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LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 PEREGRINE piCKLE. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 7^, 
 
 ^;7 
 
 OF 
 
 PEREGRINE PICKLE 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE P. UPTON. 
 
 " This, That and the Other:' 
 
 38G9 
 
 X^?> 
 
 - 7.r — --^^ 
 
 CHICAQO: 
 
 THE WESTERN NEWS COMPANY, 
 121 and 128 State Street. 
 
 18 69 
 
T53I13 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 18C9, by 
 
 THE WESTERN NEWS COIMPANY, 
 
 In tlio Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the 
 
 Northern District of Illinois. 
 
 t^nXv Printed by J. Waddinoton, '^To « 
 ^/^Ir^ 121 Madison Stueet, Cuicaqo, III. \QI^ 
 
|o|v|kk, 
 
 Sympathy and Encouragement 
 
 HAVE CONSTANTLY WELCOMED AND FOLLOWED 
 
 THESE LETTERS, 
 
 |w» I 
 
 olume 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 
 
PRE FA CE. 
 
 HE contents of this book originally appeared in 
 the columns of the Chicago Tribune, in the 
 form of weekly letters, over the nom de plume of 
 " Peregrine Pickle," devoted to matters of gossip and in- 
 terest in the world of amusement. Necessarily, much of 
 this matter was of an ephemeral nature, which perished 
 with publication. Many of these letters, also, were de- 
 voted to topics of a purely local and temporary character, 
 which, at this present date, would possess no interest. 
 I have, therefore, taken care to preserve only such parts 
 of them as have a general bearing, and have arranged 
 them under appropriate heads, with dates at the end of 
 each, as a matter of convenience and reference. 
 
 These letters were commenced in the early part of 
 the winter of 1 866-' 6 7, and have, therefore, reached 
 the very respectable age of nearly three years, i^ike 
 other children, they are old enough to go alone, and I 
 therefore send them out into the world, richly endowed 
 
vi. Preface. 
 
 with my blessings, which is all I liave to give them. 
 Should they succeed in the world, I shall be profoundly 
 astonished, as they were born amidst the press and 
 hurry of other editorial duties, and they came into the 
 world scarce half made up. Should they fail, I shall at 
 least have the gratification of showing that Lytton Bul- 
 wer was in error in regard to the lexicon of youth. 
 
 The characters — Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs, Aure- 
 lia, Celeste, Mignon, Blanche, Boosey, Fitz-Herbert, and 
 the Maiden Aunt — whom the reader will find in these 
 pages, may be real or not, as the reader fancies. None of 
 them are willing, however, to have me divulge their real 
 names, as that would destroy the little mystery which 
 envelopes our breakfast gatherings, and would put us 
 ill at ease when talking with the reader, as we hope to 
 do for some time to come, through the columns of the 
 Tribune. Meanwhile, if the reader knows any large- 
 hearted, large-handed n,ian, who speaks very plainly and 
 hates shams, it is quite possible that man is Old Blobbs. 
 Mrs. Blobbs is a very good woman when she is severely 
 let alone, and her ideas of etiquette are not shocked. 
 Aurelia is a plain, practical, well-educated woman, who 
 shed all her nonsense when her first baby made her ap- 
 pearance. Celeste is a little flighty, and would be a 
 Girl of the Period, if that did not involve vulgarity. 
 Mignon is the pet of our set, keenly alive to whatever 
 is beautiful, always lively and always graceful, and 
 
Preface. vii. 
 
 Blanche is her companion — a quiet and lovable girl. 
 Boosey is a good-hearted, weak-kneed young fellow, 
 quite harmless and very self-opinionated, while Fitz- 
 Herbert is an incapable we cannot shake off. Tlie 
 Maiden Aunt is not with us now, having gone to a 
 better world than this. Perhaps the reader knows all 
 these people. They are not difficult to find. 
 
 These pages may prove to you, oh ! reader, but a 
 garden overrun with weeds. Should you, however, find 
 only one simple little flower worth laying away as a 
 souvenir, my purpose will have been answered. 
 
 G. P. U. 
 Chicago, September 20, 1S69. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The Season i 
 
 Sleeping in Church 3 
 
 The Organ Grinder 5 
 
 A Retrospect 7 
 
 Whited Sepulchres 9 
 
 Nothing and Babies 13 
 
 The Circus 18 
 
 Before the Wedding 20 
 
 The Wedding 29 
 
 Muscular Christianity 37 
 
 The Boston Girl 41 
 
 The Dead 44 
 
 Our Thanksgiving 50 
 
 Mrs. Grundy 55 
 
 Behind the Scenes 57 
 
 A Christmas Carol 68 
 
 The New Year 74 
 
 Ole Bull 80 
 
 Small Talk 82 
 
 Flat on the Back 85 
 
 Getting out of Bed 91 
 
 The Teapot 96 
 
 A Masque loi 
 
 The Miracle of Creation 104 
 
 Fashionable Weddings 107 
 
 April 113 
 
 A Summer Reverie . • 116 
 
X. Contents. 
 
 The Germans and Music 119 
 
 The Old Story 126 
 
 In Memoriam 131 
 
 Lake Michigan 135 
 
 Rip Van Winkle 141 
 
 An Autumn Reverie 149 
 
 The Best Woman in the World 151 
 
 The School House . . . . , . . -153 
 
 A New Life 157 
 
 Old Blobbs — His Speech 160 
 
 Death of the Maiden Aunt 163 
 
 The New Year 167 
 
 Public Parties 171 
 
 Aurelia's Baby . . . . . . . .176 
 
 The Quarrel 1S2 
 
 A Woman not of the Period . . . . . 185 
 
 A Trip to Heaven 1S7 
 
 Day Dreams 193 
 
 Lent and Children 195 
 
 Bells 20J 
 
 Tenors and Bassos 207 
 
 A Child's Story — The Three Roses . . . .213 
 
 The Old 222 
 
 Old Blobbs' Opinions 232 
 
 Types 237 
 
 Woman in Church 245 
 
 The Mountains 249 
 
 The Jubilee 254 
 
 The Double Life 291 
 
 Love and the Blue Flower ..... 298 
 
 Marriage 307 
 
 Old Blobgs Redivivus 322 
 
 A Trip to Hell 329 
 
 L'Envoi . . • 339 
 
THE SEASON. 
 
 f^HjHE backbone of the winter is broken. The 
 I ^H Carnival is about over. The lights are going 
 ■•^**"| out and the curtain is about to be rung down. 
 The Spring will soon come slowly up this way, and then 
 Lent. We shall take off our masques, be good children, 
 and moralize on the routs, the follies and frivolities- of 
 December, January and February; and moralizing, we 
 shall pronounce the winter the gayest, wildest, most 
 dashing and smashing Chicago has ever known. 
 
 The winter has been one perpetual ball and party. 
 Private amusement has usurped the place of public, and 
 as a consequence, concerts and operas have suffered. 
 The poor Philharmonic has withered like a leaf under 
 this neglect, and Strakosch has lost money at a frightful 
 rate. Soiree, ball and party have succeeded each other 
 with wonderful rapidity, and the belles have been literal- 
 ly kept whirling until they are worn out and pine for 
 the grateful Lent, when they can rest and get ready for 
 the watering places. 
 
 The milliners, mantau-makers, dress-makers, hair- 
 dressers, and others who make such exquisite fits and 
 tremendous bills, have been in clover. The young la- 
 dies sometimes, after a season of only one night, come 
 
 8 
 
2 The Season. 
 
 home so smashed that there is little left of their light 
 fabrics and heavy waterfalls. Papa's purse has bled 
 freely, while mamma, who will wear a train and try to 
 eclipse her daughter, gets trodden on and banged up 
 and has to go into the toilet dry dock quite often for 
 repairs. This is the reason why the milliner et al. high- 
 priced individuals have been happy and old Blobbs has 
 staid away from evening meetings and, growling at the 
 fire-screen, made an Ursa Major of himself. 
 
 So we go. Young Boosey and Aurelia care little for 
 the tariff, reconstruction, high church controversy, tax 
 bills and legislative stealings. They are optimists. They 
 want the best, and they want it now while the purse 
 holds out. They have had a gay winter, will dawdle 
 along through the spring and leave us just in time to es- 
 cape the hot weather and the cholera, and we shall miss 
 them as we miss the butterflies, and hail their return as 
 they come back in the fall for another winter cam- 
 paign. I do not know that they build many houses, 
 endow many colleges, teach many Sunday school class- 
 es or consume much calico and cold water; but then 
 the streets would be very monotonous, and the counter- 
 jumpers would grow rusty and life would be tinted with 
 ashes of roses without them. 
 
 February 16, 1867. 
 
SLEEPING IN CHURCH. 
 
 |S^| AM usually of a very philosophical tempera- 
 ment and preserve my equilibrium with a won- 
 derful degree of success. I can resist even the 
 blandishments of the tax-collector and never get up to 
 boiling point, as it requires too much effort ; but I have 
 at last failed to retain my composure ; and I have failed, 
 because an unfortunate Irishman wandered into a church 
 in Rhode Island and went to sleep and was sent to jail 
 for ten days, not for going to church, but for going to 
 sleep. He Avas not drunk. He did not even snore. 
 He simply went to sleep like a good Christian. And 
 this innovation upon the ancient rights of pew-holders, 
 and especially of strangers, was endured by the pa- 
 rishioners without a murmur. 
 
 Now, if we are going to establish precedents about 
 sleeping in church, wouldn't it be well to reverse the 
 order of things? For instance, send every minister to 
 jail for ten days who cannot keep his hearers awake. 
 Or, send every architect, who builds churches without 
 means of ventilation, to jail for the same length of time. 
 If I am to be deprived of my customary nap at the head 
 of the family pew, why, then I must go where preachers 
 are less somnolent or stay at home and take my nap, 
 and thereby diminish the revenues of the church. And 
 
4 A Protest. 
 
 if all the heads which nod assent so vigorously to the 
 preacher's premises, are to be deprived of their siestas, 
 what will become of the preachers? Does good old 
 Deacon Jones, who always wakes up in time to pass the 
 contribution box, intend to encourage this state of 
 things? Does good sister Jones, who drowses just a 
 trifle, notwithstanding her smelling-bottle, vote in favor 
 of it? 
 
 I never heard of but one man before, who was pun- 
 ished for sleeping in church, and he was Eutychus, I 
 believe, who was sitting in an open window, and falling 
 into a deep sleep, had a worse fall than that, by falling 
 out of the window. Now, Eutychus was a very foolish 
 young man to go to sleep in an open window, and de- 
 served his punishment for his stupidity, but there is little 
 danger of any one suffering in that manner now-a-days, 
 for an open window in a church is as rare as a church 
 without a contribution box or a strawberry festival. 
 
 In another respect, this sleeping in church is a com- 
 pliment to the minister. It indicates that his congrega- 
 tion are satisfied with the soundness of his doctrines and 
 are willing to trust him alone. Suppose Brother Ryder 
 should preach eternal damnation, or Brother Hatfield 
 should announce universal salvation, or Brother Locke 
 should advocate the elevation of the Host, would their 
 parishioners do much sleeping? 
 
 Not much ! 
 
 I feel for that unfortunate Milesian. I feel that in his 
 punishment, landmarks are swept away and that an old 
 established usage, sanctified by the experience of imme- 
 morial ageS; is overturned. 
 
 March 2, 1867. 
 
THE ORGAN GRINDER. 
 
 ^^E is the child of sunny Itcaly, and it is to be 
 
 ^ n regretted that he is not with his parents. 
 
 acq Likewise his monkey. 
 " I was reminded this morning that Spring is slowly 
 coming up this way, by meeting him and his organ and 
 his red-blanketted monkey ; and the air was full of the 
 infernal jangle and din, ground out by that remorseless 
 man ; and as I passed along I reflected. 
 
 Does the Italian take naturally to the hand-organ? 
 Is he born with the crank and the monkey in his mouth? 
 What sin has he committed that he should be compelled 
 to tramp, making day and night hideous? What be- 
 comes of him in winter? Where does he live? Does 
 he go where the flies go? Is he preserved in amber 
 from Autumn to Spring? You see him on one of the 
 last days of Autumn. A biting wind the next day and 
 the birds are gone. If you ask me what becomes of 
 him, I will answer, I will tell you, when you tell me 
 what becomes of all the hoop-skirts. Does the Organ- 
 Grinder go to church? Does he pay taxes? Are there 
 a Mrs. Organ-Grinder and little Organ-Grinders bringing 
 up little monkeys to the business? Do they live in 
 houses, or do they burrow in the ground ? Where do 
 they go when they die? In fact, do they ever die? Are 
 they not like the wandering Jew, compelled to keep 
 moving, grinding as they go ? 
 
6 His Mission. 
 
 These questions are worthy of consideration. There 
 is only one thing certain about him. He is as resistless 
 as fate. Give him a penny to go away and he will come 
 the next day for a similar favor. Threaten to shoot him 
 and he will laugh at you. Buttons and board-nails are 
 just as current with him as pennies. Tell him your 
 family are at the point of death, and he will grind out a 
 soothing strain and come the next day with several more 
 of his tribe to play a dirge at the funeral. I think I can 
 eat a frugal meal with a Digger Indian ; I am even pre- 
 pared to recognize the greasy Esquimaux and horse-eat- 
 ing Gauls, but I cannot recognize a man and brother in 
 the Organ-Grinder. 
 
 He is one of those mysterious dispensations like the 
 cholera, rinderpest and trichiniasis which only future 
 ages may appreciate. Undoubtedly he has his mission. 
 Undoubtedly there are people who dote on the Organ- 
 Grinder and the organ and the monkey and are soothed 
 with the touching story of "Old Dog Tray." Un- 
 doubtedly there was an old woman who kissed a cow; 
 and there are people at the antipodes who eat mice and 
 other small deer. 
 
 Such patience, determination, humility and industry, 
 if applied to the Foreign Missions, would speedily clothe 
 every Fiji sinner in a flannel jacket and his right mind. 
 Were such attachments as exist between the Organ- 
 Grinder and his monkey more common, we should 
 rapidly approach the Millennium. Tramp on, then, O ! 
 Organ-Grinder! Tramp on, O! monkey! It is meet 
 we should be taught patience. 
 
 April 13, 1867. 
 
A RETROSPECT. 
 
 jHE young ladies have commenced doing a 
 very naughty thing, which is nothing more nor 
 less than inserting a looking-glass on the inner 
 side of the book of " Common Prayer." It is so handy 
 you know, when you are saying the responses, to pay 
 your little devotions to the mirror, for how can one say 
 the responses aright if her strings are fluttered or her 
 chignon awry? And then you know you can get reflec- 
 tions from Celeste over in the next slip and examine her 
 toilet and all the time be looking at your Prayer 
 Book, like a good child. For combining the altar and 
 the toilet, there is nothing like it. When the Rector 
 intimates that Aurelia is a worm of the dust, she will 
 look at her chignon and think of the gregarines. When 
 he cautions her against pride, the sweet little Pharisee 
 will glance at Celeste's shadow and be thankful that she 
 is not as proud as C. But when she lisps the confession 
 to her looking-glass, will she discover that she has left 
 undone the things she ought to have done, and be mis- 
 erable all through the service? And when the Rector 
 says: "Keep thy foot when thou goest into the house of 
 Qq(J * * * g^j-j(^ offer not the sacrifice of fools," 
 will she see a fool in the looking-glass? 
 
8 My Aunt. 
 
 Which reminds me to say that I shall go to the Old 
 Folks' Concert on Monday night ; and I shall revive the 
 recollection of those days when Hepzibah, in a blue 
 calico, sang treble and turned up her nose at Prudence, 
 in bombazine, who sang second and always went off the 
 key in the fugue ; of those days when Zephaniah played 
 bass viol with an unctuous, solemn sound, and sister 
 Brown thought it was about time that Huldy Perkins 
 published her banns if she was ever "a-goin 'ter "; when 
 old Deacon Jones couldn't sleep well through the ser- 
 mon, the "tarnal" flies ''pestered him so;" when my 
 aunt, in a black silk that would stand alone, and 
 a white cap over those gray locks that are now strangely 
 twisted among the roots of the daisies, always made the 
 chorister mad when they sang Coronation because she 
 couldn't get through the quirl in the final "Lord," with- 
 out running off the track and wrecking half the congre- 
 gation. There was a great deal of talk about this failing 
 of my aunt's at the sewing bees, and it occasioned hard 
 feelings between her and the chorister, but I have 
 no doubt they have settled it now, and sing a great deal 
 better than they did when they were in the flesh. 
 
 At least, I hope they do. 
 
 April 27, 1867. 
 
WHITED SEPULCHRES. 
 
 LTHOUGH Aurelia has had a great deal on her 
 mind during the past two or three days in get- 
 ting ready for the Opera, she did not fail to 
 remind me this morning, over her muffins, that I had 
 agreed to say something about male whited sepulchres. 
 
 She also did not fail to remind me that mite parties, 
 sewing societies, private musical soirees, young ladies' 
 charitable institutions, ladies' aid societies, and other 
 mild forms of social delirium on which the Women of 
 America dote, had unanimously declared I was "too 
 bad" and that it was "a shame." 
 
 If by some happy coincidence, I shall secure a similar 
 state of feeling on the part of the Board of Trade,' the 
 Young Mens' Debating Society, the Society for 
 the Propagation of Knowledge in Bridgeport, the 
 Good Templars, the Masonic Lodges, the Turners, the 
 late Philharmonic Society, and other mild forms of mas- 
 culine gregariousness — on which the Men of America 
 dote, I shall account myself fortunate. 
 
 Thus I said to Aurelia, as she rose from her muffins to 
 once more endeavor to find the place in Swinburne's 
 last poem, which she lost some days ago. The Dear Crea- 
 ture thinks it a duty she owes society to read Swin- 
 burne, but whenever she stops reading, she always loses 
 her place, so that her reading of Swinburne is likely to 
 prove the latest style of perpetual motion. 
 
lo Whited Sepulchres. 
 
 Persuading her to forego Swinburne for a few minutes, 
 I took the Dear Child into my den, the only part of 
 the house which has thus far escaped the innovations of 
 Mrs. Grundy, and I said to her: 
 
 My Dear Child, you have hitherto formed your 
 opinions of men from the samples furnished you at one 
 dollar and fifty cents each, selected from the artificial 
 articles concocted by Miss Muloch, Miss Bronte, Miss 
 Evans, Dumas pcre, Henry Ward Beecher and others. 
 You know very little of the real article, for which reason 
 I w^ill catalogue a few of the best specimens of masculine 
 whited sepulchres. 
 
 Old Gunnybags, who sits at the head of his pew 
 every Sunday morning, pretending to listen to the 
 preacher, but in reality thinking of the invoice of sugar 
 to arrive Monday morning; who contributes certain 
 sums for the conversion of the Siamese, but kicks the 
 beggar from his door ; who wreathes his face with smiles 
 when he sees old Tea Chest in the next slip and in re- 
 ality hates him because T. C. holds his I. O. U.; who 
 reads the Confession very unctuously and pronounces the 
 Amen very sonorously, at the same time inwardly cursing 
 his next brown-stone-front neighbor, who got ahead of 
 him in a bargain, on Saturday; who is all things to all 
 men and a grindstone to the individual — he is a whited 
 sepulchre and the sepulchre is full of hypocrisy. 
 
 Mr. Cutaswell, who orders his claret at fifty dollars a 
 dozen and superfluous lace for his wife at as many dol- 
 lars a yard; who drives the fastest bays on the avenue; 
 who takes an opera box for the season ; who imports 
 pictures from Germany and cooks from France; who 
 goes to Saratoga every summer and gives stunning 
 
Whited SepiUchres. ii 
 
 soirees every winter; who does all these things when he 
 ought to be paying his " calls" — he is a whited sepul- 
 chre, and the sepulchre is full of swindling. 
 
 Old Muslin D. Laine, who smiles and smirks and 
 bows to and fawns upon his customers, and grinds his 
 clerks into the dust ; who hands My Lady to her carriage 
 with gracious, grinning suavity, and grinds the noses of 
 his employees ; who irritates, goads and worries his 
 clerks with regulations as petty as they are tyrannical ; 
 who exacts constant, unremitting toil to the uttermost 
 second, alike in rain and sunshine, in a store full of cus- 
 tomers and a store empty ; who pays a man well for 
 doing woman's work, and pays a woman a pittance for 
 doing the same; who plays the petty tyrant over the 
 slaves of his counter — he is a whited sepulchre, and his 
 sepulchre is full of those who will confront him at the 
 Great Assize. 
 
 Rev. Augustus Fitz-Herbert, v/ho pays more attention 
 to his linen than to his text ; who parts his hair with 
 more care than he writes his discourses; who is sweet at 
 a wedding and ravenish at a funeral ; who toadies to his 
 wealthy parishioners ; who consigns the poor devil to 
 eternal torment and glosses over the failings of Croesus ; 
 who takes to the young ladies' aid societies and neglects 
 the maternal meetings ; who, in the capacity of a shep- 
 herd, prefers a tender young ewe to a faithful old sheep ; 
 who feeds fat on the good things of earth and forgets 
 those in the highways and byways ; who can tell you the 
 last new ritualistic fashion of robe, but knows little of 
 the spiritual fashion of the great congregation — he is a 
 whited sepulchre, and his sepulchre is full of deceit. 
 
 Young Boosey, who is the product of the tailor and 
 
12 Whited Sepulchres. 
 
 the bootmaker, and never saw either of their autographs; 
 who wears immaculate mutton-chops and swallow-tails; 
 who varies with each changing wind of fashion; who 
 simpers and lolls in your opera-box, my Dear Child, 
 talks very softly in your ear, and is vulgar and profane 
 away from you; whose highest ambition reaches his 
 neck-tie and whose idea of Paradise is a place where all 
 the good fellows go, to dress and show themselves to the 
 female cherubs and angels — he is a whited sepulchre and 
 his sepulchre is full of nothing. 
 
 There are other whited sepulchres, my dear Aurelia, 
 whom you may detect by slight observation. They 
 cannot conceal the fact that they are whited. Their ex- 
 teriors are not even plausible, so dense is the growth of 
 noxious weeds about them. You can easily test 
 your true gentleman. He carries his colors in his face, 
 in his walk, in his clothes, in his manners. You will 
 not do well to accept every St. Elmo who comes along 
 under the impression that he will turn out to be a parson. 
 The St. Elmos who start off as scoundrels always remain 
 so. Miss Evans notwithstanding. Cain was not the only 
 man who had his forehead branded. And, if you look 
 carefully, my dear, at the whited sepulchres, which are 
 full of vice, you will discover the sign on the front door. 
 
 Aurelia, during the latter part of my homily, was a 
 little fidgetty. She explained the cause of it to me. 
 She had accepted young Boosey's invitation to Trova- 
 tore on Monday night. I consoled her by reminding 
 her that his whited sepulchre was perfectly harmless. She 
 might pick off all the roses and honeysuckles without 
 detriment. 
 
 May 18, 1867. 
 
NOTHING AND BABIES. 
 
 ^mMO write about Something is no extraordinary 
 g^lj feat; to write about Nothing is a feat not so 
 ^•^*J*1 easily performed. 
 
 I propose to write about Nothing, as I have Nothing 
 to write. 
 
 Any one can be Something in the world. It requires 
 genius to be Nothing. 
 
 There are a very few people who have succeeded in 
 being Nothing. In order to be Nothing it is hot ne- 
 cessary to know Nothing. In fact, it requires a great 
 deal of knowledge to be Nothing. By assiduous effort 
 for the past quarter of a century, more or less, I have 
 thoroughly succeeded in being Nothing, and I am now 
 quietly enjoying the otium cum dignitate wl^ich apper- 
 tains to that blessed condition, and can quietly philoso- 
 phize on nullity under my fig-tree, lying flat on my back 
 gazing at Nothing. You restless people who are Some- 
 thing can have no idea of the absolute ecstasy — an ec- 
 stasy more intoxicating than Hasheesh or Cannabis In- 
 dica, and not so brutal and vulgar as Opium — which re- 
 sults from being Nothing — with Nothing on your mind, 
 Nothing in your pockets, Nothing to think of, Nothing 
 to do. 
 
14 Benefits of Nothing. 
 
 But I fancy old Scroggs, Avho has been doing Some- 
 thing all his life, and thereby has been a nuisance all 
 his life, and Mrs. Scroggs, who is Chairwoman of the 
 Society for the Regeneration of Fourth Avenue, and is 
 more of a nuisance than old Scroggs — I fancy them 
 saying that I am of no use in the world. 
 
 Am I not? 
 
 Suppose I think Nothing, then at least I think no evil of 
 any one. Suppose I say Nothing good of any one, I 
 say Nothing bad. If I have Nothing, I have no taxes to 
 pay ; no interest to collect ; no houses to burn ; nobody 
 to gouge or harass, and nobody to gouge or harass me. 
 Which is cheerful. If I am Nothing, no one cares for 
 me, and equally I care for no one, so that no one and I 
 are on good terms. Thus, you see, being Nothing, 
 although I may accomplish no good in the world, I ac- 
 complish no evil. Every evil, every misery, every war, 
 every misfortune, all the high taxes, all the poor operas, 
 all the tough beefsteaks, all the sour Green Seal, all the 
 fires, murders, explosions, and other such cheerful 
 casualties, are the direct result of the efforts of these 
 people who are Something. 
 
 Then, from a theological point of view, remember 
 that if we were all Nothings, the Devil would have 
 Nothing to do, and would have to let his fires go down 
 and hang up his pitchforks, which would be a blessed 
 thing for some of these people who are Somethings. 
 
 Nullity' is the primal state of man. The Rev. Dr. 
 Homilectics tries to impress upon me, each Sunday, the 
 importance of going back to the days when Adam and 
 Eve, in the latest cut of fig-leaves, played Romeo and 
 Juliet under the apple-trees in Eden. He never stops 
 
Nothing. 15 
 
 to think that their innocence was the immediate result 
 of being Nothing and doing Nothing, and that just as 
 soon as they set out to be Something, they entailed the 
 curse of work upon all mankind. 
 
 But I go further back than Adam and Eve. In the 
 good old days of chaos, Nothing was in all its glory. 
 It existed everywhere. No sight, no sound, no smell, 
 no taste, No-thing. This was the normal condition. 
 
 And of what use was it ? says Mrs. Increase, who is 
 bringing up a large family of children, to be used here- 
 after as grindstones for other j^eople's noses. 
 
 Why, my dear woman of facts and figures and spheres 
 of usefulness, God Almighty took it and made this great 
 world out of it, with all its mountains and rocks and 
 rivers, its sunsets and rainbows and stars, its panorama 
 of beauty by day and night, and you yourself, although 
 you are, probably, but a very small and a very ugly part 
 of this creation. Yes, madame, you and I came from 
 this Nothing. I have retained this Nothing with great 
 success. You, on the other hand, have been striving to 
 change your normal condition by being Something. It 
 is not for me to say whether you have succeeded. A 
 great many people who think they are Something are 
 really Nothing, and a poor kind of Nothing at that. 
 
 If I have said Nothing in writing on this subject, it 
 was because I had Nothing to say. When one is wri- 
 ting about Nothing, you know, he is not expected to say 
 anything. 
 
 Which reminds me of a baby. If you ask me how it 
 reminds me, I cannot tell you. I only know that it re- 
 minds me of those little but important animals. 
 
 It is cheerful news for the future census-takers that 
 
1 6 Babies. 
 
 babies have become fashionable in Paris. The "idea" 
 will, of course, come immediately into fashion here. I 
 do not mean French babies, but babies in the abstract. 
 A baby is a good thing, a blessed thing. I cannot con- 
 ceive what I should have done if I hadn't, once upon a 
 time, been a baby. A baby is a well-spring, and the 
 quantity of lacteal fluid, lumps of sugar, soothing syrups, 
 paregoric, squills, squalls, walking the floor in your long- 
 tailed night shirts, mother's loves, lovey-doveys, and 
 square spanking that one of those well-springs will ab- 
 sorb is astonishing to one who has not had a baby. I 
 have had several ; at least, I own stock in several. 
 
 Would I sell my experience, past, present or future, 
 in babies? 
 
 Not much. 
 
 Therefore, I am glad babies are going to come into 
 fashion. Just think of the new topics of conversation, 
 when Mrs. Brown takes her little three-months up to see 
 Mrs. Jones and her two-months, and the two Dear 
 Creatures compare colics. The little cherubs will mollify 
 conversation, and sympathy will take the place of 
 severity. Instead of gossiping on poor Mrs. Cauliflow- 
 er's unfortunate but innocent faux pas, the Dear Crea- 
 tures will soothingly compare notes on the baby ques- 
 tion and discuss the merits of quieting syrups and puff- 
 boxes. And then there will be the baby reunions, 
 when the great parlor will be filled with baby chairs, 
 and in each chair will be a baby in blue ribbon and 
 white muslin, and in each little rosebud of a mouth will 
 be thrust a dimpled fist. How pleasant it will be to 
 listen to the artless conversation. When Mrs. Jones' 
 baby says "goo," Mrs. Brown's baby will answer 
 
Babies. 1 7 
 
 "goo, goo," and Mrs. Thompson's baby, whose mother 
 is very talkative, will ''goo" a steady stream for five 
 minutes; and then, when one of the cherubs is affected 
 to tears by the point of a pin, or an unusually sharp 
 stroke of the colic, which by so many confiding young 
 ■mothers has been taken for an angel talking to the little 
 one, how will they all be affected to tears and the room 
 resound with the dear little trebles. 
 
 But I must draw a veil over the picture. In the uni- 
 versal rush which will ensue for babies and the compe- 
 titive result which will inevitably follow between ward 
 and ward and street and street, there must be discrimi- 
 nation used. When Mrs. Thompson and Mrs. John- 
 son sign articles of agreement as to an x number of ba- 
 bies in X time, Miss Aurelia and Miss Celeste must re- 
 member that, by the rules of the B. R., they are count- 
 ed out. I would not advise all to adopt the fashion, 
 but there are many, and there will be more, unless ^they 
 adopt Swedenborg's notion of affinities, who can safely 
 take up the new fashion. 
 
 And I recommend all such to adopt it immediately. 
 As I said before, I don't know what I should have done 
 if I hadn't been a baby. 
 
 June 8, 1807. 
 
THE CIRCUS. 
 
 |T is safe to say that nine men out of ten — and 
 the tenth man is to be sincerely pitied — look- 
 ing back, find their starting point in a circus. 
 Next to the maternal shoe, which hung in ferrorem over 
 the Lares and Penates, and which will never fade from 
 the memory, my most distant recollection is beneath 
 the canvass. Was there ever such a funny man as the 
 clown ? I hung upon his stale wit as Hamlet hung upon 
 Yorick. Were there ever such angels as those ethereal, 
 beautiful, gauzy, smiling women who rode round the 
 ring — now, alas, bandy-legged, lath-armed, tinseled, 
 painted, disconsolate looking creatures, whose whole 
 world is within the narrow limits of the ring? 
 
 Did Arabia produce such fiery steeds, brave in gaily 
 caparisoned trappings — now, poor old hacks, full of the 
 spirit of the tread-mill — not all the yells of rider, clown 
 and ringmaster, not all the brutal lashings of whip and 
 thong, can force beyond their customary gait? 
 
 Were there ever such candies and cakes and pop corn 
 as that boy peddled whom I used to envy? 
 
 Name the sum I would not have given to have been 
 the bugle man who blew "Silver Moon" so gorgeously! 
 
 And then I passed from one sphere of Elysium to 
 another when, after the circus, I went to the side-show 
 and saw the fat woman, and the skeleton man, and the 
 calf with three legs, and the dog with two heads, the 
 
The Cii'cus. 19 
 
 man who swallowed the sword and the man who took 
 the snake's head in his mouth. And I went home and 
 dreamed that I was ring-master, gorgeous in silver lace, 
 with a long whip which I snapped at the clown, and, 
 rapture of raptures, did I not help the angels to mount 
 their horses? Talk not of the realities of life by the side 
 of that circus, which was an enchanted land ! 
 
 As I look back to that circus, I see my first original 
 sin or concatenation of sins. 
 
 Am I not he who informed my parents that I was 
 going to see another little boy? 
 
 Am I not he who stole a watermelon from our neigh- 
 bor's patch? 
 
 Am I not he who took it to old Bliffkins, who lived 
 under the hill, and sold it to him for a shilling? 
 
 Am I not he who with the shilling walked two miles, 
 and then found it cost a quarter to get into the circus? 
 Was there ever such a monster as the man at the door, 
 who wouldn't let me in? 
 
 I have never known such griefs as my grief that day. 
 I hung round the outside of that tent as sinners are sup- 
 posed to hang round the walls of Heaven. I heard the 
 music and the hip-hips and the cheers and the snaps of 
 the whips, and in my desperation I tried to look under 
 the canvass, but was detected in the act by the monster 
 at the door, and obliged to fly for my life. I have never 
 known a grief so poignant as that. 
 
 I pity the man who has not sinned in his boyhood, all 
 for a circus. He has missed one of the luxuries of life 
 which can hardly find compensation in an aeon of 
 virtue. 
 
 June 15, 1867. 
 
BEFORE THE WEDDING. 
 
 HAVE already intimated in these columns that 
 Aurelia is about to be married. Young Pep- 
 lum, who is so well known as the gentlemanly 
 -'s dry goods store, and who is heir appa- 
 
 clerk at — 
 
 rent to a snug hundred thousand, when his uncle dies, 
 is the fortunate man who will have the pleasure of sup- 
 plying her with millinery hereafter, and of being known 
 
 as the husband of Mrs. Aurelia . 
 
 Aurelia, at present, is in a frightful crisis of dry 
 goods, and is driving to the very verge of distraction a 
 score of dress-makers, milliners and cloak-makers, who 
 are sitting around the house like so many Patiences on 
 monuments. Fractions of bridal dresses, traveling dress- 
 es, morning wrappers, cloaks, basques and basquines, 
 immaculate and mysterious white garments with the 
 most spirituel ruffles and frills foaming over them, cob- 
 webby handkerchiefs and articles in the sanctum sancto- 
 rum of the toilet, the meaning of which I suspect but 
 dare not mention — are all over the house from the gar- 
 ret to the cellarage; on chairs, on tables, on beds, on 
 the piano, on lounges, on everything. I had rather un- 
 dertake to walk through an acre of eggs, without 
 breaking one of them, than to go through the house 
 
Atirelia's Anxiety. 21 
 
 without setting my No. 11 boot heel into some frail gos- 
 samer of a dress, and rending its gauzy fabric and Au- 
 relia's heart at the same time. 
 
 All the expectations, the hopes, the responsibilities, 
 the aims and ambitions of Aurelia's life, if not of all 
 human lives, now depend on the difference of shade in 
 two ribbons or the relative reflections in two different 
 silks, on both of which she has set her heart. 
 
 They are sweet pretty — but O dear ! 
 
 She has wept bitter tears over the total depravity of a 
 bias and the literally infernal unreliability of a sewing 
 machine, which will skip stitches in crises of awful im- 
 portance. Three long nights she lay awake, haunted 
 with the dreadful suspicion that her shoemaker was an 
 impostor, and that he had not given her the latest style 
 of slipper-tie. 
 
 How could she assume the grave responsibilities of 
 married life, if her slipper-tie were not the very latest ? 
 
 Of course she couldn't. 
 
 She is thoroughly convinced that if anything should 
 go wrong in the preparations for the ceremony, or in 
 the ceremony itself, the world would cease its diurnal 
 revolutions; there would be no further use for its axis; 
 seed time and harvest would be alike immaterial to the 
 farmer; ships and ledgers to the merchant; the anvil 
 and loom to the mechanic; there would be nothing 
 more worth living for ; her career might as well be end- 
 ed, the curtain come down, the lights go out, and the 
 audience go home, without stopping for the close of the 
 play. 
 
 I pitied the Dear Child, and so, yesterday, after she 
 had consulted the matriage column of the Tribune, to 
 
 8* 
 
22 Consolation. 
 
 see if any other person in the city had undergone her 
 tribulations, I invited her to my den, that I might ad- 
 minister some consolation to her, wading in such deep 
 waters. She gave the Patiences some parting in- 
 junctions, and each of them, from their respective monu- 
 ments, looked down with weary eyes and nodded ac- 
 quiescence. 
 
 She sat down by my Minerva, paying little heed, 
 however, to those wise, solemn eyes which looked out 
 from the marble with a sort of pity at her. I lighted 
 my meerschaum, just commencing to be flecked with 
 delicate amber streaks, and I said to her, as she 
 listlessly pulled a bouquet to pieces, scattering the petals 
 upon the floor, as if they were the ghosts of little dead 
 hopes : 
 
 My Dear Aurelia, I need not tell you that you are 
 about to enter upon a very important phase of your life, 
 which hitherto has been of about as much importance 
 as your canary's ; that you are about to assume the re- 
 sponsibility of knoAving a porter-house from a tender- 
 loin, peas from beans, and the mysteries of soup and 
 salad ; that you are about entering the arcana of the 
 washboard,.. the mangle, and the sideboard; and that 
 you are to fit yourself for the companionship of the 
 young ladies who will stand to you in the relation of 
 domestics : for all of which you will find a recompense 
 and sweet solace in your husband's pocket-book. In 
 view of these solemn responsibilities of the present, and 
 small anxieties which may accrue in the hereafter, it is 
 eminently proper that you sliould approach the altar 
 with a certain degree of reverence — 
 
 (At this point Minerva distinctly winked her left eye 
 
An Ant-Hill. 23 
 
 at Aurelia, but Aurelia did not notice it, whereupon the 
 Goddess resumed her wise look, and I continued ) : 
 
 I am only afraid, my Dear Child, that in making all 
 these preparations, you are rather making them for Mrs. 
 Grundy than for yourself, against which mistake I would 
 caution you for several reasons. 
 
 It is not probable that the great world will care much 
 for your marriage. 
 
 (Aurelia astonished, and Minerva winking both eyes.) 
 
 I presume to say that horse races, billiard and base- 
 ball matches will take place just as they always have ; 
 that Napoleon will quarrel with Bismarck after your 
 marriage as he did before; that the Eastern Question 
 will continue to trouble political philosophers, and that 
 your neighbors will go on eating, drinking, driving, 
 gossiping and pouring out the small beer of their lives 
 much the same as they have always done, and that the 
 world will continue to turn round, and that you and 
 your husband and your rainbows, orange flowers, Cu- 
 pids and moonbeams will go round with it, just as if 
 you had never been married. 
 
 My Dear Child, this world is nothing but an ant-hill, 
 and we are quite insignificant ants, each toiling along 
 with his or her little burden, and when one ant gets 
 another to help carry the load, the other ants don't 
 mind it much, but push on with their burdens. Some 
 day we go out of sight into the alluvium of the hill, 
 burden and all, and forget to come out again, but even 
 then, strange to say, the other ants don't miss us or stop 
 to look after us, but keep pushing on, this way and that, 
 and running over each other, and quarrelling about 
 burdens. Therefore, my dear, I would advise you to 
 
24 splurging. 
 
 let Mrs. Grundy carry her burden and pay no attention 
 to her. Take your meals regularly and your usual al- 
 lowance of sleep. It will be better for your peace and 
 your digestion. 
 
 And again, my dear Aurelia, I am afraid you are go- 
 ing to make a splurge. A splurge is a good thing if 
 you can keep splurging. If, when you set off like a 
 rocket, you can keep going like a rocket, brilliant and 
 beautiful, it will be a very good thing to do. But it 
 you start like a rocket, and come down like a poor, 
 miserable stick, with a wad of burned pasteboard on the 
 end of you, you had better never have been touched off, 
 because everybody will say they knew it would be so, 
 and you yourself will sit in ashes all your life, clothing 
 yourself with sackcloth, and lamenting your silliness in 
 trying to make a splurge. 
 
 Now your future husband is making a comfortable 
 living, and by the practice of ordinary economy you 
 and he may get along very comfortably. In regard to 
 your legacy there is no certainty. Your uncle's lungs 
 and liver are much better than your husband's, and even 
 if your husband should outlive him, there may be 
 nothing left to give you, so that after spreading your 
 choice dishes for your guests you may have to come 
 down to potsherds yourself. Do not splurge, therefore, 
 unless you are ready to keep up your splurge. Beware 
 of going into the large end of the horn and coming out 
 of the little end, for you will be very thin when you 
 come out, and Mrs. Grundy will laugh at you. I think 
 it is better, if there is any uncertainty about your pros- 
 pects, to go in at the little end, and then when you 
 come out at the large end, you can come out in style 
 
A Common Affair. ' 25 
 
 and with plenty of room. But, under any and all cir- 
 cumstances, splurging is dangerous, and in nine cases 
 out of ten will land you, heels upwards, kicking at space. 
 You, yourself, my dear, will remember that on one oc- 
 casion, when you were a little late at church and had 
 on that new hat, you tried to splurge up the aisle and 
 sat down suddenly upon the floor, with the whole con- 
 gregation looking at you. Just so will it be all through 
 life. If you have a weak point about you — and, my 
 Dear Child, you have many (here Minerva actually nod- 
 ded assent) — a splurge will be sure to discover that 
 point to the spectator. Therefore I would advise you 
 and your husband to launch your craft very quietly. 
 You will then have the right, when you can afford it, to 
 do and be something in the world, and when your hus- 
 band goes into the ant-hill out of sight, some other ant 
 will tell in the papers, for the other ants to read, how 
 he commenced poor but honest, and worked his way 
 up, and some little ants with very large burdens will 
 take courage thereat and ply their legs more vigorously 
 than ever. 
 
 In another respect it is well not to make a splurge. 
 If you make a public wedding and issue a large number 
 of invitations, astonishing as the event may seem to you, 
 it will be quite a common affair to most of us. The 
 young people will criticise you most unmercifully. If 
 there is an orange flower awry upon your veil, if there is 
 a bit of ribbon or lace out of gear, if your hair is not 
 exactly a la mode, they will find it out. Your looks 
 and responses also, my dear, will be canvassed by charm- 
 ing young creatures, and as they weep such pearly tears 
 of sorrow over your misfortunes, and are dying of envy 
 
26 ' Some Rules. 
 
 that they haven't an opportunity of looking interesting, 
 because they could do it so much prettier than you, 
 they will mentally take a catalogue of all your adorn- 
 ments and discuss them for many days to come. The 
 old married people who come, I assure you, will do the 
 operation much as they do their dinners. Bless you, 
 they have seen weddings before, many a time, and if 
 they have one interested thought about this ceremony, 
 which you suppose all the world is looking at, it is that 
 they did this sort of thing better in their day. Then in 
 your list of invitations, when you make it general, there 
 will always be the old lady who goes to funerals and 
 weddings because she likes to, and thinks it her duty. 
 She is equally solemn on both occasions, refers frequent- 
 ly to this vale of tears, and can weep with a fluency only 
 equalled by a water-spout. You will do well to keep on 
 her good side, which you can do by feeding her well ; 
 for in spite of the fact which she so frequently announ- 
 ces, that this is a vale of tears, she can eat a square 
 meal with a success only equalled by young Boosey, 
 whom you will have to invite, and who will come only to 
 gormandize on your cake and wine and grow eloquent 
 over your Russe. It would be better for you, therefore, 
 to avoid a large gathering, and still better to*1bake your 
 party a family one. 
 
 Again, I would urge upon you, my Dear Child, not to 
 attempt to look interesting. By all means avoid this 
 rock upon which young brides are apt to split. I have 
 seen scores of brides go off the stocks and I have never 
 seen one yet who tried to look interesting, who didn't 
 resemble a wax figure in a hair store or a goose in a 
 paddock. You had better look like yourself. Remem- 
 
Mutual Understanding. 27 
 
 ber that you are a woman. Listen to the minister and 
 answer his questions sensibly and not go off in a par- 
 oxysm of smiles, quirks, simpers and pianissimo lisping, 
 as if you were the ghost of a rose leaf, which you are 
 not, my dear. 
 
 Also, have a perfect understanding with your hus- 
 band-to-be. You have been living on moonbeams long 
 enough. Sink your romance sufficiently to get at reali- 
 ties, and it will save you heartburns, headaches and red 
 eyes hereafter. Your husband, who has a stomach like 
 other men, will get sick of living on moonshine in an 
 incredibly short space of time. He accomplished the 
 purpose of moonshine, my Dear Child, when he got you, 
 and he will immediately return to the more substantial 
 things of the earth. And you yourself will be astonished 
 how quickly the realities of married life will take the ro- 
 mantic starch out of you, and at the suddenness with 
 which you will tumble, (like the man who came down too 
 soon to inquire the way to Norwich,) from your enchant- 
 ed world to the commonplaces of beefsteak, baby- 
 baskets and washboards. It will be best, therefore, for 
 you to exactly understand each other, because one of 
 you cannot live in the moon and the other on the earth. 
 
 Lastly. I would solemnly caution you against making 
 the mistake that you are the only woman in the world 
 who ever got married. My dear Aurelia, singular as it 
 may seem to you, thousands and millions have been 
 married before you, and thousands and millions will be 
 married after you, and thousands and millions will care 
 as little for your marriage as you do for your grand- 
 mother's. (Minerva at this point nodded assent so vig- 
 orously that she lost her balance and fell at the feet of 
 
28 Cause of the Postponement. 
 
 my Venus di Medici, and was exceedingly shocked at 
 the latter.) 
 
 I was about to conclude my morning talk with an im- 
 pressive peroration on the duties, trials and pleasures ot 
 wedded life, and rose to relight my pipe, when I found 
 that Aurelia was fast asleep. 
 
 I was saddened at the discovery, but I quietly slipped 
 out and told the Patiences on the monuments of it, and 
 they one and all rested, and this explains the reason why 
 the work got behind-hand, and Aurelia had to postpone 
 the wedding one day. 
 
 June 23, 1867. 
 
THE WEDDING. 
 
 jHE great event of the week has not been the 
 Fourth of July, as is vulgarly supposed, but the 
 marriage of Aurelia to young Peplum, the 
 gentlemanly clerk at • 's dry goods store, heir appa- 
 rent to ^100,000, etc. 
 
 I regret to say that Aurelia paid no regard to the ad- 
 vice I gave her two weeks ago. In spite of all my ef- 
 forts to persuade her to the contrary, she persisted in the 
 hallucination that she was the first woman who had ever 
 been torn away from distracted parents and led, a gar- 
 landed victim, to the matrimonial altar. I think she 
 was disappointed that the heavens were not hung with 
 white favors, and that deputations were not present from 
 the various races of the globe, and that business was not 
 suspended. The number of invitations was only limited 
 by the capacity of the house. Everyone of the young 
 ladies invited was a very dear friend, not to have invited 
 whom would have given mortal offence, and sundered 
 friendships, in many cases of several weeks' existence, 
 without which life would have been a blank — Sahara 
 without an oasis — Heaven without a star. 
 
 M. Arsene Houssaye, rash man, says that woman is 
 the fourth theologic virtue and the eighth mortal sin. 
 
30 The Wedding. 
 
 Upon this standard it is safe to say there was present a 
 frightful amount of theologic virtue and mortal sin. I 
 am sure of the latter fact. 
 
 The hour for the ceremony had been appointed at 6 
 p. M. Deeply impressed as was Aurelia with the idea 
 that Columbus, discovering the New World; Galileo, 
 fixing the motion of the earth round the sun ; Newton, 
 discovering the laws of gravitation, and Harvey, finding 
 the circulation of the blood — were but every-day com- 
 mon-places compared with this event, — she had, never- 
 theless, found it impossible to convince the Directors of 
 the Michigan Central Railroad of that fact. The result 
 was that trains ran at the usual hour, and would not 
 wait, even one little minute, and it was vulgarly neces- 
 sary, therefore, to have the wedding promptly at six. 
 
 After the wedding was over, I invited old Blobbs up 
 to my den to smoke, and we compared notes on this oc- 
 casion, and mutually arrived at this result: That the 
 good old-fashioned custom of a large family wedding, 
 celebrated in hospitable style, followed up with wit, so- 
 ciality, games, and a dance, the guests departing at a 
 seasonable time, well lined with capon and punch, trust- 
 ing to Providence and instinct that the young couple 
 would find their way through the night, somehow, to the 
 breakfast table the next morning, the bride dressed in 
 the rosiest of blushes, and the groom very plucky and 
 defiant, each commencing the race in life from the 
 starting point of home, was much more sensible than 
 this modern custom of gathering together all their dear 
 friends, hurrying through the ceremony, and then run- 
 ning off a thousand miles, as if the couple had done 
 something they were ashamed of. 
 
Fixing. 3 1 
 
 And then we compared the comfort of home with a 
 sleeping car: your own snugly furnished and beautifully 
 adorned room, cosy, quiet, dreamy and mysterious, with 
 the vulgar, rattling, smoking, baby-crying, enjoyed-in- 
 common, dirty-counterpaned, cindery, head-smashing, 
 waked-up-every-hour bunks of the sleeping car; the 
 breakfast of cream and honey and strawberries, fragrant 
 Mocha and snowy rolls, with the dirt, dust, cinders, 
 smoke, tough beefsteaks and mahogany coffee of a sleep- 
 ing car. 
 
 ^' De gustibus iioii est dispitandum,'''' said I. 
 
 "Ditto," said Blobbs. 
 
 From early morn until dewy eve, the dressmakers, 
 mantau-makers, milliners, hair-dressers and chamber- 
 maids had been laboring on Aurelia. They modelled 
 her, shaped her, powdered her, painted her, twisted her, 
 pulled her, laced her, unlaced her, fixed her, took her 
 to pieces and put her together again, behind carefully 
 locked doors, while that poor devil Peplum, in a seven- 
 by-nine room, with a two-by-three looking glass, two 
 brushes and a comb, went at himself with fear and 
 trembling, and although he was more lavish than ever 
 of Macassar and Day & Martin, and split three pairs of 
 kids and looked very red in the face, still he looked 
 like himself, which is more than I can say of Aurelia. 
 
 In the meantime the guests were assembled, one hun- 
 dred of whom were young ladies and all dear friends, 
 looking very much like pinks in a parterre; fifty young 
 gentlemen who looked as if they had something on their 
 minds and were suspicious of the integrity of their cra- 
 vats — (I know of nothing more terrible than to be in 
 the company of very dear friends when you have a sus- 
 
32 In Position. 
 
 picion of the integrity of your outer man) ; a handful of 
 old people who resembled feathery dandelion-tufts in a 
 field of red and white clover; and Rev. Fitz-Herbert 
 Evelyn, the sweet young associate of old Dr. Homilec- 
 tics, who does up the weddings, youthful funerals, eve- 
 ning meetings, and morning calls, is sound on lunch, con- 
 venient in doctrine, and orthodox in raiment. For a 
 set sermon on the rationalistic errors in Transubstantia- 
 tion, the old doctor can beat him out of sight, but he 
 has given up weddings as he is no longer sweet, and has 
 been known to have talked common sense on such occa- 
 sions, which is as much out of place as honesty in a 
 Legislature. Consequently, the young ladies prefer the 
 sweet, young Fitz-Herbert, who would sleep uneasily 
 should he find a rose leaf under him edge upward, who 
 rushes through the ceremony daintily, with the tips of 
 his fingers, and after having tied the young lambs to- 
 gether with a thread, cooly dares anybody to put them 
 asunder. 
 
 When the bridal couple entered the room, they im- 
 mediately became the foci of three hundred or more 
 eyes. They had scarcely got into position, when one 
 hundred noses were elevated just a trifle, from which I 
 judged that Aurelia, although fearfully and wonderfully 
 made, was not altogether a success to her dear young 
 friends. One hundred upper lips curled up, and fifty 
 elbows of dear friends nudged in concert the corsets of 
 fifty other dear friends, at what I afterwards found to be 
 a spot upon her veil, left by one of the bridesmaids who 
 was addicted to chewing spruce gum. 
 
 Aurelia commenced to look interesting, and, to my 
 horror, so did young Peplum, and they succeeded ad- 
 
The Deed. 33 
 
 mirably in looking like a young man and a young wo- 
 man detected in the act of stealing green apples from a 
 corner grocery. Sweet Mr. Evelyn stepped up, and 
 after running his hand through his raven hair and pass- 
 ing it over his marble brow once or twice, thereby set- 
 ting off to more advantage that amethyst ring which 
 Blanche Jessamine gave him at the last meeting of the 
 Young Ladies' Aid Society, he commenced looking very 
 saintly and talking very sweetly. 
 
 After the customary promises, Fitz-Herbert began a 
 beautiful exordium, feelingly alluding to the journey ot 
 life ; touching upon the launching of the craft ; alluding 
 to calm seas; solemnly describing the mutual partner- 
 ship of joys and sorrows; mentioning cups of bliss, 
 sprinkling roses and boldly deprecating thorns. And 
 when he said, in a solemn but sweet tone of voice : *' My 
 dear young friends, you are about to enter upon a path- 
 way," etc., all the dear friends were visibly affected. 
 One hundred lace handkerchiefs went up to two hun- 
 dred eyes. The old maid who goes to all the weddings 
 and funerals for lachrymal purposes went off like a 
 waterspout. As she afterwards told me it did her a 
 power of good, and that she hadn't enjoyed the blessing 
 of tears so much since Podgers died. 
 
 (Podgers was a distant relative of her's on her mo- 
 ther's side, and was so confused at the time of his de- 
 cease, that he forgot to mention her in his will.) 
 
 Mrs. Carbuncle, the woman in red hair and blue 
 Thibet, who went to see Booth in Othello, because she 
 doted on the Irish drama, had her child with her, who 
 had served his purpose thus far in supplying some of the 
 rash young fellows present with significant jokes. The 
 4 
 
34 Concluded. 
 
 child, seeing all the rest of the company in a lachrymose 
 state, also lifted up his voice and wept out of sympathy. 
 Mrs. Carbuncle's efforts to quiet him only made matters 
 worse, and the youthful Carbuncle, kicking and weep- 
 ing, was carried off in disgrace to an upper chamber, 
 where, for half an hour afterwards, he manifested his 
 poignant grief, by refusing to be comforted, and bump- 
 ing the back of his head against a cottage bedstead. 
 
 Sweet Fitz-Herbert, who has a gift at weddings, but 
 a keen appreciation of fees, was very brief in his cere- 
 mony, much to young Boosey's delight, who was dying 
 to get at the supper table, around which Biddy was 
 hovering in transports of delight like a bee round a hol- 
 lyhock, being engaged at the same time in an interne- 
 cine war with some men and brethren who had invaded 
 her domains, in which war she was assisted by all the 
 Biddies of the neighborhood, whom she had smuggled 
 in by the back entrance to see the tables. 
 
 The ceremony having been concluded, congratula- 
 tions were in order, when Mrs. Flamingo burst in, in a 
 state of perspiration and general deshabille. For being 
 just two minutes late, and for sleeping over on impor- 
 tant occasions, that woman is a prodigy. In the natural 
 history of society, she is the Great American Snail. If 
 she ever dies, she will have to change her present habits, 
 and in any event will sleep over when Gabriel blows his 
 trumpet. If she had lived in the days of Noah, she 
 would have been drowned within hailing distance of the 
 ark. She is the woman who always comes late at the 
 concerts and has to be waked by the door-keeper when 
 he puts out the lights, and is always vigorous in pursuit 
 of the last car of a railroad train. 
 
The Stipper. 35 
 
 It is hardly necessary for me to describe the wedding 
 supper : the cakes, crowned with sugar cherubs strad- 
 dUng white roses and chasing golden butterflies among 
 silver leaves; sugar Cupids, hovering on the brink of an 
 ocean of Charlotte Russe ; the huge pyramid of small 
 syllabubs, which a man and brother, losing his presence 
 of mind in waiting upon young Boosey, upset in all 
 directions ; the saucer of ice cream which another man, 
 etc., upset upon Mrs. Carbuncle's head; the Heidseck 
 which ruined Celeste's silk; the customary sentiment of 
 sweet Fitz-Herbert, which I give entire: "Our dear 
 young friends, who this night enter the pathway of life : 
 May their cup of bliss always be full and their journey 
 strewn with roses without a thorn. And if we never meet 
 here, may we meet hereafter where they neither marry nor 
 are given in marriage." Greatest of all, need I de- 
 scribe how Boosey and the crying old maid commenced 
 at one end of the table and ate and drank through to 
 the other without a single skip, or how Boosey retired 
 from the fray, confused in his mind and uncertain in his 
 legs, after proposing as a sentiment : "Here's to Pep- 
 lum and Mrs. Peplum — j-j-jolly good fe-fe-fe-fellows. 
 Dr-dr-dr-drink hearty." 
 
 The most astonishing event of the evening was the ut- 
 ter indifference of the hackman, who took the bride and 
 Mr. Peplum to the depot. He was not aware of the 
 importance of the event, and even dared to growl up to 
 the fifth trunk, and swear in a low tone of voice at the 
 sixth and last — the four-story Saratoga, and in a satirical 
 tone of voice asked if he should drive to the freight depot. 
 
 That wretched man knew not that he carried the first 
 woman ever married. 
 
36 D Envoi. 
 
 The guests finally departed — Mr. and Mrs. Peplum to 
 the uncertainties of the sleeping car; sweet Fitz-Herbert 
 leaving a Night-Blooming Cereus odor of sanctity be- 
 hind him ; the dear young friends ; the old dandelion 
 tops; the old maid still weeping; the disgraced child; 
 Boosey on his winding way; and Mrs. Flamingo, who 
 was found asleep near the ruins of the supper table, 
 when Biddy was putting out the lights. 
 
 And I went to my den and lit my pipe and looked 
 out of the window. The moon was still shining. The 
 stars winked at me. A romantic young man was prac- 
 tising " Oft in the Stilly Night" on a cracked trumpet. 
 Terrence and Bridget were sitting up at the next gate. 
 The wind blew. The leaves rustled. My pipe glowed. 
 The world revolved. I existed. And yet Aurelia had 
 been married that very night. 
 
 If I have said little about Mr. Peplum, it is because 
 Mr. Peplum seemed to have very little to do with it. 
 
 July G, 1SG7. 
 
MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY. 
 
 RE you a base-ballist ? If not, take my word 
 and retire from the world. 
 You are a nullity, a nothing, a o. 
 
 The cholera of 1866 is amqng us, but it has assumed 
 the base-ball type. It is malignant, zymotic and infec- 
 tious. Its results are not so fatal as last year, and man- 
 ifest themselves in the shape of disjointed fingers, lame 
 legs, discolored noses, and walking sticks. 
 
 The disease is prevalent among all classes. Editors, 
 actors, aldermen, clerks, lumbermen, commission men, 
 butchers, book-sellers, doctors and undertakers have it, 
 and many of them have it bad. 
 
 Even the tailors tried to make up a chib, but as they 
 found it took eighty-one men to make up a nine they 
 gave it up. 
 
 The only class not yet represented is the clerical. 
 
 More's the pity. 
 
 They would derive many advantages from the game. 
 You see they would learn the value of the short stop. 
 That is an important point on warm Sundays. They 
 would also learn to hit hard. There are lots of old sin- 
 ners who need to be hit that way. This continual pelt- 
 ing away with little theological pop-guns at old sinners 
 whose epidermis is as thick as an elephant's, is of no con- 
 
38 The Devil. 
 
 sequence whatever. The shot rattle off like hailstones 
 from a roof. They must learn to hit hard — hit so it will 
 hurt — hit right between the eyes — fetch their man down, 
 and rather than take such another theological bombshell, 
 he will reconstruct. 
 
 There isn't a minister in this city who wouldn't preach 
 better next Sunday for a square game of base ball. This 
 Christianity of the soft, flaccid, womanish, alabaster, 
 die-away muscle kind, is pretty, but it isn't worth a cent 
 in a stand-up fight with the Devil. 
 
 The Devil is not only a hard hitter with the bat, but 
 he is a quick fielder, and he will pick a soul right off the 
 bat of one of these soft muscle men while S. M. is wast- 
 ing his strength on the air. He has another advantage 
 over our clergymen. Most of them are confined to one 
 base. The Devil plays on all the bases at once, and he 
 can take the hottest kind of a ball without winking. Our 
 ministers ought to get so they can do the same thing. 
 
 Melancthon was one of the soft muscle kind. He was 
 gentle, sweet, amiable, gracious, and all that, but if he 
 had been compelled to carry the Reformation on his 
 shoulders, he never would have left his home base. 
 While old Luther, a man of iron muscle, a hard hitter 
 and a hard talker, who keeled the Devil over with his 
 inkstand, and kicked Popes and Popes' theses, bulls and 
 fulmina to the winds, made home runs every time, and 
 left a clean score for the Reformation. 
 
 A great many of our ministers have bones — some, 
 rather dry bones — nerves, sinews and muscles, just as an 
 infant has, but they want development. They need blood 
 which goes bounding through the veins and arteries, and 
 tingles to the finger tips. Their sinews must stiffen up. 
 
Ministerial Nines. 39 
 
 their nerves toughen and their muscles harden. This 
 process can be obtained by base baU. It will settle their 
 stomachs and livers, and when these are settled, their 
 brains will be clear. They won't have to travel to cure 
 the bronchitis, and won't be so peevish over good sister 
 Thompson, who needs a great deal of consolation, owing 
 to her nervous system. 
 
