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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/15819-8.txt b/15819-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..639de12 --- /dev/null +++ b/15819-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9088 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, No. 76, +February, 1864, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, No. 76, February, 1864 + +Author: Various + +Release Date: May 12, 2005 [EBook #15819] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOL. *** + + + + +Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +[Transcriber's note: Footnotes moved to end of document.] + + + +THE + +ATLANTIC MONTHLY. + +A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. + +VOL. XIII.--FEBRUARY, 1864.--NO. LXXVI + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by Ticknor and +Fields, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of +Massachusetts. + + * * * * * + +GENIUS. + + +When Paul Morphy plays seven games of chess at once and blindfold, when +young Colburn gives _impromptu_ solution to a mathematical problem +involving fifty-six figures, we are struck with hopeless wonder: such +power is separated by the very extent of it from our mental operations. +But when we further observe that these feats are attended by little or +no fatigue,--that this is the play, not the tension of faculty, we +recognize a new kind, not merely a new degree, of intelligence. These +men seem to leap, not labor step by step, to their results. Colburn sees +the complication of values, Morphy that of moves, as we see the relation +of two and two. What is multiform and puzzling to us is simple to them, +as the universe lies rounded and is one thought in the Original Mind. We +seek in vain for the secret of this mastery. It is private,--as deeply +hidden from those who have as from those who have it not. They cannot +think otherwise than so, and to this exercise have been provoked by +every influence in life. The boy who is an organized arithmetic and +geometry will count all the hills of potatoes and reckon the kernels of +corn in a bushel, and his triangles soon begin to cover the barn-door. +He sees nothing but number and dimension; he feeds on these, another +fellow on apples and nuts. But his brother loves application of force, +builds wheels and mills; his head is full of cogs and levers and +eccentrics; and after he has gone out to his engineering in the great +machine-shop of a modern world, the old corn-chamber at home is lumbered +with his mysterious contrivances, studies for a self-impelling or +gravitating machine and perpetual motion. Another boy is fired with the +mystery of form. He will draw the cat and dog; his chalk and charcoal +are on all our elbows; he carves a ram's head on his bat, an eagle on a +walking-stick, perches a cock on top of the barn, puts an eye and a nose +to every triangle of the geometer, and paints faces on the wheels of his +mechanical brother. In all these boys there is something more than +ability; there is propensity, an attraction irresistible. Their minds +run, we say, in that direction, and they creep or lie still, if turned +in another. The young shepherd will toss eggs, spin platters, and +balance knives, year after year, in solitude, with a patient energy and +endurance able to command any fortune. + +What philter is in these faculties? The boy who will be great is always +discontented with his work, ready to rub out and begin again. He follows +a bee, and never quite touches that which drew him on. Plainly, the mere +ability to do is a dry straw, but through it our seeker tastes an +intoxicating, seductive liquor, from which he cannot take away his lips. + +It is the liquor of our life. In measure, or form, or tone, he applies +himself to the very breasts of Nature, and draws through these exteriors +a motherly milk which was her blood and hastens to be his own. If the +young cub holds fast to the teat, be sure the stream flows and his veins +swell. Matter is the dry rind of this succulent, nutritious universe: +prick it on any side, and you draw the same juice. Varieties of +endowment are only so many pitchers dipped in one stream. Poet, painter, +musician, mathematician, the gift is an accident of organization, the +result is admission to that by which all things are, and by partaking +which we become what we must be. + +Of this experience there can be no adequate report. It is as though one +should attempt to go up in a balloon above the atmosphere and bring down +the ether in his hands. There is a spring on every door in Nature to +close it behind the returning footsteps of her lover, so that he can +lead no man freely into the chamber where she gave him love; it is only +by the confidence, fervency, and reverence of the initiate that we learn +in what presence he has been. Genius is great, but no product of genius +is more than a shadow which points to this sun behind the sun as its +substance, and the power of our inspired men has been merely manifested, +not rightly employed. Genius has availed only to authenticate itself as +the normal activity of man, not yet to do the work of the world. + +Sense is a tangle of contradiction. The boy throws wood on water and it +floats; then he throws in his new knife and it sinks. How was he to know +that the same force will lift a stick and swallow a knife? He throws a +feather after his knife, and away it swims on the wind. That is another +brook, then, in which the feather is a stick and the stick a stone. Not +only are results of a single law opposed, but the laws pull one this +way, one that, as gravitation contends with currents of water and air. +If we could be shut in sense and surface, Nature would seem a game of +cross-purposes, every creature devouring another. The beast eats plant +and beast; he dies, and the plant eats him again; fire, water, and +frost, in their old quarrel, destroy whatever they build; the night eats +the day, summer the snow, and winter the green. Change is a revolving +wheel, in which so many spokes rise, so many fall, a motion returning +into itself. Nature is a circle, but man a spiral. No wonder he is +dissatisfied, with his longing to get on. Eating and hunger, labor and +rest, gathering and spending, there is no gain. Life is consumed in +getting a living. After laborious years our money is ready in bank, but +the man who was to enjoy it is gone from enjoyment, shrivelled with +care, every appetite dried up. So learning devastates the scholar, is +another plague of wealth, and our goodness turns out to be a hasty +mistake. Is order disorder, then? Are we fools of fate? Is there only +power enough to prop up this rickety old system, to keep it running and +hold our noses to the grindstone? No man believes it: the madness of +Time has method only half concealed. + +See what eagerness is in the eyes of men, curious, hopeful, dimly aware +of beneficence under all these knocks and denials. There are whispers of +a great destiny for man,--that he is dear to the Cause. We suspect +integrity in Nature. Can this canebrake, in which we are tangled with +care, fear, and sin, be after all single and sincere, a piece of +intelligent kindness? Genius is the opening of this suspicion to +certainty. We are like children who recognize the love which gives them +sugar-plums, but not that which shuts the bag and forbids. Insight goes +deep enough to prize all severity and detect the good of evil. + +Trade seems contemptible to Wilhelm Meister, but, in its larger aspect, +sublime to Werner, who sees it as an exploration and possession of +Nature with friendly interchange between man and man. Trade is +democracy. Authority is hateful to democrats; but Carlyle can justify +loyalty, and show how obedience to the hero may be fidelity to myself. +Every experience needs its interpreter, one who can show its derivation +from an absolute centre. The mob of the French Revolution is a crowd of +devils till their poet arrives and restores these maniacs to manhood. +They are misguided brothers, doing what we should do in their place. +Genius in every situation takes hold on reality, a tap-root going down +to the source. Equilibrium appears in a staggering as well as a standing +figure, and is perfectly restored in every fall. The landscape seen in +detail is broken and ragged,--here a raw sand-bank, there a crooked +butternut-tree, yonder a stiff black cedar: but look with a larger eye; +the straight is complement to the crooked tree, color balances color, +form corrects form, and the entire effect of every scene is +completeness. The artist restores this harmony broken by our microscopic +view. Music is a shattering and suspension of chords till we ache for +their resolution; and the music of life is desire, a diminished seventh +that melts the past and ruins the present to prepare a future in another +key. + +Genius sees that many an exception is fruit of some larger law, is not +imperfection, but uncomprehended perfection. Is there, then, no +imperfection? We are haunted by such a thought. We see first a mixed +beauty in faces, partly life and partly organization; the body is never +symmetrical, deformity is the rule. But beauty will not be measured by +form; the body cannot long occupy good eyes; we begin to look through +that, and encounter some courage, generosity, or tenderness, a dawning +or dominant light in every countenance. This is our morning, and the +physical form only a low shore over which it breaks. Beauty is the rule, +exceptions melt away. There is no face in which Raphael cannot see more +than I see in any face; the dullest landscape is to Turner a fairer +vision than I can find in the world; Byron in his blackguards shows a +kind of magnanimity which refreshes the victims of respectability and +routine. The individuality of men is deformity, a departure from the +human type; yet this fault makes each necessary to each, founds society, +love, and friendship. So wherever a break appears in the plan, we +anticipate a larger purpose, and sound down through the water, certain +to find under that also a continuation of land. Genius first named our +system a universe to mark its consistency, and goes on reconciling, +showing how creatures and men are made of one stuff and that not so bad. +Let the thing be what it may, press on it a little with the mind, and +order begins to ooze. There is nothing on which we cannot feed with good +enough teeth and digestion, for the elements of meat are given also in +brick and bark. Natural objects are explored to their roots in man, and +through him in the Cause: each is what it is in kindness to him, has its +soul in his breast, grows out of him as truly as his hair, and the +out-world is only a larger body shaped by his needs. Each thing is a +passive man, and personification does no more than justice to the +joint-stool and the fence or whatever creature talks and suffers in +verse. + +What is the meaning of my day and relations? I suspect an advantage +designed for me, but not yet extracted, in marriage and the family-life, +in books, in politics, in business, in the garden, in music. How much of +each, as I know them, is chaff? how much is life coming in from the deep +by these low doors? What is society? An eating and drinking together? a +bit of gossip? a volley of jokes? Do men meet in these exercises, or in +hope and humanity? We are all superior to amusement. The cowardly host +will entertain with fiddlers and cream; then every guest leaves his +high desire with his hat, leaves himself behind, and descends to +fiddlers and cream. But men rise to associate; in sinking they separate; +and the good host must call us up, not drag us down to his feast. Goethe +knows how to spread the table with portfolios, architecture, music, +drawing, tableaux; but a great love, with its inevitable thought, makes +even these solvents superfluous. Goethe studies the cemetery, the +chapel, the school, the gallery, the burial-service, the +estate,--whatever is nearest. He finds astonishing values in labor, +trade, production, art, science, war. In his boyhood he built an altar +with his playthings and burned incense to Deity on a pile of shells and +stones. That act of worship foreshadowed his whole career; he took every +creature and thing from God's hand with reverent expectation, and never +rested till he had opened to some intent of the Maker therein. Things, +therefore, in his view are no longer empty and hollow like old cast-off +shoes, but pieces of sublime design. A beetle is sustained by earth, +air, fire, and water, needs the sun and the sea, winter and summer, +earth's orbit and parallax, needs whatever has been made, to set him on +his legs. He carries the world in little, and is a creeping black body +of the best. + +Much more man is microcosmic and macrocosmic. Natural and supernatural +meet concealedly in the out-world, but openly in him, and his early +desires grow into a future surpassing all desire. The poet sees his +destiny in our wishes,--sees right and wrong, kindness and greediness, +deepening into incalculable grandeurs of heaven and hell. He sees the +man never yet arrived, but now arriving, to inhabit each breast. "Far +off his coming" shines. We have many little gleams of generosity; we +have conviction, and can strike for the right. Nature is a fixed +quantity, a solid; but life is reinforced by life. Truth begets truth, +love kindles love, every end is a new beginning. + +Therefore the perception of genius is prophetic,--an anticipation of +manhood for this boy, who is the King's son, child of Eternity, and only +changeling of Time. Wherever any magnanimity is revealed, I lay claim to +it. The courage of heroes, the purity of angels, the generosity of God, +is no more than I need. Only show virtue unmixed at the heart of this +system, and you open my destiny in that. If there be but the least spark +of pure benignity, it is a fire will spread through all and fill the +breast; for Good makes good, and what it is I must become. Man is heir +not to any possession or commodity, though it were a homestead in all +heavens, but to the moral power which we ache to exercise. To-day I am a +poor starveling of Nature, sucking many a dry straw, but so sure as God +I shall stream like the sun. The meanest creature is a promise of such +power, for in each is some radiation as well as suction. Man grows, +indeed, faster than he can be filled, and so is forever empty; but if +power is never a _plenum_, it is never drawn dry, and at least the +mantling foam of it fills the cup. Our expectation is that bead on the +draught of being, and boils over the brim. + +Imagination is the spiritual sight, working upward from the fact, +downward from the law. In low experience it divines the tendency of +order, and descends on the other arc of this rainbow to construct the +world, and the man that must be. Imagination is the projection of each +beyond himself. A man shall not lift his meat to his lips without +prophecy and a consulting of this oracle: he shall first extend him to +think the savor and satisfaction of the meat. Shut into the horizon and +the moment, we have this only organ of communication with all that is +beyond; yet having here in rudiments and beginnings all that is beyond, +we laugh at the old limits, and explore the universe through every +dimension, through spaces beyond Space and times beyond Time. + +If this old ball on which we are carried be no apple of Sodom, but sound +and sweet to the core, insight must be confidence and satisfaction. In +the beginning of thought we enjoy mere glimpses and guesses, our hopes +are rather wishes than hopes; we mount into flame when they come, we +sink into ashes when they burn out and desert us. The first glimmerings +only beget a noble discontent. Children are tired of matter before they +know where to seek their own power; they seem to be cheated of +themselves, their worthiness is unrecognized and unfed. Companions, +tasks, prospects are insufficient, they are bored and isolated, they +sigh and mope; yet they are proud of this lukewarm longing, which does +not quite avail, and keep diaries to record with protest the dulness of +every day. Sentimentality is initial genius. Its complaint seems to +contradict the cheerfulness of wisdom, yet it enjoys complaining; though +life be not worth having on these conditions, it bottles every tear. A +weak sadness fills great space in literature, stocks the circulating +library, and counts its Werthers by the thousand in every age. Now we +expect this malady, as we look for mumps and measles in the growing +child. It is feminine,--unwilling to be weak, yet not able to stand and +go. The strong quickly leave it behind. + +In his first novel Goethe burned out for himself this girlish +green-sickness, and by a more vigorous demand began to take what he +wanted from the world. To the young, life seems splendid but +inaccessible. Its remoteness is the theme of every complaint; but when +these windy wishes grow stern, inexorable, when a man will no longer +beg, but gets on his feet to try a tussle with the world, he throws +resolute arms around the Greatest, and finds in his bosom all that was +so vast and so far. + +Then we open paths, renew our society, enlarge our work, make elbow-room +and head-room enough in the world. Criticism is the shadow of the mind. +Insight is not sadness, but invigoration,--is no sob or spasm, but +clearness in the eye and calmness in the breast. We misjudge it from +partial examples: the light of day is confidence, yet sudden bursts of +light distress and blind. The poet is rapt, and follows thought; he +leaves his meat, and by some transubstantiation feeds on the wind; he no +longer sees the pillars of Hercules on a sixpence; he is mad for the +hour, if a majority shall say what is madness. Meanwhile his field is +unploughed; and if he falls from this ecstasy, look to see an harassed, +embittered man. The birds sing as they pick up the corn, but wisdom is +not so quickly convertible into meal, and if he cannot feed always on +it, let him never seek the Muse. Our poor half-genius vibrates miserably +between truth and the dinner-pot, comes back from his apocalypse, and +cries for admiration, gold-lace, hair-powder, and wine. That is no +apocalypse from which a man returns to whine and beg. Burns complains of +Scotland and poverty, Byron of England and respectability, and they are +both so far paupers unfed at home. Wordsworth finds London a wilderness, +and goes more than content to good company in lonely Cumberland, to eat +a crust and drink water with the gods. Socrates is barefooted. He has +one want so pressing that he can have no other want, and has set his +lips to a cup which hides his bare feet from his eyes: with a single +garment for winter and summer, he draws the universe around him a +garment for the mind. + +If the first flashes of perception dazzle, they are rays of daylight to +one emerging from the cave of sense. The eye becomes wonted to truth, +and that is now the least of his convictions which yesterday struck Paul +from his horse, and rebuked him as fire from the sky. Truth is breath, +and only for the first uncertain moment of life we use it to cry and +complain. Inspiration is morning, not a flash to deepen the dark. + +Popular literature is some description of a state which men think they +might enjoy: it is no record of joy. But the fool's paradise would be +dreary even for the fool; he is his own paradise, and will be. Our +early fancy is no transcript of the divine method, and is sternly +rejected by all who suspect a perfection hidden in the day. A few works +are great which celebrate the charm of actual effort, and the +furtherance of Nature for the brave. Homer, Shakspeare, Goethe, need +never exaggerate or leave the earth behind: in their experience it +carries well the sky. Every vital thought is some pleasure in running, +waking, loving, contending, helping,--is valor dealing gayly with the +homely old forces and needs. The marrow is sweet for him who can crack +it, in the roughest or the smoothest bone. One is born with a key to the +gladness of Nature, and glows with the day's work, the touch of hands, +the prospect of to-morrow,--love's production and husbandry, the old +worn grass and sunshine, the winter wind, the games and squabbles of +children and of men. Why is life for John weariness, for James every +moment fresh fire out of the sky? He who finds what he wants, or makes +what he wants, is a god. I know well the hope of saints and sages, how +they connect this life with endless stages beyond, how they look for the +same dignity in all action, the same motive in every companion; I see +what they have signified by heaven, a state wherein the best loved is +the best: but we must not be scornful, or miss to-day the common delight +of living, the moderate hopes of the healthy multitude. For no +exceptional joy is so wonderful as the universality of joy, the love of +life under every burden and stroke. The beginning of all beatitude and +ground of all is good digestion, good sleep, good-nature, and the cheer +undeniable of an average human day. + +But genius hurries on to expand our hope and dread to incalculable +dimensions. Hell is its first sudden down-look from uncertain flight, is +earth and animalty seen from the sky. The bad neither so see nor fear. +Few men ever reach a height from which they can sound such depth, and +the popular talk is repetition without corresponding experience. Hope +and fear rise alike to sublimity before the boundless scope of our +future. Give the hour to folly, and you set back the dial-hand of +destiny, you are so much behind your privilege in every following hour. +Eternity is displaced by the stumbling present as the earth by a falling +pebble, and the act of this low morning is a stone cast in the sea of +universal Being, which shakes and shoulders every drop of the deep. The +immensity of the universe does not dwarf, but magnifies our activity: +man is multiplied into the sum of all. This deed, this breath dilates to +the proportions of Spirit, and upheaves the low roof of Time, which is +no sky for the soul. Life becomes awful by its reaches: its span from +zenith to nadir, by moral parallax. From gods we sound down to beasts +and devils, from sky and fire to ice and mud. Here are the true and +final spaces: in their startling contrast appears the grandeur of the +moral law, like Chimborazo carrying all zones. It offers hell and +heaven, advancing inevitable, and leaves us never a dodge from choice. +Our dodge is a choice. Man overtaken by inexorable need must do or go +under in the tread-mill of Fate. Not a fault, not a lack, but is so far +damnation, with consequences not to be set forth in any prospect of +fire. When you begin to look down, the fear of centuries seems not +exaggerated. The remedy is in looking so vigorously and far as to see, +beyond depth, again the sky and stars. Look through; for toward that +centre which is everywhere, we look. Hell was situated under the earth; +our first voyage teaches that there is no under-the-earth. The widening +of every path gives boundless dimension to sin, till we learn that the +evil impulse alone does not extend. It is soon exhausted both in +attraction and effect,--is no power, but some suspense of life. + +The first moral perception is always a shudder. Carlyle sees the lifted +judgment of a lie; his eye is filled, and he sees nothing beyond; but +Nemesis is surgeon with probe and knife. Our poisons are medicines and +homoeopathic, the fumes of fear a remedy of sulphur for cutaneous sin. +The thought in which our terrors arrive is always at last a gospel, is +glad tidings. Dante, Paul, Swedenborg, Edwards have seen the pit. It +opens only in the holiness of such men,--is a thunder out of clear sky, +before which generations of the impure, like brute beasts, tremble and +cower. An equal moral genius will see that the ascension of an immortal +Love has left behind this vacuum, mitigated, not deepened, by the +furniture of devils and their flame. Men strive in vain to be afflicted +by a revelation of the best and worst. The mind is naturally a form of +gladness, and every window in us takes the sun. Our genuine trouble is +not extreme dread, but a perpetual restlessness and discontent. + +The delight of contemplation has been in history a height without +sustaining breadth, a needle, not a cube. Genius has been tremulous, +recluse,--has been cherished in solitude with Nature,--has been a +feminine partiality among men, holding for gods its favorites, for dogs +the refuse of mankind. It still counts the practical life an +interruption. It is therefore only melancholy cheer, a forlorn ark with +nine souls on the brine, a refuge from the world, not a delight of the +world. It lives not from God who is, but from a God who should be. The +true creative power is a calm of battle, a trust not for the closet, but +the chariot, a torch that can be carried through the gusty market, a +Ramadhan in the street. It is no miracle to be calm in calm, to be quiet +in bed,--but to rule and lead without anxiety, to tame the beasts and +elements, to build and unbuild cities with a song. The great thought +returns on society, floods out the heaped rubbish of custom, pours the +old grandeurs of Nature through dry channels of Trade, Religion, +Courtesy, and Art. He is great who plays the game of life with decision, +yet is always retired, and holds the life of life in reserve. Such a man +is demiurgic, for he puts down a hand on action through the sky. + +From a happy or sufficient genius came the golden maxim, "Think of +living." Strong men love life. The system, so cheery and severe, seems +to them worthy to be continued yonder and without end. This day leading +a better, itself good not leading alone,--this presentiment,--this solid +increment of hard-won power,--of what other stuff should our eternity be +woven? In wisdom first appears the present tense, an hour which is not +mere transition, but something for itself. There are men who live--to +live. He who finds our destiny given beforehand in the nature of things +has the leisure of God: he has not only all the time that is, but spaces +beyond, so that he will not be hurried by the falling-off of Time. +Leisure is a regard fixed not on the nearest trees and fences as we +whirl through this changing scene, but on remoter and larger objects, on +the slow-revolving circle of the far hills, on the quiet stars. Why +should I hasten with my foolish plan? Prosperity is over all, not in my +foolish plan. What is a fortune, a reputation,--what even genuine +influence, if you consider the future of one or of the race? Only little +aims bring care. Why run after success? That is success which follows: +success should be cosmic, a new creation, not any trick or feat. To be +man is the only success. For this we lie back grandly with total +application to the cause. Why run after knowledge? A large mind circles +all the primal facts from its own stand-point, and needs never tread the +curious round of science, history, and art. Where it is, is Nature: +therefore it is calm and free. The wise men of my knowledge were +farmers, drovers, traders, learned beyond the book. You cannot feed but +you put me in communication with all forests, fields, streams, seas. +Give me one companion, and between us two is quickly repeated the +history of the race. In a plant, an animal, a day or year, in elements, +their feuds and fruitful marriages, in a private or public history, the +thinker is admitted to the end of thought. A scholar can add nothing to +my perfect wonder, though he bring Egypt, Assyria, and Greece. I find +myself where I was, in Egypt, Assyria, and Greece: I find the old +earth, the old sky, the old astonishment of man. Cęsar and the +grasshopper, both are alike within my knowledge and beyond. There is +some vague report of a remote divine, at which he will smile who finds +no least escape from the divine. Two points are given in every regard, +man and the world, subject, we say, and object, a creature seen and a +creature seeing, marvelling, knowing, ignorant. Either of these openings +will lead quickly to light too pure for our organs, and launch us on the +sea beyond every shore. The artist studies a fair face; there is no +supplement to his delight. In temples, statues, pictures, poems, +symphonies, and actions, only the same eternal splendor shines. It is +the sun which lights all lands,--"that planet," as Dante sings, + + "Which leads men straight on every road." + +He is delivered there at home to Beauty, which makes and is the world. + +Genius is royal knowledge. In the nearest need it studies all ages and +all worlds. Let me understand my neighbors and my meat; you may have the +libraries and schools. I read here living languages,--the eye, the +attitude and temperament, the wish and will: Hebrew and Greek must wait. +He who knows how to value "Hamlet" will never subscribe for your picture +of "Shakspeare's Study." Great intelligence runs quickly through our +primers, our cities, constitutions, galleries, traditions, cathedrals, +creeds. The long invention of the race is a tortuous, obscure way. Must +I creep all my fresh years in that labyrinth, and postpone youth to the +end of age? What need of so much experience and contrivance, if without +contrivance, if by simplicity, the children surely and beautifully live? + +Healthy thought is organic, grows by assimilation, vitalizes all it +takes, and so like a plant puts forth knowledge from the old and from +within. The apple of to-morrow is earth, not apple, till it hangs on the +tree. Our knowing seems rather rejection than acceptance, so much is +husk in bulk. From eight thousand miles of geology the tree takes a few +drops of water and distils from these its own again. Vigor of mind is +judgment, which divides the meat from the shell, that which cumbers from +that which thrills. The act is simple, inevitable; let it be energetic +and final. We say, "This is valuable, it quickens me; the rest is +nonsense." A feeble mind needs now chiefly to be rid of rubbish, of +cheap admirations, an awe before the hair-pins and shoe-ties of society, +before the true church, the scholastic learning, dead languages, the +Fathers and the fashion. To set the savage of civilization free from his +superstition, these idols must be insulted before his face. + +A little energy of demand displaces them from regard. The scholars are +busy with punctuation, chronology, and the lives of the little great, so +that their visit is a vastation, and I must turn them out of doors. +Genius will continue unable to spell, to read the German, to count the +Egyptian kings. There is royal ignorance, the preoccupation of gods. For +the wise, if no object is trifling, yet part of every object is foreign +to its best intent. Every nut is inwardly a man and a miracle, but +outwardly a shell. If it be a book, the thought is a shell, though God +be in the thought. The book is another thing, another world of power and +form, and the power will consume the form as a sword eats its sheath, +the soul the body, or fire the pan. The letter drops, for the spirit +must expand and be set free. The positive and negative poles of Nature +reappear in every creature, and the positive element must prevail. When +we have learned to live, we shall--or shall not--learn to spell. + +The last refreshment is intercourse with a kingly mind, which has no +need to shift its centre, but lies abroad hemispheric, and sleeps like +sunshine, bathing silently the earth and sky. Such a mind is at home, +not in position, but in a vital relation to Nature, which leaves no +spaces dark and cold for wandering, and knows no change that is worth +the name of change. It is rest to be with one who is at rest, who +cannot go to or go from his happiness, for whom the meaning of Deity is +here and now. What stillness and depth of manner are communicated to all +who sound the deeps of life! what a refuge is their society from wit, +zeal, and gossip, from petty estimates and demands! To these, now first +encountered, we have been always known; in them we meet no private +motive, no accomplishment, reputation, ability, immediate haunting +purpose, but a Sabbath from personal fortunes. We meet the great above +all that can be mine or thine, above gifts and accidents in common +manhood and prosperity. Swedenborg reports no encounter on higher +ground. The seven heavens open to me in a mind which gives rank to its +own facts, and wherever it is housed still finds the universe only a +larger body around the soul. + +Genius declares the total or representative value of its own facts +against the neglect or contempt of mankind. Intelligence is centre of +centres, and all things diminish as they recede from the eye. Every +natural law is some hint to us of our commanding position. The good +thought is never a toilsome going abroad, but some settling at home to +new intimacy with the fortune which waits on all. It is no putting out +legs, but a putting down roots to take possession of the earth and the +nether heavens, while we fill the upper sky with climbing shoots. +Intelligence is at one with the system, able to entertain it as a unit, +to refer every particle, dark as a particle, to its shining place in the +transparent whole. How can I afford to drop my errand, to go wonder +after the fore-world, after Plato, Washington, or Paul? These are men +who never dropped their errands to go wonder after the Maker himself. +They found God in the thing lying nearest to be done. As right action in +the remotest corner is a world-victory, so right thought applied to the +lowest circumstance is cosmic thought. In the fortune of the hour we +have a home beyond the fortune of the hour. The least circle of order +now organized and established in our lives is not a poor house frozen to +the ground, but a ship able to outride the currents of time, a charmed +circle of security which will serve us still in every following world. +Our future is to be found, not in multiplication of examples, but in +deeper sympathy with all we have superficially known. + +We shall never rightly celebrate the stillness and sweetness of truth in +an open mind. Clear perception is refreshing as sleep. It is a sleep +from blunder, care, and sin. In every thought we are lifted to sit with +the serene rulers, and see how lightly, yet firmly, in their orbits the +worlds are borne. With insight we work freely, for every result is +secure; we rest, for every stream will bear us to the sea. Peace is joy +beyond the perturbation of joy, is entertainment of Omnipotence in the +breast. + +A filial relation to the universe is well expressed, not in speech, but +in the attitudes of her children, in their balance, tranquillity, +directness, their firm and quiet grasp, look, step, tone. Confidence and +joy are the only moral agents. Worship is immortal cheer. The Greeks +rebuke us with their sacred festivals and games: why should we not hunt +every evil as we follow gayly the buffalo and bear? Virtue cannot be +wrinkled and sad; Virtue is a joy of the Right added to our earliest +joy,--is refreshment and health, not fever. The Etruscan are right +religious sculptures: the body will be more, not less, when the soul is +most; for the body is created and perfected, not devoured by the soul. +In another Eden the curves of grace and power will reappear; every +wrinkle will be counted sin; goodness will be sap and blood, a growth of +grapes and roses, a sacrament of energy and content. + +If there be great wrongs, we cannot distrust the Maker, and postpone the +security of the soul. Impatience is a wrong as great as any. Love and +trust are remedies for wrong. Music is our cure for insanity, and I +remember that incantation of fair reasons which Plato prescribed. What +gain is in scolding and knitting the brows? The blue sky, the bright +cloud, the star of night, the star of day, every creature is in its +smiling place a protest of the universe against our hasty method of +counter-working wrong with wrong. Let loose the Right. Go forward with +martial music; never await or seek, but carry victory and win every +battle in the organization of your band. Hear Beethoven:--"Nor do I fear +for my works. No evil can befall them, and whosoever shall understand +them shall be free from all such misery as burdens mankind." + +From this security in the lap of Nature, this nest in the grass, we rise +easily to every height. Gladness becomes uncontainable, a pain of +fulness, for which, after all effort, there is no complete relief; for +language breaks under it in delivery, and Art falls to the ground. The +psalm of David, the statue of Angelo, the chorus of Handel, are +inarticulate cries. These men have not justified to us their confidence. +It will be shared, not justified. They have divined what they cannot +orderly publish, and their meaning will be by the same greatness divined +again. The work of such men remains a haunting, commanding enigma to +following ages. They do but repeat the promise and obscurity of Nature, +for she herself has the same largeness, is such another _raptus_, +proceeding to no end, but to a circle or complexity of ends. Men are +again and again divided over the images of Paul, of Plato, of Dante, +unable to escape from their authority, more unable to give them final +interpretation. They leave Nature, to puzzle over the inexhaustible +book. What does it mean? What does it not mean? The poet will never wait +till he can demonstrate and explain. He must hasten to convey a blessing +greater than explanation, to publish, if it were only by broken hints, +by signs and dumb pointing, his sense of a presence not to be +comprehended or named. + +For, if the seer is sustained, he is also commanded by what he sees. +Genius is not religious, but religion, an opening to the conscience of +the universe no less than to the joy. From this original the moral, +intellectual, and ęsthetic sense will each derive a conscience, and rule +with equal sovereignty the man. Through an ant or an angel the first +influx of reality is entertained in an attitude of worship, and the +poet, in his vision, cries with Virgil to Dante:-- + + "Down, down, bend low + Thy knees! behold God's angel! fold thy hands! + Henceforward shalt thou see true ministers!" + +Revelation is not more a new light than a new heart and will; revelation +to me is the conquest and renewal of me. What is lovely will not be +encountered without love, the Creator holds the key to the creature, +Order and Right may freely enter to be man. He who can open any object +to its source is touched therein by the finger of God, and insight is +inevitable consecration. Give the coward a suspicion of our human +destiny, and he is no longer coward; he would gladly be cut in pieces +and burned in any flame to shed abroad that light. Life has such an +irresistible tendency to extend, that it makes of the man a mere +vehicle, takes him for hands and feet, wheels and wings: he is glad only +when the truth runs and prevails. Enthusiasm, devotion, earnestness are +names for this possession of the deep thinker by his thought. He lives +in that, and has in it his prosperity, no longer in the flesh. The +inspired man becomes great by absorption in a great design; he is +preoccupied, and trifles, for which other men are bought and sold, shine +before him as beads of glass with which savages are wheedled. We drop +our playthings, our banks and coaches, crowns, swords, colleges, and +sugar-plums in a heap together, when any moment opens to us the scope of +our activity, and carries far forward the curve through which we have +already run. + +The divine authority of Genius is given in this descent and superiority +to will. That which in me I must obey, that also above me all men must +obey. Will is the centre of the practical man, of all force, not moral, +but brute or natural, and is identified in the common thought with +myself, as I am a natural cause. Will is the sum of physical forces +necessary for self-preservation, is reagency against the formidable +rivalry of every other organization. In this animal centre the laws are +carried up, as reins are gathered to be put into the hands of a driver, +and being tied in a knot just where the physical touches the celestial +sphere, they seem to be moral, and Will much more than the body is in +popular thought inseparable from man. It is an organ into which he has +thrown himself in reckless neglect of his privilege, a grasping hand +which rules the world as we see it ruled, masters and takes to itself +for extension all laws below its own level, wields Nature as an +instrument, breaks down a weaker will, and carries away the material +mind until some God from above shall deliver it. Will is that living +Fate of which exterior necessity is but the form. From it we are +instantly delivered in conviction, and find it ever after the servant, +not the synonyme of man. + +The boy does not choose, neither does the belly choose for him, what +object shall be supremely beautiful in his eyes. He has not resolved to +see only this splendor of color, and neglect sound,--or to give himself +to sound alone, and shut his eyes to sight. If the divine order reaches +any mind, those creatures in which it appears will haunt that mind, will +take lordly their own place, and hang as constellations high overhead in +thought. So long as he can turn the eye hither and thither, or lightly +determine what he will see, the man is conversant with form alone, and +bigots who are on that plane of experience identify him with choice, +hold thought to be altogether voluntary, and burn the thinker, as though +his view were a fruit, not a root, of him. But truth is that which does +not wait for our making, but makes us,--does not lie like water at the +bottom of our wells, but comes like sunshine flooding the air, and +compelling recognition. "To believe your own thought," says a master, +"that is genius"; but is not genius primarily the arrival of a thought +able to authenticate itself, to compel trust, and make its own value +known against the sneers or anger of the world? From my own thought once +reached there is but one appeal,--to my own thought: from Philip sober +to Philip more sober. + +The good spirit appears as a spark in our embers, and draws out these +careful hands to ward itself from every gust,--sets our tasks and crowns +them. We know that from first desire to last performance wisdom is +altogether a grace. Wisdom is this wish for wisdom, already given in the +readiness to receive. We have not cared for it, but it has cared for us. + +Grown stronger, it is a guide, and needs none. Turner sees what he must +love; there is no rule for such seeing: what he does not love is hid +from him; there is no rule for such omission. It is in the eye, not more +a happy opening than a happy closing. A private ordinance, dividing man +into men, makes the same creature a wall to one, an open door to his +neighbor. The value of man appears to Scott in feudalism, to Wordsworth +in contemplation, to Byron in impatience, to Kant in certainty, to +Calvin in authority, to Calame in landscape, to Newton in measure, to +Carlyle in retribution, to Shakspeare in society, to Dante in the +contrast of right and wrong. + +One man by grandeur sees mountains in the coals of his grate; another by +gentleness only sunshine and grasses on Monadnock. You will not say that +he chooses, but that he is chosen so to see. Light opens the eye without +our intention, and we are at no trouble to paint on the retina what must +there appear. Success is fidelity to that which must appear. Weak men +discuss forever the laws of Art, and contrive how to paint, questioning +whether this or that element should have emphasis or be shown. If there +is any question, there will be no Art. The man must feel to do, and +what he does from overmastering feeling will convince and be forever +right. The work is organic which grows so above composition or plan. +After you are engaged by the symphony, there is no escape, no pause; +each note springs out of each as branch from branch of a tree. It could +be no otherwise; it cannot be otherwise conceived. Why could not I have +found this sequence inevitable, as well as another? Plainly, the +symphony was discovered, not made,--was written before man, like +astronomy in the sky. + +Only the mastery of one who is mastered by Nature will control and +renovate mankind. It is easy to recognize the habit of conviction, +freedom from within, and personal motive, the man bending himself as for +life or death to show exactly what he sees. The inspired man we know who +appeals to a divine necessity, and says, "I can do no otherwise; God be +my help! amen!"--for whom praise and property and comfortable +continuance on this planet are trifles, so great an object has opened to +him in the inviolable moral law. + +Every perception takes hold at last on duty as well as desire, claims +and carries away the man entire, though it were to danger or death. The +system, grown friendly, has grown sacred also; departure from it is +shame and guilt, as well as loss. An artist, therefore, like the Greek, +is busy with portraits of the gods, and every celebration of Beauty is +another Missa Solemnis, Te Deum, and Gloria. + +Whatever object becomes transparent to a man will be his medium of +communication with the Maker and with mankind. He hurries to show +therein what he has seen, as children run for their companions and point +their discoveries. These are his unsolicited angels, higher above his +reach than above that of the crowd; for every good thought is more a +surprise to the thinker than to any other. The seer points always from +himself as a telescope to the sky; he is no creator, but a bit of broken +glass in the sun. What is any man in the presence of haunting +Perfection, never to be shown without mutilation and dishonor? Is it +ours? In Him we live and move. + +While the Ego is pronounced and fills consciousness, man seems to be and +do somewhat of himself; but when the universal Soul is manifest above +will, his eyes turn away from that old battery; he is absorbed in what +he sees,--forgets himself, his deeds, wants, gains. He is rapt; stands +like Socrates a day and a night in contemplation; sits like Newton for +twelve hours half dressed on the edge of his bed, arrested in rising. He +is that madman to the world who neglects his meat, postpones his private +enterprise, regards honor and comfort as so much interruption to this +commerce with reality. We are all tired of property which is exclusion, +of goods which must be taken from another to serve me. Good should grow +with sharing,--more for me when all is given. In the spirit there are no +fences, boxes, or bags. + +Presenting truth, I declare it as freely yours as mine. Every act of +genius proclaims that the highest gift is no monopoly or singularity, no +privilege of one, but the birthright of the race. Shakspeare knows well +that we shall easily see what he sees; he considers it no secret. We are +always feeling beforehand for every right word now about to be spoken in +the world; many men give tokens of the general habit of thought before +he is born who clearly knows what all were dreaming. Wisdom has only +gone before us on our own path, and we overtake our guide in every +perception. Yet we are lifted quite off our feet by any new possibility +revealed in life: every circle drawn round our own astonishes, though it +be drawn from our centre. The poet in his certainty appears a child of +the heavens, and we strike another foolish line through the crowd, as +though every man were not his own poet as truly as he is his own priest +and governor, as though each were not entitled to see whatever is to be +seen. The masters of thought may teach us better. They address their +loftiest power in us, and never sing to oxen or dogs. The painting, +poem, statue, oratorio, calls to me by name; the morning is an eye that +solicits mine. Shall I take only the husks, and leave to another, +contented, always, the life of life? + +He is supreme poet who can make me a poet, able to reach the same +supplies after he is gone. We are bits of iron charged by this magnet, +and lose our quality when it is removed; we are not quite made magnets +as we should be by this magnetic planet and the revolutions of the sun; +yet the great polarity of our globe is a sum of little polarities, and +every scrap of metal has its own. We are made musical by the passing +band; we go on humming and marching to the air; but he who wrote it was +made musical by silence and sunshine. Soon our own vibrations will be +more easily induced, as old instruments sound with a touch or breath. We +shall throb with inarticulate rhythms, and understand the bard who +sings,-- + + "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter." + +The poet is one who has detected this latency of power in every breast. +His delight is a feeling that all doors are open to all, that he is no +favorite, but the rest are late sleepers, and he only earlier awake. +Depth of genius is measured by depth of this conviction. Egotism is +incurable greenness. An artist is one who has more, not less, respect +for the common eye. The seer points always from his own to a public +privilege,--says never, "I, Jesus, have so received," but, "The Son of +Man must so receive"; and Shakspeare cuts himself into fragments till +there is no Shakspeare left behind, as if expressly to testify that this +wonderful wisdom is not his, but ours, is not that of the thinker and +penman in his study, but of priests and kings, ladies and courtiers, +lovers and warriors, knaves and fools. Paul sees that Moses read his law +from tables of the heart. Every wise word is an echo of the wisdom +inarticulate in our neighbors which sends them confident about their +work and play. The faith of healthy men and women is amazing when we +learn how incapable they are of showing grounds for it. In speculation +they hold horrible theories, blackening the day; yet they trust the good +which their lips unwittingly deny. + +In discourse we are moved, not by what a man says, but by what he takes +for granted. The undertow of power is something unstated to which all +his facts and laws refer. But our resource seems to be rather a +reversion, is not quite available; we have blood and a beat at the +heart, yet it does not circulate freely, and Nature to every man is a +double of himself, so that the universe seems also cold in extremities, +as though there were too little original life to fill her veins. The +poet is not fire on the hearth to thaw this numbness by foreign heat. He +rubs and rouses us to activity, drags us to the open air, puts us on a +glowing chase, provokes us to race and climb with him till we also are +thoroughly alive. No other gift of his is worth much beside this hope of +reaching his side. The great know well that all men are approaching +their view even in departing from it, as travellers going from one port +turn their backs on each other here and their faces together toward the +antipodal point: they can leave their discoveries and fame to the race. +There is one object of sight. Every piece of wisdom is no less my +thought because another has found it in my mind. It is more mine than +any perception I called my own, for really with that I have +unconsciously been living in deeps below thought. The rest I have known, +that in all these years I am. + +No man seriously doubts that he is born to entertain the meaning of the +world. Already we are inclined to reckon genius a mere faculty of +saying, not of knowing, since it opens a common experience in every +example. Minority and obligation to other eyes will cease. We have +outgrown many a Magnus Apollo of childhood; his beauty is no longer +beautiful, his gold is tinsel, we can dig better for ourselves. +Therefore we can draw no line that will stand between poets and +pretenders. That is fire which fires me to-day; to-morrow the same +influence is frost. The standard is my temperature, a sliding scale. My +neighbors are raised to ecstasy by what seems a rattle of pots and pans; +but I remember when heaven opened to me also in Scheffer, Byron, +Bellini. The judge places himself in his judgment,--declares only what +is now above him, what below. If I find Milton prosaic beside +Swedenborg, perhaps I do Milton no wrong; perhaps no man in the company +so admires his impetuous grandeur; but now the impersonality of the +Swede may meet my need more nearly, with his mysteries of +correspondence, spiritual law, enduring Nature, and supremacy of Love. +Discrimination is worth so much, because there are no great gaps between +man and man, between mind and mind: there is no virtuous, no vicious, no +poet, no unpoet, and only dulness lumps one with angels, another with +dogs. There are infinite kinds and infinite degrees of intelligence; +there is genius in every sort and every stage of adulteration, overlaid +by this, by that, by the other grave mistake; and we cannot afford to be +inhospitable to the feeblest protest against our condition and +ourselves. + +We pass all but the few great masters, and they are only before us on +the road. Culture is the opening of spontaneous or liberal activity, and +hangs all on the pivotal perception that everything, experience, effort, +element, history, tradition, art, science, is another opening to the +same centre, and that our life. When the pupil is roused, enchanted, +fired, his redemption from sense is begun; he is delivered to the great +God, if it were only in a crystal or a caterpillar; he will never again +be the clod he was. The years are cruel and cold, want and appetite +devour many a day, but the man can never forget what was promised to the +boy. He believes in thought; believes against thought in the mad world, +in foolish man; believes in himself, and wonders what he could do, if he +had yet only half a chance. All that is streams toward the mind, will +stream through it and be known. + +God would not be God, if He could fill less than the universe, could +leave cold and empty corners, could remain beyond thought, could be +order around and not also within the brain. Deity is Revelation. Deity +means for each the germ of knowledge and the sum of knowledge. Man is +the guest of wisdom; he will drop for shame his arrogance, and seek +never again to entertain or patronize this architect and master of the +house. The triumph of inspiration is an unsealing of my own and of every +mind, a delivery of the pupil to private inspiration. When the work of a +master is masterly done, he abdicates therein, retires, and becomes +unregarded as a flight of stairs behind. The statue is a failure, unless +it makes me forget the statue,--the book, unless it makes me forget the +book. All the rhyming, painting, singing of sentimental boys and girls +springs from an intuition hardly yet more than instinct: that Nature has +special scripts for each, to be by him, by her, alone, divined and +published. They reach nothing sincere or unique, yet they feel the +individuality and remoteness of experience. They cannot put forth their +conscious power; but who among the gods of fame can put forth his power? +Emerson says Jove cannot get his own thunder; much less can any mortal +get his own thunder, however he may apply to Minerva for the key. + +By the cheer of awakening intuition, a dawn which stirs before daylight, +all men are secretly sustained. The common life is a borrowing, not a +creation and giving: imitation is going on all-fours, and man is uneasy +in that animal attitude. The horse comes only as horse: I am here not +merely as man, but as John; I blush and ache till John is something +pronounced and maintained against the mob of centuries, till men must +feel his singularity and solidity, as the ocean is displaced and +readjusted by every drop of rain. More or less, I must at least purely +avail. Erectness is delivery to the private law, and something in each +remains erect, and lifts him above the brute and the crowd. He is, and +feels himself to be: he will advance and give the law of his life. + +The brain is itself a nut from the tree Ygdrasil; it carries the world, +and in the first glances we anticipate all knowledge. The joy of life +does not wait for any theory of life, for we have only slept since the +thought in us was embodied in this system; we took part in the making; +we are drowsily at home with ourselves therein; we forget, yet do not +forget, the roundness of design. As in a common experience we are often +close upon some name which we seek to recall,--we feel, but cannot touch +it,--so the secret of Nature lies close to the mind, and sustains us as +if by magnetic communication, while we have yet no faculty to explore +our own being or this apparition of it, the whirl of worlds. + +We have rightly held genius to be miracle; but our great hope is +postponed for lack of perception that all life is miracle, that man in +every endowment is a form of the same plastic, incalculable power. Yet +as we are brought to seek goodness, being sinners, so we shall be +brought to seek the last perception, being dolts. The masters have not +been quite masters, and their theory has never respected the natural as +opening to a supernatural mind. We eat and drink and wait to be +arrested, not by sunshine, but lightning. It comes at last, revealing +from heaven the height and depth of our human prospect. The vision is +appalling; the seer is stricken to the ground; he has no organ able to +bear this light; he is blinded; he runs trembling for counsel to Paul, +who was beaten from his horse, to Samuel, who was called in sleep, to +Jesus, who taught the new birth, to John, who saw the white throne. But +after a little we learn that the new experience is native to us as +breath. No degeneracy of any period, no immersion in war, trade, +production, tradition, can quite hide the cardinal fact that this +strength of antiquity, of eternity, waits to descend, and does from time +to time descend, into the private breast. He who prays has made the +discovery, and is put by his own act in lonely communication with all +heavens. + +We find the sacred history legible only in the same light by which it +was written: we are referred by it, therefore, to sources of +interpretation above itself. God was hidden in the sky; the book in +another sky; who shall reveal God hidden in the book? After so many +ages, it has become a riddle as difficult of solution as any for which +it offers solution: the last and best puzzle of the exulting old Sphinx, +who will never be cheated of her jest. Our Christianity misses the +highest value of the book, as it indicates the resource of universal +man. We use the cover as some charm against danger, but the secret of +devotion is not reached. At last it is plain that secular, nigh +impenetrable Nature is a door as easily opened as this of the book. We +must read upon our knees, we wait for grace to open the text, God must +descend to light the page. The Quaker names our interpreter an inner +light, the Church a Holy Ghost to purge the heart and eye. A deity who +comes directly, and is no longer to seek when we are ready to read, must +abolish the book. Of all gods offered in our Pantheon, of all persons in +our Trinity, this must be the first. + +I cannot fasten on the revelation which needs another to make it +revelation to me; but when the divine aid is given, we seek no farther, +for in this communion we have already all that was sought. The private +illumination converts to gospel every creature on which its ray may +fall; it makes a Bible of the world, a Bible of the heart. The doctors +with dandling have now kept the child from his feet till there is doubt +whether he have any feet. In this cradle of the record he shall spend +his snug and comfortable life. "Here is safety!" Of course, he is +bed-ridden. + +But the weakness of man is no impediment to God. Remember who creates, +who renews, who goes abroad in perpetual miracle of building, +inhabiting, becoming. It is not a question of human power, but of +divine. + +Spiritual presence, apocalypse of every apocalypse, becomes our primal +fact. It is the root of Protestantism, Democracy, Individualism. The +sanctity of conscience is a rest of man upon undeniable Deity. There is +no room for intervention of Peter or Paul. + +The mind is immanence of Being, an original relation to all we have +named reality and worshipped as divine. There are truths which we must +reckon with Swedenborg among the Fundamentals of Humanity. To hold them +is to be Man,--to be admitted to the hopeful council of our kind. +Freedom is such a fundamental of the moral sense. From the thought of +property in man we erect ourselves in God's name with indignant +protestation, wiping it and its apologists together as dirt from our +feet. By an equal necessity we count out from every discourse of reason +those who find in them no organ of ultimate communication, who refer +from common consciousness to saint and sage, as though God could be shut +from presence and supremacy in thought. They are intellectual +non-combatants who so refer. We take them at their own valuation; their +certainty of uncertainty, their confession of remoteness from the centre +we accept; but we must turn from the very angels, if they be not +permitted for themselves to know. There is no outside to the universe +except this embryotic condition, wherein a man may think that there is +no result of thought. + +I suppose no individual thinker will ever again have the importance +which attaches to a few names in history. No man will found a religion +with Mahomet, or overlie philosophers like Calvin, or shoulder out the +poets like Shakspeare; still less will any man again be worshipped as a +personal god. Let the newcomer be never so great, there is now a +greatness in public thought to dwarf his proportions. He antedated all +discoveries who first uttered the sacred name. That ray on darkness +tells. Now we have nations of philosophers, thought flies like +thistle-down, and the sublime speculations of the fore-world are +cradle-songs and first spelling-lessons to excite the guesses of every +barefooted boy. In early ages men met face to face with Nature, and +spent their strength directly in questioning her. Now the work of God is +overlaid. Every blunder is a rock in our field, and at last the field is +a stone-heap of blunders, and our giants have work enough to reach any +ground in the unsophisticated facts of life. We set no limit to the +revolutionary power of truth; in happy hour it may sweep away doctrine +and usage, supplant systems by songs, and governments by Love. Yet the +first men were able to cleave the world to its centre, and predict the +last results. We only enlarge their openings. Schools follow schools, +Eclecticism comes with its band into the field to gather every ear; but +Plato stands smiling behind, and holds in his hands that simple divided +line, the image of all we know. + +Who can wonder at the authority of the ancients, unbowed by an antiquity +behind? Freedom from authority gave their directness, their simplicity, +their superiority to misgiving and second thought, their confident "Thus +saith the Lord." + +We boast our enlightenment, but now the best minds are in question +whether we have not lost as much by the ancients as we have gained. +Plainly, they have not yet done their own work, have not given us to +ourselves and to God. They should have been less or greater; they did +not quite liberate, but became oppressors of the mind. To this +misfortune we begin to find a single exception. Jesus, with his primal +doctrine of a divine humanity, will now at last avail to be understood, +will deliver us from every teacher to a Father in the heavens, and put +us in direct communication with Him through the moral sense. After so +many blind centuries, his truth breaks out, draws us to him from the +misunderstanding of his followers, and refers from himself to the +sources of his incomparable life. + +Two men of our time are the primitive Christians,--not known for such, +because their springs open, with those of the Master, not in any +character, but in the Cause. They share his reliance, and accept in +simplicity those brotherly words in which he extends his privilege to +every child. + +He will open to us Nature, for his habit is the only natural. He has no +anxiety for immediate results, is never guarded in expression, does +never explain; he makes no record of thought, calls no scholar to be +scribe; he knows no labors, no studies; he walks on the hills, and +frankly interprets the waving grain, the seed in the furrow, the lily, +and the weed. Here is power which takes no thought for the morrow, an +attitude which works endless revolutions without means or care or cost. + +We must not dwell on this supreme example, lest we leave the hope of +every reader far behind. Let us rather keep the level of common +experience, and disclose the incursions of spirit which light a humble +life. Love and Providence will appear in every breast; nothing more than +Love and Providence appears to us above. + +A supreme genius will fail, rather by under- than over-statement, to +balance the popular exaggeration and repetition of fine phrases for +which we have no corresponding fact. Why should any man be zealous or +impatient? Why press a moral, dissecting it skeleton-like from throbbing +textures of Freedom and Beauty? Why preach, threaten, and drive us with +these bones, when a lover may draw us with kisses on living lips? Nature +offers Duty as a manlier pleasure, leads the will so softly as to set us +free in following, and her last thrill of delight is the steady +heart-beat of heroism, facing danger with level eyes and fatal +determination. Fear may arrest, but never restore. It is an arrest of +fever by freezing, of disease by disease. Let it be understood, once for +all, that this universe is moral, and say no more about that. Every man +loves goodness, and the saint never exhorts to this love, but reinforces +by addressing himself to it as matter of course. All power is a like +repose on the basis of common desires and perceptions in the race. The +didactic method is an insult alike to the pupil and the universe. +Socrates is master and gentleman with his questions, suggestions, +seeking in me and acting as midwife to my thought; but all _illuminati_ +and professors, all who talk down or cut our meat into morsels, will +quickly be counted aunties by the vigorous boys at school. Chairs and +pulpits totter to-day with a scholastic dry rot, which is inability to +recognize the equality of unsophisticated man to man. There will soon be +no more chair or desk; the only eminence will be that of one who can +stand with feet on the common level, and still utter over our heads a +regenerating word. We shall learn to address ourselves in an audience, +to utter before millions, as if in joyful soliloquy, the sincerest, +tenderest thought. Speak as if to angels, and you shall speak to angels; +take unhesitating inmost counsel with mankind. The response to every +pure desire is instant and wonderful. Thousands listen to-day for a word +which waits in the air and has never been spoken, a word of courage to +carry forward the purpose of their lives. + +Thought points to unity, and the thinker is impatient of squinting and +side-glances while all eyes should be turned together to the same. +Thought is growing agreement, and that in which the race cannot meet me +is some whim or notion, a personal crotchet, not a cosmic and eternal +truth. Genius is freedom from all oddity, is Catholicity,--and departure +from it so much departure in me from Nature and myself. We say a man is +original, if he lives at first, and not at second hand,--if he requires +a new tombstone,--if he takes law, not from the many or the few, but +from the sky,--if he is no subordinate, but an authority,--if he does +not borrow judgment, but is judgment. Such a man is singular in his +attitude only because we have so fallen from purity. He, not the +fashion, is _comme il faut_. By every word and act he declares that as +he is so all men must shortly be. + +Plato and Swedenborg are trying to speak the same word, but each can +avail only to turn some syllable. They regret this partiality as a +provincial burr, as greenness and narrowness. Genius sees the white +light and regrets its own impurity, though that be piquancy to the +multitude, and marketable as a splendid blue or gold. Manner, in +thought, speech, behavior, is popularity and falsehood; is the limping +of a king deformity, though it set the fashion of limping. The grandest +thoughts are colorless as water; they savor not of Milton, Socrates, or +Menu; seem not drawn from any private cistern, but rain-drops out of the +pure sky. Whim and conceit are tare and tret. It matters little whether +a man whine with Coleridge, or boast with Ben Jonson, or sneer with +Byron, or grumble with Carlyle, if every thought is one-sided and +warped. The oddity relieves our commonplace, and pricks the dull palate; +but we soon tire of exaggeration, and detest the trick. It is egotism, +self-sickness, jaundice, adulteration of the light. We name it the +subjective habit, personality; while the right illumination is a +transparency, a putting-off of shoes, garments, body, and constitution, +lest these should intercept or stain the ray. Genius is an eye single +and serene. Good speech carries the sound of no man's, of no angel's +voice. Good writing betrays no man's hand, but is as if traced by the +finger of God. + +Original will signify, therefore, not peculiar, but universal. The +original is one who lives from the Maker, not from man. He has found and +asserts himself as a piece of primal design: he is somewhat, and his +life therefore significant. He first represents man in purity, man in +God, and is a revelation. No matter what he repeats as approved, he will +not be a repetition, but will give new value to each thing by his +approval. The wisest man in separate propositions repeats only what has +many times been spoken. In my reading of this past week I find +anticipated every item of modern thought. Hooker says of the Bible,--"By +looking in it for that which it is impossible that any book can have, we +lose the benefits which we might reap from its being the best of books." +Milton says,-- + + "He who reads and to his reading brings not + A spirit and judgment equal or superior, + (And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?) + Uncertain and unsettled still remains." + +Coleridge gives perfect confidence to paradox as sure of solution above +the term of it; in his "Table-Talk" he antedates Carlyle's doctrine of +dynamics,--puts Faith above belief, as in another region of the +mind,--declares that the conceivable is not to be revered, and says, +before Emerson, that existence is the Fall of Man. But the failure of +Coleridge teaches that no single perceptions, however subtile or deep, +will solve the broad problem of Nature. These separate thoughts the +great hold in new emphasis and relation. Of such sparks they make a +flame, of such timbers a house or ship. The parts may be old, the whole +is not; and Goethe falls into a modest fallacy, when, in acknowledging +his obligation to others, he disclaims originality for himself. All is +new in his use of it: you may say he has taken nothing, for what was +iron or silver where he found it is gold in his transmuting grasp. + +When a man authentic speaks, our interest goes through every statement +to himself. The root of that word is not in the market or the street, +but in humanity, and through that in the deep. We study Goethe, not any +opinion of Goethe: he represents for us in his measure the nature, need, +and resource of the race, because what he publishes he knows, lives, and +is. We open the mind largely to take the sense of such a gospel: it will +not appear in details of perception. Plato and Goethe see the same sun, +and seem to the vulgar to follow each other; they have more in common +than any man can have in privacy; yet if you enter to the entire habit +of each, you will justify the making of these two. They are like and +unlike, as apples on one and another tree. The great in any time hold in +common the growing truth of their time, and refer to it in intercourse +as understood, an atmosphere which he must breathe who now lives and +thinks; yet no two will be identically related to the same. We are +radiated as spokes from a centre; we enter to it and work for it from +every side. + +There is no danger of repetition, if the thought be deep. Superior +insight will always sufficiently astonish, will always be novel in its +place. The more simple the method, the more wonderful every result. Men +are shut, as if by a wall of adamant, from all that is yet beyond their +sympathy. My neighbor is immersed in planting, building, and the new +road. Beside him, companion only in air and sunshine, walks one who has +no ocular adjustment for these atoms; his thought overleaps them in +starting, and is wholly beyond. The end of vision for a practical eye is +beginning of clairvoyance. To the road-maker, man is a maker of roads; +he cracks his nuts and his jokes unconscious, while the ground opens and +the world heaves with revolutions of thought. Ask him in vain what +Webster means by "Concord, Lexington, and Bunker Hill"; what Channing +sees in the Dignity of Man, or Edwards in the Sweetness of Divine Love; +ask him in vain what is the "Fate" of Aeschylus, the "Compensation" of +Emerson, Carlyle's "Conflux of Eternities," the "Conjunction" of +Swedenborg, the "Newness" of Fox, the "Morning Red" of Behmen, the +"Renunciation" of Goethe, the "Comforter" of Jesus, the "Justification" +of Paul. + +For the dull, this mystery of existence is not even a mystery; they are +shut below the firmament of wonder. When the vulgar come with their +definite gain and good, their circle of immediate ends, we feel the +house contract, the sky descend,--we shrivel, our pores close, the skull +hardens on the brain. The positive, who exactly knows, is a skeleton at +the feast; that exactness is numbness, and chills every expansive guest. +Dogma is a stoppage quite short of the nearest beginning; the liberal +habit a beginning of all that has no end. Sense is a wall very near the +eye, and when that is penetrated all lies open beyond; we see only +paths, seas, and vistas. Wisdom explores and never concludes. The +explanations of centuries are idle tales: my explanations are not so to +be forestalled. We forget the shallow answers to shallow questions, when +now we have deeper genuine questions to ask. The great are happy babes +of Beauty and Good. Truth returns in a fresh suspicion, and all are +welcome who wear on the brows that soft commingled light and shadow of +an advancing, sweet, inexplicable Fate. Our hope is no house, but a +wing; no roof can be endured but the blue one. What method have we yet +to serve the spontaneous or spiritual being? what culture, art, society, +worship, in which his need and power are so much as recognized? There is +indefinable certainty of Nature beyond Nature, man beyond man. Genius +opens all doors, the earth-doors, the sky-doors,--throws down the +horizon and the heaven, to come into open air. All paths lead out to the +sea, where a day's voyage may teach that the receding circle bounds our +sight alone, and not the deep. We look out not on chaos and darkness, +but on order too large for the brain, and light, for which as owls we +have yet no capacious eye. We leave every perception neglected to wait +on the future; but every future has its future devouring the past. What +is left but bending of the knee and boundless confidence? + + * * * * * + +MY BROTHER AND I. + + + From the door where I stand I can see his fair land + Sloping up to a broad sunny height, + The meadows new-shorn, and the green wavy corn, + The buckwheat all blossoming white: + There a gay garden blooms, there are cedars like plumes, + And a rill from the mountain leaps up in a fountain, + And shakes its glad locks in the light. + + He dwells in the hall where the long shadows fall + On the checkered and cool esplanade; + I live in a cottage secluded and small, + By a gnarly old apple-tree's shade: + Side by side in the glen, I and my brother Ben,-- + Just the river between us, with borders as green as + The banks where in childhood we played. + + But now nevermore upon river or shore + He runs or he rows by my side; + For I am still poor, like our father before, + And he, full of riches and pride, + Leads a life of such show, there is no room, you know, + In the very fine carriage he gained by his marriage + For an old-fashioned brother to ride. + + His wife, with her gold, gives him friends, I am told, + With whom she is rather too gay,-- + The senator's son, who is ready to run + For her gloves and her fan, night or day, + And to gallop beside, when she wishes to ride: + Oh, no doubt 'tis an honor to see smile upon her + Such world-famous fellows as they! + + Ah, brother of mine, while you sport, while you dine, + While you drink of your wine like a lord, + You might curse, one would say, and grow jaundiced and gray, + With such guests every day at your board! + But you sleek down your rage like a pard in its cage, + And blink in meek fashion through the bars of your passion, + As husbands like you can afford. + + For still you must think, as you eat, as you drink, + As you hunt with your dogs and your guns, + How your pleasures are bought with the wealth that she brought, + And you were once hunted by duns. + Oh, I envy you not your more fortunate lot: + I've a wife all my own in my own little cot, + And with happiness, which is the only true riches, + The cup of our love overruns. + + We have bright, rosy girls, fair as ever an earl's, + And the wealth of their curls is our gold; + Oh, their lisp and their laugh, they are sweeter by half + Than the wine that you quaff red and old! + We have love-lighted looks, we have work, we have books, + Our boys have grown manly and bold, + And they never shall blush, when their proud cousins brush + From the walls of their college such cobwebs of knowledge + As careless young fingers may hold. + + Keep your pride and your cheer, for we need them not here, + And for me far too dear they would prove, + For gold is but gloss, and possessions are dross, + And gain is all loss, without love. + Yon severing tide is not fordless or wide,-- + The soul's blue abysses our homesteads divide: + Down through the still river they deepen forever, + Like the skies it reflects from above. + + Still my brother thou art, though our lives lie apart, + Path from path, heart from heart, more and more. + Oh, I have not forgot,--oh, remember you not + Our room in the cot by the shore? + And a night soon will come, when the murmur and hum + Of our days shall be dumb evermore, + And again we shall lie side by side, you and I, + Beneath the green cover you helped to lay over + Our honest old father of yore. + + * * * * * + +A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE. + + "On garde longtemps son premier amant, quand on n'en prend point de + second." + + _Maximes Morales du Duc de la Rochefoucauld._. + + +It is not suffering alone that wears out our lives. We sometimes are in +a state when a sharp pang would be hailed almost as a blessing,--when, +rather than bear any longer this living death of calm stagnation, we +would gladly rush into action, into suffering, to feel again the warmth +of life restored to our blood, to feel it at least coursing through our +veins with something like a living swiftness. + +This death-in-life comes sometimes to the most earnest men, to those +whose life is fullest of energy and excitement It is the reaction, the +weariness which they name Ennui,--foul fiend that eats fastest into the +heart's core, that shakes with surest hand the sands of life, that makes +the deepest wrinkles on the cheeks and deadens most surely the lustre of +the eyes. + +But what are the occasional visits of this life-consumer, this vampire +that sucks out the blood, to his constant, never-failing presence? There +are those who feel within themselves the power of living fullest lives, +of sounding every chord of the full diapason of passion and feeling, yet +who have been so hemmed around, so shut in by adverse and narrowing +circumstances, that never, no, not once in their half-century of years +which stretch from childhood to old age, have they been free to breathe +out, to speak aloud the heart that was in them. Ever the same wasting +indifference to the things that are, the same ill-repressed longing for +the things that might be. Long days of wearisome repetition of duties in +which there is no life, followed by restless nights, when Imagination +seizes the reins in her own hands, and paints the out-blossoming of +those germs of happiness and fulness of being of whose existence within +us we carry about always the aching consciousness. + +And such things I have known from the moment when I first stepped from +babyhood into childhood, from the time when life ceased to be a play and +came to have its duties and its sufferings. Always the haunting sense of +a happiness which I was capable of feeling, faint glimpses of a paradise +of which I was a born denizen,--and always, too, the stern knowledge of +the restraints which held me prisoner, the idle longings of an exile. +But would no strong effort of will, no energy of heart or mind, break +the bonds that held me down,--no steady perseverance of purpose win me a +way out of darkness into light? No, for I was a woman, an ugly woman, +whose girlhood had gone by without affection, and whose womanhood was +passing without love,--a woman, poor and dependent on others for daily +bread, and yet so bound by conventional duties to those around her that +to break from them into independence would be to outrage all the +prejudices of those who made her world. + +I could plan such escape from my daily and yearly narrowing life, could +dream of myself walking steadfast and unshaken through labor to +independence, could picture a life where, if the heart were not fed, at +least the tastes might be satisfied, could strengthen myself through all +the imaginary details of my going-forth from the narrow surroundings +which made my prison-walls; but when the time came to take the first +step, my courage failed. I could not go out into that world which looked +to me so wide and lonely; the necessity for love was too strong for me, +I must dwell among mine own people. There, at least, was the bond of +custom, there was the affection which grows out of habit; but in the +world what hope had I to win love from strangers, with my repellent +looks, awkward movements, and want of personal attractions? + +Few persons know that within one hundred and fifty miles of the Queen +City of the West, bounded on both sides by highly cultivated tracts of +country, looking out westwardly on the very garden of Kentucky, almost +in the range of railroad and telegraph, in the very geographical centre +of our most populous regions, there lie some thousand square miles of +superb woodland, rolling, hill above hill, in the beautiful undulations +which characterize the country bordering on the Ohio, watered by fair +streams which need only the clearing away of the few obstructions +incident to a new country to make them navigable, and yet a country +where the mail passes only once a week, where all communication is by +horse-paths or by the slow course of the flat-boat, where schools are +not known and churches are never seen, where the Methodist itinerant +preacher gives all the religious instruction, and a stray newspaper +furnishes all the political information. Does any one doubt my +statement? Then let him ask a passage up-stream in one of the flat-boats +that supply the primitive necessities of the small farmers who dwell on +the banks of the Big Sandy, in that debatable border-land which lies +between Kentucky and Virginia; or let him, if he have a taste for +adventure, hire his horse at Catlettsburg, at the mouth of the river, +and lose his way among the blind bridle-paths that lead to Louisa and to +Prestonburg. If he stops to ask a night's lodging at one of the +farm-houses that are to be found at the junction of the creeks with the +rivers, log-houses with their primitive out-buildings, their +half-constructed rafts of lumber ready to float down-stream with the +next rise, their 'dug-outs' for the necessities of river-intercourse, +and their rough oxcarts for hauling to and from the mill, he will see +before him such a home as that in which I passed the first twenty years +of my life. + +I had little claim on the farmer with whom I lived. I was the child by a +former marriage of his wife, who had brought me with her into this +wilderness, a puny, ailing creature of four years, and into the three +years that followed was compressed all the happiness I could remember. +The free life in the open air, the nourishing influence of the rich +natural scenery by which I was surrounded, the grand, silent trees with +their luxuriant foliage, the fresh, strong growth of the vegetation, all +seemed to breathe health into my frame, and with health came the +capacity for enjoyment. I was happy in the mere gift of existence, happy +in the fulness of content, with no playmate but the kindly and lovely +mother Earth from whose bosom I drew fulness of life. + +But in my seventh year my mother died, worn out by the endless, +unvarying round of labors which break down the constitutions of our +small farmers' wives. She grew sallow and thin under repeated attacks of +chills and fever, brought into the world, one after another, three puny +infants, only to lay them away from her breast, side by side, under the +sycamore that overshadowed our cornfield, and visibly wasted away, +growing more and more feeble, until, one winter morning, we laid her, +too, at rest by her babies. Before the year was out, my father (so I +called him) was married again. + +My step-mother was a good woman, and meant to do her duty by me. Nay, +she was more than that: she was, as far as her poor light went, a +Christian. She had experienced religion in the great revival of 18--, +which was felt all through Western Kentucky, under the preaching of the +Reverend Peleg Dawson, and when she married my father and went to bury +herself in the wilds of "Up Sandy" was a shining light in the Methodist +church, a class-leader who had had and had told experiences. + +But all that glory was over now; it had flashed its little day: for +there is a glow in the excitement of our religious revivals as potent in +its effect on the imaginations of women and young men as ever were the +fastings and penances which brought the dreams and reveries, the holy +visions and the glorious revealings, of the Catholic votaries. In this +short, triumphant time of spiritual pride lay the whole romance of my +step-mother's life. Perhaps it was well for her soul that she was taken +from the scene of her triumphs and brought again to the hard realities +of life. The self-exaltation, the ungodly pride passed away; but there +was left the earnest, prayerful desire to do her duty in her way and +calling, and the first path of duty which opened to her zeal was that +which led to the care of a motherless child, the saving of an immortal +soul. And in all sincerity and uprightness did she strive to walk in it. +But what woman of five-and-thirty, who has outlived her youth and +womanly tenderness in the loneliness and hardening influences of a +single life, and who marries at last for a shelter in old age, knows the +wants of a little child? Indeed, what but a mother's love has the +long-enduring patience to support the never ceasing calls for +forbearance and perseverance which a child makes upon a grown person? +Those little ones need the nourishment of love and praise, but such milk +for babes can come only from a mother's breast. I got none of it. On the +contrary, my dearly loved independence, my wild-wood life, where Nature +had become to me my nursing-mother, was exchanged for one of never +ceasing supervision. "Little girls must learn to be useful," was the +phrase that greeted my unwilling ears fifty times a day, which pursued +me through my daily round of dish-washings, floor-sweepings, bed-making +and potato-peeling, to overtake me at last in the very moment when I +hoped to reap the reward of my diligence in a free afternoon by the +river-side in the crotch of the water-maple that hung over the stream, +clutching me and fastening me down to the hated square of patchwork, +which bore, in the spots of red that defaced its white purity in +following the line of my stitches, the marks of the wounds that my +awkward hands inflicted on themselves with their tiny weapon. + +And so the years went on. It was a pity that no babies came to soften +our hearts, my step-mother's and mine, and to draw us nearer together as +only the presence of children can. A household without children is +always hard and angular, even when surrounded by all the softening +influences of refinement and education. What was ours with its poverty +and roughness, its every-day cares and its endless discomforts? One day +was like all the rest, and in their wearying succession they rise up in +my memory like ghosts of the past coming to lay their cold, death-like +hands on the feebly kindling hopes of the present. I see myself now, as +I look back, a tall, awkward girl of fifteen, with my long, straggling, +sunburnt hair, my sallow, yet pimply complexion, my small, weak-looking +blue eyes, that every exposure to the sun and wind would redden, and my +long, lean hands and arms, that offended my sense of beauty constantly, +as I dwelt on their hopelessly angular turns. I had one beauty; so my +little paper-framed glass, that rested on the rough rafter that edged +the sloping roof of my garret, told me, whenever I took it down to gaze +in it, which, but for that beauty, would have been but seldom. It was a +finely cut and firmly set mouth and chin. There was, and I felt it, +beauty and character in the curves of the lips, in the rounding of the +chin; there was even a healthy ruddiness in the lips, and something of +delicacy in the even, well-set teeth that showed themselves when they +parted. + +The gazing at these beauties gave me great pleasure, not for any effect +they might ever produce in others,--what did I know of that?--but +because I had in myself a strong love of the beautiful, a passion for +grace of form and brilliancy of color which made doubly distasteful to +me our bare, uncouth walls, with their ugly, straight-backed chairs, and +their frightfully painted yellow or red tables and chests-of-drawers. + +My step-mother's appearance, too, was a constant offence to my +beauty-loving eye,--with her lank, tall figure, round which clung those +narrow skirts of "bit" calico, dingy red or dreary brown,--her feet shod +in the heavy store-shoes which were brought us from Catlettsburg by the +returning flat-boat men,--her sharp-featured face, the forehead and +cheeks covered with brown, mouldy-looking spots, the eyes deep-set, with +a livid, dyspeptic ring around them, and the lips thin and pinched,--the +whole face shaded by the eternal sun-bonnet, which never left her head +from early sunrise till late bedtime (no Sandy woman is ever seen +without her sun-bonnet). All these were perpetual annoyances to me; they +made me discontented without knowing why; they filled me with disgust, a +disgust which my respect for her good qualities could not overcome. + +And then our life, how dreary! The rising in the cold, gray dawn to +prepare the breakfast of corn-dodgers and bacon for my father and his +men,--the spreading the table-cloth, stained with the soil-spots of +yesterday's meal,--the putting upon it the ugly, unmatched +crockery,--the straggling-in of the unwashed, uncombed men in their +coarse working-clothes, redolent of the week's unwholesome toil,--their +washings, combings, and low talk close by my side,--the varied uses to +which our household utensils were put,--the dipping of dirty knives into +the salt and of dirty fingers into the meat-dish,--all filled me then, +and fill me now, with loathing. + +There was a relief when the men left the house; but then came the dreary +"slicking-up," almost more disgusting, in its false, superficial show of +cleanliness, than had been the open carelessness of the workmen. + +But there was no time for rest; my step-mother's sharp, high-pitched +voice was heard calling, "Janet!" and I followed her to the garden to +dig the potatoes from the hills or to the cornfield to pull and husk the +three dozen ears of corn which made our chief dish at dinner. Then came +the week's washing, the apple-peeling, the pork-salting, work varied +only with the varying season, until the blowing of the horn at twelve +brought back the men to dinner, after which came again the clearing up, +again the day's task, and again the supper. + +I often thought that the men around us were always more cheerful and +merry than the women. They worked as hard, they endured as many +hardships, but they had, certainly, more pleasures. There was the +evening lounge by the fire in winter, the sitting on the fence or at the +door-step in summer, when, pipe or cigar in mouth, knife and +whittling-stick in hand, jest and gibe would pass round among them, and +the boisterous laugh would go up, reaching me, as I lay, tired out, on +my little cot, or leaned disconsolate at my garret-window, looking with +longing eyes far out into the darkness of the woods. No such +gatherings-together of the women did I ever see. If one of our neighbors +dragged her weary steps to our kitchen, and sat herself down, baby, in +lap, on the upturned tub or flag-bottomed chair that I dusted off with +my apron, it was to commence the querulous complaint of the last week's +chill or the heavy washing of the day before, the ailing baby or the +troublesome child, all told in the same whining voice. Even the choice +bit of gossip which roused us at rare intervals always had its dark +side, on which these poor women dwelt with a perverse pleasure. + +In short, life was too hard for them; it brought its constant cares +without any alleviating pleasures. Their homes were only places of +monotonous labor,--their husbands so many hard taskmasters, who exacted +from them more than their strength could give,--their children, who +should have been the delight of their mothers' hearts, so many +additional burdens, the bearing and nursing of which broke down their +poor remaining health; the glorious and lavish Nature in which they +lived only brought to them added labor, and shut them out from the few +social enjoyments that they knew of. + +I was old enough to feel all this,--not to reason on it as I can now, +but to rebel against it with all the violence of a vehement nature which +feels its strength only in the injuries it inflicts upon itself in its +useless struggles for freedom. Bitter tears did I shed sometimes, as I +lay with my head on my arms, leaning on that narrow window-sill,--tears +of passionate regret that I was not a boy, a man, that I might, by the +very force of my right arm, hew my way out of that encircling forest +into the world of which I dreamed,--tears, too, that, being as I was, +only an ugly, ignorant girl, I could not be allowed to care only for +myself, and dream away my life in this same forest, which charmed me +while it hemmed me in. My rude, chaotic nature had something of force in +it, strength which I knew would stand me in good stead, could I ever +find an outlet for it; it had also a power of enjoyment, keen, vivid, +could I ever get leave to enjoy. + +At length came the opening, the glimpse of sunlight. I remember, as if +it were but yesterday, that afternoon which first showed to my physical +sight something of that full life of which my imagination had framed a +rude, faint sketch. I was standing at the end of the meadow, just where +the rails had been thrown down for the cows, when, looking up the path +that led through the wood by the river, I saw, almost at my side, a man +on horseback. He stopped, and, half raising his hat, a motion I had +never seen before, said,-- + +"Is this Squire Boarders's place?" + +I pushed back my sun-bonnet, and looked up at him. I see him now as I +saw him then; for my quick, startled glance took in the whole face and +figure, which daguerreotyped themselves upon my memory. A frank, open +face, with well-cut and well-defined features and large hazel eyes, set +off by curling brown hair, was smiling down upon me, and, throwing +himself from his horse, a young man of about five-and-twenty stood +beside me. He had to repeat his question before I gained presence of +mind enough to answer him. + +"Is this Squire Boarders's house, and do you think I could get a night's +lodging here?" + +It was no unusual thing for us to give a night's lodging to the boatmen +from the river, or to the farmers from the back-country, as they passed +to or from Catlettsburg; but what accommodation had we for such a guest +as here presented? I walked before him up the path to the house, and, +shyly pointing to my step-mother, who stood on the porch, said,-- + +"That's Miss Boarders; you can ask her." + +And then, before he had time to answer, I fled in an agony of +bashfulness to my refuge under the water-maple behind the house. I +lingered there as long as I dared,--longer, indeed, than I had any right +to linger, for I heard my mother's voice crying, "Janet!" and I well +knew that there was nobody but myself to mix the corn-cake, spread the +table, or run the dozen errands that would be needed. I slipped in by +the back-door, and, escaping my step-mother's peevish complaints, passed +into the little closet which served us for pantry, and, scooping up the +meal, began diligently to mix it. + +The window by which I stood opened on the porch. My father and his men +had come in, and, tipping their chairs against the wall, or mounted on +the porch-railing, were smoking their cigars, laughing, joking, +talking,--and there in the midst of them sat the stranger, smoking too, +and joining in their talk with an easy earnestness that seemed to win +them at once. Our country-people do not spare their questions. My father +took the lead, the men throwing in a remark now and then. + +"I calculate you have never been in these parts before?" + +"No, never. You have a beautiful country here." + +"The country's well enough, if we could clear off some of them trees +that stop a man every way he turns. Did you come up from Lowiza to-day?" + +"No; I have only ridden from the mouth of Blackberry, I believe you call +it. I have left a boat and crew there, who will be up in the morning." + +"What truck have you got on your boat?" + +"Lumber and so forth, and plenty of tools of one sort or other." + +"Damn me if I don't believe you're the man who is coming up here to open +the coal mines on Burgess's land!" And the whole crowd gathered round +him. + +He laughed good-naturedly. + +"Yes, I am coming to live among you. I hope you'll give me a welcome." + +There was a cheery sound of welcome from the men, but my father shook +his head. + +"We don't like no new-fangled notions, noways, up here, and I'll not say +that I'm glad you're bringing them in; but, at any rate, you're welcome +here to-night." + +The young man held out his hand. + +"We are to be close neighbors, Squire Boarders, and I hope we shall be +good friends; but I ought to tell you all about myself. Mr. Burgess's +land has been bought by a company, who intend to open the coal mines, as +you know, and I am sent up here as their agent, to make ready for the +miners and the workmen. We shall clear away a little, and put up some +rough shanties, to make our men comfortable before we go to work. We +shall bring a new set of people among you, those Scotch and Welsh +miners; but I believe they are a peaceable set, and we'll try to be +friendly with each other." + +The frank speech and the free, open face seemed to mollify my father. + +"And how do you call yourself, stranger, when you are at home?" + +"My name is George Hammond." + +"Well, as I was telling you, you're welcome here to-night, and I don't +know as I've anything against your settling over the river on Burgess's +land. The people round here have been telling me your coming will be a +good thing for us farmers, because you'll bring us a market for our corn +and potatoes; but I don't see no use of raising more corn than we want +for ourselves. We have enough selling to do with our lumber, and you'll +be thinning out the trees.--But there's my old woman's got her supper +ready." + +I listened as I waited on the table. The talk varied from farming to +mining and the state of the river, merging at last into the politics of +the country, and through the whole of it I watched the stranger: noticed +how different was his language from anything I had ever heard before; +marked the clear tones of his voice and the distinctness of his +utterance, contrasting with the heavy, thick gutturals, the running of +words into each other, the slovenly drawl of my father and his men; +watched his manner of eating, his neat disposition of his food on his +plate; saw him move his chair back with a slight expression of +annoyance, unmarked by any one else, as Will Foushee spit on the floor +beside him. All this I observed, in a mood half envious, half sullen,--a +mood which pursued me that night into my little attic, as I peevishly +questioned with myself wherein lay the difference between us. + +"Why is this man any better than Will Foushee or Ned Burgess? He is no +stronger nor better able to do a day's work. Why am I afraid of him, +when I don't care an acorn for the others? Why do my father and the men +listen to him and crowd round him? What makes him stand among them as if +he did not belong to them, even when he talks of what they know better +than he? There is not a man round Sandy that could make me feel as +ashamed as that gentleman did when he spoke to me this afternoon. Is it +because he is a gentleman?" And sullenly I resolved that I would be put +down by no airs. I was as good as he, and would show him to-morrow +morning that I felt so. Then came the bitter acknowledgment, "I am not +as good as he is. I am a stupid, ugly girl, who knows nothing but +hateful housework and a little of the fields and trees; and he,--I +suppose he has been to school, and read plenty of books, and lived among +quality." And I cried myself to sleep before I had made up my mind fully +to acknowledge his superiority. + +It was one of my greatest pleasures to get up early. Our people were not +early risers, except when work pressed upon them, and I often secured my +only leisure hour for the day by stealing down the staircase, out into +the woods, by early sunrise, when, wrapped in an old shawl, and +sheltered from the dew by climbing into the lower branches of my pet +maple, I would watch the fog reaching up the opposite hills, putting +forth as it were an arm, by which, stretched far out over the trees, it +seemed to lift itself from the valley,--or perhaps carrying with me one +of the few books which made my library, I would spell out the sentences +and attempt to extract their meaning. + +They were a strange medley, my books: some belonging to my step-mother, +and others borrowed or begged from the neighbors, or brought to me by +the men, with whom I was a favorite, and who knew my passion for +reading. My mother's books were mostly religious: a life of Brainerd, +the missionary, whose adventures roused within me a gleam of religious +enthusiasm; some sermons of the leading Methodist clergy, which, to her +horror, I pronounced stupid; and a torn copy of the "Imitation of +Christ," a book which she threatened to take from me, because she +believed it had something to do with the Papists, but to which, for that +very reason, I clung with a tenacity and read with an earnestness which +brought at last its own beautiful fruits. Then, there was the "Scottish +Chiefs," a treasure-house of delight to me,--two or three trashy novels, +given me by Tom Salyers, of which my mother knew nothing,--and (the only +poetry I had ever seen) a song-book, which had, scattered among its +vulgarisms and puerilities, some gems of Burns and Moore. These my +natural, unvitiated taste had singled out, and I would croon them over +to myself, set them to a tune of my own composing, and half sing, half +chant them, when at work out-of-doors, till my mother declared I was +going crazy. + +This morning I did not read. I sat looking down into the water from my +perch, carrying on the inward discussion of the night before, and +wishing that breakfast-time were come, that I might try my strength and +show that I was not to be put down by any assumption of superiority, +when suddenly a voice near me made me start so that I almost lost my +balance. Mr. Hammond was standing beneath. He laughed, and held out his +hand to help me down; but I sprang past him and was on my way to the +house, when suddenly my brave resolutions came back to my mind, and I +stood still with a feeling of defiance. I wondered what he would dare to +say. Would he tell me how stupid he thought us all, how like the very +pigs we lived? or would he describe his own grand house and the great +places he had seen? I scowled up sullenly. + +"Will you tell me where to find a towel, that I may wash my face here by +the river-side?" + +I laughed aloud, and with that laugh fled my sullenness. He looked a +little puzzled, but went on,-- + +"I went to bed so early that I cannot sleep any longer; and if I could +only find some way of getting across the river, I could get things under +way a little before my men come up." + +There were ways, then, in which I could help him,--he was not so +immeasurably above me,--and down went my defiant spirit. The towel, a +crash roller, luckily clean, was brought at once, and, gathering courage +as I stood by and saw him finish his washing, I said,-- + +"I can scull you over the river in a few minutes, if you will go in our +skiff." + +"You? can you manage that shell of a thing? will your father let you +take it, Miss Boarders?" + +"My name is Janet Rainsford, and Squire Boarders is not my father," said +I, some of my sullenness returning. + +"If you will take me, Janet," said he, with the frank, open-hearted tone +which had won my step-father the night before,--a tone before which my +sullenness melted. + +I jumped in, and, letting him pass me before I threw off the rope, +sculled the little dug-out into the middle of the river. No boatman on +the Sandy was more skilful than I in the management of the little +vessel, for in it most of my leisure time had been passed for the last +year or two. My step-mother had scolded, my father grumbled, and the +farmers' wives and daughters had shaken their heads and "allowed that +Janet Rainsford would come to no good, if she was let fool about here +and there, like a boy." But on that point I was incorrigible; the boat +was my one escape from my daily drudgery, and late at night and early in +the morning I went up and down among the shoals and bars, under the +trees and over the ripples, till every turn of the current was familiar +to me. I knew all the boatmen, too, up and down the river, would pull +along-side their rafts or pushing-boats, and get from them a slice of +their corn-bread or a cup of coffee, or at least a pleasant word or +jest. And none but pleasant words did I ever receive from the rough, but +honorable men whom I met. They respected, as the roughest men will +always do, my lonely girlhood, and felt a sort of pride in the daring, +adventurous spirit that I showed. + +My knowledge of the river stood Mr. Hammond in good stead that morning, +as soon as I understood that he was looking for a place where his men +could land easily. It was only to sweep round a small bluff that jutted +into the river, and carry the skiff into the mouth of Nat's Creek, +where the bank sloped gradually down to the water from a level bit of +meadow-land that extended back some rods before the hills began to rise. +Mr. Hammond leaped out. + +"The very place,--and here, on this point, shall be my saw-mill. I'll +run the road through here and up the creek to the mining-ground, and +build my store under the ledge there, and my shanties on each side the +road." + +I caught his enthusiasm, and, my shyness all gone, I found myself +listening and suggesting; more than that, I found my suggestions +attended to. I knew the river well; I knew what points of land would be +overflowed in the June rise; I knew how far the backwater would reach up +the creek; I knew the least obstructed paths through the woods; I could +even tell where the most available timber was to be found. I felt, too, +that my knowledge was appreciated. George Hammond had that one best gift +that belongs to all successful leaders, whether of armies, colonies, or +bands of miners: he recognized merit when he saw it. From that morning a +feeling of self-respect dawned upon me, I was not so altogether ignorant +as I had thought myself, I had some available knowledge; and with that +feeling came the determination to raise myself out of that slough of +despond into which I had fallen the night before. + +From that time a sort of friendship sprang up between George Hammond and +myself. Every morning I rowed him across the river, and, in the early +morning light, before the workmen were out of bed, he talked over, +partly to himself and partly to me, his plans for the day and his +vexations of the day before, until I began to offer advice and make +suggestions, which made him laughingly call me his little counsellor. + +Then in the evenings (he slept at my father's) he would pick up my books +and amuse himself with talking to me about them, laugh at my crude +enthusiasms, clear up some difficult passage, prune away remorselessly +the trash that had crept into my little collection, until, one day, +returning from Cincinnati, where business had called him, he brought +with him a store of books inexhaustible to my inexperienced eyes, and +declared himself my teacher for the winter. + +"Never mind Janet's knitting and mending, Mrs. Boarders," said he, in +reply to my mother's complaints; "she is a smart girl, and may be a +school-mistress yet, and earn more money than any woman on Sandy." + +"But I am afraid," my step-mother answered, "that the books she reads +are not godly, and have no grace in them. They look to me like players' +trash. I've tried to do my duty to Janet," she continued, plaintively; +"but I hope the Lord won't hold me accountable for her headstrong ways." + +Meantime, as I read in one of my books, and repeated to myself over and +over again in my fulness of content,-- + + "How happily the days + Of Thalaba went by!" + +How rapidly fled that winter, and how soon came the spring, that would +bring me, I thought, new hopes, new interests, new companions! + +How changed a scene did I look upon, that bright April morning, when I +went over the river to see that all was in readiness for the boats from +below which were to bring Esther Hammond to her new home! She was to +keep her brother's house; and furniture, books, and pictures, such as I +had never dreamed of, had been sent up by the last-returning boatmen, +all of which I had helped Mr. Hammond to arrange in the little two-story +cottage which stood on the first rise of the hill behind the store. + +A little plat of ground was hedged in with young Osage-orange shrubs, +and within it one of the miners, who had formerly been an under-gardener +in a great house in Scotland, had already prepared some flower-beds and +sodded carefully the little lawn, laying down the walks with +bright-colored tan, which contrasted pleasantly with the lively green +of the grass. From the gate one might look up and down the road, +bordered on one side by the trees that hung over the river, and on the +other by the miners' houses, one-story cottages, each with its small +inclosure, and showing every degree of cultivation, from the neat +vegetable-patch and whitewashed porch of the Scotch families to the +neglected waste ground and slovenly potato-patch of the Irishmen. There +were some Sandians among the hands, but they never could be made to take +one of the houses prepared for the miners. They lived back on the +creeks, generally on their own lands, raised their corn and tobacco, cut +their lumber, and hunted or rode the country, taking jobs only when they +felt so inclined, but showing themselves fully able to compete with the +best hands both in skill and in endurance, when they were willing to +work. + +On the side of the hill across the creek could be seen the entrance to +the mines, and down that hill were passing constantly the cars, loaded +with earth and stone taken from the tunnel, which fell with a thundering +sound into the valley beneath. Below me was the store, gay with its +multifarious goods, which supplied all the needs of the miners and their +wives, from the garden-tools and seeds for the afternoon-work to the +gay-colored dresses for the Sunday leisure,--where, too, on Saturday +night, whiskey was to be had in exchange for the scrip in which their +wages were paid, and where, sometimes, the noise waxed fast and furious, +till Mr. Hammond would cut off the supply of liquor, as the readiest +means of stilling the tumult. + +On this side the river all was changed. But as I looked that morning +across the stream towards my step-father's farm, my own home, everything +there lay as wild and unimproved as I had known it since the first day +my mother brought me there, comfortless and disorderly as it was when, +child as I was, I could remember the tears of fatigue and discouragement +which she dropped upon my face as she put me for the first time into my +little crib; but there, too, were still (and my heart exulted as I saw +them) the glorious water-maples, the giant sycamores, and the +bright-colored chestnut-trees, which I had known and loved so long. +Would Miss Hammond see how beautiful they were? would she praise them as +her brother had done? would she listen as kindly to my rhapsodies about +them? and would she say, as he had said, that I was a poet by nature, +with a poet's quick appreciation of beauty and the poet's gift of +enthusiastic expression? I could not tell whether Esther Hammond would +be to me the friend her brother had been, with the added blessing, that, +being a woman, I could go freely to her with my deficiencies in sure +dependence upon her aid and sympathy,--or if she would come to stand +between me and him, to take away from me my friend and teacher. Time +alone would show; and meanwhile I must be busy with my preparations, for +the boats were expected at noon, and Mr. Hammond, who had ridden down to +Louisa to meet them, had said that he depended upon me to have things +cheerful and in order when they arrived. + +Two hours' hard work saw everything in its place, the furniture arranged +to the best of my ability, but wanting, as I sorely felt, the touch of a +mistress's hand to give it a home-like look. I had done my best, but +what did I know of the arrangement of a lady's house? I hardly knew the +use of half the things I touched. But I _would_ not let my old spirit of +discontent creep over me now; so, betaking myself to the woods, which +were full of the loveliest spring flowers, I brought back such a +profusion of violets, spring-beauties, and white bloodroot-blossoms, +that the whole room was brightened with their beauty, while their faint, +delicate perfume filled the air. + +"Surely these must please her," I said to myself, as I put the last +saucerful on the table, and stepped back to see the result of my work. + +"They certainly will, Janet," said George Hammond, who had entered +behind me. "How well you have worked, and how pleasant everything +looks! Esther will be so much obliged to you. She is just below, in the +boat. Will you not come with me and help her up the bank?" + +But I hung back, bashful and frightened, while he called some of the men +to his assistance, and, hurrying down to the river, landed the boat, and +was presently seen walking toward the house with a lady leaning upon his +arm. I saw her from the window. A tall, dignified woman, with a +face--yes, beautiful, certainly, for there were the regular features, +the dark eyes, with their straight brows, the heavy, dark hair, parted +over the fair, smooth forehead, but so quiet, so cold, so almost +haughty, that my heart stood still with an undefined alarm. + +She came in and sat down in one of the chairs without taking the least +notice of me. Mr. Hammond spoke,-- + +"This is Janet Rainsford, my little friend that I told you of, Esther. I +hope you will be as good friends as we have been. She will show you +every beautiful place around the country, and make you acquainted with +the people, too." + +Miss Hammond looked at me with a steadiness of gaze under which my eyes +sank. + +"I shall not trouble the young person much, since I shall only walk when +you can go with me; and as for the people, it is not necessary for me to +know them, I suppose." + +George Hammond bit his lip. + +"Janet has taken great pains to put everything in order for us here. I +should hardly know the room, it is so improved since I left it this +morning." + +"She is very kind," said his sister, languidly; "but, George, how +horribly this furniture is arranged,--the sofa across the window, the +centre-table in the corner!" + +"Oh, you will have plenty of time to arrange it, Esther. Come, let me +show you your own room; you will want to rest while your Dutch +girl--what's her name? Catrine?--gets us something to eat." + +Miss Hammond followed her brother to her room, while, mortified and +angry with her, with myself, I escaped from the house, jumped into my +skiff, and hardly stopped to breathe till I had reached my own little +garret. I flung myself on my bed, and burst into bitter tears of +resentment and despair. So, after all my pains, after my endeavors to +improve myself, after all I had done, I was not worth the notice of a +real lady. I supposed I was an uncouth, awkward girl, disagreeable +enough to her; she would not want to see me near her. All I had done was +miserable; it would have been better to let things alone. I never would +go near her again,--that was certain,--she should not be troubled by +me;--and my tears fell hot and fast upon my pillow. Then came my old +sullenness. Why was she any better than I? Her brother thought me worth +talking to; could she not find me worthy of at least a kind look? +Perhaps she knew more than I did of books; but what of that? She had not +half the useful knowledge wherewith to make her way here in the woods. +And what right had she to bring her haughty looks and proud ways here +among our people? My sullenness gave way before my bitter disappointment +and my offended pride. I was only a child of sixteen, sensitive and +distrustful of myself, and her cold looks and colder words had keenly +wounded me. + +A week passed, in which I gave myself most earnestly to the household +tasks, going through them with dogged pertinacity, and accomplishing an +amount of work which made my step-mother declare that Janet was coming +back to her senses after all. It was only my effort to forget my +disappointment. + +On the Saturday evening when I sat tired out with my exertions, Mr. +Hammond came up the path. How my heart leaped at seeing him! How good he +was to come! His sister had not taught him to despise me. But when he +asked me to come over, the next day, and see what he had done to his +house and garden, the demon of sullen pride took possession of me again. +I would not go. I had too much to do; my mother would want me to get +the dinner. In short, I could not go. He bore it good-naturedly, though +I think he understood it, and, leaving with me a package of books which +he had promised me, said he must go, as Esther would be waiting tea for +him. + +Many another endeavor did George Hammond make to bring his sister and +myself together, but the first impression had been too strong for me, +and Miss Hammond made no effort to remove it. I do not believe it ever +crossed her mind to try to do so. Little was it to her whether or no she +made herself pleasant to a stupid, ugly girl. She had her books, her +light household cares, her letter-writing, her gardening, her walks and +drives with her brother, and she felt and showed little interest in +anything else. Very unpopular she was among the people around her, who +contrasted her cold reserve with her brother's frank cordiality; but she +troubled herself not at all about her unpopularity. For me, I kept shyly +out of her way, and fell back into my old habits. + +I had not lost my friend, Mr. Hammond. He did not read with me regularly +as before, but he kept me supplied with books, and the very infrequency +of his lessons stimulated me to redoubled effort, that I might surprise +him by my progress when we met again. Then there was scarcely a day that +some business did not take him past our house, or that I did not meet +him by the river-bank or at the store. Sometimes he would ask me to row +him down the stream on some errand, sometimes he would take me with him +in his rides. I was a fearless horsewoman, and Miss Hammond did not +ride. In all those meetings he was frank and kind as ever; he told me of +his plans, his annoyances, his projects. No, I had not lost my friend, +as I had feared, and when assured of this, I could do without Miss +Hammond. + +And so the weeks glided into months, and the months into years, and I +was nineteen years old. Four years had passed since the morning when +George Hammond first awakened my self-esteem, first gave me the impulse +to raise myself out of my awkwardness and ignorance, to make of myself +something better than one of the worn, depressed, dispirited women I saw +around me. Had I done anything for myself? I asked. I was not educated, +I had no acquirements, so-called; but I had read, and read well, some +good and famous books, and I knew that I had made their contents my own. +I was richer for their beauties and excellences. With my self-respect +had come, too, a desire to improve my surroundings, and, as far as they +lay under my control, they had been improved. Our household was more +orderly; some little attempt at neatness and decoration was to be seen +around and in the house, and my own room, where I had full sway, was +beautiful in its rustic adornment. + +My glass, too, the poor little three-cornered, paper-framed companion of +my girlhood, showed me some change. The complexion had cleared, the hair +had taken a decided brown, and the angular figure had rounded and +filled. It was hardly a week since, standing in Miss Hammond's kitchen +counting over with her servant-girl the basketful of fresh eggs which +were sent from our house every week, I had overheard Mr. Hammond say to +his sister,-- + +"Really, Janet Rainsford has improved so much that she is almost pretty. +Her brown hair tones so well with her quiet eyes; and as to her mouth, +it is really lovely, so finely cut, and with so much character in it." + +What was it to me that Miss Hammond's cold voice answered,-- + +"I think you make a fool of yourself, George, and of that girl too, +going on as you do about her. She will be entirely unfitted for her +state of life, and for the people she must live with." + +Her words had hardly time to chill my heart when it bounded again, as I +turned hurriedly away and passed under the window on my way out, at +hearing her brother's answer:-- + +"There is too much in her to be spoiled. I like her. She has talent and +character, and I cannot understand, Esther, why you are so prejudiced +against her." + +There were others besides Mr. Hammond who thought me improved and who +liked me. Tom Salyers never let an evening pass without dropping into +our house on his way home from the store, where he was a sort of +overseer or salesman,--never failed to bring in its season the earliest +wild-flower or the freshest fruit,--had thoroughly searched Catlettsburg +for books to please me,--nay, had once sent an indefinite order to a +Cincinnati bookseller to put up twenty dollars' worth of the best books +for a lady, which order was filled by a collection of the Annuals of six +years back and a few unsalable modern novels. I read them all most +conscientiously and gratefully, and would not listen for a moment to Mr. +Hammond's jests about them; but, a few weeks afterwards, I almost +repented of my complaisance, when Tom Salyers took me at an advantage +while rowing me down to Louisa one afternoon, and, seeing a long stretch +of river before him without shoal or sand-bar, leisurely laid up his +oars, and, letting the boat float with the stream, asked me, abruptly, +to marry him, and go with him up into the country to a new place which +he meant to clear and farm. + +I laughed at him at first, but he persisted till I was forced to believe +him in earnest; and then I told him how foolish he was to fancy an ugly, +sallow-looking girl like me, who had no father nor mother, when he might +take one of John Mills's rosy daughters, or go down to Catlettsburg and +get somebody whose father would give him a farm already cleared. + +"You are laughing at me, Janet," he said. "I know I am not smart enough +for you, nor hardly fit to keep company with you, now that Hammond has +taught you so many things that are proper for a lady to know; but I love +you true, and if you can only fancy me, I'll work so hard that you'll be +able to keep a hired girl and have all your time for reading and going +about the woods as you like to do. And you'll be in your own house, +instead of under Squire Boarders and his sharp-spoken wife. Couldn't you +fancy me after a while? I'd do anything you said to make myself +agreeable and fit company for you." + +"You are very fit company for me now, Tom," I said, "and you are of a +great deal more use in the world than I am; you know more that is worth +knowing than I do. Only let us be good friends, as we have always been, +and do not talk about anything else." + +"I will not talk any more of it now," said he, "if so be it don't please +you, and if you'll promise never to say any more to me about the Mills +gals, or any of them critters down in Catlettsburg,--I can't abide the +sight of them,--and if you'll let me come and see you all the same, and +row you about and take you to the mill when you want flour." + +I held out my hand to Tom with the earnest assurance that I always liked +to see him and talk to him, and that there was nobody whom I would +sooner ask to do me a kindness. + +The poor fellow choked a little as he thanked me, and then, recovering +himself, rowed a few strokes in silence, when, looking round as if to +assure himself that there was nothing near us but the quiet trees, he +said suddenly,-- + +"I'll tell you what, Janet, I've a great mind to tell you something, +seeing how you're not a woman that can't hold her tongue, and then you +think so much of Hammond." + +I started with a quick sense of alarm, but Tom went doggedly on. + +"You know what a hard winter we've had, with this low water and no +January rise, and all that ice in the Ohio. They say they're starving +for coal down in Cincinnati, and here we've no end of it stacked up. +Well, Hammond, he's had hard work enough to keep the men along through +the winter. Many another man would have turned them off, but he wouldn't +do it; so he's shinned here and shinned there to get money to pay them +their wages, and they've had scrip, and we've fairly brought goods up to +the store overland, on horseback and every kind of way, just for their +convenience; and now the damned Irish rascals, with some of the Sandy +boys for leaders, have made up their minds to strike for higher wages +the minute we have a rise, just when we'll need all hands to get the +coal off, and all those boats laying at the mouth, too. I heard it day +before yesterday, by chance like, when Jim Foushee and the two O'Learys +were sitting smoking on the fence behind the store. The O'Learys were +tight with the Redeye they had aboard, and let it out in their stupid +'colloguing,' as they call it; but Jim Foushee saw me standing at the +window, and right away called in two or three of the Sandy men and +threatened my life if I told Hammond. They have watched me like a cat +ever since, and never left me and Hammond alone together. They are with +Hammond now, launching a coal-boat, or I'd never have got off with you." + +I sat breathless. I knew it was ruin to let the expected rise pass +without getting the coal-boats down; but what could be done? + +"Don't look so pale, Janet. You can tell Hammond, you know, and he'll +find a way to circumvent them. And it was to tell you all this that I +brought you out here this afternoon, only my unlucky tongue would talk +of what I see it's too soon to talk of yet. But here's Louisa, right +ahead. Make haste and get your traps, while I settle my business, and +we'll be back, perhaps, in time for you to manage some way to see +Hammond to-night. Nobody knows you went with me, and you'll never be +suspected." + +Not Tom Salyers's most rapid and vigorous rowing could make our little +skiff keep pace with my impatience; but, thanks to his efforts, the sun +was still high when he landed me in the little cove behind our house, +where I could run up through the woods to our back-door, while he pulled +boldly up to the store-landing and called some of the men to help him +carry his purchases up the bank. I did not stop for a word with my +step-mother, but, passing rapidly through the house, threw my parcels on +the bed in the sitting-room, and, running down the walk to the +maple-tree under which my dug-out was always tied, jumped into it and +sculled out into the river. The coal-boat had just been launched, and +George Hammond was standing on the bank superintending the calking of +the seams which the water made visible. I pushed up to the bank, and +called to him as I neared,-- + +"Can you not come, Mr. Hammond, a little way up-stream with me? I have +found those young tulip-trees that you want for your garden; they are +just round the bend above Nat's Creek. Jim Foushee will see to that +work, and I have just time to show them to you before supper." + +I was a favorite with Jim Foushee. He laughed a joking welcome to me, as +he said,-- + +"I'll see to this, Sir, if you want to go with Janet Rainsford. She's +the gal that knows the woods. A splendid Sandy wife you'll make some +young fellow, Janet, if you don't get too book-learned." + +In five minutes we were off and had rounded the point out of sight and +hearing. In a few hurried words I told my story, but at first Mr. +Hammond would not believe it. + +"Those men that I've done so much for and worked so hard for this +winter!" + +At last, convinced, his face set with the determined look that I had +seen on it once or twice before. + +"I'll not raise the wages of a single man, and, what's more, I'd turn +them all off the place, if only I could find others. But those boats at +Catlettsburg, they are the most important. The Company would send me up +men from Cincinnati, if only I could get word to them; but these rascals +will stop any letter I send. Those Sandians are capable of it,--or +rather they are capable of putting the Irishmen up to doing their dirty +work for them." + +"A letter would be safe, if it once reached Catlettsburg?" I asked. + +"Certainly. But how to get it there?" + +"I can take it. Nobody will suspect me. Give me the letter to-night, and +I will go to-morrow." + +"You, Janet? you are crazy!" + +"No, indeed. I often ride to Louisa; what is to hinder me from having +errands to Catlettsburg. I could go down there in one day, and take two +days back, if my father thinks it is too much for old Bill to take it +through in one." + +"Oh, you could borrow Swiftfoot. I have often lent him to you, and he +would carry you safely and surely. I don't believe any harm would come +to you, and so much depends upon it." + +I turned the skiff decidedly. + +"You have only to get your letter ready and give it to me when I come +over in the morning to borrow Swiftfoot. I will take care of all the +rest." + +And, sculling rapidly, we were at the wharf again before he had time to +raise objections. I knew that I could persuade my mother into letting me +go to Louisa again the next day, for we needed all our spring +purchases,--and once there, it was easy to find it necessary to go to +the mouth. I had never been alone, but often with my father or some of +our hands; besides, I was too well able to take care of myself, too +accustomed to have my own way, to anticipate any anxiety about my not +returning. + +And so it proved. The next morning saw me mounted on Swiftfoot, the +letter safe in my bosom, and a long list of articles wanted in my +pocket. What a lovely ride that was, with the gentle, spirited horse of +which I was so fond for a companion and my own beautiful forests in all +their loveliest spring green around me, with just enough of mystery and +danger in the expedition to add an exhilarating excitement and with the +happy consciousness that I was doing something for Mr. Hammond, who had +done so much for me, to urge me on! I cantered merrily past Jim +Foushee's cornfield, and, nodding to him, as be stood in the door of his +log-house, I enjoyed telling him that I was going to Louisa on a +shopping expedition. "Should I get anything for him? He could see that +Mr. Hammond had lent me Swiftfoot, so that I should soon be back, if I +could buy all I wanted in Louisa; if not, I did believe I should go on +to Catlettsburg: the ride would be so glorious!" + +And glorious it was. I was happy in myself, happy in my thoughts of my +friend, happy in the physical enjoyment of the air, the woods, the sun, +the shade. Let me dwell on that ride. I have not had many happy days, +but that was one which had its fulness of content. And I succeeded in +putting Mr. Hammond's letter into the Catlettsburg post-office, made my +little purchases, and turned my horse's head homeward, reaching the end +of my journey before my father or step-mother had time to be anxious for +me, and having a chance to whisper, "All right," to Tom Salyers, as he +took my horse from me at the door of the store. + +The long-expected rise came, and the strike came,--Jim Foushee heading +it, and standing sullen and determined in the midst of his party. Mr. +Hammond was prepared for them. The malcontents came to him in the store, +where he was filling Tom's place; for he had sent Tom to Catlettsburg, +avowedly to prepare the boats there to meet the rise, really to have him +out of the way. Their first word was met coolly enough. + +"You will not work another stroke, unless I give you higher wages, I +understand, Foushee? And these men say the same thing? You are their +spokesman? Very well, I am satisfied; you can quit work to-morrow. I +have other hands at the mouth for the boats there, and there is no hurry +about the coal that lies here." + +Foushee burst out with an oath,-- + +"That damned Salyers is the traitor! mean, cowardly rascal!" + +But Mr. Hammond would not tell me more of what passed; perhaps he was +afraid of frightening me. This only he told me that night, when thanking +me with glance, voice, and pressure of the hand for all I had done for +him. The blood rushed quick and hot through my veins, I was delirious +with an undreamed-of happiness, which took away from me all power of +answering, of even raising my eyes to his face, and the same delirium +followed me to my pillow. He had called me his friend, his little Janet, +who was so quick and ready, so fertile in invention, so brave in +execution: what should he have done without me? I repeated his words to +myself till they lost all their meaning; they were only replete with +blissful content, and filled me with their music till I dropped asleep +for very weariness in saying them over. + +The next morning, before I waked, George Hammond had gone. He had left +for Catlettsburg to direct the new hands. The works lay idle, the men +(those who had been dismissed) lounged around gloomy and sullen, and so +passed the week. Then came the news that Mr. Hammond and Tom Salyers had +gone to Cincinnati, and would not return for the present, and that such +men as were satisfied with the former wages were to be put to work +again. Readily did the miners come back to their duty, all but a few of +the Sandy men, who returned to their own homes, and all fell into the +usual train. + +And I? There was first the calm sense of happy security, then the +impatience to test again its reality, then the longing homesickness of +the heart. As weeks passed on and I saw nothing of him, as I heard of +his protracted stay, as I saw Miss Hammond make her preparations to join +him, as I watched the boat which carried her away, my sense of +loneliness became too heavy for me, and the same pillow on which I had +known those happy slumbers was wet with tears of bitter despondency. + +And yet I understood neither the happiness nor the tears. I did not know +(how should I?) what were the new feelings which made my heart beat at +George Hammond's name. I did not know why I yearned towards his sister +with a warmth of love that would fain show itself in kindly word or +deed. I did not know why the news that he was coming again, which +greeted me after long weeks of weariness, brightened with joyful +radiance everything that I saw, and glorified the aspect of my little +garret, as I had seen a brilliant bunch of flowers glorify and refine +with a light of beauty the every-day ugliness of our sitting-room. + +I sang my merriest songs that night, and my feet kept time to their +music in almost dancing measures. The next day, yes, by noon, he would +be at home. I could see his boat land from my little window, and then, +giving Miss Hammond time to be safely housed, I would row myself over to +the store and meet him there. How much I should have to tell him, how +much to hear! + +The morning came, and with it came a nervous bashfulness. I should never +dare to go over to see him. No, I would wait quietly until night, when +he would surely come himself to see me. Still I could watch his boat. +And nervously did I stand, my face pressed against the window-pane, +through the long morning hours, my sewing dropped neglected in my lap at +the risk of a scolding from my mother, watching the slow-passing river, +and the leaves hanging motionless over it in the stillness of the summer +noon. At last there was a stir on the opposite shore. Yes, the boat must +be in sight; I could even hear the shouts of the boatmen; and there, +rounding the bluff, she was; there, too, was Mr. Hammond in the stern, +with the rudder in his hand; there sat Miss Hammond, book in hand, with +her usual look of listless disdain. But whose was that girlish face +raised towards Mr. Hammond, while he pointed out so eagerly the +surrounding objects? whose that slight, girlish figure crowned with the +light garden-hat, with its wealth of golden hair escaping from under it? + +A sharp pang shot through me. Some one was coming to disturb my happy +hours with my teacher and friend; and the chill of disappointment was on +me already. I saw the boat land, saw George Hammond assist carefully +every step of the strange girl, saw an elderly gentleman step also upon +the bank and give his hand to Miss Hammond, and in two minutes the trees +of the landing hid them from my sight. + +And how slowly went the hours of that afternoon! how nervously I +listened to every tread, to every click of the gate! nay, my sharpened +hearing took note of every sway of the branches. But the day passed, the +night, and no one came. The next morning brought with it an impatience +which mastered me. I _must_ go, I must see him, and in five minutes I +was pushing my boat from its cove under the water-maple. + +But I needed not to have left my room; my visit would be useless; for, +lifting my eyes, as my boat came out from under the leaves, there, on +the path by the river-side opposite, I saw the strange lady mounted on +Swiftfoot, her light figure set off by a cloth riding-habit such as I +had never seen before, the graceful folds of which struck me even then +with a sense of beauty and fitness. I could even distinguish the golden +curls again, which fell close on George Hammond's face, as he stood by +her side arranging her stirrup, his own horse's bridle over his arm. A +backward motion of the oar sent my boat under the branches again, and I +sat motionless, watching them as they rode away. + +Two hours afterward they stopped at our gate, and I heard George +Hammond's voice calling me. The blood rushed to my forehead. Had I been +alone, I would not have heard; but my mother was in the room, and I had +no excuse for not going forward. He leaned from his horse and shook +hands cordially, while, at the same time, he said,-- + +"I have brought Miss Worthington to see you, Janet. She has heard so +much of your kindness to me, and of your courage last spring, that she +was anxious to know you. + +"This is Janet Rainsford, Amy," he continued, turning to her. + +The lovely, bright young face was bent towards me, the tiny hand +stretched out to mine, and I heard a gentle voice say,-- + +"Mr. Hammond has told me so much of you, Janet, (I may call you Janet, +may I not?) that I was determined to come and see you. I hope we shall +know each other." + +A great fear seized me then,--a fear which seemed to clutch my heart and +stop its beatings, leaving me without any power of reply. I only +stammered a few words, and Mr. Hammond, pitying what he thought my +bashfulness, rode on with a nod of farewell and some words, I could not +take in their sense, which seemed to be requests that I would teach Miss +Worthington all that I knew of the woods and the country. + +I sat down with a stunned feeling, dizzied with the knowledge that +seemed to blaze upon me with that horrid fear. Yes, I knew now what it +all meant,--the happiness, the loneliness of the past weeks, the +shrinking bashfulness of yesterday morning, and the chill that fell upon +me when I first saw the stranger in the boat. + +I loved George Hammond,--I, the country-girl, without one beauty, one +accomplishment, so ignorant, so beneath him. I had been fool enough to +fling away my heart,--and now, now that it was gone from me, there came +this terrible fear. What was this young girl to him? Were my intuitions +right? Did he love her? Would she take him away from me? take away even +that poor friendship which was all I asked? + +That night,--I cannot tell of it,--the rapid, wearying walk from side to +side of my little garret, the despairing flinging myself on the bed, the +restlessness that would bring me to my feet again, the pressing my hot +face against the cool window-pane, the convulsive sobs with which the +struggle ended, the heavy, unrefreshing sleep that came at last, and the +dull wakening in the morning, when nothing seemed left about my heart +but a dead weight of insensibility. But with the brightening hours came +again the restlessness. I would at least know the worst; let me face all +my wretchedness; it could not be but strength would come to me when the +worst was over. + +And so I went doggedly through my morning tasks, and the early afternoon +saw me at the store. I would not go to Miss Hammond's house, but I was +sure to hear something of the new-comers among the gossiping miners and +workmen,--or, if not there, I had only to drop into some of the +cottages, to learn from their wives all that they knew or imagined. How +little I learned,--how little compared to what my fierce, craving heart +asked! + +"Miss Worthington was here with her father; they had come to see the +mines, so they said; but who knows the truth? More like it was to be a +wedding between the young folks, and the father wanted to see the Sandy +country before he let his daughter come into it. She was a sweet-spoken +young thing,--not like Miss Hammond, with her proud, quality airs." + +But all this was only conjecture, and I must have certainty. The +certainty came that evening. Mr. Hammond passed the store as I was +standing by the counter, and insisted that I should go home to tea with +him. I had often done so before, and had no excuse, even when he said,-- + +"I want so much to make Miss Worthington like our Sandy people, Janet. I +want her father to see that there are people worth knowing even here. +You will tell her of all the pleasures we have,--our walks, our rides. +You cannot be afraid of her, dear Janet,--she is so gentle, so lovely." + +A strange feeling seized me, one mingled of gentleness and bitterness. +Yes, for his sake, I would help him. I would do all I could to welcome +to his home her who was to be its blessing, and (here my good angel left +me and some evil one whispered) I would show her, too, that I was not so +altogether to be contemned; she should see that I was not merely the +poor country-girl she thought me. And all I had of thought or feeling, +all that George Hammond had called my inborn poetry, came out that +evening. I talked, I talked well, for I was talking of what I +understood,--of my own forests and streams, of the flowers whose haunts +I knew so well, of the changing seasons in their varying beauty,--nay, +as I gained courage, as I saw that I commanded attention, the books that +I had read so well, the thoughts of those great writers that I had made +my own, came to my aid, and quotation and allusion pressed readily to my +lips. + +I saw Esther Hammond's cold look fixed upon my face, but I dared it back +again, and my color rose and my eye sparkled from the excitement. I felt +my triumph when I saw the surprise on Mr. Hammond's face, when I heard +the patronizing tone of Mr. Worthington's voice changed to one of +equality, as he said,-- + +"You are a worthy champion of Sandy life, Miss Janet. I believe Amy will +be tempted to try it." + +There was a quick blush on Amy's face as I turned to look at it, and a +glance of proud affection towards her from George Hammond, which took +away my false strength as I stood, leaving me, weak and trembling, to +seek my home in the evening twilight. + +That evening's short-lived triumph cost me dear. It betrayed my scarcely +self-acknowledged secret to another. Miss Hammond's woman's-eye had read +the poor fool who laid her heart open before her. I was made to feel my +weakness before her the next morning, when, walking into our kitchen, +she asked, with her hard, yet dignified calmness, that I should gather +for her some of the Summer Sweetings that hung so thick on the tree +behind our house. + +She followed me to the orchard. I gathered the apples diligently and +spoke no word, but not for that did I escape. She stood calmly looking +on till I had finished, then began with that terrible opening from which +we all shrink. + +"I should like to speak to you a few moments, Janet." + +I quailed before her, for I had somehow a perception of what she was +going to say, though I scarcely dreamed of the hardness with which it +would by said. The blow came, however. + +"My brother has been in the habit of taking notice of you ever since he +has been on the Sandy, and he has been of great advantage to you; but +you must be aware that such notice as he gave you when you were a mere +child cannot be continued now that you are a woman." + +I bowed my head, and my lips formed something like a "Yes." + +She went on. + +"I say this to you because I was surprised to find by your behavior last +night that you had allowed yourself to presume upon that notice, and I +do not suppose you know how unbecoming this is, from a person in your +position, especially before Miss Worthington." + +I was stung into a reply. + +"What is Miss Worthington to me?" came out sullenly from my lips. + +"Nothing to you, certainly, nor can she ever be; but as the future wife +of my brother, she is something to me." + +It was true, then; but so fully had I felt the truth before that this +certainty gave me no added pang. From its very depths of despair I drew +strength, and, my courage rising, I had power even to look full at Miss +Hammond, and say,-- + +"You may be sure I shall never intrude myself on Mr. Hammond's wife or +sister, nor upon him, unless he desires it, except, indeed, to wish him +happiness." + +My unexpected calmness roused her worst feelings, her pride, her +jealousy, and, with a woman's keen aim, she sent the next dart home. So +calmly she spoke, too, with such command of herself,--with a lady-like +self-control that I, alas! knew not how to reach. + +"I am happy to hear you say so, for there have been times when your +singular manner has made me fear that you nourished some very false and +idle dreams,--follies that I have sometimes thought it my duty as a +woman to warn you against"; and with one keen look at my burning face, +she took up the basket and walked away. + +I think at that moment I could have killed her, so bitter was the hatred +which I felt towards her; but the next brought its crushing shame, +taking away from me all but the desire to hide myself from every eye. +Where should I go? Somewhere where nobody could find me, where I could +be insured perfect solitude. It was not difficult to bury myself in the +forest that pressed around me on every side, and a few minutes saw me +struggling with the embarrassments of the tangled vines which obstructed +the path up our steepest hill. There was in the very difficulties to be +overcome something that seemed to bring me relief; they forced my mind +from myself. On, on I went, as if my life depended upon my struggles, +till, breathless and utterly exhausted, I had reached the top of the +hill, the highest point for miles around. + +I sank down on the cool grass, the fresh wind blowing on my face, and, +too wearied to think, shut my eyes against the beautiful Nature around +me, alive only to my own overpowering misery. How long I lay there I +never knew. I was safe and alone. I could be wretched as I pleased, away +from Miss Hammond's mocking eye, away from the sight of George Hammond's +happiness. But, strangely enough, out of the very freedom to be +miserable came at last a sense of relief. I looked my wretchedness full +in the face. Could I not bear it? And there rose within me a strength I +had not known before. I was young, I had a long life before me; it could +not be but that this great sorrow would pass away. At least, I would not +nourish it. I would do what I could to help myself. Help _myself_! For +the first time in my life I put up an earnest prayer for help out of +myself. The words, coming as such words come but few times in life, out +from the very depths of the heart, brought with them their softening +influence. The tears sprung forth, those tears which I thought I should +never shed again, and I burst into a passionate fit of crying, the +passionate crying of a child. It shook me from head to foot with its +hysterical convulsions, but it left me at last calmer, soothed into +stillness, with only now and then those choking after-sobs which I, +child like, sent forth there on the bosom of the only mother I had ever +known,--our kindly mother Earth. + +The sun was going down when I rose up, soothed and comforted, and +strengthened, too, for a time. I would do what I could. I would live +down this grief: how I knew not, but the way would come to me. And +gathering up my hair, which had fallen around me, I stopped, on my way +home, by a running stream, and bathed my eyes and forehead until I was +fit to appear before my step-mother. She did not question me; she was +too used to my unexplained absences since I had grown out of her +control. Sufficient for her that my tasks were always performed; +sufficient for her, that, that very evening, I threw myself with an +apparently untiring energy into the household work,--that I never rested +a moment till she herself closed the house and insisted that I should go +to bed. I slept that night,--after such fatigue, it was impossible but +that I should,--and woke in the morning with a renewed determination to +struggle against my sorrow. + +Alas! alas! I thought I had only to resolve. I thought the struggle +would be but once. How little I knew of the daily, almost hourly, +changes of feeling,--of the despondency, the despair, that would come, I +knew not why, directly upon my most earnest resolves, my hardest +struggles,--of the weakness that would make me at times give up all +struggling as useless,--of the mad hope that would sometimes arise that +something, some outward change, I did not dare to say what, would bring +me some relief! + +I had at least the courage to keep away from the sight of all that was +so miserable to me. I did not see George Hammond for weeks, and he--ah! +there was the bitterness--he did not miss me. + +And so the weary days went on. It is wonderful what endurance there is +in a young heart,--for how long a time it can beat off suffering all day +by unceasing labor, and lie awake all night with that same suffering for +a bedfellow, and still make no sign that a careless eye can see I look +at that time now with wonder. How did I bear that constant occupation by +day, alternated only with those sleepless nights, without breaking down +entirely? The crisis came at last,--a sort of stupor, a cessation of +suffering indeed, but a cessation, too, of all feeling. I was frightened +at myself. Alas! I had no one to be frightened for me. Could it be that +I was going to lose my senses? But no, I passed through that too, and +then came a more natural state of mind than any I had known since the +blow fell. + +My suffering self seemed like something apart from me, which I could +pity and help, could counsel and act for, and this one thing became +clear to me. Some change of scene was necessary to me. I could never go +on so; it was idle to attempt it. I could not live any longer face to +face with my grief. There was the whole world before me. Was it not +possible to go out into it? I had health, strength, ability, I was sure +of it. How often before had I dreamed over the seeking my fortune in +that world which looked to me then so full of excitement! Nothing had +held me back then but the clinging to home-pleasures, to +home-enjoyments, to home-comforts, poor as they were,--nothing but the +sense of safety, of protection. What were these to me now? I cared +nothing for them. I only asked to be away from all that reminded me of +my suffering, to be so forced to struggle with external difficulties as +to have no thought for myself. I did not want to love anybody; I would +rather have nobody care for me. I would go. The only question was how. + +A few days and nights of thought solved the problem for me, and, once +roused to action, I took my steps rapidly and well. The first thing +necessary was money, money enough to take me away, and to support me +until I could find employment; and the means of attaining it were +within my reach. I owned a watch that had been my mother's, a pretty +trinket, though somewhat old-fashioned, and which had often excited the +envy of the young wife of one of the head miners. I knew that her +husband was flush of money just then, for he had drawn his wages only +the week before,--and I knew, too, that he would give me a good price +for my watch, were it only to gratify the bride to whom he had as yet +denied nothing. + +The sale was made at once. I do not know if I got anything like the +value of the watch, but the next day saw me with fifty dollars in my +pocket, a small bundle, made up from the most available part of my +wardrobe, under my arm, prepared to walk to Louisa, avowedly to buy +supplies, but with the secret determination to meet there the coal-boats +which were bound for the mouth, ask a passage on them as far as +Catlettsburg, and there take the first steamer that passed, and let it +carry me whither it would. + +There was no pause of regret, no delay for parting looks or words; from +the moment that I had made up my mind to go, I felt nothing but a +desperate eagerness to be away, to be in action. The few words necessary +to prepare my step-mother for my ostensible errand were soon said, the +good-morning calmly spoken, and I passed into the forest-path leading to +the town. A pang smote me as I remembered her conscientious discharge of +duty toward me for so many years; but it was duty, not love, that had +urged her, and while I said that to myself, I said, too, that time would +bring to me the opportunity of repaying her. + +Toward the settlement on the opposite shore I turned no look. I would +not trust myself; I knew my own weakness too well; this desperate energy +which was carrying me on now would fail, if I allowed my heart one +moment's indulgence. Steadily I walked on through the woods, my own +woods, which, perhaps, I should never see again, till, wearied out by +the exertion, which had precluded thought, I saw the houses of Louisa +rise before me. + +The boats lay at the fork above the town. I had informed myself of their +movements, and knew they were to start at noon. A few inquiries for +groceries and so forth, where I know they could not be gotten, gave me +an excuse for the proposition to the captain of the boats to give me a +passage to Catlettsburg. It was readily granted, and the crew, most of +them Sandy men, put up a rough awning, and, spreading under it some +blankets, did their kind uttermost to make me comfortable. + +I remember now, as one looks back into a dream, the afternoon and night +that passed before we reached Catlettsburg. I lay perfectly quiet, +watching the shadowy trees as we glided past them, noting their varied +reflections in the water, marking every peculiarity of shore and stream, +hearing the jests and laughter, the words of command and the oaths, that +went round among the boatmen; but all passed as something with which I +had nothing to do. To me there was the burning desire to put a great +distance between myself and my home,--but with it, too, the +consciousness, that, as I could do nothing to expedite our slow +progress, so neither could I afford to waste upon it in impatient +restlessness the strength which would be so much needed afterwards. The +men brought me a cup of coffee from their supper, which gave me strength +for the night. The biscuit I could not taste. + +But how long was that night! how tedious the summer dawn! and how slowly +went the hours till we brought up our boats at the landing at +Catlettsburg! + +I had formed my plans; so, telling the captain that I might perhaps want +to go back with him, I hurried into the town. A steamboat lay by the +wharf-boat. "The Bostona, for Cincinnati," said the board displayed over +her upper railing. She was to leave at eight o'clock. I walked about the +town till half-past seven; then, returning to the coal-boats, gave to +the man left in charge a letter I had prepared, in which I told my +step-mother, in as few words as possible, that I wanted to see something +of the world, and had determined to go for a time either to Cincinnati +or to Pittsburg,--that I begged her not to be uneasy about me, I had +sold my watch, and had money enough for the present; she should hear +from me in due time. The man took the letter, with some remark on my not +returning with them, and, with a quiet good-day, I left him and walked +rapidly toward the steamer. The plank was laid from the wharf-boat, and, +without daring to hesitate, I walked over it. + +It was done. I was fairly separated from everything I had ever known +before; everything now was new to me; I was ignorant of all around me; +each step might be a mistake. I felt this, when a porter, stepping +forward and taking my bundle, asked me if I would have a state-room. +What was a state-room? I did not know, but saying, "Yes," with a +desperate feeling that it might as well be "yes" as "no," I was led back +to the ladies' cabin, a key was turned in one of an infinite number of +little doors, and I was ushered into what looked to me like a closet, +with shelves made to take the place of beds. Here at least I was alone, +and here I could be alone till dinner-time; till then there was no call +for action on my part. + +And how precious seemed to me every hour of rest! Singularly enough, my +great sorrow did not come back to me in those pauses of action. I seemed +then to be entirely absorbed in gathering strength for the next +occasion; my grief was put away for the future, when there would come to +me the time to indulge it. + +So I lay quiet during that morning, looking sometimes through my little +window at the passing shore, listening sometimes to the loud talking in +the cabin, sometimes to the noises on the boat, wondering if all those +strange creakings and shakings could be right, but finding a sense of +security in my very ignorance. Dinner came, and in the course of it I +found courage to ask the captain, at whose right hand I was placed, what +time we should reach Cincinnati. "Not till after breakfast," was his +welcome answer; for I had been haunted by a dread of being set adrift in +a great city in the middle of the night, when I might perhaps fall into +some den of thieves. I had read of such things in my books. This gave me +still the afternoon before it would be necessary to think, some hours +more in which to rest mind and body. + +The night came at last, and I must decide what step to take next, that, +my mind made up, I might perhaps get some sleep. I turned restlessly in +my narrow bed, got up, and stood at the window, tried first the upper +shelf, and then the lower, but no possible plan presented itself. I +still saw before me that terrible city where I should be ten times +lonelier than in the midst of our forests, where I should make mistakes +at every turn, where I should not know one face out of the many +thousands that crowded upon my nervous fancy. I seemed to be afraid of +nothing but human beings, and, at the thought of encountering them, my +woman's heart gave way. In vain I reasoned with myself, "I shall not see +all Cincinnati at once,--not more at one time, perhaps, than I saw +to-day at dinner." Still came up those endless streets, all filled with +strange faces; still I saw myself pushed, jostled, by a succession of +men and women who cared nothing for me. Suddenly came the thought, "Tom +Salyers is in Cincinnati. There is one person there that I know. If I +could only find him, he would take care of me till I knew how to take +care of myself." + +There came no remembrance of our last conversation to check my eager +joy. Indeed, it had never made much impression upon me, followed as it +had been by so much of nearer interest. I set myself to reflect on the +means of finding him. He had gone down in the employ of the coal +company. The captain could tell me where to look for him, and, satisfied +with that, I laid my weary head on my pillow. + +The next morning at breakfast I gained the needed information. "Did I +want to find one of the men in Mr. Hammond's employment? I must go to +the coal-yard"; and the direction was written out for me. + +And now we neared the city. I stood on the guards and looked wondering +at the steamboats that lined the river-bank, at the long rows of houses +that stretched before me, the tall chimneys vomiting smoke which +obscured the surrounding hills, at the crowd of men and drays on the +landing through which I was to make my way; but my courage rose with the +occasion, and, stepping resolutely from the plank, I walked up the hill +and stood among the warehouses. I had been told to "turn to the right +and take the first street, I could not miss my way"; but somehow I did +miss my way again and again, and wandered weary and bewildered, not +daring at first to ask for directions, till, gathering strength from my +very weariness, I at last saw before me the welcome sign. It was +something like home to see it; the familiar names cheered me while they +moved me. I entered the office trembling with a wild dread lest I should +meet Mr. Hammond there, but the sight of a stranger's face at the desk +gave me courage to ask for Tom Salyers. + +"He is in the yard now. Here, Jim, tell Salyers there's a person"--he +hesitated--"a lady wants to see him." + +I sat down in a chair which was luckily near me, for my knees trembled +so that I could not stand, and as the door opened and Tom's familiar +face was before me, my whole composure gave way and I burst into a +violent fit of crying. + +"Janet! is it you? For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" + +But I could only sob in answer. + +"Has anything happened up Sandy? Did you come for me?" + +The poor fellow leaned over me, his face pale with surprise and +agitation. + +"Take me out of here," was all I could muster composure enough to say. + +He opened the door, and I escaped into the open air. We walked side by +side through the streets, he silently respecting my agitation with a +delicacy for which I had not given him credit, and I struggling to grow +calm. At last he opened a little side-gate. + +"Come in here, Janet; we shall be quiet here." + +And I entered a sort of garden: the grounds belonging to the city +waterworks I have since known them to be. We sat down on a bench that +overlooked the Kentucky hills. I love the seat now. I think the sight of +the familiar fields and trees calmed me, and I was able at last to +answer Tom's anxious questions. + +"It is nothing; indeed, it is nothing. I am a foolish coward, and I was +frightened walking through the city, and then the sight of a home-face +upset me." + +"But, Janet, why are you here? Is anything wrong about the works, the +men? Did Mr. Hammond send you down?" + +"No, indeed, no! it was only a fancy of mine to see the world. I am +tired of that lonely life, and you know I am not needed there. My mother +can get along without me, and I am only a burden to my father." + +"Not needed? Why, Janet, what will the Sandy country be without you?" + +My eyes filled up with tears again. + +"Don't ask me any more questions, dear Tom; only help me for a little +while, till I can help myself. I want to earn my living somehow, but I +have money enough to live upon till I can find something to do. Only +find me a place to stay quietly in while I am looking for work. You are +the only person I know in this great city; and who will help me, if you +do not?" + +"You know I will help you with my whole heart and soul, Janet," he said, +his voice faltering. + +I looked up, and in one moment rushed back upon me the remembrance of +his words that day in the boat, and I stood aghast at the new trouble +that seemed to rise before me. My voice must have changed as I said,-- + +"I only want you to find me a place to live in; I can take care of +myself"; for his countenance fell, and he sat silent for some moments. + +At last he spoke:-- + +"I know I cannot do much, Janet, but what I can I will. And, first, I +will take you to the house of a widow-woman who has a room to let; one +of our men wanted me to take it, but it was too far from my work. I went +to see the place, though, and it is quiet and respectable; the woman +looks kind, too. Would you walk slowly down the street, while I go to +the office and get my coat?"