armor of brass. All martyred — for what ? To prove flesh is but grass. THE OLD AND THE NEW HERO 39! But a column of marble towered high on the plain O'er the grave of the chief who his thousands had slain ; And the hand of the sculptor his story had told, And called on the pilgrim to mourn o'er the mould Of a chief who died young, but who fought long and well, Nor gave o'er till the last of his enemies fell. " Farewell," was it writ, " not forgot shalt thou sleep, For heroes shall come o'er thy relics to weep, While bards in sweet songs chant the deeds of the brave, And glory illumines the gloom of the grave." " Farewell, then ! " said I, " since thy warfare is ended ; With the dust of these valleys thine also is blended ; Thou mayst thank the dull stone that here guards thy repose, That thy fame, like thy carcass, went not to the crows. Yet lament, that the sweetness of flattery's breath For so transient a season can save thee from death ; For new idols shall fall, to draw tears from the eyes Of them that ne'er wept for the good nor the wise. So the prayer of the ignorant savage ascends To the God whom he fears, not to him that befriends." Sons of slaughter ! I would that your worship might cease. That men's hands might be joined in the temples of peace. And that heroes might herald a new age of gold That should teach men their swords into ploughshares to mould, And their spears into pruning hooks ! Then will be joy In the brave who save life, not in brutes that destroy. Ye children of bloodshed, how long must ye slay, Ere ye sleep undisturbed and forgot in the day When the knight and his armor, converted to stones, Shall be dug up for show, like the mastodon's bones ? Blest shade of the hero who tranquilly sleeps Where the sunny Potomac so joyously sweeps ! 392 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Frown not — I intend no irreverence to thee, Nor to him, thy dear friend, who crossed over the sea, And left his gay land of the vineyard behind, Whose sword for defence and whose heart for mankind Leaped both but at sacred Humanity's call. Brave foes to oppression ! I honor ye all. Not for bloodshed, ah, no ! If I bend to your dust, 'Tis the tribute unconscious I yield to the just. Yet Freedom hath friends as devoted, as brave. Who never drew sword on the field or the wave. Honored friend of mankind, who so lowly art laid Where the cypress of Russia affords thee its shade, Long wandering a pilgrim through Europe's domains, To lighten the burden of Infamy's chains ! Though no tears in that wilderness water thy grave, Yet thy name shall be dear to the morally brave. Not for genius men love thee, mild Howard ; 'twas thine But to teach how the human may reach the divine ! And thou too, O Sharp, whose benevolent mind Sought in action no end but the good of mankind. Who the soil of thine England to bondsmen made free ! Wreathe the fingers of Glory no chaplet for thee, Since the last of life's tempests hath swept o'er thy head ? Yes, the halo of virtue shall round thee be shed. World-citizen, speak ! For what conqueror's fame Wouldst thou yield the mute reverence that clings to thy name ? Nay, it needs not ; thy wish I see stamped on thy face. Not to perish for glory, but live for thy race. Go, citizen soldier, e'en fly to the spade ! I care not how humbly thou dwellest in shade, So thy thoughts on no schemes of aggrandizement brood, No visions of rapine, no phantoms of blood. TO THE MANES OF FIELD MARSHAL HAYNAU 393 O leave the poor Indian his land in the west ! Let the lust of dominion be quenched in thy breast ; Let thy mind in the school of reflection be taught To rule action by reason and passion by thought, And to deem well repaid all the toils of thy youth, Hast thou mastered one law in the kingdom of Truth. Happy mortal, whose days unembittered with strife Have been spent in the peace of an innocent life. Whose spirit so tranquilly sinks to repose. Like the lingering glow of an autumn day's close ! Ah, those who so anxiously stand round your bed. And reverently gaze on your time-honored head. Can find in death's mildness relief to their fears. In your smile of content a reproof to their tears, Nor distinguish, when flies the last fluttering breath, The calmness of sleep from the quiet of death. TO THE MANES OF FIELD MARSHAL HAYNAU i^s OF HUNGARIAN MEMORY, " O, there is joy when hands that held the scourge Drop Hfeless, and the pitiless heart is cold." Bryant, Hymn to Death. Escaped from shame at last, yet, though deprived Of earthly reverence, almost, proud knight, I could have wished thou hadst awhile survived, Nor crossed with Charon in so sore a plight, Thy stripes paid back, thy chin of beard despoiled, Thy burly frame with noisome ordure soiled. Yet why ? For, though thy livery might by scrubbing Soon have been cleansed, though soap had smoothed thy skin 394 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And time the scars left by thine Enghsh drubbing, A deeper stain still dyed the man within. Rest, then ! There's now no use but one for thee, To point this maxim of philosophy — " No man can serve two masters." Thou didst sell Life's charities to please thy monarch's will. And he with gifts requited thee ; 'tis well ; But thou to justice wast a bondsman still. The one rewarded thee with wealth and station ; The other gave thee o'er to condemnation. Both claimed thy service ; but the mightier one Hath snatched the weaker potentate's reward^ And, waiting till thy bloody work was done, At length disarms thee of thy whip and sword. Thanks, Justice, that of bad men in disgrace Canst teachers make, and warnings to their race ! Nor yet did Conscience leave thee out of sight ; Not thy new marshal's baton could beguile Thy weary soul, which left the world's sweet light When Fortune had but just begun to smile. Could not the gifts of thine approving master Console thee for thy sorrowful disaster ? No, thou hadst lived to learn that Austria's heel Trod not the necks of all men, and thy mind, Howe'er unmerciful, thou couldst not steel Against the honest scorn of all mankind. No, no ! The sword-thrusts of a thousand wars Could ne'er have stung like those disgraceful scars. What did it boot thee that thou wast so brave To slaughter freemen, and to scourge the backs TO THE MANES OF FIELD MARSHAL HAYNAU 395 Of helpless women, since even now, poor slave. Thy master hath forgotten thee, nor lacks Thousands of unhanged rogues, that wait his grace From their unblushing ranks to fill thy place ? Yet do I take no pleasure in ihy fall, Except for this — that in thy chastisement I see that the great laws which govern all Are not diverted from their wise intent. I reverence them, not that they punished thee, But that their force protects humanity. And, though I seem to join the savage rout Of brewers, butchers, draymen, and the others Who plucked thee by the nose and beard about, 'Tis not that the law-breakers are my brothers. Nor that I thirst for blood ; but I rejoice That Freedom dares on earth to lift her voice. Death strikes in kindness when he smites the hand Uplifted 'gainst the poor and the oppressed ; Hunted by all mankind, henceforth what land Had sheltered ? None ; earth had for thee no rest. Nor can I deem them cruel, I confess, Who feel small mercy for the merciless. But why reproach thee .'' It Vv^as scarce thy crime That tyranny had taught thee to obey, And cramped thee to the custom of the time ; The proverb saith, " Each dog must have his day ; " And, ere she reach perfection, the young earth Is doomed to teem with many a monstrous birth. I wish no worse to despots and their brood Than that they perish lastly without pain ; 396 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Yet, until Justice' laws be understood, And men grown brotherly, such hopes are vain. The pest of tyrants nations need not rue. Whene'er mankind shall to themselves be true. TIME DISCOVERING TRUTH. Something I seek I cannot see, Till cruel fate shall pity me. In cities vast, in deserts wild, In vain I'm hunting for my child. And now, through many thousand years, Have mourned her loss with fruitless tears. I've sought her north, south, west, and east, But, since God made the human beast. The girl is nowhere to be found ; Man hath devoured her, I'll be bound. Me, too, he would be glad to slay ; Some I hear asking every day, " How dost make out to kill old Time } " But since I've learned about the crime, I've ground my scythe, till now 'twill reap A hundred rascals at a sweep. How sharp and smooth ! and bright as gold ! The handle's twice as long's the old ; The very shadow of the thing Might lop two heads off at a fling. Now if a man should chance to pass, I'll send him presently to grass ; There's none shall 'scape, whoe'er he be, Whether a foe to Truth or me. Yet gladly would I rest from slaughter, If I could only find thee, daughter ! TIME DISCOVERING TRUTH 397 Where art thou, first-born child of mine ? Why dost thou hide and make no sign ? In the silence of the night Thou art present to my sight ; In each age I hear thee speak, But, when I haste thy form to seek, The voice is hushed and thou art fled, And old dame Prejudice, instead, To meet me comes with limping pace, And mocks me with her loathed embrace O'er and o'er deluded, yet Thee I never can forget. Where thou art I cannot tell, But one thing I know full well : So woven art thou with my heart. That of myself thou seemest part. And, till my lost one I can find, I must roam like one that's blind. O, speak and answer ! Dost survive ? My daughter, art thou still alive ? Or am I seeking for a sound. Not for a thing that may be found ? I cannot tell, yet long ago I should have dropped the search, I know, Save that 'tis written in the past. Time shall discover Truth at last. My throat is dry with calling thee ; Would that some fountain I might see 1 Yet now, methinks, I seem to hear A spring or streamlet bubbling near. Ah, here's a well ; I'll down and drink, And leave my scythe upon the brink; Yet first I'll cover it with grass. 