LIBRARY 
 
 DIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AVIS 
 
SKETCHES 
 
 
 
 FROM A 
 
 S T TJ D E N T'S WINDOW, 
 
 S. G. GOODRICH. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 PUBLISHED BY WKLLIAM D. TICKNOR 
 
 MDCCCXLI. 
 
 LJKKAK\ 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIi-OKJ>4iA 
 i 
 
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year eighteen hundred and forty-one, 
 
 BY S. G. GOODRICH, 
 In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 BOSTON, 
 
 PRINTED BY SAMUEL N. DICKINSON, 
 WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 
 THE following collection of Fragments, Fables, and Fantasies, 
 is gathered from various works, mostly periodical, in which 
 they have before appeared. A portion are now published for 
 the first time. The verses at page 122, are a paraphrase of 
 one of Northcote's fables. 
 
 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 MV FRIEND PLUM, . 
 
 BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING BIRDS, 
 
 THE DREAM FULFILLED, 
 
 THE CAVE OF DIAMONDS, 
 THE KING OF TERRORS, . 
 THE SCHOOL BOY'S SATURDAY, . 
 
 A HORSE AND A WIFE, 
 
 PREJUDICE, 
 
 THE RAINBOW BRIDGE, 
 
 FOOT-PRINTS, 
 
 LOVE OF NATURE, 
 
 9 
 
 . 16 
 21 
 
 . 27 
 
 31 
 . 34 
 
 45 
 . 62 
 
 68 
 . 70 
 
 72 
 
Vi CONTENTS. 
 
 
 THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK, . . 
 
 . 78 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION, 
 
 86 
 
 * 
 THE MONKEYS IN PROCESSION, .... 
 
 . 106 
 
 THE GREEDY FOX, 
 
 . 108 
 
 THE TWO SHADES, 
 
 . 110 
 
 
 115 
 
 THE BLUE-BIRD, 
 
 . 118 
 
 THE LAMP, 
 
 . 120 
 
 
 -, .**. . 122 
 
 TO A WILD VIOLET, IN MARCH, .... 
 
 i 124 
 
 THE WOUNDED ROBIN, 
 
 . 125 
 
 THE ANGEL'S PRIVILEGE, 
 
 . t 127 
 
 CHATSWORTH^ TEN YEARS AGO, .... 
 
 . 129 
 
 THE TURKEY AND RATTLESNAKE, .... 
 
 . 137 
 
 
 #&^.. 139 
 
 
 \ 141 
 
 THE BENEFITS OF INDUSTRY, .... 
 
 . *' 142 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 vii 
 
 JACK FROST, . . . " . . . 'V 
 
 145 
 
 THE PEDLER, - r . 
 
 . 147 
 
 THE RIVER, 
 
 154 
 
 ] .")."> 
 
 THE TWINS, ...... ;... .**!*"* 
 
 156 
 
 THE LIAR, .* 
 
 . 161 
 
 THE GENIUS OF PLAINTIVE MUSIC, .... 
 
 162 
 
 THE GIANT AND THE ANTS, 
 
 . 164 
 
 THE SUSTAINER OF ALL THINGS, 
 , 
 LIFE, 
 
 165 
 . 172 
 
 THE PERSECUTED EAGLE, . . . . 
 
 175 
 
 THE MONKEY'S PETITION, . , . . . . 
 
 . 177 
 
 THE GIPSIES' PRAYER, . v .. . .> 
 
 181 
 
 THE SENSES, . , . , . 4 "''.-." 
 
 . 182 . 
 184 
 
 THE THREE CLASSES OF SOCIETY, .... 
 
 . 196 
 
 THE BIRD'S ADIEU, . . . . *. . 
 
 201 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER, 
 
 CHINGFORD CHURCH, 
 
 THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE, 
 
 THE MAGICIAN, 
 
 THE HERMITESS, 
 
 SKETCHES IN PARIS, 
 
 . 203 
 
 . 240 
 . 242 
 
 . 256 
 
 . 260 
 
 293 
 
MY FRIEND PLUM. 
 
 I TELL not my tale to a cold and careless world. I 
 waste not sighs upon ears that are deaf. A story of 
 misfortune is a pearl too precious to be cast before 
 those who would only trample upon it. I speak to the 
 tender and sympathetic ear of those whom experience 
 has taught to contrast the bliss of friendship, indulged 
 without suspicion or alloy, with the bitterness of dis 
 appointed trust and betrayed affection. 
 
 I had the misfortune to lose both my parents at an 
 early age. My mother died when I was a boy, and 
 my father followed her soon after I entered my twenty- 
 first year. I was an only child, and without relatives ; 
 but my father committed me to the care of a friend by 
 the name of Plum, of whom he had a high opinion, and 
 to whom he was fondly attached. Whether my father's 
 choice of a guardian for one whose imagination was 
 stronger than his judgment, and whose passions were 
 more active than his principles, was wise or not, is a 
 question which I leave to be (decided by the issue of my 
 story. 
 
 The stern and strict control of my father was no 
 sooner withdrawn, than I felt like a liberated bird. I 
 indulged my fancy in every thing. I bought gay horses, 
 drove dashing gigs, smoked, drank, flourished at Na- 
 
10 MY FRIEND PLUM. 
 
 hant and Saratoga, put a gold chain about my neck, 
 with a useless quizzing glass attached to it and thrust 
 into my waistcoat pocket, criticised the ladies' ancles, 
 talked lightly of female virtue, and impudently ogled 
 every woman whom I met. 
 
 I was perhaps the less to be blamed for these follies, 
 that I followed the fashion of young men of my condition, 
 and was rather abetted than restrained in my course 
 by my guardian. At length I fell in love, and my taste 
 became matrimonial. I worshipped a pretty girl of 
 sixteen, and promised to marry her. But time and re 
 flection altered my views. My goddess became an 
 insipid girl. To put an end to my engagement, I 
 suddenly embarked for Europe, giving it forth to be 
 understood that I should be absent several years. My 
 reputation would have suffered for this and some other 
 trifles, had not my friend Plum exerted his influence in 
 my behalf, which he did so effectually, that I was fully 
 acquitted, and the young lady was left to unpitied 
 mortification and contempt. 
 
 I could not think of travelling alone ; so I contrived 
 to have my guardian accompany me. On my arrival at 
 Liverpool, my ignorance of the manners and customs of 
 England brought me into sundry awkward situations. 
 In these cases I found the assistance of Plum to be 
 invaluable. He settled every difficulty in a moment, 
 and always in a way peculiar to himself. He seemed to 
 understand England perfectly, and I afterwards learnt 
 that he was not a stranger to other countries. I soon 
 hurried to London. I was anxious to participate in the 
 pleasures of the world's metropolis. The influence of 
 
MY FRIEND PLUM. 11 
 
 Plum soon gained me admission into fashionable society. 
 It was winter, and I was invited to an assembly at Al- 
 mack's. My acquaintance enlarged, and I was soon in 
 the full career of fashionable dissipation. My society 
 was sought by gentlemen and ladies of the first degree. 
 Not a few cards with noble names upon them were 
 exhibited in my rack. 
 
 I was at a loss to account for my success. My 
 vanity could not persuade me to impute it all to my 
 person and address. I became inquisitive, and learned 
 at length, to my great surprise, that it was mainly on 
 account of my guardian, who was held in such high 
 estimation, that all who were connected with him par 
 ticipated in his honors. At first I was piqued by the 
 discovery ; but such is the influence of self-flattery, and 
 such also was the seductive guise and seeming sincerity 
 of the attentions I received, that I ceased to scrutinize 
 the motive, and took them as if offered to me on the 
 ground of personal merit. 
 
 But, if I was blinded in regard to the honor which 
 Plum reflected on myself, some remarkable instances 
 of its influence on others did not escape me. I re 
 collect on one occasion to have been struck with it 
 at Almack's. In general, the display of beauty there is 
 beyond all praise. An American would say the ladies 
 were too stout and ruddy, and too heavily dressed. 
 But let that pass. The music had ceased for a moment, 
 and the places where the quadrilles had an instant 
 before been figuring, were accidentally vacant. There 
 then appeared a couple so grotesque as to put descrip 
 tion to the blush. A thin, miserly, snuffy little man led 
 
12 MY FRIEND PLUM. 
 
 forward the hugest woman I ever beheld. She had large, 
 lead-colored eyes; a low, overhanging forehead, with 
 a conical piece of her under lip lapping over her upper 
 one, and the corners of the mouth drawn downward ; long 
 ears, standing apart from the head ; a large jowl, and 
 a figure that, in despite of the London Cantellos, re 
 sembled a pipe of brandy. There was a mark of 
 monstrous vulgarity about the pair, which, with now 
 and then an exception, seemed to contrast strangely 
 with all around. 
 
 At the first appearance of this odd couple, there 
 was a look of general surprise, and then a smile, and 
 here and there an audible titter. But soon it was all 
 hushed, and Mr. and Mrs. Fudge seemed to be honored 
 with particular and respectful attention. "How is 
 this?" said I to Lady Flambeau. " O," said she, 
 " do n't you know he is a great favorite with your 
 friend Plum ? " 
 
 In short, I had not spent six months in England 
 before I discovered that my extraordinary guardian had 
 scarcely less influence than the prime minister. Indeed, 
 he did that which the king himself could not have per 
 formed. The world would laugh at Sir William Curtis, 
 though George the Fourth was his companion and 
 friend. But who could despise a favorite of Plum? 
 His friendship was only inferior to a patent of nobility. 
 It covered faults and magnified virtues. It even became 
 superior to the force of nature. I once saw a very ugly 
 young woman dancing most vilely. " She is an angel," 
 said one. " She dances like a fairy," said another. 
 " She is the particular friend of Plum ! " said a third. 
 
MY FRIEND PLUM. 13 
 
 I left England and went to France. In Paris, my 
 guardian seemed less at home. But here he was by 
 no means destitute of influence. He could persuade 
 a Frenchman to do any thing but jump into the 
 Seine. 
 
 I set out for Italy. In crossing the Alps I was 
 attacked by banditti. I fought valiantly, but in vain. 
 I was wounded, overpowered, and beat down. A 
 swarthy villain, with black mustachios, planted his 
 heavy foot on my breast, and with a brawny arm, 
 held his finger on the trigger of a pistol presented to 
 my forehead. The slightest contraction of a muscle 
 had scattered my brains in the air. At this instant, 
 luckily, Plum presented himself. He went on the prin 
 ciple that discretion is the better part of valor. He 
 threw away my powder and ball, and settled the point 
 by negotiation. It was all over in fifteen minutes. 
 The desperado became our friend, guided us faithfully 
 over the mountain, and at parting gave me warm 
 wishes of happiness. 
 
 I could tell other tales, but this is enough. I re 
 turned to my country after an absence of two years, 
 bringing my friend with me. His influence was not 
 abated. The men sought my society, and the ladies 
 smiled upon me for his sake. I took it all to myself, 
 indeed ; and when an honest man told me that I was a 
 fool for doing so, I became angry, and bade him hold 
 his peace. I again fell in love. I had a streak of 
 weakness in my character, which exposed me to such 
 fantasies. I loved devotedly, and thought my passion 
 was truly returned. " May I speak my mind freely to 
 
 2* 
 
14 MY FRIEND PLUM. 
 
 you ? " said a candid friend. " Certainly," said I. 
 " The lady does not love you," said he. " You are 
 mistaken," said I. " It is not you, but your friend 
 Plum, that she is enamored with ; it is only to secure 
 his society, that she seems to favor you." " She is 
 incapable of such double-dealing," said I. " It is the 
 fashion of the world," said he. " Plum is a great 
 favorite of the sex, and they will smile on the first man 
 that brings them close to him. You are his particular 
 friend, and are therefore an object of regard to all the 
 calculating mothers and daughters in town." I felt 
 too secure to be angry. I laughed at my friend, and 
 turned his advice to ridicule. 
 
 But let me proceed in my story. A meddling 
 attorney endeavored to bring about a separation be 
 tween me and Plum. He was at first unsuccessful, 
 but by trick and artifice he at length gained his point. 
 Plum deserted me for ever. I mourned over him. 
 " But mourning," said I, " is vain. I am myself the 
 same thing as before. I have lost a friend, but that is 
 no part of myself." I flew to my mistress. " She 
 will sympathize with me," thought I, " and O, there 
 will be a sweetness in seeing her tears fall for my 
 sake, that will atone for my loss." But I was mis 
 taken. She refused to see me. I was enraged. I 
 stamped on the floor. The servant laughed, and 
 pointed to the door. I went away, and wept, in the 
 bitterness of my heart, like a very boy. I went to see 
 some of my companions. They were cold and con 
 strained. I visited some of the families where I was 
 once a favorite. They were civil, but the hearty wel- 
 
MY FRIEND PLUM. 15 
 
 come of the mother, and the gracious attentions of the 
 daughters, were mine no more. 
 
 I shrunk from society like a wounded beast of prey, 
 who alone in his lair endures his throbbing pain. I 
 cursed the heartless world, and bitterly moralized on 
 the selfishness of those I had thought the fairest and 
 noblest part of creation. I am still writhing with dis 
 appointment, and under its influence address this letter 
 to the tender hearted, partly to give vent to my feel 
 ings, and partly to obtain the sympathy of those who 
 have sympathy to bestow on the forlorn. 
 
 NOTE. " Plum, the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, 
 in the cant of London." Johnson. 
 
BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING BIRDS. 
 
 I. 
 
 I 'LL tell you a fairy tale that's new 
 How the merry Elves o'er the ocean flew, 
 From the Emerald isle to this far-off shore, 
 As they were wont in the 'days of yore 
 And played their pranks one moonlit night, 
 Where the zephyrs alone could see the sight. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Ere the Old world yet had found the New, 
 The faries oft in their frolics flew, 
 To the fragrant isles of the Carribee 
 Bright bosom gems of a golden sea. 
 Too dark was the film of the Indian's eye, 
 These gossamer sprites to suspect or spy, 
 So they danced 'mid the spicy groves unseen, 
 And mad were their merry pranks, I ween ; 
 For the fairies, like other discreet little elves, 
 Are freest and fondest when all by themselves. 
 No thought had they that in after time, 
 The muse would echo their deeds in rhyme ; 
 So gaily doffing light stocking and shoe, 
 They tripped o'er the meadow all dappled in dew. 
 I could tell, if I would, some right merry tales, 
 
BIRTH NIGHT OF THE HUMMING BIRDS. 17 
 
 Of unslippered fairies that danced in the vales 
 But the lovers of scandal I leave in the lurch 
 And, beside, these eleves do n't belong to the church. 
 If they danced be it known 't was not in the clime 
 Of your Mathers and Hookers, where laughter was 
 
 crime ; , 
 
 Where sentinel virtue kept guard o'er the lip, 
 Though witchcraft stole into the heart by a slip ! 
 Oh no ! 't was the land of the fruit and the flower 
 Where summer and spring both dwelt in one bower 
 Where one hung the citron, all ripe from the bough, 
 And the other with blossoms encircled its brow, 
 Where the mountains embosomed rich tissues of gold, 
 And the rivers o'er rubies and emeralds rolled. 
 It was there, where the seasons came only to bless, 
 And the fashions of Eden still lingered, in dress, 
 That these gay little fairies were wont, as I say, 
 To steal in their merriest gambols away. 
 But dropping the curtain o'er frolic and fun, 
 Too good to be told, or too bad to be done, 
 I give you a legend from Fancy's own sketch, 
 Though I warn you he 's given to fibbing the wretch ! 
 But I learn by the legends of breezes and brooks, 
 'T is as true as the fairy tales told in the books. 
 
 in. 
 
 One night when the moon shone fair on the main, 
 Choice spirits were gathered 'twixt Derry and Spain, 
 And lightly embarking from Erin's bold cliffs, 
 They slid o'er the wave in their moonbeam skiffs. 
 A ray for a rudder a thought for a sail, 
 
18 BIRTHNIGHT OF THE HUMMING BIRDS. 
 
 Swift, swift was each bark as the wing of the gale. 
 
 Yet long were the tale, should I linger to say 
 
 What gambol and frolic enlivened the way 
 
 How they flirted with bubbles that danced on the wave, 
 
 Or listened to mermaids that sang from the cave 
 
 Or slid with the moonbeams down deep to the grove 
 
 Of coral, " where mullet and gold-fish rove " 
 
 How there, in long vistas of silence and sleep, 
 
 They waltzed, as if mocking the death of the deep : 
 
 How, oft, where the wreck lay scattered and torn, 
 
 They peeped in the scull now ghastly and lorn ; 
 
 Or deep, 'mid wild rocks, quizzed the goggling shark, 
 
 And mouthed at the sea-wolf so solemn and stark 
 
 Each seeming to think that the earth and the sea 
 
 Were made but for fairies for gambol and glee ! 
 
 Enough, that at last they came to the isle, 
 
 Where moonlight and fragrance were rivals the while. 
 
 Not yet had those vessels from Palos been here, 
 
 To turn the bright gem to the blood-mingled tear. 
 
 Oh no ! still blissful and peaceful the land, 
 
 And the merry elves flew from the sea to the strand. 
 
 Right happy and joyous seemed now the bright crew, 
 
 As they tripped 'mid the orange groves flashing in dew, 
 
 For they were to hold a revel that night, 
 
 A gay fancy ball, and each to be dight 
 
 In the gem or the flower that fancy might choose 
 
 From mountain or vale, for its fragrance or hues. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Away sped the maskers like arrows of light 
 To gather their gear for the revel bright. 
 
BIRTH NIGHT OP THE HUMMING BIRDS. 19 
 
 To the dazzling peaks of far-off Peru, 
 
 In emulous speed some sportively flew 
 
 And deep in the mine, or 'mid glaciers on high, 
 
 For ruby and sapphire searched heedful and sly. 
 
 For diamonds rare that gleam in the bed 
 
 Of Brazilian streams, some merrily sped, 
 
 While others for topaz and emerald stray, 
 
 'Mid the cradle cliffs of the Paraguay. 
 
 As these are gathering the rarest of gems, 
 
 Others are plucking the rarest of stems. 
 
 They range wild dells where the zephyr alone, 
 
 To the blushing blossoms before was known ; 
 
 Through forests they fly, whose branches are hung 
 
 By creeping plants, with fair flowerets strung 
 
 Where temples of nature with arches of bloom, 
 
 Are lit by the moonlight, and faint with perfume. 
 
 They stray where the mangrove and clematis twine, 
 
 Where azalia and laurel in rivalry shine ; 
 
 Where, tall as the oak, the passion-tree glows, 
 
 And jasmine is blent with rhodora and rose. 
 
 O'er blooming savannas and meadows of light, 
 
 'Mid regions of summer they sweep in their flight 
 
 And gathering the fairest, they speed to their bower, 
 
 Each one with his favorite brilliant or flower. 
 
 v. 
 
 The hour is come, and the fairies are seen 
 In their plunder arrayed on the moonlit green. 
 The music is breathed 't is a soft strain of pleasure, 
 And the light giddy throng whirl into the measure. 
 'Twas a joyous dance, and the dresses were bright, 
 
20 BIRTH NIGHT OF THE HUMMING BIRDS. 
 
 Such as never were known till that famous night ; 
 
 For the gems and the flowers that shone in the scene, 
 
 O'ermatched the regalia of princess and queen. 
 
 No gaudy slave to a fair one's brow 
 
 Was the rose, or the ruby, or emerald now 
 
 But lighted with souls by the playful elves, 
 
 The brilliants and blossoms seemed dancing themselves. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Of all that did chance, 't were a long tale to tell, 
 Of the dresses and waltzes, and who was the belle 
 But each was so happy, and all were so fair, 
 That night stole away and the dawn caught them there ! 
 Such a scampering never before was seen 
 As the fairies' flight on that island green. 
 They rushed to the bay with twinkling feet, 
 But vain was their haste, for the moonlight fleet 
 Had passed with the dawn, and never again 
 Were those fairies permitted to traverse the main, 
 But 'mid the groves, when the sun was high, 
 The Indian marked with a worshipping eye, 
 The HUMMING BIRDS, all unknown before, 
 Glancing like thoughts from flower to flower, 
 And seeming as if earth's loveliest things, 
 The brilliants and blossoms, had taken wings : 
 And fancy hath whispered in numbers light, 
 That these are the fairies who danced that night, 
 And linger yet in the garb they wore, 
 Content in our clime, and more blest than before ! 
 
THE DREAM FULFILLED. 
 
 WHAT are dreams illusions of fancy or suggestions 
 of prophecy ? fleeting visions which pass over the mind, 
 like clouds across a still lake, traceless and trackless, 
 meaning nothing and teaching nothing 1 or are they 
 shadows of coining events, light and transient as the 
 mountain mist, but, like that, foretelling the storm or 
 sunshine that is to follow? These are doubts which 
 the philosophy of ages hath not been able to solve. 
 Our story may, perhaps, throw some light upon the 
 misty question. 
 
 Vivian was a youth envied by all around him as the 
 favorite of fortune. He was rich, accomplished, hand 
 some, and beloved ; but alas ! he was not happy. He 
 felt the want of something which he could not define ; 
 there was a void in his spirit which he did not know 
 how to supply. He looked abroad in nature, and felt 
 its beauties with a vivacity almost amounting to rap 
 ture ; but an uneasy sense of privation remained. It 
 seemed to him that there was something lost, or some 
 thing not yet found, which was indispensable to his 
 peace. He rose with the dawn, and ascended to the 
 top of the highest hills, and looked over the broad land- 
 I scape. In the silver rivulet, the waving meadow, the 
 ! sloping woods, the azure mountain, the golden morn- 
 
22 THE DREAM FULFILLED. 
 
 ing, in all around him he saw objects to delight, but 
 none to satisfy him. Day after day he returned to his 
 home, with the reflection, " These are indeed beautiful, 
 but they only persuade me that there is yet something 
 better than these." 
 
 One evening, as he was returning from his rambles, 
 he approached the dwelling of a humble cottager, dis 
 tinguished for his worth and wisdom. He was aged, 
 and, possessing no other fortune than a daughter of 
 sixteen years, he still deemed himself rich, for she was 
 dutiful, intelligent, and lovely. It was a beautiful 
 night, and the moonbeams were woven with thick 
 clusters of jessamine over the door and windows of the 
 cottage. A sweet voice was heard. Vivian paused. 
 It was the daughter of the cottager singing. Her lay 
 run thus : 
 
 At misty dawn, at rosy morn, 
 
 The redbreast sings alone 
 At twilight dim, still, still his hymn 
 
 Hath a sad and sorrowing tone. 
 
 Another day his song is gay, 
 
 For a listening bird is near 
 O ye who sorrow, come borrow, borrow 
 
 A lesson of robin here ! 
 
 Vivian frequently visited the cottage, and was ever a 
 welcome guest there. As he entered it, Ellen, the 
 cottage girl, met him and conducted him to her father. 
 As he sat conversing with the good old man, his eyes 
 stole often to the beaming face of the daughter. While 
 he gazed upon her, her glance met his ; her eyes were ! 
 
THE DREAM FULFILLED. 23 
 
 cast upon the ground, and the hues that came to her 
 cheek were those which sunset throws upon a white 
 cloud. Vivian experienced strange and bewildering 
 emotions, but he could not account for them. It did 
 not enter his imagination that a simple cottage maiden 
 could possess influence over the rich heir of a high and 
 haughty family. 
 
 He returned home, still less happy than before. Rest 
 less and perplexed, he retired to his sleeping apartment, 
 and threw himself upon his pillow. But it was long ere 
 he could sleep. If for a moment he lost himself in 
 slumber, a multitude of images passed before him, half 
 real and half imaginary, now thrilling him with pleas 
 ure, and then startling him with affright. At length, 
 wearied and exhausted, he fell asleep. When he 
 awoke, he was deeply impressed with a dream, the 
 outlines only of which he could recall. It seemed that 
 he had been favored with the presence of the object 
 which he sought. It had filled him with delight ; and 
 while still awake, his nerves thrilled with exquisite 
 emotions. But the name and form of this object he 
 could not bring back to his memory. Whether, in 
 deed, it had visited him as a thing of sight or sound, he 
 could not tell. It seemed at one moment to be a being 
 of form ; and, as his fancy strove to recover the fleeting 
 image, it would hover to his eye and then disappear. 
 Then some faint strain of recollected melody would 
 appear to be the thing he had lost ; but as he pursued 
 it, it melted away. All that remained definite and cer 
 tain in his mind, was an impression that the object 
 necessary to his happiness had visited his imagination 
 
24 THE DREAM FULFILLED. 
 
 in sleep, bringing with it all the charms of beauty and 
 melody, and casting around his spirit a spell of strange 
 and enthralling power. 
 
 But, fancying that he had now a clue to the mystery 
 which had seemed to involve his existence, Vivian de 
 termined to unravel it in a practical manner. He was 
 I persuaded that if he were to meet the being of his 
 dream, he should instantly recognize it, and thus dis 
 cover the secret of his happiness. He resolved there 
 fore to travel, and scrutinize every thing that came 
 \ within his observation. 
 
 We cannot follow him through all his wanderings. 
 j He visited foreign cities, and mingled in the gay world 
 ; of fashion. He examined the various institutions of the 
 ! countries through which he passed, saw remarkable 
 edifices and localities, scanned paintings and statues, 
 ; sought out the picturesque, ascended Mont Blanc for 
 I the sublime, and ranged the hills of Scotland for the 
 I romantic. In short, he made the great tour, and saw 
 ! whatever a traveller should see. 
 
 In two years he came back to his native country, 
 improved in knowledge and refined in manners ; but a 
 melancholy shade upon his countenance declared that 
 he had not found the object of his pursuit. Often, in 
 deed, had he appeared for a moment, about to discover 
 the image which came in his dream, but suddenly the 
 subtile thread by which he held it, was broken, and the 
 resemblance flew away like a startled bird. Yet every 
 thing seemed to remind him of what he sought. In the 
 look of some dark-haired girl of Savoy in the glance 
 of a blue-eyed shepherdess of the Rhine in the soft 
 
THE DREAM FULFILLED. 25 
 
 language of a French maiden, or the ringing laugh of 
 an English one in the low, unearthly notes of an 
 JEolian harp in the touching melody of musical 
 glasses in the voice of Madame Pasta, and in that of 
 Mademoiselle Sontag in the Sibyl of Dominichino 
 in the Venus de Medici in mountains and rivers 
 in the blue air the tinted cloud the prismatic bow 
 in lakes and lawns in nature and art in whatever 
 gave him pleasure, there was something to restore his 
 dream; something invisibly and mysteriously associated 
 with the subject of it. Yet while every thing around 
 him was thus stamped with its fresh footprints, its wing 
 rustling in every breeze, its image dwelling in all that 
 was beautiful, and its voice mingling in all that was 
 melodious, still, still the evanescent being eluded his 
 grasp, and cheated his pursuit. 
 
 He had been at home but a single day, when, as if 
 by accident, he found himself approaching the cottage 
 we have described. It was evening, and the moon 
 shone as before upon the jessamine, when he last visited 
 it. Again he heard the voice of Ellen again he 
 paused and listened. It was again the song of the red 
 breast that she was singing. A rush of recollections 
 came to his mind. " This," said he, " is surely the 
 music of my dream." He hastened to the cottage. 
 Ellen met him at the door and Vivian instantly 
 recognized in her the heroine of his vision ! 
 
 Let not the reader say that our story is improbable. 
 Vivian is not the only one who has been the subject of 
 a dominion that reigns for a time over every pulse, lives 
 in every avenue to the heart, and by the legerdemain of 
 
26 
 
 THE DREAM FULFILLED. 
 
 youthful fancy, renders one object the seeming fountain 
 from which all pleasures flow. In short, there are 
 others, as well as he, who have seen analogies in things 
 as unlike as a rainbow and a pretty girl ! 
 
 We need not tell the rest. The lovers were married, 
 and Vivian and Ellen consider their union as a happy 
 fulfilment of a remarkable dream. And so long as 
 dreams are prompted by the wishes and purposes 
 of lovers, it is probable that events may render them 
 prophetic. 
 
THE CAYE OP DIAMONDS. 
 
 THERE was once a Prince of Persia, who became the 
 subject of an intense desire of wealth. His thoughts 
 were perpetually running upon silver and gold and pre 
 cious stones. Instead of cultivating his mind or quali 
 fying himself to discharge the duties of his high destiny, 
 he was always considering in what way he could be 
 come rich. At length having heard of the mines of 
 Siberia, he determined to travel thither, in the hope of 
 satisfying his desires. Accordingly he proceeded to 
 the Kolyvan mountains, but finding that already there 
 were many persons there, engaged in searching for gold 
 and precious stones, he went farther east, till he came 
 to a tall mountain called the Schlangenberg, which is 
 the loftiest of the Altai range, and much celebrated for 
 its mineral treasures. 
 
 When he had reached the very top of the mountain, 
 being weary, he laid himself down to obtain some re 
 pose, and here he fell asleep. While in this state, a 
 man, in the dress of a Tartar, seemed to stand before 
 him, and, making a low bow in the Eastern fashion, he 
 said, " What would' st thou, son of a royal house?" To 
 this the young Persian replied "Wealth give me 
 wealth, such as may become a prince. Give me gold, 
 silver and precious stones, and in such abundance 
 
28 THE CAVE OF DIAMONDS. 
 
 that I may excite the envy of all the princes of the 
 East !" 
 
 " And why do you desire riches 1" said the mysterious 
 stranger. 
 
 " It will give me happiness," said the prince. 
 
 " Thou mayest be mistaken," was the reply ; " wealth 
 cannot confer happiness, unless the mind be prepared 
 for its use. The mind may be likened to the soil, and 
 riches to the sun : the former must be tilled and cultivated 
 and the seed sown, or the latter will only scorch and 
 wither it like a desert." 
 
 "Nay nay," said the prince, "give me riches give 
 me gold give me diamonds! I ask for nothing more." 
 
 When the young man said this, the image smiled 
 on one side of his face, and frowned on the other ; but 
 he answered fairly, " Your wish shall be granted: fol 
 low me !" Upon this the prince arose and followed the 
 stranger. They descended to the foot of the mountain, 
 and entered a cave which was formed by nature in the 
 rocks. It seemed at first a dark and gloomy room, with 
 grizzly images around, and a fearful roar as of mighty 
 waterfalls, tumbling amid the gashes and ravines of the 
 cavern. But as they advanced farther, the scene grad 
 ually changed. The darkness disappeared, and at last 
 they came to a vast chamber, which seemed glittering 
 with thousands of lamps. The room appeared indeed 
 like a forest turned to crystal, the branches above unit 
 ing and forming a lofty roof, in the gothic form. No 
 thing could exceed the splendor of the scene. The 
 floor was strewn with precious stones of every hue, and 
 diamonds of immense size and beauty shone around. 
 
THE CAVE OF DIAMONDS. 29 
 
 As the adventurer trod among them, they clashed 
 against his feet as if he were marching amid heaps of 
 pebbles. There were thousands of lofty columns, of a 
 pearly transparency, which seemed to send forth an illu 
 mination like that of the moon ; and these were studded 
 with amethysts, and emeralds, and rubies. 
 
 The prince was delighted nay, entranced. He 
 walked along for more than an hour, and still the vast 
 room seemed to expand and grow more gorgeous as he 
 proceeded. The diamonds were larger, and the light 
 more lovely, and by-and-by there came a sound of music. 
 It was faint, but delicious ; and our hero looked around 
 for the cause of it. At last he saw what seemed a river, 
 and on going to the border of it, he discovered that it was 
 a stream of precious stones, where garnets, and beryls, 
 and diamonds, and emeralds, and rubies, flowed like 
 drops of water, in one gushing, flashing current ; and as 
 they swept along, a sort of gentle but entrancing melody 
 stole out from them, and seemed to melt the heart with 
 their tones. 
 
 " This is indeed most lovely most enchanting!" said 
 the youth to himself. " Well and truly has my guide 
 performed his promise." Saying this, he looked around 
 for his companion, and behold, he was at his side. " Thou 
 art now," said the spirit, " in the Cave of Diamonds 
 take what thou wilt all is at thy command !" Saying 
 this the stranger vanished. Delighted with the permis 
 sion to take what he desired, the prince went to the 
 river of precious stones, and gathered the purest and 
 fairest that he could find. He soon loaded himself 
 down with diamonds and emeralds and rubies, each one 
 
OU THE CAVE OF DIAMONDS. 
 
 of which was worthy of being set in a prince's crown. 
 With his precious burden, he now continued to roam 
 through the cave, often stooping to pick up some gem 
 that outshone the rest among which it lay. At length he 
 began to feel weary, and cast about for a place to lie 
 down ; but no such place appeared. The floor of the 
 mighty hall was covered with precious stones, but they 
 were so angular and sharp that they would have cut his 
 flesh, if he had attempted to repose upon them. In a 
 short time hunger was added to the prince's wants; but 
 how could he satisfy it? There were emeralds, and 
 rubies, and sapphires, and diamonds, but neither meat 
 nor bread. At last he turned round, and began to 
 search for the way out of the grotto ; still continuing to 
 pick up rich and rare gems, as they came in his way. But 
 the more he sought for the passage, the more remote he 
 seemed to be from it. He, however, continued to wan 
 der on, but all in vain. Finally he became frantic; he 
 threw up his hands, and tore his hair, and ran fiercely 
 from place to place, making the arches ring with his 
 frightful screams. " Take your gems, take your jewels !" 
 said he, " and give me rest, give me bread !" And, re 
 peating this by night and by day, the young prince con 
 tinued to run wildly from place to place; and though 
 fifty years have rolled away since he entered the en 
 chanted cave, he is still there, and is still unable to ob 
 tain rest or appease his hunger ! Though he has acquired 
 wealth beyond the suggestions of fancy, he is unable 
 to satisfy the cravings of nature ; and though in the 
 midst of uncounted treasure, even rest and repose, which 
 are enjoyed by the beggar, are denied to him. 
 
THE KING OF TERRORS. 
 
 ft 
 
 As a shadow He flew, but sorrow and wail 
 Came up from his path, like the moan of the gale. 
 His quiver was full, though his arrows fell fast 
 As the sharp hail of winter when urged by the blast. 
 He smiled on each shaft as it flew from the string, 
 Though feathered by fate, and the lightning its wing. 
 Unerring, unsparing, it sped to its mark, 
 As the mandate of destiny, certain and dark. 
 The mail of the warrior it severed in twain, 
 The wall of the castle it shivered amain. 
 No shield could shelter, no prayer could save, 
 And love's holy shrine no immunity gave. 
 A babe in the cradle its mother bent o'er, 
 The arrow is sped, and that babe is no more ! 
 At the faith-plighting altar, a lovely one bows, 
 The gem on her finger, in Heaven her vows; 
 Unseen is the blow, but she sinks in the crowd, 
 And her bright wedding-garment is turned to a shroud ! 
 
 ii. 
 
 On flew the Destroyer, o'er mountain and main, 
 And where there was life, there, there are the slain ! 
 No valley so deep, no islet so lone, 
 But his shadow is cast, and his victims are known. 
 
32 THE KING OF TERRORS. 
 
 He paused not, though years rolled weary and slow, 
 And Time's hoary pinion drooped languid and low. 
 He paused not till Man from his birthplace was swept, 
 And the sea and the land in solitude slept. 
 
 in. 
 
 On a mountain he stood, for the struggle was done, 
 A smile on his lip for the victory won. 
 The city of millions, lone islet and cave, 
 The home of the hermit, all earth was a grave ! 
 The last of his race, where the first saw the light, 
 The monarch had met, and triumphed in fight : 
 Swift, swift was the steed, o'er Araby's sand, 
 But swifter the arrow that flew from Death's hand. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O'er the mountain he seems like a tempest to lower, 
 Triumphant and dark in the fulness of power; 
 And flashes of flame, that play round his crest, 
 Bespeak the fierce lightning that glows in his breast. 
 But a vision of wonder breaks now on his sight; 
 The blue vault of heaven is gushing with light, 
 And, facing the tyrant, a form from the sky 
 Returns the fierce glance of his challenging eye. 
 A moment they pause, two princes of might, 
 The Demon of Darkness, an Angel of Light ! 
 Each gazes on each, no barrier between 
 And the quivering rocks shrink aghast from the scene ! 
 The sword of the angel waves free in the air ; 
 Death looks to his quiver, no arrow is there! 
 He falls like a pyramid, crumbled and torn ; 
 
THE KING OF TERRORS. 33 
 
 And a vision of light on his dying eye borne, 
 In glory reveals the blest souls of the slain, 
 And he sees that his sceptre was transient and vain ; 
 For, 'mid the bright throng, e'en the infant he slew, 
 And the altar-struck bride, beam full on the view ! 
 
THE SHOOL BOY'S SATURDAY. 
 
 IT is a trite remark that youth is the happiest portion 
 of life, but, like many other wise sayings, it passes by 
 us unheeded, till, at some late period in the great jour 
 ney, we look back upon our track, and by a compari 
 son of the past with the present, are forced to feel and 
 confess the truth, which we have before doubted or con 
 temned. Mankind are ever tempted to think that there 
 is something better in the future than is afforded by the 
 present; if they are not happy yet, they still indulge 
 bright anticipations. They are reluctant, even when 
 advanced in years, to believe that the noon of life's joy 
 is past ; that the chill of evening is already mingling in 
 every breeze that feeds the breath; that there is no 
 returning morn to them ; that the course of the sun is 
 now only downward ; and that sunset is the final close 
 of the day that has dawned upon them, and lighted up a 
 world full of hopes, and wishes and expectations. It is 
 not till the shadows, dark and denned, are creeping 
 around us, and forcing us to deal honestly with our 
 selves, that we admit the truth that life is made up of 
 a series of illusions ; that we are constantly pursuing 
 bubbles, which seem bright at a distance and allure us 
 on to the chase, but which fly from our pursuit, or, if 
 reached, burst in the hand that grasps them. It is not 
 
THE SCHOOL B O Y ' S SATURDAY. 35 
 
 till we are already at the landing and about to step into 
 the bark that is to bear us from the shore, that we come 
 to the conclusion that human life is a chase, in which 
 the game is nothing and the pursuit everything ; and 
 that the brightest and best portion of this chase is found 
 in the spring morning, when the faculties are fresh, the 
 fancy pure, and all nature robed in dew and chiming 
 with the music of birds, and bees, and waterfalls. 
 
 It is something to have enjoyed life, even if that en 
 joyment may not come again, for memory can revive the 
 past, and at least bring back its echoes. It is a pleasure 
 to me, now that I am crippled and gray a sort of hulk 
 driven a-wreck upon the shore, and if incapable of fur 
 ther adventures upon the main, at least inaccessible to 
 the surges that rise and rave upon its bosom to look 
 out to sea to mark the sails that still glide over its 
 surface and, above all, to busy my fancy with the 
 incidents of my own voyage upon the great ocean of 
 life. 
 
 I love particularly to go back to that period when I 
 was full of health, animation and hope. As yet, my life 
 was tarnished with no other vices or follies than those 
 which belong to an ungoverned and passionate boy. My 
 health was perfect. I can hardly describe the elation 
 of my heart of a spring morning. Everything gave me 
 delight. The adjacent mountains, robed in mist or 
 wreathed with clouds, seemed like the regions of the 
 blest. The landscape around, tame and commonplace 
 as it might be, was superior to the pictures of any artist 
 that ever laid his colors upon canvass, to my vision. 
 Every sound was music. The idle but joyous gabble 
 
36 
 
 THE SCHOOL B O Y ' S SATURDAY. 
 
 of the geese at the brook the far-off cawing of the crows 
 that skimmed the slopes of the mountains the mul 
 titudinous notes of jays, robins, and blackbirds in the or 
 chard the lowing of cattle the cackle of the fowls in 
 the barnyard the gobble of the ostentatious turkey 
 were all melody to me. No burst of harmony from an 
 Italian orchestra, even though Rossini composed and 
 Paganini performed, ever touched the heart as those 
 humble melodies of morn in my native village, touched 
 mine at the age of fifteen. At such times my bosom 
 actually overflowed with joy. I would sometimes shout 
 aloud from mere extacy ; and then I would run for no 
 other object than the excitement of the race. At such 
 times it seemed almost that I could fly. There was an 
 elasticity in my limbs like that of a mountain deer. So 
 exuberant was this buoyant feeling, that in my visions, 
 which were then always blissful, I often dreamed of set 
 ting out to run, and after a brief space, stepping up 
 ward into the air where I floated like some spirit upon 
 the breeze. 
 
 At evening, I used again to experience the same joy 
 ous gust of emotion; and during the day, I seldom felt 
 otherwise than happy. Considering the quiet nature of 
 the place in which I dwelt, my life was marked with 
 numerous incidents and adventures of little moment 
 to the world at large, but important to a boy of my years. 
 Saturday was, in that golden age, a day always given up 
 to amusement, for there was no school kept then. A 
 description of a single day will give an idea of my way 
 of life at this period. 
 
 The day we will suppose to be fine and in fact it 
 
THE SCHOOL BOY's SATURDAY. 37 
 
 now seems to me that there was no dull weather when 
 I was a boy. Bill Keeler and myself rose with the sun 
 and we must, of course, go to the mountain. For 
 what? Like knights of the olden time, in search of 
 adventures. Bound to no place, guided by no other 
 power than our own will, we set out to see what we 
 could see, and find what we could find. 
 
 We took our course through a narrow vale at the foot 
 of the mountain, crossed by a whimpling brook, which 
 wound with many a mazy turn amid bordering hills, the 
 slopes of which were covered with trees, or consisted of 
 smooth, open pastures. The brook was famous for 
 trout, and as Bill usually carried his hooks and lines, we 
 often stopped for a time and amused ourselves in fishing. 
 On the present occasion, as we were passing a basin of 
 still water where the gush of the rivulet was stayed by a 
 projecting bank, Bill saw an uncommonly large trout. 
 He lay in the shadow of the knoll, perfectly still, except 
 that the feathery fins beneath his gills, fanned the water 
 with a breath-like undulation. I saw Bill at the instant 
 he marked the monster of the pool. In a moment he 
 lifted up and waved his hand as a sign to me, and uttered 
 a long, low " she-e-e-e !" He then stepped softly back 
 wards, and at a little distance knelt down, to hide him 
 self from the view of the trout. All this time Bill was 
 fumbling with a nervous quickness for his hook and 
 line. First he ran his hands into the pockets of his 
 trousers, seeming to turn over a great variety of articles 
 there; then he felt in his coat pockets; and then he 
 uttered two or three awkward words, significant of 
 much vexation. 
 
38 THE SCHOOL BOY'S SATURDAY. 
 
 There was Bill on his knees it seems as if I could 
 see him now evidently disappointed at not finding his 
 hook and line. At last he began very deliberately to 
 unlade his pockets. First came out a stout buck- 
 handled knife, with one large blade and the stump of a 
 smaller one. Then came a large bunch of tow, several 
 bits of rope, a gimlet, four or five flints, and a chestnut 
 whistle. From the other pocket of the trousers he dis 
 closed three or four bits of lead, a screw-driver, a dough 
 nut, and something rolled into a wad that might have 
 been suspected of being a pocket-handkerchief. The 
 trousers pockets being thus emptied, our hero applied 
 himself to those in the flaps of his coat. He first took 
 out a ball covered with deerskin, then a powder-flask 
 and tinder-box, two or three corks, and sundry articles 
 difficult to name. From the other pocket he took his 
 stockings and shoes, for it was May, and we were both 
 indulging ourselves in the luxury of going barefoot a 
 luxury which those only can know who have tried it. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the pitch of vexation to which 
 Bill was worked up, when, turning the last pocket in 
 side out and shaking it as if it were a viper, he found 
 that he had not a hook or line about him. Gathering 
 up his merchandise, and thrusting the articles back 
 into their places, he cast about, and selecting a large 
 stone, approached the place where the trout lay, and 
 hurled it at him with spiteful vengeance, exclaiming 
 "If I 'm ever ketched without a fishhook agin I 
 hope I may be shot ! " 
 
 " Stop, stop, Bill ! " said I ; " don't be rash." 
 
 " I say I hope I may be shot if I 'm ever ketched with- 
 
THE SCHOOL BOY'S SATURDAY. 39 
 
 out a fishhook agin so there!" said he, hurling an 
 other stone into the brook. 
 
 " Remember what you say now, Bill ! " said I. 
 
 "I will remember it," said my companion; and 
 though nothing more was said of it at the time, I may 
 as well observe now, that the fellow kept his word ; for 
 ever after, I remarked that he carried a fishhook in his 
 hat-band, and, as he said, it was in fulfilment of his vow. 
 Such was the eccentric humor of my friend, and such 
 the real depth of his character and feelings, that a speech, 
 uttered in momentary passion and seeming thought 
 lessness, clung to his mind, and never parted from him 
 till death. 
 
 We pursued our way up the valley, though loth to 
 leave the rivulet ; for there is a fascination about "run 
 ning water that few can resist : there is a beauty in it 
 which enchants the eye a companionship like that of 
 life, and which no other inanimate thing affords. And 
 of all brooks, this that I now describe was to me the 
 sweetest. 
 
 After proceeding a considerable distance, the valley 
 became narrowed down to a rocky ravine, and the 
 shrunken stream fretted and foamed its way over a 
 rugged and devious channel. At last, about half-way 
 up the mountain, and at a considerable elevation, we 
 reached the source of the rivulet, which consisted of a 
 small lake of as pure water as ever reflected the face of 
 heaven. It was surrounded on three sides by tall cliffs, 
 whose dark, shaggy forms, in contrast, gave a silver bril 
 liancy and beauty to the mirror-like water that lay at their 
 feet. The other side of the lake was bounded by a 
 
 
40 THE SCHOOL BOY J S SATURDAY. 
 
 sandy lawn, of small extent, but in the centre of which 
 stood a lofty white-wood tree. 
 
 The objects that first presented themselves, as we ap 
 proached the lake, was a kingfisher, running over his 
 watchman's rattle from the dry limb of a tree that pro 
 jected over the water, by way of warning to the tenants 
 of the mountain that danger was near ; a heron, stand 
 ing half-leg deep in the margin of the flood, and seem 
 ing to be lost in a lazy dream ; a pair of harlequin ducks 
 that were swimming near the opposite shore ; and a bald 
 eagle, that stood upon the point of a rock which projected 
 a few feet out of the water near the centre of the lake. 
 This latter object particularly attracted our attention, 
 but as we moved toward it, it heavily unfolded its wings, 
 pitched forward, and with a labored beating of the air 
 gained an elevation and sailed gloriously away beyond 
 the reach of sight. 
 
 These were hours of feeling, rather than speech. 
 Neither my companion nor myself spoke of the beauty 
 of that place at the time; but we felt it deeply, and 
 memory, with me, has kept a faithful transcript of the 
 scene. When the kingfisher had sounded the alarm, 
 he slunk away, and all was still. The morning over 
 ture of the birds had passed, for it was now near ten 
 o'clock. The mournful metallic note of the wood- 
 thrush was perchance faintly heard at intervals the 
 cooing of a pigeon, the amorous wooings of the high- 
 hole, the hollow roll of the woodpecker at his work, 
 might occasionally salute the ear, but all at such dis 
 tance of time and place as to give effect to the silence 
 and repose that marked the scene. I had my gun, but 
 
THE SCHOOL BOY'S SATURDAY. 41 
 
 I felt no disposition to break the spell that nature had 
 cast on all around. The harsh noise of gunpowder had 
 been out of tune there and then. Bill and myself 
 sauntered along the border of the lake, musing and 
 stepping lightly, as if not to crumple a leaf or crush a 
 twig, that might break the peace over which Nature, 
 like a magistrate, seemed now presiding. 
 
 But as we were slowly proceeding, Bill's piercing eye 
 discovered a dark object upon the white-wood, or tulip- 
 tree, that stood in the sandy lawn, at some distance. 
 He pointed to it, and both of us quickened our steps in 
 that direction. As we approached we perceived it to be 
 an enormous nest, and concluded it must be that of an 
 eagle. As we came nearer, the nest seemed roughly 
 composed of large sticks, and occupying a circumfer- 
 ance equal to that of a waggon-wheel. It was at the 
 very top of the tree, which rose to the height of sixty or 
 seventy feet, and at least half of that elevation was a 
 smooth trunk without a single limb. But Bill was an 
 excellent climber, and it was resolved, without a coun 
 cil of war, that he should ascend and see what was in 
 the nest. 
 
 Accordingly, stripping off his coat, and clinging to 
 the tree as if by suction, he began to ascend. It was 
 " hitchety hatchety, up I go ! " By a process difficult to 
 describe a sort of insinuation, the propelling power 
 and working machinery of which were invisible he 
 soon cleared the smooth part of the trunk, and taking 
 hold of the branches, rose limb by limb, till, with 
 breathless interest, I saw him lift his head above the 
 nest and peer into its recess. The best expression of 
 
42 THE SCHOOL B O Y ' S SATURDAY. 
 
 his wonder was his silence. I waited, but no reply. 
 " What is it?" said I, incapable of enduring the sus 
 pense. No answer. " What is it, Bill why do n't you 
 speak ? " said I, once more. " Look ! " said he, holding 
 up a featherless little monster, about as large as a 
 barn-door fowl kicking and flapping its wings, and 
 squealing with all its might. " Look ! there 's a pair on 
 'em. They 're young eagles, I '11 be bound, but I never 
 see such critters afore ! The nest is as big as a trundle- 
 bed, and there 's a heap of snake-skins, and feathers, 
 and fishes' tails in it; and there's a lamb's head here, 
 that looks in the face like an old acquaintance and I 
 should n't wonder if it belonged to Squire Kellogg's little 
 cosset that he lost last week the varmint ! " 
 
 As Bill uttered these last words, his attention, as well 
 my own, was attracted by a rushing sound above, and 
 looking up, we saw an eagle, about a hundred yards in 
 the air, descending like a thunderbolt directly toward 
 his head. The bird's wings were close to its body, 
 its tail above and its head beneath, its beak open and its 
 talons half displayed for the blow. Entirely forgetting 
 my gun, in my agony of fear, I exclaimed, " Jump, Bill ! 
 for Heaven's sake jump ! " But such was the sudden 
 ness of the proceeding, that ere I could fairly utter the 
 words, the formidable bird, with a fearful and vengeful 
 scream, swept down upon his mark. I shut my eyes in 
 very horror. But not so Bill Keeler ; there was no 
 taking him by surprise. As the eagle came down, he 
 dodged beneath the nest, exposing only the nether por 
 tion of his person, together with the seat of his trousers. 
 The clash of the eagle's beak as he swept by, though it 
 
SATURDAY. 43 
 
 seemed like the noise of a tailor's shears when forcibly 
 shut, did no harm ; but we cannot say as much of the 
 creature's talons. One of the claws struck the part ex 
 posed, and made an incision in the trousers as well as 
 the skin, of about two inches in length. 
 