--he was in his working-dress,--"and then +I'll join you." + +I got up, feeling that I had chilled him in some way, and reproaching +myself for it. When he rejoined me, we walked silently on, till, after +many a turning, we found ourselves in a narrow, quiet street, before a +small house, with a tiny yard in front. I do not know how the matter was +arranged; he did it all for me. There was the introducing me to a +motherly-looking person, as a friend of his from the country; the going +up a narrow staircase to look at a small room of which all that could be +said was that it was neat and clean; the bargaining for my board, in +which I was obliged to answer "Yes" and "No" as I could best follow his +lead; and then Tom left me with a shake of the hand, and the advice that +I should lie down and rest after my tedious journey; he would see me +again in the evening. + +The quiet dinner with my landlady, the afternoon rest, the fresh toilet, +the sort of home-feeling that my room already gave me, all did their +part towards bringing back my usual composure before Tom came in the +evening; and then, sitting by the window in the little parlor, I could +talk rationally of my plans for the future. + +I had money enough for twelve weeks' board, even if I reserved ten +dollars for other expenses. Surely, in that time I could find something +to do. And as to what I should do, I had thought that all over before I +left home. I might find some sewing, or tend in a store, or, +perhaps,--did he think I could?--I might keep school. + +Tom would not hear of my sewing. He knew poor girls that worked their +lives out at that. I might tend in a store, if I pleased, but still he +did not believe I would like to be tied to one place for twelve hours in +the day. Why shouldn't I keep school? he was sure I knew enough, I was +so smart, and had read so many books. + +I shook my head. I did not believe the books I had read were the kind +that school-mistresses studied. Still, I could learn, and certainly I +might begin by teaching little children. But where was I to begin? + +"If only we knew some gentleman, Janet, some city-man, who knew what to +do about such things." + +Suddenly a thought struck me. + +"Tom, do you remember those gentlemen who came up to look at the coal +mines when they were first opened? One of them stayed at our house two +nights, and saw my books, and talked to me about them. Mr. Kendall was +his name." + +"That's the very man; and a kind-hearted gentleman he seemed, not stuck +up or proud. I'll find him out for you, Janet, to-morrow; but there's no +need of your hurrying yourself about going to work. You must see the +city and the sights." + +And Tom grew enthusiastic in describing to me all that was to be seen in +this wonderful place. + +Tom had altered, had improved in appearance and manners, since he had +known something of city-life. I could not tell wherein the change lay, +but I felt it. He told me of himself,--of his rising to be head-man, a +sort of overseer, in the coal-yard,--of his good wages,--of some +investments that he had made which had brought him in good returns. + +"So you see, Janet, that, even if you were not so rich yourself, I have +plenty of money at your service." + +I thanked him most heartily, and roused myself to show some interest in +all that concerned him. + +So passed the rest of the week,--quiet days with my landlady, or in my +room, where I busied myself in putting my wardrobe into better shape +under the direction of Mrs. Barnum, and quiet walks and talks in the +evening with Tom Salyers. It was evident that he was not satisfied with +my alleged motives for leaving home, but I so steadily avoided all +conversation on this point that he learned to respect my silence. On +Sunday he told me he had found out who Mr. Kendall was. + +"One of the stockholders of the Company, and a good man, they say. I'll +go to him to-morrow, if you say so, Janet, and ask him anything you want +to know." + +"No, Tom, I shall go myself. It is my business, and I must not let you +do so much for me. If you will go with me, though,"--I added. + +And so the next morning saw us at Mr. Kendall's counting-room. It was +before business-hours: we had cared for that. We found Mr. Kendall +sitting leisurely over his papers, his feet up and his spectacles pushed +back. I had been nervous enough during the walk, but a glance at his +face reassured me. It was a good, a fatherly face, full of _bonhommie_, +but showing, withal, a spice of business-shrewdness. I left Tom standing +at the counting-room door, and, taking my fate in my own hands, walked +forward and made myself known. + +"Oh, yes! the little girl that Hammond thought so much of, that he talks +about so often when he is down here. He thinks a school or two would +bring the Sandy people out, and holds you up as an example; but, for my +part, I think you are an exception. There are not many of them that one +could do much with." + +I turned quickly. + +"This is Tom Salyers, Sir, head-workman, overseer, at your coal-yard, +and he is a Sandy man." + +Mr. Kendall laughed. + +"I see I must not say anything against the Sandy country; nor need I +just now. Walk in, Mr. Salyers. So, Miss Janet, you have come down to +seek your fortune, earn your living, you say. I suppose Hammond sent you +to me. Did you bring me a letter from him?" + +I hesitated. + +"No, Sir. Mr. Hammond was so much occupied when I came away that I had +not seen him for a day or two. He has friends staying with him." + +"True enough. Mr. Worthington has gone up there with his pretty daughter +to see whether he can allow her to bury herself in the country. You saw +Miss Worthington? Will she be popular among your people when she is Mrs. +Hammond?" + +I caught a glimpse of Tom's face, and felt myself turning pale as I +answered, with a composure that did not seem to come from my own +strength,-- + +"Miss Worthington is a very pleasant-spoken young lady. The people will +like her, because she seems to care for them, just as Mr. Hammond does. +But do you think, Sir, that you could put me in the way of teaching +school? Could I learn how to do it?" + +"Well, I am just the right person to come to, Miss Janet, for the people +have put me on the School Board, and--yes, we shall want some teachers +next month in two of the primary departments. Could you wait a month? +You might be studying up for your examination; it's not much, but it'll +not hurt you to go over their arithmetics and grammars. And I must write +to Hammond to-day about some business of the Company. I'll ask him about +your qualifications, and what he thinks of it, and we'll see what can be +done. I should not wonder if I could get you a place." + +Mr. Kendall shook hands with us both; and, bidding him good-morning, +with many thanks for his kindness, we went out. We walked a square +silently. Suddenly Tom turned to me:-- + +"You did not tell me, Janet, of this young lady." + +"No." + +"And is Mr. Hammond going to marry her?" + +The blood rushed to my face, till it was crimson to the very hair, while +I stammered,-- + +"I do not know,--you heard Mr. Kendall." + +Tom's voice was as gentle as a mother's in answer, but his words had +little to do with the subject, they were almost as incoherent as +mine,--something about his hoping I would like living in Cincinnati, +that teaching would not be too tiresome for me. But from that moment +George Hammond's name was never mentioned between us. + +I wrote that day to my step-mother, telling her of my plans and +prospects, and that evening Tom brought me the needed school-books. He +had found them by asking some of the men at the yard whose children went +to the public schools, and to the study of them I sat down with a +determination that no slight difficulty could subdue. The next week +brought a long, kind letter from Mr. Hammond, scolding me for going as I +did, and declaring that he missed me every day. + +"But more than all shall I miss you, Janet, when I bring Miss +Worthington back as my wife; I had depended so upon you as a companion +for her. But still it is a good thing for you to see something of the +world, and you are bright enough to do anything you set out to do. I +have written to Mr. Kendall to do all he can for you, and with Tom to +take care of you I am sure you will get along. I begin to suspect that +your going away was a thing contrived between Tom and yourself. Who +knows how soon he may bring you back among us to show the Sandy farmers' +wives how to live more comfortably than some of them do? Tom has a very +pretty place below the mouth of Blackberry, if you would only show him +how to take care of it." + +There was comfort in this letter, in spite of the tears it caused me. My +secret was safe. Miss Hammond had not been so cruel, so traitorous to +her sex, as to betray it. If she had not told it now, she never would +tell it, and Tom, if he suspected it, was too good, too noble, to +whisper it even to himself. So I laid away my letter, and with a lighter +heart turned again to my tasks. + +And now three months have passed, for two of which I have been teaching. +There are difficulties, yes, and there is hard work; but I can manage +the children. I have the tact, the character, the gift, that nameless +something which gives one person control over others; and for the +studies, they are as yet a pleasure to me. I see how they will lead me +on to other knowledge, how I may bring into form and make available my +desultory reading, and there is a great pleasure in the very study +itself. And for the rest, if my great grief is never out of my mind, if +it is always present to me, at least I can put it back, behind my daily +occupations and interests. I begin, too, to see dimly that there are +other things in life for a woman to whom the light of life is denied. My +heart will always be lonely; but how much there is to live for in my +mind, my tastes, my love for the beautiful! My little room has taken +another aspect. I have so few wants that I can readily devote part of my +earnings to gratifying myself with books, pictures. Such lovely prints +as I find in the print-shops! and the flowers--Tom Salyers, who is as +kind as a brother, brings me them from the market. And then everything +is so new to me; there is so much in life to see, to know. No, I will +not be unhappy; happy I suppose I can never be, but I have strength and +courage, and a will to rise above this sorrow which once crushed me to +the ground. When I wrote the bitter words with which this record begins, +I wronged the kind hearts that are around me, I lacked faith in that +world wherein I have found help and comfort. + + * * * * * + +ON THE RELATION OF ART TO NATURE. + +IN TWO PARTS. + +PART I. + + +The notion that Painting and Sculpture are concerned only with the +"imitation of Nature,"--that is, with copying the forms and colors of +existing things,--though so often expelled, as it were, with a +pitchfork, persistently recurs, not only in popular talk, but in +deliberate criticism, and in the practice of artists. There are periods +when this notion gets the upperhand, as at the end of the fifteenth +century, and again at the end of the eighteenth, when Rousseau +prescribed a return to Nature as the panacea for all defect, in Art as +elsewhere. Then Winckelmann and his successors triumphed over it for a +while,--showed at least the crudity of that statement. This is the +purpose of much of Sir Joshua Reynolds's lectures. Now it seems to be +coming up again,--thanks partly to Mr. Ruskin, though he might be quoted +on both sides,--and this time with some prospect of demonstrating, by +the aid of photography, what it does in fact amount to. + +It is a very general opinion that photography has made painting +superfluous,--or, at least, that it will do so as soon as further +improvements in the process shall enable it to render color as well as +light and shade. And our artists seem to give in to this view, in the +deference they show to the subject, as if it mattered not so much what +it was, or how, as that it is _there_,--a pious tenderness towards barns +and rail-fences and stone walls and the confused monotony of the forest, +not as having any special fitness, not as beautiful, but because they +exist,--a scrupulous anxiety to give the every-day look of the objects +they portray, as any passer-by would see them, free from any distorting +personality. To do them justice, however, this submissiveness to the +matter-of-fact, with the more gifted at least, is a virtue that is +praised and starves. They do it lip-service, and suppose themselves +loyal; but when they come to paint, they are under a spell that does not +allow them to see in things only material qualities, but, without any +violence to Nature, raises it to a higher plane, where other values and +other connections prevail. Art, where it exists to any serious purpose, +follows Nature, but not the natural,--according to Raphael's maxim, that +"the artist's aim is to make things not as Nature makes them, but as she +intends them." + +But these audacities, though they make their own excuse in the work +itself, do not pass in a statement without cavil at the arrogance that +would exalt the work of men's hands above the work of God. Shall we +strive with our pigments to outshine the sun, or teach the secrets of +form to the cunning Artificer by whom the world was made? What room for +Art, except as the feeble reflex of the splendors of the actual world? + +But if that be all, how to account for the existence of Art as distinct +from upholstery? Why pile our mole-hills by the side of the mountains? +We can see the landscape itself any day;--whence this extraordinary +interest in seeing a bit of it painted,--except, indeed, as furniture +for the drawing-room, to be ordered with the frame at so much the yard +from the picture-dealer? + +The root of the difficulty lies in this slippery phrase, Nature. We talk +of the facts of Nature, meaning the existence now and here of the hills, +sky, trees, etc., as if these were fixed quantities,--as if a house or a +tree must be the same at all times and to everybody. But in a child's +drawing we see that these things are not the same to us and to him. He +is careful to give the doors and windows, the chimneys with their smoke, +the lines of the fence, and the walk in front; he insists on the +divisions of the bricks and the window-panes: but for what is +characteristic and essential he has no eye. He gives what the house is +to him, merely _a house_ in general, any house; it would not help it, +but only make the defect more prominent, to straighten and complete the +lines. An artist, with fewer and more careless lines, would give more of +what we see in it; and if he be a man of high power, he may teach us in +turn the limitation of our seeing, by showing that the vague, +half-defined sentiment that attaches to it has also a visible +expression, if we knew where to look for it. + +We hear people say they know nothing of Art, but that they can judge as +well as anybody whether a picture is like Nature or not. No doubt +Giotto's contemporaries thought so, too, and they were grown men, with +senses as good as ours; but we smile when Boccaccio says, "There was +nothing in Nature that Giotto could not depict, whether with the pencil, +the pen, or the brush, so like that it seemed not merely like, but the +thing itself." We smile superior, but Giotto had as keen an eye and as +ready a hand as any man since. The lesson is, that we, too, have not +come to the end of even the most familiar objects, but that to another +age our view of them may seem as queer as his seems to us. For the facts +in Nature are not fixed, but transcendental quantities, and their value +depends on the use that is made of them. It is in this direction that +the artist's genius avails; his skill in execution is secondary and +incidental. The measure of his ability is the depth to which he has +penetrated the world of matter, not the number or the accuracy of his +facts. Every landscape wears many faces, as many as there are men and +different moods of the same man. To one the forest is so many cords of +wood; to another, an arboretum; to another, a workshop or a museum; to +another, a poem. What each sees is there; the forest exists for beauty +and for firewood, and lends itself indifferently to either use. + +Nature wears this air of impartiality, because her figures are only +zeros, deriving all their significance from their position. We do not +require a like impartiality in the artist, because what he is to give is +not Nature, but what Nature inspires. His endeavor to be impartial would +result only in giving us his opinions or the opinions of others, instead +of the utterance of the oracle. For Nature hides her secret, not by +silence, but in a Babel of sweet voices, heard by each according to the +fineness of his sense: by one as mere noise, by another as a jangle of +pleasing sounds, by the artist as harmony. They are all of them Nature's +voices;--he adds nothing and omits nothing, but hears with a preoccupied +attention, the justification being that his hearing is thus most +complete, as one who understands a language seizes the sense of words +rapidly spoken better than he who from less acquaintance with it strives +to follow all the sounds. + +The test of "truth," therefore, in the sense of fact, is insufficient. +The question is, Truth for whom? Not for a child or a savage. If we were +to show a fine landscape to a Hottentot, it would be a mistake to say he +saw it, though the image might be demonstrable on the retina of his eye. +He would not see what we mean when we speak of it, any more than we +should see the footstep on the ground or hear the stirring in the grass +that is plain enough to him, and hits our organs, too, though we are not +trained to perceive it. If the test of merit be the production of a +likeness to something we see, then the artist should know no more of +Nature than we do. But then, though it may surprise us into momentary +admiration to recognize familiar things in this translation,--just as +common talk sounds finer in a foreign tongue,--yet it is but for a time, +and then the inevitable limitations of the counterfeit come in,--its +narrowness and fixity,--crude paint for sunbeams, cold and colorless +stone for the living form. The only test of a work of Art is, how far it +will carry us,--not any comparison by the yardstick. We demand to be +raised above our habitual point of view, and be made aware of a deeper +interest than we knew of. It is in hope of this alone that we pardon the +necessary shortcoming of the means. + +This deeper interest has its root in nothing arbitrary, or personal to +the artist. It is not inventing something finer than Nature, but seeing +more truly what Nature shows, that makes the artistic faculty. This is +the lesson taught by the history of Art. Take it up where you will, this +history is nothing but the successive unfolding of a truer conception of +Nature, only speaking here the language of form and color, instead of +words. It is this that lies at the bottom of all its revolutions, and +appears in its downfall as well as in its prosperity. + +Where the human form is the theme, the aim must of course be to give its +typical perfection. No naturalist describes the defects of his +specimens, though it may happen that all are imperfect. Comparatively +few persons ever saw our robin in the plumage in which it is always +described. Only in early spring, not very commonly then, is the black of +the head and tail seen pure. But no one hesitates to call this the true +color. The sculptor does not reproduce the peculiarities of his model, +but aims to give ideal form as the most natural form of man. + +But in Painting, and especially in Landscape, it seems less easy to fix +upon any ideal, not only from the multifariousness of the details, but, +above all, from the elusiveness of the standard. We might agree upon an +ideal of human beauty, but hardly upon the ideal of anything else. The +sophist in the Hippias Major was prepared to define the beauty of a +maiden, or of a mare; but he was confounded when it was required that +the beauty of a pipkin should be deducible from the same principle, and +yet worse when it was shown to involve that a wooden spoon was more +beautiful than a gold one. + +What you see in the woods and mountains depends on what you go for and +what you carry with you. We may go to them as to a quarry or a +wood-pile, or for pleasantness,--the cool spring and the plane-tree +shade, as the ancients did,--or to see fine trees, waterfalls, +mountains. To many persons the beauty of any scene is measured by its +abundance in such _specimens_ of streams, mountains, waterfalls, etc. Of +course the connection is demonstrable enough: one collocation of +features is more readily suggestive of beauty than another. We expect to +find the scenery of a hill-country more attractive than a sand-desert. +But comparing a landscape with a statue, or even Painting generally with +Sculpture, the connection between a happy effect and any definite +arrangement of lines is much looser, and depends on the combination +rather than the ingredients. It is in every one's experience that an +accidental light, or even an accidental susceptibility, will impart to +the meagrest landscape--a bare marsh, a scraggy hill-pasture--a charm of +which the separate features, or the whole, at another time, give no +hint. Often mere bareness, openness, absence of objects, will arouse a +deeper feeling than the most famous scenes. We learn from such +experiences that the difference between one patch of earth and another +is wholly superficial, and indicates not so much anything in it as a +greater or less dulness in us. The celebrated panoramas and points of +view are not the favorite haunts of great painters. They do not need to +travel far for their subjects. Mr. Ruskin tells us that Turner did not +paint the high Alps, nor the _cumulus_, the grandest form of cloud. +Calame gives us the nooks and lanes, the rocks and hills, of +Switzerland, rather than the high peaks; Lambinet, an apple-orchard, a +row of pollard-elms, or a weedy pond,--not cataracts or forests. This is +not affectation or timidity, but an instinct that the famous scenes are +no breaks in the order of Nature,--that what is seen in them is visible +elsewhere as well, only not so obvious, and that the office of Art is +not to parrot what is already distinct, but to reveal it where it is +obscure. This makes the inspiration of the artist; this is the source of +all his power, and alone distinguishes him from the topographer and +view-maker. + +This transcendentalism is more evident in Painting, as the later and +more developed form; but it is common to all Art, and may be read also +in the Greek sculptures. The experience of every one who with some +practice of eye comes for the first time to see the best antiques is not +that he falls at once to admiring the perfection of their anatomy, and +wondering at the symmetry and complete development of the men and women +of those days, but rather that he is carried away from all comparison +and criticism into a solitude from which returning he discovers that his +previous acquaintance with Sculpture was with masks only, and that the +meaning of plastic art as a capital interest of the human mind is now +for the first time made known to him. He sees that it was no whim of the +Greeks, but an instinct of the infinity it typifies, that made them take +the human form as alone possessing beauty enough to stand by itself. Not +the images of their deities alone, but all their statues were gods. The +charm of the Lizard-Slayer of Praxiteles, or of those immortal riders +that swept along the friezes of the Parthenon, is something quite +distinct from the beauty of a naked boy playing with an arrow, or a +troop of Athenian citizens on horseback. These are the deathless forms +of the happy Olympians, high above the cares and turmoil of the finite, +self-centred and independent. It is the Paradise age of the world, +before the knowledge of good and evil, before sin and death came; the +worship of the Visible, when God saw everything that he had made, and, +behold, it was very good. Hence the air of repose, of eternal duration, +that marks these figures. They have nothing to regret or to hope, no +past or future, but only a timeless existence. + +It is from this essential self-sufficingness, not from fancied rules, +that Sculpture is limited with respect to dramatic expression, that is, +expression of passing feeling, accidental action, not identified with +the form. In the best period the first requisite was that the interest +should be thoroughly identified with the shape in which it is +manifested, and not imparted, as by history, association, etc. The +decline began when this lofty isolation was felt as negative, needing to +have interest and expression added to it. But whatever was added only +emphasized without curing the defect. Even the "awful diagonal" of the +Laocoön and the godlike triumph of the Belvedere Apollo show a lower +age. Why triumph, if he was supreme before? These are casual incidents +only, examples of what might happen as well to anybody, not the adequate +conclusive embodiment of an idea. The more elaborately the meaning is +wrought into the form, the more evident that they are not originally +identical. + +In Modern Sculpture this deification of the human form is either +expressly banished from the artist's aim, or at least he is not quite in +earnest with it. For instance, in Mr. Palmer's White Captive,--exhibited +not long since in Boston,--the sculptor's account of his work is, that +it portrays an American girl captured by Indians and bound to a tree. We +have to take with us the history and the circumstances: a Christian +woman of the nineteenth century, dragged from her civilized home and +helpless in the hands of savages. This is not at all incidental to the +work, but the work is incidental to it. It is a story which the figure +helps to tell. This is no universal type of womanhood, nor even American +womanhood. American women do not stand naked in the streets, but go +about clothed and active on their errands of duty and pleasure; if we +must needs represent one naked, we must invent some such accident, some +extraordinary dislocation of all usual relations and circumstances. In +place of the antique harmony of character and situation, we have here a +painful incongruity that no study or skill can obviate. + +Nor has Modern Sculpture any better success, when, instead of the +pretence of history, it adopts the pretence of personification. Its +highest result in this direction is, perhaps, Thorwaldsen's bas-relief +of Night,--a pretty parlor-ornament. There is a fatal sense of unreality +about works of this kind that even Thorwaldsen's genius was unable to +remove. They are toys, and it seems rather flat to have toys so cumbrous +and so costly. + +The reason of this insipidity is, that the ideality aimed at is all on +the outside. There is no soul in these bodies, but only an abstraction; +and so the body remains an abstraction, too. In each case the radical +defect is the same, namely, that the interest is external to the form: +they do not coalesce, but are only arbitrarily connected. We cannot have +these ideal forms, because we do not believe in them. We do not believe +in gods and goddesses, but in men and women; that is, we do not at last +really identify the character with its manifestation. Such was the +fascination of beauty to the Greek mind, that it banished all other +considerations. What mattered it to Praxiteles whether his Satyr was a +useful member of society or not, or whether the young Apollo stood thus +idle and listless for an instant or for a millennium, as long as he was +so beautiful? And the charm so penetrated their works that something of +it reaches down even to us, and holds us as long as we look upon them. +But as soon as we quit the magic circle, the illusion vanishes,--Apollo +is a handsome vagabond whom we incline to send about his business. He +ought to be slaying Pythons and drying up swamps, instead of loitering +here. + +We do not believe in gods, nor quite as the ancients did in heroes,--but +in representative men, that is, in ideas, and in men as representing +them. Washington is not to us what Achilles or Agamemnon was to the +Greeks. The form of Achilles would do as well for a god; the antiquaries +do not know whether the Ludovisi Mars was not an Achilles,--perhaps +nobody ever knew. But in all our veneration of Washington, it is not his +person we revere, but his virtues,--precisely the impersonal part of +him, or his person only from association. There is nothing incongruous +in this association as it exists in the mind, any more than there would +have been in his presence, because of the overpowering sense of his +character and history, to which all the outward show of the man is +constantly subordinate. But if we isolate this by making a statue of +him, we have only an apotheosis of cocked-hat and small-clothes, in +which we see what it really was to us. This awkward prominence of the +costume does not come from the accident of modern dress, but from our +unconscious repugnance to petrifying the man in one of his aspects. It +is a touch of grave humor in the genius of Art, thus to give us just +what we ask for, though not what we want. + +The Greeks could have portrait-statues, because all they looked for in +the man they saw in his form, and, seeing it, could portray it. If the +modern sculptor truly saw in the figure of Washington all that the name +means to him, he could make a statue worthy to be placed by the side of +the Sophocles and the Phocion. These were true portraits, no doubt; thus +it was that these men appeared to their fellow-citizens; but it does not +follow that they would have appeared so to us. What they saw is there; +it is a reality both for them and for us; but the literal identification +of it with the form belongs to them, not to us, and our mimicry of it +can result only in these abstraction's. For us it is elsewhere, beyond +these finite shapes, on which, by an illusion, it seemed to rest. The +Greek statues are tropes, which we gladly allow in their original use, +but, repeated, they become flat and pedantic. Hence the air of +caricature in modern portrait-statues; for caricature does not +necessarily imply falsification, but only that what is given is +insisted on at the expense of more important truth. + +To the view of the early Christian ages, too, the body is old clothes, +ready to be cast off at any moment, good only as means to something +higher. It might seem that Christianity should give a higher value to +the body, since it was believed to have been inhabited by God himself. +But the Passion was a fact of equal importance with the Incarnation. +This honor could be allowed to matter only for an instant, and on the +condition of immediate resumption. That the Highest should suffer death +as a man might well seem to the Greeks foolishness. To the understanding +it is the utmost conceivable contradiction. Yet it is only a more +complete statement of what is involved in the Greek worship of beauty. +_The complete incarnation of Spirit_, which is the definition of beauty, +demands equally that there be no point it does not inhabit, and none in +which it abides. The transience of things is no defect in them, but only +the affirmation of their reality through the incessant casting-off of +its inadequate manifestations. It is not from the excellence, but from +the impotence of its nature, that the stone endures and does not pass +away as the plant and the animal. The higher the organization, the more +rapid and thorough the circulation. + +The same truth holds in Art, also, and drives it to forsake these +beautiful petrifactions and seek an expression less bound to the +material. Ideal form is good so far as it brings together in one compact +image what in Nature is scattered and partial; but it is an ideality of +the surface only, not of the substance. It shuts out the defect of this +or that form, but not of Form itself. The Greek ideal is after all _a +thing_, and its impassive perfection a stony death. + +The justification is, that the sculptor did not say quite what he meant. +He said flesh, but he meant spirit, and this is what the Greek statues +mean to us. The modern sculptor does not mean spirit, and knows that he +does not; and so, with all his efforts, he gives us only the outside. Is +it asked, Whence this divorce of flesh and spirit? why not give both at +once as Nature does? Then we must do as Nature does, and make our forms +as fluid as hers. But this the sculptor contravenes at the outset. To +follow Nature, he should make his statue of snow. To make it of stone is +to pretend that the form is something of itself. This the Greeks never +meant, for then it would follow that all parts of it were alike +significant. Haydon was delighted to find reproduced in the Elgin +marbles certain obscure and seeming insignificant details of the anatomy +that later schools had overlooked, such as a fold of skin under the +armpit of the Neptune, etc. But any beginner at a life-school could have +pointed out in the same statue endless deficiencies in anatomical +detail. The fold was put in, not because it was there, but because to +the mind of the Greek artist it meant something. Sculptors of the +present day comfort themselves with the belief that their works are more +complete and more accurate in the anatomy than the antique. Very likely, +for the ancients did not dissect. But this accuracy, if it is founded on +no interest beyond accuracy, is after all an impertinence. + +The Greek ideal is founded on the exclusion of accident. It is a +declaration that the casual shape is not the true form; it is only a +step farther to the perception that all shape is casual,--the reality +seen, not in it, but through it. The ideal is then no longer perfect +shape, but transparency to the sentiment; the image is not sought to be +placed before the beholder's eyes, but painted as it were in his mind. +Henceforth, suggestion only is aimed at, not representation; the +coöperation of the spectator is relied upon as the indispensable +complement of the design. The Zeus of Phidias seemed to the Greeks, +Plotinus says, Zeus himself, as he would be, if he chose to appear to +human eyes. But a Crucifixion is of itself not at all what the artist +meant. It is not the agony of the flesh, but the triumph of the spirit, +that is intended to be portrayed. If the end be attained, the slighter +and more unpromising the means the better. Thus a new scale of values is +established; nothing is worthy or unworthy of itself; nothing is +excluded, but also in nothing is the interest identified with the thing, +but imparted. + +Christian Art, after mere tradition had died out,--for instance, in the +Byzantine and early Italian pictures from the eighth to the middle of +the thirteenth century,--presents the strongest contrast to all that had +gone before. The morose and lifeless monotony or barbarous rudeness of +these figures seems like contempt not only of beauty, but of all natural +expression. They are meaningless of themselves, and quite indifferent to +the character they represent, which is appended to them by +inscriptions,--their relative importance, even, indicated only by size, +more or less splendor of costume, etc., but the faces all alike, and no +attempt made to adapt the action to the occasion. It is another world +they belong to; the present they pointedly renounce and disdain, +condescending to communicate with it only indirectly and by signs. + +The main peculiarities were common to Painting and Sculpture, though +most noticeable in Painting. An interest in the actual world seems never +so far lost sight of, and earlier revived, in Sculpture. Even down to +the spring-tide of Modern Art in the thirteenth century, the "pleasant +days" when Guido of Siena was painting his Madonna, the improvement in +Painting was rather a stirring within the cerements of conventional +types, a flush on the cheek of the still rigid form,--while in the +bas-reliefs of the Pisan sculptors we meet already a realism as much in +excess of the antique as the Byzantine fell short of it. + +It is commonly said that Nicola Pisano revived Art through study of the +antique; his models, even, are pointed out, particularly a sarcophagus, +said to have been brought to Pisa in the eleventh century from Greece. +But this sarcophagus, wherever it came from, is not Greek, but late +Roman work; and we find in Nicola no mark of direct Greek influence, but +only of the late Roman and early Christian sarcophagus-sculptures. In +the reliefs upon his celebrated pulpit at Pisa we have the same +short-legged, large-headed, indigenous Italian or Roman figures, and the +same arrangement of hair, draperies, etc., as on those sarcophagi. Taken +by themselves, his works would, no doubt, indicate a new direction. But +by the side of his son Giovanni, or the sculptors of the Northern +cathedrals, he seems to belong to the third century rather than to the +thirteenth. + +In Giovanni Pisano the new era was distinctly announced. The Inferno, +usually ascribed to him, among the reliefs on the front of Orvieto +Cathedral,[1] and in his noble pulpit at Pistoia, shows the traces of +the antique only in unimportant details, ornamentation, etc. The antique +served him, no doubt, as a hint to independent study, but the whole +intent is different,--all the beauties and all the defects arrived at by +a different road. In place of the impassive Minos of the Shades, we have +a fiend, serpent-girt,[2] his judicial impartiality enforced apparently +against his will by manacles and anklets of knotted snakes; and +throughout, instead of the calm impersonality of the Greek, dealing out +the typical forms of things like a law of Nature, we have the restless, +intense, partisan, modern man, not wanting in tenderness, but full of a +noble scorn at the unworthiness of the world, and grasping at a reality +beyond it. He is intent, first of all and at all risks, upon vivid +expression, upon telling the story, and speedily outruns the +possibilities of his material. He must make his creatures alive to the +last superficies; and as he cannot give them motion, he puts an emphasis +upon all their bones, sinews, veins, and wrinkles,--every feather is +carved, and even the fishes under the water show their scales. That +mere literalness is not the aim is shown by the open disregard of it +elsewhere; for instance, the size of each figure is determined, not by +natural rules, but by their relative importance, so that in the +Nativity, Mary is twice as large as Joseph and three times as large as +the attendants. And the detail is not everywhere equally minute, but +follows the intensity of the theme, reaching its height in the lower +compartment, where the damned are in suffering, and especially in the +figures of the fiends. This is no aim at literalness, but a struggle for +an emphasis beyond the reach of Sculpture,--taking these means in +despair of others, and, in its thirst for expression, careless alike of +natural probability, typical perfection of form, and pleasing effect. +Different as it seems, the same spirit is at work here and in Painting. +In both it is the repudiation of the classic ideal,--in Sculpture by a +_reductio ad absurdum_, putting its implicit claims to the test of +realization,--in Painting by mere negation, as was natural at the outset +of a new career, before the means of any positive expression were +discovered. + +Ideal form was to the Greeks the highest result, the success of the +universe. The end of Art was conceived as Nature's end as well, whether +actually attained or not. Nor was this preference of certain forms +arbitrary, but it followed the plain indications written on every +particle of matter. What we call brute matter is whatever is means only, +not showing any individuality, or end within itself. A handful of earth +is definable only by its chemical or physical properties, which do not +distinguish it, but confound it with other things. By itself it is only +so much phosphate or silicate, and can come to be something only in a +foreign organism, a plant or an animal. In form is seen the dawning of +individuality, and just as the thing rises in the scale the principle of +form becomes dominant. The handful of earth is sufficiently described by +the chemist's formula,--these ingredients make this substance. But an +organic body cannot be so described. The chemist's account of sugar, for +instance, is C^{6} H^{10} O^{5}. But if we ask what starch is, we have, +again, C^{6} H^{10} O^{5},--and the cellular tissue of plants, also, is +the same. These things, then, as far as he knows, are identical. +Evidently, he is beyond his depth, and the higher we go in the scale the +less he has to say to the purpose,--the separate importance of the +material ingredients constantly decreasing, and the importance of their +definite connection increasing, as the reference to an individual centre +predominates over helpless gravitation. First, aggregation about a +centre, as in the crystal,--then, arrangement of the parts, as upper, +under, and lateral, as in the plant,--then, organization of these into +members. Form is the self-assertion of the thing as no longer means +only; this makes its attractiveness to the artist. The root of his +delight in ideal form is that it promises some finality amid the endless +maze of matter. But this higher completeness, which is beauty, whether +it happen to exist or not, is never the immediate aim of Nature. It is +everywhere implied, but nowhere expressed; for Nature is unwearied in +producing, but negligent of the product. As soon as the end seems +anywhere about to be attained, it is straightway made means again to +something else, and so on forever. The earth and the air hasten to +convert themselves into a plant, the flower into fruit, the fruit into +flesh, and the animal at last to die and give back again to the air and +the earth what they have transmitted to him. Whatever beauty a thing has +is by the way, not as the end for which it exists, and so it is left to +be baffled and soiled by accident. This is the "jealousy of the gods," +that could not endure that anything should exist without some flaw of +imperfection to confess its mortal birth. + +The world is full of beauty, but as it were hinted,--as in the tendency +to make the most conspicuous things the most beautiful, as flowers, +fruits, birds, the insects of the sunshine, the fishes of the surface, +the upper side of the leaf; and perhaps more distinctly (in accordance +with Lord Bacon's suggestion that "Nature is rather busy not to err, +than in labor to produce excellency") in the tendency to hide those that +are ugly, as toads, owls, bats, worms, insects that flee the light, the +fishes of the bottom, the intestines of animals. But these are hints +only, and Nature, as Mr. Ruskin confesses, will sometimes introduce "not +ugliness only, but ugliness in the wrong place." Were beauty the aim, it +should be most evident in her chief products; whereas it is in things +transient, minute, subordinate,--flowers, snow-flakes, the microscopic +details of structure,--that it meets us most invariably, rather than in +the higher animals or in man. Nor in man does it keep pace with his +civilization, but obeys laws that belong to the lower regions of his +nature. + +This ambiguity of every fact in Nature comes from the difficulty of +detecting its true connection. There is reality _there_, even in blight +and corruption; something is forwarded, only perhaps not the thing +before us,--as the virtue of the compost-heap appears not in it, but in +the rose-bed. The artist cannot forego a jot of reality, but the obvious +facts are not this, any more than the canvas and the pigment are the +picture. The prose of every-day life is reality in fragments,--the Alps +split into paving-stones,--Achilles with a cold in the head. Seen in due +connection, they make up the reality; but their prominence as they occur +is casual and shifting, and the result dependent on the spectator's +power of discerning, amid the endless series in which they are involved, +more or less of their vital relations. + +Art is not to be blamed for idealizing, for this is only completing what +Nature begins. But the completion of the design is also its limitation. +It is final to the artist as well as to the theme, and cannot yield to +further expansion. In Nature there is no such pretence of finality, and +so her work, though never complete, is never convicted of defect. Her +circuits are never closed; she does not aim to cure the defect in the +thing, but in something else. Each in turn she abandons, and appeals to +a future success, which never is, but always about to be. The reason is, +that the scope of each is wider than immediately appears. It is not +simple completeness that is aimed at, but ascent to higher levels, so +that the consummation it demands, if granted, would cut it off from more +vital connections elsewhere. The ideal of the crystal seems to be +clearness and regularity, but better things are in store for it. It must +become opaque and shapeless in order to be fitted for higher +transformations. The leaf must be cramped to make the flower. Homer's +heroes must hoe potatoes and keep shop before the higher civilization of +the race can be reached. + +The Greek ideal is an endeavor to ignore the imperfections of natural +existence. The ideal life is to be rich, strong, powerful, eloquent, +high-born, famous. It was a glorification of the earthly, not by +transcending, but by keeping its limitations out of sight. But this is +only making the limitation essential and irrevocable, so that it infects +the ideal also, which in this very avoidance submits to recognize it. +The statue is not _less_, but more, a thing than the natural body. Life +is not mere exclusion of decay, but organization of it, so that the fury +of corruption passes into fresh vital power. It is a cycle of changes, +the type and show of which are the circulation, constantly removing +effete particles and building up new, and therein giving its hue to the +flesh. But sculpture supposes the current checked, and one aspect fit to +stand for all the rest. The statue is not only a particle, but an +isolated particle, and must first of all divert attention from its +fragmentariness. Mr. Garbett has remarked that plants should not be +copied in sculpture, because the plant is not seen entire, but is partly +hidden in the ground. But the point is not the being seen or not, but +the suggestion of incompleteness. The same remark applies to animals, +and even to man, unless his relations to the world, as an individual +among individuals, can be kept out of sight. + +But the finite thus isolated is not honored, but degraded. This stagnant +perfection is atrophy,--as some poisons are said to kill by arresting +the transformation of the tissues, and so to preserve them at the +expense of their life. The new era is marked by the perception that +these shortcomings are not accidental, but inherent and intended. The +chasm is not to be bridged or avoided,--or, as Plato says, the human to +become godlike by taking away here and adding there,--but remains a +radical incongruity of Nature, never to be escaped from. It brings death +and dissolution to the fair shapes of the earlier world,--for the +worship of form is justified only so long as the mind thinks forms and +not ideas. + +The statue may embody an infinite meaning, but to the artist form and +meaning are one. It is not a sentiment that he puts into this shape, but +it is the shape itself that inspires him. The symbolism of Greek Art was +the discovery of a later age. We know what is meant by Circe and Athene, +but Homer did not. It was thus only that the Greek mind could grasp +ideas,--this is the thoroughly _artistic_ character of that people. +Their philosophers were always outlaws. What excited the rage of the +Athenians against Socrates was his endeavor to detach religion from the +images of the gods. When it comes to comparisons between meaning and +expression, as adequate or inadequate, it is evident their unity is +gone;--the meaning is first, and the expression only adjunct or +illustration. It did not impair the sacredness of the Greek deities that +they were the work of the poets and sculptors. But the second Nicene +Council forbade as impious any images of Christ as God, and allowed only +his human nature to be represented,--a strange decree, if the Church had +realized its own doctrine, that the humanity of Christ is as real as his +divinity. But the meaning is, that the finite is not there to stand for +the infinite, but only to indicate it negatively and indirectly,--that +its glory is not to persist in its finiteness, not to hold on to its +form, but to be transformed. The figure of Thersites would be very +unsuitable for Achilles, but is suitable enough for a saint; it was a +pardonable exaggeration to make it even more suitable. + +The hero is now the saint; the ideal life a life of poverty, humility, +weakness, labor,--to be long-suffering, to despise and forsake the +world. The present life, the heaven of Achilles, is now Hades, the +forced abode of phantoms having no reality but what is given to them by +religion, and the Hades of the Greek the only true and substantial +world. The new church fled the light of the sun, and sought impatiently +to bury itself in the tomb. The Roman catacombs were not the mere refuge +of a persecuted sect,--their use as places of worship continued long +after such need had ceased. But "among the graves" they found the point +nearest to the happy land beyond, and the silence and the darkness made +it easier to ignore for the few miserable moments that yet remained the +vain tumult of the surface. In such a mood the beauty of the outward +could awaken no delight, but only suspicion and aversion. Not the earth +and its glories, but the fading of these before the unseen and eternal, +was the only possible inspiration of Art. The extreme of this direction +we see in the Iconoclasm of the eighth century, but it has never +completely died out. Gibbon tells us of a Greek priest who refused to +receive some pictures that Titian had painted for him, because they were +too real:--"Your scandalous figures," said he, "stand quite out from the +canvas; they are as bad as a group of statues." It is a tenderness +towards the idea, lest it should be dishonored by actuality. Matter is +gross, obscure, evil, an obstacle to spirit,--and material existence +tolerable only as momentary, vanishing, and, as it were, under constant +protest, and with the suspicion that the Devil has a hand in it. It +belongs especially to the Oriental mind, and its logical result is the +Buddhist heaven of annihilation. + +The defect of this view is not that it is too ideal, but that it is not +ideal enough. It is an incomplete idealism that through weakness of +faith does not hold fast its own point of view, and so does not dispose +of matter, but leaves it outside, as negation, obstacle. The body is +allowed to exist, but remains in disgrace and reduced to the barest +indication. But it is honoring matter far too much to allow that it can +be an obstacle. It is no obstacle, for it is _nothing_ of itself. +Rightly understood, this contempt of the body is directed only against +the false emphasis placed upon single aspects or manifestations. It is a +feeling that the true ideal is not thus shut up in a forced exception, +as if it were the subtilized product of a distillation whereby the +earthly is to be purged of its dross; but that it is the all-pervading +reality, which the finite can neither hinder nor help, but only obey, +which death and corruption praise, which establishes itself through +imperfection and transience. + +Gibbon, speaking of the Iconoclasts, says,--"The Olympian Jove, created +by the muse of Homer and the chisel of Phidias, might inspire a +philosophic mind with momentary devotion; but these Catholic images were +faintly and flatly delineated by monkish artists in the last degeneracy +of taste and genius." Such comparisons mistake the point. These are not +parallel attempts, but opposed from the outset. The "Catholic image" was +a declaration that the problem cannot be solved in that way. An early +legend relates, that a painter, undertaking to copy his Christ from a +statue of Jove, had his hand suddenly withered. The attempt is accused +because of the pretence it makes to coordinate body and spirit, Nature +and God,--as if one configuration of matter were more godlike than +another. The figure of the god claims to complete what Nature has +_partly_ done. But now the world is seen to be not merely the product of +Mind working upon Matter, but the Creation of God out of nothing,--thus +altogether His, in one part as much as in another. The only conceivable +separateness, antagonism, is that of the sinful Will, setting itself up +in its vanity; this it must be that arrogates to itself the ability to +_represent_ its Creator. + +The Christian image is without form or comeliness,--rejects all outward +graces, seemingly glories in abasement and deformity, fearing only to +attribute to Matter some value of its own. + +Henceforth the connection is no longer at arm's-length, as of the +workman and the material. Resistance to limitation is changed into +joyful acceptance; for it is not in the limitation, but in the +resistance, that the misery of earth consists. The quarrel with +imperfection is over. The finite shall neither fortify itself in its +finiteness, nor seek to abolish it, but only make it the willing +instrument of universal ends. Thus the true self first exists, and no +longer needs to be extenuated or apologised for. + +The key-note of all this is contained in those verses of the "Dies +Irę,"-- + + "Quęrens _me_ sedisti lassus, + Redemisti crucem passus; + Tantus labor non sit cassus." + +Here we have in its compactest expression the difference between this +age and the classic: that I, the vilest of sinners, am the object of +God's highest care,--not the failure and mistake I seem, not the slag +and refuse of Nature's working, but the object of this most stupendous +mystery of the Divine economy. It is no purification or idealizing that +is needed,--any such attempt must be abomination,--but a new birth of +the self, by devotion of it to the purpose for which it was made. + +The astounding discovery is slowly realized, and the statement of it +difficult, from the need to distinguish between the true self and the +false, and to declare that this importance belongs to the individual in +virtue of his spiritual nature alone. The sainthood of the saint is not +to be confounded with his personality. What have his virtues to do with +his gown and shoes? what, indeed, with his natural disposition, as +courageous, irascible, avaricious? The difficulty is pervading, not to +be avoided; every aspect of him reveals only what is external, dies from +him daily, and, if isolated, has already lost its meaning. It is only in +his work, in his connection with the world, that we see him truly. +Accordingly, the statue becomes the group, and the group a member of a +series, a cycle in which each is incomplete without the rest. The +classic ideal is shivered into fragments, all to be taken together to +make up the meaning. Of the hundreds of statues and reliefs that +surround the great Northern cathedrals, (Didron counts eighteen hundred +upon the outside of Chartres,--nine thousand in all, carved or painted, +inside and outside,) each has its appointed place in the sacred _epos_ +in stone that unfolds about the building from left to right of the +beholder the history of the world from the Creation to the Judgment, and +subordinated in parallel symbolism the daily life of the community, +whatever occupied and interested men,--their virtues and vices, trades +and recreations, the seasons and the elements, jokes, even, and sharp +hits at the great and at the clergy, scenes from popular romances, and +the radicalism of Reynard the Fox,--in short, all that touched the mind +of the age, an impartial reflex of the great drama of life, wherein all +exists alike to the glory of God. + +It is not the glory of earth that is here celebrated. M. Didron says the +statues which the mob pulled down from the churches, at the first French +Revolution, as the images of their kings, were the kings and heroes of +the Old Testament. Had they known this, it might not have saved the +statues, but it shows how wide a gulf separated these men from their +fathers, that their hands were not held by some instinct that here was +the first hint of the fundamental idea of Democracy,--the sovereign +importance of man, not as powerful, wise, beautiful, not in virtue of +any chance advantage of birth, but in virtue of his religious nature, of +the infinite possibilities he infolds. + +The need to indicate that the source of value is not the accident of +Nature, but Nature redeemed, regenerated by spirit, that all values are +moral values, led to a certain abstractness of treatment,--on one side +qualities to be embodied, on the other figures to receive them, so that +the character seems adventitious, detachable, not thoroughly at one with +the form. For instance, the fiends in the Orvieto Inferno are not terror +embodied, as the Jove of Phidias embodied dignity and command; but the +terrific is accumulated on the outside of them, as tusks, claws, etc. +One can easily believe that the ancient sculptors, had it been lawful, +could have put more horror into the calm features of a Medusa than is +contained in all this apparatus and grimace. The concreteness of the +antique, the form and meaning existing only for each other, is gone; the +union is _occasional_ only, and needs to be certified and kept up afresh +on every new occasion. The form must assert itself, must show itself +alive and quick, not the dead sign of a meaning that has fled. It would +have been a poor compliment to a Greek sculptor to say that his work was +life-like; he might answer with the classically disposed visitor of the +Elgin marbles in Haydon's anecdote,--"Like life! Well, what of that?" He +meant it for something much better. But during the Middle Ages this is +constantly the highest encomium. Amid the utmost rudeness of conception +and of execution, we see the first trace of awakening Art in the +unmistakable effort to indicate that the figures are alive; and in the +cathedral-sculpture of the best time this is still a leading +characteristic. Even the single statues have for their outlines curves +of contrary flexure, expressing motion; they seem to wave in the air, +and their faces to glow with passing emotion. The animals are often +uncouth, but the more life-like; a turn of the head or of the eye, a +restless, unbalanced attitude, brings us nearer to the actual living +creature than the magnificent repose of the antique lions and +eagles,--as if they did not trust to our recognizing their character, +but were prepared to demonstrate it with beak and claws. Even in the +plants, though strictly conventionalized, it is the freedom and spring +of their lines that more than anything else characterizes them and +defies copying. + +The world of matter, being no longer endowed with independent reality, +is no longer felt as a contamination incurred by the idea in its descent +into existence. The discrepancy is not final, so that the supremacy of +the spirit is not shown by resistance, but by taking it to heart, +carrying it out, and thereby overcoming it. In a Crucifixion of the +twelfth century, Life is figured on one side crowned and victorious, and +on the other Death overcome and slain. The finiteness of the finite is +not the barrier, but the liberation, of the infinite. + +But the statue remains stone; this unmeaning emphasis of weight and +bulk, though diminished, is not to be got rid of. The life that +sculpture can give is superficial and abstract, does not penetrate and +possess the work; it is still the petrifaction of an instant, that does +not instantly pass away, but remains as a contradiction to the next. It +is the struggle against this fixity that gives to the sculpture of the +Renaissance its aspect of unrest, of disdain of the present, of endless +unsatisfied search. Hence the air of conflict that we see in Giovanni +Pisano, and still more in later times,--the sculptor going to the edge +of what the stone will allow, and beyond it, and, still unsatisfied, +seeking through all means to indicate a yet unexecuted possibility. It +is this that seethes in those strange, intense, unearthly figures of +Donatello's, wasted as by internal fire,--the rage for an expression +that shall at the same time declare its own insufficiency. + +All that is done only makes the failure more evident. The fixity +continues, and is only deepened into contortion and grimace. What we see +is the effort alone. Hence in modern statues the uneasy, +self-distrustful appeal to the spectator, in place of the lofty +indifference of the antique. In Michel Angelo the same striving to +indicate something in reserve, not expended, led to the exaggerated +emphasis of certain parts, (as the length of the neck, depth of the +eye-sockets, etc.,) and of general muscularity,--a show of _force_, that +gave to the Moses the build of a Titan, and to the Christ of the Last +Judgment the air of a gladiator. Michel Angelo often seems immersed in +mere anatomy and academic _tours de force_, especially in his later +works. He seems to see in the subject only a fresh problem in attitude, +foreshortening, muscular display,--and this not only where he invents, +but also where he borrows,--sometimes most strangely overlooking the +sentiment; as in the figure of Christ, which he borrows from Orcagna and +the older painters, even to the position of the arms, but with the +touching gesture of reproof perverted into a savage menace; or in the +Expulsion, taken almost line for line from Masaccio, but with the +infinite grief expressed in Adam's figure turned into melodrama by +showing his face. + +It was not for the delight of the eye, nor from over-reverence of the +matter-of-fact. He despised the copying of models, as the makeshift of +ignorance. His profound study of anatomy was not for greater accuracy of +imitation, but for greater license of invention. Of grace and +pleasingness he became more and more careless, until he who at twenty +had carved the lovely angel of S. Domenico, came at last to make all his +men prize-fighters and his women viragos. It is clear that we nowhere +get his final meaning,--that he does not fairly get to his theme at all, +but is stopped at the outset, and loses himself in the search for a +mode of expression more adequate to that "immense beauty" ever present +to his mind,--so that the matter in hand occupies him only in its +superficial aspects. What he sought on all hands, in his endless +questioning of the human frame, his impatience of drapery, the furious +haste to reach the live surface, and the tender modulation of it when it +is reached, was to make the flesh itself speak and reveal the soul +present at all points alike and at once. Nothing could have satisfied +him but to impart to the marble itself that omnipresence of spirit of +which animal life furnishes the hint. In this Titanic attempt the means +were in open and direct contradiction to the end. It was a violation of +the wise moderation of Sculpture, whose rigid and colorless material +pointedly declines a rivalry it could not sustain. Else why not color +the stone? The hue of flesh is the most direct assertion of life, but at +the same time a direct negative to that totality and emphasis of the +particular shape on which Sculpture relies. The color of the flesh comes +from its transparency to the circulation,--the eternal flux of matter +coming to the surface in this its highest form. It is the display in +matter itself of what its true nature is,--not to resist, but to embody +change,--to reduce itself to mere appearance, and be taken up without +residuum in the momentary manifestation, and then at once give place to +fresh manifestations. + +That the earlier practice of coloring statues was given up just when the +need would seem to be the greatest shows its incompatibility with the +fundamental conditions of the art. In the twelfth and thirteenth +centuries statues were still painted and gilded. Afterwards, color is +restricted to parts not directly affected by the circulation, the hair +and the eyes; and at last, when Sculpture is given over to pictorial +effect and is about to yield entirely to Painting, it is wholly +relinquished. Evidently it was felt that to color a statue in imitation +of flesh would only enforce the fact that it is stone. + +What Art was now aiming at was not the mere appearance of life, but a +unity like that which life gives, in place of the abstractness and +partiality inherent in Sculpture. This makes the interest of the fact of +life,--that it is the presence of the soul,--the unity established amid +the sundered particularity of matter. In free motion a new centre is +declared, whereby the inertia of the body, its gravitation to a centre +outside of it, is set aside. In sensibility this new centre declares +itself supreme, superseding the passive indifference of extension. The +whole pervades each part, each testifies to the whole and may stand for +it. But the statue, having no such internal unity, is less able to +dispense with outward completeness. All the sides must be given, so that +the whole cannot be seen at one view, but only successively, as an +aggregate. + +In the earlier Greek statues the head remains lifeless, abstract, whilst +the limbs are full of expression. In a contrary spirit, more akin to +modern ideas, the Norse myth relates that Skadi, having her choice of a +husband from among all the gods, but having to choose by the feet alone, +meaning to take Baldur, got by mistake Niordr, an inferior deity. This +does not seem so strange to us; but a Greek would have wondered that the +daughter of a wise Titan should not know the feet of Apollo from those +of Nereus. It was said of Taglioni that she put mind into her legs. But +to the modern way of thinking this is clearly exceptional. It is in the +face, and especially in the eye, that we look to see the soul present +and at work, and not merely in its effects as character. As types of +character, the lineaments of the face were explored by the later Greek +Art as profoundly as the rest of the body. But the statue is +sightless,--its eyes do not meet ours, but seem forever brooding over a +world into which the present and its interests do not enter. To the +Greek this was no defect; but to us the omission seems to affect the +most vital point of all, since our conception of the soul involves its +eternity, that is, that it lives always in the present, is not too fine +to exist, secure that it is bound neither by past nor future, but +capable of revolutionizing the character at all moments. Here is the +ground of the remarkable difference that meets us already in the reliefs +of the later classic times. In the reliefs of the best age the figures +are always in profile and in action. Complete personification being out +of the question, it is expressly avoided,--each figure waives attention +to itself, merges itself in the plot. Later, when the profounder idea of +a personality that does not isolate or degrade has begun to make itself +felt, this constraint is given up,--the figures face the spectator, and +enter as it were into relation with the actual world. + +The Church very early expressed this feeling of the higher significance +of the head, by allowing it to be sufficient if the head alone were +buried in holy ground. In Art it is naļvely indicated by exaggerated +size of the head and of the eyes,--a very common trait of the earlier +times, and not quite obsolete at the time of the Pisani. This clumsy +expedient is relinquished, but the need it indicated continued, without +the possibility of finding any complete satisfaction in Sculpture, +instead of the intensity and directness that Art now insists upon, +Sculpture can give only extension and indirect hints; instead of mind +present, only its effects and products, with the working cause expressly +removed. + +This is the ground of the seeming injustice to Sculpture at the time of +the Revival. Its relative excellence was undervalued, because what it +could do was not quite to the point. While the painters went on +producing their antediluvian forms, the sculptors saw things much more +as we do,--yet the paintings seemed the most life-like. It is +astonishing, when we remember that Nicola was older than Cimabue, +Giovanni than Giotto, Ghiberti than Frą Angelico, that the painters did +not learn from the sculptors more of the actual appearance of things. It +is still more astonishing that it is the painters that get all the +praise for accuracy. Vasari is endless in his praises of Giotto, +Spinello, Stefano, (called Scimia, or the Ape of Nature,) and a host of +others, for accurate imitation. Giovanni Villani boasts that "it is our +fellow-citizen Giotto who has portrayed most naturally every form and +action." Ghiberti finishes an admiring account of some paintings of +Ambrogio Lorenzotto's with the exclamation that it is truly marvellous +to think that all this is only a picture. Few persons, probably, would +see in the specimens of Ambrogio's work that still remain anything +wonderful for resemblance to Nature,--whilst in Ghiberti's everybody +acknowledges the astonishing truth of the detail. He tells us that he +sought "to imitate Nature as far as was possible to him,"--but he seems +not to be aware how much better he succeeded than the people he praises. +Paolo Uccello, who was twenty years younger than Ghiberti, got his +nickname from his skill in painting birds. But one would rather +undertake to paint birds as well as Paolo than to carve them as well as +Ghiberti. + +We may learn here how little the demand to "imitate Nature" expresses +what is intended. No accuracy, however demonstrable, will satisfy it. To +interest me in a picture, it is not enough that _something_ is as +visible there as it is elsewhere; it must be something that I was +already striving to see. It was not a greater circumstantiality of +statement than was demanded, but greater directness,--that it should be +relieved of what was unessential to its purpose, tending only to obscure +it. A painting, however rude, has at least this negative merit, that, by +the express substitution of the appearance for the actual image, +needless entanglement in the material is avoided. Weight and bulk are +not indeed annihilated, but they are no longer of primary importance, +and thus less obstructive. The work gains precisely in what it gives +up. By the flat omission of depth infinite depth is acquired,--by the +ignoring of size the expression of size becomes possible; a mountain, +for instance, which would be an absurdity in Sculpture is representable +in Painting. Thus, instead of being more abstract than Sculpture, +Painting is in truth less so, since what it omits is only negative to +the purpose of Art. + +It seems to us easier to paint than to carve, and we might expect to +find Painting the older art. But the difficulty lies less in the +execution than in the conception. Painting is not a tinting of surfaces, +but the power to see a complex subject in unity. We may think we have no +difficulty in seeing the landscape, but most persons, if called upon to +state what they saw, pictorially, would show that they could not see the +wood for the trees. Beginners suppose it is some knack of the hand that +they are to acquire, when they learn to draw; but that is a small part +of the matter; the great difficulty is in the seeing. Ordinary vision is +piecemeal: we see the parts; but not the picture, or only vaguely. Even +the degree of facility that is implied in any enjoyment of scenery is +not so much a matter of course as it seems. Cęsar occupied himself, +while crossing the Alps, with composing a grammatical treatise. There is +no evidence that there was anything odd in this. Perhaps Petrarch was +the first man that ever climbed a hill to enjoy the view. We are not +aware how much of what we see in Nature is due to pictures. Hardly any +man is so unsophisticated, but that, if he should try to sketch a +landscape, he would betray, in what he did or in what he omitted, that +he saw it more or less at second-hand, through the interpretations of +Art. A portfolio of Calame's or Harding's or Turner's drawings will give +us new eyes for the most familiar scenes. + +But we are aided still more by our habit of looking at things +theoretically, apart from their immediate practical bearing. A savage +can comprehend a carved image, but not so readily a picture. An Indian +whom Catlin painted with half his face in shadow became the +laughingstock of the tribe, as "the man with half a face." It is not +necessary to suspect Mr. Catlin's chiaroscuro; what puzzled them was, +doubtless, the bringing together in one view what they had seen only +separate. They were accustomed to see the man in light and in shadow; +but what they cared for, and therefore what they saw, was only the +effect in making it more or less easy to recognize him and to ascertain +his state of mind, intentions, etc. His face was either visible or +obscured; if they could see enough for their purpose, they regarded only +that. For it to be both at once was possible only from a point of view +which they had not reached. A child takes the shading of the portrait +for dirt,--that being the form in which darkening of the face is +familiar to him. A carved image is easier comprehended, because it can +be handled, turned about, and looked at on different sides, and a +material connection thereby assured between the various aspects. To +transfer this connection to the mind--to see varying distances in one +vertical plane, so that mere gradations of light and shade shall suggest +all these aspects arranged and harmonized in one view--is a farther +step, and the difficulty increases with the variety embraced. Cicero was +struck with this superiority in the artists of his time. "How much," he +says, "do painters see in shadow and relief that we do not see!" Yet +their perception seems strangely limited to us. The ancients had little +notion of perspective. Their eyes were too sure and too well-practised +to overlook the effect of position in foreshortening objects, and they +were much experienced in the corrections required, and the effect of +converging lines in increasing apparent distance was taken advantage of +in their theatre-scenes. But they had not learned that the difference +between the actual and the apparent form is thorough-going, so that the +picture no longer stands in the attitude of passive indifference towards +the beholder, but imposes upon him its own point of view. It was +thought remarkable in the Minerva of Fabullus, that it had the +appearance of always looking at the spectator, from whatever point it +was viewed. This would be miraculous in a statue, and must seem so in +the picture so long as it is looked upon only as one side of a statue. +The wall-paintings of Pompeii, doubtless copies or reminiscences of +Greek originals,--with masterly skill in the parts, and with some +success in the landscape as far as it was easily reducible to one +plane,--are only collections of fragments, and show utter incapacity to +see the whole at once as a picture. For instance, in one of the many +pictures of Narcissus beholding himself in the well, the head, which is +inclined sideways, instead of being simply inverted in the reflection, +is reversed,--so that the chin, which is on the spectator's left in the +figure, is on the right in the reflected image: as if the artist, +knowing no other way, had placed himself head downwards, and in that +position had repeated the face as already painted. Such a blunder could +not originate with a copyist, for it would have been much easier to copy +correctly. It is clear from the general excellence of the figure that it +is not the work of an inferior artist. Nor can it have come from mere +carelessness; it is too elaborate for that,--and, moreover, here is the +main point of the picture, that which tells the story. Doubtless the +painter had noticed the pleasingness of such reflections, as repeating +the human form, the supreme object of interest; but the interest stopped +there. He saw the face above and the face below, as he would see the +different sides of a statue; but so incapable was he of perceiving the +connection and interdependence of them, that, even when Nature had made +the picture for him, he could not see it. This is no isolated, casual +mistake, but only a good chance to see what is really universal, though +not often so obvious. + +In this and other pictures the water is like a bit of looking-glass +stuck up in front,--without perspective, without connection with the +ground,--the mere assertion of a reflection. The conception embraced +only the main figure; the rest was added like a label, for explanation +only. These men did not see the landscape as we see it, because the +interest was wanting that combines it into a picture for our eyes. Our +"love of Nature" would have been incomprehensible and disgusting to a +Greek; he would have called our artists "dirt-painters." And from his +point of view he would be right. Dirt it is, if we abide by the mere +facts. The interest of Art lies not in the facts, but in the +truth,--that is, in the facts organized, shown in their place. It is not +that we care more about stocks and stones than they did, but that we +hold the key to an arrangement that gives these things a significance +they have not of themselves. + + * * * * * + +SNOW. + + + Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, + Born of the soft and slumberous snow! + Gradual, silent, slowly wrought,-- + Even as an artist, thought by thought, + Writes expression on lip and brow. + + Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim,-- + Deep drifts smother the paths below; + The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, + And all the air is dizzy and dim + With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow. + + Dimly out of the baffled sight + Houses and church-spires stretch away; + The trees, all spectral and still and white, + Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, + And fade and faint with the blinded day. + + Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled + The eddying drifts to the waste below; + And still is the banner of storm unfurled, + Till all the drowned and desolate world + Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow. + + Slowly the shadows gather and fall,-- + Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; + Night and darkness are over all: + Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! + Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet! + + Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe; + On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,-- + Land of my longing!--and underneath + Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; + Peace and I are at home, at home! + + * * * * * + +HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS. + +BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD. + +II. + + +I am a frank, open-hearted man, as, perhaps, you have by this time +perceived, and you will not, therefore, be surprised to know that I read +my last article on the carpet to my wife and the girls before I sent it +to the "Atlantic," and we had a hearty laugh over it together. My wife +and the girls, in fact, felt that they could afford to laugh, for they +had carried their point, their reproach among women was taken away, they +had become like other folks. Like other folks they had a parlor, an +undeniable best parlor, shut up and darkened, with all proper carpets, +curtains, lounges, and marble-topped tables, too good for human nature's +daily food; and being sustained by this consciousness, they cheerfully +went on receiving their friends in the study, and having good times in +the old free-and-easy way; for did not everybody know that this room was +not their best? and if the furniture was old-fashioned and a little the +worse for antiquity, was it not certain that they had better, which they +could use, if they would? + +"And supposing we wanted to give a party," said Jane, "how nicely our +parlor would light up! Not that we ever do give parties, but if we +should,--and for a wedding-reception, you know." + +I felt the force of the necessity; it was evident that the four or five +hundred extra which we had expended was no more than such solemn +possibilities required. + +"Now, papa thinks we have been foolish," said Marianne, "and he has his +own way of making a good story of it; but, after all, I desire to know +if people are never to get a new carpet. Must we keep the old one till +it actually wears to tatters?" This is a specimen of the _reductio ad +absurdum_ which our fair antagonists of the other sex are fond of +employing. They strip what we say of all delicate shadings and illusory +phrases, and reduce it to some bare question of fact, with which they +make a home-thrust at us. + +"Yes, that's it; are people _never_ to get a new carpet?" echoed Jane. + +"My dears," I replied, "it is a fact that to introduce anything new into +an apartment hallowed by many home-associations, where all things have +grown old together, requires as much care and adroitness as for an +architect to restore an arch or niche in a fine old ruin. The fault of +our carpet was that it was in another style from everything in our room, +and made everything in it look dilapidated. Its colors, material, and +air belonged to another manner of life, and were a constant plea for +alterations; and you see it actually drove out and expelled the whole +furniture of the room, and I am not sure yet that it may not entail on +us the necessity of refurnishing the whole house." + +"My dear!" said my wife, in a tone of remonstrance; but Jane and +Marianne laughed and colored. + +"Confess, now," said I, looking at them, "have you not had secret +designs on the hall- and stair-carpet?" + +"Now, papa, how could you know it? I only said to Marianne that to have +Brussels in the parlor and that old mean-looking ingrain carpet in the +hall did not seem exactly the thing; and, in fact, you know, mamma, +Messrs. Ketchem & Co. showed us such a lovely pattern, designed to +harmonize with our parlor-carpet." + +"I know it, girls," said my wife; "but you know I said at once that such +an expense was not to be thought of." + +"Now, girls," said I, "let me tell you a story I heard once of a very +sensible old New-England minister, who lived, as our country-ministers +generally do, rather near to the bone, but still quite contentedly. It +was in the days when knee-breeches and long stockings were worn, and +this good man was offered a present of a very nice pair of black silk +hose. He declined, saying, he 'could not afford to wear them.' + +"'Not afford it?' said the friend; 'why, I _give_ them to you.' + +"'Exactly; but it will cost me not less than two hundred dollars to take +them, and I cannot do it.' + +"'How is that?' + +"'Why, in the first place, I shall no sooner put them on than my wife +will say, "My dear, you must have a new pair of knee-breeches," and I +shall get them. Then my wife will say, "My dear, how shabby your coat +is! You must have a new one," and I shall get a new coat. Then she will +say, "Now, my dear, that hat will never do," and then I shall have a new +hat; and then I shall say, "My dear, it will never do for me to be so +fine and you to wear your old gown," and so my wife will get a new gown; +and then the new gown will require a new shawl and a new bonnet; all of +which we shall not feel the need of, if I don't take this pair of silk +stockings, for, as long as we don't see them, our old things seem very +well suited to each other.'" + +The girls laughed at this story, and I then added, in my most determined +manner,-- + +"But I must warn you, girls, that I have compromised to the utmost +extent of my power, and that I intend to plant myself on the old +stair-carpet in determined resistance. I have no mind to be forbidden +the use of the front-stairs, or condemned to get up into my bedroom by a +private ladder, as I should be immediately, if there were a new carpet +down." + +"Why, papa!" + +"Would it not be so? Can the sun shine in the parlor now for fear of +fading the carpet? Can we keep a fire there for fear of making dust, or +use the lounges and sofas for fear of wearing them out? If you got a new +entry- and stair-carpet, as I said, I should have to be at the expense +of another staircase to get up to our bedroom." + +"Oh, no, papa," said Jane, innocently; "there are very pretty druggets, +now, for covering stair-carpets, so that they can be used without +hurting them." + +"Put one over the old carpet, then," said I, "and our acquaintance will +never know but it is a new one." + +All the female senate laughed at this proposal, and said it sounded just +like a man. + +"Well," said I, standing up resolutely for my sex, "a man's ideas on +woman's matters may be worth some attention. I flatter myself that an +intelligent, educated man doesn't think upon and observe with interest +any particular subject for years of his life without gaining some ideas +respecting it that are good for something; at all events, I have written +another article for the 'Atlantic,' which I will read to you." + +"Well, wait one minute, papa, till we get our work," said the girls, +who, to say the truth, always exhibit a flattering interest in anything +their papa writes, and who have the good taste never to interrupt his +readings with any conversations in an undertone on cross-stitch and +floss-silks, as the manner of some is. Hence the little feminine bustle +of arranging all these matters beforehand. Jane, or Jennie, as I call +her in my good-natured moods, put on a fresh clear stick of hickory, of +that species denominated shag-bark, which is full of most charming +slivers, burning with such a clear flame, and emitting such a delicious +perfume in burning, that I would not change it with the millionnaire who +kept up his fire with cinnamon. + +You must know, my dear Mr. Atlantic, and you, my confidential friends of +the reading public, that there is a certain magic or spiritualism which +I have the knack of in regard to these mine articles, in virtue of which +my wife and daughters never hear or see the little personalities +respecting _them_ which form parts of my papers. By a particular +arrangement which I have made with the elves of the inkstand and the +familiar spirits of the quill, a sort of glamour falls on their eyes +and ears when I am reading, or when they read the parts personal to +themselves; otherwise their sense of feminine propriety would be shocked +at the free way in which they and their most internal affairs are +confidentially spoken of between me and you, O loving readers. + +Thus, in an undertone, I tell you that my little Jennie, as she is +zealously and systematically arranging the fire, and trimly whisking +every untidy particle of ashes from the hearth, shows in every movement +of her little hands, in the cock of her head, in the knowing, observing +glance of her eye, and in all her energetic movements, that her small +person is endued and made up of the very expressed essence of +housewifeliness,--she is the very attar, not of roses, but of +housekeeping. Care-taking and thrift and neatness are a nature to her; +she is as dainty and delicate in her person as a white cat, as +everlastingly busy as a bee; and all the most needful faculties of time, +weight, measure, and proportion out to be fully developed in her skull, +if there is any truth in phrenology. Besides all this, she has a sort of +hard-grained little vein of common sense, against which my fanciful +conceptions and poetical notions are apt to hit with just a little sharp +grating, if they are not well put. In fact, this kind of woman needs +carefully to be idealized in the process of education, or she will +stiffen and dry, as she grows old, into a veritable household Pharisee, +a sort of domestic tyrant. She needs to be trained in artistic values +and artistic weights and measures, to study all the arts and sciences of +the beautiful, and then she is charming. Most useful, most needful, +these little women: they have the centripetal force which keeps all the +domestic planets from gyrating and frisking in unseemly orbits,--and +properly trained, they fill a house with the beauty of order, the +harmony and consistency of proportion, the melody of things moving in +time and tune, without violating the graceful appearance of ease which +Art requires. + +So I had an eye to Jennie's education in my article which I unfolded and +read, and which was entitled, + + +HOME-KEEPING _vs._ HOUSE-KEEPING. + +There are many women who know how to keep a house, but there are but few +that know how to keep a _home_. To keep a house may seem a complicated +affair, but it is a thing that may be learned; it lies in the region of +the material, in the region of weight, measure, color, and the positive +forces of life. To keep a home lies not merely in the sphere of all +these, but it takes in the intellectual, the social, the spiritual, the +immortal. + + +Here the hickory-stick broke in two, and the two brands fell +controversially out and apart on the hearth, scattering the ashes and +coals, and calling for Jennie and the hearth-brush. Your wood-fire had +this foible, that it needs something to be done to it every five +minutes; but, after all, these little interruptions of our bright-faced +genius are like the piquant sallies of a clever friend,--they do not +strike us as unreasonable. + +When Jennie had laid down her brush, she said,-- + +"Seems to me, papa, you are beginning to soar into metaphysics." + +"Everything in creation is metaphysical in its abstract terms," said I, +with a look calculated to reduce her to a respectful condition. +"Everything has a subjective and an objective mode of presentation." + +"There papa goes with subjective and objective!" said Marianne. "For my +part, I never can remember which is which." + +"I remember," said Jennie; "it's what our old nurse used to call +internal and _out_-ternal,--I always remember by that." + +"Come, my dears," said my wife, "let your father read"; so I went on as +follows:-- + + +I remember in my bachelor days going with my boon companion, Bill +Carberry to look at the house to which he was in a few weeks to +introduce his bride. Bill was a gallant, free-hearted, open-handed +fellow, the life of our whole set, and we felt that natural aversion to +losing him that bachelor friends would. How could we tell under what +strange aspects he might look forth upon us, when once he had passed +into "that undiscovered country" of matrimony? But Bill laughed to scorn +our apprehensions. + +"I'll tell you what, Chris," he said, as he sprang cheerily up the steps +and unlocked the door of his future dwelling, "do you know what I chose +this house for? Because it's a social-looking house. Look there, now," +he said, as he ushered me into a pair of parlors,--"look at those long +south windows, the sun lies there nearly all day long; see what a +capital corner there is for a lounging-chair; fancy us, Chris, with our +books or our paper, spread out loose and easy, and Sophie gliding in and +out like a sunbeam. I'm getting poetical, you see. Then, did you ever +see a better, wider, airier dining-room? What capital suppers and things +we'll have there! the nicest times,--everything free and easy, you +know,--just what I've always wanted a house for. I tell you, Chris, you +and Tom Innis shall have latch-keys just like mine, and there is a +capital chamber there at the head of the stairs, so that you can be free +to come and go. And here now's the library,--fancy this full of books +and engravings from the ceiling to the floor; here you shall come just +as you please and ask no questions,--all the same as if it were your +own, you know." + +"And Sophie, what will she say to all this?" + +"Why, you know Sophie is a prime friend to both of you, and a capital +girl to keep things going. Oh, Sophie'll make a house of this, you may +depend!" + +A day or two after, Bill dragged me stumbling over boxes +and through straw and wrappings to show me the glories of the +parlor-furniture,--with which he teemed pleased as a child with a new +toy. + +"Look here," he said; "see these chairs, garnet-colored satin, with a +pattern on each; well, the sofa's just like them, and the curtains to +match, and the carpets made for the floor with centrepieces and borders. +I never saw anything more magnificent in my life. Sophie's governor +furnishes the house, and everything is to be A No. 1, and all that, you +see. Messrs. Curtain and Collamore are coming to make the rooms up, and +her mother is busy as a bee getting us in order." + +"Why, Bill," said I, "you are going to be lodged like a prince. I hope +you'll be able to keep it up; but law-business comes in rather slowly at +first, old fellow." + +"Well, you know it isn't the way I should furnish, if my capital was the +one to cash the bills; but then, you see, Sophie's people do it, and let +them,--a girl doesn't want to come down out of the style she has always +lived in." + +I said nothing, but had an oppressive presentiment that social freedom +would expire in that house, crushed under a weight of upholstery. + +But there came in due time the wedding and the wedding-reception, and we +all went to see Bill in his new house splendidly lighted up and complete +from top to toe, and everybody said what a lucky fellow he was; but that +was about the end of it, so far as our visiting was concerned. The +running in, and dropping in, and keeping latch-keys, and making informal +calls, that had been forespoken, seemed about as likely as if Bill had +lodged in the Tuileries. + +Sophie, who had always been one of your snapping, sparkling, busy sort +of girls, began at once to develop her womanhood, and show her +principles, and was as different from her former self as your careworn, +mousing old cat is from your rollicking, frisky kitten. Not but that +Sophie was a good girl. She had a capital heart, a good, true womanly +one, and was loving and obliging; but still she was one of the +desperately painstaking, conscientious sort of women whose very blood, +as they grow older, is devoured with anxiety, and she came of a race of +women in whom house-keeping was more than an art or a science,--it was, +so to speak, a religion. Sophie's mother, aunts, and grandmothers for +nameless generations back, were known and celebrated housekeepers. They +might have been genuine descendants of the inhabitants of that Hollandic +town of Broeck, celebrated by Washington Irving, where the cows' tails +are kept tied up with unsullied blue ribbons, and the ends of the +firewood are painted white. He relates how a celebrated preacher, +visiting this town, found it impossible to draw these housewives from +their earthly views and employments, until he took to preaching on the +_neatness_ of the celestial city, the unsullied crystal of its walls and +the polish of its golden pavement, when the faces of all the housewives +were set Zionward at once. + +Now this solemn and earnest view of housekeeping is onerous enough when +a poor girl first enters on the care of a moderately furnished house, +where the articles are not too expensive to be reasonably renewed as +time and use wear them; but it is infinitely worse when a cataract of +splendid furniture is heaped upon her care,--when splendid crystals cut +into her conscience, and mirrors reflect her duties, and moth and rust +stand ever ready to devour and sully in every room and passage-way. + +Sophie was solemnly warned and instructed by all the mothers and +aunts,--she was warned of moths, warned of cockroaches, warned of flies, +warned of dust; all the articles of furniture had their covers, made of +cold Holland linen, in which they looked like bodies laid out,--even the +curtain-tassels had each its little shroud--and bundles of receipts and +of rites and ceremonies necessary for the preservation and purification +and care of all these articles were stuffed into the poor girl's head, +before guiltless of cares as the feathers that floated above it. + +Poor Bill found very soon that his house and furniture were to be kept +at such an ideal point of perfection that he needed another house to +live in,--for, poor fellow, he found the difference between having a +house and a home. It was only a year or two after that my wife and I +started our _menage_ on very different principles, and Bill would often +drop in upon us, wistfully lingering in the cozy arm-chair between my +writing-table and my wife's sofa, and saying with a sigh how +confoundedly pleasant things looked there,--so pleasant to have a +bright, open fire, and geraniums and roses and birds, and all that sort +of thing, and to dare to stretch out one's legs and move without +thinking what one was going to hit. "Sophie is a good girl," he would +say, "and wants to have everything right, but you see they won't let +her. They've loaded her with so many things that have to be kept in +lavender, that the poor girl is actually getting thin and losing her +health; and then, you see, there's Aunt Zeruah, she mounts guard at our +house, and keeps up such strict police-regulations that a fellow can't +do a thing. The parlors are splendid, but so lonesome and dismal!--not a +ray of sunshine, in fact not a ray of light, except when a visitor is +calling, and then they open a crack. They're afraid of flies, and yet, +dear knows, they keep every looking-glass and picture-frame muffled to +its throat from March to December. I'd like for curiosity to see what a +fly would do in our parlors!" + +"Well," said I, "can't you have some little family sitting-room, where +you can make yourselves cozy?" + +"Not a bit of it. Sophie and Aunt Zeruah have fixed their throne up in +our bedroom, and there they sit all day long, except at calling-hours, +and then Sophie dresses herself and comes down. Aunt Zeruah insists upon +it that the way is to put the whole house in order, and shut all the +blinds, and sit in your bedroom, and then, she says, nothing gets out of +place; and she tells poor Sophie the most hocus-pocus stories about her +grandmothers and aunts, who always kept everything in their houses so +that they could go and lay their hands on it in the darkest night. I'll +bet they could in our house. From end to end it is kept looking as if we +had shut it up and gone to Europe,--not a book, not a paper, not a +glove, or any trace of a human being, in sight. The piano shut tight, +the bookcases shut and locked, the engravings locked up, all the drawers +and closets locked. Why, if I want to take a fellow into the library, in +the first place it smells like a vault, and I have to unbarricade +windows, and unlock and rummage for half an hour before I can get at +anything; and I know Aunt Zeruah is standing tiptoe at the door, ready +to whip everything back and lock up again. A fellow can't be social, or +take any comfort in showing his books and pictures that way. Then +there's our great, light dining-room, with its sunny south +windows,--Aunt Zeruah got us out of that early in April, because she +said the flies would speck the frescos and get into the china-closet, +and we have been eating in a little dingy den, with a window looking out +on a back-alley, ever since; and Aunt Zeruah says that now the +dining-room is always in perfect order, and that it is such a care off +Sophy's mind that I ought to be willing to eat down-cellar to the end of +the chapter. Now, you see, Chris, my position is a delicate one, because +Sophie's folks all agree, that, if there is anything in creation that is +ignorant and dreadful and mustn't be allowed his way anywhere, it's 'a +man'. Why, you'd think, to hear Aunt Zeruah talk, that we were all like +bulls in a china-shop, ready to toss and tear and rend, if we are not +kept down-cellar and chained; and she worries Sophie, and Sophie's +mother comes in and worries, and if I try to get anything done +differently, Sophie cries, and says she don't know what to do, and so I +give it up. Now, if I want to ask a few of our set in sociably to +dinner, I can't have them where we eat down-cellar,--oh, that would +never do! Aunt Zeruah and Sophie's mother and the whole family would +think the family-honor was forever ruined and undone. We mustn't ask +them, unless we open the dining-room, and have out all the best china, +and get the silver home from the bank; and if we do that, Aunt Zeruah +doesn't sleep for a week beforehand, getting ready for it, and for a +week after, getting things put away; and then she tells me, that, in +Sophie's delicate state, it really is abominable for me to increase her +cares, and so I invite fellows to dine with me at Delmonico's, and then +Sophie cries, and Sophie's mother says it doesn't look respectable for a +family-man to be dining at public places; but, hang it, a fellow wants a +home somewhere!" + +My wife soothed the chafed spirit, and spake comfortably unto him, and +told him that he knew there was the old lounging-chair always ready for +him at our fireside. "And you know," she said, "our things are all so +plain that we are never tempted to mount any guard over them; our +carpets are nothing, and therefore we let the sun fade them, and live on +the sunshine and the flowers." + +"That's it," said Bill, bitterly, "Carpets fading!--that's Aunt Zeruah's +monomania. These women think that the great object of houses is to keep +out sunshine. What a fool I was, when I gloated over the prospect of our +sunny south windows! Why, man, there are three distinct sets of +fortifications against the sunshine in those windows: first, outside +blinds; then, solid, folding, inside shutters; and, lastly, heavy, +thick, lined damask curtains, which loop quite down to the floor. What's +the use of my pictures, I desire to know? They are hung in that room, +and it's a regular campaign to get light enough to see what they are." + +"But, at all events, you can light them up with gas in the evening." + +"In the evening! Why, do you know my wife never wants to sit there in +the evening? She says she has so much sewing to do that she and Aunt +Zeruah must sit up in the bedroom, because it wouldn't do to bring work +into the parlor. Didn't you know that? Don't you know there mustn't be +such a thing as a bit of real work ever seen in a parlor? What if some +threads should drop on the carpet? Aunt Zeruah would have to open all +the fortifications next day, and search Jerusalem with candles to find +them. No; in the evening the gas is lighted at half-cock, you know; and +if I turn it up, and bring in my newspapers and spread about me, and +pull down some books to read, I can feel the nervousness through the +chamber-door. Aunt Zeruah looks in at eight, and at a quarter past, and +at half-past, and at nine, and at ten, to see if I am done, so that she +may fold up the papers and put a book on them, and lock up the books in +their cases. Nobody ever comes in to spend an evening. They used to try +it when we were first married, but I believe the uninhabited appearance +of our parlors discouraged them. Everybody has stopped coming now, and +Aunt Zeruah says 'it is such a comfort, for now the rooms are always in +order. How poor Mrs. Crowfield lives, with her house such a +thoroughfare, she is sure she can't see. Sophie never would have +strength for it; but then, to be sure, some folks a'n't as particular as +others. Sophie was brought up in a family of _very_ particular +housekeepers.'" + +My wife smiled, with that calm, easy, amused smile that has brightened +up her sofa for so many years. + +Bill added, bitterly,-- + +"Of course, I couldn't say that I wished the whole set and system of +housekeeping women at the--what-'s-his-name? because Sophie would have +cried for a week, and been utterly forlorn and disconsolate. I know it's +not the poor girl's fault; I try sometimes to reason with her, but you +can't reason with the whole of your wife's family, to the third and +fourth generation backwards; but I'm sure it's hurting her +health,--wearing her out. Why, you know Sophie used to be the life of +our set; and now she really seems eaten up with care from morning to +night, there are so many things in the house that something dreadful is +happening to all the while, and the servants we get are so clumsy. Why, +when I sit with Sophie and Aunt Zeruah, it's nothing but a constant +string of complaints about the girls in the kitchen. We keep changing +our servants all the time, and they break and destroy so that now we are +turned out of the use of all our things. We not only eat in the +basement, but all our pretty table-things are put away, and we have all +the cracked plates and cracked tumblers and cracked teacups and old +buck-handled knives that can be raised out of chaos. I could use these +things and be merry, if I didn't know we had better ones; and I can't +help wondering whether there isn't some way that our table could be set +to look like a gentleman's table; but Aunt Zeruah says that 'it would +cost thousands, and what difference does it make as long as nobody sees +it but us?' You see, there's no medium in her mind between china and +crystal and cracked earthen-ware. Well, I'm wondering how all these laws +of the Medes and Persians are going to work when the children come +along. I'm in hopes the children will soften off the old folks, and make +the, house more habitable." + +Well, children did come, a good many of them, in time. There was Tom, a +broad-shouldered, chubby-cheeked, active, hilarious son of mischief, +born in the very image of his father; and there was Charlie, and Jim, +and Louisa, and Sophie the second, and Frank,--and a better, brighter, +more joy-giving household, as far as temperament and nature were +concerned, never existed. + +But their whole childhood was a long battle, children _versus_ +furniture, and furniture always carried the day. The first step of the +housekeeping powers was to choose the least agreeable and least +available room in the house for the children's nursery, and to fit it up +with all the old, cracked, rickety furniture a neighboring auction-shop +could afford, and then to keep them in it. Now everybody knows that to +bring up children to be upright, true, generous, and religious, needs so +much discipline, so much restraint and correction, and so many rules and +regulations, that it is all that the parents can carry out, and all the +children can bear. There is only a certain amount of the vital force for +parents or children to use in this business of education, and one must +choose what It shall be used for. The Aunt-Zeruah faction chose to use +it for keeping the house and furniture, and the children's education +proceeded accordingly. The rules of right and wrong of which they heard +most frequently were all of this sort: Naughty children were those who +went up the front-stairs, or sat on the best sofa, or fingered any of +the books in the library, or got out one of the best teacups, or drank +out of the cut-glass goblets. + +Why did they ever want to do it? If there ever is a forbidden fruit in +an Eden, will not our young Adams and Eves risk soul and body to find +out how it tastes? Little Tom, the oldest boy, had the courage and +enterprise and perseverance of a Captain Parry or Dr. Kane, and he used +them all in voyages of discovery to forbidden grounds. He stole Aunt +Zeruah's keys, unlocked her cupboards and closets, saw, handled, and +tasted everything for himself, and gloried in his sins. + +"Don't you know, Tom," said the nurse to him once, "if you are so noisy +and rude, you'll disturb your dear mamma? She's sick, and she may die, +if you're not careful." + +"Will she die?" said Tom, gravely. + +"Why, she _may_." + +"Then," says Tom, turning on his heel,--"then I'll go up the +front-stairs." + +As soon as ever the little rebel was old enough, he was sent away to +boarding-school, and then there was never found a time when it was +convenient to have him come home again. He could not come in the spring, +for then they were house-cleaning, nor in the autumn, because _then_ +they were house-cleaning; and so he spent his vacations at school, +unless, by good luck, a companion who was so fortunate as to have a home +invited him there. His associations, associates, habits, principles, +were as little known to his mother as if she had sent him to China. Aunt +Zeruah used to congratulate herself on the rest there was at home, now +he was gone, and say she was only living in hopes of the time when +Charlie and Jim would be big enough to send away too; and meanwhile +Charlie and Jim, turned out of the charmed circle which should hold +growing boys to the father's and mother's side, detesting the dingy, +lonely play-room, used to run the city-streets, and hang round the +railroad-depots or docks. Parents may depend upon it, that, if they do +not make an attractive resort for their boys, Satan will. There are +places enough, kept warm and light and bright and merry, where boys can +go whose mothers' parlors are too fine for them to sit in. There are +enough to be found to clap them on the back, and tell them stories that +their mothers must not hear, and laugh when they compass with their +little piping voices the dreadful litanies of sin and shame. In middle +life, our poor Sophie, who as a girl was so gay and frolicsome, so full +of spirits, had dried and sharpened into a hard-visaged, angular +woman,--careful and troubled about many things, and forgetful that one +thing is needful. One of the boys had run away to sea; I believe he has +never been heard of. As to Tom, the oldest, he ran a career wild and +hard enough for a time, first at school and then in college, and there +came a time when he came home, in the full might of six feet two, and +almost broke his mother's heart with his assertions of his home rights +and privileges. Mothers who throw away the key of their children's +hearts in childhood sometimes have a sad retribution. As the children +never were considered when they were little and helpless, so they do not +consider when they are strong and powerful. Tom spread wide desolation +among the household gods, lounging on the sofas, spitting tobacco-juice +on the carpets, scattering books and engravings hither and thither, and +throwing all the family-traditions into wild disorder, as he would never +have done, had not all his childish remembrances of them been embittered +by the association of restraint and privation. He actually seemed to +hate any appearance of luxury or taste or order,--he was a perfect +Philistine. + +As for my friend Bill, from being the pleasantest and most genial of +fellows, he became a morose, misanthropic man. Dr. Franklin has a +significant proverb,--"Silks and satins put out the kitchen-fire." Silks +and satins--meaning by them the luxuries of housekeeping--often put out +not only the parlor-fire, but that more sacred flame, the fire of +domestic love. It is the greatest possible misery to a man and to his +children to be _homeless_; and many a man has a splendid house, but no +home. + + +"Papa," said Jennie, "you ought to write and tell what are your ideas of +keeping a _home_." + +"Girls, you have only to think how your mother has brought you up." + +Nevertheless, I think, being so fortunate a husband, I might reduce my +wife's system to an analysis, and my next paper shall be,-- + +_What is a home, and how to keep it?_ + + * * * * * + +THE CONVULSIONISTS OF ST. MÉDARD + + +Of all the mental epidemics that have visited Europe, beyond question +the most remarkable, and in some of its features the most inexplicable, +is that which prevailed in Paris some hundred and thirty years ago, +among what were called _the Convulsionists of St. Médard_. + +The celebrated Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres, during his life the opponent +and enemy of the Jesuits, whom he caused to be excluded from the +theological schools of Louvain, left behind him, at his death, a +treatise, posthumously published in 1640, entitled, "Augustinus," in +which he professed to set forth the true opinions of St. Augustine on +those century-long disputed questions of Grace, Free-Will, and +Predestination. Taking ground against the Molinists, he contended for +the doctrine of Predestination antecedent and absolute, a gift purely +gratuitous, of God's free grace, independent of any virtue or merit in +the recipient soul. This doctrine, set forth in five propositions, was +condemned, in the middle of the seventeenth century, by Popes Innocent +X. and Alexander VII.; and against it, when revived by Father Quesnel in +the beginning of the eighteenth century, there was fulminated, in 1713, +by Pope Clement XI., the famous Bull _Unigenitus_. + +From this Bull, accepted in France after long opposition, the Jansenist +party appealed to a future Papal Council, thence deriving their name of +_Appellants_. Among these, one of the most noted and zealous was the +Diacre Pāris, who refused a curacy, to avoid signing his adhesion to +what he regarded as heresy, consumed his fortune in works of charity, +and his health in austerities of a character so excessive that they +abridged his life. Dying, as his partisans have it, in the odor of +sanctity, and protesting with his last breath against the doctrines of +the obnoxious Bull, his remains were deposited, on the second of May, +1727, in the small church-yard of St. Médard, situated in the twelfth +_arrondissement_ of Paris, on the Rue Mouffetard, not far from the +Jardin des Plantes. + +To the tomb of one whom they regarded as a martyr to their cause the +Jansenist Appellants habitually resorted, in all the fervor of religious +zeal, heated to enthusiasm by the persecution of the dominant party. And +there, after a time, phenomena presented themselves, which caused for +years, throughout the French capital and among the theologians of that +age, a fever of excitement; and which, though they have been noticed by +medical and other writers of our own century, have not yet, in my +judgment, attracted, either from the medical profession or from the +pneumatological inquirer, the attention they deserve. + +Of these phenomena a portion were physical, and a portion were mental or +psychological. The former, first appearing in the early part of the year +1731, consisted (as alleged) partly of extraordinary cures, the apparent +result of violent convulsive movements which overtook the patients soon +after their bodies touched the marble of the tomb, sometimes even +without approaching it, by swallowing, in wine or water, a small portion +of the earth gathered from around it, the effect being heightened by +strict fasting and prayer,--partly of what were called the "_Grands +Secours_," literally "Great Succors," consisting of the most desperate, +one might say _murderous_, remedies, applied, at their urgent request, +to relieve the sufferings of the Convulsionists. These measures, called +of relief, and carried to an incredible excess, were of such a +character, that, during any normal state of the human system, they would +have destroyed, not one, but a hundred lives, if the patient, or victim, +had been endowed with so many. Those who regarded this marvellous +immunity from what seemed certain immolation as a miraculous +interposition of God were called _Succorists_; their opponents, +ascribing such effects to the interference of the Devil in protection of +his own, or (a somewhat rare opinion in those days) to natural +agency, went by the name of _Anti-Succorists_. (_Secouristes_ and +_Anti-Secouristes_.) + +Some of these alleged cures, but more especially some of these so-called +_succors_, were of a nature so far passing belief, that one would be +tempted to cast them aside as sheer impostures, were not the main facts +vouched for by evidence, not from the Jansenists alone, but from their +bitterest opponents, so direct, so overwhelmingly multiplied, so +minutely circumstantial, that to reject it would amount to a virtual +declaration, that, in proof of the extraordinary and the improbable, we +will accept no testimony whatever, let its weight or character be what +it may. Accordingly, we find dispassionate modern writers, medical and +others, while reminding us, as well they may, that enlightened observers +of these strange phenomena were lacking,[3] and while properly +suggesting that we ought to make allowance for exaggeration in some of +the details, yet admitting as incontestable realities the substantial +facts related by the historians of St. Médard. + +Among these historians the chief is Carré de Montgéron, a magistrate of +rank and high character, Counsellor of the Parliament of Paris. An +enthusiast, and a weak logician, as hot enthusiasts generally are, +Montgéron's honesty is admitted to be beyond question. Converted to +Jansenism on the seventh of September, 1731, in the church-yard of St. +Médard, by the strange scenes there passing, he expended his fortune, +sacrificed his liberty, and devoted years of his life, in the +preparation and publication of one of the most extraordinary works that +ever issued from the press.[4] It consists of three quarto volumes, of +some nine hundred closely printed pages each. Crowded with repetitions, +and teeming with false reasoning, these volumes nevertheless contain, +backed by certificates without number, such an elaborate aggregation of +concurrent testimony as I think human industry never before brought +together to prove any contested class of phenomena. + +Not less zealous, if less voluminous, were the writers opposed to what +was called "the work of the convulsions." Of these one of the chief was +Dom La Taste, Bishop of Bethléem, author of the "Lettres Théologiques," +and of the "Mémoire Théologique," in both of which the extravagances of +the Convulsionists are severely handled; a second was the Abbé d'Asfeld, +who, in 1738, published his "Vains Efforts des Discernans," in the same +strain; and another, M. Poncet, who put forth an elaborate reply to the +Succorists, entitled "Réponse des Anti-Secouristes ą la Réclamation." + +The convulsions, commencing in the year 1731, almost immediately assumed +an epidemical character, spreading so rapidly that in a few months the +affected reached the number of eight hundred. These were to be found not +only on the tomb and in the cemetery itself, but in the streets, lanes, +and houses adjoining. Many, after returning from the exciting scenes of +St. Médard, were seized with convulsions in their own dwellings. + +The numbers and the excitement went on increasing, and conversions to +Jansenism were counted by thousands; the scenes became daily more +extravagant, and the phenomena more extraordinary, until the King, moved +either by the representations of physicians or by the remonstrances of +Jesuit theologians, caused the cemetery to be closed on the twenty-ninth +of January, 1732.[5] + +Not for such interdiction, however, did the phenomena, once in progress, +intermit. For fifteen years, or longer,[6] the symptoms continued, with +more or less violence. Indeed, the number of Convulsionists greatly +increased after the cemetery was closed, extending to those who had no +ailment or bodily infirmity.[7] + +The symptoms, though varying in different individuals, were of one +general character, partaking, especially as to the muscular phenomena, +of the nature of hysteria, or hystero-catalepsy. The patient, soon after +being placed on the revered tomb, or on the ground near it, was commonly +attacked by a tumultuous movement of all his members. Contractions +exhibited themselves in the neck, shoulders, and principal muscles all +over the body. The nervous system became dreadfully excited. The heart +beat violently, and the patient, sometimes retaining partial +consciousness and suffering extreme pain, could not restrain violent +cries. He usually experienced, also, a tingling or pricking sensation in +any diseased member. Those who from birth had been afflicted with +paralysis, or partial paralysis, of a limb, or one side of the body, +felt the convulsions chiefly in that limb or side. The convulsions were +often so violent that numerous assistants could scarcely restrain the +patient from seriously injuring himself by dashing his body or limbs +against the marble.[8] + +The Demoiselle Fourcroy, alleged to have been suddenly cured, on the +fourteenth of April, 1732, by means of these convulsions, of a confirmed +anchylosis, which had deformed her left foot, and which the physicians +had pronounced incurable,[9] thus describes, in her deposition, her +sensations:--"They caused me to take wine in which was some earth from +the tomb of M. de Pāris, and I immediately engaged in prayer, as the +commencement of a _neuvaine_" (that is, a nine-days' act of devotion). +"Almost at the same moment I was seized with a great shuddering, and +soon after with a violent agitation of the members, which caused my +whole body to jerk into the air, and gave me a force I had never before +possessed,--so that the united strength of several persons present could +scarcely restrain me. After a time, in the course of these violent +convulsive movements, I lost all consciousness. As soon as they passed +off, I recovered my senses, and felt a sensation of tranquillity and +internal peace, such as I had never experienced before."[10] + +It was usually at the moment of recovery from these convulsions, as +Montgéron alleges and the certificates published by him declare, that +the cures deemed by him miraculous were effected. Sometimes, however, +these cures were gradual only, extending through several days or weeks. + +In Montgéron's work fourteen distinct cures are minutely reported, all +of persons declared by the attendant physicians to be incurable. Each of +these cures, with the documentary evidence in support of it, occupies +from fifty to one hundred pages of his book. The greater number are +cases of paralysis, usually of one entire side of the body, in some +instances complicated with general dropsy, in others with cancer, in +others again with attacks of apoplexy. There are four cases where the +eyesight was restored,--one of them of a lachrymal fistula; one of a +young Spanish nobleman, who suddenly recovered the use of his right eye, +the left, however, remaining uncured; and there is a case in which a +young woman, deaf and dumb from birth, is reported to have been suddenly +and completely cured on the tomb of M. de Pāris, at the moment the +convulsions ceased, immediately repeating, though not understanding, any +word that was spoken to her by the bystanders. + +My limits do not permit me to follow Montgéron through the details and +the documentary proof of these cures. That the patient, in each case, +previously examined by some physician of reputation, was pronounced +incurable, does not prove that he was so. Yet, unless Montgéron lie, +some of the cures are inexplicable, upon any received principles of +medical science. One man, (Philippe Sergent,) whose right knee had +shrunk to such a degree that the right leg was, and had been for more +than a year, three finger-breadths shorter than the left, was, according +to the certificates, cured on the spot, threw away his crutches, and +walked home, unaided, followed by a wondering crowd. Another patient, +(Marguerite Thibault,) affected by general dropsy, and whose feet and +legs were swollen to three times their natural size, is reported to have +been cured so suddenly that before she left the tomb her servant could +put on her feet the same slippers she had worn previously to her malady. +This woman had also been afflicted, for three years, with paralysis of +the left side, so complete as to deprive it of all power of motion. Yet +she is stated to have raised herself, unaided, on the tomb, to have +walked from the spot, and even to have ascended the stairs of her house +on her return. The symptom immediately preceding her cure is said to +have been "a beneficent heat, which diffused itself over the entire left +side, so long deadly cold." This was followed by a consciousness of +power to move it; and her first effort was to stretch out her paralytic +arm.[11] + +But these cures, wonderful as they appear, are far less marvellous than +another class of phenomena already referred to. + +The convulsions were often accompanied by an urgent instinctive desire +for certain extreme remedies, sometimes of a frightful character,--as +stretching the limbs with a violence similar to that of the +rack,--administering on the breast, stomach, or other parts of the body, +hundreds of terrible blows with heavy weapons of wood, iron, or +stone,--pressing with main force against various parts of the body with +sharp-pointed swords,--pressure under enormous weights,--exposure to +excessive heat, etc. Montgéron, viewing the whole as miraculous, +says,--"God frequently causes the convulsionists the most acute pains, +and at the same time intimates to them, by a supernatural instinct, that +the formidable succors which He desires that they should demand will +cause all their sufferings to cease; and these sufferings usually have a +sort of relation to the succors which are to prove a remedy for them. +For instance, an oppression on the breast indicates the necessity for +blows of extreme violence on that part; an excessive cold, or a +devouring heat, when it suddenly seizes a convulsionist, requires that +he should be pushed into the midst of flames; a sharp pang, similar to +that caused by an iron point piercing the flesh, demands a thrust of a +rapier,[12] given in the spot where the pain is felt, be it In the +throat, in the mouth, or in the eyes, of which there are numerous +examples; and let the rapier be pushed as it may, the point, no matter +how sharp, cannot pierce the most tender flesh, not even the eye of the +patient: of this, in my third proposition, I shall adduce proof the most +incontestable."[13] + +To _some_ extent, it would seem, the symptoms themselves, attending the +convulsions, appeared, to the observant physician, to warrant the +propriety of the remedy desired. Montgéron copies a report of a case +made to him, and attested by a gentleman of his acquaintance, a +Jansenist, who had persuaded his cousin, Dr. M----, at that time a +distinguished physician of Paris, and much prejudiced against the +Jansenist movement, to accompany him to a house where there was a young +girl subject to the reigning epidemic. They found her in a room with +twenty or thirty persons, and at the moment in convulsions. The +assistants agreed to place the case in the hands of the physician, and +he carefully noted the movements of the patient. + +"After a time," proceeds the reporter, "he was greatly astonished to +observe a sudden convulsive retraction of all the members. Examining the +patient closely, touching her breast and limbs, he became aware of a +contraction of the nerves, which gradually reached such a degree of +violence that the whole body was disfigured in a frightful manner. His +surprise was extreme, and it was soon changed to alarm, which induced +him to forget his prejudices, and to resort to the very means he had +previously condemned as useless or dangerous. He caused us to place +ourselves, one at the head and one at each hand and foot, and bade us +pull moderately. We did so. + +"'Not enough,' he said, with his hand on the patient's breast; +'stronger!' + +"We obeyed. + +"'Stronger yet!' he exclaimed. + +"We told him we were exerting our entire strength. + +"'Two, then, to each limb,' he said. + +"It was done, (by the aid of long and very strong pieces of +cloth-listing,) but proved insufficient. + +"'Three to each!' he cried; 'the child will die; pull with all your +force! Stronger still!'" + +"'We cannot.'" + +"'Then four to each!'" + +"He was obeyed." + +"'Ah, that relieves,' he said; 'the nerves resume their tone; the +symptoms improve. But do not relax the tension.'" + +"Then again, after a pause,--" + +"'Strong! stronger! The contractions increase. Put all your strength to +it.'" + +Ultimately five persons were assigned to each band; and the nearest +aided themselves by bracing their feet against the bed. They continued +their efforts during half an hour, sometimes pulling with all their +strength, sometimes less strongly, as the physician observed the +contraction of the nerves to increase or relax. Finally he ordered the +tension to be gradually diminished, in proportion as the convulsion +passed off. + +After a time this convulsion was succeeded by another, causing a sudden +and alarming swelling of the chest. "The girl stood leaning against a +wall, and in that position he caused us, as had been our wont, to press +with force on her chest. This we did, interposing a small cushion +composed of listing. At first, I alone assisted." Then Dr. M---- ordered +three, four, five, ultimately even a greater number of persons, to aid +them. "The convulsion ceased gradually, and in the same proportion he +caused us to diminish the pressure." + +"Afterwards the physician, having retired to another room, said to us, +before going away, 'You would be homicides, gentlemen, if you did not +render these succors; for the symptoms require them; and the girl would +die, if you refused them. There is nothing but what is natural in the +relation between her state and these succors.'"[14] + +Another example, occurring in 1740, and still more striking, because the +case was that of a girl only three years of age, is given by Montgéron +on the authority (among other witnesses) of Count de Novion, a near +relative of the Duke de Gesvres, Governor of Paris. The Count, having +been present throughout this case, testifies from personal observation. + +The child's limbs, as in the previous example, were drawn up by violent +convulsive movements, and the muscles became as it were knotted, causing +extreme pain. The little creature urgently begged that they would draw +her legs and arms. Moderate tension caused no diminution of the pain; +violent tension, administered with fear and trembling, relieved her +immediately. She complained also of acute pain in the breast, which +swelled to an alarming extent. To remove this, nothing proved effectual +but excessive pressure with the knee on the part affected. + +After a time, however, some of the Anti-Succorist theologians persuaded +the mother that the succors ought not to be administered,--and even +raised doubts in her mind and in that of the Count, as to whether the +Devil had not some agency in the affair. "Who knows," said the latter, +"if the Arch-Enemy has no part in this?" So they intermitted the succors +for some weeks. During this time the infant gradually sank from day to +day, would scarcely eat or drink, seldom slept, and death seemed +imminent. + +The physician, being called in, declared that the only hope was in +resuming the succors, terrible as they appeared, and that, too, +promptly. To the father he said, "If you delay, it will be too late. +While you are trying all your fine experiments with her, your child will +die." They resumed the same violent remedies as before; and the child +was gradually restored to perfect health.[15] + +But these examples, whatever we may think of them, are but some of the +most moderate, which Montgéron himself admits to be explicable on +natural principles. He says: "During the first months that the succors +commenced, the power of resistance offered by the convulsionists did not +appear so surprising, and seemed, indeed, to be the effect of an +excessive swelling which was observed in the muscles upon which the +convulsionists requested the blows to be given, and of the violent +agitation of the animal spirits; so that the succors demanded by the +sufferers appeared, in a measure, the natural remedy for the state in +which God had placed them. But when, every day, the violence of the +blows increased, it became evident that the natural force of the muscles +could not equal that of the tremendous strokes which the convulsionists +demanded, in obedience, as they said, to the will of God. And here was +manifested the miracle."[16] + +I proceed to give, as an example of one of the more violent succors here +spoken of as miraculous, a narrative, not only vouched for by Montgéron +himself as a witness present, but put forth, in the first instance, by +one of the most violent Anti-Succorists, the Abbé d'Asfeld, in his work +already referred to,--and put forth by him in order to be condemned as a +wicked tempting of Providence,[17] or, worse, an accepting of aid from +the Prince of Darkness himself. It occurred in 1734. + +"Here," says the Abbé, "is an example, all the more worthy of attention, +inasmuch as persons of every station and condition, ecclesiastics, +magistrates, ladies of rank, were among the spectators. Jeanne Moler, a +young girl of twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, standing up with +her back resting against a stone wall, an extremely robust man took an +andiron,[18] weighing, as was said, from twenty-five to thirty pounds, +and therewith gave her, with his whole force, numerous blows on the +stomach. They counted upwards of a hundred at a time. One day a certain +friar, after having given her sixty such blows, tried the same weapon +against a wall; and it is said that at the twenty-fifth blow he broke an +opening through it."[19] + +Dom La Taste, the great opponent of Jansenism, alluding to the same +circumstance, says, "I do not dispute the fact, that the andiron sunk so +deeply that it appeared to penetrate to the very backbone."[20] + +Montgéron, after quoting the above, adds his own testimony, as to this +same occurrence, in these words:-- + +"As I am not ashamed to confess that I am one of those who have followed +up most closely the work of the convulsions, I freely admit that I am +the person to whom the author alludes, when he speaks of a certain friar +who tried against a wall the effect of blows similar to those he had +given the convulsionist. As this is an occurrence personal to myself, I +trust the reader will perceive the propriety of my presenting to him the +narrative in a more exact and detailed form than that in which it is +given by the author of the 'Vains Efforts.' + +"I had begun, as I usually do, by giving the convulsionist very moderate +blows. But after a time, excited by her constant complaints, which left +me no room to doubt that the oppression in the pit of the stomach of +which she complained could be relieved only by violent blows, I +gradually increased the force of mine, employing at last my whole +strength; but in vain. The convulsionist continued to complain that the +blows I gave her were so feeble that they procured her no relief; and +she caused me to put the andiron into the hands of a large and stout man +who happened to be one of the spectators. He kept within no bounds. +Instructed by the trial he had seen me make that nothing could be too +severe, he discharged such terrible blows, always on the pit of the +stomach, as to shake the wall against which the convulsionist was +leaning. + +"She caused him to give her one hundred such blows, not reckoning as +anything the sixty I had just administered. She warmly thanked the man +who had procured her such relief, and reproached me for my weakness and +my lack of faith. + +"When the hundred blows were completed, I took the andiron, desirous of +trying against the wall itself whether my blows, which she thought so +feeble and complained of so bitterly, really did produce no effect. At +the twenty-fifth stroke the stone against which I struck, and which had +been shaken by the previous blows, was shattered, and the pieces fell +out on the opposite side, leaving an opening of more than six inches +square. + +"Now let us observe what were the portions of the body of the +convulsionist on which these fearful blows were dealt. It is true that +they first came in contact with the skin, but they sank immediately to +the back of the patient; their force was not arrested at the surface. + +"I insist unnecessarily, perhaps, upon this fact, since all, even our +greatest enemies, admit its truth. But, however incontestable it is, I +conceive that I cannot too strongly prove it to those who have not +themselves witnessed what happened; inasmuch as the principal objection +made by the author of the 'Mémoire Théologique' consists in supposing +that the violence of the most tremendous blows given to convulsionists +is suspended by the Devil, who thus nullifies the effect they would +naturally produce."[21] + +Montgéron further says, that "the greatest enemies of these miraculous +succors admitted the fact that such terrible blows, far from producing +the slightest wound, or causing the convulsionist the least suffering, +actually cured the pains of which she complained."[22] + +The convulsionist sometimes demanded enormous pressure instead of +violent blows. To this also, the Abbé d'Asfeld testifies. I translate +from his "Vains Efforts." + +"Next came the exercise of the platform. It consisted in placing on the +convulsionist, who was stretched on the ground, a board of sufficient +size to cover her entirely; and as many men as could stand upon it +mounted on the board. The convulsionist sustained them all."[23] + +Montgéron adds,--"This relation is tolerably exact, and it only remains +for me to observe, that, as they gave each other the hand, for +reciprocal support, most of those who were on the board rested the whole +weight of the body on a single foot. Thus, twenty men at a time often +stood upon the board, and were supported on the body of a young +convulsionist. Now, as most men weigh a hundred and fifty pounds, and +many weigh more, the body of the girl must have sustained a weight of +three thousand pounds, if not sometimes nearly four thousand,--a load +sufficient to crush an ox. Yet, not only was the convulsionist not +oppressed by it, but she often found the pressure insufficient to +correct the swelling which distended her muscles. With what force must +not God have endowed the body of this girl! Since the days of Samson, +was ever seen such a prodigy?"[24] + +If these incidents, attested as they are by friend and foe, seem to us +incredible, what shall we say of another, not less strongly attested? + +Let us first, as before, take the statement of an adversary. I translate +from the "Mémoire Théologique." + +"A convulsionist laid herself on the floor, flat on her back; and a man, +kneeling beside her, and raising a flint stone, weighing upwards of +twenty pounds, as high as he could, after several preliminary trials, +dashed it, with all his force, against the breast of the convulsionist, +giving her one hundred such blows in succession."[25] + +To this Montgéron subjoins,--"But the author ought to have added, that, +at each blow, the whole room shook, the floor trembled, and the +spectators could not repress a shudder at the frightful noise which was +heard, as each blow fell on the convulsionist's breast." We need not be +surprised that he adds,--"Not only ought such strokes naturally to +rupture the minute vessels, the delicate glands, the veins and the +arteries of which the breast is composed,--not only ought they, in the +course of Nature, to have crushed and reduced the whole to a bloody +mass,--but they ought to have shattered to pieces the bones and +cartilages by which the breast is inclosed."[26] + +This was the view of the case taken by a celebrated physician of the +day. Montgéron tells us:--"This philosopher maintained that the facts +alleged could not be true, because they were physically impossible. He +raised, among other objections, this,--that the flexible, delicate +nature of the skin, of the flesh, and of the viscera, is incompatible +with a force and a consistency so extraordinary as the alleged facts +presuppose; and, consequently, that it was impossible, without ceasing +to be what they are,--without a radical change in their qualities,--that +they should acquire a force superior to that of the hardest and most +solid bodies. They let him quietly complete his anatomical argument, and +set forth all his proofs, and merely answered, 'Come and see; test the +truth of the facts for yourself.' He went. At first sight, he is seized +with astonishment; he doubts the evidence of his eyes; he asks to be +allowed himself to administer the succors. They immediately place in his +hands iron bars of a crushing weight. He does not spare his blows; he +exerts his utmost strength. The weapon sinks into the flesh, seems to +penetrate to the entrails. But the convulsionist only laughs at his idle +efforts. His blows but procure her relief, without leaving the least +impression, the slightest trace, even on the epidermis."[27] + +Space fails me to furnish more than a very few additional specimens of +the endless incidents of which the details are scattered by Montgéron +over hundreds of pages,--incidents occurring in various parts of Paris, +daily, for many years. Three or four more of these may suffice for my +present purpose. + +A certain Marie Sonnet had made herself so remarkable by the incredible +succors she demanded, that a physician of Paris, Dr. A----, published, +in regard to her case, a satirical letter addressed to M. de Montgéron, +in which, after attacking the girl's moral character, be assumed this +strange position: "It is a sentiment universally established, that it is +in the power of the Devil, when God permits, to communicate to man +forces above those of Nature. Nor must it be said that God never permits +this; the case of the girl Sonnet is unanswerable proof to the +contrary."[28] + +Among the incidents which appear to have led to this opinion one is thus +stated by him:--"They let fall upon her stomach, from the height of the +ceiling, a stone weighing fifty pounds, while her body, bent back like a +bow, was supported on the point of a sharpened stake, placed just under +the spine; yet, far from being crushed by the stone, or pierced by the +stake, it was a relief to her."[29] + +Montgéron supplies further particulars of this case. He says:--"It was +not once, it was a hundred times in succession, and that daily repeated, +that this flint stone was raised by main force, by the aid of a pulley, +to the ceiling of the room, and thence suddenly let fall on the stomach +of the patient. This stone weighed, it is true, fifty pounds only; but, +descending from a great height, its effect was immensely increased by +the momentum it acquired in falling, as soon as the cord was detached by +which it was suspended in the air.' And, in truth, the ribs of the +convulsionist bent under the terrible shock, sinking under the weight +till her stomach and bowels were so completely flattened that the stone +seemed wholly to displace them. Yet she received no injury whatever, but +was relieved, as Dr. A---- himself admits. He confesses, also, that the +body of the convulsionist was bent back so that the head and feet +touched the floor, and was supported only on the sharp point of a stake +right under her reins, and placed perpendicularly beneath the spot where +the stone was to fall. The weight of the stone in falling was, +therefore, arrested only by the point of this stake, the body of the +convulsionist being between them, so that the entire force of the blow +was concentrated opposite that point.... The stake appeared to penetrate +to a certain depth into the body, yet neither the skin nor the flesh +received the slightest injury, nor did the convulsionist experience any +pain whatever."[30] + +This same Marie Sonnet exposed herself to terrible tests by fire. A +certificate in regard to this matter, signed by eleven persons, of whom +one was an English lord, one a Doctor of Theology in the Sorbonne, and +another the brother of Voltaire, Armand Arouet, Treasurer of the Chamber +of Accounts, is given by Montgéron, and I here translate it:-- + +"We, the undersigned, certify, that this day, between eight and ten +o'clock, P.M., Marie Sonnet, being in convulsion, was placed, her head +resting on one stool and her feet on another, these stools being +entirely within a large chimney and under the opening of the same, so +that her body was suspended in the air above the fire, which was of +extreme violence, and that she remained in that position for the space +of thirty-six minutes, at four different times; yet the cloth [_drap_] +in which she was wrapped (she having no other dress) was not burned, +though the flames sometimes passed above it: all which appears to us +entirely supernatural. In testimony whereof, we have signed our names, +this twelfth of May, 1736." + +To this certificate, which was afterwards legally recorded, a postscript +is appended, stating, that, while they were writing out the certificate, +Marie placed herself a fifth time over the fire, as before, remaining +there nine minutes; that she appeared to sleep, though the fire was +excessively hot; fifteen logs of wood, besides fagots, having been +consumed in the two hours and a quarter during which the witnesses +remained. + +Montgéron adds, that this exhibition has been witnessed at least a +hundred times, and by a multitude of persons. And he expressly states, +that the stools, which consisted of iron frames, with a board upon each, +were placed entirely within the fireplace, and one on each side of the +fire; so that, as Marie Sonnet rested her head on one stool and her feet +on the other, her body remained suspended immediately above the fire; +and further, that, "no matter how intense the heat, not only did she +suffer no inconvenience, but the cloth in which she was wrapped was +never injured, nor even singed, though it was sometimes actually in the +flames."[31] + +He declares, also, that Marie, on other occasions, remained over the +fire much longer than is above certified. The author of the "Vains +Efforts" admits that "she remained exposed to the fire long enough to +roast a piece of mutton or veal." + +Montgéron informs us, in addition, that Marie Sonnet sometimes varied +the form of this experiment, with a somewhat varying result. He +says,--"I have seen her five or six times, and in the presence of a +multitude of persons, thrust both her feet, with shoes and stockings on, +into the midst of a burning brazier; but in this case the fire did not +respect the shoes, as, in the other, it had respected the cloth that +enwrapped her. The shoes caught fire, and the soles were reduced to +ashes, but without the convulsionist experiencing pain in her feet, +which she continued to keep for a considerable time in the fire. Once I +had the curiosity to examine the soles of her stockings, in order to +ascertain if they, too, were burnt. As soon as I touched them they +crumbled to powder, so that the sole of the foot remained bare."[32] + +Dr. A----, in the letter already alluded to, which he published against +this girl, admits, that, "while in the midst of flames, or stretched +over a burning brazier, she received no injury whatever."[33] + +M. Poncet, whom I have elsewhere mentioned as one of the chief writers +against the Succorists, admits the following:-- + +"This convulsionist [Gabrielle Moler] placed herself on her knees before +a large fire full of burning coals all in flame. Then, a person being +seated behind her, and holding her by a band, she plunged her head into +the flames, which closed over it; then, being drawn back, she repeated +the same, continuing it with a regular alternate movement. She has been +seen thus to throw herself on the fire six hundred times in succession. +Usually she wore a bonnet, but sometimes not; and when she did wear one, +the top of the bonnet was occasionally burned."[34] Montgéron adds, "but +her hair never."[35] + +Gabrielle was the first who (in 1736) demanded what was called the +_succor of the swords_. Montgéron says,--"She was prompted by the +supernatural instinct which guided her to select the strongest and +sharpest sword she could find among those worn by the spectators. Then +setting herself with her back against a wall, she placed the point of +the sword just above her stomach, and called upon him who seemed the +strongest man to push it with all his force; and though the sword bent +into the form of a bow from the violence with which it was pushed, so +that they had to press against the middle of the blade to keep it +straight, still the convulsionist cried out, 'Stronger! stronger!' After +a time she applied the point of the sword to her throat, and required it +to be pushed with the same violence as before. The point caused the skin +to sink into the throat to the depth of four finger-breadths, but it +never pierced the flesh, let them push as violently as they would. +Nevertheless, the point of the sword seemed to attach itself to the +skin; for, when drawn back, it drew the skin with it, and left a +trifling redness, such as would be caused by the prick of a pin. For the +rest, the convulsionist suffered no pain whatever."[36] + +Similar is the testimony of an Advocate of the Parliament of Paris, +extracts from whose certificate in regard to the succors rendered to the +Sister Madeleine are given by Montgéron. Here is one of these:-- + +"One day, extended on the ground, she caused a spit to be placed +upright, with the point on her bare throat. Then a stout man mounted on +a chair, and suspended his whole body from the head of the spit, +pressing with all his force, as if to transfix the throat and pierce the +floor beneath. But the flesh merely sank in with the point of the spit, +without being in the least injured. + +"Another day, she placed the point of a very sharp sword against the +hollow of the throat, just below the epiglottis, and, standing with her +back against the wall, called on them to push the sword. A vigorous man +did so, till the blade bent, though not so much as to form a complete +arc. The point sank into the flesh about an inch. I was curious to +measure the exact depth, and found that the flesh rose so far around the +sword-point that I could sink a finger in beyond the first joint. She +received this succor twice. The sword was one of the sharpest I have +ever seen. We tried it against a portfolio containing the paper intended +for the minutes which on such occasions I always make out. It perforated +the pasteboard and a considerable part of the papers within."[37] + +The Sister Madeleine carried her temerity in this matter still farther. +Here is a portion of the certificate of an ecclesiastic, for whose +uprightness and truthfulness Montgéron vouches in strong terms, and who +relates what he alleges he saw on the thirty-first of May, 1744. + +"Madeleine caused them to hold two swords in the air horizontally. She +herself placed the point of one in the inner corner of the right eye, +and of the other in the inner corner of the left, and then called out to +those who held the swords, 'In the name of the Father, push!' They did +so with all their force; and I confess that I shuddered from head to +foot.... A second time Madeleine caused them to set two swords against +the pupils of her eyes, and to press them strongly, as before. This time +I took especial notice of the part of the sword that was on a level with +the surface of the eye when the pressure was the strongest, and I +perceived that the point had penetrated a good inch into the pupil."[38] + +The Chaplain in Ordinary of the King, under date of the fourth of +October, 1744, testifies to confirmatory facts. He says,--"I have seen +them push sword-points against the eyes of Sisters Madeleine and +Félicité, sometimes on the pupil, sometimes in the corner of the eye, +sometimes on the eyelid,--with such force as to cause the eyeball to +project, till the spectators shuddered."[39] + +Another officer of the royal household gives a certificate of succors +administered to this same Madeleine, of a character scarcely less +wonderful, with pointed spits, of which two were broken against her +body. + +This officer certifies, also, that, on one occasion, when pushing a +sharp sword against Madeleine, not being able to push strongly enough +to satisfy her, he placed a book bound in parchment on his own breast, +placed the hilt of his sword against it, and pressed with so much force +that the cover of the book was quite spoiled by the deep indentation +made by the sword-hilt. He adds,--"The instinct of her convulsion caused +her sometimes to demand as many as twenty-two swords at a time. These +were placed, some in front, some against her back, some against her +sides, in every direction. I myself never saw quite so many employed; +but I was present, and was myself assisting, when eighteen swords were +pushed at once against various parts of her body. Although the force +with which this prodigious succor was administered caused deep +indentations in the flesh, she never received the slightest wound. It +often happened that her convulsions caused the flesh to react under the +pressure of the sword-points, so as forcibly to push back the +assistants."[40] + +The Advocate of the Parliament of Paris, already mentioned, certifies to +the same phenomenon. His words are,--"One can feel, under the +sword-point, a movement of the flesh, which, from time to time, thrusts +back the sword. This occurs the most strongly when the succor is nearly +at an end. The convulsionist calls out, 'Enough!' as soon as the pains +are relieved."[41] + +The same Advocate states, that sometimes the convulsionist threw the +weight of her body on the swords, the hilts resting on the floor, and +being secured from slipping. He speaks of one case in which, "while she +was balancing herself on the points of several swords upon which she had +thrown herself with all her weight, [_oł elle se jettoit ą corps +perdū_,] one of them broke."[42] + +The officer of the king's household already spoken of testifies to a +similar fact. A certain Sister Dina, he says, caused six swords thus to +break against her body. He adds, that he himself broke the blade of a +sword while thrusting against her; and that he saw two others broken in +the same way.[43] + +In regard to what Montgéron considers the exacting instinct, the same +officer says,--"I had the curiosity to ask Sister Madeleine, in her +natural state, what was the sort of suffering which caused her to have +recourse to such astonishing succors. She replied, that the pain she +suffered was the same as if swords were actually piercing her; that she +felt relieved of this pain as soon as the sword-points penetrated to her +skin, and quite cured when the assistants put their whole force to it. +She laughed when the swords pierced her dress, saying, 'I feel the +points on my skin. That relieves. That does me good.'"[44] + +Both the Advocate of Parliament and the ecclesiastic from whose +certificates I have quoted testify that the convulsionists were +repeatedly undressed and examined by a committee of their own sex, +consisting in part of incredulous ladies of fashion, to ascertain that +they had nothing concealed under their clothes to resist the +sword-points. But in every case it was ascertained that they wore but +the ordinary articles of under-clothing. The Sister Dina was examined in +this way; and it was ascertained that she had nothing under her gown +except a chemise and a simple linen stomacher. Her clothing was found +pierced in many places, but the flesh wholly uninjured.[45] + +Although throughout the writings of the Anti-Succorists there are +constant denunciations of these succors as flagrant and wicked temptings +of Providence, yet I do not find therein any allegation that serious +injury was ever sustained by any of the patients. Montgéron himself, +however, admits, that, on one occasion, a wound was received. He tells +us that a certain convulsionist long resisted the instinct which bade +her demand the succor of a triangular-bladed sword against the left +breast, fearing the result. At last, however, the pain became so intense +that she was fain to consent. For the first seven or eight minutes the +sword-point only indented the flesh, as usual. But then, says Montgéron, +"her faith suddenly failing her, she cried out, 'Ah! you will kill me!' +No sooner had she pronounced the words than the sword pierced the flesh, +making a wound two inches in depth." He alleges, further, that the +instinct of the convulsionist informed her that the wound would have no +bad consequences, and could be cured by severe blows of a club on the +same spot; which, he declares, happened accordingly.[46] + +Besides the incidents above related, and a hundred others of similar +character, which, if time and the reader's patience permitted, I might +cull from Montgéron's pages, the restless enthusiasm of the +convulsionists ultimately betrayed them into extravagances, in which it +is often hard to decide whether the grotesque or the horrible more +predominated. One convulsionist descended the long stairs of an +infirmary head-foremost, lying on her back; another caused herself to be +attached, by a rope round her neck, to a hook in the wall. A third +repeated her prayers while turning somersets. A fourth, suspended by the +feet, with the head hanging down, remained in that position +three-quarters of an hour. A fifth, lying down on a tomb, caused herself +to be covered to the neck with baked earth mixed with sand and saturated +with vinegar. A sixth made her bed, in winter, on billets of wood; a +seventh on bars of iron. The Sister Félicité was in the habit of causing +herself to be nailed to the cross, and of remaining there half an hour +at a time, gayly conversing with the pious who surrounded her.[47] +Another sister, named Scholastique, after long hesitation between +different modes of mortification, having one day remarked the manner in +which they constructed the pavement of the streets, had her dress +tightly fastened below the knee, and then ordered one of the assistants +to take her by the legs, and, with her head downward, to dash it +repeatedly against the tiled floor, after the fashion of paviors, when +using a rammer. + +"If," says Calmeil, "the idea had chanced to suggest itself to one of +these theomaniacs, that disembowelling alive would be a sacrifice +pleasing to the Supreme Being, she would undoubtedly have insisted upon +being subjected to such a martyrdom."