398 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Lest it be stol'n by some that pass. What do I see ? That face I know ; Is it my child lies there below, Still fresh in all her youthful charms ? Come up to thine old father's arms ! What ! Wilt not speak ? Then fate hath lied. No doubt she hath fallen in and died ; Else to my wrong is joined abuse ; I've found when finding hath no use. Perhaps she sleeps ; for sure, so fair, No dead thing could lie smiling there. Awake ! alas, beneath how far ! Her face shines twinkling like a star. She cannot hear me, and I know She lies full half a mile below ; Hopeless to reach her, that seems clear ! She's too far down my voice to hear ; Must she for aye lie there forlorn ? She might as well have ne'er been born. Wake, daughter, wake, and solve my doubt 1 How shall thy father fish thee out ? LIFE. Spirit of life, so lately fled From those once sparkling eyes, That leavest me to mourn the dead With useless tears and sighs ! Like a sweet thought thou didst depart, Unheard, unseen, unknown ; Then why laments my foolish heart ? What art thou that hast flown ? LIFE 399 Those glassy eyes seem gazing yet, Though thou art there no more ; Still smile the lips which once could " set The table in a roar." Is he not gone, but only mute, As when the whispering trees Hushed to a calm, or like a flute With none to press the keys ? Ah, friend ! Thine is some deeper death - The trees shall sigh once more ; Soon shall the skilled musician's breath The flute's sweet sounds restore. But thou, to silent earth consigned, Shalt slumber with the past ; Thy friends shall seek, but shall not find ; This look must be our last. And thus, ere long, my loved ones all Shall leave me lonely here. And I must cover with the pall All whom my soul holds dear — With but this thought to soothe the heart In musing on the past : That the stern law which bids us pan Shall blend our dust at last. Spirit of life, why yield life's breath ? Why seek thyself to slay ? Sure, thou art sweeter far than death. Bloom lovelier than decay ! 400 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Alas, thou wilt not stay thy flight For Wise, or Fair, or Just ! Is day less dear to thee than night, Or thought than senseless dust ? LIFE S ANSWER. 'Tis true, my child, I seem to fly, Yet cease thy tears to shed. Nor falsely deem thy dear ones die Because thou seest them dead. Through myriad paths my way I take, And, as my course I keep. All things are doomed awhile to wake, Awhile to fall asleep. I thread my way through running stream I laugh in waving trees ; I sport in every sunny beam ; I murmur in the breeze ; I roam the earth, I ride the air, I swim in ocean's wave. And ever in a form more fair Come mounting from my grave. All shapes of ocean, air, and earth, Alternate must decay ; They perish to renew their birth, — Thou sayest, "They fade away." Yet, when from worn and languid hearts The unwilling spirit flies. It is not Life with life that parts — 'Tis only Death that dies. LIFE 401 Like thee, I do but change a dress That's soiled from day to day ; Deem not for this all loveliness Is doomed to pass away. Like thee, I would not always wear The torn robes of the past. And still throw by, with each new year, My playthings of the last. Hath Death's cold finger chilled a heart Thou in thine own didst cherish ? Think not thy friend and I shall part ; Nothing once made can perish. 'Tis only to grow warm once more, That he hath now grown cold ; Time seeks his green youth to restore. Lest Age might grow too old. The blast that blights each wasted frame But sets a captive free ; I breathe, and straight the vital flame Wakes to new liberty. Deem, then, no suicide am I, Because he sleeps in dust ; Nor falsely think that men must die. Because their bodies must. Go, child of earth, henceforth fear not Lest being cease to be ; Till God hath his own self forgot, Space shall be filled with me. 402 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE And, though a race more fair than thou May walk the earth at last, Wiser and purer, when thy brow In rock shall be bound fast, Deem not for this thy tribes shall cease ; They shall more perfect be, Destined in truth and love to increase Through all Eternity. Farewell ! To my great Father's side, The fount of me, I fly. Rejoice, not that thy friend hath died. But that he cannot die ! The Almighty Sire who reigns above Hath me this secret shown : All life at last shall dwell in love Eternal, like his own. A LAST WORD TO "THE WATERFOWL." APROPOS TO A WELL KNOWN MASTERPIECE OF AMERICAN POETRY. Soar on, as when the bard's admiring eyes Traced thee through twilight glow, and from thy flight Deduced this just conclusion, that the All-Wise, Who guided thee, would lead his steps aright. Fly to thy destined goal, where leaves are green And flowers unfading still, though ice and snow. In thy late haunts, enshrouding all the scene, Encase each bough, and crust the earth below. ODE TO TRUTH 403 But, when