 The rent, however, was too superficial to prove mor 
 tal, nor did it deprive Bill of his presence of mind. 
 Taking no manner of notice of the damage done, he 
 cocked his eye up at the eagle, and seeing that he was 
 already preparing for another descent, he slid down be 
 tween the limbs of the tree with amazing dexterity, and 
 had approached the lowest of the branches, when again 
 we heard the rushing sound, and saw the infuriate bird 
 falling like an iron wedge almost perpendicularly upon 
 him. Although he was full five and thirty feet from the 
 ground, such was my agony, that again I cried out, 
 " Jump, Bill for Heaven's sake, jump ! " 
 
 My friend was a fellow to depend on himself par 
 ticularly in a time of imminent peril, like the present. 
 Evidently paying no attention to me, he cast one glance 
 at the eagle, and leaping from the branch, came down 
 upon the wind. The eagle swept over him as he fell, 
 and striking his talons into his brimless beaver, bore it 
 away in triumph dropping it however at a short dis 
 tance. As Bill struck the ground on his feet, I imme 
 diately saw that he was safe. After sitting a moment to 
 recover his breath, he put his hand to his head, and 
 finding that his hat was gone, exclaimed, " There, the 
 critter's got my clamshell why did n't you fire, Bob? " 
 
 The hat was soon found, and after a little while Bill 
 discovered the success of the eagle's first attack upon 
 
44 
 
 his person ; but although some blood was shed, the inci 
 dent was not considered serious, and we proceeded in 
 our ramble. 
 
 Such are the adventures of a day in my youth ; and 
 such, or similar, no doubt, have been the experiences of 
 many a Yankee youth before. I record them here, 
 partly for the satisfaction of reviewing the sweet mem 
 ories of the past, and partly to point the moral of this 
 chapter that youth is a portion of life to which, in 
 after years, we usually look back with fond regard, as 
 the happiest, if not the most useful part of our existence. 
 ' Robert Merry's Life and Adventures. 3 
 
A HORSE AND A WIPE. 
 
 IF I were to say that Mr. Oleanthus Duck, of Duck- 
 ville, was a handsome man, though I use the positive 
 term, it should be understood that I speak with qualifica 
 tions. He was doubtless a handsome man in his own 
 estimation; he was perhaps a handsomer man than 
 ^Esop, as antiquity has portrayed him; he was cer 
 tainly the handsomest man in Duckville, in the opinion 
 of those who regarded him only through the spectacles 
 of circumstance for he was worth ten thousand dollars, 
 a clever little fortune in the village where he was born 
 and bred. He was also the only child of his father, 
 Squire Duck, of Duckville justice of the peace, 
 select-man, member of the school committee, and 
 once representative in the General Court of Massachu 
 setts: and lastly, he was now one-and-twenty, and just 
 graduated from Cambridge College, having borne home 
 a parchment to which was attached a large seal and a 
 blue riband, trophies of more account than the golden 
 fleece of Jason. 
 
 Seen through all these circumstances, Mr. Duck was 
 a very, " pretty," respectable, worthy young gentleman. 
 It may be added that he was of spotless character, and 
 remarkable for his prudence. "Look ere you leap;" 
 " Think twice and speak once ; " " Take care of irrevoca- 
 
46 A HORSE AND A WIFE. 
 
 ble deeds ; " " Look out for number one ; " were all as in 
 stinctive in him as moderation in a snail, or equanimity in 
 an oyster. He was indeed born for a pattern-man, and 
 grew up accordingly. 
 
 Now it were a delightful task to write the biography 
 of a pattern-man one who goes straight forward upon 
 the turnpike-road of virtue and propriety, without one 
 excursion into the mists and mazes of indiscretion, vice 
 or passion! The theme is indeed worthy of an epic, 
 and is withal, quite original. Who ever thought of 
 writing a pattern-man's history? But however attrac 
 tive the subject may be, I can only mention two points 
 in Mr. Duck's life the buying a horse, and getting a 
 wife which I here place in the order in which they 
 were undertaken, and, I may add, of their importance 
 in his mind. 
 
 When Mr. Oleanthus Duck had, as I have related, 
 come out of college, and was well assured of the fact 
 that is to say, about three years after the event he 
 began to think of buying a horse. Why he thought of 
 it whether it was because his father had bought a 
 horse before him, and most other people in easy circum 
 stances had bought horses ; or that his mother had in 
 structed him thus in his tender years ; or whether, that 
 man is born to buy a horse if he can afford it, was a 
 principle deeply implanted in his nature, prior to the 
 lessons of experience are questions too mazy and met 
 aphysical for the present discourse. At all events, 
 when Mr. Duck was about three-and-twenty, he was 
 understood by the people in those parts to be a candi 
 date for a horse. 
 
AHORSE AND A WIFE. 47 
 
 It was about five o'clock of a summer morning, that 
 Mr. Hony, a horse-dealer, introduced himself to the hero 
 of this narrative, saying that he had horses to sell, and 
 he understood that Mr. Duck wanted to buy. Mr. 
 Duck looked gazingly at Mr. Hony, and the latter went 
 on as follows: "Squire Staples of Ternpletown tell'd 
 me last night that you was in want of a hause; and as 
 I 've got as likely a set as you '11 light on, I thought 
 I'd call and see." 
 
 Mr. Duck made no answer, but ran his eye up and 
 down the figure of the speaker. The latter proceeded, 
 
 " I did n't know nothin about it myself, only Squire 
 Staples of Ternpletown tell'd me so: is it a mare or a 
 hause you want?" 
 
 " Hem ! " was the answer. 
 
 " Oh ho, you haint exactly made up your mind ! 
 Well now there 's nothing like okkelar demonstration 
 to settle a man's stomach when its in a kind of see-saw 
 state. I 've got six hauses in the barn-yard, and should 
 like to have you look at 'em, if you have time. If you 
 are ingaged why I '11 call agin." 
 
 " No, no, on the whole, I guess I '11 look at them." 
 Thus replying, Oleanthus took his hat gingerly, and 
 keeping a very watchful eye upon Mr. Hony, followed 
 him to the barn-yard. 
 
 v " I think you said 't was a hause you wanted," said 
 Hony, promptingly ; but he got no answer. " There ! " 
 said he, untying a stupid cart-horse, and making him 
 spin round like a top, while he held the halter, " there 
 is one that '11 suit you exactly. He 's not one of your 
 mile in a minute fellers, but he 's a right down good, 
 
48 A HORSE AND A WIFE. 
 
 honest, substantial beast. He was raised by Squire 
 Muzzy of Bloomsdale, in the state of Varmount. I've 
 summered him and wintered him that is to say, in my 
 eye and I know all about him. Squire Muzzy was offered 
 seventy-five dollars for him the day arter he was born." 
 
 During these observations, Hony looked Oleanthus 
 keenly in the face from under the broad brim of his hat ; 
 but he was bothered. He could not for the life of him 
 tell what sort of impression he made upon his intended 
 customer. jStill, not to be baulked and desirous of get 
 ting something that might guide him in his design, he 
 went on. 
 
 "There's some people very peticular about the 
 color of a hause, but I say that are hause is a shade 
 finer than any thing in these parts." 
 
 " What do you call that color 1 " said Oleanthus. 
 
 "Well, you may call it what you're a mind tew; 
 what color do you like best, Mr. Duck?" said Hony, 
 quite encouraged that he had opened the mouth of his 
 patron, and fondly imagining that he had now a crevice 
 into which he might insinuate the lever of his ingenuity, 
 and pry open the man's mind. 
 
 " Oh, I only asked the question," said Oleanthus; " I 
 do n't like any color especially." 
 
 " Well, this hause is bay." 
 
 " Oh, bay is it? I do n't like bay." 
 
 " Oh, you don't? well, here's a thing," leading out 
 another animal, " a leetle bit nearer to perfection than 
 any piece of hause flesh that 's bin this way, sin' the 
 revolutionary war, I guess. I won't speak positive 
 but " 
 
AHORSE AND A WIFE. 49 
 
 " What color do you call that? " 
 
 " Why, that 's a kind of betwixt and between ; you may 
 call it a steel mixed, or an iron gray, or a fawn, or a laloc, 
 or what you 're a mind tew. It do n't make or break, 
 you know, what you call a thing ; a goose is a goose, if 
 you call it a gander." 
 
 " Well, I do n't like that color ; I think I prefer 
 black." 
 
 " Well now, that 's exactly what I expected. Fact ! I 
 had a notion all the time that you wanted a black hause, 
 and you're right about it Squire black's the best 
 color arter all, and I brought one here a purpose for you." 
 
 " Well, why did n't you show him to me before? " 
 
 " Why, a man do n't want to come out with his 
 trumps fust, captain : I know what sort of a hause you 
 want better than you du yourself. You want a hause 
 that 's fit for a gentleman, one that '11 go fast or slow, 
 jest as you like one that '11 travel all day, and be jest 
 as lively at night, as afore he set out one that '11 live 
 without eaten, if you ax him tu one that 's got some 
 sense, for hauses is like men, there 's a good many 
 fools among 'em, and a fool of a hause is only fit for a 
 fool of a man. Now you want a sensible hause ; a rail 
 substantial, well broke hause; one that '11 improve on 
 your hands ; one that, if you want to sell him, will fetch 
 more than you gin for him. Now, I 've got jest the 
 critter. I show'd him to Squire Staples. He said you 
 was a dreadful peticler man ; but he said that are hause 
 would suit you to a shavin. But there 's one pint about 
 it; I expect the hause is sold." 
 
 "Oh, he's sold, is he?" 
 
50 AHORSE A NBA WIFE. 
 
 " Why, he 's not exactly sold, positive, but I 'm going 
 to Boston, and expect Squire Parkins '11 take him. He 
 tell'd me the last time I was down, if I could find any 
 thing a leetle cuter than ever was seen afore, he 'd like 
 to look at it, and with him a wink 's as good as a bid, 
 you know. When he finds any thing that fills his eye, 
 he do n't stick at trifles." 
 
 By this time Oleanthus seemed to be interested, and 
 Hony, presuming upon his advantage, leisurely picked 
 up a piece of chesnut shingle, took out his knife, and 
 began whittling with an air of perfect indifference, but 
 still proceeding with great glibness in his conversation, 
 as follows : 
 
 " Well, Squire, when you 've made up your mind to 
 buy a hause, I should like to show you one, for its in 
 my way. I 'm most afeared to sell this one, for Squire 
 Parkins might blame me. You see it 's in hauses, as in 
 gals; there 's a good many good uhs, but there 's only 
 now and then one that 's parfect. Now Squire Parkins 
 allers is arter them that 's a leetle better than any body 
 else's ; and this is just the critter for his money." 
 
 " But let me see the horse," said Oleanthus, seeming 
 to grow impatient. " Well-1-1," said the jockey, affect 
 ing hesitation. " Well, I ought to mention one thing 
 more ; the hause has got one fault, and I like to be candid 
 with a rael gentleman." 
 
 " What is his fault?" 
 
 "Why that's neither here nor there, as you don't 
 want him, colonel ; howsever, there's no harm in lookin. 
 I sha' n't charge you nothin' for a sight." Saying this, 
 Hony led out his horse, and began to show off his paces. 
 
AHORSEANDAWIFE. 51 
 
 He was a clever animal, high-fed, fat, and nicely groomed. 
 The jockey fancied that he could see Oleanthus' mouth 
 begin to water, but the latter prudently said nothing. 
 There was a pause of some minutes while the horse 
 trotted and frisked in circles round his owner, at the 
 length of the tether. At last Oleanthus spoke. 
 
 " You said he had one fault, what is it?" 
 
 " Why it 's a fault that can be cured, as Jerry Piper 
 said of his nose, when the gal telled him 't was tu long. 
 There 's enough of the same, says Jerry, to make it 
 shorter, says Jerry." 
 
 " Well, what is the fault of the horse?" 
 
 " Why Squire, this trading in hauses, is like a lottery ; 
 there 's more than tu blanks to a prize, and when we 
 du get a prize, we must make the best on 't. However, 
 cash is cash, and we must live." 
 
 " I do n't understand you." 
 
 " Eh ! very likely, I do n't spose that I rightly under 
 stand myself; now I should hate to part with that hause ! 
 and beside, there 's Squire Parkins ; I do n't know what 
 he 'd say." 
 
 " But what is the fault of the hause? " 
 
 " Oh its a dreadful fault; you would n't take him a 
 gift," and saying this, Hony began to untie his horses, 
 as if for a departure. Seeing this, Mr. Duck became a 
 little uneasy, but still maintained his self-possession. 
 He could not forbear, however, asking once more. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Hony, I think you said your name was 
 Hony? " 
 
 " Yes sir, that 5 s my name, and the name of my father 
 afore me. The Honys, I have heard say, came to this 
 
52 A HORSE AND A WIFE. 
 
 country in the time of the Old French War, and settled 
 in No. 4, in New Hampshire. My mother is related to 
 the Stapleses of Templetown ; Squire Staples is a third 
 cousin of my grandfather's first wife's niece, and that 'a 
 the kasion we 're so intimit. I allers call and see 
 the Squire, and it was him that set me a cummin here. 
 He said this black hause was just the critter that you 
 wanted ; but I teld him about Squire Parkins and about 
 the fault of the hause." 
 
 " Well, what is the fault of the horse ? " 
 
 " Why, he 's a hair too smart, major." 
 
 " Oh, ho ; he 's smart is he? You mean that he 's too 
 spirited, he wants to go." 
 
 " Why yes, yes, a leetle too much up, for some peo 
 ple ; but it 's a good fault. However, that 's as a par 
 son feels. How do you like a hause, colonel ?" 
 
 " I don't want a fast horse." 
 
 " Well, he 's not exactly fast; you*can't say he 's posi 
 tively a fast horse. There 's some faster, and some 
 slower ; he 's a kind of a fastish, slowish hause. Squire 
 Staples thinks he 's about such a hause as would suit 
 you." 
 
 " But it seems to me he's too large. I don 't want a 
 big horse." 
 
 "Well, you 're right about that gineral the little 
 hauses is the best. But it 's queer how people talk ; 
 you think this hause is too big now he 's in fact un 
 der size." 
 
 " Well, now I look at him, I think he is. He seems 
 to be a small horse. I do 'nt like a small horse." 
 
 " Why, he is a smallish hause, just a leetle above 
 
A HORSE AND A WIFE. 53 
 
 middling size. I expect he 's bigger than nine out of 
 ten." 
 
 " I thought you just said he was under size." 
 
 "Yes, and so he is he's under size in a sartin 
 sense. He 's bigger than the biggest, and littler than 
 the least. He 's about middlin He's jist right for 
 sarvice." 
 
 " Well, what do you ask for him." 
 
 " Why, in fixing the price of a thing, Squire, there's 
 a number of pints to be considered. In the first place, 
 how much can a man afford to give ; and, in the next, 
 what does the beast stand you in but the rail pint 
 arter all, is, do you want a hause ?" 
 
 " Why, as to that, I can 't exactly say I have some 
 idea of buying a horse but I have 'nt fully made up 
 my mind." 
 
 " Well, so I thought but when you 're in a proper 
 frame of mind, Squire, jest send to me, and I '11 come 
 and try to help you out." So saying, Mr. Hony mount 
 ed one of his horses, and the others being loosed, fol 
 lowed him full tilt out of the yard. It was pretty clear 
 that Mr. Hony was not disposed to attempt further to 
 drive a bargain with a man who had not yet made up 
 his mind to buy a horse, and whose coolness and suspi 
 cion rendered him an overmatch for his own impu 
 dence and cunning. 
 
 * # # # * # 
 
 Mankind are generally supposed to be divided into 
 two races those who have too much, and those who 
 have too little to do. But when you look deeper 
 into the matter, those who are the busiest, are always 
 
54 A HORSE AND A WIFE. 
 
 found capable of doing a little more, and they are the 
 very persons to go to if you want any thing done which 
 may require labor, effort and self-sacrifice. Adam Clark 
 says that the proverb " too many irons in the fire," is a 
 falsehood, and that you should keep every one of them 
 hot tongs, poker, and all. 
 
 As to those who seem to have but little to do, that 
 little is usually a mighty work to them. There is not, 
 perhaps, a man of whom it may be more truly said that 
 he has his hands full, than one of those envied persons 
 who has nothing to do : one who can live without toil, 
 and has not character, or courage, or virtue enough to 
 engage in the serious responsibilities of life : to such 
 an one, the merest trifle is a bugbear of vast dimen 
 sions. To him a molehill is a mountain. You often 
 see such an imbecile, grumbling at the pettiest obstacles, 
 while another is toiling with vigor, alacrity and success, 
 over the real Alps that are thrown in the way of life's 
 great journey. In deciding which of these two races 
 of men has the hardest lot in life, I should reverse the 
 common opinion, and consider the men of nothing-to- 
 do, as those who are overburdened with care. To such 
 persons, killing time is often a task of more real horror, 
 than the slaying of the Lernean Hydra. 
 
 Men judge of things by their habits, and the objects 
 around them. So it was with Mr. Oleanthus Duck. 
 He had not yet thought of getting a wife ; he had reach 
 ed his six-and-twentieth year, and being independent in 
 his circumstances, had not deemed it necessary to 
 engage in a profession. He had undertaken nothing 
 in life but to buy a horse. To him, this was a great 
 
A HORSE AND A WIFE. 55 
 
 work equal, comparatively, at least, to the seven la 
 bors of Hercules. Having but one object in his mind, 
 that filled his soul. A fly upon an apple sees nothing 
 but his footstool, and this to him is a world. So our 
 hero thought, talked, and dreamed, of nothing but buy 
 ing a horse. This seemed to be to him at once a task, 
 and a pleasure a thing which burdened his life, and 
 which still gave life all its zest. In this he had been 
 engaged for three years, but without success. Every 
 body that had a horse to part with, went to him, and 
 whenever he heard of a horse to sell, he went to look 
 at it. He paid money enough in the hire of horses to 
 buy a dozen, and travelled as much as would make the 
 tour of Europe in riding and driving upon experiment 
 and observation. 
 
 During all this time, it is not to be disguised that 
 Mr. Duck was several times upon the very verge of de 
 parting from his prudence, and actually buying a horse, 
 thus deciding the awful issue between his parsimo 
 ny and his wishes. The fact was that he really wanted 
 a horse a horse was the great desideratum of his life 
 but he had made up his mind to three things ; the 
 first of which was, that he would not buy a horse till he 
 could find one absolutely perfect. This was a funda 
 mental point ; and it is curious to remark how elevating 
 is this process of dwelling upon perfection. Its ten 
 dency is to raise the standard of taste and judgment 
 higher and higher. In such a manner did it operate 
 on Mr. Duck, that nothing could satisfy his nice and 
 fastidious taste. Even where no one else could discover 
 any defect, he saw some incipient spavin, windgall, false 
 
56 A HORSE AND A WIFE. 
 
 quarter, glanders or heaves. No less than nineteen 
 horses did he reject because their tails were too short, 
 six he sent away for having a white spot in the forehead, 
 and he could not bear white spots in the forehead 
 seven, he dismissed for being an inch too tall eleven 
 for being half an inch too low. Thirty-four he sent off 
 without being able to note any particular objection, 
 except that the wind chanced to be easterly, and thirty- 
 three, because he was troubled with indigestion about 
 those days, and had not exactly made up his mind 
 whether he could afford to buy a horse. 
 
 The second point which Mr. Duck had laid down, 
 was, that he must buy a horse, if he bought at all, for 
 a little less than he was worth ; the third was, that ev 
 ery man who has a horse to sell, is a jockey, and every 
 jockey a rogue ! Adhering to these several propositions, 
 he went on in his pursuit, but without success, until at 
 last he had reached the age of five-and-forty. About 
 that period it became manifest that a new and great 
 thought was struggling in his bosom. He had made up 
 his mind to get married ! 
 
 It must not be supposed that Mr. Duck had not 
 thought of this subject before it will be easily guessed, 
 that being a man " well to do in the world," " college 
 learnt," of staid and sober character, and remarkable 
 for his prudence a trait that outweighs all others in 
 a yankee village he could have matched himself if 
 he would. It is not to be objected, that being six feet 
 three inches in height, at least two thirds of this altitude 
 consisted of his two nether limbs : that his face was 
 inordinately long, with ears almost as conspicuous as 
 
A HORSE AND A WIFE. 57 
 
 those of Balaam's travelling companion : that he was 
 goggle-eyed and whapper-jawed, with a nutmeg com 
 plexion, and rough reddish hair that seemed to ally him 
 to the terrier family. I have before said that Mr. Duck 
 was wealthy, liberally educated and prudent ; beside 
 being the only child of Squire Duck of Duckville. Is 
 not all this enough to convert such a form and face as I 
 have described, into a village Apollo ? 
 
 So thought Oleanthus at least, and for the first twenty 
 years of the marriageable portion of his life, he had 
 considered it a great point for one like him, so exposed 
 to snares and temptations, so likely to be a dangerous 
 object to the susceptible, and an alluring one to the 
 mercenary to steer clear of the perils that beset him 
 from the other sex all of whom he regarded, as of 
 course having the most subtile designs upon him. The 
 maidens he regarded as Scylla, and widows even as Cha- 
 rybdis. As to matrimony, he probably had thought with 
 Byron or somebody else, that a man must be either 
 drunk or crazy to make any woman an offer. 
 
 But now a seeming change had come over him, the 
 secret of which might be that he was conscious of grow 
 ing old, though he pretended to be younger than ever. 
 He even affected youthful company, dressed more jauntily 
 than before, carried his head a little on one side, and 
 as he approached a young lady, drew his eyelids near 
 together and summoned up a simper to his lips, as is 
 now done by our young gentlemen on their return from 
 Paris. He positively looked sentimental ; at meet 
 ing he gazed over the congregation in prayer-time 
 as if wistfully seeking some darling object, and what 
 
 6 
 
58 AHORSEANDAWIFE. 
 
 was more decisive than all beside, in his inquiries about 
 horses, which were still unremitted, he now gave out 
 that he wanted a. family horse. 
 
 It was soon an established point in Duckville that 
 Oleanthus was a marrying man; but who was to be his 
 happy wife ? Ah, that was the question ! It became a 
 matter of interest and importance among the village 
 gossips and petticoat politicians to master this mighty 
 secret. A close watch was therefore established, and 
 every movement of our hero was noted and carried to 
 head-quarters. 
 
 It mattered little that no very great discoveries were 
 made, for rumor is like the oak, it grows mighty big 
 from very small seed. Oleanthus happening to go one 
 day, to see a horse that Colonel Smallpiece of West 
 minster had for sale, it was at once announced that he 
 was courting the Colonel's daughter Miss Urania 
 Smallpiece. In three weeks the current story fixed 
 the day of the wedding as near at hand, a thing to 
 be explained by considering that in these cases, ru 
 mor is generally got up by the ladies, and they 
 heaven bless 'em are always in haste to make people 
 happy. 
 
 The simple fact was, however, that Oleanthus had not 
 yet gone so far as to fix upon the object of his affection : 
 he was only theoretically in love : he had only resolved 
 to marry as the Duck family had done before him. It 
 should be recollected that he was a prudent man, and he 
 must deliberate ; he was a pattern-man, a man of principle, 
 and must marry, if at all, upon principle. It is therefore 
 proper to state distinctly that, as in attempting to buy a 
 
AHORSEANDAWIFE. 59 
 
 horse, he started upon certain fixed axioms ; so now, he 
 was to regulate his conduct by established rules; and 
 those in relation to matrimony, were much the same as 
 those which he had observed in the other great under 
 taking of his useful and honorable life. In the first 
 place, Mrs. Duck must be beautiful, perfect in form and 
 feature, complexion, temper and character. She must 
 walk with grace, sing like an angel, love Oleanthus to dis 
 traction, be of good family, and above all, she must be rich ! 
 " One thing at least," said Oleanthus emphatically to 
 himself, " a man who marries must improve his fortune." 
 So much for the object that was to have the glory of 
 winning Mr. Duck's hand. But it is needful to note one 
 thing more. He had pretty much the same idea of wo 
 men in general that he had of horse-dealers, that they 
 are all jockeys. I admit that this notion is a pretty com 
 mon one among a large class of men, who value them 
 selves upon their sagacity, but who in this case, are 
 led into a vulgar mistake, by judging the best portion of 
 creation by themselves. I am sorry to say this of our 
 hero, but so it was the truth will out. He set about 
 getting a wife like many others who pretend to under 
 take it on principle, with a deep calculation to deal with 
 the future partner of his bosom, as he would deal with a 
 horse-jockey, and get the best bargain that pretence, 
 hypocrisy, and every artifice of which he was master, 
 might enable him to achieve. Let not this be called 
 swindling ; remember that it is the fashion that women 
 of fortune are usually wooed and won on the same princi 
 ple. 'T is the way of good society. In the game of 
 courtship, especially where there is money at stake, it is 
 
60 A HORSE AND A WIPE. 
 
 not expected that either party, and particularly the man, 
 is to pay any regard to truth. 
 
 I cannot go through with the details of Mr. Duck's 
 adventures ; suffice it to say, that he continued to seek 
 his two great objects with patient assiduity, always 
 being in search of a horse and a wife, and often seeming 
 to be on the point of concluding a purchase or a match, 
 but always finding at last, some difficulty in the way. 
 He seemed really miserable when he was not engaged 
 in these pursuits; yet the moment he appeared to be on the 
 point of realizing his object, his desire forsook him, and 
 he fell into a state of indifference or aversion. When 
 the horse would suit, perhaps the weather was bad or 
 the price too high ; or when the lady was worthy, some 
 whim of his or hers, came in at the critical moment of 
 fate, and determined the event on the side of prudence 
 and celibacy. 
 
 I must hurry forward to the denouement. Mr. Duck 
 had at last almost reached the age of seventy years, 
 though he pretended to be about five-and-forty. But vil 
 lage records are easily consulted, and accordingly his 
 real age was well known, though he still maintained his 
 affected juvenility. It is true his form was now stoop 
 ing; his hair white; and his step tottering: but he 
 was as eagerly bent upon buying a horse and getting a 
 wife, as ever. It was remarkable, however, that now he 
 wanted a smart horse and a young wife. The former 
 must trot a mile in two minutes and thirty seconds, and 
 the latter must not exceed fifteen. 
 
 At last our hero was a happy man, in the technical 
 phrase of the novels. It was on his seventieth birth- 
 
AHORSEANDAWIFE. 61 
 
 day, though he numbered it forty-six, that he consum 
 mated the two great objects of his earthly career he 
 bought a horse, and he got a wife ! The former was 
 a broken-down hack, for which he paid an enormous 
 price ; though it was all the same to him, for he was now 
 too old to ride. The chimney-corner was what he 
 most cared for. As to the wife, he experienced a simi 
 lar mixture of good and evil fortune. He married a 
 widow who had had three husbands, and whose chief 
 merit lay in her experience, and in getting rid of them. 
 She was without a penny, though Oleanthus fancied that 
 she was rich She was old, though he imagined her to be 
 young; she was ugly, though artificial curls, artificial teeth, 
 burnt cork, and every other aid of art, enabled her to 
 cheat the blear-eyed, superannuated bachelor. He how 
 ever did not suffer long, for Mrs. Duck, in the space of 
 two years, laid him quietly in the tomb, and inherited 
 his ample fortune. 
 
 Such is the brief story of your prudent man, one 
 whose prudence is founded in a distrust of others, 
 and who has but one object in view, to benefit himself. 
 Refusing a fair share of the risks and responsibilities of 
 life, and always endeavoring to get the better in the com 
 merce of society, he wastes his years away, misses the 
 very objects of pursuit, or only attains them when his 
 faculties are gone and he cannot enjoy them. Perhaps 
 too, in his dotage, he is made a dupe in respect to those 
 very things, in which, through life, he has sought to 
 dupe others. 
 
 Thus our romance ends in the trite, but wholesome 
 proverb : " Honesty is the best policy." 
 
 6* 
 
PREJUDICE. 
 
 AMONG the hardy pioneers who first settled along the 
 borders of the Ohio, was an Englishman, with two sons. 
 These were twins,, and his only children. He was half 
 husbandman and half hunter, and the two boys follow 
 ed his double vocation, They were seldom separated, 
 and never seemed happy but in each other's society. 
 If one was engaged in any employment, the other must 
 share it. Jf one took his rifle, and plunged into the 
 forest in pursuit of the wild deer, the other, as a matter 
 of course, took his, and became his companion. They 
 thus grew up together, participating in each other's pleas 
 ures and fatigues and dangers. They were therefore 
 united, not only by the ties of kindred and a common 
 home, but by a thousand recollections of silvan sports, 
 and wild adventures, and hair-breadth escapes, enjoyed 
 or experienced in each other's company. 
 
 About the time that these brothers were entering 
 upon manhood, the French and Indian war broke out 
 along our western frontier. In one of the bloody skir 
 mishes that soon followed, the father and the two sons 
 were engaged. The former was killed, and one of the 
 twins being taken by the French troops, was carried 
 away, 
 
 The youth that remained, returned after the fight to 
 
PREJUDICE. 63 
 
 his father's home; but it was to him a disconsolate 
 and desolate spot. His mother had been dead for years : 
 his father was slain, and his only brother he that was 
 bound to him by a thousand ties, was taken by the en 
 emy and carried away, he knew not whither. But it 
 seemed that he could not live in separation from him. 
 Accordingly, he determined to visit Montreal, where he 
 understood his brother had been taken ; but, about this 
 time, he was told that he had died of wounds received 
 in the skirmish which had proved fatal to the father, 
 and brought captivity to the son. 
 
 The young man, therefore, for a time abandoned him 
 self to grief; but at last he went to Marietta, and after 
 a few years was married and became the father of sev 
 eral children. But the habits and tastes of his early life 
 were still upon him, and after some years he migrated 
 farther into the wilderness, and settled down upon the 
 banks of the Sandusky river. Here he begun to fell 
 the trees and clear the ground, and had soon a farm 
 of cultivated land, sufficient for all his wants. 
 
 But the forrester was still a moody and discontented 
 man. His heart was indeed full of kindness to his 
 family ; but the death of his brother had left a blank 
 in his bosom, which nothing seemed to fill. Time, it 
 is true, gradually threw its veil over early memories, 
 and softened the poignancy of regret for the loss of 
 a brother that had seemed a part of himself, and whose 
 happiness was dearer than his own. But still, that 
 separation had given a bias to his mind and a cast to 
 his character, which no subsequent event, or course of 
 circumstances could change. He was at heart a soli- 
 
64 PREJUDICE. 
 
 tary man yearning indeed for the pleasure of so 
 ciety, yet always keeping himself aloof from mankind. 
 He had planted himself in the wilderness, far from 
 any other settlement, as if purposely burying himself 
 in the tomb of the forest. 
 
 There was one trait which strongly marked the char 
 acter of this man ; and that was, a detestation of every 
 thing French. This, doubtless, originated in the fact, 
 that his brother's captivity and death were chargeable 
 to the French army, and he naturally enough learned 
 to detest every thing that could be associated with the 
 cause of that event which darkened his whole existence. 
 A striking evidence of this deep and bitter prejudice, 
 was furnished by the manner in which the forrester 
 treated a Frenchman who lived on the opposite side of 
 the Sandusky river, and who was, in fact, the only person 
 that could be esteemed his neighbor. Being divided 
 by a considerable river, the two men were not likely 
 to meet except by design ; and as the Frenchman was 
 advised of the prejudice of his neighbor against his 
 countrymen, there was no personal intercourse between 
 them. 
 
 Thus they lived for many years, their families some 
 times meeting ; but quarrel and altercation almost in 
 variably ensued upon such occasions. In all these 
 cases, it was the custom of the farmer to indulge in 
 harsh reflections upon the French character, and each 
 action of his neighbor was commented upon with bitter 
 ness. Every unfavorable rumor touching the French 
 man's character, however improbable, was readily be 
 lieved ; and his actions, that deserved commendation 
 
PREJUDICE . 65 
 
 rather than blame, were distorted into evil, by misrep 
 resentation or the imputation of bad motives. 
 
 Thus these two families, living in the solitude of the 
 mighty forest, and impelled, it would seem, by the love 
 of sympathy and society, to companionship, were still 
 separated by a single feeling that of prejudice. The 
 two men, so far as they knew, had never met, and 
 had never seen each other ; but that strange feeling of 
 the human breast, that judges without evidence and 
 decides without consulting truth or reason, parted them 
 like a brazen wall. Under circumstances, when every 
 thing around might seem to enforce kindness upon the 
 heart ; even here, amid the majesty of nature's prime 
 val forest, and away from the ferment of passions en 
 gendered amid towns and villages ; to this lone spot the 
 tempter had also migrated, and put into the bosom of 
 man the serpent of an evil passion. 
 
 Thus things passed, till the two men had numbered 
 nearly eighty years. At last, the rumor came to the 
 farmer that the Frenchman was dying and it was re 
 marked that a smile, as of pleasure, passed over his 
 furrowed face. Soon after, a messenger came, saying 
 that the dying Frenchman wished to see his neighbor, 
 and begging him, in the name of Heaven, to comply with 
 his request. Thus urged, the old man took his staff, 
 proceeded to the river, and being set across in a boat, 
 advanced toward the Frenchman's cabin. As he ap 
 proached it, he saw the aged man reclining upon a 
 bed of bear-skins, beneath a group of trees, near his 
 house. By his side were his children, consisting of sev 
 eral grown-up men and women. They were kneeling, 
 
66 PREJUDICE. 
 
 and in tears, but as the farmer approached, they rose, 
 and at a sign from their dying father, stood a little 
 apart, while the stranger approached. The Frenchman 
 held out his hand, and said in a feeble voice, " Brother 
 I am dying let us part in peace." 
 
 Our old farmer took the cold hand, and tears un 
 wonted tears coursed down his cheeks. For a mo 
 ment he could not speak. But at last he said " My 
 friend, you speak English and you call me brother. 
 I thought you was a Frenchman, and I have ever 
 esteemed a Frenchman as an enemy. And God knows 
 I have cause for I had once a brother, indeed. He 
 came into life at the same hour as myself for we were 
 twins : and all our early days were passed in undivided 
 companionship. Our hearts were one, for we had no 
 hopes or fears, no wants or wishes, no pleasures or 
 pastimes, that were not mutually shared. But in an 
 evil hour I was robbed of that brother by the French 
 army. My father fell in the fight, and since that dark 
 day, my life has been shadowed with sorrow." 
 
 A convulsion seemed to shake the emaciated form 
 of the sick old man, and for a time he could not speak. 
 At last, he faltered forth " Have you never seen your 
 brother since that day 1 " 
 
 " Never ! " said the other. 
 
 " Then you see him, here ! " said the Frenchman 
 and falling backward upon his couch of skins a 
 slight tremor ran over his frame, and he was no more. 
 
 The explanation of the scene was this. The lifeless 
 man was indeed the brother of the farmer. After being 
 taken by the French troops, as has been related, he was 
 
PREJUDICE. 67 
 
 conducted to Montreal, where he was detained for 
 nearly two years. After his release, he retraced his 
 steps to his former home, on the banks of the Ohio, 
 but found his birthplace deserted : he also learned the 
 death of his father and the departure of his brother. 
 For years he sought the latter in vain, and at last re 
 turned to Montreal. Here he married, and after some 
 years, removed, with a numerous family, to the borders 
 of the Sandusky. He at length discovered that his 
 nearest neighbor was his brother ; but having found him 
 self repulsed as a Frenchman, and treated rather like a 
 robber, than a friend, a feeling of injury and dislike 
 had arisen in his breast and therefore he kept the se 
 cret in his bosom, till it was spoken in the last moments 
 of existence. 
 
 Thus it happened, in the tale we have told, that pre 
 judice obstinately indulged, prevented the discovery 
 of an important truth, and kept the mind that was the 
 subject of it, wrapped in gloom and sorrow for years, 
 which might otherwise have been blessed by the realiz 
 ing of its fondest hopes. And thus prejudice often 
 prevents a man from discovering that the object of his 
 dislike, could he see and know him as he is is indeed 
 a man and, as such, a brother. 
 
THE RAINBOW BRIDGE. 
 
 LOVE and Hope and Youth, together 
 Travelling once in stormy weather, 
 Met a deep and gloomy tide, 
 Flowing swift and dark and wide. 
 'T was named the river of Despair, 
 And many a wreck was floating there ! 
 The urchins paused, with faces grave, 
 Debating how to cross the wave, 
 When lo! the curtain of the storm 
 Was severed, and the rainbow's form 
 Stood against the parting cloud, 
 Emblem of peace on trouble's shroud! 
 Hope pointed to the signal flying, 
 And the three, their shoulders plying, 
 O'er the stream the light arch threw 
 A rainbow bridge of loveliest hue ! 
 Now, laughing as they tripped it o'er, 
 They gaily sought the other shore : 
 But soon the hills began to frown, 
 And the bright sun went darkly down. 
 Though their step was light and fleet, 
 The rainbow vanished 'neath their feet, 
 And down they went, the giddy things ! 
 But Hope put forth his ready wings, 
 
THE RAINBOW BRIDGE. 
 
 And clinging Love and Youth he bore 
 In triumph to the other shore. 
 But ne'er I ween should mortals deem 
 On rainbow bridge to cross a stream, 
 Unless bright, buoyant Hope is nigh, 
 And, light with Love and Youth, they fly. 
 
 69 
 
TOOT-PRINTS. 
 
 A PEASANT'S cottage stood in the midst of a wide 
 common ; and, as I passed it in the morning, the scene 
 around was wrapped in a mantle of the purest snow. 
 This had fallen during the night ; and, as the air had 
 been still, it was of a uniform depth. Not a foot-print, 
 as yet, had broken its surface ; for the peasant had not 
 gone forth. Not even the track of the familiar cat or 
 sentinel dog was visible before the door. I passed on ; 
 and, as there was nothing in the scene to fix my atten 
 tion, I thought no more of it at the time. But, as eve 
 ning approached, I was returning to my home, and 
 again I passed the cottage. I now remarked that the 
 snow around it was not unbroken as before ; but it was 
 marked by a variety of feet that had been busy during 
 the day in walking hither and thither. There was the 
 impress of the peasant's hob-nailed shoe ; of the wife's 
 more delicate slipper; of children's feet, of two sizes; 
 and then of a cat and dog. And these foot-prints seemed 
 to tell what each individual had done. I did not pause to 
 read the minute record of each ; but a hasty glance told 
 of the labors of the peasant, and of his visits to a little 
 thatched barn ; and of the call which his wife had made 
 upon a neighbor at a little distance. The winding and 
 mazy traces of the children's feet, told of the pranks 
 
FO OT-PRINTS. 71 
 
 and frolics of young and thoughtless life. The foot 
 prints of the cat showed that she had prowled beneath 
 benches, and trees, and bushes, in search of mice ; and 
 the tracks of the dog told of his visits to the road-side 
 to greet the passers-by. 
 
 I was in a moralizing mood, and there was a mean 
 ing in this scene, to me, which I did not forget. It 
 seemed that each individual, as he stepped upon that 
 carpet of snow, wrote the history of every act, and left 
 it legible to all eyes ; and I thought to myself, were it 
 really so in all our thoughts and actions, how often 
 would the writing be such as we should be glad to 
 efface! And then, again, it occurred to my mind, that 
 such a record is actually kept, written in more endur 
 ing characters than foot-prints in the snow ! 
 
IOVE OF NATURE. 
 
 THERE are three kinds of affectation to which a large 
 portion of mankind are addicted. Shakspeare said 
 without one particle of truth, however that he who 
 hath not music in his soul, is fit for treason, stratagem, 
 and spoils ! The interpretation of this is, that he 
 who has not an ear for music is a scoundrel ; to avoid 
 which impolite appellation, every body professes to love 
 music; though, to my certain knowledge, many very 
 excellent people detest it. 
 
 Every body pretends to be fond of pictures, every 
 body except my friend, Parson Flint. He is an honest 
 man, a perfect transparency, and he confesses that 
 he could never raise a picture; by which he means 
 that to his eye the canvass even of Raphael is but a flat 
 surface, without distance or perspective, and possessing 
 not the slightest resemblance to the world of realities. 
 Such honesty of confession is rare, and perhaps such 
 inaptitude of perception, also. But how many persons 
 are there, who know nothing and feel nothing of the 
 beauty of paintings, and who yet talk of them in terms of 
 rapture, bestow upon them all the admiring epithets in 
 our language, and pretend to point out their peculiar 
 beauties with the air of that compound of science and 
 sensibility an amateur ! 
 
LOVEOFNATURE. 73 
 
 The third species of prevalent affectation is that of 
 the love of nature a love common upon the lips, 
 though seldom in the heart. Not but that every eye 
 may see and appreciate the difference between a fair 
 sky and a foul one, between a winter landscape and one 
 that is redolent of spring. There are few who do not 
 perceive beauty in flowers, in rushing waters, in waving 
 woods, in far-off mountains wreathed with azure, in 
 meadows decked with blossoms gaudy as a queen with 
 gems. There are few, indeed, who can resist the 
 appeal of these to the heart ; but if there are any such, 
 they are generally ostentatious pretenders to the love of 
 nature. I know of none whose souls are more truly 
 dead to the voice of God speaking through his works, 
 than those upon whose lips you constantly hear the 
 words " beautiful," " exquisite," " delightful," " charm 
 ing," " superb," " romantic," " delicious," &c. &c. 
 
 I cannot better enforce what I mean than by giving 
 a sketch from life. You must know, fair reader, that I 
 am a country gentleman, and a bachelor ; and, living 
 near the metropolis, I am often visited by my city ac 
 quaintances, especially about the time of " strawberries 
 and cream." It was but yesterday that I was favored 
 with a call from Miss Eleanor Flower, whom every 
 body in town who is any body knows to be a lady 
 of the first rank and fashion. She has had all the advan 
 tages which wealth can give, such as instruction, 
 travel, society ; to which may be added the experience of 
 thirty years confessed, besides some half dozen more, 
 concealed behind curls, lace, and other necromantic 
 arts of the toilet. 
 
74 LOVEOFNATURE. 
 
 Now, Miss Eleanor Flower is a lively lady; and 
 yesterday was a fair, bright day ; and June, you know, 
 is the zenith of our year. So we met joyously ; and we 
 walked forth into the garden, and then nothing would 
 do but a ramble through the woods. On we went, 
 Miss Flower, my simple niece, Alice Dunn, and myself. 
 Every thing was indeed beautiful; and, for once, my 
 city visiter seemed to feel. She had, it is true, the 
 usual sign of affectation and stupidity the constant 
 use of such words as " fine," " exquisite," "beautiful," 
 " charming," the unmeaning generalities by which 
 those who are conscious of some hypocritical pretence, 
 endeavor to hide their hypocrisy. But still these terms 
 were uttered with such warmth by my fair friend, that 
 for a time I was deceived. I began to feel that she had 
 a soul; and her hazel eyes really looked sentimental 
 a fact which goes far to prove a theory I have long 
 I maintained, that there is a power about women at certain 
 times, which resembles, in no small degree, the fatal 
 fascination imputed to the rattlesnake a power which 
 binds its victim in a spell of bewildering delight, yet 
 only to draw him down to destruction. 
 
 Our little party wandered on through the woods for 
 more than an hour ; and all was delightful. Miss 
 Flower fairly exhausted the vocabulary of pleasure; 
 and nothing seemed amiss, except that now and then 
 she was a little horrified at a toad ; or she screamed 
 slightly at a bumble-bee that buzzed saucily in her ear, 
 because he was disturbed in his breakfast of nectar 
 amid the wild honeysuckles; or perchance she made 
 the rather ungraceful and impatient sign of the mus- 
 
LOVEOFNATURE. 75 
 
 quito a sign which can only be forgiven by those 
 who look upon women as human creatures, and not as 
 angels. 
 
 At last we were fairly tired, and all three sat down 
 upon the bank of a rivulet to rest. I was seated apart ; 
 and, as the two ladies were arranging some little matters 
 of dress which had been disturbed by the thorns and 
 brambles of our walk, it was proper for me to appear 
 absorbed in a brown study. I therefore looked into 
 the brook, and was soon considered out of earshot 
 by my companions. My feelings were, however, so 
 much interested in Miss Flower, that I distinctly heard 
 the following conversation, though I earnestly strove 
 to avoid it : 
 
 Miss F. Really, the country is a horrid bore. It 
 may be well enough to talk about ; but what is it, after 
 all ? Bugs and bumble-bees, and toads and musqui- 
 toes ! These are the whole of it. 
 
 Alice. But you seem to forget the flowers you 
 praised so much a short time since, to my uncle. 
 
 Miss F. Flowers are very well ; for they furnish 
 designs for the milliners. But art is superior to nature ; 
 for artificial flowers do not fade arid fall to pieces; 
 besides, they have a pleasing effect upon a bonnet or 
 a flounce; while natural flowers, even according to the 
 poet, are often 
 
 " born to blush unseen, 
 And waste their sweetness on the desert air." 
 
 No, no ; flowers are nothing in themselves ; but they 
 are turned to good account by art. Thus a flower 
 
76 LOVEOFNATURE. 
 
 sugggested that beautiful dress of the time of Henri 
 IV., in which a lady was attired so as to have the form 
 of a blossom the high, pointed ruff representing the 
 calyx; the head, dressed long and smooth, being an 
 image of the pistil. 
 
 Alice. But what do you think of the woods? You 
 spoke of them in terms of rapture, a short time ago. 
 
 Miss F. O, that 's a mere matter of fashion. You 
 must talk in that kind of way. But what can be more 
 detestable than to toil along in a rough path, spoiling 
 your dress, growing red in the face and neck, and 
 tormented with musquitoes? It's enough to ruin the 
 temper of a saint. No, no ; one must go to the country 
 once in a while, and take a walk in the woods, just to 
 speak of it. But that 's all. It is sometimes necessary 
 to be sentimental ; for there are some persons who are 
 taken with that sort of thing, and there is no way of 
 introducing sentimentality so easily as to begin with 
 the country. Very young men and very old bachelors 
 are caught with thin webs ; but they must be spread in 
 the country. You must talk of love in a cottage; of 
 shady walks ; of retired woods ; of winding dells ; of 
 grottoes cooled by waters breathing forth soft music ; 
 of twittering birds, billing, cooing, and building nests ; 
 of morning, with its refreshing dews shining like dia 
 monds on every leaf; of evening, made for lovers, and 
 the moon, that favors all, yet reveals nothing. 
 
 Alice. Really, this is quite a new view of things. 
 Pray, were you not in earnest when you were speaking 
 to my uncle so warmly about the " romantic eloquence 
 of twilight," 
 
LOVEOFNATURE. 77 
 
 Miss F. In earnest? Why, Alice, are you yet a 
 child? Do you really suppose I could be in earnest? 
 It is very well, no doubt, to talk about evening, and 
 twilight, and the starry canopy of heaven. But while 
 you are walking along, discoursing of these things, it 
 is ten to one that a horn-bug smites you full in the 
 face. 
 
 Alice. A horn-bug? 
 
 Miss F. Yes, a horn-bug saucy thing ! and I J d 
 rather meet a man in the dark than a horn-bug ! 
 
 This remark drew an exclamation from Alice ; and 
 I could not forbear turning round and looking the 
 two ladies in the face. This put a sudden stop to the 
 dialogue ; and now, being fully rested, we set out and 
 returned home. Miss Eleanor Flower soon departed ; 
 and I forgot her in reading the following description 
 of a genuine child of Nature, by old Davenant ; 
 
 " To Astragon Heaven for succession gave 
 
 One onely pledge, and Bertha was her name ; 
 Whose mother slept where flow'rs grew on her grave, 
 And she succeeded her in face and fame. 
 
 " Her beauty princes durst not hope to use, 
 
 Unless, like poets, for their morning theam ; 
 And her minde's beauty they would rather choose, 
 Which did the light in beauty's lantern seem. 
 
 " She ne 'r saw courts, yet courts could have undone. 
 
 With untaught looks, and an unpractised heart, 
 Her nets, the most prepar'd could never shun, 
 For .Nature spread them in the scorn of Art. 
 
 " She never had in busie cities bin ; 
 
 Nc'r warm'd with hopes, nor ere allayed with fears ; 
 Not seeing punishment, could guess no sin ; 
 And sin not seeing, ne'r had use of tears." 
 
THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 
 
 IN the picturesque State of Connecticut, there is 
 not a spot more beautiful than the village of Pompe- 
 raug. It is situated not very far from the western 
 border of the State, and derives its name from a small 
 tribe of Indians, who once inhabited it. It presents a 
 small, but level valley, surrounded by hills, with a bright 
 stream rippling through its meadows. The tops of the 
 high grounds which skirt the valley are covered with 
 forests, but the slopes are smooth with cultivation, 
 nearly to their summits. In the time of verdure, the 
 valley shows a vividness of green like that of velvet, 
 while the forests are dark with the rich hues supposed 
 to be peculiar to the climate of England. 
 
 The village of Pomperaug consists now of about two 
 hundred houses, with three white churches, arranged 
 on a street passing along the eastern margin of the 
 valley. At the distance of about sixty rods from this 
 street, and running parallel to it for nearly a mile, is a 
 rock, or ledge of rocks, of considerable elevation. 
 From the top of this, a distinct survey of the place 
 may be obtained almost at a glance. Beginning at the 
 village, the spectator may count every house, and mea 
 sure every garden ; he may compare the three churches, 
 which now seem drawn close together ; he may trace the 
 
THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 79 
 
 winding path of the river by the trees which bend over 
 its waters; he may enumerate the white farm-houses 
 which dot the surface of the valley ; he may repose his 
 eye on the checkered carpet which lies unrolled before 
 him, or it may climb to the horizon over the dark-blue 
 hills which form the border of this enchanting picture. 
 
 The spot which we have thus described did not long 
 lie concealed from the prying sagacity of the first set 
 tlers of the colony of New Haven. Though occupied 
 by a tribe of savages, as before intimated, it was very 
 early surveyed by more than one of the emigrants. In 
 the general rising of the Indians in Philip's war, this 
 tribe took part with the Pequods, and a large portion 
 of them shared in their destruction. The chief himself 
 was killed. His son, still a boy, with a remnant of his 
 father's people, returned to their native valley, and lived 
 for a time on terms of apparent submission to the 
 English. 
 
 The period had now arrived when the young chief 
 had reached the age of manhood. He took, as was the 
 custom with his fathers, the name of his tribe, and was 
 accordingly called Pomperaug. He was tall, and finely 
 formed, with an eye that gleamed like the flashes of a 
 diamond. He was such an one as the savage would look 
 upon with idolatry. His foot was swift as that of the 
 deer ; his arrow sure as the pursuit of the eagle ; his 
 sagacity penetrating as the light of the sun. 
 
 Such was Pomperaug. But his nation was passing 
 away, and but fifty of his own tribe now dwelt in the 
 valley in which his fathers had hunted for ages. The 
 day of their dominion had gone. There was a spell 
 
80 THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 
 
 over the dark warrior. The Great Spirit had sealed 
 his doom. So thought the remaining Indians in the 
 valley of Pomperaug, and they sullenly submitted to a 
 fate which they could not avert. 
 
 It was therefore without resistance, and, indeed, with 
 expressions of amity, that they received a small com 
 pany of English settlers into the valley. This company 
 consisted of about thirty persons from the New-Haven 
 colony, under the spiritual charge of the Reverend 
 Noah Benison. He was a man of great age, but still 
 of uncommon mental and bodily vigor. His years had 
 passed the bourn of threescore and ten, and his hair 
 was white as snow. But his tall and broad form was 
 yet erect, and his cane, of smooth hickory with a 
 golden head, was evidently a thing " more of ornament 
 than use." 
 