[48] + +The mental and physiological phenomena connected with this epidemic +remain to be noticed, together with the theories and suggestions put +forth by medical and other contemporary writers, in explanation of what +has here been sketched, the substance of which is usually admitted by +these commentators, however incredible, when related at this distance of +time, it may appear. Next month the subject will be continued. + + * * * * * + +PRESENCE. + + + The wild, sweet water, as it flows,-- + The winds, that kiss me as they pass,-- + The starry shadow of the rose, + Sitting beside her on the grass,-- + + The daffodilly, trying to bless + With better light the beauteous air,-- + The lily, wearing the white dress + Of sanctuary, to be more fair,-- + + The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier, + That in the woods, so dim and drear, + Lights up betimes her tender fire + To soothe the homesick pioneer,-- + + The moth, his brown sails balancing + Along the stubble crisp and dry,-- + The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring + On either hand,--the pewet's cry,-- + + The friendly robin's gracious note,-- + The hills, with curious weeds o'errun,-- + The althea, with her crimson coat + Tricked out to please the wearied sun,-- + + The dandelion, whose golden share + Is set before the rustic's plough,-- + The hum of insects in the air,-- + The blooming bush,--the withered bough,-- + + The coming on of eve,--the springs + Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,-- + The frost, that with rough, rugged wings + Blows down the cankered buds,--the white, + + Long drifts of winter snow,--the heat + Of August, falling still and wide,-- + Broad cornfields,--one chance stalk of wheat, + Standing with bright head hung aside,-- + + All things, my darling, all things seem + In some strange way to speak of thee; + Nothing is half so much a dream, + Nothing so much reality. + + My soul to thine is dutiful, + In all its pleasure, all its care; + O most beloved! most beautiful! + I miss, and find thee everywhere! + + * * * * * + +GLACIAL PERIOD. + + +In the early part of the summer of 1840, I started from Switzerland for +England with the express object of finding traces of glaciers in Great +Britain. This glacier-hunt was at that time a somewhat perilous +undertaking for the reputation of a young naturalist like myself, since +some of the greatest names in science were arrayed against the novel +glacial theory. And it was not strange that it should be at first +discredited by the scientific world, for hitherto all the investigations +of geologists had gone to show that a degree of heat far greater than +any now prevailing characterized the earlier periods of the world's +history. Even Charpentier, my precursor and master in glacial research, +who first showed the greater extent of Swiss glaciers in former times, +had not thought of any more general application of his result, or +connected their former boundaries with any great change in the climatic +conditions of the whole continent. His explanation of the phenomena +rested upon the assumption that the Alps formerly rose far beyond their +present height; their greater altitude, he thought, would account for +the existence of immense glaciers extending from the Alps across the +plain of Switzerland to the Jura. Inexperienced as I then was, and +ignorant of the modes by which new views, if founded on truth, commend +themselves gradually to general acceptation, I was often deeply +depressed by the skepticism of men whose scientific position gave them a +right to condemn the views of younger and less experienced students. I +can smile now at the difficulties which then beset my path, but at the +time they seemed serious enough. It is but lately, that, in turning over +the leaves of a journal, published some twelve or fifteen years ago, to +look for a forgotten date, I was amused to find a formal announcement, +under the signature of the greatest geologist of Europe, of the demise +of the glacial theory. Since then it has risen, phoenix-like, from its +own funeral pile. + +Even when I arrived in England, many of my friends would fain have +dissuaded me from my expedition, urging me to devote myself to special +zoölogical studies, and not to meddle with general geological problems +of so speculative a character. "Punch" himself did not disdain to give +me a gentle hint as to the folly of my undertaking, terming my journey +into Scotland in search of moraines a sporting-expedition after +"moor-hens." Only one of my older scientific friends in England, a man +who in earlier years had weathered a similar storm himself, shared my +confidence in the investigations looked upon by others as so visionary, +and offered to accompany me in my excursion to the North of England, +Scotland, and Wales. I cannot recur to that delightful journey without a +few words of grateful and affectionate tribute to the friend who +sustained me by his sympathy and guided me by his knowledge and +experience. + +For many years I had enjoyed the privilege of personal acquaintance with +Dr. Buckland, and in 1834, when engaged in the investigation of fossil +fishes, I had travelled with him through parts of England and Scotland, +and had derived invaluable assistance from his friendly advice and +direction. To him I was indebted for an introduction to all the +geologists and palęontologists of Great Britain, with none of whom, +except Lyell, had I any previous personal acquaintance; and through him +I obtained not only leave to examine all the fossil fishes in public and +private collections throughout England, but the unprecedented privilege +of bringing them together for closer comparison in the rooms of the +Geological Society of London. A few years later he visited Switzerland, +when I had the pleasure of showing him, in my turn, the glacial +phenomena of my native country, to the study of which I was then +devoting all my spare time. After a thorough survey of the facts I had +collected, he became satisfied that my interpretation of them was likely +to prove correct, and even then he recalled phenomena of his own +country, which, under the new light thrown upon them by the glacial +phenomena of Switzerland, gave a promise of success to my extraordinary +venture. We then resolved to pursue the inquiry together on the occasion +of my next visit to England; and after the meeting in Glasgow of the +British Association for Advancement of Science, we started together for +the mountains of Scotland in search of traces of the glaciers, which, if +there was any truth in the generalizations to which my study of the +Swiss glaciers had led me, must have come down from the Grampian range, +and reached the level of the sea, as they do now in Greenland. + +On the fourth of November of that year I read a paper before the +Geological Society of London, containing a summary of the scientific +results of that excursion, which I had extended with the same success to +Ireland and parts of England. This paper was followed by one from Dr. +Buckland himself, containing an account of his own observations, and +another from Lyell on the same subject. From that time, the +investigation of glaciers in regions where they no longer occur has been +carried to almost every part of the globe. Before giving a more special +account of this expedition, I will say a word of the mass of facts which +I had brought from my Alpine researches, on which my own convictions +were founded, and which seemed to Buckland worthy of careful +consideration. To explain these more fully to my readers, I must leave +the Scotch hills for a while, and beg them to return with me to +Switzerland once more. + +Thus far I have spoken chiefly of the advance of glaciers, and very +justly, since they are in constant onward motion, being kept within +their limits only by a waste at their lower extremity proportionate to +their advance. But in considering the past history of glaciers, we must +think of their changes as retrograde, not progressive movements; since, +if the glacial theory be true, a great mass of ice, of which the present +glaciers are but the remnants, formerly spread over the whole Northern +hemisphere, and has gradually disappeared, until now no traces of it are +to be found, except in the Arctic regions and in lofty mountain-ranges. +Every terminal moraine, such as I described in the last article, is the +retreating footprint of some glacier, as it slowly yielded its +possession of the plain, and betook itself to the mountains; wherever we +find one of these ancient semicircular walls of unusual size, there we +may be sure the glacier resolutely set its icy foot, disputing the +ground inch by inch, while heat and cold strove for the mastery. There +may have been a succession of cold summers, or, if now and then a warmer +summer intervened, a colder one followed, so that the glacier regained +the next year the ground it had lost during the preceding one, thus +continuing to oscillate for a number of years along the same line, and +adding constantly to the _débris_ collected at its extremity. Wherever +such oscillations and pauses in the retreat of the glacier occurred, all +the materials annually brought down to its terminus were collected; and +when it finally disappeared from that point, it left a wall to mark its +temporary resting-place. + +By these semicircular concentric walls we can trace the retreat of the +ice as it withdrew from the plain of Switzerland to the fastnesses of +the Alps. It paused at Berne, and laid the foundation of the present +city, which is built on an ancient moraine; it made a stand again at the +Lake of Thun, and barred its northern outlet by a wall which holds its +waters back to this day. Other moraines, though less distinct, are +visible nearer the base of the Bernese Alps, and, above Meyringen, the +valley is spanned by one of very large dimensions. Again, on the other +side of the first chain of high peaks, the glacier of the Rhone, +descending the valley toward the Lake of Geneva, has everywhere left +traces of its ancient extension. We find the valley crossed at various +distances by concentric moraines, until we reach the lake. There are no +less than thirteen concentric moraines immediately below the present +termination of the glacier of the Rhone, the one nearest to the ice, and +the last formed, marking its present boundary. Others are visible half a +mile, a mile, and two or three miles beyond, near the villages of +Obergestelen and Münster. One of the largest and finest of these ancient +moraines of the glacier of the Rhone stands at Viesch, and extends +across the whole valley, while the Rhone, already swollen by many +mountain-torrents, has cut its way through it. Lower down, we meet with +traces of other ancient glaciers, reaching laterally the main glacier, +which occupied the centre of the valley: such was the glacier of Viesch, +when it extended as far down as the village;[49] such was the glacier of +Aletsch, when it added its burden of ice to that coming from the upper +valley; such was the glacier of the Simplon, whose moraines, of less +antiquity, may now be seen by the road-side leading over the Alps to +Italy; such were the two gigantic twin glaciers that drained the +northern slopes of the mountain-colosses around Monte Rosa and +Matterhorn, united at Stalden, and thence, losing their independence, +became simply lateral tributaries of the great glacier of the Rhone; +such were, farther on, the glaciers coming down from all the +side-valleys opening into the Rhone basin; such were the glaciers of the +St. Bernard, and even those of Chamouni, which in those early days +crossed the Tźte Noire to unite below Martigny with those that filled +the valley of the Rhone. Thus the outlines of this glacier may be +followed from its present remnant at the summit of the Valais, where the +Rhone now springs forth from the ice, to the very shores of the Lake of +Geneva, where, near the mouth of the river, on both banks of the valley, +the ancient moraines may be traced to this day, thousands of feet above +the level of the water, marking the course the glacier once followed. + +It is evident that here the remains of the glacier mark a process of +retrogression; for had these successive walls of loose materials been +deposited in consequence of the advance of the glacier, they would have +been pushed together in one heap at its lower end. That such would have +been the case is not mere inference, but has been determined by direct +observation in other localities. We know, for instance, by historical +record, (see Gruner's "Natural History of the Glaciers of Switzerland,") +that in the seventeenth century a number of successive moraines existed +at Grindelwald, which have since been driven together by the advance of +the glacier, and now form but one. Indeed, we have ample traditional +evidence of the oscillations of glacier-boundaries in recent times. When +I was engaged in the investigation of this subject, I sought out all the +chronicles kept in old convents or libraries which might throw any light +upon it. Among other records, I chanced upon the following, which may +have some interest for the historian as well as the geologist. + +During the religious wars of the sixteenth century, when the Catholics +gained the ascendancy in the Canton of Valais, the inhabitants of the +upper valleys adhered to the Protestant faith. Shut out from ordinary +communication with the Protestant churches by the Bernese Oberland, the +account states that these peasants braved every obstacle to the exercise +of their religion, and used to carry their children over a certain road +by the valley of Viesch, across the Alps, to be baptized at Grindelwald, +on the farther side of the glaciers of Aletsch and Viesch. I could not +understand this statement, for no such road exists, or could be +conceived possible at present; nor was there any knowledge of it among +the guides, intimate as they are with every feature of the region. +Impressed, however, with the idea that there must be some foundation for +the statement, I carefully examined the ground, and, penetrating under +the glacier of Aletsch, I actually found, a number of feet below the +present level of the ice, the paved road along which these hardy people +travelled to church with their children, and some traces of which are +still visible. It has been almost completely buried, although here and +there it reappears; but at this day it is completely impassable for +ordinary travel. + +Evidence of a like character is found in a number of facts cited by +Venetz in his celebrated paper upon the variations of temperature in the +Swiss Alps, drawn from the parish and commune registers of the Canton of +Valais. Among these are acts concerning the right to roads which are now +either entirely hidden by ice, or rendered nearly useless by the advance +of the glacier, a lawsuit respecting the use of a forest which no longer +exists, but the site of which is covered by a glacier, and other records +of a similar character. The only document, so far as I know, previous to +this century, which furnishes the means of delineating with any accuracy +the former boundary of a glacier, is a topographical plan of the +environs of the Grimsel, including the extremity of the Aar, making a +part of Altmann's work upon the Alps. + +In 1740, Kapeler, a physician of Lucerne, undertook a journey to the +mountains of the Aar, to visit certain crystal grottos, now well known, +but then recently discovered. He prepared a map of these grottos and +their vicinity, in which they are represented as being situated at some +distance from the extremity of the glacier, the lower end of which is +now considerably beyond them.[50] + +But to return to the glacier of the Rhone. We can detect the sequence +and relative age of its ancient moraines, not only by their position +with reference to each other and to the present glacier, but also by +their vegetation. The older ones have a mature vegetation; indeed, some +of the largest trees of the valley stand upon the lower moraines, while +those higher up, nearer the glacier, have only comparatively small +trees, and the more recent ones are almost bare of vegetation. Moreover, +we do not lose the track of the great glacier of the Rhone even when we +have followed its ancient boundaries to the shores of the Lake of +Geneva; for along its northern and southern shores we can follow the +lateral moraines marking the limits of the glacier which once occupied +that crescent-shaped depression now filled by the blue waters of the +lake. + +M. de Charpentier was the first geologist who attempted to draw the +outlines of the glacier of the Rhone during its greatest extension, when +it not only filled the basin of the Lake of Geneva, but stretched across +the hilly plain to the north, reached the foot of the Jura, and even +rose to a considerable height along the southern slope of that chain of +mountains. At that time the colossal glacier spread at its extremity +like a fan, extending westward in the direction of Geneva and eastward +towards Soleure.[51] The very minute and extensive investigations of +Professor A. Guyot upon the erratic boulders of Switzerland have not +only confirmed the statements of M. de Charpentier, but even shown that +the northeastern boundary of the ancient glacier of the Rhone was more +extensive than was at first supposed. Other researches upon the ancient +moraines along the shores of the Lake of Geneva, and in other parts of +Switzerland, in which most geologists of the day took an active part, +have made us as fully conversant with the successive outlines and +varying extent of the principal glaciers ranging from the Alpine summits +to the surrounding lowlands as we are with the glaciers in their present +circumscription. But no one has done as much as Professor Guyot to add +precision to these investigations. The number of localities, the level +of which he has determined barometrically, with the view of fixing the +ancient levels of all these vanished glaciers, is almost incredible. The +result of all these surveys has been a distinct recognition of not less +than seven gigantic glaciers descending from the northern and western +slopes of the Alps to the adjoining hilly plains of Switzerland and +France. It is most interesting to trace their outlines upon a recent map +of those countries, but it requires that kind of intellectual effort of +the imagination without which the most brilliant results of modern +science remain an unmeaning record to us. Let us, nevertheless, try to +follow. + +The glacier of the Rhone, occupying the whole space between the Bernese +and Valesian Alps, filled to overflowing the valley of the Rhone; at +Martigny it was met by a large tributary from Mont Blanc, by the side of +which it advanced into the plain beyond, filling the whole Lake of +Geneva, and covering the beautiful Canton de Vaud and parts of Fribourg, +Neuchātel, Berne, and Soleure, rising to the crest of the Jura, and in +many points penetrating even beyond its outer range. + +To the east of this, the largest of all the ancient glaciers of +Switzerland, we find the ancient glacier of the Aar, descending from the +northern slope of the whole range of the Bernese Oberland. The glaciers +that once filled the valley of Hasli, from the Grimsel to Meyringen, and +those that came down from the Wetterhörner, the Schreckhörner, the +Finster-Aarhorn, and the Jungfrau, through the valleys of Grindelwald +and Lauterbrunnen, united in a common bed, the bottom of which was the +present basin of the Lakes of Brientz and Thun. These were joined by the +glaciers emptying their burden through the valley of the Kander. To +these combined glaciers the formation of the terminal moraine of Thun +must be ascribed. But before this had been formed, the glacier of the +Aar, in its amplest extension, had also reached the foot of the Jura, +without, however, spreading so widely as the glacier of the Rhone. +Farther to the east Professor Guyot has traced the boundaries of three +other colossal glaciers, one of which derived its chief supplies from +the Alps of Uri, bringing with it all the tributaries which the main +glacier coming down from the St. Gothard received right and left, in its +course through the valley of the Reuss and the basins of the Lakes of +Lucerne and Zug. The second, born in the Canton of Glaris, followed +mainly the present course of the Linth and the basin of the Lake of +Zurich. Professor Escher von der Linth has shown that the lovely city of +Zurich is built upon a moraine, like Berne. The imagination shrinks from +the thought that all the beautiful scenery of those countries should +once have been hidden under masses of ice, like those now covering +Greenland. The easternmost ancient glacier of Switzerland is that of the +Rhine, arising from all the valleys from which now descend the many +tributaries of that stream, spreading over the northeastern Cantons, +filling the Lake of Constance, and terminating at the foot of the +Suabian Alp. Next to the glacier of the Rhone, this was once the largest +of those descending from the range of the Alps. + +West of Mont Blanc Professor Guyot has traced the boundaries of two +other distinct ancient glaciers; one of which, the glacier of the Arve, +followed chiefly the course of the Arve, and, though discharging the icy +accumulations from the western slope of Mont Blanc, was, as it were, +only a lateral affluent of the great glacier of the Rhone. The other, +the glacier of the Isčre, occupied, to the south and west of the +preceding, the large triangular space intervening between the Alps and +the Jura, in that part of Savoy where the two mountain-chains converge +and become united. + +It would lead me too far, were I to describe also the course of the +great ancient glaciers which descended from the southern slopes of the +Alps into the plain of Northern Italy. Moreover, these boundaries are +not yet ascertained with the same degree of accuracy as those of the +northern and western slopes; though very accurate descriptions of some +of them have been published, with illustrations on a large scale, by MM. +Martins and Gastaldi, and of others by Professor Ramsey. I have myself +examined only the upper part of that of the valley of Aosta. + +The evidence concerning the ancient glaciers of the Alps, especially +within the limits of Switzerland, is already so full that it affords +ample means for a comprehensive general view of the subject. It is +frequently the case, that, when a stretch of time or space lies between +us and a matter we have once studied more closely, it presents itself to +us as a whole more vividly than when our nearness to it forced all its +details upon our observation. In my present position, now that the lapse +of many years separates me from my personal investigations of the +ancient and modern glaciers, and I look back upon them from another +continent, it seems to me that I have, as it were, a bird's-eye view of +their whole extent; and I confess that this distant retrospect of the +subject has been to me almost as fascinating as were the researches of +my earlier years in the same direction. I wish that I could present it +to the minds of my readers with something of the attraction it possesses +for me. I trust, however, that I have made it plain to them that the +great mountain-chain of the Alps has been a central axis from which +immense glaciers at one time descended in every direction, not only to +its base, beyond which the lowlands extend in flat undulations, but to a +greater or less distance over the adjoining plains; while at present +they are confined to the higher valleys. So far, then, notwithstanding +the extraordinary difference in their dimensions, at the time they +reached the Jura and the plain of Northern Italy, when compared with +what they are now, they seem directly connected with the Alps, and the +mountains appear as their birthplace; so much so that the first attempts +at a generalization concerning their origin started from the assumption +that they must have been formed between the high ridges from which they +seem to flow down. These facts, then the only ones known concerning a +greater extension of the glaciers, naturally led to the views advocated +by M. de Charpentier. My own theory was also at first, that the upheaval +of the Alps must, in some way or other, have been connected with these +phenomena. But it soon became evident to me that these views were +inadequate to account for the former presence of extensive glaciers in +other parts of Europe; and even within the range of the Alps there were +insuperable objections to their final admission. If the ancient glaciers +had been first formed among the highest mountains, and extended +downwards into the plains, the largest and highest moraines ought to be +the most distant, and to be formed of the most rounded masses; whereas +the actual condition of the detrital accumulations is the reverse, the +distant materials being widely spread, and true moraines being found +only in valleys connected with great chains of lofty mountains. + +Again, all these moraines are within one another,--the most distant from +the glacier to which they owe their origin encircling all those which +are nearer and nearer to it within the same glacial basin. And as no +glacier could reach to its farthest moraine without pushing forward all +the intervening loose materials, it is self-evident that the outer +moraines were first formed, and those nearer the glacier subsequently, +in the order in which they follow one another from the lower valleys to +the higher levels at which alone glaciers exist at present. Translating +these facts into words, we see that the glaciers to which these ancient +moraines owe their origin must have been retreating gradually while the +moraines were accumulating. But a glacier while uniformly retreating +forms no high walls of loose materials around its edges and at its lower +extremity; as it melts away, it only drops the burden of angular rocky +fragments which it carries upon its back over the loose fragments above +which it moves, and which it grinds to powder, or to sand, or to rounded +pebbles, in its progress. It is only where the glacier remains +stationary for a longer or shorter period that large terminal moraines +can accumulate; and they are generally found in such places in the +valleys of the Alps as would naturally determine the lower limit of a +glacier for the time being. There is no possibility of escaping the +conclusion that the ancient glaciers must have begun that series of +oscillations to which the accumulation of the moraines is to be +ascribed, at a time when ice-fields already occupied the whole area +which they have covered during their greatest extension. After we shall +have seen how many centres of dispersion of erratic boulders existed in +the northern hemisphere, similar to that of the Alps, we may perhaps be +able to form some idea of the manner in which these ice-fields +originated and gradually vanished. + +Some investigators have been inclined to explain the presence of +boulders, moraines, drift, and the like phenomena, by the action of +water. But even if we could believe that rivers had brought along with +them such masses of rock, and deposited them where they are now found, +the regularity in the distribution of the materials disproves any such +theory. In the lateral moraines of the Lake of Geneva we have a striking +illustration of this apparently systematic division of the loose +materials; for the northeastern moraines of that glacial basin contain +rocks belonging exclusively to the northern side of the valley of the +Rhone, while the moraines on the southern shore of the lake consist of +rocks belonging to its southern side. Indeed, rivers, so far from +building up moraines, have often partially destroyed them. We find +various instances of moraines through which a river runs, having worn +for itself a passage, on either side of which the form of the moraine +remains unbroken. In the valley of the Rhone there are villages built on +such moraines, as, for instance, Viesch, with the river running through +their centre. + +But if we need further confirmation of the fact that these accumulations +on either side of this and other Swiss lakes are ancient lateral +moraines, we have it in their connection with walls of a like nature at +their lower end, where we find again transverse moraines barring their +outlet, and also in the continuity of long trains of fragments of +similar rocks extending side by side across wide plains for great +distances without mixture. From the beginning of my investigations upon +the glaciers, I have urged these two points as most directly proving +their greater extension in former times, and more recent researches +constantly recur to this kind of evidence. All our lakes would be filled +with loose materials, had their basins not been sheltered by ice against +the encroachments of river-deposits during the transportation of the +erratic boulders to the farthest limits of their respective areas; and +all the continuous trails of rocks derived from the same locality would +have been scattered over wide areas, had they not been carried along, in +unyielding tracks, like moraines. On a small scale the waters of the +Rhone and of the Arve recall to this day such a picture. There are few +travellers in Switzerland who have not seen these two rivers, where they +flow side by side, meeting, but not mingling, at the southern extremity +of the lake, the different color of their water marking the two parallel +currents. In old times, when the glaciers filled all the valleys at the +base of Mont Blanc, and to the east of it, uniting in the valley through +which now runs the River Rhone, the glacier of the Arve came down to +meet the ice from the valley of the Rhone, in the same manner as the +River Arve now comes to meet the waters of the Rhone where they rush out +from the southern end of the lake. + +This would be the proper place to consider the formation of the lakes of +Switzerland, as well as their preservation by the agency of glaciers. +But this subject is so intricate, and has already given rise to so many +controversies which could not be overlooked in this connection, that I +prefer to pass it over altogether in silence. Suffice it to say that not +only are most of the lakes of Switzerland hemmed in by transverse +moraines at their lower extremity, but the lakes of Upper Italy, at the +foot of the Alps, are barred in the same way, as are also the lakes of +Norway and Sweden, and some of our own ponds and lakes. Strange as it +may seem to the traveller who sails under an Italian sky over the lovely +waters of Como, Maggiore, and Lugano, it is, nevertheless, true, that +these depressions were once filled by solid masses of ice, and that the +walls built by the old glaciers still block their southern outlets. +Indeed, were it not for these moraines, there would be comparatively few +lakes either in Northern Italy or in Switzerland. The greater part of +them have such a wall built across one end; and but for this masonry of +the glacier, there would have been nothing to prevent their waters from +flowing out into the plain at the breaking up of the ice-period. We +should then have had open valleys in place of all these sheets of water +which give such diversity and beauty to the scenery of Northern Italy +and Switzerland, or, at least, the lakes would be much fewer and occupy +only the deeper depressions in the hard rocks. + +Such being the evidences of the former extent of the glaciers in the +plains, what do the mountain-summits tell us of their height and depth? +for here, also, they have left their handwriting on the wall. Every +mountain-side in the Alps is inscribed with these ancient characters, +recording the level of the ice in past times. Here and there a ledge or +terrace on the wall of the valley has afforded support for the lateral +moraines, and wherever such an accumulation is left, it marks the limit +of the ice at some former period. These indications are, however, +uncertain and fragmentary, depending upon projections of the rocky +walls. But thousands of feet above the present level of the glacier, far +up toward their summits, we find the sides of the mountains furrowed, +scratched, and polished in exactly the same manner as the surfaces over +which the glaciers pass at present. These marks are as legible and clear +to one who is familiar with glacial traces as are hieroglyphics to the +Egyptian scholar; indeed, more so,--for he not only recognizes their +presence, but reads their meaning at a glance. Above the line at which +these indications cease, the edges of the rocks are sharp and angular, +the surface of the mountain rough, unpolished, and absolutely devoid of +all those marks resulting from glacial action. On the Alps these traces +are visible to a height of nine thousand feet, and across the whole +plain of Switzerland, as I have stated, one may trace the glaciers by +their moraines, by the masses of rock they have let fall here and there, +by the drift they have deposited, to the very foot of the opposite +chain, where they have dropped their boulders along the base of the +Jura. Ascending that chain, one finds the grooved, polished, and +scratched surfaces to its summit, on the very crest of which boulders +entirely foreign to the locality are perched. Follow the range down upon +the other side and you find the same indications extending into the +plains of Burgundy and France beyond. + +With a chain of evidence so complete, it seems to me impossible to deny +that the whole space between the opposite chains of the Alps and the +Jura was once filled with ice; that this mass of ice completely covered +the Jura, with the exception of a few high crests, perhaps, rising +island-like above it, and mounted to a height of some nine thousand feet +upon the Alps, while it extended on the one side into the northern plain +of Italy, filling all its depressions, and on the other down to the +plains of Central Europe. The only natural inference from these facts +is, that the climatic conditions leading to their existence could not +have been local; they must have been cosmic. When Switzerland was +bridged across from range to range by a mass of ice stretching southward +into Lombardy and Tuscany, northward into France and Burgundy, the rest +of Europe could not have remained unaffected by the causes which induced +this state of things. + +It was this conviction which led me to seek for the traces of glaciers +in Great Britain. I had never been in the regions I intended to visit, +but I knew the forms of the valleys in the lake-country of England, in +the Highlands of Scotland, and in the mountains of Wales and Ireland, +and I was as confident that I should find them crossed by terminal +moraines and bordered by lateral ones, as if I had already seen them. + +The reader must not suppose, when I describe these walls, formed of the +_débris_ of the glacier, as consisting of boulders, stones, pebbles, +sand, and gravel, a rough accumulation of loose materials +indiscriminately thrown together, that we find the ancient moraines +presenting any such appearance. Time, which mellows and softens all the +wrecks of the past, has clothed them with turf, grassed them over, +planted them with trees, sown his seed and gathered in his harvests upon +them, until at last they make a part of the undulating surface of the +country. Were it not for anticipating my story, I could point out many a +green billow, rising out of the fields and meadows immediately about us, +that had its origin in the old ice-time. Thus disguised, they are not so +evident to the casual observer; but, nevertheless, when once familiar +with the peculiar form, character, and position of these rounded ridges +scattered over the face of the country, they are easily recognized. + +Of course, the ancient glaciers of Great Britain were far more difficult +to trace than those of Switzerland, where the present glaciers are +guides to the old ones. But, nevertheless, my expectations were more +than answered. The first valley I entered in the glacial regions of +Scotland was barred by a terminal moraine; and throughout the North of +England, as well as in Scotland and Ireland, I found the hill-sides +covered with traces of glacial action, as distinct and unmistakable as +those I had left in my native land. And not only was the surface of the +country polished, grooved, and scratched, as in the region of existing +glaciers, and presenting an appearance corresponding exactly to that +described elsewhere, but we could track the path of the boulders where +they had come down from the hills above and been carried from the mouth +of each valley far down into the plains below. In Scotland and Ireland +the phenomena were especially interesting. I had intended to give in +this article some account of the "parallel roads" of Glenroy, marking +the ancient levels of glacier-lakes, so much discussed in this +connection. But the reminiscences of old friends, and the many +associations revived in my mind by recurring to a subject which I have +long looked upon as a closed chapter, so far as my own researches are +concerned, have constantly led me beyond the limits I had prescribed to +myself in these papers upon glaciers; and as the story of Glenroy and +the phenomena connected with it is a long one, I shall reserve it for a +subsequent number. + + * * * * * + +BRYANT. + + +The literary life of Bryant begins with the publication of "Thanatopsis" +in the "North American Review," in 1816; for we need take no account of +those earlier blossoms, plucked untimely from the tree, as they had been +prematurely expanded by the heat of party politics. The strain of that +song was of a higher mood. In those days, when American literature spoke +with faint and feeble voice, like the chirp of half-awakened birds in +the morning twilight, we need not say what cordial welcome was extended +to a poem which embodied in blank verse worthy of anybody since Milton +thoughts of the highest reach and noblest power, or what wonder was +mingled with the praise when it was announced that this grand and +majestic moral teaching and this rich and sustained music were the work +of a boy of eighteen. Not that Bryant was no more than eighteen when +"Thanatopsis" was printed, for he must pay one of the tributes of +eminence in having all the world know that he was born in 1794; but he +was no more than eighteen when it was written, and surely never was +there riper fruit plucked from so young a tree. And now we have before +us, with the imprint of 1864, his latest volume, entitled "Thirty +Poems." Between this date and that of the publication of "Thanatopsis" +there sweeps an arch of forty-eight years. With Bryant these have been +years of manly toil, of resolute sacrifice, of faithful discharge of all +the duties of life. The cultivation of the poetical faculty is not +always favorable to the growth of the character, but Bryant is no less +estimable as a man than admirable as a poet. It has been his lot to earn +his bread by the exercise of the prose part of his mind,--by those +qualities which he has in common with other men,--and his poetry has +been written in the intervals and breathing-spaces of a life of regular +industry. This necessity for ungenial toil may have added something to +the shyness and gravity of the poet's manners; but it has doubtless +given earnestness, concentration, depth, and a strong flavor of life to +his verse. Had he been a man of leisure, he might have written more, but +he could hardly have written better. And nothing tends more to prolong +to old age the freshness of feeling and the sensibility to impressions +which are characteristic of the poetical temperament than the dedication +of a portion of every day to some kind of task-work. The sweetest +flowers are those which grow upon the rocks of renunciation. Byron at +thirty-seven was a burnt-out volcano: Bryant at threescore and ten is as +sensitive to the touch of beauty as at twenty. + +The poetry of Bryant is not great in amount, but it represents a great +deal of work, as few men are more finished artists than he, or more +patient in shaping and polishing their productions. No piece of verse +ever leaves his hands till it has received the last touch demanded by +the most correct judgment and the most fastidious taste. Thus the style +of his poetry is always admirable. Nowhere can one find in what he has +written a careless or slovenly expression, an awkward phrase, or an +ill-chosen word. He never puts in an epithet to fill out a line, and +never uses one which could be improved by substituting another. The +range within which he moves is not wide. He has not written narrative or +dramatic poems: he has not painted poetical portraits: he has not +aspired to the honors of satire, of wit, or of humor: he has made no +contributions to the poetry of passion. His poems may be divided into +two great classes,--those which express the moral aspects of humanity, +and those which interpret the language of Nature; though it may be added +that in not a few of his productions these two elements are combined. +Those of the former class are not so remarkable for originality of +treatment as for the beauty and truth with which they express the +reflections of the general mind and the emotions of the general heart. +In these poems we see our own experience returned to us, touched with +the lights and colored with the hues of the most exquisite poetry. Their +tone is grave and high, but not gloomy or morbid: the edges of the cloud +of life are turned to gold by faith and hope. Of the poems of this +class, "Thanatopsis," of which we have already spoken, is one of the +best known. Others are the "Hymn to Death," "The Old Man's Funeral," "A +Forest Hymn," "The Lapse of Time," "An Evening Reverie," "The Old Man's +Counsel," and "The Past." This last is one of the noblest of his +productions, full of solemn beauty and melancholy music, and we cannot +deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting a few of its stanzas. + + "Thou unrelenting Past! + Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, + And fetters, sure and fast, + Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. + + "Far in thy realm withdrawn, + Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, + And glorious ages gone + Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. + + "Childhood, with all its mirth, + Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground, + And last, Man's Life on earth, + Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. + + * * * * * + + "In thy abysses hide + Beauty and excellence unknown,--to thee + Earth's wonder and her pride + Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; + + "Labors of good to man, + Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,-- + Love, that 'midst grief began, + And grew with years, and faltered not in death. + + "Full many a mighty name + Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered; + With thee are silent fame. + Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. + + "Thine for a space are they,-- + Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; + Thy gates shall yet give way, + Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! + + "All that of good and fair + Has gone into thy womb from earliest time + Shall then come forth to wear + The glory and the beauty of its prime." + +Here is nothing new. It is the old, sad strain, of coeval birth with +poetry itself. It may be read in the Hebrew of the Book of Job and in +the Greek of Homer: but with what dignity of sentiment, what majestic +music, what beauty of language, the oft-repeated lesson of humanity is +enforced! Every word is chosen with unerring judgment, and no needless +dilution of language weakens the force of the conceptions and pictures. +Bryant is one of the few poets who will bear the test of the well-nigh +obsolete art of verbal criticism: observe the expressions, "_silent_ +fame," "_forgotten_ arts," "wisdom _disappeared_": how exactly these +epithets satisfy the ear and the mind! how impossible to change any one +of them for the better! + +In Bryant's descriptive poems there is the same finished execution and +the same beauty of style as in his reflective and didactic poems, with +more originality of treatment. It was his fortune to be born and reared +in the western part of Massachusetts, and to become familiar with some +of the most beautiful inland scenery of New England in youth and early +manhood, when the mind takes impressions which the attrition of life +never wears out. In his study of Nature he combines the faculty and the +vision, the eye of the naturalist and the imagination of the poet. No +man observes the outward shows of earth and sky more accurately; no man +feels them more vividly; no man describes them more beautifully. He was +the first of our poets who, deserting the conventional paths in which +imitators move, studied and delineated Nature as it exists in New +England, modified by the elements of a comparatively low latitude, a +brilliant sky, uncertain springs, short and hot summers, richly colored +autumns, and winters of pure and crystal cold. The merit and the +popularity of Bryant's descriptive poetry prove how intimate is the +relation between imagination and truth, and how the poet who is faithful +to the highest requisitions of his art must obey laws as rigid as those +of science itself. Here, at the risk of making our readers read again +what they may have read before, we transcribe a passage from a +memorandum of Mr. Morritt's, containing an account of Scott's +proceedings while studying the localities of "Rokeby":-- + +"I observed him noting down even the peculiar little wild flowers and +herbs that accidentally grew round and on the side of a bold crag near +his intended Cave of Grey Denzil, and could not help saying, that, as he +was not to be upon oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses +would be as poetical as any of the humble plants he was examining. I +laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness; but I understood him when he +replied, 'that in Nature no two scenes were exactly alike, and that +whoever copied truly what was before his eyes would possess the same +variety in his descriptions, and exhibit apparently an imagination as +boundless as the range of Nature in the scenes he recorded; whereas, +whoever trusted to his imagination would soon find his own mind +circumscribed and contracted to a few images, and the repetition of +these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and barrenness +which had always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the +patient worshippers of truth.'" + +This is excellent good sense, and the descriptive poetry of Bryant shows +how carefully he has observed the rules which Scott has laid down. He +never has a conventional image, and never resorts to the second-hand +frippery of a poetical commonplace-book to tag his verses with. Every +season of our American year has been delineated by him, and the drawing +and coloring of his pictures are always correct. Our American springs, +for instance, are not at all the ideal or poetical springs, and Bryant +does not pretend that they are; and yet he can find a poetical side to +them, as witness his poem entitled "March":-- + + "The stormy March is come at last, + With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: + I hear the rushing of the blast + That through the snowy valley flies. + + "Ah, passing few are they who speak, + Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee; + Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, + Thou art a welcome month to me. + + "For thou to northern lands again + The glad and glorious sun dost bring; + And them hast joined the gentle train, + And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. + + "And in thy reign of blast and storm + Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, + When the changed winds are soft and warm, + And heaven puts on the blue of May." + +This is all as strictly true as if it were drawn up for an affidavit. +March, as we all know, is the eldest daughter of Winter, and bitterly +like her grim sire. The snow which has melted from the uplands lingers +in the valleys; the storms, and the cloudy skies, and the rushing blasts +mark the sullen retreat of winter; but the days are growing longer, the +sun mounts higher, and sometimes a soft and vernal air flows from the +blue sky, like Burns's daisy "glinting forth" amid the storm. + +March and April come and go, and May succeeds. Hers is not quite the +"blue, voluptuous eye" she wears in the portraits which poets paint of +her, and those who court her smiles are sometimes chilled by decidedly +wintry glances. Bryant gives us her best aspect:-- + + "The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, + And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills, + And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. + Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds + Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, + The robin warbled forth his full clear note + For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, + Where young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast + A shade, gay circles of anemones + Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers, + Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut + And quivering poplar to the roving breeze + Gave a balsamic fragrance." + +How admirable this is! And with what truth, we had almost said courage, +the poet makes his report. The emerald wheat-fields, the rosy buds of +the apple-tree, the half-transparent leaves of the trees, the anemones +on their restless stalks, the shad-bush (_Amelanchier Botryapium_), the +quivering poplars, and the peculiar balsamic odor which one perceives in +the woods at that season are so exactly what we find in our New-England +May! How much better these distinct statements are than a tissue of +generalities about flowery wreaths, and fragrant zephyrs, and genial +rays, and fresh verdure, and vernal airs, and ambrosial dews! + +But the year goes on. Our fitful and capricious spring passes by, and +summer takes its place. But our New-England summer is not like the +summer of Thomson and Cowper, and images drawn from English poetry and +transplanted here would be out of place; and our faithful interpreter of +American Nature takes nothing at second-hand. How correctly he +delineates the characteristic features of our glorious month of June! + + "There, through the long, long summer hours, + The golden light should lie, + And thick young herbs and groups of flowers + Stand in their beauty by. + The oriole should build and tell + His love-tale close beside my cell; + The idle butterfly + Should rest him here, and there be heard + The housewife-bee and humming-bird." + +The _housewife_-bee is an expressive epithet. Does it involve a double +meaning, and insinuate that as a bee carries a sting, so women who are +stirring, notable, and good housekeepers have something sharp in their +natures? + +Next comes midsummer with its fervid and overpowering heats, which find +in our poet also an accurate delineator. + + "It is a sultry day: the sun has drunk + The dew that lay upon the morning grass; + There is no rustling in the lofty elm + That canopies my dwelling, and its shade + Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint + And interrupted murmur of the bee, + Settling on the sick flowers, and then again + Instantly on the wing. The plants around + Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize + Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops + Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. + But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills + With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, + As if the scorching heat and dazzling light + Were but an element they loved." + +But our radiant and many-colored autumn is Bryant's favorite season, and +some of his most beautiful and characteristic passages are those which +paint its hues of crimson and purple, and the vaporous gold of its +atmosphere. Such is the number of these passages that it is difficult to +make a selection of one or two for quotation. Here is one from "Autumn +Woods." + + "Let in through all the trees, + Come the strange rays; the forest-depths are bright; + Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, + Twinkles like beams of light. + + "The rivulet, late unseen, + Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, + Shines with the image of its golden screen + And glimmerings of the sun. + + "But, 'neath yon crimson tree, + Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, + Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, + Her blush of maiden shame." + +Here is nothing imitative or borrowed, and here are no unmeaning +generalities. Everything is exact and local,--drawn from an American +autumn, and no other. And how lovely an image is that in the third +stanza, and what an added charm it gives to an object in itself most +beautiful! + +But our renders must indulge us with one more quotation under this head, +although we take it from one of the most popular--perhaps the most +popular--of his poems, "The Death of the Flowers." + + "The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, + And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; + But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, + And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, + Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, + And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. + And now, when comes the calm mid-day, as still such days will come, + To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, + _When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, + And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill_, + The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, + And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more." + +Of the poetry of these exquisite lines, the melancholy sweetness of the +sentiment, the delicate beauty of the versification, we need not say one +word, but we claim a moment's attention to their fidelity to truth, and +the accuracy of observation which they evince. The golden-rod and the +aster are the characteristic autumn flowers in that zone of our +continent in which New England is embraced, and the sunflower is a very +common flower at that season. That lovely child of the declining year, +the fringed gentian, would doubtless have been brought in with her fair +sisters, had it not been for her somewhat unmanageable name. Bryant has +written some beautiful stanzas to this flower, but in them he only calls +it a "blossom." And how fine a landscape is condensed into the two +delicious hues which we have Italicized! and yet no one ever walked into +a New-England wood on a late day in autumn without hearing the nuts drop +upon the withered leaves, and seeing the streams flash through the +smoke-like haze which hangs over the landscape. + +But winter, especially our clear and sparkling New-England winter, has +its scenes of splendor and aspects of beauty; and the poet would not be +true to his calling, if he failed to recognize them. + + "Come when the rains + Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice, + While the slant sun of February pours + Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! + The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, + And the broad arching portals of the grove + Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy + Trunks are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray, + Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, + Is studded with its trembling water-drops + That glimmer with an amethystine light; + But round the parent stem the long, low boughs + Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide + The glassy floor." + +There are many more lines equally good, but we have not space for them. +This is a description of winter as we have it here, compounded of the +elements of extreme cold, a transparent atmosphere, and brilliant +sunshine. No English poet can see such a scene, at least in his own +country: Ambrose Phillips did see something like it in Sweden, and +described it in a poetical epistle to the Earl of Dorset, which is much +the best thing he ever wrote, and has a pulse of truth and life in it, +from the simple fact that he saw something new, and told his noble +correspondent what he saw. + +But Bryant's claims to the honors of a truly national poet do not rest +solely upon the fidelity with which he has described the peculiar +scenery of his native land, for no poet has expressed with more +earnestness of conviction and more beauty of language the great ideas +which have moulded our political institutions and our social life. +Before the breaking out of the Civil War he was a member of that great +political party of which Jefferson was the head, and he is still a +Democrat in the primitive sense of the word; that is to say, he believes +in man's capacity for self-government, and in his right to govern +himself. He has full trust in human progress; age has not lessened the +faith with which he looks forward to the future; his sympathies are +with the many, and not with the few. Though he has travelled much in +Europe, his imagination has been but little affected by the forms of +beauty and grandeur which past ages have bequeathed to the present. He +has not found inspiration in the palace, the cathedral, the ruined +castle, the ivy-covered church, the rose-embowered cottage. Indeed, it +is only by incidental and occasional touches that one would learn from +his poetry that he had ever been out of his own country at all: his +inspiration and his themes are alike drawn from the scenery, the +institutions, the history of his native land. His imagination, as was +the case with Milton, rests upon a basis of gravity deepening into +sternness; and we have little doubt that not a few of the things in +Europe, which move to pleasure the lightly stirred fancy of many +American travellers, aroused in him a different feeling, as either +memorials of an age or expressions of a system in which the many were +sacrificed to the few. In his mental frame there is a pulse of +indignation which is easily stirred against any form of injustice or +oppression. His later poems, as might naturally be expected, are those +in which the sentiments and aspirations of a patriotic and hopeful +American are most distinctly expressed; among them are "The +Battle-Field," "The Winds," "The Antiquity of Freedom," and that which +is called, from its first line, "O Mother of a Mighty Race." It would be +well to read these poems in connection with the seventeenth chapter of +the second volume of De Tocqueville's "Democracy in America," which +treats of the sources of poetry among democratic nations; and the +comparison will furnish fresh cause for admiring the prophetic sagacity +of that great philosophical thinker, who, at the time he wrote, +predicted all our future, because he comprehended all our past. + +And here we pray the indulgence of our readers to a rather liberal +citation from one of these later poems, because it enables us to +illustrate from his own lips what we have just been saying. It is also +one of those passages, not uncommon in modern poetry, in which the poet +admits us to his confidence, and lets us see the working of the +machinery as well as its product. It is from "The Painted Cup," a poem +so called from a scarlet flower of that name found upon the Western +prairies, + + "Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not + That these bright chalices were tinted thus + To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet + On moonlight evenings in the hazel-bowers, + And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, + Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, + The faded fancies of an elder world; + But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths + Of June, and glistening flies, and hummingbirds, + To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns + The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind + O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour + A sudden shower upon the strawberry-plant, + To swell the reddening fruit that even now + Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. + + "But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well, + Let, then, the gentle Manitou of flowers, + Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, + Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone, + Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown + And ruddy with the sunshine,--let him come + On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, + And part with little hands the spiky grass, + And, touching with his cherry lips the edge + Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew." + +What a lovely picture is this of the Manitou of flowers, and what a +subject for an artist to embody in forms and colors! The whole passage +is very beautiful, and its beauty is in part derived from its truth. It +meets the requisitions of the philosophical understanding, as well as of +the shaping and aggregating fancy. The poetry is manly, masculine, and +simple. The ornaments are of pure gold, such as will bear the test of +open daylight. + +It is the function of the critic to discriminate and divide, and we have +attempted to deal thus with the poems of Bryant; but some of the best of +his productions cannot be classified and arranged under any particular +head. They breathe the spirit of universal humanity, and speak a +language intelligible to every human heart. Among these are "The Evening +Wind," "The Conqueror's Grave," and "The Future Life." All of these are +exquisite alike in conception and execution. We suppose that most +persons have in regard to poetry certain fancies, whims, preferences, +founded on reasons too delicate to be revealed or too airy to be +expressed. As Mrs. Battles in a moment of confidence confessed to "Elia" +that hearts was her favorite suit, so we breathe in the ear of the +public an acknowledgment, that, of all Bryant's poems, "The Future Life" +is that which we read the most frequently, and with the deepest feeling. +We say read, but we have known it by heart for years. We will not affirm +that it is the best of his poems, but it is that which moves us most, +and which we feel most grateful to him for having written. The grace and +charm of this poem come from regions beyond the range of literary +criticism, and the heart shrinks from making a revelation of the +emotions which it awakens. + +We have left ourselves but little room to speak of the new volume, +called "Thirty Poems," which lies before us. While nothing in it was +needed for the poet's well-established and enduring fame, it will be +welcomed by all his admirers as an accession to that stock of finished +poetry which the world will not let die. Here we find the same dignity +of sentiment, the same fine observation, the same grace of expression, +as in the productions of his youth and manhood. The tone of thought is +grave, earnest, sometimes pensive, but never querulous or desponding. +Declining years have not abated in him a jot of heart or hope. His is +the Indian-summer of the mind, made genial by soft airs and golden +sunshine, by green meadows and lingering flowers; and still far distant +is the time,--to borrow a noble image from this very volume,-- + + "When, upon the hill-side, all hardened into iron, + Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast." + +All honor to the strong-hearted singer who, in the late autumn of life, +retains his love of Nature, his hatred of injustice and oppression, his +sympathy with humanity, his intellectual activity, his faith in +progress, his trust in God! + + * * * * * + +ANNESLEY HALL AND NEWSTEAD ABBEY. + + +The picturesque region of Matlock, with its cliffs and streams, its deep +woods and romantic walks, is full of attraction. There we not only see +the outward graces of Nature, but catch glimpses of her subtler +elements. Springs, dripping from hidden sources, transform the fruit, or +the bird's-nest with its fragile eggs, into stone with a Medusa touch; +while in deep caverns are found beautiful spars, exquisitely tinted, as +if prepared by the genii of the rock for the palace of their king. + +Varied and wonderful are the workings of earth, air, fire, and water in +the Derbyshire valley, where a sensitive nature recognizes more things +in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy of many a +passing traveller. To this region of beauty and mystery Byron often came +in his youth. These cliffs and streams and woods were familiar to the +young poet, and his retentive memory must have received here many of +Nature's deep and marvellous lessons. Perhaps among these scenes there +came to him those + + "noble aspirations in his youth + To make his mind the mind of other men, + The enlightener of nations, and to rise + He know not whither, it might be to fall, + But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, + Which, having leapt from its more dazzling height, + Lies low, but mighty still." + +In Byron's day, Matlock was a fashionable watering-place; and the +drawing-room of the "Old Bath," with cut-glass chandeliers, old +engravings, and cushioned window-seats, looks much the same as when it +witnessed many a gay assembly. In this room the wayward and sensitive +youth, secretly writhing with mortification at being prevented by +lameness from leading Mary Chaworth to the dance, watched, her more +fortunate partners with moody envy. The young Lady of Annesley little +imagined that the lame boy, with his handsome face and troublesome +temper, would link her name to deathless song. + +On a fair, sunny morning, towards the close of October, we left Matlock +for Annesley Hall and Newstead Abbey. The day was in harmony with the +poetical associations of our excursion: a gentle mist hung like a veil +over hills and groves, giving a dreamy aspect to Nature, and rendering +the places we intended to visit creations of fancy rather than actual +facts. Very unromantic personages, however, answered our inquiries for +Annesley, which reassured us of its reality. Byron's "Dream" had +rendered the scenery familiar to our memory. + + "The hill + Green and of mild declivity, the last, + As 't were the cape, of a long ridge of such, + Save that there was no sea to lave its base, + But a most living landscape." + +Our approach led us beside those gentle slopes, and we seemed to see the +maiden and the youth standing on the mild declivity, with its crowning +circlet of trees. + + "And both were young, but not alike in youth: + As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, + The maid was on the eve of womanhood; + The boy had fewer summers. + + "... She was his life, + The ocean to the river of his thoughts. + Her sighs were not for him; to her he was + Even as a brother, but no more; 'twas much, + For brotherless she was, save in the name + Her infant friendship had bestowed on him, + Herself the solitary scion left + Of a time-honored race. + + "Even now she loved another, + And on the summit of that hill she stood + Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed + Kept pace with her expectancy and flew." + +That lover, soon after, became the husband of Mary Chaworth. It is not +for us to speculate wherefore Destiny entangled the threads in that web +of existence which originally seemed to have woven the fates of Byron +and Mary Chaworth together. We are ignorant of spiritual laws, and know +little of the origin whence come those strange attractions, mind to +mind, heart to heart, which make or mar the life-experiences of us all. + +Had events been ordered otherwise, Byron might have been a better and +happier man, but the world would never have received the gift of "Childe +Harold." Alas, that the soul must be ploughed and harrowed, and the +precious seed trodden in, before it can give forth its fairest-flowers +or its immortal fruit! + +When we had last heard of Annesley Hall, it was ruinous and desolate, +and we knew not in what condition it might now be found. Passing through +an avenue of ancient oaks, the road winds down to an old picturesque +gate-house, and, leaving the carriage, we walked onward. Looking through +the arch of entrance, we saw as in a picture, nay, as in the poet's +dream, "the venerable mansion," sitting quietly in autumn sunshine on +its old terrace. To gray walls and peaks clung a climbing plant, its +leaves red with touch of frost, contrasting deliciously with green ivy, +and putting a bit of color into darker hues of stone-work. As we passed +beyond the gate, we saw that the mansion had been, restored and repaired +by careful hands guided by tasteful eyes and loving hearts. Above the +hall-door was a bay-window, which instinct told us belonged to the +"antique oratory," but we walked onward to the terrace, with its stone +balustrade, inclosing a bright flower-garden. On the other side of the +house stretches the lawn and park, with deer feeding quietly in the +distance. No human form appeared; all was silent and peaceful. We walked +thoughtfully on the old terrace, recalling the images of the poet and +the Lady of Annesley; but looking up at the ancient sun-dial on one of +the gables, we perceived that its shadow fell deeper and deeper with the +declining day, telling us, as it had told many before, how time waited +not, and reminding us that we, also were travellers. Passing again round +the mansion, and casting a wistful look within, we saw a woman sitting +at a low window, sorting fruit. We approached, and asked if strangers +were permitted to see the Hall. She replied gently, that it was not "a +show-house." We pleaded our cause successfully, however, when we told +her how the thought of Mary Chaworth had led us here from a distant +land. If the owners of Annesley knew that once an exception was made to +a general rule, we trust they also believed that the visitors were not +actuated by an idle curiosity. + +Our request being granted, our guide laid aside her plums, and with a +kind hand admitted us into the entrance-hall. It was low and venerable, +with family-portraits on the walls, among them that of the Mr. Chaworth +whom the "wicked Lord Byron" of other days shot in a duel. From the hall +we entered the modern part of the house, harmoniously blended with the +older portion of the building. In the drawing-room, two noble portraits +by Sir Joshua Reynolds arrested our attention. The lady (as Miss Burney +tells us in her journal) was a beauty and a belle of Sir Joshua's time, +and the painter has done justice to his subject, who is drawn at full +length, feeding an eagle,--a spirited, splendid woman, who looks down +from the canvas with bright, triumphant eyes. In the next apartment we +were shown a portrait which touched deeper chords in our heart. It was a +likeness of Mary Chaworth in miniature, representing a mature and +beautiful woman. + + "Upon her face there was a tint of grief, + The settled shadow of an inward strife, + And an unquiet drooping of the eye, + As if its lids were charged with unshed tears." + +The truth of this description startled us, and revealed instantly how +deeply impressed upon the mind of her youthful lover must have been that +face which was the starlight of his boyhood. Tears had passed since they +parted, and chasms of time and gulfs yet deeper and wider than time ever +knows had separated Byron from Annesley and England, and yet, when he +wrote those lines, her face rose before him so clearly, wearing on its +loveliness the impress of care and sorrow which he knew must be there, +that no words but his can truly describe the expression of her features. +Turning to our conductress, we asked if she had ever seen the Lady of +Annesley. "Yes, I knew and loved her well, for I was her maid many +years"; and, with a faltering tone, she added, "she died in my arms." +Genius has immortalized Mary Chaworth; yet the tender and heartfelt +tribute of one who had been the humble, but daily witness of the beauty +of her life, was worth a thousand homilies. + +We were conducted through the library, which had been in other days the +drawing-room, out of which opens a small apartment, known to the readers +of the "Dream" as the "antique oratory." Leading from the old +entrance-hall is the favorite sitting-room of Mary Chaworth in her happy +childhood and youth; and here, in his boyish days, Byron often sat +beside her while she played for him his favorite airs on the +piano-forte. Beneath the window is a little garden, where she cultivated +the flowers she loved best, and which are still cherished for her +memory. Our guide gathered a few of these, and gave them to our young +companion: they now lie before us, carefully preserved, with some of +their gay tints yet unfaded,--memorials, not only of Mary Chaworth, who +lived and loved and suffered through all the varied experience of +woman's life, but also of her to whom the blossoms were given, the fair, +young girl, "who lived long enough on earth to learn its better lessons, +but passed from it upwards and onwards without a knowledge of sin except +the shadow it casts on the world." + +Taking leave of our kind guide, to whom we were indebted for a visit of +deep interest, we paused a moment on the terrace ere we "passed the +massy gate of that old hall," to receive once more into our memory + + "the old mansion and the accustomed hall + And the remembered chambers, and the place, + The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade." + +A holy stillness pervaded the venerable house and its surrounding +scenery, a peace which breathed of a purer sphere, where what is best on +earth finds its correspondence. + +We wondered not, that, when the deep waters of the poet's soul, too +often ruffled by passion, polluted by vice, or made turbid by +selfishness, were calm and pure enough to mirror heaven, they ever +reflected the bright and morning star of Annesley. + +The transition from Annesley Hall to Newstead Abbey is inevitable in +thought and rapid in fact,--the road, over which the young poet so often +passed, between the two estates, being only three miles in length. We +had lingered so long at Annesley that the day was nearly spent before we +reached the Abbey. How did the venerable pile, with its mysterious +memories, fateful histories, and poetical associations, flash out into +light and darken into shadow as the October sun sank behind the distant +hills! + +The Abbey church is now only a ruin, but the airy span of its rich +Gothic window remains, as evidence of its original beauty. Through the +now vacant space, once the wide door of entrance, we saw the floor of +green grass, and in the centre the monument to Byron's favorite dog, +Bowswain. All was silent about the ruin, except the cawing of a thousand +rooks, who were settling themselves for the night with a vast amount of +noise and bustle on the high branches of the old trees which sweep down +on one side of the Abbey. + +The residence which adjoins the church, once a monastery, was inherited +by Lord Byron, with the title: to part with it was a dire necessity. +Colonel Wildman, the school-fellow of Byron at Harrow, purchased the +estate from the unhappy poet in the most liberal and generous manner, +and blessed it into a home. On entering the house, we were shown through +long corridors and vaulted passages, in which the monastic character of +the building was preserved. When Byron came to Newstead from college, +the Abbey was in a most dilapidated condition, and he had only means +enough to make a few rooms habitable for himself and his mother. A +gloomy and desolate abode it must have been. The furniture of Byron's +bedroom remains as it stood when removed from Cambridge. On the walls +are prints of his school at Harrow, and Trinity College, with various +relics and boyish treasures. The window commands a view of the sheet of +water which stretches before the Abbey, with its wooded banks,--a scene +which he loves and remembers even when "Lake Leman wooes him with her +crystal face," for he writes to his sister,-- + + "It doth remind me of our own dear lake + By the old hall, which shall be mine no more." + +Adjoining Byron's room is a suite of apartments, ruinous and roofless in +his day, but which Colonel Wildman has restored, and furnished most +appropriately with old tapestry and antique tables and chairs. These +rooms wear a ghostly aspect, and we were not surprised to learn that +one, at least, had the reputation of being haunted. The great +drawing-room, once the dormitory of the monks, is now a splendid +apartment richly decorated; above the chimney is a fine portrait of +Lord Byron, and in an ancient cabinet was shown the cup made from a +skull found in one of the stone coffins near the Abbey church. It is +mounted in silver, and the well-known lines, written by Byron, are +engraved on the rim. "Having it made" was, as he said himself, "one of +his foolish freaks, of which he was ashamed." The cup, however, bears +little resemblance to a skull. Colonel Wildman preserved the furniture +of Byron's dining-room, and other apartments, (very simple it is,) +without alteration, in the hope that he might return from Greece and +revisit the halls of his fathers. Had Fate so willed, he would have +found how kindly and faithfully his early friend had associated him with +Newstead, and preserved every memorial of past history connected with +the place. Yet thoughts of bitterness would even then have mingled with +these familiar scenes, for it was not the heir of the Byrons who had +restored Newstead Abbey to beauty and order. + +Quitting the Abbey, and passing into the gardens, we followed the +gardener through the deepening gloom to the wood, where, in former days, +an ancestor of the Byrons set up leaden statues of satyrs, which the +country-people called "the old lord's devils"; and very much like demons +they looked. The tree was pointed out upon which Byron cut the names of +"Augusta" and "Byron," with the date, during a last walk the brother and +sister took together at Newstead. It is a double tree, springing from +one root, which he chose as emblematical of themselves. The dim light +barely enabled us to discern letters deeply carved, but growing less +visible with the expanding bark. One of the trees has withered under +that spell which seems to have blasted all connected with the name, and +is cut off just above the inscription. The oak planted by Byron in his +youth in a different part of the grounds was also shown to us. It is yet +strong and vigorous. We picked up a yellow leaf, which the wind bore to +our feet, as a fitting memorial of the place and the hour. + +Passing again through the old Abbey church, the chill of the evening met +us, cold and damp,--fit atmosphere for the place. The rooks were all +asleep in their high nests; silence, darkness, and mist were fast +casting their mantle over old Newstead; and the only cheerful sign came +from the distant window of the Colonel's library, whence shot out a +generous gleam of household fire,--emblem of that warm heart which had +shed light upon the once desolate abode of its early friend. + +Since our visit to Newstead, (seven years ago,) the Abbey has passed +into other hands, and even a royal owner is now reported to possess the +poet's ancestral home. We shall ever deem ourselves fortunate that our +destiny led us to make this pilgrimage during the lifetime of Colonel +Wildman and while the place was under his enlightened and generous +ownership. + +A few miles from Newstead Abbey is Hucknall, a poor, desolate-looking +village, at the end of whose street stands an old church, beneath which +is the burial-place of the Byrons. The building is ancient and gray, but +dreary rather than venerable. Standing in its comfortless interior, we +remembered that Byron once asked to be buried under the green, grassy +floor of the roofless church at Newstead Abbey, with his faithful dog at +his feet. The poet, whose rapid glance seized every glory and beauty of +Nature, whose memory, wax to receive, and marble to retain, transferred +the vision through the medium of his rare command of language, should +have had a grave over which winds sweep, birds sing, and stars watch. +Not so. A white marble tablet let into the wall above the family-vault +was erected to Byron's memory by his sister. Perhaps the simplicity of +the monument was suggested by these lines, written at the early age of +nineteen years:-- + + "When to his airy hall my father's voice + Shall call my spirit, happy in the choice, + When poised upon the gale my form shall ride, + Or dark in mist descend the mountain-side, + Oh, may my shade behold no sculptured urns + To mark the spot where dust to dust returns, + No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumbered stone! + My epitaph shall be my name alone. + If that with honor fail to crown my clay, + Oh, may no other fame my deeds repay! + That, only that, shall single out the spot + By that remembered, or by that forgot." + +The inscription upon the tablet, after his name and title, designates +him as the Author of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," who died while aiding +the cause of Liberty in Greece: thus striking the noblest notes in a +powerful, eccentric, blotted score, as the fundamental chord of Byron's +requiem. + + * * * * * + +THE LAST CHARGE. + + + Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife + For country, for freedom, for honor, for life? + The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,-- + One blow on his forehead will settle the fight! + + Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel, + And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal upon peal! + Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair, + As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare! + + Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake! + Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake! + Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll, + Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll! + + Trust not the false herald that painted your shield: + True honor _to-day_ must be sought on the field! + Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,-- + The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed! + + The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh! + The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky! + Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn, + Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born! + + The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run, + As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun; + Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,-- + His sceptre once broken, the world is our own! + + * * * * * + +NORTHERN INVASIONS. + + +Northern Invasions, when successful, advance the civilization of the +world. + +It would not be difficult to present from all history a mass of +illustrations of this thesis wellnigh sufficient in themselves to +establish it. And there is no doubt that the principles of human nature, +which appear in those illustrations, can be set in such order as to +prove the thesis beyond a question. The softness of Southern climates +produces, in the long run, gentleness, effeminacy, and indolence, or +passionate rather than persevering effort. It produces, again, the +palliatives or disguises of these traits which are found in formal +religions, and in institutions of caste or slavery. The rigor of +Northern climates produces, on the other hand, in the long run, hardy +physical constitutions among men, with determined individuality of +character. It produces, therefore, freedom even to democracy in +politics, protestantism even to rationalism in religion, and grim +perseverance even to the bitter end in war. A certain stern morality, +often amounting to asceticism, is imposed on Northern constitutions. So +superficial is it, so much a creature of circumstance, that Norman, +Scandinavian, Goth, or Icelander, deserves no sort of credit for it. All +history shows that it vanishes before the temptations of any Vinland +which the frozen barbarians stumble upon. None the less does it give +them vigor of muscle, and power to endure hardship, which, in the end, +tells, over the accomplishments of the most warlike Romans, Greeks, +Persians, or other Southrons. "Fight us, if you like," said Ariovistus +to Cęsar; "but remember that none of us have slept under a roof for +fourteen years." That sort of people are apt to succeed in the long run. + +When they succeed, as we have said, they advance civilization. To begin +with the farthest East, all such strength as the Chinese Empire has +to-day is due to the Tartar cross in its blood; that is, it results from +the conquest of imbecile China by Northern Tartar tribes. One or two +more such invasions, followed by colonization of Northern emigrants, +would have made China a much stronger power this day than she is, and a +nation of higher grade. The history of Indian civilization, again, is a +history of Northern conquests. They tell us, indeed, that the Indian +castes may be resolved into so many beach-marks of the waves of +successive invasions from the North, the highest caste representing the +last innovation. When Abraham crossed from Ur of the Chaldees into +Canaan, when Cambyses broke open the secrets of Egyptian civilization, +when Alexander first opened to the world Egyptian science, these were +illustrations of the same thing,--Canaan, Egypt, and the world were all +improved by those processes. Greece died out, and has never yet +reėstablished herself, because she never had a complete infusion of +Gothic blood in her worn-out system. Italy, on the other hand, had a new +birth, and at this moment has a magnificent future, because Goths and +Lombards did sweep in upon her with their up-country virtues and +wilderness moralities. What the Ostrogoths did for Spain, what the +Franks did for Gaul, what the Northmen did for England, are so many more +illustrations. What Gustavus Adolphus would have done for Germany, if he +had succeeded, would have been another. + +What we are to do in the South, when we succeed, will be another. It +makes the subject of this paper. + + * * * * * + +Nobody pretends, of course, that War itself does anything final in the +advance of civilization. War itself is, what the poets call it, a +terrible piece of ploughing. With us, just now, it is subsoil-ploughing, +very deep at that. Stumps and stones have to be heaved out, which had +on them the moss and lichens and superficial soil of centuries, and +which had fancied, in that heavy semi-consciousness which belongs to +stumps and stones, that they were fixed forever. As the teams and the +ploughshares pass over the ground which has lain fallow so long, they +leave, God knows, and millions of bleeding hearts know, a very desolate +prospect in the upheaved furrows behind them. It is very black, very +rough, very desert to the eye, and in spots it is very bloody. This is +what war does. So desolate the prospect, that we of the Northern States +have certainly a right to thank God that it was not we who called out +the ploughmen. + +War, in itself, does nothing but plough,--but immediately on the end of +the war, in any locality, he who succeeds begins on the harrowing and +the planting. And because God is, and directs all such affairs, it is +wonderful to see how short is the June which in His world covers all +such furrows as His ploughmen make with new beauty. It is to the methods +of that new harvest that the President has boldly led our attention in +his admirable Proclamation of Amnesty. It is to the details of it that +each loyal man has to look already. It is but a few weeks since we heard +a sentimental grumbler, at a public meeting, lamenting over the +discomforts of the freed slaves in the Southwest, as he compared them +with their lost paradise. Men of his type, to whom the present is always +worse than the past, succeed in persuading themselves that the +incidental hardships of transition are to be taken as the type of a +whole future. And so this apostle of discontent really believed that the +condition of the fifty thousand freed slaves of the Mississippi, in the +hands of such men as Grant, and Eliot, and Yeatman, and Wheelock, and +Forman, and Fiske, and Howard, was really going to be worse than it was +under the lashes of Legree, or at the auction-block of New Orleans. The +more manly, as the more philosophical way of looking at the transition, +is to discover the shortest path leading to that future, which, without +such a transition, cannot come. + +The President, with courage which does him infinite honor, leads the way +to this future. His Proclamation is really a rallying-cry to all true +men and women, whether they are living at the North or at the South, to +take hold and work for its accomplishment. With an army posted in each +of the revolted States, with more than one of them completely under +National control, he considers that the time for planting has come. He +is no such idealist or sentimentalist as to leave these new-made +furrows, so terribly torn up in three years of war, to renew their own +verdure by any mere spontaneous vegetation. + +Practical as the President always is, he is sublimely practical in the +Proclamation. "Let us make good out of this evil as quickly as we can," +he says; "let peace bring in plenty as quickly as she can." To bring +this about, he promises the strong arm of the nation to protect anything +which shall show itself worth protecting, in the way of social +institutions of republican liberty. He does not ask, like a conqueror, +for the keys of a capital. He does not ask, like a Girondist, for the +vote of a majority. He knows, it is true, as all the world knows, that, +if the vote of all the men of the South could ever be obtained, the +majority would utterly overshadow the handful of gentry who have been +lording it over white trash and black slaves together. But the President +has no wish to prolong martial law to that indefinite future when this +handful of gentlemen shall let the majority of their own people +pronounce upon their claims to rule them. Waiving the requisitions of +the theorists, and at the same time relieving himself from the necessity +of employing military power a moment longer than is necessary, he +announces, in advance, what will be his policy in extending protection +to loyal governments formed in Rebel States. If there can be found in +any State enough righteous men willing to take the oath of allegiance +and to sustain the nation in its determination for emancipation,--if +there can be found only enough to be counted up as the tenth part of +those who voted in the election of 1860, though their State should have +sinned like Gomorrah, even though its name should be South Carolina, +they shall be permitted to reconstruct its government, and that +government shall be recognized by the government of the nation. + +It is true that this gift is vastly more than any of the Rebel States +has any right to claim. When the King of Oude rebels against England, he +does not find, at the end of the war, that, because he is utterly +defeated, things are to go on upon their old agreeable footing. +Rebellion is not, in its nature, one of those pretty plays of little +children, which can stop when either party is tired, because he asks for +it to stop, so gently that both parties shall walk on hand in hand till +either has got breath enough to begin the game again. If the nation were +contending against real and permanent enemies, in reducing to order the +States of the Confederacy, or if the national feeling towards the people +of those States were the bitter feeling which their leaders profess +towards our people, the nation would, of course, offer no such easy +terms. The nation would say, "When you threw off the Constitution, you +did it for better for worse. It guarantied to you your State +governments. You spurned the guaranty. Let it be so. Let the guaranty be +withdrawn. You cannot sustain them. Let them go, then. You have +destroyed them. And the nation governs you by proconsuls." But the +nation has no such desire to deal harshly with these people. The nation +knows that more than half of them were never regarded as people at +home,--that they had no more to do with the Rebellion than had the oxen +with which they labored. The nation knows that of the rest of the +Southern people literally only a handful professed power in the State. +The nation knows, therefore, that what pretended to be a union of +republics was, really, to take Gouverneur Morris's phrase, a union of +republics with oligarchies,--seventeen republics united to fourteen +oligarchies, when this thing began. The nation knows that the fourteen +will be happier, stronger, more prosperous than ever, when their people +have the rights of which they are partly conscious,--when they also +become republics. The nation means to carry out the constitutional +guaranty, and give them the republican government which under the +Constitution belongs to every State in the Union. The nation looks +forward to prosperous centuries, in which these States, with these +people and the descendants of these people, shall be united in one +nation with the republics which have been true to the nation. For all +these reasons the nation has no thought of insisting on its rights as +against Rebel States. It has no thunders of vengeance except for those +who have led in these iniquities. For the people who have been misled it +has pardon, protection, encouragement, and hope. It can afford to be +generous. And at the President's hands it makes the offer which will be +received. + + * * * * * + +We say this offer will be received. We know very well the difficulty +with which an opinion long branded with ignominy makes head in countries +where there is no press, where there is no free speech, where there are +no large cities. Excepting Louisiana, the Southern States have none of +these. And the "peculiar institutions" throw the control of what is +called opinion more completely into the hands of a very small class of +men, we might almost say a very small knot of men, than in any other +oligarchy which we remember in modern history. It is in considering this +very difficulty that we recognize the wisdom of the President's +Proclamation. He is conscious of the difficulty, and has placed his +minimum of loyal inhabitants at a very low point, that, even in the +hardest cases, there may be a possibility of meeting his requisition. + +It is not true, on the other hand, that he has placed his minimum so +low as to involve the government in any difficulty in sustaining the +State governments which will be framed at his call. It must be +remembered that this "tenth part" of righteous men will have very strong +allies in every Southern State. It is confessed, on all hands, that they +will be supported by all the negroes in every State. Just in proportion +to what was the strength of the planting interest is its weakness in the +new order of things. Given such physical force, given the moral and +physical strength which comes with national protection, and given the +immense power which belongs to the wish for peace, and the "tenth part" +will soon find its fraction becoming larger and more respectable by +accretions at home and by emigration from other States. We shall soon +learn that there is next to nobody who really favored this thing in the +beginning. They will tell us that they all stood for their old State +flag, and that they will be glad to stand for it in its new hands. + +It will be only the first step that will cost. Everybody sees this. The +President sees it. Mr. Davis sees it. He hopes nobody will take it. We +hope a good many people will. The merit of the President's plan is that +this step can be promptly taken. And so many are the openings by which +national feeling now addresses the people of the States in revolt, and +national men can call on them to express their real opinions and to act +in their real interest, that we hope to see it taken in many places at +the same time. + +When Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, he +supposed that one-thirteenth part of his people were Christians. He was +statesman enough to know that a minority of one-thirteenth, united +together because they had one cause, would be omnipotent over a majority +of twelve-thirteenths, without a cause and disunited. So, if any one +asks for an example in our history,--the Territory of Kansas was thrown +open to emigration with every facility given to the Southern emigrant, +and every discouragement offered to the Northerner. But forty men, +organized together by a cause, settled Lawrence, and it was rumored that +there was to be some organization of the other Northern settlers, and at +that word the Northern hive emptied itself into Kansas, and the +Atchisons and Bufords and Stringfellows abandoned their new territory, +badly stung. These are illustrations, one of them on the largest scale, +and the other belonging wholly to our own time and country, of the worth +even of a very small minority, in such an initiative as is demanded now. +What was done in Kansas can be done again in Florida, in Texas, if Texas +do not take care for herself, in either Carolina, in any Southern State +where the "righteous men" do not themselves appear to take this first +step on which the President relies. + +Take, for instance, this magnificent Florida, our own Italy,--if one can +conceive of an Italy where till now men have been content to live a +half-civilized life, only because the oranges grew to their hands, and +there was no necessity for toil. The vote of Florida in 1860 was 14,347. +So soon as in Florida one-tenth part of this number, or 1,435 men, take +the oath of allegiance to the National Government, so soon, if they have +the qualifications of electors under Florida law, shall we have a loyal +State in Florida. It will be a Free State, offering the privileges of a +Free State to the eager eyes of the North and of Europe. That valley of +the St. John's, with its wealth of lumber,--the even climate of the +western shore,--the navy-yard to be reėstablished at Pensacola,--the +commerce to be resumed at Jacksonville,--the Nice which we will build up +for our invalids at St. Augustine,--the orange-groves which are wasting +their sweetness at this moment, on the plantations and the +islands,--will all be so many temptations to the emigrant, as soon as +work is honorable in Florida. If the people who gave 5,437 votes for +Bell and 367 for Douglas cannot furnish 1,435 men to establish this new +State government, we here know who can. + +"Armies composed of freemen conquer for themselves, not for their +leaders." This is the happy phrase of Robertson, as he describes the +reėstablishment of society in Europe after the great Northern invasions, +which gave new life to Roman effeminacy, and new strength to Roman +corruption. The phrase is perfectly true. It is as true of the armies of +freemen who have been called to the South now to keep the peace as it +was of the armies of freemen who were called South then by the +imbecility of Roman emperors or their mutual contentions. The lumbermen +from Maine and New Hampshire who have seen the virgin riches of the St. +John's, like the Massachusetts volunteers who have picked out their +farms in the valley of the Shenandoah or established in prospect their +forges on the falls of the Potomac, or like the Illinois regiments who +have been introduced to the valleys of Tennessee or of Arkansas, will +furnish men enough, well skilled in political systems, to start the new +republics, in regions which have never known what a true republic was +till now. + +To carry out the President's plan, and to give us once more working +State governments in the States which have rebelled,--to give them, +indeed, the first true republican governments they have ever +known,--would require for Virginia about 12,000 voters. They can be +counted, we suppose, at this moment, in the counties under our military +control. Indeed, the loyal State government of Virginia is at this +moment organized. In North Carolina it would require 9,500 voters. The +loyal North Carolina regiments are an evidence that that number of +home-grown men will readily appear. In South Carolina, to give a +generous estimate, we need 5,000 voters. It is the only State which we +never heard my man wish to emigrate to. It is the hardest region, +therefore, of any to redeem. At the worst, till the 5,000 appear, the +new Georgia will be glad to govern all the country south of the Santee, +and the new North Carolina what is north thereof. Georgia will need +10,000 loyal voters. There are more than that number now encamped upon +her soil, willing to stay there. Of Florida we have spoken. Alabama +requires 9,000. They have been hiding away from conscription; they have +been fleeing into Kentucky and Ohio: they will not be unwilling to +reappear when the inevitable "first step" is taken. For Mississippi we +want 7,000. Mr. Reverdy Johnson has told us where they are. For +Louisiana, one tenth is 5,000. More than that number voted in the +elections which returned the sitting members to Congress. For Texas, the +proportion is 6,200; for Arkansas, 5,400. Those States are already +giving account of themselves. In Tennessee the fraction required is +14,500. And as the people of Knoxville said, "They could do that in the +mountains alone." + +We have no suspicion of a want of latent Southern loyalty. But we have +brought together these figures to show how inevitable is a +reconstruction on the President's plan, even if Southern loyalty were as +abject and timid as some men try to persuade us. These figures show us, +that, if, of the million Northern men who have "prospected" the Southern +country, in the march of victorious armies, only seventy-three thousand +determine to take up their future lot there, and to establish there free +institutions, they would be enough, without the help of one native, to +establish these republican institutions in all the Rebel States. The +deserted plantations, the farms offered for sale, almost for nothing, +all the attractions of a softer climate, and all the just pride which +makes the American fond of founding empires, are so many incentives to +the undertaking of the great initiative proposed. In the cases of +Virginia and Tennessee, and, as we suppose, of Louisiana, Arkansas, and +Texas, the beginning has already been made at home. In Florida a recent +meeting at Fernandina gave promise for a like beginning. If it do not +begin there, the Emigrant Aid Company must act at once to give the +beginning.[52] There will remain the Carolinas and three of the Gulf +States. The ploughing is not over there, and it is not time therefore to +speak of the harvest. For the rest, we hope we have said enough to +indicate to the ready and active men of the nation where their great +present duty lies. + + * * * * * + +REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. + + +_Principles of Political Economy, with Some of their Applications to +Social Philosophy._ By JOHN STUART MILL. New York: D. Appleton & Co. + +If works upon Political Economy, representing the orthodox European +doctrine, are to be written, John Stuart Mill is certainly the man to +write them. Able, candid, judicial, indefatigable, powerfully +poised,--characterized by remarkable mental amplitude, by a rare +steadiness of brain, by an admirable sense of logical relation, by a +singular ease of command over his intellectual forces, by a clear and +discriminating eye that does not wink when a hand is shaken before +it,--of a humane and widely related nature, whose heats lie deep, so +deep that many may think him cold,--of an understanding as dry as John +Locke's, wanting imagination in all its degrees, from rhetorical +imagination, which is the lowest, to epic imagination, which is the +highest, and therefore destitute of the sovereign insights which go only +with this faculty in its higher degrees, while, on the other hand, freed +from the enticements and attractions that are inseparable from it,--Mr. +Mill has qualifications unsurpassed, perhaps, by those of any man living +for considerate and serviceable thinking upon matters of immediate +practical interest and of a somewhat tangible nature. His mental +structure exhibits combinations which are by no means frequent. Seldom +is seen a conjunction of such cold purity of thinking with such +generosity of nature; seldom such considerateness, such industry, +patience, and carefulness of deliberation, with a boldness so entire; +seldom such ducal self-possession and self-sufficingness, with equal +openness to social and sympathetic impression; nor less rare, perhaps, +is the union of a reflective power so large and dominating with an +observation so active. + +These mental qualities fit him in a peculiar degree for service in the +field of Political Economy as now commonly defined,--a branch of +literature which, more, perhaps, than any other, represents at once the +genius and the limitation of our time. + +Political Economy is a half-science, not total or integral; and if it +pretend to spherical completeness, as it often does, it becomes open to +grave accusation. The charges against it, considered as a strict and +complete science, are two. + +Of these the first has been cogently urged by Mr. Ruskin, while virtual +admissions to a like effect were made by Mr. Buckle in his spirited +account of Adam Smith. It is this: as a science, Political Economy must +assume the perfect selfishness of every human being. Every science +requires necessary, and therefore invariable, conditions, which, when +expounded, are named laws. Such in Astronomy is gravitation, with the +law of its diminution by distance; such in Chemistry is chemical +attraction, with the law of definite proportions. The natural and +perpetual condition assumed by Political Economy is the absolute +supremacy in man of pecuniary interest. Absolute: it can admit no +modification of this; it can make no room within its province for +generosity, or for any action of man's soul, without forfeiting, so far, +its claim to the character of a science. Put a dollar, with all honor, +liberal justice, and humane attraction, on the one hand; put a dollar +and one cent, with mere legal right and consequent safety, on the other +hand; and Political Economy must assume that every man will gravitate to +the latter by the same necessity which makes the balance incline toward +the heavier weight. Or, conceding the contrary, it yields also its claim +to the character of a perfect science, and takes rank among those +half-sciences which partly expound necessary laws and partly contingent +effects. + +Now this assumed sovereignty of pecuniary interest seems to us _not_ a +final account of human beings. There is honor among thieves; is there +none among merchants? Does not every man put some generous consideration +for others into his business-transactions? Has an honorable publisher +_no_ aim but to print that which will sell best? Has he _no_ regard to +the character of his house? Has he _no_ desire to furnish a nourishing +pabulum and a healthful inspiration to the mind of his country? In the +employment of labor and the giving of wages do men generally quite +forget the work_man_, and think only of the work and its profit? This +does not happen to accord with our observation of human nature. We think +there is a large element of honorable human feeling incessantly playing +into the economies of the world; and we think it might be yet larger +without any injurious perturbation of these economies. + +Again, as a science, Political Economy considers wealth only as related +to wealth, to itself, not to man. It assumes wealth, as absolute, and +regards man as an instrument for its production and distribution. But +this attitude must be reversed. Wealth cannot be treated of in a wholly +healthful way until it is considered simply as instrumental toward the +higher riches which are contained in man himself. + +And here we reach the peculiar virtue of Mr. Mill's book. + +In the first place, he accepts the science as such, accepts it cordially +and almost with enthusiasm,--in fact, has a degree of faith in its +completeness and of confidence in its uses, greater, perhaps, than our +own final thought will justify; for the reader will already have +perceived that we incline in some measure to the opposition, with +Carlyle, Ruskin, and others. Proceeding upon this basis, Mr. Mill +expounds the orthodox theories with that definiteness of thought, with +that precision of statement, and that calmness and breadth of survey, +which never fail to characterize his literary labor. Any one who +assumes, and wishes to study the science, will find in this writer a +guide through its intricacies, whom it were hardly an exaggeration to +name as perfect. Always sound-hearted, always clear, candid, and +logical, always maintaining a certain judicial superiority, he is a +thinker in whose company one likes to go on his mental travels, and +whose thought one will be inclined to trust rather too much than too +little. In the second place, Mr. Mill discerns the limitations of the +science more clearly, and acknowledges them more frankly, than, to the +extent of our somewhat narrow conversance with such writers, has ever +been done before by any one who regarded it with equal affection and +reposed in its theories a like faith. This, too, is thoroughly +characteristic of him. He is one of the sanest and sincerest of men. + +Thirdly, his inspiring and generative purpose is to lift the science +into serviceable relation to the broad interests of man. Here we come to +the real soul of the book. He accepts its customary limits chiefly that +he may transcend them. He treats of wealth with a philosophical and +cordial perception of its uses; but beyond and above this he is thinking +of man, always of man,--and of man not merely as an eater and drinker, +but as an intelligence and a candidate for moral or personal upbuilding. +A reader would regard the work with a dull eye, who should miss this +commanding feature. Sometimes by special discussions, as in his defence +of peasant-properties in land,--sometimes only by an aroma pervading his +pages, or bypassing expressions,--and always by the general ordering and +culminating tendency of his thought,--one reads this perpetual question, +the true and final question of all politics and economies:--How shall we +secure the greatest number of intelligent and worthy men and women? + +But while Mr. Mill's sympathy is with the people, the many, the whole of +humanity, and while his desire for men is that they may attain the +mental elevation which shall make them really _human_ beings, yet a +marked feature of his book is the mild Malthusian element which pervades +it. Let no stigma be therefore fixed upon him. Let honor be rendered to +the courage which steadily inquires, not what representation of the +facts will win applause, but simply what the facts _are_. And +undoubtedly it is true that all considerate men in England have been +compelled to contemplate the _possibility_ of over-population, of an +insupportable pauperism, of a burden of helpless numbers which shall +sink the whole nation into abysses of starvation with all its horrible +accompaniments. It is but a few years since Ireland escaped unexampled +death by famine only by an unexampled exodus. The New World opened its +arms to the misery of the Old, and fed its famine to fatness,--and has +got few thanks. But this rescue cannot be repeated without limit. And +therefore forelooking men in England find the problem of their future +one not too easy to solve. Mr. Carlyle, among others, has grappled with +it. His brow has long been beaded with the sweat of this great +wrestling; and if he seem to some of us a little abrupt and peculiar in +his movements, we must at least do him the justice to remember that he, +after the manner of ancient Jacob, is struggling with the angel of +England's destiny. Mr. Mill, too, with an earnestness less passionate +indeed, but perhaps not less real, is toiling at the same work. + +And, by the way, an instructive comparison might be drawn between these +two writers. Mr. Mill, not highly vitalized by belief, not nourished by +any grand spiritual imaginations, hampered by a hard and poor +philosophy, and with limited access to absolute truth, nevertheless, not +only belongs fully to the opening modern epoch, but through a certain +entireness of moral health and sanity is leading the time steadily +forward into its great believing and builded future; though it may +follow from his limitations that into this future he cannot accompany it +_very_ far. Mr. Carlyle, with a poetic profundity of nature and a force +of insight which entitle him not merely to a high place among the men of +our time, but to a name among the men of all time, standing face to face +with the divine reality and wonder of existence, conversing with the +heights and depths of being, and appreciating the significance of +personality, as Mr. Mill never can, will accompany our epoch into its +future farther than one can foresee, but to its present must render a +mixed and imperfect service; for a sickness runs in his veins, and he is +trying to force the age into a half-way house, which is built equally by +his hope and his despair. + +Were this not merely a general characterization, but a review, of Mr. +Mill's powerful work, we should venture to take issue on some matters +both general and special,--as an example of the latter, on the possible +utility of protective duties. The reasoning by which he, in common with +his class, proves these to be necessarily futile for good, is indeed +faultless so far as it goes, but, in our clear judgment, fails to cover +the whole case; so that the question, whether as one of general polity +or of industrial economy, is still open to consideration. Especially it +may be urged, that the infancy of human industries, like the infancy of +human beings, may require protection, even though their adult vigor +could be safely left to take care of itself. Suppose it conceded that +this protection is at first costly. So are the cradle and the nursery. +Yet it may be that they "pay" in the end. Nay, as the cradle may enrich +the household through the new incentives to labor and frugality which it +supplies, so protections of industry may evoke new industrial powers, +and thus at once begin to enrich the _nation_, though the capital which +supports these fresh industries could not at first hold its own, as +against other capital, without the motherly cares it receives. + +But enough. Here is a book on a matter of large and immediate +importance, put forth by one of the amplest and soundest minds of our +time,--a man so long-headed and clear-hearted, so able and intrepid to +think, to speak, and to hear correction, so intent upon high ends and so +calmly patient upon the way, that the public can neglect his thought +only by a criminal neglect of its own interests. + + +_A Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life. With a Complete +Bibliography of the Subject._ By WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER. +Philadelphia: Geo. W. Childs. + +Few "signs of the times" are more significant than the disposition shown +on all sides to scrutinize and interpret the spiritual history of +mankind. Lessing, Schlegel, Herder, Hegel, Guizot, Buckle, and others, +endeavor, with various degrees of ambition and success, to estimate +history considered as a progress; Carlyle in his "Heroes" and Emerson in +the "Representative Men" regard it rather as a permanence, and seek to +present its value in typical forms; meanwhile the Bibles and mythologies +of the old world are collected, translated, subjected to interpretative +study; and the critical scholarship of our time is almost wholly engaged +in an endeavor either to arrive at the exact text or at the precise +value of all the ancient literatures. + +All men have at length discovered that the history of mankind _means_ +something, and are naturally intent on learning _what_ it means. No one +now regards it as a mere Devil's phantasmagoria, significant of nothing +but Adam's sin in the Garden. However differing on other points, we all +now perceive that the history of the mind of man is a more interior +history of the universe,--that it must be studied, in the most earnest +and reverential spirit of science,--that what Astronomy seeks to do in +the heavens and Geology on the earth must be done in the realms of the +mind itself,--and that, till we have found our Copernicus and our Newton +of the human soul, modern science lingers in the porch, and does not +find access to the temple. We all see that this history, not indeed as +to the succession of its outward events, but as to its interior reality, +must be grounded in the eternal truth and necessity of the universe. +What wonder, that, having been so fully penetrated by the scientific +spirit, modern minds should look with great longing toward these earths +and skies of human history, coveting some knowledge of the law by which +the thoughts and faiths of man perform their courses? + +Nor any longer can "negative criticism" enlist the utmost interest. It +is construction that is now desired; and he who studies history only +that he may vanquish belief in the interest of knowledge cannot command +the attention of those whose attention is best worth having. That fable +is fable and mythus mythus no one need now plume himself on informing +us, provided he has nothing further to say. Of course, we raise no +childish and sentimental objection to what is called "negative +criticism." It may not be the best possible policy to build the new +house in the form of certain stories superimposed upon the old one, +which, perhaps, is even now hardly strong enough to sustain its own +weight. Let there be due clearing away; let us find foundations. + +But the essence of the new point of view in the contemplation of history +consists in this, that we no longer seek these foundations in the mere +outward and literal history of man; we look, on the contrary, to his +inward history, to perennial hopes and imaginations, to the evidence of +his spiritual impulses and attractions, and just here find not only his +_real_ history, but also the basis for theoretical construction. + +We see, indeed, as clearly as any Niebuhr or Strauss of them all, that +the imagination so pours itself into history as to supersede, or to +disguise by transfiguration, the literal facts. The incessant domination +of man's inward over his outward history is apparent enough. What then? +Does that make history worthless? Nay, it infinitely enhances the value +of history. Who are more deserving of pity than the distracted critics +that discriminate the imaginative element in the story of man's +existence only to cast it away? "Facts" do they desire? These _are_ the +facts. What is the use of always mousing about for coprolites? Give us +in the present form the product of man's spirit, and this to us shall +constitute his history. Let us know what pictures he painted on the +skies over his head, and he who desires shall be welcome to the relics +which he left in the dust under his feet. + +In our own country some worthy efforts have been made to set forth +certain grand provinces in the spiritual history of the human race. Such +was Mrs. Child's most readable book,--does she ever write anything which +is not readable?--"The Progress of Religious Ideas." We have seen also +some fine lectures on "Eastern Religions,"[53] which ought to go into +print. And now Mr. Alger comes forward with his large and laborious +work, seeking to contribute his portion to these new and precious +constructions. + +Mr. Alger's book is a real _work_. It is the result of no light nor +trivial labor, of no timid nor indolent essay of thought. His aim has +been to pass in _judicial_ review the thoughts and imaginations of +mankind concerning the destiny of the human soul. It is an instruction +to the jury from the bench, summing up and passing continuous judgment +upon the evidence on this subject contributed by the consciousness of +the human race. + +Mr. Alger is a brave man. He does not hesitate to grapple with the +greatest thinkers, nor to measure the subtlest imaginations of all time. +In the opening chapter, for example, which is appropriately devoted to a +consideration of theories of the soul's origin, he lays hold of the +boldest speculative imaginations to which the world has given birth, +with no hesitating nor trembling hand. Occasionally the reader may, +perhaps, be more inclined to tremble for him than he for himself. One +remembers Goldsmith's line,-- + + "The dog it was that died"; + +but our author comes forth from the trial in ruddy health, and does not +seem at all out of breath. And all through the book he delivers his +sentence like a man who has earned the right to speak. + +And has he not earned it? For some years Mr. Alger has been known to +scholars and others as a most indefatigable and heroic worker. This book +justifies that reputation. The amount of reading that has gone to it is +almost portentous. To us, who can hardly manage twelve books, big and +little, in as many months, this mountainous reading furnishes matter for +wonder. + +Neither has this reading been chiefly a work of memorizing, nor has it +been expended chiefly upon works of history commonly so called. A +product of man's spiritual consciousness being under consideration, it +is works of thought and imagination, rather than works of narration, +which claim our author's critical attention; and his reading has been +reflective and deliberative, involving a judgment upon speculative more +than upon historical data. And it may fairly be said, though it be much +to say, that he has shrunk from nothing which a perfect performance of +his task required. Whether we consider the formation or the expression +of his judgments, it may still be affirmed that he has met his great +theme fairly, and given to its exposition the utmost exercise of his +powers and the unstinted devotion of his labor. + +We can accordingly pass upon his work this rare commendation, that it is +thoroughly _honest_. This may, indeed, seem to many no very high +approval. But it is one of the very highest. For we mean by it not +merely that he has refrained from conscious misrepresentation of +fact,--that he has not lied, as Kingsley did about Hypatia in the novel +wherein he borrowed, only to befoul, the name of that spotless woman, +knowing all the while that his representation was contrary to the +recorded facts of history. To say so much only of this book would be not +to attribute to it a positive merit, but only to acquit it of damning +demerit. But what we affirm is that Mr. Alger has fairly looked his +facts in the face, and come to some understanding with himself about +them. When he speaks, therefore, it is about facts, about realities, not +merely about words; and what he offers is the result of genuine +processes of production which have gone on in his own mind. If he speak +of life, it is not life in the dictionary, but in the universe. If he +profess to offer thoughts, he really gives the results of his thinking. +He does not cant; he does not merely recite verbal formulas; he does not +play the part of attorney, first determining what to advocate, and then +seeking plausible reasons: everywhere one perceives that he has really +brought his _mind_ to bear upon _facts_, and so has come to real mental +fruit. And it is this verity, this reality and genuineness, to which we +give the name of _intellectual_ honesty. It is a rare quality; and +always the rarer in proportion to the depth of the matters treated of, +on the one hand, and to their expression in customs and institutions, on +the other. Institutions are masks. The thinker must have both +earnestness and penetration, if he is to get behind them. And just in +proportion as any element of man's spiritual consciousness has come to +institutional expression, it is the easier to talk about it and the +harder to think upon it,--to talk _about_ it without talking _of_ it. +But our author has made the distinction, and to the extent of his power +looks facts in the face. + +Having come to an understanding with himself, he honestly tries, again, +to come to an understanding with the reader. He honestly imparts his +mind. We find the book in this respect worthy of especial admiration. + +Mr. Alger always writes well when he is not overmuch _trying_ to write +well. If he forbear to covet striking effect, his style has perspicuity, +directness, and vigor,--the essentials of all excellent writing,--and to +these adds verbal affluence and occasional felicity. But if he be +tempted of the Devil to become eloquent, and the father of all +rhetorical evil strives hard to bring the soul of his style to +perdition, then he begins to write badly. Let him, since he is capable +of heroic things, imitate Luther, and fling his ink-pot. Even though it +light upon the page, let him not be inconsolable, but remember that no +blots are so bad as those made by ambitious inflation. We have not that +horror of "fine writing" which leads The Saturday Review and Company to +such obstreperous exclamation, and can endure the worst that Americans +are guilty of in this matter quite as well as that affectation of +off-hand ease and _nonchalance_ which enhances the native clumsiness of +many among the later English writers, and, to our mind, mars extremely +the poetry of Browning. But if a writer has some propensity to +rhetorical Babel-building, it were well for _him_ to make an effort in +the opposite direction, and try to build his sentences underground, like +the houses of the Esquimaux. + +Mr. Alger's book has minor faults and major excellences. But let him be +content. He has faithfully performed a great labor, and we give him +cordial approval. To a great theme he has brought great industry, a just +appreciation, a fine spirit, and much of intellectual courage and +activity. + +Add that he is a man whose soul is in sympathy with the best thought, +hope, and heart of the time. Brave, just, and humane, he is always on +the right side, and always as direct and unflinching in the utterance of +his faith as he is intrepid and right-natured in its adoption. Opinions +are expressed in his work which do not accord with those of +ecclesiastical majorities; nevertheless we think that those will thank +him who least agree with him. It were, indeed, a shame that the people +which sets the highest price upon political liberty should be the last +to welcome the higher freedoms of thought; but it is a shame, we trust, +which will not befall our country. We ourselves have, it is true, as +little affection as most men for that sort of "free thinking" which +consists in pouring out upon the public the mere wash and cerebral +excretion of unclean spirits; but when any man has brought to a +consideration of the greatest facts a pure and reverent spirit, he is +entitled to present the results of his meditations with manly +directness and vigor, as Mr. Alger has done in the work before us. + +The "Complete Bibliography of the Subject" is an admirable piece of +work. We present our respects to Mr. Ezra Abbot, Jr., and wish that many +an earnest literary laborer had such a "friend." + + +_Dream Children._ By the Author of "Seven Little People and their +Friends." Cambridge: Seaver & Francis. + +The children seem to have found their Dickens at last. But, of course, +it was to be expected that the child's Dickens would be different, in +some important respects, from the Dickens of grown-up men and women. And +so he is. Children do with the world in their thoughts pretty much as +they will; and the genuine artist, working for children, must recognize +this, or he will utterly fail. The author of "Dream Children," who made +his introduction to the reading public as the author of "Seven Little +People and their Friends," has the rare faculty of realizing for himself +the exact position and attitude of the child. This position he takes so +earnestly that he has nowhere the air of assumption or arbitrary +fiction. The child lives so much in pictures! But the pictures must not +betray one single feature of unreality, or the whole effect is spoiled; +a moral may be pointed or a tale adorned, but the child has lost his +natural food. We need such works as that under present notice to keep +children from starving,--works that are not mechanically adapted to +children, but which come to them as their own fresh, pure thoughts come, +bringing them pictures like those which their own untrammelled fancy +paints for them. + +We have no space to enter into any details here. The children must do +that for themselves; but not the children alone. For, as now and then we +come upon a piece of Art, a painting or a statue, which from its subject +would seem to belong peculiarly to the child's world, but which, because +it is genuine Art, as to its manner and execution, rises out of this +confinement to a single class, becoming universal, so it is with books +of a similar character. This is true of the present work more +emphatically than of the former work by the same author. The more +external features of the work--its exquisite getting-up, in paper, +binding, and especially in illustration--are only fitting to the +inherent gracefulness of the writer's thought. + +The subject is inviting, but we can only add that these short stories +exhibit the rarest freshness and purity of imagination, the richest +humor, and the most striking suggestion of an exhaustless fertility of +invention which we remember ever to have seen in any child's book +before. There is nowhere a careless execution; and the reason of this is +probably that the characters have had a leisurely growth in the author's +own mind. Generally it is supposed, that, to suit a subject to children, +it is only necessary to go through some outward manifestations and to +give the thing an air of novelty; but in this treatment there is no +freshness, and no very great or very permanent moral expression. The +writer of "Dream Children" will have a select audience, but he will have +it pretty much to himself, and, as the best of all rewards which he +could have, he will educate the thoughts of his juvenile readers +imperceptibly into a greater love and reverence for the very heart of +truth and beauty. + + +_Remains in Verse and Prose of Arthur Henry Hallam; with a Preface and +Memoir._ Boston. Ticknor & Fields. + +A permanent, though modest, place in the literature of the English +language will be accorded to this little volume. Judged upon their +intrinsic merits as compositions, the "Remains in Verse and Prose of +Arthur Henry Hallam" would, nevertheless, hold no abiding position among +the many pleasing poems, clever dissertations, and brilliant essays +annually given to the press in Great Britain and America. Were they +brought to us as the writings of a young man dying at thirty-two, +instead of ten years earlier, we might hastily say, that, sacred as they +must be to the personal friends of the author, there was in them no +excellency sufficiently marked or marketable to warrant republication. +But there gather other interests about them when we are told that these +compositions came from the son of a very eminent man, and were written +at an age at which we congratulate ourselves, if our college-boys are +not oppressively foolish. For the rare instances of hereditary +transmission of distinguished mental power are well worth attention, and +the maturity of thought and the subtile trains of reflection in this +youth now afford that large promise of genius which may not be +confounded with those specious precocities of talent the world never +lacks. Yet it is not probable that even these attractions could give to +the literary remains of young Hallam that permanent place in letters +which we have made bold to promise them. Only the inspirations of a +great poet could wake the noblest sympathies of noblest hearts in +perennial tribute to this friend so early called from life. + +The student of Shakspeare's sonnets--poems having much in common with +those written in memory of Arthur Hallam--is never tired of conjecturing +the person to whom they were addressed. Who was the "only begetter" of +these passionate offerings of the poet's love? Might he be recognized as +he walked, a man among men? or was he the splendid idealization of +genius and friendship? There are but faint answers to these questions. +After the claims of Mr. Hart, Mr. Hughes, and the Earls of Southampton +and Pembroke have been duly examined, there comes the conclusion that we +may not know who and what he was towards whom the august soul of +Shakspeare yearned with such exceeding love. Future readers of the "In +Memoriam" of Tennyson will be more favored in their knowledge of the +young man there given to fame. It will be known that he was worthy of +the deep sorrow breathed into exquisite verse,--worthy also of those +noble half-lights flashing above the sombre atmosphere, to show the +instruction, the blessedness, the beauty, which grow from human grief. +We are compelled to confess that those keen poetic glimpses into the +high regions of philosophy and science, with which the memories of his +friend inspired Tennyson, seem just dues to the brilliant auguries of a +future which this world was not permitted to see. + +An outline of Arthur's life has already been given to the American +public. Little can be added to it from his father's touching preface to +the unpublished edition of these writings in 1834, which is now +reprinted. The childhood of young Hallam exhibits facility in the +acquisition of knowledge, sweetness of temper, and scrupulous adherence +to a sense of duty. At the age of nine he reads Latin and Greek with +tolerable facility, and achieves dramatic compositions which excite the +admiration of the father,--a thoroughly competent, unless partial, +critic. This luxuriance of fancy is judiciously received; no display is +made of it, and Arthur is sent to school at Putney, where he remains for +two years. The common routine of English education is more than once +broken by tours upon the Continent. When the boy leaves Eton in 1827, +his father pronounces him "a good, though not, perhaps, first-rate +scholar in the Latin and Greek languages." As certain Latin verses +referred to are, for some inscrutable reason, omitted in this American +edition, the reader has no means of deciding whether it is the modest +reserve of the parent which pronounces them "good, without being +excellent," or the fond partiality of the father which discovers them to +be "good" at all. In any case, we must consider Arthur's "comparative +deficiency in classical learning," for which the eminent historian seems +almost to apologize, as one of his especial felicities. The liberalizing +effect of travel, and a varied contact with men and things, prevented +his powers from contracting themselves to a merely academical +reputation. When at Cambridge, he renounces all competition in the +niceties of classical learning, and does not attempt Latin or Greek +composition during his stay at Trinity. Thus he escapes the fate of many +quick minds, which, running easily upon college grooves, that end in the +indorsement of a corporation, never make out to accept their own +individuality for better and for worse. Arthur enters upon legal studies +with acuteness, and not without interest. A few anonymous writings +occupy his leisure. He is now just rising upon the world,--a brilliant +orb, as yet seen only by a few watchers, who congratulate each other +upon the light to be. A fatal tour to Germany, and all ends in darkness +and mystery. + +Judging from the writings before us, we should say that this young man +was destined to a greater eminence in philosophy than in poetry. His +father's opinion, in reverse of this, was perhaps based upon average +tendencies of character, instead of selected specimens of production. +The best prose papers here printed, the "Essay on the Philosophical +Writings of Cicero," and the "Review of Professor Rossetti," are far +more remarkable for the ease with which accurate information is +subjected to original, and even profound thought, than are the poems for +brilliancy of imagination or mastery over the capacities of language. +Still, it must be confessed, that the sonnets are full of melody and +refinement,--indeed, we can recall no poet who has written much better +at the same age. In all Arthur's compositions we recognize an exquisite +delicacy of feeling, without any of the daintiness of mind commonly +found in intellectual youths. He seems to have acquired much of his +father's command of reading, and to have inherited those rarer faculties +of selection and generalization which give to learning its coherence and +significance. In contrast to the precise and somewhat hard literary +style of the elder Hallam, the diction of the son glows with the +sensitiveness of a highly artistic nature. Arthur's attainments in the +modern languages appear to have been considerable. He is said to have +spoken French readily, and to have ranged its literature as familiarly +as that of England. His Italian sonnets are pronounced by competent +authority to be very remarkable for a foreigner. They are certainly +marvellous for a boy of seventeen after an eight months' visit to Italy. +In fine, upon the testimony presented in this volume, we think that no +considerate reader will hesitate to credit Arthur Hallam with a rich and +generous character, a wide sweep of thought rising from the groundwork +of solid knowledge, and the delicate aėrial perceptions of high +imaginative genius. + +Surely the life whose untimely end called forth "In Memoriam" was not +lost to the world. Perhaps it was by dying that the moral and +intellectual gifts of this youth could most effectively reach the hearts +of men. He was not unworthy his noble monument. As we turn to the +familiar lyrics, they swell and deepen with a new harmony. Again, the +genius of Tennyson bears us onward through tenderest allegory and +subtlest analogy, until, breaking from cares and questionings so +melodiously uttered, his soul soars upward through thin philosophies of +the schools, and at length, in grandest spiritual repose, rests beside +the friend "who lives with God." It is good to know that the "A.H.H." +forever encircled by the halo of that matchless verse does not live only +as the idealization of the poet. + + +_History of West Point, and its Military Importance during the American +Revolution, and the Origin and Progress of the United States Military +Academy._ By Captain EDWARD C. BOYNTON, A.M., Adjutant of the Military +Academy. New York: D. Van Nostrand. + +In every country there must be localities the names of which are +particularly associated with the national history. But in the United +States there are few such places that are not portions of some one of +the States; and if they have been the scene of incidents sufficient in +number and importance to furnish material for an historical monograph, +or so-called _local_ history, it will probably derive its special +interest and coloring mainly from events of the Colonial period and the +development of the material prosperity of the particular State or +section. The associations of West Point, the seat of the United States +Military Academy, are in this respect remarkable, that they derive their +interest exclusively from circumstances incidental to the birth and +progress of the nation. The history of the place is an important part of +the nation's history. Compared with more comprehensive annals, wherein +minute description of places and persons is impossible from the breadth +of view, local histories leave on the reader more vivid impressions by +affording a more microscopic and personal inspection. Where the minor +history, as we may call it, is thus connected with the greater story of +the body politic, it always enables the mind to combine, in the sequence +of cause and effect, a certain series of events in the course of the +nation's life, leaving a more distinct apprehension of the reality of +that life in the past, by giving a rapid glance, under strong light, +over a part, than usually remains after the perusal of larger works +which attempt the survey of the whole. + +From the beginning of the history of the United States, the +administrative power of the National Government has been continuously +exercised at West Point, to the exclusion of all other authority. It was +occupied by the Continental forces at the commencement of the +Revolutionary contest, as a place of the greatest strategic importance. +It was the objective point in that drama of Arnold's treason, which, by +involving the fate of André, is remembered as one of the most romantic +incidents in the story of the war. In Captain Boynton's new "History of +West Point," the aspect of the place, in connection with the events of +that time, is given by that method of description which always leaves +the sense of historic verity. The maps, plans, reports, letters, and +accounts, with the spelling and types, though by no means with the +printing or the paper of past days, are reproduced; and the actors on +the scene, not only those of high position, whose names are household +words, but those also whose part was humbler and whose memory is +obscure, are allowed to present themselves to us as they appeared before +the public of their own day. The first part of the volume gives the +history of the place as it has been occupied for strategic purposes. The +second part is devoted to its history as the seat of the Military +Academy, a history which succeeds immediately to the former, and is +intimately connected with the history of our internal government from +its first organization under the Constitution to the present hour; so +that the history of the locality presents itself as a brilliantly +colored thread running through the warp of the national history. In the +composition of this portion, as of the other, the author has presented +his subject, not so much in his own narrative, as by a judicious +combination of extracts from documents and papers of original authority; +although his own observations, by way of connection and explanation, are +given in good taste, and indicate a candid judgment, founded upon a +manifestly loving, but still essentially impartial, observation. It +should be no wonder, if the graduates of the Academy, who continue their +connection with the army in mature years, should always regard the place +through a vista of memory and affection, shedding over it a brilliancy +to which others might be insensible. To most of them it has been as a +home,--to many, probably, the only home of their youth; and, in the +unsettled life of the soldier, we can conceive that to no other spot +would their recollections recur with like feeling. We believe, that, in +the society which gathers more or less permanently around the Academy, +the feeling of a home-circle towards its absent members follows the +graduates during their military service; and that they, on the other +hand, are always conscious of a peculiar observation exercised from the +place over their conduct; so that each one, during an honorable career, +may look forward to revisiting it, from time to time, as a place +associated by family-ties. This influence upon the individual graduate +must be a very powerful incentive. It must, in the nature of the case, +be unperceived by the public, but its value to the public will be +enhanced by the observation which they may extend to the Academy; and it +is eminently proper that such observation should be courted by the +Government, and by those who represent it on the spot; the opportunity +should be given to all, irrespectively of civil or military place, to +become acquainted with its general management, the principles on which +it is established, and the terms which the cadet makes with the country +on entering, and to see, from time to time, a general _résumé_ of its +working and success. A book which tells this, in its natural association +with the narrative of all that gives the locality its name in our +history, promotes a national interest and supplies a public want. +Captain Boynton's book should command the interest of those who know +most of West Point, and of those who know nothing about it. To some it +will be a grateful source of reminiscence, and to others of +entertainment combined with information which has acquired an increased +interest for the citizen. + +Not the least inviting portion of the book is that which relates to the +topography and scenery of the Point. It is one of the singularities of +our frame of government, that the nation is the lord of so little soil +in the inhabited portion of its own dominion: though it is well to +remember that territorial sovereignty is not, as many persons imagine, +the only kind of sovereignty, nor, indeed, the most important kind; for +there is sovereignty over persons, which may be held without eminent +domain over the soil. Allegiance is personal. It is not based on the +feudal doctrine of tenures. The notion of many persons respecting the +right of the people of a State to carry themselves out of the nation is +connected with false conceptions on this subject. It is pleasant to +think that one of the places in which the nation is the land-owner and +exclusive sovereign is celebrated for historic events, and also +preėminently distinguished for beauty of situation. This circumstance +undoubtedly contributes to the hold which the place has on the minds of +those who have passed a portion of their youth on the spot, and it has +evidently been a source of inspiration to the author, and, we may say, +to the publisher, too, who have combined in making this a book of luxury +as well as of useful reference, a parlor-book. The pictorial +illustrations they have given add greatly to its value; and in this +matter they might safely have gone even farther. This book is intended +to make the spot familiar to the minds of many in various parts of the +national domain. Most persons of any leisure, in this section of the +country, have either themselves visited the banks of the Hudson or are +familiar with scenery somewhat similar in some part of the Eastern or +Middle States. But there are multitudes in the South and West of our +conlinental empire who have hardly ever seen a rock bigger than a man's +body, and who can, except by the aid of pictures, have no idea of a +river hemmed in by mountains. The view given in this book of the +localities in 1780, after a drawing made at the time by a French +officer, is more valuable in this respect, we think, than for the +historical purpose; and we should have preferred a similar view of the +place as it now appears. + +In common with all institutions which are the means of power and +influence, the Academy has been regarded with jealousy. It has +occasionally been assailed by an hostility which must always exist, and +which its friends should always be prepared to meet. Captain Boynton has +fairly stated and answered the objections commonly advanced. Among those +recently put forth is the complaint that no great military genius has +been produced from the Academy. The question might be asked, Does ever +any school produce the genius? It is contrary to the definition of +genius to be produced by such instrumentality. If no such military +phenomenon has been seen, the only inference is, that the genius was not +in the country, or that the circumstances of the country gave no +opportunity for its development; and the question is, Should we, in the +absence of genius, have done better without such an academy to educate +the available talent of the country to military service? Goethe has +said, that, to figure as a great genius in the world's history, one must +have some great heritage in the consequences of antecedent events,--that +Napoleon inherited the French Revolution. Though Napoleon developed +military art beyond his predecessors, there is no reason to suppose that +a soldier with natural endowments equal to his could now become the +inspirer of a similar degree of progress. The ordinary method of +appointment of cadets is described and vindicated by the author. While +it does not appear, _a priori_, to be the best possible, it must be said +that it is hard to devise any better one. It is always to be borne in +mind that appointment does not by any means involve graduation. Enough +have graduated to supply the wants of the army in ordinary times, and +these have been selected from about three times the number of +appointees. It is often said that equally competent persons would offer +themselves from civil life. To maintain this, it must be held, either +that the education given by the Academy is not of important benefit, or +that the same benefit may be attained without it. But no one pretends to +say that the education is not of the utmost importance; and, as Captain +Boynton shows conclusively, we think, it is impossible for any one to +attain it by unassisted study, either before or after entering the army, +while it is utterly out of the power of any private institution to give +a similar training. + +Among the treasons incident to the Rebellion, none struck loyal minds +more painfully than the desertion of the national right by Southern +cadets and graduates of West Point. Some supposed that the diligent +inculcation of State-Sovereignty doctrine by every organ of Southern +opinion could not alone have caused this breach of plighted faith, and +it was charged against the education given at the Academy, that it was +based on "principles which permitted no discrimination between acts +morally wrong in themselves, and acts which, destitute of immorality, +are, nevertheless, criminal, because prohibited by the regulations of +the institution." The charge indicated a gross misconception of the +subject. The conduct-roll, which is to determine the standing of the +cadet according to a total of demerit-marks, must include in one list +delinquencies against all rules, whatever may be their source. But +besides this scale for classification, the military law, to which +cadets, as part of the army, are amenable, refers all immoralities and +criminalities to a military tribunal. It would be well, if our +collegians would try to estimate the effect, moral, intellectual, and +physical, of the training of the Academy, as contrasted with that which +they are receiving, and, in comparing a collegiate with a West-Point +graduation, to remember that the cadet has been on service, and would +have been discharged by his paymaster, if he had not done his duty, +while in the colleges the professors serve for the pay, and would lose +their bread and butter, if there were no degrees given. + + +_Roundabout Papers_. By W.M. THACKERAY. New York: Harper & Brothers. + +We had scarcely finished reading this admirable volume of essays when +news of the author's death was transmitted across the sea. And now we +are to look no longer at our shelf which holds "Vanity Fair," +"Fendennis," "The Newcomes," and "Henry Esmond," and think of the +writer's busy brain as still actively engaged over new and delightful +books destined some day to claim their places beside the +companion-volumes we have so many times taken down for pure enjoyment +during the last twenty years. Do you remember, who read this brief +notice of the man so recently passed away, a passage in one of these +same "Roundabout Papers," where this sentence holds the eye half-way +down the page,--"I like Hood's life even better than his books, and I +wish with all my heart, _Monsieur et cher confrčre_, the same could be +said for both of us when the ink-stream of our life hath ceased to run"? +Only they who knew Thackeray out of his books can believe that this +desire came earnestly from his heart to his readers. He was a man to be +misunderstood continually; but his record will be found a noble one, +when the true story of his career is told. His greatness as an author, +his striking merit as an artist in the delineation of character, can +never fail to be rightly estimated; but few will ever know the +thousandth part of the good his generous deeds have accomplished in the +world,--deeds done in secret, and forever hidden from the eye of +public-charity hunters. His life had struggles, many and crushing; but +with a noble fortitude he pursued his calling when sorrow held down his +heart and wellnigh had the power to palsy his hand. This is no place for +his eulogy; but we could not notice the publication of his latest volume +without thus briefly recording our tribute to the author's memory. Since +the death of Macaulay, England has sustained no greater loss in the +ranks of her literary men. + + * * * * * + +RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS + +RECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. + + +A Manual of Devotions for Domestic and Private Use. By George Upfold, +D.D., Bishop of Indiana. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 16mo. pp. x., 244. +75 cts. + +Revised United States Army-Regulations of 1861. With an Appendix, +containing the Changes and Laws affecting Army-Regulations and Articles +of War, to June 25, 1863. Philadelphia. G.W. Childs. 8vo. pp. 594. +$2.00. + +Hints on Health in Armies, for the Use of Volunteer Officers. 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Dufour, lately an Officer of the +French Engineer Corps, Graduate of the Polytechnic School, and Commander +of the Legion of Honor, Chief of Staff of the Swiss Army. Translated +from the Latest French Edition. By Wm. P. Craighill, Captain U.S. +Engineers, lately Assistant Professor of Civil and Military Engineering +and Science of War at the U.S. Military Academy. New York. D. Van +Nostrand. 12mo. pp. 400. $2.50. + +The Works of Charles Dickens. Household Edition. Illustrated from +Drawings by F.O.C. Darley and John Gilbert. Little Dorrit. In Four +Volumes. New York. Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 314, 325, 298, 294. $4.00. + +Papers on Practical Engineering, U.S. Engineer-Department No. 9. +Practical Treatise on Limes, Hydraulic Cements, and Mortars. Containing +Reports of Numerous Experiments conducted in New York City, during the +Years 1858 to 1861, inclusive. By Q.A. Gillmore, Brigadier General of +U.S. Volunteers, and Major U.S. Corps of Engineers. New York. D. Van +Nostrand. 8vo. pp. 333. $3.50. + +The History, Civil, Political, and Military, of the Southern Rebellion, +from its Incipient Stages to its Close. Comprehending, also, all +Important State-Papers, Ordinances of Secession, Proclamations, +Proceedings of Congress, Official Reports of Commanders, etc., etc. By +Orville J. Victor. Vols. I. and II. New York. James D. Torrey. 8vo. pp. +viii., 531; viii., 537. $6.00. + +A Glimpse of the World. By the Author of "Amy Herbert." New York. D. +Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 428. $1.25. + +Shoulder-Straps. A Novel of New York and the Army, 1862. By Henry +Morford. Philadelphia. T.B. Peterson & Brothers. 12mo. pp. 482. $1.50. + +The Triumphs of Duty; or, The Merchant-Prince and his Heir. A Tale for +the World. By the Author of "Geraldine," etc. Boston. Patrick Donahoe. +16mo. pp. 392. $1.00. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] See Mr. Norton's "Travel and Study in Italy," p. 132. + +[2] "Giudica e manda, secondo che avvinghia." + + _Inf._ v. 5 + +[3] "Les observateurs éclairés manquaient en 1737 pour suivre la +transformation des phénomčnes morbides."--Calmeil, _De la Folie_, Tom. +II. p. 317. + +[4] _La Vérité des Miracles opérés par l'Intercession de M. de Pāris et +autres Appellans démontrée; avec des Observations sur le Phénomčne des +Convulsions_, par Carré de Montgéron, Conseiller au Parlement de Paris. +3 vols. 4to. 2d ed. _Cologne_, 1745. + +The first edition, consisting, however, of a single volume only, +appeared in 1737, and was presented to the King in person at Versailles, +by M. de Montgéron, on the twenty-ninth of July of that year. The work +was translated into German and Flemish; and besides several editions +which appeared in France, one was published in Germany and two in +Holland. It is illustrated with costly engraving. + +Though the King (Louis XV.) received M. de Montgéron in an apparently +gracious manner, yet, the very night after his reception, as he had +himself foreseen, he was arrested and cast into the Bastille. Thence he +was transferred from one place of confinement to another; and at the +time he was preparing the second edition of his work, he was still (in +1744) a prisoner in the citadel of Valence. (See Advertisement to that +edition, note to page vii.) He died in exile at Valence, in 1754. + +[5] Voltaire, with his usual wit and irreverence, proposed that the +notice, proclaiming the royal command, to be affixed to the gate of the +church-yard should read as follows:-- + + "De part le Roi, défense ą Dieu + De faire miracle en ce lieu." + +[6] Hecker alleges that "the insanity of the _Convusionnaires_ lasted, +without interruption, until the year 1790," that is, for fifty-nine +years, and was only interrupted by the excitement of the French +Revolution; also, that, in the year 1762, the "Grands Secours" were +forbidden by act of the Parliament of Paris.--_Epidemics of the Middle +Ages_, from the German of I.F.C. Hecker, M.D., translated by B.G. +Babington, M.D., F.R.S., London, 1846, p. 149. + +There were published by Renault, parish, priest at Vaux near Ancerre, +two pamphlets against the Succorists,--one entitled "Le Secourisme +détruit dans ses Fondemens," in 1759, and the other, "Le Mystčre +d'Iniquité," as late as 1788,--an evidence that the controversy was kept +up for at least half a century. + +[7] "A peine l'entrée du tombeau eūt elle été fermée, qu'on vit le +nombre des Convulsionnaires s'accroītre extraordinairement. Les +convulsions commencčrent ą s'étendre jusqu'ą, des personnes qui +n'avaient ni maladie ni infirmité corporelle."--_Oeuvres de Colbert_, +Tom. II. p. 203. (This is Colbert, Bishop of Montpelier, and nephew of +Louis XIV.'s minister.) + +[8] Montgéron, work cited, Tom. II. p. 36. Calmeil, _De la Folie_, Tom. +II, pp. 315, 317. + +[9] For particulars and certificates in this case, see Montgéron, Tom. +II. _Troisičme Démonstration_, pp. 1-58. + +[10] Montgéron, work cited, Tom. II. _Pičces Justificatives de la +Troisičme Démonstration_, p. 4. + +[11] Montgéron, Tom. I. _Seconde Démonstration_, p. 6. + +[12] "_Un coup d'épée_" is the expression employed by Montgéron; but the +facts elsewhere reported by himself do not seem to bear out, in most +cases, its accuracy. It was not usually a _thrust_ of a sword's point, +but only a _pressure_ with the point of a sharp sword, often so strong, +however, that the weapon was bent by its force. + +[13] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 10. + +[14] See, for the entire relation, from which I have here given extracts +only, Montgéron's work, Tom. III. pp. 24-26. Montgéron, though he +vouches for the narrator as a gentleman worthy of all credit, does not +give his name, nor that, of the physician, except as Dr. M----. The +occurrence took place in 1732. + +[15] Montgéron, Tom. III. pp. 107-111. + +[16] _Ibid._ p. 688. + +[17] "As murderous blows must either wound or kill, but for a miracle, +there ought to be a promise or a revelation to warrant their infliction. +But God has given no such promise, no such revelation, to justify the +demanding or the granting of the succors. It is, therefore, a tempting +of God to do so."--_Vains Efforts des Discernans_, p. 133. + +[18] _Chenet_ is the French expression, an andiron, or dog-iron, as it +is sometimes called. Montgéron thus describes it: "The andiron in +question was a thick, roughly shaped bar of iron, bent at both ends, but +the front end divided in two, to serve for feet, and furnished with a +thick, short knob. This andiron weighed between twenty-nine and thirty +pounds."--Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 693. + +[19] _Vains Efforts des Discernans_, p. 134. + +[20] _Mémoire Théologique_, p. 41. This is admitted also by the Abbé, +see _Vains Efforts_, p. 127, and by M. Poncet, _Réponse_, etc., p. 15. + +[21] Montgéron, Tom. III. pp. 693, 694. The author takes great pains to +disprove a theory which few persons, in our day, will think worth +refuting. In this connection, he quotes from a memoir drawn up by a +gentleman who had spent much time in examining these phenomena, as +follows:--"The force of the action and movement of the instruments +employed is not broken or arrested or turned aside. Experience +conclusively proves this. One sees the bodies of the convulsionists bend +and sink beneath the blows. One can perceive that the parts assailed are +twisted, and receive all the movements which such weapons as those +employed are calculated to communicate. And the violence of the blows is +often such that not only are they heard from the lowest story of a house +to the highest, but they actually communicate to the floor and to the +walls of the apartment a shock, which is sensibly felt, and which causes +the spectators to start."--p. 686. + +Montgéron adds his own personal experience. He says,--"That has happened +frequently to myself. I have often been so much impressed with the +strong motion communicated to the floor by the terrible blows dealt with +stones or billets of wood with which they were striking convulsionists, +that I could not restrain a shudder. For the rest, this is an occurrence +to the truth of which there are as many to testify as there have been +persons, whether friends or foes, who have seen the 'great succors.' One +may say, that it is a fact attested by witnesses +innumerable."