THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE 
 
 OF 
 
 LOS 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 CALIFORNIA 
 ANGELES

 
 ' '
 
 GAIL HAMILTON'S WRITINGS. 
 
 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 One Volume. 
 
 A NEW ATMOSPHERE. 
 
 One Volume. 
 
 STUMBLING-BLOCKS. 
 
 One Volume. 
 
 GALA-DAYS. 
 
 One Volume. 
 
 COUNTRY LIVING AND COUNTRY THINKING. 
 
 One Volume. 
 
 The above are published in uniform style, by 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS.
 
 SKIRMISHES 
 
 SKETCHES. 
 
 BY GAIL HAMILTON ; La^t- 
 
 
 BOSTON: 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 
 1865.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS: 
 
 WELCH, BIGBLOW, AND COMPANY, 
 
 CAMBRIDGE.
 
 5 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHILD-POWER 3 
 
 " GLORY HALLELUJAH ! " 10 
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL .19 
 
 A LANDMARK REMOVED .53 
 
 DOUBTFUL ARGUMENTS 61 
 
 CHRIST AS A PREACHER . . . . ' . 73 
 
 NATHANIEL EMMONS OF FRANKLIN .... 84 
 
 BRAIN AND BRAWN ....... 95 
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD 107 
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE 141 
 
 A SUGGESTION . . . . . . . . . 156 
 
 A COURT CRIME . 163 
 
 MOB PATRIOTISM .170 
 
 ELLEN . 174 
 
 A WORD TO THE INCONSIDERATE 180 
 
 DRUNKENNESS AND DRINKING 191 
 
 LANGUAGE 200 
 
 CHRIST IN CAROLINA . 208 * 
 
 EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY 218 
 
 550404
 
 vi CONTEXTS. 
 
 MAGAZINE LITERATURE 225 
 
 WORDS FOR THE WAY 233 
 
 "Our IN THE COLD" 245 
 
 INTERRUPTION 251 
 
 ANNO DOMINI 259 
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS 277 
 
 A COUNTERCIIARM 318 
 
 THK NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY 330 
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS 358 
 
 MY BOOK 399
 
 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES.
 
 I. 
 
 CHILD-POWER. 
 
 ! ORNY was a disappointed man. When 
 he came over from Ireland, he thought 
 he was coming to El Dorado. Not 
 that he had ever heard of such a place 
 as El Dorado, but he had heard wonderful stories 
 rehearsed by his kinsfolk and neighbors, and he im 
 agined that our rivers were milk, and our lakes 
 honey ; that gold was to be had for the asking, 
 and silver was nothing accounted of in " Ameri- 
 ky." So Corny kissed his father and mother, 
 took his brown-haired, bright-eyed young wife, 
 his pipe, and his flute, and sailed over to the Land 
 of Promise. He found that it promised more than 
 it performed ; or rather Irish lips had reported and 
 Irish ears heard more than was ever spoken. The 
 soil of Columbia, like the soil of green Erin, is coy 
 to cold suitors. Fortune here, as fortune there, 
 will be wooed, and not unsought be won ; and the 
 long and the short of it was, that Corny, instead 
 of measuring out gold dollars by the sieveful, had
 
 4 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 to take his hod and hoc and go to work like the rest 
 of us. Is it any wonder that lie was disappointed ? 
 Who would not be disappointed to make a sea- 
 journey and a land-journey of three thousand 
 miles, leaving father and mother and mother-land 
 behind, and at the end of it find a shovel? 
 It was as if, tired of the toil and turmoil of this 
 work-a-day world, you should take up your pil 
 grim-staff some fine evening, and travel on to the 
 turreted castle that rises royally in yonder sunset 
 sky, a castle whose walls are amethyst and its 
 portals pearl, which seemed to beckon you on to 
 eternal ambrosia and nectar, to promise nothing 
 less than that you should be served by Hebes, 
 and companioned by gods ; and after weeks of 
 weary wandering, footsore and forlorn, you reach 
 your sunset castle, and find that you will not be 
 invited to so much as a supper of Johnny-cake 
 and milk till you shall have baked the Johnny- 
 cake and milked the cow. 
 
 But Corny put the best face on the matter, and 
 the best hand too, which in fact amounts to pretty 
 much the same thing, and w r ent to work. Indeed, 
 there was nothing else for him to do. He had 
 spent all his money in coming over, and in Amer 
 ica, as everywhere else, must either work or die. 
 He was a sturdy lad of fields and pastures, so he 
 went into the country and mowed great swaths 
 through the waving valleys, and hoed straight 
 rows through the brown corn-lands, and smote the
 
 CHILD-POWER. 5 
 
 threshing-floors with regular, strong beats, and 
 pressed the sweet, rich, foaming cider into the 
 scented vats. In winter he helped to gather in 
 abundant crops of solid, steely ice to cool the sher 
 bet of sultanas, or he drove his large-limbed, 
 steaming oxen over the frozen roads into the silent 
 woods, and made the country-side ring with the 
 stroke of his sturdy axe. So, many a board was 
 crowned and many a hearth-stone warmed by 
 the willing hand of this sw^art, hale, hearty Irish 
 exile. 
 
 All this while bright-eyed Kathleen kept every 
 thing snug and nice in the two rooms of their little 
 cottage, her own self the snuggest and nicest thing 
 in it, and that Corny knew right well. To this 
 little cottage there presently came a great joy and 
 a great sorrow, a great joy of hope and antici 
 pation, a great sorrow of disappointment for a lit 
 tle girl " that was dead before she was born " ; 
 and then another joy of hope and anticipation, and 
 another sorrow of deep disappointment for a little 
 boy that was but a few seconds a baby before he 
 was an angel ; and yet a third time hope budded 
 and bloomed, yes, thank God ! bloomed into a 
 big, burly, scowling, healthy baby, hideous to the 
 unprejudiced eye, but handsome as babies go ; and 
 he clenched his fist and vowed in baby fashion to 
 live as long as Methuselah. And they called his 
 name Corny. Then in all the land was nobody so 
 happy as Corny and Kathleen. Corny the Great
 
 6 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 worked all day long, and then came home and 
 fluted to Corny the Less, and Kathleen washed 
 and scrubbed and scolded, and said the baby was 
 cross, and such a trouble she could n't do any 
 work, laughing in her heart the while for pure de 
 light, and would have torn your tongue out if you 
 had asserted or even assented that the baby was 
 the least bit cross or troublesome. 
 
 But strange to say, Corny, who had borne his 
 disappointment bravely before, now that he was 
 drinking down great draughts of fatherly joy be 
 gan to grow discontented. There came over him a 
 mighty yearning for the Old Country. I think he 
 wanted to show his foreign-born baby to his Cork 
 county friends, and perhaps tlu's new paternal love 
 in his heart revived and strengthened the old 
 filial love. Just now, too, letters came from the 
 Irish homestead. His old mother declared that she 
 believed she should live twenty years longer if she 
 could see his face once more. His old father made 
 generous Irish proffers of unlimited peat, per 
 petual house rent, and probable inheritance ; and 
 Corny hung up his scythe and threw down his 
 hoe, and said he would go. Then he and Kath 
 leen talked it over ; and Kathleen did not care for 
 the peat nor the house rent, and not over much, I 
 am afraid, for the father and mother whom she 
 scarcely knew. She only saw a long, tiresome, 
 and dangerous voyage for the prince in the cradle, 
 and she rocked him with an emphatic foot, and
 
 CHILD-POWER. 7 
 
 made no scruple of letting it be known that she had 
 a very contemptuous opinion of migration, and 
 still Corny said he would go. Then there came 
 stories of destitution, distress, and impending fam 
 ine in sorrow-stricken Ireland, and Kathleen saw a 
 horrid vision, a pair of quivering jelly cheeks 
 growing thin, and sharp, and still ; dimples flatten 
 ing out of little hands, creases straightening out of 
 little legs ; and what '11 the boy do for milk on 
 shipboard? asks Kathleen Avourneen, a slight 
 savor of acid in her honest, ringing voice. 
 
 " Sure, an' he '11 drink tay now like an ould 
 woman," answers Corny; and the more lions 
 ramp and roar in his path, the more he determines 
 to go, and gives notice accordingly to his landlord. 
 
 " The whole world cannot stop me from going," 
 says Corny O'Curran. 
 
 But away off in the northwestern corner of this 
 country, terrible things were happening, chil 
 dren torn from their mother's arms and beaten to 
 death against rocks, husbands shot down in their 
 wheat-fields, wives at their cottage-doors, and blood 
 and rapine and the wild war-whoop scattering hor 
 ror and dismay. Men left their mown grass in the 
 fields, their oxen standing by the nebs, the cake 
 smoking on the hearth, and fled for life, for love, 
 by day, by night, through the woods, for the near 
 est forts and towns of refuge. One father and 
 mother deserted their log-house just built, their 
 rich lands just tilled, all their past toil and hope of
 
 8 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 future harvests, sorrowing only for one little mound 
 in the corner of the garden, but unspeakably glad 
 for one little head that rested still on their bos 
 oms, and turned their steps to the remembered 
 farm-house in New England, and to gray-haired 
 parents that went in and out under the broad 
 elm-shadows. But the journey, easy for the 
 strong man and woman, was too hard and long 
 for the baby feet. They faltered, they turned 
 aside, they went up the shining steeps and walked 
 with God. 
 
 Corny sauntered past the old farm-house under 
 the elms, one afternoon, the very day he had given 
 notice to his landlord, and there was a funeral. 
 Some one standing outside told him the sad story 
 of that little life. He went in. He saw a tiny 
 coffin, white flowers, a dead baby face, and came 
 out shuddering. When he went home that night, 
 he went straight to the cradle. Baby Corny 
 kicked and crowed and flung up his warm, mot 
 tled arms, and Man Corny took kicking legs, and 
 crowing lips, and mottled arms, and pressed them 
 all in a huddle close against his heart. 
 
 " Corny," calls Kathleen, from the oven hi which 
 her head is thrust ; " Jem has been here, and says 
 he '11 give you a dollar for the table." 
 
 "Let him keep his dollar, and I'll keep me 
 table," says Corny, tossing baby up to the ceiling. 
 
 " It 's all ye '11 be likely to git," says shrewd 
 Kathleen.
 
 CHILD-POWER. 9 
 
 " An' more," answers Corny, shamefaced. 
 " Katie, I don't believe we '11 go this fall " ; and 
 he mumbles something about work and wages ; but 
 Kathleen will not rest till she has the whole story, 
 and glad enough is she. Now the winter is upon 
 us, and Corny is harvesting great granaries of ice, 
 with never a thought of fatherland, because he 
 dreads the journey for his boy. 
 
 So I find that one little baby in long frocks 
 wields a stronger power than " all the world " be 
 sides ! 
 
 i*
 
 II. 
 
 "GLORY, HALLELUJAH!" 
 
 this lyric has a mission. 
 It would not be surprising if the Na 
 tional Hymn which the thirteen wise 
 men of Gotham went a-fishing for last 
 May, baiting their hooks with golden eagles, and 
 getting many nibbles, but no fish should be 
 found at last in this rousing song. It is a wonder 
 ful combination of incongruities, and can scarcely 
 have been marked out for an ordinary career. 
 There is high, religious fervor ; a sense of poetic 
 justice and righteous retribution ; a scorn of gram 
 mar and rhetoric and rhyme and reason ; an in 
 coherence, a brutality, a diabolism, a patriotism, 
 and a heroism, which must make it go down the 
 popular throat sweetly as the grapes of Beulah. 
 It has something for everybody. It appeals to all 
 the emotions. It sounds the gamut of humanity. 
 It is like the great image which Nebuchadnezzar 
 saw in his dream. Its head is of fine gold, its 
 breast and its arms of silver, its belly and thighs
 
 "GLORY, HALLELUJAH!" 11 
 
 of brass, its legs of iron, and its feet of clay. All 
 this eminently fits it for a national song, since a 
 national song is not a song of the poets, but the 
 song of a people ; and a people is heroic, and un 
 reasonable, and incoherent, and brutal, and noble. 
 Head of gold and feet of clay. 
 
 The origin of this song, like that of Eng 
 land's National Hymn, is somewhat foggy, or 
 will be, if it is let alone a little longer. " God 
 save the Queen" is said to have been a lay of 
 the plotting Jacobites, who, in the early days of 
 the Hanoverian dynasty, were continually schem 
 ing its downfall, and the restoration of the Stuarts ; 
 and the king who was sung to and prayed for 
 was the exiled Stuart, not the " great George " 
 actually on the throne. But the song somehow 
 worked itself into the public taste, and by a 
 high-handed process was furbished and handed 
 over to the loyal Georgians "as good as new." 
 Was not this " Glory, Hallelujah ! " sung by Colo 
 nel Ellsworth's Zouaves on their march from New 
 York to Washington, and was it ever sung be 
 fore ? It seems about three hundred years since 
 then ; and, after such a lapse of time, one cannot, 
 of course, certainly locate all events in the exact 
 order of their occurrence, nor have I any docu 
 ments at hand to verify my conjecture, but the 
 " March till the battered gates of Sumter shall 
 appear," savors of the honest and patriotic, but 
 ignorant, " on to Richmond " enthusiasm of those
 
 12 SKIKMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 early days. That line surely cannot have been 
 written" since Bull Run, and the "pet lambs" 
 point directly to the Caliban Zouaves, who, if I 
 recollect right, christened themselves thus. Does 
 
 O 7 
 
 any one know the author of the song, or the time 
 of its first appearance ? 
 
 Let us look at its head of gold. 
 
 " John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, 
 John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, 
 John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, 
 His soul is marching on." 
 
 There is a slight suggestion of John Brown and 
 the little Indian of the fossilifeyous ages that pre 
 ceded Fort Sumter, but it fades away before the 
 real grandeur of the idea. The rude genius which 
 struck out this lyric has hit upon a sublime prin 
 ciple. It is Bryant's royal thought clad in peas 
 ant garb. 
 
 " Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 
 The eternal years of God are hers." 
 
 In homely phrase it recognizes, seizes, and pro 
 mulgates the immortality of right, the indestruc 
 tibility of truth ; and the people recognize and 
 receive it with a unanimity and an enthusiasm 
 which reconcile one for a moment to that most 
 capricious of apothegms, the voice of the people 
 is the voice of God. On that summer day set 
 in the brow of winter, that June morning lost 
 amid December snows, when John Brown cast 
 his eyes over the pleasant land which he had
 
 "GLORY, HALLELUJAH!" l 
 
 come to redeem, as he passed to the gallows which 
 was to be his triumphal car down the centuries, 
 when he stood guarded by twenty-five thou 
 sand soldiers, and surrounded by an innumerable 
 throng, when throughout the South there was 
 terror and hatred and exultation, and throughout 
 the North admiration and sore regret, who fore 
 saw to-day ? Who looked forward through 
 these two memorable years, and beheld the bris 
 tling hosts of Freedom pressing down upon Vir 
 ginian soil, and ringing out the " Glory, Hallelu 
 jah ! " on the spot made forever sacred by that 
 martyrdom ? Is there in history a retribution 
 more swift, a justice more complete? Whatever 
 may be the issue of the war, Virginia, mother of 
 Presidents, mother of abominations, the cruel and 
 cowardly State that was frantic with terror before 
 a handful of brave men, and frantic with lust 
 for their blood when other hands than hers had 
 given them into her power, the traitorous and 
 braggart State, fit offspring of fathers scummed 
 from English cities and mothers bought for a 
 hundred pounds of tobacco, has felt by her 
 own firesides the bitterness of death and the 
 sharper bitterness of desolation. John Brown 
 violated law in his eagerness to dispense justice. 
 Virginia violated law in her eagerness to dispense 
 injustice, and " the curse shall be on her for ever 
 and ever." Virginia slew John Brown in the in 
 terests of slavery, and in her despite of Freedom.
 
 14 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A hundred thousand men, imbued with John 
 Brown's spirit, and armed by the law which he 
 broke, march past his gallows-tree, and Freedom is 
 avenged. He wrought ill for a noble cause. He 
 
 o o 
 
 confounded wrong with right. He would punish 
 wrong by wrong. But the good that he did lives 
 after him, and the evil is interred with his bones. 
 The people recognized his single eye, and his pure 
 heart, and when he went, they felt that virtue 
 was gone out from them. They forget now the 
 illegality of his measures, and remember only 
 the purity of his motives. His death atoned for 
 his errors. His hatred of slavery, his energy 
 and courage and fortitude in attacking it, were 
 the day-star of this dawn ; and so, because he 
 wrought ill, his body lies a-mouldering in the 
 grave, and because he purposed well, his soul is 
 marching on. The idea for which he laid down 
 his life, like the stone which was cut out without 
 hands, is becoming a great mountain, and filling 
 the whole land. It shall yet smite the image before 
 which John Brown was sacrificed, and break it to 
 pieces, and grind it to powder. His solitary foot 
 step in the wilds of Virginia heralded that grand 
 army whose tramp is the death-warrant of slavery. 
 Virginia has herself severed the cords that held 
 back the knife from her throat, and now ven 
 geance, and justice, and mercy, join hands to 
 drive it in ! No longer covertly, stealthily, with 
 veiled designs, by crooked ways, but in open day,
 
 "GLORY, HALLELUJAH!" 15 
 
 of set purpose, with erect form and defiant mien, 
 Freedom goes down to give light to them that sit 
 in darkness and the shadow of death. 
 
 Glory, Hallelujah ! that we live to see this day ! 
 
 " 0, sad for him whose light went out 
 
 Before this glory came, 
 Who could not live to feel his kin 
 
 To every noble name;^ 
 And sadder still to miss the joy 
 
 That twenty millions know, 
 In Human Nature's Holiday, 
 
 From all that makes life low." 
 
 There is space for only a glance at the less 
 comely parts of the song. Here are its breast 
 and arms of silver : 
 
 " He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord," &c. 
 
 The popular recognition not only of the soul's im 
 mortality, but of its immortal activity. The life 
 that battled so bravely, endured so constantly, and 
 yielded so heroically, was not wasted, but is work 
 ing still in another sphere, and working for the 
 Lord. 
 
 " We mourn for the fallen one, we weep for the brave, 
 Who to this holy cause his noble life he gave ; 
 Sadly yet proudly we shout forth thy name, 
 As we go marching on ! " 
 
 Pathetic, and a little pleonastic, but the people 
 is not nice as to its ear, nor fastidious as to its 
 taste, and the sorrow is sincere.
 
 16 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 His belly and thighs of brass : ' 
 
 " Gird on the warrior's armor, the battle ne'er give o'er; 
 March till the battered gates of Sunitcr shall appear ; 
 Kcst uot by the way, till you plant the Stars and Stripes 
 Where the traitor's flag now waves." 
 
 A glorious impulse, but praiseworthy and practi 
 cable only as it is consolidated into principle. It 
 savors of indignation rather than determination ; 
 and determination only, guided by prudence, and 
 strengthened by obstacles, wins the day. 
 Legs of iron and feet of clay : 
 
 " John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back," &c. 
 
 " His pet lambs will meet him on the way," &c., &c., &c. 
 
 * 
 A sudden and somewhat unaccountable return to 
 
 the original subject. Evidently the author is more 
 thoroughly at home with John Brown than with 
 abstractions, and goes back to him with a spring. 
 But the meaning is involved in doubt. There 
 seems to be a blending of the literal and the fig 
 urative. His knapsack on his back, may be but a 
 vivid way of saying that he is still in good work 
 ing order; but "his pet lambs" are in the flesh. 
 How can the actual lambs meet the abstract John 
 Brown ? or does it mean that they will fight to 
 the death, and so meet him martyrs in the same 
 good cause ? 
 The next 
 
 " They will hang Jeff Davis to a tree," &c., &c. 
 brings out the small boys, the hard men, and the
 
 "GLORY, HALLELUJAH!" 17 
 
 rough people generally, in full force. It is a per 
 fect brutality meter. When an assembly sings it, 
 you shall see the civilized people look a little 
 startled, as if they were getting rather more 
 than they bargained for ; but it is too late to do 
 anything about it, so they lean upon each other 
 for support, smile compromisingly, and conclude 
 to keep on. But all the wild beasts are mad with 
 delight; they find their blood-thirst suddenly 
 legalized ; their tumultudusness is orthodox, and 
 they make hay while the sun shines. 
 The last 
 
 " Now three rousing cheers for the Union ! " 
 
 is a universal solvent. Man and beast, rough and 
 smooth, are melted down into a mere mass of 
 swaying, sonorous patriotism, whose enormous pres 
 sure would certainly result in an explosion, were 
 it not for the safety valve of the final, deafening 
 "Hip! hip! hip! Hurrah!" 
 
 If, now, a song whose marvellous adaptation to the 
 people is shown by the universality of its reception 
 and the utter abandonment of its execution ; if a 
 song as coarse as England's and a good deal finer ; 
 a song whose music is at least to an uncultivated 
 voice and ear at once simple and magnificent; 
 a song born, as it were, by accident, and left to 
 itself, but working its way by its own inward 
 energy into the public heart, so that it is sung by 
 regiments marching through crowded New York,
 
 18 
 
 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and through deserted Charlestown* and by all the 
 girls they left behind them, and boys too, if this 
 is not to be the National Hymn, I should like to 
 know the reason why !
 
 III. 
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 
 
 [Motto: At it again!] 
 
 (jjijijijjji^) HERE is a class of subjects, not innu- 
 1 merous, which nearly concern the in 
 terests of the Church, but of which 
 only one side can be easily presented. 
 You may fill columns of the religious newspapers 
 with the good that is done by Sunday schools, but 
 it is not lawful to recount the evil which they do. 
 You may point out from the narrative of the thief 
 on the cross any moral which the Church has 
 educed and taught, but you may not deviate into 
 lessons of your own learning. You may exhort 
 men to come to Christ, you may even describe 
 his excellences for their imitation, if you will 
 depict only such as the Church has agreed to 
 attribute to him ; but if, suspecting that the tradi 
 tions of men nave somewhat overlaid the original 
 manuscript, you should attempt to erase the one 
 and restore the other, you may count on small 
 furtherance in your work. New England Puri 
 tanism is very far from Popery, but it is also very
 
 20 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 far from a practical acknowledgment, in its true 
 significance, of the right of private judgment. 
 
 In one respect the children of light are wise in 
 their generation. The " religious newspapers " 
 are probably well acquainted with the tastes and 
 distastes of the "religious public." They know 
 what it wih 1 bear, and against what it will rebel ; 
 and they doubtless have learned more thoroughly 
 than any others the lesson enunciated by Nie- 
 buhr, " How much is there which we may not 
 say aloud for fear of being stoned by the stupid 
 good people ! " 
 
 But the question is, whether it is not better to 
 be stoned by the stupid good people than to buy 
 them off by pandering to their prejudices. If they 
 are restless under a presentation of opinions differ 
 ing from their own, shall those opinions be with 
 held, or shall they be gently instructed in the true 
 nature and uses of opposition ? Are leaders given 
 to the blind for the purpose of guiding them, with 
 some difficulty perhaps, along safe paths, or, for 
 the sake of unity and peace, shall they all settle 
 down comfortably together in the ditch ? 
 
 It is not a question which can be evaded witli 
 impunity. If reformatory opposition be not per 
 mitted, destructive opposition will- come without 
 permission. If the Church will not tolerate free 
 discussion among its members, there will be riot 
 ous attacks from without, and a decay of all its 
 forces within. A " be it resolved " cannot change
 
 A FOLLY JN ISRAEL. 21 
 
 the face of nature. A community may refuse to 
 tolerate any exposition of the faults in its pet 
 plans or of weakness in its pet beliefs, and then 
 congratulate itself that they are faultless. But 
 facts do not disappear because men refuse to con 
 template them. If the Sunday school is working 
 mischief upon our children, its work is mischief, 
 however strenuously we persist in calling it bene 
 fit. If it is the glory and beneficence of the age, 
 nothing that even an angel from heaven can say 
 against it will have any other permanent effect 
 than to fasten it still more firmly in the affection 
 and respect of the people. For the Sunday school 
 is not an experiment, struggling up timidly into 
 existence, to be tenderly entreated till a fair trial 
 shall have shown whereunto the thing shall grow. 
 It is an institution, of years and full strength, ex 
 tending with every month, and enjoying the almost 
 unclouded sunshine of popular favor. It ought to 
 be in a condition to court the freest discussion. 
 If it is what it ought to be, every attack will only 
 bring discomfiture to its foes and advantage to 
 itself. If it is not what it ought to be, it should 
 welcome every suggestion, and carefully consider 
 before deciding upon adoption or rejection. But 
 the fact that an opinion adverse to the common 
 features of the Sunday school and to the current 
 topic of thought regarding it, especially an opinion 
 emanating not from a hostile and inexperienced 
 Gentile, who may be assumed to be ignorant of its
 
 22 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 workings, but from an Hebrew of the Hebrews, 
 who is, as touching the law, a Pharisee, and con 
 cerning zeal, absolutely persecuting the Church, 
 that such an opinion should be considered too 
 detrimental to be allowed expression, is an argu 
 ment against Sunday schools which comprises the 
 essence of every hostile charge. If that which 
 professes to be a plan for good working may not 
 be freely and publicly discussed by the lovers of 
 good works, it must lie under the suspicion of 
 harboring some fatal flaw. 
 
 If the religious public does not see this by its 
 own unaided vision, for what are religious periodi 
 cals established but to lend themselves to the work 
 of enlightenment ? Or is it so that while the cus 
 toms of the world may be rigidly scrutinized and 
 unsparingly condemned, the customs of the Church 
 shall not be so much as looked into to see whether 
 they deserve condemnation ? Then, after the woe 
 and warfare of centuries, we are reverting again 
 to an infallible Church, with the singular and sig 
 nal disadvantage of having for our Divinity no 
 recognized oracle. What came well-defined, if 
 imperative, from the lips of King Pope, now clam 
 ors, discordant and unintelligible, from the hun 
 dred mouths of King Mob. 
 
 This paper was originally written for an able, 
 catholic, and courteous religious newspaper. The 
 watchman of Zion, a mighty man of war, slum 
 bered at his post, I suspect, and the vanguard
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 23 
 
 rushed in and gained a foothold ; but before the 
 second detachment could knock at the gates, the 
 sentinels were on duty, the drawbridge was up, 
 and the portcullis down ! 
 
 This, as well as all the other papers, is written 
 from the point of sight of- Orthodox Congregation 
 alism, to which, let my conservative but sweet- 
 tempered brethren of that denomination be as 
 sured I adhere with the devotion of Mr. Micaw- 
 ber, and to whom I might not inaptly address the 
 words of the bricht ladie of Elfinland Wud, who 
 clung so desperately to the scared and shuddering 
 Erl William : - 
 
 " Gang ye eist, or fare ye wast, 
 Or tak ye the road that ye like best, 
 Far owir mure, and far owir fell, 
 Thorow dingle, and thorow dell, 
 Thorow fire, and thorow flude, 
 Thorow slauchtir, thorow blude, 
 Eerilie sal nicht wyndis moan, 
 Ghaist with ghaist maun wandir on." 
 
 But the Sunday school is not the peculiar insti 
 tution of any sect. It is a matter of deep and 
 broad concern to Presbyterians, Episcopalians, 
 Unitarians, and all such outside barbarians, who 
 are cordially invited to reap for themselves every 
 possible benefit from the following remarks, as 
 freely as if they belonged to the true Church. 
 For the Transcendentalists, Swedenborgians, and 
 other sesquipedalian riff-raff, who are so deeply
 
 24 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 sunk in original sin that a little more or less of it 
 will make no appreciable difference in their con 
 dition, they may as well, perhaps, pass by on the 
 other side. And now, having made peace with all 
 the world, I will, like Pius ^Eneas, begin. 
 
 The Sunday school, as at present conducted, is 
 not an unmitigated blessing. 
 
 The old-time fashion of assembling young peo 
 ple together on Sunday in order to indoctrinate 
 them into the truths of Christianity, and guiding 
 them through a regularly prescribed three years' 
 course, must have been very profitable. In the 
 younger, but still old times, Martin Luther's plan 
 of gathering into Sunday schools the children who 
 could not attend day schools, and teaching them to 
 read that so they might have direct access to the 
 Bible, was also most commendable. In still later 
 times, Robert Raikes, the rich and liberally edu 
 cated Gloucester philanthropist, smitten to the 
 heart by the vice and ignorance around him, hired 
 rooms, gathered in the forlorn, neglected children, 
 and paid poor women a shilling a day to teach them 
 to read. At the same time, Katy Ferguson, who 
 was neither rich nor liberally educated, who was, 
 on the contrary, so abjectly poor that she had 
 rights which white people were bound to re 
 spect, but who showed a sagacity which all must 
 admire, and a benevolence which we cannot choose 
 but love, herself organized and taught a Sunday 
 school in New York for the benefit of the poor
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. , 25 
 
 children of her own people. These schools did a 
 truly Christian work. They .took up Christ's little 
 ones, the neglected children of society, miserable 
 waifs tossed on the turbulent tide of life, unhap 
 py wretches straggling up into vice and crime, 
 and set them where they could be warmed 
 by the Sun of Righteousness. Reading, writing, 
 arithmetic, the common things which more fa 
 vored children learned on week-days, were taught 
 to them on Sunday, mingled with as much re 
 ligious instruction as they were able to compre 
 hend. But, except in our mission schools, the 
 original idea of the Sunday school seems to be 
 entirely lost. Our ordinary Sunday schools are 
 composed of children who have every opportunity 
 for instruction at home during the six days of the 
 week, and who are regular attendants at church on 
 Sunday. Where lies the need or the propriety of 
 Sunday schools for them ? A school is for study, 
 for training ; but mental discipline is not necessary 
 for children who are already undergoing strict 
 mental discipline in grammar and high schools. 
 And surely it cannot be necessary to establish a 
 school for the moral and religious training of chil 
 dren who have 1 moral and religious parents at home 
 and a minister for Sundays. 
 
 Moreover, what is the kind of instruction which 
 children receive in Sunday schools ? The answer 
 may be found, partially, by looking at the instruct 
 ors. Our Sundav-school teachers are selected from
 
 26 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the general community by the superintendent, and 
 often secured with much difficulty. Many to whom ' 
 he appeals utterly decline to serve, others serve 
 reluctantly, and only from an unwillingness to 
 seem disobliging or from a sense of duty, not from 
 any spontaneous desire or bent. They plead earn 
 estly, sincerely, and often no doubt justly, their 
 unfitness for the work ; but he pleads with equal 
 earnestness the difficulty of obtaining teachers at 
 all, and they yield. They are the ordinary fathers 
 and mothers of society, with no especial training 
 for, or adaptation to, the work. They are no 
 more capable of wisely and worthily instructing 
 the young people committed to their charge than 
 are the parents who are not teachers. By what 
 right, then, on what principle, do parents go home 
 or stay at home to read or rest or enjoy themselves 
 in quiet, and send their children away to church 
 or chapel to be looked after by people to whom 
 they do not belong, and who would like to stay at 
 home and have the Sunday-school hour in quiet as 
 well as these parents ? Why should parents throw 
 the burden of their children upon other parents 
 when they are just as able to bear the burden 
 themselves, and when it belongs to them by Divine 
 allotment ? 
 
 Or, again, Sunday-school teachers are young 
 men and young women who have never assumed 
 the responsibilities or learned the duties of the 
 family. They not only have no especial fitness,
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 27 
 
 but they have an especial unfitness for the work. 
 ' I know of Sunday-school teachers who are merely 
 gay young people, without religious principle or. 
 even religious habits, who, out of school, make a 
 mock of their Sunday instruction. Not very 
 numerous, it is to be hoped, is this class of teach 
 ers ; but very many there are, who, however well 
 disposed they may be, are yet, from their youth 
 and inexperience, unfit to be intrusted with the 
 care of souls. Fatherhood, motherhood, by some 
 mysterious and beautiful Divine arrangement, 
 brings its own wisdom with it; a very ordinary 
 man or woman may be an excellent the very 
 best teacher for his own child ; but Sunday 
 schools take children away from the ordinary peo 
 ple who have this extraordinary fitness and put 
 them into the hands of people equally ordinary, but 
 without the fitness. These teachers do not have 
 that intimate acquaintance with the children which 
 their parents possess, and which is indispensable 
 to a right and sufficient guidance of their young 
 lives, nor is it possible that they should have that 
 deep, abiding interest which the parents feel. How 
 is it, then, that parents dare commit their chil 
 dren to such unskilful hands ? How dare they 
 intrust interests so important to an agency so in 
 adequate ? 
 
 Probably not one parent in a hundred makes a 
 point of knowing the character of the instruction 
 which his child receives. What the child volun-
 
 28 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 tarily discloses, they know ; but they do not 
 systematically, by careful questioning, by indirect 
 application, by pleasant but pertinent conversation, 
 ascertain whether their children are learning Ar- 
 minianisra, Socinianism, Calvinism, or any other 
 ism. It is hardly to be doubted that a person 
 might go into the most orthodox Sunday school, 
 and possibly by the use of a little adroitness and 
 possibly without it might teach almost any form 
 of heresy without the smallest danger of discovery 
 by the parents. Probably there are few who teach 
 heresy, but a great amount of disjointed reasoning 
 and loose theology is current in Sunday schools. 
 Assertion takes the place of argument. Opinions 
 are inculcated rather than conclusions reached. 
 One woman once asked her boys what the teacher 
 said to them. " O, well," was the reply, with 
 something like a yawn, " he heard us say the les 
 son, and then he asked us if father had got his 
 haying all done, and said he 'd been to mash three 
 days last week, and had got to go again Tuesday." 
 This may be an exceptional case, but so far as 
 I have seen, earnest, systematic investigation 
 which is implied in the idea af school is a thing 
 most rare. It is not probably the fault of the 
 teachers. Their education was very likely con 
 ducted in the same inconsequent and incoherent 
 manner. They were never taught to think con 
 secutively, or they have not the capacity to teach 
 others so to think. They are at their wits' end to
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 29 
 
 keep their classes going through the prescribed 
 hour, and not unfrequently they cannot do even 
 that. No one can be more keenly alive to their 
 incompetency than themselves, and it would be 
 cruel to cast the shadow of a reproach upon them. 
 
 The positive harm that is done in this direction 
 is small, because so little of anything is done. 
 What mischief is wrought lies in mistaking this 
 desultory hour's talk, interspersed with a thousand 
 irrelevant matters, for theological - and religious 
 education. 
 
 Somewhat of the character of Sunday schools 
 may and indeed must be learned from the aspect 
 of the schools themselves, both while they are in 
 session and after they are dismissed. The adults 
 in school are generally interested in their study ; 
 a very few of the young girls, and perhaps of the 
 elder lads, are somewhat interested, perhaps it 
 would be more correct to say, discover a possibility 
 of interest ; while many are far more observant of 
 the dress and demeanor of their companions than of 
 the lesson. The small boys and girls are restless 
 and troublesome, not vicious, but simply child-like, 
 with all their natural propensities for mirth and 
 mischief brought into play emphatically by each 
 other's presence, and only partially restrained by 
 the presence of authority which is but partial. It 
 is a matter of so great difficulty to fasten the 
 children's thoughts on the subject presented to 
 them, that teachers seem forced to expend the
 
 30 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 greater part of their energy in keeping them quiet, 
 rather than in instructing them. There is no com 
 pulsion to insure either decorous behavior or perfect 
 lessons. The children titter, giggle, whisper, stare, 
 compare hats and bonnets, and in ways many and 
 various evince their entire indifference to the mat 
 ter in hand. They are irreverent during the 
 prayer, distracted and consequently impolite dur 
 ing the recitation ; and when school is over they 
 go home talking of dress, play-day, school, and 
 other themes entirely irrelevant and unbecoming 
 holy time. Before they have passed the porch- 
 door you may hear such remarks and questions as 
 " I think your ribbon is ever so much prettier 
 than mine," "Is your veil just like Susey's?" 
 " Why don't you ever wear your blue dress to 
 meeting ? " " D' you know Joe got fourteen 
 perch yesterday, 'n' I'm going Wednesday." 
 The children are more elaborately dressed and 
 far more disorderly and intractable than on week 
 days, and there is little else to show that they are 
 . attending a religious and not a secular school. 
 
 But Sunday schools, like everything else, must 
 be judged by their fruits. This is a somewhat 
 difficult matter. We must decide not. only from 
 what they do, but from what they leave undone 
 and from what they cause others to leave undone. 
 Sunday schools are organized, it is admitted, for 
 the study of the Bible, with or without the aid of 
 Question Books. How much knowledge of the
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 31 
 
 Bible our fathers and mothers had in their youth, 
 we do not, of course, certainly know ; but it is 
 certain that a very great number of young people 
 are growing up as ignorant of the Bible as it 
 seems possible for children in Christian communi 
 ties to be. They know in a general way that 
 Jesus Christ died for sinners, and that Abraham 
 and David are Bible characters, but of the history, 
 chronology, actual teachings, and in fact, of almost 
 all the priceless lore of the Bible, they are in a 
 state of profound and lamentable ignorance. The 
 light of the Bible reflected from the objects among 
 which they live shines upon them ; but so far as 
 light direct from the Bible is concerned, they are 
 walking in a darkness that may be felt. They 
 cannot prove doctrines from the Bible ; they do 
 not even know with any definiteness or certainty 
 what is the creed of their own church, much less 
 can they trace its origin in the Bible. With the 
 simple and most charming or most striking narra 
 tives of both the Old and the New Testament, they 
 are often entirely unacquainted. They cannot 
 explain Bible allusions from Judasan scenery or 
 manners. Out of a group of a dozen or twenty 
 lads and lasses from thirteen to seventeen years of 
 age, all intelligent and all members of Sunday 
 schools, you may often find not one who can tell 
 whether Achan is the name of a man or a moun 
 tain, what is the connection between Jonah and 
 Nineveh, or what is the direction in which one
 
 32 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 should push his researches if he would learn the 
 story of Mephibosheth or Onesimus or Ahithophel. 
 Such ignorance is the rule and not the exception 
 in some of the most intelligent religious communi 
 ties in New England villages and cities, where 
 Sunday schools have been in what is called suc 
 cessful operation time out of mind. What I mean 
 is, more definitely, this : gather parties of intelli 
 gent young people, between twelve and eighteen 
 years old, who belong to certain flourishing Ortho 
 dox congregations in city and country, children 
 of church-members, and pupils of Sunday schools, 
 and those who will be able to give correct infor 
 mation on the points I have mentioned, and on 
 others of similar importance, will be rare excep 
 tions. As these congregations are not below 
 others in point of general intelligence, it is not 
 probable that they are below it in Scriptural 
 knowledge. 
 
 This I understand to be the main thing. It is 
 
 O 
 
 of no use to report large numbers, sweet singing, 
 prompt and constant attendance, bright and happy 
 faces. These are but mint, anise and cummin. 
 These indeed ought to be secured if possible ; but 
 if with all these, the facts and principles of the 
 Bible are not learned, the Sunday school fails of 
 its end. Its avowed aim is not to give an hour's 
 enjoyment or a centre of attraction to children, but 
 to root and ground them in the faith once de 
 livered to the saints ; and if thev fail here there
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 33 
 
 is no success. The Sunday school is sometimes 
 said to be the nursery of the Church ; but I am 
 " sore sick at heart " for the world, if the Church 
 is to be stocked with such spindlings as the Sun 
 day school produces. 
 
 Granting, however, that the Sunday schools ac 
 complish very little, if it can be proved, or if it 
 is altogether probable, that still less would be 
 done without them, that, dense as is the igno 
 rance with them, it would be still more dense with 
 out them, then we have only to thank God and 
 take courage. But can the proof or the prob 
 ability be produced ? Fifty years ago there were 
 few if any Sunday schools in New England. Are 
 the men and the women who have grown up in 
 Sunday schools any more thorough masters of 
 Bible truth than the men and the women of fifty 
 years ago who were brought up without Sunday 
 schools ? Are the lads and lasses of 1864 better 
 acquainted with the facts which pertain to salva 
 tion than were the lads and lasses of 1814 ? Are 
 the common people, the young mechanics, farmers, 
 tradesmen, able to give a reason for the hope that 
 is in them any more clearly and forcibly than the 
 common people were fifty years ago ? Are the 
 boys and girls now any more truthful, obedient, 
 respectful, unselfish, than the boys and girls of the 
 last century ? 
 
 It may further be said that, although Sunday 
 schools may not diffuse or deepen Biblical knowl- 
 2* c
 
 34 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 edge so much as is to be desired, the salvation 
 of souls is the ultimate object of Sunday schools, 
 to which all Biblical knowledge tends, and very 
 many trace back the commencement of a new life 
 to the influence exerted upon them in Sunday 
 schools. In view of such facts, how can there be 
 any questions of benefit ? If one sinner were con 
 verted from the error of his ways by Sunday- 
 school teaching, we should be amply rewarded for 
 all our labors ; how then when great numbers 
 look back upon it as the spot " where their weak 
 ness first fell bleeding when their first prayer rose 
 to God"? 
 
 Waiving now the question of the value that is 
 to be attached to a " salvation " which is not 
 founded upon the rock, and fed by the waters of 
 Bible truth, let us inquire if there must not be 
 somewhere a fatal defect, when the children of 
 Christian families receive their first impulse to 
 wards the divine life in Sunday school ? If it has 
 come to a general fact that more children accept 
 divine truth from Sunday-school influence than 
 from home influence, must it not be an equally 
 general fact that homes are very much at fault ? 
 It is fathers, not Sunday-school teachers, who are 
 commanded to bring up their children in the nur 
 ture and admonition of the Lord ; and however 
 Christian parents may rejoice in the conversion of 
 their children from the error of their ways, come 
 when and how it will, it is hardly a question
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 85 
 
 whether such conversion, caused by instruction or 
 warning received in Sunday school, does not im 
 ply a rebuke for parental unfaithfulness. The 
 promises of the Bible are emphatically " unto you 
 and to your children." The promises of God are 
 in Christ yea, and in him amen ; and those prom 
 ises are most explicit. " Train up a child in the 
 way he should go, and when he is old, he will not 
 depart from it." There is no modification, no 
 condition, no exception. " As arrows are in the 
 hand of a mighty man, so are children of the 
 youth." What are arrows in the hands of a mighty 
 man ? Wavering, wandering, uncertain things, 
 which will, perhaps, hit the mark, and perhaps 
 go wide of it ; which may do his work, but which 
 also may not, may even recoil against himself, to 
 wound and torture and kill ? Is it not plain that 
 just as the mighty man, the warrior, the sharp 
 shooter, wings his unerring shaft whithersoever he 
 will, and finds in it a sure defence, a strength and 
 support, so the father may bring up his children to 
 be what he wills, the staff of his age, the joy of his 
 soul, the hope of the world ? If the Bible does 
 not mean this, what does it mean ? And if it does 
 mean this, ought parents to be content that their 
 children should trace back their change from the 
 ways of death into the ways of life to the influence 
 of one stranger who was with them one hour a 
 week, rather than to the influence of two persons 
 who were with them nearly all the other hours,
 
 86 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and who had all the advantages of consanguinity, 
 intimacy* interest, and a common love, care, duty, 
 and delight ? Surely parents must have cause to 
 look lightly on their duties, and value lightly 
 their privileges, before they can with compla 
 cency see their children attribute to outside agen 
 cy the good that should have been wrought in 
 the sacred privacy, and by the constant healthful 
 influences of home. 
 
 But it may be claimed this is putting too fine a 
 point upon it ; if the work is done, if the children 
 grow up into men and women who fear God and 
 keep his commandments, it may seem to be a mat 
 ter of minor importance whether it be the work of 
 parents or others. 
 
 But is even this work done ? At a recent State 
 "Sunday-school convention, the proportion of those 
 who became Christians in Sunday schools was said 
 to be one in nine. At another convention it was 
 said to be one in fifteen. If this is success, what 
 would be counted failure ? 
 
 Nor does the quality of our religious life, any 
 more than its quantity, tend to inspire confidence 
 in the means adopted to awaken and nourish it. 
 Religious society is too largely frivolous in its 
 tastes, absurd in its fears, and narrow in its views ; 
 religious experience is shallow, and religious prin 
 ciples are weak, and it can be for no other reason 
 than that religious training is so imperfect. There 
 is no subsoiling, no under-drainage, no thorough
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 37 
 
 working of the soil, and, in consequence, our 
 crops are scanty and stunted. The religious ele 
 ment of New England possesses not a tithe of the 
 power it ought to wield, because it is so feebly man 
 aged. The Sunday school is partly, though uncon 
 sciously and innocently, to blame for this. It cornes 
 in, not with the intention, but in fact, to relieve 
 parents from responsibility for the direct religious 
 training of their children, and is itself wholly in 
 adequate to its assumption. When parents used to 
 hear their children recite the Catechism on Sunday 
 evening, and the minister heard them publicly 
 once a month, something was accomplished. The 
 little people may not have understood what they 
 were saying, but seed was planted in their minds 
 which presently grew, and flourished, and brought 
 forth fruit an hundred-fold. I do not think the 
 Shorter Catechism, agreed upon by the Reverend 
 Assembly of Divines at Westminster, is the 
 best possible mode of presenting Bible truths to 
 infant minds, but it is much better than the Sun 
 day-school mode. It did no moral harm, and 
 much intellectual good ; the Sunday school does 
 much moral harm, and no intellectual good that I 
 could ever see. I should be glad to behold every 
 church Sunday school in the land swept out of 
 existence, if by such act the Westminster Cate 
 chism could be restored to the place it once occu 
 pied in the church homes. It was a tough old 
 crust for young teeth to gnaw, but it was excellent
 
 38 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 for the teeth. Contrast with the diluted pap which 
 is presented to children in the shape of leading 
 questions with monosyllabic answers, which can be 
 given nearly as correctly without study as with it, 
 the sturdy, sententious, uncompromising answers 
 of the Westminster Catechism : 
 
 "What is God?" 
 
 " God is a spirit, infinite, eternal, and unchange 
 able, in his being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, 
 goodness, and truth." 
 
 " Did all mankind fall in Adam's first trans 
 gression ?" 
 
 " They did," is all you would get from a Sun 
 day school ; but hear what the Westminster Cate 
 chism saith : 
 
 " The covenant being made with Adam, not 
 only for himself but for his posterity, all man 
 kind, descending from him by ordinary generation, 
 sinned in him, and fell with him in his first trans 
 gression. 
 
 " Wherein consists the sinfulness of that estate 
 whereinto man fell ? 
 
 " The sinfulness of that estate whereinto man 
 fell consists in the guilt of Adam's first sin, the 
 want of original righteousness, and the corruption 
 of his whole nature, which is commonly called 
 original sin, together with all actual transgressions 
 which proceeded from it. 
 
 "Did God leave all mankind to perish in the 
 estate of sin and misery ?
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 39 
 
 " God having, out of his mere good pleasure, 
 from all eternity, elected some to everlasting life, 
 did enter into a covenant of grace, to deliver them 
 out of the estate of sin and misery, and to bring 
 them into an estate of salvation by a Redeemer." 
 
 It is not necessary to believe in the truth of 
 these doctrines in order to see that the child who 
 has mastered the one hundred and seven answers 
 containing them, has gained a victory over sloth 
 and weakness and the natural inclination to shilly 
 shallying, which will stand him in good stead all 
 his life. When he grows up to a comprehen 
 sion of the statements, he may accept or reject 
 them, but he will know what he is about. The 
 mental activity which they have caused will have 
 given him a firmness of fibre that will preclude all 
 weak yielding and swaying hither and thither. 
 His reason will have something to work on. 
 
 Apart from the truth of the answer, its form is 
 a model of condensation and completeness. No 
 answer hangs upon its question, but each stands 
 upon its own foundation. Each is a separate pro 
 position, crystallizing its own truth, a part of a 
 symmetrical whole, yet complete in itself. Intel 
 lectually, a thorough course of the Westminster 
 Catechism may be considered about equal to three 
 terms in college. Certainly I would not retain the 
 Catechism when something better is offered ; but 
 as certainly, I would not give it up for something 
 worse.
 
 40 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 We had another blessing under the reign of this 
 deposed monarch. It was a family-centralizing 
 power. It was a focus of household light. It is 
 remembered with father, mother, brothers, sisters, 
 gathering about the well-swept hearth, and beauti 
 ful in the yellow fire-light. With it comes back 
 the pride of youthful vigor, the joy of youthful 
 innocence. Here, shy and smiling, on papa's feet 
 sat the little sister whose shining curls toss only 
 in your dreams. There, behind the light-stand, 
 was the broad-browed brother who went up to 
 heaven from the " battle in the clouds." One 
 gathering golden harvests in California, and one 
 tossing somewhere on the broad ocean, you can 
 still see, side by side, on the settee in the corner. 
 The old homestead is gone to ruin, the family 
 name is passing away ; but in your memory the 
 unbroken circle gathers about the fireside on 
 Sunday evening, type of the reunion that shall 
 be. The simplest and sweetest pleasures of life, 
 the tenderest affections of the heart, the most hal 
 lowed associations, the most sacred hopes, are 
 entwined with the memories of that Sunday even 
 ing exercise. 
 
 What have we gained for this? Heterogeneous 
 crowds jostling into a public room, and jostling 
 out again. Dozens of children gathered into dozens 
 of classes, with dozens of teachers such as could be 
 had for the begging, keeping them under par 
 tial control through a prayer, or suffering them
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 41 
 
 to shout out responses with the fury of a cau 
 cus hurrah, coaxing, cajoling, or command 
 ing them through lessons which are sometimes 
 half learned and sometimes not learned at all. A 
 gay, often boisterous walk, an hour without quiet, 
 parade and publicity, only this and noth 
 ing more. 
 
 For the sanctity of home we have the secularity 
 of the Sunday school. 
 
 The abandonment of Sunday schools would not 
 necessarily improve home education, but it would 
 have a tendency to do it. A divided responsibil 
 ity is far less effective than an undivided one. It 
 is a homely but a true saying, " what is every 
 body's business is nobody's business." If Christian 
 parents knew that whatever religious education 
 their children have must be given by themselves, 
 they would be far more concerned to bestow it. 
 If they would not, if with the cessation of Sun 
 day schools, religious education would cease alto 
 gether ; if the hearts of Christian men and women 
 are so little engaged in the truth which their minds 
 profess to believe, that they would not take the 
 trouble to teach them to their children ; that, un 
 less they can induce some stranger to do the work, 
 it will not be done at all, then I have only to 
 say that our profession of Christianity is the most 
 wretched deceit and mockery, is indeed the most 
 dreary and hopeless form in which atheism can 
 present itself. I assume without misgiving that
 
 42 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the present defects in religious training have their 
 origin in want of just observation. Parents fancy 
 themselves 'to be doing the best thing for their 
 children when they send them to the Sunday 
 school. It is difficult to believe that it is con 
 scious, deliberate laziness, for such a belief would 
 strike at the root of Christian character. It is 
 equally difficult to believe that parents who do 
 not send their children to Sunday school, nor 
 cultivate their religious nature at home, can find 
 in my suggestions any justification of their course. 
 So I cannot think it too much to hope that our 
 lost Sunday evening may yet be restored to us. At 
 present, what with one thing and what with an 
 other, we seem to have forfeited it altogether. Our 
 fathers kept both Saturday and Sunday evenings. 
 We make the balance true by keeping neither. 
 We have churches and gas-lights, singing and ser 
 mons, walking and talking, but we have no Sunday 
 evening. There is a prayer and conference meet 
 ing, a Union lecture, a Sunday-school concert, 
 one or another form of gadding about for change, 
 christened with some pious sounding name, but no 
 sweet, systematic home-keeping. We are all gone 
 astray after gayety and dissipation. There is 
 none that stand in the ways, and see and ask 
 for the old paths, where is the good way, and 
 walk therein and find rest on the rest-day for their 
 souls. It was a small thing for some well-mean 
 ing persons to put in their officious hands and
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 43 
 
 draw away the children for a short space on 
 Sunday from the family fireside ; but somehow 
 the whole family is dragged after them and the 
 hearth-stone is cold. An hour in a'chapel need 
 not change the whole Christian Sabbath, the 
 whole family arrangement ; but it created a new 
 centre of attraction, and all the moons and stars 
 seem to have left their orbits to circle around it, 
 and the poor old honest earth sits in darkness, 
 weeping for her children and will not be comforted 
 because they are not. 
 
 There is another evil found in connection with 
 Sunday schools, but when orJtiow it arose, whether 
 from them or simply along with them or entirely 
 apart from them, I do not know. I mean the ava 
 lanche of silly books which is continually sliding 
 down upon the young mind, and which threatens 
 to bury all vigor, all intelligence, all intellectual 
 activity, under a mass of stilted, sentimental non 
 sense. We often hear and read ecclesiastical de 
 precation of novel reading ; but do Christain 
 parents know that "their children are surfeiting 
 themselves at the Sunday-school libraries with 
 weak and worthless novels ? If false views of 
 life, if unnatural representations of character, if 
 appeals to passion and vanity, if melodramatic 
 scenes and sensational incidents, make novels per 
 nicious reading for the young, then are our Sun 
 day-school libraries dealing out pernicious reading. 
 How long this evil has been in existence I do not .
 
 44 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 know, but it seems to be at full tide now. I have 
 looked over an old catalogue of a Sunday-school 
 library collected about sixteen years ago, and com 
 pared it with catalogues of several late collections. 
 Judging merely from the titles, the books of the 
 old library are of a far higher class than those of 
 the new. Among the former I find such books 
 as " Anabaptists," " Arabia Petrea," " Allein's 
 Alarm," " Bible Dictionary," " Babylonish Cap 
 tivity," "Bible Chronology," "Baxter's Saint's 
 Rest," " Bible not of Man," " Bible is True," 
 " Bunyan's Holy War," " Child's Guide through 
 the Bible." In the modern catalogues, I look in 
 vain for books of similar substance. The greater 
 number are pathetic stories of little girls who died 
 and who ought never to have lived ; scaring stories 
 of little boys who went to a circus, and thence 
 by short and easy stages to the state-prison ; fasci 
 nating stories of beautiful misses in pure white 
 frocks, who suffered the horrors of remorse for 
 having once gone to the opera with the family 
 where they were visiting, and whose penitent and 
 patient sweetness won over wicked but dark-eyed 
 and chivalrous young men to give up wickedness 
 and painting and take*holy orders, and the white- 
 robed girl to wife ; thrilling stories of pious lads 
 who rush through ridicule, persuasion, and sun 
 dry forms of opposition, converting all before 
 them. The story, as a form of entertainment or 
 instruction, has its appointed place, and is open to
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 45 
 
 no objection ; but such stories as run riot through 
 our Sunday-school literature are neither sweet to 
 the taste nor to be desired to make one wise. 
 They do not appeal to the imagination, nor to the 
 consciousness, scarcely at all to the conscience, 
 nor to any faculty of the soul, save a languid curi 
 osity or a morbid craving for sentiment. Their 
 work is doubly harmful. The mind cannot long 
 preserve its balance, if forced to subsist on any one 
 kind of food ; how much less if that food be largely 
 adulterated. If we must have a diet composed 
 chiefly of sugar-plums, let us at least have them from 
 established factories, where we may be sure of a 
 good article of its kind, and not content ourselves 
 with a sickly concoction of sugar, flour, and water, 
 simmered together in a thousand kitchen kettles. 
 The lords and ladies of Waverley, the men and 
 women of Thackeray, Trollope, Mrs. Stowe, Miss 
 Muloch, or George Elliot, would be a great im 
 provement on the interminable procession of 
 Hatties and Katies and Nellies and Georgies and 
 Willies and Harries that now mince then.' miss- 
 ish ways over the library shelves. 
 
 But must we have only sugar-plums? Is it 
 necessary that we confine ourselves to stories? 
 Must we leave all our interesting and momentous 
 Church history and Bible history in the back 
 ground, and give ourselves over to fifth-rate ro 
 mances? Why are not girls and boys of four 
 teen, fifteen, twenty years of age occupied with
 
 46 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 studying the story of their own Church, inter 
 woven as it is with some of the most important 
 political crises of the world? Why do they not 
 study the scenery and history of the Bible, the 
 customs and manners of Judaea, which throw so 
 much light on Bible narratives ? Why do they 
 not trace back the paths of the early churches, 
 which would make the Epistles clear, curious, 
 and practical ? Why are they not versed in 
 the sinuosities of Hebrew and Greek life, that 
 they may follow the Scriptural sinuosities through 
 all their Divine adaptations, and so discern their 
 Divine origin, instead of viewing the Bible as 
 one dead and dismal level of practice and pre 
 cept? 
 
 It is said that they will read such books as they 
 have, and others they will not read. Of course 
 it is of no use to cumber our shelves with books 
 that will never be touched. Little children must 
 have little stories, and larger children must have 
 larger stories, and the supply only answers to 
 the demand. But if the argument holds good 
 with regard to Sunday-school books, it holds still 
 better with regard to novels. I shall, however, be 
 slow to believe that the children of Christian 
 parents cannot be educated into higher tastes. If 
 this unsubstantial but highly seasoned food were 
 withheld from them, I cannot but think they would 
 presently come to a healthy appetite. If they 
 turn away from wholesome bread and butter and
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 41 
 
 cry for tarts and jelly, let them cry till they are 
 hungry, and then the bread and butter will have 
 a fair chance of being appreciated. Turn off 
 entirely the " weak, washy, everlasting flood " 
 of sanctimonious sentimentalism, and see whether 
 there will not presently be a return to the living 
 springs of the Bible. Provide only such books as 
 have in them material for thought. If they be 
 stories of character and development, let them be 
 true to human life, and not painted caricatures. 
 The baptized weaklings who tread our aisles so 
 softly are no more capable of healing the hurts of 
 the infant soul with their theological abracadabra 
 than were the sturdy old pagans of Haroun al 
 Raschid, Sinbad the Sailor, and Mother Goose. If 
 we have history let it be history, not the diluted 
 residuum of history. The pulling down of a 
 noble work to bring it within a child's reach is 
 little less than sacrilege. If the rugged, simple, 
 and homely English of the Bedfordshire tinker 
 is not to be comprehended by the youthful reader, 
 let the youthful reader comprehend as much of 
 it as he can, and strive assiduously to grow up 
 to the rest; but let us have no "Child's Pil 
 grim's Progress," culling for him the flowers which 
 he is abundantly able to cull for himself, and 
 permanently spoiling for him the garden, which 
 his own hands would never do. For the youngest 
 children stories need to be just as true to nature, 
 and inculcations just as firmly founded on reason,
 
 48 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 as for their elders. There are also the inexhausti 
 ble narratives of the Bible told in language as fit 
 and simple as any modern writer could frame. If 
 paraphrase be necessary, let it come from parental 
 lips, suggested by the conditions of the moment; 
 but it is a most venturesome service for a man to 
 sit down in cold blood and presume to clothe Bible 
 stories in better guise for another man's children 
 than that which the firesides of two nations and 
 two centuries have sanctified. 
 
 Looking at this whole matter, we are led to 
 conclude that, until children have attained suffi 
 cient intellectual maturity to be able to investi 
 gate a question, to approach it and attend to it 
 from no external pressure, but from inward en 
 thusiasm, the Sunday school must be an injury 
 to them, and an injury in vital points. It mars 
 a delicacy which cannot be too devoutly de 
 fended. The more intimate the sensitiveness, the 
 more fatal its violation. A shop plundered is but 
 robbery ; a church rifled is sacrilege. I cannot 
 conceive of an institution which should promise 
 any benefit that could counterbalance the harm of 
 a separation on Sunday between parents and young 
 children, and especially the harm of putting the 
 religious life of children at the mercy of strangers. 
 On other days the conduct of affairs requires sep 
 aration, and seems to require, for the sake of 
 economy, a partial transfer of duty ; but the Lord 
 blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it, hal-
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. ' 49 
 
 lowed it for home, for rest, for privacy ; hallowed 
 it for sanctification of the past and redemption of 
 the future ; for the divine work of the week to 
 blossom in the blessed, beautiful worship of the 
 holy Christian family. For many parents it is the 
 only day which they can spend with their little 
 ones, and no work but of necessity or mercy 
 should be allowed to interfere with it. 
 
 Mission schools stand, it will readily be seen, 
 on different ground. As the state of war, which 
 is a retrogression for the North, is an advance 
 towards civilization for the South, so the state 
 of being in Sunday school, which is a desecra 
 tion of the Christian Sabbath, is a consecration of 
 the pagan no-Sabbath. To gather poor little va 
 grants from their gutters and alleys into decent 
 rooms, and teach them mental, moral, and Chris 
 tian truth, is a very different thing from luring 
 children away from the privacy of Christian homes 
 into the glare and distraction of mixed assemblies. 
 
 To adults, to all who are old. enough to pur 
 sue a subject systematically, a Sunday service 
 conducted on the theory of the Sunday school 
 can hardly fail to be of great value. If, instead of 
 our present superficial desultory reading, which 
 is our main reliance, outside the pulpit, for theo 
 logical thought, and wlu'ch greatly detracts even 
 from the benefit of pulpit ministrations, the rank 
 and file of the churches, all the grown men and 
 women, were engaged, under the leadership of
 
 50 SKIRMISHES AX It SKETCHES. 
 
 some persons of superior knowledge and culture, 
 and of tact, candor, and reverence, in the careful, 
 critical, and devout study of the Bible ; a study 
 which should at once enlist and cultivate energy, 
 attention, and all the powers of research at the 
 command of ordinary minds ; a study which should 
 enable men to discern between Bible teachings 
 and human traditions, between what the Lord 
 Jesus Christ said and what commentators declare 
 him to mean, between the inspiration of the Holy 
 Spirit and the inspiration of unholy pride of opin 
 ion, or partisan violence, or innocent prejudice ; 
 a study which should be study, and not a travesty 
 of it ; investigation, not gossip ; man's work, not 
 child's play, we might hope that religious 
 thought would be reawakened, religious feeling 
 deepened and made effective, religious principle 
 strengthened and wisely directed. (This would 
 be a very different thing from that movement 
 which is now so warmly advocated and so stoutly 
 opposed, the substitution of the Sunday school in 
 its present form for the afternoon sermon and ser 
 vice. It is easy to conceive the scorn with which 
 a divine " of the old school " should look upon this 
 proposed encroachment of the new.) Children ac 
 companying their parents through such an exercise 
 would be no more wearied than by any ordinary 
 Sunday service, and would naturally and gradu 
 ally, as their minds unfolded, be drawn into sym 
 pathy with it, and derive from it an advantage
 
 A FOLLY IN ISRAEL. 51 
 
 proportioned to their capacity. Not turned loose 
 among themselves, they would have small tempta 
 tion to deviate from that propriety of demeanor 
 which the day and the occasion demand, and 
 which, in spite of Mr. Turveydrop, is no unim 
 portant element of good morals as well as good 
 breeding. The lore learned by parents from the 
 oracles of God would be taught with fatherly 
 and motherly love to the little ones at home. 
 The meat of the Gospel, in the alembic of the 
 parental heart, would be transmuted into the 
 pure and sincere milk of the word, by which 
 young souls should increase in wisdom and stat 
 ure, and in favor with God and man. Chil 
 dren whose parents are members of the congre 
 gation and not of the church would be gather 
 ing religious instruction along with their parents ; 
 and the parents themselves, no longer able to 
 lean upon some teacher, who, though consciously 
 incompetent to cure the child's soul, is con 
 sciously competent to salve the parent's con 
 science, would be far more likely to think upon 
 their ways, and turn both their own and their 
 children's feet unto the testimonies of God. In 
 stead of laboring to bring children into the Sun 
 day school, we should be laboring to bring fam 
 ilies ; and the solitary children who might be 
 drawn in would be distributed among families, and 
 be watched over as children by parents, instead of 
 being herded together as pupils under the care of
 
 52 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 a perplexed amateur teacher. We should at least 
 know that sacred things would be cherished in 
 sacred places ; and besides whatever positive good 
 were accomplished, we should be spared the pain 
 of seeing religious sentiment defloured before it is 
 developed.
 
 IV. 
 
 A LANDMARK REMOVED. 
 
 !) HEN the wires flashed across the 
 countiy the brief tidings, " Owen 
 Lovejoy died last night at half past 
 eleven," many hearts must have sadly 
 felt that he died too soon. It was not only that he 
 was in the prime of life, in the full maturity of 
 his powers, with many a hard fight still in his 
 strong right arm, but that the battle-flag fell from 
 his dying grasp Avhile yet the strife was hot. The 
 victory toward which he had all his life been press 
 ing hovered before his eyes, but could not perch 
 upon his banner, and he passed away with the war- 
 cry still ringing in his ears. But our regrets are as 
 needless as vain. " It is not the victory, but the 
 struggle, that makes the happiness of noble hearts." 
 He was called away in his prime, but his work was 
 done. There was a time when he was needed. 
 He is needed no longer. There was a time when 
 Liberty passed through the land with a staff; now 
 she is become two bands that stretch across a conti-
 
 54 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 nent. From shore to shore the echoes of her voice 
 resound, and deep calleth unto deep. 
 
 Through the hillside hamlets of New England 
 and the prairies of the West, here and there, 
 years ago, was found a man with an impracti 
 cable twist in his character; all together they 
 were not enough to do anything, but they were 
 quite enough to hinder other people from doing 
 anything, sturdy, indomitable men ; sometimes 
 speaking aloud with eloquent lips to the utter 
 thwarting and discomfiture of those whose great 
 principle it was to float with the current, and some 
 times bearing testimony only by a silent, stubborn 
 refusal to pour libations at the shrine of others' 
 idolatry. But they were mighty men of valor 
 in their generations. They buckled on armor 
 and girded sword for the war. There was no 
 place nor power nor pelf to lure easy-goers or the 
 devotees of pride and ambition. All who em 
 barked with them must sail in the teeth of wind 
 and tide. They met somewhat sharper than swords, 
 nothing warmer than contemptuous compassion. 
 Their neighbors, who were kindly disposed and 
 fain to defend them, said they were good men, 
 but mulish. Their hearts were in the right place, 
 but their heads were clean given over to one idea. 
 That idea has become a great mountain, and filled 
 the whole earth. 
 
 Rufus Choate, in one of his impassioned . ad 
 dresses, represented the two parties of Whigs and
 
 A LANDMARK REMOVED. 55 
 
 Democrats as sweeping the ocean with their ships 
 of the line wherein were marshalled the forces of a 
 mighty nation, " except a few Free-Soilers whose 
 bark was never built to brave the stormy sea, 
 but only to traverse the solitudes of the serene 
 upper air." But the Whig Ocean Queen has 
 gone down, and not so much as a floating spar 
 reveals where she sank. The Democratic three- 
 decker has parted her keel, and many a splintered 
 fragment goes careering madly over the waves 
 to tell of the wild work that has been ; while the 
 part that is afloat keeps close alongside the little 
 Free-Soil craft, now a mighty man-of-war, flying 
 the flag of a nation at its mast-head, bearing in its 
 bosom the hope of the world. 
 
 On such a seemingly frail craft, with such a 
 seemingly insufficient crew, Owen Lovejoy em 
 barked and did soldierly service. He plunged 
 into the " thunder-storm of battle " for moral 
 right, not personal revenge. He fought for love 
 of man, not hatred. Doubtless, the death of his 
 brother at the hands of Slavery intensified, but it 
 did not create, his horror of the accursed thing. 
 When the sword pierced his own soul, it did not 
 awake him from a dream ; it only made him grasp 
 more firmly the blade he had chosen so wisely, 
 and wielded so well. All his life he walked 
 along the heights of eternal justice, and, whether 
 with fierce denunciation, or with a gentle persua 
 sion, he bade his fellows, Come up hither. As
 
 56 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 a pastor he preached the Gospel of the true Mes 
 siah, whose glad tidings were to loose the bands of 
 wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, to let the 
 oppressed go free, to break every yoke, to deal 
 bread to the hungry, to bring in the poor that are 
 cast out, and to cover the naked. But the pulpit 
 was too far from the wrong, and his attack seemed 
 to him feeble from distance. He longed to lay at 
 the very heart of the man of sin ; and putting 
 from him, with no irreverent hand, the robes of 
 his priesthood, he gave himself thenceforth to the 
 one cause of freeing his country and the slave from 
 the curse that bound them both. The two stood 
 as one in his conscience and in his heart. He 
 could not walk to his country's greatness over " the 
 friendless bodies of unburied men," even though 
 they were black. He sought both to raise a pros 
 trate and free an enslaved race, and to raise and 
 free the race that humbled itself to the dust in com 
 passing such prostration and enslavement. Labor 
 ing as a patriot and a statesman for large ends, he 
 did not overlook smaller ones. He did not forget 
 the individual in the race. Not only has the black 
 man cause to bless his name and memory, but black 
 men and women and little children recall him as a 
 benefactor. It was meet that a negro, a freedman, 
 should aid in bearing his body to its final resting- 
 place, for he maintained the cause of the negro at 
 all times as the matter required. 
 
 He has gone over to the majority, but not too
 
 A LANDMARK REMOVED. 57 
 
 soon. His eye was not dim, nor his natural force 
 abated. The years had taken no firmness from 
 his step, no clearness from his judgment, no hope 
 from his heart. He had travelled through the 
 wilderness his forty years, and he might not enter 
 the Land of Promise, but the Lord had led him up 
 from the plains of Moab unto the mountain of 
 Nebo, to the top of Pisgah, and showed him fair 
 Canaan, and he saw that rest was good, and the 
 land that it was pleasant. 
 
 His fame, too, is assured, such honorable fame 
 as befits honorable work, such fame as good men 
 love. In the days that are to come, when even 
 Ethiopia, in the land of her captivity and her 
 redemption, shall stretch out her hands unto God, 
 not last nor faintly outlined among the names 
 which she will delight to honor shall stand this 
 name which we sadly pronounce to-day. Nor has 
 he died too soon for his fame among his own 
 people. He has gone over to the majority as the 
 ancients held it, but in our later phrase the major 
 ity has gone over to him. The people have 
 climbed up to where their leaders stood. Not his 
 courage, that was never questioned, but his 
 wisdom is vindicated. There is no need to say 
 what will be. Men see now that what they 
 thought fanaticism was the true sagacity. Optical 
 illusion was clear vision. The solemn claims of 
 justice, and love, and human brotherhood were at 
 one with the claims of honor, and purse, and the 
 
 3*
 
 58 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 naked needs of existence, nay, even of existence 
 itself. He asserted and defended those claims 
 manfully, Christianly; and the generation that 
 scorned and scoffed is forward to-day to wreathe a 
 glory round his brow. 
 
 The world will do justice to his bravery, his 
 single - mindedness, his statesmanship ; but the 
 softer lights that played around his soul it had 
 scarcely space to see. There is small shining for 
 dewdrops when lightnings flash. The occasion 
 was so earnest, that he was fain to cry aloud and 
 spare not. It is as a reformer, as a champion, as a 
 knight without fear and without reproach, that he 
 is known and lamented. 
 
 " Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foray, 
 
 How sound is thy slumber ! " 
 
 But the firelight from household hearths that fell 
 upon him revealed a gentle grace, a happy humor, 
 wit lambent, unfailing, but harmless ; a heart 
 which, far away, clung to all the little tendernesses 
 of home. Brave old war-horse that he was, snuffing 
 the battle from afar, a little child could lead him, 
 and be no tenderer than he ! Brawny and huge, 
 no footfall was softer than his, no voice more low 
 and quiet. Roused sometimes, even in the pleas 
 ure of social talk, to indignation and loud-voiced 
 eloquence over the wickedness which it was his 
 life-trust to combat, he was always tolerant of the
 
 A LANDMARK REMOVED. 59 
 
 hand that pulled the valve-string of his balloon, 
 and he ever came earthward again with a half- 
 ashamed smile, with a deprecatory look, or a mock 
 ferocious threat. He was such a good-natured, 
 sleepy-eyed lion, roaring you so gently, for all his 
 shaggy strength, so meek and submissive and long- 
 suffering, when his antagonisms were lulled asleep, 
 and he could, with good conscience, take his ease 
 among his friends, that he was an irresistible tar 
 get for teasing. The harder the storm of banter 
 and browbeating that pelted him, the more he 
 enjoyed it, nor ever a ripple broke the surface of 
 his large-hearted placidity. No sharper weapon 
 than a Latin epigram, or a verse from Virgil, or 
 some quiet little home-bent blade did he ever 
 draw upon his assailants, but so apt and ready 
 was he with these small arms that he generally 
 came off victorious. But conquered or conqueror, 
 his good nature was invincible. The low, deliber 
 ate voice, the quaintnesses of word and manner, 
 the smile, so mingled of amusement, assumed tol 
 eration, real enjoyment, and all manner of good 
 wit and good will, were never wanting, nor will 
 their memory fail. As the necessity for hostilities 
 grew less, as truth marched on to triumph, as 
 righteousness and peace approached to kiss eacli 
 other, and the sorrowful land returned again to 
 the allegiance to which the fathers bound her, and 
 from which traitorous sons had dragged her, his 
 genial qualities would have had opportunity to bios-
 
 60 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 som out into the light, and to soften what seemed 
 rugged in his character. The rock would have 
 been no less firm, but it would have been draped 
 with all graces of bloom and spray. His inner 
 and outer, his private and public life, would have 
 blended into harmony, and he would have been 
 known for the man he was. 
 
 Now the harmony is complete ; but, alas ! eye 
 and ear fail us to perceive it. 
 
 On the hillsides of New England, on the prai 
 ries of the West, beyond the sea, among the pal 
 aces of forgotten kings, there are hearts that will 
 fondly linger over the memory of pleasant even 
 ings which return no more. 
 
 With many a prayer for those to whom morn 
 ing and evening rest alike in shadow, a friendly 
 hand lays this wreath of forget-me-nots upon his 
 new-made grave.
 
 V. 
 
 DOUBTFUL ARGUMENTS. 
 
 is but natural, it is indeed every way- 
 imperative, that men who are called 
 upon to preach a doctrine of import so 
 fearful as that of the eternal punish 
 ment of the impenitent, should make constant 
 efforts to explain its necessity and enforce its 
 reasonableness. God's character seems to be con 
 cerned, and those who reverence his great and 
 fearful name, and strive to bring it to the regard 
 of the world, cannot fa.il to vindicate it against 
 every possible stain of injustice, by trying to show 
 that even in this most awful of all the doctrines of 
 the Church, justice, no less than judgment, is the 
 habitation of his throne. The attempt to do so is 
 always praiseworthy, though not always wisely 
 directed. Some of the arguments are of such a 
 nature that they can hardly convince, and must, 
 therefore, strengthen the opposition which they are 
 designed to destroy. 
 To the assertion that so small a thing as the sin
 
 62 SKIR^f^SIfES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 which a man may commit in the few years of life 
 cannot righteously be punished hy unalleviated 
 misery through unending years, a very common 
 reply is, that sin may be a much more terrible 
 thing than we know. It may cause derangement 
 and disaster through worlds and ages, of which 
 we have no conception. We see but in part ; the 
 All-Seeing considers not simply our act of trans 
 gression, but all its far-reaching consequences, and 
 punishes according to his sight, not ours. 
 
 Is this explanation quite satisfactory, even as far 
 as it goes ? Is it according to analogy ? You may 
 say that it seems to the strong man a very small 
 thing to sit a few moments in a draught of air ; 
 nevertheless in those few moments are sown the 
 seeds of a disease which presently brings him to 
 the grave. A little child does not know why he 
 is bidden to play within the garden paling ; but 
 thoughtlessly straying beyond, he plunges down a 
 precipice into the engulfing waters. Law is in 
 exorable ; its penalties must be enforced. 
 
 So far as pertains to physical matters, the analogy 
 seems to hold. If a man commits a trespass against 
 material laws, it matters not whether he did it wil 
 fully or ignorantly, he incurs the penalty. There 
 is no exemption. But in moral, and even in civil 
 law, another rule obtains. An infant is suffering 
 from ear-ache. Too young for self-control or in 
 telligent consciousness, in a frenzy of pain and pas 
 sion, its little hands strike wildly out at the lovirtg
 
 DOUBTFUL ARGUMENTS. G3 
 
 mother, who shares the anguish which she cannot 
 relieve. What an act is this, if intelligently done ! 
 What a monster of iniquity and ingratitude is the 
 child to turn against the heart which aches with 
 pity, against the hands which never weary with 
 striving to mitigate his suffering, to expend all his 
 little rages on the bosom that yearns to soothe him 
 into peace ! The natural law of love and the 
 Scriptural command to honor are alike violated. 
 Does he suffer the penalty which attaches to such 
 double violation ? Does any one consider him 
 unnaturally bad, and deserving the severest repro 
 bation, as would infallibly be the case if he knew 
 what he was doing ? On the contrary, his ig 
 norance is his adequate excuse. He has no sus 
 picion that he is breaking the fifth commandment 
 and verging upon the crime of matricide ; and 
 because he knows nothing of all this, we do not 
 justify laws which mete out to him the punish 
 ment due to such sin and crime, but we rather 
 count it, therefore, a trivial thing, to be overlooked 
 rather than forgiven, to stand not at all in the 
 way of every possible well-doing towards the suf 
 fering child. We should say the mother was of 
 a very harsh temper who should suffer her indig 
 nation to be roused, and very weak who should 
 permit her feelings to be wounded, by such an ex 
 hibition on the part of her unwitting little one. 
 
 This, of course, is not, and is not intended to be, 
 a strictly parallel case. We can have no parallel
 
 64 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 case, for the Lord our God is one Lord, and there 
 is none like him ; but it may help us to the truth. 
 We shall get still nearer the truth if we take an 
 instance of conscious ill-doing. A man is your 
 enemy, and designs to inflict harm upon you. He 
 means to increase his own wealth at the expense 
 of yours. But he opens his eyes one day to find 
 that his dislike to you was unfounded, that you 
 were his benefactor when he thought you his 
 tyrant, sympathizing when he thought you un 
 feeling ; and to find, also, that your hurt is far 
 greater than he intended, that in depriving you 
 of your property he reduced your family to beg 
 gary, took away your staff of life, and brought 
 you to the gates of death. His guilt is great ; it 
 is difficult to measure ; but do you think it is just 
 as great as it would be if, instead of unwittingly 
 firing this mischievous train, he had with malice 
 aforethought set the match to the powder ? If 
 you can say in your heart, Bitter as was my foe, 
 he never would have done this had he known what 
 such doing meant ; he never would have done this 
 had he known my real character and my relations 
 to himself, do you not attach less blame to him 
 than if you see his hand deliberately lifted to every 
 successive injurious act, his eyes open to all their 
 results and to the full integrity and innocency of 
 the person against whom every fresh expression of 
 his malignity is directed ? Is it not true, that, in 
 stead of visiting moral reprobation and punishment
 
 DOUBTFUL ARGUMENTS. 65 
 
 strictly in proportion to the dimensions of the act, 
 we diminish it in proportion to the man's ignorance 
 of those dimensions? 
 
 In the manifestation of the world's worst wicked 
 ness, when Evil laid its hand upon the only Good, 
 and requited beneficence with crucifixion, what les 
 son fell from holy lips, what prayer went up to the 
 Heaven of heavens ? " Father, forgive them, for 
 they know not what they do." 
 
 Paul, who was not one whit behind the very 
 chiefest apostles, who though brought up at the 
 feet of Gamaliel according to the perfect manner 
 of the law of the fathers, was yet so overpowered 
 with the excellency of the glory which met him on 
 the way to Damascus, that he gave up all reliance 
 on excellency of speech or of wisdom, and deter 
 mined to know nothing among his congregation 
 but Jesus Christ and him crucified, even he be 
 lieved that the hidden wisdom which God ordained 
 before the world unto our glory could not have 
 been known to the princes of this world, " For," 
 he insists, out of his great, loving heart, with in 
 finite pity and yearning, " For had they known it, 
 they would not have crucified the Lord of glory." 
 And if Paul, transfigured forevermore in the light 
 that shined round about him from heaven, could 
 find a good word, a regretful word, an excusing 
 word, to say for those who had done the foulest 
 deed that ever stained, or ever can stain, the records 
 of our earth, nay, if the Sinless One, knowing to
 
 66 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the utmost the indignity put upon the Most High, 
 could crave forgiveness for the criminals on tire 
 very ground that they knew it not, shall we be 
 lieve an angel from heaven if he preach any other 
 gospel ? Shall we not rather give good heed to the 
 lesson which teaches that God is not strict to mark 
 our iniquities to the farthest bounds of their conse 
 quences, and that man, defiled, degraded, outcast, 
 instead of being punished for the baleful work 
 which he wrought unawares, shall be the more 
 likely to obtain mercy, because he did it ignorantly, 
 in unbelief? . 
 
 I know that this truth has its corresponding 
 falsehood, which may be mistaken for it by the 
 unwary. Ignorance itself may be a sin. But it 
 is no more likely to be a sin now than it was in 
 the days of Christ ; and if Jesus and his great apos 
 tle to the Gentiles ventured to make the statement, 
 running the risk of men's wresting it to their own 
 destruction, it cannot be unsafe for us to follow 
 their example. Moreover, there is always less 
 danger to be apprehended from the abuse of truth 
 than from the use of falsehood. 
 
 Another argument frequently brought forward 
 in proof of the doctrine of eternal punishment, and 
 lately published widely in the newspapers, with the 
 indorsement of some distinguished archbishop, is, 
 that in the original Greek of the Bible the same 
 word is used to express the duration of the happi 
 ness of the righteous and of the misery of the
 
 DOUBTFUL ARGUMENTS. 67 
 
 wicked ; so that the interpretation which revokes 
 the doom of the latter sweeps away the bliss of 
 the former. If we will abrogate the threat of 
 unending woe, we must also abrogate the promise 
 of unending happiness. 
 
 This argument must be understood as addressed 
 to the Church, not to the world ; to those who are 
 confident, not to those who are careless, of eternal 
 life. For the man who does not purpose to attain 
 heaven has but a small interest in its existence. If 
 he has only wretchedness in store, or if he has no 
 definite future hopes, the reality of a place of 
 happiness is the last thing about which he will con 
 cern himself, is a matter which furnishes him with 
 no motive, and influences neither his belief nor his 
 life. It is the Church, the people who believe 
 in and who are supposed to be pressing towards 
 heaven, who are addressed in such appeals. 
 
 And I for one accept the issue, if I understand 
 it aright. If by giving up the certainty of future 
 bliss for ourselves we could also be relieved of the 
 certainty of future woe for another, we should not 
 only relinquish it with gladness and singleness of 
 heart, praising God, but we should esteem our 
 selves of all men most miserable, most vilely self 
 ish, if we could for a moment hesitate to do it. 
 Look at what is set before us. On the one side 
 there are spared to us of the Bible its precepts, its 
 examples, its ideals. We have the story of the 
 spotless life, the sacrificial death. We know what
 
 68 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 is the character of God, what is the type of hu 
 man character in which he delights, and what the 
 path he has traced for human feet. We know, in 
 short, what is right and well-pleasing in his eyes. 
 What does a man need more than this ? Can he 
 not trust his Maker without guaranty? Must 
 God give bonds for the final disposal of the soul 
 which strives to be like him ; for the destination 
 reserved to those who walk his appointed paths? 
 Cannot faith trust implicitly in goodness ? With 
 abundant promises of help, can we not dispense 
 with promises of happiness ? It seems to me that 
 we might take away from the Bible every direct 
 prediction of future unending bliss, of that which is 
 commonly understood as heaven, and then leave 
 enough to stand on and defy a thousand hells. 
 To do his will is to enter into his rest. He who 
 receives Christ into his heart is in heaven already. 
 The true disciple is dead ; no harm can happen to 
 him : his life is hid with Christ in God ; and that 
 which is so hid must be forever beyond reach of 
 the powers of evil. Who is he of man or devils, 
 principalities of earth or air, that can harm you, if 
 ye be followers of that which is good ? A truce 
 to our shadowy Mohammedan heaven ! The king 
 dom of God is within you. He that has the 
 testimony within himself that he pleases God, 
 may laugh to scorn the hope that hangs on a 
 promise. 
 
 Do you say, then, whv were the promises given ?
 
 DOUBTFUL ARGUMENTS. 69 
 
 Tell me first, why did the father go out to meet 
 the prodigal son when he was yet a great way off? 
 Why are a thousand seeds scattered for every tree 
 that grows? Why is the love of our heavenly 
 Father not doled out after our scant mortal meas 
 ure, but lavished with the profusion of boundless 
 benignity ? 
 
 On the other side what ? Eternal impurity, 
 eternal rebellion. Eternal looking backward upon 
 unrepented sin ; eternal looking forward to accu 
 mulated guilt. On every side judgment and fiery 
 indignation. Infinite regret, but no penitence ; 
 infinite rage, and no power ; infinite rebellion, and 
 no reconciliation ; infinite remorse, no forgiveness ; 
 infinite agony, without hope, for millions upon mil 
 lions of sensitive souls, born with no volition of 
 their own into circumstances not subject to their 
 control ; moulded by evil for evil before they were 
 capable of resisting, or even of recognizing evil ; all 
 the horror and hate of time duplicating and redupli 
 cating themselves forever and forever through the 
 countless ages of eternity. What price would be 
 too great to pay for the possibility of escape from 
 the infinite despair of such a prospect ? We see the 
 work of evil begun in this world ; we seem to see 
 in its beginning the elements of perpetual repro 
 duction. The Divine revelation of the Word and 
 the demoniac revelation of wickedness seem to 
 point in the same direction : but if in the path of 
 ultimate restoration there stood no greater obstacle
 
 70 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 than indefiniteness regarding the duration of the 
 Christian heaven, if the oracles of God could be 
 softened down to meet a surrender of that which 
 is only sweet but not essential, what radiance of 
 unspeakable hope would arise ! By some way 
 which we know not, through the introduction of 
 some power whose workings we had never beheld, 
 by some brighter vision of the love of the atoning 
 Saviour than the earth had ever yet witnessed, we 
 should be sure that the wandering sheep would 
 finally be brought back into the fold. It was more 
 than any promise, which Moses relinquished : 
 " Yet now, if thou wilt forgive their sin ; and if 
 not, blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which 
 thou hast written." Commentators have found 
 trouble in explaining this passage, but it needs not 
 to be explained to those who go to the Bible for 
 truths, not texts, and carry thither the hearts 
 which God gave them. It is but the instinctive 
 cry of the clinging, loving human soul, the 
 " Would God I had died for thee ! " Paul felt it 
 in the great heaviness and continual sorrow .in his 
 heart : " For I could wish myself accursed from 
 Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to 
 the flesh." All understand it who have ever felt 
 the throbbing of human brotherhood. In this 
 world we can bear the pain and peril of those we 
 love, the groan and travail of creation. We soothe 
 our sympathy with active effort, and hope, unrea 
 sonable perhaps, but spontaneous and irresistible,
 
 DOUBTFUL ARGUMENTS. 71 
 
 underlies every evil. How in any future world 
 we are to endure peace, not to say happiness, 
 knowing that in any remotest corner of the uni 
 verse a solitary, sentient being is shut up to irre 
 mediable, unmitigated torture, is to me, I must 
 admit, a hitherto insoluble problem. Organized 
 as we are, I could almost say that life would be 
 more tolerable in hell, preaching to the spirits 
 in prison, sharing the sorrow which we could 
 not alleviate, than in heaven, conscious of the 
 existence of that sorrow-full world. Better, it 
 would seem, to labor without reward for the up- 
 springing of a little light in the outer darkness, 
 than to sit down in the full blaze of light, knowing 
 all the while that there were souls shrouded in the 
 impenetrable gloom. There is said to be a skele 
 ton in every house ; but more dreadful, more awe- 
 inspiring than any earthly terror, would be that 
 skeleton in the heavenly mansions. Only a cease 
 less endeavor for the restoration of these lost could 
 atone for the grief of living. 
 
 But God is good. Through every creed, in 
 spite of every contradiction, past all bewilderment, 
 his tender mercies are over all his works. It is 
 ours to judge only of what we see and from what 
 we see. We behold mortal pain, finite suffering, 
 and find that they are not irreconcilable with 
 Divine love. If the time ever comes when we 
 behold immortal pain, infinite suffering, there will 
 be some further revelation which will save to us
 
 72 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES, 
 
 our God unchangeable in goodness. Meanwhile, 
 let us not reason from the untrue to the unknown ; 
 from selfishness to severity ; but seeing what is 
 revealed of the terror of the Lord, persuade men 
 to holiness.
 
 VI. 
 
 CHRIST AS A PREACHER. 
 
 HE general opinions of the Orthodox 
 Church regarding the relations be 
 tween man and the Gospel are well 
 represented by the following extracts 
 from two criticisms. The first says : " You some 
 times fall into fallacious reasoning : as, for instance, 
 when you argue that men want the Gospel and ap 
 preciate it as they do law and physic. They need 
 it, but they do not want it. The ministers of Christ 
 contend, as did their Master, with a natural opposi 
 tion to divine truth. Man has a capacity but not 
 a passion for spiritual realities. And with all the 
 charm of novelty on his side, with all his benefi 
 cent and miraculous gifts of healing, with all the 
 marvel of a faultless presence, and of wise and 
 apt words such as man never spake, directed by a 
 knowledge of what was in the hearts of men, know 
 ing just how to read and meet men, yet accord 
 ing to your Yankee standard of success, Christ's 
 life as a minister was one signal failure."
 
 74 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 The second says : " Permit me to say that I 
 think you have hardly done justice to the inherent 
 depravity of human nature. It seems to me that 
 your positions in favor of more brightness, vigor, 
 thought, &c., in the pulpit and prayer-meeting, 
 having an immediate and necessary effect in win 
 ning a hearing are more sunny and golden than 
 facts will confirm. I endorse your general posi 
 tion, but I also think that there is another side 
 which you do not bring out quite sharply enough ; 
 that is, that the Gospel does meet under all condi 
 tions a stubborn resistance from the heart." 
 
 These opinions seem to me to be the traditions 
 of men and not the word of God. From the 
 four Gospels which are our authority regarding 
 Christ's history, it is easy to prove that men want 
 the Gospel and appreciate it as they do law and 
 physic ; that Christ's life as a minister was, even 
 according to the Yankee standard of success, a sig 
 nal success ; and that the Gospel so far from meet 
 ing under all circumstances a stubborn resistance 
 from the heart, did, when proclaimed from the lips 
 of the Saviour, meet with acceptance, gratitude, 
 and enthusiasm. The people who are reported as 
 having despised and rejected his Gospel are a com 
 paratively small, though very influential minori 
 ty. It was chiefly composed of the learned, the 
 wealthy, the scribes and Pharisees, and elders of 
 the people, the professed teachers of righteous 
 ness ; while by the common people, the masses,
 
 CHRIST AS A PREACHER. 75 
 
 the Gospel was welcomed with gladness and single 
 ness of heart. They felt that here was the truth 
 for which they had languished, and their thirsty 
 souls drank it in as the water of the river of life. 
 
 The immediate object in view, let it be remem 
 bered, is to ascertain whether Christ obtained a 
 hearing, or preached to " empty pews " ; whether 
 he secured attention, confidence, and respect, or 
 whether he met violence and opposition. 
 
 Our first report of Christ's preaching is from 
 Matthew, who tells us that Jesus began to preach, 
 and to say, " Repent : and he went about all 
 Galilee, preaching the Gospel of the kingdom, and 
 his fame went about all Syria, and there followed 
 him great multitiides of people from Galilee, and 
 from Decapolis, and from Jerusalem, and from 
 Judasa, and from beyond Jordan." And seeing 
 these multitudes, he went up into a mountain and 
 preached a sermon to them, and they were aston 
 ished at his doctrine. Why ? He taught them 
 as one having authority, and not as the scribes. 
 Nay, so impressed were they with his loving, com 
 forting, instructing words that they could not 
 leave him when the sermon was over. They 
 hung upon his footsteps. Even when he was 
 come down from the mountain, great multitudes 
 followed him. They crowded about the houses 
 where they knew he was. When he came out 
 and walked down to the seaside to be fanned by 
 the cool breezes, so great multitudes were gath-
 
 76 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ered together unto him that he put off in a boat, 
 and spoke to them as they stood on the shore. 
 Again and again we are told, with simple unim- 
 passioned reiteration, of the great multitudes that 
 followed him and glorified the God of Israel, when 
 they saw the mighty works that he did, and heard 
 the words that proceeded from his mouth. When 
 he went up to Jerusalem, the people in an out 
 burst of love and enthusiasm made him spontane 
 ously a triumphal procession. " A very great mul 
 titude spread their garments in the way ; others 
 cut down branches from the trees, and strewed 
 them in the way. And the multitudes that went 
 before, and that followed, cried, saying, Hosan- 
 na to the Son of David ! Blessed is he that 
 cometh in the name of the Lord ! Hosanna 
 in the highest ! " It was like the coming of a 
 king, so that " all the city was moved, saying, 
 Who is this ? And the multitude said, This is 
 Jesus, the prophet of Nazareth of Galilee." But 
 " when the chief priests and scribes saw the won 
 derful things that he did, and the children crying 
 in the temple, and saying, Hosanna to the Son of 
 David! they were sore displeased." Mark tells 
 us that the people were astonished both at his doc 
 trine and his works. They were all amazed, inso 
 much that they questioned among themselves, 
 saying, " What thing is this ? What new doc 
 trine is this ? " And all the city was gathered to 
 gether at the door. As soon as it was noised that
 
 CHRIST AS A PREACHER. 77 
 
 he was in a house in Capernaum, so many gath 
 ered together that there was no room to receive 
 them, no, not so much as about the door. In his 
 absence, great multitudes flocked about his dis 
 ciples ; but as soon as he came in sight, they all 
 left the disciples and ran to him and saluted him. 
 When Jesus heard of the slaughter of his herald, 
 his kinsman, his baptizer, he naturally wished to 
 be alone, and withdrew to a desert apart : but 
 when the people heard of it, they followed him on 
 foot out of the cities. When, after spending the 
 whole night in words and works of love, he de 
 parted at dawn into a desert place for rest and 
 solitude, again the eager, longing, but somewhat in 
 considerate people could not bear to be separated 
 from him, but sought him, and stayed him, that he 
 should not depart from them, and could only be 
 pacified by the gentle assurance that he must preach 
 the kingdom of God to other cities also. Yet they 
 were not always inconsiderate. They tried to 
 silence Bartimeus, fearing evidently that his cries 
 would disturb the Master. Again and again their 
 love and faith interposed between him and vio 
 lence. It is instructive to mark the different ef 
 fects which were produced on the people and on 
 their leaders. When Jesus healed the palsied 
 man, "certain of the scribes said within themselves, 
 This man blasphemeth." " But when the multi 
 tudes saw it, they marvelled, and glorified God." 
 When the devil was cast out, and the dumb spake,
 
 78 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the multitudes marvelled, saying, " It was never 
 so seen in Israel." But the Pharisees said, " He 
 casteth out devils through the prince of devils." 
 When he healed the man who had the withered 
 hand, the Pharisees went out and held a council 
 against him, how they might destroy him. But 
 when Jesus knowing it, withdrew himself, the 
 great multitude followed him just the same. 
 When the chief priests and Pharisees heard his 
 parables, and perceived that he spake of them, 
 they sought to lay hands on him, but they feared 
 the multitude, because they took him for a prophet. 
 When he destroyed the traffic which defiled the 
 temple, the scribes and chief priests sought how 
 they might destroy him : for they feared him, be 
 cause all the people were astonished at his doctrine. 
 When he spoke to them the parable of the vine 
 yard, they sought to lay hold on him, but they 
 feared the people, and were forced to leave him, 
 and go their way. While the scoffing scribes, 
 the Sadducees, the Pharisees, and the Herodians 
 tried to catch him in his words, the common peo 
 ple heard him gladly. The woman who was 
 loosed from her infirmity glorified God, but the 
 ruler of the synagogue answered with indignation. 
 When Christ had discomfited the hypocritical 
 fault-finder, all his adversaries were ashamed, but 
 ah 1 the people rejoiced for all the glorious tilings 
 that were done by him. When he was at the de 
 scent of the Mount of Olives, the whole multitude
 
 CHRIST AS A PREACHER. 79 
 
 of the disciples began to rejoice, and praise God 
 with a loud voice, for all the mighty works that 
 they had seen ; but some of the Pharisees among 
 them bade him rebuke his disciples for their accla 
 mation. When he taught daily in the temple, the 
 chief priests, and the scribes, and the chief of the 
 people, sought to destroy him, and could not find 
 what they might do, for all the people were very 
 attentive to hear him. When Jesus had raised 
 Lazarus from the grave, many of the Jews be 
 lieved on him, but the chief priests and the Phari 
 sees, from that day forth, took counsel together 
 to put him to death. While the people were 
 going out to meet him with palm-branches and 
 songs of welcome, the Pharisees in an agony of 
 despair were saying among themselves, " Perceive 
 ye how ye prevail nothing ? behold, the world is 
 gone after him." 
 
 Did not these poor people seem to want as well 
 as to need the Gospel ? Did they not give evidence 
 of as true appreciation of it as ever was given of 
 law or physic ? Were not these circumstances in 
 which the Gospel did not meet a stubborn resist 
 ance from the heart? From a clique, from a 
 hierarchy, from a class eaten up with spiritual 
 pride, the Gospel did meet with a stubborn resist 
 ance ; for the spread of the Gospel was sure to be 
 the downfall of their prerogatives. But by the 
 masses of the people by those who were to be 
 elevated in this world as well as fitted for the next
 
 80 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 by this Gospel it was warmly welcomed. It 
 seemed almost from the beginning to be instinc 
 tively recognized as the good tidings of great joy 
 to all people. 
 
 But though the people did flock after Jesus, 
 does not the manner in which they finally turned 
 against him and clamored for his crucifixion show 
 that, although the novelty of his mission amused 
 them for a while, they no sooner saw its real aim, 
 
 the purity of heart and life which he required, 
 
 than they revoked their former decisions, and 
 cried, " Crucify him, crucify him"? 
 
 Who crucified the Lord ? 
 
 Matthew says, " Then assembled together the 
 chief priests, and the scribes, and the elders of the 
 people, unto the palace of the high-priest, .... 
 and consulted that they might take Jesus by sub 
 tlety, and kill him. But they said, Not on the feast 
 day, lest there be an uproar among the people." 
 Mark says they " sought how they might take 
 him by craft." Luke still more definitely says, 
 " The chief priests and scribes sought how they 
 might kill him ; for they feared the people." Judas 
 " communed with the chief priests and captains, 
 
 how he might betray him unto them And he 
 
 promised, and sought opportunity to betray him 
 unto them in the absence of the multitude." So, 
 then, it seems the people were so far from in 
 tending any harm to Christ that the chief priests 
 and scribes were forced to lay their plans with the
 
 CHRIST AS A PREACHER. 81 
 
 utmost secrecy, lest the people, hearing of them, 
 should interpose to prevent their success. The 
 people had not grown hostile or cold to Jesus, but 
 were seen by the chief priests and scribes to be 
 his enthusiastic defenders, who must by all means 
 be eluded. 
 
 When Judas came to apprehend Jesus, he was 
 indeed accompanied by a great multitude, but it 
 was "from the chief priests and elders of the 
 people" still. Luke tells us that Jesus spoke unto 
 " the chief priests, and captains of the temple, and 
 the elders, which were come to him." John ex 
 plicitly says, " Judas then, having received a 
 band of men and officers from the chief priests 
 and Pharisees, cometh thither," &c. So that the 
 people were entirely guiltless of Christ's appre 
 hension, were indeed probably quite ignorant of 
 the fact, as his enemies had designed they should 
 be. At his trial it was still the chief priests, 
 and elders, and all the council, who sought false 
 witness against Jesus, to put him to death. It was 
 the chief priests and elders of the people that 
 bound Jesus and led him away and delivered him 
 to Pontius Pilate, and accused him. Luke says, 
 " The whole multitude of them arose and led him 
 to Pilate." " Them " he has before designated as 
 the elders of the people, and the chief priests, and 
 the scribes. When the people were assembled on 
 their feast-day, many of whom probably did not 
 know Jesus except by hearsay, the chief priests 
 
 4* F
 
 82 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and elders persuaded them that they should ask 
 for the release of Barabbas rather than Jesus. 
 Mark says that Pilate knew that the chief priests 
 had delivered Jesus unto him for envy. And the 
 chief priests moved the people, that he should 
 rather release Barabbas unto them. As he hung 
 upon the cross, some that passed by reviled him, 
 but it was the chief priests and elders that took the 
 most prominent part in mocking and reviling him ; 
 we are even told that, as Jesus was bearing his 
 cross to Calvary, " there followed him a great com 
 pany of people, and of women, which also bewailed 
 and lamented him." 
 
 It appears, then, that if any one fact is clearly 
 attested in the Bible, it is that Christ was received 
 by the people with a clinging, longing, mournful 
 passion of appreciation. They felt through their 
 dull lives, through their aching hearts, the beams 
 of a spiritual sun ; and, after their homely fashion, 
 opened their souls to its shining. But the chief 
 priests and scribes, perceiving that their craft was 
 in danger, never wearied till, by indefatigable and 
 unscrupulous machinations, by hiring and cajol 
 ing the assistance of lewd fellows of the baser sort, 
 and by playing upon the political ambition and per 
 sonal fears of their military governor, they had 
 crucified the Lord of glory. 
 
 Let us not wrongfully accuse any ; yet, if there 
 is a class at the present day which in its functions 
 and relations corresponds more closely than any
 
 CHRIST AS A PREACHER. 83 
 
 other with that formed by the chief priests and 
 scribes of Judsea, it is the clergy, the dignitaries of 
 the Church. And for the clergy the represent 
 atives of Christ's accusers and foes to maintain 
 that the people the representatives of Christ's 
 defenders and friends are the natural enemies 
 of Christ, to prove the theoretical enmity of the 
 people by pointing to the practical enmity of the 
 priests, to foist the malignity of a clique upon the 
 shoulders of humanity, and that too in the face of 
 facts which repeatedly assert and imply the benev 
 olence of humanity, is a proceeding which to 
 the uninstructed mind must be characterized as 
 bordering on the extraordinary.
 
 VII. 
 
 NATHANIEL EMMONS OF FRANKLIN. 
 
 ROB ABLY there is a large class who 
 never read, and would never think of 
 reading, a Look by Professor Park, or a 
 memoir of an old New England theolo 
 gian. They rank Dr. Emmons, Dr. Hopkins, 
 President Edwa/ds, Professor Park, under the 
 same head, the only difference between them 
 being that some are dead and some alive. They 
 look upon them all as a kind of ecclesiastical co- 
 lumbiad of ten-inch caliber, the glory and the- 
 safety of New England ; but columbiads, however 
 valuable, are not entertaining, not sympathetic, not 
 attractive in the social circle, not the kind of toy 
 one would choose to sit down to of an October 
 afternoon or a November evening. These emi 
 nent names are names, and scarcely anything else. 
 So far as a personality attaches to them, it Is a 
 shadowy and distant one. They are supposed 
 to dwell in a region remote from common life. 
 Their talk is of the volitions and the affections,
 
 NATHANIEL EMMONS OF FRANKLIN. 85 
 
 of nominal essences and spiritual substances, of 
 moral ability and disinterested submission. But 
 with bread and butter, market-prices, the fashions, 
 and the thousand little interests that agitate ordi 
 nary humanity, they have nothing to do. If this 
 class of readers can be induced to take up the life 
 of Dr. Emmons, by Professor Park, their opinions 
 will be likely to undergo a radical change be 
 fore laying it down. They will be surprised to 
 find, instead of an uninteresting narrative of an 
 uninteresting life, one of the raciest books that the 
 American press has ever produced. It carries us 
 into the intensity of New-Englandism. It takes 
 us back into the life of the last century. It gives 
 us a key to the strength of the clergy of that day. 
 It shows us on what meat our fathe/s fed that they 
 grew so great. It is invaluable as a portrait of 
 the past. It is full of suggestiveness for the pres 
 ent. To a young clergyman it will prove a guide, 
 philosopher, and friend. To his people, and to 
 all people, it will come fraught with wisdom and 
 power. 
 
 For Dr. Emmons was eminently and pre 
 eminently a man, and he is painted as such. 
 It is no sublimated saintliness, but a picture from 
 life, with all the lights and shadows. Bright 
 as he was, we see the spots. Great as he was, 
 we dare sometimes to dissent from his views. 
 But his wisdom and his folly are the wisdom and 
 folly of a strong, upright nature, and his very
 
 86 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 follies humanize, without degrading him. If he 
 always lived on the level of his logic, we might 
 feel that he was too far above our plane for sym 
 pathy, but the equilibrium is somewhat restored 
 when we hear him confess, " I do not believe in 
 signs, but I would rather not see the new moon 
 over my left shoulder." We are delighted to see 
 his unreasonable obstinacy in refusing to use his 
 hands and feet. He early determined to devote 
 himself to the work of the ministry, and this is the 
 way he did it : 
 
 " Although he boarded within sight of his own 
 house (which he was repairing), and frequently 
 passed it while under repair, he never allowed 
 himself to see its interior, until it was finished." 
 
 " Walking oer his farm one day, he saw the 
 bars of his fence down. His first impulse was to 
 put them up, and thus save his fields from the 
 depredation of cattle. But no ; ' If I say A, I 
 must say B ; and it, is safer not to begin the alpha 
 bet.' With this favorite maxim on lu's mind, he 
 left the bars down, and went into his study." 
 
 " At a time when a large quantity of his hay 
 lay exposed in the field, his men were suddenly 
 alarmed at the prospect of rain. Though they 
 knew that in ordinary circumstances it would be 
 in vain to expect any aid from him, yet as there 
 was now so much at stake, .... one of them 
 went to the Doctor's study and told him that the 
 hay must be wet unless he would give them aid.
 
 NATHANIEL EMMONS OF FRANKLIN. 87 
 
 ' Then let it be wet,' said he. 'I am not going to 
 leave my work to do yours.' ' 
 
 Often, we are told, he spent fourteen or fifteen 
 hours a day over his books. " No one could look 
 about in his room without knowing where the vet 
 eran's feet usually rested. The marks which they 
 left upon the wainscot attracted so much attention 
 from visitors, that he was obliged to procure a new 
 panelling for one place in his room, which would 
 suggest fewer queries." He did make to physiol 
 ogy the concession of rising from his meals with as 
 good an appetite as when he sat down, but we 
 cannot help thinking what a pity it was that he 
 did not eat good, hearty, reasonable dinners, and 
 take brisk and vigorous bodily exercise. It must 
 have made him higher-toned. But his wife helped 
 him on. When asked how he could live on his 
 small- salary without working on his farm, he re 
 plied, " My wife supports me." She made his 
 pastoral visits as well as his ink and blacking, and 
 respected the hook on his door, which was the 
 " shut sesame " to all intruders. 
 
 He was scrupulously neat and orderly, not 
 dwelling so high in metaphysical clouds as to be 
 careless of the small proprieties. Though he once 
 rode home with another man's horse without dis 
 covering it, he would have a horse and chaise 
 worthy of being called " the minister's." His 
 barns and grounds were always in order. Pre 
 cisely so must the wood be laid on the fire. At
 
 88 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 such a time the wood-box must be replenished. 
 No visitor was admitted to his study till his book 
 or manuscript was tucked under the green baize 
 table-cover. At the appointed hour he was at 
 church, and expected to find his hearers in their 
 seats, not loitering about the door. 
 
 Punctilious himself, he desired his people to 
 be the same. Never but once, during the fifty- 
 four years of his active ministry, did .he go to the 
 treasurer to receive his salary. Then a new treas 
 urer thought he would turn over a new leaf, and 
 make the creditors of the parish wait on him. He 
 stayed at home. So did Dr. Emmons. Ten days 
 passed. On the eleventh the treasurer " saw the 
 neat carriage driving up to his front door, and the 
 three-cornered hat in the carriage. The Doctor 
 alighted from the chaise, holding his reins and the 
 whip. He knocked. The door was opened. . ' Is 
 Mr. A. at home ? ' ' He is.' 'I should be glad 
 to see him.' Mr. A. came and stood before his 
 minister. ' Good morning, sir,' was the minister's 
 word. ' Good morning, sir,' was the treasurer's 
 reply. 4 1 have been expecting,' added the minis 
 ter, ' for eleven days to see you at my house. 
 Good by, sir,' and he added no more, but his 
 fleet horse took him back straight to the parson 
 age, and the treasurer followed him before noon, 
 carrying the delayed salary, and resolving to try no 
 more experiments." He was careful, however, to 
 award the same courtesy to others that he claimed
 
 NATHANIEL EMMONS OF FRANKLIN. 89 
 
 for himself. After he had resigned his pastorate, 
 he stayed in his pew after the benediction, waiting 
 for the young preacher to pass out, and could with 
 difficulty be persuaded to walk by his side. 
 
 He was absolute monarch of his little kingdom. 
 
 " There goes a rumor, that a gleeful company 
 made him a generous donation before they engaged 
 in a frolicsome ride, and they hoped that his well- 
 known politeness would prevent his reprimand of 
 his benefactors on the succeeding Sabbath. But 
 he did not keep back the dreaded reprimand, be 
 ing stimulated to an unwonted plajnness of speech 
 by the generosity of his young friends." " When 
 a very respectable clergyman of another denomina 
 tion had appointed a religious meeting within the 
 bounds of Dr. Emmons's parish, the latter met him 
 and quietly informed him, ' You are expected to keep 
 on your side of the parish line.' 1 He kept there." 
 Another clergyman of a different sect had been in 
 vited by a parishioner to preach in Franklin. He 
 soon after met Dr. Emmons in Boston and informed 
 him of the fact. The Doctor pleasantly replied, 
 " You have a very important sphere of labor as 
 signed you where you are. You need not take 
 the trouble to come to Franklin. I can take care 
 of my own flock." " But you will not object to 
 my coming?" "I do object. And if you come 
 to Franklin in our present circumstances, I '11 con 
 sider and treat you as a wolf in sheep's clothing." 
 He never came. Finding one day that his hear-
 
 90 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES, 
 
 ers were inattentive, he shut up his note-case and 
 said, " I shall not preach again in this house, until 
 I can he assured of better attention from my peo 
 ple," and walked off. He could not have done these 
 things, however, if he had not been Dr. Emmons. 
 His moral worth gave him moral weight; but let 
 no ass put on this lion's skin, for it will surely be 
 his death. He educated his people. He made 
 them think. He was then* pride and their glory. 
 They could well afford to be domineered over by 
 a man who, in devoting himself to them, secured 
 honorable and undying fame for both. 
 
 He not only educated his people, but he inter 
 ested them. He sent them home from church 
 longing for the next Sunday to come. Whether 
 they agreed or disagreed with him, they could not 
 choose but hear him. Every eye was fastened on 
 him. The stillness of the grave pervaded the as 
 sembly. Young women accepted marriage-offers 
 on condition that the husband elect should engage 
 to attend the Quarterly Lecture. The grand se 
 cret was, let it be written in letters of gold, 
 " He made the impression on his people, and kept 
 it up to the last, that his public services were worth 
 something, and that to be absent from one of them 
 was to sustain a great loss." 
 
 His sterling honesty was conspicuous. He re 
 fused to let a rich man indorse a debtor's note. 
 " He will not be profited by the transaction, and 
 it is not right that he should take the risk." He
 
 NATHANIEL EMMONS OF FRANKLIN. 91 
 
 lost the debt, and rejoiced that there was no bonds 
 man. In his dread of appearing to hide the sharp 
 points of his creed, he makes them appear a little 
 sharper than they are. The more unpopular a 
 truth, the more inexorable was he in presenting it. 
 Assailed for a political sermon, he stoutly stood his 
 ground, sagaciously declaring, " They have no real 
 objection against political preaching, but against 
 what is preached upon political subjects." 
 
 His liberality and his royal good sense are a 
 shame to the narrow-mindedness of some of our 
 contemporaries. Let those whose indolence wrests 
 to their own destruction St. Paul's declaration, 
 " For I determined to know nothing among you 
 save Jesus Christ and him crucified," heed Dr. 
 Enamons : " The more I attended to theology, 
 the more I was convinced of the importance of 
 acquainting myself with history, ethics, metaphys 
 ics, and civil polity." " I made it a rule to select 
 the best and the worst [authors] ; that is to say, 
 those who had written most ingeniously in favor 
 of the truth, and against it." "I thought it was 
 an injury and reproach to clergymen, that they 
 so much disregarded general knowledge, and paid 
 
 their whole attention to divinity There is 
 
 no doubt, but that many errors and wild notions 
 in religion have originated in the ignorance of 
 those who have undertaken to preach the Gos 
 pel, without understanding the connection and 
 harmony of its fundamental doctrines. Such
 
 92 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 preachers seldom attend to any sentiments but 
 the peculiarities of their own sect ; and vainly im 
 agine that all are heretics who do not subscribe to 
 their contracted creed. To avoid this mistake, I 
 resolved to read and study divinity in a liberal 
 manner, and not to adopt the sentiments of my 
 own denomination, nor to reject the sentiments of 
 other denominations, without examining them for 
 myself. .... I have made it my practice, in the 
 whole course of my ministry, to read extensively, 
 and to examine as critically and impartially as I 
 could all ancient and modern errors and innova 
 tions in religion." 
 
 It would be pleasant to dwell upon his judicious 
 treatment of the dissensions in his church, how 
 he " appeased his alienated hearers by preaching 
 the doctrines of the Bible, aiming to exalt relig 
 ion by preaching the doctrines well;" upon his 
 sensible way of stopping short in a dispute the 
 moment he saw nothing was to be gained by it, 
 even at the risk of being considered defeated; 
 upon the depth and strength of his tenderness, 
 standing out in bold relief against his Christian 
 resignation, a tenderness that could scarcely suf 
 fer him, at the age of ninety, to speak the name 
 of the wife of his youth, torn away in her spri no- 
 time, that choked his utterance when he would 
 place the seal of baptism on the brow of a child 
 who was to bear the name of his dead son, 
 though it had not prevented him from pointing the
 
 NATHANIEL EMMONS OF FRANKLIN. 93 
 
 sad moral of that son's life by his early grave, 
 a tenderness that drew his little grandchildren to 
 his study the moment they entered his house, 
 and made even the insane of his parish insist on 
 being taken to the parsonage, that they might be 
 soothed by his gentle ministrations. It would 
 be instructive to dwell upon his noble mainte 
 nance of the dignity of man, to the discomfiture 
 of those who make orthodoxy consist in debas 
 ing him ; upon his objections to Sunday schools, 
 evening meetings, protracted meetings, tract soci 
 eties, &c., objections which time proved to have 
 been valid, though time may also, in some meas 
 ure, have obviated them ; upon the vast influence 
 which he exerted on and through his pupils ; upon 
 the sensitiveness which shrank from revealing his 
 inward life, which " disliked the practice of liv 
 ing f out-of-doors, of having all things common, 
 and of giving publicity "to all religious action"; 
 upon the bashfulness which forced him to soothe 
 the agitation that, to the last Sabbath of his pul 
 pit-life, he felt in view of addressing a multitude, 
 by reflecting, "In one hour it will be all over"; 
 upon the wit, which, always under control, was 
 always ready, for attack or defence ; upon that 
 vivid faith, that actual belief, that intimate ac 
 quaintance with God, and that strong realization 
 of a spiritual world which saw " angels encamping 
 on the plains of Franklin, and hourly ascending or 
 descending to or from the skies," that made not
 
 94 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 only the quiet village, but the whole world, 
 "aglow and astir with the Great Spirit"; upon 
 the strength of that soul, which in the depths of a 
 secluded parish left its mark on his own age, and 
 must stamp it on the ages that follow ; but want 
 of space forbids. No thoughtful person can read 
 the book without feeling a deep gratitude to him 
 who has turned aside from severer studies to en 
 rich his generation with the knowledge of one 
 whose life is a priceless legacy to his country.
 
 VIII. 
 
 BRAIN AND BRAWN. 
 
 ; T seems a great pity that right things 
 have a tendency to rush into extremes, 
 and become wrong ones ; for too much 
 of a good thing is very nearly, if not 
 quite, as bad as a bad thing. From which text 
 behold a short sermon. 
 
 In the Old World, and in portions of the New, 
 labor is degraded. It is connected with ideas of 
 
 o 
 
 servitude and incapacity. We, in New England, 
 are trying to remedy the evil. We wish to re 
 deem labor, to make worth, and not occupation, 
 the standard of rank. This is a laudable end, on 
 ly in our eagerness to accomplish it, we are in 
 some danger of over-doing, to the injury of the 
 very individual whom we seek to benefit. We 
 forget that labor is not, in itself, noble. It was 
 denounced upon Adam, and his descendants, 
 as a curse ; and though prayer, and love, and 
 faith transmute it into a blessing, it does not lose 
 its original nature. It remains, in some aspects, a
 
 96 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 curse still. It is to be accepted, not chosen. 
 The ox and the ass were, from the beginning, 
 given to man, to serve him ; but not till the 
 flaming sword was drawn to keep the way of 
 Paradise, was man, the master, doomed to eat 
 bread in the sweat of his face. 
 
 But though labor has, of itself, no moral charac 
 ter, it can be rendered subservient to noble uses. 
 It is to us what we make it. To George Stephen- 
 son, iron and water and burning coals were nim 
 ble servitors to do his will ; and, at his bidding, 
 they brought the sea inland, and bore the land 
 seaward, and laid commerce, and civilization, 
 yes, and Christianity too, at his feet ; but scores 
 of men hammered by the side of George Ste- 
 phenson, and never struck out the spark of an 
 idea. They, camel-wise, bowed their shoulders 
 to a life-long burden : he chained it to his tri 
 umphal car, and rode, a conqueror. In the one 
 case, labor was creative, and therefore godlike ; 
 in the other, routine, of the earth, earthy, 
 *not a thing to be despised, but also not to be 
 extolled. Hugh Miller breaking up stones by the 
 roadside, and Patrick McCarty carting them to 
 mend the road with, would seem, to a casual pas 
 senger, to be working together, with the same ob 
 ject in view ; but they were ages apart. 
 
 Yet one might sometimes suppose that labor 
 was the undoubted badge of a higher nobility, 
 and the laboring man the true aristocrat, by
 
 BRAIN AND BRAWN. 97 
 
 divine right. Lyceum lecturers, agricultural-fair 
 orators, county newspapers, cajole their listeners 
 and readers with sounding words about a " bold 
 yeomanry, our country's pride," and the "sturdy 
 mechanic, the bone and sinew of the land " ; and 
 the bold yeoman and sturdy mechanic chuckle 
 over the flattery, go home to their daily monoto 
 nous drudgeiy, and settle on their lees in self- 
 complacent ignorance. But the yeoman, or me 
 chanic, who delves without thought, or invention, 
 or reflection, from sunrise to sunset, and spends 
 the evening over his pipe and his mug of cidei', 
 is a very great deal lower than the angels ; 
 is, I had almost said, a cumberer of the ground 
 from which he draws his fancied nobility. 
 
 This is not to say aught against the honorable- 
 ness of agricultural or mechanical occupations. 
 It is only that, like all other occupations, they 
 derive, but do not confer, honor or shame. Igno- 
 
 ' O 
 
 ranee and stupidity are disgraceful in farmer or 
 doctor. Intelligence and refinement are respect 
 able in shoemaker or lawyer. The inheritance 
 of an estate does not convert a clown into a 
 gentleman, nor does its loss convert a gentle 
 man into a clown. He that sweeps a floor as for 
 God's laws, makes that and the action fine ; and 
 he that sweeps a floor, year in and year out, with 
 no higher end in view, is fine and refined neither 
 in himself nor in his action. 
 
 Yet you will often hear such encomiums passed 
 5 o
 
 98 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 as, " He is the hardest-working man in town." 
 " He is a fine man, always at it, up early and 
 late." " He is a most industrious man. You al 
 ways know where to find him. Go to his bench." 
 Such remarks are intended to indicate virtues, 
 and perhaps they do, but not necessarily. If a 
 man is forced, by untoward circumstances, either 
 to labor unceasingly or to see his family suffer, 
 then, if he perform cheerfully his unceasing labor, 
 it is a great virtue. Or, if his mind has been 
 sparingly endowed by his Creator, and he has to 
 use the whole of it, and his body and time too, in 
 the support of his family, and does it, it is still a 
 virtue, but a little one. If he labors unceasingly 
 because it is a habit, or to hoard up money, or be 
 cause he has no taste for anything else, it is no 
 virtue at all. It is a fault ; not to say a crime. 
 God did not create us to be " always at it." 
 There are times and seasons when we ought to be 
 away from " it." There are duties which lie 
 otherwhere than in the shop or on the farm. 
 Therefore, when you call upon us to admire one 
 of your hard-working men, be so good as to inform 
 us first, to which class he belongs ; whether his 
 lauded virtue is not his sin to be rebuked, or, at 
 least, his weakness to be compassionated. Is 
 not the very reason why he has to toil and moil 
 over his corn and potatoes, that he has not intel 
 ligence enough to apply the best methods of cul 
 ture to his farm, methods which would give him
 
 BRAIN AND BRAWN. 99 
 
 greater crops and more leisure ? Tell us how 
 much he accomplishes by his work, not simply 
 how much he works. . It is no credit to a man 
 to go round by Robin Hood's barn, when he can 
 just as well take a short cut " across lots." If one 
 man works twelve hours to earn the bread and 
 butter for himself and his nine children, while 
 his next-door neighbor does the same thing in five, 
 what does it indicate ? That the first necessarily 
 has more virtue than the second, or that he has 
 less mother-wit ? 
 
 The flattery with which our assembled working- 
 classes are apt to be served, undoubtedly contrib 
 utes to keep many of them content to make no 
 higher attainments. If they are not received with 
 open arms by the educated and refined, they at 
 tribute it to their occupation, not to themselves ; 
 to the unreasonable pride and prejudice of others, 
 not to their own deficiency. But water is not the 
 only thing that will find its own level. Genius, 
 wit, learning, ignorance, coarseness, are each at 
 tracted to its like. Two painters were overheard 
 talking in the room where they were at work. 
 " Lord ! " said one, " I knowed him well when 
 he was a boy. Used to live with his gran'ther, 
 next door to us. Poor as Job's turkey. But I 
 
 ain't seen him since, till I hearn him in Hall, 
 
 t' other night. Don't suppose he 'd come anigh 
 me now with a ten-foot pole. Them kind of folks 
 has short memories, ha ! ha ! Can't tell who a 
 poor working-man is, nohow."
 
 100 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 No, no, good friend, you are in the wrong. 
 There is, indeed, a great gulf between you and 
 your early friend, but it is not poverty. To say 
 that it is, is only a way you have of flattering your 
 self-love. For, if you watch those who frequent 
 your friend's house, you will find many a one who 
 lives in lodgings, with the commonest three-ply 
 carpets, cane-seat chairs, and one warm room ; 
 while you have a comfortable house of your own, 
 with, very likely, tapestry and velvet in your par 
 lor, and registers all about. No, sir, it is not be 
 cause you are poor, nor because you work ; for he 
 is as hard a worker as you, though, perhaps, not 
 so long about it ; but because begging your par 
 don you are vulgar, and ignorant ; because you 
 sit down in your sitting-room at home, with your 
 coat off, and your hat on, and smoke your pipe, 
 because you plunge your own knife into the but 
 ter, and your own fork into the toast, having used 
 both in your eating with equal freedom, be 
 cause your voice is loud, your tone swaggering, 
 and your grammar hideous, because, in short, 
 your two paths from the old school-house diverged ; 
 his led upward, yours did not ; and the fault 
 is not his. You both chose. He chose to culti 
 vate his powers. You chose not to do so. Call 
 'things by their right names ! 
 
 Be a gentleman ; be a man of sense, intelli 
 gence, and refinement, and you need no other 
 credentials to the best, the really best, society ;
 
 BRAIN AND BRAWN. 101 
 
 nor will you fail, ultimately, to receive the esteem 
 and appreciation which your worth demands. 
 
 The Bible is a revelation of the Divine will and 
 purpose, and by following its directions we may 
 obtain eternal life. But the Scriptures are as 
 profitable for the life that now is as for that which 
 is to come. The lessons which the Bible teaches 
 indirectly are surpassed in importance only by 
 those which it teaches directly. Its worldly max 
 ims are as admirable in their way as its religious 
 maxims, and both are illustrated and enforced by 
 noble and numerous examples. Never has the 
 world seen specimens of better farmers, mer 
 chants, tradesmen, masters, servants, high-bred 
 ladies, courtly knights, brave soldiers, skilful gen 
 erals, accomplished statesmen, devoted clergymen, 
 unselfish patriots, than those who pass in stately 
 procession before the Bible reader. What a fine 
 old Hebrew gentleman is Boaz ! How courteous 
 ly he steps upon the scene ! A mighty man of 
 wealth, of good family, a large landed proprietor, 
 an influential citizen, belonging to the " best soci 
 ety," he comes down from his house in the city, 
 to see for himself how matters are going. With 
 a fine patriarchal courtesy he greets the reapers 
 as h* passes among them. " The Lord be with 
 you," and with equal courtesy, honorable alike to 
 him and to themselves, they answer, " The Lord 
 bless thee." Is not here a lesson for master and 
 servant, employer and employed ? Does any one
 
 102 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 suppose that they served him any the less faith 
 fully for his respectful kindness, or that there was 
 any sycophancy in their cordial response ? Was 
 there anything in the interchange of pleasant feel 
 ing that trenched upon the dignity either of Boaz 
 or his reapers ? Is not the truest, the only Chris 
 tian relation between master and servant, that 
 which recognizes the underlying brotherhood of 
 man, while it is equally cognizant of the surface 
 discrepancies ? Does not the servant best respect 
 and most scrupulously serve the master who re 
 spects the servant ? A consideration of others' 
 rights is the surest way to compass the considera 
 tion of our own. To be polite to others is the 
 best way to make others polite to us. Here as 
 elsewhere, what measure ye mete shall be meas 
 ured to you again. 
 
 But Boaz, with that keen observation which 
 may perhaps have had something to do with his 
 great wealth and high standing, notices a new 
 face among the merry field-maidens, a graver, qui 
 eter face probably, and turning to his overseer he 
 makes inquiry, and learns that it belongs to the 
 young woman who has been talked about so much 
 in the city, the Moabitish damsel who left her 
 own family and land for love of her dead hus 
 band's mother and his God. So, glad, doubtless, 
 of the opportunity, he cheers her fluttering, fright 
 ened heart with gracious words. How soothingly 
 and gratefully must have fallen on her ear:
 
 BRAIN AND BRAWN. 103 
 
 " Hearest thou not, my daughter ? " (never fear, 
 Boaz ; for all she has been gleaning so industri 
 ously, nor once raised her eyes to you, she has 
 heard every word you said.) " Go not to glean 
 in another field, neither go from hence, but abide 
 here fast by my maidens : let thine eyes be on 
 the field that they do reap, and go thou after 
 them : have I not charged the young men that 
 they shall not touch thee ? " To the stranger un 
 wonted to the customs of the land to which she 
 had so lately come, unacquainted with the people 
 by whom she was surrounded, these assurances 
 from the master must have been doubly welcome. 
 But his large-hearted hospitality was not yet ex 
 hausted : " When thou art athirst, go unto the 
 vessels and drink of that which the young men 
 have drawn. At meal-time come thou hither, and 
 eat of the bread, and dip thy morsel in the vine 
 gar. And he reached her parched corn, and she 
 did eat, and was sufficed, and left." And, still 
 further, with thoughtful kindness, Boaz command 
 ed his young men not only not to hinder her, but 
 to let fall also some of the handfuls on purpose for 
 her. No wonder Ruth fell in love with him, so 
 gentle, so generous, so tender to the forlorn little 
 foreigner. 
 
 Ruth was a Moabitess, a heathen by birth, a 
 resident in a heathen country, and probably her 
 first impressions of a country in which the true 
 God was worshipped were received in the harvest-
 
 104 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 fields of Boaz. Suppose a young woman from the 
 Feejee Islands were to be transported to the hay- 
 fields of some of our large farmers on a fine day 
 in July ; would her impressions be as favorable as 
 those of Ruth ? Would she see a liberality, and 
 kindness, and courtesy, which should at once re 
 commend a Christian country to her favor? Do 
 we always see in our barns, our cider-presses, our 
 corn-fields, our potato-patches, our wood-sheds, 
 a Christianity as decorous and well-behaved ? 
 There are farmers who, instead of being polite, 
 rather pride themselves on the roughness of their 
 dress and manners. They seem to think that 
 to be polite is unmanly, that blue overalls and 
 swarthy arms must have coarse natures to match, 
 that refinement belongs only to broadcloth, and 
 a soft address to dancing-masters ; but is there any 
 reason why a New England farmer should not be 
 polite as well as a Bethlehem farmer ? Farming is 
 a noble occupation when it is nobly followed ; but 
 if to be a farmer it is necessary to be a boor, then 
 farming is of all occupations the most ignoble and 
 undesirable. The truth is, politeness is the pre 
 rogative of no vocation. A boot-black may be 
 less accomplished than a prince, but he need not 
 be less polite. Haymaking browns the skin and 
 hardens the hands, but it need not make the heart 
 callous nor the soul coarse. 
 
 Politeness is a Christian duty. A man has no 
 more right to be impolite than he has to steal.
 
 BRAIN AND BRAWN. 105 
 
 Politeness is often synonymous with Christianity ; 
 that is, politeness will often lead a man to do the 
 same things which Christianity will lead him to do. 
 Politeness keeps a man from saying that which 
 will needlessly wound another's feelings. So does 
 Christianity. Politeness keeps a man from in 
 dulging in habits which annoy those around him. 
 So does Christianity. Politeness is often Chris 
 tianity applied to the manners. Yet Christian 
 people will often make remarks which they know 
 will, and intend shall, give pain to others, and for 
 no other purpose than to amuse themselves or grat 
 ify a petty malice. Sometimes it is simply that they 
 do not care whether they wound or not. They 
 never seem to think that religion has any bearing 
 on such things. They will speak disparagingly of 
 a person whom they know you like, when there is 
 no possible worthy object to be subserved by it. 
 They will ride rough-shod over the sensitiveness 
 of those with whom they are associated, and if any 
 one remonstrates with them, why, forsooth, " they 
 are plain people, they say what they think, 
 there is no hypocrisy about them" Woe to the 
 man who is among them, but not of them ! 
 The only way for him to do is to shut up within 
 himself everything that is vulnerable, and to go 
 abroad always with his armor on. Thus it hap 
 pens that it is often far pleasanter to live and min 
 gle in society with gay, fashionable, worldly, and 
 polite people than with some kinds of Christians. 
 
 5*
 
 106 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 The former may do many things of which you 
 disapprove. They acknowledge no higher code 
 than politeness, it may be, but they live up to it. 
 They round off their angles, level down their pro 
 tuberances, never say cross, or harsh, or ill-na 
 tured things. They are cushiony, and amiable, 
 and restful. You glide smoothly among them. 
 There are no tangles and collisions ; whereas the 
 Christian who despises politeness is angular, full of 
 sharp corners which he continually thrusts in your 
 way to make you stumble over them ; he takes no 
 pains to make himself agreeable, never seems to 
 think that it is better to be loved than not to be 
 loved. If you shun him, he thinks it is because he 
 is sincere or you are haughty, when it is only be 
 cause he is intolerably selfish and repulsive. He 
 forgets that, though the Devil does appear some 
 times as an angel of light, light is none the less on 
 that account a divine and glorious thing ; and he 
 forgets also that the Devil in such a disguise is just 
 about as comfortable to have about as would be 
 an angel with the diabolic appurtenances. 
 
 Politeness if not godliness, is next to it, there 
 fore let us be polite. If we cannot be as polite 
 as we would like to be, let us be as polite as we 
 can. The man who will not try to be polite is fit 
 neither for the church nor the world. Let him 
 dwell apart among the tombs. Do our best, and 
 we shall all probably be in some respects disagree 
 able to our warmest friends. The least we can do 
 is to make ourselves as tolerable as possible.
 
 IX. 
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 
 
 " LET the wealthy and great 
 
 Roll in splendor and state, 
 I envy them not, I declare it ; 
 
 I eat my own lamb, 
 
 My own chickens and ham, 
 I shear my own fleece, and I wear it ; 
 
 I have lawns, I have bowers, 
 
 I have fruits, I have flowers, 
 The lark is my morning alarmer ; 
 
 So, jolly boys, now, 
 
 Here 's God speed the plough, 
 Long life and success to the farmer ! " 
 
 O sings a certain venerable pitcher its 
 tmtiring song. A brave pitcher it was 
 in its day. A well-ordered farm lies 
 along its swelling sides. A purple man 
 merrily drives his purple team afield. Gold and 
 purple milkmaids are milking purple and golden 
 cows. Young boys bind the ripened sheaves, or 
 bear mugs of foaming cider to the busy hay 
 makers, with artistic defiance of the seasons. 
 There are ploughs and harrows, hoes and spades, 
 beehives and poultry-houses, all in the best re-
 
 108 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 pair, and all resplendent in purple and gold. 
 Alas ! Troy was. The gold has become dim, the 
 purple is dingy, the lucent whiteness has gone 
 gray ; a very large, brown, zigzag fissure has rent 
 its volcanic path through the happy home, divid 
 ing the fair garden, cutting the plough in two, 
 narrowly escaping the ploughman ; and, indeed, 
 the whole structure is saved from violent disrup 
 tion only by the unrelaxing clasp of a string of 
 blue yarn. Thus passes away the glory of the 
 world and of pitchers ! . 
 
 Is it not too often typical of the glory of our 
 rural dreams ? To live in the country ; to lie on 
 green lawns, or under bowers of roses and honey 
 suckle ; to watch the procession of the flowers, and 
 bind upon our brows the sweetest and the fairest ; 
 to take largess of all the fruits in their season ; to 
 be entirely independent of the world, dead to its 
 din, alive only to its beauty ; to feed upon butter 
 and honey, and feast upon strawberries and cream, 
 all found within your own garden-wall ; to be 
 wakened by the lark, and lulled asleep by the 
 cricket ; to hear the tinkling of the cow-bell as you 
 walk, and to smell the new-mown hay, surely 
 we have found Arcadia at last. Cast away day 
 book and ledger, green bag and yardstick ; let 
 us go straightway into the country and buy a 
 farm. 
 
 But before the deeds are actually delivered, it 
 will be worth while to ascertain whether the pitch-
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 109 
 
 er's word is as good as its bond. If its fallen for 
 tunes are indicative of what yours shall be, if Ar 
 cadia blooms only in* its gorgeous bosom, and will 
 turn into an Arabia Petraea at the first touch of 
 your spade, better for you a pitcher of roughest 
 Delft on board of deal than all this pomp and cir 
 cumstance of lies. 
 
 Reports of societies are not generally " as inter 
 esting as a novel." Nevertheless, if one will con 
 sult the Report of the Commission of Agriculture 
 for 1862, he will find, among fascinating columns 
 of figures, bold disquisitions on the midge, a mi-' 
 rage of grapes, pears, and peaches, and uncomfort 
 able-looking "thorough-bred" cattle, an essay, by 
 Dr. W. W. Hall of New York city, which may 
 assist him in forming his plans. It is not neces 
 sarily destructive of the most charming theories, 
 but it is very definite and damnatory as to facts. 
 Among other unromantic and disagreeable things, 
 it asserts and proves its assertions by still more 
 disagreeable, because incontrovertible statistics 
 that, for all the sylvan delights of lawn and bower, 
 and the exquisite sensation of eating your own 
 hams, the largest class of patients in insane asylums 
 comes from the "jolly boys " and their wives and 
 daughters ; but better watch a grass-blade strug 
 gling up under the curbstone of the sidewalk than 
 view the fairest landscape in the world from be 
 hind a grated window. We learn also, that, in 
 spite of his ample larder, his freedom from envy
 
 110 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and carking caro, the farmer does not live so long 
 as the pale clergyman whose white hands he looks 
 upon with only not contempt ', but how sweet so 
 ever may be the scent of clover and buttercup, he 
 little heeds their fragrance who lies beneath them. 
 We are told that a very large part of our farming 
 population have no breadth of view ; that they 
 cannot enter into a conversation beyond a few 
 comments on the weather, the crops, the markets, 
 and the neighborhood-news. The freshness, the 
 beauty, the music and motion, that breathe and 
 stir around them, can gain no foothold in the un 
 varying routine of their lives ; but in vain do the 
 heavens spread out their glory, and in vain the 
 earth unfolds her loveliness, if 
 
 "' A primrose by the river's brim 
 
 A yellow primrose is to him, 
 
 And it is nothing more." 
 
 To these skeletons is added, perhaps, the casual 
 and certainly the most common skeleton of all : in 
 this rustic paradise, his home of all the graces and 
 comforts, the grim spectre Debt stalks to and fro, 
 eating out the farmer's substance, and giving him 
 in return anxiety, make-shifts, irascibility, and de 
 spair. Three homes out of four, according to 
 this writer's estimate, suffer from the ravages of 
 debt. 
 
 This is a general, perhaps a national view. 
 We may come a little nearer home, and find that 
 a closer examination only confirms the conclusions
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. HI 
 
 arrived at by the broader survey. Thoreau, who 
 " travelled a great deal in Concord," and whose 
 keen eyes took note there for forty years, says, 
 " When I consider my neighbors, the farmers of 
 Concord, .... I find that for the most part they 
 have been toiling twenty, thirty, or forty years 
 that they may become the real owners of their 
 farms, which commonly they have inherited with 
 encumbrances, or else bought with hired money, 
 .... but commonly they have not paid for them 
 yet. It is true, the encumbrances sometimes out 
 weigh the value of the farm, so that the farm itself 
 becomes one great encumbrance, and still a man is 
 found to inherit it, being well acquainted with it, 
 as he says. On applying to the assessors, I am 
 surprised to learn that they cannot at once name a 
 dozen in the town who own their farms free and 
 clear. If you would know the history of these 
 homesteads, inquire at the bank where they are 
 mortgaged. The man who has actually paid for 
 his farm with labor on it is so rare that every 
 neighbor can point to him. I doubt if there are 
 three such men in Concord. What has been said 
 of the merchants that a very large majority, 
 even ninety-seven in a hundred, are sure to fail 
 
 is equally true of the farmers Yet the 
 
 Middlesex Cattle-Show goes off here with 6dat 
 annually, as if all the joints of the agricultural 
 machine were suent." 
 
 If you do not trust the testimony of books, but
 
 112 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 will turn to living men, you will scarcely fare bet 
 ter. One man, whose recreations have been ru 
 ral, but his business civic, conducts you through 
 his groves and summer-houses, his stone barns and 
 his latticed cottages, but tempers your enthusiasm 
 with the remark, that this fancy farming is sowing 
 ninepences to reap sixpences. Relinquishing fan 
 cy farms, you go to the practical man swinging his 
 scythe in his hay-field, his shirt-sleeves rolled 
 above his elbows, and his trousers tucked into his 
 boots. He shows you the face-walls and the com 
 post-heap, the drains and the resultant hay-cocks, 
 with measurable pride, but tells you at the same 
 time that every dollar he has earned on that farm 
 has cost him nine shillings. This will never do. A 
 third farmer has inherited his farm, not only with 
 out encumbrance, but with money at interest. 
 Under his hands it waxes fat and flourishing, and 
 sends to market every year its twelve or fifteeen 
 hundred dollars' worth of produce. But you over 
 hear its owner telling his neighbor that "it 's a 
 Cain's business, this farming : make any man cross 
 enough to kill his brother ! " You find this farmer 
 racked with rheumatism, though in the prime of 
 life, bent with the weight of years before his 
 time. He has lost his health just as he has 
 improved his farm, by working early and late 
 through sun and rain. You turn to still another 
 farm, whose owner brings the learning of a college 
 as well as the muscles of a yeoman to the culture
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 113 
 
 of the soil. His nurseries and orchards are thrifty, 
 his cattle sleek and comfortable, his yards broad, 
 cleanly, and sunny. His fields wave with plenty, 
 his granary overflows. Here, surely, you have 
 struck into the Happy Valley. Here at last Tity- 
 rus reposes under the shade of his broad-spreading 
 beech-trees. On the contrary, you find Tityrus 
 in the sitting-room, rolling his eyes in a fine 
 frenzy over a very prose bucolic on the Condition 
 and Prospects of Sheep-Husbandry, which he is 
 writing for the " Country Gentleman," at five dol 
 lars a page. All the cool of the day he works on 
 his farm, and all the hot of the day he devotes to 
 his manuscript ; and he avers, with a solemnity 
 which carries conviction, that he and his wife have 
 come to the conclusion that they are carrying on 
 their farm for the benefit of the hired help ! He 
 is devoted to farming ; he is interested in its pro 
 cesses ; but the men and maids get all the profits, 
 and he supports his family by his pen. Every 
 where you find one song with variations. Farm 
 ers and farmers' wives are not in love with their 
 calling. They are not enthusiastic over it. The 
 " smartest " of the children do not remain at home 
 to take charge of the farm, unless impelled by a 
 sense of duty to their aged parents, or lured by 
 some promise of extraordinary recompense. Eve 
 rywhere the farmer finds farming to be " a slave's 
 life," " a dog's life," " delve all your days, and 
 nothin' to show for 't," "hard scrapin' to make 
 
 H
 
 114 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 both ends meet." It is so unwieldy a mode of ap 
 plying means to ends, that, if you must believe 
 him, every quart of milk costs him six cents, with 
 the labor thrown in, while you pay the milkman 
 but five cents at your own door ; every dozen eggs 
 which he gathers from his own barn he gathers at 
 the rate of twenty-five cents a dozen, while you 
 are paying only twenty-two. And even when 
 both ends do meet, and not only meet, but lap 
 over, you scarcely find a hearty cheerfulness and 
 sunshine, a liberal praise and unfeigned ardor, a 
 contagious delight in the soil. " Jolly boys " in 
 purple blouses may drive ploughs around pitchers, 
 but they are rarely met on the hillsides of New 
 England. If we credit Dr. Hall, they are quite 
 as rarely seen on the rich, rolling lands toward the 
 sunset. 
 
 Is this state of things inevitable ? Farmers 
 have a very general belief that it is. They not 
 only plod on in the old way themselves, but they 
 have no faith in the possible opening-up of any 
 other way. Their sole hope of bettering their 
 condition lies in abandoning it altogether. If 
 one son is superior to the others, if an only son 
 concentrates upon himself all the parental affec 
 tion, they do not plan for him a brilliant career in 
 their own line ; they do not look to him to obtain 
 distinction by some great agricultural achievement, 
 a discovery of new laws, or a new combination of 
 old laws ; all their love and hope find expression
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 115 
 
 in the determination "not to bring him up to 
 farming." They " don't mean he shall ever have 
 to work." Hard work and small profits is the 
 story of their lives and of the lives of their ances 
 tors, and they do not believe any other story will 
 ever be truly told of the genuine farmer. And 
 when we say small profits, we wish the phrase to 
 hold all the meaning of which it is capable. It is 
 hard work and small profits to body and soul; 
 small profits to heart and brain as well as purse. 
 But every plan which looks to better things is 
 "notional," "new-fangled," " easier to tell of than 
 'tis to do" ; and so the farmer goes on his daily 
 beat, with pride in his independence, fostered by 
 the flattery of his county-fair orators, yet vituper 
 ating his occupation, bemoaning its hardships and 
 depreciating its emoluments, stubbornly set in the 
 belief that he knows all there is to know about 
 farming, and scornful of whatever attempts to go 
 deeper than his own ploughshare or cut a broader 
 swath than his own scythe. 
 
