The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862
A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics (2025)

Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Tonya Allen and PG Distributed

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A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. X.—DECEMBER, 1862.—NO. LXII.

THE PROCESSION OF THE FLOWERS.

In Cuba there is a blossoming shrub whose multitudinous crimson flowersare so seductive to the humming-birds that they hover all day around it,buried in its blossoms until petal and wing seem one. At first upright,the gorgeous bells droop downward, and fall unwithered to the ground,and are thence called by the Creoles "Cupid's Tears." Frederika Bremerrelates that daily she brought home handfuls of these blossoms to herchamber, and nightly they all disappeared. One morning she looked towardthe wall of the apartment, and there, in a long crimson line, thedelicate flowers went ascending one by one to the ceiling, and passedfrom sight. She found that each was borne laboriously onward by a littlecolorless ant much smaller than itself: the bearer was invisible, butthe lovely burdens festooned the wall with beauty.

To a watcher from the sky, the march of the flowers of any zone acrossthe year would seem as beautiful as that West-Indian pageant. Thesefrail creatures, rooted where they stand, a part of the "still life" ofNature, yet share her ceaseless motion. In the most sultry silence ofsummer noons, the vital current is coursing with desperate speed throughthe innumerable veins of every leaflet; and the apparent stillness, likethe sleeping of a child's top, is in truth the very ecstasy of perfectedmotion.

Not in the tropics only, but even in England, whence most of our floralassociations and traditions come, the march of the flowers is in anendless circle, and, unlike our experience, something is always inbloom. In the Northern United States, it is said, the active growth ofmost plants is condensed into ten weeks, while in the mother-country thefull activity is maintained through sixteen. But even the English winterdoes not seem to be a winter, in the same sense as ours, appearing morelike a chilly and comfortless autumn. There is no month in the yearwhen some special plant does not bloom: the Coltsfoot there opensits fragrant flowers from December to February; the yellow-floweredHellebore, and its cousin, the sacred Christmas Rose of Glastonbury,extend from January to March; and the Snowdrop and Primrose often comebefore the first of February. Something may be gained, much lost, bythat perennial succession; those links, however slight, must make thefloral period continuous to the imagination; while our year gives apause and an interval to its children, and after exhausted October haseffloresced into Witch-Hazel, there is an absolute reserve of blossom,until the Alders wave again.

No symbol could so well represent Nature's first yielding in spring-timeas this blossoming of the Alder, this drooping of the tresses of thesetender things. Before the frost is gone, and while the newborn season isyet too weak to assert itself by actually uplifting anything, it can atleast let fall these blossoms, one by one, till they wave defiance tothe winter on a thousand boughs. How patiently they have waited! Men areperplexed with anxieties about their own immortality; but these catkins,which hang, almost full-formed, above the ice all winter, show no suchsolicitude, but when March wooes them they are ready. Once relaxing,their pollen is so prompt to fall that it sprinkles your hand as yougather them; then, for one day, they are the perfection of grace uponyour table, and next day they are weary and emaciated, and their littlecontribution to the spring is done.

Then many eyes watch for the opening of the May-flower, day by day,and a few for the Hepatica. So marked and fantastic are the localpreferences of all our plants, that, with miles of woods and meadowsopen to their choice, each selects only some few spots for itsaccustomed abodes, and some one among them all for its very earliestblossoming. There is always some single chosen nook, which you mightalmost cover with your handkerchief, where each flower seems to bloomearliest, without variation, year by year. I know one such place forHepatica a mile northeast,—another for May-flower two miles southwest;and each year the whimsical creature is in bloom on that little spot,when not another flower can be found open through the whole countryround. Accidental as the choice may appear, it is undoubtedly basedon laws more eternal than the stars; yet why all subtile influencesconspire to bless that undistinguishable knoll no man can say. Anotherand similar puzzle offers itself in the distribution of the tintsof flowers,—in these two species among the rest. There are certainlocalities, near by, where the Hepatica is all but white, and otherswhere the May-flower is sumptuous in pink; yet it is not traceable towet or dry, sun or shadow, and no agricultural chemistry can disclosethe secret. Is it by some Darwinian law of selection that the whiteHepatica has utterly overpowered the blue, in our Cascade Woods, forinstance, while yet in the very midst of this pale plantation a singleclump will sometimes bloom with all heaven on its petals? Why can onerecognize the Plymouth May-flower, as soon as seen, by its wondrousdepth of color? Does it blush with triumph to see how Nature hasoutwitted the Pilgrims, and even succeeded in preserving her deer likean English duke, still maintaining the deepest woods in Massachusettsprecisely where those sturdy immigrants first began their clearings?

The Hepatica (called also Liverwort, Squirrel-Cup, or Blue Anemone) hasbeen found in Worcester as early as March seventeenth, and in Danvers onMarch twelfth,—dates which appear almost the extreme of credibility.

Our next wild-flower in this region is the Claytonia, or Spring-Beauty,which is common in the Middle States, but here found in only a fewlocalities. It is the Indian Miskodeed, and was said to have beenleft behind when mighty Peboan, the Winter, was melted by the breathof Spring. It is an exquisitely delicate little creature, bears itsblossoms in clusters, unlike most of the early species, and opens ingradual succession each white and pink-veined bell. It grows in moistplaces on the sunny edges of woods, and prolongs its shy career fromabout the tenth of April until almost the end of May.

A week farther into April, and the Bloodroot opens,—a name of guilt,and a type of innocence. This fresh and lovely thing appears toconcentrate all its stains within its ensanguined root, that it maycondense all purity in the peculiar whiteness of its petals. It emergesfrom the ground with each shy blossom wrapt in its own pale-green leaf,then doffs the cloak and spreads its long petals round a group of yellowstamens. The flower falls apart so easily that when in full bloom itwill hardly bear transportation, but with a touch the stem stands naked,a bare gold-tipped sceptre amid drifts of snow. And the contradictionof its hues seems carried into its habits. One of the most shy of wildplants, easily banished from its locality by any invasion, it yet takesto the garden with unpardonable readiness, doubles its size, blossomsearlier, repudiates its love of water, and flaunts its great leaves inthe unnatural confinement until it elbows out the exotics. Its charm isgone, unless one find it in its native haunts, beside some cascade whichstreams over rocks that are dark with moisture, green with moss, andsnowy with white bubbles. Each spray of dripping feather-moss exudes atiny torrent of its own, or braided with some tiny neighbor, above thelittle water-fonts which sleep sunless in ever-verdant caves. Sometimesalong these emerald canals there comes a sudden rush and hurry, as ifsome anxious housekeeper upon the hill above were afraid that thingswere not stirring fast enough,—and then again the waving and sinuouslines of water are quieted to a serener flow. The delicious red-thrushand the busy little yellow-throat are not yet come to this their summerhaunt; but all day long the answering field-sparrows trill out theirsweet, shy, accelerating lay.

In the same localities with the Bloodroot, though some days later, growsthe Dog-Tooth Violet,—a name hopelessly inappropriate, but likelynever to be changed. These hardy and prolific creatures have alsomany localities of their own; for, though they do not acquiesce incultivation, like the sycophantic Bloodroot, yet they are hard to banishfrom their native haunts, but linger after the woods are cleared and themeadow drained. The bright flowers blaze back all the yellow light ofnoonday as the gay petals curl and spread themselves above their beds ofmottled leaves; but it is always a disappointment to gather them, forindoors they miss the full ardor of the sunbeams, and are apt to go tosleep and nod expressionless from the stalk.

And almost on the same day with this bright apparition one may greet amultitude of concurrent visitors, arriving so accurately together thatit is almost a matter of accident which of the party shall first reporthimself. Perhaps the Dandelion should have the earliest place; indeed,I once found it in Brookline on the seventh of April. But it cannotordinarily be expected before the twentieth, in Eastern Massachusetts,and rather later in the interior; while by the same date I have alsofound near Boston the Cowslip or Marsh-Marigold, the Spring-Saxifrage,the Anemones, the Violets, the Bellwort, the Houstonia, the Cinquefoil,and the Strawberry-blossom. Varying, of course, in different spots andyears, the arrival of this coterie is yet nearly simultaneous, and theymay all be expected hereabouts before May-day at the very latest. Afterall, in spite of the croakers, this festival could not have been muchbetter-timed, the delicate blossoms which mark the period are usually inperfection on this day, and it is not long before they are past theirprime.

Some early plants which have now almost disappeared from EasternMassachusetts are still found near Worcester in the greatestabundance,—as the larger Yellow Violet, the Red Trillium, the DwarfGinseng, the Clintonia or Wild Lily-of-the-Valley, and the prettyfringed Polygala, which Miss Cooper christened "Gay-Wings." Others againare now rare in this vicinity, and growing rarer, though still abundanta hundred miles farther inland. In several bits of old swampy wood onemay still find, usually close together, the Hobble-Bush and the PaintedTrillium, the Mitella, or Bishop's-Cap, and the snowy Tiarella. Othersagain have entirely vanished within ten years, and that in some caseswithout any adequate explanation. The dainty white Corydalis, profanelycalled "Dutchman's-Breeches," and the quaint woolly Ledum, or LabradorTea, have disappeared within that time. The beautiful Linnaea is stillfound annually, but flowers no more; as is also the case, in all but onedistant locality, with the once abundant Rhododendron. Nothing in Naturehas for me a more fascinating interest than these secret movements ofvegetation,—the sweet blind instinct with which flowers cling to olddomains until absolutely compelled to forsake them. How touching is thefact, now well known, that salt-water plants still flower beside theGreat Lakes, yet dreaming of the time when those waters were briny asthe sea! Nothing in the demonstrations of Geology seems grander than thelight lately thrown by Professor Gray, from the analogies between theflora of Japan and of North America, upon the successive epochs of heatwhich led the wandering flowers along the Arctic lands, and of coldwhich isolated them once more. Yet doubtless these humble movementsof our local plants may be laying up results as important, and mayhereafter supply evidence of earth's changes upon some smaller scale.

May expands to its prime of beauty; the summer birds come with thefruit-blossoms, the gardens are deluged with bloom and the air withmelody, while in the woods the timid spring-flowers fold themselves awayin silence and give place to a brighter splendor. On the margin of somequiet swamp a myriad of bare twigs seem suddenly overspread with purplebutterflies, and we know that the Rhodora is in bloom. Wordsworth neverimmortalized a flower more surely than Emerson this, and it needs noweaker words; there is nothing else in which the change from nakednessto beauty is so sudden, and when you bring home the great mass ofblossoms they appear all ready to flutter away again from your hands andleave you disenchanted.

At the same time the beautiful Cornel-tree is in perfection; startlingas a tree of the tropics, it flaunts its great flowers high up among theforest-branches, intermingling its long slender twigs with theirs, andgarnishing them with alien blooms. It is very available for householddecoration, with its four great creamy petals,—flowers they are not,but floral involucres,—each with a fantastic curl and stain at its tip,as if the fireflies had alighted on them and scorched them; and yet Ilike it best as it peers out in barbaric splendor from the delicategreen of young Maples. And beneath it grows often its more abundantkinsman, the Dwarf Cornel, with the same four great petals envelopingits floral cluster, but lingering low upon the ground,—an herb whoseblossoms mimic the statelier tree.

The same rich creamy hue and texture show themselves in the Wild Calla,which grows at this season in dark, sequestered water-courses, andsometimes well rivals, in all but size, that superb whiteness out ofa land of darkness, the Ethiopic Calla of the conservatory. At thisseason, too, we seek another semi-aquatic rarity, whose homely namecannot deprive it of a certain garden-like elegance, the Buckbean. Thisis one of the shy plants which yet grow in profusion within their owndomain. I have found it of old in Cambridge, and then upon the pleasantshallows of the Artichoke, that loveliest tributary of the Merrimack,and I have never seen it where it occupied a patch more than a few yardssquare, while yet within that space the multitudinous spikes grow alwaystall and close, reminding one of hyacinths, when in perfection, but moredelicate and beautiful. The only locality I know for it in this vicinitylies seven miles away, where a little inlet from the lower winding baysof Lake Quinsigamond goes stealing up among a farmer's hay-fields, andthere, close beside the public road and in full of the farm-house, thisrare creature fills the water. But to reach it we commonly row downthe lake to a sheltered lagoon, separated from the main lake by a longisland which is gradually forming itself like the coral isles, growingeach year denser with alder thickets where the king-birds build;—thereleave the boat among the lily-leaves, and take a lane which winds amongthe meadows and gives a fitting avenue for the pretty thing we seek.But it is not safe to vary many days from the twentieth of May, for theplant is not long in perfection, and is past its prime when the lowerblossoms begin to wither on the stem.

But should we miss this delicate adjustment of time, it is easy toconsole ourselves with bright armfuls of Lupine, which bounteouslyflowers for six weeks along our lake-side, ranging from the twenty-thirdof May to the sixth of July. The Lupine is one of our most travelledplants; for, though never seen off the American continent, it stretchesto the Pacific, and is found upon the Arctic coast. On these banks ofLake Quinsigamond it grows in great families, and should be gathered inmasses and placed in a vase by itself; for it needs no relief from otherflowers, its own soft leaves afford background enough, and though thewhite variety rarely occurs, yet the varying tints of blue upon the samestalk are a perpetual gratification to the eye. I know not why shadedblues should be so beautiful in flowers, and yet avoided as distastefulin ladies' fancy-work; but it is a mystery like that which repudiatesblue-and-green from all well-regulated costumes, while Nature yetevidently prefers it to any other combination in her wardrobe.

Another constant ornament of the end of May is the large pinkLady's-Slipper, or Moccason-Flower, the "Cypripedium not duetill to-morrow" which Emerson attributes to the note-book ofThoreau,—to-morrow, in these parts, meaning about the twentieth of May.It belongs to the family of Orchids, a high-bred race, fastidious inhabits, sensitive as to abodes. Of the ten species named as rarest amongAmerican endogenous plants by Dr. Gray, in his valuable essay on thestatistics of our Northern Flora, all but one are Orchids. And even anabundant species, like the present, retains the family traits in itsperson, and never loses its high-born air and its delicate veining.I know a grove where it can be gathered by the hundreds within ahalf-acre, and yet I never can divest myself of the feeling that eachspecimen is a choice novelty. But the actual rarity occurs, at leastin this region, when one finds the smaller and more beautiful YellowMoccason-Flower,—parviflorum,—which accepts only our very choicestbotanical locality, the "Rattlesnake Ledge" on Tatessit Hill,—and may,for aught I know, have been the very plant which Elsie Venner laid uponher school-mistress's desk.

June is an intermediate month between the spring and summer flowers. Ofthe more delicate early blossoms, the Dwarf Cornel, the Solomon's-Seal,and the Yellow Violet still linger in the woods, but rapidly make wayfor larger masses and more conspicuous hues. The meadows are gorgeouswith Clover, Buttercups, and Wild Geranium; but Nature is a little charyfor a week or two, maturing a more abundant show. Meanwhile onemay afford to take some pains to search for another rarity, almostdisappearing from this region,—the lovely Pink Azalea. It still growsplentifully in a few sequestered places, selecting woody swamps to hideitself; and certainly no shrub suggests, when found, more tropicalassociations. Those great, nodding, airy, fragrant clusters, tossing farabove one's head their slender cups of honey, seem scarcely to belong toour sober zone, any more than the scarlet tanager which sometimes buildsits nest beside them. They appear bright exotics, which have wanderedinto our woods, and seem too happy to feel any wish for exit. And justas they fade, their humbler sister in white begins to bloom, and carrieson through the summer the same intoxicating fragrance.

But when June is at its height, the sculptured chalices of the MountainLaurel begin to unfold, and thenceforward, for more than a month,extends the reign of this our woodland queen. I know not why one shouldsigh after the blossoming gorges of the Himalaya, when our forests areall so crowded with this glowing magnificence,—rounding the tangledswamps into smoothness, lighting up the underwoods, overtopping thepastures, lining the rural lanes, and rearing its great pinkish massestill they meet overhead. The color ranges from the purest white to aperfect rose-pink, and there is an inexhaustible vegetable vigor aboutthe whole thing, which puts to shame those tenderer shrubs that shrinkbefore the progress of cultivation. There is the Rhododendron, forinstance, a plant of the same natural family with the Laurel and theAzalea, and looking more robust and woody than either: it once grew inmany localities in this region, and still lingers in a few, withoutconsenting either to die or to blossom, and there is only one remoteplace from which any one now brings into our streets those largeluxuriant flowers, waving white above the dark green leaves, and bearing"just a dream of sunset on their edges, and just a breath from the greensea in their hearts." But the Laurel, on the other hand, maintains itsground, imperturbable and almost impassable, on every hill-side, takesno hints, suspects no danger, and nothing but the most unmistakableonset from spade or axe can diminish its profusion. Gathering it on themost lavish scale seems only to serve as wholesome pruning; nor can Iconceive that the Indians, who once ruled over this whole county fromWigwam Hill, could ever have found it more inconveniently abundant thannow. We have perhaps no single spot where it grows in such perfectpicturesqueness as at "The Laurels," on the Merrimack, just aboveNewburyport,—a whole hill-side scooped out and the hollow piledsolidly with flowers, the pines curving around it above, and the riverencircling it below, on which your boat glides along, and you look upthrough glimmering arcades of bloom. But for the last half of June itmonopolizes everything in the Worcester woods,—no one picks anythingelse; and it fades so slowly that I have found a perfect blossom on thelast day of July.

At the same time with this royalty of the woods, the queen of the waterascends her throne, for a reign as undisputed and far more prolonged.The extremes of the Water-Lily in this vicinity, so far as I have known,are the eighteenth of June and the thirteenth of October,—a longerrange than belongs to any other conspicuous wild-flower, unless weexcept the Dandelion and Houstonia. It is not only the most fascinatingof all flowers to gather, but more available for decorative purposesthan almost any other, if it can only be kept fresh. The best method forthis purpose, I believe, is to cut the stalk very short before placingin the vase; then, at night, the lily will close and the stalk curlupward;—refresh them by changing the water, and in the morning thestalk will be straight and the flower open.

From this time forth Summer has it all her own way. After the first ofJuly the yellow flowers begin to watch the yellow fireflies; Hawkweeds,Loosestrifes, Primroses bloom, and the bushy Wild Indigo. The variety ofhues increases; delicate purple Orchises bloom in their chosenhaunts, and Wild Roses blush over hill and dale. On peat meadows theAdder's-Tongue Arethusa (now called Pogonia) flowers profusely, with afaint, delicious perfume,—and its more elegant cousin, the Calopogon,by its side. In this vicinity we miss the blue Harebell, the identicalharebell of Ellen Douglas, which I remember waving its exquisite flowersalong the banks of the Merrimack, and again at Brattleboro', below thecascade in the village, where it has climbed the precipitous sidesof old buildings, and nods inaccessibly from their crevices, in thatpicturesque spot, looking down on the hurrying river. But with thisexception, there is nothing wanting here of the flowers of early summer.

The more closely one studies Nature, the finer her adaptations grow. Forinstance, the change of seasons is analogous to a change of zones, andsummer assimilates our vegetation to that of the tropics.

In those lands, Humboldt has remarked, one misses the beauty ofwild-flowers in the grass, because the luxuriance of vegetation developseverything into shrubs. The form and color are beautiful, "but, beingtoo high above the soil, they disturb that harmonious proportion whichcharacterizes the plants of our European meadows. Nature has, in everyzone, stamped on the landscape the peculiar type of beauty proper tothe locality." But every midsummer reveals the same tendency. In earlyspring, when all is bare, and small objects are easily made prominent,the wild-flowers are generally delicate. Later, when all verdure isprofusely expanded, these miniature strokes would be lost, and Naturethen practises landscape-gardening in large, lights up the copses withgreat masses of White Alder, makes the roadsides gay with Aster andGolden-Rod, and tops the tall coarse Meadow-Grass with nodding Liliesand tufted Spiraea. One instinctively follows these plain hints, andgathers bouquets sparingly in spring and exuberantly in summer.

The use of wild-flowers for decorative purposes merits a word inpassing, for it is unquestionably a branch of high art in favored hands.It is true that we are bidden, on high authority, to love the wood-roseand leave it on its stalk; but against this may be set the saying ofBettine, that "all flowers which are broken become immortal in thesacrifice"; and certainly the secret harmonies of these fair creaturesare so marked and delicate that we do not understand them till we try togroup floral decorations for ourselves. The most successful artistswill not, for instance, consent to put those together which do not growtogether; Nature understands her business, and distributes her massesand backgrounds unerringly. Yonder soft and feathery Meadow-Sweet longsto be combined with Wild Roses: it yearns towards them in the field,and, after withering in the hand most readily, it revives in water as ifto be with them in the vase. In the same way the White Spiraea serves asnatural background for the Field-Lilies. These lilies, by the way, arethe brightest adornment of our meadows during the short period of theirperfection. We have two species: one slender, erect, solitary, scarlet,looking up to heaven with all its blushes on; the other clustered,drooping, pale-yellow. I never saw the former in such profusion as lastweek, on the bare summit of Wachusett. The granite ribs have there athin covering of crispest moss, spangled with the white starry blossomsof the Mountain Cinquefoil; and as I lay and watched the red lilies thatwaved their innumerable urns around me, it needed but little imaginationto see a thousand altars, sending visible flames forever upward to theanswering sun.

August comes: the Thistles are out, beloved of butterflies; deeper anddeeper tints, more passionate intensities of color, prepare the way forthe year's decline. A wealth of gorgeous Golden-Rod waves over all thehills, and enriches every bouquet one gathers; its bright colors commandthe eye, and it is graceful as an elm. Fitly arranged, it gives a brightrelief to the superb beauty of the Cardinal-Flowers, the brilliantblue-purple of the Vervain, the pearl-white of the Life-Everlasting,the delicate lilac of the Monkey-Flower, the soft pink and white ofthe Spiraeas,—for the white yet lingers,—all surrounded by trailingwreaths of blossoming Clematis.

But the Cardinal-Flower is best seen by itself, and, indeed, needs thesurroundings of its native haunts to display its fullest beauty. Itsfavorite abode is along the dank mossy stones of some black and windingbrook, shaded with overarching bushes, and running one long stream ofscarlet with these superb occupants. It seems amazing how anything sobrilliant can mature in such a darkness. When a ray of sunlight straysin upon it, the wondrous creature seems to hover on the stalk, ready totake flight, like some lost tropic bird. There is a spot whence I havein ten minutes brought away as many as I could hold in both arms, somebearing fifty blossoms on a single stalk; and I could not believe thatthere was such another mass of color in the world. Nothing cultivatedis comparable to them; and, with all the talent lately lavished onwild-flower painting, I have never seen the peculiar sheen of thesepetals in the least degree delineated. It seems some new and separatetint, equally distinct from scarlet and from crimson, a splendor forwhich there is as yet no name, but only the reality.

It seems the signal of autumn, when September exhibits the firstBarrel-Gentian by the roadside; and there is a pretty insect in themeadows—the Mourning-Cloak Moth it might be called—which givescoincident warning. The innumerable Asters mark this period with theirvaried and wide-spread beauty; the meadows are full of rose-coloredPolygala, of the white spiral spikes of the Ladies'-Tresses, and ofthe fringed loveliness of the Gentian. This flower, always unique andbeautiful, opening its delicate eyelashes every morning to the sunlight,closing them again each night, has also a thoughtful charm about itas the last of the year's especial darlings. It lingers long, eachremaining blossom growing larger and more deep in color, as with manyother flowers; and after it there is nothing for which to look forward,save the fantastic Witch-Hazel.

On the water, meanwhile, the last White Lilies are sinking beneath thesurface, the last gay Pickerel-Weed is gone, though the rootless plantsof the delicate Bladder-Wort, spreading over acres of shallows, stillimpurple the wide, smooth surface. Harriet Prescott says that some soulsare like the Water-Lilies, fixed, yet floating. But others are like thisgraceful purple blossom, floating unfixed, kept in place only by itsfellows around it, until perhaps a breeze comes, and, breaking theaccidental cohesion, sweeps them all away.

The season reluctantly yields its reign, and over the quiet autumnallandscape everywhere, even after the glory of the trees is past, thereare tints and fascinations of minor beauty. Last October, for instance,in walking, I found myself on a little knoll, looking northward.Overhead was a bower of climbing Waxwork, with its yellowish pods scarcedisclosing their scarlet berries,—a wild Grape-vine, with itsfruit withered by the frost into still purple raisins,—and yellowBeech-leaves, detaching themselves with an effort audible to the ear.In the foreground were blue Raspberry-stems, yet bearing greenishleaves,—pale-yellow Witch-Hazel, almost leafless,—purpleViburnum-berries,—the silky cocoons of the Milkweed,—and, amid theunderbrush, a few lingering Asters and Golden-Rods, Ferns still green,and Maidenhair bleached white. In the background were hazy hills,white Birches bare and snow-like, and a Maple half-way up a shelteredhill-side, one mass of canary-color, its fallen leaves making anapparent reflection on the earth at its foot,—and then a realreflection, fused into a glassy light intenser than itself, upon thesmooth, dark stream below.

The beautiful disrobing suggested the persistent and unconquerabledelicacy of Nature, who shrinks from nakedness and is always seekingto veil her graceful boughs,—if not with leaves, then with featheryhoar-frost, ermined snow, or transparent icy armor.

But, after all, the fascination of summer lies not in any details,however perfect, but in the sense of total wealth which summer gives.Wholly to enjoy this, one must give one's self passively to it, and notexpect to reproduce it in words. We strive to picture heaven, whenwe are barely at the threshold of the inconceivable beauty of earth.Perhaps the truant boy who simply bathes himself in the lake and thenbasks in the sunshine, dimly conscious of the exquisite lovelinessaround him, is wiser, because humbler, than is he who with presumptuousphrases tries to utter it. There are multitudes of moments when theatmosphere is so surcharged with luxury that every pore of the bodybecomes an ample gate for sensation to flow in, and one has simply tosit still and be filled. In after-years the memory of books seems barrenor vanishing, compared with the immortal bequest of hours like these.Other sources of illumination seem cisterns only; these are fountains.They may not increase the mere quantity of available thought, but theyimpart to it a quality which is priceless. No man can measure what asingle hour with Nature may have contributed to the moulding of hismind. The influence is self-renewing, and if for a long time it bafflesexpression by reason of its fineness, so much the better in the end.

The soul is like a musical instrument: it is not enough that it beframed for the very most delicate vibration, but it must vibrate longand often before the fibres grow mellow to the finest waves of sympathy.I perceive that in the veery's carolling, the clover's scent, theglistening of the water, the waving wings of butterflies, the sunsettints, the floating clouds, there are attainable infinitely moresubtile modulations of delight than I can yet reach the sensibility todiscriminate, much less describe. If, in the simple process of writing,one could physically impart to this page the fragrance of this spray ofazalea beside me, what a wonder would it seem!—and yet one ought to beable, by the mere use of language, to supply to every reader the totalof that white, honeyed, trailing sweetness, which summer insects hauntand the Spirit of the Universe loves. The defect is not in language,but in men. There is no conceivable beauty of blossom so beautiful aswords,—none so graceful, none so perfumed. It is possible to dream ofcombinations of syllables so delicious that all the dawning and decay ofsummer cannot rival their perfections, nor winter's stainless whiteand azure match their purity and their charm. To write them, were itpossible, would be to take rank with Nature; nor is there any othermethod, even by music, for human art to reach so high.

* * * * *

ONE OF MY CLIENTS.

After a practice in the legal profession of more than twenty years, I ampersuaded that a more interesting volume could not be written than therevelations of a lawyer's office. The plots there discovered before theywere matured,—the conspiracies there detected

"Ere they hail reached their last fatal periods,"—

the various devices of the Prince of Darkness,—the weapons with whichhe fought, and those by which he was overcome,—the curious phenomena ofintense activity and love of gain,—the arts of the detective, and thoseby which he was eluded,—and the never-ending and ever-varying surprisesand startling incidents,—would present such a panorama of human affairsas would outfly our fancy, and modify our unbelief in that much-abuseddoctrine of the depravity of our nature.

To illustrate, let me introduce to you "one of my clients," whom I willcall Mr. Sidney, and with whom, perhaps, you may hereafter become betteracquainted. His counterpart in personal appearance you may find in thethoroughfare at, any hour of the day. There is nothing about him toattract attention. He is nearly forty-five years of age, and weighs,perhaps, two hundred pounds. His face is florid and his hair sandy. Hiseyes are small, piercing, and gray. His motions are slow, and none aremade without a purpose. Intellectually he is above the average, and hisperceptive faculties are well developed. The wrinkles in his lips are atright angles with his mouth, and a close observer might detect in hiscountenance self-reliance and tenacity of will and purpose. But withordinary faculties much may be accomplished: in this sketch, let us seehow much in two particulars.

His first entrance into my office was in the spring of 1853. Hehanded me a package of papers, saying, if I would name an hour for aprofessional consultation, he would be punctual. The time was agreedupon and he withdrew. On examination of his papers, I found that hisletters of introduction were from several United States Senators, Judgesof Supreme Courts, Cabinet Officers, and Governors, and one was from aPresidential candidate in the last election. Those directed speciallyto me were from a Senator and a Member of Congress, both of whom werelawyers and my personal friends, men in whose judgment I placed greatconfidence. They all spoke in the highest terms of Mr. Sidney'sintegrity, ability, and energy, and concluded by saying I mightimplicitly rely upon his judgment and be governed by his counsels.

What man of the masses can this one be, thus heralded by the authoritiesof the nation, and what his labor, so commended by the rulers? I glancedat him mentally again. Perhaps he is laboring for the endowment of somegreat literary or benevolent institution, for the building of a nationalmonument. No. Perhaps he has some theory that thousands of facts mustprove and illustrate; or it may be he is a voracious gatherer ofstatistics. The last is the most probable; but the more I mused, themore the fire burned within me to know more of his mission.

I awaited impatiently his coming. It was on the stroke of the hourappointed. The object of that interview may not with propriety bestated, nor the results described; but it may be said that that hour wasthe most intensely exciting of any of my professional life, causing theblood to chill and boil alternately. The business was so peculiar, andconnected with men so exalted in position, and conducted with suchwonderful ability and tact, that now, years after, scarcely a day passesthat my mind does not revert to those hours and do homage to thosetranscendent abilities by which it was conducted, till I sometimes thinkthe possessor of them was an overmatch for Lucifer himself. My eyeswere for the first time opened to the marvellous in his departmentof knowledge and art; and the region of impossibility was materiallycircumscribed, and the domain of the prince of the powers of the airextended ad infinitum. Into those regions it is not my present purposeto delve.

After a business acquaintance of several years with Mr. Sidney, I havelearned that he was formerly a rich manufacturer, and that he was nearlyruined in fortune by the burning of several warehouses in which he hadstored a large amount of merchandise that was uninsured. The owners ofthese store-houses were men of wealth, influence, and respectability.Alone of all the citizens, Mr. Sidney suspected that the block wasintentionally set on fire to defraud the insurance-offices. Withoutany aid or knowledge of other parties, he began an investigation, andascertained that the buildings were insured far beyond their value.He also ascertained that insurance had been obtained on a far greateramount of merchandise than the stores could contain; and still further,that the goods insured, as being deposited there, were not so depositedat the time of the fire. He likewise procured a long array of factstending to fix the burning upon the "merchant princes" who held thepolicies. To his mind, they were convincing. He therefore confrontedthese men, accused them of the arson, and demanded payment for his ownloss. This was, of course, declined. Whereupon he gave them formalnotice, that, if his demand were not liquidated within thirty days,never thereafter would an opportunity be afforded for a settlement. Thatthe notice produced peculiar excitement was evident. Yet the thirtydays elapsed and his claim was not adjusted.

From that hour, with a just appreciation of the enormity of the offencewhich he believed to have been committed, he consecrated his vastenergies to the detection of crime. His whole soul was fired almost tofrenzy with the greatness of his work, and he pursued it with a firmnessof principle and fixedness of purpose that seemed almost madness, tillhe exposed to the world the most stupendous league of robbers everdreamed of, extending into every State and Territory of the Union,and numbering, to his personal knowledge, over seven hundred men ofinfluence and power, whose business as a copartnership was forgery,counterfeiting, burglary, arson, and any other crimes that might affordrich pecuniary remuneration.

I will not now stop to describe the organization of this band, which isas perfect as that of any corporation; nor the enormous resources at itscommand, being computed by millions; nor the great respectability ofits directors and State agents; nor the bloody oaths and forfeitures bywhich the members are bound together; nor the places of their annualmeetings; nor a thousand other particulars, more startling than anythingin fiction or history. Nor will I enumerate the great number ofconvictions of members of this gang for various offences through Mr.Sidney's efforts. Prosecuting no other parties than these,—thwartingthem in those defences that had never before failed,—testifying inopen court against the character of their witnesses, who appeared to bepolished gentlemen, and enumerating the offences of which they hadbeen guilty,—and harassing them by all legal and legitimate means, hegathered around him a storm that not one man in a thousand could havewithstood for an hour. Eleven times was food analyzed that had beensuspiciously set before him, and in each instance poison was detected init; while in hundreds of instances he declined to receive from unknownhands presents about which hung similar suspicions. Numerous were theinfernal-machines sent him, the explosion of some of which he escaped asif by miracle, and several exploded in his own dwelling. Without numberwere the anonymous letters he received, threatening his life, if he didnot desist from prosecuting this band of robbers. Yet not for one momentswerved from his purpose, he moved unharmed through ten thousand perils,till at last he fell a victim to the enemy that had so long been huntinghis life. On no one has his mantle fallen.

His sole object in life seemed to be the breaking-up of this villanousgang of plunderers, and he pursued it with a genius and strength, adevotion, self-sacrifice, and true heroism, that are deserving ofimmortality.

Not long before his death, while one of the directors of this band wasconfined in prison at Mr. Sidney's instigation, awaiting a preliminaryexamination, he sent for Mr. Sidney and offered him one hundred thousanddollars, if he would desist from pursuing him alone. Mr. Sidney replied,that he had many times before been offered the like sum, if he wouldcease prosecuting the directors, and that the same reason which hadinclined him to reject that proposition would compel him to refuse this.Whereupon the director offered, as an additional inducement, one-half ofthe money taken from the messenger of the Newport banks, while on hisway to Providence to redeem their bills at the Merchants Bank, and alsothe mint where they had coined the composition that had passed currentfor years through all the banks and banking-houses of the country, andwhich stood every test that could be applied, without the destruction ofthe coin itself, which mint had cost its owners upwards of two hundredthousand dollars. All of which Mr. Sidney indignantly rejected. And itwas not till the year after his death that the coin became known, whenit was also reported and believed that a million and a quarter of thesame was locked up in the vaults of the—Government.

The United States Government sought Mr. Sidney's services, as appears ofrecord. Those high in authority had decided on his employment, a factwhich in less than six hours thereafter was known to the directors, andwithin that space of time five of them had arrived in Washington andpaid over to their attorney the sum of thirty-five hundred dollars forsome purpose,—the attorney being no less a personage than an honorablemember of a supreme court. The service desired of Mr. Sidney he waswilling to perform, on the condition that he should not be called uponto prosecute any other parties than those to whose conviction he hadsworn to devote his life.

As a detective, Mr. Sidney was unequalled in this country. Vidocq mayhave been his superior in dissimulation, but in that alone. He certainlyhad not a tithe of Mr. Sidney's genius and strength of mind and moralpower to discern the truth, though never so deeply hidden, and to exposeit to the clear light of day.

"His blood and judgment were so well commingled,"

that his conclusions seemed akin to prophecy.

But it is not as a detective that Mr. Sidney is here presented. Thisslight sketch of this remarkable man is given, that the reader may morewillingly believe that he possessed, among other wonderful powers, onethat is not known ever to have been attained to such a degree by anyother individual, namely:—

The power of discerning, in a single specimen of handwriting, thecharacter, the occupation, the habits, the temperament, the health,the age, the sex, the size, the nationality, the benevolence or thepenuriousness, the boldness or the timidity, the morality or theimmorality, the affectation or the hypocrisy, and often the intention ofthe writer.

At the age of thirty-five, the genius of Mr. Sidney as a physiognomist,expert, and detective, remained wholly undeveloped. He was notaware, nor were his friends, of his wonderful powers of observation,dissection, and deduction. Nor had he taken his first lesson by beingbrought in contact with the rogues. How, then, did he acquire thisalmost miraculous power?

After he had ascertained the names of the directors and State agentsof the band, he collected many hundred specimens of their handwriting.These he studied with that energy which was equalled only by hispatience. In a surprisingly short time he first of all began to perceivethe differences between a moral and an immoral signature. Afterwards heproceeded to study the occupation, age, habits, temperament, and allthe other characteristics of the writers, and in this he was equallysuccessful. If this be doubted by any, let him collect a number ofsignatures of Frenchmen, Englishmen, Germans, and Americans, or, whatis still better, of Jews of all nations, and at least in the latterinstance, with ordinary perceptive faculties, there will be nodifficulty in determining the question of nationality; a person withhalf an eye need never mistake the handwriting of a Jew. Many can detectpride and affectation, and most persons the sex, in handwriting, howmuch soever it may be disguised.

"The bridegroom's letters stand in row above,
Tapering, yet straight, like pine-trees in his grove;
While free and fine the bride's appear below,
As light and slender as her jasmines grow."

Why, then, should it be strange, if remarkable powers of observation,analysis, and patient and energetic study should accomplish muchmore? In this department the Government had afforded Mr. Sidney greatfacilities, till at last he would take the letters dropped during thenight in the post-office of a great city, and as rapidly as a skilfulcashier could detect a counterfeit in counting bank-bills, and withunerring certainty, he would throw out those suspiciously superscribed."In each of these nine," he would say, "there is no letter, but moneyonly. This parcel is from the W—Street office. These are directed tomen that are not called by these names: they are fictitious, and assumedfor iniquitous purposes. Those are from thieves to thieves, and hint atopportunities," and so on.

Travelling over the principal railways of the country without charge,entertained at hotels where compensation was declined, Mr. Sidney was insome instances induced to impart to his friends some of that knowledgewhich he took much pains to conceal, believing that by so doing heshould best serve the great purposes of his life. Whether he desiredthis remarkable power to be kept from the rogues, or whether he thoughthe should be too much annoyed by being called upon as an expert inhandwriting in civil cases, or what his purpose was, is not known, andprobably a large number of his intimate friends are not aware of hisgenius in this.

On one occasion he was in a Canadian city for the first time, andstopped at a principal hotel. When about to depart, he was surprisedthat his host declined compensation. The landlord then requested Mr.Sidney to give him the character of a man whose handwriting he produced.Mr. Sidney consented, and, having retired to the private office, gavethe writer's age within a year, his nationality, being a native-bornFrenchman, his height and size, being very short and fleshy, histemperament and occupation; and described him as a generous, high-toned,public-spirited man, of strong religious convictions and remarkablemodesty: all of which the landlord pronounced to be entirely correct.

The hotel-register was then brought, and to nearly every name Mr. Sidneygave the marked character or peculiarity of the man. One was verynervous, another very tall and lean; this one was penurious, that onestubborn; this was a farmer, and that a clergyman; this name was writtenin a frolic; this was a genuine name, though not written by the manhimself,—and that written by the man himself, but it was not his truename. Of the person last specified the clerk desired a full description,and obtained it in nearly these words:—

"He, Sir, was not christened by that name. He could never have writtenit before he was thirty. He has assumed it within a year. The characteris bad,—very bad. I judge he is a gambler by profession, and—somethingworse. He evidently is not confined to one department of rascality. Hewas born and educated in New England, is aged about thirty-nine, isabout five feet ten in height, and is broad-shouldered and stout. Hisnerves are strong, and he is bold, hypocritical, and mean. He is justthe kind of man to talk like a saint and act like a devil."

The little company raised their hands in holy horror.

"As to age, size, nerve, etc.," said the landlord, "you are entirelycorrect, but in his moral character you are much mistaken"; and theclerk laughed outright.

"Not mistaken at all," replied Mr. Sidney; "the immorality of thesignature is the most perspicuous, and it is more than an even chancethat he has graduated from a State's prison. At any rate, he will showhis true character wherever he remains a year."

"But, my dear Sir, you are doing the greatest possible damage to yourreputation; he is a boarder of mine, and"——

"You had better be rid of him," chimed in Mr. Sidney.

"Why, Mr. Sidney, he is the clergyman who has been preaching veryacceptably at the —— Church these two months!"

"Just as I told you," said Mr. Sidney; "he is a hypocrite and a rascalby profession. Will you allow me to demonstrate this?"

The landlord assented. A servant was called, and Mr. Sidney, havingwritten on a card, sent it to the clergyman's room, with the requestthat he would come immediately to the office. It was delivered, and thelandlord waited patiently for his Reverence.

"You think he will come?" asked Mr. Sidney.

The landlord replied affirmatively.

Mr. Sidney shook his head, and said,—"You will see."

A short time after, the servant was again ordered to make areconnoissance, and reported that there was no response to his knocking,and that the door was locked on the inside. Whereupon Mr. Sidneyexpressed the hope that the religious society were responsible for theboard, for he would never again lead that flock like a shepherd. It wassubsequently ascertained that the parson had in a very irreverent mannerslipped down the spout to the kitchen and jumped from there to theground, and, what is "very remarkable," like the load of voters upset bySam Weller into the canal, "was never heard of after."[A]

[Footnote A: There is a curious story connected with this "clergyman,"which may yet appear in the biography of Mr. S.]

* * * * *

"Individual handwriting," says Lavater, "is inimitable. The more Icompare the different handwritings which fall in my way, the more amI confirmed in the idea that they are so many expressions, so manyemanations, of the character of the writer. Every country, every nation,every city has its peculiar handwriting." And the same might be said ofpainting; for, if one hundred painters copy the same figure, an artistwill distinguish the copyist.

Some years since, a certain bank placed in my hands two promissory notesfor large amounts, purporting to be signed by a Mr. Temple and indorsedby a Mr. Conway, and which both maker and indorser pronounced forgeries.Both notes were written on common white paper, and were purchased by thebank of a certain broker at a time when it was difficult to make loansby discount in the usual manner. Before the maturity of the notes, thebroker, who was a Jew, had left for parts unknown. He left behind himno liabilities, unless he might be holden for the payment of the notesabove specified, and several others signed and indorsed in the samemanner in the hands of other parties. Several attempts had been made byprofessional experts to trace resemblances between the forgeries and thegenuine handwriting of said Temple and Conway, as well as the broker,but all had reluctantly come to the conclusion that the signatures wereas dissimilar as well could be. The cashier was exceedingly embarrassedby the fact that Mr. Conway was one of the directors of the bank, andhe was presumed to have been so familiar with his signature as to beincapable of being deceived.

After a most diligent investigation and the expenditure of much time andmoney, and after skilful experts and detectives had given up in despairof ascertaining either the whereabouts of the Jew or anything furthertill he could be produced, the holders of this paper had settled downquietly in the belief that the broker was the guilty party and that allfurther effort was useless. At this point of time, when all excitementhad subsided, these notes came into my possession. I immediatelytelegraphed to Mr. Sidney, and it was with great joy that I received thereply that he was on his way. At three o'clock in the morning I met himat the railroad station. He complimented me by saying there was notanother man living for whom he would have left the city of —— on asimilar message. I thanked him, and we walked to the office. Beforearriving there, I had merely informed him that I desired his services inthe investigation of a forgery that baffled our art. He demanded all thepapers. I produced the forged notes, several genuine checks and lettersof Mr. Temple and Mr. Conway, and several specimens of the handwritingof the broker.

Long as I live I can never forget the almost supernatural glow that cameover his features. I could almost see the halo. No language can describesuch a marked and rapid change of countenance. His whole soul seemedwrapt in a delightful vision. I cannot say how long this continued, asI was lost in admiration, as he was in contemplation. I spoke, but heseemed not to hear. At last his muscles relaxed, and he began to breatheas if greatly fatigued. He wiped the perspiration from his brow, andsaid, as if to himself,—

"Sure!"

I asked what was sure. A few minutes elapsed, and he said more loudly,—

"As sure as you are born,"—without seeming to have heard my inquiry.

I proposed to state what could be proved, and the suspicions that wereentertained of the cashier. He objected, and said,—

"I take my departure from these papers. Mr. Temple is aged thirty-eight,a large, well-built man, full six feet high, strongly nerved, bold,proud, and fearless. His mind is active, and in his day he has beenprofessor in a college. He fares well and is fashionably dressed. Ithink he is not in any legitimate business. He is a German by birth,though he has been in this country several years. He is somewhataffected and immensely hypocritical. I think he is a gambler and dealerin counterfeit money. He certainly is not confined to one department ofrascality. This is not the name by which he was christened, if indeed hewas ever christened at all. He could not have written it in his youth,and must have assumed it within a year and a half." (Exact in everyknown particular.)

"Mr. Conway I at first thought an attorney-at-law, but he is not. Ireckon he administers on estates, acts as guardian, and settles up theaffairs of the unfortunate in trade as their assignee, in connectionwith his business of notary and note-shaver. He is aged fifty-six, wasborn and educated in New England, and is probably a native of this city.He is tall, lean, and bony. His nerves are not steady, and he is easilyexcited. He probably has the dyspepsia, but he would not lose thewriting of a deed to be rid of it. The remarkable feature of hischaracter is stinginess. His natural abilities being good and his mindstrong, he must therefore be a man of means, and I think it matterslittle to his conscience how he comes by his wealth. At the same time,he has considerable pride and caution, which, with his interest, keephim honest, as the world goes. If he were not an old bachelor, I shouldthink better of his heart, and he would be less miserly.

"The Jew's signature is the most honest of the three. Timidity is themarked character of the man. He could not succeed in any department ofroguery. It is physically, as well as mentally and morally, impossiblefor him to have had any connection with the forgery. He would befrightened out of his wits at the very suggestion of his complicity."

"And so, Mr. Sidney," said I, "you know all about these parties and theparticulars of the forgery?"

"Nothing whatever," he replied, "save by these specimens of theirhandwriting. I never heard of the forgery, nor of these men, till thishour."

To which I replied,—

"I cannot believe that you can give such a perfectly accuratedescription of them (saving their moral characters, of which I knowlittle) without other means of knowledge. It must have been that youknew Temple to be a German, Conway to be the most penurious old bachelorin town, and the broker the most timid. And how, in the name of allthat is marvellous, could you have known Conway to be afflicted withdyspepsia?

"Then," answered Mr. Sidney, "you are not prepared to believe one otherthing, more strange and paradoxical than all the rest. Listen! Thesenotes are forgeries both of the maker and the indorser. And who thinkyou are the criminals?"

"The Jew?"

"No."

"The cashier?"

"No. But, as sure as you are born, these notes are in the handwriting ofTemple and Conway, and the signatures are not only genuine, but they areforgeries also: for both had formed a well-matured and deliberate designof disputing them before placing them on the paper. And, Sir, frommy notion of Conway's character and temperament, as expressed in hishandwriting, I venture the assertion that I can make him own it, and paythe notes. He shall even faint away at my pleasure. Temple is anotherkind of man, and would never own it, were it ten times proved."

A meeting of the directors of the bank was to be holden at nine o'clockof the same morning. None of them knew Mr. Sidney, or were known byhim. It was arranged that he should meet them, Mr. Conway included,and exhibit his skill, and if he should convince them of his power ofdivination, he should discuss the genuineness of the signatures of thesupposed forgeries.

For several hours he was on trial before the board with a very largenumber of specimens of handwriting of men of mark, and he astonishedthem all beyond measure by giving the occupation, age, height, size,temperament, strength of nerve, nationality, morality, and otherpeculiarities of every one of the writers. His success was not partial,it was complete. There was not simply a preponderance of evidence, itwas beyond a doubt. The directors did not question the fact; but how wasit done? Some thought mesmerism could account for it, and others thoughtit miraculous.

The first experiment was this. Each director wrote on a piece of paperthe names of all the board. Eleven lists were handed him, and hespecified the writer of each by the manner in which he wrote his ownname. He then asked them to write their own or any other name, with asmuch disguise as they pleased, and as many as pleased writing on thesame piece of paper; and in every instance he named the writer.

As an example of the other experiments, take this one. Thesuperscription of a letter was shown him. He began immediately:—

"A clergyman, without doubt, who reads his sermons, and is a littleshort-sighted. He is aged sixty-one, is six feet high, weighs about onehundred and seventy, is lean, bony, obstinate, irritable, economical,frank, and without a particle of hypocrisy or conceit. He is naturallymiserly, and bestows charity only from a sense of duty. His mindis methodical and strong, and he is not a genius or an interestingpreacher. If he has decided upon any doctrine or construction ofScripture, it would be as impossible to change him as to make him overagain."

The company began to laugh, when one of them said,—

"Come, come, Mr. Sidney, you are disclosing altogether too much of myfather-in-law."