 Now, I would like to see two ministerial nines in the 
 field. Robert Collyer at the bat would be a splendid 
 hitter, and would send the Liberal ball hot to Brother 
 Hatfield, on the short stop, and I would stake all my 
 money that he couldn't make it so hot that Brother H. 
 wouldn't stop it. These two clergymen wouldn't need 
 to practice much, because they represent my idea of 
 muscular Christians. Whenever they hit, they hit hard, 
 and I pity the soft-muscled parson that gets into a con- 
 troversy with either of them. But then they would get 
 all the rest of the nines into good trim and harden up 
 the muscles of Dr. Ryder and Robert Laird Collier, 
 Father Butler, Dr. Patton, and Revs. Everts and Patter- 
 son, and the rest. To be sure, the clerical fingers would 
 sting, and the clerical legs would be stiff, and the cleri- 
 cal backs would ache for a few days, but it would take 
 all the headaches and dizziness, and dyspepsia and liver 
 complaints, and heartburns out of the system. Their 
 inner men would be refreshed, and their outer men re- 
 generated, and they would go into their pulpits with 
 firmer step, and their sermons would be full of blood 
 and muscle, and they would kick the old musty tomes 
 on one side and preach right out of their consciousness and 
 hearts, man to man, and all would get their salaries in- 
 creased and a month's vacation to go to the seaside. 
 
40 On Hard Hitting, 
 
 I tell you, my brethren, in this city of Chicago, the 
 Devil is getting the upper hand, and you must go in on 
 your muscle. Get your backs up. Stiffen your muscles 
 and then hit like a sledge-hammer. If old Croesus, in 
 your congregation, is a whiskey-seller, don't be afraid 
 of him. Hit him on the head so it will hurt. If Free- 
 on-Board is a professional grain gambler, hit him on the 
 head. If old Skinflint acts dirtily with his tenants, tell 
 him he is a miserable old devil. Don't be afraid of 
 him. He will like you all the better for it. If he won't 
 get down on his knees by fair talking, take hold of his 
 coat-collar and put him upon his knees. 
 
 August 17, 1869. 
 

 TII£ J? O ST 07V GIRL. 
 
 jHE Boston girl, necessarily, was born in Bos- 
 ton. Necessarily, also, her ancestors, and she 
 can trace back her lineage to that Thankful 
 Osgood, who came over in 1640, and owned the cow 
 that laid out the streets of Boston. The wolf that 
 suckled Romulus was held in no more respect by the 
 Latins than is the bronzed image of that cow, cast by 
 Mr. Ball, the sculptor, upon a commission from her 
 father, a solid man, who lives on Beacon street, in a 
 brown stone front with two ''bow" windows and a brass 
 knocker. 
 
 The ambition of every Boston girl is to live in a 
 brown stone front with two "bow" windows and a brass 
 knocker, before she dies. Having accomplished that, 
 and attended a course of medical lectures, she is ready to 
 depart in peace, for after that, all is vanity. 
 
 There are three episodes in the life of every Bos- 
 ton girl, viz., the Frog Pond, the Natural History 
 Rooms, and the Fraternity Lectures. In her infancy, 
 if so majestic a creature ever had an infancy, she sailed 
 small boats on the Frog Pond, and was several times 
 rescued from drowning in its depths, by the same po- 
 liceman, who to-day wanders along its stone coping, 
 watching the reflection of his star in the water, as he did 
 
42 The Boston GirL 
 
 a quarter of a century ago. She visits the pond daily 
 on lier way to the Natural History Rooms, where she 
 inspects with diurnal increase of solicitude the bones of 
 the megatherium and the nondescript fceti of human and 
 animal births, preserved in Boston bottles, filled with 
 Boston spirits. 
 
 But the series of Fraternity Lectures is the great fact 
 of the Boston girl's life. She dotes on Phillips, idolizes 
 Weiss' social problems, goes into a fine frenzy over 
 Emerson's transcendentalism, and worships Gail Hamil- 
 ton and her airy nothings. 
 
 The Boston girl is of medium height, with a pale, in- 
 tellectual face, light hair, blue eyes, wears eye-glasses, 
 squints a little, rather dcsliabille in dress, slight traces of 
 ink on her second finger, blue as to her hose and large 
 as to her feet. Of physical beauty she is no boaster, but 
 of intellectual she is the paragon of animals. Gather a 
 dandelion by the roadside, she will only recognize it as 
 Leontodon taraxacum, and discourse to you learnedly of 
 fructification by winged seeds. She will describe to you 
 the relative voicings of the organs of Boston and the size 
 of the stops in the Big one. She will analyze the differ- 
 ence in Beethoven's and Mendelssohn's treatment of an 
 allegro con moto. She will learnedly point out to you 
 the theological differences in the conservative and radi- 
 cal schools of Unitarianism, and she has her views on 
 the rights of woman, including her sphere and mission. 
 But I doubt whether the beauty of the flower, the essence 
 of music, the sublimity of Beethoven and Mendelssohn, 
 or the inspiration of theology, ever find their way into 
 her science-laden skull, or whether her spectacled eyes 
 ever see the way to the core of nature and art. 
 
The Boston Girl, 43 
 
 The Boston girl is a shell. She never ripens into a 
 matured flesh and blood woman. She is cold, hard, dry 
 and juiceless. Gail Hamilton is a type of the Boston 
 girl at maturity. Abby Kelly Foster was a type of the 
 Boston girl gone to seed. If Gail Hamilton lives as long 
 as did Abby, she will carry a blue cotton umbrella, wear 
 a Lowell calico, and make speeches on the wrongs of 
 woman and the abuses of the Tyrant Man. If the Bos- 
 ton girl ever marries, she gives birth to a dictionary, or 
 to a melancholy young intellect, who is fed exclusively 
 on vegetables, at the age of six has mastered logarithms 
 and zoology, is well up in the carboniferous and fossil- 
 iferous periods, falls into the Frog Pond a few times, 
 dies when he is eight years of age, and sleeps beneath a 
 learned epitaph and the Leontodon taraxacum. 
 
 September 7, 1867. 
 
THE DEAD. 
 
 sr^AS a live man any rights which a dead man is 
 bound to respect? 
 I ask this question with due consideration for 
 the feelings of a dead man. I know it is an unpleasant 
 thing to be a dead man. There are no corner-lots, no 
 operas, no new novels, no latest styles, no duck-shoot- 
 ing, no sensations on the other bank of the Styx. 
 
 I never appreciated that poet who would not live al- 
 ways. I would. 
 
 Neither that other poet who wanted to die in the 
 summer time. I am so little particular about the time, 
 as to prefer not to to die at any time. 
 
 Neither those gushing young women who pine for a 
 willow tree, with a nightingale "into it," at the head- 
 board, and trim daisies at the foot-board. 
 
 My sepulchro -botanical yearnings are overpowered by 
 a very strong friendship for this superb old world. 
 
 Which reminds me to again ask the question : Has a 
 live man any rights which a dead man is bound to re- 
 spect ? 
 
 And this suggests, first, Tombstones. 
 
 I am prepared to make a wager with any responsible 
 party that in a match for the championship of lying, a 
 tombstone would beat Ananias with Sapphira thrown 
 
Tombstones. 45 
 
 in, and will give odds. Hie jacet is literally true, and 
 about the only true thing the majority of tombstones say. 
 If the ghosts of the late deceased — who are always emi- 
 nent — are permitted to stroll about cemeteries at their 
 leisure, their astonishment at reading their epitaphs must 
 be of the most supernatural character. 
 
 A miser, whose small soul in his earthly life could not 
 have been found with a microscope, is astonished to dis- 
 cover that he was a liberal-hearted man and a benefac- 
 tor, with distant allusions to the possibility of his having 
 been an angel in disguise. 
 
 A man who went through the world without the re- 
 sponsibility of a single moral principle under his vest, 
 suddenly finds that he was possessed of all the cardinal 
 virtues, and is written down on cool marble as an ex- 
 emplar for the rising generation. 
 
 A woman who, in the earthly tabernacle, was the Un- 
 gual scourge of her neighborhood, discovers that she 
 was the loveliest of her sex, and is now an angel with 
 the handsomest wings to be found in the whole ornitho- 
 logical tribe of the upper air. 
 
 A man whose highest ambition was to go through life 
 quietly, doing as much good as he could for his fellows, 
 and to go out of life like a gentleman, finds himself 
 kicking up posthumous dust under a huge monument ol 
 the most elaborate description, gaudy with gilding, 
 wreaths, chaplets, urns, torches and flowers. 
 
 Considering the number of nuisances among the liv- 
 ing, the quantity of angels and cherubs in every grave- 
 yard is appalling, and it becomes a question worthy of 
 consideration by the Academy of Sciences — the ulti- 
 mate destination of the sinners and poor devils. All 
 
46 Funeral Fashions. 
 
 known grave yards are devoted exclusively to saints. In 
 what igtiota terra rest the bones of the sinners? 
 
 Now, I submit that a live man has some rights which 
 a tombstone is bound to respect, and that when old 
 Sniffles, who swindled me unmercifully, the other day, 
 without any compunction, shuffles off his miserable 
 coil, his tombstone shall not tell me he was a pink of 
 honesty. 
 
 And again, are we not overdoing the thing in regard 
 to funerals ? I have already shown in these letters that 
 one can hardly afford to die now-a-days, owing to the 
 expense. This expense grows out of the fact that we 
 are letting fashion act as mistress of ceremonies on these 
 occasions. It is not enough that fashion has made asses 
 of us, and tricked us out with her fantastic nonsense all 
 our lives, but, even after the curtain has fallen, the 
 lights are turned off, the audience have gone home, and 
 the house is shut up, fashion still persists in hanging its 
 gewgaws upon the outside walls. 
 
 Accordingly, every respectable deceased must be 
 buried in a casket — a pretty casket of the most approved 
 shape, and the costlier the material, the better. The 
 nails must be silver-headed to be au fait, and the han- 
 dles classic in design and silver beyond suspicion. The 
 inside must correspond with the outside, and, after the 
 late deceased is laid out, it is then eminently proper to 
 smother him or her with flowers, crosses, wreaths, 
 anchors and other emblematic designs. The climax 
 will be capped if the deceased is clad in the latest style 
 of the hcau nionde, and carries with him or her into the 
 long sleep, the exact cut or style of garment in which 
 death overtook him or her. 
 
Mourning. 47 
 
 I am not inveighing against respect to the dead. I 
 believe that nothing is so appropriate for a dead child 
 as flowers, nothing so typical of beauty and purity, no- 
 thing which so becomes the young life, frail as the 
 flowers themselves. I only object to the frivolous, fool- 
 ish, indecorous displays which fashion compels the sur- 
 vivors to make. If a man has lived through life like a 
 gentleman, let him be buried like a gentleman, without 
 fashion's tricking-out. I submit that when a man or 
 woman has got through with life, he or she has got 
 through with fashion, and that it is the height of folly 
 for friends of the family to allow officious tradesmen the 
 opportunity of displaying their fashionable wares, on an 
 occasion when simplicity and solemnity are most 
 befitting. 
 
 Which brings me to another point in considering 
 whether a live man has any rights a dead man is bound 
 to respect. And that point is — Mourning. 
 
 On general principles, I claim that we have no right 
 to advertise our griefs to the world by mourning appar- 
 el. Of all griefs, those of death should be the most 
 delicate, the most personal. If we must do it at all, I 
 think the Chinese custom of wearing white is the most 
 sensible. Why must we go in sables and obtrude our 
 crape into the blessed light of the sun, and our black 
 sorrow into the eyes of the world, when all is light 
 where our friend has gone? 
 
 But this custom could be endured if fashion had not 
 seized it. Fashion regulates our sorrow, measures our 
 grief, and bounds our mourning within prescribed limits. 
 Heartfelt grief goes in deep black. Good average grief 
 in half black. Mitigated grief contents itself in a black- 
 
48 Mourning. 
 
 bordered handkerchief, and advertises itself to cor- 
 respondents in a black-bordered envelope. Hopeful 
 grief will get along with a jet pin, and for just the small- 
 est amount of grief in the world, a dark figure in the 
 dress, and a week's abstinence from the opera will 
 do ; while for the tribe of relatives whom you never saw 
 and never wanted to see, any milliner or tailor can regu- 
 late your grief with a yardstick or hat-body. 
 
 If I were a blessed, viewless spirit, and found a friend 
 of mine indulging in mitigated grief for me with hand- 
 kerchief edging, I would indulge in spiritual manifesta- 
 tions which would put the Fox sisters to their trumps. 
 
 In the name of our common humanity, do we not 
 play pranks enough with the living to let the dead rest? 
 Why vex their memories with the foolery of fashion? 
 Why make ourselves walking sign-boards, announcing 
 to the world, that does not care a whit about it, that we 
 are in this or that stage of grief? 
 
 With our fashionable mourning, we are putting a libel 
 on immortality, and lowering to the vulgar level of 
 common notoriety what should be most sacred and 
 strictly private. 
 
 And now I suppose that, in answer to all this, some- 
 body will fling at me that stupid old apothegm — De 
 mortuis nil nisi honum. It is time that maxim was ex- 
 ploded, or, at least, dissected, so that it may have 
 proper application. A, who has been a rascal all his 
 life, dies, and immediately we are all so tender of his 
 reputation that we very nearly canonize him. As soon 
 as a man dies, it is the universal outcry to let him rest. 
 I do not see the slightest danger of disturbing his rest 
 by anything we can say or do. He will probably lie 
 
The Living and the Dead, 49 
 
 quite as still as if we are silent. It is not probable that 
 he will grow indignant if we tell the exact truth about 
 him, or exhibit any large amount of gratification over 
 our eulogies. In this upper world it is quite a common 
 thing for us to assail our dear friends as soon as their 
 coat-tails are over our thresholds, when this backbiting 
 may be cruelly unjust, and there are some of us who re- 
 quire a very light stock of material to do a thriving 
 business in slander. We pursue our friends with defa- 
 mation while living, and while it will injure them, but 
 when dead and past all injury, we grow suddenly reti- 
 cent and commence the rather ungracious task of eulo- 
 gy, and we usually outdo ourselves in the latter direc- 
 tion. Let equal justice be done. Hold up the dead 
 man's virtues to emulation, and his vices to abhorrence. 
 He is quite beyond any harm we can do him, and if we 
 have any tenderness to bestow on reputation, let us -be- 
 stow it on the Uving. 
 
 October 26, 1807. 
 
OUR THANKSGIVING. 
 
 E had just got up from dinner table on Thanks- 
 giving Day and retired to the parlor to chat 
 — Celeste and Boosey, Aurelia and her husband 
 and infant, Mignon and Blanche, Old Blobbs and Mrs. 
 Blobbs and myself. 
 
 We were all very thankful, although in divers ways. 
 Boosey was thankful that he had had enough to eat, and 
 that Celeste had got out of the Sorosis; while Celeste 
 was thankful that Boosey had got through the dinner 
 safely and soberly, and had brought her home a new 
 hat the night before. Aurelia and Mr. Peplum were 
 thankful for a small stranger, who dropped in upon them 
 a few weeks since, spoken of above as the infant, and 
 commonly reputed in our set to be the handsomest and 
 smartest baby that has had the bad luck to be born into 
 this world of fleeting show. Mignon was thankful that 
 in these silent days of the year, there is so much beauty 
 left, and Blanche was as thankful as a bobolink on a 
 spray for all good things. Old Blobbs was thankful 
 Mrs. Blobbs had omitted her customary morning lec- 
 ture, and Mrs. Blobl)s was thankful that Old Blobbs had 
 managed to get through his dinner without saying any 
 disagreeable things. 
 
Turkey and Gratitude. 51 
 
 As for myself, I was thankful that I was not obliged 
 to be thankful again for a year. It is hard upon a man 
 to be thankful on the basis of turkey in various culinary 
 stages. I have not the slightest doubt one can be thank- 
 ful to Divine Providence, Who has vouchsafed, etc., 
 from the depths of his stomach, and can measure his 
 gratitude by the pile of bones on his platter, but it in- 
 volves dyspeptic possibilities which are fearful to con- 
 template, and in point of thankfulness leaves a man no- 
 where in comparison with a hog. 
 
 I must acknowledge, further, that it is difficult for me 
 to see the connection between bountiful harvests, and let 
 us have peace, and the mastication of turkey. Gentle- 
 men may cry peace, peace, but there is no peace after a 
 Thanksgiving dinner. One might eat a bald eagle and 
 grow patriotic, or a goose and obtain wisdom; but why 
 the turkey should be singled out as the emblem of grat- 
 itude, and why we should be called upon to express that 
 gratitude by filling ourselves to the brim with the self- 
 conceited coxcomb of the barn-yard, passes my compre- 
 hension. It seems to me that we mistake gluttony for 
 gratitude, and that in the immensity of our gratitude we 
 are killing off turkeys at a rate which must be highly 
 unsatisfactory to the gobblers, who are most interested 
 in the matter. If we are to be thankful by wholesale 
 in this manner on Thanksgiving, why not carry the 
 same principle into our retail gratitude ? For instance, 
 if Potter Palmer should come to me and say : "My 
 dear boy, I have no further use for that shanty on the 
 corner of State and Washington streets; take it," I 
 might go at once and eat an oyster stew as a token of 
 my gratitude, and if he should throw in that man and a 
 
52 In the Parlor. 
 
 brother with the horizontal coat-tails, I might go one 
 better also, and eat half a dozen raw. When Blanche 
 sends Mignon a little token of love and esteem, Mignon 
 might eat a Charlotte Russe as a proof of her gratitude, 
 and range from a Russe up to a moderate lunch, ac- 
 cording to the value of the gift. Gifts of pocket-hand- 
 kerchiefs could be paid for by eating a pickle, embroid- 
 eries in Berlin wool might range as high as a chicken 
 wing, a volume of Tupper be atoned for by a boiled 
 onion ; while, to express my thanks for a corner lot with 
 a full furnished house on it, I would risk a moderately- 
 filled dish of pork and cabbage. 
 
 I haven't much confidence in that gratitude which 
 strikes to a man's stomach, or that sense of thankful- 
 ness which can only be expressed via the stomach. 
 
 This was not what we talked about when we got into 
 the parlor, but we undoubtedly should have discussed 
 this topic had not Old Blobbs suddenly broken out on 
 his favorite theory that the world was wrong side up. 
 He does not believe in the present arrangement of 
 things at all, and I sometimes think he is more than half 
 right. Aurelia, Mr. Peplum and the little one were in 
 a corner together, making a very cozy-looking trio ; Ce- 
 leste and Boosey were just about to commence a game of 
 backgammon ; Blanche was at the piano, listlessly run- 
 ning her white fingers over the keys, as if she were try- 
 ing to recall some old melody which had been lost 
 among them in departed days; Mignon sat in the win- 
 do\v just under the parlor ivy, which seemed to be try- 
 ing to reach down to her with its graceful curves as to 
 something akin to it in grace and beauty, when Old 
 Blobbs suddenly broke out: "If I had the management 
 
A Change Wanted. 53 
 
 of this world, things would change places. Nothing is 
 in its right place." 
 
 "And how would you change them, my dear 
 Blobbs?" said I. 
 
 " Change them !" said he. " If I could arrange men 
 and things as they ought to be, you would see some 
 very poor men living in very handsome houses, and 
 some very rich men uncertain where they would get 
 their next meal. You would see some parishioners in 
 the pulpit and some preachers in the pews. You would 
 see some car horses on the front platform and some 
 drivers harnessed to the pole. You would see some men 
 running down the street with tin kettles tied to their 
 tails, and some dogs looking on approvingly. You 
 would see my Lady So-and-So, who can go to the opera 
 every night quite brave in her laces, and diamonds, and 
 head-gear, with no more comprehension of, or care for, 
 what is going on than a cow has of true and undefiled 
 religion, change place with some poor soul to whom 
 music comes full of consolation, and rest, and sympa- 
 thy, and who cannot go at all. Yes, sir," said Old 
 Blobbs, reddening with rage, " the whole world is wrong, 
 all wrong. Incompetence stands in the shoes of compe- 
 tence. The weak go to the wall. Dishonesty comes 
 out ahead. Brass passes for gold, and tin for silver. 
 One paltry dollar will go further and make more knees 
 bend than all the concentrated honesty and decency of 
 the world since Adam delved and Eve spun. Vive la 
 humbug! The kettles and pots go swimming down the 
 stream because they are empty. A piece of pure, solid 
 metal, no matter how small, goes to the bottom." 
 
 "But," said I, "the world keeps turning round, and 
 a* 
 
54 Coming Uppennost. 
 
 some day the right must come uppermost." 
 
 Blobbs admitted that, but added: "What is the use 
 of a man's coming uppermost a century or two after he 
 is dead, when there is nothing left of him but a bone 
 here and there, and, perhaps, nothing but a handful of 
 dirt, to enjoy the sensation? Why not have the world 
 so arranged that a decent man may, now and then, see 
 some inducement to continue decent, and that real merit 
 may find its recompense without being obliged to attain 
 it through quackery, or enjoy it as a blessed ghost, two 
 or three hundred years from now?" 
 
 And all the time Blobbs was delivering his little 
 speech, Blanche was still hunting for the lost melody on 
 the keys, and the ivy was still trying to put its pretty 
 green arms around Mignon's neck, and Celeste was 
 throwing double-sixes with Boosey, and Aurelia was 
 playing with that wonderful baby. 
 
 November 28, 1868. 
 
MRS. GRUNDY. 
 
 ET me whisper in your ear and tell you that 
 Mrs. Grundy is a humbug. I think it would 
 be the most blessed thing that could happen 
 in this vale of tears if Mrs. Grundy should die. What 
 a relief it would be to all of us ! Existence would be a 
 boon instead of a bore. 
 
 While Mrs. Grundy lives, every man and woman is 
 an arrant hypocrite. While that fearful woman stands 
 looking at us, every man and woman is an arrant 
 coward. We flatter ourselves, or attempt to flatter our- 
 selves — for there is not a man or woman who really be- 
 lieves it — that we are saying and doing things from princi- 
 ple, when in reality we are saying and doing them because 
 Mrs. Grundy, in the shape of our next door neighbor, 
 is looking at us and talking about us. You and I go to 
 church and sit through services which may be the es- 
 sence of stupidity, and we put on serious faces, and sit 
 very primly, and regard our mortal enemy in the next 
 slip with a lenient face, and pretend to listen to Dr. 
 Creamcheese's commonplaces, and go out very solemnly 
 • — and all because Mrs. Grundy is looking at us from 
 every direction, and when we get home, out of Mrs. 
 Grundy's sight, we are ourselves again. We go through 
 
56 Mrs. Grimdy. 
 
 the formalities of a fast, and rigidly abstain from the 
 good things while Mrs. Grundy's eyes are upon us, but 
 the moment they are removed, we go into the larder 
 and indulge in the best it affords. Celeste meets with 
 another Dear Creature and lavishes all her affections 
 upon her, when she does not care a snap of her pretty 
 little finger about her, merely because Mrs. Grundy is 
 looking at her. We are all of us, every day of our lives, 
 going through with tedious conventionalities, which we 
 know are conventionalities, which we do not believe in, 
 merely because that woman Grundy is looking at us. 
 She makes us hypocrites in every function of life. 
 Thackeray struck Mrs. Grundy a blow in the face when 
 he drew with his satirical and powerful pencil Louis XI. 
 in his royal robes and Louis XL iwpuris naturalibus. 
 In one picture we saw Louis XL in the light of Mrs. 
 Grundy. In the other we saw him as himself. We 
 wear a double suit ; one which we know is a lie, for the 
 world ; the other, which we know is the truth, for our- 
 selves. 
 
 The world will get very near to the millenium when 
 Mrs. Grundy dies. Until that time the lion and the 
 lamb will not lie down together. If they do, the lion 
 will try to convince himself that he is a lamb, although 
 he is aching to breakfast on him, and the lamb will try 
 to convince himself he is a lion. 
 
 November 30, 1867. 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 
 
 O few people have any definite idea of the stage 
 behind the scenes, or of the little busy world 
 that congregates there nightly, in the produc- 
 tion of a great spectacle like "Undine," requiring all the 
 resources of music, scenery, the drama and the ballet, 
 that, a few evenings since, I conceived it to be my duty 
 to expose myself to demoralization for the public good. 
 
 The great public in front of the curtain only see the 
 beautiful effects and the smooth movements, with no 
 idea of the powers that are in exercise and the hidden 
 springs that set at work all this great machinery. I 
 shall not attempt to expose these secrets, but at the 
 same time hope to give you some conception of life on 
 the stage. 
 
 Upon expressing my wish to the management to be 
 demoralized for this laudable purpose, they gave me 
 their hearty approval, and on Tuesday night, at half- 
 past seven, I bade good-bye for a brief evening to the 
 great world outside, and passed within the realms of ro- 
 mance, clad in double-proof mail of morality, invul- 
 nerable to the combined attacks of naiads, coryphees 
 and Amazons. 
 
 Has chaos come again ? Will order ever come out of 
 
58 The Stage. 
 
 this wilderness of scenes, ropes, weights, pulleys, calci- 
 um burners, step ladders, gauze waters, tinseled cars, 
 demon masks, gas tubes, sceptres, levers, crowns, ec- 
 centric iron rods, goblets, the fabulous Rhine treasures, 
 tables, lounges, gongs and pistols? What secret charm 
 is to resolve all these into their proper places and make 
 them fill their parts in the production of grace and 
 beauty? 
 
 There are few people visible on the stage. Two or 
 three Amazons are sitting on the banquet-table, discus- 
 sing a question in political economy, as to the relative 
 profit of running sewing-machines and making warlike 
 marches under the Rhine. Two demons are engaged in 
 a friendly game of euchre on the Lurlei Berg, for the 
 stage discipline has not yet commenced. Undoubtedly, 
 after they have accomplished their unearthly mission,' 
 and the audience goes home, one of these demons will 
 enjoy stewed oysters and ale in the upper world at the 
 expense of the other. A coryphee is testing her pretty 
 little toes in Sir Hubert's skiff. The seneschal and a 
 scene-shifter are rehearsing Macbeth in the triumphal 
 car which is shortly to ascend to Heaven with Sir Hu- 
 bert and Undine. There is, as yet, little life on the 
 stage, but it is very busy below in the dressing-rooms. 
 The last stitches are being made, the last touches of 
 rouge — for even the immortals use the same color that 
 flushes the cheeks of Aurelia and Celeste — are being put 
 on. Sir Hubert is cursing his refractory red tights. 
 Undine is in despair over the loss of her crown, which 
 she will find on the stage in the possession of an Amazon, 
 who is strutting the boards for a brief minute as the 
 Water Queen. Kuhleborn is arraying himself in his 
 
The Ballet. 59 
 
 spotted mail, and the large green-room is swarming with 
 naiads, fays and elves. The bell tinkles for the orches- 
 tra. The call-boy rushes down the stairs and cries "All 
 up and dressed for the first act." His voice finds an 
 echo above in the prompter, who shouts "Clear the 
 stage." How that stage was cleared still remains a 
 mystery to me. All the disjecta mei?ibra are in place. 
 Outside you hear the overture, and now and then the 
 buzz of the audience; and an inquisitive coryphee, who 
 has cautiously pulled the curtain a trifle aside, informs 
 me that it is a splendid house. The prompter is at the 
 first entrance. The gas man is at the wheels. The 
 property man is everywhere. The scene-shifters are in 
 the wings. Way up in the flies, in a wilderness of ropes, 
 men are taking their places. The calcium men are 
 arranging their reflectors, which will soon flood the 
 stage with their powerful, rich light. The trap men are 
 at their stations. The banquet scene is set. Hubert, 
 Baptiste, the Pilgrim and the Knights are in the narrow 
 space between it and the curtain. 
 
 The Water Lily Ballet are in the wings on both sides, 
 rattling away in French and German, standing upon 
 their toes, stretching their limbs and preparing themselves 
 for the dance. Westmael will have a solo, but she looks 
 dejected, faint and spiritless, and a racking cough tells 
 a sad story of the toil and weariness and excitement of 
 the ballet. She is sick to-night. Another leans her 
 head against a side-scene totally unmindful of what is 
 going on in the physical pain she is suffering. Still 
 others look weary and sad-eyed, while some are merry 
 and voluble. But the great audience will know nothing 
 of the aches and pains, the weariness and suffering. 
 
6o The Curtain Rises, 
 
 The strong will, the excitement and the rivalry will hide 
 all this behind the temporary smile and the coquetry and 
 fascinations of the dance. The ballet-master is hopping 
 about from wing to wing with the proverbial Gallic 
 sprightliness, which will, before the evening is over, 
 change to utter distraction and tearing of hair at the 
 possibility of z.faux pas in the ballet or the total de- 
 pravity of some leading instruments in the orchestra, 
 which will be tearing a rhythm to tatters. 
 
 The orchestral prelude ceases. The stage manager 
 casts his quick eye over the stage and gives the word. 
 The gas man turns on the light. The bell tinkles and 
 the curtain rises. While the banquet scene is progress- 
 ing, the frightful declivity of the Lurlei Berg goes into 
 position, and the gauzy waters of the Rhine are set, 
 across which the moon is sending a tinsel shimmer. 
 
 Undine hurries through the wing and mounts to the 
 dizzy height of the Lurlei Berg, in the meantime hold- 
 ing an animated conversation with the young man be- 
 low, who will gallantly help her down the sloat, below 
 the blue waters of the Rhine, to the Stalactite Cave, 
 which a score of busy hands are already preparing for 
 her reception, A young man in the opposite wing is 
 preparing to play the invisible boatman for Sir Hubert 
 and Baptiste, while I quietly go to the bottom of the 
 Rhine by the down-stairs route, and anticipate the ar- 
 rival of the trio, who do not express any astonishment 
 whatever at finding me in the Naiad's home, but con- 
 verse with each other very much in the strain of ordina- 
 ry mortals. 
 
 In the meantime, overhead, the Stalactite Cave is set, 
 and I hear the feet of the ballet dancers skimming over 
 
The Dance. 6i 
 
 the floor. I get into the outskirts of the Cave by means 
 of the stairs again, meeting a mortal on the way, eating 
 a substantial Spitzenberg, and that Nemesis, the call- 
 boy, in search of some of the Immortals, to find the 
 Water Lily Ballet in full operation. There are no signs 
 of weariness or dejection now. Every face is full of ex- 
 pression. Every limb is posed in elegance. There is 
 pleasure for pain ; smiles for dejection ; fascination for 
 weariness; coquetry for listlessness ; and the Westmael, 
 who looked so sad and weary, is flashing across the stage 
 like a will o' the wisp, compelling, with her wonderful 
 steps upon her toes, her pirouettes and postures, round 
 upon round of applause from the audience, which comes 
 to me behind the scenes like the pattering of rain upon 
 the shingles, what time her rival, Venturola, already 
 dressed for her solo in the Fish Ballet of the next act, 
 is standing near me, closely scrutinizing, with her keen 
 black eyes and nervous manner, every step of her great 
 rival. Westmael comes off, panting like a deer in the 
 chase. All the smiles and fascinations have gone, and 
 in their place the weariness and sadness return to her 
 face, and even Venturola regards her with pity, and the 
 other dancers speak to her in low tones. She passes 
 slowly, almost feebly, to her dressing-room, dropping 
 the bouquet upon the floor which a frantic young man in 
 front, with crimson face, has tossed to her. 
 
 Will it comfort that frantic young man to know that 
 an Amazon picks up the emblem of his devotion at the 
 shrine of Terpsichore, and that she will probably con- 
 vey it to her home on Archer Avenue, where it will 
 waste its sweetness on the desert air? I would not ruth- 
 lessly turn iconoclast to his aspirations by intimating 
 
62 EntP Acte. 
 
 that all his bouquets have gone to Amazonian abodes on 
 that avenue. I would let him down easily from the 
 heights of aspiration and the stars of devotion to the 
 depths of content and the earth of common regard. 
 His bouquet has helped to swell the triumph, to set the 
 seal of success. That ends its little mission. It will 
 hardly be preserved in wax for an eternity of memory. 
 Its delicate beauty will not long survive in the warlike 
 abodes of the Amazons. 
 
 But the ballet is over, and Undine and the good 
 Knight, Sir Hubert, mount the triumphal car, which 
 has just arrived from the bottom of the Rhine, and com- 
 mence going to Heaven, with which ascent the men in 
 the wilderness of ropes, up in the roof-tree, have some 
 mysterious connection. The audience desiring a second 
 view, the vehicle kindly pauses in its upward flight for 
 a minute, and the curtain falls. 
 
 For the information of the audience, I am warranted 
 in stating that they did not get to Heaven, as I was on 
 the Lurlei Berg when they descended, and have reason 
 to know that both Undine and Sir Hubert went by the 
 down-stairs route to the bottom of the Rhine again, to 
 make ready for another act, what time the Nemesis of a 
 call-boy shall make his appearance among the Immor- 
 tals and summon them again to their work. 
 
 While John Henry in the audience steps out to see a 
 man ; while Young Boosey is telling Celestina his expe- 
 riences at the Biche au Bois, in Paris; while the newly- 
 married couple from Kankakee, who have never done 
 the ballet before, are discussing its propriety, and the 
 policy of not mentioning it to the old folks, the orches- 
 tra has drawn itself into its room, as a turtle draws its 
 
Music and Beer. G^ 
 
 head into its shell, and proceeds immediately to beer. 
 
 If there is one part of the music which the orchestra 
 can execute better than another, it is the moistening of 
 the whistle. To an unbiased observer, the amount of 
 beer which the trombone and double-bass, for instance, 
 can absorb is simply remarkable, while the quantity 
 which the small first violins and piccolo can hold, is ap- 
 palling to the aforesaid unbiased observer, but calcu- 
 lated to induce cheerfulness on the part of heavy brewers 
 and a sense of gratitude to the makers of that class of 
 porous instruments. 
 
 The Lurlei Berg with its dangerous descent, the boat 
 practical and all that part of the country about the 
 Rhine is put out of the way for the evening, for in the 
 next act we shall all be at the bottom of the Rhine, 
 among the fish, who are now arraying themselves for the 
 dance, in spangles and scaly armor of gold and silver. 
 Meantime the call-boy is sent up for Undine and the 
 gas-man for Sir Hubert, and the demons are rehearsing 
 at them. A mild young man with whom I was talking 
 on the Lurlei Berg, a few minutes ago, as we stood to- 
 gether and watched the moonlight wavering in the rip- 
 ples of the Rhine, who might from his looks have been 
 one of those good young men who die early, is in the 
 infuriated crowd, with a nugget of silver for a head, 
 nondescript raiment on his body, and a huge club in 
 hand rushing wildly towards me and looking like an 
 exaggerated type of the Jibbenainosay. 
 
 Which is only another mournful instance of the truth 
 of the remark that "things are not what they seem." 
 
 In the middle of the stage, exposed to the view of all, 
 at the bottom of the Rhine, are fabulous piles of gold, 
 
64 The Curtain Up Again. 
 
 silver and jewels, heaped up on a table, and carelessly 
 left without any watchman. The amount and value of 
 these treasures I would not like to estimate, nor the 
 temptation which I experienced to appropriate a solitary 
 jewel, which might have made my fortune when I re- 
 turned to the upper earth. As I am meditating on the 
 expediency of it, two rufhanly looking demons of the 
 most hideous description mount the table and signifi- 
 cantly lean upon their clubs, as if inviting somebody to 
 try it on. One of them glances at me, and I decline 
 the experiment. 
 
 John Henry having seen his man, and the orchestra 
 having returned from their beer, the scenery being in 
 readiness, and the ubiquitous call-boy having again sum- 
 moned the fish and other people to be up for the second 
 act, the wings are full of fish. That little wasp, Ventu- 
 rola, is to have a solo, and that there may not be any- 
 thing to offend her dainty feet, she seizes the broom 
 and sweeps the bottom of the Rhine clear of all obstruc- 
 tions, for she is going to try to outdo Westmael to-night. 
 The curtain rises, and my friends, the demons, have the 
 stage. Kuhleborn, like a shot from a cannon ball, flies 
 up through the star trap. Had there been a slight varia- 
 tion in the working of the nice machinery of the trap, 
 poor Kuhleborn's brains would have been dashed out 
 by the heavy counter-weights, which, in their descent, 
 force him up ; but the working is so well graduated that 
 Kuhleborn is in no danger of injury, save from the 
 apices of the triangular sections of the trap, which upon 
 every exit manage to take off a small piece of his 
 nose, whereupon, being a demon, he is excusable for in- 
 dulging in slight expletives, such as are used by the 
 
The Fish Ballet. 65 
 
 Rhine demons. As the square trap, through which he 
 shuts himself up like a jack-knife and disappears, also 
 manages to take off a small piece of his back and shoul- 
 ders, it would prove an interesting study to calculate 
 how much of Kuhleborn will be left at the expiration ot 
 the allotted six weeks. 
 
 The preliminary scene over, the Fish Ballet com- 
 mences. This is Venturola's opportunity. A little 
 more resin on her pretty feet. A little impatiently she 
 waves aside the Amazons and Naiads, who have congre- 
 gated in her wing to see the dance, and bounds upon 
 the stage like a ball hot from the striker, amid the ap- 
 plause of the audience. But not even her own fine ef- 
 fort, nor the graceful posturing of the coryphees, nor 
 the acrobatic and unique dancing of Kuhleborn, in his 
 oil-cloth fish-skin, secure for her an encore. She does 
 not even get a bouquet. 
 
 Frantic young man ! Where were you at this critical 
 moment ? 
 
 She comes off the stage, and there is a snapping of 
 those black eyes as she brushes through the crov/d down 
 stairs to her dressing-room and slams the door. West- 
 mael must look out for her laurels in the grand ballet of 
 the next act, when the solo tests come. 
 
 I pass to the grand ballet. The stage is full of the 
 Amazons and coryphees, and all the premiers are in the 
 wings, Westmael looking sadder and more weary than 
 ever; Venturola full of determination and talking chain- 
 lightning at the ballet master ; Fontana quietly walking 
 about, and now and then rising on her toes; Mazzeri, 
 Adrian, Oberti, Negri and Guerrero, all anxious, for 
 thunderbolts have fallen ere this out of the clear sky, 
 
 6 
 
66 The Grand Ballet. 
 
 and who knows but one of them may get an encore ? 
 Little Schlager has already had her encore and gone oft 
 the stage with an approving pat on the head from the 
 ballet-master, with her mother's face beaming with satis- 
 faction, and her own lit up with triumph. Encore is 
 the magic word which incites them all. 
 
 The ballet is drawing to a close. Only Venturola 
 and Westmael are left. Venturola has outdone herself, 
 and her fine diminuendo whirl has gained for her not 
 only a bouquet but the coveted encore. She is satisfied, 
 and in her nervous manner she chatters French, German 
 and English to everybody. The familiar music ot 
 Westmael's brief closing solo strikes up. She is stand- 
 ing, as at the first, quietly in the wing. She has paid 
 no attention to the dance. By a stranger she would 
 have been taken only for a listless observer. She is evi- 
 dently in pain and very sick to-night, and the hard, dry 
 cough grates upon the ear, but at the first bar of the 
 music her face lights up and she springs upon the stage 
 with no trace of trouble. Every movement is perfect, 
 from the dainty, spirited, bold walk upon the toes to 
 the final pose, and there is no mistaking the encore that 
 follows. The encore does not seem to have any charm 
 for her to-night, but the audience compel it, and by a 
 tremendous effort of the will she repeats. I say by a 
 tremendous effort, for as she returns she instantly re- 
 lapses into her old state. Her breath comes and goes 
 spasmodically and her chest is thumping as if a sledge- 
 hammer were at work within it. She staggers along a 
 few steps and faints, and pitying hands carry her to her 
 room. To-morrow night she will be herself again, but 
 to-night it has been a burden. 
 
Over. 67 
 
 It would not be proper for me to disclose the work- 
 ings of the last, or Transformation Scene; and if it 
 were, I would not strip off the romance, grace and 
 beauty that surround and pervade it. I can only admire 
 the skill, taste and knowledge of effects — the genius 
 which with the slightest of materials can produce an 
 illusion so brilliant and captivating, both to the eye and 
 ear. It requires a genius akin to that of the best work- 
 er in oils, and a taste and imagination of the highest 
 order. 
 
 The calcium lights are extinguished. The colored 
 fires have burned down. The prompter closes his book. 
 The figures of the tableaux descend from their graceful 
 but uncomfortable positions. The property man is 
 looking after his properties. The manager is thanking 
 "you, ladies, very well done." The lights are turned 
 off. Rhine land and Rhine River vanish, and I leave 
 the stage for this upper world. 
 
 December 14, 1867. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 N the year i of our blessed Lord, a carpenter 
 came with his wife to Bethlehem to pay his tax- 
 es, and it is to be hoped he did not have to shut 
 his eyes and grit his teeth as I did when I paid mine in 
 the year 1867 of our blessed Lord. 
 
 If the taxes at Bethlehem were on the scale of the 
 taxes at Chicago, it is no wonder that the carpenter and 
 his wife lodged in a stable. 
 
 On that night a Child was born among the cattle, and 
 the angels opened the doors of Heaven and flooded the 
 whole Bethlehem Plain with music, what time the shep- 
 herds leaned upon their staves to listen, and the sheep 
 knelt down upon their knees in adoration. And wise, 
 long-bearded Magi of the Orient came upon their cam- 
 els, bearing gifts with them and following the star which 
 never tarried until it stood over the young Child. 
 
 And from that Christmas to this Christmas, do I sol- 
 emnly believe, that on each recurrence of the birthday of 
 our blessed Lord, the angels open wide the doors of 
 Heaven and smile upon each young child, and that 
 some star still stands over each young child to guide 
 Santa Claus on his beautiful errand. 
 
 Now I know that old Midas, who never had an aspi- 
 
The Day. 69 
 
 ration of soul that soared higher than a quintal of cod- 
 fish, nor an imagination that was not regularly ruled 
 and indexed with a Dr. on one side, and a Cr. on the 
 other, and a $ all over it; and that Mrs. Midas, whose 
 theory of life is bounded by a bonnet-string and colored 
 with the latest Bismarck shade, will shrug shoulders at 
 the idea. And well they may, for I think it exceeding- 
 ly doubtful whether the smallest star in the canopy would 
 find it worth while to stand over either of them. And 
 yet do I believe that there are choice spirits over whom 
 a star stands, raining down blessed influences and ever 
 bringing them closer together. 
 
 And thus the first Christmas was celebrated in that 
 Bethlehem stable one thousand eight hundred and sixty- 
 seven years ago, and when it was over, the carpenter 
 took his tax receipt, unvexed by special assessments for 
 lamp posts, Nicolson pavements, plank sidewalks, etc., 
 and went on his way rejoicing. 
 
 It seems to me, furthermore, that I hang up my stock- 
 ing — that stocking which all the rest of the year has 
 held only a foot, terror to shoemakers, and a bunion 
 worthy its namesake, the immortal Tinker — on the most 
 beautiful day of the year. It comes set like a jewel in 
 the very heart of winter; when all nature is at rest; 
 when the days are shortest and the nights are darkest ; 
 when every bird is silent upon the hillside; when no 
 leaf is green but the holly, and the ivy, and the winter- 
 green ; when the weather is bleakest without but cheeriest 
 within ; when the storms sweep through the streets and 
 the house-fires glow ruddiest on the hearths; when the 
 grayest sky is made bright by Santa Claus, Kriss Kringle 
 and the Christ-Kindchen ; and Christmas-tide runs joy- 
 
70 An Old Woman. 
 
 fully with wassail and taper-lighted tree, and song and 
 dance. New Year has come to be hedged in by fashion. 
 Fourth of July is a matter of buncombe. Thanksgiving 
 is dear to the stomach. But Christmas is the day of all 
 days — the best and the brightest of the year. 
 
 I would like to be a little child, or an old woman, it 
 matters little which, to really enjoy Christmas. I would 
 like to have back all the angles which friction with the 
 world has rubbed off, and to thoroughly believe in the 
 existence of that Laplander who drives his team of 
 reindeer athwart the housetops, tethers them to the 
 chimneys, and fills up the small stockings on the bed- 
 posts ; and to stand before a Christmas tree under the 
 firm conviction that there never was anything so beauti- 
 ful in the world before. 
 
 Or I would like to be an old woman, to sit, with my 
 feet to the fire, in the arm-chair, with my best cap on, 
 and just one gray curl escaping from it — that identical 
 curl which played the deuce with gouty, rheumatic, 
 splenetic, dear old John Anderson, in the chair oppo- 
 site, half a century ago, when we were the pride of the 
 whole country-side ; with not a single wrinkle on my 
 smooth face ; with my silk gown on, which will stand 
 alone; with my flock of children, and grandchildren, 
 and great-grandchildren trooping about me; with bless- 
 ed memories of a long and well-spent life : with tender 
 recollections of eighty Christmases, dead and under the 
 snow, whose ghosts flit by me in the ashes; with the 
 beautiful privilege of extending my hands over the 
 young heads and blessing them, as the Lord Christ 
 stretches his hands in benediction over the earth each 
 Christmas, and confers upon it the gift of his grace. 
 
The Christmas Goose. 71 
 
 Even the crisp brown goose, smoking upon the plat- 
 ter, down whose streaming sides the little rivulets of rich 
 gravy are trickling, his breast bursting with all savory 
 essences, happy in his side pieces and doubly blessed in 
 his second joints, is to be congratulated on his culinary 
 canonization. The bald eagle, flying from the Atlantic 
 to the Pacific, gazing at the sun because it don't hurt 
 him a particle, and stealing chickens and other small 
 deer from the barnyards; and the strutting turkey of 
 Thanksgiving, with his shrivelled, chippy breast and 
 stringy legs, are unworthy of mention by the side of the 
 Christmas goose. Is it not well worth the while of any 
 feathered biped to be a fool through life, the scoif and 
 scorn of dogs and men, if haply he may achieve an 
 apotheosis like that of the Christmas goose? He dies 
 that we may dine. He dies in the flesh to resurrect in 
 the oven. He passes from mortal sight to reappear in 
 fate de foie gras. He gives his head cheerfully to the 
 block that his body may be the crowning glory and the 
 holocaust of Christmas-tide. His life, homely and fool- 
 ish as it is, is not altogether in vain. How many of us 
 bipeds without feathers may lay claim to the same 
 merits? 
 
 If there is a sad spot in all the earth, on Christmas 
 morning, it must be the house where there are no 
 children ; over which no star stops ; in which there is 
 no small stocking to be filled ; in which no juvenile car- 
 nival will be celebrated. The giving of gifts is one of 
 the most blessed privileges of the day. Blessed, too, on 
 that day, is the bachelor uncle or brother, who can con- 
 fer gifts upon the little ones, and thrice blessed the good 
 sister of every neighborhood, who makes glad so many 
 
7 2 Chi'istmas Charity. 
 
 little hearts. If there is a wretched person on earth, 
 it must be the man who can't or won't make a Christ 
 mas gift. 
 
 And, in all our Christmas giving, let us remember 
 this, that under many roofs no Christmas-tree will blaze, 
 and on many hearths the ashes will be gray and cold ; 
 that in many homes the voice of the angel, proclaiming 
 the Bethlehem message," Peace on earth, and good will 
 to men," will be silenced by the wolf ai the door; that 
 many little feet will be cold upon the pavement, wan- 
 dering about in quest of food ; that many little eyes will 
 peer into the windows and wonder at the strange siglits 
 and sounds; that poverty, hunger and despair will be 
 the only visitants at many firesides in this Christian 
 land of ours, filled with feasting and plenty. Let us 
 therefore in all our giving remember that "the greatest 
 of these is charity." Let us remember that the abodes 
 of poverty are doubly dear to us on this day of all the 
 year. Let us cheer them with our bounty, and vivify 
 them with words of joy and hope. Let us make our 
 star stand over these homes. Let us remember the 
 poor, for the first Christmas was celebrated in a stable 
 among the cattle, and the Christ-child was born in a 
 manger, for the carpenter and his wife, who came down 
 to pay taxes, were very poor. 
 
 My carol would not be closed without my Christmas 
 wishes. And therefore a merry Christmas-tide to all 
 gentle people, and a blotting out of all enmities on 
 Christmas morn. A merry Christmas to all, saints and 
 sinners. A merry Christmas to Aurelia and Celeste 
 basking in the sunshine, and to Bridget in the shade. 
 A merry Christmas to my enemy, whom I forgive, and 
 
Merry Christmas. 73 
 
 to my friend, in Avhose heart I live. A merry Christ- 
 mas to all children Avhose little lips will syllable the 
 sweet utterances of childhood. A merry Christmas to 
 the homeless, and the outcasts, and the Pariahs — God 
 help them. A merry Christmas to my creditors, and 
 many returns of the same. A merry Christmas and a full 
 wassail bowl to all good fellows. A merry Christmas to 
 the Tribune and all its readers, and, Mr. Editor, a 
 merry Christmas to you upon your tripod, and may 
 your stockings be well filled. 
 
 And "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace, 
 ^nd good will to men." 
 
 December 25, 1867. 
 
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 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 HE closing of the year offers some epistolary 
 temptations which it is hard to resist. One 
 fiend says "write;" the other says "don't." 
 
 One fiend shows me the admirable things I might 
 say, as, for instance : The old man going out sadly, and 
 the young man coming in gleefully. This, done up 
 with allusions to biers and shrouds and angels and roses, 
 would be a stunner. 
 
 Again, I could make a strong point out of the hour- 
 glass, with the grains of sand slipping through, skilfully 
 keeping up the interest until I got to the last grain, 
 which I could manipulate up to a thrilling denouement. 
 
 And then what a touching picture I might draw of 
 1867 frozen on his bier, his crown tumbled off and his 
 sceptre broken ; and what a bacchanalian revelry I 
 might paint in introducing the birth of 1868. 
 
 And again, I might draw a strong draft on the tears 
 of tender readers by recalling recollections of the Old 
 year and casting the horoscope of the New. 
 
 And think of the magnificent material I might have 
 to use in doing all this : the dark shores of Eternity, the 
 waves of Styx, old Charon, all the cheerful parapherna- 
 lia of the undertaker, and the appliances of the accou- 
 
Cui Bojiof 75 
 
 cheu?-, which would form the piece de resistance, not to 
 speak of the garnitures of regrets, tears, sighs, resolu- 
 tions, prophesies, floAvers, cherubs, broken harp-strings 
 and other properties which might be mixed in indis- 
 criminately, and with a sort of blue -fire effect, which 
 would be telling. 
 
 And as there is nothing else to write about, it shows 
 that I have a good deal of moral courage when I solemn- 
 ly assert that I am not going to say a word about them. 
 
 For, cui bono ? 
 
 The world will continue to turn on its axis every 
 twenty-four hours. Old Midas will continue to crust 
 his soul over with % marks, until he gets them on so 
 thickly that he won't be able to give an account of him- 
 self on the Day of Judgment, without referring to his 
 ledger or sending for his confidential clerk. Mrs. Mi- 
 das will go on saying ungracious things about her next>- 
 door neighbor, who can "see" her bonnet and go ten 
 dollars better every time. Celeste will continue to dis- 
 tract her pretty little empty head in solving the problem 
 of a new bias. Aurelia and Mr. Peplum will continue 
 to have their little differences over the muffins, which 
 will begin to abate with the soup, and disappear in a 
 torrent of regrets over the mediatory Souchong. Rail- 
 roads will continue to cook people alive without a pang 
 of remorse. Men and women will continue to air their 
 dirty linen and haul each other through the mud of the 
 divorce courts, under the insane idea that other people 
 will be interested in their small vices, just as if other 
 people hadn't any of their own which were just as in- 
 teresting. 
 
 The coming year will be very like the going year, and 
 
76 A Hundred Years Hence, 
 
 thus the world will keep going round the sun for us, 
 until the Great Manager sends the call-boy to summon 
 us up for the last act. We shall then make our parting 
 bow — pray God, all of us like gentlemen, and the cur- 
 tain will come down. 
 
 But because our little stage grows suddenly dark, it 
 does not follow that the great audience in front of the cur- 
 tain will break up and go home, or that other actors 
 will not play their parts on the same grand stage of life. 
 
 And a hundred years hence it is not altogether im- 
 probable that our little ant-hill, over which we have 
 made such a fuss, and up and down which we have pa- 
 raded so often, and on which we have expended so much 
 effort to make it larger than the next hill, will be utter- 
 ly forgotten ; and that, in those far-off days, we may be 
 blowing down Clark street on some fine, breezy, spring 
 day, or sold in the form of cabbage from some itinerant 
 Teuton's cart; or, if we have been good children, that 
 we may be blossoming in a daisy, or looking out of the 
 blue eyes of a violet at the great, white, lying slab close 
 by, in a maze of wonder at the saints we were a hundred 
 years ago. 
 
 You see all these things are to be considered in deci- 
 ding whether to say anything about New Year's. And 
 as I have before stated that I am not going to say any- 
 thing about it, this relieves me from alluding to New 
 Year's calls. 
 
 Because if I were to say anything about them I should 
 have to hurt the feelings of the Dear Creatures. It 
 would be unkind, for instance, to go to work deliberate- 
 ly and catalogue Aurelia's callers; Old Gunnybags, who 
 carries into effect his business regulations, atoning on 
 
New Yearns Calls. 77 
 
 that day, by wholesale, his little retail visiting sins of 
 the year; the bashful young man who remarks that it is 
 a very fine day to-day, that it was remarkable weather 
 yesterday, and that he shouldn't be surprised at pleasant 
 w,eather to-morrow; and who, having fired off his little 
 speech, falls back in good order to the refreshments; 
 the mental leisure which Titmouse enjoys, who does a 
 smashing day's business on a small capital by establish- 
 ing a reputation for 'wit in three hundred families, upon 
 whom he has palmed off the same brilliant remarks, the 
 same carefully drawn out repartee and the same conun- 
 drum; the young man of florid complexion and rather 
 heavy build, who makes the duration of his call con- 
 ditional upon the character of refreshments, and who 
 will not fail to mention your sins of omission to Mrs. 
 Brown, next door, who has spread herself on London 
 sherry and boned turkey ; the bore who never calls but 
 once a year, and then tries to become a permanent 
 boarder; the nuisance whom you never saw before and 
 never want to see again; old Deacon Glum, who ten- 
 derly inquires after your soul, in a business sort of way 
 remarks on the brevity of time, and throws in a lot of 
 those pretty metaphors which I threw out at the com- 
 mencement of this letter; young FitzHenry, who has a 
 wine supper for six wagered that he will do his four 
 hundred calls before six o'clock, and is now on his last 
 heat ; that fellow Boodle, with the long nose and little 
 eyes, who is making up a collection of small gossip 
 which he will dish up for the next six months. It 
 would be unfair to catalogue all these nice people, and 
 I will spare Aurelia's feelings by refusing to do it. 
 Neither do I propose on this occasion to allude to the 
 
78 Resolutions. 
 
 astounding number of resolutions which I make on the 
 first day of the year and break regularly before I reach 
 the second week of January. If I have one faculty 
 better developed than another, it is that of making and 
 breaking resolutions. Didn't I firmly resolve th€ first 
 of last January that I would be very temperate in the 
 use of the King's English for the space of three hundred 
 and sixty-five days? And when two hours later I 
 slipped down on the sidewalk, and 'in the operation sat 
 down on my new hat and looked up to see a thoughtless 
 young man laughing at me, didn't I break that resolu- 
 tion and address some remarks to that thoughtless young 
 man which were rather more emphatic than elegant? 
 
 I fancy I did. 
 
 Equally when I was a little boy did I not resolve one 
 New Year's Day that I would keep the whole Ten Com- 
 mandments, and was I not caught in the preserve closet 
 the same day and subjected to a degree of corporal pun- 
 ishment which made me break nearly all the rest of them 
 before night? 
 
 I never saw but one person who succeeded in keeping 
 a New Year's resolution, and he had pined away so rap- 
 idly in his physical and grown so abnormally in his 
 moral man, that it was really painful to look at him. He 
 was the nearest approach to an angel on half rations I 
 ever expect to see. A good meal would have made him 
 sick, but I really believe he would have bolted at one 
 gulp the entire nine tons of tracts which some New 
 York individual has kindly forwarded to the Young 
 Men's Christian Association. 
 
 I cannot but admire the theological cheek of this 
 man. His brass is of no ordinary description. It is 
 
Tracts. 
 
 79 
 
 sonorous, stately, magnificent. Nine tons of tracts! 
 Twenty thousand one hundred and sixty pounds of ap- 
 peal to the ungodly! Three hundred and twenty-two 
 thousand five hundred and sixty ounces of the essence 
 of doctrine ! About thirty miles of grace ! 
 
 December 28, 1867. 
 
OLE BULL, 
 
 Y last recollection of Farwell Hall is connected 
 with a tall, graceful, sweet-faced old man, his 
 head lovingly bending over a violin that old 
 Stradivarius made centuries ago, his eyes closed, transfig- 
 ured in a vision of music, until he seemed to me to wear 
 the face that Beethoven, the Master, might have worn. In 
 his hands the dull wood was again in life. It was part of 
 an organism, and it told the old man of the rustle of 
 leaves in the summer gales ; of the songs of birds in the 
 branches; of the brawling waters of the brooks that 
 moistened the roots ; of the rude winds that smote the 
 tree on Italian hills \ of the star that looked down upon 
 it in delicious Italian nights; of the vernal thrill, the 
 summer glow, the autumnal decay, and the wintry 
 death in life — the great miracle which Nature performs 
 for us each year; and the old man interpreted it in be- 
 witching strains to some who gave themselves up to the 
 spell and were drawn nearer together by the sympathy 
 which music produces, to some who heard the sound and 
 not the soul, and to some who heard neither, in the 
 sound of their own small gabble. 
 
 And the next day, when a heap of smoking bricks, 
 and charred beams, and twisted iron was all that was 
 
Concert Nuisances. 8i 
 
 left of the beautiful hall, it seemed to me that I had met 
 with an irreparable loss — that some friend had suddenly 
 vanished. 
 
 January 11, 1868. 
 
 One of the most charmingly chatty things Leigh Hunt 
 ever wrote was his "Earth Upon Heaven," in which he 
 imagined himself following out his earthly occupations 
 in the upper world; dining with all the good fellows of 
 past ages; reading new plays of Shakspeare and new 
 novels of Scott; eating sugar that was not sanded, and 
 drinking milk from celestial cows in the Milky Way. 
 
 It is to be hoped the earthly concert nuisances will be 
 abated there also, and that we may hope to hear the 
 Malibrans and the Linds, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Mo- 
 zart, Bach and Gluck in new and diviner symphonies 
 and songs (think of that!), without being annoyed by a 
 garrulous angel behind us commenting on the cut of 
 this angel's wings, the color of that angel's feathers, and 
 the awkward manner in which some other angel flies to 
 her seat, and the dreadfully stupid way in which young 
 Highflier sat down upon Blanche's wings. It would be 
 horrible to think of an eternity of music with an eter- 
 nity of nuisance. 
 
 Ibid. 
 
SMALL TALK. 
 
 IHERE are two kinds of small talk — one which 
 is very silly, and when it does not run to twad- 
 dle, takes the worse form of slander and cruel 
 gossip. These two phases are not inconsistent with each 
 other, for it takes a very silly person to be a good gos- 
 siper. The greater amount of nonsense that a woman 
 can talk to your face, the worse will be the gossip that 
 she will talk behind you. Her wits may be very small 
 in one direction, bur they will be very sharp in the 
 other. 
 
 The other kind of small talk is very delightful. It is 
 chatty, sunny, spicy and brilliant. It may not be as 
 deep as the ocean, but is not a little brook, singing 
 over the pebbles, flashing in the sunlight, and whispering 
 pretty little stories it learned from the naiads in the 
 fountain where it was born, to the scarlet cardinals and 
 golden-rods that lean over to listen, just as delightful as 
 the uncertain depths of the ocean with dim suggestions 
 of dirty sea-weed, slimy monsters, ribs of argosies and 
 dead men's bones? Is not the little brook which can 
 take the most distant star right into its heart, just as 
 beautiful as the heavy ocean into whose depths no star 
 beam can penetrate? 
 
 This kind of small talk is an eloquent art, and fortii- 
 
Small Talk. 83 
 
 nate are the favored few who have mastered it. It may 
 commence with the weather, which you discover is not 
 threadbare, for it is the weather which breaks the ice 
 for you, and it runs from the weather to the opera, from 
 opera to music in general, from music to art, art to 
 books, and from books to men and women. Neat Httle 
 criticisms; characteristic observations; flashes of wit; 
 pleasant satire which never wounds — fragmentary yet 
 always polished — superficial, perhaps, yet here and there 
 giving you indications of lower depths which would be 
 worth exploring at the proper time. These are the main 
 characteristics of accomplished small talk. 
 