 To suggest the possibility that all this is the re 
 sult of limited knowledge, and that the most favor 
 able and beneficial change might be found in a 
 more liberal education and a wider acquaintance 
 with the facts discovered and the deductions made 
 by science, would be considered by a bold yeoman 
 ry, our country's pride, as an outbreak of " book- 
 farming " in its most virulent form. " You may 
 bet your hat on one thing," says the bold yeoman,
 
 116 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 "a man may know sunthin', an' be a good min 
 ister, an' a tol'able deacon, but he 's spiled for 
 farmin'." 
 
 Two words are beginning rb be coupled in the 
 newspapers and to float about in the air, whose 
 juxtaposition is the cause of many a demure 
 jest among the rural population, " Agricultural 
 College." Separately, the words command all 
 respect; united, they are a living refutation of 
 the well-kngwn axiom that " the whole is equal to 
 all its parts." 
 
 " Gov'ment is goin' to build an Agriculteral 
 College. Farmin' an' learnin' marry an' set up 
 house-keepin'. Guess Uncle Sam '11 have to give 
 'em a hist with a donation-party now 'n' then. 
 Agriculteral College ? Yes, sir. Well, sir, if 
 you '11 show me a man, sir, that 's a gradooate 
 from that College, that '11 ever be seen with a hoe 
 in his hand, I,'ll give him leave to knock my 
 brains out with it ! Yes, sir I An' it '11 be the 
 best use he can put it to, sir ! He '11 do less mis 
 chief that way 'n any other ! Agriculteral Col 
 lege ! Edicated farmers ! Yes, sir, I 've seen 
 'em ! Got a grist up in Topsell. Jint-stock farm. 
 The best talent in Essex County 's been a-carryin' 
 on that farm, an' nigh about carried it off, an' 
 themselves along with it. Yes, sir, the best tal 
 ent in Essex County, an' had the farm given 'em, 
 an' they 've sunk a thousan' dollars, sir, a'ready ! 
 That 's what I call a Sinkin'-Fund, sir ! That 's
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 117 
 
 to begin with. Jones is an edicated farmer. He 
 made his cider last fall on scinetific principles. 
 Well, sir, I could put an apple in my mouth an' 
 swim down Merrimac River, an' have better cider 
 'n that all the way ! Edicated farmin' 's a very 
 pooty thing, if a man can be at the expense on 't ; 
 but when it conies to gittin' a livin', farmin' 's 
 farmin'. Agriculteral College ! Yes, sir, farm- 
 in' 's a hard life, lookin' at the best side. Soil 's 
 light an' runnin' to stones. But this jjere college 
 stuff 's the poorest kind o' top-dressin' you can 
 give it. Learnin' 's a good thing. I 've nothin' 
 agin learnin', but 't a'n't the best use you can 
 make on 't to plough it in. The only way to pro 
 mote the agriculteral interests of Essex County, 
 sir, is to keep the farmers jest as they are. Greek 
 'n' Latin a'n't state-prison offences, but they 're 
 sure death to pork 'n' potaters. Minute you edi- 
 cate the farmers they '11 be as uneasy as a toad un 
 der a harrow. What kind of a hand would Doc 
 tor Hall or Squire Smith make, to come an' take 
 a farm alongside o' me ? " 
 
 This is the way our bold yeoman puts it. 
 Planting himself on the indisputable facts of his 
 pork and potatoes, he regards one who stands 
 upon anything else as a dreamer. He forgets 
 that pork and potatoes are not the only facts 
 in the world. The earth itself is a larger fact 
 than anything that springs from it. It is the 
 inalienable inheritance, the sole support of man,
 
 118 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Mother and nurse, from the cradle to the grave, 
 there comes no hour when he can withdraw from 
 her nourishing bosom. But, by our farmers' 
 showing, it is but a harsh and niggardly step 
 mother, opening the fountains of life only under 
 enforcement. Is this reasonable ? Is it reason 
 able to suppose that the one calling which is essen 
 tial to life, the one calling on which every other 
 depends, should be the Canaan accursed, servant 
 of servants^to its brethren? Is it reasonable to 
 suppose that God gave us this beautiful round 
 world, source of "all our wealth, almoner of every 
 comfort, possessor and dispenser of all grace and 
 loveliness, yet with such poison in her veins that 
 they alone are safe who deal with her at a re 
 move, she withers the hand that touches her? 
 The ancients believed better things than these. 
 They reverenced the Mighty Mother, and fabled 
 a giant's strength to him who craved a blessing by 
 the laying on of hands. We know that a curse 
 was pronounced upon the earth, but why farmers 
 should be so forward to monopolize the curse it is 
 difficult to conceive. It is generally supposed that 
 all the descendants of Adam are equally impli 
 cated. It is not for the farmer alone, but the 
 minister and the mechanic as well, who is to 
 eat bread in the sweat of his face. Wheat and 
 barley and corn are no more under a ban than 
 gold and iron and timber, which all come from the 
 same bountiful earth ; but while artificers in- gold
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 119 
 
 and iron magnify their office and wax fat, the 
 farmer depreciates his, and according to his own 
 showing is clothed upon with leanness.' 
 
 Surely these things ought not so to be. Looking 
 at this earth as the divinely-prepared dwelling-place 
 of man, and looking at man as divinely appointed to 
 dress and keep it, we should naturally suppose that 
 there would be an obvious and a pre-eminent adap 
 tation of the one to the other. We should naturally 
 suppose that the primary, the fundamental occupa 
 tion of the race would be one which should not 
 only keep body and soul together, but should be 
 exactly fitted to develop and strengthen all the 
 powers called into exercise, and should also be 
 most likely to call into exercise a great variety 
 of powers to the fashioning of a beautiful sym 
 metry. Looking still further at the secondary 
 occupations, we find our views confirmed. The 
 shoemaker must bend over his lapstone, and he 
 becomes stooping and hollow-chested. The black 
 smith twists the sinews of his arm to strength, 
 but at the expense of his other members. The 
 watchmaker trains his eyes to microscopic vision, 
 but his muscles are small and his skin color 
 less. A very large majority of the secondary 
 callings remove men from the open air, often 
 from the sunshine, and generally train a few fac 
 ulties at the expense of the others. The artisan 
 carries skill to perfection, the genius towers into 
 sublimity, but the man suffers. Not so the farmer.
 
 120 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 His life is not only many-, but all-sided. His 
 ever-changing employment gives him every va 
 riety of motion and posture. Not a muscle but is 
 pressed into service. His work lies chiefly out-of- 
 doors. The freedom of earth and sky is his. Ev 
 ery power of his mind may be brought into play. 
 He is surrounded by mysteries which the longest 
 life will not give him time enough to fathom, prob 
 lems whose solution may furnish employment for 
 the deepest thought and the most sustained atten 
 tion, and whose solution is at the same time a 
 direct and most important contribution to his own 
 ease and riches. The constant presence of beauti 
 ful and ever-shifting scenery ministers to his taste 
 and his imagination. Nature, in her grandeur, in 
 her loveliness, in the surpassing beauty of her 
 utilities, is always spread before him. All her 
 wonderful processes go on beneath his eyes. The 
 great laboratory is ever open. The furnace-fire 
 is always burning. Patent to his curious or ad 
 miring gaze the transmutation takes place. The 
 occult principle of life surrounds him, might almost 
 bewilder him, with manifestations. Bee and bird, 
 fruit and blossom, and the phantom humanity in 
 beasts, offer all their secrets to him. Every pro 
 cess is his minister. His mental and material in 
 terests lie in one right line. The sun is his ser 
 vant. The shower fulfils his behest. The dew 
 drops silently down to do his work. The fragrance 
 of the apple-orchard shall turn to gold in his grasp.
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 121 
 
 The beauty of bloom shall fill his home with plenty. 
 The frost of winter is his treasure-keeper, and the 
 snows wrap him about with beneficence. With 
 nothing trivial, deceptive, inflated, has he to do. 
 An unimpeachable sincerity pervades all things. 
 All things are natural, and all things act after their 
 kind. Is it a divine decree that all this shall tend 
 to no good? Shall all this pomp of preparation 
 rightly come to nothing ? Do we gather the nat 
 ural fruits of circumstance, when the mind travels 
 on to madness, the body goes prematurely to dis 
 ease and decay, and the heart shrivels away from 
 love and is overcast with gloom? Is all the ap 
 pearance of adaptation false, and do farmers gain 
 the due emoluments of their position? Not -so. 
 It is their fault that they do not see the life which 
 revels in exuberance around them. Earth with all 
 her interests takes unrelaxing hold of their potato- 
 patch, but they have eyes only for the potato-patch. 
 Accustoming themselves to the contemplation of 
 little things, considered separately and not as links 
 in the universal chain, their angle of vision has 
 grown preternaturally acute. Things they see, 
 but not the relations of things. They dwell on 
 desert islands. For all the integrity of Nature, 
 they fail to learn integrity. The honest farmer is 
 no more common than the honest merchant. He 
 abhors the tricks of trade, he has his standing joke 
 about the lawyer's conscience : but the load of hay 
 which he sold to the merchant was heavier by his
 
 122 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 own weight on the scales than at the merchant's 
 stable-yard ; the lawyer who buys his wood, 
 taught by broad rural experience, looks closely 
 to the admeasurement; and a trout in the milk 
 Thoreau counts as very strong circumstantial evi 
 dence. The farmer does not compass sublime 
 swindles like the merchant, nor such sharp prac 
 tice as the lawyer; but in small ways he is the 
 peer of either. We do not say that farmers are 
 any more addicted to their characteristic vices than 
 the lawyers and merchants are to theirs ; but that 
 they have their peculiarities, like other classes, 
 and that the term honest is as necessary a prefix to 
 farmer as to any other noun of occupation. We 
 admit all this, but we believe it is the fault of the 
 farmer, and not of his circumstances. 
 
 " His fault ! " says the farmer, and say many 
 men of whom better things might be expected. 
 "How can he get wisdom that holdeth the plough, 
 and that glorieth in the goad, that driveth oxen, 
 and is occupied in their labors, and whose talk is 
 of bullocks?" How? By "seeking her as silver, 
 and searching for her as for hid treasures." For 
 remember, O farmer! the despairing question is 
 from below, the inspiring answer from above. It 
 is not the Bible, but the Apocrypha, that casts 
 doubt upon agricultural education. There is wis 
 dom to him that holdeth the plough. Honor and 
 health and wealth and great-heartedness are to be 
 found in the soil. Earth is not one huge encum-
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 123 
 
 brance to weigh man down ; it is the means by 
 which he may rise to heavenly heights. Earth 
 has been the mother of dignity ever since her 
 Maker's eyes looked upon her, and the Maker's 
 voice pronounced her very good. And " Very 
 Good " is the true verdict. Ignorance, stupidity, 
 and sin insist upon perpetuating the curse from 
 which she has been once redeemed ; but a blessing 
 lies in her heart for him who has but the courage 
 
 O 
 
 to grasp it. 
 
 What analogies have they to prop their conclu 
 sions withal, who maintain the necessary degrada 
 tion of the soil ? Fire, air, and water bow down 
 and do obeisance to man. They are analyzed 
 and recombined. They are studied with insati 
 able curiosity. They receive the absorbed atten 
 tion of a lifetime. Daily their secrets are wrested 
 from them. Their likings and their dislikings 
 are forced into man's service ; they are coupled 
 in strange unions and harnessed to his chariot. 
 Whithersoever he will, they bear him. They 
 minister to his lowliest needs, they bend to his 
 loftiest dreams. They have lifted him from the 
 earth whereon he crept, and have given him the 
 wings of the wind. Swifter than the eagle flies, 
 swift as the lightnings flash, they run to and fro at 
 his command. Nor has the limit of their capaci 
 ties been reached, nor has man ceased to pry 
 into the mysteries which lie hidden in their depths. 
 He was once their abject slave. He is now their
 
 124 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 crowned king. He will one day be their absolute 
 monarch. 
 
 But while the three ancient elements are thus 
 wrought into glory and honor, the fourth sister, 
 Earth, remains a clod. They give gifts to men, 
 but she only sears him with the brand of servitude. 
 Every bold seeker, adventuring into their arcana, 
 bears back his treasure-trove ; but the earth only 
 mocks her wooer, and robs him of his strength 
 who sleeps upon her knees ! 
 
 It is easy to point to occurrences which appar 
 ently prove this, to experiments which seemed 
 fruitless, to plans adopted only to be laid aside, 
 to new modes that were heralded with great 
 flourish of trumpets, and shuffled ignominiously out 
 through the pantry-door. But every science and 
 every art has had its empirical age, and every age 
 has its empiricists. Astrology spoke its great swell 
 ing words, made its cabalistic signs, and passed 
 away to its burial ; but astronomy remains eternal 
 as the heavens. The stars cannot tell a man when 
 he shall die, and they shine upon the shepherd as 
 brightly as on the sage ; but they have marvellous 
 secrets to whisper to him who watches the long 
 night through to behold their coming and mark 
 the magic of their ways ; and by so much knowl 
 edge unfolded Earth takes her place in the skies. 
 There was no El Dorado beyond the western sea 
 to bestow eternal youth upon the Spanish dreamer ; 
 but there was a land fairer than all his fancy
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 125 
 
 painted, to whose light the Gentiles shall yet come, 
 and kings to the brightness of its rising. The 
 philosopher's stone has never been found which 
 should transmute all metals to gold; but gold it 
 self is worthless in the presence of such truths as 
 philosophy reveals. All the way through, no 
 science has been pushed to barren results. A 
 thousand errors have branched off from the cen 
 tral truth, and have sometimes been mistaken for 
 it ; a thousand false steps have been made for one 
 in the right direction ; yet the truth is central and 
 indivisible, and men have pressed on steadily to 
 reach it. Counterfeits do not annihilate the pure 
 coin. Pretenders do not destroy faith in the 
 rightful prince. Failures lead the way to success. 
 Honest, wise, persevering research has ever been 
 rewarded in full measure, pressed down, shaken 
 together, and running over. And it is not to be 
 supposed that the one science of the earth, vaster 
 and nobler than all others, the science that minis 
 ters most directly to man's life, shall be the one 
 science to baffle his research and yield him meagre 
 returns. We do not know what wealth the earth 
 holds in store for us, and it is our shame and mis 
 ery that we so little strive to know, so little care 
 to seek. With an ignorance for which our rich 
 experience leaves us no excuse, we doggedly as 
 sume that we have attained the ultimatum. The 
 earth is to us but an immense pippin covered all 
 over with the arrogant label, " Seek-no-further."
 
 126 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 If fanners choose to accept this label as their 
 motto, they should also accept the consequences 
 without complaint. If they choose to live in a 
 rut, they must not expect to breathe the air which 
 they would find on a hill. Many readers will 
 remember a passage at arms that occurred in the 
 legislative assembly of one of our New England 
 States. A clergyman, advocating a bill which 
 was to help a certain class of young men in ob 
 taining education, referred to several persons who 
 had by assistance become men of note, but who 
 without it would have remained " only farmers." 
 Another member immediately took umbrage, 
 avowed himself to be a farmer, and assured the 
 assembly that he should not vote for a bill which 
 was to educate young men to sneer at him ! The 
 bill failed, whether from constitutional weakness 
 or from this blow we are not informed, but are 
 left to infer the latter. The repartee w r as very 
 good as a repartee, and a respectable degree of 
 Parliamentary skill was shown in seizing upon a 
 plausible pretext for a foregone conclusion ; but so 
 far as the question was of principle, and not of 
 repartee, the clergyman was right and the farmer 
 was wrong. We may exalt democracy, and abase 
 aristocracy, and cajole people with specious phrases. 
 Ignorance and uncouthness may put on the garb of 
 modest merit, and worthlessness seek to veil itself 
 by an unattractive exterior; but under never so 
 many layers the truth remains intact. " Only a
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 127 
 
 fanner " expresses with all-sufficient accuracy the 
 relative position of farmers, not their neces 
 sary, but their actual position. The occupation 
 which should be a liberal profession is a most 
 illiberal labor. Farming is honorable, just as any 
 other business is honorable, according to the 
 amount of mind and heart brought to bear on it. 
 Shoemaking will always be an inferior craft to 
 statesmanship, because the amount of intellect re 
 quired is less in the former than in the latter. 
 The man who aims at the highest culture, both of 
 his farm and himself, is aiming, whether con 
 sciously or not, at the highest rank, and he shall 
 not stand among mean men ; but he who simply 
 delves in the dirt will find no laurels there. Fine- 
 sounding phrases cannot give dignity to that which 
 is in itself undignified. No amount of complaint 
 can elevate prejudice, obstinacy, and routine into 
 intelligence, generosity, magnanimity. Farmers 
 themselves act upon this principle with entire 
 unanimity, because it is a law of Nature, and not 
 an effort of the will. The man upon whose ex 
 periments they look with utter distrust, ill-concealed 
 contempt, and covert ridicule, whose science seems 
 to them mere nonsense, extravagance, and reckless 
 ness, they at the same time regard with reverence 
 and admiration. They look dcwvn upon him as a 
 farmer, but they look up to him as a man. They 
 are proud and pleased to have his family visit and 
 receive theirs. They feel that he is of a different
 
 128 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 order from themselves. And if farmers persist in 
 keeping education and science away from their 
 farms, if they will bring only their hard hands to 
 the work, and will leave their brains to shrivel in 
 their skulls, this state of things must go on. The 
 best of materials is of no use without will and skill 
 to work it. Matter is a sorry substance until mind 
 lays hold of it. The world was not made with tug 
 and sweat, but He spake, and it was done, He com 
 manded, and it stood fast. As the world was made, 
 so must it be subdued, not by matter clawing at 
 matter, but by the calm dominion of spirit over 
 matter. Until intellect percolates the soil, the soil 
 will not part with its hidden hoards. We shall 
 have effort, struggle, wear, and weariness, but no 
 victory. It is the strife of clod with clod. 
 
 So it is that the men who grieve to bring their 
 minds into play will never make of their occupa 
 tion a profession. The people who work mind 
 and muscle, who turn knowledge into wisdom, 
 shall stand before kings. Those who 
 
 " Keep in nninqniring trust 
 The old dull round of things " 
 
 shall be hewers of wood and drawers of water to 
 the end of the days. If farming is doomed, farmers 
 are doomed. For here is the earth ready-made, 
 and however much we may dislike it, it is all we 
 have and the best we shall get. If farming must 
 be mere mechanical labor, then there is a point 
 where elevation and improvement must stop, for
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 129 
 
 there must always exist a class of serfs, serfs to 
 the soil, slaves of their own farms ; and none are 
 more sure of this than those who have lived in a 
 farming community, and seen how surely the ad 
 venturous spirits, the active, the energetic, the 
 intellectual, the promising, turn away from the 
 dismal monotony of the farm and launch out on 
 currents of freer flow, or, if they remain at home, 
 remain only in consequence of the continued and 
 earnest expostulations and the fairest promises of 
 parents, to rock the cradle of their declining years, 
 and not unfrequently to rock it over. 
 
 But if the founders of our Agricultural College, 
 or if any furtherers of rural education, propose to 
 themselves to diffuse light by appealing to farmers, 
 if they think to correct the evils of ignorance 
 by furnishing special opportunities to farmers, 
 if they flatter themselves that they can establish a 
 college of aims and claims so moderate that farm 
 ers and farmers' boys will not be discouraged by 
 the time, money, or mind required, they are 
 spending their strength for naught. No college and 
 no school can be founded so wisely and fitly, that 
 farmers as a class will send their sons to it. Why 
 should they, believing, as they do, that the dis 
 trict-school already gives them as much " learn- 
 in' " as they need ? Boys there can " read, write, 
 and cipher." They gain knowledge enough to 
 reckon with the hired man, to keep the tally of 
 the marketing, to compute interest, and to do par- 
 
 6* I
 
 130 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ish business. What more do they want ? Your 
 college-men will talk about selections and tem 
 peratures, silex and fluorine ; but what has all that 
 to do with planting the ten-acre lot ? Timothy 
 and red-top grew before Liebig was born. A rose 
 by any other name is just as sweet to the agricul 
 tural nose. Farmers who have grown to man 
 hood with full faith in the fixity of their condition, 
 in the impossibility of its improvement, are not to 
 be turned right-about-face by a programme. The 
 best patent cultivator could not root out this main 
 article of their creed. Agricultural colleges may 
 spread all their blandishments ; but farmers will 
 not listen to the voice of the charmer, charm he 
 never so wisely. The academic roof may be set 
 low and the academic door flung w r ide open, and 
 the academic Siren, with new and deeper meaning, 
 may sweetly 
 
 " Sing a song of sixpence, a bag full of rye " ; 
 
 but before it reaches the rural ear, it will have 
 transformed itself into a new rendering of the fatal 
 entomological civility, 
 " ' Will you walk into my parlor ? ' said the spider to the fly." 
 
 Reasoning is of no avail. Farmers do not grasp 
 the chances already offered them ; how should they 
 be expected to possess themselves of future ones ? 
 Able treatises on breeding, instructive, eloquent, 
 and forcible, are written and printed ; but these 
 men continue to tie up nightly their ill-favored
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 131 
 
 and lean-fleshed kine, and are weekly dragged to 
 church by loose-jointed nags wabbling over the 
 road, head between legs. There are yearly re 
 ports, rich in suggestion, well printed, cleverly 
 illustrated, distributed without cost to the re 
 ceivers. They will not read them. They may 
 glance at the foreign-looking sheep, with folds of 
 wool on his throat ; they will utter a strong idi 
 omatic exclamation over the broad-sided short 
 horn ; but they will not go beyond the limits of 
 their own township to replenish their stock. 
 They have not time nor money nor heart for ex 
 periments. You prove to them beyond the possi 
 bility of gainsaying that their mode is cumbrous, 
 and, in truth, extravagant ; they will assent to 
 your propositions, admit the force of your argu 
 ments, but inevitably leave your presence with 
 the remark, that, " after all, they think, like 
 Gran'ma'am Howdy, they 'd better go on in the 
 good old diabolical way," and there, according 
 ly, they go. Their logic is devious, but it is al 
 ways ready. It may not be convincing, but it is 
 conclusive. The major premise is often hidden, 
 but it is as firm as Fate. 
 
 " Parson Edwards 's been round with the 
 temperance-pledge," says one old fanner to an 
 other. 
 
 " Yes," answers the latter. " Came to me. 
 Asked me, says he, ' Mr. Solomon,' says he, 
 4 have you got any cider in your suller ? ' ' Yes,
 
 132 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 sir,' says I, ' sixteen barrels, good as ever was 
 hossed up, I don't care where 't is.' ' Well,' says 
 he, ' Mr. Solomon, my advice to you is, to go an' 
 tap them barrels, every one on 'em, an' let it 
 run ! ' " 
 
 " Guess you told him you 'd wait a spell, did n't 
 you?" 
 
 " Humph ! Let it run ! I kneiv his gran sir ! 
 Meddlin' toad ! Advisin' me to throw my cider 
 away ! I KNEW HIS GRAN'SIR ! " 
 
 Whenever any amendment is suggested, some 
 " gran'sir " or other will be sure to block the way. 
 That he has been two generations dead, or that 
 he has no apparent connection with the point at 
 issue, may be indisputably proved, but it does not 
 open the road. 
 
 Nor will the farmer's sons be any more ready 
 to avail themselves of their college than the farm 
 er's self. As a general thing, they have either 
 ploughed their own furrow " in the good old 
 diabolical way," and walk in it as their fathers 
 walked, caring for no other, or they have acquired 
 BO unconquerable a repugnance to the unconge 
 nial toil that they cannot conceive of any plan or 
 process by which it can be made tolerable. To 
 elevate farming by placing the lever under the 
 farmers is to attack a fort where its defences are 
 strongest. But we can apply socially as well as 
 agriculturally the principle of a rotation of crops. 
 Poets are not necessarily the sons of poets. We
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 133 
 
 do not draw upon engineers' families for our sup 
 ply of engineers. The greatest statesman of the 
 age may come from the smallest estate in the 
 country. So also is there no Medo-Persic law- 
 compelling the cultivation of our lands by farmers' 
 sons. An infusion of fresh blood is sometimes the 
 best remedy for long-standing disease and weak 
 ness, especially in social organizations. The end 
 desired is not the education of any special existing 
 class, but the establishment of a class fit to receive 
 in trust special existing interests. We want our 
 country's soil to be intelligently and beneficially 
 cultivated. We desire that it shall be rescued 
 from ignorance and from quackery, and placed in 
 the hands of active intellect and sound sense. 
 We want our farmers to be working-men, not 
 day-laborers. We want them to be practical 
 farmers, book-farmers, and gentleman-farmers in 
 one. The proprietors of the soil stand at the base 
 of society, and should constitute by themselves an 
 order of nobility, but eclectic, not hereditary. 
 Whenever a boy displays a turn for agriculture, 
 there is a fit subject for agricultural education, a 
 proper student for an agricultural college, whether 
 his father were merchant, farmer, policeman, or 
 president. You cannot make a college so mean 
 that farmers' sons will flock into it, but you can 
 make it so great that the best of all classes shall 
 press in. Endosmose and exosmose are the soul 
 of growth ; either, alone, would bring death,
 
 134 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 death on one side from exhaustion, on the other 
 from over-fulness. The city is currently said to 
 draw its best blood from the country. Let the 
 city pour it back again over field and meadow, 
 turning our wilderness into gardens. Country 
 and city will be invigorated by an exchange of 
 commodities, the one giving of its nature, the 
 other of its culture. We want no exclusiveness, 
 aristocratic or democratic. We want intelligent 
 men to develop the capacity of the soil. The 
 problem is, to vindicate the ways of God to man, 
 to demonstrate that He spake truth, when He 
 looked upon the earth which He had made, and 
 pronounced it very good. It is the duty of this 
 generation to show to the future that agriculture 
 opens a career, and not a grave, to thought, ener 
 gy, and genius. It needs strong arms and stout 
 hearts, but there are bays to be won and worn. 
 We want farmers who do not look upon their land 
 as a malicious menial, but who love it and woo it, 
 and delight in enriching and adorning it. We 
 want men who are enthusiastic, who will not 
 be put down by failures, nor disheartened by de 
 lay, men who believe that the Earth holds in 
 her lap richer stores than gold or silver, who 
 are not deceived by all the niggardliness that has 
 been laid to her charge, but know in their inmost 
 souls that she is full of beneficence and power, and 
 that it needs only to pronounce the " Open Se 
 same ! " to gam admittance to her treasure-house
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 135 
 
 and possession of her richest gifts. We want men 
 who are willing to spend and be spent, not for 
 paltry gains or sordid existence, but for gains that 
 are not paltry and existence that is not sordid, 
 for love of truth, men who attribute the failure 
 of their experiments, not to the poverty of Nature, 
 but to their own short-sighted, rough-handed en 
 deavor, and who will simply take heart and try 
 again, men who are fully persuaded in their 
 own minds that there must be, and are fully de 
 termined in their own hearts that there shall be, 
 profit to him that glorieth in the goad. 
 
 It is left for our country to show that manual 
 and mental skill, strength, exercise, and labor are 
 not incompatible, that hard hands may comport 
 with gracious manners, that one may be a gen 
 tleman digging in a ditch, as well as dancing in a 
 drawing-room. The Old World groans under her 
 peasant system, even free England has her 
 Hodge ; but we will have no peasantry here, no 
 Hodges in hobnailed shoes, no stolid perpetual 
 serfdom to nurse our vanity and pride. The very 
 genius of our nation makes every man's manhood 
 his most valuable possession. America professes 
 to believe that no one can with impunity evade 
 the decree, " In the sweat of thy face shalt thou 
 eat bread." She professes to hold labor in honor ; 
 but she should show her faith by her work. She 
 should display her children of labor, fairer and fat 
 ter than the children of kings and princes. If they
 
 136 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 are seen to be decrepit in mind and body before 
 their time, if they have less happiness than the 
 Austrian peasant, and less content than the Eng 
 lish clown r and no breadth of vision or liberality 
 of thought or clear foresight to atone for such de 
 ficiency, we shall have to compass sea and land 
 before we make many intelligent men or nations 
 proselytes to our faith. 
 
 The time especially has need of men. This 
 hour, and every hour of the last three years, ought 
 to prove to us beyond cavil that no class can safely 
 be left in ignorance, least of all the class that holds 
 in its hands a people's staff of life. Our country 
 needs all the brain, all the conscience, all the nerve, 
 and patience, and moral strength, that can be com 
 manded. Her salvation lies in a yeomanry ca 
 pable of comprehending the momentous issues at 
 stake. " More light ! " is the dying gasp of a dy 
 ing people. Our republican institutions are but 
 half completed. To give every man the right to 
 vote, without giving him at the same time the 
 power to vote intelligently, is but questionable ser 
 vice. If such an arrangement were perpetual, it 
 would be unquestionable disservice. Only as fast 
 and as far as we keep enlightenment abreast of 
 power are we seeing that the Republic receives no 
 detriment. Ignorance is the never-failing foe of 
 freedom, the never-failing ally of despotism. We 
 have organized and successfully fought a crusade 
 against tyranny ; we are now in the midst of our
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 137 
 
 crusade against slavery ; let us have one more, or 
 ganized and efficient, against ignorance, that the 
 fruit of our former victories be not lost to us for 
 lack of wisdom to use them aright. 
 
 That the people who suffer most from want of 
 knowledge should disdain it is but natural. To see 
 the need of teaching, men must be taught. It is 
 this very ignorance which is the strong buttress 
 against education. Ignorance propagates itself. 
 It can be subdued only by force or tact, not by ar 
 gument. But for men who have attained by the 
 help of their education whatever reputation they 
 possess to affect to question its importance is to 
 spurn the ladder by which they have mounted to 
 eminence. We are sometimes almost tempted to 
 suspect the existence of a petty jealousy in mem 
 bers of the learned professions. It would seem as if 
 a small fear were indulged lest a wider diffusion of 
 knowledge and a more thorough culture among the 
 farming classes should detract from the supremacy 
 of others. There is certainly, among some writ 
 ers, a leaning towards a continuance of present 
 abuses for which it is difficult to account. The 
 shrewdness of the plain farmer is pitted against 
 the science of the scholar, to the entire discom 
 fiture of the latter. But would the plain farmer's 
 shrewdness be at all diminished by educating the 
 plain farmer ? Would his sharp sense be blunted 
 by being expressed with some partial subjection 
 to grammatical forms ? Would his observation be
 
 138 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 
 
 any less close for being trained ? Would his rea 
 soning be any less profitable by being wisely di 
 rected than by running at hap-hazard ? Would it 
 not be more economical to strengthen and polish 
 his powerful weapons, and give them honest work 
 to do, than to leave them rough and rusty from 
 disuse? If education is not the foe of legal, me 
 chanical, polemic, nor forensic acuteness, why 
 should it be hostile to any? 
 
 No lover of his country who brings to this view 
 the same clearness and sense which he takes to 
 political or personal plans, but must hail as an 
 omen of good the efforts now making throughout 
 the North in behalf of agriculture and education. 
 It is a cause for proud and grateful gratulation 
 and congratulation, that our government is so wise 
 and strong as to look through all the smoke and 
 cloud of warfare, and set firm in the tumultuous 
 present the foundations of future greatness, 
 that, calm and confident, it lays in the midst of 
 the thunder-storm of battle the corner-stone of the 
 temple of Peace. It is equally encouraging to see 
 the States from east to west responding to this 
 movement, consulting with each other, enlisting in 
 the enterprise their best men, and sending them 
 up and down in the land, and in other lands, to 
 observe, and collate, and infer, that the beneficent 
 designs of Congress may be carried out and car 
 ried on in the best possible manner for the highest 
 good of all. So a free people governs itself. So a
 
 GLORYING IN THE GOAD. 139 
 
 free people discerns its weakness and unfolds its 
 strength. So a true aristocracy will yet develop 
 a worthy democracy. From such living, far-see 
 ing patriotism we augur the best results. Mis 
 takes will doubtless be made ; wisdom will not die 
 with this generation ; but a beginning is the sure 
 presage of the end. Hesitation and precipitancy, 
 unseemly delay, and ill-advised action, may retard, 
 but will not prevent, a glorious consummation. 
 In these colleges we look to see agricultural cen 
 tres from which shall radiate new light across our 
 hills and valleys. They will not at once turn 
 every ploughboy into a philosopher, nor send us 
 Liebigs to milk the cows; but to every plough- 
 boy and dairyman in the country they will give 
 a new and wider horizon. They will bring fresh 
 and manly incentives into the domain of toil. 
 They will establish in society a new order of men, 
 an order whose mere existence will give heart 
 and hope to the farmer-lad disgusted with his nar 
 row life, yet unable to relinquish it. They will 
 send out to us men who have learned and who will 
 teach that the plough, the hoe, the rake, are im 
 plements of profit and honor, as well as of indus 
 try. They will show that the hand and the head 
 may work together, and that only so can their full 
 capacity be tested. Science will be corrected by 
 practice, and practice will be guided by science. 
 These men will go over the land and quietly set 
 up their household gods among our old-time farm-
 
 140 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ers. They will gradually acquire influence, not 
 by loud-voiced rhetoric, but by the silent eloquence 
 of rich cornfields, heavy-laden orchards, full-ud- 
 dered kine, and merry-hearted boys and girls, 
 by the gentle, but irresistibe force of kindly words, 
 pleasant ways, ready sympathy, a helping hand in 
 trouble, " sage counsel in cumber," by the thou 
 sand little devices of taste and culture and good- 
 fellowship, by the cheap elegances, the fine en 
 dearments, all the small, sweet courtesies of life. 
 They will approve the beneficence and the power 
 of the Great Mother; they will demonstrate to 
 farmers the possibility of large and generous liv 
 ing ; they will teach them to distinguish between 
 the mountebanks of pretended science and the 
 apostles of that science which alone is truth ; they 
 will give to thought a new direction, to energy a 
 new impulse, to earth a new -creation, to man a 
 new life.
 
 X. 
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE. 
 
 WO kinds of talk are extant concern 
 ing pictures. One is that which has 
 seized a few of the floating technicali 
 ties, and discourses flippantly of light, 
 and shade, and breadth, and tone, mouths the " old 
 masters," rants of Italy, sneers at American art, 
 and goes into raptures, in a public way, over a bit 
 of old canvas, but is not so absorbed but that it has 
 leisure to observe and brand the indifference of 
 those who do not share its ecstasies. 
 
 The other prides itself on being "no artist." 
 " It knows nothing of the rules of art. But it 
 knows what it likes, and is going to like it, right 
 or wrong. Artists may sneer, but it is not going 
 to be driven from a picture, because the picture 
 was not made with plumb and line." On the 
 whole, this is rather more disagreeable than the 
 first, since that only pretends to follow in the wake 
 of excellence, while this sets up a claim to origi 
 nality, strikes out boldly for itself, and is sure to
 
 142 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 find hosts of admirers among our rampant democ 
 racy. Ignorance on any subject is a thing to be 
 repented of and forsaken if voluntary, to be si 
 lently borne if involuntary, but on no account to 
 be exulted over. We, who boast our ignorance, 
 forget, that though the artist, like the poet, is 
 " born, not made," he is not born an artist. The 
 germ is there, but many a spring's sunshine, and 
 many a summer's shower, ay, and many a winter's 
 frost, must ripen it into the mellow fruit. The 
 possibility is there, but only by careful study, con 
 stant trial, severe culture, can it be wrought into 
 a fact. Is it, then, reasonable to suppose that the 
 untutored eye can fully appreciate the work of the 
 tutored hand ? 
 
 It is, indeed, a merciful dispensation of Provi 
 dence, that the humblest day-laborer, going home 
 from his work at six o'clock, with his coat swing 
 ing over his arm, and his tin pail in his hand, may 
 feel the soothing, elevating influence of the calm 
 sunset sky, the still fields, and the shining flood, 
 yet he but enters the vestibule of the' temple. 
 Only to her importunate child, only 
 
 " To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
 Communion with her visible forms," 
 
 does she disclose the arcana, the mystic glory 
 that shines in her holy of holies. 
 
 Thus a picture is not only the measure of the 
 soul that conceived, and the hand that wrought, 
 but of the eye that views it. If you see therein
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE, 143 
 
 neither form nor comeliness, it may be either 
 because form and comeliness are not there, or be 
 cause your gross vision cannot discern their spirit 
 ual presence ; and this incapacity may be the re 
 sult either of native deficiency or lack of training. 
 
 Every true picture, everything worthy the 
 name, has a body and soul. Canvas, color, con 
 tour, are the one. The idea that shines through 
 them all, and invests them with life, and glow, and 
 reality, is the other. Where the soul is wanting, 
 all else may be perfect, the body complete, but the 
 picture says nothing to you. It is mere dead 
 matter. There, may be pretensions to life, a con 
 vulsive and contorted struggling, as it were, to 
 compass life, but you have no love wherewithal to 
 endow the fair Undine with an immortal soul. 
 
 But this soul of the picture does not sit en 
 throned on the surface, to be profaned by vulgar 
 gaze. Eye may meet eye, but heart alone can 
 speak to .heart. Of ten men who pass before a 
 painting, nine may pass on unheeding. It is to 
 them blank and meaningless, like the marks of cer 
 tain chalk on window-glass ; but when you draw 
 near, you, the tenth, and breathe upon it the 
 breath of your life, by an unerring instinct it 
 recognizes your soul. Quickly life leaps into the 
 picture, flashes into the statue the Promethean 
 fire, quivering in every limb, glowing in every 
 lineament, till, as you gaze, it passes into your be 
 ing, to become a part of yourself forevermore.
 
 144 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 This life, this pathos and power, depend less on 
 the subject than on the manner of handling it. 
 We have all looked coolly on representations of 
 dying saints, surrounded by a maze of infant cher 
 ubs and full-grown angels, wings and crowns and 
 floating garments; and we have perhaps felt the 
 cheek flush and the heart throb at the sunlight 
 streaming in through a kitchen -window ; for the 
 one was vague, crude, and perchance ridiculous ; 
 while the other, simple and direct, carried us swift 
 ly back to home, and childhood, and mother's love. 
 
 Yet mere fidelity is of little worth. You recog 
 nize the mechanical skill, but you say, " Why be at 
 infinite labor to reproduce what is so much better 
 at first hand ? " An artist gives us a landscape 
 wherein all the trees are of the requisite size and 
 shape, the rocks duly distributed and overgrown 
 with moss, the brooks running the way of all 
 brooks. We do not know why we are not moved, 
 but we are not. We acknowledge a certain cor 
 rectness. We cannot put a finger on this or that, 
 and say, " It is not like." But we feel no coolness 
 in the shadow of the rocks, no longing to dint 
 the soft moss with our weary feet. We do not 
 hear the plashing of the water as we break with 
 our hands its rippling flow, or the whisper of the 
 south-wind in the tops of the pine-trees. 
 
 Another landscape laps us in the drowsy repose 
 of summer. Herd-boys lie on the grass in all the 
 luxury of outstretched ease, scarcely heeding the
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE. 145 
 
 meek-eyed cows who chew the cud of their benev 
 olent thoughts cows always look benevolent, or 
 at least complacent in the shadow of the trees 
 whose huge trunks and dense foliage make 
 
 " Rome's cathedral awe live in these woodland aisles." 
 
 The air of noonday, filtered of its heat, breathes, 
 grateful and refreshing, through shadowy corridors 
 defiant of the meridian sun. There is no merry, 
 tricksy, " laughing water," or trim, turfed, well- 
 bred pond, but a happy, languid, good-natured 
 pool, on whose still surface the lazy lilies spread 
 out their broad leaves and drink in the liquid 
 coolness as they float. Gay flowers, that gather 
 richness from unseen sources, flaunt in dank lux 
 uriance on its margin, and homely weeds dip their 
 feet unrebuked in its welcome waves. On every 
 leaf, and twig, and blade of grass, is written, 
 " Summer." 
 
 A third speaks also of repose, but repose un 
 der a different aspect. One is earthly ; the other, 
 spiritual. One is the dreamy, compulsory languor 
 of the South ; the other, the voluntary, serene rev- 
 ery of the North. One is an idyl piped by Arca- 
 diart shepherds in a vale of Tempe ; the other is 
 the pure soul of some silver-throated maiden, gush 
 ing out in low-voiced song at evening-tide. In 
 one we 
 
 " Feel the warm Orient in the noonday air " ; 
 
 through the other we 
 
 " From cloud minarets hear the sunset call to prayer." 
 7 j
 
 146 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Land, water, and sky, combine to form that per 
 fect beauty which " is a joy forever." A fairy 
 lake, liquid gold where the light falls unobstructed, 
 deepening into purple where the shadows linger, 
 smiles back answering joy to the radiant heavens. 
 From the purpling waters stretch away the purple 
 hills, paling into violet, flushing into pink, glowing 
 into gold, till, losing their earthliness, bathed and 
 fused in the heavenly glory, they shine, translu 
 cent. Still and stately, the tall trees stand clearly 
 outlined against the sky. Rose-tinted clouds float 
 softly in the amber air. A white sail swells to 
 the wooing breeze, but no sound breaks the 
 charmed silence. The mists that spiritualized 
 Helvellyn for her poet priest, wrap the scene in 
 a delicious haze of softness and sweetness. Gaz 
 ing, you are borne out beyond the world and the 
 things of the world. Will that pleasant path, 
 winding over the hills towards the sunset, lead 
 you indeed to the sea of glass mingled with 
 fire ? On such a chariot as yonder lush cloud 
 did the beloved of the Lord, in old time, pass from 
 glory to glory? The dying day? Yea, verily, 
 but the dying day folds her royal robes about her, 
 and sweeps down to death with a grandeur and 
 a grace that might well befit the majesty of her 
 morning. 
 
 Looking at such a picture, fragments of verse, 
 snatches of old songs, remembered tones of voices 
 long silent, float murmurously through the cham-
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE. 147 
 
 bers of your brain. Now, a ringing epithet from 
 Tennyson, it may be ; then, a diamond found 
 among the toads and frogs that dropped from 
 old Dekker's lips, or a self-singing line from the 
 "poet of poets;" or a sunbeam from some stray 
 ballad that lives in the heart of a people, though 
 the author's name and fame are buried with his 
 unknown dust, flitting so vaguely, yet chiming 
 so perfectly, that we scarcely perceive their sepa 
 rate presence, yet are imperceptibly lulled by them 
 into harmony and peace ; just as the summer wind 
 bears through the woods the mingled scent of 
 violet, and pansy, and white-robed Innocence, and 
 sweet-smelling arbutus, which yet we think not 
 of resolving, but only stand in happy waiting, and 
 snuff the odorous breeze. In smaller, in apparent 
 ly trifling things, the same power is revealed. A 
 child's shoe may be well painted, and yet be only 
 a shoe. A hat is but plaited straw, and a top a 
 bit of carved and painted wood. But, in the hands 
 of a master, the worn shoe, the battered hat, and 
 bruised top, will speak of a little form gone back to 
 dust, a silent chamber, wherein the patter of 
 childish feet will never more be heard, a hearth 
 whose light and life and joy are quenched in sud 
 den night. What a picture thus says to you, is the 
 measure of its worth to you. You may see faults 
 many and glaring, but everywhere we reverence a 
 great purpose even if imperfectly fulfilled, a grand 
 conception faithfully, honestly, even if unsuccess-
 
 148 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 fully attempted, rather than petty ends achieved. 
 Or the picture may be applauded by every one 
 with unbounded enthusiasm, but if your own soul 
 is not fired, it is no revealer to you. It may be 
 from the old masters or the young pupils, from 
 'the world-renowned artist, or the obscure den 
 tist's apprentice ; but you alone must be the judge 
 whether it speaks to you. If the wise, and 
 learned, and good, are moved by what moves 
 you, you may be glad thus to recognize kinship 
 with them ; but if otherwise, you may keep your 
 own counsel, but you must be true. 
 
 Thus it is that, while painting holds out no 
 invitation to arrogance and conceit, it offers no 
 discouragement to ignorance. They who have 
 never looked upon the masterpieces of the Old 
 World may be lifted to a higher level by the 
 masterpieces of the New. 
 
 It is not necessary to understand the technicali 
 ties of Art. If you do but love grassy plains and 
 running water, if you ever admired a cloud, or 
 thought of a mountain, you possess all the requi 
 sites for an interval of unalloyed happiness in 
 looking at Bierstadt's picture of the Rocky Moun 
 tains. It is only to go up a staircase or two, 
 through a passage or two, round a corner or 
 two, into a darkness, into a light, and you 
 are no longer in the studio-building on Tremont 
 Street, you have crossed rivers, lakes, woods, 
 and valleys. You have left behind you rail-
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE. 149 
 
 roads, and batteries, and Boston, and civiliza 
 tion. You have stridden out to the border-lands 
 of the Angles. You have struck the trail of the 
 savage. You have mounted the crest of the 
 great mysterious wave that swelled in the far 
 Orient centuries and centuries ago, curving west 
 ward, sweeping over the steppes of Russia, over 
 the meadows of Germany, over the vine-lands 
 of France, surging up against the white-faced 
 shores of England, pausing but for a moment, 
 then, with gathered strength, thundering at the 
 gates of our western world, curving westward, 
 ever westward, over prairies and deserts, pursu 
 ing the pathway of the sun, till now it foams 
 around the base of the inaccessible mountains. 
 Here, beyond its farthest reach, you pause. Only 
 the spray of the advancing tide flings its coolness 
 at your feet. Here the Indian plants his tent-pole 
 and takes his stand, barbarism against civiliza 
 tion. But neither stand nor fight shall avail him. 
 Already the wave, fretting within its rocky bar 
 riers, has found itself an outlet by the South, and 
 while the " poor Indian " counts his wampum and 
 smokes his pipe in fancied peace, lo ! it storms up 
 from the West, deep calling unto deep, till there 
 shall be left for his wandering dove no olive-leaf, 
 and pipe and wampum, wigwam and hunting- 
 ground, are whelmed in the relentless flood. 
 
 Rest then, while we may, in this peaceful Indian 
 village. A broad, level plain, fronting the moun-
 
 150 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 tains. Through the broad plain we may walk 
 ankle-deep in the rich, dank verdure, but the 
 mountains rise white and awful to the skies. 
 Jagged and precipitous, unpressed by mortal foot 
 but scarred with many a glacier, they lift their 
 hoar heads, silent amid all the sound, wan amid 
 all the color, still amid all the stir, shining amid 
 all the shadow. Tender growths creep timidly up 
 their furrowed sides, but quickly faint for want of 
 cherishing, and pale into eternal snow upon their 
 brows. Warmth, and greenness, and life, all are 
 chilled in the pitiless cold that riots around those 
 unsealed heights. Towering in the centre above 
 his brethren, Mount Lander, king by virtue of pre 
 eminence, throws back his head and faces the sun 
 with a royal disdain. Or, in softer mood, the after 
 noon light crowns him with such heavenly radiance 
 that he stands bathed in glory, his face upturned 
 in reverence to God. How late-born is society, 
 how flitting is man, when we hold such commun 
 ion ! Yesterday a race was born ; to-morrow it 
 passes away; but the everlasting mountains are 
 not scattered ; the perpetual hills have never 
 bowed. Monuments of God's might, they rise 
 sublime above the littleness of life, confronting 
 us with their desolation. No ingenuity, no ava 
 rice, no ambition, can clothe these rugged slopes 
 wjth fertility, or mingle the song of bird or hum 
 of bee with their paean of the winds. Yet Grand 
 eur and Beauty meet together there ; Strength
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE. 151 
 
 and Service have kissed each other. In the 
 darkening day they frown, they lower, they 
 menace, and we tremble under their overhanging 
 steeps. But flooded with sunlight, a veil of silvery 
 mist is flung about them, and the terrible outlines 
 are lost in loveliness. Icy cold, they stand unceas 
 ing benefactors. Their wildest storm-song is a 
 chant of peace on earth, good-will to men. Heaped 
 and hidden in their perpetual snows, they keep the 
 treasures of the valleys. Blessings of dale and up 
 land, blessings of field and orchard, blessings of 
 fruit and flower, trickle down to us from their 
 bleak and stony breasts. The dew of our youth 
 is in the womb of their morning. 
 
 Born of the glacier and the sunshine, little 
 brooks leap down the dark defiles, rushing head 
 long into one wilful water, which rends for itself 
 a chasm, and tears through the rocks, a reckless 
 Undine, fantastic and uncontrolled. Now in the 
 shadow, now in the sun, it tosses aloft its joyous 
 spray, till you almost feel the grateful shower, al 
 most hear the uproar of its wild wassail. But 
 soon its uproar is hushed. Its headlong haste is 
 lulled into a limpid calm. It floats out on the 
 plain, a little lake, soft, clear, molten, holding in 
 its deep heart the tender shadows of the moun 
 tains, sweet and pure and still. Ah ! well may 
 the frisky Undine pause in her morning song and 
 steady her flying feet for the long journey that 
 lies before her. This Laughing-water, this Min-
 
 152 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 nehaha that darts out in a frolic from her moun 
 tain-home, shall broaden and deepen into grave 
 Colorado. From her cradle in the rocks she shall 
 go down her steep stairways into the Indian val 
 leys, down among the waving wheat-fields and the 
 golden corn-lands, through the depths of dreadful 
 forests into the shining of hidden silver, through 
 many a rift -of tortured rock, with sweep and 
 swirl, raging and raving, a thousand miles to the 
 sea. Let her pause one breathing-space before 
 she starts on her winding-way. But we will not 
 follow her winding-way. Rather will we sit on 
 the smooth green bank, under the shade of these 
 cotton-wood trees, and dip our feet in the caress 
 ing waves. We will walk under these leafy- 
 arches, we will pierce this profound shade that is 
 rest, not gloom, and stroll a half-mile up that 
 lovely glen ; surely we shall find there such a 
 Happy Valley as Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia, 
 never saw or dreamed of. Faint and far the 
 echoes of deadly warfare reach our ears, blend 
 ing with the music of summer sounds that charm 
 away their bitterness and bale. One moment die 
 out, mad strife of might and right, and give for 
 clashing, peace. Here are small interests, small 
 acts, the homely life of a pristine race, old, so 
 old that no history, no tradition, reaches back to 
 unfold the secret of its birth ; yet forever young 
 and crude and rude, impervious to civilization, but 
 terribly open to deterioration and death. Tents
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE. 153 
 
 of rough poles and rougher skins, blackened with 
 smoke and hardened by wind and weather, form 
 the straggling village. They look not ill, har 
 monizing with the landscape, dotting the plain, 
 or snuggling under the coverts of the trees, but 
 they must be dingy and doleful within. You 
 would say, however, that one need not go with 
 in. Domestic life seems to be carried on out 
 doors. Dusky figures reclining on the green 
 sward, gay colors gorgeous in blanket and robe, 
 grotesque shapes blazoned on tent-cloth and out 
 lined on garments, what wild life is this here 
 in the heart of our nineteenth century? What 
 paganism lurks in the outskirts of our Christian 
 ity ? What religion stands side by side with 
 the Bible, under the very shadow of the Cross, 
 yet symbolizes itself with poles and embroidered 
 cloth? For this it is that shall drive away the 
 principalities and powers of the air and keep the 
 village free from the wiles of imps. Occupations 
 are intimated in the pile of slaughtered sheep 
 and birds, and the great grizzly bear that lies out 
 stretched and stiff, the centre of a gazing circle. 
 The cuisine is simple and secure. Fishes, stuck 
 lengthwise on a stick, hold grim conclave round 
 a generous fire. The nursery discipline is direct 
 and perfect. Witness the pappoose strapped to a 
 board and set upright against a tent. O Civili 
 zation ! which of your intricate systems furnishes 
 any substitute for this summary and sensible pro- 
 7*
 
 154 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 cess? It is a rural communism, a free, open, 
 careless social life. Dogs, children, horses, all 
 have a share in the common work and common 
 weal. There is no fiery Bucephalus, no match 
 less Don Fulano, but weaiy nags that may have 
 done their day's work handsomely, but stand now 
 listless and limp, or crop lazily the rank herbage, 
 or nestle head to head with dumb affection after 
 the manner of horses. Mother and child, warrior 
 and war-steed, all somewhat less regal than Coop 
 er's genius limned them, stud the plain with their 
 relaxed nomad life. One little fellow kneels 
 breathless behind the burrow of a marmot, his 
 tense bow set to twang death at the first pair of 
 bright eyes that shall dare to peep out. Little 
 Indian boy, the sheep and fatlings are enough. I 
 truly hope you will miss your aim. I believe, in 
 deed, that you are expending your patience in 
 vain, for the very marmot you seek is perched 
 here on a rock, and from the elevation of his hind 
 legs, is laughing heartily at this safe distance to 
 see what a fool he has made of you. And still 
 above squaw and pappoose, above marmot and vil 
 lage and limpid lake, bends the blue sky, rise the 
 solemn mountains, shines the summer sun, smiles 
 the Eternal Father. It is difficult to remember 
 as you gaze that it is but a picture. Once, twice, 
 you may peer in from the outside, unacquainted, 
 and not forget that you are in a great city, in her 
 whirl of dust and din. But looking with fond
 
 PICTURES AND A PICTURE. 155 
 
 persistence, suddenly the portals are swung open. 
 You do not so much see, you stand among the 
 mountains. You feel the breath of their inspira 
 tion. The little clouds that sail so naively across 
 the sun cast their umbrage at your feet. You 
 watch the shadows chasing each other up the stri 
 ated slopes, or stretching under the cliffs to melt 
 and mingle with the shadowy waters, and cannot 
 believe they are but " the consecration and the 
 poet's dream." Your own head is bared to the 
 balmy airs, and shines on you the fitful light that 
 now dances along the steeps, toying with the sturdy 
 verdure, now flickers over the fixedness, to crown 
 with a glory this granite repose, now hovers above 
 the shimmering mist of the cascade, or rests, a 
 benediction, on the lake. The coolness of the 
 valley, the silence of the mountains, the grand 
 calm and peace fill your heart. A deep content, 
 that has no speech nor language, settles into the 
 inmost recesses of your life. An aspiration, di 
 vine, and yet most human, that soothes at once 
 and stirs, shuts you in from the glare and glamour 
 of earth-born strife, lifts you to the heights of 
 heavenly fellowship, and while your feet press the 
 clods of the valley, you stand face to face with 
 the Immortals !
 
 XI. 
 
 A SUGGESTION. 
 
 TV "'LACK ! *' used Dr. Beecher to say, 
 when young men asked him if he 
 thought they could get "a place " to 
 
 S labor hi at the West, " Place ! the 
 West is all ' place ' ; you can't go amiss of a 
 * place ' ; make one, anywhere ! " 
 
 The West may be all place, but it is not the 
 whole of place. Here in the East are many 
 " places " unoccupied, and with no prospect of im 
 mediate occupation. At the same time there is a 
 large floating population of ministers. Therefore 
 one can but question whether our present mode 
 of bringing demand and supply together is the 
 best mode. 
 
 There is, for instance, a country parish in a 
 country village, which for two or six or a dozen 
 years, has been " running down." It has suffered 
 from the presence of a feeble pastor, or from a 
 heavy debt, or from the loss of its substantial 
 members, or from the bitterness of some long-
 
 A SUGGESTION. 157 
 
 standing feud. From whatever cause, it is at 
 ebb-tide, and suddenly finds itself without a pas 
 tor. It is not a particularly desirable field of 
 labor, looked at abstractly ; but there will be 
 plenty of laborers to offer their services. Now 
 there are many things to be considered. Perhaps 
 in its palmiest days, the parish paid six hundred 
 doUars a year to the clergyman. In its low estate 
 it would hardly like to offer less ; but if this sum 
 is to be raised, it must be done either by having a 
 man who will win over the disaffected pockets, or 
 else by inducing the few who are conscientious and 
 Christian to double and treble their own share, in 
 order to make up for the deficiencies of the others. 
 And these very men will probably be the ones 
 who, from their superior intelligence and charac 
 ter, disburse the largest charities, and incur the 
 largest expenses in other directions. The preach 
 ing of the Gospel, therefore, and the support of 
 the minister, necessitate an indirect extortion. 
 Those who do not guide their lives by strict 
 religious principle, but by whim, prejudice, and 
 likings, will not pay their share of the minister's 
 salary, and those who do, have a heavy burden to 
 carry, besides their own lawful part, which is no 
 burden. 
 
 Now why should ministers adopt a course differ 
 ent from that which is adopted by doctors, law 
 yers, grocers, shoemakers? None of these ever 
 go to the principal men in a village and bargain
 
 158 SKlR,\fISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 for a salary. They begin on their own responsi 
 bility. It is a run for luck. The lawyer and the 
 doctor put up their " sign " and await briefs and 
 patients. If they are skilful, practice comes, and 
 sometimes if they are not. Without overpowering 
 genius, they obtain a fair share of business, get a 
 comfortable living, marry, are chosen selectmen 
 and school committee, and to many other honor 
 able offices, and live happily all their days. But 
 nobody ever guarantees them anything. Why 
 should not ministers follow their example ? I 
 know that there is a more settled routine for them, 
 and therefore a fixed salary is more practicable. 
 But though the routine is settled, the minister is 
 not. Whether a young clergyman will be success 
 ful is just as problematical as whether a young 
 doctor or a young lawyer will be. The only way 
 they ascertain is by trying. Let the young minister 
 adopt the same mode. He preaches awhile. He 
 is liked by some, disliked by others, and causes but 
 indifference in others. The former would like to 
 " settle " him, but although they are in a majority, 
 the minority is still large, and without the assistance 
 of the latter his salary can hardly be wrenched out. 
 Besides, if they should settle him, it is a question 
 what the result will be. He may win over the hos 
 tile and the indifferent, or he may turn the latter 
 into the former, and the former into active foes, 
 and then in a few years there will be a quarrel, 
 and a council, and heart-burnings, and mischief,
 
 A SUGGESTION. 159 
 
 and so the name of God is blasphemed among the 
 Gentiles through them of the circumcision. 
 
 Now, when a young man, having been grad 
 uated from a theological seminary, hears of a 
 " place," why could he not repair thither, and 
 instead of terms, and bargains, and calls, and can- 
 didating, simply ascertain whether the situation is 
 such that it is worth while for him to try to fill it ? 
 If he decides that it is, then why not apply to the 
 authorities for permission to occupy the pulpit, 
 and visit the people, and try his hand? Let no 
 salary be so much as mentioned. The people do 
 not yet know what he is, nor what he is worth, 
 nor whether he is worth anything. By and by; 
 if he is suited to the place, and the place is 
 suited to him, the indifferent people will come to 
 church, the indifferent hearts will be aroused, love 
 will be awakened, justice will be revived, and the 
 laborer having been found worthy of his hire, will 
 be worthily paid. If some plan were devised 
 by which every member of the parish should 
 know every year exactly what his share of the 
 parish expense ought to be, the minister would 
 have a direct money criterion of his market value. 
 So many as pay him, so many suffrages has he. 
 So many as do not pay him, so many votes are 
 cast against him. If, at the end of a year or two, 
 he has not educated the people up to the point of 
 paying him on the score of justice, or touched 
 them to the depth of paying him on the score of
 
 160 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 love, he has so far failed. But, as it should be, 
 the penalty of the failure rests on him, not on the 
 few faithful and active members of his parish 
 and church, who are in no wise guilty of his in 
 efficiency. And if he is not able by his own 
 powers and piety to lead the community, ought 
 he to wish his weakness to be bolstered up by the 
 kindness of friends. If he cannot stand alone, 
 should he not go where he can, rather than remain 
 leaning on this and that parochial staff ? 
 
 The question may arise what is he to live on 
 while he is passing through his probation, and 
 receiving no pay ? I reply, just what the doc 
 tor and the lawyer live on under the same 
 circumstances. They obtain occasional fees for 
 occasional services, and almost always there will 
 be conscientious and just people in a parish, 
 even when the minister enters it, who will, for 
 the right's sake, be as prompt as client or 
 patient. Meanwhile, let the young minister re 
 member that he is the servant of Him who had 
 not where to lay his head. Let him not shrink 
 from faring, for love of Christ, no better than 
 thousands fare for love of money. If worse comes 
 to worst, let him try squatter sovereignty. A 
 very little money and the labor of his own hands, 
 will build him a shelter as good as the soldier's 
 barracks, and this hut let him turn into a palace 
 by the purity of his heart and the dignity of his 
 life. Let him show the people indisputably, that
 
 A SUGGESTION. 161 
 
 lie is in earnest, that he is not seeking salary, but 
 souls ; that his profession is not dilettanteism, but 
 a life-work ; that he counts fashion and style and 
 luxury as nothing, if they stand in the way of his 
 errand. Let them see that his mission is not of 
 this world ; that he is well content with locusts 
 and wild honey, if so he can but feed them with 
 the bread of life. Then the people will be di 
 vested of that feeling which many seem to have 
 that the minister is despoiling them ; that the 
 money which goes to him is a gift, a gratuity. 
 Of course, he must acquaint them in the begin 
 ning with his line of action, so that they, as well 
 as he, may act intelligently. They must know 
 that, however good or great he may be, his ulti 
 mate tarry with them depends upon his receiving 
 an adequate support ; but they must also know 
 that his adequate support is only means to an end, 
 and that he will show them that he is somewhat 
 able to accomplish that end before they shall be 
 expected to furnish means. The young man will 
 perhaps have to endure hardships, but he is a 
 soldier of the cross. Let him nourish the true 
 missionary spirit, remembering that not pagans 
 only bow down to wood and stone, but that Chris 
 tendom, too, is but slightly Christianized. If he 
 utterly fails to secure a generous support, let him 
 console himself with the reflection that he is only 
 bearing on his own shoulders the burden which 
 would otherwise fall on the shoulders of a few
 
 162 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 men in his parish to whom it did not belong. 
 And if repeated trials result in repeated failures, 
 still the army and the navy, and the rich Western 
 prairie lands lie open to him, and no man of ordi 
 nary sense, health, and prudence need starve in 
 America.
 
 XII. 
 A COURT CRIME. 
 
 superintending through stormy times 
 1H the affairs of one's own country, one 
 Hi'j is sometimes obliged to let foreign 
 misdemeanors pass unnoticed for a 
 while ; which explains the reason why I have 
 suffered a crying sin in England's high places to 
 go these four months all unrebuked. 
 
 An English correspondent of an American news 
 paper says : 
 
 " I learn that there was quite a rebellion at 
 Windsor Castle. The Princess vehemently op 
 posed having a wet nurse, and the Prince took 
 her side, and could not see why she should not be 
 allowed to nurse the babe, as she strongly desired 
 to do. But she was told that the court traditions 
 could not be set aside ; never was English prince 
 or princess yet nursed by its own mother. So the 
 healthy and virtuous Mrs. O'Somebody was sent 
 for, and the Princess had a long cry. This is a 
 true story, and somewhat more valuable than or 
 dinary court gossip."
 
 164 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 What a story is this to be true ! True in a 
 Christian country, and one that has been a Chris 
 tian country for many a hundred years ! If true, 
 it is a blot on the British escutcheon, a shame to 
 British civilization. Are there no women in Eng 
 land, that court traditions are allowed to lord it 
 over instinct? Are there no men in England who 
 have sentimentalized concerning maternity and in 
 fancy as the manner of men is, that they have not 
 risen in a body to rescue from the hands of the Phi 
 listines this outraged young mother, this poor 
 little girl, who left father and mother, sisters and 
 brothers, home and country, trusting herself to 
 the promised love and tenderness of a strange and 
 foreign nation ? English women have been great 
 ly shocked because slavery was permitted to exist 
 under our flag of the free, and have counted and 
 recounted, with ever-increasing horror, its dreadful 
 deeds of darkness, the slave-husband's inability 
 to protect his wife, the slave-mother's agony for 
 the baby torn from her arms. Their horror was 
 just. It was honorable to their sensibility. It 
 was the unerring testimony of Nature against a 
 cruel wrong, a crime against Humanity, a 
 sin against God. But if a child is to be torn wan 
 tonly and violently from its mother's bosom, does 
 it make any difference whether it is done on the 
 eastern or western side of an ocean ? by the white, 
 small hands of an English lady, or the sun-browned 
 ones of an American slave-dealer ? Is morality
 
 A COURT CRIME. 165 
 
 an affair of latitude or longitude, of pedigree or 
 profession ? If one must be bound, what matter 
 whether the chain be of gold or iron ? The differ 
 ence between fetters and freedom is not a differ 
 ence between one metal and another. If this story 
 be true, the second lady in England is a slave. 
 She is under the control of an arbitrary power, 
 a power which is not of God, and not of law, and 
 what is this but slavery ? And this slavery con 
 cerns the most vital interests. This arbitrary, ir 
 responsible power thrusts itself into the innermost 
 sacred shrines of life, and is thus utterly offensive, 
 utterly intolerable. This slavery England toler 
 ates. Has a single protest been made against such 
 usurpation ? Has a single voice been lifted high 
 enough to reach the ear of that court tyrant, 
 Tradition, and to bring to his guilty heart one 
 throb of misgiving ? Yet if the English people 
 really willed that their future Queen should not 
 be deprived of the freedom which the meanest of 
 her subjects enjoy, could they not accomplish it ? 
 Cannot the English voice penetrate the English 
 court, and give to a father and mother control 
 over their own child in matters where other con 
 trol is contrary to the law of God ? 
 
 That the Princess, in a strange land and a 
 strange family, should have made so stubborn a 
 fight as she did, is the best thing we have yet 
 known of her, and all that we have known is 
 good. I have heard that there are women who,
 
 166 SKIRMfSB&S AND SKETCHES 
 
 of their own will and choice, not constrained by 
 circumstances, decline to nurse their own babies ; 
 choose to give them over to hirelings ! I do not 
 know how that may be, but if such beings do exist, 
 I should consider them as beings laboring under 
 some moral deformity, not to be blamed, perhaps, 
 but very much to be pitied. Princess Alexandra 
 is none of these. Evidently she holds " her un 
 crowned womanhood to be the royal thing." She 
 is neither Queen nor Princess, but a happy wife 
 and mother, counting nothing in court or kingdom 
 so delightful as her own little pink, fat, shapeless, 
 senseless darling ; and having tasted the bitter 
 ness of death, which is spared to neither high nor 
 low, she is denied the sweetness and solace which 
 the humblest mother in the world may enjoy. It 
 is an aggravated outrage ! O poor little head 
 waiting to be crowned ! If the shadow of the 
 bawble brings such 'sorrow, what will its press 
 ure be ? 
 
 Let us hope that the Prince of Wales, as he 
 grows older, will grow stronger, strong enough 
 at least to rule in his own household when his 
 rule is right, and in line with his wife's wishes. 
 In the present case he seems amiable, but not 
 commanding ; less authoritative than might be 
 reasonably looked for in a prince, and demanded 
 in a husband and father. We are told that he is 
 going to give a blow to tradition that will shake 
 the whole island, by substituting the frock-coat for
 
 A COURT CRIME. 167 
 
 the dress-coat, or the dress-coat for the frock, I 
 cannot speak with certainty. But if the Prince 
 of Wales is strong enough to make the solid earth 
 tremble under his feet by causing a change of 
 costume, surely he is strong enough to do it by 
 causing a change of custom. If he can put down 
 a fashion that overspreads his empire, he can cer 
 tainly put down one that stalks only through 
 Windsor Castle. If he can raise a great commo 
 tion for so small a matter as the shape of a gar 
 ment, he can raise a small commotion for so great 
 a matter as a soul's weal and a soul's happiness. 
 We may hope too, that as the Princess grows 
 older, and becomes more wonted to her position 
 and mistress of the situation, she will take matters 
 into her own hand, as she certainly gives promise 
 of developing an ability to do, and cease to im 
 plore, where she has a right to command. 
 
 Meanwhile, where is Queen Victoria with her 
 world-renowned home-virtues, that she should not 
 hafve a queenly word to say in an affair so purely 
 and vitally domestic as this? She whose pride 
 and glory it has been to bring up her children 
 herself, could s*he not interpose in behalf of 
 nature against an arbitrary, inexcusable, traditional 
 whim ? 
 
 One cannot help regretting that the pretty 
 Princess did not cry longer. I suppose she did 
 the best she could, and she showed admirable 
 spirit, and a truly womanly and lovely character
 
 168 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 in doing what she did. Evidently she protested 
 vehemently, entirely regardless of past and future, 
 of fashion or etiquette, and indeed of everything 
 but the one intense desire to nurse her own baby, 
 like the good, honest girl she is. But there is 
 never any use in crying for anything, unless you 
 cry till you get it. To stop short of the object is 
 worse than not to begin. . And more than this, if 
 you do stop, you are sure to stop at the very point 
 where the opposition was beginning to give way. 
 I have no doubt that, if Alexandra could have held 
 out ten minutes longer, the healthy and virtuous 
 Mrs. O'Somebody would have been directed to 
 pack up her health and her virtue and go home, 
 and the little lord would have been restored to his 
 rightful lady; whereas by "behaving herself" 
 prematurely, she is daily subjected to the un 
 speakable indignity of seeing her own baby at 
 another woman's breast. 
 
 It is a great gratification to know that the little 
 fellow cried vociferously through the whole cere 
 mony of his christening. Virtuous wet-nurse, 
 grandmother Queen, and court tradition were 
 powerless to restrain or modify his shrieks. I 
 have no doubt it was because his milk disagreed 
 with him, naturally enough since nature had not 
 intended it for him, but made it to the order of 
 another baby. I sincerely hope that he will con 
 tinue to avenge his dear mamma, and disgrace the 
 court by squalling at the top of his lungs on every
 
 A COURT CRIME. 169 
 
 public occasion, till he is twenty-one years old, 
 and ceases in the eyes of the law to be an infant. 
 Then, possibly, court tradition may no longer im 
 piously set itself up against God's own beautiful 
 ordinances, and unless it can dispense with the in 
 stitution of babies altogether, may not deprive 
 that institution of its most delightful features. 
 Then it is to be hoped " the blessings happy 
 peasants have" may belong also to crowned and 
 uncrowned queens
 
 XIII. 
 
 MOB PATRIOTISM. 
 