 Mr. Benison had brought with him the last remnant 
 of his family. She was the daughter of his only son, 
 who, with his wife, had slept many years in the tomb. 
 Her name was Mary ; and well might she be the object 
 of all the earthly affections which still beat in the bosom 
 of one whom death had made acquainted with sorrow, 
 and who but for her hadjbeen left alone. 
 
 Mary Benison was now seventeen years of age. She 
 had received her education in England, and had been 
 but a few months in America. She was tall and slender, 
 with a dark, expressive eye, whose slow movements 
 seemed full of soul and sincerity. Her hair was of a glossy 
 black, parted upon a forehead of ample and expressive 
 beauty. When at rest, her appearance was not striking ; 
 but, if she spoke or moved, she fixed the attention of 
 
THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 81 
 
 every beholder by the dignity of her air, and the tone 
 of tender, yet serious sentiment, which was peculiar to 
 her. 
 
 The settlers had been in the valley but a few months, 
 when some matter of business relative to a purchase of 
 land, brought Pomperaug to the hut of Mr. Benison. 
 It was a bright morning in autumn, and while he was 
 talking with Mr. Benison at the door, Mary, who had 
 been gathering flowers in the woods, passed by them 
 and entered the hut. The eye of the young Indian 
 followed her with a gaze of entrancement. His face 
 gleamed as if he had seen a vision of more than earthly 
 beauty. But this emotion was visible only for a mo 
 ment. With the habitual self-command of a savage, he 
 turned again to Mr. Benison, and calmly pursued the 
 subject which occasioned their meeting. 
 
 Pomperaug went away, but he carried the image of 
 Mary with him. He retired to his wigwam, but it did 
 not please him. He went to the top of the rock, at the 
 foot of which his hut was situated, and which now goes 
 under the name of Pomperaug's Castle, and looked 
 down upon the river, which was flashing in the slant 
 rays of the morning. He turned away, and sent his long 
 gaze over the checkered leaves of the forest, which, like 
 a sea, spread over the valley. He was still dissatisfied. 
 With a single leap he sprang from the rock, and, alight 
 ing on his feet, snatched his bow and took the path 
 which led into the forest. In a few moments he came 
 back, and seating himself on the rock, brooded for some 
 hours in silence. 
 
 The next morning, Pomperaug repaired to the house 
 
 8 
 
82 THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 
 
 of Mr. Benison, to finish the business of the preceding 
 day. He had before signified an inclination to accede 
 to the terms proposed by Mr. Benison; but he now 
 started unexpected difficulties. On being asked the rea 
 son, he answered as follows : 
 
 " Listen, father hear a red man speak ! Look into 
 the air, and you see the eagle. The sky is his home ; 
 and doth the eagle love his home ? Will he barter it 
 for the sea ? Look into the river, and ask the fish that 
 is there if he will sell it? Go to the dark-skinned 
 hunter, and demand of him if he will part with his 
 forests 1 Yet, father, I will part with my forests, if you 
 will give me the singing-bird that is in thy nest." 
 
 " Savage," said the pilgrim, with a mingled look of 
 disgust and indignation, " will the lamb lie down in the 
 den of the wolf I Never! Dream not of it. I would 
 sooner see her die. Name it not." As he spoke, he 
 struck his cane forcibly on the ground, and his broad 
 figure seemed to expand and grow taller, while his eye 
 gleamed and the muscles of his brow contracted with a 
 lowering and angry expression. The change of the old 
 man's appearance was sudden and striking. The air 
 and manner of the Indian, too, was changed. There 
 was now a kindled fire in his eye, a proud dignity in his 
 manner, which a moment before was not there ; they 
 had stolen unseen upon him, with that imperceptible 
 progress by which the dull colors of the snake, when he 
 becomes enraged, are succeeded by the glowing hues of 
 the rainbow. 
 
 The two now parted, and Pomperaug would not again 
 enter into any negotiations for a sale of his lands. He 
 
THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 83 
 
 kept himself, indeed, aloof from the English, and cul 
 tivated rather a hostile spirit in his people toward them. 
 
 As might have been expected, difficulties soon grew 
 up between the two parties, and violent feelings were 
 shortly excited on both sides. These soon broke out 
 into open quarrels, and one of the white men was shot 
 by a savage, lurking in the woods. This determined 
 the settlers to seek instant revenge; and accordingly 
 they followed the Indians into the broken and rocky 
 districts which lie east of the valley, whither, expecting 
 pursuit, they had retreated. 
 
 It was about an hour before sunset, when the Eng 
 lish, consisting of twenty well-armed men, led by their 
 reverend pastor, were marching through a deep ravine, 
 about two miles east of the town. The rocks on either 
 side were lofty; and so narrow was the dell, that the 
 shadows of night had already gathered over it. The 
 pursuers had sought their enemy the whole day in vain, 
 and, having lost all trace of them, they were now return 
 ing to their homes. Suddenly a wild yell burst from 
 the rocks at their feet, and twenty savages sprang up 
 before them. An arrow pierced the breast of the pil 
 grim leader, and he fell. Two Indians were shot, and 
 the remainder fled. Several of the English were 
 wounded, but none mortally, save the aged pastor. 
 
 With mournful silence they bore back the body of 
 their father. He was buried in a sequestered nook 
 of the forest, and, with a desolate and breaking heart, 
 the orphan Mary turned away from his grave, to be for 
 the first time alone in their humble house in the wilder 
 ness. 
 
84 THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 
 
 A year passed. The savages had disappeared, and 
 the rock on which the pilgrim met his death had been 
 consecrated by many prayers. His blood was still visi 
 ble on the spot, and his people often came with rever 
 ence to kneel there, and offer up their petitions. The 
 place they called Bethel Rock ; and piously they deemed 
 that their hearts were visited here with the richest gifts 
 of heavenly grace. 
 
 It was a sweet evening in summer when Mary Beni- 
 son, for the last time, went to spend an hour at this holy 
 spot. Long had she knelt, and most fervently had she 
 prayed. O, who can tell the bliss of that communion, 
 to which a pure heart is admitted in the hours of soli 
 tude and silence! The sun went down, and as the veil 
 of evening fell, the full moon climbed over the eastern 
 ledge, pouring its silver light into the valley; and Mary 
 was still kneeling, still communing with Him who seeth 
 in secret. 
 
 At length a slight noise, like the crushing of a leaf, 
 woke her from her trance ; and with quickness and agi 
 tation she set out on her return. Alarmed at her dis 
 tance from home at such an hour, she proceeded with 
 great rapidity. She was obliged to climb up the face 
 of the rocks with care, as the darkness rendered it a 
 critical and dangerous task. At length she reached 
 the top. Standing upon the verge of the cliff, she then 
 turned a moment to look back upon the valley. The 
 moon was shining full upon the vale, and she gazed 
 with a mixture of awe and delight upon the sea of silvery 
 leaves , which slept in deathlike repose beneath her. 
 
THE LEGEND OF BETHEL ROCK. 85 
 
 She then turned to pursue her path homeward; but 
 what was her amazement to see before her, in the full 
 moonlight, the tall form of Pomperaug ! She shrieked, 
 and, swift as his own arrow, she sprung over the dizzy 
 cliff. The Indian listened; there was a moment of 
 silence, then a heavy sound, and the dell was still as the 
 tomb. 
 
 The fate of Mary was known only to Pomperaug. He 
 buried her, with a lover's care, amid the rocks of the 
 glen. Then, bidding adieu to his native valley, he 
 joined his people, who had retired to the banks of the 
 Housatonic. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Almost half a century subsequent to this event, a 
 rumor ran through the village of Pomperaug, that some 
 Indians were seen at night, bearing a heavy burden 
 along the margin of the river, which swept the base of 
 Pomperaug's Castle. In the morning, a spot was found 
 on a gentle hill near by, where the fresh earth showed 
 that the ground had been recently broken. A low heap 
 of stones on the place revealed the secret. They re 
 main there to this day ; and the little mound is shown 
 by the villagers as Pomperaug's grave. 
 
 8* 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 IT is a startling paradox, but nevertheless it is true, 
 that mankind sometimes set about cheating themselves. 
 There is nothing in the mazy labyrinths of the human 
 heart so strange, so absurd, as self-deception. That a 
 man should enter into a conspiracy against himself; 
 that one part of him should play hide-and-seek with 
 another ; that the sly and trickish intellect should put on 
 a mask and seek to dupe honest plodding conscience ; is 
 one of those anomalies in human nature, which may 
 well excite our utmost wonder. Perhaps the true ex 
 planation of this problem may be, that conscience, like 
 some divinity within, acts without our volition, and is 
 felt to be an independent agent. We regard it, per 
 haps, as a spy upon our thoughts, or as filling the place 
 of the All-seeing judge, and if we hoodwink this, we 
 may fancy that our actions pass unseen and unrecorded. 
 However this may be, a familiar instance will render 
 the fact of self-deception plain and palpable. 
 
 A poor man at the end of a week's work, has five 
 dollars in his pocket, which his family needs for their 
 comfort. As he passes the door of a grog-shop, the 
 question arises, shall I stop and expend this money in 
 gambling and licentiousness with these boon compan 
 ions - or shall I go home, and bestow it in blessings 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 87 
 
 on my family 1 The question is, which is the best way 
 which will yield the man most happiness ? 
 
 Here truth and conscience present the whole case. 
 "If you go home, you will see that place rendered 
 cheerful and bright by your presence, and the results of 
 your toil. You will share in the confidence and bles 
 sings of a cheerful wife, and the affection of happy 
 children. If you do otherwise if you spend your 
 money here, you will reduce yourself to the degrada 
 tion of a brute, and on the morrow you will suffer all 
 the pangs of outraged nerves, rendered more poignant 
 by the reproaches of conscience setting before you a 
 wife deserted a family neglected and the paradise 
 of home converted into a scene of misery, because a hus 
 band and a father turns spoiler and betrayer." 
 
 Here then is the whole truth, fairly presented : but 
 now comes the process of self-deception. A veil is 
 dexterously drawn over this side of the picture, or per 
 haps it is forcibly thrust out of view while the other 
 is contemplated with a fond and favoring fancy. The 
 mad delights of the bowl, the fierce revelry, the be 
 wildering joys of intoxication, come over the yielding 
 fancy like a spell. Thus passion presses its instant 
 claims, and the conquest is already made. The vic 
 tim, though he has actually made up his mind, still 
 pretends to one part of himself, that he has not done so. 
 "I will go home to my family," says he, whispering in 
 the ear of conscience at the same time, he enters the 
 gate of perdition. " I will step in and take one draught, 
 and then I will go home." He goes in, and is lost. 
 / Such is self-deception such is the enemy within 
 
88 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 the fortress, too often ready to betray it. In morals, as 
 well as in war, there are more garrisons lost by treason 
 in the camp, than by the assailants without the wall. 
 The great strife in the pursuit of truth is, to guard 
 against self-betrayal. 
 
 One of the commonest instances of self-delusion, is 
 that in which a man's wishes, passions, or interest lie on 
 one side of a question. In this case, he covers up the 
 truth that presents itself on the side against his wishes, 
 or at least he puts it in the back-ground, as of little 
 weight or importance ; while he brings into full light, 
 and bestows exaggerated consideration upon, those cir 
 cumstances which accord with his desires. He thus 
 uses in dealing with himself two sets of weights, and 
 both of them false. He weighs those things he wishes 
 to depreciate, with heavy weights ; and those he wishes 
 to have preponderate, he weighs with light ones. Un 
 der this process, nothing is correctly estimated noth 
 ing is seen in its proper place or proportions. The 
 mind is used as a spy-glass in looking through it 
 one way, all the objects are diminished and remote; 
 reverse it, and the scene is brought close to the eye, 
 and with enlarged dimensions. 
 
 Attachment to particular opinions is a common source 
 of self-delusion. A man's pride, his habits of thought, 
 his credit for sagacity, his self-esteem, all unite to cre 
 ate in him a desire to sustain and establish the creed 
 in religion or politics, with which he is connected. 
 Under such circumstances he will often shut his eyes 
 to the plainest and most palpable facts. An instance of 
 this is furnished by one of the English missionaries to 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 89 
 
 India. It appears that this individual had an interview 
 with a Hindoo priest, in which the doctrine of transmi 
 gration was under discussion. The Bramin main 
 tained this point of faith, and as one of its inferences, 
 contended that it was wrong even to destroy insects, for 
 these were doubtless associated with souls in some stage 
 of transmigration. To show the priest the impossibility 
 of observing this rule, the missionary argued that the 
 earth and the air were thronged with insects, so minute 
 as to escape observation, and that at every step in walk 
 ing, we necessarily crushed numbers of them. " Nay, 
 more," said the missionary, " the clearest water is 
 filled with little animals, and at every draught, you 
 swallow hundreds of these living things." 
 
 " I do not believe it I will not believe it," said 
 the Bramin. 
 
 " Then will I prove it to you," said the missionary, 
 and taking a microscope from his pocket, applied it 
 to a glass of water, and showed to the astonished Bra 
 min that it was alive with insects of varied forms, darting 
 and wriggling about with great activity. The priest 
 gazed through the glass for a moment and then dash 
 ing the instrument to the floor, and crushing it in pieces 
 with his heel, exclaimed " Still I will not believe 
 it!" 
 
 Thus it is in a thousand instances the wish is 
 father to the thought : that our feelings get the better of 
 our understandings : that the lamp of truth is volun 
 tarily put out, and some illusive meteor becomes our 
 chosen guide. 
 
 Prejudice is a common source of self-delusion. The 
 
90 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 mode by which it operates is, to blind the mind to 
 every truth which is favorable to its object, while every 
 thing that goes to sustain or establish it, is received, 
 believed and exaggerated. 
 
 " There is something," says a certain writer, " ex 
 ceedingly curious in the constitution and operation of 
 PREJUDICE. It has the singular ability of accommoda 
 ting itself to all the possible varieties of the human 
 mind. Some passions and vices are but thinly scattered 
 among mankind, and find only here and there a fitness 
 of reception. But prejudice, like the spider, makes 
 every where its home. It has neither taste, nor choice 
 of place, and all that it requires is room. There is 
 scarcely a situation, except fire and water, in which a 
 spider will not live. So let the mind be as naked as the 
 walls of an empty and forsaken tenement, gloomy as a 
 dungeon, or ornamented with the richest abilities of 
 thinking; let it be hot, cold, dark or light, lonely or 
 inhabited, still PREJUDICE, if undisturbed, will fill it 
 with cobwebs, and live, like the spider, where there 
 seems nothing to live on. 
 
 " If the one prepares her food by poisoning it to her 
 palate and use, the other does the same ; and as several 
 of our passions are strongly characterized by the ani 
 mal world, PREJUDICE may be denominated the spider 
 of the mind!" 
 
 Such is this evil passion this mingled obliquity of 
 mind and heart. Knowing it to be such, we still yield 
 to it, and in a large share of our actions toward man 
 kind, we permit ourselves to be swayed, or perchance 
 governed by it. This bad counsellor is often admitted 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 91 
 
 into village neighborhoods, and not unfrequently keeps 
 persons apart, or even in a state of active hostility, who 
 are entitled to each others esteem, and who, could they 
 see each other as they really are, would be united in 
 that friendship which is founded upon mutual confi 
 dence and mutual regard. 
 
 Beside these well-known sources of self-delusion, it 
 may be well to remark that habit exercises an almost 
 omnipotent control over us ; those therefore who seek the 
 guidance of truth, should be careful to guard against 
 errors from its influence. This is the more necessary, 
 from the fact that what we have often repeated, has 
 acquired a species of authority over our minds, from 
 repetition alone. We are not only apt to do as we have 
 done before; not only are the wheels of thought in 
 clined to slide into and follow out the tracks which they 
 have themselves made but we are reluctant to doubt, 
 to question even, whether a path we have often trodden 
 is the right one. Thus, in the formation of our habits 
 we voluntarily mark out roads which we know our feet 
 are likely to follow. 
 
 Among the habits of mind most to be feared, is that 
 of credulity an indulgence of the disposition to be 
 lieve without evidence. This is not, perhaps, an un- 
 amiable characteristic certainly it is often associated 
 with great moral excellence. But to what labyrinths 
 of error does it not lead ? of what delusions is it not 
 the parent. It is to this species of credulity that tales 
 of ghosts and haunted houses are addressed. It is for 
 such morbid appetites that legends of witchcraft and 
 necromancy are handed down from age to age. The 
 
92 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 proper remedy for the disease of credulity is, to bring 
 every thing as far as possible to the test of common 
 sense. A calm inquiry into facts will usually exor 
 cise the most inveterate ghost, and restore any haunted 
 house to a good reputation. A tradition of Charles II. 
 of England furnishes a hint on this subject. He was a 
 member of some learned society, where it was the cus 
 tom to discuss profound questions of philosophy. On 
 one occasion his majesty intimated a desire to propound 
 an inquiry whereupon a respectful silence was ob 
 served. 
 
 " I wish to ask," said his majesty, " of this learned 
 society, why it is that when you put a fish into a vessel 
 filled with water, it will not run over?" 
 
 Various solutions of this curious fact were offered. 
 One learned philosopher explained it upon one theory, 
 and another upon another theory. But none of these 
 seemed quite satisfactory, and it was at last agreed that 
 no one present could answer the inquiry. It was there 
 fore requested that his majesty would offer his royal views 
 upon the matter. Thus solicited, King Charles spoke 
 as follows : " I asked you, gentlemen, why, if a fish is 
 put into a tub full of water, it will not run over. I 
 have only to say, that it will run over." 
 
 The first inquiry, then, in almost all cases, when any 
 extraordinary statement is made, should be this what 
 are the facts? This will often save a vast deal of won 
 dering, guessing, and philosophizing, which are usually 
 the entrances the gateways to the mists and mazes 
 of self-delusion. 
 
 Another pernicious habit, is that of incredulity. The 
 
~\ 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION. 93 
 
 man that doubts or denies every thing, is quite as likely 
 to be deceived, to be the dupe of error, as the credu 
 lous man. This habit too, like all others, grows by in 
 dulgence, until one may almost doubt his identity or his 
 existence. It soon becomes a part of character, and 
 then is usually associated with an ill opinion of man 
 kind, and not unfrequently leads to habitual satire and 
 spleen. I once knew a person of this species, who was 
 called upon as a witness to the reputation of one of his 
 neighbors. When asked by the lawyer what the character 
 of the witness was he replied, " bad, sir, very bad." 
 
 " But," said the lawyer, " I wish to know the char 
 acter of this man for truth and veracity." 
 
 " Bad, sir very bad, " said the witness. 
 
 " But," inquired the other, " I wish to know if the 
 man's character for truth and veracity is as good as 
 that of mankind in general ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the witness; "I have no doubt 
 that it is as good as that of mankind in general ; but it 
 is bad, very bad." 
 
 The spirit of satire is a frequent source of error. 
 This disposes the mind to see every thing in an unfa 
 vorable light ; to look upon the world through an un 
 even glass, which throws all objects into grotesque 
 attitudes. A man infected with this spirit, loves to see 
 the world in its undress to paint mankind in their 
 hours of weakness or folly and perhaps, not content 
 with this, will even bestow upon dignity itself some 
 association which imparts to it an air of ridicule. Such 
 a man is like a French marquis, who invited a large 
 dinner-party in the time of powdered wigs, taking care 
 
 9 
 
94 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 to place in the receiving-room a mirror, that gave an 
 oblique direction to every image thrown upon its sur 
 face. As the several visiters came, they adjusted their 
 wigs by the glass, and of course, in order to make them 
 appear upright, they gave them a slanting position. 
 When they were all seated at table, they presented a 
 grotesque appearance, and were a fair illustration of the 
 view a satirist takes of his fellow-men. His mind is a 
 mirror, the obliquity of which is imparted to every 
 thing it reflects. In such cases, the ridicule is not in 
 mankind, but in the satirist who abuses his own reason, 
 for he follows a standard of falsehood, and not of truth. 
 It is strange, but still it is a reality, that people who 
 value themselves for their wit who pretend to be bet 
 ter and wiser than other men, who assume the seat of 
 judgment, and pronounce their decisions upon the 
 world, with an air of authority, should themselves be 
 the voluntary dupes of their own evil habits : that rea 
 son a mirror of truth, as God and nature gave it 
 should be bent and twisted by its possessor, till it re 
 flects not things as they are, but as they are not, thus 
 becoming an instrument of delusion and error. 
 
 Another species of self-deception arises from an in 
 dulgence of the spirit of satire, till it results in a gree 
 diness, an avidity of lashing the ambition of saying 
 piquant and pungent things ; and which, at last, begets 
 an utter indifference to justice or truth. The biogra 
 pher of Byron tells us a curious instance of this. In 
 the first draught of the great poet's " British Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers," he introduced the following 
 line 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 95 
 
 " Topography I leave to stupid Gell." 
 
 In this state it went to press ; but a few evenings 
 before the proof was sent to him, Byron was introduced 
 to Sir W. Gell, and being treated by that gentleman 
 with some attention, he was pleased with him, and when 
 the proof-sheet came he altered the epithet " stupid " 
 to " classic," thus converting a contemptuous and con 
 demnatory couplet into one of eulogy and commenda 
 tion. Such is the justice of a determined satirist; 
 the colors with which he paints are not furnished by 
 the rainbow of truth, but by the capricious flickerings 
 of his own heart. He sees not things as they are, but 
 as they are reflected in an uneven glass. 
 
 Another source of delusion nearly allied to credulity, 
 is the love of the marvellous. This inclines the subject 
 of it to believe what is extraordinary merely because 
 it is so. To such a person, simple truth is insipid. It 
 is only the high-seasoned tale of the wild and wonder 
 ful, that pleases his palate. This disposition seems 
 born with some men, and the effort to correct it is re 
 luctant and painful. It is to persons of this cast that 
 ghosts usually pay their addresses and I fancy, if the 
 truth were known, that the hero of the Salem turnpike, 
 of whom the legend tells us, was one of these. As he 
 was passing along in the gray mists of the evening, a 
 solemn vision arrested his attention. A disembodied 
 spirit stood by the road-side, and with awful and ma 
 jestic air, lifted up its arm as if to warn the traveller 
 from proceeding on his journey ! Obedient to the mys 
 terious mandate, the traveller retraced his steps to Sa- 
 
96 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 lem, and told the tale. There were persons present 
 who had a fancy to see a ghost, and accordingly they 
 returned with the traveller to the spot where the vision 
 had appeared to him. There it stood, but on being ap 
 proached, it proved to be an honest pump, with its long 
 handle elevated at an angle of forty-five degrees ! 
 
 1 have heard another story which may afford a 
 lesson on this subject and it is of the more value, 
 that I have reason to believe it true. Some years ago, an 
 eminent physician of Hartford, in Connecticut, was 
 called to a patient in the adjacent town of Berlin. He 
 was detained by his duties there till past midnight, 
 when he set out on horseback, for his return. It was 
 winter, and the snow, about a foot deep, was incrusted 
 with ice, so as to bear a man upon its surface. It was 
 one of those clear frosty nights, when the " cold round 
 moon shines deeply down," imparting to nature an as 
 pect of melancholy repose, and suggesting the idea that 
 death has stolen in and turned sleep to dissolution. 
 
 The physician pushed his horse forward with a rapid 
 step, until, as he was passing a lonely grave-yard that lay at 
 some distance from the road, an object at once attracted 
 his attention, and curdled his heart with a cold and 
 chilling sensation. He saw, or fancied that he saw, the 
 form of a female, wrapped in a mantle scarcely less 
 white and dazzling than the moonlight, passing slow 
 ly over the space between the road and the grave-yard, 
 and advancing toward the latter. He drew in his reins, 
 and gazed steadily at the object, for several seconds. 
 It seemed to be no illusion. He imagined that he 
 could distinctly see the folds of drapery, and mark a 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 97 
 
 slow but gliding progress over the snow. But he could 
 hear no sound. He listened intently. Not a whisper 
 of the breeze was heard all nature seemed breath 
 less and even the foot-fall of the mysterious image 
 was noiseless as the tread of a spirit. 
 
 The physician was a man of nerve, and an habitual 
 disbeliever in ghosts ; but here seemed a refutation of 
 his creed. He passed his hand over his brow, as if to 
 assure himself that it was no illusion of his senses. He 
 gazed around, and gathered up his recollections of the 
 day, to determine whether he might not be dreaming. 
 He satisfied himself that it was no illusion, no dream. 
 There was the mysterious and unearthly figure, still 
 before him, and still proceeding with a noiseless and 
 gliding step toward the little collection of white tombs 
 at the extremity of the field. 
 
 The conduct of the physician was that which became 
 a man " I will know the truth," said he, " or perish 
 in the attempt." He sprang from his horse, and en 
 tering the field, proceeded directly toward the object of 
 his attention. It still continued to recede from him 
 but at last he seemed to approach it. Having reached 
 the grave-yard, it quietly seated itself upon a tomb by 
 the side of a new-made grave. As the physician came 
 near, the moonlight fell full upon the form, which 
 seemed to be that of a female ; but the face, which was 
 marked with indescribable sorrow, was pallid and col 
 orless as the stone upon which she sat. 
 
 The figure seemed not to notice the physician, but 
 there was something in the scene which touched him 
 with indescribable awe. He could not resist the idea 
 
93 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION 
 
 that he stood in the presence of a disembodied spirit 
 but still with a phrenzied effort he approached it and 
 laid his hand upon the shoulder. The figure started 
 uttered a wild shriek, and fell to the earth ! The phy 
 sician lifted her up, and found that it was a mother who 
 had walked forth in her sleep, wrapped in a sheet, to 
 visit the grave of her infant that had died the night be 
 fore, and for which the fresh tomb had been prepared. 
 
 The moral of this anecdote is plain ; resistance of the 
 impulses of superstition, resulted in explaining an ap 
 pearance, that had otherwise passed into a well-authen 
 ticated ghost. 
 
 A fertile cause of self-delusion is found in an indul 
 gence of the love of mysticism. This has been one of 
 the stumbling blocks to truth in all ages. It is confined 
 to no sect, to no country. It may be discovered among 
 the followers of Fo and Bramah; among the worshippers of 
 the Grand Lama and the devotees of Mahomet, and among 
 Christians of all creeds. It is a spirit in man, which 
 ebbs and flows like the eternal tides. Perhaps too, like 
 those very tides, which are the result of impulses given 
 to our earth by the heavenly bodies, that yearning 
 after the unseen and the spiritual is also a movement 
 deriving its origin from above. If it be so, surely we 
 should not abuse it to the purposes of error and evil. 
 
 The readiness of certain persons to be cheated by 
 medicinal quacks, may be traced in part to the love 
 of mysticism. The whole science of medicine is itself 
 peculiarly occult and hidden, in one respect. We 
 can never see the process by which medicine chases 
 away disease, and restores health. Even to the student 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 99 
 
 of medicine, this is a riddle ; to the credulous, the ima 
 ginative, the ignorant, there is something in it that par 
 takes of magic. They are prone, therefore, to believe 
 that the power of healing is a gift, and not an art that 
 it comes by nature, and not by study. Thus they are 
 ever disposed to run after ignorant pretenders and im 
 pudent quacks. So far does this folly extend so far 
 does it operate among us, even in this enlightened age, 
 and here in the heart of New England, that hundreds of 
 persons among us lose their lives every year, by the ope 
 rations of quack doctors and quack medicines. The 
 extent to which this is carried may be imagined by 
 taking a single instance. A man in Philadelphia manu 
 factures a medicine, to which he gives the name of 
 panacea and such is the extensive sale of it, that he 
 has realized a fortune in a few years. Yet, according 
 to the testimony of Dr. Bigelow, in the trial of Mrs. 
 Kinney, a leading ingredient of this medicine, taken in 
 discriminately, is arsenic one of the deadliest of 
 poisons. How many a life that hung upon a thread has 
 been sundered by the arsenic administered in that pa 
 nacea that pretended cure of all human diseases! 
 
 Among the instances of delusion, arising from a 
 love of mysticism, is that afforded by the Mormons. 
 The history of superstition tells not of a more bare 
 faced imposition, than this. Here are no bulrushes of 
 antiquity in which to hide the cradle of the infant re 
 ligion : it is born in our own day, and bred up under 
 our own eyes. It is a naked falsehood, and were it not 
 that it appeals to man's love of the mysterious, could 
 not dupe any mind endued with a ray of common sense. 
 
100 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 Yet this hoax has become the basis of a settled creed, 
 the platform of a sect, which is now drawing its vota 
 ries from various parts of both hemispheres, and begin 
 ning to point its upward spires among villages and cities, 
 in testimony of its prevalence and power ! 
 
 Such are some of the vulgar forms of delusion, pro 
 ceeding from an indulgence of the love of mysticism 
 a hankering for mental excitement, which becomes like 
 the habit of physical intoxication, a master of the soul, 
 prostrating and degrading the most exalted portion of 
 man's nature. 
 
 Before we notice another remarkable case of modern 
 mysticism, it may be well to make a few preliminary ob 
 servations. It is now somewhat more than half a cen 
 tury, that the great efforts of the human mind throughout 
 the civilized world have been bestowed, almost exclu 
 sively, on natural science. During this period, meta 
 physics, the philosophy of mind, has been treated with 
 comparative neglect : matter has been the chief sub 
 ject of investigation. In this, immense strides have 
 been made. The three great kingdoms of nature have 
 been explored, and not content with investigating these, 
 as they now exist, philosophy has plunged into the past 
 and revealed to us races of animals and tribes of trees, 
 plants, and shrubs, which existed before the flood, but 
 which are now extinct. Nay more the structure of 
 the earth has been examined, the foundations thereof 
 have been scrutinized, and the very art of world-making 
 and world-building is now a study in our common schools. 
 
 Thus the entire field of nature, the kingdom of mat 
 ter, has been explored, from the growth of a^blade of 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 101 
 
 grass, to the mechanism of the celestial bodies ; from 
 the grain of sand, to the revolving planet. So far in 
 deed has the investigation of matter proceeded, that not 
 merely its chemical properties, but its more subtle prin 
 ciples, have become the theme of familiar observation 
 and study. Magnetism, once so mysterious, is now 
 well understood, and mankind, not content with having 
 enslaved the three great elements of air, fire, and water, 
 as the means of locomotion, have been attempting to 
 put a yoke on magnetism, and attach this also to the 
 triumphal car of human art. One of the petitioners 
 before the General Court of Massachusetts, in behalf of 
 the Seekonk Railroad, a few years since, in addressing 
 the committee, urged as an argument in favor of this 
 road, that it was so constructed as to admit the use of 
 electro-magnetic engines, thus providing for dismis 
 sing the lazy and ineffectual power of steam, and hitch 
 ing on thunder and lightning in its place ! 
 
 Nor is this all. The element to which we allude 
 passing under various names, and eluding pursuit, like 
 some notorious felon, appears to be fairly caught at last. 
 A learned gentleman * of New York has just published 
 a book, in which he asserts that electricity or mag 
 netism is the great motive power throughout the uni 
 verse : the instrument by which plants bud and blossom, 
 and yield seed ; by which animals live, and breathe, and 
 have a being ; by which the planets revolve in their or 
 bits. Even animal life, it would seem, is no longer a 
 
 * SHERWOOD, on the Motive Power of the Universe. 
 
102 . SELF-DECEPTION ? . 
 
 riddle or a mystery it is only one of the pranks of 
 magnetism. If this be so, we may expect that animal 
 magnetism will soon be among the exact sciences. 
 
 In the great march of natural science to which we 
 allude, the philosophy of Bacon, making truth and 
 experience the starting point of our reasonings, has 
 been the guide of the age, and the results have been 
 generally useful and practical. 
 
 But while such has been the main tendency of science 
 among the leading nations of Europe, there has been a 
 school in Germany, whose disciples have been occu 
 pied with the mysteries of mind. As the philosophy of 
 Locke impressed itself strongly upon the people of 
 England, so that of Kant had cast the mind of Germany 
 in its own image. The general theory of this great 
 metaphysician is, that instead of acquiring our ideas 
 through the instrumentality of the senses, as Locke 
 maintains we have many, such as that of time, space, 
 unity, multitude, substance, existence, &c., which are 
 the pure offspring of the understanding. Thus he 
 maintains that we have some ideas which transcend the 
 senses, and accordingly his philosophy is called tran 
 scendental. 
 
 It is under the pervading influence of Kant, that 
 German literature has been prosecuted for the last half 
 century, and every thing capable of reflecting its hues 
 seems to be tinged with it. Even poetry, romance, the 
 drama, almost every form in which the spirit of the 
 age manifests itself, is occasionally touched with the 
 transcendental mist, that the mighty magician has 
 evoked from the deeps of philosophy. 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 103 
 
 This mist slowly but gradually crept over to England, 
 and at last has become visible even here. There is now 
 a transcendental school, expressly avowed, in this Yan 
 kee land, and, through a periodical devoted to its in 
 terests, seeks approval and propagation here. The 
 members of this school set themselves forth as posses 
 sing " an intense desire to pierce into the mysteries of 
 the universe" to " outwatch the Bear, to unsphere 
 the spirit of Plato" to " wrestle with day-break to 
 obtain a benediction from the angel of truth." 
 
 They speak of themselves as " a small class of scholars 
 who value literature as an instrument for the solution 
 of problems that haunt and agitate the soul. They wish 
 to look into the truth of things. The universe in its 
 mysterious and terrible grandeur has acted upon them. 
 Life is not regarded by them as a pageant or a dream ; 
 it passes before their eye in dread and solemn beauty ; 
 thought is stirred up from its lowest depths ; they be 
 come students of God unconsciously ; and secret com 
 munion with the divine presence is their preparation 
 for a knowledge of books, and the expression of their 
 own convictions." 
 
 Believing, as we do, that a high self-estimation has a 
 conservative tendency, we are not disposed to censure 
 this somewhat flattering self-portraiture. It might 
 indeed be natural to ask, if these persons are alone in 
 their " desire to look into the truth of things ? " if the 
 " universe in its mysterious and terrible grandeur" has 
 acted only on them ? if they only, of all the world, 
 "are students of God?" if "communion with the 
 divine presence " is a new phenomenon, and only vouch- 
 
104 SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 safed to these wrestlers with day-break ? But these ques 
 tions we do not ask, for we will not impute arrogance 
 or egotism to those of whom we are speaking. They 
 rank among their number some of the finest minds and 
 most elegant scholars of the day, and so far as we know 
 them, they are pure and virtuous members of society. 
 
 Could their theories be confined to persons of this 
 class, we should have little fear of their consequences 
 upon the community. But let us consider that, judging 
 the world by themselves, some of these individuals be 
 lieve that all the accustomed restraints of religion and law 
 are useless, not to say mischievous, and that, accordingly, 
 they come before the world denouncing the existing state 
 of things, and ask us to join them in a radical reform 
 of society. Some of them go so far as to call upon us 
 to pull down our churches to banish the priesthood, 
 to annihilate the visible church in all its forms to 
 sweep away the sabbath with its hymns of praise, to 
 prostrate the barriers which protect life and property, 
 and home and conscience. They ask us to base gov 
 ernment, not on laws sustained by power but on 
 taste and feeling. In short, they call upon us to hurl 
 down the present fabric of society, and in disdain of 
 experience, in defiance and rejection of all that history 
 teaches, to take' their scheme, and crystalize anew, ac 
 cording to their theory. Such is the request of those 
 who have wrought no miracles, and shown no sign in 
 attestation of their authority and so far as plain minds 
 can judge of the matter, set up no higher claim to our 
 confidence, than that they have seen visions and dreamed 
 dreams. 
 
SELF-DECEPTION. 
 
 105 
 
 Is it possible to produce a more startling illustration 
 of the power of mysticism over the mind than that persons 
 of cultivated intellect, elevated tastes and pure morals, and 
 withal brought up in New England, the land of com 
 mon sense, should start a scheme for the renovation 
 of society, upon such a basis of seeming visions ; and 
 should connect theories so beautiful with measures and 
 designs so baneful ! The whole subject suggests reflection 
 and caution. It tells us that the refined, as well as the 
 vulgar mind, has a principle within, designed to elevate 
 the soul, but which divorced from experience and com 
 mon sense, and indulged in seeking to be wise above what 
 is written may become the source of delusion, and of 
 that most hopeless and helpless species self-delusion. 
 
 10 
 

 THE MONKEYS IN PROCESSION. 
 
 A TRAVELLER in Africa was one day astonished to 
 observe a vast procession of monkeys marching over 
 a plain, with countenances indicative of the deepest sor 
 row. There was the little frisky green monkey but 
 his countenance was grave and wo-begone; there was 
 the red monkey, and the baboon, and the chimpanze, 
 and all seemed full of grief, as if some great calamity 
 had befallen them. Instead of the leaps and frolics and 
 grimaces usually seen among this four-handed family, 
 they marched forward with long and regular steps, to 
 a grave and solemn tune, sung by a choir of appointed 
 howlers. 
 
 After marching a considerable distance, the vast 
 procession, consisting of many thousands, approached 
 a low mound of earth. Here the head of the train 
 halted, and the rest came up and arranged themselves 
 around the mound. Then the whole troop set up a 
 most piteous wail ; then some of them began to dig 
 into the mound of earth, and pretty soon they disclosed 
 the half-decayed skeleton of a monkey. This was 
 raised upon an altar, and then all the monkeys bowed 
 down to the bones, and paid them reverence. Then 
 one of the most noted of the monkeys, a famous lawyer 
 among them, stood up and made an eloquent address. 
 The monkeys, apes and baboons sobbed, and sighed, 
 and howled, as the orator proceeded. At length he 
 finished with a pathetic and sublime flourish, and the 
 
THE MONKEYS IN PROCESSION. 107 
 
 congregation shed tears, and wiped their eyes, and then 
 they laid the bones in the ground again, and then they 
 heaped up the earth over it to a vast height ; and they 
 reared a monument upon it, with an inscription setting 
 forth the virtues and services of the dead monkey, and 
 then they all went away. 
 
 After the multitude had dispersed, the traveller went 
 to the orator, and asked him what all this meant ; 
 whereupon he said, that it was the custom with the 
 monkeys, when any one rose up among them of su 
 preme sagacity, or superior excellence, to envy and 
 hate him to persecute him and put him to death ; 
 but after many years they always dug up the decayed 
 bones and worshipped them, to testify their gratitude, and 
 repair their injustice, by honoring the memory of the 
 monkey that they had reviled while living. 
 
 This sounded so ridiculous to the traveller that he 
 laughed outright ; but he was soon rebuked by the 
 monkey, who spoke gravely as follows : " Your mirth, 
 sir traveller, is ill-timed, and shows a want of due re 
 flection. We monkeys are great imitators, and in this 
 matter we do but follow the fashion of our betters. 
 Some monkeys have travelled as well as you, sir, and 
 they tell us that mankind usually revile those who are 
 remarkable for goodness or greatness, while they are 
 living, and often bring them to a premature grave, 
 either by persecution or neglect ; but afterwards, when 
 their bones are decayed, they make up for their folly 
 and injustice, by paying great honor to their memory, 
 digging up their remains, singing hymns, delivering ora 
 tions, and erecting monuments over their ashes ! " 
 
THE GREEDY POX. 
 
 ON a winter's night, 
 
 When the moon shone bright, 
 
 Two foxes went out for prey ; 
 As they trotted along, 
 With frolic and song 
 
 Th6y cheered their lonely way. 
 
 Through the wood they went, 
 But they could not scent 
 
 A rabbit or goose, astray ; 
 But at length they came 
 To some better game, 
 
 In a farmer's barn by the way. 
 
 On a roost there sat 
 Some chickens as fat 
 
 As foxes could wish for their dinners ; 
 So the prowlers found 
 A hole by the ground, 
 
 And they both went in, the sinners ! 
 
 They both went in 
 
 With a squeeze and a grin, 
 
 And the chickens were quickly killed ; 
 And one of them lunched, 
 And feasted and munched, 
 
 Till his stomach was fairly filled. 
 
THE GREEDY FOX. 
 
 109 
 
 The other, more wise, 
 Looked about with both eyes, 
 
 And hardly would eat at all ; 
 For as he came in, 
 With a squeeze and a grin, 
 
 He remarked that the hole was small. 
 
 And the cunning elf 
 He said to himself, 
 
 " If I eat too much, 't is plain, 
 As the hole is small, 
 I shall stick in the wall, 
 
 And never get out again." 
 
 Thus matters went on, 
 Till the night was gone, 
 
 And the farmer came out with a pole ; 
 Then the foxes flew, 
 And one went through, 
 
 But the greedy one stuck in the hole ! 
 
 V~ 
 
 10* 
 
THE TWO SHADES. 
 
 ALONG that gloomy river's brim, 
 Where Charon plies the ceaseless oar, 
 
 Two mighty Shadows, dusk and dim, 
 Stood lingering on the dismal shore. 
 
 Hoarse came the rugged Boatman's call, 
 While echoing caves enforced the cry 
 
 And as they severed life's last thrall, 
 Each Spirit spoke one parting sigh. 
 
 11 Farewell to earth ! I leave a name, 
 Written in fire, on field and flood 
 
 Wide as the wind, the voice of fame, 
 Hath borne my fearful tale of blood. 
 
 And though across this leaden wave, 
 Returnless now my spirit haste, 
 
 Napoleon's name shall know no grave, 
 His mighty deeds be ne'er erased. 
 
 The rocky Alp, where once was set 
 My courser's hoof, shall keep the seal, 
 
 And ne'er the echo there forget 
 The clangor of my glorious steel. 
 
 Marengo's hill-sides flow with wine 
 And summer there the olive weaves, 
 
 But busy memory e'er will twine 
 
THE TWO SHADES. Ill 
 
 The blood-stained laurel with its leaves. 
 
 The Danube's rushing billows haste 
 With the black ocean wave to hide 
 
 Yet is my startling story traced, 
 In every murmur of its tide. 
 
 The pyramid on Giseh's plain, 
 Its founder's fame hath long forgot 
 
 But from its memory, Time, in vain 
 Shall strive Napoleon's name to blot. 
 
 The bannered storm that flouts the sky, 
 With God's red quiver in its fold, 
 
 O'er startled realms shall louring fly, 
 A type of me, till time is told. 
 
 The storm, a thing of weal and woe, 
 Of life and death, of peace and power 
 
 That lays the giant forest low, 
 Yet cheers the bent grass with its shower 
 
 That, in its trampled pathway leaves, 
 The uptorn roots to bud anew, 
 
 And where the past o'er ruin grieves, 
 Bids fresher beauty spring to view : 
 
 The storm an emblem of my name, 
 Shall keep my memory in the skies 
 
 Its flash-wreathed wing, a flag of flame, 
 Shall spread my glory as it flies." 
 
 The Spirit passed, and now alone, 
 The darker Shadow trod the shore 
 
 Deep from his breast the parting tone 
 Swept with the wind, the landscape o'er. 
 
112 THE TWO SHADES. 
 
 " Farewell ! I will not speak of deeds, 
 For these are written but in sand 
 
 And, as the furrow choked with weeds, 
 Fade from the memory of the land. 
 
 The war-plumed chieftian cannot stay, 
 To guard the gore his blade hath shed 
 
 Time sweeps the purple stain away, 
 And throws a veil o'er glory's bed. 
 
 But though my form must fade from view, 
 And Byron bow to fate resigned, 
 
 Undying as the fabled Jew, 
 Harold's dark spirit stays behind ! 
 
 And he who yet, in after years, 
 Shall tread the vine-clad shores of Rhine, 
 
 In Chillon's gloom shall pour his tears, 
 Or raptured, see blue Leman shine 
 
 He shall not cannot, go alone 
 Harold unseen shall seek his side : 
 
 Shall whisper in his ear a tone, 
 So seeming sweet, he cannot chide. 
 
 He cannot chide; although he feel, 
 While listening to the magic verse, 
 
 A serpent round his bosom steal, 
 He still shall hug the coiling curse. 
 
 Or if beneath Italian skies, 
 The wanderer's feet delighted glide, 
 
 Harold, in merry Juan's guise, 
 Shall be his tutor and his guide. 
 
 One living essence God hath poured 
 In every heart the love of sway 
 
THE TWO SHADES. 113 
 
 And though he may not wield the sword, 
 Each is a despot in his way. 
 
 The infant rules by cries and tears 
 The maiden, with her sunny eyes 
 
 The miser, with the hoard of years 
 The monarch, with his clanking ties. 
 
 To me the will the power, were given, 
 O'er plaything man to weave my spell, 
 
 And if I bore him up to heaven, 
 'T was but to hurl him down to hell. 
 
 And if I chose upon the rack 
 Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind, 
 
 To turn Faith's heavenward footstep back, 
 Her hope despoiled her vision, blind 
 
 Or if on Virtue's holy brow, 
 A wreath of scorn I sought to twine 
 
 And bade her minions mocking bow, 
 With sweeter vows at pleasure's shrine 
 
 Or if I mirrored to the thought, 
 With glorious truth the charms of earth, 
 
 While yet the trusting fool I taught, 
 To scoff at Him who gave it birth 
 
 Or if I filled the soul with light, 
 And bore its buoyant wing in air 
 
 To plunge it down in deeper night, 
 And mock its maniac wanderings there 
 
 I did but wield the wand of power, 
 That God intrusted to my clasp, 
 
 And not, the tyrant of an hour 
 Will I resign it to Death's grasp ! 
 
 The despot with his iron chain, 
 
114 THE TWO SHADES. 
 
 In idle bonds the limbs may bind 
 He who would hold a sterner reign, 
 
 Must twine the links around the mind. 
 Thus I have thrown upon my race, 
 
 A chain that ages cannot rend 
 And mocking Harold stays to trace, 
 
 The slaves that to my sceptre bend," 
 
THE HUNTERS OF THE PRAIRIE: 
 
 A SKETCH FROM A TRAVELLER'S MEMORANDUM BOOK. 
 
 THE night had covered the earth with a thin robe of 
 snow. As the morning dawned, we saw a deer strain 
 ing across the prairie, as if urged by some imminent 
 peril. He went at full bounds, and looked not behind. 
 For a long time we watched his progress ; and though 
 he flew onward with great rapidity, such was the vast 
 level over which he passed, that after a while he seemed 
 rather to creep than run. By degrees he dwindled in 
 size, till he appeared but a speck. At length he 
 reached the hills, which lay like a flight of steps at the 
 foot of the Rocky Mountains ; and as he ascended them, 
 he seemed an insect crawling over a sheet of white 
 paper. 
 
 Scarcely was he lost to view, when a pack of eight 
 wolves of the prairie were seen on his track, speeding 
 forward with that eagerness which characterizes the 
 race. Two were in advance of the rest, with their 
 noses near the ground ; yet proceeding with a direct 
 ness, expressive at once of assurance and determination. 
 The rest followed, as if they placed implicit reliance 
 upon their leaders. On they went; and long before 
 
116 HUNTERS OF THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 they reached the mountains, they were lost to our 
 view. 
 
 It was a scene that suggested a long train of musings. 
 One might have fancied that peace would hold her reign 
 over the solitude, as yet disturbed by no intrusive foot 
 steps of man. Far away was the ocean ; far away the 
 busy marts along its border, whose bosoms, like the 
 fretted sea, are agitated with the surges of contending 
 billows. Before us was the spotless prairie, un 
 touched and unsullied, with a mantle thrown over it 
 from heaven. Yet here were things to remind us of 
 scenes which are witnessed in human society. There 
 was indeed no buying and selling ; yet that poor animal 
 fled like a creditor, arid those blood-hounds of the forest 
 pursued like sheriffs. There was here no distinction of 
 sects, no diversity of creeds ; yet that pacific deer might 
 seem a quaker of the forest, carrying his non-combative 
 doctrines to the utmost extent. Poor fellow ! both he, 
 and William Penn, found that a peaceful life is not a 
 sure protection against the malice of the world. 
 
 Fancies like these crossed my mind, till other scenes 
 suggested other thoughts, and the deer and the wolves 
 were forgotten. As the sun was setting behind the 
 mountains, however, my attention was suddenly attracted 
 by the whistling of the deer, and the sharp cry of the 
 wolves now close upon him. He had re-crossed the 
 prairie, and sought for shelter in a little rocky mound, 
 situated in the midst of the plain. In vain his endeavors 
 to escape, for during the whole day his unwearied pur 
 suers had maintained the chase. He was now worn 
 and weary ; and the sight of the wolves at his heels, 
 
HUNTERS OF THE PRAIRIE 
 
 117 
 
 with teeth laid bare, and eyes staring upon their prey, 
 was sufficient only to produce a staggering gait, between 
 a walk and a bound. Having left his cover and crossed 
 a little brook, he faltered as he ascended the bank, and 
 one of the wolves springing upon him, fixed his fangs 
 fatally in the back of his neck. 
 
 11 
 
THE BLUE-BIRD. 
 
 HARK ! on the air some music floats 
 
 By, with a breezy wing ; 
 See ! 5 t is the blue-bird's welcome notes, 
 
 Coming to tell of spring. 
 
 There on the topmost bough above, 
 
 He sits by his gentle mate ! 
 With trembling wings and a voice of love, 
 
 He fondly seems to prate. 
 
 Welcome, sweet bird, with thy wing of blue, 
 And thy round and ruddy breast ! 
 
 Thou hast come again these fields to view, 
 And choose thyself a nest. 
 
 'T is many a day, my pretty cheat, 
 
 Since thou didst quit the trees, 
 And leave us here mid storm and sleet, 
 
 To shiver or to freeze ! 
 
 While we with winter clouds of black 
 Were wading through the snow, 
 
 Our fingers pinched by frosty Jack, 
 And all our spirits low ; 
 
 Thou, thou wast in some southern clime, 
 Where flowers are ever found, 
 
THE BLUE-BIRD. 119 
 
 Singing thy song, in mellow chime, 
 With other birds around. 
 
 And didst thou, in those happy hours, 
 
 Sing of thy native land ; 
 And of the orchard filled with flowers, 
 
 Where thy birth-tree did stand ? 
 
 I know thou didst ; for home is blest, 
 
 When we are far away ; 
 And thou hast come with a beating breast, 
 
 Back to thy native spray. 
 
 There thou dost sit, and seem to sing 
 
 About thy youthful days ; 
 And thy soft mate, with fluttering wing, 
 
 Approves thy mellow lays. 
 
 And thou art innocent and blest, 
 
 And I forgive thy wrong, 
 That thou didst leave us, when oppressed 
 
 And sad, all winter long. 
 
 I do forgive thee ; for thy wing, 
 
 On the first southern breeze, 
 Comes whistling back, and notes of spring 
 
 Thou bringest to the trees. 
 
THE LAMP. 
 
 A YOUTH was once walking along in the obscure 
 passages of an ancient building. The place was rough 
 and dark, and in some parts he coul hardly discern 
 the objects around him. Several times he ran against 
 the stone pillars or projections that came in his way, 
 and severely wounded his flesh. In one instance, he 
 was plunged headlong down a flight of steps, and at 
 last he fell into a pit. From this he extricated himself 
 with much difficulty, and he was so disheartened that 
 he burst into tears. 
 