And now the supposed forged notes were handed him. He gave thecharacteristics of the signatures very nearly as he had before donein the office, but more particularly and minutely. He analyzed thehandwriting,—showed the points of resemblance, where before none couldbe discerned,—showed that the writing, interpreted by itself, wasintended to be disguised,—explained the difference between thedifferent parts of the notes,—pointed out where the writer was firm inhis purpose, and his nerves well braced, and where his fears overcamehis resolution,—where he had paused to recover his courage, and for aconsiderable time,—where he had changed his pen, and how the forgerywas continued through several days,—what parts were done by Temple, andwhat by Conway,—

"Till all the interim
Between the acting of the dreadful thing
And the first motion"

was brought so vividly and truthfully to mind that Mr. Conway fell tothe floor as if dead. The cashier, relieved from a pressure that had forweary months been grinding his very soul, burst into tears. A scene ofstrange excitement ensued, during which Mr. Conway muttered incoherentsentences in condemnation of Temple and then of himself,—now withpenitence, and then with rage. Recovering his composure, he suggestedthe Jew as the guilty party. Mr. Sidney then dissected the handwritingof the Jew, and demonstrated that there was as great a differencebetween his chirography and a New-Englander's as between the English andthe Chinese characters,—showed how the Jew must have been exceedinglytimid, and stated the probability that he had left the city not becausehe had taken any part in the forgery, but because he had been frightenedaway. Then turning to Conway, he gave him a lecture such as no mortalbefore ever gave or received. The agony of Conway's mind so distortedhis body as made it painful in the extreme to all beholders. "His inmostsoul seemed stung as by the bite of a serpent." When at last Mr. Sidneyturned and took from his valise a small steel safe, which Conwayrecognized as his own, "the terrors of hell got hold of him," and hisanguish was indescribably horrible. The little safe had been by someunknown and unaccountable process taken from a larger one in Conway'soffice, and was unopened. Neither Mr. Sidney nor the directors have everseen its contents; but in consideration that it should not be opened,Mr. Conway confessed his crime in the very form of Mr. Sidney'sdescription, paid the notes before leaving the bank, and remains adirector to this day. As is often the case, the greater criminal goesunwhipped of justice.

* * * * *

Mr. Sidney, besides the faculty I have described, had acquired another,less wonderful perhaps, but still quite remarkable, and which was ofincalculable assistance to him in the prosecution of his Herculeanlabor. He was a most rare physiognomist. And by physiognomy is hereintended, not simply the art of discerning the character of the mind bythe features of the face, but also the art of discovering the qualitiesof the mind by the conformation of the body,—and still further,(although it may not be a legitimate use of the word,) the powerof distinguishing the character, mental and moral, the capacity,occupation, and all the distinctive qualities of a person by his figure,action, dress, deportment, and the like: for Sterne said well, that "thewise man takes his hat from the peg very differently from a fool."

The ancient Egyptians acquired the greatest skill in this science; andTacitus affirms, not without reason, that their keen perceptionand acute observation, essential in communicating their ideas inhieroglyphics, contributed largely to their success. Certainly, fewbetter proofs of the existence of the science have been furnished thanthat given by the Egyptian physiognomist at Athens in the days of Plato.Zopyrus pronounced the face of Socrates to be that of a libertine. Thephysiognomist being derided by the disciples of the great philosopher,Socrates reproved them, saying that Zopyrus had spoken well, for in hisyounger days such indeed had been the truth, and that he had overcomethe proclivities of his nature by philosophy and the severestdiscipline.

Pliny affirms that Apelles could trace the likeness of men so accuratelythat a physiognomist could discover the ruling passion to which theywere subject. Dante's characters, in his view of Purgatory, are drawnwith accurate reference to the principles of physiognomy; and Shakspeareand Sterne, particularly the latter, were clever in the art; while Kempfand Zimmermann, in their profession, are said seldom to have erred asphysiognomists. Surely it is a higher authority and more practical,which saith, "A wicked man walketh with a froward mouth; he speakethwith his feet; he teacheth with his fingers.—A man is known by hislook, and a wise man by the air of his countenance." And yet again, "Thewickedness of a woman changeth her face."

If it be true, as Sultzer declares, that there is not a living creaturethat is not more or less skilled in physiognomy as a necessary conditionof its existence, surely man, with all his parts fitly joinedtogether, should be the most expert; and there are circumstances andconditions, as well as qualities of mind and body, which will conducthim more surely along the pathway of his research, and direct him onwardtowards the goal of perfection. Consider, then, the characteristics ofMr. Sidney, the circumstances by which he was surrounded, and the schoolin which he was taught, in order to determine if there were in him theelements of success.

Chiefest among the essential qualities is to be named his astonishingstrength of nerve. No danger could agitate him, however imminent orsudden. No power could deprive him of his imperturbable coolnessand courage. Perils seemed to render his mind more clear and hisself-reliance more firm. (And yet I have heard him say, that therewas among the band of criminals before mentioned one woman of greaterstrength of mind and nervous power than any person he had ever seen,whom alone of all created beings, whether man or devil, he dreadedto encounter.) Had not Mr. Sidney been thus potently armed, he must,without doubt or question, have become almost a monomaniac; for,secondly, he was for years enraged almost to madness that his entireestate had been swept from his grasp, as he believed, by the torch ofthe incendiary; and he was to the last degree exasperated, and witha just indignation, that the merchant-princes who he supposed hadoccasioned his impoverishment yet walked abroad with the confidence ofthe community, and were still trusted by many a good man as the verysalt of the city. Nevertheless, Mr. Sidney, solitary and alone, hadarraigned them before a criminal tribunal. He was therefore driven tohis own resources, and there was no place in his nature, or in thenature of things, for the first retrograde step. All his vast energieswere thenceforth consecrated to, and concentrated in, the detection ofcrime. And from the time that he was refused payment for his loss, sofar as my observation extended, he seemed to have been governed by noother purpose in life than the extermination of that great gang ofrobbers which he subsequently discovered. Add to these incentivesand capacities his extraordinary perceptive faculties and power ofanalytical observation, together with his wonderful patience, and itmust be granted that he was qualified to discover in any incidentconnected with his pursuits more of its component parts than all otherbeholders, and had greater opportunities than almost any other man bywhich to be informed how it is that "the heart of a man changeth hiscountenance."

If I remember rightly, it was some two years after our acquaintancecommenced that I became aware of Mr. Sidney's proficiency as aphysiognomist, and it was then communicated, not so much by his choiceas by a necessity, for the accomplishment of one of his purposes.

The object of Mr. Sidney's visit to the city of P——, at that time,was nothing less difficult than the discovery and identification of anindividual of whom no other knowledge or description had been obtainedthan what could be extracted from the inspection, in another city, of asingle specimen of his handwriting in the superscription of a letter.So much from so little. Within three days thereafter, with no otherinstrumentalities than what were suggested by Mr. Sidney's expertnessin deciphering character in handwriting and his proficiency as aphysiognomist, the result was reached and the object happily attained.In the prosecution of the enterprise, it was important, if notessential, that I should believe that the data were sufficient by whichto arrive at a correct conclusion, and that I should confide in Mr.Sidney's skill in order that there might be hearty coöperation.

My office was so situated, that from its windows could mostadvantageously be observed, and for a considerable distance, the vastthrong that ebbed and flowed, hour after hour, through the greatthoroughfares of the city. For the greater part of three consecutivedays I sat by Mr. Sidney's side, watching the changing crowd throughthe half-opened shutters, listening incredulously, at first, to thepractical application of his science to the unsuspecting individualsbelow, till my derision was changed to admiration, and I was thoroughlyconvinced of his power. As my friends of both sexes passed under theordeal, it was intensely bewitching. Hour after hour would he give, withrapidity and correctness, the occupation and peculiarity of characterand condition of almost every individual who passed. This was notoccasional, but continuous. The marked men were not singled out, but allwere included. He was a stranger, and yet better acquainted withthe people than any of our citizens. And this was the manner of hisspeaking:—

"That physician has a better opinion of himself than the people haveof him: he is superficial, and makes up in effrontery what he lacks inqualification. The gambler yonder, with a toothpick in his mouth, has oflate succeeded in his tricks. The affairs of this kind-hearted grocerare troubling him. Were we within a yard of that round-shouldered manfrom the country, we should smell leather; for he works on his bench,and is unmarried. Here comes an atheist who is a joker and stubborn asa mule. There goes a man of no business at all: very probably it is thebest occupation he is fitted for, as he has no concentrativeness. Theschoolmistress crossing the street is an accomplished teacher, isvery sympathetic, and has great love of approbation. That lawyer is abachelor, and distrusts his own strength. This merchant should give upthe use of tobacco, and pay his notes before dinner, else he will becomea dyspeptic. Here comes a man of wealth who despises the common peopleand is miserly and hypocritical; and next to him is a scamp. I think itis Burke who says, 'When the gnawing worm is within, the impressionof the ravage it makes is visible on the outside, which appears quitedisfigured by it': and in that young man the light that was within himhas become darkness, and 'how great is that darkness!'"

Of some qualities of mind he would occasionally decline to speak untilhe could see the features in play, as in conversation. Some occupationshe failed to discover, if the arms were folded, or the hands in thepockets, or the body not in motion. It is not my purpose to specify anyof the rules by which he was governed, though they differed materiallyfrom those of Lavater, Redfield, and others, nor the facts from which hedrew his conclusions, but simply to give results.

I selected from the crowd acquaintances of marked character andstanding, and obtained accurate descriptions of them. Of one he said,"He is a good merchant, and has done and is doing a large business. Hecarries his business home with him at night, as he should not. He hasbeen wealthy, and is now reduced in circumstances. His disaster weighsheavily upon him. He has a high sense of honor, a keen conscience, andis a meek, religious man. He has great goodness of nature, is verymodest and retiring, has more ability than he supposes, and is a man offamily and very fond of his children."

Another he accurately described thus: "He is a mechanic, of a good mind,who has succeeded so well that I doubt if he is in active business.Certainly he does not labor. He is very independent and radical,—canbe impudent, if occasion requires,—gives others all their rights, andpertinaciously insists upon his own." Here the mechanic took his handsfrom his pocket. "Hold! I said he was a mechanic. He is not,—he is ahouse-painter."

I desired to be informed by what indications he judged him to be apainter. He replied, that he so judged from the general appearanceand motions, and that it was difficult to specify. I insisted, and heremarked that "the easy roll of his wrists was indicative."

After obtaining similar correct descriptions of men well known to me,I spied one whom I did not know, and who was dressed peculiarly. Iinquired his occupation, and Mr. Sidney, without turning a glancetowards me, and still gazing through the half-opened shutters, replied,"Yes! you never saw him before, yourself. He is a stranger in town, asis evident from the fact of his being dressed in his best suit, and bythe manner of his taking observations. Besides, there is no opportunityin these parts for him to follow his trade. He is a glass-blower. Youmay perceive he is a little deaf, and the curvature of his motions alsoindicates his occupation."

Whether this description was correct or not I failed to ascertain.

Mr. Sidney contended that any man of ordinary perceptive faculties neednever mistake a gambler, as the marks on the tribe were as distinct asthe complexion of the Ethiopian,—that, of honest callings, dealers incattle could be most easily discovered,—that immorality indicated itskind invariably in the muscles of the face,—that sympathetic qualities,love and the desire of being loved, taste and refinement,—were amongthe most perspicuous in the outline of the face.

A man of very gentlemanly appearance was approaching, whom Mr. Sidneypronounced a gambler, and also engaged in some other branch of iniquity.His appearance was so remarkably good that I doubted. He turned thecorner, and immediately Mr. Sidney hastened to the street and soonreturned, saying he had ascertained his history: that he was in thecounterfeiting department,—that his conscience affected his nerves,and consequently his motions,—that he was a stranger in town, and wasrestless and disquieted,—that he would not remain many hours here, ashe had an enterprise on hand, and was about it. I remarked, that, as thecontrary never could be proved, he was perfectly safe in his prophecy,when Mr. Sidney rose from his chair, and, approaching me, slowly said,with great energy,—

"I will follow that man till it is proved."

The next day but one, I received a note from Mr. Sidney, simplysaying, "I am on his track." He followed the supposed counterfeiter toPhiladelphia, where he ascertained that he had passed five-dollar billsof the —— bank of Connecticut. Mr. Sidney obtained the bills thegambler had passed to compare with the genuine. Failing, however,to find any of the same denomination, he presented the supposedcounterfeits to a broker skilled in detecting bad bills, and wassurprised to be informed that they were genuine. At Baltimore, herepeated the inquiry at the counter of a well-known banker relativeto other similar bills, and received the same response. So again inWashington, Pittsburg, Chicago, and several other cities whither he hadfollowed the suspected man, and invariably the reply of the cashierwould be, "We will exchange our bills for them, Sir." In some Westerncities he was offered a premium on the bills he had collected. At St.Louis he obtained a known genuine bill of the bank in question, and incompany with a broker proceeded to examine the two with a microscope.The broker pronounced the supposed counterfeits to be genuine. In themean time the gambler had left the city. Two days after, Mr. Sidney hadovertaken him. So great were his excitement and vexation that he couldscarcely eat or sleep. In a fit of desperation, without law and againstlaw, he pounced upon the suspected man and put him in irons. He beat aparley. It was granted, and the two went to the gambler's apartments incompany. In a conversation of several hours, Mr. Sidney extractedfrom him the most valuable information relating to the gang he was sopertinaciously prosecuting, and received into his possession forty-seventhousand dollars in counterfeits of the aforesaid bank, some of which Inow have in my possession, and which have been pronounced genuine by ourmost skilful experts.

* * * * *

It would be gratifying to all lovers of science to be informed that thepractical knowledge acquired by Mr. Sidney had been preserved, and thatat least the elementary principles of the arts in which he became sonearly perfect had been definitely explained and recorded. I am notaware, however, that such is the fact, but am persuaded that his uniformpolicy of concealment has deprived the world of much that would havebeen exceedingly entertaining and instructive. That this knowledge hasnot been preserved is owing mainly to the fact that he considered itof little importance, except as a means for the accomplishment of hispurposes, and that those purposes would be most effectually achieved byhis withholding from the common gaze the instrumentality by which theywere to be attained. That he intended at some future period to make somecommunication to the public I am well assured, and some materials werecollected by him with this view; but the hot pursuit of the great ideathat he never for an hour lost sight of would not allow sufficient restfrom his labors, and he deferred the publication to those riper yearsof experience and acquirement from which he could survey his whole pastcareer.

It may be comforting for all rogues to know that he left behind him nonote of that vast amount of statistical knowledge which he possessed,whether appertaining to crimes or criminals in general or in particular,or more especially to the band of robbers,—and that with him perishedall knowledge of this organization as such, and the names of all theparties therewith connected. They also have the consolation, if there beany, of knowing that he was sent prematurely to his grave by a subtlepoison, administered by unknown hands and in an unknown manner andmoment, and that he died in the firm faith of immortality.

THE CUMBERLAND.

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the Cumberland sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle-blast
From the camp on the shore.

Then far away to the South uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.

Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.

We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.

"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies;
"It is better to sink than to yield!"
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.

Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head.
Lord, how beautiful was thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.

Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream.
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!

THE FOSSIL MAN.

The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been: tobe found in the register of God, not in the records of men. The numberof the dead long exceedeth all that shall live. The Night of Time farsurpasseth the Day, and who knoweth the Equinox?—Sir THOMAS BROWNE.

What a mysterious and subtile pleasure there is in groping back throughthe early twilight of human history! The mind thirsts and longs so toknow the Beginning: who and what manner of men those were who laidthe first foundations of all that is now upon the earth: of whatintellectual power, of what degree of civilization, of what race andcountry. We wonder how the fathers of mankind lived, what habitationsthey dwelt in, what instruments or tools they employed, what crops theytilled, what garments they wore. We catch eagerly at any traces that mayremain of their faiths and beliefs and superstitions; and we fancy, aswe gain a clearer insight into them, that we are approaching more nearlyto the mysterious Source of all life in the soul. The germ, to ourlimited comprehension, seems nearer the Creator than the perfectedgrowth. Then the great problem of Origin forever attracts us on,—themultitudinous and intricate questions relating to "the ordained becomingof beings": how the Creating Power has worked, whether through an almostendless chain of gradual and advantageous changes, or by some sudden andmiraculous ictus, placing at once a completed body on the earth, asan abode and instrument for a developed soul,—all these remote anddifficult questions lead us on. And yet the search for human origins, orthe earliest historic and scientific evidences of man on the earth, isbut a groping in the dark.

We turn to the Hebrew and the inspired records; but we soon discover,that, though containing a picture, unequalled for simplicity anddignity, of the earliest experiences of the present family of man, theyare by no means a monument or relic of the most remote period, butbelong to a comparatively modern date, and that the question of Timeis not at all directly treated in them.

We visit the region where poetry and myth and tradition have placed amost ancient civilization,—the Black-Land, or Land of the Nile: wesearch its royal sepulchres, its manifold history written in funerealrecords, in kingly genealogies, in inscriptions, and in the thousandrelics preserved of domestic life, whether in picture, sculpture, or theembalmed remains of the dead; and we find ourselves thrown back to adate far beyond any received date of history, and still we have beforeus a ripened civilization, an art which could not belong to thechildhood of a race, a language which (so far as we can judge) must haveneeded centuries for its development, and the divisions of human races,whose formation from the original pair our philosophy teaches us musthave required immense and unknown spaces of time,—all as distinct asthey are at the present day.

We traverse the regions to which both the comparison of languages andthe Biblical records assign the original birthplace of mankind,—thecountry of the Euphrates and the plateau of Eastern Asia. Buriedkingdoms are revealed to us; the shadowy outlines of magnificent citiesappear which flourished and fell before recorded human history, and ofwhich even Herodotus never heard; Art and Science are unfolded, reachingfar back into the past; the signs of luxury and splendor are uncoveredfrom the ruin of ages: but, remote as is the date of these Turanian andSemitic empires, almost equalling that of the Flood in the ordinarysystem of chronology, they cannot be near the origin of things, anda long process of development must have passed ere they reached thematurity in which they are revealed to us.

The Chinese records give us an antiquity and an acknowledged date beforethe time of Abraham, (if we follow the received chronology,) andeven then their language must have been, as it is now, distinct andsolidified, betraying to the scholar no certain affinity to any otherfamily of language. The Indian history, so long boasted of for itsimmense antiquity, is without doubt the most modern of the ancientrecords, and offers no certain date beyond 1800 B.C.

In Europe, the earliest evidences of man disclosed by our investigationsare even more vague and shadowy. Probably, without antedating in timethese historical records of Asia, they reach back to a more primitiveand barbarous era. The earliest history of Europe is not studied frominscription or manuscript or even monument; it is not, like the Asiatic,a conscious work of a people leaving a memorial of itself to a futureage. It is rather, like the geological history, an unconscious, gradualdeposit left by the remains of extinct and unknown races in the soil ofthe fields or under the sediment of the waters. The earliest Europeanbarbarian, as he burned his canoe from a log, or fabricated his necklacefrom a bone, or worked out his knife from a flint, was in realitywriting a history of his race for distant days. We can follow him nowin his wanderings through the rivers and lakes and on the edges of theforests; we open his simple mounds of burial, and study his barbariantools and ornaments; we discover that he knew nothing of metals, andthat bone and flint and amber and coal were his materials; we trace outhis remarkable defences and huts built on piles in the various lakes ofEurope, where the simple savage could escape the few gigantic "fossil"animals which even then survived, and roved through the forests ofPrussia and France, or the still more terrible human enemies who werecontinually pouring into Germany, Denmark, and Switzerland from theAsiatic plains. We find that the early savage of Switzerland and Swedenwas not entirely ignorant of the care of animals, and that he hadfabricated some rude pottery. Of what race he was, or when he appearedamid the forests of Northern Europe, no one can confidently say.Collecting the various indications from the superstitions, language,and habits of this barbarian people, and comparing them with likepeculiarities of the most ancient races now existing in Europe, we canframe a very plausible hypothesis that these early savages belonged tothat great family of which the Finns and Laps, and possibly the Basques,are scattered members. Their skulls, also, are analogous in form tothose of the Finnish race. This age the archaeologists have denominatedthe "Stone Age" of European antiquity.

Following this is what has been called by them the "Bronze Age."Another, more powerful, and more cultivated race or collection ofpeoples inundates Scandinavia, Germany, Switzerland, and otherdistricts. They make war against and destroy the early barbarians; theyburn their water-huts, and force them to the mountains, or to the mostnorthern portions of the continent. This new race has a taste forobjects of beauty. They work copper and bronze; they make use ofbeautiful vases of earthenware and ornaments of the precious metals;but they have yet no knowledge of iron or steel. Their dead are burnedinstead of being buried, as was done by the preceding races. They areevidently more warlike and more advanced than the Finnish barbarians. Oftheir race or family it is difficult to say anything trustworthy. Theirskulls belong to the "long-skulled" races, and would ally them to theKelts. Antiquaries have called their remains "Keltic remains."

Still another age in this ancient history is the "Iron Age," when thetribes of Europe used iron weapons and implements, and had advanced fromthe nomadic condition to that of cultivators of the ground, though stillgaining most of their livelihood from fishing and hunting. This periodno doubt approached the period of historical annals, and the iron menmay have been the earliest Teutons of the North,—our own forefathers;but of their race or mixture of races we have no certain evidence,and can only make approximate hypotheses,—the division of "ages" byarchaeologists, it should be remembered, being not in any way a fixeddivision of races, but only indicating the probability of differentraces at those different early periods. What was the date of these agescannot at all be determined; the earlier are long before any recordedEuropean annals, but there is no reason to believe that they approach inantiquity the Asiatic records and remains.

Such, until recently, were the historic and scientific evidences withregard to the antiquity of man. His most venerable records, his mostancient dates of historic chronology were but of yesterday, whencompared with the age of existing species of plants and animals, orwith the opening of the present geologic era. Every new scientificinvestigation seemed, from its negative evidence, to render moreimprobable the existence of the "fossil man." It is true that in variousparts of the world, during the past few years, human bones have beendiscovered in connection with the bones of the fossil mammalia; but theywere generally found in caves or in lime-deposits, where they mighthave been dropped or swept in by currents of water, or inserted inmore modern periods, and yet covered with the same deposit as the moreancient relics. Geologists have uniformly reasoned on the a prioriimprobability of these being fossil bones, and have somewhat strainedthe evidence—as some distinguished savans[A] now believe—against thetheory of a great human antiquity.

[Footnote A: Pictet.]

And yet the "negative evidence" against the existence of the fossilman was open to many doubts. The records of geology are notoriouslyimperfect. We probably read but a few leaves of a mighty library ofvolumes. Moreover, the last ages preceding the present period werewitnesses of a series of changes and slowly acting agencies ofdestruction, from which man may have in general escaped. We have reasonto believe that during long periods of time the land was graduallyelevated and subject to oscillations, so that the courses of rivers andthe beds of lakes were disturbed, and even the bottom of the ocean wasraised. The results were the inundation of some countries, and thepouring of great currents of water over others, wearing down the hillsand depositing in the course of ages the regular layers of gravel, sand,and marl, which now cover so large a part of Europe. This was stillfurther followed by a period in which the temperature of the earth waslowered, and ice and glaciers had perhaps a part in forming the presentsurface of the northern hemisphere. During the first period, which maybe called the "Quaternary Period,"[B] the mighty animals lived whosebones are now found in caverns, or under the slowly deposited sedimentof the waters, or preserved in bog,—the mammoth, and rhinoceros, andelk, and bear, and elephant, as well as many others of extinct species.

[Footnote B: We should bear in mind that the Quaternary or DiluvianPeriod, however ancient in point of time, has no clearly distinguishingline of separation from the present period. The great difference lies inthe extinction of certain species of animals, which lived then, whosedestruction may be due both to gradual changes of climate and toman.—PICTET.]

We may suppose, that, if man did exist during these convulsions andinundations, his superior intelligence would enable him to escapethe fate of the animals that were submerged,—or that, if his fewburial-places were invaded by the waters, his remains are now completelycovered by marine deposits under the ocean. If, however, in hisbarbarian condition, he had fashioned implements of any hard material,and especially if, as do the savages of the present family of man, hehad accidentally deposited them, or had buried them with the dead inmighty mounds, the invading waters might well sweep them together fromtheir place and deposit them almost in mass, in situations where theeddies should leave their gravel and sand.[C]

[Footnote C: Sir C. Lyell, in his remarks before the British Associationin 1859, said upon the discovery alluded to here: "I am reminded of alarge Indian mound which I saw in St. Simon's Island in Georgia,—amound ten acres in area, and having an average height of five feet,chiefly composed of cast-away oyster-shells, throughout whicharrow-heads, stone axes, and Indian pottery were dispersed. If theneighboring river, the Altamalia, or the sea which is at hand, shouldinvade, sweep away, and stratify the contents of this mound, it mightproduce a very analogous accumulation of human implements, unmixed,perhaps, with human bones."—Athenaeum, September 21, 1859.]

Such seems in reality to have been the case; though in regard to soimportant a fact in the history of the world much caution must beexercised in accepting the evidence. We will state briefly the proofs,as they now appear, of the existence of a race of human beings on thisearth in an immense antiquity.

A French gentleman, M. Boucher de Perthes, has for thirty-four yearsbeen devoting his time and his fortune, with rare perseverance, to theinvestigation of certain antiquities in the later geological depositsin the North of France. His first work, "Les Antiquités Celtiques andAntédiluviennes," published in 1847, was received with much incredulityand opposition; a second, under the same title, in 1857, met with ascarce better reception, and it was with the greatest difficulty that hecould induce even the savans of his own country to look at the mass ofevidence he had collected on this subject.

He made the extraordinary claim to have discovered a great quantity ofrough implements of flint, fashioned by art, in the undisturbed beds ofclay, gravel, and sand, known as drift, near Abbeville and Amiens.These beds vary in thickness from ten to twenty feet, and cover thechalk hills in the vicinity; in portions of them, upon the hills, oftenin company with the flints, are discovered numerous bones of the extinctmammalia, such as the mammoth, the fossil rhinoceros, tiger, bear,hyena, stag, ox, horse, and others.

The flint implements are found in the lowest beds of gravel, just abovethe chalk, while above them are sands with delicate fresh-water shellsand beds of brick-earth,—all this, be it remembered, on table-lands twohundred feet above the level of the sea, in a country whose level andface have remained unaltered during any historical period with which weare acquainted. "It must have required," says Sir Charles Lyell, "along period for the wearing down of the chalk which supplied the brokenflints (stones) for the formation of so much gravel at various heights,sometimes one hundred feet above the level of the Somme, for thedeposition of fine sediment, including entire shells, both terrestrialand aquatic, and also for the denudation which the entire mass ofstratified drift has undergone, portions having been swept away, sothat what remains of it often terminates abruptly in old river-cliffs,besides being covered by a newer unstratified drift. To explain thesechanges, I should infer considerable oscillations in the level of theland in that part of France, slow movements of upheaval and subsidence,deranging, but not wholly displacing the course of ancient rivers."

The President of the British Association, in his opening speech atthe meeting of 1860, affirms the immense antiquity of these flintimplements, and remarks:—"At Menchecourt, in the suburbs of Abbeville,a nearly entire skeleton of the Siberian rhinoceros is said to have beentaken out about forty years ago,—a fact affording an answer to thequestion often raised, as to whether the bones of the extinct mammaliacould have been washed out of an older alluvium into a newer one, andso redeposited and mingled with the relics of human workmanship.Far-fetched as was this hypothesis, I am informed that it would not, ifgranted, have seriously shaken the proof of the high antiquity of humanproductions; for that proof is independent of organic evidence or fossilremains, and is based on physical data. As was stated to us last yearby Sir Charles Lyell, we should still have to allow time for greatdenudation of the chalk, and the removal from place to place, and thespreading out over the length and breadth of a large valley, of heaps ofchalk-flints in beds from ten to fifteen feet in thickness, coveredby loam and sands of equal thickness, these last often tranquillydeposited,—all of which operations would require the supposition of agreat lapse of time."

An independent proof of the age of these gravel-beds and the associatedloam, containing fossil remains, is derived by the same authority fromthe large deposits of peat in the valley of the Somme, which contain notonly monuments of the Roman, but also those of an older, stone period,the Finnic period; yet, says Lord Wrottesley, "distinguished geologistsare of opinion that the growth of all the vegetable matter, and eventhe original scooping out of the hollows containing it, are events longposterior in date to the gravel with flint-implements,—nay, posterioreven to the formation of the uppermost of the layers of loam withfresh-water shells overlaying the gravel."

The number of the flint implements is computed at above fourteen hundredin an area of fourteen miles in length and half a mile in breadth. Theyare of the rudest nature, as if formed by a people in the most degradedstate of barbarism. Some are mere flakes of flint, apparently used forknives or arrow-heads; some are pointed and with hollowed bases, as iffor spear-heads, varying from four to nine inches in length; some arealmond-shaped, with a cutting edge, from two to nine inches in length.Others again are fashioned into coarse representations of animals, suchas the whale, saurian, boar, eagle, fish, and even the human profile;others have representations of foliage upon them; others are eitherdrilled with holes or are cut with reference to natural holes, so as toserve as stones for slings, or for amulets, or for ornaments. The edgesin many cases seem formed by a great number of small artificial tipsor blows, and do not at all resemble edges made by a great naturalfracture. Very few are found with polished surfaces like the modernremains in flint; and the whole workmanship differs from that of flintarrow-heads in other parts of Europe, as well as from the later Finnish(or so-called Keltic) remains, discovered in such quantities in France.The only relics that have been found resembling them are, according toMr. Worsaae, some flint arrow-heads and spear-points discovered at greatdepths in the bogs of Denmark. A few bone knives and necklaces of bonehave been met with in these deposits, but thus far no human bones. Thepeople who fabricated these instruments seemed to be a hunting andfishing people, living in some such condition as the present savages ofAustralia.

These discoveries of M. de Perthes have at length aroused the attentionof English men of science, and during 1859 a number of eminentgentlemen—among them Sir Charles Lyell, Mr. Prestwich, Dr. Falconer,and others—visited M. Perthes's collection, and saw the flints insitu. Several of them have avowed their conviction of the genuinenessand antiquity of these relics. Sir Charles Lyell has given a guardedsanction to the belief that they present one strong proof of a remotehuman antiquity.

The objections that would naturally be made to this evidence are, thatthe flints are purely natural formations, and not works of man,—thatthe deposit is alluvial and modern, rather than of the ancientdrift,—or that these implements had been dropped into crevices, or sunkfrom above, in later periods.

The testimony of disinterested observers seems to be sufficient as tothe human contrivance manifest in these flints; and the concurrence ofvarious scientific men hardly leaves room for doubt that these depositsare of great antiquity, preceding the time in which the surface ofFrance took its present form, and dating back to what is called thePost-Pliocene Period. Their horizontal position, and the great depthat which the hatchets are found, together with their number, and thepeculiar incrustation and discoloration of each one, as well as theirbeing in company with the bones of the extinct mammalia, make itimprobable that they could have been dropped into fissures or sunk therein modern times.[D] In regard to the absence of human bones, it shouldbe remembered that no bones are easily preserved, unless they areburied in sediment or in bog; and furthermore, that the extent of theresearches in these formations is very small indeed. Besides, thecountry where above all we should expect the most of human remainsin the drift-deposits, as being probably the most ancient abode ofman,—Asia,—has been the least explored for such purposes. Still thisis without doubt the weak point in the evidence, as proving humanantiquity.

[Footnote D: An article in Blackwood, (October, 1860,) which isunderstood to be from the pen of Professor H.D. Rogers, admits entirelythat the flints are of human workmanship, and that it is impossible forthem to have dropped through fissures, as, according to the writer'sobservation of the deposits, it would be impossible even for a mole topenetrate them, so close are they. Professor Rogers takes the groundthat human antiquity is not proven from these relics, for tworeasons:—First, because the indications in the deposits inclosing theflints point clearly to a "turbulent diluvial action," and therefore itis possible for a violent incursion of the ocean to have taken place inthe historic period, and to have mixed up the more recent works of manwith the previously buried bones or relics of a pre-historic period; andsecondly, because the different geological deposits do not necessarilyprove time, but only succession,—two schools of geology interpretingall similar phenomena differently, as relating to the time required.

The last position would be admitted by few scientific geologists atthe present day, as the evidence for time, though inferential from thedeposits known to us, is held generally to be conclusive. On the firstpoint, Professor Rogers has the weight of authority against him: all thegreat masters of the science, who have examined the formation and thedeposits of the surrounding country, denying that there is any evidenceof an incursion of the ocean of such a nature, during the historicperiod.]

The chain of evidence in regard to this important question seems to befilled out by a recent discovery of M. Edouard Lartet in Aurignac, inthe South of France, on the head-waters of the Garonne. As we have justobserved, the weak point in M. de Perthes's discoveries was the absenceof human bones in the deposits investigated, though this might have beenaccounted for by the withdrawal of human beings from the floods of theperiod. M. Lartet's investigations have fortunately been conducted in aspot which was above the reach of the ordinary inundations of the DriftPeriod, and whither human beings might have fled for refuge, or wherethey might have lived securely during long spaces of time.

Some ten years since, in Aurignac, (Haute Garonne,) in theArrondissement of St. Gaudens, near the Pyrenees, a cavern wasdiscovered in the nummulitic rock. It had been concealed by a heapof fragments of rock and vegetable soil, gradually detached andaccumulated, probably by atmospheric agency. In it were found thehuman remains, it was estimated, of seventeen individuals, which wereafterwards buried formally by the order of the mayor of Aurignac. Alongwith the bones were discovered the teeth of mammals, both carnivora andherbivora; also certain small perforated corals, such as were used bymany ancient peoples as beads, and similar to those gathered in thedeposits of Abbeville. The cave had apparently served as a place ofsacrifice and of burial. In 1860 M. Lartet visited the spot. Inthe layer of loose earth at the bottom of the cave he found flintimplements, worked portions of a reindeer's horn, mammal bones, andhuman bones in a remarkable state of preservation. In a lower layer ofcharcoal and ashes, indicating the presence of man and some ancientfireplace or hearth, the bones of the animals were scratched andindented as though by implements employed to remove the flesh; almostevery bone was broken, as if to extract the marrow, as is done by manymodern tribes of savages. The same peculiarity is noticed in the bonesdiscovered among the "water-huts" of the Danish lakes.

In this deposit M. Lartet picked up many human implements, such asbone knives, flattened circular stones supposed to have been used forsharpening flint knives, perforated sling-stones, many arrow-heads andspear-heads, flint knives, a bodkin made of a roebuck's horn, variousimplements of reindeers' horn, and teeth beads, from the teeth of thegreat fossil bear (Ursus spelaeus). Remains were also found of ninedifferent species of carnivora, such as the fossil bear, the hyena, cat,wolf, fox, and others, and of twelve of herbivora, such as the fossilelephant, the rhinoceros, the great stag, (Cervus elephas,) theEuropean bison, (aurochs,) horse, and others. The most common were theaurochs, the reindeer, and the fox. How savages, armed only with flintimplements, could have captured these gigantic animals, is somewhatmysterious; but, as M. Lartet suggests, they may have snared many ofthem, or have overwhelmed single monsters with innumerable arrows andspears, as Livingstone describes the slaying of the elephant by thenegroes at the present day.

With reference to the mode in which these remains were brought to thisplace, M. Lartet remarks,—"The fragmentary condition of the bones ofcertain animals, the mode in which they are broken, the marks ofthe teeth of the hyena on bones, necessarily broken in their recentcondition, even the distribution of the bones and their significantconsecration, lead to the conclusion that the presence of these animalsand the deposit of all these remains are due solely to human agency.Neither the inclination of the ground nor the surrounding hydrographicalconditions allow us to suppose that the remains could have been broughtwhere they are found by natural causes."

The conclusion, then, in palaeontology, which would be drawn from thesefacts is, that man must have existed in Europe at the same time with thefossil elephant and rhinoceros, the gigantic hyena, the aurochs, and theelk, and even the cave-bear. This latter animal is thought by many tohave disappeared in the very opening of the Post-Pliocene Period; sothat this cave would—judging from the remains of that animal—have beenprior to the long period of inundations in which the drift-deposits ofAbbeville and Amiens were made. The drift which fills the valleys of thePyrenees has not, it is evident, touched this elevated spot in Aurignac.

In chronology, all that is proved by these discoveries of M. Lartet isthat the fossil animals mentioned above and man were contemporaries onthe earth. The age of each must be determined inferentially by comparingthe age of strata in which these animals are usually found with the agein which the most ancient traces of man are discovered,—such as thedeposits already described in the North of France.

Similar discoveries on a smaller scale are recorded by Mr. Prestwichin Suffolk, England, and in Devonshire. We are informed also by Sir C.Lyell of a recent important discovery near Troyes, France. In the Grottod'Arcès, a human jaw-bone and teeth have been found imbedded withElephas primigenius, Ursus spelaeus, Hyaena spelaea, and otherextinct animals, under layers of stalagmite. Professor Pictet, thecelebrated geologist, who also gives his adhesion to these discoveriesof M. de Perthes, states that the cave-evidence has by no means beensufficiently valued by geologists, and that there are caverns in Belgiumwhere the existence of human remains cannot be satisfactorily explainedon the theory of a modern introduction of them. The President of theBritish Association (Lord Wrottesley) also states that in the cave ofBrixham, Devonshire, and in another near Palermo, in Sicily, flintimplements were observed by Dr. Falconer, in such a manner as to leadhim to infer that man must have coexisted with several lost species ofquadrupeds.

Professor Owen, in his "Palaeontology," (1861,) appears to put faith inthe genuineness and antiquity of these flint relics. He also states thatsimilar flint weapons have been found by Mr. John Frere, F.R.S., inSuffolk, in a bed of flint gravel, sixteen feet below the surface, ofthe same geological age as that in the valley of the Somme.

The conclusion from these discoveries—the most important scientificdiscoveries, relating to human history, of modern times—is, that agesago, in the period of the extinct mammoth and the fossil bear, perhapsbefore the Channel separated England from France, a race of barbarianhuman beings lived on the soil of Europe, capable of fabricating roughimplements. The evidence has been carefully weighed by impartial andexperienced men, and thus far it seems complete.

The mind is lost in astonishment, in looking back at such a vastantiquity of human beings. A tribe of men in existence tens of thousandsof years before any of the received dates of Creation! savages whohunted, with their flint-headed arrows, the gigantic elk of Ireland andthe buffalo of Germany, or who fled from the savage tiger of France,or who trapped the immense clumsy mammoth of Northern Europe. Who werethey? we ask ourselves in wonder. Was there with man, as with otherforms of animal life, a long and gradual progression from the lowestcondition to a higher, till at length the world was made ready for amore developed human being, and the Creator placed the first of thepresent family of man upon the earth? Were those European barbarians ofthe Drift Period a primeval race, destroyed before the creation of ourown race, and lower and more barbarian than the lowest of the presentinhabitants of the world? or, as seems more probable, were thesemysterious beings—the hunters of the mammoth and the aurochs—theearliest progenitors of our own family, the childish fathers of thehuman race?

The subject hardly yet admits of an exact and scientific answer. We canmerely here suggest the probability of a vast antiquity to human beings,and of the existence of the FOSSIL or PRE-ADAMITIC MAN.

* * * * *

LIFE IN THE OPEN AIR.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CECIL DREEME" AND "JOHN BRENT."

KATAHDIN AND THE PENOBSCOT.

CHAPTER X.

RIPOGENUS.

Ripogenus is a tarn, a lovely oval tarn, within a rim of forest andhill; and there behold, O gioja! at its eastern end, stooping forwardand filling the sphere, was Katahdin, large and alone.

But we must hasten, for day wanes, and we must see and sketch thiscloudless summit from terra firma. A mile and half-way down the lake,we landed at the foot of a grassy hill-side, where once had been alumberman's station and hay-farm. It was abandoned now, and lonely inthat deeper sense in which widowhood is lonelier than celibacy, a homedeserted lonelier than a desert. Tumble-down was the never-paintedhouse; ditto its three barns. But, besides a camp, there were two thingsto be had here,—one certain, one possible, probable even. The view,that was an inevitable certainty; Iglesias would bag that as his shareof the plunder of Ripogenus. For my bagging, bears, perchance, awaited.The trappers had seen a bear near the barns. Cancut, in his previousvisit, had seen a disappearance of bear. No sooner had the birch'sbow touched lightly upon the shore than we seized our respectiveweapons,—Iglesias his peaceful and creative sketch-book, I my warlikeand destructive gun,—and dashed up the hill-side.

I made for the barns to catch Bruin napping or lolling in the old hay.I entertain a vendetta toward the ursine family. I had a duello,pistol against claw, with one of them in the mountains of Oregon,and have nothing to show to point the moral and adorn the tale. Myantagonist of that hand-to-hand fight received two shots, and thendodged into cover and was lost in the twilight. Soon or late in my life,I hoped that I should avenge this evasion. Ripogenus would, perhaps,give what the Nachchese Pass had taken away.

Vain hope! I was not to be an ursicide. I begin to fear that I shallslay no other than my proper personal bearishness. I did my duty foranother result at Ripogenus. I bolted audaciously into every barn. Imade incursions into the woods around. I found the mark of the beast,not the beast. He had not long ago decamped, and was now, perhaps,sucking the meditative paw hard-by in an arbor of his bear-garden.

After a vain hunt, I gave up Beast and turned to Beauty. I looked aboutme, seeing much.

Foremost I saw a fellow-man, my comrade, fondled by breeze andbrightness, and whispered to by all sweet sounds. I saw Iglesias belowme, on the slope, sketching. He was preserving the scene at its belmomento. I repented more bitterly of my momentary falseness to Beautywhile I saw him so constant.

Furthermore, I saw a landscape of vigorous simplicity, easy tocomprehend. By mellow sunset the grass slope of the old farm seemed nolonger tanned and rusty, but ripened. The oval lake was blue and calm,and that is already much to say; shadows of the western hills weregrowing over it, but flight after flight of illumined cloud soaredabove, to console the sky and the water for the coming of night.Northward, a forest darkled, whose glades of brightness I could not see.Eastward, the bank mounted abruptly to a bare fire-swept table-land,whereon a few dead trees stood, parched and ghostly skeletons drapedwith rags of moss.

Furthermost and topmost, I saw Katahdin twenty miles away, a giantundwarfed by any rival. The remainder landscape was only minor andjudiciously accessory. The hills were low before it, the lake lowly,and upright above lake and hill lifted the mountain pyramid.Isolate greatness tells. There were no underling mounts about thismountain-in-chief. And now on its shoulders and crest sunset shone,glowing. Warm violet followed the glow, soothing away the harshness ofgranite lines. Luminous violet dwelt upon the peak, while below theclinging forests were purple in sheltered gorges, where they could climbnearer the summit, loved of light, and lower down gloomed green andsombre in the shadow.

Meanwhile, as I looked, the quivering violet rose higher and higher, andat last floated away like a disengaged flame. A smouldering blue dweltupon the peak. Ashy-gray overcame the blue. As dusk thickened and starstrembled into sight, the gray grew luminous. Katahdin's mighty presenceseemed to absorb such dreamy glimmers as float in limpid night-airs:a faint glory, a twilight of its own, clothed it. King of thedaylit-world, it became queen of the dimmer realms of night, and like awoman-queen it did not disdain to stoop and study its loveliness inthe polished lake, and stooping thus it overhung the earth, a shadowycreature of gleam and gloom, an eternized cloud.

I sat staring and straying in sweet reverie, until the scene before mewas dim as metaphysics. Suddenly a flame flashed up in the void. Itgrew and steadied, and dark objects became visible about it. In theloneliness—for Iglesias had disappeared—I allowed myself a moment'sluxury of superstition. Were these the Cyclops of Katahdin? Possibly.Were they Trolls forging diabolic enginery, or Gypsies of Yankeedom? Iwill see,—and went tumbling down the hill-side.

As I entered the circle about the cooking-fire of drift-wood by thelake, Iglesias said,—

"The beef-steak and the mutton-chops will do for breakfast; now, then,with your bear!"

"Haw, haw!" guffawed Cancut; and the sound, taking the lake at a stride,found echoes everywhere, till he grew silent and peered suspiciouslyinto the dark.

"There's more bears raound 'n yer kin shake a stick at," said one of themuskrateers. "I wouldn't ricommend yer to stir 'em up naow, haowlin'like that."

"I meant it for laffin'," said Cancut, humbly.

"Ef yer call that 'ere larfin', couldn't yer cry a little to kind erslick daown the bears?" said the trapper.

Iglesias now invited us to chocolat à la crème, made with the boonof the ex-bar-keeper. I suppose I may say, without flattery, that thistipple was marvellous. What a pity Nature spoiled a cook by making themuddler of that chocolate a painter of grandeurs! When Fine Art is ina man's nature, it must exude, as pitch leaks from a pine-tree. Ourmuskrat-hunters partook injudiciously of this unaccustomed dainty, andwere visited with indescribable Nemesis. They had never been acclimatedto chocolate, as had Iglesias and I, by sipping it under the shade ofthe mimosa and the palm.

Up to a certain point, an unlucky hunter is more likely to hunt thana lucky. Satiety follows more speedily upon success than despair uponfailure. Let us thank Heaven for that, brethren dear! I had bagged not abear, and must needs satisfy my assassin instincts upon something withhoofs and horns. The younger trapper of muskrat, being young, wasardent,—being young, was hopeful,—being young, believed in exceptionsto general rules,—and being young, believed, that, given a good fellowwith a gun, Nature would provide a victim. Therefore he proposed that weshould canoe it along the shallows in this sweetest and stillest of allthe nights. The senior shook his head incredulously; Iglesias shook hishead noddingly.

"Since you have massacred all the bears," said Iglesias, "I will go layme down in their lair in the barn. If you find me cheek-by-jowl withUrsa Major when you come back, make a pun and he will go."

It was stiller than stillness upon the lake. Ripogenus, it seemed, hadnever listened to such silence as this. Calm never could have been sobeyond the notion of calm. Stars in the empyrean and stars in Ripogenuswinked at each other across ninety-nine billions of leagues asuninterruptedly as boys at a boarding-school table.

I knelt amidships in the birch with gun and rifle on either side. Thepilot gave one stroke of his paddle, and we floated out upon what seemedthe lake. Whatever we were poised and floating upon he hesitated toshatter with another dip of his paddle, lest he should shatter the thinbasis and sink toward heaven and the stars.

Presently the silence seemed to demand gentle violence, and theunwavering water needed slight tremors to teach it the tenderness of itscalm; then my guide used his blade, and cut into glassiness. We creptnoiselessly along by the lake-edge, within the shadows of the pines.With never a plash we slid. Rare drops fell from the cautious paddleand tinkled on the surface, overshot, not parted by, our imponderablepassage. Sometimes from far within the forest would come sounds ofrustling branches or crackling twigs. Somebody of life approaches withstealthy tread. Gentlier, even gentlier, my steersman! Take up no pearlydrop from the lake, mother of pearliness, lest falling it sound tooloudly. Somewhat comes. Let it come unterrified to our ambush among theshadows by the shore.

Somewhat, something, somebody was coming, perhaps, but some other thingor body thwarted it and it came not. To glide over glassiness whileuneventful moments link themselves into hours is monotonous. Night andstillness laid their soothing spell upon me. I was entranced. I lostmyself out of time and space, and seemed to be floating unimpelled andpurposeless, nowhere in Forever.

Somewhere in Now I suddenly found myself.

There he was! There was the moose trampling and snorting hard-by, in theshallows of Ripogenus, trampling out of being the whole nadir of stars,making the world conscious of its lost silence by the death of silencein tumult.

I trembled with sudden eagerness. I seized my gun. In another instantI should have lodged the fatal pellet! when a voice whispered over myshoulder,—

"I kinder guess yer 've ben asleep an' dreamin', ha'n't yer?"

So I had.

Never a moose came down to cool his clumsy snout in the water andswallow reflections of stars. Never a moose abandoned dry-browse in thebitter woods for succulent lily-pads, full in their cells and veins ofwater and sunlight. Till long past midnight we paddled and watched andlistened, whisperless. In vain. At last, as we rounded a point, thelevel gleam of our dying camp-fire athwart the water reminded us ofpassing hours and traveller duties, of rest to-night and toil to-morrow.

My companions, fearless as if there were no bears this side of UrsaMajor, were bivouacked in one of the barns. There I entered skulkingly,as a gameless hunter may, and hid my untrophied head beneath a mound ofancient hay, not without the mustiness of its age.

No one clawed us, no one chawed us, that night. A Ripogenus chill awakedthe whole party with early dawn. We sprang from our nests, shook thehay-seed out of our hair, and were full-dressed without more ceremony,ready for whatever grand sensation Nature might purvey for our aestheticbreakfast.