once more the new reviving spring Hath waked each warbler and each stream unbound,, And cheerful May hath raised her hands to fling Her flowery carpet o'er the moistened ground, Again come back, with all thy noisy host. And with loud cries this constant truth resound r That nothing through all nature's realm is lost — All things revolve in one eternal round. This restless earth, each planetary sphere, The breath of life, winds, tides, the cloud, the rill. Go and return like thee, all taught to steer Through fixed cycles by the Eternal will. ODE TO TRUTH. First Treatment. truth persuasive. O thou that, in thyself content, Wilt not be moved by argument — That growest more fair with growing old, Deemed by the fool severe and cold. But by the wise more precious far Than all things that most beauteous are ! Dwelling unveiled in heavenly light, Thou wilt be served but by the upright. And none thy lustre can endure Save the unspotted soul and pure. How blest are they that join thy train, Far from the proud, the false, the vain — Within thy sacred haunts serene that dwell, And at the crystal waters of thy well 404 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Quench thirst for knowledge, while thou dost relate How Love Paternal did all things create, All dear alike to him that governs all,39 The starry world so vast, the earth so small, Down to the humblest moss that grows upon the wall ! O Maid divine, sometimes in mists of doubt So densely veiled that few can find thee out. Yet to the steadfast seeker ever kind, Permitting the most patient first to find ! To the long-tried thou lov'st to show Wisdom that worldlings cannot know. And wilt with eloquent lips explain The natural laws, in wondrous chain Each to each linked without end. God wilt thou show of His own works the friend. Bending to order each with just direction. And each sustaining with a wise affection, That all for aye improve, yet never reach perfection. Instructress wise, fain would I stand As one among thy chosen band. Forgetting fear and care and folly, And, wrapped in pleasing melancholy. Hang on thy lips, and feel the day Pass in unanxious peace away ; And, when the moon sets sail on high. And stars are lit through all the sky. From each far lighthouse twinkling through Those boundless seas of limpid blue, Still would I muse in peace so deep That thought itself should seem like sleep ; While days and months and years glide by In studious ease, so noiselessly That lastly scarce the dart of death Should startle, when it stopped my breath. ODE TO TRUTH 405 O Truth, what pleasures so divine can be, As feels the soul that tranquil dwells with thee. At peace with man, and with itself in harmony ! ODE TO TRUTH. Second Treatment. truth contemplative. Truth, from Error's barren waste A pilgrim comes thy fount to taste — One on whose youth thy countenance smiled. Though, from thy paths too long beguiled. The way to thee is half forgot. Till haply thou wilt know him not. But veil thee in so black a cloud As shall thy sacred haunts enshroud. And hide the thousand ways that lead. Each by a slight and brittle thread. To that fair fane where, robed in white. And crowned with rays of heavenly light, Thou, from the vulgar gaze concealed. Art only to pure eyes revealed. O, child of Heaven ! in days of old, 1 deemed thee stern, thy fountain cold ; For Error from thy paths away Entices even thy friends to stray, Charmed by Delusion's magic light. Gleaming from fens, yet briefly bright, Which tempts to death and ends in night. Truant awhile, to thy domain The wanderer hath returned again. For time can ne'er thy charms efface 4o6 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE From eyes that once have known thy face ; And, though thou surely wilt not deign . To rank me of thy household train, And though thy stair I may not mount To fill my pitcher at thy fount. Yet sometimes at thine outer gate With Science' servants do I wait, Discoursing of thy worth, while she Sits in thine inner courts with thee. Often, some wandering muse to meet. Ere the first warblers wake, my feet Over the lawns and meadows pass, Brushing the dewdrops from the grass ; And, when night is drawing near, And the fenny choirs I hear From the meadows piping clear, Mingled with the cowbell's clink, Where the herds have stopped to drink. While brooding silence casts her spell O'er dewy dale and dreamy dell. Then oft, with meditation met. All things of earth do I forget. Through bushy by-paths wandering far By the light of evening star, Till distant chimes with drowsy hum Proclaim the hour of rest is come, And warn me with the dying bell Once more to seek the studious cell. Where Morpheus seldom comes to knock Till early dawn hath waked the cock, From night till morn, from morn till night, Thy worship an unmixed delight. Thus would I serve thee day by day, Till old age shall make me gray ; ODE TO TRUTH 407 And, though 'twere vain to hope mine eyes Should e'er make out the sense that lies In thy more secret