 While he stood weeping in the dark passage, a door 
 opened in the floor, through which a flood of light burst 
 forth, and immediately a lovely female was before him. 
 She had a winning smile upon her face, and asked in 
 gentle tones what he desired ? 
 
 "Give me a lamp pray give me a lamp!" said 
 the boy, " to guide me through this labyrinth ! " No 
 sooner was the request made, than it was granted ; a 
 lamp was in the boy's hand, and the fairy image disap 
 peared. 
 
 The youth now tripped gaily forward, but pretty soon 
 he ran so fast that the light of the lamp was nearly ex 
 tinguished, and several times he suffered the same in 
 juries he had done before he received it; At last, he 
 proceeded so rapidly, in his impatience to get forward, 
 
THE L AMP . 
 
 121 
 
 that the lamp went out, and left him to grope his way 
 in total darkness. 
 
 There is a meaning in this fable, if we desire to find 
 it; the lamp may be likened to reason, which God 
 has given as our guide in life. This is the light to 
 show us the dangers and evils that beset our path. If 
 we bear it steadily, it will continue bright, and serve 
 us effectually ; but if we become impatient, if we allow 
 our passions to hurry us onward, the light of the lamp 
 will grow dim, and in some moment of excess it will 
 go out, leaving us in obscurity or total darkness. How 
 often does it happen that the passions of men complete 
 ly blind them ; how often is the lamp of reason blown 
 out in the haste and violence of our wishes, our preju 
 dices, or our resentment ! 
 
 11* 
 
THE SAGE AND LINNET. 
 
 A WISE old man, one summer's day, 
 Was walking in a lonely wood, 
 
 And there, upon a leafless spray, 
 A linnet sang in solitude. 
 
 The old man spoke : " Come, pretty thing, 
 Pray tell me why you nestle here ? 
 
 And why so cheerly do you sing, 
 When all around is dark and drear 1 
 
 " Why spurn the meadow and the field, 
 
 Where blushing flowers invite thy stay, 
 And many a raptured bird would yield 
 Its willing praises to thy lay?" 
 
 The linnet answered : " Hath a sage 
 Come here to learn of me the truth 1 
 
 And must I tell to hoary age 
 A lesson fit for blooming youth ? 
 
 " Of all the gifts that Heaven doth mete 
 
 In mercy to its creatures dear, 
 There 's none to me so pure, so sweet, 
 As peace; and, Sage, I find it here ! 
 
THE SAGE AND LINNET. 123 
 
 " Mid garnished fields, and meadows gay, 
 There 's many a falcon, many a snare ; 
 I shun them all ; and, far away, 
 Poor, yet content, my lot I share. 
 
 " The listening of my gentle mate 
 
 Repays me for my happiest song, 
 And oft, from dawn to evening late, 
 I sing, nor find the hours too long. 
 
 " Yon rippling stream my cup supplies; 
 
 The wild flowers yield for me their seed ; 
 This bowering fir, from winter skies, 
 Is all the shelter that I need. 
 
 " Then do not scorn my humble lot, 
 
 Nor deem that wealth alone is bliss: 
 For peace within the humblest cot, 
 With calm content, is happiness." 
 
TO A WILD VIOLET, IN MARCH. 
 
 MY pretty flower, how cam'st thou here 1 ? 
 Around thee all is sad and sere, 
 The brown leaves tell of winter's breath, 
 And all but thou of doom and death. 
 
 The naked forest shivering sighs, 
 On yonder hill the snow-wreath lies, 
 And all is bleak ; then say, sweet flower, 
 Whence cam'st thou here in such an hour 1 
 
 No tree unfolds its timid bud, 
 
 Chill pours the hill-side's lurid flood, 
 
 The tuneless forest all is dumb ; 
 
 Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come ? 
 
 Spring hath not scattered yet her flowers, 
 But lingers still in southern bowers ; 
 No gardener's art hath cherished thee, 
 For wild and lone thou springest free. 
 
 Thou springest here to man unknown, 
 
 Waked into life by God alone ! 
 
 Sweet flower ! thou tellest well thy birth, 
 
 Thou cam'st from Heaven, though soiled in earth. 
 
THE WOUNDED ROBIN. 
 
 WHY, pretty robin, why so late 
 
 Prolong thy lingering stay 1 
 Why, with thy little whistling mate, 
 Art thou not far away ? 
 
 Away beneath some sunny sky, 
 Where winter ne'er is known ; 
 Where flowers, that never seem to die, 
 Down sloping hills are strown ? 
 
 Thou shiverest in the bitter gale, 
 
 And hast a piteous air ; 
 And thy low plaint doth seem a tale 
 
 Of sorrow and despair. 
 
 Say, is thy frame with hunger shaken, 
 
 Or hast thou lost thy way? 
 Or art thou sick, and here forsaken, 
 Desponding dost thou stay ? 
 
 Alas, I see thy little wing 
 
 Is broken, and thou can'st not fly ; 
 And here, poor, trembling, helpless thing, 
 Thou waitest but to die ! 
 
126 THE WOUNDED ROBIN. 
 
 Nay, little flutterer, do not fear, 
 
 I '11 take thee to my breast, 
 I '11 bear thee home, thy heart I '11 cheer, 
 And thou shalt be at rest. 
 
 And oh, when sorrow through my heart 
 
 With bitterness is sent, 
 May some kind friend relieve the smart, 
 
 And give me back content. 
 
 And in that sad and gloomy hour, 
 
 When the spirit's wing is broken, 
 And disappointment's wintry shower 
 Hath left no verdant token, 
 
 To bloom with budding hopes of spring, - 
 Then may some angel come, 
 
 And bear me on a heavenward wing 
 To a sweet and peaceful home. 
 
THE ANGEL'S PRIVILEGE. 
 
 " It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to 
 enter the Kingdom of Heaven." 
 
 THERE was once an Angel to whom was given the 
 privilege of coming down to earth, and bearing up a 
 soul to Heaven. As he was passing over the world, 
 he saw a fine house, and in looking into it, he discov 
 ered the proprietor. He was of a noble aspect, so the 
 angel took him in his arms, and began to ascend with 
 him to the skies. But it so chanced, that the man's 
 heart was tied to his wealth by a great multitude of 
 strong but invisible threads, and accordingly, his silver, 
 and gold, and merchandise, clung to him, rendering it 
 extremely difficult for the angel to lift him toward the 
 skies. Nor was this all. The devil seeing what was 
 going forward, hung on to the money and merchandise, 
 and made such a ferocious jerking and twitching, that 
 the rich man, with his silver and gold, was wrested from 
 the angel's grasp, and fell down to the earth with a se 
 vere concussion. 
 
 The angel, leaving the sable fiend to congratulate the 
 man on his escape, proceeded in his search for one that 
 was worthy of being translated to the world of bliss. As 
 he passed on, he noticed a poor but humble laborer in 
 a field. He put his arms around him, and lifted him 
 
 
 
128 
 
 THE ANGEL S PRIVILEGE 
 
 toward the skies. He was not pulled down to the earth 
 by silver or gold, for he had none ; nor did the fiend 
 seem to consider him of sufficient consequence to make 
 a pother about; so being free from drawbacks and 
 incumbrances, the poor man's spirit rose lightly on 
 the angel's wings, and was soon admitted within the 
 sapphire gates of Paradise. 
 
CHATSWORTH, TEN YEARS AGO 
 
 FROM A TRAVELLER S MEMORANDA, 
 
 AFTER leaving Haddon castle, we proceeded toward 
 Chatsworth. A considerable part of our road lay 
 through the park of the Duke of Devonshire, the extent 
 of whose estate, here, is immense. The hills and slopes 
 in every direction seemed spotted with herds of deer, 
 which were nearly as gentle as sheep ; they continued 
 by the path, as we passed at a little distance, the only 
 notice they seemed to take of us being that the fawns 
 gathered a little closer to the sides of their mothers. 
 Most of these animals were white beneath, and very 
 light red above, with longitudinal rows of white spots 
 along the sides and back. Many were nearly and some 
 quite white, and others were almost black. 
 
 At the small village of Chatsworth we ordered fresh 
 horses, and walked forward to the castle. As we ap 
 proached it, the Duke passed at a little distance, on 
 horseback, with a mounted servant following behind at 
 the distance of some fifty yards. He is forty-two years 
 of age, and is still a bachelor. The reason for his re 
 maining unmarried is said to be, that he is not the legit 
 imate heir to the estate, the title and possession of 
 which he enjoys ; being only permitted by Lord Caven- 
 
 12 
 
130 CHATS WORTH, TEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 dish, the lawful heritor, to retain them during his life 
 time, on condition that he shall not marry. For the 
 truth of this intimation, however, I cannot vouch. He 
 is one of the lords of the bed-chamber, and seems to 
 be treated as if there were no imperfection in his claims 
 to rank and fortune. 
 
 The edifice of Chatsworth is rather a palace than a 
 castle ; and is one of the most magnificent country seats 
 in England. It is situated upon the eastern border of a 
 narrow valley, through which the Derwent flows at no 
 great distance. This valley, with the sloping hills which 
 form its boundary, constitutes a part of the manor, and 
 presents a beautiful picture of green lawns, waving 
 woods, and sparkling waters. 
 
 It is hardly possible to do more than note some of the 
 wonders of this gorgeous villa. It is surrounded by 
 cascades and fountains, which seem to send forth liquid 
 silver ; and rectangular lakes, which appear like glowing 
 mirrors set in the earth, with frames formed of flowering 
 plants and shrubs. There are long vistas of green trees, 
 deep solitary woods, shady bowers and rosy arbors, and 
 all that can gratify each range of humor, from gayety of 
 heart to moody melancholy. 
 
 The interior of the palace is a wilderness of marble 
 stair-cases, boudoirs, saloons, cabinets, dormitories, 
 galleries, &c. In the hall are some fine statues, among 
 which is a Venus de Medici, by Canova. In several of 
 the apartments, there are statues and pictures, includ 
 ing a fine head by Thorwalsden and the original Hebe 
 of Canova. Some of the rooms are richly decorated by 
 carvings in wood by the celebrated Gibbons. Many 
 
CHATSWORTH, TEN YEARS AGO. 131 
 
 of these, representing birds and other game, are wonderful 
 specimens of art. But the most interesting object is the 
 library, which fills a room ninety feet in length. This 
 is fitted up in a style of great magnificence. The fur 
 niture, the chairs, sofas, and tables, are luxurious to the 
 last degree, and the white marble fireplace, carved in 
 Italy, is worthy of a Venitian palace. In the centre of 
 the room is a window of about twelve feet in height, con 
 sisting of a single plate of glass. The view from this 
 window is enchanting. The books in the library are 
 not only very numerous, but they embrace the best and 
 most costly editions of works in all languages. The Duke 
 is now spending a great part of his time in arranging this 
 library. 
 
 We had not time to bestow a minute examination 
 upon this seat of luxury. Indeed, a large portion of it, 
 consisting of recent additions by the present proprietor, 
 and said to have cost a million sterling, is yet in an un 
 finished state. 
 
 We found our post-chaise at the gate, and having 
 paid the well-dressed old dame who showed us over the 
 place, we departed. As we proceeded on the road towards 
 Sheffield, we had leisure to reflect upon this land of 
 lords and beggars. Here is the Duke of Devonshire, 
 with an annual income of three hundred thousand dol 
 lars or more, and nothing can exceed the magni 
 ficence and luxury of his establishment. But what is 
 the offset to all this splendor ? At least some thousands 
 of peasants and paupers, who were born in poverty and 
 bred in poverty, and who have no other hope for them 
 selves or heritage for their children, than that which 
 
132 CHATSWORTH, TEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 they received of their fathers, to slave the body for 
 the wants of the body throughout an existence that is 
 as much a curse as a blessing. Such is the prodigious 
 cost of a titled aristocracy ! Some thousand of persons 
 must live in ignorance and degradation, from genera 
 tion to generation, and the compensation offered to the 
 community is a duke and a palace ! Such views, and 
 are they not just ones? may well content an American 
 with the uniformity of society, in his own country, 
 where there are no lords and no beggars. It is easy to 
 bear the gibes of the Trollopes, and Halls, and Marti- 
 neaus, excited by our happy distribution of wealth 
 when we perceive the advantages of our equality, over 
 the monstrous disproportion in the conditions of different 
 ranks in England. 
 
 But let us take a farther view of the case. Suppose 
 we introduce the English system into America, and see 
 whether the change will be an improvement. Let us, 
 for instance, turn our attention to such a place as Wor 
 cester in Massachusetts. This town contains perhaps 
 seven thousand inhabitants. The lands around belong to 
 some hundreds of farmers, merchants and mechanics. The 
 houses are generally the property of the persons who 
 occupy them ; the shoemaker, the carpenter, the cabinet 
 maker, is usually the proprietor of a dwelling, and he has 
 his garden and his cow, and often he possesses sufficient 
 land for pasture. Such then is the situation of the people 
 in a place like Worcester. Almost every individual has 
 some property which not only secures him against the fear 
 and the danger of want, but gives him a certain station 
 and respectability in society. He therefore comes up 
 
CHATS WORTH, TEN YEARS AGO. 133 
 
 to the full measure of a man : a being who thinks and 
 acts, not as a slave, not as a dependent not as a tool or 
 subject but as a freeman ; one who is alike conscious 
 of his rights and his responsibilities. Society thus con 
 stituted becomes a fabric of great strength. It is like 
 a ship, every timber of which is sound : nor is this all. 
 As most individuals have acquired what they possess by 
 their own exertions, the generation that is coming for 
 ward is stimulated by the examples of success before 
 them, and putting forth their best efforts, have their 
 faculties called into full and hopeful exercise, and are 
 thus placed in that condition, which of all others, is 
 most likely to insure individual happiness and public 
 prosperity. 
 
 Now what we propose is, in supposition, to destroy 
 this equality, this general distribution of wealth, and in 
 imagination convert this American town into an English 
 one. The process is obvious. All the lands for several 
 miles around must be taken from the numerous farmers, 
 whose white houses are scattered over the hills and val 
 leys. These houses must be erased from the landscape, 
 and the thatched hovels of peasants must take their 
 place. The farmers themselves, with the exception of 
 some dozen or twenty, must descend from their station 
 in society, and become ignorant drudges who work for 
 a shilling a day. Their wives and daughters must sink 
 into vulgar companionship with these drudges, and learn 
 to carry burdens, to do the work of men, and labor with 
 men in the field. The herds and flocks which are now 
 collected into a hundred folds, and contribute to the inde 
 pendence and happiness of hundreds of families ; these 
 
 12* 
 
134 CHATSWORTH, TEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 with the lands must change masters ; they must all be 
 come the property of the Duke of Worcester. Besides, 
 a large portion of the houses in the town must become 
 his also ; the shoemaker must give up the proprietorship 
 of his dwelling, his garden, and his little pasture-ground, 
 and he must become a tenant and vassal of His Grace. 
 Many of the mechanics, and merchants, and professional 
 men, must do the same. 
 
 With the wealth accruing from this vast rental, we 
 must build a magnificent edifice on some commanding 
 eminence, and call it Worcester Castle. We must fill 
 it with pictures, and statues, and carvings, and every 
 other article of luxury and taste. Before it, we must 
 spread a green lawn, and in this, carve out lakes, and 
 set cascades ; behind it, we must rear a noble forest of 
 hoary oaks, and call it a park. We must build marble 
 stables and fill them with well-trained horses, and these 
 must be pampered with every luxury, even though the 
 peasant starve. The Duke's horses and hounds must be 
 first cared for ; the peasant is secondary. We must con 
 struct carriages of many forms, and assemble a retinue 
 of servants arrayed in a livery of green and gold. 
 
 We must now create a Duke ; and what shall he be ? 
 If we take the Duke of Devonshire for a model, we 
 shall obtain one who is supposed not to be the son of 
 his reputed father, and who as a private citizen would 
 hardly be esteemed a decent member of society. If we 
 take other examples, shall we do better ? Shall we get 
 a man who is distinguished for his virtues, patriotism, 
 or humanity? Shall we not rather run the risk of 
 obtaining one who habitually violates the most impor- 
 
CHATSWORTH, TEN YEARS AGO. 135 
 
 tant rules of religion and morality ? Shall we not in 
 all probability get an individual who, if estimated 
 according to his real character, and divested of rank 
 and wealth, will be only worthy of detestation and con 
 tempt? But even though his character be such, the 
 people must learn to look on him with reverence, as a 
 being of superior mould ; one who is above other men, 
 and not responsible to the vulgar obligations of justice, 
 truth, and honesty, which bind the rest of mankind. 
 They must slave or starve their bodies to pamper him, 
 his horses, his dogs, and my lady's poodle. They must 
 abase their minds in subservience to his plans, whims 
 and caprices. They must lose self-respect, and make 
 the noble Duke the centre of their pride. Even 
 if subjected by him to tyranny, insult, or violence 
 like the lashed hound, they must forget, forgive, and 
 lick the hand that administers the blow. 
 
 It is for such a man and such purposes, that this pal 
 ace is to be erected ; is it for such a man that three or 
 four thousand people are to be degraded. It is for one 
 man, and that man worthless, if measured by a standard 
 of truth and virtue it is to contribute to his pleasures, 
 to pamper his luxuries, that the peace, happiness and 
 dignity of thousands are to be destroyed. It is for one 
 worthless individual that thousands are to exchange 
 independence for dependence, and freedom of body 
 and soul, for servility to rank; intelligence for igno 
 rance ; respectability for degradation. In other words, 
 at least one half of the community is to be impoverish 
 ed and debased reduced from comfort and prosperity 
 to a narrow subsistence and a withering dependence, 
 
136 CHATSWORTH, TEN YEARS AGO. 
 
 for the sole purpose of creating a palace that may be 
 a depository of luxury and art, and furnishing it with 
 a duke at once licentious and refined ! 
 
 And this, no doubt, is the " consummation devoutly 
 to be wished" by the lovers the admirers of privi 
 leged aristocracy. But how great must be the preju 
 dice of that mind which conceives the change we have 
 imagined to be a desirable one ; and how fearful must 
 be the wickedness of that heart, which seeing the sub 
 ject in its true light, would reduce thousands to a state 
 of misery for the purpose of bestowing wealth and rank 
 upon a single family ! 
 
THE TURKEY AND RATTLESNAKE. 
 
 ON a fine day in summer, a wild turkey was walking 
 across one of the prairies of the far West. As the sun 
 shone upon his glossy neck, he cast his eye downward, 
 and seemed lost in admiration of his own beauty. 
 While engaged in this way, he heard something his 
 sing in the grass ; and soon a rattlesnake issued from 
 the spot, and coiling himself up, placed himself before 
 the turkey. The latter grew very red in the face, 
 spread his tail and wings to their utmost extent, and 
 having strutted back and forth several times, approach 
 ed the snake, and spoke as follows : 
 
 " You impudent serpent ! Was it you that I heard 
 laughing at me in the grass ? How dare you laugh at 
 me, the handsomest cock-turkey of the whole prairie ? 
 Have I not the reddest wattles, the largest comb, 
 the blackest wing, and the glossiest neck, of any bird 
 that is seen on the plain? Did not my grandfather 
 swallow an alligator alive, and could I not take down 
 such a little insignificant thing as you, without wink 
 ing?" 
 
 " Do n't put yourself in a passion," said the serpent 
 in reply, at the same time swelling up his flesh writh 
 ing, and the colors of his skin growing very bright. 
 "Don't put yourself in a passion; I know you're a 
 
138 THE TURKEY AND RATTLESNAKE. 
 
 coward, like the whole of your race, and you are as 
 vain as you are timid." 
 
 Upon this, the turkey seemed bursting with rage; 
 his throat was so choked, that he could not speak dis 
 tinctly, but he gobbled the louder. He also strutted 
 round in a circle, grating the ends of his wings upon 
 the ground. At length he came bristling up toward 
 the serpent, who being mortally offended, coiled him 
 self into a ball, and springing toward the turkey, struck 
 him in the neck with his fangs and inflicted a fatal 
 wound. The latter in return gave the serpent a deep 
 scratch in the side, and both fell dead upon the ground. 
 
 A wise ant that dwelt in a little hillock near by, and 
 saw the whole affray, crawled to the spot, and made the 
 following sage observations : " It would seem that this 
 vast prairie were wide enough for the creatures that 
 dwell upon it to live together in peace ; but alas ! their 
 angry passions lead to strife, and strife ends in death. 
 Nor is this all. As the poison of the serpent taints 
 these carcasses, so an evil name always follows those 
 who { die as the fool dieth ! ' " 
 
THE SWISS BOY'S FAREWELL. 
 
 SWEET River Rhone ! Sweet River Rhone ! 
 
 Thou playmate of my earliest day ! 
 I 've wandered many a weary mile, 
 
 And yet along thy banks I stray. 
 Mount Furca* now is far behind, 
 
 That cradle which we both have known ; 
 And this* they say, is France ; but still 
 
 I 'm with a friend, sweet River Rhone ! 
 
 I 'm with a friend whose every wave 
 
 Leaps gaily by my father's door, 
 And many a pleasing thought I 've had 
 
 To see thee there fret, foam, and roar. 
 I 've wondered in my childish dreams, 
 
 If in thy tide some sky was thrown, 
 To make thy waters all so blue, 
 
 So like to heaven, sweet River Rhone ! 
 
 The glaciers at old Furca's top 
 
 Did seem thy cold, blue, nursing mother, 
 
 And thou an infant chill and lone, 
 
 Toddling from one rough stone to t' other. 
 
 * The source of the Rhone is at the foot of one of the Alps, 
 called Mount Furca. 
 
140 THE SWISS BOY'S FAREWELL. 
 
 But soon thou learned 3 st to leap and run, 
 And then at last thou went'st alone, 
 
 Yet brighter ever didst thou flow, 
 
 When I was there, sweet River Rhone ! 
 
 And now we 've come together here, 
 
 By many a turn, through many a dell, 
 O'er rock, and crag, and beetling wall, 
 
 To part at last to say farewell. 
 We part, for thou must seek the sea, 
 
 And go thy way to me unknown ; 
 And I must on to Paris hie, 
 
 As lost to thee, sweet River Rhone ! 
 
 Farewell ! nor deem them idle tears, 
 
 That down my cheek unbidden flow ; 
 For now thou seem'st my dearest friend, 
 
 Thou 'rt linked with home and parents so. 
 Farewell ! but rest and ease shall be 
 
 To these young limbs unsought, unknown, 
 Till, blest with wealth, the Swiss return 
 
 To home and thee, sweet River Rhone ! 
 
THE OAK AND INSECT. 
 
 AN oak was tormented with a worm that had eaten 
 into its vitals, and was gnawing at its very heart. In 
 vain did the haughty tree wring, and twist, and groan in 
 the wind; it had no means of reaching the insect. At 
 last a little woodpecker alighted upon the tree, and heard 
 its grievous wailing. Guessing at the cause of the trou 
 ble, he began to drum with his long bill upon the bark 
 of the tree, and soon he heard the worm shrinking from 
 detection. Thus he discovered his prey, and putting 
 his barbed tongue into a hole, he lanced the worm 
 through the body and pulled him out in an instant. 
 Thus the mighty oak was relieved by a very humble 
 bird, and thus the great and the powerful may be 
 benefited by the weak and insignificant. 
 
 
 ;\ 
 
 13 
 
THE BENEFITS OP INDUSTRY. 
 
 THERE are many persons who regard every species 
 of labor as an evil. Children are often unhappy, be 
 cause they must study in order to acquire knowledge ; 
 and men and women sometimes complain, because 
 they must sow before they can reap. To all such 
 persons I would tell the following allegory, which may 
 suggest the lesson, that industry is a blessing, and indo 
 lence a curse. 
 
 There was once in the city of Bagdat a little boy, 
 who was poor, and obliged to earn his daily bread 
 by rearing flowers in a small garden. As the price 
 of flowers in that luxuriant climate is extremely low, 
 he was compelled to be very industrious in order to 
 obtain necessary food and clothing. But still he had 
 good health, and he ate his coarse meal with high 
 ! relish and satisfaction. But this was not his greatest 
 > pleasure; his flowers were a perpetual source of en 
 joyment. They were his flowers; he planted them, 
 he watered them, pruned and nurtured them. Besides 
 all this, they were the source of his livelihood. They 
 gave him bread, shelter, and raiment. He therefore 
 loved them as if they were his companions. He saw 
 them spring out of the ground with pleasure ; he watched 
 the budding leaves and unfolding flowers with delight. 
 
 But at length discontent sprung up in his mind, and, 
 
THE BENEFITS OF INDUSTRY. 143 
 
 in the evening of a hot day, he sat down in his garden, 
 and began to murmur. " I wish," said he, " that flowers 
 would plant, and prune, and water themselves. I am 
 tired of this incessant toil. Would that some good 
 genius would step in, and bring me flowers already 
 made, so that I might be saved all this trouble!" 
 Scarcely had he uttered this thought, when a beautiful 
 being in bright colors stood before him, and said: " You 
 called me, boy; what do you desire?" "I am weary 
 of my employment," said the boy. " I live by cultivating 
 flowers. I am obliged to toil, day by day, with un 
 ceasing industry, and I am only able to obtain my daily 
 bread. If I mistake not, you are a kind and powerful 
 genius, who can give me flowers if you will, and save 
 me all this toil." 
 
 " Here ! " said the genius, holding forth a beautiful 
 fan of feathers, " take this ; wave it over the earth in 
 your flower-pots, and the brightest blossoms of Cash 
 mere will spring up at your bidding ! " Saying this, 
 the spirit departed. 
 
 The boy received the charmed fan with great delight, 
 and waved it over one of his flower-pots. A bud im 
 mediately shot up through the soil, gradually unfolded 
 itself, and in a few minutes a beautiful moss-rose, bloom 
 ing and fragrant, stood before him ! I need not describe 
 the transports of the little gardener. He found his 
 charmed fan to be just the thing he had desired. He 
 had now no labor to perform ; a few sweeps of his fan 
 brought him all the flowers he needed. He therefore 
 spent his time in luxurious indolence. 
 
 Things went on very well for a fortnight. But now 
 
144 
 
 THE BENEFITS OF INDUSTRY. 
 
 a different kind of weariness began to creep over him. 
 His appetite, too, failed by degrees, and he no longer 
 enjoyed his meals. He lost his interest, likewise, in 
 the flowers. He saw no beauty in their bloom ; their 
 very odor became sickening. The poor boy was un 
 happy, and again began to murmur. " I wish," said 
 he, " the genius would come back and take away this 
 foolish fan." In a moment the bright being was stand 
 ing at his side. 
 
 " Here," said the boy, handing forth the fan ; " take 
 back the charm you gave me ! Forgive me, sweet gen 
 ius, but I was mistaken. The weariness of indolence is 
 far worse than the weariness of industry. I loved the 
 flowers which were produced by my own skill and care ; 
 but things which cost nothing are worth nothing. 
 Take back the charm, and leave me to that humble 
 happiness, which my own industry can secure, but 
 which your potent spell would chase away." 
 
JACK FROST. 
 
 WHO hath killed the smiling flow'rs 
 Once so fair in yonder bowers? 
 Who hath ta'en away their bloom, 
 Who hath swept them to the tomb 1 
 Jack Frost Jack Frost. 
 
 Who hath chased the birds so gay, 
 Lark and linnet, all away ? 
 Who hath hushed their joyous breath, 
 And made the woodland still as death? 
 Jack Frost Jack Frost. 
 
 Who hath chilled the romping river ? 
 Who doth make the old oak shiver ? 
 Who hath wrapped the world in snow ? 
 Who doth make the wild winds blow ? 
 Jack Frost Jack Frost. 
 
 Who doth ride on snowy drift 
 When the night wind 's keen and swift- 
 O'er the land and o'er the sea 
 Bent on mischief who is he ? 
 Jack Frost Jack Frost. 
 
 Who doth strike with icy dart, 
 
 The way-worn traveller to the heart ? 
 
 13* 
 
146 JACK FROST. 
 
 Who doth make the ocean-wave 
 The seaman's home the seaman's grave? 
 Jack Frost Jack Frost. 
 
 Who doth prowl at midnight hour 
 Like a thief around the door, 
 Through each crack and crevice creeping, 
 Through the very key-hole peeping ? 
 Jack Frost Jack Frost. 
 
 Who doth pinch the traveller's toes? 
 Who doth sting the school-boy's nose ? 
 Who doth make your fingers tingle? 
 Who doth make the sleigh-bells jingle? 
 Jack Frost Jack Frost. 
 
THE PEDLER. 
 
 A CHAPTER FROM AN UNPUBLISHED ROMANCE. 
 
 I WAS now the proprietor of a book-store in Pearl 
 street, my establishment being devoted chiefly to the 
 selling of school books, and such works as were in 
 large demand ; psalmns and hymns, bibles, and Web 
 ster's spelling-books, constituted a large portion of the 
 articles in which I dealt. Thaddeus of Warsaw, the 
 Scottish Chiefs, Young's Night Thoughts, Sanford and 
 Merton, Paradise Lost, Mysteries of Udolpho, Caleb 
 Williams, Lady of the Lake, Coelebs in Search of a Wife, 
 and the Castle of Otranto, were the class of books 
 which constituted the belles-lettres part of my stock in 
 trade. 
 
 My dealings were chiefly with country merchants and 
 Connecticut pedlers, who operated in the southern and 
 western States. A sketch of a single customer will 
 throw light upon this portion of my life. 
 
 "Good morning, Doctor," for the title I had ac 
 quired in the apothecary's shop, still adhered to me ; 
 " how are you, my old cock ? " 
 
 The man who entered my shop, and addressed me in 
 these words, was tall and thin, with lank hair, and a 
 pair of wide drab corduroy pantaloons, and a butternut- 
 
148 THE PEDLER. 
 
 colored coat, of ample width and prodigal length of 
 skirts. His dress was loose as that of a Turk's, and the 
 motions of the man within were as free as a wild-cat's. 
 There was a careless ease in his gait, which seemed to 
 show that he had not been accustomed to either the 
 restraints of nicely-adjusted garments or tight-laced 
 breeding. 
 
 My reply to the man was hearty. " Good morning, 
 God bless you ! how are you, Mr. Fleecer 1 " This was 
 said while a mutual grapple of the hands took place, 
 attended by an undulating motion of the whole frame. 
 
 After a few more congratulatory words, we proceeded 
 to business. With a vast deal of higgling, the pedler 
 laid out a variety of articles, generally selecting them 
 with a reference to two points, bulk and cheapness. The 
 idea he entertained of his customers seemed to be, that 
 they would buy books, as they would load a boat, by 
 the measure of size only. So nice a test as weight, 
 even, was in his experience too subtile and delicate a 
 principle to be used in the purchase of these articles. 
 The subject, the manner in which it was treated, the 
 name of the author, the quality of paper and print, 
 were all considerations either secondary or overlooked. 
 
 Having made up the bulk of his purchases in this 
 way, Mr. Fleecer looked over my shelves, and poked 
 about in every nook and corner, as if searching for 
 something he could not find. At length taking me 
 to the farther end of my shop, and stealing a heedful 
 glance around, to see that no one could overhear us, he 
 spoke as follows, in a low tone. 
 
 " Well, Doctor you 're a doctor, you know, now 
 
THE PEDLER. 149 
 
 let me see some books in the doctors' line. I suppose 
 you 've got Aristotle's ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! " said I. 
 
 " Oh ! none of your gammon : come, out with it ! I'll 
 pay a good price." 
 
 " Upon my word I have n't a copy! " 
 
 " You have ! I know you have ! " 
 
 "I tell you I have not." 
 
 " Well, haven't you got Volney's Ruins? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Nor Tom Paine?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 Nor ? " 
 
 " No, not a copy." 
 
 " Are you in airnest, Doctor 1 " 
 
 " Yes, I never keep such books." 
 
 " Who said you did 1 You do n't keep 'em, ha? Nor 
 I nother ; I only axed you to let me see 'em ! Aint my 
 father a deacon in Pokkytunk, and do you suppose I 
 want to meddle with such infidel trash ? Not I. Still, 
 there 's no harm in looking, I suppose. A cat may look 
 on a king, may n't she, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes, no doubt." 
 
 " Well, well, that's settled. Have you got Young's 
 Night Thoughts?" 
 
 " Plenty." 
 
 " Let me see one." 
 
 Here I showed Mr. Fleecer the book. 
 
 " This is not the right kind," said he. " I want that 
 edition that's got the picter at the beginning of a gal 
 walken out by starlight, called Contemplation." 
 
150 THE PEDLER. 
 
 I handed my customer another copy. He then went 
 on, 
 
 " Aye, this is it. That are picter there, is a very 
 material pint, Doctor. The young fellers down in 
 Kentucky think its a wolloping kind of a story, you 
 know, about some gal that 's in love. They look at the 
 title page, and see ' NIGHT THOUGHTS, BY ALEXAN 
 DER YOUNG.' Well, that seems as if it meant some 
 thing queer. So they look to the frontispiece and see 
 a female all wrapped up in a cloak, goen out very sly, 
 with nothing under heaven but the stars to see what 
 she 's about. ' Hush, hush,' I say, and look round as 
 if afeard that somebody would hear us. And then I 
 shut up the book, and put it into my chist, and deliber 
 ately lock the lid. Then the feller becomes rampacious. 
 He begs, and wheedles, and natters, and at last he 
 swears. I shake my head. Finally he takes out a five- 
 dollar bill ; I slip it into my pocket, and hand him out 
 the book as if I was stealin, and tell him not to let any 
 body know who sold it to him, and not to take off the 
 brown paper kiver till he gets shut up tight in his own 
 room. I then say, ' Good day, mister,' and clear out 
 like chain lightning, for the next county." 
 
 " You seem to be pleased with your recollections, 
 Fleecer." 
 
 " Well, I can't help snickering when I think of them 
 fellers. Why, Bleech, I sold more than tew hundred 
 o' them Night Thoughts, for five dollars a-piece, in 
 Kentucky, last winter, and all the fellers bought 'em 
 under the idea that 't was some queer story, too good to 
 be altogether decent." 
 
THE PEDLER. 151 
 
 " So you cheated 'em, ha 1 " 
 
 " I cheated 'em? not I, indeed ! If they were cheated 
 at all, they cheated themselves, I guess? I didn't tell 
 'em a lie. Could n't they see for themselves ? Hav n't 
 they got eyes ? Why, what should a feller du ? They 
 come smelling about like rats arter cheese, and ax me 
 if I haint got some rowdy books : I show 'em the Sky 
 Lark and Peregrine Pickle, and so on, but they want 
 something better. Well, now, as I told you afore, I 'm 
 a deacon's son, and I don't like to sell Tom Paine and 
 Volney's Ruins, and that sort o' thing. So, thinks I to 
 myself I '11 play them sparks a Yankee trick. They 
 want some rowdy books, and I '11 sell 'em something 
 pious. In this way they may get some good, and in the 
 course of Providence, they may be convarted. Well, 
 the first one I tried, it worked like ginger. He bought 
 the book at a tavern. Arter he'd got it he couldn't 
 hardly wait, he was so fairse to read it. So he went 
 into a room, and I peeped through the key-hole. He 
 began at the title-page, and then he looked at the rigger 
 of Miss Contemplation walking forth among the stars. 
 I could see his mouth water. Then he turned to the 
 first part, and begun to read. I heerd him as plain as 
 
 Dr. Belcher's sarmon : it went pretty much like this, 
 
 (Reads.) 
 4 THE COMPLAINT. NIGHT I.' 
 
 " 'Good that's natural enough,' says he. (Reads.) 
 'ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY,' 
 
 " ' Whew? I suppose it's some feller in love, and is 
 going to cut his throat.' (Reads.) 
 
152 THE PEDLER. 
 
 Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep ! 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays, 
 When fortune smiles,' 
 
 " ' That 's all gammun ! ' (Reads.) 
 
 * Night ! sable goddess from her ebon throne,' 
 
 " ' What in nater is the fellow at? ' (Reads.) 
 1 The bell strikes one ; we take no note of time,' 
 
 " ' Why, that's exactly what the parson said in his 
 sarmon last Sunday ! ' He turns over several pages. 
 
 (Reads.) 
 * NIGHT II. ON TIME, DEATH AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 * When the cock crowed he wept,' 
 
 " ' By Saint Peter, I 'm gummed ! That d d Yankee 
 pedler has sold me a psalm-book, or something of the 
 kind, and made me believe it was a rowdy. The in 
 fernal hypocrite ! And so I 've paid five dollars for a 
 psalm-book ! Well, it 's a good joke, and the fellow de- 
 sarves his money for his ingenuity. He, he, he ! ho, ho, 
 ho ! I must laugh, tho' I 'm mad as a snapping-turtle. 
 Zachary ! if I could get his nose betwixt my thumb and 
 finger, I 'd make him sing every line in the book to a 
 tune of my own. To sell me a psalm-book ! the cant 
 ing, whining, blue-light pedler ! Fire and brimstone ! 
 it makes me sweat to think on 't. And he did it so sly, 
 too the wooden-nutmeg rascal ! I wish I could catch 
 him ! ' 
 
 " By this time I thought it best for me to make my 
 self scace. I had paid my bill, and my horse and 
 waggon were all ready, for I had calculated upon a bit 
 of a breeze. I mounted my box, and having axt the 
 
THE PEDLER 
 
 153 
 
 landlord the way to Lexington, I took the opposite direc 
 tion to throw my psalm-book friend off the scent, in 
 case he was inclined for a chase; so I pursued my 
 journey and got clear. I met the feller about six 
 months arter, at Nashville ; I was goin to ax him if he 
 had a psalm-book to part with, but he looked so plaguey 
 hard at me, that I cocked my beaver over my rightreye, 
 and squinted with the left, and walked on. Sen that, I 
 haint seen him." 
 
 14 
 
THE RIVER. 
 
 OH tell me, pretty river ! 
 
 Whence do thy waters flow ? 
 And whither art thou roaming, 
 
 So pensive and so slow 1 
 
 " My birthplace was the mountain, 
 My nurse, the April showers ; 
 My cradle was a fountain 
 
 O'er-curtained by wild flowers. 
 
 " One morn I ran away, 
 
 A madcap hoyden rill 
 And many a prank that day 
 I played adown the hill ! 
 
 " And then, mid meadowy banks, 
 
 I flirted with the flowers, 
 That stooped with glowing lips, 
 To woo me to their bowers. 
 
 " But these bright scenes are o'er, 
 And darkly flows my wave 
 I hear the ocean's roar, 
 
 And there must be my grave ! " 
 
GUESS MY NAME. 
 
 Go, gather from the laughing wave, 
 
 Where ripples bright o'er sea-shells shine, 
 
 The sweetest tone thine ear can crave, 
 A sweeter voice than this is mine. 
 
 Go, listen to the whispering leaves, 
 
 When summer's wooing winds are nigh; 
 
 My breath, a softer music, weaves 
 Around the breast its magic sigh. 
 
 In every land where young hearts feel, 
 Love holds my service very dear, 
 
 And many a bond I 'm called to seal, 
 No witness, but the parties, near. 
 
 Both dear and cheap, at once am I, 
 A thing that love will give away, 
 
 And shining gold can hardly buy : 
 Oh, need I now my name display ? 
 
THE TWINS. 
 
 IN the autumn of 1826, I had occasion to visit the 
 
 town of N , beautifully situated on the western 
 
 bank of the Connecticut River. My business led me to 
 
 the house of B , a lawyer of threescore and ten, 
 
 who was now resting from his labors, and enjoying the 
 fruits of a life strenuously and successfully devoted to 
 his profession. His drawing-room was richly furnished, 
 and decorated with several valuable paintings. 
 
 There was one among them that particularly at 
 tracted my attention. It represented a mother with two 
 children, one in either arm, a light veil thrown over the 
 group, and one of the children pressing its lips to the 
 cheek of its mother. " That," said I, pointing to the 
 picture, " is very beautiful. Pray, Sir, what is the 
 subject of it ? " " It is a mother and her twins," said he ; 
 " the picture in itself is esteemed a fine one, but I value 
 it more for the recollections which are associated with 
 it." I turned my eye upon B ; he looked commu 
 nicative, and I asked him for the story. " Sit down," 
 said he, " and I will tell it." We accordingly sat 
 down, and he gave me the following narrative. 
 
 " During the war of the Revolution, there resided 
 in the western part of Massachusetts, a farmer by the 
 name of Stedman. He was a man of substance, de 
 scended from a very respectable English family, well 
 
THE TWINS. 
 
 157 
 
 educated, distinguished for great firmness of character 
 in general, and alike remarkable for inflexible integrity 
 and steadfast loyalty to the king. Such was the repu 
 tation he sustained, that even when the most violent an 
 tipathies against royalists swayed the community, it was 
 still admitted on all hands, that farmer Stedman, though 
 a tory, was honest in his opinions, and firmly believed 
 them to be right. 
 
 " The period came when Burgoyne was advancing 
 from the north. It was a time of great anxiety with 
 both the friends and foes of the Revolution, and one 
 which called forth their highest exertions. The patri 
 otic militia flocked to the standard of Gates and Stark, 
 while many of the tories resorted to .the quarters of 
 Burgoyne and Baum. Among the latter was farmer 
 Stedman. 
 
 " He had no sooner decided it to be his duty, than he 
 took a kind farewell of his wife, a woman of uncommon 
 beauty ; gave his children, a twin boy and girl, a long 
 embrace, then mounted his horse and departed. He 
 joined himself to the unfortunate expedition of Baum, 
 and was taken, with other prisoners of war, by the victo 
 rious Stark. 
 
 " He made no attempt to conceal his name or char 
 acter, which were both soon discovered, and he was 
 accordingly committed to prison as a traitor. The gaol 
 in which he was confined was in the western part of 
 Massachusetts, and nearly in a ruinous condition. The 
 farmer was one night waked from his sleep by several 
 persons in his room. ' Come,' said they, ' you can now 
 regain your liberty; we have made a breach in the 
 
 14* 
 
158 
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 prison through which you can escape.' To their aston 
 ishment, he utterly refused to leave his prison. In vain 
 did they expostulate with him ; in vain they represented to 
 him that his life was at stake. His reply was, that he 
 was a true man, and a servant of King George, and he 
 would not creep out of a hole at night, and sneak away 
 from the rebels, to save his neck from the gallows. 
 Finding it fruitless to attempt to remove him, his friends 
 left him with some expressions of spleen. 
 
 " The time at length arrived for the trial of the pris 
 oner. The distance to the place, where the court was 
 sitting, was about sixty miles. Stedman remarked to the 
 sheriff, that it would save some expense if he could be 
 permitted to go alone, and on foot. ' And suppose,' 
 said the sheriff, ' that you should prefer your safety to 
 your honor, and leave me to seek you in the British 
 camp ? ' 'I had thought,' said the farmer, reddening 
 with indignation, ' that I was speaking to one who knew 
 me.' ' I do know you, indeed,' said the sheriff; ' I spoke 
 but in jest; you shall have your own way. Go ! and on 
 
 the third day I shall expect to see you at S .' The 
 
 farmer departed, and, at the appointed time, he placed 
 himself in the hands of the sheriff. 
 
 " I was now engaged as his counsel. Stedman insisted 
 before the court upon telling his whole story; and, 
 when I would have taken advantage of some technical 
 points, he sharply rebuked me, and told me that he had 
 not employed me to prevaricate, but only to assist him 
 in telling the truth. I had never seen such a display of 
 simple integrity. 
 
 " It was affecting to witness his love of holy, unvar- 
 
THE TWINS. 
 
 159 
 
 nished truth, elevating him above every other considera 
 tion, and presiding in his breast as a sentiment even 
 superior to the love of life. I saw the tears more than 
 once springing to the eyes of his judges; never before 
 or since have I felt such interest in a client. I pleaded 
 for him as I would have pleaded for my own life, I 
 drew tears, but I could not sway the judgment of stern 
 men, controlled rather by a sense of duty than by the 
 compassionate promptings of humanity. 
 
 " Stedman was condemned. I told him there was a 
 chance of pardon, if he asked for it. I drew up a peti 
 tion and requested him to sign it, but he refused. ' I 
 have done,' said he, ' what I thought my duty. I can 
 ask pardon of my God, and my king ; but it would be 
 hypocrisy to ask forgiveness of these men for an action 
 which I should repeat, were I placed again in similar 
 circumstances. 
 
 " ' No ! ask me not to sign that petition. If what 
 you call the cause of American freedom requires the 
 blood of an honest man for a conscientious discharge of 
 what he deemed his duty, let me be its victim. Go to 
 my judges and tell them, that I place not my fears nor 
 my hopes in them.' It was in vain that I pressed the 
 subject, and I went away in despair. 
 
 " In returning to my house, I accidentally called on 
 an acquaintance, a young man of brilliant genius, the 
 subject of a passionate predilection for painting. This 
 led him frequently to take excursions into the country, 
 for the purpose of sketching such objects and scenes as 
 were interesting to him. From one of these rambles 
 he had just returned. I found him sitting at his easel 
 
160 THE TWINS. 
 
 giving the last touches to the picture which has just 
 attracted your attention. 
 
 " He asked my opinion of it. ' It is a fine picture/ 
 said I ; ' is it a fancy piece, or are these portraits 1 ' 
 ' They are portraits/ said he, ' and, save perhaps a little 
 embellishment, they are, I think, striking portraits of 
 the wife and children of your unfortunate client, Sted- 
 man. In the course of my rambles, I chanced to call 
 
 at his house in H . I never saw a more beautiful 
 
 group. The mother is one of a thousand, and the twins 
 are a pair of cherubs.' 
 
 " ' Tell me/ said I, laying my hand on the picture, 
 ' tell me, are they true and faithful portraits of the wife 
 and children of Stedman ? ' My earnestness made my 
 friend stare. He assured me, that, so far as he could 
 be permitted to judge of his own productions, they were 
 striking representations. I asked no further questions ; 
 I seized the picture, and hurried with it to the prison, 
 where my client was confined. 
 
 " I found him sitting, his face covered with his hands, 
 and apparently wrung by keen emotion. I placed the 
 picture in such a situation that he could not fail to see 
 it. I laid the petition on the little table by his side, and 
 left the room. 
 
 " In half an hour I returned. The farmer grasped 
 my hand, while tears stole down his cheeks ; his eye 
 glanced first upon the picture, and then to the petition. 
 He said nothing, but handed the latter to me. I took 
 it and left the apartment. His name was fairly written 
 at the bottom ! The petition was granted, and Sted 
 man was set at liberty." 
 
THE LIAR. 
 
 IN Eden first, where flowers were blooming round, 
 
 And all was bliss, the creeping LIAR was found : 
 
 Envy and malice in his heart he bore, 
 
 And the sly Serpent's slippery garb he wore. 
 
 He entered, and the rose became a thorn 
 
 Sorrow of Joy, and Care of Peace, were born! 
 
 And ever since that dark and gloomy hour, 
 
 The fell Deceiver loves to try his power. 
 
 Beauty or virtue, honor, worth inspire 
 
 As Eden once, the Serpent's venomed ire. 
 
 To do the work, too paltry for the Mind 
 
 That struck a master-blow at all mankind, 
 
 The Tempter keeps, apprenticed to his art, 
 
 His dastard minions, taught to play their part. 
 
 Supplied by him with venomed fangs to bite, 
 
 These little adders seek to shed their spite ; 
 
 Happy if some unguarded spot they find, 
 
 Where they may strike and wound the shrinking mind. 
 
 Thus oft the Critic, lowest of them all, 
 Essays to signalize his bosomed gall. 
 Alas, vain viper! thou mayest plead the spite, 
 That nature did thee, and maintain thy right, 
 To match a hunchback spirit, with a mind 
 As much a monster, and perfect thy kind. 
 Go on and do thy work ! nor fear to sting ; 
 'T were pitiful to crush so poor a thing ! 
 
TO *****, 
 THE GENIUS OF PLAINTIVE MUSIC. 
 
 WHEN Eol's finger strikes the string, 
 It yields a wild and wailing tone, 
 
 Yet, like some night-bird's whistling wing, 
 It seems a thing of sound alone. 
 
 The wooing dove, the lapsing rill, 
 
 The waves that faint on ocean's shore, 
 
 Can touch the ear with pleasure's thrill, 
 But all their art can do no more. 
 
 The notes of yonder breathing flute, 
 Soft as the voice of one above, 
 
 Would leave the unanswering bosom mute, 
 If fancy linked it not with love. 
 
 The spirit harp within the breast 
 A spirit's touches only knows, 
 
 Yet thine the power to break its rest, 
 And all its melody disclose. 
 
 Yes, and thy minstrel art the while, 
 Can blend the tones of weal and wo, 
 
 So archly, that the heart may smile, 
 
 Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow. 
 
GENIUS OP PLAINTIVE MUSIC. 163 
 
 And thus thy wizard skill can weave 
 Music's soft twilight o'er the breast, 
 
 As mingling day and night, at eve, 
 Robe the far purpling hills for rest. 
 
 Thy voice is treasured in my soul, 
 And echoing memory shall prolong 
 
 Those woman tones, whose sweet control 
 Melts joy and sorrow into song. 
 
 The tinted sea-shell, borne away 
 Far from the ocean's pebbly shore, 
 
 Still loves to hum the choral lay, 
 
 The whispering mermaid taught of yore. 
 
 The hollow cave, that once hath known 
 Echo's lone voice, can ne'er forget 
 
 But gives though parting years have flown - 
 The wild responsive cadence yet. 
 
 So shall thy plaintive melody, 
 
 Undying, linger in my heart, 
 Till the last string of memory, 
 
 By death's chill finger struck, shall part ! 
 
THE GIANT AND THE ANTS. 
 
 A CERTAIN neighborhood was once infested with ants, 
 and the people employed a giant to destroy them. 
 Although the giant came with a mighty club, and laid 
 about him furiously, he only, now and then, slew a 
 single ant. The little creatures at first laughed at his 
 efforts, and actually crawled up his legs, and began to 
 annoy him terribly. They also increased rapidly. At 
 last, it was seen that the giant could not extirpate them ; 
 and about the same time, a wren, offering his services, 
 was accepted, and soon cleared all the ants away. 
 
 Thus, greatness is sometimes baffled by littleness, and 
 meanness itself will often get the advantage in a struggle 
 with the highminded and the honorable. The little and 
 the low, should therefore be left to be dealt with by 
 those of their own nature and kind those whose in 
 stincts enable them to understand and conquer the 
 enemy with whom they are to contend. 
 
THE SUSTAINER OF ALL THINGS. 
 
 IF we carefully examine the various works of creation 
 to be found upon the surface of this earth, we shall dis 
 cover that they all testify to the existence of a God, of 
 infinite skill and power. We shall find in plants, insects, 
 animals, and man, contrivances which show a design 
 ing mind and a working hand, combining wisdom and 
 ability, infinitely beyond those of any earthly being, and 
 we shall therefore be compelled to refer their existence 
 to a God, all-wise and all-powerful. 
 