Nothing is ever as we expect. When we stepped into out-of-doors, lookingfor Ripogenus, a lake of Maine, we found not a single aquatic fact inthe landscape. Ripogenus, a lake, had mizzled, (as the Americans say,)literally mizzled. Our simplified view comprised a grassy hill withbarns, and a stern positive pyramid, surely Katahdin; aloft, beyond,above, below, thither, hither, and yon, Fog, not fog, but FOG.

Ripogenus, the water-body, had had aspirations, and a boon of brieftransfiguration into a cloud-body had been granted it by Nature, whogrants to every terrestrial essence prophetic experiences of what it oneday would be.

In short, and to repeat, Ripogenus had transmuted itself into vapor, andfilled the valley full to our feet. A faint wind had power to billowthis mist-lake, and drive cresting surges up against the easternhill-side, over which they sometimes broke, and, involving it totally,rolled clear and free toward Katahdin, where he stood hiding the glowsof sunrise. Leagues higher up than the mountain rested a presence ofcirri, already white and luminous with full daylight, and from themdrooped linking wreaths of orange mist, clinging to the rosy-violetgranite of the peak.

Up clomb and sailed Ripogenus and befogged the whole; then wecondescended to breakfast.

CHAPTER XI.

TOWARD KATAHDIN.

Singularly enough, mill-dams are always found below mill-ponds.Analogously in the Maine rivers, below the lakes, rapids are. Rapidstoo often compel carries. While we breakfasted without steak of bearor cutlet of moose, Ripogenus gradually retracted itself, and becameconscious again of what poetry there is in a lake's pause and a rapid'sflow. Fog condensed into water, and water submitting to its destiny wentcascading down through a wild defile where no birch could follow.

The Ripogenus carry is three miles long, a faint path through thickets.

"First half," said Cancut, "'s plain enough; but after that 't wouldtake a philosopher with his spectacles on to find it."

This was discouraging. Philosophers twain we might deem ourselves; butwhat is a craftsman without tools? And never a goggle had we.

But the trappers of muskrats had become our fast friends. They insistedupon lightening our loads over the brambly league. This was kindly.Cancut's elongated head-piece, the birch, was his share of the burden;and a bag of bread, a firkin of various grub, damp blankets for three,and multitudinous traps, seemed more than two could carry at one tripover this longest and roughest of portages.

We paddled from the camp to the lake-foot, and there, while the otherscompacted the portables for portage, Iglesias and I, at cost of aducking with mist-drops from the thickets, scrambled up a crag for asupreme view of the fair lake and the clear mountain. And we didwell. Katahdin, from the hill guarding the exit of the Penobscot fromRipogenus, is eminent and emphatic, a signal and solitary pyramid,grander than any below the realms of the unchangeable, more distinctlymountainous than any mountain of those that stop short of the venerablehonors of eternal snow.

We trod the trail, we others, easier than Cancut. He found it hard tothread the mazes of an overgrown path and navigate his canoe at thesame time. "Better," thought he, as he staggered and plunged and bumpedalong, extricating his boat-bonnet now from a bower of raspberry-bushes,now from the branches of a brotherly birch-tree,—"better," thought he,"were I seated in what I bear, and bounding gayly over the billow. Perilis better than pother."

Bushwhacking thus for a league, we circumvented the peril, and came uponthe river flowing fair and free. The trappers said adieu, and launchedus. Back then they went to consult their traps and flay their fragrantcaptives, and we shot forward.

That was a day all poetry and all music. Mountain airs bent and bluntedthe noonday sunbeams. There was shade of delicate birches on eitherhand, whenever we loved to linger. Our feather-shallop went dancingon, fleet as the current, and whenever a passion for speed came aftermoments of luxurious sloth, we could change floating at the river'swill into leaps and chasing, with a few strokes of the paddle. All wasuntouched, unvisited wilderness, and we from bend to bend the firstdiscoverers. So we might fancy ourselves; for civilization had beenhere only to cut pines, not to plant houses. Yet these fair curves, andliberal reaches, and bright rapids of the birchen-bowered river wereonly solitary, not lonely. It is never lonely with Nature. Withoutunnatural men or unnatural beasts, she is capital society by herself.And so we found her,—a lovely being in perfect toilet, which Idescribe, in an indiscriminating, masculine way, by saying that it was aforest and a river and lakes and a mountain and doubtless sky, all maderesplendent by her judicious disposition of a most becoming light.Iglesias and I, being old friends, were received into close intimacy.She smiled upon us unaffectedly, and had a thousand exquisite things tosay, drawing us out also, with feminine tact, to say our best things,and teaching us to be conscious, in her presence, of more delicatepossibilities of refinement and a tenderer poetic sense. So we voyagedthrough the sunny hours, and were happy.

Yet there was no monotony in our progress. We could not always drift andglide. Sometimes we must fight our way. Below the placid reaches werethe inevitable "rips" and rapids: some we could shoot without hittinganything; some would hit us heavily, did we try to shoot. Wheneverthe rocks in the current were only as thick as the plums in aboarding-school pudding, we could venture to run the gantlet; wheneverthey multiplied to a school-boy's ideal, we were arrested. Just at thebrink of peril we would sweep in by an eddy into a shady pool by theshore. At such spots we found a path across the carry. Cancut at onceproceeded to bonnet himself with the trickling birch. Iglesias and Itook up the packs and hurried on with minds intent on berries. Berrieswe always found,—blueberries covered with a cloudy bloom, blueberriespulpy, saccharine, plenteous.

Often, when a portage was not quite necessary, a dangerous bit of whitewater would require the birch to be lightened. Cancut must steer heralone over the foam, while we, springing ashore, raced through the thickof the forest, tore through the briers, and plunged through the punk oftrees older than history, now rotting where they fell, slain by Time theGiganticide. Cancut then had us at advantage. Sometimes we had laughedat him, when he, a good-humored malaprop, made vague clutches at thethread of discourse. Now suppose he should take a fancy to drop downstream and leave us. What then? Berries then, and little else, unless wehad a chance at a trout or a partridge. It is not cheery, but dreary, tobe left in pathlessness, blanketless, guideless, and with breadths oflake and mountain and Nature, shaggy and bearish, between man and man.With the consciousness of a latent shudder in our hearts at such apossibility, we parted brier and bramble until the rapid was passed, wescuffled hastily through to the river-bank, and there always, in somequiet nook, was a beacon of red-flannel shirt among the green leavesover the blue and shadowy water, and always the fast-sailing Cancutawaiting us, making the woods resound to amicable hails, and ready againto be joked and to retaliate.

Such alternations made our voyage a charming olla. We had the placidglide, the fleet dash, the wild career, the pause, the landing,the agreeable interlude of a portage, and the unburdened stampedealong-shore. Thus we won our way, or our way wooed us on, until, inearly afternoon, a lovely lakelet opened before us. The fringedshores retired, and, as we shot forth upon wider calm, lo, Katahdin!unlooked-for, at last, as a revolution. Our boat ruffled its shadow,doing pretty violence to its dignity, that we might know the greatergrandeur of the substance. There was a gentle agency of atmospheresoftening the bold forms of this startling neighbor, and giving itdistance, lest we might fear it would topple and crush us. Clouds, levelbelow, hid the summit and towered aloft. Among them we might imagine themountain rising with thousands more of feet of heaven-piercing height:there is one degree of sublimity in mystery, as there is another degreein certitude.

We lay to in a shady nook, just off Katahdin's reflection in the river,while Iglesias sketched him. Meanwhile I, analyzing my view, presentlydiscovered a droll image in the track of a land-avalanche down thefront. It was a comical fellow, a little giant, a colossal dwarf, sixhundred feet high, and should have been thrice as tall, had it had anyproper development,—for out of his head grew two misdirected skeletonlegs, "hanging down and dangling." The countenance was long, elfin,sneering, solemn, as of a truculent demon, saddish for his trade, anashamed, but unrepentant rascal. He had two immense erect ears, and inhis boisterous position had suffered a loss of hair, wearing nothingsave an impudent scalp-lock. A very grotesque personage. Was he theguardian imp, the legendary Eft of Katahdin, scoffing already at us asverdant, and warning that he would make us unhappy, if we essayed toappear in demon realms and on Brocken heights without initiation?

"A terrible pooty mountain," Cancut observed; and so it is.

Not to fail in topographical duty, I record, that near this lakeletflows in the river Sowadehunk, and not far below, a sister streamlet,hardly less melodiously named Ayboljockameegus. Opposite the latter welanded and encamped, with Katahdin full in front, and broadly visible.

CHAPTER XII.

CAMP KATAHDIN.

Our camping-place was worthy of its view. On the bank, high and dry, anoble yellow birch had been strong enough to thrust back the forest,making a glade for its own private abode. Other travellers had alreadybeen received in this natural pavilion. We had had predecessors, andthey had built them a hut, a half roof of hemlock bark, resting on aframe. Time had developed the wrinkles in this covering into cracks, andcracks only wait to be leaks. First, then, we must mend our mansion.Material was at hand; hemlocks, with a back-load of bark, stood ready tobe disburdened. In August they have worn their garment so long that theyyield it unwillingly. Cancut's axe, however, was insinuating, not tosay peremptory. He peeled off and brought great scales of roughpurple roofing, and we disposed them, according to the laws offorest architecture, upon our cabin. It became a good example of therenaissance. Storm, if such a traveller were approaching, was shutout at top and sides; our blankets could become curtains in front andcompletely hide us from that unwelcome vagrant, should he peer aboutseeking whom he might duck and what he might damage.

Our lodge, built, must be furnished. We need a luxurious carpet, couch,and bed; and if we have these, will be content without secondaryarticles. Here, too, material was ready, and only the artist wanting, touse it. While Cancut peeled the hemlocks, Iglesias and I stripped offarmfuls of boughs and twigs from the spruces to "bough down" our camp."Boughing down" is shingling the floor elaborately with evergreenfoliage; and when it is done well, the result counts among the highluxuries of the globe. As the feathers of this bed are harsh stemscovered with leafage, the process of bed-making must be systematic, thestems thoroughly covered, and the surface smooth and elastic. I haveslept on the various beds of the world,—in a hammock, in a pew, onGerman feathers, on a bear-skin, on a mat, on a hide; all, all give buta feeble, restless, unrecreating slumber, compared to the spruce orhemlock bed in a forest of Maine. This is fragrant, springy, soft,well-fitting, better than any Sybarite's coach of uncrumpledrose-leaves. It sweetly rustles when you roll, and, by a gentletitillation with the little javelin-leaves, keeps up a pleasantelectricity over the cuticle. Rheumatism never, after nights on such abed; agues never; vigor, ardor, fervor, always.

We despatched our camp-building and bed-making with speed, for we hada purpose. The Penobscot was a very beautiful river, and theAyboljockameegus a very pretty stream; and if there is one place in theworld where trout, at certain seasons, are likely to be found, it is ina beautiful river at the mouth of a pretty stream. Now we wanted trout;it was in the programme that something more delicate than salt-porkshould grace our banquets before Katahdin. Cancut sustained our apriori, that trout were waiting for us over by the Aybol. By thistime the tree-shadows, so stiff at noon, began to relax and drift downstream, cooling the surface. The trout could leave their shy lairsdown in the chilly deeps, and come up without fear of being parboiled.Besides, as evening came, trout thought of their supper, as we did ofours.

Hereupon I had a new sensation. We made ready our flies and our rods,and embarked, as I supposed, to be ferried across and fish from terrafirma. But no. Cancut dropped anchor very quietly opposite the Aybol'smouth. Iglesias, the man of Maine experience, seemed nought surprised.We were to throw our lines, as it appeared, from the birch; we were toperil our lives on the unsteady basis of a roly-poly vessel,—to keepour places and ballast our bowl, during the excitement of hookingpounds. Self-poise is an acrobatic feat, when a person, not loaded atthe heels, undertakes trout-fishing from a birch.

We threw our flies. Instantly at the lucky hackle something darted,seized it, and whirled to fly, with the unwholesome bit in its mouth, upthe peaceful Ayboljockameegus. But the lucky man, and he happened to bethe novice, forgot, while giving the capturing jerk of his hook, thathis fulcrum was not solid rock. The slight shell tilted, turned—overnot quite, over enough to give everybody a start. One lesson teaches thedocile. Caution thereafter presided over our fishing. She told us to sitlow, keep cool, cast gently, strike firmly, play lightly, and pull insteadily. So we did. As the spotted sparklers were rapidly translatedfrom water to a lighter element, a well-fed cheerfulness developed inour trio. We could not speak, for fear of breaking the spell; we smiledat each other. Twenty-three times the smile went round. Twenty-threetrout, and not a pigmy among them, lay at our feet. More fish for onedinner and breakfast would be waste and wanton self-indulgence. Westopped. And I must avow, not to claim too much heroism, that the fishhad also stopped. So we paddled home contented.

Then, O Walton! O Davy! O Scrope! ye fishers hard by taverns! luxury wasours of which ye know no more than a Chinaman does of music. Underthe noble yellow birch we cooked our own fish. We used our scantykitchen-battery with skill. We cooked with the high art of simplicity.Where Nature has done her best, only fools rush in to improve: on thesalmonids, fresh and salt, she has lavished her creative refinements;cookery should only ripen and develop. From our silver gleaming pileof pounders, we chose the larger and the smaller for appropriateexperiments. Then we tested our experiments; we tasted our examples.Success. And success in science proves knowledge and skill. We feasted.The delicacy of our food made each feaster a finer essence.

So we supped, reclined upon our couch of spruce-twigs. In our good cheerwe pitied the Eft of Katahdin: he might sneer, but he was supperless. Wewere grateful to Nature for the grand mountain, for the fair and sylvanwoods, for the lovely river and what it had yielded us.

By the time we had finished our flaky fare and sipped our chocolate fromthe Magdalena, Night announced herself,—Night, a jealous, dark lady,eclipsed and made invisible all her rivals, that she might solelypossess us. Night's whispers lulled us. The rippling river, the rustlingleaves, the hum of insects grew more audible; and these are gentlesounds that prove wide quietude in Nature, and tell man that the burrand buzz in his day-laboring brain have ceased, and he had better bebreathing deep in harmony. So we disposed ourselves upon the fragrantcouch of spruce-boughs, and sank slowly and deeper into sleep, as diverssink into the thick waters down below, into the dreamy waters far belowthe plunge of sunshine.

By-and-by, as the time came for rising to the surface again, and themind began to be half conscious of facts without it, as the diver mayhalf perceive light through thinning strata of sea, there penetratedthrough my last layers of slumber a pungent odor of wetted embers. Itwas raining quietly. Drip was the pervading sound, as if the rain-dropswere counting aloud the leaves of the forest. Evidently a resolute andpermanent wetting impended. On rainy days one does not climb Katahdin.Instead of rising by starlight, breakfasting by gray, and starting byrosy dawn, it would be policy to persuade night to linger long into thehours of a dull day. When daylight finally came, dim and sulky, therewas no rivalry among us which should light the fire. We did not leap,but trickled slowly forth into the inhospitable morning, all forlorn.Wet days in camp try "grit." "Clear grit" brightens more crystalline,the more it is rained upon; sham grit dissolves into mud and water.

Yankees, who take in pulverized granite with every breath of theirnative dust, are not likely to melt in a drizzle. We three certainlydid not. We reacted stoutly against the forlorn weather, unpacking ourinternal stores of sunshine, as a camel in a desert draws water from hisinner tank when outer water fails. We made the best of it. A breakfastof trout and trimmings looks nearly as well and tastes nearly as well ina fog as in a glare: that we proved by experience at Camp Katahdin.

We could not climb the mountain dark and dim; we would not be idle: whatwas to be done? Much. Much for sport and for use. We shouldered theaxe and sallied into the dripping forest. Only a faint smoke from thesmouldering logs curled up among the branches of the yellow birch overcamp. We wanted a big smoke, and chopped at the woods for fuel. Speakingfor myself, I should say that our wood-work was ill done. Iglesiassmiled at my axe-handling, and Cancut at his, as chopping we sent chipsfar and wide.

The busy, keen, short strokes of the axe resounded through the forest.When these had done their work, and the bungler paused amid his wastefuldebris to watch his toil's result, first was heard a rustle of leaves,as if a passing whirlwind had alighted there; next came the crack ofbursting sinews; then the groan of a great riving spasm, and the tree,decapitated at its foot, crashed to earth, with a vain attempt to clutchfor support at the stiff, unpitying arms of its woodland brotherhood.

Down was the tree,—fallen, but so it should not lie. This tree weproposed to promote from brute matter, mere lumber, downcast anddejected, into finer essence: fuel was to be made into fire.

First, however, the fuel must be put into portable shape. We top-sawyerswent at our prostrate and vanquished non-resistant, and without mercymangled and dismembered him, until he was merely a bare trunk, a torsoincapable of restoration.

While we were thus busy, useful, and happy, the dripping rain, like aclepsydra, told off the morning moments. The dinner-hour drew nigh. Wehad determined on a feast, and trout were to be its daintiest dainty.But before we cooked our trout, we must, according to sage Kitchener'sadvice, catch our trout. They were, we felt confident, awaiting us inthe refrigerate larder at hand. We waited until the confusing pepper ofa shower had passed away and left the water calm. Then softly and deftlywe propelled our bark across to the Ayboljockameegus. We tossed to thefish humbugs of wool, silk, and feathers, gauds such as captivate thegreedy or the guileless. Again the "gobemouches" trout, the fellowson the look-out for novelty, dashed up and swallowed disappointingjuiceless morsels, and with them swallowed hooks.

We caught an apostolic boat-load of beauties fresh and bloomingas Aurora, silver as the morning star, gemmy with eye-spots as atiger-lily.

O feast most festal! Iglesias, of course, was the great artist whodevised and mainly executed it. As well as he could, he covered his potand pan from the rain, admitting only enough to season each dish withgravy direct from the skies. As day had ripened, the banquet grew ripe.Then as day declined, we reclined on our triclinium of hemlock andspruce boughs, and made high festival, toasting each other in theuninebriating flow of our beverages. Jollity reigned. Cancut fattened,and visibly broadened. Toward the veriest end of the banquet, we seemedto feel that there had been a slight sameness in its courses. The Billof Fare, however, proved the freest variety. And at the close we sat andsipped our chocolate with uttermost content. No garçon, cringing, butfirm, would here intrude with the unhandsome bill. Nothing to pay is therarest of pleasures. This dinner we had caught ourselves, we had cookedourselves, and had eaten for the benefit of ourselves and no other.There was nothing to repent of afterwards in the way of extravagance,and certainly nothing of indigestion. Indigestion in the forestprimeval, in the shadow of Katahdin, is impossible.

While we dined, we talked of our to-morrow's climb of Katahdin. We werehopeful. We disbelieved in obstacles. To-morrow would be fine. We wouldspring early from our elastic bed and stride topwards. Iglesias nervedhimself and me with a history of his ascent some years before, up theeastern side of the mountain. He had left the house of Mr. Hunt, theoutsider at that time of Eastern Maine, with a squad of lumbermen, andwith them tramped up the furrow of a land-avalanche to the top, spendingwet and ineffective days in the dripping woods, and vowing then toreturn and study the mountain from our present camping-spot. I recalledalso the first recorded ascent of the Natardin or Catardin Mountain byMr. Turner in 1804, printed in the Massachusetts Historical Society'sCollections, and identified the stream up whose valley he climbed withthe Ayboljockameegus. Cancut offered valuable contributions to ourknowledge from his recent ascent with our Boston predecessors. To-morrowwe would verify our recollections and our fancies.

And so good-night, and to our spruce bed.

CHAPTER XIII.

UP KATAHDIN.

Next morning, when we awoke, just before the gray of dawn, the sky wasclear and scintillating; but there was a white cotton night-cap onthe head of Katahdin. As we inspected him, he drew his night-cap downfarther, hinting that he did not wish to see the sun that day. Whena mountain is thus in the sulks after a storm, it is as well not todisturb him: he will not offer the prize of a view. Experience taught usthis: but then experience is only an empiric at the best.

Besides, whether Katahdin were bare-headed or cloud-capped, it would bebetter to blunder upward than lounge all day in camp and eat Sybariticdinners. We longed for the nervy climb. We must have it. "Up!" saidtingling blood to brain. "Dash through the forest! Grasp the crag, andleap the cleft! Sweet flash forth the streamlets from granite fissures.To breathe the winds that smite the peaks is life."

As soon as dawn bloomed in the woods we breakfasted, and ferried theriver before sunrise. The ascent subdivides itself into five zones. 1. Ascantily wooded acclivity, where bears abound. 2. A dense, swampy forestregion. 3. Steep, mossy mountain-side, heavily wooded. 4. A belt ofdwarf spruces, nearly impenetrable. 5. Ragged rock.

Cancut was our leader to-day. There are by far too many blueberries inthe first zone. No one, of course, intends to dally, but the purplebeauties tempted, and too often we were seduced. Still such yieldingspurred us on to hastier speed, when we looked up after delay and sawthe self-denying far ahead.

To write an epic or climb a mountain is merely a dogged thing; theresult is more interesting to most than the process. Mountains, beingcloud-compellers, are rain-shedders, and the shed water will not alwaysflow with decorous gayety in dell or glen. Sometimes it stays bewilderedin a bog, and here the climber must plunge. In the moist places greattrees grow, die, fall, rot, and barricade the way with their corpses.Katahdin has to endure all the ills of mountain being, and we had allthe usual difficulties to fight through doggedly. When we were clumsy,we tumbled and rose up torn. Still we plodded on, following a pathblazed by the Bostonians, Cancut's late charge, and we grumblinglythanked them.

Going up, we got higher and drier. The mountain-side became steeper thanit could stay, and several land-avalanches, ancient or modern, crossedour path. It would be sad to think that all the eternal hills werecrumbling thus, outwardly, unless we knew that they bubble up inwardlyas fast. Posterity is thus cared for in regard to the picturesque.Cascading streams also shot by us, carrying light and music. Fromthem we stole refreshment, and did not find the waters mineral andastringent, as Mr. Turner, the first climber, calumniously asserts.

The trees were still large and surprisingly parallel to the mountainwall. Deep soft moss covered whatever was beneath, and sometimes thiswould yield and let the foot measure a crevice. Perilous pitfalls; butwe clambered unharmed. The moss, so rich, deep, soft, and earthilyfragrant, was a springy stair-carpet of a steep stairway. And sometimeswhen the carpet slipped and the state of heels over head seemedimminent, we held to the baluster-trees, as one after wassail clings tothe lamp-post.

Even on this minor mountain the law of diminishing vegetation can bestudied. The great trees abandoned us, and stayed indolently down inshelter. Next the little wiry trees ceased to be the comrades of ourclimb. They were no longer to be seen planted upon jutting crags, and,bold as standard-bearers, inciting us to mount higher. Big spruces,knobby with balls of gum, dwindled away into little ugly dwarf spruces,hostile, as dwarfs are said to be always, to human comfort. They grewman-high, and hedged themselves together into a dense thicket. We couldnot go under, nor over, nor through. To traverse them at all, we mustrecall the period when we were squirrels or cats, in some former stateof being.

Somehow we pierced, as man does ever, whether he owes it to the beast orthe man in him. From time to time, when in this struggle we came to anopen point of rock, we would remember that we were on high, and turn toassure ourselves that nether earth was where we had left it. We alwaysfound it in situ, in belts green, white, and blue, a tricolor ofwoods, water, and sky. Lakes were there without number, forest withoutlimit. We could not analyze yet, for there was work to do. Also,whenever we paused, there was the old temptation, blueberries. Everyout-cropping ledge offered store of tonic, ozone-fed blueberries, orof mountain-cranberries, crimson and of concentrated flavor, or of thewhite snowberry, most delicate of fruits that grow.

As we were creeping over the top of the dwarf wood, Cancut, who was inadvance, suddenly disappeared; he seemed to fall through a gap in thespruces, and we heard his voice calling in cavernous tones. We crawledforward and looked over. It was the upper camp of the Bostonians. Theyhad profited by a hole in the rocks, and chopped away the stunted scrubsto enlarge it into a snug artificial abyss. It was snug, and so to theeye is a cell at Sing-Sing. If they were very misshapen Bostonians, theymay have succeeded in lying there comfortably. I looked down ten feetinto the rough chasm, and I saw, Corpo di Bacco! I saw a cork.

To this station our predecessors had come in an easy day's walk from theriver; here they had tossed through a night, and given a whole day tofinish the ascent, returning hither again for a second night. As wepurposed to put all this travel within one day, we could not stay andsympathize with the late tenants. A little more squirrel-like skippingand cat-like creeping over the spruces, and we were out among bulkyboulders and rough débris on a shoulder of the mountain. Alas! thehigher, the more hopeless. Katahdin, as he had taken pains to inform us,meant to wear the veil all day. He was drawing down the white draperyabout his throat and letting it fall over his shoulders. Sun and windstruggled mightily with his sulky fit; sunshine rifted off bits of theveil, and wind seized, whirled them away, and, dragging them over thespruces below, tore them to rags. Evidently, if we wished to see theworld, we must stop here and survey, before the growing vapor coveredall. We climbed to the edge of Cloudland, and stood fronting thesemicircle of southward view.

Katahdin's self is finer than what Katahdin sees. Katahdin is distinct,and its view is indistinct. It is a vague panorama, a mappy, unmethodicmaze of water and woods, very roomy, very vast, very simple,—and theseare capital qualities, but also quite monotonous. A lover of largenessand scope has the proper emotions stirred, but a lover of variety verysoon finds himself counting the lakes. It is a wide view, and it is aproud thing for a man six feet or less high, to feel that he himself,standing on something he himself has climbed, and having Katahdin underhis feet a mere convenience, can see all Maine. It does not make Maineless, but the spectator more, and that is a useful moral result. Maine'sface, thus exposed, has almost no features: there are no great mountainsvisible, none that seem more than green hillocks in the distance.Besides sky, Katahdin's view contains only the two primal necessitiesof wood and water. Nowhere have I seen such breadth of solemn forest,gloomy, were it not for the cheerful interruption of many fair lakes,and bright ways of river linking them.

Far away on the southern horizon we detected the heights of MountDesert, our old familiar haunt. All the northern semicircle was lost tous by the fog. We lost also the view of the mountain itself. All thebleak, lonely, barren, ancient waste of the bare summit was shroudedin cold fog. The impressive gray ruin and Titanic havoc of a granitemountain top, the heaped boulders, the crumbling crags, the crater-likedepression, the long stern reaches of sierra, the dark curving slopeschannelled and polished by the storms and fine drifting mists of aeons,the downright plunge of precipices, all the savageness of harsh rock,unsoftened by other vegetation than rusty moss and the dull greensplashes of lichen, all this was hidden, except when the mist, white anddelicate where we stood, but thick and black above, opened whimsicallyand delusively, as mountain mists will do, and gave us vistas into theupper desolation. After such momentary rifts the mist thickened again,and swooped forward as if to involve our station, but noon sunshine,reverberated from the plains and valleys and lakes below, was ourally; sunshine checked the overcoming mist, and it stayed overhead, anunwelcome parasol, making our August a chilly November. Besides what oureyes lost, our minds lost, unless they had imagination enough to createit, the sentiment of triumph and valiant energy that the man of body andsoul feels upon the windy heights, the highest, whence he looks far andwide, like a master of realms, and knows that the world is his; and theylost the sentiment of solemn joy that the man of soul recognizes as oneof the surest intimations of immortality, stirring within him, wheneverhe is in the unearthly regions, the higher world.

We stayed studying the pleasant solitude and dreamy breadth ofKatahdin's panorama for a long time, and every moment the mystery of themist above grew more enticing. Pride also was awakened. We turnedfrom sunshine and Cosmos into fog and Chaos. We made ourselves quitemiserable for nought. We clambered up into Nowhere, into a great, white,ghostly void. We saw nothing but the rough surfaces we trod. We pressedalong crater-like edges, and all below was filled with mist, troubledand rushing upward like the smoke of a volcano. Up we went,—nothing butgranite and gray dimness. Where we arrived we know not. It was a top,certainly: that was proved by the fact that there was nothing withinsight. We cannot claim that it was the topmost top; Kimchinjinga mighthave towered within pistol-shot; popgun-shot was our extremest range ofvision, except for one instant, when a kind-hearted sunbeam gave usa vanishing glimpse of a white lake and breadth of forest far in theunknown North toward Canada.

When we had thus reached the height of our folly and made nothing by it,we addressed ourselves to the descent, no wiser for our pains. Descentis always harder than ascent, for divine ambitions are stronger andmore prevalent than degrading passions. And when Katahdin is befogged,descent is much more perilous than ascent. We edged along verycautiously by remembered landmarks the way we had come, and so, aftera dreary march of a mile or so through desolation, issued into welcomesunshine and warmth at our point of departure. When I said "we," I didnot include the grave-stone peddler. He, like a sensible fellow, haddetermined to stay and eat berries rather than breathe fog. While wewasted our time, he had made the most of his. He had cleared Katahdin'sshoulders of fruit, and now, cuddled in a sunny cleft, slept the sleepof the well-fed. His red shirt was a cheerful beacon on our weary way.We took in the landscape with one slow, comprehensive look, and, wakingCancut suddenly, (who sprang to his feet amazed, and cried "Fire!") wedashed down the mountain-side.

It was long after noon; we were some dozen of miles from camp; we mustspeed. No glissade was possible, nor plunge such as travellers make downthrough the ash-heaps of Vesuvius; but, having once worried through thewretched little spruces, mean counterfeits of trees, we could flingourselves down from mossy step to step, measuring off the distance bysuccessive leaps of a second each, and alighting, sound after each, onmoss yielding as a cushion.

On we hastened, retracing our footsteps of the morning across theavalanches of crumbled granite, through the bogs, along the brooks;undelayed by the beauty of sunny glade or shady dell, never stopping tobotanize or to classify, we traversed zone after zone, and safely ranthe gantlet of the possible bears on the last level. We found lowlandNature still the same; Ayboljockameegus was flowing still; so wasPenobscot; no pirate had made way with the birch; we embarked andpaddled to camp.

The first thing, when we touched terra firma, was to look backregretfully toward the mountain. Regret changed to wrath, when weperceived its summit all clear and mistless, smiling warmly to thelow summer's sun. The rascal evidently had only waited until we wereout of sight in the woods to throw away his night-cap.

One long rainy day had somewhat disgusted us with the oldhemlock-covered camp in the glade of the yellow birch, and we werereasonably and not unreasonably morbid after our disappointment withKatahdin. We resolved to decamp. In the last hour of sunlight, floatingpleasantly from lovely reach to reach, and view to view, we could choosea spot of bivouac where no home-scenery would recall any sorry fact ofthe past. We loved this gentle gliding by the tender light of eveningover the shadowy river, marking the rhythm of our musical progress bytouches of the paddle. We determined, too, that the balance of bodilyforces should be preserved: legs had been well stretched over the bogsand boulders; now for the arms. Never did our sylvan sojourn look sofair as when we quitted it, and seemed to see among the streamingsunbeams in the shadows the Hamadryads of the spot returned, andwaving us adieux. We forgot how damp and leaks and puddles had forcedthemselves upon our intimacy there; we remembered that we were gay,though wet, and there had known the perfection of Ayboljockameegustrout.

As we drifted along the winding river, between the shimmering birches oneither bank, Katahdin watched us well. Sometimes he would show the pointof his violet gray peak over the woods, and sometimes, at a broad bendof the water, he revealed himself fully—and threw his great image downbeside for our nearer view. We began to forgive him, to disbelieve inany personal spite of his, and to recall that he himself, seen thus, wasfar more precious than any mappy dulness we could have seen from hissummit. One great upright pyramid like this was worth a continent ofgrovelling acres.

Sunset came, and with it we landed at a point below a lake-like stretchof the river, where the charms of a neighbor and a distant view of themountain combined. Cancut the Unwearied roofed with boughs an old framefor drying moose-hides, while Iglesias sketched, and I worshippedKatahdin. Has my reader heard enough of it,—a hillock only six thousandfeet high? We are soon to drift away, and owe it here as kindly afarewell as it gave us in that radiant twilight by the river.

From our point of view we raked the long stern front tending westward.Just before sunset, from beneath a belt of clouds evanescing over thesummit, an inconceivably tender, brilliant glow of rosy violet mantleddownward, filling all the valley. Then the violet purpled richer andricher, and darkened slowly to solemn blue, that blended with the gloomof the pines and shadowy channelled gorges down the steep. The peakwas still in sunlight, and suddenly, half way down, a band of roseateclouds, twining and changing like a choir of Bacchantes, soared aroundthe western edge and hung poised above the unillumined forests at themountain-base; light as air they came and went and faded away, ghostly,after their work of momentary beauty was done. One slight maple,prematurely ripened to crimson and heralding the pomp of autumn,repeated the bright cloud-color amid the vivid verdure of a littleisland, and its image wavering in the water sent the flame floatingnearly to our feet.

Such are the transcendent moments of Nature, unseen and disbelieved bythe untaught. The poetic soul lays hold of every such tender pageant ofbeauty and keeps it forever. Iglesias, having an additional method ofpreservation, did not fail to pencil rapidly the wondrous scene. Whenhe had finished his dashing sketch of this glory, so transitory, hepeppered the whole with cabalistic cipher, which only he could interpretinto beauty.

Cancut's camp-fire now began to overpower the faint glimmers oftwilight. The single-minded Cancut, little distracted by emotions, hadheaped together logs enough to heat any mansion for a winter. The warmthwas welcome, and the great flame, with its bright looks of familiarcomradery, and its talk like the complex murmur of a throng, made afourth in our party by no means terrible, as some other incorporealvisitors might have been. Fire was not only a talker, but an importantactor: Fire cooked for us our evening chocolate; Fire held thecandlestick, while we, without much ceremony of undressing, disposedourselves upon our spruce-twig couch; and Fire watched over ourslumbers, crouching now as if some stealthy step were approaching, nowlifting up its head and peering across the river into some recess wherethe water gleamed and rustled under dark shadows, and now sending farand wide over the stream and the clearing and into every cleft of theforest a penetrating illumination, a blaze of light, death to alltreacherous ambush. So Fire watched while we slept, and when safety camewith the earliest gray of morning, it, too, covered itself with ashesand slept.

CHAPTER XIV.

HOMEWARD.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful is dawn in the woods. Sweet the firstopalescent stir, as if the vanguard sunbeams shivered as they dashedalong the chilly reaches of night. And the growth of day, through violetand rose and all its golden glow of promise, is tender and tenderlystrong, as the deepening passions of dawning love. Presently up comesthe sun very peremptory, and says to people, "Go about your business!Laggards not allowed in Maine! Nothing here to repent of, while youlie in bed and curse to-day because it cannot shake off the burden ofyesterday; all clear the past here; all serene the future; into it atonce!"

Birch was ready for us. Objects we travel on, if horses, often stampedeor are stampeded; if wagons, they break down; if shanks, they stiffen;if feet, they chafe. No such trouble befalls Birch; leak, however, itwill, as ours did this morning. We gently beguiled it into the positiontaken tearfully by unwhipped little boys, when they are about to receivebirch. Then, with a firebrand, the pitch of the seams was easilypersuaded to melt and spread a little over the leaky spot, and Birch wassound as a drum.

Staunch and sound Birch needed to be, for presently Penobscot, always askittish young racer, began to grow lively after he had shaken off theweighty shadow of Katahdin, and, kicking up his heels, went gallopingdown hill, so furiously that we were at last, after sundry franticplunges, compelled to get off his back before worse befell us. In thebalmy morning we made our first portage through a wood of spruces.How light our firkin was growing! its pork, its hard-tack, and itscondiments were diffused among us three, and had passed into muscle.Lake Degetus, as pretty a pocket lake as there is, followed the carry.Next came Lake Ambajeejus, larger, but hardly less lovely. Those whodislike long names may use its shorter Indian title, Umdo. We climbed agranite crag draped with moss long as the beard of a Druid,—a crag onthe south side of Ambajeejus or Umdo. Thence we saw Katahdin, noble asever, unclouded in the sunny morning, near, and yet enchantingly vague,with the blue sky which surrounded it. It was still an isolate pyramidrising with no effect from the fair blue lakes and the fair green seaof the birch-forest,—a brilliant sea of woods, gay as the shallows ofocean shot through with sunbeams and sunlight reflected upward fromgolden sands.

We sped along all that exquisite day, best of all our poetic voyage.Sometimes we drifted and basked in sunshine, sometimes we lingered inthe birchen shade; we paddled from river to lake, from lake to riveragain; the rapids whirled us along, surging and leaping under us withmagnificent gallop; frequent carries struck in, that we might not losethe forester in the waterman. It was a fresh world that we traversedon our beautiful river-path,—new as if no other had ever parted itsoverhanging bowers.

At noon we floated out upon Lake Pemadumcook, the largest bulge ofthe Penobscot, and irregular as the verb To Be. Lumbermen name itBammydumcook: Iglesias insisted upon this as the proper reading; and ashe was the responsible man of the party, I accepted it. Woods, woodyhills, and woody mountains surround Bammydumcook. I have no doubt partsof it are pretty and will be famous in good time; but we saw little. Bythe time we were fairly out in the lake and away from the shelteringshore, a black squall to windward, hiding all the West, warned us tofly, for birches swamp in squalls. We deemed that Birch, having broughtus through handsomely, deserved a better fate: swamped it must not be.We plied paddle valiantly, and were almost safe behind an arm of theshore when the storm overtook us, and in a moment more, safe, with acanoe only half-full of Bammydumcook water.

It is easy to speak in scoffing tone; but when that great roaringblackness sprang upon us, and the waves, showing their white teeth,snarled around, we were far from being in the mood to scoff. It isimpossible to say too much of the charm of this gentle scenery, mingledwith the charm of this adventurous sailing. And then there were nomosquitoes, no alligators, no serpents uncomfortably hugging the trees,no miasmas lurking near; and blueberries always. Dust there was none,nor the things that make dust. But Iglesias and I were breathing AIR,—Air sweet, tender, strong, and pure as an ennobling love. It was a dayvery happy, for Iglesias and I were near what we both love almost bestof all the dearly-beloveds. It is such influence as this that rescuesthe thought and the hand of an artist from enervating mannerism. Hecannot be satisfied with vague blotches of paint to convey impressionsso distinct and vivid as those he is forced to take direct from a Naturelike this. He must be true and powerful.

The storm rolled by and gave us a noble view of Katahdin, beyond abroad, beautiful scope of water, and rising seemingly directly from it.We fled before another squall, over another breadth of Bammydumcook, andmade a portage around a great dam below the lake. The world should knowthat at this dam the reddest, spiciest, biggest, thickest wintergreenberries in the world are to be found, beautiful as they are good.

Birch had hitherto conducted himself with perfect propriety. I, thenovice, had acquired such entire confidence in his stability ofcharacter that I treated him with careless ease, and never listenedto the warnings of my comrades that he would serve me a trick. Cancutnavigated Birch through some white water below the dam, and Birch wentcurveting proudly and gracefully along, evidently feeling his oats.When Iglesias and I came to embark, I, the novice, perhaps a littleintoxicated with wintergreen berries, stepped jauntily into theladen boat. Birch, alas, failed me. He tilted; he turned; he took inPenobscot,—took it in by the quart, by the gallon, by the barrel; hewould have sunk without mercy, had not Iglesias and Cancut succeededin laying hold of a rock and restoring equilibrium. I could not havebelieved it of Birch. I was disappointed, and in consternation; and ifI had not known how entirely it was Birch's fault that everybodywas ducked and everybody now had a wet blanket, I should have feltpersonally foolish. I punished myself for another's fault and my owninexperience by assuming the wet blankets as my share at the next carry.I suppose few of my readers imagine how many pounds of water a blanketcan absorb.

After camps at Katahdin, any residence in the woods without a stupendousmountain before the door would have been tame. It must have been this,and not any wearying of sylvan life, that made us hasten to reach theoutermost log-house at the Millinoket carry before nightfall. Thesensation of house and in-door life would be a new one, and sosatisfying in itself that we should not demand beautiful objects to meetour first blink of awakening eyes.

An hour before sunset, Cancut steered us toward a beach, and pointed outa vista in the woods, evidently artificial, evidently a road troddenby feet and hoofs, and ruled by parallel wheels. A road is one of thekindliest gifts of brother man to man: if a path in the wilderness, itcomes forward like a friendly guide offering experience and proposinga comrade dash deeper into the unknown world; if a highway, it is thegreat, bold, sweeping character with which civilization writes itsautograph upon a continent. Leaving our plunder on the beach, beyondthe reach of plunderers, whose great domain we were about to enter, wewalked on toward the first house, compelled at parting to believe, that,though we did not love barbarism less, we loved civilization more. Inthe morning, Cancut should, with an ox-cart, bring Birch and our trapsover the three miles of the carry.

CHAPTER XV.

OUT OF THE WOODS.

What could society do without women and children? Both we found at thefirst house, twenty miles from the second. The children buzzed about us;the mother milked for us one of Maine's vanguard cows. She baked forus bread, fresh bread,—such bread! not staff of life,—life'svaulting-pole. She gave us blueberries with cream of cream. Ah, what achange! We sat on chairs, at a table, and ate from plates. There was atable-cloth, a salt-cellar made of glass, of glass never seen atcamps near Katahdin. There was a sugar-bowl, a milk-jug, and otherparaphernalia of civilization, including—O memories of JosephBourgogne!—a dome of baked beans, with a crag of pork projecting fromthe apex. We partook decorously, with controlled elbows, endeavoring toappear as if we were accustomed to sit at tables and manage plates. Themen, women, and children of Millinoket were hospitable and delighted tosee strangers, and the men, like all American men in the summer beforea Presidential election, wanted to talk politics. Katahdin's lastfull-bodied appearance was here; it rises beyond a breadth of blackforest, a bulkier mass, but not so symmetrical as from the southernpoints of view. We slept that night on a feather-bed, and took cold forwant of air, beneath a roof.

By the time we had breakfasted, Cancut arrived with Birch on anox-sledge. Here our well-beloved west branch of the Penobscot, calledof yore Norimbagua, is married to the east branch, and of course bymarriage loses his identity, by-and-by, changing from the wild, free,reckless rover of the forest to a tamish family-man style of river,useful to float rafts and turn mills. However, during the first momentsof the honeymoon, the happy pair, Mr. Penobscot and Miss Milly Noket,now a unit under the marital name, are gay enough, and glide alongbowery reaches and in among fair islands, with infinite endearments andsmiles, making the world very sparkling and musical there. By-and-bythey fall to romping, and, to avoid one of their turbulent frolics,Cancut landed us, as he supposed, on the mainland, to lighten the canoe.Just as he was sliding away down-stream, we discovered that he had leftus upon an island in the midst of frantic, impassable rapids. "Stop,stop, John Gilpin!" and luckily he did stop, otherwise he would havegone on to tidewater, ever thinking that we were before him, while we,with our forest appetites, would have been glaring hungrily at eachother, or perhaps drawing lots for a cannibal doom. Once again, as wewere shooting a long rapid, a table-top rock caught us in mid-current.We were wrecked. It was critical. The waves swayed us perilously thisway and that. Birch would be full of water, or overturned, in a moment.Small chance for a swimmer in such maelströms! All this we saw, but hadno time to shudder at. Aided by the urgent stream, we carefully anddelicately—for a coarse movement would have been death—wormed our boatoff the rock and went fleeting through a labyrinth of new perils, onwardwith a wild exhilaration, like galloping through prairie on fire. Of allthe high distinctive national pleasures of America, chasing buffalo,stump-speaking, and the like, there is none so intense as shootingrapids in a birch. Whenever I recall our career down the Penobscot, alonging comes over me to repeat it.

We dropped down stream without further adventures. We passed the secondhouse, the first village, and other villages, very white and wide-awake,melodiously named Nickertow, Pattagumpus, and Mattascunk. We spent thefirst night at Mattawamkeag. We were again elbowed at a tavern table,and compelled to struggle with real and not ideal pioneers for friedbeefsteak and soggy doughboys. The last river day was tame, but nottiresome. We paddled stoutly by relays, stopping only once, at theneatest of farm-houses, to lunch on the most airy-substantial bread andbaked apples and cream. It is surprising how confidential a travelleralways is on the subject of his gastronomic delights. He will have theworld know how he enjoyed his dinner, perhaps hoping that the world bysympathy will enjoy its own.

Late in the afternoon of our eighth day from Greenville, Moosehead Lake,we reached the end of birch-navigation, the great mill-dams of IndianOldtown, near Bangor. Acres of great pine logs, marked three crosses anda dash, were floating here at the boom; we saw what Maine men supposetimber was made for. According to the view acted upon at Oldtown,Senaglecouna has been for a century or centuries training up its lordlypines, that gang-saws, worked by Penobscot, should shriek through theirhelpless cylinders, gnashing them into boards and chewing them intosawdust.

Poor Birch! how out of its element it looked, hoisted on a freight-carand travelling by rail to Bangor! There we said adieu to Birch andCancut. Peace and plenteous provender be with him! Journeys make friendsor foes; and we remember our fat guide, not as one who from time to timejust did not drown us, but as the jolly comrade of eight days crowdedwith novelty and beauty, and fine, vigorous, manly life. END.

* * * * *

A WOMAN.

Not perfect, nay! but full of tender wants.—THE PRINCESS

I sat by my window sewing, one bright autumn day, thinking much oftwenty other things, and very little of the long seam that slipped awayfrom under my fingers slowly, but steadily, when I heard the front-dooropen with a quick push, and directly into my open door entered LauraLane, with a degree of impetus that explained the previous sound in thehall. She threw herself into a chair before me, flung her hat on thefloor, threw her shawl across the window-sill, and looked at me withoutspeaking: in fact, she was quite too much out of breath to speak.

I was used to Laura's impetuousness; so I only smiled and said, "Goodmorning."

"Oh!" said Laura, with a long breath, "I have got something to tell you,
Sue."

"That's nice," said I; "news is worth double here in the country; tellme slowly, to prolong the pleasure."

"You must guess first. I want to have you try your powers for once;guess, do!"

"Mr. Lincoln defeated?"

"Oh, no,—at least not that I know of; all the returns from this Stateare not in yet, of course not from the others; besides, do you think I'dmake such a fuss about politics?"

"You might," said I, thinking of all the beautiful and brilliant womenthat in other countries and other times had made "fuss" more potent thanLaura's about politics.

"But I shouldn't," retorted she.

"Then there is a new novel out?"

"No!" (with great indignation).

"Or the parish have resolved to settle Mr. Hermann?"

"How stupid you are, Sue! Everybody knew that yesterday."

"But I am not everybody."

"I shall have to help you, I see," sighed Laura, half provoked.
"Somebody is going to be married."

"Mademoiselle, the great Mademoiselle!"

Laura stared at me. I ought to have remembered she was eighteen, andnot likely to have read Sévigné. I began more seriously, laying down myseam.

"Is it anybody I know, Laura?"

"Of course, or you wouldn't care about it, and it would be no fun totell you."

"Is it you?"

Laura grew indignant.

"Do you think I should bounce in, in this way, to tell you I wasengaged?"

"Why not? shouldn't you be happy about it?"

"Well, if I were, I should"——

Laura dropped her beautiful eyes and colored.

"The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

I am sure she felt as much strange, sweet shyness sealing her girlishlips at that moment as when she came, very slowly and silently, a yearafter, to tell me she was engaged to Mr. Hermann. I had to smile andsigh both.

"Tell me, then, Laura; for I cannot guess."

"I'll tell you the gentleman's name, and perhaps you can guess thelady's then: it is Frank Addison."

"Frank Addison!" echoed I, in surprise; for this young man was one Iknew and loved well, and I could not think who in our quiet village hadsufficient attraction for his fastidious taste.

He was certainly worth marrying, though he had some faults, being asproud as was endurable, as shy as a child, and altogether endowed with afull appreciation, to say the least, of his own charms and merits: buthe was sincere, and loyal, and tender; well cultivated, yet not priggishor pedantic; brave, well-bred, and high-principled; handsome besides. Iknew him thoroughly; I had held him on my lap, fed him with sugar-plums,soothed his child-sorrows, and scolded his naughtiness, many a time; Ihad stood with him by his mother's dying bed and consoled him by my owntears, for his mother I loved dearly; so, ever since, Frank had beenboth near and dear to me, for a mutual sorrow is a tie that maybind together even a young man and an old maid in close and kindlyfriendship. I was the more surprised at his engagement because I thoughthe would have been the first to tell me of it; but I reflected thatLaura was his cousin, and relationship has an etiquette of precedenceabove any other social link.

"Yes,—Frank Addison! Now guess, Miss Sue! for he is not here to tellyou,—he is in New York; and here in my pocket I have got a letter foryou, but you shan't have it till you have well guessed."