--Montgéron, Tom. III. p 686. + +Independently of the theory of Satanic intervention which the above +details are adduced to disprove, they are very interesting in +themselves, for the insight they give into the exact character of these +terrible probations. + +[22] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 694. + +[23] Quoted by Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 697. + +[24] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 697. + +[25] _Mémoire Théologique_, p. 96. + +[26] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 697. + +[27] _Ibid._ p. 698. + +[28] _Lettre du Dr. A---- ą M. de Montgéron_, p. 8. + +[29] _Ibid._ p. 7. + +[30] Montgéron, Tom. II. _Idée de l'État des Convulsionnaires_, pp. 45, +46. Montgéron does not allege, however, that any other part of the body +than that where the warning pains were felt became insensible or +invulnerable. He cites (Tom. III. p. 629) the case of a convulsionist +who, "at the moment when they were striking her on the breast with all +possible force with a stone weighing twenty-five pounds, bade them +suspend the succors for a moment, till she adjusted, in another part of +her dress, a pin that was pricking her." + +[31] Montgéron, Tom. II. _Idée de l'État des Convulsionnaires_, pp. 31, +32. + +[32] Montgéron, Tom. II. _Idée de l'État des Convulionnaires_, p. 33. + +[33] _Lettre du Dr. A---- ą M. de Montgéron_, p. 7. + +[34] _Réponse des Anti-Secouristes ą la Réclamation_, par M. Poncet, +p. 4. + +[35] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 706. + +[36] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 707. + +[37] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 720. + +[38] _Ibid._ pp. 713, 714. + +[39] _Ibid._ p. 719. + +[40] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 716. + +[41] _Ibid._ p. 721. + +[42] _Ibid._ p. 709. + +[43] Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 708. + +[44] _Ibid._ p. 718. + +[45] _Ibid._ p. 709. + +[46] Montgéron, Tom. III. pp. 722, 723. + +[47] The details are given by M. Morand, a surgeon of Paris of high +reputation, member of the Academy of Sciences, who had been employed by +the Lieutenant of Police to make to him a report on the subject, and who +reproduces the result of his observations in his "Opuscules de +Chirurgie." He found four girls, the centres of whose hands and feet +were indurated by the frequent perforations of the nails. He witnessed +the operation of crucifying one of them, the Sister Félicité. A certain +M. La Barre was the operator. The nails were of the sort called +_demi-picaron_, very sharp, flat, four-sided, and with a large head. +They were driven, at a single blow of a hammer, nearly through the +centre of the palm, between the third and fourth fingers; and in like +manner through each foot a little above the toes and between the third +and fourth; the same stroke causing the nail to enter also the wood of +the cross. Félicité gave no signs of sensibility during the operation. +When attached to the cross, she was gay, and converged with whoever +addressed her, remaining crucified nearly half an hour. Morand remarked, +that her wounds were not at all bloody, and that very little blood +flowed, even when the nails were withdrawn. See his "Opuscules de +Chirurgie," Partie II. chap. 6. + +[48] _De la Folie_, Tom. II.; the page I omitted to note. + +[49] It Is desirable that the reader should look up these localities +upon a map of Switzerland, that he may be impressed with the growing +grandeur of these ancient glaciers, even while they were retreating into +the heart of the Alps; for in proportion as they left the plain, the +landscape must have gained in imposing effect in consequence of the +isolation of these immense masses of ice, which in their united +extension may have recalled rather the immensity of the ocean, than the +grandeur of Alpine scenery. + +[50] This map, with all its details and measurements, is reproduced (Pl. +V. fig. 1) in my "Systčme Glaciaire." It was accompanied by an +explanatory paper in the form of a letter to Altmann, then Professor at +Berne. + +[51] M. de Charpentier has published a map of this ancient glacier in +his "Essay upon the Glaciers and Erratics of the Valley of the Rhone." + +[52] In the last report of the New-England Emigrant Aid Company we find +the following significant passage:-- + +"There is, undoubtedly, a general desire among the inhabitants of the +Northern and Middle States to remove into the States south of them, +which will soon welcome the introduction of free labor. This desire +manifests itself strongly among soldiers who have seen the beauty and +fertility of those States, in their duty of occupation and protection; +and it has communicated itself to their friends with whom they have +corresponded. Society in those States is, however, still so disturbed, +and in such angry temper, that no Northern settler will be welcome or +comfortable, as yet, who goes alone. To be saved the animosities and the +hardships of lonely settlement, it is desirable that parties of +settlers, furnishing to each other their own society, and thus far +independent of dissatisfied neighbors, should go out together. The +conditions on which only land can be obtained point to the same +organization. Lands already under cultivation are not offered for sale +in all the Border States, at very low rates. If parties of settlers +could buy in the large quantities which are offered, it would prove that +they could remove and establish themselves, in some instances, upon +these lands, almost as cheaply as they have hitherto been able to make +the expensive Western journey and take up the cheap wild lands of the +Government. + +"But such purchases in the Border States are only possible when large +tracts of land are sold. To enable the settler of small means to take a +farm of a hundred acres, there needs the intervention of the organizers +of emigration. Such a company as ours, for instance, can bring together, +upon one old plantation, twenty, thirty, or forty families, if +necessary: it can arrange for them terms of payment as favorable as +those heretofore granted by the Government or the great railroad +companies of the West." + +Such suggestions apply more strongly to the case of Florida, which has +come within our power since this report was published. Florida is, +indeed, more easily protected from an enemy's raids than any of the +so-called Border States. + +[53] Written--if the author will permit us to tell--by Rev. Samuel +Johnson, one of the truest and ablest of our scholars. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, No. 76, +February, 1864, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOL. *** + +***** This file should be named 15819-8.txt or 15819-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/8/1/15819/ + +Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, No. 76, February, 1864 + +Author: Various + +Release Date: May 12, 2005 [EBook #15819] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOL. *** + + + + +Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<p><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a></p> +<h1>THE</h1> + +<h1>ATLANTIC MONTHLY.</h1> + +<h2>A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.</h2> + +<h3>VOL. XIII.—FEBRUARY, 1864.—NO. LXXVI</h3> + +<p><b>Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by Ticknor and +Fields, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of +Massachusetts.</b></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> + +<a href="#GENIUS"><b>GENIUS.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#MY_BROTHER_AND_I"><b>MY BROTHER AND I.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#A_HALF-LIFE_AND_HALF_A_LIFE"><b>A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ON_THE_RELATION_OF_ART_TO_NATURE"><b>ON THE RELATION OF ART TO NATURE.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#SNOW"><b>SNOW.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#HOUSE_AND_HOME_PAPERS"><b>HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#THE_CONVULSIONISTS_OF_ST_MEDARD"><b>THE CONVULSIONISTS OF ST. MÉDARD</b></a><br /> +<a href="#PRESENCE"><b>PRESENCE.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#GLACIAL_PERIOD"><b>GLACIAL PERIOD.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#BRYANT"><b>BRYANT.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#ANNESLEY_HALL_AND_NEWSTEAD_ABBEY"><b>ANNESLEY HALL AND NEWSTEAD ABBEY.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#THE_LAST_CHARGE"><b>THE LAST CHARGE.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#NORTHERN_INVASIONS"><b>NORTHERN INVASIONS.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#REVIEWS_AND_LITERARY_NOTICES"><b>REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.</b></a><br /> +<a href="#RECENT_AMERICAN_PUBLICATIONS"><b>RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS</b></a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="GENIUS" id="GENIUS"></a>GENIUS.</h2> + + +<p>When Paul Morphy plays seven games of chess at once and blindfold, when +young Colburn gives <i>impromptu</i> solution to a mathematical problem +involving fifty-six figures, we are struck with hopeless wonder: such +power is separated by the very extent of it from our mental operations. +But when we further observe that these feats are attended by little or +no fatigue,—that this is the play, not the tension of faculty, we +recognize a new kind, not merely a new degree, of intelligence. These +men seem to leap, not labor step by step, to their results. Colburn sees +the complication of values, Morphy that of moves, as we see the relation +of two and two. What is multiform and puzzling to us is simple to them, +as the universe lies rounded and is one thought in the Original Mind. We +seek in vain for the secret of this mastery. It is private,—as deeply +hidden from those who have as from those who have it not. They cannot +think otherwise than so, and to this exercise have been provoked by +every influence in life. The boy who is an organized arithmetic and +geometry will count all the hills of potatoes and reckon the kernels of +corn in a bushel, and his triangles soon begin to cover the barn-door. +He sees nothing but number and dimension; he feeds on these, another +fellow on apples and nuts. But his brother loves application of force, +builds wheels and mills; his head is full of cogs and levers and +eccentrics; and after he has gone out to his engineering in the great +machine-shop of a modern world, the old corn-chamber at home is lumbered +with his mysterious contrivances, studies for a self-impelling or +gravitating machine and perpetual motion. Another boy is fired with the +mystery of form. He will draw the cat and dog; his chalk and charcoal +are on all our elbows; he carves a ram's head on his bat, an eagle on a +walking-stick, perches a cock on top of the barn, puts an eye and a nose +to every triangle of the geometer, and paints faces on the wheels of his +mechanical brother. In all these boys there is something more than +ability; there is propensity, an attraction irresistible. Their minds +run, we say, in that direction, and they creep or lie still, if turned +in another. The young shepherd will toss eggs, spin platters, and +balance knives, year after year, in solitude, with a patient energy and<a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a> +endurance able to command any fortune.</p> + +<p>What philter is in these faculties? The boy who will be great is always +discontented with his work, ready to rub out and begin again. He follows +a bee, and never quite touches that which drew him on. Plainly, the mere +ability to do is a dry straw, but through it our seeker tastes an +intoxicating, seductive liquor, from which he cannot take away his lips.</p> + +<p>It is the liquor of our life. In measure, or form, or tone, he applies +himself to the very breasts of Nature, and draws through these exteriors +a motherly milk which was her blood and hastens to be his own. If the +young cub holds fast to the teat, be sure the stream flows and his veins +swell. Matter is the dry rind of this succulent, nutritious universe: +prick it on any side, and you draw the same juice. Varieties of +endowment are only so many pitchers dipped in one stream. Poet, painter, +musician, mathematician, the gift is an accident of organization, the +result is admission to that by which all things are, and by partaking +which we become what we must be.</p> + +<p>Of this experience there can be no adequate report. It is as though one +should attempt to go up in a balloon above the atmosphere and bring down +the ether in his hands. There is a spring on every door in Nature to +close it behind the returning footsteps of her lover, so that he can +lead no man freely into the chamber where she gave him love; it is only +by the confidence, fervency, and reverence of the initiate that we learn +in what presence he has been. Genius is great, but no product of genius +is more than a shadow which points to this sun behind the sun as its +substance, and the power of our inspired men has been merely manifested, +not rightly employed. Genius has availed only to authenticate itself as +the normal activity of man, not yet to do the work of the world.</p> + +<p>Sense is a tangle of contradiction. The boy throws wood on water and it +floats; then he throws in his new knife and it sinks. How was he to know +that the same force will lift a stick and swallow a knife? He throws a +feather after his knife, and away it swims on the wind. That is another +brook, then, in which the feather is a stick and the stick a stone. Not +only are results of a single law opposed, but the laws pull one this +way, one that, as gravitation contends with currents of water and air. +If we could be shut in sense and surface, Nature would seem a game of +cross-purposes, every creature devouring another. The beast eats plant +and beast; he dies, and the plant eats him again; fire, water, and +frost, in their old quarrel, destroy whatever they build; the night eats +the day, summer the snow, and winter the green. Change is a revolving +wheel, in which so many spokes rise, so many fall, a motion returning +into itself. Nature is a circle, but man a spiral. No wonder he is +dissatisfied, with his longing to get on. Eating and hunger, labor and +rest, gathering and spending, there is no gain. Life is consumed in +getting a living. After laborious years our money is ready in bank, but +the man who was to enjoy it is gone from enjoyment, shrivelled with +care, every appetite dried up. So learning devastates the scholar, is +another plague of wealth, and our goodness turns out to be a hasty +mistake. Is order disorder, then? Are we fools of fate? Is there only +power enough to prop up this rickety old system, to keep it running and +hold our noses to the grindstone? No man believes it: the madness of +Time has method only half concealed.</p> + +<p>See what eagerness is in the eyes of men, curious, hopeful, dimly aware +of beneficence under all these knocks and denials. There are whispers of +a great destiny for man,—that he is dear to the Cause. We suspect +integrity in Nature. Can this canebrake, in which we are tangled with +care, fear, and sin, be after all single and sincere, a piece of +intelligent kindness? Genius is the opening of this suspicion to +certainty. We are like children who recognize the love which gives them +sugar-plums, but not <a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>that which shuts the bag and forbids. Insight goes +deep enough to prize all severity and detect the good of evil.</p> + +<p>Trade seems contemptible to Wilhelm Meister, but, in its larger aspect, +sublime to Werner, who sees it as an exploration and possession of +Nature with friendly interchange between man and man. Trade is +democracy. Authority is hateful to democrats; but Carlyle can justify +loyalty, and show how obedience to the hero may be fidelity to myself. +Every experience needs its interpreter, one who can show its derivation +from an absolute centre. The mob of the French Revolution is a crowd of +devils till their poet arrives and restores these maniacs to manhood. +They are misguided brothers, doing what we should do in their place. +Genius in every situation takes hold on reality, a tap-root going down +to the source. Equilibrium appears in a staggering as well as a standing +figure, and is perfectly restored in every fall. The landscape seen in +detail is broken and ragged,—here a raw sand-bank, there a crooked +butternut-tree, yonder a stiff black cedar: but look with a larger eye; +the straight is complement to the crooked tree, color balances color, +form corrects form, and the entire effect of every scene is +completeness. The artist restores this harmony broken by our microscopic +view. Music is a shattering and suspension of chords till we ache for +their resolution; and the music of life is desire, a diminished seventh +that melts the past and ruins the present to prepare a future in another +key.</p> + +<p>Genius sees that many an exception is fruit of some larger law, is not +imperfection, but uncomprehended perfection. Is there, then, no +imperfection? We are haunted by such a thought. We see first a mixed +beauty in faces, partly life and partly organization; the body is never +symmetrical, deformity is the rule. But beauty will not be measured by +form; the body cannot long occupy good eyes; we begin to look through +that, and encounter some courage, generosity, or tenderness, a dawning +or dominant light in every countenance. This is our morning, and the +physical form only a low shore over which it breaks. Beauty is the rule, +exceptions melt away. There is no face in which Raphael cannot see more +than I see in any face; the dullest landscape is to Turner a fairer +vision than I can find in the world; Byron in his blackguards shows a +kind of magnanimity which refreshes the victims of respectability and +routine. The individuality of men is deformity, a departure from the +human type; yet this fault makes each necessary to each, founds society, +love, and friendship. So wherever a break appears in the plan, we +anticipate a larger purpose, and sound down through the water, certain +to find under that also a continuation of land. Genius first named our +system a universe to mark its consistency, and goes on reconciling, +showing how creatures and men are made of one stuff and that not so bad. +Let the thing be what it may, press on it a little with the mind, and +order begins to ooze. There is nothing on which we cannot feed with good +enough teeth and digestion, for the elements of meat are given also in +brick and bark. Natural objects are explored to their roots in man, and +through him in the Cause: each is what it is in kindness to him, has its +soul in his breast, grows out of him as truly as his hair, and the +out-world is only a larger body shaped by his needs. Each thing is a +passive man, and personification does no more than justice to the +joint-stool and the fence or whatever creature talks and suffers in +verse.</p> + +<p>What is the meaning of my day and relations? I suspect an advantage +designed for me, but not yet extracted, in marriage and the family-life, +in books, in politics, in business, in the garden, in music. How much of +each, as I know them, is chaff? how much is life coming in from the deep +by these low doors? What is society? An eating and drinking together? a +bit of gossip? a volley of jokes? Do men meet in these exercises, or in +hope and humanity? We are all superior to amusement. The cowardly host +<a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>will entertain with fiddlers and cream; then every guest leaves his +high desire with his hat, leaves himself behind, and descends to +fiddlers and cream. But men rise to associate; in sinking they separate; +and the good host must call us up, not drag us down to his feast. Goethe +knows how to spread the table with portfolios, architecture, music, +drawing, tableaux; but a great love, with its inevitable thought, makes +even these solvents superfluous. Goethe studies the cemetery, the +chapel, the school, the gallery, the burial-service, the +estate,—whatever is nearest. He finds astonishing values in labor, +trade, production, art, science, war. In his boyhood he built an altar +with his playthings and burned incense to Deity on a pile of shells and +stones. That act of worship foreshadowed his whole career; he took every +creature and thing from God's hand with reverent expectation, and never +rested till he had opened to some intent of the Maker therein. Things, +therefore, in his view are no longer empty and hollow like old cast-off +shoes, but pieces of sublime design. A beetle is sustained by earth, +air, fire, and water, needs the sun and the sea, winter and summer, +earth's orbit and parallax, needs whatever has been made, to set him on +his legs. He carries the world in little, and is a creeping black body +of the best.</p> + +<p>Much more man is microcosmic and macrocosmic. Natural and supernatural +meet concealedly in the out-world, but openly in him, and his early +desires grow into a future surpassing all desire. The poet sees his +destiny in our wishes,—sees right and wrong, kindness and greediness, +deepening into incalculable grandeurs of heaven and hell. He sees the +man never yet arrived, but now arriving, to inhabit each breast. "Far +off his coming" shines. We have many little gleams of generosity; we +have conviction, and can strike for the right. Nature is a fixed +quantity, a solid; but life is reinforced by life. Truth begets truth, +love kindles love, every end is a new beginning.</p> + +<p>Therefore the perception of genius is prophetic,—an anticipation of +manhood for this boy, who is the King's son, child of Eternity, and only +changeling of Time. Wherever any magnanimity is revealed, I lay claim to +it. The courage of heroes, the purity of angels, the generosity of God, +is no more than I need. Only show virtue unmixed at the heart of this +system, and you open my destiny in that. If there be but the least spark +of pure benignity, it is a fire will spread through all and fill the +breast; for Good makes good, and what it is I must become. Man is heir +not to any possession or commodity, though it were a homestead in all +heavens, but to the moral power which we ache to exercise. To-day I am a +poor starveling of Nature, sucking many a dry straw, but so sure as God +I shall stream like the sun. The meanest creature is a promise of such +power, for in each is some radiation as well as suction. Man grows, +indeed, faster than he can be filled, and so is forever empty; but if +power is never a <i>plenum</i>, it is never drawn dry, and at least the +mantling foam of it fills the cup. Our expectation is that bead on the +draught of being, and boils over the brim.</p> + +<p>Imagination is the spiritual sight, working upward from the fact, +downward from the law. In low experience it divines the tendency of +order, and descends on the other arc of this rainbow to construct the +world, and the man that must be. Imagination is the projection of each +beyond himself. A man shall not lift his meat to his lips without +prophecy and a consulting of this oracle: he shall first extend him to +think the savor and satisfaction of the meat. Shut into the horizon and +the moment, we have this only organ of communication with all that is +beyond; yet having here in rudiments and beginnings all that is beyond, +we laugh at the old limits, and explore the universe through every +dimension, through spaces beyond Space and times beyond Time.</p> + +<p>If this old ball on which we are carried be no apple of Sodom, but sound +<a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a>and sweet to the core, insight must be confidence and satisfaction. In +the beginning of thought we enjoy mere glimpses and guesses, our hopes +are rather wishes than hopes; we mount into flame when they come, we +sink into ashes when they burn out and desert us. The first glimmerings +only beget a noble discontent. Children are tired of matter before they +know where to seek their own power; they seem to be cheated of +themselves, their worthiness is unrecognized and unfed. Companions, +tasks, prospects are insufficient, they are bored and isolated, they +sigh and mope; yet they are proud of this lukewarm longing, which does +not quite avail, and keep diaries to record with protest the dulness of +every day. Sentimentality is initial genius. Its complaint seems to +contradict the cheerfulness of wisdom, yet it enjoys complaining; though +life be not worth having on these conditions, it bottles every tear. A +weak sadness fills great space in literature, stocks the circulating +library, and counts its Werthers by the thousand in every age. Now we +expect this malady, as we look for mumps and measles in the growing +child. It is feminine,—unwilling to be weak, yet not able to stand and +go. The strong quickly leave it behind.</p> + +<p>In his first novel Goethe burned out for himself this girlish +green-sickness, and by a more vigorous demand began to take what he +wanted from the world. To the young, life seems splendid but +inaccessible. Its remoteness is the theme of every complaint; but when +these windy wishes grow stern, inexorable, when a man will no longer +beg, but gets on his feet to try a tussle with the world, he throws +resolute arms around the Greatest, and finds in his bosom all that was +so vast and so far.</p> + +<p>Then we open paths, renew our society, enlarge our work, make elbow-room +and head-room enough in the world. Criticism is the shadow of the mind. +Insight is not sadness, but invigoration,—is no sob or spasm, but +clearness in the eye and calmness in the breast. We misjudge it from +partial examples: the light of day is confidence, yet sudden bursts of +light distress and blind. The poet is rapt, and follows thought; he +leaves his meat, and by some transubstantiation feeds on the wind; he no +longer sees the pillars of Hercules on a sixpence; he is mad for the +hour, if a majority shall say what is madness. Meanwhile his field is +unploughed; and if he falls from this ecstasy, look to see an harassed, +embittered man. The birds sing as they pick up the corn, but wisdom is +not so quickly convertible into meal, and if he cannot feed always on +it, let him never seek the Muse. Our poor half-genius vibrates miserably +between truth and the dinner-pot, comes back from his apocalypse, and +cries for admiration, gold-lace, hair-powder, and wine. That is no +apocalypse from which a man returns to whine and beg. Burns complains of +Scotland and poverty, Byron of England and respectability, and they are +both so far paupers unfed at home. Wordsworth finds London a wilderness, +and goes more than content to good company in lonely Cumberland, to eat +a crust and drink water with the gods. Socrates is barefooted. He has +one want so pressing that he can have no other want, and has set his +lips to a cup which hides his bare feet from his eyes: with a single +garment for winter and summer, he draws the universe around him a +garment for the mind.</p> + +<p>If the first flashes of perception dazzle, they are rays of daylight to +one emerging from the cave of sense. The eye becomes wonted to truth, +and that is now the least of his convictions which yesterday struck Paul +from his horse, and rebuked him as fire from the sky. Truth is breath, +and only for the first uncertain moment of life we use it to cry and +complain. Inspiration is morning, not a flash to deepen the dark.</p> + +<p>Popular literature is some description of a state which men think they +might enjoy: it is no record of joy. But the fool's paradise would be +dreary even for the fool; he is his own paradise, and will <a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>be. Our +early fancy is no transcript of the divine method, and is sternly +rejected by all who suspect a perfection hidden in the day. A few works +are great which celebrate the charm of actual effort, and the +furtherance of Nature for the brave. Homer, Shakspeare, Goethe, need +never exaggerate or leave the earth behind: in their experience it +carries well the sky. Every vital thought is some pleasure in running, +waking, loving, contending, helping,—is valor dealing gayly with the +homely old forces and needs. The marrow is sweet for him who can crack +it, in the roughest or the smoothest bone. One is born with a key to the +gladness of Nature, and glows with the day's work, the touch of hands, +the prospect of to-morrow,—love's production and husbandry, the old +worn grass and sunshine, the winter wind, the games and squabbles of +children and of men. Why is life for John weariness, for James every +moment fresh fire out of the sky? He who finds what he wants, or makes +what he wants, is a god. I know well the hope of saints and sages, how +they connect this life with endless stages beyond, how they look for the +same dignity in all action, the same motive in every companion; I see +what they have signified by heaven, a state wherein the best loved is +the best: but we must not be scornful, or miss to-day the common delight +of living, the moderate hopes of the healthy multitude. For no +exceptional joy is so wonderful as the universality of joy, the love of +life under every burden and stroke. The beginning of all beatitude and +ground of all is good digestion, good sleep, good-nature, and the cheer +undeniable of an average human day.</p> + +<p>But genius hurries on to expand our hope and dread to incalculable +dimensions. Hell is its first sudden down-look from uncertain flight, is +earth and animalty seen from the sky. The bad neither so see nor fear. +Few men ever reach a height from which they can sound such depth, and +the popular talk is repetition without corresponding experience. Hope +and fear rise alike to sublimity before the boundless scope of our +future. Give the hour to folly, and you set back the dial-hand of +destiny, you are so much behind your privilege in every following hour. +Eternity is displaced by the stumbling present as the earth by a falling +pebble, and the act of this low morning is a stone cast in the sea of +universal Being, which shakes and shoulders every drop of the deep. The +immensity of the universe does not dwarf, but magnifies our activity: +man is multiplied into the sum of all. This deed, this breath dilates to +the proportions of Spirit, and upheaves the low roof of Time, which is +no sky for the soul. Life becomes awful by its reaches: its span from +zenith to nadir, by moral parallax. From gods we sound down to beasts +and devils, from sky and fire to ice and mud. Here are the true and +final spaces: in their startling contrast appears the grandeur of the +moral law, like Chimborazo carrying all zones. It offers hell and +heaven, advancing inevitable, and leaves us never a dodge from choice. +Our dodge is a choice. Man overtaken by inexorable need must do or go +under in the tread-mill of Fate. Not a fault, not a lack, but is so far +damnation, with consequences not to be set forth in any prospect of +fire. When you begin to look down, the fear of centuries seems not +exaggerated. The remedy is in looking so vigorously and far as to see, +beyond depth, again the sky and stars. Look through; for toward that +centre which is everywhere, we look. Hell was situated under the earth; +our first voyage teaches that there is no under-the-earth. The widening +of every path gives boundless dimension to sin, till we learn that the +evil impulse alone does not extend. It is soon exhausted both in +attraction and effect,—is no power, but some suspense of life.</p> + +<p>The first moral perception is always a shudder. Carlyle sees the lifted +judgment of a lie; his eye is filled, and he sees nothing beyond; but +Nemesis is surgeon with probe and knife. Our poisons are medicines and +homoeopathic, the fumes <a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>of fear a remedy of sulphur for cutaneous sin. +The thought in which our terrors arrive is always at last a gospel, is +glad tidings. Dante, Paul, Swedenborg, Edwards have seen the pit. It +opens only in the holiness of such men,—is a thunder out of clear sky, +before which generations of the impure, like brute beasts, tremble and +cower. An equal moral genius will see that the ascension of an immortal +Love has left behind this vacuum, mitigated, not deepened, by the +furniture of devils and their flame. Men strive in vain to be afflicted +by a revelation of the best and worst. The mind is naturally a form of +gladness, and every window in us takes the sun. Our genuine trouble is +not extreme dread, but a perpetual restlessness and discontent.</p> + +<p>The delight of contemplation has been in history a height without +sustaining breadth, a needle, not a cube. Genius has been tremulous, +recluse,—has been cherished in solitude with Nature,—has been a +feminine partiality among men, holding for gods its favorites, for dogs +the refuse of mankind. It still counts the practical life an +interruption. It is therefore only melancholy cheer, a forlorn ark with +nine souls on the brine, a refuge from the world, not a delight of the +world. It lives not from God who is, but from a God who should be. The +true creative power is a calm of battle, a trust not for the closet, but +the chariot, a torch that can be carried through the gusty market, a +Ramadhan in the street. It is no miracle to be calm in calm, to be quiet +in bed,—but to rule and lead without anxiety, to tame the beasts and +elements, to build and unbuild cities with a song. The great thought +returns on society, floods out the heaped rubbish of custom, pours the +old grandeurs of Nature through dry channels of Trade, Religion, +Courtesy, and Art. He is great who plays the game of life with decision, +yet is always retired, and holds the life of life in reserve. Such a man +is demiurgic, for he puts down a hand on action through the sky.</p> + +<p>From a happy or sufficient genius came the golden maxim, "Think of +living." Strong men love life. The system, so cheery and severe, seems +to them worthy to be continued yonder and without end. This day leading +a better, itself good not leading alone,—this presentiment,—this solid +increment of hard-won power,—of what other stuff should our eternity be +woven? In wisdom first appears the present tense, an hour which is not +mere transition, but something for itself. There are men who live—to +live. He who finds our destiny given beforehand in the nature of things +has the leisure of God: he has not only all the time that is, but spaces +beyond, so that he will not be hurried by the falling-off of Time. +Leisure is a regard fixed not on the nearest trees and fences as we +whirl through this changing scene, but on remoter and larger objects, on +the slow-revolving circle of the far hills, on the quiet stars. Why +should I hasten with my foolish plan? Prosperity is over all, not in my +foolish plan. What is a fortune, a reputation,—what even genuine +influence, if you consider the future of one or of the race? Only little +aims bring care. Why run after success? That is success which follows: +success should be cosmic, a new creation, not any trick or feat. To be +man is the only success. For this we lie back grandly with total +application to the cause. Why run after knowledge? A large mind circles +all the primal facts from its own stand-point, and needs never tread the +curious round of science, history, and art. Where it is, is Nature: +therefore it is calm and free. The wise men of my knowledge were +farmers, drovers, traders, learned beyond the book. You cannot feed but +you put me in communication with all forests, fields, streams, seas. +Give me one companion, and between us two is quickly repeated the +history of the race. In a plant, an animal, a day or year, in elements, +their feuds and fruitful marriages, in a private or public history, the +thinker is admitted to the end of thought. A scholar can add nothing to +my perfect wonder, though he bring Egypt, Assyria, and Greece. I find +<a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>myself where I was, in Egypt, Assyria, and Greece: I find the old +earth, the old sky, the old astonishment of man. Cæsar and the +grasshopper, both are alike within my knowledge and beyond. There is +some vague report of a remote divine, at which he will smile who finds +no least escape from the divine. Two points are given in every regard, +man and the world, subject, we say, and object, a creature seen and a +creature seeing, marvelling, knowing, ignorant. Either of these openings +will lead quickly to light too pure for our organs, and launch us on the +sea beyond every shore. The artist studies a fair face; there is no +supplement to his delight. In temples, statues, pictures, poems, +symphonies, and actions, only the same eternal splendor shines. It is +the sun which lights all lands,—"that planet," as Dante sings,</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Which leads men straight on every road."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>He is delivered there at home to Beauty, which makes and is the world.</p> + +<p>Genius is royal knowledge. In the nearest need it studies all ages and +all worlds. Let me understand my neighbors and my meat; you may have the +libraries and schools. I read here living languages,—the eye, the +attitude and temperament, the wish and will: Hebrew and Greek must wait. +He who knows how to value "Hamlet" will never subscribe for your picture +of "Shakspeare's Study." Great intelligence runs quickly through our +primers, our cities, constitutions, galleries, traditions, cathedrals, +creeds. The long invention of the race is a tortuous, obscure way. Must +I creep all my fresh years in that labyrinth, and postpone youth to the +end of age? What need of so much experience and contrivance, if without +contrivance, if by simplicity, the children surely and beautifully live?</p> + +<p>Healthy thought is organic, grows by assimilation, vitalizes all it +takes, and so like a plant puts forth knowledge from the old and from +within. The apple of to-morrow is earth, not apple, till it hangs on the +tree. Our knowing seems rather rejection than acceptance, so much is +husk in bulk. From eight thousand miles of geology the tree takes a few +drops of water and distils from these its own again. Vigor of mind is +judgment, which divides the meat from the shell, that which cumbers from +that which thrills. The act is simple, inevitable; let it be energetic +and final. We say, "This is valuable, it quickens me; the rest is +nonsense." A feeble mind needs now chiefly to be rid of rubbish, of +cheap admirations, an awe before the hair-pins and shoe-ties of society, +before the true church, the scholastic learning, dead languages, the +Fathers and the fashion. To set the savage of civilization free from his +superstition, these idols must be insulted before his face.</p> + +<p>A little energy of demand displaces them from regard. The scholars are +busy with punctuation, chronology, and the lives of the little great, so +that their visit is a vastation, and I must turn them out of doors. +Genius will continue unable to spell, to read the German, to count the +Egyptian kings. There is royal ignorance, the preoccupation of gods. For +the wise, if no object is trifling, yet part of every object is foreign +to its best intent. Every nut is inwardly a man and a miracle, but +outwardly a shell. If it be a book, the thought is a shell, though God +be in the thought. The book is another thing, another world of power and +form, and the power will consume the form as a sword eats its sheath, +the soul the body, or fire the pan. The letter drops, for the spirit +must expand and be set free. The positive and negative poles of Nature +reappear in every creature, and the positive element must prevail. When +we have learned to live, we shall—or shall not—learn to spell.</p> + +<p>The last refreshment is intercourse with a kingly mind, which has no +need to shift its centre, but lies abroad hemispheric, and sleeps like +sunshine, bathing silently the earth and sky. Such a mind is at home, +not in position, but in a vital relation to Nature, which leaves no +spaces dark and cold for wandering, and knows no change that is worth +the name of <a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>change. It is rest to be with one who is at rest, who +cannot go to or go from his happiness, for whom the meaning of Deity is +here and now. What stillness and depth of manner are communicated to all +who sound the deeps of life! what a refuge is their society from wit, +zeal, and gossip, from petty estimates and demands! To these, now first +encountered, we have been always known; in them we meet no private +motive, no accomplishment, reputation, ability, immediate haunting +purpose, but a Sabbath from personal fortunes. We meet the great above +all that can be mine or thine, above gifts and accidents in common +manhood and prosperity. Swedenborg reports no encounter on higher +ground. The seven heavens open to me in a mind which gives rank to its +own facts, and wherever it is housed still finds the universe only a +larger body around the soul.</p> + +<p>Genius declares the total or representative value of its own facts +against the neglect or contempt of mankind. Intelligence is centre of +centres, and all things diminish as they recede from the eye. Every +natural law is some hint to us of our commanding position. The good +thought is never a toilsome going abroad, but some settling at home to +new intimacy with the fortune which waits on all. It is no putting out +legs, but a putting down roots to take possession of the earth and the +nether heavens, while we fill the upper sky with climbing shoots. +Intelligence is at one with the system, able to entertain it as a unit, +to refer every particle, dark as a particle, to its shining place in the +transparent whole. How can I afford to drop my errand, to go wonder +after the fore-world, after Plato, Washington, or Paul? These are men +who never dropped their errands to go wonder after the Maker himself. +They found God in the thing lying nearest to be done. As right action in +the remotest corner is a world-victory, so right thought applied to the +lowest circumstance is cosmic thought. In the fortune of the hour we +have a home beyond the fortune of the hour. The least circle of order +now organized and established in our lives is not a poor house frozen to +the ground, but a ship able to outride the currents of time, a charmed +circle of security which will serve us still in every following world. +Our future is to be found, not in multiplication of examples, but in +deeper sympathy with all we have superficially known.</p> + +<p>We shall never rightly celebrate the stillness and sweetness of truth in +an open mind. Clear perception is refreshing as sleep. It is a sleep +from blunder, care, and sin. In every thought we are lifted to sit with +the serene rulers, and see how lightly, yet firmly, in their orbits the +worlds are borne. With insight we work freely, for every result is +secure; we rest, for every stream will bear us to the sea. Peace is joy +beyond the perturbation of joy, is entertainment of Omnipotence in the +breast.</p> + +<p>A filial relation to the universe is well expressed, not in speech, but +in the attitudes of her children, in their balance, tranquillity, +directness, their firm and quiet grasp, look, step, tone. Confidence and +joy are the only moral agents. Worship is immortal cheer. The Greeks +rebuke us with their sacred festivals and games: why should we not hunt +every evil as we follow gayly the buffalo and bear? Virtue cannot be +wrinkled and sad; Virtue is a joy of the Right added to our earliest +joy,—is refreshment and health, not fever. The Etruscan are right +religious sculptures: the body will be more, not less, when the soul is +most; for the body is created and perfected, not devoured by the soul. +In another Eden the curves of grace and power will reappear; every +wrinkle will be counted sin; goodness will be sap and blood, a growth of +grapes and roses, a sacrament of energy and content.</p> + +<p>If there be great wrongs, we cannot distrust the Maker, and postpone the +security of the soul. Impatience is a wrong as great as any. Love and +trust are remedies for wrong. Music is our cure for insanity, and I +remember that incantation of fair reasons which Plato prescribed.<a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a> What +gain is in scolding and knitting the brows? The blue sky, the bright +cloud, the star of night, the star of day, every creature is in its +smiling place a protest of the universe against our hasty method of +counter-working wrong with wrong. Let loose the Right. Go forward with +martial music; never await or seek, but carry victory and win every +battle in the organization of your band. Hear Beethoven:—"Nor do I fear +for my works. No evil can befall them, and whosoever shall understand +them shall be free from all such misery as burdens mankind."</p> + +<p>From this security in the lap of Nature, this nest in the grass, we rise +easily to every height. Gladness becomes uncontainable, a pain of +fulness, for which, after all effort, there is no complete relief; for +language breaks under it in delivery, and Art falls to the ground. The +psalm of David, the statue of Angelo, the chorus of Handel, are +inarticulate cries. These men have not justified to us their confidence. +It will be shared, not justified. They have divined what they cannot +orderly publish, and their meaning will be by the same greatness divined +again. The work of such men remains a haunting, commanding enigma to +following ages. They do but repeat the promise and obscurity of Nature, +for she herself has the same largeness, is such another <i>raptus</i>, +proceeding to no end, but to a circle or complexity of ends. Men are +again and again divided over the images of Paul, of Plato, of Dante, +unable to escape from their authority, more unable to give them final +interpretation. They leave Nature, to puzzle over the inexhaustible +book. What does it mean? What does it not mean? The poet will never wait +till he can demonstrate and explain. He must hasten to convey a blessing +greater than explanation, to publish, if it were only by broken hints, +by signs and dumb pointing, his sense of a presence not to be +comprehended or named.</p> + +<p>For, if the seer is sustained, he is also commanded by what he sees. +Genius is not religious, but religion, an opening to the conscience of +the universe no less than to the joy. From this original the moral, +intellectual, and æsthetic sense will each derive a conscience, and rule +with equal sovereignty the man. Through an ant or an angel the first +influx of reality is entertained in an attitude of worship, and the +poet, in his vision, cries with Virgil to Dante:—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Down, down, bend low</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thy knees! behold God's angel! fold thy hands!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Henceforward shalt thou see true ministers!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Revelation is not more a new light than a new heart and will; revelation +to me is the conquest and renewal of me. What is lovely will not be +encountered without love, the Creator holds the key to the creature, +Order and Right may freely enter to be man. He who can open any object +to its source is touched therein by the finger of God, and insight is +inevitable consecration. Give the coward a suspicion of our human +destiny, and he is no longer coward; he would gladly be cut in pieces +and burned in any flame to shed abroad that light. Life has such an +irresistible tendency to extend, that it makes of the man a mere +vehicle, takes him for hands and feet, wheels and wings: he is glad only +when the truth runs and prevails. Enthusiasm, devotion, earnestness are +names for this possession of the deep thinker by his thought. He lives +in that, and has in it his prosperity, no longer in the flesh. The +inspired man becomes great by absorption in a great design; he is +preoccupied, and trifles, for which other men are bought and sold, shine +before him as beads of glass with which savages are wheedled. We drop +our playthings, our banks and coaches, crowns, swords, colleges, and +sugar-plums in a heap together, when any moment opens to us the scope of +our activity, and carries far forward the curve through which we have +already run.</p> + +<p>The divine authority of Genius is given in this descent and superiority +to will. That which in me I must obey, that also <a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>above me all men must +obey. Will is the centre of the practical man, of all force, not moral, +but brute or natural, and is identified in the common thought with +myself, as I am a natural cause. Will is the sum of physical forces +necessary for self-preservation, is reagency against the formidable +rivalry of every other organization. In this animal centre the laws are +carried up, as reins are gathered to be put into the hands of a driver, +and being tied in a knot just where the physical touches the celestial +sphere, they seem to be moral, and Will much more than the body is in +popular thought inseparable from man. It is an organ into which he has +thrown himself in reckless neglect of his privilege, a grasping hand +which rules the world as we see it ruled, masters and takes to itself +for extension all laws below its own level, wields Nature as an +instrument, breaks down a weaker will, and carries away the material +mind until some God from above shall deliver it. Will is that living +Fate of which exterior necessity is but the form. From it we are +instantly delivered in conviction, and find it ever after the servant, +not the synonyme of man.</p> + +<p>The boy does not choose, neither does the belly choose for him, what +object shall be supremely beautiful in his eyes. He has not resolved to +see only this splendor of color, and neglect sound,—or to give himself +to sound alone, and shut his eyes to sight. If the divine order reaches +any mind, those creatures in which it appears will haunt that mind, will +take lordly their own place, and hang as constellations high overhead in +thought. So long as he can turn the eye hither and thither, or lightly +determine what he will see, the man is conversant with form alone, and +bigots who are on that plane of experience identify him with choice, +hold thought to be altogether voluntary, and burn the thinker, as though +his view were a fruit, not a root, of him. But truth is that which does +not wait for our making, but makes us,—does not lie like water at the +bottom of our wells, but comes like sunshine flooding the air, and +compelling recognition. "To believe your own thought," says a master, +"that is genius"; but is not genius primarily the arrival of a thought +able to authenticate itself, to compel trust, and make its own value +known against the sneers or anger of the world? From my own thought once +reached there is but one appeal,—to my own thought: from Philip sober +to Philip more sober.</p> + +<p>The good spirit appears as a spark in our embers, and draws out these +careful hands to ward itself from every gust,—sets our tasks and crowns +them. We know that from first desire to last performance wisdom is +altogether a grace. Wisdom is this wish for wisdom, already given in the +readiness to receive. We have not cared for it, but it has cared for us.</p> + +<p>Grown stronger, it is a guide, and needs none. Turner sees what he must +love; there is no rule for such seeing: what he does not love is hid +from him; there is no rule for such omission. It is in the eye, not more +a happy opening than a happy closing. A private ordinance, dividing man +into men, makes the same creature a wall to one, an open door to his +neighbor. The value of man appears to Scott in feudalism, to Wordsworth +in contemplation, to Byron in impatience, to Kant in certainty, to +Calvin in authority, to Calame in landscape, to Newton in measure, to +Carlyle in retribution, to Shakspeare in society, to Dante in the +contrast of right and wrong.</p> + +<p>One man by grandeur sees mountains in the coals of his grate; another by +gentleness only sunshine and grasses on Monadnock. You will not say that +he chooses, but that he is chosen so to see. Light opens the eye without +our intention, and we are at no trouble to paint on the retina what must +there appear. Success is fidelity to that which must appear. Weak men +discuss forever the laws of Art, and contrive how to paint, questioning +whether this or that element should have emphasis or be shown. If there +is any question, there will be no Art.<a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a> The man must feel to do, and +what he does from overmastering feeling will convince and be forever +right. The work is organic which grows so above composition or plan. +After you are engaged by the symphony, there is no escape, no pause; +each note springs out of each as branch from branch of a tree. It could +be no otherwise; it cannot be otherwise conceived. Why could not I have +found this sequence inevitable, as well as another? Plainly, the +symphony was discovered, not made,—was written before man, like +astronomy in the sky.</p> + +<p>Only the mastery of one who is mastered by Nature will control and +renovate mankind. It is easy to recognize the habit of conviction, +freedom from within, and personal motive, the man bending himself as for +life or death to show exactly what he sees. The inspired man we know who +appeals to a divine necessity, and says, "I can do no otherwise; God be +my help! amen!"—for whom praise and property and comfortable +continuance on this planet are trifles, so great an object has opened to +him in the inviolable moral law.</p> + +<p>Every perception takes hold at last on duty as well as desire, claims +and carries away the man entire, though it were to danger or death. The +system, grown friendly, has grown sacred also; departure from it is +shame and guilt, as well as loss. An artist, therefore, like the Greek, +is busy with portraits of the gods, and every celebration of Beauty is +another Missa Solemnis, Te Deum, and Gloria.</p> + +<p>Whatever object becomes transparent to a man will be his medium of +communication with the Maker and with mankind. He hurries to show +therein what he has seen, as children run for their companions and point +their discoveries. These are his unsolicited angels, higher above his +reach than above that of the crowd; for every good thought is more a +surprise to the thinker than to any other. The seer points always from +himself as a telescope to the sky; he is no creator, but a bit of broken +glass in the sun. What is any man in the presence of haunting +Perfection, never to be shown without mutilation and dishonor? Is it +ours? In Him we live and move.</p> + +<p>While the Ego is pronounced and fills consciousness, man seems to be and +do somewhat of himself; but when the universal Soul is manifest above +will, his eyes turn away from that old battery; he is absorbed in what +he sees,—forgets himself, his deeds, wants, gains. He is rapt; stands +like Socrates a day and a night in contemplation; sits like Newton for +twelve hours half dressed on the edge of his bed, arrested in rising. He +is that madman to the world who neglects his meat, postpones his private +enterprise, regards honor and comfort as so much interruption to this +commerce with reality. We are all tired of property which is exclusion, +of goods which must be taken from another to serve me. Good should grow +with sharing,—more for me when all is given. In the spirit there are no +fences, boxes, or bags.</p> + +<p>Presenting truth, I declare it as freely yours as mine. Every act of +genius proclaims that the highest gift is no monopoly or singularity, no +privilege of one, but the birthright of the race. Shakspeare knows well +that we shall easily see what he sees; he considers it no secret. We are +always feeling beforehand for every right word now about to be spoken in +the world; many men give tokens of the general habit of thought before +he is born who clearly knows what all were dreaming. Wisdom has only +gone before us on our own path, and we overtake our guide in every +perception. Yet we are lifted quite off our feet by any new possibility +revealed in life: every circle drawn round our own astonishes, though it +be drawn from our centre. The poet in his certainty appears a child of +the heavens, and we strike another foolish line through the crowd, as +though every man were not his own poet as truly as he is his own priest +and governor, as though each were not entitled to see whatever is to be +seen. The masters of thought may teach us better. They address their +loftiest power in us, and never sing to oxen or <a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>dogs. The painting, +poem, statue, oratorio, calls to me by name; the morning is an eye that +solicits mine. Shall I take only the husks, and leave to another, +contented, always, the life of life?</p> + +<p>He is supreme poet who can make me a poet, able to reach the same +supplies after he is gone. We are bits of iron charged by this magnet, +and lose our quality when it is removed; we are not quite made magnets +as we should be by this magnetic planet and the revolutions of the sun; +yet the great polarity of our globe is a sum of little polarities, and +every scrap of metal has its own. We are made musical by the passing +band; we go on humming and marching to the air; but he who wrote it was +made musical by silence and sunshine. Soon our own vibrations will be +more easily induced, as old instruments sound with a touch or breath. We +shall throb with inarticulate rhythms, and understand the bard who +sings,—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>The poet is one who has detected this latency of power in every breast. +His delight is a feeling that all doors are open to all, that he is no +favorite, but the rest are late sleepers, and he only earlier awake. +Depth of genius is measured by depth of this conviction. Egotism is +incurable greenness. An artist is one who has more, not less, respect +for the common eye. The seer points always from his own to a public +privilege,—says never, "I, Jesus, have so received," but, "The Son of +Man must so receive"; and Shakspeare cuts himself into fragments till +there is no Shakspeare left behind, as if expressly to testify that this +wonderful wisdom is not his, but ours, is not that of the thinker and +penman in his study, but of priests and kings, ladies and courtiers, +lovers and warriors, knaves and fools. Paul sees that Moses read his law +from tables of the heart. Every wise word is an echo of the wisdom +inarticulate in our neighbors which sends them confident about their +work and play. The faith of healthy men and women is amazing when we +learn how incapable they are of showing grounds for it. In speculation +they hold horrible theories, blackening the day; yet they trust the good +which their lips unwittingly deny.</p> + +<p>In discourse we are moved, not by what a man says, but by what he takes +for granted. The undertow of power is something unstated to which all +his facts and laws refer. But our resource seems to be rather a +reversion, is not quite available; we have blood and a beat at the +heart, yet it does not circulate freely, and Nature to every man is a +double of himself, so that the universe seems also cold in extremities, +as though there were too little original life to fill her veins. The +poet is not fire on the hearth to thaw this numbness by foreign heat. He +rubs and rouses us to activity, drags us to the open air, puts us on a +glowing chase, provokes us to race and climb with him till we also are +thoroughly alive. No other gift of his is worth much beside this hope of +reaching his side. The great know well that all men are approaching +their view even in departing from it, as travellers going from one port +turn their backs on each other here and their faces together toward the +antipodal point: they can leave their discoveries and fame to the race. +There is one object of sight. Every piece of wisdom is no less my +thought because another has found it in my mind. It is more mine than +any perception I called my own, for really with that I have +unconsciously been living in deeps below thought. The rest I have known, +that in all these years I am.</p> + +<p>No man seriously doubts that he is born to entertain the meaning of the +world. Already we are inclined to reckon genius a mere faculty of +saying, not of knowing, since it opens a common experience in every +example. Minority and obligation to other eyes will cease. We have +outgrown many a Magnus Apollo of childhood; his beauty is no longer +beautiful, his gold is tinsel, we can dig better for ourselves. +Therefore we can draw no line that will stand between poets and +pretenders. That is fire which fires me <a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a>to-day; to-morrow the same +influence is frost. The standard is my temperature, a sliding scale. My +neighbors are raised to ecstasy by what seems a rattle of pots and pans; +but I remember when heaven opened to me also in Scheffer, Byron, +Bellini. The judge places himself in his judgment,—declares only what +is now above him, what below. If I find Milton prosaic beside +Swedenborg, perhaps I do Milton no wrong; perhaps no man in the company +so admires his impetuous grandeur; but now the impersonality of the +Swede may meet my need more nearly, with his mysteries of +correspondence, spiritual law, enduring Nature, and supremacy of Love. +Discrimination is worth so much, because there are no great gaps between +man and man, between mind and mind: there is no virtuous, no vicious, no +poet, no unpoet, and only dulness lumps one with angels, another with +dogs. There are infinite kinds and infinite degrees of intelligence; +there is genius in every sort and every stage of adulteration, overlaid +by this, by that, by the other grave mistake; and we cannot afford to be +inhospitable to the feeblest protest against our condition and +ourselves.</p> + +<p>We pass all but the few great masters, and they are only before us on +the road. Culture is the opening of spontaneous or liberal activity, and +hangs all on the pivotal perception that everything, experience, effort, +element, history, tradition, art, science, is another opening to the +same centre, and that our life. When the pupil is roused, enchanted, +fired, his redemption from sense is begun; he is delivered to the great +God, if it were only in a crystal or a caterpillar; he will never again +be the clod he was. The years are cruel and cold, want and appetite +devour many a day, but the man can never forget what was promised to the +boy. He believes in thought; believes against thought in the mad world, +in foolish man; believes in himself, and wonders what he could do, if he +had yet only half a chance. All that is streams toward the mind, will +stream through it and be known.</p> + +<p>God would not be God, if He could fill less than the universe, could +leave cold and empty corners, could remain beyond thought, could be +order around and not also within the brain. Deity is Revelation. Deity +means for each the germ of knowledge and the sum of knowledge. Man is +the guest of wisdom; he will drop for shame his arrogance, and seek +never again to entertain or patronize this architect and master of the +house. The triumph of inspiration is an unsealing of my own and of every +mind, a delivery of the pupil to private inspiration. When the work of a +master is masterly done, he abdicates therein, retires, and becomes +unregarded as a flight of stairs behind. The statue is a failure, unless +it makes me forget the statue,—the book, unless it makes me forget the +book. All the rhyming, painting, singing of sentimental boys and girls +springs from an intuition hardly yet more than instinct: that Nature has +special scripts for each, to be by him, by her, alone, divined and +published. They reach nothing sincere or unique, yet they feel the +individuality and remoteness of experience. They cannot put forth their +conscious power; but who among the gods of fame can put forth his power? +Emerson says Jove cannot get his own thunder; much less can any mortal +get his own thunder, however he may apply to Minerva for the key.</p> + +<p>By the cheer of awakening intuition, a dawn which stirs before daylight, +all men are secretly sustained. The common life is a borrowing, not a +creation and giving: imitation is going on all-fours, and man is uneasy +in that animal attitude. The horse comes only as horse: I am here not +merely as man, but as John; I blush and ache till John is something +pronounced and maintained against the mob of centuries, till men must +feel his singularity and solidity, as the ocean is displaced and +readjusted by every drop of rain. More or less, I must at least purely +avail. Erectness is delivery to the private law, and something in each +remains erect, and lifts him above the brute and the crowd. He is, and +feels <a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>himself to be: he will advance and give the law of his life.</p> + +<p>The brain is itself a nut from the tree Ygdrasil; it carries the world, +and in the first glances we anticipate all knowledge. The joy of life +does not wait for any theory of life, for we have only slept since the +thought in us was embodied in this system; we took part in the making; +we are drowsily at home with ourselves therein; we forget, yet do not +forget, the roundness of design. As in a common experience we are often +close upon some name which we seek to recall,—we feel, but cannot touch +it,—so the secret of Nature lies close to the mind, and sustains us as +if by magnetic communication, while we have yet no faculty to explore +our own being or this apparition of it, the whirl of worlds.</p> + +<p>We have rightly held genius to be miracle; but our great hope is +postponed for lack of perception that all life is miracle, that man in +every endowment is a form of the same plastic, incalculable power. Yet +as we are brought to seek goodness, being sinners, so we shall be +brought to seek the last perception, being dolts. The masters have not +been quite masters, and their theory has never respected the natural as +opening to a supernatural mind. We eat and drink and wait to be +arrested, not by sunshine, but lightning. It comes at last, revealing +from heaven the height and depth of our human prospect. The vision is +appalling; the seer is stricken to the ground; he has no organ able to +bear this light; he is blinded; he runs trembling for counsel to Paul, +who was beaten from his horse, to Samuel, who was called in sleep, to +Jesus, who taught the new birth, to John, who saw the white throne. But +after a little we learn that the new experience is native to us as +breath. No degeneracy of any period, no immersion in war, trade, +production, tradition, can quite hide the cardinal fact that this +strength of antiquity, of eternity, waits to descend, and does from time +to time descend, into the private breast. He who prays has made the +discovery, and is put by his own act in lonely communication with all +heavens.</p> + +<p>We find the sacred history legible only in the same light by which it +was written: we are referred by it, therefore, to sources of +interpretation above itself. God was hidden in the sky; the book in +another sky; who shall reveal God hidden in the book? After so many +ages, it has become a riddle as difficult of solution as any for which +it offers solution: the last and best puzzle of the exulting old Sphinx, +who will never be cheated of her jest. Our Christianity misses the +highest value of the book, as it indicates the resource of universal +man. We use the cover as some charm against danger, but the secret of +devotion is not reached. At last it is plain that secular, nigh +impenetrable Nature is a door as easily opened as this of the book. We +must read upon our knees, we wait for grace to open the text, God must +descend to light the page. The Quaker names our interpreter an inner +light, the Church a Holy Ghost to purge the heart and eye. A deity who +comes directly, and is no longer to seek when we are ready to read, must +abolish the book. Of all gods offered in our Pantheon, of all persons in +our Trinity, this must be the first.</p> + +<p>I cannot fasten on the revelation which needs another to make it +revelation to me; but when the divine aid is given, we seek no farther, +for in this communion we have already all that was sought. The private +illumination converts to gospel every creature on which its ray may +fall; it makes a Bible of the world, a Bible of the heart. The doctors +with dandling have now kept the child from his feet till there is doubt +whether he have any feet. In this cradle of the record he shall spend +his snug and comfortable life. "Here is safety!" Of course, he is +bed-ridden.</p> + +<p>But the weakness of man is no impediment to God. Remember who creates, +who renews, who goes abroad in perpetual miracle of building, +inhabiting, becoming. It is not a question of human power, but of +divine.</p><p><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a></p> + +<p>Spiritual presence, apocalypse of every apocalypse, becomes our primal +fact. It is the root of Protestantism, Democracy, Individualism. The +sanctity of conscience is a rest of man upon undeniable Deity. There is +no room for intervention of Peter or Paul.</p> + +<p>The mind is immanence of Being, an original relation to all we have +named reality and worshipped as divine. There are truths which we must +reckon with Swedenborg among the Fundamentals of Humanity. To hold them +is to be Man,—to be admitted to the hopeful council of our kind. +Freedom is such a fundamental of the moral sense. From the thought of +property in man we erect ourselves in God's name with indignant +protestation, wiping it and its apologists together as dirt from our +feet. By an equal necessity we count out from every discourse of reason +those who find in them no organ of ultimate communication, who refer +from common consciousness to saint and sage, as though God could be shut +from presence and supremacy in thought. They are intellectual +non-combatants who so refer. We take them at their own valuation; their +certainty of uncertainty, their confession of remoteness from the centre +we accept; but we must turn from the very angels, if they be not +permitted for themselves to know. There is no outside to the universe +except this embryotic condition, wherein a man may think that there is +no result of thought.</p> + +<p>I suppose no individual thinker will ever again have the importance +which attaches to a few names in history. No man will found a religion +with Mahomet, or overlie philosophers like Calvin, or shoulder out the +poets like Shakspeare; still less will any man again be worshipped as a +personal god. Let the newcomer be never so great, there is now a +greatness in public thought to dwarf his proportions. He antedated all +discoveries who first uttered the sacred name. That ray on darkness +tells. Now we have nations of philosophers, thought flies like +thistle-down, and the sublime speculations of the fore-world are +cradle-songs and first spelling-lessons to excite the guesses of every +barefooted boy. In early ages men met face to face with Nature, and +spent their strength directly in questioning her. Now the work of God is +overlaid. Every blunder is a rock in our field, and at last the field is +a stone-heap of blunders, and our giants have work enough to reach any +ground in the unsophisticated facts of life. We set no limit to the +revolutionary power of truth; in happy hour it may sweep away doctrine +and usage, supplant systems by songs, and governments by Love. Yet the +first men were able to cleave the world to its centre, and predict the +last results. We only enlarge their openings. Schools follow schools, +Eclecticism comes with its band into the field to gather every ear; but +Plato stands smiling behind, and holds in his hands that simple divided +line, the image of all we know.</p> + +<p>Who can wonder at the authority of the ancients, unbowed by an antiquity +behind? Freedom from authority gave their directness, their simplicity, +their superiority to misgiving and second thought, their confident "Thus +saith the Lord."</p> + +<p>We boast our enlightenment, but now the best minds are in question +whether we have not lost as much by the ancients as we have gained. +Plainly, they have not yet done their own work, have not given us to +ourselves and to God. They should have been less or greater; they did +not quite liberate, but became oppressors of the mind. To this +misfortune we begin to find a single exception. Jesus, with his primal +doctrine of a divine humanity, will now at last avail to be understood, +will deliver us from every teacher to a Father in the heavens, and put +us in direct communication with Him through the moral sense. After so +many blind centuries, his truth breaks out, draws us to him from the +misunderstanding of his followers, and refers from himself to the +sources of his incomparable life.</p> + +<p>Two men of our time are the primitive Christians,—not known for such, +because their springs open, with those of the Master, <a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>not in any +character, but in the Cause. They share his reliance, and accept in +simplicity those brotherly words in which he extends his privilege to +every child.</p> + +<p>He will open to us Nature, for his habit is the only natural. He has no +anxiety for immediate results, is never guarded in expression, does +never explain; he makes no record of thought, calls no scholar to be +scribe; he knows no labors, no studies; he walks on the hills, and +frankly interprets the waving grain, the seed in the furrow, the lily, +and the weed. Here is power which takes no thought for the morrow, an +attitude which works endless revolutions without means or care or cost.</p> + +<p>We must not dwell on this supreme example, lest we leave the hope of +every reader far behind. Let us rather keep the level of common +experience, and disclose the incursions of spirit which light a humble +life. Love and Providence will appear in every breast; nothing more than +Love and Providence appears to us above.</p> + +<p>A supreme genius will fail, rather by under- than over-statement, to +balance the popular exaggeration and repetition of fine phrases for +which we have no corresponding fact. Why should any man be zealous or +impatient? Why press a moral, dissecting it skeleton-like from throbbing +textures of Freedom and Beauty? Why preach, threaten, and drive us with +these bones, when a lover may draw us with kisses on living lips? Nature +offers Duty as a manlier pleasure, leads the will so softly as to set us +free in following, and her last thrill of delight is the steady +heart-beat of heroism, facing danger with level eyes and fatal +determination. Fear may arrest, but never restore. It is an arrest of +fever by freezing, of disease by disease. Let it be understood, once for +all, that this universe is moral, and say no more about that. Every man +loves goodness, and the saint never exhorts to this love, but reinforces +by addressing himself to it as matter of course. All power is a like +repose on the basis of common desires and perceptions in the race. The +didactic method is an insult alike to the pupil and the universe. +Socrates is master and gentleman with his questions, suggestions, +seeking in me and acting as midwife to my thought; but all <i>illuminati</i> +and professors, all who talk down or cut our meat into morsels, will +quickly be counted aunties by the vigorous boys at school. Chairs and +pulpits totter to-day with a scholastic dry rot, which is inability to +recognize the equality of unsophisticated man to man. There will soon be +no more chair or desk; the only eminence will be that of one who can +stand with feet on the common level, and still utter over our heads a +regenerating word. We shall learn to address ourselves in an audience, +to utter before millions, as if in joyful soliloquy, the sincerest, +tenderest thought. Speak as if to angels, and you shall speak to angels; +take unhesitating inmost counsel with mankind. The response to every +pure desire is instant and wonderful. Thousands listen to-day for a word +which waits in the air and has never been spoken, a word of courage to +carry forward the purpose of their lives.</p> + +<p>Thought points to unity, and the thinker is impatient of squinting and +side-glances while all eyes should be turned together to the same. +Thought is growing agreement, and that in which the race cannot meet me +is some whim or notion, a personal crotchet, not a cosmic and eternal +truth. Genius is freedom from all oddity, is Catholicity,—and departure +from it so much departure in me from Nature and myself. We say a man is +original, if he lives at first, and not at second hand,—if he requires +a new tombstone,—if he takes law, not from the many or the few, but +from the sky,—if he is no subordinate, but an authority,—if he does +not borrow judgment, but is judgment. Such a man is singular in his +attitude only because we have so fallen from purity. He, not the +fashion, is <i>comme il faut</i>. By every word and act he declares that as +he is so all men must shortly be.</p><p><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a></p> + +<p>Plato and Swedenborg are trying to speak the same word, but each can +avail only to turn some syllable. They regret this partiality as a +provincial burr, as greenness and narrowness. Genius sees the white +light and regrets its own impurity, though that be piquancy to the +multitude, and marketable as a splendid blue or gold. Manner, in +thought, speech, behavior, is popularity and falsehood; is the limping +of a king deformity, though it set the fashion of limping. The grandest +thoughts are colorless as water; they savor not of Milton, Socrates, or +Menu; seem not drawn from any private cistern, but rain-drops out of the +pure sky. Whim and conceit are tare and tret. It matters little whether +a man whine with Coleridge, or boast with Ben Jonson, or sneer with +Byron, or grumble with Carlyle, if every thought is one-sided and +warped. The oddity relieves our commonplace, and pricks the dull palate; +but we soon tire of exaggeration, and detest the trick. It is egotism, +self-sickness, jaundice, adulteration of the light. We name it the +subjective habit, personality; while the right illumination is a +transparency, a putting-off of shoes, garments, body, and constitution, +lest these should intercept or stain the ray. Genius is an eye single +and serene. Good speech carries the sound of no man's, of no angel's +voice. Good writing betrays no man's hand, but is as if traced by the +finger of God.</p> + +<p>Original will signify, therefore, not peculiar, but universal. The +original is one who lives from the Maker, not from man. He has found and +asserts himself as a piece of primal design: he is somewhat, and his +life therefore significant. He first represents man in purity, man in +God, and is a revelation. No matter what he repeats as approved, he will +not be a repetition, but will give new value to each thing by his +approval. The wisest man in separate propositions repeats only what has +many times been spoken. In my reading of this past week I find +anticipated every item of modern thought. Hooker says of the Bible,—"By +looking in it for that which it is impossible that any book can have, we +lose the benefits which we might reap from its being the best of books." +Milton says,—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"He who reads and to his reading brings not</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A spirit and judgment equal or superior,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">(And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?)</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Uncertain and unsettled still remains."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Coleridge gives perfect confidence to paradox as sure of solution above +the term of it; in his "Table-Talk" he antedates Carlyle's doctrine of +dynamics,—puts Faith above belief, as in another region of the +mind,—declares that the conceivable is not to be revered, and says, +before Emerson, that existence is the Fall of Man. But the failure of +Coleridge teaches that no single perceptions, however subtile or deep, +will solve the broad problem of Nature. These separate thoughts the +great hold in new emphasis and relation. Of such sparks they make a +flame, of such timbers a house or ship. The parts may be old, the whole +is not; and Goethe falls into a modest fallacy, when, in acknowledging +his obligation to others, he disclaims originality for himself. All is +new in his use of it: you may say he has taken nothing, for what was +iron or silver where he found it is gold in his transmuting grasp.</p> + +<p>When a man authentic speaks, our interest goes through every statement +to himself. The root of that word is not in the market or the street, +but in humanity, and through that in the deep. We study Goethe, not any +opinion of Goethe: he represents for us in his measure the nature, need, +and resource of the race, because what he publishes he knows, lives, and +is. We open the mind largely to take the sense of such a gospel: it will +not appear in details of perception. Plato and Goethe see the same sun, +and seem to the vulgar to follow each other; they have more in common +than any man can have in privacy; yet if you enter to the entire habit +of each, you will justify the making of these two. They are like and +unlike, as apples on one and another tree. The great in any time hold in +common the growing truth of their <a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>time, and refer to it in intercourse +as understood, an atmosphere which he must breathe who now lives and +thinks; yet no two will be identically related to the same. We are +radiated as spokes from a centre; we enter to it and work for it from +every side.</p> + +<p>There is no danger of repetition, if the thought be deep. Superior +insight will always sufficiently astonish, will always be novel in its +place. The more simple the method, the more wonderful every result. Men +are shut, as if by a wall of adamant, from all that is yet beyond their +sympathy. My neighbor is immersed in planting, building, and the new +road. Beside him, companion only in air and sunshine, walks one who has +no ocular adjustment for these atoms; his thought overleaps them in +starting, and is wholly beyond. The end of vision for a practical eye is +beginning of clairvoyance. To the road-maker, man is a maker of roads; +he cracks his nuts and his jokes unconscious, while the ground opens and +the world heaves with revolutions of thought. Ask him in vain what +Webster means by "Concord, Lexington, and Bunker Hill"; what Channing +sees in the Dignity of Man, or Edwards in the Sweetness of Divine Love; +ask him in vain what is the "Fate" of Aeschylus, the "Compensation" of +Emerson, Carlyle's "Conflux of Eternities," the "Conjunction" of +Swedenborg, the "Newness" of Fox, the "Morning Red" of Behmen, the +"Renunciation" of Goethe, the "Comforter" of Jesus, the "Justification" +of Paul.</p> + +<p>For the dull, this mystery of existence is not even a mystery; they are +shut below the firmament of wonder. When the vulgar come with their +definite gain and good, their circle of immediate ends, we feel the +house contract, the sky descend,—we shrivel, our pores close, the skull +hardens on the brain. The positive, who exactly knows, is a skeleton at +the feast; that exactness is numbness, and chills every expansive guest. +Dogma is a stoppage quite short of the nearest beginning; the liberal +habit a beginning of all that has no end. Sense is a wall very near the +eye, and when that is penetrated all lies open beyond; we see only +paths, seas, and vistas. Wisdom explores and never concludes. The +explanations of centuries are idle tales: my explanations are not so to +be forestalled. We forget the shallow answers to shallow questions, when +now we have deeper genuine questions to ask. The great are happy babes +of Beauty and Good. Truth returns in a fresh suspicion, and all are +welcome who wear on the brows that soft commingled light and shadow of +an advancing, sweet, inexplicable Fate. Our hope is no house, but a +wing; no roof can be endured but the blue one. What method have we yet +to serve the spontaneous or spiritual being? what culture, art, society, +worship, in which his need and power are so much as recognized? There is +indefinable certainty of Nature beyond Nature, man beyond man. Genius +opens all doors, the earth-doors, the sky-doors,—throws down the +horizon and the heaven, to come into open air. All paths lead out to the +sea, where a day's voyage may teach that the receding circle bounds our +sight alone, and not the deep. We look out not on chaos and darkness, +but on order too large for the brain, and light, for which as owls we +have yet no capacious eye. We leave every perception neglected to wait +on the future; but every future has its future devouring the past. What +is left but bending of the knee and boundless confidence?</p><p><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="MY_BROTHER_AND_I" id="MY_BROTHER_AND_I"></a>MY BROTHER AND I.</h2> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the door where I stand I can see his fair land</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sloping up to a broad sunny height,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The meadows new-shorn, and the green wavy corn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The buckwheat all blossoming white:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There a gay garden blooms, there are cedars like plumes,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a rill from the mountain leaps up in a fountain,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And shakes its glad locks in the light.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He dwells in the hall where the long shadows fall</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On the checkered and cool esplanade;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I live in a cottage secluded and small,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">By a gnarly old apple-tree's shade:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Side by side in the glen, I and my brother Ben,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Just the river between us, with borders as green as</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The banks where in childhood we played.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But now nevermore upon river or shore</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">He runs or he rows by my side;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For I am still poor, like our father before,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And he, full of riches and pride,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Leads a life of such show, there is no room, you know,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">In the very fine carriage he gained by his marriage</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For an old-fashioned brother to ride.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His wife, with her gold, gives him friends, I am told,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With whom she is rather too gay,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The senator's son, who is ready to run</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">For her gloves and her fan, night or day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And to gallop beside, when she wishes to ride:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, no doubt 'tis an honor to see smile upon her</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Such world-famous fellows as they!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Ah, brother of mine, while you sport, while you dine,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">While you drink of your wine like a lord,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You might curse, one would say, and grow jaundiced and gray,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With such guests every day at your board!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But you sleek down your rage like a pard in its cage,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And blink in meek fashion through the bars of your passion,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As husbands like you can afford.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For still you must think, as you eat, as you drink,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As you hunt with your dogs and your guns,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How your pleasures are bought with the wealth that she brought,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And you were once hunted by duns.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, I envy you not your more fortunate lot:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I've a wife all my own in my own little cot,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And with happiness, which is the only true riches,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The cup of our love overruns.</span><br /><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We have bright, rosy girls, fair as ever an earl's,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And the wealth of their curls is our gold;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, their lisp and their laugh, they are sweeter by half</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Than the wine that you quaff red and old!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">We have love-lighted looks, we have work, we have books,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Our boys have grown manly and bold,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And they never shall blush, when their proud cousins brush</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the walls of their college such cobwebs of knowledge</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">As careless young fingers may hold.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Keep your pride and your cheer, for we need them not here,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And for me far too dear they would prove,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For gold is but gloss, and possessions are dross,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And gain is all loss, without love.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yon severing tide is not fordless or wide,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The soul's blue abysses our homesteads divide:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Down through the still river they deepen forever,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Like the skies it reflects from above.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Still my brother thou art, though our lives lie apart,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Path from path, heart from heart, more and more.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, I have not forgot,—oh, remember you not</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Our room in the cot by the shore?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And a night soon will come, when the murmur and hum</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of our days shall be dumb evermore,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And again we shall lie side by side, you and I,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beneath the green cover you helped to lay over</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Our honest old father of yore.</span><br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="A_HALF-LIFE_AND_HALF_A_LIFE" id="A_HALF-LIFE_AND_HALF_A_LIFE"></a>A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE.</h2> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"On garde longtemps son premier amant, quand on n'en prend point de</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">second."</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Maximes Morales du Duc de la Rochefoucauld.</i>.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<p>It is not suffering alone that wears out our lives. We sometimes are in +a state when a sharp pang would be hailed almost as a blessing,—when, +rather than bear any longer this living death of calm stagnation, we +would gladly rush into action, into suffering, to feel again the warmth +of life restored to our blood, to feel it at least coursing through our +veins with something like a living swiftness.</p> + +<p>This death-in-life comes sometimes to the most earnest men, to those +whose life is fullest of energy and excitement It is the reaction, the +weariness which they name Ennui,—foul fiend that eats fastest into the +heart's core, that shakes with surest hand the sands of life, that makes +the deepest wrinkles on the cheeks and deadens most surely the lustre of +the eyes.</p> + +<p>But what are the occasional visits of this life-consumer, this vampire +that sucks out the blood, to his constant, never-failing presence? There +are those who feel within themselves the <a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>power of living fullest lives, +of sounding every chord of the full diapason of passion and feeling, yet +who have been so hemmed around, so shut in by adverse and narrowing +circumstances, that never, no, not once in their half-century of years +which stretch from childhood to old age, have they been free to breathe +out, to speak aloud the heart that was in them. Ever the same wasting +indifference to the things that are, the same ill-repressed longing for +the things that might be. Long days of wearisome repetition of duties in +which there is no life, followed by restless nights, when Imagination +seizes the reins in her own hands, and paints the out-blossoming of +those germs of happiness and fulness of being of whose existence within +us we carry about always the aching consciousness.</p> + +<p>And such things I have known from the moment when I first stepped from +babyhood into childhood, from the time when life ceased to be a play and +came to have its duties and its sufferings. Always the haunting sense of +a happiness which I was capable of feeling, faint glimpses of a paradise +of which I was a born denizen,—and always, too, the stern knowledge of +the restraints which held me prisoner, the idle longings of an exile. +But would no strong effort of will, no energy of heart or mind, break +the bonds that held me down,—no steady perseverance of purpose win me a +way out of darkness into light? No, for I was a woman, an ugly woman, +whose girlhood had gone by without affection, and whose womanhood was +passing without love,—a woman, poor and dependent on others for daily +bread, and yet so bound by conventional duties to those around her that +to break from them into independence would be to outrage all the +prejudices of those who made her world.</p> + +<p>I could plan such escape from my daily and yearly narrowing life, could +dream of myself walking steadfast and unshaken through labor to +independence, could picture a life where, if the heart were not fed, at +least the tastes might be satisfied, could strengthen myself through all +the imaginary details of my going-forth from the narrow surroundings +which made my prison-walls; but when the time came to take the first +step, my courage failed. I could not go out into that world which looked +to me so wide and lonely; the necessity for love was too strong for me, +I must dwell among mine own people. There, at least, was the bond of +custom, there was the affection which grows out of habit; but in the +world what hope had I to win love from strangers, with my repellent +looks, awkward movements, and want of personal attractions?</p> + +<p>Few persons know that within one hundred and fifty miles of the Queen +City of the West, bounded on both sides by highly cultivated tracts of +country, looking out westwardly on the very garden of Kentucky, almost +in the range of railroad and telegraph, in the very geographical centre +of our most populous regions, there lie some thousand square miles of +superb woodland, rolling, hill above hill, in the beautiful undulations +which characterize the country bordering on the Ohio, watered by fair +streams which need only the clearing away of the few obstructions +incident to a new country to make them navigable, and yet a country +where the mail passes only once a week, where all communication is by +horse-paths or by the slow course of the flat-boat, where schools are +not known and churches are never seen, where the Methodist itinerant +preacher gives all the religious instruction, and a stray newspaper +furnishes all the political information. Does any one doubt my +statement? Then let him ask a passage up-stream in one of the flat-boats +that supply the primitive necessities of the small farmers who dwell on +the banks of the Big Sandy, in that debatable border-land which lies +between Kentucky and Virginia; or let him, if he have a taste for +adventure, hire his horse at Catlettsburg, at the mouth of the river, +and lose his way among the blind bridle-paths that lead to Louisa and to +Prestonburg.<a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a> If he stops to ask a night's lodging at one of the +farm-houses that are to be found at the junction of the creeks with the +rivers, log-houses with their primitive out-buildings, their +half-constructed rafts of lumber ready to float down-stream with the +next rise, their 'dug-outs' for the necessities of river-intercourse, +and their rough oxcarts for hauling to and from the mill, he will see +before him such a home as that in which I passed the first twenty years +of my life.</p> + +<p>I had little claim on the farmer with whom I lived. I was the child by a +former marriage of his wife, who had brought me with her into this +wilderness, a puny, ailing creature of four years, and into the three +years that followed was compressed all the happiness I could remember. +The free life in the open air, the nourishing influence of the rich +natural scenery by which I was surrounded, the grand, silent trees with +their luxuriant foliage, the fresh, strong growth of the vegetation, all +seemed to breathe health into my frame, and with health came the +capacity for enjoyment. I was happy in the mere gift of existence, happy +in the fulness of content, with no playmate but the kindly and lovely +mother Earth from whose bosom I drew fulness of life.</p> + +<p>But in my seventh year my mother died, worn out by the endless, +unvarying round of labors which break down the constitutions of our +small farmers' wives. She grew sallow and thin under repeated attacks of +chills and fever, brought into the world, one after another, three puny +infants, only to lay them away from her breast, side by side, under the +sycamore that overshadowed our cornfield, and visibly wasted away, +growing more and more feeble, until, one winter morning, we laid her, +too, at rest by her babies. Before the year was out, my father (so I +called him) was married again.</p> + +<p>My step-mother was a good woman, and meant to do her duty by me. Nay, +she was more than that: she was, as far as her poor light went, a +Christian. She had experienced religion in the great revival of 18—, +which was felt all through Western Kentucky, under the preaching of the +Reverend Peleg Dawson, and when she married my father and went to bury +herself in the wilds of "Up Sandy" was a shining light in the Methodist +church, a class-leader who had had and had told experiences.</p> + +<p>But all that glory was over now; it had flashed its little day: for +there is a glow in the excitement of our religious revivals as potent in +its effect on the imaginations of women and young men as ever were the +fastings and penances which brought the dreams and reveries, the holy +visions and the glorious revealings, of the Catholic votaries. In this +short, triumphant time of spiritual pride lay the whole romance of my +step-mother's life. Perhaps it was well for her soul that she was taken +from the scene of her triumphs and brought again to the hard realities +of life. The self-exaltation, the ungodly pride passed away; but there +was left the earnest, prayerful desire to do her duty in her way and +calling, and the first path of duty which opened to her zeal was that +which led to the care of a motherless child, the saving of an immortal +soul. And in all sincerity and uprightness did she strive to walk in it. +But what woman of five-and-thirty, who has outlived her youth and +womanly tenderness in the loneliness and hardening influences of a +single life, and who marries at last for a shelter in old age, knows the +wants of a little child? Indeed, what but a mother's love has the +long-enduring patience to support the never ceasing calls for +forbearance and perseverance which a child makes upon a grown person? +Those little ones need the nourishment of love and praise, but such milk +for babes can come only from a mother's breast. I got none of it. On the +contrary, my dearly loved independence, my wild-wood life, where Nature +had become to me my nursing-mother, was exchanged for one of never +ceasing supervision. "Little girls must learn to be useful," was the +phrase that greeted <a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a>my unwilling ears fifty times a day, which pursued +me through my daily round of dish-washings, floor-sweepings, bed-making +and potato-peeling, to overtake me at last in the very moment when I +hoped to reap the reward of my diligence in a free afternoon by the +river-side in the crotch of the water-maple that hung over the stream, +clutching me and fastening me down to the hated square of patchwork, +which bore, in the spots of red that defaced its white purity in +following the line of my stitches, the marks of the wounds that my +awkward hands inflicted on themselves with their tiny weapon.</p> + +<p>And so the years went on. It was a pity that no babies came to soften +our hearts, my step-mother's and mine, and to draw us nearer together as +only the presence of children can. A household without children is +always hard and angular, even when surrounded by all the softening +influences of refinement and education. What was ours with its poverty +and roughness, its every-day cares and its endless discomforts? One day +was like all the rest, and in their wearying succession they rise up in +my memory like ghosts of the past coming to lay their cold, death-like +hands on the feebly kindling hopes of the present. I see myself now, as +I look back, a tall, awkward girl of fifteen, with my long, straggling, +sunburnt hair, my sallow, yet pimply complexion, my small, weak-looking +blue eyes, that every exposure to the sun and wind would redden, and my +long, lean hands and arms, that offended my sense of beauty constantly, +as I dwelt on their hopelessly angular turns. I had one beauty; so my +little paper-framed glass, that rested on the rough rafter that edged +the sloping roof of my garret, told me, whenever I took it down to gaze +in it, which, but for that beauty, would have been but seldom. It was a +finely cut and firmly set mouth and chin. There was, and I felt it, +beauty and character in the curves of the lips, in the rounding of the +chin; there was even a healthy ruddiness in the lips, and something of +delicacy in the even, well-set teeth that showed themselves when they +parted.</p> + +<p>The gazing at these beauties gave me great pleasure, not for any effect +they might ever produce in others,—what did I know of that?—but +because I had in myself a strong love of the beautiful, a passion for +grace of form and brilliancy of color which made doubly distasteful to +me our bare, uncouth walls, with their ugly, straight-backed chairs, and +their frightfully painted yellow or red tables and chests-of-drawers.</p> + +<p>My step-mother's appearance, too, was a constant offence to my +beauty-loving eye,—with her lank, tall figure, round which clung those +narrow skirts of "bit" calico, dingy red or dreary brown,—her feet shod +in the heavy store-shoes which were brought us from Catlettsburg by the +returning flat-boat men,—her sharp-featured face, the forehead and +cheeks covered with brown, mouldy-looking spots, the eyes deep-set, with +a livid, dyspeptic ring around them, and the lips thin and pinched,—the +whole face shaded by the eternal sun-bonnet, which never left her head +from early sunrise till late bedtime (no Sandy woman is ever seen +without her sun-bonnet). All these were perpetual annoyances to me; they +made me discontented without knowing why; they filled me with disgust, a +disgust which my respect for her good qualities could not overcome.</p> + +<p>And then our life, how dreary! The rising in the cold, gray dawn to +prepare the breakfast of corn-dodgers and bacon for my father and his +men,—the spreading the table-cloth, stained with the soil-spots of +yesterday's meal,—the putting upon it the ugly, unmatched +crockery,—the straggling-in of the unwashed, uncombed men in their +coarse working-clothes, redolent of the week's unwholesome toil,—their +washings, combings, and low talk close by my side,—the varied uses to +which our household utensils were put,—the dipping of dirty knives into +the salt and of dirty fingers into the meat-dish,—all filled me then, +and fill me now, with loathing.</p><p><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a></p> + +<p>There was a relief when the men left the house; but then came the dreary +"slicking-up," almost more disgusting, in its false, superficial show of +cleanliness, than had been the open carelessness of the workmen.</p> + +<p>But there was no time for rest; my step-mother's sharp, high-pitched +voice was heard calling, "Janet!" and I followed her to the garden to +dig the potatoes from the hills or to the cornfield to pull and husk the +three dozen ears of corn which made our chief dish at dinner. Then came +the week's washing, the apple-peeling, the pork-salting, work varied +only with the varying season, until the blowing of the horn at twelve +brought back the men to dinner, after which came again the clearing up, +again the day's task, and again the supper.</p> + +<p>I often thought that the men around us were always more cheerful and +merry than the women. They worked as hard, they endured as many +hardships, but they had, certainly, more pleasures. There was the +evening lounge by the fire in winter, the sitting on the fence or at the +door-step in summer, when, pipe or cigar in mouth, knife and +whittling-stick in hand, jest and gibe would pass round among them, and +the boisterous laugh would go up, reaching me, as I lay, tired out, on +my little cot, or leaned disconsolate at my garret-window, looking with +longing eyes far out into the darkness of the woods. No such +gatherings-together of the women did I ever see. If one of our neighbors +dragged her weary steps to our kitchen, and sat herself down, baby, in +lap, on the upturned tub or flag-bottomed chair that I dusted off with +my apron, it was to commence the querulous complaint of the last week's +chill or the heavy washing of the day before, the ailing baby or the +troublesome child, all told in the same whining voice. Even the choice +bit of gossip which roused us at rare intervals always had its dark +side, on which these poor women dwelt with a perverse pleasure.</p> + +<p>In short, life was too hard for them; it brought its constant cares +without any alleviating pleasures. Their homes were only places of +monotonous labor,—their husbands so many hard taskmasters, who exacted +from them more than their strength could give,—their children, who +should have been the delight of their mothers' hearts, so many +additional burdens, the bearing and nursing of which broke down their +poor remaining health; the glorious and lavish Nature in which they +lived only brought to them added labor, and shut them out from the few +social enjoyments that they knew of.</p> + +<p>I was old enough to feel all this,—not to reason on it as I can now, +but to rebel against it with all the violence of a vehement nature which +feels its strength only in the injuries it inflicts upon itself in its +useless struggles for freedom. Bitter tears did I shed sometimes, as I +lay with my head on my arms, leaning on that narrow window-sill,—tears +of passionate regret that I was not a boy, a man, that I might, by the +very force of my right arm, hew my way out of that encircling forest +into the world of which I dreamed,—tears, too, that, being as I was, +only an ugly, ignorant girl, I could not be allowed to care only for +myself, and dream away my life in this same forest, which charmed me +while it hemmed me in. My rude, chaotic nature had something of force in +it, strength which I knew would stand me in good stead, could I ever +find an outlet for it; it had also a power of enjoyment, keen, vivid, +could I ever get leave to enjoy.</p> + +<p>At length came the opening, the glimpse of sunlight. I remember, as if +it were but yesterday, that afternoon which first showed to my physical +sight something of that full life of which my imagination had framed a +rude, faint sketch. I was standing at the end of the meadow, just where +the rails had been thrown down for the cows, when, looking up the path +that led through the wood by the river, I saw, almost at my side, a man +on horseback. He stopped, and, half raising his hat, a motion I had +never seen before, said,—</p> + +<p>"Is this Squire Boarders's place?"</p><p><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a></p> + +<p>I pushed back my sun-bonnet, and looked up at him. I see him now as I +saw him then; for my quick, startled glance took in the whole face and +figure, which daguerreotyped themselves upon my memory. A frank, open +face, with well-cut and well-defined features and large hazel eyes, set +off by curling brown hair, was smiling down upon me, and, throwing +himself from his horse, a young man of about five-and-twenty stood +beside me. He had to repeat his question before I gained presence of +mind enough to answer him.</p> + +<p>"Is this Squire Boarders's house, and do you think I could get a night's +lodging here?"</p> + +<p>It was no unusual thing for us to give a night's lodging to the boatmen +from the river, or to the farmers from the back-country, as they passed +to or from Catlettsburg; but what accommodation had we for such a guest +as here presented? I walked before him up the path to the house, and, +shyly pointing to my step-mother, who stood on the porch, said,—</p> + +<p>"That's Miss Boarders; you can ask her."</p> + +<p>And then, before he had time to answer, I fled in an agony of +bashfulness to my refuge under the water-maple behind the house. I +lingered there as long as I dared,—longer, indeed, than I had any right +to linger, for I heard my mother's voice crying, "Janet!" and I well +knew that there was nobody but myself to mix the corn-cake, spread the +table, or run the dozen errands that would be needed. I slipped in by +the back-door, and, escaping my step-mother's peevish complaints, passed +into the little closet which served us for pantry, and, scooping up the +meal, began diligently to mix it.</p> + +<p>The window by which I stood opened on the porch. My father and his men +had come in, and, tipping their chairs against the wall, or mounted on +the porch-railing, were smoking their cigars, laughing, joking, +talking,—and there in the midst of them sat the stranger, smoking too, +and joining in their talk with an easy earnestness that seemed to win +them at once. Our country-people do not spare their questions. My father +took the lead, the men throwing in a remark now and then.</p> + +<p>"I calculate you have never been in these parts before?"</p> + +<p>"No, never. You have a beautiful country here."</p> + +<p>"The country's well enough, if we could clear off some of them trees +that stop a man every way he turns. Did you come up from Lowiza to-day?"</p> + +<p>"No; I have only ridden from the mouth of Blackberry, I believe you call +it. I have left a boat and crew there, who will be up in the morning."</p> + +<p>"What truck have you got on your boat?"</p> + +<p>"Lumber and so forth, and plenty of tools of one sort or other."</p> + +<p>"Damn me if I don't believe you're the man who is coming up here to open +the coal mines on Burgess's land!" And the whole crowd gathered round +him.</p> + +<p>He laughed good-naturedly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I am coming to live among you. I hope you'll give me a welcome."</p> + +<p>There was a cheery sound of welcome from the men, but my father shook +his head.</p> + +<p>"We don't like no new-fangled notions, noways, up here, and I'll not say +that I'm glad you're bringing them in; but, at any rate, you're welcome +here to-night."</p> + +<p>The young man held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"We are to be close neighbors, Squire Boarders, and I hope we shall be +good friends; but I ought to tell you all about myself. Mr. Burgess's +land has been bought by a company, who intend to open the coal mines, as +you know, and I am sent up here as their agent, to make ready for the +miners and the workmen. We shall clear away a little, and put up some +rough shanties, to make our men comfortable before we go to work. We +shall bring a new set of people among you, those Scotch and Welsh +miners; but I believe they are a peaceable set, and we'll try to be +friendly with each other."</p><p><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a></p> + +<p>The frank speech and the free, open face seemed to mollify my father.</p> + +<p>"And how do you call yourself, stranger, when you are at home?"</p> + +<p>"My name is George Hammond."</p> + +<p>"Well, as I was telling you, you're welcome here to-night, and I don't +know as I've anything against your settling over the river on Burgess's +land. The people round here have been telling me your coming will be a +good thing for us farmers, because you'll bring us a market for our corn +and potatoes; but I don't see no use of raising more corn than we want +for ourselves. We have enough selling to do with our lumber, and you'll +be thinning out the trees.—But there's my old woman's got her supper +ready."</p> + +<p>I listened as I waited on the table. The talk varied from farming to +mining and the state of the river, merging at last into the politics of +the country, and through the whole of it I watched the stranger: noticed +how different was his language from anything I had ever heard before; +marked the clear tones of his voice and the distinctness of his +utterance, contrasting with the heavy, thick gutturals, the running of +words into each other, the slovenly drawl of my father and his men; +watched his manner of eating, his neat disposition of his food on his +plate; saw him move his chair back with a slight expression of +annoyance, unmarked by any one else, as Will Foushee spit on the floor +beside him. All this I observed, in a mood half envious, half sullen,—a +mood which pursued me that night into my little attic, as I peevishly +questioned with myself wherein lay the difference between us.</p> + +<p>"Why is this man any better than Will Foushee or Ned Burgess? He is no +stronger nor better able to do a day's work. Why am I afraid of him, +when I don't care an acorn for the others? Why do my father and the men +listen to him and crowd round him? What makes him stand among them as if +he did not belong to them, even when he talks of what they know better +than he? There is not a man round Sandy that could make me feel as +ashamed as that gentleman did when he spoke to me this afternoon. Is it +because he is a gentleman?" And sullenly I resolved that I would be put +down by no airs. I was as good as he, and would show him to-morrow +morning that I felt so. Then came the bitter acknowledgment, "I am not +as good as he is. I am a stupid, ugly girl, who knows nothing but +hateful housework and a little of the fields and trees; and he,—I +suppose he has been to school, and read plenty of books, and lived among +quality." And I cried myself to sleep before I had made up my mind fully +to acknowledge his superiority.</p> + +<p>It was one of my greatest pleasures to get up early. Our people were not +early risers, except when work pressed upon them, and I often secured my +only leisure hour for the day by stealing down the staircase, out into +the woods, by early sunrise, when, wrapped in an old shawl, and +sheltered from the dew by climbing into the lower branches of my pet +maple, I would watch the fog reaching up the opposite hills, putting +forth as it were an arm, by which, stretched far out over the trees, it +seemed to lift itself from the valley,—or perhaps carrying with me one +of the few books which made my library, I would spell out the sentences +and attempt to extract their meaning.</p> + +<p>They were a strange medley, my books: some belonging to my step-mother, +and others borrowed or begged from the neighbors, or brought to me by +the men, with whom I was a favorite, and who knew my passion for +reading. My mother's books were mostly religious: a life of Brainerd, +the missionary, whose adventures roused within me a gleam of religious +enthusiasm; some sermons of the leading Methodist clergy, which, to her +horror, I pronounced stupid; and a torn copy of the "Imitation of +Christ," a book which she threatened to take from me, because she +believed it had something to do with the Papists, but to which, for that +very reason, I clung with a tenacity and read with an earnestness which +brought at last its own beautiful fruits.<a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a> Then, there was the "Scottish +Chiefs," a treasure-house of delight to me,—two or three trashy novels, +given me by Tom Salyers, of which my mother knew nothing,—and (the only +poetry I had ever seen) a song-book, which had, scattered among its +vulgarisms and puerilities, some gems of Burns and Moore. These my +natural, unvitiated taste had singled out, and I would croon them over +to myself, set them to a tune of my own composing, and half sing, half +chant them, when at work out-of-doors, till my mother declared I was +going crazy.</p> + +<p>This morning I did not read. I sat looking down into the water from my +perch, carrying on the inward discussion of the night before, and +wishing that breakfast-time were come, that I might try my strength and +show that I was not to be put down by any assumption of superiority, +when suddenly a voice near me made me start so that I almost lost my +balance. Mr. Hammond was standing beneath. He laughed, and held out his +hand to help me down; but I sprang past him and was on my way to the +house, when suddenly my brave resolutions came back to my mind, and I +stood still with a feeling of defiance. I wondered what he would dare to +say. Would he tell me how stupid he thought us all, how like the very +pigs we lived? or would he describe his own grand house and the great +places he had seen? I scowled up sullenly.</p> + +<p>"Will you tell me where to find a towel, that I may wash my face here by +the river-side?"</p> + +<p>I laughed aloud, and with that laugh fled my sullenness. He looked a +little puzzled, but went on,—</p> + +<p>"I went to bed so early that I cannot sleep any longer; and if I could +only find some way of getting across the river, I could get things under +way a little before my men come up."</p> + +<p>There were ways, then, in which I could help him,—he was not so +immeasurably above me,—and down went my defiant spirit. The towel, a +crash roller, luckily clean, was brought at once, and, gathering courage +as I stood by and saw him finish his washing, I said,—</p> + +<p>"I can scull you over the river in a few minutes, if you will go in our +skiff."</p> + +<p>"You? can you manage that shell of a thing? will your father let you +take it, Miss Boarders?"</p> + +<p>"My name is Janet Rainsford, and Squire Boarders is not my father," said +I, some of my sullenness returning.</p> + +<p>"If you will take me, Janet," said he, with the frank, open-hearted tone +which had won my step-father the night before,—a tone before which my +sullenness melted.</p> + +<p>I jumped in, and, letting him pass me before I threw off the rope, +sculled the little dug-out into the middle of the river. No boatman on +the Sandy was more skilful than I in the management of the little +vessel, for in it most of my leisure time had been passed for the last +year or two. My step-mother had scolded, my father grumbled, and the +farmers' wives and daughters had shaken their heads and "allowed that +Janet Rainsford would come to no good, if she was let fool about here +and there, like a boy." But on that point I was incorrigible; the boat +was my one escape from my daily drudgery, and late at night and early in +the morning I went up and down among the shoals and bars, under the +trees and over the ripples, till every turn of the current was familiar +to me. I knew all the boatmen, too, up and down the river, would pull +along-side their rafts or pushing-boats, and get from them a slice of +their corn-bread or a cup of coffee, or at least a pleasant word or +jest. And none but pleasant words did I ever receive from the rough, but +honorable men whom I met. They respected, as the roughest men will +always do, my lonely girlhood, and felt a sort of pride in the daring, +adventurous spirit that I showed.</p> + +<p>My knowledge of the river stood Mr. Hammond in good stead that morning, +as soon as I understood that he was looking for a place where his men +could land easily. It was only to sweep round a small bluff that jutted +into the river, <a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a>and carry the skiff into the mouth of Nat's Creek, +where the bank sloped gradually down to the water from a level bit of +meadow-land that extended back some rods before the hills began to rise. +Mr. Hammond leaped out.</p> + +<p>"The very place,—and here, on this point, shall be my saw-mill. I'll +run the road through here and up the creek to the mining-ground, and +build my store under the ledge there, and my shanties on each side the +road."</p> + +<p>I caught his enthusiasm, and, my shyness all gone, I found myself +listening and suggesting; more than that, I found my suggestions +attended to. I knew the river well; I knew what points of land would be +overflowed in the June rise; I knew how far the backwater would reach up +the creek; I knew the least obstructed paths through the woods; I could +even tell where the most available timber was to be found. I felt, too, +that my knowledge was appreciated. George Hammond had that one best gift +that belongs to all successful leaders, whether of armies, colonies, or +bands of miners: he recognized merit when he saw it. From that morning a +feeling of self-respect dawned upon me, I was not so altogether ignorant +as I had thought myself, I had some available knowledge; and with that +feeling came the determination to raise myself out of that slough of +despond into which I had fallen the night before.</p> + +<p>From that time a sort of friendship sprang up between George Hammond and +myself. Every morning I rowed him across the river, and, in the early +morning light, before the workmen were out of bed, he talked over, +partly to himself and partly to me, his plans for the day and his +vexations of the day before, until I began to offer advice and make +suggestions, which made him laughingly call me his little counsellor.</p> + +<p>Then in the evenings (he slept at my father's) he would pick up my books +and amuse himself with talking to me about them, laugh at my crude +enthusiasms, clear up some difficult passage, prune away remorselessly +the trash that had crept into my little collection, until, one day, +returning from Cincinnati, where business had called him, he brought +with him a store of books inexhaustible to my inexperienced eyes, and +declared himself my teacher for the winter.</p> + +<p>"Never mind Janet's knitting and mending, Mrs. Boarders," said he, in +reply to my mother's complaints; "she is a smart girl, and may be a +school-mistress yet, and earn more money than any woman on Sandy."</p> + +<p>"But I am afraid," my step-mother answered, "that the books she reads +are not godly, and have no grace in them. They look to me like players' +trash. I've tried to do my duty to Janet," she continued, plaintively; +"but I hope the Lord won't hold me accountable for her headstrong ways."</p> + +<p>Meantime, as I read in one of my books, and repeated to myself over and +over again in my fulness of content,—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"How happily the days</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of Thalaba went by!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>How rapidly fled that winter, and how soon came the spring, that would +bring me, I thought, new hopes, new interests, new companions!</p> + +<p>How changed a scene did I look upon, that bright April morning, when I +went over the river to see that all was in readiness for the boats from +below which were to bring Esther Hammond to her new home! She was to +keep her brother's house; and furniture, books, and pictures, such as I +had never dreamed of, had been sent up by the last-returning boatmen, +all of which I had helped Mr. Hammond to arrange in the little two-story +cottage which stood on the first rise of the hill behind the store.</p> + +<p>A little plat of ground was hedged in with young Osage-orange shrubs, +and within it one of the miners, who had formerly been an under-gardener +in a great house in Scotland, had already prepared some flower-beds and +sodded carefully the little lawn, laying down the walks with +bright-colored tan, which <a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>contrasted pleasantly with the lively green +of the grass. From the gate one might look up and down the road, +bordered on one side by the trees that hung over the river, and on the +other by the miners' houses, one-story cottages, each with its small +inclosure, and showing every degree of cultivation, from the neat +vegetable-patch and whitewashed porch of the Scotch families to the +neglected waste ground and slovenly potato-patch of the Irishmen. There +were some Sandians among the hands, but they never could be made to take +one of the houses prepared for the miners. They lived back on the +creeks, generally on their own lands, raised their corn and tobacco, cut +their lumber, and hunted or rode the country, taking jobs only when they +felt so inclined, but showing themselves fully able to compete with the +best hands both in skill and in endurance, when they were willing to +work.</p> + +<p>On the side of the hill across the creek could be seen the entrance to +the mines, and down that hill were passing constantly the cars, loaded +with earth and stone taken from the tunnel, which fell with a thundering +sound into the valley beneath. Below me was the store, gay with its +multifarious goods, which supplied all the needs of the miners and their +wives, from the garden-tools and seeds for the afternoon-work to the +gay-colored dresses for the Sunday leisure,—where, too, on Saturday +night, whiskey was to be had in exchange for the scrip in which their +wages were paid, and where, sometimes, the noise waxed fast and furious, +till Mr. Hammond would cut off the supply of liquor, as the readiest +means of stilling the tumult.</p> + +<p>On this side the river all was changed. But as I looked that morning +across the stream towards my step-father's farm, my own home, everything +there lay as wild and unimproved as I had known it since the first day +my mother brought me there, comfortless and disorderly as it was when, +child as I was, I could remember the tears of fatigue and discouragement +which she dropped upon my face as she put me for the first time into my +little crib; but there, too, were still (and my heart exulted as I saw +them) the glorious water-maples, the giant sycamores, and the +bright-colored chestnut-trees, which I had known and loved so long. +Would Miss Hammond see how beautiful they were? would she praise them as +her brother had done? would she listen as kindly to my rhapsodies about +them? and would she say, as he had said, that I was a poet by nature, +with a poet's quick appreciation of beauty and the poet's gift of +enthusiastic expression? I could not tell whether Esther Hammond would +be to me the friend her brother had been, with the added blessing, that, +being a woman, I could go freely to her with my deficiencies in sure +dependence upon her aid and sympathy,—or if she would come to stand +between me and him, to take away from me my friend and teacher. Time +alone would show; and meanwhile I must be busy with my preparations, for +the boats were expected at noon, and Mr. Hammond, who had ridden down to +Louisa to meet them, had said that he depended upon me to have things +cheerful and in order when they arrived.</p> + +<p>Two hours' hard work saw everything in its place, the furniture arranged +to the best of my ability, but wanting, as I sorely felt, the touch of a +mistress's hand to give it a home-like look. I had done my best, but +what did I know of the arrangement of a lady's house? I hardly knew the +use of half the things I touched. But I <i>would</i> not let my old spirit of +discontent creep over me now; so, betaking myself to the woods, which +were full of the loveliest spring flowers, I brought back such a +profusion of violets, spring-beauties, and white bloodroot-blossoms, +that the whole room was brightened with their beauty, while their faint, +delicate perfume filled the air.</p> + +<p>"Surely these must please her," I said to myself, as I put the last +saucerful on the table, and stepped back to see the result of my work.</p> + +<p>"They certainly will, Janet," said George Hammond, who had entered +behind <a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>me. "How well you have worked, and how pleasant everything +looks! Esther will be so much obliged to you. She is just below, in the +boat. Will you not come with me and help her up the bank?"</p> + +<p>But I hung back, bashful and frightened, while he called some of the men +to his assistance, and, hurrying down to the river, landed the boat, and +was presently seen walking toward the house with a lady leaning upon his +arm. I saw her from the window. A tall, dignified woman, with a +face—yes, beautiful, certainly, for there were the regular features, +the dark eyes, with their straight brows, the heavy, dark hair, parted +over the fair, smooth forehead, but so quiet, so cold, so almost +haughty, that my heart stood still with an undefined alarm.</p> + +<p>She came in and sat down in one of the chairs without taking the least +notice of me. Mr. Hammond spoke,—</p> + +<p>"This is Janet Rainsford, my little friend that I told you of, Esther. I +hope you will be as good friends as we have been. She will show you +every beautiful place around the country, and make you acquainted with +the people, too."</p> + +<p>Miss Hammond looked at me with a steadiness of gaze under which my eyes +sank.</p> + +<p>"I shall not trouble the young person much, since I shall only walk when +you can go with me; and as for the people, it is not necessary for me to +know them, I suppose."</p> + +<p>George Hammond bit his lip.</p> + +<p>"Janet has taken great pains to put everything in order for us here. I +should hardly know the room, it is so improved since I left it this +morning."</p> + +<p>"She is very kind," said his sister, languidly; "but, George, how +horribly this furniture is arranged,—the sofa across the window, the +centre-table in the corner!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you will have plenty of time to arrange it, Esther. Come, let me +show you your own room; you will want to rest while your Dutch +girl—what's her name? Catrine?—gets us something to eat."</p> + +<p>Miss Hammond followed her brother to her room, while, mortified and +angry with her, with myself, I escaped from the house, jumped into my +skiff, and hardly stopped to breathe till I had reached my own little +garret. I flung myself on my bed, and burst into bitter tears of +resentment and despair. So, after all my pains, after my endeavors to +improve myself, after all I had done, I was not worth the notice of a +real lady. I supposed I was an uncouth, awkward girl, disagreeable +enough to her; she would not want to see me near her. All I had done was +miserable; it would have been better to let things alone. I never would +go near her again,—that was certain,—she should not be troubled by +me;—and my tears fell hot and fast upon my pillow. Then came my old +sullenness. Why was she any better than I? Her brother thought me worth +talking to; could she not find me worthy of at least a kind look? +Perhaps she knew more than I did of books; but what of that? She had not +half the useful knowledge wherewith to make her way here in the woods. +And what right had she to bring her haughty looks and proud ways here +among our people? My sullenness gave way before my bitter disappointment +and my offended pride. I was only a child of sixteen, sensitive and +distrustful of myself, and her cold looks and colder words had keenly +wounded me.</p> + +<p>A week passed, in which I gave myself most earnestly to the household +tasks, going through them with dogged pertinacity, and accomplishing an +amount of work which made my step-mother declare that Janet was coming +back to her senses after all. It was only my effort to forget my +disappointment.</p> + +<p>On the Saturday evening when I sat tired out with my exertions, Mr. +Hammond came up the path. How my heart leaped at seeing him! How good he +was to come! His sister had not taught him to despise me. But when he +asked me to come over, the next day, and see what he had done to his +house and garden, the demon of sullen pride took possession of me again. +I would not go. I had too <a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a>much to do; my mother would want me to get +the dinner. In short, I could not go. He bore it good-naturedly, though +I think he understood it, and, leaving with me a package of books which +he had promised me, said he must go, as Esther would be waiting tea for +him.</p> + +<p>Many another endeavor did George Hammond make to bring his sister and +myself together, but the first impression had been too strong for me, +and Miss Hammond made no effort to remove it. I do not believe it ever +crossed her mind to try to do so. Little was it to her whether or no she +made herself pleasant to a stupid, ugly girl. She had her books, her +light household cares, her letter-writing, her gardening, her walks and +drives with her brother, and she felt and showed little interest in +anything else. Very unpopular she was among the people around her, who +contrasted her cold reserve with her brother's frank cordiality; but she +troubled herself not at all about her unpopularity. For me, I kept shyly +out of her way, and fell back into my old habits.</p> + +<p>I had not lost my friend, Mr. Hammond. He did not read with me regularly +as before, but he kept me supplied with books, and the very infrequency +of his lessons stimulated me to redoubled effort, that I might surprise +him by my progress when we met again. Then there was scarcely a day that +some business did not take him past our house, or that I did not meet +him by the river-bank or at the store. Sometimes he would ask me to row +him down the stream on some errand, sometimes he would take me with him +in his rides. I was a fearless horsewoman, and Miss Hammond did not +ride. In all those meetings he was frank and kind as ever; he told me of +his plans, his annoyances, his projects. No, I had not lost my friend, +as I had feared, and when assured of this, I could do without Miss +Hammond.</p> + +<p>And so the weeks glided into months, and the months into years, and I +was nineteen years old. Four years had passed since the morning when +George Hammond first awakened my self-esteem, first gave me the impulse +to raise myself out of my awkwardness and ignorance, to make of myself +something better than one of the worn, depressed, dispirited women I saw +around me. Had I done anything for myself? I asked. I was not educated, +I had no acquirements, so-called; but I had read, and read well, some +good and famous books, and I knew that I had made their contents my own. +I was richer for their beauties and excellences. With my self-respect +had come, too, a desire to improve my surroundings, and, as far as they +lay under my control, they had been improved. Our household was more +orderly; some little attempt at neatness and decoration was to be seen +around and in the house, and my own room, where I had full sway, was +beautiful in its rustic adornment.</p> + +<p>My glass, too, the poor little three-cornered, paper-framed companion of +my girlhood, showed me some change. The complexion had cleared, the hair +had taken a decided brown, and the angular figure had rounded and +filled. It was hardly a week since, standing in Miss Hammond's kitchen +counting over with her servant-girl the basketful of fresh eggs which +were sent from our house every week, I had overheard Mr. Hammond say to +his sister,—</p> + +<p>"Really, Janet Rainsford has improved so much that she is almost pretty. +Her brown hair tones so well with her quiet eyes; and as to her mouth, +it is really lovely, so finely cut, and with so much character in it."</p> + +<p>What was it to me that Miss Hammond's cold voice answered,—</p> + +<p>"I think you make a fool of yourself, George, and of that girl too, +going on as you do about her. She will be entirely unfitted for her +state of life, and for the people she must live with."</p> + +<p>Her words had hardly time to chill my heart when it bounded again, as I +turned hurriedly away and passed under the window on my way out, at +hearing her brother's answer:—</p><p><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a></p> + +<p>"There is too much in her to be spoiled. I like her. She has talent and +character, and I cannot understand, Esther, why you are so prejudiced +against her."</p> + +<p>There were others besides Mr. Hammond who thought me improved and who +liked me. Tom Salyers never let an evening pass without dropping into +our house on his way home from the store, where he was a sort of +overseer or salesman,—never failed to bring in its season the earliest +wild-flower or the freshest fruit,—had thoroughly searched Catlettsburg +for books to please me,—nay, had once sent an indefinite order to a +Cincinnati bookseller to put up twenty dollars' worth of the best books +for a lady, which order was filled by a collection of the Annuals of six +years back and a few unsalable modern novels. I read them all most +conscientiously and gratefully, and would not listen for a moment to Mr. +Hammond's jests about them; but, a few weeks afterwards, I almost +repented of my complaisance, when Tom Salyers took me at an advantage +while rowing me down to Louisa one afternoon, and, seeing a long stretch +of river before him without shoal or sand-bar, leisurely laid up his +oars, and, letting the boat float with the stream, asked me, abruptly, +to marry him, and go with him up into the country to a new place which +he meant to clear and farm.</p> + +<p>I laughed at him at first, but he persisted till I was forced to believe +him in earnest; and then I told him how foolish he was to fancy an ugly, +sallow-looking girl like me, who had no father nor mother, when he might +take one of John Mills's rosy daughters, or go down to Catlettsburg and +get somebody whose father would give him a farm already cleared.</p> + +<p>"You are laughing at me, Janet," he said. "I know I am not smart enough +for you, nor hardly fit to keep company with you, now that Hammond has +taught you so many things that are proper for a lady to know; but I love +you true, and if you can only fancy me, I'll work so hard that you'll be +able to keep a hired girl and have all your time for reading and going +about the woods as you like to do. And you'll be in your own house, +instead of under Squire Boarders and his sharp-spoken wife. Couldn't you +fancy me after a while? I'd do anything you said to make myself +agreeable and fit company for you."</p> + +<p>"You are very fit company for me now, Tom," I said, "and you are of a +great deal more use in the world than I am; you know more that is worth +knowing than I do. Only let us be good friends, as we have always been, +and do not talk about anything else."</p> + +<p>"I will not talk any more of it now," said he, "if so be it don't please +you, and if you'll promise never to say any more to me about the Mills +gals, or any of them critters down in Catlettsburg,—I can't abide the +sight of them,—and if you'll let me come and see you all the same, and +row you about and take you to the mill when you want flour."</p> + +<p>I held out my hand to Tom with the earnest assurance that I always liked +to see him and talk to him, and that there was nobody whom I would +sooner ask to do me a kindness.</p> + +<p>The poor fellow choked a little as he thanked me, and then, recovering +himself, rowed a few strokes in silence, when, looking round as if to +assure himself that there was nothing near us but the quiet trees, he +said suddenly,—</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what, Janet, I've a great mind to tell you something, +seeing how you're not a woman that can't hold her tongue, and then you +think so much of Hammond."</p> + +<p>I started with a quick sense of alarm, but Tom went doggedly on.</p> + +<p>"You know what a hard winter we've had, with this low water and no +January rise, and all that ice in the Ohio. They say they're starving +for coal down in Cincinnati, and here we've no end of it stacked up. +Well, Hammond, he's had hard work enough to keep the men along through +the winter. Many another man would have turned them off, but he wouldn't +do it; so he's shinned here and shinned there to get money to pay <a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>them +their wages, and they've had scrip, and we've fairly brought goods up to +the store overland, on horseback and every kind of way, just for their +convenience; and now the damned Irish rascals, with some of the Sandy +boys for leaders, have made up their minds to strike for higher wages +the minute we have a rise, just when we'll need all hands to get the +coal off, and all those boats laying at the mouth, too. I heard it day +before yesterday, by chance like, when Jim Foushee and the two O'Learys +were sitting smoking on the fence behind the store. The O'Learys were +tight with the Redeye they had aboard, and let it out in their stupid +'colloguing,' as they call it; but Jim Foushee saw me standing at the +window, and right away called in two or three of the Sandy men and +threatened my life if I told Hammond. They have watched me like a cat +ever since, and never left me and Hammond alone together. They are with +Hammond now, launching a coal-boat, or I'd never have got off with you."</p> + +<p>I sat breathless. I knew it was ruin to let the expected rise pass +without getting the coal-boats down; but what could be done?</p> + +<p>"Don't look so pale, Janet. You can tell Hammond, you know, and he'll +find a way to circumvent them. And it was to tell you all this that I +brought you out here this afternoon, only my unlucky tongue would talk +of what I see it's too soon to talk of yet. But here's Louisa, right +ahead. Make haste and get your traps, while I settle my business, and +we'll be back, perhaps, in time for you to manage some way to see +Hammond to-night. Nobody knows you went with me, and you'll never be +suspected."</p> + +<p>Not Tom Salyers's most rapid and vigorous rowing could make our little +skiff keep pace with my impatience; but, thanks to his efforts, the sun +was still high when he landed me in the little cove behind our house, +where I could run up through the woods to our back-door, while he pulled +boldly up to the store-landing and called some of the men to help him +carry his purchases up the bank. I did not stop for a word with my +step-mother, but, passing rapidly through the house, threw my parcels on +the bed in the sitting-room, and, running down the walk to the +maple-tree under which my dug-out was always tied, jumped into it and +sculled out into the river. The coal-boat had just been launched, and +George Hammond was standing on the bank superintending the calking of +the seams which the water made visible. I pushed up to the bank, and +called to him as I neared,—</p> + +<p>"Can you not come, Mr. Hammond, a little way up-stream with me? I have +found those young tulip-trees that you want for your garden; they are +just round the bend above Nat's Creek. Jim Foushee will see to that +work, and I have just time to show them to you before supper."</p> + +<p>I was a favorite with Jim Foushee. He laughed a joking welcome to me, as +he said,—</p> + +<p>"I'll see to this, Sir, if you want to go with Janet Rainsford. She's +the gal that knows the woods. A splendid Sandy wife you'll make some +young fellow, Janet, if you don't get too book-learned."</p> + +<p>In five minutes we were off and had rounded the point out of sight and +hearing. In a few hurried words I told my story, but at first Mr. +Hammond would not believe it.</p> + +<p>"Those men that I've done so much for and worked so hard for this +winter!"</p> + +<p>At last, convinced, his face set with the determined look that I had +seen on it once or twice before.</p> + +<p>"I'll not raise the wages of a single man, and, what's more, I'd turn +them all off the place, if only I could find others. But those boats at +Catlettsburg, they are the most important. The Company would send me up +men from Cincinnati, if only I could get word to them; but these rascals +will stop any letter I send. Those Sandians are capable of it,—or +rather they are capable of putting the Irishmen up to doing their dirty +work for them."</p><p><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a></p> + +<p>"A letter would be safe, if it once reached Catlettsburg?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Certainly. But how to get it there?"</p> + +<p>"I can take it. Nobody will suspect me. Give me the letter to-night, and +I will go to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"You, Janet? you are crazy!"</p> + +<p>"No, indeed. I often ride to Louisa; what is to hinder me from having +errands to Catlettsburg. I could go down there in one day, and take two +days back, if my father thinks it is too much for old Bill to take it +through in one."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you could borrow Swiftfoot. I have often lent him to you, and he +would carry you safely and surely. I don't believe any harm would come +to you, and so much depends upon it."</p> + +<p>I turned the skiff decidedly.</p> + +<p>"You have only to get your letter ready and give it to me when I come +over in the morning to borrow Swiftfoot. I will take care of all the +rest."</p> + +<p>And, sculling rapidly, we were at the wharf again before he had time to +raise objections. I knew that I could persuade my mother into letting me +go to Louisa again the next day, for we needed all our spring +purchases,—and once there, it was easy to find it necessary to go to +the mouth. I had never been alone, but often with my father or some of +our hands; besides, I was too well able to take care of myself, too +accustomed to have my own way, to anticipate any anxiety about my not +returning.</p> + +<p>And so it proved. The next morning saw me mounted on Swiftfoot, the +letter safe in my bosom, and a long list of articles wanted in my +pocket. What a lovely ride that was, with the gentle, spirited horse of +which I was so fond for a companion and my own beautiful forests in all +their loveliest spring green around me, with just enough of mystery and +danger in the expedition to add an exhilarating excitement and with the +happy consciousness that I was doing something for Mr. Hammond, who had +done so much for me, to urge me on! I cantered merrily past Jim +Foushee's cornfield, and, nodding to him, as be stood in the door of his +log-house, I enjoyed telling him that I was going to Louisa on a +shopping expedition. "Should I get anything for him? He could see that +Mr. Hammond had lent me Swiftfoot, so that I should soon be back, if I +could buy all I wanted in Louisa; if not, I did believe I should go on +to Catlettsburg: the ride would be so glorious!"</p> + +<p>And glorious it was. I was happy in myself, happy in my thoughts of my +friend, happy in the physical enjoyment of the air, the woods, the sun, +the shade. Let me dwell on that ride. I have not had many happy days, +but that was one which had its fulness of content. And I succeeded in +putting Mr. Hammond's letter into the Catlettsburg post-office, made my +little purchases, and turned my horse's head homeward, reaching the end +of my journey before my father or step-mother had time to be anxious for +me, and having a chance to whisper, "All right," to Tom Salyers, as he +took my horse from me at the door of the store.</p> + +<p>The long-expected rise came, and the strike came,—Jim Foushee heading +it, and standing sullen and determined in the midst of his party. Mr. +Hammond was prepared for them. The malcontents came to him in the store, +where he was filling Tom's place; for he had sent Tom to Catlettsburg, +avowedly to prepare the boats there to meet the rise, really to have him +out of the way. Their first word was met coolly enough.</p> + +<p>"You will not work another stroke, unless I give you higher wages, I +understand, Foushee? And these men say the same thing? You are their +spokesman? Very well, I am satisfied; you can quit work to-morrow. I +have other hands at the mouth for the boats there, and there is no hurry +about the coal that lies here."</p> + +<p>Foushee burst out with an oath,—</p> + +<p>"That damned Salyers is the traitor! mean, cowardly rascal!"</p> + +<p>But Mr. Hammond would not tell me more of what passed; perhaps he was +afraid of frightening me. This only he told me that night, when thanking +me with glance, voice, and pressure of the <a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a>hand for all I had done for +him. The blood rushed quick and hot through my veins, I was delirious +with an undreamed-of happiness, which took away from me all power of +answering, of even raising my eyes to his face, and the same delirium +followed me to my pillow. He had called me his friend, his little Janet, +who was so quick and ready, so fertile in invention, so brave in +execution: what should he have done without me? I repeated his words to +myself till they lost all their meaning; they were only replete with +blissful content, and filled me with their music till I dropped asleep +for very weariness in saying them over.</p> + +<p>The next morning, before I waked, George Hammond had gone. He had left +for Catlettsburg to direct the new hands. The works lay idle, the men +(those who had been dismissed) lounged around gloomy and sullen, and so +passed the week. Then came the news that Mr. Hammond and Tom Salyers had +gone to Cincinnati, and would not return for the present, and that such +men as were satisfied with the former wages were to be put to work +again. Readily did the miners come back to their duty, all but a few of +the Sandy men, who returned to their own homes, and all fell into the +usual train.</p> + +<p>And I? There was first the calm sense of happy security, then the +impatience to test again its reality, then the longing homesickness of +the heart. As weeks passed on and I saw nothing of him, as I heard of +his protracted stay, as I saw Miss Hammond make her preparations to join +him, as I watched the boat which carried her away, my sense of +loneliness became too heavy for me, and the same pillow on which I had +known those happy slumbers was wet with tears of bitter despondency.</p> + +<p>And yet I understood neither the happiness nor the tears. I did not know +(how should I?) what were the new feelings which made my heart beat at +George Hammond's name. I did not know why I yearned towards his sister +with a warmth of love that would fain show itself in kindly word or +deed. I did not know why the news that he was coming again, which +greeted me after long weeks of weariness, brightened with joyful +radiance everything that I saw, and glorified the aspect of my little +garret, as I had seen a brilliant bunch of flowers glorify and refine +with a light of beauty the every-day ugliness of our sitting-room.</p> + +<p>I sang my merriest songs that night, and my feet kept time to their +music in almost dancing measures. The next day, yes, by noon, he would +be at home. I could see his boat land from my little window, and then, +giving Miss Hammond time to be safely housed, I would row myself over to +the store and meet him there. How much I should have to tell him, how +much to hear!</p> + +<p>The morning came, and with it came a nervous bashfulness. I should never +dare to go over to see him. No, I would wait quietly until night, when +he would surely come himself to see me. Still I could watch his boat. +And nervously did I stand, my face pressed against the window-pane, +through the long morning hours, my sewing dropped neglected in my lap at +the risk of a scolding from my mother, watching the slow-passing river, +and the leaves hanging motionless over it in the stillness of the summer +noon. At last there was a stir on the opposite shore. Yes, the boat must +be in sight; I could even hear the shouts of the boatmen; and there, +rounding the bluff, she was; there, too, was Mr. Hammond in the stern, +with the rudder in his hand; there sat Miss Hammond, book in hand, with +her usual look of listless disdain. But whose was that girlish face +raised towards Mr. Hammond, while he pointed out so eagerly the +surrounding objects? whose that slight, girlish figure crowned with the +light garden-hat, with its wealth of golden hair escaping from under it?</p> + +<p>A sharp pang shot through me. Some one was coming to disturb my happy +hours with my teacher and friend; and the chill of disappointment was on +me <a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>already. I saw the boat land, saw George Hammond assist carefully +every step of the strange girl, saw an elderly gentleman step also upon +the bank and give his hand to Miss Hammond, and in two minutes the trees +of the landing hid them from my sight.</p> + +<p>And how slowly went the hours of that afternoon! how nervously I +listened to every tread, to every click of the gate! nay, my sharpened +hearing took note of every sway of the branches. But the day passed, the +night, and no one came. The next morning brought with it an impatience +which mastered me. I <i>must</i> go, I must see him, and in five minutes I +was pushing my boat from its cove under the water-maple.</p> + +<p>But I needed not to have left my room; my visit would be useless; for, +lifting my eyes, as my boat came out from under the leaves, there, on +the path by the river-side opposite, I saw the strange lady mounted on +Swiftfoot, her light figure set off by a cloth riding-habit such as I +had never seen before, the graceful folds of which struck me even then +with a sense of beauty and fitness. I could even distinguish the golden +curls again, which fell close on George Hammond's face, as he stood by +her side arranging her stirrup, his own horse's bridle over his arm. A +backward motion of the oar sent my boat under the branches again, and I +sat motionless, watching them as they rode away.</p> + +<p>Two hours afterward they stopped at our gate, and I heard George +Hammond's voice calling me. The blood rushed to my forehead. Had I been +alone, I would not have heard; but my mother was in the room, and I had +no excuse for not going forward. He leaned from his horse and shook +hands cordially, while, at the same time, he said,—</p> + +<p>"I have brought Miss Worthington to see you, Janet. She has heard so +much of your kindness to me, and of your courage last spring, that she +was anxious to know you.</p> + +<p>"This is Janet Rainsford, Amy," he continued, turning to her.</p> + +<p>The lovely, bright young face was bent towards me, the tiny hand +stretched out to mine, and I heard a gentle voice say,—</p> + +<p>"Mr. Hammond has told me so much of you, Janet, (I may call you Janet, +may I not?) that I was determined to come and see you. I hope we shall +know each other."</p> + +<p>A great fear seized me then,—a fear which seemed to clutch my heart and +stop its beatings, leaving me without any power of reply. I only +stammered a few words, and Mr. Hammond, pitying what he thought my +bashfulness, rode on with a nod of farewell and some words, I could not +take in their sense, which seemed to be requests that I would teach Miss +Worthington all that I knew of the woods and the country.</p> + +<p>I sat down with a stunned feeling, dizzied with the knowledge that +seemed to blaze upon me with that horrid fear. Yes, I knew now what it +all meant,—the happiness, the loneliness of the past weeks, the +shrinking bashfulness of yesterday morning, and the chill that fell upon +me when I first saw the stranger in the boat.</p> + +<p>I loved George Hammond,—I, the country-girl, without one beauty, one +accomplishment, so ignorant, so beneath him. I had been fool enough to +fling away my heart,—and now, now that it was gone from me, there came +this terrible fear. What was this young girl to him? Were my intuitions +right? Did he love her? Would she take him away from me? take away even +that poor friendship which was all I asked?</p> + +<p>That night,—I cannot tell of it,—the rapid, wearying walk from side to +side of my little garret, the despairing flinging myself on the bed, the +restlessness that would bring me to my feet again, the pressing my hot +face against the cool window-pane, the convulsive sobs with which the +struggle ended, the heavy, unrefreshing sleep that came at last, and the +dull wakening in the morning, when nothing seemed left about my heart +but a dead weight of insensibility. But with <a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a>the brightening hours came +again the restlessness. I would at least know the worst; let me face all +my wretchedness; it could not be but strength would come to me when the +worst was over.</p> + +<p>And so I went doggedly through my morning tasks, and the early afternoon +saw me at the store. I would not go to Miss Hammond's house, but I was +sure to hear something of the new-comers among the gossiping miners and +workmen,—or, if not there, I had only to drop into some of the +cottages, to learn from their wives all that they knew or imagined. How +little I learned,—how little compared to what my fierce, craving heart +asked!</p> + +<p>"Miss Worthington was here with her father; they had come to see the +mines, so they said; but who knows the truth? More like it was to be a +wedding between the young folks, and the father wanted to see the Sandy +country before he let his daughter come into it. She was a sweet-spoken +young thing,—not like Miss Hammond, with her proud, quality airs."</p> + +<p>But all this was only conjecture, and I must have certainty. The +certainty came that evening. Mr. Hammond passed the store as I was +standing by the counter, and insisted that I should go home to tea with +him. I had often done so before, and had no excuse, even when he said,—</p> + +<p>"I want so much to make Miss Worthington like our Sandy people, Janet. I +want her father to see that there are people worth knowing even here. +You will tell her of all the pleasures we have,—our walks, our rides. +You cannot be afraid of her, dear Janet,—she is so gentle, so lovely."</p> + +<p>A strange feeling seized me, one mingled of gentleness and bitterness. +Yes, for his sake, I would help him. I would do all I could to welcome +to his home her who was to be its blessing, and (here my good angel left +me and some evil one whispered) I would show her, too, that I was not so +altogether to be contemned; she should see that I was not merely the +poor country-girl she thought me. And all I had of thought or feeling, +all that George Hammond had called my inborn poetry, came out that +evening. I talked, I talked well, for I was talking of what I +understood,—of my own forests and streams, of the flowers whose haunts +I knew so well, of the changing seasons in their varying beauty,—nay, +as I gained courage, as I saw that I commanded attention, the books that +I had read so well, the thoughts of those great writers that I had made +my own, came to my aid, and quotation and allusion pressed readily to my +lips.</p> + +<p>I saw Esther Hammond's cold look fixed upon my face, but I dared it back +again, and my color rose and my eye sparkled from the excitement. I felt +my triumph when I saw the surprise on Mr. Hammond's face, when I heard +the patronizing tone of Mr. Worthington's voice changed to one of +equality, as he said,—</p> + +<p>"You are a worthy champion of Sandy life, Miss Janet. I believe Amy will +be tempted to try it."</p> + +<p>There was a quick blush on Amy's face as I turned to look at it, and a +glance of proud affection towards her from George Hammond, which took +away my false strength as I stood, leaving me, weak and trembling, to +seek my home in the evening twilight.</p> + +<p>That evening's short-lived triumph cost me dear. It betrayed my scarcely +self-acknowledged secret to another. Miss Hammond's woman's-eye had read +the poor fool who laid her heart open before her. I was made to feel my +weakness before her the next morning, when, walking into our kitchen, +she asked, with her hard, yet dignified calmness, that I should gather +for her some of the Summer Sweetings that hung so thick on the tree +behind our house.</p> + +<p>She followed me to the orchard. I gathered the apples diligently and +spoke no word, but not for that did I escape. She stood calmly looking +on till I had finished, then began with that terrible opening from which +we all shrink.</p> + +<p>"I should like to speak to you a few moments, Janet."</p><p><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a></p> + +<p>I quailed before her, for I had somehow a perception of what she was +going to say, though I scarcely dreamed of the hardness with which it +would by said. The blow came, however.</p> + +<p>"My brother has been in the habit of taking notice of you ever since he +has been on the Sandy, and he has been of great advantage to you; but +you must be aware that such notice as he gave you when you were a mere +child cannot be continued now that you are a woman."</p> + +<p>I bowed my head, and my lips formed something like a "Yes."</p> + +<p>She went on.</p> + +<p>"I say this to you because I was surprised to find by your behavior last +night that you had allowed yourself to presume upon that notice, and I +do not suppose you know how unbecoming this is, from a person in your +position, especially before Miss Worthington."</p> + +<p>I was stung into a reply.</p> + +<p>"What is Miss Worthington to me?" came out sullenly from my lips.</p> + +<p>"Nothing to you, certainly, nor can she ever be; but as the future wife +of my brother, she is something to me."</p> + +<p>It was true, then; but so fully had I felt the truth before that this +certainty gave me no added pang. From its very depths of despair I drew +strength, and, my courage rising, I had power even to look full at Miss +Hammond, and say,—</p> + +<p>"You may be sure I shall never intrude myself on Mr. Hammond's wife or +sister, nor upon him, unless he desires it, except, indeed, to wish him +happiness."</p> + +<p>My unexpected calmness roused her worst feelings, her pride, her +jealousy, and, with a woman's keen aim, she sent the next dart home. So +calmly she spoke, too, with such command of herself,—with a lady-like +self-control that I, alas! knew not how to reach.</p> + +<p>"I am happy to hear you say so, for there have been times when your +singular manner has made me fear that you nourished some very false and +idle dreams,—follies that I have sometimes thought it my duty as a +woman to warn you against"; and with one keen look at my burning face, +she took up the basket and walked away.</p> + +<p>I think at that moment I could have killed her, so bitter was the hatred +which I felt towards her; but the next brought its crushing shame, +taking away from me all but the desire to hide myself from every eye. +Where should I go? Somewhere where nobody could find me, where I could +be insured perfect solitude. It was not difficult to bury myself in the +forest that pressed around me on every side, and a few minutes saw me +struggling with the embarrassments of the tangled vines which obstructed +the path up our steepest hill. There was in the very difficulties to be +overcome something that seemed to bring me relief; they forced my mind +from myself. On, on I went, as if my life depended upon my struggles, +till, breathless and utterly exhausted, I had reached the top of the +hill, the highest point for miles around.