mysteries, Yet wilt thou deem he serves thee well Who some few words can faintly spell, If it so be with cheerful will And humble heart he seeks thee still. To him ofttimes the winged hours Will waft some music from thy bowers, Or, from thy language heard in part, Imprint a lesson on his heart. O, guide divine, how blest is he, Who early learns to walk with thee ! Despair no refuge finds with him, He views unscared Death's visage grim. His life glides on like some fair river, Deeper, broader, calmer ever ; Still fertilizing as it flows, The winds scarce ruffle its repose. Him no disasters can appall ; He feareth not what may befall ; The heavens and earth to him are musical. And, if the senses e'er have power To bind thy votary for an hour. Folly can never hold him long. Who the mean joys of feast and song Hath measured with those rare delights Wherewith Philosophy invites — Friends, books, and thought, and all those joys Which most disdain the haunts of noise. The rustic cot with gardens neat, Far from the city's crowded street, — There, when the day's dull toils are ended, To be with contemplation friended. 408 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Lifted above all thought of sorrow, Or of the strife that comes tomorrow ; And, when summer heats are nigh, To some lonelier haunt to fly, The pensive grove, the solemn wood, The green hill's breezy solitude. Or smooth worn beaches, where the sea Sighs with a soft monotony, Or lodge forlorn in drowsy dale, Muffled in mountain shadows pale. Where, through the cool sequestered glade. Even noon comes swathed in twilight shade All these full oft in bygone age Were dear to wandering saint and sage, Seeking some wild, secluded place, To question Nature face to face. Yet, if the sons of strife even here With din of discord draw too near, Then let forest depths invite. Where songs of birds and brooks delight, While the cataract in the breeze Blends with the roaring of the trees ; Or where the wild deer roams the glen, Unstartled at the steps of men, While Echo sleeps her cliffs among. Ne'er waked by noise of axe or tongue. Here, sheltered in some snug retreat From winter's snows and summer's heat, O Truth ! I'd dwell with Peace and thee, Wrapped in a blest obscurity. Here oft thy footsteps would I trace, Musing along with solemn pace. Here sometimes meet thee face to face ; While life, in thoughtful leisure spent. Longs not to soar beyond content — The highest bliss of Fate we borrow That is not mingled with some sorrow. ODE TO CELESTIAL LOVE 409 ODE TO CELESTIAL LOVE. Tamer of hearts, whose life began Long ere the transient race of man Roamed o'er the yet uncultured earth ! Thine eyes beheld creation's birth, And saw the heaving ocean shroud The giant hills in billowy cloud, While o'er the vast unbroken deep Silence in darkness lay asleep. Ere yet the animating breath Swept o'er the wastes of watery death, Thou, sleepless, in the Eternal Mind, Watched through those ages long and blind, In thine unbounded glance foreseeing The chain of uncreated being. Time didst thou rock, while yet he slept, Till the young infant tottering crept ; Then didst thou watch, lest he might fall — The hoary father of us all ! Nurse him, that he might grow, and bless Earth with unending fruitfulness. Through thee the Almighty Father wrought. While yet He brooded, wrapped in thought, With countenance veiled, musing the fate Of what ere long He might create. Then, first-born of immortal race, He smiled benignant on thy face ; "In thee," He said, "my likeness will I cherish; Fear not, my daughter, lest thou e'er shouldst perish Though Time, thy son, must die when he grows old, And all his children mingle with the mould. 4IO CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE Thou shalt not fail. Go, child of my affection ! Go, join thy gentleness to my reflection, And bring our world at last to its perfection. Do thou add joy, while I inspire with thought, Till matter all with soul be interwrought." Then gave He for thy symbol His own dove, And, thy blest immortality to prove, He called thee from himself, and said : " Thy name be Love." NOTES. *" Nathan Hale." For the most authentic account of him, see "The Life of Benedict Arnold," by Jared Sparks, who records Hale's last words. ^ "Samuel Adams." Few materials exist for preserving his memoirs, partly because, being of an unselfish disposition, he preferred the inde- pendence of his country to the reputation of being a principal achiever of it, and partly because, after the death of his wife, most of his papers were abstracted, and only partially recovered by the persistent industry of his grandson, the late S. A. Wells, who profoundly venerated him and in reso- lution of character resembled him. The death of Mr. Wells in 1841, when the first volume of his "Life of Samuel Adams " was nearly through the press, prevented the completion of that work. In the present poem, the author has wished to preserve among others a few interesting memorials of this eminent