 This species of small talk can only exist between the 
 opposite sexes. Between women, small talk becomes 
 silly or it runs to confidences. In the one case it is soon 
 exhausted, in the other it is vulgarly supposed to be 
 eternal; and the amount of smothered grief, of heart- 
 rending woe, of poignant anguish, of amorous doubts, 
 of Sphynx-like mysteries, of secret grief which cannot 
 be whispered even to her pillow, which one young wo- 
 man will confide to four hundred other young women, 
 is only equalled by the rapidity with which the latter 
 will dispossess themselves of les confidences and the fer- 
 tile imagination which will clothe them entirely new 
 even before they are divulged for the second time. 
 
 Between men, small talk is simply idiotic. 
 
 You pass an evening with Serafina, and you get only 
 simpers and syllabubs. She will not give you the ghost 
 of a thought, although her tongue has been running 
 like a mill-clapper for two mortal hours. She will run 
 the whole gamut of talk, and you shall never once get a 
 taste of the amber wine beneath the foam. 
 
84 Small Talk, 
 
 Per contra, in an evening with Blanche, she will dive 
 like a humming bird into every flower, sweet or bitter, 
 beautiful or ugly, and extract honey from each. She 
 does not linger long on anything. She does not go too 
 deep to be tiresome, and yet you are aware that she 
 would lead you a terrible chase into the real if you gave 
 the word. With that infinite tact which no one but a 
 clever woman possesses, she will draw you out and give 
 you cues for conversation without your ever dreaming of 
 it. If you have a hobby, she will quietly saddle it and 
 help you to mount, and spur it up to a rattling pace 
 with little ingenuous confessions of ignorance, and im- 
 plied flatteries which show you at once your superiority 
 over the rest of mankind; and she will take you off 
 your hobby and turn him out to grass so gracefully that 
 you will be thoroughly satisfied with your ride. She 
 will read you a charming little homily on her gold cross, 
 which ''Jews might kiss or infidels adore," and she will 
 lead you with that narrow edge of lace around her 
 pretty throat, which a rude breath might dissipate, 
 through meadows of talk, where every flower is "a 
 thing of beauty" and "a joy forever." 
 
 But to effectually do this, she must have no hobbies, 
 and she must assume an ignorance if she have it not. 
 Ignorance is one of the strongest weapons in the female 
 armory, and if the small talk assumes the form of an ar- 
 gument, a graceful yielding, especially if one is obsti- 
 nate, is also politic. 
 
 January 18, 1808. 
 
FLAT ON THE BACK. 
 
 WRITE to you to-day Avith a sugar-coated pill 
 and a small bottle of suspicious-looking fluid, 
 which ^sculapius has designated with the 
 cabalistic abbreviations " Aq. Cret. Rhu. Pulv. zjiii,''^ 
 between myself and the delirious chaos of fever. 
 
 My surroundings are not of a character to induce ex- 
 travagant cheerfulness, or to resolve a very decided 
 precipitate out of the mixture of virtue and necessity — 
 a severely chemico-moral test I have been working at 
 for the past three days. 
 
 I think a man might dig into a cucumber for sun- 
 beams or a mushroom for moonlight, with better chances 
 of success, than I shall have in attempting to extract 
 humor from the scanty material at hand, viz : Several 
 wet towels, ice water, a mustard plaster, sundry hot 
 bricks, pills, potions and lotions ad libitum, and a small 
 piece of toasted cracker. 
 
 The last item is the connecting link between myself 
 and the good goddess Hygeia, and I regard it with an 
 interest I never knew before, considering the clutch with 
 which Febris has seized me. 
 
 Thus, skirting along the shore of Febris, sufficiently 
 
 near to catch with full force the burning simooms which 
 
 blow across its miasmatic lands — near enough to burn 
 
 from its equator and to freeze from its poles, to feel its 
 
 7* 
 
S6 Compensations. 
 
 clamps and hooks, with which it is tugging at bone and 
 muscle, while the soul has gone visiting, and not even 
 left the Will at home to resist disease — near enough all 
 night long, as I sail in the darkness, to see the will- 
 o'-the-wisps, and goblins, and chimeras, the skeletons 
 of dead fancies, the ghosts of dreams and the realities 
 of horror which are the only inhabitants of this land 
 over which Febris reigns — behind me the very bright 
 light of day, and before, only a very uncertain star — 
 under a red-hot bed quilt, flanked with a small drug 
 store — the great world outside only recognizable by a 
 confused hum — isolated from complete sights and sounds 
 — I vegetate and moralize. 
 
 If one should feed luxuriously on almond paste and 
 comfits all his life, he would never appreciate the pro- 
 ducts of sour apple trees and the extracts of much- 
 maligned herbs. So also if one should forever pursue 
 the beaten track of good health, which is only the case 
 in perfection among buffaloes and Digger Indians, one 
 would never know the luxury and the blessing of being 
 sick. We must have, now and then, a cessation of the 
 good to appreciate the bad. 
 
 I can conceive that it would be the height of wretched- 
 ness to be compelled to live with a saint on earth. This 
 world was not made for saints, and those who have made 
 the foolish attempt to be saints, have wisely climbed pil- 
 lars, gone into caves or wandered in deserts, getting as 
 far out of the world as possible. Those who have per- 
 sisted in being saints and remaining in the world, have 
 usually been hanged or burned by other saints. 
 
 Equally, the man who is always well, becomes a 
 nuisance after a time. His ruddy face hangs out a 
 
The Healthy Man. 87 
 
 constant banner of presumptuous defiance, and the only 
 person who can conscientiously love him is a life in- 
 surance agent. He never knows the soft ministrations 
 of small female hands, or the hygienic virtue in the 
 hem of an old lady's robe. Consequently his milk of 
 human kindness is very apt to freeze up. He can have 
 but small sympathy, for no one can sympathize, who 
 has not learned sympathy by experience. At this present 
 moment I fairly burn with pity, and extend a red right 
 hand of sympathy to every man, woman and child, who 
 has ever had a fever, v/ho has a fever now, or who is 
 going to have a fever. In his great, strong animal 
 existence he goes crashing and smashing about like a 
 whale among minnows, with this difference — that the 
 whale is bent upon legitimate prey, while your healthy 
 man is simply trying to show that he is a whale. 
 
 As who should say, "Here am I, Mr. Merryman, the 
 great American Healthist. Any lady or gentleman in 
 the audience, wishing to show liver, lights or lungs, will 
 please step forward into the arena. ' ' 
 
 But, of course, there are compensations for all this. 
 In the next world our healthy friend will probably take 
 twice as much punishment as some of the poor devils 
 who took half of theirs before they went there. 
 
 A person whose wings have sprouted and grown, and 
 who has become a precocious angel in the prescribed 
 three score and ten, is certainly leaving a very narrow 
 margin for angelic growth hereafter, and, equally, a 
 man who goes through his three score and ten without 
 any terrene ails, I fancy will need Hippocrates and Ga- 
 len when he gets to the other shore. 
 
 At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 
 
88 Sugar-Coated People. 
 
 Which stars are to be considered equivalent to the 
 time consumed in taking the sugar-coated pill before re- 
 ferred to, reminding one, in its passage down the aeso- 
 phagus, of the cathartic literature which St. John swal- 
 lowed, sweet above and bitter below. 
 
 Which recalls to me that the most of us are more or 
 less sugar-coated — sweet outside, but quite bitter, or 
 quite sad, or quite bad inside. 
 
 The partition between body and soul with some of us 
 is so thin that the light shines through easily. 
 
 Some of us, again, cover up our little sepulchres so 
 thickly with vines and roses, and fix such a laughing 
 mask on the door, that we pass for very Ariels, God help 
 lis ! 
 
 While others of us still, living in ourselves, isolated 
 from all intimate relations, carry in our faces no sign of 
 the toil and the weariness and the struggle. It is all 
 blank on the outside; on the inside, it is isolation, death 
 and expiation. 
 
 But, then, there are some of us who get our pills coat- 
 ed so badly that a child wouldn't touch them. For in- 
 stance, good Deacon Jones, who slept all through Par- 
 son Primrose's sermon, and told Deacon Brown, who 
 didn't sleep, that the Parson's doctrine was correct; 
 Prof. Blather, who hitches himself to the tail of every 
 high-flying kite, hoping thereby to be brought before 
 the popular eyes; old Mrs. Peacock, who still persists in 
 being young, making admirers, mincing through her 
 spavined paces, leering with her faded eyes out of that 
 painted face, when all Japonicadom knows there is not 
 a genuine feather about her. And so ojie might go on 
 
The Doctor. 89 
 
 for hours, for the number of these badly coated pills is 
 legion. 
 At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 
 
 More stars for the Doctor who has been to see me. 
 He is a jolly, sanguine dog, and assures me I shall be up 
 in time for the opera — if not for the whole season, at 
 least that I shall have two days off — one for Bellini's 
 Englishman and one for Hermanns' Alephisto. 
 
 What a blessing these jolly doctors are. They give 
 one an invoice of moral courage, wherewith to make a 
 stout fight against disease. They light up your room as 
 beautifully as the sun this morning kindled my frosty 
 window-panes with burning gold. And my jolly doc- 
 tor will not take it unkindly of me if I say that I have 
 more confidence in his jolliness than in his cabalistic 
 abbreviations. 
 
 On the other hand, I can conceive that if I were 
 compelled to receive the attentions of one of those 
 solemn, owl-like doctors — those funereal-looking person- 
 ages in deep black, whose noses and chins meet — who 
 wear heavy canes, the knobs of which do heavy thinking 
 for the wearers — whose only remark is an ominous 
 shake of the head, and the preparation of a bill at the 
 neighboring drug store — who have made the very sun- 
 light look mercurial, and who cut off the supply of 
 that delicious Muscat which Blanche sent in — I think, 
 after one visit from such a walking Bolus, I should say, 
 with Elijah of old: "It is enough; now let me die. 
 You may call in your friend Sir." For I should know 
 that as soon as he came into the house Death would 
 sneak after him, and wait outside the door. 
 
90 Better. 
 
 At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 
 
 Another night in the darkness, sailing along these 
 shores of Febris, and this crystal Saturday morning, it 
 seems all bright and clear ahead. I feel no more the 
 breath of the burning gales, but in its place an ecstacy 
 of pain. My hand wearies and the head tires with this 
 trifling work which has run through three days of nullity. 
 
 At least, so it seems to a man flat on his back. 
 
 January 31, 1868. 
 
GETTING OUT OF BED. 
 
 ETTING out of bed is one of the little circum- 
 stances which shows man in his abstract essence. 
 He is then a pure animal with all his instincts 
 on the surface. There is no dignity in him then, no 
 majesty, no true religion, no concealment of his nature. 
 In fact he is worse off than the lower orders of the brute 
 creation, as they awake in the full plenitude of their life. 
 A butterfly, which has slept all night in a tulip, rises 
 from his gorgeously curtained couch just as beautiful as 
 he is under the noonday sun, when he lazily flutters 
 among the languid roses. Man, when he rises, is a 
 fragmentary being and has to be set up piece by piece 
 and arrayed in his conventional garments before he can 
 say good morning to the world. 
 
 There are various methods of getting out of bed. 
 One man in a thousand wakes up all over at once, kicks 
 off his bedclothes and bounds out of bed as Minerva 
 bounded out of Jupiter's brain, armed and equipped as 
 the law directs. He never tasted lotus in his life. He 
 owns no real estate in Spain, but a good deal of outside 
 city property. He never saw the point of a joke in his 
 life. He never dreams. He is fiendishly healthy, and 
 will, therefore, have much to answer for in the next 
 world. He has no idea of the do Ice far niente. If he 
 has imagination, he clipped its wings long ago. K post 
 mo7'tem examination of his internal economy would re- 
 
92 Little at a Time, 
 
 veal nothing to speak of but columns of logarithms, in- 
 terest tables and bills of lading in his skull, a complete 
 set of office furniture in his stomach, and his abdominal 
 canal crowded with cargoes of lumber and perches of 
 stone. And he is apt to forget to say his prayers. 
 
 There are men who get out of bed a little at a time. 
 The first symptoms of life are uneasy movements and a 
 gentle rustling of the bedclothes. Slowly one arm ap- 
 pears from under the coverlid, and is thrown over the 
 head. Then out comes another arm, disposed of in a 
 similar manner. His legs are uneasy. One eye opens 
 in a very uncertain manner and blinks, and the other 
 opens and winks, and then both blink and wink for some 
 minutes. He then commences to uncoil himself and 
 straighten himself out. This is the stretching process. 
 He mutters to himself incoherent nothings. He tries to 
 go to sleep again, but the charm is broken. He yawns, 
 and the process fairly opens his eyes. He sneezes, and . 
 the grand currents of life are once more in motion. 
 One more stretch all over, and he accepts the hard 
 necessity of nature which condemns him to quit his 
 lotus to feed on hash, and he slowly gets out of bed as 
 one utterly disgusted. 
 
 There is another class of men who always get out of 
 bed over the footboard, and are uncomfortable all day 
 after it. Their idea of happiness is realized in making 
 somebody wretched, and they are singularly fortunate 
 in the realization of that idea. They are sour in aspect 
 and in disposition. No one has any rights they are 
 bound to respect. Mrs. Gilliflower and her daughter, 
 who always come late and go away early from the con- 
 certs, get out over the footboard. The man who mis- 
 
Ovei' the Footboard. 93 
 
 takes a horse car for a hog pen and acts accordingly, 
 although in some respects he is not much mistaken, gets 
 out over the footboard. The man who worries his 
 butcher or his baker over an insignificant trifle, and is 
 too mean to have the snow shoveled off his sidewalk ; 
 the man who makes his lady clerks stand on their feet 
 all day whether engaged or not ; the woman who has 
 a keen scent for ferreting out other persons' foibles and 
 attending to other persons' business; the woman who is 
 constantly lamenting over the wickedness and follies of 
 the times ; the man whose clumsiness trips him over and 
 who then anathematizes an innocent curbstone; the 
 man who raises a domestic war every morning over a 
 lost button which he ripped off the night before, over 
 an open window which he left open himself, over the 
 discovery of his boots under the bed, where he placed 
 them himself, over a dried up beefsteak which has been - 
 waiting an hour for him ; the man whose pious nose 
 goes heavenward at the sight of innocent pleasure, and 
 who doesn't give his clerks time enough for dinner; the 
 man who is sour himself and sours everything he touches 
 — all these people get up over the footboard, and they 
 won't get up any other way. If the footboard was 
 forty feet high they would go over it with a step ladder, 
 and curse every rung of it all the way up. 
 
 Then, there are men who get up only half awake, and 
 don't fairly wake up until it is time to go to bed again. 
 These are the unlucky ones, against whom fate and na- 
 ture have a grudge. In the grand lottery of life they 
 draw all the blanks. They usually receive all the 
 broken limbs and fractured legs. They have come 
 within a hair's breadth of making a fortune a number of 
 
94 Half Aivake. 
 
 times, but tlie hair was always too much. Such a man 
 is always the one killed on a railway train. If he hears 
 of a case of small-pox in West Wheeling, he will catch 
 it. He is always the man in the great crowd who loses 
 his pocket-book, and although he is one of the best ot 
 fellows, it will be just his luck to be overlooked by St. 
 Peter at the gate of Heaven. 
 
 My favorite way of getting out of bed is to wake up, 
 bid good morning to the newly created day, quietly turn 
 over and go to sleep again without disturbing any one, 
 and sleep the sleep of the just. In that second nap, I 
 visit my Spanish castles. Their architecture is more 
 elaborate and ethereal than ever Wren dreamed of, and 
 they float always in an amber haze just over the Pyre- 
 nees. I have leased them all to a goodly company ot 
 ladies and gentlemen, and they are the best of pay. 
 Among them are the fair Rosamund; poor Beatrice 
 Cenci; that other Beatrice, who has come down from 
 her shining beatitudes and occupies one of the best ot 
 them with Dante; the yellow-haired Gretchen and 
 Faust; the rare and radiant Countess Irma; Spenser's 
 Fairy Queen and Titania; Aspasia, still reclining on 
 beds of roses; Dame Durden, whose house is no longer 
 bleak; Cinderella, with her tiny slipper; Joan of Dom- 
 remy, still talking with the angels; Undine, bathing in 
 eternal streams ; Colonel Newcome, and that prince of 
 good fellows, George Warrington; Wilkins Micawber 
 and Samuel Weller, who are living together — (Uriah 
 Heep and Mr. Chadband made application for one 
 castle, but their references were not good) — Wilhelm 
 Meister and Nathan the Wise ; the Lady of Shallott and 
 Hiawatha, who have become firm friends ; the fair Flo- 
 
Half Awake. 95 
 
 rinda and the Princess Scherezade, who amuse each 
 other with rare stories; Sinbad and Aladdin and Rasse- 
 las ; and Donatello, who never can agree with Werter. 
 When I arrive, they hang out the banners, and such 
 music as Malibran and Sontag sing, which Beethoven, 
 Mendelssohn, and Schubert have been writing for them, 
 you don't hear in our concert halls. All the charming 
 women and good fellows, of all times, come in to break- 
 fast and we drink ambrosial wines, sweeter than the 
 honey of Hymettus, and breakfast on fruits which have 
 mellowed in the hanging gardens. There is no such 
 lotus, by the bye, on the Nile banks as grows in those 
 gardens. Time would fail me to narrate the sonnets 
 that Dante is writing; the good jokes that George War- 
 rington and Sam Weller have with each other over 
 Wilkins, who is still waiting for something to turn up; 
 the philosophical speculations of Rasselas, and the 
 Munchausenisms of Sinbad ; to tell you of a magnificent 
 Spanish symphony that Beethoven has just finished, and 
 the delight with which he listens to a new Ave Maria by 
 Schubert, for the grand old master's hearing has been 
 restored ; the songs of Irma, as she looks down upon 
 the mountains of her transfiguration ; and the great joy 
 of Faust and Gretchen, who have deciphered the vi- 
 tal problem they could not solve in the baneful shadow 
 of Mephisto. The most beautiful castle is reserved for 
 the friend who died years ago and passed away from me, 
 but who is now like the living, because he greets me 
 every morning in my castle with the warm grip of the 
 hand and the cheery voice and the pleasant face of old 
 times. He has not grown old since then, and I . . . 
 
 February 15, 1868. 
 
THE TEAPOT. 
 
 E were all sitting at the table together. All 
 told, we were ten, viz: Celeste and her maid- 
 en aunt, who had a sorrow when she was 
 young, a blighted affection, or something of that sort; 
 Aurelia, now Mrs. Peplum; Mr. Peplum, who has be- 
 come much more sedate since his family affair with Au- 
 relia; Aurelia' s mother, who is getting old and rather 
 fussy; Blanche, and young Boosey, who is sweet on 
 Blanche; Old Blobbs, the Water street indigo mer- 
 chant, and Mrs. Blobbs; and myself. 
 
 "As I was about to say when I was interrupted, the 
 teapot" .... 
 
 Here I was again interrupted by young Boosey, who 
 was filling himself to repletion with brandied peaches, 
 and who rather scornfully remarked to Old Blobbs that 
 tea might do well enough for old women, but that, for 
 a steady diet, he preferred champagne punches. Old 
 Blobbs silenced him by telling him that if he spent less 
 for champagne punches, it would be for the interest of 
 his landlady. 
 
 The rebuke was severe, but just. 
 
 As I was about to say when I was interrupted the 
 second time, the teapot is one of the strongest links in 
 
A Reminiscence, 97 
 
 the chain of society. If my friend Blobbs, across the 
 way, will recall his youthful days, he will confess that 
 all his subsequent prosperity and happiness are due to 
 the teapot. He will remember that in those days, 
 when, strange as it may seem, he was addicted to By- 
 ronic collars and bad rhymes, he accompanied the fu- 
 ture Mrs. Blobbs home from singing-school one June 
 night, and that, as they went across the fields instead of 
 by the straight road, he felt excessively foolish at the 
 manner in which the stars winked and blinked at each 
 other. You see, my friend Blobbs thought that he was 
 the first man in the world who had ever done that sort 
 of thing; and my dear Mrs. Blobbs will pardon me if I 
 say that she was excessively sheepish also over the fancy 
 that, for the first time in the world, she was receiving 
 the attentions of a young man. But the stars were used 
 to it, and knew what would come of it. Ever since 
 they peeped through the branches of the Tree of Know- 
 ledge and saw Adam sitting up with Eve, they had been 
 looking at a young man and a young woman rehearsing 
 this same old story, and, my dear Blobbs, long after you 
 and I are under the daisies, they will shine down upon 
 young men and young women, going across the fields 
 and telling the same old story. It is the only story 
 which can't be printed fast enough to supply the de- 
 mand. 
 
 And my friend Blobbs will also remember that when 
 they reached the gate, the air was full of the perfume of 
 apple-blossoms and roses; that the bell of the village 
 church over on the hill was striking eleven, and that its 
 tones were borne on the night air, across the meadows, 
 as softly and soothingly as if they were the audible pul- 
 
 8 
 
98 The Teapot and the Future. 
 
 sations of the moonlight; that an ofificious little insect, 
 shrouded in the gloom of the fir tree in the front yard, 
 was continually informing him that Katy-did; that, be- 
 fore they parted, they chose a mutual star which should 
 ever be their symbol and souvenir; and that when at 
 last he took her little white hand in his — it was a pretty 
 hand in those days, you know, Blobbs — she said : 
 "Won't you come over to tea to-morrow night, Mr. 
 Blobbs?" Did you refuse, Mr. Blobbs? 
 
 He will furthermore be so good as to remember that 
 he walked on air as he went home ; that he whistled as he 
 went ; that all the stars in Heaven, except that particu- 
 lar one, were laughing at him, and that he wouldn't 
 have taken a thousand dollars for himself. 
 
 Now I put it to you, Mr. Blobbs, as a man of honor, 
 if that teapot, the next evening, did not do the business 
 and make a man of you all the rest of your life. 
 
 Blobbs looked rather uncomfortable, but I thought I 
 detected some of the brilliancy of those days shining 
 through all the conventionalities and financial callouses 
 of his life, as he assented; and if a tear stood in the 
 corner of Mrs. B.'s eye, as she looked at her consort 
 in the indigo trade, it dropped immediately into the 
 quince sauce and dissolved into sweetness. 
 
 And as I passed my cup to Aurelia's mother the second 
 time, with a deprecating look at Boosey, I continued : 
 I know of no pleasanter sight in the world than a steam- 
 ing teapot upon the tray and five or six old ladies gath- 
 ered about it, who have just dropped over and brought 
 their knitting. They have all made the voyage of life, 
 weathered the storms and gone into old age's winter 
 quarters. Life's spring will never come for them again. 
 
The Old Ladies. 99 
 
 The roses will not bloom for them, and the birds will 
 miss them, but the frosts and the keen winter winds 
 touch them kindly; and if they sometimes regard the 
 blue, lichen-covered slate stones with the unutterable 
 thoughts of old age, it is only because they feel the 
 first breath of the gales blowing from the eternal springs, 
 inhale the faint perfumes of the asphodels and the lilies 
 on the banks of the River of Life, and hear, as in a 
 dream, the sounds of music from the golden harps over 
 the battlements of Heaven. 
 
 And as the cups go round and the dear old creatures 
 become inspired with the delicate- aroma, how they will 
 compare their rheumatisms, and backaches, and head- 
 aches, and neuralgias — those inevitable signs that the 
 silver cords are growing looser, and that the pitchers 
 will soon be broken at the fountains ! How they will 
 yearn after the days when they were young, and lament 
 the decadence of the present ! How they will recall 
 the scenes of fifty years ago ! (Here the maiden aunt 
 let her eyes fall, and I fancied her lips quivered some). 
 How they will indulge in just the slightest gossip in the 
 world, meantime mysteriously shaking their frosty heads, 
 but just as harmless as the rage of Mignon's canary ! 
 How they will analyze and dissect the last new baby in 
 the neighborhood, and lament over the weakness of its 
 mother who will allow it to eat anything and every- 
 thing! How they will deprecate the new-fangled no- 
 tions of the young pastor who has just succeeded old 
 Parson Tenthly, lately called home ! 
 
 It is a mortifying fact that young Pastor Primrose 
 does prefer to visit Blanche and Celeste, who dote upon 
 him and make book-marks and slippers for him, rather 
 
TOO 
 
 Primrose. 
 
 than be obliged to listen to the catalogues of the old la- 
 dies' physical and theological complaints. You see, 
 Blanche and Celeste are not a severe tax upon his theo- 
 logical resources, while the old ladies are. Neither can 
 the old ladies see why it is necessary that the young 
 clergyman should be so particular about his back hair 
 and the immaculateness of his neck-tie. 
 
 February 22, 1868. 
 
A MASQUE, 
 
 ID you ask me if the Masquerade, this week, 
 was a success? 
 Considering that nine-tenths of the people 
 who go to balls are idiots ; that carnival folly without 
 carnival license is Hamlet without Hamlet; that only 
 they in whose veins the blood is tropical understand 
 the real esprit of the bal masque ; and that among our 
 masques every man insists upon being a Harlequin and 
 every woman a nondescript, showing the inevitable ten- 
 dency of human nature ; — it was a success. 
 
 It is impossible for Boosey in a masque to feel trop- 
 ical. Champagne, and not blood, is the natural current 
 through his veins. Disguised as a gorgeous Harlequin, 
 in cap and bells, he is not at home. He is inchoate, 
 crude and lonesome. He may talk soft things to the 
 unknown Blanche, hanging upon his arm in the black 
 tarletan, gold stars and crescent, but the liquid eyes and 
 beaming face tell no story through the grinning, goggle- 
 eyed pasteboard, and do not disturb the placidity of the 
 manly breast of Harlequin, or make any intellectual im- 
 pression upon him, further than to confirm us in our 
 original statement that he is an idiot. What Boosey 
 may do when the masques are off and church-yards begin 
 
I02 The Confessional. 
 
 to yawn, as he and the unknown Blanche say mathis at 
 the shrine of the jolly King Gambrinus, concerns us 
 not. 
 
 Neither does it concern you who are reading these 
 lines, who never take your masque off at all. 
 
 Although my German friends sandwiched their carni- 
 val into a funny place, making sin follow repentance, 
 and mixing up scarlet Mardi Gras and gray Ash Wed- 
 nesday with a frightful negligence of proprieties, it was 
 enjoyable and delightfully sinful. Celeste, when she 
 came to my confessional the other day, complained of 
 it. She was clad in russet and serge, had sprinkled her- 
 self with ashes, was mortifying the flesh by concealing 
 those white shoulders and marble arms, which are the 
 envy of our set, and eating lentils as if she liked them. 
 Could I do anything but pity her when she cried pecca- 
 VI, mea culpa, mea culpa. And as she told me, with 
 those pretty lips, of her melon-colored dress, how su- 
 perbly it hung ; of her pearl neck-lace, which actually 
 looked dark on her neck ; of an unknown cavalier, who 
 whispered something transporting over his bouquet, and 
 then vanished ; of the wild waltz with Mephisto, whose 
 sneering gibes were alchemized into delicious flattery — 
 and as the Dear Creature told me that she had followed 
 too much the devices and desires of her own heart, and 
 that all was vanity, was it a wonder that I, even in the 
 garb of the confessor, cheered and consoled her, and 
 said: 
 
 My dear young friend, the only trouble with you is 
 that Divine Providence, instead of Canova, made you, 
 and, in making you, gave you a human nature. He 
 was also at fault in making flowers that die of their own 
 
The Mo7'alists. 103 
 
 sweetness, and grapes that burst of their own voluptu- 
 ousness, and swans that expire in their own melody. 
 The moralists have got hold of you, my dear, and, with 
 their mallets and chisels, are trying to make you into a 
 cold, senseless, white statue of virtue, while all the while 
 the blood is bounding to your finger-tips, and every pul- 
 sation of your heart is in waltz tempo. Enjoy your car- 
 nivals, my dear, for soon come the snow and the chil- 
 ling winds, which will wrinkle your pretty face, and film 
 your bright eyes, and turn those white shoulders to 
 parchment, and deaden all the fire of life. Then may 
 you wrap yourself in your black robes and weep over 
 the dead carnivals in the gray ashes. 
 
 And if you know of any of your friends who are so 
 miserably unfortunate as to be without fault, let them 
 cast stones at you. I may say, entre nous, that I do not 
 think you will be much hurt. The stone-throwing will ' 
 be the feeblest you ever saw. 
 
 And the Dear Creature went away, as one not utterly 
 bereft of consolation. 
 
 March 7, 1868. 
 
THE MIRACLE OE CREATION. 
 
 E were sitting at the opera the other evening, 
 Celeste and I. Celeste was enmiyee. Not even 
 the Garden music of Faust — music which so 
 deftly pictures the grand struggle between the Angel and 
 the Fiend, which is waged on the battle-field of each 
 man's soul — music which so vividly paints the lapse 
 from guilelessness to guilt; not even the closing duo, 
 an outburst of sensuous rapture with an under-tone of 
 the wildest despair, seemed to have any effect upon 
 her. So she twirled her fan impatiently, flirted with 
 Fitz-Herbert opposite, through her lorgnette, and list- 
 lessly pulled the waxen petals out of the camelia in her 
 bouquet. 
 
 And she turned to me and said: "Don't you think 
 this is very stupid ? Everything is so blase. I would 
 give a year of my life for a new sensation. How happy 
 Eve must have been, when everything was bright and 
 fresh and new, and for the first time;" and, the camelia 
 destroyed, she commenced upon roses and heliotropes. 
 And, after the opera, I freed my mind to the Dear 
 Creature, upon the foolish idea — which not only she but 
 the majority of people have — that the world was any 
 brighter or fresher, or any more for the first time, in the 
 days of Adam and Eve than now, speaking somewhat 
 after the following fashion: 
 
The First Time. 105 
 
 My dear Celeste, the fault is not in the world, but in 
 yourself, that nothing seems bright, and fresh, and new. 
 The miracle of creation and the process of life are new 
 every morning and every evening, and are performed 
 for the first time for each human being, yourself in- 
 cluded. But you have allowed conventionality and 
 form and artificiality to dim your eyes, destroy your 
 taste, and blunt all your sensibilities. The world is just 
 as beautiful, the mountains just as grand, the flowers 
 just as lovely, the streams just as sparkling, the songs of 
 the birds just as sweet, this spring day of 1868, Anno 
 Domini, as they were on the same spring day of the year 
 I, Ante Christum. Adam and Eve saw them for the 
 first time, and you are seeing them for the first time. 
 The first sunrise which Adam and Eve saw, as they took 
 their morning walk in the garden, was not a whit more 
 beautiful than the sunrise this morning; and if that was' 
 given to them for the first time, this was given to you 
 for the first time — only your eyes, albeit they are very 
 pretty, are totally blind to the fact; and, equally, the 
 light of the sunset which filtered through the leaves of 
 the trees, and stained the whole flowery floor of the Gar- 
 den with golden glory, what time the first man and 
 woman said vespers in God's grand temple of Nature, 
 was not more golden than that which flooded the earth 
 last evening, what time, my dear, you were yawningly 
 doing up your back-hair, preparatory to Mrs. Fitz- 
 Boodle's hop, utterly unconscious that there was a sun in 
 the heavens, or that Nature was painting for you for 
 the first time the miracle of a sunset, which she did for 
 Adam for the first time. 
 
 The same analogy holds good in all the operations of 
 
io6 The Miracle of Death. 
 
 life. Eve, holding the wicked Cain in the cradle of 
 her arms, experienced the same joys and griefs of ma- 
 ternity ; the same concentration of all that is beautiful in 
 the world, in the blue eyes of the nestling; the same 
 mysterious yearnings; the same strong, deep love; the 
 same foreboding pain that is experienced by the last 
 fair-browed mother "in marble halls," or by some 
 tawny, wild-eyed Indian mother, crooning weird songs 
 to her little one under torrid palms. 
 
 And when, my dear Madame, you laid your little 
 Johnny or Susie, all covered with immortelles and rose- 
 buds, under the violets ; or when you received a letter, 
 written in a strange hand, that your first and only one, 
 who had grown to man's estate, and who went sailing 
 over the seas, was down among the sea-tangles and the 
 corals; when, as by a sudden breath, every light of 
 joy was blown out; when that terrible silence of death 
 lay on the household ; when, in the night watches, you - 
 listened for some tidings from that far-off shore of the 
 To Be, whither the child had sailed all alone, without 
 your watchful care over him ; when it seemed to you 
 that the heavens should be hung with black, and you 
 wondered that the sun could shine, and the birds sing, 
 and men and women come and go as if nothing had oc- 
 curred — when all this happened, you were experiencing, 
 for the first time, the same feelings that Eve experienced 
 for the first time, as she looked into the stark face of 
 Abel. 
 
 March 24, 18G8 
 
FASHIONABLE WEDDINGS. 
 
 WAS sitting last evening in the library, ab- 
 sorbed in that wonderful book of Auerbach's 
 — "On the Heights ' ' — 2, book which always has 
 the charm of being new whenever I take it up, and al- 
 ways gives me some fresh insight into the beauties of 
 this world, and the sublimity of human nature. It was 
 twilight, the time to read it. Minerva on the one shelf 
 was drowsily nodding at Clytie on the other, and Dante 
 on his bracket was looking out of the window into the 
 sky, as if momentarily expecting Beatrice to float lu- 
 minously down in shining garments. The flowers in 
 the window were shutting up their petals for the night. 
 And thus we sat there — Auerbach, Clytie, Minerva, 
 Dante, the flowers, and I ; and as the lines of the book 
 dimmed over in the receding light, our star appeared 
 goldening in the Western sky, just over the crimson of 
 the dying day. 
 
 When who should walk in but the Dear Children, 
 Boosey and Celeste, arm in arm ! Minerva at once 
 woke up and looked wisely at B., and my calla, which 
 always recognizes Celeste as a butterfly, leaned lovingly 
 towards her, as if inviting her to fly into her milk-white 
 bosom and sleep there for the night". 
 
io8 Public Vulgarity. 
 
 They cautiously and modestly informed me of their 
 engagement, and had come to ask me for some advice 
 relative to the wedding and how it should be celebra- 
 ted. Whereupon I laid Auerbach down, and spoke to 
 them somewhat after the following manner: 
 
 My Dear Children, I will give you some views on 
 weddings in general, which you may apply to your own 
 case. While it is eminently proper to invite personal 
 friends to a wedding, and the more the merrier, avoid 
 publicity. Publicity in private matters inevitably tends 
 towards snobbishness, and often towards vulgarity. You 
 may lay the gilt on vulgarity just as thickly as you 
 please and it will only make it the more glaring, just as 
 the process of varnishing a poor picture makes its de- 
 fects more obvious. A wedding will always be public 
 enough without any courting of publicity, and it is a 
 very poor way of starting off in life, by trying to outdo 
 some one else in the way of show and expense. It is 
 like throwing out your ace of trumps without stopping 
 to see whether you have got suit in your hand to win the 
 game with. The lavish expenditure of money on a 
 wedding, merely to outdo some one else, is only for 
 popular effect, and what is done only for popular effect 
 is very apt to be vulgar. By vulgarity, of course I do 
 not mean anything that is morally wrong, but simply 
 common and snobbish. The motive is a very cheap 
 one, and is apparent to the most superficial observer; 
 and the least justifiable occasion for the exercise of that 
 motive is a wedding, which should be free from tinsel 
 and frippery. An event so important, and in a certain 
 degree so sacred, should be celebrated with a delicacy 
 and dignity befitting its character. It is the turning- 
 
Publicity. 109 
 
 point for weal or wo in two lives, and it is not well to 
 make it a public show. The occasions in society-life 
 for display of gilt and gingerbread, sugar candy and 
 gewgaws, are amply sufficient, without seizing upon the 
 hymeneal altar and exhibiting the sacred fire to a cu- 
 rious public, with blare of trumpets and glare of 
 trappings. 
 
 One of the worst features of our fashionable weddings 
 is the insane desire of the parties to it to make their 
 appearance in the public prints, and figure with stunning 
 head-lines among the announcements of the last raid 
 upon gamblers, police court trials, sensational divorces, 
 murders, rapes and suicides. The avidity with which 
 this publicity is sought will be astonishing to the gen- 
 eral reader. In some instances printed, and in others 
 written invitations, have been sent to the reporters of 
 the daily press, stating the exact time and place when 
 and where they can visit the dressmaker and have the 
 mysteries of the bridal toilet explained to them, when 
 and where they can inspect other toilets, and when and 
 where they can see the wedding gifts and be informed 
 of their nature and cost; all of which, of course, will 
 be unfolded in due time to the admiring public, and 
 small female vanity and large female curiosity will be 
 gratified. 
 
 Unless, as is always the case, reporters are human and 
 printers capricious; whereupon it happens that great 
 expectations are not always realized — as, for instance, 
 when that diamond pin, which cost $2,000, appears in 
 print at the ridiculously small figure of ^200; when 
 Mrs. Croesus, who has devoted days of toil and nights 
 of anxiety, and has distracted her dressmakers over her 
 
no Reportorial Mistakes, 
 
 superb silk — who has flattered herself upon the sensation 
 her point lace will make, and the universal admiration 
 which will greet her diamond set — appears in print clad 
 in blue tarletan, with Brussels lace and pearl jewelry ; 
 when the two thousand invitations appear on paper as 
 two hundred; when the reporter, who came late, mis- 
 takes a bridesmaid for the bride, and goes into glowing 
 raptures over the loveliness of the young creature ; when 
 another reporter, who has not had an opportunity ot 
 writing up the gifts beforehand, gets into a chaos ot 
 ormolu clocks, bronzes, and silverware, and mixes them 
 up indiscriminately; when John Thomas, the family 
 driver, who is not free from the failings of human nature 
 any more than his superiors, by a quiet little reportorial 
 bribe, or a secret visit to the place so dear to every 
 well-organized reporter — the wine cellar — gets his name 
 mentioned for the graceful manner in which he presided 
 over the white ribbons and the rosetted steeds; when 
 all these things happen, as happen they will, and people 
 laugh, then the great expectations are not realized ; and 
 Mrs. Midas, who lives next door to Mrs. Croesus, had a 
 small difficulty with her and was not invited to the wed- 
 ding, has her revenge. 
 
 Un general principles, this avidity of people to get 
 their garments advertised in the public prints, while it 
 may minister to their foolish vanity, is pernicious in its 
 effects, and a positive injury to society. It has one of 
 two effects. It will either keep a great many ladies 
 away from places of public amusement, who cannot af- 
 ford to dress in a showy manner, and are too sensitive 
 to have their plain toilets spread before the universal 
 eye; or it will encourage them to foolishly fling away 
 
Avoiding Show, ' iii 
 
 money, in order that they ipay make a presentable ap- 
 pearance. And beyond these effects, it directly en- 
 courages, or rather compels a competition in dress which 
 is ruinous to good taste, not to speak of purses. 
 
 And now, my Dear Children, let me advise you to 
 avoid all show. A house full of wedding presents and 
 dear friends, and detectives to watch the costly presents, 
 lest the dear friends steal them, is not desirable. A 
 wedding trousseau constructed regardless of expense, to 
 outdo some other trousseau and to create popular effect, 
 is very vulgar. A lavish display of diamonds and sil- 
 ver, and glittering gewgaws, exhibited merely for osten- 
 tation, may make your curious friends envious, but it 
 will make your judicious friends grieve. A clean flag- 
 stone walk to the church will not injure your dainty 
 feet any more than the Brussels carpet, and I would not 
 favor your feet too much, for they may have to walk in 
 some very flinty places yet. It is well, also, to have 
 some regard to the proprieties of the church itself, and 
 not transform it so much, that if St. Paul should happen 
 to drop in, he wouldn't know whether he was in a cir- 
 cus or a menagerie. 
 
 I always tremble for the bride who starts off in life in 
 this manner. We cannot always float smoothly along, 
 reclining on velvet cushions, with favoring winds swell- 
 ing silken sails, and golden oars keeping time to music. 
 It has been discreetly ordered that reverses shall over- 
 take us all before we get into the snug haven of old age. 
 And in that night of tempests, when the whole heavens 
 seem shutting grimly down, and not a star of hope can 
 peep through the wild wrack, the fate of a Canary bird 
 in a thunder-storm is the fate of this bride. The first 
 
112 Ready for the Storm. 
 
 move is the key to all the rest. It is well, therefore, to 
 have that move made calmly, deliberately and thought- 
 fully, without any reference to the opinions or the curi- 
 osities of others, with all the contingencies of life steadi- 
 ly in view, and with the two lives in one, braced and 
 fortified to meet them. 
 
 My say was ended, and as Boosey and Celeste thanked 
 me and went out seriously, she with a little faster hold 
 upon his arm, and he with a firmer look of resolution 
 upon his face, as if he were mentally bidding good bye 
 to his follies, I sent my blessing out with them, for I was 
 sure that he would get the vessel into such good trim 
 that he and the Butterfly would be uninjured in any 
 storm. 
 
 March 28, 1868. 
 
APRIL. 
 
 iiLTHOUGH this snivelling humbug, April, as I 
 write, has spread out one of the bluest and 
 softest of skies, and is coaxing the leaves to 
 
 unroll their little green packages, and the grass to shoot 
 up through the brown sod, and the birds to come up 
 from the warm South, I can only say with the Rabbi in 
 Uriel Acosta, "We have seen all this before." 
 
 She has dallied so long with that wild roysterer, 
 March, that there is suspicion in the hem of her gar- - 
 ments. She has indulged in boisterous and disgraceful 
 revelries with him. She has listened to his bold license 
 of speech. She has allowed him entrance at unseason- 
 able hours. And she comes from the contact, no longer 
 the coy, bashful, weeping maiden of yore, but a bold, 
 unblushing hoyden, clothing herself to-day in her old 
 beauty and softness, but still with the vile breath of 
 March upon her lips. 
 
 And, worst of all, while couched in the fierce passion 
 of March, she forgot her old friends who have never 
 forgotten her, and so the buds were blasted, and the 
 birds who had listened to her syren song died, and the 
 flowers turned over and went back to their odorous 
 sleep; and the arbutus which should be now showing 
 its little pink and white face, under the dead leaves, 
 
 9 
 
114 '^^^^ Birds. 
 
 shrunk back affrighted from her, as she went noisily 
 through the woods, boasting her shame in the robes 
 with which March covered her nakedness as he thrust 
 lier away. 
 
 It is only a i^w Sundays ago that I told you of the 
 little blue trumpeter who was heralding spring from the 
 dry boughs. He, too, was sacrificed, and yesterday I 
 saw him lying upon his back in the brown stubble, his 
 claws bent with the pain of the cold, the light of his 
 eyes quenched, his song forever hushed, and his soul 
 fled to the Bird Heaven, where all the good blue birds, 
 robins, orioles, and nightingales go ; where they sing 
 forever among the asphodels and in the lotuses to those 
 who loved them and cared for them among the elms 
 and the oaks; and where all the little captives who are 
 caged here below regain their liberty and soar and sing 
 untrammelled. 
 
 The blue trumpeter suffered the fate of all reformers. - 
 He came before his time. He was heralding the truth 
 before the world was ready for it, and he died unheard 
 and neglected. And hundreds of other heralds are 
 lying dead to-day in the fields, victims to the merciless 
 rigor of the rain and the snow and the cold. 
 
 And I therefore plead for all the birds who have come 
 to us from the South. Shelter them whenever you can. 
 Feed them and care for them. Summer, without its 
 choir of birds, will be as blank as heaven without stars, 
 a house without a child, a garden without flowers. The 
 clearest indications of Paradise we get on earth, are the 
 birds, the flowers, and the little children, and the man 
 or woman who doesn't love them will have a trying time 
 in Paradise, if he or she ever gets there. 
 
The Other Place. 
 
 115 
 
 I have never seen it recorded that they have any of 
 these things in the other place. 
 
 Therefore, again I say, deal gently with the birds and 
 the flowers, for not a sparrow falls to the ground with- 
 out His notice, and Solomon in all his glory was not 
 arrayed like the lilies of the fields. 
 
 April IT, 1868. 
 
A SUMMER REVERIE. 
 
 ilAN you inform me why it was necessary for 
 every man, woman and child whom I have 
 met to-day, to remind me that it was hot ? 
 Why had all these people the right to assume that I did 
 not know it was hot ? 
 
 I am serious on this subject. I have been used this 
 way before. I am continually informed by somebody 
 that it is hot, or it is cold, or it rains, or it snows. To 
 be informed once in the course of twenty-four hours 
 that it is hot, is bad enough of itself; but to be apprised 
 of that fact by every person you meet, is an improper 
 interference with the funeral. 
 
 Now, for the benefit of the public at large, which is 
 so eager to inform me that it is hot, I want to an- 
 nounce that I know it is hot. My knowledge on that 
 score is positive, large and satisfactory. I am prepared, 
 if necessary, to make a statement in writing that it is 
 hot ; to get me to a notary and make affidavit that it is 
 hot. 
 
 Do I not know that it is hot, sitting here, with a vista 
 of brick walls on every side, from which the sun glares 
 at me; fanned through the open window by zephyrs, 
 which bear on their wings nothing less cooling than 
 
In the Woods. 117 
 
 coal snioke and caloric; with the hot whirling of ma- 
 chinery on one side and the rumble of the dusty, swel- 
 tering street on the other ? Through an open space in 
 the walls, I can see a patch of sky as large as a lady's 
 pocket-handkerchief, across which bits of cloud go with 
 thoughts of rain in them; and with the infinite longing 
 with which poor Marie Stuart watched the clouds which 
 were floating across from her prison to France, and 
 as she, prisoned in Fotheringay, sent her thoughts and 
 wishes by those cloudy messengers, with that kind of 
 longing, I think of distant fields and woods, of cooling 
 waters and leafy shades to which they are hastening, 
 and so I send messages to the trees, and the rocks, and 
 the flowers, and to the least living thing that "praises 
 God by rubbing its legs together," as Thackeray so fine- 
 ly puts it. 
 
 On such a day as this, it would be supreme delight to 
 eat lotus in the woods ; to lie, stretched prone upon the 
 grass, in the grateful shade, with no heavier task than to 
 watch a sluggish beetle, or an ant carrying its burden, 
 in imminent danger of collision with every tiny stalk; 
 to listen to all the sounds in nature's orchestra, the 
 stringed instruments of the insects floating in the air, 
 and the reeds of the insects crawling in the grass, the 
 flutes of the birds, the horns of the wind blowing 
 through the tree-tops, and all those sweet, indefinable 
 sounds you only hear when your ear is close to the 
 ground, but which play their part in the grand sympho- 
 ny; to lie upon the grass, with not a sound from the 
 great v/orld jarring upon your Arcadia ; to dream of Sa- 
 tyrs, and Fauns, and wood-nymphs, and water-nymphs, 
 and the great god Pan, piping upon his pastoral reeds; 
 9* 
 
Ii8 Memoi'ics. 
 
 to think of absent friends who are thinking of you, and 
 will return, and of absent friends who are thinking of 
 you, but will never return, as no road leads back from 
 that country whither they have journeyed, and the 
 daisies tell no stories, nor even the rustle of the grass 
 which grows above them ; to remember a chord of mu- 
 sic long forgotten, and let its subtle melancholy weave a 
 vision in the Past, when the chord was a sound and not 
 a sigh, and the vision was a reality and not a shadow. 
 And to let the little bugs crawl in your ear and shiver 
 the whole beautiful Dream-Fabric. 
 
 June 13, 1868. 
 
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 rZT^ GERMANS AND MUSIC. 
 
 |0 make a good German, four things are requi- 
 site, viz : Music, beer, Rhine wine and Ge- 
 imiethlichkeit. In regard to the first and last 
 qualities, I think that I am half a German. For four 
 days past, I have been trying to achieve the other two 
 qualities, and thus Teutonize myself in toto. 
 
 I have fought the white beer of Berlin with an energy 
 worthy of a better cause. I have wrestled with the red 
 beer of Chicago. I have struggled with Hocheimer, 
 Rudesheimer and Johannisberg, until I was Black, White 
 and Red in the face, and hung out the German flag in 
 my countenance. I have wished, with Mein Herr Von 
 Dunk, that my trough was as deep as the rolling Zuyder 
 Zee. But when I had accomplished my fifth glass of 
 the mantling beer with internal satisfaction, and then 
 beheld a German friend call for his thirtieth, just by way 
 of an appetizer for the half barrel he had ordered, I saw 
 at once the futility of my undertaking. 
 
 In fact, I was not equal to the beer capacity of a 
 small German baby, and when I saw great, jolly Teu- 
 tons, flaxen-haired, deep-lunged and stout-handed, with 
 a whole case of Rhenish hidden away under their jack- 
 ets, is it proper for me to allude to the poor little bottle 
 
I20 Beer. 
 
 of Steinberger I had demolished, or to have any other 
 feeling in regard to that feat than one of intense morti- 
 fication? The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. 
 Nature was against me. 
 
 On the tenth glass of beer, the German is serene; on 
 the twentieth, he is philosophical and will discuss the 
 problem of how many angels can stand upon the point 
 of a needle ; on the thirtieth, he is full of Briiderlichkcit ; 
 on the fortieth, he reaches Freiheit ; on the fiftieth, he 
 will troll you a Trinklied in the manner of Hermanns 
 with his Golden Calf; on the sixtieth he is a little 
 weary, but his heart is in the right place, and he pro- 
 nounces zwei glass with a strong emphasis on the zwei; 
 on the seventieth, he is tired, but he recovers from it 
 with the eightieth; on the ninetieth, he feels ^// and 
 on the hundredth he is himself again, yr/>r/^,_^r/ 7/;^.'/ 
 froh, and is then prepared to drink some beer with you, 
 to sing you one of Abt's best, to criticise a statue, or 
 discuss the everlasting essence of the negative pole of 
 infinity. Set him down to the glorious Rhenish vintages 
 and the pile of old bottles he will leave behind him 
 would have gone a great ways towards building the 
 tower of Babel. 
 
 Your German is essentially a talker, and it is astonish- 
 ing, considering the "schs," and "achs," and "ichs," 
 and other gutturals distressing to an American windpipe, 
 which are continually in his way, how much ground he 
 will talk over in an hour. He talks with his tongue, his 
 arms and his legs, and throws in the punctuation points 
 as he goes along, with nods of his head. When he is 
 the most social and affectionate, when his heart warms 
 towards you, then he appears as if he were immediately 
 
Fatherland. 121 
 
 about to demolish you, and the more affectionate he 
 grows, the more alarmed you become for your personal 
 safety and anxious to inform your family that you may 
 be brought home feet foremost. A company of Ger- 
 mans together, when they are inspired with Genmeth- 
 Uchkeit, and when social feeling is at its highest tem- 
 perature, exactly resemble Americans at the other ex- 
 treme, preparing for a general fight, and you wonder the 
 police do not interfere. And vice versa, when the Ger- 
 man is excited to pugnacity, he does not seem to be ex- 
 cited at all. He appears to be serene, but beneath all 
 the calm outside there is a terrible rage. 
 
 The German is addicted to Fatherland, and if any 
 human being on the face of the earth has a right to be, 
 it is the German. If any other nationality has a better 
 literature, grander poets, more inspired dreamers, sub- 
 limer musicians, better artists, or deeper thinkers, I have 
 not heard of it. The ties which bind him to the Father- 
 land are too strong ever to be broken, and on the in- 
 visible strings which stretch from his heart to Germany 
 are continually sounding the home melodies. Could 
 any more beautiful idea be conceived than the fact that 
 on Friday evening, when the grand chorus at the Fest 
 Hall* were singing the glorious German poem, "What 
 is the German's Fatherland," in every part of Germany, 
 in every city, village and hamlet, wherever there was a 
 singing society, this same song was being sung on the 
 same evening, in honor of their brethren assembled at 
 Chicago? 
 
 We may laugh at the peculiarities of the Germans, 
 
 *The Northwestern SaeDgerfest, held at Chicago, June, 1868. 
 
122 German Art. 
 
 but when we approach German art, it must give us 
 pause. Berhoz and Scribe took the skull of a fool, who 
 had once laughed at the incantation music of Der Frei- 
 schutz, and when the orchestra had reached that point, 
 placed it before them and said: "Now, laugh if you 
 dare. The music of Von Weber is thundering round 
 you." No man who was not destitute of a soul, and 
 utterly wedded to all gross things, could have felt any 
 other than a religious feeling in the great swell of human 
 voices on Thursday evening, as it surged in great waves 
 of harmony, as it rose like the march of a storm in the 
 Battle Hymn of Rienzi, full of martial inspiration and 
 clarion cries, or died away in the gentle and placid 
 melody of the Lindenbaum of Schubert, sweetest of all 
 song-writers. The man who could go away from that 
 concert without feeling that he was a better man, with- 
 out having recognized that human nature may soar to 
 the infinite on the wings of song, has sunk his soul so 
 far into the uncleaness of life, that Gabriel will have 
 some difficulty in finding it, what time he sounds his 
 final trumpet call. 
 
 The Fest was a notable event, from the bare fact that 
 it gave us the immortal Seventh Symphony of Beethoven, 
 about which the critics and rhapsodists have loved to 
 dream in searching for its hidden meaning, and around 
 which they have woven so many delicate and tender 
 fancies. No two persons probably will ever agree upon 
 the exact event it is intended to illustrate, but it seems 
 to me that there is one idea which must be patent to 
 all. To me, the Seventh Symphony appears to be a 
 true picture of a beautiful life — its allegro full of the 
 longings and joyousness of youth ; its allegretto filled 
 
The Seventh Symphony. \'i2i 
 
 with the delicious melancholy of love; its scherzo buoy- 
 ant with the gladness and ecstacy of living; and its 
 final allegro summing all up in a climax of contentment 
 and hope. It seems to me that when the grand old 
 Master, the Jupiter Tonans of music, whose soul pierced 
 the sublimity of the infinite, wrote this symphony, he 
 must have forgotten all the trials and troubles of life. 
 All the joy of nature, her sunlight and breezes, and the 
 hidden melodies of inanimate things; all the glow and 
 elasticity of life's morning; a passionate love for some 
 golden-haired Gretchen ; a rhythm to which fairies 
 might have danced in the moonlight, seem to me to be 
 expressed in this wonderful production — the whole 
 bathed in sunlight and clothed with supernatural beauty. 
 In the Seventh Symphony, Beethoven does not sadden 
 you with the profound melancholy, or inspire you with 
 the sublimity of some of his works, but he gives you new 
 ideas of the beauty and joy of living. And as I sat list- 
 ening to the masterly performance of the Allegretto by 
 the great orchestra — every player's face lit up with the 
 enthusiasm of the music — every instrument moving in 
 perfect precision — the whole air full of the bewitching, 
 almost supernatural music — there occurred to me a let- 
 ter which I have received this v/eek, in which the writer 
 wants to know if it is the duty of a Christian to encour- 
 age the Saengerfest. Although the letter was signed "A 
 Christian," — in the presence of the great Master's work 
 the question seemed to me utterly profane. Why ! 
 Music is full of religion ! The first tidings that ever 
 came from Heaven to man came in music on the plains 
 of Bethlehem. It reaches far down into the soul. It 
 fills it with longings for the Unknown. It reveals the 
 
124 LtUher^s Platform. 
 
 Infinite more clearly than the spoken word. Its ten- 
 dency is upward. It gives birth to aspirations. It 
 makes a true man, truer. It makes a bad man, better. 
 If the writer of that letter does not appreciate music, 
 let me commend to him the dictum of the father of 
 modern Protestantism : 
 
 "• Who loves not wine, woman and song, 
 KemaitiB a fool his whole life long." 
 
 I should not care to deny that Martin Luther was a 
 Christian, even in the face of his rather generous plat- 
 form — in fact, his specifications would rather go to show 
 that he was. I would advise my letter-writing friend, 
 therefore, if he cannot love wine and woman, at least to 
 love song, and see if it does not make a better Christian 
 out of him. I think he could love every plank in Mar- 
 tin Luther's platform, and still be as good a Christian as 
 Martin Luther was, and pitch ink-stands at the devil 
 quite as vigorously. Before a man is thoroughly fitted 
 for Heaven, he ought to be thoroughly fitted for earth. 
 A great many people who think themselves good enough 
 for Heaven, and are all the time wanting to go there, 
 are not half good enough for earth. It is sheer ingrati- 
 tude to Divine Providence — this lifting of the eyes so 
 high as never to see the sublime world He has placed 
 you in, with its never-ending scenes of beauty and sub- 
 limity, and never to see this life with its joys and possi- 
 bilities. Fling your theologies to the winds. Unloosen 
 your stiff neck. Don't forever snuff evil in everything 
 around you. Up, and out into the world. Throw 
 yourself into the arms of the loving mother, Nature, 
 and see if there is no religion in her eyes. Get to the 
 secret heart of music, and see if it is not anchored hard 
 
The Remedy. 
 
 125 
 
 by the eternal throne. Draw yourself closer to human- 
 ity and to universal brotherhood, and see if there is no 
 religion in it. If your soul does not expand in the ope- 
 ration, and if it does not make a better Christian out of 
 you,* then you are hardly good enough for this world, 
 and the sooner you are out of it the better. 
 
 June 20, 186S. 
 
THE OLD STORY. 
 
 N these fast days of the period, when human 
 life is of so little account that we sever its frail 
 thread with as little compunction as we would 
 pick a flower from its stem; when, in our hot haste, 
 we drain the cup clear to the bitter lees, and, disap- 
 pointed, plunge ourselves into the outer darkness; when 
 a mist of error and frenzy settles down upon us, so dense 
 that it hides from our gaze all that is True and Beauti- 
 ful; when, in all the heavens, there is only the angri- 
 ness of driving clouds, and no star shining — in these fast 
 days, the mere recital of a solitary case, where a tired 
 human being has gone to rest voluntarily, rather than 
 bear the great burden of agony and scorn upon her 
 weak shoulders any longer, only causes the indulgence 
 of a moment's curiosity and wonderment. The case 
 published in the columns of the Tribune this morning, 
 of the suicide of "Augusta," seems to me, however, one 
 over which we should pause and think. 
 
 Very little is given of her history, and yet enough to 
 indicate that she was but eighteen years of age — that 
 time in life when the world is clad in its brightest 
 colors, when the heart is full of hope and the body full 
 of the buoyancy of youth ; that she was very intelligent ; 
 
Desej^ted. 127 
 
 that she was very pretty; that she was very amiable, 
 and beloved by all who knew her ; that she had been 
 utterly deserted by a brute; and that she still wanted to 
 live — for, in her sad note, she says: "And yet, if there 
 seemed the shadow of a hope to regain your love, once 
 so true and tender, I would longer suffer the agony you 
 have so ruthlessly thrown upon me." 
 
 To me, there is something inexpressibly sad in that 
 last note: 
 
 "My Darling Percy: The dark clouds are gathering 
 around the little girl you once loved, and who still 
 clings to you in hope that your heart will soften; but, 
 oh ! dear one, to suffer the agony of this suspense is 
 worse than death. You trifled with my susceptible 
 heart, but I forgive you. I court death; and yet, if 
 there seemed the shadow of a hope to regain your love, 
 once so true and tender, I would longer suffer the agony 
 you have so ruthlessly thrown upon me. O, come, 
 come ! Press me to your heart again, and then let me 
 die. Loving and true, 
 
 Augusta." 
 
 Deserted ! And, alone in the world, she attempts to 
 ward off, with her weak, little hands, those dark clouds 
 gathering around her. Deserted ! She still clings to 
 all he has left her — a bitter memory. Deserted ! She 
 bears an agony which is worse than death. Deserted ! 
 She still loves and forgives him, who has utterly blotted 
 out her bright young life. Deserted ! She would still 
 bear the great agony, if there was only the shadow of a 
 hope that, at some day, she might regain that love. 
 Deserted ! And from her white lips comes that last 
 mournful appeal — "Come! come! and let me die" — 
 
128 Wojnan^s Love. 
 
 and then utter despair sets in, which is only another 
 name for utter madness, for when hope dies, the Hght of 
 reason goes out, too, and she goes to her death, "rash- 
 ly importunate," out of the world, and out of life, to the 
 arms of the Great Father. 
 
 To the Great Father, notwithstanding the technical 
 notions of my theological brethren, whose cold, hard 
 formulge, in a case like this, must give way. They dare 
 not assert them in the presence of this little girl, around 
 whom the clouds are gathering. If they should, it 
 would only argue a soul which has run entirely to brain. 
 
 Her last words, "loving and true," have nothing of 
 the romantic about them, no flavor of the boarding- 
 school, no characteristic of the gushing young misses 
 just into their teens and chignons. It is the full strength 
 of a woman's love, which knows no abatement, even in 
 the face of scorn, abuse and desertion. If, by an ex- 
 ceedingly remote possibility, this little girl should meet- 
 her betrayer in Paradise, I do not believe she would 
 avert her face. The vine clings to the tree when its 
 trunk is sturdy with sap and its branches are full of 
 leaves and nests, and it clings to it, also, when it is only 
 a jagged stump, riven and shattered by the lightnings. 
 