</p> + +<p>I sank down on the cool grass, the fresh wind blowing on my face, and, +too wearied to think, shut my eyes against the beautiful Nature around +me, alive only to my own overpowering misery. How long I lay there I +never knew. I was safe and alone. I could be wretched as I pleased, away +from Miss Hammond's mocking eye, away from the sight of George Hammond's +happiness. But, strangely enough, out of the very freedom to be +miserable came at last a sense of relief. I looked my wretchedness full +in the face. Could I not bear it? And there rose within me a strength I +had not known before. I was young, I had a long life before me; it could +not be but that this great sorrow would pass away. At least, I would not +nourish it. I would do what I could to help myself. Help <i>myself</i>! For +the first time in my life I put up an earnest prayer for help out of +myself. The words, coming as such words come but few times in life, out +from the very depths of the heart, brought with them their softening +influence. The tears sprung forth, those tears which I thought I should +never shed again, and I burst into a passionate fit <a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>of crying, the +passionate crying of a child. It shook me from head to foot with its +hysterical convulsions, but it left me at last calmer, soothed into +stillness, with only now and then those choking after-sobs which I, +child like, sent forth there on the bosom of the only mother I had ever +known,—our kindly mother Earth.</p> + +<p>The sun was going down when I rose up, soothed and comforted, and +strengthened, too, for a time. I would do what I could. I would live +down this grief: how I knew not, but the way would come to me. And +gathering up my hair, which had fallen around me, I stopped, on my way +home, by a running stream, and bathed my eyes and forehead until I was +fit to appear before my step-mother. She did not question me; she was +too used to my unexplained absences since I had grown out of her +control. Sufficient for her that my tasks were always performed; +sufficient for her, that, that very evening, I threw myself with an +apparently untiring energy into the household work,—that I never rested +a moment till she herself closed the house and insisted that I should go +to bed. I slept that night,—after such fatigue, it was impossible but +that I should,—and woke in the morning with a renewed determination to +struggle against my sorrow.</p> + +<p>Alas! alas! I thought I had only to resolve. I thought the struggle +would be but once. How little I knew of the daily, almost hourly, +changes of feeling,—of the despondency, the despair, that would come, I +knew not why, directly upon my most earnest resolves, my hardest +struggles,—of the weakness that would make me at times give up all +struggling as useless,—of the mad hope that would sometimes arise that +something, some outward change, I did not dare to say what, would bring +me some relief!</p> + +<p>I had at least the courage to keep away from the sight of all that was +so miserable to me. I did not see George Hammond for weeks, and he—ah! +there was the bitterness—he did not miss me.</p> + +<p>And so the weary days went on. It is wonderful what endurance there is +in a young heart,—for how long a time it can beat off suffering all day +by unceasing labor, and lie awake all night with that same suffering for +a bedfellow, and still make no sign that a careless eye can see I look +at that time now with wonder. How did I bear that constant occupation by +day, alternated only with those sleepless nights, without breaking down +entirely? The crisis came at last,—a sort of stupor, a cessation of +suffering indeed, but a cessation, too, of all feeling. I was frightened +at myself. Alas! I had no one to be frightened for me. Could it be that +I was going to lose my senses? But no, I passed through that too, and +then came a more natural state of mind than any I had known since the +blow fell.</p> + +<p>My suffering self seemed like something apart from me, which I could +pity and help, could counsel and act for, and this one thing became +clear to me. Some change of scene was necessary to me. I could never go +on so; it was idle to attempt it. I could not live any longer face to +face with my grief. There was the whole world before me. Was it not +possible to go out into it? I had health, strength, ability, I was sure +of it. How often before had I dreamed over the seeking my fortune in +that world which looked to me then so full of excitement! Nothing had +held me back then but the clinging to home-pleasures, to +home-enjoyments, to home-comforts, poor as they were,—nothing but the +sense of safety, of protection. What were these to me now? I cared +nothing for them. I only asked to be away from all that reminded me of +my suffering, to be so forced to struggle with external difficulties as +to have no thought for myself. I did not want to love anybody; I would +rather have nobody care for me. I would go. The only question was how.</p> + +<p>A few days and nights of thought solved the problem for me, and, once +roused to action, I took my steps rapidly and well. The first thing +necessary was money, money enough to take me away, and to support me +until I could find employment; <a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a>and the means of attaining it were +within my reach. I owned a watch that had been my mother's, a pretty +trinket, though somewhat old-fashioned, and which had often excited the +envy of the young wife of one of the head miners. I knew that her +husband was flush of money just then, for he had drawn his wages only +the week before,—and I knew, too, that he would give me a good price +for my watch, were it only to gratify the bride to whom he had as yet +denied nothing.</p> + +<p>The sale was made at once. I do not know if I got anything like the +value of the watch, but the next day saw me with fifty dollars in my +pocket, a small bundle, made up from the most available part of my +wardrobe, under my arm, prepared to walk to Louisa, avowedly to buy +supplies, but with the secret determination to meet there the coal-boats +which were bound for the mouth, ask a passage on them as far as +Catlettsburg, and there take the first steamer that passed, and let it +carry me whither it would.</p> + +<p>There was no pause of regret, no delay for parting looks or words; from +the moment that I had made up my mind to go, I felt nothing but a +desperate eagerness to be away, to be in action. The few words necessary +to prepare my step-mother for my ostensible errand were soon said, the +good-morning calmly spoken, and I passed into the forest-path leading to +the town. A pang smote me as I remembered her conscientious discharge of +duty toward me for so many years; but it was duty, not love, that had +urged her, and while I said that to myself, I said, too, that time would +bring to me the opportunity of repaying her.</p> + +<p>Toward the settlement on the opposite shore I turned no look. I would +not trust myself; I knew my own weakness too well; this desperate energy +which was carrying me on now would fail, if I allowed my heart one +moment's indulgence. Steadily I walked on through the woods, my own +woods, which, perhaps, I should never see again, till, wearied out by +the exertion, which had precluded thought, I saw the houses of Louisa +rise before me.</p> + +<p>The boats lay at the fork above the town. I had informed myself of their +movements, and knew they were to start at noon. A few inquiries for +groceries and so forth, where I know they could not be gotten, gave me +an excuse for the proposition to the captain of the boats to give me a +passage to Catlettsburg. It was readily granted, and the crew, most of +them Sandy men, put up a rough awning, and, spreading under it some +blankets, did their kind uttermost to make me comfortable.</p> + +<p>I remember now, as one looks back into a dream, the afternoon and night +that passed before we reached Catlettsburg. I lay perfectly quiet, +watching the shadowy trees as we glided past them, noting their varied +reflections in the water, marking every peculiarity of shore and stream, +hearing the jests and laughter, the words of command and the oaths, that +went round among the boatmen; but all passed as something with which I +had nothing to do. To me there was the burning desire to put a great +distance between myself and my home,—but with it, too, the +consciousness, that, as I could do nothing to expedite our slow +progress, so neither could I afford to waste upon it in impatient +restlessness the strength which would be so much needed afterwards. The +men brought me a cup of coffee from their supper, which gave me strength +for the night. The biscuit I could not taste.</p> + +<p>But how long was that night! how tedious the summer dawn! and how slowly +went the hours till we brought up our boats at the landing at +Catlettsburg!</p> + +<p>I had formed my plans; so, telling the captain that I might perhaps want +to go back with him, I hurried into the town. A steamboat lay by the +wharf-boat. "The Bostona, for Cincinnati," said the board displayed over +her upper railing. She was to leave at eight o'clock. I walked about the +town till half-past seven; then, returning to the coal-boats, gave to +the man left in charge a <a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a>letter I had prepared, in which I told my +step-mother, in as few words as possible, that I wanted to see something +of the world, and had determined to go for a time either to Cincinnati +or to Pittsburg,—that I begged her not to be uneasy about me, I had +sold my watch, and had money enough for the present; she should hear +from me in due time. The man took the letter, with some remark on my not +returning with them, and, with a quiet good-day, I left him and walked +rapidly toward the steamer. The plank was laid from the wharf-boat, and, +without daring to hesitate, I walked over it.</p> + +<p>It was done. I was fairly separated from everything I had ever known +before; everything now was new to me; I was ignorant of all around me; +each step might be a mistake. I felt this, when a porter, stepping +forward and taking my bundle, asked me if I would have a state-room. +What was a state-room? I did not know, but saying, "Yes," with a +desperate feeling that it might as well be "yes" as "no," I was led back +to the ladies' cabin, a key was turned in one of an infinite number of +little doors, and I was ushered into what looked to me like a closet, +with shelves made to take the place of beds. Here at least I was alone, +and here I could be alone till dinner-time; till then there was no call +for action on my part.</p> + +<p>And how precious seemed to me every hour of rest! Singularly enough, my +great sorrow did not come back to me in those pauses of action. I seemed +then to be entirely absorbed in gathering strength for the next +occasion; my grief was put away for the future, when there would come to +me the time to indulge it.</p> + +<p>So I lay quiet during that morning, looking sometimes through my little +window at the passing shore, listening sometimes to the loud talking in +the cabin, sometimes to the noises on the boat, wondering if all those +strange creakings and shakings could be right, but finding a sense of +security in my very ignorance. Dinner came, and in the course of it I +found courage to ask the captain, at whose right hand I was placed, what +time we should reach Cincinnati. "Not till after breakfast," was his +welcome answer; for I had been haunted by a dread of being set adrift in +a great city in the middle of the night, when I might perhaps fall into +some den of thieves. I had read of such things in my books. This gave me +still the afternoon before it would be necessary to think, some hours +more in which to rest mind and body.</p> + +<p>The night came at last, and I must decide what step to take next, that, +my mind made up, I might perhaps get some sleep. I turned restlessly in +my narrow bed, got up, and stood at the window, tried first the upper +shelf, and then the lower, but no possible plan presented itself. I +still saw before me that terrible city where I should be ten times +lonelier than in the midst of our forests, where I should make mistakes +at every turn, where I should not know one face out of the many +thousands that crowded upon my nervous fancy. I seemed to be afraid of +nothing but human beings, and, at the thought of encountering them, my +woman's heart gave way. In vain I reasoned with myself, "I shall not see +all Cincinnati at once,—not more at one time, perhaps, than I saw +to-day at dinner." Still came up those endless streets, all filled with +strange faces; still I saw myself pushed, jostled, by a succession of +men and women who cared nothing for me. Suddenly came the thought, "Tom +Salyers is in Cincinnati. There is one person there that I know. If I +could only find him, he would take care of me till I knew how to take +care of myself."</p> + +<p>There came no remembrance of our last conversation to check my eager +joy. Indeed, it had never made much impression upon me, followed as it +had been by so much of nearer interest. I set myself to reflect on the +means of finding him. He had gone down in the employ of the coal +company. The captain could tell me where to look for him, and, satisfied +with that, I laid my weary head on my pillow.</p> + +<p>The next morning at breakfast I gained <a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>the needed information. "Did I +want to find one of the men in Mr. Hammond's employment? I must go to +the coal-yard"; and the direction was written out for me.</p> + +<p>And now we neared the city. I stood on the guards and looked wondering +at the steamboats that lined the river-bank, at the long rows of houses +that stretched before me, the tall chimneys vomiting smoke which +obscured the surrounding hills, at the crowd of men and drays on the +landing through which I was to make my way; but my courage rose with the +occasion, and, stepping resolutely from the plank, I walked up the hill +and stood among the warehouses. I had been told to "turn to the right +and take the first street, I could not miss my way"; but somehow I did +miss my way again and again, and wandered weary and bewildered, not +daring at first to ask for directions, till, gathering strength from my +very weariness, I at last saw before me the welcome sign. It was +something like home to see it; the familiar names cheered me while they +moved me. I entered the office trembling with a wild dread lest I should +meet Mr. Hammond there, but the sight of a stranger's face at the desk +gave me courage to ask for Tom Salyers.</p> + +<p>"He is in the yard now. Here, Jim, tell Salyers there's a person"—he +hesitated—"a lady wants to see him."</p> + +<p>I sat down in a chair which was luckily near me, for my knees trembled +so that I could not stand, and as the door opened and Tom's familiar +face was before me, my whole composure gave way and I burst into a +violent fit of crying.</p> + +<p>"Janet! is it you? For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"</p> + +<p>But I could only sob in answer.</p> + +<p>"Has anything happened up Sandy? Did you come for me?"</p> + +<p>The poor fellow leaned over me, his face pale with surprise and +agitation.</p> + +<p>"Take me out of here," was all I could muster composure enough to say.</p> + +<p>He opened the door, and I escaped into the open air. We walked side by +side through the streets, he silently respecting my agitation with a +delicacy for which I had not given him credit, and I struggling to grow +calm. At last he opened a little side-gate.</p> + +<p>"Come in here, Janet; we shall be quiet here."</p> + +<p>And I entered a sort of garden: the grounds belonging to the city +waterworks I have since known them to be. We sat down on a bench that +overlooked the Kentucky hills. I love the seat now. I think the sight of +the familiar fields and trees calmed me, and I was able at last to +answer Tom's anxious questions.</p> + +<p>"It is nothing; indeed, it is nothing. I am a foolish coward, and I was +frightened walking through the city, and then the sight of a home-face +upset me."</p> + +<p>"But, Janet, why are you here? Is anything wrong about the works, the +men? Did Mr. Hammond send you down?"</p> + +<p>"No, indeed, no! it was only a fancy of mine to see the world. I am +tired of that lonely life, and you know I am not needed there. My mother +can get along without me, and I am only a burden to my father."</p> + +<p>"Not needed? Why, Janet, what will the Sandy country be without you?"</p> + +<p>My eyes filled up with tears again.</p> + +<p>"Don't ask me any more questions, dear Tom; only help me for a little +while, till I can help myself. I want to earn my living somehow, but I +have money enough to live upon till I can find something to do. Only +find me a place to stay quietly in while I am looking for work. You are +the only person I know in this great city; and who will help me, if you +do not?"</p> + +<p>"You know I will help you with my whole heart and soul, Janet," he said, +his voice faltering.</p> + +<p>I looked up, and in one moment rushed back upon me the remembrance of +his words that day in the boat, and I stood aghast at the new trouble +that seemed to rise before me. My voice must have changed as I said,—</p> + +<p>"I only want you to find me a place to live in; I can take care of +myself"; for <a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>his countenance fell, and he sat silent for some moments.</p> + +<p>At last he spoke:—</p> + +<p>"I know I cannot do much, Janet, but what I can I will. And, first, I +will take you to the house of a widow-woman who has a room to let; one +of our men wanted me to take it, but it was too far from my work. I went +to see the place, though, and it is quiet and respectable; the woman +looks kind, too. Would you walk slowly down the street, while I go to +the office and get my coat?"—he was in his working-dress,—"and then +I'll join you."</p> + +<p>I got up, feeling that I had chilled him in some way, and reproaching +myself for it. When he rejoined me, we walked silently on, till, after +many a turning, we found ourselves in a narrow, quiet street, before a +small house, with a tiny yard in front. I do not know how the matter was +arranged; he did it all for me. There was the introducing me to a +motherly-looking person, as a friend of his from the country; the going +up a narrow staircase to look at a small room of which all that could be +said was that it was neat and clean; the bargaining for my board, in +which I was obliged to answer "Yes" and "No" as I could best follow his +lead; and then Tom left me with a shake of the hand, and the advice that +I should lie down and rest after my tedious journey; he would see me +again in the evening.</p> + +<p>The quiet dinner with my landlady, the afternoon rest, the fresh toilet, +the sort of home-feeling that my room already gave me, all did their +part towards bringing back my usual composure before Tom came in the +evening; and then, sitting by the window in the little parlor, I could +talk rationally of my plans for the future.</p> + +<p>I had money enough for twelve weeks' board, even if I reserved ten +dollars for other expenses. Surely, in that time I could find something +to do. And as to what I should do, I had thought that all over before I +left home. I might find some sewing, or tend in a store, or, +perhaps,—did he think I could?—I might keep school.</p> + +<p>Tom would not hear of my sewing. He knew poor girls that worked their +lives out at that. I might tend in a store, if I pleased, but still he +did not believe I would like to be tied to one place for twelve hours in +the day. Why shouldn't I keep school? he was sure I knew enough, I was +so smart, and had read so many books.</p> + +<p>I shook my head. I did not believe the books I had read were the kind +that school-mistresses studied. Still, I could learn, and certainly I +might begin by teaching little children. But where was I to begin?</p> + +<p>"If only we knew some gentleman, Janet, some city-man, who knew what to +do about such things."</p> + +<p>Suddenly a thought struck me.</p> + +<p>"Tom, do you remember those gentlemen who came up to look at the coal +mines when they were first opened? One of them stayed at our house two +nights, and saw my books, and talked to me about them. Mr. Kendall was +his name."</p> + +<p>"That's the very man; and a kind-hearted gentleman he seemed, not stuck +up or proud. I'll find him out for you, Janet, to-morrow; but there's no +need of your hurrying yourself about going to work. You must see the +city and the sights."</p> + +<p>And Tom grew enthusiastic in describing to me all that was to be seen in +this wonderful place.</p> + +<p>Tom had altered, had improved in appearance and manners, since he had +known something of city-life. I could not tell wherein the change lay, +but I felt it. He told me of himself,—of his rising to be head-man, a +sort of overseer, in the coal-yard,—of his good wages,—of some +investments that he had made which had brought him in good returns.</p> + +<p>"So you see, Janet, that, even if you were not so rich yourself, I have +plenty of money at your service."</p> + +<p>I thanked him most heartily, and roused myself to show some interest in +all that concerned him.</p> + +<p>So passed the rest of the week,—quiet <a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>days with my landlady, or in my +room, where I busied myself in putting my wardrobe into better shape +under the direction of Mrs. Barnum, and quiet walks and talks in the +evening with Tom Salyers. It was evident that he was not satisfied with +my alleged motives for leaving home, but I so steadily avoided all +conversation on this point that he learned to respect my silence. On +Sunday he told me he had found out who Mr. Kendall was.</p> + +<p>"One of the stockholders of the Company, and a good man, they say. I'll +go to him to-morrow, if you say so, Janet, and ask him anything you want +to know."</p> + +<p>"No, Tom, I shall go myself. It is my business, and I must not let you +do so much for me. If you will go with me, though,"—I added.</p> + +<p>And so the next morning saw us at Mr. Kendall's counting-room. It was +before business-hours: we had cared for that. We found Mr. Kendall +sitting leisurely over his papers, his feet up and his spectacles pushed +back. I had been nervous enough during the walk, but a glance at his +face reassured me. It was a good, a fatherly face, full of <i>bonhommie</i>, +but showing, withal, a spice of business-shrewdness. I left Tom standing +at the counting-room door, and, taking my fate in my own hands, walked +forward and made myself known.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes! the little girl that Hammond thought so much of, that he talks +about so often when he is down here. He thinks a school or two would +bring the Sandy people out, and holds you up as an example; but, for my +part, I think you are an exception. There are not many of them that one +could do much with."</p> + +<p>I turned quickly.</p> + +<p>"This is Tom Salyers, Sir, head-workman, overseer, at your coal-yard, +and he is a Sandy man."</p> + +<p>Mr. Kendall laughed.</p> + +<p>"I see I must not say anything against the Sandy country; nor need I +just now. Walk in, Mr. Salyers. So, Miss Janet, you have come down to +seek your fortune, earn your living, you say. I suppose Hammond sent you +to me. Did you bring me a letter from him?"</p> + +<p>I hesitated.</p> + +<p>"No, Sir. Mr. Hammond was so much occupied when I came away that I had +not seen him for a day or two. He has friends staying with him."</p> + +<p>"True enough. Mr. Worthington has gone up there with his pretty daughter +to see whether he can allow her to bury herself in the country. You saw +Miss Worthington? Will she be popular among your people when she is Mrs. +Hammond?"</p> + +<p>I caught a glimpse of Tom's face, and felt myself turning pale as I +answered, with a composure that did not seem to come from my own +strength,—</p> + +<p>"Miss Worthington is a very pleasant-spoken young lady. The people will +like her, because she seems to care for them, just as Mr. Hammond does. +But do you think, Sir, that you could put me in the way of teaching +school? Could I learn how to do it?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I am just the right person to come to, Miss Janet, for the people +have put me on the School Board, and—yes, we shall want some teachers +next month in two of the primary departments. Could you wait a month? +You might be studying up for your examination; it's not much, but it'll +not hurt you to go over their arithmetics and grammars. And I must write +to Hammond to-day about some business of the Company. I'll ask him about +your qualifications, and what he thinks of it, and we'll see what can be +done. I should not wonder if I could get you a place."</p> + +<p>Mr. Kendall shook hands with us both; and, bidding him good-morning, +with many thanks for his kindness, we went out. We walked a square +silently. Suddenly Tom turned to me:—</p> + +<p>"You did not tell me, Janet, of this young lady."</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"And is Mr. Hammond going to marry her?"</p><p><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a></p> + +<p>The blood rushed to my face, till it was crimson to the very hair, while +I stammered,—</p> + +<p>"I do not know,—you heard Mr. Kendall."</p> + +<p>Tom's voice was as gentle as a mother's in answer, but his words had +little to do with the subject, they were almost as incoherent as +mine,—something about his hoping I would like living in Cincinnati, +that teaching would not be too tiresome for me. But from that moment +George Hammond's name was never mentioned between us.</p> + +<p>I wrote that day to my step-mother, telling her of my plans and +prospects, and that evening Tom brought me the needed school-books. He +had found them by asking some of the men at the yard whose children went +to the public schools, and to the study of them I sat down with a +determination that no slight difficulty could subdue. The next week +brought a long, kind letter from Mr. Hammond, scolding me for going as I +did, and declaring that he missed me every day.</p> + +<p>"But more than all shall I miss you, Janet, when I bring Miss +Worthington back as my wife; I had depended so upon you as a companion +for her. But still it is a good thing for you to see something of the +world, and you are bright enough to do anything you set out to do. I +have written to Mr. Kendall to do all he can for you, and with Tom to +take care of you I am sure you will get along. I begin to suspect that +your going away was a thing contrived between Tom and yourself. Who +knows how soon he may bring you back among us to show the Sandy farmers' +wives how to live more comfortably than some of them do? Tom has a very +pretty place below the mouth of Blackberry, if you would only show him +how to take care of it."</p> + +<p>There was comfort in this letter, in spite of the tears it caused me. My +secret was safe. Miss Hammond had not been so cruel, so traitorous to +her sex, as to betray it. If she had not told it now, she never would +tell it, and Tom, if he suspected it, was too good, too noble, to +whisper it even to himself. So I laid away my letter, and with a lighter +heart turned again to my tasks.</p> + +<p>And now three months have passed, for two of which I have been teaching. +There are difficulties, yes, and there is hard work; but I can manage +the children. I have the tact, the character, the gift, that nameless +something which gives one person control over others; and for the +studies, they are as yet a pleasure to me. I see how they will lead me +on to other knowledge, how I may bring into form and make available my +desultory reading, and there is a great pleasure in the very study +itself. And for the rest, if my great grief is never out of my mind, if +it is always present to me, at least I can put it back, behind my daily +occupations and interests. I begin, too, to see dimly that there are +other things in life for a woman to whom the light of life is denied. My +heart will always be lonely; but how much there is to live for in my +mind, my tastes, my love for the beautiful! My little room has taken +another aspect. I have so few wants that I can readily devote part of my +earnings to gratifying myself with books, pictures. Such lovely prints +as I find in the print-shops! and the flowers—Tom Salyers, who is as +kind as a brother, brings me them from the market. And then everything +is so new to me; there is so much in life to see, to know. No, I will +not be unhappy; happy I suppose I can never be, but I have strength and +courage, and a will to rise above this sorrow which once crushed me to +the ground. When I wrote the bitter words with which this record begins, +I wronged the kind hearts that are around me, I lacked faith in that +world wherein I have found help and comfort.</p><p><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ON_THE_RELATION_OF_ART_TO_NATURE" id="ON_THE_RELATION_OF_ART_TO_NATURE"></a>ON THE RELATION OF ART TO NATURE.</h2> + +<p>IN TWO PARTS.</p> + +<p>PART I.</p> + + +<p>The notion that Painting and Sculpture are concerned only with the +"imitation of Nature,"—that is, with copying the forms and colors of +existing things,—though so often expelled, as it were, with a +pitchfork, persistently recurs, not only in popular talk, but in +deliberate criticism, and in the practice of artists. There are periods +when this notion gets the upperhand, as at the end of the fifteenth +century, and again at the end of the eighteenth, when Rousseau +prescribed a return to Nature as the panacea for all defect, in Art as +elsewhere. Then Winckelmann and his successors triumphed over it for a +while,—showed at least the crudity of that statement. This is the +purpose of much of Sir Joshua Reynolds's lectures. Now it seems to be +coming up again,—thanks partly to Mr. Ruskin, though he might be quoted +on both sides,—and this time with some prospect of demonstrating, by +the aid of photography, what it does in fact amount to.</p> + +<p>It is a very general opinion that photography has made painting +superfluous,—or, at least, that it will do so as soon as further +improvements in the process shall enable it to render color as well as +light and shade. And our artists seem to give in to this view, in the +deference they show to the subject, as if it mattered not so much what +it was, or how, as that it is <i>there</i>,—a pious tenderness towards barns +and rail-fences and stone walls and the confused monotony of the forest, +not as having any special fitness, not as beautiful, but because they +exist,—a scrupulous anxiety to give the every-day look of the objects +they portray, as any passer-by would see them, free from any distorting +personality. To do them justice, however, this submissiveness to the +matter-of-fact, with the more gifted at least, is a virtue that is +praised and starves. They do it lip-service, and suppose themselves +loyal; but when they come to paint, they are under a spell that does not +allow them to see in things only material qualities, but, without any +violence to Nature, raises it to a higher plane, where other values and +other connections prevail. Art, where it exists to any serious purpose, +follows Nature, but not the natural,—according to Raphael's maxim, that +"the artist's aim is to make things not as Nature makes them, but as she +intends them."</p> + +<p>But these audacities, though they make their own excuse in the work +itself, do not pass in a statement without cavil at the arrogance that +would exalt the work of men's hands above the work of God. Shall we +strive with our pigments to outshine the sun, or teach the secrets of +form to the cunning Artificer by whom the world was made? What room for +Art, except as the feeble reflex of the splendors of the actual world?</p> + +<p>But if that be all, how to account for the existence of Art as distinct +from upholstery? Why pile our mole-hills by the side of the mountains? +We can see the landscape itself any day;—whence this extraordinary +interest in seeing a bit of it painted,—except, indeed, as furniture +for the drawing-room, to be ordered with the frame at so much the yard +from the picture-dealer?</p> + +<p>The root of the difficulty lies in this slippery phrase, Nature. We talk +of the facts of Nature, meaning the existence now and here of the hills, +sky, trees, etc., as if these were fixed quantities,—as if a house or a +tree must be the same at all times and to everybody. But in a child's +drawing we see that these things are not <a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>the same to us and to him. He +is careful to give the doors and windows, the chimneys with their smoke, +the lines of the fence, and the walk in front; he insists on the +divisions of the bricks and the window-panes: but for what is +characteristic and essential he has no eye. He gives what the house is +to him, merely <i>a house</i> in general, any house; it would not help it, +but only make the defect more prominent, to straighten and complete the +lines. An artist, with fewer and more careless lines, would give more of +what we see in it; and if he be a man of high power, he may teach us in +turn the limitation of our seeing, by showing that the vague, +half-defined sentiment that attaches to it has also a visible +expression, if we knew where to look for it.</p> + +<p>We hear people say they know nothing of Art, but that they can judge as +well as anybody whether a picture is like Nature or not. No doubt +Giotto's contemporaries thought so, too, and they were grown men, with +senses as good as ours; but we smile when Boccaccio says, "There was +nothing in Nature that Giotto could not depict, whether with the pencil, +the pen, or the brush, so like that it seemed not merely like, but the +thing itself." We smile superior, but Giotto had as keen an eye and as +ready a hand as any man since. The lesson is, that we, too, have not +come to the end of even the most familiar objects, but that to another +age our view of them may seem as queer as his seems to us. For the facts +in Nature are not fixed, but transcendental quantities, and their value +depends on the use that is made of them. It is in this direction that +the artist's genius avails; his skill in execution is secondary and +incidental. The measure of his ability is the depth to which he has +penetrated the world of matter, not the number or the accuracy of his +facts. Every landscape wears many faces, as many as there are men and +different moods of the same man. To one the forest is so many cords of +wood; to another, an arboretum; to another, a workshop or a museum; to +another, a poem. What each sees is there; the forest exists for beauty +and for firewood, and lends itself indifferently to either use.</p> + +<p>Nature wears this air of impartiality, because her figures are only +zeros, deriving all their significance from their position. We do not +require a like impartiality in the artist, because what he is to give is +not Nature, but what Nature inspires. His endeavor to be impartial would +result only in giving us his opinions or the opinions of others, instead +of the utterance of the oracle. For Nature hides her secret, not by +silence, but in a Babel of sweet voices, heard by each according to the +fineness of his sense: by one as mere noise, by another as a jangle of +pleasing sounds, by the artist as harmony. They are all of them Nature's +voices;—he adds nothing and omits nothing, but hears with a preoccupied +attention, the justification being that his hearing is thus most +complete, as one who understands a language seizes the sense of words +rapidly spoken better than he who from less acquaintance with it strives +to follow all the sounds.</p> + +<p>The test of "truth," therefore, in the sense of fact, is insufficient. +The question is, Truth for whom? Not for a child or a savage. If we were +to show a fine landscape to a Hottentot, it would be a mistake to say he +saw it, though the image might be demonstrable on the retina of his eye. +He would not see what we mean when we speak of it, any more than we +should see the footstep on the ground or hear the stirring in the grass +that is plain enough to him, and hits our organs, too, though we are not +trained to perceive it. If the test of merit be the production of a +likeness to something we see, then the artist should know no more of +Nature than we do. But then, though it may surprise us into momentary +admiration to recognize familiar things in this translation,—just as +common talk sounds finer in a foreign tongue,—yet it is but for a time, +and then the inevitable limitations of the counterfeit come in,—its +narrowness and fixity,—crude paint for <a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a>sunbeams, cold and colorless +stone for the living form. The only test of a work of Art is, how far it +will carry us,—not any comparison by the yardstick. We demand to be +raised above our habitual point of view, and be made aware of a deeper +interest than we knew of. It is in hope of this alone that we pardon the +necessary shortcoming of the means.</p> + +<p>This deeper interest has its root in nothing arbitrary, or personal to +the artist. It is not inventing something finer than Nature, but seeing +more truly what Nature shows, that makes the artistic faculty. This is +the lesson taught by the history of Art. Take it up where you will, this +history is nothing but the successive unfolding of a truer conception of +Nature, only speaking here the language of form and color, instead of +words. It is this that lies at the bottom of all its revolutions, and +appears in its downfall as well as in its prosperity.</p> + +<p>Where the human form is the theme, the aim must of course be to give its +typical perfection. No naturalist describes the defects of his +specimens, though it may happen that all are imperfect. Comparatively +few persons ever saw our robin in the plumage in which it is always +described. Only in early spring, not very commonly then, is the black of +the head and tail seen pure. But no one hesitates to call this the true +color. The sculptor does not reproduce the peculiarities of his model, +but aims to give ideal form as the most natural form of man.</p> + +<p>But in Painting, and especially in Landscape, it seems less easy to fix +upon any ideal, not only from the multifariousness of the details, but, +above all, from the elusiveness of the standard. We might agree upon an +ideal of human beauty, but hardly upon the ideal of anything else. The +sophist in the Hippias Major was prepared to define the beauty of a +maiden, or of a mare; but he was confounded when it was required that +the beauty of a pipkin should be deducible from the same principle, and +yet worse when it was shown to involve that a wooden spoon was more +beautiful than a gold one.</p> + +<p>What you see in the woods and mountains depends on what you go for and +what you carry with you. We may go to them as to a quarry or a +wood-pile, or for pleasantness,—the cool spring and the plane-tree +shade, as the ancients did,—or to see fine trees, waterfalls, +mountains. To many persons the beauty of any scene is measured by its +abundance in such <i>specimens</i> of streams, mountains, waterfalls, etc. Of +course the connection is demonstrable enough: one collocation of +features is more readily suggestive of beauty than another. We expect to +find the scenery of a hill-country more attractive than a sand-desert. +But comparing a landscape with a statue, or even Painting generally with +Sculpture, the connection between a happy effect and any definite +arrangement of lines is much looser, and depends on the combination +rather than the ingredients. It is in every one's experience that an +accidental light, or even an accidental susceptibility, will impart to +the meagrest landscape—a bare marsh, a scraggy hill-pasture—a charm of +which the separate features, or the whole, at another time, give no +hint. Often mere bareness, openness, absence of objects, will arouse a +deeper feeling than the most famous scenes. We learn from such +experiences that the difference between one patch of earth and another +is wholly superficial, and indicates not so much anything in it as a +greater or less dulness in us. The celebrated panoramas and points of +view are not the favorite haunts of great painters. They do not need to +travel far for their subjects. Mr. Ruskin tells us that Turner did not +paint the high Alps, nor the <i>cumulus</i>, the grandest form of cloud. +Calame gives us the nooks and lanes, the rocks and hills, of +Switzerland, rather than the high peaks; Lambinet, an apple-orchard, a +row of pollard-elms, or a weedy pond,—not cataracts or forests. This is +not affectation or timidity, but an instinct that the famous scenes are +no breaks in the order of Nature,—that <a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a>what is seen in them is visible +elsewhere as well, only not so obvious, and that the office of Art is +not to parrot what is already distinct, but to reveal it where it is +obscure. This makes the inspiration of the artist; this is the source of +all his power, and alone distinguishes him from the topographer and +view-maker.</p> + +<p>This transcendentalism is more evident in Painting, as the later and +more developed form; but it is common to all Art, and may be read also +in the Greek sculptures. The experience of every one who with some +practice of eye comes for the first time to see the best antiques is not +that he falls at once to admiring the perfection of their anatomy, and +wondering at the symmetry and complete development of the men and women +of those days, but rather that he is carried away from all comparison +and criticism into a solitude from which returning he discovers that his +previous acquaintance with Sculpture was with masks only, and that the +meaning of plastic art as a capital interest of the human mind is now +for the first time made known to him. He sees that it was no whim of the +Greeks, but an instinct of the infinity it typifies, that made them take +the human form as alone possessing beauty enough to stand by itself. Not +the images of their deities alone, but all their statues were gods. The +charm of the Lizard-Slayer of Praxiteles, or of those immortal riders +that swept along the friezes of the Parthenon, is something quite +distinct from the beauty of a naked boy playing with an arrow, or a +troop of Athenian citizens on horseback. These are the deathless forms +of the happy Olympians, high above the cares and turmoil of the finite, +self-centred and independent. It is the Paradise age of the world, +before the knowledge of good and evil, before sin and death came; the +worship of the Visible, when God saw everything that he had made, and, +behold, it was very good. Hence the air of repose, of eternal duration, +that marks these figures. They have nothing to regret or to hope, no +past or future, but only a timeless existence.</p> + +<p>It is from this essential self-sufficingness, not from fancied rules, +that Sculpture is limited with respect to dramatic expression, that is, +expression of passing feeling, accidental action, not identified with +the form. In the best period the first requisite was that the interest +should be thoroughly identified with the shape in which it is +manifested, and not imparted, as by history, association, etc. The +decline began when this lofty isolation was felt as negative, needing to +have interest and expression added to it. But whatever was added only +emphasized without curing the defect. Even the "awful diagonal" of the +Laocoön and the godlike triumph of the Belvedere Apollo show a lower +age. Why triumph, if he was supreme before? These are casual incidents +only, examples of what might happen as well to anybody, not the adequate +conclusive embodiment of an idea. The more elaborately the meaning is +wrought into the form, the more evident that they are not originally +identical.</p> + +<p>In Modern Sculpture this deification of the human form is either +expressly banished from the artist's aim, or at least he is not quite in +earnest with it. For instance, in Mr. Palmer's White Captive,—exhibited +not long since in Boston,—the sculptor's account of his work is, that +it portrays an American girl captured by Indians and bound to a tree. We +have to take with us the history and the circumstances: a Christian +woman of the nineteenth century, dragged from her civilized home and +helpless in the hands of savages. This is not at all incidental to the +work, but the work is incidental to it. It is a story which the figure +helps to tell. This is no universal type of womanhood, nor even American +womanhood. American women do not stand naked in the streets, but go +about clothed and active on their errands of duty and pleasure; if we +must needs represent one naked, we must invent some such accident, some +extraordinary <a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a>dislocation of all usual relations and circumstances. In +place of the antique harmony of character and situation, we have here a +painful incongruity that no study or skill can obviate.</p> + +<p>Nor has Modern Sculpture any better success, when, instead of the +pretence of history, it adopts the pretence of personification. Its +highest result in this direction is, perhaps, Thorwaldsen's bas-relief +of Night,—a pretty parlor-ornament. There is a fatal sense of unreality +about works of this kind that even Thorwaldsen's genius was unable to +remove. They are toys, and it seems rather flat to have toys so cumbrous +and so costly.</p> + +<p>The reason of this insipidity is, that the ideality aimed at is all on +the outside. There is no soul in these bodies, but only an abstraction; +and so the body remains an abstraction, too. In each case the radical +defect is the same, namely, that the interest is external to the form: +they do not coalesce, but are only arbitrarily connected. We cannot have +these ideal forms, because we do not believe in them. We do not believe +in gods and goddesses, but in men and women; that is, we do not at last +really identify the character with its manifestation. Such was the +fascination of beauty to the Greek mind, that it banished all other +considerations. What mattered it to Praxiteles whether his Satyr was a +useful member of society or not, or whether the young Apollo stood thus +idle and listless for an instant or for a millennium, as long as he was +so beautiful? And the charm so penetrated their works that something of +it reaches down even to us, and holds us as long as we look upon them. +But as soon as we quit the magic circle, the illusion vanishes,—Apollo +is a handsome vagabond whom we incline to send about his business. He +ought to be slaying Pythons and drying up swamps, instead of loitering +here.</p> + +<p>We do not believe in gods, nor quite as the ancients did in heroes,—but +in representative men, that is, in ideas, and in men as representing +them. Washington is not to us what Achilles or Agamemnon was to the +Greeks. The form of Achilles would do as well for a god; the antiquaries +do not know whether the Ludovisi Mars was not an Achilles,—perhaps +nobody ever knew. But in all our veneration of Washington, it is not his +person we revere, but his virtues,—precisely the impersonal part of +him, or his person only from association. There is nothing incongruous +in this association as it exists in the mind, any more than there would +have been in his presence, because of the overpowering sense of his +character and history, to which all the outward show of the man is +constantly subordinate. But if we isolate this by making a statue of +him, we have only an apotheosis of cocked-hat and small-clothes, in +which we see what it really was to us. This awkward prominence of the +costume does not come from the accident of modern dress, but from our +unconscious repugnance to petrifying the man in one of his aspects. It +is a touch of grave humor in the genius of Art, thus to give us just +what we ask for, though not what we want.</p> + +<p>The Greeks could have portrait-statues, because all they looked for in +the man they saw in his form, and, seeing it, could portray it. If the +modern sculptor truly saw in the figure of Washington all that the name +means to him, he could make a statue worthy to be placed by the side of +the Sophocles and the Phocion. These were true portraits, no doubt; thus +it was that these men appeared to their fellow-citizens; but it does not +follow that they would have appeared so to us. What they saw is there; +it is a reality both for them and for us; but the literal identification +of it with the form belongs to them, not to us, and our mimicry of it +can result only in these abstraction's. For us it is elsewhere, beyond +these finite shapes, on which, by an illusion, it seemed to rest. The +Greek statues are tropes, which we gladly allow in their original use, +but, repeated, they become flat and pedantic. Hence the air of +caricature in modern portrait-statues; for caricature does not +necessarily imply <a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a>falsification, but only that what is given is +insisted on at the expense of more important truth.</p> + +<p>To the view of the early Christian ages, too, the body is old clothes, +ready to be cast off at any moment, good only as means to something +higher. It might seem that Christianity should give a higher value to +the body, since it was believed to have been inhabited by God himself. +But the Passion was a fact of equal importance with the Incarnation. +This honor could be allowed to matter only for an instant, and on the +condition of immediate resumption. That the Highest should suffer death +as a man might well seem to the Greeks foolishness. To the understanding +it is the utmost conceivable contradiction. Yet it is only a more +complete statement of what is involved in the Greek worship of beauty. +<i>The complete incarnation of Spirit</i>, which is the definition of beauty, +demands equally that there be no point it does not inhabit, and none in +which it abides. The transience of things is no defect in them, but only +the affirmation of their reality through the incessant casting-off of +its inadequate manifestations. It is not from the excellence, but from +the impotence of its nature, that the stone endures and does not pass +away as the plant and the animal. The higher the organization, the more +rapid and thorough the circulation.</p> + +<p>The same truth holds in Art, also, and drives it to forsake these +beautiful petrifactions and seek an expression less bound to the +material. Ideal form is good so far as it brings together in one compact +image what in Nature is scattered and partial; but it is an ideality of +the surface only, not of the substance. It shuts out the defect of this +or that form, but not of Form itself. The Greek ideal is after all <i>a +thing</i>, and its impassive perfection a stony death.</p> + +<p>The justification is, that the sculptor did not say quite what he meant. +He said flesh, but he meant spirit, and this is what the Greek statues +mean to us. The modern sculptor does not mean spirit, and knows that he +does not; and so, with all his efforts, he gives us only the outside. Is +it asked, Whence this divorce of flesh and spirit? why not give both at +once as Nature does? Then we must do as Nature does, and make our forms +as fluid as hers. But this the sculptor contravenes at the outset. To +follow Nature, he should make his statue of snow. To make it of stone is +to pretend that the form is something of itself. This the Greeks never +meant, for then it would follow that all parts of it were alike +significant. Haydon was delighted to find reproduced in the Elgin +marbles certain obscure and seeming insignificant details of the anatomy +that later schools had overlooked, such as a fold of skin under the +armpit of the Neptune, etc. But any beginner at a life-school could have +pointed out in the same statue endless deficiencies in anatomical +detail. The fold was put in, not because it was there, but because to +the mind of the Greek artist it meant something. Sculptors of the +present day comfort themselves with the belief that their works are more +complete and more accurate in the anatomy than the antique. Very likely, +for the ancients did not dissect. But this accuracy, if it is founded on +no interest beyond accuracy, is after all an impertinence.</p> + +<p>The Greek ideal is founded on the exclusion of accident. It is a +declaration that the casual shape is not the true form; it is only a +step farther to the perception that all shape is casual,—the reality +seen, not in it, but through it. The ideal is then no longer perfect +shape, but transparency to the sentiment; the image is not sought to be +placed before the beholder's eyes, but painted as it were in his mind. +Henceforth, suggestion only is aimed at, not representation; the +coöperation of the spectator is relied upon as the indispensable +complement of the design. The Zeus of Phidias seemed to the Greeks, +Plotinus says, Zeus himself, as he would be, if he chose to appear to +human eyes. But a Crucifixion is of itself not at all what the artist +meant. It is not the agony of the flesh, but the triumph <a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a>of the spirit, +that is intended to be portrayed. If the end be attained, the slighter +and more unpromising the means the better. Thus a new scale of values is +established; nothing is worthy or unworthy of itself; nothing is +excluded, but also in nothing is the interest identified with the thing, +but imparted.</p> + +<p>Christian Art, after mere tradition had died out,—for instance, in the +Byzantine and early Italian pictures from the eighth to the middle of +the thirteenth century,—presents the strongest contrast to all that had +gone before. The morose and lifeless monotony or barbarous rudeness of +these figures seems like contempt not only of beauty, but of all natural +expression. They are meaningless of themselves, and quite indifferent to +the character they represent, which is appended to them by +inscriptions,—their relative importance, even, indicated only by size, +more or less splendor of costume, etc., but the faces all alike, and no +attempt made to adapt the action to the occasion. It is another world +they belong to; the present they pointedly renounce and disdain, +condescending to communicate with it only indirectly and by signs.</p> + +<p>The main peculiarities were common to Painting and Sculpture, though +most noticeable in Painting. An interest in the actual world seems never +so far lost sight of, and earlier revived, in Sculpture. Even down to +the spring-tide of Modern Art in the thirteenth century, the "pleasant +days" when Guido of Siena was painting his Madonna, the improvement in +Painting was rather a stirring within the cerements of conventional +types, a flush on the cheek of the still rigid form,—while in the +bas-reliefs of the Pisan sculptors we meet already a realism as much in +excess of the antique as the Byzantine fell short of it.</p> + +<p>It is commonly said that Nicola Pisano revived Art through study of the +antique; his models, even, are pointed out, particularly a sarcophagus, +said to have been brought to Pisa in the eleventh century from Greece. +But this sarcophagus, wherever it came from, is not Greek, but late +Roman work; and we find in Nicola no mark of direct Greek influence, but +only of the late Roman and early Christian sarcophagus-sculptures. In +the reliefs upon his celebrated pulpit at Pisa we have the same +short-legged, large-headed, indigenous Italian or Roman figures, and the +same arrangement of hair, draperies, etc., as on those sarcophagi. Taken +by themselves, his works would, no doubt, indicate a new direction. But +by the side of his son Giovanni, or the sculptors of the Northern +cathedrals, he seems to belong to the third century rather than to the +thirteenth.</p> + +<p>In Giovanni Pisano the new era was distinctly announced. The Inferno, +usually ascribed to him, among the reliefs on the front of Orvieto +Cathedral,<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> and in his noble pulpit at Pistoia, shows the traces of +the antique only in unimportant details, ornamentation, etc. The antique +served him, no doubt, as a hint to independent study, but the whole +intent is different,—all the beauties and all the defects arrived at by +a different road. In place of the impassive Minos of the Shades, we have +a fiend, serpent-girt,<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> his judicial impartiality enforced apparently +against his will by manacles and anklets of knotted snakes; and +throughout, instead of the calm impersonality of the Greek, dealing out +the typical forms of things like a law of Nature, we have the restless, +intense, partisan, modern man, not wanting in tenderness, but full of a +noble scorn at the unworthiness of the world, and grasping at a reality +beyond it. He is intent, first of all and at all risks, upon vivid +expression, upon telling the story, and speedily outruns the +possibilities of his material. He must make his creatures alive to the +last superficies; and as he cannot give them motion, he puts an emphasis +upon all their bones, sinews, veins, and wrinkles,—every feather is +carved, <a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a>and even the fishes under the water show their scales. That +mere literalness is not the aim is shown by the open disregard of it +elsewhere; for instance, the size of each figure is determined, not by +natural rules, but by their relative importance, so that in the +Nativity, Mary is twice as large as Joseph and three times as large as +the attendants. And the detail is not everywhere equally minute, but +follows the intensity of the theme, reaching its height in the lower +compartment, where the damned are in suffering, and especially in the +figures of the fiends. This is no aim at literalness, but a struggle for +an emphasis beyond the reach of Sculpture,—taking these means in +despair of others, and, in its thirst for expression, careless alike of +natural probability, typical perfection of form, and pleasing effect. +Different as it seems, the same spirit is at work here and in Painting. +In both it is the repudiation of the classic ideal,—in Sculpture by a +<i>reductio ad absurdum</i>, putting its implicit claims to the test of +realization,—in Painting by mere negation, as was natural at the outset +of a new career, before the means of any positive expression were +discovered.</p> + +<p>Ideal form was to the Greeks the highest result, the success of the +universe. The end of Art was conceived as Nature's end as well, whether +actually attained or not. Nor was this preference of certain forms +arbitrary, but it followed the plain indications written on every +particle of matter. What we call brute matter is whatever is means only, +not showing any individuality, or end within itself. A handful of earth +is definable only by its chemical or physical properties, which do not +distinguish it, but confound it with other things. By itself it is only +so much phosphate or silicate, and can come to be something only in a +foreign organism, a plant or an animal. In form is seen the dawning of +individuality, and just as the thing rises in the scale the principle of +form becomes dominant. The handful of earth is sufficiently described by +the chemist's formula,—these ingredients make this substance. But an +organic body cannot be so described. The chemist's account of sugar, for +instance, is C<sup>6</sup> H<sup>10</sup> O<sup>5</sup>. But if we ask what starch is, we have, +again, C<sup>6</sup> H<sup>10</sup> O<sup>5</sup>,—and the cellular tissue of plants, also, is +the same. These things, then, as far as he knows, are identical. +Evidently, he is beyond his depth, and the higher we go in the scale the +less he has to say to the purpose,—the separate importance of the +material ingredients constantly decreasing, and the importance of their +definite connection increasing, as the reference to an individual centre +predominates over helpless gravitation. First, aggregation about a +centre, as in the crystal,—then, arrangement of the parts, as upper, +under, and lateral, as in the plant,—then, organization of these into +members. Form is the self-assertion of the thing as no longer means +only; this makes its attractiveness to the artist. The root of his +delight in ideal form is that it promises some finality amid the endless +maze of matter. But this higher completeness, which is beauty, whether +it happen to exist or not, is never the immediate aim of Nature. It is +everywhere implied, but nowhere expressed; for Nature is unwearied in +producing, but negligent of the product. As soon as the end seems +anywhere about to be attained, it is straightway made means again to +something else, and so on forever. The earth and the air hasten to +convert themselves into a plant, the flower into fruit, the fruit into +flesh, and the animal at last to die and give back again to the air and +the earth what they have transmitted to him. Whatever beauty a thing has +is by the way, not as the end for which it exists, and so it is left to +be baffled and soiled by accident. This is the "jealousy of the gods," +that could not endure that anything should exist without some flaw of +imperfection to confess its mortal birth.</p> + +<p>The world is full of beauty, but as it were hinted,—as in the tendency +to make the most conspicuous things the most beautiful, as flowers, +fruits, birds, <a name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a>the insects of the sunshine, the fishes of the surface, +the upper side of the leaf; and perhaps more distinctly (in accordance +with Lord Bacon's suggestion that "Nature is rather busy not to err, +than in labor to produce excellency") in the tendency to hide those that +are ugly, as toads, owls, bats, worms, insects that flee the light, the +fishes of the bottom, the intestines of animals. But these are hints +only, and Nature, as Mr. Ruskin confesses, will sometimes introduce "not +ugliness only, but ugliness in the wrong place." Were beauty the aim, it +should be most evident in her chief products; whereas it is in things +transient, minute, subordinate,—flowers, snow-flakes, the microscopic +details of structure,—that it meets us most invariably, rather than in +the higher animals or in man. Nor in man does it keep pace with his +civilization, but obeys laws that belong to the lower regions of his +nature.</p> + +<p>This ambiguity of every fact in Nature comes from the difficulty of +detecting its true connection. There is reality <i>there</i>, even in blight +and corruption; something is forwarded, only perhaps not the thing +before us,—as the virtue of the compost-heap appears not in it, but in +the rose-bed. The artist cannot forego a jot of reality, but the obvious +facts are not this, any more than the canvas and the pigment are the +picture. The prose of every-day life is reality in fragments,—the Alps +split into paving-stones,—Achilles with a cold in the head. Seen in due +connection, they make up the reality; but their prominence as they occur +is casual and shifting, and the result dependent on the spectator's +power of discerning, amid the endless series in which they are involved, +more or less of their vital relations.</p> + +<p>Art is not to be blamed for idealizing, for this is only completing what +Nature begins. But the completion of the design is also its limitation. +It is final to the artist as well as to the theme, and cannot yield to +further expansion. In Nature there is no such pretence of finality, and +so her work, though never complete, is never convicted of defect. Her +circuits are never closed; she does not aim to cure the defect in the +thing, but in something else. Each in turn she abandons, and appeals to +a future success, which never is, but always about to be. The reason is, +that the scope of each is wider than immediately appears. It is not +simple completeness that is aimed at, but ascent to higher levels, so +that the consummation it demands, if granted, would cut it off from more +vital connections elsewhere. The ideal of the crystal seems to be +clearness and regularity, but better things are in store for it. It must +become opaque and shapeless in order to be fitted for higher +transformations. The leaf must be cramped to make the flower. Homer's +heroes must hoe potatoes and keep shop before the higher civilization of +the race can be reached.</p> + +<p>The Greek ideal is an endeavor to ignore the imperfections of natural +existence. The ideal life is to be rich, strong, powerful, eloquent, +high-born, famous. It was a glorification of the earthly, not by +transcending, but by keeping its limitations out of sight. But this is +only making the limitation essential and irrevocable, so that it infects +the ideal also, which in this very avoidance submits to recognize it. +The statue is not <i>less</i>, but more, a thing than the natural body. Life +is not mere exclusion of decay, but organization of it, so that the fury +of corruption passes into fresh vital power. It is a cycle of changes, +the type and show of which are the circulation, constantly removing +effete particles and building up new, and therein giving its hue to the +flesh. But sculpture supposes the current checked, and one aspect fit to +stand for all the rest. The statue is not only a particle, but an +isolated particle, and must first of all divert attention from its +fragmentariness. Mr. Garbett has remarked that plants should not be +copied in sculpture, because the plant is not seen entire, but is partly +hidden in the ground. But the point is not the being seen or not, but +the suggestion <a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a>of incompleteness. The same remark applies to animals, +and even to man, unless his relations to the world, as an individual +among individuals, can be kept out of sight.</p> + +<p>But the finite thus isolated is not honored, but degraded. This stagnant +perfection is atrophy,—as some poisons are said to kill by arresting +the transformation of the tissues, and so to preserve them at the +expense of their life. The new era is marked by the perception that +these shortcomings are not accidental, but inherent and intended. The +chasm is not to be bridged or avoided,—or, as Plato says, the human to +become godlike by taking away here and adding there,—but remains a +radical incongruity of Nature, never to be escaped from. It brings death +and dissolution to the fair shapes of the earlier world,—for the +worship of form is justified only so long as the mind thinks forms and +not ideas.</p> + +<p>The statue may embody an infinite meaning, but to the artist form and +meaning are one. It is not a sentiment that he puts into this shape, but +it is the shape itself that inspires him. The symbolism of Greek Art was +the discovery of a later age. We know what is meant by Circe and Athene, +but Homer did not. It was thus only that the Greek mind could grasp +ideas,—this is the thoroughly <i>artistic</i> character of that people. +Their philosophers were always outlaws. What excited the rage of the +Athenians against Socrates was his endeavor to detach religion from the +images of the gods. When it comes to comparisons between meaning and +expression, as adequate or inadequate, it is evident their unity is +gone;—the meaning is first, and the expression only adjunct or +illustration. It did not impair the sacredness of the Greek deities that +they were the work of the poets and sculptors. But the second Nicene +Council forbade as impious any images of Christ as God, and allowed only +his human nature to be represented,—a strange decree, if the Church had +realized its own doctrine, that the humanity of Christ is as real as his +divinity. But the meaning is, that the finite is not there to stand for +the infinite, but only to indicate it negatively and indirectly,—that +its glory is not to persist in its finiteness, not to hold on to its +form, but to be transformed. The figure of Thersites would be very +unsuitable for Achilles, but is suitable enough for a saint; it was a +pardonable exaggeration to make it even more suitable.</p> + +<p>The hero is now the saint; the ideal life a life of poverty, humility, +weakness, labor,—to be long-suffering, to despise and forsake the +world. The present life, the heaven of Achilles, is now Hades, the +forced abode of phantoms having no reality but what is given to them by +religion, and the Hades of the Greek the only true and substantial +world. The new church fled the light of the sun, and sought impatiently +to bury itself in the tomb. The Roman catacombs were not the mere refuge +of a persecuted sect,—their use as places of worship continued long +after such need had ceased. But "among the graves" they found the point +nearest to the happy land beyond, and the silence and the darkness made +it easier to ignore for the few miserable moments that yet remained the +vain tumult of the surface. In such a mood the beauty of the outward +could awaken no delight, but only suspicion and aversion. Not the earth +and its glories, but the fading of these before the unseen and eternal, +was the only possible inspiration of Art. The extreme of this direction +we see in the Iconoclasm of the eighth century, but it has never +completely died out. Gibbon tells us of a Greek priest who refused to +receive some pictures that Titian had painted for him, because they were +too real:—"Your scandalous figures," said he, "stand quite out from the +canvas; they are as bad as a group of statues." It is a tenderness +towards the idea, lest it should be dishonored by actuality. Matter is +gross, obscure, evil, an obstacle to spirit,—and material existence +<a name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a>tolerable only as momentary, vanishing, and, as it were, under constant +protest, and with the suspicion that the Devil has a hand in it. It +belongs especially to the Oriental mind, and its logical result is the +Buddhist heaven of annihilation.</p> + +<p>The defect of this view is not that it is too ideal, but that it is not +ideal enough. It is an incomplete idealism that through weakness of +faith does not hold fast its own point of view, and so does not dispose +of matter, but leaves it outside, as negation, obstacle. The body is +allowed to exist, but remains in disgrace and reduced to the barest +indication. But it is honoring matter far too much to allow that it can +be an obstacle. It is no obstacle, for it is <i>nothing</i> of itself. +Rightly understood, this contempt of the body is directed only against +the false emphasis placed upon single aspects or manifestations. It is a +feeling that the true ideal is not thus shut up in a forced exception, +as if it were the subtilized product of a distillation whereby the +earthly is to be purged of its dross; but that it is the all-pervading +reality, which the finite can neither hinder nor help, but only obey, +which death and corruption praise, which establishes itself through +imperfection and transience.</p> + +<p>Gibbon, speaking of the Iconoclasts, says,—"The Olympian Jove, created +by the muse of Homer and the chisel of Phidias, might inspire a +philosophic mind with momentary devotion; but these Catholic images were +faintly and flatly delineated by monkish artists in the last degeneracy +of taste and genius." Such comparisons mistake the point. These are not +parallel attempts, but opposed from the outset. The "Catholic image" was +a declaration that the problem cannot be solved in that way. An early +legend relates, that a painter, undertaking to copy his Christ from a +statue of Jove, had his hand suddenly withered. The attempt is accused +because of the pretence it makes to coordinate body and spirit, Nature +and God,—as if one configuration of matter were more godlike than +another. The figure of the god claims to complete what Nature has +<i>partly</i> done. But now the world is seen to be not merely the product of +Mind working upon Matter, but the Creation of God out of nothing,—thus +altogether His, in one part as much as in another. The only conceivable +separateness, antagonism, is that of the sinful Will, setting itself up +in its vanity; this it must be that arrogates to itself the ability to +<i>represent</i> its Creator.</p> + +<p>The Christian image is without form or comeliness,—rejects all outward +graces, seemingly glories in abasement and deformity, fearing only to +attribute to Matter some value of its own.</p> + +<p>Henceforth the connection is no longer at arm's-length, as of the +workman and the material. Resistance to limitation is changed into +joyful acceptance; for it is not in the limitation, but in the +resistance, that the misery of earth consists. The quarrel with +imperfection is over. The finite shall neither fortify itself in its +finiteness, nor seek to abolish it, but only make it the willing +instrument of universal ends. Thus the true self first exists, and no +longer needs to be extenuated or apologised for.</p> + +<p>The key-note of all this is contained in those verses of the "Dies +Iræ,"—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Quærens <i>me</i> sedisti lassus,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Redemisti crucem passus;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Tantus labor non sit cassus."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Here we have in its compactest expression the difference between this +age and the classic: that I, the vilest of sinners, am the object of +God's highest care,—not the failure and mistake I seem, not the slag +and refuse of Nature's working, but the object of this most stupendous +mystery of the Divine economy. It is no purification or idealizing that +is needed,—any such attempt must be abomination,—but a new birth of +the self, by devotion of it to the purpose for which it was made.</p> + +<p>The astounding discovery is slowly realized, and the statement of it +difficult, from the need to distinguish between the <a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a>true self and the +false, and to declare that this importance belongs to the individual in +virtue of his spiritual nature alone. The sainthood of the saint is not +to be confounded with his personality. What have his virtues to do with +his gown and shoes? what, indeed, with his natural disposition, as +courageous, irascible, avaricious? The difficulty is pervading, not to +be avoided; every aspect of him reveals only what is external, dies from +him daily, and, if isolated, has already lost its meaning. It is only in +his work, in his connection with the world, that we see him truly. +Accordingly, the statue becomes the group, and the group a member of a +series, a cycle in which each is incomplete without the rest. The +classic ideal is shivered into fragments, all to be taken together to +make up the meaning. Of the hundreds of statues and reliefs that +surround the great Northern cathedrals, (Didron counts eighteen hundred +upon the outside of Chartres,—nine thousand in all, carved or painted, +inside and outside,) each has its appointed place in the sacred <i>epos</i> +in stone that unfolds about the building from left to right of the +beholder the history of the world from the Creation to the Judgment, and +subordinated in parallel symbolism the daily life of the community, +whatever occupied and interested men,—their virtues and vices, trades +and recreations, the seasons and the elements, jokes, even, and sharp +hits at the great and at the clergy, scenes from popular romances, and +the radicalism of Reynard the Fox,—in short, all that touched the mind +of the age, an impartial reflex of the great drama of life, wherein all +exists alike to the glory of God.</p> + +<p>It is not the glory of earth that is here celebrated. M. Didron says the +statues which the mob pulled down from the churches, at the first French +Revolution, as the images of their kings, were the kings and heroes of +the Old Testament. Had they known this, it might not have saved the +statues, but it shows how wide a gulf separated these men from their +fathers, that their hands were not held by some instinct that here was +the first hint of the fundamental idea of Democracy,—the sovereign +importance of man, not as powerful, wise, beautiful, not in virtue of +any chance advantage of birth, but in virtue of his religious nature, of +the infinite possibilities he infolds.</p> + +<p>The need to indicate that the source of value is not the accident of +Nature, but Nature redeemed, regenerated by spirit, that all values are +moral values, led to a certain abstractness of treatment,—on one side +qualities to be embodied, on the other figures to receive them, so that +the character seems adventitious, detachable, not thoroughly at one with +the form. For instance, the fiends in the Orvieto Inferno are not terror +embodied, as the Jove of Phidias embodied dignity and command; but the +terrific is accumulated on the outside of them, as tusks, claws, etc. +One can easily believe that the ancient sculptors, had it been lawful, +could have put more horror into the calm features of a Medusa than is +contained in all this apparatus and grimace. The concreteness of the +antique, the form and meaning existing only for each other, is gone; the +union is <i>occasional</i> only, and needs to be certified and kept up afresh +on every new occasion. The form must assert itself, must show itself +alive and quick, not the dead sign of a meaning that has fled. It would +have been a poor compliment to a Greek sculptor to say that his work was +life-like; he might answer with the classically disposed visitor of the +Elgin marbles in Haydon's anecdote,—"Like life! Well, what of that?" He +meant it for something much better. But during the Middle Ages this is +constantly the highest encomium. Amid the utmost rudeness of conception +and of execution, we see the first trace of awakening Art in the +unmistakable effort to indicate that the figures are alive; and in the +cathedral-sculpture of the best time this is still a leading +characteristic. Even the single statues have for their outlines curves +of contrary flexure, expressing <a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a>motion; they seem to wave in the air, +and their faces to glow with passing emotion. The animals are often +uncouth, but the more life-like; a turn of the head or of the eye, a +restless, unbalanced attitude, brings us nearer to the actual living +creature than the magnificent repose of the antique lions and +eagles,—as if they did not trust to our recognizing their character, +but were prepared to demonstrate it with beak and claws. Even in the +plants, though strictly conventionalized, it is the freedom and spring +of their lines that more than anything else characterizes them and +defies copying.</p> + +<p>The world of matter, being no longer endowed with independent reality, +is no longer felt as a contamination incurred by the idea in its descent +into existence. The discrepancy is not final, so that the supremacy of +the spirit is not shown by resistance, but by taking it to heart, +carrying it out, and thereby overcoming it. In a Crucifixion of the +twelfth century, Life is figured on one side crowned and victorious, and +on the other Death overcome and slain. The finiteness of the finite is +not the barrier, but the liberation, of the infinite.</p> + +<p>But the statue remains stone; this unmeaning emphasis of weight and +bulk, though diminished, is not to be got rid of. The life that +sculpture can give is superficial and abstract, does not penetrate and +possess the work; it is still the petrifaction of an instant, that does +not instantly pass away, but remains as a contradiction to the next. It +is the struggle against this fixity that gives to the sculpture of the +Renaissance its aspect of unrest, of disdain of the present, of endless +unsatisfied search. Hence the air of conflict that we see in Giovanni +Pisano, and still more in later times,—the sculptor going to the edge +of what the stone will allow, and beyond it, and, still unsatisfied, +seeking through all means to indicate a yet unexecuted possibility. It +is this that seethes in those strange, intense, unearthly figures of +Donatello's, wasted as by internal fire,—the rage for an expression +that shall at the same time declare its own insufficiency.</p> + +<p>All that is done only makes the failure more evident. The fixity +continues, and is only deepened into contortion and grimace. What we see +is the effort alone. Hence in modern statues the uneasy, +self-distrustful appeal to the spectator, in place of the lofty +indifference of the antique. In Michel Angelo the same striving to +indicate something in reserve, not expended, led to the exaggerated +emphasis of certain parts, (as the length of the neck, depth of the +eye-sockets, etc.,) and of general muscularity,—a show of <i>force</i>, that +gave to the Moses the build of a Titan, and to the Christ of the Last +Judgment the air of a gladiator. Michel Angelo often seems immersed in +mere anatomy and academic <i>tours de force</i>, especially in his later +works. He seems to see in the subject only a fresh problem in attitude, +foreshortening, muscular display,—and this not only where he invents, +but also where he borrows,—sometimes most strangely overlooking the +sentiment; as in the figure of Christ, which he borrows from Orcagna and +the older painters, even to the position of the arms, but with the +touching gesture of reproof perverted into a savage menace; or in the +Expulsion, taken almost line for line from Masaccio, but with the +infinite grief expressed in Adam's figure turned into melodrama by +showing his face.</p> + +<p>It was not for the delight of the eye, nor from over-reverence of the +matter-of-fact. He despised the copying of models, as the makeshift of +ignorance. His profound study of anatomy was not for greater accuracy of +imitation, but for greater license of invention. Of grace and +pleasingness he became more and more careless, until he who at twenty +had carved the lovely angel of S. Domenico, came at last to make all his +men prize-fighters and his women viragos. It is clear that we nowhere +get his final meaning,—that he does not fairly get to his theme at all, +but is stopped at the <a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a>outset, and loses himself in the search for a +mode of expression more adequate to that "immense beauty" ever present +to his mind,—so that the matter in hand occupies him only in its +superficial aspects. What he sought on all hands, in his endless +questioning of the human frame, his impatience of drapery, the furious +haste to reach the live surface, and the tender modulation of it when it +is reached, was to make the flesh itself speak and reveal the soul +present at all points alike and at once. Nothing could have satisfied +him but to impart to the marble itself that omnipresence of spirit of +which animal life furnishes the hint. In this Titanic attempt the means +were in open and direct contradiction to the end. It was a violation of +the wise moderation of Sculpture, whose rigid and colorless material +pointedly declines a rivalry it could not sustain. Else why not color +the stone? The hue of flesh is the most direct assertion of life, but at +the same time a direct negative to that totality and emphasis of the +particular shape on which Sculpture relies. The color of the flesh comes +from its transparency to the circulation,—the eternal flux of matter +coming to the surface in this its highest form. It is the display in +matter itself of what its true nature is,—not to resist, but to embody +change,—to reduce itself to mere appearance, and be taken up without +residuum in the momentary manifestation, and then at once give place to +fresh manifestations.</p> + +<p>That the earlier practice of coloring statues was given up just when the +need would seem to be the greatest shows its incompatibility with the +fundamental conditions of the art. In the twelfth and thirteenth +centuries statues were still painted and gilded. Afterwards, color is +restricted to parts not directly affected by the circulation, the hair +and the eyes; and at last, when Sculpture is given over to pictorial +effect and is about to yield entirely to Painting, it is wholly +relinquished. Evidently it was felt that to color a statue in imitation +of flesh would only enforce the fact that it is stone.</p> + +<p>What Art was now aiming at was not the mere appearance of life, but a +unity like that which life gives, in place of the abstractness and +partiality inherent in Sculpture. This makes the interest of the fact of +life,—that it is the presence of the soul,—the unity established amid +the sundered particularity of matter. In free motion a new centre is +declared, whereby the inertia of the body, its gravitation to a centre +outside of it, is set aside. In sensibility this new centre declares +itself supreme, superseding the passive indifference of extension. The +whole pervades each part, each testifies to the whole and may stand for +it. But the statue, having no such internal unity, is less able to +dispense with outward completeness. All the sides must be given, so that +the whole cannot be seen at one view, but only successively, as an +aggregate.</p> + +<p>In the earlier Greek statues the head remains lifeless, abstract, whilst +the limbs are full of expression. In a contrary spirit, more akin to +modern ideas, the Norse myth relates that Skadi, having her choice of a +husband from among all the gods, but having to choose by the feet alone, +meaning to take Baldur, got by mistake Niordr, an inferior deity. This +does not seem so strange to us; but a Greek would have wondered that the +daughter of a wise Titan should not know the feet of Apollo from those +of Nereus. It was said of Taglioni that she put mind into her legs. But +to the modern way of thinking this is clearly exceptional. It is in the +face, and especially in the eye, that we look to see the soul present +and at work, and not merely in its effects as character. As types of +character, the lineaments of the face were explored by the later Greek +Art as profoundly as the rest of the body. But the statue is +sightless,—its eyes do not meet ours, but seem forever brooding over a +world into which the present and its interests do not enter. To the +Greek this was no <a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a>defect; but to us the omission seems to affect the +most vital point of all, since our conception of the soul involves its +eternity, that is, that it lives always in the present, is not too fine +to exist, secure that it is bound neither by past nor future, but +capable of revolutionizing the character at all moments. Here is the +ground of the remarkable difference that meets us already in the reliefs +of the later classic times. In the reliefs of the best age the figures +are always in profile and in action. Complete personification being out +of the question, it is expressly avoided,—each figure waives attention +to itself, merges itself in the plot. Later, when the profounder idea of +a personality that does not isolate or degrade has begun to make itself +felt, this constraint is given up,—the figures face the spectator, and +enter as it were into relation with the actual world.</p> + +<p>The Church very early expressed this feeling of the higher significance +of the head, by allowing it to be sufficient if the head alone were +buried in holy ground. In Art it is naïvely indicated by exaggerated +size of the head and of the eyes,—a very common trait of the earlier +times, and not quite obsolete at the time of the Pisani. This clumsy +expedient is relinquished, but the need it indicated continued, without +the possibility of finding any complete satisfaction in Sculpture, +instead of the intensity and directness that Art now insists upon, +Sculpture can give only extension and indirect hints; instead of mind +present, only its effects and products, with the working cause expressly +removed.</p> + +<p>This is the ground of the seeming injustice to Sculpture at the time of +the Revival. Its relative excellence was undervalued, because what it +could do was not quite to the point. While the painters went on +producing their antediluvian forms, the sculptors saw things much more +as we do,—yet the paintings seemed the most life-like. It is +astonishing, when we remember that Nicola was older than Cimabue, +Giovanni than Giotto, Ghiberti than Frà Angelico, that the painters did +not learn from the sculptors more of the actual appearance of things. It +is still more astonishing that it is the painters that get all the +praise for accuracy. Vasari is endless in his praises of Giotto, +Spinello, Stefano, (called Scimia, or the Ape of Nature,) and a host of +others, for accurate imitation. Giovanni Villani boasts that "it is our +fellow-citizen Giotto who has portrayed most naturally every form and +action." Ghiberti finishes an admiring account of some paintings of +Ambrogio Lorenzotto's with the exclamation that it is truly marvellous +to think that all this is only a picture. Few persons, probably, would +see in the specimens of Ambrogio's work that still remain anything +wonderful for resemblance to Nature,—whilst in Ghiberti's everybody +acknowledges the astonishing truth of the detail. He tells us that he +sought "to imitate Nature as far as was possible to him,"—but he seems +not to be aware how much better he succeeded than the people he praises. +Paolo Uccello, who was twenty years younger than Ghiberti, got his +nickname from his skill in painting birds. But one would rather +undertake to paint birds as well as Paolo than to carve them as well as +Ghiberti.</p> + +<p>We may learn here how little the demand to "imitate Nature" expresses +what is intended. No accuracy, however demonstrable, will satisfy it. To +interest me in a picture, it is not enough that <i>something</i> is as +visible there as it is elsewhere; it must be something that I was +already striving to see. It was not a greater circumstantiality of +statement than was demanded, but greater directness,—that it should be +relieved of what was unessential to its purpose, tending only to obscure +it. A painting, however rude, has at least this negative merit, that, by +the express substitution of the appearance for the actual image, +needless entanglement in the material is avoided. Weight and bulk are +not indeed annihilated, but they are no longer of primary importance, +and thus less obstructive.<a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a> The work gains precisely in what it gives +up. By the flat omission of depth infinite depth is acquired,—by the +ignoring of size the expression of size becomes possible; a mountain, +for instance, which would be an absurdity in Sculpture is representable +in Painting. Thus, instead of being more abstract than Sculpture, +Painting is in truth less so, since what it omits is only negative to +the purpose of Art.</p> + +<p>It seems to us easier to paint than to carve, and we might expect to +find Painting the older art. But the difficulty lies less in the +execution than in the conception. Painting is not a tinting of surfaces, +but the power to see a complex subject in unity. We may think we have no +difficulty in seeing the landscape, but most persons, if called upon to +state what they saw, pictorially, would show that they could not see the +wood for the trees. Beginners suppose it is some knack of the hand that +they are to acquire, when they learn to draw; but that is a small part +of the matter; the great difficulty is in the seeing. Ordinary vision is +piecemeal: we see the parts; but not the picture, or only vaguely. Even +the degree of facility that is implied in any enjoyment of scenery is +not so much a matter of course as it seems. Cæsar occupied himself, +while crossing the Alps, with composing a grammatical treatise. There is +no evidence that there was anything odd in this. Perhaps Petrarch was +the first man that ever climbed a hill to enjoy the view. We are not +aware how much of what we see in Nature is due to pictures. Hardly any +man is so unsophisticated, but that, if he should try to sketch a +landscape, he would betray, in what he did or in what he omitted, that +he saw it more or less at second-hand, through the interpretations of +Art. A portfolio of Calame's or Harding's or Turner's drawings will give +us new eyes for the most familiar scenes.</p> + +<p>But we are aided still more by our habit of looking at things +theoretically, apart from their immediate practical bearing. A savage +can comprehend a carved image, but not so readily a picture. An Indian +whom Catlin painted with half his face in shadow became the +laughingstock of the tribe, as "the man with half a face." It is not +necessary to suspect Mr. Catlin's chiaroscuro; what puzzled them was, +doubtless, the bringing together in one view what they had seen only +separate. They were accustomed to see the man in light and in shadow; +but what they cared for, and therefore what they saw, was only the +effect in making it more or less easy to recognize him and to ascertain +his state of mind, intentions, etc. His face was either visible or +obscured; if they could see enough for their purpose, they regarded only +that. For it to be both at once was possible only from a point of view +which they had not reached. A child takes the shading of the portrait +for dirt,—that being the form in which darkening of the face is +familiar to him. A carved image is easier comprehended, because it can +be handled, turned about, and looked at on different sides, and a +material connection thereby assured between the various aspects. To +transfer this connection to the mind—to see varying distances in one +vertical plane, so that mere gradations of light and shade shall suggest +all these aspects arranged and harmonized in one view—is a farther +step, and the difficulty increases with the variety embraced. Cicero was +struck with this superiority in the artists of his time. "How much," he +says, "do painters see in shadow and relief that we do not see!" Yet +their perception seems strangely limited to us. The ancients had little +notion of perspective. Their eyes were too sure and too well-practised +to overlook the effect of position in foreshortening objects, and they +were much experienced in the corrections required, and the effect of +converging lines in increasing apparent distance was taken advantage of +in their theatre-scenes. But they had not learned that the difference +between the actual and the apparent form is thorough-going, so that the +picture no longer stands in the attitude of passive indifference towards +<a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a>the beholder, but imposes upon him its own point of view. It was +thought remarkable in the Minerva of Fabullus, that it had the +appearance of always looking at the spectator, from whatever point it +was viewed. This would be miraculous in a statue, and must seem so in +the picture so long as it is looked upon only as one side of a statue. +The wall-paintings of Pompeii, doubtless copies or reminiscences of +Greek originals,—with masterly skill in the parts, and with some +success in the landscape as far as it was easily reducible to one +plane,—are only collections of fragments, and show utter incapacity to +see the whole at once as a picture. For instance, in one of the many +pictures of Narcissus beholding himself in the well, the head, which is +inclined sideways, instead of being simply inverted in the reflection, +is reversed,—so that the chin, which is on the spectator's left in the +figure, is on the right in the reflected image: as if the artist, +knowing no other way, had placed himself head downwards, and in that +position had repeated the face as already painted. Such a blunder could +not originate with a copyist, for it would have been much easier to copy +correctly. It is clear from the general excellence of the figure that it +is not the work of an inferior artist. Nor can it have come from mere +carelessness; it is too elaborate for that,—and, moreover, here is the +main point of the picture, that which tells the story. Doubtless the +painter had noticed the pleasingness of such reflections, as repeating +the human form, the supreme object of interest; but the interest stopped +there. He saw the face above and the face below, as he would see the +different sides of a statue; but so incapable was he of perceiving the +connection and interdependence of them, that, even when Nature had made +the picture for him, he could not see it. This is no isolated, casual +mistake, but only a good chance to see what is really universal, though +not often so obvious.</p> + +<p>In this and other pictures the water is like a bit of looking-glass +stuck up in front,—without perspective, without connection with the +ground,—the mere assertion of a reflection. The conception embraced +only the main figure; the rest was added like a label, for explanation +only. These men did not see the landscape as we see it, because the +interest was wanting that combines it into a picture for our eyes. Our +"love of Nature" would have been incomprehensible and disgusting to a +Greek; he would have called our artists "dirt-painters." And from his +point of view he would be right. Dirt it is, if we abide by the mere +facts. The interest of Art lies not in the facts, but in the +truth,—that is, in the facts organized, shown in their place. It is not +that we care more about stocks and stones than they did, but that we +hold the key to an arrangement that gives these things a significance +they have not of themselves.</p><p><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="SNOW" id="SNOW"></a>SNOW.</h2> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lo, what wonders the day hath brought,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Born of the soft and slumberous snow!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gradual, silent, slowly wrought,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Even as an artist, thought by thought,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Writes expression on lip and brow.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Deep drifts smother the paths below;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And all the air is dizzy and dim</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dimly out of the baffled sight</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Houses and church-spires stretch away;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The trees, all spectral and still and white,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stand up like ghosts in the failing light,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And fade and faint with the blinded day.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The eddying drifts to the waste below;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And still is the banner of storm unfurled,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till all the drowned and desolate world</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Slowly the shadows gather and fall,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Still the whispering snow-flakes beat;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Night and darkness are over all:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rest, pale city, beneath their pall!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Land of my longing!—and underneath</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Swings and trembles my olive-wreath;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Peace and I are at home, at home!</span><br /> +</p><p><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="HOUSE_AND_HOME_PAPERS" id="HOUSE_AND_HOME_PAPERS"></a>HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS.</h2> + +<p>BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD.</p> + +<p>II.</p> + + +<p>I am a frank, open-hearted man, as, perhaps, you have by this time +perceived, and you will not, therefore, be surprised to know that I read +my last article on the carpet to my wife and the girls before I sent it +to the "Atlantic," and we had a hearty laugh over it together. My wife +and the girls, in fact, felt that they could afford to laugh, for they +had carried their point, their reproach among women was taken away, they +had become like other folks. Like other folks they had a parlor, an +undeniable best parlor, shut up and darkened, with all proper carpets, +curtains, lounges, and marble-topped tables, too good for human nature's +daily food; and being sustained by this consciousness, they cheerfully +went on receiving their friends in the study, and having good times in +the old free-and-easy way; for did not everybody know that this room was +not their best? and if the furniture was old-fashioned and a little the +worse for antiquity, was it not certain that they had better, which they +could use, if they would?</p> + +<p>"And supposing we wanted to give a party," said Jane, "how nicely our +parlor would light up! Not that we ever do give parties, but if we +should,—and for a wedding-reception, you know."</p> + +<p>I felt the force of the necessity; it was evident that the four or five +hundred extra which we had expended was no more than such solemn +possibilities required.</p> + +<p>"Now, papa thinks we have been foolish," said Marianne, "and he has his +own way of making a good story of it; but, after all, I desire to know +if people are never to get a new carpet. Must we keep the old one till +it actually wears to tatters?" This is a specimen of the <i>reductio ad +absurdum</i> which our fair antagonists of the other sex are fond of +employing. They strip what we say of all delicate shadings and illusory +phrases, and reduce it to some bare question of fact, with which they +make a home-thrust at us.</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's it; are people <i>never</i> to get a new carpet?" echoed Jane.</p> + +<p>"My dears," I replied, "it is a fact that to introduce anything new into +an apartment hallowed by many home-associations, where all things have +grown old together, requires as much care and adroitness as for an +architect to restore an arch or niche in a fine old ruin. The fault of +our carpet was that it was in another style from everything in our room, +and made everything in it look dilapidated. Its colors, material, and +air belonged to another manner of life, and were a constant plea for +alterations; and you see it actually drove out and expelled the whole +furniture of the room, and I am not sure yet that it may not entail on +us the necessity of refurnishing the whole house."</p> + +<p>"My dear!" said my wife, in a tone of remonstrance; but Jane and +Marianne laughed and colored.</p> + +<p>"Confess, now," said I, looking at them, "have you not had secret +designs on the hall- and stair-carpet?"</p> + +<p>"Now, papa, how could you know it? I only said to Marianne that to have +Brussels in the parlor and that old mean-looking ingrain carpet in the +hall did not seem exactly the thing; and, in fact, you know, mamma, +Messrs. Ketchem & Co. showed us such a lovely pattern, designed to +harmonize with our parlor-carpet."</p> + +<p>"I know it, girls," said my wife; "but you know I said at once that such +an expense was not to be thought of."</p> + +<p>"Now, girls," said I, "let me tell you a story I heard once of a very +sensible old New-England minister, who lived, as our country-ministers +generally do, rather near to the bone, but still quite contentedly. It +was in the days when knee-breeches <a name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></a>and long stockings were worn, and +this good man was offered a present of a very nice pair of black silk +hose. He declined, saying, he 'could not afford to wear them.'</p> + +<p>"'Not afford it?' said the friend; 'why, I <i>give</i> them to you.'</p> + +<p>"'Exactly; but it will cost me not less than two hundred dollars to take +them, and I cannot do it.'</p> + +<p>"'How is that?'</p> + +<p>"'Why, in the first place, I shall no sooner put them on than my wife +will say, "My dear, you must have a new pair of knee-breeches," and I +shall get them. Then my wife will say, "My dear, how shabby your coat +is! You must have a new one," and I shall get a new coat. Then she will +say, "Now, my dear, that hat will never do," and then I shall have a new +hat; and then I shall say, "My dear, it will never do for me to be so +fine and you to wear your old gown," and so my wife will get a new gown; +and then the new gown will require a new shawl and a new bonnet; all of +which we shall not feel the need of, if I don't take this pair of silk +stockings, for, as long as we don't see them, our old things seem very +well suited to each other.'"</p> + +<p>The girls laughed at this story, and I then added, in my most determined +manner,—</p> + +<p>"But I must warn you, girls, that I have compromised to the utmost +extent of my power, and that I intend to plant myself on the old +stair-carpet in determined resistance. I have no mind to be forbidden +the use of the front-stairs, or condemned to get up into my bedroom by a +private ladder, as I should be immediately, if there were a new carpet +down."</p> + +<p>"Why, papa!"</p> + +<p>"Would it not be so? Can the sun shine in the parlor now for fear of +fading the carpet? Can we keep a fire there for fear of making dust, or +use the lounges and sofas for fear of wearing them out? If you got a new +entry- and stair-carpet, as I said, I should have to be at the expense +of another staircase to get up to our bedroom."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, papa," said Jane, innocently; "there are very pretty druggets, +now, for covering stair-carpets, so that they can be used without +hurting them."</p> + +<p>"Put one over the old carpet, then," said I, "and our acquaintance will +never know but it is a new one."</p> + +<p>All the female senate laughed at this proposal, and said it sounded just +like a man.</p> + +<p>"Well," said I, standing up resolutely for my sex, "a man's ideas on +woman's matters may be worth some attention. I flatter myself that an +intelligent, educated man doesn't think upon and observe with interest +any particular subject for years of his life without gaining some ideas +respecting it that are good for something; at all events, I have written +another article for the 'Atlantic,' which I will read to you."</p> + +<p>"Well, wait one minute, papa, till we get our work," said the girls, +who, to say the truth, always exhibit a flattering interest in anything +their papa writes, and who have the good taste never to interrupt his +readings with any conversations in an undertone on cross-stitch and +floss-silks, as the manner of some is. Hence the little feminine bustle +of arranging all these matters beforehand. Jane, or Jennie, as I call +her in my good-natured moods, put on a fresh clear stick of hickory, of +that species denominated shag-bark, which is full of most charming +slivers, burning with such a clear flame, and emitting such a delicious +perfume in burning, that I would not change it with the millionnaire who +kept up his fire with cinnamon.</p> + +<p>You must know, my dear Mr. Atlantic, and you, my confidential friends of +the reading public, that there is a certain magic or spiritualism which +I have the knack of in regard to these mine articles, in virtue of which +my wife and daughters never hear or see the little personalities +respecting <i>them</i> which form parts of my papers. By a particular +arrangement which I have made with the elves of the inkstand and the +familiar spirits of the quill, a sort of glamour <a name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></a>falls on their eyes +and ears when I am reading, or when they read the parts personal to +themselves; otherwise their sense of feminine propriety would be shocked +at the free way in which they and their most internal affairs are +confidentially spoken of between me and you, O loving readers.</p> + +<p>Thus, in an undertone, I tell you that my little Jennie, as she is +zealously and systematically arranging the fire, and trimly whisking +every untidy particle of ashes from the hearth, shows in every movement +of her little hands, in the cock of her head, in the knowing, observing +glance of her eye, and in all her energetic movements, that her small +person is endued and made up of the very expressed essence of +housewifeliness,—she is the very attar, not of roses, but of +housekeeping. Care-taking and thrift and neatness are a nature to her; +she is as dainty and delicate in her person as a white cat, as +everlastingly busy as a bee; and all the most needful faculties of time, +weight, measure, and proportion out to be fully developed in her skull, +if there is any truth in phrenology. Besides all this, she has a sort of +hard-grained little vein of common sense, against which my fanciful +conceptions and poetical notions are apt to hit with just a little sharp +grating, if they are not well put. In fact, this kind of woman needs +carefully to be idealized in the process of education, or she will +stiffen and dry, as she grows old, into a veritable household Pharisee, +a sort of domestic tyrant. She needs to be trained in artistic values +and artistic weights and measures, to study all the arts and sciences of +the beautiful, and then she is charming. Most useful, most needful, +these little women: they have the centripetal force which keeps all the +domestic planets from gyrating and frisking in unseemly orbits,—and +properly trained, they fill a house with the beauty of order, the +harmony and consistency of proportion, the melody of things moving in +time and tune, without violating the graceful appearance of ease which +Art requires.</p> + +<p>So I had an eye to Jennie's education in my article which I unfolded and +read, and which was entitled,</p> + + +<p>HOME-KEEPING <i>vs.</i> HOUSE-KEEPING.</p> + +<p>There are many women who know how to keep a house, but there are but few +that know how to keep a <i>home</i>. To keep a house may seem a complicated +affair, but it is a thing that may be learned; it lies in the region of +the material, in the region of weight, measure, color, and the positive +forces of life. To keep a home lies not merely in the sphere of all +these, but it takes in the intellectual, the social, the spiritual, the +immortal.</p> + + +<p>Here the hickory-stick broke in two, and the two brands fell +controversially out and apart on the hearth, scattering the ashes and +coals, and calling for Jennie and the hearth-brush. Your wood-fire had +this foible, that it needs something to be done to it every five +minutes; but, after all, these little interruptions of our bright-faced +genius are like the piquant sallies of a clever friend,—they do not +strike us as unreasonable.</p> + +<p>When Jennie had laid down her brush, she said,—</p> + +<p>"Seems to me, papa, you are beginning to soar into metaphysics."</p> + +<p>"Everything in creation is metaphysical in its abstract terms," said I, +with a look calculated to reduce her to a respectful condition. +"Everything has a subjective and an objective mode of presentation."</p> + +<p>"There papa goes with subjective and objective!" said Marianne. "For my +part, I never can remember which is which."</p> + +<p>"I remember," said Jennie; "it's what our old nurse used to call +internal and <i>out</i>-ternal,—I always remember by that."</p> + +<p>"Come, my dears," said my wife, "let your father read"; so I went on as +follows:—</p> + + +<p>I remember in my bachelor days going with my boon companion, Bill +Carberry to look at the house to which he was in a few weeks to +introduce his <a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a>bride. Bill was a gallant, free-hearted, open-handed +fellow, the life of our whole set, and we felt that natural aversion to +losing him that bachelor friends would. How could we tell under what +strange aspects he might look forth upon us, when once he had passed +into "that undiscovered country" of matrimony? But Bill laughed to scorn +our apprehensions.</p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what, Chris," he said, as he sprang cheerily up the steps +and unlocked the door of his future dwelling, "do you know what I chose +this house for? Because it's a social-looking house. Look there, now," +he said, as he ushered me into a pair of parlors,—"look at those long +south windows, the sun lies there nearly all day long; see what a +capital corner there is for a lounging-chair; fancy us, Chris, with our +books or our paper, spread out loose and easy, and Sophie gliding in and +out like a sunbeam. I'm getting poetical, you see. Then, did you ever +see a better, wider, airier dining-room? What capital suppers and things +we'll have there! the nicest times,—everything free and easy, you +know,—just what I've always wanted a house for. I tell you, Chris, you +and Tom Innis shall have latch-keys just like mine, and there is a +capital chamber there at the head of the stairs, so that you can be free +to come and go. And here now's the library,—fancy this full of books +and engravings from the ceiling to the floor; here you shall come just +as you please and ask no questions,—all the same as if it were your +own, you know."</p> + +<p>"And Sophie, what will she say to all this?"</p> + +<p>"Why, you know Sophie is a prime friend to both of you, and a capital +girl to keep things going. Oh, Sophie'll make a house of this, you may +depend!"</p> + +<p>A day or two after, Bill dragged me stumbling over boxes +and through straw and wrappings to show me the glories of the +parlor-furniture,—with which he teemed pleased as a child with a new +toy.</p> + +<p>"Look here," he said; "see these chairs, garnet-colored satin, with a +pattern on each; well, the sofa's just like them, and the curtains to +match, and the carpets made for the floor with centrepieces and borders. +I never saw anything more magnificent in my life. Sophie's governor +furnishes the house, and everything is to be A No. 1, and all that, you +see. Messrs. Curtain and Collamore are coming to make the rooms up, and +her mother is busy as a bee getting us in order."</p> + +<p>"Why, Bill," said I, "you are going to be lodged like a prince. I hope +you'll be able to keep it up; but law-business comes in rather slowly at +first, old fellow."</p> + +<p>"Well, you know it isn't the way I should furnish, if my capital was the +one to cash the bills; but then, you see, Sophie's people do it, and let +them,—a girl doesn't want to come down out of the style she has always +lived in."</p> + +<p>I said nothing, but had an oppressive presentiment that social freedom +would expire in that house, crushed under a weight of upholstery.</p> + +<p>But there came in due time the wedding and the wedding-reception, and we +all went to see Bill in his new house splendidly lighted up and complete +from top to toe, and everybody said what a lucky fellow he was; but that +was about the end of it, so far as our visiting was concerned. The +running in, and dropping in, and keeping latch-keys, and making informal +calls, that had been forespoken, seemed about as likely as if Bill had +lodged in the Tuileries.</p> + +<p>Sophie, who had always been one of your snapping, sparkling, busy sort +of girls, began at once to develop her womanhood, and show her +principles, and was as different from her former self as your careworn, +mousing old cat is from your rollicking, frisky kitten. Not but that +Sophie was a good girl. She had a capital heart, a good, true womanly +one, and was loving and obliging; but still she was one of the +desperately painstaking, conscientious sort of women whose very blood, +as they grow older, is devoured with anxiety, and she came of a race of +women in whom house-keeping was more than an art or a science,—it was, +so to speak, a religion. Sophie's mother, aunts, and grandmothers <a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a>for +nameless generations back, were known and celebrated housekeepers. They +might have been genuine descendants of the inhabitants of that Hollandic +town of Broeck, celebrated by Washington Irving, where the cows' tails +are kept tied up with unsullied blue ribbons, and the ends of the +firewood are painted white. He relates how a celebrated preacher, +visiting this town, found it impossible to draw these housewives from +their earthly views and employments, until he took to preaching on the +<i>neatness</i> of the celestial city, the unsullied crystal of its walls and +the polish of its golden pavement, when the faces of all the housewives +were set Zionward at once.</p> + +<p>Now this solemn and earnest view of housekeeping is onerous enough when +a poor girl first enters on the care of a moderately furnished house, +where the articles are not too expensive to be reasonably renewed as +time and use wear them; but it is infinitely worse when a cataract of +splendid furniture is heaped upon her care,—when splendid crystals cut +into her conscience, and mirrors reflect her duties, and moth and rust +stand ever ready to devour and sully in every room and passage-way.</p> + +<p>Sophie was solemnly warned and instructed by all the mothers and +aunts,—she was warned of moths, warned of cockroaches, warned of flies, +warned of dust; all the articles of furniture had their covers, made of +cold Holland linen, in which they looked like bodies laid out,—even the +curtain-tassels had each its little shroud—and bundles of receipts and +of rites and ceremonies necessary for the preservation and purification +and care of all these articles were stuffed into the poor girl's head, +before guiltless of cares as the feathers that floated above it.</p> + +<p>Poor Bill found very soon that his house and furniture were to be kept +at such an ideal point of perfection that he needed another house to +live in,—for, poor fellow, he found the difference between having a +house and a home. It was only a year or two after that my wife and I +started our <i>menage</i> on very different principles, and Bill would often +drop in upon us, wistfully lingering in the cozy arm-chair between my +writing-table and my wife's sofa, and saying with a sigh how +confoundedly pleasant things looked there,—so pleasant to have a +bright, open fire, and geraniums and roses and birds, and all that sort +of thing, and to dare to stretch out one's legs and move without +thinking what one was going to hit. "Sophie is a good girl," he would +say, "and wants to have everything right, but you see they won't let +her. They've loaded her with so many things that have to be kept in +lavender, that the poor girl is actually getting thin and losing her +health; and then, you see, there's Aunt Zeruah, she mounts guard at our +house, and keeps up such strict police-regulations that a fellow can't +do a thing. The parlors are splendid, but so lonesome and dismal!—not a +ray of sunshine, in fact not a ray of light, except when a visitor is +calling, and then they open a crack. They're afraid of flies, and yet, +dear knows, they keep every looking-glass and picture-frame muffled to +its throat from March to December. I'd like for curiosity to see what a +fly would do in our parlors!"</p> + +<p>"Well," said I, "can't you have some little family sitting-room, where +you can make yourselves cozy?"</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of it. Sophie and Aunt Zeruah have fixed their throne up in +our bedroom, and there they sit all day long, except at calling-hours, +and then Sophie dresses herself and comes down. Aunt Zeruah insists upon +it that the way is to put the whole house in order, and shut all the +blinds, and sit in your bedroom, and then, she says, nothing gets out of +place; and she tells poor Sophie the most hocus-pocus stories about her +grandmothers and aunts, who always kept everything in their houses so +that they could go and lay their hands on it in the darkest night. I'll +bet they could in our house. From end to end it is kept looking as if we +had shut it up and gone to Europe,—not a book, not a paper, not a +glove, or any trace of a human being, <a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a>in sight. The piano shut tight, +the bookcases shut and locked, the engravings locked up, all the drawers +and closets locked. Why, if I want to take a fellow into the library, in +the first place it smells like a vault, and I have to unbarricade +windows, and unlock and rummage for half an hour before I can get at +anything; and I know Aunt Zeruah is standing tiptoe at the door, ready +to whip everything back and lock up again. A fellow can't be social, or +take any comfort in showing his books and pictures that way. Then +there's our great, light dining-room, with its sunny south +windows,—Aunt Zeruah got us out of that early in April, because she +said the flies would speck the frescos and get into the china-closet, +and we have been eating in a little dingy den, with a window looking out +on a back-alley, ever since; and Aunt Zeruah says that now the +dining-room is always in perfect order, and that it is such a care off +Sophy's mind that I ought to be willing to eat down-cellar to the end of +the chapter. Now, you see, Chris, my position is a delicate one, because +Sophie's folks all agree, that, if there is anything in creation that is +ignorant and dreadful and mustn't be allowed his way anywhere, it's 'a +man'. Why, you'd think, to hear Aunt Zeruah talk, that we were all like +bulls in a china-shop, ready to toss and tear and rend, if we are not +kept down-cellar and chained; and she worries Sophie, and Sophie's +mother comes in and worries, and if I try to get anything done +differently, Sophie cries, and says she don't know what to do, and so I +give it up. Now, if I want to ask a few of our set in sociably to +dinner, I can't have them where we eat down-cellar,—oh, that would +never do! Aunt Zeruah and Sophie's mother and the whole family would +think the family-honor was forever ruined and undone. We mustn't ask +them, unless we open the dining-room, and have out all the best china, +and get the silver home from the bank; and if we do that, Aunt Zeruah +doesn't sleep for a week beforehand, getting ready for it, and for a +week after, getting things put away; and then she tells me, that, in +Sophie's delicate state, it really is abominable for me to increase her +cares, and so I invite fellows to dine with me at Delmonico's, and then +Sophie cries, and Sophie's mother says it doesn't look respectable for a +family-man to be dining at public places; but, hang it, a fellow wants a +home somewhere!"</p> + +<p>My wife soothed the chafed spirit, and spake comfortably unto him, and +told him that he knew there was the old lounging-chair always ready for +him at our fireside. "And you know," she said, "our things are all so +plain that we are never tempted to mount any guard over them; our +carpets are nothing, and therefore we let the sun fade them, and live on +the sunshine and the flowers."</p> + +<p>"That's it," said Bill, bitterly, "Carpets fading!—that's Aunt Zeruah's +monomania. These women think that the great object of houses is to keep +out sunshine. What a fool I was, when I gloated over the prospect of our +sunny south windows! Why, man, there are three distinct sets of +fortifications against the sunshine in those windows: first, outside +blinds; then, solid, folding, inside shutters; and, lastly, heavy, +thick, lined damask curtains, which loop quite down to the floor. What's +the use of my pictures, I desire to know? They are hung in that room, +and it's a regular campaign to get light enough to see what they are."</p> + +<p>"But, at all events, you can light them up with gas in the evening."</p> + +<p>"In the evening! Why, do you know my wife never wants to sit there in +the evening? She says she has so much sewing to do that she and Aunt +Zeruah must sit up in the bedroom, because it wouldn't do to bring work +into the parlor. Didn't you know that? Don't you know there mustn't be +such a thing as a bit of real work ever seen in a parlor? What if some +threads should drop on the carpet? Aunt Zeruah would have to open all +the fortifications next day, and search Jerusalem with candles to find +them. No; in the evening the gas is lighted at half-cock, you know; and +if I turn it up, <a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a>and bring in my newspapers and spread about me, and +pull down some books to read, I can feel the nervousness through the +chamber-door. Aunt Zeruah looks in at eight, and at a quarter past, and +at half-past, and at nine, and at ten, to see if I am done, so that she +may fold up the papers and put a book on them, and lock up the books in +their cases. Nobody ever comes in to spend an evening. They used to try +it when we were first married, but I believe the uninhabited appearance +of our parlors discouraged them. Everybody has stopped coming now, and +Aunt Zeruah says 'it is such a comfort, for now the rooms are always in +order. How poor Mrs. Crowfield lives, with her house such a +thoroughfare, she is sure she can't see. Sophie never would have +strength for it; but then, to be sure, some folks a'n't as particular as +others. Sophie was brought up in a family of <i>very</i> particular +housekeepers.'"</p> + +<p>My wife smiled, with that calm, easy, amused smile that has brightened +up her sofa for so many years.</p> + +<p>Bill added, bitterly,—</p> + +<p>"Of course, I couldn't say that I wished the whole set and system of +housekeeping women at the—what-'s-his-name? because Sophie would have +cried for a week, and been utterly forlorn and disconsolate. I know it's +not the poor girl's fault; I try sometimes to reason with her, but you +can't reason with the whole of your wife's family, to the third and +fourth generation backwards; but I'm sure it's hurting her +health,—wearing her out. Why, you know Sophie used to be the life of +our set; and now she really seems eaten up with care from morning to +night, there are so many things in the house that something dreadful is +happening to all the while, and the servants we get are so clumsy. Why, +when I sit with Sophie and Aunt Zeruah, it's nothing but a constant +string of complaints about the girls in the kitchen. We keep changing +our servants all the time, and they break and destroy so that now we are +turned out of the use of all our things. We not only eat in the +basement, but all our pretty table-things are put away, and we have all +the cracked plates and cracked tumblers and cracked teacups and old +buck-handled knives that can be raised out of chaos. I could use these +things and be merry, if I didn't know we had better ones; and I can't +help wondering whether there isn't some way that our table could be set +to look like a gentleman's table; but Aunt Zeruah says that 'it would +cost thousands, and what difference does it make as long as nobody sees +it but us?' You see, there's no medium in her mind between china and +crystal and cracked earthen-ware. Well, I'm wondering how all these laws +of the Medes and Persians are going to work when the children come +along. I'm in hopes the children will soften off the old folks, and make +the, house more habitable."</p> + +<p>Well, children did come, a good many of them, in time. There was Tom, a +broad-shouldered, chubby-cheeked, active, hilarious son of mischief, +born in the very image of his father; and there was Charlie, and Jim, +and Louisa, and Sophie the second, and Frank,—and a better, brighter, +more joy-giving household, as far as temperament and nature were +concerned, never existed.</p> + +<p>But their whole childhood was a long battle, children <i>versus</i> +furniture, and furniture always carried the day. The first step of the +housekeeping powers was to choose the least agreeable and least +available room in the house for the children's nursery, and to fit it up +with all the old, cracked, rickety furniture a neighboring auction-shop +could afford, and then to keep them in it. Now everybody knows that to +bring up children to be upright, true, generous, and religious, needs so +much discipline, so much restraint and correction, and so many rules and +regulations, that it is all that the parents can carry out, and all the +children can bear. There is only a certain amount of the vital force for +parents or children to use in this business of education, and one must +choose what It shall be used for. The Aunt-Zeruah faction chose to use +it <a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a>for keeping the house and furniture, and the children's education +proceeded accordingly. The rules of right and wrong of which they heard +most frequently were all of this sort: Naughty children were those who +went up the front-stairs, or sat on the best sofa, or fingered any of +the books in the library, or got out one of the best teacups, or drank +out of the cut-glass goblets.</p> + +<p>Why did they ever want to do it? If there ever is a forbidden fruit in +an Eden, will not our young Adams and Eves risk soul and body to find +out how it tastes? Little Tom, the oldest boy, had the courage and +enterprise and perseverance of a Captain Parry or Dr. Kane, and he used +them all in voyages of discovery to forbidden grounds. He stole Aunt +Zeruah's keys, unlocked her cupboards and closets, saw, handled, and +tasted everything for himself, and gloried in his sins.</p> + +<p>"Don't you know, Tom," said the nurse to him once, "if you are so noisy +and rude, you'll disturb your dear mamma? She's sick, and she may die, +if you're not careful."</p> + +<p>"Will she die?" said Tom, gravely.</p> + +<p>"Why, she <i>may</i>."</p> + +<p>"Then," says Tom, turning on his heel,—"then I'll go up the +front-stairs."</p> + +<p>As soon as ever the little rebel was old enough, he was sent away to +boarding-school, and then there was never found a time when it was +convenient to have him come home again. He could not come in the spring, +for then they were house-cleaning, nor in the autumn, because <i>then</i> +they were house-cleaning; and so he spent his vacations at school, +unless, by good luck, a companion who was so fortunate as to have a home +invited him there. His associations, associates, habits, principles, +were as little known to his mother as if she had sent him to China. Aunt +Zeruah used to congratulate herself on the rest there was at home, now +he was gone, and say she was only living in hopes of the time when +Charlie and Jim would be big enough to send away too; and meanwhile +Charlie and Jim, turned out of the charmed circle which should hold +growing boys to the father's and mother's side, detesting the dingy, +lonely play-room, used to run the city-streets, and hang round the +railroad-depots or docks. Parents may depend upon it, that, if they do +not make an attractive resort for their boys, Satan will. There are +places enough, kept warm and light and bright and merry, where boys can +go whose mothers' parlors are too fine for them to sit in. There are +enough to be found to clap them on the back, and tell them stories that +their mothers must not hear, and laugh when they compass with their +little piping voices the dreadful litanies of sin and shame. In middle +life, our poor Sophie, who as a girl was so gay and frolicsome, so full +of spirits, had dried and sharpened into a hard-visaged, angular +woman,—careful and troubled about many things, and forgetful that one +thing is needful. One of the boys had run away to sea; I believe he has +never been heard of. As to Tom, the oldest, he ran a career wild and +hard enough for a time, first at school and then in college, and there +came a time when he came home, in the full might of six feet two, and +almost broke his mother's heart with his assertions of his home rights +and privileges. Mothers who throw away the key of their children's +hearts in childhood sometimes have a sad retribution. As the children +never were considered when they were little and helpless, so they do not +consider when they are strong and powerful. Tom spread wide desolation +among the household gods, lounging on the sofas, spitting tobacco-juice +on the carpets, scattering books and engravings hither and thither, and +throwing all the family-traditions into wild disorder, as he would never +have done, had not all his childish remembrances of them been embittered +by the association of restraint and privation. He actually seemed to +hate any appearance of luxury or taste or order,—he was a perfect +Philistine.</p> + +<p>As for my friend Bill, from being the pleasantest and most genial of +fellows, he <a name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a>became a morose, misanthropic man. Dr. Franklin has a +significant proverb,—"Silks and satins put out the kitchen-fire." Silks +and satins—meaning by them the luxuries of housekeeping—often put out +not only the parlor-fire, but that more sacred flame, the fire of +domestic love. It is the greatest possible misery to a man and to his +children to be <i>homeless</i>; and many a man has a splendid house, but no +home.</p> + + +<p>"Papa," said Jennie, "you ought to write and tell what are your ideas of +keeping a <i>home</i>."</p> + +<p>"Girls, you have only to think how your mother has brought you up."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, I think, being so fortunate a husband, I might reduce my +wife's system to an analysis, and my next paper shall be,—</p> + +<p><i>What is a home, and how to keep it?</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_CONVULSIONISTS_OF_ST_MEDARD" id="THE_CONVULSIONISTS_OF_ST_MEDARD"></a>THE CONVULSIONISTS OF ST. MÉDARD</h2> + + +<p>Of all the mental epidemics that have visited Europe, beyond question +the most remarkable, and in some of its features the most inexplicable, +is that which prevailed in Paris some hundred and thirty years ago, +among what were called <i>the Convulsionists of St. Médard</i>.</p> + +<p>The celebrated Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres, during his life the opponent +and enemy of the Jesuits, whom he caused to be excluded from the +theological schools of Louvain, left behind him, at his death, a +treatise, posthumously published in 1640, entitled, "Augustinus," in +which he professed to set forth the true opinions of St. Augustine on +those century-long disputed questions of Grace, Free-Will, and +Predestination. Taking ground against the Molinists, he contended for +the doctrine of Predestination antecedent and absolute, a gift purely +gratuitous, of God's free grace, independent of any virtue or merit in +the recipient soul. This doctrine, set forth in five propositions, was +condemned, in the middle of the seventeenth century, by Popes Innocent +X. and Alexander VII.; and against it, when revived by Father Quesnel in +the beginning of the eighteenth century, there was fulminated, in 1713, +by Pope Clement XI., the famous Bull <i>Unigenitus</i>.</p> + +<p>From this Bull, accepted in France after long opposition, the Jansenist +party appealed to a future Papal Council, thence deriving their name of +<i>Appellants</i>. Among these, one of the most noted and zealous was the +Diacre Pâris, who refused a curacy, to avoid signing his adhesion to +what he regarded as heresy, consumed his fortune in works of charity, +and his health in austerities of a character so excessive that they +abridged his life. Dying, as his partisans have it, in the odor of +sanctity, and protesting with his last breath against the doctrines of +the obnoxious Bull, his remains were deposited, on the second of May, +1727, in the small church-yard of St. Médard, situated in the twelfth +<i>arrondissement</i> of Paris, on the Rue Mouffetard, not far from the +Jardin des Plantes.</p> + +<p>To the tomb of one whom they regarded as a martyr to their cause the +Jansenist Appellants habitually resorted, in all the fervor of religious +zeal, heated to enthusiasm by the persecution of the dominant party. And +there, after a time, phenomena presented themselves, which caused for +years, throughout the French capital and among the theologians of that +age, a fever of excitement; and which, though they have been noticed by +medical and other writers of our own century, have not yet, in my +judgment, attracted, either from the medical profession or from the +<a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a>pneumatological inquirer, the attention they deserve.</p> + +<p>Of these phenomena a portion were physical, and a portion were mental or +psychological. The former, first appearing in the early part of the year +1731, consisted (as alleged) partly of extraordinary cures, the apparent +result of violent convulsive movements which overtook the patients soon +after their bodies touched the marble of the tomb, sometimes even +without approaching it, by swallowing, in wine or water, a small portion +of the earth gathered from around it, the effect being heightened by +strict fasting and prayer,—partly of what were called the "<i>Grands +Secours</i>," literally "Great Succors," consisting of the most desperate, +one might say <i>murderous</i>, remedies, applied, at their urgent request, +to relieve the sufferings of the Convulsionists. These measures, called +of relief, and carried to an incredible excess, were of such a +character, that, during any normal state of the human system, they would +have destroyed, not one, but a hundred lives, if the patient, or victim, +had been endowed with so many. Those who regarded this marvellous +immunity from what seemed certain immolation as a miraculous +interposition of God were called <i>Succorists</i>; their opponents, +ascribing such effects to the interference of the Devil in protection of +his own, or (a somewhat rare opinion in those days) to natural +agency, went by the name of <i>Anti-Succorists</i>. (<i>Secouristes</i> and +<i>Anti-Secouristes</i>.)</p> + +<p>Some of these alleged cures, but more especially some of these so-called +<i>succors</i>, were of a nature so far passing belief, that one would be +tempted to cast them aside as sheer impostures, were not the main facts +vouched for by evidence, not from the Jansenists alone, but from their +bitterest opponents, so direct, so overwhelmingly multiplied, so +minutely circumstantial, that to reject it would amount to a virtual +declaration, that, in proof of the extraordinary and the improbable, we +will accept no testimony whatever, let its weight or character be what +it may. Accordingly, we find dispassionate modern writers, medical and +others, while reminding us, as well they may, that enlightened observers +of these strange phenomena were lacking,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> and while properly +suggesting that we ought to make allowance for exaggeration in some of +the details, yet admitting as incontestable realities the substantial +facts related by the historians of St. Médard.</p> + +<p>Among these historians the chief is Carré de Montgéron, a magistrate of +rank and high character, Counsellor of the Parliament of Paris. An +enthusiast, and a weak logician, as hot enthusiasts generally are, +Montgéron's honesty is admitted to be beyond question. Converted to +Jansenism on the seventh of September, 1731, in the church-yard of St. +Médard, by the strange scenes there passing, he expended his fortune, +sacrificed his liberty, and devoted years of his life, in the +preparation and publication of one of the most extraordinary works that +ever issued from the press.<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> It consists of three quarto volumes, of +some nine hundred closely printed pages each. Crowded <a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a>with repetitions, +and teeming with false reasoning, these volumes nevertheless contain, +backed by certificates without number, such an elaborate aggregation of +concurrent testimony as I think human industry never before brought +together to prove any contested class of phenomena.</p> + +<p>Not less zealous, if less voluminous, were the writers opposed to what +was called "the work of the convulsions." Of these one of the chief was +Dom La Taste, Bishop of Bethléem, author of the "Lettres Théologiques," +and of the "Mémoire Théologique," in both of which the extravagances of +the Convulsionists are severely handled; a second was the Abbé d'Asfeld, +who, in 1738, published his "Vains Efforts des Discernans," in the same +strain; and another, M. Poncet, who put forth an elaborate reply to the +Succorists, entitled "Réponse des Anti-Secouristes à la Réclamation."</p> + +<p>The convulsions, commencing in the year 1731, almost immediately assumed +an epidemical character, spreading so rapidly that in a few months the +affected reached the number of eight hundred. These were to be found not +only on the tomb and in the cemetery itself, but in the streets, lanes, +and houses adjoining. Many, after returning from the exciting scenes of +St. Médard, were seized with convulsions in their own dwellings.</p> + +<p>The numbers and the excitement went on increasing, and conversions to +Jansenism were counted by thousands; the scenes became daily more +extravagant, and the phenomena more extraordinary, until the King, moved +either by the representations of physicians or by the remonstrances of +Jesuit theologians, caused the cemetery to be closed on the twenty-ninth +of January, 1732.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> + +<p>Not for such interdiction, however, did the phenomena, once in progress, +intermit. For fifteen years, or longer,<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> the symptoms continued, with +more or less violence. Indeed, the number of Convulsionists greatly +increased after the cemetery was closed, extending to those who had no +ailment or bodily infirmity.<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p> + +<p>The symptoms, though varying in different individuals, were of one +general character, partaking, especially as to the muscular phenomena, +of the nature of hysteria, or hystero-catalepsy. The patient, soon after +being placed on the revered tomb, or on the ground near it, was commonly +attacked by a tumultuous movement of all his members. Contractions +exhibited themselves in the neck, shoulders, and principal muscles all +over the body. The nervous system became dreadfully excited. The heart +beat violently, and the patient, sometimes retaining partial +consciousness and suffering extreme pain, could not restrain violent +cries. He usually experienced, also, a tingling or pricking sensation in +any diseased member. Those who from birth had been afflicted with +paralysis, or partial paralysis, of a limb, or one side of the body, +felt the convulsions chiefly in that limb or side. The convulsions were +often so violent that numerous assistants <a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a>could scarcely restrain the +patient from seriously injuring himself by dashing his body or limbs +against the marble.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></p> + +<p>The Demoiselle Fourcroy, alleged to have been suddenly cured, on the +fourteenth of April, 1732, by means of these convulsions, of a confirmed +anchylosis, which had deformed her left foot, and which the physicians +had pronounced incurable,<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> thus describes, in her deposition, her +sensations:—"They caused me to take wine in which was some earth from +the tomb of M. de Pâris, and I immediately engaged in prayer, as the +commencement of a <i>neuvaine</i>" (that is, a nine-days' act of devotion). +"Almost at the same moment I was seized with a great shuddering, and +soon after with a violent agitation of the members, which caused my +whole body to jerk into the air, and gave me a force I had never before +possessed,—so that the united strength of several persons present could +scarcely restrain me. After a time, in the course of these violent +convulsive movements, I lost all consciousness. As soon as they passed +off, I recovered my senses, and felt a sensation of tranquillity and +internal peace, such as I had never experienced before."<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p> + +<p>It was usually at the moment of recovery from these convulsions, as +Montgéron alleges and the certificates published by him declare, that +the cures deemed by him miraculous were effected. Sometimes, however, +these cures were gradual only, extending through several days or weeks.</p> + +<p>In Montgéron's work fourteen distinct cures are minutely reported, all +of persons declared by the attendant physicians to be incurable. Each of +these cures, with the documentary evidence in support of it, occupies +from fifty to one hundred pages of his book. The greater number are +cases of paralysis, usually of one entire side of the body, in some +instances complicated with general dropsy, in others with cancer, in +others again with attacks of apoplexy. There are four cases where the +eyesight was restored,—one of them of a lachrymal fistula; one of a +young Spanish nobleman, who suddenly recovered the use of his right eye, +the left, however, remaining uncured; and there is a case in which a +young woman, deaf and dumb from birth, is reported to have been suddenly +and completely cured on the tomb of M. de Pâris, at the moment the +convulsions ceased, immediately repeating, though not understanding, any +word that was spoken to her by the bystanders.</p> + +<p>My limits do not permit me to follow Montgéron through the details and +the documentary proof of these cures. That the patient, in each case, +previously examined by some physician of reputation, was pronounced +incurable, does not prove that he was so. Yet, unless Montgéron lie, +some of the cures are inexplicable, upon any received principles of +medical science. One man, (Philippe Sergent,) whose right knee had +shrunk to such a degree that the right leg was, and had been for more +than a year, three finger-breadths shorter than the left, was, according +to the certificates, cured on the spot, threw away his crutches, and +walked home, unaided, followed by a wondering crowd. Another patient, +(Marguerite Thibault,) affected by general dropsy, and whose feet and +legs were swollen to three times their natural size, is reported to have +been cured so suddenly that before she left the tomb her servant could +put on her feet the same slippers she had worn previously to her malady. +This woman had also been afflicted, for three years, with paralysis of +the left side, so complete as to deprive it of all power of motion. Yet +she is stated to have raised herself, unaided, on the tomb, to have +walked from the spot, and even to have ascended the stairs of her house +on her return. The symptom immediately preceding her cure is said <a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a>to +have been "a beneficent heat, which diffused itself over the entire left +side, so long deadly cold." This was followed by a consciousness of +power to move it; and her first effort was to stretch out her paralytic +arm.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> + +<p>But these cures, wonderful as they appear, are far less marvellous than +another class of phenomena already referred to.</p> + +<p>The convulsions were often accompanied by an urgent instinctive desire +for certain extreme remedies, sometimes of a frightful character,—as +stretching the limbs with a violence similar to that of the +rack,—administering on the breast, stomach, or other parts of the body, +hundreds of terrible blows with heavy weapons of wood, iron, or +stone,—pressing with main force against various parts of the body with +sharp-pointed swords,—pressure under enormous weights,—exposure to +excessive heat, etc. Montgéron, viewing the whole as miraculous, +says,—"God frequently causes the convulsionists the most acute pains, +and at the same time intimates to them, by a supernatural instinct, that +the formidable succors which He desires that they should demand will +cause all their sufferings to cease; and these sufferings usually have a +sort of relation to the succors which are to prove a remedy for them. +For instance, an oppression on the breast indicates the necessity for +blows of extreme violence on that part; an excessive cold, or a +devouring heat, when it suddenly seizes a convulsionist, requires that +he should be pushed into the midst of flames; a sharp pang, similar to +that caused by an iron point piercing the flesh, demands a thrust of a +rapier,<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> given in the spot where the pain is felt, be it In the +throat, in the mouth, or in the eyes, of which there are numerous +examples; and let the rapier be pushed as it may, the point, no matter +how sharp, cannot pierce the most tender flesh, not even the eye of the +patient: of this, in my third proposition, I shall adduce proof the most +incontestable."<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></p> + +<p>To <i>some</i> extent, it would seem, the symptoms themselves, attending the +convulsions, appeared, to the observant physician, to warrant the +propriety of the remedy desired. Montgéron copies a report of a case +made to him, and attested by a gentleman of his acquaintance, a +Jansenist, who had persuaded his cousin, Dr. M——, at that time a +distinguished physician of Paris, and much prejudiced against the +Jansenist movement, to accompany him to a house where there was a young +girl subject to the reigning epidemic. They found her in a room with +twenty or thirty persons, and at the moment in convulsions. The +assistants agreed to place the case in the hands of the physician, and +he carefully noted the movements of the patient.</p> + +<p>"After a time," proceeds the reporter, "he was greatly astonished to +observe a sudden convulsive retraction of all the members. Examining the +patient closely, touching her breast and limbs, he became aware of a +contraction of the nerves, which gradually reached such a degree of +violence that the whole body was disfigured in a frightful manner. His +surprise was extreme, and it was soon changed to alarm, which induced +him to forget his prejudices, and to resort to the very means he had +previously condemned as useless or dangerous. He caused us to place +ourselves, one at the head and one at each hand and foot, and bade us +pull moderately. We did so.</p> + +<p>"'Not enough,' he said, with his hand on the patient's breast; +'stronger!'</p> + +<p>"We obeyed.</p> + +<p>"'Stronger yet!' he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"We told him we were exerting our entire strength.</p> + +<p>"'Two, then, to each limb,' he said.</p><p><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a></p> + +<p>"It was done, (by the aid of long and very strong pieces of +cloth-listing,) but proved insufficient.</p> + +<p>"'Three to each!' he cried; 'the child will die; pull with all your +force! Stronger still!'"</p> + +<p>"'We cannot.'"</p> + +<p>"'Then four to each!'"</p> + +<p>"He was obeyed."</p> + +<p>"'Ah, that relieves,' he said; 'the nerves resume their tone; the +symptoms improve. But do not relax the tension.'"</p> + +<p>"Then again, after a pause,—"</p> + +<p>"'Strong! stronger! The contractions increase. Put all your strength to +it.'"</p> + +<p>Ultimately five persons were assigned to each band; and the nearest +aided themselves by bracing their feet against the bed. They continued +their efforts during half an hour, sometimes pulling with all their +strength, sometimes less strongly, as the physician observed the +contraction of the nerves to increase or relax. Finally he ordered the +tension to be gradually diminished, in proportion as the convulsion +passed off.</p> + +<p>After a time this convulsion was succeeded by another, causing a sudden +and alarming swelling of the chest. "The girl stood leaning against a +wall, and in that position he caused us, as had been our wont, to press +with force on her chest. This we did, interposing a small cushion +composed of listing. At first, I alone assisted." Then Dr. M—— ordered +three, four, five, ultimately even a greater number of persons, to aid +them. "The convulsion ceased gradually, and in the same proportion he +caused us to diminish the pressure."</p> + +<p>"Afterwards the physician, having retired to another room, said to us, +before going away, 'You would be homicides, gentlemen, if you did not +render these succors; for the symptoms require them; and the girl would +die, if you refused them. There is nothing but what is natural in the +relation between her state and these succors.'"<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a></p> + +<p>Another example, occurring in 1740, and still more striking, because the +case was that of a girl only three years of age, is given by Montgéron +on the authority (among other witnesses) of Count de Novion, a near +relative of the Duke de Gesvres, Governor of Paris. The Count, having +been present throughout this case, testifies from personal observation.</p> + +<p>The child's limbs, as in the previous example, were drawn up by violent +convulsive movements, and the muscles became as it were knotted, causing +extreme pain. The little creature urgently begged that they would draw +her legs and arms. Moderate tension caused no diminution of the pain; +violent tension, administered with fear and trembling, relieved her +immediately. She complained also of acute pain in the breast, which +swelled to an alarming extent. To remove this, nothing proved effectual +but excessive pressure with the knee on the part affected.</p> + +<p>After a time, however, some of the Anti-Succorist theologians persuaded +the mother that the succors ought not to be administered,—and even +raised doubts in her mind and in that of the Count, as to whether the +Devil had not some agency in the affair. "Who knows," said the latter, +"if the Arch-Enemy has no part in this?" So they intermitted the succors +for some weeks. During this time the infant gradually sank from day to +day, would scarcely eat or drink, seldom slept, and death seemed +imminent.</p> + +<p>The physician, being called in, declared that the only hope was in +resuming the succors, terrible as they appeared, and that, too, +promptly. To the father he said, "If you delay, it will be too late. +While you are trying all your fine experiments with her, your child will +die." They resumed the same violent remedies <a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a>as before; and the child +was gradually restored to perfect health.<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></p> + +<p>But these examples, whatever we may think of them, are but some of the +most moderate, which Montgéron himself admits to be explicable on +natural principles. He says: "During the first months that the succors +commenced, the power of resistance offered by the convulsionists did not +appear so surprising, and seemed, indeed, to be the effect of an +excessive swelling which was observed in the muscles upon which the +convulsionists requested the blows to be given, and of the violent +agitation of the animal spirits; so that the succors demanded by the +sufferers appeared, in a measure, the natural remedy for the state in +which God had placed them. But when, every day, the violence of the +blows increased, it became evident that the natural force of the muscles +could not equal that of the tremendous strokes which the convulsionists +demanded, in obedience, as they said, to the will of God. And here was +manifested the miracle."<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></p> + +<p>I proceed to give, as an example of one of the more violent succors here +spoken of as miraculous, a narrative, not only vouched for by Montgéron +himself as a witness present, but put forth, in the first instance, by +one of the most violent Anti-Succorists, the Abbé d'Asfeld, in his work +already referred to,—and put forth by him in order to be condemned as a +wicked tempting of Providence,<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> or, worse, an accepting of aid from +the Prince of Darkness himself. It occurred in 1734.</p> + +<p>"Here," says the Abbé, "is an example, all the more worthy of attention, +inasmuch as persons of every station and condition, ecclesiastics, +magistrates, ladies of rank, were among the spectators. Jeanne Moler, a +young girl of twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, standing up with +her back resting against a stone wall, an extremely robust man took an +andiron,<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a> weighing, as was said, from twenty-five to thirty pounds, +and therewith gave her, with his whole force, numerous blows on the +stomach. They counted upwards of a hundred at a time. One day a certain +friar, after having given her sixty such blows, tried the same weapon +against a wall; and it is said that at the twenty-fifth blow he broke an +opening through it."<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p> + +<p>Dom La Taste, the great opponent of Jansenism, alluding to the same +circumstance, says, "I do not dispute the fact, that the andiron sunk so +deeply that it appeared to penetrate to the very backbone."<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> + +<p>Montgéron, after quoting the above, adds his own testimony, as to this +same occurrence, in these words:—</p> + +<p>"As I am not ashamed to confess that I am one of those who have followed +up most closely the work of the convulsions, I freely admit that I am +the person to whom the author alludes, when he speaks of a certain friar +who tried against a wall the effect of blows similar to those he had +given the convulsionist. As this is an occurrence personal to myself, I +trust the reader will perceive the propriety of my presenting to him the +narrative in a more exact and detailed form than that in which it is +given by the author of the 'Vains Efforts.'</p> + +<p>"I had begun, as I usually do, by giving the convulsionist very moderate +blows. But after a time, excited by her constant complaints, which left +me no <a name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a>room to doubt that the oppression in the pit of the stomach of +which she complained could be relieved only by violent blows, I +gradually increased the force of mine, employing at last my whole +strength; but in vain. The convulsionist continued to complain that the +blows I gave her were so feeble that they procured her no relief; and +she caused me to put the andiron into the hands of a large and stout man +who happened to be one of the spectators. He kept within no bounds. +Instructed by the trial he had seen me make that nothing could be too +severe, he discharged such terrible blows, always on the pit of the +stomach, as to shake the wall against which the convulsionist was +leaning.</p> + +<p>"She caused him to give her one hundred such blows, not reckoning as +anything the sixty I had just administered. She warmly thanked the man +who had procured her such relief, and reproached me for my weakness and +my lack of faith.</p> + +<p>"When the hundred blows were completed, I took the andiron, desirous of +trying against the wall itself whether my blows, which she thought so +feeble and complained of so bitterly, really did produce no effect. At +the twenty-fifth stroke the stone against which I struck, and which had +been shaken by the previous blows, was shattered, and the pieces fell +out on the opposite side, leaving an opening of more than six inches +square.</p> + +<p>"Now let us observe what were the portions of the body of the +convulsionist on which these fearful blows were dealt. It is true that +they first came in contact with the skin, but they sank immediately to +the back of the patient; their force was not arrested at the surface.</p> + +<p>"I insist unnecessarily, perhaps, upon this fact, since all, even our +greatest enemies, admit its truth. But, however incontestable it is, I +conceive that I cannot too strongly prove it to those who have not +themselves witnessed what happened; inasmuch as the principal objection +made by the author of the 'Mémoire Théologique' consists in supposing +that the violence of the most tremendous blows given to convulsionists +is suspended by the Devil, who thus nullifies the effect they would +naturally produce."<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a></p> + +<p>Montgéron further says, that "the greatest enemies of these miraculous +succors admitted the fact that such terrible blows, far from producing +the slightest wound, or causing the convulsionist the least suffering, +actually cured the pains of which she complained."<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a></p> + +<p>The convulsionist sometimes demanded enormous pressure instead of +violent blows. To this also, the Abbé d'Asfeld testifies. I translate +from his "Vains Efforts."</p> + +<p>"Next came the exercise of the platform.<a name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a> It consisted in placing on the +convulsionist, who was stretched on the ground, a board of sufficient +size to cover her entirely; and as many men as could stand upon it +mounted on the board. The convulsionist sustained them all."<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a></p> + +<p>Montgéron adds,—"This relation is tolerably exact, and it only remains +for me to observe, that, as they gave each other the hand, for +reciprocal support, most of those who were on the board rested the whole +weight of the body on a single foot. Thus, twenty men at a time often +stood upon the board, and were supported on the body of a young +convulsionist. Now, as most men weigh a hundred and fifty pounds, and +many weigh more, the body of the girl must have sustained a weight of +three thousand pounds, if not sometimes nearly four thousand,—a load +sufficient to crush an ox. Yet, not only was the convulsionist not +oppressed by it, but she often found the pressure insufficient to +correct the swelling which distended her muscles. With what force must +not God have endowed the body of this girl! Since the days of Samson, +was ever seen such a prodigy?"<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a></p> + +<p>If these incidents, attested as they are by friend and foe, seem to us +incredible, what shall we say of another, not less strongly attested?</p> + +<p>Let us first, as before, take the statement of an adversary. I translate +from the "Mémoire Théologique."</p> + +<p>"A convulsionist laid herself on the floor, flat on her back; and a man, +kneeling beside her, and raising a flint stone, weighing upwards of +twenty pounds, as high as he could, after several preliminary trials, +dashed it, with all his force, against the breast of the convulsionist, +giving her one hundred such blows in succession."