I was—I am ashamed to confess it—but I was not a little comfortedat hearing of that letter. One may shake up a woman's heart with everyalloy of life, grind, break, scatter it, till scarce a throb of itsyouth beats there, but to its last bit it is feminine still; and I felta sudden sweetness of relief to know that my boy had not forgotten me.

"I don't know whom to guess, Laura; who ever marries after otherpeople's fancy? If I were to guess Sally Hetheridge, I might come asnear as I shall to the truth."

Laura laughed.

"You know better," said she. "Frank Addison is the last man to marry adried-up old tailoress."

"I don't know that he is; according to his theories of women andmarriage, Sally would make him happy. She is true-hearted, I amsure,—generous, kind, affectionate, sensible, and poor. Frank hasalways raved about the beauty of the soul, and the degradation ofmarrying money,—therefore, Laura, I believe he is going to marry abeauty and an heiress. I guess Josephine Bowen."

"Susan!" exclaimed Laura, with a look of intense astonishment, "howcould you guess it?"

"Then it is she?"

"Yes, it is,—and I am so sorry! such a childish, giggling, silly littlecreature! I can't think how Frank could fancy her; she is just like Dorain "David Copperfield,"—a perfect gosling! I am as vexed"——

"But she is exquisitely pretty."

"Pretty! well, that is all; he might as well have bought a nice picture,or a dolly! I am out of all patience with Frank. I haven't the heart tocongratulate him."

"Don't be unreasonable, Laura; when you get as old as I am, you willdiscover how much better and greater facts are than theories. It's allvery well for men to say,—

'Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat,'—

the soul is all they love,—the fair, sweet character, the lofty mind,the tender woman's heart, and gentle loveliness; but when you come downto the statistics of love and matrimony, you find Sally Hetheridge atsixty an old maid, and Miss Bowen at nineteen adored by a dozen men andengaged to one. No, Laura, if I had ten sisters, and a fairy godmotherfor each, I should request that ancient dame to endow them all withbeauty and silliness, sure that then they would achieve a woman's bestdestiny,—a home."

Laura's face burned indignantly; she hardly let me finish before sheexclaimed,—

"Susan Lee! I am ashamed of you! Here are you, an old maid, as happy asanybody, decrying all good gifts to a woman, except beauty, because,indeed, they stand in the way of her marriage! as if a woman was onlymade to be a housekeeper!"

Laura's indignation amused me. I went on.

"Yes, I am happy enough; but I should have been much happier, had Imarried. Don't waste your indignation, dear; you are pretty enoughto excuse your being sensible, and you ought to agree with my ideas,because they excuse Frank, and yours do not."

"I don't want to excuse him; I am really angry about it. I can't bear tohave Frank throw himself away; she is pretty now, but what will she bein ten years?"

"People in love do not usually enter into such remote calculations; loveis to-day's delirium; it has an element of divine faith in it, in notcaring for the morrow. But, Laura, we can't help this matter, and wehave neither of us any conscience involved in it. Miss Bowen may bebetter than we know. At any rate, Frank is happy, and that ought tosatisfy both you and me just now."

Laura's eyes filled with tears. I could see them glisten on the darklashes, as she affected to tie her hat, all the time untying it as fastas ever the knot slid. She was a sympathetic little creature, and lovedFrank very sincerely, having known him as long as she could remember.She gave me a silent kiss, and went away, leaving the letter, yetunopened, lying in my lap. I did not open it just then. I was thinkingof Josephine Bowen.

Every summer, for three years, Mr. and Mrs. Bowen had come to Ridgefieldfor country-air, bringing with them their adopted daughter, whosebaptismal name had resigned in favor of the pet appellation "Kitten,"—aname better adapted to her nature and aspect than the Impératriceappellation that belonged to her. She was certainly as charming a littlecreature as ever one saw in flesh and blood. Her sweet child's face, herdimpled, fair cheeks, her rose-bud of a mouth, and great, wistful, blueeyes, that laughed like flax-flowers in a south-wind, her tiny, roundchin, and low, white forehead, were all adorned by profuse rings andcoils and curls of true gold-yellow, that never would grow long, or bebraided, or stay smooth, or do anything but ripple and twine and pushtheir shining tendrils out of every bonnet or hat or hood the littlecreature wore, like a stray parcel of sunbeams that would shine. Herdelicate, tiny figure was as round as a child's,—her funny hands asquaint as some fat baby's, with short fingers and dimpled knuckles. Shewas a creature as much made to be petted as a King-Charles spaniel,—andpetted she was, far beyond any possibility of a crumpled rose-leaf. Mrs.Bowen was fat, loving, rather foolish, but the best of friends and thepoorest of enemies; she wanted everybody to be happy, and fat, and wellas she was, and would urge the necessity of wine, and entire idleness,and horse-exercise, upon a poor minister, just as honestly andenergetically as if he could have afforded them: an idea to the contrarynever crossed her mind spontaneously, but, if introduced there, broughtforth direct results of bottles, bank-bills, and loans of ancienthorses, only to be checked by friendly remonstrance, or the suggestionthat a poor man might be also proud. Mr. Bowen was tall and spare, aman of much sense and shrewd kindliness, but altogether subject andsubmissive to "Kitten's" slightest wish. She never wanted anything; noprincess in a story-book had less to desire; and this entire spoilingand indulgence seemed to her only the natural course of things. Shetook it as an open rose takes sunshine, with so much simplicity,and heartiness, and beaming content, and perfume of sweet, carelessaffection, that she was not given over to any little vanities oraffectations, but was always a dear, good little child, as happy as theday was long, and quite without a fear or apprehension. I had seenvery little of her in those three summers, for I had been away at thesea-side, trying to fan the flickering life that alone was left to mewith pungent salt breezes and stinging baptisms of spray, but I hadliked that little pretty well. I did not think her so silly as Lauradid: she seemed to me so purely simple, that I sometimes wondered if herhonest directness and want of guile were folly or not. But I liked tosee her, as she cantered past my door on her pony, the gold tendrilsthick clustered about her throat and under the brim of her black hat,and her bright blue eyes sparkling with the keen air, and a realwild-rose bloom on her smiling face. She was a prettier sight even thanmy profuse chrysanthemums, whose masses of garnet and yellow and whitenodded languidly to the autumn winds to-day.

I recalled myself from this dream of recollection, better satisfied withMiss Bowen than I had been before. I could see just how her beauty hadbewitched Frank,—so bright, so tiny, so loving: one always wants togather a little, gay, odor-breathing rose-bud for one's own, and suchshe was to him.

So then I opened his letter. It was dry and stiff: men's letters almostalways are; they cannot say what they feel; they will be fluent ofstatistics, or description, or philosophy, or politics, but as tofeeling,—there they are dumb, except in real love-letters, and, ofcourse, Frank's was unsatisfactory accordingly. Once, toward the end,came out a natural sentence: "Oh, Sue! if you knew her, you wouldn'twonder!" So he had, after all, felt the apology he would not speak; hehad some little deference left for his deserted theories.

Well I knew what touched his pride, and struck that little revealingspark from his deliberate pen: Josephine Bowen was rich, and he only apoor lawyer in a country-town: he felt it even in this first flush oflove, and to that feeling I must answer when I wrote him,—not merely tothe announcement, and the delight, and the man's pride. So I answeredhis letter at once, and he answered mine in person. I had nothing to sayto him, when I saw him; it was enough to see how perfectly happy andcontented he was,—how the proud, restless eyes, that had always lookeda challenge to all the world, were now tranquil to their depths. Nothinghad interfered with his passion. Mrs. Bowen liked him always, Mr. Bowenliked him now; nobody had objected, it had not occurred to anybody toobject; money had not been mentioned any more than it would have been inArcadia. Strange to say, the good, simple woman, and the good, shrewdman had both divined Frank's peculiar sensitiveness, and respected it.

There was no period fixed for the engagement, it was indefinite as yet,and the winter, with all its excitements of South and North, passed byat length, and the first of April the Bowens moved out to Ridgefield. Itwas earlier than usual; but the city was crazed with excitement, and Mr.Bowen was tried and worn; he wanted quiet. Then I saw a great deal ofJosephine, and in spite of Laura, and her still restless objections tothe child's childish, laughing, inconsequent manner, I grew into likingher: not that there seemed any great depth to her; she was not speciallyintellectual, or witty, or studious, or practical; she did not try tobe anything: perhaps that was her charm to me. I had seen so many womenlaboring at themselves to be something, that one who was content to livewithout thinking about it was a real phenomenon to me. Nothing bores me(though I be stoned for the confession, I must make it!) more than awoman who is bent on improving her mind, or forming her manners, ormoulding her character, or watching her motives, with that deadly-livelyconscientiousness that makes so many good people disagreeable. Why can'tthey consider the lilies, which grow by receiving sun and air and dewfrom God, and not hopping about over the lots to find the warmest corneror the wettest hollow, to see how much bigger and brighter they cangrow? It was real rest to me to have this tiny, bright creature comein to me every day during Frank's office-hours as unintentionally as ayellow butterfly would come in at the window. Sometimes she strayed tothe kitchen-porch, and, resting her elbows on the window-sill and herchin on both palms, looked at me with wondering eyes while I made breador cake; sometimes she came by the long parlor-window, and sat down on abrioche at my feet while I sewed, talking in her direct, unconsideredway, so fresh, and withal so good and pure, I came to thinking the dayvery dull that did not bring "Kitten" to see me.

The nineteenth of April, in the evening, my door opened again with animpetuous bang; but this time it was Frank Addison, his eyes blazing,his dark cheek flushed, his whole aspect fired and furious.

"Good God, Sue! do you know what they've done in Baltimore?"

"What?" said I, in vague terror, for I had been an alarmist from thefirst: I had once lived at the South.

"Fired on a Massachusetts regiment, and killed—nobody knows how manyyet; but killed, and wounded."

I could not speak: it was the lighted train of a powder-magazine burningbefore my eyes. Frank began to walk up and down the room.

"I must go! I must! I must!" came involuntarily from his working lips.

"Frank! Frank! remember Josephine."

It was a cowardly thing to do, but I did it. Frank turned ghastly white,and sat down in a chair opposite me. I had, for the moment, quenched hisardor; he looked at me with anxious eyes, and drew a long sigh, almost agroan.

"Josephine!" he said, as if the name were new to him, so vitally did theidea seize all his faculties.

"Well, dear!" said a sweet little voice at the door.

Frank turned, and seemed to see a ghost; for there in the door-way stood"Kitten," her face perhaps a shade calmer than ordinary, swinging in onehand the tasselled hood she wore of an evening, and holding her shawltogether with the other. Over her head we discerned the spare, uprightshape of Mr. Bowen looking grim and penetrative, but not unkindly.

"What is the matter?" went on the little lady.

Nobody answered, but Frank and I looked at each other. She came in nowand went toward him, Mr. Bowen following at a respectful distance, as ifhe were her footman.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," said she, with the slightestpossible suggestion of reserve, or perhaps timidity, in her voice."Father went first for me, and when you were not at Laura's, or theoffice, or the post-office, or Mrs. Sledge's, then I knew you were here;so I came with him, because—because"—she hesitated the least bithere—"we love Sue."

Frank still looked at her with his soul in his eyes, as if he wanted toabsorb her utterly into himself and then die. I never saw such a lookbefore; I hope I never may again; it haunts me to this day.

I can pause now to recall and reason about the curious, exaltedatmosphere that seemed suddenly to have surrounded us, as if barespirits communed there, not flesh and blood. Frank did not move; he satand looked at her standing near him, so near that her shawl trailedagainst his chair; but presently when she wanted to grasp something, shemoved aside and took hold of another chair,—not his: it a little thing,but it interpreted her.

"Well?" said he, in a hoarse tone.

Just then she moved, as I said, and laid one hand on the back of achair: it was the only symptom of emotion she showed; her voice was aschildish-clear and steady as before.

"You want to go, Frank, and I thought you would rather be married to mefirst; so I came to find you and tell you I would."

Frank sprang to his feet like a shot man; I cried; Josephine stoodlooking at us quite steadily, her head a little bent toward me, her eyescalm, but very wide open; and Mr. Bowen gave an audible grunt. I supposethe right thing for Frank to have done in any well-regulated novel wouldhave been to fall on his knees and call her all sorts of names; butpeople never do—that is, any people that I know—just what thegentlemen in novels do; so he walked off and looked out of the window.To my aid came the goddess of slang. I stopped snuffling directly.

"Josephine," said I, solemnly, "you are a brick!"

"Well, I should think so!" said Mr. Bowen, slightly sarcastic.

Josey laughed very softly. Frank came back from the window, and then thethree went off together, she holding by her father's arm, Frank on hisother side. I could not but look after them as I stood in the hall-door,and then I came back and sat down to read the paper Frank had flung onthe floor when he came in. It diverted my mind enough from myself toenable me to sleep; for I was burning with self-disgust to think ofmy cowardice. I, a grown woman, supposed to be more than ordinarilystrong-minded by some people, fairly shamed and routed by a girl LauraLane called "Dora"!

In the morning, Frank came directly after breakfast. He had found histongue now, certainly,—for words seemed noway to satisfy him, talkingof Josephine; and presently she came, too, as brave and bright as ever,sewing busily on a long housewife for Frank; and after her, Mrs. Bowen,making a huge pin-ball in red, white, and blue, and full of the trunkshe was packing for Frank to carry, to be filled with raspberry-jam,hard gingerbread, old brandy, clove-cordial, guava-jelly, strongpeppermints, quinine, black cake, cod-liver oil, horehound-candy,Brandreth's pills, damson-leather, and cherry-pectoral, packed in withflannel and cotton bandages, lint, lancets, old linen, and cambrichandkerchiefs.

I could not help laughing, and was about to remonstrate, when Frankshook his head at me from behind her. He said afterward he let her goon that way, because it kept her from crying over Josephine. As forthe trunk, he should give it to Miss Dix as soon as ever he reachedWashington.

In a week, Frank had got his commission as captain of a company in avolunteer regiment; he went into camp at Dartford, our chief town, andset to work in earnest at tactics and drill. The Bowens also went toDartford, and the last week in May came back for Josey's wedding. I ama superstitious creature,—most women are,—and it went to my heartto have them married in May; but I did not say so, for it seemedimperative, as the regiment were to leave for Washington in June, early.

The day but one before the wedding was one of those warm, soft days thatso rarely come in May. My windows were open, and the faint scent ofspringing grass and opening blossoms came in on every southern breath ofwind. Josey had brought her work over to sit beside me. She was hemmingher wedding-veil,—a long cloud of tulle; and as she sat there,pinching the frail stuff in her fingers, and handling her needle withsuch deft little ways, as if they were old friends and understood eachother, there was something so youthful, so unconscious, so wistfullysweet in her aspect, I could not believe her the same resolute, bravecreature I had seen that night in April.

"Josey," said I, "I don't know how you can be willing to let Frank go."

It was a hard thing for me to say, and I said it without thinking.

She leaned back in her chair, and pinched her hem faster than ever.

"I don't know, either," said she. "I suppose it was because I ought. Idon't think I am so willing now, Sue: it was easy at first, for I wasso angry and grieved about those Massachusetts men; but now, when I gettime to think, I do ache over it! I never let him know; for it is justthe same right now, and he thinks so. Besides, I never let myself grievemuch, even to myself, lest he might find it out. I must keep bright tillhe goes. It would be so very hard on him, Susy, to think I was crying athome."

I said no more,—I could not; and happily for me, Frank came in witha bunch of wild-flowers, that Josey took with a smile as gay as thecolumbines, and a blush that outshone the "pinkster-bloomjes," as ourold Dutch "chore-man" called the wild honeysuckle. A perfect shower ofdew fell from them all over her wedding-veil.

The day of her marriage was showery as April, but a gleam of soft,fitful sunshine streamed into the little church windows, and fell acrossthe tiny figure that stood by Frank Addison's side, like a ray ofglory, till the golden curls glittered through her veil, and the freshlilies-of-the-valley that crowned her hair and ornamented her simpledress seemed to send out a fresher fragrance, and glow with more pearlywhiteness. Mrs. Bowen, in a square pew, sobbed, and snuffled, and soppedher eyes with a lace pocket-handkerchief, and spilt cologne all overher dress, and mashed the flowers on her French hat against the dustypew-rail, and behaved generally like a hen that has lost her solechicken. Mr. Bowen sat upright in the pew-corner, uttering sonoroushems, whenever his wife sobbed audibly; he looked as dry as a stick, andas grim as Bunyan's giant, and chewed cardamom-seeds, as if he were aruminating animal.

After the wedding came lunch: it was less formal than dinner, andnobody wanted to sit down before hot dishes and go through with theaccompanying ceremonies. For my part, I always did hate gregariouseating: it is well enough for animals, in pasture or pen; but a thingthat has so little that is graceful or dignified about it as this takingfood, especially as the thing is done here in America, ought, in myopinion, to be a solitary act. I never bring my quinine and iron to myfriends and invite them to share it; why should I ask them to partakeof my beef, mutton, and pork, with the accompanying mastication, thedistortion of face, and the suppings and gulpings of fluid dishes thatmany respectable people indulge in? No,—let me, at least, eat alone.But I did not do so to-day; for Josey, with the most unsentimental airof hunger, sat down at the table and ate two sandwiches, three pickledmushrooms, a piece of pie, and a glass of jelly, with a tumbler of alebesides. Laura Lane sat on the other side of the table, her greatdark eyes intently fixed on Josephine, and a look in which wonder wasdelicately shaded with disgust quivering about her mouth. She was afeeling soul, and thought a girl in love ought to live on strawberries,honey, and spring-water. I believe she really doubted Josey's affectionfor Frank, when she saw her eat a real mortal meal on her wedding-day.As for me, I am a poor, miserable, unhealthy creature, not amenable toordinary dietetic rules, and much given to taking any excitement, abovea certain amount in lieu of rational food; so I sustained myself on acup of coffee, and saw Frank also make tolerable play of knife and fork,though he did take some blanc-mange with his cold chicken, and profuselypeppered his Charlotte-Russe!

Mrs. Bowen alternately wept and ate pie. Mr. Bowen said the jelly tastedof turpentine, and the chickens must have gone on Noah's voyage, theywere so tough; he growled at the ale, and asked nine questions about thecoffee, all of a derogatory sort, and never once looked at Josephine,who looked at him every time he was particularly cross, with a rosylittle smile, as if she knew why! The few other people present behavedafter the ordinary fashion; and when we had finished, Frank andJosephine, Mr. and Mrs. Bowen, Laura Lane and I, all took the train forDartford. Laura was to stay two weeks, and I till the regiment left.

An odd time I had, after we were fairly settled in our quiet hotel, withthose two girls. Laura was sentimental, sensitive, rather high-flown,very shy, and self-conscious; it was not in her to understand Josey atall. We had a great deal of shopping to do, as our little bride had putoff buying most of her finery till this time, on account of the fewweeks between the fixing of her marriage-day and its arrival. It waspretty enough to see the naïve vanity with which she selected herdresses and shawls and laces,—the quite inconsiderate way in which shespent her money on whatever she wanted. One day we were in a dry-goods'shop, looking at silks; among them lay one of Marie-Louise blue,—aplain silk, rich from its heavy texture only, soft, thick, and perfectin color.

"I will have that one," said Josephine, after she had eyed it a moment,with her head on one side, like a canary-bird. "How much is it?"

"Two fifty a yard, Miss," said the spruce clerk, with an inaccessibleair.

"I shall look so nice in it!" Josey murmured. "Sue, will seventeen yardsdo? it must be very full and long; I can't wear flounces."

"Yes, that's plenty," said I, scarce able to keep down a smile at
Laura's face.

She would as soon have smoked a cigar on the steps of the hotel as havementioned before anybody, much less a supercilious clerk, that sheshould "look so nice" in anything. Josey never thought of anythingbeyond the fact, which was only a fact. So, after getting another dressof a lavender tint, still self-colored, but corded and rich, because itwent well with her complexion, and a black one, that "father liked tosee against her yellow wig, as he called it," Mrs. Josephine proceededto a milliner's, where, to Laura's further astonishment, she boughtbonnets for herself, as if she had been her own doll, with an utterdisregard of proper self-depreciation, trying one after another, anddiscarding them for various personal reasons, till at last she fixed ona little gray straw, trimmed with gray ribbon and white daisies, "forcamp," she said, and another of white lace, a fabric calculated to weartwice, perhaps, if its floating sprays of clematis did not catch in anyparasol on its first appearance. She called me to see how becoming boththe bonnets were, viewed herself in various ways in the glass, and atlast announced that she looked prettiest in the straw, but the lace wasmost elegant. To this succeeded purchases of lace and shawls, that stillfarther opened Laura's eyes, and made her face grave. She confided tome privately, that, after all, I must allow Josephine was silly andextravagant. I had just come from that little lady's room, where she satsurrounded by the opened parcels, saying, with the gravity of a child,—

"I do like pretty things, Sue! I like them more now than I used to,because Frank likes me. I am so glad I'm pretty!"

I don't know how it was, but I could not quite coincide with Laura'sstrictures. Josey was extravagant, to be sure; she was vain; butsomething so tender and feminine flavored her very faults that theycharmed me. I was not an impartial judge; and I remembered, through all,that April night, and the calm, resolute, self-poised character thatinvested the lovely, girlish face with such dignity, strength, andsimplicity. No, she was not silly; I could not grant that to Laura.

Every day we drove to the camp, and brought Frank home to dinner. Nowand then he stayed with us till the next day, and even Laura could notwonder at his "infatuation," as she had once called it, when she saw howthoroughly Josephine forgot herself in her utter devotion to him; overthis, Laura's eyes filled with sad forebodings.

"If anything should happen to him, Sue, it will kill her," she said."She never can lose him and live. Poor little thing! how could Mr. Bowenlet her marry him?"

"Mr. Bowen lets her do much as she likes, Laura, and always has, Iimagine."

"Yes, she has been a spoiled child, I know, but it is such a pity!"

"Has she been spoiled? I believe, as a general thing, more childrenare spoiled by what the Scotch graphically call 'nagging' than byindulgence. What do you think Josey would have been, if Mrs. Brooks hadbeen her mother?"

"I don't know, quite; unhappy, I am sure; for Mrs. Brooks's own childrenlook as if they had been fed on chopped catechism, and whipped earlyevery morning, ever since they were born. I never went there withouthearing one or another of them told to sit up, or sit down, or keepstill, or let their aprons alone, or read their Bibles; and Joe Brooksconfided to me in Sunday-school that he called Deacon Smith 'oldbald-head,' one day, in the street, to see if a bear wouldn't come andeat him up, he was so tired of being a good boy!"

"That's a case in point, I think, Laura; but what a jolly little boy! heought to have a week to be naughty in, directly."

"He never will, while his mother owns a rod!" said she, emphatically.

I had beguiled Laura from her subject; for, to tell the truth, it wasone I did not dare to contemplate; it oppressed and distressed me toomuch.

After Laura went home, we stayed in Dartford only a week, and thenfollowed the regiment to Washington. We had been there but a few days,before it was ordered into service. Frank came into my room one night totell me.

"We must be off to-morrow, Sue,—and you must take her back toRidgefield at once. I can't have her here. I have told Mr. Bowen. If weshould be beaten,—and we may,—raw troops may take a panic, or mayfight like veterans,—but if we should run, they will make a bee-linefor Washington. I should go mad to have her here with a possibility ofRebel invasion. She must go; there is no question."

He walked up and down the room, then came back and looked me straight inthe face.

"Susan, if I never come back, you will be her good friend, too?"

"Yes," said I, meeting his eye as coolly as it met mine: I had learned alesson of Josey. "I shall see you in the morning?"

"Yes"; and so he went back to her.

Morning came. Josephine was as bright, as calm, as natural, as the Juneday itself. She insisted on fastening "her Captain's" straps on hisshoulders, purloined his cumbrous pin-ball and put it out of sight, andkept even Mrs. Bowen's sobs in subjection by the intense serenity ofher manner. The minutes seemed to go like beats of a fever-pulse;ten o'clock smote on a distant bell; Josephine had retreated, as ifaccidentally, to a little parlor of her own, opening from our commonsitting-room. Frank shook hands with Mr. Bowen; kissed Mrs. Bowendutifully, and cordially too; gave me one strong clasp in his arms, andone kiss; then went after Josephine. I closed the door softly behindhim. In five minutes by the ticking clock he came out, and strodethrough the room without a glance at either of us. I had heard her say"Good bye" in her sweet, clear tone, just as he opened the door; butsome instinct impelled me to go in to her at once: she lay in a deadfaint on the floor.

We left Washington that afternoon, and went straight back to Ridgefield.Josey was in and out of my small house continually: but for her fatherand mother, I think she would have stayed with me from choice. Rareletters came from Frank, and were always reported to me, but, of course,never shown. If there was any change in her manner, it was more steadilyaffectionate to her father and mother than ever; the fitful, playfulways of her girlhood were subdued, but, except to me, she showed nosymptom of pain, no show of apprehension: with me alone she sometimesdrooped and sighed. Once she laid her little head on my neck, and,holding me to her tightly, half sobbed,—

"Oh, I wish—I wish I could see him just for once!"

I could not speak to answer her.

As rumors of a march toward Manassas increased, Mr. and Mrs. Bowen tookher to Dartford: there was no telegraph-line to Ridgefield, and but onedaily mail, and now a day's delay of news might be a vital loss. I couldnot go with them; I was too ill. At last came that dreadful day of BullRun. Its story of shame and blood, trebly exaggerated, ran like firethrough the land. For twenty-four long hours every heart in Ridgefieldseemed to stand still; then there was the better news of fewer deadthan the first report, and we knew that the enemy had retreated, but noparticulars. Another long, long day, and the papers said Colonel ——'sregiment was cut to pieces; the fourth mail told another story: theregiment was safe, but Captains Addison, Black, and—Jones, I think,were missing. The fifth day brought me a letter from Mr. Bowen. Frankwas dead, shot through the heart, before the panic began, cheering onhis men; he had fallen in the very front rank, and his gallant company,at the risk of their lives, after losing half their number as wounded orkilled, had brought off his body, and carried it with them in retreat,to find at last that they had ventured all this for a lifeless corpse!He did not mention Josephine, but asked me to come to them at once, ashe was obliged to go to Washington. I could not, for I was too ill totravel without a certainty of being quite useless at my journey's end. Icould but just sit up. Five days after, I had an incoherent sobbing sortof letter from Mrs. Bowen, to say that they had arranged to have thefuneral at Ridgefield the next day but one,—that Josephine would comeout, with her, the night before, and directly to my house, if I was ableto receive them. I sent word by the morning's mail that I was able, andwent myself to the station to meet them.

They had come alone, and Josey preceded her mother into the little room,as if she were impatient to have any meeting with a fresh face over. Shewas pale as any pale blossom of spring, and as calm. Her curls, tuckedaway under the widow's-cap she wore, and clouded by the mass of crapethat shrouded her, left only a narrow line of gold above the dead quietof her brow. Her eyes were like the eyes of a sleep-walker: they seemedto see, but not to feel sight. She smiled mechanically, and put a coldhand into mine. For any outward expression of emotion, one might havethought Mrs. Bowen the widow: her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, hernose was red, her lips tremulous, her whole face stained and washed withtears, and the skin seemed wrinkled by their salt floods. She had criedherself sick,—more over Josephine than Frank, as was natural.

It was but a short drive over to my house, but an utterly silent one.Josephine made no sort of demonstration, except that she stooped to patmy great dog as we went in. I gave her a room that opened out of mine,and put Mrs. Bowen by herself. Twice in the night I stole in to look ather: both times I found her waking, her eyes fixed on the open window,her face set in its unnatural quiet; she smiled, but did not speak. Mrs.Bowen told me in the morning that she had neither shed a tear nor sleptsince the news came; it seemed to strike her at once into this coldsilence, and so she had remained. About ten, a carriage was sent overfrom the village to take them to the funeral. This miserable custom ofours, that demands the presence of women at such ceremonies, Mrs. Bowenwas the last person to evade; and when I suggested to Josey that sheshould stay at home with me, she looked surprised, and said, quietly,but emphatically, "Oh, no!"

After they were gone, I took my shawl and went out on the lawn. Therewas a young pine dense enough to shield me from the sun, sitting underwhich I could see the funeral-procession as it wound along the river'sedge up toward the burying-ground, a mile beyond the station. But therewas no sun to trouble me; cool gray clouds brooded ominously over allthe sky; a strong south-wind cried, and wailed, and swept in wild guststhrough the woods, while in its intervals a dreadful quiet brooded overearth and heaven,—over the broad weltering river, that, swollen byrecent rain, washed the green grass shores with sullen flood,—overthe heavy masses of oak and hickory trees that hung on the fartherhill-side,—over the silent village and its gathering people. Theengine-shriek was borne on the coming wind from far down the valley.There was an air of hushed expectation and regret in Nature itself thatseemed to fit the hour to its event.

Soon I saw the crowd about the station begin to move, and presently thefuneral-bell swung out its solemn tones of lamentation; its measured,lingering strokes, mingled with the woful shrieking of the wind and thesighing of the pine-tree overhead, made a dirge of inexpressible forceand melancholy. A weight of grief seemed to settle on my very breath: itwas not real sorrow; for, though I knew it well, I had not felt yet thatFrank was dead,—it was not real to me,—I could not take to my stunnedperceptions the fact that he was gone. It is the protest of Nature,dimly conscious of her original eternity, against this interruption ofdeath, that it should always be such an interruption, so incredible, sosurprising, so new. No,—the anguish that oppressed me now was not thetrue anguish of loss, but merely the effect of these adjuncts; the painof want, of separation, of reaching in vain after that which is gone, ofvivid dreams and tearful waking,—all this lay in wait for the future,to be still renewed, still suffered and endured, till time should be nomore. Let all these pangs of recollection attest it,—these involuntarybursts of longing for the eyes that are gone and the voice that isstill,—these recoils of baffled feeling seeking for the one perfectsympathy forever fled,—these pleasures dimmed in their firstresplendence for want of one whose joy would have been keener andsweeter to us than our own,—these bitter sorrows crying like childrenin pain for the heart that should have soothed and shared them! No,—there is no such dreary lie as that which prates of consoling Time! Youwho are gone, if in heaven you know how we mortals fare, you know thatlife took from you no love, no faith,—that bitterer tears fall for youto-day than ever wet your new graves,—that the gayer words and therecalled smiles are only like the flowers that grow above you, symbolsof the deeper roots we strike in your past existence,—that to thetrue soul there is no such thing as forgetfulness, no such mercy asdiminishing regret!

Slowly the long procession wound up the river,—here, black with plumedhearse and sable mourners,—there, gay with regimental band and brightuniforms,—no stately, proper funeral, ordered by custom and marshalledby propriety, but a straggling array of vehicles: here, the doctor's oldchaise,—there, an open wagon, a dusty buggy, a long, open omnibus,such as the village-stable kept for pleasure-parties or for parties ofmourning who wanted to go en masse.

All that knew Frank, in or about Ridgefield, and all who had sons orbrothers in the army, swarmed to do him honor; and the quaint, homelyarray crept slowly through the valley, to the sound of tolling bell andmoaning wind and the low rush of the swollen river,—the first tasteof war's desolation that had fallen upon us, the first dark wave of awhelming tide!

As it passed out of sight, I heard the wheels cease, one by one, theircrunch and grind on the gravelled road up the slope of the grave-yard.I knew they had reached that hill-side where the dead of Ridgefieldlie calmer than its living; and presently the long-drawn notes of thathymn-tune consecrated to such occasions—old China—rose and fell indespairing cadences on my ear. If ever any music was invented for theexpress purpose of making mourners as distracted as any external thingcan make them, it is the bitter, hopeless, unrestrained wail of thistune. There is neither peace nor resignation in it, but the veryexhaustion of raving sorrow that heeds neither God nor man, butcries out, with the soulless agony of a wind-harp, its refusal to becomforted.

At length it was over, and still in that same dead calm Josephine camehome to me. Mrs. Bowen was frightened, Mr. Bowen distressed. I could notthink what to do, at first; but remembering how sometimes a little thinghad utterly broken me down from a regained calmness after loss, somehomely association, some recall of the past, I begged of Mr. Bowen tobring up from the village Frank's knapsack, which he had found in one ofhis men's hands,—the poor fellow having taken care of that, while helost his own: "For the captain's wife," he said. As soon as it came, Itook from it Frank's coat, and his cap and sword. My heart was in mymouth as I entered Josephine's room, and saw the fixed quiet on her facewhere she sat. I walked in, however, with no delay, and laid the thingsdown on her bed, close to where she sat. She gave one startled look atthem and then at me; her face relaxed from all its quiet lines; she sankon her knees by the bedside, and, burying her head in her arms, cried,and cried, and cried, so helplessly, so utterly without restraint, thatI cried, too. It was impossible for me to help it. At last the tearsexhausted themselves; the dreadful sobs ceased to convulse her; alldrenched and tired, she lifted her face from its rest, and held out herarms to me. I took her up, and put her to bed like a child. I hung thecoat and cap and sword where she could see them. I made her take a cupof broth, and before long, with her eyes fixed on the things I had hungup, she fell asleep, and slept heavily, without waking, till the nextmorning.

I feared almost to enter her room when I heard her stir; I had dreadedher waking,—that terrible hour that all know who have suffered, the dimawakening shadow that darkens so swiftly to black reality; but I neednot have dreaded it for her. She told me afterward that in all thatsleep she never lost the knowledge of her grief; she did not come intoit as a surprise. Frank had seemed to be with her, distant, sad, yetconsoling; she felt that he was gone, but not utterly,—that there wasdrear separation and loneliness, but not forever.

When I went in, she lay there awake, looking at her trophy, as she cameto call it, her eyes with all their light quenched and sodden out withcrying, her face pale and unalterably sad, but natural in its sweetnessand mobility. She drew me down to her and kissed me.

"May I get up?" she asked; and then, without waiting for an answer, wenton,—"I have been selfish, Sue; I will try to be better now; I won'trun away from my battle. Oh, how glad I am he didn't run away! It isdreadful now, dreadful! Perhaps, if I had to choose if he should haverun away or—or this, I should have wanted him to run,—I'm afraid Ishould. But I am glad now. If God wanted him, I'm glad he went from thefront ranks. Oh, those poor women whose husbands ran away, and werekilled, too!"

She seemed to be so comforted by that one thought! It was a strangetrait in the little creature; I could not quite fathom it.

After this, she came down-stairs and went about among us, busyingherself in various little ways. She never went to the grave-yard; butwhenever she was a little tired, I was sure to find her sitting in herroom with her eyes on that cap and coat and sword. Letters of condolencepoured in, but she would not read them or answer them, and they all fellinto my hands. I could not wonder; for, of all cruel conventionalities,visits and letters of condolence seem to me the most cruel. If friendscan be useful in lifting off the little painful cares that throng in thehouse of death till its presence is banished, let them go and do theirwork quietly and cheerfully; but to make a call or write a note, tomeasure your sorrow and express theirs, seems to me on a par withpulling a wounded man's bandages off and probing his hurt, to hear himcry out and hear yourself say how bad it must be!

Laura Lane was admitted, for Frank's sake, as she had been his closestand dearest relative. The day she came, Josey had a severe headache, andlooked wretchedly. Laura was shocked, and showed it so obviously, that,had there been any real cause for her alarm, I should have turned herout of the room without ceremony, almost before she was fairly in it. Assoon as she left, Josey looked at me and smiled.

"Laura thinks I am going to die," said she; "but I'm not. If I could,I wouldn't, Sue; for poor father and mother want me, and so will thesoldiers by-and-by." A weary, heart-breaking look quivered in her faceas she went on, half whispering,—"But I should—I should like to seehim!"

In September she went away. I had expected it ever since she spoke ofthe soldiers needing her. Mrs. Bowen went to the sea-side for her annualasthma. Mr. Bowen went with Josephine to Washington. There, by sometalismanic influence, she got admission to the hospitals, though shewas very pretty, and under thirty. I think perhaps her pale face andwidow's-dress, and her sad, quiet manner, were her secret of success.She worked here like a sprite; nothing daunted or disgusted her. Shefollowed the army to Yorktown, and nursed on the transport-ships. Oneman said, I was told, that it was "jes' like havin' an apple-tree blowraound, to see that Mis' Addison; she was so kinder cheery an' pooty,an' knew sech a sight abaout nussin', it did a feller lots of good onlyto look at her chirpin' abaout."

Now and then she wrote to me, and almost always ended by declaring shewas "quite well, and almost happy." If ever she met with one of Frank'smen,—and all who were left reënlisted for the war,—he was sure to benursed like a prince, and petted with all sorts of luxuries, and toldit was for his old captain's sake. Mr. and Mrs. Bowen followed hereverywhere, as near as they could get to her, and afforded unfailingsupplies of such extra hospital-stores as she wanted; they lavished onher time and money and love enough to have satisfied three women, butJosey found use for it all—for her work. Two months ago, they all cameback to Dartford. A hospital had been set up there, and some one wasneeded to put it in operation; her experience would be doubly usefulthere, and it was pleasant for her to be so near Frank's home, to beamong his friends and hers.

I went in, to do what I could, being stronger than usual, and foundher hard at work. Her face retained its rounded outline, her lips hadrecovered their bloom, her curls now and then strayed from the net underwhich she carefully tucked them, and made her look as girlish as ever,but the girl's expression was gone; that tender, patient, resolute lookwas born of a woman's stern experience; and though she had laid asideher widow's-cap, because it was inconvenient, her face was so sad in itsrepose, so lonely and inexpectant, she scarce needed any outward symbolto proclaim her widowhood. Yet under all this new character lay stillsome of those childish tastes that made, as it were, the "fresh perfume"of her nature: everything that came in her way was petted; a littlewhite kitten followed her about the wards, and ran to meet her, whenevershe came in, with joyful demonstrations; a great dog waited for her athome, and escorted her to and from the hospital; and three canaries hungin her chamber;—and I confess here, what I would not to Laura, that sheretains yet a strong taste for sugar-plums, gingerbread, and the "Lady'sBook." She kept only so much of what Laura called her vanity as to beexquisitely neat and particular in every detail of dress; and though ablack gown, and a white linen apron, collar, and cuffs do not affordmuch room for display, yet these were always so speckless and spotlessthat her whole aspect was refreshing.

Last week there was a severe operation performed in the hospital, andJosephine had to be present. She held the poor fellow's hand till hewas insensible from the kindly chloroform they gave him, and, after thesurgeons were through, sat by him till night, with such a calm, cheerfulface, giving him wine and broth, and watching every indication of pulseor skin, till he really rallied, and is now doing well.

As I came over, the next day, I met Doctor Rivers at the door of herward.

"Really," said he, "that little Mrs. Addison is a true heroine!"

The kitten purred about my feet, and as I smiled assent to him, I saidinwardly to myself,—

"Really, she is a true woman!"

ABOUT WARWICK.

Between bright, new Leamington, the growth of the present century,and rusty Warwick, founded by King Cymbeline in the twilight ages, athousand years before the mediaeval darkness, there are two roads,either of which may be measured by a sober-paced pedestrian in less thanhalf an hour.

One of these avenues flows out of the midst of the smart parades andcrescents of the former town,—along by hedges and beneath the shadow ofgreat elms, past stuccoed Elizabethan villas and wayside ale-houses, andthrough a hamlet of modern aspect,—and runs straight into the principalthoroughfare of Warwick. The battlemented turrets of the castle,embowered half-way up in foliage, and the tall, slender tower of St.Mary's Church, rising from among clustered roofs, have been visiblealmost from the commencement of the walk. Near the entrance of the townstands St. John's School-House, a picturesque old edifice of stone, withfour peaked gables in a row, alternately plain and ornamented, and wide,projecting windows, and a spacious and venerable porch, all overgrownwith moss and ivy, and shut in from the world by a high stone fence, notless mossy than the gabled front. There is an iron gate, through therusty open-work of which you see a grassy lawn, and almost expect tomeet the shy, curious eyes of the little boys of past generations,peeping forth from their infantile antiquity into the strangeness of ourpresent life. I find a peculiar charm in these long-established Englishschools, where the school-boy of to-day sits side by side, as it were,with his great-grandsire, on the same old benches, and often, I believe,thumbs a later, but unimproved edition of the same old grammar orarithmetic. The new-fangled notions of a Yankee school-committee wouldmadden many a pedagogue, and shake down the roof of many a time-honoredseat of learning, in the mother-country.

At this point, however, we will turn back, in order to follow up theother road from Leamington, which was the one that I loved best to take.It pursues a straight and level course, bordered by wide gravel-walksand overhung by the frequent elm, with here a cottage and there a villa,on one side a wooded plantation, and on the other a rich field of grassor grain, until, turning at right angles, it brings you to an archedbridge over the Avon. Its parapet is a balustrade carved out offreestone, into the soft substance of which a multitude of persons haveengraved their names or initials, many of them now illegible, whileothers, more deeply cut, are illuminated with fresh green moss. Thesetokens indicate a famous spot; and casting our eyes along the smoothgleam and shadow of the quiet stream, through a vista of willows thatdroop on either side into the water, we behold the gray magnificence ofWarwick Castle, uplifting itself among stately trees, and rearing itsturrets high above their loftiest branches. We can scarcely think thescene real, so completely do those machicolated towers, the long line ofbattlements, the massive buttresses, the high-windowed walls, shape outour indistinct ideas of the antique time. It might rather seem as if thesleepy river (being Shakspeare's Avon, and often, no doubt, the mirrorof his gorgeous visions) were dreaming now of a lordly residence thatstood here many centuries ago; and this fantasy is strengthened,when you observe that the image in the tranquil water has all thedistinctness of the actual structure. Either might be the reflection ofthe other. Wherever Time has gnawed one of the stones, you see themark of his tooth just as plainly in the sunken reflection. Each is soperfect, that the upper vision seems a castle in the air, and the lowerone an old stronghold of feudalism, miraculously kept from decay in anenchanted river.

A ruinous and ivy-grown bridge, that projects from the bank a little onthe hither side of the castle, has the effect of making the scene appearmore entirely apart from the every-day world, for it ends abruptly inthe middle of the stream,—so that, if a cavalcade of the knights andladies of romance should issue from the old walls, they could nevertread on earthly ground, any more than we, approaching from the side ofmodern realism, can overleap the gulf between our domain and theirs.Yet, if we seek to disenchant ourselves, it may readily be done.Crossing the bridge on which we stand, and passing a little farther on,we come to the entrance of the castle, abutting on the highway, andhospitably open at certain hours to all curious pilgrims who choose todisburse half a crown or so towards the support of the Earl's domestics.The sight of that long series of historic rooms, full of such splendorsand rarities as a great English family necessarily gathers about itself,in its hereditary abode, and in the lapse of ages, is well worth themoney, or ten times as much, if indeed the value of the spectacle couldbe reckoned in money's-worth. But after the attendant has hurried youfrom end to end of the edifice, repeating a guide-book by rote, andexorcising each successive hall of its poetic glamour and witchcraftby the mere tone in which he talks about it, you will make the dolefuldiscovery that Warwick Castle has ceased to be a dream. It is better,methinks, to linger on the bridge, gazing at Caesar's Tower and Guy'sTower in the dim English sunshine above, and in the placid Avon below,and still keep them as thoughts in your own mind, than climb to theirsummits, or touch even a stone of their actual substance. They will haveall the more reality for you, as stalwart relics of immemorial time, ifyou are reverent enough to leave them in the intangible sanctity of apoetic vision.

From the bridge over the Avon, the road passes in front of thecastle-gate, and soon enters the principal street of Warwick, a littlebeyond St. John's School-House, already described. Chester itself, mostantique of English towns, can hardly show quainter architectural shapesthan many of the buildings that border this street. They are mostly ofthe timber-and-plaster kind, with bowed and decrepit ridge-poles, and awhole chronology of various patchwork in their walls; their low-broweddoor-ways open upon a sunken floor; their projecting stories peep, asit were, over one another's shoulders, and rise into a multiplicity ofpeaked gables; they have curious windows, breaking out irregularly allover the house, some even in the roof, set in their own little peaks,opening lattice-wise, and furnished with twenty small panes oflozenge-shaped glass. The architecture of these edifices (a visibleoaken framework, showing the whole skeleton of the house,—as if a man'sbones should be arranged on his outside, and his flesh seen through theinterstices) is often imitated by modern builders, and with sufficientlypicturesque effect. The objection is, that such houses, like allimitations of by-gone styles, have an air of affectation; they do notseem to be built in earnest; they are no better than playthings, orovergrown baby-houses, in which nobody should be expected to encounterthe serious realities of either birth or death. Besides, originatingnothing, we leave no fashions for another age to copy, when we ourselvesshall have grown antique.

Old as it looks, all this portion of Warwick has overbrimmed, as itwere, from the original settlement, being outside of the ancient wall.The street soon runs under an arched gateway, with a church or someother venerable structure above it, and admits us into the heart ofthe town. At one of my first visits, I witnessed a military display. Aregiment of Warwickshire militia, probably commanded by the Earl, wasgoing through its drill in the market-place; and on the collar of one ofthe officers was embroidered the Bear and Ragged Staff, which has beenthe cognizance of the Warwick earldom from time immemorial. The soldierswere sturdy young men, with the simple, stolid, yet kindly, faces ofEnglish rustics, looking exceedingly well in a body, but slouching intoa yeoman-like carriage and appearance, the moment they were dismissedfrom drill. Squads of them were distributed everywhere about thestreets, and sentinels were posted at various points; and I saw asergeant, with a great key in his hand, (big enough to have been the keyof the castle's main entrance when the gate was thickest and heaviest,)apparently setting a guard. Thus, centuries after feudal times arepast, we find warriors still gathering under the old castle-walls, andcommanded by a feudal lord, just as in the days of the King-Maker, who,no doubt, often mustered his retainers in the same market-place where Ibeheld this modern regiment.

The interior of the town wears a less old-fashioned aspect than thesuburbs through which we approach it; and the High Street has shops withmodern plate-glass, and buildings with stuccoed fronts, exhibiting asfew projections to hang a thought or sentiment upon as if an architectof to-day had planned them. And, indeed, so far as their surface goes,they are perhaps new enough to stand unabashed in an American street;but behind these renovated faces, with their monotonous lack ofexpression, there is probably the substance of the same old town thatwore a Gothic exterior in the Middle Ages. The street is an emblem ofEngland itself. What seems new in it is chiefly a skilful and fortunateadaptation of what such a people as ourselves would destroy. The newthings are based and supported on sturdy old things, and derive amassive strength from their deep and immemorial foundations, though withsuch limitations and impediments as only an Englishman could endure.But he likes to feel the weight of all the past upon his back; and,moreover, the antiquity that overburdens him has taken root in hisbeing, and has grown to be rather a hump than a pack, so that there isno getting rid of it without tearing his whole structure to pieces. Inmy judgment, as he appears to be sufficiently comfortable under themouldy accretion, he had better stumble on with it as long as he can.He presents a spectacle which is by no means without its charm for adisinterested and unincumbered observer.

When the old edifice, or the antiquated custom or institution, appearsin its pristine form, without any attempt at intermarrying it withmodern fashions, an American cannot but admire the picturesque effectproduced by the sudden cropping up of an apparently dead-and-buriedstate of society into the actual present, of which he is himself a part.We need not go far in Warwick without encountering an instance of thekind. Proceeding westward through the town, we find ourselves confrontedby a huge mass of natural rock, hewn into something like architecturalshape, and penetrated by a vaulted passage, which may well have been oneof King Cymbeline's original gateways; and on the top of the rock, overthe archway, sits a small, old church, communicating with an ancientedifice, or assemblage of edifices, that look down from a similarelevation on the side of the street. A range of trees half hides thelatter establishment from the sun. It presents a curious and venerablespecimen of the timber-and-plaster style of building, in which some ofthe finest old houses in England are constructed; the front projectsinto porticos and vestibules, and rises into many gables, some in a row,and others crowning semi-detached portions of the structure; the windowsmostly open on hinges, but show a delightful irregularity of shape andposition; a multiplicity of chimneys break through the roof at their ownwill, or, at least, without any settled purpose of the architect. Thewhole affair looks very old,—so old, indeed, that the front bulgesforth, as if the timber framework were a little weary, at last, ofstanding erect so long; but the state of repair is so perfect, and thereis such an indescribable aspect of continuous vitality within the systemof this aged house, that you feel confident that there may be safeshelter yet, and perhaps for centuries to come, under its time-honoredroof. And on a bench, sluggishly enjoying the sunshine, and looking intothe street of Warwick as from a life apart, a few old men are generallyto be seen, wrapped in long cloaks, on which you may detect theglistening of a silver badge representing the Bear and Ragged Staff.These decorated worthies are some of the twelve brethren of Leicester'sHospital,—a community which subsists to-day under the identical modesthat were established for it in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and ofcourse retains many features of a social life that has vanished almosteverywhere else.