patriot which might otherwise perish with the oral traditions that have thus far preserved them in his family. ^ " Arguing that much vexed question," &c. " Is it lawful to resist the supreme magistrate, if the Commonwealth cannot be otherwise pre- served ? " The subject of his thesis on receiving the degree of A.M. 1743; he maintained the affirmative. * " How trifling in thine eyes seemed worldly wealth," &c. Neglecting his private affairs for those of his country, and unwilling to press the pay- ment of debts due from others, he much reduced a considerable property left him by his father. Superior to all mercenary motives, and careless of personal safety where duty was concerned, he long performed the most arduous public services, almost without compensation. ^ " Or that with bribes they tempted thee," &c. The fact is generally known. Mr. Wells related to the author that he had been informed that the late Secretary of State, Mr. Avery, possessed papers which contained offers to Mr. Adams of a patent of nobility and ten thousand pounds per 412 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE annum, provided he would cease from opposing the government; but Mr. Avery had been long dead, and the biographer had in vain sought a clew to the discovery of these papers. ' " My peace has long been made," &c. His answer to Colonel Fenton when sent to silence him by means of bribes and threats. He added : "Tell Governor Gage it is the advice of Samuel Adams to him, no longer to insult the feelings of an exasperated people." ' " I wait thine answer," &c. Interview with Governor Hutchinson and council, when, after the Boston Massacre, the people demanded the re- moval of the regiments. " I observed his knees to tremble, I saw his face grow pale, and I enjoyed the sight." Letter to Warren ; see Bancroft's History of the United States, Vol. VI. Chap. 43. * " Thou soughtest in one will," &c. Samuel Adams was the originator of the plan for appointing committees of correspondence throughout the State, and from him R. H. Lee and James Warren derived their ideas on this subject. Teste S. A. Wells. 9 Morning of the 19th April, 1775. '° " If of a thousand, all," &c. Several versions of this remark are recorded. He was the friend of universal liberty, and in different in- stances, becoming the master of female slaves by the death of relatives, he made them free, and allowed them the wages of white servants. ^' " Because thou gav'st to flame," &c. He was unwilling to retain what might compromise others. ^'^ " Feast on her cast-up clams," &c. From a speech made during the excitement which followed the tea act. Teste S. A. Wells. " " Thou didst add, be't understood," &c. The same expression also occurred in a letter to his daughter, which letter was afterwards lost. 14 n When men once strove to unloose," &c. This incident occurred during a public procession, and was at various times related by his daughter in the presence of her children. " " Guilt only feared thy frown." He was of benignant aspect, of gracious manners, and was indulgent toward innocent foibles, being wont to remark that vice only is contemptible. He detested all cruelty, and, among other instances of his humanity, his daughter was accustomed to relate that an urgent letter from him saved on one occasion a British soldier from five hundred lashes. NOTES 413 15 11 jvJq j(jjg statue apes thine air." The principal memorials of the per- son of Samuel Adams are as follows : First, the picture by Copley, which represents him in the attitude of an orator. It w^as painted for Governor Hancock, became afterwards the property of Mr. Wells, and is now in Faneuil Hall. A spirited engraving was made from it, by T. House, for the work of Mr. Wells ; but only a few proofs have been taken from the plate. Second, a full length taken in old age, by Johnston. He is seated in an arm-chair, his hand resting on a chart, and an open window discloses a view of the old State House in Boston. It was faithfully engraved in mezzotinto, by Graham, in 1797, and the print, which is in folio, is of the extremest scarcity. '^ " And o'er the uncolumned tomb," &c. Samuel Adams was buried in the Checkley tomb, which adjoins the westerly sidewalk of Tremont Street, in Boston. His bones have been gathered into a box by his grandson, and deposited in a corner of the vault. Teste S. A. Wells. ASSABET BROOK AND RIVER. " The Assabet river rises in Worcester county, Mass., is joined in Stowe by the Assabet brook, and, uniting in Concord with the Sudbury, forms the Concord river proper, which empties into the Merrimack at Lowell. '9 " Since now the artist's skilful hand," &c. Some interesting drawings made by Mr. Henry Hitchings, the landscape draughtsman, are here referred to. 20 K Where near the verge the ball-flowers blow ; " i.e. " Cephalanthus occidentalis," Linn. Commonly called " button bush." ^' " Near that gray column rude and low ; " i.e. the battle monument in Concord. THE SOLITARY MAN. ^^ " They seek the false, who have not found the true." For an ampli- fication of this idea, see Montaigne's Fourth Essay. THE MOUNTAIN JOURNEY. ^3 The laws which regulate the geographical distribution of plants, in accordance with which altitude becomes the representative of latitude, have been well known to naturalists since the days of De Saussure. The same phenomena which are observable upon European mountains occur also with slight variations upon our own. A few facts may here sufiice for the unscientific reader. 