 Even supposing that we could account for the ingen 
 ious structure of plants and animals if we could show 
 that they made themselves still, who furnished the 
 materials ? Who made the elements, earth, air, fire, and 
 water 1 If man made himself, who gave him the bone, 
 the flesh, the blood, or the substance out of which to 
 shape them ? Who made the earth on which we stand, 
 the air we breathe, and the sun whose light we share ? 
 We can only answer these questions by referring their 
 existence to the creative power of God. If you go forth 
 inquiring of the several objects of nature, who made ye? 
 each blade of grass, each leaf and flower and tree, 
 answers, God ! the insect, the reptile, the bird, the 
 quadruped, answers, God! man answers, God! in 
 stinct life and mind answer, God ! the very elements 
 answer, God! the mute stone answers, God! 
 
 15 
 
166 THESUSTAINER 
 
 But let us step in imagination for one moment 
 beyond the surface of this earth, and contemplate the 
 solar system. With this, we are but imperfectly ac 
 quainted, but we know the magnitude of the sun, and 
 of the several planets which revolve around it. We 
 know their motions and their several velocities. Let 
 us take a view of this wonderful mechanism. 
 
 It appears that our earth is seven thousand nine 
 hundred and eleven miles in diameter, and therefore it 
 is about twenty-four thousand miles around it. What 
 an inconceivable bulk ! And now let us compare the 
 strength of man with that of God. A man can lift a 
 stone half as large as his own body ; but God can lift 
 this earth, with all its stones and rocks and mountains 
 and rivers and seas and continents ! He can do more 
 for the earth turns round every twenty-four hours, and 
 as it is twenty-four thousand miles around it, every tree 
 and house and man and animal goes with it at the rate of 
 one thousand miles an hour ! Nay, this world, with all 
 its lands and waters and inhabitants, goes round the sun 
 once a year. Its distance from the sun is ninety-five mil 
 lions of miles. The whole distance it travels in a year is 
 about two hundred and seventy millions of miles. This 
 is about seven hundred and fifty thousand miles every 
 day, thirty-one thousand two hundred miles every hour, 
 five hundred miles every minute, eight miles every time 
 your pulse beats ! 
 
 Man then can lift a stone half as large as his body, 
 but God lifts a world twenty-four thousand miles in cir 
 cumference; nay, more, he tosses it into the air, and 
 whirling it through the heavens, it goes at the rate of 
 
OFALLTHINGS. 167 
 
 three thousand one hundred and twenty miles an hour ! 
 Nor does it stop in its progress. Age after age it con 
 tinues, and when centuries have passed away, still it 
 pauses not in its flight ! 
 
 But what shall we say when we consider that the sun 
 is as large as three hundred and thirty-seven thousands 
 of our worlds'? that Jupiter is as large as one thousand 
 two hundred and eighty-one of our worlds? that Mer 
 cury flies along in its path at the rate of almost eighty 
 miles in a second ? and that Uranus is seventeen times 
 as large as our world, one billion eight hundred millions 
 of miles from the sun, and flies along at the rate of two 
 hundred and forty miles every minute ! 
 
 Here then is the power of God ! A world, with all 
 its mountains and oceans and kingdoms, is but a pebble 
 in the hands of the Almighty. Our solar system alone 
 has eleven such worlds, beside the numerous moons 
 that revolve around them, and beside the comets, 
 those strange, mysterious, wandering worlds, some of 
 whose trains are forty millions of miles in length, and 
 whose velocity outstrips even the speed of the swiftest 
 planets. 
 
 But these worlds of our system are but eleven of those 
 thousand stars that glitter in the sky ; and far beyond 
 those we can see, is an endless path, familiar to the 
 footsteps of God, glittering with stars whose very light 
 has not yet travelled down to man. And these, no 
 doubt, are suns, around which other worlds revolve ; 
 and He who made the insect is the Maker of them all ! 
 
 Yes, He who made the little violet of the valley, made 
 the sun, which is three hundred and thirty-seven thousand 
 
168 THE S U S T A I N E R 
 
 times larger than our earth. He who made the butterfly 
 that dances in the breeze, made thatplanet Mercury, which 
 flies eighty miles upon its journey, every time your heart 
 beats. He who made the little sparrow that nestles in 
 the bush, made that great planet Jupiter, which is one 
 thousand two hundred and eighty-one times as large as 
 this earth. He who made the squirrel leaping from 
 bough to bough, made the comets which sweep through 
 the heavens with fiery trains, millions of miles in length. 
 He who made man, built the ocean and the land, and 
 strewed the vault of heaven with stars, as the sea with 
 pearls ! 
 
 And now let us contemplate these things as all the 
 work of one Being ; and let us consider that they are not 
 only made by Him, but that every moment they call 
 upon him to sustain them. Let us remember that God 
 has not only made plants and animals, but that if not 
 continued, supported, and carried forward by Him, they 
 would instantly perish; let us remember that but for 
 Him the rivers would cease to flow, the air would be 
 still, the planets would halt, the stars would be quenched 
 from the sky. It is God who gives to all, life and motion. 
 Let Him take his power from them, and the kingdoms 
 of nature would be shrouded with everlasting forgetful- 
 ness. 
 
 God, then, is the maker and sustainer of all things. 
 Let us consider Him as such. We take the vegetable 
 kingdom. Every leaf and stem and fibre is made by 
 him : each blade of grass is woven by his fingers. Day 
 by day, hour by hour, He must be there to attend to the 
 process of their manufacture. And He must at the same 
 
OF ALL THINGS. 169 
 
 moment attend to every blade of grass throughout the 
 world, in the same way. In the same way, He must 
 shape every leaf, unfold every flower, and braid every 
 stalk and stem. Think of the myriads of plants in a 
 single field, and consider that God is attending every 
 moment to every one of them, and not to them only, but 
 to all others that are in the universe ! To each of 
 these He is every moment giving heat and light and 
 moisture, and to each of these He is attending, more 
 carefully than a nurse to an infant. 
 
 Let us consider the insects. There are forty thou 
 sand species of these, and countless myriads of each 
 species. The air, the land, the very depths of the sea, 
 are filled with them, and the Creator must attend to 
 each one of them every moment. Where there is life 
 and motion, there must He be, to sustain it. There 
 He must be to mould the eggs, to endow them with life, 
 to frame all the nice mechanism of the young, and to 
 preserve that of the old. And besides, they must all be 
 endowed with their several instincts. Every bee must 
 be taught the wonderful art of making and storing 
 honey ; every ant must be instructed in the political 
 economy of the hill ; each spider must be enabled to 
 spin his thread of four thousand strands. 
 
 The birds of the air claim the attention of their 
 Maker. He must construct every feather, and mark it 
 with the hues of its kind ; He must preside over the 
 nice machinery of every wing the whole internal 
 structure must be his. Every egg must derive the 
 principle of vitality from his touch. Think of the 
 myriads of the feathered tribes, that are scattered over 
 
170 THE SUSTAINER 
 
 the earth, in vale and meadow and mountain and marsh : 
 along the pebbly shore of the deep upon the lonely 
 seaward isles upon the bosom of the ocean and 
 consider that every wing that winnows the air, every 
 downy breast that divides the wave, must call upon God 
 every moment for support. Think, too, that each and 
 all of them are to be supplied by Him with that teach 
 ing which alone enables them to support existence, or 
 to perpetuate their several races ! 
 
 And the myriad fishes of the sea these too depend 
 upon God. He must measure and fit the scales of the 
 perch, He must construct the delicate bony frame-work 
 of the fins, and cover them over with their silky film. 
 The little minnow nay, the minute eel of transparent 
 water invisible to the naked eye, and only to be dis 
 cerned by a microscope, must receive from God every 
 bone and muscle and nerve. And while He attends to 
 these, He is called upon to preside over the whale, to 
 measure out the beatings of its heart, and impel the 
 cataract of blood through its mighty veins and arteries ! 
 
 And quadrupeds too depend upon God. Every one 
 of them must have his frame built by the divine Archi 
 tect ; every one of them calls upon God for his devising 
 skill, his creative power, his sustaining care ; for while 
 He watches over the squirrel of our forest, He must 
 bestow his care upon the elephant and rhinoceros of Asia 
 and Africa! 
 
 And man too calls upon God every moment, for his 
 attention and care. There are eight hundred millions 
 of people in the world. In each there is a spine of 
 twenty-four joints, with other nice machinery ; in each, 
 
OF ALL THINGS. 
 
 171 
 
 there is a heart and veins and arteries; in each, that 
 heart is beating at the rate of seventy strokes in a min 
 ute ; in each, the whole blood of the body is changed 
 every five minutes ; and all this is the work of one God ! 
 And remember that while every blade of grass, every 
 insect, every fruit, every quadruped, every living being 
 throughout the universe, is receiving the care of the 
 Almighty, He is heaving the planets along in their 
 courses, and turning the mighty crank which keeps the 
 whirling spheres in motion. Remember too that in 
 each of these worlds there are probably races of beings 
 like those on our earth, claiming the care of their 
 Creator ! 
 
LIFE. 
 
 ON May-day morn, the tasselled willow swings 
 In golden green above the brimming brook; 
 
 But soon November's gale that willow wrings, 
 And to their bed its silken robes are shook. 
 
 A few brief years ago Fitzroy was fair 
 
 And young the vanquisher of hearts and steel : 
 
 See'st thou yon gray, old, maundering man? He 's there, 
 Munching in toothless age his vacant meal ! 
 
 Mark him ! with muttering lip and tottering tread, 
 As down the hill-side, staff in hand, he goes ; 
 
 With idiot instinct, seeming still to dread 
 
 The grave he seeks, the pillow of life's woes! 
 
 'T is thus with all around ; youth yields to age, 
 Age bows like leaves to winter's rushing sweep, 
 
 And generations pass life's hurried stage, 
 As bubbles rise and vanish on the deep. 
 
 Such are the sad monitions of our state : 
 Our feet are set upon the yielding wave ; 
 
 And yet we build of adamant, our fate, 
 To sink, with all our castles, in the grave. 
 
LIFE. 173 
 
 The day is but an inroad on the night, 
 Life an invasion of the realms of death ; 
 
 And yet \ve count on both, on life and light, 
 As if these were not meteors of mere breath. 
 
 Time's trembling arch with giddy foot we tread, 
 Deaf to the tide that speaks below in foam ; 
 
 And on this bridge of air a spider's thread 
 We stay our hopes and seek to found a home ! 
 
 Why are we cheated thus? Alas ! the Liar 
 
 Of Paradise is round us day by day, 
 Making the false seem fair, till wrong desire 
 
 Fills every pulse, and willingly we stray. 
 
 We seek the high, the dazzling, not the true; 
 
 Invest our hopes, our wishes, and our prayers 
 In earth's poor toys, or gold, that cheats the view, 
 
 And stays behind to curse our grumbling heirs. 
 
 Life is a journey, and its fairest flowers 
 
 Lie in our path beneath pride's trampling feet ; 
 
 Oh, let us stoop to virtue's humble bowers, 
 
 And gather those, which, faded, still are sweet. 
 
 These way-side blossoms amulets are of price ; 
 They lead to pleasures, yet from dangers warn ; 
 
 Turn toil to bliss, this earth to Paradise, 
 And sunset death to heaven's eternal morn. 
 
174 LIFE. 
 
 A good deed done hath memory's blest perfume, 
 A day of self-forgetfulness, all given 
 
 To holy charity, hath perennial bloom 
 
 That goes, undrooping, up from earth to heaven. 
 
 Forgiveness, too, will flourish in the skies 
 Justice, transplanted thither, yields fair fruit ; 
 
 And if repentance, borne to heaven, dies, 
 'T is that no tears are there to wet its root. 
 
THE PERSECUTED EAGIE. 
 
 UPON a certain mountain there once dwelt an eagle 
 that had the gift of foreseeing and predicting the weather 
 for some days before it came to pass. Accustomed to 
 fly far above the clouds, his range of vision was vastly 
 greater than that of the jays that dwelt in the valley, or 
 of the bitterns that muddled in the swamps. He could 
 see the tempest, the squall, and the thunder storm, long 
 before others perceived them ; and being in the habit 
 of imparting his knowledge to others, he was of the 
 greatest advantage to the feathered tribes around. He 
 was of particular use to those that dwelt in the valley, 
 and who, by their situation, had confined views, and en 
 joyed fewer advantages for knowledge, than others. 
 
 Now among these birds were a number of crows, 
 who were jealous of the eagle, because he was so much 
 their superior. " What right," says one of them, " has 
 this eagle to be so much above us? " " Sure enough ! " 
 says another; " what right has he to be soaring away 
 up in the clouds, and seeing what is going to happen, 
 long before it comes to pass?" "Ah, ha," says a 
 third ; " and he 's as proud as Lucifer ! " " He 's a sor 
 cerer," says a fourth. " Down with him ! " says a fifth. 
 
 Having worked themselves up to a pitch of fury, the 
 crows dispersed among the other birds of the mountain 
 and the valley, and began to excite their jealousy against 
 the eagle. Their main charge was that he was proud, 
 
176 THE PERSECUTED EAGLE. 
 
 and this took wonderfully. It was not a little curious, that 
 the lowland birds, to whom the eagle was most useful, 
 became the most excited against him. In a short time 
 there was a general murmur through meadow and moun 
 tain, against the eagle, as an aristocrat, a privileged bird, 
 and the cry spread far and wide, " down with him ! " 
 
 Upon this, the birds of every degree rose upon their 
 wings, and went in pursuit of the eagle. They found 
 him sitting upon a rock, and immediately they prepared 
 for the attack. He made no resistance, for his heart 
 was broken, to find that his philanthropy was miscon 
 strued, and that his efforts to benefit the feathered race 
 had only excited their jealousy and resentment. So he 
 patiently received their gibes and jeers, and when they 
 fell upon him with blows, he laid himself down, and 
 submitted to his fate. There was a great strife among 
 the more ignoble birds, to see which should inflict the 
 deepest wound upon the eagle, and he was therefore soon 
 deprived of life. 
 
 When he was fairly dead, the resentment of the birds 
 ceased, and they began to consider whether they had 
 done well or wisely. " After all," says one, " he was 
 a fine fellow ! " " Indeed he was," says another ; " he 
 was the great benefactor of our race." "Yes," added 
 a third ; " he was an ornament to the feathered family." 
 " He was inspired," says a fourth. " He was a god," 
 says a fifth. "Let us worship him," says a sixth; and 
 so the birds bowed their heads, and paid homage to 
 the dead carcass of the eagle, after they had themselves 
 quenched the spirit that animated it ! 
 
THE MONKEYS' PETITION. 
 
 IN ancient times, when foxes were lawyers and mon 
 keys were physicians, a deputation of the latter ap 
 peared before Jove, and begged an opportunity to lay a 
 petition at his feet. This was graciously granted, and 
 the chairman of the deputation addressed the King of 
 gods and men, in substance, as follows : 
 
 " Whereas, if it please your gracious majesty, the 
 foxes being the lawyers of the animal tribes, and we 
 the monkeys, being the physicians, we have to complain 
 of great inequality and injustice. The foxes have the 
 making of the laws, and are therefore able to contrive 
 them in such a manner as to profit by them, in a very 
 high degree. In the first place they have them expres 
 sed in blind language, using many hard words, which 
 are only understood by themselves ; they also make them 
 very complicated, so that few, beside the profession, are 
 able to interpret them. Thus the laws are difficult to be 
 understood, and every question that arises is not only of 
 doubtful issue, but no one can manage cases which arise, 
 but the lawyers themselves. Now, all this is arranged 
 by the shrewd foxes, so that their business may thrive. 
 The blindness of the law occasions many lawsuits, and 
 so well do the lawyers understand this, that they have 
 an exulting proverb, which speaks of the " glorious un- 
 
 16 
 
178 THE MONKEYS' PETITION. 
 
 certainty of the law ; " a thing, which at once proves the 
 facts we state, and gives them their true interpretation. 
 Thus their business is kept up, and as they make the 
 laws which regulate their own fees, they extort vast 
 sums from the people, and become rich, respectable, and 
 powerful. The law which rules, fashions, and moulds 
 society, is actually put into their hands; it is their in 
 strument ; and as they wield it for their own purposes, 
 they become the masters of the people. Thus, slily, 
 but effectually, do they govern. They are, in short, a 
 privileged class, enjoying powers and immunities, which 
 even legitimate princes, who pretend to rule by divine 
 right, may hardly claim or exercise. 
 
 " Now, we physicians, may it please your most gra 
 cious worship, wish, as far as may be, to be put on a 
 footing with the foxes the lawyers. As they make 
 the laws, out of which they are to get a living, we wish 
 to make the diseases out of which we are to get a living. 
 As the foxes, or lawyers, are permitted to infuse into 
 the body politic just what diseases may make their pro 
 fession flourish, we wish to be empowered to put what 
 diseases we please into the natural body, so as to 
 make our profession flourish. Beside this, having made 
 what diseases we please, we wish, like the foxes, to have 
 the privilege of fixing our own fees, for curing these dis 
 eases. In short, we wish to be put on an equality with 
 the lawyers. This is our petition, most exalted Jove, 
 and for this we shall ever pray ! " 
 
 " I have heard your prayer," said Jove; " but I wish 
 to point out a difference in the two cases, which you 
 present to my consideration. The natural body is my 
 
THE MONKEYS' PETITION. 
 
 179 
 
 work, and I can permit no one to interfere with that ; but 
 laws are the work of society of the people. If they 
 are so soft as to employ the foxes, the lawyers, to make 
 the laws ; if they intrust power to a certain profession, 
 and make it the interest of that profession to cheat 
 their employers, let the people who act thus reap the 
 consequences. I have made my creatures free, but I 
 have given them the light of reason to guide their foot 
 steps. If they blow out this light, they must not com 
 plain when they get lost amid the labyrinths of delusion, 
 or injure themselves by falling over precipices. 
 
 " I have seen the evil of which you complain, but re 
 commend you to keep quiet, for the human race act in 
 this matter, much in the same way as you say the brute 
 creation do ; particularly when the people undertake to 
 govern themselves. They always call upon the lawyers 
 to make their laws, and thus these become the managers, 
 wire-pullers, and masters of society. Their tyranny 
 would be intolerable, but that it is invisible. The law 
 yers not only control the legislature, and thus make 
 the laws to answer their own purposes, but they make 
 themselves justices of the peace ; they occupy all the 
 benches of justice ; they fill nearly all the high and pro 
 fitable stations in society ; at the same time, the profes 
 sion are cemented together by a feeling that they have 
 a common interest, which is adverse to the commu 
 nity. Thus acting unitedly, they become irresistible. 
 The people dare not attack them, and the press itself 
 is rather their tool, than their judge. There is no 
 despot in any land, whose power is more complete or 
 secure, and whose tyranny is more pervading, than that 
 
180 THE MONKEYS' PETITION. 
 
 of the profession of the law, among certain portions of 
 mankind. They not only make the laws but administer 
 them ; they embody in themselves the legislature, the 
 judiciary, and the executive, thus absorbing the three 
 great powers of government. I trust, therefore, that you 
 monkeys will rest satisfied, seeing that you have so good 
 authority for submitting to craftiness and tyranny, in the 
 conduct of the lords of creation ; and especially among 
 those wise nations who fancy that they are free, merely 
 because their fetters are forged by themselves." 
 
THE GIPSIES' PRAYER. 
 
 OUR altar is the dewy sod, 
 Our temple, yon blue Throne of God ; 
 No priestly rite our souls to bind, 
 We bow before the Almighty Mind ! 
 
 Father thy realm is wide as air ! 
 Thou wilt not spurn the gipsies' prayer 
 Though banned and barred by all beside, 
 Be thou the Outcasts' guard and guide. 
 
 Poor fragments of a nation wrecked, 
 Its story whelmed in time's neglect, 
 We drift unheeded on the wave, 
 If God refuse the lost to save. 
 
 Yet though we name no father-land, 
 And though we clasp no kindred hand 
 Though houseless, homeless wanderers we, 
 Oh ! give us hope of Heaven with thee ! 
 
 16* 
 
THE SENSES. 
 
 THE eye is but a grated pane, 
 
 Through which the clay-imprisoned soul 
 Looks dimly forth on earth and sky 
 
 Yet deeming all a heaven-writ scroll. 
 
 We gaze and gaze, and sometimes dream 
 That these may satisfy the heart ; 
 
 But, lo ! an after longing comes, 
 
 Which makes the cheated dreamer start. 
 
 We feel that these are signs not things 
 
 Prophetic visions cast before ; 
 And yearning fancy turns to faith, 
 
 Making us sure of something more. 
 
 The ear doth catch sweet tones around 
 From woman's tongue and Eol's choir ; 
 
 Yet this earth-music is but one 
 
 Sweet, stolen string from heaven's lyre. 
 
 And this is whispered to the heart ; 
 
 For, though the raptured sense be blest 
 With song a 'yearning wish will rise 
 
 For something still to Jill the breast. 
 
THE SENSES 
 
 183 
 
 The rose regales, yet seems to cheat, 
 
 Not satisfy, the sense it woos; 
 The jaded palate turns away 
 
 From that which first it seemed to choose. 
 
 The nerve with sweet sensation thrills ; 
 
 Yet languor comes to claim its turn, 
 And leaves the sickened soul within, 
 
 For something better still to yearn. 
 
 Thus every sense exalts the soul, 
 Bestows a transient draught of bliss, 
 
 Then breaks the cup, to make us thirst 
 For surer, purer joys than this. 
 
 They lift us to the mountain top, 
 
 Where earth and heaven in contrast lie, 
 
 And bid us spurn this lower sphere, 
 And spread the wing for yonder sky ! 
 
 V J 
 
 f 
 
INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE.* 
 
 IT is now about two centuries, since the little plain 
 upon which we live, was discovered and settled by our 
 English ancestors. Within this long period, it has never, 
 so far as I have been able to trace its history, been the 
 theatre of any great crime, or the scene of any great 
 calamity. It has been marked, in a singular degree, 
 by peace and gradual prosperity. As none of its inhab 
 itants have been excessively rich, so few have been very 
 poor. The gifts of Providence, or the bounties of for 
 tune, have been scattered with an equalizing hand : and 
 the result has been, an equality of condition, and a com 
 munity of feeling, to be met with, to the same extent, 
 in no other place within my knowledge. The rich man 
 here, asks no consideration which all do not accord ; 
 and the poor, if there are any such among us, are never 
 denied that charity which their condition demands, 
 The truth is, that all, or nearly all, are independent 
 alike free from the fear of want, and safe from the temp 
 tations of undue riches. And hence it is a fact, that 
 the envy, strife, and malice, which wrestle in the bosoms 
 
 * From an Address delivered at Jamaica Plain, July 4, 1835. 
 
INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 185 
 
 of other societies, have no dwelling-place here or, if 
 they live among us, their voice is not heard, and their 
 power is not felt. 
 
 Our community, then, may be compared to a single 
 family, the members of which are not divided by those 
 palpable barriers of poverty and wealth, which separate 
 other communities into distinct castes. The ques 
 tions with us are not, is a man rich, or is he poor 1 
 but, rather, is he honest? is he a lover of truth? is 
 he a promoter of peace ? is he a good citizen, a kind 
 and faithful neighbor? Is a man possessed of these 
 characteristics then is he truly honored, and not 
 otherwise. 
 
 This I conceive to be a fair delineation of, at least, 
 one prominent feature in our little community of Ja 
 maica Plain. It is, that the condition of its inhabitants 
 is marked with singular equality alike removed from 
 suffering poverty and pampering wealth. And, con 
 nected with this condition, and partly flowing from it, 
 is the custom of looking at every member of society 
 according to his character, and not according to his 
 circumstances. I do not mean that the people are in 
 sensible to the advantages of wealth, or the evils of 
 poverty ; but it is not the house a man lives in it is 
 not the dress he wears, that forms with us, a reputation. 
 These outside circumstances, husks to the kernel with 
 in, are cast away and rejected, when the inner man is 
 to be examined. It is the naked mind and heart that 
 are studied, as forming the real man. Nor is this true of 
 the present race alone; it was also true of those fathers 
 of the land, who sleep in their quiet graves. If you look 
 
186 INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 
 
 into their place of rest, and learn their history, you will 
 find that the honored dead are but the prototypes of the 
 honored living. 
 
 Let us, in seeking out the causes which have made 
 this people what they are, go back to the first settlement 
 of this village, and briefly note the progress of events. 
 The town of Roxbury was settled in 1630 ; the same 
 year that Boston was settled. The neighboring coun 
 try was doubtless soon explored. Let us, in imagina 
 tion, accompany the grave pilgrim, who first visited the 
 place where Jamaica Plain now stands. This beautiful 
 level was no doubt originally covered with lofty pine 
 trees. The hills around were mantled with the oak, 
 the chestnut, the beach, and the maple. Let us go with 
 the pilgrim in his march through these woods. Re 
 member that he has a gun in his hand, and a knife in 
 his belt ; for the bear and the wolf are now lords of the 
 forest. 
 
 With what delight must he have surveyed this valley, 
 as he first viewed it from the hills with what trans 
 port must he have looked, for the first time, upon the 
 waters of our little lake ! What must have been his 
 emotions, when, stooping to drink from its margin, that 
 mirror reflected a white man's face for the first time 
 since the Creator poured it into its hollow bed, saying, 
 " Here shall thy waves be stayed." 
 
 Our pilgrim fathers were lovers of God they were, 
 therefore, lovers of nature. The ancient Greek, who 
 heard the footsteps of a Dryad in the rustling leaves, or 
 the voice of a nymph in the sighing winds, was even less 
 poetical than the Puritan ; for, while the imagination of 
 
INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 187 
 
 the former filled the forest with substantial forms, the 
 latter saw in every thing around, as in the fragments of 
 a mirror, reflections of a more glorious Image. I need 
 not tell you, then, how his bosom swelled, as the wan 
 derer looked over the crystal water a glass set in the 
 wilderness, to reflect the face of Heaven, and beauti 
 fully fitted to so holy a use. 
 
 With a heart strung to religious emotion, and a spirit 
 of devotion, which appropriated every thing to a reli 
 gious use, all nature was full of music and meaning 
 the wind and the wave spoke, and to him they ever 
 spoke in the beautiful language of scripture. Could 
 the pilgrim fail, then, as he mused over the discovered 
 lake, to think of the worship which had ascended for 
 ages from these waves, sometimes as the gust swept by, 
 "clapping their hands" in joy, and again giving back 
 the image of Heaven, as the Spirit whispered, " peace, 
 be still 1 " Under the influence of such thoughts, could 
 he hesitate? No. Here, says he, shall be my resting 
 place here will I make my tabernacle. Sheltered by 
 these hills fed by this fertile soil inspired by these 
 crystal waters, I will spend the remainder of my days ; 
 and when my work is done, these sands shall furnish a 
 pillow for my final rest. 
 
 And now what are the first steps of the settler ? To 
 cut down the trees to build a house to clear the 
 land to plant and sow. And when this is done, what 
 is his situation ? His soil is well adapted to the culti 
 vation of all those plants which give nutriment to man. 
 Near by is the growing mart of Boston. The inhabi 
 tants there being engaged in commerce, are glad to pur- 
 
188 INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 
 
 chase his corn, his wheat, his fruit, and his vegetables. 
 His course is now clear. Husbandry and horticulture 
 become his employments. He has neighbors these 
 are their employments also. The village thrives the 
 forest falls around society grows up and Jamaica 
 Plain, a century ago, was the germ of what it is now. 
 The people were farmers and gardeners, like their de 
 scendants, and drew their wealth, in the same way, from 
 the sale of their products to the people of Boston. 
 
 I think we can see, in this slight sketch, the main 
 causes of that character which I have attributed to the 
 inhabitants of this village. Circumstances early in 
 duced a life of industry. They could not get rich in a 
 day, by the rise of stocks, or the success of a voyage. 
 No ; they must toil to-day, to-morrow, and through the 
 year. Toil, then, became their destiny ; but was it not 
 a happy destiny ? When the sentence was pronounced 
 upon the exiled inhabitants of Eden, tlwu shalt eat 
 thy bread with the sweat of thy brow, there seems to 
 have been relenting grace in the very malediction. 
 
 When man from Paradise was driven, 
 And thorns around his pathway sprung, 
 
 Sweet Mercy, wandering there from heaven, 
 Upon those thorns bright roses flung. 
 
 Ay, and as Justice cursed the ground, 
 She stole behind, unheard, unseen, 
 
 And, as the curses fell around, 
 She scattered seeds of joy between. 
 
 And when the evils sprung to light, 
 And spread like weeds their poison wide, 
 
 Fresh healing plants came blooming bright, 
 
INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 189 
 
 And stood, to check them, side by side. 
 
 And now, though Eden blooms afar, 
 And man is exiled from its bowers, 
 
 Still Mercy steals through bolt and bar, 
 And brings away its choicest flowers. 
 
 The very toil, the thorns of care, 
 Which Heaven in wrath for sin imposes, 
 
 By Mercy changed, no curses are 
 One brings us rest the other, roses. 
 
 Toil, then bodily toil is no curse; it is a bles 
 sing. It is alike salutary to the body and the soul. It 
 is ordained of Heaven, as giving vigor to one, and 
 wholesome discipline to the other. Let no man spurn 
 it; let no man deem himself degraded by it; let no 
 man feel elevated, by being placed in a situation which 
 does not require it. No one is injured by toil but 
 thousands perish, and tens of thousands drag out lives 
 of misery, for the want of it. Some of the greatest 
 and best men who have lived, were men of toil. Wash 
 ington was a farmer Greene, a blacksmith and 
 Sherman, a shoemaker. The fathers of this village 
 were men of toil they practised it habitually and 
 industry became with them a prominent virtue. 
 
 If industry be a homely virtue, still, is it not worthy of 
 all praise ? Experience, religion, philosophy, alike incul 
 cate it. Even nature herself reads us a frequent lec 
 ture upon it. Let us go, for a moment, from the haunts 
 of men, to the bosom of the quiet forest. Here we 
 shall find no droning sound of the mill, the hammer, or 
 the saw. It is silent ; but look around, and see what 
 has been done, by the busy, though noiseless hand of 
 nature. See the rock how artfully it is woven over 
 
 17 
 
190 INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 
 
 with moss, as if to hide its roughness ; and how is an 
 object, of itself uninteresting, thus rendered beautiful ? 
 Look at the rugged banks of the brawling stream ! See 
 the tufts of grass, the spreading shrubs, and gaudy wild 
 flowers that cover it, and thus turn into beauty the very 
 deformity of the wilderness ! Look down upon the val 
 ley, and see how the withered leaves, the mouldering 
 branches of trees, the scattered stems, and other ob 
 jects, witnesses of decay and death, are carpeted over 
 by grasses and flowers ! How beautiful, how ornamen 
 tal, are the works of Nature, even in the wilderness and 
 the solitary place ! She seems to decorate them all, as 
 if each spot were a garden, in which God might per 
 chance walk, as once in Eden ; and she would have it 
 fitly arrayed for his inspection. 
 
 And shall not man learn a homely lesson from this 
 lecture in the woods? Will you look at Nature, and 
 see her, with industrious fingers, weaving flowers and 
 plants, and grasses, and trees, and shrubs, to ornament 
 every part of the earth, and will you go home, no wiser 
 for the hint? Will you go home to that dear spot 
 upon which the heart should shine, as the cheering sun 
 in spring-time upon the flowers and permit it to be 
 the scene of idleness, negligence and waste ? Will you 
 permit it to be a naked shelter from the weather, like the 
 den of a wild beast ? Will you not rather adorn it by your 
 industry, as Nature adorns the field and the forest ? 
 
 If it be said that this is somewhat fanciful, and should 
 be regarded rather as illustration than argument, let 
 it be admitted. Still, are not the works of Nature de 
 signed to have an influence of this kind upon us ? Why 
 
INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 191 
 
 do we feel their beauty, and carry their images in our 
 bosoms, but as a language in which our Creator would 
 speak to us, move us, educate us? If the trembling 
 string that is set in the wind, yields melody to the ear, 
 shall we not listen to it? And if Nature would thus 
 become a monitor, shall we not learn of her ? If she sets 
 before us an example, shall we not follow it? If she 
 beautifies the dell, the vale, the slope, the hill cover 
 ing up whatever may offend, and displaying in rich col 
 ors and beautiful forms her fairy designs of leaves and 
 flowers shall we not imitate her ? 
 
 It seems to me no violent stretch of faith, to deem all 
 this as meant for practical teaching to man. Nature is 
 industrious in adorning her dominions ; and man, to 
 whom this beauty is addressed, should feel and obey the 
 lesson. Let him, too, be industrious, in adorning his 
 domain in making his home the dwelling of his 
 wife and children not only convenient and comfort 
 able, but pleasant. Let him, as far as circumstances 
 will permit, be industrious in surrounding it with plea 
 sing objects in decorating it, within and without, 
 with things that tend to make it agreeable and attrac 
 tive. Let industry make home the abode of neatness 
 and order a place which brings satisfaction to every 
 inmate, and which in absence draws back the heart, by 
 the fond associations of comfort and content. Let this 
 be done, and this sacred spot will become more surely 
 the scene of cheerfulness, kindness, and peace. 
 
 The excellence of industry may be illustrated by con 
 trasting it with indolence. There is no person more 
 truly unhappy, than one who is given up to idleness. 
 
192 INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 
 
 Whether rich or poor, he is a wretch who is wedded to 
 it. It was the design of Him who made us, that 
 we should be active, and he has always laid happiness 
 in the paths of effort and exertion. He, then, who 
 travels in the ways of indolence in search of happiness, 
 always misses it. He is like a lazy fellow, whom I 
 once knew, who sat waiting at a woodchuck's burrow a 
 whole day, expecting the animal to come out and be 
 caught ; but the brute was the wiser of the two, and 
 went out by another way. 
 
 Indolence by indulgence, may at last become a dis 
 ease. A man dressed in rags, haggard, and marked 
 with misery, once approached a rich man, and begged 
 for a few pence. " But why do you beg?" said the 
 rich man. "I am afflicted with a disease," said the 
 beggar, " and shame prevents my naming it to you." 
 " Let us step aside," said the rich man, " and tell me 
 your disease ; if it is in my power, I will relieve you." 
 They stepped aside, and the pauper opened his robe. 
 But the rich man could discover no evidence of disease. 
 " Listen," said the beggar. " My disease does not 
 show itself on the skin it lurks in my bones it in 
 fects my blood it reigns over my nerves and sinews 
 it restrains my efforts it paralyzes my body and 
 mind it makes me weak, imbecile, useless it renders 
 me a wretch it makes me what you see me, a beggar ! " 
 " What is this horrid disease 1 " said the rich man. " It 
 is INDOLENCE ! " said the pauper. 
 
 And thus, while indolence brings disease and misery, 
 industry brings health. " I pray you," said a poor man 
 who was starving, to one who was fat and bloated with 
 
INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 193 
 
 indulgence ; " I pray you give me some bread, for my 
 hunger is past endurance." " I would give all my 
 wealth," said the voluptuary, " for your good appetite." 
 The beggar, then, has the advantage of a man who, in 
 the midst of abundance, has lost the power of enjoying 
 it. And the idle man loses this power, while the in 
 dustrious have their perceptions quickened and their 
 capacities enlarged by their course of life. 
 
 From what I have said, it seems a plain inference, 
 that to be industrious, is the duty of every man ; it is 
 his duty, alike flowing from his obligations to society 
 and himself. No degree of wealth, no love of pleas 
 ure, no distaste for exertion ; nothing but physical inca 
 pacity, can confer on any man the right to lead an idle 
 life. Each individual has some gifts, and he is bound 
 to use them wisely for himself and for mankind. In 
 these remarks, I have a primary reference to industry 
 of the hands. I do not insist, however, that every one 
 shall practice this species of industry ; for intellectual 
 activity may produce the greatest benefits to society, and 
 bring happiness to him who uses it. Mental labor may, 
 as it regards its general effects, be considered of a higher 
 nature than bodily labor. But I believe no man can be 
 happy without some habitual bodily toil ; and, surely, if 
 I were to choose a plan of like, most likely to insure a 
 balance of happiness, in the summing up of life, it would 
 be among those who labor with their hands as a voca 
 tion. If envy could, for once, have her eyes freed from 
 the scales of prejudice, she would not teach us to desire 
 the high places of those who labor not; but she would 
 
 17* 
 
194 INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 
 
 choose, as most desirable, a condition among the intel 
 ligent and industrious farmers and mechanics. 
 
 Of all the delusions, with which man has been accus 
 tomed to cheat himself, the idea that freedom from 
 labor confers bliss, is the most fallacious. To live with 
 out work, is the halcyon, but deceptive dream of mil 
 lions. It has inspired many a man to put forth painful 
 efforts ; but when the bubble is caught, it vanishes into 
 thin air. Go to our cities, and ask those who are looked 
 upon as the successful men in life ; those who have risen 
 to wealth by their own exertions; ask them, which is 
 the best part of life that of effort, or that of luxurious 
 relaxation. They will all tell you, that the era of happi 
 ness, to which they look back with delight, is the hum 
 ble period of industrious labor. They will tell you, that 
 the remembrance of those days of small things, dimmed, 
 as it might seem, by doubts and difficulties, is better 
 than all their shining wealth. How idle, then, is that 
 sour dissatisfaction, with which some persons look upon 
 their lot, because it involves the duty and necessity of 
 habitual industry ! How unjust that poisonous envy, 
 with which the laborer sometimes regards the other 
 classes of society ! Let us rest assured, that those who 
 occupy what are called, often falsely, the higher stations 
 in life, pay dearly for their giddy elevation. The rich 
 have sorrows, which the poor know not of: there is 
 often a bitter drug in the golden cup, which is never 
 tasted in the glass of humbler life. Let us think better 
 of the ways of Providence ; with hearts free from vex 
 ing envy, and embittering discontent, let us accept and 
 follow the advice of the homely poet : 
 
INDUSTRY AND INDOLENCE. 
 
 " Industrious be your lives 
 
 Alike employed yourselves and wives 
 
 Your children, joined in labor gay, 
 
 With something useful fill each day. 
 
 Those little times of leisure save, 
 
 Which most men lose, and all men have 
 
 The half days when a job is done 
 
 The whole days when a storm is on. 
 
 Few know, without a strict account, 
 
 To what these little times amount. 
 
 Nor think a life of toil severe 
 
 No life has blessings so sincere 
 
 Its meals so luscious sleep so sweet 
 
 Such vigorous limbs and health complete. 
 
 No mind so active, brisk, and gay, 
 
 As his who toils the livelong day. 
 
 A life of sloth drags slowly on, 
 
 Suns set too late, and rise too soon 
 
 Youth, manhood, age, all linger slow, 
 
 To him who nothing has to do. 
 
 The drone, a nuisance to the hive, 
 
 Stays, but can scarce be said to live 
 
 And well the bees, those judges wise, 
 
 Plague, chase, and sting him, till he dies." 
 
 195 
 
 
THE THREE CLASSES OF SOCIETY. 
 
 SOCIETY is often spoken of, as divided into three 
 castes the high, the low, and the middling. These 
 terms, I am persuaded, often bear a false signification, 
 and are the foundation of infinite mischief. Wealth 
 exerts a magical influence over the imagination; and 
 those who possess it, are honored with an epithet 
 which implies an enviable superiority of condition to 
 the rest of mankind. But this is mere assumption, and 
 that, too, in the face of fact and reason. Wealth is 
 not happiness it is a mere instrument and often 
 fails to accomplish the end for which it is designed. In 
 the hands of one who knows how to use it, and has that 
 stern self-control which enables him to act according 
 to knowledge, wealth is a blessing. But there are few 
 men of this character. Most possessors of wealth are 
 seduced by its blandishments from the straight and 
 narrow way of peace ; and that which Heaven gave 
 for good, frequently becomes the instrument of evil. 
 
 This classification of society, then, which assigns 
 the first and highest place to the rich, is founded upon 
 what might be, and not upon what is. The rich are not the 
 happiest portion of mankind ; for wealth is a two-edged 
 sword, and too often wounds the hand that wields it. 
 The only just sense in which the rich man can be said to be 
 above his humbler neighbor, is, that he occupies a station 
 
THE THREE CLASSES OF SOCIETY. 197 
 
 of more responsibility. He has more influence, more 
 power ; for gold dazzles the eye and mankind, like 
 the moth, are disposed to follow the glare. The rich 
 man's actions, then, become efficient examples to those 
 around him lectures of more power than those of the 
 pulpit preacher. The rich set the fashion, and fashion 
 is a goddess of almost unlimited sway. A wise and 
 good man who has riches, may therefore be, and often 
 is, a light set on a hill ; but a selfish, or even a reckless 
 rich man, either hides his light under a bushel, or uses 
 it to dazzle and delude those who are around him, 
 to their ruin. The vices of the poor are generally hurt 
 ful only to themselves. The thief, the drunkard, the 
 burglar, in the dirty streets of a city, do little harm by 
 their example to others ; for vice in rags is disgusting 
 to all. But the vices of those who dwell in palaces of 
 granite, seen through rose-colored plate glass, have a hue 
 that turns deformity into an angel of light. Indolence, vo 
 luptuousness, extravagance, haughtiness, exclusiveness, 
 affectation all these, amid many others vices of 
 the rich as truly vicious as theft and burglary as 
 truly founded in selfishness, and as truly going to de 
 face the image of God in the soul, have a character 
 of gentility, and are as readily imitated as if they 
 were Scripture virtues. They are imitated, too, with 
 complacency ; and that salutary fear, which attends other 
 vices, and which may, soon or late, lead the soul to shake 
 them off, does not exist. The rich may, therefore, be 
 considered as preachers their houses, as temples 
 and the world around, as their attentive auditory. 
 Their situation is one of great responsibility. If a man 
 
198 THE THREE CLASSES OF SOCIETY. 
 
 goes into the pulpit, and preaches atheism, every good 
 mind is shocked, and starts back, as if that image in 
 which Satan deluded our common mother, had suddenly 
 come before him. But the rich man, who sets an exam 
 ple of indolence, or haughtiness, or voluptuousness 
 who brings up his children in idleness, or tolerates them 
 in what is called dandyism, or exclusiveness, or an affec 
 tation of superiority he is a worse enemy to society, 
 if we regarded practical consequences, than the infidel 
 preacher. He sows, far and wide, the seeds of seductive 
 vice, and leaves society to reap the whirlwind. 
 
 In this point of view, the rich occupy a station of 
 commanding eminence. They are the first, or highest 
 class of society, if we regard power and responsibility ; 
 but not the first, in the common acceptation of the term ; 
 that of being the happiest. Nor do the poor, as being the 
 least happy, occupy the last station. Happiness, indeed, 
 is almost independent of condition. The terms, then, 
 high and low, so often used, as marking out society into 
 classes, are false ; they are also mischievous, as tending 
 to imbue the minds of some with conceit, and others 
 with venomous discontent. They, at least, put into the 
 hands of those who adopt the political doctrine, " divide, 
 and conquer," a power, by which they may array one 
 part of the community against the other ; and when the 
 war is waged, lead on their dupes to the accomplish 
 ment of their own purposes. 
 
 Let us take a wiser and more just view of this sub 
 ject. The happy class of society, is the industrious 
 class be they rich, be they poor, or be they in that 
 better condition, petitioned for by him who said, "Give 
 

 THE THREE CLASSES OF SOCIETY. 199 
 
 me neither poverty nor riches." It is in this middle 
 station, that peace and dignity are most frequently 
 found. 
 
 I know of no better test of happiness, than simplicity 
 of manners. Show me a person, who is free from affec 
 tation, free alike from disguise, uneasiness and pretence ; 
 one who seems solicitous to hide nothing, and to dis 
 play nothing one, in short, who bears upon him the 
 impress of truth, and you show me a man, who, in 
 wealth or poverty, is happy. Truth, in morals, is like 
 gold among the metals; it is always valuable always 
 graceful. Whether rough in its native state, as in 
 rustic life ; or wrought up with the refinements of 
 more artificial society, it is still truth, and constitutes 
 the basis of all virtue, all happiness, all moral beauty. 
 Every thing is trashy and base without it. The false 
 imitations of it affectation, pretence, assumption, arro 
 gance are brassy counterfeits, alike worthless to the 
 possessor, and contemptible in the sight of true wisdom. 
 And in what condition of society is this simplicity or 
 truth of character most frequently found? I hesitate 
 not to declare, that it is with those who occupy a station 
 between the extremes of poverty and riches. 
 
 And how happy is it, thanks to our fathers, thanks to 
 a beneficent Providence, thanks to this fair land, and 
 this bountiful climate, that this happiest condition of life 
 is accessible to all ! Every man may not have gainful 
 talents, or the favoring tide of fortune, to aid him in 
 the aquisition of wealth ; but every man may attain a 
 better eminence every one may be industrious, and 
 acquire that middling independence, which is better 
 
200 
 
 THE THREE CLASSES OF SOCIETY. 
 
 than wealth. I say, every one; for the exceptions 
 arising from ill health, or casual misfortune, are rare. 
 A man may be industrious and yet poor ; in general, how 
 ever, industry, patient, quiet industry, is a sure remedy 
 for poverty. 
 
 There is poverty arising from indolence; there is 
 poverty even among working people, arising from a 
 greedy love of indulgence, which devours all they earn. 
 These varieties of indigence are generally connected 
 with vice, and are exceedingly apt to be attended with 
 discontent. It is among such people you hear of bad 
 luck ; it is among such people you discover a feverish 
 desire of finding out some lottery, or other royal road to 
 riches; it is among such you find those who are willing 
 to become the dupes of crafty agitators, pretending to 
 seek the benefit of the working classes, whom they only 
 wish to use as tools. This willing poverty so blind, 
 so ignorant, so pernicious, so easily duped making its 
 subjects even desirous of destroying the institutions 
 which preserve wealth, is, happily, not found among us. 
 Industry, here, has diffused a better light. Though 
 there are not many rich among us, we still look upon the 
 possessors of wealth, as entitled to their stores ; nay, we 
 regard these stores as reservoirs from which streams often 
 flow out, for the benefit of all. As the lakes hoard up 
 the waters which turn the mill, and perpetuate, even in 
 time of drought, the rill and the river ; so the rich man's 
 wealth generally flows forth, turning the wheels of 
 industry, and filling the cup of those who will stoop to 
 receive it. 
 
THE BIRD'S ADIEU. 
 
 FAREWELL to the meadow, 
 
 For summer is past ; 
 Farewell, for its leaves 
 
 Now whirl on the blast. 
 Farewell to the bough 
 
 Where my cradle was swung, 
 And the song of my mother 
 
 Was joyously sung. 
 
 How sweet was that song 
 
 Of the light-hearted bird ! 
 No other I '11 sing 
 
 'T was the first that I heard : 
 And though to far lands 
 
 I must hasten away, 
 Wherever I roam 
 
 I will carry that lay. 
 
 How sweet are these scenes, 
 For my birth-place is here ; 
 
 And I know that in absence, 
 They will be but more dear. 
 
 18 
 
203 THE BIRD'S ADIEU. 
 
 I '11 sing of them there, 
 In the land where I roam, 
 
 And, winter departed, 
 I '11 return to my home. 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 IT is doubtless true, as has been frequently affirmed, 
 that national character is formed by circumstances ; and 
 among those which exert a controlling influence are 
 climate and government. But there appear to be origi 
 nal, constitutional traits, which long resist even the 
 force of these. It is easy to discern, in the inhabitants 
 of the different counties of England, differences, not of 
 language only, but of complexion, thought, feeling, and 
 character, which are evidently traceable to original dif 
 ferences in the tribes from which they are descended. 
 
 To the original Celtic constitution of the Irish, we 
 may therefore attribute much of their distinctive char 
 acter. That they have been cut off by their insular con 
 dition from easy and frequent intercourse with other 
 nations ; that they escaped the overwhelming dominion 
 of Rome ; that, while they have been the subjects of 
 foreign dominion, they have still cherished a lively feel 
 ing of nationality, are facts which both prove and 
 explain the descent of their leading national character 
 istics, from high antiquity. 
 
 It might seem that language would be one of the 
 frailest of monuments; but it is more enduring than 
 castles, temples, pyramids, or obelisks. These moulder, 
 and their inscriptions mingle with the dust ; while words 
 spoken from generation to generation, are handed down, 
 
204 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 thus descending through long ages, and, in this instance, 
 from the Celtic barbarian to the living sons of Erin. 
 Nor do words descend as mere barren sounds, for they 
 carry thoughts, feelings, and customs, with them. The 
 provision which we see in nature for the perpetuation 
 and distribution of plants, finds a parallel in the process 
 by which ideas are preserved and disseminated. We 
 see that, from the humble grasses to the monarch oak of 
 the forest, each plant has some shell, or pod, or folded 
 leaf, by which the seed is sheltered from the blast, and 
 where it is brought to maturity ; and we find that the 
 winds and birds distribute these over distant fields, till 
 the whole region is sown. There may be here and 
 there a sullen desert which rejects the gift ; but these 
 are few and far between. The proffered boon is gener 
 ally received and cherished by the soil, till, in the words 
 of the rhymer, 
 
 " No spot on earth 
 
 The furrowing ploughman finds, but there 
 
 The rank and ready weeds have birth, 
 Sown by the winds to mock his care." 
 
 It is so with human thoughts and feelings. Language 
 is the great instrument by which these are perpetuated 
 and disseminated. Words, phrases, fables, allegories, 
 proverbs, are equivalent to the shells, and pods, arid 
 capsules, of the vegetable kingdom ; and these transmit 
 ideas from generation to generation, from dynasty to 
 dynasty, from age to age. 
 
 Poetry becomes the depository of great events, and, 
 like the winds which bear the winged seeds from field 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 205 
 
 to field, from season to season, wafts down the memory 
 of heroic deeds, and the creations of genius, to after 
 times. Nor is it indispensable to this process that a 
 written literature should exist, or be diffused among the 
 people ; for tradition has a conservative power, which 
 resists decay, and brushes away the gathering dust of 
 oblivion. 
 
 The Irish nation has been peculiarly influenced by 
 this process of moral and intellectual semination. 
 Roman conquest, which ploughed up all the rest of 
 Europe, sowing it with Roman civilization, left Ireland 
 to the wild luxuriance of her original condition. Nor 
 did Christianity effectually change the soil, or its pro 
 ducts, but rather grafted new ideas upon the old stock, 
 thus producing a new and peculiar fruit. 
 
 The isolated position of Ireland, with the pugnacity 
 of the people, not only secured the country from Roman 
 invasion, but, after the introduction of Christianity, for 
 a time protected it from the hordes of barbarians which 
 overran other countries. In its sheltered position, it 
 became the retreat of monastic learning and piety, in 
 that dark age, when the sun of heaven seemed with 
 drawn from the rest of Europe. During this, and at a 
 still later period, the national bardic literature was 
 cultivated and spread amongst the people. The annals 
 of the nation were also collected and transcribed, thus 
 being fitted for transmission to after times. 
 