The edifice itself dates from a much older period than the charitableinstitution of which it is now the home. It was the seat of a religiousfraternity far back in the Middle Ages, and continued so till HenryVIII. turned all the priesthood of England out-of-doors, and put themost unscrupulous of his favorites into their vacant abodes. In manyinstances, the old monks had chosen the sites of their domiciles sowell, and built them on such a broad system of beauty and convenience,that their lay-occupants found it easy to convert them into stately andcomfortable homes; and as such they still exist, with something of theantique reverence lingering about them. The structure now before usseems to have been first granted to Sir Nicholas Lestrange, who perhapsintended, like other men, to establish his household gods in the nicheswhence he had thrown down the images of saints, and to lay his hearthwhere an altar had stood. But there was probably a natural reluctancein those days (when Catholicism, so lately repudiated, must needs Laveretained an influence over all but the most obdurate characters) tobring one's hopes of domestic prosperity and a fortunate lineage intodirect hostility with the awful claims of the ancient religion. At allevents, there is still a superstitious idea, betwixt a fantasy and abelief, that the possession of former Church-property has drawn a cursealong with it, not only among the posterity of those to whom it wasoriginally granted, but wherever it has subsequently been transferred,even if honestly bought and paid for. There are families, now inhabitingsome of the beautiful old abbeys, who appear to indulge a species ofpride in recording the strange deaths and ugly shapes of misfortune thathave occurred among their predecessors, and may be supposed likely todog their own pathway down the ages of futurity. Whether Sir NicholasLestrange, in the beef-eating days of Old Harry and Elizabeth, was anervous man, and subject to apprehensions of this kind, I cannot tell;but it is certain that he speedily rid himself of the spoils of theChurch, and that, within twenty years afterwards, the edifice became theproperty of the famous Dudley, Earl of Leicester, brother of the Earl ofWarwick. He devoted the ancient religious precinct to a charitable use,endowing it with an ample revenue, and making it the perpetual home oftwelve poor, honest, and war-broken soldiers, mostly his own retainers,and natives either of Warwickshire or Gloucestershire. These veterans,or others wonderfully like them, still occupy their monkish dormitoriesand haunt the time-darkened corridors and galleries of the hospital,leading a life of old-fashioned comfort, wearing the old-fashionedcloaks, and burnishing the identical silver badges which the Earl ofLeicester gave to the original twelve. He is said to have been a bad manin his day; but he has succeeded in prolonging one good deed into whatwas to him a distant future.

On the projecting story, over the arched entrance, there is the date,1571, and several coats-of-arms, either the Earl's or those of hiskindred, and immediately above the door-way a stone sculpture of theBear and Ragged Staff.

Passing through the arch, we find ourselves in a quadrangle, orinclosed court, such as always formed the central part of a greatfamily-residence in Queen Elizabeth's time, and earlier. There canhardly be a more perfect specimen of such an establishment thanLeicester's Hospital. The quadrangle is a sort of sky-roofed hall, towhich there is convenient access from all parts of the house. The fourinner fronts, with their high, steep roofs and sharp gables, look intoit from antique windows, and through open corridors and galleries alongthe sides; and there seems to be a richer display of architecturaldevices and ornaments, quainter carvings in oak, and more fantasticshapes of the timber framework, than on the side towards the street. Onthe wall opposite the arched entrance are the following inscriptions,comprising such moral rules, I presume, as were deemed most essentialfor the daily observance of the community: "HONOR ALL MEN"—"FEARGOD"—"HONOR THE KING"—"LOVE THE BROTHERHOOD"; and again, as if thislatter injunction needed emphasis and repetition among a household ofaged people soured with the hard fortune of their previous lives,—"BEKINDLY AFFECTIONED ONE TO ANOTHER." One sentence, over a doorcommunicating with the Master's side of the house, is addressed tothat dignitary,—"HE THAT RULETH OVER MEN MUST BE JUST." All theseare charactered in black-letter, and form part of the elaborateornamentation of the Louse. Everywhere—on the walls, over windows anddoors, and at all points where there is room to place them—appearescutcheons of arms, cognizances, and crests, emblazoned in their propercolors, and illuminating the ancient quadrangle with their splendor. Oneof these devices is a large image of a porcupine on an heraldic wreath,being the crest of the Lords de Lisle. But especially is the cognizanceof the Bear and Ragged Staff repeated over and over, and over again andagain, in a great variety of attitudes, at full-length and half-length,in paint and in oaken sculpture, in bas-relief and rounded image.The founder of the hospital was certainly disposed to reckon his ownbeneficence as among the hereditary glories of his race; and had helived and died a half-century earlier, he would have kept up an oldCatholic custom by enjoining the twelve bedesmen to pray for the welfareof his soul.

At my first visit, some of the brethren were seated on the bench outsideof the edifice, looking down into the street; but they did not vouchsafeme a word, and seemed so estranged from modern life, so enveloped inantique customs and old-fashioned cloaks, that to converse with themwould have been like shouting across the gulf between our age andQueen Elizabeth's. So I passed into the quadrangle, and found it quitesolitary, except that a plain and neat old woman happened to be crossingit, with an aspect of business and carefulness that bespoke her a womanof this world, and not merely a shadow of the past. Asking her if Icould come in, she answered very readily and civilly that I might, andsaid that I was free to look about me, hinting a hope, however, that Iwould not open the private doors of the brotherhood, as some visitorswere in the habit of doing. Under her guidance, I went into what wasformerly the great hall of the establishment, where King James I. hadonce been feasted by an Earl of Warwick, as is commemorated by aninscription on the cobwebbed and dingy wall. It is a very spacious andbarn-like apartment, with a brick floor, and a vaulted roof, the raftersof which are oaken beams, wonderfully carved, but hardly visible inthe duskiness that broods aloft. The hall may have made a splendidappearance, when it was decorated with rich tapestry, and illuminatedwith chandeliers, cressets, and torches glistening upon silver dishes,while King James sat at supper among his brilliantly dressed nobles;but it has come to base uses in these latter days,—being improved,in Yankee phrase, as a brewery and wash-room, and as a cellar for thebrethren's separate allotments of coal.

The old lady here left me to myself, and I returned into the quadrangle.It was very quiet, very handsome, in its own obsolete style, and must bean exceedingly comfortable place for the old people to lounge in, whenthe inclement winds render it inexpedient to walk abroad. There areshrubs against the wall, on one side; and on another is a cloisteredwalk, adorned with stags' heads and antlers, and running beneath acovered gallery, up to which ascends a balustraded staircase. In theportion of the edifice opposite the entrance-arch are the apartmentsof the Master; and looking into the window, (as the old woman, at norequest of mine, had specially informed me that I might,) I saw a low,but vastly comfortable parlor, very handsomely furnished, and altogethera luxurious place. It had a fireplace with an immense arch, the antiquebreadth of which extended almost from wall to wall of the room, thoughnow fitted up in such a way that the modern coal-grate looked verydiminutive in the midst. Gazing into this pleasant interior, it seemedto me, that, among these venerable surroundings, availing himself ofwhatever was good in former things, and eking out their imperfectionwith the results of modern ingenuity, the Master might lead a notunenviable life. On the cloistered side of the quadrangle, where thedark oak panels made the inclosed space dusky, I beheld a curtainedwindow reddened by a great blaze from within, and heard the bubbling andsqueaking of something—doubtless very nice and succulent—that wasbeing cooked at the kitchen-fire. I think, indeed, that a whiff ortwo of the savory fragrance reached my nostrils; at all events, theimpression grew upon me that Leicester's Hospital is one of the jolliestold domiciles in England.

I was about to depart, when another old woman, very plainly dressed,but fat, comfortable, and with a cheerful twinkle in her eyes, came inthrough the arch, and looked curiously at me. This repeated apparitionof the gentle sex (though by no means under its loveliest guise) hadstill an agreeable effect in modifying my ideas of an institution whichI had supposed to be of a stern and monastic character. She askedwhether I wished to see the hospital, and said that the porter, whoseoffice it was to attend to visitors, was dead, and would be buried thatvery day, so that the whole establishment could not conveniently beshown me. She kindly invited me, however, to visit the apartmentoccupied by her husband and herself; so I followed her up the antiquestaircase, along the gallery, and into a small, oak-panelled parlor,where sat an old man in a long blue garment, who arose and saluted mewith much courtesy. He seemed a very quiet person, and yet had a look oftravel and adventure, and gray experience, such as I could have fanciedin a palmer of ancient times, who might likewise have worn a similarcostume. The little room was carpeted and neatly furnished; a portraitof its occupant was hanging on the wall; and on a table were two swordscrossed,—one, probably, his own battle-weapon, and the other, whichI drew half out of the scabbard, had an inscription on the blade,purporting that it had been taken from the field of Waterloo. Mykind old hostess was anxious to exhibit all the particulars of theirhousekeeping, and led me into the bed-room, which was in the nicestorder, with a snow-white quilt upon the bed; and in a little interveningroom was a washing and bathing apparatus,—a convenience (judging fromthe personal aspect and atmosphere of such parties) seldom to be metwith in the humbler ranks of British life.

The old soldier and his wife both seemed glad of somebody to talk with;but the good woman availed herself of the privilege far more copiouslythan the veteran himself, insomuch that he felt it expedient to give heran occasional nudge with his elbow in her well-padded ribs. "Don't yoube so talkative!" quoth he; and, indeed, he could hardly find space fora word, and quite as little after his admonition as before. Her nimbletongue ran over the whole system of life in the hospital. The brethren,she said, had a yearly stipend, (the amount of which she did notmention,) and such decent lodgings as I saw, and some other advantages,free; and instead of being pestered with a great many rules, and madeto dine together at a great table, they could manage their littlehousehold-matters as they liked, buying their own dinners, and havingthem cooked in the general kitchen, and eating them snugly in their ownparlors. "And," added she, rightly deeming this the crowning privilege,"with the Master's permission, they can have their wives to take care ofthem; and no harm comes of it; and what more can an old man desire?"It was evident enough that the good dame found herself in what sheconsidered very rich clover, and, moreover, had plenty of smalloccupations to keep her from getting rusty and dull; but the veteranimpressed me as deriving far less enjoyment from the monotonous ease,without fear of change or hope of improvement, that had followed uponthirty years of peril and vicissitude. I fancied, too, that, whilepleased with the novelty of a stranger's visit, he was still a littleshy of becoming a spectacle for the stranger's curiosity; for, if hechose to be morbid about the matter, the establishment was but analmshouse, in spite of its old-fashioned magnificence, and his fine bluecloak only a pauper's garment, with a silver badge on it that perhapsgalled his shoulder. In truth, the badge and the peculiar garb, thoughquite in accordance with the manners of the Earl of Leicester's age,are repugnant to modern prejudices, and might fitly and humanely beabolished.

A year or two afterwards I paid another visit to the hospital, and founda new porter established in office, and already capable of talking likea guide-book about the history, antiquities, and present condition ofthe charity. He informed me that the twelve brethren are selected fromamong old soldiers of good character, whose private resources mustnot exceed an income of five pounds; thus excluding all commissionedofficers, whose half-pay would of course be more than that amount. Theyreceive from the hospital an annuity of eighty pounds each, besidestheir apartments, a garment of fine blue cloth, an annual abundance ofale, and a privilege at the kitchen-fire; so that, considering the classfrom which they are taken, they may well reckon themselves among thefortunate of the earth. Furthermore, they are invested with politicalrights, acquiring a vote for member of Parliament in virtue eitherof their income or brotherhood. On the other hand, as regards theirpersonal freedom and conduct, they are subject to a supervision whichthe Master of the hospital might render extremely annoying, were he soinclined; but the military restraint under which they have spent theactive portion of their lives makes it easier for them to endure thedomestic discipline here imposed upon their age. The porter bore histestimony (whatever were its value) to their being as contented andhappy as such a set of old people could possibly be, and affirmed thatthey spent much time in burnishing their silver badges, and were asproud of them as a nobleman of his star. These badges, by-the-by, exceptone that was stolen and replaced in Queen Anne's time, are the very samethat decorated the original twelve brethren.

I have seldom met with a better guide than my friend the porter.He appeared to take a genuine interest in the peculiarities of theestablishment, and yet had an existence apart from them, so that hecould the better estimate what those peculiarities were. To be sure, hisknowledge and observation were confined to external things, but, sofar, had a sufficiently extensive scope. He led me up the staircaseand exhibited portions of the timber framework of the edifice that arereckoned to be eight or nine hundred years old, and are still neitherworm-eaten nor decayed; and traced out what had been a great hall, inthe days of the Catholic fraternity, though its area is now filled upwith the apartments of the twelve brethren; and pointed to ornaments ofsculptured oak, done in an ancient religious style of art, but hardlyvisible amid the vaulted dimness of the roof. Thence we went to thechapel—the Gothic church which I noted several pages back—surmountingthe gateway that stretches half across the street. Here the brethrenattend daily prayer, and have each a prayer-book of the finest paper,with a fair, large type for their old eyes. The interior of the chapelis very plain, with a picture of no merit for an altar-piece, anda single old pane of painted glass in the great eastern window,representing—no saint, nor angel, as is customary in such cases—butthat grim sinner, the Earl of Leicester. Nevertheless, amid so manytangible proofs of his human sympathy, one comes to doubt whether theEarl could have been such a hardened reprobate, after all.

We ascended the tower of the chapel, and looked down between itsbattlements into the street, a hundred feet below us; while clamberinghalf-way up were foxglove-flowers, weeds, small shrubs, and tufts ofgrass, that had rooted themselves into the roughnesses of the stonefoundation. Far around us lay a rich and lovely English landscape, withmany a church-spire and noble country-seat, and several objects of highhistoric interest. Edge Hill, where the Puritans defeated Charles I., isin sight on the edge of the horizon, and much nearer stands the housewhere Cromwell lodged on the night before the battle. Right under oureyes, and half-enveloping the town with its high-shouldering wall, sothat all the closely compacted streets seemed but a precinct of theestate, was the Earl of Warwick's delightful park, a wide extent ofsunny lawns, interspersed with broad contiguities of forest-shade. Someof the cedars of Lebanon were there,—a growth of trees in which theWarwick family take an hereditary pride. The two highest towers of thecastle heave themselves up out of a mass of foliage, and look down in alordly manner upon the plebeian roofs of the town, a part of which areslate-covered, (these are the modern houses,) and a part are coated withold red tiles, denoting the more ancient edifices. A hundred and sixtyor seventy years ago, a great fire destroyed a considerable portionof the town, and doubtless annihilated many structures of a remoteantiquity; at least, there was a possibility of very old houses in thelong past of Warwick, which King Cymbeline is said to have founded inthe year ONE of the Christian era!

And this historic fact or poetic fiction, whichever it may be, brings tomind a more indestructible reality than anything else that has occurredwithin the present field of our vision; though this includes the sceneof Guy of Warwick's legendary exploits, and some of those of the RoundTable, to say nothing of the Battle of Edge Hill. For perhaps it wasin the landscape now under our eyes that Post-humus wandered with theKing's daughter, the sweet, chaste, faithful, and courageous Imogen, thetenderest and womanliest woman that Shakspeare ever made immortal inthe world. The silver Avon, which we see flowing so quietly by the graycastle, may have held their images in its bosom.

The day, though it began brightly, had long been overcast, and theclouds now spat down a few spiteful drops upon us, besides that theeast-wind was very chill; so we descended the winding tower-stair, andwent next into the garden, one side of which is shut in by almost theonly remaining portion of the old city-wall. A part of the garden-groundis devoted to grass and shrubbery, and permeated by gravel-walks, in thecentre of one of which is a beautiful stone vase of Egyptian sculpture,having formerly stood on the top of a Nilometer, or graduated pillarfor measuring the rise and fall of the River Nile. On the pedestal isa Latin inscription by Dr. Parr, who (his vicarage of Hatton being soclose at hand) was probably often the Master's guest, and smoked hisinterminable pipe along these garden-walks. Of the vegetable-garden,which lies adjacent, the lion's share is appropriated to the Master, andtwelve small, separate patches to the individual brethren, who cultivatethem at their own judgment and by their own labor; and their beansand cauliflowers have a better flavor, I doubt not, than if they hadreceived them directly from the dead hand of the Earl of Leicester, likethe rest of their food. In the farther part of the garden is an arborfor the old men's pleasure and convenience, and I should like well tosit down among them there, and find out what is really the bitter andthe sweet of such a sort of life. As for the old gentlemen themselves,they put me queerly in mind of the Salem Custom-House, and the venerablepersonages whom I found so quietly at anchor there.

The Master's residence, forming one entire side of the quadrangle,fronts on the garden, and wears an aspect at once stately and homely.It can hardly have undergone any perceptible change with in threecenturies; but the garden, into which its old windows look, has probablyput off a great many eccentricities and quaintnesses, in the way ofcunningly clipped shrubbery, since the gardener of Queen Elizabeth'sreign threw down his rusty shears and took his departure. The presentMaster's name is Harris; he is a descendant of the founder's family, agentleman of independent fortune, and a clergyman of the EstablishedChurch, as the regulations of the hospital require him to be. I knownot what are his official emoluments; but, according to all Englishprecedent, an ancient charitable fund is certain to be held directly forthe behoof of those who administer it, and perhaps incidentally, in amoderate way, for the nominal beneficiaries; and, in the case before us,the brethren being so comfortably provided for, the Master is likely tobe at least as comfortable as all the twelve together. Yet I ought not,even in a distant land, to fling an idle gibe against a gentleman ofwhom I really know nothing, except that the people under his charge bearall possible tokens of being tended and cared for as sedulously as ifeach of them sat by a warm fireside of his own, with a daughter bustlinground the hearth to make ready his porridge and his titbits. It isdelightful to think of the good life which a suitable man, in theMaster's position, has an opportunity to lead,—linked to time-honoredcustoms, welded in with an ancient system, never dreaming of radicalchange, and bringing all the mellowness and richness of the past downinto these railway-days, which do not compel him or his communityto move a whit quicker than of yore. Everybody can appreciate theadvantages of going ahead; it might be well, sometimes, to think whetherthere is not a word or two to be said in favor of standing still, orgoing to sleep.

From the garden we went into the kitchen, where the fire was burninghospitably, and diffused a genial warmth far and wide, together with thefragrance of some old English roast-beef, which, I think must at thatmoment have been nearly to a turn. The kitchen is a lofty, spacious,and noble room, partitioned off round the fireplace by a sort ofsemicircular oaken screen, or, rather, an arrangement of heavy andhigh-backed settles, with an ever open entrance between them, on eitherside of which is the omnipresent image of the Bear and Ragged Staff,three feet high, and excellently carved in oak, now black with time andunctuous kitchen-smoke. The ponderous mantel-piece, likewise of carvedoak, towers high towards the dusky ceiling, and extends its mightybreadth to take in a vast area of hearth, the arch of the fireplacebeing positively so immense that I could compare it to nothing but thecity-gateway. Above its cavernous opening were crossed two ancienthalberds, the weapons, possibly, of soldiers who had fought underLeicester in the Low Countries; and elsewhere on the walls weredisplayed several muskets, which some of the present inmates of thehospital may have levelled against the French. Another ornament of themantel-piece was a square of silken needlework or embroidery, fadednearly white, but dimly representing that wearisome Bear and RaggedStaff, which we should hardly look twice at, only that it was wrought bythe fair fingers of poor Amy Robsart, and beautifully framed in oak fromKenilworth Castle at the expense of a Mr. Conner, a countryman of ourown. Certainly, no Englishman would be capable of this little bit ofenthusiasm. Finally, the kitchen-firelight glistens on a splendiddisplay of copper flagons, all of generous capacity, and one of themabout as big as a half-barrel; the smaller vessels contain the customaryallowance of ale, and the larger one is filled with that foaming liquoron four festive occasions of the year, and emptied amain by the jollybrotherhood. I should be glad to see them do it; but it would be anexploit fitter for Queen Elizabeth's age than these degenerate times.

The kitchen is the social hall of the twelve brethren. In the day-time,they bring their little messes to be cooked here, and eat them in theirown parlors; but after a certain hour, the great hearth is cleared andswept, and the old men assemble round its blaze, each with his tankardand his pipe, and hold high converse through the evening. If the Masterbe a fit man for his office, methinks he will sometimes sit downsociably among them; for there is an elbow-chair by the fireside whichit would not demean his dignity to fill, since it was occupied by KingJames at the great festival of nearly three centuries ago. A sip of theale and a whiff of the tobacco-pipe would put him in friendly relationswith his venerable household; and then we can fancy him instructing themby pithy apothegms and religious texts which were first uttered here bysome Catholic priest and have impregnated the atmosphere ever since. Ifa joke goes round, it shall be of an elder coinage than Joe Miller's, asold as Lord Bacon's collection, or as the jest-book that Master Slenderasked for when he lacked small-talk for sweet Anne Page. No news shallbe spoken of, later than the drifting ashore, on the northern coast,of sonic stern-post or figure-head, a barnacled fragment of one of thegreat galleons of the Spanish Armada. What a tremor would pass throughthe antique group, if a damp newspaper should suddenly be spread to drybefore the fire! They would feel as if either that printed sheet or theythemselves must be an unreality. What a mysterious awe, if the shriekof the railway-train, as it reaches the Warwick station, should ever sofaintly invade their ears! Movement of any kind seems inconsistent withthe stability of such an institution. Nevertheless, I trust that theages will carry it along with them; because it is such a pleasant kindof dream for an American to find his way thither, and behold a piece ofthe sixteenth century set into our prosaic times, and then to depart,and think of its arched door-way as a spell-guarded entrance which willnever be accessible or visible to him any more.

Not far from the market-place of Warwick stands the great church of St.Mary's: a vast edifice, indeed, and almost worthy to be a cathedral.People who pretend to skill in such matters say that it is in a poorstyle of architecture, though designed (or, at least, extensivelyrestored) by Sir Christopher Wren; but I thought it very striking, withits wide, high, and elaborate windows, its tall tower, its immenselength, and (for it was long before I outgrew this Americanism, thelove of an old thing merely for the sake of its age) the tinge of grayantiquity over the whole. Once, while I stood gazing up at the tower,the clock struck twelve with a very deep intonation, and immediatelysome chimes began to play, and kept up their resounding music for fiveminutes, as measured by the hand upon the dial. It was a very delightfulharmony, as airy as the notes of birds, and seemed a not unbecomingfreak of half-sportive fancy in the huge, ancient, and solemn church;although I have seen an old-fashioned parlor-clock that did preciselythe same thing, in its small way.

The great attraction of this edifice is the Beauchamp (or, as theEnglish, who delight in vulgarizing their fine old Norman names, callit, the Beechum) Chapel, where the Earls of Warwick and their kindredhave been buried, from four hundred years back till within a recentperiod. It is a stately and very elaborate chapel, with a large windowof ancient painted glass, as perfectly preserved as any that I rememberseeing in England, and remarkably vivid in its colors. Here are severalmonuments with marble figures recumbent upon them, representing theEarls in their knightly armor, and their dames in the ruffs andcourt-finery of their day, looking hardly stiffer in stone than theymust needs have been in their starched linen and embroidery. Therenowned Earl of Leicester of Queen Elizabeth's time, the benefactorof the hospital, reclines at full length on the tablet of one of thesetombs, side by side with his Countess,—not Amy Robsart, but a lady who(unless I have confused the story with some other mouldy scandal) issaid to have avenged poor Amy's murder by poisoning the Earl himself.Be that as it may, both figures, and especially the Earl, look like thevery types of ancient Honor and Conjugal Faith. In consideration ofhis long-enduring kindness to the twelve brethren, I cannot consent tobelieve him as wicked as he is usually depicted; and it seems a marvel,now that so many well-established historical verdicts have beenreversed, why some enterprising writer does not make out Leicester tohave been the pattern nobleman of his age.

In the centre of the chapel is the magnificent memorial of its founder,Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick in the time of Henry VI. On a richlyornamented altar-tomb of gray marble lies the bronze figure of a knightin gilded armor, most admirably executed: for the sculptors of thosedays had wonderful skill in their own style, and could make so life-likean image of a warrior, in brass or marble, that, if a trumpet weresounded over his tomb, you would expect him to start up and handle hissword. The Earl whom we now speak of, however, has slept soundly inspite of a more serious disturbance than any blast of a trumpet, unlessit were the final one. Some centuries after his death, the floor of thechapel fell down and broke open the stone coffin in which he was buried;and among the fragments appeared the Earl of Warwick, with the colorscarcely faded out of his checks, his eyes a little sunken, but in otherrespects looking as natural as if he had died yesterday. But exposure tothe atmosphere appeared to begin and finish the long-delayed process ofdecay in a moment, causing him to vanish like a bubble; so that, almostbefore there had been time to wonder at him, there was nothing left ofthe stalwart Earl save his hair. This sole relic the ladies of Warwickmade prize of, and braided it into rings and brooches for their ownadornment; and thus, with a chapel and a ponderous tomb built on purposeto protect his remains, this great nobleman could not help being broughtuntimely to the light of day, nor even keep his love-locks on his skullafter he had so long done with love. There seems to be a fatality thatdisturbs people in their sepulchres, when they have been over-careful torender them magnificent and impregnable,—as witness the builders ofthe Pyramids, and Hadrian, Augustus, and the Scipios, and most otherpersonages whose mausoleums have been conspicuous enough to attract theviolator; and as for dead men's hair, I have seen a lock of King Edwardthe Fourth's, of a reddish-brown color, which perhaps was once twistedround the delicate forefinger of Mistress Shore.

The direct lineage of the renowned characters that lie buried in thissplendid chapel has long been extinct. The earldom is now held bythe Grevilles, descendants of the Lord Brooke who was slain in theParliamentary War; and they have recently (that is to say, withina century) built a burial-vault on the other side of the church,calculated (as the sexton assured me, with a nod as if be were pleased)to afford suitable and respectful accommodation to as many as fourscorecoffins. Thank Heaven, the old man did not call them "CASKETS"!—a vilemodern phrase, which compels a person of sense and good taste to shrinkmore disgustfully than ever before from the idea of being buried atall. But as regards those eighty coffins, only sixteen have as yetbeen contributed; and it may be a question with some minds, not merelywhether the Grevilles will hold the earldom of Warwick until thefull number shall be made up, but whether earldoms and all manner oflordships will not have faded out of England long before those manygenerations shall have passed from the castle to the vault. I hope not.A titled and landed aristocracy, if anywise an evil and an incumbrance,is so only to the nation which is doomed to bear it on its shoulders;and an American, whose sole relation to it is to admire its picturesqueeffect upon society, ought to be the last man to quarrel with whataffords him so much gratuitous enjoyment. Nevertheless, conservativeas England is, and though I scarce ever found an Englishman who seemedreally to desire change, there was continually a dull sound in my earsas if the old foundations of things were crumbling away. Some time orother,—by no irreverent effort of violence, but, rather, in spite ofall pious efforts to uphold a heterogeneous pile of institutions thatwill have outlasted their vitality,—at some unexpected moment, theremust come a terrible crash. The sole reason why I should desire it tohappen in my day is, that I might be there to see! But the ruin of myown country is, perhaps, all that I am destined to witness; and thatimmense catastrophe (though I am strong in the faith that there is anational lifetime of a thousand years in us yet) would serve any manwell enough as his final spectacle on earth.

If the visitor is inclined to carry away any little memorial of Warwick,he had better go to an Old Curiosity Shop in the High Street, wherethere is a vast quantity of obsolete gewgaws, great and small, and manyof them so pretty and ingenious that you wonder how they came to bethrown aside and forgotten. As regards its minor tastes, the worldchanges, but does not improve; it appears to me, indeed, that there havebeen epochs of far more exquisite fancy than the present one, in mattersof personal ornament, and such delicate trifles as we put upon adrawing-room table, a mantel-piece, or a what-not. The shop in questionis near the East Gate, but is hardly to be found without carefulsearch, being denoted only by the name of "REDFERN," painted not veryconspicuously in the top-light of the door. Immediately on entering, wefind ourselves among a confusion of old rubbish and valuables, ancientarmor, historic portraits, ebony cabinets inlaid with pearl, tall,ghostly clocks, hideous old China, dim looking-glasses in frames oftarnished magnificence,—a thousand objects of strange aspect, andothers that almost frighten you by their likeness in unlikeness tothings now in use. It is impossible to give an idea of the variety ofarticles, so thickly strewn about that we can scarcely move withoutoverthrowing some great curiosity with a crash, or sweeping away somesmall one hitched to our sleeves. Three stories of the entire house arecrowded in like manner. The collection, even as we see it exposed toview, must have been got together at great cost; but the real treasuresof the establishment lie in secret repositories, whence they are notlikely to be drawn forth at an ordinary summons; though, if a gentlemanwith a competently long purse should call for them, I doubt not thatthe signet-ring of Joseph's friend Pharaoh, or the Duke of Alva'sleading-staff, or the dagger that killed the Duke of Buckingham, orany other almost incredible thing, might make its appearance. Goldsnuff-boxes, antique gems, jewelled goblets, Venetian wine-glasses,(which burst when poison is poured into them, and therefore must not beused for modern wine-drinking,) jasper-handled knives, painted Sevresteacups,—in short, there are all sorts of things that a virtuosoransacks the world to discover.

It would be easier to spend a hundred pounds in Mr. Redfern's shop thanto keep it in one's pocket; but, for my part, I contented myself withbuying a little old spoon of silver-gilt, and fantastically shaped, andgot it at all the more reasonable rate because there happened to be nolegend attached to it. I could supply any deficiency of that kind atmuch less expense than re-gilding the spoon!

* * * * *

LYRICS OF THE STREET.

III.

THE CHARITABLE VISITOR.

She carries no flag of fashion, her clothes are but passing plain,
Though she comes from a city palace all jubilant with her reign.
She threads a bewildering alley, with ashes and dust thrown out,
And fighting and cursing children, who mock as she moves about.

Why walk you this way, my lady, in the snow and slippery ice?
These are not the shrines of virtue,—here misery lives, and vice:
Rum helps the heart of starvation to a courage bold and bad;
And women are loud and brawling, while men sit maudlin and mad.

I see in the corner yonder the boy with the broken arm,
And the mother whose blind wrath did it, strange guardian from childish
harm.
That face will grow bright at your coming, but your steward might come
as well,
Or better the Sunday teacher that helped him to read and spell.

Oh! I do not come of my willing, with froward and restless feet;
I have pleasant tasks in my chamber, and friends well-beloved to greet.
To follow the dear Lord Jesus I walk in the storm and snow;
Where I find the trace of His footsteps, there lilies and roses grow.

He said that to give was blessed, more blessed than to receive;
But what could He take, dear angels, of all that we had to give,
Save a little pause of attention, and a little thrill of delight,
When the dead were waked from their slumbers, and the blind recalled to
sight?

Say, the King came forth with the morning, and opened His palace-doors,
Thence flinging His gifts like sunbeams that break upon marble floors;
But the wind with wild pinions caught them, and carried them round
about:
Though I looked till mine eyes were dazzled, I never could make them out.

But He bade me go far and find them, "go seek them with zeal and pain;
The hand is most welcome to me that brings me mine own again;
And those who follow them farthest, with faithful searching and sight,
Are brought with joy to my presence, and sit at my feet all night."

So, hither and thither walking, I gather them broadly cast;
Where yonder young face doth sicken, it may be the best and last.
In no void or vague of duty I come to his aid to-day;
I bring God's love to his bed-side, and carry God's gift away.

MR. AXTELL.

PART V.

"Miss Anna! Miss Anna! Doctor Percival is waiting for you," were theopening words of the next day's life. Its bells had had no influence inrestoring me to consciousness of existence. I never have liked metalliccommanders. Now Jeffy's Ethiopian tones were inspiriting, and to theirmusic I began the mystic march of another day.

Doctor Percival was not out of patience, it seemed, with waiting; for,as I went in, he was so engrossed with a morning paper that he did noteven look up, or notice me, until I made myself vocal, and then only tosay,—

"Ring for breakfast, Anna; I shall have done by the time it comes."

"It is here, father"; and he dropped the newspaper, turned his chair tothe table, leaned his arms upon it, covered his precious face with twothin, quivering hands, and remained thus, whilst I prepared coffee, andlingered as long as possible in the seeming occupation.

Jeffy—and I suspect that the mischievous African designed theact—overturned the coffee in handing it to my father, who is notendowed with the most equable temper ever consigned to mortals; but thismorning he did not give Jeffy even a severe look, for his eyes were fullof tender pity, such as I had never seen in them in all the past.

"How is your patient?" I asked.

"Better, thank God!" he replied.

"Were you with him all night?"

"Yes, all night. I must go out this morning to see some patients. I'llsend up a nurse from the hospital on my way. I don't think the deliriumwill return before mid-day; can you watch him till then, Anna?"—andhe asked with a seeming doubt either of my willingness or my ability,perhaps a mingling of both.

I did not like to recount my serious failures with Miss Axtell, but Ianswered,—

"I will try."

Before he went, he took me in to the place of my watching. The gentlemanwas asleep. The housekeeper was quite willing to relinquish her office.The good physician gave me orders concerning the febrifuge to beadministered in case of increase of febrile symptoms, and saying that"it wouldn't be long ere some one came to relieve me," he bent over thesleeping patient for an instant, and the next was gone.

I think a half-hour must have fled in silence, when Jeffy stole in, hiseyes opening as Chloe's had done not many days agone, when the visionof myself was painted thereon. I upheld a cautionary index, and he wasstill as a mouse, but like a mouse he proceeded to investigate; heopened a bureau-drawer the least way, and pushing his arm in where mylaces were wont to dwell, he drew out, with exultant delight, the wigbefore mentioned.

"What do you s'pose he wants with this thing'?" whispered Jeffy; andhe pointed to the soft, fair masses of curling hair that rested againstthe pillow.

Jeffy was a spoiled boy,—"my doing," everybody said, and it mayhave been truly. He was Chloe's son, and had inherited her ways andaffectionate heart, and for these I forgave him much.

I said, "Hush!"—whereupon he lifted up the wig and deposited it uponthe top of his tangled circlets of hair before I could stay him.

I reached out my hand for it, not venturing on words, for fear ofdisturbing the patient; but Jeffy, with unpardonable wilfulness, dancedout of my circuit, and at the same instant the sick man turned his head,and beheld Jeffy in the possession of his property. Jeffy looked veryrepentant, said in low, deprecatory tones, "I'm sorry," and, depositingthe wig in the drawer, hastened to escape, which I know he would nothave done but for the disabled condition of the invalid, who could onlylook his wrath. I had so hoped that he would sleep until some one came;but this unfortunate Jeffy had dissipated my hope, and left me inpitiable dilemma.

In the vain endeavor to restore the scattered influence of Morpheus,I flew to one of the aids of the mystic god, and beseeching itsassistance, I prepared to administer the draught. I could not find aspoon on the instant. When I did, I made a mistake in dropping theopiate, and was obliged to commence anew, and all the while thathandsome face, with large, pleading eyes in it, held me in painfulduress. When I turned towards him and held the glass to his lips, Itrembled, as I had not done, even in the church, when Abraham Axtell andI stood before the opened entrance into earth. All the words that I thatday had heard in the tower were ringing like clarions in the air, andthey shook me with their vibrant forces.

"Am I in heaven?"

It was the same voice that had said to Miss Axtell, "Will you send meout again?" that spake these words.

Was he going into delirium again? I was desirous of keeping him upon ourplanet, and I said,—

"Oh, no,—they don't need morphine in heaven."

"They need you there, though. You must go now," he said; and he madean effort to take the glass from my hand.

"I have never been in heaven," I said.

"Then they deceive, they deceive, and there isn't any heaven! Oh, whatif after all there shouldn't be such a place?"

He lifted up his one usable hand in agony.

"We wait until we die, before going there," I said; "I am alive, don'tyou see?"

"Alive, and not dead? you! whom I killed eighteen years ago, have youcome to reproach me now? Oh, I have suffered, even to atonement, for it!You would pardon, if you only knew what I have suffered for you."

Surely delirium had returned. I urged the poor man to take the contentsof the glass.

He promised, upon condition of my forgiveness,—forgiveness for havingkilled me, who never had been killed, who was surely alive. Jeffy hadcome in again, and had listened to the pleading.

"Why don't you tell him yes, Miss Anna? He doesn't know a word he'ssayin'. It'll keep him quiet like; he's like a baby," he whispered, witha covert pull at my dress by way of impressment.

And so, guided by Chloe's boy, I said, "I forgive."

"Why don't you go, if you forgive me? I don't like to keep you here,when you belong up there"; and he pointed his words by the aid of hisavailable hand.

I knew then why Miss Axtell had loved this man: it was simply one ofthose cruel, compulsory offerings up of self, that allure one, in opensight of torture, on to the altar. Oh, poor woman! why hath thy Makerso forsaken thee? And in mute wonder at this most wondrous wrong, thatcrept into mortal life when the serpent went out through Eden andleft an opening in the Garden, I forgot for the while my presentresponsibility, in compassionate pity for the pale, beautiful lady inRedleaf, into whose heart this man had come,—unwillingly, I knew, whenI looked into his face, and yet, having come, must grow into its Eden,even unto the time that Eternity shadows; and I sent out the arms of myspirit, and twined them invisibly around her, who truly had spoken whenshe said, "I want you," with such hungry tones. God, the Infinite,has given me comprehension of such women, has given me His own lovingpity,—in little human grains, it is true, but they come from "theshining shore." "Miss Axtell does want me," I thought; "she is right,—Iam gladness to her."

"Will you go?" came from the invalid.

"A woman, loving thus, never comes alone into a friend's heart,"something said; "you must receive her shadow"; and I looked at theperson who had said, "Will you go?"

There are various words used in the dictionary of life, descriptiveof men such as him now before me. They mostly are formed in syllablesnumbering four and five, which all integrate in the one wordirresistible: how pitifully I abhor that word!—every letter has aserpent-coil in it. "Love thy neighbor even as thyself." It is good thatthese words came just here to wall themselves before the torrent thatmight not have been stayed until I had laid the mountain of my thoughtupon the sycophantic syllabication that the world loves to "lip" untothe world,—the false world, that, blinded, blinds to blinder blindnessthose that fain would behold. There is a crying out in the earth fora place of torment; there are sins for which we want what God hathprepared for the wicked.

"Are you going?"—and this time there was plaintive moaning in theaccents.

"You must take him in, too," my spirit whispered; and I acted the "Iwill" that formed in the mental court where my soul sat enthroned,—myown judge.

"Oh, no, I am not going away," I said; "I am come to stay with you,until some one else comes."

A certain resignment of opposition seemed to be effected. I knew itwould be so,—it is in all such natures,—and he seemed intent uponmaking atonement for his imaginary wrong, since I would stay.

"Mary, I didn't mean to kill you," he said; "I wouldn't have destroyedyour young life; oh! I wouldn't;—but I did! I did!"

"You make some strange mistake; you ought not to talk," I urged,surprised at this second time being called Mary.

"Yes, I guess 'twas a mistake,—you're right, all a mistake,—I didn'tmean to kill you; but I did him, though. Oh! I wanted to destroyhim,—he hadn't any pity, he wouldn't yield. But it's you, Mary,you oughtn't to hear me say such things of him."

"I am not Mary, I am Miss Percival; and you may tell me."

"I beg pardon, I had no right to call you Mary; but it is there, now, onyour tomb-stone in the old church-yard,—Mary Percival,—there isn't anyMiss there. Do they call you Miss Percival in heaven?"—and he began tosing, deep, stirring songs of rhythmic melody, that catch up individualexistences and bear them to congregated continents, where mountains singand seas respond, amid the encore of starry spheres.

O Music! if we could but divine thee, dear divinity, thou mightst beless divine! then let us be content to be divinized in thee!—and I was.I let him sing, knowing that it was in delirium; and for the moment mywonder ceased concerning Miss Axtell's love for Herbert.

This while, Jeffy stood speechless, transfused into melody. Whence camethis love of Africans for harmonious measure? Oh, I remember: the scrollof song whereon were written the accents of the joyed morning-stars,when they grew jubilant that earth stood create, was let fall by anangel upon Afric's soil. No one of the children of the land was found ofwisdom sufficient to read the hieroglyphs; therefore the sacred roll wasdivided among the souls in the nation: unto each was given one note fromthe divine whole.

"Jeffy must have received a semi-breve as his portion," I thought, forhe was rapt in ecstasy.

"Oh, sing again!" he said, unconsciously, when, exhausted, the invalidreached the shore of Silence,—where he did not long linger, for hechanged his song to lament that he could not reach his ship, that wouldsail before he could recover; and he made an effort to rise. He fellback, fainting.

It seemed a great blessing that at this moment the housekeeperintroduced the person Doctor Percival had sent.

That night, and for many after, it seemed, my father looked extremelyanxious. I did not see the patient again until the eventful twenty-fifthof March was past.

Two days only was I permitted for my visit. Would Miss Axtell expect me?or had she, it might be, forgotten that she had asked my presence?

My father had not forgotten the obligation of the ring of gold; he madeallusion to it in the moment of parting, and I felt it tightening aboutme more and more as the miles of sea and land rolled back over ourseparation; and a question, asked long ago and unanswered yet, wasrepeated in my mental realm,—"Canst thou bind the sweet influences ofthe Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion?" and I said, "I will nottry."

It was evening when I arrived at the parsonage. Sophie was full of sweetsisterly joy on seeing me, and of surprise when I told her what hadoccurred in our father's house. It was so unprecedented, this taking ina stranger whose name and home were unknown; for I could not tell Sophiemy conviction that father had discovered who the patient was.

"Miss Axtell is almost well." Sophie gave the information before I foundtime to ask. "She pleases to be quite charming to me. I hope she will beequally gracious to you." And so I hoped.

From out the ark of the round year God sends some day-doves of summerinto the barren spring-time, to sing of coming joys and peck the budsinto opening. One of His sending brooded over Redleaf when I walkedforth in its morning-time to redeem my promise.

"Miss Percival! I'm so glad!"

Katie showed me into the room that once I had been so much afraid of.
She did not long leave me there.

"Miss Lettie would like to see you in her room."

Sophie was right. She is almost well.

"Come!" was the sole word that met my entering in; then followed twosmall acts, supposed to be conventionalities. Isn't it good that allsuppositions are not based upon truth? I thought it good then. I hopeI may away on to the dawning of the new life.

This was my first seeing of Miss Axtell in her self-light. She said,—

"This is the only day that I have been down in time forbreakfast,"—she, who looked as if the fair Dead-Sea fruits had been allof sustenance that had dropped through the leaden waves for her; andan emotion of awe swept past me, borne upon the renewal of theconsciousness that I had been made essential to her.

"I knew that you would come," she continued. "Oh! I have greatconfidence in you; you must never disappoint me,—will you?"—and,playfully, she motioned me to the footstool where she had appointed me aplace on the first night when she told me of her mother, dead.

I assured her that I should. I must begin that moment by mentioning thetime of my visit's duration.

"How long?" and there was import in the tone of her voice.

"I must be at home to-morrow morning."

"No reprieve?"

I answered, "None,"—and turned the circlet of obligation upon myfinger.

"I am glad you told me; I like limits; I wish to know the precise momentwhen my rainbows will disband. It's very nice, meeting Fate half-way;there's consolation in knowing that it will have as far to go as you onthe return voyage."

I smiled; a little inward ripple of gladness sent muscle-waves to mylips. She noticed it, and her tone changed.

"I see, I see, my good little Anemone! You don't know how exultant itis to stand alone, above the forest of your fellows,—to lift up yourhighest bough of feeling,—to meet the Northland's fiercest courser thatthinks to lay you low. Did you ever turn to see the expression withwhich the last leap of wind is met, the peculiar suavity of the bowingof the boughs, that says as plainly as ever did speaking leaves, 'Youhave left me myself'? You don't understand these things, you smallwind-flower, that have grown sheltered from all storms!"

"One would think not, Miss Axtell, but"—and I paused until she bade me
"Go on."

"Perhaps it is vanity,—I hope not,—but it seems to me that I have amirror of all Nature set into the frame of my soul. It isn't a part ofmyself; it is a mental telescope, that resolves the actions of all thepeople around me into myriads of motives, atomies of inducement, that Isee woven and webbed around them, by the sight-power given. Besides, Iam not an anemone,—oh, no! I am something more substantial."

"I see, very"; and before I could divine her intent, she had lifted upmy face in both her hands and held my eyes in her own intensity of gaze,as, oh, long ago! I remember my mother to have done, when she doubted myperfect truth.

Miss Axtell was engaged in looking over old treasured letters, bits ofmemory-memoranda, when I arrived. She had laid them aside to greet me,somewhat hastily, and a rustling commotion testified their feeling attheir summary disposal. Now she sat framed in by the yellow-and-whitefoam, that had settled to motionlessness,—an island in the midst ofwaves of memory.

"Did you bring my treasures?" were the first words, after investigatingmy truth.

"They are safely here."

I gave the package.

She made no mention of former occurrences. She trusted me implicitly,with that far-deep of confidence that says, "Explanation would beuseless; your spirit recognizes mine." She only said, drooping her regalhead with the slightest dip into motion,—

"I want to tell you a story; it is of people who are, some in heaven andsome upon the earth;—a story with which you must have something to dofor me, because I cannot do it for myself. I did not intend telling sosoon, but my disbanded rainbow lies in the future."

Before commencing, she wandered up and down the room a little, stoppedbefore the dressing-bureau, brushed back the hair, with many repetitionsof stroke, from the temples wherein so much of worship had beengathered, smoothed down the swollen arches of veinery that frettedacross either temple's dome, looked one moment into the censers ofincense that burned always with emotionary fires, flashed out a littlesuperabundant flame into the cold quicksilver, turned the key, fasteningour two selves in, examined the integrity of the latch leading into thedressing-room beyond, threw up the window-sash,—the same one that Mr.Axtell had lifted to look out into the night for her,—asked, "should Ibe cold, if she left it open?" looked contentment at my negative answer,rolled the lounge out to where her easy-chair was still vibrating inmemory of her late presence, made me its occupant, reached out for thepackage over which I had been guardian, pinioned it between her twobeautiful hands, laid it down one moment to wrap a shawl around me,then, resuming it, sat where she had when she said, "I want to tell youa story," and perhaps she was praying. I may never know, but it was manymoments before she made answer to my slight touch, "Yes, child, I havenot forgotten," and with face hidden from me she told me her story.

MISS AXTELL'S STORY.

"Alice Axtell was my sister. Eighteen years ago last August-time she washere.

"There has been beauty in the Axtell race; in her it was radiant. Itwould have been truth to say, 'She is beautiful.'

"I said that it was August-time,—the twenty-seventh day of the month.Alice and I had been out in the little bay outside of Redcliff beach,with your sister. You don't remember her: she was like you. DoctorPercival had given Mary a boat, taught her to row it, and she had thatafternoon given Alice a first lesson in the art. The day went down hotand sultry; we lingered on the cooler beach until near evening. Wesaw clouds lying dark along the western horizon, and that voicelesslightnings played in them. Then we came home. The air was tiresome, thewalk seemed endless; still Alice and Mary lingered at the gate of yourfather's house to say their last words. The mid-summer weariness wasover us both, as we reached home. We came up to this room,—our roomthen. Alice said,—

"'I think I shall go to bed, I'm so tired.'

"She closed the blinds. As she did so, a crash of thunder came.

"'We're going to have a thunder-shower, after all,' she said; 'howquickly it is coming up! Come and see.'

"I looked a moment out. Jet masses of vapor were curling up amid thestars, blotting out, one by one, their brightness from the sky. Alicewas always timid in thunder-storms. She shuddered, as a second flashpealed out its thunder, and crept up to me. I put my arms around her,and rested my cheek against her head. She was trembling violently.

"'Lie down, Allie; let me close the other blinds; don't look out anylonger.'

"Our mother came in.

"'I came to see if the windows were all down,' she said; 'it will rainin a moment'; and she hurried away, and I heard her closing, one afteranother, the windows that had been all day open.

"Alice lay for a long time quietly. The storm uprose with fearful might;it shook the house in its passing grasp, and I sat by this table,listening to the music wrought out of the thunderous echoes.

"'Couldn't we have a window open?' Alice asked; 'I feel stifled inhere'; and she went across the room and lifted the sash before I wasaware.

"I looked around, when I heard the noise. The same instant there came ablinding, dazzling light; then, that awful vacuous rattle in the throatof thunder that tells it comes in the name of Death the destroyer.

"'Oh, Allie, come away!' I screamed.

"In obedience to my wish, she leaned towards me; but, oh, her face! Icaught her, ere she fell, even. I sent out the wings of my voice, but noone heard me, no one came. I could not lift her in my arms, so I laidher upon the floor, and ran down.