 The force of this passion is best illustrated by the fact 
 that there could be no compensation but death, for the 
 loss of its object; no compensation in all this great 
 world, with its beauty of sunrises, woods, rivers and 
 mountains. The flowers bloomed no longer for her. 
 There was no soothing in the melancholy of music. The 
 stars in Heaven went out. All sweet sounds grew 
 strangely silent. It was a living death. She stretched 
 out her hand for help, and it only met the cold hand of 
 
Companionless. 129 
 
 a dead love. She could only see in the darkness the 
 ghost of a memory. There was only one escape out of 
 this passion, and that way she fled — and it led out of 
 life. 
 
 The great world moves on undisturbed. The great 
 woods are not disturbed when a single leaf drops off a 
 tree and flutters down to its death. The eagle, in his 
 flight, does not miss a feather that drops from his plu- 
 mage. Men will still buy and sell, and women will gos- 
 sip and dress. We shall all walk, and talk, and sing, 
 and dance, and flirt, and laugh, each in our own little 
 world, happy as ever, so long as dark Care does not ride 
 behind the horseman. 
 
 But among us there will be one who can never again 
 go companionless. There is a ghost forever chained to 
 him, which he cannot shake off. It will sit by him and 
 follow him into the land of dreams. It will walk by his 
 side. It will echo his faintest whisper and his loudest 
 laugh. He may wander like Ahasuerus, but he cannot 
 escape from it. He may plunge into excess, but he will 
 see its face at the bottom of every cup. There is no 
 place so remote, under the blessed heavens, where he 
 can escape from it. There is no darkness so intense 
 that he will not see its sad, reproachful eyes looking at 
 him. It will follow him here, to meet him There. He 
 carries his punishment with him forever. In Faustus, 
 there is an account of a memorable banquet given by 
 Satan, at which the viands were composed of souls 
 cooked in divers ways, and the wines were the tears of 
 those who had suffered on earth — a glowing story it is, 
 told in excellent fashion, which I would commend to 
 him. I need not urge this handsomely-named man to 
 10 
 
130 The Epitaph. 
 
 think sometimes of his victim. He will have no diffi- 
 culty in remembering, but very much in forgetting. A 
 man who commits murder is not very apt to forget. 
 Society conveniently glosses over these crimes with mild 
 names, but the crime is just the same. Society indi- 
 vidually knows, and he knows, that he has committed 
 murder, just as surely as if he had plunged a knife into 
 his victim, whose only crime was love. 
 
 I think it would be an excellent practice, in these 
 cases, to place upon the tombstone some stich epitaph 
 as this : 
 
 5-acrci to tl)c iUcmori) 
 
 OP 
 
 Augusta, 
 
 Murdered In her 18th year by Percy. 
 
 ) Beautiful, Intelligent and Amiable, but was gtrilty of 
 LOVE. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 0-DAY, in this crystal atmosphere, in these 
 glorious, invigorating breaths from the North, 
 full of suggestions of cool pine woods — of 
 brooks dancing over the shallows — of rivers flashing 
 down to the great lakes — of a fisherman rocking upon 
 the waves — of breezes which have journeyed all the way 
 from the pole, whispering stories to the trees of the 
 weird things done in the Northern glow — in this per- 
 fection of a new-created day, created for the first time 
 for you and for me, thus ever renewing the Avonder of 
 the first morning, life is no longer a burden, but a 
 blessing. Not the life social, mental or moral, but the 
 life physical. The mere fact of living, of breathing, of 
 feeling the blood coursing in your veins, of allying 
 yourself with the waves of the lake, which are sparkling 
 with smiles; with the leaves, which are dancing on the 
 tree-tops; with the flowers bursting into richer bloom, 
 and lifting up their drooping cups to catch the wine of 
 the morning ; with the birds, curving through the in- 
 vigorating air; with the insects, no longer droning their 
 hot, dry notes in the burnt grass, but making a Babel of 
 little sweet sounds in every hillock; the mere fact of 
 living in this world, when every tint, from the Iris in a 
 
132 In Memoriam. 
 
 foam-bell to the haze on a hill-side, is perfect ; when 
 every sound, from the buzz of a grasshopper to the dia- 
 pason of the waves or the swell of the wind-smitten 
 trees, is in unison, is a blessing. On such a day, Dona- 
 tello, the Faun, would have called the animals to him 
 with that universal language which makes us and them 
 kin. On such a day, Memnon sings more grandly to 
 the sun. On such a day, Heine's pine tree in the 
 northern snows dreams of the palm in the burning 
 sands. Such a day comes like a benediction, after the 
 long, tedious sermon, and it brings with it benisons 
 from the Great Father to the parched, burning leaves, 
 to the poor sufferers tossing upon beds of pain, to tired, 
 toiling humanity. 
 
 The last week has been a reign of terror. It is stated 
 that the birds have never died so fast, especially the 
 singing birds. The flowers, too, have died. And with 
 the flowers and the birds, their companions, the little 
 children have passed away, until it makes one sad to 
 think into how many homes a shadow has come within 
 the past short week. Death, like another Herod, has 
 knocked at every door, save where some protecting angel 
 guards the threshold. We fain would have kept him 
 out, but our hands were powerless, and in almost every 
 household where he entered, he smote the youngest and 
 the fairest — little eyes, in which the light of Heaven 
 had never faded — little hands, untaxed by any of life's 
 burdens — little feet, unstained by any of the dust of 
 life's highway, in which we elder ones are so sadly be- 
 grimed that we have lost much of the semblance of our 
 former selves. And I think this morning that, if earth 
 is sadder for the loss of the children, Heaven must be 
 
In Memoriam. 133 
 
 brighter and more beautiful for the troops of little ones 
 that have passed through the Gate Beautiful, and now 
 walk in Paradise, among the birds and flowers which 
 died when they died. And I think that, along the in- 
 visible strings which stretch from our hearts to the little 
 green waves of turf in the Acres of God, and thence 
 reach heavenward, will come songs in the night-watch- 
 es, and pulses of music we shall recognize, and, recog- 
 nizing, become better men and better women. 
 
 I am. sure that some loving angel will tenderly watch 
 each of these new mounds of earth, and that, on each re- 
 curring spring, we shall see the blue of their eyes in the 
 blue of the violet, and the gold of their hair in the gold 
 of the daisies; that we shall hear their voices in the 
 songs of the robin, and that they will live for us ever- 
 more, in all things beautiful. 
 
 And may the Great Father stretch His hands in in- 
 finite tenderness and blessing over all bowed heads and 
 darkened homes, and in benison over all beds of suf- 
 fering. 
 
 July 25, 1868. 
 
 Last summer, in those hot days, when the cruel 
 weather killed the birds, and flowers, and little children, 
 I wrote to you of the death of a little one, as fragile as 
 the rose-bud she held in her little waxen hand, and how 
 the sunshine was extinguished in the house when we 
 carried her out and tenderly laid her away under the 
 turf, on which the golden and scarlet glories of autumn 
 have fallen, the storms of winter have beaten, and the 
 promises of spring are now brightening. There were 
 
134 ^^^ Mcmoriam, 
 
 with us, on that sad day, those to whom Heaven had 
 consigned a little one, and now the messenger has come 
 for it and taken it home again. In the mysterious dis- 
 pensations of the Great Father, it was ordained that the 
 little life of the one should flash out and expire like the 
 light of the glow-worm; that the other should wear his 
 life slowly out through a weary year and pass away, try- 
 ing to fashion the words "Papa" and "Mamma" on 
 his thin lips. The one went when the birds went and 
 the flowers were fading — when the reapers were among 
 the sheaves, and the golden glow of summer was dis- 
 solving into the purple haze of autumn. She never 
 saw the spring, except in that land where the spring is 
 eternal ; just across that River we sometimes hear in the 
 mists of the Valley of the Shadow, and shall some day 
 day see. The other went away when the birds were 
 coming, and the leaves were bursting into emerald 
 bloom on the trees, and the flowers were opening their 
 cups to catch the sunshine and the rain. And to-day, 
 on this blessed Sabbath, the two are together again in 
 that far-off land which is brought so near to us when 
 the little ones go there. 
 
 May 29, 1869. 
 
LAKE MICHIGAN. 
 
 NEED not tell you of the general appearance 
 of Lake Michigan. I take it for granted 
 everyone knows it, but how many have studied 
 it in its details, watched its rare combinations with the 
 clouds, or discovered the subtle changes and colors, all 
 the time at work upon its surface? 
 
 How many, for instance, have seen the Lake when it 
 was apparently all green — not its ordinary green, but a 
 peculiar, light green which it only wears on state occa- 
 sions, and especially at this season of the year? Your 
 first glance leads you to suppose it is simply green, but 
 look steadily at it, and you will find that the green is 
 suffused with purple, giving a color which I do not 
 think can be matched elsewhere in nature. You may 
 possibly find it in some of the endless varieties of color 
 in wild roses. This is the royal color of the Lake, be- 
 cause the rarest. You may look for weeks and months 
 and not see it, for it requires a peculiar combination of 
 cloud, and wind, and sunlight to produce it. But if 
 you are only patient, some day it will flash upon you in 
 all its beauty, and richly repay you for waiting. 
 
 There are days, when the hour is about sunset, and a 
 gentle north-east wind is blowing, that the Lake is of a 
 
136 Its Dreaminess. 
 
 light green, except a blue strip in the far north. The 
 eastern horizon joins the water by an almost indefinable 
 white line, as if they had been welded together, but all 
 is vague and indistinct and vailed in a haze into which 
 a vessel here and there melts like a phantom. There is 
 hardly wind enough to form waves, but there is regular 
 motion of the water — as regular as the rhythm of music 
 — and in the distance you will see, now and then, a 
 wave breaking white upon the shore, like the white hand 
 of some spent swimmer, clutching at the sand in mortal 
 agony. In the eastern sky, the lower strata of clouds 
 are ragged and angular in shape, and dark gray in color, 
 and only afford you glimpses, here and there, of the 
 clouds above them, which are round and billowy, and 
 would be white but for the roseate glow with which they 
 are suffused by the sun, which is sinking into an angry 
 bank of clouds, such as Dore loves to paint, like a great 
 crimson stain upon the sky. Wherever the tips of these 
 upper clouds appear, they cast a faint reflection upon 
 the green of the water, not producing a duplicate of 
 color, but bronzing the water in spots, which are con- 
 tinually changing. Sometimes, for a moment, the low- 
 er clouds part, and reveal a golden glory behind them, 
 which, for only an instant, illumines the water beneath. 
 This is peculiarly the dreamy feeling of the Lake. 
 There is a dreamy tone in the wash of the waves. The 
 rhythm is perfectly uniform, and the key is in accord 
 with melancholy and tenderness. The flow is peaceful, 
 only now and then you may hear a tone in the hazy 
 distance, a little louder than the rest, like a drum-beat 
 in a far-off orchestra. You may be so near the Lake 
 that the foam of the spent waves will crawl over your 
 
Silence. 137 
 
 feet, and their sound will still be dreamy, and apparent- 
 ly in the distance. It is like nothing so much as the 
 voices and the faces which come to you in the night out 
 of the Past. Its cadence is mournful and yet beautiful. 
 It is then the time to be alone, to cast yourself upon the 
 sand and listen to the stories of these waves — stories of 
 the sailors who sailed the Spanish main, and never came 
 home again — of vessels which went down, and left no 
 one to tell the tale — of phantom ships, which suddenly 
 loom up before affrighted sailors in the darkness — of 
 storms, driving their black chariots over the deep — of 
 Mermaids, and Sirens, and Undines, luring on their 
 victims to destruction, with their white bosoms and 
 voluptuous melodies — of the beautiful fabrics you reared 
 years ago — all gone, as the wave washes out the print of 
 your feet in the sands. And, as you lie there and 
 dream, the moon, yet silvery-gray in the early evening, 
 passes behind a cloud. The distant city is hidden by a 
 curtain of gray mist — hidden, with all its men and 
 women, toiling, struggling, loving, cursing and praying 
 — ^hidden, with all its squat misery in the alleys and by- 
 ways, and with all its splendid wretchedness in the high 
 places. All sounds die away. The cruel mist creeps 
 over the water, and you are alone upon the sand, with 
 only the melancholy moaning of the immemorial waves, 
 which will moan thus when you and I are gone — which 
 have moaned thus since the youth of the years. 
 
 Have you seen the Lake when thunder-storms are 
 brooding all around the horizon, and the wrath of the 
 tempest is sweeping up from the west, where, in thun- 
 dering caverns, the Titans are forging the bolts? You 
 may, now and then, hear the clang of their hammers, 
 
138 TJic Storm. 
 
 and see the fire from their anvils, what time gigantic 
 masses of clouds, assuming fantastic shapes and dark 
 forms of demons, come tearing their way to the zenith. 
 In the east all is quiet, and the fleecy, cumulous clouds, 
 towering up like peaks of snow, and illuminated by the 
 waning sun, send straight pink shafts of light across the 
 dull, blue surface of the Lake. In the distance, this 
 blue is changed to the most delicate green. Watch it, 
 and in a moment it will change to blue again, and then 
 again to green ; and the shafts of pink light on its sur- 
 face will come and go like the blushes upon a girl's 
 cheek. Never mind the near approach of the storm. 
 You cannot afford to lose the Lake yet. As the black 
 clouds gather in the east, the blues and the greens dis- 
 appear, and the Lake turns to black, reflecting the 
 wrath of the clouds above. The darts of the lightning 
 descend into it, and the crash of the thunder borne over 
 its surface is almost deafening. The sound of the wa^^es 
 dies away. Long, smooth, irregular patches appear, 
 looking as if the air had died above them. A few heavy 
 spats of rain strike here and there. A dense mist begins 
 to settle down. Faster and faster the rain-drops fall, 
 and now the mad gods are all abroad; and in the mists 
 there, the lightnings are rending the bosom of the Lake. 
 But, in the midst of all the din, if you only listen acute- 
 ly, you will hear the steady patter of the rain in the 
 water — a soothing, tranquilizing sound; and in some 
 dense forest, if you were lying upon the needle-covered 
 ground, you would hear exactly the same sound made 
 by the wind in the tree-tops. And now, if you could 
 sleep in some old-fashioned attic, without a care or a 
 trouble in your breast, where you could hear the rain 
 
The Kaleidoscope. 139 
 
 playing its merry fantasie on the shingles, you would 
 sleep the most refreshing of all sleeps. 
 
 And then there are days when the heavens are cloud- 
 less, the temperature cool, and the breeze blowing 
 briskly and steadily from the north, that the Lake is a 
 very kaleidoscope of colors, and puts on a habit it has 
 borrowed from fairy- land. Start with the extreme east- 
 ern limit, and you may trace nearly all the primitive 
 colors of the prism, with their variations at intervals — 
 blue, light green, grass-green, and the green of the 
 waters in which the icebergs float, light and dark 
 bronze, silvery gray, pink and purple, and a dull, dead 
 gray color, close by you. Let but the breeze be strong 
 enough to comb the crest of the waves into foam, and a 
 more beautiful sight it would be impossible to conceive. 
 ■These colors are not fixed. The smallest cloud which 
 passes over the sky will agitate and intermingle them in 
 a very chaos of beauty, but as the cloud disappears they 
 will return to their original order. Sometimes a larger 
 cloud will hurry across the sky, fleeing from its shadow, 
 which skims over the lake, as you have seen the same 
 shadows skim over a meadow, and this shadow will ab- 
 sorb color after color and leave a new one in its place, so 
 that the whole of them will often be reversed. \\\ such 
 seasons, the lake is a perfect picture of life, with its 
 phases of trouble, of mirth, of youthful vivacity, of am- 
 bition, of hope, and of despair. Your life and my life 
 are there, with all the dreams we have dreamed and the 
 loves we have loved — with the bubbles which fancy has 
 blown, and the castles we have builded in the air — with 
 the ties which have been formed and been broken — with 
 the fates which have brought you and me together, like 
 
140 Suicidal. 
 
 ships upon the ocean, to meet for a minute and hold 
 converse, and then sail again and apart into the oppo- 
 site horizons ; and yet always teaching the lesson that, 
 in the darkest moments, there is compensation in the 
 great beauty and blessing of nature, and that the Great 
 Mother, who always clothes every material wreck with 
 loveliness, and makes it beautiful and sacred to the eye, 
 can also bring balm to every wrecked life, if we only 
 approach her with loving hearts and outstretched arms. 
 There is another aspect of the Lake, which I hope you 
 will never see. It is when the air is sultry and heavy 
 with moisture; when a chill, penetrating wind has 
 settled down upon it, as in the late falls; when you can 
 see only a stone's throw from the shore ; when the water 
 is of a dull, milky color, and its wash against the sand 
 is sullen and despondent, and there is not a pleasant 
 sound or sight. The Lake then is suicidal in its ten- 
 dencies, and is deliberately inviting you or Atropos to 
 sever the thread in your web of life. Keep away from 
 the Lake at such times, for it is a very monster, and 
 you can have no good thoughts in its presence. 
 
 August 1, 1868. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 IN this world of amusement in which Ave dwell, 
 palpably the finest piece of dramatic art is the 
 "Rip Van Winkle" of Mr. Joseph Jefferson. 
 We are accustomed to compare the personations of 
 other actors. We establish degrees of merit in the ef- 
 forts of Booth, Adams, Couldock, and Forrest, in trag- 
 edy, and Warren, Hackett, Owens, and Brougham in 
 comedy. But when we come to Mr. Jefferson's "Rip," 
 comparisons cease. It stands by itself, as sharply de- 
 fined, as superbly drawn, as the Venus di Medici in 
 statuary, one of Raphael's cartoons in painting, or Jen- 
 ny Lind's Bird Song in music; and, if we ransack the 
 records of the stage, we find nothing to which we can 
 compare it. 
 
 For the reason that his personation belongs to an en- 
 tirely new school. It is the commencement of that 
 dramatic era which Shakspeare foreshadowed in his ad- 
 vice to the players. It is the dissolution of that system 
 against which Charles Lamb and Addison wrote so pow- 
 erfully in "Elia" and the "Spectator." I verily be- 
 lieve if Charles Lamb had seen Jefferson's "Rip Van 
 Winkle," although he was denouncing such great artists 
 as Garrick and Mrs. Siddons, he would never have 
 written that essay on the plays of Shakspeare ; and that. 
 
142 yeffer soil's Freedom. 
 
 if Addison had seen it, the "Spectator" would have 
 been minus some of those sketchy papers on the play- 
 houses. I believe that gentle soul, Charles Lamb, 
 would have taken his sister to see "Rip," and that they 
 would have talked to each other as no two ever talked 
 before; that great-hearted Addison would have taken 
 off his hat and made his best bow to him ; that watery 
 Sterne would have shed a Niagara of tears over the 
 simple narrative, and Steele would have gone and got 
 drunk, out of sheer inability to do justice to the subject 
 in any other way. 
 
 Mr. Jefferson's personation is totally unlike anything 
 on the modern stage. Matilda Heron's "Camille," in 
 her younger days, approximated to it somewhat, but 
 at present there is nothing that resembles it on the 
 stage. Mr. Jefferson has quietly ignored all the rules, 
 regulations and precedents of the stage. The stereo- 
 typed stage-walk — a sort of comico-heroic strut, which 
 has been pressed into service for all sorts of characters, 
 from "Harlequin" to "Hamlet;" the stage gestures; 
 the stage attitudes, which "Mrs. Toodles," curtain- 
 lecturing her intoxicated spouse, and "Lucrezia Borgia," 
 shielding "Genarro" from the "Duke," both assume; 
 the rolling of the eyes in a fine frenzy; the mouthing of 
 phrases in a set manner, to catch the praise of the 
 groundlings ; the hackneyed entrances and exits ; the 
 rant, and the making of points, are all foreign to Mr. 
 Jefferson. With him, the stage is merely an accident 
 and no more essential to his personation than it was to 
 Irving's conception. 
 
 This school of acting which Mr. Jefferson has adopted 
 is the very highest form of dramatic art. In it, he 
 
The Natural School. 143 
 
 realizes the truth of the old adage, that it is the province 
 of art to conceal art. He completely identifies himself 
 with the character. That is the secret of his success — 
 of his potent sway over the emotions of his auditors. It 
 is this faculty which enables him so to blend humor with 
 pathos that smiles follow tears in as quick succession as 
 light follows shadow over afield on a summer afternoon. 
 It is, perhaps, impossible for any person who has seen 
 Booth to form any original conception of Hamlet. He 
 invariably connects Hamlet with Booth, and the result 
 is a theatrical Hamlet ; and the poor Ghost always walks 
 into our memories with a theatrical stride, and smells of 
 the calcium. So with Couldock's "Luke Fielding," 
 Charlotte Cushman's "Meg Merrilies," Forrest's " Cori- 
 olanus," or Burton's "Toodles." All these persona- 
 tions were unusually fine, but the actors could not 
 always merge themselves in the characters, because 
 there was always the partition of theatrical necessities 
 and precedents in the way. This is not the case with 
 Mr. Jefferson. We do not connect " Rip Van Winkle" 
 with Jefferson, but Jefferson with " Rip Van Winkle." 
 The transformation is complete. He acts, talks, walks, 
 laughs, rejoices and mourns just as " Rip Van Winkle " 
 would have done — ^just as any human being would have 
 done in "Rip Van Winkle's" place. In looking at this 
 personation — and I own to having laughed and cried 
 over it many times — I never think of Jefferson. I never 
 think of his art. I never get "enthused" enough even 
 to applaud, for I should never think of applauding 
 "Rip," were he alive and walking to-day the streets of 
 the village of Falling Waters. To me, there is no Jeffer- 
 son on the stage, but the magnificent creation of Irving, 
 
144 Personal Pozver. 
 
 moving before me. And all this is done without the 
 show of art. Mr. Jefferson never talks above the ordi- 
 nary conversational tone of voice, uses only a few ges- 
 tures, and those of the simplest description, attempts no 
 tricks of facial expression, and makes less fuss than the 
 veriest supernumerary on the stage ; and yet I question 
 whether any living artist has such an instantaneous 
 command of the smiles and tears of an audience as he. 
 
 In fact, I confess I should be afraid of that man or 
 woman who was not affected by this personation. It 
 has been my good or bad luck, as the case may be, for 
 many years past to have written on every actor and 
 actress who have come to this city, and to have wit- 
 nessed thousands of dramatic performances. Constant 
 dropping of water wears away the rock, and I confess 
 until I saw Mr. Jefferson, I have looked upon stage 
 murders and all sorts of villainies with a large degree of 
 composure; have even smiled at the lachrymose Mrs. 
 Haller, beloved of young women, and have studied with 
 all my might to discover the fun in the stage situation at 
 which the audience was laughing; and instances are 
 on record where I have slept the sleep of the just all 
 through a five-act tragedy, overrunning with murders, 
 suicides, rapes, burglaries, divorces and crim. con. 
 enough to have started a second Boston in business. 
 And when I first went to see Mr. Jefferson, I went all 
 calloused with dramatic labor. But if that man didn't 
 have me laughing and crying alternately the whole 
 evening, then I'm a sinner. 
 
 The entire personation is so complete and individual- 
 ized that it is very difficult to select any particular 
 scene as better than others, for Mr. Jefferson is so 
 
The Depaj'hire, 145 
 
 thorough an artist that he neglects not even the smallest 
 detail. But there are two or three scenes which seem 
 to me to stand out more prominently than the rest. 
 One in particular is the episode where he is ordered to 
 leave the house of his wife. Most actors would have 
 torn a passion to tatters at this point, ranted and rushed 
 round the stage, delivered mock heroics and dashed off 
 in an ecstacy of blue fire with their arms flourished in 
 the air, utterly forgetful of unities or proprieties. How 
 different, Jefferson ! He is sitting upon a chair, partially 
 turned from the audience, in a maudlin state. His wife 
 orders him to leave her house and never return. Per- 
 haps she has ordered him that way before, for he pays 
 little heed to it. She repeats the order in a louder tone 
 of voice, but still he pays no heed to it. He has 
 stretched out his arm and raised his head as if to speak, 
 when she again issues her order in an unmistakable man- 
 ner. It strikes him like a thunder-bolt. Without 
 changing the position of a limb, he sits as if that instant 
 petrified. He is dumb with amazement, as the terrible 
 truth gradually becomes clear in his muddled brains. 
 The silence, the motionlessness, the fixed look of the 
 face, are literally terrible. And when he rises slowly, 
 quietly tells the wife he shall never return — for he has 
 been driven away — stoops and kisses the little one, and 
 so easily passes from the doorstep to the outer darkness, 
 that it might have been the flitting of a shadow, you in- 
 evitably draw a breath of relief that the scene is over, 
 and indulge in a genuine feeling of the most hearty 
 sympathy for this good-for-nothing, lazy, drunken, good- 
 hearted vagabond. 
 
 Equally, can there be anything more affecting than 
 u 
 
146 Make Up. 
 
 the scene when, after his sleep, he returns to his native 
 village to find that no one remembers him? Or anything 
 more sadly eloquent than the simple phrase, "Are we, 
 then, so soon forgotten when we are gone?" pro- 
 nounced so simply and quietly, and with such a gentle 
 vein of sadness running through it ? This appeal, which 
 any other actor would have thrust into the face of his 
 audience as the place for "a point," Mr. Jefferson 
 delivers so simply that you hardly at first catch the full 
 force of its meaning, or become aware how much of 
 life is summed up in the few simple words. It is a page 
 out of real life, only another proof of the folly of sup- 
 posing that you or I are at all essential to the rest of the 
 world. 
 
 Mr. Jefferson's make up is very remarkable. He must 
 have studied the character with remarkable earnestness 
 and closeness to draw it so perfectly. Before the sleep-, 
 his face is a thorough picture of the good-for-nothing 
 vagabond who exists in every village and is remarkable 
 for nothing but his big heart, which draws to him all 
 the children and dogs of the neighborhood — a sure 
 proof of the humanity of the dog. In general I think 
 that big dogs and small children are the most perfect 
 instances of thorough humanity in the world. A man 
 who has a big heart will always be recognized by a dog 
 quicker than by the two-legged humans. Equally, dogs 
 and small children always recognize each other. After 
 the sleep, the picture of the old man is just as perfect. 
 In every detail of age — the pains in the joints, the 
 shambling gait, the wrinkled face and the childish ex- 
 pression — he is the counterpart of old age. In neither 
 phase of the character does he ever forget himself. He 
 
Snyder. 147 
 
 is always " Rip Van Winkle." His forgetfulness of the 
 audience amounts almost to impudence, and he is equally 
 .forgetful of the actors. Off the stage, Jefferson is the 
 most genial of men ; like Yorick, full of jest and hu- 
 mor. On the stage, he never forgets that he is playing 
 a character. He is " Rip Van Winkle" in front of the 
 audience, behind the scenes, in the dressing room, and 
 in the entr^ actes even. He never lets himself down for 
 an instant from the necessities of the role until the cur- 
 tain falls on the last act. He believes that an actor can 
 never become too familiar with a part, never study it 
 too much, and the result is that he plays just as consci- 
 entiously now, as he did when he commenced, and is 
 constantly making the personation better. 
 
 Another singular feature of Mr. Jefferson's acting, is, 
 that he not only makes "Rip Van Winkle " an actual liv- 
 ing personage, but the dog " Snyder" also. Although 
 " Snyder" never puts in an appearance upon the stage, 
 he is as important a dramatis persona as any on the stage. 
 I think I have a perfect conception of that dog "Snyder " 
 — a long, lank, shaggy, ill favored, yellow cur, loving 
 "Rip" with all his heart, hating " Mrs. Rip," a sworn 
 friend of all the children in the village, one ear bitten off 
 in an unpleasantness with "Nick Vedder's" mean bull 
 dog, but with a big heart after all in his carcass, and a 
 dog who would always take the part of a small dog in a 
 quarrel with a bigger one. Jefferson succeeds in mak- 
 ing " Snyder' ' an actual canine, although he is never visi- 
 ble to the eye; and when "Snyder" goes rattling down 
 the hill, scared out of his senses by Hendrick Hudson's 
 phantom crew, I acknowledge to a feeling of sadness 
 for the poor beast who is " Rip's " only friend. 
 
148 Poses. 
 
 Although Mr. Jefferson never makes a point of theat- 
 rical attitudes for mere effect, some of his poses are 
 remarkably beautiful and artistic, especially that one as 
 he stands shading his eyes with his hands, looking with 
 amazement at the village of Falling Waters, after wak- 
 ing up from his sleep ; also the careless way in which he 
 sits upon the table in the first act, and the peculiar atti- 
 tude in the chair when he is ordered from the house, 
 to which I have already alluded They are just such 
 attitudes as a painter would choose to paint, or a sculp- 
 tor to chisel. They are thoroughly artistic, and much 
 of this is undoubtedly due to the fact that Mr. Jefferson 
 has very excellent talent in, and knowledge of, the 
 sculptor's art. Had he followed it as a profession he 
 would undoubtedly have achieved an eminence quite as 
 elevated as that which he enjoys in the dramatic world. 
 
 If I have devoted considerable of this letter's space 
 to Mr. Jefferson, it is because his "Rip Van Winkle" is a 
 production of art worthy more than passing notice, in 
 the presence of which, the gauze and tinsel of the spec- 
 tacular drama seem very tawdry, and mock heroics of 
 the sensational and romantic schools of action very false. 
 He stands the only embodiment of the natural school 
 of action — the only true school. Who will be the next 
 to follow him, and assist to reform and restore the stage 
 to its proper place as a great educator of the people and 
 exponent of art? 
 
 September 5, 1868. 
 
AN AUTUMN REVERIE. 
 
 T seems only a little handful of days ago that 
 I was writing you of the note of the little blue 
 trumpeter, announcing from the bare boughs 
 the advent of Spring, and now the Autumn is here. 
 And holding the days in our hands like grains of sand, 
 there was now and then a golden one which you and I 
 would have kept ; but, alas ! they, too, slipped through 
 our powerless fingers, and the gold in the sand was but 
 a dream within a dream. 
 
 I told Mignon the Fall was here, for our trees have 
 commenced to lose their yellowing leaves, and show 
 here and there in their boughs, hectic flushes, and har- 
 bingers of speedy dissolution. 
 
 But Mignon said that the flowers were still blossom- 
 ing brightly in the garden, and that there was some 
 happiness yet. 
 
 But I replied : " It is only for a few days my dear. 
 The great trees are nearer the heart of nature and learn 
 her secrets first. But the flowers will soon feel the dy- 
 ing breath of the year, and, smitten with the cruel arrows 
 of the frost, will bow their heads in recognition of the 
 great mystery, and the dahlias, and the asters, and the 
 marigolds will strew the earth with the souvenirs of the 
 summer sunshine. Some of the shrubs, to be sure, will 
 decorate themselves with berries in a childish way, and 
 
 the pines and ever-greens, clad in sombre green, will 
 n* 
 
150 An Autumn Reverie, 
 
 stand moodily thinking of their gay friends who have 
 left them — bearing the winter's white burden on their 
 bent branches as the penalty of life in death, con- 
 demned to live forever, like Ahasuerus, with the recol- 
 lection of numberless summers and companions — strong, 
 firm and inflexible, to bear the storms of winter, but 
 without a leaf which may stir next spring in glad recog- 
 nition of the breezes and the birds coming back again. 
 
 " The birds, too, have learned the mystery, and have 
 flown, all save the brown sparrow, and other sober, 
 songless little fellows, who know that they have no bus- 
 iness here when the flowers are in bloom, and little 
 winged bunches of blue and crimson and gold, are fill- 
 ing all the air with their trills and roulades. You may 
 listen very earnestly now, and you will only hear in the 
 day a chirp from the cricket, that little black under- 
 taker of the insects, who tries to be very cheerful, but 
 only succeeds in being sad." 
 
 And I further said to Mignon : "These latter days 
 of the year are akin to music, which is only music when 
 there runs through it a vein of melancholy — a melan- 
 choly like Tennyson's ' tender grace of a day that's 
 dead ' — not sorrow nor grief, but that indefinable sad- 
 ness which is to sorrow what the twilight is to the 
 blackness of darkness. But we will make these days 
 the happiest, for believe me, the chattering bobolink 
 is not as happy as the sparrow, nor the shrill, noisy, 
 cicada as happy as the chirping cricket ; and the 
 truest happiness will be found in those lives which are 
 shadowed with regrets, or veined with melancholy mem- 
 ories to which hope's tendrils may cling." 
 
 September 19, 1868. 
 
THE BEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD. 
 
 THINK old women — I don't quite like the 
 word "lady," because it don't mean anything 
 now-a-days — are the most beautiful and lovable 
 things in the world. They are so near heaven that they 
 catch the glow and the brightness which radiate from 
 the pearly gates and illuminate their faces. When the 
 hair begins to silver, and the embers in the fire grow 
 gray and cold, and the sun has got so far around in life's' 
 horizon that the present makes no shadow, while the 
 past stretches down the hillside to a little mound of 
 earth, where we will rest for a season — a little mound 
 not big enough to hold our corner lots, and marble 
 fronts, and safes, which we shall have to leave on the 
 other side of the hill, but big enough, I trust, to hold 
 our memories, and fancies, our air castles and secrets ; 
 and when the journey is nearly done, and the night is 
 setting in, and the darkness begins to gather around us 
 without any stars, and the birds sing low in the trees, 
 and the flowers wither and die, and the music we hear 
 comes from afar, strangely sweet, like sounds coming 
 over the water, and like little children we live in our- 
 selves, and the world gradually recedes from us — then I 
 should like to be an old woman, full of blessed memo- 
 ries and peaceful anticipations. 
 
152 The Best Woman, 
 
 I think I know the best woman in the world, and 1 
 think every other man knows her. I think the one I 
 know has the kindest heart, and the dearest face, and 
 the most caressing hand, and the most undying devo- 
 tion among all women. Her eyes were once to me the 
 boundaries of the world, and were the first things I ever 
 looked into, and pray Heaven they may also be the last 
 I shall look into And I think the best woman every 
 other man knows has all these qualities in the same de- 
 gree. And I think there is not one of us who has 
 strayed so far from that woman — the best of all women 
 — not one of us so calloused with the strife and toil of 
 life, not one of us in the midst of difficulty and danger, 
 who does not feel the invisible arms around him to 
 shield him, and who does not long to go back to the 
 arms and the love of that woman, and to rest, as we 
 rested before our feet got into the flinty roads, upon the 
 breast of our mother. 
 
 October 3, 1868. 
 
THE SCHOOL HOUSE. 
 
 N the round of my daily walks, it is my pleas- 
 ure to pass a school-house, and I try to arrange 
 my walks that I may happen to be there when 
 school is opening and closing. The little men and wo- 
 men who compose the miniature world in the school- , 
 yard, and make sunlight for me, undoubtedly have no 
 idea of the great pleasure they afford me, or how rap- 
 idly my thoughts, under the magic influence of their 
 bright eyes, lithe forms, and merry games, go back 
 into the past, the morning-red of life, when the beau- 
 tiful glamor of morning brightened every object it 
 touched ; when the flowers bloomed perennially ; when 
 the birds sang the sweetest of melodies ; and when 
 the brooks went laughing and dancing over the peb- 
 bles, full soon to broaden into sad, serene rivers, too 
 soon to be hurled and beaten against the grey crags in 
 eternal unrest ; and forward, into the future, a hazy, 
 twilight land, full of indefinable shapes and perplexing 
 uncertainties. And yet, as our shadows lengthen in the 
 journey towards it, there is always one certainty : that 
 we shall find there, those who have gone before. Some 
 who traveled the whole weary journey, and arrived 
 
154 ^'^^ Child7'C7i. 
 
 footsore and travel-stained, and some who never became 
 old, and were spared the toilsome journey, because the 
 angels loved them better than we and better than us. 
 
 And I think, as I watch those children at play, how 
 many unseen agencies are at work around them — of av- 
 arice which will corrode and blacken this young life, 
 and of charity which will make that young life beauti- 
 ful ; of ambition, which some day with its trumpet blasts 
 will wake this thoughtful one into action, and make the 
 world wonder at him ; of love, which will make this 
 one's pathway smooth, thinking of what is; which will 
 interlace cypress in the myrtle, thinking of what might 
 have been ; which will darken all God's Heaven for this 
 one, thinking of what never should have been ; of fame 
 which will send the name of this one sounding round 
 the world ; of skill which will enable this one to see 
 and know the very heart of nature \ of misery which 
 will follow this one like a Mephistophiles; and of de- 
 spair, which never stops short of the grave. 
 
 And all this time, as I watch these children, chasing 
 each other at play, as the yellow skeletons of the leaves 
 chase each other in the wind in these memorial morn- 
 ings, the fates sit spinning in the air above them, and 
 weaving the tangled web of their destinies, some of them 
 all white, some with here and there a black thread, 
 while Atropos sits by with her fatal shears, which will 
 sever this' thread too soon and that too late. 
 
 It is only a few days, and this chase in the school- 
 yard will be transferred into life, where no walls will 
 hem them in, and away they will go to the four winds 
 of Heaven^ and another set will take their places as they 
 took ours. Ours ! Do you remember anything about 
 
A Reminiscence. 155 
 
 those days in the midst of your invoices and bills of 
 lading, your Berlin wools and Grecian Bends, and some- 
 body coming home to tea and nothing in the house to 
 eat ? Do you remember the little red school-house on 
 the hill, with poplar trees in front of it, that you used 
 to think almost touched the sky ? Do you remember 
 the school mistress, with her pale face and sweet smile, 
 and her little blue ribbon, now sleeping under the flow- 
 ers, for school 's out forever, and she has a long vaca- 
 tion ? Do you remember the little girl in white apron 
 and blue gown, with blue eyes and golden curls, whose 
 satchel you carried up the hill, and whose name you cut 
 into the bark of the apple-trees, vowing an eternal con- 
 stancy — an eternity which lasted until the apple-trees 
 lost the last of their pink-and-white blossoms? Do you 
 remember the swallows which twittered round the eaves 
 of the school house all the spring and summer, and sud- 
 denly one bright morning all left together, scared by a 
 little brown bird, who came from the far north, and 
 told them a story of something coming, which made 
 them all shiver? And when that something came, do 
 you remember the old box stove piled up with logs, and the 
 snow-houses, and the nuts and cider, and the forfeits at 
 the parties, especially that one where you carried the pil- 
 low to the girl with black hair, instead of little Gold 
 Curls, not being on speaking terms with her, and the 
 school mistress, with cheeks paler, and eyes brighter 
 than ever, and flushes in the face which came and went 
 like lightnings in the western sky in summer eves, for 
 the little brown bird did not warn her that she ought to 
 go with the swallows ? You remember that when the swal- 
 lows came back one sunny morning in the next May, 
 
iS6 
 
 The Outlook. 
 
 they did not find the school-mistress, for she went away 
 with the brown bird. 
 
 If you don't remember any of these things, I pity 
 you, for the friction of life must have worn you quite 
 smooth, and the outlook must be very dreary. 
 
 October 11, 1868. 
 
A NEW LIFE. 
 
 N these latter days of the year, so full of melan- 
 choly, it occurs to me that we do not alto- 
 gether die when we shuffle off this mortal coil, 
 Is not physical death only a change to vegetable birth? 
 We are born, we mature, flourish, and decay, and are 
 laid away in the mould, only to reappear in the flower, 
 the shrub, and the tree. That little child whom you 
 buried when the leaves were falling, as you weep over 
 its grave, in the bright springtime, when the leaves are 
 repeating the miracle of the new creation, may look at 
 you out of the golden petals of the dandelion and the 
 butter-cup. There may be remembrance for you in the 
 leaves of the shrub at the headstone, as they are ruffled 
 by the breeze. There may be the souvenir of a famil- 
 iar smile in the tremor of a daisy. 
 
 The generations of men come and go, but their life 
 is not all gone. Life does not cease to exist. It is 
 eternal in its revolutions, its changes, and its new forms. 
 Down under the sod this active principle of life is still 
 at work. Mysterious chemical processes are operating 
 in that silent darkness. The old life shoots up in the 
 grasses. All the lives, and loves, and passions of long 
 ago blossom in the flowers. The life you once knew is 
 
158 Lives in Trees. 
 
 giving strength to the sturdy trunks of trees. It flows 
 through the veins of the branches with the sap, and 
 gives color to the leaves. In mythology, the Fauns and 
 Dryads, Naiads and Hamadryads, typified this idea to a 
 certain extent, and were the most beautiful creatures of 
 that beautiful mythology — so beautiful, indeed, that I am 
 heretic enough to acknowledge I would like to have 
 known all those dear divine creatures, so full of good, 
 old-fashioned mortal failings; to have sipped nectar 
 from Hebe's cup, and lunched on ambrosia with the 
 Thunder Bearer himself; to have gone to the opera 
 with Apollo, flirted with the naughty Venus, philoso- 
 phized with Minerva, taken tea with Juno, and had one 
 roaring old supper with Bacchus. 
 
 Thus there are whole races of men in the boundless 
 forests, and friends of yours and mine in the flowers. 
 It seems to me a very pleasant thought to believe that' 
 those whom we have loved, and whose lives were so 
 beautiful and graceful, are still growing in the beauty of 
 the flowers, and the grace of the vines ; that those 
 whose lives were bad and ungracious, yet exist in the 
 nightshade and hemlock ; that those whose lives never 
 blossomed in the shadow of great misfortunes, still 
 live for us in those flowerless plants whose leaves are 
 full of perfume ; that Nero is in the Upas, and Marat 
 is in the dogwood. 
 
 It is a pleasant fancy to me to think that some friend 
 whom I love will not altogether die, but will live in a 
 rose ; that I shall see the red of her cheeks in its petals, 
 and that her grace will continue in its form ; that the 
 fragrance of her memory will come to me in the fra- 
 grance of its perfume, and that the tears which have 
 
Lives in Trees. 159 
 
 stood in her eyes will be forever sacred in the dew drops 
 on its leaves. 
 
 There are strong, upright, and sturdy lives, which 
 live again in the firs and pines, which are proof against 
 all storms, and are green when all others are bare and 
 sere ; there are far-reaching, all-embracing lives, which 
 live again in the umbrageous oaks ; there are lives, which 
 were warped in childhood, which live again in the 
 crooked, gnarled trunks ; there are lives full of the gall 
 of bitterness, which never sweeten in the crab and 
 wormwood ;. there are graceful lives, which curve and 
 undulate in the vines ; there are black lives which grow 
 blacker in the poisonous plants, and the birds avoid 
 the vegetable life as the children avoided the human, 
 for birds and children are very much alike ; and I think 
 sometimes that the souls of the musicians are still sen- 
 tient in the murmuring wayes of the sea, and in the dia- 
 pason of the wind-swept pines. 
 
 November 14, 1868. 
 
OLD BLOBBS—HIS SPEECH. 
 
 PITZ-HERBERT happened in this morning, and 
 was lounging against the mantel, trying to look 
 interesting. Old Blobbs was very much dis- 
 gusted with the fellow, and begged to be allowed to 
 have his say. So I yielded the floor to him. 
 
 And Old Blobbs' screed ran somewhat as follows: "I 
 think it is every woman's duty to look as pretty as she 
 can, and, so long as she doesn't carry fashion to an ex- 
 treme and commit the mistake of making herself ridicu- 
 lous, she is excusable. I don't see any particular neces- 
 sity in a young man's looking pretty. In fact, it has 
 been my experience that when a young man does try to 
 look pretty, he generally succeeds in making an ass of 
 himself. It should be the duty of every man to do 
 something before he dies of which he may be proud, 
 and which may be of some benefit to the world or to 
 the individual, so that when he gets up to the gates, and 
 St. Peter questions his right to come in, he may have 
 something to show for himself. I think a young m>an 
 who is merely a walking advertisement for his tailor and 
 barber, and who has degenerated into a fashionable 
 dawdler, is in a poor way to accomplish anything for 
 himself, let alone the world. And I furthermore think 
 
Fashionable Young Men. i6i 
 
 that if I were St. Peter, and such a specimen came 
 before me, I would lift my blessed angelic foot and send 
 him flying into Chaos, without asking to see his creden- 
 tials at all. A small, black-backed beetle, pushing his 
 lump of dirt before him, is praising God more with 
 those busy legs of his, fulfilling the duty which God 
 gave him to do, and conferring more benefit upon man- 
 kind in general, than an army of fashionable dawdling 
 young men, the energy of whose enormous natures is 
 mainly confined to murdering King's English, and en- 
 dangering the integrity of looking-glasses. And when 
 this fashionable young man lets his fashion run him 
 into fashionable expenditure, there is n't a fashionable 
 young woman in the city who can keep up with him. 
 If he cannot have his Grecian Bend, he can have his 
 benders, which, if not so Grecian, are vastly more ex- 
 pensive. Dress, dinners, fast horses, betting, gambling, 
 and the elegant vices which follow in their train, are 
 ten thousand fold worse than all the pleasant little silli- 
 nesses of which Araminta may be guilty. The ex- 
 tremely fashionable young woman is pitiable, but she is 
 only trying to make herself look handsome, and that is 
 the object of her life ; but the extremely fashionable 
 young man is disgusting, because he has no right to look 
 pretty, and is simply squandering away opportunities he 
 has no right to waste. ' ' 
 
 Old Blobbs, as is his wont, grew excited as he talked, 
 and, bringing his fist down upon the table with a vim 
 which made the glasses fairly dance in their fright, and 
 sent the condiments of the castor and the contents of 
 the sugar bowl into promiscuous ruin, added: "Yes 
 sir ! a man with nothing to do but to entertain himself 
 
 12 
 
162 A Comparison. 
 
 and exhibit himself to society, is the most contemptible 
 object on God's footstool, and the sooner he gets off 
 from it, and makes room for somebody else, the better. ' ' 
 And here he grew slightly personal, and very red as to 
 the face. "Yes sir! You, Mr. Fitz-Herbert, holding 
 up the mantel-piece ! You think you are of some im- 
 portance in the world, and yet I will wager that your 
 direst responsibility to-day will be the parting of your 
 back hair. I will wager that you never had an opinion 
 in your life of more consequence than the relative 
 merits of Macassar and Ursine! I will wager that you 
 are not capable of feeling any distress keener than the 
 anxiety of a doubt relative to the exact condition of 
 your neck-tie. I will wager that Timothy Maloney, 
 scraping dirt on the avenue to-day, although he may 
 get drunk to-night and beat his wife, like the brute that 
 he is, is of more service to the world than you are. 
 That is my opinion of you, Mr. Fitz-what's-your-name, 
 and if an opinion on any conceivable subject can be of 
 any service to you, you are heartily welcome to it, sir. 
 I repeat it, welcome to it, sir." 
 
 I think Fitz-Herbert got an idea through his head 
 that Old Blobbs was talking about him, for he actually 
 took his tooth-pick out of his mouth and himself out of 
 the room. 
 
 December 5, 1868. 
 

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 DEATH OF THE MAIDEN AUNT. 
 
 LITTLE black-bordered billet reached us yes- 
 terday, and a cloud has settled down upon all 
 of us, for it brought the news of the death of 
 the Maiden Aunt. 
 
 She died in the night, by the side of the sea, which 
 she always loved, and the last sounds she heard were its 
 waves moaning on the beach, as her own life ebbed 
 away on the strand of death; and, after that, such 
 music as Raphael's St. Cecilia would sing, or the angels 
 who hover around his Madonnas. 
 
 She died by the side of the church-yard, in which for 
 thirty years the daisies have bloomed over him, to whom 
 she promised always to be loyal, and for whom she always 
 wore the forget-me-not in the silken floss of her hair, 
 in eternal remembrance. The forget-me-not is now 
 quite withered, for memory has blossomed into realiza- 
 tion, and hope is lost in possession, and the snow now 
 covers them side by side here, and, for all that, they 
 are side by side There. 
 
 Her life was so hidden from the world, that i^^f knew 
 her except the children and the house-dog, and some 
 birds which were pets, and they mourn her loss. The 
 children miss her, and it is something to be missed by 
 
164 How She Died. 
 
 the children, for it shows that however the body may 
 have been tossed about and weather-beaten in the tem- 
 pest of life, the soul has preserved itself in the repose 
 of childhood. The dog misses her, and goes about the 
 house moaning, and stirs uneasily in his sleep as if 
 dreaming of her, just as Florence Dombey's dog did, 
 in her and his first sorrow. And it is something to be 
 missed by a dog, for it argues a great deal of humanity. 
 The birds miss her, and have ceased their songs ; and 
 it is something to be missed by the birds, for no ungra- 
 cious souls care for them or their songs. 
 
 The heavens were mantled with grey, and the air was 
 full of snow, and the black harbor waves moaned on 
 the bar like a knell, when they buried her by the side 
 of him who took away all her sunshine when he died, 
 and left her life in the shadow. She sent some little 
 remembrances to us — a curl of her hair to Aurelia ; a 
 bit of blue ribbon, full of memories, to Celeste 3 a tur- 
 quoise ring, which he had worn, to Blanche ; and the 
 faded forget-me-not to Mignon. For the Maiden Aunt 
 was rich only in memories. 
 
 She did not die like a saint, for she was not a saint ; 
 neither like a sinner, for she was not a sinner ; but like 
 a true woman, full of courage and dignity, contented to 
 cross the River, because she knew she would find him 
 waiting for her on the other side, and wherever he went 
 she would go. 
 
 The Maiden Aunt always regarded human nature as 
 something very sacred and sublime, and she regulated 
 herself by that regard. I remember she used to tell me 
 that she believed there was no nature so bad, but that 
 it had a chord which would vibrate to goodness, provi- 
 
Her Belief. 165 
 
 ded the finger was skilled to find and touch that chord; 
 and that there was no soul so barren, but that some- 
 where in it a flower was blooming. She did not believe 
 that the divine spark which God implanted in each na- 
 ture could ever be utterly quenched, however its light 
 might be concealed in life's confusion and chaos. She 
 had faith in His omnipotence. 
 
 She had her faults and her frailties, which proved her 
 humanity. She Avas intensely human. The dead were 
 to her as the living, and he who had gone before her, 
 I think was always with her. He was only absent on a 
 journey, and would send for her when the time came, 
 and she waited in patience. Her knowledge, like the 
 knowledge of the most of us, was bounded by this life; 
 and she used to say that, when her thoughts reached 
 that boundary where knowledge ceased, her thoughts 
 ceased also. Consequently, she gave her work to this 
 life, and her love to him, whom she kept in this life, 
 although absent ; and, notwithstanding all her faults and 
 her frailties, I think, in the presence of the great sor- 
 row which had eclipsed her inward being, the angels at 
 the Celestial Gate did not question her — for the faults 
 and the frailties were of the body, and under the snow 
 with his, and never soiled the spirit, which had been 
 sanctified and purified by the grief which she had car- 
 ried as a burden at her heart. I think the angels recog- 
 nized her at once, as they recognized the Beatrices who 
 died — the one in glory, the other in agony — or that 
 Irmgard, who found repose on the Heights. 
 
 Our lives are twofold. There is the active, every-day 
 life in ourselves, and the life which we live in sleep, and 
 is made up of the tangled web of dreams. One of her 
 
1 66 Her Double Life. 
 
 lives was in herself, hidden to the outward gaze, and 
 yet manifesting its presence in a thousand gracelul ways. 
 The other, which no one ever saw or knew but herself, 
 went even beyond the realm of dreams, and in the 
 place left vacant in her heart, by the absence of that 
 life, there was eternal snow. 
 
 What was beautiful a thousand years ago, is beautiful 
 now, and if there were saints a thousand years ago, 
 there must be saints now, although their record may be 
 unchronicled, save in some human heart. I think the 
 Maiden Aunt was as worthy of canonization as Ursula or 
 Agatha, and that in this common, homely human life, 
 there are many worthy of it, whose saintliness will not 
 be known until that day when we are all brought upon 
 a common level. The homeliest humanity is full of 
 contests as fierce as those Tamerlane waged ; full of 
 deeds as glorious as those achieved by the gods and 
 demigods we set up for worship. They are never 
 known to the world, for they have no historians or sing- 
 ers to chronicle them, but when they come to be known 
 as they will be one day, we shall be surprised to find 
 that they were the real victors. 
 
 December 12, 1868. 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 SUPPOSE this old world will revolve about 
 its axis in 1869, just as it did in 1868, and that 
 Ave shall revolve with it just the same. I sup- 
 pose we shall go on loving, hating, praying, cursing, 
 marrying, dying, and doing foolish things in the new, as 
 we did in the old ; that Old Midas and Gunnybags will 
 chase the Almighty Dollar just as hard, and swindle 
 just as much ; that Mrs. Blobbs will continue to lecture 
 Old Blobbs on the proprieties, and that Old Blobbs 
 will continue to grow worse and worse ; that Aurelia will 
 have another baby in the new year just as she did in the 
 old, and will think there never was such a baby born 
 before ; that Celeste will continue to do foolish things, 
 and be the most delightfully wicked little creature in 
 the world, for she is just wicked enough to be com- 
 pletely good ; that Fitz-Herbert will make an ass of 
 himself next year as he did this ; that Mignon will be 
 just as sweet and lovely, and keep all the rest of us in 
 sunshine, and that Blanche will still search for the lost 
 melody in her life. 
 
 In general, I suppose, men and women will do in the 
 new year just as they did in the last, and will continue 
 to air their vices in the courts as if they were of any 
 
1 68 Conventionality. 
 
 interest to other people who have vices of their own, 
 which are a great deal more interesting, and boasting 
 their virtues, when everybody knows that under the cu- 
 ticle they are just as shabby as the rest of the world. 
 This is the one grand mistake which people make, viz : 
 To suppose their virtues or their vices are of any earth- 
 ly interest to other people. 
 
 As a general rule, you are only essential to yourself, 
 and the man who takes off your boots, and puts on 
 your coat, or the young woman who does up your coiff- 
 ure, and looks after your toilet, and knows you best, 
 will tell you this. Some people succeed in making he- 
 roes of themselves, and are worshipped by some other 
 people, but they are never heroes to those who know 
 them best. Strip your hero of his decorations, bid him 
 come down from his pedestal, undress him, and stand 
 him up by the side of Terence Maloney, and you can't 
 tell one from the other. 
 
 You see the whole thing is conventional. 
 
 So I suppose the sun will rise and set, and the world 
 go on just the same, until suddenly it stops going, for 
 you and for me, and we shall go out of it like gentle- 
 men, I trust. 
 
 We shall make the usual number of resolutions, I sup- 
 pose, on New Year's Day, and break them before the 
 next with our usual success. We shall firmly persuade 
 ourselves next Friday morning that we are hereafter to 
 be models of goodness, and pinks of propriety. We 
 shall appropriate to ourselves the most of virtue and de- 
 cency in the world, and set examples for the rest of 
 mankind. We shall all be shining instances of temper- 
 ance and godliness. We shall confine ourselves to a 
 
Resolutions. 169 
 
 proper use of King's English. We shall attend upon 
 Parson Primrose's ministrations twice each Sunday. 
 We shall no longer ruin the characters of others with 
 our idle, foolish gossip. We shall take off our masks 
 and wear our souls upon our sleeves. And before the 
 year is over, there isn't one of us who will do anything 
 of the kind. Our cemeteries, next New Year's Day, 
 will be just as full of head-stones set up to mark where 
 our broken resolutions lie, as they have ever been. 
 
 And a hundred years hence, it is extremely doubtful 
 whether any one will care for our resolutions, whether 
 they were kept or broken, or for us, whether we have 
 lived or died. But I suppose, for all that, it will be 
 necessary for us, during the coming year, to conceive 
 that we are of some importance, and that the curious 
 looker-on in Jupiter, and the Man in the Moon, will 
 wonder what we are all doing on our ant-hills, and why 
 we are making such a fuss. 
 
 And I suppose when you and I retire from the stage, 
 and the curtain comes down on the little farce we have 
 been playing, that the great audience will not go home, 
 nor the manager close up the theatre, but that other 
 actors will step into our buskins, and thus the play will 
 be kept up, and men will laugh, and women will weep, 
 and others will love and hate, and do brave deeds and 
 naughty deeds, although the call-boy may never sum- 
 mon us again behind the lights. 
 
 Now, I might go on from this point and preach you 
 a sermon, as my brethren in the pulpit will do, upon 
 the brevity of time and the stern realities of life, but I 
 am not going to do anything of the kind. Life is not 
 measured by years, nor by flight of time. He lives 
 
170 
 
 Life, 
 
 most who loves most, and lives longest who appreciates 
 what is best. Some men live longer in a year than 
 others in a lifetime. 
 
 December 26, 1868. 
 
PUBLIC PARTIES 
 
 T breakfast, this morning, our first topic of con- 
 versation was on the matter of parties. It has 
 been, as you know, a great party week, and 
 Old Blobbs, in a casual kind of way, desired to know 
 my opinion of them. Celeste looked a little uneasy at 
 this request, for there is nothing that so delights that 
 Dear Child as a party crush, and nothing is sweeter to 
 her than the fine disorder of her green silk, after young 
 Gauche has emptied his sherry over it, or old Mrs. Dal- 
 rymple, who is chaperoning her two nieces to the marital 
 market, has spilled a plate of escalloped oysters upon it, 
 and that overgrown boy of the Midases, who is out for 
 the first time, has trodden them in and disturbed the 
 integrity of the panier besides. She regards all these 
 things as the veteran does his scars, and loves to talk of 
 them in her "confidences" to her two-and-forty dear 
 young friends, who have just bobbed in after dinner to 
 say "How do you do?" and inquire if it was really 
 true, that bit of scandal about Matilda So-and-So and 
 young Codliver. The company immediately pushed 
 their chairs back. Mignon called the Canary from his 
 cage for its morning meal, and as it flew to its customary 
 place upon her shoulder, and watched with its sharp 
 little black eyes the bread which was being crumbled for 
 
172 Party Competition. 
 
 it, I thought I would rather talk about those two birds 
 than parties. Blanche sat with her fine eyes half closed, 
 as dear old Rossini used to sit at his table, and listened 
 in a dreamy sort of way. Aurelia had all she could do 
 to keep the baby still by threatening it with her shapely 
 fore-finger, while Old Blobbs took his fifth baked pota- 
 to, a feat in gormandizing which incurred a glance from 
 Mrs. Blobbs that would have withered any other person 
 and caused a rustle of her black silk (for Mrs. B. will 
 wear her black silk to breakfast), eloquent with promises 
 of something between the curtains which would not be 
 as soothing as a lullaby nor as delicious as a love-song. 
 
 And I spoke somewhat after the following manner : 
 Some time ago I did myself the pleasure to give you 
 my opinion of fashionable public weddings. Upon 
 that occasion, you will remember that my principal ob- 
 jection to those weddings, was the fact that people mis- 
 take vulgarity for elegance. The same fatal mistake 
 applies to public parties, as they are usually given ; 
 where genuine elegance becomes impossible, and there 
 are no opportunities offered for the display of taste. 
 
 You all well know that party giving, at present, is a 
 mere competition. Mrs. So-and-So issues her cards for 
 two hundred. Mrs. This-and-That immediately sends 
 out three hundred, and Mrs. Whether-or-No, at her 
 party, increases her list to five hundred, and so on. 
 Now, I have no hesitation in pronouncing this simple 
 vulgarity. You cannot make miscellaneous herding ele- 
 gant. In the first place the social element is killed. 
 To claim that you have five hundred friends is simply 
 stupid. To claim that you have fifty is susceptible of 
 doubt. If you have five, you are much better off. 
 
Party Vulgarity. 173 
 
 Your five hundred people are, then, merely acquaint- 
 ances. In the race to get ahead of some one else, you 
 have invited scores of people you don't care a straw for, 
 scores of others who don't care a straw for you, scores 
 of boobies and simpletons, and when you have herded 
 and packed them together, in a house not capable ot 
 holding one-fourth that number comfortably, you have 
 simply made a vulgar crush, where no one knows his 
 neighbor, and where mutual acquaintance is impossible, 
 because, however peripatetic you may be in principle, 
 you are stationary in fact. To make such an affair ele- 
 gant, is in the nature of things impossible. Mere show, 
 noise, glitter, gilt, gingerbread, and gew-gaw, are not 
 elegance. Taste cannot be exercised among, nor appre- 
 ciated by a genteel mob. In forms of art, in matters of 
 taste and true elegance, there must be the element -ot 
 repose. It is indispensable to perfection. A gathering 
 of people without any conditions of age, character, or 
 quality, literally packed into a space so small, that loco- 
 motion becomes impossible ; a table which your restau- 
 rateur can't make a success, owing to this fact; an 
 intellectual atmosphere, surcharged only with the small 
 gossip and twaddle of the hour ; an utter absence of 
 culture, which alone could impart the repose of true 
 elegance ; a meretricious display of glitter, and no true 
 gold ; a feasting which is only gormandizing — for in 
 such a miscellaneous gathering you cannot keep out the 
 gluttons ; an absence of all true courtesy, because it is 
 impossible to exercise it in the crush; an occasion 
 which does not offer a single inducement for attendance, 
 in the way of art, music, literature, or the best forms of 
 social intercourse — is all that you have accomplished. 
 