 INGE the wise man has informed us 
 that as in water face answereth to 
 face, so does the heart of man to 
 man, we ought not, perhaps, to be 
 surprised at seeing in our borders occasional out 
 bursts of the same lawlessness as that which ex 
 cites our reprobation in the South. Nevertheless 
 we cannot look upon them without mortification. 
 They tend to show that the anti-slavery sentiment 
 of the North, and the pro-slavery sentiment of the 
 South, are matters of soil, climate, and locality, 
 not of intelligent, enlightened Christian principle. 
 Mobs at the South attack a man for attachment 
 to the Union. Mobs at the North attack him for 
 indifference to the Union. The former, owing to 
 their hotter blood, are, perhaps, more violent and 
 demonstrative than the latter ; but the two stand 
 otherwise on the same footing. Both are equal 
 ly brutal, cowardly, and indefensible. Nay, the 
 Southern mob is more excusable than its North-
 
 MOB PATRIOTISM. 171 
 
 ern counterpart. They are in constant danger. 
 They in many, perhaps in most cases, no doubt 
 honestly believe that their victims have been 
 tampering with destructive implements ; that the 
 loyalty of the slaves and the lives of the mas 
 ters are at stake, and can be saved only by the 
 severest treatment of those whom they believe 
 guilty, and it is sheer self-defence in them to 
 ward off even the appearance of danger. If they 
 go further than they need, if they sometimes see 
 trouble where none exists, if they confound trivial 
 with serious things, and by excessive caution and 
 rigor accelerate and aggravate the evil which they 
 dread, the greatness and imminence of the calam 
 ity is their excuse ; but we do not believe that one 
 man in ten at the North apprehends any personal, 
 or municipal, or national danger from the man 
 whose house or stall he surrounds, and whom 
 he forces to raise a flag, or to disclaim or retract 
 words which he had previously spoken. The ob 
 noxious persons are in a hopeless minority, their 
 reputation not brilliant, nor wide-spread, and 
 their influence small. The proceedings against 
 them are all that makes their names known be 
 yond their own immediate circle. Moreover, if 
 danger is apprehended, of what use are the means 
 taken to prevent it? If a man is a traitor at heart, 
 is he any less a traitor because a motley crowd 
 forces him to raise the " Red, White, and Blue ? " 
 If he is concocting, aiding, or abetting rebellion,
 
 172 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 can he not go on just as blithely under the Stars 
 and Stripes as under the Palmetto-tree ? If a 
 man does anything contrary to law, let the law 
 be brought to bear upon him in full force. If he 
 is not doing anything contrary to law, he should 
 be left unmolested. If his sentiments are un 
 worthy of a patriot while his words and deeds 
 are not amenable to the law, you can refuse 
 to buy his meat, or shoes, or broadcloth, or 
 pills, or sermons, or grain. You can avoid so- ' 
 cial intercourse with him, and thus express your 
 disapprobation, with sufficient force and distinct 
 ness for all practical purposes. But every time 
 a mob collects and forces a man by threats to 
 make a speech, or raise a flag, or do anything 
 which of his own free will he would not do, 
 the cause of Liberty and Republicanism is de 
 graded. Every citizen who lends himself to such 
 uses helps to lower his State to the level of the 
 rebellious States, and sets Massachusetts side by 
 side with South Carolina, or as much lower than 
 South Carolina as the institutions of Massachusetts 
 are higher. Cotton-mob men can hardly help be 
 ing ignorant and brutal. Born in hovels, bred on 
 whiskey, they naturally grow up into lewd fellows 
 of the baser sort ; but Massachusetts men have had 
 opportunities enough to be intelligent and well- 
 mannered, and if they are not, it is their own 
 fault. Their moral education ought also to show 
 them that there is an essential cowardice in assem-
 
 MOB PATRIOTISM. 173 
 
 bling twenty, fifty, or a thousand men, against one. 
 Their numbers give them immunity from danger, 
 so that they run no risk, while making him run 
 all risks. They are for the time voluntary slave 
 holders, and as tyrannical as it is possible for a 
 slaveholder to be. They judge by hearsay, and in 
 their riotous organization often do gross injustice, 
 even on their own rude principle ; insulting men 
 who are just as patriotic as themselves. Patriotic ! 
 It is difficult to believe that the feeling which 
 raises mobs is a whit more truly patriotic than the 
 feeling which mobs are raised to suppress. Love 
 of country which displays itself in violating the 
 laws of country, is a very questionable sentiment. 
 Freedom of speech and of opinion is the foundation- 
 stone of the Republic. Anything which would 
 destroy that, runs counter to the whole current of 
 our institutions, and, in essence, is treason in the 
 first degree
 
 XIV. 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 BEHIND yonder close-drawn curtain I 
 know a still form lies. 
 
 For warmth, coldness, for song, 
 silence, for mirth, mourning, for 
 life, death. 
 
 War has reaped his red harvests on many a bat 
 tle-field. Sorrow has stalked through the land, 
 scattering broadcast his seeds of woe. But no 
 breadth of grief diminishes its depth. A desolated 
 hearth is just as desolate as if desolated hearths 
 were not shivering all around it. 
 
 There are tears for heroes fallen, for stately 
 homes laid waste ; but none the less there shall be 
 tears for a lowly life departed, a lamp gone out in 
 a cottage chamber. 
 
 Irish Ellen. Good and faithful soul, with the 
 warm, rich, island blood leaping in every pulse. 
 Brown hair as deep, as glossy, and abundant as 
 ever lay parted over royal brows, brown eyes 
 full of the soft light of love and laughter, the
 
 ELLEN. 175 
 
 sunshine nestles there no more. They have gone 
 down to darkness and the grave. 
 
 I hear a little cooing voice that cannot yet even 
 speak the mother's name, but only purrs out a 
 blind, ignorant joy. I hear the wavering, un 
 steady tread of little feet that have but just learned 
 their uses, and go stumbling and failing with keen 
 delight in a new-found power. But I hear no 
 more the old sound, the mother's embracing 
 voice that wrapped around the baby-gurgling with 
 its caressing tones. Always I heard that sound 
 responsive to the baby-voice, never failing, 
 never tired, never less full of fondness and fresh 
 ness than at the first, a dear duet, sweet as the 
 song of the new creation when the morning stars 
 sang together ; joyful as that old acclaim when all 
 the sons of God shouted for joy. 
 
 O, the unfathomable depth of the mother-heart 
 that lies now all unheeding ! The unutterable 
 love that no pain could terrify, no care, no work, 
 nor watching tire ! War and poverty and taxa 
 tion were nothing. Weariness, impatience, ambi 
 tion found no entrance there. Love, pure, clear, 
 full, perfect content in a baby-life, made the even 
 ing and the morning the first and the eternal day. 
 Even old Ireland beckoned in vain. All the mu 
 sic of the spheres was drowned in that little cooing 
 voice. All the motion of the universe centred in 
 those little stumbling feet. 
 
 And the baby will forget his mother. Now his
 
 176 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 little heart feebly recalls her. Now and then a 
 faint wail moans over his lips for the lips, the 
 voice, the bosom that he vaguely misses. Now 
 his blind hands fumble at the door, groping for 
 the mother that lies within, mother no more, 
 a statue, a stone, a death. Sad is the dim 
 sorrow of that tiny life, but saddest of all the cer 
 tainty that it will so quickly pass away. To-mor 
 row and to-morrow it will be less. In a week 
 there will be no trace. All that boundless love, 
 that inexhaustible treasure-trove of tenderness, 
 will be as if it had never been. Is it not a waste ? 
 He will grow up and never know it. No mem 
 ory will recall, no inspiration will reveal to him 
 that ocean of love in which his young life was 
 lapped and lulled to dreamless ecstacy. Was it 
 not a waste ? O, Ellen, on whatever far-off 
 world you walk in white, in whatever garments 
 of praise your soul has robed herself, do you not 
 miss and mourn this little cooing voice, these little 
 stumbling feet ? Even in the heaven of heavens 
 can you find any joy that can quite atone for this ? 
 O, faithless heart ! what words are these ? Eye 
 hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have en 
 tered into the heart of man, the things which God 
 hath prepared. He hath made man, male and 
 female in his own image. Fatherhood, mother 
 hood, meet in God. He will satisfy the wants 
 which he has created. 
 
 It was but a homely life that Ellen led, and
 
 ELLEN. HI 
 
 homely virtues those with which she adorned it. 
 A short and happy life seamed with sorrows, a 
 life spent in the kitchen, at the wash-tub and the 
 ironing-table, such a life has little to commend 
 it to the world's regard. Yet many and many a 
 man lives in the full blaze and bray of renown, 
 and his passing away will be commemorated with 
 the varied pomp of requiem, and slow-moving pro 
 cession, and stately mausoleum, who will deserve 
 less of his country than this young Irish exile. A 
 humble work well done shall find a better, though 
 not a surer, guerdon than the indulgence of an 
 intellectual, esthetic, or sensual selfishness, calling 
 itself by whatever name it choose. Ellen stood at 
 the wash-tub and the ironing-table, and neither 
 crease nor stain marred the purity of the white 
 folds that passed under her hands. She ordered 
 the table, and every spoon knew its place. She 
 went through the chambers, and no fairy's wand 
 ever did completer work than mop and broom in 
 those stout red arms of hers. Speck and fleck fled 
 before her, giving up the battle half-fought from 
 sheer faint-heartedness. And she wrought cheer 
 ily. Her work was a song. Nothing was too 
 much for her. The day was never too long nor 
 the task too hard. She never gave eye-service. 
 She did everything, and then she polished it, 
 making a poem of drudgery. Dishonesty or false 
 hood never came near her. I think there were 
 sharp possibilities in those soft brown oyes, but I 
 8* i,
 
 178 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 never struck fire from them, nor ever saw the 
 lightnings flash. Always beneficent herself, in 
 exhaustible in kindnesses and all good deeds, she 
 overflowed with gratitude. A little bunch of 
 white Innocence, plucked for her dead-born baby 
 about to be borne to his burial, commanded her 
 perpetual vassalage. The smallest token of re 
 membrance, slender services of the merest simple 
 consideration, she repaid with such full measure 
 of thanks, and such signal strength of thew and' 
 nerve, deeming no return sufficient, as put to 
 shame our cold acknowledgments. 
 
 O sovereign mystery of death ! What is this 
 change that comes so swift, yet so slow, so still, 
 yet with such sudden shock ? Yesterday, a warm, 
 living, loving person ; to-day a Thing, a Terror. 
 Yesterday, she ; to-day, it. Yesterday, here, liv 
 ing among the old faces, the old places ; to-day, no 
 farthest star so remote. 
 
 And what is this that lies here pallid and un- 
 beautiful ? What is that which is gone and left 
 it so ? Whence came the life that flushed and 
 filled this temple ? Whither has it fled and left 
 a tomb ? Where in all the infinite universe, 
 where among the ineffable glories of the visible or 
 invisible heavens, where beyond all that eye hath 
 seen or can see, dwells the flitted soul ? Has the 
 spark glowed into a flame ? Is the little rush 
 light of earthly love lost ? no, that cannot be ! 
 God grant that can never be ! but overflooded
 
 ELLEN. 179 
 
 with the celestial radiance? What and whence 
 and whither ? 
 
 Vainly we question. There is no reply. 
 
 She has solved the problem. This Ellen, late 
 so familiar to us ; so humble, so deferent, so little 
 wise, so ministrative to our comforts, so subor 
 dinate to our wants, she has rent the veil. She 
 has passed beyond our sight into the Unknown 
 Land. She, who used to receive wonderingly 
 our shreds of information, might now, if we could 
 gather at her feet, tell us the strange story which 
 no man knows. Statesmen, philosophers, sages, 
 all might hang on her lips, and learn the awful 
 secret. 
 
 Ignorance, Doubt, Fear, hear what the Lord 
 Jesus Christ saith: I am the resurrection and the 
 life : he that believeth in me, though he were dead, 
 yet shall he live.
 
 XV. 
 
 A WORD TO THE INCONSIDERATE. 
 
 HERE is such a disease especially 
 in New England as consumption. 
 It is greatly dreaded because it is sup 
 posed to be incurable. It is not a 
 positive thing that rushes at its victim and strikes 
 him down in a day. It is a lurking, subtle foe, 
 
 flattering, deceiving, terrifying. The busy 
 wife and mother has been weak and listless, and 
 unable to " turn off work " for the last year or 
 two ; her step has grown manifestly feebler, and 
 her cheek paler than it used to be ; her husband 
 has taken her to the seaside, and the Springs, and 
 the mountains, and has consulted all the famous 
 doctors, and even looks with interest at the col 
 umn where patent medicines are advertised ; not 
 withstanding, she occasionally loses her voice, and 
 speaks in a whisper, perhaps for months together, 
 
 begins to lie in bed late in the morning, and to 
 tremble before the raw northeast winds. It is very 
 sad, and the hearts of those who love her are filled
 
 A WORD TO THE INCONSIDERATE. 181 
 
 with foreboding. But do not therefore kill her 
 with kindness. Oranges and grapes, cooling fruits 
 and simple delicacies, to a limited extent, may be 
 grateful to her ; but a woman not in robust health 
 is not a Wantley dragon, that can devour by the 
 bushel cakes, jelly, pastry, highly-seasoned meats, 
 and all manner of pickled and potted things. Rea 
 son would seem to teach that there cannot be much 
 comfort in seeing one's self surrounded with dainties 
 which one cannot touch. A bunch of flowers, or 
 a single flower, or a curious moss, or a pretty en 
 graving, or a pencil sketch, would be vastly better, 
 anything that takes the invalid out of herself, 
 that directs her attention to something else, which 
 is one of the roads to recovery. But the sight of 
 food that one cannot eat, forces attention to the 
 fact that one cannot eat, and so the carefully pre 
 pared dish is not only useless, but discouraging, 
 to all except the Irish girl in the kitchen, who 
 fares sumptuously as long as it lasts. 
 
 Nor is it well to question the invalid too often 
 respecting her health. If she were suffering from 
 an acute and violent disease, whose aspects have 
 new significance every hour, and whose culmina 
 tion is momently expected, inquiry would be excus 
 able. But she is not. She is in precisely the same 
 condition one day as another, so far as can be seen. 
 If there is change, it is imperceptible. She and 
 her friends are living, and waiting, and hoping, 
 and trying. Did you ever think how much
 
 182 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 difficulty she finds in answering your inquiry? 
 " Pretty well, thank you," is out of the question, 
 because she is not pretty well. She cannot file a 
 bill of particulars every day, and what resource 
 has she ? It is much better to show sympathy 
 in some other way. Be patiently receptive, but 
 not officiously inquisitive of facts. When there is 
 anything of moment you will learn it in one way 
 or another. Ask the doctor, and if he snubs you, 
 reflect that it was best you should be snubbed, and 
 rejoice that you asked one who had a right to do 
 it, and not your friend, who would have been re 
 strained by gratitude. 
 
 Especially is it not well to ask the invalid's hus 
 band, confidentially, " What do you think of her? " 
 adding, by way of consolation, " It does not seem 
 to me she can live." In the first place, human na 
 ture is the most uncertain thing in the world. A 
 man may dispense with lungs entirely. At least 
 there is a man yet living and in firm health, whose 
 doctors told him twenty years ago that his lungs 
 were gone'. A woman who had consumption to 
 the degree of losing her voice for years, and taking 
 leave of her friends, has just set up a boarding- 
 house. People never know what they can live 
 through till they have tried it. Our Creator did 
 not make us stingily. He left a broad margin. 
 We can give up a good many outposts before 
 the citadel must surrender ; and the fight is so 
 prolonged, that often by the time it is over, we
 
 A WORD TO THE INCONSIDERATE. 183 
 
 should have had to yield in the natural course of 
 things. 
 
 And suppose your friend cannot live, what is 
 gained by such a remark ? Are her chances for 
 life increased? Is she, or are her friends, prepared 
 to meet death with fortitude ? Hope is the great 
 opponent of disease ; when a man's spirits give 
 way, his strength follows. To dishearten him is 
 to kill him. " He that loses money," says the 
 old Spanish proverb, " loses much ; he that loses 
 friends loses more; he that loses his spirits loses 
 all." The sons of the prophets at Jericho heard 
 that Elijah was to be taken up by a whirlwind to 
 heaven, and they came out in great excitement to 
 meet Elisha. " Knowest thou that the Lord will 
 take away thy master from thy head to-day ? " 
 "Yea, I know it," answers Elisha, heart-sick; 
 "hold ye your peace." There are things that 
 will not bear to be talked about. Your friend 
 and his sick wife, in the solitude of their own 
 room, before the throne of the Most High, will 
 
 O 7 
 
 adjust themselves as best they may, to the con 
 ditions of their life. They may even come to 
 speak cheerfully of a separation which they assid 
 uously strive to prevent. They will not weakly 
 shut their eyes to the possible future, while they 
 labor and pray to shape it after their desire. But 
 where each other's touch only soothes and strength 
 ens, a stranger's is torture. What does he think 
 of her? He does not know and if he does, he
 
 184 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 cannot tell. There is a terrible definiteness in 
 words. He sees the Possibility that stands black 
 and frowning in his path, but shall he limn it for 
 another's gaze ? The heart knoweth its own 
 bitterness, and strangers should not intermeddle. 
 He is girding up his loins in the name of the 
 Lord to wade threugh his Slough of Despond. 
 Do not insist upon his measuring it, and giving 
 you its length, breadth, and cubic contents. What 
 you can discuss calmly, is to him fraught with the 
 issues of life. You are walking carefully, sympa 
 thetically, it may be, but coolly, over their hearts. 
 
 It is not necessary to tell a lie ; but also it is 
 not necessary to speak the truth. It only needs to 
 be cheerful. Do not look pitying. Talk about 
 common things in a common way, the common 
 things that belong to this life and those that touch 
 on all life. Walk softly, and act Christianly in 
 your own sphere, but do not project yourself into 
 your friend's innermost circle where He alone 
 should tread whose form is like the Son of God. 
 
 And if your neighbor has a baby who sickens 
 through these wintry days, whose little life quivers 
 on its mother's love, do not jocosely inform the 
 mother, just as you are stepping into the sleigh 
 for a drive, that you expected every day last 
 month to see its death in the papers. If the baby 
 were a French turnip with which your neighbor 
 was trying an experiment, such a mode of speech 
 might be tolerable. Babies, I know, are consum-
 
 A WORD TO THE INCONSIDERATE. 185 
 
 ers and not producers, and there are thousands of 
 them all pretty much alike. It may very well be 
 that society does not miss the few who cannot 
 weather the storm ; but whatever may be true of 
 babies in general, it is unquestionable that every 
 particular infant lies very near to its mother's 
 heart, and should not be lightly spoken of. 
 
 Sometimes babies die. The little lambent light 
 that played so softly and sweetly around the home 
 hearth goes out, and there is a horror of great 
 darkness. Then you will come in your pity and 
 offer consolation. You will begin to explain the 
 mysteries of Providence, and "justify the ways of 
 God to man." But Job did not open his mouth 
 and curse his day till his friends came to comfort 
 him. Lacon says it is often easier to bear our mis 
 fortunes than the comments of our friends upon 
 them. Some people like to talk and be talked to 
 in their sorrow. Others do not. They prefer 
 to commune with their own hearts and be still. 
 Go to the former and talk. It will relieve them. 
 But with the latter, hold ye your peace. And try 
 and have a little discernment to find out which is 
 which. 
 
 Job had a great deal of trouble. From being 
 the greatest Sheikh in the whole East, the happy 
 father of a goodly family, he was suddenly re 
 duced to poverty and desolation. The Sabeans 
 fell upon his five hundred yoke of oxen and five 
 hundred she-asses; the fire of God smote his
 
 186 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 seven thousand sheep ; the Chaldeans swept off 
 his three thousand camels ; a tornado rushed from 
 the wilderness and buried his children under the 
 ruins of their house ; and a frightful disease laid 
 hold upon his body ; yet through it all Job re 
 tained his integrity ; and when his wife, with 
 weaker faith, despairingly bade him curse God 
 and die, his meekness and patience quietly an 
 swered, " Shall we receive good at the hand of 
 God, and shall we not receive evil ? " 
 
 But Job had not seen the worst. He was to 
 prove Lacon's statement. Eliphaz the Temanite, 
 and Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naama- 
 thite made an appointment together to come and 
 mourn with him and to comfort him. For seven 
 days and nights none spake a word unto him ; for 
 they saw that his grief was very great. It is a 
 pity that they could not have continued so con 
 siderate a course ; but when Job had once lifted 
 the flood-gate, the love of talking proved too 
 strong for them. None of them spoke well. It 
 would have been better for their reputation if they 
 had not spoken at all ; but as Eliphaz, disregarding 
 his better judgment, says apologetically in the be 
 ginning, " Who can withhold himself from speak 
 ing ? " He affirms that Job had always been very 
 helpful to other people when they were in trouble, 
 yet as soon as the trouble came upon him he faint 
 ed ; but that God would surely deliver him ; for 
 who ever perished being innocent? It is rather
 
 A WORD TO THE INCONSIDERATE. 187 
 
 commonplace, but well-meant and cheery, which 
 is more than can be said of Bildad's remarks. Bil- 
 dad seems to have been one of those harsh, dis 
 agreeable Christians, who pride themselves on 
 having no nonsense about them ; who go straight 
 to the mark, regardless of other's feelings ; who 
 have no mercy on right-hand fallings-off, or left- 
 hand deflections ; who make no allowance for fric 
 tion in their mechanics, or lack of simple appre 
 hension in their logic. Eliphaz began quietly, " If 
 we assay to commune with thee, wilt thou be 
 grieved?" But Bildad, of coarser grain, walks 
 stoutly into the middle of things, and rudely asks, 
 " How long shall the words of thy mouth be like a 
 strong wind ? " Eliphaz reasons, " Job is upright, 
 therefore he will be happy." Bildad, less polite, 
 less catholic, and not more logical, says, "Job is 
 miserable, therefore he must be bad." " Where 
 did you ever know a righteous man cut off?" says 
 Eliphaz. " If thou wert pure and upright, God 
 would make the habitation of thy righteousness 
 prosperous," is Bildad's astute reasoning ; but Job 
 still replies meekly, " I know it is so of a truth, 
 but how should a man be just with God ? " Then 
 Zophar takes up the word, but, instead of copying 
 the polite Eliphaz, he is even more rude than Bil 
 dad. " Should a man full of talk be justified ? 
 Should their lies make men hold their peace ? 
 Know, that God exacteth of thee less than thine 
 iniquity deserveth," which may have been true,
 
 188 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 but did not belong to Zophar to say. Job's anger 
 is kindled at length. " No doubt," he says, with a 
 fine sarcasm, " but ye are the people, and wisdom 
 shall die with you. But I have understanding as 
 well as you ; I am not inferior to you. What ye 
 know, the same do I know also. Ye are forgers of 
 lies, ye are all physicians of no value. O that ye 
 would altogether hold your peace ! and it should 
 be your wisdom." Never Job spoke a truer word. 
 The whole manner in which he turns upon them, 
 flinging back their reproaches, probing to the quick 
 the self-complacency which they veil under a flimsy 
 pretence of defending God, avowing a faith in God 
 and a consciousness of sin infinitely stronger than 
 they can have any conception of, yet at the same 
 time meeting their charge of hypocrisy with a 
 proud assertion of his integrity, is admirable. It 
 is a spirited and sensible reply, and an effectual. 
 Bildad and Zophar utter no more officious conso 
 lation and self-satisfied reproaches. In fact, they 
 are put on the defensive by Job's dexterous sortie, 
 and have enough to do without attacking him. 
 Eliphaz, indeed, who seems to have been a rather 
 weak man and inclined to go with the majority, is 
 somewhat alarmed at finding how much more ani 
 mated and severe the others are than himself, and 
 tries to make up for it by increased severity, not 
 able to see that he is taking up a weapon which 
 they have thrown down ; but Job turns away 
 in disgust. " I have heard many such things be-
 
 A WORD TO THE INCONSIDERATE. 189 
 
 fore. Miserable comforters are ye all. I also 
 could speak as ye do ; if your soul were in my 
 soul's stead, I could heap up words against you, 
 and shake my head at you. But / would 
 strengthen you with my mouth, and the moving 
 of my lips should assuage your grief." 
 
 How exquisitely do we see portrayed in this 
 little drama the misery which well-meaning, but 
 shallow friends can impose on a superior soul. 
 Looking only at externals, judging only from their 
 own point of view, they attempt to assuage a grief 
 of which they know nothing. Their scant line 
 cannot fathom its depth, their narrow vision can 
 not embrace its breadth, their coarse touch has 
 no conception of its quality ; they only see that 
 sorrow is there, and feeling it their duty to com 
 fort, and feeling also very likely a sincere desire 
 to comfort, they begin to do something which they 
 call comforting, but which to their victim is any 
 thing but comfortable. His sensitive nature is 
 tortured, his motives misunderstood, his acts mis 
 construed, till his earnest prayer is, " Save me 
 from my friends." They bring forward their 
 threadbare shreds of philosophy, when all philoso 
 phy lies at his feet. They proffer homoeopathic 
 doses of religion when he keeps his hold on life 
 only by placing his lips close to the life-springs of 
 salvation. Yet they mean well and must not be 
 repulsed, unless, like Job's friends, they impose 
 upon good-nature, and condemn where they are 
 called upon to condole.
 
 190 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 But when God speaks, the scene changes. Pet 
 tinesses vanish. That self-justification which is 
 sometimes a duty towards man, is not required 
 towards God. He never makes mistakes. " Gird 
 up now thy loins like a man," says the divine 
 voice, and the earthly soul, bowed down with a 
 sudden vision of sin makes lowly answer, " I ab 
 hor myself and repent in dust and ashes."
 
 XVI. 
 
 DRUNKENNESS AND DRINKING. 
 
 !>HATEVER may be our views regard 
 ing the effects of alcohol upon the 
 system, the propriety of furnishing 
 wine at -evening parties, the necessity 
 of total abstinence, the importance of signing the 
 pledge, we are all agreed in thinking that a 
 drunken military commander is the wrong man 
 in the wrong place. If our sons are about to 
 enter the army, we desire them to join a regi 
 ment whose colonel is known to be a temper 
 ate man. If he has habits of dissipation, we lose 
 all confidence in his ability. We feel that our 
 children will have to encounter other than the 
 ordinary dangers of war, that their lives may 
 be not sacrificed but wasted. We have no faith 
 that a drunken general will make a skilful dispo 
 sition of his forces either for attack or defence. 
 Drunkenness, we know, is not favorable to clear 
 ness of vision, fineness of observation, soundness 
 of judgment, or rapidity of mental action, and all
 
 192 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 these are eminently needed on a field of battle, or 
 on one which may become such, without, or in 
 spite of, these qualities. But the bane of our 
 army, and of our army material, seems to have 
 been, and I fear I may say, to be, drunkenness. 
 A regiment leaves for Washington, folly armed 
 and equipped, and its colonel is known as a drunk 
 ard, not, indeed, a rum and gutter drunkard, 
 but a wine and club-room one, which, however 
 superior that may be socially, is, for fighting pur 
 poses, the same thing. If a man is drunk, it 
 matters little whether he is drunk at three cents 
 a glass, or eight dollars a bottle, whether he 
 is lifted into his carriage by his servants, or 
 dragged to the watch-house by a police officer. 
 We hear of a commander of a gunboat, an ex 
 cellent officer, highly recommended, who has, 
 indeed, but one fault, drunkenness ; but that is 
 the fruitful source of disgrace and disaster. A 
 lieutenant has been educated in military schools, 
 has watched the evolutions of foreign armies, is a 
 fine, noble, patriotic, whole-souled fellow, but he 
 cannot be relied on, he cannot be placed in the sit 
 uation which wants just such a man as he, because 
 he will occasionally be drunk. The streets of 
 Washington, and the good name of the country, 
 have been disgraced by drunken soldiers. Officers 
 toss off champagne at the hotels, and privates guzzle 
 rum in the saloons. Battles are lost, fortifications 
 surrendered, and brave men slain.
 
 DRUNKENNESS AND DRINKING. 193 
 
 That rum is not considered the natural ally of 
 success, is indicated by the orders to close .the 
 dram-shops to which our army had access. Re 
 port states that there has since been a great im- 
 
 x O 
 
 provement in this respect. 
 
 New England is not under martial law. Mas 
 sachusetts is not under martial law. Shall we 
 then be drunk or sober ? It is for ourselves to 
 answer. 
 
 We demand, and we have a right to demand, 
 that our army shall be sober. We have a right to 
 demand that they, to whom the defence of the 
 country is intrusted, shall not put themselves in a 
 condition which, for a time, impairs, if it does not 
 destroy their faculties. They may not have much 
 skill, or strength, or courage, but all that they 
 have belongs to the cause under whose banner 
 they have voluntarily ranged themselves ; and 
 when they weaken their power, they rob their 
 country. But, on the other hand, they have 
 the same right to demand that we shall be sober. 
 The army does not monopolize the protection of 
 the country. It is not one man's duty to enlist to 
 serve his country, and another man's privilege to 
 stop at home and serve himself. The present re 
 sponsibility of every American citizen is one and 
 the same. The first earthly work of every Amer 
 ican citizen is one and the same, to see that the 
 Republic receive no harm. You may do it by 
 shouldering a musket and shooting the rebels. A
 
 194 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 second may do it by making a coat that is to warm 
 you ; a third, by managing the bank that is to pay 
 you ; a fourth, by writing the paper that is to sup 
 port you ; a fifth, by caring for the family that you 
 have left. But all should work to the same end. 
 All have the same account to render. 
 
 If, then, it is the duty of the soldier on the bat 
 tle-field, for country's sake, to be sober, it is just 
 as much, and just the same, the duty of the fanner 
 in the corn-field, the merchant in the counting- 
 room, the guest at the dinner-table. It amounts 
 to nothing to say that the soldier's post is one of 
 more importance and greater responsibility. God 
 alone knows the extent of responsibility. Every 
 man is responsible for the whole of himself, no 
 less, no more. Apparent influence is often an en 
 tirely different thing from real influence. What 
 seems to be a little, isolated, wrong deed, may 
 have an endless train of stupendous, evil results. 
 What seems to be an insignificant virtue may bear 
 fruit of splendid benefit. It may seem that the 
 general commanding has more influence than he 
 who stays at home, but God alone knows whether 
 he has or not. The keeper at home, by his words 
 or his life, may be influencing a little boy who, 
 under his influence, shall grow up into a greater 
 man than our greatest general. It is not for any 
 one to say to any other, " Your responsibility* is 
 great, and you must be virtuous and vigilant. 
 My responsibility is small, and I may be lax and 
 self-indulgent."
 
 DRUNKENNESS AND DRINKING. 195 
 
 All men who are not traitors, or cowardly, igno- 
 rantly, and disgracefully indifferent, are either in 
 the army or in the Home Guard, and all are alike 
 under bonds to be sober, to be vigilant, to be brave, 
 to be patriotic. 
 
 But while the soldier on the Potomac is under 
 no stronger bonds to be temperate than the citizen 
 in Boston, he is under far stronger temptation to be 
 intemperate. Away from home, deprived of fe 
 male society, leading an adventurous and roving 
 life, exposed to burning sun and drenching rain, 
 his former habits both of amusement and occu 
 pation broken up, hard labor alternating with utter 
 idleness, with but a small variety of food and a 
 slender stock of reading matter, the temptation to 
 one whose appetite for strong drink has ever been 
 awakened, must be almost overpowering. It is 
 not surprising that those who have drank a little 
 at home should drink to excess in the camp. It is 
 not incredible that those who were abstinent at 
 home should be intemperate in the camp. If sore 
 temptation is ever any excuse for any sin, surely 
 the soldiers may plead it for their drunkenness. 
 To keep them in the right path, they need to be 
 surrounded by every inducement, and one of the 
 strongest would be the assurance that the soldiers 
 at home are scrupulously keeping themselves pure 
 from this thing. 
 
 Is it not, therefore, the duty of every man and 
 woman who desires that the soldier should be so-
 
 196 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ber, to abstain himself and herself from every 
 form of intoxicating liquor ? Is it not eminently 
 selfish and unjust to forbid the wet, tired, foot 
 sore soldier a glass of whiskey, and at the same 
 time to sip Roman punch at our own side 
 boards ? If we, with all the luxuries of home, 
 and all the stimulants of society, cannot deny 
 ourselves the accustomed bottle of port or sherry 
 after dinner, with what face can we ask a man 
 who has been drilling five hours, and who has 
 no home to go to but his tent, to deny himself 
 the warm and cheering potency of a glass of grog ? 
 I am saying nothing now of the moral right or 
 wrong of abstinence, in the nature of things. I 
 speak not of intrinsic but of relative right ; not of 
 duty to God, but duty to country. I appeal to 
 patriotism everywhere to strengthen weak hands, 
 and confirm feeble knees; to show to the soldier 
 that we do not require of him a virtue which we 
 refuse to practise ourselves. It is impertinent to 
 say that, though we drink wine, we do not " get 
 drunk." For military authorities, who ought to 
 know what most conduces to men's efficiency, make 
 no such distinction. It is of the utmost importance 
 that men be in the best condition, and general or 
 ders do not say that men may get whiskey, but 
 must not get drunk. They shut up the dram 
 shops. While the emergency lasts, let us do 
 the same. When the war is over, there will 
 be plenty of time to discuss the innocence and
 
 DRUNKENNESS AND DRINKING. 197 
 
 the benefit of moderate drinking ; but while our 
 brothers are fighting forty-eight hours on a mouth 
 ful of vinegar, let us not be taking advantage of 
 a mooted point to indulge our luxurious tastes. 
 While our men are splitting heads, let us not be 
 splitting hairs. The wide sweep that martial law 
 makes in Virginia, let moral law make in Massa 
 chusetts. 
 
 A few months ago a party of people, dressed in 
 a good deal of not very brief authority, went 
 down to one of those little villages in which that 
 which is spoken in the ear, and sometimes a 
 good deal more, is proclaimed upon the house 
 tops. It was, perhaps, the first time within the 
 memory of the oldest inhabitant, that people of so 
 great distinction had set foot in that quiet village, 
 and of course all the available small boys, and 
 some of the large ones, trotted down to the rail 
 road station to catch such a glimpse of majesty as 
 might be afforded between car and carriage ; and 
 if sundry vagrant lads did hang upon the outskirts 
 of the party through the day, is it a thing entirely 
 unheard of in the annals of boys? "And," said 
 one of them, retailing his adventures to a knot of 
 greedy-eared listeners, "when dinner-time come, 
 they sot down on the grass, and had their cham 
 pagne and their goodies, and by golly ! wan't it 
 tall ? " So the champagne sparkled from one end 
 of the village to the other. 
 
 Now in that village there are mothers whose
 
 198 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 sons, there are wives whose husbands, there 
 are children whose fathers, have gone out to 
 breast bayonet and bullet, and who have left at 
 home hearts that ache sore at parting, sorer still 
 because the dear faces may be seen no more, but 
 sorest of all through fear of the work that vice 
 and crime may do on the characters of their loved 
 ones. They give them up cheerfully to death at 
 their country's call, but they have no fortitude to 
 face their degradation. Their daily and constant 
 prayer is, not so much that they may come out of 
 battle unharmed, as that they may come out of 
 the furnace of temptation with no smell of fire 
 upon their garments. They are a simple folk. 
 They know little of the usages of fashionable so 
 ciety, but they know their hearts sink within them 
 when they hear that the habits into which they 
 most dread that their friends shall fall, the habits 
 in which they read the utter extinction of all their 
 hopes and all their joy, receive the sanction of 
 learning, genius and influence. They counsel 
 with an ill-repressed agony of anxiety, and affec 
 tionate and generous, yet wayward and thought 
 less boys, point to the example of the first men 
 in the State, and what can the poor mothers 
 say? 
 
 Not as a religionist or a reformer, but in the 
 name of loyalty and patriotism, in the name of 
 pity and compassion for the erring, in the name of 
 succor for the weak, and comfort for the sorrowful,
 
 DRUNKENNESS AND DRINKING. 199 
 
 in the name of the mothers who have given up 
 their sons, in the name of the young men whose 
 future will be shaped in the encampment, in the 
 name of Him whose loving-kindness forbade to 
 offend the least of His little ones, I appeal to you 
 who sit in high places, to all whom wealth, or 
 birth, or learning, or genius, has placed in com 
 manding positions, to all who love your country, 
 and would count it joy to press upon your brows 
 the crown of sacrifice, to see to it that no 
 liberty of yours prove a stumbling-block to your 
 weak brother for whom Christ died !
 
 XVII. 
 
 LANGUAGE 
 
 of the most satisfactory books to 
 the student and lover of his own lan 
 guage is Max Miiller's " Lectures on 
 the Science of Language." It takes 
 us where we are, and carries us back to the. creation 
 of the world, and that is as far as any reason 
 able person cares to go. Many books that treat 
 of language are fragmentary. They tell twenty 
 interesting things, but they do not give a thread 
 to string them on, or if they do, they leave it loose 
 at one end. The authors seem to be studying 
 their subject, and the reader studies with them. 
 They are honest and enthusiastic. They givo 
 valuable hints, and curious information ; but they 
 do not command. One does not feel that they 
 are masters of the situation. They are novices, 
 neophytes, just like himself, a little farther ad 
 vanced, but by no means admitted to full priestly 
 orders. .This, however, is no neophyte. He takes 
 up the subject like a master. He handles it with
 
 LANGUAGE. 201 
 
 confidence, grace, and ability. He is so much at 
 his ease that he has the air of knowing all about 
 it, even when he tells you frankly that he does not 
 know. His enthusiasm is no surface attachment, 
 but based on intimate knowledge of character, and 
 he pursues his subject with a lover's persistency. 
 He has traced language through all its windings 
 and turnings, up, up, up, to where it springs, a 
 tiny fountain, from the unfathomed, mysterious 
 depths of the human soul. And because he knows 
 the way, we follow his lead implicitly and delight 
 edly through devious paths, thridding jungles, 
 scaling mountains, fording rivers, and, it must be 
 confessed, sometimes leaping abysms, because 
 there is nothing for it but to leap or lose the 
 trail. But it is a royal journey, a triumphal 
 march. New prospects stretch continually be 
 fore you, grand and solemn, dainty and pic 
 turesque, stately pageants of that dim old world 
 whose echoes tremble, whose shadows glide along 
 the valleys of the new ; and all the while, through 
 the opening vistas, under the arching trees, behind 
 the leafy screens, you catch glimpses of the foun 
 tain Arethusa which you pursue, and you know 
 that for her there is no escape. No friendly Earth, 
 divinely touched, shall open her bosom to the pant 
 ing fugitive. You shall snatch her well-guarded 
 secret where first she leaps from hidden caverns 
 fast by the oracles of God. 
 
 There are people who regard the subject as a 
 
 9*
 
 202 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 dry one, but it is of all subjects the one so rich, 
 and juicy, and fruitful, that no awkwardness of 
 treatment can entirely deprive it of its charm. 
 The merest tyro may set up to write a book 
 about it, and all his ignorance and pretension 
 cannot quite obscure the pure gold that glows in 
 his clownish hand. The sweet soul of Cinderella 
 shines through all the soot and ashes of her ser 
 vitude, and by her gleam the goddess stands con 
 fessed. How much more then shall she vindi 
 cate her divine descent when she sits in state, 
 apparelled as becomes a daughter of the gods ! 
 
 The science of language is dry, only because we 
 know so little about it. Just as far as we dissi 
 pate the fogs of ignorance, the landscape h'es be 
 fore us, beautiful as the vale of Tempe. We 
 bandy words, tossing them hither and thither, 
 carelessly. They are simply our current coin. 
 They help us to traffic in bread and cheese, love 
 and learning, pity and hatred, devotion and re 
 venge ; but they are no more to us than stones. 
 " Only words," we say, and give them no further 
 thought. Only words ! The stone is a casket ! 
 To him who knows the hidden spring, new worlds 
 reveal themselves. The cold, dead word, holds 
 in its heart the hopes and histories of generations. 
 It is sweet with the breath of spices, and the songs 
 of nightingales. It dazzles with the glare of eter 
 nal snow. It thrills with the love of Arab girls. 
 It shudders with the stain of bloody rites. The
 
 LANGUAGE. 203 
 
 echoes of martyr-prayers linger still among its 
 cadences, and its secret depths flash out once more 
 the gleam of pirates' steel. Following the certain 
 token of this star in the East, we wander back 
 along the way our fathers trod, back over 
 the ocean, to that pale, that white-faced shore, 
 that once spurned the fathers to its own dismay, 
 and later spurned their sons with a bitterness that 
 will not soon be forgotten, back over the Ger 
 man Ocean that our fair-haired ancestors dared in 
 their light sea-skiffs, farther still, to the 
 
 " Shining hills, 
 
 The steep, wide promontories, where 
 They shook their syrcas, 
 The garments of battle, 
 And thanked God 
 That to them the wave-journey 
 Had been so easy," 
 
 farther still, over the Austrian mountains, up the 
 steppes of Russia, down through the Golden Horn, 
 home again at last in the warm old Asian 
 world, the fruitful garden of the earth, the tawny- 
 browed, deep-bosomed mother of us all. And 
 ever along the way there is a resurrection. Un 
 der the new forms the old spring into a second 
 life. At the touch of a word, the graves give up 
 their dead, busy cities fade into silence, and the 
 deserts are repeopled. Little children, whose 
 gray hairs have been entombed for centuries, are 
 playing once more among the goats ; merchant 
 princes traffic in gold and purple where fishermen
 
 204 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 spread their nets, and a thousand sinewy hands 
 are fashioning the Sphinx's granite heart. There 
 is no speech nor language, but with the gleam of a 
 magic word the stark statues ring out their Mem- 
 non-music down the years, even to these ends of 
 the earth. Who shall say that the age of Fairies 
 and Genii is past, when on such ethereal wings we 
 can behold all the kingdoms of the world and the 
 glory of them. 
 
 It is only a chart of this wonderful journey that 
 Miiller gives us, but even its points are points of 
 bewildering beauty. He startles us, in the first 
 place, with the assertion that language is one 
 of the physical sciences, as truly as botany or 
 geology; in proof of which he distinguishes so 
 clearly between the growth of language and the 
 history of language, he traces back the former to 
 its germ in the human breast so logically, he 
 points out so unmistakably the fact which com 
 mends itself at once to our consciousness, that it is 
 not in the power of men to produce or prevent the 
 Ceaseless change in language, that they can no 
 more control the laws of speech than the circula 
 tion of blood, nor invent new words at pleasure 
 than add a cubit to their stature, that he com 
 pels assent. The underlying principle which 
 shapes his researches, the key wherewith he un 
 locks these secret cells, is that everything in lan 
 guage had originally a meaning. By distinguishing 
 and describing the two processes which comprise
 
 LANGUAGE. 205 
 
 the growth of language, viz. Phonetic Decay, 
 as if, for instance, "Yes, madam," should fade into 
 "Yes, ma'am," and that into "Yes'm," and 
 Dialectical Regeneration, or the continued replen 
 ishing of a language from its various dialects, he 
 illustrates his principle with singular success, fill 
 ing up form with substance, or rather bringing to 
 light the substance which has long lain lost amid 
 the shadows of the form. Thus he shows the 
 origin and meaning of the d in loved, making the 
 tragic change from love living to love dead. He 
 combats the prevalent idea that dialects are cor 
 ruptions of a pure, classical language, and insists 
 that they are rather its feeders. He teaches that 
 many dialects originally led a life of republican 
 equality, but those spoken in isolated places having 
 no standard, continually changed, an entire change 
 taking place sometimes in so short a period as the 
 lifetime of a single generation, while those that 
 were more central and consolidated around a lit 
 erature created by songs, festivals, laws, and occa 
 sional intercourse, gradually assumed supremacy.* 
 If by any means a literature came to be written, 
 the dialect in which it was written at once swal 
 lowed up the rest. But its momentary greatness 
 was atoned for by immediate death. As soon as a 
 tongue becomes fixed, classical, it crystallizes. It 
 is hard, cold, a dead language, beautiful but un- 
 breathing. All this, however, is quite beyond the 
 control of man. The growth, though not like that
 
 206 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 of a tree from within, is like that of the crust of 
 the earth, by combinations of given elements ac 
 cording to established, though unknown laws. 
 The Christian tone of the book is vigorous and 
 
 o 
 
 refreshing. Scientific men are very apt to patron 
 ize the Bible. Miiller does not. He never sus 
 pects that it must be bolstered up by any clumsy 
 contrivances. He has so much faith in it that he 
 lets it stand on its own ground and pushes his re 
 searches without the slightest misgiving of collision. 
 He dates the real beginning of the science from 
 the first day of Pentecost. Christ had to come to 
 teach that mankind were of one blood before the 
 science of mankind and the language of mankind 
 could spring into life. The common origin of 
 mankind and their susceptibility of the highest 
 culture became problems of scientific, because of 
 more than scientific interest. He affirms that the 
 apostles were the pioneers of the science, and their 
 true successors, the missionaries, the most useful 
 allies of the philologer. The translation of the 
 *Bible and the Lord's Prayer into eveiy dialect of 
 the world form his most valuable materials. There 
 is a world of good, sturdy, but not very common 
 sense in his way of preventing " not only those 
 who are forever attacking the Bible with arrows 
 that cannot reach it, but likewise those who defend 
 it with weapons they know not how to wield, from 
 disturbing in any way the quiet progress of the 
 science of language." The defence of incompe-
 
 LANGUAGE. 207 
 
 tent friends is much more disastrous than the at 
 tack of able enemies. 
 
 Without for a moment granting that the sub 
 ject is dull, we may admit that the book is all the 
 more interesting for being enlivened by humor and 
 illustrated by anecdote. It is respectful to its pre 
 decessors, though it cannot help a sly laugh 
 now and then, which does no harm, so long as it 
 is good-humored, attractive in style, and sym 
 metrical in construction.
 
 XVIII. 
 
 CHRIST IN CAROLINA. 
 
 VEN on a very serious subject, one 
 can hardly help being amused at the 
 remarkable logic of Mr. Jefferson 
 Davis in his message to that assembly 
 which call itself the Confederate Congress. The 
 loving-kindness and tender mercy of the slave 
 owner bubbles over in speaking of " the unfortu 
 nate negroes " upon whose sufferings he dwells, 
 and whose grievances he recounts with a pity 
 beautiful to behold ; showing the superior benefit 
 to the negroes of slavery over freedom by adding : 
 " By the Northern man, on whose deep-rooted 
 prejudices no kindly restraining influence is exer 
 cised, they are treated with aversion and neglect," 
 and in the very next paragraph affirming that 
 " full confirmation is afforded by statements pub 
 lished in the Northern journals by humane persons 
 engaged in making appeals to the charitable for 
 aid in preventing the ravages of disease, exposure 
 and starvation among the negro women and chil-
 
 CHRIST IN CAROLINA. 209 
 
 dren who are crowded into encampments." That 
 is, he knows the negroes are neglected because 
 of the efforts which are making to take care of 
 them ! 
 
 But Mr. Jefferson Davis's affirmation that the 
 negroes are very badly off for the comforts and 
 even the necessaries of life, ought not to blind 
 our eyes to the other fact, that they are badly 
 off. Over against his assertion, we ought to set 
 the antecedent facts in our possession w T hich 
 would lead us to infer that they must suffer, and 
 the testimony which comes from various sources 
 that they do suffer. If every negro brought 
 within our lines were a swift and cunning work 
 man, abundantly able in the piping times of peace 
 to take care of himself and his family, the sud 
 denness of the change in his situation, the entire 
 absence of any preparation for it, either on his 
 part or our own, would render it wellnigh im 
 possible for him to do so. Added to the floating, 
 fragmentary reports, and the numerous miscella 
 neous appeals for aid, we have the official action 
 of General Grant in sending chaplains from his 
 army to acquaint Northern people with the sore 
 destitution and need of the freedmen, suffering 
 
 7 Q 
 
 intensely, as they affirm, from nakedness and want 
 of shelter. 
 
 All Christians have desired the extinction of 
 slavery, but slaves are extinguished only by turn 
 ing them into men, and women, and children, 
 
 N
 
 210 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES, 
 
 who are at once thrown upon our hands. As 
 slaves, we could do nothing for them, except in 
 directly. As freedmen, they become at once 
 our solemn trust from God. There is not a 
 man or woman of this country, who is not per 
 sonally responsible for the comfort and the edu 
 cation of these people. We have prayed that 
 God would undo the heavy burdens, and let the 
 oppressed go free. Now he has undone them. 
 Are we ready to approve ourselves sincere by 
 taking the next step ? Are we ready for the con 
 sequences of our prayers ? Did we pray with the 
 understanding that God should not hear, or that 
 if he did, it was no concern of ours ? God hav 
 ing, according to our request, set the slave free, 
 shall we not see to it that his freedom becomes a 
 blessing to him ? Under slavery, the slaves were 
 provided for after a fashion ; under freedom, shall 
 they be left to perish ? We have no excuse of 
 inability. There are very few who are not able 
 to help if they wish to help. What is wanted 
 is common things, warm clothing for winter, 
 implements of industry for self-help and self- 
 culture, books for instruction, and whatever a 
 slave needs on his journey to independent, in 
 telligent manhood. But the immediate and 
 urgent need seems to be clothing. Now I have 
 no doubt that there is clothing enough in the 
 North, not necessary either to comfort or re 
 spectability, to clothe every freedman and freed-
 
 CHRIST IN CAROLINA. 211 
 
 woman through the winter. With a nation as 
 rich as ours, there is not the smallest need that 
 the blacks should famish or shiver. If they do, 
 it is owing, not to our poverty, but to our pa 
 ganism. If the garrets of our farm-houses, if 
 the closets and chests and wardrobes of our well- 
 to-do mechanics, to say nothing of our rich men, 
 could only be made to give up the superfluities 
 which are in them, the flannels, and the cot 
 tons, and the cotton-flannels, the woollen stock 
 ings, the old coats, and waistcoats, and trousers, 
 and gowns, and sacks, and shawls, that will not, 
 or need not, be worn, that are lying in wait 
 to be cut over for future fashions, or merely 
 contingent wants, the blankets, the quilts, the 
 full-puffed bed-spreads, that have been accumu 
 lated by a certain New England instinct, but 
 serve the honest pride of the good housewife 
 rather than the necessities of her family, the 
 wadded and quilted petticoats whose substance 
 has outlived their fashion, and whose fate will 
 ultimately be to go into the depths of chest and 
 chair-covers, if all these and a great multitude 
 of similar articles could be got at, not a negro 
 need suffer. These ought to be got at. Things 
 ordinarily commendable are not commendable 
 now. The hoards of warm, substantial clothing 
 that have come down to us from those terrible 
 times when a girl was not considered fit to be 
 married till she had knit herself a pillow-case-
 
 212 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 fill of stockings, and woven herself a chestful of 
 fine-twined linen which the longest life could not 
 wear out, are valuable as heirlooms, and not to 
 be triflingly disposed of. But God has made this 
 generation the depositary of liberty which is the 
 heirloom of the world. To our age is commit 
 ted the redemption of a race, and in that race 
 all the down-trodden races. Surely all private 
 heirlooms may well be subordinated to this. In 
 no way can the legacies of the past be more 
 sacredly treasured than by devoting them to this 
 sacred cause. Turn the pillow-case upside down, 
 and shake it. Descend into the old chests and 
 bring up the pepper-and-camphor-strewed wealth. 
 One blanket made into clothing may keep several 
 persons warm. 
 
 Things more dear than these, I know have been 
 gladly given. Little garments that speak of a 
 lost hope, as well as of tender memories, little 
 hoods that have sheltered tossing curls, little frocks 
 that have covered sweet forms lying under the 
 snow now these many winters, have been drawn 
 forth from the drawers which they consecrated, 
 and sent down with prayer and love for little black 
 babies that had no heritage but love. Was that 
 profanation ? Did they profane their purest vest 
 ments who cast them in the way for the Blessed 
 Feet to tread ? If the infant Christ were cradled 
 now in a manger, on one of the Southern planta 
 tions, would it be profanation to wrap his tiny form
 
 CHRIST IN CAROLINA. 213 
 
 in the little frocks that once had wrapped your 
 child? But inasmuch as ye have done it unto 
 one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have 
 done it unto me. 
 
 Learn a lesson from that noble father of a noble 
 son, whom the powers of Evil " buried with his nig 
 gers" for the same purpose that, eighteen hundred 
 years ago, they crucified his Master between two 
 thieves. When a mistaken respect would have 
 brought his body northward for sepulture ^jmong 
 his kindred, the father proved himself worthy of 
 his son, and interposed. No pomp of funeral rites, 
 no common burial-place, for him. Such deeds are 
 consecration. The brave beauty, the vigorous 
 youth, the fair name, which he devoted to his 
 grateful country, and to the suffering race, can 
 not be desecrated ; least of all by those he died to 
 save, and who would have died for him. He lies 
 where he fell, with his Guard of Honor around 
 him, and henceforth it is holy ground. So Massa 
 chusetts gives to South Carolina best gifts, and by 
 this token the land shall be redeemed. He shall 
 rise again with his warriors, and if the word of 
 God fail not, the King shall say unto him, " Come, 
 ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom pre 
 pared for you from the foundation of the world. 
 For I was in prison and ye came unto me." 
 
 There is also a foolish feeling of pride against 
 making contributions. People say they have
 
 214 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 nothing good enough to send. They think their 
 old clothes are too much worn and defaced to be 
 given away. They do not seem quite to divot 
 themselves of the idea that the especial owner 
 ship of their mended clothes is going to be obvi 
 ous all the way down to Vicksburg and the Sea 
 Islands. As a matter of fact, I suppose Mr. Jones's 
 connection with his coat, and Mrs. Jones's with 
 her gown, is generally sundered the moment it is 
 beyond their own door ; and past the first stage, 
 even the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Jones them 
 selves vanishes away. But suppose not, what 
 harm ? If a garment is worth patching, the patch 
 is not a thing to be ashamed of; anoj I suppose 
 anything that can be mended into decency and a 
 tolerable degree of durability, is worth sending. 
 You can easily ask yourself whether, if you wi-iv 
 daily shivering with cold, you would consider it 
 worth sending to you, and if you then doubt 
 whether it will pay for transportation, you can 
 mend it and wear it yourself, and send your 
 strong new garments to the freed people ! Ap 
 peals, to be sure, are made chiefly for second-hand 
 clothing, but I dare say first-hand would not be 
 refused. It might cost a sacrifice ; but not one 
 worthy to be compared with His, who for us left 
 the glory which he had with the Father before 
 the world was, and came down to a manger and 
 a cross. 
 
 But after all, it is neither pride nor poverty
 
 CHRIST IN CAROLINA. 215 
 
 which is the chief obstacle, but a certain indiffer 
 ence ; the absence of a " realizing sense " of things. 
 We hear as though we heard not ; we go our way, 
 one to his farm, another to his merchandise, and 
 think of the matter no more. But when the voice 
 of God calls, " Where is the African, thy brother?" 
 will it be a satisfactory answer to Questioner or 
 questioned, "I know not, I did not think much 
 about it, one way or another"? We may go on 
 thoughtlessly, but, rigorous and pitiless, winter 
 marches over the freedmen. Whether we hear 
 or forbear, they are suffering from want of food 
 and shelter, and the voice of their blood will 
 surely cry unto God from the ground. To feed 
 the hungry, and clothe the naked, is the impera 
 tive duty of this hour. More than ever before, 
 Religion demands to know faith by works. " Bring 
 forth fruits meet for repentance," cried the Bap 
 tist ; and when people asked, " What shall we do 
 then ? " he uttered no abstractions, but " He that 
 hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath 
 none ; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise." 
 If Christ Jesus is the same yesterday, and to-day, 
 and forever, the fruits meet for repentance are 
 coats, and cloaks, and stockings for the destitute 
 negroes. And remember, if a brother or a sister 
 be naked, and destitute of daily food, and one of 
 you say unto them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed 
 and filled j I am very sorry for you ; I wish you 
 were comfortable ; notwithstanding; ye n-ive them 
 
 */ O
 
 216 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 not those things which are needful for the body; 
 what doth it profit ? Let us not so mock the 
 Lord as to pretend to be his followers, if we will 
 not cherish the poor whom, in answer to our pray 
 ers, he has given into our hands. 
 
 Events have shown the freed slaves to be far 
 superior to what we had any reason to expect. 
 Bravery in battle, fortitude in hardship, skill, inge 
 nuity, industry, loyalty, sagacity, self-control, pa 
 tience, have been discovered where we should have 
 supposed only the vices and weaknesses of a cowed 
 and abject people. No more heroic deeds illus 
 trate the annals of this war than those which have 
 been performed by negroes. They have been 
 faithful to their light, though it must have shone 
 but dimly. But if they were sottish, brutal, 
 vicious, and lazy, to the last degree, our duty 
 would remain the same. What they are, our race 
 has made them. What they may be, it belongs 
 to us to ascertain. Lazarus may lie at the gate 
 full of sores, desiring only the fallen crumbs ; but 
 since they are the sores which our own cruelty has 
 caused, he shall not be turned off with crumbs or 
 crust, but shall have balm for his hurt, wine for 
 his fainting heart, meat for his manhood's wants. 
 
 The Sanitary Commission rides on the wave of 
 popular favor. Let us rejoice. It has struck a 
 vein of pure, solid religion. It is the very spirit 
 of Christ, organized into an Institution 1 . Heaven 
 be praised that the prophecy is fulfilled, and kings
 
 CHRIST IN CAROLINA. 217 
 
 are its nursing fathers, and queens its nursing 
 mothers ; but in caring for our own blood, let us 
 not forget the blood that is not our own, the sad- 
 coursing blood that has flowed through generations 
 of sorrow. We have enough and to spare, and 
 heaven and earth await our action. It is Christ 
 who is an hungered and athirst. In all their afflic 
 tion, he is afflicted. Shall a man rob God ? 
 
 10
 
 XIX. 
 
 EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY. 
 
 HERE is a strange hush and shadow 
 m tne a ^ r to'daji an d the Indian sum- 
 mer i s l ess beautiful than it was. All 
 / "'-> because a little shining, smiling face is 
 turned towards the sunset, and I see it no more. 
 A little shining face, square and full and healthy, 
 yet delicate and spiritual, two round cheeks, each 
 with its own deep dimple, in which the very spirit 
 of sunshine lurks, two eyes blue, clear, and indus 
 trious, shaded by long lovely lashes, a high, broad 
 forehead crowned with fine silken-floss hair, 
 face and hands, and jacket and trousers, all issu 
 ing forth in the morning tidy, spotless, all coming 
 back at night, not to say noon, dingy and dusty 
 and draggled ; as why should they not, since the 
 little feet that propelled them have been delving 
 in the dust or digging in the mud all day with un 
 wearied assiduity. If you see a little man an 
 swering this description, he will not take it amiss 
 should you ask him his name, but will quite exult-
 
 EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY. 219 
 
 antly reply, " Eddykny-wiwr-r-phy," trilling out the 
 r with a melody so beautiful, rich, limpid, that you 
 will make him repeat it half a dozen times for joy 
 in the rippling sound. O, but he is a little sun 
 beam, lighting up every nook and cranny of the 
 old house, and he makes its low rooms lovely with 
 his frisking and questioning and glad odd ways. 
 
 His clothes are often old and patched. His 
 father works hard with saw and scythe, his mother 
 harder still over wash-tub and ironing-table ; but 
 many a child goes clad in silk and brave with 
 feathers who might take lessons in politeness of 
 my little Irish friend. Indeed I know few Amer 
 ican mothers who train their children in the mi 
 nute but important points of good manners so 
 carefully and constantly as his trim Irish mother. 
 
 All the green yard and the broad highway be 
 yond are alive with this wild young life. * Yonder 
 wood-pile is his chariot of state. Every morning, 
 long before the dew is gone, out comes he, fresh 
 from sleep and breakfast, fastens his lines to the 
 open gate, mounts that wood-pile, and drives 
 around the world. Just behind it is his garden 
 plot, where, true to his national instinct, he raises 
 innumerable crops of cabbages and potatoes, by 
 the aid of a discarded coffee-pot. With a defunct 
 dripping-pan and a string, he drives a brisk busi 
 ness in the freight and express line. Every day 
 at noon or soon after, there is a lull in the atmos 
 phere, as if the machinery of the earth had some-
 
 220 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 how stopped, for the space of half an hour. That 
 is because Eddy is on his little bed fast asleep. 
 But in due time he announces to the universe his 
 reassumption of active life by emerging into the 
 yard with a prolonged yell of self-satisfaction, 
 which indeed, with a few slight intervals for eat 
 ing and drinking, is his normal condition of being. 
 He likes much to be " around " when anything is 
 going on. If a horse stops at the gate, he sits on 
 the bank and gazes at him with steadfast, speech 
 less rapture. He never fails to make his appear 
 ance, with unlimited proffers of help, whenever I 
 am at work in the garden. I very well know 
 what the sly little rogue is after. The small rake 
 is lovely in his eyes ; the slender hoe is a thing of 
 beauty ; but the height and depth of unspeakable 
 happiness dwell in the trowel. It is so manage 
 able for his tiny hands. Earth offers him no 
 greater delight than permission to hold that trowel, 
 and no greater hope than that he may be allowed 
 to use it, which I sometimes suffer him to do, to 
 the great consternation of the geraniums and other 
 x high-born weeds. 
 
 There is a muffled bang at the door. It is Ed 
 dy's signal. llis fingers are not yet equal to the 
 execution of a grown-up knock, and he has im 
 provised a sort of suppressed fisticuff. We answer 
 his summons. It is a little tin two-quart pail of 
 water which he has pumped and brought himself, 
 - a very Herculean labor for him. Never mind
 
 EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY. 221 
 
 that his clean clothes are spattered and soaked as 
 he stands there, the dampest, sweetest little Aqua 
 rius one shall see in a long summer day. 
 
 " Much obliged," I say, deferentially. 
 
 " Much obliged," he repeats, trudging off con 
 tentedly, a little confused as to the formulas ap 
 propriate to the occasion, but sound in his general 
 principles. 
 
 Perhaps it is a different errand : " My mother 
 says will you please to give me your bak-set to 
 get you some apples," or, " My mother is much 
 oblidged for your still-yards." We call it a bal 
 ance, but no matter. Whatever it is, he is always 
 respectful, always courteous. 
 
 His mother is going away to work this fine, 
 frosty autumn morning. Little Jemmy is too 
 young to be left behind ; but Eddy, at the mature 
 age of four years, must shift for himself. To be 
 sure he will be perfectly happy, for has he not re 
 counted to me the riches which the low cupboard- 
 shelf holds in store for him? " Two keJcs a junk 
 o' meat a junk o' bread 'n butter a bowl 
 o' bread 'n milk a junk o' meat a two JceJcs," 
 and so on, with a revolving circle of provisions, in 
 which, after the fashion of his sex, he will find a 
 sufficient solace for all his woes. I observe that his 
 morning is chiefly taken up with jaunts to the cup 
 board, if one may judge from the frequent appear 
 ance of "junks." To spare a remnant for dinner, 
 we invite him in to see us. He accepts with alac-
 
 222 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 rity, even forgetting, in the excitement of the mo 
 ment, the amenities of life. " Eddy, what is that on 
 your head ? " A moment of blankness, a flash of 
 memory, and off comes the cap. "And where is 
 your comforter ? " He investigates himself with 
 great solemnity. " Do' know." " You have lost 
 it ? " " Yes, Sir ! " " Then you must go at once 
 and find it." He disappears for two minutes, and 
 returns as bright as if successful. " I can't find it. 
 It 's lost a mile." Fortunately his mittens cannot 
 be lost, since they are fastened by a long string 
 around his neck, and dangle at his side like two 
 little red paws. 
 
 In the house he finds inexhaustible food for 
 thought. The pictures first claim his attention. 
 Then he is exercised on the subject of the books. 
 The bell in the kitchen is an insoluble mystery. 
 Soon he flings himself flat on the floor to inspect 
 the castors on the lounge. A wagon in the house 
 is a thing which was never dreamt of in his phi 
 losophy. I am obliged to bid him not talk any 
 more. Obedient as usual, he complies, asking in 
 a loud whisper, " What 's tham little wheels for?" 
 " You must not talk now, Eddy, because I am 
 reading." " No ! " he exclaims, promptly and so 
 norously, but immediately leans against me, and 
 asks, in a very gentle whisper, " What 's tham 
 little wheels for?" 
 
 It is a fine clear Sunday, and Eddy has been a 
 dozen miles away to " chur-r-ch," he tells me.
 
 EDDYKNY-MUR-R-PHY. 223 
 
 " And what did you do at church ? " 
 
 " I kneeled down and payed." 
 
 " To whom did you pray ? " 
 
 " Payed to God." I am afraid few of our 
 Yankee children could give so good an account of 
 themselves. Ask the little Protestant four and 
 five-year olds what they did at church, and see 
 what they will say. 
 
 He comes in one day whisking a string of brown 
 beads, in high spirits. " What are you going to 
 do with those beads ? " " Pay with them. My 
 mother's got some more." " Play with them?" 
 " No ; pay with them." " But how can you pray 
 with them ? " With the utmost good nature he 
 gives a complete explanation, going through the 
 whole process on the spot, dashing them against 
 his white forehead, and smiting right and left, re 
 peating with more readiness than reverence one of 
 the holy names with each blow ; but I trust the 
 God whom he ignorantly worships will declare 
 unto him His peace. Nor will he long worship 
 ignorantly ; for his careful mother teaches him the 
 vital points of religion, as his daily life gives am 
 ple evidence. " I must not do " this and that, he 
 often says, half to himself; "God won't love me." 
 Once he was ill for several days, and, awaking one 
 night, he told his mother he was going to heaven. 
 She was greatly alarmed, as we are all apt to be 
 at such a prospect ; but Eddy persisted that he 
 was going. " Why, Eddy, do you want to go to
 
 224 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 heaven ? " "I 'd like to go to heaven with Miss 
 Ellen," he replied. To round off the romance he 
 ought to have died ; but nothing ever does happen 
 to me out of the common line, and, accordingly, 
 he took a little " whik-sey " and vermifuge, and 
 got well. 
 
 And now he has left us. While I write this he 
 is journeying towards the going down of the sun, 
 and I am resolved to set my affections on no more 
 Irish children. The Great West will swallow 
 up this little bubble of life, and I shall never 
 again rejoice in its prismatic, ever-changing light. 
 O fair and fruitful prairie-land, receive my little 
 wanderer tenderly, and entreat him kindly. He 
 comes to you in innocence ; restore him, I pray 
 you, in holiness. He comes to you a little child, a 
 fresh young soul, loving and loyal, believing in 
 God, in his father and mother, and in all good 
 ness and purity. What will you do for him ?
 
 XX. 
 
 MAGAZINE LITERATURE. 
 
 IME was when a book was indeed, as 
 Choate once said, the only immor 
 tality. But at present there is a vast 
 amount of transient immortality float 
 ing about in the columns of the daily paper, the 
 monthly magazine, and the quarterly review. 
 Scarcely a New England home to which one or 
 more of these messengers does not find access. 
 Whether the extensive prevalence of periodical 
 literature be a benefit or a disadvantage, is not yet 
 fully settled. It has decided opponents, as well as 
 warm advocates. The dissemination of knowl 
 edge, say the former, vulgarizes knowledge. A 
 subject which is to be treated in the pages of a 
 monthly magazine cannot be adequately treated. 
 It can neither be probed to its depths, nor grasped 
 in its breadth. Its scope must be diminished to 
 meet the requirements of the case. The first 
 duty of a magazinist is to be readable. He may 
 be profound, logical, systematic, exhaustive, but if 
 10* o
 
 226 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 he is heavy, or abstruse, it is all over with him. 
 The public is willing to be instructed, but it will 
 be amused. A pill in the sugar if you can smug 
 gle it in, but the sugar at all events. Now sugar 
 is not a wholesome diet. Amusement is not 
 the stamina of great men, not the material 
 wherewithal nerve and muscle and strength are 
 created. 
 
 Moreover, they say, such treatment degrades 
 the subject. Problems that require a lifetime to 
 elucidate, and a volume to express, are treated in 
 twenty pages of a magazine, or sixty of a quarter 
 ly, treated fragmentarily, flippantly, frivolously, 
 but in a sparkling, easy style ', and the multitude, 
 because they understand the writer, think they 
 understand the subject, because they compre 
 hend his views, fancy they comprehend the object 
 viewed, and, deeming the matter finally dis 
 posed of, go on their way self-conceited and sat 
 isfied with shallowness, while men who would 
 devote to a theme the time and study of which 
 it is worthy are forestalled by penny-a-liners, and 
 the public is cheated of its due. 
 
 The far-reaching periodical literature acts, too, 
 in another way. Old authors that have stood the 
 test of time are summarily set aside for the local 
 gossip, the political scandal, the namby-pamby 
 romance, tinsel rhetoric, crude criticism, and ran 
 dom speculation of the periodicals. Matters of 
 temporary interest and small importance usurp
 
 MAGAZINE LITERATURE. 227 
 
 the time that should be devoted to the giants that 
 lived on the earth in former days, and in gaining a 
 knowledge of those secrets which the earth stands 
 waiting to reveal to-day. Small welcome will the 
 greater part of the literature of 1861 receive from 
 2061. It has neither ballast to steady it, nor sail 
 to carry it down the years. Why, then, should it 
 receive such homage at our hands ? 
 
 Now there may be truth in these remarks, if it 
 be first proven that amusement is incompatible 
 with benefit ; that a subject cannot be partially, 
 and at the same time justly treated, and that 
 the people who write and read magazines would, 
 if there were no magazines, write and read elabo 
 rate and exhaustive volumes on the subjects dis 
 cussed therein. But it is of great importance 
 to have it clearly asserted, and stoutly maintained, 
 that reading is not to be a penance. An object is 
 gained when writers are made to know that bald 
 statements are not enough, that bare reasoning is 
 not enough, that pure mathematics is not enough. 
 The earth softens its granite outlines with verdur 
 ous dimples, relieves its bare surface with majes 
 tic trees and smiling lakes, flecks its sombre hues 
 with brilliant colors, opens its heart everywhere 
 to the sun's fervid kiss ; and the result is, that the 
 earth is not only prettier to look at, but better to 
 live on. But poor human nature is jealous of its 
 pleasures. It has become so accustomed to medi 
 cine, that, if its food is not bitter, it immediately
 
 228 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 suspects sawdust. Yet Macaulay and Motley 
 have shown that the truths of history may be 
 clothed upon with far more fascination than the 
 fictions of the imagination ; and Romance in her 
 most gorgeous attire is eclipsed by Science robed 
 only in her native honor. The times of the 
 schoolmen are past. They did yeoman's service 
 in their day, but their day is gone by. The 
 presumption now is, that the writer who is most 
 interesting is the best. The history that is as 
 hard to lay down as a novel or a play, is likely to 
 be the truest history. For the two differ only 
 in this, that history is a portrait, where the novel 
 is a study. The one is a special likeness, but 
 both must have a general likeness. History is 
 a novel " founded on fact." 
 
 It is probable that periodical literature, so far 
 from diminishing, really increases the number of 
 " solid " readers ; that the great mass of its read 
 ers are taken, not from above, but from below its 
 plane. They are people who, without the maga 
 zines, would not only not read Bacon and Plato, 
 but would not read anything. The Ledger, whose 
 vast circulation was a thorn in the sides of so 
 many of its more cultivated contemporaries, need 
 have given little anxiety. It was seen in the 
 hands of those who read nothing else, and doubt 
 less they were elevated and improved by it. The 
 avowed object of the proprietor was to awaken a 
 taste for reading in classes where such taste did
 
 MAGAZINE LITERATURE. 229 
 
 not exist. It was a noble and humane object, 
 and in a degree successful. From the Ledger 
 the gradation is easy to the magazines, and from 
 the magazines to the quarterlies, and from the 
 quarterlies to the classics. Certainly these pe 
 riodicals bring the old authors to the knowledge 
 and notice of thousands who would otherwise 
 never hear of them. It was Addison's criticisms 
 of Milton that reintroduced Milton to the Eng 
 lish public, and Macaulay's criticisms of Addison 
 have led throngs back to the Spectator. Many 
 who cannot afford to buy books may get a tolera 
 ble knowledge of their contents from an able re- 
 
 O 
 
 view. Without the review, it would not be that 
 they would buy the book, but they would have no 
 knowledge of it whatever. There are also books 
 which one does not care to read as a whole, but 
 of which one wants a bird's-eye view, so that the 
 synopsis of a judicious reviewer is often more 
 valuable than the book itself; while the necessity 
 of presenting a condensed, yet comprehensive, 
 an interesting, and, at the same time, valuable 
 view of a subject, benefits the writer. The 
 amount of thought, study, research, genius, spread 
 out, or rather concentrated, weekly, monthly, 
 quarterly, before the public, is astonishing. It 
 is true that future investigations may make mis 
 chief with many of our closely-reasoned conclu 
 sions. The brilliant discovery of to-day may be 
 thrown entirely into the shade by the brilliant
 
 230 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 discoveries of distant to-morrows ; but such a shall 
 be will be only the counterpart of many a has been. 
 The arguments of the fifty-paged quarterly review 
 ers cannot be more entirely refuted than those of 
 the many-volumed mediaeval philosophers. In 
 deed, if truth could be precipitated like a metal 
 held in solution, we question whether a single 
 number of a modern monthly, bought for twenty- 
 five cents, does not sometimes contain as much of 
 it as whole book-shelves of the old fine-drawn ec 
 clesiastics. 
 