"'Go to Alice,—the lightning!' was all I could say, and it was enough.
I heard groans before I gained the street.

"My pale, silent sister was stronger than the storm which flapped itswings around me and threatened to take me to its eyry; but it did not;it permitted me to gain Doctor Percival's door. I was dazzled with thelightning, only my brain was distinct with 'its skeleton of woe,' when Ifound myself in your father's house.

"I could not see the faces that were there. I asked for Doctor Percival.Some one answered, 'He is not come home. What has happened?' and Maryran forward in alarm.

"'It is lightning! Oh, come!' was all that I could utter; and with methere went out into the pouring rain every soul that was there when Iwent in.

"'She is dead; there is nothing to be done.'

"Three hours after the stroke, these words came. Then I looked up.Alice, with her little white face of perfect beauty, lay upon that bed.Thunder-storms would never more make her tremble, never awake to fearthe spirit gone. It was Doctor Percival from whom these fateful wordscame. I had had so much hope! In very desperation of feeling, I stroveto look up to his face. My eyes were arrested before they reached him.

"'By what?' did you ask?"

Her long silence had incited me to question, and she turned her face tome, and slowly said,—

"By the Lightning of Life.

"Two sisters, in one night,—one unto Death, the other unto Life. BesideDoctor Percival was standing one. I do not know what he was like, Icannot tell you; but, believe me, it is solemnly true, that, thatinstant, this human being flashed into my heart and soul. I saw, andfelt, and have heard the rolling thunder that followed the flash to thisvery hour. It was very hard, over my Alice. If I had only been she, howmuch, how much happier it would have been!—and yet it must have beenwiser. She could not have endured to the end. She would have failed inthe bitterness of the trial.

"My Alice! I am devoutly thankful that you are safe in heaven!"—and fora moment the hands were lifted up from the treasured packet; they closedover it, and she went on.

"Alice was wrapped up in earth. In the moment when the first fold of theclod-mantle, that trails about us all at the last, fell protectinglyover her, I was in that condition of superlative misery that cries outfor something to the very welkin that sends down such harsh hardness;and I hurried my eyes out of the open grave, only to find them againarrested by the same soul that had stood beside Doctor Percival andAlice in her death. They said something to me, kinder than ever came outof the blue vault, and yet they awoke the fever of resistance. I wouldhave no thought but that of Alice. What right had any other to come inthen and there?

"September came. Its days brought my sorrow to me ever anew. The earlydew baptized it; the great sun laid his hot hand upon its brow and namedit Death, in the name of the Mighty God; and the evening stars lookeddown on me, rocking Alice in my soul, and singing lamentful lullabiesto her, sleeping, till such time as Lethean vapors curled through thehorizon of my mind, and hid its formless shadows of suffering.

"Mary Percival was Alice's best friend; as such, she came to comfort andto mourn with me. One day, it was the latest of September's thirty, Marylured me on to the sea-shore, and into her small boat once more. Littleechoes of gladness sprang up from the sea; voices from Alice's silencefloated on the unbroken waves.

"'You look a little like yourself again; I'm so glad to see it!' Marysaid. 'There comes Mr. McKey. I wonder what brings him here.'

"I looked up, and saw, slowly walking on to the point at which Mary wassecuring her boat, the possessor of the existence that had come intomine. There was no way for me to flee, except seaward; and of twosuicides I chose the pleasanter, and I stayed.

"'Who is it, Mary?' I had time to question, and she to answer.

"'It is Bernard McKey; he has come to study medicine in papa's office;he came the night Alice died.'

"He was too near to permit of questioning more, and so I stood upon theseashore and saw my fate coming close.

"Mary simply said, 'Good evening,' to him, followed by the requisiteintroductory words that form the basis of acquaintance.

"'I think Miss Axtell and I scarcely need an introduction,' he said;nevertheless he looked the pleasure it had strewed into his field, andguarded it, as a careful husbandman would choicest seed.

"He asked the style of question which monosyllables can never answer, towhich responding, one has to offer somewhat of herself; and all thetime of that sombre autumn, there grew from out the chasm of thelightning-stroke luxuriant foliage. I gave it all the resistance of mynature, yet I knew, as the consumptive knows, that I should be conqueredby my conqueror. It was only the old story of the captive polishingchains to wear them away; and yet Mr. McKey was simply very civil andintentionally kind, where he might have been courteously indifferent.Abraham was away when Bernard McKey came to Redleaf. For more thantwelve months this terrible something had been working its power intomy soul. Yet we were not lovers,"—and Miss Axtell made thepronunciamiento as if she held the race mentioned in utmostveneration. "Day by day brought to me new reasons why Bernard McKey mustbe unto me only a medical student in Doctor Percival's office, and thestars sealed all that the day had done; whilst no night of sky waswithout a wandering comet, whereon was inscribed, in letters thatflashed every way, the sentence that came with the lightning-stroke;even storms drowned it not; winter's cold did not freeze it. Verily,little friend, I know that God had put it into Creation for me, and yetthere seemed His own law written against it"; and Miss Axtell's tonesgrew very soft and tremulously low, as she said,—

"Mr. McKey had faults that could not, existing in action, make any womanhappy: do you think happiness was meant for woman?"

She waited my answer in the same way that she had done when she wasill and asked if I liked bitters concealed. She waited as long withoutreply. The pause grew oppressive, and I spanned it by an assurance ofindividual possessive happiness.

"Anemones never know which way the wind blows, until it comes down closeto the ground," she said; "but souls which are on bleak mountain-summitsmust watch whirlwinds, poised in space, and note their airy march. SoI saw, clearly cut into the rock of the future, my own face, with allthe lines and carvings wrought into it that the life of Bernard McKeywould chisel out, and I only waited. I might have waited on forever, forMr. McKey had not cast one pebbly word that must send up wavy ripplesfrom deep spirit-waters; he only wandered, as any other might havedone, upon the shore of my life, along its quiet, dewy sands, above itschalk-cliffs, and by the side of its green, sloping shores. He neverquestioned why rose and fell the waves; he never went down where 'tide,the moon-slave, sleeps,' to find the foundations of my heart's mainland.I had only seen him standing at times, as one sees a person upon aship's deck, peering off over Earth's blue ocean-cheek, simply in mute,solemn wonder at what may be beyond, without one wish to speed the shipon.

"It might have been forever thus, but Abraham came home. He is mybrother, you know. If he made me suffer, he has been made to sufferwith me. Bernard McKey was Doctor Percival's favorite. He made him hisfriend, and was everything to him that friend could be. I cannot tellyou my story without mention of my brother, he has been so woven intoevery part of it. An unaccountable fancy for the study of medicinedeveloped itself in his erratic nature soon after he came home; and herelinquished his brilliant prospects and devoted himself to the littlewhite office near Doctor Percival's house, with Bernard McKey for hishourly companion. The two had scarce a thought in common: one wasimpulsive, prone to throw himself on the stream of circumstance, to waftwith the wind, and blossom with the spring; the other was the greatmountain-pine, distilling the same aroma in all atmospheres, extendingfibrous roots against Nature's granite, whenceever it comes up. Howcould the two harmonize? They could not, and a time of trial came. Weknew, before it came, why Doctor Percival's little white office heldAbraham so many hours in the day. It was because the Mountain-Pine foundin the moss of Redleaf the sweet Trailing-Arbutus."

She asked me if I knew the flower; and when I answered her with my wordsof love of it, she said, "she had always thought it was one of Eden'sown bits of blossomry, that, missing man from the hallowed grounds,crept out to know his fate, and, finding him so forlornly unblest, hadsacrificed its emerald leaves, left in the Garden, and, creeping intomosses, lived, waiting for man's redemption. We used to call Mary'The Arbutus,' and it was pleasant to see the great rough branches ofAbraham's nature drooping down, more and more, toward the pink-and-whitepale flower that looked into the sky, from a level as lofty as thePine's highest crown. Abraham goes out to search for the type of Maryevery spring"; and rising, she brought to me the waxen buds that wereyet unopened.

I took them in my hands, with the same feeling that I would have done atress of Mary's hair, or a fragment that she had handled. I think MissAxtell divined this feeling; for she cautiously opened the door leadinginto her brother's room, and finding that he was not there, she bade me"come and see." It was Mary's portrait that once more I looked upon;framed in a wreath of the trailing-arbutus, it was hanging just where hecould look at it at night, as I my strange tower-key.

We went back. Miss Axtell closed the sash; she was looking weary andpale. I was afraid she would suffer harm from the continued recital. Shesaid "No," to my fear,—that "it must all be spoken now, once, and thatforever,"—and I listened unto the story's end.

"One year had passed since Alice's death before Abraham's coming.Another had almost fled before the eventful time when I began to feelthe weight of my cross. I know not how it came to Abraham's knowledgethat Bernard McKey felt in his soul my presence. I only know thathe came home one night, with a storm of rage whitening his lips andfurrowing his forehead. He came up here, where I was sitting. I hadwatched his figure coming through tree-openings from Doctor Percival'shouse, and mingled with the memories of the fair young girl whom I hadseen dead by lightning were fears for Mary Percival. For several daysshe had been ill, and I knew that Abraham felt anxious; therefore I didnot wonder at his hasty coming in and instant seeking of me. He camequite close. He wound his face in between me and the darkening sky; hewhispered hoarsely,—

"'Do you care for him?'

"'What is it, Abraham?' I asked, startled by his words and manner, butwith not the faintest idea of the meaning entering in with his words.

"'Bernard McKey, is he anything to you?'

"'You've no right to question me thus,' I said.

"'And you will not answer me?'

"'I will not, Abraham.'

"The next morning Abraham was gone. He had not told me of his intendedabsence. He had only left a note, stating the time of his return.

"It was a week ere he came. Mary had not improved in his absence, yet noone deemed her very ill.

"I dreaded Abraham's coming home, because he had left me in silentanger; but how could I have replied to his question otherwise than Idid? No one, not Mr. McKey himself, had asked me; and should I give him,my brother, my answer first?

"Lazily the village-clock swung out the hours that summer's afternoon.
The stroke of three awakened me. I had not seen Mary that day.

"'I would go and see her,' I decided.

"'She was sleeping, the dear child,' Chloe said. 'She would come andtell me when she was awake, if I would wait.'

"I said that I would stay awhile, and I wandered out under the shade ofthe great whispering trees, to wait the waking hour.

"I remember the events of that afternoon, as Mary and Martha must haveremembered the day on which Lazarus came up from the grave unto them.

"The air was still, save a humming in the very tree-tops that must havebeen only echoes tangled there, breezes that once blew past. The longgrape-arbor at the end of the lawn looked viny and cool. I walked up anddown under the green archway, until Chloe's words summoned me.

"Mary was 'better,' she said; 'a few days, and she should feel quitestrong, she hoped'; but she looked weary, and I only waited a littlewhile, until her father and mother came in, and then I went.

"Mr. McKey was sitting in the door of the little white office. He cameout to meet me ere I had reached the street,—asked if I was on my wayhome.

"I said 'Yes,' with the lazy sort of languor born of the indolence ofthe hour.

"'Have you energy enough for a walk to the sea-shore?' he asked.

"It had been my wish that very day. I had not been there since Mary'sillness. I hesitated in giving an answer. Abraham would be home atsunset.

"'Don't go, if it is only to please me,' he said.

"'I am going to please myself,' I answered; 'only I wish to be at homeon Abraham's coming.'

"That afternoon, Bernard McKey for the first time told me of himself,and what the two years in Redleaf had done for him. One month more, andhe should leave it. He put into words the memory of that first lookacross the dead. He talked to me, until the sea lost its sunlightsheen,—until I no longer heard its beat of incoming tide,—until Iforgot the hour for Abraham's coming. It was he who reminded me of it.Once more we paced the sands, already sown with our many footsteps,that the advancing waters would soon overwhelm. After that we wentvillage-ward. The gloaming had come down when we reached home.

"'Abraham must have been an hour here,' I thought, as alone I went in.

"He met me in the hall.

"'Where have you been, Lettie?' was his greeting.

"'On the sands.'

"'Not alone?'

"'No, Abraham; Bernard McKey has been with me.'

"'By what right?' he demanded, with that mighty power of voice that islaid up within him for especial occasions.

"'By the right that I gave him, by the right that is his to walk withme,' I said; for I grew defiant, and felt a renewal of strength, enoughto tell Abraham the truth.

"Don't start so, Anemone," she said to me. "You think defianceunwomanly, and so do I; but it was for once only, and I felt that mybrother had no right to question me.

"But one word came from his lips, as he confronted me there, with foldedarms; it was,—

"'When?'

"'This very afternoon, Abraham.'

"Mother came out at the moment. She saw the cloud on Abraham's brow evenin the dim light. She asked, 'What is it?' and Abraham answered us bothat the same time.

"He had been to the home of Bernard McKey. He proved to my mother'sutmost satisfaction that her daughter had no right to care for one likeBernard McKey. He did not know the right that came on that night almosttwo years before. He saw that his proofs were idle to me; but he said'he had another, one that I would accept, for I was an Axtell.'

"'Yes, Abraham, I am an Axtell, and I shall prove my right to the name,come what will'; and without waiting to hear more, I glided into thedarkness up-stairs.

"For a long time I heard mother and Abraham talking together; it seemedas if they would never cease. At last, mother sent up to know if I wasnot coming to take my tea. I had forgotten its absence till then. I wentdown. A half-hour later, during which time a momentous mist of silencehung over the house, I heard steps approaching. You know that it wassummer time, and the windows were all thrown open, after the heat of theday. I had been wondering where every one was gone. I recognized both ofthe comers, as their footsteps fell upon the walk, but I heard no words.Oh, would there had been none to come! I heard Abraham go on up thestairs, and knew that he was searching for me. I knew who had come inwith him, and I arose from my concealment in the unlighted library, andwent into the parlor. It was Mr. McKey who sat there.

"'What is it?' I asked,—for a gnome of ill was walking up and down inmy brain, as we had walked on the sands so few hours before.

"'What is it? I don't know,' he said. 'Your brother asked me to comeover for a few minutes.'

"Evidently Abraham had not shown him one coal of the fire that burnedunder his cool seeming. That is the way with these mountain pine-trees:one never knows how deep into volcanic fires their roots are plunged.

"'Something has happened,' I whispered. 'Whatever comes, bear itbravely.'

"He laughed, a low, rippling laugh, like the breaking up of ever so manysongs all at once; and the notes had not floated down to rest, whenmother and Abraham came in. Mr. McKey arose to greet my mother. Shestood proudly erect, her regal head unbending, her eyes straight on,into an endless future, in which he must have no part,—that I saw.Whatever he discerned there, he, too, stood before her and my brother.Abraham handed me a letter, saying, 'Read that, for your proof.'

"And I read. The letter bore the signature of Bernard McKey. The datewas the night of Alice's death. The words descriptive of the scenechiselled into my brain were on that fair paper-surface; and there wereothers, words which only one man may write to one woman. I read it on tothe end.

"'You are right, Abraham,' I said, 'and I thank you for my proof'; andwithout one word for the pale, handsome face that stood beseechinglybetween me and the great future, through which I gazed, I went forthalone into the starry night. Anywhere, to be alone with God, leavingthat trio of souls in there; and as I fled past the windows, I heard mymother speak terrible words to one that was, yes, even then, myself.Some angel must have come down the starry way to guide me; for, withoutseeking it, without consciousness of whither I fled, I found myself nearthe old church, where, from the day of my solemn baptism within itswalls, I had gone up to the weekly worship. I crept up close to thedoor. In the shadow there no one would see me; and so, upon the hardstones, I writhed through the anguish of the fire and iceberg that madewar in my heart.

"Then came unto me the old inheritance, the gift of towering pride; andI said unto myself, 'No one shall think I sorrow; no one shall know thatan Axtell has sipped from a poisoned cup; no one shall see a leaf ofmyrtle in my garden of life'; and from off the friendly granite stepsthat had received me in my hour of bitterness, I went back to my home.

"What, could have happened there, that I had not been missed? Father wasabsent from Redleaf. Bernard McKey was coming down the walk. I hid inthe shrubbery, and let him pass. Oh, would that I had spoken to him,then, there! It would have saved so much misery on the round globe!

"But I did not. I stood breathless until he entered Doctor Percival'shouse; then I waited a moment to determine my own course; I wanted togain my room undiscovered. I saw the same figure come out; I knew it bythe light that the open door threw around it; and a moment later, in thestill air,—I knew the sound, it was the unlocking of the little whiteoffice. Then I stole in, and fled to my refuge. No one had discovered myabsence.

"The night went by. I did not sleep. I did not weep,—oh, no! it was nota case for tears; there are some sorrows that cannot be counted out indrops; a flood comes, a great freshet rises in the soul, and whirlsspirit, mind, and body on, on, until the Mighty Hand comes down andlifts the poor wreck out of the flood, and dries it in the sun of Hisabsorption.

"It was morning at last. Slowly up the ascent, to heights of glory,walked the stars, waving toward earth, as they went, their wafting ofgolden light, and sending messages of love to the dark, round world,over which they had kept such solemn watch,—sending them down, borneby rays of early morning; and still I sat beside the window, where allthrough the night I had suffered. My mother and Abraham had sought tosee me, but I had answered, with calm words, that I chose to be alone;and they had left me there, and gone to their nightly rest."

Miss Axtell hid her face a little while; then, lifting it up, she wentto the window so often mentioned, beckoned me thither, pointed to thehouse where my life had commenced, to a door opening out on the easternside, and said,—

"I wish you to look at that door one moment; out of it came my doom thatmidsummer's morning. Light had just gained ascendency over darkness,when I saw Chloe come out. I knew instantly that something had happenedthere. The poor creature crept out of the house,—I saw her go,—andkneeling down behind that great maple-tree, she lifted up her arms toheaven, and I heard, or thought I heard her, moaning. Then, whilst Iwatched, she got up, looked over at our house, from window to window;once more she raised her hands, as if invoking some power for help, andwent in.

"I brushed back the hair that my fingers had idly threaded in unrest,looked one moment, in the dim twilight of morning, to see what changesmy war-fare had wrought, then, cautiously, breathlessly, for fear ofawakening some one, I went out. The night-dew lay heavy on the lawn. Iheeded it not. I knew that trouble had come to Doctor Percival's house.I went to the door that Chloe had opened. No one seemed awake; deepstillness brooded over and in the dwelling. Could I have been mistaken?Whilst I stood in doubt whether to go or stay, there came a long,sobbing moan, that peopled the dwelling with woe.

"It came from Mary's room. Thither I went. There stood Doctor and Mrs.
Percival beside Mary, and she—was dead.

"I shudder now, as I did then, though eighteen years have rolled theirwheels of misery between,—shudder, as I look in memory into that roomagain, and see your father standing in the awful grief that has novoice, see your mother lifting up her words of moaning, up where I solate had watched the feet of stars walking into heaven. I don't know howlong it was, I had lost the noting of time, but I remember growing intorigidness. I remember Bernard McKey's wild, wretched face in the room; Iremember hearing him ask if it was all over. I remember Abraham's comingin; I felt, when through his life the east-wind went, withering it upwithin him. I do not know how I went home. I asked no questions. Marywas dead; she had gone whither Alice went. It seemed little consolationto me to ask when or how she died.

"Father came home that day. Mother forgot me for Abraham: love of himwas her life. Father did not know, no one had told him, the events ofthe night before; he thought me sorrowing for Mary, and so I was; mygrief seemed weak and small before this reality of sorrow.

"It was late in the day, and I was trying to get some sleep, when Chloesent a request to see me. I had not seen her since I knew why she hadhid her suffering behind the tree in the morning. I saw that she hadsomething to say beside telling me of Mary; for she looked cautiouslyaround the room, as if fearing other ears might be there to hear.

"'Oh! oh! Miss Lettie,' she said, 'I stayed with Miss Mary last night. Imust have gone to sleep when she went away; but I'm afraid, I'm afraidit wasn't the sickness that killed her.'

"'What then? what was it, Chloe?' I asked, whilst the tears fell fastfrom her eyes.

"'Doctor Percival gave her some medicine just afore he went to bed,and she said she was "very sick"; she said so a good many times, MissLettie, afore I went to sleep.'

"'You don't think it was the medicine that killed her?'—for a horriblethought had come in to me.

"'I hope not, but I'm afraid'; and with a still lower, whispering tone,and another frightened look about the room, Chloe took from under hershawl a small cup. She held it up close to me, and her voice penetratedwith its meaning all the folds of my thought,—'Chloe's afraid Miss Marydrank her death in here.'

"'Give it to me,' I said; and I snatched at the cup. Catching it fromher, I looked into it. The draught had been taken; the sediment only laydried upon it.

"'You think so, Chloe? How could it have been? You say Doctor Percivalgave it to her?'

"She said that 'Mr. Abraham had been in to see her a little while,—onlya few moments. Something was the matter with him. Miss Mary talked,just a few words; what they were she did not hear,—she was in the nextroom,—only, when he went away, she heard her say, "Don't do it; you maybe wrong, and then you'll be sorry as long as you live"; and thenMr. Abraham shut the door heavy-like and was gone. Afterwards DoctorPercival came up,—said Miss Mary must sleep, she had more fever; askedher so many kind questions, and was just going down to go to the officefor something to give her, when he met Master McKey coming in. I heardmy master ask him to go for it. And I doesn't know anything more, MissLettie. I came to tell you.'

"I asked her 'if she had told any one else? if any one had seen thecup?'

"She said, 'No'; and I made her promise me that she would never mentionit, never speak of it to any living soul.

"She promised, and she has kept her promise faithfully to this day."

I thought, at this pause in the story, of Chloe's hiding chloroform fromme.

"I had myself seen Bernard McKey go out to the office that night. Hadhe given poison to Mary Percival? And with the question the hot answercame, 'Never!—he did not do it!'

"Chloe went, leaving the cup with me.

"I knew that I must see Bernard. How? The household were absorbed inAbraham. His condition perilled his reason. Doctor Percival came overevery hour to see him, and I was sure that his hair whitened from timeto time. It was terrible to hear Abraham declaring that he had killedMary,—that he might have granted her request. And as often as his eyesfell upon me, his words changed to, 'It was for you that I did it,—formy sister!' And whilst all sorrowed and watched him, I sought myopportunity. 'It would never come to me,' I thought, 'I must go to it';and under cover of looking upon the face of Mary, I went out to seekBernard.

"We met before I reached the house; we should have passed in silence,had I not spoken. It was the same hour as that in which we had come fromthe sands the night before. What a horrible lifetime had intervened! Isaid that 'I had some words for him.' He stood still in the air thatthrobbed in waves over me. He was speechlessly calm just then.

"'I expected no words after my judgment,' at length he said,—for I knewnot how to open my terrible theme; 'will you tell me on what evidenceyou judge?'

"What a trifle then seemed any merely human love in the presence of
Death! I was almost angry that he should once think of it.

"'It is something of more importance than the human affection with whichyou play,' I said. 'It is a life, the life of Mary Percival, that lastnight went out,—and how? Was it by this cup?'—and I handed the cup tohim.

"He looked simple amazement, as he would have done, had it been a rockor flower; he did not offer to take it,—still I held it out.

"'Will you examine the contents,' I asked, 'and report to me theresult?'

"'Certainly I will, Miss Axtell,' he said; and with it he walked to theoffice.

"I watched him through the window. I saw him coolly apply various tests.
The third one seemed satisfactory.

"He came to the door. I was very near, and went in

"'This is nothing Miss Mary had,—it is poison,' he said.

"He was innocent; I knew it in the very depth of my soul. How could Itell him the deed his hand had done? But I must, and I did. I told himhow Chloe had brought the cup to me. When I had done, he said,—

"'You believe this of me?'

"I answered,—

"'The cup is now in your hand; judge you of its work'; and I told himhow I had seen him come out the night before,—that I was in theshrubbery when he went to the office.

"The words of his answer came; they were iron in my heart, though spokennot to me.

"'O my God, why hast Thou let me do this?' he cried, and went past meout of the little white office,—out, as I had done, into the open air,in my sorrow, the night before.

"I would not lose sight of him; I followed on; and, as I went, I thoughtI heard a rustling in the leaves. A momentary horror swept past me, lestsome one had been watching,—listening, perhaps,—but I did not pause.I must know how, where, Bernard would hide his misery. It was not quitedark; I could not run through the night, as I had done before; I mustfollow on at a respectable pace, stop to greet the village-people whowere come out in the cool of the evening, and all the while keep in viewthat figure, hastening, for what I knew not, but on to the sands, whilstthose whom I met stayed me to ask how Mary Percival died. I passed thelast of the village-houses. There was nothing before me now but Natureand this unhappy soul. I lost sight of him; I came to the sands; I sawonly long, low flats stretching far out,—beyond them the line of foam.The moon was not yet gone; but its crescent momently lessened its light.I went up and down the shore two or three times, going on a littlefarther each time, meeting nothing,—nothing but the fear that stood onthe sands before me, whichever way I turned. It bent down from the skyto tell me of its presence; it came surging up behind me; and one awfulword was on its face and in its voice. I remember shutting my eyes tokeep it out; I remember putting my fingers into my ears to still itsvoice. I was so helpless, so alone to do, so threadless of action,that—I prayed.

"People pray in this world from so many causes,—it matters not whator how; the hour for prayer comes into every life at some time of itsearthly course, whether softly falling and refreshing as the early rain,or by the north-wind's icy path. Mine came then, on the sands; my spiritwent out of my mortality unto God for help,—solely because that which Iwanted was not in me, not in all the earth.

"I stooped down to see if the figure I sought was outlined on the rim ofsky that brightened at the sea's edge: it was not there, not seaward.I tried to call: the air refused the weight of my voice; it went nofarther than the lips, out of which it quivered and fell: I could notcall. I took the dark tide-mark for my guide, and began searchinglandward. I went a little way, then stopped to look and listen: nosight, no sound. The long sedge-grass gave rustling sighs of motion, asI passed near, and disturbed the air for a moment. A night-bird utteredits cry out of the tall reeds. The moon went down. The tide began tocome in; with it came up the wind. The memory of Alice, of Mary, walkedwith and did not leave me, until I gained the little cove wherein Mary'sboat lay secure. The tide had not reached it. Mary's boat! I rememberthinking—a mere drop of thought it was, as I hurried on, but it heldall the animalcules of emotion that round out a lifetime—that Marynever more would come to unloose the bound boat, never more in it goforth to meet the joys that wander in from unknown shores. I saw theboat lying dark along the water's edge. 'I would run down a moment,' Ithought, 'run down to speak a word of comfort, as if it were a livingthing.'

"Mary's boat was not alone; it had a companion. I thought it was
Bernard. I drew near and spoke his name. Doctor Percival answered me.
I do not think that he recognized my voice. He turned around with a
startled movement, for I was quite close, and asked, 'Who is it?'

"I did not answer. I turned and fled away into the darkness, across thesands, that answer no footsteps with echoes. It was a comfort to feelthat he was out there, between me and the boundless space of sea.

"When I draw near the confines of Hereafter's shore, I think I shallfeel the same kind of comfort, if some soul that I knew has gone outjust before me; it will cape the boundary-line of 'all-aloneness.'"

Miss Axtell must have forgotten that she was talking to me, as sheretraced her steps and thoughts of that night, for, with this thought,she seemed to "wander out into silence."

Katie brought her back by coming up to say that "Mr. Abraham was waitingto know if she would go out a little while, it was so fine."

Miss Axtell said that "she would not go,—she would wait."

Katie went to carry the message. Miss Axtell wandered a little. Betweenher words and memories I picked up the thread for her, and she went onbefore me.

"I took the direction of the village-pier, when I fled from DoctorPercival. An unusual number of boats had come in. I heard noises amidthe shipping. At any other time I should have avoided the place. Now Idrew near.

"Two men were slowly walking down the way. I heard one of them ask, 'Doyou know who it is?'

"The other replied, 'No, I never saw him before; we had better watchhim; he went on in a desperate way. I've seen it before, and it endedin'——

"He did not finish, although I was thirsting for the words; they bothseemed arrested suddenly, then started on, and I watched whither theywent.

"There was now no light, save that of the stars. I could scarcely keepthem in sight. I went nearer,—hid myself behind one of the posts on thepier. They had gone upon one of the boats,—that which lay farthest downthe stream. It was Bernard that they watched. I found him with my eyesbefore they reached where he stood. A boy came singing from his dailywork; he passed close beside me, and, as he went, he beat upon the postwith a boat's oar. I waited until I could come from my hiding-placewithout his seeing; then I went after him. I sent him for 'the gentlemanthat had gone down there,' telling him to say that 'a lady wished to seehim.'

"Bernard came. I told him that I had been searching for him on thesands,—that I wanted to talk to him; and he and I walked on again,village-ward, as we had done on the last night. It was very hard tobegin, to open the cruel theme,—to say to this person, who walked withfolded arms, and eyes that I knew had no external sight, what I thought;but I must. When I had said all that I would have said to any otherhuman soul, under like darkness, he lighted up the night of his sin withstrange fires. He poured upon his family's past the light hereditary.Abraham had been true in his statements. Bernard McKey was notwell-born. He told me this: that his father had been a destroyer oflife; that God had been his Judge, and had now set the seal of thefather's sin into the son's heart. Oh, it was fearful, this tide ofagony with which that soul was overwhelmed! He pictured his deed.Abraham had found out the crime of his father, had cruelly sent it homeon his own head, had said that a murderer's son could never find rest inthe family of Axtell, had sent him forth, with hatred in his heart, towork out in shadow the very deed his father had wrought in substance, todestroy Mary Percival, the child of his best friend, and to strike fromoff the earth Abraham's arch of light. It was wonderful: a chance, achange, had killed Mary.

"Doctor Percival had that very afternoon, while we were gone, wroughtchanges in the little white office; hence the fatal mistake. Bernard hadgone in, taken up a bottle from the very place where the article wantedhad stood for two years, poured its contents into the cup, carried itin, and no hand stayed him. He was too blinded by suffering to see forhimself. Doctor Percival's hand gave the draught, and Mary was dead.What should be done?

"'What shall I do? What would you have me to do?' asked Bernard.

"We were come to the church on our way. I stayed my steps, and thoughtof the letter that Abraham had given me; it came up for the first timesince I knew of Mary's death. But I did not allude to it. I could notacknowledge, even to him, that I knew another had received the wordsthat should have been spoken only to me; and sincerely I told him thathe must go away, at once and for always,—that the deed his hand hadunknowingly done must be borne in swift, solemn current through hislife,—that he must live beside it until it reached the ocean to come:it could do no good to reveal it; it could arouse only new misery; itseemed better that it should be written on marble and in memory that'God took her.'

"He took up the silence that came after my words, and filled it with anechoing question:—

"'If I go out, and bear this deed, as you say bear it, in silence and insuffering, will you,—you, to whom God has given a good inheritance, whoknow not the rush and roar of any evil in your soul, whose spring risesfar back in ancestral natures,—will you stand between me and all thisthat I must bear? Will you be my rock, set here, in this village? May Icome back at times, and tell you how I endure? If you will promise methis, I will go.'

"Why should he come to me? why not to the other one, to whom he told ofAlice's death two years ago? He did not know that pride was the eververnal sin of my race, that I had it to battle with. But I conquered,and promised I would help him, since it was all I had to do. A few morewords were spoken; he was to write to me when he would come; and weparted, there, at the old church-door,—he promising to live, to try andmake atonement for his sin,—I to hold his deed in keeping, alone of allthe world, save Chloe, and in her I had trust. I did not see him again:he left the following day.

"You remember that I heard a rustling in the shrubbery, when Bernardfled from the office. It was my mother, watching me. She had seen andheard sufficient to convince her of what had been done. Mothers areendowed with wonderful intuitive perception. Abraham had been her onelove from his childhood. Now came a strife in her nature. Bernard McKeyhad wronged Abraham, had taken the light out of his life, and a greatlonging for his punishment came up. How should it be effected? Shebelieved that open judgment would awaken resistance in me,—that I wouldstand beside him then, in the face of all the world, and recompense himfor his punishment,—I, an Axtell, her daughter. So she came to me witha compromise. She told me that she had heard what had been said,—thatshe knew the deed, had seen the cup,—that Abraham, knowing the act,would never forgive it, though done, as she acknowledged, in error;and she, my mother, to save the family, made conditions. Her knowledgeshould remain hers only, if Bernard McKey should remain such as he nowwas to me,—never to be more.

"'An easy condition,' I thought, 'since the letter Abraham gave'; and Isaid the two words to my mother,—

"'I promise.'

"'My daughter,' was her only answer; and she touched her child'sforehead with two burning lips, and went away to watch Abraham throughthe night,—watch him tread the dark way, without Mary.

"Where now was the Mountain-Pine? higher than the Arbutus?

"Our mother had her trial. When she heard Abraham reproaching himselfwith having brought on a return of fever by refusing Mary's wish, ofhaving been the means of her death, I know her heart ached to say, 'Itwas not you, Abraham, it was Bernard McKey who killed her.' But no, shedid not; family pride towered above affection, and she was true to herpromise, true to the last. She died with the secret hers.

"Bernard McKey's absence was much wondered at, although it began onlyone month earlier than the appointed time. Doctor Percival mourned hisgoing as if he had been his son; he spoke to me of it. Mary was buried.I remember your little face on her burial-day; it was bright, andunconscious of the sad scene"; and Miss Axtell now sought to look intoit, but it was not to be seen. I think she must have forgotten, attimes, that it was to Mary's sister that she was telling her story. Shewaited a little, until I asked her to "tell me more."

"The face of that Autumn grew rosy, wrinkled, and died upon Winter'ssnowy bed; and yet I lived, and Abraham, and Bernard McKey perhaps,—Iknew not. The year was nearly gone since Mary died, and no ray ofknowledge had come from him. Every day I re-read those words written tosome fair woman-soul, until after so many readings they began to takeroot in my heart. I found it out one day, and I began vigorously to tearthem up. It was on the evening of the same day that Abraham came home:he had been away for several weeks. He left, with intentional seeming, apaper where I should see it; he had read with almost careless eyes whatmine fell upon, for he believed that Bernard McKey was forgotten by me;he had kindly forborne to mention his name, since that one night whereinall our misery grew. I found there what I believed to be his death:the name and age were his own; the place was nothing,—he might beanywhere. My mother saw it, and a gladness, yes, a gladness came intoher face: I watched its coming up. She thought she might now tellAbraham; but no, I held her to the promise. It had but two conditions:mine was to be perpetual; hers must be so.

"After that I grew pitiful for the poor heart that must have been madesorrowful by these words that never more would come into it, and so Ipicked up the trembling little roots that had been cast out, put themback into the warm soil, and let them grow: they might join hers now,for together they could twine around immortal bowers; and, as they grew,a great longing came up to go out and find this woman-soul who had drawnout such words from lips sealed forever. But no chance happened: no onecame to our quiet village from the remote town in which she was whenthese words, that now were become mine, were penned."

MY HUNT AFTER "THE CAPTAIN."

In the dead of the night which closed upon the bloody field of Antietam,my household was startled from its slumbers by the loud summons of atelegraphic messenger. The air had been heavy all day with rumors ofbattle, and thousands and tens of thousands had walked the streets withthrobbing hearts, in dread anticipation of the tidings any hour mightbring.

We rose hastily, and presently the messenger was admitted. I took theenvelope from his hand, opened it, and read:—

Hagerstown 17th

To—— H——

Capt. H—— wounded shot through the neck thought not mortal at
Keedysville

WILLIAM G LEDUC

Through the neck,—no bullet left in wound. Windpipe, food-pipe,carotid, jugular, half a dozen smaller, but still formidable, vessels, agreat braid of nerves, each as big as a lamp-wick, spinal cord,—oughtto kill at once, if at all. Thought not mortal, or not thoughtmortal,—which was it? The first; that is better than the second wouldbe.—"Keedysville, a post-office, Washington Co., Maryland." Leduc?Leduc? Don't remember that name.—The boy is waiting for his money. Adollar and thirteen cents. Has nobody got thirteen cents? Don't keepthat boy waiting,—how do we know what messages he has got to carry?

The boy had another message to carry. It was to the father ofLieutenant-Colonel Wilder Dwight, informing him that his son wasgrievously wounded in the same battle, and was lying at Boonsborough,a town a few miles this side of Keedysville. This I learned thenext morning from the civil and attentive officials at the CentralTelegraph-Office.

Calling upon this gentleman, I found that he meant to leave in thequarter past two o'clock train, taking with him Dr. George H. Gay, anaccomplished and energetic surgeon, equal to any difficult question orpressing emergency. I agreed to accompany them, and we met in the cars.I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in having companions whose societywould be a pleasure, whose feelings would harmonize with my own, andwhose assistance I might, in case of need, be glad to claim.

It is of the journey which we began together, and which I finishedapart, that I mean to give my "Atlantic" readers an account. They mustlet me tell my story in my own way, speaking of many little matters thatinterested or amused me, and which a certain leisurely class of elderlypersons, who sit at their firesides and never travel, will, I hope,follow with a kind of interest. For, besides the main object of myexcursion, I could not help being excited by the incidental sightsand occurrences of a trip which to a commercial traveller or anewspaper-reporter would seem quite commonplace and undeserving ofrecord. There are periods in which all places and people seem to be ina conspiracy to impress us with their individuality,—in which everyordinary locality seems to assume a special significance and to claima particular notice,—in which every person we meet is either an oldacquaintance or a character; days in which the strangest coincidencesare continually happening, so that they get to be the rule, and not theexception. Some might naturally think that anxiety and the weariness ofa prolonged search after a near relative would have prevented my takingany interest in or paying any regard to the little matters around me.Perhaps it had just the contrary effect, and acted like a diffusedstimulus upon the attention. When all the faculties are wide-awakein pursuit of a single object, or fixed in the spasm of an absorbingemotion, they are often-times clairvoyant in a marvellous degree inrespect to many collateral things, as Wordsworth has so forciblyillustrated in his sonnet on the Boy of Windermere, and as Hawthornehas developed with such metaphysical accuracy in that chapter of hiswondrous story where Hester walks forth to meet her punishment.

Be that as it may,—though I set out with a full and heavy heart, thoughmany times my blood chilled with what were perhaps needless and unwisefears, though I broke through all my habits without thinking about them,which is almost as hard in certain circumstances as for one of our youngfellows to leave his sweet-heart and go into a Peninsular campaign,though I did not always know when I was hungry nor discover that I wasthirsting, though I had a worrying ache and inward tremor underlying allthe outward play of the senses and the mind, yet it is the simple truththat I did look out of the car-windows with an eye for all that passed,that I did take cognizance of strange sights and singular people, that Idid act much as persons act from the ordinary promptings of curiosity,and from time to time even laugh very nearly as those do who areattacked with a convulsive sense of the ridiculous, the epilepsy of thediaphragm.

By a mutual compact, we talked little in the cars. A communicativefriend is the greatest nuisance to have at one's side during arailroad-journey, especially if his conversation is stimulating and in.itself agreeable. "A fast train and a 'slow' neighbor," is my motto.Many times, when I have got upon the cars, expecting to be magnetizedinto an hour or two of blissful reverie, my thoughts shaken up by thevibrations into all sorts of new and pleasing patterns, arrangingthemselves in curves and nodal points, like the grains of sand inChladni's famous experiment,—fresh ideas coming up to the surface,as the kernels do when a measure of corn is jolted in a farmer'swagon,—all this without volition, the mechanical impulse alone keepingthe thoughts in motion, as the mere act of carrying certain watches inthe pocket keeps them wound up,—many times, I say, just as my brain wasbeginning to creep and hum with this delicious locomotive intoxication,some dear detestable friend, cordial, intelligent, social, radiant, hascome up and sat down by me and opened a conversation which has brokenmy day-dream, unharnessed the flying horses that were whirling alongmy fancies and hitched on the old weary omnibus-team of every-dayassociations, fatigued my hearing and attention, exhausted my voice, andmilked the breasts of my thought dry during the hour when they shouldhave been filling themselves full of fresh juices. My friends spared methis trial.

So, then, I sat by the window and enjoyed the slight tipsinessproduced by short, limited, rapid oscillations, which I take to be theexhilarating stage of that condition which reaches hopeless inebrietyin what we know as sea-sickness. Where the horizon opened widely, itpleased me to watch the curious effect of the rapid movement of nearobjects contrasted with the slow motion of distant ones. Looking froma right-hand window, for instance, the fences close by glide swiftlybackward, or to the right, while the distant hills not only do notappear to move backward, but look by contrast with the fences near athand as if they were moving forward, or to the left; and thus the wholelandscape becomes a mighty wheel revolving about an imaginary axissomewhere in the middle-distance.

My companions proposed to stay at one of the best-known andlongest-established of the New-York caravansaries, and I accompaniedthem. We were particularly well lodged, and not uncivilly treated. Thetraveller who supposes that he is to repeat the melancholy experience ofShenstone, and have to sigh over the reflection that he has found "hiswarmest welcome at an inn," has something to learn at the offices ofthe great city-hotels. The unheralded guest who is honored by mereindifference may think himself blest with singular good-fortune.

If the despot of the Patent Annunciator is only mildly contemptuous inhis manner, let the victim look upon it as a personal favor. The coldestwelcome that a threadbare curate ever got at the door of a bishop'spalace, the most icy reception that a country-cousin ever receivedat the city-mansion of a mushroom millionnaire, is agreeably tepid,compared to that which the Rhadamanthus who dooms you to the more orless elevated circle of his inverted Inferno vouchsafes, as you step upto enter your name on his dog's-eared register. I have less hesitationin unburdening myself of this uncomfortable statement, as on thisparticular trip I met with more than one exception to the rule.Officials become brutalized, I suppose, as a matter of course. Onecannot expect an office-clerk to embrace tenderly every stranger whocomes in with a carpet-bag, or a telegraph-operator to burst into tearsover every unpleasant message he receives for transmission. Still,humanity is not always totally extinguished in these persons. Idiscovered a youth in the telegraph-office of the Continental Hotel, inPhiladelphia, who was as pleasant in conversation, and as graciouslyresponsive to inoffensive questions, as if I had been his childlessopulent uncle, and my will not made.

On the road again the next morning, over the ferry, into the cars withsliding panels and fixed windows, so that in summer the whole side ofthe car may be made transparent. New Jersey is, to the apprehension of atraveller, a double-headed suburb rather than a State. Its dull red dustlooks like the dried and powdered mud of a battle-field. Peach-trees arecommon, and champagne-orchards. Canal-boats, drawn by mules, swim by,feeling their way along like blind men led by dogs. I had a mightypassion come over me to be the captain of one,—to glide back andforward upon a sea never roughened by storms,—to float where I couldnot sink,—to navigate where there is no shipwreck,—to lie languidlyon the deck and govern the huge craft by a word or the movement of afinger: there was something of railroad intoxication in the fancy, butwho has not often envied a cobbler in his stall?

The boys cry the "N'-York Heddle," instead of "Herald"; I rememberthat years ago in Philadelphia; we must be getting near the farther endof the dumb-bell suburb. A bridge has been swept away by a rise of thewaters, so we must approach Philadelphia by the river. Her physiognomyis not distinguished; nez camus, as a Frenchman would say; noillustrious steeple, no imposing tower; the water-edge of the townlooking bedraggled, like the flounce of a vulgar rich woman's dress thattrails on the sidewalk. The New Ironsides lies at one of the wharves,elephantine in bulk and color, her sides narrowing as they rise, likethe walls of a hock-glass.

I went straight to the house in Walnut Street where the Captain would beheard of, if anywhere in this region. His lieutenant-colonel was there,gravely wounded; his college-friend and comrade in arms, a son of thehouse, was there, injured in a similar way; another soldier, brotherof the last, was there, prostrate with fever. A fourth bed was waitingready for the Captain, but not one word had been heard of him, thoughinquiries had been made in the towns from and through which the fatherhad brought his two sons and the lieutenant-colonel. And so my searchis, like a "Ledger" story, to be continued.

I rejoined my companions in time to take the noon-train for Baltimore.Our company was gaining in number as it moved onwards. We had found uponthe train from New York a lovely, lonely lady, the wife of one of ourmost spirited Massachusetts officers, the brave Colonel of the ——thRegiment, going to seek her wounded husband at Middletown, a place lyingdirectly in our track. She was the light of our party while we weretogether on our pilgrimage, a fair, gracious woman, gentle, butcourageous,

—"ful plesant and amiable of port, —estatelich of manere, And to ben holden digne of reverence."

On the road from Philadelphia, I found in the same car with our partyDr. William Hunt, of Philadelphia, who had most kindly and faithfullyattended the Captain, then the Lieutenant, after a wound received atBall's Bluff, which came very near being mortal. He was going upon anerrand of mercy to the wounded, and found he had in his memorandum-bookthe name of our lady-companion's husband, who had been commended to hisparticular attention.

Not long after leaving Philadelphia, we passed a solitary sentry keepingguard over a short railroad-bridge. It was the first evidence that wewere approaching the perilous borders, the marches where the North andthe South mingle their angry hosts, where the extremes of our so-calledcivilization meet in conflict, and the fierce slave-driver of the LowerMississippi stares into the stern eyes of the forest-feller from thebanks of the Aroostook. All the way along, the bridges were guarded moreor less strongly. In a vast country like ours, communications play a farmore complex part than in Europe, where the whole territory availablefor strategic purposes is so comparatively limited. Belgium, forinstance, has long been the bowling-alley where kings roll cannon-ballsat each other's armies; but here we are playing the game of liveninepins without any alley.

We were obliged to stay in Baltimore over-night, as we were too late forthe train to Frederick. At the Eutaw House, where we found both comfortand courtesy, we met a number of friends, who beguiled the evening hoursfor us in the most agreeable manner. We devoted some time to procuringsurgical and other articles, such as might be useful to our friends, orto others, if our friends should not need them. In the morning, I foundmyself seated at the breakfast-table next to General Wool. It did notsurprise me to find the General very far from expansive. With FortMcHenry on his shoulders and Baltimore in his breeches-pocket, and theweight of a military department loading down his social safety-valves, Ithought it a great deal for an officer in his trying position to selectso very obliging and affable an aid as the gentleman who relieved him ofthe burden of attending to strangers.

We left the Eutaw House, to take the cars for Frederick. As we stoodwaiting on the platform, a telegraphic message was handed in silence tomy companion. Sad news: the lifeless body of the son he was hasteningto see was even now on its way to him in Baltimore. It was no time forempty words of consolation: I knew what he had lost, and that now wasnot the time to intrude upon a grief borne as men bear it, felt as womenfeel it.

Colonel Wilder Dwight was first made known to me as the friend of abeloved relative of my own, who was with him during a severe illness inSwitzerland, and for whom while living, and for whose memory when dead,he retained the warmest affection. Since that, the story of his nobledeeds of daring, of his capture and escape, and a brief visit homebefore he was able to rejoin his regiment, had made his name familiar tomany among us, myself among the number. His memory has been honored bythose who had the largest opportunity of knowing his rare promise, as aman of talents and energy of nature. His abounding vitality must haveproduced its impression on all who met him; there was a still fire abouthim which any one could see would blaze up to melt all difficulties andrecast obstacles into implements in the mould of an heroic will. Theseelements of his character many had the chance of knowing; but I shallalways associate him with the memory of that pure and noble friendshipwhich made me feel that I knew him before I looked upon his face, andadded a personal tenderness to the sense of loss which I share with thewhole community.

Here, then, I parted, sorrowfully, from the companions with whom I setout on my journey.

In one of the cars, at the same station, we met General Shriver, ofFrederick, a most loyal Unionist, whose name is synonymous with a heartywelcome to all whom he can aid by his counsel and his hospitality. Hetook great pains to give us all the information we needed, and expressedthe hope, which was afterwards fulfilled, to the great gratificationof some of us, that we should meet again, when he should return to hishome.

There was nothing worthy of special note in the trip to Frederick,except our passing a squad of Rebel prisoners, whom I missed seeing, asthey flashed by, but who were said to be a most forlorn-looking crowd ofscarecrows. Arrived at the Monocacy River, about three miles this sideof Frederick, we came to a halt, for the railroad-bridge had been blownup by the Rebels, and its iron pillars and arches were lying in the bedof the river. The unfortunate wretch who fired the train was killed bythe explosion, and lay buried hard by, his hands sticking out of theshallow grave into which he had been huddled. This was the story theytold us, but whether true or no I must leave to the correspondents of"Notes and Queries" to settle.