174 Party Vulgarity. 
 
 Was it worth accomplishing ? You know it was not, 
 my dear madame, as well as I. You know that when 
 you wake up the next morning, you are utterly disgusted 
 with the whole affair, and that there is not a single ele- 
 ment of gratification in remembering it, except the 
 empty honor of beating Mrs. So-and-So. You know 
 that nine-tenths of those who were present did not 
 enjoy a single minute of comfort, and look back upon 
 your party as a bore, while the happy ones are those 
 whose regrets lie upon your table. 
 
 And all this, simply because it was vulgar — not vul- 
 gar as meaning immoral or low, but as meaning silly 
 and common. You have made your house too com- 
 mon. No party can be a success, in the best sense of 
 the word, in which there is not some discrimination 
 used in inviting your guests. You should always arrange, 
 if possible, to bring people together of similar tastes, 
 and then have some central point to hold them to- 
 gether. If you must invite five hundred people, you 
 had better make five parties of one hundred each, care- 
 fully discriminating, so that your guests may enjoy 
 themselves, than to herd the whole five hundred into 
 one, and thus make a mere rush, scramble, crush and 
 guzzle of it, and transform your house into a menagerie. 
 I am glad to know that this view is not confined to my- 
 self, but that in good society, (not the "best" society, 
 for that is almost always the worst), the home parties 
 are included in small soirees of a distinctive character, 
 in which there is ample room for the display of culti- 
 vated and artistic elegance, admission to which is deem- 
 ed an honor. 
 
 But do not forget above all, that when a thing 
 
Public Parties. 175 
 
 becomes miscellaneous, it becomes vulgar, and that 
 judicious exclusiveness and cultured repose are abso- 
 lutely essential to true elegance. The most delicate rose 
 in the garden planted among hollyhocks, and sunflow- 
 ers, and weeds, loses all its beauty and fragrance. 
 
 Old Blobbs had finished his potato, and was far ad- 
 vanced upon his sixth, when I concluded. He heartily 
 agreed with me, although Celeste was pouting her 
 pretty lips, and said that he desired to make a few 
 remarks also, whereupon Mignon commenced teasing 
 the Canary with a geranium leaf from our breakfast bou- 
 quet, and Mrs. Blobbs suddenly excused herself, which 
 did not, however, deter Blobbs from saying his say. 
 
 January 10, 1869. 
 
AURELIA' S BABY. 
 
 IT is necessary I should say something about 
 Aurelia's Baby, for it is the only baby in the 
 whole world. At least Aurelia thinks so — -just 
 as any other mother thinks. 
 
 I suppose there never was a baby born into this vale 
 of tears, that its mother did not suppose to be the 
 only baby in the world. I suppose those poor women 
 who were the mothers of Nero, Richard, Elizabeth, 
 Robespierre, Marat, and the latest murderer who has 
 expiated his villainies on the gallows-tree, thought the 
 same thing, equally with the mothers of all good and 
 blessed people. I see no good reason why they should 
 not, for the birth of the first baby revolutionizes the 
 world. The mother passes into a new sphere of being, 
 illumined by other suns and stars, in which other flow- 
 ers blossom and other birds sing, and the only inhabi- 
 tants of which are she and the baby. All her great love 
 centres in the baby, and where all her love centres, of 
 course, there is her world. The whole world of the 
 baby is limited by the boundaries of its mother's eyes. 
 You may have noticed a baby lying in its nurse's arms, 
 looking up into the sky with wide-staring, vacant eyes 
 and blank face. It has no more intelligence in its face 
 than a small kitten or any other sucking possibility. In 
 ■"he arms of a nurse, all babies are alike — merely breath- 
 
Eve's Baby. 177 
 
 ing bits of blank vacancy — apple-dumplings, with plums 
 for eyes, and stuffed with colic. But, change the scene, 
 and place the baby in the arms of its mother, and, 
 somehow, by some strange necromancy that passes be- 
 tween the two, some subtle link of affinity, that baby's 
 face lights up with intelligence and its little white soul 
 looks out of the eyes as it recognizes its world in the 
 calm, holy eyes of the mother; for I think every moth- 
 er's eyes, from Aurelia's to some wild Indian mother's, 
 crooning strange weird lullabies under tropic palms, to 
 her first born, are saintly when they gaze into the sweet 
 face of the first baby. And I believe that the angels do 
 not know such a love as exists between those two mor- 
 tals. 
 
 Which reminds me to say that I think Eve's baby, 
 which she named Cain, had the advantage of Aure- 
 lia's baby in some respects. The chronicles of that 
 day do not show that the baby Cain was obliged to take 
 soothing syrup, squills, or paregoric. There is no 
 proof that the angels smiled at him or talked to him in 
 his sleep, as they do to modern babies through the medi- 
 um of colic. Cain could wander about at his own 
 sweet will, without any danger of catching the whoop- 
 ing cough, measles, chicken-pox or any other of the 
 contagious infantile necessities which have been imposed 
 upon all coming babies by his mother's exploits in steal- 
 ing and eating apples. Adam did not have to walk the 
 floor o' nights, have his whiskers pulled out by the roots, 
 or buy rattles and india-rubber rings. There isn't a 
 line on record to show that the infantile Cain suffered 
 from pins sticking into his blessed little legs and arms. 
 I do not suppose that the old ladies of the neighborhood 
 13 
 
178 His Advantages. 
 
 came in every day or so, and scared Eve's life out of 
 her, by conjuring up all sorts of diseases, with all sorts 
 of remedies and cheerful predictions that Cain would 
 die young, although I think it would have been better 
 for Cain if he had. Holy Writ does not show, again, 
 that Cain was entrusted in his marsupial days, to the 
 care of that curious compound of a gin bottle and a 
 baby-tender, who has a profound contempt for the 
 mother, knows more than all the rest of the world com- 
 bined, and looks upon a physician as a foe to the human 
 race. I do not suppose Cain was kissed within an inch 
 of his life by prospective young mothers and youthful 
 females, who have graduated from the doll stage of 
 their existence, nor that he was rigged up in bib, pina- 
 fore, and ribbon, until he was purple in the face, with 
 the point of one very sharp pin inserted into the end 
 of his back, and placed on exhibition in a state of 
 squalls and general disgust consequent upon the afore- 
 said point, which he could feel, if he could n't see. 
 The youthful Cain was not made the victim of the ma- 
 ternal meetings, and crammed with Watts' hymns, and 
 chapters of the Bible before he was into his fig-leaf 
 breeches — and right here, I suppose somebody will say 
 he would have turned out better if he had been brought 
 up in this manner, to which I might retort with the fact 
 that Abel was not subjected to the cramming process 
 either. Cain never bumped his precious little head by 
 falling out of his crib. He could not fall out of the 
 cradle of the beautiful white arms of the first mother, 
 which encircled him with their zone of love, and which, 
 I warrant you, yearned for him even when he wandered 
 through the earth, with the brand upon his brow, and 
 
Eve. 179 
 
 the stain upon his heart, and our common mother 
 mourned in the depths of a triple agony. And it is to 
 be recorded as one of the incidents of his early days, 
 that Eve was a healthy woman, and he was not brought 
 up on chalk and water, and did not ruin his small stom- 
 ach with candy and sweetmeats, presented by injudi- 
 cious, but kindly disposed people, whose generosity was 
 only equalled by their stupidity. 
 
 I am getting away from Aurelia's baby somewhat, but 
 there are still some analogies between Aurelia and Eve 
 untouched upon, and, as I am writing this screed I will be 
 obliged to you if you do not interrupt me again, but 
 leave me to say my say in my own manner. I candidly 
 confess to you that I don't know where this baby busi- 
 ness will take me, or when I shall get through talking 
 about it, but just at present I prefer to let the subject 
 take me along at wili. I had rather trust myself to ba- 
 bies, than some grown people who insist upon interrup- 
 tion. 
 
 After this necessary parenthetical defence of my 
 rights, I may say that although the youthful Cain turned 
 out very badly, I do not suppose that Eve — as she sat 
 under the pleasant trees of Eden, and watched the little 
 Cain playing in the flowers, while all the birds, as yet 
 unharmed by man, came and sang to her — ever thought 
 her first-born would be a murderer, or ever saw any- 
 thing in his face, as he lay upon her bosom, but love 
 and joy. For the good God never made anything ugly 
 or bad. All that comes from his hand is perfect and 
 beautiful. No human being, do I sincerely believe, is 
 born absolutely ugly. The ugly man has made him- 
 self ugly. The ugly woman is at fault herself. 
 
1 8o hi Store. 
 
 And as Aurelia sits looking into the eyes of her baby, 
 I do not think she ever dreams of what may be in store 
 for it in the coming days. Her whole world is in the 
 present. But as I watch them, smoking my cigar, I 
 cannot help seeing visions in the smoke, and I some- 
 times shudder as I think that the sweet blue eyes may 
 lose all their light of beauty, and purity, and innocence, 
 and burn with the fierce flame of passion, or be dimmed 
 with the mists of misery, or darkened with the night of 
 anguish through which she may have to pass ; that the 
 little soft pink-and-white feet may have to travel and 
 bleed on the flinty roads to which they are all unused, 
 and that, weary and travel-worn, soiled and dusty, they 
 may find no resting place this side of Heaven, save in 
 the long rest under the flowers ; that the tiny hands 
 which now grasp at the world, as if they would clutch 
 it all in the little fists, may full soon fold themselves., 
 tired with the conflict, may grasp another only to be 
 deceived, only to wither and waste away, only to be 
 crossed above a cold, silent heart, with a flower in their 
 marble fingers, may know cruel grasps of parting, and 
 heart-ache, may do the deed which shall dishonor the 
 sweet mother-hand which must too soon cease to guide, 
 and must let go the hold which it would fain keep for- 
 ever. 
 
 And in all the great joy in her eyes, I see no traces of a 
 shadow which may come into the house ; no fear that 
 some day the sun will not shine for her, and the stars 
 be darkened in the cruel heavens ; that the baby which 
 but yesterday filled all the home with the light of her eyes 
 and the silvery music of her voice, will be lying cold and 
 still in the chamber overhead ; that the little waxen face 
 
The Maternal Change. 18 1 
 
 moulded into a moment's unearthly beauty, by that 
 cunning sculptor, Death, will cease to respond to her ; 
 that the white and green of the cross and the crown, 
 and the half opened rose-bud, no whiter than the 
 fingers holding it, will be the only souvenirs of her whom 
 the jealous angels carried away in the night watches, be- 
 cause she was fairer than they. I think sometimes of 
 these things as I sit watching them, but I know that 
 she does not, and I pray Heaven to avert the cruel blow, 
 and that the mother may be waiting for the child at the 
 Gate Beautiful, and not the child waiting for the moth- 
 er ; and that all the good angels may watch over them, 
 and shield them both, however deep the waters through 
 which they may pass. 
 
 I think that Aurelia's face has suffered "a sea- 
 change " since the little one was born ; that it has been 
 transfigured into something more beautiful — a serenity, 
 and holy calm, which is not altogether beauty, but a 
 rapt and saintly expression, such as you may see in the 
 Madonna della Sedia of Raphael. I think you will 
 often see it in young mothers at certain times. All 
 that was there before imprinted by the wear and friction 
 of life, with its petty annoyances, vexations and passions, 
 all the weariness and ennui, all the storms and conflicts, 
 seem to have passed away, and in their stead has set- 
 tled down a placid, gentle, saintly expression, just as 
 after the noise and bustle, the smoke and dust, the jan- 
 gle and jar of the day, come the brooding wings of the 
 twilight, the holy hush of evening, and the silence of 
 the stars. 
 
 January 17, 1869. 
 
THE QUARREL. 
 
 LD Blobbs, who always takes a fiendish delight 
 in chaffing Fitz-Herbert, immediately proceed- 
 ed to enlighten him, by declaring it was no- 
 thing of the sort. "I suppose, my young friend, that 
 Lambele had the same right to get married as Mrs. 
 Blobbs had, and would give the same reason. I sup- 
 pose, if you live long enough, sir, you will find some 
 foolish young woman who will want to marry you, al- 
 though I think you will be quite old by that time. 
 Mrs. Blobbs and I have lived together a great many 
 years. With all due deference to Mrs. Blobbs, we have 
 had a good many clouds in our sky, and some storms. 
 It is not for me to say who has caused these storms, nor 
 to insinuate that it is not altogether necessary for us to 
 have had clouds in our sky. Perhaps, if the sun shone all 
 the time, we should not appreciate each other as we do. 
 At the same time, Mrs. B. will join me in saying that it 
 is a blessed thing to be married. Why, sir, look at J. 
 Grau, who has been sitting under the willows of Baby- 
 lon, playing the harp all his life, in single blessedness, 
 and is going to marry a young New York lady, of 
 charming beauty and great expectations. Now, you 
 may ask why J. Grau, who has always been wedded to 
 
The Storm. i '^■^ 
 
 art (when it paid), wants to marry? It will make a 
 man of J. Grau, sir — make a man of him. It makes a 
 man of any one, A man without a wife is a boat with- 
 out oars. It will drift without purpose, and finally go 
 to pieces. He is a jug without a handle — a bow with- 
 out an arrow. It would make a man of you, sir, al- 
 though it might take more than one woman to do it. 
 Your prospects for an early attainment of that desidera- 
 tum would be better under the wings of Brigham Young, 
 albeit the ' heft ' of the labor would come upon your 
 marital female fractional parts. Any further informa- 
 tion you desire, you can obtain from Mrs. Blobbs, if 
 you apply between the hours of two and three, when she 
 is invariably at peace with me and all the rest of the 
 world." Whereupon Fitz-Herbert smoothed his back 
 hair and looked at himself in the mirror opposite, and 
 Mrs. Blobbs' black silk began to rustle, when Mignon 
 prevented an outbreak between Jupiter and Juno by de- 
 claring it was a shame to have the pleasure of the 
 breakfast-table marred with any differences. The Cana- 
 ry stopped singing when Mignon spoke, ashamed of his 
 music, and as the Dear Creature arose and kissed the 
 frown out of Mrs B.'s face, and smoothed down Old 
 Blobbs' iron-gray locks, she said: "We must have no 
 naughty words, my dear Blobbs, in this golden sunlight 
 and under these blue heavens. Let us thank the good 
 God who sent us gifts of days like these in the new 
 year, and who tempers the winter winds in blessings to 
 the firesides of the poor, and not mar their perfect 
 beauty with our little differences." And she took 
 Blobbs' hard, horny hand, and Mrs. B,'s thin and 
 withered hand in her own little white hands, and, 
 
184 The Truce 
 
 placing them together, said: ''We will have no more 
 quarrels, my dears, and, under clear and cloudy skies — 
 in bright or stormy weather — when roses are blooming 
 and roses are dying — when the birds build among the 
 leaves, and when no birds fly under the gray heavens — • 
 we will go hand in hand and heart to heart, for life is 
 too short for us to quarrel in. The sun is low down in 
 the west, and our shadows grow longer. We have but 
 a little way to go down the hill, and one of us must 
 leave the other before we get to the foot of it. We 
 will, therefore, forget all about the rough journeys up 
 the hill, and make the rest of our way lighter and 
 brighter, in remembrance of that day, so long ago, 
 when we placed our hands together thus, and promised 
 so to do." And there were tears in Mrs. Blobbs' face, 
 and Old Blobbs' face lighted up with an expression 
 none of us had ever seen it wear before. As the old 
 couple sat for some time, hand in hand, and neither of 
 them spoke, we knew that the trumpets were singing 
 truce, and that the battle was over. 
 
 January 23, 1869. 
 
A WOMAN NOT OF THE PERIOD. 
 
 UT thus formally embracing the Woman of the 
 Period, I cannot altogether suppress memories, 
 and among them will come memories not of the 
 period ; a woman who believes that God Almighty did not 
 intend to unsex her ; a woman who believes that as soon 
 as her dependence upon man ceases, she loses all her 
 loveliness ; a woman whose home is a perennial spring, 
 from which flow the purest of pleasures ; a woman who 
 sends out her boys and girls into the world, clothed with 
 her own graces of humility, and beauty, and goodliness, 
 whereby they may crown her old age with blessing ; a 
 woman who is queen at her own fireside, and rules her 
 own household with the sceptre of love ; a woman who 
 governs because she serves ; a woman whose influence 
 radiates far and wide from the home circle, as light and 
 heat radiate from the sun ; a woman upon whose breast 
 you first opened your eyes to the light of day, and a 
 woman upon whose breast you would fain lie when you 
 close your eyes forever to the light, and prepare to go 
 through the darkness alone ; a woman to whom invisi- 
 ble forces are ever drawing you, under all suns, in all 
 times, and in all wanderings, be they never so far 3 a 
 
1 86 The Mother. 
 
 woman, the perfume of whose prayers always follows 
 you, in good or evil report ; a woman who always clings 
 to you, even to the depths of degradation ; a woman 
 whose great love is superior to all the accidents of time ; 
 a woman whose still, small voice, warning finger, and 
 pleading eyes, are ever present with you: when over- 
 whelmed with sore temptations ; a woman whose price 
 is above rubies, who worketh willingly with her hands, 
 who giveth meat to her household, who stretcheth 
 her hands to the poor, whose husband is known in 
 the gates, when he, (not she), sitteth among the 
 elders of the land ; who openeth her mouth with wis- 
 dom, and in whose tongue is the law of kindness ; who 
 looketh well to the ways of her household, and whose 
 childreh and her husband also arise up and call her 
 blessed ; a woman to whom you look up, and whom you 
 worship, though no halo, except that of love, sheds its 
 light upon her sweet face ; a woman whose life is too 
 holy to be debased with politics, too industrious to be 
 wasted on empty babble, too lofty and too noble to be 
 dragged down to the level of man ; a woman, best of 
 all women — your mother and my mother. 
 
 February 13, 1869. 
 
A TRIP TO HEAVEN 
 
 T was in a dream, and, I think, the Andante of 
 the fifth symphony had something to do with 
 it. In any event I left this Earth very sud- 
 denly on a trip among the stars. After I had risen a 
 short distance, I looked down upon the Earth, and was 
 astonished to find what a small and insignificant place 
 it was, after all. Quite a number of people whom I^ 
 might mention, who make a great parade and show, and 
 who strut up and down the green footstool, like Sir Or- 
 acles, actually looked to me like ants, running about on 
 an ant hill, and they didn't appear at my height to 
 any better advantage than those who were more humble 
 and retired. Several loud, blatant fellows, and several 
 women gifted with Gab, strange to say, I couldn't hear 
 at all. In fact, I couldn't discover that there was any- 
 thing at all of much consequence in this world, to a 
 man half a mile up in the air. When I arrived at the 
 Moon, I stopped to rest, and had a talk with the Man 
 in it, who laid down his bundle of sticks and was very 
 affable. Much to my surprise, when I looked after the 
 Earth I couldn't find it, and inquiry of the Man did 
 not help me any, as he had never known such a place, 
 except from hearsay. He pointed out several millions 
 
1 88 The Planets. 
 
 of stars in an obscure and remote part of the heavens, 
 which were dimly visible, and intimated that the Earth 
 might be among them, but, as it was of so little conse- 
 quence he never troubled himself about it. When I 
 told him, however, how the lovers of Earth worshipped 
 his planet, he seemed pleased, and expressed his gratifi- 
 cation that there was so much moonshine in love. I 
 gave him the latest intelligence of the doings of the 
 Sorosis, in which he manifested considerable interest, 
 there being, as he told me, no women in the Moon. I 
 noticed that the place was exceedingly quiet. 
 
 After guiding me upon my way to Heaven, he picked 
 up his bundle of sticks and resumed his journey, and I 
 set off on another flight. I passed Jupiter, who was 
 still up to his scandalous tricks, which, of old, brought 
 Antiope, Leda, Europa, and others, into the divorce 
 courts; passed Mars, who was just putting on his hel- 
 met and preparing to thresh a small planet in a distant 
 galaxy ; passed Venus, to whom I touched my hat and 
 hurried on, as she was just then engaged in a tete-a-tete 
 with Adonis; passed the Pleiades, all of whom still wear 
 mourning for their lost sister, who, they informed me, 
 ran away several thousand years ago, with a pretty little 
 comet with a tail like a peacock's; passed Ursa Major, 
 who growled somewhat, but finally gave me a drink from 
 his Dipper ; passed the North Star, the only steady and 
 well-behaved star in the heavens. After leaving the 
 Cynosure, my course led me into the Milky Way, a 
 wretched place, which, to my astonishment, I found full 
 of milkmen, who, on earth, have been accustomed to 
 sell chalk and water. One of these unfortunate shades, 
 who used to have an Elgin dairy on the Archer road, 
 
Other Sy stents. 189 
 
 informed me, with tears in his ghostly eyes, that the 
 Milky Way was reserved for the milkmen of Earth, who 
 have proclivities for pumps, and that they are doomed 
 to be chased through all eternity by stump-tailed cows. 
 He begged me, when I returned to earth, to warn his 
 relatives and all others in the business. I promised to 
 do so, and, when I left the Milky Way, he was making 
 the grand round, with a whole herd of stump-tails, who 
 used to live on the North Branch, after him. 
 
 After leaving the Milky Way, I reached the bound- 
 ary of our system of planets, and dodging innumerable 
 meteors and comets which were flying about in the most 
 eccentric manner, and narrowly escaping destruction by 
 the explosion of a planet, many times larger than the 
 Earth, which burst into millions of atoms with a roar 
 which seemed to shake the whole empyrean, and went 
 floating off into space like a piece of burned tinder, 
 passed into another system of stars and planets, all 
 revolving round their central stm. The earthly system 
 was soon lost to view. I passed from planet to planet, 
 from galaxy to galaxy, floated in azure fields full of 
 gorgeous nebulae, or rode on undulating billows of air, 
 between comets of lustrous sheen, and moons and suns, 
 whose orbits interlaced, in sheens of glowing, rosy light. 
 Out of this system into still another, and the last faded 
 from sight again, and so on till I reached a great calm 
 sea of golden light in which there were no suns nor no 
 moons. I had passed the confines of all worlds, and 
 they had all disappeared. Above, below, and all 
 around was only this serene, golden atmospjhere, unfleck- 
 ed by a single spot, undotted by a single island. It 
 was the vast, open sea of Immortality, which never be- 
 
190 At the Gate. 
 
 gan, and shall never end. In that sea there was no 
 limit to vision. In that sea all things became clear. 
 Time dwindled to a speck, and Death was only an in- 
 cident. Life was incomprehensible in this sea, but it 
 seemed to me with my new vision that I had lived many 
 lives before this one, and that I saw the shadows and 
 indistinct forms of others yet to be lived. As I floated 
 on, I suddenly rose out of the gold into a crystal at- 
 mosphere, which was no longer the solitude of the 
 sea, but was peopled with beautiful forms which flew 
 slowly past me with wondering eyes, and one or two 
 there were, who gazed at me with an old familiar look 
 I somehow seemed to remember in that Earth, millions 
 of miles below me, but no sound came from their lips, 
 and thus I questioned them in vain. As I rose higher, 
 this crystal atmosphere was crowded with lustrous forms, 
 and suddenly, in a blaze of almost blinding brightness, 
 I found myself at the great gate of pearl, with St. Peter 
 keeping watch and ward, the keys in his hands, as the 
 old masters loved to paint him. He very courteously 
 denied me admission, as I was only in a dream, and 
 had not yet passed to that sleep which knows no dreams ; 
 but he allowed me to stand at the gate. 
 
 And as I stood there, several disembodied individ- 
 uals who had formerly lived on Earth, applied for 
 admission. Upon each application, St. Peter inquired 
 in a loud voice within, if there was any objection. The 
 first who came was a cartman. The usual inquiry was 
 made, and as the cartman was about to enter, his horse, 
 whom he had beaten and killed with cruelty, and whose 
 sufferings had reached the throne of the infinite God, 
 confronted him, and gazed at him with those eyes 
 
The Laiv of Love. 191 
 
 which had appealed to him for mercy in life, until he 
 fled in dismay into the outer abyss. Another came, 
 and a little bird, whom he had wantonly shot on Earth, 
 to whom God had given life not without purpose, flew 
 from a lotus plant to the gate, and confronted him. 
 He, too, asked no questions and turned away. An- 
 other came, and, as he was about to enter, a pallid form 
 with a gory wound on his forehead, suddenly appeared 
 before him, and the now revealed murderer fled, shriek- 
 ing, away from the gate. The next who came was a 
 purse-proud individual, who had on Earth ground down 
 his female employees, and paid them only the scantiest 
 pittance, and as he was about to enter, a woman in rags, 
 with pinched, wan features, who had died of neglect 
 and starvation, met him and prevented his entrance. 
 I could not begin to enumerate all who came to that> 
 gate and went away. One man's entrance was pre- 
 vented by a butterfly, whom he, cruelly and in wan- 
 ton sport, had torn to pieces to gratify his malicious idle- 
 ness. Each one that had perpetrated a needless wrong, 
 met that wrong at the gate, and it stood in his way. And 
 I inquired of St. Peter if that was the universal law in 
 Heaven, and he said to me : " The law of Heaven is 
 love. The law of kindness is the law of love, and he 
 loves the great God best who loves everything He has 
 made — the beast of the field, the bird of the air, and 
 the fish of the sea ; and Heaven loves him best who 
 loves all His works on the Earth, from the tiniest 
 insect to his brother Man." 
 
 St. Peter ceased, for just then Beethoven and Mozart 
 and Mendelssohn and Bach commenced to play a new 
 quartette, which they had just composed together, and 
 
ic)2 A Reiiicvibrance. 
 
 so sweet was that music that all the angels came flocking 
 to hear it. Dante stood by listening, with Beatrice, for 
 he no longer looked up to her in the shining heights, 
 but beheld his "most gentle lady" face to face. Irma, 
 who found repose on the Heights, and the other Bea- 
 trice, now kindred spirits, were there. Petrarch and 
 Laura, and Abelard and Heloise, freed from all earthly 
 taints, reclined upon a flowery bank and listened, and 
 many others, whom I have not time to enumerate, who 
 did great deeds upon Earth, and suffered great sorrows, 
 and yet were nameless heroes there, found their great 
 reward in these delights. As the music ceased and I 
 was about to turn away, there was a little form which 
 flew towards me and looked at me with unutterable love 
 in her eyes, and stretched out her little white hands to 
 me, and I recognized the eyes as those I had seen on 
 Earth and the hands as those which I had seen crossed' 
 over a rose-bud no whiter than they, and the form as 
 one we had laid away, when all the birds were singing 
 and all the flowers were in bloom, in the populous Acre of 
 God. And I would fain have gone to her, but as I sprang 
 forward, she vanished slowly into the distance, still look- 
 ing at me with the loving eyes, still stretching out the 
 white hands, and, like a strain of beautiful music wafted 
 over water in the night-watches, came the words to me, 
 " Not yet." And the heavens vanished and I awoke 
 upon the dim spot which men call Earth. 
 
 February 20, 1869. 
 
DA V DREAMS. 
 
 UR talk at the breakfast table yesterday morn- 
 ing, was discursive to a degree which would 
 have distracted Anna Dickinson. We had no 
 hobbies to ride, and we rattled on about this, that, and 
 the other, Mignon's Canary singing at the top of his 
 little lungs, and Aurelia's baby adding to the general 
 confusion by the most desperate protests, in an un- 
 known tongue, against a pin, which was sticking into 
 his blessed little back. We were all very happy, and 
 not even Mrs. Blobbs complained of any invasion of 
 her rights. Old Blobbs, his face beaming with delight, 
 was undressing his third baked potato, and asked, in a 
 careless, and slightly sarcastic way, ''Well, what have 
 you been day-dreaming about lately ? ' ' 
 
 And I replied : " You should not speak so lightly of 
 day dreams, for you are a day-dreamer. ' ' 
 
 Blobbs looked up in surprise, and Mrs. Blobbs stop- 
 ed stirring her coffee to gravely shake her head. " Yes, 
 my dear Blobbs," said I, "you are a dreamer. We 
 are all dreamers. Life is all a dream, and we shall not 
 cease dreaming until we fall into the dreamless sleep, 
 when all that is now dark will become bright, and the 
 Sphynx will no longer torment us with the enigma of 
 
 14 
 
194 Sentiment. 
 
 its stony lips and staring eyes. It is useless for you to 
 deny that you have any sentiment in your nature. You 
 may try to cover it up with discounts, invoices, bills of 
 lading and mortgages. You may mingle with men upon 
 'Change, and wear a hard, practical face. You may 
 talk in the conventional patois of life, and try to con- 
 vince those around you that you are a mill-stone, busily 
 engaged in crushing sentiment, but you cannot cheat 
 yourself. You are a living lie. You are too proud to 
 acknowledge there is any poetry in your heart. But it 
 is there, nevertheless, and when you least expect it, some 
 strain of music, some song of a bird, some perfume of 
 a flower, some thought in a book will bring it out. 
 Deep down in the heart of man it rests. It may be a 
 thought, it may be a principle, it may be only a remem- 
 brance, but it is there in some shape. You may conceal 
 it from your fellows, but when you are with yourself, you 
 dare not deny it. You may forget it in the rush and 
 din of trade, and the wheels of Mammon may drown 
 its still, small voice, but there must be times when you 
 retire within yourself and forget the practical ; and, in 
 those moments, when there is no one near you, those 
 moments which make a man of you, you think of what 
 has been, and what might have been. Dare you deny 
 that you have a little memento laid away — some long 
 faded flower, some bit of ribbon, some little trinket — 
 which is full of precious remembrances? Dare you 
 deny that I found you the other day with a tear in your 
 eye, as you stood looking at a wreath of faded white 
 and green, which once rested upon the breast of a little 
 sleeper, who came among us, and stayed but for a day, 
 because they had need of her in Heaven ? It was not 
 
The Ai'biUus. 195 
 
 your child. What was that dead wreath to you ? The 
 angels did not rob you. It was simply, my dear Blobbs, 
 a link between the seen and the unseen. It tied Heav- 
 en and earth together. It suggested to you what might 
 have been. It made you think of little eyes, you long 
 had waited for, which never looked into yours ; of lit- 
 tle feet, you long had waited for, which never made 
 music in your house. It rekindled the ashes of a dead 
 longing, and you dare not deny that you thought with 
 unutterable pain, it were better to have possessed and 
 lost, than never to have possessed at all. It was your 
 better nature, Avhich you strive so hard to suppress, 
 coming to the surface." 
 
 And Mignon said : All of us have this sentiment in 
 our composition, although the most of us are too proud , 
 to acknowledge it. I have been in the woods in March, 
 when the ground was covered with snow. I have care- 
 fully pulled up the matted layers of dead leaves, and 
 underneath all this debris was the arbutus, with its 
 glossy, green leaves, and its pink and white petals, as 
 full of beauty and delicious fragrance as if it had never 
 been buried under the corruption of a dead year — as if 
 it had never been hidden from the air and the sun. So 
 in every heart, down under the snows of life, down un- 
 der the dead, matted leaves of care, passion, sin, and 
 shame, are growing flowers of sentiment. You will do 
 well to uncover them now and then, for they will give 
 beauty and perfume to your whole nature, and make 
 you a better man or woman. And God grant, that 
 when you clear away the debris, you do not find a 
 grave of dead hopes." 
 
 March 14, 1869. 
 
LENT AND CHILDREN. 
 
 HEW ! 
 
 Which is meant to express a sigh of relief that 
 Lent is over. 
 
 Isn't it nice? 
 
 This saving one's soul on fish when fish commands a 
 premium, is expensive and monotonous. 
 
 Welcome the hens. Exit white-fish, enter eggs. 
 
 Whew ! 
 
 Would that we lived in the grand old days when the 
 sun danced in the sky on Easter morning; when the 
 children played the pretty games with colored eggs; 
 when the Aldermen went out on Easter morn for a little 
 municipal game of ball ; when it would have been my 
 privilege to parade the streets and claim the privilege of 
 lifting every woman three times from the ground, re- 
 ceiving as payment a kiss or a silver shilling, the women 
 having the same privilege on the next day, in order to 
 make things even. 
 
 Wouldn't it be nice? That is, if one didn't meet 
 Parepa and undertake that little job. 
 
 When the men and women threw apples into the 
 churchyard, and those who had been married during the 
 year threw three times as many as the rest. It strikes 
 me, however, that if this rule had been reversed, and 
 those who had been divorced during the year were 
 
Celeste. 197 
 
 obliged to throw three times as many apples as the rest, 
 the Chicago church-wardens would fare better. 
 
 And then to go to the minister's and feast on bread, 
 cheese and ale, on bacon and tansy pudding. 
 
 As it is, the only relief one has now is the blessed 
 feeling that he can go to sinning again. It is too much 
 for any constitution to be strictly pious for six weeks, 
 and live on beans and fish. Neither the moral nor the 
 physical diet agrees with me. A little sin now will be 
 an excellent tonic. 
 
 And it will agree with you. Celeste, also. You didn't 
 look well sitting in black, picking fish bones. I knew 
 all the time you were thinking of the flesh pots. It is use- 
 less for you to try to convince me that you have been an 
 angel for the past six weeks. It won't do. There is 
 not the slightest sign of a pin feather, even, on youi: 
 pretty white shoulders. You are essentially human. I 
 know that, eating your lentils, you sighed for the sal- 
 ads, and filets, and Burgundy. I know that, in your 
 suit of serge, your eyes were prospectively fixed upon 
 the new spring hat and all the pretty petals which would 
 unfold about you on Easter, and turn you into a lily, to 
 blossom to-morrow, in accordance with the provisions 
 of the Council of Nice. 
 
 Isn't it nice? 
 
 When you kept saying to yourself, all through Lent, 
 tlmt you were a poor, weak, miserable creature, and that 
 there was nothing but vanity in the world, I know you 
 excepted that delightful fellow in black hair, with a 
 divine moustache and taper fingers, who looked unutter- 
 ably pretty things at you over the top of his prayer- 
 book, divided his responses between you and Parson 
 
198 A Little Sin. 
 
 Primrose, and wore a diamond ring on his third finger, 
 which he managed, somehow, to keep directly in the 
 light which streamed through St. John on the stained 
 window. 
 
 You are now absolved, my dear Celeste. Go in and 
 sin just a little, and prove your humanity. You are not 
 made to be an angel, but "a little lower than the 
 angels," you know. Undrape your pretty rounded 
 shoulders. Pile up your chignon. Put on those darl- 
 ing white slippers, which leave footsteps almost as small 
 as those of the robins in the early spring. No more 
 cypress and rue on your corsage, but the wicked came- 
 lia, and the flaunting azalia. Set your slow monastic 
 march to a quicker tempo and, voila, the German. 
 Sound fiddles and blow trombones, for Capuchin is now 
 Columbine, and the gilded doors of Fashion swing 
 quickly open for the maskers to enter. It is a merry - 
 procession. Sly glances flash through the masks, and 
 there are rounded outlines in the dominoes. Bells 
 tinkle on the gay robes. Who is who ? What mat- 
 ters it, so you keep the masks on ? Of course, the 
 black mask, now and then, will enter and beckon to one 
 or the other of us to come out with him to the ante- 
 room and take off our masks, preparatory to a long 
 journey with him. 
 
 Heigh ho ! We shall never come back to the gay 
 scene ; but the revel will go on just the same as if you 
 and I had never been in the set. The fiddles will only 
 play a little more forte, just loud enough to drown the 
 dirge outside, and we shall go into the dreamless sleep, 
 and grope our way through the shadowy land to the 
 light beyond. Pray God, we all lay ourselves down 
 
Encumbrances. 199 
 
 like true ladies and gentlemen, and that the bugles sing 
 peace over us with all the world. 
 
 Which reminds me to say, that in looking over the 
 advertising columns, a few mornings since, I observed 
 a card published by some party who desired boarders — 
 " a gentleman and lady without encumbrances." 
 
 Of course the "encumbrances" are children. I 
 protest against the application of the term. If there 
 be anything in the world which can make stale bread 
 and hash palatable, it is a child. If there be anything 
 which can bring a ray of sunshine into the dreary, 
 gloomy desert of a boarding house, it is a child. 
 
 I am bound to protest against this opposition to chil- 
 dren, which is growing fiercer every day. Occasionally 
 you will find a family with soul enough in its collective 
 breast to admit a party with one child, with a mental 
 reservation that they are entitled to a crown of glory 
 for so doing. But what are those fond parents, whose 
 nest is full of these lively and demonstrative pledges 
 of conjugal affection, to do? A house which has not a 
 little blue and gold edition of humanity, fluttering 
 through its rooms, dancing, singing, and crowing, as 
 full of love as an ^gg is of meat, whose sky is all sun- 
 shine, or at most overcast by the thinnest of April 
 clouds, sounding a jubilant peal of ecstacy in the morn- 
 ing, and making the coming night doubly holy and 
 beautiful with its little prayer at evening, must be a 
 very lonely house. A house which has not a little crib 
 in the nursery ; a mutilated battalion of dolls, minus 
 legs, arms, and heads, looking for all the world as 
 though they had just come from some Lilliputian battle ; 
 marvelous books, reciting the exploits of the matronly 
 
200 In the House. 
 
 Goose, the good fortune of Cinderella, and the bad 
 fortune of Polly Flinders, scattered about in every room, 
 sans covers, and tattered and torn ; little blue and red 
 shoes and striped stockings in the drawers ; little finger- 
 prints about the door-knobs and marks of juvenile in- 
 dustry everywhere, such as combs in the coal scuttle, 
 carving knives in the molasses jug, tea spoons in the 
 stoves, a family bible illustrated with pencil marks, 
 intended by the youthful Raphael to be letters to some 
 distant aunt, or chefs (V ccuvrcs in natural history, sugar 
 deftly mixed with the salt, Eau de Cologne in the slop 
 jar, and your favorite arm chair harnessed with strings, 
 and mustered into service as a horse-car — such a home 
 must be as cheerful as the cell of a recluse. 
 
 The house which has not seen the day change into 
 night, and all the blessed sun-light extinguished ; which 
 has not heard the music of childhood suddenly cease ; 
 which listens in vain for the little footfalls pattering 
 from room to room ; out from the doors of which a 
 little coffin went one day, leaving a great blank, carry- 
 ing with the little sleeper almost all our love, and hope, 
 and faith ; the house which is not connected more 
 closely with Heaven by that little billow of turf which 
 will soon be starred all over with daisies — such a house 
 must be very dreary. Children, encumbrances ! Bah ! 
 The man or woman who wrote that card — it could not 
 have been a woman — will never be troubled with heart 
 disease. 
 
 In the name, and for the sake of the children, I pro- 
 test against this outrage upon these little people, whose 
 mission it is to elevate, refine, and humanize us ; into 
 whose pure, innocent faces one can look with so much 
 
Blue Paper Shoes. 201 
 
 relief, after a day of intercourse with the rough, hard 
 faces of the world ; who are the only reminders that 
 there ever was an Eden, and who make Heaven possible 
 on earth. 
 
 I wouldn't trust a man with a torn five cent shin- 
 plaster who didn't love a child. It is impossible for a 
 woman not to love a child. Tliere never was a woman 
 so depraved, or so unwomanly, but that a little child 
 could find a good spot in her heart. 
 
 And I not only protest against this term of " encum- 
 brance," but I protest against the manner in which 
 children are treated. The other day, I observed an 
 elegantly dressed little child paddling along on the wet, 
 muddy sidewalk, with the thinnest of blue paper shoes. 
 Every step the little one took, must, inevitably, have 
 dampened her feet. A foolish woman was walking by 
 her side quite comfortably shod. 
 
 I don't know that that foolish woman knew what she 
 was doing, but I will tell her. In allowing your child 
 to go out with those shoes, you were sowing the seeds 
 of disease, which will either kill her before she leaves 
 childhood, or send her into womanhood v/recked for 
 life, and finally to die of consumption. If your child 
 dies before leaving childhood, you will undoubtedly 
 mourn as sincerely as did Rachel, and your good minis- 
 ter will come to comfort you. He will assure you that 
 " the Lord gave, and the Lord taketh away." He will 
 tell you that whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth. He 
 will also caution you against repining at an affliction 
 wisely ordered by Divine Providence. 
 
 All this may do as a salve for your sorrow ; but it 
 isn't true. The Lord didn't take away your child. 
 
202 Shifting Responsibility. 
 
 You yourself sent her away. This affliction was not 
 ordered by Divine Providence. It was an affliction 
 solely of your own preparation and consummation. No 
 one else in the wide world is responsible for your child's 
 death, and, but for you, she might have been living now. 
 It may be very pleasant for you to cast the responsibil- 
 ity upon Divine Providence, but it isn't fair. 
 
 We are all of us too apt to shirk the responsibility, 
 and, with a sort of meek, resigned, gracious wave of 
 the hand, transfer the responsibility to Divine Provi- 
 dence. But it won't do. You can't deceive Heaven 
 in that way. 
 
 You yourself hold that child's life in your hand. 
 You can save her, or you can kill her by the mere mat- 
 ter of thickness of leather. If you don't take off those 
 blue shoes, woman, your child will die. Divine Provi- 
 dence won't take off the shoes for you. The requisites, 
 for the life of your child are common sense and a shoe- 
 maker. It is criminally thoughtless for you to expose 
 your child. It is cowardly for you, when your child 
 dies, to try to shift the responsibility upon Heaven, 
 which had nothing to do with it. If the epitaph was 
 written properly or truthfully upon her little grave- 
 stone, hereafter, it would read somewhat after the fol- 
 lowing fashion : 
 
 ^crc jfficg \\)t SJolip of 
 * * * * 
 
 WUO DIED OF THIN SHOES AND MATERNAL FOLLY. 
 
 Her Mother Did It. 
 
 If what I have said shall get a pair of thick shoes 
 for even one child, my purpose will be answered. 
 
 March 27, 1809. 
 
BELLS. 
 
 T the dinner table, the other day, we were dis- 
 cussing the subject of bells, and we unanimous- 
 ly regretted the fact that so many beautiful 
 churches have been erected in this city without bells. 
 A church without a bell is like a bush without roses, or 
 a harp without strings. 
 
 I believe it to be a Christian duty to hang a bell in 
 every church-tower or steeple ; a bell dedicated to sol- 
 emn and eternal things, dwelling in a realm of music, 
 and swinging in the mid-heavens, to teach us of the 
 mutability of earth ; a voice above us — above the din 
 and roar of the city — above the strife of mammon and 
 the jargon of trade — to warn, and to console, and to 
 bring repose to us. And upon every bell, I would, if I 
 had my way, cause to be engraved that solemn legend 
 upon the bell in the minster of Schaffhausen : "Vivos 
 voco; mortuos plango; fulguros frango," ("I call the 
 living; I mourn the dead ; I break the lightnings.") 
 
 We need more bells. Bells, whose evening chimes 
 mourn the death of the day, and, like the song of the 
 swan, are the sweetest when the day is done ; which, 
 like the Ranz des Vaches of Switzerland, call man from 
 his toil and hurry, to the night of repose, and into the 
 
204 The Wanderer. 
 
 weird world of dreams; evening bells, like those which 
 used to be rung to direct the wanderer through the for- 
 ests to his nightly home, and which, as Jean Paul says, 
 with his rare eloquence, have their parallel in the voices 
 within us and about us, which call us in our straying, 
 and make us calmer, and teach us to moderate our own 
 joys and conceive those of others ; vesper bells, veiling 
 all the landscape with a holy hush, and calling man to 
 prayer; bells wafting the sweetest music over the water 
 to the homeward-bound sailor, and coming to him like 
 voices from home, softened by the twilight; bells to 
 welcome him who has wandered the world over, with 
 pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell, seeking for rest — who, 
 tired with life's tumultuous pleasures, surfeited with its 
 vain shows, and filled with nameless, unutterable long- 
 ings, turns his face homeward again, and finds his heart 
 leaping with joy at the familiar sound of the bells in the 
 distant city — peal upon peal vibrating in sweet music, 
 and telling him of home, and rest, and peace ; bells to 
 break the peaceful silence of the Sabbath morning with 
 the lingering cadences of their sweet concord — to sum- 
 mon to worship, to rouse the ear, and to kindle the 
 heart with praise ; bells to ring glad, jubilant peals of 
 triumph — to proclaim peace — to wail with sorrow in 
 their voices — to shriek, with warning alarum, the danger 
 in the night. 
 
 And if I had my way again, there should be a bell in 
 every steeple to proclaim the birth, the wedding, and 
 the death of man. When the child enters upon the 
 rosy morning of life, the bells should be the first tones 
 to strike upon his ear. Their music should greet him as 
 his little feet take hold upon the rough highway of life, 
 
The Life Journey. 205 
 
 from which they must sometimes stray into forbidden 
 fields, on which they must become so begrimed, so 
 weary and so tottering, and at the end of which they 
 will find rest after the long wandering, sooner or later. 
 When the child, grown into youth, enters upon marriage, 
 the bells should ring their harmonious concord, and 
 their glad tones should mingle with the orange flowers, 
 and the mutual gifts and good wishes. The same bells 
 which welcomed him as he started alone upon the jour- 
 ney,' should Avelcome him now, as the way is made 
 lighter by a companion, and roses grow in the paths 
 where before there were only sharp pebbles and flint. 
 And when the end of the road is reached, and the eye 
 dims, and the flowers fade, and the blue sky is all cloud- 
 ed over, and the two companions must part, the same 
 bells tolling sadly and heavily from the steeples, should 
 guide the weary traveller to his last home with their 
 dirge-like tones. 
 
 There are sorrow, music, joy and blessing in bells. 
 The church tower may point to Heaven with Gothic 
 solemnity, but, if no bell is there, no voice calls. Bells 
 are sacred with associations. Year after year they have 
 marked the flight of the hours in their perch in mid air, 
 with no companions but the birds. They have looked 
 down, year after year, upon grandfather, father, and son, 
 grandmother, mother, and daughter, and followed them 
 to their graves in the adjacent acre of God with solemn 
 toll. They have rung glad peals of ecstacy to those 
 who came before us, and have now gone, and they will 
 ring the same glad peals to those yet to come. They 
 are ringing for you and for me now, and they will ring 
 on just the same when you and I are gone. It is now 
 
2o6 Church Bells. 
 
 Te Deum, and now Requiem ; marriage bells of glad- 
 ness, and funeral bells of woe. But I would that she, 
 who will come after me, should hear the same bells that 
 I hear, and that they should tell her the same melodic 
 tidings they tell to me, and teach her the same lessons. 
 
 Don't build any more churches without bells. Place 
 a bell in every steeple. Consecrate it with joyful ser- 
 vice. Bid it to ring for the living, and toll for the 
 dying. Raise it to its belfry with glad acclamation, and 
 then solemnly leave it there in the mid-heavens, above 
 the jargon of earth, companion of the birds and the 
 lightnings, to bring comfort, consolation, and repose for- 
 ever to the weary — to warn, to inspire, and to gladden. 
 
 At present the bells are confined to the pews in the 
 church, and their tongues are not always musical. 
 
 April 4, 18C9. 
 
TENORS AND BASSOS. 
 
 |HE tenor, I take to be the happiest man in the 
 world, or, at least, he ought to be. He is the 
 individual whom all the operatic Elviras love. 
 He loves them, also. He has all the serenades to sing. 
 He alone can indulge in the ut de poitrine. Almost in- 
 variably, he is allowed to die for the heroine, when he 
 isn't permitted to marry her, and always has a fortissimo 
 death-song given to him, which, like the swan's is the, 
 sweetest. What little stage business there is, in the way 
 of kneeling at the feet of the inamoratas, kissing of 
 hands, and embracing of languishing Leonoras, belongs 
 exclusively to him. He also can be the melancholy 
 man, and drown susceptible damsels Avith tears, over his 
 chalky grief and cork-lined wrinkles of woe. The 
 women dote upon the tenor, send him little billets, look 
 at him through the lorgnettes, and adore him in secret, 
 as Heine's pine adored the palm. He finds bouquets 
 upon his mantel, and little perfumed notes upon his 
 dressing-table. If he be a tenor di grazia, lovely woman 
 will sigh for him ; if a tenor robiisto, lovely woman will 
 die for him, or wish that Heaven had made her such a 
 man. The amateur tenor enjoys the same advantages 
 as the operatic tenor, on a small scale. He is privileged 
 to sing all the pretty things, and he may sing them as 
 
2o8 The Tenor. 
 
 badly as may be, if he is only interesting. He is the 
 idol before which female bread-and-butterhood bends, 
 both Grecian and otherwise. He is usually fragile, 
 spii'ituel and delicate. He sleeps on the underside of a 
 rose-leaf, drinks Angelica, eats caramels, and catches 
 butterflies. He carries his voice in a lace pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, when in the open air, and does it up in amber 
 when he retires to sleep upon the rose-leaves. He alone 
 is permitted to wear white kids and vest, and otherwise 
 array himself after the manner of the festive hotel wait- 
 er. He knows the secret of immortal youth, and never 
 grows old. All tuneful lays set to the tinkling of flutes, 
 guitars and harps, belong to him. He alone can sing 
 to the moon and address the stars. In his repei'toire 
 are all the interesting brigands, the high-born cavaliers, 
 the romantic lovers, and the melancholy artists. 
 
 And he has nice legs, or, if he hasn't, he had better 
 degenerate into a baritone, and have done with it. 
 
 A tenor without nice legs is worse off" than a soprano 
 who can't sing "With Verdure Clad," if there be such 
 a 7-ara avis, or an alto who has to do Siebel and Maffco 
 Orsini with elephantine ankles, and there never was an 
 alto in the world with whom I wouldn't measure feet, 
 and give them the odds of one or two numbers. 
 
 The tenor lives in clover, chin deep, and never gets 
 stung by the bees. Sometimes he forgets to wrap up 
 his voice in the handkerchief when he goes out, or he 
 sleeps in the direct line of a current of air, which 
 comes in under the door, and the result is an indisposi- 
 tion. When he has an indisposition, he goes off hunt- 
 ing ducks at Calumet, instead of dears in the audience, 
 and the manager forgives him and the audience pity 
 
The Basso. 209 
 
 him. He doesn't die like other singers, but gradually 
 fades away like the rose, and disappears in a little cloud 
 of perfume. 
 
 The basso, on 'the other hand, is the personification 
 of vocal misery, and he knows it. He feels that he is 
 not interesting at all. He knows the women don't 
 adore him, and he takes a fiendish delight in bellowing 
 at them. He never has an opportunity to languish on 
 the stage, or to go round kneeling and sighing and kiss- 
 ing of hands. He is never a lover. If a brigand, he 
 is a dirty cut-throat. If a cavalier, he is some dilapi- 
 dated old duke, with a young and pretty wife, just pack- 
 ing up preparatory to elopement with the tenor, and 
 requesting him not to interfere with her little arrange- 
 ments. If a sailor, he is a swaggering pirate. If an 
 uncle, he is a miser. If a mayor, he is a simpleton. If 
 a father, he is a fool. The composers never give him 
 but one aria in an opera, and that is always written an 
 octave higher than he can sing, or an octave lower than 
 his boot heel. He is always in trouble with the orches- 
 tra. He knows he can squelch the first fiddles and 
 reeds, and come out even with the bassoons and double 
 basses, but the man with the trombone is his mortal 
 enemy, and the man with the kettle-drums his skeleton. 
 He feels in his heart of hearts that the one can blow 
 him into ribbons, and the other pound him to a jelly, 
 and what is more, he knows they are never happy, ex- 
 cept when they are engaged in that pulverizing process. 
 What little singing he has to do is devoted to panegyr- 
 ics upon beer, dissertations upon cookery, and lugu- 
 brious screeds upon the infidelity of woman and his 
 own ponderous wretchedness. When he is not confined 
 
 15 
 
2 1 o His Repertoire. 
 
 to this, he is set up for a laughing stock in buffo work. 
 He has no runs and trills and sky-rockets with which to 
 dazzle people. He knows that one of his long arias is 
 like a long sermon. He usually has so much voice in 
 his copper-lined and brass-riveted throat, that it invari- 
 ably gets the better of him, either running like mo- 
 lasses in cold weather, or coming out by fits and starts, 
 and leaking all round the edges. He must inevitably 
 sing false, and it makes him unhappy. He is not at all 
 delicate, being usually doubly blessed in chest and 
 stomach, and the result is, he can't get sick if he tries. 
 The blessed indisposition which so often gets into the 
 velvet throat of the tenor, rarely gets into his, conse- 
 quently his opportunities for duck-hunting at the Calu- 
 met are very limited. All of these afflictions make him 
 misanthropical, and he goes through the world with his 
 little repertoire of "The Calf of Gold," " Infelice,". 
 " O mio Palermo," " The Last Man," and the " Wan- 
 derer," a very Ishmael of wretchedness, and a howling 
 Dervish of despair. He drinks beer, and all sorts of 
 fiery damnations, eats sausage and kraut with impunity, 
 and smokes villainous tobacco in short clay pipes. He 
 despises the razor and eschews the little weaknesses of 
 kids and patent leathers. The tenor is the nightingale ; 
 he is the crow. The tenor is the beloved of women, but 
 for him no serenade, no face in the lattice shaming the 
 moon with its brightness and beauty. I pray, therefore, 
 all gentlefolk to deal kindly with the basso, and make 
 his rough road as smooth as possible, for it is as inevita- 
 ble as fate that he will live to an hundred years of age, 
 and sing every blessed day of the century, and will 
 finally be gathered to his fathers, singing as he goes. 
 
Street Music. 211 
 
 And, as he goes singing to his fathers, I have another 
 topic of which he reminds me. As I sit here writing, 
 some poor fellow, who has got through with the troubles 
 of the world, is going home to sleep under the turf, 
 which is now so restless with all the quick impulses of 
 spring-life, and which will soon weave a green and 
 flower-embroidered counterpane above him. A band is 
 playing a dirge, the wail and melancholy rhythm of 
 which fall unheeded upon his ears, forever closed to the 
 sweet sounds of the earth. To me, there is something 
 ineffably sad in the playing of a dirge in the open air. 
 The funereal solemnity of the music contrasts so strange- 
 ly with the beauty of the clear heavens and the joyous 
 life of nature, and interweaves an Andante so unexpect- 
 edly in the Scherzo of the din and jargon of the busy 
 street life, that I cannot keep the tears out of my eyes, 
 and I cannot but pause for a minute, on my journey, to 
 think. And I think of the day when I shall drop out 
 of the comedy of life and some one else will take up my 
 part and go on with it, as if I had never been in the 
 play at all. I think that, some bright morning, A will 
 meet B on the street and say: "Did you know that 
 
 died yesterday?" "No! Is that so? What was 
 
 the matter with him?" And then the two will talk of 
 grain and corner lots, for it was only a bubble that dis- 
 appeared on the great tide of humanity, ever flowing 
 from one eternity to another. I wonder if anyone will 
 remember me from one spring-birth of flowers to an- 
 other. And I think of those standing about me, with 
 their hearts beating to the time of the dirges, and with 
 each pulsation approaching a step nearer to the long 
 sleep. And, somehow, although the dirge saddens me, 
 
2 12 A Grave Complaint, 
 
 by sending a shadow across the brightness of the sunny 
 day, I think I feel the better for having heard it. 
 
 But this will not be the last I shall see or hear of this 
 procession. I know that, an hour later, the mourners 
 will have dried their tears, and that they who went to 
 the grave, marching slowly and with sober countenan- 
 ces, to the movement of the Dead March, will return to 
 the quick tempo of "Champagne Charlie," or some 
 other musical abomination. Have we no respect for the 
 dead ! Is it creditable to common humanity to go 
 through the streets uttering a funereal lie — to shovel a 
 man into his grave, and, while the grave-maker is pat- 
 ting the turf with his shovel, to come trotting home to 
 the music of a ribald Casino song? Is human life of no 
 more account than this? Is the life of our friend of so 
 little consequence, when compared with the nonsense 
 and delusions of this world, that we leave him and all- 
 recollections of him with the grave-maker? Is there no 
 sober, serious thought for us in the new-made grave? 
 If there is not — if, when a man dies, he dies like a 
 horse, only to be shoved out of sight, the quicker the 
 better, that we may not be delayed any longer than 
 possible from the exactions of business and distractions 
 of pleasure — I pray that those who have these public fu- 
 nerals in charge, may at least consult the feelings of 
 some, to whom such inconsiderate and irreverent un- 
 concern for the dead is a fearful shock. 
 
 April 17, 1869. 
 
A CHILD'S STORY— THE THREE ROSES. 
 
 WRITE to you to-day with a certain sort of 
 sadness, and yet not mourning as one without 
 hope. 
 
 I think one can become strongly attached to inani- 
 mate things, and, after associating with them for years, 
 come to invest them with certain human attributes, and 
 even to love them, They grow to be part of one's self, 
 and reflect, in some degree, the individuality of the 
 possessor. I have now sat for nearly three years at the 
 old desk before me, in the same old corner, with the 
 same blank prospect of brick walls and the little patch 
 of blue sky no bigger than the lace handkerchief which 
 swings from your finger, my dear Madame, and dis- 
 coursed each week upon all sorts of pleasant topics in 
 my careless way, always satisfied if here and there you 
 might find a little flower worth laying away in your 
 memory as a souvenir. Many of you who started 
 on our journey through the World of Amusement are 
 with me still, but some have left and gone up higher to 
 the Beautiful Country ; and one cruel summer which 
 killed so many birds and blighted so many flowers, we 
 all travelled with heavier hearts, thinking of the little 
 ones whom the jealous angels enticed away, and some of 
 
 15* 
 
214 The Old Desk. 
 
 us could hardly see the way for a time for the black 
 shadow of the valley and the mists which were in our 
 eyes. 
 
 I shall write to you no more from the old desk in the 
 old corner, for, when next Saturday comes, I shall be at 
 the new desk, in a new corner of the new building, and 
 yet I cannot part from it without regret, for I have learned 
 to love it, ink-begrimed, scratched and cut as it is. There 
 are pleasant memories indelibly connected with it, 
 and the next owner who possesses it will be richer 
 than he knows, for he will buy some priceless asso- 
 ciations. I frankly confess that I look forward to 
 the new desk with some suspicions. It will be a better 
 desk, a handsomer desk. The old, tried friend, whom 
 you have grappled to yourself, as with hooks of steel, 
 through storms and shine, it is hard to give up for the 
 new comer, whom you have to learn before you can love, - 
 and who may deceive you, when it is all too late. And 
 yet it is cheerful to know that when I say good-bye to 
 the old desk next week, you will acom})any me to the 
 new desk, and that I shall continue to talk to you so 
 long as it shall please you to listen. Aurelia, and the 
 baby and husband. Celeste, Fitz-Herbert, Mignon and 
 Blanche, and Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs, will all go 
 with me, and Old Blobbs has promised me that he will 
 have something to say next Sunday from the new desk. 
 
 In this, my last letter from the old desk, I frankly 
 state that I am going to say something to the children. 
 You know that I thoroughly believe in children. I 
 think they represent nearly all the love, and innocence, 
 and purity there is in the world, and I want to tell them 
 a story which may lead them to preserve that love, and 
 
The Story. 215 
 
 innocence, and purity, until the end. I therefore warn 
 all the grown up children, that this story is for the little 
 ones, so that those desiring to leave, can go now, with- 
 out disturbing us after we have commenced. Should 
 any desire to remain, I hope they will keep as still 
 as possible. Perhaps they will hear something which 
 will benefit them. We will therefore wait a few minutes, 
 after which the doors will be closed. 
 
 The story is a simple one, but it has its lesson for you. 
 Some of those older ones, who have just gone out, if 
 they were here, would tell you, even with tears in their 
 eyes, that it is true. It is the story of the Three Roses. 
 One of them was a 
 
 WHITE ROSE. 
 
 This white rose grew in a large garden, where there' 
 were many other flowers : great, coarse, vulgar dahlias, 
 always dressing in gaudy colors, without any regard to 
 taste ; delicate little anemones, who would drop their 
 petals off in fright, if even a bee went buzzing by them ; 
 tulips, in whose breast the butterflies used to sleep ; 
 blue-bells, who rang the matins for the other flowers to 
 wake, and the vespers for them to drop their little 
 heads and fold up their petals in sleep ; azaleas, who 
 were very jealous of the fuschias, because the latter had 
 a graceful way of hanging from their stalks, which the 
 former could not get, although they tried until they 
 were pink in the face; heliotropes, and their little cous- 
 ins, the mignonettes, whom all the flowers loved for 
 their sweetness, and never could see that it was because 
 they were so humble that their lives were so full of per- 
 
2i6 The White Rose. 
 
 fume ; passion-flowers, whose lives were full of pain ; 
 and those sensitive little flowers who were so nervous, 
 that if you even pointed your finger at them, they 
 would shiver all over, and draw themselves up in a 
 heap. The White Rose was a very proud flower. She 
 always dressed in pure white, with a beautiful gold 
 ornament on her breast, and devoted most of her time 
 to lazily swinging in the wind, admiring her beautiful 
 garments. She never recognized other flowers in the 
 garden. She never even condescended to notice the 
 butterflies and the bees, who were great friends with 
 the rest of the flowers. She would now and then nod 
 to the green-and-gold humming-birds, who took good 
 care, however, to keep out of her way, because they 
 were afraid of her thorns. She had set her cap very 
 high, and would marry nothing short of a prince, and 
 thus she slighted some of her friends, and wounded oth- • 
 ers with her cruel thorns. 
 