 At the same time, there is danger lest reading 
 conduce to frivolity. A diet composed exclusively 
 of Lady's Books and Gentleman's Magazines is 
 only one remove from starvation. A man is not 
 necessarily intelligent because he reads his county 
 newspaper. He who stops there will scarcely be 
 rewarded for having begun. The only difference 
 between some readers of newspapers, and those 
 who read nothing, is that the former know the 
 gossip and scandal of the country, while the latter 
 know only the gossip and scandal of their own vil 
 lage. The only difference between some readers 
 of magazines and those who read nothing, is that 
 the former have filled their lives with milk-and- 
 water romancing, and unmitigated snobbery, while 
 the latter have never deviated from the bread and 
 butter of their homely circle ; and though the snob 
 is unquestionably higher than the clod, both are 
 so far below the true man, that the difference be 
 tween them is scarcely perceptible.
 
 MAGAZINE LITERATURE. 231 
 
 But for any danger that may happen to litera 
 ture, no one need give himself the smallest con 
 cern. Literature was made for man, not man for 
 literature. Whatever ministers to human needs 
 has a right to live. Whatever innocently amuses, 
 comforts, instructs, strengthens, has its justification 
 in its work. There is no divine right in the twelve 
 books of the epic which does not equally inhere in 
 the Poet's Corner of the village newspaper. The 
 ponderous volum'e whose immortality consists in 
 lying in state "in every gentleman's library," may 
 have less influence in building up a noble manhood 
 than the vigorous leader in Tuesday's paper, which 
 nobody reads on Wednesday. The book which 
 solaces the weary mother while rocking the cra 
 dle, or from which the household drudge catches a 
 page of sunshine or sympathy while standing over 
 the cooking-range, waiting for the milk to boil, 
 the book in which the day-laborer finds an assur 
 ance of human brotherhood, or the humble mourn 
 er a glimpse of the silver lining of his cloud, does 
 just as high a service and makes just as good an 
 excuse for being, as the "standard work" whose 
 name is on the tongue of every would-be critic, 
 and whose contents are perhaps mastered by a 
 hundred scholars in a hundred generations. The 
 ennobling of man is a better thing than the enno 
 bling of literature. The ennobling of man, first or 
 last, is the ennobling of literature. The process 
 may be hidden, but the result is sure. The streams
 
 232 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 run underground, but they mingle. No good thing 
 is cast into the river of humanity but it shall -rise 
 again, in some far-off fountain of song or saga. 
 The book which leaves its mark on the human 
 soul, helping to fashion it for the indwelling of the 
 Holy Spirit, or to deform it into a haunt for devils, 
 is the immortal book, whether its name go securely 
 down the centuries or pass away with spring's first 
 violets.
 
 XXI. 
 
 WORDS FOR THE WAY. 
 
 >HEN any patriotic person groans un 
 der the pressure of the war, he may 
 find his account in reading such a 
 book as Fanny Kemble's Journal 
 of her Plantation Life in Georgia, or in looking 
 at certain well-authenticated photographs of the 
 backs of negro slaves who have come into our 
 lines, photographs taken and exhibited for the 
 purpose of giving infallible proofs of the tender 
 mercies of slavery as seen in welt and scar. The 
 book can scarcely be called pleasant summer read 
 ing, and as specimens of art the pictures may 
 not compare favorably with the " Heart of the 
 Andes," or Bierstadt's " Rocky Mountains " ; but 
 as a specific for heart-sickness contracted by hope 
 of victory long deferred, I know nothing better. 
 The war for which three months seemed an age, 
 has dragged its slow length along three years and 
 more. Good people there are, lovers of their 
 country, but lovers also of quiet, haters of strife
 
 234 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and bloodshed, weary with waiting for the grand 
 " movement " which is to crush rebellion, and 
 bring back to us the dear placidity of old days ; 
 people who desire their country's honor to be de 
 fended, her integrity preserved, and her slaves 
 emancipated, but who long with an irrepressible 
 longing for the time which shall stay the effusion 
 of blood, are sometimes tempted to say within 
 themselves, x ' Where is the promise of his com 
 ing? " But when we read and see such portrayals 
 of the abominations of slavery, when we remember 
 that these unspeakable outrages have been en 
 dured by millions of people, not for three years, 
 but for a time that can be reckoned by genera 
 tions, endured without the hope that ever so 
 patient endurance, or ever so heroic valor, should 
 lighten the burden or avert the future woe, en 
 dured without seeing in any quarter the dawn of 
 a release ; thinking of this, we should reckon the 
 sufferings of this present war not worthy to be 
 compared with those under which the African 
 race has so long groaned, being burdened. All 
 the pangs of parting, all the torture of wounds, all 
 the agonies of death, every bitter measure which 
 has been meted out to us, would not balance the 
 physical pain, the mental woe, which we have 
 dealt to the slave ; nor have we anything to off 
 set the spiritual degradation to which we have 
 confined, if not reduced him. We, too, have the 
 great content of being free agents ; he only bent 
 to an inexorable necessitv.
 
 WORDS FOR THE WAY. 235 
 
 In the natural sequence of events, which is but 
 another name for Divine law, slavery and the war 
 stand to each other in the relation of cause to ef 
 fect. There may be for both a deeper cause, but 
 this is the immediate connection. Now since there 
 is for nations no redemption, no atonement, but 
 only the natural law, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, 
 hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, 
 wound for wound, stripe for stripe ; until we have 
 suffered, in mind, body, and estate, as much as the 
 negro race has suffered at our hands, we have no 
 reason to think it strange concerning the fiery trial 
 which is trying us, as though some strange thing 
 happened unto us. Nay, as under the Hebrew 
 law, ordained of God, for the stolen ox five oxen 
 should be restored, and four sheep for a sheep ; 
 since the prophet of old time was not commanded 
 to speak comfortably unto Jerusalem that her war 
 fare was accomplished, until she had received of 
 the Lord's hand double for all her sins ; since in 
 Apocalyptic vision the voice from heaven cried, 
 " In the cup which she hath filled, fill to her 
 double," we have, at least, indication that we 
 may not look for deliverance till the shame and 
 sorrow of the subject race have been twice and 
 thrice poured out upon our own heads. I do not 
 say that it will be so with us, that this is the inva 
 riable Divine mode of procedure ; but that it is the 
 only thing we have a right to expect, and that if 
 peace comes before we have drunk the dregs of the
 
 236 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 cup of retribution, it will be of mercy, and not of 
 law. 
 
 The innocence of individuals is no plea for im 
 munity. It is but " done as others use," to suf 
 fer, to fight, to die for the freedom of the negro 
 whom we have not enslaved, and for the defence 
 of the Union which we have always upheld, and 
 whose honor we have never violated. Individuals 
 cannot escape the penalty, even if they escape the 
 contamination of the society to which they belong, 
 and our society is verily guilty concerning our 
 brother. Through the good hand of our God 
 upon us, in war and its confusions, we have been 
 led to a partial view of the error of our ways ; but 
 we are not yet fully aroused to do justly. Was it 
 a Northern or a Southern Congress that, but a few 
 months ago, refused to give the people an opportu 
 nity to abolish slavery according to the Constitu 
 tion ? Ever since the war began, the footsteps of 
 justice have been through fire and flood, and we 
 would have it so. 
 
 Another consideration should have weight. 
 The unvarying testimony concerning our army 
 proclaims its spirit invincible. Chaplains, sur 
 geons, delegates of the Christian Commission, 
 wounded soldiers returning on furlough, bear 
 witness to the courage, the heart, the "pluck" 
 of the men. A brother, himself wounded, just 
 come from his brother's grave, writes home : " I 
 lost a dear friend when Charley died, but, thank
 
 WORDS FOR THE WAY. 237 
 
 God, he died a brave soldier. Live or die, we 
 must not give up the war till the rebellion is 
 crushed." A boy of eighteen, brought into the 
 hospital, speechless and bleeding, writes on a slip 
 of paper to the by-standers to have " Rally round 
 the flag, boys," sung, and waves his bloody arms 
 above his head in jubilant chorus. A wounded 
 negro standard-bearer wraps the flag around his^ 
 body, crawls on his hands and knees a mile and 
 a quarter to where his comrades are, and cries to 
 them, " Take it, boys, take it ! It has n't touched 
 the ground!" From the extreme Southwest, from 
 Virginia, from the front all along the lines, comes 
 the same note of courage and unflinching purpose ; 
 and if they, who bear all the hardship, and brave 
 all the danger, keep a stout and even a merry 
 heart, does it become us at home to exceedingly 
 fear and quake ? The one complaint from the sol 
 diers is an indignant and bitter denunciation of 
 Northern Rebel sympathizers. It is a fire in the 
 rear against which they are not armed, and with 
 which they have, justly enough, no patience. Let 
 those who are not Rebel sympathizers beware lest 
 an unmanly and unwomanly faint-heartedness put 
 them in the wrong category. 
 
 For the matter of high prices, let it not be so 
 much as named among us ! So far as it is the re 
 sult of greed, it is to be denounced and resisted. 
 May every man who has added one iota to his 
 country's perplexity that he might fill his own
 
 238 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 pockets, find his gains to be as rottenness in his 
 bones. But, as one of the hardships of the war, 
 high prices are to be nothing accounted of. Sup 
 pose sugar is thirty cents a pound, molasses a dol 
 lar a gallon, beef sold by the square inch,-cotton 
 cloth sixty cents a yard, and gold at two hundred 
 and eighty the dollar. How long has it been since 
 a man's life consisted in the abundance of sweets 
 which he could swallow ? If sugar is three times 
 as high as it used to be, use one third as much of 
 it, and the equilibrium is at once restored. Even at 
 that we shall probably have as much as the soldiers 
 have. If St. Paul would agree to eat no meat 
 while the world standeth, lest he make his brother 
 to offend, cannot Christian men and women forego 
 beefsteak for a year, or two, or three, or twenty, 
 that a nation perish not ? If cambric and linen 
 are expensive, are we all princes and princesses 
 that we must have twelve dozen of everything, 
 the wardrobe through ? Pull out the fcureau 
 drawers and use their contents unflinchingly, re 
 gardless of the future, where the honor of now is 
 imperative;. Attack the old linings with scissors 
 and needle, and "gar auld claes look amaist as 
 weel 's the new." Ask for black buttons at the 
 shops, and then see what an inexhaustible mine of 
 black buttons your old boots at home are, and 
 walk away without purchasing, at a clear gain of 
 forty-two cents. Make your loaf-cake of dried 
 apples and molasses, and affirm resolutely that no-
 
 WORDS FOR THE WAY. 239 
 
 body could tell the difference, till people are si 
 lenced if not convinced ! Economy can be made 
 as interesting as a mathematical problem, and as 
 merry as a July picnic. And having economized 
 carefully and successfully, consider that the pleasure 
 and the privilege of it are enough for your share, 
 and send the money saved to the relief of wounded 
 soldiers, or of the freed people. 
 
 It may be said that this does not take into ac 
 count the really poor people ; but, so far as I have 
 observed, the fearful looking for is not among the 
 really poor people. It is not those who are threat 
 ened with absolute want, but those who fear a 
 curtailment of luxuries, a diminution of dividends, 
 an increase of expenditure, who have the most 
 anxiety. 
 
 Let it not be forgotten that all these calamities 
 are trying this nation as never nation before was 
 tried. There is a popular use of the word " trial " 
 which "is not strictly correct. We often make it 
 synonymous with affliction. " To try," not seldom 
 means to annoy, to provoke, to weary, to har 
 ass, to exasperate. But we confound result with 
 process. To try, is to test. All afflictions are 
 trials, but all trials are not afflictions. A fretful 
 child tries, that is, tests, the mother's temper. Her 
 temper does not stand the test. She too becomes 
 fretful and impatient. It may be her fault or the 
 fault of circumstances. It may be that her temper 
 is not under as firm control as it should be, or
 
 240 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 that the test is severer than it ought to be, or 
 both ; at any rate, she does not stand the test, 
 and it becomes an annoyance. Another person 
 is tried by a lovely child. She falls into a weak 
 idolatry and pride, and her test becomes her sin. 
 The fact that trial has so largely come to mean 
 sorrow, grief, annoyance, is a strong indication 
 that trials generally do not bring out well-tem 
 pered metal. Let them reveal comprehensive 
 minds and serene hearts ; let a man possess his 
 soul in patience ; be just as benevolent and self- 
 respectful, whether he be raised from poverty 
 to affluence, or cast down from affluence to pov 
 erty, and trials will presently come to mean bless 
 ings. 
 
 Ever since Thomas Paine, we have talked about 
 the times that tried men's souls, not, as a general 
 thing, perhaps, having any very definite idea of 
 what we were talking about. We meant the 
 days of the Revolution, and were referring to their 
 straits, and suffering, and bloodshed ; but the days 
 on which we have fallen are sounding the hitherto 
 unfathomed depths of many an abysmal word on 
 whose fair and beautiful surface we have pleas 
 antly floated, not dreaming of the gems held in 
 its silent caverns. Patriotism, loyalty, truth, hon 
 esty, courage, victory, defeat, disaster, cowardice, 
 rebellion, treason, what revelations have these 
 last years made ! We saw only the green boughs 
 and sprays and vines that overarched, concealing,
 
 WORDS FOR THE WAY. 241 
 
 granite gates. The drum-beat of war has been 
 an open sesame, throwing back the unsuspected 
 portals, and discovering vista upon vista stretch 
 ing down measureless distances till the solemn 
 aisles lose themselves in the inward fastnesses of 
 humanity. 
 
 Times that try men's souls ! We have fallen 
 on such times. We are all in the crucible. 
 
 " We wait beneath the furnace blast 
 The pangs of transformation." 
 
 In common days we go on pleasantly together. 
 We lift ourselves to gentle heights. We slide, 
 unastonished, into easy depths. The war comes 
 slowly at first, and not severe. It is a toy, bril 
 liant and sonorous, with just enough of danger to 
 make it piquant, fascinating, exhilarating. It stirs 
 our sluggish blood to heroic, joyful pulses. We 
 watch it with eager eyes, but a smile on the lips. 
 It rolls along, furrowing for itself a deeper groove 
 in our lives, our homes, our hearts. It is no 
 longer a toy ; it has grown into a fearful engine. 
 We cannot toss it away. We cannot control it. 
 We can but imperfectly guide it. It whirls on, 
 now slowly, now swiftly, always terrible, crushing 
 a nation's hearts beneath its iron wheels. Inexo 
 rable, pitiless, we fling ourselves in vain against 
 those ponderous sides, and tears and sobs and 
 moans are powerless to hinder its career. The 
 smile dies out of our lips. Shall they become 
 tremulous with fear, pallid with despair, distorted 
 11 p
 
 242 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 with base entreaty, or shall they be firm with 
 manly purpose ? 
 
 This is the test, the trial. This shall show what 
 manner of people we are. The way in which we 
 bear ourselves through the lingering and disas 
 trous days of this war, shall be our proof to our 
 selves and to our children. We can be weak, 
 impatient, querulous, driven about by every wind 
 of rumor, now desponding, now exultant, com 
 plaining, foreboding, lamenting, regretting. We 
 can be hopeful, cheerful, trustful, patient, learn 
 ing to wait as well as to labor, drawing from 
 history, from philosophy, from religion, consola 
 tion under defeat, caution in judgment, industry 
 after victory, energy after disaster, and wisdom in 
 all things. 
 
 We can see in numerous instances how these 
 times have tried men's souls. Here and there 
 they " shine in the sudden making of splendid 
 names." Men who walked unknown along the 
 plains of peace, have risen above the wild surg- 
 ings of these war-waves " in shape and gesture 
 proudly eminent." There have been unfolded 
 calm souls, clear to see, and strong. to grasp the 
 opportunity. The fire that lay hidden in many 
 a heart has flashed out into flame, consuming the 
 gathered dross of drowsy years, and refining the 
 latent gold. Among the living and the dead, we 
 count up names that will never die. We have 
 seen, too, sadder sights. Men that did run well,
 
 WORDS FOR THE WAY. 243 
 
 hindered, men that stood in angel guise whisper 
 ing softly into the world's slumberous ear, changed 
 by the touch of these glittering war-spears into 
 loathsome shapes, men who were thought to 
 have attained the fulness of the ideal manhood, 
 weighed in the balance and found wanting, 
 hopes that did mount gloriously, coming down in 
 utter darkness. 
 
 The nation has been tried, tried by domestic 
 rebellion, by foreign threats, by the frightful inca 
 pacity of its leaders, and the trial is still going 
 on. Its courage, its persistence, its magnanimity, 
 its resolution, its humanity, almost every quality 
 that a nation should possess, has been tried by 
 the exigencies of this war, and is yet in the furnace 
 heat. What the result will be, God alone knows. 
 
 Insatiable ambition, insatiable avarice, struck 
 deep into the nation's life, this war has brought 
 to light. But there has also been developed an 
 eagerness for sacrifice, an unselfish devotion, a 
 trust in God, which is the basis of noble charac 
 ter. God will decide the issue. He knows 
 whether there is virtue enough in the land to 
 redeem it. If it is worth saving, it will be 
 saved. If it is not worth saving, it is better that 
 it should be destroyed. He doeth His pleas 
 ure among the inhabitants of earth as well as in 
 the armies of heaven. Our part is to work with 
 might and main ; to strain nerve and muscle to 
 put down the rebellion on the one side, and to
 
 244 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 raise our own standard, and the standard of all 
 men, to the moral heights which God requires, on 
 the other. We sigh for a great man, but it may 
 be the will of God it certainly is so far that 
 we shall not have a great man. We must do the 
 work ourselves. A great man is not in accord 
 ance with the " spirit of our institutions." We 
 are a democracy, and it is the people that must 
 save the country. We must work with such ma 
 terial as we have. And while we are doing with 
 our might whatsoever our hands find to do, we 
 must, if we are faithful, besiege the throne of 
 Heaven with an importunity that will not be re 
 sisted ; in all places and at all times making suppli 
 cation unto God for the help that he never refuses ; 
 beseeching him to take the leadership, and so to 
 guide us that our cause shall be His cause, and 
 our prayer for national unity, and peace, and free 
 dom, one with " Thy kingdom come, Thy will 
 be done."
 
 XXII. 
 
 "OUT IN THE COLD." 
 
 : OR many years the great bugbear of 
 this country has been Disunion. Love- 
 joy was shot in Alton ; Dr. Bailey was 
 mobbed in Washington ; Judge Hoar 
 was driven eut of Charleston ; and Garrison was 
 dragged through the streets of Boston with a rope 
 around his neck, to placate this implacable mon 
 ster. Books were tampered with, traffic was tainted, 
 printing-presses thrown into the river, and pulpits 
 so polluted that they ought to have been ; nothing 
 was held too precious, too sacred, to be offered on 
 his shrine. Free speech, free press, free action, 
 were all tossed into his ravenous maw. States 
 men, tradesmen, merchants, ministers, saints, and 
 sinners, all .went down on their knees, and agreed 
 that black was white, if so he might be fended off. 
 Nay, they not only agreed to it, they argued it ; 
 they swore to maintain it, and henceforth to toler 
 ate no doubt, and suffer no agitation on the subject, 
 lest the dragon should rear his horrid front again.
 
 24G SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 But there is an end of that. We shall prob 
 ably never certainly not for this generation 
 have any more Southern menaces of disunion. 
 No right will have to be postponed, no wrong 
 allowed, because the South threatens to with 
 draw. If she accomplishes her purposes, there 
 will be no occasion for a renewal of her threat ; 
 and if she does not, no possibility. But the re 
 sources of Satan are infinite; and, having ridden one 
 horse to death, he has now slipped upon the back 
 of another to take an airing through the North. 
 Finding that his bugbear is going to be transfixed 
 and analyzed, and all that is bug hooted, and all 
 that is bear throttled out of existence, he sets up 
 a new and fresh one. Slavery, not feeing able to 
 drag the South out of the Union, is now making a 
 frantic effort to push New England out. Having 
 tried in vain to fix a great gulf along Mason and 
 Dixon's line, she next undertakes to chip off Ply 
 mouth Rock. But slavery will find no more profit 
 to herself in stone-cutting than in ditch-digging. 
 Plymouth Rock was cut out of the mountain with 
 out hands, and hands cannot prevent it from be 
 coming a great mountain, and filling the whole 
 earth. Suppose New England were thrust out of 
 the Union, had Zimri peace who slew his master ? 
 Would the principles that have made New Eng 
 land what she is be any less forceful because she 
 was no longer called America ? A rose by any 
 other name is just as sweet. If New England
 
 "OUT IN THE COLD." 247 
 
 were baptized New Zealand, righteousness would 
 still go up a sweet savor unto the Lord. 
 
 Is it said that such expulsion would be her ruin, 
 that henceforth her name would be but a mem 
 ory ? What then ? Is civilization shut up in Bos 
 ton State-House ? Whom the gods will destroy, 
 they first make mad. Are men mad enough to 
 suppose that, at this late day, truth crushed to 
 earth will not rise again? that, because John 
 Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, 
 his soul is mouldering with it? Plymouth Rock 
 is no bit of quartz or feldspar, but a principle ; 
 and principles will live and reign though New 
 England be not only left out in the cold, but 
 thrust down into the ocean depths forever. Every 
 church, every school-house, every town-house, 
 from the Atlantic to the Pacific, has Plymouth 
 Rock for its foundation-stone. Every man in 
 every land who opens his mouth for truth, stands 
 on Plymouth Rock. Wherever Freedom aims a 
 musket, or plants a standard, or nerves an arm, 
 or sings a song, or makes a protest, or murmurs 
 a prayer, there is Plymouth Rock. Cows may 
 meander, as of old, along Washington Street ; but 
 the hands shall not go back on the dial-plate of 
 God. Boston may be grass-grown, and New Eng 
 land forgotten, but love of life and love of liberty 
 shall never die out of the hearts of men. Let 
 Southern traitors and their Northern abettors 
 arrange things as they will. Let them eject New
 
 248 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 England, sheathe the sword, stifle discussion, in 
 augurate Jefferson Davis, annul the freedman, and 
 perpetuate the slave ; is that the end ? Will they 
 so find rest ? Will cotton once more resume 
 sway, and right be forever held in abeyance ? 
 Never, so long as there is a conscience in man, or 
 a God in heaven ! They may make themselves a 
 new Pandora's box, filled with peace, and com 
 merce, and wealth, and every blessing, but this 
 evil at the bottom shall poison every good. They 
 cannot bind it to quietude. They may resolve 
 and legislate and menace ; Jefferson Davis and 
 all his kind may bear down upon it with their 
 whole force ; but the divinely appointed unrest of 
 iniquity will heave and throb till the vexed lid fly 
 up with a rebound that shall hurl them to irrevo 
 cable doom. Men forget that Qthics is not me 
 chanics. They forget the divine power of truth, 
 the divine nature of humanity. God made man 
 in his own image ; in the image of God created he 
 him ; male and female created he them. And can 
 it be supposed that male and female, created in 
 God's own image, are to remain eternally passive 
 under the weight of hell's oppression, or, worse 
 than this, are to be the ever patient agents of hell's 
 iniquity? If the programme of these lewd fellows 
 of the basest sort, these Northern men, who, of 
 their own free will and taste, souse their hands into 
 the filth amid which their Southern comrades were 
 most innocently born ; if their programme could
 
 "OUT IN THE COLD." 249 
 
 be carried out ; if New England could be quietly 
 disposed of; if the cry of three millions of slaves 
 could be hushed, and the voice of nineteen millions 
 of freemen stilled, and a dead silence reign through 
 out the land, the woe to the African would be a 
 thousand and a thousand fold less than the woe to 
 his Caucasian oppressor. But this cannot be, be 
 cause the good in man can no more be ignored 
 than the evil ; because there is implanted in him 
 a divine spark, which is ever springing up into 
 flame. Whoever makes laws or frames plans, 
 without taking into account the action of this ir 
 repressible agent, will find his laws and his plans 
 blown finally to a thousand fragments, by its 
 checked and accumulated forces. 
 
 Meanwhile, let us possess our souls in patience. 
 The cry of separation between North and South 
 is, it seems, to be superseded by the cry of separa 
 tion between East and West. If we are to be cut 
 off, so be it ; but do not let us die a thousand 
 deaths through fear of one. Dread of Southern 
 separation has sat at our council-boards for a life 
 time ; if this fresh one is to supplant it, the little 
 finger of the new tyrant will be thicker than the 
 loins of the old. The best way is to do justly, love 
 mercy, and walk humbly before God, precisely as 
 if nothing had been said. If it happens, we shall 
 be no worse off for having slept o' nights ; and if 
 it does not happen, we shall be a great deal better. 
 Let no New England voice be lifted against the 
 11*
 
 2">0 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 measure, for, apart from law and loyalty, dignity 
 seems to require that New England's defence shall 
 come from other lips than her own, as it certainly 
 does come through all the North and West, with 
 unequivocal and generous reverberations. But 
 above all things, as we value our birthright, and 
 the charge intrusted to us by our fathers, let no 
 New England voice be lowered to meet this new 
 found threat. Though, as an American, one should 
 bewail such a catastrophe in dust and ashes, as a 
 New Englander, he should exult. America would 
 wear her decree of divorce forever branded on her 
 brow ; but New England would inscribe it highest 
 on her banner of the light ; for the separation would 
 not be because of her usurpation of power, but her 
 inflexibility of principle;. not for what is bad in her, 
 but for what is good. So may she live only so 
 long as life and honor are one ; and if die she must, 
 let her go down grandly, like the Cumberland, 
 firing her last broadside at the foe, flinging her 
 last flag to the breeze, knowing of a surety that 
 the dead which she shall slay at her death will be 
 more than they which she slew in her life.
 
 XXIII. 
 
 INTERRUPTION. 
 
 SAT down to write, but through the 
 noonday air, calm and still as midsum 
 mer, though in the heart of winter, 
 comes the boom of distant cannon. In 
 another latitude it might be a tone of terror and 
 agony; but over our quiet valleys the besom 
 of destruction has never swept, the voice of 
 carnage has not sounded, the " feverish lips " of 
 cannon, save in one mad hour, have spoken 
 only summons to battle and shouts of victory. 
 When, early in the war, the vexed air quivered 
 with its fiery freight, it used to raise high hopes. 
 Eager eyes answered to eager lips. Was Rich 
 mond taken ? Was Beauregard defeated ? Was 
 Davis captured ? Was the land avenged, and 
 peace restored? But we have learned wisdom 
 since then, and patience. Still the guns boom, 
 deafening enough in their places, no . doubt, but 
 to us, afar off, deadened down to a sturdy rum- 
 bung ; and a sweeter sound mingles with the deep
 
 252 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 reverberation. The clangor of bells is softly heard. 
 Beginning at the west it ripples along to the south ; 
 one and another take up the joyful strain, and 
 ring out happy chimes. So faint, so far, the little 
 chords of melody give forth, as it were, the echoes 
 of some ^Eolian harp stirred by a light-winged 
 zephyr. Tiny wavelets strike out from tiny cen 
 tres of sound, and all along the southern horizon 
 meet and mingle in harmonious confusion, till the 
 fairy-like music steals into our hearts. The drum 
 beat adds its solemn undertone, and far, far be 
 yond that line of southern hills, crowned with its 
 Procession of the Pines, I know there are thou 
 sands of hearts beating with wild tumult of joy, 
 thousands of hearts throbbing with rapturous glad 
 ness. For do you know ? Not a child in the 
 village street but can tell you wherefore the village 
 bells are ringing so merrily. It is the returning 
 regiments. 
 
 The returning regiments ! How long it is since 
 the April morning that left a stain on the pave 
 ments of Baltimore ! How long before us stretched 
 the three strange, terrible months months men 
 acing us with unknown perils and shadowy ter 
 ror to which our early volunteers were called ! 
 Could that excitement, that indignation, that new 
 and ominous roar of approaching battle, endure 
 three months? Could we endure it? Bear for 
 three months the anxiety, the uncertainty, the 
 raging thirst for victory and vengeance, the
 
 IN TERR UPTION. 253 
 
 " dull, deep pain and constant anguish of pa 
 tience ? " It is three and thirty months since 
 then, and still our battle-flag remains unfurled, 
 and still an outraged nation waits to be avenged. 
 
 Seventy-five thousand men ! Where could 
 the beloved land find foes to withstand a host 
 like that? we asked, in our simplicity. They 
 laughed in Montgomery. They had measured 
 their strength better than we. They knew their 
 iniquitous purpose. Our grand army was but a 
 stripling come out to fight a giant with smooth 
 stones from the brook. They knew themselves, 
 but there was a strength of which they never 
 dreamed. They did not know that our seventy- 
 five thousand men were but the first rain-drops 
 from the cloud not yet ripe for showers. The 
 prince of the powers of darkness had marshalled 
 his minions well, as we presently learned. Then 
 the cloud spread up the sky. It gathered thick, 
 and thundered loud, and the rent heavens rang 
 with the shout, the solid earth shook with the 
 tread of ten hundred thousand men. 
 
 And now they have come back to us. They 
 have fulfilled their high promise. They have ac 
 quitted themselves like men. They rushed to the 
 breach, when the foe came in like a flood, and 
 stayed the desolation. There are men who dare 
 to sneer at patriotism, and talk of the attractive 
 power of thirteen dollars a month. To such a 
 talker, one is moved to say : " Your testimony is
 
 254 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 conclusive as far as it goes ; but it goes no farther 
 than your solitary self. You may know that you 
 would give up wife, and child, and life for thirteen 
 dollars a month, but you are not authorized to say 
 that all men would do the same. As like natu 
 rally seeks like, it is very possible that the clique 
 to which you belong, and from which you gener 
 alize your unworthy laws, are impelled by such 
 petty considerations. But a clique does not es 
 tablish laws for humanity." 
 
 No one supposes that men, in becoming soldiers, 
 become angels. Pay, pension, promotion, of 
 course, have their influence, and they are all hon 
 orable motives, closely entwined with 
 
 " The graces and the loves that make 
 The music of the march of life," 
 
 but in the breasts of our brave soldiery there is 
 somewhat broader, deeper, higher than these. He 
 is blind who does not see it. 
 
 I was reading, the other day, the funeral sermon 
 of a young man of Michigan, Major Noah Henry 
 Ferry, of the Fifth Michigan Cavalry. He fell at 
 Gettysburg, swept away by treason's highest wave. 
 His is only one of the many names written in " liv 
 ing light," and for every name we see, there are, 
 doubtless, scores that we see not. But every 
 name, every record of a hero's life and a martyr's 
 death, is as fresh and fair as if his name alone 
 illumined our country's annals. In a letter to his
 
 INTERRUPTION. 255 
 
 mother, shortly before his departure from Wash 
 ington, Major Ferry writes : " If by the accident 
 of war I should find my end upon the field .... 
 you will have the comfort of knowing that I have, 
 by dying in such a cause, not lived in vain ; and 
 that (I can tell it to you) no impure motive had a 
 voice in bringing me here; nor is there in my 
 history anything of which my friends need feel 
 ashamed." 
 
 That he was not impelled by love of glory, or 
 any personal ambition, is constantly seen. To a 
 younger brother, chafing under the necessity of 
 remaining at home, he writes, " Why, Ned, when 
 I read of your work at home, and hear you talk of 
 discontent, because you are not doing more for 
 your country, I feel guilty in staying here. You 
 are doing manifold more than I am. Your place 
 cannot be vacated without being felt by very 
 many, while mine would hardly be missed." In 
 another letter he writes " If I go to war, I want 
 to fight ; if I go to play, I want to play." And 
 what says the father of this young soldier, when 
 the tidings came from Gettysburg ? " Not one 
 son, but all, if need be ; rather than that this un 
 holy rebellion triumph. If my country must fall, 
 welcome the annihilation of every temporal inter 
 est and the destruction of life itself: for I do not 
 desire to survive my country's ruin." While such 
 words are spoken, while such fire burns in heroic 
 hearts, and such dust mingles with the soil, who is
 
 256 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 he that dares to sit by the fireside from which he 
 has never stirred and prate his malign insinua 
 tions ? 
 
 They have come back to us, but not as they 
 went away. For boys tenderly reared and careful 
 ly watched, for men with soft hands and sheltered 
 lives, we have a band of bronzed and scarred, war 
 worn and weather-beaten veterans. Two years 
 may have been twenty for the sinewy manliness 
 to which they have grown. We hoped that on 
 their return we should 
 
 " hear the bells of cheer 
 Ring peace and freedom in," 
 
 but it was not to be. Their feet are shod only 
 with the preparations of the gospel of peace : still 
 the trumpet sounds to arms, but they are undis 
 mayed. They have come back only for one 
 breathing-space, and they will rally yet again 
 around the dear old flag. Let their home-sojourn 
 be filled to the brim with pleasant things, and 
 their after-life crowded with pleasant memories. 
 Give, first of all, thanks unto the Lord, for he is 
 good. Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, 
 and into his courts with praise. Let the voice of 
 social love greet them, and the hand of friendship 
 clasp theirs. O maidens, bring to them your 
 sweetest smiles ; mothers, unfold your deepest 
 tenderness; and crow your lustiest, round-eyed 
 babies, voicing a joy you do not understand. 
 Spread, blue and clear above their heads, ye
 
 INTERRUPTION. 257 
 
 wintry skies. Lie white and hard beneath their 
 feet, ye hills of snow. Let sleigh-bells jingle mer 
 rily, let the lamp be brightly trimmed, and the red 
 firelight dance. Let friends and neighbors meet 
 to give them hearty welcome. Bring down to the 
 spit the king of the turkeys, cram the puddings 
 with pulpy plums. Marshal the pumpkins and the 
 cranberries, and the spicy, multifarious mixtures 
 for all manner of unwholesome edibles that men 
 delight in; they can stand it for a month, and 
 on distant camping-grounds, when hard-tack shall 
 have resumed its sway, it may delight them to re 
 member these things. 
 
 They have come back to us, but not all. The 
 still deadliness of malaria and " the thunder-storm 
 of battle " have made sad havoc here. "We have 
 but thinned and shattered ranks for the gallant 
 regiments that went 
 
 " Marching along, fifty score strong, 
 Great-hearted gentlemen." 
 
 They come back tens, who went out hundreds. 
 Their graves are gr^en in many a valley, and the 
 breezes whisper softly where they lie. Under the 
 waters and above the clouds they rest in dream 
 less slumber. Some sleep among their kindred, in 
 the shade of marble monuments, and some sleep 
 just as peacefully whose sepulchres no man shall 
 ever know. God help the hearts whose wounds 
 will this day bleed afresh. 
 
 The sounds have ceased. The cannon's low 
 
 Q
 
 258 
 
 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 roll is hushed, and the bells are still. Now the 
 
 crowds are dispersing, the civic greeting is over, 
 
 and the doors of happy homes open, and close 
 
 again. 
 
 them with his blessing. 
 
 The angel of the Lord descend and crown
 
 XXIV. 
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 
 
 jT is right and fitting that this nation 
 should cherish a peculiar gratitude 
 and render especial thanksgiving to 
 the Most High. Through all its ex 
 istence it has rejoiced in the sunshine of Divine 
 favor ; but never has that favor been so benignly 
 and bountifully bestowed as in these latter days. 
 For the unexampled material prosperity which has 
 waited upon our steps, for blessings in city and 
 'field, in basket and store, in all that we have set 
 our hand unto, it is meet that we should render 
 thanks to the Good Giver ; but for the especial 
 blessings of these last four years, for the sudden 
 uprising of manhoo,d, for the great revival of jus 
 tice, and truth, and love, without which material 
 prosperity is but a second death, for the wisdom 
 to do, the courage to dare, the patience to endure, 
 and the godlike strength to sacrifice all hi a right 
 eous cause, let us give thanks ; for in these con 
 sists a people's life.
 
 200 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 To every nation there comes an hour whereon 
 hang trembling the issues of its fate. Has it vital 
 ity to withstand the shock of conflict and the tur 
 moil of surprise ? Will it slowly gather itself up 
 for victorious onset? or will it sink unresisting into 
 darkness and the grave ? 
 
 To this nation, as to all, the question came : 
 Ease or honor, death or life? Subtle and sav 
 age, with a bribe in his hand, and a threat on his 
 tongue, the tempter stood. Let it be remembered 
 with lasting gratitude that there was neither pause 
 nor parley when once his purpose was revealed. 
 The answer came, 'the voice of millions like the 
 voice of one. From city and village, from moun 
 tain and prairie, from the granite coast of the At 
 lantic to the golden gate of the Pacific, the answer 
 came. It roared from a thousand cannon, it flashed 
 from a million muskets. The sudden gleam of 
 uplifted swords revealed it, the quiver of bristling 
 bayonets wrote it in blood. A knell to the despot, 
 a paean to the slave, it thundered round the world. 
 
 Then the thing which we had greatly feared 
 came upon us, and that spectre which we had 
 been afraid of came unto us, and, behold, length 
 of days was in its right hand, and in its left hand 
 riches and honor. What the lion-hearted warrior 
 of England was to the children of the Saracens, 
 that had the gaunt mystery of Secession been to 
 the little ones of this generation, an evening phan 
 tom and a morning fear, at the mere mention of
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 261 
 
 whose name many had been but too ready to fall 
 at the feet of opposition and cry imploringly, 
 " Take any form but that ! " The phantom ap 
 proached, put off its shadowy outlines, assumed a 
 definite purpose, loomed up in horrid proportions, 
 to come to perpetual end. In its actual pres 
 ence all fear vanished. The contest waxed hot, 
 but it wanes forever. Shadow and substance drag 
 slowly down their bloody path to disappear in eter 
 nal infamy. The war rolls on to its close ; and 
 when it closes, the foul blot of secession stains 
 our historic page no more. Another book shall 
 be opened. 
 
 Remembering all the way which these battling 
 years have led us, we can only say, "It is the 
 Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes." 
 Who dreamed of the grand, stately patience, the 
 heroic strength, that lay dormant in the hearts of 
 this impulsive, mercurial people ? It was always 
 capable of magnanimity. Who suspected its 
 sublime self-poise ? Rioting in a reckless, child 
 ish freedom, who would have dared to prophesy 
 that calm, clear foresight by which it voluntarily 
 assumed the yoke, merged its strong individual 
 wills in one central controlling will, and bent with 
 haughty humility to every restraint that looked to 
 the rescue of its endangered liberty? The can 
 non that smote the walls of a Sumter did a wild 
 work. Its voice of insult and of sacrilege roused 
 the fire of a blood too brave to know its courage,
 
 202 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 too proud to boast its source. All the heroism in 
 herited from an honored ancestry, all the inborn 
 wrath of justice against iniquity, all that was true 
 to truth sprang up instinctively to wrest our Holy 
 Land from the clutch of its worse than infideK 
 
 But that was not the final test. The final test 
 came afterwards. The passion of indignation 
 bunied out as passion must. The war that had 
 been welcomed as a relief bore down upon the 
 land with an ever-increasing weight, became an 
 ever-darkening shadow. Its romance and poetry 
 did not fade, but their colors were lost under 
 the sable hues of reality. The cloud hung over 
 every hamlet; it darkened every doorway. Even 
 success must have been accompanied with sharp 
 est sorrow ; and we had not success to soften 
 sorrow. Disaster followed close upon delay, and 
 delay upon disaster, and still the nation's heart 
 was strong. The cloud became a pall, but there 
 was no faltering. Men said to one another, 
 anxiously : " This cannot last. We must have 
 victory. The people will not stand these delays. 
 The summer must achieve results, or all is lost." 
 The summer came and went, results were not 
 achieved, and still the patient country waited, 
 waited not supinely, not indifferently, but with a 
 still determination, with a painful longing, with an 
 earnest endeavor, less demonstrative, but no less 
 definite, than that which Sumter roused. Mo 
 ments of sadness, of gloom, of bitter disappoint-
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 263 
 
 ment and deep indignation, there have been ; 
 but never from the first moment of the Rebel 
 lion to this its dying hour has there been a 
 time when the purpose of the people to crush 
 out treason and save the nation has for a single 
 instant wavered. And never has their power 
 lagged behind their purpose. Never have they 
 withheld men or money, but always they have 
 pressed on, more eager, more generous, more for 
 ward to give than their leaders have been to ask. 
 Truly, it is not in man that walketh thus to direct 
 his steps ! 
 
 And side by side, with no unequal step, the 
 great charities have attended the great conflict. 
 Out of the strong has come forth sweetness. 
 From the helmeted brow of War has sprung a 
 fairer than Minerva, panoplied not for battle, but 
 for the tenderest ministrations of Peace. Wher 
 ever the red hand of War has been raised to 
 strike, there the white hand of Pity has been 
 stretched forth to solace. Wherever else there 
 may have been division, here there has been no 
 division. Love, the essence of Christianity, self- 
 sacrifice, the life of God, have forgotten their 
 names, have left the beaten ways, have embodied 
 themselves in institutions, and have lifted the 
 whole nation to the heights of a divine beneficence. 
 Old and young, rich and poor, bond and free, 
 have joined in offering an offering to the Lord in 
 the persons of his wounded brethren. The wo-
 
 264 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 man that was tender and very delicate has brought 
 her finest handiwork ; the slave, whose just un- 
 manacled hands were hardly yet deft enough to 
 fashion a freedman's device, has proffered his pain 
 ful hoards ; the criminal in his cell has felt the 
 mysterious brotherhood stirring in his heart, and 
 has pressed his skill and cunning into the service 
 of his countrymen. Hands trembling with age 
 have steadied themselves to new effort ; little 
 fingers that had hardly learned their uses have 
 bent with unwonted patience to the novelty of 
 tasks. The fashion and elegance of cities, the 
 thrift and industry of villages, have combined 
 to relieve the suffering and comfort the sor 
 rowful. Science has wrought her mysteries, art 
 has spread her beauties, and learning and elo 
 quence and poetry have lavished their free-will 
 offerings. The ancient blood of Massachusetts 
 and the youthful vigor of California have throbbed 
 high with one desire to give deserved meed to 
 those heroic men who wear their badge of honor 
 in scarred brow and maimed limb. The wonders 
 of the Old World, the treasures of tropical seas, 
 the boundless wealth of our own fertile inland, all 
 that the present has of marvellous, all that the 
 past has bequeathed most precious, all has been 
 poured into the lap of this sweet charity, and 
 blesseth alike him that gives and him that takes. 
 It is the old convocation of the Jews, when they 
 brought the Lord's offering to the work of the tab-
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 265 
 
 ernacle : " And they came, both men and women, 
 and brought bracelets, .and ear-rings, and rings, 
 and tablets, all jewels of gold; and every man 
 that offered offered an offering of gold unto the 
 Lord. And every man with whom was found 
 blue and purple and scarlet and fine linen and 
 goats' hair and red skins of rams and badgers' 
 
 o 
 
 skins brought them. And all the women that 
 
 O 
 
 were wise-hearted did spin with their hands, and 
 brought that which they had spun, both of blue 
 and of purple and of scarlet and of fine linen. 
 And the rulers brought onyx-stone's, and stones 
 to be set, and spice, and oil for the light. The 
 children of Israel brought a willing offering unto 
 the Lord, every man and woman." 
 
 Truly not the least of the compensations of this 
 war is the new spirit which it has set astir in hu 
 man life, this acknowledged brotherhood which 
 makes all things common, which moves health 
 and wealth and leisure and learning to brave the 
 dangers of the battle-field and the horrors of the 
 hospital for the comfort of its needy comrade. 
 And inasmuch as he who hath done it unto one 
 of the least of these his brethren has done it unto 
 the Master, is not this, in very deed and truth, 
 Anno Domini, the year of our Lord ? 
 
 And let all devout hearts render praises to God 
 
 for the hope we are enabled to cherish that He 
 
 wiU speedily save this people from their national 
 
 sin. From the days of our fathers, the land 
 
 12
 
 266 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 groaned under its weight of woe and crime ; but 
 none saw from what quarter deliverance should 
 come. Apostles and prophets arose in North and 
 South, prophesying the wrath of God against a 
 nation that dared to hold its great truth of human 
 brotherhood in unrighteousness, and the smile of 
 God only on him who should do justly and love 
 mercy and walk humbly before Him ; but they 
 died in faith, not having obtained the promises. 
 That faith in God, and consequently in the ulti 
 mate triumph of right over wrong, never failed ; 
 but few, even of the most sanguine, dared to hope 
 that their eyes should see the salvation of the 
 Lord. Upright men spent their lives in unyield 
 ing and indignant protest, not so much for any 
 immediate result as because they could do no 
 otherwise, because the constant violation of 
 sacred right, the constant defilement and degra 
 dation of country, wrought so fiercely and pain 
 fully in their hearts that they could not hold their 
 peace. Though they expected no sudden reform, 
 they beh'eved in the indestructibility of truth, and 
 knew, therefore, that their word should not return 
 unto them void, but waited for some far future 
 day when happier harvesters should come bringing 
 their sheaves with them. How looks the promise 
 now ? A beneficent Providence has outstripped 
 our laggard hopes. The work which we had so 
 summarily given over to the wiser generations of 
 the future is rapidly approaching completion be-
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 267 
 
 neath the strokes of a few sharp, short years of 
 our own. Slavery, which was apologized for by 
 the South, tolerated by the North, half recognized 
 as an evil, half accepted as a compromise, but with 
 every conscientious concession and every cowardly 
 expedient sinking ever deeper and deeper into 
 the nation's life, stands forth at last in its real 
 character, and meets its righteous doom. Public 
 opinion, rapidly sublimed in the white heat of this 
 fierce war, is everywhere crystallizing. Men are 
 learning to know precisely what they believe, and, 
 knowing, they dare maintain. There is no more 
 speaking with bated breath, no more counselling 
 of forbearance and non-intervention. It is no 
 longer a chosen few who dare openly to denounce 
 the sum of all villanies ; but loud and long and 
 deep goes up the execration of a people, the 
 tenfold hate and horror of men who have seen the 
 foul fiend's work, who have felt his fangs fastened 
 in their own flesh, his poison working in their 
 own hearts' blood. Hundreds of thousands of 
 thinking men have gone down into his loathsome 
 prison-house, have looked upon his obscene fea 
 tures, have grappled, shuddering, with his slimy 
 strength ; and thousands of thousands, watching 
 them from far-off Northern homes, have felt the 
 chill that crept through their souls. The ab 
 horrence of slavery that fills the heart of this 
 people it is impossible for language to exagger 
 ate. It is so strong, so wide-spread, so uncom-
 
 268 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 promising, so fixed in its determination to de 
 stroy, root and branch, the accursed thing, that 
 even the forces of evil and self-seeking, awed and 
 overpowered, are swept into the line of its pro 
 cession. Good men and bad men, lovers of coun 
 try and lovers only of lucre, men who will fight 
 to the death for a grand idea and men who fight 
 only for some low ambition, worshippers of God 
 and worshippers of Mammon, are alike putting 
 their hands to the plough which is to overturn 
 and overturn till the ancient evil is uprooted. 
 The very father of lies is, perforce, become the 
 servant of truth. That old enemy which is the 
 Devil, the malignant messenger of all evil, finds 
 himself, somewhat amazed and enraged, we 
 must believe, at his unexpected situation, with 
 all his executive ability undiminished, all his 
 spiritual strength unimpaired, harnessed to the 
 chariot of human freedom and human progress, 
 and working in his own despite the beneficent 
 will of God. 
 
 Unspeakably cheering, both as a sign of the 
 sincerity of our leaders and as a pledge of what 
 the nation means to do when its hands are 
 free, are the little Christian colonies planted in 
 the rear of our victorious armies. In the heart 
 of woods are often seen large tracts of open 
 country gay with a brilliant purple bloom which 
 the people call " fire-weed," because it springs 
 up on spots that have been stripped by fire. So,
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 269 
 
 where the old plantations of sloth and servitude 
 have been consumed by the desolating flames of 
 war, spring up the tender growths of Christian 
 civilization. The filthy hovel is replaced by the 
 decent cottage. The squalor of slavery is succeed 
 ed by the little adornments of ownership. The 
 thrift of self-possession supplants the recklessness 
 of irresponsibility. For the slave-pen we have 
 the school-house. Where the lash labored to re 
 duce men to the level of brutes, the Bible leads 
 them up to the heights of angels. We are as yet 
 but in the beginning, but we have begun right. 
 With his staff the slave passes over the Jordan of 
 his deliverance ; but through the manly nurture 
 and Christian training which we owe him, and 
 which we shall pay, he shall become two bands. 
 The people did not set themselves to combat preju 
 dices with words alone, when the time was ripe for 
 deeds ; but while the Government was yet hesitat 
 ing whether to put the musket into his hand for 
 war, Christian men and women hastened to give 
 him the primer for peace. Not waiting for legis 
 lative enactments, they took the freedman as he 
 came all panting from the house of bondage ; they 
 ministered to his wants, strengthened his heart, 
 and set him rejoicing on his way to manhood. 
 The Proclamation of Emancipation may or may 
 not be revoked ; but whom knowledge has made a 
 man, and discipline a soldier, no edict can make 
 again a slave.
 
 270 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 While the people have been working in their 
 individual capacity to right the wrongs of genera 
 tions, our constituted authorities have been mov 
 ing on steadfastly to the same end. Military 
 necessity has emancipated thousands of slaves, and 
 civil power has pressed ever nearer and nearer 
 to the abolition of slavery. In all the confusion 
 of war, the trumpet-tones of justice have rung 
 through our national halls with no uncertain 
 sound. With a pertinacity most exasperating to 
 tyrants and infidels, but most welcome to the 
 friends of human rights, Northern Senators and 
 Representatives have presented the claims of the 
 African race. With many a momentary recession, 
 the tide has swept irresistibly onward. Hopes 
 have been baffled only to be strengthened. Meas 
 ures have been rejected only to be restored. De 
 feat has been accepted but as the stepping-stone to 
 new endeavor. Cautiously, warily, Freedom has 
 lain in wait to rescue her wronged children. Her 
 watchful eyes have fastened upon every weakness 
 in her foe: her ready hand has been upraised 
 wherever there was a chance to strike. Quietly, 
 almost unheard amid the loud-resounding clash of 
 arms, her decrees have gone forth, instinct with 
 the enfranchisement of a race. The war began 
 with old customs and prejudices under full head 
 way, but the new necessities soon met them with 
 fierce collision. The first shock was felt when the 
 escaping slaves of Rebel masters were pronounced
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 271 
 
 free, and our soldiers were forbidden to return 
 them. Then the blows came fast and furious, and 
 the whole edifice, reared on that crumbling corner 
 stone of Slavery, reeled through all its heaven- 
 defying heights. The gates of Liberty opened to 
 the slave, on golden hinges turning. The voice 
 of promise rang through Rebel encampments, and 
 penetrated to the very fastnesses of Rebellion. 
 The ranks of the army called the freedman to the 
 rescue of his race. The courts of justice received 
 him in witness of his manhood. Before every 
 foreign power he was acknowledged as a citizen 
 of his country, and as entitled to her protection. 
 The capital of our nation was purged of the foul 
 stain that dishonored her in the eyes of the na 
 tions, and that gave the lie direct to our most 
 solemn Declaration. The fugitive-slave acts that 
 disfigured our statute-book were blotted out, and 
 fugitive-slave-stealer acts filled their places. The 
 seal of freedom, immediate, unconditional, and 
 perpetual, was set upon the broad outlying lands 
 of the Republic, and then came that crowning 
 act which in its results shall make slavery for 
 ever impossible, and liberty the one supreme, 
 unchangeable law in every part of our domains. 
 
 What we have done is an earnest of what we 
 mean to do. After nearly four years of war, and 
 war on such a scale as the world has never before 
 seen, the people have once more, and in terms 
 too emphatic to be misunderstood, proclaimed
 
 272 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 their undying purpose. With a unanimity rarely 
 equalled, a people that had fought seven years 
 against a tax of threepence on the pound, and that 
 was rapidly advancing to the front rank of nations 
 through the victories of peace, a people jealous 
 of its liberties and proud of its prosperity, has re- 
 elected to the chief magistracy a man under whose 
 administration burdensome taxes have been levied, 
 immense armies marshalled, imperative drafts or 
 dered, and fearful sufferings endured. They have 
 done this because, in spite of possible mistakes and 
 short-comings, they have seen his grasp ever tight 
 ening around the throat of Slavery, his weapons 
 ever seeking the vital point of the Rebellion. 
 They have beheld him standing always at his post, 
 calm in the midst of peril, hopeful when all was 
 dark, patient under every obloquy, courteous to 
 his bitterest foes, conciliatory where conciliation 
 was possible, inflexible where to yield was dis 
 honor. Never have the passions of civil war be 
 trayed him into cruelty or hurried him into re 
 venge ; nor has any hope of personal benefit or 
 any fear of personal detriment stayed him when 
 occasion beckoned. If he has erred, it has been 
 on the side of leniency^ If he has hesitated, it 
 has been to assure himself of the right. Where 
 there was censure, he claimed it for himself; 
 where there was praise, he has lavished it on his 
 subordinates. The strong he has braved, and the 
 weak sheltered. He has rejected the counsels of
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 273 
 
 his friends when they were inspired by partisan 
 ship, and adopted the suggestions of opponents 
 when they were founded on wisdom. His ear has 
 always been open to the people's voice, yet he has 
 never suffered himself to be blindly driven by the 
 storm of popular fury. He has consulted public 
 opinion, as the public servant should ; but he has 
 not pandered to public prejudice, as only dema 
 gogues do. Not weakly impatient to secure the 
 approval of the country, he has not scorned to ex 
 plain his measures to the understanding of the 
 common people. Never bewildered by the solici 
 tations of party, nor terrified by the menace of 
 opposition, he has controlled with moderation, and 
 yielded with dignity, as the exigencies of the time 
 demanded. Entering upon office with his full 
 share of the common incredulity, perceiving no 
 more than his fellow-citizens the magnitude of the 
 crisis, he has steadily risen to the height of the 
 great argument. No suspicion of self-seeking 
 stains his fair fame ; but ever mindful of his 
 solemn oath, he seeks with clean hands and a pure 
 heart the welfare of the whole country. Future 
 generations alone can do justice to his ability; his 
 integrity is firmly established in the convictions of 
 the present age. His reward is with him, though 
 his work lies still before him. 
 
 Only less significant than the fact is the manner 
 of his re-election. All sections of a continental 
 country, with interests as diverse as latitude and 
 
 12* B
 
 274 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 longitude can make them, united to secure, not 
 any man's continuance in power, but the rule of 
 law. The East called with her thousands, and the 
 West answered with her tens of thousands. Balti 
 more that day washed out the blood-stains from 
 her pavement, and free Maryland girded herself 
 for a new career. Men who had voted for Wash- 
 .ington came forward with the snows of a hundred 
 winters on their brows, and amid the silence and 
 tears of assembled throngs deposited their ballot 
 for Abraham Lincoln. Daughters led their infirm 
 fathers to the polls to be sure that no deception 
 should mock their failing sight. Armless men 
 dropped their votes from between their teeth. 
 Sick men and wounded men, wounded on the 
 battle-fields of their country, were borne on lit 
 ters to give their dying testimony to the righteous 
 cause. Dilettanteism, that would not soil its dainty 
 hands with politics, dared no longer stand aloof, 
 but gave its voice for national honor and national 
 existence. Old party ties snapped asunder, and 
 local prejudices shrivelled in the fire of newly-kin 
 dled patriotism. Turbulence and violence, awed 
 by the supreme majesty of a resolute nation, slunk 
 away and hid their shame from the indignant day. 
 Calmly, in the midst of raging war, in despite of 
 threats and cajolery, with a lofty, unspoken con 
 tempt for those false men who would urge to 
 anarchy and infamy, this great people went up 
 to the ballot-box, and gave in its adhesion to civil
 
 ANNO DOMINI. 275 
 
 liberty and universal freedom. And as the good 
 tidings of great joy flashed over the wires from 
 every quarter, men recognized the finger of God, 
 and, laying aside all lower exultation, gathered in 
 the public places, and, standing reverently with 
 uncovered heads, poured forth their rapturous 
 thanksgiving in that sublime doxology which has 
 voiced for centuries the adoration of the human 
 soul : 
 
 " Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, 
 Praise Him, all creatures here below, 
 Praise Him above, ye heavenly host, 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! " 
 
 So our country to the world gives greeting. 
 So a free people meets and masters the obstacles 
 that bar its progress. So this young republic 
 speaks warning to the old despotisms, ancf hope 
 to the struggling peoples. Thus with the sword 
 she seeks peace under liberty. Striking off the 
 shackles that fettered her limbs, emerging from 
 the thick of her deadly conflict, with many a dint 
 on her armor, but with no shame on her brow, she 
 starts on her victorious career, and bids the suffer 
 ing nations take heart. With the old lie torn from 
 her banner, the old life shall come back to her 
 symbols. Her children shall no longer blush at 
 the taunts of foreign tyrannies, but shall boldly 
 proclaim her to be indeed the land of the free, 
 as she has always been the home of the brave. 
 Men's minds shall no longer be confused by dis-
 
 276 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 tinctions between higher and lower law, to the 
 
 O 
 
 infinite detriment of moral character, but all her 
 laws shall be emanations from the infinite source 
 of justice. Marshalling thus all her forces on the 
 Lord's side, she may inscribe, without mockery, 
 on her silver and gold, " In God we trust." She 
 may hope for purity in her homes, and honesty in 
 her councils. She may see her growing grandeur 
 without misgiving, knowing that it comes not by 
 earthly might or power, but by the Spirit of the 
 Lord of Hosts ; and the only voice of her victory, 
 the song of her thanksgiving, and her watchword 
 to the nations shall be, " Glory to God in the high 
 est ; and on earth peace, good- will toward men."
 
 XXV. 
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 
 
 HE earliest known inhabitants of Great 
 Britain were the Britons, or Celts. 
 The literature which they left is com 
 prised in a few words, chiefly names 
 of lakes, rivers, and mountains. 
 
 About 55 B. C., the Romans, under Julius 
 Caesar, invaded and occupied England. They 
 preserved their own nationality, and did not coa 
 lesce with the Britons. They built excellent mili 
 tary roads, still represented by the chief roads 
 of England, and substantial military stations, 
 where stand now some of the most important 
 towns. They also left a few names and termina 
 tions of names. . 
 
 About 449 A. D., the Angles and the Saxons, 
 with other Gothic tribes from Central Northern 
 Europe, now Germany, took possession of England 
 in what, if they were not our ancestors, we should 
 call a decidedly piratical manner. But as they 
 gave up their piratical craft after they had landed,
 
 278 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and took kindly to what civilization the Romans 
 had left in Britain, let bygones be bygones. The 
 Romans, and for the greater part the Britons, dis 
 appeared ; the Angles, who gave her name to 
 England, the Saxons, and perhaps the Scandina 
 vians or Danes, intermingled, are generally con 
 sidered to be the chief founders of the present 
 English nation, although its early history is in 
 volved in obscurity. 
 
 The conversion of the islanders to Christianity 
 had been attempted and professedly accomplished, 
 in the first century ; but we find Augustine begin 
 ning at the beginning again, in the sixth or seventh 
 century. Literature advanced hand in hand with 
 Christianity, but it was chiefly in possession of the 
 clergy, and written in the Latin language. The 
 Anglo-Saxon was not supposed to be dignified 
 enough for writing. The " Venerable Bede " 
 translated a part of the Bible into Anglo-Saxon, 
 and wrote a valuable Ecclesiastical History of Eng 
 land. He, with Alcuin, his pupil, the friend and 
 tutor of Charlemagne, Aldhelm, Johannes Erigena, 
 and others, less distinguished, wrote Commentaries 
 on the Bible, Homilies, Lives of the Saints, trea 
 tises on Grammar, Music, Orthography, the Body 
 and Blood of our Lord, and other themes little 
 known to modern readers. 
 
 A few Anglo-Saxon poems remain to us, the 
 most interesting of which is a narrative poem by 
 Caedmon, from which Milton is supposed to have
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PA THS. 279 
 
 borrowed some of the ideas of " Paradise Lost." 
 Literature received inestimable advantages from 
 the patronage and active exertions of King Alfred 
 the Great, who lived in the ninth century. Suffer 
 ing constantly from painful disease, he wrote books 
 of his own, translated those of others, encouraged 
 literary men, fought his country's battles, and left, 
 as he desired, to the men that lived after him, his 
 remembrance in good works. 
 
 In 1066, England was conquered again by the 
 Normans. Norman-speech (French) affected the 
 language somewhat, but the English of to-day is, 
 in its structure, Saxon. The Normans held them 
 selves a superior race to the Saxons, and made 
 French the fashionable language. But if the Nor 
 mans were proud, the Saxons were steadfast, as 
 they generally are, and finally carried their point, 
 as they generally do. The English aristocracy 
 traces its descent chiefly from the Normans, but 
 English literature has a Saxon framework. The 
 twelfth century devoted itself mostly to the clas 
 sics, and may be summarily dismissed. The thir 
 teenth gave to Englishmen and Americans the 
 Great Charter of their liberties. The Gesta Ro- 
 manorum, a motley collection of fables, legends, 
 parables, and anecdotes, written in Latin, came in 
 to somewhat general circulation at this time, par 
 ticularly among the monks. Shakespeare, Parnell, 
 and others, owe to the Gesta sundry of their 
 plots and incidents. The Fabliaux, and Chivalrous
 
 280 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Romances, wherein figure King Arthur and his 
 Knights of the Round Table, Sir Lancelot, Sir 
 Galahad, and the Holy Grail, were translated into 
 English and England, during this century. Some 
 of them are supposed to have originated in Eng 
 land, but to have been written in French to give 
 them the court stamp, and insure their reception 
 by " the best society." One of them, " Havelok," 
 is the story of the orphan child of a Danish king, 
 whose faithless guardian sets him adrift on the open 
 sea. He drifts to some purpose, however, as he is 
 finally picked up on the eastern coast of England, 
 by a fisherman named Grim. After he is grown 
 up, the wicked guardians of a beautiful princess, 
 supposing him to be nothing but a fisherman, force 
 her to marry him, that she may become nothing 
 but a fisherman's wife, and they obtain her king 
 dom. After the marriage, Havelok informs her 
 that she has not made so bad a match after all, 
 recovers both kingdoms by battle, and lives hap 
 pily ever after ; which was doubtless very satisfac 
 tory to them, but not so interesting to us as the 
 fact that General Havelock of the Sepoy rebellion 
 immortality descended in a direct line from this 
 valiant soldier, and the white linen things which 
 our soldiers wear on their heads, to do the work 
 which their hats ought to do, descended from 
 him. If any one does not believe this story, he 
 can go to England and visit the very town Grims- 
 by, or he can go to Washington and see the sol 
 diers under their Havelocks.
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 281 
 
 The fourteenth century gave us a foretaste of 
 the Reformation in John Wycliffe. He is known 
 through the boldness with which, being a priest, he 
 attacked priestly abuses and Papal supremacy, as 
 well as through his literary works. He iaveigha 
 against the " fair hors, and jolly and gay sadeles 
 and bridles ringing by the way, and [the priest] 
 himself in costly clothes and parure," while "Ben- 
 eficed priests kennen not the Ten Commandments, 
 ne read their sauter, ne understand a verse of it." 
 " Capped priests that had bean cleped masters of 
 divinity have their chamber and service as lords 
 and kings, and senden out idiots full of covetise to 
 preache not the Gospel, but chronicles, fables, and 
 lesings, to please the people and to rob them." 
 WyclifFe Avas befriended by the king's son, John 
 of Gaunt, or it would have gone hard with him. 
 His most valuable work is his translation of the 
 Bible, in 1380. It is not only our first entire 
 English Bible, but is among our earliest Saxon 
 prose books. 
 
 The very oldest is Sir John Mandeville's ac 
 count of his travels, published in 1355. Among 
 the marvellous things which he saw in his East 
 ern travels was a palace, in the hall of which was 
 " a vine made of gold that goeth all about the hall, 
 and it hath many bunches of grapes. Some are 
 white, . . . and the red are rubies." One of the 
 emperors whom he visited "hath in his chamber a 
 pillar of gold in which is a ruby and carbuncle a
 
 282 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 foot long, which lighteth all his chamber by night." 
 He gave to Becket's shrine in Canterbury Cathe 
 dral a glass globe containing an apple brought from 
 the East in good preservation, and to the altar of 
 St. Albans Abbey Church, a patera from Egypt, 
 still preserved in London. 
 
 Contemporary with Wycliffe, and like him a 
 friend of Prince John, was Geoffrey Chaucer, stu 
 dent, man of the world, soldier, courtier, ambassa 
 dor, traveller, but greater than all, and best known 
 to us, as poet, and the " Father of English Po 
 etry." Ruddy, and of a beautiful countenance, so 
 that the Countess of Pembroke used to tell him 
 that his silence was more agreeable to her than his 
 conversation (which, by the way, most of us would 
 consider a questionable compliment), of graceful 
 figure and polished manners, familiar with the 
 splendors of the most splendid court of Europe, 
 and on terms of intimacy with her finest gentle 
 men, Chaucer led a life such as few poets have 
 led f though, towards the end of it, he is supposed 
 to have shared the common lot, and to have suf 
 fered from poverty and neglect. He not only en 
 riched our literature by his direct contributions, 
 but he crystallized the language, which at that time 
 was fluctuating and uncertain. People clung to 
 old Saxon forms after the substance had faded, and 
 rejected any improvements from the hated Nor 
 mans. But Chaucer, in close intimacy with them, 
 had no such scruples, and he introduced a mul-
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 283 
 
 titude of French words which are now a part of 
 our daily speech. It is of him that Spenser speaks 
 as the " well of English undefyled." Before his 
 time, the language could hardly be called Eng 
 lish at all. His poetry, as might he supposed, 
 deals with men and women rather than with na 
 ture, yet it is sweet-scented everywhere with the 
 breath of the May-time. He joins his contempo 
 raries in the hue and cry raised against priestcraft, 
 and has thousands of sharp, shining arrows for the 
 fashionable vices and weaknesses of society. His 
 principal work is the Canterbury Tales. Some of 
 them bear date after his sixtieth year, and the 
 whole work lay upward of seventy years in the 
 manuscript, when Caxton made it one of the ear 
 liest productions of his press. It consists of stories 
 told by thirty persons who are on a pilgrimage to 
 Canterbury.* Each is to tell one story in going, 
 and one in returning ; but he did not complete his 
 design, as there are only twenty-four stories in all. 
 They are prefaced by a pen-portrait of each one 
 of the company, which is the best part of it. He 
 gives us admirable pictures of the life and man 
 ners of the Englishmen of the day, from highest 
 to lowest. He is genial, manly, shrewd, full of 
 sly, or keen, or broad humor. His observation is 
 minute and accurate. His outlines are firm and 
 full. His men and women are real, living, English 
 human beings, acting just as fourteenth-century 
 Englishmen would be supposed to act. Nothing
 
 284 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 of its kind in English literature has surpassed it. 
 Merrie England never before or since sat for her 
 portrait to such a master of his art. His healthy 
 good humor, his own manifest enjoyment of his 
 work, his nice sense of the ridiculous and his inim 
 itable skill in taking advantage of it, his tenderness 
 of feeling, his gentle pathos, the little dew-drops 
 of Nature, that sparkle throughout, the lofty, ro 
 mantic, chivalrous, and even heroic tone of a great 
 part, make us overlook much coarseness, some of 
 which is attributable to the age, and not to the 
 writer. 
 
 It is marvellous that we do not read Chaucer 
 more. The language presents no difficulties that 
 may not be overcome by a little practice, and 
 Chaucer modernized is Chaucer about as good as 
 spoiled. It destroys his simplicity, and the exqui 
 site olden flavor, while the ancient form gives us at 
 a glance the history of numerous words, and is a 
 quarry of interesting lore. 
 
 What with French wars, insurrectionary wars, 
 and civil wars, Merrie England seems to have had 
 a very pretty time of it during the fifteenth cen 
 tury; and since people that are fighting cannot 
 always stop to write, literature languished during 
 this and the first half of the next century. Some 
 of our best old ballads, however, which came in as 
 the Chivalrous Romances died out, and were to 
 the common people what these had been to the 
 nobility, are referable to this period.
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 285 
 
 Sir Thomas More, too, lived his noble life, died 
 his honorable death, and produced the work of 
 genius of his age. He has been said to be the first 
 English writer whose prose is good. " Utopia," 
 written in Latin, is an account of a common 
 wealth planted on an island newly discovered 
 in the Atlantic. The principles on which it 
 is founded put to shame the boasting nineteenth 
 century. His republic recognizes the importance 
 of religious toleration, popular education, and the 
 prevention rather than the punishment of crime. 
 He will have no lawyers in it, and men who 
 do not believe in a future state are ineligible 
 to office, but not punished, " because a man 
 cannot make himself believe what he please," 
 and he "will not drive men to dissemble." He 
 even goes so far as to punish persecutors by 
 banishment or slavery. In its design it sug 
 gests Plato's " Republic," and in style Swift's 
 " Gulliver's Travels." It is a romance, serious 
 enough to express his views, which were far in 
 advance of his age, and having enough the air 
 of a jest and satire to be passed off as such in case 
 its free-thinking should bring him under the ban 
 of Henry the Eighth. Utopia is a word of Greek 
 derivation, and means " nowhere." Its chief river, 
 Anyder, means " waterless," and its nomenclature 
 is arranged chiefly after the same fashion. 
 
 Roger Ascham, the beloved tutor of the lovely 
 and ill-fated Lady Jane Grey, and a fine classi-
 
 286 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 cal scholar, somewhat later than More, wrote 
 excellent English and excellent sense. His most 
 interesting work is "The Schoolmaster," in which 
 he promulgates his ideas of teaching, ideas tho.t 
 have even now much value. It is in this work 
 that we find Lady Jane Grey reading Greek 
 while her family are out hunting. He prophesies 
 also a failure in the attempt to naturalize hexame 
 ters, a prophecy which seems to have been true, 
 notwithstanding " Evangeline." 
 
 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, courteous, 
 chivalrous, and accomplished, beheaded at the 
 age of thirty-one by Henry the Eighth for being a 
 kinsman of Katherine Howard, transplanted the 
 Sonnet from Italy to England, polished the lan 
 guage to greater refinement, and gave the first 
 blank verse to English poetry in his translations 
 of Virgil. 
 
 The first series of private letters known to exist 
 in Europe are called " The Paston Letters," and 
 date back to this century. They are sprightly and 
 interesting familiar letters, by and to different 
 members of a rich and respectable family of Eng 
 lish gentry. 
 
 The sixteenth century dragged heavily at first, 
 under the feet of a bloody and brutal king, but 
 after Elizabeth ascended the throne, in 1558, the 
 soul of the nation came up like a lion from the 
 swelling of Jordan, and made that century, and 
 the first part of the next, memorable. Patriot-
 
 A RAMBLE IX THE OLD PATHS. 27 
 
 ism, kindled by Spanish menace, the Spirit of 
 Freedom evoked by Luther, joined hands with 
 the lingering Romance of the past, and life and 
 vigor and beauty burst everywhere into bloom. 
 The virgin queen surrounded herself with men, 
 any one of whom would have made a reign illus 
 trious. 
 