There was a great confusion of carriages and wagons at thestopping-place of the train, so that it was a long time before I couldget anything that would carry us. At last I was lucky enough to light ona sturdy wagon, drawn by a pair of serviceable bays, and driven byJames Grayden, with whom I was destined to have a somewhat continuedacquaintance. We took up a little girl who had been in Baltimore duringthe late Rebel inroad. It made me think of the time when my own mother,at that time six years old, was hurried off from Boston, then occupiedby the British soldiers, to Newburyport, and heard the people sayingthat "the red-coats were coming, killing and murdering everybody as theywent along." Frederick looked cheerful for a place that had so recentlybeen in an enemy's hands. Here and there a house or shop was shut up,but the national colors were waving in all directions, and the generalaspect was peaceful and contented. I saw no bullet-marks or other signof the fighting which had gone on in the streets. My lady-companion wastaken in charge by a daughter of that hospitable family to which wehad been commended by its head, and I proceeded to inquire for woundedofficers at the various temporary hospitals.

At the United States Hotel, where many were lying, I heard mention of anofficer in an upper chamber, and, going there, found Lieutenant Abbott,of the Twentieth Massachusetts Volunteers, lying ill with what lookedlike typhoid fever. While there, who should come in but the ubiquitousLieutenant Wilkins, of the same Twentieth, often confounded with hisnamesake who visited the Flying Island, and with some reason, for hemust have a pair of wings under his military upper garment, or he couldnever be in so many places at once. He was going to Boston in charge ofthe lamented Dr. Revere's body. From his lips I learned something of themishaps of the regiment. My Captain's wound he spoke of as less gravethan at first thought; but he mentioned incidentally having hearda story recently that he was killed,—a fiction, doubtless,—amistake,—a palpable absurdity,—not to be remembered or made anyaccount of. Oh, no! but what dull ache is this in that obscurelysensitive region, somewhere below the heart, where the nervous centrecalled the semilunar ganglion lies unconscious of itself until a greatgrief or a mastering anxiety reaches it through all the non-conductorswhich isolate it from ordinary impressions? I talked awhile withLieutenant Abbott, who lay prostrate, feeble, but soldier-like anduncomplaining, carefully waited upon by a most excellent lady, acaptain's wife, New-England-born, loyal as the Liberty on a goldenten-dollar piece, and of lofty bearing enough to have sat for thatgoddess's portrait. She had stayed in Frederick through the Rebelinroad, and kept the star-spangled banner where it would be safe, tounroll it as the last Rebel hoofs clattered off from the pavement of thetown.

Near by Lieutenant Abbott was an unhappy gentleman, occupying a smallchamber, and filling it with his troubles. When he gets well and plump,I know he will forgive me, if I confess that I could not help smilingin the midst of my sympathy for him. He had been a well-favored man,he said, sweeping his hand in a semicircle, which implied that hisacute-angled countenance had once filled the goodly curve he described.He was now a perfect Don Quixote to look upon. Weakness had made himquerulous, as it does all of us, and he piped his grievances to me in athin voice with that finish of detail which chronic invalidism alone cancommand. He was starving,—he could not get what he wanted to eat. Hewas in need of stimulants, and he held up a pitiful two-ounce phialcontaining three thimblefuls of brandy,—his whole stock of thatencouraging article. Him I consoled to the best of my ability, andafterwards, in some slight measure, supplied his wants. Feed this poorgentleman up, as these good people soon will, and I should not know him,nor he himself. We are all egotists in sickness and debility. An animalhas been defined as "a stomach ministered to by organs"; and thegreatest man comes very near this simple formula after a month or two offever and starvation.

James Grayden and his team pleased me well enough, and so I made abargain with him to take us, the lady and myself, on our further journeyas far as Middletown. As we were about starting from the front of theUnited States Hotel, two gentlemen presented themselves and expresseda wish to be allowed to share our conveyance. I looked at them andconvinced myself that they were neither Rebels in disguise, nordeserters, nor camp-followers, nor miscreants, but plain, honest men ona proper errand. The first of them I will pass over briefly. He wasa young man, of mild and modest demeanor, chaplain to a Pennsylvaniaregiment, which he was going to rejoin. He belonged to the MoravianChurch, of which I had the misfortune to know little more than what Ihad learned from Southey's "Life of Wesley," and from the exquisitehymns we have borrowed from its rhapsodists. The other stranger was aNew-Englander of respectable appearance, with a grave, hard, honest,hay-bearded face, who had come to serve the sick and wounded on thebattle-field and in its immediate neighborhood. There is no reason why Ishould not mention his name, but I shall content myself with calling himthe Philanthropist.

So we set forth, the sturdy wagon, the serviceable bays, with JamesGrayden their driver, the gentle lady, whose serene patience bore upthrough all delays and discomforts, the Chaplain, the Philanthropist,and myself, the teller of this story.

And now, as we emerged from Frederick, we struck at once upon the trailfrom the great battle-field. The road was filled with straggling andwounded soldiers. All who could travel on foot—multitudes with slightwounds of the upper limbs, the head or face—were told to take up theirbeds—a light burden, or none at all—and walk. Just as the battle-fieldsucks everything into its red vortex for the conflict, so does it driveeverything off in long, diverging rays after the fierce centripetalforces have met and neutralized each other. For more than a week therehad been sharp fighting all along this road. Through the streets ofFrederick, through Crampton's Gap, over South Mountain, sweeping at lastthe hills and the woods that skirt the windings of the Antietam, thelong battle had travelled, like one of those tornadoes which tear theirpath through our fields and villages. The slain of higher condition,"embalmed" and iron-cased, were sliding off on the railways to theirfar homes; the dead of the rank-and-file were being gathered up andcommitted hastily to the earth; the gravely wounded were cared forhard by the scene of conflict, or pushed a little way along to theneighboring villages; while those who could walk were meeting us, as Ihave said, at every step in the road. It was a pitiable sight, trulypitiable, yet so vast, so far beyond the possibility of relief, thatmany single sorrows of small dimensions have wrought upon my feelingsmore than the sight of this great caravan of maimed pilgrims. Thecompanionship of so many seemed to make a joint-stock of theirsuffering; it was next to impossible to individualize it, and so bringit home as one can do with a single broken limb or aching wound. Thenthey were all of the male sex, and in the freshness or the prime oftheir strength. Though they tramped so wearily along, yet there was restand kind nursing in store for them. These wounds they bore would be themedals they would show their children and grandchildren by-and-by. Whowould not rather wear his decorations beneath his uniform than on it?

Yet among them were figures which arrested our attention and sympathy.Delicate boys, with more spirit than strength, flushed with fever orpale with exhaustion or haggard with suffering, dragged their wearylimbs along as if each step would exhaust their slender store ofstrength. At the road-side sat or lay others, quite spent with theirjourney. Here and there was a house at which the wayfarers would stop,in the hope, I fear often vain, of getting refreshment; and in one placewas a clear, cool spring, where the little bands of the long processionhalted for a few moments, as the trains that traverse the desert rest byits fountains. My companions had brought a few peaches along with them,which the Philanthropist bestowed upon the tired and thirsty soldierswith a satisfaction which we all shared. I had with me a small flask ofstrong waters, to be used as a medicine in case of inward grief. Fromthis, also, he dispensed relief, without hesitation, to a poor fellowwho looked as if he needed it. I rather admired the simplicity withwhich he applied my limited means of solace to the first-comer whowanted it more than I; a genuine benevolent impulse does not stand onceremony, and had I perished of colic for want of a stimulus that night,I should not have reproached my friend the Philanthropist any more thanI grudged my other ardent friend the two dollars and more which it costme to send the charitable message he left in my hands.

It was a lovely country through which we were riding. The hill-sidesrolled away into the distance, slanting up fair and broad to the sun,as one sees them in the open parts of the Berkshire valley, atLanesborough, for instance, or in the many-hued mountain-chalice at thebottom of which the Shaker houses of Lebanon have shaped themselves likea sediment of cubical crystals. The wheat was all garnered, and the landploughed for a new crop. There was Indian-corn standing, but I saw nopumpkins warming their yellow carapaces in the sunshine like so manyturtles; only in a single instance did I notice some wretched littleminiature specimens in form and hue not unlike those colossal oranges ofour cornfields. The rail-fences were somewhat disturbed, and the cindersof extinguished fires showed the use to which they had been applied.The houses along the road were not for the most part neatly kept; thegarden-fences were poorly built of laths or long slats, and very rarelyof trim aspect. The men of this region seemed to ride in the saddle verygenerally, rather than drive. They looked sober and stern, less curiousand lively than Yankees, and I fancied that a type of features familiarto us in the countenance of the late John Tyler, our accidentalPresident, was frequently met with. The women were still moredistinguishable from our New-England pattern. Soft, sallow, succulent,delicately finished about the mouth and firmly shaped about the chin,dark-eyed, full-throated, they looked as if they had been grown in aland of olives. There was a little toss in their movement, full ofmuliebrity. I fancied there was something more of the duck and less ofthe chicken about them, as compared with the daughters of our leanersoil; but these are mere impressions caught from stray glances, and ifthere is any offence in them, my fair readers may consider them allretracted.

At intervals, a dead horse lay by the road-side, or in the fields,unburied, not grateful to gods or men, I saw no bird of prey, noill-omened fowl, on my way to the carnival of death, or at the placewhere it was held. The vulture of story, the crow of Talavera, the "twacorbies" of the ghastly ballad, are all from Nature, doubtless; butno black wing was spread over these animal ruins, and no call to thebanquet pierced through the heavy-laden and sickening air.

Full in the middle of the road, caring little for whom or what they met,came long strings of army-wagons, returning empty from the front aftersupplies. James Grayden stated it as his conviction that they had alittle rather run into a fellow than not. I liked the looks of theseequipages and their drivers; they meant business. Drawn by mules mostly,six, I think, to a wagon, powdered well with dust, wagon, beast, anddriver, they came jogging along the road, turning neither to right norleft,—some driven by bearded, solemn white men, some by careless,saucy-looking negroes, of a blackness like that of anthracite orobsidian. There seemed to be nothing about them, dead or alive, that wasnot serviceable. Sometimes a mule would give out on the road; then hewas left where he lay, until by-and-by he would think better of it, andget up, when the first public wagon that came along would hitch him on,and restore him to the sphere of duty.

It was evening when we got to Middletown. The gentle lady—who hadgraced our homely conveyance with her company here left us. She foundher husband, the gallant Colonel, in very comfortable quarters, wellcared for, very weak from the effects of the fearful operation he hadbeen compelled to undergo, but showing the same calm courage to endureas he had shown manly energy to act. It was a meeting full of heroismand tenderness, of which I heard more than there is need to tell. Healthto the brave soldier, and peace to the household over which go fair aspirit presides!

Dr. Thompson, the very active and intelligent surgical director of thehospitals of the place, took me in charge. He carried me to the house ofa worthy and benevolent clergyman of the German Reformed Church, where Iwas to take tea and pass the night. What became of the Moravian chaplainI did not know; but my friend the Philanthropist had evidently made uphis mind to adhere to my fortunes. He followed me, therefore, to thehouse of the "Dominic," as a newspaper-correspondent calls my kind host,and partook of the fare there furnished me. He withdrew with me to theapartment assigned for my slumbers, and slept sweetly on the same pillowwhere I waked and tossed. Nay, I do affirm that he did, unconsciously,I believe, encroach on that moiety of the couch which I had flatteredmyself was to be my own through the watches of the night, and that Iwas in serious doubt at one time whether I should not be gradually, butirresistibly, expelled from the bed which I had supposed destined formy sole possession. As Ruth clave unto Naomi, so my friend thePhilanthropist clave unto me. "Whither thou goest, I will go; and wherethou lodgest, I will lodge." A really kind, good man, full of zeal,determined to help somebody, and absorbed in his one thought, he doubtednobody's willingness to serve him, going, as he was, on a purelybenevolent errand. When he reads this, as I hope he will, let him beassured of my esteem and respect; and if he gained any accommodationfrom being in my company, let me tell him that I learned a lesson fromhis active benevolence. I could, however, have wished to hear him laughonce before we parted, perhaps forever. He did not, to the best ofmy recollection, even smile during the whole period that we were incompany. I am afraid that a lightsome disposition and a relish for humorare not so common in those whose benevolence takes an active turn as inpeople of sentiment who are always ready with their tears and aboundingin passionate expressions of sympathy. Working philanthropy is apractical specialty, requiring not a mere impulse, but a talent, withits peculiar sagacity for finding its objects, a tact for selecting itsagencies, an organizing and arranging faculty, a steady set of nerves,and a constitution such as Sallust describes in Catiline, patient ofcold, of hunger, and of watching. Philanthropists are commonly grave,occasionally grim, and not very rarely morose. Their expansive socialforce is imprisoned as a working power, to show itself only throughits legitimate pistons and cranks. The tighter the boiler, the less itwhistles and sings at its work. When Dr. Waterhouse, in 1780, travelledwith Howard, on his tour among the Dutch prisons and hospitals, hefound his temper and manners very different from what would have beenexpected. My benevolent companion having already made a preliminaryexploration of the hospitals of the place, before sharing my bed withhim, as above mentioned, I joined him in a second tour through them. Theauthorities of Middletown are evidently leagued with the surgeons ofthat place, for such a break-neck succession of pitfalls and chasms Ihave never seen in the streets of a civilized town. It was getting latein the evening when we began our rounds. The principal collections ofthe wounded were in the churches. Boards were laid over the tops of thepews, on these some straw was spread, and on this the wounded lay, withlittle or no covering other than such scanty clothes as they had on.There were wounds of all degrees of severity, but I heard no groansor murmurs. Most of the sufferers were hurt in the limbs, some hadundergone amputation, and all had, I presume, received such attention aswas required. Still, it was but a rough and dreary kind of comfort thatthe extemporized hospitals suggested. I could not help thinking thepatients must be cold; but they were used to camp-life, and did notcomplain. The men who watched were not of the soft-handed variety of therace. One of them was smoking his pipe as he went from bed to bed. I sawone poor fellow who had been shot through the breast; his breathing waslabored, and he was tossing, anxious and restless. The men were debatingabout the opiate he was to take, and I was thankful that I happenedthere at the right moment to see that he was well narcotized for thenight. Was it possible that my Captain could be lying on the straw inone of these places? Certainly possible, but not probable; but as thelantern was held over each bed, it was with a kind of thrill that Ilooked upon the features it illuminated. Many times, as I went fromhospital to hospital in my wanderings, I started as some faintresemblance—the shade of a young man's hair, the outline of hishalf-turned face-recalled the presence I was in search of. The facewould turn towards me and the momentary illusion would pass away, butstill the fancy clung to me. There was no figure huddled up on its rudecouch, none stretched at the road-side, none toiling languidly alongthe dusty pike, none passing in car or in ambulance, that I did notscrutinize, as if it might be that for which I was making my pilgrimageto the battle-field.

"There are two wounded Secesh," said my companion. I walked to thebedside of the first, who was an officer, a lieutenant, if I rememberright, from North Carolina. He was of good family, son of a judge inone of the higher courts of his State, educated, pleasant, gentle,intelligent. One moment's intercourse with such an enemy, lying helplessand wounded among strangers, takes away all personal bitterness towardsthose with whom we or our children have been but a few hours before indeadly strife. The basest lie which the murderous contrivers of thisRebellion have told is that which tries to make out a difference of racein the men of the North and South, It would be worth a year of battlesto abolish this delusion, though the great sponge of war that wiped itout were moistened with the best blood of the land. My Rebel was ofslight, scholastic habit, and spoke as one accustomed to tread carefullyamong the parts of speech. It made my heart ache to see him, a manfinished in the humanities and Christian culture, whom the sin of hisforefathers and the crime of his rulers had set in barbarous conflictagainst others of like training with his own,—a man who, but for thecurse that it is laid on our generation to expiate, would have beena fellow-worker with them in the beneficent task of shaping theintelligence and lifting the moral standard of a peaceful and unitedpeople.

On Sunday morning, the twenty-first, having engaged James Graydenand his team, I set out with the Chaplain and the Philanthropist forKeedysville. Our track lay through the South Mountain Gap and led usfirst to the town of Boonsborough, where, it will be remembered, ColonelDwight had been brought after the battle. We saw the positions occupiedin the Battle of South Mountain, and many traces of the conflict. In onesituation a group of young trees was marked with shot, hardly one havingescaped. As we walked by the side of the wagon, the Philanthropist leftus for a while and climbed a hill, where along the line of a fence hefound traces of the most desperate fighting. A ride of some three hoursbrought us to Boonsborough, where I roused the unfortunate army-surgeonwho had charge of the hospitals, and who was trying to get a littlesleep after his fatigues and watchings. He bore this cross verycreditably, and helped me to explore all places where my soldier mightbe lying among the crowds of wounded. After the useless search, Iresumed my journey, fortified with a note of introduction to Dr.Letterman, also with a bale of oakum which I was to carry to thatgentleman, this substance being employed as a substitute for lint.We were obliged also to procure a pass to Keedysville from theProvost-Marshal of Boonsborough. As we came near the place, we learnedthat General McClellan's headquarters had been removed from this villagesome miles farther to the front.

On entering the small settlement of Keedysville, a familiar face andfigure blocked the way, like one of Bunyan's giants. The tall form andbenevolent countenance, set off by long, flowing hair, belonged to theexcellent Mayor Frank B. Fay, of Chelsea, who, like my Philanthropist,only still more promptly, had come to succor the wounded of the greatbattle. It was wonderful to see how his single personality pervaded thistorpid little village; he seemed to be the centre of all its activities.All my questions he answered clearly and decisively, as one who kneweverything that was going on in the place. But the one question I hadcome five hundred miles to ask,—Where is Captain H.?—he could notanswer. There were some thousands of wounded in the place, he toldme, scattered about everywhere. It would be a long job to hunt up myCaptain; the only way would be to go to every house and ask for him.Just then, a medical officer came up.

"Do you know anything of Captain H., of the Massachusetts Twentieth?"

"Oh, yes; he is staying in that house. I saw him there, doing verywell."

A chorus of hallelujahs arose in my soul, but I kept them to myself.Now, then, for our twice-wounded volunteer, our young centurion whosedouble-barred shoulder-straps we have never yet looked upon. Let usobserve the proprieties, however; no swelling upward of the mother,—nohysterica passio,—we do not like scenes. A calm salutation,—thenswallow and bold hard. That is about the programme.

A cottage of squared logs, filled in with plaster, and white-washed. Alittle yard before it, with a gate swinging. The door of the cottageajar,—no one visible as yet. I push open the door and enter. An oldwoman, Margaret Kitzmuller her name proves to be, is the first personI see.

"Captain H. here?"

"Oh, no, Sir,—left yesterday morning for Hagerstown—in a milk-cart."

The Kitzmuller is a beady-eyed, cheery-looking ancient woman, answersquestions with a rising inflection, and gives a good account of theCaptain, who got into the vehicle without assistance, and was inexcellent spirits.—Of course he had struck for Hagerstown as theterminus of the Cumberland Valley Railroad, and was on his way toPhiladelphia viâ Chambersburg and Harrisburg, if he were not alreadyin the hospitable home of Walnut Street, where his friends wereexpecting him.

I might follow on his track or return upon my own; the distance was diesame to Philadelphia through Harrisburg as through Baltimore. But it wasvery difficult, Mr. Fay told me, to procure any kind of conveyance toHagerstown, and on the other hand I had James Grayden and his wagon tocarry me back to Frederick. It was not likely that I should overtake theobject of my pursuit with nearly thirty-six hours start, even if Icould procure a conveyance that day, In the mean time James was gettingimpatient to be on his return, according to the direction of hisemployers. So I decided to go back with him.

But there was the great battle-field only about three miles fromKeedysville, and it was impossible to go without seeing that. JamesGrayden's directions were peremptory, but it was a case for the higherlaw. I must make a good offer for an extra couple of hours, such aswould satisfy the owners of the wagon, and enforce it by a personalmotive. I did this handsomely, and succeeded without difficulty. Toadd brilliancy to my enterprise, I invited the Chaplain and thePhilanthropist to take a free passage with me.

We followed the road through the village for a space, then turned offto the right, and wandered somewhat vaguely, for want of precisedirections, over the hills. Inquiring as we went, we forded a wide creekin which soldiers were washing their clothes, the name of which we didnot then know, but which must have been the Antietam. At one point wemet a party, women among them, bringing off various trophies they hadpicked up on the battle-field. Still wandering along, we were at lastpointed to a hill in the distance, a part of the summit of which wascovered with Indian-corn. There, we were told, some of the fiercestfighting of the day had been done. The fences were taken down so as tomake a passage across the fields, and the tracks worn within the lastfew days looked like old roads. We passed a fresh grave under a treenear the road. A board was nailed to the tree, bearing the name, as wellas I could make it out, of Gardiner, of a New-Hampshire regiment.

On coming near the brow of the hill, we met a party carrying picks andspades. "How many?" "Only one." The dead were nearly all buried, then,in this region of the field of strife. We stopped the wagon, and,getting out, began to look around us. Hard by was a large pile ofmuskets, scores, if not hundreds, which had been picked up and wereguarded for the Government. A long ridge of fresh gravel rose before us.A board stuck up in front of it bore this inscription, the first part ofwhich was, I believe, not correct:—"The Rebel General Anderson and 80Rebels are buried in this hole." Other smaller ridges were marked withthe number of dead lying under them. The whole ground was strewedwith fragments of clothing, haversacks, canteens, cap-boxes, bullets,cartridge-boxes, cartridges, scraps of paper, portions of bread andmeat. I saw two soldiers' caps that looked as though their owners hadbeen shot through the head. In several places I noticed dark red patcheswhere a pool of blood had curdled and caked, as some poor fellow pouredhis life out on the sod. I then wandered about in the cornfield. Itsurprised me to notice, that, though there was every mark of hardfighting having taken place here, the Indian-corn was not generallytrodden down. One of our cornfields is a kind of forest, and even whenfighting, men avoid the tall stalks as if they were trees. At the edgeof this cornfield lay a gray horse, said to have belonged to a Rebelcolonel, who was killed near the same place. Not far off were two deadartillery-horses in their harness. Another had been attended to bya burying-party, who had thrown some earth over him; but his lastbed-clothes were too short, and his legs stuck out stark and stifffrom beneath the gravel coverlet. It was a great pity that we had nointelligent guide to explain to us the position of that portion of thetwo armies which fought over this ground. There was a shallow trenchbefore we came to the cornfield, too narrow for a road, as I shouldthink, too elevated for a water-course, and which seemed to have beenused as a rifle-pit; at any rate, there had been hard fighting in andabout it. This and the cornfield may serve to identify the part of theground we visited, if any who fought there should ever look over thispaper. The opposing tides of battle must have blended their waves atthis point, for portions of gray uniform were mingled with the "garmentsrolled in blood" torn from our own dead and wounded soldiers. I pickedup a Rebel canteen, and one of our own,—but there was somethingrepulsive about the trodden and stained relics of the stalebattle-field. It was like the table of some hideous orgy left uncleared,and one turned away disgusted from its broken fragments and muddyheel-taps. A bullet or two, a button, a brass plate from a soldier'sbelt, served well enough for mementos of my visit, with a letter whichI picked up, directed to Richmond, Virginia, its seal unbroken. "N.C.Cleaveland County. E. Wright to J. Wright." On the other side, "A fewlines from W.L. Vaughn," who has just been writing for the wife to herhusband, and continues on his own account. The postscript, "tell Johnthat nancy's folks are all well and has a verry good Little Crop of corna growing." I wonder, if, by one of those strange chances of which Ihave seen so many, this number or leaf of the "Atlantic" will not sooneror later find its way to Cleveland County, North Carolina, and E.Wright, widow of James Wright, and Nancy's folks get from thesesentences the last glimpse of husband and friend as he threw up his armsand fell in the bloody cornfield of Antietam? I will keep this stainedletter for them until peace comes back, if it comes in my time, and mypleasant North-Carolina Rebel of the Middletown Hospital will, perhaps,look these poor people up, and tell them where to send for it.

On the battle-field I parted with my two companions, the Chaplain andthe Philanthropist. They were going to the front, the one to find hisregiment, the other to look for those who needed his assistance. Weexchanged cards and farewells, I mounted the wagon, the horses' headswere turned homewards, my two companions went their way, and I saw themno more. On my way back, I fell into talk with James Grayden. Born inEngland, Lancashire; in this country since he was four years old. Hadnothing to care for but an old mother; didn't know what he should do, ifhe lost her. Though so long in this country, he had all the simplicityand childlike light-heartedness which belong to the Old World's people.He laughed at the smallest pleasantry, and showed his great whiteEnglish teeth; he took a joke without retorting by an impertinence; hehad a very limited curiosity about all that was going on; he had smallstore of information; he lived chiefly in his horses, it seemed to me.His quiet animal nature acted as a pleasing anodyne to my recurring fitsof anxiety, and I liked his frequent "'Deed I don' know, Sir," betterthan I have sometimes relished the large discourse of professors andother very wise men.

I have not much to say of the road which we were travelling for thesecond time. Reaching Middletown, my first call was on the woundedColonel and his lady. She gave me a most touching account of allthe suffering he had gone through with his shattered limb before hesucceeded in finding a shelter, showing the terrible want of propermeans of transportation of the wounded after the battle. It occurred tome, while at this house, that I was more or less famished, and for thefirst time in my life I begged for a meal, which the kind family withwhom the Colonel was staying most graciously furnished me.

After tea, there came in a stout army-surgeon, a Highlander by birth,educated in Edinburgh, with whom I had pleasant, not unstimulatingtalk. He had been brought very close to that immane and nefandousBurke-and-Hare business which made the blood of civilization run cold inthe year 1828, and told me, in a very calm way, with an occasional pinchfrom the mull, to refresh his memory, some of the details of thosefrightful murders, never rivalled in horror until the wretch Dumollard,who kept a private cemetery for his victims, was dragged into the lightof day. He had a good deal to say, too, about the Royal College ofSurgeons in Edinburgh, and the famous preparations, mercurial andthe rest, which I remember well having seen there,—the "sudabitmuitura,—" and others,—also of our New-York Professor Carnochan'shandiwork, a specimen of which I once admired at the New York College.But the Doctor was not in a happy frame of mind, and seemed willing toforget the present in the past: things went wrong, somehow, and the timewas out of joint with him.

Dr. Thompson, kind, cheerful, companionable, offered me half his ownwide bed, in the house of Dr. Baer, for my second night in Middletown.Here I lay awake again another night. Close to the house stood anambulance in which was a wounded Rebel officer, attended by one of theirown surgeons. He was calling out in a loud voice, all night long, asit seemed to me, "Doctor! Doctor! Driver! Water!" in loud, complainingtones, I have no doubt of real suffering, but in strange contrast withthe silent patience which was the almost universal rule.

The courteous Dr. Thompson will let me tell here an odd coincidence,trivial, but having its interest as one of a series. The Doctor andmyself lay in the bed, and a lieutenant, a friend of his, slept onthe sofa. At night, I placed my match-box, a Scotch one, of theMacpherson-plaid pattern, which I bought years ago, on the bureau, justwhere I could put my hand upon it. I was the last of the three to risein the morning, and on looking for my pretty match-box, I found it wasgone. This was rather awkward,—not on account of the loss, but of theunavoidable fact that one of my fellow-lodgers must have taken it. Imust try to find out what it meant.

"By the way, Doctor, have you seen anything of a little plaid-patternmatchbox?"

The Doctor put his hand to his pocket, and, to his own huge surprise andmy great gratification, pulled out two matchboxes exactly alike, bothprinted with the Macpherson plaid. One was his, the other mine, which hehad seen lying round, and naturally took for his own, thrusting it intohis pocket, where it found its twin-brother from the same workshop. Inmemory of which event we exchanged boxes, like two Homeric heroes.

This curious coincidence illustrates well enough some supposed cases ofplagiarism, of which I will mention one where my name figured. When alittle poem called "The Two Streams" was first printed, a writer in theNew York "Evening Post" virtually accused the author of it of borrowingthe thought from a baccalaureate sermon of President Hopkins, ofWilliamstown, and printed a quotation from that discourse, which, as Ithought, a thief or catchpoll might well consider as establishing afair presumption that it was so borrowed. I was at the same time whollyunconscious of ever having met with the discourse or the sentence whichthe verses were most like, nor do I believe I ever had seen or heardeither. Some time after this, happening to meet my eloquent cousin,Wendell Phillips, I mentioned the fact to him, and he told me that hehad once used the special image said to be borrowed, in a discoursedelivered at Williamstown. On relating this to my friend Mr. BuchananRead, he informed me that he, too, had used the image, perhapsreferring to his poem called "The Twins." He thought Tennyson had usedit also. The parting of the streams on the Alps is poetically elaboratedin a passage attributed to "M. Loisne," printed in the Boston "EveningTranscript" for October 23d, 1859. Captain, afterwards Sir Francis Head,speaks of the showers parting on the Cordilleras, one portion going tothe Atlantic, one to the Pacific. I found the image running loose in mymind, without a halter. It suggested itself as an illustration ofthe will, and I worked the poem out by the aid of Mitchell's SchoolAtlas.—The spores of a great many ideas are floating about in theatmosphere. We no more know where all the growths of our mind came fromthan where the lichens which eat the names off from the gravestonesborrowed the germs that gave them birth. The two match-boxes were justalike, but neither was a plagiarism.

In the morning I took to the same wagon once more, but, instead of JamesGrayden, I was to have for my driver a young man who spelt his name"Phillip Ottenheimer," and whose features at once showed him to be anIsraelite. I found him agreeable enough, and disposed to talk. So Iasked him many questions about his religion, and got some answers thatsound strangely in Christian ears. He was from Wittenberg, and hadbeen educated in strict Jewish fashion. From his childhood he had readHebrew, but was not much of a scholar otherwise. A young person of hisrace lost caste utterly by marrying a Christian. The Founder of ourreligion was considered by the Israelites to have been "a right smartman, and a great doctor," But the horror with which the reading of theNew Testament by any young person of their faith would be regarded wasas great, I judged by his language, as that of one of our straitestsectaries would be, if he found his son or daughter perusing the "Age ofReason."

In approaching Frederick, the singular beauty of its clustered spiresstruck me very much, so that I was not surprised to find "Fair-View"laid down about this point on a railroad-map. I wish some wanderingphotographer would take a picture of the place, a stereoscopic one, ifpossible, to show how gracefully, how charmingly, its group of steeplesnestles among the Maryland hills. The town had a poetical look from adistance, as if seers and dreamers might dwell there. The first signI read, on entering its long street, might perhaps be considered asconfirming my remote impression. It bore these words: "Miss Ogle, Past,Present, and Future." On arriving, I visited Lieutenant Abbott, and theattenuated unhappy gentleman, his neighbor, sharing between them as myparting gift what I had left of the balsam known to the Pharmacopoeia asSpiritus Vini Gallici. I took advantage of General Shriver's alwaysopen door to write a letter home, but had not time to partake of hisoffered hospitality. The railroad-bridge over the Monocacy had beenrebuilt since I passed through Frederick, and we trundled along over thetrack toward Baltimore.

It was a disappointment, on reaching the Eutaw House, where I hadordered all communications to be addressed, to find no telegraphicmessage from Philadelphia or Boston, stating that Captain H. had arrivedat the former place, "wound doing well in good spirits expects to leavesoon for Boston," After all, it was no great matter; the Captain was, nodoubt, snugly lodged before this in the house called Beautiful, at ——Walnut Street, where that "grave and beautiful damsel named Discretion"had already welcomed him, smiling, though "the water stood in her eyes,"and had "called out Prudence, Piety, and Charity, who, after a littlemore discourse with him, had him into the family."

The friends I had met at the Eutaw House had all gone but one, the ladyof an officer from Boston, who was most amiable and agreeable, and whosebenevolence, as I afterwards learned, soon reached the invalids I hadleft suffering at Frederick. General Wool still walked the corridors,inexpansive, with Fort McHenry on his shoulders, and Baltimore in hisbreeches-pocket, and his courteous aid again pressed upon me his kindoffices. About the doors of the hotel the news-boys cried the papers inplaintive, wailing tones, as different from the sharp accents of theirBoston counterparts as a sigh from the southwest is from a northeasternbreeze. To understand what they said was, of course, impossible to anybut an educated ear, and if I made out "Stoarr" and "Clipper," it wasbecause I knew beforehand what must be the burden of their advertisingcoranach.

I set out for Philadelphia on the morrow, Tuesday the twenty-third,there beyond question to meet my Captain, once more united to his bravewounded companions under that roof which covers a household of as noblehearts as ever throbbed with human sympathies. Back River, Bush River,Gunpowder Creek,—lives there the man with soul so dead that his memoryhas cerements to wrap up these senseless names in the same envelopeswith their meaningless localities? But the Susquehanna,—the broad,the beautiful, the historical, the poetical Susquehanna,—the river ofWyoming and of Gertrude, dividing the shores where

"aye these sunny mountains half-way down Would echo flageolet from some romantic town,"—

did not my heart renew its allegiance to the poet who has made it lovelyto the imagination as well as to the eye, and so identified his famewith the noble stream that it "rolls mingling with his fame forever"?The prosaic traveller perhaps remembers it better from the fact that agreat sea-monster, in the shape of a steamboat, takes him, sittingin the car, on its back, and swims across with him like Arion'sdolphin,—also that mercenary men on board offer him canvas-backs in theseason, and ducks of lower degree at other periods.

At Philadelphia again at last! Drive fast, O colored man and brother, tothe house called Beautiful, where my Captain lies sore wounded, waitingfor the sound of the chariot-wheels which bring to his bedside the faceand the voice nearer than any save one to his heart in this his hour ofpain and weakness! Up a long street with white shutters and white stepsto all the houses. Off at right angles into another long street withwhite shutters and white steps to all the houses. Off again at anotherright angle into still another long street with white shutters and whitesteps to all the houses. The natives of this city pretend to know onestreet from another by some individual differences of aspect; but thebest way for a stranger to distinguish the streets he has been in fromothers is to make a cross or other mark on the white shutters.

This corner-house is the one. Ring softly,—for the Lieutenant-Colonellies there with a dreadfully wounded arm, and two sons of the family,one wounded like the Colonel, one fighting with death in the fog of atyphoid fever, will start with fresh pangs at the least sound you canmake. I entered the house, but no cheerful smile met me. The suffererswere each of them thought to be in a critical condition. The fourth bed,waiting its tenant day after day, was still empty. Not a word from myCaptain.

Then, foolish, fond body that I was, my heart sank within me. Had hebeen taken ill on the road, perhaps been attacked with those formidablesymptoms which sometimes come on suddenly after wounds that seemed to bedoing well enough, and was his life ebbing away in some lonely cottage,nay, in some cold barn or shed, or at the way-side, unknown, uncaredfor? Somewhere between Philadelphia and Hagerstown, if not at the lattertown, he must be, at any rate. I must sweep the hundred and eighty milesbetween these places as one would sweep a chamber where a precious pearlhad been dropped. I must have a companion in my search, partly to helpme look about, and partly because I was getting nervous and felt lonely.Charley said he would go with me,—Charley, my Captain's belovedfriend, gentle, but full of spirit and liveliness, cultivated, social,affectionate, a good talker, a most agreeable letter-writer, observing,with large relish of life, and keen sense of humor.

He was not well enough to go, some of the timid ones said; but heanswered by packing his carpet-bag, and in an hour or two we were on thePennsylvania Central Railroad in full blast for Harrisburg.

I should have been a forlorn creature but for the presence of mycompanion. In his delightful company I half forgot my anxieties, which,exaggerated as they may seem now, ware not unnatural after what I hadseen of the confusion and distress that had followed the great battle,nay, which seem almost justified by the recent statement that "highofficers" were buried after that battle whose names were neverascertained. I noticed little matters, as usual. The road was filled inbetween the rails with cracked stones, such as are used for Macadamizingstreets. They keep the dust down, I suppose, for I could not think ofany other use for them. By-and-by the glorious valley which stretchesalong through Chester and Lancaster Counties opened upon us. Much as Ihad heard of the fertile regions of Pennsylvania, the vast scale and theuniform luxuriance of this region astonished me. The grazing pastureswere so green, the fields were under such perfect culture, the cattlelooked so sleek, the houses were so comfortable, the barns so ample, thefences so well kept, that I did not wonder, when I was told that thisregion was called the England of Pennsylvania. The people whom we sawwere, like the cattle, well-nourished; the young women looked round andwholesome.

"Grass makes girls," I said to my companion, and left him to work outmy Orphic saying, thinking to myself, that, as guano makes grass, itwas a legitimate conclusion that Jehaboe must be a nursery of femaleloveliness.

As the train stopped at the different stations, I inquired at eachif they had any wounded officers. None as yet; the red rays of thebattle-field had not streamed off so far as this. Evening found us inthe cars; they lighted candles in spring-candlesticks; odd enough Ithought it in the land of oil-wells and unmeasured floods of kerosene.Some fellows turned up the back of a seat so as to make it horizontal,and began gambling or pretending to gamble; it looked as if they weretrying to pluck a young countryman; but appearances are deceptive,and no deeper stake than "drinks for the crowd" seemed at last tobe involved. But remembering that murder has tried of late years toestablish itself as an institution in the cars, I was less tolerant ofthe doings of these "sportsmen" who tried to turn our public conveyanceinto a travelling Frascali. They acted as if they were used to it, andnobody seemed to pay much attention to their manoeuvres.

We arrived at Harrisburg in the course of the evening, and attempted tofind our way to the Jones House, to which we had been commended. By somemistake, intentional on the part of somebody, as it may have been, orpurely accidental, we went to the Herr House instead. I entered my namein the book, with that of my companion. A plain, middle-aged man steppedup, read it to himself in low tones, and coupled to it a literary titleby which I have been sometimes known. He proved to be a graduate ofBrown University, and had heard a certain Phi Beta Kappa poem deliveredthere a good many years ago. I remembered it, too; Professor Goddard,whose sudden and singular death left such lasting regret, was theOrator. I recollect that while I was speaking a drum went by the church,and how I was disgusted to see all the heads near the windows thrust outof them, as if the building were on fire. Cedat armis toga. The clerkin the office, a mild, pensive, unassuming young man, was very polite inhis manners, and did all he could to make us comfortable. He was of aliterary turn, and knew one of his guests in his character of author. Attea, a mild old gentleman, with white hair and beard, sat next us. He,too, had come hunting after his son, a lieutenant in a Pennsylvaniaregiment. Of these, father and son, more presently.

After tea we went to look up Dr. Wilson, chief medical officer ofthe hospitals in the place, who was staying at the Brady House. Amagnificent old toddy-mixer, Bardolphian in hue and stern of aspect, asall grog-dispensers must be, accustomed as they are to dive through thefeatures of men to the bottom of their souls and pockets to see whetherthey are solvent to the amount of sixpence, answered my question by awave of one hand, the other being engaged in carrying a dram to hislips. His superb indifference gratified my artistic feeling more than itwounded my personal sensibilities. Anything really superior in its lineclaims my homage, and this man was the ideal bar-tender, above allvulgar passions, untouched by commonplace sympathies, himself a lover ofthe liquid happiness he dispenses, and filled with a fine scorn of allthose lesser felicities conferred by love or fame or wealth or anyof the roundabout agencies for which his fiery elixir is the cheap,all-powerful substitute.

Dr. Wilson was in bed, though it was early in the evening, not havingslept for I don't know how many nights.

"Take my card up to him, if you please."

"This way, Sir."

A man who has not slept for a fortnight or so is not expected to be asaffable, when attacked in his bed, as a French princess of old timeat her morning-receptions. Dr. Wilson turned toward me, as I entered,without effusion, but without rudeness. His thick, dark moustache waschopped off square at the lower edge of the upper lip, which implied adecisive, if not a peremptory, style of character.

I am Doctor So-and-So. of Hub-town, looking after my wounded son. (Igave my name and said Boston, of course, in reality.)

Dr. Wilson leaned on his elbow and looked up in my face, his featuresgrowing cordial. Then he put out his hand, and good-humoredly excusedhis reception of me. The day before, as he told me, he had dismissedfrom the service a medical man hailing from ——, Pennsylvania, bearingmy last name, preceded by the same two initials; and he supposed, whenmy card came up, it was this individual who was disturbing his slumbers.The coincidence was so unlikely a priori, unless some forlorn parentwithout antecedents had named a child after me, that I could not helpcross-questioning the Doctor, who assured me deliberately that the factwas just as he had said, even to the somewhat unusual initials. Dr.Wilson very kindly furnished me all the information in his power,gave me directions for telegraphing to Chambersburg, and showed everydisposition to serve me.

On returning to the Herr House, we found the mild, white-haired oldgentleman in a very happy state. He had just discovered his son, in acomfortable condition, at the United States Hotel. He thought that hecould probably give us some information which would prove interesting.To the United States Hotel we repaired, then, in company with ourkind-hearted old friend, who evidently wanted to see me as happy ashimself. He went up-stairs to his son's chamber, and presently came downto conduct us there.

Lieutenant P——, of the Pennsylvania ——th, was a very fresh,bright-looking young man, lying in bed from the effects of a recentinjury received in action. A grape-shot, after passing through a postand a board, had struck him in the hip, bruising, but not penetrating orbreaking. He had good news for me.

That very afternoon, a party of wounded officers had passed throughHarrisburg, going East. He had conversed in the bar-room of this hotelwith one of them, who was wounded about the shoulder, (it might be thelower part of the neck,) and had his arm in a sling. He belonged to theTwentieth Massachusetts; the Lieutenant saw that he was a Captain, bythe two bars on his shoulder-strap. His name was my family-name; he wastall and youthful, like my Captain. At four o'clock he left in the trainfor Philadelphia. Closely questioned, the Lieutenant's evidence was asround, complete, and lucid as a Japanese sphere of rock-crystal.

TE DEUM LAUDAMUS! The Lord's name be praised! The dead pain in thesemilunar ganglion (which I must remind my reader is a kind of stupid,unreasoning brain, beneath the pit of the stomach, common to man andbeast, which aches in the supreme moments of life, as when the dam losesher young ones, or the wild horse is lassoed) stopped short. There wasa feeling as if I had slipped off a tight boot, or cut a stranglinggarter,—only it was all over my system. What more could I ask to assureme of the Captain's safety? As soon as the telegraph-office opensto-morrow morning, we will send a message to our friends in Philadelphia,and get a reply, doubtless, which will settle the whole matter.

The hopeful morrow dawned at last, and the message was sent accordingly.
In due time, the following reply was received:—

"Phil Sept 24 I think the report you have heard that W [the Captain] hasgone East must be an error we have not seen or heard of him here M L H"

DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI! He could not have passed through Philadelphiawithout visiting the house called Beautiful, where he had been sotenderly cared for after his wound at Ball's Bluff, and where those whomhe loved were lying in grave peril of life or limb. Yet he did passthrough Harrisburg, going East, going to Philadelphia, on his wayhome. Ah, this is it! He must have taken the late night-train fromPhiladelphia for New York, in his impatience to reach home. There issuch a train, not down in the guide-book, but we were assured of thefact at the Harrisburg depot. By-and-by came the reply from Dr.Wilson's telegraphic message: nothing had been heard of the Captain atChambersburg. Still later, another message came from our Philadelphiafriend, saying that he was seen on Friday last at the house of Mrs. K—,a well-known Union lady, in Hagerstown. Now this could not be true, forhe did not leave Keedysville until Saturday; but the name of the ladyfurnished a clue by which we could probably track him. A telegram wasat once sent to Mrs. K—, asking information. It was transmittedimmediately, but when the answer would be received was uncertain, as theGovernment almost monopolized the line. I was, on the whole, so wellsatisfied that the Captain had gone East, that, unless something wereheard to the contrary, I proposed following him in the late train,leaving a little after midnight for Philadelphia.

This same morning we visited several of the temporary hospitals,churches and school-houses, where the wounded were lying. In one ofthese, after looking round as usual, I asked aloud, "Any Massachusettsmen here?" Two bright faces lifted themselves from their pillows andwelcomed me by name. The one nearest me was private John B. Noyes, ofCompany B, Massachusetts Thirteenth, son of my old college class-tutor,now the reverend and learned Professor of Hebrew, etc., in HarvardUniversity. His neighbor was Corporal Armstrong, of the same Company.Both were slightly wounded, doing well. I learned then and since fromMr. Noyes that they and their comrades were completely overwhelmedby the attentions of the good people of Harrisburg,—that the ladiesbrought them fruits and flowers, and smiles, better than either,—andthat the little boys of the place were almost fighting for the privilegeof doing their errands. I am afraid there will be a good many heartspierced in this war that will have no bullet-mark to show.

There were some heavy hours to get rid of, and we thought a visit toCamp Curtin might lighten some of them. A rickety wagon carried us tothe camp, in company with a young woman from Troy, who had a basket ofgood things with her for a sick brother, "Poor boy! he will be sure todie," she said. The rustic sentries uncrossed their muskets and letus in. The camp was on a fair plain, girdled with hills, spacious,well-kept apparently, but did not present any peculiar attraction forus. The visit would have been a dull one, had we not happened to getsight of a singular-looking set of human beings in the distance. Theywere clad in stuff of different hues, gray and brown being the leadingshades, but both subdued by a neutral tint, such as is wont to harmonizethe variegated apparel of travel-stained vagabonds. They looked slouchy,listless, torpid,—an ill-conditioned crew, at first sight, made up ofsuch fellows as an old woman would drive away from her hen-roost with abroomstick. Yet these were estrays from the fiery army which has givenour generals so much trouble,—"Secesh prisoners," as a by-stander toldus. A talk with them might be profitable and entertaining. But they weretabooed to the common visitor, and it was necessary to get inside of theline which separated us from them.

A solid, square captain was standing near by, to whom we were referred.Look a man calmly through the very centre of his pupils and ask him foranything with a tone implying entire conviction that he will grant it,and he will very commonly consent to the thing asked, were it to commithari-kari. The Captain acceded to my postulate, and accepted my friendas a corollary. As one string of my own ancestors was of Batavianorigin, I may be permitted to say that my new friend was of the Dutchtype, like the Amsterdam galiots, broad in the beam, capacious in thehold, and calculated to carry a heavy cargo rather than to make fasttime. He must have been in politics at some time or other, for he madeorations to all the "Secesh," in which he explained to them that theUnited States considered and treated them like children, and enforcedupon them the ridiculous impossibility of the Rebels' attempting to doanything against such a power as that of the National Government.

Much as his discourse edified them and enlightened me, it interferedsomewhat with my little plans of entering into frank and friendly talkwith some of these poor fellows, for whom I could not help feeling akind of human sympathy, though I am as venomous a hater of the Rebellionas one is like to find under the stars and stripes. It is fair to takea man prisoner. It is fair to make speeches to a man. But to take a manprisoner and then make speeches to him while in durance is not fair.

I began a few pleasant conversations, which would have come to somethingbut for the reason assigned.

One old fellow had a long beard, a drooping eyelid, and a black claypipe in his mouth. He was a Scotchman from Ayr, dour enough, andlittle disposed to be communicative, though I tried him with the "TwaBriggs," and, like all Scotchmen, he was a reader of "Burrns." Heprofessed to feel no interest in the cause for which he was fighting,and was in the army, I judged, only from compulsion. There was awild-haired, unsoaped boy, with pretty, foolish features enough, wholooked as if he might be about seventeen, as he said he was. I give myquestions and his answers literally.

"What State do you come from?"

"Georgy."

"What part of Georgia?"

"Midway."

—[How odd that is! My father was settled for seven years as pastorover the church at Midway, Georgia, and this youth is very probably agrandson or great-grandson of one of his parishioners.]—

"Where did you go to church, when you were at home?"

"Never went inside 'f a church b't once in m' life."

"What did you do before you became a soldier?"

"Nothin'."

"What do you mean to do when you get back?"

"Nothin'."

Who could have any other feeling than pity for this poor human weed,this dwarfed and etiolated soul, doomed by neglect to an existence butone degree above that of the idiot?

With the group was a lieutenant, buttoned close in his gray coat,—onebutton gone, perhaps to make a breastpin for some fair traitorous bosom.A short, stocky man, undistinguishable from one of the "subject race" byany obvious meanderings of the sangre azul on his exposed surfaces. Hedid not say much, possibly because he was convinced by the statementsand arguments of the Dutch captain. He had on strong, iron-heeled shoes,of English make, which he said cost him seventeen dollars in Richmond.

I put the question, in a quiet, friendly way, to several of theprisoners, what they were fighting for. One answered, "For our homes."Two or three others said they did not know, and manifested greatindifference to the whole matter, at which another of their number, asturdy fellow, took offence, and muttered opinions strongly derogatoryto those who would not stand up for the cause they had been fightingfor. A feeble, attenuated old man, who wore the Rebel uniform, if suchit could be called, stood by without showing any sign of intelligence.It was cutting very close to the bone to carve such a shred of humanityfrom the body-politic to make a soldier of.