 There are two other circumstances which are to be 
 duly considered, in tracing the Irish national character 
 to its sources. Though Ireland has been nominally 
 conquered by the English, it has never been thoroughly 
 
 18* 
 
206 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 subdued. The Irish mind is still independent, and, 
 deeply indignant at the oppressions of British dominion, 
 erects itself in sturdy defiance to British laws, customs, 
 and opinions. One half the Irish nation, to this very 
 day, reject the religion, civilization, and government of 
 England, in their hearts, and cling with undying pride 
 to their national individuality. They cannot endure 
 the idea of being quenched and forgotten in the supre 
 macy of another people. Every where the traveller in 
 Ireland finds a spirit of self-sustentation, which is often 
 not a little amusing, when we compare the boastful 
 assumption with the truth. A single proverb illustrates 
 the whole matter. "An English hen cannot lay a fresh 
 egg," saith the Hibernian adage. 
 
 If, then, we consider the Irish people as a nation, 
 who, according to her accredited annals, links her name 
 with antiquity; whose line of descent has not been 
 crossed for ages ; whose popular legends, carrying with 
 them the popular faith, connect the generations of to 
 day with heroes of the olden time ; whose minds have 
 been the recipients of ideas, opinions, customs, and 
 superstitions, transmitted from ages reaching back to 
 the very cradle of the human family ; whose hearts are 
 full of the treasured memory of national wrongs ; and 
 whose Christianity, strongly woven into the popular faith, 
 is still blent with something of Oriental paganism we 
 shall see sufficient causes for a peculiar national char 
 acter. If education be the formation of character, and 
 if circumstances are the instruments of education, we 
 can see in the history of the Irish nation, at least in part, 
 the sources of the tenacious pride, the poetic tempera- 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER 
 
 207 
 
 ment, the rich, mosaic imagination, the quick feeling, 
 the intense nationality, of the Irish people. 
 
 Among the conspicuous traits of Irish character, 
 we may remark their tendency to adhere to old customs. 
 There is more or less reverence for the past in all 
 countries. It is the tendency of human nature, wherever 
 it may be found, to fall into the beaten path, and follow 
 it out. " Custom," says Lord Bacon, " is the principal 
 magistrate of man's life." But there is something in the 
 tenacity with which the Irish hold on to the thoughts, 
 opinions, and usages, of past ages, which appears to 
 surpass any thing of the kind to be found among other 
 European nations. This is strikingly illustrated by an 
 adherence to their political system for more than a thou 
 sand years, although experience had demonstrated that 
 system to be destructive of the peace, happiness, and 
 prosperity of the nation. 
 
 This national trait is also displayed in the numerous 
 relics of ancient superstitions which are still preserved 
 by the people, although the systems upon which they 
 are founded have been swept away for almost fifteen 
 hundred years. It may be remarked that many of 
 the prevalent customs of Ireland, at the present day, 
 many of the thoughts, feelings, and observances, of the 
 people, are evidently the cherished fragments of pagan 
 ism, saved from the wreck of Persian fire-worship, Car 
 thaginian idolatry, or Druidical superstition. It would 
 exceed our present limits to go into a detailed examina 
 tion of these ; it is perhaps only necessary to remark, 
 that the perpetuation of the ancient Celtic tongue among 
 the Irish, is not more plain and palpable, than the pre- 
 
208 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 servation of ideas and sentiments as ancient as that lan 
 guage itself. 
 
 It is easy to perceive the conservative tendency of this 
 national characteristic in the Irish ; and we may readily 
 believe that it has had its share of influence in saving 
 the people from that waste and disintegration, which the 
 shock of ages brings upon mankind. The direct opera 
 tion of this adherence to old customs, is to unite the 
 people by a strong bond of common sympathy. 
 
 Such a community will rally as one man to drive out 
 a foreign people, who may come with new customs, to 
 overturn the old ones. A slight examination of Irish 
 history will show that facts have abundantly proved the 
 truth of this theory. No foreign people have ever flour 
 ished in Ireland. The Carthaginian colonists were 
 successively melted down and mingled in the mass of 
 the nation. The Danes, though they occupied certain 
 portions of the country for more than two hundred years, 
 being of too stubborn a stock to become assimilated 
 with those among whom they dwelt, and over whom they 
 exercised at least partial dominion, were the unceas 
 ing objects of hostility, and at last were expelled from a 
 country which they could not subdue. England bowed 
 to the iron sway of the Danes, and was only delivered 
 from it by calling in foreign aid; but Ireland never 
 yielded to their dominion, and by her own arm at last 
 freed herself from these ruthless oppressors. 
 
 It is now almost seven hundred years since Ireland 
 was conquered by an English king; but, for at least five 
 centuries after that conquest, the dominion of England 
 over Ireland was little more than nominal. From the 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 209 
 
 time of Strongbow's invasion to the period of Elizabeth, 
 though Ireland was regarded as an appendage to the 
 British crown, two thirds of the Irish people held them 
 selves, both in theory and practice, almost wholly inde 
 pendent of foreign control. And even down to the pres 
 ent day, there is a perpetual struggle on the part of the 
 nation to heave off the giant that has thrown her down. 
 After seven hundred years of either nominal or real 
 dominion, England has been unable to Anglicise Ire 
 land. Not only is the government still resisted by the 
 Irish people, but, as before remarked, the religion, the 
 customs, the opinions, and feelings of England, are 
 obstinately kept at bay by a large part of the nation. 
 
 Among numerous illustrations of this, the following is 
 furnished by Miss Edgeworth. She tells us of a wealthy 
 young nobleman, who built a neat cottage, with all the 
 modern comforts and conveniences, for an old Irish 
 woman. On going to the place a few weeks after she 
 had taken possession, he found that she had converted 
 it, as far as possible, into an Irish hovel. Even the fire 
 place was disregarded, and a fire was built in the middle 
 of the brick floor, the smoke, of course, circulating 
 through the room. The old woman explained this by 
 insisting that she was so accustomed to smoke, she could 
 not live without it. 
 
 It may be said, and with much justice, that this sturdy 
 adherence to old customs partakes of obstinacy and prej 
 udice, and that it may be among the causes of that 
 tardy march of improvement, which may be remarked 
 in Ireland. It will also serve to explain, in some degree, 
 the fact, that an Irishman seldom knows how to do more 
 
210 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 than one thing well, and that he is wholly deficient in 
 that versatility which enables the Yankee to turn his 
 hand, successfully, to whatever may chance to offer. 
 
 But if a portion of the Irish people miss the true 
 end of existence by adhering to old customs, permit me 
 to suggest the caution that we do not rashly run into 
 the opposite extreme. In a country like ours, having 
 no antiquity and opening boundless fields of enterprise 
 to all, we are apt to think only of the future, and, in 
 our eagerness to lead in the race, to forget those more 
 than golden treasures, which consist of memories and 
 sentiments and usages. The truth is, man is not made 
 wholly for action, but partly for contemplation. He is 
 placed between two glorious mirrors anticipation and 
 retrospection the one beckoning him forward, the 
 other reflecting light upon the path he should follow, 
 and casting a cool and wholesome shade over his pas 
 sions. It is a departure from the just balance of his 
 nature, to dash either of these in pieces. Whoever 
 limits his existence to " that fleeting strip of sunlight, 
 which we call now," reduces himself like the ticking 
 clock, to a mere measure of passing seconds. He who 
 lives only in the future, never pausing to look back and 
 take counsel of the past, never bending his gaze over 
 the world of retrospection, softened with the mist and 
 moonlight of memory, lives the life of the restless 
 settler of the far West, who never stops to secure or 
 enjoy what has been won from the wilderness, but still 
 pushes on and on, for scenes of new excitement and 
 new adventure. A wise man, and a wise people, will 
 use the past as the prophet of the future, and make 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 211 
 
 both of these subservient to the interests of each pas 
 sing moment. The children of Israel would not stay 
 in Egypt, but, in going to the land of promise, they 
 took the bones of the patriarch Joseph with them. In 
 pressing forward in the march of improvement, let us, 
 in like manner, bear along with us the experience, the 
 wisdom, the virtue, and the religion of our fathers. 
 
 But, while we admit that the Irish carry their obser 
 vance of old customs to the length of obstinacy, it is 
 proper to notice one remarkable exception afforded by 
 their history. I mean the introduction and establish 
 ment of Christianity in Ireland by St. Patrick. The 
 history of this event shows that even the pertinacity of 
 superstition yielded in Ireland to the voice of truth, 
 assuming the mild and gentle accents of persuasion ; a 
 fact that suggests the proper course of action to all who 
 attempt to exert an influence over the Irish people. 
 
 Among the characteristics usually assigned to the 
 Irish, is that of pugnacity. It has been said, that while 
 the Englishman fights for the supremacy of the seas, the 
 Frenchman for glory, the German for his prince, and 
 the Swiss for pay and rations, the son of Erin fights for 
 fun. Even the Irish song seems to lend countenance to 
 this popular notion ; for it speaks of knocking down a 
 friend from mere affection ! 
 
 It is not a little curious that the names of places in 
 Ireland coincide with this attribute of the people. Ire 
 land the land of ire is the designation of the country ; 
 and Killgobbin, Killkenay, Killmacthomas, Inniskilling, 
 Killmany, Killmore, and a thousand others of like im 
 port, are the names of towns. Knockmeledown, Knock- 
 
212 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 malloch, Knockmore, is the established nomenclature 
 for hills. Every hill, indeed, is a knock, and every 
 church a kill. The rhyme says, 
 
 " Who killed Killdare ? Who dared Killdare to kill ? " 
 " I killed Killdare, and dare kill whom I will." 
 
 The frequent recurrence of names of places beginning 
 with kitty might indeed seem alarming to a stranger in 
 Ireland, especially if he be under the influence of 
 those prejudices which have been excited against that 
 country. The following mistake occurred when some 
 of the English militia regiments were in Ireland during 
 the rebellion of 1798. A soldier, a native of Devon 
 shire, who was stationed at an outpost, stopped a coun 
 tryman, and demanded who he was, whence he came, 
 and whither he was going. The fellow replied, " And 
 my name, my dear honey, is Tullyhog ; and, d' ye see, 
 I am just been to Killmany, and am going to Killmore." 
 Upon this, the sentinel immediately seized him, expect 
 ing to receive a high reward for having apprehended a 
 most sanguinary rebel, just come from murder, and go 
 ing to a fresh banquet of blood. 
 
 But there is graver authority for this view of Hiber 
 nian character. The first glimpses of Irish history 
 present us with the spectacle of a nation almost con 
 stantly engaged in civil war. The division of the coun 
 try into a number of petty kingdoms would tend to 
 breed dissension, even among a people disposed to 
 peace ; but in a nation prompt to act and slow to reflect, 
 it was sure to result in constant scenes of battle and 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 213 
 
 bloodshed. The appetite of the people, therefore, for 
 strife, became strengthened by the successive practice of 
 ages, until, at last, a state of internal war seemed to be 
 the natural condition of the Irish people. This char 
 acteristic of the nation seems to have descended even 
 to our more pacific times, though it is greatly mitigated. 
 
 But, in thus stating and illustrating the pugnacity of 
 the Irish, we must remark that it is of a very peculiar 
 kind. It seems to have no malice or ferocity in it ; for 
 the broken head of to-day leaves no soreness at the 
 heart to-morrow. It is, in truth, but a species of chiv 
 alry resulting from high animal spirits, and an excessive 
 appreciation of courage, excited and perpetuated, per 
 haps, by the deeds of their heroes, as set forth by the 
 bards. A few instances will illustrate this characteristic. 
 An Irishman, having had a large fortune suddenly de 
 volved upon him, determined to make the grand tour of 
 Europe. After passing through France and Italy, and 
 part of Spain, with scarcely any emotions of delight, he 
 entered a village in the latter country, where he saw a 
 mob, fighting desperately ; upon which, in a moment, he 
 sprang out of his carriage, and, without inquiring into 
 the cause of the battle, or ascertaining which side he 
 ought in justice to espouse, he laid about him with his 
 shilala; and after having had several of his teeth knocked 
 out, he returned to his carriage, exclaiming, " By St. 
 Patrick, it is the only bit of fun I have had since I 
 left Ireland ! " 
 
 We have among us a story of an Irishman, who was 
 employed by a farmer of New Hampshire. He was, on 
 one occasion, preparing to go to a fair, then annually held 
 
 19 
 
214 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 at the town of Derry, when the farmer attempted to dis 
 suade him. " You always come back from the fair, 
 Pat," said the farmer, " with a broken head ; now stay 
 at home, and I will give you five dollars." " And do 
 you think, sir," said Patrick, " I 'd take five dollars for 
 the bating I'd get ? " 
 
 There is no nation on whom the gift of natural 
 courage is more largely bestowed, than on the Irish. In 
 the common people, it too often displays itself in noisy 
 brawls; but in the disciplined soldier, it rises to the 
 loftiest pitch of intrepid gallantry. 
 
 In battle, on shore and at sea, the Irish soldier and 
 sailor have been remarkable for their valor, steadiness, 
 and subordination. As far back as Spenser's time, the 
 bravery of the Irish soldier was honorably mentioned. 
 That happy genius says, " I have heard some great 
 warriors say, that in all the services which they had 
 seen abroad in foreign countries, they never saw a more 
 comely man than an Irishman, nor that cometh on more 
 bravely to his charge." 
 
 The instances of Irish intrepidity are numerous and 
 striking. There is an affecting story of this sort, con 
 nected with the famous battle of Clontarf. In this en 
 gagement, many of the Irish princes joined their forces 
 to those of Brian Borohm. This hoary monarch being 
 eighty years of age, and unable personally to engage in 
 the conflict, remained in his tent during ihe battle. 
 Toward the close of the engagement, a few of the in 
 furiated Danes broke in upon the unprotected chief, and 
 regardless of his gray hairs and helpless condition, took 
 his life. But the Irish were completely victorious, and 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 215 
 
 the death of Brian was deeply avenged. The battle 
 being over, the Irish chieftians set out for their several 
 dominions. One of these, the leader of a gallant band, 
 who had shared largely in the perils, as well as the 
 triumphs of the fight, was marching on, bearing the sick 
 and wounded carefully toward their homes. They came, 
 at length, to the territory of another chief, which they 
 desired to cross. There they were met by an army, 
 who refused permission to enter their district, but upon 
 the payment of tribute. This was stoutly refused ; and 
 although the soldiers from the field of Clontarf were 
 worn out with fatigue, crippled with losses, and encum 
 bered by their sick and wounded, they still determined 
 upon battle, rather than submission to a demand which 
 they considered at any time unjust, and on the present 
 occasion, in the highest degree dastardly. Even the 
 sick and wounded, under these circumstances, seemed 
 to be inspired with the spirit of battle, and insisted upon 
 taking their share in the conflict which was about to 
 ensue. Accordingly, at their request, stakes were 
 driven in the ground, along the front of the line where 
 the onset was expected, and to each of these, one of the 
 sick or wounded soldiers was firmly tied in an erect 
 posture, his sword and battle-axe being placed in his 
 grasp. Thus prepared, the little army awaited the 
 battle, which now seemed at hand. The inhospitable 
 prince ledgpn his troops, and was about to give orders 
 for the attack, when seeing in the little army that oppo 
 sed him, the sick and wounded tied to their posts, he 
 was so smitten with admiration at this display of self- 
 
216 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 devotion, that he withdrew his forces, and allowed the 
 army to proceed unmolested on its march. 
 
 As connected with the courage of the Irish, it is pro 
 per to notice that improvident restlessness, which is a 
 conspicuous characteristic of the people, particularly 
 under the restraint of foreign dominion. Even during 
 those periods in which they were only subject to their 
 legitimate princes, and whose authority they seemed to 
 approve, the Irish still were in a state of almost perpetual 
 agitation. In more modern times, and since the cords 
 of the English dominion have been drawn more tightly, 
 this nervous excitability of the nation has even increased. 
 Since the reign of Henry VIII., Ireland has presented 
 an almost constant series of convulsions, insurrections, 
 and rebellions. For these, indeed, there may have been 
 ample provocation in the wicked injustice of their op 
 pressors. The whole course of British policy toward 
 Ireland, for three hundred years, appears to have been 
 calculated to alienate the feelings of the people from their 
 rulers, and rouse all their prejudices and passions against 
 England and the English. The first of these impolitic acts 
 was adopted in 1536. A parliament was then assembled, 
 which formally proceeded to annul the papal power, and 
 to declare Henry VIII. of England the supreme head, on 
 earth, of the church in Ireland. Every person who re 
 fused to take the oath of supremacy was declared guilty 
 of high treason. But to resist these usurpations, confed 
 eracies were formed all over the kingdom; and it was 
 not till the year 1551, that the English liturgy was per 
 formed in the Irish churches. But in spite of all the 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 217 
 
 coercive measures of the English government, the bulk 
 of the nation steadily adhered to their ancient faith, and 
 the cause of religion became the cause of the nation. 
 The attempts to force the people to renounce a faith 
 which they had received from St. Patrick, and to adopt 
 a new system of religion with an English ritual, nat 
 urally became blended with the national prejudices 
 against English oppression, and cooperated to produce 
 the famous insurrection of Tyrone. 
 
 The conduct of James I. estranged the affection of 
 the Irish ; and during the reign of Charles I. another 
 rebellion broke out, which deluged the country with 
 blood. Cromwell undertook to crush the restive 
 spirit of the nation with the trampling heel of military 
 power. His cruelties toward the people are almost in 
 credible. During his sway, twenty thousand Irishmen 
 were sold as slaves, and forty thousand entered into 
 foreign service to escape from tyranny at home. 
 
 The distracted state of this unhappy kingdom in 1688, 
 can hardly be described. It was then the theatre of one 
 of the fiercest civil wars that ever raged in any country. 
 The Catholics declared for James, and the Protestants 
 for William, Prince of Orange. The battle of the Boyne, 
 on the first of July, 1690, decided the fate of James, who 
 fled to France. William acceded to the British throne ; 
 and heavy indeed were the punishments inflicted on the 
 Catholics, who had taken part with the now defeated 
 and exiled Stuart. The number of Irish subjects, out 
 lawed on this occasion, amounted to nearly four hundred 
 thousand, and their lands, confiscated, were more than a 
 million and a half of acres. 
 
 19* 
 
218 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 In 1798, the injured Irish, deprived of the enjoy 
 ment of their dearest rights, and condemned to political 
 disabilities on account of professing the Catholic religion, 
 once more rebelled. This event is within the memory 
 of many who are still living ; and we have seen in our 
 time one distinguished leader of that rebellion, having 
 escaped from the pursuit of tyranny, seeking a home, 
 and at last a resting-place, on our American shores. I 
 speak of the late Thomas Addis Emmet, of New York. 
 After the failure of their schemes, he and his associates 
 were taken, tried, and condemned. Some were executed, 
 and some transported; but he was himself permitted to 
 escape from prison by the jailer, and it is supposed, by 
 the connivance of the British Government. After many 
 vicissitudes, he came to this country, and engaged in 
 the profession of the law. His great learning, his power 
 ful intellect, and his masterly eloquence, soon raised him 
 to the highest honors of his profession. His mind was 
 indeed haunted with recollections of his country and his 
 home, and sometimes these bitter memories would find 
 utterance. But in general, he displayed a character of 
 great gentleness and generosity; and becoming an 
 American citizen, he adopted the customs and feelings 
 of our country. He died in 1827. 
 
 Robert Emmet, the brother of this distinguished in 
 dividual, was concerned in the rebellion of 1803, but 
 his fate was more melancholy. He was a lawyer; 
 young, ardent, and full of talent. Greatly beloved for 
 his virtues, and intensely admired for his genius, he be 
 came a leader among the conspirators. With the rest 
 he was detected, seized, and brought to trial. Before 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 219 
 
 his judge he defended himself, with admirable dignity, 
 eloquence, and power. Knowing that his fate was sealed, 
 he sought not to save his life, but only to shelter his 
 name and fame from after infamy. " Though you, my 
 lord," said he, " sit there a judge, and I stand here a 
 culprit, yet you are but a man, and I am another. I 
 have a right, therefore, to vindicate my character and 
 motives from the aspersions of calumny ; and as a man 
 to whom fame is dearer than life, I will make the last use 
 of that life in rescuing my name and my memory from 
 the afflicting imputation of having been a traitor to my 
 native land." 
 
 He then proceeded with a stirring appeal to his coun 
 trymen, and finally closed his defence in the following 
 words : " My lamp of life is nearly extinguished ; my race is 
 finished. The fresh grave will be soon ready to receive 
 me, and I shall sink into its bosom. All I request at 
 parting from the world is the charity of its silence. Let 
 no man write my epitaph ; for as no man, who knows 
 my motives, dare defend them, let not prejudice or igno 
 rance asperse them. Let them and me repose in ob 
 scurity and peace, and my tomb remain undescribed, 
 till other times and other men can do justice to my 
 character." 
 
 Such was the lofty and intrepid bearing of Robert 
 Emmet, then but twenty-four years old, in the hopeless 
 hour of condemnation. But this could not save him ; 
 and he perished on the scaffold. The circumstances 
 which attended his fate, however, entered into every 
 generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the 
 stern policy which dictated his execution. " But there 
 
220 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 was one heart whose anguish it would be impossible to 
 describe. In happier days, and fairer fortunes, Emmet 
 had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, 
 the daughter of the celebrated Curran. She loved him 
 with the fervor of a woman's first and only love. When 
 every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when 
 blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened 
 around his name, she loved him the more ardently for 
 his very sufferings. Exiled from home by a father's 
 stern decree, and haunted by the memory of her lover's 
 dishonored grave ; with nothing to soothe the pang of 
 separation, nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed 
 tears, sent like dews to revive the parched bosom in the 
 hour of anguish, she gradually wasted away, and died 
 the victim of a broken heart." Her melancholy story 
 has found a chronicler in Irving, and Emmet himself is 
 beautifully mourned by the poet Moore, who thus alludes 
 to his last request "the charity of the world's 
 silence : " 
 
 " O breathe not his name ; let it sleep in the shade, 
 Where, cold and unhonored, his relics are laid : 
 Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, 
 As the night dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. 
 
 " But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, 
 Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; 
 And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
 Shall long keep his memory green in our souls." 
 
 Such is the pathetic story of Robert Emmet ; and thus 
 the generous beatings of a noble heart for his country's 
 freedom were silenced for ever. Alas for poor Ireland, 
 
TRAITS OP IRISH CHARACTER. 221 
 
 that patriotism in her children, should be a crime for 
 which the gallows only can atone ! 
 
 I have thus noticed some of the rebellions of Ireland; 
 and though they may have been justified by the oppres 
 sion of her despotic masters, yet in most of these cases, 
 and particularly in the last, there was an improvidence, 
 which, as it insured failure, almost cancelled the pa 
 triotism displayed by those who were ready to put life 
 and property at risk for the sake of liberty. But beside 
 rebellions, there have been many lesser disturbances : 
 agitation is, indeed, but the common condition of Ire 
 land. A large part of the people are miserable, and it 
 is not strange that whoever will come to them with prom 
 ises of improvement, should obtain ready listeners and 
 obedient followers. How easy to stir up a wretched 
 people, by reviving the memory of by-gone wrongs, and 
 appealing to present sufferings ! How strong the argu 
 ment of revenge to the injured, and of relief to the op 
 pressed ! It is not wonderful that such a man as O'Con- 
 nel even though selfish and unprincipled, as some 
 contend he is should be able to lead the suffering 
 Irish at his will. He is at least a man of extraordinary 
 talent, and so long as his interest and that of Ireland 
 may coincide, so long at least he will be her champion. 
 He may, indeed, be the occasion of lasting good to his 
 country. He is, as I have said, a man of extraordinary 
 talent. We have seen him, in the British Commons, 
 successfully breasting attacks which would have over 
 borne any other than a man of dauntless intrepidity and 
 gigantic power. Such a man, with Ireland at his back, 
 is no mean champion. He puts his shoulder to the 
 
222 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 edifice of Irish affairs, as did Samson to the pillars of 
 the Philistine temple, and, shaking the tottering mass, 
 says to the British Ministry, " Grant me what I ask, or I 
 will bring down the whole fabric upon your heads!" 
 Something has been already granted to Ireland, in 
 O'Connel's day. The Catholic disabilities are removed, 
 and the church tithes will ere long be mitigated or sur 
 rendered. Whether absenteeism, the greatest curse of 
 Ireland, will cease, is a more doubtful question. 
 
 Beside the attachment of the Irish to old customs, 
 their acknowledged pugnacity, and that improvident 
 restlessness, which helps them rather to get into trouble 
 than out of it, common fame assigns to them an 
 other peculiar and striking characteristic; I mean a 
 laughable confusion of ideas, which is expressed by the 
 word bull, a term derived from the Dutch, and signify 
 ing a blunder. Whether the Irish are more addicted 
 than others to this species of mental faux pas, there 
 cannot be a doubt that much of what is attributed to 
 them is imaginary, and, so far as it might seem to imply 
 any intellectual imperfection, the mere invention of ill- 
 natured prejudice. A person in using another language 
 than his own, frequently falls into mistake. A French 
 man, once, speaking to Dr. Johnson, and intending to 
 pay him a compliment by alluding to the Rambler, which 
 at that time was the theme of universal admiration, ad 
 dressed him as Monsieur Vagabond, the word vagabond, 
 in French, being synonymous with rambler. An Italian 
 gentleman, in speaking to an American lady, and intend 
 ing to say that she had grown somewhat fleshy, since he 
 had seen her, said, " Madam, you have gained very 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 223 
 
 much beef since I saw you ! " Such mistakes as these 
 are often made by foreigners ; but good taste dictates 
 that they should be passed over without remark, or in 
 that polite manner in which a Frenchman is said to have 
 noticed a blunder of Dr. Moore's. "I am afraid," said 
 the doctor, " that the word I have used is not French." 
 " No," said the Frenchman, " it is not; but it deserves 
 to be." 
 
 Such is the tolerance we extend to the blunders of for 
 eigners speaking a language with which they are imper 
 fectly acquainted, unless forsooth, they chance to be 
 Hibernians. In that case, the rule is reversed, of course. 
 A poor Irishman, once being called upon to testify in an 
 English court, was suddenly asked by the judge, " Who 
 and what are you?" Pat was fresh from Ballymony, 
 and his knowledge of English was limited ; but he did 
 the best he could. " Plase your honor," said he, " I 
 am a poor widow ! " meaning widower. Now this mis 
 take was no worse than we hear from others in similar 
 circumstances; but considering that the blunder was 
 from an Irishman, who would esteem himself restrained 
 from laughter, by any polite regard to the man's feelings, 
 or fail to discover in this instance an unquestionable 
 specimen of the genuine Irish bull 1 
 
 If a large portion of imputed Irish bulls are thus mere 
 common-place blunders, such as all foreigners are liable 
 to make in speaking any other than their native tongue, 
 there is a still larger portion, that are attributed to the 
 Irish, which may claim a different paternity. Many of 
 our common proverbs, to which we have given a local 
 habitation and a name, are in fact borrowed from other 
 
224 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 countries. " You carry coals to Newcastle," might 
 seem to claim John Bull for its father ; but the sentiment 
 had existed for ages before John Bull himself was born. 
 " You carry oil to a city of olives," is a Hebrew pro 
 verb that has been in use for hundreds of years ; and 
 " You carry pepper to Hindostan," is an Eastern adage 
 of perhaps as great antiquity. The fact is nearly the 
 same in regard to many of the pithy sayings, smart 
 jokes, and witty repartees, which are in common use 
 among us, and are imputed to well-known individuals. 
 A large part of Joe Miller's jokes, pretending to have 
 originated with Englishmen, are told in France, Ger 
 many, Russia, Turkey, Persia, and perchance China, 
 and in like manner descend from generation to genera 
 tion, being successively attributed to such characters as 
 they may suit. Some scandalous story being told of Dr. 
 Bellamy, a person asked him if it were true. " No," 
 said the doctor; " some fellow invented it, and laid it to 
 me ; but the rascal knew me." It is this suitableness of 
 an anecdote to an individual, that often gives it much 
 additional point. The discreet story-teller, therefore, 
 always seeks to find some hero to whom he may impute 
 his tale, in the hope that he may give to it this adventi 
 tious zest. An American was once telling some anec 
 dote of Ethan Allen, of Vermont, to a German, remark 
 ing, by the way, that it must be true, for his grandfather 
 was present, and witnessed the fact. "It is a good 
 story, certainly," said the German, " but I have heard the 
 same told of my great grandfather, Baron Von Hotten- 
 gen, ever since I was a boy." 
 
 This incident throws a great deal of light upon our 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 225 
 
 subject. Let one acquire a reputation for any particu 
 lar thing, and every anecdote from the time of Confu 
 cius down to the present day, that may seem to be illus 
 trative of the qualities of this individual, is told of him. 
 Thus it is that Ethan Allen is the hero of many wild 
 adventures that he never achieved, and the witty Lord 
 Norbury is credited for many a good joke that he never 
 uttered. There is nothing like starting with a character 
 beforehand, even though it may be the outright inven 
 tion of ignorant prejudice. It is to this circumstance 
 that the New-England Yankee is indebted for the credit, 
 among our Southern brethren, of inventing wooden nut 
 megs, oak-leaf segars, horses with false tails, and all 
 other ingenious modes of cheating in trade. It is from 
 this circumstance that the Irish are charged with every 
 ludicrous blunder, to whomsoever it may properly be 
 long. 
 
 If the Irish were disposed to retaliate, it would be 
 easy to find means; for it was an English orator, who 
 said, in the House of Commons, that the proposed tax on 
 leather would be an insupportable burden to the bare 
 footed peasantry of Ireland. It is an English poet who 
 says, 
 
 " A painted vest Prince Vortigern had on, 
 Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won." 
 
 It was a French philosopher, M. Joinville, who, be 
 ing prepared to observe an eclipse of the sun, at which 
 the king was to be present, said to M. Cassini, " Shall 
 we not wait for the king before we begin the eclipse 1 " 
 It was a French gentleman who, hearing a lady exclaim 
 
 20 
 
226 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 against the inhumanity of Buffon in dissecting his own 
 cousin, remarked, " But, my dear madam, the man whom 
 he dissected was dead ! " It was also a Frenchman 
 who, being asked by a young man for his only daughter 
 in marriage, exclaimed, " No, sir, if I had fifty only 
 daughters, I would not give you one of them! " 
 
 Such are a few samples of genuine bulls of other than 
 Irish origin; but what story-teller, bringing them to 
 market, and wishing to get for them the highest price, 
 a hearty laugh, would fail of attributing them to the 
 Irish? 
 
 There is another class of what are called Irish bulls, 
 which appear to me to be specimens of wit rather than 
 of blunder. There was once an Irish sailor by the name 
 of Larry, who sailed for many years on board a little 
 packet that plied between New Haven and New York. 
 She was commanded by Captain B******, who, I am 
 sorry to say, was very profane. On a certain occasion, 
 Larry was summoned before the Supreme Court of Con 
 necticut as a witness. When he was called upon the 
 stand, a doubt arose whether this Irish Catholic under 
 stood the nature of an oath. At length the judge made 
 the inquiry of Larry, who replied as follows : "Is it 
 the nathur of an oath ye 'd like to know ? If your 
 honor 'd sailed with Captain Ben B****** for six years, 
 on board the Polly packet, as I have done, ye 'd not be 
 after asking that question." An Irish woman lately 
 applied for the place of cook, to a lady of Boston. 
 When the terms were agreed upon, the lady asked to 
 whom she could apply for the woman's character ; to 
 which she replied, " O, my character? and you wish to 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 227 
 
 have my character? Well, I'm thinking nobody can 
 give it to ye so well as myself." These and a multitude 
 of other instances, which are set down as blunders, ap 
 proaching to bulls, show any thing but confusion of 
 ideas. They spring from a shrewd wit, veiled beneath 
 the mask of simplicity. 
 
 But while we would thus maintain that a large share 
 of the blunders attributed to the Irish do not belong to 
 them ; that bulls, and good ones too, are often committed 
 by those in whom we can trace no Hibernian blood ; 
 and that many of those which are actually traceable to 
 Irish origin are still, only such mistakes as might be 
 expected from an imperfect knowledge of our language, 
 still it must be admitted that a certain confusion of 
 speech, or transposition of ideas, is common to the Irish 
 people. A part of even this, however, arises from the 
 inconsiderate haste with which they speak. An Irish 
 man was once reading a newspaper, during the twenty 
 years' war. He began a paragraph as follows : " The 
 
 French have taken umbrage ." He did not stop to 
 
 finish the sentence, but exclaimed, " The rascals ! it 's 
 the first British port they have got yet ! " Pat's loqua 
 city often leads him into mistakes. It is better, in his 
 philosophy, to blunder than be silent. Some people 
 were once speaking of the Sphinx. " Who's that?" 
 said an Irishman present. "It's a monster, man," 
 said the person addressed. "A Munster man ? " said 
 the other ; "I thought he must be from Connaught, 
 for I think I have heard of the family there ! " The 
 Irish generally speak as they act, upon the first impulse. 
 They begin to express a thought the moment it strikes 
 
228 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 them, and often before they fully understand it. " Look 
 ere you leap," is a proverb which they reverse in prac 
 tice. " Think twice and speak once," they also follow 
 by the rule of contrary. Their mind is a mirror, and 
 the ready tongue freely discloses all the figures, either 
 confused or distinct, that may pass before it. 
 
 But let us now turn from these drawbacks in the 
 Irish character, to the consideration of more grateful 
 traits. Who, for instance, has not been struck with the 
 natural eloquence of these people ? We need not go to 
 Grattan, Curran, or Burke, for specimens of this gift of 
 genius. The rudest Irish laborer among us, seems to 
 be endowed with it. If an Irishman really sets about 
 persuading you of a thing, he seldom fails of his object, 
 unless, indeed, it be to prove that black is white It is 
 curious to see how an Irishman can embellish the most 
 naked idea, and amplify the commonest topic. There 
 is a picture of a beggar, belonging to the Athenaeum of 
 Boston, painted by an artist of New York. It is the 
 portrait of an Irishman, who presented himself one day 
 at the artist's door, and begged for alms. " Walk in," 
 said the painter, " and tell me your name." " My name, 
 sir," said the beggar, " is Patrick McGruger, and it's 
 true what I tell ye." " But," said the artist, " why 
 do n't you go to work, instead of begging about the 
 streets in this fashion?" "Why do n't I go to work, 
 your honor ? and it 's that ye 'd like to know ? When 
 ye 're threescore years and ten, like myself, ye '11 be 
 more ready to answer such a question, than to ask it." 
 " Well, well, my good fellow," said the artist, " you can 
 at least sit down and let me paint your portrait." " Is 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 229 
 
 it my handsome portrait you're wanting? and do you 
 wish me to sit down there and let you paint it? Faith, 
 that 's a thing I can do, though I was not brought up to 
 it. The time has been, your honor, when Patrick 
 McGruger could do better than sit for the portrait of a 
 beggar. But I must do what I may ; for these old limbs 
 ask to be fed, though they refuse to work." 
 
 The author of the " Lights and Shadows of Irish 
 Life," furnishes us with a fictitious, but characteristic 
 specimen of this natural eloquence of the common peo 
 ple, in a poor woman who mourns at a wake over the 
 dead body of her patron, Godman Lee. She was seated 
 on the floor, her eyes closed, her hands clasped around 
 her knees, while in a low and mournful tone she spoke 
 as follows : 
 
 " Kind and gentle were you, and lived through sor 
 row and tears, frost and snow, with an open house and 
 an open heart. The sun of heaven shone on you, and 
 you reflected its warmth on others. The flower of the 
 valley saw and loved you ; and though she is of a strange 
 country, you taught her to love the green and weeping 
 island, to dry the widow's tears, to feed the orphan, to 
 clothe the naked. O, why did you die, and leave be 
 hind you all the good things of life? and above all, the 
 beautiful boy who will be the oak of the forest yet ? O, 
 the justice and the mildness were you of the country's 
 side ! and while grass grows, and waters run, we will 
 mourn for Godman Lee. The beggar walked from his 
 door with a full sack ; and he turned wormwood into 
 sweetness with his smile. But now his wife is desolate, 
 and his full and plentiful home has no master ? " 
 
 20* 
 
230 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 The wit of the Irish is no less natural and striking 
 than their eloquence. That very transposition of ideas 
 which sometimes produces a bull or blunder, not unfre- 
 quently startles us as if with the scintillations of humor. 
 " What are you doing there? " said one Irishman to an 
 other, who was digging away the dirt before a cellar 
 window. " I 'm going to open this window," said Pat 
 rick, " to let the dark out of the cellar." A few years 
 ago, as several persons were standing on a wharf at 
 Liverpool, one of them slipped into the dock. The first 
 individual to move for the relief of the drowning man, 
 was an Irishman, who plunged into the water, and after 
 a severe struggle rescued the person from the waves. 
 When the man had at length recovered from his duck 
 ing, he took some change out of his pocket, and select 
 ing a sixpence, handed it to the Irishman who had saved 
 his life. The latter looked an instant at the sixpence 
 in the palm of his hand, and then slowly measured the 
 individual with his eye whom he had rescued ; and ob 
 serving that he was a very thin and small man, he put 
 the money into his pocket, and turned on his heel, say 
 ing, significantly, " It 's enough ! " 
 
 But the recollection of my readers will readily furnish 
 them with abundant specimens of Irish wit, far less 
 questionable than these. Wit is, in fact, the whole 
 stock in trade of one half the Irish nation ; and though 
 it often leaves them destitute of a dinner, it seldom fails 
 to make even destitution and want, the occasion of its 
 merry sallies. 
 
 It is perhaps this playfulness of fancy, that is partly 
 the source of that cheerfulness which forms a remarka- 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 231 
 
 ble characteristic of the Irish people, " Sufficient for 
 the day is the evil thereof," is an injunction literally 
 construed and implicitly obeyed. Cheerfulness seems 
 indeed to be so natural to the Irish, as hardly to possess 
 the self-denying ingredients of virtue. Not even poverty, 
 want, or oppression, can wholly shut out the genial 
 light of cheerfulness from an Irishman's cabin. If it 
 come not in at the door or the window, fancy will strike 
 out the spark, hope cherish it, wit blow it into a blaze. 
 There is something even pathetic in the instances that 
 are related of Irish wit and cheerfulness in the midst of 
 poverty and destitution. A recent traveller in Ireland 
 tells us, that on one occasion he went to an Irish cabin, 
 where he found a peasant and his numerous family 
 crowded into the only room in the building, which was 
 scarcely more than twelve feet square. In one corner 
 lay a pig ; it being the custom among these poor people 
 to fatten one of these animals every six months, for the 
 purpose of paying their rent. The traveller describes 
 the hut as exhibiting the most naked scene of relentless 
 poverty that could be imagined. The gaunt form of 
 the peasant, the sunken cheek of the wife, the pallid 
 countenances of the children, all showed that the 
 craving wants of nature were but half supplied. But 
 the pig presented a remarkable contrast to this general 
 aspect of want and wo. There it lay, luxuriously im 
 bedded in aristocratic straw, sleek, round, and pampered. 
 As the stranger entered the hut, it did not even conde 
 scend to rise, but seemed to imitate, by a delicate and 
 affected grunt, the sentiment of the fat lady in the play, 
 " Do n't be rude, for really my nerves won't bear it ! " 
 
232 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 The stranger felt his heart touched at this scene, for it 
 seemed to show that, day by day, the food which the pea 
 sant and his children needed, was doled out to this 
 pampered animal, to provide for the payment of the rent, 
 and thus insure a shelter for the family. At length he 
 said to the Irishman, " Pray, why do you keep this 
 creature in the house ; would not he do as well out of 
 doors?" "Sure," said the peasant, with a smile, 
 " your honor would not turn out the gintleman what 
 pays the rint?" Thus it is that the Irishman's cheer 
 fulness is made to solace his poverty ; thus it is that the 
 diamond can illuminate the darkness ; that the playful 
 light of a heavenly virtue may be drawn down to earth, 
 even by the iron of which misery forges its fetters. 
 
 I have now given a feeble and imperfect sketch of 
 certain characteristics of the Irish people ; but I could 
 wish that it might not wholly pass without practical 
 benefits. I have presented this nation as of great an 
 tiquity, and as linking itself, by a remarkable power of 
 self-perpetuation, with those nations which pass before 
 us like mighty shadows in the morning dream of histo 
 ry. I have presented them as at various periods dis 
 playing a power of genius which commanded the admi 
 ration of mankind. I have presented them as blemished 
 indeed, with imperfections in their social character, 
 but as possessing indisputable claims to sympathy and 
 respect. 
 
 In dealing with the Irish, therefore, I would ask my 
 countrymen to recollect the position in which we Amer 
 icans stand toward the Irish. We are of English de 
 scent, and share in the events of English history. If 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 233 
 
 we have our tales to tell of Bloody Mary, the Catholic, 
 they have theirs of Henry VIIL, Elizabeth, and Crom 
 well, all true Protestants, but as fell religious persecutors 
 as ever disgraced a sceptre. The Irish have been 
 taught by history, tradition, experience, to expect in 
 the enemies of their religion, the enemies of their peace 
 and prosperity. Protestant, with them, has too often 
 been found synonymous with oppressor. Too often 
 Protestantism has come to them in the unattractive 
 guise of tyranny, tithes, and taxation. These emigrants 
 come to our country, then, with a lynx-eyed prejudice, 
 founded in their own bitter experience, and that of 
 their fathers, and their fathers' fathers. How will you 
 deal with it 1 Allow me very briefly to suggest one or 
 two practical points. 
 
 Let us dismiss that narrow-minded maxim, which 
 teaches that the Irish are a wrong-headed people, who 
 can only be abused out of their errors. Let us re 
 collect that St. Patrick introduced Christianity into 
 Ireland in thirty years, and that too in the face of pa 
 ganism, and by persuasion only ; while the whole coer 
 cive power of England since the time of Henry VIII. 
 has been vainly exerted to convert this nation to Pro 
 testantism. Remember that St. Patrick, by the mere 
 magic of kind persuasion, did that in thirty years which 
 the defied and baffled throne of Britain has not been 
 able to accomplish by force in three hundred years. 
 
 Let us by no means join in the popular outcry against 
 foreigners coming to our country, and partaking of its 
 privileges. They will come, whether we will or no ; 
 and is it wise to meet them with inhospitality, and thus 
 
234 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 turn their hearts against us? Let us rather receive 
 them as friends, and give them welcome to our country. 
 Let us rather say : " The harvest before us is indeed 
 great, and the laborers are few : come, go with us, and 
 we will do thee good." Our hills, valleys, and rivers 
 stretch from ocean to ocean, belting the entire continent 
 of the New World ; and over this rich and boundless 
 domain, Providence has poured the atmosphere of lib 
 erty. Let these poor sufferers come and breathe it 
 freely. Let our country be the asylum of the oppressed 
 of all lands. Let those who come, bent down with the 
 weight of European tithes and taxation, here throw off 
 the load and stand erect in freedom. Let those who 
 have dwelt in the chill shadows of the Castle of Igno 
 rance, erected by kings, and fortified by priestcraft, 
 come here, and be warmed by the free sunlight of 
 knowledge. Let those whose limbs have been cramped 
 by chains, those whose minds have been fretted by he 
 reditary error, come here, and, seeing happiness, be 
 permitted freely to pursue it. 
 
 Let us, at least, extend the hand of encouragement 
 and sympathy to the Irish. Their story for centuries 
 is but a record of sorrows and oppressions. They have 
 been made to feel, not only how cruel, but how univer 
 sal are the miseries which follow a bad government ; 
 for government is as pervading in its influence as the 
 air we breathe. In civilized society, we must eat and 
 drink, and wear, and have shelter, and hold intercourse 
 with our fellow-men ; and government will come through 
 bolted doors and grated windows, and reach us through 
 these interests. The tyrant will come in and visit us 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 235 
 
 at our homes, dimming the very light of our firesides. 
 Not only do we feel his taxes, and find our industry 
 cursed, but the minds of our children are perhaps in 
 jured degraded or contaminated by the vices which 
 injustice and evil example, from high stations, inculcate 
 upon society. And from these miseries there is no es 
 cape but death. No condition can shield a man from 
 mischiefs so injurious and so pervading. As well might 
 the air become contagious, and the springs and rivers 
 be tainted, as bad government become established over 
 a nation. Yet poor Ireland has been subject to such a 
 condition for ages ; and even if her children leave their 
 native soil they are obliged to carry with them the bitter 
 memory of their country's wrongs. A people of quick 
 and ardent sympathies, of a poetical and romantic love 
 of country, they are, in exile, ever looking back to the 
 Emerald Isle, with mingled sorrow and sickness of 
 heart. How heavy is the burden which such bosoms 
 must bear, as they wander over distant lands, in the 
 bitter consciousness that their country is the desponding 
 victim of oppression ! Shall not those who come to 
 our shores afflicted with such sorrows, find in the friends 
 and sharers of freedom, both welcome and release? 
 And let us beware of adding to their wrongs. Let us 
 remember that there is other tyranny than that of chains 
 and fetters the invisible but cruel tyranny of opinion 
 and prejudice. Let us beware how we exercise this 
 towards the Irish ; for it is wicked in itself, and doubly 
 mischievous in its tendency. It injures both its subject 
 and its object, and brings no counterbalancing good. 
 Let us be especially guarded against two sources of 
 
236 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 prejudice, to which we are peculiarly liable. In the 
 first place, in our personal experience, we are familiar 
 with the most ignorant and unfortunate of the Irish na 
 tion. We see, in servile employments, those who have 
 been exposed to all the debasing influences that degrade 
 mankind. Is it fair to draw from these a standard by 
 which to judge the whole people? Let us rather ask 
 ourselves where there is another nation, who have been 
 so long trampled down by oppression ; who have been 
 born in poverty and nursed in adversity ; who have in 
 herited little from the past but sorrow, and can bequeath 
 nothing to the future but hope ; where is there a 
 people so wronged, that has yet preserved so many vir 
 tues ? How gallantly, indeed, do Irish wit, and cheer 
 fulness, and hospitality, and patriotism, ride on the 
 wreck of individual hopes, and sparkle through the very 
 waves of adversity ! 
 
 Let us beware of prejudice from another source. 
 We read English books, papers, and pamphlets. We 
 read them under the inspiring influence of Britain's 
 great name. Say what we may of that country, the 
 British empire is a mighty power, and her literature is 
 even more potent than her armies and her navies. It 
 is by this she casts a spell over the world, and binds the 
 nations in moral fetters. We see in the English people 
 nearly the same exclusive love of country that burned 
 in the bosom of the ancient Roman. This spirit an 
 imates every offspring of the English press. It is this 
 which leads them to vindicate the tyranny of the gov 
 ernment in Ireland, by portraying the Irish as an un 
 tamable race, deaf to reason, and only to be ruled by 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 237 
 
 the harsh inflictions of power. Let us, Americans, 
 see that our minds are not driven from the moorings of 
 justice, by this sinister current in which they are placed. 
 Influenced by such considerations as these, let us by all 
 fair means bring about a good understanding between 
 the Irish emigrants and society. Let us deal gently 
 with them, even with their errors ; and thus we shall 
 win their confidence ; thus they may be persuaded to 
 take council of the good, the wise, and the virtuous, 
 and not throw themselves into the arms of those who 
 would flatter their vices and minister to their passions, 
 but to use and abuse them. 
 
 Let this reasonable and just policy mark our conduct 
 towards the grown-up Irish among us ; and in regard 
 to their children, let us individually and collectively use 
 our best endeavors to bestow upon them the benefits of 
 education. But let us remember that even an attempt 
 to educate the Irish will fail, if it be not founded in a 
 recognition of the elements of their national character, 
 quick perception, a keen sense of justice, and ready 
 resentment of wrong. If over these, prejudice, suspi 
 cion, and pride, have thrown their shadows, let us adapt 
 the instruction we would offer to the light they can bear. 
 In this way a numerous people may be redeemed from 
 misery to happiness, and rendered a blessing instead of 
 a curse to our country. Let us deal thus with those 
 Irish who have left their native land to find a dwelling 
 among us ; and in regard to the millions that remain 
 at home, in the " green and weeping island," let us 
 hope for the speedy dawn of a brighter and better day. 
 A youthful queen now sways the sceptre of Britain ; 
 
 21 
 
238 TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 
 
 and what may not humanity hope from the generosity 
 of youth and the heavenly charity of woman! 
 
 In closing this faint and feeble, but sincere appeal 
 in behalf of the Irish people, I cannot feel that I urge 
 a doubtful claim, or seek to enforce an ungracious suit. 
 Might I not foot up a long account, and confidently ask 
 its liquidation on the general ground of even-handed 
 justice ? Who is there that has not read the pensive 
 tale of the " Deserted Village," and felt his heart both 
 softened and purified by the perusal 1 Who is there 
 that has not listened to the entrancing melody of that 
 " Traveller," 
 
 " Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," 
 
 who has painted pictures of life, beauty, and truth, on 
 the soul, that will live as long as the heart retains its 
 affections, or the imagination its enamel 1 Who is 
 there that has not again, again, and yet again, forgotten 
 the cares and vexations of life in the story of the simple- 
 hearted " Vicar of Wakefield " and his family, and 
 gathered from it more touching and effective lessons of 
 virtue, than were ever found in the philosophy of the 
 schools? Who is there that will not acknowledge a 
 debt to the author of these works, and, if the appeal 
 were made, would not heartily repay it to the land that 
 gave him birth? Who can measure the debt of grati 
 tude that the world owes to such a man as GOLDSMITH ? 
 for it is the influence of spirits like his, that aids in the 
 redemption of mankind from barbarism, that civilizes 
 society, that ennobles the heart, gives to love its purity, 
 to friendship its truth, to patriotism its fervor, to home 
 
TRAITS OF IRISH CHARACTER. 239 
 
 its comfort, to human nature its dignity, to life its charm ! 
 If the pleasure this single individual has excited, the 
 virtue he has planted and cherished, the good he has 
 done to his fellow-man, were heaped up in one monu 
 mental pile, the mighty pyramid would reach to the 
 skies ; and its fitting inscription would be, TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OP AN IRISHMAN, WHOSE GENIUS WAS A PER 
 SONIFICATION OF THE IRISH CHARACTER, AND WHOSE 
 LIFE WAS A FIT EMBLEM OF IRELAND'S FORTUNES : 
 HE LIVED MINISTERING TO THE HAPPINESS OF OTHERS, 
 HIMSELF THE VICTIM OF SORROWS THAT MAY BE FELT, 
 BUT CANNOT BE REHEARSED! 
 
CHINGFORD CHURCH. 
 
 BY the London road, not far from town, 
 Old Chingford Church looks frowning down ; 
 O'er buttress and tower the ivy is creeping, 
 In its lone dark aisles the weary are sleeping. 
 At a bow-shot's length flows a deep, smooth stream, 
 And it ever seems of that church to dream ; 
 If you look in its depths at the hour of noon, 
 Or ponder the waves by the light of the moon, 
 With its mantle of ivy the church is there, 
 As things are in dreams, more misty and fair. 
 Ay, and thy memory, when once thou hast seen 
 That gray old church in its vesture of green, 
 Like the river that flows at its foot, will give 
 Its image back in colors that live ; . 
 Will mirror that ivy which greenly lingers, 
 O'er window and wall with creeping fingers, 
 And seeks to hide in its mantle of -leaves, 
 The moss that time o'er the buttresses weaves. 
 