414 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE After having penetrated, upon one of our loftier New England ranges, the forests of oak, maple, &c., we find ourselves in the region of birches, which, more or less intermingled with pines, continue to surround us, until we have reached a great height ; their trunks frequently of a large size, yet growing in so loose a soil that, when grasped by the hands, they may some- times be made to swing from side to side with the greatest ease. Mean- time the dense, spongy carpet of moss heaves beneath our feet, and, if we examine this moss, especially in steep situations,, we shall find that the roots of the trees ramify its substance, often for long distances ; and if we look more closely, we shall see that it conceals numberless little cisterns of water, formed in the hollows of the rocks, from which moisture is abun- dantly supplied for the nourishment both of the mosses and of the trees which they sustain. In our latitude, at a height of less than five thousand feet, we find ourselves at the limit of forest trees, and, near this limit, we frequently arrive at a dense narrow belt of dwarf firs, only a few feet in height, which seem as if formed in regimental line; their branches declin- ing, and so rigid, that it is nearly impossible to penetrate their ranks, for, while the depending limbs readily permit one to slip down between the trunks, to extricate one's self is not so easy, as the tattered clothing of the traveller frequently testifies. Above this point we find only stunted bushes, intermingled with slender trunks, blasted and bleached, the skele- tons of a race long since perished, and here we frequently reach a terrace, enough depressed to hold here and there little lakes, on whose margins grow various rare plants, mostly unknown to the regions below. Soon we arrive at a pyramid composed of broken rocks, piled one upon another, and this forms the peak, which first strikes the eye from a distance, when in looking toward one of our granite ranges one descries a series of broad, rounded bases, for the most part surmounted by cones more or less sharp- ened. As w-e scramble with difficulty over this rude pile of rocks, all verdure disappears ; we are surrounded only by desolation. At last the top is reached, and suddenly in this region of mists the foot treads upon dense carpets formed by the snow-white blossoms of different species of Arenarias, whose flowers are much larger than those of the insignificant kinds which grow upon the plains. Very interesting is it to observe these changes in vegetation. The higher one climbs, the more arctic will be the character of the flora, especially as regards genera; and in the journey of a morning, the traveller, were he to judge of the distance he has measured by the plants which he meets with, will seem to have traversed several degrees of latitude. ^'' " No poisonous shrub of sickly hue." Poisonous plants do not inhabit the higher mountain regions. In alpine flowers, moreover, the colors are more often simple than mixed, and the white and the rosaceous seem to NOTES 415 predominate over the blue and the yellow ; they are for the most part scentless, because fragrance, to reach its highest perfection, requires a warm and dry climate. Stems of woody fibre yield also to the succulent, the rough and spinous to the smooth, the long to the short, annual plants to perennial ones, and all perhaps for similar reasons, namely, their depend- ence for nutrition rather upon moisture than the soil, and the brief time allotted to their development. Not only are the alpine species larger- flowered than their congeners in the lowlands, but even species which are common to a great range of latitude, hurried to perfection by a short sum- mer and the constant trickling of melted snows, flourish in mountain districts with the most vigor and in greatest abundance. Nowhere will one find the Azaleas more splendid than on the summit of the Wachusett Mountain. Still farther north other species occur. In the elevated re- gions about the Moosehead Lake, the swamps are filled vrith the Rhodora Canadensis in extraordinary perfection. The very islands of the lake are red with it. Different species of Trillium, Corydalis, Epilobium, &c., with various orchideous plants, ornament the mountain bases, while the Dra- caena borealis, which accompanies us for long distances up their sides, enlivens the greater portion of the year at an earlier season with its flowers of a golden yellow, and