We were just leaving, when a face attracted me, and I stopped the party."That is the true Southern type," I said to my companion. A youngfellow, a little over twenty, rather tall, slight, with a perfectlysmooth, boyish cheek, delicate, somewhat high features, and a fine,almost feminine mouth, stood at the opening of his tent, and as weturned towards him fidgeted a little nervously with one hand at theloose canvas, while he seemed at the same time not unwilling to talk. Hewas from Mississippi, he said, had been, at Georgetown College, and wasso far imbued with letters that even the name of the literary humilitybefore him was not new to his ears. Of course I found it easy to comeinto magnetic relation with him, and to ask him without incivilitywhat he was fighting for. "Because I like the excitement of it," heanswered.—I know those fighters with women's mouths and boys' cheeks;one such from the circle of my own friends, sixteen years old, slippedaway from his nursery and dashed in under an assumed name among thered-legged Zouaves, in whose company he got an ornamental bullet-mark inone of the earliest conflicts of the war.

"Did you ever see a genuine Yankee?" said my Philadelphia friend to theyoung Mississippian.

"I have shot at a good many of them," he replied, modestly, his woman'smouth stirring a little, with a pleasant, dangerous smile.

The Dutch captain here put his foot into the conversation, as hisancestors used to put theirs into the scale, when they were buying fursof the Indians by weight,—so much for the weight of a hand, so much forthe weight of a foot. It deranged the balance of our intercourse; therewas no use in throwing a fly where a paving-stone had just splashed intothe water, and I nodded a good-bye to the boy-fighter, thinking howmuch pleasanter it was for my friend the Captain to address him withunanswerable arguments and crushing statements in his own tent thanit would be to meet him on some remote picket and offer his fairproportions to the quick eye of a youngster who would draw a bead on himbefore he had time to say dunder and blixum.

We drove back to the town. No message. After dinner still no message.Dr. Cuyler, Chief Army-Hospital Inspector, is in town, they say. Let ushunt him up,—perhaps he can help us.

We found him at the Jones House. A gentleman of large proportions, butof lively temperament, his frame knit in the North, I think, butripened in Georgia, incisive, prompt, but good-humored, wearing hisbroad-brimmed, steeple-crowned felt hat with the least possible tilt onone side,—a sure sign of exuberant vitality in a mature and dignifiedperson like him,—business-like in his ways, and not to be interruptedwhile occupied with another, but giving himself up heartily to theclaimant who held him for the time. He was so genial, so cordial, soencouraging, that it seemed as if the clouds, which had been thick allthe morning, broke away as we came into his presence, and the sunshineof his large nature filled the air all around us. He took the matter inhand at once, as if it were his own private affair. In ten minutes hehad a second telegraphic message on its way to Mrs. K—at Hagerstown,sent through the Government channel from the State Capitol,—one sodirect and urgent that I should be sure of an answer to it, whateverbecame of the one I had sent in the morning.

While this was going on, we hired a dilapidated barouche, driven by anodd young native, neither boy nor man, "as a codling when 'tis almost anapple," who said wery for very, simple and sincere, who smiled faintlyat our pleasantries, always with a certain reserve of suspicion, and agleam of the shrewdness that all men get who live in the atmosphere ofhorses. He drove us round by the Capitol grounds, white with tents,which were disgraced in my eyes by unsoldierly scrawls in huge letters,thus: THE SEVEN BLOOMSBURY BROTHERS, DEVIL'S HOLE, and similarinscriptions. Then to the Beacon Street of Harrisburg, which looksupon the Susquehanna instead of the Common, and shows a long front ofhandsome houses with fair gardens. The river is pretty nearly a mileacross here, but very shallow now. The codling told us that a Rebel spyhad been caught trying its fords a little while ago, and was now at CampCurtin with a heavy ball chained to his leg,—a popular story, but alie, Dr. Wilson said. A little farther along we came to the barklessstump of the tree to which Mr. Harris, the Cecrops of the city namedafter him, was tied by the Indians for some unpleasant operation ofscalping or roasting, when he was rescued by friendly savages, whopaddled across the stream to save him. Our youngling pointed out a veryrespectable-looking stone house as having been "built by the Indians"about those times. Guides have queer notions occasionally.

I was at Niagara just when Dr. Rae arrived there with his companions anddogs and things from his Arctic search after the lost navigator.

"Who are those?" I said to my conductor.

"Them?" he answered. "Them's the men that's been out West, out to
Michig'n, aft' Sir Ben Franklin."

Of the other sights of Harrisburg the Brant House or Hotel, or whateverit is called, seems most worth notice. Its façade is imposing, with arow of stately columns, high above which a broad sign impends, like acrag over the brow of a lofty precipice. The lower floor only appearedto be open to the public. Its tessellated pavement and ample courtssuggested the idea of a temple where great multitudes might kneeluncrowded at their devotions; but, from appearances about the placewhere the altar should be, I judged, that, if one asked the officiatingpriest for the cup which cheers and likewise inebriates, his prayerwould not be unanswered. The edifice recalled to me a similar phenomenonI had once looked upon,—the famous Caffè Pedrocchi at Padua. It was thesame thing in Italy and America: a rich man builds himself a mausoleum,and calls it a place of entertainment. The fragrance of innumerablelibations and the smoke of incense-breathing cigars and pipes shallascend day and night through the arches of his funeral monument. Whatare the poor dips which flare and flicker on the crowns of spikes thatstand at the corners of St. Genevieve's filigree-cased sarcophagus tothis perpetual offering of sacrifice?

Ten o'clock in the evening was approaching. The telegraph-office wouldpresently close, and as yet there were no tidings from Hagerstown. Letus step over and see for ourselves. A message! A message!

"_Captain H still here leaves seven to-morrow for Harrisburg Penna Isdoing well

Mrs H K_ ——."

A note from Dr. Cuyler to the same effect came soon afterwards to thehotel.

We shall sleep well to-night; but let us sit awhile with nubiferous, or,if we may coin a word, nepheligenous accompaniment, such as shall gentlynarcotize the over-wearied brain and fold its convolutions for slumberlike the leaves of a lily at nightfall. For now the over-tense nervesare all unstraining themselves, and a buzz, like that which comes overone who stops after being long jolted upon an uneasy pavement, makesthe whole frame alive with a luxurious languid sense of all its inmostfibres. Our cheerfulness ran over, and the mild, pensive clerk wasso magnetized by it that he came and sat down with us. He presentlyconfided to me, with infinite naïveté and ingenuousness, that, judgingfrom my personal appearance, he should not have thought me the writerthat he in his generosity reckoned me to be. His conception, so far asI could reach it, involved a huge, uplifted forehead, embossed withprotuberant organs of the intellectual faculties, such as all writersare supposed to possess in abounding measure. While I fell short of hisideal in this respect, he was pleased to say that he found me by nomeans the remote and inaccessible personage he had imagined, and that Ihad nothing of the dandy about me, which last compliment I had a modestconsciousness of most abundantly deserving.

Sweet slumbers brought us to the morning of Thursday. The train fromHagerstown was due at 11.15 A.M. We took another ride behind thecodling, who showed us the sights of yesterday over again. Being ina gracious mood of mind, I enlarged on the varying aspects of thetown-pumps and other striking objects which we had once inspected, asseen by the different lights of evening and morning. After this, wevisited the school-house hospital. A fine young fellow, whose arm hadbeen shattered, was just falling into the spasms of lockjaw. The beadsof sweat stood large and round on his flushed and contracted features.He was under the effect of opiates,—why not (if his case was desperate,as it seemed to be considered) stop his sufferings with chloroform? Itwas suggested that it might shorten life. "What then?" I said. "Are adozen additional spasms worth living for?"

The time approached for the train to arrive from Hagerstown, and we wentto the station. I was struck, while waiting there, with what seemed tome a great want of care for the safety of the people standing round.Just after my companion and myself had stepped off the track, I noticeda car coming quietly along at a walk, as one may say, without engine,without visible conductor, without any person heralding its approach, sosilently, so insidiously, that I could not help thinking how very nearit came to flattening out me and my match-box worse than the Ravelpantomimist and his snuff-box were flattened out in the play. The trainwas late,—fifteen minutes, half an hour late,—and I began to getnervous, lest something had happened. While I was looking for it,out started a freight-train, as if on purpose to meet the cars I wasexpecting, for a grand smash-up. I shivered at the thought, and askedan employé of the road, with whom I had formed an acquaintance a fewminutes old, why there should not be a collision of the expected trainwith this which was just going out. He smiled an official smile, andanswered that they arranged to prevent that, or words to that effect.

Twenty-four hours had not passed from that moment when a collision didoccur, just out of the city, where I feared it, by which at least elevenpersons were killed, and from forty to sixty more were maimed andcrippled!

To-day there was the delay spoken of, but nothing worse. The expectedtrain came in so quietly that I was almost startled to see it on thetrack. Let us walk calmly through the cars, and look around us.

In the first car, on the fourth seat to the right, I saw my Captain;there saw I him, even my first-born, whom I had sought through manycities.

"How are you, Boy?"

"How are you, Dad?"

* * * * *

Such are the proprieties of life, as they are observed among usAnglo-Saxons of the nineteenth century, decently disguising thosenatural impulses that made Joseph, the Prime-Minister of Egypt, weepaloud so that the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard,—nay, whichhad once overcome his shaggy old uncle Esau so entirely that he fellon his brother's neck and cried like a baby in the presence of all thewomen. But the hidden cisterns of the soul may be filling fast withsweet tears, while the windows through which it looks are undimmed by adrop or a film of moisture.

These are times in which we cannot live solely for selfish joys orgriefs. I had not let fall the hand I held, when a sad, calm voiceaddressed me by name. I fear that at the moment I was too much absorbedin my own feelings; for certainly at any other time I should haveyielded myself without stint to the sympathy which this meeting mightwell call forth.

"You remember my son, Cortland Saunders, whom I brought to see you oncein Boston?"

"I do remember him well."

"He was killed on Monday, at Shepherdstown. I am carrying his body backwith me on this train. He was my only child. If you could come to myhouse,—I can hardly call it my home now,—it would be a pleasure tome."

This young man, belonging in Philadelphia, was the author of a "NewSystem of Latin Paradigms," a work showing extraordinary scholarship andcapacity. It was this book which first made me acquainted with him, andI kept him in my memory, for there was genius in the youth. Some timeafterwards he came to me with a modest request to be introduced toPresident Felton, and one or two others, who would aid him in a courseof independent study he was proposing to himself. I was most happy tosmooth the way for him, and he came repeatedly after this to see me andexpress his satisfaction in the opportunities for study he enjoyedat Cambridge. He was a dark, still, slender person, always with atrance-like remoteness, a mystic dreaminess of manner, such as I neversaw in any other youth. Whether he heard with difficulty, or whether hismind reacted slowly on an alien thought, I could not say; but his answerwould often be behind time, and then a vague, sweet smile, or a fewwords spoken under his breath, as if he had been trained in sick men'schambers. For such a youth, seemingly destined for the inner life ofcontemplation, to be a soldier seemed almost unnatural. Yet he spoke tome of his intention to offer himself to his country, and his blood mustnow be reckoned among the precious sacrifices which will make her soilsacred forever. Had he lived, I doubt not that he would have redeemedthe rare promise of his earlier years. He has done better, for he hasdied that unborn generations may attain the hopes held out to our nationand to mankind.

So, then, I had been within ten miles of the place where my woundedsoldier was lying, and then calmly turned my back upon him to come oncemore round by a journey of three or four hundred miles to the sameregion I had left! No mysterious attraction warned me that the heartwarm with the same blood as mine was throbbing so near my own. I thoughtof that lovely, tender passage where Gabriel glides unconsciously byEvangeline upon the great river. Ah, me! if that railroad-crash had beena few hours earlier, we two should never have met again, after coming soclose to each other!

The source of my repeated disappointments was soon made clear enough.The Captain had gone to Hagerstown, intending to take the cars at oncefor Philadelphia, as his three friends actually did do, and as I took itfor granted he certainly would. But as he walked languidly along, someladies saw him across the street, and seeing, were moved with pity,and pitying, spoke such soft words that he was tempted to accept theirinvitation and rest awhile beneath their hospitable roof. The mansionwas old, as the dwellings of gentlefolks should be; the ladies were someof them young, and all were full of kindness; there were gentle cares,and unasked luxuries, and pleasant talk, and music-sprinklings from thepiano, with a sweet voice to keep them company,—and all this after theswamps of the Chickahominy, the mud and flies of Harrison's Landing, thedragging marches, the desperate battles, the fretting wound, the joltingambulance, the log-house, and the rickety milk—cart! Thanks, uncountedthanks to the angelic ladies whose charming attentions detained himfrom Saturday to Thursday, to his great advantage and my infinitebewilderment! As for his wound, how could it do otherwise than wellunder such hands? The bullet had gone smoothly through, dodgingeverything but a few nervous branches, which would come right in timeand leave him as well as ever.

At ten that evening we were in Philadelphia, the Captain at the house ofthe friends so often referred to, and I the guest of Charley, my kindcompanion. The Quaker element gives an irresistible attraction to thesebenignant Philadelphia households. Many things reminded me that I was nolonger in the land of the Pilgrims. On the table were Kool Slaa andSchmeer Kase, but the good grandmother who dispensed with such quiet,simple grace these and more familiar delicacies was literally ignorantof Baked Beans, and asked if it was the Lima bean which was employedin that marvellous dish of animalized leguminous farina!

Charley was pleased with my comparing the face of the small Ethiop knownto his household as "Tines" to a huckleberry with features. He alsoapproved my parallel between a certain German blonde young maiden whom,we passed in the street and the "Morris White" peach. But he was sogood-humored at times, that, if one scratched a lucifer, he accepted itas an illumination.

A day in Philadelphia left a very agreeable impression of the outside ofthat great city, which has endeared itself so much of late to all thecountry by its most noble and generous care of our soldiers. Measured byits sovereign hotel, the Continental, it would stand at the head of oureconomic civilization. It provides for the comforts and conveniences,and many of the elegances of life, more satisfactorily than any Americancity, perhaps than any other city anywhere. It is not a breeding-placeof ideas, which makes it a more agreeable residence for average people.It is the great neutral centre of the Continent, where the fieryenthusiasms of the South and the keen fanaticisms of the North meet attheir outer limits, and result in a compound that turns neither litmusred nor turmeric brown. It lives largely on its traditions, of which,leaving out Franklin and Independence Hall, the most imposing mustbe considered its famous water-works. In my younger days I visitedFairmount, and it was with a pious reverence that I renewed mypilgrimage to that perennial fountain. Its watery ventricles werethrobbing with the same systole and diastole as when, the blood oftwenty years bounding in my own heart, I looked upon their giantmechanism. But in the place of "Pratt's Garden" was an open park, andthe old house where Robert Morris held his court in a former generationwas changing to a public restaurant. A suspension-bridge cobwebbeditself across the Schuylkill where that audacious arch used to leap theriver at a single bound,—an arch of greater span, as they loved to tellus, than was ever before constructed. The Upper Ferry Bridge was to theSchuylkill what the Colossus was to the harbor of Rhodes. It had an airof dash about it which went far towards redeeming the dead level ofrespectable average which flattens the physiognomy of the rectangularcity. Philadelphia will never be herself again until another RobertMills and another Lewis Wernwag have shaped her a new palladium. Shemust leap the Schuylkill again, or old men will sadly shake their heads,like the Jews at the sight of the second temple, remembering the gloriesof that which it replaced.

There are times when Ethiopian minstrelsy can amuse, if it does notcharm, a weary soul,—and such a vacant hour there was on this sameFriday evening. The "opera-house" was spacious and admirably ventilated.As I was listening to the merriment of the sooty buffoons, I happened tocast my eyes up to the ceiling, and through an open semicircular windowa bright solitary star looked me calmly in the eyes. It was a strangeintrusion of the vast eternities beckoning from the infinite spaces.I called the attention of one of my neighbors to it, but "Bones" wasirresistibly droll, and Areturus, or Aldebaran, or whatever theblazing luminary may have been, with all his revolving worlds, saileduncared-for down the firmament.

On Saturday morning we took up our line of march for New York. Mr.Felton, President of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and BaltimoreRailroad, had already called upon me, with a benevolent and sagaciouslook on his face which implied that he knew how to do me a service andmeant to do it. Sure enough, when we got to the depot, we found a couchspread for the Captain, and both of us were passed on to New York withno visits, but those of civility, from the conductor. The best thing Isaw on the route was a rustic fence, near Elizabethtown, I think, but Iam not quite sure. There was more genius in it than in any structure ofthe kind I have ever seen,—each length being of a special pattern,ramified, reticulated, contorted, as the limbs of the trees had grown. Itrust some friend will photograph or stereograph this fence for me, togo with the view of the spires of Frederick already referred to, asmementos of my journey.

I had come to feeling that I know most of the respectably dressed peoplewhom I met in the cars, and had been in contact with them at some timeor other. Three or four ladies and gentlemen were near us, forminga group by themselves. Presently one addressed me by name, and, oninquiry, I found him to be the gentleman who was with me in the pulpitas Orator on the occasion of another Phi Beta Kappa poem, one deliveredat New Haven. The party were very courteous and friendly, andcontributed in various ways to our comfort.

It sometimes seems to me as if there were only about a thousand peoplein the world, who keep going round and round behind the scenes and thenbefore them, like the "army" in a beggarly stage-show. Suppose I shouldreally wish, some time or other, to get away from this everlastingcircle of revolving supernumeraries, where should I buy a ticket thelike of which was not in some of their pockets, or find a seat to whichsome one of them was not a neighbor?

A little less than a year before, after the Ball's-Bluff accident, theCaptain, then the Lieutenant, and myself had reposed for a night on ourhomeward journey at the Fifth-Avenue Hotel, where we were lodged on theground-floor, and fared sumptuously. We were not so peculiarly fortunatethis time, the house being really very full. Farther from the flowersand nearer to the stars,—to reach the neighborhood of which last theper ardua of three or four flights of stairs was formidable for anymortal, wounded or well. The "vertical railway" settled that for us,however. It is a giant corkscrew forever pulling a mammoth cork, which,by some divine judgment, is no sooner drawn than it is replaced in itsposition. This ascending and descending stopper is hollow, carpeted,with cushioned seats, and is watched over by two condemned souls,called conductors, one of whom is said to be named Ixion, and the otherSisyphus.

I love New York, because, as in Paris, everybody that lives in it feelsthat it is his property,—at least, as much as it is anybody's. MyBroadway, in particular, I love almost as I used to love my Boulevards.

I went, therefore, with peculiar interest, on the day that we rested atour grand hotel, to visit some new pleasure-grounds the citizens hadbeen arranging for us, and which I had not yet seen. The Central Parkis an expanse of wild country, well crumpled so as to form ridges whichwill give views and hollows that will hold water. The hips and elbowsand other bones of Nature stick out here and there in the shape of rockswhich give character to the scenery, and an unchangeable, unpurchasablelook to a landscape that without them would have been in danger of beingfattened by art and money out of all its native features. The roads werefine, the sheets of water beautiful, the bridges handsome, the swanselegant in their deportment, the grass green and as short as a fasthorse's winter coat. I could not learn whether it was kept so byclipping or singeing. I was delighted with my new property,—but itcost me four dollars to get there, so far was it beyond the Pillars ofHercules of the fashionable quarter. What it will be by-and-by dependson circumstances; but at present it is as much central to New Yorkas Brookline is central to Boston. The question is not between Mr.Olmsted's admirably arranged, but remote pleasure-ground and our Common,with its batrachian pool, but between his Eccentric Park and our finestsuburban scenery, between its artificial reservoirs and the broadnatural sheet of Jamaica Pond, I say this not invidiously, but injustice to the beauties which surround our own metropolis. To comparethe situations of any dwellings in either of the great cities with thosewhich look upon the Common, the Public Garden, the waters of the BackBay, would be to take an unfair advantage of Fifth Avenue and WalnutStreet. St. Botolph's daughter dresses in plainer clothes than hermore stately sisters, but she wears an emerald on her right hand and adiamond on her left that Cybele herself need not be ashamed of.

On Monday morning, the twenty-ninth of September, we took the cars forHome. Vacant lots, with Irish and pigs; vegetable-gardens; stragglinghouses; the high bridge; villages, not enchanting; then Stamford; thenNORWALK. Here, on the 6th of May, 1853, I passed close on the heels ofthe great disaster. But that my lids were heavy on that morning, myreaders would probably have had no further trouble with me. Two of myfriends saw the car in which they rode break in the middle and leavethem hanging over the abyss. From Norwalk to Boston, that day's journeyof two hundred miles was a long funeral-procession.

Bridgeport, waiting for Iranistan to rise from its ashes with all itsphoenix-egg domes,—bubbles of wealth that broke, ready to be blownagain, iridescent as ever, which is pleasant, for the world likescheerful Mr. Barnum's success; New Haven, girt with flat marshes thatlook like monstrous billiard-tables, with haycocks lying about forballs,—romantic with West Rock and its legends,—cursed with adetestable depot, whose niggardly arrangements crowd the track somurderously close to the wall that the peine forte et dure must be thefrequent penalty of an innocent walk on its platform,—with its neatcarriages, metropolitan hotels, precious old college-dormitories,its vistas of elms and its dishevelled weeping-willows; Hartford,substantial, well-bridged, many-steepled city,—every conical spire anextinguisher of some nineteenth-century heresy; so onward, by and acrossthe broad, shallow Connecticut,—dull red road and dark river wovenin like warp and woof by the shuttle of the darting engine; thenSpringfield, the wide-meadowed, well-feeding, horse-loving,hot-summered, giant-treed town,—city among villages, villageamong cities; Worcester, with its Diedalian labyrinth of crossingrailroad-bars, where the snorting Minotaurs, breathing fire and smokeand hot vapors, are stabled in their dens; Framingham, fair cup-bearer,leaf-cinctured Hebe of the deep-bosomed Queen sitting by the sea-side onthe throne of the Six Nations. And now I begin to know the road, not bytowns, but by single dwellings, not by miles, but by rods. The poles ofthe great magnet that draws in all the iron tracks through the groovesof all the mountains must be near at hand, for here are crossings, andsudden stops, and screams of alarmed engines heard all around. The tallgranite obelisk comes into view far away on the left, its bevelledcapstone sharp against the sky; the lofty chimneys of Charlestown andEast Cambridge flaunt their smoky banners up in the thin air; and nowone fair bosom of the three-hilled city, with its dome-crowned summit,reveals itself, as when many-breasted Ephesian Artemis appeared withhalf-open chlamys before her worshippers.

Fling open the window-blinds of the chamber that looks out on the watersand towards the western sun! Let the joyous light shine in upon thepictures that hang upon its walls and the shelves thick-set with thenames of poets and philosophers and sacred teachers, in whose pages ourboys learn that life is noble only when it is held cheap by the side ofhonor and of duty. Lay him in his own bed, and let him sleep off hisaches and weariness. So comes down another night over this household,unbroken by any messenger of evil tidings,—a night of peaceful rest andgrateful thoughts; for this our son and brother was dead and is aliveagain, and was lost and is found.

WAITING.

Drop, falling fruits and crispèd leaves!
Ye tone a note of joy to me;
Through the rough wind my soul sails free,
nigh over waves that Autumn heaves.

Such quickening is in Nature's death,
Such life in every dying day,—
The glowing year hath lost her sway,
Since Freedom waits her parting breath.

I watch the crimson maple-boughs,
I know by heart each burning leaf,
Yet would that like a barren reef
Stripped to the breeze those arms uprose!

Under the flowers my soldier lies!
But come, thou chilling pall of snow,
Lest he should hear who sleeps below
The yet unended captive cries!

Fade swiftly, then, thou lingering year!
Test with the storms our eager powers;
For chains are broken with the hours,
And Freedom walks upon thy bier.

REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.

Eyes and Ears. By HENRY WARD BEECHER. Boston: Ticknor & Fields, pp.419.

There is perhaps no man in America more widely known, more deeply loved,and more heartily hated than the Reverend Henry Ward Beecher. Thislittle book, fragmentary and desultory as it is, gives us a keywherewith to unlock the mystery both of the extent of his influence andthe depth of the feelings which he excites. It is but a shower of petalsflung down by a frolicsome May breeze; but the beauty and brilliancyof their careless profusion furnish a hint of the real strength andsubstance and fruitfulness of the tree from which they sprang.

Within the compass of some four hundred pages we have about one hundredarticles, most of which had previously appeared in weekly newspapers.They embrace, of course, every variety of subject,—grave and gay,practical and poetical. They are not such themes as come to a manin silence and solitude, to be wrought out with deep and deliberateconscientiousness; they are rather such as He around one in his outgoingand his incoming, in the field and by the way-side, overlooked by thepreoccupied multitude, but abundantly patent to the few who will notpermit the memories or the hopes of life to thrust away its actualities,and, once pointed out, full of interest and amusement even to theabsorbed and hitherto unconscious throngs. We have here no pale-browed,far-sighted philosopher, but a ruddy-faced, high-spirited man,cheerful-tempered, yet not equilibrious, susceptible to annoyance,capable of wrathful outbursts, with eyes to see all sweet sights, earsto hear all sweet sounds, and lips to sing their loveliness to others,and also with eyes and ears and lips just as keen to distinguish andjust as hold to denounce the sights and sounds that are unlovely;—andthis man, with his ringing laugh and his springing step, walks cheerilyto and fro in his daily work, striking the rocks here and there by theway-side with his bright steel hammer, eliciting a shower of sparks fromeach, and then on to the next. It is not the serious business of hislife, but its casual and almost careless experiments. He does not waitto watch effects. You may gather up the brushwood and build yourselfa fire, if you like. His part of the affair is but a touch and go,—partly for love and partly for fun.

There are places where a severer taste, or perhaps only a more carefulrevision, would have changed somewhat. At times an exuberance of spiritscarries him to the very verge of coarseness, but this is rare andexceptional. The fabric may be slightly ravelled at the ends andslightly rough at the selvedge, but in the main it is fine and smoothand lustrous as well as strong. A coarse nature carefully clipped andsheared and fashioned down to the commonplace of conventionality willoften exhibit a negative refinement, while a mind of real and subtiledelicacy, but of rugged and irrepressible individuality, willoccasionally shoot out irregular and uncouth branches. Yet between thesymmetry of the one and the spontaneity of the other the choice cannotbe doubtful. We are not defending coarseness in any guise. It is alwaysto be assailed, and never to be defended. It is always a detriment,and never an ornament. No excellence can justify it. No occasion canpalliate it. But coarseness is of two kinds,—one of the surface, andone in the grain. The latter is pervading and irremediable. It touchesnothing which it does not deface. It makes all things common andunclean. It grows more repulsive as the roundness of youth falls awayand leaves its harsh features more sharply outlined. But the othercoarseness is only the overgrowth of excellence,—the rankness of lustylife. It is vigor run wild. It is a fault, but it is local and temporal.Culture corrects it. As the mind matures, as experience accumulates,as the vision enlarges, the coarseness disappears, and the rich andhealthful juices nourish instead a playful and cheerful serenity thatillumines strength with a softened light, that disarms opposition anddelights sympathy, that shines without dazzling and attracts withoutoffending.

Here arises a fear lest the apologetic nature of our remarks may seem toindicate a much greater need of apology than actually exists. We havebeen led into this line of remark, not so much by a perusal of thebook under consideration, in which, indeed, there is very little, ifanything, to offend, as by the nature of the objections which we havemost frequently heard against this author's productions, both writtenand spoken. We do not even confine ourselves to defence, but go farther,and question whether the allegations of coarseness may not oftenerbe the fault of the plaintiff than of the defendant. Is there not aconventional standard of refinement which measures things by its ownarbitrary self, and finds material for displeasure in what is reallybut a sincere and almost unconscious rendering of things as they exist?There are facts which modern fastidiousness justly enough commands to hewrapped around with graceful drapery before they shall have audience.But do we not commit a trespass against virtue, when we demand the samesoft disguises to drape facts whose disguise is the worst immorality,whose naked hideousness is the only decency, which must be seendisgusting to warrant their being seen at all? So Mr. Beecher has beencensured for irreverence, when what was called his irreverence hasseemed to us but the tenderness engendered of close connection. Cannotone live so near to God as that His greatness shall he merged in Hisgoodness? What would be irreverence, if it came from the head, may bebut love springing up warm from the heart.

One of the strongest characteristics of Mr. Beecher's mind, the one thathas, perhaps, the strongest influence in producing his power over men,is his quick insight into common things, his quick sympathy with commonminds. He knows common dangers. He understands common interests. Heis sensitive to common sorrows. He appreciates common joys. Withoutnecessarily being practical himself, he is full of practicalsuggestions. He is a leveller; but he levels up, not down. Hecontinually seeks to lift men from the plane of mere toil and thrift tothe loftier levels of aspiration. He would disinthrall them from what islow, and introduce them to the freedom of the heights. He would bringthem out of the dungeons of the senses into the domains of taste andprinciples. He believes in man, and he battles for men. With him,humanity is chief: science, art, wealth are its handmaidens. Yet,writing for ordinary people, he never falls into the sin of declaimingagainst extraordinary ones. No part of his power over the poor isobtained by inveighing against the rich, as no part of his power overthe rich is obtained by pandering to their prejudices or their passions.He builds up no influence for himself on the ruins of another man'sinfluence. The elevation which he aims to produce is real, notfactitious,—absolute, not relative. It is the elevation to be obtainedby ascending the mountain, not by digging it away so that the valleyseems no longer low by contrast.

For the manner of his teaching, he is not always gentle, but he isalways sincere. He speaks soft words to persuade; but if that is notenough, he does not scruple to knock the muck-rake out of sordid handswith a fine, sudden stroke, if so he may make men look up from therubbish under their feet to the flowers that bloom around them and thestars that glow above and the God that reigns over all.

Thinking of the multitudes of hard-working, weary-hearted people whom heweekly met with these words of cheer: sometimes homely advice on homelythings; sometimes wise counsels in art; sometimes tender lessons fromNature; sometimes noble words from his own earnest soul; sometimessympathy in sorrow; sometimes strength in weakness; sometimes only theindirect, but real help that comes from the mere distraction wroughtby his sportiveness, and wild, winsome mirth; but all kindly, hearty,honest, sympathetic,—indignation softening, even while it surges,into pity and love, and itself finding or framing excuses for the veryoutrage which it lashes: thinking of this, we do not marvel that he hasfurrowed for himself so deep a groove in so many hearts. Nor, on theother hand, is it difficult to see, even from so genial a book as this,whence polemics are not so much banished as where there is no niche forthem, should they apply, why it is that he is so fiercely opposed.When a man like Mr. Beecher encounters that which excites his moraldisapprobation, there is no possibility of mistaking him. He flingshimself against it with all the strength and might of his manly,uncompromising nature. There is no coquetting with the proprieties, notoning down of objurgation to meet the requirements of personal dignity,but an audacious and aggressive repugnance of the whole man to themeanness or malignity. And the very clearness of his vision givesterrible power to his vituperation. With his keen, bright eye he seesjust where the vulnerable spot is, and with his firm, strong hand hesends the arrow in. The victim writhes and reels and—does not love themarksman. And as the victim has a large circle of relatives by birth andmarriage, he inoculates them with his own animosity; and so, at a safedistance, Mr. Beecher is sometimes considerably torn in pieces. Yet wehave no doubt that by far the greater number of these opponents would,if once fairly brought within the circle of his influence, acknowledgethe truth as well as the force of his principles; and certainly it is amatter of surprise that a man with such a magnificent mastery of all theweapons of attack and defence should be so sparing and discreet in theiruse as is Mr. Beecher. In this book, compiled of articles thrown offupon the spur of the moment, with so much to amuse, to awaken, tosuggest, and to inspire, there is hardly a sentence which can arouseantagonism or inflict pain. You may not agree with his conclusions, butyou cannot resist his good nature.

Long may he live to do yeoman's service in the cause of the beautifuland the true!

History of the War in the Peninsula and in the South of France fromA.D. 1807 to A.D. 1814. By MAJOR-GENERAL SIR W.F.P. NAPIER, K.C.B.,etc. In Five Volumes, with Portraits and Plans. New York: W.J.Widdleton.

A new edition of the great military history of Sir William Napier,printed in the approved luxurious style which the good examples of theCambridge University Press have made a necessity with all intelligentbook-purchasers, calls at the present time for a special word ofrecognition. Of the merits and character of the work itself it isscarcely required that we should speak. An observer of, and participantin, the deeds which he describes, cautious, deliberate, keen-sighted,candid, and unsparing, General Napier's book has qualities seldom unitedin a single production. Southey wrote an eloquent history of the War inthe Peninsula, perhaps as good a history as an author well-trained incompositions of the kind could be expected to produce at a distance.But that was its defect. It lacked that knowledge and judgment of acomplicated series of events which could be acquired only on the fieldand by one possessed of consummate military training. On the other hand,we can seldom look for any laborious work of authorship from a generalin active service. Men of action exhaust their energies in doing, andare usually impatient of the slow process of unwinding the tangled skeinof events which at the moment they had been compelled to cut with thesword. It is by no means every campaign which furnishes the Commentariesof its Caesar. To Sir William Napier, however, we are indebted for awork which has taken its place as a model history of modern campaigning.The protracted struggle of the Peninsular War through six full yearsof skilful operations, conducted by the greatest masters of militaryscience, in a country whose topographical features called out the rarestresources of the art of war, at a time when the military system ofNapoleon was at its height, summing up the experience of a quarter ofa century in France of active military pursuits,—the story of sieges,marches, countermarches, lines of retreat and defence, followed by themost energetic assaults, blended with the disturbing political elementsof the day at home and the contrarieties of the battle-field amidst apopulation foreign to both armies,—certainly presented a subject orseries of subjects calculated to tax the powers of a conscientiouswriter to the uttermost. To furnish such a narrative was the workundertaken by General Napier. Sixteen years of unintermitted toil weregiven by him to the task. He spared no labor of research. Materials wereplaced at his disposal by the generals of both armies, by Soult andWellington. The correspondence left behind in Spain by Joseph Bonaparte,written in three languages and partly in cipher of which the key hadto be discovered, was patiently arranged, translated, and at lengthdeciphered by Lady Napier, who also greatly assisted her husband incopying his manuscript, which, from the frequent changes made, was ineffect transcribed three times. By such labors was the immense massof contemporary evidence brought into order, clearly narrated, andsubmitted to exact scientific criticism. For it is the distinguishingcharacteristic of the book, that it is a critical history, constantlyilluminating facts by principles and deducing the most important maximsof political and military science from the abundant material lavishlycontributed by the virtues, follies, and superabundant exertions ofthree great nations in the heart of Europe, in the midst of the complexcivilization of the nineteenth century. The ever earnest, animated stylein which all this is written grows out of the subject and is supportedby it, always rising naturally with the requirements of the occasion. Ifour officers in the field would learn how despatches should be writtenand a record of their exploits be prepared to catch the ear ofposterity, let them give their leisure hours of the camp to the studyof Napier. The public also may learn many lessons of patience andphilosophy from these pages, when they turn from the book to the actualwarfare writing its ineffaceable characters on so many fair fields ofour own land.

The Patience of Hope. By the Author of "A Present Heaven." With anIntroduction by JOHN G. WHITTIER. Boston: Ticknor & Fields.

As the method by which an individual soul reaches conclusions withregard to the Saviour and the conditions of salvation, "The Patience ofHope" is worthy of particular attention. It does not, however, standalone, but belongs to a class. Its peculiarity is that it proceedsby apposite text and inference, more than by the illumination offeeling,—aiming to convince rather than to reveal, as is the manner ofthose whose convictions have not quite become as a star in a firmamentwhere neither eclipse nor cloud ever comes. Evidently there was a mostsearching examination of the Scriptures preparatory to the work; and yetthe ample quotation, often fresh and felicitous, appears to be made tosustain a preconceived opinion, or, more strictly, an emotion. Thisemotion is so single and absorbing that there is some gleam of it ineach varying view, and every sentiment is warm with it, however theflame may lurk as beneath a crust of lava. Only from a richly giftedmind, and a heart whose longings no fullness of mortal affection haspower to permanently appease, could these aspirations issue. It is thetender complaint and patient hope of one whom the earth, and all thatis therein, cannot satisfy. Moreover, so pure and irrepressible is thenatural desire of the heart, so does it color and constitute allthe dream of Paradise, that the divinest Hope not only thrills andpalpitates with Love's ripest imaginings, but puts on nuptial robes.Touchingly she pictures herself as "The Mystic Spouse,—her that comethup from the wilderness, leaning upon the arm of her Beloved,—and weshall see that she, like her Lord, is wounded in her heart, her hands,and her feet." Though sowing in such still remembered pain, she yetreaps with unspeakable joy. She has now the full assurance that themystic and immortal embrace is for her, and in the fulness of her heartcries, "When were Love's arms stretched so wide as upon the Cross?"

It is in keeping with such an aspiration that this and kindred naturesshould perceive in Christianity the sacred mystery from which is to bedrawn, in the world to come, the full fruition of the tenderest andmost vital impulse of the human heart, and therefore to be most fitlymeditated and vividly anticipated in cloistered seclusion. Throughouttheir revelations there is a yearning for Infinite Love; and ardentreceptivity is regarded as the true condition for the conception andenjoyment of religion. It is clear that they have a passion, sublimatedand glorified indeed, but still a passion, for Christ. This is themightiest impulse to that exaltation of His person against which thecalm and consummate reasoner contends in vain. Truly we are fearfullyand wonderfully made! The soul is touched with the strong necessity ofloving; and its power becomes intense and inappeasable in proportion tothe capacity of the heart; and yet some of the greatest of those havereposed so supremely in the innate and ineffable Ideal that to theuninitiated they have seemed in their serenity as pulseless as pearls.Through this sublime influence lovely women have become nuns, andhave lived and died saints, that they might continually indulge andconstantly cherish the blissful hope of being, in some spiritual form,the brides of Jesus. A long line of these, coeval with the Crucifixion,have passed on in maiden meditation, and so were fancy-free from all ofmortal mould. This ecstatic dreaming is so charming, and so insatiablewithal, that it seems to those who entertain it a divine vision. It isan enchantment so complete that Reason cannot penetrate its circle, andLogic has never approached it. Doubtless this fond aspiration findsfreest and fairest expression in the Roman Church,—a communion that notonly encourages, but enjoins, the adoration of the Virgin, in order thatcertain enthusiasts among men may also aspire to the skies on the wingsof pure, yet passionate love.

The ready objection to this course of life is that it leads to solitude.It wins the devotee apart, and away from the influences to thatuniversal brotherhood whereto Philanthropy fondly turns as the finestmanifestation of the spirit of the Redeemer. And yet they are equallythe fruits of His coming. Without the perfect Man the sublimestendurance and most marvellous aspiration of Hope would never have founddevelopment below. Now it has become a power that so pervades the bosomsof sects that they accept its soaring wing as one to which the heavenof heavens is open. This, certainly, is the greatest triumph that humannature has achieved over those who have systematically depreciated it;inasmuch as it is a heightening, not a change of heart. Verily, Love isstronger than Death; and in its complete presence or utter absence,here or hereafter, there is and will be the extreme of bliss or bale.Therefore it is in the affections to lead those sweetly and swiftlyheavenward who singly seek the immortal way. So guided and inspired, itcannot but be a charming path; for those who perpetually walk thereincome to look as though they were entranced with the perfume thatfloats from fields of asphodel. Characters so developed are beautifulexceedingly, and seem of a far higher strain than those who mostgenerously and effectively labor for the amelioration and moraladvancement of the race. They, more than any others who have richesthere, illumine the grand, yet gloomy arches of the Christian Churchwith their ineffable whiteness. No preacher therein is so eloquent astheir marble silence; for they reveal in their countenances the mysteryof Redemption. Even while among the living, men looked upon them withawe,—feeling, that, though coeval in time, infinite space rolledbetween. They teach as no other order of teachers can, that the days andduties of life may be so cast under foot as to exalt one to be only alittle lower than the angels. In fine, through them is made visible thevalue of the individual soul; and thus we see, as in the central idea ofour author, that "that which moulds itself from within is free."

Jenkins's Vest-Pocket Lexicon. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.

Compared with "Webster's Unabridged" or "Worcester's Quarto," thislittle pinch of words would make "small show." It is, however, a veryvaluable pocket-companion; for, to use the author's own phrase, it"omits what everybody knows, contains what everybody wants to know andcannot readily find." It is really a vade-mecum, small, cheap, anduseful to a degree no one can fully appreciate until it has beenthoroughly tried. Mr. Jabex Jenkins may claim younger-brotherhood withthe men who have done service in the important department of educationhe has chosen to enter.

A Practical Guide to the Study of the Diseases of the Eye; theirMedical and Surgical Treatment. By HENRY W. WILLIAMS, M.D. Boston:Ticknor & Fields. 12mo. pp. 317.

If we readily accord our gratitude to those whose skilful hands andwell-instructed judgment render us physical service in our frequentneed, ought we not to offer additional thanks to such as by thehigh tribute of their mental efforts confirm and elucidate the moremechanical processes required in doing their beneficent work?

Do those who enjoy unimpaired vision, and who have not yet experiencedthe sufferings arising from any of the varied forms of ocular disease,appreciate the magnitude of the blessing vouchsafed to them? We ventureto answer in the negative.

Occasionally, the traveller by railway has a more or less severe hintas to what an inflamed and painful eye may bring him to endure: thosecountless flying cinders which blacken his garments and draw unsightlylines upon his face with their slender charcoal-pencils do not alwaysleave him thus comparatively unharmed. Suppose one unluckily reaches theeyeball just as the redness has faded from its sharp angles,—do we notall know how the rest of that journey is one intolerable agony, unlesssome fellow-traveller knows how to remove the offending substance? Andeven then how the blistered, delicate surface yearns for a soothingdouche of warm water,—perhaps not to be enjoyed for hours!

From slighter troubles, through all the more serious and dangerousstates arising from injury or produced by spontaneous or specificallyaroused inflammation, to the wonderful operations devised to give sight,when the clear and beautiful lens has become clouded, or the delicatemuscular meshes of the iris are bound down or drawn together so as toclose the pupil and shut out the visible world, the learned and skilfuloperator comes to our aid, a veritable messenger of mercy. To bedeprived of sight,—who can fully appreciate this melancholy condition,save those who have been in danger of such a fate, or have had actualexperience of it, though only temporarily? Such a misfortune isuniversally allowed to be worse, by far, than congenital blindness. Andthis is not difficult to understand. The eyes that have been permittedto drink in the varied hues of the landscape, and to gaze with suchdelight upon the celestial revelations spread out nightly above andaround them, are indeed in double darkness when all this power andprivilege are swept away, it may be forever. The astronomer can trulyestimate the value of healthy eyes.

In looking over again, after a thorough perusal some time since, theadmirable work which forms the theme of this notice, we could notresist the impulse to call attention to the infinite uses, unboundedimportance, and inestimable value of the organs of vision; and we haveno fear but our postulate in regard to the manner in which we should allprize their conservators will be heartily acceded to.

This is hardly the place in which to enter into a minute professionalexamination of this new volume. If we advert generally to its purpose,and point out the undoubted benefits its recommendations and teachingare destined to confer, both upon those who are sufferers,—or who willbe, unless they heed its warnings,—and upon the practitioners whodevote either an exclusive or a general attention to the diseases of theeye, the end we have in view will be partially attained,—and fully so,if the author's convincing instructions are brought into that universaladoption which they not only eminently deserve, but must command. Let ushope that the clear style, sensible advice, and valuable information,derived from so varied an experience as that which has been enjoyed byour author, will have a wide and growing influence in the extensivefield of professional ministrations demanded by this class ofcases,—for, let it be remembered, and reverently be it written, "THELIGHT OF THE BODY IS THE EYE."

The distinctive aim of the author—and which is kept constantly inview—is the simplifying both of the classification and the treatmentof the diseases of the eye. We know of no volume which could moreappropriately and beneficially be put into the hands of the medicalstudent, nor any which could meet a more appreciative welcome fromthe busy practitioner. The former cannot, at the tender age of hisprofessional life, digest the ponderous masses of ocular lore whichadorn the shelves of the maturer student's library; and the latter,while he is glad to have these elaborate works at his command forreference, is refreshed by a perusal of a few pages of the moreunpretending, but not less valuable vade-mecum.

While the professional reader will peruse this book with pleasure aswell as profit, there are many points and paragraphs of great value toeverybody. We advise every one to look over these pages, and we promisethat many valuable hints will be gained in reference to the variousailments and casualties which are constantly befalling the eye. It iswell in this world to become members of a Mutual-Assistance Society, andhelp one another out of trouble as often as we can. In order to do this,we must know how; and, in many cases, a little aid in mishaps such asare likely to occur to the eye may prevent a vast deal of subsequentinjury and pain.

We cannot but refer to the singular good sense of the author inpressing upon his reader's attention the mischief so often wrought,hitherto,—and we fear still frequently brought about,—byover-activity of treatment. Especially does this find itsexemplification in the care of traumatic injuries of the eye. Rashnessand heroic measures in these cases are as unfortunate for the patient asare the well-meant efforts of friends, when a foreign substance has beeninserted into the ear or nose, or a needle broken off in the flesh: whatwas at first an easily remedied matter becomes exceedingly difficult,tedious, and painful, after various pokings, pushings, and squeezings.

The author's experience in cases of cataract makes his observations uponthat affection as valuable as they are clear and to the purpose. Thesame is true with regard to the use and abuse of spectacles.

A short account of that interesting and most important instrument, the
Opthalmoscope, will command the attention of the general reader.

Finally, we notice with peculiar satisfaction the elegant dress in whichthe volume appears. A very marked feature of this is the agreeable tintgiven to the paper, so much to be preferred to the glaring snowy whitewhich has been so long the rule with publishers everywhere. This isespecially befitting a volume whose object is the alleviation of oculardistress, and we venture to say will meet with the commendation of everyreader. A similar shade was adopted, some time since, by the publishersof "The Ophthalmic Hospital Reports," London, at the suggestion, wethink, of its accomplished editor, Mr. Streatfeild.

Country Living and Country Thinking. By GAIL HAMILTON. Boston: Ticknor& Fields. 12mo.

Our impression of this volume is that it contains some of the mostcharming essays in American literature. The authoress, who chooses toconceal her real name under the alias of "Gail Hamilton," is notonly womanly, but a palpable individual among women. Both sex andindividuality are impressed on every page.

That the hook is written by a woman is apparent by a thousand signs.That it proceeds from a distinct and peculiar personality, as well asfrom a fertile and vigorous intellect, is no less apparent. The writerhas evidently looked at life through her own eyes, and interpreted itthrough her own experience. Her independence becomes at times a kind ofhumorous tartness, and she finds fault most delightfully. So cantand pretence, however cunningly disguised by accredited maxims andaccredited sentimentality, can for a moment deceive her sharp insightor her fresh sensibility. This primitive power and originality are notpurchased by any sacrifice of the knowledge derived at second-handthrough books, for she is evidently a thoughtful and appreciativestudent of the best literature; but they proceed from a nature so strongthat it cannot be overcome and submerged by the mental forces and foodit assimilates.

Individuality implies will, and will always tends to wilfulness. The twoare harmonized in humor. Gail Hamilton is a humorist in her wilfulness,and flashes suggestive thought and wisdom even in her most daringcaprices and eccentricities of individual whim. She is wild insentences, heretical in paragraphs, thoroughly orthodox in essays.Her mind is really inclosed by the most rigid maxims of Calvinistictheology, while, within that circle, it frisks and plays in the oddestand wittiest freaks. A grave and religious earnestness is at thefoundation of her individuality, and she is so assured of this fact thatshe can safely indulge in wilful gibes at pretension in all its mostconventionally sacred forms. This bright audacity is the perfection ofmoral and intellectual health. No morbid nature, however elevated inits sentiments, would dare to hazard such keen and free remarks as GailHamilton scatters in careless profusion.

When this intellectual caprice approaches certain definite limits, it isedifying to witness the forty-person power of ethics and eloquence shebrings readily up to the rescue of the sentiments she at first seemedbent on destroying. As her style throughout is that of brilliant,animated, and cordial conversation, flexible to all the moods of thequick mind it so easily and aptly expresses, the reader is somewhatpuzzled at times to detect the natural logic which regulates hertransitions from gay to grave, from individual perceptions to generallaws; but the geniality and heartiness which flood the whole book withlife and meaning soon reconcile him to the peculiar processes of theintellect whose startling originality and freshness give him so muchpleasure.

It would be unjust not to say that beneath all the fantastic play of herwit and humor there is constantly discernible an earnest purpose. Senseand sagacity are everywhere visible. The shrewdest judgments on ordinarylife and character are as abundant as the quaint fancies with which theyare often connected. But in addition to all that charms and informs, thethoughtful reader will find much that elevates and invigorates. A noblesoul, contemptuous of everything mean and base, loving everything grandand magnanimous, is the real life and inspiration of the book.

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