<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a></p> + +<p>To this Montgéron subjoins,—"But the author ought to have added, that, +at each blow, the whole room shook, the floor trembled, and the +spectators could not repress a shudder at the frightful noise which was +heard, as each blow fell on the convulsionist's breast." We need not be +surprised that he adds,—"Not only ought such strokes naturally to +rupture the minute vessels, the delicate glands, the veins and the +arteries of which the breast is composed,—not only ought they, in the +course of Nature, to have crushed and reduced the whole to a bloody +mass,—but they ought to have shattered to pieces the bones and +cartilages by which the breast is inclosed."<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></p> + +<p>This was the view of the case taken by a celebrated physician of the +day. Montgéron tells us:—"This philosopher maintained that the facts +alleged could not be true, because they were physically impossible. He +raised, among other objections, this,—that the flexible, delicate +nature of the skin, of the flesh, and of the viscera, is incompatible +with a force and a consistency so extraordinary as the alleged facts +presuppose; and, consequently, that it was impossible, without ceasing +to be what they are,—without a radical change in their qualities,—that +they should acquire a force superior to that of the hardest and most +solid bodies. They let him quietly complete his anatomical argument, and +set forth all his proofs, and merely answered, 'Come and see; test the +truth of the facts for yourself.' He went. At first sight, he is seized +with astonishment; he doubts the evidence of his eyes; he asks to be +allowed himself to administer the succors. They immediately place in his +hands iron bars of a crushing weight. He does not spare his blows; he +exerts his utmost strength. The weapon sinks into the flesh, seems to +penetrate to the entrails. But the convulsionist only laughs at his idle +efforts. His blows but procure her relief, without leaving the least +impression, the slightest trace, even on the epidermis."<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p> + +<p>Space fails me to furnish more than a very few additional specimens of +the endless incidents of which the details are scattered by Montgéron +over hundreds <a name="Page_224" id="Page_224"></a>of pages,—incidents occurring in various parts of Paris, +daily, for many years. Three or four more of these may suffice for my +present purpose.</p> + +<p>A certain Marie Sonnet had made herself so remarkable by the incredible +succors she demanded, that a physician of Paris, Dr. A——, published, +in regard to her case, a satirical letter addressed to M. de Montgéron, +in which, after attacking the girl's moral character, be assumed this +strange position: "It is a sentiment universally established, that it is +in the power of the Devil, when God permits, to communicate to man +forces above those of Nature. Nor must it be said that God never permits +this; the case of the girl Sonnet is unanswerable proof to the +contrary."<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a></p> + +<p>Among the incidents which appear to have led to this opinion one is thus +stated by him:—"They let fall upon her stomach, from the height of the +ceiling, a stone weighing fifty pounds, while her body, bent back like a +bow, was supported on the point of a sharpened stake, placed just under +the spine; yet, far from being crushed by the stone, or pierced by the +stake, it was a relief to her."<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a></p> + +<p>Montgéron supplies further particulars of this case. He says:—"It was +not once, it was a hundred times in succession, and that daily repeated, +that this flint stone was raised by main force, by the aid of a pulley, +to the ceiling of the room, and thence suddenly let fall on the stomach +of the patient. This stone weighed, it is true, fifty pounds only; but, +descending from a great height, its effect was immensely increased by +the momentum it acquired in falling, as soon as the cord was detached by +which it was suspended in the air.' And, in truth, the ribs of the +convulsionist bent under the terrible shock, sinking under the weight +till her stomach and bowels were so completely flattened that the stone +seemed wholly to displace them. Yet she received no injury whatever, but +was relieved, as Dr. A—— himself admits. He confesses, also, that the +body of the convulsionist was bent back so that the head and feet +touched the floor, and was supported only on the sharp point of a stake +right under her reins, and placed perpendicularly beneath the spot where +the stone was to fall. The weight of the stone in falling was, +therefore, arrested only by the point of this stake, the body of the +convulsionist being between them, so that the entire force of the blow +was concentrated opposite that point.... The stake appeared to penetrate +to a certain depth into the body, yet neither the skin nor the flesh +received the slightest injury, nor did the convulsionist experience any +pain whatever."<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a></p> + +<p>This same Marie Sonnet exposed herself to terrible tests by fire. A +certificate in regard to this matter, signed by eleven persons, of whom +one was an English lord, one a Doctor of Theology in the Sorbonne, and +another the brother of Voltaire, Armand Arouet, Treasurer of the Chamber +of Accounts, is given by Montgéron, and I here translate it:—</p> + +<p>"We, the undersigned, certify, that this day, between eight and ten +o'clock, P.M., Marie Sonnet, being in convulsion, was placed, her head +resting on one stool and her feet on another, these stools being +entirely within a large chimney and under the opening of the same, so +that her body was suspended in the air above the fire, which was of +extreme violence, and that she remained in that position for the space +of thirty-six minutes, at four different times; yet the cloth [<i>drap</i>] +in which she was wrapped (she having no other dress) was not burned, +though the flames <a name="Page_225" id="Page_225"></a>sometimes passed above it: all which appears to us +entirely supernatural. In testimony whereof, we have signed our names, +this twelfth of May, 1736."</p> + +<p>To this certificate, which was afterwards legally recorded, a postscript +is appended, stating, that, while they were writing out the certificate, +Marie placed herself a fifth time over the fire, as before, remaining +there nine minutes; that she appeared to sleep, though the fire was +excessively hot; fifteen logs of wood, besides fagots, having been +consumed in the two hours and a quarter during which the witnesses +remained.</p> + +<p>Montgéron adds, that this exhibition has been witnessed at least a +hundred times, and by a multitude of persons. And he expressly states, +that the stools, which consisted of iron frames, with a board upon each, +were placed entirely within the fireplace, and one on each side of the +fire; so that, as Marie Sonnet rested her head on one stool and her feet +on the other, her body remained suspended immediately above the fire; +and further, that, "no matter how intense the heat, not only did she +suffer no inconvenience, but the cloth in which she was wrapped was +never injured, nor even singed, though it was sometimes actually in the +flames."<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a></p> + +<p>He declares, also, that Marie, on other occasions, remained over the +fire much longer than is above certified. The author of the "Vains +Efforts" admits that "she remained exposed to the fire long enough to +roast a piece of mutton or veal."</p> + +<p>Montgéron informs us, in addition, that Marie Sonnet sometimes varied +the form of this experiment, with a somewhat varying result. He +says,—"I have seen her five or six times, and in the presence of a +multitude of persons, thrust both her feet, with shoes and stockings on, +into the midst of a burning brazier; but in this case the fire did not +respect the shoes, as, in the other, it had respected the cloth that +enwrapped her. The shoes caught fire, and the soles were reduced to +ashes, but without the convulsionist experiencing pain in her feet, +which she continued to keep for a considerable time in the fire. Once I +had the curiosity to examine the soles of her stockings, in order to +ascertain if they, too, were burnt. As soon as I touched them they +crumbled to powder, so that the sole of the foot remained bare."<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a></p> + +<p>Dr. A——, in the letter already alluded to, which he published against +this girl, admits, that, "while in the midst of flames, or stretched +over a burning brazier, she received no injury whatever."<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a></p> + +<p>M. Poncet, whom I have elsewhere mentioned as one of the chief writers +against the Succorists, admits the following:—</p> + +<p>"This convulsionist [Gabrielle Moler] placed herself on her knees before +a large fire full of burning coals all in flame. Then, a person being +seated behind her, and holding her by a band, she plunged her head into +the flames, which closed over it; then, being drawn back, she repeated +the same, continuing it with a regular alternate movement. She has been +seen thus to throw herself on the fire six hundred times in succession. +Usually she wore a bonnet, but sometimes not; and when she did wear one, +the top of the bonnet was occasionally burned."<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a> Montgéron adds, "but +her hair never."<a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a></p> + +<p>Gabrielle was the first who (in 1736) demanded what was called the +<i>succor of the swords</i>. Montgéron says,—"She was prompted by the +supernatural instinct which guided her to select the strongest and +sharpest sword she could find among those worn by the spectators. Then +setting herself with her back against a wall, she placed the point of +the sword just above her stomach, and called upon him who seemed the +strongest man to push it <a name="Page_226" id="Page_226"></a>with all his force; and though the sword bent +into the form of a bow from the violence with which it was pushed, so +that they had to press against the middle of the blade to keep it +straight, still the convulsionist cried out, 'Stronger! stronger!' After +a time she applied the point of the sword to her throat, and required it +to be pushed with the same violence as before. The point caused the skin +to sink into the throat to the depth of four finger-breadths, but it +never pierced the flesh, let them push as violently as they would. +Nevertheless, the point of the sword seemed to attach itself to the +skin; for, when drawn back, it drew the skin with it, and left a +trifling redness, such as would be caused by the prick of a pin. For the +rest, the convulsionist suffered no pain whatever."<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a></p> + +<p>Similar is the testimony of an Advocate of the Parliament of Paris, +extracts from whose certificate in regard to the succors rendered to the +Sister Madeleine are given by Montgéron. Here is one of these:—</p> + +<p>"One day, extended on the ground, she caused a spit to be placed +upright, with the point on her bare throat. Then a stout man mounted on +a chair, and suspended his whole body from the head of the spit, +pressing with all his force, as if to transfix the throat and pierce the +floor beneath. But the flesh merely sank in with the point of the spit, +without being in the least injured.</p> + +<p>"Another day, she placed the point of a very sharp sword against the +hollow of the throat, just below the epiglottis, and, standing with her +back against the wall, called on them to push the sword. A vigorous man +did so, till the blade bent, though not so much as to form a complete +arc. The point sank into the flesh about an inch. I was curious to +measure the exact depth, and found that the flesh rose so far around the +sword-point that I could sink a finger in beyond the first joint. She +received this succor twice. The sword was one of the sharpest I have +ever seen. We tried it against a portfolio containing the paper intended +for the minutes which on such occasions I always make out. It perforated +the pasteboard and a considerable part of the papers within."<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a></p> + +<p>The Sister Madeleine carried her temerity in this matter still farther. +Here is a portion of the certificate of an ecclesiastic, for whose +uprightness and truthfulness Montgéron vouches in strong terms, and who +relates what he alleges he saw on the thirty-first of May, 1744.</p> + +<p>"Madeleine caused them to hold two swords in the air horizontally. She +herself placed the point of one in the inner corner of the right eye, +and of the other in the inner corner of the left, and then called out to +those who held the swords, 'In the name of the Father, push!' They did +so with all their force; and I confess that I shuddered from head to +foot.... A second time Madeleine caused them to set two swords against +the pupils of her eyes, and to press them strongly, as before. This time +I took especial notice of the part of the sword that was on a level with +the surface of the eye when the pressure was the strongest, and I +perceived that the point had penetrated a good inch into the pupil."<a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a></p> + +<p>The Chaplain in Ordinary of the King, under date of the fourth of +October, 1744, testifies to confirmatory facts. He says,—"I have seen +them push sword-points against the eyes of Sisters Madeleine and +Félicité, sometimes on the pupil, sometimes in the corner of the eye, +sometimes on the eyelid,—with such force as to cause the eyeball to +project, till the spectators shuddered."<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a></p> + +<p>Another officer of the royal household gives a certificate of succors +administered to this same Madeleine, of a character scarcely less +wonderful, with pointed spits, of which two were broken against her +body.</p> + +<p>This officer certifies, also, that, on one occasion, when pushing a +sharp sword against Madeleine, not being able to push <a name="Page_227" id="Page_227"></a>strongly enough +to satisfy her, he placed a book bound in parchment on his own breast, +placed the hilt of his sword against it, and pressed with so much force +that the cover of the book was quite spoiled by the deep indentation +made by the sword-hilt. He adds,—"The instinct of her convulsion caused +her sometimes to demand as many as twenty-two swords at a time. These +were placed, some in front, some against her back, some against her +sides, in every direction. I myself never saw quite so many employed; +but I was present, and was myself assisting, when eighteen swords were +pushed at once against various parts of her body. Although the force +with which this prodigious succor was administered caused deep +indentations in the flesh, she never received the slightest wound. It +often happened that her convulsions caused the flesh to react under the +pressure of the sword-points, so as forcibly to push back the +assistants."<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a></p> + +<p>The Advocate of the Parliament of Paris, already mentioned, certifies to +the same phenomenon. His words are,—"One can feel, under the +sword-point, a movement of the flesh, which, from time to time, thrusts +back the sword. This occurs the most strongly when the succor is nearly +at an end. The convulsionist calls out, 'Enough!' as soon as the pains +are relieved."<a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a></p> + +<p>The same Advocate states, that sometimes the convulsionist threw the +weight of her body on the swords, the hilts resting on the floor, and +being secured from slipping. He speaks of one case in which, "while she +was balancing herself on the points of several swords upon which she had +thrown herself with all her weight, [<i>où elle se jettoit à corps +perdû</i>,] one of them broke."<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a></p> + +<p>The officer of the king's household already spoken of testifies to a +similar fact. A certain Sister Dina, he says, caused six swords thus to +break against her body. He adds, that he himself broke the blade of a +sword while thrusting against her; and that he saw two others broken in +the same way.<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a></p> + +<p>In regard to what Montgéron considers the exacting instinct, the same +officer says,—"I had the curiosity to ask Sister Madeleine, in her +natural state, what was the sort of suffering which caused her to have +recourse to such astonishing succors. She replied, that the pain she +suffered was the same as if swords were actually piercing her; that she +felt relieved of this pain as soon as the sword-points penetrated to her +skin, and quite cured when the assistants put their whole force to it. +She laughed when the swords pierced her dress, saying, 'I feel the +points on my skin. That relieves. That does me good.'"<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a></p> + +<p>Both the Advocate of Parliament and the ecclesiastic from whose +certificates I have quoted testify that the convulsionists were +repeatedly undressed and examined by a committee of their own sex, +consisting in part of incredulous ladies of fashion, to ascertain that +they had nothing concealed under their clothes to resist the +sword-points. But in every case it was ascertained that they wore but +the ordinary articles of under-clothing. The Sister Dina was examined in +this way; and it was ascertained that she had nothing under her gown +except a chemise and a simple linen stomacher. Her clothing was found +pierced in many places, but the flesh wholly uninjured.<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a></p> + +<p>Although throughout the writings of the Anti-Succorists there are +constant denunciations of these succors as flagrant and wicked temptings +of Providence, yet I do not find therein any allegation that serious +injury was ever sustained by any of the patients. Montgéron himself, +however, admits, that, on one occasion, a wound was received. He tells +us that a certain convulsionist long resisted the instinct which bade +her demand the succor of a triangular-bladed sword against the left +breast, fearing the result. At last, however, the pain became so intense +that she was fain to consent. For <a name="Page_228" id="Page_228"></a>the first seven or eight minutes the +sword-point only indented the flesh, as usual. But then, says Montgéron, +"her faith suddenly failing her, she cried out, 'Ah! you will kill me!' +No sooner had she pronounced the words than the sword pierced the flesh, +making a wound two inches in depth." He alleges, further, that the +instinct of the convulsionist informed her that the wound would have no +bad consequences, and could be cured by severe blows of a club on the +same spot; which, he declares, happened accordingly.<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a></p> + +<p>Besides the incidents above related, and a hundred others of similar +character, which, if time and the reader's patience permitted, I might +cull from Montgéron's pages, the restless enthusiasm of the +convulsionists ultimately betrayed them into extravagances, in which it +is often hard to decide whether the grotesque or the horrible more +predominated. One convulsionist descended the long stairs of an +infirmary head-foremost, lying on her back; another caused herself to be +attached, by a rope round her neck, to a hook in the wall. A third +repeated her prayers while turning somersets. A fourth, suspended by the +feet, with the head hanging down, remained in that position +three-quarters of an hour. A fifth, lying down on a tomb, caused herself +to be covered to the neck with baked earth mixed with sand and saturated +with vinegar. A sixth made her bed, in winter, on billets of wood; a +seventh on bars of iron. The Sister Félicité was in the habit of causing +herself to be nailed to the cross, and of remaining there half an hour +at a time, gayly conversing with the pious who surrounded her.<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a> +Another sister, named Scholastique, after long hesitation between +different modes of mortification, having one day remarked the manner in +which they constructed the pavement of the streets, had her dress +tightly fastened below the knee, and then ordered one of the assistants +to take her by the legs, and, with her head downward, to dash it +repeatedly against the tiled floor, after the fashion of paviors, when +using a rammer.</p> + +<p>"If," says Calmeil, "the idea had chanced to suggest itself to one of +these theomaniacs, that disembowelling alive would be a sacrifice +pleasing to the Supreme Being, she would undoubtedly have insisted upon +being subjected to such a martyrdom."<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a></p> + +<p>The mental and physiological phenomena connected with this epidemic +remain to be noticed, together with the theories and suggestions put +forth by medical and other contemporary writers, in explanation of what +has here been sketched, the substance of which is usually admitted by +these commentators, however incredible, when related at this distance of +time, it may appear. Next month the subject will be continued.</p><p><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PRESENCE" id="PRESENCE"></a>PRESENCE.</h2> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The wild, sweet water, as it flows,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The winds, that kiss me as they pass,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The starry shadow of the rose,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sitting beside her on the grass,—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The daffodilly, trying to bless</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With better light the beauteous air,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lily, wearing the white dress</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of sanctuary, to be more fair,—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That in the woods, so dim and drear,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lights up betimes her tender fire</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To soothe the homesick pioneer,—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The moth, his brown sails balancing</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Along the stubble crisp and dry,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">On either hand,—the pewet's cry,—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The friendly robin's gracious note,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The hills, with curious weeds o'errun,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The althea, with her crimson coat</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Tricked out to please the wearied sun,—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dandelion, whose golden share</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Is set before the rustic's plough,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The hum of insects in the air,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The blooming bush,—the withered bough,—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The coming on of eve,—the springs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The frost, that with rough, rugged wings</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Blows down the cankered buds,—the white,</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Long drifts of winter snow,—the heat</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Of August, falling still and wide,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Broad cornfields,—one chance stalk of wheat,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Standing with bright head hung aside,—</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All things, my darling, all things seem</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In some strange way to speak of thee;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nothing is half so much a dream,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nothing so much reality.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My soul to thine is dutiful,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">In all its pleasure, all its care;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O most beloved! most beautiful!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">I miss, and find thee everywhere!</span><br /> +</p><p><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="GLACIAL_PERIOD" id="GLACIAL_PERIOD"></a>GLACIAL PERIOD.</h2> + + +<p>In the early part of the summer of 1840, I started from Switzerland for +England with the express object of finding traces of glaciers in Great +Britain. This glacier-hunt was at that time a somewhat perilous +undertaking for the reputation of a young naturalist like myself, since +some of the greatest names in science were arrayed against the novel +glacial theory. And it was not strange that it should be at first +discredited by the scientific world, for hitherto all the investigations +of geologists had gone to show that a degree of heat far greater than +any now prevailing characterized the earlier periods of the world's +history. Even Charpentier, my precursor and master in glacial research, +who first showed the greater extent of Swiss glaciers in former times, +had not thought of any more general application of his result, or +connected their former boundaries with any great change in the climatic +conditions of the whole continent. His explanation of the phenomena +rested upon the assumption that the Alps formerly rose far beyond their +present height; their greater altitude, he thought, would account for +the existence of immense glaciers extending from the Alps across the +plain of Switzerland to the Jura. Inexperienced as I then was, and +ignorant of the modes by which new views, if founded on truth, commend +themselves gradually to general acceptation, I was often deeply +depressed by the skepticism of men whose scientific position gave them a +right to condemn the views of younger and less experienced students. I +can smile now at the difficulties which then beset my path, but at the +time they seemed serious enough. It is but lately, that, in turning over +the leaves of a journal, published some twelve or fifteen years ago, to +look for a forgotten date, I was amused to find a formal announcement, +under the signature of the greatest geologist of Europe, of the demise +of the glacial theory. Since then it has risen, phœnix-like, from its +own funeral pile.</p> + +<p>Even when I arrived in England, many of my friends would fain have +dissuaded me from my expedition, urging me to devote myself to special +zoölogical studies, and not to meddle with general geological problems +of so speculative a character. "Punch" himself did not disdain to give +me a gentle hint as to the folly of my undertaking, terming my journey +into Scotland in search of moraines a sporting-expedition after +"moor-hens." Only one of my older scientific friends in England, a man +who in earlier years had weathered a similar storm himself, shared my +confidence in the investigations looked upon by others as so visionary, +and offered to accompany me in my excursion to the North of England, +Scotland, and Wales. I cannot recur to that delightful journey without a +few words of grateful and affectionate tribute to the friend who +sustained me by his sympathy and guided me by his knowledge and +experience.</p> + +<p>For many years I had enjoyed the privilege of personal acquaintance with +Dr. Buckland, and in 1834, when engaged in the investigation of fossil +fishes, I had travelled with him through parts of England and Scotland, +and had derived invaluable assistance from his friendly advice and +direction. To him I was indebted for an introduction to all the +geologists and palæontologists of Great Britain, with none of whom, +except Lyell, had I any previous personal acquaintance; and through him +I obtained not only leave to examine all the fossil fishes in public and +private collections throughout England, but the unprecedented privilege +of bringing them together for closer comparison in the rooms of the +Geological Society of London. A few years later he visited Switzerland, +when I had the pleasure of showing him, in my turn, the glacial +phenomena of my native country, to <a name="Page_231" id="Page_231"></a>the study of which I was then +devoting all my spare time. After a thorough survey of the facts I had +collected, he became satisfied that my interpretation of them was likely +to prove correct, and even then he recalled phenomena of his own +country, which, under the new light thrown upon them by the glacial +phenomena of Switzerland, gave a promise of success to my extraordinary +venture. We then resolved to pursue the inquiry together on the occasion +of my next visit to England; and after the meeting in Glasgow of the +British Association for Advancement of Science, we started together for +the mountains of Scotland in search of traces of the glaciers, which, if +there was any truth in the generalizations to which my study of the +Swiss glaciers had led me, must have come down from the Grampian range, +and reached the level of the sea, as they do now in Greenland.</p> + +<p>On the fourth of November of that year I read a paper before the +Geological Society of London, containing a summary of the scientific +results of that excursion, which I had extended with the same success to +Ireland and parts of England. This paper was followed by one from Dr. +Buckland himself, containing an account of his own observations, and +another from Lyell on the same subject. From that time, the +investigation of glaciers in regions where they no longer occur has been +carried to almost every part of the globe. Before giving a more special +account of this expedition, I will say a word of the mass of facts which +I had brought from my Alpine researches, on which my own convictions +were founded, and which seemed to Buckland worthy of careful +consideration. To explain these more fully to my readers, I must leave +the Scotch hills for a while, and beg them to return with me to +Switzerland once more.</p> + +<p>Thus far I have spoken chiefly of the advance of glaciers, and very +justly, since they are in constant onward motion, being kept within +their limits only by a waste at their lower extremity proportionate to +their advance. But in considering the past history of glaciers, we must +think of their changes as retrograde, not progressive movements; since, +if the glacial theory be true, a great mass of ice, of which the present +glaciers are but the remnants, formerly spread over the whole Northern +hemisphere, and has gradually disappeared, until now no traces of it are +to be found, except in the Arctic regions and in lofty mountain-ranges. +Every terminal moraine, such as I described in the last article, is the +retreating footprint of some glacier, as it slowly yielded its +possession of the plain, and betook itself to the mountains; wherever we +find one of these ancient semicircular walls of unusual size, there we +may be sure the glacier resolutely set its icy foot, disputing the +ground inch by inch, while heat and cold strove for the mastery. There +may have been a succession of cold summers, or, if now and then a warmer +summer intervened, a colder one followed, so that the glacier regained +the next year the ground it had lost during the preceding one, thus +continuing to oscillate for a number of years along the same line, and +adding constantly to the <i>débris</i> collected at its extremity. Wherever +such oscillations and pauses in the retreat of the glacier occurred, all +the materials annually brought down to its terminus were collected; and +when it finally disappeared from that point, it left a wall to mark its +temporary resting-place.</p> + +<p>By these semicircular concentric walls we can trace the retreat of the +ice as it withdrew from the plain of Switzerland to the fastnesses of +the Alps. It paused at Berne, and laid the foundation of the present +city, which is built on an ancient moraine; it made a stand again at the +Lake of Thun, and barred its northern outlet by a wall which holds its +waters back to this day. Other moraines, though less distinct, are +visible nearer the base of the Bernese Alps, and, above Meyringen, the +valley is spanned by one of very large dimensions. Again, on the other +side of the first chain of high peaks, the <a name="Page_232" id="Page_232"></a>glacier of the Rhone, +descending the valley toward the Lake of Geneva, has everywhere left +traces of its ancient extension. We find the valley crossed at various +distances by concentric moraines, until we reach the lake. There are no +less than thirteen concentric moraines immediately below the present +termination of the glacier of the Rhone, the one nearest to the ice, and +the last formed, marking its present boundary. Others are visible half a +mile, a mile, and two or three miles beyond, near the villages of +Obergestelen and Münster. One of the largest and finest of these ancient +moraines of the glacier of the Rhone stands at Viesch, and extends +across the whole valley, while the Rhone, already swollen by many +mountain-torrents, has cut its way through it. Lower down, we meet with +traces of other ancient glaciers, reaching laterally the main glacier, +which occupied the centre of the valley: such was the glacier of Viesch, +when it extended as far down as the village;<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a> such was the glacier of +Aletsch, when it added its burden of ice to that coming from the upper +valley; such was the glacier of the Simplon, whose moraines, of less +antiquity, may now be seen by the road-side leading over the Alps to +Italy; such were the two gigantic twin glaciers that drained the +northern slopes of the mountain-colosses around Monte Rosa and +Matterhorn, united at Stalden, and thence, losing their independence, +became simply lateral tributaries of the great glacier of the Rhone; +such were, farther on, the glaciers coming down from all the +side-valleys opening into the Rhone basin; such were the glaciers of the +St. Bernard, and even those of Chamouni, which in those early days +crossed the Tête Noire to unite below Martigny with those that filled +the valley of the Rhone. Thus the outlines of this glacier may be +followed from its present remnant at the summit of the Valais, where the +Rhone now springs forth from the ice, to the very shores of the Lake of +Geneva, where, near the mouth of the river, on both banks of the valley, +the ancient moraines may be traced to this day, thousands of feet above +the level of the water, marking the course the glacier once followed.</p> + +<p>It is evident that here the remains of the glacier mark a process of +retrogression; for had these successive walls of loose materials been +deposited in consequence of the advance of the glacier, they would have +been pushed together in one heap at its lower end. That such would have +been the case is not mere inference, but has been determined by direct +observation in other localities. We know, for instance, by historical +record, (see Gruner's "Natural History of the Glaciers of Switzerland,") +that in the seventeenth century a number of successive moraines existed +at Grindelwald, which have since been driven together by the advance of +the glacier, and now form but one. Indeed, we have ample traditional +evidence of the oscillations of glacier-boundaries in recent times. When +I was engaged in the investigation of this subject, I sought out all the +chronicles kept in old convents or libraries which might throw any light +upon it. Among other records, I chanced upon the following, which may +have some interest for the historian as well as the geologist.</p> + +<p>During the religious wars of the sixteenth century, when the Catholics +gained the ascendancy in the Canton of Valais, the inhabitants of the +upper valleys adhered to the Protestant faith. Shut out from ordinary +communication with the Protestant churches by the Bernese Oberland, the +account states that these peasants braved every obstacle to the exercise +of their religion, and used to <a name="Page_233" id="Page_233"></a>carry their children over a certain road +by the valley of Viesch, across the Alps, to be baptized at Grindelwald, +on the farther side of the glaciers of Aletsch and Viesch. I could not +understand this statement, for no such road exists, or could be +conceived possible at present; nor was there any knowledge of it among +the guides, intimate as they are with every feature of the region. +Impressed, however, with the idea that there must be some foundation for +the statement, I carefully examined the ground, and, penetrating under +the glacier of Aletsch, I actually found, a number of feet below the +present level of the ice, the paved road along which these hardy people +travelled to church with their children, and some traces of which are +still visible. It has been almost completely buried, although here and +there it reappears; but at this day it is completely impassable for +ordinary travel.</p> + +<p>Evidence of a like character is found in a number of facts cited by +Venetz in his celebrated paper upon the variations of temperature in the +Swiss Alps, drawn from the parish and commune registers of the Canton of +Valais. Among these are acts concerning the right to roads which are now +either entirely hidden by ice, or rendered nearly useless by the advance +of the glacier, a lawsuit respecting the use of a forest which no longer +exists, but the site of which is covered by a glacier, and other records +of a similar character. The only document, so far as I know, previous to +this century, which furnishes the means of delineating with any accuracy +the former boundary of a glacier, is a topographical plan of the +environs of the Grimsel, including the extremity of the Aar, making a +part of Altmann's work upon the Alps.</p> + +<p>In 1740, Kapeler, a physician of Lucerne, undertook a journey to the +mountains of the Aar, to visit certain crystal grottos, now well known, +but then recently discovered. He prepared a map of these grottos and +their vicinity, in which they are represented as being situated at some +distance from the extremity of the glacier, the lower end of which is +now considerably beyond them.<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a></p> + +<p>But to return to the glacier of the Rhone. We can detect the sequence +and relative age of its ancient moraines, not only by their position +with reference to each other and to the present glacier, but also by +their vegetation. The older ones have a mature vegetation; indeed, some +of the largest trees of the valley stand upon the lower moraines, while +those higher up, nearer the glacier, have only comparatively small +trees, and the more recent ones are almost bare of vegetation. Moreover, +we do not lose the track of the great glacier of the Rhone even when we +have followed its ancient boundaries to the shores of the Lake of +Geneva; for along its northern and southern shores we can follow the +lateral moraines marking the limits of the glacier which once occupied +that crescent-shaped depression now filled by the blue waters of the +lake.</p> + +<p>M. de Charpentier was the first geologist who attempted to draw the +outlines of the glacier of the Rhone during its greatest extension, when +it not only filled the basin of the Lake of Geneva, but stretched across +the hilly plain to the north, reached the foot of the Jura, and even +rose to a considerable height along the southern slope of that chain of +mountains. At that time the colossal glacier spread at its extremity +like a fan, extending westward in the direction of Geneva and eastward +towards Soleure.<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a> The very minute and extensive investigations of +Professor A. Guyot upon the erratic boulders of Switzerland have not +only confirmed the statements of M. de Charpentier, but even shown that +the northeastern boundary of the ancient glacier of the Rhone was more +<a name="Page_234" id="Page_234"></a>extensive than was at first supposed. Other researches upon the ancient +moraines along the shores of the Lake of Geneva, and in other parts of +Switzerland, in which most geologists of the day took an active part, +have made us as fully conversant with the successive outlines and +varying extent of the principal glaciers ranging from the Alpine summits +to the surrounding lowlands as we are with the glaciers in their present +circumscription. But no one has done as much as Professor Guyot to add +precision to these investigations. The number of localities, the level +of which he has determined barometrically, with the view of fixing the +ancient levels of all these vanished glaciers, is almost incredible. The +result of all these surveys has been a distinct recognition of not less +than seven gigantic glaciers descending from the northern and western +slopes of the Alps to the adjoining hilly plains of Switzerland and +France. It is most interesting to trace their outlines upon a recent map +of those countries, but it requires that kind of intellectual effort of +the imagination without which the most brilliant results of modern +science remain an unmeaning record to us. Let us, nevertheless, try to +follow.</p> + +<p>The glacier of the Rhone, occupying the whole space between the Bernese +and Valesian Alps, filled to overflowing the valley of the Rhone; at +Martigny it was met by a large tributary from Mont Blanc, by the side of +which it advanced into the plain beyond, filling the whole Lake of +Geneva, and covering the beautiful Canton de Vaud and parts of Fribourg, +Neuchâtel, Berne, and Soleure, rising to the crest of the Jura, and in +many points penetrating even beyond its outer range.</p> + +<p>To the east of this, the largest of all the ancient glaciers of +Switzerland, we find the ancient glacier of the Aar, descending from the +northern slope of the whole range of the Bernese Oberland. The glaciers +that once filled the valley of Hasli, from the Grimsel to Meyringen, and +those that came down from the Wetterhörner, the Schreckhörner, the +Finster-Aarhorn, and the Jungfrau, through the valleys of Grindelwald +and Lauterbrunnen, united in a common bed, the bottom of which was the +present basin of the Lakes of Brientz and Thun. These were joined by the +glaciers emptying their burden through the valley of the Kander. To +these combined glaciers the formation of the terminal moraine of Thun +must be ascribed. But before this had been formed, the glacier of the +Aar, in its amplest extension, had also reached the foot of the Jura, +without, however, spreading so widely as the glacier of the Rhone. +Farther to the east Professor Guyot has traced the boundaries of three +other colossal glaciers, one of which derived its chief supplies from +the Alps of Uri, bringing with it all the tributaries which the main +glacier coming down from the St. Gothard received right and left, in its +course through the valley of the Reuss and the basins of the Lakes of +Lucerne and Zug. The second, born in the Canton of Glaris, followed +mainly the present course of the Linth and the basin of the Lake of +Zurich. Professor Escher von der Linth has shown that the lovely city of +Zurich is built upon a moraine, like Berne. The imagination shrinks from +the thought that all the beautiful scenery of those countries should +once have been hidden under masses of ice, like those now covering +Greenland. The easternmost ancient glacier of Switzerland is that of the +Rhine, arising from all the valleys from which now descend the many +tributaries of that stream, spreading over the northeastern Cantons, +filling the Lake of Constance, and terminating at the foot of the +Suabian Alp. Next to the glacier of the Rhone, this was once the largest +of those descending from the range of the Alps.</p> + +<p>West of Mont Blanc Professor Guyot has traced the boundaries of two +other distinct ancient glaciers; one of which, the glacier of the Arve, +followed chiefly the course of the Arve, and, though discharging the icy +accumulations from the <a name="Page_235" id="Page_235"></a>western slope of Mont Blanc, was, as it were, +only a lateral affluent of the great glacier of the Rhone. The other, +the glacier of the Isère, occupied, to the south and west of the +preceding, the large triangular space intervening between the Alps and +the Jura, in that part of Savoy where the two mountain-chains converge +and become united.</p> + +<p>It would lead me too far, were I to describe also the course of the +great ancient glaciers which descended from the southern slopes of the +Alps into the plain of Northern Italy. Moreover, these boundaries are +not yet ascertained with the same degree of accuracy as those of the +northern and western slopes; though very accurate descriptions of some +of them have been published, with illustrations on a large scale, by MM. +Martins and Gastaldi, and of others by Professor Ramsey. I have myself +examined only the upper part of that of the valley of Aosta.</p> + +<p>The evidence concerning the ancient glaciers of the Alps, especially +within the limits of Switzerland, is already so full that it affords +ample means for a comprehensive general view of the subject. It is +frequently the case, that, when a stretch of time or space lies between +us and a matter we have once studied more closely, it presents itself to +us as a whole more vividly than when our nearness to it forced all its +details upon our observation. In my present position, now that the lapse +of many years separates me from my personal investigations of the +ancient and modern glaciers, and I look back upon them from another +continent, it seems to me that I have, as it were, a bird's-eye view of +their whole extent; and I confess that this distant retrospect of the +subject has been to me almost as fascinating as were the researches of +my earlier years in the same direction. I wish that I could present it +to the minds of my readers with something of the attraction it possesses +for me. I trust, however, that I have made it plain to them that the +great mountain-chain of the Alps has been a central axis from which +immense glaciers at one time descended in every direction, not only to +its base, beyond which the lowlands extend in flat undulations, but to a +greater or less distance over the adjoining plains; while at present +they are confined to the higher valleys. So far, then, notwithstanding +the extraordinary difference in their dimensions, at the time they +reached the Jura and the plain of Northern Italy, when compared with +what they are now, they seem directly connected with the Alps, and the +mountains appear as their birthplace; so much so that the first attempts +at a generalization concerning their origin started from the assumption +that they must have been formed between the high ridges from which they +seem to flow down. These facts, then the only ones known concerning a +greater extension of the glaciers, naturally led to the views advocated +by M. de Charpentier. My own theory was also at first, that the upheaval +of the Alps must, in some way or other, have been connected with these +phenomena. But it soon became evident to me that these views were +inadequate to account for the former presence of extensive glaciers in +other parts of Europe; and even within the range of the Alps there were +insuperable objections to their final admission. If the ancient glaciers +had been first formed among the highest mountains, and extended +downwards into the plains, the largest and highest moraines ought to be +the most distant, and to be formed of the most rounded masses; whereas +the actual condition of the detrital accumulations is the reverse, the +distant materials being widely spread, and true moraines being found +only in valleys connected with great chains of lofty mountains.</p> + +<p>Again, all these moraines are within one another,—the most distant from +the glacier to which they owe their origin encircling all those which +are nearer and nearer to it within the same glacial basin. And as no +glacier could reach to its farthest moraine without pushing forward all +the intervening loose materials, it is self-evident that the outer +moraines <a name="Page_236" id="Page_236"></a>were first formed, and those nearer the glacier subsequently, +in the order in which they follow one another from the lower valleys to +the higher levels at which alone glaciers exist at present. Translating +these facts into words, we see that the glaciers to which these ancient +moraines owe their origin must have been retreating gradually while the +moraines were accumulating. But a glacier while uniformly retreating +forms no high walls of loose materials around its edges and at its lower +extremity; as it melts away, it only drops the burden of angular rocky +fragments which it carries upon its back over the loose fragments above +which it moves, and which it grinds to powder, or to sand, or to rounded +pebbles, in its progress. It is only where the glacier remains +stationary for a longer or shorter period that large terminal moraines +can accumulate; and they are generally found in such places in the +valleys of the Alps as would naturally determine the lower limit of a +glacier for the time being. There is no possibility of escaping the +conclusion that the ancient glaciers must have begun that series of +oscillations to which the accumulation of the moraines is to be +ascribed, at a time when ice-fields already occupied the whole area +which they have covered during their greatest extension. After we shall +have seen how many centres of dispersion of erratic boulders existed in +the northern hemisphere, similar to that of the Alps, we may perhaps be +able to form some idea of the manner in which these ice-fields +originated and gradually vanished.</p> + +<p>Some investigators have been inclined to explain the presence of +boulders, moraines, drift, and the like phenomena, by the action of +water. But even if we could believe that rivers had brought along with +them such masses of rock, and deposited them where they are now found, +the regularity in the distribution of the materials disproves any such +theory. In the lateral moraines of the Lake of Geneva we have a striking +illustration of this apparently systematic division of the loose +materials; for the northeastern moraines of that glacial basin contain +rocks belonging exclusively to the northern side of the valley of the +Rhone, while the moraines on the southern shore of the lake consist of +rocks belonging to its southern side. Indeed, rivers, so far from +building up moraines, have often partially destroyed them. We find +various instances of moraines through which a river runs, having worn +for itself a passage, on either side of which the form of the moraine +remains unbroken. In the valley of the Rhone there are villages built on +such moraines, as, for instance, Viesch, with the river running through +their centre.</p> + +<p>But if we need further confirmation of the fact that these accumulations +on either side of this and other Swiss lakes are ancient lateral +moraines, we have it in their connection with walls of a like nature at +their lower end, where we find again transverse moraines barring their +outlet, and also in the continuity of long trains of fragments of +similar rocks extending side by side across wide plains for great +distances without mixture. From the beginning of my investigations upon +the glaciers, I have urged these two points as most directly proving +their greater extension in former times, and more recent researches +constantly recur to this kind of evidence. All our lakes would be filled +with loose materials, had their basins not been sheltered by ice against +the encroachments of river-deposits during the transportation of the +erratic boulders to the farthest limits of their respective areas; and +all the continuous trails of rocks derived from the same locality would +have been scattered over wide areas, had they not been carried along, in +unyielding tracks, like moraines. On a small scale the waters of the +Rhone and of the Arve recall to this day such a picture. There are few +travellers in Switzerland who have not seen these two rivers, where they +flow side by side, meeting, but not mingling, at the southern extremity +of the lake, the different color of their water marking the two parallel +currents.<a name="Page_237" id="Page_237"></a> In old times, when the glaciers filled all the valleys at the +base of Mont Blanc, and to the east of it, uniting in the valley through +which now runs the River Rhone, the glacier of the Arve came down to +meet the ice from the valley of the Rhone, in the same manner as the +River Arve now comes to meet the waters of the Rhone where they rush out +from the southern end of the lake.</p> + +<p>This would be the proper place to consider the formation of the lakes of +Switzerland, as well as their preservation by the agency of glaciers. +But this subject is so intricate, and has already given rise to so many +controversies which could not be overlooked in this connection, that I +prefer to pass it over altogether in silence. Suffice it to say that not +only are most of the lakes of Switzerland hemmed in by transverse +moraines at their lower extremity, but the lakes of Upper Italy, at the +foot of the Alps, are barred in the same way, as are also the lakes of +Norway and Sweden, and some of our own ponds and lakes. Strange as it +may seem to the traveller who sails under an Italian sky over the lovely +waters of Como, Maggiore, and Lugano, it is, nevertheless, true, that +these depressions were once filled by solid masses of ice, and that the +walls built by the old glaciers still block their southern outlets. +Indeed, were it not for these moraines, there would be comparatively few +lakes either in Northern Italy or in Switzerland. The greater part of +them have such a wall built across one end; and but for this masonry of +the glacier, there would have been nothing to prevent their waters from +flowing out into the plain at the breaking up of the ice-period. We +should then have had open valleys in place of all these sheets of water +which give such diversity and beauty to the scenery of Northern Italy +and Switzerland, or, at least, the lakes would be much fewer and occupy +only the deeper depressions in the hard rocks.</p> + +<p>Such being the evidences of the former extent of the glaciers in the +plains, what do the mountain-summits tell us of their height and depth? +for here, also, they have left their handwriting on the wall. Every +mountain-side in the Alps is inscribed with these ancient characters, +recording the level of the ice in past times. Here and there a ledge or +terrace on the wall of the valley has afforded support for the lateral +moraines, and wherever such an accumulation is left, it marks the limit +of the ice at some former period. These indications are, however, +uncertain and fragmentary, depending upon projections of the rocky +walls. But thousands of feet above the present level of the glacier, far +up toward their summits, we find the sides of the mountains furrowed, +scratched, and polished in exactly the same manner as the surfaces over +which the glaciers pass at present. These marks are as legible and clear +to one who is familiar with glacial traces as are hieroglyphics to the +Egyptian scholar; indeed, more so,—for he not only recognizes their +presence, but reads their meaning at a glance. Above the line at which +these indications cease, the edges of the rocks are sharp and angular, +the surface of the mountain rough, unpolished, and absolutely devoid of +all those marks resulting from glacial action. On the Alps these traces +are visible to a height of nine thousand feet, and across the whole +plain of Switzerland, as I have stated, one may trace the glaciers by +their moraines, by the masses of rock they have let fall here and there, +by the drift they have deposited, to the very foot of the opposite +chain, where they have dropped their boulders along the base of the +Jura. Ascending that chain, one finds the grooved, polished, and +scratched surfaces to its summit, on the very crest of which boulders +entirely foreign to the locality are perched. Follow the range down upon +the other side and you find the same indications extending into the +plains of Burgundy and France beyond.</p> + +<p>With a chain of evidence so complete, it seems to me impossible to deny +that the whole space between the opposite chains of the Alps and the +Jura was once filled with ice; that this mass of ice completely <a name="Page_238" id="Page_238"></a>covered +the Jura, with the exception of a few high crests, perhaps, rising +island-like above it, and mounted to a height of some nine thousand feet +upon the Alps, while it extended on the one side into the northern plain +of Italy, filling all its depressions, and on the other down to the +plains of Central Europe. The only natural inference from these facts +is, that the climatic conditions leading to their existence could not +have been local; they must have been cosmic. When Switzerland was +bridged across from range to range by a mass of ice stretching southward +into Lombardy and Tuscany, northward into France and Burgundy, the rest +of Europe could not have remained unaffected by the causes which induced +this state of things.</p> + +<p>It was this conviction which led me to seek for the traces of glaciers +in Great Britain. I had never been in the regions I intended to visit, +but I knew the forms of the valleys in the lake-country of England, in +the Highlands of Scotland, and in the mountains of Wales and Ireland, +and I was as confident that I should find them crossed by terminal +moraines and bordered by lateral ones, as if I had already seen them.</p> + +<p>The reader must not suppose, when I describe these walls, formed of the +<i>débris</i> of the glacier, as consisting of boulders, stones, pebbles, +sand, and gravel, a rough accumulation of loose materials +indiscriminately thrown together, that we find the ancient moraines +presenting any such appearance. Time, which mellows and softens all the +wrecks of the past, has clothed them with turf, grassed them over, +planted them with trees, sown his seed and gathered in his harvests upon +them, until at last they make a part of the undulating surface of the +country. Were it not for anticipating my story, I could point out many a +green billow, rising out of the fields and meadows immediately about us, +that had its origin in the old ice-time. Thus disguised, they are not so +evident to the casual observer; but, nevertheless, when once familiar +with the peculiar form, character, and position of these rounded ridges +scattered over the face of the country, they are easily recognized.</p> + +<p>Of course, the ancient glaciers of Great Britain were far more difficult +to trace than those of Switzerland, where the present glaciers are +guides to the old ones. But, nevertheless, my expectations were more +than answered. The first valley I entered in the glacial regions of +Scotland was barred by a terminal moraine; and throughout the North of +England, as well as in Scotland and Ireland, I found the hill-sides +covered with traces of glacial action, as distinct and unmistakable as +those I had left in my native land. And not only was the surface of the +country polished, grooved, and scratched, as in the region of existing +glaciers, and presenting an appearance corresponding exactly to that +described elsewhere, but we could track the path of the boulders where +they had come down from the hills above and been carried from the mouth +of each valley far down into the plains below. In Scotland and Ireland +the phenomena were especially interesting. I had intended to give in +this article some account of the "parallel roads" of Glenroy, marking +the ancient levels of glacier-lakes, so much discussed in this +connection. But the reminiscences of old friends, and the many +associations revived in my mind by recurring to a subject which I have +long looked upon as a closed chapter, so far as my own researches are +concerned, have constantly led me beyond the limits I had prescribed to +myself in these papers upon glaciers; and as the story of Glenroy and +the phenomena connected with it is a long one, I shall reserve it for a +subsequent number.</p><p><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="BRYANT" id="BRYANT"></a>BRYANT.</h2> + + +<p>The literary life of Bryant begins with the publication of "Thanatopsis" +in the "North American Review," in 1816; for we need take no account of +those earlier blossoms, plucked untimely from the tree, as they had been +prematurely expanded by the heat of party politics. The strain of that +song was of a higher mood. In those days, when American literature spoke +with faint and feeble voice, like the chirp of half-awakened birds in +the morning twilight, we need not say what cordial welcome was extended +to a poem which embodied in blank verse worthy of anybody since Milton +thoughts of the highest reach and noblest power, or what wonder was +mingled with the praise when it was announced that this grand and +majestic moral teaching and this rich and sustained music were the work +of a boy of eighteen. Not that Bryant was no more than eighteen when +"Thanatopsis" was printed, for he must pay one of the tributes of +eminence in having all the world know that he was born in 1794; but he +was no more than eighteen when it was written, and surely never was +there riper fruit plucked from so young a tree. And now we have before +us, with the imprint of 1864, his latest volume, entitled "Thirty +Poems." Between this date and that of the publication of "Thanatopsis" +there sweeps an arch of forty-eight years. With Bryant these have been +years of manly toil, of resolute sacrifice, of faithful discharge of all +the duties of life. The cultivation of the poetical faculty is not +always favorable to the growth of the character, but Bryant is no less +estimable as a man than admirable as a poet. It has been his lot to earn +his bread by the exercise of the prose part of his mind,—by those +qualities which he has in common with other men,—and his poetry has +been written in the intervals and breathing-spaces of a life of regular +industry. This necessity for ungenial toil may have added something to +the shyness and gravity of the poet's manners; but it has doubtless +given earnestness, concentration, depth, and a strong flavor of life to +his verse. Had he been a man of leisure, he might have written more, but +he could hardly have written better. And nothing tends more to prolong +to old age the freshness of feeling and the sensibility to impressions +which are characteristic of the poetical temperament than the dedication +of a portion of every day to some kind of task-work. The sweetest +flowers are those which grow upon the rocks of renunciation. Byron at +thirty-seven was a burnt-out volcano: Bryant at threescore and ten is as +sensitive to the touch of beauty as at twenty.</p> + +<p>The poetry of Bryant is not great in amount, but it represents a great +deal of work, as few men are more finished artists than he, or more +patient in shaping and polishing their productions. No piece of verse +ever leaves his hands till it has received the last touch demanded by +the most correct judgment and the most fastidious taste. Thus the style +of his poetry is always admirable. Nowhere can one find in what he has +written a careless or slovenly expression, an awkward phrase, or an +ill-chosen word. He never puts in an epithet to fill out a line, and +never uses one which could be improved by substituting another. The +range within which he moves is not wide. He has not written narrative or +dramatic poems: he has not painted poetical portraits: he has not +aspired to the honors of satire, of wit, or of humor: he has made no +contributions to the poetry of passion. His poems may be divided into +two great classes,—those which express the moral aspects of humanity, +and those which interpret the language of Nature; though it may be added +that in not a few of his productions these two elements are combined. +Those of the <a name="Page_240" id="Page_240"></a>former class are not so remarkable for originality of +treatment as for the beauty and truth with which they express the +reflections of the general mind and the emotions of the general heart. +In these poems we see our own experience returned to us, touched with +the lights and colored with the hues of the most exquisite poetry. Their +tone is grave and high, but not gloomy or morbid: the edges of the cloud +of life are turned to gold by faith and hope. Of the poems of this +class, "Thanatopsis," of which we have already spoken, is one of the +best known. Others are the "Hymn to Death," "The Old Man's Funeral," "A +Forest Hymn," "The Lapse of Time," "An Evening Reverie," "The Old Man's +Counsel," and "The Past." This last is one of the noblest of his +productions, full of solemn beauty and melancholy music, and we cannot +deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting a few of its stanzas.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"Thou unrelenting Past!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And fetters, sure and fast,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"Far in thy realm withdrawn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And glorious ages gone</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"Childhood, with all its mirth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">And last, Man's Life on earth,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"> * * + * * *</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"In thy abysses hide</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beauty and excellence unknown,—to thee</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Earth's wonder and her pride</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"Labors of good to man,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Love, that 'midst grief began,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And grew with years, and faltered not in death.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"Full many a mighty name</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">With thee are silent fame.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"Thine for a space are they,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Thy gates shall yet give way,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3.5em;">"All that of good and fair</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Has gone into thy womb from earliest time</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">Shall then come forth to wear</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The glory and the beauty of its prime."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Here is nothing new. It is the old, sad strain, of coeval birth with +poetry itself. It may be read in the Hebrew of the Book of Job and in +the Greek of Homer: but with what dignity of sentiment, what majestic +music, what beauty of language, the oft-repeated lesson of humanity is +enforced! Every word is chosen with unerring judgment, and no needless +dilution of language weakens the force of the conceptions and pictures. +Bryant is one of the few poets who will bear the test of the well-nigh +obsolete art of verbal criticism: observe the expressions, "<i>silent</i> +fame," "<i>forgotten</i> arts," "wisdom <i>disappeared</i>": how exactly these +epithets satisfy the ear and the mind! how impossible to change any one +of them for the better!</p> + +<p>In Bryant's descriptive poems there is the same finished execution and +the same beauty of style as in his reflective and didactic poems, with +more originality of treatment. It was his fortune to be born and reared +in the western part of Massachusetts, and to become familiar with some +of the most beautiful inland scenery of New England in youth and early +manhood, when the mind takes impressions which the attrition of life +never wears out. In his study of Nature he combines the faculty and the +vision, the eye of the naturalist and the imagination of the poet. No +man observes the outward shows of earth and sky more accurately; no man +feels them more vividly; no man describes them more beautifully. He was +the first of our poets who, deserting the conventional paths in which +imitators move, studied and delineated Nature as it exists in New +England, modified by the elements of a comparatively low latitude, a +brilliant sky, uncertain springs, short and hot summers, richly colored +autumns, and <a name="Page_241" id="Page_241"></a>winters of pure and crystal cold. The merit and the +popularity of Bryant's descriptive poetry prove how intimate is the +relation between imagination and truth, and how the poet who is faithful +to the highest requisitions of his art must obey laws as rigid as those +of science itself. Here, at the risk of making our readers read again +what they may have read before, we transcribe a passage from a +memorandum of Mr. Morritt's, containing an account of Scott's +proceedings while studying the localities of "Rokeby":—</p> + +<p>"I observed him noting down even the peculiar little wild flowers and +herbs that accidentally grew round and on the side of a bold crag near +his intended Cave of Grey Denzil, and could not help saying, that, as he +was not to be upon oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses +would be as poetical as any of the humble plants he was examining. I +laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness; but I understood him when he +replied, 'that in Nature no two scenes were exactly alike, and that +whoever copied truly what was before his eyes would possess the same +variety in his descriptions, and exhibit apparently an imagination as +boundless as the range of Nature in the scenes he recorded; whereas, +whoever trusted to his imagination would soon find his own mind +circumscribed and contracted to a few images, and the repetition of +these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and barrenness +which had always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the +patient worshippers of truth.'"</p> + +<p>This is excellent good sense, and the descriptive poetry of Bryant shows +how carefully he has observed the rules which Scott has laid down. He +never has a conventional image, and never resorts to the second-hand +frippery of a poetical commonplace-book to tag his verses with. Every +season of our American year has been delineated by him, and the drawing +and coloring of his pictures are always correct. Our American springs, +for instance, are not at all the ideal or poetical springs, and Bryant +does not pretend that they are; and yet he can find a poetical side to +them, as witness his poem entitled "March":—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The stormy March is come at last,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">With wind, and cloud, and changing skies:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I hear the rushing of the blast</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That through the snowy valley flies.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Ah, passing few are they who speak,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Thou art a welcome month to me.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"For thou to northern lands again</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The glad and glorious sun dost bring;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And them hast joined the gentle train,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And in thy reign of blast and storm</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When the changed winds are soft and warm,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And heaven puts on the blue of May."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>This is all as strictly true as if it were drawn up for an affidavit. +March, as we all know, is the eldest daughter of Winter, and bitterly +like her grim sire. The snow which has melted from the uplands lingers +in the valleys; the storms, and the cloudy skies, and the rushing blasts +mark the sullen retreat of winter; but the days are growing longer, the +sun mounts higher, and sometimes a soft and vernal air flows from the +blue sky, like Burns's daisy "glinting forth" amid the storm.</p> + +<p>March and April come and go, and May succeeds. Hers is not quite the +"blue, voluptuous eye" she wears in the portraits which poets paint of +her, and those who court her smiles are sometimes chilled by decidedly +wintry glances. Bryant gives us her best aspect:—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The sun of May was bright in middle heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The robin warbled forth his full clear note</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast</span><br /><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242"></a> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A shade, gay circles of anemones</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And quivering poplar to the roving breeze</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Gave a balsamic fragrance."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>How admirable this is! And with what truth, we had almost said courage, +the poet makes his report. The emerald wheat-fields, the rosy buds of +the apple-tree, the half-transparent leaves of the trees, the anemones +on their restless stalks, the shad-bush (<i>Amelanchier Botryapium</i>), the +quivering poplars, and the peculiar balsamic odor which one perceives in +the woods at that season are so exactly what we find in our New-England +May! How much better these distinct statements are than a tissue of +generalities about flowery wreaths, and fragrant zephyrs, and genial +rays, and fresh verdure, and vernal airs, and ambrosial dews!</p> + +<p>But the year goes on. Our fitful and capricious spring passes by, and +summer takes its place. But our New-England summer is not like the +summer of Thomson and Cowper, and images drawn from English poetry and +transplanted here would be out of place; and our faithful interpreter of +American Nature takes nothing at second-hand. How correctly he +delineates the characteristic features of our glorious month of June!</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"There, through the long, long summer hours,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The golden light should lie,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And thick young herbs and groups of flowers</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">Stand in their beauty by.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The oriole should build and tell</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His love-tale close beside my cell;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">The idle butterfly</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Should rest him here, and there be heard</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The housewife-bee and humming-bird."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>The <i>housewife</i>-bee is an expressive epithet. Does it involve a double +meaning, and insinuate that as a bee carries a sting, so women who are +stirring, notable, and good housekeepers have something sharp in their +natures?</p> + +<p>Next comes midsummer with its fervid and overpowering heats, which find +in our poet also an accurate delineator.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"It is a sultry day: the sun has drunk</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dew that lay upon the morning grass;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There is no rustling in the lofty elm</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That canopies my dwelling, and its shade</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And interrupted murmur of the bee,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Settling on the sick flowers, and then again</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Instantly on the wing. The plants around</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As if the scorching heat and dazzling light</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Were but an element they loved."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>But our radiant and many-colored autumn is Bryant's favorite season, and +some of his most beautiful and characteristic passages are those which +paint its hues of crimson and purple, and the vaporous gold of its +atmosphere. Such is the number of these passages that it is difficult to +make a selection of one or two for quotation. Here is one from "Autumn +Woods."</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Let in through all the trees,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Come the strange rays; the forest-depths are bright;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Twinkles like beams of light.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The rivulet, late unseen,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shines with the image of its golden screen</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And glimmerings of the sun.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But, 'neath yon crimson tree,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Her blush of maiden shame."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Here is nothing imitative or borrowed, and here are no unmeaning +generalities. Everything is exact and local,—drawn from an American +autumn, and no other. And how lovely an image is that in the third +stanza, and what an added charm it gives to an object in itself most +beautiful!</p> + +<p>But our renders must indulge us with one more quotation under this head, +although <a name="Page_243" id="Page_243"></a>we take it from one of the most popular—perhaps the most +popular—of his poems, "The Death of the Flowers."</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And now, when comes the calm mid-day, as still such days will come,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Of the poetry of these exquisite lines, the melancholy sweetness of the +sentiment, the delicate beauty of the versification, we need not say one +word, but we claim a moment's attention to their fidelity to truth, and +the accuracy of observation which they evince. The golden-rod and the +aster are the characteristic autumn flowers in that zone of our +continent in which New England is embraced, and the sunflower is a very +common flower at that season. That lovely child of the declining year, +the fringed gentian, would doubtless have been brought in with her fair +sisters, had it not been for her somewhat unmanageable name. Bryant has +written some beautiful stanzas to this flower, but in them he only calls +it a "blossom." And how fine a landscape is condensed into the two +delicious hues which we have Italicized! and yet no one ever walked into +a New-England wood on a late day in autumn without hearing the nuts drop +upon the withered leaves, and seeing the streams flash through the +smoke-like haze which hangs over the landscape.</p> + +<p>But winter, especially our clear and sparkling New-England winter, has +its scenes of splendor and aspects of beauty; and the poet would not be +true to his calling, if he failed to recognize them.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Come when the rains</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">While the slant sun of February pours</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the broad arching portals of the grove</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Trunks are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is studded with its trembling water-drops</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That glimmer with an amethystine light;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But round the parent stem the long, low boughs</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The glassy floor."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>There are many more lines equally good, but we have not space for them. +This is a description of winter as we have it here, compounded of the +elements of extreme cold, a transparent atmosphere, and brilliant +sunshine. No English poet can see such a scene, at least in his own +country: Ambrose Phillips did see something like it in Sweden, and +described it in a poetical epistle to the Earl of Dorset, which is much +the best thing he ever wrote, and has a pulse of truth and life in it, +from the simple fact that he saw something new, and told his noble +correspondent what he saw.</p> + +<p>But Bryant's claims to the honors of a truly national poet do not rest +solely upon the fidelity with which he has described the peculiar +scenery of his native land, for no poet has expressed with more +earnestness of conviction and more beauty of language the great ideas +which have moulded our political institutions and our social life. +Before the breaking out of the Civil War he was a member of that great +political party of which Jefferson was the head, and he is still a +Democrat in the primitive sense of the word; that is to say, he believes +in man's capacity for self-government, and in his right to govern +himself. He has full trust in human progress; age has not lessened the +faith <a name="Page_244" id="Page_244"></a>with which he looks forward to the future; his sympathies are +with the many, and not with the few. Though he has travelled much in +Europe, his imagination has been but little affected by the forms of +beauty and grandeur which past ages have bequeathed to the present. He +has not found inspiration in the palace, the cathedral, the ruined +castle, the ivy-covered church, the rose-embowered cottage. Indeed, it +is only by incidental and occasional touches that one would learn from +his poetry that he had ever been out of his own country at all: his +inspiration and his themes are alike drawn from the scenery, the +institutions, the history of his native land. His imagination, as was +the case with Milton, rests upon a basis of gravity deepening into +sternness; and we have little doubt that not a few of the things in +Europe, which move to pleasure the lightly stirred fancy of many +American travellers, aroused in him a different feeling, as either +memorials of an age or expressions of a system in which the many were +sacrificed to the few. In his mental frame there is a pulse of +indignation which is easily stirred against any form of injustice or +oppression. His later poems, as might naturally be expected, are those +in which the sentiments and aspirations of a patriotic and hopeful +American are most distinctly expressed; among them are "The +Battle-Field," "The Winds," "The Antiquity of Freedom," and that which +is called, from its first line, "O Mother of a Mighty Race." It would be +well to read these poems in connection with the seventeenth chapter of +the second volume of De Tocqueville's "Democracy in America," which +treats of the sources of poetry among democratic nations; and the +comparison will furnish fresh cause for admiring the prophetic sagacity +of that great philosophical thinker, who, at the time he wrote, +predicted all our future, because he comprehended all our past.</p> + +<p>And here we pray the indulgence of our readers to a rather liberal +citation from one of these later poems, because it enables us to +illustrate from his own lips what we have just been saying. It is also +one of those passages, not uncommon in modern poetry, in which the poet +admits us to his confidence, and lets us see the working of the +machinery as well as its product. It is from "The Painted Cup," a poem +so called from a scarlet flower of that name found upon the Western +prairies,</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That these bright chalices were tinted thus</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On moonlight evenings in the hazel-bowers,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Amid this fresh and virgin solitude,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The faded fancies of an elder world;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of June, and glistening flies, and hummingbirds,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A sudden shower upon the strawberry-plant,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To swell the reddening fruit that even now</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let, then, the gentle Manitou of flowers,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And ruddy with the sunshine,—let him come</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And part with little hands the spiky grass,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, touching with his cherry lips the edge</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>What a lovely picture is this of the Manitou of flowers, and what a +subject for an artist to embody in forms and colors! The whole passage +is very beautiful, and its beauty is in part derived from its truth. It +meets the requisitions of the philosophical understanding, as well as of +the shaping and aggregating fancy. The poetry is manly, masculine, and +simple. The ornaments are of pure gold, such as will bear the test of +open daylight.</p> + +<p>It is the function of the critic to discriminate and divide, and we have +attempted to deal thus with the poems of Bryant; but some of the best of +his productions <a name="Page_245" id="Page_245"></a>cannot be classified and arranged under any particular +head. They breathe the spirit of universal humanity, and speak a +language intelligible to every human heart. Among these are "The Evening +Wind," "The Conqueror's Grave," and "The Future Life." All of these are +exquisite alike in conception and execution. We suppose that most +persons have in regard to poetry certain fancies, whims, preferences, +founded on reasons too delicate to be revealed or too airy to be +expressed. As Mrs. Battles in a moment of confidence confessed to "Elia" +that hearts was her favorite suit, so we breathe in the ear of the +public an acknowledgment, that, of all Bryant's poems, "The Future Life" +is that which we read the most frequently, and with the deepest feeling. +We say read, but we have known it by heart for years. We will not affirm +that it is the best of his poems, but it is that which moves us most, +and which we feel most grateful to him for having written. The grace and +charm of this poem come from regions beyond the range of literary +criticism, and the heart shrinks from making a revelation of the +emotions which it awakens.</p> + +<p>We have left ourselves but little room to speak of the new volume, +called "Thirty Poems," which lies before us. While nothing in it was +needed for the poet's well-established and enduring fame, it will be +welcomed by all his admirers as an accession to that stock of finished +poetry which the world will not let die. Here we find the same dignity +of sentiment, the same fine observation, the same grace of expression, +as in the productions of his youth and manhood. The tone of thought is +grave, earnest, sometimes pensive, but never querulous or desponding. +Declining years have not abated in him a jot of heart or hope. His is +the Indian-summer of the mind, made genial by soft airs and golden +sunshine, by green meadows and lingering flowers; and still far distant +is the time,—to borrow a noble image from this very volume,—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"When, upon the hill-side, all hardened into iron,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>All honor to the strong-hearted singer who, in the late autumn of life, +retains his love of Nature, his hatred of injustice and oppression, his +sympathy with humanity, his intellectual activity, his faith in +progress, his trust in God!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="ANNESLEY_HALL_AND_NEWSTEAD_ABBEY" id="ANNESLEY_HALL_AND_NEWSTEAD_ABBEY"></a>ANNESLEY HALL AND NEWSTEAD ABBEY.</h2> + + +<p>The picturesque region of Matlock, with its cliffs and streams, its deep +woods and romantic walks, is full of attraction. There we not only see +the outward graces of Nature, but catch glimpses of her subtler +elements. Springs, dripping from hidden sources, transform the fruit, or +the bird's-nest with its fragile eggs, into stone with a Medusa touch; +while in deep caverns are found beautiful spars, exquisitely tinted, as +if prepared by the genii of the rock for the palace of their king.</p> + +<p>Varied and wonderful are the workings of earth, air, fire, and water in +the Derbyshire valley, where a sensitive nature recognizes more things +in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy of many a +passing traveller. To this region of beauty and mystery Byron often came +in his youth. These cliffs and streams and woods were familiar to the +young poet, and his retentive memory must have received here many of +Nature's deep and marvellous lessons. Perhaps among these scenes there +came to him those</p> + +<p><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246"></a></p><p> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">"noble aspirations in his youth</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To make his mind the mind of other men,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The enlightener of nations, and to rise</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He know not whither, it might be to fall,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But fall, even as the mountain-cataract,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Which, having leapt from its more dazzling height,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Lies low, but mighty still."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>In Byron's day, Matlock was a fashionable watering-place; and the +drawing-room of the "Old Bath," with cut-glass chandeliers, old +engravings, and cushioned window-seats, looks much the same as when it +witnessed many a gay assembly. In this room the wayward and sensitive +youth, secretly writhing with mortification at being prevented by +lameness from leading Mary Chaworth to the dance, watched, her more +fortunate partners with moody envy. The young Lady of Annesley little +imagined that the lame boy, with his handsome face and troublesome +temper, would link her name to deathless song.</p> + +<p>On a fair, sunny morning, towards the close of October, we left Matlock +for Annesley Hall and Newstead Abbey. The day was in harmony with the +poetical associations of our excursion: a gentle mist hung like a veil +over hills and groves, giving a dreamy aspect to Nature, and rendering +the places we intended to visit creations of fancy rather than actual +facts. Very unromantic personages, however, answered our inquiries for +Annesley, which reassured us of its reality. Byron's "Dream" had +rendered the scenery familiar to our memory.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 8.5em;">"The hill</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Green and of mild declivity, the last,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As 't were the cape, of a long ridge of such,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Save that there was no sea to lave its base,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But a most living landscape."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Our approach led us beside those gentle slopes, and we seemed to see the +maiden and the youth standing on the mild declivity, with its crowning +circlet of trees.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"And both were young, but not alike in youth:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The maid was on the eve of womanhood;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The boy had fewer summers.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">"... She was his life,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The ocean to the river of his thoughts.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her sighs were not for him; to her he was</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Even as a brother, but no more; 'twas much,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For brotherless she was, save in the name</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her infant friendship had bestowed on him,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Herself the solitary scion left</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Of a time-honored race.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">"Even now she loved another,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And on the summit of that hill she stood</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Kept pace with her expectancy and flew."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>That lover, soon after, became the husband of Mary Chaworth. It is not +for us to speculate wherefore Destiny entangled the threads in that web +of existence which originally seemed to have woven the fates of Byron +and Mary Chaworth together. We are ignorant of spiritual laws, and know +little of the origin whence come those strange attractions, mind to +mind, heart to heart, which make or mar the life-experiences of us all.</p> + +<p>Had events been ordered otherwise, Byron might have been a better and +happier man, but the world would never have received the gift of "Childe +Harold." Alas, that the soul must be ploughed and harrowed, and the +precious seed trodden in, before it can give forth its fairest-flowers +or its immortal fruit!</p> + +<p>When we had last heard of Annesley Hall, it was ruinous and desolate, +and we knew not in what condition it might now be found. Passing through +an avenue of ancient oaks, the road winds down to an old picturesque +gate-house, and, leaving the carriage, we walked onward. Looking through +the arch of entrance, we saw as in a picture, nay, as in the poet's +dream, "the venerable mansion," sitting quietly in autumn sunshine on +its old terrace. To gray walls and peaks clung a climbing plant, its +leaves red with touch of frost, contrasting deliciously with green ivy, +and putting a bit of color into darker hues of stone-work. As we passed +beyond the gate, we saw that the mansion had been, restored and repaired +by careful hands guided by tasteful eyes and loving hearts. Above the +hall-door was a bay-window, which instinct told us belonged <a name="Page_247" id="Page_247"></a>to the +"antique oratory," but we walked onward to the terrace, with its stone +balustrade, inclosing a bright flower-garden. On the other side of the +house stretches the lawn and park, with deer feeding quietly in the +distance. No human form appeared; all was silent and peaceful. We walked +thoughtfully on the old terrace, recalling the images of the poet and +the Lady of Annesley; but looking up at the ancient sun-dial on one of +the gables, we perceived that its shadow fell deeper and deeper with the +declining day, telling us, as it had told many before, how time waited +not, and reminding us that we, also were travellers. Passing again round +the mansion, and casting a wistful look within, we saw a woman sitting +at a low window, sorting fruit. We approached, and asked if strangers +were permitted to see the Hall. She replied gently, that it was not "a +show-house." We pleaded our cause successfully, however, when we told +her how the thought of Mary Chaworth had led us here from a distant +land. If the owners of Annesley knew that once an exception was made to +a general rule, we trust they also believed that the visitors were not +actuated by an idle curiosity.</p> + +<p>Our request being granted, our guide laid aside her plums, and with a +kind hand admitted us into the entrance-hall. It was low and venerable, +with family-portraits on the walls, among them that of the Mr. Chaworth +whom the "wicked Lord Byron" of other days shot in a duel. From the hall +we entered the modern part of the house, harmoniously blended with the +older portion of the building. In the drawing-room, two noble portraits +by Sir Joshua Reynolds arrested our attention. The lady (as Miss Burney +tells us in her journal) was a beauty and a belle of Sir Joshua's time, +and the painter has done justice to his subject, who is drawn at full +length, feeding an eagle,—a spirited, splendid woman, who looks down +from the canvas with bright, triumphant eyes. In the next apartment we +were shown a portrait which touched deeper chords in our heart. It was a +likeness of Mary Chaworth in miniature, representing a mature and +beautiful woman.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Upon her face there was a tint of grief,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The settled shadow of an inward strife,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And an unquiet drooping of the eye,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As if its lids were charged with unshed tears."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>The truth of this description startled us, and revealed instantly how +deeply impressed upon the mind of her youthful lover must have been that +face which was the starlight of his boyhood. Tears had passed since they +parted, and chasms of time and gulfs yet deeper and wider than time ever +knows had separated Byron from Annesley and England, and yet, when he +wrote those lines, her face rose before him so clearly, wearing on its +loveliness the impress of care and sorrow which he knew must be there, +that no words but his can truly describe the expression of her features. +Turning to our conductress, we asked if she had ever seen the Lady of +Annesley. "Yes, I knew and loved her well, for I was her maid many +years"; and, with a faltering tone, she added, "she died in my arms." +Genius has immortalized Mary Chaworth; yet the tender and heartfelt +tribute of one who had been the humble, but daily witness of the beauty +of her life, was worth a thousand homilies.</p> + +<p>We were conducted through the library, which had been in other days the +drawing-room, out of which opens a small apartment, known to the readers +of the "Dream" as the "antique oratory." Leading from the old +entrance-hall is the favorite sitting-room of Mary Chaworth in her happy +childhood and youth; and here, in his boyish days, Byron often sat +beside her while she played for him his favorite airs on the +piano-forte. Beneath the window is a little garden, where she cultivated +the flowers she loved best, and which are still cherished for her +memory. Our guide gathered a few of these, and gave them to our young +companion: they now lie before us, carefully preserved, with some of +their gay tints yet unfaded,—memorials, <a name="Page_248" id="Page_248"></a>not only of Mary Chaworth, who +lived and loved and suffered through all the varied experience of +woman's life, but also of her to whom the blossoms were given, the fair, +young girl, "who lived long enough on earth to learn its better lessons, +but passed from it upwards and onwards without a knowledge of sin except +the shadow it casts on the world."</p> + +<p>Taking leave of our kind guide, to whom we were indebted for a visit of +deep interest, we paused a moment on the terrace ere we "passed the +massy gate of that old hall," to receive once more into our memory</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">"the old mansion and the accustomed hall</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the remembered chambers, and the place,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>A holy stillness pervaded the venerable house and its surrounding +scenery, a peace which breathed of a purer sphere, where what is best on +earth finds its correspondence.</p> + +<p>We wondered not, that, when the deep waters of the poet's soul, too +often ruffled by passion, polluted by vice, or made turbid by +selfishness, were calm and pure enough to mirror heaven, they ever +reflected the bright and morning star of Annesley.</p> + +<p>The transition from Annesley Hall to Newstead Abbey is inevitable in +thought and rapid in fact,—the road, over which the young poet so often +passed, between the two estates, being only three miles in length. We +had lingered so long at Annesley that the day was nearly spent before we +reached the Abbey. How did the venerable pile, with its mysterious +memories, fateful histories, and poetical associations, flash out into +light and darken into shadow as the October sun sank behind the distant +hills!</p> + +<p>The Abbey church is now only a ruin, but the airy span of its rich +Gothic window remains, as evidence of its original beauty. Through the +now vacant space, once the wide door of entrance, we saw the floor of +green grass, and in the centre the monument to Byron's favorite dog, +Bowswain. All was silent about the ruin, except the cawing of a thousand +rooks, who were settling themselves for the night with a vast amount of +noise and bustle on the high branches of the old trees which sweep down +on one side of the Abbey.</p> + +<p>The residence which adjoins the church, once a monastery, was inherited +by Lord Byron, with the title: to part with it was a dire necessity. +Colonel Wildman, the school-fellow of Byron at Harrow, purchased the +estate from the unhappy poet in the most liberal and generous manner, +and blessed it into a home. On entering the house, we were shown through +long corridors and vaulted passages, in which the monastic character of +the building was preserved. When Byron came to Newstead from college, +the Abbey was in a most dilapidated condition, and he had only means +enough to make a few rooms habitable for himself and his mother. A +gloomy and desolate abode it must have been. The furniture of Byron's +bedroom remains as it stood when removed from Cambridge. On the walls +are prints of his school at Harrow, and Trinity College, with various +relics and boyish treasures. The window commands a view of the sheet of +water which stretches before the Abbey, with its wooded banks,—a scene +which he loves and remembers even when "Lake Leman wooes him with her +crystal face," for he writes to his sister,—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"It doth remind me of our own dear lake</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">By the old hall, which shall be mine no more."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Adjoining Byron's room is a suite of apartments, ruinous and roofless in +his day, but which Colonel Wildman has restored, and furnished most +appropriately with old tapestry and antique tables and chairs. These +rooms wear a ghostly aspect, and we were not surprised to learn that +one, at least, had the reputation of being haunted. The great +drawing-room, once the dormitory of the monks, is now a splendid +apartment richly decorated; above the chimney is a fine <a name="Page_249" id="Page_249"></a>portrait of +Lord Byron, and in an ancient cabinet was shown the cup made from a +skull found in one of the stone coffins near the Abbey church. It is +mounted in silver, and the well-known lines, written by Byron, are +engraved on the rim. "Having it made" was, as he said himself, "one of +his foolish freaks, of which he was ashamed." The cup, however, bears +little resemblance to a skull. Colonel Wildman preserved the furniture +of Byron's dining-room, and other apartments, (very simple it is,) +without alteration, in the hope that he might return from Greece and +revisit the halls of his fathers. Had Fate so willed, he would have +found how kindly and faithfully his early friend had associated him with +Newstead, and preserved every memorial of past history connected with +the place. Yet thoughts of bitterness would even then have mingled with +these familiar scenes, for it was not the heir of the Byrons who had +restored Newstead Abbey to beauty and order.</p> + +<p>Quitting the Abbey, and passing into the gardens, we followed the +gardener through the deepening gloom to the wood, where, in former days, +an ancestor of the Byrons set up leaden statues of satyrs, which the +country-people called "the old lord's devils"; and very much like demons +they looked. The tree was pointed out upon which Byron cut the names of +"Augusta" and "Byron," with the date, during a last walk the brother and +sister took together at Newstead. It is a double tree, springing from +one root, which he chose as emblematical of themselves. The dim light +barely enabled us to discern letters deeply carved, but growing less +visible with the expanding bark. One of the trees has withered under +that spell which seems to have blasted all connected with the name, and +is cut off just above the inscription. The oak planted by Byron in his +youth in a different part of the grounds was also shown to us. It is yet +strong and vigorous. We picked up a yellow leaf, which the wind bore to +our feet, as a fitting memorial of the place and the hour.</p> + +<p>Passing again through the old Abbey church, the chill of the evening met +us, cold and damp,—fit atmosphere for the place. The rooks were all +asleep in their high nests; silence, darkness, and mist were fast +casting their mantle over old Newstead; and the only cheerful sign came +from the distant window of the Colonel's library, whence shot out a +generous gleam of household fire,—emblem of that warm heart which had +shed light upon the once desolate abode of its early friend.</p> + +<p>Since our visit to Newstead, (seven years ago,) the Abbey has passed +into other hands, and even a royal owner is now reported to possess the +poet's ancestral home. We shall ever deem ourselves fortunate that our +destiny led us to make this pilgrimage during the lifetime of Colonel +Wildman and while the place was under his enlightened and generous +ownership.</p> + +<p>A few miles from Newstead Abbey is Hucknall, a poor, desolate-looking +village, at the end of whose street stands an old church, beneath which +is the burial-place of the Byrons. The building is ancient and gray, but +dreary rather than venerable. Standing in its comfortless interior, we +remembered that Byron once asked to be buried under the green, grassy +floor of the roofless church at Newstead Abbey, with his faithful dog at +his feet. The poet, whose rapid glance seized every glory and beauty of +Nature, whose memory, wax to receive, and marble to retain, transferred +the vision through the medium of his rare command of language, should +have had a grave over which winds sweep, birds sing, and stars watch. +Not so. A white marble tablet let into the wall above the family-vault +was erected to Byron's memory by his sister. Perhaps the simplicity of +the monument was suggested by these lines, written at the early age of +nineteen years:—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"When to his airy hall my father's voice</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shall call my spirit, happy in the choice,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">When poised upon the gale my form shall ride,</span><br /><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250"></a> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Or dark in mist descend the mountain-side,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, may my shade behold no sculptured urns</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To mark the spot where dust to dust returns,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumbered stone!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My epitaph shall be my name alone.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If that with honor fail to crown my clay,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Oh, may no other fame my deeds repay!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That, only that, shall single out the spot</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By that remembered, or by that forgot."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>The inscription upon the tablet, after his name and title, designates +him as the Author of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," who died while aiding +the cause of Liberty in Greece: thus striking the noblest notes in a +powerful, eccentric, blotted score, as the fundamental chord of Byron's +requiem.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_LAST_CHARGE" id="THE_LAST_CHARGE"></a>THE LAST CHARGE.</h2> + + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For country, for freedom, for honor, for life?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">One blow on his forehead will settle the fight!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal upon peal!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Trust not the false herald that painted your shield:</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">True honor <i>to-day</i> must be sought on the field!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born!</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,—</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His sceptre once broken, the world is our own!</span><br /> +</p><p><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251"></a></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="NORTHERN_INVASIONS" id="NORTHERN_INVASIONS"></a>NORTHERN INVASIONS.</h2> + + +<p>Northern Invasions, when successful, advance the civilization of the +world.</p> + +<p>It would not be difficult to present from all history a mass of +illustrations of this thesis wellnigh sufficient in themselves to +establish it. And there is no doubt that the principles of human nature, +which appear in those illustrations, can be set in such order as to +prove the thesis beyond a question. The softness of Southern climates +produces, in the long run, gentleness, effeminacy, and indolence, or +passionate rather than persevering effort. It produces, again, the +palliatives or disguises of these traits which are found in formal +religions, and in institutions of caste or slavery. The rigor of +Northern climates produces, on the other hand, in the long run, hardy +physical constitutions among men, with determined individuality of +character. It produces, therefore, freedom even to democracy in +politics, protestantism even to rationalism in religion, and grim +perseverance even to the bitter end in war. A certain stern morality, +often amounting to asceticism, is imposed on Northern constitutions. So +superficial is it, so much a creature of circumstance, that Norman, +Scandinavian, Goth, or Icelander, deserves no sort of credit for it. All +history shows that it vanishes before the temptations of any Vinland +which the frozen barbarians stumble upon. None the less does it give +them vigor of muscle, and power to endure hardship, which, in the end, +tells, over the accomplishments of the most warlike Romans, Greeks, +Persians, or other Southrons. "Fight us, if you like," said Ariovistus +to Cæsar; "but remember that none of us have slept under a roof for +fourteen years." That sort of people are apt to succeed in the long run.</p> + +<p>When they succeed, as we have said, they advance civilization. To begin +with the farthest East, all such strength as the Chinese Empire has +to-day is due to the Tartar cross in its blood; that is, it results from +the conquest of imbecile China by Northern Tartar tribes. One or two +more such invasions, followed by colonization of Northern emigrants, +would have made China a much stronger power this day than she is, and a +nation of higher grade. The history of Indian civilization, again, is a +history of Northern conquests. They tell us, indeed, that the Indian +castes may be resolved into so many beach-marks of the waves of +successive invasions from the North, the highest caste representing the +last innovation. When Abraham crossed from Ur of the Chaldees into +Canaan, when Cambyses broke open the secrets of Egyptian civilization, +when Alexander first opened to the world Egyptian science, these were +illustrations of the same thing,—Canaan, Egypt, and the world were all +improved by those processes. Greece died out, and has never yet +reëstablished herself, because she never had a complete infusion of +Gothic blood in her worn-out system. Italy, on the other hand, had a new +birth, and at this moment has a magnificent future, because Goths and +Lombards did sweep in upon her with their up-country virtues and +wilderness moralities. What the Ostrogoths did for Spain, what the +Franks did for Gaul, what the Northmen did for England, are so many more +illustrations. What Gustavus Adolphus would have done for Germany, if he +had succeeded, would have been another.</p> + +<p>What we are to do in the South, when we succeed, will be another. It +makes the subject of this paper.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Nobody pretends, of course, that War itself does anything final in the +advance of civilization. War itself is, what the poets call it, a +terrible piece of ploughing. With us, just now, it is subsoil-ploughing, +very deep at that. Stumps and stones have to be heaved out, which <a name="Page_252" id="Page_252"></a>had +on them the moss and lichens and superficial soil of centuries, and +which had fancied, in that heavy semi-consciousness which belongs to +stumps and stones, that they were fixed forever. As the teams and the +ploughshares pass over the ground which has lain fallow so long, they +leave, God knows, and millions of bleeding hearts know, a very desolate +prospect in the upheaved furrows behind them. It is very black, very +rough, very desert to the eye, and in spots it is very bloody. This is +what war does. So desolate the prospect, that we of the Northern States +have certainly a right to thank God that it was not we who called out +the ploughmen.</p> + +<p>War, in itself, does nothing but plough,—but immediately on the end of +the war, in any locality, he who succeeds begins on the harrowing and +the planting. And because God is, and directs all such affairs, it is +wonderful to see how short is the June which in His world covers all +such furrows as His ploughmen make with new beauty. It is to the methods +of that new harvest that the President has boldly led our attention in +his admirable Proclamation of Amnesty. It is to the details of it that +each loyal man has to look already. It is but a few weeks since we heard +a sentimental grumbler, at a public meeting, lamenting over the +discomforts of the freed slaves in the Southwest, as he compared them +with their lost paradise. Men of his type, to whom the present is always +worse than the past, succeed in persuading themselves that the +incidental hardships of transition are to be taken as the type of a +whole future. And so this apostle of discontent really believed that the +condition of the fifty thousand freed slaves of the Mississippi, in the +hands of such men as Grant, and Eliot, and Yeatman, and Wheelock, and +Forman, and Fiske, and Howard, was really going to be worse than it was +under the lashes of Legree, or at the auction-block of New Orleans. The +more manly, as the more philosophical way of looking at the transition, +is to discover the shortest path leading to that future, which, without +such a transition, cannot come.</p> + +<p>The President, with courage which does him infinite honor, leads the way +to this future. His Proclamation is really a rallying-cry to all true +men and women, whether they are living at the North or at the South, to +take hold and work for its accomplishment. With an army posted in each +of the revolted States, with more than one of them completely under +National control, he considers that the time for planting has come. He +is no such idealist or sentimentalist as to leave these new-made +furrows, so terribly torn up in three years of war, to renew their own +verdure by any mere spontaneous vegetation.</p> + +<p>Practical as the President always is, he is sublimely practical in the +Proclamation. "Let us make good out of this evil as quickly as we can," +he says; "let peace bring in plenty as quickly as she can." To bring +this about, he promises the strong arm of the nation to protect anything +which shall show itself worth protecting, in the way of social +institutions of republican liberty. He does not ask, like a conqueror, +for the keys of a capital. He does not ask, like a Girondist, for the +vote of a majority. He knows, it is true, as all the world knows, that, +if the vote of all the men of the South could ever be obtained, the +majority would utterly overshadow the handful of gentry who have been +lording it over white trash and black slaves together. But the President +has no wish to prolong martial law to that indefinite future when this +handful of gentlemen shall let the majority of their own people +pronounce upon their claims to rule them. Waiving the requisitions of +the theorists, and at the same time relieving himself from the necessity +of employing military power a moment longer than is necessary, he +announces, in advance, what will be his policy in extending protection +to loyal governments formed in Rebel States. If there can be found in +any State enough righteous men willing to take the oath of allegiance +and to <a name="Page_253" id="Page_253"></a>sustain the nation in its determination for emancipation,—if +there can be found only enough to be counted up as the tenth part of +those who voted in the election of 1860, though their State should have +sinned like Gomorrah, even though its name should be South Carolina, +they shall be permitted to reconstruct its government, and that +government shall be recognized by the government of the nation.</p> + +<p>It is true that this gift is vastly more than any of the Rebel States +has any right to claim. When the King of Oude rebels against England, he +does not find, at the end of the war, that, because he is utterly +defeated, things are to go on upon their old agreeable footing. +Rebellion is not, in its nature, one of those pretty plays of little +children, which can stop when either party is tired, because he asks for +it to stop, so gently that both parties shall walk on hand in hand till +either has got breath enough to begin the game again. If the nation were +contending against real and permanent enemies, in reducing to order the +States of the Confederacy, or if the national feeling towards the people +of those States were the bitter feeling which their leaders profess +towards our people, the nation would, of course, offer no such easy +terms. The nation would say, "When you threw off the Constitution, you +did it for better for worse. It guarantied to you your State +governments. You spurned the guaranty. Let it be so. Let the guaranty be +withdrawn. You cannot sustain them. Let them go, then. You have +destroyed them. And the nation governs you by proconsuls." But the +nation has no such desire to deal harshly with these people. The nation +knows that more than half of them were never regarded as people at +home,—that they had no more to do with the Rebellion than had the oxen +with which they labored. The nation knows that of the rest of the +Southern people literally only a handful professed power in the State. +The nation knows, therefore, that what pretended to be a union of +republics was, really, to take Gouverneur Morris's phrase, a union of +republics with oligarchies,—seventeen republics united to fourteen +oligarchies, when this thing began. The nation knows that the fourteen +will be happier, stronger, more prosperous than ever, when their people +have the rights of which they are partly conscious,—when they also +become republics. The nation means to carry out the constitutional +guaranty, and give them the republican government which under the +Constitution belongs to every State in the Union. The nation looks +forward to prosperous centuries, in which these States, with these +people and the descendants of these people, shall be united in one +nation with the republics which have been true to the nation. For all +these reasons the nation has no thought of insisting on its rights as +against Rebel States. It has no thunders of vengeance except for those +who have led in these iniquities. For the people who have been misled it +has pardon, protection, encouragement, and hope. It can afford to be +generous. And at the President's hands it makes the offer which will be +received.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>We say this offer will be received. We know very well the difficulty +with which an opinion long branded with ignominy makes head in countries +where there is no press, where there is no free speech, where there are +no large cities. Excepting Louisiana, the Southern States have none of +these. And the "peculiar institutions" throw the control of what is +called opinion more completely into the hands of a very small class of +men, we might almost say a very small knot of men, than in any other +oligarchy which we remember in modern history. It is in considering this +very difficulty that we recognize the wisdom of the President's +Proclamation. He is conscious of the difficulty, and has placed his +minimum of loyal inhabitants at a very low point, that, even in the +hardest cases, there may be a possibility of meeting his requisition.</p> + +<p>It is not true, on the other hand, that <a name="Page_254" id="Page_254"></a>he has placed his minimum so +low as to involve the government in any difficulty in sustaining the +State governments which will be framed at his call. It must be +remembered that this "tenth part" of righteous men will have very strong +allies in every Southern State. It is confessed, on all hands, that they +will be supported by all the negroes in every State. Just in proportion +to what was the strength of the planting interest is its weakness in the +new order of things. Given such physical force, given the moral and +physical strength which comes with national protection, and given the +immense power which belongs to the wish for peace, and the "tenth part" +will soon find its fraction becoming larger and more respectable by +accretions at home and by emigration from other States. We shall soon +learn that there is next to nobody who really favored this thing in the +beginning. They will tell us that they all stood for their old State +flag, and that they will be glad to stand for it in its new hands.</p> + +<p>It will be only the first step that will cost. Everybody sees this. The +President sees it. Mr. Davis sees it. He hopes nobody will take it. We +hope a good many people will. The merit of the President's plan is that +this step can be promptly taken. And so many are the openings by which +national feeling now addresses the people of the States in revolt, and +national men can call on them to express their real opinions and to act +in their real interest, that we hope to see it taken in many places at +the same time.</p> + +<p>When Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, he +supposed that one-thirteenth part of his people were Christians. He was +statesman enough to know that a minority of one-thirteenth, united +together because they had one cause, would be omnipotent over a majority +of twelve-thirteenths, without a cause and disunited. So, if any one +asks for an example in our history,—the Territory of Kansas was thrown +open to emigration with every facility given to the Southern emigrant, +and every discouragement offered to the Northerner. But forty men, +organized together by a cause, settled Lawrence, and it was rumored that +there was to be some organization of the other Northern settlers, and at +that word the Northern hive emptied itself into Kansas, and the +Atchisons and Bufords and Stringfellows abandoned their new territory, +badly stung. These are illustrations, one of them on the largest scale, +and the other belonging wholly to our own time and country, of the worth +even of a very small minority, in such an initiative as is demanded now. +What was done in Kansas can be done again in Florida, in Texas, if Texas +do not take care for herself, in either Carolina, in any Southern State +where the "righteous men" do not themselves appear to take this first +step on which the President relies.</p> + +<p>Take, for instance, this magnificent Florida, our own Italy,—if one can +conceive of an Italy where till now men have been content to live a +half-civilized life, only because the oranges grew to their hands, and +there was no necessity for toil. The vote of Florida in 1860 was 14,347. +So soon as in Florida one-tenth part of this number, or 1,435 men, take +the oath of allegiance to the National Government, so soon, if they have +the qualifications of electors under Florida law, shall we have a loyal +State in Florida. It will be a Free State, offering the privileges of a +Free State to the eager eyes of the North and of Europe. That valley of +the St. John's, with its wealth of lumber,—the even climate of the +western shore,—the navy-yard to be reëstablished at Pensacola,—the +commerce to be resumed at Jacksonville,—the Nice which we will build up +for our invalids at St. Augustine,—the orange-groves which are wasting +their sweetness at this moment, on the plantations and the +islands,—will all be so many temptations to the emigrant, as soon as +work is honorable in Florida. If the people who gave 5,437 votes for +Bell and 367 for Douglas cannot furnish 1,435 men to <a name="Page_255" id="Page_255"></a>establish this new +State government, we here know who can.</p> + +<p>"Armies composed of freemen conquer for themselves, not for their +leaders." This is the happy phrase of Robertson, as he describes the +reëstablishment of society in Europe after the great Northern invasions, +which gave new life to Roman effeminacy, and new strength to Roman +corruption. The phrase is perfectly true. It is as true of the armies of +freemen who have been called to the South now to keep the peace as it +was of the armies of freemen who were called South then by the +imbecility of Roman emperors or their mutual contentions. The lumbermen +from Maine and New Hampshire who have seen the virgin riches of the St. +John's, like the Massachusetts volunteers who have picked out their +farms in the valley of the Shenandoah or established in prospect their +forges on the falls of the Potomac, or like the Illinois regiments who +have been introduced to the valleys of Tennessee or of Arkansas, will +furnish men enough, well skilled in political systems, to start the new +republics, in regions which have never known what a true republic was +till now.</p> + +<p>To carry out the President's plan, and to give us once more working +State governments in the States which have rebelled,—to give them, +indeed, the first true republican governments they have ever +known,—would require for Virginia about 12,000 voters. They can be +counted, we suppose, at this moment, in the counties under our military +control. Indeed, the loyal State government of Virginia is at this +moment organized. In North Carolina it would require 9,500 voters. The +loyal North Carolina regiments are an evidence that that number of +home-grown men will readily appear. In South Carolina, to give a +generous estimate, we need 5,000 voters. It is the only State which we +never heard my man wish to emigrate to. It is the hardest region, +therefore, of any to redeem. At the worst, till the 5,000 appear, the +new Georgia will be glad to govern all the country south of the Santee, +and the new North Carolina what is north thereof. Georgia will need +10,000 loyal voters. There are more than that number now encamped upon +her soil, willing to stay there. Of Florida we have spoken. Alabama +requires 9,000. They have been hiding away from conscription; they have +been fleeing into Kentucky and Ohio: they will not be unwilling to +reappear when the inevitable "first step" is taken. For Mississippi we +want 7,000. Mr. Reverdy Johnson has told us where they are. For +Louisiana, one tenth is 5,000. More than that number voted in the +elections which returned the sitting members to Congress. For Texas, the +proportion is 6,200; for Arkansas, 5,400. Those States are already +giving account of themselves. In Tennessee the fraction required is +14,500. And as the people of Knoxville said, "They could do that in the +mountains alone."</p> + +<p>We have no suspicion of a want of latent Southern loyalty. But we have +brought together these figures to show how inevitable is a +reconstruction on the President's plan, even if Southern loyalty were as +abject and timid as some men try to persuade us. These figures show us, +that, if, of the million Northern men who have "prospected" the Southern +country, in the march of victorious armies, only seventy-three thousand +determine to take up their future lot there, and to establish there free +institutions, they would be enough, without the help of one native, to +establish these republican institutions in all the Rebel States. The +deserted plantations, the farms offered for sale, almost for nothing, +all the attractions of a softer climate, and all the just pride which +makes the American fond of founding empires, are so many incentives to +the undertaking of the great initiative proposed. In the cases of +Virginia and Tennessee, and, as we suppose, of Louisiana, Arkansas, and +Texas, the beginning has already been made at home. In Florida a recent +meeting at Fernandina gave promise for a like<a name="Page_256" id="Page_256"></a> beginning. If it do not +begin there, the Emigrant Aid Company must act at once to give the +beginning.<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a> There will remain the Carolinas and three of the Gulf +States. The ploughing is not over there, and it is not time therefore to +speak of the harvest. For the rest, we hope we have said enough to +indicate to the ready and active men of the nation where their great +present duty lies.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="REVIEWS_AND_LITERARY_NOTICES" id="REVIEWS_AND_LITERARY_NOTICES"></a>REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.</h2> + + +<p><i>Principles of Political Economy, with Some of their Applications to +Social Philosophy.</i> By JOHN STUART MILL. New York: D. Appleton & Co.</p> + +<p>If works upon Political Economy, representing the orthodox European +doctrine, are to be written, John Stuart Mill is certainly the man to +write them. Able, candid, judicial, indefatigable, powerfully +poised,—characterized by remarkable mental amplitude, by a rare +steadiness of brain, by an admirable sense of logical relation, by a +singular ease of command over his intellectual forces, by a clear and +discriminating eye that does not wink when a hand is shaken before +it,—of a humane and widely related nature, whose heats lie deep, so +deep that many may think him cold,—of an understanding as dry as John +Locke's, wanting imagination in all its degrees, from rhetorical +imagination, which is the lowest, to epic imagination, which is the +highest, and therefore destitute of the sovereign insights which go only +with this faculty in its higher degrees, while, on the other hand, freed +from the enticements and attractions that are inseparable from it,—Mr. +Mill has qualifications unsurpassed, perhaps, by those of any man living +for considerate and serviceable thinking upon matters of immediate +practical interest and of a somewhat tangible nature. His mental +structure exhibits combinations which are by no means frequent. Seldom +is seen a conjunction of such cold purity of thinking with such +generosity of nature; seldom such considerateness, such industry, +patience, and carefulness of deliberation, <a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a>with a boldness so entire; +seldom such ducal self-possession and self-sufficingness, with equal +openness to social and sympathetic impression; nor less rare, perhaps, +is the union of a reflective power so large and dominating with an +observation so active.</p> + +<p>These mental qualities fit him in a peculiar degree for service in the +field of Political Economy as now commonly defined,—a branch of +literature which, more, perhaps, than any other, represents at once the +genius and the limitation of our time.</p> + +<p>Political Economy is a half-science, not total or integral; and if it +pretend to spherical completeness, as it often does, it becomes open to +grave accusation. The charges against it, considered as a strict and +complete science, are two.</p> + +<p>Of these the first has been cogently urged by Mr. Ruskin, while virtual +admissions to a like effect were made by Mr. Buckle in his spirited +account of Adam Smith. It is this: as a science, Political Economy must +assume the perfect selfishness of every human being. Every science +requires necessary, and therefore invariable, conditions, which, when +expounded, are named laws. Such in Astronomy is gravitation, with the +law of its diminution by distance; such in Chemistry is chemical +attraction, with the law of definite proportions. The natural and +perpetual condition assumed by Political Economy is the absolute +supremacy in man of pecuniary interest. Absolute: it can admit no +modification of this; it can make no room within its province for +generosity, or for any action of man's soul, without forfeiting, so far, +its claim to the character of a science. Put a dollar, with all honor, +liberal justice, and humane attraction, on the one hand; put a dollar +and one cent, with mere legal right and consequent safety, on the other +hand; and Political Economy must assume that every man will gravitate to +the latter by the same necessity which makes the balance incline toward +the heavier weight. Or, conceding the contrary, it yields also its claim +to the character of a perfect science, and takes rank among those +half-sciences which partly expound necessary laws and partly contingent +effects.</p> + +<p>Now this assumed sovereignty of pecuniary interest seems to us <i>not</i> a +final account of human beings. There is honor among thieves; is there +none among merchants? Does not every man put some generous consideration +for others into his business-transactions? Has an honorable publisher +<i>no</i> aim but to print that which will sell best? Has he <i>no</i> regard to +the character of his house? Has he <i>no</i> desire to furnish a nourishing +pabulum and a healthful inspiration to the mind of his country? In the +employment of labor and the giving of wages do men generally quite +forget the work<i>man</i>, and think only of the work and its profit? This +does not happen to accord with our observation of human nature. We think +there is a large element of honorable human feeling incessantly playing +into the economies of the world; and we think it might be yet larger +without any injurious perturbation of these economies.</p> + +<p>Again, as a science, Political Economy considers wealth only as related +to wealth, to itself, not to man. It assumes wealth, as absolute, and +regards man as an instrument for its production and distribution. But +this attitude must be reversed. Wealth cannot be treated of in a wholly +healthful way until it is considered simply as instrumental toward the +higher riches which are contained in man himself.</p> + +<p>And here we reach the peculiar virtue of Mr. Mill's book.</p> + +<p>In the first place, he accepts the science as such, accepts it cordially +and almost with enthusiasm,—in fact, has a degree of faith in its +completeness and of confidence in its uses, greater, perhaps, than our +own final thought will justify; for the reader will already have +perceived that we incline in some measure to the opposition, with +Carlyle, Ruskin, and others. Proceeding upon this basis, Mr. Mill +expounds the orthodox theories with that definiteness of thought, with +that precision of statement, and that calmness and breadth of survey, +which never fail to characterize his literary labor. Any one who +assumes, and wishes to study the science, will find in this writer a +guide through its intricacies, whom it were hardly an exaggeration to +name as perfect. Always sound-hearted, always clear, candid, and +logical, always maintaining a certain judicial superiority, he is a +thinker in whose company one likes to go on his mental travels, and +whose thought one will be inclined to trust rather too much than too +little. <a name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a>In the second place, Mr. Mill discerns the limitations of the +science more clearly, and acknowledges them more frankly, than, to the +extent of our somewhat narrow conversance with such writers, has ever +been done before by any one who regarded it with equal affection and +reposed in its theories a like faith. This, too, is thoroughly +characteristic of him. He is one of the sanest and sincerest of men.</p> + +<p>Thirdly, his inspiring and generative purpose is to lift the science +into serviceable relation to the broad interests of man. Here we come to +the real soul of the book. He accepts its customary limits chiefly that +he may transcend them. He treats of wealth with a philosophical and +cordial perception of its uses; but beyond and above this he is thinking +of man, always of man,—and of man not merely as an eater and drinker, +but as an intelligence and a candidate for moral or personal upbuilding. +A reader would regard the work with a dull eye, who should miss this +commanding feature. Sometimes by special discussions, as in his defence +of peasant-properties in land,—sometimes only by an aroma pervading his +pages, or bypassing expressions,—and always by the general ordering and +culminating tendency of his thought,—one reads this perpetual question, +the true and final question of all politics and economies:—How shall we +secure the greatest number of intelligent and worthy men and women?</p> + +<p>But while Mr. Mill's sympathy is with the people, the many, the whole of +humanity, and while his desire for men is that they may attain the +mental elevation which shall make them really <i>human</i> beings, yet a +marked feature of his book is the mild Malthusian element which pervades +it. Let no stigma be therefore fixed upon him. Let honor be rendered to +the courage which steadily inquires, not what representation of the +facts will win applause, but simply what the facts <i>are</i>. And +undoubtedly it is true that all considerate men in England have been +compelled to contemplate the <i>possibility</i> of over-population, of an +insupportable pauperism, of a burden of helpless numbers which shall +sink the whole nation into abysses of starvation with all its horrible +accompaniments. It is but a few years since Ireland escaped unexampled +death by famine only by an unexampled exodus. The New World opened its +arms to the misery of the Old, and fed its famine to fatness,—and has +got few thanks. But this rescue cannot be repeated without limit. And +therefore forelooking men in England find the problem of their future +one not too easy to solve. Mr. Carlyle, among others, has grappled with +it. His brow has long been beaded with the sweat of this great +wrestling; and if he seem to some of us a little abrupt and peculiar in +his movements, we must at least do him the justice to remember that he, +after the manner of ancient Jacob, is struggling with the angel of +England's destiny. Mr. Mill, too, with an earnestness less passionate +indeed, but perhaps not less real, is toiling at the same work.</p> + +<p>And, by the way, an instructive comparison might be drawn between these +two writers. Mr. Mill, not highly vitalized by belief, not nourished by +any grand spiritual imaginations, hampered by a hard and poor +philosophy, and with limited access to absolute truth, nevertheless, not +only belongs fully to the opening modern epoch, but through a certain +entireness of moral health and sanity is leading the time steadily +forward into its great believing and builded future; though it may +follow from his limitations that into this future he cannot accompany it +<i>very</i> far. Mr. Carlyle, with a poetic profundity of nature and a force +of insight which entitle him not merely to a high place among the men of +our time, but to a name among the men of all time, standing face to face +with the divine reality and wonder of existence, conversing with the +heights and depths of being, and appreciating the significance of +personality, as Mr. Mill never can, will accompany our epoch into its +future farther than one can foresee, but to its present must render a +mixed and imperfect service; for a sickness runs in his veins, and he is +trying to force the age into a half-way house, which is built equally by +his hope and his despair.</p> + +<p>Were this not merely a general characterization, but a review, of Mr. +Mill's powerful work, we should venture to take issue on some matters +both general and special,—as an example of the latter, on the possible +utility of protective duties. The reasoning by which he, in common with +his class, proves these to be necessarily <a name="Page_259" id="Page_259"></a>futile for good, is indeed +faultless so far as it goes, but, in our clear judgment, fails to cover +the whole case; so that the question, whether as one of general polity +or of industrial economy, is still open to consideration. Especially it +may be urged, that the infancy of human industries, like the infancy of +human beings, may require protection, even though their adult vigor +could be safely left to take care of itself. Suppose it conceded that +this protection is at first costly. So are the cradle and the nursery. +Yet it may be that they "pay" in the end. Nay, as the cradle may enrich +the household through the new incentives to labor and frugality which it +supplies, so protections of industry may evoke new industrial powers, +and thus at once begin to enrich the <i>nation</i>, though the capital which +supports these fresh industries could not at first hold its own, as +against other capital, without the motherly cares it receives.</p> + +<p>But enough. Here is a book on a matter of large and immediate +importance, put forth by one of the amplest and soundest minds of our +time,—a man so long-headed and clear-hearted, so able and intrepid to +think, to speak, and to hear correction, so intent upon high ends and so +calmly patient upon the way, that the public can neglect his thought +only by a criminal neglect of its own interests.</p> + + +<p><i>A Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life. With a Complete +Bibliography of the Subject.</i> By WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER. +Philadelphia: Geo. W. Childs.</p> + +<p>Few "signs of the times" are more significant than the disposition shown +on all sides to scrutinize and interpret the spiritual history of +mankind. Lessing, Schlegel, Herder, Hegel, Guizot, Buckle, and others, +endeavor, with various degrees of ambition and success, to estimate +history considered as a progress; Carlyle in his "Heroes" and Emerson in +the "Representative Men" regard it rather as a permanence, and seek to +present its value in typical forms; meanwhile the Bibles and mythologies +of the old world are collected, translated, subjected to interpretative +study; and the critical scholarship of our time is almost wholly engaged +in an endeavor either to arrive at the exact text or at the precise +value of all the ancient literatures.</p> + +<p>All men have at length discovered that the history of mankind <i>means</i> +something, and are naturally intent on learning <i>what</i> it means. No one +now regards it as a mere Devil's phantasmagoria, significant of nothing +but Adam's sin in the Garden. However differing on other points, we all +now perceive that the history of the mind of man is a more interior +history of the universe,—that it must be studied, in the most earnest +and reverential spirit of science,—that what Astronomy seeks to do in +the heavens and Geology on the earth must be done in the realms of the +mind itself,—and that, till we have found our Copernicus and our Newton +of the human soul, modern science lingers in the porch, and does not +find access to the temple. We all see that this history, not indeed as +to the succession of its outward events, but as to its interior reality, +must be grounded in the eternal truth and necessity of the universe. +What wonder, that, having been so fully penetrated by the scientific +spirit, modern minds should look with great longing toward these earths +and skies of human history, coveting some knowledge of the law by which +the thoughts and faiths of man perform their courses?</p> + +<p>Nor any longer can "negative criticism" enlist the utmost interest. It +is construction that is now desired; and he who studies history only +that he may vanquish belief in the interest of knowledge cannot command +the attention of those whose attention is best worth having. That fable +is fable and mythus mythus no one need now plume himself on informing +us, provided he has nothing further to say. Of course, we raise no +childish and sentimental objection to what is called "negative +criticism." It may not be the best possible policy to build the new +house in the form of certain stories superimposed upon the old one, +which, perhaps, is even now hardly strong enough to sustain its own +weight. Let there be due clearing away; let us find foundations.</p> + +<p>But the essence of the new point of view in the contemplation of history +consists in this, that we no longer seek these foundations in the mere +outward and literal history of man; we look, on the contrary, to his +inward history, to perennial <a name="Page_260" id="Page_260"></a>hopes and imaginations, to the evidence of +his spiritual impulses and attractions, and just here find not only his +<i>real</i> history, but also the basis for theoretical construction.</p> + +<p>We see, indeed, as clearly as any Niebuhr or Strauss of them all, that +the imagination so pours itself into history as to supersede, or to +disguise by transfiguration, the literal facts. The incessant domination +of man's inward over his outward history is apparent enough. What then? +Does that make history worthless? Nay, it infinitely enhances the value +of history. Who are more deserving of pity than the distracted critics +that discriminate the imaginative element in the story of man's +existence only to cast it away? "Facts" do they desire? These <i>are</i> the +facts. What is the use of always mousing about for coprolites? Give us +in the present form the product of man's spirit, and this to us shall +constitute his history. Let us know what pictures he painted on the +skies over his head, and he who desires shall be welcome to the relics +which he left in the dust under his feet.</p> + +<p>In our own country some worthy efforts have been made to set forth +certain grand provinces in the spiritual history of the human race. Such +was Mrs. Child's most readable book,—does she ever write anything which +is not readable?—"The Progress of Religious Ideas." We have seen also +some fine lectures on "Eastern Religions,"<a name="FNanchor_53_53" id="FNanchor_53_53"></a><a href="#Footnote_53_53" class="fnanchor">[53]</a> which ought to go into +print. And now Mr. Alger comes forward with his large and laborious +work, seeking to contribute his portion to these new and precious +constructions.</p> + +<p>Mr. Alger's book is a real <i>work</i>. It is the result of no light nor +trivial labor, of no timid nor indolent essay of thought. His aim has +been to pass in <i>judicial</i> review the thoughts and imaginations of +mankind concerning the destiny of the human soul. It is an instruction +to the jury from the bench, summing up and passing continuous judgment +upon the evidence on this subject contributed by the consciousness of +the human race.</p> + +<p>Mr. Alger is a brave man. He does not hesitate to grapple with the +greatest thinkers, nor to measure the subtlest imaginations of all time. +In the opening chapter, for example, which is appropriately devoted to a +consideration of theories of the soul's origin, he lays hold of the +boldest speculative imaginations to which the world has given birth, +with no hesitating nor trembling hand. Occasionally the reader may, +perhaps, be more inclined to tremble for him than he for himself. One +remembers Goldsmith's line,—</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"The dog it was that died";</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>but our author comes forth from the trial in ruddy health, and does not +seem at all out of breath. And all through the book he delivers his +sentence like a man who has earned the right to speak.</p> + +<p>And has he not earned it? For some years Mr. Alger has been known to +scholars and others as a most indefatigable and heroic worker. This book +justifies that reputation. The amount of reading that has gone to it is +almost portentous. To us, who can hardly manage twelve books, big and +little, in as many months, this mountainous reading furnishes matter for +wonder.</p> + +<p>Neither has this reading been chiefly a work of memorizing, nor has it +been expended chiefly upon works of history commonly so called. A +product of man's spiritual consciousness being under consideration, it +is works of thought and imagination, rather than works of narration, +which claim our author's critical attention; and his reading has been +reflective and deliberative, involving a judgment upon speculative more +than upon historical data. And it may fairly be said, though it be much +to say, that he has shrunk from nothing which a perfect performance of +his task required. Whether we consider the formation or the expression +of his judgments, it may still be affirmed that he has met his great +theme fairly, and given to its exposition the utmost exercise of his +powers and the unstinted devotion of his labor.</p> + +<p>We can accordingly pass upon his work this rare commendation, that it is +thoroughly <i>honest</i>. This may, indeed, seem to many no very high +approval. But it is one of the very highest. For we mean by it not +merely that he has refrained from conscious misrepresentation of +fact,—that he has not lied, as Kingsley did about Hypatia in the novel +wherein he borrowed, <a name="Page_261" id="Page_261"></a>only to befoul, the name of that spotless woman, +knowing all the while that his representation was contrary to the +recorded facts of history. To say so much only of this book would be not +to attribute to it a positive merit, but only to acquit it of damning +demerit. But what we affirm is that Mr. Alger has fairly looked his +facts in the face, and come to some understanding with himself about +them. When he speaks, therefore, it is about facts, about realities, not +merely about words; and what he offers is the result of genuine +processes of production which have gone on in his own mind. If he speak +of life, it is not life in the dictionary, but in the universe. If he +profess to offer thoughts, he really gives the results of his thinking. +He does not cant; he does not merely recite verbal formulas; he does not +play the part of attorney, first determining what to advocate, and then +seeking plausible reasons: everywhere one perceives that he has really +brought his <i>mind</i> to bear upon <i>facts</i>, and so has come to real mental +fruit. And it is this verity, this reality and genuineness, to which we +give the name of <i>intellectual</i> honesty. It is a rare quality; and +always the rarer in proportion to the depth of the matters treated of, +on the one hand, and to their expression in customs and institutions, on +the other. Institutions are masks. The thinker must have both +earnestness and penetration, if he is to get behind them. And just in +proportion as any element of man's spiritual consciousness has come to +institutional expression, it is the easier to talk about it and the +harder to think upon it,—to talk <i>about</i> it without talking <i>of</i> it. +But our author has made the distinction, and to the extent of his power +looks facts in the face.</p> + +<p>Having come to an understanding with himself, he honestly tries, again, +to come to an understanding with the reader. He honestly imparts his +mind. We find the book in this respect worthy of especial admiration.</p> + +<p>Mr. Alger always writes well when he is not overmuch <i>trying</i> to write +well. If he forbear to covet striking effect, his style has perspicuity, +directness, and vigor,—the essentials of all excellent writing,—and to +these adds verbal affluence and occasional felicity. But if he be +tempted of the Devil to become eloquent, and the father of all +rhetorical evil strives hard to bring the soul of his style to +perdition, then he begins to write badly. Let him, since he is capable +of heroic things, imitate Luther, and fling his ink-pot. Even though it +light upon the page, let him not be inconsolable, but remember that no +blots are so bad as those made by ambitious inflation. We have not that +horror of "fine writing" which leads The Saturday Review and Company to +such obstreperous exclamation, and can endure the worst that Americans +are guilty of in this matter quite as well as that affectation of +off-hand ease and <i>nonchalance</i> which enhances the native clumsiness of +many among the later English writers, and, to our mind, mars extremely +the poetry of Browning. But if a writer has some propensity to +rhetorical Babel-building, it were well for <i>him</i> to make an effort in +the opposite direction, and try to build his sentences underground, like +the houses of the Esquimaux.</p> + +<p>Mr. Alger's book has minor faults and major excellences. But let him be +content. He has faithfully performed a great labor, and we give him +cordial approval. To a great theme he has brought great industry, a just +appreciation, a fine spirit, and much of intellectual courage and +activity.</p> + +<p>Add that he is a man whose soul is in sympathy with the best thought, +hope, and heart of the time. Brave, just, and humane, he is always on +the right side, and always as direct and unflinching in the utterance of +his faith as he is intrepid and right-natured in its adoption. Opinions +are expressed in his work which do not accord with those of +ecclesiastical majorities; nevertheless we think that those will thank +him who least agree with him. It were, indeed, a shame that the people +which sets the highest price upon political liberty should be the last +to welcome the higher freedoms of thought; but it is a shame, we trust, +which will not befall our country. We ourselves have, it is true, as +little affection as most men for that sort of "free thinking" which +consists in pouring out upon the public the mere wash and cerebral +excretion of unclean spirits; but when any man has brought to a +consideration of the greatest facts a pure and reverent spirit, he is +entitled to present the results of his meditations with <a name="Page_262" id="Page_262"></a>manly +directness and vigor, as Mr. Alger has done in the work before us.</p> + +<p>The "Complete Bibliography of the Subject" is an admirable piece of +work. We present our respects to Mr. Ezra Abbot, Jr., and wish that many +an earnest literary laborer had such a "friend."</p> + + +<p><i>Dream Children.</i> By the Author of "Seven Little People and their +Friends." Cambridge: Seaver & Francis.</p> + +<p>The children seem to have found their Dickens at last. But, of course, +it was to be expected that the child's Dickens would be different, in +some important respects, from the Dickens of grown-up men and women. And +so he is. Children do with the world in their thoughts pretty much as +they will; and the genuine artist, working for children, must recognize +this, or he will utterly fail. The author of "Dream Children," who made +his introduction to the reading public as the author of "Seven Little +People and their Friends," has the rare faculty of realizing for himself +the exact position and attitude of the child. This position he takes so +earnestly that he has nowhere the air of assumption or arbitrary +fiction. The child lives so much in pictures! But the pictures must not +betray one single feature of unreality, or the whole effect is spoiled; +a moral may be pointed or a tale adorned, but the child has lost his +natural food. We need such works as that under present notice to keep +children from starving,—works that are not mechanically adapted to +children, but which come to them as their own fresh, pure thoughts come, +bringing them pictures like those which their own untrammelled fancy +paints for them.</p> + +<p>We have no space to enter into any details here. The children must do +that for themselves; but not the children alone. For, as now and then we +come upon a piece of Art, a painting or a statue, which from its subject +would seem to belong peculiarly to the child's world, but which, because +it is genuine Art, as to its manner and execution, rises out of this +confinement to a single class, becoming universal, so it is with books +of a similar character. This is true of the present work more +emphatically than of the former work by the same author. The more +external features of the work—its exquisite getting-up, in paper, +binding, and especially in illustration—are only fitting to the +inherent gracefulness of the writer's thought.</p> + +<p>The subject is inviting, but we can only add that these short stories +exhibit the rarest freshness and purity of imagination, the richest +humor, and the most striking suggestion of an exhaustless fertility of +invention which we remember ever to have seen in any child's book +before. There is nowhere a careless execution; and the reason of this is +probably that the characters have had a leisurely growth in the author's +own mind. Generally it is supposed, that, to suit a subject to children, +it is only necessary to go through some outward manifestations and to +give the thing an air of novelty; but in this treatment there is no +freshness, and no very great or very permanent moral expression. The +writer of "Dream Children" will have a select audience, but he will have +it pretty much to himself, and, as the best of all rewards which he +could have, he will educate the thoughts of his juvenile readers +imperceptibly into a greater love and reverence for the very heart of +truth and beauty.</p> + + +<p><i>Remains in Verse and Prose of Arthur Henry Hallam; with a Preface and +Memoir.</i> Boston. Ticknor & Fields.</p> + +<p>A permanent, though modest, place in the literature of the English +language will be accorded to this little volume. Judged upon their +intrinsic merits as compositions, the "Remains in Verse and Prose of +Arthur Henry Hallam" would, nevertheless, hold no abiding position among +the many pleasing poems, clever dissertations, and brilliant essays +annually given to the press in Great Britain and America. Were they +brought to us as the writings of a young man dying at thirty-two, +instead of ten years earlier, we might hastily say, that, sacred as they +must be to the personal friends of the author, there was in them no +excellency sufficiently marked or marketable to warrant republication. +But there gather other interests about them when we are told that these +compositions came from the son of a very eminent man, and were written +at an age at which we congratulate ourselves, if our college-boys are +not oppressively <a name="Page_263" id="Page_263"></a>foolish. For the rare instances of hereditary +transmission of distinguished mental power are well worth attention, and +the maturity of thought and the subtile trains of reflection in this +youth now afford that large promise of genius which may not be +confounded with those specious precocities of talent the world never +lacks. Yet it is not probable that even these attractions could give to +the literary remains of young Hallam that permanent place in letters +which we have made bold to promise them. Only the inspirations of a +great poet could wake the noblest sympathies of noblest hearts in +perennial tribute to this friend so early called from life.</p> + +<p>The student of Shakspeare's sonnets—poems having much in common with +those written in memory of Arthur Hallam—is never tired of conjecturing +the person to whom they were addressed. Who was the "only begetter" of +these passionate offerings of the poet's love? Might he be recognized as +he walked, a man among men? or was he the splendid idealization of +genius and friendship? There are but faint answers to these questions. +After the claims of Mr. Hart, Mr. Hughes, and the Earls of Southampton +and Pembroke have been duly examined, there comes the conclusion that we +may not know who and what he was towards whom the august soul of +Shakspeare yearned with such exceeding love. Future readers of the "In +Memoriam" of Tennyson will be more favored in their knowledge of the +young man there given to fame. It will be known that he was worthy of +the deep sorrow breathed into exquisite verse,—worthy also of those +noble half-lights flashing above the sombre atmosphere, to show the +instruction, the blessedness, the beauty, which grow from human grief. +We are compelled to confess that those keen poetic glimpses into the +high regions of philosophy and science, with which the memories of his +friend inspired Tennyson, seem just dues to the brilliant auguries of a +future which this world was not permitted to see.