 One day the prince came by that way, and his name 
 was Zephyr. He was a gay, careless young fellow, with- 
 out any heart in him. He came from a far country, and 
 in his travels had flirted with every one. He had ruined 
 many flowers in other gardens. He had even dallied 
 with the tender leaves in the tree tops, of an evening, 
 until the stern old trees angrily kept him away. Troops 
 of the ghosts of the dandelions and pink thistles and 
 young gossamers, whom he had deceived, followed in 
 his train, and even the blue-birds, and robins, and ori- 
 oles, were enamored of him, and kept the air full of 
 melody, singing to him. Prince Zephyr came gaily 
 dancing over the garden, and all the little flowers nod- 
 ded their heads to him. T.\i White Rose looked her 
 
Pride. 217 
 
 prettiest, and at once beckoned him to come to her, 
 and hid all her thorns. The two were long together, 
 even until the sun went down, and the blue-bell had 
 rung her vespers. It would have been well for the 
 White Rose to have gone to sleep too ; but Prince 
 Zephyr dallied with her, and whispered all sorts of 
 pretty nothings to her, and the foolish flower listened to 
 him, and believed all he said. He promised to be true 
 to her, and to return in the morning ; and when they 
 kissed good night, he stole away her perfume, which 
 was her life. When the morning came, however, Prince 
 Zephyr did not return. Many mornings came, but 
 Prince Zephyr was far away, whispering that same sweet 
 story to other roses, in other gardens. And the White 
 Rose waited in vain, and withered and died, and was 
 buried by the larch-tree in the corner of the garden, 
 the cypress, and rue, and rosemary being the mourner^ 
 at the funeral, the birds singing the hymns, and the 
 little many-legged bugs in the grass, making the orches- 
 tra, with the bee at the baton. 
 
 And the name of the White Rose was Pride, which 
 must always have a fall, my dear children. 
 
 But there was another rose. It was the 
 
 RED ROSE. 
 
 The Red Rose grew by the side of a tiny little brook, 
 which had nothing to do the livelong day but to dance 
 over its pebbles, and sing pretty songs, and laugh in 
 the sunshine. The Red Rose was very discontented 
 with her lot, for there was no one around with whom 
 she could associate, but white and red clovers, dande- 
 lions and butter-cups. The Brook, who was a garrulous 
 
2i8 The Red Rose. 
 
 little fellow, made her still more discontented, by telling 
 her what fine things there were out in the world, and 
 how she would enjoy them if she would go with him 
 and see them. One day, tired of looking into the 
 Brook and seeing only herself, she dropped into his 
 arms, and he tenderly carried her along. She floated 
 very lazily and pleasantly along for a time, for the 
 heavens were all blue, and the sunshine was bright, and 
 the Brook was smooth, and so they rode along merrily 
 together. The wild laurels, and red Betties, and Jack-in- 
 the-pulpit, and starry asters, crowded together on the 
 marges of the Brook to see her pass, and nodded to her. 
 The white lilies who grew in the Brook rippled the water 
 with their mocking laughter, for they knew her fate. 
 The sober ferns warned her, but she paid no heed to the 
 warning, and sailed down the meadow as proudly as 
 Cleopatra under her silken sails on the turbid Nile. By 
 and bye she got out of the meadow and it Avas not so 
 pleasant. The flowers disappeared, and she had hard 
 work to avoid the flags and rushes, and old gnarled 
 stumps, and the sun was hidden by the interlaced tree- 
 tops, and there were all sorts of water-spiders and little 
 glossy black bugs which she disliked. After a time, the 
 frogs and the water-snakes terrified her, and one day she 
 found herself in a little whirlpool which made her dizzy. 
 When she recovered, she was in the foam of a water-fall, 
 and the foam-bells dazzled her so with their sheen 
 that she plunged about among the rocks very wildly and 
 before she emerged from them, some of her petals were 
 badly damaged. It was now too late to return. She 
 had made the first fall and she must go on. She no 
 longer recognized the little Brook in the brawling. 
 
Folly. 219 
 
 muddy waters which carried her through the rank 
 swamps, where she met all kinds of noxious, ill-favored 
 flowers, the hemlock, and nightshade, and belladonna, 
 and poisonous ivies, which mocked her. The Brook 
 was now a river, and too wide for her to escape. On 
 she must go, ever on, bruised and weary as she was, and 
 presently the river swept her through a great city, rank 
 with corruption and filth ; swept her past the vessels at 
 the wharves, loading and unloading, and noisy with the 
 curses and cries of the sailors ; under the wheels of 
 steamboats ; now sunk into the corrupt depths, and now 
 rising to the surface again, but so changed that none of 
 the flowers in the country, who nodded to her that 
 bright morning, would ever have known her; under the 
 arches of the bridges and close by slimy mouldering 
 piers; and one evening, so close to the dead body of a 
 woman, who had hurled herself out of the world and 
 out of misery, that she almost got tangled in the 
 streaming black hair which rose and fell in the turbid 
 current ; and so on, until one morning she found her- 
 self out of the river and into the mighty surges of the 
 ocean, when it was all too late. 
 
 And the name of the Brook was Pleasure and the name 
 of the Red Rose, Folly. 
 
 I have now to tell you of the third rose, the 
 
 WILD ROSE. 
 
 The Wild Rose grew in a forest, and was a simple 
 modest flower, who was sheltered in the winter from 
 the cruel winds by the mighty pines. In the spring and 
 summer she was even more beautiful than the White 
 Rose or the Red Rose, although she had a tiny little 
 
2 20 Wisdom. 
 
 petal of white just suffused with a bkish. Her leaves 
 were very small but they were very fragrant. There 
 were no other flowers in the forest for her to love, and so 
 she loved a Star which she used to see every night 
 through the branches of the trees. Sometimes when the 
 dew fell in the night, the Star would come to her in the 
 drops, and she could see and feel his radiance on her 
 petals, although she could never go to the Star. And 
 there was a little Child who, sometimes, used to roam 
 through this forest, who loved the Rose, and used to 
 stop and talk to it in her childish way, and the Star, 
 which the Rose loved, was the Child's Star. For, even 
 for each little child, shines a star which is its own — a 
 star which always rains down blessed influences upon it 
 — a star which will always guide the child if it will but 
 follow. One day the Child did not come to the forest, 
 for an Angel had come down out of the blue heavens 
 — the Angel of Death — and forever closed the eyes of the 
 little one and sealed its ears to the sweet sounds of earth, 
 and hushed its merry prattle forever, and strangers went 
 to the forest and plucked the Rose which the little Child 
 had loved, and they placed it in the cold marble hands, 
 and the Angel of Light, the sister of the Angel of 
 Deatli, came and took the Child and the Rose and 
 carried them to the Star, and the three were re-united 
 and were happy. 
 
 And the name of the Wild Rose was Wisdom. 
 
 These are the stories of the Three Roses, which I tell to 
 you, my children, upon the old desk, before I leave it 
 forever, and I pray Heaven for you all, blue eyes and 
 black eyes, brown hair and gold hair, whether you live 
 in hovel or in hall, whatever ways your little feet may 
 
The Roses. 
 
 221 
 
 wander, that they go not in the way of the White Rose 
 which is that of disappointment leading to death ; 
 neither in the way of the Red Rose which is that of folly 
 leading to ruin ; but in the way of the Wild Rose, which 
 is that of contentment and wisdom. 
 
 April 34, 1809. 
 
THE OLD. 
 
 N this May-Day, when Nature is putting on her 
 new spring suit of green, and decking herself 
 with new buds and flowers ; when every blade 
 of grass shooting up through the brown sod, and every 
 (juaint little package of leaf unrolling itself on the 
 bough are new; when restless men and women, carting 
 their Lares and Penates through the streets, are seeking 
 new homes; when new breezes from the North come, 
 shiveringly down upon us, telling new stories they 
 learned of the icebergs on their way; and when new 
 asparagus and onions are coming into the market ; on 
 this new day, I am free to confess I like the old. 
 
 I like old books. I think there is more virtue, and 
 wit, and sense, and solid stuff in the old tomes — brass- 
 clasped and vellum-paged mayhap, made to last forever 
 by the old worthies, over whose heads hundreds of 
 springs have come and gone, and generations of birds 
 have sung, and they none the wiser, for they left 
 their souls in the tomes — than in the reams of gaudy 
 modern trash, born in all sorts of ways, in all sorts of 
 places, and of all sorts of parents, with lives as perman- 
 ent as a tadpole's, and, like many a human being, carry- 
 ing all the usefulness and beauty they possess in their 
 
Old Wine and Songs. 223 
 
 covers. Gilt goes a great way with a book, as it does 
 with a man. There are a great many gilded men and 
 women it won't do to touch or examine too closely. 
 The moment you handle them, the gilt rubs off and 
 shows the pewter underneath. There are a great many 
 books of the same description. 
 
 I like old wine. There is virtue in the mildewed, 
 cobwebbed bottle, which one of your family, whose 
 portrait hangs in the hall because he is a little old fash- 
 ioned for the drawing room, placed in the cellar years 
 ago. Break the neck of the bottle, and. see how the 
 imprisoned genii of the wine leap sparkling into the sun- 
 shine, clad in gold, and fragrant as a rose you stumble 
 upon in the woods. No aquafortis, logwood, or burnt 
 shavings here. This is the nectar which refreshed the 
 giants of old time, which Horace sang, and Anacreon 
 drank, with which Dante pledged Beatrice, and which - 
 runs through Bethoven's Scherzos, and inspired the 
 Brindisis of the masters. 
 
 I like old songs into which the writers have poured 
 their souls ; songs as full of passion and pain as the 
 West sometimes is full of thunder clouds ; songs full of 
 sadness which is not the boisterous wo of the hired 
 mute, but as unobtrusive and gentle as the summer rain ; 
 songs full of the quaintness, and delicacy, and beauty 
 which time has only mellowed, and which come down 
 to us hallowed with associations which cluster around 
 them like vines. Now and then you get a song which 
 touches the heart at once, but a song, like a friend, 
 must have been tested by experience before you can 
 fully receive it. Who would not take Mendelssohn's 
 " First Violet," and gladly give up all the flower-songs 
 
2 24 Old Friends. 
 
 of to-day ? Has the religion of to-day anything more 
 delicately beautiful and graceful than Herrick, anything 
 more massive and majestic than the " Ein Feste Berg " ? 
 Do our modern lovers sing such dainty serenades as 
 Spenser and Sidney sang to their Phyllises ? 
 
 I like old friends. A man can't afford to have too 
 many friends. It is too expensive in the social econ- 
 omy, not in the matter of dollars and cents, but in the 
 personal wear and tear they occasion one. A man with 
 a thousand friends is worse off than the Wandering Jew. 
 A man with five hundred friends is to be pitied. A 
 man with a hundred friends is a victim. A man with 
 fifty friends is happy in a quiet way. A man with 
 twenty-five friends can find time to be a philosopher. 
 A man with ten friends, one for each finger, each one 
 of whom will stick to him like his fingers, is justified in 
 crying " Eureka" over the discovery of perfect happi-. 
 ness. The result of my observations in a feminine di- 
 rection, is, that women are so made that they will be 
 inconsolable without a thousand dear friends, to whom 
 they are bound by the tenderest ties until death, and 
 ten thousand other friends entitled to the confidences 
 which distract the female breast, without which relief, 
 the female breast would be simply a pent up Vesuvius. 
 If, therefore, you have ten friends, and they are old 
 friends who have travelled all along the journey with 
 you, through storm and through sunshine, with any one 
 of whom you would exchange your personal identity, I 
 congratulate you. 
 
 It is because I like old things that I paid a visit to the 
 old Tribune Buildings. I have a passion for old build- 
 ings. The smell of antiquity about them is as refreshing 
 
The Old Building. 225 
 
 in the modern combination of smells as the bouquet of 
 good wine in a villainous beer cellar. I like to trace all 
 the habits and peculiarities of the dead and gone men 
 and women, which, in the process of time, have been 
 ingrained into the building, and become part and parcel 
 of it. I have no objection to a ghost or two — none of 
 your mice in the wainscotting, or swaying beams in the 
 attic, but the good old-fashioned ghost of some poor 
 soul, with streaming black hair and pale face, who con- 
 cealed her malady and carried her secret with her under 
 the turf, and, discontented in Heaven, must come back 
 to the old place where he used to be, and walk under 
 the trees where they used to walk — the trees which 
 know the secret as well as she, for they heard it ; or the 
 ghost of the boy who ran away and went to sea and 
 never came home again, whose sad story most any wave 
 crawling up the sand will tell you, if you will listen' 
 aright ; or the ghost of that wrinkled old flint who hid 
 his ingots under the tiles of the hearth, and comes back 
 now and then to see if they are safe. 
 
 I did not see any spirits in the old building ; quite the 
 contrary. There was a great deal of life there. It was 
 night when I went there, but by the moonlight I saw 
 some strange sights. Our late co-tenants, the rats, mice, 
 cockroaches and spiders, were holding a general mass- 
 meeting in the various rooms, discussing the changed 
 aspect of affairs. An antique rat, of venerable appear- 
 ance and gray whiskers, covered with the scars of many 
 a hard-fought fight, and with a tail sadly mutilated by 
 the numerous inkstands and paper-weights which had 
 followed him into his hole many a time and oft, occu- 
 pied the Managing Editor's old desk, the empty pigeon- 
 
226 A Curious Meetino-. 
 
 ^ 
 
 holes of which brought him into admirable perspective. 
 He acted as Chairman of the meeting, and presided 
 with dignity, holding a dusty document in his hand for 
 a gavel, which had been laid away fifteen years ago as 
 of immense value, and never thought of since — ^just as 
 you and I, you know, who think we are of so much 
 value, will be laid away shortly in a pigeon-hole, and 
 never thought of again. Several rows of rats, who had 
 come down from a former generation, occupied an old 
 table, sitting erect, and manifesting a proper apprecia- 
 tion of the spirit of the meeting. The younger rats 
 were compelled to shift for themselves, and were 
 sprinkled about the floor. The gas pipe running uj) the 
 wall was festooned with mice who looked down upon 
 the assembly with interested countenances, while the 
 three blind mice of song notoriety could be distin- 
 guished by their tails, that is, as much of their tails as 
 escaped the carving knife, which protruded from a hole 
 in the wall. Being bereft of the blessing of sight, it 
 was but natural that they should make the mistake of 
 turning their backs upon the Chairman, but they could 
 hear all that was said. The rat who lived in a well, and 
 who, when he died, went to a warmer climate, you may 
 not be aware returned from that place some time since. 
 He was present as an invited guest from the Museum. 
 The cockroaches looked out of the cracks in every 
 direction, and balanced themselves dexterously on 
 shreds of wall paper. The spiders occupied the centres 
 of their webs, apparently asleep, but in reality wide 
 awake, as one unfortunate blue-bottle fly found, who 
 got caught, and was immediately served up and sent to 
 the spiders of the Local-Room as a present. Besides 
 
The Proceedings. 227 
 
 these, there were a few score of old fogy mosquitoes, 
 left over from last year, and a handsome representation 
 of those quiet little brown bugs addicted to bedsteads, 
 and pronounced odor, whom I do not like to mention 
 by name. The Chairman was listening to the com- 
 plaints of the multitude, for famine was staring them in 
 the face, and some means must be adopted for self-pres- 
 ervation. A motion to serve out an injunction on the 
 Tribune Company, and compel them to replace the 
 goods they had carried away, was canvassed, but failed 
 of rat-ification. One large, portly rat, with a very 
 benevolent face, and getting gray, whom I at once re- 
 cognized as an old friend I had seen on my old desk 
 many a time, banqueting on paste, was complaining 
 particularly of me. He characterized such conduct as 
 despicable in the highest degree. It was a betrayal of 
 friendship, a breach of confidence, and he would never' 
 again repose trust in a biped. All that he had found in 
 my desk, during a visit that evening, was a dried up 
 bouquet or two, rusty pens, one scissor blade, a photo- 
 graph of a superannuated prima donna, a paper of pins, 
 and a huge package of tickets to amateur concerts. 
 There was a time when he was young and strong. In 
 those days he could gnaw a file, and derive considerable 
 culinary consolation from a paper-weight, but now he 
 was obliged to conform his diet to a weakened digestion 
 and disordered liver. He spoke more in sorrow than 
 in anger, and regretted that Pickle should be fickle. 
 
 At this point, a young mouse, perched upon the top 
 of the gas pipe, in a piping voice complained that he 
 had just commenced going through Abbott's History of 
 the War. It was slow work, but he had got through 
 
2 28 Complaints. 
 
 the covers, and part way through the introduction, and 
 he didn't Hke to be interrupted in this manner. It Avas 
 true he hadn't derived much sustenance from the thing, 
 but it was a matter of principle when he commenced a 
 piece of work, to keep at it if it killed him. Some 
 fifteen or twenty old fossilized rats, with their wrinkled 
 faces, scanty hairs and shrunk shanks, made the same 
 complaint with reference to the Patent Office Reports 
 and commercial statistics. To be sure they had not 
 thriven well. One of them had devoured half the 
 Georgian Bay Canal ; another had swallowed two 
 Board of Trade Reports, and had got as far as lard in 
 the third, to which he was looking forward with great 
 expectations, being then unprofitably engaged upon 
 lumber ; a third had almost exhausted himself with 
 devouring a census table, and was just in sight of some 
 quotations of cheese; a fourth had swallowed the Smith- 
 sonian Institution, and put the Covode Investigation on 
 the top of it, and was just ready to attack the American 
 Cyclopedia, in which he was sure to find something to 
 agree with him and repay him for the time he had 
 wasted. A sentimental little mouse complained that 
 she had just got into Mrs. E. D. E. N. Alphabet 
 Southworth's '■'■ How He Won Her," and was inter- 
 rupted, at a critical moment, when "he" and "her" 
 were about to say something nice. She was dying to 
 know " how he won her," and she might go down to 
 a premature grave without the knowledge of that inter- 
 esting secret. A grave looking rat, with a streak of 
 white fur around his neck, and troubled with a slight 
 cough arising from an affection of the throat, an- 
 nounced that he had devoted several nights of hard 
 
Complaints. 229 
 
 labor, in getting through the back of a Biblical Cyclo- 
 pedia, and had just reached the title page. All the 
 world was before him. Vistas of Hebraic and other 
 sorts of lore, opened before his longing eyes. He was 
 about to enter, when the prize was snatched away. He 
 consoled himself with the reflection that all earthly mat- 
 ters are illusions, but he could not help thinking now 
 and then how pleasant that Cyclopedia would have been. 
 There was one wretched old rat who had eaten up a 
 volume of Swinburne, two duplicates of Walt Whitman, 
 and was feasting upon a gorgeous picture of the specta- 
 cle of Undine. He had eaten up four blonde wigs, 
 sixteen legs of ballet girls, and left eight coryphees with 
 a leg apiece. He was very indignant over his disap- 
 pointment, and even swore about it, for which he was 
 called to account by the grave-looking rat with a slight 
 cough. The wicked rodent growled out something in' 
 broken Rattish, and retired to his hole, out of which he 
 shook his tail in defiance. Presently four or five good 
 little mice, whom I had not observed before, with their 
 faces very clean, and their fur smoothed down very 
 sleekly, made their complaint in a weak kind of utter- 
 ance. It was to the effect that they had discovered a 
 little stock of Sunday School books in a paper box, 
 which were very affecting, and narrated how "Little 
 Freddie" and "Good Teddie " and others, commit- 
 ted forty feet of texts in one day, which disagreed with 
 them so that they died very early, not being good 
 enough for this world. They had just succeeded in get- 
 ting into the box, and now the books were gone. 
 
 In this manner, complaint after complaint was made, 
 and the meeting adjourned to another evening without 
 
230 A Can- Can. 
 
 taking action. You should have seen the assembly- 
 after adjournment. The whole mass of rats and mice 
 rushed pell-mell through the dusty heaps of papers on 
 the floor. One set danced a polka on fragments of 
 editorials touching the finances and internal revenue, 
 taxation and other topics. In the local room a rather 
 spare rat, with long reddish hair, mounted the City 
 Editor's desk, and read off, to the edification of the 
 crowd, several mutilated fragments of a " Horrible 
 Murder," " Atrocious Villainy in Bridgeport," "De- 
 structive Fire in Holstein," "Scandal Case on Michi- 
 gan Avenue," " Religious Announcements," etc. In 
 the Commercial Room several casualties occurred. One 
 unfortunate mouse was nearly choked to death with a 
 column of figures which he found on the floor, and 
 attempted to swallow. Another, of a sentimental turn 
 of mind, went insane trying to understand some com- - 
 mercial quotations he found in an antique looking scrap- 
 book, and three incautious little mice, venturing too 
 hastily into Colbert's Astronomy, fell into the Dipper 
 and couldn't get out, until an old rat helped them with 
 the North Pole and a line dropped from the plane of 
 the ecliptic, through the parallax of the sun, whatever 
 that is. In another room, the cockroaches had a carni- 
 val in the Night Editor's coffee-pot. It was one of the 
 most touching sights in the world to see them enter in 
 festive procession at the top and come out through the 
 nose. On my own old desk, twenty-three assorted 
 cockroaches, of a beautiful bronze color, each one of 
 whom I have killed twenty-three times in twenty-three 
 various ways, were dancing a can-can. A few of the 
 odoriferous, small brown bugs stood roimd in various 
 
Farewell. 231 
 
 attitudes, like supernumeraries, while an old rat, against 
 whom I once swore eternal war, as Hannibal swore 
 against the Romans, beat time with his stump of a 
 tail. I forgave the rat, but I shall never forget the 
 scene. I shall miss those cockroaches in the coming 
 days, surrounded by the inanimate splendors of the 
 new desk, upon which I write you to-day, looking no 
 more upon the brick walls, but sitting in a flood of 
 roseate light, which pours through the new window 
 from the dying day. I could not bear to interfere 
 with tlie sports t)f those poor creatures, and I left them 
 there in the moonlight, engaged in their wild revels. 
 I cannot say with any degree of veracity that I loved 
 them while living with them, but still I know that I 
 shall miss them, and their innocent little ways. 
 
 To rat, and mouse, and cockroach, and odoriferous 
 bug, and spider ; to the old desk, and the withered' 
 bouquets ; to the old rooms, which have seen so many 
 come and go, and one of tempered judgment, and calm 
 speech, of dignified presence and upright life, a fast 
 friend and sure adviser, who left us one morning to 
 rejoin her who had gone to Heaven a little while before 
 him ; to many pleasant associations and happy scenes ; 
 to the familiar stairs worn deeply with the yearly tread 
 of feet as the water weareth away the rock ; to all but 
 memory, hail and farewell ! And welcome the new ! 
 
 May 1, 1869. 
 
OLD BLOBBS' OPINIONS. 
 
 LD Blobbs came up to see me the other day. 
 He breathed very hard when he came into the 
 room, was very red in the face, and wiped his 
 forehead vigorously with his yellow bandanna, for the 
 stairs troubled him somewhat. Blobbs is not what he 
 was forty years ago — a broad-breasted, strong-legged, 
 deep-lunged young fellow. The bucket creaks now in 
 the well, and the grasshopper begins to be a burden. - 
 We all hope the pitcher may not be broken for a long 
 time to come, but we see many signs that he is on the 
 sun-down side of the hill, and in his melancholy moods 
 he talks about the shadows down in the valley whither 
 he is going. I think, however, that he will never cease 
 his hatred of shams ; that he will always delight to 
 strip off all the fine clothes from human pretence ; that 
 he will never admit that respectability is whatever keeps 
 a gig, and that, under all the rubbish of the world, he 
 will contend there is something real, and that it is his 
 duty to find it out. He believes, as I do, that this great 
 world is a type of the Godlike ; that the history of man 
 from the days when Adam dwelt in Eden, down to this 
 blessed May morning, so full of spring's odorous prom- 
 ise, is a gospel in itself j that the morning stars sing 
 
The National Sin. 233 
 
 together now as of old ; and that our souls are kept in 
 subservience to our bodies, running of errands for them, 
 or concealed beneath aprons doing the work of the 
 waiter, these starry strangers who should only be allowed 
 to fulfil their own missions. 
 
 When Blobbs had recovered his breath, he signified 
 his desire to say a few words from the new desk, and I 
 left him in possession. When I returned, I found the 
 following, written in a large, bold hand, and under- 
 scored to give emphasis, I suppose. I give you the 
 document just as he wrote it, underscorings and all : 
 
 " The Sin of the American nation, sir, is a holiday. 
 The unpardonable folly is a laugh. Sport is unworthy 
 a man born on American soil. Recreation is an ex- 
 ploded idea, sir, which has come down to us from a 
 former generation, and if there is anything which an 
 American looks upon with utter contempt, it is a former' 
 generation. There is no retrospect or prospect between 
 the Atlantic and the Pacific. It is now and always a 
 simple sped. Every man has a likeness of Mammon 
 set up on his mantel, and to spare one day from the 
 worship of that small god, is to expose himself to the 
 danger of not being an old man at thirty, and comfort- 
 ably into his grave before fifty. Some unfortunate 
 individuals manage to get beyond fifty, but they are like 
 old parchments, faded, yellow, and Avrinkled, with all 
 the characters upon them effaced. American babies 
 are begotten of fret o?i one side, and hnrry on the other, 
 and these two forces are forever propelling them toward 
 a six-by-two patch of ground with a stone at each end, 
 one of which is Ananias and the other Sapphira. Amer- 
 ican babies are never children, sir. They make one 
 
234 Ameidcan Life. 
 
 step from bibs to breeches, and from pinafores to pan- 
 ters. An American man of fourteen has squeezed the 
 orange of life dry, and an American woman of twelve 
 is ready to receive proposals of marriage, and sink her 
 identity in kettles and pans. There is no law against 
 it, sir. Nature has kindly preordained that there shall 
 be no bar in the intimate relations of humanity and 
 asininity. If a man wants to go through life like a 
 locomotive, I suppose there is nothing to prevent it, but 
 I don't want him to ask me to ride on his train. I 
 know the rails are laid on every kindly feeling and ele- 
 gant grace, and that the smallest flower can't grow 
 between them. I know that there are all sorts of ob- 
 structions on the track, bankruptcies, suicides, diseases, 
 etc., which will prevent him from getting into the three 
 score and ten station which God Almighty intended for 
 him. People come into the world in a great hurry, and 
 immediately commence their preparations to get out of 
 it, They pile up a heap of treasures, and by the time 
 they get it piled up, under the sod they go, where there 
 is not room for a five cent shin-plaster. 
 
 "What made me think of all these things, sir, was 
 the official announcement of the city authorities that 
 when the grandest achievement of this or any other age 
 is celebrated next week, business will be suspended for 
 one hour .f^ Actually for one hour, sir. Sixty min- 
 utes, sir! ! And the wretched man who doesn't re- 
 commence his work and put on steam exactly when the 
 hand reaches the sixty-first minute^ is unworthy the ines- 
 timable privileges of an American citizen, sir. If I had 
 
 *The completion of the Pacific Railroad. 
 
Traveling Too Fast. 235 
 
 been the Common Council of the city of Chicago, I 
 would have passed a law that the merchant who did not 
 hang out the banners on the outer wall from sunrise to 
 sunset, who did not double the wages of his clerks for 
 that day, and order them to celebrate, who did not eat 
 double his usual amount, who did not execute ?c can-can 
 on the top of a flour barrel, who did not make Mrs. 
 Merchant eternally his joyful debtor, by the item of a 
 new hat, and allow the little Merchants to ruin at least 
 one suit of clothes in a mud pie bakery, and who did 
 not retire to bed at night feeling that he was all right at 
 heart, however he might be in his head, should be lia- 
 ble to fine and imprisonment. Business will be suspend- 
 ed/or one hour ! Bah ! 
 
 " I tell you, sir, when Gabriel blows his horn, and 
 summons us to square up our accounts, it will be ex- 
 tremely doubtful whether Chicago will suspend business' 
 more than one hour to accomodate him; and, as I am 
 positive that it will take over an hour to settle up 
 the accounts of this city, it seems to me there is going 
 to be some confusion. It may be possible that Chicago 
 will not be recognized at all on that occasion. If she 
 is, I hope some arrangements may be made by which 
 she can spare a day or two for Gabriel's business. 
 
 " I tell you, sir, we travel too fast. We don't take 
 enough time for recreation. If we would only halt 
 occasionally in this everlasting chase after the Almighty 
 Dollar, there would be less occasion for hospitals, 
 insane asylums, and penitentiaries. There would be 
 fewer suicides, and general smash-ups and break-downs. 
 There is no good reason why a man shouldn't be just 
 as fresh at forty as at twenty, but, as we go now, there 
 
236 Our Fast Life. 
 
 isn't one man in a thousand who is fit for anything but 
 a calculating machine at forty. Physically, he isn't 
 worth a pinch of snuff. Mentally and morally, he is 
 dried up ; and the women, sir, are just as bad as the 
 men. It pains me, sir, to see our women fade so quickly. 
 This fast pace is killing to them. Brought up in hot- 
 houses, and forced beyond nature in their growth, they 
 mature when they should be in bud, and wither when 
 they should be in maturity, and are not of much further 
 use, except for running sewing-circles, and drinking 
 weak tea. It pains me, sir, to see the young girls on 
 our streets, with that callous sort of countenance, and 
 knowing expression, which show that they have got out 
 of illusion into reality, and to see so many pale, care- 
 worn, bent and faded women, out of whom all buoyant 
 life has departed long since, and who can no more keep 
 time than a watch with a broken spring. 
 
 "In the mean time, business will he suspended for 
 one hour. Bah ! Boy's play sir ; all boy's play ! ! 
 
 " These are my opinions, sir, and it is quite immate- 
 rial to me who knows them. And, sir, if your new 
 desk will give them any extra weight, I shall be glad of 
 it. I do not know that Mrs. Blobbs will agree with all 
 that I have written to you, but that also is quite imma- 
 terial. She is a remarkable woman sir, and p7'incipally 
 remarkable for not thinkijig as I do. 
 
 "Allow me to subscribe myself, sir. 
 
 " Your very obedient servant, 
 
 "John Blobbs." 
 
 May 8, 18 ;:». 
 
TYPES. 
 
 T the breakfast table this morning, time hung 
 rather heavily on our hands, for the breakfast 
 was not altogether a success. Old Blobbs was 
 a little sulky, as Mrs. Blobbs had not rested well during 
 the night. When Mrs. Blobbs does not rest well, she 
 either gets up and wanders about the house, in an aimless 
 sort of way, or else she talks to Old Blobbs, which is 
 just the last thing in the world Old Blobbs wants her 
 to do, when he is trying to sleep. Aurelia's baby was 
 troublesome also, and was at last sent away in disgrace, 
 when it had emptied a brimming cup of milk into Mrs. 
 Blobbs' lap, and down the folds of the black silk. 
 Mignon was in a pet about something or other, and was 
 moodily tearing a geranium leaf to pieces, which she 
 had pulled out of the breakfast bouquet. Celeste was 
 in a towering rage with Fitz-Herbert, and shot light- 
 nings out of her pretty eyes at him, because he had 
 spoken slightingly of her coiffure. F. H., however, 
 was as impervious to lightning as a glass non-conduc- 
 tor, and in a chaotic sort of way caressed the promise 
 of a side whisker just beginning to dawn on his cheek. 
 I was, as usual, serene and philsophical ; and to 
 dispel these little spring clouds which every moment 
 
238 The Types. 
 
 threatenened to rain torrents upon the breakfast table, 
 told them I had something to say. 
 
 The announcement was magical, and had the same 
 effect upon the company, that oil has when poured upon 
 the troubled waters, or the show window of a millinery 
 store on opening day upon the ruffled breast of lovely 
 woman. 
 
 And what I said was this : 
 
 I think there is a direct line of ascent from the atom, 
 the grain of sand upon the sea shore, for instance, up 
 to God, and that the great principle of life, which em- 
 anates from God, finds its way down to the atom, 
 although we cannot perceive it with our finite sight. 
 
 Let us commence, if you please, with the dust, which 
 is not to be despised, my dears, because you are made 
 out of it, the sand, the drops of water, or any other of 
 the very lowest forms of creation. We pass up from 
 these elements, and find them crystalized into minerals, 
 and wrought into flowers, and obtain our first ideas of 
 beauty. Looking up through the grades of flowers, we 
 happen upon the sensitive plants, which shrink from 
 you, and shiver when you point your finger at them 
 like guilty souls, and the winged orchids, which you 
 must touch to convince yourself they are not butterflies ; 
 and in these you begin to get foreshadowings of life. 
 From this point you find organisms which may be veg- 
 etable, or may be animal. Our skill is insufficient to 
 decide which they are. Presently you reach the sponges 
 and the corals, in which animal life is very apparent ; 
 and if you will do yourself the pleasure to look into 
 that glass of water with a microscope, my dear Celeste, 
 you will be thoroughly convinced of life, and also that 
 
From Atom to Man. 239 
 
 you are daily drinking millions of very unpleasant look- 
 ing animals. A step higher up, you reach the insects 
 and the ephemera, who live their little day of breezy 
 life in the sunshine, and in their buzzing you find music 
 commences. All these little fellows, with wings and 
 feelers, play very pretty tunes, if your ear is only good 
 enough to catch them, when they praise God by beating 
 their gauzy wings together. As you pass from the 
 insects to the birds, life is more pronounced, and the 
 music of which I have spoken develops in construction 
 and increases in beauty. Now, we are reaching the 
 grade of animals, where intelligence commences ; and 
 as we come up to the dog, ox, horse or elephant, affec- 
 tion is added to intelligence. The animals begin to 
 assume the qualities of man, and before we are aware 
 of it, some of the animals are walking on two legs 
 instead of four, and assuming the form and features of ■ 
 men, as, for instance, the monkeys, the apes, and the 
 orang-utans. You pass from the monkey to the Digger 
 Indian or Hottentot, and with the single unimportant 
 exception of length of tail, it is well nigh impossible to 
 tell them apart. Man is a short-tailed monkey, or, vice 
 versa, monkey is a long-tailed man. Even in the high- 
 est order of man, it is sometimes difficult to tell a man 
 from a monkey. Turn a child out into the woods, and 
 let it grow up for thirty or forty years, subsisting upon 
 roots, herbs and nuts, like an animal, and what does it 
 become at last but a hairy, chattering ape, climbing 
 trees, burrowing in the ground, and living like an ani- 
 mal ? Thus we rise through various grades of men, 
 each new type more perfect than the other, but still 
 possessing some characteristic of the animal, until we 
 
240 Man. 
 
 reach woman, who is a step higher ; then up through 
 the various types of women, until we reach the angels ; 
 through the various types of angels until we reach the 
 archangels, and then through the shining hierarcliy of 
 Heaven, until we stop at God, the centre of all life and 
 the sun of all perfection, beyond Whom is nullity. 
 
 Thus do I believe that man is linked with all animal 
 and vegetable forms below him, and that in each change 
 the higher type takes something from the lower and 
 preserves some characteristics of it, and that man loves 
 God best when he loves all the types below him — the 
 beast, the bird, the insect, the flower, and even the 
 atom. The line from God to the atom, and from the 
 atom to God, seems to me clear and uninterrupted ; 
 and thus the whole of this great universe is bound to- 
 gether by clear, though sometimes unseen relations, and 
 radiates from God, its centre. And who knows but 
 that in other planets there are intelligences superior to 
 us, forming more links in this grand chain ? When 
 man dies, he goes back to the dust whence he sprang. 
 He mingles with the brook ; he blossoms in the flowers 
 of the field ; he is crystalized into the mineral ; and 
 thus part after part is absorbed, until only the original 
 atom is left, which is the foundation upon which God 
 has built up all this marvelous superstructure. Purified 
 of all the bad qualities of animal and vegetable, and 
 other material organisms, the soul, or what the philoso- 
 phers call the Ego, only is left, and is only fitted to be 
 in the presence of the Originator of this complex mech- 
 anism. 
 
 Exactly where the soul comes in, in tracing the 
 changes from type to type, I confess, is a difticult mat- 
 
The Soul. 241 
 
 ter to solve. The physical peculiarities are easily 
 defined, but the spiritual developments are very subtle. 
 I am free to confess to you that I don't believe man has 
 a monopoly of all the soul there is in the vi'orld. I am 
 prepared to admit that some men don't have souls at all, 
 but only instincts. The common saying, "This man 
 hasn't the soul of a louse," I think may be literally 
 true. Some animals, I solemnly believe, have larger, 
 better and truer souls than some men. All the learned 
 arguments in the world would never convince me that 
 the faithful horse, who is diligent in business, who 
 understands what is said to him, and who stands there 
 weeping big tears out of his eyes, and uttering a mourn- 
 ful cry under the lash of the brute who is driving him, 
 has not a soul, and more than that, a better and bigger 
 soul than his driver. The mental acumen of all the 
 schools would never convince me that the faithful dog ' 
 who loses his master, searches for him day and night, 
 only to find his grave, and, lying upon that grave, 
 refuses food and drink, and, moaning piteously, dies 
 upon his master's sleeping place, has not a soul. Did 
 you ever look directly into the eyes of the ox, and not 
 see the soul of the animal looking out at you in those 
 soft and expressive orbs ? To my mind, blind old Ho- 
 mer never said a finer thing than when he called the 
 mother of the gods, " Ox-eyed Juno," although I think 
 it was an injustice to the animal, because Juno was a 
 scallawag, and deserved just such an old rake of a hus- 
 band as t'le Cloud-Bearer. 
 
 In these various types we do not always find perfec- 
 tion. There are breaks in the ascent. I will illustrate 
 this to you. Among the insects, there are fleas, mosqui- 
 
 17 
 
242 Breaks. 
 
 tos, cockroaches, and other species, which have not ad- 
 vanced a particle in decency or intelligence above the 
 hideous horned animalisms in the drop of water. 
 Among the birds, there are some types of no more con- 
 sequence than the insects. In the higher grades of the 
 animals, there are the same unfortunate breaks. In the 
 dog family, for instance, the yellow dog is really far 
 below the plane on which he stands. He belongs to 
 the same category as the skunk. He is of no earthly 
 use to the types above or below him. The only thing 
 he can do is to bark ; and as he barks at everything, 
 from the moon to a mud-puddle, even his barking has 
 no significance. When you get up to men, there is no 
 exception to the rule. Some men have not fully 
 changed from one type to another, but have the char- 
 acteristics of the lower type in a crude form, like polly- 
 wogs and water-newts. 
 
 Now, you see, assuming my doctrine to be correct, 
 you can explain a great many peculiarities of men, and 
 the animal characteristics they carry about with them. 
 It explains why some men look like animals; why some 
 men act like a dog ; why some are slow as a snail ; why 
 some are secretive as a clam ; why some absorb all you 
 have got, like a sponge ; why some are as dirty as a 
 hog ; why some are as sly as a fox ; why some are as scaly 
 as a fish ; and so on ad infi7iitum. You can find the 
 features of almost every animal in the human face — the 
 ass and the monkey being specially prominent. The 
 number of men, who, in the change of types, have pre- 
 served the family semblance to these animals is some- 
 what remarkable. In fact, the ass was a very hard ani- 
 mal to get by in the ascent. Almost every man now 
 
Women. 243 
 
 and then makes an ass of himself, and returns to the 
 lower type — the only shade of difference being in the 
 length of the ear. Were it not that a superior power 
 continually holds him in check, man would gravitate 
 downward, as his whole tendency is to retrograde to 
 these lower types. Some men, who are not obstructed 
 by this superior power, manage to get back to the brute 
 and stay there. He must have certain conventional 
 surroundings, also, in addition to this superior power, 
 which is that of education, to keep his elevated position. 
 
 I think that the women mainly come from the flowers 
 and the birds. You will find the analogies of nearly all 
 Avomen in the vegetable kingdom. Some women, ten- 
 der, delicate, fragile, and spiritual, have all the attri- 
 butes of the violet, and though they may blossom in 
 some out of the way corner, they make everything 
 around them joyous with their beauty and fragrance. ' 
 Then there are others who flaunt their heads Avith a 
 pretty disdain, and dazzle you Avith the beauty of their 
 faces, but the moment you touch them, they fall to 
 pieces like the seeds of the dandelion. They won't 
 bear handling. Then there are Avomen Avith strong na- 
 tures, whose bodies are in harness, and souls in curb, who 
 resemble the tough azalea, with a stalk like iron, and 
 flowers we never care to gather, OAving to their glutinous 
 consistency. There are other Avomen whom you can't 
 take hold of at all. They repel you from every side 
 like a porcupine. They resemble the fruit of the Du- 
 rion tree, Avhich is excellent eating provided you have 
 courage enough to get through its hard spikes. 
 
 I Avas reading the other day that the birds of Paradise, 
 Avhen they are in their most gorgeous plumage, select 
 
244 ^ Refrain. 
 
 some tree, or other eligible spot, go through with a reg- 
 ular dance for the edification of the other birds, and, 
 during the dance, display their lustrous feathers by 
 spreading them out as much as possible, and chatter 
 together, in an insanely garrulous manner. 
 
 I was about to make an application of this custom to 
 women, when I caught the eye of Mrs. Blobbs looking 
 at me in a significant manner. I confess to you I am 
 a little afraid of that majestic woman when she puts on 
 her Avar-]jaint, and I immediately refrained, and we 
 arose from the table. 
 
 May 15, 1869. 
 
WOMAN IN CHURCH. 
 
 N refusing to admit the women into the Young 
 Men's Christian Association, Brother Moody 
 has thrown aside the strongest element in reli- 
 gious matters which he could have used. Women are 
 peculiarly receptive. Their nature is intensely emotion- 
 al. They see instinctively where the man has to grope 
 and reason his way up. A thousand sympathetic ten- 
 drils stretch out from their hearts, like the arms of the 
 cuttle fish, which seize upon, wind around and draw to 
 the centre, in strong affinity, if not assimilation, every 
 object to which they are attracted. If it be good, it 
 transforms them to angels; if evil, to fiends. No man 
 can be such a saint as a woman ; no man such a sinner. 
 It is this intense emotion and natural instinct which ad- 
 mirably qualify them for religious purposes. And it 
 proves, moreover, why, without them, there isn't a 
 church in this city that could live six months. The 
 church membership as every one knows is largely fem- 
 inine. The influence which the Church exerts is femin- 
 ine. The sympathy which the minister gets is feminine. 
 His smoking-cap, dressing-robe, slippers, book-marks, 
 donation-parties and other pleasant perquisites are fem- 
 inine. And all the grumbling, fault-finding, hard work 
 
246 The Woman. 
 
 and hard knocks which the minister has to encounter, 
 are purely mascuHne. The man, naturally lacking in 
 reverence as well as religion, is inclined to regard the 
 minister from a commercial point of view, and to treat 
 him as an equal, while the woman looks up with admir- 
 ing reverence. 
 
 Any woman who has been to church, unless her near- 
 est neighbor has just come out in a new hat, can tell 
 you what text the minister preached from, and give 
 you a syllabus of his discourse. There isn't one man 
 in ten who can do that. The man carries his business 
 into church with him. The woman, unless there is an 
 harassing doubt concerning the integrity of the beans, 
 which might have been placed in the oven a little too 
 soon, leaves her business at home. She can shed her 
 cares as an umbrella sheds rain. The man, be he a den- 
 tist, allows dental reflections to insinuate themselves 
 among the threads of the discourse, and wonders how 
 he can get sister this or that into his chair of torture, 
 and mentally determines to try it on at the next sewing- 
 circle. The doctor is rather quietly rejoiced to see a 
 large number of sisters absent, because this argues sick- 
 ness. Women don't stay away from church unless they 
 are sick, or some one is coming to dinner. The lawyer 
 wonders if a certain statement the minister has made, 
 has any legal bearing, and this leads him to think of 
 the case of Boggs vs. Noggs, which is pending in the 
 courts. The merchant who has just seen two of his 
 clerks driving down the avenue at a very rapid rate, 
 with cigars in their mouths, and in a style which seems 
 to indicate they are not going to a Sunday School, won- 
 ders where they are going, where they got their nion- 
 
The Man. 247 
 
 ey to go with, and what they are going to do when 
 they get there. And so on with each class. It is all 
 very well to talk of the quiet of the Sabbath, and the 
 propriety of forgetting the things of this world. It is a 
 pretty theory, but men don't observe it. A man, in 
 course of time, gets his nature so soaked and saturated 
 with the cares, foibles, and follies of this world, that 
 the moment it is squeezed in the slightest degree, some 
 of these things will ooze out. So he thinks of the 
 things of this world, and the words of the minister 
 hum through his thoughts as the buzz of the bees comes 
 to your ears in a hot summer day, when you are lying 
 in the shade of the trees ; and, as the architect was in 
 league with the devil when he built the church, the ven- 
 tilation is slightly bad. All these things militate against 
 watchfulness, and the man, having confidence that the 
 minister is on the right doctrinal track, quietly goes tO' 
 sleep, and makes no sign thereafter, except to brush a 
 fly from his nose, or nod vigorous assents to the par- 
 son's heads with his own. 
 
 I have noticed that women do not sleep in church. 
 When Mrs. Blobbs accompanies old Blobbs to church, 
 that good woman's attention is sadly distracted from 
 the sermon, by the constant necessity of punching Old 
 Blobbs in the ribs to keep him from snoring, whereat 
 Old Blobbs opens both eyes wide open, fixes them upon 
 the minister, as if he had never slept a wink in his life, 
 gives his individual and serious attention to the sermon 
 for the space of one minute, gradually closes one eye, 
 as if winking at somebody, then quietly shuts the other, 
 as if he did not want to disturb any one, and in anoth- 
 er moment his nose sounds the whistle that he has 
 
248 Female Engineering. 
 
 arrived at the station of Morpheus, which necessitates 
 another punch from Mrs. Blobbs. Thus Old Blobbs is 
 kept between a snore and a swear the whole blessed 
 morning, and goes home to his dinner without a single 
 coherent idea about the sermon, while Mrs. Blobbs can 
 go from firstly to tenthly, and throw in significant 
 remarks about the young fellow who was fool enough to 
 go to sleep on a window sill, while Paul was preaching, 
 resulting in a broken neck, or something of that sort, 
 you know. 
 
 Woman gives herself up without a question or a 
 doubt to the inspiration of the hour, with the whole 
 intensity of her emotional nature, very much as I think 
 I should give myself up to the beats and pulsations of 
 the organ-heart of some old cathedral, while the "dim, 
 religious light ' ' streamed in through the stained win- 
 dows, and saints and martyrs looked down upon me 
 from their niches. 
 
 And then a man in a sewing circle, or church socia- 
 ble, or maternal meeting, or aid society meeting, or 
 anything else of that harmless sort, is as much out of 
 place, and as essentially useless as a coal-heaver would 
 be at a classical concert. And yet these are great aids. 
 They must be in the hands of the women. The major 
 part of the machinery of the church must be engin- 
 eered by the women. For all these reasons do I think 
 that Brother Moody was unwise to refuse admission to 
 the women. 
 
 May 22, 18G9. 
 
THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 jID you ever go East over the Pennsylvania 
 Central Railroad? If not, do it at your first 
 opportunity, and get a glimpse at the mount- 
 ain scenery. It will reconcile you to life. The mem- 
 ory of those grand, imposing forms, towering into the 
 heavens, clothed with their mighty greenery, girdled 
 with the mists and crowned with the eternal sunshine, 
 will stand you in good stead when life j^resses with its' 
 cares and anxieties, and the daily routine frets and 
 worries, and friendship grows forgetful, and the grass- 
 hopper begins to be a burden. 
 
 I remember that the first thought which flashed upon 
 me, as I stood upon the rear of the train, crawling up 
 the hills in sinuous track, like some great serpent, was 
 not so much the physical aspects as the perfect repose 
 which seemed to brood among them. There was no 
 life apparent — no motion visible. There was a river, 
 which now and then glistened in the sunlight, but it 
 was far down in the valleys, and it seemed from our 
 height only a silver thread, tying the mountains to- 
 gether in a great emerald cluster. You saw the tops of 
 the trees overlaying each other, and covering the moun- 
 tains like the scales of a fish. But there was no motion 
 
250 Their Repose. 
 
 in them. They were solid, massive and gigantic as pet- 
 rified Titans. I do not believe the birds sing on those 
 mountain sides ; I do not believe the fairies gambol 
 there in the moonlight, nor even that the insects play 
 their part in the breezy morning symphonies under 
 those still trees. It seems to me that none but a Deity 
 should come down to those mountain tops, and thrice 
 happy the man who can commune with him in that sol- 
 itude. It seems to me that there would be no need of 
 the written word there. The genius of solitude broods 
 there — on the jutting peaks, in the great trees, in the 
 solemn shadows, in the dark, silent pools and tarns, in 
 the dank, trailing robes of the mist, and in the ineffa- 
 ble golden glory of the sunshine. I can now see how 
 Irma found repose on " the Heights ; " how she could 
 reach from the Alpine summits up toward Heaven, and 
 feel the hand of the Great Father reaching down to her-; 
 how, among the toils, and the sorrows, and the sins of 
 the little world down in the valleys, the sweet repose of 
 the mountains purified her ; and how she struggled out 
 of vice into virtue, out of impurity into perfect purity. 
 I can see how all great souls, tormented with the follies 
 and littleness of the world, with the ungratefulness and 
 faithlessness of those they have trusted, bound down 
 under the weight of their earthly burdens, their wings 
 clipped, and their hands fettered, have longed for the 
 mountain tops, where they might forever forget the 
 world, and be alone with nature and the Deity. I can 
 see how God came down to Moses on the mountain ; 
 how the marvelous transfiguration shone from the 
 mountain \ how Goethe sang, 
 
 " On every height there lies repose." 
 
The Mountain Spirit. 251 
 
 Another thought struck me, and that was the magnifi- 
 cent littleness of humanity, when it is brought into the 
 presence of these mighty manifestations of Nature. 
 What a poor little speck you are upon the great canvas ! 
 How small you look with your aches and pains, your 
 fusses and foibles, your fashions and furbelows, your 
 vanities and ambitions, iu this eternal presence ! How 
 evanescent is fame ; how transient is wealth ; how fee- 
 ble is love ; how fickle is friendship ; how small is this 
 hand-breadth of life ; how utterly insignificant all ac- 
 complishment of human industry ; how utterly pinch- 
 beck all displays of human grandeur, compared with 
 this awful majesty of Nature ! How few men have 
 caught the mountain spirit and left it in their works ! 
 Blot out Shakspeare and Milton and Dante, Moses and 
 Paul and Martin Luther, Raphael and Michael An- 
 gelo, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Bach, ' 
 and who is left to correspond with the height and depth, 
 the majesty and solitude of the mountains ? Not that 
 genius was confined to them, but the other great names 
 have been celebrated in the valleys, by the brooks, and 
 among the flowers. They made the earth lovelier and 
 brighter for their presence, but they did not reach the 
 heights of human nature, where dwells everlasting 
 repose. They saw the star-shadows on the water, but 
 these others soared to them in the heavens. They 
 sowed the world with richest flowers of thought. To 
 these others, it was given to pluck the asphodels and 
 amaranths growing by eternal v/aters. They build- 
 ed in the trees of the valleys, and their songs were 
 sweet. These others sought the regions above the 
 storms with their eagle-flights, and when their voices 
 
252 Their Physical Aspects. 
 
 come to us from their calm heights, they are laden with 
 an awful majesty and beauty, as the west is now laden 
 with the thunder-clouds, and pregnant with sweeping 
 power, as those clouds are now pregnant with the 
 lightnings. 
 
 The physical aspects of these mountains are marvel- 
 ously beautiful. What a compact wall the tree-tops 
 make ! They seem impervious even to the sharpest 
 lightning. Their forms give you every diversity of sur- 
 face. Their outlines are never harsh or rugged, but 
 always undulating and graceful. As the train sweeps 
 along, now you get only the bold, precipitous wall of 
 one mountain side. In a minute you get a view of an- 
 other face. Now a chain of mountains group them- 
 selves together in a superb tableau. Now they form the 
 gigantic setting of a peaceful green valley with a river 
 laughing in its face, with here and there the dot of a 
 house, and the column of thin, blue smoke no bigger 
 than that which curls up from your cigar. The next 
 instant the pretty vision is swept out of sight. You are 
 thundering along on the edge of a curve right in the 
 clutches of these Titans. The motion of the train 
 impresses you with the idea that they are moving down 
 upon it with resistless might, and that they will crush it 
 like an egg-shell. You are surrounded with dense 
 shadows. The mountains are bowing down their shaggy 
 heads. You almost feel their weight pressing down 
 upon you, and their breath, full of the bracing essence 
 of life, in your face. It seems almost profanation to 
 speak with such a presence near you, and you can only 
 think thoughts too deep for the fashion of words. But 
 anon, the train sj^eeds through the sulphurous black- 
 
The Clouds. 253 
 
 ness of a tunnel, and you emerge into the sunlight, 
 rolling in great waves of gold up the mountain sides, 
 and giving you weird effects of light and shade, and 
 constantly changing emerald tints that would mock the 
 finest frenzy of the artist. I believe the clouds love to 
 deck the mountains, as the sea loves to deck the shore 
 with shells and sea-flowers. A sunrise or sunset in those 
 mountains when the heavens are full of clouds, shows 
 what d\'es nature can use, and what forms she can 
 mould, as you will see them nowhere else. 
 
 July 3, 180!». 
 
THE JUBILEE. 
 
 Boston, June 15, 1869. 
 HE day of Jubilee has come. 
 
 Boston has been in a flutter of agitation and ex- 
 citement to-day ; for, truth to say, Boston her- 
 self has not been over sanguine as to the success of the 
 Jubilee. It is probable that not a person in the city has 
 regarded the experiment in the light of an unquestioned 
 success, except Mr. Gilmore, in whose fertile brain the Ju- 
 bilee was conceived, and by whom it has been pushed 
 forward, in the face of obstacles, to a successful birth; 
 When Mr. Gilmore offered the Jubilee to New York, 
 the Manhattanites laughed at him, and gently insinua- 
 ted that he had gone clean daft, whereupon Mr. Gil- 
 more took his embryonic Jubilee to Boston, and, un- 
 daunted by obstacles, and unannoyed by the gibes and 
 jeers of the faithless, he worked in season and out of 
 season, put this wheel and that wheel together, got this 
 man and that man interested in it, melted even the 
 adamantine hearts of the musicians themselves, and at 
 last got his project so far advanced that it became a 
 matter of city pride to put the municipal shoulder to 
 the wheel and help Gilmore out with his mammoth un- 
 dertaking. And Boston did help him right royally. 
 Once provided with the ducats and with the collaterals, 
 which guaranteed him financial safety, the foundations 
 
W/iai Wm He Do With Them? 255 
 
 of the enterprise were laid, and the superstructure grew 
 rapidly. Singers and instruments, big singers and little 
 singers, big fiddles and little fiddles, poured in as fast 
 and as thick as the dogs and cats in Beard's picture. I 
 myself saw, riding on a boat of Commodore Fisk's, from 
 New York to Fall River, en route to the Jubilee, sixty 
 double basses ranged along on the deck, like coffins 
 swathed in green bags, and to-day I saw them again 
 manipulated in the vast orchestra, to show that I do not 
 lie. 
 
 The material was, at last, all in his hands, and the 
 material was composed of one thousand instruments — a 
 big organ, ten thousand singers, a Coliseum, and sun- 
 dry properties by way of appendices, such as a battery 
 of artillery, church bells, and anvils. And the question 
 immediately arose : 
 
 What will he do with them? 
 
 This is the question which has agitated Boston to-day, 
 from the harbor to the Back Bay, and from Bunker Hill 
 to Jamaica Plain. When Boston woke up this morning, 
 notwithstanding her doubts, she dressed herself in festal 
 garments of streamers, flags and bunting, to do honor 
 to tlie occasion, and to properly impress the strangers 
 within her borders with the fact that she was out for a 
 holiday, and was bound to enjoy herself. And there 
 were strangers enough within her borders. Every other 
 man you met upon the narrow sidewalks was a carpet- 
 bagger, and every other woman had a roll of music in 
 her hands. Band musicians in all sorts of uniforms, 
 carrying all sorts of odd-looking boxes, met you and 
 jostled you at every turn, for it is impossible for two 
 people to pass each other upon a Boston sidewalk, es- 
 
256 The Chorus. 
 
 pecially if one has a box or a carpet-bag in his hands. 
 Every train and every boat which has arrived to-day 
 was loaded down with musical freight, and all the 
 morning they filed down Boylston street to the Colise- 
 um, in water-proof cloaks with their rolls of music. 
 The hotels are filled with them. The boarding houses 
 are full, both in the city and in the suburbs, and even 
 some of the public halls have been provided with cots, 
 to accommodate the melodious strangers, who have 
 come here to lift up their voices in the grand chorus. 
 
 And it is a grand chorus. In 1836, Mendelssohn, the 
 great master, led 536 performers, and ten years later 
 led his own "Elijah," with achorus of 700 before him. 
 In 1862 a chorus of 4,000 voices sang together at the 
 Crystal Palace in London ; and last year Costa led 
 4,500 in the same building. It was considered a great 
 event — an episode in the history of music. Julien, 
 that eccentric little conductor, conceived the idea of 
 increasing upon this number, but the very magnitude of 
 his operations turned his brain, and he died in a mad- 
 house — his disordered mind, even in his dying moments, 
 being occupied with an imaginary orchestra. It has been 
 left for Mr. Gilmore to eclipse them all. What was 
 some time a problem is now a fixed fact ; and the 
 annals of music can show no grander triumph than that 
 which this daring, hard working man has achieved this 
 day. When Mr. Gilmore's baton closed the final chord 
 of the massive Martin Luther choral, he had done 
 something which was worth living for. He had a right 
 to be proud of his work. 
 
 The Coliseum in which the Jubilee is given, is upon 
 the made lands of the Back Bay. Upon its site young 
 
The Coliseum. 257 
 
 Boston has fished in the summer, and skated in the 
 winter. When Boston had filled out to the water's 
 edge, it did what Canute could not do. It commenced 
 to drive back the sea, and each step that the sea receded 
 was filled up and built upon. Aristocracy turned its 
 eyes thitherward, and went there to build its free-stone 
 fronts, and made it the handsomest part of the city. 
 The Coliseum is on the newest of this land, where it 
 has not yet been divided off into lots. Its immediate 
 surroundings, therefore, are not very attractive. The 
 exterior of the building is not remarkably beautiful, and 
 the fine Natural History rooms, and other elegant build- 
 ings near by, provoke architectural comparisons not 
 particularly favorable to it. It has a cheerful, pleasant 
 appearance, however, and derives a certain sort of, 
 brilliancy from the little flags of divers colors which 
 flutter in the breeze from every salient point. The 
 hucksters and venders of notions, who have improved 
 the occasion to turn an honest or dishonest penny, as 
 the case may be, have not improved the ensemble with 
 their scores of board shanties and canvas tents, which 
 have been dumped down upon the crude ground in 
 every direction. Their name is almost literally legion. 
 There are venders of ice creams, which are mushy and 
 sloppy ; of soda water with gaudily colored syrups ; of 
 innocent vegetable beer, for the hard hand of the law 
 forbids the sale of anything stronger; of domestic 
 cigars compounded of innocuous herbs; of oranges, and 
 pop corn, and bananas, and photographs, and fans. At 
 this shanty you may get revolving heels placed upon 
 your boots, and at that one you can get key tags 
 stamped. Here the wild men of Borneo are delighting 
 
 18 
 
258 TJie Coliseum. 
 
 a crowd, and there you may see a two-headed monkey 
 cheap. Blind men are selling ballads. Small girls are 
 vending hot roasted peanuts. Here is a shooting gal- 
 lery, and there a fandango. The old buxom Irish 
 women of the common, who have been accustomed to 
 drowse away their days under the elms, have suddenly 
 become imbued with the enterprise of the hour, and are 
 driving sharp bargains on the Back Bay in oranges and 
 candy, and puff away at their dhudeens with an air of 
 self congratulation. 
 
 Notwithstanding these drawbacks, however, the Col- 
 iseum admirably answers the purposes for which it was 
 built. It is large enough to accommodate all who will 
 go. Its ventilation is excellent ; its acoustic properties 
 good, and its conveniences perfect as they can be. The 
 interior is beautifully decorated with bunting, streamers, 
 flags, and various paintings and devices. The sub- 
 rooms, especially the reception room, are exquisitely 
 adapted to the purposes for which they were designed. 
 The latter room, this morning, presented a perfect wil- 
 derness of flowers, and its walls were hung with elegant 
 paintings. Its seating capacity is, I should judge, 
 between thirty and forty thousand, exclusive of the 
 chorus and orchestra. The roughness and blank appear- 
 ance of unfinished wood-work, has been concealed by 
 drapery and bunting very gracefully arranged, and from 
 one end of the Coliseum to the other, the eye is attract- 
 ed by the brightest of colors. 
 