 In days of yore, the green hill-side 
 By Chingford Church was the fairy's pride ; 
 When the moon was bright and the blossoms sweet, 
 They brushed the dew with their airy feet ; 
 They played mid the rays that fell on the brook, 
 And the blushing waves with their kisses shook : 
 
CHINGFORD CHURCH. 
 
 241 
 
 By the sculptured stone where the weary slept, 
 They hovered light, or perchance they wept. 
 But the times are changed, and the whizzing car, 
 On pinions of steam flies by with a jar ; 
 By night and by day the rumbling wheel 
 Of the stage-coach plies, in its restless zeal ; 
 And every still nook in old Britain's bound, 
 By the noisy track of MacAdam is found. 
 So the fairies, scared from their chosen haunts, 
 Hold not on the greensward their merry dance ; 
 But timid and startled, they shrink from the sight, 
 And come no more but in visions of night. 
 
 21* 
 
THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 
 
 THERE once lived in a village near London, a youth 
 by the name of Raymond. His parents died when he 
 was young, leaving him an ample estate. He was 
 educated at one of the universities, travelled for two 
 years on the continent, and, at the age of twenty-four, 
 returned to the paternal mansion and established him 
 self there. Being the richest person in the village, and 
 the descendant and representative of a family of some 
 antiquity, he became the chief personage of the place. 
 Beside all this, he was esteemed remarkably handsome, 
 possessed various accomplishments, and had powers of 
 pleasing almost amounting to fascination. He was, 
 therefore, courted and flattered by the whole neighbor 
 hood, and even lords and ladies of rank and fashion did 
 not disdain to visit him. The common people around, 
 of course, looked up to him ; for in England, where dis 
 tinctions in society are established by government, and 
 where all are taught to consider such distinctions as 
 right, the great, as they are called, are usually almost 
 worshipped by the little. 
 
 Surrounded by luxuries, and flattered by every 
 body, it would seem that Raymond might have been 
 happy ; but he was of a discontented turn, and though 
 for a time, these things pleased him, he grew tired of 
 
THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 243 
 
 them at last, and wished for some other sources of plea 
 sure and excitement. At the university he had imbibed 
 a taste for reading ; but he could not now sit down to its 
 quiet and gentle pleasures. He had been in the gay 
 society of London and Paris, and had drunk the cup of 
 pleasure so deeply, that nothing but its dregs remained. 
 
 Raymond was therefore restless, discontented, and 
 miserable, while in the possession of all that usually 
 excites the envy of mankind. He was rich beyond his 
 utmost wishes ; he was endowed with manly beauty and 
 the most perfect health; he was admired, nattered, cher 
 ished, and sought after ; yet he was unhappy. The rea 
 son of this he did not know ; indeed, he did not look 
 very deeply into the matter, but went on from one scene 
 to another, seeking enjoyment, but turning with distaste 
 and disappointment from every thing. He was, how 
 ever, too proud to let the world see his real condition ; 
 he kept up a fair outside, sustained his establishment 
 with magnificence, and dressed himself, when he went 
 abroad, with elegance and care; he affected gayety in 
 company, often led in the dance, was ever foremost in 
 the chase, and was usually the life of the circle wherever 
 he went. 
 
 There were few, perhaps none, who imagined that, 
 under this aspect of prosperity, the canker of discontent 
 was gnawing at the heart. Yet such was the fact : of 
 all the people of the village, Raymond was esteemed the 
 most happy and fortunate ; but he was in truth the veri 
 est wretch in the place. And though this may doubt 
 less seem a rare instance, yet we have good reason to 
 believe that often, very often, there is deep misery, un- 
 
244 THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 
 
 told and unsuspected, in the great house, where only 
 elegance and luxury are seen by the world at large; 
 very often the beggar at the door would not exchange 
 conditions with the lord of the lofty hall, if he could 
 know his real condition. 
 
 Raymond had now reached the age of thirty years, 
 and instead of finding that his condition, or the state of 
 his feelings improved, they seemed rather to grow 
 worse. He became more and more unhappy. Every 
 morning when he rose, it was with a kind of dread as 
 to how he should contrive to kill time, to get through the 
 day, to endure his own listlessness, or dissatisfaction, or 
 disgust. The idea of setting about some useful or hon 
 orable employment, that would occupy his thoughts, give 
 excitement to his faculties, and bring satisfaction to his 
 conscience, never entered his head. He had never been 
 taught that no one has a right to lead an idle or useless 
 life, and that no man can be happy who attempts to live 
 only for himself. 
 
 It is indeed a common opinion among rich people 
 that they are under no obligation to engage in the active 
 duties of life ; that they are not bound to labor, or toil, 
 or make sacrifices for society; that they are in fact 
 privileged classes, and may spend their time and money 
 with an exclusive regard to themselves. Raymond was 
 educated in this foolish and narrow-minded opinion ; and 
 here was the real foundation of all his misery. Could 
 he only have discovered that happiness is to be found in 
 exercising our faculties ; in using the means, and em 
 ploying the power, that Providence has placed in OUP 
 hands, in some useful pursuit, and in this way alone he 
 
THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 245 
 
 might have been saved from a gulf of misery, into which 
 he was soon plunged. 
 
 At this period, which was soon after the revolution 
 ary war, America was attracting great attention, and 
 Raymond having met with one of his college mates who 
 had been there, and who gave him glowing accounts of 
 it, he suddenly took the determination to sell his estates 
 and set out for America, with the view of spending the 
 remainder of his days there. He knew little of the 
 country, but supposed it to be the contrast in every 
 thing to that in which he had lived, and thinking that 
 any change must bring enjoyment, he sold his property, 
 and taking the amount in gold and silver, set out with 
 it in a ship bound for New York. 
 
 The vessel had a prosperous voyage till she arrived 
 in sight of the highlands near the entrance of the har 
 bor of New York. It was then that, just at evening, 
 smart gusts began to blow off the land, and the captain 
 showed signs of anxiety, lest he should not be able to 
 get in before the storm, which he feared was coming, 
 should arise. The passengers had dressed themselves 
 to go on shore, and most of them, anxious to see friends, 
 or tired of the sea, were anticipating their arrival with 
 delight. Raymond, however, was an exception to all 
 this. He went upon the deck, looked a few moments 
 gloomily at the land that was visible low down in the 
 horizon, and then retired to the cabin, where he gave 
 himself up to his accustomed train of discontented and 
 bitter thoughts. 
 
 " I, alone," said he to himself, " of all this company, 
 seem to be miserable; all are looking forward with plea- 
 
246 THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 
 
 sant anticipations of some happiness, some enjoyment 
 in store for them. But for me what have I to hope? 
 I have no friends here ; this is a land of strangers to me. 
 It is true, I have wealth ; but how worthless is it ! I 
 have tried its virtues in England, and found that it 
 could not give me pleasure. Wealth cannot bestow 
 happiness upon me ; and I should not mourn if every 
 farthing of it were lost in the sea. Life is indeed to me 
 a burden. Why is it that everything is happy but my 
 self? Why do I see all these people rejoicing at the 
 sight of land, while I am distressed at the idea of once 
 more mingling with mankind? Alas! life is to me a 
 burden, and the sooner I part with it the better ! " 
 
 While Raymond was pursuing this train of reflec 
 tions in the cabin, the heaving of the vessel increased ; 
 the creaking of the timbers grew louder, and the deck 
 became a scene of uproar, occasioned by running to 
 and fro, the rattling of cordage, and the clanking of 
 heavy irons. The commands of the captain grew 
 rapid and stern, and the thumping of the billows 
 against the sides of the ship, made her shiver from the 
 rudder to the bowsprit. 
 
 Raymond was so buried in his own gloomy reflec 
 tions, that he did not for some time notice these events ; 
 but at last the din became so tremendous, that he start 
 ed to his feet and ran upon deck. The scene that now 
 met his eyes was indeed fearful. It was dark, but not 
 so much so as to prevent the land from being visible at 
 a little distance ; the wind was blowing with the force 
 of a hurricane, and urging the vessel, now perfectly at 
 its mercy, into the boiling waves that fretted and foam- 
 
THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 247 
 
 ed along its edge. The captain had given up all hope 
 of saving the ship, and the passengers were kneeling 
 and throwing up their hands in wildness and despair. 
 
 Raymond was perfectly calm. The thought of 
 losing his wealth crossed his mind, but it cost him not 
 a struggle to be reconciled to its destruction. He then 
 thought of sinking down in the waves to rise no more. 
 To this, too, he yielded, saying briefly to himself, " It is 
 best it should be so." Having thus made up his mind 
 and prepared himself for the worst, as he fancied, he 
 stood surveying the scene. The force of the gale was 
 fearful ; as it marched along the waters, it lashed their 
 surface into foam, and burst upon the ship with a fury 
 that seemed every moment on the point of carrying 
 away her masts. At last, the vessel struck ; a moment 
 after, her masts fell, with their whole burden of spars, 
 sails, and rigging ; the waves then rose over the stern 
 of the helpless hulk, and swept the whole length of it. 
 Several of the passengers were hurried into the tide, 
 there to find a watery grave ; some clung to the 
 bulwarks, and others saved themselves in various ways. 
 
 Raymond was himself plunged into the waves. 
 His first idea was to yield himself to his fate without an 
 effort ; but the love of life revived, as he saw it placed 
 in danger. He was an expert swimmer, and exerting 
 himself, he soon approached the masts, which were still 
 floating, though entangled with the wreck. It was in 
 vain, however, to reach them, owing to the rolling of 
 the surf. Several times he nearly laid his hand upon 
 them, when he was beaten back by the dashing waves. 
 His strength gradually gave way, and he was floating 
 
248 THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 
 
 farther and farther from the wreck, when he chanced 
 to see a spar near him ; with a desperate effort, he swam 
 to this, and, laying hold of it, was thus able to sustain 
 himself upon the water. 
 
 The night now grew dark apace, and Raymond 
 being driven out to sea, was parted from the wreck, 
 and could distinguish nothing but the flashing waves 
 around him. His limbs began to grow cold, and he 
 feared that his strength would be insufficient to enable 
 him to keep upon the spar. His anxiety increased ; an 
 awe of death, which he had never felt before, sprung up 
 in his bosom, and an intense love of life that thing 
 which he had so recently spurned as worthless burned 
 in his bosom. So little do we know ourselves until 
 adversity has taught us reflection, that Raymond, a 
 few hours before, fancying that he was willing and pre 
 pared to die, now yearned for safety, for deliverance, 
 for life, with an agony he could not control. His feel 
 ings, however, did not overpower him. Using every 
 effort of strengh and skill, and rubbing his chilled limbs 
 from time to time, he was able to sustain himself till 
 morning. He could then perceive that the vessel had 
 become a complete wreck, and that the fragments were 
 floating on the waves; he could not discern a single 
 human being, and was left to infer that all beside him 
 self had perished. 
 
 In this situation, benumbed with the cold, faint 
 and exhausted with exertion, he was on the point of 
 yielding himself a prey to the waves, when a pilot-boat 
 came into view. It gradually approached the place 
 where he was, and at last seemed so near him as almost 
 
THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 249 
 
 to be within the reach of his voice. At this critical 
 moment she made preparations to tack, and thus change 
 her direction. Raymond noticed these movements 
 with indescribable anxiety : if she were to advance a 
 few rods more, he should be discovered and saved ; if 
 she were to change her route ever so little, she would 
 pass by, and he, unobserved and helpless, would perish. 
 The experience of years seemed now crowded into one 
 moment of agony. Weary, cold, exhausted, the poor 
 sufferer wished not now to die, but to live. " Help, 
 help ! " cried he with all his strength. " O God, send 
 me deliverance from these waves ! " This earnest and 
 agonizing petition was the first prayer he had uttered 
 for years, and it was in behalf of that existence which, 
 in the days of luxury and splendor, he had thought a 
 burden and a curse ! 
 
 Watching the pilot-boat with the keenest interest, 
 poor Raymond now sat upon the spar, almost in 
 capable of moving, on account of his sufferings and his 
 weakness. He saw at last the helm put down ; he saw 
 the vessel obey the impulse ; he saw her swing round, 
 the sail napping in the wind, and then filling again; he 
 then saw her shoot off in another direction, thus leaving 
 him destitute of hope. His heart sank within him, a 
 sickness came over his bosom, his senses departed, and 
 he fell forward into the waves ! It was at this moment 
 that he was discovered by the pilot. The vessel imme 
 diately steered towards him, and he was taken on board. 
 In a few hours, he was at New York, and put under the 
 care of persons who rendered him every assistance which 
 he needed for his immediate comfort. 
 
250 THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 
 
 It was several hours after his arrival at the city before 
 Raymond had fully recovered his senses. When he was 
 completely restored, and began to make inquiries, he 
 found that all his ship companions had perished. He 
 who probably cared least for life he who had no fam 
 ily, no friends, and who was weary of existence he 
 only, of all that ship's company, was the one that sur 
 vived the tempest ! 
 
 There was something in this so remarkable, that it 
 occupied his mind, and caused deep emotions. In the 
 midst of many painful reflections, he could not, how 
 ever, disguise the fact, that he felt a great degree of plea 
 sure in his deliverance from so fearful a death. Again and 
 again he said to himself, " How happy, how thankful I 
 feel at being saved, when so many have been borne 
 down to a watery grave ! " The loss of his property, 
 though it left him a beggar in the world, did not seem 
 to oppress him : the joy of escape from death was to him 
 a source of lively satisfaction ; it gave birth to a new 
 feeling a sense of dependence on God, and a lively ex 
 ercise of gratitude towards Him. It also established in 
 his mind a fact before entirely unknown, or unremarked 
 that what is called misfortune, is often the source of 
 our most exquisite enjoyments. " It seems to me," said 
 Raymond, in the course of his reflections, " that, as gems 
 are found in the dreary sands, and gold among the rugged 
 rocks and as the one are only yielded to toil, and the 
 other to the smelting of the fiery furnace, so happiness 
 is the product of danger, suffering, and trial. I have 
 felt more real peace, more positive enjoyment from my 
 deliverance, than I was able to find in the whole circle 
 

 THE SCHOOL OP MISFORTUNE. 251 
 
 of voluptuous pleasures, yielded by wealth and fashion. 
 I became a wretch, existence was to me a burden, while 
 I was rich. But, having lost my fortune, and experi 
 enced the fear of death, I am happy in the bare posses 
 sion of that existence which I spurned before." 
 
 Such were the feelings and reflections of Raymond for 
 a few days after his escape ; but at length it was necessary 
 for him to decide upon some course of action. He was 
 absolutely penniless. Every thing had been sunk with 
 the ship. He had no letters of introduction, he had no 
 acquaintances in New York; nor, indeed, did he know 
 any one in all America, save that a brother of his was a 
 clergyman in some part of the United States ; but a 
 coldness had existed between them, and he had not heard 
 of him for several years. Raymond was conscious, too, 
 that this separation was the result of his own ungenerous 
 conduct ; for the whole of his father's estate had been 
 given to him, to the exclusion of his brother, and he had 
 permitted him to work his own way in life, without offer 
 ing him the least assistance. To apply to this brother 
 was, therefore, forbidden by his pride ; and, beside, he 
 had every reason to suppose that brother to be poor. 
 
 What, then, was to be done ? Should he return to 
 England? How was he to get the money to pay his 
 passage 1 Beside, what was he to do when he got there ? 
 Go back to the village where he carried his head so 
 high, and look in the faces of his former dashing ac 
 quaintances acknowledging himself a beggar ! This 
 was not to be thought of. Should he seek some em 
 ployment in America ? This seemed the only plan. He 
 began to make inquiries as to what he could find to do. 
 
252 THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 
 
 One proposed to him to keep a school ; another to go into 
 a counting-room ; another to be a bar-keeper in a hotel. 
 Any of these occupations would have given him the 
 means of living ; but Raymond's pride was in the way ; 
 pride, that dogs us all our life, and stops up almost every 
 path we ought to follow, persuaded Raymond that he, who 
 was once a gentleman, ought to live the life of a gentle 
 man ; and of course he could not do either of the things 
 proposed. 
 
 But events, day by day, pressed Raymond to a decision. 
 His landlord, at last, became uneasy, and told him that for 
 what had accrued he was welcome, in consideration of 
 his misfortunes ; but he was himself poor, and he begged 
 him respectfully to make the speediest possible arrange 
 ments to give up his room, which he wanted for another 
 boarder. " I have been thinking," said Raymond in reply 
 to this, " that I might engage in the practice of physic. 
 In early life I was thought to have a turn for the profes 
 sion." This suggestion was approved by the landlord, 
 and means were immediately taken to put it into execu 
 tion. " Dr. Raymond, late of England," was forthwith 
 announced ; and in a few weeks he was in the full tide 
 of successful experiment. 
 
 This fair weather, however, did not continue without 
 clouds. Many persons regarded " Dr. Raymond " only as 
 one of the adventurers so frequently coming from Eng 
 land to repay the kindness and courtesy of the Yankees, 
 with imposition and villany. Various injurious stories 
 were got up about him ; some having a sprinkling of 
 truth in them, and, for that reason, being very annoying. 
 Raymond, however, kept on his way, paying little heed to 
 
THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 253 
 
 these rumors, fancying that, if left to themselves, they 
 would soon die. And such would, perhaps, have been 
 the result, had not a most unfortunate occurrence given 
 matters another turn. 
 
 In the house where Raymond boarded, several small 
 sumsof money, and certain ornaments of some value, were 
 missed by the boarders, from time to time. Suspicions 
 fell upon a French servant in the family ; but as nothing 
 could be proved against him, he was retained, and a vig 
 ilant watch kept over his actions. Discovering that he 
 was suspected, this fellow determined to turn the suspi 
 cion against Raymond ; he, therefore, in the dead of night, 
 took a valuable watch from one of the rooms, and laid it 
 under the pillow of Raymond's bed. This was done with 
 such address, that neither the gentleman from whom the 
 watch was stolen, nor Raymond himself, saw anything of 
 it at the time. The watch was missed in the morning, and 
 the French servant was arrested. But as soon as the 
 chambermaid began to make up Raymond's bed, behold, 
 the pilfered watch was there ! The French servant was at 
 once released, and Raymond was arrested, briefly exam 
 ined and thrown into prison. 
 
 The circumstances in which he had come to this 
 country were now arrayed against him. The unfavorable 
 rumors that had been afloat respecting him were revived ; 
 all the stories of swindlers that had visited the country 
 for twenty years back, were published anew with embel 
 lishments. In short, Raymond was tried and condemned 
 by the public, while he lay defenceless in prison, and long 
 before his real trial came on. The subject became a 
 matter of some notoriety ; the circumstances were de- 
 
 22* 
 
254 THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 
 
 tailed in the newspapers. A paragraph noticing these 
 ev ents met the eye of Raymond's brother, who was set 
 tled as a minister of the gospel in a country parish not far 
 distant, and he immediately came to the city. Satisfying 
 himself by a few inquiries that it was indeed his brother 
 who was involved in difficulty and danger, he went 
 straight to the prison, with a heart overflowing with 
 sympathy and kindness. But pride was still in the way, 
 and Raymond haughtily repulsed him. 
 
 The pious minister was deeply grieved; but he did 
 not the less seek to serve his brother. He took care to 
 investigate the facts, and became persuaded that the 
 French servant had practised the deception that has been 
 stated ; but he was not able to prove it. He employed 
 the best of counsel ; but, in spite of all his efforts, and 
 all his sympathy, Raymond was found guilty, condemn 
 ed, and consigned to prison. 
 
 Up to this time, the pride of Raymond had sustained 
 him ; but it now gave way. He had borne the loss of for 
 tune, but to be convicted of a low, base theft, was what his 
 spirit could not endure. His health sunk under it, and 
 his reason, for a time, departed. His sufferings during 
 that dark hour, God only knows. At last he recovered 
 his health and his senses, and then he heard, that, on 
 his death-bed, the French servant had confessed his ini 
 quity. It was from the lips of his brother, and under 
 his roof, where he had been removed during his insan 
 ity, that Raymond learnt these events. He had been 
 released from prison, and his character cleared of the 
 imputation of crime. 
 
 From this period Raymond was an altered man. His 
 
THE SCHOOL OF MISFORTUNE. 255 
 
 pride was effectually quelled; no longer did that disturber 
 of earth's happiness, the real serpent of Eden, re 
 main to keep him in a state of alienation from his brother. 
 The two were now, indeed, as brothers. But there were 
 other changes in Raymond ; his health was impaired, his 
 constitution enfeebled ; his manly beauty departed ; he 
 was, indeed, but the wreck of former days. But, strange as 
 it may seem, he now, for the first time, found peace and 
 happiness. He had now tasted of sorrow, and was ac 
 quainted with grief. This enabled him to enter into 
 the hearts of other men, to see their sorrows, and to de 
 sire to alleviate them. A new world was now open to 
 him ; a world of effort, of usefulness, of happiness. In 
 the days of prosperity, he had no cares for anybody but 
 himself; and mere selfishness had left him a wretch 
 while in possession of all the supposed means of bliss. 
 He had now made the discovery, that pride is the 
 curse of the human race, and humility its only cure ; 
 that trial, sorrow, and misfortune are necessary, in 
 most cases, to make us acquainted with our own 
 hearts, and those of our fellow-men ; and that true bliss 
 is to be found only in a plan of life which seeks, earn 
 estly and sincerely, the peace and happiness of others." 
 
 
THE MAGICIAN. 
 
 A SAMOIDE TALE. 
 
 THERE was once upon a time an old Samoide fisher 
 man that had the most beautiful daughter that ever was 
 seen. She was very short and very fat, and her skin 
 shone like blubber oil ; her eyes were small and black ; 
 her teeth were large, and of a beautiful yellow hue. 
 Her hair, also, was yellow, and being matted together, 
 hung down in a thick mass upon her shoulders. 
 
 This fair girl was of an olive color, and such were 
 her charms that all the young men who saw her fell des 
 perately in love with her, save one. This latter was a 
 fisherman, and famous for his skill in every species of 
 adventurous sport. He was Very dexterous in spearing 
 the seal and sea-otter, in managing the seal-skin boat, 
 and in driving thft reindeer sledge over the snow. 
 
 Now, although the beautiful lady, whose name was 
 Lis, enslaved all others, this hero of the fishhook and 
 paddle set her charms at nought ; and, as the fates are 
 very whimsical, the beautiful girl, disdaining the ad 
 dresses of all besides, became desperately enamored of 
 him. She took every opportunity in her power to 
 please and fascinate him, but all to no purpose. Loord, 
 for that was the name of the fisherman, resisted her 
 
THE MAGICIAN. 257 
 
 advances, and in fact treated her with marked neglect, 
 if not disdain. 
 
 This appeared very wonderful to everybody, and 
 especially to Lis, who made up her mind that some evil- 
 minded spirit had bewitched Loord, and thus enabled 
 and disposed him to resist her charms. She therefore 
 determined to go to an island at some distance in the 
 ocean, where she had an uncle living, and, under pre 
 tence of visiting him, to consult a famous sorcerer, or 
 magician, who dwelt there, and, if possible, to obtain 
 his council in the matter. 
 
 Now Lis was well skilled in the arts of managing 
 a boat ; so she determined to go alone. She got into a 
 boat made of seal-skins, and set forth upon the sea, hav 
 ing bade her friends farewell who were at the landing 
 to take leave of her. It was expected that she would 
 return the next day but she came not; the second 
 day, the third, and the fourth, passed away, but the 
 beautiful Lis did not return. At length some anxiety 
 existed among her friends as to her welfare, and even the 
 interest of Loord was roused. He determined to set 
 forth in search of her ; and that very day, entering his 
 seal-skin boat, he departed for the magician's island. 
 
 It is important to observe, that previous to starting, 
 Loord, who generally avoided brandy, took a large 
 draught, by the advice of an aged fisherman, not so 
 much to exclude the cold as to keep out witchcraft. 
 
 Things went pretty well with Loord in the first part 
 of his voyage, but after awhile, according to his account 
 of the matter on his return, as he began to approach 
 the magician's island, he caught a glimpse of it, but it 
 
258 THE MAGICIAN. 
 
 was bobbing up and down like a porpoise before a 
 squall. He kept his eye upon it steadily for some time, 
 when at last it sunk, and did not rise again. Loord 
 used all his strength to reach the place, and finally came 
 to it, and the water was whirling and boiling round ; 
 but not a bit of an island was to be seen. Loord sailed 
 over and over the place, and waited a long time to see if 
 he could not pick up somebody, and particularly the 
 beautiful Lis, but he found no one. 
 
 Loord at last returned ; he had been gone all day, 
 and it was late at night when he reached his home. He 
 was in a bewildered state, but told his story as I have 
 related it. It was intimated to him that perhaps the 
 brandy got into his head, and that the sinking of the is 
 land was all an illusion ; but he laughed at the idea. In 
 a few days, however, a boat came from the magician's 
 isle, and behold the beautiful Lis was in it, as well and 
 charming as ever. Her friends came to see her, and 
 her lovers returned, and all congratulated her upon her 
 good looks, and upon her escape from being carried to 
 the bottom of the sea with the magician's island. This 
 made her stare, upon which they told her the wonderful 
 adventures of Loord. 
 
 It being now ascertained that the island of the ma 
 gician was still standing in its place, Loord became an 
 object of general ridicule ; and as he was no longer a 
 hero in the estimation of the people, Lis began to think 
 she could live without him. Accordingly, when she 
 met him she tossed up her head, and passed him by with 
 disdain. This brought Loord to his senses, and he 
 began to see that Lis was very beautiful, and pretty soon 
 
THE MAGICIAN. 259 
 
 he found out that he could not live without her. So he 
 began to woo her ; but at first she would not listen to 
 him ; after a great deal of teasing, however, she con 
 sented, and they were married. But ever after, if any 
 thing went wrong, Lis would jeer him about the magi 
 cian's island that bobbed up and down like a porpoise 
 before a storm, and at last went down to the bottom ! 
 This always brought Loord to terms; and, in short, 
 by means of this affair, Lis not only got a husband, 
 but she used the story ever after to manage him ; for it 
 gave her a power over him like that of a strong bit in 
 the mouth of a headstrong horse. 
 
 Nor was this all. The people in those parts found 
 out that Lis went to the island to consult the magician, 
 and they imputed Loord's conduct entirely to his inter 
 ference in behalf of the beautiful girl. But the only 
 real magician in the case was the brandy, for Lis did 
 not find the seer whom she sought at home ; and, though 
 she waited some days, she did not see him ! 
 
THE IIERMITESS. 
 
 SUCH is the texture of human society, that the con 
 duct of every individual operates in a greater or less 
 degree upon others. There are few, perhaps none, so 
 separate or solitary, that the influence of their actions 
 extends not beyond themselves. In truth, the depen 
 dences and relations by which a man is linked to those 
 around him, are often such that his movements affect 
 them scarcely less than himself. It is said, that, in the 
 deep vales of the Alps, the breath of a traveller will 
 sometimes detach the avalanche from its giddy resting- | 
 place, which descends and overwhelms the valley and its 
 inhabitants. And so, a single action often, not only 
 gives color and character to the whole life of the actor, 
 but determines the destiny of others. 
 
 So long as an individual regulates his life by the 
 divine rule, " Do to another as you would have another 
 do to you," he is not chargeable with consequences. 
 But if, through carelessness or contempt, he departs 
 from the golden precept, he assumes the responsibility 
 of all the evil that may flow from his conduct. It is 
 remarkable that, while this is too plain to admit of con 
 troversy, still a large portion of mankind, in the eager 
 pursuit of pleasure, fortune, and fame, either overlook 
 or disregard the consequences of their actions upon 
 
THE HERMITESS. 261 
 
 others. On close examination, it will be discovered 
 that tears and blood are common ingredients in the cup 
 of voluptuous pleasure ; that the corner-stone of a fortune 
 is often laid in cruelty and fraud; and the pinnacle 
 of fame is sometimes attained by trampling on the rights 
 of others. Among those who are esteemed the favored 
 and fortunate, there are many who are indebted for their 
 success to their want of principle, and whose reckoning 
 with conscience at the close of life will exhibit a balance 
 against them that far outweighs the transient pleasures 
 they have enjoyed. Our story presents one of the many 
 instances to which we allude. 
 
 About seventy years ago, there resided in Normandy 
 a gentleman by the name of Charles Eustace Moribond. 
 He was the last of an ancient family, and had spent his 
 early life at Paris, where he was alike distinguished for 
 gallantry and personal accomplishments. After a short 
 career of dissipation, he returned to his paternal estate, 
 a disappointed man, and became as remarkable for se 
 clusion and misanthropy, as he had once been for gay 
 and social qualities. 
 
 The inmates of his house were an only child, an 
 interesting girl of eighteen ; an aged Catholic priest, 
 who had been long attached to the family ; and an 
 advanced maiden lady, a distant relation, who was 
 tolerated there for the want of another home. Moribond, 
 however, had little intercourse with any of these indi 
 viduals. He seldom went abroad, but spent his time in 
 reading. His countenance wore a look of deep gloom ; 
 and, occasionally, his eye gleamed with tokens of insanity, 
 to which his family were said to have a predisposition. 
 
 23 
 
262 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 His daughter, Lucille, had been chiefly educated by 
 Le Clerc, the priest, except in music, drawing, and 
 dancing, in which she had received the instruction of 
 professed masters. Her mother had died when she was 
 ten years old, since which time she had lived wholly at 
 home, in the secluded mansion of her father, seeing little 
 society, and indulging in few amusements, except such 
 as could be enjoyed alone. In childhood, her vivacity 
 was almost uncontrollable; but it had now given place 
 to seriousness ; and the face which used to beam with 
 smiles, was serious, and sometimes sad. Her temper 
 seemed to be strongly shaded by the gloom that rested 
 upon every object around her. Perhaps, too, there was 
 now a sentiment in her breast that waked desires for the 
 society of one, at least, with whom she could sympathize ; 
 and such a sentiment may have touched her coun 
 tenance with that mournfulness which sometimes came 
 over it. 
 
 Though the situation of Lucille had offered little occa 
 sion for the display of character, it needed not much ob 
 servation to discover that she was beautiful ; her high 
 brow seemed to speak of lofty thoughts, and her full, 
 dark eyes to tell of elevated feelings. But, in deal 
 ing only with her tutors, waiting-maids, aunt Charite, 
 and father Le Clerc, there was little to develope either 
 the one or the other. An impression, however, existed 
 amongst those who knew her, that she was endowed 
 with great sensibility, and that her character was rather 
 made up of soft and feminine feelings, than of strong 
 and active qualities. But be this as it might, no one 
 who had ever seen her would readily forget the beautiful 
 
THE HERMITESS. 
 
 263 
 
 image that she gave to the mind, or fail to feel an interest 
 in one so lovely. 
 
 One morning, at an early hour, Lucille received a 
 summons from her father to attend him in his library. 
 Such a thing was unusual, and she went to him with 
 excited expectation. He held a letter in his hand, and 
 seemed involved in absorbing thought. Lucille stood 
 by him a few moments; at length he spoke to her. 
 " Lucille," said he, " I have received a letter from a 
 young man at Paris, who advises me that he is coming 
 to pay me a visit ; and he will be here to-morrow. Now 
 I have some things to say to you, that you must listen to. 
 This young gentleman is the last of one branch of our 
 family. His father removed, many years since, to 
 Canada; he was unsuccessful in his pursuits, and died, 
 leaving two sons, who were twins, dependent upon his 
 friends. They were fortunate in finding the protection 
 of one who educated them as became their blood. One 
 of them, however, married indiscreetly, and involved 
 himself in debt. To escape from his difficulties, he 
 entered on board a privateer which was about to sail 
 from Quebec. The vessel was taken by an English 
 ship-of-war, and Philippe Maurice, with the rest of the 
 crew, was immured in a gloomy prison, where he soon 
 after died. Pierre, the last that now remained, came 
 recently to Paris to receive a considerable fortune, which 
 was bequeathed to him by a kinsman who died there a 
 few months since. He is coming to visit us as a relative, 
 and, as such, must be received with distinction. I 
 hated his father ; but I would not that any one should 
 see me deficient in the hospitality which characterized 
 
264 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 my ancestors, and which in the decay of their house 
 shall not be forgotten. I tell you the history of this 
 young man, Lucille, that you may understand how I 
 wish him to be received." 
 
 Lucille now left her father ; and the next day Pierre 
 Maurice arrived. He was a young man, about four-and- 
 twenty, handsome, and possessed of engaging manners. 
 There was something in his eye which bespoke undue 
 warmth and quickness ; but I know not whether a girl 
 of eighteen would reckon such traits as unfavorable to 
 manly beauty. 
 
 If the reader is gifted with a little second-sight, he 
 has foreseen that Pierre and Lucille were destined to 
 "fall in love" with each other. Such was the fact; 
 and at the end of a fortnight Pierre had declared his 
 passion, and Lucille had sighed a reciprocity of senti 
 ment. She must be forgiven : for Pierre was not only 
 a man after woman's own heart, but he was the first 
 who had whispered love in her ear. Pierre, who was 
 frank in his disposition, was prepared to make a decla 
 ration of his regard for Lucille to Moribond, when the 
 latter, who looked with suspicion upon Maurice, had de 
 termined to put a period to his visit. 
 
 While each was seeking the other with these oppo 
 site views, they accidentally met in the garden. Mori- 
 bond rudely told Maurice that he could no longer ex 
 tend hospitality to one who could meanly attempt to 
 throw poison in the cup of his host. Maurice did not 
 exactly gather the meaning of the allusion ; but under 
 standing that it was meant for insult, he laid his hand 
 hastily upon his sword. Moribond instantly drew his, 
 
THE HERMITESS. 265 
 
 and there was a fierce clashing of steel between the 
 parties. The sudden appearance of Lucille, shrieking 
 in terror, separated them. Maurice withdrew, while 
 the lowering look of Moribond pursued him with an ex 
 pression of the sternest hatred. 
 
 Maurice immediately left the house ; but, determin 
 ing to see Lucille, he stopped at a neighboring village. 
 He soon found means to interest father Le Clerc and 
 aunt Charite in his case, who gave him secret admission 
 into the chateau. Pierre at length persuaded Lucille to 
 leave her father's house. Le Clerc hastily performed 
 the marriage service, with none but aunt Charite to 
 witness it; and, under cover of the night, Pierre and 
 his bride set out in a carriage for Paris. Taking a cir 
 cuitous route to elude pursuit, they were in a few days 
 in the vicinity of that place. 
 
 It was late in the evening, just after they had entered 
 the forest of Boulogne, that their carriage was suddenly 
 stopped. Pierre pulled down the window, and demand 
 ed the occasion of it. " Viper ! " said the voice of 
 Moribond, " you need no answer to that." Maurice 
 instantly threw open the door of the carriage; and, 
 while he was descending, the frighted Lucille threw 
 around his neck a chain, to which was suspended an 
 amulet in the shape of a cross, exclaiming, " God pre 
 serve you, Pierre ! here ! here ! take this now 
 no one can harm you." Maurice was met by Moribond, 
 who fiercely assaulted him with his sword. At the same 
 moment, the postillion was dragged to the ground, and 
 the carriage driven rapidly away. Lucille shrieked, as 
 
 23* 
 
266 THE HERM1TESS. 
 
 she heard the clashing of swords ; which, however, the 
 distance and the noise of the carriage soon drowned. 
 
 In three days, in a state bordering on insensibility, 
 she again found herself at her father's house. She in 
 quired for her father and her husband ; but all around 
 her were dumb. She implored them in vain to tell her 
 the catastrophe of the conflict. She was at length told 
 that her father had returned, and it was intimated that 
 Pierre had fallen. 
 
 The situation of Lucille was distressing ; deprived of 
 her husband, and imprisoned rather than protected by 
 her father, she contemplated her state with feelings of 
 inexpressible bitterness. A month passed away. The 
 gloom of Moribond had become darker and more des 
 perate ; and the belief in young Maurice's death was 
 admitted by all. 
 
 At this time, a servant belonging to the family, who 
 had just returned from Paris, privately informed father 
 Le Clerc that he had seen Maurice there, and that he 
 had ascertained that in a few days he would sail for 
 America from Bordeaux. This was communicated to 
 Lucille, and she determined, if possible, to see her hus 
 band before his departure. Accordingly, she secretly 
 set off for Bordeaux, taking only a favorite Irish ser 
 vant, by the name of Kelly, with her. On her arrival 
 there, she found that the vessel had sailed for Quebec, 
 and that Maurice was on board. Dreading to return to 
 her father, she determined to enter a vessel that was to 
 sail for the Canadas on the morrow. She did so, and 
 was soon on the broad ocean. 
 
THE HERMITESS. 267 
 
 It is easier for woman to sustain the burden of pain 
 ful thoughts and agonized feelings, through a long 
 period of inaction, than for the hardier sex. There is 
 an impatience in men, that makes them at first restless, 
 and then desperate, if they are obliged for a long time 
 to brood in suspense over wrong and misfortune. Lu 
 cille saw her situation in its true light. She had sep 
 arated herself from her father ; the natural protection 
 of the paternal roof could be hers no more. She was 
 pursuing a husband ; but one who, at best, had deserted 
 her. She supported herself, however, with firmness. 
 She wept bitterly, indeed ; and often, at night, when, 
 alone in her narrow apartment, she heard the waves 
 strike against the plank on which she was reposing, and 
 heard the winds howl through the rigging of the ship, 
 she felt that she was cast off by Heaven, and deserted 
 by her fellow-beings. 
 
 But she had now a new trial to sustain. The vessel 
 had been at sea about four weeks, when a violent storm 
 arose. For several days previously, a calm had over 
 spread the sea ; and the wide water lay smooth and level 
 as the face of a mirror. Not even the zephyr rippled 
 its surface with its airy foot-prints. But, at length,^ the 
 ocean began to swell in long and heavy undulations ; 
 and the sky, which before was clear, was now overcast 
 with ominous clouds. The gale soon began to pour 
 from the southwest ; and the sea, now changed from a 
 green to an inky hue, tossed and tumbled in violent agi 
 tation. 
 
 The little vessel bent her side to the water, and gal 
 lantly danced along the top of the waves, running like a 
 
268 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 frighted bird before the storm. One by one the captain 
 had ordered her sails to be taken in, till now she only 
 carried a single sail. Still she kept on before the 
 wind; till, at length, the heavy sea, gathering and rising 
 over her stern, fell upon the deck, and swept its whole 
 length. Orders were given to lie to; but, in bring 
 ing the vessel about, her mainmast was carried away, 
 and, now unmanageable, she became the sport of the 
 waves. Fortunately, at this time the storm began to 
 abate; and in a few hours the gale had wholly subsided. 
 The sea, however, still swelled in heavy billows, and the 
 wreck pitched and rolled violently. 
 
 During this scene, the conduct of Lucille exhibited a 
 degree of firmness which drew forth many expressions 
 of admiration from the rough beings around her. She 
 looked out upon the sea, where the waters, " working in 
 ceaseless undulation," only seemed a dark emblem of 
 furious passion ; she looked up to heaven, where the 
 thick, hurrying clouds bore an aspect only of terror; 
 she listened to the gale, which seemed the voice of a 
 demon. She shuddered; but she found in all these 
 aspects of nature something that accorded with the high- 
 wrought state of her own feelings; she was elevated 
 above the thought of immediate danger. The idea of 
 death hardly came to her as an object of terror ; and 
 when it crossed her mind, it seemed a thing which 
 would only bring repose to a heart oppressed with care 
 and wrung with anxiety. 
 
 After remaining several days in a disabled condition, 
 the suffering inhabitants of the wreck were taken off by 
 an English sloop-of-war, and carried to New York. Lu- 
 
THE HERMITESS. 269 
 
 cille now found her situation more perplexing than ever. 
 She was in a strange land, and without friends. She 
 was at a distance of many hundred miles from her hus 
 band, and the state of war between the English and 
 French colonies rendered it impossible for her to pursue 
 him, and difficult to communicate with him. Besides, 
 she could not deny to herself the probability, that a hus 
 band who would desert her, would refuse to receive her ; 
 and, more than all, there was still some reason to doubt 
 whether her husband were actually living. The evi 
 dences of his death by her father's hand were strong ; 
 the servant who supposed he saw him in Paris, might 
 have been mistaken ; and the man who sailed from Bor 
 deaux, might have been another person bearing the same 
 name. When she reflected upon it, a circumstance 
 which seemed not material before, pressed itself now 
 upon her attention. The name at Bordeaux was writ 
 ten Morris, instead of Maurice; and, on inquiry at 
 New York, she found the former a very common name 
 in America. Amid all this uncertainty, Lucille acted 
 with decision. She adopted her father's second name, 
 and passed under the title of Madame Eustace. Hav 
 ing obtained the respect of the officers of the English 
 sloop-of-war, by whose influence she was received into 
 the family of a respectable widow, as a lodger, she re 
 solved to maintain herself by teaching some of the ac 
 complishments of which she was mistress, while she 
 should, at the same time, prosecute her inquiries res 
 pecting Maurice. 
 
 A year passed away and found Lucille the mother of 
 a daughter. She had obtained such information, that 
 
270 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 her mind rested in the persuasion that her husband was 
 really dead, and that the individual whom she had pur 
 sued was a stranger. She would have been tired of 
 existence, had not the maternal sentiment given her 
 motives for exertion, and stirred those fears and hopes 
 which generate attachment to life. 
 
 Lucille made friends rapidly, and was soon able to set 
 herself steadfastly to the occupation she had resolved 
 upon. The thoughts of high station in life, which she 
 had been accustomed to indulge, she had laid aside. 
 With a decision which evinced more courage than to 
 face a battle, she closed forever all other hope for her 
 self, than to support in silence her own sorrows, while 
 at the same time she should take the humble path which 
 now lay before her, and bring to the duties she owed 
 her child, such cheerfulness of spirit as might enable her 
 to discharge them with effect. 
 
 All this, we may believe, was not done without tears, 
 or a struggle. Could we have looked into her heart, 
 and witnessed the painful process by which hope was 
 exchanged for blighted prospects, and love turned to 
 bitterness, and pride made to bow in humiliation, 
 and a sense of dignity and power to give place to a con 
 sciousness of humble dependence, we should have pitied 
 
 her distress, and admired the energy of her character. 
 
 ****** 
 
 We must now pass over a long interval, and come at 
 once to the year 1776. At this time, Madame Eustace 
 had been long established as a teacher of drawing and 
 music ; and in that capacity had secured the esteem of 
 some of the most respectable families in New York. 
 
THE HERMITESS. 271 
 
 She was still a beautiful woman ; but she had always 
 avoided society, and lived as much in seclusion as her 
 avocations would permit. She had obtained a genteel 
 living, while, at the same time, she had sedulously de 
 voted herself to the education of her daughter, Lucrece, 
 now eighteen years old. The uncommon beauty of Lu 
 crece had already attracted much attention ; arid, al 
 though .her mother had endeavored to keep her back 
 from society, she had become a favorite in several fam 
 ilies of high respectability, where she had seen some 
 fashionable society, and drawn around herself not a few 
 admirers. There were thoughts suggested by this state 
 of things to Madame Eustace, which penetrated her 
 with the keenest distress. She had submitted, without 
 repining, for nearly twenty years, to painful uncertainty : 
 she had imprisoned in her own heart her restless and 
 anxious thoughts ; she had taken upon herself that cruel 
 and humiliating station which the world will ever assign 
 to an unprotected woman in her circumstances : all 
 this she had borne; and, what is more, she had, while 
 young, uninstructed, and unpractised, chosen her own 
 principles of conduct, and drawn from these sources of 
 her own mind, and the impulses of her own spirit, 
 the means of sustaining herself in this difficult course of 
 conduct. But the circumstances of her daughter made 
 her now regard, with fresh bitterness, the uncertainty 
 which rested upon her fortunes. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, she could not, by every inves 
 tigation she had been able to make, ascertain whether 
 Maurice were living or not. Her father had died some 
 years before, throwing no light upon his fate. There 
 
272 
 
 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 were circumstances which inclined her to think he 
 was still living ; and others, again, which induced the 
 belief that he died by the hand of her father. There 
 was a mystery, however, which she could not penetrate, 
 and which rendered it impossible for her to determine, 
 whether she were a widow, or a deserted wife, or per 
 chance the cast-off plaything of a deceiver. This un 
 certainty she had learned to bear so long as it affected 
 only herself; but now that it must influence the fortunes 
 of her daughter, and expose her to the most mortifying 
 trials, her anxiety preyed upon her in secret, and her 
 heart bled afresh. Such was her condition, in the fall 
 of 1776, when the British were approaching New York. 
 In anticipation of its capture, many of the inhabitants 
 left their homes, and hurried back into the country, at a 
 distance from the scene of the coming struggle. Among 
 others who were preparing to leave the city was Mrs. 
 Rosevelt, a widow lady of fortune and high respecta 
 bility. She had been a kind friend to Madame Eustace, 
 and was extremely partial to Lucrece. She proposed to 
 Madame Eustace that Lucrece should accompany her 
 in her retirement, which proposition was gratefully ac 
 cepted. Accordingly, Lucrece soon left the city with 
 
 Mrs. Rosevelt, who retired to the village of R , on 
 
 the western border of Connecticut, while Madame Eus 
 tace remained in New York. 
 
 It would seem that a country which is the theatre of 
 war, must be wholly given to mourning and gloom. But 
 there are quiet little valleys, even in such a country, 
 where the lover's lute is not drowned by the voice of 
 cannon ; and in society where battle and bloodshed are 
 
THE HERMtTESS. 273 
 
 the absorbing topics, youthful hearts are still beating 
 with lively emotions. 
 
 It will not seem extraordinary, then, that, in the win 
 ter of 1776-7, the little village of R was a scene 
 
 of considerable gayety. It was at a distance of about 
 seventy miles from New York : and, on account of its 
 favorable situation, had been selected as the place of 
 refuge for several wealthy families. 
 
 Among the most distinguished individuals in the vil 
 lage of R , was Colonel Morris. He was a man of 
 
 large fortune, and also of power and influence. He 
 had been chosen a colonel of militia, but as yet had 
 had no actual command. In truth, there was a sort of 
 uncertainty as to his political views ; for although he 
 had declared himself favorable to the revolution, yet 
 there were those who suspected that he entertained other 
 sentiments. His wife had been dead for several years. 
 He had but one child ; and, what was remarkable, he 
 seemed to have for him no very ambitious views. This 
 son had been educated at home, and was about three- 
 and-twenty. Though a young man of talents, he had 
 been dissuaded by his father from entering the army, or 
 engaging in any profession. 
 
 As it is a part of our story, we may as well disclose 
 the truth at once, that this young gentleman, William 
 Morris by name, soon formed a very ardent attachment 
 for the fair Lucrece ; and it is our duty to add, that his 
 passion was not thrown away upon a cold and indiffer 
 ent heart. In short, young Morris and Lucrece loved 
 each other devotedly, and, before the winter was out, 
 they had said and sighed it to each other a thousand 
 
 24 
 
274 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 times. William now solicited, throuo-h Mrs. Rosevelt, 
 
 ' O " 
 
 the hand of Lucrece, of her mother. Every thing was 
 represented favorably by Mrs. Rosevelt, and the con 
 nexion urged in the strongest terms. After many 
 doubts and scruples, and many inquiries respecting the 
 family of Morris, all of which were at length satisfac 
 torily answered, Madame Eustace yielded a hesitating 
 assent. Colonel Morris soon after signified his appro 
 bation of the match, and the young couple thought 
 themselves the happiest beings in existence. 
 
 The time fixed for the wedding was the spring of 
 1777. Madame Eustace had promised to be present on 
 the occasion. But, a few days before the appointed time, 
 she informed Mrs. Rosevelt that unforeseen circum 
 stances must prevent her being present on the occasion. 
 She wished, however, that the ceremony should not be 
 deferred, and said that she would come a few days after. 
 The marriage accordingly took place. It was remarked, 
 at the wedding, that a fairer pair were never united in 
 the village of R ; and the striking resemblance be 
 tween the bride and bridegroom was spoken of by all, 
 and pleasantly commented upon, as a token of conge 
 niality which fitted them to be happy with each other. 
 
 It was arranged that William should, for the present, 
 take his wife to his father's house ; and, accordingly, 
 she was soon settled there. In a few days Madame 
 Eustace arrived, accompanied only by her old servant 
 Kelly, who had, twenty years before, attended her to 
 America. It was late in the evening, and she found her 
 daughter alone, and in some agitation. News had ar 
 rived that a large detachment of the British forces had 
 
THE HERMITESS. 275 
 
 landed at the distance of about twenty miles, and were 
 directing their march toward Danbury. It had caused 
 great excitement ; and Colonel Morris and his son had 
 gone with others to learn the state of facts, and see what 
 it might be necessary for them to do. Lucrece related 
 the circumstances to her mother, and expressed her 
 anxiety. " But I am safe," she added, " for see here ; 
 William has bestowed upon me an amulet, which will 
 save me from all harm." " Let me see it," said Mad 
 ame Eustace. She took it. It was a gold chain, with 
 a cross of the same metal. It could not be mistaken ; 
 it was the same she had thrown about the neck of her 
 husband, near twenty years before, at the frightful mo 
 ment when he was descending from his carriage to meet 
 her father. 
 
 A dreadful light now flashed on the mind of Madame 
 Eustace; in an instant, her thoughts passed over a 
 long train of circumstances, and the stunning conclu 
 sion fell like a thunderbolt upon her. At once she ar 
 rived at the conclusion that Maurice was living ; that 
 she was in his house : that he had been married to her 
 while still married to another, and that her daughter 
 was wedded to her own brother. She sank upon the 
 floor, in a state of insensibility, from which, after some 
 hours, she recovered. A physician was then by her side, 
 and Lucrece, with her husband, was bending over her 
 couch. She no sooner saw them, than she shrieked 
 violently, and seemed convulsed with agony. At this 
 moment, Colonel Morris entered the room. Madame 
 Eustace bent on him a long, fixed, earnest gaze. " Yes, 
 yes ! " she exclaimed, " it is he. O God ! why was I 
 
276 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 reserved for this?" At the same instant, she sprang 
 from the couch, throwing aside those who attempted 
 to restrain her, walked up to Morris, and looking him 
 in the face with a wild and fearful expression, she ex 
 claimed, "Maurice, see, here is your work! I am Lu 
 cille Moribond, the wronged and ruined dupe of a de 
 ceiver ! There," said she, pointing to Lucrece, " is 
 thy daughter and mine, and there is her husband, your 
 own sou ! " 
 
 Morris was a man of habitual self-command. It was 
 seldom that any feature of his face was, for a moment, 
 liberated from the strict guard which he kept over his 
 looks and speech. He had learnt to govern himself, and 
 to govern others. He was grave, calm, and taciturn ; 
 but, for once, his circumspection left him. He shrunk 
 back from Madame Eustace as from a horrible spectre ; 
 his lips became pale as ashes ; his hands were stretched 
 forward ; his fingers apart, and hooked like the talons of 
 a bird of prey ; and his eye glared, in fixed amazement, 
 upon her. Then with a faltering and husky voice, he 
 cried out, " Take her away take her away ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Madame Eustace, now relaxed, and faint 
 ing ; " take me away ; take me where I may never see 
 the light of heaven again ; take me away, that I may 
 never see the face of one whom in charity I had hoped 
 was dead." She now sunk into the arms of the physi 
 cian, who alone, among those present, had sufficient 
 self-possession to assist her. All around had been struck 
 with the dreadful conviction of the truth of Madame 
 Eustace's words. The mind of Lucrece was for a mo 
 ment paralyzed ; but soon the wildness with which she 
 
THE HERMITESS. 277 
 
 looked, first on her husband, and then on her mother 
 and Colonel Morris, and then again on her husband, at 
 the same time drawing back from him, showed that she 
 was making a frightful application of the seeming truth 
 to herself. Young Morris clinched his forehead with 
 a convulsive grasp, and writhed as if his sinews were 
 torn by the rack ; while Colonel Morris sank down upon 
 a chair, and sat breathing quick and hard, his chin rest 
 ing on his breast, and his arms swinging by his side. 
 