 Francis Bacon, born and bred in the sunshine 
 of her court, and, in his childhood, playfully 
 called by her her young Lord Keeper, was at 
 once the glory and the shame of his time, a 
 man who, with undying fame in his grasp, cringed 
 for court favor, with all future ages at his feet, 
 sold his integrity for a bawble, and who by his 
 intellect secured an immortality which his char 
 acter can only deprecate. Politics was his busi 
 ness, and it left him a disgraced and broken-heart 
 ed old man. Philosophy was his amusement, and 
 it crowned him with glory, honor, and immor 
 tality. " I have taken all knowledge to be my 
 province," was the sublime watchword of the 
 youthful philosopher. " I do plainly and ingenu 
 ously confess that I am guilty of corruption. I 
 beseech your lordships to be merciful to a broken 
 reed," is the pathetic wail of the aged Chancellor. 
 His great work is Instauratio Magna^ " The Great 
 Restoration" (of Philosophy). He inaugurated a 
 new era. The old philosophers revered Science as 
 a goddess, but Bacon made her the handmaid of 
 man. They would have deemed the telegraph a
 
 288 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 degradation of electricity. He would have deemed 
 it a new gem in its crown. So he honored man 
 and labored for his good. The Instauratio Magna 
 is divided into six parts, of which the second, the 
 Novum Organum, is perhaps the most celebrated, 
 certainly the most quoted, especially the first book, 
 which its aphoristic style facilitates. Bacon also 
 wrote a romance, " The New Atlantis," but he is 
 most popularly known by his Essays, which are 
 written in every-day language, on every-day sub 
 jects, and, to use his own words, " come home to 
 men's business and bosoms." Few modern books 
 are so well worth reading. He is replete with wit 
 and wisdom, concise and concentrated, often imagi 
 native, often poetical, always suggestive, always 
 peerless. 
 
 Edmund Spenser, the friend of Leicester and 
 Raleigh, named in his epitaph, with no " obituary 
 falsehood," "prince of poets in his tyme," 
 
 " Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven 
 With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace," 
 
 shines upon us still with a white radiance that no 
 years can dim. His principal work, " The Faerie 
 Queene," is a chivalrous romance. We walk in a 
 marvellous land, a land of enchanted forests, and 
 mystical gardens, and golden palaces, of valiant 
 knights, and lovely ladies, and light-footed naiads, 
 of witches, and hags, and elves, and satyrs. But 
 more is meant than meets the eye. Under the 
 surface -story lies an allegory, and perhaps some-
 
 289 
 
 what of traditional history. With or without alle 
 gory, the poem especially the first book, which 
 is a poem by itself is resplendent with genius 
 and spotless in purity. Written in the full flush 
 of his prime, there is an- exquisite delicacy and 
 harmony of language, a luxuriance of imagination, 
 a tenderness of feeling, a religious fervor, a sweet 
 and serious simplicity, which justify his title, " Po 
 et of poets." His " Epithalamion," or Marriage 
 Song, a 
 
 " Song made in lieu of many ornaments 
 With which nfy love should duly have been dect," 
 
 is a gush of melody, an " intoxication of ecstasy." 
 Never, surely, were maiden brows wreathed with 
 a chaplet so fair. 
 
 Of Shakespeare it is needless to speak. 
 " He was not of an age, but for all time." 
 
 Over the remote past and the remote future,' he 
 waved his wand, and they became instinct with 
 life. The world of reality and the realm of Faerie 
 were alike laid under subsidy. In creative power, 
 in knowledge of the human heart, and in his all- 
 comprehensive philosophy, the "myriad-minded 
 man" stands alone, 
 
 " Not one, but all mankind's epitome. ' 
 
 Of the man Shakespeare we hardly know more 
 than of Melchisedec. The poet Shakespeare was 
 the legacy of his age to all future generations. 
 In connection with Shakespeare, it may be men- 
 
 13 S
 
 290 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES 
 
 tioned that the early theatres in England were 
 under the direction of the clergy, who often wrote 
 the plays, and were not unfrequently the actors. 
 They found that people insisted on being amused 
 by vulgar and pernicious exhibitions at the coun 
 try fairs, and they very wisely took the matter 
 into their own hands, and made themselves friends 
 of the mammon of unrighteousness. Under their 
 auspices, the Drama became a source not only 
 of amusement, but of instruction. The plays 
 (known as Mysteries) were religious, and were 
 founded on Bible narratives or saintly -legends, 
 and called Miracle-Plays, in distinction from a 
 later class which grew out of them, called Moral 
 Plays, which were made instructive by personi 
 fying abstract qualities. Subsequently, these two 
 were confounded into Mixed Plays, or Interludes. 
 It *vas not till the middle of the sixteenth cen 
 tury that the Drama was divided into Comedy 
 and Tragedy. Nicholas Udall wrote the earliest 
 known Comedy, " Ralph Roister Doister," at a 
 date earlier than 1557. He was master of Eton, 
 and wrote several Latin plays to while away the 
 long winter evenings of his boys, who acted them. 
 Thomas Norton and Lord Buckhurst (Thomas 
 Sackville, son of Sir Richard Sackville, who 
 prompted the composition of Ascham's " School 
 master") wrote the first Tragedy, "Gorboduc," 
 and first applied blank verse to dramatic compo 
 sition, about 1567.
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 291 
 Amono- the most celebrated minor dramatic 
 
 O 
 
 writers, contemporary,, or nearly so, with Shake 
 speare, may be reckoned Marlowe, solemn and 
 stately, yet in his tragic frenzy " tearing and 
 rending his way through his verse." 
 
 " His raptures were 
 All air and fire." 
 
 Ben Jonson, of the noted epitaph, (O rare 
 Ben Jonson !) the burly bricklayer, Shakespeare's 
 friend and admirer, Camden's pupil, Fuller's 
 " Spanish great galleon," in artistic merit has 
 been ranked next to Shakespeare. Poignant, 
 sarcastic, and learned, at once strong and deli 
 cate, he deserves special mention for preserving 
 moral purity in the midst of licentiousness. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, twins in genius and 
 associates in life, barely escaped greatness. With 
 much elevation of sentiment, much wealth of im 
 agination, much fineness of feelihg and exquisite 
 poetic diction, their works are grievously marred 
 by the indecency of their age. 
 
 The melancholy Massinger, whose tombstone 
 only records " Philip Massinger, a stranger," vig 
 orous, original, romantic, graceful, majestic; Ford, 
 working out horrible plots with pathos and effect ; 
 Webster, delighting in the charnel-house ; Chap 
 man, chiefly known for his Homeric translation of 
 Homer, are all that I have space to mention. 
 The style of all seems to us somewhat stiff and 
 uncouth. They affected antiquated or obsolete
 
 292 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 phrases, and far-fetched conceits, but the worst 
 fault is their immorality. 
 
 What had been mere coarseness of language 
 and manners sunk gradually into the grain of life 
 and society, and literature in the seventeenth 
 century and under the reign of Charles the Sec 
 ond became frightfully depraved, although the 
 heroic and life-giving impulse of the sixteenth ex 
 tended to the first half of the succeeding centu 
 ry. Among the prose-writers of that period, Sir 
 Philip Sidney, brightest ornament of Queen Eliza 
 beth's court, the gentleman and hero among a 
 race of heroes, " a warbler of poetic prose," wrote 
 a " Defence of Poesy," rather eloquent than lucid, 
 and whose existence is his strongest argument. 
 His Arcadia is a voluminous romance, said to have 
 been written to please his sister, the Countess of 
 Pembroke, extremely popular in its day, but now 
 little read. Sir Walter Raleigh, in the Tower 
 of London, under sentence of death, wrote a 
 huge history of the world, full of learning, serious 
 and devout in tone, as it well might be, and less 
 read, perhaps, than from its eloquence it deserves 
 to be. Among theologians, Hooker's famous 
 " Ecclesiastical Polity " ably discusses the princi 
 ples on which the Reformed English Church was 
 established, and is strenuous for popular govern 
 ment to the verge of democracy. Grave and ele 
 vated in style, it is said to be, in point of eloquence, 
 the noblest monument in our language.
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PA THS. 293 
 
 Hall, a generation later than Hooker, is clear, 
 logical, shrewd, practical, pedantic, erudite, 
 often, in his sermons, colloquial even to punning. 
 He has been called the English Seneca. His 
 " Contemplations " is his most celebrated work. 
 
 Jeremy Taylor, his contemporary, is imagina 
 tive, fanciful, rhetorical to a degree which some 
 times disfigures his style, impassioned, gentle, and 
 charitable. His sermons abound in classical and 
 other quotations, and his imagination sometimes 
 bears him aloft beyond the vision of a common 
 place audience. His " Holy Living," " Holy 
 Dying," and " Life of Christ," are more famil 
 iar to the present generation than " The Golden 
 Grove," so named from the place where it was 
 written, the house of his neighbor and patron, the 
 Earl of Carberry. His " Liberty of Prophesying " 
 is the first direct and able plea for religious toler 
 ation. Written during his own forced silence and 
 retirement in Wales for his religious opinions, it 
 may well have been earnest. He affirms that 
 the very fact that wise and good men differ about 
 certain doctrines indicates that those doctrines are 
 .not revealed in the Bible, that the fundamental 
 truths can be placed in very small compass, in 
 fact, embrace no more than the Apostles' Creed. 
 
 Baxter (who died in 1691) wrote for use, not 
 for reputation, amid sickness and persecution. He 
 is careless of style, careful only for matter, bold, 
 acute, impetuous, often homely, and even coarse
 
 294 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 in his determination to be intelligible and impres 
 sive. His " Saint's Everlasting Rest," and his 
 " Call to the Unconverted," are widely known. 
 
 Fuller, of marvellous memory and inexhaustible 
 wit, eccentric, kind-hearted, and pious, overflow 
 ing with " quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles," 
 has been called " the very strangest writer in our 
 language." Wandering up and down in England, 
 he preached sermons so interesting, so attractive, 
 so irresistible, that it has been said he was accus 
 tomed to have two audiences at every discourse ; 
 the one seated in the church, the other listening 
 eagerly through the open windows. Sometimes 
 his words cleft the scholarly air of Cambridge ; 
 then he went down into the fruitful and beauti 
 ful valley -lands of Dorsetshire ; up again presently 
 into the thick of London life ; but wherever he 
 went, his fame went before him, and lingered 
 behind him. Dry-as-dust, in the Cambridge ar 
 chives, lifted his eyes from his fragrant and beloved 
 tomes, roused into animation by that cheery, hearty 
 voice ; Colin, fresh from his sheepfold, felt its per 
 suasive power ; and above all the din and roar of 
 the angry crowd in the great city, it rang out its 
 trumpet-notes of no uncertain sound. A civil 
 war shook the land. Lovers of liberty, then as 
 now, left home and quiet, child and wife, buckled 
 on armor, and rushed joyfully to battle and to 
 death. Amid many a lurid sacrifice, set on fire 
 of hell, gleamed over all the land the heavenly
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 295 
 
 light of burnt-offerings acceptable unto the Lord. 
 Among it all, with watchful eye and undaunted 
 heart, this man walked; no partisan, too firm 
 a believer in the divine right of kings for the 
 one side, too loyal a' supporter of the divine right 
 of the people for the other, but respected for 
 his worth, courted for his wit, and admired 
 for his wisdom. On whichever side he spoke, 
 men believed in his sincerity, and his lofty aims. 
 Over a nation, surging with love and rage, he 
 endeavored to pour the oil of peace and patience ; 
 yet on occasion, he could fire a beleaguered gar 
 rison to heroic and successful resistance. Never 
 suffering himself to be carried beyond the control of 
 reason and right, he evinced the serene self-poise 
 of his character by enforcing the claims of relig 
 ion, and the duty of moderation in the midst of 
 civil war ; and was yet so joyous, so light-hearted, 
 so full of infinite jest and most excellent humor, 
 that it seemed " He scarce could ope his mouth, 
 but out there flew " an anecdote, a pun, a sar 
 casm, something witty and winged for a straight 
 flight to the mark. Indeed, Lamb says, " Such 
 was his natural bias to conceits, that I doubt not 
 upon most occasions it would have been going 
 out of his way to have expressed himself out of 
 them." His lively imagination was aided by a 
 marvellous memory. Five hundred words, en 
 tirely unconnected, in different languages, he 
 could repeat, after hearing them twice read.
 
 296 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Passing down one side, and up the other, of 
 one of the busy streets of London, he could 
 repeat, in their order, every sign on both sides. 
 A whole sermon, after one reading, he could 
 repeat word for word. An anecdote is told cor 
 roborative at once of his memory, his wit, and his 
 benevolence. The Committee of Sequestrators, at 
 one of their sittings, were speaking of his great 
 memory ; he offered to give them an example of 
 it ; they accepted the motion, and he immediate! y 
 mentioned a poor parson, his neighbor, who had 
 been deprived of his living, and committed to 
 prison, to the great distress of his family ; adding, 
 " If you will please to release him out of prison, 
 and restore him to his parish, / will never forget 
 the kindness while I live ! " Travelling to and fro 
 as chaplain in the army, gathering from every old 
 woman and every rustic such snatches of local 
 history and tradition as they could furnish, and 
 storing them away in the vast halls of his memory, 
 re-creating through his imagination, he made his 
 mind an inexhaustible repertory, from which lie 
 brought forth at command things new and old. 
 Quaint and sensible, learned and lively, witty 
 and genial, religious and humane, he has never 
 wanted, through all these years, his coterie of en 
 thusiastic admirers; but time and books have inter 
 posed between him and a large audience. 
 
 Among the lay writers may be mentioned John 
 Lyly, whose " Euphues " is worthy of note more
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 297 
 
 for its influence than for its intrinsic worth. It is 
 pompous and pedantic, but it pleased his readers, 
 .and was for a time fashionable. Selden's " Table- 
 Talk " is the precursor of Boswell. Burton's 
 " Anatomy of Melancholy," an " undigested far 
 rago," was the only book, Johnson says, that took 
 him out of bed two hours before he wished. Sir 
 Thomas Browne is quaint, somewhat cumbrous, 
 paradoxical, brilliant, and full of interest. 
 
 The muster-roll of the gods closes with the 
 name of John Milton. Here it becomes us to 
 walk with unsandalled feet, for we tread on holy 
 ground. His whole life was an exposition of his 
 noble words, "that he who would not be frus 
 trate of his hope to write well hereafter in lauda 
 ble things, ought himself to be a true poem ; that 
 is, a composition and pattern of the best and hon- 
 orablest things ; not presuming to sing high praises 
 of heroic men, or famous cities, unless he have in 
 himself the experience and the practice of all that 
 which is praiseworthy." In the bloom of his 
 beautiful youth, he wrote " L' Allegro," " II Pen- 
 seroso," and " Lycidas." The first is an invoca 
 tion to Mirth, the second to Melancholy. In the 
 one, Nature is a country lass, cheerful, ruddy, and 
 buxom. In the other, she is a pale-browed Ma 
 donna, saintly and pure. " Lycidas " is a monody 
 on the death of his young friend King, drowned 
 in the Irish Sea. It is a memorial of dignified 
 sorrow, to which only Tennyson's " In Memo- 
 is*
 
 298 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 riara" is second. His "Ode on the Nativity" is 
 simple, calm, majestic, self-poised above comment. 
 While he was drinking in the loveliness of Italy, 
 basking in the sunshine of her appreciative hom 
 age, and strengthening himself for his life-work, a 
 sound of battle in his native land broke harshly 
 upon the soft Italian air. Already the gleam of 
 his great song had shone upon him, but at the 
 call of patriotism he put off his garland and sing 
 ing-robes and went home to do knightly duty. 
 His pen wrought mightily for England and liberty. 
 His polemical writings were of course chiefly of 
 local and temporary interest. His style is always 
 elaborate, inverted, to us unnatural, and often 
 harsh ; but alike in prose and in poetry, his won 
 derful learning is poured out with unstinted prodi 
 gality, and ever and anon the grand soul of the 
 poet bursts forth resplendent and sublime. His 
 "Areopagitica," a plea for unlicensed printing, is 
 a noble, glowing, and eloquent tribute to Truth, 
 such as any age might be proud to claim. He 
 loved liberty with an immortal love. Assured by 
 his physicians that the completion of his "Defence 
 of the English People " would result in total 
 blindness, he still believed his duty unchanged, 
 finished the work, and took leave forever of the 
 sweet sunshine. The sacrifice which he made in 
 turning aside from poetry and literature to con 
 troversy, is one which few have the ability to 
 make. His own account of it has a manly mod-
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 299 
 
 ecty and sublime self-confidence, the loftiness, 
 and breadth, and majesty which stamps alike his 
 writings and his life. " For although a poet, soar 
 ing in the high reason of his fancies, with his gar 
 land and singing-robes about him, might, without 
 apology, speak more of himself than I mean to 
 do ; yet for me sitting here below in the cool ele 
 ment of prose, a mortal thing among many read 
 ers of no empyreal conceit, to venture and divulge 
 unusual things of myself, I shall petition to the 
 gentler sort, it may not be envy to me. I must 
 say, therefore, that after I had for my first years, 
 by the ceaseless diligence and care of my father, 
 (whom God recompense!)" studied and written 
 " the style, by certain vital signs it had, was likely 
 to live. But much latelier in the private acade 
 mies of Italy, whither I was favored to resort, 
 perceiving that some trifles which I had .... 
 composed at under twenty or thereabout, met 
 
 with acceptance above what was looked for 
 
 I began thus far to assent both to them and to 
 divers of my friends here at home 7 , and not less to 
 an inward prompting which now grew daily upon 
 me, that by labor and intense study, .... joined 
 with the strong propensity of nature, I might per 
 haps leave something so written to after times, as 
 
 they should not willingly let it die Neither 
 
 do I think it shame to covenant with any knowing 
 reader, that for some few years yet I may go on 
 trust with him toward the payment of what I am
 
 300 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 now indebted, as being a work not to be raised from 
 the heat of youth, or the vapors of wine ; . . . . 
 but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit, who 
 can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and 
 sends out his Seraphim, with the hallowed fire of 
 his altar, to touch and purify the lips of whom he 
 
 pleases Although it nothing content me 
 
 to have disclosed thus much beforehand, but that 
 I trust hereby to make it manifest with what small 
 willingness I endure to interrupt the pursuit of no 
 less hopes than these, and leave a calm and pleas 
 ing solitariness, fed with cheerful and confident 
 thoughts, to embark in a troubled sea of noises 
 and hoarse disputes But were it the mean 
 est under-service, if God by his secretary con 
 science enjoin it, it were sad for me if I should 
 draw back." So, a Cavalier and a poet by taste, 
 a politician and a Roundhead by principle, his 
 days went grandly by. When the Republic van 
 ished, and Charles the Second had introduced the 
 age of moral degradation, 
 
 " His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart." 
 
 He was blind, poor, despised, forsaken, but his 
 groping fingers wandered over the sacred keys, 
 and drew thence " a sevenfold chorus of songs 
 and harping symphonies." The glories of heaven 
 passed in stately procession before the eyes that 
 were closed to earth, and his epic life blossomed 
 in that flower of a thousand centuries, " Paradise
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 301 
 
 Lost." His dust consecrates the chancel of St. 
 Giles Church ; his spirit is passed beyond our ken ; 
 his memory is the heritage of his race. 
 
 John Dryden is the only other poet of the seven 
 teenth century who need be mentioned in a gen 
 eral sketch, and he is remembered more for his 
 ability than for his achievements. He displays 
 great vigor of reasoning and the utmost felicity 
 of expression. The characters of his dramas 
 are unnatural, and their talk is harangue. His 
 panegyrics are stilted and full of conceits. His 
 renderings of Chaucer are easy and pleasant, 
 but, compared with Chaucer, verbose. His Ode 
 on St. Cecilia's Day is . animated and pictu 
 resque. His Satires are condensed, discriminat 
 ing, and terribly severe. His command of lan 
 guage is admirable, he says what he undertakes 
 to say ; and he did much for the improvement of 
 style. Had he only been able to stand aloof, like 
 Milton, whom he admired, from the venality of his 
 time, he might have left a great name ; but he 
 chose the applause of a vile present, to the ap 
 proval of the purer future. He deemed it 
 
 " Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven," 
 
 and he stooped to conquer. By pandering to li 
 centiousness, he led the licentious herd, and lost 
 the prize ! Yet he deserves pity rather than scorn. 
 The miserable husband of an Earl's daughter, 
 who despised him for a plebeian, but who yet must
 
 302 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 not be unduly blamed, since it was not her fault 
 that she was born a Howard and a fool, a 
 wretched home gave him no comfort, and his 
 brain was his only resource for bread. But it 
 must be a profound and lasting regret 
 
 "that a ribald king and court 
 Bade him toil on to make them sport ; 
 Demanded for their niggard pay, 
 Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
 Licentious satire, song, und play ; 
 The world defrauded of the high design, 
 Profaned the God-given strength and marred the lofty line." 
 
 Among the lesser lights of this period is Samuel 
 Butler, author of " Hudibras," a rhymed satire on 
 the Puritans ; keen-scented for cant, homely even 
 to coarseness, keeping up a steady fire of wit, sur 
 passingly ingenious in the manufacture of humor 
 ous rhymes, pungent, and Anglo-Saxon, he is ex 
 cellent for condiment, but too spicy for the chief 
 dish. Izaak Walton, gentle, quaint, courteous, 
 graceful, is still the tutelar divinity of anglers, 
 in virtue of his " Complete Angler," a half pro 
 fessional, half aesthetic, and wholly charming con 
 versational treatise on the sport he loved. 
 
 John Bunyan, the Bedford Tinker, has been 
 called the Father of English Novelists. Unham 
 pered by learning, he struck out a path for him 
 self, and wrought in Bedford Jail his " Pilgrim's 
 Progress," equally the delight of young and old. 
 Robert South, the " shrewdest, sharpest, bitterest, 
 wittiest of English divines," bedaubed a vile king
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 303 
 
 with flattery, mauled everybody else, and devoted 
 his income to the charity which was a stranger to 
 his toncrue. Barrow, said at the time of his nomi- 
 
 & 7 
 
 nation to the headship of Trinity College to be the 
 best scholar in England, second only to Newton 
 in mathematics, and second to nobody, it is to be 
 hoped, in the length of his sermons, which were 
 never less than an hour and a half, and sometimes 
 over three hours, long ; Burnet, whose heterodoxy 
 in maintaining that the story of Eden was an alle 
 gory, and that punishment was finite, stood in the 
 way of his preferment ; Owen, a Nonconformist 
 against the blandishments of king and court, the 
 former of whom sent for him, talked with him 
 two hours, and finally gave him a large sum of 
 money to distribute among the persecuted poor, 
 
 an estimable man, a learned and an eloquent 
 writer, whom, however, Robert Hall said he never 
 could read with patience, and of whom somebody 
 
 it sounds like Johnson said, " He is a double 
 Dutchman, floundering in a continent of mud," 
 all belong to this age. 
 
 The eighteenth century will be rather pressed 
 for elbow-room, but then it is a mean kind of a 
 century. It finished the work of Dryden, and 
 carried neatness, clearness, and elegance of ex- 
 
 7 ' O 
 
 pression to an unprecedented height. But it was 
 a cold, sneering, finical, critical, didactic age. 
 Of course this is not true of every writer from 
 1700 to 1800. There are no exact dividing lines
 
 304 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 in mind to correspond with those of time, and the 
 short, sad, passionate life of one who stirs the pro- 
 foundest depths of the human heart falls wholly 
 within this century. But the genius of the age 
 was the legitimate offspring of the moral baseness 
 which preceded it. It has no faith. It is earnest 
 about nothfng. It is trim, epigrammatic, spark 
 ling, well-bred, self-possessed, but it never thrills 
 you, possesses itself of you. Its passion is simu 
 lated. Its imagination is ingenious rather than 
 strong and soaring. It has nothing heroic, noth 
 ing sublime. It never rises into rapture. It often 
 sinks into coarse spitefulness, and sometimes into 
 something worse. I am talking of the time, but 
 I believe I am thinking of Pope, who is perhaps 
 its best exponent. His mechanism is wonderful. 
 His diction is unsurpassed. His versification is 
 rarely at fault, and in a slovenly age his finish is 
 worthy of study. But he and his contemporaries 
 thought less of substance than of form. They 
 burnished their flies' wings exquisitely, but they 
 made nothing but flies. Pope touched nothing 
 which he did not adorn, but he touched only small 
 things. His finest poem, " The Rape of the Lock," 
 is founded on a quarrel caused by a gentleman's 
 slyly snipping a lady's tress. It is a mock-heroic, 
 incomparable in its kind, full of wit, keen satire, 
 and of flowing harmony, to be fully appreciated 
 only by those who are familiar with real heroic 
 poems. His " Dunciad " is an elaborate ridicule
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PA THS. 305 
 
 of his co-writers, ill-natured and bitter, but very 
 clever. But the game was not worth the candle. 
 His satire is the Valhalla of dunces. Many of 
 those whom he transfixes would be completely for 
 gotten but for being thus transfixed. When he 
 rises higher, he writes Essays on Criticism and 
 on Man, containing a 'great deal of terse sense, 
 but there seems to be no especial reason why 
 they should be written in verse. His epistle 
 from Eloise to Abelard is intended to be intense 
 and pathetic, and is ratherish, as Charles Lamb 
 would say. His letters, both in prose and verse, 
 are very readable, yet hardly like real letters. 
 Of him and his contemporaries it may be said, in 
 general, that they conceived meanly and executed 
 finely. 
 
 We approach Addison, the gentle, shy, modest, 
 courteous, benevolent man whom Pope hated and 
 satirized, with feelings nearer akin to tenderness. 
 He too, like Dryden, " married discord in a noble 
 wife," and domestic unhappiness helped to fix al 
 most the only stain that sullies his fair name. His 
 poetry would hardly have rescued his name from 
 oblivion, though his hymns are still sung in all our 
 churches ; but, not great himself in poetry, he 
 illustrated the greatness of others. It was his 
 criticisms that led people back to Milton. He 
 showed the treasures that lay hidden in our old 
 ballads, and did much to arouse once more the 
 spirit of true poetry. But his name is insepara-
 
 306 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 bly connected with the rise of periodical litera 
 ture. In 1709 Richard Steele, a warm-hearted, 
 good-natured, dissipated, troublesome friend of 
 Addison's, of excellent principles and execrable 
 practices, himself a writer of no small merit, be 
 gan to issue " The Tatler," which in 1711 was suc 
 ceeded by "The Spectator," a combination of 
 novel, newspaper, quarterly review, and monthly 
 magazine. To both, Addison contributed a large, 
 and by far the most valuable part. It is here 
 that he shines out in the fulness of his soft splen 
 dor. His nice observation, his delicate humor, his 
 playful wit, the beautiful grotesqueness of his con 
 ceptions, the full outline and warm coloring of 
 his portraits, the combination of a keen sense of 
 the ridiculous with the largest charity and the 
 profoundest reverence, the singular grace, ease, 
 and refinement of his style, the purity and noble 
 ness of his sentiments, the sincerity and depth of 
 his religious feeling, have given him a place in our 
 respect and affections second to few, and have 
 placed the Spectator in the honorable rank of the 
 English classics. 
 
 Very different from Addison in tone and temper 
 is the sour, severe, Ishmaelitic Jonathan Swift, a 
 clergyman whose errant life, and especially whose 
 conduct toward women, and particularly towards 
 the two who sacrificed life and peace to him, 
 can be excused and even accounted for only on 
 the supposition of insanity, or some constitutional
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 307 
 
 moral deformity, a coarse, shrewd, masculine, 
 ferocious writer. His " Gulliver's Travels " is 
 the story of a shipwrecked sailor who finds him 
 self cast away in Liliput, a land whose inhabit 
 ants are so small that he strides without difficulty 
 over their loftiest edifices, and has to walk with 
 the greatest care to keep from crushing the people 
 by the dozen. Another shipwreck leaves him in 
 Brobdignag, to whose inhabitants he is as small as 
 the Liliputians were to him. The relation of his 
 experience in these two countries is a keen and 
 amusing satire on the follies of mankind. By tak 
 ing from their setting many of the points about 
 which men have disputed with the utmost inten 
 sity, and by representing them among his little 
 people, he shows their real frivolity. His " Battle 
 of the Books " is a satire upon a fierce contro 
 versy waged upon the respective merits of ancient 
 and modern writers in general, and upon the gen 
 uineness of the " Epistles of Phalaris " in particu 
 lar. " The Tale of a Tub " casts similar ridicule 
 upon ecclesiastical disputes, and stood sadly in the 
 way of his promotion. One characteristic of his 
 odd inventions is the air of reality which he gives 
 them. Pie is perfectly grave, earnest, and cir 
 cumstantial. He speaks with as much apparent 
 accuracy, reflectiveness, and philosophy, as if he 
 were relating the most momentous history. His 
 polemical writings had great weight, and affected 
 the destinies of Europe.
 
 308 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Boswell, Mrs. Thrale, and Madame d'Arblay, 
 have made us better acquainted with Samuel 
 Johnson than we are with most of our neighbors. 
 Johnson the man is far more interesting than 
 Johnson the writer. His verses are remembered 
 for his sake, and not he for his verses' sake. His 
 Dictionary, the fruit of eight years' toil, was val 
 uable in its day, but has been superseded. His 
 " Rasselas " is said to have ~been written to defray 
 the expenses of his mother's funeral. It coines 
 under the head of Romance, but would be rather 
 heavy to the romance-readers of the present day. 
 " The Rambler," a periodical paper, somewhat af 
 ter the fashion of the Spectator, was conducted and 
 mostly written by Johnson. It lacks the sprightli- 
 ness and versatility of the Spectator, but it has a 
 certain imposing stateliness. His " Tour to the 
 Hebrides " is as favorable to the Scotch as could 
 have been expected from one who hated, or pre 
 tended to hate them, so thoroughly. His " Lives 
 of the Poets" reveals his prejudices in the selec 
 tion, rejection, and treatment of his subjects, 
 though the selection -is perhaps the work of the 
 bookseller rather than his own, and is not 
 always trustworthy, but was received with great 
 favor, and is still read. His style is elaborate, 
 Latinized, and inverted, and has been greatly imi 
 tated and ridiculed ; but there is something pleas 
 ing in the pompous, balanced, antithetic roll of his 
 sentences. His talk is incomparable. Everybody
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 309 
 
 says a good thing occasionally, but Johnson kept 
 saying good things all the time. He would drop 
 pearls enough at the breakfast-table to make com 
 mon people brilliant for a year. His conversa 
 tion was as finished and as well arranged as his 
 writings. His power of repartee, his sarcasm, his 
 wit and weight, his preparedness, his felicity and 
 fertility of illustration are astonishing. His life 
 was a romance. In his youth, he was miserably 
 poor and proud. In his maturity, he was the 
 lawgiver and king of the literary world. He 
 married a coarse, ugly, and frivolous woman, 
 twice as old as himself, and was devoted .to 
 her. He was an upright and a sincere Chris 
 tian, yet through fear of death was all his life 
 time subject to bondage. When he was rich 
 enough to have a house, he filled it with blind, 
 poor, and impotent folks, and endured all their 
 fretfulness, and dramatized their fights. For the 
 rest, how huge, ugly, short-sighted, awkward, 
 rude, dogmatic, superstitious, prejudiced, coward 
 ly, brave, independent, slovenly, fastidious, ten 
 der-hearted, he was, how he lorded it over Bos- 
 well, and lectured Chesterfield, and petted Fanny 
 Burney, and bullied Fanny Brown, and brushed 
 the books with his eyelashes, and hated to go to 
 bed, and made people sit up half the night to talk 
 to them, and ground out doggerel rhymes on the 
 tea, and browbeat, protected, and mothered Gold 
 smith, is it not all, and a great deal more, writ 
 ten in the chronicles aforesaid ?
 
 310 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 Goldsmith follows naturally in the wake of John 
 son, though utterly unlike him ; Goldsmith, the 
 gentle, generous, thriftless, wann-hearted* simple, 
 blundering, bashful Irishman, " who wrote like an 
 angel and talked like poor Poll " ; who would give 
 all his blankets away to poor people, and then rip 
 open his feather-bed and creep inside to get warm ; 
 who knew no better way to put out his candle than 
 to throw his slipper at it ; who had to keep his hat 
 with him at parties to cover up the stain on his 
 peach-bloom coat. Laughed at by the wits, living 
 always from hand to mouth, with a legion of poor 
 relations behind him, the drudge and slave of the 
 booksellers, he preserved throughout, his unvary 
 ing sweetness. His writings have a finish and 
 elegance that would hardly be expected from 
 him, and which did surprise his superficial con 
 temporaries so much that they laid the merit at 
 Johnson's door, and poor Oliver bungled, and 
 confirmed the suspicion. His " Traveller " and 
 " Deserted Village " are gently, tearfully, archly, 
 and naturally charming. "The Vicar of Wake- 
 field" is a unique little gem, full of Goldsmith; 
 though Johnson berated it, after having read and 
 sold it to keep Goldsmith out of prison. His mis 
 cellaneous writings are numerous. He touched 
 upon science, history, literature, life, and manners ; 
 and everything which he touched he adorned. His 
 satire is good-natured, his amiability inexhaustible, 
 his style easy, natural, and pleasing.
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 311 
 
 James Thomson, the day-star of Wordsworth, 
 the admired of school-girls and school-boys, wrote 
 " The Seasons," and took his descriptions first 
 hand from Nature, wherefore his poem is likely 
 to live. It is in parts well known, and widely ad 
 mired, as its noble diction and catholic and truly 
 pious spirit deserve. A shorter poem, " The Cas 
 tle of Indolence," is written in the Spenserian 
 measure and manner, and has much of the spirit 
 of Spenser, combined with a grand, energetic 
 manliness. 
 
 Edward Young wrote " Night Thoughts " occa 
 sioned by the death of his wife and two children. 
 It is divided into nine books, eight of which, I can 
 depose and say, leave only a general, dismal im 
 pression ; yet there does not seem to be so much 
 real grief in it as in Tennyson's little four stan 
 zas, 
 
 " Break break break 
 On thy cold gray stones, sea." 
 
 Thomas Gray is polished, classical, artistic, schol 
 arly, and sometimes a little stiff, though he could 
 unbend in prose, and occasionally in verse. His 
 " Bard " is spirited and stirring. The " Elegy in 
 a Country Churchyard " is a mosaic, not to be 
 improved. He and Collins wrote but little, but 
 on that little their fame rests securely. Nothing 
 passed carelessly through their fastidious hands. 
 Colh'ns has more fire, and tenderness, and pathos 
 than Gray. His Odes stand high, though they
 
 312 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 are probably read by very few. " To Liberty" is 
 a splendid poem. 
 Cliatterton, 
 
 " The marvellous boy, 
 The sleepless soul that perished in his pride," 
 
 drained the cup of misery to the dregs, and dashed 
 it down in passionate despair. In all literature 
 can scarcely be found a story more profoundly sad 
 than his. Wandering, a little child, in the beauti 
 ful old church of St. Mary Redcliffe, of which his 
 ancestors had been the sextons for many gen 
 erations, images of the past thronged in upon his 
 soul, and peopled the dim galleries and the solemn 
 aisles. From the -strange, dreamy, isolated life of 
 his childhood, there came forth a series of poems, 
 which he professed to have discovered in an old 
 chest in the church, in the manuscript of one 
 Thomas Rowley, a priest of the Middle Ages. 
 These poems are now generally believed to have 
 been written by himself, and, as the productions 
 of a boy, are wonderful. A succession of forged 
 documents poems, histories, chronicles issued 
 from the fabulous chest, and astonished the good 
 people of Bristol. Flushed with success, he went 
 up to London to try his fortunes in the great 
 world, but the great world knew him not. Four 
 months of brilliant hopes and small fruition, of 
 incessant and wonderful writing and little money, 
 of boyish boasting and generous gifts to mother 
 and sister at home, and genius, poverty, obscurity,
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PA THS. 313 
 
 and starvation for himself in London, and one 
 summer morning closed the scene. Impatient of 
 fate, and but vaguely acquainted with God, he 
 swallowed poison and died, August 24, 1770, at 
 the age of seventeen years, nine months. He was 
 buried among paupers in a nameless grave. A 
 few days after, a distinguished literary gentleman 
 went down to Bristol to inquire into his case and 
 provide for him. But he had taken his case into 
 his own hands. 
 
 A softer sadness hangs around the name of 
 Cowper, whose sweet hymns have made that 
 name a household word. Sensitive and shrinking 
 as a woman, yet without effeminacy, the ways of 
 the world were too rough for him, and angels 
 came and ministered unto him. During a large 
 part of his life he was afflicted with a settled 
 melancholy, which more than once deepened into 
 positive insanity; but friendly hands tended him 
 with motherly love and care, and kept the clouds 
 apart for the sunshine to drift through. Human 
 nature never looks more lovable than when we 
 
 see it ever 
 
 " Beside him, true and loving." 
 
 Mrs. Unwin's long devotion, Lady Austin's and 
 Lady Hesketh's more playful but not less tender 
 attention, the Throckmortons' delicate kindness, 
 all this and much more not only relieves the 
 gloom of Cowper's life and memory, but encir 
 cles them with a soft and saintly glory. So, sur- 
 
 14
 
 314 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 rounded by gentle ministrations, God gave his be 
 loved sleep. 
 
 His poetry has enjoyed a rare popularity. A 
 warm, sincere, genial, catholic, joyous, religious 
 sentiment pervaded it. It is alike inspired with 
 a love of God, of Nature, and of man. Yet he 
 is capable of honest and trenchant indignation. 
 Though gentle, he has no namby-pambyism. The 
 tenderest and deepest sympathy and pity are found 
 in connection with a brilliant wit and sharp satire. 
 In style, he is clear, vigorous, and idiomatic ; nor 
 is he removed either in matter or manner from the 
 sphere of common life. Throwing off the ornate 
 and elaborate fashion which Pope had established, 
 he set up a new, trusting Nature, and became 
 the forerunner of the nineteenth century. His 
 letters are unaffectedly simple, playful, wise, and 
 delightful. 
 
 And yet another name adorns the annals of this 
 
 age, 
 
 "A name 
 
 That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, 
 A nation's glory and her shame 
 In silent sadness up." 
 
 With a genius whose scope and strength his short 
 life scarcely more than essayed, Robert Burns 
 stood up, self-assertive, before the world, and the 
 world made him an exciseman. Battling with 
 the wolf which stood always at his door, he found 
 in poetry a solace for toil, anxiety, insult, and mis 
 ery, nay, a rapt delight which raised him above
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 315 
 
 it all ; and so, in spite of grinding poverty and 
 stinging neglect, he 
 
 " Walked in glory and in joy, 
 Following his plough along the mountain-side." 
 
 Inexhaustibly rich in all that makes a man ; " dow 
 ered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the 
 love of love," yet often overborne by the violence 
 of his passions, and often overwhelmed with re 
 morse for their indulgence, he bound the hearts of 
 his countrymen to himself with a bond which time 
 only tightens and strengthens. His songs came up 
 fresh and glowing from his great, tender, honest, 
 fiery heart, and go deep into the heart of human 
 ity. The indwelling dignity of man was the first 
 article of his creed, and he maintained it with 
 all the force of his sturdy, glorious nature. But 
 every chord of the heart thrills to his touch, and 
 the eye fills or the cheek flames at his will. In 
 other poetry than songs, he is great. " The Cot 
 ter's Saturday Night " is a Dutch painting for ac 
 curacy and minuteness of detail, with the Burns 
 spirit shining through it, and diffusing a golden at 
 mosphere. " Tarn O'Shanter " is without a rival. 
 
 The reign of the novelists began in the eigh 
 teenth century. 
 
 Daniel Defoe, dying in 1731, wrote many pam 
 phlets and novels, only one of which, the inimita 
 ble and immortal " Robinson Crusoe," is exten 
 sively read ; but that is read enough to make up 
 for the oblivion of the others.
 
 316 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Harry Fielding added the unsophisticated Par 
 son Adams, Amelia, Squire Western, and Joseph 
 Andrews to the picture-gallery of literature, and 
 poured out in his novels wit enough, and power 
 enough to stock a score of modern ones of the 
 common type. 
 
 Clarissa Harlowe and Sir Charles Grandison 
 stalked statelily through Richardson's novels, and 
 roused an interest which they can never again 
 awaken. 
 
 Laurence Sterne's " Sentimental Journey," and 
 " Tristram Shandy," are whimsical, indescribable 
 books, with their irregular chapters, some only 
 three or four lines long, and some beginning or 
 ending in the middle of a sentence. A good deal 
 of his sentiment is lackadaisical, especially when 
 one knows that he was a bad, hard-hearted man. 
 
 Sly little Fanny Burney hid in a corner and 
 wrote a novel which blocked tip with ducal coaches 
 the streets that led to the circulating library, made 
 such men as Burke and Reynolds sit up all night 
 to read the adventures of u Evelina," and was the 
 forerunner of the more natural and purer novels 
 of our own time. 
 
 Horace Walpole, the aristocratic tenant of 
 Strawberry Hill, wrote " The Castle of Otranto," 
 an Italian romance, more pretentious than his 
 sharp, malicious, witty, gossiping, blast? Letters, 
 but not half so readable. Mrs. Radcliffe terri 
 fied the nervous with impossible horrors, Hannah
 
 A RAMBLE IN THE OLD PATHS. 317 
 
 More sent out " Ccelebs in Search of a Wife," 
 and the Eighteenth Century was gathered to its 
 fathers, and the Nineteenth reigned in its stead. 
 
 Now, if you knew all this before, you will read 
 it with great delight ; if you did not know it, it 
 may perhaps serve your turn in lack of a better 
 guide.
 
 XXVI. 
 
 A COUNTERCH ARM. 
 
 T has been said that the very best time 
 to offer your love to a woman is direct 
 ly after her own love has been trifled 
 with by a third person. When a grace 
 less fellow, who had possessed himself of the gem 
 which he had not the soul to appreciate, who had 
 esteemed carelessly, and worn lightly, what you 
 would give your life to win, has at length tossed 
 it away, or suffered it to fall from him, then, say 
 the philosophers, is your time. The tendrils of a 
 heart, rudely rent from the strength which they 
 had clasped, will close with blind, instinctive cling 
 ing around the first support that offers. 
 
 In a matter like this, there is a great deal to be 
 said on both sides ; but I rather think it is so. 
 Here is our Columbia, this fair young land, whose 
 name is breathed first in our morning and evening 
 prayer ; who is entwined now with all that is high 
 and holy in life ; whose very dust is dear to us ; 
 whom in prosperity we berated soundly, but over
 
 A COUNTERCHARM. 319 
 
 whom now, in an agony so fearful that in the 
 morning we say, Would God it were even ! and at 
 even, Would God it were morning ! we bend with 
 a sacred furor of tenderness ; this lovely and 
 beloved daughter of the nations has been scorned 
 and spurned by England. And turning away in 
 the passion of our disappointment, we behold 
 over against her France, la belle France, sunny 
 land of apple-orchards and olive-groves and vine- 
 clad hills ; land of Trouveur and Troubadour ; of 
 sweet Provence song and wild minstrel music ; 
 of rivers whose names are a tinkling waterfall ; 
 of valleys all a-quiver with golden-throated birds ; 
 unhappy France, that rose up maddened from 
 her humiliation, unfurling her silken banners but 
 to trail them in the dust, flashing aloft her golden 
 lilies too quickly fouled with crimson stains, wild 
 for revenge and drunk with blood, whelming in a 
 common ruin the monuments of her degradation, 
 the castles of her despair, the altars of her faith, 
 and the pillar of her hopes; suffering, sad-eyed 
 France, to whom Liberty came, a Nemesis, with 
 flaming eyes and fierce, fixed lips, driving her char 
 iot of fire over the writhing limbs and throbbing 
 hearts of her own worshippers ; faithful France, 
 wooing an idea through seventy years of fruitless 
 endeavor, loving not wisely but too well, now put 
 ting forth all her strength in one frantic effort, 
 then sinking into the torpor of utter weariness 
 and despair ; wayward and graceful France ;
 
 320 SKIR^^SHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 blind and beautiful France, that now in a strong, 
 unrelaxing grasp lies panting and prostrate, yet 
 with an awful vitality which no chains can con 
 fine, no threats intimidate, no blood subdue, bid 
 ing her tune. 
 
 Now I do not know whether it would be quite 
 safe to throw ourselves unhesitatingly into the arms 
 of France ; but surely, if she has many more such 
 men as Tocqueville and Gasparin, it would be no 
 leap in the dark. Is there another nation on the 
 earth that has produced a single mind with the 
 sagacity to discern, and the ability to expound, the 
 spirit of our institutions as these two men have 
 done ? Long may Gasparin 's memoir remain un 
 written. Tocqueville has already "gone over to 
 the majority," and a loving hand has penned a 
 brief and beautiful record of his pure, noble life. 
 I do not design to give even a synopsis of his 
 book, "Democracy in America," or his Memoir, 
 but only to call attention to a few striking points 
 in them, because both seem eminently fit for the 
 times on which we have fallen. 
 
 It is little to know that Alexis de Tocqueville 
 was born in Paris, July 29, 1805, or that his father 
 was Prefect of Metz, and Peer of France. We 
 are more interested to read that he set out early 
 in search of truth. Disheartened in his boyhood 
 by the impotence of human reason, he writes 
 sadly : " If I were desired to classify human 
 miseries, I should do it in this order: 1. Sick-
 
 A COUNTERCHARM. 321 
 
 ness. 2. Death. 3. Doubt." It Avas in pursuit 
 of truth that he made his ever-memorable visit 
 to America. There are many still living who 
 will remember the interest that was awakened by 
 the two young frenchmen, well-born and highly 
 educated, who undertook a thirty-five days' sea- 
 voyage for the purpose of exploring our public 
 archives, watching the practical working of our 
 laws, threading the stone passages of our prisons, 
 and penetrating the almost impenetrable forests 
 of wild Michigan, making, in fact, a recon 
 naissance of this Western world ; at once investi 
 gating the experiments of a novel civilization, and 
 laying bare their souls to the sublime solitude 
 where Nature had not yet bowed before the hand 
 of man. Stronger than any impression made by 
 the visit of these young men, is the recollection 
 of the book which one of them wrote after his re 
 turn, a book of whose wisdom every day is add 
 ing fresh proofs, whose sagacity seems sometimes 
 to have been almost inspiration, whose prophecies 
 of 1835 are the history of 1862. It is most re 
 freshing to turn aside from the " weak, washy, 
 everlasting flood " of egotistic trash, with which 
 British tourists have deluged us, to the calm, 
 philosophic, statesmanlike work of Tocqueville's 
 " Democracy in America." He was impelled by 
 other motives than theirs. He had no prejudices 
 to strengthen, no pique to gratify, no vanity to flat 
 ter. He never stooped to unmanly and frivolous 
 u* u
 
 822 SKI KM! SHE S AND SKETCHES. 
 
 motives ; he never descended to personal details ; 
 lie did not care to build up a flimsy fame by flat 
 tering his countrymen and ridiculing his hosts. 
 He did not travel to confirm a theory or to decide 
 a question of beef-steak with or without butter. 
 France was then in the mid-agony of that long 
 revolution which, beginning before he was born, 
 is not finished now that he has passed away. He 
 saw that she was surely drifting toward a democ 
 racy for which he feared that she was unprepared. 
 The problem was, how to unite liberty with equal 
 ity, how to prevent democracy from one day 
 throwing itself into the arms of despotism, as a last 
 refuge against anarchy. In this New World was 
 a democracy in the full tide of experiment, and he 
 came over to study it for France. America was 
 the subject of his book, but France was continu 
 ally in his heart. While he watched us, he 
 silently adjusted our institutions to France, and 
 pointed out their fitness or unfitness for her. He 
 had neither motive nor inclination to magnify our 
 faults, or to ignore our virtues. ' He spoke the 
 language neither of eulogy nor of slander. 
 
 Striving not to dogmatize or despise, but to learn 
 and teach, he saw, as perhaps no other ever did, 
 the real character and bearings of this grand dem 
 ocratic " experiment," and, returning to his belov 
 ed France and " secluding himself during these 
 two years from society, spending the day-time, in 
 order to avoid interruption, in a lodging, the secret
 
 A COUNTERCHARM. 323 
 
 of which vv r as known only to very few of his friends, 
 sustained by the flattering dreams which always 
 visit a young author, and by the attachment which 
 he had already formed to the lady whom he was 
 soon to marry, he gave himself up to the intoxica 
 tion which generally attends the continuous cre 
 ative action of mind." 
 
 As a result, he has left alike in the land which 
 he visited and in the land for which he visited, a 
 monument more durable than brass. Aiming only 
 at the highest, he gained all honors. Although 
 he was collating, comparing, inferring, presenting, 
 with a single eye to the welfare of his country, 
 America holds his name in a veneration which 
 France may equal, but can hardly excel. His 
 book passed through fourteen editions at Paris, 
 and has been translated into nearly all the lan 
 guages of modern Europe. Its author was ad 
 judged the Monthyon prize by the French Insti 
 tute, a prize given annually for the work of the 
 highest moral utility that has been produced dur 
 ing the year ; and in this case, to mark a special 
 distinction, the prize was increased from six thou 
 sand francs, its usual amount, to eight thousand. 
 
 The reception which it met with in America 
 shows that we can bear censure if it be kind and 
 judicious. We are not so " thin-skinned " but 
 that we can tolerate the keen knife in a skilful 
 and friendly hand. What frets us is the villanous 
 little gad-flies that sting here, and stab there, teas-
 
 324 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ing everywhere, but with not the dimmest percep 
 tion as to whether they have thrust their lancets 
 into a vein or an artery, and generally in a state 
 of profound and placid ignorance as to the exist 
 ence of both veins and arteries. 
 
 Tocqueville is everywhere observant, discrimi 
 nating, just. His mistakes are marvellously few. 
 He knows what is incident, and what is essence, 
 what is peculiar to us, and what is common to 
 the race. His work is perhaps the best exhibi 
 tion of our institutions that has ever been given. 
 Nowhere else can "Young America" find, with 
 in so brief a compass, a regum so exhaustive, 
 and an exposition so lucid. He sees as clearly 
 into the genius of the country as a native, and 
 looks upon it as impartially as if it were an an 
 tiquity. He is consequently free from all petti 
 ness, broad, and deep, and high. 
 
 The book should be read and studied much 
 more than it is in America, and we welcome 
 every effort to bring it before the people, whether 
 its beauty be made to appeal to the eye, or its 
 cheapness to the purse. Our people need more 
 sound political information. A self-governing 
 people should be a self - understanding people. 
 The work should be made a text-book in col 
 leges, that at least no graduate should lack n. 
 familiar acquaintance with its large truths. No 
 where else do we find so calm, unprejudiced, 
 and impartial a statement of the principles which
 
 .A COUNTERCHARM. 325 
 
 constitute, the dangers which beset, and the oppor 
 tunities which await Democracy. Here our peo 
 ple may learn the origin and meaning of many 
 usages with whose workings they are familiar, 
 but of whose spirit they are profoundly igno 
 rant. Here they may discern the dangers be 
 tween which society oscillates, of despotism on 
 the one side, and anarchy on the other ; the evils 
 which threaten, and the measures which may avert, 
 the destruction of our Republic. Religion, educa 
 tion, literature, commerce, universal suffrage, mu 
 nicipal and local authority, are here discussed, 
 in their relation to government, with a compre 
 hensiveness and candor which cannot fail to im 
 part somewhat of their own elevated nature to him 
 who shall pass them in review. A knowledge of 
 this book is not so much a matter of taste as of 
 national life. Read backward, it gives the interior 
 history of our rebellion ; and it was written thirty 
 years ago. The causes which wrought then are 
 working still, and the better we understand a de 
 mocracy, the better we shall enact it. It is only 
 by a full knowledge of its possibilities that we can 
 be saved from disaster. The lesson that we must 
 learn and from no human source can we learn it 
 better than from this book is, that a people which 
 would govern itself wisely must be a people intelli 
 gent, virtuous, and honorable. 
 
 Tocqueville's character was intrinsically noble. 
 He was elevated to the heights of abstract good-
 
 326 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 ness. His unselfishness was chivalrous. He read 
 to his friend and travelling companion, Beaumont, 
 a charming little work, " A Fortnight in the Wil 
 derness," who at once, unthinkingly, predicted for 
 it a far greater success than that attained by his 
 own novel, laid in similar scenes. " At the time, 
 Tocqueville said nothing ; but he had made up his 
 mind, and nothing could ever induce him to pub 
 lish what might trespass upon the ground chosen 
 by his friend, or appear as a rival to his work." 
 That friend, worthy of a generosity so delicate, 
 now prints, for the first time, this withheld manu 
 script. 
 
 Eminent by birth, fortune, and intellect, Tocque 
 ville surprised the worldly-wise by marrying a 
 young English lady, who| apparently, could in 
 no wise advance his worldly interests. The wis 
 dom of his course, his letters to his most inti 
 mate friends indicate. It may be supposed that 
 the sweetness of the honey-moon still lingered 
 around his pen when, a year after his marriage, 
 he wrote: "I cannot tell you the inexpressible 
 charm which I have found in living so continually 
 with Marie, nor the treasures which I was per 
 petually discovering in her heart. You know that 
 in travelling, stUl more than at other times, my 
 temper is uneven, irritable, and impatient. I 
 scolded her frequently, and almost always unjust 
 ly " (this particular trait is not held up for imita 
 tion ; though women would not generally object
 
 A COUNTEECHARM. 327 
 
 strenuously to a little unjust husbandly scolding, if 
 the husband were Tocqueville ! Cases alter cir 
 cumstances) ; " and on each occasion I discovered 
 in her inexhaustible springs of tenderness and in 
 dulgence Although I have great power 
 
 over her mind, I see with pleasure that she awes 
 me ; and as long as I love her as I now do, I am 
 sure that I shall never allow myself to be drawn 
 into anything wrong." But twenty-five years 
 later, when Madame de Tocqueville, worn out by 
 fatigue and grief consequent upon his continued 
 illness, herself fell ill, and was confined to a dark 
 ened room, " such was his tender love for her, and 
 so impossible was it for him to live without her, 
 and away from her, that, as she could no longer sit 
 by his bed of suffering, he succeeded in dragging 
 himself to hers. But the deep gloom of her room 
 increased his illness, and, yielding to a sort of 
 physical instinct, he escaped to the sunshine, which 
 alone revived him. It was a sad fate for two 
 beings so necessary to each other, to be able no 
 longer to live together or apart. In fact, in a few 
 minutes, Tocqueville returned to his wife's bed 
 side, and said, ' Dear Marie, the sunshine ceases 
 to do me good, if to enjoy it I must give up seeing 
 you.' " Surely the moon must have had a honey- 
 spring to well up sweetness so long. 
 
 His ambition was pure and lofty, "an ambition 
 which, in a free country, is the first of public vir 
 tues ; an ambition which is patriotism, which is
 
 328 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 eagerness for the grandeur of the country which 
 it aspires to govern through the struggles which 
 belong to liberty, by efforts never suspended, and 
 by successes due only to merit and to talent." 
 The sensitiveness of his purity could not admit 
 the shadow of a stain. He lost an election rather 
 than permit an official recommendation from the 
 Prime Minister, who was his kinsman. When his 
 friend Kergorlay had compromised himself with 
 the government, Tocqueville, who had joined it, 
 rushed to his support, " and zealously defended 
 him ; not as one would generally defend a person 
 under accusation, but as one would plead for a 
 loved and honored friend." How different from 
 the course which Bacon pursued towards Essex ! 
 
 His " death was that of a Christian, as had been 
 his life. His mind was always much disturbed by 
 doubt But in the midst of his greatest per 
 plexities, he never ceased to be sincerely Christian. 
 This sentiment amounted in him to a passion, and 
 was even a part of his political creed ; for he be 
 lieved that there could be no liberty without mo 
 rality, and no morality without religion The 
 
 great problem of the destiny of man impressed him 
 with daily-increasing awe and reverence ; more and 
 more piety, and gratitude for the Divine blessings, 
 entered every day into his actions and feelings." 
 
 He died on the 16th of April, 1859. 
 
 The pictures of domestic life, and of mature, 
 manly, and almost romantic friendship, with which
 
 A COUNTERCHARM. 329 
 
 his Memoir abounds, are pure, delightful, and ele 
 vating. With such hearts and homes in France, 
 surely her redemption draweth nigh. 
 
 The letters, whose publication a death so recent 
 would admit, with some extracts from Mr. Senior's 
 journal relating Tocqueville's " Table Talk," make 
 up the whole of the second, and a part of the first 
 volume, and are extremely interesting and valua 
 ble. The " Tour in Sicily," " A Fortnight in the 
 Wilderness," " Visit to Lake Oneida," " France 
 before the Revolution," and " The Consulate," 
 are appended to the Memoir. There is through 
 out the book, alike in the writings of the subject 
 and of the author of the Memoir, an indescrib 
 able nobleness, an atmosphere of refined and lofty 
 purity, of delicate generosity, of something be 
 yond and above the materialism of commonplace, 
 selfish life, such as men might have breathed in 
 the Golden Age.
 
 XXVII. 
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 'OOR Rachel, passing slowly away from 
 the world that had so applauded her 
 hollow but brilliant career, tasted the 
 bitterness of death in reflecting that 
 she should so soon be given over to the worms and 
 the biographers. Fortunate Rachel, resting in 
 serene confidence that the two would be fellow- 
 laborers ! It is the unhappy fate of her survivors 
 to have reached a day in which biographers have 
 grown impatient of the decorous delay which their 
 lowly coadjutors demand. They can no longer 
 wait for the lingering soul to yield up its title- 
 deeds before they enter in and take possession ; 
 but, fired with an evil energy, they outstrip the 
 worms and torment us before the time. 
 
 Curiosity is undoubtedly one of the heaven- 
 appointed passions of the human animal. Dear to 
 the heart of man has ever been his neighbor's 
 business. Precious in the eyes of woman is the 
 linen-closet of that neighbor's wife. During its
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 331 
 
 tender, teething infancy, the world's sobs could 
 always be soothed into smiles by an open bureau, 
 with large liberty to upheave its contents. As the 
 infant world ascended from cambric and dimity to 
 broadcloth and crinoline, its propensity for inves 
 tigation grew stronger. It loved not bureaus less, 
 but a great many other things more. What sad 
 consequences might have ensued, had this passion 
 been left to forage for itself, no one can tell. But, 
 by the wonderful principle of adaptation which 
 obtains throughout the universe, the love of re 
 ceiving information is met and mastered by the 
 love of imparting information. As much pleasure 
 as it gives Angelina to learn how many towels and 
 table-cloths go into Seraphina's wedding-outfit, so 
 much, yea, more, swells in Cherubella's bosom at 
 being able to present to her friend this apple from 
 the tree of knowledge. The worthy Muggins 
 finds no small consolation for the loss of his over 
 coat and umbrella from the front entry in the 
 exhilaration he experiences while relating to each 
 member of his ever-revolving circle of friends the 
 details of his loss, the suspicion, the search, the 
 certainty, the conjectures, suggestions, and emo 
 tions of himself and his family. 
 
 Hence these tears which we are about to shed. 
 For, betwixt the love of hearing on the one side, 
 and the love of telling on the other, small space 
 remains on which one may adventure to set the 
 sole of his foot and feel safe from the spoiler.
 
 332 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 There is of course a legitimate gratification for 
 every legitimate desire, the desire to know our 
 neighbor's affairs among others. But there is a 
 limit to this gratification, and it is hinted at by 
 legal enactments. The law justly enough bounds 
 a man's power over his possessions. For twenty- 
 one years after his generation has passed away, his 
 dead hand may rule the wealth which its living 
 skill amassed. Then it dies another death, sinks 
 into a deeper grave, and has henceforth no more 
 power than any sister-clod. But, except as a 
 penalty for crime, the law awards to a man the 
 right to his own possessions through life ; and the 
 personal facts and circumstances of his life have 
 usually been considered among his closest, most 
 inalienable possessions. 
 
 Alas that the times are changed, and we be all 
 dead men so far as concerns immunity from publi 
 cation ! There is no manner of advantage in be 
 ing alive. The sole safety is to lie flat on the 
 earth along with one's generation. The moment 
 an audacious head is lifted one inch above the 
 general level, pop! goes the unerring rifle of 
 some biographical sharp-shooter, and it is all over 
 with the unhappy owner. A respectable and well- 
 meaning man, suffering under the accumulated 
 pains of Presidentship, has the additional and en 
 tirely undeserved ignominy of being hawked about 
 the country as the " Pioneer Boy." A statesman 
 whose reputation for integrity has been worth mil-
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 333 
 
 lions to the land, and whose patriotism should have 
 won him a better fate, is stigmatized in duodecimo 
 as the "Ferry Boy." An innocentand popular 
 Governor is fastened in the pillory under the thin 
 diso-uise of the " Bobbin Boy." Every victorious 
 
 e t/ 
 
 advance of our grand army is followed by a long 
 procession of biographical statistics. A brave man 
 leading his troops to victory may escape the bul 
 lets and bayonets of the foe, but he is sure to be 
 transfixed to the sides of a newspaper with the pen 
 of some cannibal entomologist. We are thrilled 
 to-day with the telegram announcing the brilliant 
 and successful charge made by General Smith's 
 command ; and according to that inevitable law 
 of succession by which the sun his daily round of 
 duty runs, we shall be thrilled to-morrow with the 
 startling announcement that " General Smith was 
 
 born in ," etc., etc., etc. 
 
 Unquestionably, there is somewhere in the land 
 a regularly organized biographical bureau, by 
 which every man, President or private, has his lot 
 apportioned him, one mulcted in a folio, the 
 other in a paragraph. If we examine somewhat 
 closely the features of this peculiar institution, we 
 shall learn that a distinguishing characteristic of 
 the new school of biography is the astonishing fa 
 miliarity shown by the narrator with the circum 
 stances, the conversations, and the very thoughts 
 of remarkable men in their early life. The inci 
 dents of childhood are usually forgotten before the
 
 334 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 man's renown has given them any importance 
 the few anecdotes which tradition has preserved 
 are sc'ized upon with the utmost avidity and placed 
 in the most conspicuous position ; but in these 
 later books we have illustrious children portrayed 
 with a Pre-Raphaelitic and most prodigal pencil. 
 
 Take the opening scene in a garden where 
 " Nat " we must protest against this irreverent 
 abbreviation of the name of that honored Governor 
 whose life in little we are about to behold and 
 his father are at work. 
 
 " ' There, Nat, if you plant and hoe your 
 squashes with care, you will raise a nice parcel 
 of them on this piece of ground. It is good soil 
 for squashes.' 
 
 " ' How many seeds shall I put into a hill ? ' in 
 quired Nat. 
 
 " ' Seven or eight. It is well to put in enough, 
 as some of them may not come up, and when they 
 get to growing well, pull up all but four in a hill. 
 You must not have your hills too near together, 
 they should be five feet apart, and then the vines 
 will cover the ground all over. I should think 
 there would be room for fifty hills on this patch of 
 ground.' 
 
 " ' How many squashes do you think I shall 
 raise, father ? ' 
 
 " * Well,' said his father, smiling, ' that is hard 
 telling. We won't count the chickens before they 
 are hatched. But if you are industrious, and take
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 335 
 
 very good care indeed of your vines, stir the 
 ground often and keep out all the weeds and 
 kill the bugs, I have little doubt that you will 
 get well paid for your labor.' 
 
 "'If I have fifty hills,' said Nat, ' and four vines 
 in each hill, I shall have two hundred vines in all; 
 and if there is one squash on each vine, there will 
 be twp hundred squashes.' 
 
 " ' Yes ; but there are so many ifs about it, that 
 you may be disappointed after all. Perhaps the 
 bugs will destroy half your vines.' 
 
 " ' I can kill the bugs,' said Nat. 
 
 " ' Perhaps dry weather will wither them all 
 up.' 
 
 " ' I can water them every day, if they need it.' 
 
 " ' That is certainly having good courage, Nat,' 
 added his father ; ' but if you conquer the bugs, 
 and get around the dry weather, it may be too wet 
 and blast your vines, or there may be such a 
 hail-storm as I have known several times in my 
 life, and cut them to pieces.' 
 
 " ' I don't think there will be such a hail-storm 
 this year ; there never was one like it since I can 
 remember.' 
 
 " ' I hope there won't be,' replied his father. 
 'It is well to look on the bright side, and hope 
 for the best, for it keeps the courage up. It is 
 also well to look out for disappointment. I know 
 a gentleman who thought he would raise some 
 ducks,' " etc., etc., etc.
 
 336 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 We are told that this scene was enacted about 
 thirty-five years ago, and, as if we should not be 
 sufficiently lost in admiration of that wonderful 
 memory which enabled somebody to retain so long, 
 and restore so unimpaired, the words and deeds of 
 that distant May morning, we are further informed 
 that the author is " obliged to pass over much that 
 belongs to the patch of squashes " ! " Is it possi 
 ble ? " one is led to exclaim. We should certainly 
 have supposed that this report was exhaustive. 
 We can hardly conceive that any further inter 
 est should inhere in that patch of squashes ; where 
 as it seems that the half was not told us. Nor is 
 this the sole instance. Records equally minute of 
 conversations equally brilliant are lavished on page 
 after page with a recklessness of expenditure that 
 argues unlimited wealth, conversations between 
 the Boy and his father, between the Boy and his 
 mother, between the Boy's father and mother, 
 between the Boy's neighbors about the Boy, in 
 which his numerous excellences are set in the 
 strongest light, exhortations of the Boy's teacher 
 to his school, play-ground talk of the Boy and his 
 fellow-boys, among whom the Boy invariably 
 stands head and shoulders higher than they. We 
 fear the world of boys has hitherto been much 
 demoralized by being informed that many distin 
 guished men were but dull fellows in the school- 
 house, or unnoticed on the play-ground. But we 
 have changed all that. The Bobbin Boy was the
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 337 
 
 most industrious, the most persevering, the most 
 self-reliant, the most virtuous, the most exemplary 
 of all the boys of his time. So was the Ferry Boy, 
 and the Pioneer Boy so. "Nat" we blame and 
 protest, but we join in the plan of using this un 
 dignified sobriquet Nat was the one that swam 
 three rods under water ; Nat astonished the school 
 with the eloquence of his declamation ; it was Nat 
 that got all the glory of the games ; it was of no 
 use for any one to try for any prize where Nat was 
 a competitor. And as Nat's neighbors thought of 
 Nat, so thought Abe's we shudder at the sound 
 Abe's neighbors of Abe, the Pioneer Boy. Of 
 what Salmon's neighbors said about Salmon we are 
 not so well informed : but we have no doubt they 
 often exclaimed one to another, 
 
 " Was never Salmon yet that shone so fair 
 Among the stakes on Dee ! " 
 
 Nor are the Boys backward in having a tolera 
 bly good opinion of their own goodness. 
 
 " Never swear, my son," says Abe's mother to 
 the infant Abe. 
 
 " I never do," says Abraham. 
 
 " Boys are likely to want their own way, and 
 spend their time in idleness," says the mother of a 
 President, upon another occasion. 
 
 " I sha'n't," responds virtuous Abraham. 
 
 "Always speak the truth, my son." 
 
 "I do tell the truth," was "Abraham's usual 
 reply." 
 
 15 v
 
 838 XKlItMlSHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " When a boy gets to going to the tavern to 
 smoke and swear," says Nat's mother, " he is al 
 most sure to drink, and become a ruined man." 
 
 "I never do smoke, mother," replies Nat, pour 
 ing cataracts of innocence. " I never go to the 
 stable nor tavern. I don't associate with Sam and 
 Ben Drake, nor with James Cole, nor with Oliver 
 Fowle, more than I can help. For I know they 
 are bad boys. I see that the worst scholars at 
 school are those who are said to disobey their par 
 ents, and every one of them are poor scholars, and 
 they use profane language." 
 
 Virtue so immaculate at so tender an age seems 
 to us, we are forced to admit, unnatural. The 
 boys that have fallen in our way have never been 
 in the habit of making profound moral reflections, 
 and we cannot resist the unpleasant suspicion that 
 Nat had just been playing at marbles for " hav 
 ings " with Cole, Fowle, and both the Drakes at 
 the village inn, and, having found this savory re 
 past too strong for his digestion, went home to 
 his mother and wreaked his discomfort on edifying 
 moral maxims. Or else he was a prig. 
 
 The unusual and highly exciting nature of the 
 incidents recorded in these biographies must be 
 their excuse for a seeming violation of privacy. 
 When a rare gem is in question, one must not be 
 over-scrupulous about breaking open the casket. 
 What puerile prejudice in favor of privacy can 
 rear its head in face of the statement which tells
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 339 
 
 us that at the age of seven years our honored 
 President "devoted himself to learning to read 
 with an energy and enthusiasm that insured suc 
 cess'"? such success that we ' learn "he could 
 read some when he left school." 
 
 At the age of nine he shot a turkey ! 
 
 Soon after, for here we are involved in a 
 chronological haze, he began to " take lessons 
 in penmanship with the most enthusiastic ardor." 
 
 Subsequently, " there, on the soil of Indiana, 
 ABRAHAM LIXCOLN WROTE HIS NAME, WITH A 
 STICK, in large characters, a sort of prophetic 
 act, that students of history may love to ponder. 
 For, since that day, he has ' gone up higher,' and 
 written his name, by public acts, on the annals of 
 every State in the Union." 
 
 He wrote a letter. 
 
 He rescued a toad from cruel boys, for, 
 though " he could kill game for food as a neces 
 sity, and dangerous wild animals, his soul shrunk 
 from torturing even a fly." Dear heart, we can 
 easily believe that ! 
 
 He bought a Ramsay's " Life of Washington," 
 and paid for it with the labor of his own hands. 
 
 He helped to save a drunkard's life. "He 
 thought more of the drunkard's safety than he did 
 of his own ease. And there are many of his per 
 sonal acquaintances in our land who will bear 
 witness, that, from that day to this, this amiable 
 quality of heart has won him admiring friends."
 
 340 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 He took a flat-boat to New Orleans, and de 
 fended her against the negroes, who, poor fellows, 
 were not prophetic enough to see that they were 
 plotting against their Deliverer. 
 