 It is now my task to describe to you the opening con- 
 cert, and I freely confess my inability to do so. As I 
 write you, the deep diapason of that mighty organ, the 
 surging waves of harmony from the largest orchestra and 
 
The Scene. 259 
 
 the marvelous sublimity of the largest chorus the world 
 has ever known, are still in my ears, and it seems to me 
 that I can find no words to describe it. I can feel it, 
 but I cannot make you feel it with poor words. It 
 almost seems a profanation to attempt it. To see that 
 multitude alone is electrifying. It makes your blood 
 stir within you, to look upon that great sea of faces 
 stretching off into the distance, and to know that one 
 man holds them in his hand, and with his little baton 
 guides and sways them at his will. One man in that 
 vast throng is only as one drop in the sea — one grain of 
 sand upon the shore. His voice is indistinguishable, 
 but the aggregate, you feel within you, will be as the 
 on-coming of the mighty storm. 
 
 Picture to yourself the scene. Immediately before 
 you is the orchestra, one thousand strong, occupying 
 the level platform. The brasses are at the rear, as you 
 may easily perceive, by a strip as of gold, which runs 
 through the sombre black, and right between them is a 
 huge bass drum, looming up like the wheel of a steam- 
 boat. From this level platform, on three sides, rises an 
 amphitheatre, which holds the great chorus, ten thou- 
 sand strong. The sopranos are on the left, the altos on 
 the right, and the tenors and bassos in the centre, and 
 up from their midst rise the open pipes of the great 
 organ, the player of which sits facing the conductor, 
 at some distance from the organ, communicating with 
 him by means of speaking tubes. Sub-conductors are 
 also located near each of the choral parts, who convey 
 the instructions of the main conductors. Just at the 
 right of the conductor there is an electrical battery 
 which communicates with a section of artillery at a dis- 
 
26o 
 
 The Orchestras. 
 
 tance. The instrumental performers are arranged in 
 the orchestra. The first, the chorus orchestra, is made 
 up as follows : 
 
 Wind. 
 
 Flutes 8 
 
 Clarionets .... 8 
 
 Oboes 8 
 
 Bassoons 8 
 
 Horns 12 
 
 Trumpets .... 8 
 Trombones .... 9 
 
 Tubas 3 
 
 Drums 10 
 
 Stringed. 
 
 
 First Violins . . 
 
 • 115 
 
 Second Violins . . 
 
 . 100 
 
 Violoncellos . 
 
 . 6s 
 
 Violas .... 
 
 . 6s 
 
 Double Basses 
 
 • 85 
 
 
 430 
 
 
 74 
 
 Total, 
 
 504 
 
 74 
 The grand orchestra is composed of the following 
 instruments, in addition to those specified above : 
 
 Piccolos and Flutes 
 Yjb Clarionetts 
 Y>b Clarionetts 
 E(^ Cornets 
 ^b Cornets 
 Y.b Alto Horns 
 B(^ Tenor Horns 
 Tenor Trombones 
 Bass Trombones 
 B^ Baritones . 
 Yjb Basso Tubas 
 Small Drums . 
 Bass Drums 
 Cymbals 
 Triangles . 
 
 Chorus Orchestra . 
 Total 
 
 25 
 
 20 
 
 50 
 50 
 
 75 
 75 
 25 
 50 
 25 
 25 
 75 
 50 
 25 
 10 
 10 
 
 590 
 504 
 
 1094 
 
The Luther Choral. 261 
 
 The players and singers are all in their places. The 
 organ sounds a few chords, and the players tune their 
 instruments therefrom. Ole Bull comes in and takes 
 his seat at the head of the first violinists, amid applause 
 from all parts of the house, and the veteran Norwegian 
 cavalier sits there, with his bow upon his violin, as 
 straight and as lordly as one of his own pines, watching 
 the conductor with flashing eyes. It is Mr. Gilmore 
 who has just followed him, and as he takes the stand, 
 enthusiasm breaks out in every part of the vast building, 
 and the applause is loud and long. When it has sub- 
 sided, he raises his baton. The chorus rises, and there 
 is something stirring even in the rising of such a vast 
 throng. The audience is hushed, and, for an instant, 
 there is perfect stillness. The baton descends, and 
 chorus, orchestra and organ sound in a mighty chord 
 of harmony the opening note of Martin Luther's grand 
 old choral. As they sweep along through its slow and 
 solemn movement as regularly as the swing of a pen- 
 dulum, the organ's mighty diapason upholding the 
 whole and keeping them together, it is like the voice 
 of many waters. It is not a chaos of noise, as I had 
 dreamed it would be ; not a mere volume of sound 
 without music. The voices come to you blended to- 
 gether as the sounds of nature — the songs of the birds, 
 the blasts of the winds and the rushings of the torrents — 
 blend. The instruments are powerful, but smooth. In 
 that vast array you lose the scrape of the strings and the 
 blare of the brasses. They are toned down into pure 
 harmony, and through all, in all, and about all, come 
 the mighty voices of the organ as the thunders come in 
 the storm. The tears are in your eyes before you know 
 IS* 
 
262 The Luther Choral. 
 
 it. The audience before you disappears. You are 
 lifted, as it were, upon the great waves of music into 
 the very presence of the infinite, and the outside world, 
 with all its petty cares and troubles, is forgotten. On 
 the repeat, the choral is commenced pianissimo, and 
 the music comes to you as if from afar over the water. 
 Gradually it approaches you, and, with a superb cres- 
 cendo, in which the organ carries everything along with 
 it, the cadenza is reached in a burst of harmony you 
 have never heard before. You may never hear it again. 
 The conductor steps down from his stand amid thun- 
 ders of applause. It is at last proven that the Jubilee 
 will be a musical success. 
 
 Such singing and such playing I have never heard 
 before. I do not believe anything like it has ever been 
 heard in the world. At first, it seems to you that the 
 choruses are not in time, for, from first to last, they 
 have not been with the conductor's beat, to one sitting 
 at some distance. Of course, you see the beat before 
 you hear the sound, as you see the wood-chopper's axe 
 descend upon the distant hillside before you hear the 
 blow, and thus the chorus seems to be behind, when, in 
 reality, it is with the conductor. 
 
 Julius Eichberg, who wrote the pretty little " Doctor 
 of Alcantara," next takes the baton, and the grand or- 
 chestra addresses itself to the unraveling of Wagner's 
 Tannhauser overture. The massing of instruments in 
 the opening of the overture is superb, and the main 
 theme is delivered with remarkable beauty. Soon they 
 are lost in the intricate modulations and chaotic dis- 
 cords of this musician of the future; but when they 
 begin to emerge into the chromatic violin runs, and re- 
 
Parepa. 263 
 
 turn once more to something which has a resemblance 
 to melody and a meaning in it, it is with a splendid 
 burst of power; and one is almost compelled to ac- 
 knowledge that there is method in this Bavarian mad- 
 man, after all. 
 
 Once more, the chorus rises, and Carl Zerrahn takes 
 the baton — the flute-player of the old Germania orches- 
 tra, and one of the most accomplished musicians living. 
 He is a great favorite, both for his musical and his 
 gentlemanly qualities, and he is greeted with a very 
 storm of applause. The "Gloria" from Mozart's 
 "Twelfth Mass" is next on the programme. He is 
 a ^ very easy and graceful, and yet forcible leader, 
 and, notwithstanding the intricacy of the accompani- 
 ment and the difficulty of the vocal score, under the 
 magical influence of his baton, the sublimity of the 
 "Gloria" finds a graphic illustration. 
 
 Gounod's "Ave Maria," so full of suggestions of 
 "Faust," is the next number, and Parepa comes for- 
 ward to sing it, dressed in pure white. She receives a 
 perfect ovation. In the morning, at rehearsal, she had 
 been very nervous. The vast orchestra and chorus be- 
 fore her almost terrified her, and she was confident she 
 could but make her voice heard for a short distance. 
 The "Ave Maria" is not a fair test of the capabilities 
 of her voice, however, as she has only an accompani- 
 ment of two hundred violins to do the obligato. She 
 bows to the audience, and, turning, acknowledges 
 the hearty welcome which the chorus has given her. 
 Every tone of her voice is audible, even in the most 
 distant parts of the hall. Its absolute purity, and the 
 jentire absence of woodiness in it, make it heard, and 
 
264 The Star-Spangled Banner. 
 
 give you confidence that you will also hear it in the 
 " Inflammatus," where she will have a severe test. 
 
 The "Star-Spangled Banner" is the next feature. It 
 has been arranged differently for this occasion, which 
 may account for a slight faux pas which happened. 
 The tenors and bassos take the first verse, and the 
 sopranos and altos the second verse in unison, which 
 gives you an excellent opportunity of hearing the vari- 
 ous parts of the great chorus by themselves. It would 
 be difficult to say which was the best, although I am 
 inclined to give the palm to the tenors, and yet I think 
 no one who heard them can ever forget the other parts. 
 A serious mistake occurred in the accompaniment. 
 The trumpets are badly out. Some of the other brasses 
 follow, and draw off some of the violins. The chorus 
 begins to waver. There is danger of a disastrous break- 
 down. Gilmore, who is at the baton, is growing ner- 
 vous; he fairly jumps up and down in his anxiety. And' 
 still it is running away, when suddenly Wilcox opens 
 all the great organ, and with a crash of sound and an 
 obstinately right tempo, brings all the discordant ele- 
 ments together again. The artillery peals in with its 
 thunder in perfect time, and as the last measure closes, 
 the whole audience rise unanimously to their feet at 
 once, and the most intense excitement prevails. Thou- 
 sands of handkerchiefs are waved by t'.\e ladies and 
 flutter in the air like white doves. Men wave their hats 
 and clap their hands, and the air is filled with bravos 
 and cheers, which are kept up until the encore is given. 
 
 Parepa has the next number, and it is her favorite 
 number — the "Inflammatus" from the Stabat Mater. 
 Her voice has now a test such as it has never had before; 
 
The Anvil Chorus. 265 
 
 for in the last few measures she has to sing against the 
 full choral accompaniment of ten thousand voices, the 
 thousand instruments, and the organ. She passes 
 through the ordeal bravely. In the most distant part 
 of the house you can hear her voice. The sustaining 
 of the upper C and the trills were superbly done ; and 
 as she closed, her sustained high tones were as pure and 
 as beautiful as those of a bird singing in the distance. 
 It was a grand triumph for her, and the audience evi- 
 dently regarded it in the same manner, for they gave 
 her a very hearty and unmistakable e7icore, to which she 
 replied with a repetition of the same. The absolute 
 purity of her voice was never better tested than upon 
 this occasion. 
 
 Verdi should have been present to have heard his An- 
 vil Chorus performed. He is pre-eminently the great 
 apostle of noise, and ten thousand voices, one thousand 
 instruments, one hundred anvils — pounded by two hun- 
 dred stalwart firemen in perfect time — and a battery of 
 artillery, adding to the din and marking the time with- 
 out a break, could not but have delighted him. The 
 effect was simply indescribable. The aggregate of sound 
 was gigantic. The firemen had been well trained, 
 without the orchestra, by Mr. Gilmore himself, and, 
 although the whole affair was more or less sensational 
 and noisy, the effect was very stirring, and the audience 
 insisted upon an encore. Oliver Wendell Holmes' 
 Hymn, set to the music of Keller's "American Hymn ;" 
 the overture to "William Tell," which was deliciously 
 given; the Coronation March from the "Prophet," and 
 the national air, "America," completed this remark- 
 able performance. 
 
266 Second Day. 
 
 There were probably few among unprejudiced persons 
 who did not anticipate a musical failure upon this occa- 
 sion. Many considered it a piece of Boston braggadO' 
 cio, and others a musical experiment, in which all the 
 chances were unfavorable. The result, however, hast 
 proved just the reverse. With the exception, here and \ 
 there, of slight mistakes, in which some instruments got 
 out of time and occasioned variations which were so 
 trifling that they did not interfere with the effect, the 
 whole affair was a musical success. 
 
 June i6, 1869. 
 
 The weather yesterday was purely Bostonian: wind 
 from the southeast, drizzling rains, dull, leaden clouds 
 hurrying up from the salt water, a sultry, humid atmos- 
 phere, and muddiest of all muddy flag-stones. It was 
 an inauspicious atmospherical commencement for the 
 Jubilee, but to-day the motto of the festival is granted, 
 and we have peace. The skies are bright, the air cool 
 and bracing, and those little green oases in the brick 
 and stone desert, the Common and Public Gardens, are 
 as pleasant to the eye and as grateful to the senses as 
 the gardens of Paradise. The trees are alive with 
 birds, the fountains are glistening in the sunshine, and 
 the cool walks are crowded with pleasure-seekers and 
 curiosity-hunters. 
 
 It is a gala day in Boston ; for, in view of the arrival 
 of the President, the City Fathers have proclaimed a 
 holiday, and all Boston and the rest of the universe 
 which revolves around it, including Saugus Centre and 
 Kewton Four Corners, have turned out to see General 
 
The Organ. 267 
 
 Grant and each other, eat popcorn and bananas, hear 
 the great chorus, and get all bedraggled and tired out 
 by sunset. The city is dressed out gaily in the red, 
 white and blue, and, true to the American character- 
 istics, as much business as possible is combined with it 
 in the way of advertising. The American Eagle is 
 made to carry a fearful commercial weight upon his 
 generous back in Boston to-day, from the squat female 
 Hibernian dealer in fly-specked candies, even, to sundry 
 granite-fronted, wholesale, solid men who live in the 
 omnipresent free-stone houses on the Back Bay. The 
 streets are literally crammed with people. Locomotion 
 is a tedious affair upon these ribbons of sidewalks, and 
 the surging crowd sometimes carries you, whether you 
 will or no, into all sorts of alleys and by-ways and ser- 
 pentine streets, which are sure to land you at some- 
 body's front door. Fourth of July, the Saints' Day of 
 Boston, is in danger of its multitudinous laurels, for it 
 has never witnessed greater crowds than the magic 
 baton of Gilmore has brought here. 
 
 Before I tell you of this second day of the Jubilee, I 
 have a few incidents of interest wherewith to prelude it. 
 And first, the organ itself is a noteworthy feature here, 
 for it is the back-bone of the music, which holds the 
 ribs and small bones of the Jubilee, keeps them in place, 
 and prevents fracture. The organ was manufactured by 
 the Messrs. Hook, expressly for the occasion, in the 
 short space of four weeks, and was built with the design 
 in view of combining strength and volume of tone with 
 the least possible space in occupancy. The instrument 
 has a very novel appearance, for the reason that it 
 stands without a case. Above a very slight casing of 
 
268 The Organ. 
 
 chestnut and walnut, all the pipes of the "flute a Pavil- 
 ion" are displayed — a stop which answers to the "Open 
 Diapason." Behind these and others are the pipes of 
 the " Bombarde, " a sixteen-feet reed stop, and, still 
 behind these, the vast wooden pipes of the "Grand Sub 
 Bass," which form a double wall across the rear of the 
 organ. On each side are the pipes of the " Pedale Po- 
 sanne." The grouping of the pipes is very symmetri- 
 cal, and presents quite as imposing, if not so beautiful 
 an appearance as an elaborate case. The width of the 
 organ across the front is twenty-two feet, and the height 
 thirty feet. The wind-pressure used is at least four 
 times that of ordinary organs, requiring four thousand 
 pounds weight upon the bellows. Notwithstanding its 
 great power, the tone is by no means harsh, but very 
 agreeably rich and pleasant, and combines great inten- 
 sity and solidity with the most brilliant seriousness con- 
 ceivable. Its marvelous power and volume were spe- 
 cially manifested yesterday, when the orchestra began 
 to break in the "Star-Spangled Banner." Mr. Wilcox, 
 for a moment, seemed to be gathering up the resources 
 of the organ in his hands, and then let it out in a man- 
 ner which resembled the rushing of a storm more than 
 anything else; but it had the effect to bring order out 
 of chaos, and when once more he gathered back and re- 
 strained its powers, the instruments were playing like a 
 charm. 
 
 Individuals count but little in this vast assemblage of 
 singers and players, and yet there are notable people 
 there whose superl:) solo singing and playing have been 
 familiar to the public in concert rooms and opera for 
 years. Look among the first violinists and you will see 
 
The Players. 269 
 
 Ole Bull, prince of them all, fired with the spirit of the 
 occasion. In the aggregate of sound you cannot hear 
 a tone from his violin, and yet you know from his 
 manner that the old Scandinavian is playing as he never 
 played before. There is Carl Rosa, the petite Ham- 
 burger, a boy among them in appearance, wielding his 
 bow with the general enthusiasm of the occasion. 
 There is Schultze, who, years ago — how many leaves 
 have fallen since then — stood at the head of the first 
 violinists in the old Germania Orchestra, and distracted 
 the ladies with the fine tinge of his cheeks and his 
 "Sounds from Home;" and Zerrahn, who stood oppo- 
 site him in that same organization, playing the flute, is 
 now wielding the baton for his old compatriot. There 
 is Julius Eichberg, who wrote the charming "Doctor of 
 Alcantara" and the "Two Cadis," a most accomplished 
 musician ; and there are Grill and Mollenhauer, Besig 
 and Moll, of New York. In the second violins you 
 will find Carl Meisel, of the Mendelssohn Quintette; 
 Eichler, of Boston; Reichardt, Ritter, Conrad and 
 others, of New York. Thomas Ryan has dropped his 
 clarionet and Heindl has dropped his flute, and both 
 have taken violas in the grand orchestra. Wulf Fries 
 and Suck and Henry Mollenhauer have their violon- 
 cellos before them, and MuUer and Stein their double 
 basses. Koppitz, Zohler and Carlo are blowing their 
 flutes. Among the oboes you will find De Ribas, Mente 
 and Taulwasser. And glorious Arbuckle sends the 
 clarion blasts of his cornet shivering through the music 
 as a flash of lightning cuts through a cloud. 
 
 Among the singers also, you will find notable names. 
 Among the sopranos are the matchless Parepa, Mrs. H. 
 
270 TJic Singers. 
 
 M. Smith, Mrs. Sophia Mozart, Miss Gates, Miss Annie 
 Granger, Miss Graziella Ridgway, Mrs. D. C. Hall, 
 Miss S. W. Barton and Mrs. J. W. Weston. Among 
 the altos are Adelaide Phillipps, Mrs. Drake, Miss 
 Addie S. Ryan, Mrs. C. A. Barry, and Mrs. Guilmette. 
 Among the tenors are the two Whitneys, L. W. Wheeler 
 and James P. Draper. There are prominent singers 
 also among the bassos, such names as Rudolphsen, 
 Powers, McLellan, Ardavani, Perkins, Kimball, M. W. 
 Whitney and Dr. Guilmette. 
 
 The telegraph will have anticipated me concerning 
 the movements of General Grant. His arrival, and the 
 fact that he would be present at the Coliseum, swelled 
 the crowd about that building and in the vicinity to 
 enormous proportions. The streets were one swaying, 
 surging mass of humanity. Vehicles were jammed to- 
 gether in inextricable confusion. The horse-cars found 
 it impossible to proceed, and, being piled together in 
 long lines, sometimes a mile in length, added to the 
 general distraction. The Hub was in a hubbub. I 
 made the journey from the Coliseum to the State House, 
 ordinarily a five minutes' walk, in exactly one hour by 
 the Park Street Church clock, which never lies. As 
 the time approached for the opening of the concert, the 
 rush was fearful. At every one of the twelve entrances 
 to the Coliseum, thousands of people were jammed to- 
 gether, pushing and fairly trampling upon one another. 
 The efforts of the police, efficient as they have been, 
 were of no avail. Hundreds and hundreds of people 
 who had tickets turned and went away, rather than face 
 that crowd. Women became timid and shrank from it. 
 There were some, however, who resolutely went in, and 
 
The Audience. 271 
 
 some of them came out squeezed. Some fainted and 
 were, with difficulty, extricated. Not one of them 
 but had rumpled feathers, smashed paniers, dishevelled 
 hair and flushed, perspiring faces, when they had fairly 
 effected an entrance. For an hour at least this terrible 
 crush continued. It was such a crowd as Boston has 
 never seen before. It is doubtful whether any city has 
 ever witnessed the like. And all this while all the 
 streets, even the spacious Common, were densely packed, 
 so that walking was impossible. The trees bore human 
 fruit in black clusters. The fences were selvedged with 
 humanity. All the doorsteps of the palatial stone fronts 
 stood disgusted with the loads of country cousins they 
 were compelled to bear. 
 
 The audience inside the Coliseum was a scene for a 
 lifetime. It gave you an idea of the sublimity of 
 humanity such as is rarely afforded. There must have> 
 been, including the performers, 50,000 people inside 
 that building. Far as you could see, and you can see a 
 great way in that building, was one vast sea of human 
 faces. It was a sublime sight, and it was a beautiful 
 sight as well, for the blues and purples of the ladies' 
 apparel catching the sunlight which streamed in through 
 the windows, made it seem like a garden of gorgeous 
 flowers, and shine in splendid contrast with the reds and 
 yellows of the flags and streamers, and when, in a 
 moment of sudden applause, the waving of handkerchiefs 
 fluttered over this vast crowd, it was hard to convince 
 yourself that they were not white-winged birds, flying 
 over the throng. For a time, the rush inside the Coli- 
 seum was almost as terrific as that outside. 
 
 Some delay was experienced in waiting for the Presi- 
 
272 The President. 
 
 dent and his staff, and when they did enter, the whole 
 audience had become seated. Their appearance was 
 the signal for a general uprising. The great organ 
 pealed out above the multitudinous din, " See the Con- 
 quering Hero Comes." He advanced to his seat, in 
 the centre of the house, amid a perfect storm of applause, 
 waving of handkerchiefs, bravos and cheers, and stand- 
 ing upon his sofa acknowledged them. 
 
 When the President had taken his seat and order was 
 restored, Carl Zerrahn took the conductor's stand to 
 lead the festival overture, based upon the Luther Choral, 
 Ein Feste Berg ist unser Gott, the simple theme of 
 which had been sung the day before. The arrange- 
 ment is by Nicolai, and is in fugue treatment, opening 
 with the theme for all parts. The fugue is then taken 
 by the orchestra and superbly worked up. The chorus 
 anon takes the same fugue, and closes by returning to 
 the original theme, which was given with immense 
 power and effect. The programme was mainly of an 
 oratorio character, and this school of music probably 
 never before had such a magnificent illustration. The 
 dignity, grandeur and sublimity, and the solemn power 
 of the great oratorio master-pieces could never before 
 have been fully felt. The first selections were the 
 "Glory to God in the Highest," and the chorus, ''And 
 the Glory of the Lord shall be Revealed," from the 
 ''Messiah," which were given with admirable effect and 
 with better singing than characterized the first day's 
 concert. 
 
 The next number on the programme was the recita- 
 tive and aria, ^'■Non piu di fiori,'' from Mozart's "La 
 Clemenza di Tito," for Miss Adelaide Phillipps, and as 
 
Adelaide PJiillipps. 273 
 
 that lady came forward she was received with very 
 hearty applause, but not with that cordiality of greeting 
 I had expected to witness from a Boston audience to a 
 Boston singer. Her selection was a most unfortunate 
 one. It was too florid in character and marred the 
 unity of the oratorio nature of the performance. It 
 would have been in much better taste also to have se- 
 lected something in English than in Italian. It is but 
 simple truth also to say that her singing was no better 
 than her taste in selection. She was not able to cope 
 with the obstacles of the house and the audience. But 
 one tone of her voice was thoroughly distinct at the 
 rear of the hall. Her singing, at a distance, was so 
 very expressionless that it fell utterly cold and flat, and 
 people talked and turned uneasily in their seats. And 
 perhaps it was worse than all else that she did not sing 
 true, and at one time was almost hopelessly floating 
 along upon a discord. Every advantage was afforded 
 her, for only a handful of instruments accompanied her, 
 and these were toned down to pianissimo. Her fine 
 chest voice, which is so effective on the operatic stage, 
 was almost inaudible beyond the centre of the hall. A 
 flutter of applause ran over the audience when she had 
 finished, and then came Mendelssohn's magnificent 
 chorus from "Elijah" — "He watching over Israel." 
 Zerrahn leaves the orchestra in the hand of another 
 conductor, and takes his place in the centre of the vast 
 chorus with baton in hand. There must be no mistake 
 made in Felix Mendelssohn's music. Its ineffable 
 beauty must not be marred by a single spot or flaw. 
 And it was not. The two conductors' batons moved as 
 if they were in the hands of one, and, from first to 
 
 19 
 
274 Parepa. 
 
 last, the chorus and orchestra were together in perfect 
 time and with the most tender regard for light and 
 shade. I could not help wishing that Felix Mendelssohn 
 himself could have been there. How small and feeble 
 would the 500 Birmingham performers have seemed to 
 him in the presence of this vast multitude ! How his 
 great heart would have rejoiced within him to have 
 heard this chorus, so full of dignity, and piety, and 
 beauty, sung by such a massing of voices and instru- 
 ments ! What letters he would have written to his 
 sister ! To have heard that performance was the event 
 of a lifetime, for it may never be done again. Had I 
 been Carl Zerrahn, it seems to me, I should have been 
 the happiest man in the world. If spirits are allowed 
 to visit this lower world, then certainly the spirit of 
 Mendelssohn must have been in that hall, and must 
 have guided and inspired that baton, for it held the 
 singers, organ and instruments together like magic, and 
 when it had made its last beat, the audience broke out 
 into loud and long continued applause. 
 
 Parepa came upon the platform for the next number, 
 "Let the Bright Seraphim," from Handel, and received 
 an ovation which even eclipsed that given to the Presi- 
 dent. Arbuckle took his place beside her, to play the 
 trumpet obligato, using the cornet as players invariably 
 do. The instrument and voice were twins in time and 
 tone, and the responses of the singer to the trumpet 
 came every time, as truthful as an echo. I have never 
 heard a more marvelously beautiful piece of singing with 
 an instrument, and, when it was finished, the applause 
 was almost deafening in every part of the vast building, 
 the chorus joining in with the audience. The cheers 
 
The President'' s Pieces. 275 
 
 and hravos, which compelled an encore, fairly shook the 
 building. 
 
 In the interim, between the two parts, the Star- 
 .Spangled Banner and the Anvil Chorus were repeated, 
 for the gratification of the President. In the second 
 part, the C major symphony of Schubert was given. 
 The hour was growing late, and only the Andante and 
 Finale were played. "The Heavens are Telling," sung 
 with immense effect, closed the concert. 
 
 June 17, 1869. 
 The sudden death of Mrs. George L. Dunlap, of Chi- 
 cago, during the concert yesterday, has caused a wide- 
 spread feeling of sadness here, even among those who 
 were not acquainted with her; while those who did 
 know her, and were familiar with her many lovely traits 
 of character, deeply feel this sudden bereavement. She 
 passed away in the twinkling of an eye, literally without 
 warning, and expired in the arms of one of her dearest 
 friends, Mrs. Ellis, of Chicago. It was a startling fact 
 in the midst of so much life ! Fifty thousand hearts 
 pulsating to the sublime music from the great chorus, 
 and one is suddenly stilled forever ! No one among the 
 many thousands who were present yesterday entered 
 with lighter heart, more buoyant spirits, or apparently 
 better health ; and if you had been asked to select the 
 one in that great throng whom Death would strike first, 
 she would have been the last you would have selected. 
 I saw her on Tuesday as she sat in her place, her face 
 beaming with delight as she listened to the music, and 
 I saw her again on yesterday, as she suddenly fell into 
 
276 In Memory. 
 
 the arms of her brother like a rose snapped from its 
 stem ; and I can scarcely yet comprehend that she is 
 dead. She breathed her last breath as Parepa was sing- 
 ing the angelic song, "Let the Bright Seraphim," and 
 she passed from among us and joined those seraphim 
 and continued the song. And it seems to me, if I had 
 been permitted to look into that far country, that I 
 should have seen her sitting by the side of the angelic 
 old master, Handel, telling him of the celestial song 
 which so suddenly died upon her ears in the presence of 
 the vast multitude, whose song was as the voice of many 
 Avaters, and that I should have seen him bending for- 
 ward, with a thoughtful look, and listening to her as 
 she told him of the "Messiah," which she had heard 
 on the day before she died. I know that she and the 
 master will be friends through all eternity, and thus the 
 majesty of genius and the beauty of loveliness will be 
 joined together forever. 
 
 And to him who sits in bereavement to-day, may 
 there come consolation and the gift of the tender pity 
 of the Great Father, and may the darkened homes in 
 Boston and Chicago be made holy for all his and their 
 coming days, with the recollections of her loveliness and 
 true womanly character. 
 
 It is a clear, cloudless day, and had that man Gilmore, 
 with the steam engine inside of him, made special ar- 
 rangements with the weather-clerk, he could not have 
 secured a more auspicious day. The crowd yesterday 
 was great, but the crowd to-day is greater. 
 
 The programme to-day is purely a popular one. 
 There are the overture to Fra Diavolo, a Peace March 
 composed for the occasion by Janotta, whoever he is. 
 
Commonplace Music. 277 
 
 which is not original and very tiresome; the inevitable 
 Anvil Chorus, with the artillery and bells; a sensational 
 and rather commonplace overture, built up by C. C. 
 Converse, on "Hail Columbia;" and national airs, 
 which the orchestra flounder through rather than play. 
 Indeed, if you watch Wulf Fries, Rosa, Schultze, or 
 any of the leading players, you see their faces all scowl- 
 ed up as they wade through so much musical swash, so 
 unworthy of the great orchestra. In fact, there is no 
 atmosphere of art here to-day. The only feature of in- 
 terest in the Fra Diavolo overture is the trumpet solo, 
 which is taken by fifty instruments instead of one, and 
 gives out a clarion blast which might wake the dead. 
 The rest of the overture, however does not go well. 
 The second violins are shocking. Gilmore has not got 
 them well in hand. In the Grand March, done by Ja- 
 notta for the occasion, there are reminiscences all the 
 way through, of Tannhauser, the Coronation and the 
 Wedding March, and the connecting links are very 
 weak, sometimes almost stupid. The man who writes 
 marches for such an orchestra should be inspired. He 
 should feel the electricity of the great audience tingling 
 through his veins. Heavens ! If only Beethoven, 
 Mendelssohn, Handel, Haydn, Meyerbeer, Rossini, 
 anybody, were living to write for this organ and or- 
 chestra. We want columbiads and have got pop-guns — • 
 a mountain thunder-storm, and we have a silly April 
 rain — a Jeremiah, and we have nothing better than 
 Daniel Pratt. Converse's trivial arrangement of " Hail 
 Columbia" is no better, perhaps not so good. It is 
 profanation to devote a thousand instruments and an 
 organ four times the power of that in the Music Hall to 
 
278 The Anvil Chorus. 
 
 such commonplaces. The old masters would have died 
 contented once to have got the baton in their hands 
 with such a massing of instruments and voices for the 
 production of their works. Then, again, we are treated 
 to Bilse's ^^ Marchc Militaire,'" to the "Star Spangled 
 Banner," the " Harp that Once thro' Tara's Halls," 
 and the overture to " Stradella," all good enough in 
 their way and in their place. But how feeble, how pur- 
 poseless, how silly they all are in this place ! What 
 does Hercules want of a wax doll? Or Samson of a 
 child's grasp to carry off the gates of Gaza? 
 
 We have again the "Anvil Chorus." To be sure, it 
 goes well. The artillery is fired with strict precision, 
 because it can't be fired any other way. It emphasizes 
 the initial notes of the bars very grandly and very ef- 
 fectively, but then what is the use of emphasizing such 
 stuff at all ? The firemen pound their anvils very 
 precisely, and on the very second of time, and make a 
 very hearty cling-clang ; but it would be to more pur- 
 pose were a hundred horses waiting to be shod. There 
 is no music in all this. It is noisy ; it is sensational ; 
 it is humbug; it is anything you please — but music. 
 And yet the audience is hugely delighted and they de- 
 mand the bis each day ; and this, too, in Boston, where 
 the purists live — where art is supposed to have its home 
 and flourish like the green bay tree. Tell it not in 
 Gath that a Boston audience has encored Nqx^\'% Anvil 
 Chorus, performed by red-shirted firemen, batteries of 
 artillery, etc., and allowed the grand chorals of Luther 
 and "He Watching Over Israel," which were done as 
 they have never been done before — which were so full of 
 sublimity and majesty and dignity, and so musically ex- 
 
MendelssoJuCs Chorus. 279 
 
 cellent in their treatment that it made one's heart fairly 
 stop beating — to go by ahnost without recognition. It 
 seemed to me that all possibilities of life and all condi- 
 tions of the hereafter were bound up in that perform- 
 ance of Mendelssohn's chorus. Zerrahn himself ap- 
 proached it with fear and trembling. The organ was 
 silenced. The instruments were toned down. He 
 would not even trust himself upon the conductor's stand, 
 but took his place right in the heart of the vast chorus. 
 How sweetly the sopranos take the opening of the 
 theme, and then come the tenors alone — " Shouldst 
 thou walking in grief." How sublimely that prayer is 
 delivered ? Then how part after part rises in splendid cli- 
 max and finally dies away in a soft piano, with just the 
 faintest ripple of sounding, like the plashing of waves 
 on a beach, stealing across the orchestra! There is a 
 slapping of hands among the audience as if the music 
 had been tolerated, but they will go crazy when the 
 Anvil Chorus comes. 
 
 To-day, I have sat within three rows of the con- 
 ductor's stand. The effect is very grand, but it is more 
 noise than music, and you can put nothing together. If 
 you go to the rear of the hall, you get a better harmonic 
 blending and less noise. Indeed, a thousand per- 
 formers in Farwell Hall would make just as much noise 
 as the ten thousand performers do in the Coliseum, or, 
 rather, the effect would strike you with equal power. 
 It is probable that no amount of technical skill upon 
 the part of the conductor, or of force and fidelity upon 
 the part of the singers, could change this. It is im- 
 possible for such a great body of sound, occupying such 
 a vast space, to reach a single ear with anything like its 
 
28o The Effect. 
 
 full force, or even with any degree of regularity; and 
 if you watch the conductor, you will be still more con- 
 fused, for, apparently, he is beating ahead of time — such 
 is the discrepancy of time between the blow of the baton 
 and the speed with which time travels. The chorus 
 may, and with trivial exceptions does, follow the beat 
 of the conductor with great precision, but the confusion 
 is always noticeable. Again, the distance from those 
 in the rear of the chorus to the front ranks is very 
 large, and, although all may start upon the beat, by the 
 time the sounds reach you, there is a difference, very 
 slight, it is true, but nevertheless perceptible, especially 
 in words ending with "s," "t," or any harsh letter. 
 In the long notes of the chorals which are decidedly the 
 features of the concert, you do not notice it so much, 
 but, in many of the quick choruses, sometimes every- 
 thing seems at sea to you, when, in reality, it is going 
 very smoothly. With so vast a chorus, also, it is very 
 difficult to preserve the delicate transitions. You can 
 get a fortissimo or a pianissimo, but it is extremely dif- 
 ficult to get the fo}'te and piano. The tendency of this 
 multitude is either to sing too loud or too soft, and 
 there is the same fact noticeable upon the part of the 
 orchestra. With the organ it is different. Mr. Wilcox, 
 at any moment he pleases, has the power in his hands 
 to drown chorus and orchestra both, with its thunder. 
 Its tones fairly pierce through and through the aggre- 
 gate of sound at times with almost startling effect, and, 
 wherever there is a weak spot, it can be covered up 
 without difficulty. In the chorals, the power is spe- 
 cially manifested. In the hands of a skillful person, one 
 beat of a baton would be all that was necessary to keep 
 
The Volume of Sound. 281 
 
 the chorus to its work. It could not get away from that 
 organ if it tried — the pedal bass is so immense, so up- 
 lifting and so sustaining. 
 
 I think there is a universal disappointment in regard 
 to the volume of sound to be produced by this chorus. 
 People have imagined that the sound of ten thousand 
 voices in the Coliseum, for instance, would be ten times 
 as loud as one thousand voices in the Music Hall ; but 
 in reality it is no louder. They did not make calcula- 
 tions for the increased size of the building and the ob- 
 stacles placed in the way of the traveling of sound and 
 grasping it with the ear. My own disappointment has 
 been a happy one. I had thought the noise would be 
 simply noise, but the noise has been music. It has now 
 been thoroughly proved that a chorus and orchestra of 
 this size can be manipulated and not only be made to 
 sing and play together, but to sing and play with ex- 
 pression and even approximate to a certain degree of 
 light and shade. But yet, apart from the magnetism, 
 there is in such a vast human presence, I do not see that 
 the increase in numbers is really an advantage in mak- 
 ing effects. It was a splendid experiment to try, how- 
 ever, and it speaks volumes for the skill of Mr. Gilmore, 
 who conceived and organized it, and for Mr. Zerrahn, 
 who has conducted the oratorio and classical parts of 
 the programme. 
 
 June 18, 1869. 
 The crowd is not quite so large as that of yesterday, 
 and yet the building is well filled. The programme 
 was almost exclusively classical, and was opened with 
 
282 Beethoven and Mendelssohn. 
 
 Weber's brilliant "Jubilee Overture," with the baton in 
 Eichberg's hands. It was not given very effectively un- 
 til the national theme in the finale was reached. This 
 was played superbly by the brasses. The Fifth Symphony 
 of Beethoven was only given in part, the Andante and 
 last half of the Finale being played. It was something 
 to be grateful for, to get even a fraction of the sympho- 
 ny, but it seemed almost cruel to cut the work or mar 
 its unity in the least. It is the first time I have seen 
 the orchestra really get down to its work as if they loved 
 it. There was no talking among them, no listlessness. 
 Every man sat in his place as eager for the start as a 
 hound to slip from his leash, one eye upon Zerrahn, and 
 the other upon his score. Two policemen standing in 
 the aisle near the first violinists are talking together, 
 and Carl Rosa and a half dozen others snap at them to 
 stop their gossip. Apropos of Carl Rosa, he has proved 
 himself an artist through this jubilee. He has been in - 
 his place every day promptly at the hour, and has played 
 through every note of every programme. I regret that 
 Ole Bull, who has been in the city during the whole 
 week, only appeared on the opening day. It will be 
 a matter of surprise to his admirers that he should so far 
 have lacked enthusiasm as to absent himself upon such 
 an occasion. The two movements of the symphony 
 were played conscientiously and con amore, and there 
 was little to ask for which was not given in its pro- 
 duction. 
 
 Zerrahn seems to have a partiality for Mendelssohn, 
 for when he came to the " Elijah" chorus, " Thanks be 
 to God, He laveth the thirsty land," his instructions 
 were more than usually explicit. The chorus, however. 
 
Close of the Concert. 283 
 
 did not get the beat, and for a moment there was danger 
 of a catastrophe. Zerrahn left his stand as quick as a 
 rocket, and, waving his baton, went down into the 
 chorus. The electricity of his manner fused the dis- 
 cordant elements, and with "The waters gather the}^ 
 rush along," all were together. Zerrahn remained at 
 his post, and Schultze took the orchestra in hand, with 
 his bow for baton, and the two batons moved like 
 magic, and chorus and orchestra played like magic to 
 the end, sweeping through the jubilant number like the 
 march of a storm. If the chorus had never sung any 
 thing else this would have paid for the difficulties of or- 
 ganization and been a rich remuneration for all the 
 labors. 
 
 Miss Phillipps made her second appearance of the 
 season, and was cordially greeted. She sang the famil- 
 iar "Lascia Pianga" of Handel's, which is one of her 
 concert favorites. She appeared to much better ad- 
 vantage than on Tuesday, mainly because the selection 
 was in better taste; but, sitting even as near as I did, her 
 voice seemed hard and cold and she was evidently sing- 
 ing with great effort. At the close, the enthusiasm of 
 the chorus, joined with that of the audience, secured 
 her an encore, which she acknowledged by repeating the 
 air, and singing part of it to the chorus. 
 
 The programme was closed with the Hallelujah Cho- 
 rus from the Messiah, the whole chorus, orchestra and 
 audience rising to their feet while it was performed. In 
 spite of its inherent difficulties and broken time, it was 
 carried through superbly, and as the final "Amen" 
 pealed out with majestic power, the Jubilee was at an 
 end, so far as the great chorus was concerned. 
 
284 The Results. 
 
 June 19, 1869. 
 
 The day of Jubilee has gone. The great Peace Fes- 
 tival has passed into the annals of musical history. The 
 outside halo of peace which encircled it shone so dimly 
 that I do not conceive any national significance attaches 
 to it. It is to be judged purely as a musical event, and 
 it will take its place in musical annals as an ambitious 
 and bold experiment, and, in large degree, as a grand 
 success. There were points open to honest criticism, 
 and some of these points I have indicated in these let- 
 ters ; but many of these defects were beyond the remedy 
 either of conductor or chorus. It was a musical success, 
 because it has shown that ten thousand people can 
 sing together and one thousand instruments play to- 
 gether, not only both in time and tune, but also with 
 sufficient expressson to make effects. It is not to be 
 denied that some very paltry music has been played — in 
 fact, the whole programme of Thursday was devoted 
 just to this class of music — and that many of the num- 
 bers in each day were purely meretricious and sensa- 
 tional. But the bare fact of the organization and 
 manipulation of such a vast chorus and orchestra stands 
 now, and will always stand, as a monument of which 
 the projector and his assistants have a right to be 
 proud. 
 
 The great chorus dispersed last evening, having ac- 
 complished its arduous work. Exhausted as they must 
 have been with the four days' task, I doubt whether any 
 one of the ten thousand singers closed his or her book 
 without regret. It was something to be proud of to 
 have sung and played at this Jubilee. I can appreciate 
 the feelings of a prominent Chicago bass singer, who 
 
The School- Children. 285 
 
 had been only a listener during a portion of the pro- 
 gramme on Friday. The next number was the grand 
 chorus, "Thanks be to God," from "Elijah." He hur- 
 ried over to me, and, seizing me by the collar, said : 
 "Tell me how I can get into that chorus. I cannot 
 stand this any longer. I must ?,mg the Elijah piece." I 
 directed him \\o\x to get admission, and the next I saw 
 of him he was in the front rank of the bassos, joining 
 his voice with the thousands around him in the grand 
 swelling anthem of praise. 
 
 To-day has been given almost exclusively to the 
 school-children. It was a grand sight to look at the 
 adult chorus, but it was a beautiful sight to look at the 
 children. Eight thousand of them were gathered to- 
 gether from the public schools. The girls were clad in 
 white, and filled the wings, the boys occupying the 
 places of the tenors and bassos. The children arrived 
 promptly — do they ever arrive any other way? — a~nd 
 took their places without a particle of disorder. The 
 white dresses of the girls, trimmed with ribbons of varied 
 colors, their fresh young faces, and the eager, enthusias- 
 tic faces of the boys, made up a picture of beauty not 
 often looked upon. It was like a huge gdi.rdQn paiia-re 
 of flowers, and, as great shafts of sunlight shot in 
 through the windows and bathed them with gold, and 
 fans waved in the happy throng like the wings of a mul- 
 titude of birds, it made a sight which may be the sight 
 of a lifetime. The audience also was an immense one, 
 completely filling the building, and thus the coi/p if ceil 
 was fully as beautiful, if not as imposing, as on any 
 day during the week. 
 
 The performance commenced with the overture to 
 
286 The CJio ruses. 
 
 "William Tell," which was rendered with more anima- 
 tion than on Wednesday. The effects of the cellos, 
 headed by Wulf Fries, were particularly striking. 
 Never before have I heard this noblest of all instruments 
 develop the human voice tones as it has to-day. The 
 applause had hardly subsided when Eichberg rapped the 
 juvenile chorus to attention with his baton. The rising 
 of the children was not like that of the adults. The 
 latter invariably rose slowly and successively, rank after 
 rank. The children, in their impatience, fairly sprang 
 to their feet, and stood, books in hand, eager for the 
 signal. When it was given, they took the beat together 
 grandly, and commenced "Hail Columbia" in unison. 
 As they progressed, however, the instruments were 
 quicker than they, and there was some lagging, but the 
 effect was very novel and striking. Although the girls 
 outnumbered the boys, the latter' s voices were much 
 stronger and made themselves most clearly heard. The 
 freshness, purity and clearness of the voices easily ren- 
 dered them superior to the orchestra, and even the 
 organ seemed to affect them but little. There was no 
 difficulty in hearing them, for each one of the little 
 people was singing for dear life and working with all 
 the zest and enthusiasm of a child's nature. By some 
 process known only to children, they came out together 
 at the end of each stanza, although they sometimes di- 
 verged widely in the middle. 
 
 Think of children singing Mercadante's music ! But 
 they did it, and superbly, too. His chorus, "Now the 
 Twilight Softly Stealing," was given by them admira- 
 bly. It was arranged as a solo for sopranos and altos, 
 and then taken in unison by the full chorus, and I have 
 
Phillipps Again. 287 
 
 no musical memory sweeter than the cadences of that 
 chorus, which were given with such beauty and fresh- 
 ness by these children. 
 
 Miss Phillipps is set down for the next number, and, 
 as she advances down through the musicians to the 
 stand, the children give her a handsome ovation, the 
 girls waving their handkerchiefs and the boys cheering 
 as only boys can cheer. She is going to sing the brm- 
 rt'/i'/ from Lucrezia Borgia — "II Segreto." Everybody 
 has heard her sing it in the bewitching role of Maffeo 
 Orsini, but we may never hear her sing it again under 
 circumstances like these, for she is now singing it to at 
 least forty thousand people. Eichberg was cool enough 
 with the children, but he is very nervous now, and he 
 gives the te7npo so fast to the orchestra that Rosa and 
 half a dozen others look up in surprise. Adelaide her- 
 self grows pale and says to him, "Too fast, too fast." 
 The baton moves slower — and how marvelously the in- 
 struments obey ! It is all right. Adelaide does not 
 look much like Maffeo in her high-necked white dress, 
 but she sings the famous drinking-song in excellent 
 taste, and succeeds in making her voice heard through- 
 out the hall better than she has heretofore. She gets a 
 hearty encore, and repeats the aria, accompanying it 
 this time with a prolonged trill, which was superbly 
 formed*. 
 
 Again, the children are on their feet. Brinley Rich- 
 ards' solo and chorus "So Merrily over the Ocean 
 Spray," are the numbers. The air is given with a rock- 
 ing, undulating rhythm, which is admirably preserved 
 by the children, and the effect gains in intensity as the 
 full chorus and organ add their volume of sound. 
 
288 Qiiis Est Homo? 
 
 Almost before the children are in their seats, the tall 
 form of Ole Bull comes down the aisle, and they rise 
 and give him a hearty reception. He chooses his little 
 «y';^/</«/6' minor melody, the "Mother's Prayer," bends 
 his head over his violin, closes his eyes, and plays away, 
 ravishingly sweet, but so pianissimo that only the or- 
 chestra and a few of the front rows can hear him. Those 
 who do hear him have a great treat, and the orchestra 
 is so charmed that it raps lustily upon the backs of its 
 violins. 
 
 Parepa, clad in an elegant black moire-antique, re- 
 ceives an enthusiastic ovation. She sings "Let the 
 Glad Seraphim," which she sang the other day when 
 poor Mrs. Dunlap was dying, accompanied by Arbuckle 
 whose cornet needs only a few tricks of tonguing to be 
 superior to Levy's. What superb responses the cornet 
 makes to her, and how perfectly voice and instrument 
 match each other ! It is something to remember^ 
 this duo. But there is another duo even better. It is 
 Rossini's matchless Quis est Homo. And who is to sing 
 it? Only Parepa and Adelaide Phillipps ! Aren't you 
 glad now you came to the Jubilee? I will wager some- 
 thing you will never hear this sung again as these two 
 women sing it. I am afraid hereafter I shall listen to 
 the amateurs practising the great duo with less than my 
 usual patience. I never expect to hear it sung better. I 
 never expected it would be allowed me to hear it sung 
 so well. What expression ! What style ! What artis- 
 tic method! What a rare and rich vocal blending! 
 Even the orchestra gets enthusiastic, and some of the 
 old veterans look up in absolute surprise at this alto in 
 white and this soprano in black, as they reach the ca^ 
 
The End. 289 
 
 denza in a magnificent burst of melody, which starts 
 people to their feet, wild with enthusiasm, crying bravo, 
 waving handkerchiefs, hats, canes and umbrellas. Of 
 course ..they have to repeat it, and of course everybody 
 gets wild again. 
 
 And then the children sing Old Hundred, and the 
 audience rising, sings it with them. And they sing well, 
 for there are only 9,000 of the choristers in the audience. 
 Isn't it sublime? 
 
 "Praise nim above, ye heavenly host, 
 Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost." 
 
 And the Jubilee is over. The music is hushed. The 
 voice of the great organ is silent. The great waves of 
 the chorus have subsided. The singers and the players 
 have gone, but I think, to their latest day, they will not 
 tire of telling their children that they sang and played 
 at the great Peace Jubilee. 
 
 There are a few parting incidents in the press room, 
 and among them a very graceful deed upon the part of 
 the orchestra in presenting Mr. Gilmore with an elegant 
 watch and chain. And then everybody gives Gilmore 
 three cheers. 
 
 The man who has carried this thing in his head two 
 years, and finally organized it into a success, smilingly 
 says : 
 
 " Gentlemen: We propose to repeat this Jubilee as a 
 centennial — one hundred years hence. You are all en- 
 gaged." 
 
 One hundred years hence ! Every heart in the great 
 sea of humanity which has surged in and out of the Col- 
 iseum this week will be silent then. We shall all be si- 
 lent then. We shall all be sleeping the sleep of the 
 20 
 
290 Farewell. 
 
 just, with a stone at our heads and a stone at our feet, 
 where no sound of music can reach us. Other voices 
 will sing above us, and other instruments play, and little 
 shall we reck of it. The record of the Jubilee will out- 
 live us all. But will they have in the music of the future 
 anything better, anything grander, anything sublimer 
 than the music of this week has been? 
 
 I think not. And so to the great chorus whose sound 
 has been as the voice of many waters ; to the great 
 orchestra which has given us the immortal Fifth Sympho- 
 ny as Beethoven never heard it given ; to the mighty pul- 
 sation of the great organ heart; to the voices of the 
 children in their sweet, fresh unison ; to her that died in 
 the midst of the music, and was translated to the heavens 
 in a chariot of harmony, whose beauty, and loveliness, 
 and true womanliness will be forever sacred to those 
 who knew her ; to the Peace Jubilee, with all its pleas- 
 ant associations and grand accomplishments, hail and 
 farewell. 
 
 "Let us have peace." 
 
THE DOUBLE LIFE. 
 
 WRITE from the pleasant little hamlet of 
 Cherry Valley, under the grateful shade of the 
 locusts and poplars. Scarlet fuschias, pendant 
 from their curved stems, are swaying in the gentle west 
 wind, which is the favorite wind of the flowers. The 
 odorous breath of the geranium and sweet-briar loads 
 the languid air with fragrant blessing. The leaves of 
 the trees overhead just ripple in the wind, like little 
 green waves, and sometimes seem to be whispering to- 
 gether about some of those secrets of nature which you 
 and I can never know, as our ears are too gross — the 
 same secrets which little bugs tell each other in the 
 grass — which the lightnings tell the clouds, as they dart 
 in and out their ragged fringes, like swallows darting in 
 and out the eaves — which the night-winds tell the 
 mountain-tops in the solemn darkness — which the birds 
 sing to each other in umbrageous tree-tops — which the 
 fairies above the earth and gnomes under the earth tell 
 to each other at sunrise and set — the secrets which the 
 Faun knew when he called the animals to him. Some 
 drowsy birds in the trees are piping summer songs to 
 each other. A magic stillness broods in the air in this 
 enchanted valley. Enchanted, because all sounds — the 
 
292 The Maiden Aunt 
 
 patter of the leaves, the songs of birds, the laughter of 
 children, the lowing of herds, even the drowsy hum of 
 the house-fly — somehow seem to you to be at a distance 
 and, in traveling the distance, come to you fraught with 
 suggestions of music and like veiled spirits of sound, 
 rather than the real substance. The leaves of the corn 
 are flashing like green blades in the sunshine, and the 
 grain-fields on these fertile hill-sides map the country 
 in alternate strips of green and emerald. And over- 
 head, the great concave of the sky, which shuts down 
 upon this valley like a cover, is enameled in blue and 
 white, and scrolled with tufts and whirls of fleecy clouds, 
 past the skill of all cunning architects. 
 
 You see. Old Blobbs and Mrs. Blobbs, and Mignon 
 and Celeste, and Aurelia and the baby, and even Boosey 
 and Fitz-Herbert, are all out here together. The circle 
 is complete, save the link that was broken last winter, 
 when the Maiden Aunt went to rejoin him she had 
 mourned so long and for whom she had waited so pa- 
 tiently. But, somehow, we never think of her as gone, 
 although she is sleeping in sound of the surf she loved 
 to hear and in sight of the waves which used to talk to 
 her, in the nights when the storms were all abroad and 
 great ships hurried by in the darkness, like cloudy 
 ghosts of argosies long since rotted in the sands. She 
 seems always to be with us, she was so lovable, so close- 
 ly bound to tis, so gentle in soul, and yet so mysterious 
 in her life — or, rather, in her double life; for 1 do not 
 think she lived altogether here. Have you never had 
 the feeling come over you, suddenly as a flash leaps 
 from a cloud, that your soul has left the body — that you 
 have shed, as it were, the physical shell which has 
 
The Dotib/e Life. 293 
 
 hemmed you in, and that you are no longer confined 
 within the bounds of matter, but are free as a bird to 
 roam through space? I sometimes think this must be 
 the feeling when death severs the connection between 
 soul and body, and that the effect niust be ecstatic to a 
 degree of which we have little comprehension, when 
 every emotion is tempered with this "vesture of decay." 
 I think the Maiden Aunt lived this double life. Some- 
 times she was intensely human, and her love and care 
 for us all were unbounded. But again there came a 
 strange expression in her eyes and a strange look in her 
 face, as if a chink in the heavens had suddenly opened, 
 and the glamor of its light shone upon her, and through 
 the cloudy rent she were talking with some familiar 
 friend who had gone before. At such times, she did 
 not seem to see us, or even to be aware of our presence. 
 Her eyes had that far-off, penetrating look which you 
 sometimes see in children ; and we always left her aloile 
 at such times, for she was then very sacred to us. 
 
 In the sunset light last evening — and what a sunset it 
 was ! — the whole West a sea of rare transparent greenish- 
 blue, flecked with clouds of gold, and purple, and pink, 
 and mother-of-pearl, which floated in it like islands, 
 melting into all fanciful shapes, as the ferns, and palms, 
 and turrets melt in the mirage, the whole landscape 
 bathed in a translucent flood of golden light — in such a 
 sunset, we took one of the Maiden Aunt's letters, which 
 we keep tied up with a lock of her dark and silver- 
 sprinkled hair, and I read therefrom an extract, in which 
 she says : 
 
 "I think we live two lives. One of them is the life 
 of this world, a thoroughly material and physical life. 
 
294 ^^^^ Double Life. 
 
 It is made up of toils and cares, burdens and pains. It 
 grows out of the lives of others, is closely interwoven 
 with them, and almost depends upon them for its exist- 
 ence. It attaches itself, sometimes, to one other life, as 
 a vine attaches itself to the tree ; sometimes it draws 
 sustenance from many. It is, more or less, a superficial 
 life, although it may accomplish great deeds and suffer 
 heroic sufferings. It is of the earth, however, and never 
 soars beyond it. No mystery attaches to it, for it is 
 never called upon to perform mysterious deeds. It is 
 comprised within the limits of threescore-and-ten, and 
 has no past or future. Its mission belongs to the body, 
 and when the body perishes, its mission ends. It has 
 no recollections coming from any time before itself. It 
 makes no prophecies of events in the future. 
 
 " The other life we live in ourselves, and it is as mys- 
 terious as was the enigma of the Sphinx in the solemn 
 silence of the desert. It takes no thought for the body,- 
 for it is the life of the soul. We cannot explain this 
 life to others, for we do not understand it ourselves. It 
 is a starry stranger, imprisoned within the corporeal bars 
 and of mysterious origin and destiny. The fates who 
 weave the fabric of our lives, and Atropos, who stands 
 by with the unerring shears to sever the thread, 
 have no power over it. Have we not lived this life be- 
 fore, and shall we not live it again when the light of 
 this physical life is snuffed out like a farthing rush ? If 
 not, how is it that sometimes a sweet strain of music we 
 have never heard before, a solemn voice in the wash of 
 the waves, a perfume of some flower by the wayside, a 
 tone in some human voice, will recall the dim image of 
 something we arc confident has never happened in this 
 
The Double Life. 295 
 
 physical life? If not in this physical life, when and 
 where did it happen? Have we ever lived before this 
 life, and shall we live in it again after this body has de- 
 cayed ? Do we fulfil the mission of this world in the 
 brief span of one life-time ? If our life has no end, has 
 it ever had a beginning ? Has immortality or eternity 
 a commencement ? These are questions which occur 
 to me, especially after those moments when, as I confi- 
 dently believe, the soul leaves the body, and expands 
 into space and embraces the infinite. I acknowledge 
 that I cannot answer these questions. They are a part 
 of the great mystery of life, which not only envelopes 
 us, but all nature, in its cloud, and reaches, in its influ- 
 ences and its developments, from the grain of sand on 
 the sea-shore up to the Throne of God. 
 
 " I think this life, also, is not altogether of it- 
 '^self. Other lives, other fates and other natures are 
 working together in us to add to its mystery. These 
 mysterious influences at work within us compel us to 
 commit acts, which we call impulses, for which we are 
 no more accountable than the hurricane for its destruc- 
 tion. They give us moments when we are filled with a 
 joy almost hysterical, for which we cannot account ; and 
 other moments when we are sunk into depths of despair, 
 and all the world seems veiled in black, although we 
 know the sun is shining. At such times, others are act- 
 ing in us and through us. It may be some old ancestor, 
 who died hundreds of years ago, whose life was so strong 
 in some trait that he sent it down through the years from 
 this one to that one, and it makes its first appearance in 
 you. He or she — he whose life was lost in the passion 
 of some great ecstacy, or she whose life was eclipsed in 
 
296 Dream Life. 
 
 a cloud of despair which dethroned reason — is speaking 
 with your tongue, and is looking out of your eyes. At 
 such times, your voice assumes a tone not your own ; 
 your eyes show a light which is foreign to you. An- 
 other has entered and taken possession of you. You 
 cannot estimate the great influence which all those men 
 and women who hang upon your walls and look down 
 upon you from their dim canvasses exercise upon you. 
 
 "And this life also manifests itself in sleep, when it 
 takes us into the gorgeous cloudland of dreams, and 
 paints such fantastic images, and unveils a world of 
 which we get glimpses in no other manner — a world of 
 prophecies and strange presentiments, in which, freed 
 from the trammels of the body, the soul roams at will, 
 and sees what has passed and what is to come ; in which 
 we suffer tortures keener than those of earth, and enjoy 
 the beatitudes of the blest ; in which the poor man is 
 richer than Dives, and Lazarus finds rest from his trou- 
 bles; and in which all of us get compensation for the 
 loss of all we held precious, in communion with and 
 possession of them, although only for a little moment." 
 
 This is the substance of what the Maiden Aunt said in 
 her letter, and we all talked about it in the fast-fading 
 light until the darkness set in and the rain commenced 
 to patter down upon the lilac leaves with a dreamy 
 sort of sound. We gathered about the piano, and 
 sang those four-part Lieder of Felix Mendelssohn's, and 
 then we pledged the memory of the Maiden Aunt in the 
 golden Verzenay and drank the good night willie wacht, 
 and thus we spent a memorial day at Cherry Valley, 
 nestling down in the hollow of the hills like a callow 
 robin in its nest, and we slept the sleep of the just, lull- 
 
Sleep. 
 
 297 
 
 ed to rest by the rain-drops playing merry fantasies on 
 the shingles, each of us agreeing that the day was one 
 to be tied up with white ribbon and laid away among 
 the precious keepsakes. And in our dreams came to 
 each the form of a loved one, and our sleep was made 
 beautiful with all pleasant images. 
 
 July 17, 1S69. 
 
LOVE AND THE BL UE EL O WER. 
 