</p> + +<p>An outline of Arthur's life has already been given to the American +public. Little can be added to it from his father's touching preface to +the unpublished edition of these writings in 1834, which is now +reprinted. The childhood of young Hallam exhibits facility in the +acquisition of knowledge, sweetness of temper, and scrupulous adherence +to a sense of duty. At the age of nine he reads Latin and Greek with +tolerable facility, and achieves dramatic compositions which excite the +admiration of the father,—a thoroughly competent, unless partial, +critic. This luxuriance of fancy is judiciously received; no display is +made of it, and Arthur is sent to school at Putney, where he remains for +two years. The common routine of English education is more than once +broken by tours upon the Continent. When the boy leaves Eton in 1827, +his father pronounces him "a good, though not, perhaps, first-rate +scholar in the Latin and Greek languages." As certain Latin verses +referred to are, for some inscrutable reason, omitted in this American +edition, the reader has no means of deciding whether it is the modest +reserve of the parent which pronounces them "good, without being +excellent," or the fond partiality of the father which discovers them to +be "good" at all. In any case, we must consider Arthur's "comparative +deficiency in classical learning," for which the eminent historian seems +almost to apologize, as one of his especial felicities. The liberalizing +effect of travel, and a varied contact with men and things, prevented +his powers from contracting themselves to a merely academical +reputation. When at Cambridge, he renounces all competition in the +niceties of classical learning, and does not attempt Latin or Greek +composition during his stay at Trinity. Thus he escapes the fate of many +quick minds, which, running easily upon college grooves, that end in the +indorsement of a corporation, never make out to accept their own +individuality for better and for worse. Arthur enters upon legal studies +with acuteness, and not without interest. A few anonymous writings +occupy his leisure. He is now just rising upon the world,—a brilliant +orb, as yet seen only by a few watchers, who congratulate each other +upon the light to be. A fatal tour to Germany, and all ends in darkness +and mystery.</p> + +<p>Judging from the writings before us, we should say that this young man +was destined to a greater eminence in philosophy than in poetry. His +father's opinion, in reverse of this, was perhaps based upon average +tendencies of character, instead of selected specimens of production. +The best prose papers here printed, the "Essay on <a name="Page_264" id="Page_264"></a>the Philosophical +Writings of Cicero," and the "Review of Professor Rossetti," are far +more remarkable for the ease with which accurate information is +subjected to original, and even profound thought, than are the poems for +brilliancy of imagination or mastery over the capacities of language. +Still, it must be confessed, that the sonnets are full of melody and +refinement,—indeed, we can recall no poet who has written much better +at the same age. In all Arthur's compositions we recognize an exquisite +delicacy of feeling, without any of the daintiness of mind commonly +found in intellectual youths. He seems to have acquired much of his +father's command of reading, and to have inherited those rarer faculties +of selection and generalization which give to learning its coherence and +significance. In contrast to the precise and somewhat hard literary +style of the elder Hallam, the diction of the son glows with the +sensitiveness of a highly artistic nature. Arthur's attainments in the +modern languages appear to have been considerable. He is said to have +spoken French readily, and to have ranged its literature as familiarly +as that of England. His Italian sonnets are pronounced by competent +authority to be very remarkable for a foreigner. They are certainly +marvellous for a boy of seventeen after an eight months' visit to Italy. +In fine, upon the testimony presented in this volume, we think that no +considerate reader will hesitate to credit Arthur Hallam with a rich and +generous character, a wide sweep of thought rising from the groundwork +of solid knowledge, and the delicate aërial perceptions of high +imaginative genius.</p> + +<p>Surely the life whose untimely end called forth "In Memoriam" was not +lost to the world. Perhaps it was by dying that the moral and +intellectual gifts of this youth could most effectively reach the hearts +of men. He was not unworthy his noble monument. As we turn to the +familiar lyrics, they swell and deepen with a new harmony. Again, the +genius of Tennyson bears us onward through tenderest allegory and +subtlest analogy, until, breaking from cares and questionings so +melodiously uttered, his soul soars upward through thin philosophies of +the schools, and at length, in grandest spiritual repose, rests beside +the friend "who lives with God." It is good to know that the "A.H.H." +forever encircled by the halo of that matchless verse does not live only +as the idealization of the poet.</p> + + +<p><i>History of West Point, and its Military Importance during the American +Revolution, and the Origin and Progress of the United States Military +Academy.</i> By Captain EDWARD C. BOYNTON, A.M., Adjutant of the Military +Academy. New York: D. Van Nostrand.</p> + +<p>In every country there must be localities the names of which are +particularly associated with the national history. But in the United +States there are few such places that are not portions of some one of +the States; and if they have been the scene of incidents sufficient in +number and importance to furnish material for an historical monograph, +or so-called <i>local</i> history, it will probably derive its special +interest and coloring mainly from events of the Colonial period and the +development of the material prosperity of the particular State or +section. The associations of West Point, the seat of the United States +Military Academy, are in this respect remarkable, that they derive their +interest exclusively from circumstances incidental to the birth and +progress of the nation. The history of the place is an important part of +the nation's history. Compared with more comprehensive annals, wherein +minute description of places and persons is impossible from the breadth +of view, local histories leave on the reader more vivid impressions by +affording a more microscopic and personal inspection. Where the minor +history, as we may call it, is thus connected with the greater story of +the body politic, it always enables the mind to combine, in the sequence +of cause and effect, a certain series of events in the course of the +nation's life, leaving a more distinct apprehension of the reality of +that life in the past, by giving a rapid glance, under strong light, +over a part, than usually remains after the perusal of larger works +which attempt the survey of the whole.</p> + +<p>From the beginning of the history of the United States, the +administrative power of the National Government has been continuously +exercised at West Point, to the exclusion of all other authority. It was +occupied by the Continental forces at the <a name="Page_265" id="Page_265"></a>commencement of the +Revolutionary contest, as a place of the greatest strategic importance. +It was the objective point in that drama of Arnold's treason, which, by +involving the fate of André, is remembered as one of the most romantic +incidents in the story of the war. In Captain Boynton's new "History of +West Point," the aspect of the place, in connection with the events of +that time, is given by that method of description which always leaves +the sense of historic verity. The maps, plans, reports, letters, and +accounts, with the spelling and types, though by no means with the +printing or the paper of past days, are reproduced; and the actors on +the scene, not only those of high position, whose names are household +words, but those also whose part was humbler and whose memory is +obscure, are allowed to present themselves to us as they appeared before +the public of their own day. The first part of the volume gives the +history of the place as it has been occupied for strategic purposes. The +second part is devoted to its history as the seat of the Military +Academy, a history which succeeds immediately to the former, and is +intimately connected with the history of our internal government from +its first organization under the Constitution to the present hour; so +that the history of the locality presents itself as a brilliantly +colored thread running through the warp of the national history. In the +composition of this portion, as of the other, the author has presented +his subject, not so much in his own narrative, as by a judicious +combination of extracts from documents and papers of original authority; +although his own observations, by way of connection and explanation, are +given in good taste, and indicate a candid judgment, founded upon a +manifestly loving, but still essentially impartial, observation. It +should be no wonder, if the graduates of the Academy, who continue their +connection with the army in mature years, should always regard the place +through a vista of memory and affection, shedding over it a brilliancy +to which others might be insensible. To most of them it has been as a +home,—to many, probably, the only home of their youth; and, in the +unsettled life of the soldier, we can conceive that to no other spot +would their recollections recur with like feeling. We believe, that, in +the society which gathers more or less permanently around the Academy, +the feeling of a home-circle towards its absent members follows the +graduates during their military service; and that they, on the other +hand, are always conscious of a peculiar observation exercised from the +place over their conduct; so that each one, during an honorable career, +may look forward to revisiting it, from time to time, as a place +associated by family-ties. This influence upon the individual graduate +must be a very powerful incentive. It must, in the nature of the case, +be unperceived by the public, but its value to the public will be +enhanced by the observation which they may extend to the Academy; and it +is eminently proper that such observation should be courted by the +Government, and by those who represent it on the spot; the opportunity +should be given to all, irrespectively of civil or military place, to +become acquainted with its general management, the principles on which +it is established, and the terms which the cadet makes with the country +on entering, and to see, from time to time, a general <i>résumé</i> of its +working and success. A book which tells this, in its natural association +with the narrative of all that gives the locality its name in our +history, promotes a national interest and supplies a public want. +Captain Boynton's book should command the interest of those who know +most of West Point, and of those who know nothing about it. To some it +will be a grateful source of reminiscence, and to others of +entertainment combined with information which has acquired an increased +interest for the citizen.</p> + +<p>Not the least inviting portion of the book is that which relates to the +topography and scenery of the Point. It is one of the singularities of +our frame of government, that the nation is the lord of so little soil +in the inhabited portion of its own dominion: though it is well to +remember that territorial sovereignty is not, as many persons imagine, +the only kind of sovereignty, nor, indeed, the most important kind; for +there is sovereignty over persons, which may be held without eminent +domain over the soil. Allegiance is personal. It is not based on the +feudal doctrine of tenures. The notion of many persons respecting the +right of the people of a State to carry themselves out of the <a name="Page_266" id="Page_266"></a>nation is +connected with false conceptions on this subject. It is pleasant to +think that one of the places in which the nation is the land-owner and +exclusive sovereign is celebrated for historic events, and also +preëminently distinguished for beauty of situation. This circumstance +undoubtedly contributes to the hold which the place has on the minds of +those who have passed a portion of their youth on the spot, and it has +evidently been a source of inspiration to the author, and, we may say, +to the publisher, too, who have combined in making this a book of luxury +as well as of useful reference, a parlor-book. The pictorial +illustrations they have given add greatly to its value; and in this +matter they might safely have gone even farther. This book is intended +to make the spot familiar to the minds of many in various parts of the +national domain. Most persons of any leisure, in this section of the +country, have either themselves visited the banks of the Hudson or are +familiar with scenery somewhat similar in some part of the Eastern or +Middle States. But there are multitudes in the South and West of our +conlinental empire who have hardly ever seen a rock bigger than a man's +body, and who can, except by the aid of pictures, have no idea of a +river hemmed in by mountains. The view given in this book of the +localities in 1780, after a drawing made at the time by a French +officer, is more valuable in this respect, we think, than for the +historical purpose; and we should have preferred a similar view of the +place as it now appears.</p> + +<p>In common with all institutions which are the means of power and +influence, the Academy has been regarded with jealousy. It has +occasionally been assailed by an hostility which must always exist, and +which its friends should always be prepared to meet. Captain Boynton has +fairly stated and answered the objections commonly advanced. Among those +recently put forth is the complaint that no great military genius has +been produced from the Academy. The question might be asked, Does ever +any school produce the genius? It is contrary to the definition of +genius to be produced by such instrumentality. If no such military +phenomenon has been seen, the only inference is, that the genius was not +in the country, or that the circumstances of the country gave no +opportunity for its development; and the question is, Should we, in the +absence of genius, have done better without such an academy to educate +the available talent of the country to military service? Goethe has +said, that, to figure as a great genius in the world's history, one must +have some great heritage in the consequences of antecedent events,—that +Napoleon inherited the French Revolution. Though Napoleon developed +military art beyond his predecessors, there is no reason to suppose that +a soldier with natural endowments equal to his could now become the +inspirer of a similar degree of progress. The ordinary method of +appointment of cadets is described and vindicated by the author. While +it does not appear, <i>a priori</i>, to be the best possible, it must be said +that it is hard to devise any better one. It is always to be borne in +mind that appointment does not by any means involve graduation. Enough +have graduated to supply the wants of the army in ordinary times, and +these have been selected from about three times the number of +appointees. It is often said that equally competent persons would offer +themselves from civil life. To maintain this, it must be held, either +that the education given by the Academy is not of important benefit, or +that the same benefit may be attained without it. But no one pretends to +say that the education is not of the utmost importance; and, as Captain +Boynton shows conclusively, we think, it is impossible for any one to +attain it by unassisted study, either before or after entering the army, +while it is utterly out of the power of any private institution to give +a similar training.</p> + +<p>Among the treasons incident to the Rebellion, none struck loyal minds +more painfully than the desertion of the national right by Southern +cadets and graduates of West Point. Some supposed that the diligent +inculcation of State-Sovereignty doctrine by every organ of Southern +opinion could not alone have caused this breach of plighted faith, and +it was charged against the education given at the Academy, that it was +based on "principles which permitted no discrimination between acts +morally wrong in themselves, and acts which, destitute of immorality, +are, nevertheless, criminal, because prohibited by the regulations of +the institution." The charge indicated a gross misconception of the +subject.<a name="Page_267" id="Page_267"></a> The conduct-roll, which is to determine the standing of the +cadet according to a total of demerit-marks, must include in one list +delinquencies against all rules, whatever may be their source. But +besides this scale for classification, the military law, to which +cadets, as part of the army, are amenable, refers all immoralities and +criminalities to a military tribunal. It would be well, if our +collegians would try to estimate the effect, moral, intellectual, and +physical, of the training of the Academy, as contrasted with that which +they are receiving, and, in comparing a collegiate with a West-Point +graduation, to remember that the cadet has been on service, and would +have been discharged by his paymaster, if he had not done his duty, +while in the colleges the professors serve for the pay, and would lose +their bread and butter, if there were no degrees given.</p> + + +<p><i>Roundabout Papers</i>. By W.M. THACKERAY. New York: Harper & Brothers.</p> + +<p>We had scarcely finished reading this admirable volume of essays when +news of the author's death was transmitted across the sea. And now we +are to look no longer at our shelf which holds "Vanity Fair," +"Fendennis," "The Newcomes," and "Henry Esmond," and think of the +writer's busy brain as still actively engaged over new and delightful +books destined some day to claim their places beside the +companion-volumes we have so many times taken down for pure enjoyment +during the last twenty years. Do you remember, who read this brief +notice of the man so recently passed away, a passage in one of these +same "Roundabout Papers," where this sentence holds the eye half-way +down the page,—"I like Hood's life even better than his books, and I +wish with all my heart, <i>Monsieur et cher confrère</i>, the same could be +said for both of us when the ink-stream of our life hath ceased to run"? +Only they who knew Thackeray out of his books can believe that this +desire came earnestly from his heart to his readers. He was a man to be +misunderstood continually; but his record will be found a noble one, +when the true story of his career is told. His greatness as an author, +his striking merit as an artist in the delineation of character, can +never fail to be rightly estimated; but few will ever know the +thousandth part of the good his generous deeds have accomplished in the +world,—deeds done in secret, and forever hidden from the eye of +public-charity hunters. His life had struggles, many and crushing; but +with a noble fortitude he pursued his calling when sorrow held down his +heart and wellnigh had the power to palsy his hand. This is no place for +his eulogy; but we could not notice the publication of his latest volume +without thus briefly recording our tribute to the author's memory. Since +the death of Macaulay, England has sustained no greater loss in the +ranks of her literary men.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="RECENT_AMERICAN_PUBLICATIONS" id="RECENT_AMERICAN_PUBLICATIONS"></a>RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS</h2> + +<p>RECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.</p> + + +<p>A Manual of Devotions for Domestic and Private Use. By George Upfold, +D.D., Bishop of Indiana. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 16mo. pp. x., 244. +75 cts.</p> + +<p>Revised United States Army-Regulations of 1861. With an Appendix, +containing the Changes and Laws affecting Army-Regulations and Articles +of War, to June 25, 1863. Philadelphia. G.W. Childs. 8vo. pp. 594. +$2.00.</p> + +<p>Hints on Health in Armies, for the Use of Volunteer Officers. By John +Ordronaux, M.D., Professor of Medical Jurisprudence in Columbia College, +New York. Second Edition, with Additions. New York. D. 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Patrick Donahoe. +16mo. pp. 392. $1.00.</p> + + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Mr. Norton's "Travel and Study in Italy," p. 132.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"Giudica e manda, secondo che avvinghia."</span><br /> +</p> +<p> +<i>Inf.</i> v. 5</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> "Les observateurs éclairés manquaient en 1737 pour suivre +la transformation des phénomènes morbides."—Calmeil, <i>De la Folie</i>, +Tom. II. p. 317.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> <i>La Vérité des Miracles opérés par l'Intercession de M. de +Pâris et autres Appellans démontrée; avec des Observations sur le +Phénomène des Convulsions</i>, par Carré de Montgéron, Conseiller au +Parlement de Paris. 3 vols. 4to. 2d ed. <i>Cologne</i>, 1745. +</p><p> +The first edition, consisting, however, of a single volume only, +appeared in 1737, and was presented to the King in person at Versailles, +by M. de Montgéron, on the twenty-ninth of July of that year. The work +was translated into German and Flemish; and besides several editions +which appeared in France, one was published in Germany and two in +Holland. It is illustrated with costly engraving. +</p><p> +Though the King (Louis XV.) received M. de Montgéron in an apparently +gracious manner, yet, the very night after his reception, as he had +himself foreseen, he was arrested and cast into the Bastille. Thence he +was transferred from one place of confinement to another; and at the +time he was preparing the second edition of his work, he was still (in +1744) a prisoner in the citadel of Valence. (See Advertisement to that +edition, note to page vii.) He died in exile at Valence, in 1754.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Voltaire, with his usual wit and irreverence, proposed that +the notice, proclaiming the royal command, to be affixed to the gate of +the church-yard should read as follows:— +</p><p> +</p><p><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"De part le Roi, défense à Dieu</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">De faire miracle en ce lieu."</span><br /> +</p> +</div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Hecker alleges that "the insanity of the <i>Convusionnaires</i> +lasted, without interruption, until the year 1790," that is, for +fifty-nine years, and was only interrupted by the excitement of the +French Revolution; also, that, in the year 1762, the "Grands Secours" +were forbidden by act of the Parliament of Paris.—<i>Epidemics of the +Middle Ages</i>, from the German of I.F.C. Hecker, M.D., translated by B.G. +Babington, M.D., F.R.S., London, 1846, p. 149. +</p><p> +There were published by Renault, parish, priest at Vaux near Ancerre, +two pamphlets against the Succorists,—one entitled "Le Secourisme +détruit dans ses Fondemens," in 1759, and the other, "Le Mystère +d'Iniquité," as late as 1788,—an evidence that the controversy was kept +up for at least half a century.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> "A peine l'entrée du tombeau eût elle été fermée, qu'on vit +le nombre des Convulsionnaires s'accroître extraordinairement. Les +convulsions commencèrent à s'étendre jusqu'à, des personnes qui +n'avaient ni maladie ni infirmité corporelle."—<i>Œuvres de Colbert</i>, +Tom. II. p. 203. (This is Colbert, Bishop of Montpelier, and nephew of +Louis XIV.'s minister.)</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> Montgéron, work cited, Tom. II. p. 36. Calmeil, <i>De la +Folie</i>, Tom. II, pp. 315, 317.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> For particulars and certificates in this case, see +Montgéron, Tom. II. <i>Troisième Démonstration</i>, pp. 1-58.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Montgéron, work cited, Tom. II. <i>Pièces Justificatives de +la Troisième Démonstration</i>, p. 4.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. I. <i>Seconde Démonstration</i>, p. 6.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> "<i>Un coup d'épée</i>" is the expression employed by +Montgéron; but the facts elsewhere reported by himself do not seem to +bear out, in most cases, its accuracy. It was not usually a <i>thrust</i> of +a sword's point, but only a <i>pressure</i> with the point of a sharp sword, +often so strong, however, that the weapon was bent by its force.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 10.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> See, for the entire relation, from which I have here given +extracts only, Montgéron's work, Tom. III. pp. 24-26. Montgéron, though +he vouches for the narrator as a gentleman worthy of all credit, does +not give his name, nor that, of the physician, except as Dr. M——. The +occurrence took place in 1732.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. pp. 107-111.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 688.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> "As murderous blows must either wound or kill, but for a +miracle, there ought to be a promise or a revelation to warrant their +infliction. But God has given no such promise, no such revelation, to +justify the demanding or the granting of the succors. It is, therefore, +a tempting of God to do so."—<i>Vains Efforts des Discernans</i>, p. 133.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> <i>Chenet</i> is the French expression, an andiron, or +dog-iron, as it is sometimes called. Montgéron thus describes it: "The +andiron in question was a thick, roughly shaped bar of iron, bent at +both ends, but the front end divided in two, to serve for feet, and +furnished with a thick, short knob. This andiron weighed between +twenty-nine and thirty pounds."—Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 693.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> <i>Vains Efforts des Discernans</i>, p. 134.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> <i>Mémoire Théologique</i>, p. 41. This is admitted also by the +Abbé, see <i>Vains Efforts</i>, p. 127, and by M. Poncet, <i>Réponse</i>, etc., p. +15.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. pp. 693, 694. The author takes great +pains to disprove a theory which few persons, in our day, will think +worth refuting. In this connection, he quotes from a memoir drawn up by +a gentleman who had spent much time in examining these phenomena, as +follows:—"The force of the action and movement of the instruments +employed is not broken or arrested or turned aside. Experience +conclusively proves this. One sees the bodies of the convulsionists bend +and sink beneath the blows. One can perceive that the parts assailed are +twisted, and receive all the movements which such weapons as those +employed are calculated to communicate. And the violence of the blows is +often such that not only are they heard from the lowest story of a house +to the highest, but they actually communicate to the floor and to the +walls of the apartment a shock, which is sensibly felt, and which causes +the spectators to start."—p. 686. +</p><p> +Montgéron adds his own personal experience. He says,—"That has happened +frequently to myself. I have often been so much impressed with the +strong motion communicated to the floor by the terrible blows dealt with +stones or billets of wood with which they were striking convulsionists, +that I could not restrain a shudder. For the rest, this is an occurrence +to the truth of which there are as many to testify as there have +been persons, whether friends or foes, who have seen the 'great +succors.' One may say, that it is a fact attested by witnesses +innumerable."—Montgéron, Tom. III. p 686. +</p><p> +Independently of the theory of Satanic intervention which the above +details are adduced to disprove, they are very interesting in +themselves, for the insight they give into the exact character of these +terrible probations.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 694.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> Quoted by Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 697.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 697.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> <i>Mémoire Théologique</i>, p. 96.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 697.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 698.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> <i>Lettre du Dr. A—— à M. de Montgéron</i>, p. 8.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 7.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. II. <i>Idée de l'État des Convulsionnaires</i>, +pp. 45, 46. Montgéron does not allege, however, that any other part of +the body than that where the warning pains were felt became insensible +or invulnerable. He cites (Tom. III. p. 629) the case of a convulsionist +who, "at the moment when they were striking her on the breast with all +possible force with a stone weighing twenty-five pounds, bade them +suspend the succors for a moment, till she adjusted, in another part of +her dress, a pin that was pricking her."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. II. <i>Idée de l'État des Convulsionnaires</i>, +pp. 31, 32.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. II. <i>Idée de l'État des Convulionnaires</i>, +p. 33.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> <i>Lettre du Dr. A—— à M. de Montgéron</i>, p. 7.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> <i>Réponse des Anti-Secouristes à la Réclamation</i>, par M. +Poncet, p. 4.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 706.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 707.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 720.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> pp. 713, 714.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 719.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 716.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 721.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 709.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. p. 708.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 718.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> <i>Ibid.</i> p. 709.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> Montgéron, Tom. III. pp. 722, 723.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> The details are given by M. Morand, a surgeon of Paris of +high reputation, member of the Academy of Sciences, who had been +employed by the Lieutenant of Police to make to him a report on the +subject, and who reproduces the result of his observations in his +"Opuscules de Chirurgie." He found four girls, the centres of whose +hands and feet were indurated by the frequent perforations of the nails. +He witnessed the operation of crucifying one of them, the Sister +Félicité. A certain M. La Barre was the operator. The nails were of the +sort called <i>demi-picaron</i>, very sharp, flat, four-sided, and with a +large head. They were driven, at a single blow of a hammer, nearly +through the centre of the palm, between the third and fourth fingers; +and in like manner through each foot a little above the toes and between +the third and fourth; the same stroke causing the nail to enter also the +wood of the cross. Félicité gave no signs of sensibility during the +operation. When attached to the cross, she was gay, and converged with +whoever addressed her, remaining crucified nearly half an hour. Morand +remarked, that her wounds were not at all bloody, and that very little +blood flowed, even when the nails were withdrawn. See his "Opuscules de +Chirurgie," Partie II. chap. 6.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> <i>De la Folie</i>, Tom. II.; the page I omitted to note.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> It Is desirable that the reader should look up these +localities upon a map of Switzerland, that he may be impressed with the +growing grandeur of these ancient glaciers, even while they were +retreating into the heart of the Alps; for in proportion as they left +the plain, the landscape must have gained in imposing effect in +consequence of the isolation of these immense masses of ice, which in +their united extension may have recalled rather the immensity of the +ocean, than the grandeur of Alpine scenery.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> This map, with all its details and measurements, is +reproduced (Pl. V. fig. 1) in my "Système Glaciaire." It was accompanied +by an explanatory paper in the form of a letter to Altmann, then +Professor at Berne.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> M. de Charpentier has published a map of this ancient +glacier in his "Essay upon the Glaciers and Erratics of the Valley of +the Rhone."</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> In the last report of the New-England Emigrant Aid Company +we find the following significant passage:— +</p><p> +"There is, undoubtedly, a general desire among the inhabitants of the +Northern and Middle States to remove into the States south of them, +which will soon welcome the introduction of free labor. This desire +manifests itself strongly among soldiers who have seen the beauty and +fertility of those States, in their duty of occupation and protection; +and it has communicated itself to their friends with whom they have +corresponded. Society in those States is, however, still so disturbed, +and in such angry temper, that no Northern settler will be welcome or +comfortable, as yet, who goes alone. To be saved the animosities and the +hardships of lonely settlement, it is desirable that parties of +settlers, furnishing to each other their own society, and thus far +independent of dissatisfied neighbors, should go out together. The +conditions on which only land can be obtained point to the same +organization. Lands already under cultivation are not offered for sale +in all the Border States, at very low rates. If parties of settlers +could buy in the large quantities which are offered, it would prove that +they could remove and establish themselves, in some instances, upon +these lands, almost as cheaply as they have hitherto been able to make +the expensive Western journey and take up the cheap wild lands of the +Government. +</p><p> +"But such purchases in the Border States are only possible when large +tracts of land are sold. To enable the settler of small means to take a +farm of a hundred acres, there needs the intervention of the organizers +of emigration. Such a company as ours, for instance, can bring together, +upon one old plantation, twenty, thirty, or forty families, if +necessary: it can arrange for them terms of payment as favorable as +those heretofore granted by the Government or the great railroad +companies of the West." +</p><p> +Such suggestions apply more strongly to the case of Florida, which has +come within our power since this report was published. Florida is, +indeed, more easily protected from an enemy's raids than any of the +so-called Border States.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_53_53" id="Footnote_53_53"></a><a href="#FNanchor_53_53"><span class="label">[53]</span></a> Written—if the author will permit us to tell—by Rev. +Samuel Johnson, one of the truest and ablest of our scholars.</p></div> + +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, No. 76, +February, 1864, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOL. *** + +***** This file should be named 15819-h.htm or 15819-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/8/1/15819/ + +Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, No. 76, February, 1864 + +Author: Various + +Release Date: May 12, 2005 [EBook #15819] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOL. *** + + + + +Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +[Transcriber's note: Footnotes moved to end of document.] + + + +THE + +ATLANTIC MONTHLY. + +A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS. + +VOL. XIII.--FEBRUARY, 1864.--NO. LXXVI + +Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by Ticknor and +Fields, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of +Massachusetts. + + * * * * * + +GENIUS. + + +When Paul Morphy plays seven games of chess at once and blindfold, when +young Colburn gives _impromptu_ solution to a mathematical problem +involving fifty-six figures, we are struck with hopeless wonder: such +power is separated by the very extent of it from our mental operations. +But when we further observe that these feats are attended by little or +no fatigue,--that this is the play, not the tension of faculty, we +recognize a new kind, not merely a new degree, of intelligence. These +men seem to leap, not labor step by step, to their results. Colburn sees +the complication of values, Morphy that of moves, as we see the relation +of two and two. What is multiform and puzzling to us is simple to them, +as the universe lies rounded and is one thought in the Original Mind. We +seek in vain for the secret of this mastery. It is private,--as deeply +hidden from those who have as from those who have it not. They cannot +think otherwise than so, and to this exercise have been provoked by +every influence in life. The boy who is an organized arithmetic and +geometry will count all the hills of potatoes and reckon the kernels of +corn in a bushel, and his triangles soon begin to cover the barn-door. +He sees nothing but number and dimension; he feeds on these, another +fellow on apples and nuts. But his brother loves application of force, +builds wheels and mills; his head is full of cogs and levers and +eccentrics; and after he has gone out to his engineering in the great +machine-shop of a modern world, the old corn-chamber at home is lumbered +with his mysterious contrivances, studies for a self-impelling or +gravitating machine and perpetual motion. Another boy is fired with the +mystery of form. He will draw the cat and dog; his chalk and charcoal +are on all our elbows; he carves a ram's head on his bat, an eagle on a +walking-stick, perches a cock on top of the barn, puts an eye and a nose +to every triangle of the geometer, and paints faces on the wheels of his +mechanical brother. In all these boys there is something more than +ability; there is propensity, an attraction irresistible. Their minds +run, we say, in that direction, and they creep or lie still, if turned +in another. The young shepherd will toss eggs, spin platters, and +balance knives, year after year, in solitude, with a patient energy and +endurance able to command any fortune. + +What philter is in these faculties? The boy who will be great is always +discontented with his work, ready to rub out and begin again. He follows +a bee, and never quite touches that which drew him on. Plainly, the mere +ability to do is a dry straw, but through it our seeker tastes an +intoxicating, seductive liquor, from which he cannot take away his lips. + +It is the liquor of our life. In measure, or form, or tone, he applies +himself to the very breasts of Nature, and draws through these exteriors +a motherly milk which was her blood and hastens to be his own. If the +young cub holds fast to the teat, be sure the stream flows and his veins +swell. Matter is the dry rind of this succulent, nutritious universe: +prick it on any side, and you draw the same juice. Varieties of +endowment are only so many pitchers dipped in one stream. Poet, painter, +musician, mathematician, the gift is an accident of organization, the +result is admission to that by which all things are, and by partaking +which we become what we must be. + +Of this experience there can be no adequate report. It is as though one +should attempt to go up in a balloon above the atmosphere and bring down +the ether in his hands. There is a spring on every door in Nature to +close it behind the returning footsteps of her lover, so that he can +lead no man freely into the chamber where she gave him love; it is only +by the confidence, fervency, and reverence of the initiate that we learn +in what presence he has been. Genius is great, but no product of genius +is more than a shadow which points to this sun behind the sun as its +substance, and the power of our inspired men has been merely manifested, +not rightly employed. Genius has availed only to authenticate itself as +the normal activity of man, not yet to do the work of the world. + +Sense is a tangle of contradiction. The boy throws wood on water and it +floats; then he throws in his new knife and it sinks. How was he to know +that the same force will lift a stick and swallow a knife? He throws a +feather after his knife, and away it swims on the wind. That is another +brook, then, in which the feather is a stick and the stick a stone. Not +only are results of a single law opposed, but the laws pull one this +way, one that, as gravitation contends with currents of water and air. +If we could be shut in sense and surface, Nature would seem a game of +cross-purposes, every creature devouring another. The beast eats plant +and beast; he dies, and the plant eats him again; fire, water, and +frost, in their old quarrel, destroy whatever they build; the night eats +the day, summer the snow, and winter the green. Change is a revolving +wheel, in which so many spokes rise, so many fall, a motion returning +into itself. Nature is a circle, but man a spiral. No wonder he is +dissatisfied, with his longing to get on. Eating and hunger, labor and +rest, gathering and spending, there is no gain. Life is consumed in +getting a living. After laborious years our money is ready in bank, but +the man who was to enjoy it is gone from enjoyment, shrivelled with +care, every appetite dried up. So learning devastates the scholar, is +another plague of wealth, and our goodness turns out to be a hasty +mistake. Is order disorder, then? Are we fools of fate? Is there only +power enough to prop up this rickety old system, to keep it running and +hold our noses to the grindstone? No man believes it: the madness of +Time has method only half concealed. + +See what eagerness is in the eyes of men, curious, hopeful, dimly aware +of beneficence under all these knocks and denials. There are whispers of +a great destiny for man,--that he is dear to the Cause. We suspect +integrity in Nature. Can this canebrake, in which we are tangled with +care, fear, and sin, be after all single and sincere, a piece of +intelligent kindness? Genius is the opening of this suspicion to +certainty. We are like children who recognize the love which gives them +sugar-plums, but not that which shuts the bag and forbids. Insight goes +deep enough to prize all severity and detect the good of evil. + +Trade seems contemptible to Wilhelm Meister, but, in its larger aspect, +sublime to Werner, who sees it as an exploration and possession of +Nature with friendly interchange between man and man. Trade is +democracy. Authority is hateful to democrats; but Carlyle can justify +loyalty, and show how obedience to the hero may be fidelity to myself. +Every experience needs its interpreter, one who can show its derivation +from an absolute centre. The mob of the French Revolution is a crowd of +devils till their poet arrives and restores these maniacs to manhood. +They are misguided brothers, doing what we should do in their place. +Genius in every situation takes hold on reality, a tap-root going down +to the source. Equilibrium appears in a staggering as well as a standing +figure, and is perfectly restored in every fall. The landscape seen in +detail is broken and ragged,--here a raw sand-bank, there a crooked +butternut-tree, yonder a stiff black cedar: but look with a larger eye; +the straight is complement to the crooked tree, color balances color, +form corrects form, and the entire effect of every scene is +completeness. The artist restores this harmony broken by our microscopic +view. Music is a shattering and suspension of chords till we ache for +their resolution; and the music of life is desire, a diminished seventh +that melts the past and ruins the present to prepare a future in another +key. + +Genius sees that many an exception is fruit of some larger law, is not +imperfection, but uncomprehended perfection. Is there, then, no +imperfection? We are haunted by such a thought. We see first a mixed +beauty in faces, partly life and partly organization; the body is never +symmetrical, deformity is the rule. But beauty will not be measured by +form; the body cannot long occupy good eyes; we begin to look through +that, and encounter some courage, generosity, or tenderness, a dawning +or dominant light in every countenance. This is our morning, and the +physical form only a low shore over which it breaks. Beauty is the rule, +exceptions melt away. There is no face in which Raphael cannot see more +than I see in any face; the dullest landscape is to Turner a fairer +vision than I can find in the world; Byron in his blackguards shows a +kind of magnanimity which refreshes the victims of respectability and +routine. The individuality of men is deformity, a departure from the +human type; yet this fault makes each necessary to each, founds society, +love, and friendship. So wherever a break appears in the plan, we +anticipate a larger purpose, and sound down through the water, certain +to find under that also a continuation of land. Genius first named our +system a universe to mark its consistency, and goes on reconciling, +showing how creatures and men are made of one stuff and that not so bad. +Let the thing be what it may, press on it a little with the mind, and +order begins to ooze. There is nothing on which we cannot feed with good +enough teeth and digestion, for the elements of meat are given also in +brick and bark. Natural objects are explored to their roots in man, and +through him in the Cause: each is what it is in kindness to him, has its +soul in his breast, grows out of him as truly as his hair, and the +out-world is only a larger body shaped by his needs. Each thing is a +passive man, and personification does no more than justice to the +joint-stool and the fence or whatever creature talks and suffers in +verse. + +What is the meaning of my day and relations? I suspect an advantage +designed for me, but not yet extracted, in marriage and the family-life, +in books, in politics, in business, in the garden, in music. How much of +each, as I know them, is chaff? how much is life coming in from the deep +by these low doors? What is society? An eating and drinking together? a +bit of gossip? a volley of jokes? Do men meet in these exercises, or in +hope and humanity? We are all superior to amusement. The cowardly host +will entertain with fiddlers and cream; then every guest leaves his +high desire with his hat, leaves himself behind, and descends to +fiddlers and cream. But men rise to associate; in sinking they separate; +and the good host must call us up, not drag us down to his feast. Goethe +knows how to spread the table with portfolios, architecture, music, +drawing, tableaux; but a great love, with its inevitable thought, makes +even these solvents superfluous. Goethe studies the cemetery, the +chapel, the school, the gallery, the burial-service, the +estate,--whatever is nearest. He finds astonishing values in labor, +trade, production, art, science, war. In his boyhood he built an altar +with his playthings and burned incense to Deity on a pile of shells and +stones. That act of worship foreshadowed his whole career; he took every +creature and thing from God's hand with reverent expectation, and never +rested till he had opened to some intent of the Maker therein. Things, +therefore, in his view are no longer empty and hollow like old cast-off +shoes, but pieces of sublime design. A beetle is sustained by earth, +air, fire, and water, needs the sun and the sea, winter and summer, +earth's orbit and parallax, needs whatever has been made, to set him on +his legs. He carries the world in little, and is a creeping black body +of the best. + +Much more man is microcosmic and macrocosmic. Natural and supernatural +meet concealedly in the out-world, but openly in him, and his early +desires grow into a future surpassing all desire. The poet sees his +destiny in our wishes,--sees right and wrong, kindness and greediness, +deepening into incalculable grandeurs of heaven and hell. He sees the +man never yet arrived, but now arriving, to inhabit each breast. "Far +off his coming" shines. We have many little gleams of generosity; we +have conviction, and can strike for the right. Nature is a fixed +quantity, a solid; but life is reinforced by life. Truth begets truth, +love kindles love, every end is a new beginning. + +Therefore the perception of genius is prophetic,--an anticipation of +manhood for this boy, who is the King's son, child of Eternity, and only +changeling of Time. Wherever any magnanimity is revealed, I lay claim to +it. The courage of heroes, the purity of angels, the generosity of God, +is no more than I need. Only show virtue unmixed at the heart of this +system, and you open my destiny in that. If there be but the least spark +of pure benignity, it is a fire will spread through all and fill the +breast; for Good makes good, and what it is I must become. Man is heir +not to any possession or commodity, though it were a homestead in all +heavens, but to the moral power which we ache to exercise. To-day I am a +poor starveling of Nature, sucking many a dry straw, but so sure as God +I shall stream like the sun. The meanest creature is a promise of such +power, for in each is some radiation as well as suction. Man grows, +indeed, faster than he can be filled, and so is forever empty; but if +power is never a _plenum_, it is never drawn dry, and at least the +mantling foam of it fills the cup. Our expectation is that bead on the +draught of being, and boils over the brim. + +Imagination is the spiritual sight, working upward from the fact, +downward from the law. In low experience it divines the tendency of +order, and descends on the other arc of this rainbow to construct the +world, and the man that must be. Imagination is the projection of each +beyond himself. A man shall not lift his meat to his lips without +prophecy and a consulting of this oracle: he shall first extend him to +think the savor and satisfaction of the meat. Shut into the horizon and +the moment, we have this only organ of communication with all that is +beyond; yet having here in rudiments and beginnings all that is beyond, +we laugh at the old limits, and explore the universe through every +dimension, through spaces beyond Space and times beyond Time. + +If this old ball on which we are carried be no apple of Sodom, but sound +and sweet to the core, insight must be confidence and satisfaction. In +the beginning of thought we enjoy mere glimpses and guesses, our hopes +are rather wishes than hopes; we mount into flame when they come, we +sink into ashes when they burn out and desert us. The first glimmerings +only beget a noble discontent. Children are tired of matter before they +know where to seek their own power; they seem to be cheated of +themselves, their worthiness is unrecognized and unfed. Companions, +tasks, prospects are insufficient, they are bored and isolated, they +sigh and mope; yet they are proud of this lukewarm longing, which does +not quite avail, and keep diaries to record with protest the dulness of +every day. Sentimentality is initial genius. Its complaint seems to +contradict the cheerfulness of wisdom, yet it enjoys complaining; though +life be not worth having on these conditions, it bottles every tear. A +weak sadness fills great space in literature, stocks the circulating +library, and counts its Werthers by the thousand in every age. Now we +expect this malady, as we look for mumps and measles in the growing +child. It is feminine,--unwilling to be weak, yet not able to stand and +go. The strong quickly leave it behind. + +In his first novel Goethe burned out for himself this girlish +green-sickness, and by a more vigorous demand began to take what he +wanted from the world. To the young, life seems splendid but +inaccessible. Its remoteness is the theme of every complaint; but when +these windy wishes grow stern, inexorable, when a man will no longer +beg, but gets on his feet to try a tussle with the world, he throws +resolute arms around the Greatest, and finds in his bosom all that was +so vast and so far. + +Then we open paths, renew our society, enlarge our work, make elbow-room +and head-room enough in the world. Criticism is the shadow of the mind. +Insight is not sadness, but invigoration,--is no sob or spasm, but +clearness in the eye and calmness in the breast. We misjudge it from +partial examples: the light of day is confidence, yet sudden bursts of +light distress and blind. The poet is rapt, and follows thought; he +leaves his meat, and by some transubstantiation feeds on the wind; he no +longer sees the pillars of Hercules on a sixpence; he is mad for the +hour, if a majority shall say what is madness. Meanwhile his field is +unploughed; and if he falls from this ecstasy, look to see an harassed, +embittered man. The birds sing as they pick up the corn, but wisdom is +not so quickly convertible into meal, and if he cannot feed always on +it, let him never seek the Muse. Our poor half-genius vibrates miserably +between truth and the dinner-pot, comes back from his apocalypse, and +cries for admiration, gold-lace, hair-powder, and wine. That is no +apocalypse from which a man returns to whine and beg. Burns complains of +Scotland and poverty, Byron of England and respectability, and they are +both so far paupers unfed at home. Wordsworth finds London a wilderness, +and goes more than content to good company in lonely Cumberland, to eat +a crust and drink water with the gods. Socrates is barefooted. He has +one want so pressing that he can have no other want, and has set his +lips to a cup which hides his bare feet from his eyes: with a single +garment for winter and summer, he draws the universe around him a +garment for the mind. + +If the first flashes of perception dazzle, they are rays of daylight to +one emerging from the cave of sense. The eye becomes wonted to truth, +and that is now the least of his convictions which yesterday struck Paul +from his horse, and rebuked him as fire from the sky. Truth is breath, +and only for the first uncertain moment of life we use it to cry and +complain. Inspiration is morning, not a flash to deepen the dark. + +Popular literature is some description of a state which men think they +might enjoy: it is no record of joy. But the fool's paradise would be +dreary even for the fool; he is his own paradise, and will be. Our +early fancy is no transcript of the divine method, and is sternly +rejected by all who suspect a perfection hidden in the day. A few works +are great which celebrate the charm of actual effort, and the +furtherance of Nature for the brave. Homer, Shakspeare, Goethe, need +never exaggerate or leave the earth behind: in their experience it +carries well the sky. Every vital thought is some pleasure in running, +waking, loving, contending, helping,--is valor dealing gayly with the +homely old forces and needs. The marrow is sweet for him who can crack +it, in the roughest or the smoothest bone. One is born with a key to the +gladness of Nature, and glows with the day's work, the touch of hands, +the prospect of to-morrow,--love's production and husbandry, the old +worn grass and sunshine, the winter wind, the games and squabbles of +children and of men. Why is life for John weariness, for James every +moment fresh fire out of the sky? He who finds what he wants, or makes +what he wants, is a god. I know well the hope of saints and sages, how +they connect this life with endless stages beyond, how they look for the +same dignity in all action, the same motive in every companion; I see +what they have signified by heaven, a state wherein the best loved is +the best: but we must not be scornful, or miss to-day the common delight +of living, the moderate hopes of the healthy multitude. For no +exceptional joy is so wonderful as the universality of joy, the love of +life under every burden and stroke. The beginning of all beatitude and +ground of all is good digestion, good sleep, good-nature, and the cheer +undeniable of an average human day. + +But genius hurries on to expand our hope and dread to incalculable +dimensions. Hell is its first sudden down-look from uncertain flight, is +earth and animalty seen from the sky. The bad neither so see nor fear. +Few men ever reach a height from which they can sound such depth, and +the popular talk is repetition without corresponding experience. Hope +and fear rise alike to sublimity before the boundless scope of our +future. Give the hour to folly, and you set back the dial-hand of +destiny, you are so much behind your privilege in every following hour. +Eternity is displaced by the stumbling present as the earth by a falling +pebble, and the act of this low morning is a stone cast in the sea of +universal Being, which shakes and shoulders every drop of the deep. The +immensity of the universe does not dwarf, but magnifies our activity: +man is multiplied into the sum of all. This deed, this breath dilates to +the proportions of Spirit, and upheaves the low roof of Time, which is +no sky for the soul. Life becomes awful by its reaches: its span from +zenith to nadir, by moral parallax. From gods we sound down to beasts +and devils, from sky and fire to ice and mud. Here are the true and +final spaces: in their startling contrast appears the grandeur of the +moral law, like Chimborazo carrying all zones. It offers hell and +heaven, advancing inevitable, and leaves us never a dodge from choice. +Our dodge is a choice. Man overtaken by inexorable need must do or go +under in the tread-mill of Fate. Not a fault, not a lack, but is so far +damnation, with consequences not to be set forth in any prospect of +fire. When you begin to look down, the fear of centuries seems not +exaggerated. The remedy is in looking so vigorously and far as to see, +beyond depth, again the sky and stars. Look through; for toward that +centre which is everywhere, we look. Hell was situated under the earth; +our first voyage teaches that there is no under-the-earth. The widening +of every path gives boundless dimension to sin, till we learn that the +evil impulse alone does not extend. It is soon exhausted both in +attraction and effect,--is no power, but some suspense of life. + +The first moral perception is always a shudder. Carlyle sees the lifted +judgment of a lie; his eye is filled, and he sees nothing beyond; but +Nemesis is surgeon with probe and knife. Our poisons are medicines and +homoeopathic, the fumes of fear a remedy of sulphur for cutaneous sin. +The thought in which our terrors arrive is always at last a gospel, is +glad tidings. Dante, Paul, Swedenborg, Edwards have seen the pit. It +opens only in the holiness of such men,--is a thunder out of clear sky, +before which generations of the impure, like brute beasts, tremble and +cower. An equal moral genius will see that the ascension of an immortal +Love has left behind this vacuum, mitigated, not deepened, by the +furniture of devils and their flame. Men strive in vain to be afflicted +by a revelation of the best and worst. The mind is naturally a form of +gladness, and every window in us takes the sun. Our genuine trouble is +not extreme dread, but a perpetual restlessness and discontent. + +The delight of contemplation has been in history a height without +sustaining breadth, a needle, not a cube. Genius has been tremulous, +recluse,--has been cherished in solitude with Nature,--has been a +feminine partiality among men, holding for gods its favorites, for dogs +the refuse of mankind. It still counts the practical life an +interruption. It is therefore only melancholy cheer, a forlorn ark with +nine souls on the brine, a refuge from the world, not a delight of the +world. It lives not from God who is, but from a God who should be. The +true creative power is a calm of battle, a trust not for the closet, but +the chariot, a torch that can be carried through the gusty market, a +Ramadhan in the street. It is no miracle to be calm in calm, to be quiet +in bed,--but to rule and lead without anxiety, to tame the beasts and +elements, to build and unbuild cities with a song. The great thought +returns on society, floods out the heaped rubbish of custom, pours the +old grandeurs of Nature through dry channels of Trade, Religion, +Courtesy, and Art. He is great who plays the game of life with decision, +yet is always retired, and holds the life of life in reserve. Such a man +is demiurgic, for he puts down a hand on action through the sky. + +From a happy or sufficient genius came the golden maxim, "Think of +living." Strong men love life. The system, so cheery and severe, seems +to them worthy to be continued yonder and without end. This day leading +a better, itself good not leading alone,--this presentiment,--this solid +increment of hard-won power,--of what other stuff should our eternity be +woven? In wisdom first appears the present tense, an hour which is not +mere transition, but something for itself. There are men who live--to +live. He who finds our destiny given beforehand in the nature of things +has the leisure of God: he has not only all the time that is, but spaces +beyond, so that he will not be hurried by the falling-off of Time. +Leisure is a regard fixed not on the nearest trees and fences as we +whirl through this changing scene, but on remoter and larger objects, on +the slow-revolving circle of the far hills, on the quiet stars. Why +should I hasten with my foolish plan? Prosperity is over all, not in my +foolish plan. What is a fortune, a reputation,--what even genuine +influence, if you consider the future of one or of the race? Only little +aims bring care. Why run after success? That is success which follows: +success should be cosmic, a new creation, not any trick or feat. To be +man is the only success. For this we lie back grandly with total +application to the cause. Why run after knowledge? A large mind circles +all the primal facts from its own stand-point, and needs never tread the +curious round of science, history, and art. Where it is, is Nature: +therefore it is calm and free. The wise men of my knowledge were +farmers, drovers, traders, learned beyond the book. You cannot feed but +you put me in communication with all forests, fields, streams, seas. +Give me one companion, and between us two is quickly repeated the +history of the race. In a plant, an animal, a day or year, in elements, +their feuds and fruitful marriages, in a private or public history, the +thinker is admitted to the end of thought. A scholar can add nothing to +my perfect wonder, though he bring Egypt, Assyria, and Greece. I find +myself where I was, in Egypt, Assyria, and Greece: I find the old +earth, the old sky, the old astonishment of man. Caesar and the +grasshopper, both are alike within my knowledge and beyond. There is +some vague report of a remote divine, at which he will smile who finds +no least escape from the divine. Two points are given in every regard, +man and the world, subject, we say, and object, a creature seen and a +creature seeing, marvelling, knowing, ignorant. Either of these openings +will lead quickly to light too pure for our organs, and launch us on the +sea beyond every shore. The artist studies a fair face; there is no +supplement to his delight. In temples, statues, pictures, poems, +symphonies, and actions, only the same eternal splendor shines. It is +the sun which lights all lands,--"that planet," as Dante sings, + + "Which leads men straight on every road." + +He is delivered there at home to Beauty, which makes and is the world. + +Genius is royal knowledge. In the nearest need it studies all ages and +all worlds. Let me understand my neighbors and my meat; you may have the +libraries and schools. I read here living languages,--the eye, the +attitude and temperament, the wish and will: Hebrew and Greek must wait. +He who knows how to value "Hamlet" will never subscribe for your picture +of "Shakspeare's Study." Great intelligence runs quickly through our +primers, our cities, constitutions, galleries, traditions, cathedrals, +creeds. The long invention of the race is a tortuous, obscure way. Must +I creep all my fresh years in that labyrinth, and postpone youth to the +end of age? What need of so much experience and contrivance, if without +contrivance, if by simplicity, the children surely and beautifully live? + +Healthy thought is organic, grows by assimilation, vitalizes all it +takes, and so like a plant puts forth knowledge from the old and from +within. The apple of to-morrow is earth, not apple, till it hangs on the +tree. Our knowing seems rather rejection than acceptance, so much is +husk in bulk. From eight thousand miles of geology the tree takes a few +drops of water and distils from these its own again. Vigor of mind is +judgment, which divides the meat from the shell, that which cumbers from +that which thrills. The act is simple, inevitable; let it be energetic +and final. We say, "This is valuable, it quickens me; the rest is +nonsense." A feeble mind needs now chiefly to be rid of rubbish, of +cheap admirations, an awe before the hair-pins and shoe-ties of society, +before the true church, the scholastic learning, dead languages, the +Fathers and the fashion. To set the savage of civilization free from his +superstition, these idols must be insulted before his face. + +A little energy of demand displaces them from regard. The scholars are +busy with punctuation, chronology, and the lives of the little great, so +that their visit is a vastation, and I must turn them out of doors. +Genius will continue unable to spell, to read the German, to count the +Egyptian kings. There is royal ignorance, the preoccupation of gods. For +the wise, if no object is trifling, yet part of every object is foreign +to its best intent. Every nut is inwardly a man and a miracle, but +outwardly a shell. If it be a book, the thought is a shell, though God +be in the thought. The book is another thing, another world of power and +form, and the power will consume the form as a sword eats its sheath, +the soul the body, or fire the pan. The letter drops, for the spirit +must expand and be set free. The positive and negative poles of Nature +reappear in every creature, and the positive element must prevail. When +we have learned to live, we shall--or shall not--learn to spell. + +The last refreshment is intercourse with a kingly mind, which has no +need to shift its centre, but lies abroad hemispheric, and sleeps like +sunshine, bathing silently the earth and sky. Such a mind is at home, +not in position, but in a vital relation to Nature, which leaves no +spaces dark and cold for wandering, and knows no change that is worth +the name of change. It is rest to be with one who is at rest, who +cannot go to or go from his happiness, for whom the meaning of Deity is +here and now. What stillness and depth of manner are communicated to all +who sound the deeps of life! what a refuge is their society from wit, +zeal, and gossip, from petty estimates and demands! To these, now first +encountered, we have been always known; in them we meet no private +motive, no accomplishment, reputation, ability, immediate haunting +purpose, but a Sabbath from personal fortunes. We meet the great above +all that can be mine or thine, above gifts and accidents in common +manhood and prosperity. Swedenborg reports no encounter on higher +ground. The seven heavens open to me in a mind which gives rank to its +own facts, and wherever it is housed still finds the universe only a +larger body around the soul. + +Genius declares the total or representative value of its own facts +against the neglect or contempt of mankind. Intelligence is centre of +centres, and all things diminish as they recede from the eye. Every +natural law is some hint to us of our commanding position. The good +thought is never a toilsome going abroad, but some settling at home to +new intimacy with the fortune which waits on all. It is no putting out +legs, but a putting down roots to take possession of the earth and the +nether heavens, while we fill the upper sky with climbing shoots. +Intelligence is at one with the system, able to entertain it as a unit, +to refer every particle, dark as a particle, to its shining place in the +transparent whole. How can I afford to drop my errand, to go wonder +after the fore-world, after Plato, Washington, or Paul? These are men +who never dropped their errands to go wonder after the Maker himself. +They found God in the thing lying nearest to be done. As right action in +the remotest corner is a world-victory, so right thought applied to the +lowest circumstance is cosmic thought. In the fortune of the hour we +have a home beyond the fortune of the hour. The least circle of order +now organized and established in our lives is not a poor house frozen to +the ground, but a ship able to outride the currents of time, a charmed +circle of security which will serve us still in every following world. +Our future is to be found, not in multiplication of examples, but in +deeper sympathy with all we have superficially known. + +We shall never rightly celebrate the stillness and sweetness of truth in +an open mind. Clear perception is refreshing as sleep. It is a sleep +from blunder, care, and sin. In every thought we are lifted to sit with +the serene rulers, and see how lightly, yet firmly, in their orbits the +worlds are borne. With insight we work freely, for every result is +secure; we rest, for every stream will bear us to the sea. Peace is joy +beyond the perturbation of joy, is entertainment of Omnipotence in the +breast. + +A filial relation to the universe is well expressed, not in speech, but +in the attitudes of her children, in their balance, tranquillity, +directness, their firm and quiet grasp, look, step, tone. Confidence and +joy are the only moral agents. Worship is immortal cheer. The Greeks +rebuke us with their sacred festivals and games: why should we not hunt +every evil as we follow gayly the buffalo and bear? Virtue cannot be +wrinkled and sad; Virtue is a joy of the Right added to our earliest +joy,--is refreshment and health, not fever. The Etruscan are right +religious sculptures: the body will be more, not less, when the soul is +most; for the body is created and perfected, not devoured by the soul. +In another Eden the curves of grace and power will reappear; every +wrinkle will be counted sin; goodness will be sap and blood, a growth of +grapes and roses, a sacrament of energy and content. + +If there be great wrongs, we cannot distrust the Maker, and postpone the +security of the soul. Impatience is a wrong as great as any. Love and +trust are remedies for wrong. Music is our cure for insanity, and I +remember that incantation of fair reasons which Plato prescribed. What +gain is in scolding and knitting the brows? The blue sky, the bright +cloud, the star of night, the star of day, every creature is in its +smiling place a protest of the universe against our hasty method of +counter-working wrong with wrong. Let loose the Right. Go forward with +martial music; never await or seek, but carry victory and win every +battle in the organization of your band. Hear Beethoven:--"Nor do I fear +for my works. No evil can befall them, and whosoever shall understand +them shall be free from all such misery as burdens mankind." + +From this security in the lap of Nature, this nest in the grass, we rise +easily to every height. Gladness becomes uncontainable, a pain of +fulness, for which, after all effort, there is no complete relief; for +language breaks under it in delivery, and Art falls to the ground. The +psalm of David, the statue of Angelo, the chorus of Handel, are +inarticulate cries. These men have not justified to us their confidence. +It will be shared, not justified. They have divined what they cannot +orderly publish, and their meaning will be by the same greatness divined +again. The work of such men remains a haunting, commanding enigma to +following ages. They do but repeat the promise and obscurity of Nature, +for she herself has the same largeness, is such another _raptus_, +proceeding to no end, but to a circle or complexity of ends. Men are +again and again divided over the images of Paul, of Plato, of Dante, +unable to escape from their authority, more unable to give them final +interpretation. They leave Nature, to puzzle over the inexhaustible +book. What does it mean? What does it not mean? The poet will never wait +till he can demonstrate and explain. He must hasten to convey a blessing +greater than explanation, to publish, if it were only by broken hints, +by signs and dumb pointing, his sense of a presence not to be +comprehended or named. + +For, if the seer is sustained, he is also commanded by what he sees. +Genius is not religious, but religion, an opening to the conscience of +the universe no less than to the joy. From this original the moral, +intellectual, and aesthetic sense will each derive a conscience, and rule +with equal sovereignty the man. Through an ant or an angel the first +influx of reality is entertained in an attitude of worship, and the +poet, in his vision, cries with Virgil to Dante:-- + + "Down, down, bend low + Thy knees! behold God's angel! fold thy hands! + Henceforward shalt thou see true ministers!" + +Revelation is not more a new light than a new heart and will; revelation +to me is the conquest and renewal of me. What is lovely will not be +encountered without love, the Creator holds the key to the creature, +Order and Right may freely enter to be man. He who can open any object +to its source is touched therein by the finger of God, and insight is +inevitable consecration. Give the coward a suspicion of our human +destiny, and he is no longer coward; he would gladly be cut in pieces +and burned in any flame to shed abroad that light. Life has such an +irresistible tendency to extend, that it makes of the man a mere +vehicle, takes him for hands and feet, wheels and wings: he is glad only +when the truth runs and prevails. Enthusiasm, devotion, earnestness are +names for this possession of the deep thinker by his thought. He lives +in that, and has in it his prosperity, no longer in the flesh. The +inspired man becomes great by absorption in a great design; he is +preoccupied, and trifles, for which other men are bought and sold, shine +before him as beads of glass with which savages are wheedled. We drop +our playthings, our banks and coaches, crowns, swords, colleges, and +sugar-plums in a heap together, when any moment opens to us the scope of +our activity, and carries far forward the curve through which we have +already run. + +The divine authority of Genius is given in this descent and superiority +to will. That which in me I must obey, that also above me all men must +obey. Will is the centre of the practical man, of all force, not moral, +but brute or natural, and is identified in the common thought with +myself, as I am a natural cause. Will is the sum of physical forces +necessary for self-preservation, is reagency against the formidable +rivalry of every other organization. In this animal centre the laws are +carried up, as reins are gathered to be put into the hands of a driver, +and being tied in a knot just where the physical touches the celestial +sphere, they seem to be moral, and Will much more than the body is in +popular thought inseparable from man. It is an organ into which he has +thrown himself in reckless neglect of his privilege, a grasping hand +which rules the world as we see it ruled, masters and takes to itself +for extension all laws below its own level, wields Nature as an +instrument, breaks down a weaker will, and carries away the material +mind until some God from above shall deliver it. Will is that living +Fate of which exterior necessity is but the form. From it we are +instantly delivered in conviction, and find it ever after the servant, +not the synonyme of man. + +The boy does not choose, neither does the belly choose for him, what +object shall be supremely beautiful in his eyes. He has not resolved to +see only this splendor of color, and neglect sound,--or to give himself +to sound alone, and shut his eyes to sight. If the divine order reaches +any mind, those creatures in which it appears will haunt that mind, will +take lordly their own place, and hang as constellations high overhead in +thought. So long as he can turn the eye hither and thither, or lightly +determine what he will see, the man is conversant with form alone, and +bigots who are on that plane of experience identify him with choice, +hold thought to be altogether voluntary, and burn the thinker, as though +his view were a fruit, not a root, of him. But truth is that which does +not wait for our making, but makes us,--does not lie like water at the +bottom of our wells, but comes like sunshine flooding the air, and +compelling recognition. "To believe your own thought," says a master, +"that is genius"; but is not genius primarily the arrival of a thought +able to authenticate itself, to compel trust, and make its own value +known against the sneers or anger of the world? From my own thought once +reached there is but one appeal,--to my own thought: from Philip sober +to Philip more sober. + +The good spirit appears as a spark in our embers, and draws out these +careful hands to ward itself from every gust,--sets our tasks and crowns +them. We know that from first desire to last performance wisdom is +altogether a grace. Wisdom is this wish for wisdom, already given in the +readiness to receive. We have not cared for it, but it has cared for us. + +Grown stronger, it is a guide, and needs none. Turner sees what he must +love; there is no rule for such seeing: what he does not love is hid +from him; there is no rule for such omission. It is in the eye, not more +a happy opening than a happy closing. A private ordinance, dividing man +into men, makes the same creature a wall to one, an open door to his +neighbor. The value of man appears to Scott in feudalism, to Wordsworth +in contemplation, to Byron in impatience, to Kant in certainty, to +Calvin in authority, to Calame in landscape, to Newton in measure, to +Carlyle in retribution, to Shakspeare in society, to Dante in the +contrast of right and wrong. + +One man by grandeur sees mountains in the coals of his grate; another by +gentleness only sunshine and grasses on Monadnock. You will not say that +he chooses, but that he is chosen so to see. Light opens the eye without +our intention, and we are at no trouble to paint on the retina what must +there appear. Success is fidelity to that which must appear. Weak men +discuss forever the laws of Art, and contrive how to paint, questioning +whether this or that element should have emphasis or be shown. If there +is any question, there will be no Art. The man must feel to do, and +what he does from overmastering feeling will convince and be forever +right. The work is organic which grows so above composition or plan. +After you are engaged by the symphony, there is no escape, no pause; +each note springs out of each as branch from branch of a tree. It could +be no otherwise; it cannot be otherwise conceived. Why could not I have +found this sequence inevitable, as well as another? Plainly, the +symphony was discovered, not made,--was written before man, like +astronomy in the sky. + +Only the mastery of one who is mastered by Nature will control and +renovate mankind. It is easy to recognize the habit of conviction, +freedom from within, and personal motive, the man bending himself as for +life or death to show exactly what he sees. The inspired man we know who +appeals to a divine necessity, and says, "I can do no otherwise; God be +my help! amen!"--for whom praise and property and comfortable +continuance on this planet are trifles, so great an object has opened to +him in the inviolable moral law. + +Every perception takes hold at last on duty as well as desire, claims +and carries away the man entire, though it were to danger or death. The +system, grown friendly, has grown sacred also; departure from it is +shame and guilt, as well as loss. An artist, therefore, like the Greek, +is busy with portraits of the gods, and every celebration of Beauty is +another Missa Solemnis, Te Deum, and Gloria. + +Whatever object becomes transparent to a man will be his medium of +communication with the Maker and with mankind. He hurries to show +therein what he has seen, as children run for their companions and point +their discoveries. These are his unsolicited angels, higher above his +reach than above that of the crowd; for every good thought is more a +surprise to the thinker than to any other. The seer points always from +himself as a telescope to the sky; he is no creator, but a bit of broken +glass in the sun. What is any man in the presence of haunting +Perfection, never to be shown without mutilation and dishonor? Is it +ours? In Him we live and move. + +While the Ego is pronounced and fills consciousness, man seems to be and +do somewhat of himself; but when the universal Soul is manifest above +will, his eyes turn away from that old battery; he is absorbed in what +he sees,--forgets himself, his deeds, wants, gains. He is rapt; stands +like Socrates a day and a night in contemplation; sits like Newton for +twelve hours half dressed on the edge of his bed, arrested in rising. He +is that madman to the world who neglects his meat, postpones his private +enterprise, regards honor and comfort as so much interruption to this +commerce with reality. We are all tired of property which is exclusion, +of goods which must be taken from another to serve me. Good should grow +with sharing,--more for me when all is given. In the spirit there are no +fences, boxes, or bags. + +Presenting truth, I declare it as freely yours as mine. Every act of +genius proclaims that the highest gift is no monopoly or singularity, no +privilege of one, but the birthright of the race. Shakspeare knows well +that we shall easily see what he sees; he considers it no secret. We are +always feeling beforehand for every right word now about to be spoken in +the world; many men give tokens of the general habit of thought before +he is born who clearly knows what all were dreaming. Wisdom has only +gone before us on our own path, and we overtake our guide in every +perception. Yet we are lifted quite off our feet by any new possibility +revealed in life: every circle drawn round our own astonishes, though it +be drawn from our centre. The poet in his certainty appears a child of +the heavens, and we strike another foolish line through the crowd, as +though every man were not his own poet as truly as he is his own priest +and governor, as though each were not entitled to see whatever is to be +seen. The masters of thought may teach us better. They address their +loftiest power in us, and never sing to oxen or dogs. The painting, +poem, statue, oratorio, calls to me by name; the morning is an eye that +solicits mine. Shall I take only the husks, and leave to another, +contented, always, the life of life? + +He is supreme poet who can make me a poet, able to reach the same +supplies after he is gone. We are bits of iron charged by this magnet, +and lose our quality when it is removed; we are not quite made magnets +as we should be by this magnetic planet and the revolutions of the sun; +yet the great polarity of our globe is a sum of little polarities, and +every scrap of metal has its own. We are made musical by the passing +band; we go on humming and marching to the air; but he who wrote it was +made musical by silence and sunshine. Soon our own vibrations will be +more easily induced, as old instruments sound with a touch or breath. We +shall throb with inarticulate rhythms, and understand the bard who +sings,-- + + "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter." + +The poet is one who has detected this latency of power in every breast. +His delight is a feeling that all doors are open to all, that he is no +favorite, but the rest are late sleepers, and he only earlier awake. +Depth of genius is measured by depth of this conviction. Egotism is +incurable greenness. An artist is one who has more, not less, respect +for the common eye. The seer points always from his own to a public +privilege,--says never, "I, Jesus, have so received," but, "The Son of +Man must so receive"; and Shakspeare cuts himself into fragments till +there is no Shakspeare left behind, as if expressly to testify that this +wonderful wisdom is not his, but ours, is not that of the thinker and +penman in his study, but of priests and kings, ladies and courtiers, +lovers and warriors, knaves and fools. Paul sees that Moses read his law +from tables of the heart. Every wise word is an echo of the wisdom +inarticulate in our neighbors which sends them confident about their +work and play. The faith of healthy men and women is amazing when we +learn how incapable they are of showing grounds for it. In speculation +they hold horrible theories, blackening the day; yet they trust the good +which their lips unwittingly deny. + +In discourse we are moved, not by what a man says, but by what he takes +for granted. The undertow of power is something unstated to which all +his facts and laws refer. But our resource seems to be rather a +reversion, is not quite available; we have blood and a beat at the +heart, yet it does not circulate freely, and Nature to every man is a +double of himself, so that the universe seems also cold in extremities, +as though there were too little original life to fill her veins. The +poet is not fire on the hearth to thaw this numbness by foreign heat. He +rubs and rouses us to activity, drags us to the open air, puts us on a +glowing chase, provokes us to race and climb with him till we also are +thoroughly alive. No other gift of his is worth much beside this hope of +reaching his side. The great know well that all men are approaching +their view even in departing from it, as travellers going from one port +turn their backs on each other here and their faces together toward the +antipodal point: they can leave their discoveries and fame to the race. +There is one object of sight. Every piece of wisdom is no less my +thought because another has found it in my mind. It is more mine than +any perception I called my own, for really with that I have +unconsciously been living in deeps below thought. The rest I have known, +that in all these years I am. + +No man seriously doubts that he is born to entertain the meaning of the +world. Already we are inclined to reckon genius a mere faculty of +saying, not of knowing, since it opens a common experience in every +example. Minority and obligation to other eyes will cease. We have +outgrown many a Magnus Apollo of childhood; his beauty is no longer +beautiful, his gold is tinsel, we can dig better for ourselves. +Therefore we can draw no line that will stand between poets and +pretenders. That is fire which fires me to-day; to-morrow the same +influence is frost. The standard is my temperature, a sliding scale. My +neighbors are raised to ecstasy by what seems a rattle of pots and pans; +but I remember when heaven opened to me also in Scheffer, Byron, +Bellini. The judge places himself in his judgment,--declares only what +is now above him, what below. If I find Milton prosaic beside +Swedenborg, perhaps I do Milton no wrong; perhaps no man in the company +so admires his impetuous grandeur; but now the impersonality of the +Swede may meet my need more nearly, with his mysteries of +correspondence, spiritual law, enduring Nature, and supremacy of Love. +Discrimination is worth so much, because there are no great gaps between +man and man, between mind and mind: there is no virtuous, no vicious, no +poet, no unpoet, and only dulness lumps one with angels, another with +dogs. There are infinite kinds and infinite degrees of intelligence; +there is genius in every sort and every stage of adulteration, overlaid +by this, by that, by the other grave mistake; and we cannot afford to be +inhospitable to the feeblest protest against our condition and +ourselves. + +We pass all but the few great masters, and they are only before us on +the road. Culture is the opening of spontaneous or liberal activity, and +hangs all on the pivotal perception that everything, experience, effort, +element, history, tradition, art, science, is another opening to the +same centre, and that our life. When the pupil is roused, enchanted, +fired, his redemption from sense is begun; he is delivered to the great +God, if it were only in a crystal or a caterpillar; he will never again +be the clod he was. The years are cruel and cold, want and appetite +devour many a day, but the man can never forget what was promised to the +boy. He believes in thought; believes against thought in the mad world, +in foolish man; believes in himself, and wonders what he could do, if he +had yet only half a chance. All that is streams toward the mind, will +stream through it and be known. + +God would not be God, if He could fill less than the universe, could +leave cold and empty corners, could remain beyond thought, could be +order around and not also within the brain. Deity is Revelation. Deity +means for each the germ of knowledge and the sum of knowledge. Man is +the guest of wisdom; he will drop for shame his arrogance, and seek +never again to entertain or patronize this architect and master of the +house. The triumph of inspiration is an unsealing of my own and of every +mind, a delivery of the pupil to private inspiration. When the work of a +master is masterly done, he abdicates therein, retires, and becomes +unregarded as a flight of stairs behind. The statue is a failure, unless +it makes me forget the statue,--the book, unless it makes me forget the +book. All the rhyming, painting, singing of sentimental boys and girls +springs from an intuition hardly yet more than instinct: that Nature has +special scripts for each, to be by him, by her, alone, divined and +published. They reach nothing sincere or unique, yet they feel the +individuality and remoteness of experience. They cannot put forth their +conscious power; but who among the gods of fame can put forth his power? +Emerson says Jove cannot get his own thunder; much less can any mortal +get his own thunder, however he may apply to Minerva for the key. + +By the cheer of awakening intuition, a dawn which stirs before daylight, +all men are secretly sustained. The common life is a borrowing, not a +creation and giving: imitation is going on all-fours, and man is uneasy +in that animal attitude. The horse comes only as horse: I am here not +merely as man, but as John; I blush and ache till John is something +pronounced and maintained against the mob of centuries, till men must +feel his singularity and solidity, as the ocean is displaced and +readjusted by every drop of rain. More or less, I must at least purely +avail. Erectness is delivery to the private law, and something in each +remains erect, and lifts him above the brute and the crowd. He is, and +feels himself to be: he will advance and give the law of his life. + +The brain is itself a nut from the tree Ygdrasil; it carries the world, +and in the first glances we anticipate all knowledge. The joy of life +does not wait for any theory of life, for we have only slept since the +thought in us was embodied in this system; we took part in the making; +we are drowsily at home with ourselves therein; we forget, yet do not +forget, the roundness of design. As in a common experience we are often +close upon some name which we seek to recall,--we feel, but cannot touch +it,--so the secret of Nature lies close to the mind, and sustains us as +if by magnetic communication, while we have yet no faculty to explore +our own being or this apparition of it, the whirl of worlds. + +We have rightly held genius to be miracle; but our great hope is +postponed for lack of perception that all life is miracle, that man in +every endowment is a form of the same plastic, incalculable power. Yet +as we are brought to seek goodness, being sinners, so we shall be +brought to seek the last perception, being dolts. The masters have not +been quite masters, and their theory has never respected the natural as +opening to a supernatural mind. We eat and drink and wait to be +arrested, not by sunshine, but lightning. It comes at last, revealing +from heaven the height and depth of our human prospect. The vision is +appalling; the seer is stricken to the ground; he has no organ able to +bear this light; he is blinded; he runs trembling for counsel to Paul, +who was beaten from his horse, to Samuel, who was called in sleep, to +Jesus, who taught the new birth, to John, who saw the white throne. But +after a little we learn that the new experience is native to us as +breath. No degeneracy of any period, no immersion in war, trade, +production, tradition, can quite hide the cardinal fact that this +strength of antiquity, of eternity, waits to descend, and does from time +to time descend, into the private breast. He who prays has made the +discovery, and is put by his own act in lonely communication with all +heavens. + +We find the sacred history legible only in the same light by which it +was written: we are referred by it, therefore, to sources of +interpretation above itself. God was hidden in the sky; the book in +another sky; who shall reveal God hidden in the book? After so many +ages, it has become a riddle as difficult of solution as any for which +it offers solution: the last and best puzzle of the exulting old Sphinx, +who will never be cheated of her jest. Our Christianity misses the +highest value of the book, as it indicates the resource of universal +man. We use the cover as some charm against danger, but the secret of +devotion is not reached. At last it is plain that secular, nigh +impenetrable Nature is a door as easily opened as this of the book. We +must read upon our knees, we wait for grace to open the text, God must +descend to light the page. The Quaker names our interpreter an inner +light, the Church a Holy Ghost to purge the heart and eye. A deity who +comes directly, and is no longer to seek when we are ready to read, must +abolish the book. Of all gods offered in our Pantheon, of all persons in +our Trinity, this must be the first. + +I cannot fasten on the revelation which needs another to make it +revelation to me; but when the divine aid is given, we seek no farther, +for in this communion we have already all that was sought. The private +illumination converts to gospel every creature on which its ray may +fall; it makes a Bible of the world, a Bible of the heart. The doctors +with dandling have now kept the child from his feet till there is doubt +whether he have any feet. In this cradle of the record he shall spend +his snug and comfortable life. "Here is safety!" Of course, he is +bed-ridden. + +But the weakness of man is no impediment to God. Remember who creates, +who renews, who goes abroad in perpetual miracle of building, +inhabiting, becoming. It is not a question of human power, but of +divine. + +Spiritual presence, apocalypse of every apocalypse, becomes our primal +fact. It is the root of Protestantism, Democracy, Individualism. The +sanctity of conscience is a rest of man upon undeniable Deity. There is +no room for intervention of Peter or Paul. + +The mind is immanence of Being, an original relation to all we have +named reality and worshipped as divine. There are truths which we must +reckon with Swedenborg among the Fundamentals of Humanity. To hold them +is to be Man,--to be admitted to the hopeful council of our kind. +Freedom is such a fundamental of the moral sense. From the thought of +property in man we erect ourselves in God's name with indignant +protestation, wiping it and its apologists together as dirt from our +feet. By an equal necessity we count out from every discourse of reason +those who find in them no organ of ultimate communication, who refer +from common consciousness to saint and sage, as though God could be shut +from presence and supremacy in thought. They are intellectual +non-combatants who so refer. We take them at their own valuation; their +certainty of uncertainty, their confession of remoteness from the centre +we accept; but we must turn from the very angels, if they be not +permitted for themselves to know. There is no outside to the universe +except this embryotic condition, wherein a man may think that there is +no result of thought. + +I suppose no individual thinker will ever again have the importance +which attaches to a few names in history. No man will found a religion +with Mahomet, or overlie philosophers like Calvin, or shoulder out the +poets like Shakspeare; still less will any man again be worshipped as a +personal god. Let the newcomer be never so great, there is now a +greatness in public thought to dwarf his proportions. He antedated all +discoveries who first uttered the sacred name. That ray on darkness +tells. Now we have nations of philosophers, thought flies like +thistle-down, and the sublime speculations of the fore-world are +cradle-songs and first spelling-lessons to excite the guesses of every +barefooted boy. In early ages men met face to face with Nature, and +spent their strength directly in questioning her. Now the work of God is +overlaid. Every blunder is a rock in our field, and at last the field is +a stone-heap of blunders, and our giants have work enough to reach any +ground in the unsophisticated facts of life. We set no limit to the +revolutionary power of truth; in happy hour it may sweep away doctrine +and usage, supplant systems by songs, and governments by Love. Yet the +first men were able to cleave the world to its centre, and predict the +last results. We only enlarge their openings. Schools follow schools, +Eclecticism comes with its band into the field to gather every ear; but +Plato stands smiling behind, and holds in his hands that simple divided +line, the image of all we know. + +Who can wonder at the authority of the ancients, unbowed by an antiquity +behind? Freedom from authority gave their directness, their simplicity, +their superiority to misgiving and second thought, their confident "Thus +saith the Lord." + +We boast our enlightenment, but now the best minds are in question +whether we have not lost as much by the ancients as we have gained. +Plainly, they have not yet done their own work, have not given us to +ourselves and to God. They should have been less or greater; they did +not quite liberate, but became oppressors of the mind. To this +misfortune we begin to find a single exception. Jesus, with his primal +doctrine of a divine humanity, will now at last avail to be understood, +will deliver us from every teacher to a Father in the heavens, and put +us in direct communication with Him through the moral sense. After so +many blind centuries, his truth breaks out, draws us to him from the +misunderstanding of his followers, and refers from himself to the +sources of his incomparable life. + +Two men of our time are the primitive Christians,--not known for such, +because their springs open, with those of the Master, not in any +character, but in the Cause. They share his reliance, and accept in +simplicity those brotherly words in which he extends his privilege to +every child. + +He will open to us Nature, for his habit is the only natural. He has no +anxiety for immediate results, is never guarded in expression, does +never explain; he makes no record of thought, calls no scholar to be +scribe; he knows no labors, no studies; he walks on the hills, and +frankly interprets the waving grain, the seed in the furrow, the lily, +and the weed. Here is power which takes no thought for the morrow, an +attitude which works endless revolutions without means or care or cost. + +We must not dwell on this supreme example, lest we leave the hope of +every reader far behind. Let us rather keep the level of common +experience, and disclose the incursions of spirit which light a humble +life. Love and Providence will appear in every breast; nothing more than +Love and Providence appears to us above. + +A supreme genius will fail, rather by under- than over-statement, to +balance the popular exaggeration and repetition of fine phrases for +which we have no corresponding fact. Why should any man be zealous or +impatient? Why press a moral, dissecting it skeleton-like from throbbing +textures of Freedom and Beauty? Why preach, threaten, and drive us with +these bones, when a lover may draw us with kisses on living lips? Nature +offers Duty as a manlier pleasure, leads the will so softly as to set us +free in following, and her last thrill of delight is the steady +heart-beat of heroism, facing danger with level eyes and fatal +determination. Fear may arrest, but never restore. It is an arrest of +fever by freezing, of disease by disease. Let it be understood, once for +all, that this universe is moral, and say no more about that. Every man +loves goodness, and the saint never exhorts to this love, but reinforces +by addressing himself to it as matter of course. All power is a like +repose on the basis of common desires and perceptions in the race. The +didactic method is an insult alike to the pupil and the universe. +Socrates is master and gentleman with his questions, suggestions, +seeking in me and acting as midwife to my thought; but all _illuminati_ +and professors, all who talk down or cut our meat into morsels, will +quickly be counted aunties by the vigorous boys at school. Chairs and +pulpits totter to-day with a scholastic dry rot, which is inability to +recognize the equality of unsophisticated man to man. There will soon be +no more chair or desk; the only eminence will be that of one who can +stand with feet on the common level, and still utter over our heads a +regenerating word. We shall learn to address ourselves in an audience, +to utter before millions, as if in joyful soliloquy, the sincerest, +tenderest thought. Speak as if to angels, and you shall speak to angels; +take unhesitating inmost counsel with mankind. The response to every +pure desire is instant and wonderful. Thousands listen to-day for a word +which waits in the air and has never been spoken, a word of courage to +carry forward the purpose of their lives. + +Thought points to unity, and the thinker is impatient of squinting and +side-glances while all eyes should be turned together to the same. +Thought is growing agreement, and that in which the race cannot meet me +is some whim or notion, a personal crotchet, not a cosmic and eternal +truth. Genius is freedom from all oddity, is Catholicity,--and departure +from it so much departure in me from Nature and myself. We say a man is +original, if he lives at first, and not at second hand,--if he requires +a new tombstone,--if he takes law, not from the many or the few, but +from the sky,--if he is no subordinate, but an authority,--if he does +not borrow judgment, but is judgment. Such a man is singular in his +attitude only because we have so fallen from purity. He, not the +fashion, is _comme il faut_. By every word and act he declares that as +he is so all men must shortly be. + +Plato and Swedenborg are trying to speak the same word, but each can +avail only to turn some syllable. They regret this partiality as a +provincial burr, as greenness and narrowness. Genius sees the white +light and regrets its own impurity, though that be piquancy to the +multitude, and marketable as a splendid blue or gold. Manner, in +thought, speech, behavior, is popularity and falsehood; is the limping +of a king deformity, though it set the fashion of limping. The grandest +thoughts are colorless as water; they savor not of Milton, Socrates, or +Menu; seem not drawn from any private cistern, but rain-drops out of the +pure sky. Whim and conceit are tare and tret. It matters little whether +a man whine with Coleridge, or boast with Ben Jonson, or sneer with +Byron, or grumble with Carlyle, if every thought is one-sided and +warped. The oddity relieves our commonplace, and pricks the dull palate; +but we soon tire of exaggeration, and detest the trick. It is egotism, +self-sickness, jaundice, adulteration of the light. We name it the +subjective habit, personality; while the right illumination is a +transparency, a putting-off of shoes, garments, body, and constitution, +lest these should intercept or stain the ray. Genius is an eye single +and serene. Good speech carries the sound of no man's, of no angel's +voice. Good writing betrays no man's hand, but is as if traced by the +finger of God. + +Original will signify, therefore, not peculiar, but universal. The +original is one who lives from the Maker, not from man. He has found and +asserts himself as a piece of primal design: he is somewhat, and his +life therefore significant. He first represents man in purity, man in +God, and is a revelation. No matter what he repeats as approved, he will +not be a repetition, but will give new value to each thing by his +approval. The wisest man in separate propositions repeats only what has +many times been spoken. In my reading of this past week I find +anticipated every item of modern thought. Hooker says of the Bible,--"By +looking in it for that which it is impossible that any book can have, we +lose the benefits which we might reap from its being the best of books." +Milton says,-- + + "He who reads and to his reading brings not + A spirit and judgment equal or superior, + (And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?) + Uncertain and unsettled still remains." + +Coleridge gives perfect confidence to paradox as sure of solution above +the term of it; in his "Table-Talk" he antedates Carlyle's doctrine of +dynamics,--puts Faith above belief, as in another region of the +mind,--declares that the conceivable is not to be revered, and says, +before Emerson, that existence is the Fall of Man. But the failure of +Coleridge teaches that no single perceptions, however subtile or deep, +will solve the broad problem of Nature. These separate thoughts the +great hold in new emphasis and relation. Of such sparks they make a +flame, of such timbers a house or ship. The parts may be old, the whole +is not; and Goethe falls into a modest fallacy, when, in acknowledging +his obligation to others, he disclaims originality for himself. All is +new in his use of it: you may say he has taken nothing, for what was +iron or silver where he found it is gold in his transmuting grasp. + +When a man authentic speaks, our interest goes through every statement +to himself. The root of that word is not in the market or the street, +but in humanity, and through that in the deep. We study Goethe, not any +opinion of Goethe: he represents for us in his measure the nature, need, +and resource of the race, because what he publishes he knows, lives, and +is. We open the mind largely to take the sense of such a gospel: it will +not appear in details of perception. Plato and Goethe see the same sun, +and seem to the vulgar to follow each other; they have more in common +than any man can have in privacy; yet if you enter to the entire habit +of each, you will justify the making of these two. They are like and +unlike, as apples on one and another tree. The great in any time hold in +common the growing truth of their time, and refer to it in intercourse +as understood, an atmosphere which he must breathe who now lives and +thinks; yet no two will be identically related to the same. We are +radiated as spokes from a centre; we enter to it and work for it from +every side. + +There is no danger of repetition, if the thought be deep. Superior +insight will always sufficiently astonish, will always be novel in its +place. The more simple the method, the more wonderful every result. Men +are shut, as if by a wall of adamant, from all that is yet beyond their +sympathy. My neighbor is immersed in planting, building, and the new +road. Beside him, companion only in air and sunshine, walks one who has +no ocular adjustment for these atoms; his thought overleaps them in +starting, and is wholly beyond. The end of vision for a practical eye is +beginning of clairvoyance. To the road-maker, man is a maker of roads; +he cracks his nuts and his jokes unconscious, while the ground opens and +the world heaves with revolutions of thought. Ask him in vain what +Webster means by "Concord, Lexington, and Bunker Hill"; what Channing +sees in the Dignity of Man, or Edwards in the Sweetness of Divine Love; +ask him in vain what is the "Fate" of Aeschylus, the "Compensation" of +Emerson, Carlyle's "Conflux of Eternities," the "Conjunction" of +Swedenborg, the "Newness" of Fox, the "Morning Red" of Behmen, the +"Renunciation" of Goethe, the "Comforter" of Jesus, the "Justification" +of Paul. + +For the dull, this mystery of existence is not even a mystery; they are +shut below the firmament of wonder. When the vulgar come with their +definite gain and good, their circle of immediate ends, we feel the +house contract, the sky descend,--we shrivel, our pores close, the skull +hardens on the brain. The positive, who exactly knows, is a skeleton at +the feast; that exactness is numbness, and chills every expansive guest. +Dogma is a stoppage quite short of the nearest beginning; the liberal +habit a beginning of all that has no end. Sense is a wall very near the +eye, and when that is penetrated all lies open beyond; we see only +paths, seas, and vistas. Wisdom explores and never concludes. The +explanations of centuries are idle tales: my explanations are not so to +be forestalled. We forget the shallow answers to shallow questions, when +now we have deeper genuine questions to ask. The great are happy babes +of Beauty and Good. Truth returns in a fresh suspicion, and all are +welcome who wear on the brows that soft commingled light and shadow of +an advancing, sweet, inexplicable Fate. Our hope is no house, but a +wing; no roof can be endured but the blue one. What method have we yet +to serve the spontaneous or spiritual being? what culture, art, society, +worship, in which his need and power are so much as recognized? There is +indefinable certainty of Nature beyond Nature, man beyond man. Genius +opens all doors, the earth-doors, the sky-doors,--throws down the +horizon and the heaven, to come into open air. All paths lead out to the +sea, where a day's voyage may teach that the receding circle bounds our +sight alone, and not the deep. We look out not on chaos and darkness, +but on order too large for the brain, and light, for which as owls we +have yet no capacious eye. We leave every perception neglected to wait +on the future; but every future has its future devouring the past. What +is left but bending of the knee and boundless confidence? + + * * * * * + +MY BROTHER AND I. + + + From the door where I stand I can see his fair land + Sloping up to a broad sunny height, + The meadows new-shorn, and the green wavy corn, + The buckwheat all blossoming white: + There a gay garden blooms, there are cedars like plumes, + And a rill from the mountain leaps up in a fountain, + And shakes its glad locks in the light. + + He dwells in the hall where the long shadows fall + On the checkered and cool esplanade; + I live in a cottage secluded and small, + By a gnarly old apple-tree's shade: + Side by side in the glen, I and my brother Ben,-- + Just the river between us, with borders as green as + The banks where in childhood we played. + + But now nevermore upon river or shore + He runs or he rows by my side; + For I am still poor, like our father before, + And he, full of riches and pride, + Leads a life of such show, there is no room, you know, + In the very fine carriage he gained by his marriage + For an old-fashioned brother to ride. + + His wife, with her gold, gives him friends, I am told, + With whom she is rather too gay,-- + The senator's son, who is ready to run + For her gloves and her fan, night or day, + And to gallop beside, when she wishes to ride: + Oh, no doubt 'tis an honor to see smile upon her + Such world-famous fellows as they! + + Ah, brother of mine, while you sport, while you dine, + While you drink of your wine like a lord, + You might curse, one would say, and grow jaundiced and gray, + With such guests every day at your board! + But you sleek down your rage like a pard in its cage, + And blink in meek fashion through the bars of your passion, + As husbands like you can afford. + + For still you must think, as you eat, as you drink, + As you hunt with your dogs and your guns, + How your pleasures are bought with the wealth that she brought, + And you were once hunted by duns. + Oh, I envy you not your more fortunate lot: + I've a wife all my own in my own little cot, + And with happiness, which is the only true riches, + The cup of our love overruns. + + We have bright, rosy girls, fair as ever an earl's, + And the wealth of their curls is our gold; + Oh, their lisp and their laugh, they are sweeter by half + Than the wine that you quaff red and old! + We have love-lighted looks, we have work, we have books, + Our boys have grown manly and bold, + And they never shall blush, when their proud cousins brush + From the walls of their college such cobwebs of knowledge + As careless young fingers may hold. + + Keep your pride and your cheer, for we need them not here, + And for me far too dear they would prove, + For gold is but gloss, and possessions are dross, + And gain is all loss, without love. + Yon severing tide is not fordless or wide,-- + The soul's blue abysses our homesteads divide: + Down through the still river they deepen forever, + Like the skies it reflects from above. + + Still my brother thou art, though our lives lie apart, + Path from path, heart from heart, more and more. + Oh, I have not forgot,--oh, remember you not + Our room in the cot by the shore? + And a night soon will come, when the murmur and hum + Of our days shall be dumb evermore, + And again we shall lie side by side, you and I, + Beneath the green cover you helped to lay over + Our honest old father of yore. + + * * * * * + +A HALF-LIFE AND HALF A LIFE. + + "On garde longtemps son premier amant, quand on n'en prend point de + second." + + _Maximes Morales du Duc de la Rochefoucauld._. + + +It is not suffering alone that wears out our lives. We sometimes are in +a state when a sharp pang would be hailed almost as a blessing,--when, +rather than bear any longer this living death of calm stagnation, we +would gladly rush into action, into suffering, to feel again the warmth +of life restored to our blood, to feel it at least coursing through our +veins with something like a living swiftness. + +This death-in-life comes sometimes to the most earnest men, to those +whose life is fullest of energy and excitement It is the reaction, the +weariness which they name Ennui,--foul fiend that eats fastest into the +heart's core, that shakes with surest hand the sands of life, that makes +the deepest wrinkles on the cheeks and deadens most surely the lustre of +the eyes. + +But what are the occasional visits of this life-consumer, this vampire +that sucks out the blood, to his constant, never-failing presence? There +are those who feel within themselves the power of living fullest lives, +of sounding every chord of the full diapason of passion and feeling, yet +who have been so hemmed around, so shut in by adverse and narrowing +circumstances, that never, no, not once in their half-century of years +which stretch from childhood to old age, have they been free to breathe +out, to speak aloud the heart that was in them. Ever the same wasting +indifference to the things that are, the same ill-repressed longing for +the things that might be. Long days of wearisome repetition of duties in +which there is no life, followed by restless nights, when Imagination +seizes the reins in her own hands, and paints the out-blossoming of +those germs of happiness and fulness of being of whose existence within +us we carry about always the aching consciousness. + +And such things I have known from the moment when I first stepped from +babyhood into childhood, from the time when life ceased to be a play and +came to have its duties and its sufferings. Always the haunting sense of +a happiness which I was capable of feeling, faint glimpses of a paradise +of which I was a born denizen,--and always, too, the stern knowledge of +the restraints which held me prisoner, the idle longings of an exile. +But would no strong effort of will, no energy of heart or mind, break +the bonds that held me down,--no steady perseverance of purpose win me a +way out of darkness into light? No, for I was a woman, an ugly woman, +whose girlhood had gone by without affection, and whose womanhood was +passing without love,--a woman, poor and dependent on others for daily +bread, and yet so bound by conventional duties to those around her that +to break from them into independence would be to outrage all the +prejudices of those who made her world. + +I could plan such escape from my daily and yearly narrowing life, could +dream of myself walking steadfast and unshaken through labor to +independence, could picture a life where, if the heart were not fed, at +least the tastes might be satisfied, could strengthen myself through all +the imaginary details of my going-forth from the narrow surroundings +which made my prison-walls; but when the time came to take the first +step, my courage failed. I could not go out into that world which looked +to me so wide and lonely; the necessity for love was too strong for me, +I must dwell among mine own people. There, at least, was the bond of +custom, there was the affection which grows out of habit; but in the +world what hope had I to win love from strangers, with my repellent +looks, awkward movements, and want of personal attractions? + +Few persons know that within one hundred and fifty miles of the Queen +City of the West, bounded on both sides by highly cultivated tracts of +country, looking out westwardly on the very garden of Kentucky, almost +in the range of railroad and telegraph, in the very geographical centre +of our most populous regions, there lie some thousand square miles of +superb woodland, rolling, hill above hill, in the beautiful undulations +which characterize the country bordering on the Ohio, watered by fair +streams which need only the clearing away of the few obstructions +incident to a new country to make them navigable, and yet a country +where the mail passes only once a week, where all communication is by +horse-paths or by the slow course of the flat-boat, where schools are +not known and churches are never seen, where the Methodist itinerant +preacher gives all the religious instruction, and a stray newspaper +furnishes all the political information. Does any one doubt my +statement? Then let him ask a passage up-stream in one of the flat-boats +that supply the primitive necessities of the small farmers who dwell on +the banks of the Big Sandy, in that debatable border-land which lies +between Kentucky and Virginia; or let him, if he have a taste for +adventure, hire his horse at Catlettsburg, at the mouth of the river, +and lose his way among the blind bridle-paths that lead to Louisa and to +Prestonburg. If he stops to ask a night's lodging at one of the +farm-houses that are to be found at the junction of the creeks with the +rivers, log-houses with their primitive out-buildings, their +half-constructed rafts of lumber ready to float down-stream with the +next rise, their 'dug-outs' for the necessities of river-intercourse, +and their rough oxcarts for hauling to and from the mill, he will see +before him such a home as that in which I passed the first twenty years +of my life. + +I had little claim on the farmer with whom I lived. I was the child by a +former marriage of his wife, who had brought me with her into this +wilderness, a puny, ailing creature of four years, and into the three +years that followed was compressed all the happiness I could remember. +The free life in the open air, the nourishing influence of the rich +natural scenery by which I was surrounded, the grand, silent trees with +their luxuriant foliage, the fresh, strong growth of the vegetation, all +seemed to breathe health into my frame, and with health came the +capacity for enjoyment. I was happy in the mere gift of existence, happy +in the fulness of content, with no playmate but the kindly and lovely +mother Earth from whose bosom I drew fulness of life. + +But in my seventh year my mother died, worn out by the endless, +unvarying round of labors which break down the constitutions of our +small farmers' wives. She grew sallow and thin under repeated attacks of +chills and fever, brought into the world, one after another, three puny +infants, only to lay them away from her breast, side by side, under the +sycamore that overshadowed our cornfield, and visibly wasted away, +growing more and more feeble, until, one winter morning, we laid her, +too, at rest by her babies. Before the year was out, my father (so I +called him) was married again. + +My step-mother was a good woman, and meant to do her duty by me. Nay, +she was more than that: she was, as far as her poor light went, a +Christian. She had experienced religion in the great revival of 18--, +which was felt all through Western Kentucky, under the preaching of the +Reverend Peleg Dawson, and when she married my father and went to bury +herself in the wilds of "Up Sandy" was a shining light in the Methodist +church, a class-leader who had had and had told experiences. + +But all that glory was over now; it had flashed its little day: for +there is a glow in the excitement of our religious revivals as potent in +its effect on the imaginations of women and young men as ever were the +fastings and penances which brought the dreams and reveries, the holy +visions and the glorious revealings, of the Catholic votaries. In this +short, triumphant time of spiritual pride lay the whole romance of my +step-mother's life. Perhaps it was well for her soul that she was taken +from the scene of her triumphs and brought again to the hard realities +of life. The self-exaltation, the ungodly pride passed away; but there +was left the earnest, prayerful desire to do her duty in her way and +calling, and the first path of duty which opened to her zeal was that +which led to the care of a motherless child, the saving of an immortal +soul. And in all sincerity and uprightness did she strive to walk in it. +But what woman of five-and-thirty, who has outlived her youth and +womanly tenderness in the loneliness and hardening influences of a +single life, and who marries at last for a shelter in old age, knows the +wants of a little child? Indeed, what but a mother's love has the +long-enduring patience to support the never ceasing calls for +forbearance and perseverance which a child makes upon a grown person? +Those little ones need the nourishment of love and praise, but such milk +for babes can come only from a mother's breast. I got none of it. On the +contrary, my dearly loved independence, my wild-wood life, where Nature +had become to me my nursing-mother, was exchanged for one of never +ceasing supervision. "Little girls must learn to be useful," was the +phrase that greeted my unwilling ears fifty times a day, which pursued +me through my daily round of dish-washings, floor-sweepings, bed-making +and potato-peeling, to overtake me at last in the very moment when I +hoped to reap the reward of my diligence in a free afternoon by the +river-side in the crotch of the water-maple that hung over the stream, +clutching me and fastening me down to the hated square of patchwork, +which bore, in the spots of red that defaced its white purity in +following the line of my stitches, the marks of the wounds that my +awkward hands inflicted on themselves with their tiny weapon. + +And so the years went on. It was a pity that no babies came to soften +our hearts, my step-mother's and mine, and to draw us nearer together as +only the presence of children can. A household without children is +always hard and angular, even when surrounded by all the softening +influences of refinement and education. What was ours with its poverty +and roughness, its every-day cares and its endless discomforts? One day +was like all the rest, and in their wearying succession they rise up in +my memory like ghosts of the past coming to lay their cold, death-like +hands on the feebly kindling hopes of the present. I see myself now, as +I look back, a tall, awkward girl of fifteen, with my long, straggling, +sunburnt hair, my sallow, yet pimply complexion, my small, weak-looking +blue eyes, that every exposure to the sun and wind would redden, and my +long, lean hands and arms, that offended my sense of beauty constantly, +as I dwelt on their hopelessly angular turns. I had one beauty; so my +little paper-framed glass, that rested on the rough rafter that edged +the sloping roof of my garret, told me, whenever I took it down to gaze +in it, which, but for that beauty, would have been but seldom. It was a +finely cut and firmly set mouth and chin. There was, and I felt it, +beauty and character in the curves of the lips, in the rounding of the +chin; there was even a healthy ruddiness in the lips, and something of +delicacy in the even, well-set teeth that showed themselves when they +parted. + +The gazing at these beauties gave me great pleasure, not for any effect +they might ever produce in others,--what did I know of that?--but +because I had in myself a strong love of the beautiful, a passion for +grace of form and brilliancy of color which made doubly distasteful to +me our bare, uncouth walls, with their ugly, straight-backed chairs, and +their frightfully painted yellow or red tables and chests-of-drawers. + +My step-mother's appearance, too, was a constant offence to my +beauty-loving eye,--with her lank, tall figure, round which clung those +narrow skirts of "bit" calico, dingy red or dreary brown,--her feet shod +in the heavy store-shoes which were brought us from Catlettsburg by the +returning flat-boat men,--her sharp-featured face, the forehead and +cheeks covered with brown, mouldy-looking spots, the eyes deep-set, with +a livid, dyspeptic ring around them, and the lips thin and pinched,--the +whole face shaded by the eternal sun-bonnet, which never left her head +from early sunrise till late bedtime (no Sandy woman is ever seen +without her sun-bonnet). All these were perpetual annoyances to me; they +made me discontented without knowing why; they filled me with disgust, a +disgust which my respect for her good qualities could not overcome. + +And then our life, how dreary! The rising in the cold, gray dawn to +prepare the breakfast of corn-dodgers and bacon for my father and his +men,--the spreading the table-cloth, stained with the soil-spots of +yesterday's meal,--the putting upon it the ugly, unmatched +crockery,--the straggling-in of the unwashed, uncombed men in their +coarse working-clothes, redolent of the week's unwholesome toil,--their +washings, combings, and low talk close by my side,--the varied uses to +which our household utensils were put,--the dipping of dirty knives into +the salt and of dirty fingers into the meat-dish,--all filled me then, +and fill me now, with loathing. + +There was a relief when the men left the house; but then came the dreary +"slicking-up," almost more disgusting, in its false, superficial show of +cleanliness, than had been the open carelessness of the workmen. + +But there was no time for rest; my step-mother's sharp, high-pitched +voice was heard calling, "Janet!" and I followed her to the garden to +dig the potatoes from the hills or to the cornfield to pull and husk the +three dozen ears of corn which made our chief dish at dinner. Then came +the week's washing, the apple-peeling, the pork-salting, work varied +only with the varying season, until the blowing of the horn at twelve +brought back the men to dinner, after which came again the clearing up, +again the day's task, and again the supper. + +I often thought that the men around us were always more cheerful and +merry than the women. They worked as hard, they endured as many +hardships, but they had, certainly, more pleasures. There was the +evening lounge by the fire in winter, the sitting on the fence or at the +door-step in summer, when, pipe or cigar in mouth, knife and +whittling-stick in hand, jest and gibe would pass round among them, and +the boisterous laugh would go up, reaching me, as I lay, tired out, on +my little cot, or leaned disconsolate at my garret-window, looking with +longing eyes far out into the darkness of the woods. No such +gatherings-together of the women did I ever see. If one of our neighbors +dragged her weary steps to our kitchen, and sat herself down, baby, in +lap, on the upturned tub or flag-bottomed chair that I dusted off with +my apron, it was to commence the querulous complaint of the last week's +chill or the heavy washing of the day before, the ailing baby or the +troublesome child, all told in the same whining voice. Even the choice +bit of gossip which roused us at rare intervals always had its dark +side, on which these poor women dwelt with a perverse pleasure. + +In short, life was too hard for them; it brought its constant cares +without any alleviating pleasures. Their homes were only places of +monotonous labor,--their husbands so many hard taskmasters, who exacted +from them more than their strength could give,--their children, who +should have been the delight of their mothers' hearts, so many +additional burdens, the bearing and nursing of which broke down their +poor remaining health; the glorious and lavish Nature in which they +lived only brought to them added labor, and shut them out from the few +social enjoyments that they knew of. + +I was old enough to feel all this,--not to reason on it as I can now, +but to rebel against it with all the violence of a vehement nature which +feels its strength only in the injuries it inflicts upon itself in its +useless struggles for freedom. Bitter tears did I shed sometimes, as I +lay with my head on my arms, leaning on that narrow window-sill,--tears +of passionate regret that I was not a boy, a man, that I might, by the +very force of my right arm, hew my way out of that encircling forest +into the world of which I dreamed,--tears, too, that, being as I was, +only an ugly, ignorant girl, I could not be allowed to care only for +myself, and dream away my life in this same forest, which charmed me +while it hemmed me in. My rude, chaotic nature had something of force in +it, strength which I knew would stand me in good stead, could I ever +find an outlet for it; it had also a power of enjoyment, keen, vivid, +could I ever get leave to enjoy. + +At length came the opening, the glimpse of sunlight. I remember, as if +it were but yesterday, that afternoon which first showed to my physical +sight something of that full life of which my imagination had framed a +rude, faint sketch. I was standing at the end of the meadow, just where +the rails had been thrown down for the cows, when, looking up the path +that led through the wood by the river, I saw, almost at my side, a man +on horseback. He stopped, and, half raising his hat, a motion I had +never seen before, said,-- + +"Is this Squire Boarders's place?" + +I pushed back my sun-bonnet, and looked up at him. I see him now as I +saw him then; for my quick, startled glance took in the whole face and +figure, which daguerreotyped themselves upon my memory. A frank, open +face, with well-cut and well-defined features and large hazel eyes, set +off by curling brown hair, was smiling down upon me, and, throwing +himself from his horse, a young man of about five-and-twenty stood +beside me. He had to repeat his question before I gained presence of +mind enough to answer him. + +"Is this Squire Boarders's house, and do you think I could get a night's +lodging here?" + +It was no unusual thing for us to give a night's lodging to the boatmen +from the river, or to the farmers from the back-country, as they passed +to or from Catlettsburg; but what accommodation had we for such a guest +as here presented? I walked before him up the path to the house, and, +shyly pointing to my step-mother, who stood on the porch, said,-- + +"That's Miss Boarders; you can ask her." + +And then, before he had time to answer, I fled in an agony of +bashfulness to my refuge under the water-maple behind the house. I +lingered there as long as I dared,--longer, indeed, than I had any right +to linger, for I heard my mother's voice crying, "Janet!" and I well +knew that there was nobody but myself to mix the corn-cake, spread the +table, or run the dozen errands that would be needed. I slipped in by +the back-door, and, escaping my step-mother's peevish complaints, passed +into the little closet which served us for pantry, and, scooping up the +meal, began diligently to mix it. + +The window by which I stood opened on the porch. My father and his men +had come in, and, tipping their chairs against the wall, or mounted on +the porch-railing, were smoking their cigars, laughing, joking, +talking,--and there in the midst of them sat the stranger, smoking too, +and joining in their talk with an easy earnestness that seemed to win +them at once. Our country-people do not spare their questions. My father +took the lead, the men throwing in a remark now and then. + +"I calculate you have never been in these parts before?" + +"No, never. You have a beautiful country here." + +"The country's well enough, if we could clear off some of them trees +that stop a man every way he turns. Did you come up from Lowiza to-day?" + +"No; I have only ridden from the mouth of Blackberry, I believe you call +it. I have left a boat and crew there, who will be up in the morning." + +"What truck have you got on your boat?" + +"Lumber and so forth, and plenty of tools of one sort or other." + +"Damn me if I don't believe you're the man who is coming up here to open +the coal mines on Burgess's land!" And the whole crowd gathered round +him. + +He laughed good-naturedly. + +"Yes, I am coming to live among you. I hope you'll give me a welcome." + +There was a cheery sound of welcome from the men, but my father shook +his head. + +"We don't like no new-fangled notions, noways, up here, and I'll not say +that I'm glad you're bringing them in; but, at any rate, you're welcome +here to-night." + +The young man held out his hand. + +"We are to be close neighbors, Squire Boarders, and I hope we shall be +good friends; but I ought to tell you all about myself. Mr. Burgess's +land has been bought by a company, who intend to open the coal mines, as +you know, and I am sent up here as their agent, to make ready for the +miners and the workmen. We shall clear away a little, and put up some +rough shanties, to make our men comfortable before we go to work. We +shall bring a new set of people among you, those Scotch and Welsh +miners; but I believe they are a peaceable set, and we'll try to be +friendly with each other." + +The frank speech and the free, open face seemed to mollify my father. + +"And how do you call yourself, stranger, when you are at home?" + +"My name is George Hammond." + +"Well, as I was telling you, you're welcome here to-night, and I don't +know as I've anything against your settling over the river on Burgess's +land. The people round here have been telling me your coming will be a +good thing for us farmers, because you'll bring us a market for our corn +and potatoes; but I don't see no use of raising more corn than we want +for ourselves. We have enough selling to do with our lumber, and you'll +be thinning out the trees.--But there's my old woman's got her supper +ready." + +I listened as I waited on the table. The talk varied from farming to +mining and the state of the river, merging at last into the politics of +the country, and through the whole of it I watched the stranger: noticed +how different was his language from anything I had ever heard before; +marked the clear tones of his voice and the distinctness of his +utterance, contrasting with the heavy, thick gutturals, the running of +words into each other, the slovenly drawl of my father and his men; +watched his manner of eating, his neat disposition of his food on his +plate; saw him move his chair back with a slight expression of +annoyance, unmarked by any one else, as Will Foushee spit on the floor +beside him. All this I observed, in a mood half envious, half sullen,--a +mood which pursued me that night into my little attic, as I peevishly +questioned with myself wherein lay the difference between us. + +"Why is this man any better than Will Foushee or Ned Burgess? He is no +stronger nor better able to do a day's work. Why am I afraid of him, +when I don't care an acorn for the others? Why do my father and the men +listen to him and crowd round him? What makes him stand among them as if +he did not belong to them, even when he talks of what they know better +than he? There is not a man round Sandy that could make me feel as +ashamed as that gentleman did when he spoke to me this afternoon. Is it +because he is a gentleman?" And sullenly I resolved that I would be put +down by no airs. I was as good as he, and would show him to-morrow +morning that I felt so. Then came the bitter acknowledgment, "I am not +as good as he is. I am a stupid, ugly girl, who knows nothing but +hateful housework and a little of the fields and trees; and he,--I +suppose he has been to school, and read plenty of books, and lived among +quality." And I cried myself to sleep before I had made up my mind fully +to acknowledge his superiority. + +It was one of my greatest pleasures to get up early. Our people were not +early risers, except when work pressed upon them, and I often secured my +only leisure hour for the day by stealing down the staircase, out into +the woods, by early sunrise, when, wrapped in an old shawl, and +sheltered from the dew by climbing into the lower branches of my pet +maple, I would watch the fog reaching up the opposite hills, putting +forth as it were an arm, by which, stretched far out over the trees, it +seemed to lift itself from the valley,--or perhaps carrying with me one +of the few books which made my library, I would spell out the sentences +and attempt to extract their meaning. + +They were a strange medley, my books: some belonging to my step-mother, +and others borrowed or begged from the neighbors, or brought to me by +the men, with whom I was a favorite, and who knew my passion for +reading. My mother's books were mostly religious: a life of Brainerd, +the missionary, whose adventures roused within me a gleam of religious +enthusiasm; some sermons of the leading Methodist clergy, which, to her +horror, I pronounced stupid; and a torn copy of the "Imitation of +Christ," a book which she threatened to take from me, because she +believed it had something to do with the Papists, but to which, for that +very reason, I clung with a tenacity and read with an earnestness which +brought at last its own beautiful fruits. Then, there was the "Scottish +Chiefs," a treasure-house of delight to me,--two or three trashy novels, +given me by Tom Salyers, of which my mother knew nothing,--and (the only +poetry I had ever seen) a song-book, which had, scattered among its +vulgarisms and puerilities, some gems of Burns and Moore. These my +natural, unvitiated taste had singled out, and I would croon them over +to myself, set them to a tune of my own composing, and half sing, half +chant them, when at work out-of-doors, till my mother declared I was +going crazy. + +This morning I did not read. I sat looking down into the water from my +perch, carrying on the inward discussion of the night before, and +wishing that breakfast-time were come, that I might try my strength and +show that I was not to be put down by any assumption of superiority, +when suddenly a voice near me made me start so that I almost lost my +balance. Mr. Hammond was standing beneath. He laughed, and held out his +hand to help me down; but I sprang past him and was on my way to the +house, when suddenly my brave resolutions came back to my mind, and I +stood still with a feeling of defiance. I wondered what he would dare to +say. Would he tell me how stupid he thought us all, how like the very +pigs we lived? or would he describe his own grand house and the great +places he had seen? I scowled up sullenly. + +"Will you tell me where to find a towel, that I may wash my face here by +the river-side?" + +I laughed aloud, and with that laugh fled my sullenness. He looked a +little puzzled, but went on,-- + +"I went to bed so early that I cannot sleep any longer; and if I could +only find some way of getting across the river, I could get things under +way a little before my men come up." + +There were ways, then, in which I could help him,--he was not so +immeasurably above me,--and down went my defiant spirit. The towel, a +crash roller, luckily clean, was brought at once, and, gathering courage +as I stood by and saw him finish his washing, I said,-- + +"I can scull you over the river in a few minutes, if you will go in our +skiff." + +"You? can you manage that shell of a thing? will your father let you +take it, Miss Boarders?" + +"My name is Janet Rainsford, and Squire Boarders is not my father," said +I, some of my sullenness returning. + +"If you will take me, Janet," said he, with the frank, open-hearted tone +which had won my step-father the night before,--a tone before which my +sullenness melted. + +I jumped in, and, letting him pass me before I threw off the rope, +sculled the little dug-out into the middle of the river. No boatman on +the Sandy was more skilful than I in the management of the little +vessel, for in it most of my leisure time had been passed for the last +year or two. My step-mother had scolded, my father grumbled, and the +farmers' wives and daughters had shaken their heads and "allowed that +Janet Rainsford would come to no good, if she was let fool about here +and there, like a boy." But on that point I was incorrigible; the boat +was my one escape from my daily drudgery, and late at night and early in +the morning I went up and down among the shoals and bars, under the +trees and over the ripples, till every turn of the current was familiar +to me. I knew all the boatmen, too, up and down the river, would pull +along-side their rafts or pushing-boats, and get from them a slice of +their corn-bread or a cup of coffee, or at least a pleasant word or +jest. And none but pleasant words did I ever receive from the rough, but +honorable men whom I met. They respected, as the roughest men will +always do, my lonely girlhood, and felt a sort of pride in the daring, +adventurous spirit that I showed. + +My knowledge of the river stood Mr. Hammond in good stead that morning, +as soon as I understood that he was looking for a place where his men +could land easily. It was only to sweep round a small bluff that jutted +into the river, and carry the skiff into the mouth of Nat's Creek, +where the bank sloped gradually down to the water from a level bit of +meadow-land that extended back some rods before the hills began to rise. +Mr. Hammond leaped out. + +"The very place,--and here, on this point, shall be my saw-mill. I'll +run the road through here and up the creek to the mining-ground, and +build my store under the ledge there, and my shanties on each side the +road." + +I caught his enthusiasm, and, my shyness all gone, I found myself +listening and suggesting; more than that, I found my suggestions +attended to. I knew the river well; I knew what points of land would be +overflowed in the June rise; I knew how far the backwater would reach up +the creek; I knew the least obstructed paths through the woods; I could +even tell where the most available timber was to be found. I felt, too, +that my knowledge was appreciated. George Hammond had that one best gift +that belongs to all successful leaders, whether of armies, colonies, or +bands of miners: he recognized merit when he saw it. From that morning a +feeling of self-respect dawned upon me, I was not so altogether ignorant +as I had thought myself, I had some available knowledge; and with that +feeling came the determination to raise myself out of that slough of +despond into which I had fallen the night before. + +From that time a sort of friendship sprang up between George Hammond and +myself. Every morning I rowed him across the river, and, in the early +morning light, before the workmen were out of bed, he talked over, +partly to himself and partly to me, his plans for the day and his +vexations of the day before, until I began to offer advice and make +suggestions, which made him laughingly call me his little counsellor. + +Then in the evenings (he slept at my father's) he would pick up my books +and amuse himself with talking to me about them, laugh at my crude +enthusiasms, clear up some difficult passage, prune away remorselessly +the trash that had crept into my little collection, until, one day, +returning from Cincinnati, where business had called him, he brought +with him a store of books inexhaustible to my inexperienced eyes, and +declared himself my teacher for the winter. + +"Never mind Janet's knitting and mending, Mrs. Boarders," said he, in +reply to my mother's complaints; "she is a smart girl, and may be a +school-mistress yet, and earn more money than any woman on Sandy." + +"But I am afraid," my step-mother answered, "that the books she reads +are not godly, and have no grace in them. They look to me like players' +trash. I've tried to do my duty to Janet," she continued, plaintively; +"but I hope the Lord won't hold me accountable for her headstrong ways." + +Meantime, as I read in one of my books, and repeated to myself over and +over again in my fulness of content,-- + + "How happily the days + Of Thalaba went by!" + +How rapidly fled that winter, and how soon came the spring, that would +bring me, I thought, new hopes, new interests, new companions! + +How changed a scene did I look upon, that bright April morning, when I +went over the river to see that all was in readiness for the boats from +below which were to bring Esther Hammond to her new home! She was to +keep her brother's house; and furniture, books, and pictures, such as I +had never dreamed of, had been sent up by the last-returning boatmen, +all of which I had helped Mr. Hammond to arrange in the little two-story +cottage which stood on the first rise of the hill behind the store. + +A little plat of ground was hedged in with young Osage-orange shrubs, +and within it one of the miners, who had formerly been an under-gardener +in a great house in Scotland, had already prepared some flower-beds and +sodded carefully the little lawn, laying down the walks with +bright-colored tan, which contrasted pleasantly with the lively green +of the grass. From the gate one might look up and down the road, +bordered on one side by the trees that hung over the river, and on the +other by the miners' houses, one-story cottages, each with its small +inclosure, and showing every degree of cultivation, from the neat +vegetable-patch and whitewashed porch of the Scotch families to the +neglected waste ground and slovenly potato-patch of the Irishmen. There +were some Sandians among the hands, but they never could be made to take +one of the houses prepared for the miners. They lived back on the +creeks, generally on their own lands, raised their corn and tobacco, cut +their lumber, and hunted or rode the country, taking jobs only when they +felt so inclined, but showing themselves fully able to compete with the +best hands both in skill and in endurance, when they were willing to +work. + +On the side of the hill across the creek could be seen the entrance to +the mines, and down that hill were passing constantly the cars, loaded +with earth and stone taken from the tunnel, which fell with a thundering +sound into the valley beneath. Below me was the store, gay with its +multifarious goods, which supplied all the needs of the miners and their +wives, from the garden-tools and seeds for the afternoon-work to the +gay-colored dresses for the Sunday leisure,--where, too, on Saturday +night, whiskey was to be had in exchange for the scrip in which their +wages were paid, and where, sometimes, the noise waxed fast and furious, +till Mr. Hammond would cut off the supply of liquor, as the readiest +means of stilling the tumult. + +On this side the river all was changed. But as I looked that morning +across the stream towards my step-father's farm, my own home, everything +there lay as wild and unimproved as I had known it since the first day +my mother brought me there, comfortless and disorderly as it was when, +child as I was, I could remember the tears of fatigue and discouragement +which she dropped upon my face as she put me for the first time into my +little crib; but there, too, were still (and my heart exulted as I saw +them) the glorious water-maples, the giant sycamores, and the +bright-colored chestnut-trees, which I had known and loved so long. +Would Miss Hammond see how beautiful they were? would she praise them as +her brother had done? would she listen as kindly to my rhapsodies about +them? and would she say, as he had said, that I was a poet by nature, +with a poet's quick appreciation of beauty and the poet's gift of +enthusiastic expression? I could not tell whether Esther Hammond would +be to me the friend her brother had been, with the added blessing, that, +being a woman, I could go freely to her with my deficiencies in sure +dependence upon her aid and sympathy,--or if she would come to stand +between me and him, to take away from me my friend and teacher. Time +alone would show; and meanwhile I must be busy with my preparations, for +the boats were expected at noon, and Mr. Hammond, who had ridden down to +Louisa to meet them, had said that he depended upon me to have things +cheerful and in order when they arrived. + +Two hours' hard work saw everything in its place, the furniture arranged +to the best of my ability, but wanting, as I sorely felt, the touch of a +mistress's hand to give it a home-like look. I had done my best, but +what did I know of the arrangement of a lady's house? I hardly knew the +use of half the things I touched. But I _would_ not let my old spirit of +discontent creep over me now; so, betaking myself to the woods, which +were full of the loveliest spring flowers, I brought back such a +profusion of violets, spring-beauties, and white bloodroot-blossoms, +that the whole room was brightened with their beauty, while their faint, +delicate perfume filled the air. + +"Surely these must please her," I said to myself, as I put the last +saucerful on the table, and stepped back to see the result of my work. + +"They certainly will, Janet," said George Hammond, who had entered +behind me. "How well you have worked, and how pleasant everything +looks! Esther will be so much obliged to you. She is just below, in the +boat. Will you not come with me and help her up the bank?" + +But I hung back, bashful and frightened, while he called some of the men +to his assistance, and, hurrying down to the river, landed the boat, and +was presently seen walking toward the house with a lady leaning upon his +arm. I saw her from the window. A tall, dignified woman, with a +face--yes, beautiful, certainly, for there were the regular features, +the dark eyes, with their straight brows, the heavy, dark hair, parted +over the fair, smooth forehead, but so quiet, so cold, so almost +haughty, that my heart stood still with an undefined alarm. + +She came in and sat down in one of the chairs without taking the least +notice of me. Mr. Hammond spoke,-- + +"This is Janet Rainsford, my little friend that I told you of, Esther. I +hope you will be as good friends as we have been. She will show you +every beautiful place around the country, and make you acquainted with +the people, too." + +Miss Hammond looked at me with a steadiness of gaze under which my eyes +sank. + +"I shall not trouble the young person much, since I shall only walk when +you can go with me; and as for the people, it is not necessary for me to +know them, I suppose." + +George Hammond bit his lip. + +"Janet has taken great pains to put everything in order for us here. I +should hardly know the room, it is so improved since I left it this +morning." + +"She is very kind," said his sister, languidly; "but, George, how +horribly this furniture is arranged,--the sofa across the window, the +centre-table in the corner!" + +"Oh, you will have plenty of time to arrange it, Esther. Come, let me +show you your own room; you will want to rest while your Dutch +girl--what's her name? Catrine?