 Colonel Morris soon recovered his self-possession; 
 but he had scarcely time to collect his thoughts, when 
 the trampling of a horse was heard at the door, and he 
 was inquired for. It proved to be a messenger, des 
 patched by General Wooster to apprize the Colonel 
 that the British, having succeeded in burning Danbury, 
 
 would attempt to retreat through the village of R ; 
 
 and urgently requiring his immediate attendance at a 
 place about ten miles distant, to assist in devising means 
 to effect their capture. It was about midnight, and not 
 a moment was to be lost. Colonel Morris mounted his 
 horse, and set off, determining to be back early the next 
 morning. 
 
 The morning came, and found the house of Morris 
 nearly deserted. Mrs. Rosevelt had caused Madame 
 Eustace, who was in a helpless condition, to be removed 
 to her own house, where she was attended by the ago 
 nized Lucrece. William Morris had drawn out from 
 Kelly the story of Madame Eustace, and found in it what 
 he deemed a corroboration of the dreadful hints which 
 she had expressed. In a state of despair, he seized a 
 musket, and, leaving his father's house, set out to join in 
 
 24* 
 
278 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 the conflict, which was now approaching, with the 
 British troops. 
 
 The history of the expedition to Danbury, the object 
 of which was to destroy the military stores at that place, 
 is well known. Our story only requires that we should 
 give a brief outline of it. The detachment, consisting 
 of about two thousand men, under General Tryon, 
 landed at Compo Bay, near F airfield, and, proceeding 
 through Reading to Danbury, a distance of about twenty 
 miles, laid the town in ashes. Having accomplished 
 their work, they set out, on the morning of the fourth 
 day after their landing, on their return. They now 
 
 chose a circuitous' route through the village of R , 
 
 where they arrived about noon. General Wooster, with 
 three hundred militia, was pressing upon their rear, and 
 Arnold, at the head of five hundred militia, with magi 
 cal celerity, had placed himself in their front. Taking 
 possession of a little eminence, which rises at the north 
 ern part of the village of R , these men placed 
 
 themselves behind a hasty breastwork of logs, carts, 
 ploughs, and harrows, along the stone fences, and be 
 hind the rocks, which are still to be seen covering the 
 fields. 
 
 In this position, Arnold awaited the approach of the 
 British troops. They had been apprized of the resist 
 ance that was to be made ; but, as they ascended the 
 hill, and came close upon the American line, not a man 
 was to be seen. The points of muskets that were visi 
 ble over the rocks and fences, however, admonished 
 them of the reception they were about to meet with. 
 There was a profound silence, only disturbed by the 
 
THE HERMITESS. 279 
 
 tread of the advancing soldiery. At length, a solitary 
 musket flashed from the fence, and then a hundred bul 
 lets, aimed with a keen and certain sight, were hurled 
 upon the breast of the enemy. This was followed by 
 an irregular fire, which soon obliged the British to re 
 treat, leaving several of their men dead upon the field. 
 
 But again they advanced, and were again repulsed. 
 The British officers now held a council of war ; and 
 were about proposing terms of capitulation, when, in 
 formation that General Wooster was killed being com 
 municated to them, they resolved upon a third attempt 
 to break through the obstacle which opposed their 
 march. Accordingly, the greater part of the forces, 
 bringing up their cannon, pressed with a united effort 
 upon the American line. 
 
 This attempt proved successful. The Americans 
 were obliged to fly, and leave a free passage to the 
 
 British troops into the village of R . But although 
 
 the battle was over, the sharp firing of musketry still 
 resounded from the left of the American line. Here 
 a few gallant men, headed by William Morris, strug 
 gled with thrice their number; but, on the point of 
 being overpowered, they all at length fled but one ; 
 this was young Morris. Looking back for a moment 
 upon his retreating companions, "Farewell," said he; 
 " you have something still to live for : I have only to 
 die." He had scarcely uttered these words, when a 
 fatal bullet entered his breast, and laid him down in the 
 repose of death. 
 
 The British troops now entered the village without 
 further interruption. They encamped on its southern 
 
280 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 border for the night. They committed few acts of 
 violence, treating the place perhaps with more lenity 
 in consideration that it was one of the few " tory 
 towns " in Connecticut. Three dwelling-houses, how 
 ever, were burnt, to give notice of the position of the 
 army, to the ships that lay waiting in the Sound to 
 receive the troops, at the distance of somewhat more than 
 a dozen miles. The aspiring flames of village dwellings 
 were indeed an appropriate telegraph to point out the 
 progress of an invading army. 
 
 It was a bright morning in April, that the British 
 troops in the early dawn, took their leave of the village 
 
 of R . It was the same morning, that Colonel 
 
 Morris, who had been detained by circumstances which 
 we need not detail, returned to his house. He found 
 it desolate and deserted. He soon learnt the fate of his 
 son ; and on inquiry for Lucrece and her mother, he 
 found that the latter had mysteriously disappeared from 
 the house of Mrs. Rosevelt, and that Lucrece was in a 
 state of indescribable misery. 
 
 Search was now made in every direction for Madame 
 Eustace. She had been left apparently asleep in her 
 room ; but, in the absence of her attendant, she had dis 
 appeared, and left no means by which her fate could 
 be traced. The search was continued several days, but 
 in vain. At length, Mrs. Rosevelt was summoned to 
 New York by the dangerous illness of a relative. She 
 
 therefore left the village of R , entertaining most 
 
 fearful apprehensions for Madame Eustace, and taking 
 with her the desolate and mourning Lucrece. 
 
THE HERMITESS. 281 
 
 We must now hurry our story to its conclusion. 
 Years had rolled away; the British troops had long 
 since left our shores, and Peace waved her banners over 
 the land. The unfortunate Lucrece had found a quiet 
 resting-place in the tomb, and the name of Madame Eus 
 tace had been forgotten in the village of R . There 
 
 was one individual there, indeed, who remembered her 
 still. This was Colonel Morris; and with him we 
 resume our story. 
 
 On the western border of the village of R lies 
 
 a range of broken mountains, forming the boundary 
 between the states of Connecticut and New York. On 
 the western side of this mountain, opposite the village 
 
 of R 1 is situated the small town of Salem. To 
 
 this place Colonel Morris had occasion to go, to tran 
 sact business of importance, about fifteen years subse 
 quent to the period of which we have been speaking. 
 This was not accomplished till a late hour in the after 
 noon. As the distance in a direct line across the 
 mountain to his house would scarce exceed four miles, 
 while the circuitous road usually travelled was more 
 than double that distance, he chose the former, though 
 the path was obscure, and wound for nearly two miles 
 through a thick forest. 
 
 The sun was sitting behind a thick cloud as Colonel 
 Morris began to push his fleet horse up the steep ascent 
 of the mountain. There seems to be a unity of feeling 
 in both horse and rider, when the night begins to lend 
 its shadows to the gloom of the forest around them, 
 inducing both unconsciously to urge onward with a 
 rapid step. It was, therefore, but a short time before 
 
282 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 Colonel Morris had reached the summit of the moun 
 tain. He was now obliged, however, to reduce the 
 gait of his horse to a walk, the road being no more than 
 a narrow bridle path, leading through a crowded forest 
 of lofty trees. The darkness, too, had approached with 
 uncommon quickness, occasioned by the heavy cloud in 
 the west, which now began to extend rapidly over the sky. 
 But, proceeding without accident, Colonel Morris had 
 penetrated about half through the forest, when his horse 
 suddenly stopped, and seemed looking forward with 
 intense surprise. In vain his rider attempted to urge 
 him forward with whip and spur. 
 
 The horse trembled, and several times endeavored 
 to wheel about, as if alarmed by some fearful vision. 
 Colonel Morris bent his eye keenly forward, in the effort 
 to discover the occasion of the animal's terror. He 
 thought he could perceive, through the gloom, the figure 
 of a human being standing in the path. Determined 
 to ascertain the truth, he sprang from his horse, tied 
 him hastily to the branch of a tree, and stepped forward 
 to the spot where the figure seemed to stand ; but it ap 
 peared to recede with a noiseless step, keeping the same 
 distance between them. 
 
 Having proceeded in this manner a considerable dis 
 tance, Colonel Morris at length paused. Something 
 like a sensation of fear began to steal coldly over him. 
 He was on the point of turning back, when he heard 
 his name distinctly whispered, as if by a female voice. 
 Determining to make one effort more to solve this mys 
 tery, he again pursued the figure, and with a more 
 rapid step. But this he was soon obliged to abate, for 
 
THE HERMITESS. 283 
 
 the path grew more rugged and narrow, and the dark 
 ness was now so thick that the objects around were 
 nearly undistinguishable ; but the dim figure still flitted 
 before him, and, with a feverish anxiety, he still pursued. 
 
 We sometimes look back upon our actions, and en 
 deavor in vain to discover the motive which prompted 
 them. Whether on some occasions, uncommon circum 
 stances lend a mysterious influence to the soul, or some 
 latent association is suddenly roused into activity, or 
 the fingers of unseen spirits are playing at the heart, 
 and guiding it on to its destiny, it is often not given us 
 to know. Colonel Morris was a man of more than fifty, 
 and remarkable for calmness and gravity. But he was 
 now involved in a wild adventure at night, on a solitary 
 mountain, and lent himself as freely to the suggestions 
 of his imagination, as the youthful hero of romance. 
 
 Having eagerly pursued his object for nearly an hour, 
 Colonel Morris at length lost sight of the image that 
 had led him forward. He stopped, and began to think 
 that he had been deluded by a phantasm of the brain. 
 He passed his hand over his eyes, as if to wipe away a 
 mist ; and then intently looked in every direction, to 
 discover the form which had excited such an irresisti 
 ble impulse in his breast. It was vain. The spaces 
 beneath the thick branches of the trees were filled only 
 with impenetrable darkness. He listened ; 't was silent 
 as the house of death. He now determined to give up 
 the pursuit, and set forward on his return ; but he soon 
 discovered that he had entirely lost the path, and was 
 wandering amid the trackless woods. This discovery 
 did not, however, abate his efforts to proceed. Believ- 
 
284 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 ing that he knew the direction to his horse, he pressed 
 onward, over rock and ledge, till fatigue obliged him 
 to pause. 
 
 At this moment, the cloud, behind which the sun was 
 setting when he began his ride up the mountain, had 
 entirely involved the skies. It rolled along in thick 
 and hurried masses, and the murmurs from the distant 
 hills foretold an impending storm. Large, scattered 
 drops of rain began now to fall. Colonel Morris cast 
 anxiously around for shelter. A faint flash of lightning 
 discovered to him that he was standing on the very 
 brink of a fearful precipice, and that a single step 
 might plunge him to its bottom. His perplexity was 
 extreme. He stood still, waiting for another flash of 
 lightning, that he might gain a more exact idea of his 
 situation, when he felt his hand strongly grasped by 
 another. At the same time, he was pulled forward, 
 while a husky voice said to him, " Come, Maurice, come 
 to my mountain bower. My father said you were false ; 
 but I told him you were true ; and you have come again, 
 and I have brought the thunder and the lightning to 
 unite us. It is the voice of God, and what he hath 
 joined, man shall not again put asunder." While this 
 was said, Morris was led down a slope on the very face 
 of the precipice. " Here you are safe," said the voice. 
 " In the name of Heaven, who and what are you? " said 
 Morris. There was a momentary pause ; then a broad, 
 clear flash of lightning followed for an instant, present 
 ing every object to the eye distinctly, as at the clear hour 
 of noon. Morris's question was answered. He saw 
 standing before him the form of Madame Eustace, thin, 
 
THE HERMITESS. 285 
 
 pale, and wild ; her countenance bearing a look of lofty 
 excitement. He exclaimed, involuntarily, " Good God ! 
 is it you 1 " " Whist, whist," said she, " you will scare 
 my children. The fox sleeps at my head, and the rat 
 tlesnake at my feet. I sing to them, and they are happy. 
 The eagle is perched on the roof of my castle; he 
 knows my voice, and he loves it. Say, Maurice, will 
 you come and live with us ! This cave shall be our 
 palace ; and if you will come, I will be more beautiful 
 and happy than when you stole me from my father's 
 house. You shall be king of the valley and lord of the 
 mountain." 
 
 Here the voice of the Hermitess was drowned by the 
 thunder, which pealed down the sides of the mountain, 
 and shook it to its very centre. The lightning came, 
 too, in thick dazzling flashes, and the water began to 
 pour from the cloud in torrents. Morris perceived 
 that he was sheltered from the storm by a projecting 
 rock, which formed a sort of cave that seemed the 
 regular abode of a human being. He had before heard 
 that a wild woman lived alone in the mountain, and he 
 now perceived that woman to be Madame Eustace. It 
 is not easy to depict his feelings. The extraordinary 
 manner in which he had been led to the spot, the wild- 
 ness of the place, and the terrific aspect which nature 
 assumed, all contributed to impress him with the 
 idea that some frightful catastrophe was about to take 
 place. He would have fled from the spot, and trusted 
 himself to the wild uproar of the elements, had it not 
 been a matter of extreme hazard to attempt it during 
 the darkness. The cave in which he was sheltered 
 
 25 
 
286 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 overhung a precipice of more than a hundred feet ; and 
 the path which led from it to the top of the rock, was 
 a narrow projection, scarcely a yard in width. It was 
 down this giddy footway he had been led by Madame 
 Eustace in the darkness ; and he could not but shudder 
 to think how slight a deviation would have plunged him 
 to the bottom of the gulf that yawned beneath. 
 
 Colonel Morris was at length able to take a calm sur 
 vey of his situation ; the result of which determined 
 him to remain till morning, unless something should 
 intervene to require some other course of conduct. 
 Accordingly, he sat down on a projection of the rock, 
 and remained in a state of watchful anxiety. The Her- 
 mitess filled up the intervals between the thunder with 
 her wild conversation. But, at length, the storm began 
 to abate ; the flashes of lightning were fainter and less 
 frequent, and the rain fell less heavily. In half an hour, 
 the western sky was clear, and the low muttering of the 
 distant thunder was scarcely distinguished by the ear. 
 The full, round moon was rising over the thunder-cloud 
 in the east, pouring a silver light along the edge of the 
 dark mass that lay beneath, 
 
 Morris now looked out upon the scene. All around 
 was calm, and nothing disturbed the silence save the 
 rippling waters that flowed in a thousand currents down 
 the sides of the mountain. At this moment, the Her- 
 mitess came to his side. " Look at yonder cloud," 
 said she, pointing to the east ; " 't is an emblem of this 
 dark life we live. Look up to heaven ; do you see the 
 crystal palaces that are glimmering there ? 'T is there 
 the pure spirit shall find rest when our sad work is over 
 
THE HERMITESS. 287 
 
 here. Come, come," said she, drawing him forward, 
 "let us go now." Accordingly, she led him up the 
 narrow path ; and striding forward, bade him follow her. 
 He did so ; and after a long and wandering route, she 
 led him to the place where his horse was standing. " Go 
 to your home," said she, " and I will go to mine. 
 You will sleep on your pillow of down, and I will lay 
 my cold bones on my bed of rock. It matters not, for 
 we are going away soon. Farewell, till we meet again." 
 Morris now mounted his horse, and returned without 
 further adventure to his house. 
 
 #*####*# 
 We now come to a period several years subsequent 
 to the foregoing adventure. Morris was now an old 
 man ; with wealth indeed, but without children or 
 friends. His soul seemed divided between religion and 
 avarice ; and, while he paid a strict observance to the 
 rites of the one, he seemed heartily devoted to the other. 
 The time had arrived when he was apparently drawing 
 near the close of his career. He had been for some 
 months confined to his house ; but on a pleasant Sab 
 bath morning in the summer, he found himself able to 
 attend " meeting," it being " sacrament day." As the 
 members of the church, among whom was Morris, had 
 gathered round the altar, and the clergyman was about 
 to commence the solemn ceremonies of the Lord's sup 
 per, a woman of very extraordinary appearance was 
 seen to enter the church. She was extremely aged ; 
 her long white hair fell over her cheeks and down her 
 shoulders; her eye, which seemed once to have been 
 black, was now nearly colorless. She wore round her 
 
288 THE HER3MITESS. 
 
 head a black hood, and over her shoulders a long dark 
 shawl. On her arms were pinned a number of oak 
 leaves, and an oak branch was wound around her head. 
 No surprise was manifested at the entrance of this 
 singular being, into the meeting-house. She had long 
 been known to the inhabitants, under the name of the 
 Hermitess, as the occupant of a cave in the mountain 
 which lay west of the village. For some years before 
 her residence was known, she appeared occasionally in 
 the towns that bordered the mountain ; and usually at 
 tended one of the churches on Sunday. The follow 
 ing description of her is selected from the many that 
 have been given : 
 
 Her long, snowy locks, like the winter drift, 
 
 On the wind were backward cast ; 
 And her crippled form glided by so swift, 
 
 You had said 't were a ghost that passed. 
 
 And her house was a cave in a giddy rock, 
 
 That o'erhung a sullen vale ; 
 And 't was deeply scarred by the lightning's shock, 
 
 And swept by the vengeful gale. 
 
 As alone on the cliff she musingly sate, 
 
 The fox at her fingers would snap ; 
 The raven would sit on her snow-white pate, 
 
 And the rattlesnake coil in her lap. 
 
 And the vulture looked down with a welcoming eye, 
 
 As he stooped in his airy swing j 
 And the haughty eagle hovered so nigh, 
 
 As to fan her long locks with his wing. 
 
THE HERMITESS. 289 
 
 But, when Winter rolled dark its sullen wave, 
 
 From the west, with gusty shock, 
 Old Sarah, deserted, crept cold to her cave, 
 
 And slept, without bed, on her rock. 
 
 No fire illumined her dismal den ; 
 
 Yet a tattered Bible she read ; 
 For she saw in the dark, with a wizard ken, 
 
 And talked with the troubled dead. 
 
 Let us now return to our story. Colonel Morris was 
 the only individual that seemed particularly to mark the 
 entrance of this singular woman into the church. His 
 eye followed her along the aisle ; and, as she approach 
 ed the pew where he was sitting, and took her seat by 
 his side, he seemed palsied with dismay. His habitual 
 self-command, however, did not now desert him ; he 
 forced an appearance of calmness, and remained to the 
 end of the service. As the Hermitess was about to 
 leave the house, she turned her eye for the first time on 
 the face of Morris. For nearly a minute, she stood be 
 fore him, fixing her wild gaze with inexpressible solem 
 nity upon him. She then slowly raised her hand, and, 
 displaying a brown, shrunken arm, raised it over her 
 head, pointing ominously to heaven, and said in a whis 
 per, " We are going soon ! " 
 
 Nothing can exceed the beauty of a summer moon 
 light night in New England. That which followed the 
 day we have been speaking of, at the hour of twelve, 
 
 saw the village of R sleeping in profound silence 
 
 beneath the light of the "cold, round moon." All 
 seemed peaceful as the still palace of death. Every 
 
 25* 
 
290 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 window was dark ; every house was hushed in repose, 
 save one. There was one dwelling surrounded with 
 aged elms and drooping willows, through whose deep 
 shadows the lamp from a chamber threw a dim flame. 
 Within this chamber lay Colonel Morris, on his death 
 bed. The room was faintly lighted, and around the couch 
 stood several persons, expecting every moment to wit 
 ness the last struggle. Not a whisper broke from any 
 lip, and nothing disturbed the mournful stillness of the 
 place, except the quick breathing of the dying man. 
 At length a light step was heard, and an aged woman, 
 with gray locks and a wild expression of countenance, 
 approached the bedside. She spoke not, but fixed her 
 eye keenly upon the face of Morris, who now rose in 
 his bed, and glared upon her with an expression more 
 fearful than that which death stamps upon the face. All 
 around were paralysed with awe and astonishment : 
 and the wild woman and the dying man gazed at each 
 other for some moments. At length Morris raised 
 his hand as if to clear his eyes from a mist ; but 
 the cold, drooping fingers refused to perform their of 
 fice ; the relaxed arm fell by his side, and at the same 
 moment he sunk back upon his pillow. His attendants 
 sprang to him ; but the spirit had passed : they turned 
 to look for the apparition ; but that too had vanished. 
 
 The next morning, a farmer had occasion to cross 
 the mountain in the direction of the wild woman's cave. 
 The place was now well known, and was sometimes re 
 sorted to by the villagers. The farmer turned a little 
 aside from his path to visit the spot. He found the 
 Hermitess reposing on her bed of rock. He spoke to 
 
THE HERMITESS. 291 
 
 her, but she answered not; he approached, and found 
 that she was cold as the stone on which she slept. 
 **#*## 
 
 Such is the tale of the Hermitess. We have now 
 but to add such explanations as the seeming mystery of 
 the story may demand. The reader will return with us 
 a moment to the spot where Pierre Maurice descended 
 from his carriage and met Moribond. They fought in 
 the moonlight for some time, when Pierre was wounded. 
 Moribond left him with his servants, and returned to 
 his residence, whither he had directed his daughter to 
 be conducted. He was influenced by the suspicion 
 that the views of Pierre were base ; to which a state 
 bordering on insanity had added excitement. 
 
 The wounded Pierre was taken by his servants to a 
 hotel in Paris. His twin-brother Philippe, who had 
 been supposed dead, had at length escaped from prison 
 in England, and arrived at the hotel just before Pierre 
 was brought in. The latter had only time to execute a 
 will, giving his fortune to Lucille, and to commend her 
 to the care of his brother, who promised a faithful exe 
 cution of his wishes. 
 
 Philippe Maurice had now a powerful struggle in his 
 breast. One act of baseness would give him possession 
 of his brother's ample fortune. He resolved to secure 
 it. Accordingly, his brother was privately buried, and 
 his death concealed. He gave himself forth as Pierre 
 Maurice, which pretence his uncommon resemblance 
 enabled him to support. He signed the necessary pa 
 pers, and set out for America in possession of his 
 brother's estate, which he had converted into money. 
 
292 THE HERMITESS. 
 
 On his arrival at Quebec, having changed his name 
 from Maurice to Morris, he concealed his return, and 
 taking his wife and child, settled himself in the obscure 
 
 village of R . Here he had since lived, devoted to 
 
 the increase of his fortune, and absorbing every other 
 sentiment in the passion of avarice : his life was a per 
 petual struggle between the claims of conscience and 
 the still stronger dominion of mammon. His story 
 shows that an act of successful villany, hidden in the 
 breast of its perpetrator, is sometimes tracked to its 
 home by the events of Providence, and deeply avenged, 
 even after years of seeming security have rolled away ; 
 and that he who takes upon his soul the commission of 
 crime, is likely to bring ruin upon all whose fortunes 
 become woven with his own. 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS.* 
 
 ON the twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth, and twenty- 
 ninth of July, the citizens of Paris celebrated the three 
 glorious days. On the first and second day, there were 
 pavilions, booths, and tents filled with toys and cakes, 
 throughout the whole extent of the Champs Elysees ; 
 there were rope-dancers and tumblers, dancing dogs, 
 and frisking monkeys. On the latter day, there was a 
 grand review of sixty thousand troops. They extended 
 from the Barriere du Trone, along the Boulevards, to 
 the Barriere de PEtoile. The king and his suite made 
 a procession in front of the extended line. He then took 
 his station in the Place Vendome, where the whole 
 army passed before him. The soldiers presented arms at 
 the word of command, and at the word of command, 
 cried " Vive le Roi." The ceremony continued for about 
 seven hours, during the whole of which time, his majes 
 ty was on horseback. About four o'clock in the after 
 noon, the king, the duke of Orleans, the queen, &c. 
 passed in front of our lodgings. The king was on 
 horseback, and graciously saluted the mob as he passed, 
 they also graciously saluting him. He frequently bow 
 ed, sometimes took off his hat, and often laid his hand 
 impressively upon his heart. He shook hands with sev- 
 
 * From a Memorandum Book, 1832. 
 
294 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 eral of the people, some of whom being rather shabby, 
 it excited the ridicule of the Carlists. The display made 
 by the troops, a great part of whom passed in front of 
 our hotel, was truly magnificent. The lancers and cui 
 rassiers in particular, made a very gallant appearance. 
 
 In the evening there was a magnificent illumination 
 of the gardens and public buildings. The Louvre 
 beamed with thousands of lamps, and every part of the 
 Tuilleries shone with pyramids of fire. The hotel 
 of the minister of finance, was illuminated with gas, 
 and the chamber of deputies was exceedingly brilliant. 
 The vast dome of the Pantheon glittered as with dia 
 monds. Near the chamber of deputies, and far aloft in 
 the air, seeming to be set in the sky, and self-supported, 
 blazed the star of the Legion d'Honneur. It was of 
 many colors, and had a magical effect. All Paris was 
 abroad ; all Paris shone with lustre and light ; no other 
 city could exhibit such a fairy scene. Aladdin's lamp 
 alone could produce such enchanting effects. There 
 was no boisterous noise in the streets or in the gardens. 
 The people ebbed and flowed like a tide from one 
 scene of interest to another, but you heard only the 
 moving feet, and the mingled hum of approving and 
 admiring voices. 
 
 About 9 o'clock, rockets began to ascend, slowly 
 at first, and after long intervals ; but soon they became 
 more frequent, and now they were of various colors, 
 and stars of many hues seemed to drop from the skies. 
 Then there were wheels of fire, and towers and castles, 
 and a noise like musketry, and then there was darkness, 
 and all was still. But suddenly a scene of indescribable 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 295 
 
 beauty broke upon the view. Ten thousand rockets of 
 many colors, began at once to rise upon the air. These 
 were so disposed as to form a boquet of fire, nearly a 
 thousand feet in height. They continued to ascend for 
 several minutes, exhibiting a prolonged display of this 
 grand vision, till the sight was almost weary of its 
 beauty and magnificence. It then vanished, and half a 
 million of people talked of it for a month. 
 
 ##*#*#** 
 The Louvre is certainly one of the most interesting 
 places in Paris. From fifty to a hundred artists employ 
 themselves here in copying pictures. I often saw M , 
 our countryman, there, who was painting a picture of 
 the gallery, in which he introduced some of the master 
 pieces of the celebrated artists. He has been more than 
 two years in Italy, and has seen all the collections there ; 
 yet he declares it to be his opinion, that the Louvre is 
 superior to any one of them. The moonlight pieces of 
 Vernet appear to me, not only as the best moonlight 
 pieces ever painted, but also as among the sweetest 
 landscapes ever executed. The landscapes of Dujardin 
 are also much after my own heart. There are several 
 pictures of Raphael, not one of which, however, excited 
 my admiration ; I greatly prefer the pictures of De 
 Vinci, Titian and Guido. Correggio I admire above all 
 other painters. Domenichino is admirable. Rubens I 
 detest. Rembrandt's management of light and shade is 
 wonderfully fine, but he has somewhat of the gross 
 and monstrous fancy of his master, Rubens, in drawing 
 the human face and figure. On the whole, the gal 
 lery of the Louvre becomes absolutely fascinating, after 
 
296 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 it has been visited for a few times. At first you are be 
 wildered, and fix your attention upon no one particular 
 picture. But this passes off, and you begin to make ac 
 quaintance with this painting and that. Soon you have 
 your favorites, and you love to look at them again and 
 again. It often happens that the sudden aspect of a pic 
 ture that you have frequently dwelt upon, seems to salute 
 you, and excites an emotion like that produced by a 
 favorite piece of music, suddenly struck up, when you 
 did not expect it. 
 
 ******** 
 
 M. S 's house in the Place Vendome is consider 
 ed one of the finest in Paris. It occupies an extensive 
 square, and the whole establishment forms a quadrangle, 
 one side of which consists of the stables ; the other three 
 sides, of the house. One side is occupied by two suites 
 of rooms ; that on the first floor belonging to Monsieur ; 
 
 that on the second belonging to Madame. M. S 's 
 
 apartments consist of an anteroom, a library, a break 
 fast-room, sleeping-room, dressing-room, and bathing- 
 room. The apartments of Madame S are six or 
 
 seven in number, beautifully and tastefully furnished. 
 The last of these opens into a conservatory, filled with a 
 collection of choice plants. The second side of the 
 house contains a grand saloon, dining-room, &c. &c. ; 
 the third is occupied by the servants, for culinary pur 
 poses, a dormitory, &c. 
 
 The best way to describe this establishment, is to 
 begin with the stables. These are of marble, and 
 are as carefully kept as a parlor. The horses are 
 about twenty-five in number, and are all English. 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 297 
 
 Some of them cost ten thousand francs each. The 
 coach-house exhibits six or seven different kinds of 
 vehicles, one or two of which are in a style of magnifi 
 cence altogether royal. Madame S 's barouche is 
 
 certainly more beautiful than that of the queen. The 
 harnesses, saddles, whips, and other equipments, are 
 superb. 
 
 I can hardly stop to describe the macaws which flour 
 ish in the beautiful green court, within the quadrangle, 
 in all the brilliancy of eastern climes ; but I must not 
 pass by the aviary. There are here a multitude of lit 
 tle twittering birds, more exquisitely beautiful than any 
 thing I had ever conceived of. They are of various 
 forms too, and possess a variety of physiognomy, as well 
 as costume. Some are of a grave and solemn demeanor, 
 while others are perpetually engaged in hopping about,- 
 jerking their tails, and singing jolly songs. Some are 
 of one color, and some of another, and some of many 
 colors. Some are inconceivably brilliant, while others 
 are in solemn black. There are birds from India, and 
 Africa, and the islands of the sea, and from Mexico, 
 and one I recognized as my countryman a blue jay ! 
 How often has this officious fellow spoiled my sport 
 in the woods, by giving the alarm to the tenants of the 
 forest and how had I learned to hate him ! but now, 
 in this strange land, I met him as cordially as if he had 
 been one of my own kith and kin. Beside these beauti 
 ful creatures in the aviary, there are monkeys in the 
 menagerie of the most recherche pattern, squirrels from 
 the four quarters of the globe, and many other things, 
 worthy of description if I had time and space for it. 
 
 26 
 
298 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 But let us leave the aviary and the menagerie which 
 I mention only as an index to the scale upon which the 
 establishment is constructed and enter the grand stair 
 case. This is of white marble, and is worthy of a pal 
 ace. It leads to various suites of apartments, all of 
 them magnificently furnished, and decorated with paint 
 ings. The audience room has two capital pictures, by 
 Horace Vernet ; one is a tempest, and represents a num 
 ber of persons upon a cliff, witnessing the shipwreck of 
 their friends. This has been lithographed, but the 
 print does no justice to the painting. The other pic 
 ture represents M. S , with nine or ten of his 
 
 companions, and with eight horses attached to his 
 hunting carriage, setting out upon their silvan sports. 
 This is one of the most effective pictures I ever saw. 
 
 The saloon is of princely dimensions. The furniture 
 is adorned with gilding so rich, as to appear like mas 
 sive gold. The chairs and sofas are covered with crim 
 son silk of the richest and glossiest manufacture. The 
 tapestry is also of crimson silk. The ceilings and 
 wainscotings have rich gilding, and the mirrors are 
 superb. The paintings on the ceiling are by the first 
 artists. On the whole, there is probably no room in 
 Europe, more gorgeously decorated. 
 
 But who is the proprietor of this palace ? He is the 
 son of a Prussian banker, with an income of one hun 
 dred and sixty thousand dollars a year. He is young, 
 has a pretty wife and several children. But he is still 
 unhappy dissatisfied ennuye and declares that 
 life in the midst of all his luxuries is a burthen scarcely 
 capable of being supported. He occupies his house in 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 299 
 
 Paris very little, never rides in his coaches, and seldom 
 mounts his horses. He has a magnificent library, but 
 never opens a book. He has a sort of armory, where he 
 has the most beautiful fowling-pieces, and rifles of every 
 description, and weapons of many ages and lands and 
 yet they remain untouched. His bed is of eider-down, 
 but he never sleeps there. His dressing-room is full of 
 cosmetics and every delicate contrivance that art can 
 devise for decorating the person ; but these are never 
 disturbed from the symmetrical arrangement in which 
 the valet has placed them. The bathing-room has mar 
 ble fountains, into which cold or warm streams will 
 gush at command, but the " Abana and Pharpar " are 
 rarely honored with a visit. The owner of all these 
 princely possessions has ceased to find pleasure in lux 
 uries, and generally spends his time in passing idly from 
 one country-seat to another, vainly endeavoring to 
 shake off the weariness which oppresses him. He has 
 not mind enough to be roused by the great moral 
 objects which present themselves to the consideration of 
 the philosopher, and he has not character enough to 
 attach himself to public affairs. He appears to be like 
 a traveller upon a dead level, where the prospect never 
 varies, where the sky never changes and where no 
 vicissitude is known, save that which springs from the 
 rising and setting of the sun. He has no power by 
 which he can elevate himself above this flat existence ; 
 he cannot ascend the mountains, and survey the endless 
 variety which is open to the vision of the philosopher ; 
 he cannot climb to those steepling points from which 
 the gifted vision may survey the boundless scene, and 
 
300 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 find materials for contemplation, while life endures. 
 It appears then, that an individual of exalted wealth 
 may himself be incapable of exaltation, and in posses 
 sion of that which mankind most eagerly covet, may 
 still be stricken with a poverty more dreadful than that 
 which blanches the cheek and withers the limb. 
 * * * * * * # # 
 
 The Palais Royal is an immense double quadrangle. 
 One part is occupied as a palace; the other is devoted 
 to shops and cafes. The palace is not now inhabited 
 by any part of the royal family, yet it is magnificently 
 furnished. The pictures are of various ages and merits. 
 In the " Gallerie des Talbeaux " there are several paint 
 ings illustrative of the history of France. Among these 
 is a picture of Franklin's reception at the court of 
 Louis XVI. The philosopher is drawn with his cane 
 in one hand, and his hat in the other. He is dressed 
 in a quaker-colored coat of the olden fashion, and is 
 making an awkward bow to the young king and queen. 
 The picture is a vile thing, though well meant. The 
 head of Franklin is not much larger in proportion to the 
 body, than would become a peacock. The artist how 
 ever, meant no harm ; for he made his king and queen 
 consist almost wholly of the two nether limbs, and 
 seemed to regard the head as a thing of no other impor 
 tance than as a kind of finish, like the knob to the top of 
 a coffee urn. 
 
 The " Salon du trone" has a throne well gilt, and 
 other parts of the room make a display of gilding and 
 crimson tapestry. The " Salon dore" is more gor 
 geous. The " Salon du conseil" has a writing-desk 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 301 
 
 filled with nice stationery and writing materials, which 
 I envied. The other rooms were not remarkable. 
 
 The court of the Palais Royal I mean the larger, for 
 there are two is a large space ornamented with trees, 
 shrubs and flowers. Among these there are walks, and 
 in the centre is a gushing fountain, sending up its 
 waters, and forming the figure of a vase. In this beau 
 tiful garden, you may see hundreds of people of every 
 age and sex. Many of them are men, occupied in read 
 ing books, or newspapers ; many of them are women, 
 regaling their eyes with the various objects around 
 them. Some sit still for hours, looking pensively upon 
 the scene ; some move about, and seem filled with gay 
 ideas ; some have poodle dogs which they lead, and 
 others have poodle dogs by which they are led. It is 
 altogether one of the most pleasing scenes in Paris, and 
 as the stranger is never the object of a rude gaze, he 
 may walk about, and survey the objects around him, 
 with as much self-possession, as if he were invisible. 
 The people themselves, never seem in the slightest 
 degree embarrassed. Each individual " doeth that 
 which seemeth good in his own eyes." They sit or 
 saunter as they please ; they look at a book, or at 
 vacancy, as they list. Some of the women are engaged 
 in needle-work, and some watch the gambols of their 
 children. Those who have no children watch their 
 puppies. The heart of a French woman must have 
 something to cherish, and it must be a thing that she 
 can hold in her lap ; if it is not a child, with which she 
 is blessed, a shaggy dog, with a hairy nose, and a spite- 
 
 26* 
 
302 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 ful expression, is the indemnity which Providence or 
 choice supplies. 
 
 It must be remembered that the scene we have been 
 describing, is a court surrounded by four sides of the 
 Palais Royal. These are occupied as -shops and cafes, 
 and they are the most brilliant in Paris. There must 
 be several hundred of them. At one corner are mag 
 nificent flowers, where you may purchase a pink for 
 your button-hole, or a boquet for your mistress. Pro 
 ceeding from this point, and passing around the court, 
 you may feast your eyes with endless inventions and 
 devices which tempt you, either by addressing the pal 
 ate, your vanity, or your fancy. There are lobsters 
 boiled, and lobsters crawling, and huge fishes, and creep 
 ing turtles, and black eels, and prodigious oysters, and 
 other emigrants from the deep, who have come by 
 steam, to seduce you into a fish dinner. And there are 
 magnificent shell combs, carved into many forms, and 
 there is chocolate mixed with sugar, delicious to the 
 taste, and shaped into innocent as well as forbidden 
 images. And there are quizzing-glasses, decked with 
 pearls, and books with their title-pages displayed, and 
 the name of La Martine, de la Vigne, and Beranger, 
 salute you everywhere. And there are whole windows 
 filled with choice jewelry and pearls and diamonds 
 seem as rife as the pebbles of the sea-shore ; and there 
 are many other beautiful things. And there is one shop 
 filled with merchandise, and as you pass along, a pen 
 etrating voice enters into your ear, and thrills your 
 heart with the sound, " Vingt cinq sous cliaque!" 
 Here, O traveller, pause, and purchase a balloon for 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 303 
 
 your boy, a set of lilliputian porcelain for your daugh 
 ter buy something for each of your neighbor's chil 
 dren, and secure to yourself friends and favorites for 
 ever, at this temple of " vingt cinq sous chaque" 
 twenty-five cents each ! 
 
 ######## 
 
 But let us quit this dangerous spot, and pay a visit to 
 the Garden of the Tuilleries. Take my arm and we 
 will go by the Rue St. Honori. Let us step across the 
 street to Forr's, and order a supply of boots and shoes, 
 for they are the best and the cheapest in the world. 
 Take care of that omnibus, for it will run over you. 
 See how that driver makes his trumpet play from beneath 
 his seat, by pulling a string. Look at your pantaloons, 
 for that thundering cuirassier has splashed the mud all 
 over you ! Observe that ghastly display of pork and 
 sausages on the other side of the street ! Oh ! these beg 
 gars these beggars! "Get away, get away!" "Je 
 rial point d? argent, allez vous en! " Here we are at 
 ihe^Rue Vingt ncuf de Juillet, and there are the Gar 
 dens of the Tuilleries. Let us enter, and look about at 
 our leisure. 
 
 # # * * * * # # 
 
 Let it be premised, that these gardens are not devoted 
 to the cultivation of turnips and cabbage ; nor are they 
 embraced within the half-rood dimensions of our Amer 
 ican gardens. They consist of a level space of many 
 acres, bounded on the east by the front of the palace of 
 the Tuilleries, on the south by the Seine, on the west 
 by the Place de Concorde, and on the north by the Rue 
 de Rivoli the finest street in Paris. Through the 
 
304 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 centre is a broad avenue opening into the Champ Ely- 
 sees, and affording, through the long vista, a magnificent 
 view of the Arch de /' Etoile. But this rectangular 
 description is not fitted to my purpose, which is to place 
 the beautiful scene at one glance before you. Imagine 
 yourself, therefore, in the midst of the scene. On one 
 hand there are fountains and marble statues, in the midst 
 of green lawns. In some places the waters are at rest, 
 in others they are thrown into the air, descending like 
 showers of crystal. Sometimes you see the gold-fish 
 shooting through the element, or the swan slowly mov 
 ing along its surface, or perhaps you only observe the 
 reflection of the rich flowers which hang over the mar 
 ble edges of the basin, and seem, Narcissus-like, to be 
 wrapt in the entrancement of self-admiration. Between 
 these pleasing objects, there are neat gravel walks, and 
 hundreds, nay, often thousands of persons are moving 
 upon them. In another direction the ground is over 
 spread with lofty forest trees. Though it is summer, and 
 the sun of July is sending down its rays, still, beneath 
 these trees there is an unbroken shadow; and here, en 
 joying the refreshing coolness, are thousands of people 
 of every age and sex, sheltered from the heat, secure 
 from intrusion in the midst of multitudes, and as free from 
 observation, as in a wilderness; the boy drives his hoop, 
 the girls play hide-and-seek, the politician reads the ga 
 zette, the dame plies the needle, and the old maid cher 
 ishes her poodle. The freedom and fearlessness of the 
 people in this place, are wonderful proofs of the good man 
 ners of the French. No individual seems to be observ 
 ed. There are none of those people who wink at each 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 305 
 
 other, and giggle, and seem to be making sport of some 
 third person. In England, such a place as this would 
 be intolerable. Every one would go dressed for the oc 
 casion, and it would be as much a matter of ceremony, 
 as lying in state. Every person would have an oppres 
 sive sense of observation ; every person would be afraid 
 of every other. Every body, of course, would expect to 
 be deliberately scanned by quizzing-glasses instru 
 ments described in the play as made " to look a modest 
 woman out of countenance." Thus the English would 
 convert this elysium of the Tuilleries into a purgatory, 
 and I can conceive of nothing more lugubrious than a 
 place like these gardens, transported to the sooty cli 
 mate of London, and peopled by the parading English. 
 The French have better taste, and if the English have 
 more in-door comfort, the former enjoy the world of out 
 doors in perfection. Here, beneath the trees in these 
 gardens, some of the people sit for hours together, and 
 I have often noticed a student as deeply lost in his 
 books, the quidnunc in his news, the dreamer in his 
 reverie, as if he alone were living in the universe. On 
 one occasion I saw a woman of fifty-five, I think un 
 married, lean, and passing for eight-and-twenty. She 
 had a poodle dog, the hinder half shorn to the skin, and 
 the other as shaggy as a bear. There was a string 
 about the poodle's neck, and the lady was at the other 
 end of it. Now the poodle was a restless dog, and he 
 was permitted to go where he chose, and right or left, 
 fast or slow, the lady followed. Sometimes the dog 
 passed in front of a long row of people ; then he shot 
 suddenly into the forest ; now he sauntered, and now he 
 
306 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 galloped, and now he stopped suddenly and smelt of 
 something and after a little while he went on again ; 
 and every where the lady followed. And this strange 
 scene a woman submitting to the volition of her 
 poodle, neither excited ridicule nor observation; if 
 indeed she was seen and observed, there was no mani 
 festation of it. 
 
 ##*##### 
 We have now spent almost two months in Paris, and 
 it is time to leave it. But before we depart, it is proper 
 to make up our minds about it. Let it be remembered 
 that our visit was in midsummer, and that the cholera, 
 though abated, swept off during our stay, two hundred 
 and twenty-five persons a day. The city therefore had 
 a less gay appearance than it might wear on other occa 
 sions. A Carlist would tell you that all the chivalry 
 and taste and beauty and bienseance had departed with 
 Charles X., and he would maintain that rudeness and 
 vulgarity had taken the place of that politeness for 
 which the French have been so distinguished. There 
 may be a little truth in this, for I frequently noticed 
 examples of coarseness and brutality which I had 
 never seen in Paris before. And I also remarked 
 many instances of drunkenness, and even saw several 
 women in a state of intoxication. One of these lay for 
 several hours in a state of insensibility on the pavement 
 of the Rue de Rivoli, and she seemed to excite no great 
 surprise in the passers-by. Beside these indications of 
 change, I noticed a multitude of gross and disgusting 
 prints in every corner of Paris ; and in most of the book 
 shops, I saw scandalous publications ostentatiously pre- 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 307 
 
 sented to the notice of the public. One work in partic 
 ular, too indecent to name, was announced on placards 
 through the whole of the most frequented parts of the 
 Boulevards. These appear to indicate changes pro 
 duced by the Revolution, and that fermentation which 
 resulted in the ascendency of the populace. Whether 
 the good manners of the French will return, or whether 
 these are destined to suffer further inroads, is a question 
 which can be decided now, only by a power of seeing 
 into future events. Should the dynasty of Louis Phi 
 lippe be confirmed, and the public mind become quiet, 
 the former habits and character of the people may 
 return. 
 
 There is in general nothing more difficult than to 
 sketch national character. This difficulty is increased 
 when we have to struggle with wrong prepossessions. 
 The English press has been the systematic libeller of the 
 French, and we, by reading its effusions, have had our 
 minds contaminated by prejudice. We, as well as the 
 English, have been accustomed to consider the French 
 as a nation of fops and fiddlers. The women are with 
 us, all coquettes, and the men all frivolous and false. 
 But these views are unjust, and are a proof of ignorance 
 or blindness, more disgraceful than the characteristics 
 we impute to the French themselves. 
 
 The French women are thus described by Mirabeau, 
 the general truth of which every traveller in France 
 may attest. 
 
 " When a French lady comes into a room, the first 
 thing that strikes you is, that she walks better, has her 
 head and feet better dressed her clothes better fancied 
 
308 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 and better put on than any woman you have ever seen. 
 When she talks, she is the art of pleasing personified. 
 Her eyes, her lips, her words, her gestures, are all pre 
 possessing. Her language is the language of amiable- 
 ness her accents are accents of grace : she em 
 bellishes a trifle interests upon nothing she softens 
 a contradiction she talks off the insipidness of a 
 compliment by turning it elegantly and when she has 
 a mind, she sharpens the point of an epigram better 
 than all the women in the world. Her eyes sparkle 
 with spirit the most delightful sallies flash from her 
 fancy in telling a story she is inimitable the mo 
 tions of her body, the accents of her tongue, are 
 equally genteel and easy an equable flow of spright- 
 liness keeps her constantly good-humored and cheerful, 
 and the only objects of her life are to please and be 
 pleased. Her vivacity may sometimes approach to 
 folly but perhaps it is not in her moments of folly 
 that she is least interesting or agreeable. There is one 
 thing in which no woman in the world can compare 
 with a French woman. It is the power of intellectual 
 irritation. She will draw wit out of a fool. She strikes 
 with such address the chords of self-love, that she gives 
 unexpected vigor and agility to fancy, and electrifies a 
 body that appears non-electric." 
 
 As to the French men, they seem to be either indif 
 ferent to dress, or extravagantly addicted to it at all 
 events, they dress badly. In society, address is every 
 thing. Personal beauty in a French man is of little 
 or no consequence. Even the ladies seem not to think 
 of it. Air and manner embrace every thing that is 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 309 
 
 regarded in personal appearance. In religion the 
 Frenchmen are atheists or catholics. Religion enters 
 very little into their conduct in public or private life. 
 There are few actions to which they are impelled 
 there are few from which they are restrained by it. In 
 public and private life, they are not swayed by princi 
 ples of morality, nor are they greatly influenced by a 
 consideration of utility. An Englishman generally acts 
 from reflection, and this reflection is compounded of 
 many ingredients a reference to the morality, the 
 utility, the reputation of the thing proposed. The 
 Frenchman decides from sentiment, or as the thing 
 strikes his imagination. He seems more disinterested 
 than the Englishman but in truth his conduct flows 
 from no principle. He is more rapid and less* wise. 
 He is fitted for great or brilliant actions, but he is not 
 likely to display the more useful virtues of honesty, 
 steadfastness and sobriety. 
 
 One of the most remarkable differences between 
 England and France is, that in the former, public 
 opinion exercises a powerful influence; in the other, 
 there is hardly such a thing. In England it is a pun 
 gent power, entering into and analysing the hearts and 
 private actions of men, displaying them to the world, 
 and trying them by the rules of truth, honor and hon 
 esty. No man dares to set this public opinion at de 
 fiance ; it operates on every body, it tends to mould or 
 modify the conduct and character of all. It is at once 
 a proof of the good principles and sound morality dif 
 fused throughout the community, and an efficient cause, 
 
 operating to preserve and perpetuate these virtues. 
 _ 
 
 
310 SKETCHES IN PARIS. 
 
 France is destitute of such a public opinion. There is 
 nothing in the respect of the people which is worthy of 
 great regard, or which may be considered as a meed 
 likely to excite to great actions. There is nothing in 
 their reprobation to be greatly feared, or likely to restrain 
 an individual from deeds to which he may be strongly 
 tempted. Public opinion, cannot, as in England, confer 
 infamy, which man cannot endure nor can it as in 
 England, bestow that approbation which is better than 
 any other gift. 
 
 Publi6 opinion cannot indeed exist without the means 
 of expressing itself. In America and England the press 
 is the means by which it acts. In France, the press 
 has been and still is too much restrained, to permit the 
 thoughts and feelings of men to be freely and efficiently 
 circulated. And even if the press were free, it could 
 only announce the sentiments and opinions that exist, 
 and I have before stated that the French are not 
 deeply imbued with honesty, morality or religion. They 
 are a people full of taste and genius, and capable of 
 perceiving and feeling whatever is beautiful in the arts, 
 in sentiment and in nature ; but that higher principle 
 which teaches them to do to another as they would have 
 another do to them, and that faith which makes man 
 constantly look to a future state of existence for a final 
 decision upon his actions, are defectively entertained or 
 totally wanting. 
 
 In considering the French character, therefore, we 
 must regard them as having little other impulse to do 
 right than what is furnished by sensibility and taste. 
 They are destitute of the potent fears and hopes which 
 
SKETCHES IN PARIS. 311 
 
 religion presents to the mind, and they are without that 
 stirring ambition which public approbation, in England 
 and America, brings into action ; and they are without 
 that restraint which the fear of public condemnation im 
 poses. The desire of money with a view to personal 
 gratification, is with them the grand passion, and they 
 pursue this without a very scrupulous regard to the 
 means they employ. The merchants in general are 
 said to be destitute of good faith, and the political 
 characters are looked upon, with few exceptions, as ad 
 venturers caring for little but to push their individual 
 fortunes. Such appears to be the present condition of 
 things : but a fermentation an agitation, is going on 
 and under circumstances which cannot but result in 
 improvement. The press is struggling, day by day, into 
 more perfect freedom ; a sounder state of public opinion 
 is forming ; and the elements of society, so long and so 
 often convulsed, appear to be crystalising on better prin 
 ciples. 
 

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