 He " always had much dry wit about him that 
 kept oozing out ! " 
 
 We have given a bird's-eye view of the main 
 incidents of his boyhood, for we cannot quite agree 
 with our author in thinking that his " old gram 
 mar laid the foundation, in part, of Abraham's 
 future character," seeing that he had "become the 
 most important man in the place " before he stud 
 ied grammar ; and we have the same writer's au 
 thority for believing that " the habits of life are 
 usually fixed by the time a lad is fifteen years of 
 age." Nor can we admit that this grammar even 
 " taught him the rudiments of his native lan 
 guage," when we have been having proof upon 
 proof, for two hundred and eighty-six pages, that 
 he was already familiar with its rudiments. We 
 are equally sceptical as to whether it really 
 " opened the golden gate of knowledge " for him : 
 we should certainly say that this gate had stood 
 ajar, at least, for years. Indeed, that portion of 
 his history which relates to grammar seems to us 
 by far the most unsatisfactory of all. In his hon 
 esty, in his penmanship, in his kindness of heart, 
 in his wit, dry or damp, we feel a confidence 
 which not even the shock of political campaigns 
 has been able to move. But in respect of gram-
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 341 
 
 mar we find ourselves in a state of the most pain 
 ful uncertainty. We have never regarded it as 
 our beloved President's strong point, but we have 
 considered any verbal defect more than atoned for 
 by the hearty, timely, sturdy, plain sense which 
 appeals so directly and forcibly to .the good sense 
 of others. This book calls up a distressing doubt, 
 and a doubt that strikes at vital interests. " Gram 
 mar," our President is reported to have said before 
 he had cast the integuments of a grocer's clerk, 
 " Grammar is the art of speaking and writing the 
 English language with propriety ! " Is this defi 
 nition, we sorrowfully ask, becoming an American 
 citizen ? It has, indeed, in many respects the 
 qualities of a perfect definition. It is accurate ; 
 it is exhaustive : but it is not loyal. Coming 
 from the lips of a subject of Great Britain, it 
 would not surprise us. An Englishman un 
 doubtedly believes that grammar, is the art of 
 speaking and writing the English language with 
 propriety. All the grammatical research that pre 
 ceded the establishment of his mother-tongue was 
 
 O 
 
 but the collection of fuel to feed the flame of its 
 glory ; all that follows will be to diffuse the light 
 of that flame to the ends of the earth. Greek, 
 Latin, Sanscrit, were but stepping-stones to the 
 English language. Philology per se is a myth. 
 The English language in its completeness is the 
 completion of grammatical science. To that all 
 knowledge tends ; from that all honor radiates.
 
 342 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 So claims proud Britain's prouder son. But can 
 an American tamely submit to such a monopoly ? 
 Is not grammar rather, or at least quite as much, 
 the art of speaking and writing the American lan 
 guage correctly, and shall he sit -calmly by and 
 witness this gross outrage upon his dearest rights ? 
 But, as our author would say, \ve " must not 
 dwell," and most gladly do we leave this unpleas 
 ant branch of a very pleasant subject, inwardly 
 supplicating, that, whatever disaster is yet tu be 
 fall us, we may be spared the pang of suspecting 
 that our honored President, so stanch against the 
 Rebels, so unflinching for the Slave, is in danger 
 of lowering his lofty crest to the rampant Brit 
 ish lion ! In view of such a calamity, one can 
 only say in the words of that distinguished Briti>h 
 citizen who, living in England in the full light of 
 the nineteenth century, must be supposed to have 
 reached the summit of grammatical excellence, 
 
 " Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loifc they says is sweet, 
 But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abear to see it." 
 
 The life of the Ferry Boy was scarcely less 
 adventurous than that of the Pioneer Boy, and 
 was, indeed, in some respects its counterpart. As 
 the latter learned to write on the tops of stools, so 
 the former learned to read on bits of birch-bark. 
 At an early period of his existence he broke a cap 
 ful of eggs. He owned a calf. He caught an eel. 
 He put salt on a bird's tail and learned his first
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 343 
 
 lesson of the deceitfulness of the human heart. 
 He walked to Niagara Falls from Buffalo. He 
 got lost in the woods. He went to live with his 
 uncle in Ohio, where he displayed spirit and killed 
 a pig. Here also occurred a u prophecy " almost 
 as striking as the Pioneer Boy's writing his name 
 with a stick. " Salmon " wished to go swimming. 
 " The Bishop said, ' No ! ' adding, * Why, Salmon, 
 the country might lose its future President, if you 
 should get drowned ! ' This was the first time his 
 name had ever been mentioned in connection with 
 that high office ; and the remark, coming from the 
 grave Bishop's lips, must have made a strong im 
 pression on him. Was it prophetic ? " Let us 
 assume that it was, although it must for the pres 
 ent be ranked with what is theologically called 
 " unfulfilled prophecy." We cannot, at any rate, 
 be too thankful that the only occasion on which it 
 was ever hinted to an American boy that he might 
 one day become President has not been suffered 
 to pass into oblivion, but has found in this little 
 volume a monument more durable than brass. 
 To go on with our inventory. A whole flock of 
 thirteen pigeons shot by the Ferry Boy answered 
 through their misty shroud to the Pioneer Boy's 
 turkey which called to them aloud. He taught 
 school two weeks, and then had " leave to resign." 
 He went to Washington and said his prayers like 
 a good boy: we trust he has kept up the practice 
 ever since.
 
 344 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 From such a record there is but one inference : 
 if the man is not President, he ought to be ! 
 
 One great element in the success which these 
 little books have commanded, the one fact which, 
 we are persuaded, accounts for the quiet, but sig 
 nificant " twenty-sixth thousand " that we find on 
 the title-page of one of them, is the pains which 
 their authors take to make their meaning clear. 
 They do not, like too many of our modern authors, 
 leave a book half written, forcing the reader to fin 
 ish their work as he goes along. They are instant, 
 in season and out of season, with explanation, illus 
 tration, reflection, until the idea is, so to speak, 
 reduced to pulp, and the reader has nothing to 
 perform save the act of deglutition. 
 
 " When he [' Nat '] was only four years old, 
 and was learning to read little words of two let 
 ters, he came across one about which he had quite 
 a dispute with his teacher. It was INN. 
 
 " * What is that ? ' asked his teacher. 
 
 " ' I-double n,' he answered. 
 
 " ' What does i-double n spell ? ' 
 
 " * Tavern,' was his quick reply. 
 
 "The teacher smiled, and said, 'No; it spells 
 INN. Now read it again.' 
 
 " ' I-double n tavern,' said he. 
 
 " ' I told you that it did not spell tavern, it 
 spells INN. Now pronounce it correctly.' 
 
 " * It do spell tavern,' said he. 
 
 " The teacher was finally obliged to give it up,
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 345 
 
 and let him enjoy his own opinion. She probably 
 called him obstinate, although there was nothing 
 of the kind about him, as we shall see. His 
 mother took up the matter at home, but failed to 
 convince him that i-double n did not spell tavern. 
 It was not until some time after that he changed 
 his opinion on this important subject. 
 
 " That this instance was no evidence of obsti 
 nacy in Nat, but only of a disposition to think 
 ' on his own hook,' is evident from the following 
 circumstances. There was a picture of a public- 
 house in his book against the word INN, with the 
 old-fashioned sign-post in front, on which a sign 
 was swinging. Near his father's, also, stood a 
 public-house, which everybody called a tavern, 
 with a tall post and sign in front of it, exactly 
 like that in his book ; and Nat said within him 
 self, 'If Mr. Morse's house [the landlord*] is a 
 tavern, then this is a tavern in my book.' He 
 cared little how it was spelled ; if it did not spell 
 tavern, ' it ought to,' he thought. Children believe 
 what they see, more than what they hear. What 
 they lack in reason and judgment they make up in- 
 eyes. So Nat had seen the tavern near his father's 
 house again and again, and he had stopped to look 
 at the sign in front of it a great many times, and 
 his eyes told him it was just like that in the book ; 
 
 * The meaning of this is, that Mr. Morse was the landlord, not 
 the house. Of course a house could not be a landlord ; still less 
 could it be a landlord to itself. Note by Reviewer. 
 15*
 
 346 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 therefore it was his deliberate opinion that i-double 
 n spelt tavern, and he was not to be beaten out of 
 an opinion that was based on such clear evidence. 
 It was a good sign in Nat. It was true of the 
 three men to whom we have just referred, Bow- 
 ditch, Davy, and Buxton. From their childhood 
 they thought for themselves, so that, when they 
 became men, they defended their opinions against 
 imposing opposition. True, a youth must not be 
 too forward in advancing his ideas, especially if 
 they do not harmonize with those of older persons. 
 Self-esteem and self-confidence should be guarded 
 against. Still, in avoiding these evils, he is not 
 obliged to believe anything just because he is told 
 so. It is better for him to understand the reason 
 of things, and believe them on that account." 
 
 Would our Parks, our Palfreys, our Pres- 
 cotts, our Emersons, have expounded this matter 
 so clearly? Most assuredly not. They would 
 have left us in the Cimmerian darkness of dreary 
 conjecture regarding the causes of Nat's strange 
 opinion, and the lessons to be drawn from it. Or 
 if they had condescended to explanation, it would 
 have been comprised in a curt phrase or two. No 
 boundary-line between a virtue and its correspond 
 ing vice would have been drawn so that a way 
 faring man, though a fool, should not err in follow 
 ing it. This author has struck the golden mean. 
 There is just enough, and not too much. 
 
 Again,
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 347 
 
 " ' I should rather be in prison, than to sit up 
 nights studying as you do.' 
 
 " ' I really enjoy it, David.' 
 
 " ' I can hardly credit it.' 
 
 " ' Then you think I do not speak the truth ? ' 
 
 " ' Oh, no ! .... I only meant to say that I 
 cannot understand it.' 
 
 " Allusion is here made to an important fact. 
 David could not understand how Abraham could 
 possess such a love of knowledge as to lead him 
 to forego all social pleasures, be willing to wear a 
 threadbare coat, live on the coarsest fare, and labor 
 hard all day, and sit up half^the night, for the sake 
 of learning. But there is just that power in the 
 love of knowledge, and it was this that caused Lin 
 coln to derive happiness from doing what would 
 have been a source of misery to David. Some 
 of the most marked instances of self-forgetfulness 
 recorded are connected with the pursuit of knowl 
 edge. Archimedes was so much in love with the 
 studies of his profession, that, etc., etc. Professor 
 Heyne, of Gottingen," etc., etc., etc. A clearer 
 explanation than this we have rarely met with out 
 side the realm of mathematical demonstration. 
 
 A shorter example of the same judicious over 
 sight we have when " in rushed Nat, under great 
 excitement, with his eyes ' as large as saucers,' to 
 use a hyperbole, which means only that his eyes 
 looked very large indeed." The impression which 
 would have been made upon the rising generation,
 
 348 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 had the testimony been allowed to go forth with 
 out its corrective, that upon a certain occasion any 
 Governor's eyes were really as large as saucers, 
 even very small tea-saucers, is such as the imagi 
 nation refuses to dwell on. 
 
 i This exuberance of illustration increases the 
 value of these books in another respect. To use 
 a homely phrase, we get more than we bargained 
 for. Ostensibly engaged with the life of the Bob 
 bin Boy, we are covertly introduced to the major 
 ity of all the boys that ever were born and came 
 to anything. The advertised story is a kind of 
 mother-hen that gathers under her wings a numer 
 ous brood of biographical chicks. Quantities of 
 recondite erudition are poured out on the slight 
 est provocation. Nat's unquestioned superiority 
 to lu's schoolmates evokes a disquisition for the 
 encouragement of dull boys, in which we are told 
 that " the great philosopher, Newton, was one of 
 the dullest scholars in school when he was twelve 
 years old. Doctor Isaac Barrow was such a dull, 
 pugnacious, stupid fellow, etc., etc. The father 
 of Dr. Adam Clarke, the commentator, called his 
 boy. etc. Cortina," (vernacular for Cortona, prob 
 ably,) " a renowned painter, was nicknamed, etc., 
 etc. When the mother of Sheridan once, etc., etc. 
 One teacher sent Chatterton home, etc. Napoleon 
 and Wellington, etc., etc. And Sir Walter Scott 
 was named," etc., etc., etc. All of which makes 
 very pleasantly diversified reading. Nat's kind-
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 349 
 
 ness of heart paves the way to our learning, that, 
 " at the age of ten or twelve years, John Howard, 
 the philanthropist, was not distinguished above the 
 mass of boys around him, except for the kindness 
 of his heart, and boyish deeds of benevolence. It 
 was so with Wilberforce, whose efforts, etc., etc., 
 etc. And Buxton, whose self-sacrificing heart," 
 etc., etc., etc. While Nat is swimming four rods 
 under water, we on shore are acquiring xiseful 
 knowledge of the Rothschilds, of Samuel Budget, 
 Sir Joshua Reynolds, Buxton again, Sir Walter 
 Scott again, and the Duke of Wellington again. 
 Nat walks to Prospect Hill, and is attended by a 
 suite consisting of Sir Francis- Chantrey, " the 
 gifted poet Burns," " the late Hugh Miller," 
 etc., who also loved to look at prospects. Nat 
 organized a debating-society, (which by the way 
 was, " in respect of unanimity of feeling and ac 
 tion, a lesson to most legislative bodies, and to 
 the Congress of the United States in particular." 
 Congress of the United States, are you listening ?) 
 and " such an organization has proved a valuable 
 means of improvement to many persons." Wit 
 ness " the Irish orator, Curran," with biography ; 
 "a living American statesman," with biography; 
 " the highly distinguished statesman, Canning," 
 more biography ; " Henry Clay, the American 
 orator," with autobiography ; and a meteoric 
 shower of lesser biographies emanating from 
 Tremont Temple. Nat carried a book in his
 
 850 SKrR^^SHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 pocket, and " Pockets have been of great service 
 to self-made men. A more useful invention was 
 never known, and hundreds are now living who 
 will have occasion to speak well of pockets till they 
 die, because they were so handy to carry a book. 
 Roger Sherman had one when he was a hard-work 
 ing shoemaker, etc., etc., etc. Napoleon had one 
 in which he carried the Iliad when, etc., etc., etc. 
 Hugh Miller had one, etc., etc., etc. Elihu Bur- 
 ritt had one," etc., etc., for three pages, to which 
 we might add, from the best authority, the striking 
 fact which our author, notwithstanding the wide 
 range of his reading, seems unaccountably to have 
 missed, 
 
 " Lyddy Locket lost her pocket, 
 
 Lyddy Fisher found it, 
 Lyddy Fisher gave it to Mr. Gaines, 
 And Mr. Gaines ground it." 
 
 Allusion is here made to an important fact. Mr. 
 Gaines was a miller ! 
 
 Yet, with all this elucidation, we take shame to 
 ourselves for admitting that there are points which, 
 after all, we do not comprehend. They may .be 
 trivial ; but in making up testimony, it is the little 
 things which have weight. Trifles light as air are 
 confirmation strong as proofs of Holy Writ, and 
 confutation no less strong. When, as a proof of 
 Nat's ardor in the pursuit of knowledge, we are 
 told that he walked ten miles after a hard day's 
 work to hear Daniel Webster, and then stood
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 351 
 
 through the oration in front of the platfonn, be 
 cause he could see the speaker better, and 
 when, turning to the next page, we are told that 
 he was so much interested that he " would have 
 sat entranced till morning, if the gifted orator had 
 continued to pour forth his eloquence," what are 
 we to believe ? When we are bidden to " listen 
 to the gifted orator, as the flowing periods come 
 burning from his soul on fire, riveting the atten 
 tion," etc., is it a river, or is it a fire, or is it a 
 hammer and anvil, that we have in our mind's 
 eye, Horatio ? When Nat " waxed warmer and 
 warmer, as he advanced, .and spoke in a flow of 
 eloquence and choice selection of words that was 
 unusual for one of his age," did he come out dry- 
 shod? We are told of his visit to the Boston 
 book-stores, that he examined the books " out 
 side before lie stepped in. He read the title of 
 each volume upon the back, and some he took up 
 and examined, but we have no explanation of this 
 extraordinary behavior. "It was thus with" 
 Abraham. " The manner in which Abraham 
 made progress in penmanship, writing on slabs 
 and trees, on the ground and in^tlie snow, any 
 where that he could find a place, reminds us 
 forcibly of Pascal, who demonstrated the first 
 thirty-two propositions of Euclid in his boyhood, 
 without the aid of a teacher." We not only are 
 not forcibly reminded of Pascal, but we are not 
 reminded of Pascal at all. The boy who imi-
 
 352 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 tates on slabs mechanical lines which he has been 
 taught, and he who originates mathematical prob 
 lems and theorems, may be as like as my fingers 
 to my fingers, but alas that it is forbidden to 
 say ! we do not see it. When Mr. Elkins told 
 Abraham he would make a good pioneer boy, and 
 " 'What 's a pioneer boy?' asked Abraham," why 
 was Mr. Elkins " quite amused at this inquiry ? " 
 and why did he " exercise his risibles for a min 
 ute " before replying ? When Mr. Stuart offered 
 young Mr. Lincoln the use of his law-books, and 
 young Mr. Lincoln answered, very properly, we 
 should say, " You are. very generous indeed. I 
 could never repay you for such generosity," why 
 did Mr. Stuart respond, " shaking his sides with 
 laughter" ? We do not wish to be too inquisitive, 
 but few things are more trying to a sensitive per 
 son than to see others overwhelmed with merri 
 ment in which, from ignorance, he cannot share. 
 
 Want of space forbids us to do more than touch 
 lightly upon the many excellences of these books. 
 We have given extracts enough to enable our 
 readers to see for themselves the severe elegance 
 of style, the compactness and force of the narra 
 tive, the verisimilitude of the characters, the unity 
 of plan, and the cogency of the reasoning. We 
 trust they will also perceive the great moral effect 
 that cannot fail to be produced by them. Such 
 books are specially adapted to meet a daily increas 
 ing want. Our American youth are too apt to
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 353 
 
 value virtue for its own sake. They are in im 
 minent danger of giving themselves over to integ 
 rity, to industry, perseverance, and single-minded- 
 ness, without looking forward to those posts of 
 usefulness for which these qualities eminently fit 
 them. Fired with the love of learning, they are 
 languid in claiming the honors which learning has 
 to bestow. Eager to become worthy of the high 
 est places, they make no effort to secure the places 
 to which their worth points them. Political su- 
 pineness is the bane of our society. The one great 
 need is to rouse the ambition of boys, and wake 
 them to political aspiration. To such objects such 
 books tend ; and who would hesitate at any sacri 
 fice of his prejudices in favor of privacy, when such 
 is the end to be obtained ? Breathes there the 
 man with soul so dead who would not lay upon 
 the altar his father, his mother, his sisters, not to 
 say his uncles and cousins, nay, the inmost sancti 
 ties of his home, to enable American boys to fasten 
 their eyes upon the White House ? Would he 
 refuse, at the call of patriotism, to spread before 
 the public the very secrets of his heart, the strug 
 gles of his closet, his communion with his God ? 
 
 As a collateral result of this new school of bi 
 ography, we can but admire the new form in 
 which Nemesis appears. The day of rich rela 
 tions is gone by. No longer can stern Uncle 
 Bishops lord it over their obscure nephews, for 
 ever before their eyes will flaunt the possible book
 
 854 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which will one day lay open to a gazing world all 
 their weakness and their evil behavior. Let not 
 wicked or disagreeable relatives imagine hence 
 forth that they may safely indulge in small tyran 
 nies, neglects, or other peccadilloes ; for no robin- 
 redbreast piously will cover them with leaves, but 
 that which is done in the ear shall be proclaimed 
 upon the house-tops, nor can they tell from what 
 quarter the sound shall come. The unkempt 
 boy, the sullen girl in the chimney-corner, may be 
 the Narcissus or nymph in whose orisons all their 
 sins shall be remembered. 
 
 You that executors be made, 
 
 And overseers eke 
 Of children that be fatherless, 
 
 And infants mild and meek, 
 Take you example by this thing, 
 
 And yield to each his riu'lit, 
 Lest God with such like misery 
 
 Your wicked minds requite." 
 
 In view of which benefits, and others " too nu 
 merous to mention," we humbly beg pardon for 
 the petulance which disfigures the commencement 
 of our paper, and desire to use all our influence to 
 induce all persons of distinction meekly and hu 
 manely to lay open to the dear, curious world 
 their lives, their fortune, and their sacred honor. 
 
 But, however beneficial and delightful it is for 
 a friend to impale a friend before the public gaze, 
 a man would generally not desire that his adver 
 sary should write a book about him. In the
 
 TlfE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 355 
 
 motives that prompted, in the grace of the doing, 
 in the good that will result, we can forgive the 
 deed when friend porti'ays friend ; but we cannot 
 be lenient when a hostile hand exposes the life 
 to which we have no right. We would fain bor 
 row the type and the energy of Reginald Bazal- 
 gette to enforce our opinion that it is " ABBOM- 
 MANNABEL," and the innocence of Pet Marjorie 
 to declare it " the most Devilish thing." Yet in 
 a loyal, respectable, religious newspaper we late 
 ly saw a biography of Mr. Vallandigham which 
 puts to blush all previous achievements in the 
 line of contemporary history. It is not so much 
 that we are let into the family secrets, but the 
 family secrets are spread out before us, as the 
 fruits of that species of domestic taxation known 
 as " the presents " are spread out on the piano 
 at certain wedding-festivals. We are led back 
 to first principles, to the early married life of 
 the parent Vallandighams. The mother is por 
 trayed with a vigorous feminine pencil, and cer 
 tainly looks extremely well on canvas. Clem 
 ent's behavior towards her is shown to be exem 
 plary. There is excuse for this in the attacks 
 which have been made upon him in the relation 
 of son. But upon what grounds are Clement's 
 sisters' homes invaded ? Because a man is dis 
 loyal and craven, shall we inform the world that 
 his brother was crossed in love ? Still more shall 
 his wife be taken in hand, and receive what even
 
 356 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES* 
 
 the late Mr. Smallweed would have considered 
 a thorough " shaking-up ? " " If they were all 
 starving," declares the energetic narrator, "she 
 could not earn a cent in any way whatever, so ut 
 terly helpless is this fine Southern lady. She will 
 not sleep, unless the light is kept burning all night 
 in her room, for fear ' something might happen ' ; 
 and when a slight matter crosses her feelings, she 
 lies in bed for several days." Tut, tut, dear lady! 
 surely this once thy zeal hath outrun thy dis 
 cretion. Clement L. Vallandigham's public course 
 is a proper target for all loyal shafts, but prithee 
 let the poor lady, his wife, remain in peace, 
 such peace as she can command. It is bad 
 enough for her to be his wife, without being over 
 borne with the additional burden of her own per 
 sonal foibles. One can be daughter, sister, friend, 
 without impeachment of one's sagacity or integri 
 ty ; but it is such a dreadful indorsement of a man 
 to marry him ! Her own consciousness must be 
 sufficiently grievous ; pray do not irritate it into 
 downright madness. Nay, what, after all, are the 
 so heinous faults upon which you animadvert ? 
 She cannot earn a cent : that may be her misfor 
 tune, it need not be her fault. Perhaps Clement, 
 like Albano, and all good husbands, " never loved 
 to see the sweet form anywhere else than, like 
 other butterflies, by his side among the flowers." 
 She will keep a light burning in her room, for 
 sooth. Have we not all our pet hobgoblins ? We
 
 THE NEW SCHOOL OF BIOGRAPHY. 357 
 
 know an excellent woman who once sat curled up 
 in an arm-chair all night for fear of a mouse ! 
 And is it not a well-understood thing that nothing 
 so baffles midnight burglars as a burning candle ? 
 "When a light matter crosses her feelings, she 
 lies in bed for several days." Infinitely better 
 than to go sulking about the house with that " in 
 jured-innocence " air which makes a man feel as 
 if he were an assaulter and batterer with intent to 
 kill. Blessings rest upon those charming sensible 
 women, who, when they feel cross, as we all do at 
 times, will go to bed and sleep it away ! No, let 
 us everywhere put down treason and ostracize 
 traitors. It is lawful to suspend " naso adunco " 
 those whom we may not otherwise suspend. But 
 even traitors have rights which white men and 
 white women are bound to respect. We will 
 crush them, if we can, but we will crush them in 
 open field, by fair fight,. not by stealing into 
 their bedchambers to stab them through the heart 
 of a wife.
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 
 
 UMAN nature is impatient of myste 
 ries. The occurrence of an event out 
 of the line of common causation, the 
 advent of a person not plastic to the 
 common moulds of society, causes a great com 
 motion in this little ant-hill of ours. There is 
 perplexity, bewilderment, a running hither and 
 thither, until the foreign element is assigned a 
 place in the ranks; and if there be no rank to 
 which it can be ascertained to belong, a new rank 
 shall be created to receive it, rather than that it 
 shall be left to roam up and down, baffling, defi 
 ant, and alone. Indeed, so great is our abhorrence 
 of outlying, unclassified facts, that we are often 
 ready to accept classification for explanation ; and 
 having given our mystery a niche and a name, we 
 cease any longer to look upon it as mysterious. 
 The village-schoolmaster, who displayed his su 
 perior knowledge to the rustics gazing at an 
 eclipse of the sun by assuring them that it was
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 359 
 
 " only a phenomenon," was but one of a great 
 host of wiseacres who stand ready with brush and 
 paint-pot to label every new development, and 
 fancy that in so doing they have abundantly an 
 swered every reasonable inquiry concerning cause, 
 character, and consequence. 
 
 When William Blake flashed across the path of 
 English polite society, society was confounded. It 
 had never had to do with such an apparition be 
 fore, and was at its wits' end. But some Daniel 
 was found wise enough to come to judgment, and 
 pronounce the poet-painter mad ; whereupon so 
 ciety at once composed itself, and went on its way 
 rejoicing. 
 
 There are a few persons, however, who are not 
 disposed to let this verdict stand unchallenged. 
 Mr. Arthur Gilchrist, late a barrister of the Mid 
 dle Temple, a man, therefore, who must have 
 been accustomed to weigh evidence, and who 
 would not have been likely to decide upon insuf 
 ficient grounds, wrote a life of Mr. Blake, in 
 which he strenuously and ably opposed the theory 
 of insanity. From this book, chiefly, we propose 
 to lay before our readers a slight sketch of the life 
 of a man who, whether sane or insane, was one 
 of the most remarkable productions of his own or 
 of any age. 
 
 One word, in the beginning, regarding the book 
 before us. The death of its author, while as yet 
 but seven chapters of his work had been printed,
 
 3GO SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 would preclude severe criticism, even if the spirit 
 and pui'pose with which he entered upon his un 
 dertaking, and which he sustained to its close, did 
 not dispose us to look leniently upon imperfections 
 of detail. Possessing that first requisite of a bi 
 ographer, thorough sympathy with his subject, he 
 did not fall into the opposite error of indiscrimi 
 nate panegyric. Looking at life from the stand 
 point of the " madman," he saw how fancies could 
 not only appear, but be, facts ; and then, crossing 
 over, he looked at the madman from the world's 
 standpoint, and saw how these soul-born facts 
 could seem not merely fancies, but the wild va 
 garies of a crazed brain. For the warmth with 
 which he espoused an unpopular cause, for the 
 skill with which he set facts in their true light, for 
 the ability which he brought to the defence of a 
 man whom the world had agreed to condemn, for 
 the noble persistence with which he forced atten 
 tion to genius that had hitherto received little but 
 neglect, we cannot too earnestly express our grati 
 tude. But the greater our admiration of material 
 excellence, the greater is our regret for superficial 
 defects. The continued supervision of the author 
 would doubtless have removed many infelicities of 
 style ; yet we marvel that one with so clear an in 
 sight should ever, even in the first glow of com 
 position, have involved himself in sentences so 
 complicated and so obscure. The worst faults of 
 Miss Sheppard's worst style are reproduced here,
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 361 
 
 joined to an unthriftiness in which she had no 
 part nor lot. Not unfrequently a sentence is a 
 conglomerate in which the ideas to be conveyed 
 are heaped together with no apparent attempt at 
 arrangement, unity, or completeness. Surely, it 
 need be no presumptuous, but only a tender and 
 reverent hand that should have organized these 
 chaotic periods, completing the work which death 
 left unfinished, and sending it forth to the world 
 in a garb not unworthy the labor of love so untir 
 ingly bestowed upon it by the lamented author. 
 
 To show that our strictures are not undeserved, 
 we transcribe a few sentences, taken at random 
 from the memoir : 
 
 " Which decadence it was led this Pars to go 
 into the juvenile Art-Academy line, vice Shipley 
 retired." 
 
 " The unusual notes struck by William Blake, 
 in any case appealing but to one class and a small 
 one, were fated to remain unheard, even by the 
 Student of Poetiy, until the process of regenera 
 tion had run its course, and, we may say, the Po 
 etic Revival gone to seed again : seeing that the 
 virtues of simplicity and directness the new poets 
 began by bringing once more into the foreground, 
 are those least practised now." 
 
 " In after years of estrangement from Stothard, 
 Blake used to complain of this mechanical em 
 ployment as engraver to a fellow-designer, who 
 (he asserted) first borrowed from one that, in his 
 
 16
 
 302 SKI RM 1 SUES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 servile capacity, had then to copy that comrade's 
 version of his own inventions as to motive and 
 composition his own, that is." 
 
 "And this imposing scroll of fervid truisms and 
 hap-hazard generalities, as often disputable as not, 
 if often acute and striking, always ingenuous and 
 pleasant, was, like all his other writings, warmly 
 welcomed in this country." 
 
 Let us now go back a hundred years, to the time 
 when William Blake was a fair-haired, smooth- 
 browed boy, wandering aimlessly, after the man 
 ner of boys, about the streets of London. It 
 might seem at first a matter of regret that a soul 
 full of all glowing and glorious fancies should have 
 been consigned to the damp and dismal dulness of 
 that crowded city ; but, in truth, nothing could be 
 more fit. To this affluent, creative mind dingi- 
 
 7 o 
 
 ness and dimness were not. Through the grayest 
 gloom golden palaces rose before him, silver pave 
 ments shone beneath his feet, jewelled gates un 
 folded on golden hinges turning, and he wandered 
 forth into a fair country. What need of sunshine 
 and bloom for one who saw in the deepest dark 
 ness a "light that never was on sea or land?" 
 Rambling out into the pleasant woods of Dulwich, 
 through the green meadows of Walton, by the 
 breezy heights of Sydenham, bands of angels at 
 tended him. They walked between the toiling 
 haymakers, they hovered above him in the apple- 
 boughs, and their bright wings shone like stars.
 
 P1CTOR IGNOTUS. 363 
 
 For him there was neither awe nor mystery, only 
 delio-ht. Angels were no more unnatural than 
 
 o o 
 
 apples. But the honest hosier, his father, took 
 different views. Never in all his life had that 
 worthy citizen beheld angels perched on tree-tops, 
 and he was only prevented from administering 
 to his son a sound thrashing for the absurd false 
 hood, by the intercession of his mother. Ah, 
 these mothers ! By what fine sense is it that 
 they detect the nascent genius for which man's 
 coarse perception can find no better name than 
 perverseness, and no wiser treatment than brute 
 force ? 
 
 The boy had much reason to thank his mother, 
 for to her intervention it was doubtless largely 
 due that he was left to follow his bent,, and haunt 
 such picture-galleries as might be found in noble 
 men's houses and public sale-rooms. Then he 
 feasted his bodily eyes on earthly beauty, as his 
 mental gaze had been charmed with heavenly 
 visions. From admiration to imitation was but a 
 step, and the little hands soon began to shape such 
 rude, but loving copies as Raffaelle, with tears in 
 his eyes, must have smiled to see. His father, 
 moved by motherly persuasions, as we can easily 
 infer, bought him casts for models, that he might 
 continue his drawing-lessons at home ; his own 
 small allowance of pocket-money went for prints ; 
 his wistful child-face presently became known to 
 dealers, and many a cheap lot was knocked down
 
 364 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 to him with amiable haste by friendly auctioneers. 
 Then and there began that life-long love and loyal 
 ty to the grand old masters of Germany and Italy, 
 to Albrecht Diirer, to Michel Angelo, to Raffaelle, 
 which knew no diminution, and which in its very 
 commencement, revealed the eclecticism of true 
 genius, because the giants were npt the gods in 
 those days. 
 
 But there came a time when Pegasus must be 
 broken in to drudgery, and travel along trodden 
 ways. By slow, it cannot be said by toilsome as 
 cent, the young student had reached the vestibule 
 of the temple ; but 
 
 " Every door was barred with gold, and opened but to golden 
 keys," 
 
 which, alas ! to him were wanting. Nothing 
 daunted, his sincere soul preferred to be a door 
 keeper in the house of his worship rather than a 
 dweller in the tents of Mammon. Unable to be 
 an artist, he was content for the time to become 
 an artisan, and chose to learn engraving, a craft 
 which would keep him within sight and sound of 
 the heaven from which he was shut out. Appli 
 cation was first made to Ryland, then in the 
 zenith of his fame, engraver to the King, friend 
 of authors and artists, himself a graceful, accom 
 plished, and agreeable gentleman. But the mar 
 vellous eyes that pierced through mortal gloom to 
 immortal glory saw also the darkness that brooded 
 behind uncanny light. " I do not like the man's
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 365 
 
 face," said young Blake, as he was leaving the 
 shop with his father ; " it looks as if he will live 
 to be hanged." The negotiation failed ; Blake 
 was apprenticed to Basire ; and twelve years after, 
 the darkness that had lain so long in ambush came 
 out and hid the day : Ryland was hanged. 
 
 His new master, Basire, was one of those work 
 men who magnify their office and make it honora 
 ble. The most distinguished of four generations 
 of Basires, engravers, he is represented as a su 
 perior, liberal-minded, upright man, and a kind 
 master. With him Blake served out his seven 
 years of apprenticeship, as faithful, painstaking, 
 and industrious as any blockhead. So great was 
 the confidence which he secured, that, month after 
 month, and year after year, he was sent out alone 
 to Westminster Abbey and the various old church 
 es in the neighborhood, to make drawings from the 
 monuments, with no oversight but that of his own 
 taste and his own conscience. And a rich reward 
 we may well suppose his integrity brought him, in 
 the charming solitudes of those old-time sanctu 
 aries. Wandering up and down the consecrated 
 aisles, eagerly peering through the dim, relig 
 ious light for the beautiful forms that had leaped 
 from many a teeming brain now turned to dust, 
 reproducing, with patient hand, graceful outline 
 and deepening shadow, his daring, yet reverent 
 heart held high communion with the ages that 
 were gone. The Spirit of the Past overshadowed
 
 366 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 him. The grandeur of Gothic symbolism rose 
 before him. Voices of dead centuries murmured 
 low music down the fretted vault. Fair ladies 
 and brave gentlemen came up from the solemn 
 chambers where they had lain so long in silent 
 state, and smiled with their olden grace. Shades 
 of nameless poets, who had wrought their souls 
 into a cathedral and died unknown and unhon- 
 ored, passed before the dreaming boy, and claimed 
 their immortality. Nay, once the Blessed Face 
 shone through the cloistered twilight, and the 
 Twelve stood round about. In this strange soli 
 tude and stranger companionship many an old 
 problem untwined its Gordian knot, and whispered 
 along its loosened length, 
 
 " I give you the end of a golden string : 
 
 Only wind it into a ball, 
 It will lead you in at Heaven's gate, 
 Built in Jerusalem wall." 
 
 To an engraving of " Joseph of Arimathea 
 among the Rocks of Albion," executed at this 
 time, he appends, " This is one of the Gothic 
 artists who built the Cathedrals in what we call 
 the Dark Ages, wandering about in sheep-skins 
 and goat-skins; of whom the world was not wor 
 thy. Such were the Christians in all ages." 
 
 Yet, somewhere, through mediaeval gloom and 
 modern din, another spirit breathed upon him, 
 a spirit of green woods and blue waters, the fresh 
 ness of May mornings, the prattle of tender in-
 
 PICTOR 1GNOTUS. 367 
 
 fancy, the gambols of young lambs on the hill-side. 
 From his childhood, Poetry, walking hand in hand 
 with Painting, beguiled his loneliness with wild, 
 sweet, harmonies. Bred up amid the measured, 
 melodious platitudes of the eighteenth century, 
 that Golden Age of commonplace, he struck down 
 through them all with simple, untaught, uncon 
 scious directness, and smote the spring of ever- 
 living waters. Such wood-notes wild as trill in 
 Shakespeare's verse sprang from the stricken 
 chords beneath his hand. The little singing- 
 birds that seem almost to have leaped unbidden 
 into life among the gross creations of those old 
 Afreets who 
 
 Stood around the throne of Shakespeare, 
 Sturdy, but unclean," 
 
 carolled their clear, pure lays to him, and left a 
 quivering echo. Fine, fleeting fantasies we have, 
 a tender, heart-felt, heart-reaching pathos, laugh 
 ter that might at any moment tremble into tears, 
 eternal truths, draped in the garb of quaint and 
 simple story, solemn fervors, subtile sympathies, 
 and the winsomeness of little children at their 
 play, fancies glowing sometimes with the deep 
 est color, often just tinged to the pale and changing 
 hues of a dream, but touched with such coy grace, 
 modulated to such free, wild rhythm, suffused with 
 such a delicate, evanishing loveliness, that they 
 seem scarcely to be the songs of our tangible earth,
 
 368 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 but snatches from fairy-land. Often rude in form, 
 often defective in rhyme, and not unfrequently 
 with even graver faults than these, their rugged- 
 ness cannot hide the gleam of the sacred fire. 
 "The Spirit of the Age," moulding her pliant 
 poets, was wiser than to meddle with this sterner 
 stuff. From what hidden cave in Rare Ben Jon- 
 son's realm did the boy bring such an opal as this 
 
 SONG. 
 
 " My silks and fine array, 
 
 My smiles and languished air, 
 By Love are driven away ; 
 
 And mournful, lean Despair 
 Brings me yew to deck my grave : 
 Such end true lovers have ! 
 
 " His face is fair as heaven, 
 
 Where springing buds unfold ; 
 Oh, why to him was 't given, 
 
 Whose heart is wintry cold ? 
 His breast is Love's all-worshipped tomb. 
 Where all Love's pilgrims come. 
 
 " Bring me an axe and spade, 
 
 Bring me a winding-sheet ; 
 When I my grave have made, 
 
 Let winds and tempests beat : 
 Then down I '11 lie, as cold as clay. 
 True love doth pass away." 
 
 What could the Spirit of the Age hope to do 
 with a boy scarcely yet in his teens, who dared 
 arraign her in such fashions as is set forth in his 
 address
 
 PIC TOR IGNOTUS. 369 
 
 TO THE MUSES. 
 
 " Whether on Ida's shady brow, 
 
 Or in the chambers of the East, 
 The chambers of the Sun, that now 
 From ancient melody have ceased ; 
 
 " Whether in heaven ye wander fair, 
 
 Or the green corners of the earth, 
 Or the blue regions of the air, 
 
 Where the melodious winds have birth ; 
 
 " Whether on crystal rocks ye rove 
 Beneath the bosom of the sea, 
 Wandering in many a coral grove, 
 Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry ; 
 
 " How have you left the ancient love 
 
 That bards of old enjoyed in you ! 
 The languid strings do scarcely move, 
 The sound is forced, the notes are few." 
 
 Whereabouts in its Elegant Extracts would a 
 generation that strung together sonorous couplets, 
 and compiled them into a book to Enforce the 
 Practice of Virtue, place such a ripple of verse as 
 this?- 
 
 " Piping down the valleys wild, 
 
 Piping songs of pleasant glee, 
 On a cloud I saw a child, 
 
 And he, laughing, said to me: 
 
 " ' Pipe a song about a lamb ! ' 
 
 So I piped with merry cheer. 
 ' Piper, pipe that song again ! ' 
 . So I piped ; he wept to hear. 
 
 " ' Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; 
 Sing thy songs of happy cheer ! ' 
 16* x
 
 370 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 So I sang the same again, 
 
 While he wept with joy to hear. 
 
 " 'Piper, sit thee down and write 
 
 In a book, that all may read ! ' 
 So he vanished from my sight, 
 And I plucked a hollow reed, 
 
 " And I made a rural pen, 
 
 And I stained the water clear, 
 And I wrote my happy songs, 
 Every child may joy to hear." 
 
 A native of the jungle, leaping into the fine 
 drawing-rooms of Cavendish Square, would hard 
 ly create more commotion than such a poem as 
 " The Tiger," charging in among Epistles to the 
 Earl of Dorset, Elegies describing the Sorrow of 
 an Ingenuous Mind, Odes innumerable to Mem 
 ory, Melancholy, Music, Independence, and all 
 manner of odious themes. 
 
 " Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
 In the forests of the night, 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Framed thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 " In what distant deeps or skies 
 Burned that fire within thine eyes ? 
 On what wings dared he aspire ? 
 What the hand dared seize the fire ? 
 
 " And what shoulder, and what art, 
 Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? 
 When thy heart began to beat, 
 What dread hand formed thy dread feet ? 
 
 " What the hammer, what the chain, 
 Knit thy strength and forged thy brain 1
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 371 
 
 What the anvil 1 What dread grasp 
 Dared thy deadly terrors clasp ? 
 
 " When the stars threw down their spears, 
 And watered heaven with their tears, 
 Did he smile his work to see ? 
 Did He who made the lamb make thee "? " 
 
 Mrs. Montagu, by virtue of the " moral " in the 
 last line, may possibly have ventured to read the 
 "Chimney-Sweeper" at her annual festival to 
 the swart little people ; 'but we have not space 
 to give the gem a setting here ; nor .the " Little 
 Black Boy," with its matchless, sweet child-sad 
 ness. Indeed, scarcely one of his early poems 
 all written between the ages of eleven and 
 twenty is without its peculiar, and often its 
 peerless charm. 
 
 Arrived at the age of twenty-one, he finished 
 his apprenticeship to Basire, and began at once 
 the work and worship of his life, the latter by 
 studying at the Royal Academy, the former by 
 engraving for the booksellers. Introduced by a 
 brother-artist to Flaxman, he joined him in furnish 
 ing designs for the famous Wedgwood porcelain, 
 and so the same dinner-set gave bread and but 
 ter to genius, and nightingales' tongues to wealth. 
 That he was not a docile, though a very devoted 
 pupil, is indicated by his reply to Moser, the 
 keeper, who came to him, as he was looking over 
 prints from his beloved Raffaelle and Michael An- 
 gelo, and said, " You should not study these old,
 
 372 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 hard, stiff, and dry, unfinished works of Art: stay 
 a little, and I will show you what you should 
 study." He brought down Le Brim and Rubens. 
 " How did I secretly rage ! " says Blake. " I 
 also spake my mind ! I said to Moser, ' These 
 things that you call finished are not even begun ; 
 how, then, can they be finished ? ' : The reply 
 of the startled teacher is not recorded. In other 
 respects, also, he swerved from Academical usage. 
 Life, as it appeared in ""a model artificially posed 
 to enact an artificial part," became hateful to him, 
 seemed to him a caricature of Nature, though he 
 
 7 o 
 
 delighted in the noble antique figures. 
 
 Nature soon appeared to him in another shape, 
 and altogether charming. A lively miss to whom 
 he had paid court showed herself cold to his ad 
 vances ; which circumstance he was one evening 
 bemoaning to a dark-eyed, handsome girl, (a 
 dangerous experiment, by the way,) who as 
 sured him that she pitied him from her heart. 
 "Do you pity me?" he eagerly asked. "Yes, I 
 do, most sincerely." "Then I love you for that," 
 replied the new Othello to his Desdemona ; and 
 so well did the wooing go that the dark-eyed 
 Catharine presently became his wife, the Kate of 
 a forty-five years' marriage. Loving, devoted, 
 docile, she learned to be helpmeet and companion. 
 .Never, on the one side, murmuring at the narrow 
 fortunes, nor, on the other, losing faith in the 
 greatness to which she had bound herself, she not
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 373 
 
 only ordered well her small household, but came 
 at length to share her husband's tastes. She 
 learned to read and write, and to work off his 
 engravings. Nay, love endowed her with a new 
 power, the vision and the faculty divine, and she 
 presently learned to design with a spirit and a 
 grace hardly to be distinguished from her hus 
 band's. No children came to make or mar their 
 harmony ; and from the summer morning in Bat- 
 tersea that placed her hand in his, to the summer 
 evening in London that loosed it from his dying 
 grasp, she was the true angel-vision, Heaven's 
 own messenger to the dreaming poet-painter. 
 
 Being the head of a family, Blake now, as was 
 proper, went into " society." And what a society 
 it was to enter ! And what a man was Blake to 
 enter it ! The society of President Reynolds, and 
 Mr. Mason the poet, and Mr. Sheridan the play 
 actor, and pompous Dr. Burney, and abstract Dr. 
 Delap, all honorable men; a society that was 
 dictated to by Dr. Johnson, and delighted by Ed 
 mund Burke, and sneered at by Horace Walpole, 
 its untiring devotee : a society presided over by 
 Mrs. Montagu, whom Dr. Johnson dubbed Queen 
 of the Blues ; Mrs. Carter, borrowing, by right of 
 years, her matron's plumes ; Mrs. Chapone, sensi 
 ble, ugly, and benevolent; the beautiful Mrs. 
 Sheridan; the lively, absurd, incisive Mrs. Chol- 
 mondeley ; sprightly, witty Mrs. Thrale ; and 
 Hannah More, coiner of guineas, both as saint
 
 374 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 and sinner ; a most piquant, trenchant, and enter 
 taining society it was, and well might be, since the 
 bullion of genius was so largely wrought into the 
 circulating medium of small talk ; but a society 
 which, from sheer lack of vision, must have enter 
 tained its angels unawares. Such was the current 
 which caught up this simple-hearted painter, this 
 seer of unutterable things, this " eternal child," 
 caught him up only to drop him, with no creditable, 
 but with very credible haste. As a lion, he was 
 undoubtedly thrice welcome in Rathbone Place ; 
 but when it was found that the lion would not 
 roar them gently, nor be bound by their silken 
 strings, but rather shook his mane somewhat con 
 temptuously at his would-be tamers, and kept, in 
 their grand saloons, his freedom of the wilderness, 
 he was straightway suffered to return to his fitting 
 solitudes. One may imagine the consternation 
 that would be caused by this young fellow turning 
 to Mrs. Carter, whose "talk was all instruction," 
 or to Mrs. Chapone, bent on the "improvement 
 of the mind," or to Miss Streatfield, with her 
 "nose and notions a la Crreeque," and abruptly 
 in quizzing, " Madam, did you ever see a fairy's 
 funeral ? " " Never, sir ! " responds the startled 
 Muse. " I have," pursues Blake, as calmly as if 
 he were proposing to relate a bon mot which he 
 heard at Lady Middleton's rout last night. " I 
 was walking alone in my garden last night : there 
 was great stillness among the branches and flow-
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 375 
 
 ers, and more than common sweetness in the air, 
 I heard a low and pleasant sound, and knew not 
 whence it came. At last I saw the broad leaf of 
 a flower move, and underneath I saw a procession 
 of creatures of the size and color of green and 
 gray grasshoppers, bearing a body laid out on a 
 rose-leaf, which they buried with songs, and then 
 disappeared. It was a fairy funeral." Or they 
 are discussing, somewhat pompously, Herschel's 
 late discovery of Uranus, and the immense dis 
 tances of heavenly bodies, when Blake bursts out 
 uproariously, " 'T is false! I was walking down a 
 lane the other day, and at the end of it I touched 
 the sky with my stick." Truly, for this wild man, 
 who obstinately refuses to let his mind be regulat 
 ed, but bawls out his mad visions the louder the 
 more they are combated, there is nothing for it 
 but to go back to his Kitty, and the little tene 
 ment in Green Street. 
 
 But real friends Blake found, who, if they could 
 not quite understand him, could love and honor 
 and assist. Flaxman, the "Sculptor for Eternity," 
 and Fuseli, the fiery-hearted Swiss painter, stood 
 up for him manfully. His own younger brother, 
 Robert, shared his talents, and became for a time 
 a loved and honored member of his family, too 
 much honored, if we may credit an anecdote in 
 which the brother appears to much better advan 
 tage than the husband. A dispute having one 
 day arisen between Robert and Mrs. Blake, Mr.
 
 376 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Blake, after a while, deemed her to have gone too 
 far, and bade her kneel down and beg Robert's 
 pardon, or never see her husband's face again. 
 Nowise convinced, she nevertheless obeyed the 
 stern command, and acknowledged herself in the 
 wrong. " Young woman, you lie ! " retorted Rob 
 ert; ".Tarn in the wrong! " This beloved brother 
 died at the age of twenty-five. During his last 
 illness, Blake attended him with the most affec 
 tionate devotion, nor ever left the bedside till 
 he behold the disembodied spirit leave the frail 
 clay and soar heavenward, clapping its hands for 
 
 His brother gone, though not so far away that 
 he did not often revisit the old home, friendly 
 Flaxman in Italy, but more inaccessible there than 
 Robert in the heaven which lay above this man in 
 his perpetual infancy, the bas-bleus reinclosed 
 in the charmed circle in which Blake had so riot 
 ously disported himself, a small attempt at partner 
 ship, shop-keeping, and money-making, wellnigh 
 "dead before it was born," the poet began to 
 think of publishing. The verses of which we 
 have spoken had been seen but by few people, 
 and the store was constantly increasing. Influ 
 ence with the publishers, and money to defray ex 
 penses, were alike wanting. A copy of Lavater's 
 "Aphorisms/' translated by his fellow-countryman, 
 Fuseli, had received upon its margins various an 
 notations which reveal the man in his moods.
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 377 
 
 " The great art to love your enemy consists in 
 never losing sight of man in him," says Lavater. 
 "None can see the man in the enemy," pen 
 cils Blake. "If he is ignorantly so, he is not 
 truly an enemy ; if maliciously so, not a man. I 
 cannot love my enemy; for my enemy is not a 
 man, but a beast. And if I have any, I can love 
 him as a beast, and wish to beat him." No 
 equivocation here, surely. On superstition he 
 comments, " It has been long a bugbear, by 
 reason of its having been united with hypocrisy. 
 But let them be fairly separated, and then super 
 stition will be honest feeling, and God, who loves 
 all honest men, will lead the poor enthusiast in the 
 path of holiness." Herein lies the germ of a 
 truth. Again, Lavater says, "A great woman 
 not imperious, a fair woman not vain, a woman of 
 common talents not jealous, an accomplished wo 
 man who scorns to shine, are four wonders just 
 great enough to be divided among the four corners 
 of the globe." Whereupon Blake adds, "Let 
 the men do their duty, and the women will' be 
 such wonders; the female life lives from the life 
 of the male. See a great many female depend 
 ents, and you know the man." If this be mad 
 ness, would that the madman might have bitten all 
 mankind before he died ! To the advice, " Take 
 here the grand secret, if not of pleasing all, yet 
 of displeasing none : court mediocrity, avoid origi 
 nality, and sacrifice to fashion," he appends, with
 
 378 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 an evident reminiscence of Rathbone Place, "And 
 go to hell." 
 
 But this private effervescence was not enough ; 
 and after he had been long thinking anxiously as 
 to ways and means, suddenly, in the night, Robert 
 stood before him, and revealed to him a secret by 
 which a fac-simile of poetry and design could be 
 produced. On rising in the morning, Mrs. Blake 
 was sent out with a half-crown to buy the neces 
 sary materials, and with that he began an experi 
 ment which resulted in furnishing his principal 
 means of support through life. It consisted in a 
 species of engraving in relief both of the words and 
 the designs of his poems, by a process peculiar and 
 original. From his plates he printed off in any 
 tint he chose, afterwards coloring up his designs by 
 hand. Joseph, the sacred carpenter, had appeared 
 in a vision, and revealed to him certain secrets of 
 coloring. Mrs. Blake delighted to assist him in 
 taking impressions, which she did with great skill, 
 in tinting the designs, and in doing up the pages 
 in boards ; so that everything, except manufactur 
 ing the paper, was done by the poet and his wife. 
 Never before, as his biographer justly remarks, 
 was a man so literally the author of his own book. 
 If we may credit the testimony that is given, or 
 even judge from such proofs as Mr. Gilchrist's 
 book can furnish, these works of his hands were 
 exquisitely beautiful. The effect of the poems 
 imbedded in their designs is, we are told, quite
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 379 
 
 different from their effect set naked upon a blank 
 page. It was as if he had transferred scenery and 
 characters from that spirit-realm where his own 
 mind wandered at will ; and from wondrous lips 
 wondrous words came fitly, and with surpassing 
 power. Confirmation of this we find in the few 
 plates of " Songs of Innocence" which have been 
 recovered. Shorn of the radiant rainbow hues, 
 the golden sheen, with which the artist, angel- 
 taught, glorified his pictures, they still body for 
 us the beauty of his " Happy Valley." Children 
 revel there in unchecked play. Springing vines, 
 in wild exuberance of life, twine around the verse, 
 thrusting their slender coils in among the lines. 
 Weeping willows dip their branches into translu 
 cent pools. Heavy-laden trees droop their ripe, 
 rich clusters overhead. Under the shade of broad- 
 spreading oaks little children climb on the tiger's 
 yielding back and stroke the lion's tawny mane in 
 a true Millennium. 
 
 The first series, "Songs of Innocence," was 
 succeeded by "Songs of Experience," both subse 
 quently bound in one volume. Then came the 
 book of " Thel," an allegory, wherein Thel, beau 
 tiful daughter of the Seraphim, laments the short 
 ness of her life down by the River of Adona, and 
 is answered by the Lily of the Valley, the Little 
 Cloud, the Lowly Worm, and the Clod of Clay ; 
 the burden of whose song is, 
 
 O ' 
 
 " But how this is, sweet maid, I know not, and I cannot know, 
 I ponder, and I cannot ponder : yet I live and love ! "
 
 380 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 The designs give the beautiful daughter listening 
 to the Lily and the Cloud. The Clod is an infant 
 wrapped in a lily-leaf. The effect of the whole 
 poem and design together is as of an "angel's 
 reverie." 
 
 The " Marriage of Heaven and Hell " is con 
 sidered one of the most curious and original of his 
 works. After an opening " Argument " comes a 
 series of " Proverbs of Hell," which, however, 
 answer very well for earth : as, "A fool sees not 
 the same tree that a wise man sees "; " He whose 
 face gives no light shall never become a star "; 
 " The apple-tree never asks the beech how he 
 shall grow, nor the lion the horse how he shall 
 take his prey." The remainder of the book con 
 sists of "Memorable Fancies," half dream, half 
 allegory, sublime and grotesque inextricably com 
 mingling, but all ornamented with designs most 
 daring and imaginative in conception, and steeped 
 in the richest color. We subjoin a description of 
 one or two, as a curiosity. "A strip of azure sky 
 surmounts, and of land divides, the words of the 
 title-page, leaving on each side scant and baleful 
 trees, little else than stem and spray. Drawn on 
 a tiny scale lies a corpse, and one bends over it. 
 Flames burst forth below and slant upward across 
 the page, gorgeous with every hue. In their very 
 core, two spirits rush together and embrace." In 
 the seventh design is "a little island of the sea, 
 where an infant springs to its mother's bosom.
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 381 
 
 From the birth-cleft ground a spirit has half 
 emerged. Below, with outstretched arms and 
 hoary beard, an awful, ancient man rushes at you, 
 as it were, out of the page." The eleventh is "a 
 surging of mingled fire, water, and blood, wherein 
 roll the volumes of a huge, double-fanged serpent, 
 his crest erect, his jaws wide open." " The ever- 
 fluctuating color, the spectral pigmies rolling, fly 
 ing, leaping among the letters, the ripe bloom of 
 quiet corners, the living light and bursts of flame, 
 the spires and tongues of fire vibrating with the 
 full prism, make the page seem to move and quiv 
 er within its boundaries, and you lay the book 
 down tenderly, as if you had been handling some 
 thing sentient." 
 
 We have not space to give a description, scarce 
 ly even a catalogue, of Blake's numerous works. 
 Wild, fragmentary, gorgeous dreams they are, 
 tangled in with strange allegoric words and de 
 signs, that throb with their prisoned vitality. The 
 intensity of his lines and figures it is impossible 
 for words to convey. It is power in the fiercest 
 action, fire and passion, the madness and the 
 stupor of despair, the frenzy of desire, the lurid 
 depths of woe, that thrill and rivet you even in the 
 comparatively lifeless rendering of this book. The 
 mere titles of the poems give but a slight clew to 
 their character. Ideas are upheaved in a tossing 
 surge of words. It is a mystic, but lovely Utopia, 
 into which " The Gates of Paradise " open. The
 
 382 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 practical name of " America " very faintly fore 
 shadows the Ossianic Titans that glide across its 
 pages, or the tricksy phantoms, the headlong spec 
 tres, the tongues of flame, the folds and fangs of 
 symbolic serpents, that writhe and leap and dart 
 and riot there. With a poem named " Europe," 
 we should scarcely expect for a frontispiece the 
 Ancient of Days, in unapproached grandeur, set 
 ting his "compass upon the face of the Earth," 
 a vision revealed to the designer at the top of his 
 own staircase. 
 
 Small favor and small notice these works se 
 cured from the public, which found more edifica 
 tion in the drunken courtship and brutal squabbles 
 of " the First Gentleman of Europe " than in 
 Songs of Innocence or Sculptures for Eternity. 
 The poet's own friends constituted his public, and 
 patronized him to the extent of their power. The 
 volume of Songs he sold for thirty shillings and two 
 guineas. Afterwards, with the delicate and loving 
 design of helping the artist, who would receive 
 help in no other way, five and even ten guineas 
 were paid, for which sum he could hardly do 
 enough, finishing off each picture like a miniature. 
 One solitary patron he had, Mr. Thomas Butts, 
 who, buying his pictures for thirty years, and 
 turning his own house into " a perfect Blake Gal 
 lery, often supplied the painter with his sole means 
 of subsistence." May he have his reward! Most 
 pathetic is an anecdote related by Mr. H. C. Rob-
 
 PICT OR IGNOTUS. 383 
 
 inson, who found himself one morning sole visitor 
 at an Exhibition which Blake had opened, on his 
 own account, at his brother James's house. In 
 view of the fact that he had bought four copies of 
 the Descriptive Catalogue, Mr. Robinson inquired 
 of James, the custodian, if he might not come 
 again free. " Oh, yes ! free as long as you live!" 
 was the reply of the humble hosier, overjoyed at 
 having so munificent a visitor, or a visitor at all. 
 
 We have a sense of incongruity in seeing this 
 defiant, but sincere pencil employed by publishers 
 to illustrate the turgid sorrow of Young's " Night 
 Thoughts." The work was to have been issued 
 in parts, but got no farther than the first. (It 
 would have been no great calamity, if the poem 
 itself had come to the same premature end !) 
 The sonorous mourner could hardly have recog 
 nized himself in the impersonations in which he 
 was presented, nor his progeny in the concrete 
 objects to which they were reduced. The well- 
 known couplet, 
 
 " 'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours 
 And ask them what report they 've borne to heaven," 
 
 is represented by hours " drawn as aerial and 
 shadowy beings," some of whom are bringing 
 their scrolls to the inquirer, and others are carry 
 ing their records to heaven. 
 
 " Oft burst my song beyond the hounds of life " 
 has a lovely figure, holding a lyre, and springing
 
 384 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 into the air, but confined by a chain to the earth. 
 Death puts off his skeleton, and appears as a 
 solemn, draped figure ; but in many cases the 
 clerical poet is " taken at his word," with a liter- 
 alness more startling than dignified. 
 
 Introduced by Flaxman to Hayley, friend and 
 biographer of Cowper,^ favorably known to his 
 contemporaries, though now wellnigh forgotten, 
 Blake was invited to Felpham, and began there a 
 new life. It is pleasant to look back upon this 
 period. Hayley, the kindly, generous, vain, im 
 prudent, impulsive country squire, not at all ex 
 cepting himself in his love for mankind, pouring 
 forth sonnets on the slightest provocation, in 
 deed, so given over to the vice of verse, that 
 
 " he scarce could ope 
 His mouth but out there flew a trope," 
 
 floating with the utmost self-complacence down 
 the smooth current of his time ; and Blake, sensi 
 tive, unique, protestant, impracticable, aggressive : 
 it was a rare freak of Fate that brought about 
 such companionship ; yet so true courtesy was 
 there that for four years they lived and wrought 
 harmoniously together, Hayley pouring out his 
 harmless wish-wash, and Blake touching it with 
 his fiery gleam. Their joint efforts were hardly 
 more pecuniarily productive than Blake's single- 
 handed struggles ; but his life here had other and 
 better fruits. In the little cottage overlooking the 
 sea, fanned by the pure breezes, and smiled upon
 
 PIC TOR IGNOTUS. 385 
 
 by sunshine of the hills, he tasted rare spiritual 
 joy. Throwing off mortal incumbrance, never,, 
 indeed an overweight to him, he revelled in his 
 clairvoyance. The lights that shimmered across 
 the sea shone from other worlds. The purple of 
 the gathering darkness was the curtain of God's 
 tabernacle. Gray shadows of the gloaming as 
 sumed mortal shapes, and he talked with Moses 
 and the prophets, and the old heroes of song. 
 The Ladder of Heaven was firmly fixed by his 
 garden-gate, and the angels ascended and de 
 scended. A letter written to Flaxman, soon after 
 his arrival at Felpham, is so characteristic that we 
 cannot refrain from transcribing it : 
 
 " DEAR SCULPTOR OF ETERNITY, We are safe 
 arrived at our cottage, which is more beautiful 
 than I thought it, and more convenient. It is a 
 perfect model for cottages, and, I think, for pal 
 aces of magnificence, only enlarging, not alter 
 ing, its proportions, and adding ornaments, and 
 not principles. Nothing can be more grand than 
 its simplicity and usefulness. Simple, without in 
 tricacy, it seems to be the spontaneous expression 
 of humanity, congenial to the wants of man. No 
 other formed house can ever please me so well, 
 nor shall ,1 ever be persuaded, I believe, that it 
 can be improved, either in beauty or use. 
 
 " Mr. Hayley received us with his usual broth 
 erly affection. I have begun to work. Felpham 
 
 17 Y
 
 886 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 is a sweet place for study, because it is more spir 
 itual than London. Heaven opens here on all 
 sides her golden gates; her windows are not ob 
 structed by vapors ; voices of ^celestial inhabitants 
 are more distinctly heard, and their forms are 
 more distinctly seen ; and my cottage is also a 
 shadow of their houses. My wife and sister are 
 both well, courting Neptune for an embrace. 
 
 " Our journey was very pleasant ; and though 
 we had a great deal of luggage, no grumbling. 
 All was cheerfulness and good-humor on the road, 
 and yet we could not arrive at our cottage^ before 
 half-past eleven at night, owing to the necessary 
 shifting of our luggage from one chaise to an 
 other ; for we had seven different chaises, and as 
 many different drivers. We set out between six 
 and seven in the morning of Thursday, with six 
 teen heavy boxes and portfolios full of prints. 
 
 "And now begins a new life, because another 
 covering of earth is shaken off. I am more famed 
 in heaven for my works than I could well con 
 ceive. In my brain are studies and chambers 
 filled with books and pictures of old, which I 
 wrote and painted in ages of Eternity, before my 
 mortal life, and those works are the delight and 
 study of archangels. Why, then, should I be 
 anxious about the riches or fame of mortality? 
 The Lord our Father will do for us and with us 
 according to His Divine will, for our good. 
 
 "You, O dear Flaxman, are a sublime arch-
 
 PICT OR IGNOTUS. 387 
 
 angel, my friend and companion from Eternity. 
 In the Divine bosom is our dwelling-place. I look 
 back into the regions of reminiscence, and behold 
 our ancient days, before this earth appeared in its 
 vegetated mortality to my mortal vegetated eyes. 
 I see our houses of eternity, which can never 
 be separated, though our mortal vehicles should 
 stand at the remotest corners of heaven from each 
 other. 
 
 " Farewell, my best friend ! Remember me 
 and my wife in love and friendship to our dear 
 Mrs. Flaxman, whom we ardently desire to enter 
 tain beneath our thatched roof of rusted gold. 
 And believe me forever to remain your grateful 
 and affectionate 
 
 " WILLIAM BLAKE." 
 
 Other associations than spiritual ones mingle 
 with the Felpham sojourn. A drunken soldier 
 one day broke into his garden, and, being great 
 of stature, despised the fewer inches of the owner. 
 But to the conflict between spirits of earth and 
 spirits of the skies there is but one issue, and 
 Blake " laid hold of the intrusive blackguard, 
 and turned him out neck and crop, in a kind of 
 inspired frenzy." The astonished ruffian made . 
 good his retreat, but in revenge reported sundry 
 words that exasperation had struck from his con 
 queror. The result was a trial for high treason 
 at the next Quarter Sessions. Friends gathered
 
 388 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 about him, testifying to his previous character; 
 nor was Blake himself at all dismayed. When 
 the soldiers trumped up their false charges in 
 court, he did not scruple to cry out, " False ! " 
 with characteristic and convincing vehemence. 
 Had this trial occurred in our own day, it would 
 hardly be necessary to say that he was trium 
 phantly acquitted. But fifty years ago such a 
 matter wore a graver aspect. In his early life 
 he had been an advocate of the French Revolu 
 tion, an associate of Price, Priestley, Godwin, and 
 Tom Paine, a wearer of white cockade and bonnet 
 rouge. He had even been instrumental in saving 
 Tom Paine's life, by hurrying him to France, 
 when the government was on his track ; but all 
 this was happily unknown to the Chichester law 
 yers, and Blake, more fortunate than some of his 
 contemporaries, escaped the gallows. 
 
 The disturbance caused by this untoward inci 
 dent, the repeated failures of literary attempts, 
 the completion of Cowper's Life, which had been 
 the main object of his coming, joined, doubtless, 
 to a surfeit of Hayley, induced a return to Lon 
 don. He feared, too, that his imaginative faculty 
 was failing. " The visions were angry with me 
 at Felpham," he used afterwards to say. We re 
 gret to see, also, that he seems not always to have 
 been in the kindest of moods towards his patron. 
 Indeed, it was a weakness of his to fall out occa 
 sionally with his best friends ; but when a man is
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 389 
 
 waited upon by angels and ministers of grace, it is 
 not surprising that he should sometimes be impa 
 tient with mere mortals. Nor is it difficult to 
 imagine that the bland and trivial Hayley, per 
 petually kind, patronizing, and obvious, should, 
 without any definite provocation, become present 
 ly insufferable to such a man as Blake. 
 
 Returning to London, he resumed the produc 
 tion of his " prophetic books." These he illus 
 trated with his own peculiar and beautiful designs, 
 " all sanded over with a sort of golden mist." 
 Among much that is incoherent and incompre 
 hensible may be found passages of great force, 
 tenderness, and beauty. The concluding verses 
 of the Preface to " Milton " we quote, as shadow 
 ing forth his great moral purpose, and as reveal 
 ing also the luminous heart of the cloud that so 
 often turns to us only its gray and obscure exte 
 rior: 
 
 " And did those feet in ancient time 
 
 Walk upon England's mountain green 1 
 And was the holy Lamb of God 
 
 On England's pleasant pastures seen ? 
 
 " And did the countenance Divine 
 
 Shine forth upon our clouded hills ? 
 And was Jerusalem builded here 
 Among these dark, Satanic hills 1 
 
 " Bring me my bow of burning gold ! 
 
 Bring me my arrows of desire ! 
 Bring me my spear ! clouds, unfold ! 
 Bring me my chariot of fire !
 
 390 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " I will not cease from mental fight, 
 
 Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 
 Till we have built Jerusalem 
 
 In England's green and pleasant land." 
 
 The same lofty aim is elsewhere expressed in 
 the line, 
 
 " I touch the heavens as an instrument to glorify the Lord ! " 
 
 
 We can only glance at a few of the remain 
 ing incidents of this outwardly calm, yet inward 
 ly eventful life. In an evil hour though to it 
 we owe the " Illustrations to Blair's Grave " 
 he fell into the hands of Cromek, the shrewd 
 Yorkshire publisher, and was tenderly entreated, 
 as a dove in the talons of a kite. The famous let 
 ter of Cromek to Blake is one of the finest exam 
 ples on record of long-headed worldliness bearing 
 down upon wrong-headed genius. Though Cro 
 mek clutched the palm in this case, and in some 
 others, it is satisfactory to know that his clever 
 turns led to no other end than poverty ; and 
 nothing worse than poverty had Blake, with all 
 his simplicity, to encounter. But Blake, in his 
 poverty, had meat to eat which the wily publisher 
 knew not of. 
 
 In the wake of this failure followed another. 
 Blake had been engaged to make twenty draw 
 ings to illustrate Ambrose Philips's " Virgil's Pas 
 torals " for school-boys. The publishers saw them, 
 and stood aghast, declaring he must do no more. 
 The engravers received them with derision, and
 
 PICT OR IGNOTUS. 391 
 
 pronounced sentence, "This will never do." En 
 couraged, however, by the favorable opinion of a 
 few artists who saw them, the publishers admitted, 
 with an apology, the seventeen which had already 
 been executed, and gave the remaining three into 
 more docile hands. With two hundred and thirty 
 cuts, the book now is valued only for Blake's 
 small contribution. 
 
 Of an entirely different nature were the " In 
 ventions from the Book of Job," which are pro 
 nounced the most remarkable series of etchings 
 on a Scriptural theme that have been produced 
 since the days of Rembrandt and Albrecht Diirer. 
 Of these drawings we have copies in the second 
 volume of the " Life," from which one can gather 
 something of their grandeur, their bold originality, 
 their inexhaustible and often terrible power. His 
 representations of God the Father will hardly ac 
 cord with modern taste, which generally eschews 
 all attempt to embody the mind's conceptions of 
 the Supreme Being ; but Blake was far more 
 closely allied to the ancient than to the modern 
 world. His portraiture and poetry often remind 
 us of the childlike familiarity not rude in him, 
 but utterly reverent which was frequently, and 
 sometimes offensively, displayed in the old miracle 
 and moral plays. 
 
 These drawings, during the latter part of his 
 life, secured him from actual want. A generous 
 friend, Mr. Linnell, himself a struggling young
 
 392 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 artist, gave him a commission, and paid him a 
 small weekly stipend : it was sufficient to keep the 
 wolf from the door, and that was enough : so the 
 wolf was kept away, his lintel was uncrossed 
 'gainst angels. It was little to this piper that the 
 public had no ear for his piping, to this painter, 
 that there was no eye for his pictures. 
 
 " His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart." 
 
 He had but to withdraw to his inner chamber, 
 and all honor and recognition awaited him. The 
 pangs of poverty or coldness he never experi 
 enced, for his life was on a higher plane : 
 
 " I am in God's presence night and day, 
 He never turns his face away." 
 
 When a little girl of extraordinary beauty was 
 brought to him, his kindest wish, as he stood strok- 
 
 O 
 
 ing her long ringlets, was, " May God make this 
 world to you, my child, as beautiful as it has been 
 to me ! " His own testimony declares, 
 
 " The angel who presided at my birth 
 Said, ' Little creature, formed of joy and mirth, 
 Go, love without the help of anything on earth ! ' " 
 
 But much help from above came to him. The 
 living lines that sprung beneath his pencil were 
 but reminiscences of his spiritual home. Immor 
 tal visitants, unseen by common eyes, hung en 
 raptured over his sketches, lent a loving ear to his 
 songs, and left with him their legacy to Earth. 
 There was no looking back mournfully on the
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 393 
 
 past, nor forward impatiently to the future, but a 
 rapturous, radiant, eternal now. Every morning 
 came heavy-freighted with its own delights ; every 
 evening brought its own exceeding great reward. 
 