 E were all at tea last evening, and at the tea- 
 table we talk more than usual, for the tea is but 
 the shadow of a meal with the harmless inspira- 
 tion of the tea-pot. Thus it happened that each began 
 to tell of what had occurred in his or her little world 
 during the day. Aurelia had a thousand things to tell 
 about the intellectual and physical miracles performed 
 by that wonderful baby, which, of course, every baby, 
 from Cain down, has performed. But they were per- 
 formed for the first time for her, and of course we listen 
 to them as if they were new revelations to us, and we 
 would not for the world dissipate the bright colors with 
 which she invests all that little one does by telling her 
 that every mother's world is glowing with the same 
 pretty colors, or that all of us once were just as wonder- 
 ful babies as hers, only somehow we lost all our super- 
 natural powers as the years came and and went. Celeste 
 had been shopping, and her tongue ran glibly on the 
 "beautiful," "sweet pretty," "lovely," "delightful," 
 "loves of," etc., fabrics which she had seen at Ham- 
 lin's, and she grew quite indignant when she told how 
 young Yard Stick became angry when he had pulled 
 
The Day, 299 
 
 down seventy-three different pieces of dress goods, only 
 to find that she merely dropped in to look about a little ; 
 neither was it any compensation to that intellectual and 
 highly artistic youth when she purchased a ball of tape. 
 Mrs. Blobbs said but little, for it had not been with her 
 one of those days which we lay away tied up with white 
 ribbon. Old Blobbs had come home from the office 
 earlier than usual, looking very pale and very feeble. A 
 dark shadow is sweeping across the house — so dark that 
 we do not see any light beyond it, and the waters 
 through which the dear good woman is wading, grow 
 deeper and deeper, and the mists which begin to blind 
 her eyes are those which forever haunt the Valley of the 
 Shadow. Old Blobbs was with us at the table but said 
 nothing. The contracted brow and firmly-set mouth, 
 the great veins in his forehead and the far-off look in his 
 eyes, told us of suffering, and that even now he foresaw 
 a messenger coming to him with tidings, of the pur- 
 port of which he was well aware. Fitz-Herbert had 
 had nothing to do all the livelong day, and Boosey 
 was not much better off, so these two young gentlemen 
 had little to say for themselves. Mignon had dreamed 
 the day away, feeding the canary, tending her mignon- 
 ettes, and heliotropes, and fuschias, and weaving deli- 
 cious little reveries on the piano. She lives only among 
 beautiful things, and could not exist away from them, 
 any more than a humming bird could live, deprived of 
 its roses and tulips. 
 
 Blanche's story was supplied by a letter which Mig- 
 non had just received from her, and as it contained an 
 important piece of intelligence, she read it to us, as fol- 
 lows : 
 
300 Blanche's Letter. 
 
 Saratoga, August lo. 
 Dear, Darling Mignon : 
 
 Lean down your head to me and let me whisper in 
 your ear that I am engaged. You are aware that I have 
 known Harry a long time, and that he is possessed of 
 all those good and noble qualities calculated to make 
 me happy. I am already in a new world in which I 
 know no one but my hero. You do not know how good 
 and kind and beautiful he is. Our world is quite apart 
 from this fashionable world, where every man is a gam- 
 bler or a fortune-hunter, and every woman an enameled 
 decolcfte. We ask for nothing but each other's society 
 and we are content to let the others play out their little 
 comedies and farces to the bitter end. I have given 
 him my whole heart, and yet, Mignon, there is love 
 for you still, and for all our little circle. I cannot stop 
 now to tell you of Saratoga life, it seems so tame and so 
 tawdry to the great happiness which Harry brought to 
 me last evening, as we were strolling under the elms. It 
 seems to me there is no one here but Harry. He is my 
 world and I live in him, and after him I send to you, 
 Mignon, my best love. 
 
 I must stop, for Harry will get impatient. He is 
 waiting to take me to ride, but I could not go until I had 
 informed you of my great happiness. 
 
 Your devoted friend, Blanche. 
 
 P. S. — Kiss Celeste and Aurelia for me. 
 
 B. 
 
 P. S. No. 2 — Write me soon. 
 
 B. 
 
 As Mignon closed the letter, she asked me why I was 
 smiling, and I said : 
 
The Old Story. 301 
 
 My dear Mignon : I was smiling at this repetition of 
 the old, old story. It is one of the most curious revela- 
 tions in these affairs de cceur, that the engaged parties 
 always leave this world and create one of their own of 
 tlfe most gorgeous description. In that new world the 
 skies are always translucent, the air is full of winged 
 Cupids and young cherubim, flowers grow under their 
 feet, birds sing on every branch, and no inhabitants 
 grosser than fairies dwell in it. In that world there 
 are no storms, no pains, no sorrows. Every breeze is 
 laden with odors, "and the beautiful rainbow of promise 
 always spans its sky from one horizon to the other. 
 There are none of the vulgar realities or harassing cares 
 of this world in that. The happy pair feed on ambrosia 
 and nectar supplied for them gratuitously, and have no 
 fears based upon bread and butter or other provender, 
 which troubles us mortals so much to provide for our- 
 selves. They look upon everything through some pecu- 
 liar medium which transforms it into beauty and clothes 
 it with the sheen of the prism. All gross sounds are 
 turned into music. All the faculties of the soul become 
 merged in the one faculty of the imagination, and that 
 imagination knows no bound especially in the case of 
 the woman. She always makes the man a hero. She 
 surrounds him with a halo just as pious Catholics sur- 
 round their saints. She looks at him through an atmos- 
 phere which magnifies him into something quite above 
 the follies and stupidities of the world. The other day, 
 as I was passing along Lake street, I met an engaged 
 couple. They had just come in from Kankakee to see 
 the sights of the city, and as they wandered along, 
 hand in hand, looking into the shop windows, the fu- 
 
302 Idealizing. 
 
 ture bridegroom munching an apple, and the future bride 
 doing the same to a pear, I could not but regard these 
 two innocent lambs with interest. To be sure, the fu- 
 ture bridegroom was a tall, shambling, ungainly, awk- 
 ward, red-faced lout, but to her he was the Admirable 
 Crichton, the ideal of her dreams, and the hero of her 
 life. She was in that world of which I have spoken. 
 She did not see the smiling faces about her as they re- 
 garded this innocent simplicity. She was walking on 
 roses with him. The pear she munched was ambrosia 
 bought of a beneficent old fairy at the street corner, who 
 sold them for ten cents a piece. A year or two hence, 
 when they get settled down upon their Kankakee farm, 
 he will be nothing but the old man and she will be plain 
 Hannah, superintending the dairy and the kitchen gar- 
 den. But now John Thomas is a hero. 
 
 It is another fact that the man himself was not aware 
 that he was such a hero. Neither were those who have 
 been acquainted with him aware that he was made of 
 heroic stuff. To himself and to them, he has been 
 plain Smith or plain Brown, a decent sort of fellow, 
 plodding along, making money enough to pay his board 
 bills with, and never supposing he was destined to set 
 the world on fire. He had never before dreamed that 
 he was a hero. He had never before supposed that the 
 rhythm of his very prosaic life would ever assume the 
 epic form. The same fact is true in fiction. The he- 
 roes of the novels are very commonplace people, but 
 the heroines always make them believe they are super- 
 natural people. Auerbach appreciated this weakness in 
 human nature when he made Irma — that splendid, wo- 
 manly type — fall in love with the King, and invest him 
 
Hero - WorsJiip. 303 
 
 with all the attributes of a demi-god, when, in reality, 
 he was nothing but a very ordinary, commonplace, sel- 
 fish, ungrateful mortal, who could no more rise to the 
 great height of her nature than the clod can rise to the 
 cloud. You will find that same weakness brought out 
 in that new book of Spielhagen's — "Problematic Char- 
 acters" — where Melitta, a beautiful type of woman, falls 
 in love with Oswald, a vain, shallow, purposeless cox- 
 comb, who adores every pretty face he meets. Yet 
 Melitta invests him with all the heroic attributes, and 
 wastes her great love upon him, as the ancient maiden 
 wasted her kisses upon the marble insensibility of Apollo. 
 Thus it is that once in every man's life, at least, he 
 becomes a hero, whether he will or not, and it is not 
 the least curious part of the matter that he does not 
 question at all, but accepts the position at once, and 
 allows himself to be set up as an object of idolatry. He 
 knows it is all humbug, but he is willing to accept it, 
 and usually ends by temporarily convincing himself he 
 is a hero and an idol. Of course, after hero and hero- 
 ine become one flesh, he gets the conceit knocked out 
 of him, takes off his insignia, quietly gets down from 
 his pedestal, and consents to become what he was be- 
 fore his hero-existence — a very ordinary mortal, who 
 has to pay taxes, work for a weekly stipend, earn bread 
 and butter, and eat it. Now, this is precisely the case 
 with our mutual friend, Blanche. Harry is, undoubt- 
 edly, a well-meaning, good-natured fellow, who will 
 earn a good living and take care of Blanche in a credit- 
 able manner; but Blanche has magnified him into a 
 hero, and looks at him through other spectacles than 
 ours. Usually, these cases suggest their own remedies. 
 
304 Fatality. 
 
 and carry their cure with them. The disease wears it- 
 self out, like whooping-cough or cold in the head. But 
 there is danger in allowing it to run and get seated, so 
 that the inevitable tumble which must come, sooner or 
 later, will hurt them. After a specified time, the rain- 
 bow will dissipate into a dull, leaden color, the flowers 
 will fade, the nectar will grow sour, the gorgeous pal- 
 aces will transform themselves into wooden cottages or 
 brick fronts, the cupids and cherubim will go in out of 
 the wet, and the birds will hush their songs. In other 
 words, the dull round of life, which every man must 
 tread, the ever-pressing, vulgar cares and anxieties which 
 follow one like a Nemesis, will overtake the hero and 
 the heroine, and it will be well for them to be prepared 
 for the catastrophe. Flying is a pleasant feat to per- 
 form, and causes very thrilling sensations, but if you go 
 too near the sun, remember the fate of Icarus, and look 
 out for your head when you fall. If Mignon is so dis- 
 posed, when she writes to Blanche, she might suggest 
 these things, and mingle a little caution with her con- 
 gratulations. 
 
 There is another view of love which is very sad, be- 
 cause it is fatal. Ordinarily these attachments are part 
 and parcel of that world-spirit which is ever changing 
 and yet ever constant, which allies the present and past 
 together, and convinces you there is nothing new, but 
 that each event, although it may seem to be done for 
 the first time, is only a repetition of the old miracle. 
 This fatality of love, for which there is no cure, has 
 been beautifully likened in one of Novalis' works to a 
 Blue Flower, for which a lone Minnesinger once pined 
 in vain and died. No eye of mortal ever saw this 
 
The Blue Flower. 305 
 
 flower, no man knows where it blooms. Yet its beauty 
 is known of men, and its fragrance fills the world. 
 There are few whose senses are delicate enough to per- 
 ceive this perfume ; few whose eyes can see the Blue 
 Flower, even though it blooms right before them. 
 Novalis further says that the nightingale, pouring out its 
 sad songs to the moon, knows and loves this flower ; 
 that all men and women, who have tried to voice their 
 sorrow in poetry, and yet could not tell their feelings, 
 have inhaled this perfume of the Blue Flower. The 
 perfume of this flower is in music. It is in Beethoven's 
 sonatas and symphonies, and in some of Mendelssohn's 
 songs, although it was not in Mendelssohn's life, but 
 there are few souls sensitive and delicate enough to 
 feel it. Dante felt it, and the Blue Flower blossomed 
 through all their lives. They inhaled its perfume, and 
 then there was no more peace, for he who once breathes 
 it lives forever after in sorrow. It is a malady which 
 can never be cured. I pray that none of you may ever 
 breathe its fatal breath. 
 
 And as I closed my screed, Old Blobbs looked at me 
 with a look full of unutterable pain, and I knew at once 
 that down under all his asperity of manner and his sar- 
 casm of speech ; under all his seeming philosophical 
 composure and his hearty hatred of shams, this Blue 
 Flower had blossomed, and that he bad inhaled its fatal 
 fragrance. He had presented to us but one side of his 
 double life, and that was so honest that we could not 
 but love him while we winced at his utterances of truth. 
 But in that other life which he had lived within himself, 
 and of which he had given us no token, but which was 
 now rapidly making itself apparent, because it was his 
 
3o6 Old Blobbs. 
 
 true life, was the Blue Flower, which entails only suffer- 
 ing, and for which there is no remedy but death. 
 
 And he said to us with his weak, trembling voice, so 
 unlike his hearty, powerful tones of a few months ago : 
 "You have spoken rightly. There is a Blue Flower, and 
 I pray God you may never know its fearful influence, 
 beautiful as it is. I have found that flower, but I think 
 its beauty is fading now, and its perfume is dissipating, 
 and that for the pain He will give pleasure, and for 
 the trial He will give rest." And then he arose from 
 the table and leant upon my arm and we walked out in- 
 to the garden together. And then the twilight stole in 
 upon us, and the darkness fell out of the heavens, and the 
 stars peeped out of the sky, and all the world was veiled 
 with a holy hush. We talked long together, and as we 
 retired for the night, he shook me warmly by the hand 
 and only said : " When you grow old you will feel the 
 wonderful beauty of that line, ' He giveth His beloved 
 sleep,' as you have never felt it before, for the old have 
 a long, long night in which to sleep. After the battle 
 comes Peace ; after the toil. Rest." 
 
 I knew what he meant, but I could not speak of it to 
 the others. 
 
 August 15, 1869. 
 
MARRIAGE. 
 
 |T was just like Fitz-Herbert to break in upon 
 the conversation in his insufferable, dawdling 
 manner, merely because Old Blobbs was absent 
 and could not reply to him. F. H. had heard a story 
 that he was about to be married, and he protested 
 against it with all the indignation and power of which 
 he was capable, somewhat in the following manner: 
 "'Pen honor, that story isn't twue. Would be vewy 
 absurd to sacwifice my fweedom. ' ' 
 
 This was the longest speech F. H. had ever been 
 known to deliver at one time, and it naturally created 
 quite a sensation in the company. He seized this occa- 
 sion to deliver it, as I have said before, because Old 
 Blobbs was absent. The latter is confined to his room 
 with a painful illness, and it would do you good to see 
 the courage with which the old veteran bears his serious 
 indisposition, and the calm serenity with which he 
 awaits the decision of fate. I had no idea, however, of 
 letting Fitz-Herbert off so easily, and, much to his as- 
 tonishment, therefore, I replied to him, as he sat un- 
 easily twirling his moustache, in words to the following 
 effect : 
 
 My dear Fitz-Herbert: I cannot allow your very silly 
 remark to pass unnoticed, for two reasons: 
 
 First. You would never sacrifice anything in marry- 
 
3o8 Expense of Marriage. 
 
 ing any woman. The woman who marries you will do 
 all the sacrificing. The hymeneal altar, in her case, 
 will be eminently a sacrificial altar, and she will be the 
 garlanded and orange-blossomed victim, to be carved 
 up with the sacrificial knife. You have everything to 
 gain — she has everything to lose. 
 
 Second. Neither your reason, nor any other, is valid 
 against marriage. I am often amused at the excuses 
 men make when they approach this question. Brown 
 thinks it is too expensive, and, of all silly exctises, I 
 think this is the silliest. Brown is earning a good sal- 
 ary, and yet Brown, at the end of the year, has no more 
 money than when he commenced. He has expenses 
 for cigars and meerschaums, for suppers for his bachelor 
 friends, for fast horses, for baskets of champagne, for 
 wagers based on trifles, for the wear and tear of clothes, 
 and for a thousand and one little items, none of which 
 he would or need incur in married life. Then, again, 
 if Brown knew, as any milliner can tell him, how many 
 seasons that same bonnet is made over; how it comes 
 out bran new every spring and fall, by some of those 
 mysterious alterations, of a bit of lace here or a few 
 flowers there, of which only women are capable ; how 
 that same dress is made over from year to year by the 
 cunning hand of some dressmaker; how a piece of lace, 
 which may seem costly at first, does duty in a dozen 
 different ways — now serving a term on a bonnet-crown, 
 now appearing on the sleeve of a basque, anon reap- 
 pearing as the trimming of a dress, then laid away, only 
 to appear once more in some useful and graceful man- 
 ner, connected with the gear of the little folks; and if 
 Brown further knew that nine women out of ten, not 
 
Sacrificing Preedoin. 309 
 
 only in low life but in high life, practice this economy 
 — making the old new, and serving up old dishes in new 
 forms — Brown would be ashamed to offer such a flimsy 
 excuse. Marriage is the essence of economy. Brown, 
 alone, with two thousand a year, lays up nothing. 
 Brown and a wife, with the same amount per year, 
 would lay up five hundred. 
 
 And now comes Jones, like Fitz-Herbert, with his 
 twaddle of sacrificing his freedom. The plea is so 
 flimsy that it is hardly worth an answer. Jones may lose 
 the freedom to get drunk; the freedom to waste his 
 money; the freedom to squander his earnings at the 
 gaming-table ; the freedom to indulge in dissipation ; 
 and the freedom to practice unlimited selfishness. And 
 the sooner he loses all these freedoms, the better it 
 will be for him. In the place of these losses, he gains 
 the freedom to be the emperor of a little household ; to 
 love a woman; to make the future President of the 
 United States; to make some one happy; and to show 
 a certificate that he is a Man, and has fulfilled the 
 mission of a Man. 
 
 Next comes Smith, whining that his friend Thompson 
 has married unhappily, and he gets off the old story that 
 marriage is a lottery in which there are a thousand blanks 
 to one prize. Bosh ! It may be that his friend Thomp- 
 son deliberately sought happiness in something which 
 was not capable of affording it. Or it may be that he 
 made money the complement of his desires and the goal 
 of his ambition. In either case, he would be and ought 
 to be disappointed. But it is more probable that 
 Thompson, as obtains in ninety-nine out of a hundred 
 of these disappointments, while carrying his head among 
 
3IO The Lottery of Marriage, 
 
 the stars, stumbled over the stone at his feet, which he 
 would have seen if he had had his head where it ought 
 to have been. Thompson, like scores of others, in- 
 dulged in a love which smacked both of the romance 
 and the theatre — made it in a style and clothed it with 
 sentiments which have no more to do with common life 
 than the integral calculus has to do with everlasting sal- 
 vation, and in his terrific flights of the imagination, 
 soared to heights occupied by angels and cherubim, and 
 other creatures who have nothing in common with hu- 
 man life. He assumed without question that his inamo- 
 rata was an angel, and, while in his amorous embryo, 
 would have throttled you if you had suggested that he 
 might have been mistaken. Of course, when he had 
 chipped off his shell, got his eyes open, and stepped out 
 into the open air of common sense, he saw his mistake. 
 Women are not angels at all, although it may be ungal- 
 lant to say so. For certain romantic purposes, and by 
 a sort of poetical license, we call them such. They 
 don't believe they are angels themselves; but they ac- 
 cept the assurance from their lovers, just as the lover ac- 
 cepts the assurance from his mistress that he is a hero, 
 both good and noble, when he is nothing but plain 
 Tompkins. Now, Thompson, before he married his 
 wife, was convinced that she was an angel, and would 
 have considered it a serious defect if you, or any one else 
 had imputed human nature as one of her characteristics. 
 If he had married Mrs. Thompson as a woman with a 
 human nature, subject to diseases, old age, sulleness, 
 peevish fits, and other infirmities to which flesh is heir, 
 possessed of the same bad qualities, and capable of show- 
 ing just as many good qualities, he would have been a 
 
Single Incompleteness. 311 
 
 happy man, and by combining an even temper with a 
 sensible judgment, he never would have had any trouble. 
 It might as well be settled now as at any time that there 
 are no angels in this world. Angels dwell in quite an- 
 other place, and have nothing to do whatever with mar- 
 riage, their time being mainly spent in playing harps, 
 and, if "Gates Ajar" be true, pianos, fiddles, and other 
 musical instruments, and in eating lotus, which is of a 
 better quality up there than that which grows on the 
 Nile. The other class of angels, if the iron-clad the- 
 ology be true, is down below, engaged in the anthra- 
 cite coal and brimstone business; but there is no record 
 of any on earth. If Thompson had married a woman 
 instead of a creature whom, without any reason, he sup- 
 posed to be an angel, he would have been a happy man. 
 It is, therefore, his own fault that he is not happy. And 
 it is the fault of the majority of men who are not happy. 
 
 Now, also, on general principles, I contend that it is 
 a man's duty to be married. Man is not complete when 
 single. He is all head without any heart. Man has his 
 work, woman has hers, and no life-work is complete 
 -which is not a union of the two. 
 
 Man has the work of the intellect to perform ; woman 
 the work of the affections. If man does his work alone, 
 it is cold, hard, selfish and one-sided. 
 
 Man represents brute strength; woman represents 
 beauty. If man stands alone, not clothing his strength 
 with beauty, he occupies exactly the position of the 
 horse and the ox. 
 
 Man, to sum up, is the head ; woman, the heart. 
 United, they are perfect; single, they are simply mon- 
 strosities. They were made to go together. 
 
312 Perpetuation. 
 
 And, again, my dear Fitz-Herbert, did you ever hap- 
 pen to think that you were born in marriage? That 
 without marriage the world would have been deprived 
 of your inestimable entity, which, undoubtedly, is good 
 for something, although, at this present moment, I am 
 not prepared to say what ? I contend, therefore, that if 
 you persistently choose to remain single you insult the 
 condition in which you were born, and place yourself in 
 the attitude of the foolish Euripides, who always lament- 
 ed that he had not been produced by some other agency 
 than that of a mother. 
 
 Again, Fitz-Herbert, did you ever stop to think that 
 it is the duty, and equally the pleasure, of man to per- 
 petuate himself? And that, if, by refusing to marry, 
 you do not joerpetuate yourself, you tacitly acknowledge 
 you are not worth perpetuating ? I will not stop here to 
 explain to you the great beauty and blessing of children, 
 or to point out how much better and brighter the 
 world is for their presence, but I will only state the 
 point in its abstract form — that if you do not marry 
 some woman, and issue a little blue-and-gold-edition of 
 yourself, and then another edition revised and corrected, • 
 and so on ad infinitum or ad libitum, you simply say to 
 the world, " I am an incapable and good-for-nothing, not 
 worth perpetuating." This point is worth such atten- 
 tion as you can spare from your back hair and neck-tie ; 
 and I advise you whenever you have time enough to put 
 your whole mind upon it, to astonish your mind by do- 
 ing so. 
 
 Now, as my last general principle — or, as Parson 
 Creamcheese would say, eighthly and lastly — I assume 
 that God Almighty has pointed out this duty of mar- 
 
Duality 3 1 3 
 
 riage, and this fact that you are incomplete when single, 
 in every conceivable manner. The whole of Nature is 
 one grand system of marriage, and without it, Nature 
 could not exist for a single minute. Although the ani- 
 mals cannot feel the influence of love, because they are 
 bereft of sentiment, still instinct teaches them they are 
 happiest in pairs, and compels them to recognize the 
 dual principle. You never saw a flower in your life 
 which was not the personification of the marriage prin- 
 ciple, the stamens playing the part of a woman, and the 
 pistil that of a man, although you should not follow the 
 botanical analogy too literally, by taking more than one 
 stamen. All ideas, all beauty, all feelings, all effects in 
 the great world of nature and humanity depend for their 
 existence upon this dual principle, which only takes 
 shape and exerts influence in the form of marriage. 
 Now, you see, my dear Fitz-Herbert, it does not look 
 well in you to set yourself against the inevitable ten- 
 dency of nature and humanity and the fixed purpose of 
 the Creator, by remaining single, merely because you 
 think you are going to "sacwifice your fweedom." As 
 I said before, it is all bosh. 
 
 This is a plain statement of the facts in the premises, 
 and now I am going to suggest a remedy for the wretch- 
 edness which is consequent upon their violation and a 
 penalty for their violator. 
 
 The penalty does not apply to women, for there is not 
 a woman in the world who would not marry if she had a 
 chance. 
 
 In fixing this penalty, it is necessary to assume the 
 indisputable fact that for every man in the world there 
 is a woman somewhere waiting and waiting anxiously. 
 
314 ^ Woman Waitmg. 
 
 She may be in the same house with you, in the same 
 neighborhood, or the same city, or she may be in a dis- 
 tant quarter of the globe. You may not meet her this 
 year or next year, but, nevertheless, Fitz-Herbert, there 
 is a woman waiting for you somewhere, who wants to 
 be married to you, to be loved by you, to be fed by you, 
 to have you take her to the opera and the concerts, and 
 to have you pay her milliner and dressmaker. In return, 
 she will be your best friend, will make a man out of 
 you, will suffer for you, never cease to love you, and, if 
 necessary, die for you. Now, it is your duty to set 
 about and find that woman, and go to work loving and 
 feeding her, and paying her bills without grumbling, 
 because all you can do for her will not be worth men- 
 tion by the side of that wonderful love she will bestow 
 on you — the same love which your father had for your 
 mother. You probably won't have to look long or far 
 for her. You will be astonished at the ease with which 
 you will find her, if you commence looking for her in 
 earnest. She must be supported by some one. If you 
 don't support her, then some other man must be taxed 
 to do it, and thus the burden falls upon those who 
 already have wives. This, of course, is unfair. No 
 man should be compelled to take care of more than one 
 woman. 
 
 This is your plain duty, and my penalty to be im- 
 posed upon those who won't perform it is simply levy- 
 ing of a tax. Granted that there is a woman for every 
 man, ready to be supported by that man, then I pro- 
 pose to compel that man to support that woman, 
 whether he will marry that woman or not. I would do 
 nothing rashly. I would give him a lee-way for choice 
 
The Tax. 315 
 
 until he was thirty years of age. If he didn't make a 
 choice in thirty years, I should take it for granted that 
 he didn't intend to at all, and I should then commence 
 the operation of my tax levy. At the age of thirty, I 
 should impose a yearly tax, equivalent to a woman's 
 yearly legitimate expenses; at the age of thirty-five, an 
 equivalent for a woman and two children ; at forty, an 
 equivalent for a woman and four children ; at forty-five, 
 an equivalent for a woman and six children. If the 
 man were sickly, or absent any considerable length of 
 time, the number of children might be reduced one-half. 
 After the age of forty-five, the juvenile tax might cease 
 increasing. At the age of fifty, however, I would im- 
 pose a special tax upon him as a general fund for the 
 support of aged and decayed spinsters. At the age of 
 sixty, he should be compelled to contribute a special 
 sum to maintain Old Ladies' Homes. And when "he 
 died, he should be compelled to bequeathe a portion of 
 his property to building orphan asylums, and the balance 
 should go towards the maintenance of the public schools. 
 If, in addition to his refusal to marry a woman, he 
 should be a confirmed woman-hater, then I would force 
 him to equalize male and female wages by paying the 
 difference to sewing girls, factory girls and female clerks 
 in our dry goods stores, who do a man's work for a wo- 
 man's stipend. 
 
 You see this is perfectly fair. Not only would every 
 woman be properly provided for, but married men 
 would be relieved from the onerous burden of support- 
 ing more than one woman, Avhich is improper, but these 
 old bachelors who are of no account would be turned 
 to a good use by contributing to the support of spin- 
 
■316 Marriage Increasing. 
 
 sters, old women and little children. Then, when they 
 got to the gate of Heaven, they could at least have their 
 tax-receipts, to show that their punishment might be 
 mitigated, and that a few of the thousand years of pur- 
 gatory on the banks of the Styx might be omitted. 
 
 I trust, Fitz-Herbert, that you coincide with my views, 
 or, at least, that you will give them some attention. 
 F. H. had evidently never looked at the subject in this 
 light, for he seemed quite bewildered, and twirled his 
 moustache very vigorously, especially when Mignon and 
 Celeste and Aurelia all chimed in with me, and said I 
 was quite right. 
 
 August 21, 1869. 
 
 I am glad to notice that my letter of two Sundays 
 ago, upon the subject of marriage, has had such good 
 effects. During the past week, the number of marriages 
 has trebled, and even quadrupled, in this city. To be 
 sure, the number of divorces has kept even pace, and, 
 for every pair which has come boldly up to the altar and 
 joined hands in eternal friendship, another pair has 
 severed the bond in twain and parted company, like two 
 ships which meet upon the ocean, hold converse for a 
 little minute, and then set sail for the different horizons. 
 The Clown in Twelfth Night spoke more wisely than he 
 knew, when he said that many a good hanging prevent- 
 ed many a bad marriage. From the ease with which 
 divorces are now obtained, it seems to me a few good 
 hangings would have a healthy influence upon this mat- 
 ter of marriage, and would make that declaration of the 
 minister's, upon which he dwells with such solemn 
 
Anonyina. 317 
 
 unction, ''What God hath joined, let not man put 
 asunder," savor less of the ridiculous. 
 
 And all this reminds me of several letters I have 
 received during the past two weeks, taking issue with 
 me upon one small remark contained in my letter. 
 "Ferniania," "Ada," "Kitty," and a half a dozen 
 other anonyma, are highly indignant that I should have 
 said "Any woman who has a chance will get married." 
 
 I expected to be overwhelmed with an avalanche of 
 female indignation when I wrote that sentence. I wrote 
 it with a realizing sense of the wrath to come. 
 
 The wrath has come, and I find at least a dozen female 
 gauntlets on the floor before me which I am expected to 
 take up. 
 
 I confess I do not like anonymous gauntlets. I should 
 like to know the antecedents of some of them before I 
 accept the wager and do battle for my proposition. ' 
 
 In the first place, I would like to know how many of 
 these pretty Amazons have had a chance to get mar- 
 ried, and if they had a chance, then I want to know 
 why they didn't get married. I have no more sympathy 
 for a woman who won't get married than I have for a 
 man. She is just as much a jug without a handle or a 
 bow without the arrow as the man is. The very first 
 record we have of the very first woman that ever lived, 
 after she got her ^g-\^dS panier made, is of her marriage 
 to Adam, and the next thing of any consequence is the 
 birth of the rapscallion Cain, and the good little boy 
 Abel. It is just as much the woman's duty to get mar- 
 ried as the man's. 
 
 Good heavens ! my dear Madame, or my dear Made- 
 moiselle, what would you have done, if your parents 
 
3 1 8 Chances. 
 
 hadn't got married ? Would you have written me that 
 indignant letter ? Would you ever have gone to see 
 Enoch Arden ? Would you have ever known the Para- 
 dise of new fall hats and George Elliot's last new book? 
 
 I should say not. 
 
 At least it strikes me that way upon a mere glance. 
 
 Then wherein are you any better than your parents ? 
 I would like to be assured, therefore, that you have 
 had a chance to get married, and why you refused the 
 chance, before I answer you. 
 
 Of course I expect a very torrent of affirmation. A 
 woman had better be dead than never to have had a 
 chance. I would rather face a Nubian lion than tell a 
 woman to her face that she had never had an oppor- 
 tunity to get married. Do not the dear, delightful old 
 women, sitting in their arm - chairs, grow garrulous 
 over their tea, and tell their grand-daughters of the 
 numberless chances they had when they were young and 
 their faces were smooth and the wrinkles and crows-feet 
 had not been written upon their foreheads by the im- 
 placable Time ? Do not mature married ladies, who 
 have just gone round the corner, and are beginning to 
 feel just the slightest touch in the world of neuralgia, 
 now and then delight to give their husbands a realizing 
 sense of their inferiority, by recalling the number of 
 chances they have had and how they might have done 
 better here and lived easier there ? Do not young 
 ladies in les confidences with their numerous bosom 
 friends — confidences which are as mysterious as a sum 
 in simple addition and as eternal as the life of a sand-fly 
 — divulge to each other the chances they have had, and 
 the prospects for chances ahead, with the stereotyped 
 
Chances. 319 
 
 exactions of promises never to tell, upon penalty of 
 immediate severance of the ties which bind, etc. ? Do 
 not the delightful little creatures from five to ten dis- 
 play the first sign of womanhood in getting up flirtations 
 with the little boy in the next house, and writing the 
 most astonishing little notes to the effect that 
 
 ' If you love me as I love you, 
 No knife shall cut our loves in two.' 
 
 etc., etc. ? 
 
 This story of chances is an old, old story. It is a 
 failing of human nature. There isn't a young woman 
 in the world who has been gazed at admiringly by a 
 young man, but has imagination strong enough to con- 
 vert that look into a chance. That story won't do. I 
 want something more definite. 
 
 In the second place, I would like to know if any of 
 my correspondents who have had so many chances 
 improved one of them and got married ? If so, I would 
 like again to know, what in the world you are complain- 
 ing of? Is it quite complimentary to your other half, 
 who buys your bonnets, provides your beefsteaks, pays 
 your washerwoman, and looks after the pocket-book 
 side of your marital contract ? With that estimable 
 man in your eye — and I should hate to deny in your 
 presence, Madame, that he was not estimable — how can 
 you have the assurance to deny that there are women 
 who would marry, if they had the chance? Are the 
 grapes which grow on your vines soured? Has the 
 honeymoon grown bitter in its waxings and wanings ? 
 Have you put your finger in the fire and been burned ? 
 
 I hope not, but it looks so, my dear — it looks so. 
 
 I have a letter from still another correspondent — 
 
320 One- Idea Women. 
 
 written in a savage, vinegary sort of chirography — who 
 lugs in that stale crowd, Anna Dickinson, Miss An- 
 thony, etc., to prove that women will not always marry 
 when they have a chance. I do not recognize anything 
 womanly in these clamorous individuals bawling from 
 stumps, and crying themselves hoarse for rights which 
 any of them can have if they have sense enough to take 
 them. If a woman will deliberately unsex herself, she 
 has no right to expect chances. If she ever, by some 
 mysterious dispensation of Divine Providence, gets a 
 chance, it is kindness to the dumb brute who gave her 
 the chance, when she refuses it. The good God, when 
 He established the relation of the sexes, never intended 
 that man should ally himself to a woman with ice-water 
 in her veins and a head full of syllogisms. He might 
 as well marry a treatise on metaphysics and have done 
 with it. I am sick of this crowd of one-idea women 
 who are invariably trotted out when it is necessary to do 
 or say anything. They are exceptions to all rules, and 
 prove nothing. A cow with five legs and a hen with no 
 tail furnish no data from which to judge of the gen- 
 eral family of cows and hens. 
 
 It is rather curious that nearly all my correspondents 
 hurl my Maiden Aunt in my face to prove that I am 
 wrong in asserting that every woman would marry if 
 she had a chance. The Maiden Aunt ^/V/have a chance, 
 and would have accepted the chance, had not Death 
 stepped in and taken it away from her. She could not 
 love twice, and so she preferred to wait until she could 
 be united to him eternally. It would have been the 
 crowning glory of her life, if she could have married 
 him for whom she wore the forget-me-not so long, and 
 
Fate. 321 
 
 her life therein would have been more perfect than it 
 was. She was ready to marry when she had the chance, 
 but Fate ordered it otherwise, and she bowed her head 
 and submitted to the decree which forbade the chance, 
 but could not forbid the love. And they who were 
 divided in life were united in death, and I know are 
 quite happy now. 
 
 September 4, 1869. 
 
 23 
 
OLD BLOBBS REDIVIVUS. 
 
 THINK you never saw a happier little family 
 circle than gathered about the breakfast table 
 this morning. The dark cloud which has hov- 
 ered over us so long, casting its shadow over all the 
 household, has dissipated, and behind it we saw that the 
 sun was still shining, although we faint hearts had begun 
 to believe that we should never sit in the sunshine again. 
 Old Blobbs has past the crisis and weathered the 
 storm. The staunch old man has baffled pallida moj's 
 by resolutely contesting every inch with him. For a 
 day he hovered on the brink of the chasm between the 
 two worlds, but there was no trace of terror, or even of 
 impatience, in his serene face. I think he was so near 
 to Heaven that gleams of its light irradiated him, for I 
 never saw such a rapt face before. I think that he 
 heard the sound of the harps coming faintly to him, as 
 we sometimes hear music coming over the water in the 
 hush of night, for now and then he would close his eyes 
 and listen very attentively, seeming to forget us who 
 were standing around, fearing that at any moment he 
 might see the gate of Paradise and pass through, leaving 
 us disconsolate on this side. And I know, by a quick 
 glow of recognition and a smile of ineffable pleasure, 
 
The Recovery. 323 
 
 which once lit up his face, that he saw the Maiden Aunt, 
 and a little child who once left us, somewhere in that 
 land so far from us, but so near to him, for he raised his 
 thin white hand as if he would grasp the hand of 
 another. We could not speak to him. In that solemn 
 time we dared not. The doctor sat upon the bedside 
 and watched him with anxious face. Mignon, in the 
 intensity of her grief, sat with her face buried in her 
 hands. She had placed the Hided forget-me-not, which 
 the Maiden Aunt sent to her as her dying souvenir, in 
 Blobbs' hand, thinking, perhaps, that he might take it 
 to her, as they do not grow where she is, for memory 
 There is eternal. 
 
 It was growing towards sunset, and through the inter- 
 lacing leaves of the ivy which covers the window, a 
 golden shaft of sunlight shot into the room and fell 
 upon the bed. It caught Old Blobbs' eye. He faintly 
 smiled, turned his head away, and closed his eyes. The 
 doctor lightly felt the pulse and motioned us to be silent. 
 In a few minutes, the doctor beckoned us to retire to 
 another room, and then said to us : " Your friend is 
 sleeping. He has passed the crisis and will be spared 
 to you. It is only necessary that he should be kept 
 quiet." 
 
 On the day before the crisis. Parson Primrose called 
 to see Old Blobbs in the performance of official duty, 
 and undoubtedly actuated by a sincere desire to smooth 
 his pathway into the Valley of the Shadow. There was 
 just the faintest expression of impatience upon Blobbs' 
 face, when he saw him enter. Primrose had assumed a 
 conventional, business-like look of grief, not unmixed 
 with a slight anxiety, as if he were not at all certain 
 
324 Primrose. 
 
 that Blobbs' pathway needed any smoothing. And I 
 knew that Blobbs was convinced how utterly impotent 
 Primrose was to afford him any consolation or shed any 
 light upon the future. 
 
 In a dry, formalistic way, Primrose asked: "My 
 dear brother, are you prepared for the great change!" 
 
 I never shall forget Blobbs' look of profound aston- 
 ishment as he replied: "Yes, sir! Certainly. I have 
 always been prepared for this from my boyhood up. I 
 supposed it was a man's first duty to have his household 
 always in order for such changes — most of all, the com- 
 mon change which may come any minute. Why, of 
 course, sir, I am prepared, and hope I shall meet the 
 change like a gentleman." 
 
 Primrose added: "And have you prepared yourself 
 for this great change by attendance upon divine wor- 
 ship?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Old Blobbs. "I may say to you, 
 however, as we had better understand each other, that 
 I have not always deemed it important to attend divine 
 worship within four walls, I have been rather op- 
 pressed, sir, by this gregarious form of worship, and 
 have not always received satisfaction or consolation 
 from the gentlemen of your cloth — and this, with all 
 respect, sir. I imagine that I have been rather exact- 
 ing, and expected to find a guide, rather than a com- 
 panion who knew no more of the way than myself In 
 such cases, I always found that I got much nearer the 
 Great Father by going out into Nature, the house which 
 He built, and by loving my fellow-man and all the forms 
 of life which He has created, even down to the insects. 
 There has always, I may say, sir, been more satisfaction 
 
Blobbs' Belief. 325 
 
 to me in this warm, active love than in that affection 
 Avhich has been regulated by rules and bounded by 
 dogmas. ' ' 
 
 "Then you have never settled upon any creed or 
 form of belief," said Primrose. 
 
 Blobbs' face again wore an impatient look, as he re- 
 plied: "Belief with me, sir, has been instinctive. It 
 never had any prescribed form, and never needed de- 
 fining by any ritual. I have never troubled myself much 
 about any creed, as I have never seen any record of 
 creeds where I may soon go. I do not expect, if I had 
 a creed, that it would be anything but an impediment 
 to me in crossing the river. If I got safely over with 
 it, I am confident, sir, that St. Peter would make me 
 leave it outside the gate, as something for which they 
 had no use inside." 
 
 "Then, you have believed in no doctrine, and be- 
 longed to no church, my dear friend?" said Primrose. 
 
 "You mistake me, sir," said Blobbs, rather impa- 
 tiently. "I have always believed in charity, which is 
 greater than faith or hope, and in the sublime words 
 which Christ, and Confucius before Christ, uttered : 
 ' Do unto others as you would that they should do unto 
 you.' I have always belonged to the great church of 
 humanity, which, I think, sir, in ages to come, will be 
 the church of mankind ' ' 
 
 "When the millenium comes, and man is perfect?" 
 interposed Primrose. 
 
 "No, sir!" replied Blobbs, emphatically. "I look 
 for no millenium of perfection. Man can never fully 
 develop, if this world shall stand for millions of ages 
 yet. To assume that, would be to deny the principle 
 
326 Blobbs' Belief. 
 
 of infinity which is in him. The perfect development 
 can never be attained except in eternity. We must be 
 freed from this frail envelope of the body before the 
 soul can rise, untrammelled. 
 
 " Upon what, then, if you have no doctrine, or 
 creed, or church, do you depend for your salvation?" 
 said Primrose. 
 
 "Upon the love of our common Father," rej^lied 
 Blobbs. " He has carried me, sir, in the hollow of His 
 hand since childhood, and has never done me harm. I 
 am not afraid now, sir, to trust myself to Him, confi- 
 dent that He knows better than I what is best for me, 
 and that He will do what is best. I think that He will 
 solve all these mysteries, so that what is dark to my fee- 
 ble comprehension will become quite light. I am wil- 
 ling, sir, to trust myself to Him, and, sir, if you can 
 throw any light upon the place to which I am going, I 
 shall be very grateful to receive it. As to the manner 
 of going, I am quite willing to leave that to Him who 
 knows more than I." 
 
 Primrose, after a iQ\N generalities, took his leave, sat- 
 isfied that at least he had done his duty, but Old Blobbs 
 turned his face to the wall with a feeble smile and a 
 shake of the head. 
 
 I think Blobbs was fully convinced, as well as the rest 
 of us, that he should not live long, for on that same day 
 he handed me his diary, which he desired me to keep. 
 He has since that time expressed his willingness to have 
 me use what I please of it. On looking it over, I found 
 some thoughts which perhaps may interest you. 
 
 In one place he says : 
 
 "I think I have but one regret in leaving this world. 
 
B I abbs' Diary. 327 
 
 When I look into the past and see what is doing, I 
 would like to live into the future some centuries, to see 
 what a magnificent world this will be." 
 
 Again he says : 
 
 "Every man carries in his breast an aspiration and a 
 skeleton. The one is a yearning for an ideal which is 
 never realized here. He will never find it, be his search 
 ever so long or so faithful. It must always end in the 
 fate of the Prince who sought the fountain of perpetual 
 youth, and the alchemists who wasted their lives and 
 energies looking for the philosopher's stone. And yet 
 it seems to me this unattainable ideal is one of the surest 
 proofs of immortality. The other is the reverse of the 
 ideal — a fearful secret — a chained tiger — a terrible power. 
 Sometimes it assumes only the form of a melancholy. 
 Sometimes of a despair which kills." 
 
 Again : 
 
 "The keen, earnest love of Nature always involves 
 the warmer love of man as the noblest type of Nature, 
 and yet the love of Nature is the compensation for the 
 loss of man. When all men forget you — when the 
 bright hues with which you have invested the ideal of 
 the soul fade like a morning mist — when the heart in its 
 lowest depths of despair finds only artificial instead of 
 real men, when you even despair of humanity — vivifying 
 Nature remains a faithful friend, and brings compensa- 
 tion in her flowers and birds, her mountains and catar- 
 acts. 
 
 Again : 
 
 " Sympathy with anything that is beautiful can never 
 be completely exercised when you are alone. It must 
 find expression, and there must be the presence of 
 
328 B I abbs' Diaiy. 
 
 another who shall be the recipient of that expression. 
 Worship demands isolation, which begets reverence. 
 Sympathy demands the presence of another, and begets 
 friendship or love, according to the nature of the object 
 and the companion. Either in the presence of nature, 
 which inspires friendship, or of music and some forms 
 of art, which inspire love, the presence of the second 
 person is essential to complete syinpathy ; and he who 
 has sought either love or friendship, and lost both, is 
 richer than he who has never sought either." 
 
 Blobbs' diary contains also some pretty severe strict- 
 ures, which I might be tempted to give you were it not 
 for the fact that he will now soon be with us again and 
 speak for himself. I saw him this morning, and he is 
 quite like himself again. He took me by the hand and 
 said: "Well, my dear boy, they say the old ship is 
 going to weather the storm." 
 
 I congratulated him upon his improvement, and he 
 added : 
 
 "I thought we were getting into the haven and com- 
 ing to anchor. But the voyage isn't quite over yet, so 
 we must clear away the decks, crowd on all sail and out 
 again into the blue waters, with the rest of our little 
 fleet, and trust all to the good Pilot at the helm, Who 
 knows what is best, after all." 
 
 August 28, 1869. 
 
w^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^M 
 
 ^^^S^fe 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 g2<t^^^^! 
 
 
 ^!k^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ rv^//' re HELL. 
 
 F you should ask me why I went to Hell, I do 
 do not know that I could answer you. I only 
 know that I have often wanted to go there. I 
 have more than once envied Swedenborg, who could go 
 in a jiffy where he pleased, and the rat who lived in a 
 
 well, and when he died went you know where. If 
 
 you do not know, I can tell you that the place rhymes 
 with well. 
 
 I only know that I went there and came back safe and 
 unsinged, and with no smell of fire in my garments, 
 although I saw and talked with him who is never men- 
 tioned in polite comjmny, strange to say, considering 
 that he is the politest person that I ever met. 
 
 It may have been owing to the fact that, just before I 
 went to sleep, I was thinking of these coming fall days ; 
 of the maple boughs which will soon be blazing with 
 the red and scarlet flames of the frost; of the smoky 
 haze which will soon hide the hill-sides ; of the sumachs 
 and vines which will soon sheet the road-sides with 
 flame. It may have been this smoke and fire which sent 
 me there, for the most of us form no other idea of that 
 place, under the heavens, except in the light of brim- 
 stone, sulphur, anthracite coal, lava, molten iron, and 
 
 23 
 
330 On the Way. 
 
 other pleasant compounds, into which we are to be im- 
 mersed forever and a day, to roast, boil, and bake, and 
 yet never get cooked. 
 
 But, as I said before, I have been to Hell and got 
 back safely, and I should be unfaithful to my post as a 
 public benefactor, and my duties as a journalistic chron- 
 icler, did I not tell you what I saw. 
 
 You may remember that some months ago I told you 
 of my trip to Heaven. My route to the other place was 
 partially the same. I passed through our system of 
 stars and planets, dodged the comets as before, found 
 that the Man in the Moon was ill from the effects of the 
 recent eclipse, saw the Archer-road milkmen still run- 
 ning from the stump-tail cows in the Milky Way, passed 
 from planet to planet, and from galaxy to galaxy into 
 other systems, and at last reached the sea of golden 
 light, of which I told you before — the sea of Immor- 
 tality. Between this and the crystal sea above it, how- - 
 ever, I diverged, and my way led through rifts of dark 
 leaden clouds, across blank moors, which were illumined 
 by a lurid light which seemed to come from no source. 
 There were strange whisperings in the air. Dark- 
 winged birds now and then flitted by me, and ever and 
 anon I could hear a sullen roar in the distance, which 
 seemed to come from the flow of a river. Thus, on 
 over the blank moors, until my way led to a hill-side, 
 at the foot of which I was stopped by one of Lucifer's 
 officials, who briefly examined me, and then said I was 
 qualified to proceed. 
 
 I proceeded up the hill, and at the top I looked down 
 to a river — the River of Lethe — flowing sluggishly along 
 through a valley. Across this river I could see a coun- 
 
The Ferry. 331 
 
 try of vast extent, which was very thickly peopled. 1 
 Avent down the hill-side, and came to the river, and 
 there I found an old ferryman and his boat waiting to 
 convey me over the dark flood. He asked me for the 
 o\>olus with which to pay toll across the river, but, 
 unfortunately, I hadn't a cent with me. He then 
 asked, rather impatiently, if my friends were so poor 
 when I died that they couldn't afford to put an obolus 
 in the coffin with me. I smilingly replied that I wasn't 
 aware I had ever died, whereat he answered, very seri- 
 ously, that he had carried a great many dead men 
 across, but never any dead-heads. I tried to coax the 
 old man into giving me a ride gratis, but he obstinately 
 refused, saying that only the disembodied were allowed 
 to cross, and that if he took me over he would catch 
 the 
 
 "Just the man I Avant to see," said I. "If I cannot 
 go to him, except as a blessed defunct, will you have 
 the goodness to hand my card to him, and say that I 
 come from Chicago?" 
 
 The old man took the card, and, after taking on 
 board two or three people whom I used to know, and 
 supposed were saints, he paddled across and soon re- 
 turned, saying that the Devil had sent his compliments 
 and was willing to see me. He also sent word that he 
 was desirous of sending back by me his thanks to Chi- 
 cago, which was just now conferring a great favor upon 
 him in the way of business. 
 
 I accordingly jumped into the boat. The old man 
 had to work very hard in getting me over. The spirits 
 which he was accustomed to carry weigh nothing and 
 pack close, but I was quite substantial. 
 
332 The Dezdl. 
 
 In my passage across the river I observed that it was 
 full of robes, mitres, crosiers, censers, creeds, canons, 
 and other articles floating along, and I asked the old 
 man the cause of it. He simply replied that he didn't 
 know what they were. He believed they were some 
 sort of stuff wliich some people brought along with them 
 and had to throw away because nobody used them here 
 or in the other place. When we had reached the other 
 shore I landed, and the old man informed me I was in 
 Hell, and would find the Devil a short distance away. 
 I found him without difficulty. As soon as he had 
 settled a little dispute between some Board of Trade 
 men who had been getting up a corner, — which he de- 
 clared was too disgraceful even for his country, — he 
 turned to me and bade me welcome. 
 
 I must acknowledge that I was disappointed in his 
 appearance. He was a very polite, affable person, and, 
 apparently, a perfect gentleman. There were certainly 
 no claws upon his fingers. His feet were not cloven. 
 There were no horns upon his head. Neither did I, 
 after a rather secret and anxious scrutiny, discover any 
 indications of a tail. He greeted me as if he knew me 
 well, and at once put me at ease with himself. I made 
 bold to congratulate him upon his personal appearance, 
 whereat he smiled and said: "Yes, the old story — 
 horns, hoofs and tail, I suppose. I know it is the cus- 
 tom for you people on that little planet, which is called, 
 I think, the Earth, when you wish to represent anything 
 infamous or abominable, to paint the Devil, and you 
 generally paint him very black. Now we know a thing 
 or two here, and we always return the compliment, for 
 when we wish to represent anything infamous or abom- 
 
Hell -Fire. -^^-i,?) 
 
 inable we paint Man in his natural colors. I assure you 
 sir, I am not so black as they paint me. Why, sir, I 
 have been obliged to blush more than once at the crimes 
 which some men have committed who come here for 
 cleansing." 
 
 I acknowledged the justness of his remarks and then, 
 anxious to settle a suspicion which had been troubling 
 me, I asked him where the fire was. He smiled again, 
 and said : 
 
 "Fire? It is all round you. Hell-fire is by no means 
 a falsehood. Look at these people. They have brought 
 all their passions with them. We cannot manufac- 
 ture a fire which can burn and consume like the fires 
 of passion in man's breast. We know of no hell so ter- 
 rible as the hell in a man's bosom. Let me tell you 
 there isn't a man or woman on your Earth without a 
 tiger chained in his breast. Let him but once unloose 
 the beast and hell has broken loose in himself. These 
 tides of passion never ebb. They are resistless in their 
 flow, and they burn and kill, as they flow, like a stream 
 of molten lava running down the side of the volcano 
 into the fertile plains. That man there, who killed his 
 brother is none the less a murderer now, only that his 
 passion to kill is intensified without the means of its 
 gratification ; and you will notice that he carries the 
 skeleton of that brother tied to him, from which he can- 
 not escape. Do you think fire would be any such pun- 
 ishment to him? That miser, who was eaten up with 
 avarice in his mortal life, is doubly the miser now, only 
 the gains which he hoards are forever swept from him. 
 So with them all. They bring their passions with them 
 here only to have them intensified, to have their capaci- 
 
334 Tour of Observation. 
 
 ties for passion correspondingly increased, and never to 
 have the opportunities of gratifying them. That is the 
 kind of hell-fire we have here, and it burns until the 
 victim is burnt out, and purified, and regenerated, and 
 rendered capable of receiving pure enjoyment. We 
 who are placed in charge of them have no sympathy 
 with them, for we have no passions. We have living 
 brains, but dead hearts. 
 
 "And yet," I remarked, " many of these people seem 
 to be very quiet and calm. They do not look as if they 
 were troubled at all by passions." 
 
 "There is where you make a great mistake," the 
 Devil replied. " Appearances are as deceitful here as 
 they are on Earth. Outward quietness is no sign of in- 
 ward peace. The ocean, which is in continual war with 
 the elements, lashing its surface into ungovernable fury, 
 is secret and silent in its depth, while some hidden 
 lake in the mountains, or some pool in the valleys, which 
 never feels the ocean storm blowing over its surface, 
 yet mirrors every storm-cloud in its breast and is dis- 
 turbed in its depths by violent currents. Appearances 
 are deceitful, even here, you see." 
 
 The Devil then offered to show me about his do- 
 minions, and we trudged along together. I was sur-- 
 prised to find so many people there I had known on 
 Earth and supposed were saints ; men whom I had 
 known with serene faces, and upturned eyes, and saint- 
 ly expressions, who were all the time deprecating the 
 sinfulness of Earth ; who held up their hands in holy 
 horror at pleasures and snuffed evil in every wind that 
 blew ; and among them some whose names had been 
 blown abroad loud and long, and who had mounted 
 
Punishments. 335 
 
 lipon the top of popular opinion by means of the step- 
 ladders of piety. The Devil noticed my surprise and 
 said : " Yes ! we have a good many of that sort. They 
 are all entered on the books as hypocrites. One of our 
 choicest vintages, which we serve on State occasions, is 
 their tears bottled up. They are much superior in flavor 
 to the tears of the crocodile." 
 
 He took me further on and showed me the men who 
 had been cruel to animals, each of whom was tormented 
 by the animals he had tormented in life. Brutal cart- 
 men, who had lashed their horses to death, were in 
 harness, and the horses were lashing them. In one 
 place, there was an entire horse-railroad company draw- 
 ing overloaded cars. A man who was cruel to his dog 
 was pursued and constantly bitten by a howling pack of 
 them. Another, who had wantonly killed a little bird, 
 was chained to a rock, like Prometheus, and vukures 
 were forever pecking at him. Nero, who took delight 
 in killing flies, was forever stung by swarms of insects. 
 This one, who had been cruel to his ox, was harnessed 
 to a plow, and the ox was goading him along. That one, 
 who had been unnecessarily cruel to a fish, was forever 
 swimming in bottomless waters, pursued by sharks. 
 Thus each was punished in kind, and cruelty to the 
 dumb beast brought its own compensation. Whereat I 
 rejoiced, and quietly pressed the hand of the Devil in 
 token of satisfaction. 
 
 And he said to me: ''Even we devils, bad as we are 
 supposed to be, hardly know a crime so wicked as the 
 crime of cruelty to the animal, from man down to the 
 insect. We have no worse punishments than that for vi- 
 olations of the law of kindness, which is the law of love." 
 
336 Punishments. 
 
 We wandered on, and found several other classes of 
 persons, each of whom was punished in some unique 
 manner. There were pot-house politicians by the mul- 
 titude, who were chasing after offices which constantly 
 eluded their grasp just as they thought they had them. 
 There was an army of street-corner organ-grinders con- 
 demned to wander for a term of years and never to 
 cease grinding "Captain Jinks," Avhile the man who 
 wrote "Captain Jinks" was condemned to follow them 
 and listen to it as long as they played it. There was a 
 large multitude of people from Cincinnati, condemned 
 to sit for a thousand years upon a bank of a river and 
 read the daily papers of Chicago. There was a crowd 
 of tradesmen, who cheated with false Aveights, condemn- 
 ed to trudge for centuries with their weights liung about 
 their necks; and others, who mixed sand with sugar, 
 and turmeric with butter, and sold other villainous com- 
 pounds for the genuine article, who were forced to eat 
 their own abominable adulterations incessantly. And 
 thus we went on until we came to a spot where there 
 was a fearful chattering and screaming. The Devil 
 stopped his ears as we approached, and I immediately 
 discovered a crowd of able-bodied, stout-armed women 
 chasing a piece of paper which was fluttering through 
 the air. Every time that they were on the point of 
 seizing it, a puff of wind would blow it away again. 
 And on the paper was written the single word "Ballot." 
 I smiled as I recognized some of them. 
 
 Thus we went on, but it was everywhere the same 
 story. Those who had bad passions on Earth brought 
 their bad passions along with them, and made their own 
 hells. Those who were foolish on Earth were foolish 
 
The DcviPs Advice. t^2)1 
 
 here, and everyone was punished in kind. Each person 
 had his crime fastened upon him, and whatever chaUce 
 lie had forced others to drink was now commended to 
 ,his own lips. 
 
 And as we retraced our steps, I asked the Devil if 
 there was no cessation from these punishments, and he 
 answered: "Love will finally triumph at last, for it is 
 the law of laws, both on the Earth and in the Heavens." 
 
 We again reached the River Lethe, and I asked him 
 what word he wished to send to Earth. He smiled, as 
 he answered: "Nothing special. My business is 
 doing well there, and I have no fault to find with your 
 representation. The supply quite exceeds the demand. ' ' 
 
 He paused a minute, and said : "And yet I think I 
 might send some advice by you. A great many good 
 souls upon Earth are troubled about the meaning of life. 
 There was one poor fool named Dr. Faust, who once 
 sold himself to me, in order to get at the meaning of 
 the riddle. Tell them that any one who can appreciate 
 the littleness of life and not lose his own dignity has 
 come near enough to solving the problem. Tell them, 
 also, to realize, if they can, that their condition is 
 human, and that, whenever they try to ape the divine, 
 they are opposing the eternal fitness of things. The 
 best happiness, and glory, and virtue they can reach is 
 in being men, and loving their fellow-men. If they 
 become angels on Earth, they have nothing left to do 
 when they get up there. That old poet whom you are 
 accustomed to style a heathen was just right when he 
 said: "I am human, and I deem nothing human a 
 stranger to me.' " 
 
 "I promised the Devil I would take his message to 
 
338 Back Again. 
 
 Earth, and then said ; "I have but one more question 
 to ask." 
 
 " What is that?" he replied. 
 
 " Do editors come here often ?" 
 
 " No ! they have quite enough of this place where 
 they are." 
 
 I thanked him from my heart of hearts, and bade 
 him good-bye as one not utterly bereft of comfort and 
 consolation. 
 
 As the old ferryman landed I noticed that his boat 
 was full of stock speculators, and that the Devil looked 
 utterly disgusted when they stepped into his dominions. 
 
 We passed over the river in silence. I climbed the 
 hill and crossed the blank moors, passed through the 
 golden sea again, and then on through the systems until 
 I reached Earth and awaked. 
 
 It may be barely possible that a quarter section of 
 liot mince pie had something to do with this visit. 
 
 S.-islfiiilxr li), 18(59. 
 
r ENVOI. 
 
 T is only a few brief lines, and I must say good- 
 bye to the reader, and the book closes. You 
 and I have kept company together through 
 nearly three years of pleasant intercourse — a brief time 
 as numbered by years, but long enough in the calendar 
 of words and deeds. I trust neither of us is the worse for 
 the company, and that we shall part with kindly words, 
 good wishes and mutual blessings, until we see each 
 other again. I trust that in these preceding pages, each 
 one of you may have found some thought you will deem 
 worthy to lay away for preservation among the locks of 
 hair and old letters and faded flowers and other souven- 
 irs which each of you keep and look at when the world 
 presses heavily upon you with its cares and anxieties. 
 
 I trust that you may have found something that is 
 beautiful in the lives of each one of our little family 
 with whom you have been made acquainted, in your 
 companionship with me. I frankly confess to you that 
 I have a tender regard for them all, and that I shall be 
 disappointed if you do not share the same, as I have 
 only been their mouthpiece ivhen they have spoken. I 
 know that they regret the parting with you as much as 
 I, and that if we ever meet again, they will extend to 
 you the same warm welcome as I. 
 
340 The End. 
 
 And now the book closes, just as the birds are flying 
 to the warmer South and the groves are growing 
 strangely silent \ just as the flowers are fading in the 
 gardens and in the fields; just as the leaves are falling 
 in the forests, and the hill-sides are beginning to drape 
 themselves in the melancholy and tender beauty of the 
 Autumn. I cannot make this parting without a feeling 
 of regret and a certain sadness; and, as I extend my 
 hand to each and all of you — to some whom I have met 
 daily, to some whose faces have grown familiar, and to 
 some whom I have never seen and may never see, and 
 yet have sent me precious words of sympathy and en- 
 couragement during these past three years — I should be 
 ungrateful were I not to acknowledge the constant kind- 
 ness which has greeted these careless letters as they have 
 appeared in the columns of the Tribune. 
 
 Hoping that, in some future time, we may meet to- 
 gether again as now, it only remains to say Farewell, 
 and to write those saddest of all words — 
 
 THE END. 
 
 September 22, 1869.