at a later vdth its berries of a celestial blue. The true Rhododendrons, which so greatly adorn the European mountains and those of our middle states, are perhaps less frequent ; but their place is supplied in the far north by the beautiful Kalmia glauca, one of the finest species of its genus, while on several of our more elevated peaks, especially upon the Grand Haystack, in New Hampshire, the bold and savage Mt. Bigelow in Maine, and the White Mountains proper, the above-mentioned Arenarias, and more rarely, the Lapland Diapensia, whose brief awakening is succeeded by a long sleep of many months, enliven the very loftiest sum- mits, blossoming among the banks of snow which lie around them, and creating a garden in the clouds, nay, sometimes too much elevated above them to receive nourishment from the raindrops which they scatter. ^5 " But passed the pine and birchen grove." In the mountains of the north of Europe, the birch has the highest range, but, as far as the obser- vation of the author has extended, the pines reach a higher altitude in New England, which is rich in the cone-bearing trees. ^* " All new ! the very insect race." The limits of the animal are as rigidly defined as those of the vegetable kingdom. Seas and mountain barriers divide races from each other ; and this law of parallelism between altitude and latitude seems to include even the insect world. In the high- lands of Maine and New Hampshire occurs a Canadian Fauna, and vari- ous new species of insects, which did not occur in the lowlands, were there 41'6 CONSOLATIONS OF SOLITUDE formerly observed by the author, some of which were, nearly at the same time, collected by Dr. Richardson's exploring party in the extreme north of the British possessions ; a circumstance favorable to the theory which deduces the origin of animal and vegetable forms from many centres rather than one. It must not be deemed conclusive, however, for the other side of the question does not lack arguments. ^^ " And as the clouds beneath thy feet." The great variety of atmos- pheric effects presents some of the most interesting traits in mountain scen- ery, as when in a foggy morning the white veil slowly rising displays all the lower landscape clearly to the eye ; while on the greater peaks wreaths piled upon wreaths are broken into a thousand picturesque shapes, and soar so high in the air that the observer is deceived as to the real height of the ridges before him, which in districts of even moderate elevation seem like vast Alpine ranges covered with eternal snow. As he ascends, he finally enters this region of vapors, which, growing ever thinner and thinner, become at last so penetrated by the diffused sunlight that every particle is illuminated ; and, if he look behind him, the earth so suddenly terminates in a sea of mist, that the steep pyramid up which he is clamber- ing appears like a precipitous island floating in a magic sky, amidst a drizzly rain of infinitesimal diamonds. Not less beautiful are the approach and retreat of storm clouds, when thunders, at first heard in the distance, sound nearer, till at last the noise becomes deafening, and the lightnings seem to take aim at our very eyes. Presently the fogs grow thinner ; a sunbeam bursts through ; the vapory masses begin to scatter ; suddenly a cloud rolls toward us ; it envelops us ; and for a while all is dark again. Gradually, light prevails ; the floating masses separate more and more, sinking lower and lower as they evaporate ; and now, far down, an ocean of clouds appears like a new sky. Soon, through some rent, the lower world is disclosed ; a distant spire appears ; rivers, valleys, forests and villages come in sight ; and now the detached islands of mist, striking the lower peaks, become more and more subdivided ; and, while each pale cloud floats like a ship, with majestic slowness through the airy sea, its sable shadow is seen far below, darkening the earth where it falls, tDl the eye, fixed involuntarily upon the fantastic and ever-varying forms of the vapory ghosts which, some soaring overhead, and some swimming beneath our feet, on all sides surround us, becomes bewildered with the endless metamorphoses of light and shade. ODE TO OBLIVION. *8 "But science' eye," &c., refers to the artificial processes employed for unrolling and deciphering these ancient manuscripts. NOTES 417 SPRING MORNING OF A BEREAVED MAN. ^ " Then the brown butterfly," &c. Vanessa Antiope, Linn. Apparently the same as the European species, and one of the earliest of its tribe. MAUSOLEUM OF BURNS. ** "Did those sweet lines with truth agree," &c. " But yet the light that led astray Was light from heaven." The Vision. Duan Second. POET AND TOLL-GATHERER. ^' That the toll-man should make a pun involving words of different languages seems to be a natural result of his miscellaneous intercourse with poets of all nations. ^ " Ofttimes a dozen halt or maimed." Probably members of societies instituted for the purpose of mutual admiration. 33 «