 So, refusing to the last to work in traces, fly 
 ing out against Reynolds, the bland and popular 
 President of the Royal Academy, yet acknowl 
 edging with enthusiasm what he deemed to be 
 excellence, loving Fuseli with a steadfast love 
 through all neglect, and hurling his indignation at 
 a public that refused to see his worth, flouting 
 at Bacon, the great philosopher, and fighting for 
 Barry, the restorer of the antique, he resolutely 
 pursued his appointed way unmoved. But the 
 day was fast drawing on into darkness. The firm 
 will never quailed, but the sturdy feet faltered. 
 Yet, as the sun went down, soft lights overspread 
 the heavens. Young men came to him with fresh 
 hearts, and drew out all the freshness of his own. 
 Little children learned to watch for his footsteps 
 over the Hampstead hills, and sat on his knee, 
 sunning him with their caresses? 1 Men who tow 
 ered above their time, reverencing the god within, 
 and bowing not down to the dcemon a la mode, 
 gathered around him, listened to his words, and 
 did obeisance to his genius. They never teased 
 him with unsympathetic questioning, or enraged 
 him with blunt contradiction. They received his 
 visions simply, and discussed them rationally, 
 deeming them worthy of study rather than of 
 
 17*
 
 394 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 ridicule or vulgar incredulity. To their requests 
 the spirits were docile. Sitting by his side at 
 midnight, they watched while he summoned from 
 unknown realms long-vanished shades. William 
 Wallace arose from his "gory bed," Edward I. 
 turned back from the lilies of France, and, forget 
 ting their ancient hate, both stood before him with 
 placid dignity. The man who built the Pyramids 
 lifted his ungainly features from the ingulfing cen 
 turies ; souls of blood-thirsty men, duly forced in 
 to the shape of fleas, lent their hideousness to his 
 night ; and the Evil One himself did not disdain 
 to sit for his portrait to this undismayed magician. 
 That these are actual portraits of concrete objects 
 is not to be affirmed. That they are portraits of 
 what Blake saw is as little to be denied. We are 
 assured that his \vh<5le manner, was that of a man 
 copying, and not inventing, and the simplicity and 
 sincerity of his life forbid any thought of inten 
 tional deceit. No criticism affected him. Nothing 
 could shake his faith. "It must be right: I saw 
 it so," was the beginning and end of his defence. 
 The testimony of these friends of his is that he 
 was of all artists the most spiritual, devoted, and 
 single-minded. One of them says, if asked to 
 point out among the intellectual a happy man, he 
 should at once think of Blake. One, a young 
 artist, finding his invention flag for a whole fort 
 night, had recourse to Blake. 
 
 " It is just so with us," he exclaimed, tuniing
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 395 
 
 to his wife, " is it not, for weeks together, when 
 the visions forsake us? What do we do then., 
 Kate?" 
 
 " We kneel down and pray, Mr. Blake." 
 To these choice spirits, these enthusiastic and 
 confiding friends, his house was the House of the 
 Interpreter. The little back-room, kitchen, bed 
 room, studio, and parlor in one, plain and neat, 
 had for them a kind of enchantment. That royal 
 presence lighted up the " hole " into a palace. 
 The very walls widened with the greatness of his 
 soul. The windows that opened on the muddy 
 Thames seemed to overlook the river of the water 
 
 
 
 of life. Among the scant furnishings, his high 
 thoughts, set in noble words, gleamed like apples 
 of gold in pictures of silver. Over the gulf that 
 yawns between two worlds he flung a glorious 
 arch, and walked tranquilly back and forth. 
 Heaven was as much a matter-of-fact to him as 
 earth. Of sacred things he spoke with a famili 
 arity which, to those who did not understand him, 
 seemed either madness or blasphemy ; but his 
 friends never misunderstood. With one excep 
 tion, none who knew him personally ever thought 
 of calling his sanity in question. To them he was 
 a sweet, gentle, lovable man. They felt the truth 
 of his life. They saw that 
 
 " Only that fine madness still he did retain 
 Which rightly should possess a poet's brain." 
 
 Imagination was to him the great reality. The
 
 396 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 external, that which makes the chief conscious 
 ness of most men, was to him only staging, cum 
 bersome and uncouth, but to be endured and 
 made the most of. The world of the imagination 
 was the true world. Imagination bodied forth the 
 forms of things unknown in a deeper sense, per 
 haps, than the great dramatist meant. His poet's 
 pen, his painter's pencil turned them to shapes, 
 and gave to airy nothings a local habitation and a 
 name. Nay, he denied that they were nothings. 
 He rather asserted the actual existence of his 
 visions, an existence as real, though not of the 
 same nature, as that of the bed or the table. 
 Imagination was a kind of sixth sense, and its 
 objects were as real as the objects of the other 
 senses. This sense he believed to exist, though 
 latent, in every one, and to be susceptible of de 
 velopment by cultivation. This is surely a very 
 different thing from madness. Neither is it the 
 low superstition of ghosts. He recounted no 
 miracle, nothing supernatural. It was only that 
 by strenuous effort and untiring devotion he had 
 penetrated beyond the rank and file but not be 
 yond the possibilities of the rank and file into 
 the unseen world. Undoubtedly this power final 
 ly assumed undue proportions. In his isolation 
 it led him on too unresistingly. His generation 
 knew him not. It neglected where it should have 
 fostered, and stared where it should have studied. 
 He was not wily enough to conceal or gloss over
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS. 397 
 
 * 
 
 his views. Often silent with congenial compan 
 ions, he would thrust with boisterous assertion in 
 the company of captious opponents. Set upon 
 by the unfriendly and the conventional, he wil 
 fully hurled out his wild utterances, exaggerating 
 everything, scorning all explanation or modifica 
 tion, goading peculiarities into reckless extrava 
 gance, on purpose to puzzle and startle, and so 
 avenging himself by playing off upon those who 
 attempted to play off upon him. To the gentle, 
 the reverent, the receptive, he too was gentle and 
 reverent. 
 
 Nearest and dearest of all, the "beloved Kate " 
 held him in highest honor. The ripples that dis 
 turbed the smooth flow of their early life had died 
 away and left an unruffled current. To the child 
 less wife, he was child, husband, and lover. No 
 sphere so lofty, but he could come quickly down to 
 perform the lowliest duties. The empty platter, 
 silently placed on the dinner-table, was the signal 
 for his descent from Parnassus to the money-earn 
 ing graver. No angel-faces kept him from lighting 
 the morning fire and setting on the breakfast-kettle 
 before his Kitty .awoke. Their life became one. 
 Her very spirit passed into his. By day and by 
 night her love surrounded him. In his moments 
 of fierce inspiration, when he would arise from his 
 bed to sketch or write the thoughts that tore his 
 brain, she too arose and sat by his side, silent, mo 
 tionless, soothing him only by the tenderness of
 
 398 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 her presence. Years and wintry fortunes made 
 havoc of her beauty, but love renewed it day 
 by day for the eyes of her lover, and their hands 
 only met in firmer clasp as they neared the Dark 
 River. 
 
 It was reached at last. No violent steep, but a 
 gentle and gracious slope led to the cold waters 
 that had no bitterness for him. Shining already 
 in the glory of the Celestial City, he gazed upon 
 the dear form that had stood by his side through 
 all these years, and with waning strength he 
 cried, " Stay ! Keep as you are ! You have 
 been ever an angel to me: I will draw you." 
 And, summoning his forces, he sketched his last 
 portrait of the fond and faithful wife. Then, com 
 forting her with the shortness of their separation, 
 assuring her that he should always be about her 
 to take care of her, he set his face steadfastly to 
 wards the Beautiful Gate. So joyful was his pas 
 sage, so triumphant his march, that the very sight 
 was to them that could behold it as if heaven it 
 self were come down to meet him. Even the 
 sorrowing wife could but listen enraptured to the 
 sweet songs he chanted to his Maker's praise ; 
 but, " They are not mine, my beloved ! " he ten 
 derly cried; "No! they are not mine!" The 
 strain he heard was of a higher mood ; and con 
 tinually sounding as he went, with melodious 
 noise, in notes on high, he entered in through the 
 gates into the City.
 
 XXIX. 
 
 MY. BOOK. 
 
 HE trouble about biographies is that 
 by the time they are written the per 
 son is dead. You have heard of him 
 remotely. You know that he sang a 
 world's songs, won victories, founded empires, did 
 heroes' work ; but you do not know the little 
 tender touches of his life, the things that bring 
 him into near kinship with humanity, and set 
 him by the household hearth without unclasping 
 the diadem from his brow, until he is dead, and 
 it is too late forevermore. Then with vague rest 
 lessness you visit the brook in w T hich his trout- 
 line drooped, you pluck a leaf from the elm that 
 shaded his regal head, you walk in the graveyard 
 that holds in its bosom his silent dust, only to feel 
 with unavailing regret that no sunshine of his 
 presence can gleam upon you. The life that 
 stirred in his voice, shone in his eye, and for- 
 tressed itself in his unconscious bearing can make 
 to you no revelation. It is departed, none knows
 
 400 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 whither. lie is as much a part of the past as if 
 he had tended flocks for Abraham on the plains 
 of Mamre. 
 
 This, when biographies are at their best. Gen 
 erally, they are at their worst. Generally, they 
 do not know the things you wish to learn, and 
 when they do, they do not tell them. They give 
 you statistics, facts, reflections, eulogies > disserta 
 tions ; but what you hunger and thirst after is the 
 man's inner life. What use is it to know what 
 a man does, unless you know what made him do 
 it? This you can seldom learn from memoirs. 
 Look at the numerous brood that followed in the 
 wake of Shelley's fame. Every one gives you, 
 not Shelley, but himself, served up in Shelley 
 sauce. Think of your own experience : are not 
 the vital facts of your life hermetically sealed ? 
 Are you not a world within a world, whose history 
 and geography may be summed up in that phrase 
 which used to make the interior of Africa the most 
 delightful spot in the whole atlas, " Unexplored 
 Region " ? One person may have started an ex 
 pedition here, and another there. Here one may 
 have struck a river-course, and there one may 
 have looked down into a valley, and all may have 
 brought away their golden grain ; but the one 
 has not followed the river to its source, nor the 
 other wandered bewilderingly through the val 
 ley-lands, and none have traversed the Field of 
 the Cloth of Gold. So the geographies are all
 
 MY BOOK. 401 
 
 alike, boundaries, capital, chief towns, rivers. And 
 what is true of you is doubtless true of all. Faith 
 is not to be put in biographies. 
 
 Whether you were susceptible of calmness or 
 were deeply turbulent, whether you were ami 
 able, or only amiably disposed, whether you 
 were inwardly blest and only superficially unrest- 
 ful, safely moored even while tossing on an un 
 quiet sea, what you thought, what you hoped, 
 how you felt, yes, and how you lived and loved 
 and hated, they do not know and cannot tell. A 
 biographer may be ever so conscientious, but he 
 stands on the outside of the circle of his subject, 
 and his view will lack symmetry. There is but 
 one who, from his position in the centre, is compe 
 tent to give a fair and full picture, and that is your 
 own self. A few may possess imagination, and so 
 partially atone for the disadvantages of position ; 
 but, a thousand to one, they will not have a chance 
 at your life. You must die knowing that you are 
 at the mercy of whoever can hold a pen. 
 
 Unless you take time by the forelock and write 
 your biography yourself! Then you will be sure 
 to do no harm, inasmuch as no one is obliged to 
 read your narrative ; and you may do much good, 
 because, if any one does read it and become inter 
 ested in you, he will have the pleasing conscious 
 ness of living in the same world with you. When 
 he drives through your street, he can put his head 
 out of the carriage- window and perhaps see you
 
 402 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 just going in at the front gate. Also, if you write 
 your biography yourself, you can have your choice 
 as to what shall go in and what shall stay out. 
 You can make a discreet selection of your letters, 
 giving the go-by to that especial one in which you 
 rather is there such a word as spooneyly ? of 
 fered yourself to your wife. Every word was as 
 good as the bank to her, for to her you were a lov 
 er, a knight, a great brown, bearded angel, and all 
 metaphors, however violent, fell upon good ground. 
 But to the people who read your life you will be 
 a trader, a lawyer, a shoemaker, who pays his 
 butcher's bills and looks after the main chance, 
 and the metaphors, deprived of their fire, but re 
 taining their form, will seem incongruous, not to 
 say ridiculous. I do not say that your wife's lover 
 and knight and angel are not a higher and a bet 
 ter, yes, and a truer you, than the world's trader 
 and lawyer; still your love-letters will probably be 
 better off in the bosom of the love-lettered than 
 on a bookseller's shelves. Besides these advanta 
 ges, there is another in pra>humous publication. 
 If you wait for your biography till you are dead, 
 it is extremely probable you will lose it altogether. 
 The world has so much to see to ahead that it can 
 hardly spare a glance over its shoulder to take 
 note of what is behind. Take the note yourself 
 and make sure of it. You will then know where 
 you are, and be master of the situation. 
 
 I purpose, therefore, to write the history of ray
 
 MY BOOK. 403 
 
 life, from my entrance upon it down to a period 
 which is within the memory of men still living. 
 In so doing, I shall not be careful to trace out that 
 common ground which may be supposed to under 
 lie all lives, but only indicate those features which 
 serve to distinguish one from another. Every 
 body is christened, cuts his teeth, and eats bread 
 and molasses. Silently will we, therefore, infer 
 the bread and molasses, and swiftly stride in seven- 
 league boots from mountain-peak to mountain- 
 peak. 
 
 I was born of parents who, though not poor, 
 were respectable, and I had also the additional 
 distinction of being a precocious child. I differed 
 from most precocious children, however, in not 
 dying young, and that opportunity, once let slip, is 
 now forever gone. I believe the precocious child 
 ren who do not die young develop into idiots. 
 My family have never been without well-grounded 
 fears in that line. 
 
 Nothing of any importance happened to me 
 after I was born till I grew up and wrote a book. 
 Indeed, I believe I may say even that never hap 
 pened, for I did not write a book. Rather a book 
 came to pass, somewhat like the goldsmithery 
 of Aaron, who threw the ear-rings into the fire, 
 
 O ftt- ' 
 
 and " there came out this calf! " I went out one 
 day alone, as was my wont, in an open boat, and 
 drifted beyond sight of land. I had heard that 
 shipwrecked mariners sometimes throw out a bot-
 
 404 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 tie of papers to give their friends a clew to their 
 fate. I threw out a bottle of papers, less out of 
 regard to -friends than to myself. They float 
 ed into a printing-press, and came forth a book, 
 whereon I sailed safely ashore, grateful. Alas ! 
 in another confusion will there be another re 
 source ? 
 
 It is this book which is to form the first, and 
 quite possibly the last chapter of my life and suf 
 ferings, for I don't suppose anything will ever hap 
 pen to me again. To be sure, in the book I have 
 just been reading a girl marries her groom, leaves 
 him, rejects two lovers, kills her husband, accepts 
 one lover, loses him, marries the second, first hus 
 band comes to light again and is shot, marries 
 second husband over again, and goes a-journeying 
 with second husband and first lover, first cousin 
 and two children, in the South of France, before 
 she is twenty-two years old. But in my country 
 girls think themselves extremely well off for ad 
 ventures with one marriage and no murder. But 
 then the girls in my country do not have the 
 murderous black eyes which shine so in romances. 
 
 My book being fairly set a-going, of course you 
 wish to know what came of it. Do not pretend 
 you don't care, for you know you do. Only look 
 not too closely at me, or you will disconcert me. 
 Veil now and then your intent eyes, or my story 
 will surely droop under their steadfastness. Look 
 sometimes into yonder sunset sky and the beauti-
 
 MY BOOK. 405 
 
 ful reticulations drawn darkly against its glowing 
 sheets of color. You will none the less listen, and 
 I shall all the more enjoy. 
 
 You have read much about the anxieties, the 
 forebodings, the anticipatory tremors of new au 
 thors. So have I, but I never felt them, not a 
 single foreboding. I was delighted to write a 
 book, and it never occurred to me that everybody 
 would not be just as delighted to read it. The 
 first time my book weighed on me was one morn 
 ing when a meagre little letter came to me, which 
 turned out to be only a card bearing the laconic 
 inscription, 
 
 " Twelve copies ' New Sun ' sent by express, 
 with the compliments of the Publishers." 
 
 The " New Sun " was my book. I put on my 
 hat and walked straightway up to the hole in the 
 rock, about a mile around the corner, where the 
 expressman always leaves my parcels, and took up 
 the package to bring home. It was very heavy. 
 I balanced it first on one arm and then on the 
 other, until, as the poet has it, 
 
 " Both were nigh to breaking." 
 
 Then I lifted it by the cords, but they cut my 
 fingers. Then I remembered the natural law, 
 that internal atmospheric pressure prevents any 
 consciousness of the enormous external pressure 
 exerted by an atmosphere forty-five miles thick, 
 and applied the law, saying, " These books all being
 
 406 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 inside of my head, of course I shall not feel them 
 on the outside." So I put the package on my 
 head, and walked on, making believe I was in a 
 gymnasium, keeping a sharp watch fore and aft, 
 and considering the distant rumbling of wheels 
 a signal for dousing my colors. In my country 
 people do not carry their burdens on their heads, 
 nor would they be likely to account for me on the 
 principles of Natural Philosophy. I might have 
 been apprehended as a lunatic, but for my timely 
 caution. 
 
 Thus the "New Suns" came home and were 
 speedily stripped of their dun wrappings. I lin 
 gered over them, admiring their clear type, their 
 fragrance, their crispness. I opened them wide, 
 because they would open so frankly. I delighted 
 myself with their fair smoothness. And then I 
 began to read. I am ashamed to say I never 
 read a more interesting book ! 
 
 How very true it is that suffering is about 
 equally distributed, after all ! If you do not have 
 your troubles spread out, you have them in a 
 lump. The furies may seem to be held in abey 
 ance, but they will only lay on their lashes all the 
 harder when they do come. My unnatural calm 
 ness was succeeded by a storm of consternation. 
 I pass over the few days that followed. If you 
 ever put yourself into a pillory in the night just 
 to see how it seemed, and then found your.-rlf 
 fastened there in good earnest, and day dawning,
 
 MY BOOK. 407 
 
 and all the marketmen and shopkeepers up and 
 stirring, and everybody coming by in a few min 
 utes, you will not need to ask how I felt. When 
 you write a book, you are quite alone and your 
 pen is entirely private ; but when it comes to you 
 so unquestionably printed, and inexorable, and 
 
 out-of-doors Ah, me ! It did not seem like a 
 
 book at all, not at all the abstraction and imper 
 sonality that were intended, but a concrete person 
 walking out into the world with malice afore 
 thought 
 
 But though a writer is before critics, did it nev 
 er occur to you that the critics are just as much 
 before the writers? A critic's talk about a book 
 is just as truly a revelation of the critic as the 
 writer's talk in the book is a revelation of the 
 writer. One man gives you an opinion that im 
 plies attention. He does not go into the depths 
 of the matter, but he tells you honestly what he 
 likes and what he does not like. This is good. 
 This is precisely what you wish to know, and will 
 indirectly help you. Another, from the steps of 
 a throne, in a few sentences, it may be, or a few 
 columns, classifies you, interprets you not only to 
 the world, but to yourself; and for this you are 
 immeasurably glad and grateful. It is neither 
 praise nor censure that you value, but recognition. 
 Let a writer but feel that a critic reaches into the 
 arcana of his thought, and no assent is too hearty, 
 nor any dissent too severe. Another glances up
 
 408 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 from his eager political strife, and with the sin- 
 cerest kindness awards you a nice little bon-bon, 
 chiefly flour and water, but flavored with sugar. 
 Thank you. Another flounders in a wash of 
 words, holding in solution the faintest salt of 
 
 ' O 
 
 sense. Heaven help him ! Another dips his 
 spear-point in poison and lets fly. Do you not 
 see that these people are an open book ? Do you 
 not read here the tranquillity of a self-poised life, 
 the inner sight of clairvoyance, the bitterness of 
 disappointed hopes and unsuccessful plans, the 
 amiability that is not founded upon strength, the 
 pettiness that puts pique above principle, the 
 frankness that scorns affectation, the comprehen 
 siveness that embraces all things in its vision, and 
 commands not only acquiescence, but allegiance, 
 the great-heartedness that by virtue of its own 
 magnetism attracts all that is good? 
 
 When my poor little ewe-lamb went out into 
 the world, I did not fear any shearing it might 
 encounter in America. I do not mind my own 
 countrymen. I like them, but I am not afraid of 
 them. Two elements go to make up a book: mat 
 ter and manner. The former, of course, is its au 
 thor's own. He maintains it against all comers. 
 Opposition does not terrify him, for it is a mere 
 difference of opinion. One is just as likely to be 
 right as another, and in a hundred years probably 
 we shall all be found wrong together. But man 
 ner can be judged by a fixed standard. Bad Eng-
 
 MY BOOK. 409 
 
 lisli is bad English this very day, whatever you or 
 I think about it ; and bad English is a bad thing. 
 When I know it, I avoid it, except under extreme 
 temptation ; but the trouble is, I do not know it. 
 I am continually learning that words in certain 
 relations are misplaced where I never suspected 
 the smallest derangement, and, no doubt, there 
 are many dislocations which I have not yet dis 
 covered. So far as my own people are concerned, 
 I do not take this to heart, because my country 
 man very likely perpetrates three barbarisms in 
 correcting my one. He knows this thing that I 
 did not, but then I know something else that he 
 does not, and so keep the balance true. More 
 over, my America, if I use bad English, whose 
 fault is it? You have had me from the beginning. 
 The raw material was as good as the average ; 
 why did you not work it up better? I went to 
 the best schools you gave me. I learned every 
 thing I was set to learn. You can nowhere find 
 a teacher who will tell you that I ever evaded a 
 lesson. I was greedy of gain. I spared neither 
 time nor toil. I lost no opportunity, and here I 
 am, just as good as you made me. So, if there is 
 any one to blame, it is you, for not giving me bet 
 ter facilities. The Children's Aid Society warned 
 New York a dozen years ago that a " dangerous 
 class of untaught " pagans was growing up in her 
 streets ; but she did not think it worth while to 
 arouse herself and educate them, and one morning 
 
 18
 
 410 SKIRMISH&S AND SKETCHES. 
 
 she found them burning her house over her head. 
 You too, my country, have been repeatedly warn 
 ed of your dangerous class, a class whom, with 
 malice aforethought, you leave half educated, and, 
 from ignorance, idle, and now f.omes Nemesis ! 
 New York had a mob, and you have me. 
 
 The real ogres were those terrible Englishmen. 
 I was brought up on the British Quarterlies. 
 Their high and mighty ways entered into my soul. 
 I never did have any courage or independence, to 
 begin with ; and when they condescended to tread 
 our shores with such lordly airs, I should have 
 been only too glad to burn incense for a propi 
 tiation. So impressive was their loftiness, their 
 haughty patronage, that their supercilious sneers 
 at our provincialism were heart-rending. I came 
 to look at everything with an eye to English judg 
 ment. It was not so much whether a book or a 
 custom were good as whether it would be likely to 
 meet with English approval. To be the object of 
 their displeasure was a calamity, and at even a 
 growl from their dreadful throats I was ready to 
 die of terror. 
 
 But it so happened that by the time my book 
 was set afloat, the Reviewers had lost their fangs. 
 The Avar came, and they went over to the enemy, 
 every one : " North British," " London Quarter 
 ly," " Edinburgh," and even the liberal " West 
 minster," had but one tone. " Blackwood " was 
 seized with an evil spirit, and wallowed foaming.
 
 MY BOOK. 411 
 
 The English people may be all right at heart. 
 Their slow, but sure and sturdy sense may bring 
 them at length within hailing distance of the 
 truth. Noble men among them, Mill and Cairnes 
 and Smith and their kind, made their voices heard 
 in the midst of opposing din, even through the 
 very pages which had rung with Southern cheers: 
 but it is not the English people who make up the 
 Quarterly Reviews. It was not the voice of Mill 
 or Cairnes that answered first across the waters to 
 the boom of Liberty's guns. When our blood 
 was hot and our hearts were high, and sneers ten 
 thousand times harder to bear than blows, we 
 found sneers in plenty where we looked for God 
 speed. It may not have been the English heart, 
 only the English head. But we could not get at 
 the English heai't, and the English head was con 
 tinually thrust against ours. The fires may have 
 burned warmly on .many a hearth, but we could 
 not see them. The only light that shot athwart 
 the waters was from the high watch-towers, and it 
 was lurid. This wrought a change. The English 
 may put on airs in literature ; for our little leisure 
 leaves us short repose, and it would be strange in 
 deed, if their civilization of centuries had not left 
 its marks in a finer culture and a deeper thought. 
 But when, leaving literature and coming down 
 into the fastnesses of life, they gave us hatred for 
 love, and scorn for reverence, when they sneer 
 ed at that which we held sacred, and reviled that
 
 412 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 which we counted honorable, when, green-eyed 
 and gloating, they not only saw through . thc'ir 
 glasses darkly, but all things were distorted and 
 awry, when devotion became to them fanati 
 cism, and love of liberty was lust of power, 
 did virtue go out of them, or had it never been 
 in? This, at least, was wrought: when one part 
 of the temple of our reverence was undermined, 
 the whole structure came down. They who 
 showed themselves so morally weak cannot main 
 tain even the intellectual or aesthetic superiority 
 which they have assumed. Henceforth their blame 
 or praise is not what it was. When a man rails 
 at my country, it is little that he rails at me. If 
 they have called the master of the house Beelze 
 bub, they of his household would as soon be called 
 little flies as anything else. 
 
 (As a matter of fact, I do not suppose my little 
 venture has ever been heard of across the ocean. 
 You think it is very presumptuous in me ever to 
 have thought of it ; but I did not think of it. I 
 was only afraid of it. Suppose the British Quar 
 terly has not vision microscopic enough to discern 
 you ; you like to know how you feel in a certain 
 contingency, even if it should never happen. Be 
 sides, so many strange things arise every day, that 
 incongruity seems to have lost its force.) 
 
 But if we only did reverence England as once 
 we reverenced her, this is what I would say : 
 " Upon my country do not visit my sins. Upon
 
 MY BOOK. 413 
 
 my country's fame let me fasten no blot. Wher 
 ever I am wrong, inelegant, inaccurate, provincial, 
 visit all your reprobation upon me, 
 
 ' Me, me, adsum, qui feci ; in me convertite ferrum, 
 O Angli ! mea fraus omnis,' 
 
 upon me as a writer, not upon me as an Ameri 
 can. Do not regard me as the exponent of Amer 
 ican culture, or as anywhere near the high-water 
 mark of American letters. If you will see the 
 highest, look on the heights. If you look at me, 
 look at me where I am : not among those whose in 
 fancy was cradled in art and luxury, whose life from 
 the beginning has been carefully attuned to the 
 finest issues, who for purity of language and digni 
 ty of mental bearing may throw down the gauntlet 
 to the proudest nation in the world, but among 
 those wild children of the soil who take its color, 
 who share its qualities, who give out its fragrance, 
 who love it and lay their hearts to it and grow 
 with it, rocky and rugged, yet cherish, it may be 
 hoped, its little dimples of verdure here and there, 
 who show not what, with closest care, it might 
 become, but what, under the broad skies and the 
 free winds and the common dews and showers, it 
 is. Our conservatories can boast hues as gor 
 geous, forms as stately, texture as fine as yours; 
 but don't look for camellias in a cornfield." 
 
 Does this seem a little inconsistent with what I 
 was saying just now to my home-made critics?
 
 414 SKIRJulSHMS AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 Very likely. But truth is many-sided, and one 
 side you may present at home and the other 
 abroad, according to the exigencies of the case, 
 without being inconsistent. 
 
 O England, England ! what shall recompense 
 us for our Lost Leader ? Great and Mighty One, 
 from whose brow no hand but thine own could 
 ever have plucked the crown ! Beautiful land, 
 sacred with the ashes of our sires, radiant with 
 the victories of the past, brilliant with hopes for 
 the future, 
 
 " O Love, I have loved you ! O my soul, 
 I have lost you ! " 
 
 Ah, if these fatal years might be blotted out I 
 If we could stand once again where we stood on 
 that October day when the young Prince, whose 
 gentle blood commanded our attention, and whose 
 gentle ways won our hearts, bore back to his 
 mother-land and ours the benedictions of a people ! 
 Upon that white-faced shore I shall one day look, 
 but woe is me for the bitter memories that will 
 spring up for the love and loyalty so ruthlessly 
 rent away I 
 
 So I borrow your ears, my countrymen, and tell 
 you why it is impossible to defer to you as much 
 as one would like. Partly, it is because you talk 
 so wide of the mark. It may not- be practicable 
 or desirable to say murh ; but so much the more 
 ought what you do say to be to the point. A
 
 MY BOOK. 415 
 
 good carpenter needs not to vindicate his skill by 
 hammering away hour after hour on the same 
 shingle ; but while he does strike, he hits the nail 
 on the head. Moreover, you show by your re 
 marks that you have such such well, stupid 
 is what I mean, but I am afraid it would not be 
 polite to employ that word, so I merely give you 
 the meaning, and leave you to choose a word to 
 your liking notions about the nature, the facts, 
 and the objects of writing. Look at it a moment. 
 With your gray goose-quill you sit, O Rhadaman- 
 thus, and to your waiting audience pleasantly 
 enough affirm that I have " taken Benlomond for 
 my model." But when I happen to. remember 
 that the larger part of my book was written and 
 printed not only before I had ever met Benlo 
 mond, but before he had ever been heard of in 
 this country at least, what faith can I have in 
 your sagacity? And when, remembering those 
 remarkable coincidences which sometimes surprise 
 and baffle us, which in science make Adams and 
 Le Verrier discover the same planet at the same 
 time without knowing anything of each other's 
 calculations, and which in any department seem 
 to indicate that a great tide sweeps over humaii- 
 it} r , bearing us on its bosom whithersoever it will, 
 so that 
 
 " God's puppets, best and worst, 
 Are we ; there is no last nor first," 
 
 I institute an examination of Benlomond to dis-
 
 416 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 cover those generic or specific peculiarities which 
 are supposed to have made their mark on me, 
 why, I find for resemblance, that the situations, 
 look you, is both alike. There is a river in Mace- 
 don ; there is also, moreover, a river in Mon- 
 mouth : 't is as like as my fingers to my fingers, 
 and there is salmons in both ! 
 
 Have I taken Benlomond for my model ? But 
 why not Josephus and Ricardo and Francois and 
 Michel, any and all who have poured their fancies 
 and feelings into this mould? Why select the 
 last disciple and ignore the first apostle? Muny 
 prophets have been in Israel whom I resemble as 
 much, to say the least, as this Benlomond. Is it not, 
 my friend, that, in the multitude of your words 
 and ways, you have not found time to renew 
 your acquaintance with these ancient worthies, 
 and so their features have somewhat faded from 
 your memory ? But Benlomond came in but yes 
 terday, and because he is a newspaper-topic, him 
 you know ; and because at the first blush you 
 doubtless can read that there is a river in Mon- 
 mouth and also a river in Macedon, and salmons 
 in both, 't is as like as my fingers to my fingers, 
 and Monmouth was built on the model of Mace- 
 don ! Ah, my eagle-eyes, Judaea, too, had its Jor 
 dan, and Damascus its Abana and Pharpar, and 
 little Massachusetts its Merrimac, which, 
 
 " poet-tuned, 
 Goes singing down his meadows. 1 *
 
 MY BOOK. 417 
 
 But Judaea did not type Damascus. The Mem- 
 mac bears not the sign of Abana, nor was Abana 
 born of Jordan : all, obedient to the word of the 
 Lord, trickle forth from their springs among the 
 hills, and wander down, one through his vineland, 
 one through his olive-groves, and one to meet the 
 roaring of the mill-wheel's rage. 
 
 I lay no claim to originality. I know full well 
 that the soil has been tilled and the seed scattered 
 of all that is worthy in the world. Where giants 
 have wrestled, it is not for pigmies to boast their 
 prowess. Where the gods have trodden, let mor 
 tals walk unsandalled. The lowliest of their learn 
 ers, I sit at the feet of the masters. To me, as to 
 all the world, the great and the good of the olden 
 times have left their legacy, and the monarchs of 
 to-day have scattered blessings. Upon me, as 
 upon all, have their grateful showers descended. 
 My brow have they crowned with their goodness, 
 and on my life have their paths dropped fatness. 
 Dreaming under their vines and fig-trees, I have 
 gathered in my lap and garnered in my heart their 
 mellow, fruits. 
 
 " With them I take delight in weal 
 
 And seek relief in woe, 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe, 
 My cheeks have often been bedewed 
 With tears of heartfelt gratitude." 
 
 But though with gladness I render unto Caesar 
 the things that are Cassar's, he shall not have that 
 
 18* AA
 
 418 SKIJIMISH8B AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which does not belong to him. Neither Benlo- 
 mond, nor any living man, nor any one man, 
 living or dead, has any claim to my fealty, be it 
 worth much or little. If I cannot go in to the 
 banquet on Olympus by the bidding of the master 
 of the feast, I will forswear ambrosia altogether, 
 and to the end of my days feed on millet with the 
 peasants in the Vale of Tempe. 
 
 Then, changing ground, you smile and shake 
 your head and say, " It is all very well, but it has 
 not the element of immortality. Observe the dif 
 ference between this writer and Charles Lamb. 
 One is ginger-pop beer that foams and froths and 
 is gone, while the other is the sound Madeira that 
 will be better fifty years hence than now." 
 
 Well, what of it? Do you mean to say, that, 
 because a man has no argosies sailing in from the 
 isles of Eden, freighted with the juices of the 
 tropics, he shall not brew hops in his own cellar? 
 Because you will have none but the vintages of 
 dead centuries, shall not the people delight their 
 hearts with new wine? Because you are an- epi 
 cure, shall there be no more cakes and ale ? Go 
 to! It is a happy fate to be a poet's Falernian, 
 old and mellow, sealed in amphorce, to be crowned 
 with linden-garlands and the late rose. But for 
 all earth's acres there are few Sabine farms, 
 whither poet, sage, and statesman come to lose in 
 the murmur of Bandusian founts the din of fac 
 tion and of strife ; and even there it is not al-
 
 MY BOOK. 419 
 
 ways Caecuban or Calenian, neither Formian nor 
 Falernian, but the vile Sabinum in common cups 
 and wreathed with simple myrtle, that bubbles 
 up its welcome. So, since there must be lighter 
 draughts, or many a poor man go thirsty, we who 
 are but the ginger-pop of life may well rejoice, 
 remembering that ginger-pop is nourishing and 
 tonic, that thousands of weary wayfarers who 
 could never know the taste of the costly brands, 
 and who go sadly and wearily, will be fleeter of 
 foot and gladder of soul because of its humble and 
 evanescent foam. 
 
 Ginger-pop beer is it that you scoff? Verily, 
 you do an unconsidered deed. When one re 
 members all the liquids, medicinal, soporific, in 
 sipid, poisonous, which flood the throat of human 
 ity, one may deem himself a favorite of Fortune 
 to be placed so high in the catalogue. Though 
 upon his lowliness gleam down the rosy and pur 
 ple lights of rare old wines aloft, yet fr.om his alti 
 tude he can look below upon a profane crowd in 
 thick array of depth immeasurable, and rejoice 
 that he is not stagnant water nor exasperated 
 vinegar nor disappointed buttermilk. Nay, I am 
 not only content, but exultant. It may be an 
 ignoble satisfaction, yet I believe I would rather 
 flash and fade in one moment of happy daylight 
 than be corked and cobwebbed for fifty years in 
 the gloom of an unsunned cellar, with a remote 
 possibility, indeed, of coming up from my incar-
 
 420 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 ceration to moisten the lips of beauty or loosen 
 the tongue of eloquence, but with a far surer pros 
 pect of but adding one more to the potations 'of 
 the glutton and wine-bibber. 
 
 And what, after all, is this oblivion which you 
 flaunt so threateningly ? Even if I do encounter 
 it, no misfortune will happen unto me but such as 
 is common unto men. Of all the souls of this 
 generation, the number that will sift through the 
 meshes of the years is infinitesimally small. The 
 overwhelming majority of names will turn out to 
 be chaff, and be blown away. I shall be forgotten, 
 but I shall be forgotten in very good company. 
 The greater part of my kinsfolk and acquaint 
 ance, your own self, my critic, and your family 
 and friends, will go down in the same oblivion 
 which ingulfs me. When I am dead, T shall be 
 no deader than the rest of you, and I shall have 
 been a great deal more alive while I was alive. 
 
 I am not afraid to be forgotten. Posterity will 
 have its own soothsayers, and somewhere among 
 the stars, I trust, I shall be living a life so intense 
 and complete that I shall never once think to la 
 ment that I am not mulling on a book-shelf down 
 here. Besides, if you insist upon it, I am not go 
 ing to be forgotten. You know no more about it 
 than I do. Knowledge is not always prescience. 
 " This will never do," ruled Jeffrey from his 
 judgment-seat. " Order reigns in Warsaw," pro 
 nounced Sebastiani. " I have now gone through
 
 MY BOOK. 421 
 
 the Bible," chuckled Tom Paine, "as a man 
 would go through a wood with an axe on his 
 shoulder, and fell trees. Here they lie, and the 
 priests, if they can, may replant them. They 
 may, perhaps, stick them in the ground, but they 
 will never make them grow." But Wordsworth 
 to-day is reverenced by the nation that could barb 
 no arrow sharp enough to shoot at him. The 
 evening sky that bends above Warsaw is red with 
 the watch-fires of her old warfare bursting anew 
 from their smouldering ashes. And the oaks that 
 doughty Paine fancied himself to have levelled 
 show not so much as a scratch upon their sturdy 
 trunks. Nay, I do not forget that even Charles 
 Lamb was fiercely belabored by his own genera 
 tion. So, when upon me you pass sentence of 
 speedy death, I assure you that I shall live a thou 
 sand years, and there is nobody in the world who 
 can demonstrate that I am in the wrong. Even 
 if after a while I disappear, it proves nothing ; 
 you cannot tell whether I am really submerged, 
 or only lying in the trough of the sea to mount 
 the crest of the coming wave. Till the thou 
 sandth year proves me moribund, I shall stoutly 
 maintain that I am immortal. 
 
 Concerning Charles Lamb the less you say the 
 better. It is easy to build up a reputation for sa 
 gacity by offering incense to the gods who are al 
 ready shrined. Of course there is a difference 
 between us. A pretty rout you would make, if
 
 422 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 there were not. But, for all your adoration of 
 Charles Lamh, I dare say he would have liked me 
 a great deal better than he would you. Would ? 
 Why should I intrench myself in hypothesis? 
 Does he not? When I knock at the door of the 
 Inner Temple, does he not fling it wide open, and 
 does not his face welcome me ? When the red 
 fire glows on the hearth, have I not sat far into 
 the night, Bridget sitting beside me with heaven's 
 own light shining in her beautiful eyes, and above 
 her dear head the white gleam of guardian angels 
 hovering tenderly, herself a guardian angel 
 now ? And when Elia arches his brows, and low 
 ers at me his storm-clouds, which I do not mind 
 for the sunshine that will not be hidden behind 
 them, when in the sweet play of June lights 
 and shadows, and the golden haze of Indian-sum 
 mer, I forget even the kingly words that go ring 
 ing through the land, waking the mountain-echo, 
 when I look out upon this gray afternoon, and 
 see no leaden skies, no pinched and sullen fields, 
 but green paths, gem -bestrewn from autumn's 
 jewelled hand, and warm light glinting through 
 the apple-trees under which he stood that soft 
 October day, till 
 
 " Conscious seems the frozen sod 
 And beechen slope whereon he trod," 
 
 O Alexander, stand out of my sunshine with your 
 bugbear of a Charles Lamb ! " I have heard you
 
 MY BOOK. 423 
 
 for some time with patience. I have been cool, 
 quite cool ; but don't put me in a frenzy ! " 
 
 When you have satisfied yourself with the lim 
 iting, you begin on the descriptive adjectives, and 
 pronounce me egotistical. Certainly. I should be 
 unlike all others of my race, if I were not. It is 
 a wise and merciful arrangement of Providence, 
 that every one is to himself the centre of the uni 
 verse. What a fatal world would this otherwise 
 be ! When one thinks what a collection of insig 
 nificances we are, how dispensable the most useful 
 of us is to everybody, how little there is in any 
 of us to make any one care about us, and of how 
 small importance it is to others what becomes of 
 us, when one thinks that even this round earth 
 is so small, that, if it should fall into the arms of 
 the sun, the sun would just open his mouth and 
 swallow it whole, and nobody ever suspect it, 
 (vide Tyndall on Heat,) one must see that this 
 self-love, self-care, and self-interest play a most 
 important part in the Divine economy. If one 
 did not keep himself afloat, he would surely go 
 under. As it is, however disagreeable a person 
 be, he likes himself, however uninteresting, he 
 is interested in himself. Everybody you, my 
 critic, as well likes to talk about himself, if he 
 can get other people to listen ; and so long as I 
 can get several thousand people to listen, I shall 
 keep talking, you may be sure, and so would 
 you. You are just as egotistical as I am, only
 
 424 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 you will not own it frankly, as I do. True, 
 I might escape censure by using such circum 
 locutions as " the writer/' " the author," or, 
 still more cumbrously, by dressing out some fig 
 ure, calling it Frederic or Frederika, and then, 
 like the Delphic priestesses, uttering my senti 
 ments through its mouth, for the space of a folio 
 novel ; but it would be my own self all the while. 
 Besides, in order to get at the thing I wanted to 
 say, I should have to detain you on a thousand 
 things that I did not care about, but which would 
 be necessary as links, because, when you have 
 your man, you must do something with him. 
 You cannot leave him standing, without any vis 
 ible means of support. One person writes a novel 
 of four hundred pages to convince you in a round 
 about way, through thirty different characters, that 
 a certain law, or the mode of administering it, is 
 unjust. He does not mention himself, but makes 
 his men and women speak his arguments. An 
 other man writes a treatise of forty pages, and 
 gives you his views out of his own mouth. But 
 lie does not put himself into his treatise any more 
 than the other into his novel. For my part, I 
 think the use of " I " is the shortest and sim 
 plest way of promulgating one's opinions. Even 
 a we bulges out into twice the space that / re 
 quires, besides seeming to try to evade responsi 
 bility. Better say "/" straight out, "/," re 
 sponsible for my words here and elsewhere, as
 
 MY BOOK. 425 
 
 they used to say in Congress under the old 
 regime. Besides being the most brave, " I " is 
 also the most modest. It delivers opinions to 
 the world through a perfectly transparent me 
 dium. " I " has no relations. It has no con 
 sciousness. It is a pure abstraction. It detains 
 you not a moment from the subject. " The 
 writer " does. It brings up ideas entirely de 
 tached from the theme, and is therefore imper 
 tinent. All you are after is the thing that is 
 thought; It is not of the smallest consequence 
 who thought it. You may be certain that it is 
 not always the people who use "I" the most free 
 ly who think most about themselves ; and if you 
 are offended, consider whether it may not be ow 
 ing to a certain modern morbidness of taste in 
 the reader as much as to egotism in the offender. 
 
 Remember, also, that, when a writer talks of 
 himself, he is not necessarily speaking of his own 
 definite John Smithship, that does the marketing 
 and pays the taxes and is a useful member of 
 society. Not at all. It is himself as a unit 
 of the great sum of mankind. He means him 
 self, not as an isolated individual, but as a part of 
 humanity. His narration is pertinent, because it 
 relates to the human family. He brings forward 
 a part of the common property. He does not 
 touch that which pertains exclusively to himself. 
 His self is self-created. His imaginative may have 
 as large a share in the person as his descriptive
 
 426 SKJJtMJSl/KS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 powers. You do not understand me precisely ? 
 Well, what is to be done about it ? 
 
 You think me arrogant. You would think so a 
 great deal more, if you knew me better. At 
 heart I believe I incline very much to the opinion 
 of a friend of mine, that, "after all, nobody in 
 the world is of much account but Susy and me," 
 only in my formula I leave out Susy. Think 
 not, therefore, solely of the arrogance that is re 
 vealed, but also of the arrogance concealed, and 
 in consideration of the greater repression pardon 
 the great expression. It is not the persons who 
 sin the least, but those who overcome the strong 
 est temptations, who are the most virtuous. Peo 
 ple endowed by nature with a sweet humility do 
 not deserve half the credit for their lovely charac 
 ter that those who are naturally selfish and arro 
 gant often deserve for being no more disagreeable 
 than they are. Yes, it must be confessed, you are 
 right in attributing arrogance, though, after this 
 meek confession and repentance, if you do not for 
 give me freely and fully, for past and future, your 
 secondary will be a great deal worse than my origi 
 nal sin ; but you never would accuse me of " an 
 arrogance that disdains docility," if you could see 
 the mean-spirited way in which I sit down by the 
 side of an editor and let him ram-page over my 
 manuscript. Out fly my best thoughts, my finest 
 figures, my sharpest epigrams, without chloro 
 form, and I give no sign. I have heard that
 
 MY BOOK. 427 
 
 successful authors can always have everything 
 their own way. I must be the greatest failure 
 of the age. 
 
 " It will he much better to omit this," says the 
 High Inquisitor, turning the thumb-screw. 
 
 "No," I writhe. "Take everything else, but 
 leave that." 
 
 " I am glad to see that you agree with me," 
 he responds, with Mephistophelian courtesy; and 
 away it goes, and I say nothing, thankful that 
 anything is left. 
 
 " Revealing somewhat of the arrogance of suc 
 cess," you comment, directed by your Evil Ge 
 nius, upon that especial chapter which was written 
 in a gully of the Valley of Humiliation, when I 
 was gasping under an JEtna of rejected manu 
 scripts, when there was not a respectable news 
 paper in the country by which I had not been 
 "declined with thanks," when, in the despera 
 tion of my determination, I had recourse to bri 
 bery, and sent an editor a dollar with the manu 
 script, to pay him for the fifteen minutes it would 
 take to read it. (Mem. I never heard from edi 
 tor, manuscript, or dollar.) No, it may be arro 
 gance, but it is not the arrogance of success. 
 Whatever it was, it was in the grain. And, to 
 look at it in another light, I cannot have been 
 " spoiled by the indulgent praise which my early 
 efforts received," because I have always been 
 praised,
 
 428 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 " Like to the Pontic monarch of old clays, 
 I fed on poisons, till they had no power, 
 But were a kind of nutriment." 
 
 The earliest event I remember is being presented 
 with two cents by one of the " Committee " visit 
 ing the school. And if I could stand two cents in 
 my helpless infancy, don't you suppose I can stand 
 your penny-a-lining now I am grown up ? I may 
 have been spoiled, or I may not have been worth 
 much to begin with; but the mischief was all 
 done before you ever heard of me. Confine your 
 self to facts : dismiss conjectures. State actions : 
 shun motives. Give results : avoid causes, if you 
 would insure confidence in your sagacity. 
 
 Furthermore, you say that with abundant de 
 nunciation of present evils, my book contains no 
 practical suggestions for their removal, and this 
 in face of the fact that, as Chaucer would say, it 
 sneweth in that book of practical suggestions. 
 But they are so simple that you make no account 
 of them. So Naaman of old went to Elisha to be 
 healed of his leprosy, expecting the prophet to 
 come out and work a miracle with great pomp and 
 solemnity, as was befitting the state of the Lieuten 
 ant-Gene ral of the army of Syria. And when 
 Elisha did not so much as go to the door, but si-nt 
 a servant to advise the great man to wash himself, 
 no wonder he went away in a rage. That was a 
 practical suggestion, indeed ! However, when he 
 suffered his wrath to subside and did as the prophet
 
 MY BOOK. 429 
 
 bade him, his flesh came again like unto the flesh 
 of a little child. So if you, august cornplainer, 
 will but be docile, and not insist upon being told 
 to do some great thing that shall overturn the 
 foundations of society, but will be content to go 
 into your own family circle and do the seven and 
 seventy times seven little things that I counsel 
 you to do, you will become sweet and pui'e and 
 innocent like a little child, and every one will love 
 you, especially they which are of your own house 
 hold ; nor will you ever again find either lack or 
 need of practical suggestions. 
 
 There is also a kind of stock criticism on which 
 a large class of critics do a flourishing business. It 
 is no new thing, for the Abbot Trublet well de 
 scribed it a hundred and fifty years ago. " He 
 (the critic) has also general forms of censure and 
 commendation, composed wholly of terms of art. 
 He is particularly fond of such as dispense with 
 the detail of proofs, and are most proper to make 
 you sensible of his superiority over the author he 
 pronounces upon. For instance, one of the most 
 common judgments he passes upon works just pub 
 lished is that they have nothing new in them "; to 
 which the modern critic has learned to add " nor 
 do they present old things with any new force." 
 Another general form has already been referred 
 to, that of holding up an author of established 
 reputation with the discriminating and scholarly 
 command to " see the difference." " Compare
 
 430 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 with Kingsley and note the difference." " Com 
 pare one of these Essays with those of the ' Coun 
 try Parson' and you will note a vast difference." 
 " Compare the ' Religio Medici ' with the ' New 
 Sun ' and the immense superiority of the former 
 over the latter will be apparent at once," a form 
 of criticism safe and therefore sagacious. Or, 
 again we are informed that " this book might have 
 been compressed into one half or one third or 
 the vulgar fraction expanding into whatever infi 
 nite decimal the critic may choose the space it 
 occupies. Very true. It might not have been 
 written at all, while you are about it ; as country 
 children amuse themselves with improving on the 
 
 old adage, 
 
 " He that would thrive 
 Must rise at five." 
 
 By adding 
 
 " He who'd thrive more 
 
 Must rise at four." 
 " He who the best would be 
 
 Must rise at three." 
 
 And so on, till they arrive at the conclusion, 
 
 " He who would get ahead 
 Must never go to bed." 
 
 It must be confessed that these people are wise 
 in their generation ; for, to write a real criticism, 
 to set the strength or weakness of a book in such 
 clear lights that all may see it for themselves, 
 to pronounce judgment with such weight that
 
 MY BOOK. 431 
 
 the decision shall be final, is a work of high art. 
 It requires skill, learning, power, genius, atten 
 tion. It creates risk and involves responsibility; 
 while any noodle can make a general statement 
 which all the other noodles shall receive as pure 
 gold. But though such criticism may be indulged 
 in to almost any extent, and with entire impunity, 
 not every one can condense it into the elegant 
 compactness of that writer who closes a protest 
 against the verbiage of a certain author with the 
 assertion, that " she has a fatal facility of expres 
 sion that will yet be the death of her " / 
 
 But all else will I forgive and forget, if you will 
 not tell me to stop writing. That I cannot and 
 will not do. You may iterate and reiterate, that 
 the public will tire of me. I am sorry for the 
 public, but it is strong and will be easily rested. 
 Sorry ? No, I am not ; I am glad. I should like 
 to pay back a part of the weariness which the 
 public has inflicted on me in the shape of les 
 sons, lectures, sermons, speeches, customs, fash 
 ions. Why should it have the monopoly of fa 
 tiguing? Minorities have their rights as well as 
 majorities. The spout of a tea-kettle is not to be 
 compared, in point of bulk, to the tea-kettle, but 
 it puts in a claim for an equal depth of water, and 
 Nature acknowledges the claim. I cannot think 
 of reining in yet. I have but just started. And 
 everything is so interesting. Nothing is isolated. 
 Nothing is insignificant. Everything you touch
 
 432 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 thrills. It seems to matter but little what you 
 look at : only look long enough, and a life, its life, 
 springs up. You see that it has causes and conse 
 quences, dependencies, hearings, and all manner 
 of social interests ; and before you know it, you 
 have become involved in those interests and are 
 one of the family. For the time, you stake all 
 on one issue, and contend valiantly. As soon 
 as that is decided, and you stop to take breath a 
 moment, something else comes equally interesting 
 and seeming equally important, and again your 
 lance is in rest. When it comes to the quantities 
 of morals, there is not much difference between 
 one thing and another. And you ask me to fold 
 my hands and sit still ! Not I. I promise to do 
 the best I can, but I shall do it. There are 
 rows of blocks standing around the walls of my 
 studio, waiting to be chiselled. They will not 
 be Apollos, but even Puck is a Robin Goodfel- 
 
 low, since, 
 
 
 
 " In one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
 His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn 
 That ten day-laborers could not end." 
 
 And I shall not confine myself to my sphere. 
 I hate my sphere. I like everything that is out 
 side of it, or, better still, my sphere rounds out 
 into undefined space. I was born into the whole 
 world. I am monarch of all I survey. Wher 
 ever I see symptoms of a pie, thither shall my 
 fingers travel. Wherever a windmill flaps, it shall
 
 MY BOOK. 433 
 
 go hard but I will have a tilt at it. I shall not 
 wait till I know what I am talking about. If I 
 did, I never should talk at all. It is a well-known 
 principle in educational science, that the surest 
 way to learn anything is to teach it. How fast 
 would Geology get on, if its professors talked only 
 of what they knew ? Planting their feet firmly 
 on facts, they feel about in all directions for theo 
 ries. By carefully noting, publishing, comparing, 
 discussing their uncertainties, they presently ar 
 rive at a certainty. Horace might advocate nine 
 years' delay. He was building for himself a mon 
 ument that should defy the rolling years. He was 
 setting to work in cool blood to compass immortal 
 ity, and a little time, more or less, made no differ 
 ence. Apollo and Bacchus could afford to wait. 
 Beautiful daughters of beautiful mothers will exist 
 to the world's end, and their praises will always be 
 in order. But when, unmindful of the next gen 
 eration, which will have its books and its memo 
 ries, though you are unread and forgotten, mindful 
 only of this generation which groans and travails 
 in pain, you look on suffering that you yearn to 
 assuage, danger of which you long to warn, sad 
 ness which you would fain dispel, burdens which 
 you would strive, though ever so little, to lighten, 
 delay, even for things so desirable as complete 
 knowledge and perfect polish, becomes not only 
 absurd, but impossible. Better shoot into the 
 cavern, even if you do not know in what precise 
 
 19 BB
 
 434 SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 part of it the dragon lies_ coiled. The flash of 
 your powder may reveal his whereabouts to a 
 surer marksman. A transient immortality is of 
 no importance ; it is of importance that hearts be 
 purified, homes made happy. Is that ignoble ? 
 Very well. But the noblest way to benefit pos 
 terity is to serve the present age, to serve it by 
 doing one's best, indeed, but by doing it now, not 
 waiting for some distant day when one may do it 
 better. A writer deserves no pardon for careless 
 or hurried writing. As much time as he has men 
 tal ability to spend on it, so much time he should 
 devote to it. But then speed it on its way. Shut 
 it up for a term of years, and you will perhaps 
 have a manuscript that says begin where it used to 
 say commence, but in the mean time all the people 
 whom you wished to save have died of a broken 
 heart, or lived with one, which is still worse. 
 Besides, even for improvement, it is better to pub 
 lish your paper than to keep it in the drawer. 
 There, all the amendments it can receive will 
 come from the few feeble advances in knowledge 
 which you may be so fortunate as to make. But 
 print it and every one immediately gives you es 
 pecial attention and the benefit of his judgment. 
 If you should happen to serve in the right wing 
 of Orthodoxy, you will have the inestimable boon 
 of the freest criticism from the left wing. And it 
 is the religious newspapers for not mincing mat 
 ters ! Between Jew and Gentile hostilitv is the
 
 MY BOOK. 435 
 
 normal condition of things, and is carried on peace 
 ably enough ; but when Jew meets Jew, then 
 comes the tug of war ! These people obey to the 
 letter the Apostolic injunction, and confess your 
 faults one to another with a marvellous relish, 
 which must furnish to the unbelieving world a 
 lively commentary on the old text, " Behold how 
 these Christians love one another ! " When their 
 own list of your shortcomings is exhausted, ten 
 to one they will take up the parable of somebody 
 else ; and if little Johnny Horner sitting in the 
 corner of his sanctum has not room in his crowded 
 columns for the whole pie in which his brother 
 Horner has served you up, never fear but he 
 will put in his thumb and pick out the plums to 
 enliven the feast withal. 
 
 One blemish which grievously annoys the bish 
 ops and other clergy is irreverence. Like their 
 Oriental prototypes, they meet the exhortation to 
 be of good cheer with an outcry that the exhorter 
 blasphemeth. They are shocked with the con 
 tempt which is shown for the Divine record, with 
 the irreverent use of Bible language. They evi 
 dently judge according to Dr. Johnson's standard: 
 " Campbell is a good man, a pious man. I am 
 afraid he has not been in the inside of a church 
 for many years ; but he never passes a church 
 without pulling off his hat; this shows he has 
 good principles." They are of their father the 
 Jew, who would not trample on a piece of paper
 
 436 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 lest it might contain the name of Jehovah, but 
 who scrupled not to stone His prophets and cru 
 cify His Son. Yet though their hearts are stirred 
 within them at liberties taken by lay writers, they 
 are not only not shocked, but on the contrary they 
 quite if I may use so secular a word in so sacred 
 a connection chuckle over it, when such liber 
 ties emanate from clerical sources. Nobody pro 
 fessed himself shocked when a religious newspaper 
 told us, with great glee, how, when. a certain Dr. 
 S. was first settled in Hartford, " Dr. Bellamy, 
 feeling a deep interest in the success of the church 
 in this favored spot, resolved to visit the youthful 
 pastor, and ' see if he would do.' On arriving at 
 the residence of his young brother, which was a 
 new house and nicely furnished, Dr. Bellamy re 
 marked, as Mr. S. met him at the door, ' So you 
 have got your house all swept and garnished.' 
 4 Yes, yes, Dr. Bellamy, all ready for evil spirits, 
 walk in, walk in.' We need not add, that Dr. 
 Bellamy, after a hearty laugh, remarked, ' He '11 
 do, he '11 do.' " 
 
 The same paper tells of Mr. Leifchild's "jour 
 ney from Bristol to Wells in company with Mr. 
 Hall, who was a great smoker. He descended 
 at a blacksmith's shop to relight his pipe. Mak 
 ing his way to the forge, he jumped aside with 
 unwonted agility, when a huge dog growled at 
 him. When he returned to the carriage, Mr. 
 Leifchild observed, ' You seemed afraid of the
 
 MY BOOK. 437 
 
 dog, sir.' Mr. Hall instantly rejoined, ' Apostolic 
 advice, sir, Beware of dogs.' ' 
 
 The Remarker is the head and front .and both 
 wings of the Orthodox army. It is so intensely 
 religious a newspaper that it cares little to have 
 a long list of subscribers, but is deeply anxious 
 to have them of sound Orthodox piety, which is 
 a thing to be admired (at) in this Mammon-wor 
 shipping age, and furnishes a touching illustration 
 of the manner in which Providence tempers the 
 wind to the shorn lamb. Now one would not 
 wish, even if it were possible, to be any more 
 pious than the Remarker, for fear he might die 
 young. Yet the Remarker tells us a story of 
 Father Hill, of Mason, N. H., who " had a par 
 sonage full of young children" : 
 
 " The Rev. William M. Rogers of this city was 
 once on a visit to that brother minister. The boys 
 and girls were in full glee around him, when he 
 quietly remarked, that he never knew before the 
 full meaning of the Psalmist, where he says that 
 ' the little hills rejoice on every side.' ' 
 
 And it not only tells the story without any ap 
 parent horror of the Scriptural quip, but adds, that 
 we may be sure of its truth, " We had this from 
 the Rev. Timothy Hill, one of the juvenile group, 
 for many years since a Western missionary." 
 
 But if it is meet and right for the clergy to 
 wrest the words of the Divine record away from 
 their Divine meaning, can it be a high crime for
 
 438 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the laity to apply their Divine meanings to common 
 things? If a clergyman may make a joke from 
 the Bible whenever he can think of one, may not 
 a layman use a phrase from the same source when 
 it comes to him ? If a minister may manufacture 
 puns, may not a man borrow pungency? or are 
 we to return to the good old times, and have the 
 Bible once more chained to the pulpit ? 
 
 But a thing truly wonderful to see is the man 
 ner in which the hostility aroused by my book 
 swallows up ah" lesser hostilities. The chronic 
 enmity between different divisions of the Church 
 Militant disappears at its coming, and " The Re- 
 marker " and " The Furnace " lie side by side in 
 melodious concord, which is such a reconcilia 
 tion as has rarely been seen since the day when 
 Herod and Pilate were made friends together. 
 The Furnace is indeed pathetic in its aversion. 
 It is little to say that it disapproves ; it cannot 
 even tolerate me when mingled with, and, it 
 might be hoped, modified by, other ingredients 
 in the " Oceanic Miscellany," and insists on be 
 ing warned against my approach that it may parry, 
 the blow. In pity for its woes, permit me to an 
 nounce that there is a plan on foot, either to issue 
 for its use an expurgated edition of the " Oceanic 
 Miscellany," comprising only the most Elegant 
 Extracts, or else to hoist a little black flag when 
 I am coining, that the Reverend Mokanna may 
 have time to put on his silver veil and so the
 
 MY BOOK. 439 
 
 gales of heaven shall not visit his face too roughly. 
 Next, and with no unequal steps, comes " The No- 
 ticer," a paper which, apparently finding it impos 
 sible- to become thoroughly regenerate, long ago 
 gave up the attempt in despair, and now regularly 
 divides itself off into a sort of Holy and Profane 
 State. Unfortunately, in its eagerness to em 
 brace a fancied opportunity to despatch a provin 
 cial victim and several metropolitan brethren at 
 one fell swoop, it left a bar down or a gate open, 
 and so permitted unconsciously let us hope a 
 rather profane little fib or two to stray over upon the 
 holy side. But to use its own brilliant and start 
 ling language, which, it congratulates itself those 
 who have once heard will never forget, " Doctors 
 differ. Editors differ. Good men differ," a 
 "logical division" of mankind which, so far as one 
 may judge from " The Noticer," complies strictly 
 with Whately's third rule for Division, viz. the 
 Parts or Members must not be contained in one 
 
 * 
 
 another. However, since nobody supposes diffi 
 culty of perception to be incompatible with good 
 ness of heart, and since we permit a pious soul 
 to puff itself out a good deal beyond its due di 
 mensions without forfeiting its right of passage 
 through the strait gate, we may also admit that 
 a good man who differs so widely from other good 
 men as to be careless of truth, is like Kinglake's 
 Gladstone, a good man in the worst sense of 
 the term !
 
 440 SKIRMISHES AM) SKETCHES. 
 
 It will readily be inferred that, after all this ban 
 ning with bell, book, and candle, it only remains to 
 sigh with penitent Pet Marjorie, " My character is 
 lost among the Braehead people. I hope I. will 
 be religious again, but as for regaining my charec- 
 ter I despare for it." However, I shall keep on 
 writing, hit, if I can, miss, if I must, but shoot 
 any way. There is a great deal of firing that 
 kills no men and breaches no walls, but it wor 
 ries the enemy. John Brown did not in the 
 least know what he was doing. His definite 
 attempt was a fatal failure ; but the great and 
 guilty conspiracy behind, of which he saw noth 
 ing, was smitten to the heart under his random 
 blows ; his sixteen white men and five negroes, 
 flung blindly and recklessly against the ramparts 
 of Slavery, were but the precursors of that great 
 host, black and white, which has since gone down, 
 organized and intelligent, to tread the wine-press 
 of the wrath of God. 
 
 I fear I am committing the rhetorical error of 
 comparing small things with great ; but, if Virgil 
 could bring in the Cyclops and their thunderbolts 
 to illustrate his bees, and Demetrius Phalereus 
 iustify it, you will hardly count it a capital offence 
 in me, and I don't much care if you do, if I can 
 only convince you that I am not going to be silent 
 because I do not know the Alpha and Omega of 
 things. I do not pretend to be logical, or consist 
 ent, or coherent. Nature is not. A forest of
 
 MY BOOK. 441 
 
 oaks burns down or is cut down, and do oaks 
 spring again ? No. Pines. Logic is baffled, but 
 the land is bettered. A field of corn is planted, 
 and Nature does not set herself to protect it, but 
 sends a flock of crows to devour it; the farmers 
 grumble, but the crows are saved alive. Freezing 
 water contracts awhile, and then without any 
 provocation turns about and expands ; if your 
 pitcher stands in the way, so much the worse 
 for the pitcher, but the little fishes are grateful ; 
 and with all her whims and inconsequences, Na 
 ture gets on from year to year without once fail 
 ing of seed-time and harvest, cold or heat. How 
 is it with you and your logic, you men who have 
 been to college and discovered what you are talk 
 ing about ? You who discuss politics and decide 
 affairs, are you not continually accusing one an 
 other of sophistry, inconsistency, and shying away 
 from the point ? Take up any political or religious 
 newspaper, and see, according to their own testi 
 mony, how deficient in logic are all these logic- 
 mongers, how all the learned and logical are 
 accused by other learned and logical of false as 
 sumptions, of invalid reasoning, of foregone conclu 
 sions, of pride and prejudice and passion. One 
 would say that the result of your profound re 
 searches vvas only to make you more intensely 
 illogical than you could otherwise be. 
 
 " As skilful divers to the bottom fall 
 Swifter than they who cannot swim at all, 
 19*
 
 442 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 So in the sea of sophisms, to my thinking, 
 You have a strange alacrity in sinking." 
 
 (Ego et Dorset fecimut .') 
 
 Sure I am, my humble ability in the way of un 
 reason can never compass fallacies so stupendous 
 as those which you attribute to one another ; and 
 I will none of your logic, but will rather rest con 
 tent with the advantage, that, when I write non 
 sense, I know it is nonsense, while you, pardon 
 me, write it and think it sense. But your thinking 
 so does not make it so, and you will not rule me 
 out of court on the strength of it. In the domain 
 of letters is none but Squatter Sovereignty. In 
 literature, though not in morals, might makes 
 right. If you are cultivating the soil to its utmost 
 capacity, I shall not meddle ; but if it seems to me 
 that you are letting it lie fallow while I can draw 
 a furrow to some purpose, you need not warn me 
 off with your old title-deeds ; in my ploughshare 
 shall go. To a better farmer I will yield right 
 gladly, but I will not be scared away by a sign 
 board. 
 
 When you learnedly assert that my induction 
 is meagre, I am the farthest in the world from 
 contradicting you. Nay, I am ready to confess 
 not only that it is meagre, but that there is no 
 induction at all. For, look you, induction is for 
 hidden, not for obvious truth. If I wished to con 
 vince you, or to satisfy myself, that the earth's 
 centre is a mass of fire, I should produce a suf-
 
 MY BOOK. 443 
 
 ficient number of caloric facts to give the state 
 ment a stable basis. But if my design were to 
 arouse you to a true sense of earth's beautiful 
 summer greenness, I should not go plucking grass 
 in all directions, but should merely show you a 
 blade or a leaf to illustrate what I meant by 
 " green," and bid you use your own eyes for the 
 rest. If the earth is indeed not green, but blue, 
 my judgment pays the penalty ; but there is no 
 induction about it. 
 
 Nor need you go very far out of your way to 
 affirm that I have not the requisite experience for 
 writing on such and such topics. As a principle, 
 the remark is absurd. Cannot a doctor prescribe 
 for typhus fever, unless he has had typhus fever 
 himself? On the contrary, is he not the better 
 able to prescribe from always having had a sound 
 mind in a sound body ? As a fact, my experience 
 ih those things concerning which you allege its in 
 sufficiency has never been presented to you, and 
 its discussion is therefore entirely irrelevant. If 
 my statements are false, they are false ; if my 
 arguments are inconclusive, they are inconclu 
 sive : disprove the one and refute the other. 
 But whether this state of things be owing to a 
 want of experience, or inability to use experience 
 aright, or any personal circumstance whatever, 
 is a matter in regard to which all the laws of 
 courtesy forbid you to concern yourself. 
 
 You are sometimes so good as to inform me that
 
 444 SKIRMISHES AND SKETCHES. 
 
 I am exhausting my resources, and in over-anxious 
 kindness declare even that I have exhausted my 
 self. Not a bit. 
 
 " It is no task for suns to shine," 
 
 though the sputtering little tallow candle can 
 hardly be expected to believe it. 
 
 And pray, Gentle Critic, do not tell me that I 
 must be content simply to amuse, or must any 
 thing else. Must is a hard word ; be not too 
 confident of its power. I feel a grandmotherly 
 interest in the world and its ways ; and much as I 
 should like to amuse it, I shall never be content 
 with that. You may not like to be instructed, my 
 dear children, but instructed you shall be. You 
 read long ago, in your story-book, that little Tom 
 my Piper did not want his face washed, though 
 he was very willing to be amused with soap-bub 
 bles ; but his face needed a washing, and got it% 
 I come to you with soap-bubbles indeed, but with 
 scrubbing -brushes also. If you take to them 
 kindly, it will soon be over; but if you scream 
 and struggle, I shall not only scrub the harder, 
 
 OO : t/ 
 
 but be all the longer about it. 
 
 Sometimes grave refutations are very amusing. 
 It is astonishing to see how crank-proof sundry 
 people are. Everything seems to them on a dead 
 level of categorical proposition. They walk up 
 to every statue with their measuring-line of Bar 
 bara, Celarent, Darn, Ferioque Prioris, and meas-
 
 MY BOOK. 445 
 
 ure them off with equal solemnity, telling you 
 severely that this nose is far longer than the clas 
 sic rule admits, and this arm has not the swelling 
 proportions of life, never seeing, that, though 
 another statue was indeed designed for an Anti- 
 nous, this was never meant to be anything but 
 a broomstick dressed in your grandfather's cloak, 
 with a lantern in a pumpkin-shell for a head. O 
 the dreariness of having to explain pleasantry ! of 
 dealing with people Avho do not know the differ 
 ence between a blow and a " love-pat," between 
 Quaker guns and an Armstrong battery, between 
 a granite paving-stone and the moonshine on a 
 mud-puddle ! 
 
 But they make up for it by tui'ning your wis 
 dom into wish-wash; as Charles Lamb atoned for 
 reaching his office late in the morning by leaving 
 it early in the afternoon. Your sense must be 
 solemn and stationary in order to be recognized. 
 They cannot conceive that it may toss like the 
 buoy on the tide, and yet be moored to foundations 
 firm as the perpetual hills. On the whole 
 
 " The Robin sings in the elm ; 
 
 The cattle stand beneath 
 Sedate and grave, with great brown eyes, 
 And fragrant meadow breath. 
 
 " They listen to the nattered bird, 
 
 The wise-looking stupid things ! 
 And they never understand a word 
 Of all the Robin sings."
 
 44G SKIRMISHES AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 But the great consolation both for my critics 
 and myself is, that we shall gradually get used to 
 each other. At least, I shall furnish them abun 
 dant opportunity to get used to me. There are 
 many books still to come, a treatise on the 
 Curvature of the Square, a Dissertation on 
 Foreign Literature, two or three novels, a 
 book on Human Life, that is going to turn the 
 world upside down, a book on Theology, dull 
 enough to be sensible, that is going to turn it 
 back again, and a bandboxful of children's sto 
 ries. And when these are disposed of, I dare say 
 I shall turn the glass and begin again. 
 
 Truly there was no need of saying all this ; but 
 when they droop their fair large ears, my gentle 
 joy, so temptingly within hand-reach, who can re 
 strain himself from filliping them? But I take no 
 liberties with leviathan. Good and friendly souls, 
 Greathearts who might crush me and do not, I 
 should like to thank you, but perhaps you do not 
 care. Yet bear with me a little longer in my fol 
 ly ; and, indeed, bear with me for the sake of the 
 weak. Many and many there may be to whom 
 the meat of your metaphysics is indigestible and 
 unpalatable, but who find strength and cheer in 
 the sincere milk of such words as I can give. To 
 you who have already set your feet on the high 
 places, that may be but a bruised reed which is a 
 staff to those who are still struggling up.
 
 MY BOOK. 447 
 
 Of the blessings which my book has brought 
 me, blessings of inward wealth that cannot be so 
 much as named, blessings so rich, so divine, that 
 I sometimes think nothing ever was so beautiful as 
 to have written a book, I may not speak ; but I 
 trust that when all this frightful glare of day, all 
 this rough litter, and jar, and deafening din of work 
 shall be overpast, when the serene Night beckons 
 to me, and I go on into her fragrant silence and 
 her sweet sheltering darkness, I shall bear with 
 me some memories that were not all of earth ; 
 some pure delights that shall glow through the 
 charmed air, soft as night's dewy breath and last 
 ing as her stars. 
 
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