--gets us something to eat." + +Miss Hammond followed her brother to her room, while, mortified and +angry with her, with myself, I escaped from the house, jumped into my +skiff, and hardly stopped to breathe till I had reached my own little +garret. I flung myself on my bed, and burst into bitter tears of +resentment and despair. So, after all my pains, after my endeavors to +improve myself, after all I had done, I was not worth the notice of a +real lady. I supposed I was an uncouth, awkward girl, disagreeable +enough to her; she would not want to see me near her. All I had done was +miserable; it would have been better to let things alone. I never would +go near her again,--that was certain,--she should not be troubled by +me;--and my tears fell hot and fast upon my pillow. Then came my old +sullenness. Why was she any better than I? Her brother thought me worth +talking to; could she not find me worthy of at least a kind look? +Perhaps she knew more than I did of books; but what of that? She had not +half the useful knowledge wherewith to make her way here in the woods. +And what right had she to bring her haughty looks and proud ways here +among our people? My sullenness gave way before my bitter disappointment +and my offended pride. I was only a child of sixteen, sensitive and +distrustful of myself, and her cold looks and colder words had keenly +wounded me. + +A week passed, in which I gave myself most earnestly to the household +tasks, going through them with dogged pertinacity, and accomplishing an +amount of work which made my step-mother declare that Janet was coming +back to her senses after all. It was only my effort to forget my +disappointment. + +On the Saturday evening when I sat tired out with my exertions, Mr. +Hammond came up the path. How my heart leaped at seeing him! How good he +was to come! His sister had not taught him to despise me. But when he +asked me to come over, the next day, and see what he had done to his +house and garden, the demon of sullen pride took possession of me again. +I would not go. I had too much to do; my mother would want me to get +the dinner. In short, I could not go. He bore it good-naturedly, though +I think he understood it, and, leaving with me a package of books which +he had promised me, said he must go, as Esther would be waiting tea for +him. + +Many another endeavor did George Hammond make to bring his sister and +myself together, but the first impression had been too strong for me, +and Miss Hammond made no effort to remove it. I do not believe it ever +crossed her mind to try to do so. Little was it to her whether or no she +made herself pleasant to a stupid, ugly girl. She had her books, her +light household cares, her letter-writing, her gardening, her walks and +drives with her brother, and she felt and showed little interest in +anything else. Very unpopular she was among the people around her, who +contrasted her cold reserve with her brother's frank cordiality; but she +troubled herself not at all about her unpopularity. For me, I kept shyly +out of her way, and fell back into my old habits. + +I had not lost my friend, Mr. Hammond. He did not read with me regularly +as before, but he kept me supplied with books, and the very infrequency +of his lessons stimulated me to redoubled effort, that I might surprise +him by my progress when we met again. Then there was scarcely a day that +some business did not take him past our house, or that I did not meet +him by the river-bank or at the store. Sometimes he would ask me to row +him down the stream on some errand, sometimes he would take me with him +in his rides. I was a fearless horsewoman, and Miss Hammond did not +ride. In all those meetings he was frank and kind as ever; he told me of +his plans, his annoyances, his projects. No, I had not lost my friend, +as I had feared, and when assured of this, I could do without Miss +Hammond. + +And so the weeks glided into months, and the months into years, and I +was nineteen years old. Four years had passed since the morning when +George Hammond first awakened my self-esteem, first gave me the impulse +to raise myself out of my awkwardness and ignorance, to make of myself +something better than one of the worn, depressed, dispirited women I saw +around me. Had I done anything for myself? I asked. I was not educated, +I had no acquirements, so-called; but I had read, and read well, some +good and famous books, and I knew that I had made their contents my own. +I was richer for their beauties and excellences. With my self-respect +had come, too, a desire to improve my surroundings, and, as far as they +lay under my control, they had been improved. Our household was more +orderly; some little attempt at neatness and decoration was to be seen +around and in the house, and my own room, where I had full sway, was +beautiful in its rustic adornment. + +My glass, too, the poor little three-cornered, paper-framed companion of +my girlhood, showed me some change. The complexion had cleared, the hair +had taken a decided brown, and the angular figure had rounded and +filled. It was hardly a week since, standing in Miss Hammond's kitchen +counting over with her servant-girl the basketful of fresh eggs which +were sent from our house every week, I had overheard Mr. Hammond say to +his sister,-- + +"Really, Janet Rainsford has improved so much that she is almost pretty. +Her brown hair tones so well with her quiet eyes; and as to her mouth, +it is really lovely, so finely cut, and with so much character in it." + +What was it to me that Miss Hammond's cold voice answered,-- + +"I think you make a fool of yourself, George, and of that girl too, +going on as you do about her. She will be entirely unfitted for her +state of life, and for the people she must live with." + +Her words had hardly time to chill my heart when it bounded again, as I +turned hurriedly away and passed under the window on my way out, at +hearing her brother's answer:-- + +"There is too much in her to be spoiled. I like her. She has talent and +character, and I cannot understand, Esther, why you are so prejudiced +against her." + +There were others besides Mr. Hammond who thought me improved and who +liked me. Tom Salyers never let an evening pass without dropping into +our house on his way home from the store, where he was a sort of +overseer or salesman,--never failed to bring in its season the earliest +wild-flower or the freshest fruit,--had thoroughly searched Catlettsburg +for books to please me,--nay, had once sent an indefinite order to a +Cincinnati bookseller to put up twenty dollars' worth of the best books +for a lady, which order was filled by a collection of the Annuals of six +years back and a few unsalable modern novels. I read them all most +conscientiously and gratefully, and would not listen for a moment to Mr. +Hammond's jests about them; but, a few weeks afterwards, I almost +repented of my complaisance, when Tom Salyers took me at an advantage +while rowing me down to Louisa one afternoon, and, seeing a long stretch +of river before him without shoal or sand-bar, leisurely laid up his +oars, and, letting the boat float with the stream, asked me, abruptly, +to marry him, and go with him up into the country to a new place which +he meant to clear and farm. + +I laughed at him at first, but he persisted till I was forced to believe +him in earnest; and then I told him how foolish he was to fancy an ugly, +sallow-looking girl like me, who had no father nor mother, when he might +take one of John Mills's rosy daughters, or go down to Catlettsburg and +get somebody whose father would give him a farm already cleared. + +"You are laughing at me, Janet," he said. "I know I am not smart enough +for you, nor hardly fit to keep company with you, now that Hammond has +taught you so many things that are proper for a lady to know; but I love +you true, and if you can only fancy me, I'll work so hard that you'll be +able to keep a hired girl and have all your time for reading and going +about the woods as you like to do. And you'll be in your own house, +instead of under Squire Boarders and his sharp-spoken wife. Couldn't you +fancy me after a while? I'd do anything you said to make myself +agreeable and fit company for you." + +"You are very fit company for me now, Tom," I said, "and you are of a +great deal more use in the world than I am; you know more that is worth +knowing than I do. Only let us be good friends, as we have always been, +and do not talk about anything else." + +"I will not talk any more of it now," said he, "if so be it don't please +you, and if you'll promise never to say any more to me about the Mills +gals, or any of them critters down in Catlettsburg,--I can't abide the +sight of them,--and if you'll let me come and see you all the same, and +row you about and take you to the mill when you want flour." + +I held out my hand to Tom with the earnest assurance that I always liked +to see him and talk to him, and that there was nobody whom I would +sooner ask to do me a kindness. + +The poor fellow choked a little as he thanked me, and then, recovering +himself, rowed a few strokes in silence, when, looking round as if to +assure himself that there was nothing near us but the quiet trees, he +said suddenly,-- + +"I'll tell you what, Janet, I've a great mind to tell you something, +seeing how you're not a woman that can't hold her tongue, and then you +think so much of Hammond." + +I started with a quick sense of alarm, but Tom went doggedly on. + +"You know what a hard winter we've had, with this low water and no +January rise, and all that ice in the Ohio. They say they're starving +for coal down in Cincinnati, and here we've no end of it stacked up. +Well, Hammond, he's had hard work enough to keep the men along through +the winter. Many another man would have turned them off, but he wouldn't +do it; so he's shinned here and shinned there to get money to pay them +their wages, and they've had scrip, and we've fairly brought goods up to +the store overland, on horseback and every kind of way, just for their +convenience; and now the damned Irish rascals, with some of the Sandy +boys for leaders, have made up their minds to strike for higher wages +the minute we have a rise, just when we'll need all hands to get the +coal off, and all those boats laying at the mouth, too. I heard it day +before yesterday, by chance like, when Jim Foushee and the two O'Learys +were sitting smoking on the fence behind the store. The O'Learys were +tight with the Redeye they had aboard, and let it out in their stupid +'colloguing,' as they call it; but Jim Foushee saw me standing at the +window, and right away called in two or three of the Sandy men and +threatened my life if I told Hammond. They have watched me like a cat +ever since, and never left me and Hammond alone together. They are with +Hammond now, launching a coal-boat, or I'd never have got off with you." + +I sat breathless. I knew it was ruin to let the expected rise pass +without getting the coal-boats down; but what could be done? + +"Don't look so pale, Janet. You can tell Hammond, you know, and he'll +find a way to circumvent them. And it was to tell you all this that I +brought you out here this afternoon, only my unlucky tongue would talk +of what I see it's too soon to talk of yet. But here's Louisa, right +ahead. Make haste and get your traps, while I settle my business, and +we'll be back, perhaps, in time for you to manage some way to see +Hammond to-night. Nobody knows you went with me, and you'll never be +suspected." + +Not Tom Salyers's most rapid and vigorous rowing could make our little +skiff keep pace with my impatience; but, thanks to his efforts, the sun +was still high when he landed me in the little cove behind our house, +where I could run up through the woods to our back-door, while he pulled +boldly up to the store-landing and called some of the men to help him +carry his purchases up the bank. I did not stop for a word with my +step-mother, but, passing rapidly through the house, threw my parcels on +the bed in the sitting-room, and, running down the walk to the +maple-tree under which my dug-out was always tied, jumped into it and +sculled out into the river. The coal-boat had just been launched, and +George Hammond was standing on the bank superintending the calking of +the seams which the water made visible. I pushed up to the bank, and +called to him as I neared,-- + +"Can you not come, Mr. Hammond, a little way up-stream with me? I have +found those young tulip-trees that you want for your garden; they are +just round the bend above Nat's Creek. Jim Foushee will see to that +work, and I have just time to show them to you before supper." + +I was a favorite with Jim Foushee. He laughed a joking welcome to me, as +he said,-- + +"I'll see to this, Sir, if you want to go with Janet Rainsford. She's +the gal that knows the woods. A splendid Sandy wife you'll make some +young fellow, Janet, if you don't get too book-learned." + +In five minutes we were off and had rounded the point out of sight and +hearing. In a few hurried words I told my story, but at first Mr. +Hammond would not believe it. + +"Those men that I've done so much for and worked so hard for this +winter!" + +At last, convinced, his face set with the determined look that I had +seen on it once or twice before. + +"I'll not raise the wages of a single man, and, what's more, I'd turn +them all off the place, if only I could find others. But those boats at +Catlettsburg, they are the most important. The Company would send me up +men from Cincinnati, if only I could get word to them; but these rascals +will stop any letter I send. Those Sandians are capable of it,--or +rather they are capable of putting the Irishmen up to doing their dirty +work for them." + +"A letter would be safe, if it once reached Catlettsburg?" I asked. + +"Certainly. But how to get it there?" + +"I can take it. Nobody will suspect me. Give me the letter to-night, and +I will go to-morrow." + +"You, Janet? you are crazy!" + +"No, indeed. I often ride to Louisa; what is to hinder me from having +errands to Catlettsburg. I could go down there in one day, and take two +days back, if my father thinks it is too much for old Bill to take it +through in one." + +"Oh, you could borrow Swiftfoot. I have often lent him to you, and he +would carry you safely and surely. I don't believe any harm would come +to you, and so much depends upon it." + +I turned the skiff decidedly. + +"You have only to get your letter ready and give it to me when I come +over in the morning to borrow Swiftfoot. I will take care of all the +rest." + +And, sculling rapidly, we were at the wharf again before he had time to +raise objections. I knew that I could persuade my mother into letting me +go to Louisa again the next day, for we needed all our spring +purchases,--and once there, it was easy to find it necessary to go to +the mouth. I had never been alone, but often with my father or some of +our hands; besides, I was too well able to take care of myself, too +accustomed to have my own way, to anticipate any anxiety about my not +returning. + +And so it proved. The next morning saw me mounted on Swiftfoot, the +letter safe in my bosom, and a long list of articles wanted in my +pocket. What a lovely ride that was, with the gentle, spirited horse of +which I was so fond for a companion and my own beautiful forests in all +their loveliest spring green around me, with just enough of mystery and +danger in the expedition to add an exhilarating excitement and with the +happy consciousness that I was doing something for Mr. Hammond, who had +done so much for me, to urge me on! I cantered merrily past Jim +Foushee's cornfield, and, nodding to him, as be stood in the door of his +log-house, I enjoyed telling him that I was going to Louisa on a +shopping expedition. "Should I get anything for him? He could see that +Mr. Hammond had lent me Swiftfoot, so that I should soon be back, if I +could buy all I wanted in Louisa; if not, I did believe I should go on +to Catlettsburg: the ride would be so glorious!" + +And glorious it was. I was happy in myself, happy in my thoughts of my +friend, happy in the physical enjoyment of the air, the woods, the sun, +the shade. Let me dwell on that ride. I have not had many happy days, +but that was one which had its fulness of content. And I succeeded in +putting Mr. Hammond's letter into the Catlettsburg post-office, made my +little purchases, and turned my horse's head homeward, reaching the end +of my journey before my father or step-mother had time to be anxious for +me, and having a chance to whisper, "All right," to Tom Salyers, as he +took my horse from me at the door of the store. + +The long-expected rise came, and the strike came,--Jim Foushee heading +it, and standing sullen and determined in the midst of his party. Mr. +Hammond was prepared for them. The malcontents came to him in the store, +where he was filling Tom's place; for he had sent Tom to Catlettsburg, +avowedly to prepare the boats there to meet the rise, really to have him +out of the way. Their first word was met coolly enough. + +"You will not work another stroke, unless I give you higher wages, I +understand, Foushee? And these men say the same thing? You are their +spokesman? Very well, I am satisfied; you can quit work to-morrow. I +have other hands at the mouth for the boats there, and there is no hurry +about the coal that lies here." + +Foushee burst out with an oath,-- + +"That damned Salyers is the traitor! mean, cowardly rascal!" + +But Mr. Hammond would not tell me more of what passed; perhaps he was +afraid of frightening me. This only he told me that night, when thanking +me with glance, voice, and pressure of the hand for all I had done for +him. The blood rushed quick and hot through my veins, I was delirious +with an undreamed-of happiness, which took away from me all power of +answering, of even raising my eyes to his face, and the same delirium +followed me to my pillow. He had called me his friend, his little Janet, +who was so quick and ready, so fertile in invention, so brave in +execution: what should he have done without me? I repeated his words to +myself till they lost all their meaning; they were only replete with +blissful content, and filled me with their music till I dropped asleep +for very weariness in saying them over. + +The next morning, before I waked, George Hammond had gone. He had left +for Catlettsburg to direct the new hands. The works lay idle, the men +(those who had been dismissed) lounged around gloomy and sullen, and so +passed the week. Then came the news that Mr. Hammond and Tom Salyers had +gone to Cincinnati, and would not return for the present, and that such +men as were satisfied with the former wages were to be put to work +again. Readily did the miners come back to their duty, all but a few of +the Sandy men, who returned to their own homes, and all fell into the +usual train. + +And I? There was first the calm sense of happy security, then the +impatience to test again its reality, then the longing homesickness of +the heart. As weeks passed on and I saw nothing of him, as I heard of +his protracted stay, as I saw Miss Hammond make her preparations to join +him, as I watched the boat which carried her away, my sense of +loneliness became too heavy for me, and the same pillow on which I had +known those happy slumbers was wet with tears of bitter despondency. + +And yet I understood neither the happiness nor the tears. I did not know +(how should I?) what were the new feelings which made my heart beat at +George Hammond's name. I did not know why I yearned towards his sister +with a warmth of love that would fain show itself in kindly word or +deed. I did not know why the news that he was coming again, which +greeted me after long weeks of weariness, brightened with joyful +radiance everything that I saw, and glorified the aspect of my little +garret, as I had seen a brilliant bunch of flowers glorify and refine +with a light of beauty the every-day ugliness of our sitting-room. + +I sang my merriest songs that night, and my feet kept time to their +music in almost dancing measures. The next day, yes, by noon, he would +be at home. I could see his boat land from my little window, and then, +giving Miss Hammond time to be safely housed, I would row myself over to +the store and meet him there. How much I should have to tell him, how +much to hear! + +The morning came, and with it came a nervous bashfulness. I should never +dare to go over to see him. No, I would wait quietly until night, when +he would surely come himself to see me. Still I could watch his boat. +And nervously did I stand, my face pressed against the window-pane, +through the long morning hours, my sewing dropped neglected in my lap at +the risk of a scolding from my mother, watching the slow-passing river, +and the leaves hanging motionless over it in the stillness of the summer +noon. At last there was a stir on the opposite shore. Yes, the boat must +be in sight; I could even hear the shouts of the boatmen; and there, +rounding the bluff, she was; there, too, was Mr. Hammond in the stern, +with the rudder in his hand; there sat Miss Hammond, book in hand, with +her usual look of listless disdain. But whose was that girlish face +raised towards Mr. Hammond, while he pointed out so eagerly the +surrounding objects? whose that slight, girlish figure crowned with the +light garden-hat, with its wealth of golden hair escaping from under it? + +A sharp pang shot through me. Some one was coming to disturb my happy +hours with my teacher and friend; and the chill of disappointment was on +me already. I saw the boat land, saw George Hammond assist carefully +every step of the strange girl, saw an elderly gentleman step also upon +the bank and give his hand to Miss Hammond, and in two minutes the trees +of the landing hid them from my sight. + +And how slowly went the hours of that afternoon! how nervously I +listened to every tread, to every click of the gate! nay, my sharpened +hearing took note of every sway of the branches. But the day passed, the +night, and no one came. The next morning brought with it an impatience +which mastered me. I _must_ go, I must see him, and in five minutes I +was pushing my boat from its cove under the water-maple. + +But I needed not to have left my room; my visit would be useless; for, +lifting my eyes, as my boat came out from under the leaves, there, on +the path by the river-side opposite, I saw the strange lady mounted on +Swiftfoot, her light figure set off by a cloth riding-habit such as I +had never seen before, the graceful folds of which struck me even then +with a sense of beauty and fitness. I could even distinguish the golden +curls again, which fell close on George Hammond's face, as he stood by +her side arranging her stirrup, his own horse's bridle over his arm. A +backward motion of the oar sent my boat under the branches again, and I +sat motionless, watching them as they rode away. + +Two hours afterward they stopped at our gate, and I heard George +Hammond's voice calling me. The blood rushed to my forehead. Had I been +alone, I would not have heard; but my mother was in the room, and I had +no excuse for not going forward. He leaned from his horse and shook +hands cordially, while, at the same time, he said,-- + +"I have brought Miss Worthington to see you, Janet. She has heard so +much of your kindness to me, and of your courage last spring, that she +was anxious to know you. + +"This is Janet Rainsford, Amy," he continued, turning to her. + +The lovely, bright young face was bent towards me, the tiny hand +stretched out to mine, and I heard a gentle voice say,-- + +"Mr. Hammond has told me so much of you, Janet, (I may call you Janet, +may I not?) that I was determined to come and see you. I hope we shall +know each other." + +A great fear seized me then,--a fear which seemed to clutch my heart and +stop its beatings, leaving me without any power of reply. I only +stammered a few words, and Mr. Hammond, pitying what he thought my +bashfulness, rode on with a nod of farewell and some words, I could not +take in their sense, which seemed to be requests that I would teach Miss +Worthington all that I knew of the woods and the country. + +I sat down with a stunned feeling, dizzied with the knowledge that +seemed to blaze upon me with that horrid fear. Yes, I knew now what it +all meant,--the happiness, the loneliness of the past weeks, the +shrinking bashfulness of yesterday morning, and the chill that fell upon +me when I first saw the stranger in the boat. + +I loved George Hammond,--I, the country-girl, without one beauty, one +accomplishment, so ignorant, so beneath him. I had been fool enough to +fling away my heart,--and now, now that it was gone from me, there came +this terrible fear. What was this young girl to him? Were my intuitions +right? Did he love her? Would she take him away from me? take away even +that poor friendship which was all I asked? + +That night,--I cannot tell of it,--the rapid, wearying walk from side to +side of my little garret, the despairing flinging myself on the bed, the +restlessness that would bring me to my feet again, the pressing my hot +face against the cool window-pane, the convulsive sobs with which the +struggle ended, the heavy, unrefreshing sleep that came at last, and the +dull wakening in the morning, when nothing seemed left about my heart +but a dead weight of insensibility. But with the brightening hours came +again the restlessness. I would at least know the worst; let me face all +my wretchedness; it could not be but strength would come to me when the +worst was over. + +And so I went doggedly through my morning tasks, and the early afternoon +saw me at the store. I would not go to Miss Hammond's house, but I was +sure to hear something of the new-comers among the gossiping miners and +workmen,--or, if not there, I had only to drop into some of the +cottages, to learn from their wives all that they knew or imagined. How +little I learned,--how little compared to what my fierce, craving heart +asked! + +"Miss Worthington was here with her father; they had come to see the +mines, so they said; but who knows the truth? More like it was to be a +wedding between the young folks, and the father wanted to see the Sandy +country before he let his daughter come into it. She was a sweet-spoken +young thing,--not like Miss Hammond, with her proud, quality airs." + +But all this was only conjecture, and I must have certainty. The +certainty came that evening. Mr. Hammond passed the store as I was +standing by the counter, and insisted that I should go home to tea with +him. I had often done so before, and had no excuse, even when he said,-- + +"I want so much to make Miss Worthington like our Sandy people, Janet. I +want her father to see that there are people worth knowing even here. +You will tell her of all the pleasures we have,--our walks, our rides. +You cannot be afraid of her, dear Janet,--she is so gentle, so lovely." + +A strange feeling seized me, one mingled of gentleness and bitterness. +Yes, for his sake, I would help him. I would do all I could to welcome +to his home her who was to be its blessing, and (here my good angel left +me and some evil one whispered) I would show her, too, that I was not so +altogether to be contemned; she should see that I was not merely the +poor country-girl she thought me. And all I had of thought or feeling, +all that George Hammond had called my inborn poetry, came out that +evening. I talked, I talked well, for I was talking of what I +understood,--of my own forests and streams, of the flowers whose haunts +I knew so well, of the changing seasons in their varying beauty,--nay, +as I gained courage, as I saw that I commanded attention, the books that +I had read so well, the thoughts of those great writers that I had made +my own, came to my aid, and quotation and allusion pressed readily to my +lips. + +I saw Esther Hammond's cold look fixed upon my face, but I dared it back +again, and my color rose and my eye sparkled from the excitement. I felt +my triumph when I saw the surprise on Mr. Hammond's face, when I heard +the patronizing tone of Mr. Worthington's voice changed to one of +equality, as he said,-- + +"You are a worthy champion of Sandy life, Miss Janet. I believe Amy will +be tempted to try it." + +There was a quick blush on Amy's face as I turned to look at it, and a +glance of proud affection towards her from George Hammond, which took +away my false strength as I stood, leaving me, weak and trembling, to +seek my home in the evening twilight. + +That evening's short-lived triumph cost me dear. It betrayed my scarcely +self-acknowledged secret to another. Miss Hammond's woman's-eye had read +the poor fool who laid her heart open before her. I was made to feel my +weakness before her the next morning, when, walking into our kitchen, +she asked, with her hard, yet dignified calmness, that I should gather +for her some of the Summer Sweetings that hung so thick on the tree +behind our house. + +She followed me to the orchard. I gathered the apples diligently and +spoke no word, but not for that did I escape. She stood calmly looking +on till I had finished, then began with that terrible opening from which +we all shrink. + +"I should like to speak to you a few moments, Janet." + +I quailed before her, for I had somehow a perception of what she was +going to say, though I scarcely dreamed of the hardness with which it +would by said. The blow came, however. + +"My brother has been in the habit of taking notice of you ever since he +has been on the Sandy, and he has been of great advantage to you; but +you must be aware that such notice as he gave you when you were a mere +child cannot be continued now that you are a woman." + +I bowed my head, and my lips formed something like a "Yes." + +She went on. + +"I say this to you because I was surprised to find by your behavior last +night that you had allowed yourself to presume upon that notice, and I +do not suppose you know how unbecoming this is, from a person in your +position, especially before Miss Worthington." + +I was stung into a reply. + +"What is Miss Worthington to me?" came out sullenly from my lips. + +"Nothing to you, certainly, nor can she ever be; but as the future wife +of my brother, she is something to me." + +It was true, then; but so fully had I felt the truth before that this +certainty gave me no added pang. From its very depths of despair I drew +strength, and, my courage rising, I had power even to look full at Miss +Hammond, and say,-- + +"You may be sure I shall never intrude myself on Mr. Hammond's wife or +sister, nor upon him, unless he desires it, except, indeed, to wish him +happiness." + +My unexpected calmness roused her worst feelings, her pride, her +jealousy, and, with a woman's keen aim, she sent the next dart home. So +calmly she spoke, too, with such command of herself,--with a lady-like +self-control that I, alas! knew not how to reach. + +"I am happy to hear you say so, for there have been times when your +singular manner has made me fear that you nourished some very false and +idle dreams,--follies that I have sometimes thought it my duty as a +woman to warn you against"; and with one keen look at my burning face, +she took up the basket and walked away. + +I think at that moment I could have killed her, so bitter was the hatred +which I felt towards her; but the next brought its crushing shame, +taking away from me all but the desire to hide myself from every eye. +Where should I go? Somewhere where nobody could find me, where I could +be insured perfect solitude. It was not difficult to bury myself in the +forest that pressed around me on every side, and a few minutes saw me +struggling with the embarrassments of the tangled vines which obstructed +the path up our steepest hill. There was in the very difficulties to be +overcome something that seemed to bring me relief; they forced my mind +from myself. On, on I went, as if my life depended upon my struggles, +till, breathless and utterly exhausted, I had reached the top of the +hill, the highest point for miles around. + +I sank down on the cool grass, the fresh wind blowing on my face, and, +too wearied to think, shut my eyes against the beautiful Nature around +me, alive only to my own overpowering misery. How long I lay there I +never knew. I was safe and alone. I could be wretched as I pleased, away +from Miss Hammond's mocking eye, away from the sight of George Hammond's +happiness. But, strangely enough, out of the very freedom to be +miserable came at last a sense of relief. I looked my wretchedness full +in the face. Could I not bear it? And there rose within me a strength I +had not known before. I was young, I had a long life before me; it could +not be but that this great sorrow would pass away. At least, I would not +nourish it. I would do what I could to help myself. Help _myself_! For +the first time in my life I put up an earnest prayer for help out of +myself. The words, coming as such words come but few times in life, out +from the very depths of the heart, brought with them their softening +influence. The tears sprung forth, those tears which I thought I should +never shed again, and I burst into a passionate fit of crying, the +passionate crying of a child. It shook me from head to foot with its +hysterical convulsions, but it left me at last calmer, soothed into +stillness, with only now and then those choking after-sobs which I, +child like, sent forth there on the bosom of the only mother I had ever +known,--our kindly mother Earth. + +The sun was going down when I rose up, soothed and comforted, and +strengthened, too, for a time. I would do what I could. I would live +down this grief: how I knew not, but the way would come to me. And +gathering up my hair, which had fallen around me, I stopped, on my way +home, by a running stream, and bathed my eyes and forehead until I was +fit to appear before my step-mother. She did not question me; she was +too used to my unexplained absences since I had grown out of her +control. Sufficient for her that my tasks were always performed; +sufficient for her, that, that very evening, I threw myself with an +apparently untiring energy into the household work,--that I never rested +a moment till she herself closed the house and insisted that I should go +to bed. I slept that night,--after such fatigue, it was impossible but +that I should,--and woke in the morning with a renewed determination to +struggle against my sorrow. + +Alas! alas! I thought I had only to resolve. I thought the struggle +would be but once. How little I knew of the daily, almost hourly, +changes of feeling,--of the despondency, the despair, that would come, I +knew not why, directly upon my most earnest resolves, my hardest +struggles,--of the weakness that would make me at times give up all +struggling as useless,--of the mad hope that would sometimes arise that +something, some outward change, I did not dare to say what, would bring +me some relief! + +I had at least the courage to keep away from the sight of all that was +so miserable to me. I did not see George Hammond for weeks, and he--ah! +there was the bitterness--he did not miss me. + +And so the weary days went on. It is wonderful what endurance there is +in a young heart,--for how long a time it can beat off suffering all day +by unceasing labor, and lie awake all night with that same suffering for +a bedfellow, and still make no sign that a careless eye can see I look +at that time now with wonder. How did I bear that constant occupation by +day, alternated only with those sleepless nights, without breaking down +entirely? The crisis came at last,--a sort of stupor, a cessation of +suffering indeed, but a cessation, too, of all feeling. I was frightened +at myself. Alas! I had no one to be frightened for me. Could it be that +I was going to lose my senses? But no, I passed through that too, and +then came a more natural state of mind than any I had known since the +blow fell. + +My suffering self seemed like something apart from me, which I could +pity and help, could counsel and act for, and this one thing became +clear to me. Some change of scene was necessary to me. I could never go +on so; it was idle to attempt it. I could not live any longer face to +face with my grief. There was the whole world before me. Was it not +possible to go out into it? I had health, strength, ability, I was sure +of it. How often before had I dreamed over the seeking my fortune in +that world which looked to me then so full of excitement! Nothing had +held me back then but the clinging to home-pleasures, to +home-enjoyments, to home-comforts, poor as they were,--nothing but the +sense of safety, of protection. What were these to me now? I cared +nothing for them. I only asked to be away from all that reminded me of +my suffering, to be so forced to struggle with external difficulties as +to have no thought for myself. I did not want to love anybody; I would +rather have nobody care for me. I would go. The only question was how. + +A few days and nights of thought solved the problem for me, and, once +roused to action, I took my steps rapidly and well. The first thing +necessary was money, money enough to take me away, and to support me +until I could find employment; and the means of attaining it were +within my reach. I owned a watch that had been my mother's, a pretty +trinket, though somewhat old-fashioned, and which had often excited the +envy of the young wife of one of the head miners. I knew that her +husband was flush of money just then, for he had drawn his wages only +the week before,--and I knew, too, that he would give me a good price +for my watch, were it only to gratify the bride to whom he had as yet +denied nothing. + +The sale was made at once. I do not know if I got anything like the +value of the watch, but the next day saw me with fifty dollars in my +pocket, a small bundle, made up from the most available part of my +wardrobe, under my arm, prepared to walk to Louisa, avowedly to buy +supplies, but with the secret determination to meet there the coal-boats +which were bound for the mouth, ask a passage on them as far as +Catlettsburg, and there take the first steamer that passed, and let it +carry me whither it would. + +There was no pause of regret, no delay for parting looks or words; from +the moment that I had made up my mind to go, I felt nothing but a +desperate eagerness to be away, to be in action. The few words necessary +to prepare my step-mother for my ostensible errand were soon said, the +good-morning calmly spoken, and I passed into the forest-path leading to +the town. A pang smote me as I remembered her conscientious discharge of +duty toward me for so many years; but it was duty, not love, that had +urged her, and while I said that to myself, I said, too, that time would +bring to me the opportunity of repaying her. + +Toward the settlement on the opposite shore I turned no look. I would +not trust myself; I knew my own weakness too well; this desperate energy +which was carrying me on now would fail, if I allowed my heart one +moment's indulgence. Steadily I walked on through the woods, my own +woods, which, perhaps, I should never see again, till, wearied out by +the exertion, which had precluded thought, I saw the houses of Louisa +rise before me. + +The boats lay at the fork above the town. I had informed myself of their +movements, and knew they were to start at noon. A few inquiries for +groceries and so forth, where I know they could not be gotten, gave me +an excuse for the proposition to the captain of the boats to give me a +passage to Catlettsburg. It was readily granted, and the crew, most of +them Sandy men, put up a rough awning, and, spreading under it some +blankets, did their kind uttermost to make me comfortable. + +I remember now, as one looks back into a dream, the afternoon and night +that passed before we reached Catlettsburg. I lay perfectly quiet, +watching the shadowy trees as we glided past them, noting their varied +reflections in the water, marking every peculiarity of shore and stream, +hearing the jests and laughter, the words of command and the oaths, that +went round among the boatmen; but all passed as something with which I +had nothing to do. To me there was the burning desire to put a great +distance between myself and my home,--but with it, too, the +consciousness, that, as I could do nothing to expedite our slow +progress, so neither could I afford to waste upon it in impatient +restlessness the strength which would be so much needed afterwards. The +men brought me a cup of coffee from their supper, which gave me strength +for the night. The biscuit I could not taste. + +But how long was that night! how tedious the summer dawn! and how slowly +went the hours till we brought up our boats at the landing at +Catlettsburg! + +I had formed my plans; so, telling the captain that I might perhaps want +to go back with him, I hurried into the town. A steamboat lay by the +wharf-boat. "The Bostona, for Cincinnati," said the board displayed over +her upper railing. She was to leave at eight o'clock. I walked about the +town till half-past seven; then, returning to the coal-boats, gave to +the man left in charge a letter I had prepared, in which I told my +step-mother, in as few words as possible, that I wanted to see something +of the world, and had determined to go for a time either to Cincinnati +or to Pittsburg,--that I begged her not to be uneasy about me, I had +sold my watch, and had money enough for the present; she should hear +from me in due time. The man took the letter, with some remark on my not +returning with them, and, with a quiet good-day, I left him and walked +rapidly toward the steamer. The plank was laid from the wharf-boat, and, +without daring to hesitate, I walked over it. + +It was done. I was fairly separated from everything I had ever known +before; everything now was new to me; I was ignorant of all around me; +each step might be a mistake. I felt this, when a porter, stepping +forward and taking my bundle, asked me if I would have a state-room. +What was a state-room? I did not know, but saying, "Yes," with a +desperate feeling that it might as well be "yes" as "no," I was led back +to the ladies' cabin, a key was turned in one of an infinite number of +little doors, and I was ushered into what looked to me like a closet, +with shelves made to take the place of beds. Here at least I was alone, +and here I could be alone till dinner-time; till then there was no call +for action on my part. + +And how precious seemed to me every hour of rest! Singularly enough, my +great sorrow did not come back to me in those pauses of action. I seemed +then to be entirely absorbed in gathering strength for the next +occasion; my grief was put away for the future, when there would come to +me the time to indulge it. + +So I lay quiet during that morning, looking sometimes through my little +window at the passing shore, listening sometimes to the loud talking in +the cabin, sometimes to the noises on the boat, wondering if all those +strange creakings and shakings could be right, but finding a sense of +security in my very ignorance. Dinner came, and in the course of it I +found courage to ask the captain, at whose right hand I was placed, what +time we should reach Cincinnati. "Not till after breakfast," was his +welcome answer; for I had been haunted by a dread of being set adrift in +a great city in the middle of the night, when I might perhaps fall into +some den of thieves. I had read of such things in my books. This gave me +still the afternoon before it would be necessary to think, some hours +more in which to rest mind and body. + +The night came at last, and I must decide what step to take next, that, +my mind made up, I might perhaps get some sleep. I turned restlessly in +my narrow bed, got up, and stood at the window, tried first the upper +shelf, and then the lower, but no possible plan presented itself. I +still saw before me that terrible city where I should be ten times +lonelier than in the midst of our forests, where I should make mistakes +at every turn, where I should not know one face out of the many +thousands that crowded upon my nervous fancy. I seemed to be afraid of +nothing but human beings, and, at the thought of encountering them, my +woman's heart gave way. In vain I reasoned with myself, "I shall not see +all Cincinnati at once,--not more at one time, perhaps, than I saw +to-day at dinner." Still came up those endless streets, all filled with +strange faces; still I saw myself pushed, jostled, by a succession of +men and women who cared nothing for me. Suddenly came the thought, "Tom +Salyers is in Cincinnati. There is one person there that I know. If I +could only find him, he would take care of me till I knew how to take +care of myself." + +There came no remembrance of our last conversation to check my eager +joy. Indeed, it had never made much impression upon me, followed as it +had been by so much of nearer interest. I set myself to reflect on the +means of finding him. He had gone down in the employ of the coal +company. The captain could tell me where to look for him, and, satisfied +with that, I laid my weary head on my pillow. + +The next morning at breakfast I gained the needed information. "Did I +want to find one of the men in Mr. Hammond's employment? I must go to +the coal-yard"; and the direction was written out for me. + +And now we neared the city. I stood on the guards and looked wondering +at the steamboats that lined the river-bank, at the long rows of houses +that stretched before me, the tall chimneys vomiting smoke which +obscured the surrounding hills, at the crowd of men and drays on the +landing through which I was to make my way; but my courage rose with the +occasion, and, stepping resolutely from the plank, I walked up the hill +and stood among the warehouses. I had been told to "turn to the right +and take the first street, I could not miss my way"; but somehow I did +miss my way again and again, and wandered weary and bewildered, not +daring at first to ask for directions, till, gathering strength from my +very weariness, I at last saw before me the welcome sign. It was +something like home to see it; the familiar names cheered me while they +moved me. I entered the office trembling with a wild dread lest I should +meet Mr. Hammond there, but the sight of a stranger's face at the desk +gave me courage to ask for Tom Salyers. + +"He is in the yard now. Here, Jim, tell Salyers there's a person"--he +hesitated--"a lady wants to see him." + +I sat down in a chair which was luckily near me, for my knees trembled +so that I could not stand, and as the door opened and Tom's familiar +face was before me, my whole composure gave way and I burst into a +violent fit of crying. + +"Janet! is it you? For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" + +But I could only sob in answer. + +"Has anything happened up Sandy? Did you come for me?" + +The poor fellow leaned over me, his face pale with surprise and +agitation. + +"Take me out of here," was all I could muster composure enough to say. + +He opened the door, and I escaped into the open air. We walked side by +side through the streets, he silently respecting my agitation with a +delicacy for which I had not given him credit, and I struggling to grow +calm. At last he opened a little side-gate. + +"Come in here, Janet; we shall be quiet here." + +And I entered a sort of garden: the grounds belonging to the city +waterworks I have since known them to be. We sat down on a bench that +overlooked the Kentucky hills. I love the seat now. I think the sight of +the familiar fields and trees calmed me, and I was able at last to +answer Tom's anxious questions. + +"It is nothing; indeed, it is nothing. I am a foolish coward, and I was +frightened walking through the city, and then the sight of a home-face +upset me." + +"But, Janet, why are you here? Is anything wrong about the works, the +men? Did Mr. Hammond send you down?" + +"No, indeed, no! it was only a fancy of mine to see the world. I am +tired of that lonely life, and you know I am not needed there. My mother +can get along without me, and I am only a burden to my father." + +"Not needed? Why, Janet, what will the Sandy country be without you?" + +My eyes filled up with tears again. + +"Don't ask me any more questions, dear Tom; only help me for a little +while, till I can help myself. I want to earn my living somehow, but I +have money enough to live upon till I can find something to do. Only +find me a place to stay quietly in while I am looking for work. You are +the only person I know in this great city; and who will help me, if you +do not?" + +"You know I will help you with my whole heart and soul, Janet," he said, +his voice faltering. + +I looked up, and in one moment rushed back upon me the remembrance of +his words that day in the boat, and I stood aghast at the new trouble +that seemed to rise before me. My voice must have changed as I said,-- + +"I only want you to find me a place to live in; I can take care of +myself"; for his countenance fell, and he sat silent for some moments. + +At last he spoke:-- + +"I know I cannot do much, Janet, but what I can I will. And, first, I +will take you to the house of a widow-woman who has a room to let; one +of our men wanted me to take it, but it was too far from my work. I went +to see the place, though, and it is quiet and respectable; the woman +looks kind, too. Would you walk slowly down the street, while I go to +the office and get my coat?"--he was in his working-dress,--"and then +I'll join you." + +I got up, feeling that I had chilled him in some way, and reproaching +myself for it. When he rejoined me, we walked silently on, till, after +many a turning, we found ourselves in a narrow, quiet street, before a +small house, with a tiny yard in front. I do not know how the matter was +arranged; he did it all for me. There was the introducing me to a +motherly-looking person, as a friend of his from the country; the going +up a narrow staircase to look at a small room of which all that could be +said was that it was neat and clean; the bargaining for my board, in +which I was obliged to answer "Yes" and "No" as I could best follow his +lead; and then Tom left me with a shake of the hand, and the advice that +I should lie down and rest after my tedious journey; he would see me +again in the evening. + +The quiet dinner with my landlady, the afternoon rest, the fresh toilet, +the sort of home-feeling that my room already gave me, all did their +part towards bringing back my usual composure before Tom came in the +evening; and then, sitting by the window in the little parlor, I could +talk rationally of my plans for the future. + +I had money enough for twelve weeks' board, even if I reserved ten +dollars for other expenses. Surely, in that time I could find something +to do. And as to what I should do, I had thought that all over before I +left home. I might find some sewing, or tend in a store, or, +perhaps,--did he think I could?--I might keep school. + +Tom would not hear of my sewing. He knew poor girls that worked their +lives out at that. I might tend in a store, if I pleased, but still he +did not believe I would like to be tied to one place for twelve hours in +the day. Why shouldn't I keep school? he was sure I knew enough, I was +so smart, and had read so many books. + +I shook my head. I did not believe the books I had read were the kind +that school-mistresses studied. Still, I could learn, and certainly I +might begin by teaching little children. But where was I to begin? + +"If only we knew some gentleman, Janet, some city-man, who knew what to +do about such things." + +Suddenly a thought struck me. + +"Tom, do you remember those gentlemen who came up to look at the coal +mines when they were first opened? One of them stayed at our house two +nights, and saw my books, and talked to me about them. Mr. Kendall was +his name." + +"That's the very man; and a kind-hearted gentleman he seemed, not stuck +up or proud. I'll find him out for you, Janet, to-morrow; but there's no +need of your hurrying yourself about going to work. You must see the +city and the sights." + +And Tom grew enthusiastic in describing to me all that was to be seen in +this wonderful place. + +Tom had altered, had improved in appearance and manners, since he had +known something of city-life. I could not tell wherein the change lay, +but I felt it. He told me of himself,--of his rising to be head-man, a +sort of overseer, in the coal-yard,--of his good wages,--of some +investments that he had made which had brought him in good returns. + +"So you see, Janet, that, even if you were not so rich yourself, I have +plenty of money at your service." + +I thanked him most heartily, and roused myself to show some interest in +all that concerned him. + +So passed the rest of the week,--quiet days with my landlady, or in my +room, where I busied myself in putting my wardrobe into better shape +under the direction of Mrs. Barnum, and quiet walks and talks in the +evening with Tom Salyers. It was evident that he was not satisfied with +my alleged motives for leaving home, but I so steadily avoided all +conversation on this point that he learned to respect my silence. On +Sunday he told me he had found out who Mr. Kendall was. + +"One of the stockholders of the Company, and a good man, they say. I'll +go to him to-morrow, if you say so, Janet, and ask him anything you want +to know." + +"No, Tom, I shall go myself. It is my business, and I must not let you +do so much for me. If you will go with me, though,"--I added. + +And so the next morning saw us at Mr. Kendall's counting-room. It was +before business-hours: we had cared for that. We found Mr. Kendall +sitting leisurely over his papers, his feet up and his spectacles pushed +back. I had been nervous enough during the walk, but a glance at his +face reassured me. It was a good, a fatherly face, full of _bonhommie_, +but showing, withal, a spice of business-shrewdness. I left Tom standing +at the counting-room door, and, taking my fate in my own hands, walked +forward and made myself known. + +"Oh, yes! the little girl that Hammond thought so much of, that he talks +about so often when he is down here. He thinks a school or two would +bring the Sandy people out, and holds you up as an example; but, for my +part, I think you are an exception. There are not many of them that one +could do much with." + +I turned quickly. + +"This is Tom Salyers, Sir, head-workman, overseer, at your coal-yard, +and he is a Sandy man." + +Mr. Kendall laughed. + +"I see I must not say anything against the Sandy country; nor need I +just now. Walk in, Mr. Salyers. So, Miss Janet, you have come down to +seek your fortune, earn your living, you say. I suppose Hammond sent you +to me. Did you bring me a letter from him?" + +I hesitated. + +"No, Sir. Mr. Hammond was so much occupied when I came away that I had +not seen him for a day or two. He has friends staying with him." + +"True enough. Mr. Worthington has gone up there with his pretty daughter +to see whether he can allow her to bury herself in the country. You saw +Miss Worthington? Will she be popular among your people when she is Mrs. +Hammond?" + +I caught a glimpse of Tom's face, and felt myself turning pale as I +answered, with a composure that did not seem to come from my own +strength,-- + +"Miss Worthington is a very pleasant-spoken young lady. The people will +like her, because she seems to care for them, just as Mr. Hammond does. +But do you think, Sir, that you could put me in the way of teaching +school? Could I learn how to do it?" + +"Well, I am just the right person to come to, Miss Janet, for the people +have put me on the School Board, and--yes, we shall want some teachers +next month in two of the primary departments. Could you wait a month? +You might be studying up for your examination; it's not much, but it'll +not hurt you to go over their arithmetics and grammars. And I must write +to Hammond to-day about some business of the Company. I'll ask him about +your qualifications, and what he thinks of it, and we'll see what can be +done. I should not wonder if I could get you a place." + +Mr. Kendall shook hands with us both; and, bidding him good-morning, +with many thanks for his kindness, we went out. We walked a square +silently. Suddenly Tom turned to me:-- + +"You did not tell me, Janet, of this young lady." + +"No." + +"And is Mr. Hammond going to marry her?" + +The blood rushed to my face, till it was crimson to the very hair, while +I stammered,-- + +"I do not know,--you heard Mr. Kendall." + +Tom's voice was as gentle as a mother's in answer, but his words had +little to do with the subject, they were almost as incoherent as +mine,--something about his hoping I would like living in Cincinnati, +that teaching would not be too tiresome for me. But from that moment +George Hammond's name was never mentioned between us. + +I wrote that day to my step-mother, telling her of my plans and +prospects, and that evening Tom brought me the needed school-books. He +had found them by asking some of the men at the yard whose children went +to the public schools, and to the study of them I sat down with a +determination that no slight difficulty could subdue. The next week +brought a long, kind letter from Mr. Hammond, scolding me for going as I +did, and declaring that he missed me every day. + +"But more than all shall I miss you, Janet, when I bring Miss +Worthington back as my wife; I had depended so upon you as a companion +for her. But still it is a good thing for you to see something of the +world, and you are bright enough to do anything you set out to do. I +have written to Mr. Kendall to do all he can for you, and with Tom to +take care of you I am sure you will get along. I begin to suspect that +your going away was a thing contrived between Tom and yourself. Who +knows how soon he may bring you back among us to show the Sandy farmers' +wives how to live more comfortably than some of them do? Tom has a very +pretty place below the mouth of Blackberry, if you would only show him +how to take care of it." + +There was comfort in this letter, in spite of the tears it caused me. My +secret was safe. Miss Hammond had not been so cruel, so traitorous to +her sex, as to betray it. If she had not told it now, she never would +tell it, and Tom, if he suspected it, was too good, too noble, to +whisper it even to himself. So I laid away my letter, and with a lighter +heart turned again to my tasks. + +And now three months have passed, for two of which I have been teaching. +There are difficulties, yes, and there is hard work; but I can manage +the children. I have the tact, the character, the gift, that nameless +something which gives one person control over others; and for the +studies, they are as yet a pleasure to me. I see how they will lead me +on to other knowledge, how I may bring into form and make available my +desultory reading, and there is a great pleasure in the very study +itself. And for the rest, if my great grief is never out of my mind, if +it is always present to me, at least I can put it back, behind my daily +occupations and interests. I begin, too, to see dimly that there are +other things in life for a woman to whom the light of life is denied. My +heart will always be lonely; but how much there is to live for in my +mind, my tastes, my love for the beautiful! My little room has taken +another aspect. I have so few wants that I can readily devote part of my +earnings to gratifying myself with books, pictures. Such lovely prints +as I find in the print-shops! and the flowers--Tom Salyers, who is as +kind as a brother, brings me them from the market. And then everything +is so new to me; there is so much in life to see, to know. No, I will +not be unhappy; happy I suppose I can never be, but I have strength and +courage, and a will to rise above this sorrow which once crushed me to +the ground. When I wrote the bitter words with which this record begins, +I wronged the kind hearts that are around me, I lacked faith in that +world wherein I have found help and comfort. + + * * * * * + +ON THE RELATION OF ART TO NATURE. + +IN TWO PARTS. + +PART I. + + +The notion that Painting and Sculpture are concerned only with the +"imitation of Nature,"--that is, with copying the forms and colors of +existing things,--though so often expelled, as it were, with a +pitchfork, persistently recurs, not only in popular talk, but in +deliberate criticism, and in the practice of artists. There are periods +when this notion gets the upperhand, as at the end of the fifteenth +century, and again at the end of the eighteenth, when Rousseau +prescribed a return to Nature as the panacea for all defect, in Art as +elsewhere. Then Winckelmann and his successors triumphed over it for a +while,--showed at least the crudity of that statement. This is the +purpose of much of Sir Joshua Reynolds's lectures. Now it seems to be +coming up again,--thanks partly to Mr. Ruskin, though he might be quoted +on both sides,--and this time with some prospect of demonstrating, by +the aid of photography, what it does in fact amount to. + +It is a very general opinion that photography has made painting +superfluous,--or, at least, that it will do so as soon as further +improvements in the process shall enable it to render color as well as +light and shade. And our artists seem to give in to this view, in the +deference they show to the subject, as if it mattered not so much what +it was, or how, as that it is _there_,--a pious tenderness towards barns +and rail-fences and stone walls and the confused monotony of the forest, +not as having any special fitness, not as beautiful, but because they +exist,--a scrupulous anxiety to give the every-day look of the objects +they portray, as any passer-by would see them, free from any distorting +personality. To do them justice, however, this submissiveness to the +matter-of-fact, with the more gifted at least, is a virtue that is +praised and starves. They do it lip-service, and suppose themselves +loyal; but when they come to paint, they are under a spell that does not +allow them to see in things only material qualities, but, without any +violence to Nature, raises it to a higher plane, where other values and +other connections prevail. Art, where it exists to any serious purpose, +follows Nature, but not the natural,--according to Raphael's maxim, that +"the artist's aim is to make things not as Nature makes them, but as she +intends them." + +But these audacities, though they make their own excuse in the work +itself, do not pass in a statement without cavil at the arrogance that +would exalt the work of men's hands above the work of God. Shall we +strive with our pigments to outshine the sun, or teach the secrets of +form to the cunning Artificer by whom the world was made? What room for +Art, except as the feeble reflex of the splendors of the actual world? + +But if that be all, how to account for the existence of Art as distinct +from upholstery? Why pile our mole-hills by the side of the mountains? +We can see the landscape itself any day;--whence this extraordinary +interest in seeing a bit of it painted,--except, indeed, as furniture +for the drawing-room, to be ordered with the frame at so much the yard +from the picture-dealer? + +The root of the difficulty lies in this slippery phrase, Nature. We talk +of the facts of Nature, meaning the existence now and here of the hills, +sky, trees, etc., as if these were fixed quantities,--as if a house or a +tree must be the same at all times and to everybody. But in a child's +drawing we see that these things are not the same to us and to him. He +is careful to give the doors and windows, the chimneys with their smoke, +the lines of the fence, and the walk in front; he insists on the +divisions of the bricks and the window-panes: but for what is +characteristic and essential he has no eye. He gives what the house is +to him, merely _a house_ in general, any house; it would not help it, +but only make the defect more prominent, to straighten and complete the +lines. An artist, with fewer and more careless lines, would give more of +what we see in it; and if he be a man of high power, he may teach us in +turn the limitation of our seeing, by showing that the vague, +half-defined sentiment that attaches to it has also a visible +expression, if we knew where to look for it. + +We hear people say they know nothing of Art, but that they can judge as +well as anybody whether a picture is like Nature or not. No doubt +Giotto's contemporaries thought so, too, and they were grown men, with +senses as good as ours; but we smile when Boccaccio says, "There was +nothing in Nature that Giotto could not depict, whether with the pencil, +the pen, or the brush, so like that it seemed not merely like, but the +thing itself." We smile superior, but Giotto had as keen an eye and as +ready a hand as any man since. The lesson is, that we, too, have not +come to the end of even the most familiar objects, but that to another +age our view of them may seem as queer as his seems to us. For the facts +in Nature are not fixed, but transcendental quantities, and their value +depends on the use that is made of them. It is in this direction that +the artist's genius avails; his skill in execution is secondary and +incidental. The measure of his ability is the depth to which he has +penetrated the world of matter, not the number or the accuracy of his +facts. Every landscape wears many faces, as many as there are men and +different moods of the same man. To one the forest is so many cords of +wood; to another, an arboretum; to another, a workshop or a museum; to +another, a poem. What each sees is there; the forest exists for beauty +and for firewood, and lends itself indifferently to either use. + +Nature wears this air of impartiality, because her figures are only +zeros, deriving all their significance from their position. We do not +require a like impartiality in the artist, because what he is to give is +not Nature, but what Nature inspires. His endeavor to be impartial would +result only in giving us his opinions or the opinions of others, instead +of the utterance of the oracle. For Nature hides her secret, not by +silence, but in a Babel of sweet voices, heard by each according to the +fineness of his sense: by one as mere noise, by another as a jangle of +pleasing sounds, by the artist as harmony. They are all of them Nature's +voices;--he adds nothing and omits nothing, but hears with a preoccupied +attention, the justification being that his hearing is thus most +complete, as one who understands a language seizes the sense of words +rapidly spoken better than he who from less acquaintance with it strives +to follow all the sounds. + +The test of "truth," therefore, in the sense of fact, is insufficient. +The question is, Truth for whom? Not for a child or a savage. If we were +to show a fine landscape to a Hottentot, it would be a mistake to say he +saw it, though the image might be demonstrable on the retina of his eye. +He would not see what we mean when we speak of it, any more than we +should see the footstep on the ground or hear the stirring in the grass +that is plain enough to him, and hits our organs, too, though we are not +trained to perceive it. If the test of merit be the production of a +likeness to something we see, then the artist should know no more of +Nature than we do. But then, though it may surprise us into momentary +admiration to recognize familiar things in this translation,--just as +common talk sounds finer in a foreign tongue,--yet it is but for a time, +and then the inevitable limitations of the counterfeit come in,--its +narrowness and fixity,--crude paint for sunbeams, cold and colorless +stone for the living form. The only test of a work of Art is, how far it +will carry us,--not any comparison by the yardstick. We demand to be +raised above our habitual point of view, and be made aware of a deeper +interest than we knew of. It is in hope of this alone that we pardon the +necessary shortcoming of the means. + +This deeper interest has its root in nothing arbitrary, or personal to +the artist. It is not inventing something finer than Nature, but seeing +more truly what Nature shows, that makes the artistic faculty. This is +the lesson taught by the history of Art. Take it up where you will, this +history is nothing but the successive unfolding of a truer conception of +Nature, only speaking here the language of form and color, instead of +words. It is this that lies at the bottom of all its revolutions, and +appears in its downfall as well as in its prosperity. + +Where the human form is the theme, the aim must of course be to give its +typical perfection. No naturalist describes the defects of his +specimens, though it may happen that all are imperfect. Comparatively +few persons ever saw our robin in the plumage in which it is always +described. Only in early spring, not very commonly then, is the black of +the head and tail seen pure. But no one hesitates to call this the true +color. The sculptor does not reproduce the peculiarities of his model, +but aims to give ideal form as the most natural form of man. + +But in Painting, and especially in Landscape, it seems less easy to fix +upon any ideal, not only from the multifariousness of the details, but, +above all, from the elusiveness of the standard. We might agree upon an +ideal of human beauty, but hardly upon the ideal of anything else. The +sophist in the Hippias Major was prepared to define the beauty of a +maiden, or of a mare; but he was confounded when it was required that +the beauty of a pipkin should be deducible from the same principle, and +yet worse when it was shown to involve that a wooden spoon was more +beautiful than a gold one. + +What you see in the woods and mountains depends on what you go for and +what you carry with you. We may go to them as to a quarry or a +wood-pile, or for pleasantness,--the cool spring and the plane-tree +shade, as the ancients did,--or to see fine trees, waterfalls, +mountains. To many persons the beauty of any scene is measured by its +abundance in such _specimens_ of streams, mountains, waterfalls, etc. Of +course the connection is demonstrable enough: one collocation of +features is more readily suggestive of beauty than another. We expect to +find the scenery of a hill-country more attractive than a sand-desert. +But comparing a landscape with a statue, or even Painting generally with +Sculpture, the connection between a happy effect and any definite +arrangement of lines is much looser, and depends on the combination +rather than the ingredients. It is in every one's experience that an +accidental light, or even an accidental susceptibility, will impart to +the meagrest landscape--a bare marsh, a scraggy hill-pasture--a charm of +which the separate features, or the whole, at another time, give no +hint. Often mere bareness, openness, absence of objects, will arouse a +deeper feeling than the most famous scenes. We learn from such +experiences that the difference between one patch of earth and another +is wholly superficial, and indicates not so much anything in it as a +greater or less dulness in us. The celebrated panoramas and points of +view are not the favorite haunts of great painters. They do not need to +travel far for their subjects. Mr. Ruskin tells us that Turner did not +paint the high Alps, nor the _cumulus_, the grandest form of cloud. +Calame gives us the nooks and lanes, the rocks and hills, of +Switzerland, rather than the high peaks; Lambinet, an apple-orchard, a +row of pollard-elms, or a weedy pond,--not cataracts or forests. This is +not affectation or timidity, but an instinct that the famous scenes are +no breaks in the order of Nature,--that what is seen in them is visible +elsewhere as well, only not so obvious, and that the office of Art is +not to parrot what is already distinct, but to reveal it where it is +obscure. This makes the inspiration of the artist; this is the source of +all his power, and alone distinguishes him from the topographer and +view-maker. + +This transcendentalism is more evident in Painting, as the later and +more developed form; but it is common to all Art, and may be read also +in the Greek sculptures. The experience of every one who with some +practice of eye comes for the first time to see the best antiques is not +that he falls at once to admiring the perfection of their anatomy, and +wondering at the symmetry and complete development of the men and women +of those days, but rather that he is carried away from all comparison +and criticism into a solitude from which returning he discovers that his +previous acquaintance with Sculpture was with masks only, and that the +meaning of plastic art as a capital interest of the human mind is now +for the first time made known to him. He sees that it was no whim of the +Greeks, but an instinct of the infinity it typifies, that made them take +the human form as alone possessing beauty enough to stand by itself. Not +the images of their deities alone, but all their statues were gods. The +charm of the Lizard-Slayer of Praxiteles, or of those immortal riders +that swept along the friezes of the Parthenon, is something quite +distinct from the beauty of a naked boy playing with an arrow, or a +troop of Athenian citizens on horseback. These are the deathless forms +of the happy Olympians, high above the cares and turmoil of the finite, +self-centred and independent. It is the Paradise age of the world, +before the knowledge of good and evil, before sin and death came; the +worship of the Visible, when God saw everything that he had made, and, +behold, it was very good. Hence the air of repose, of eternal duration, +that marks these figures. They have nothing to regret or to hope, no +past or future, but only a timeless existence. + +It is from this essential self-sufficingness, not from fancied rules, +that Sculpture is limited with respect to dramatic expression, that is, +expression of passing feeling, accidental action, not identified with +the form. In the best period the first requisite was that the interest +should be thoroughly identified with the shape in which it is +manifested, and not imparted, as by history, association, etc. The +decline began when this lofty isolation was felt as negative, needing to +have interest and expression added to it. But whatever was added only +emphasized without curing the defect. Even the "awful diagonal" of the +Laocooen and the godlike triumph of the Belvedere Apollo show a lower +age. Why triumph, if he was supreme before? These are casual incidents +only, examples of what might happen as well to anybody, not the adequate +conclusive embodiment of an idea. The more elaborately the meaning is +wrought into the form, the more evident that they are not originally +identical. + +In Modern Sculpture this deification of the human form is either +expressly banished from the artist's aim, or at least he is not quite in +earnest with it. For instance, in Mr. Palmer's White Captive,--exhibited +not long since in Boston,--the sculptor's account of his work is, that +it portrays an American girl captured by Indians and bound to a tree. We +have to take with us the history and the circumstances: a Christian +woman of the nineteenth century, dragged from her civilized home and +helpless in the hands of savages. This is not at all incidental to the +work, but the work is incidental to it. It is a story which the figure +helps to tell. This is no universal type of womanhood, nor even American +womanhood. American women do not stand naked in the streets, but go +about clothed and active on their errands of duty and pleasure; if we +must needs represent one naked, we must invent some such accident, some +extraordinary dislocation of all usual relations and circumstances. In +place of the antique harmony of character and situation, we have here a +painful incongruity that no study or skill can obviate. + +Nor has Modern Sculpture any better success, when, instead of the +pretence of history, it adopts the pretence of personification. Its +highest result in this direction is, perhaps, Thorwaldsen's bas-relief +of Night,--a pretty parlor-ornament. There is a fatal sense of unreality +about works of this kind that even Thorwaldsen's genius was unable to +remove. They are toys, and it seems rather flat to have toys so cumbrous +and so costly. + +The reason of this insipidity is, that the ideality aimed at is all on +the outside. There is no soul in these bodies, but only an abstraction; +and so the body remains an abstraction, too. In each case the radical +defect is the same, namely, that the interest is external to the form: +they do not coalesce, but are only arbitrarily connected. We cannot have +these ideal forms, because we do not believe in them. We do not believe +in gods and goddesses, but in men and women; that is, we do not at last +really identify the character with its manifestation. Such was the +fascination of beauty to the Greek mind, that it banished all other +considerations. What mattered it to Praxiteles whether his Satyr was a +useful member of society or not, or whether the young Apollo stood thus +idle and listless for an instant or for a millennium, as long as he was +so beautiful? And the charm so penetrated their works that something of +it reaches down even to us, and holds us as long as we look upon them. +But as soon as we quit the magic circle, the illusion vanishes,--Apollo +is a handsome vagabond whom we incline to send about his business. He +ought to be slaying Pythons and drying up swamps, instead of loitering +here. + +We do not believe in gods, nor quite as the ancients did in heroes,--but +in representative men, that is, in ideas, and in men as representing +them. Washington is not to us what Achilles or Agamemnon was to the +Greeks. The form of Achilles would do as well for a god; the antiquaries +do not know whether the Ludovisi Mars was not an Achilles,--perhaps +nobody ever knew. But in all our veneration of Washington, it is not his +person we revere, but his virtues,--precisely the impersonal part of +him, or his person only from association. There is nothing incongruous +in this association as it exists in the mind, any more than there would +have been in his presence, because of the overpowering sense of his +character and history, to which all the outward show of the man is +constantly subordinate. But if we isolate this by making a statue of +him, we have only an apotheosis of cocked-hat and small-clothes, in +which we see what it really was to us. This awkward prominence of the +costume does not come from the accident of modern dress, but from our +unconscious repugnance to petrifying the man in one of his aspects. It +is a touch of grave humor in the genius of Art, thus to give us just +what we ask for, though not what we want. + +The Greeks could have portrait-statues, because all they looked for in +the man they saw in his form, and, seeing it, could portray it. If the +modern sculptor truly saw in the figure of Washington all that the name +means to him, he could make a statue worthy to be placed by the side of +the Sophocles and the Phocion. These were true portraits, no doubt; thus +it was that these men appeared to their fellow-citizens; but it does not +follow that they would have appeared so to us. What they saw is there; +it is a reality both for them and for us; but the literal identification +of it with the form belongs to them, not to us, and our mimicry of it +can result only in these abstraction's. For us it is elsewhere, beyond +these finite shapes, on which, by an illusion, it seemed to rest. The +Greek statues are tropes, which we gladly allow in their original use, +but, repeated, they become flat and pedantic. Hence the air of +caricature in modern portrait-statues; for caricature does not +necessarily imply falsification, but only that what is given is +insisted on at the expense of more important truth. + +To the view of the early Christian ages, too, the body is old clothes, +ready to be cast off at any moment, good only as means to something +higher. It might seem that Christianity should give a higher value to +the body, since it was believed to have been inhabited by God himself. +But the Passion was a fact of equal importance with the Incarnation. +This honor could be allowed to matter only for an instant, and on the +condition of immediate resumption. That the Highest should suffer death +as a man might well seem to the Greeks foolishness. To the understanding +it is the utmost conceivable contradiction. Yet it is only a more +complete statement of what is involved in the Greek worship of beauty. +_The complete incarnation of Spirit_, which is the definition of beauty, +demands equally that there be no point it does not inhabit, and none in +which it abides. The transience of things is no defect in them, but only +the affirmation of their reality through the incessant casting-off of +its inadequate manifestations. It is not from the excellence, but from +the impotence of its nature, that the stone endures and does not pass +away as the plant and the animal. The higher the organization, the more +rapid and thorough the circulation. + +The same truth holds in Art, also, and drives it to forsake these +beautiful petrifactions and seek an expression less bound to the +material. Ideal form is good so far as it brings together in one compact +image what in Nature is scattered and partial; but it is an ideality of +the surface only, not of the substance. It shuts out the defect of this +or that form, but not of Form itself. The Greek ideal is after all _a +thing_, and its impassive perfection a stony death. + +The justification is, that the sculptor did not say quite what he meant. +He said flesh, but he meant spirit, and this is what the Greek statues +mean to us. The modern sculptor does not mean spirit, and knows that he +does not; and so, with all his efforts, he gives us only the outside. Is +it asked, Whence this divorce of flesh and spirit? why not give both at +once as Nature does? Then we must do as Nature does, and make our forms +as fluid as hers. But this the sculptor contravenes at the outset. To +follow Nature, he should make his statue of snow. To make it of stone is +to pretend that the form is something of itself. This the Greeks never +meant, for then it would follow that all parts of it were alike +significant. Haydon was delighted to find reproduced in the Elgin +marbles certain obscure and seeming insignificant details of the anatomy +that later schools had overlooked, such as a fold of skin under the +armpit of the Neptune, etc. But any beginner at a life-school could have +pointed out in the same statue endless deficiencies in anatomical +detail. The fold was put in, not because it was there, but because to +the mind of the Greek artist it meant something. Sculptors of the +present day comfort themselves with the belief that their works are more +complete and more accurate in the anatomy than the antique. Very likely, +for the ancients did not dissect. But this accuracy, if it is founded on +no interest beyond accuracy, is after all an impertinence. + +The Greek ideal is founded on the exclusion of accident. It is a +declaration that the casual shape is not the true form; it is only a +step farther to the perception that all shape is casual,--the reality +seen, not in it, but through it. The ideal is then no longer perfect +shape, but transparency to the sentiment; the image is not sought to be +placed before the beholder's eyes, but painted as it were in his mind. +Henceforth, suggestion only is aimed at, not representation; the +cooeperation of the spectator is relied upon as the indispensable +complement of the design. The Zeus of Phidias seemed to the Greeks, +Plotinus says, Zeus himself, as he would be, if he chose to appear to +human eyes. But a Crucifixion is of itself not at all what the artist +meant. It is not the agony of the flesh, but the triumph of the spirit, +that is intended to be portrayed. If the end be attained, the slighter +and more unpromising the means the better. Thus a new scale of values is +established; nothing is worthy or unworthy of itself; nothing is +excluded, but also in nothing is the interest identified with the thing, +but imparted. + +Christian Art, after mere tradition had died out,--for instance, in the +Byzantine and early Italian pictures from the eighth to the middle of +the thirteenth century,--presents the strongest contrast to all that had +gone before. The morose and lifeless monotony or barbarous rudeness of +these figures seems like contempt not only of beauty, but of all natural +expression. They are meaningless of themselves, and quite indifferent to +the character they represent, which is appended to them by +inscriptions,--their relative importance, even, indicated only by size, +more or less splendor of costume, etc., but the faces all alike, and no +attempt made to adapt the action to the occasion. It is another world +they belong to; the present they pointedly renounce and disdain, +condescending to communicate with it only indirectly and by signs. + +The main peculiarities were common to Painting and Sculpture, though +most noticeable in Painting. An interest in the actual world seems never +so far lost sight of, and earlier revived, in Sculpture. Even down to +the spring-tide of Modern Art in the thirteenth century, the "pleasant +days" when Guido of Siena was painting his Madonna, the improvement in +Painting was rather a stirring within the cerements of conventional +types, a flush on the cheek of the still rigid form,--while in the +bas-reliefs of the Pisan sculptors we meet already a realism as much in +excess of the antique as the Byzantine fell short of it. + +It is commonly said that Nicola Pisano revived Art through study of the +antique; his models, even, are pointed out, particularly a sarcophagus, +said to have been brought to Pisa in the eleventh century from Greece. +But this sarcophagus, wherever it came from, is not Greek, but late +Roman work; and we find in Nicola no mark of direct Greek influence, but +only of the late Roman and early Christian sarcophagus-sculptures. In +the reliefs upon his celebrated pulpit at Pisa we have the same +short-legged, large-headed, indigenous Italian or Roman figures, and the +same arrangement of hair, draperies, etc., as on those sarcophagi. Taken +by themselves, his works would, no doubt, indicate a new direction. But +by the side of his son Giovanni, or the sculptors of the Northern +cathedrals, he seems to belong to the third century rather than to the +thirteenth. + +In Giovanni Pisano the new era was distinctly announced. The Inferno, +usually ascribed to him, among the reliefs on the front of Orvieto +Cathedral,[1] and in his noble pulpit at Pistoia, shows the traces of +the antique only in unimportant details, ornamentation, etc. The antique +served him, no doubt, as a hint to independent study, but the whole +intent is different,--all the beauties and all the defects arrived at by +a different road. In place of the impassive Minos of the Shades, we have +a fiend, serpent-girt,[2] his judicial impartiality enforced apparently +against his will by manacles and anklets of knotted snakes; and +throughout, instead of the calm impersonality of the Greek, dealing out +the typical forms of things like a law of Nature, we have the restless, +intense, partisan, modern man, not wanting in tenderness, but full of a +noble scorn at the unworthiness of the world, and grasping at a reality +beyond it. He is intent, first of all and at all risks, upon vivid +expression, upon telling the story, and speedily outruns the +possibilities of his material. He must make his creatures alive to the +last superficies; and as he cannot give them motion, he puts an emphasis +upon all their bones, sinews, veins, and wrinkles,--every feather is +carved, and even the fishes under the water show their scales. That +mere literalness is not the aim is shown by the open disregard of it +elsewhere; for instance, the size of each figure is determined, not by +natural rules, but by their relative importance, so that in the +Nativity, Mary is twice as large as Joseph and three times as large as +the attendants. And the detail is not everywhere equally minute, but +follows the intensity of the theme, reaching its height in the lower +compartment, where the damned are in suffering, and especially in the +figures of the fiends. This is no aim at literalness, but a struggle for +an emphasis beyond the reach of Sculpture,--taking these means in +despair of others, and, in its thirst for expression, careless alike of +natural probability, typical perfection of form, and pleasing effect. +Different as it seems, the same spirit is at work here and in Painting. +In both it is the repudiation of the classic ideal,--in Sculpture by a +_reductio ad absurdum_, putting its implicit claims to the test of +realization,--in Painting by mere negation, as was natural at the outset +of a new career, before the means of any positive expression were +discovered. + +Ideal form was to the Greeks the highest result, the success of the +universe. The end of Art was conceived as Nature's end as well, whether +actually attained or not. Nor was this preference of certain forms +arbitrary, but it followed the plain indications written on every +particle of matter. What we call brute matter is whatever is means only, +not showing any individuality, or end within itself. A handful of earth +is definable only by its chemical or physical properties, which do not +distinguish it, but confound it with other things. By itself it is only +so much phosphate or silicate, and can come to be something only in a +foreign organism, a plant or an animal. In form is seen the dawning of +individuality, and just as the thing rises in the scale the principle of +form becomes dominant. The handful of earth is sufficiently described by +the chemist's formula,--these ingredients make this substance. But an +organic body cannot be so described. The chemist's account of sugar, for +instance, is C^{6} H^{10} O^{5}. But if we ask what starch is, we have, +again, C^{6} H^{10} O^{5},--and the cellular tissue of plants, also, is +the same. These things, then, as far as he knows, are identical. +Evidently, he is beyond his depth, and the higher we go in the scale the +less he has to say to the purpose,--the separate importance of the +material ingredients constantly decreasing, and the importance of their +definite connection increasing, as the reference to an individual centre +predominates over helpless gravitation. First, aggregation about a +centre, as in the crystal,--then, arrangement of the parts, as upper, +under, and lateral, as in the plant,--then, organization of these into +members. Form is the self-assertion of the thing as no longer means +only; this makes its attractiveness to the artist. The root of his +delight in ideal form is that it promises some finality amid the endless +maze of matter. But this higher completeness, which is beauty, whether +it happen to exist or not, is never the immediate aim of Nature. It is +everywhere implied, but nowhere expressed; for Nature is unwearied in +producing, but negligent of the product. As soon as the end seems +anywhere about to be attained, it is straightway made means again to +something else, and so on forever. The earth and the air hasten to +convert themselves into a plant, the flower into fruit, the fruit into +flesh, and the animal at last to die and give back again to the air and +the earth what they have transmitted to him. Whatever beauty a thing has +is by the way, not as the end for which it exists, and so it is left to +be baffled and soiled by accident. This is the "jealousy of the gods," +that could not endure that anything should exist without some flaw of +imperfection to confess its mortal birth. + +The world is full of beauty, but as it were hinted,--as in the tendency +to make the most conspicuous things the most beautiful, as flowers, +fruits, birds, the insects of the sunshine, the fishes of the surface, +the upper side of the leaf; and perhaps more distinctly (in accordance +with Lord Bacon's suggestion that "Nature is rather busy not to err, +than in labor to produce excellency") in the tendency to hide those that +are ugly, as toads, owls, bats, worms, insects that flee the light, the +fishes of the bottom, the intestines of animals. But these are hints +only, and Nature, as Mr. Ruskin confesses, will sometimes introduce "not +ugliness only, but ugliness in the wrong place." Were beauty the aim, it +should be most evident in her chief products; whereas it is in things +transient, minute, subordinate,--flowers, snow-flakes, the microscopic +details of structure,--that it meets us most invariably, rather than in +the higher animals or in man. Nor in man does it keep pace with his +civilization, but obeys laws that belong to the lower regions of his +nature. + +This ambiguity of every fact in Nature comes from the difficulty of +detecting its true connection. There is reality _there_, even in blight +and corruption; something is forwarded, only perhaps not the thing +before us,--as the virtue of the compost-heap appears not in it, but in +the rose-bed. The artist cannot forego a jot of reality, but the obvious +facts are not this, any more than the canvas and the pigment are the +picture. The prose of every-day life is reality in fragments,--the Alps +split into paving-stones,--Achilles with a cold in the head. Seen in due +connection, they make up the reality; but their prominence as they occur +is casual and shifting, and the result dependent on the spectator's +power of discerning, amid the endless series in which they are involved, +more or less of their vital relations. + +Art is not to be blamed for idealizing, for this is only completing what +Nature begins. But the completion of the design is also its limitation. +It is final to the artist as well as to the theme, and cannot yield to +further expansion. In Nature there is no such pretence of finality, and +so her work, though never complete, is never convicted of defect. Her +circuits are never closed; she does not aim to cure the defect in the +thing, but in something else. Each in turn she abandons, and appeals to +a future success, which never is, but always about to be. The reason is, +that the scope of each is wider than immediately appears. It is not +simple completeness that is aimed at, but ascent to higher levels, so +that the consummation it demands, if granted, would cut it off from more +vital connections elsewhere. The ideal of the crystal seems to be +clearness and regularity, but better things are in store for it. It must +become opaque and shapeless in order to be fitted for higher +transformations. The leaf must be cramped to make the flower. Homer's +heroes must hoe potatoes and keep shop before the higher civilization of +the race can be reached. + +The Greek ideal is an endeavor to ignore the imperfections of natural +existence. The ideal life is to be rich, strong, powerful, eloquent, +high-born, famous. It was a glorification of the earthly, not by +transcending, but by keeping its limitations out of sight. But this is +only making the limitation essential and irrevocable, so that it infects +the ideal also, which in this very avoidance submits to recognize it. +The statue is not _less_, but more, a thing than the natural body. Life +is not mere exclusion of decay, but organization of it, so that the fury +of corruption passes into fresh vital power. It is a cycle of changes, +the type and show of which are the circulation, constantly removing +effete particles and building up new, and therein giving its hue to the +flesh. But sculpture supposes the current checked, and one aspect fit to +stand for all the rest. The statue is not only a particle, but an +isolated particle, and must first of all divert attention from its +fragmentariness. Mr. Garbett has remarked that plants should not be +copied in sculpture, because the plant is not seen entire, but is partly +hidden in the ground. But the point is not the being seen or not, but +the suggestion of incompleteness. The same remark applies to animals, +and even to man, unless his relations to the world, as an individual +among individuals, can be kept out of sight. + +But the finite thus isolated is not honored, but degraded. This stagnant +perfection is atrophy,--as some poisons are said to kill by arresting +the transformation of the tissues, and so to preserve them at the +expense of their life. The new era is marked by the perception that +these shortcomings are not accidental, but inherent and intended. The +chasm is not to be bridged or avoided,--or, as Plato says, the human to +become godlike by taking away here and adding there,--but remains a +radical incongruity of Nature, never to be escaped from. It brings death +and dissolution to the fair shapes of the earlier world,--for the +worship of form is justified only so long as the mind thinks forms and +not ideas. + +The statue may embody an infinite meaning, but to the artist form and +meaning are one. It is not a sentiment that he puts into this shape, but +it is the shape itself that inspires him. The symbolism of Greek Art was +the discovery of a later age. We know what is meant by Circe and Athene, +but Homer did not. It was thus only that the Greek mind could grasp +ideas,--this is the thoroughly _artistic_ character of that people. +Their philosophers were always outlaws. What excited the rage of the +Athenians against Socrates was his endeavor to detach religion from the +images of the gods. When it comes to comparisons between meaning and +expression, as adequate or inadequate, it is evident their unity is +gone;--the meaning is first, and the expression only adjunct or +illustration. It did not impair the sacredness of the Greek deities that +they were the work of the poets and sculptors. But the second Nicene +Council forbade as impious any images of Christ as God, and allowed only +his human nature to be represented,--a strange decree, if the Church had +realized its own doctrine, that the humanity of Christ is as real as his +divinity. But the meaning is, that the finite is not there to stand for +the infinite, but only to indicate it negatively and indirectly,--that +its glory is not to persist in its finiteness, not to hold on to its +form, but to be transformed. The figure of Thersites would be very +unsuitable for Achilles, but is suitable enough for a saint; it was a +pardonable exaggeration to make it even more suitable. + +The hero is now the saint; the ideal life a life of poverty, humility, +weakness, labor,--to be long-suffering, to despise and forsake the +world. The present life, the heaven of Achilles, is now Hades, the +forced abode of phantoms having no reality but what is given to them by +religion, and the Hades of the Greek the only true and substantial +world. The new church fled the light of the sun, and sought impatiently +to bury itself in the tomb. The Roman catacombs were not the mere refuge +of a persecuted sect,--their use as places of worship continued long +after such need had ceased. But "among the graves" they found the point +nearest to the happy land beyond, and the silence and the darkness made +it easier to ignore for the few miserable moments that yet remained the +vain tumult of the surface. In such a mood the beauty of the outward +could awaken no delight, but only suspicion and aversion. Not the earth +and its glories, but the fading of these before the unseen and eternal, +was the only possible inspiration of Art. The extreme of this direction +we see in the Iconoclasm of the eighth century, but it has never +completely died out. Gibbon tells us of a Greek priest who refused to +receive some pictures that Titian had painted for him, because they were +too real:--"Your scandalous figures," said he, "stand quite out from the +canvas; they are as bad as a group of statues." It is a tenderness +towards the idea, lest it should be dishonored by actuality. Matter is +gross, obscure, evil, an obstacle to spirit,--and material existence +tolerable only as momentary, vanishing, and, as it were, under constant +protest, and with the suspicion that the Devil has a hand in it. It +belongs especially to the Oriental mind, and its logical result is the +Buddhist heaven of annihilation. + +The defect of this view is not that it is too ideal, but that it is not +ideal enough. It is an incomplete idealism that through weakness of +faith does not hold fast its own point of view, and so does not dispose +of matter, but leaves it outside, as negation, obstacle. The body is +allowed to exist, but remains in disgrace and reduced to the barest +indication. But it is honoring matter far too much to allow that it can +be an obstacle. It is no obstacle, for it is _nothing_ of itself. +Rightly understood, this contempt of the body is directed only against +the false emphasis placed upon single aspects or manifestations. It is a +feeling that the true ideal is not thus shut up in a forced exception, +as if it were the subtilized product of a distillation whereby the +earthly is to be purged of its dross; but that it is the all-pervading +reality, which the finite can neither hinder nor help, but only obey, +which death and corruption praise, which establishes itself through +imperfection and transience. + +Gibbon, speaking of the Iconoclasts, says,--"The Olympian Jove, created +by the muse of Homer and the chisel of Phidias, might inspire a +philosophic mind with momentary devotion; but these Catholic images were +faintly and flatly delineated by monkish artists in the last degeneracy +of taste and genius." Such comparisons mistake the point. These are not +parallel attempts, but opposed from the outset. The "Catholic image" was +a declaration that the problem cannot be solved in that way. An early +legend relates, that a painter, undertaking to copy his Christ from a +statue of Jove, had his hand suddenly withered. The attempt is accused +because of the pretence it makes to coordinate body and spirit, Nature +and God,--as if one configuration of matter were more godlike than +another. The figure of the god claims to complete what Nature has +_partly_ done. But now the world is seen to be not merely the product of +Mind working upon Matter, but the Creation of God out of nothing,--thus +altogether His, in one part as much as in another. The only conceivable +separateness, antagonism, is that of the sinful Will, setting itself up +in its vanity; this it must be that arrogates to itself the ability to +_represent_ its Creator. + +The Christian image is without form or comeliness,--rejects all outward +graces, seemingly glories in abasement and deformity, fearing only to +attribute to Matter some value of its own. + +Henceforth the connection is no longer at arm's-length, as of the +workman and the material. Resistance to limitation is changed into +joyful acceptance; for it is not in the limitation, but in the +resistance, that the misery of earth consists. The quarrel with +imperfection is over. The finite shall neither fortify itself in its +finiteness, nor seek to abolish it, but only make it the willing +instrument of universal ends. Thus the true self first exists, and no +longer needs to be extenuated or apologised for. + +The key-note of all this is contained in those verses of the "Dies +Irae,"-- + + "Quaerens _me_ sedisti lassus, + Redemisti crucem passus; + Tantus labor non sit cassus." + +Here we have in its compactest expression the difference between this +age and the classic: that I, the vilest of sinners, am the object of +God's highest care,--not the failure and mistake I seem, not the slag +and refuse of Nature's working, but the object of this most stupendous +mystery of the Divine economy. It is no purification or idealizing that +is needed,--any such attempt must be abomination,--but a new birth of +the self, by devotion of it to the purpose for which it was made. + +The astounding discovery is slowly realized, and the statement of it +difficult, from the need to distinguish between the true self and the +false, and to declare that this importance belongs to the individual in +virtue of his spiritual nature alone. The sainthood of the saint is not +to be confounded with his personality. What have his virtues to do with +his gown and shoes? what, indeed, with his natural disposition, as +courageous, irascible, avaricious? The difficulty is pervading, not to +be avoided; every aspect of him reveals only what is external, dies from +him daily, and, if isolated, has already lost its meaning. It is only in +his work, in his connection with the world, that we see him truly. +Accordingly, the statue becomes the group, and the group a member of a +series, a cycle in which each is incomplete without the rest. The +classic ideal is shivered into fragments, all to be taken together to +make up the meaning. Of the hundreds of statues and reliefs that +surround the great Northern cathedrals, (Didron counts eighteen hundred +upon the outside of Chartres,--nine thousand in all, carved or painted, +inside and outside,) each has its appointed place in the sacred _epos_ +in stone that unfolds about the building from left to right of the +beholder the history of the world from the Creation to the Judgment, and +subordinated in parallel symbolism the daily life of the community, +whatever occupied and interested men,--their virtues and vices, trades +and recreations, the seasons and the elements, jokes, even, and sharp +hits at the great and at the clergy, scenes from popular romances, and +the radicalism of Reynard the Fox,--in short, all that touched the mind +of the age, an impartial reflex of the great drama of life, wherein all +exists alike to the glory of God. + +It is not the glory of earth that is here celebrated. M. Didron says the +statues which the mob pulled down from the churches, at the first French +Revolution, as the images of their kings, were the kings and heroes of +the Old Testament. Had they known this, it might not have saved the +statues, but it shows how wide a gulf separated these men from their +fathers, that their hands were not held by some instinct that here was +the first hint of the fundamental idea of Democracy,--the sovereign +importance of man, not as powerful, wise, beautiful, not in virtue of +any chance advantage of birth, but in virtue of his religious nature, of +the infinite possibilities he infolds. + +The need to indicate that the source of value is not the accident of +Nature, but Nature redeemed, regenerated by spirit, that all values are +moral values, led to a certain abstractness of treatment,--on one side +qualities to be embodied, on the other figures to receive them, so that +the character seems adventitious, detachable, not thoroughly at one with +the form. For instance, the fiends in the Orvieto Inferno are not terror +embodied, as the Jove of Phidias embodied dignity and command; but the +terrific is accumulated on the outside of them, as tusks, claws, etc. +One can easily believe that the ancient sculptors, had it been lawful, +could have put more horror into the calm features of a Medusa than is +contained in all this apparatus and grimace. The concreteness of the +antique, the form and meaning existing only for each other, is gone; the +union is _occasional_ only, and needs to be certified and kept up afresh +on every new occasion. The form must assert itself, must show itself +alive and quick, not the dead sign of a meaning that has fled. It would +have been a poor compliment to a Greek sculptor to say that his work was +life-like; he might answer with the classically disposed visitor of the +Elgin marbles in Haydon's anecdote,--"Like life! Well, what of that?" He +meant it for something much better. But during the Middle Ages this is +constantly the highest encomium. Amid the utmost rudeness of conception +and of execution, we see the first trace of awakening Art in the +unmistakable effort to indicate that the figures are alive; and in the +cathedral-sculpture of the best time this is still a leading +characteristic. Even the single statues have for their outlines curves +of contrary flexure, expressing motion; they seem to wave in the air, +and their faces to glow with passing emotion. The animals are often +uncouth, but the more life-like; a turn of the head or of the eye, a +restless, unbalanced attitude, brings us nearer to the actual living +creature than the magnificent repose of the antique lions and +eagles,--as if they did not trust to our recognizing their character, +but were prepared to demonstrate it with beak and claws. Even in the +plants, though strictly conventionalized, it is the freedom and spring +of their lines that more than anything else characterizes them and +defies copying. + +The world of matter, being no longer endowed with independent reality, +is no longer felt as a contamination incurred by the idea in its descent +into existence. The discrepancy is not final, so that the supremacy of +the spirit is not shown by resistance, but by taking it to heart, +carrying it out, and thereby overcoming it. In a Crucifixion of the +twelfth century, Life is figured on one side crowned and victorious, and +on the other Death overcome and slain. The finiteness of the finite is +not the barrier, but the liberation, of the infinite. + +But the statue remains stone; this unmeaning emphasis of weight and +bulk, though diminished, is not to be got rid of. The life that +sculpture can give is superficial and abstract, does not penetrate and +possess the work; it is still the petrifaction of an instant, that does +not instantly pass away, but remains as a contradiction to the next. It +is the struggle against this fixity that gives to the sculpture of the +Renaissance its aspect of unrest, of disdain of the present, of endless +unsatisfied search. Hence the air of conflict that we see in Giovanni +Pisano, and still more in later times,--the sculptor going to the edge +of what the stone will allow, and beyond it, and, still unsatisfied, +seeking through all means to indicate a yet unexecuted possibility. It +is this that seethes in those strange, intense, unearthly figures of +Donatello's, wasted as by internal fire,--the rage for an expression +that shall at the same time declare its own insufficiency. + +All that is done only makes the failure more evident. The fixity +continues, and is only deepened into contortion and grimace. What we see +is the effort alone. Hence in modern statues the uneasy, +self-distrustful appeal to the spectator, in place of the lofty +indifference of the antique. In Michel Angelo the same striving to +indicate something in reserve, not expended, led to the exaggerated +emphasis of certain parts, (as the length of the neck, depth of the +eye-sockets, etc.,) and of general muscularity,--a show of _force_, that +gave to the Moses the build of a Titan, and to the Christ of the Last +Judgment the air of a gladiator. Michel Angelo often seems immersed in +mere anatomy and academic _tours de force_, especially in his later +works. He seems to see in the subject only a fresh problem in attitude, +foreshortening, muscular display,--and this not only where he invents, +but also where he borrows,--sometimes most strangely overlooking the +sentiment; as in the figure of Christ, which he borrows from Orcagna and +the older painters, even to the position of the arms, but with the +touching gesture of reproof perverted into a savage menace; or in the +Expulsion, taken almost line for line from Masaccio, but with the +infinite grief expressed in Adam's figure turned into melodrama by +showing his face. + +It was not for the delight of the eye, nor from over-reverence of the +matter-of-fact. He despised the copying of models, as the makeshift of +ignorance. His profound study of anatomy was not for greater accuracy of +imitation, but for greater license of invention. Of grace and +pleasingness he became more and more careless, until he who at twenty +had carved the lovely angel of S. Domenico, came at last to make all his +men prize-fighters and his women viragos. It is clear that we nowhere +get his final meaning,--that he does not fairly get to his theme at all, +but is stopped at the outset, and loses himself in the search for a +mode of expression more adequate to that "immense beauty" ever present +to his mind,--so that the matter in hand occupies him only in its +superficial aspects. What he sought on all hands, in his endless +questioning of the human frame, his impatience of drapery, the furious +haste to reach the live surface, and the tender modulation of it when it +is reached, was to make the flesh itself speak and reveal the soul +present at all points alike and at once. Nothing could have satisfied +him but to impart to the marble itself that omnipresence of spirit of +which animal life furnishes the hint. In this Titanic attempt the means +were in open and direct contradiction to the end. It was a violation of +the wise moderation of Sculpture, whose rigid and colorless material +pointedly declines a rivalry it could not sustain. Else why not color +the stone? The hue of flesh is the most direct assertion of life, but at +the same time a direct negative to that totality and emphasis of the +particular shape on which Sculpture relies. The color of the flesh comes +from its transparency to the circulation,--the eternal flux of matter +coming to the surface in this its highest form. It is the display in +matter itself of what its true nature is,--not to resist, but to embody +change,--to reduce itself to mere appearance, and be taken up without +residuum in the momentary manifestation, and then at once give place to +fresh manifestations. + +That the earlier practice of coloring statues was given up just when the +need would seem to be the greatest shows its incompatibility with the +fundamental conditions of the art. In the twelfth and thirteenth +centuries statues were still painted and gilded. Afterwards, color is +restricted to parts not directly affected by the circulation, the hair +and the eyes; and at last, when Sculpture is given over to pictorial +effect and is about to yield entirely to Painting, it is wholly +relinquished. Evidently it was felt that to color a statue in imitation +of flesh would only enforce the fact that it is stone. + +What Art was now aiming at was not the mere appearance of life, but a +unity like that which life gives, in place of the abstractness and +partiality inherent in Sculpture. This makes the interest of the fact of +life,--that it is the presence of the soul,--the unity established amid +the sundered particularity of matter. In free motion a new centre is +declared, whereby the inertia of the body, its gravitation to a centre +outside of it, is set aside. In sensibility this new centre declares +itself supreme, superseding the passive indifference of extension. The +whole pervades each part, each testifies to the whole and may stand for +it. But the statue, having no such internal unity, is less able to +dispense with outward completeness. All the sides must be given, so that +the whole cannot be seen at one view, but only successively, as an +aggregate. + +In the earlier Greek statues the head remains lifeless, abstract, whilst +the limbs are full of expression. In a contrary spirit, more akin to +modern ideas, the Norse myth relates that Skadi, having her choice of a +husband from among all the gods, but having to choose by the feet alone, +meaning to take Baldur, got by mistake Niordr, an inferior deity. This +does not seem so strange to us; but a Greek would have wondered that the +daughter of a wise Titan should not know the feet of Apollo from those +of Nereus. It was said of Taglioni that she put mind into her legs. But +to the modern way of thinking this is clearly exceptional. It is in the +face, and especially in the eye, that we look to see the soul present +and at work, and not merely in its effects as character. As types of +character, the lineaments of the face were explored by the later Greek +Art as profoundly as the rest of the body. But the statue is +sightless,--its eyes do not meet ours, but seem forever brooding over a +world into which the present and its interests do not enter. To the +Greek this was no defect; but to us the omission seems to affect the +most vital point of all, since our conception of the soul involves its +eternity, that is, that it lives always in the present, is not too fine +to exist, secure that it is bound neither by past nor future, but +capable of revolutionizing the character at all moments. Here is the +ground of the remarkable difference that meets us already in the reliefs +of the later classic times. In the reliefs of the best age the figures +are always in profile and in action. Complete personification being out +of the question, it is expressly avoided,--each figure waives attention +to itself, merges itself in the plot. Later, when the profounder idea of +a personality that does not isolate or degrade has begun to make itself +felt, this constraint is given up,--the figures face the spectator, and +enter as it were into relation with the actual world. + +The Church very early expressed this feeling of the higher significance +of the head, by allowing it to be sufficient if the head alone were +buried in holy ground. In Art it is naively indicated by exaggerated +size of the head and of the eyes,--a very common trait of the earlier +times, and not quite obsolete at the time of the Pisani. This clumsy +expedient is relinquished, but the need it indicated continued, without +the possibility of finding any complete satisfaction in Sculpture, +instead of the intensity and directness that Art now insists upon, +Sculpture can give only extension and indirect hints; instead of mind +present, only its effects and products, with the working cause expressly +removed. + +This is the ground of the seeming injustice to Sculpture at the time of +the Revival. Its relative excellence was undervalued, because what it +could do was not quite to the point. While the painters went on +producing their antediluvian forms, the sculptors saw things much more +as we do,--yet the paintings seemed the most life-like. It is +astonishing, when we remember that Nicola was older than Cimabue, +Giovanni than Giotto, Ghiberti than Fra Angelico, that the painters did +not learn from the sculptors more of the actual appearance of things. It +is still more astonishing that it is the painters that get all the +praise for accuracy. Vasari is endless in his praises of Giotto, +Spinello, Stefano, (called Scimia, or the Ape of Nature,) and a host of +others, for accurate imitation. Giovanni Villani boasts that "it is our +fellow-citizen Giotto who has portrayed most naturally every form and +action." Ghiberti finishes an admiring account of some paintings of +Ambrogio Lorenzotto's with the exclamation that it is truly marvellous +to think that all this is only a picture. Few persons, probably, would +see in the specimens of Ambrogio's work that still remain anything +wonderful for resemblance to Nature,--whilst in Ghiberti's everybody +acknowledges the astonishing truth of the detail. He tells us that he +sought "to imitate Nature as far as was possible to him,"--but he seems +not to be aware how much better he succeeded than the people he praises. +Paolo Uccello, who was twenty years younger than Ghiberti, got his +nickname from his skill in painting birds. But one would rather +undertake to paint birds as well as Paolo than to carve them as well as +Ghiberti. + +We may learn here how little the demand to "imitate Nature" expresses +what is intended. No accuracy, however demonstrable, will satisfy it. To +interest me in a picture, it is not enough that _something_ is as +visible there as it is elsewhere; it must be something that I was +already striving to see. It was not a greater circumstantiality of +statement than was demanded, but greater directness,--that it should be +relieved of what was unessential to its purpose, tending only to obscure +it. A painting, however rude, has at least this negative merit, that, by +the express substitution of the appearance for the actual image, +needless entanglement in the material is avoided. Weight and bulk are +not indeed annihilated, but they are no longer of primary importance, +and thus less obstructive. The work gains precisely in what it gives +up. By the flat omission of depth infinite depth is acquired,--by the +ignoring of size the expression of size becomes possible; a mountain, +for instance, which would be an absurdity in Sculpture is representable +in Painting. Thus, instead of being more abstract than Sculpture, +Painting is in truth less so, since what it omits is only negative to +the purpose of Art. + +It seems to us easier to paint than to carve, and we might expect to +find Painting the older art. But the difficulty lies less in the +execution than in the conception. Painting is not a tinting of surfaces, +but the power to see a complex subject in unity. We may think we have no +difficulty in seeing the landscape, but most persons, if called upon to +state what they saw, pictorially, would show that they could not see the +wood for the trees. Beginners suppose it is some knack of the hand that +they are to acquire, when they learn to draw; but that is a small part +of the matter; the great difficulty is in the seeing. Ordinary vision is +piecemeal: we see the parts; but not the picture, or only vaguely. Even +the degree of facility that is implied in any enjoyment of scenery is +not so much a matter of course as it seems. Caesar occupied himself, +while crossing the Alps, with composing a grammatical treatise. There is +no evidence that there was anything odd in this. Perhaps Petrarch was +the first man that ever climbed a hill to enjoy the view. We are not +aware how much of what we see in Nature is due to pictures. Hardly any +man is so unsophisticated, but that, if he should try to sketch a +landscape, he would betray, in what he did or in what he omitted, that +he saw it more or less at second-hand, through the interpretations of +Art. A portfolio of Calame's or Harding's or Turner's drawings will give +us new eyes for the most familiar scenes. + +But we are aided still more by our habit of looking at things +theoretically, apart from their immediate practical bearing. A savage +can comprehend a carved image, but not so readily a picture. An Indian +whom Catlin painted with half his face in shadow became the +laughingstock of the tribe, as "the man with half a face." It is not +necessary to suspect Mr. Catlin's chiaroscuro; what puzzled them was, +doubtless, the bringing together in one view what they had seen only +separate. They were accustomed to see the man in light and in shadow; +but what they cared for, and therefore what they saw, was only the +effect in making it more or less easy to recognize him and to ascertain +his state of mind, intentions, etc. His face was either visible or +obscured; if they could see enough for their purpose, they regarded only +that. For it to be both at once was possible only from a point of view +which they had not reached. A child takes the shading of the portrait +for dirt,--that being the form in which darkening of the face is +familiar to him. A carved image is easier comprehended, because it can +be handled, turned about, and looked at on different sides, and a +material connection thereby assured between the various aspects. To +transfer this connection to the mind--to see varying distances in one +vertical plane, so that mere gradations of light and shade shall suggest +all these aspects arranged and harmonized in one view--is a farther +step, and the difficulty increases with the variety embraced. Cicero was +struck with this superiority in the artists of his time. "How much," he +says, "do painters see in shadow and relief that we do not see!" Yet +their perception seems strangely limited to us. The ancients had little +notion of perspective. Their eyes were too sure and too well-practised +to overlook the effect of position in foreshortening objects, and they +were much experienced in the corrections required, and the effect of +converging lines in increasing apparent distance was taken advantage of +in their theatre-scenes. But they had not learned that the difference +between the actual and the apparent form is thorough-going, so that the +picture no longer stands in the attitude of passive indifference towards +the beholder, but imposes upon him its own point of view. It was +thought remarkable in the Minerva of Fabullus, that it had the +appearance of always looking at the spectator, from whatever point it +was viewed. This would be miraculous in a statue, and must seem so in +the picture so long as it is looked upon only as one side of a statue. +The wall-paintings of Pompeii, doubtless copies or reminiscences of +Greek originals,--with masterly skill in the parts, and with some +success in the landscape as far as it was easily reducible to one +plane,--are only collections of fragments, and show utter incapacity to +see the whole at once as a picture. For instance, in one of the many +pictures of Narcissus beholding himself in the well, the head, which is +inclined sideways, instead of being simply inverted in the reflection, +is reversed,--so that the chin, which is on the spectator's left in the +figure, is on the right in the reflected image: as if the artist, +knowing no other way, had placed himself head downwards, and in that +position had repeated the face as already painted. Such a blunder could +not originate with a copyist, for it would have been much easier to copy +correctly. It is clear from the general excellence of the figure that it +is not the work of an inferior artist. Nor can it have come from mere +carelessness; it is too elaborate for that,--and, moreover, here is the +main point of the picture, that which tells the story. Doubtless the +painter had noticed the pleasingness of such reflections, as repeating +the human form, the supreme object of interest; but the interest stopped +there. He saw the face above and the face below, as he would see the +different sides of a statue; but so incapable was he of perceiving the +connection and interdependence of them, that, even when Nature had made +the picture for him, he could not see it. This is no isolated, casual +mistake, but only a good chance to see what is really universal, though +not often so obvious. + +In this and other pictures the water is like a bit of looking-glass +stuck up in front,--without perspective, without connection with the +ground,--the mere assertion of a reflection. The conception embraced +only the main figure; the rest was added like a label, for explanation +only. These men did not see the landscape as we see it, because the +interest was wanting that combines it into a picture for our eyes. Our +"love of Nature" would have been incomprehensible and disgusting to a +Greek; he would have called our artists "dirt-painters." And from his +point of view he would be right. Dirt it is, if we abide by the mere +facts. The interest of Art lies not in the facts, but in the +truth,--that is, in the facts organized, shown in their place. It is not +that we care more about stocks and stones than they did, but that we +hold the key to an arrangement that gives these things a significance +they have not of themselves. + + * * * * * + +SNOW. + + + Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, + Born of the soft and slumberous snow! + Gradual, silent, slowly wrought,-- + Even as an artist, thought by thought, + Writes expression on lip and brow. + + Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim,-- + Deep drifts smother the paths below; + The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, + And all the air is dizzy and dim + With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow. + + Dimly out of the baffled sight + Houses and church-spires stretch away; + The trees, all spectral and still and white, + Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, + And fade and faint with the blinded day. + + Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled + The eddying drifts to the waste below; + And still is the banner of storm unfurled, + Till all the drowned and desolate world + Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow. + + Slowly the shadows gather and fall,-- + Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; + Night and darkness are over all: + Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! + Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet! + + Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe; + On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,-- + Land of my longing!--and underneath + Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; + Peace and I are at home, at home! + + * * * * * + +HOUSE AND HOME PAPERS. + +BY CHRISTOPHER CROWFIELD. + +II. + + +I am a frank, open-hearted man, as, perhaps, you have by this time +perceived, and you will not, therefore, be surprised to know that I read +my last article on the carpet to my wife and the girls before I sent it +to the "Atlantic," and we had a hearty laugh over it together. My wife +and the girls, in fact, felt that they could afford to laugh, for they +had carried their point, their reproach among women was taken away, they +had become like other folks. Like other folks they had a parlor, an +undeniable best parlor, shut up and darkened, with all proper carpets, +curtains, lounges, and marble-topped tables, too good for human nature's +daily food; and being sustained by this consciousness, they cheerfully +went on receiving their friends in the study, and having good times in +the old free-and-easy way; for did not everybody know that this room was +not their best? and if the furniture was old-fashioned and a little the +worse for antiquity, was it not certain that they had better, which they +could use, if they would? + +"And supposing we wanted to give a party," said Jane, "how nicely our +parlor would light up! Not that we ever do give parties, but if we +should,--and for a wedding-reception, you know." + +I felt the force of the necessity; it was evident that the four or five +hundred extra which we had expended was no more than such solemn +possibilities required. + +"Now, papa thinks we have been foolish," said Marianne, "and he has his +own way of making a good story of it; but, after all, I desire to know +if people are never to get a new carpet. Must we keep the old one till +it actually wears to tatters?" This is a specimen of the _reductio ad +absurdum_ which our fair antagonists of the other sex are fond of +employing. They strip what we say of all delicate shadings and illusory +phrases, and reduce it to some bare question of fact, with which they +make a home-thrust at us. + +"Yes, that's it; are people _never_ to get a new carpet?" echoed Jane. + +"My dears," I replied, "it is a fact that to introduce anything new into +an apartment hallowed by many home-associations, where all things have +grown old together, requires as much care and adroitness as for an +architect to restore an arch or niche in a fine old ruin. The fault of +our carpet was that it was in another style from everything in our room, +and made everything in it look dilapidated. Its colors, material, and +air belonged to another manner of life, and were a constant plea for +alterations; and you see it actually drove out and expelled the whole +furniture of the room, and I am not sure yet that it may not entail on +us the necessity of refurnishing the whole house." + +"My dear!" said my wife, in a tone of remonstrance; but Jane and +Marianne laughed and colored. + +"Confess, now," said I, looking at them, "have you not had secret +designs on the hall- and stair-carpet?" + +"Now, papa, how could you know it? I only said to Marianne that to have +Brussels in the parlor and that old mean-looking ingrain carpet in the +hall did not seem exactly the thing; and, in fact, you know, mamma, +Messrs. Ketchem & Co. showed us such a lovely pattern, designed to +harmonize with our parlor-carpet." + +"I know it, girls," said my wife; "but you know I said at once that such +an expense was not to be thought of." + +"Now, girls," said I, "let me tell you a story I heard once of a very +sensible old New-England minister, who lived, as our country-ministers +generally do, rather near to the bone, but still quite contentedly. It +was in the days when knee-breeches and long stockings were worn, and +this good man was offered a present of a very nice pair of black silk +hose. He declined, saying, he 'could not afford to wear them.' + +"'Not afford it?' said the friend; 'why, I _give_ them to you.' + +"'Exactly; but it will cost me not less than two hundred dollars to take +them, and I cannot do it.' + +"'How is that?' + +"'Why, in the first place, I shall no sooner put them on than my wife +will say, "My dear, you must have a new pair of knee-breeches," and I +shall get them. Then my wife will say, "My dear, how shabby your coat +is! You must have a new one," and I shall get a new coat. Then she will +say, "Now, my dear, that hat will never do," and then I shall have a new +hat; and then I shall say, "My dear, it will never do for me to be so +fine and you to wear your old gown," and so my wife will get a new gown; +and then the new gown will require a new shawl and a new bonnet; all of +which we shall not feel the need of, if I don't take this pair of silk +stockings, for, as long as we don't see them, our old things seem very +well suited to each other.'" + +The girls laughed at this story, and I then added, in my most determined +manner,-- + +"But I must warn you, girls, that I have compromised to the utmost +extent of my power, and that I intend to plant myself on the old +stair-carpet in determined resistance. I have no mind to be forbidden +the use of the front-stairs, or condemned to get up into my bedroom by a +private ladder, as I should be immediately, if there were a new carpet +down." + +"Why, papa!" + +"Would it not be so? Can the sun shine in the parlor now for fear of +fading the carpet? Can we keep a fire there for fear of making dust, or +use the lounges and sofas for fear of wearing them out? If you got a new +entry- and stair-carpet, as I said, I should have to be at the expense +of another staircase to get up to our bedroom." + +"Oh, no, papa," said Jane, innocently; "there are very pretty druggets, +now, for covering stair-carpets, so that they can be used without +hurting them." + +"Put one over the old carpet, then," said I, "and our acquaintance will +never know but it is a new one." + +All the female senate laughed at this proposal, and said it sounded just +like a man. + +"Well," said I, standing up resolutely for my sex, "a man's ideas on +woman's matters may be worth some attention. I flatter myself that an +intelligent, educated man doesn't think upon and observe with interest +any particular subject for years of his life without gaining some ideas +respecting it that are good for something; at all events, I have written +another article for the 'Atlantic,' which I will read to you." + +"Well, wait one minute, papa, till we get our work," said the girls, +who, to say the truth, always exhibit a flattering interest in anything +their papa writes, and who have the good taste never to interrupt his +readings with any conversations in an undertone on cross-stitch and +floss-silks, as the manner of some is. Hence the little feminine bustle +of arranging all these matters beforehand. Jane, or Jennie, as I call +her in my good-natured moods, put on a fresh clear stick of hickory, of +that species denominated shag-bark, which is full of most charming +slivers, burning with such a clear flame, and emitting such a delicious +perfume in burning, that I would not change it with the millionnaire who +kept up his fire with cinnamon. + +You must know, my dear Mr. Atlantic, and you, my confidential friends of +the reading public, that there is a certain magic or spiritualism which +I have the knack of in regard to these mine articles, in virtue of which +my wife and daughters never hear or see the little personalities +respecting _them_ which form parts of my papers. By a particular +arrangement which I have made with the elves of the inkstand and the +familiar spirits of the quill, a sort of glamour falls on their eyes +and ears when I am reading, or when they read the parts personal to +themselves; otherwise their sense of feminine propriety would be shocked +at the free way in which they and their most internal affairs are +confidentially spoken of between me and you, O loving readers. + +Thus, in an undertone, I tell you that my little Jennie, as she is +zealously and systematically arranging the fire, and trimly whisking +every untidy particle of ashes from the hearth, shows in every movement +of her little hands, in the cock of her head, in the knowing, observing +glance of her eye, and in all her energetic movements, that her small +person is endued and made up of the very expressed essence of +housewifeliness,--she is the very attar, not of roses, but of +housekeeping. Care-taking and thrift and neatness are a nature to her; +she is as dainty and delicate in her person as a white cat, as +everlastingly busy as a bee; and all the most needful faculties of time, +weight, measure, and proportion out to be fully developed in her skull, +if there is any truth in phrenology. Besides all this, she has a sort of +hard-grained little vein of common sense, against which my fanciful +conceptions and poetical notions are apt to hit with just a little sharp +grating, if they are not well put. In fact, this kind of woman needs +carefully to be idealized in the process of education, or she will +stiffen and dry, as she grows old, into a veritable household Pharisee, +a sort of domestic tyrant. She needs to be trained in artistic values +and artistic weights and measures, to study all the arts and sciences of +the beautiful, and then she is charming. Most useful, most needful, +these little women: they have the centripetal force which keeps all the +domestic planets from gyrating and frisking in unseemly orbits,--and +properly trained, they fill a house with the beauty of order, the +harmony and consistency of proportion, the melody of things moving in +time and tune, without violating the graceful appearance of ease which +Art requires. + +So I had an eye to Jennie's education in my article which I unfolded and +read, and which was entitled, + + +HOME-KEEPING _vs._ HOUSE-KEEPING. + +There are many women who know how to keep a house, but there are but few +that know how to keep a _home_. To keep a house may seem a complicated +affair, but it is a thing that may be learned; it lies in the region of +the material, in the region of weight, measure, color, and the positive +forces of life. To keep a home lies not merely in the sphere of all +these, but it takes in the intellectual, the social, the spiritual, the +immortal. + + +Here the hickory-stick broke in two, and the two brands fell +controversially out and apart on the hearth, scattering the ashes and +coals, and calling for Jennie and the hearth-brush. Your wood-fire had +this foible, that it needs something to be done to it every five +minutes; but, after all, these little interruptions of our bright-faced +genius are like the piquant sallies of a clever friend,--they do not +strike us as unreasonable. + +When Jennie had laid down her brush, she said,-- + +"Seems to me, papa, you are beginning to soar into metaphysics." + +"Everything in creation is metaphysical in its abstract terms," said I, +with a look calculated to reduce her to a respectful condition. +"Everything has a subjective and an objective mode of presentation." + +"There papa goes with subjective and objective!" said Marianne. "For my +part, I never can remember which is which." + +"I remember," said Jennie; "it's what our old nurse used to call +internal and _out_-ternal,--I always remember by that." + +"Come, my dears," said my wife, "let your father read"; so I went on as +follows:-- + + +I remember in my bachelor days going with my boon companion, Bill +Carberry to look at the house to which he was in a few weeks to +introduce his bride. Bill was a gallant, free-hearted, open-handed +fellow, the life of our whole set, and we felt that natural aversion to +losing him that bachelor friends would. How could we tell under what +strange aspects he might look forth upon us, when once he had passed +into "that undiscovered country" of matrimony? But Bill laughed to scorn +our apprehensions. + +"I'll tell you what, Chris," he said, as he sprang cheerily up the steps +and unlocked the door of his future dwelling, "do you know what I chose +this house for? Because it's a social-looking house. Look there, now," +he said, as he ushered me into a pair of parlors,--"look at those long +south windows, the sun lies there nearly all day long; see what a +capital corner there is for a lounging-chair; fancy us, Chris, with our +books or our paper, spread out loose and easy, and Sophie gliding in and +out like a sunbeam. I'm getting poetical, you see. Then, did you ever +see a better, wider, airier dining-room? What capital suppers and things +we'll have there! the nicest times,--everything free and easy, you +know,--just what I've always wanted a house for. I tell you, Chris, you +and Tom Innis shall have latch-keys just like mine, and there is a +capital chamber there at the head of the stairs, so that you can be free +to come and go. And here now's the library,--fancy this full of books +and engravings from the ceiling to the floor; here you shall come just +as you please and ask no questions,--all the same as if it were your +own, you know." + +"And Sophie, what will she say to all this?" + +"Why, you know Sophie is a prime friend to both of you, and a capital +girl to keep things going. Oh, Sophie'll make a house of this, you may +depend!" + +A day or two after, Bill dragged me stumbling over boxes +and through straw and wrappings to show me the glories of the +parlor-furniture,--with which he teemed pleased as a child with a new +toy. + +"Look here," he said; "see these chairs, garnet-colored satin, with a +pattern on each; well, the sofa's just like them, and the curtains to +match, and the carpets made for the floor with centrepieces and borders. +I never saw anything more magnificent in my life. Sophie's governor +furnishes the house, and everything is to be A No. 1, and all that, you +see. Messrs. Curtain and Collamore are coming to make the rooms up, and +her mother is busy as a bee getting us in order." + +"Why, Bill," said I, "you are going to be lodged like a prince. I hope +you'll be able to keep it up; but law-business comes in rather slowly at +first, old fellow." + +"Well, you know it isn't the way I should furnish, if my capital was the +one to cash the bills; but then, you see, Sophie's people do it, and let +them,--a girl doesn't want to come down out of the style she has always +lived in." + +I said nothing, but had an oppressive presentiment that social freedom +would expire in that house, crushed under a weight of upholstery. + +But there came in due time the wedding and the wedding-reception, and we +all went to see Bill in his new house splendidly lighted up and complete +from top to toe, and everybody said what a lucky fellow he was; but that +was about the end of it, so far as our visiting was concerned. The +running in, and dropping in, and keeping latch-keys, and making informal +calls, that had been forespoken, seemed about as likely as if Bill had +lodged in the Tuileries. + +Sophie, who had always been one of your snapping, sparkling, busy sort +of girls, began at once to develop her womanhood, and show her +principles, and was as different from her former self as your careworn, +mousing old cat is from your rollicking, frisky kitten. Not but that +Sophie was a good girl. She had a capital heart, a good, true womanly +one, and was loving and obliging; but still she was one of the +desperately painstaking, conscientious sort of women whose very blood, +as they grow older, is devoured with anxiety, and she came of a race of +women in whom house-keeping was more than an art or a science,--it was, +so to speak, a religion. Sophie's mother, aunts, and grandmothers for +nameless generations back, were known and celebrated housekeepers. They +might have been genuine descendants of the inhabitants of that Hollandic +town of Broeck, celebrated by Washington Irving, where the cows' tails +are kept tied up with unsullied blue ribbons, and the ends of the +firewood are painted white. He relates how a celebrated preacher, +visiting this town, found it impossible to draw these housewives from +their earthly views and employments, until he took to preaching on the +_neatness_ of the celestial city, the unsullied crystal of its walls and +the polish of its golden pavement, when the faces of all the housewives +were set Zionward at once. + +Now this solemn and earnest view of housekeeping is onerous enough when +a poor girl first enters on the care of a moderately furnished house, +where the articles are not too expensive to be reasonably renewed as +time and use wear them; but it is infinitely worse when a cataract of +splendid furniture is heaped upon her care,--when splendid crystals cut +into her conscience, and mirrors reflect her duties, and moth and rust +stand ever ready to devour and sully in every room and passage-way. + +Sophie was solemnly warned and instructed by all the mothers and +aunts,--she was warned of moths, warned of cockroaches, warned of flies, +warned of dust; all the articles of furniture had their covers, made of +cold Holland linen, in which they looked like bodies laid out,--even the +curtain-tassels had each its little shroud--and bundles of receipts and +of rites and ceremonies necessary for the preservation and purification +and care of all these articles were stuffed into the poor girl's head, +before guiltless of cares as the feathers that floated above it. + +Poor Bill found very soon that his house and furniture were to be kept +at such an ideal point of perfection that he needed another house to +live in,--for, poor fellow, he found the difference between having a +house and a home. It was only a year or two after that my wife and I +started our _menage_ on very different principles, and Bill would often +drop in upon us, wistfully lingering in the cozy arm-chair between my +writing-table and my wife's sofa, and saying with a sigh how +confoundedly pleasant things looked there,--so pleasant to have a +bright, open fire, and geraniums and roses and birds, and all that sort +of thing, and to dare to stretch out one's legs and move without +thinking what one was going to hit. "Sophie is a good girl," he would +say, "and wants to have everything right, but you see they won't let +her. They've loaded her with so many things that have to be kept in +lavender, that the poor girl is actually getting thin and losing her +health; and then, you see, there's Aunt Zeruah, she mounts guard at our +house, and keeps up such strict police-regulations that a fellow can't +do a thing. The parlors are splendid, but so lonesome and dismal!--not a +ray of sunshine, in fact not a ray of light, except when a visitor is +calling, and then they open a crack. They're afraid of flies, and yet, +dear knows, they keep every looking-glass and picture-frame muffled to +its throat from March to December. I'd like for curiosity to see what a +fly would do in our parlors!" + +"Well," said I, "can't you have some little family sitting-room, where +you can make yourselves cozy?" + +"Not a bit of it. Sophie and Aunt Zeruah have fixed their throne up in +our bedroom, and there they sit all day long, except at calling-hours, +and then Sophie dresses herself and comes down. Aunt Zeruah insists upon +it that the way is to put the whole house in order, and shut all the +blinds, and sit in your bedroom, and then, she says, nothing gets out of +place; and she tells poor Sophie the most hocus-pocus stories about her +grandmothers and aunts, who always kept everything in their houses so +that they could go and lay their hands on it in the darkest night. I'll +bet they could in our house. From end to end it is kept looking as if we +had shut it up and gone to Europe,--not a book, not a paper, not a +glove, or any trace of a human being, in sight. The piano shut tight, +the bookcases shut and locked, the engravings locked up, all the drawers +and closets locked. Why, if I want to take a fellow into the library, in +the first place it smells like a vault, and I have to unbarricade +windows, and unlock and rummage for half an hour before I can get at +anything; and I know Aunt Zeruah is standing tiptoe at the door, ready +to whip everything back and lock up again. A fellow can't be social, or +take any comfort in showing his books and pictures that way. Then +there's our great, light dining-room, with its sunny south +windows,--Aunt Zeruah got us out of that early in April, because she +said the flies would speck the frescos and get into the china-closet, +and we have been eating in a little dingy den, with a window looking out +on a back-alley, ever since; and Aunt Zeruah says that now the +dining-room is always in perfect order, and that it is such a care off +Sophy's mind that I ought to be willing to eat down-cellar to the end of +the chapter. Now, you see, Chris, my position is a delicate one, because +Sophie's folks all agree, that, if there is anything in creation that is +ignorant and dreadful and mustn't be allowed his way anywhere, it's 'a +man'. Why, you'd think, to hear Aunt Zeruah talk, that we were all like +bulls in a china-shop, ready to toss and tear and rend, if we are not +kept down-cellar and chained; and she worries Sophie, and Sophie's +mother comes in and worries, and if I try to get anything done +differently, Sophie cries, and says she don't know what to do, and so I +give it up. Now, if I want to ask a few of our set in sociably to +dinner, I can't have them where we eat down-cellar,--oh, that would +never do! Aunt Zeruah and Sophie's mother and the whole family would +think the family-honor was forever ruined and undone. We mustn't ask +them, unless we open the dining-room, and have out all the best china, +and get the silver home from the bank; and if we do that, Aunt Zeruah +doesn't sleep for a week beforehand, getting ready for it, and for a +week after, getting things put away; and then she tells me, that, in +Sophie's delicate state, it really is abominable for me to increase her +cares, and so I invite fellows to dine with me at Delmonico's, and then +Sophie cries, and Sophie's mother says it doesn't look respectable for a +family-man to be dining at public places; but, hang it, a fellow wants a +home somewhere!" + +My wife soothed the chafed spirit, and spake comfortably unto him, and +told him that he knew there was the old lounging-chair always ready for +him at our fireside. "And you know," she said, "our things are all so +plain that we are never tempted to mount any guard over them; our +carpets are nothing, and therefore we let the sun fade them, and live on +the sunshine and the flowers." + +"That's it," said Bill, bitterly, "Carpets fading!--that's Aunt Zeruah's +monomania. These women think that the great object of houses is to keep +out sunshine. What a fool I was, when I gloated over the prospect of our +sunny south windows! Why, man, there are three distinct sets of +fortifications against the sunshine in those windows: first, outside +blinds; then, solid, folding, inside shutters; and, lastly, heavy, +thick, lined damask curtains, which loop quite down to the floor. What's +the use of my pictures, I desire to know? They are hung in that room, +and it's a regular campaign to get light enough to see what they are." + +"But, at all events, you can light them up with gas in the evening." + +"In the evening! Why, do you know my wife never wants to sit there in +the evening? She says she has so much sewing to do that she and Aunt +Zeruah must sit up in the bedroom, because it wouldn't do to bring work +into the parlor. Didn't you know that? Don't you know there mustn't be +such a thing as a bit of real work ever seen in a parlor? What if some +threads should drop on the carpet? Aunt Zeruah would have to open all +the fortifications next day, and search Jerusalem with candles to find +them. No; in the evening the gas is lighted at half-cock, you know; and +if I turn it up, and bring in my newspapers and spread about me, and +pull down some books to read, I can feel the nervousness through the +chamber-door. Aunt Zeruah looks in at eight, and at a quarter past, and +at half-past, and at nine, and at ten, to see if I am done, so that she +may fold up the papers and put a book on them, and lock up the books in +their cases. Nobody ever comes in to spend an evening. They used to try +it when we were first married, but I believe the uninhabited appearance +of our parlors discouraged them. Everybody has stopped coming now, and +Aunt Zeruah says 'it is such a comfort, for now the rooms are always in +order. How poor Mrs. Crowfield lives, with her house such a +thoroughfare, she is sure she can't see. Sophie never would have +strength for it; but then, to be sure, some folks a'n't as particular as +others. Sophie was brought up in a family of _very_ particular +housekeepers.'" + +My wife smiled, with that calm, easy, amused smile that has brightened +up her sofa for so many years. + +Bill added, bitterly,-- + +"Of course, I couldn't say that I wished the whole set and system of +housekeeping women at the--what-'s-his-name? because Sophie would have +cried for a week, and been utterly forlorn and disconsolate. I know it's +not the poor girl's fault; I try sometimes to reason with her, but you +can't reason with the whole of your wife's family, to the third and +fourth generation backwards; but I'm sure it's hurting her +health,--wearing her out. Why, you know Sophie used to be the life of +our set; and now she really seems eaten up with care from morning to +night, there are so many things in the house that something dreadful is +happening to all the while, and the servants we get are so clumsy. Why, +when I sit with Sophie and Aunt Zeruah, it's nothing but a constant +string of complaints about the girls in the kitchen. We keep changing +our servants all the time, and they break and destroy so that now we are +turned out of the use of all our things. We not only eat in the +basement, but all our pretty table-things are put away, and we have all +the cracked plates and cracked tumblers and cracked teacups and old +buck-handled knives that can be raised out of chaos. I could use these +things and be merry, if I didn't know we had better ones; and I can't +help wondering whether there isn't some way that our table could be set +to look like a gentleman's table; but Aunt Zeruah says that 'it would +cost thousands, and what difference does it make as long as nobody sees +it but us?' You see, there's no medium in her mind between china and +crystal and cracked earthen-ware. Well, I'm wondering how all these laws +of the Medes and Persians are going to work when the children come +along. I'm in hopes the children will soften off the old folks, and make +the, house more habitable." + +Well, children did come, a good many of them, in time. There was Tom, a +broad-shouldered, chubby-cheeked, active, hilarious son of mischief, +born in the very image of his father; and there was Charlie, and Jim, +and Louisa, and Sophie the second, and Frank,--and a better, brighter, +more joy-giving household, as far as temperament and nature were +concerned, never existed. + +But their whole childhood was a long battle, children _versus_ +furniture, and furniture always carried the day. The first step of the +housekeeping powers was to choose the least agreeable and least +available room in the house for the children's nursery, and to fit it up +with all the old, cracked, rickety furniture a neighboring auction-shop +could afford, and then to keep them in it. Now everybody knows that to +bring up children to be upright, true, generous, and religious, needs so +much discipline, so much restraint and correction, and so many rules and +regulations, that it is all that the parents can carry out, and all the +children can bear. There is only a certain amount of the vital force for +parents or children to use in this business of education, and one must +choose what It shall be used for. The Aunt-Zeruah faction chose to use +it for keeping the house and furniture, and the children's education +proceeded accordingly. The rules of right and wrong of which they heard +most frequently were all of this sort: Naughty children were those who +went up the front-stairs, or sat on the best sofa, or fingered any of +the books in the library, or got out one of the best teacups, or drank +out of the cut-glass goblets. + +Why did they ever want to do it? If there ever is a forbidden fruit in +an Eden, will not our young Adams and Eves risk soul and body to find +out how it tastes? Little Tom, the oldest boy, had the courage and +enterprise and perseverance of a Captain Parry or Dr. Kane, and he used +them all in voyages of discovery to forbidden grounds. He stole Aunt +Zeruah's keys, unlocked her cupboards and closets, saw, handled, and +tasted everything for himself, and gloried in his sins. + +"Don't you know, Tom," said the nurse to him once, "if you are so noisy +and rude, you'll disturb your dear mamma? She's sick, and she may die, +if you're not careful." + +"Will she die?" said Tom, gravely. + +"Why, she _may_." + +"Then," says Tom, turning on his heel,--"then I'll go up the +front-stairs." + +As soon as ever the little rebel was old enough, he was sent away to +boarding-school, and then there was never found a time when it was +convenient to have him come home again. He could not come in the spring, +for then they were house-cleaning, nor in the autumn, because _then_ +they were house-cleaning; and so he spent his vacations at school, +unless, by good luck, a companion who was so fortunate as to have a home +invited him there. His associations, associates, habits, principles, +were as little known to his mother as if she had sent him to China. Aunt +Zeruah used to congratulate herself on the rest there was at home, now +he was gone, and say she was only living in hopes of the time when +Charlie and Jim would be big enough to send away too; and meanwhile +Charlie and Jim, turned out of the charmed circle which should hold +growing boys to the father's and mother's side, detesting the dingy, +lonely play-room, used to run the city-streets, and hang round the +railroad-depots or docks. Parents may depend upon it, that, if they do +not make an attractive resort for their boys, Satan will. There are +places enough, kept warm and light and bright and merry, where boys can +go whose mothers' parlors are too fine for them to sit in. There are +enough to be found to clap them on the back, and tell them stories that +their mothers must not hear, and laugh when they compass with their +little piping voices the dreadful litanies of sin and shame. In middle +life, our poor Sophie, who as a girl was so gay and frolicsome, so full +of spirits, had dried and sharpened into a hard-visaged, angular +woman,--careful and troubled about many things, and forgetful that one +thing is needful. One of the boys had run away to sea; I believe he has +never been heard of. As to Tom, the oldest, he ran a career wild and +hard enough for a time, first at school and then in college, and there +came a time when he came home, in the full might of six feet two, and +almost broke his mother's heart with his assertions of his home rights +and privileges. Mothers who throw away the key of their children's +hearts in childhood sometimes have a sad retribution. As the children +never were considered when they were little and helpless, so they do not +consider when they are strong and powerful. Tom spread wide desolation +among the household gods, lounging on the sofas, spitting tobacco-juice +on the carpets, scattering books and engravings hither and thither, and +throwing all the family-traditions into wild disorder, as he would never +have done, had not all his childish remembrances of them been embittered +by the association of restraint and privation. He actually seemed to +hate any appearance of luxury or taste or order,--he was a perfect +Philistine. + +As for my friend Bill, from being the pleasantest and most genial of +fellows, he became a morose, misanthropic man. Dr. Franklin has a +significant proverb,--"Silks and satins put out the kitchen-fire." Silks +and satins--meaning by them the luxuries of housekeeping--often put out +not only the parlor-fire, but that more sacred flame, the fire of +domestic love. It is the greatest possible misery to a man and to his +children to be _homeless_; and many a man has a splendid house, but no +home. + + +"Papa," said Jennie, "you ought to write and tell what are your ideas of +keeping a _home_." + +"Girls, you have only to think how your mother has brought you up." + +Nevertheless, I think, being so fortunate a husband, I might reduce my +wife's system to an analysis, and my next paper shall be,-- + +_What is a home, and how to keep it?_ + + * * * * * + +THE CONVULSIONISTS OF ST. MEDARD + + +Of all the mental epidemics that have visited Europe, beyond question +the most remarkable, and in some of its features the most inexplicable, +is that which prevailed in Paris some hundred and thirty years ago, +among what were called _the Convulsionists of St. Medard_. + +The celebrated Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres, during his life the opponent +and enemy of the Jesuits, whom he caused to be excluded from the +theological schools of Louvain, left behind him, at his death, a +treatise, posthumously published in 1640, entitled, "Augustinus," in +which he professed to set forth the true opinions of St. Augustine on +those century-long disputed questions of Grace, Free-Will, and +Predestination. Taking ground against the Molinists, he contended for +the doctrine of Predestination antecedent and absolute, a gift purely +gratuitous, of God's free grace, independent of any virtue or merit in +the recipient soul. This doctrine, set forth in five propositions, was +condemned, in the middle of the seventeenth century, by Popes Innocent +X. and Alexander VII.; and against it, when revived by Father Quesnel in +the beginning of the eighteenth century, there was fulminated, in 1713, +by Pope Clement XI., the famous Bull _Unigenitus_. + +From this Bull, accepted in France after long opposition, the Jansenist +party appealed to a future Papal Council, thence deriving their name of +_Appellants_. Among these, one of the most noted and zealous was the +Diacre Paris, who refused a curacy, to avoid signing his adhesion to +what he regarded as heresy, consumed his fortune in works of charity, +and his health in austerities of a character so excessive that they +abridged his life. Dying, as his partisans have it, in the odor of +sanctity, and protesting with his last breath against the doctrines of +the obnoxious Bull, his remains were deposited, on the second of May, +1727, in the small church-yard of St. Medard, situated in the twelfth +_arrondissement_ of Paris, on the Rue Mouffetard, not far from the +Jardin des Plantes. + +To the tomb of one whom they regarded as a martyr to their cause the +Jansenist Appellants habitually resorted, in all the fervor of religious +zeal, heated to enthusiasm by the persecution of the dominant party. And +there, after a time, phenomena presented themselves, which caused for +years, throughout the French capital and among the theologians of that +age, a fever of excitement; and which, though they have been noticed by +medical and other writers of our own century, have not yet, in my +judgment, attracted, either from the medical profession or from the +pneumatological inquirer, the attention they deserve. + +Of these phenomena a portion were physical, and a portion were mental or +psychological. The former, first appearing in the early part of the year +1731, consisted (as alleged) partly of extraordinary cures, the apparent +result of violent convulsive movements which overtook the patients soon +after their bodies touched the marble of the tomb, sometimes even +without approaching it, by swallowing, in wine or water, a small portion +of the earth gathered from around it, the effect being heightened by +strict fasting and prayer,--partly of what were called the "_Grands +Secours_," literally "Great Succors," consisting of the most desperate, +one might say _murderous_, remedies, applied, at their urgent request, +to relieve the sufferings of the Convulsionists. These measures, called +of relief, and carried to an incredible excess, were of such a +character, that, during any normal state of the human system, they would +have destroyed, not one, but a hundred lives, if the patient, or victim, +had been endowed with so many. Those who regarded this marvellous +immunity from what seemed certain immolation as a miraculous +interposition of God were called _Succorists_; their opponents, +ascribing such effects to the interference of the Devil in protection of +his own, or (a somewhat rare opinion in those days) to natural +agency, went by the name of _Anti-Succorists_. (_Secouristes_ and +_Anti-Secouristes_.) + +Some of these alleged cures, but more especially some of these so-called +_succors_, were of a nature so far passing belief, that one would be +tempted to cast them aside as sheer impostures, were not the main facts +vouched for by evidence, not from the Jansenists alone, but from their +bitterest opponents, so direct, so overwhelmingly multiplied, so +minutely circumstantial, that to reject it would amount to a virtual +declaration, that, in proof of the extraordinary and the improbable, we +will accept no testimony whatever, let its weight or character be what +it may. Accordingly, we find dispassionate modern writers, medical and +others, while reminding us, as well they may, that enlightened observers +of these strange phenomena were lacking,[3] and while properly +suggesting that we ought to make allowance for exaggeration in some of +the details, yet admitting as incontestable realities the substantial +facts related by the historians of St. Medard. + +Among these historians the chief is Carre de Montgeron, a magistrate of +rank and high character, Counsellor of the Parliament of Paris. An +enthusiast, and a weak logician, as hot enthusiasts generally are, +Montgeron's honesty is admitted to be beyond question. Converted to +Jansenism on the seventh of September, 1731, in the church-yard of St. +Medard, by the strange scenes there passing, he expended his fortune, +sacrificed his liberty, and devoted years of his life, in the +preparation and publication of one of the most extraordinary works that +ever issued from the press.[4] It consists of three quarto volumes, of +some nine hundred closely printed pages each. Crowded with repetitions, +and teeming with false reasoning, these volumes nevertheless contain, +backed by certificates without number, such an elaborate aggregation of +concurrent testimony as I think human industry never before brought +together to prove any contested class of phenomena. + +Not less zealous, if less voluminous, were the writers opposed to what +was called "the work of the convulsions." Of these one of the chief was +Dom La Taste, Bishop of Bethleem, author of the "Lettres Theologiques," +and of the "Memoire Theologique," in both of which the extravagances of +the Convulsionists are severely handled; a second was the Abbe d'Asfeld, +who, in 1738, published his "Vains Efforts des Discernans," in the same +strain; and another, M. Poncet, who put forth an elaborate reply to the +Succorists, entitled "Reponse des Anti-Secouristes a la Reclamation." + +The convulsions, commencing in the year 1731, almost immediately assumed +an epidemical character, spreading so rapidly that in a few months the +affected reached the number of eight hundred. These were to be found not +only on the tomb and in the cemetery itself, but in the streets, lanes, +and houses adjoining. Many, after returning from the exciting scenes of +St. Medard, were seized with convulsions in their own dwellings. + +The numbers and the excitement went on increasing, and conversions to +Jansenism were counted by thousands; the scenes became daily more +extravagant, and the phenomena more extraordinary, until the King, moved +either by the representations of physicians or by the remonstrances of +Jesuit theologians, caused the cemetery to be closed on the twenty-ninth +of January, 1732.[5] + +Not for such interdiction, however, did the phenomena, once in progress, +intermit. For fifteen years, or longer,[6] the symptoms continued, with +more or less violence. Indeed, the number of Convulsionists greatly +increased after the cemetery was closed, extending to those who had no +ailment or bodily infirmity.[7] + +The symptoms, though varying in different individuals, were of one +general character, partaking, especially as to the muscular phenomena, +of the nature of hysteria, or hystero-catalepsy. The patient, soon after +being placed on the revered tomb, or on the ground near it, was commonly +attacked by a tumultuous movement of all his members. Contractions +exhibited themselves in the neck, shoulders, and principal muscles all +over the body. The nervous system became dreadfully excited. The heart +beat violently, and the patient, sometimes retaining partial +consciousness and suffering extreme pain, could not restrain violent +cries. He usually experienced, also, a tingling or pricking sensation in +any diseased member. Those who from birth had been afflicted with +paralysis, or partial paralysis, of a limb, or one side of the body, +felt the convulsions chiefly in that limb or side. The convulsions were +often so violent that numerous assistants could scarcely restrain the +patient from seriously injuring himself by dashing his body or limbs +against the marble.[8] + +The Demoiselle Fourcroy, alleged to have been suddenly cured, on the +fourteenth of April, 1732, by means of these convulsions, of a confirmed +anchylosis, which had deformed her left foot, and which the physicians +had pronounced incurable,[9] thus describes, in her deposition, her +sensations:--"They caused me to take wine in which was some earth from +the tomb of M. de Paris, and I immediately engaged in prayer, as the +commencement of a _neuvaine_" (that is, a nine-days' act of devotion). +"Almost at the same moment I was seized with a great shuddering, and +soon after with a violent agitation of the members, which caused my +whole body to jerk into the air, and gave me a force I had never before +possessed,--so that the united strength of several persons present could +scarcely restrain me. After a time, in the course of these violent +convulsive movements, I lost all consciousness. As soon as they passed +off, I recovered my senses, and felt a sensation of tranquillity and +internal peace, such as I had never experienced before."[10] + +It was usually at the moment of recovery from these convulsions, as +Montgeron alleges and the certificates published by him declare, that +the cures deemed by him miraculous were effected. Sometimes, however, +these cures were gradual only, extending through several days or weeks. + +In Montgeron's work fourteen distinct cures are minutely reported, all +of persons declared by the attendant physicians to be incurable. Each of +these cures, with the documentary evidence in support of it, occupies +from fifty to one hundred pages of his book. The greater number are +cases of paralysis, usually of one entire side of the body, in some +instances complicated with general dropsy, in others with cancer, in +others again with attacks of apoplexy. There are four cases where the +eyesight was restored,--one of them of a lachrymal fistula; one of a +young Spanish nobleman, who suddenly recovered the use of his right eye, +the left, however, remaining uncured; and there is a case in which a +young woman, deaf and dumb from birth, is reported to have been suddenly +and completely cured on the tomb of M. de Paris, at the moment the +convulsions ceased, immediately repeating, though not understanding, any +word that was spoken to her by the bystanders. + +My limits do not permit me to follow Montgeron through the details and +the documentary proof of these cures. That the patient, in each case, +previously examined by some physician of reputation, was pronounced +incurable, does not prove that he was so. Yet, unless Montgeron lie, +some of the cures are inexplicable, upon any received principles of +medical science. One man, (Philippe Sergent,) whose right knee had +shrunk to such a degree that the right leg was, and had been for more +than a year, three finger-breadths shorter than the left, was, according +to the certificates, cured on the spot, threw away his crutches, and +walked home, unaided, followed by a wondering crowd. Another patient, +(Marguerite Thibault,) affected by general dropsy, and whose feet and +legs were swollen to three times their natural size, is reported to have +been cured so suddenly that before she left the tomb her servant could +put on her feet the same slippers she had worn previously to her malady. +This woman had also been afflicted, for three years, with paralysis of +the left side, so complete as to deprive it of all power of motion. Yet +she is stated to have raised herself, unaided, on the tomb, to have +walked from the spot, and even to have ascended the stairs of her house +on her return. The symptom immediately preceding her cure is said to +have been "a beneficent heat, which diffused itself over the entire left +side, so long deadly cold." This was followed by a consciousness of +power to move it; and her first effort was to stretch out her paralytic +arm.[11] + +But these cures, wonderful as they appear, are far less marvellous than +another class of phenomena already referred to. + +The convulsions were often accompanied by an urgent instinctive desire +for certain extreme remedies, sometimes of a frightful character,--as +stretching the limbs with a violence similar to that of the +rack,--administering on the breast, stomach, or other parts of the body, +hundreds of terrible blows with heavy weapons of wood, iron, or +stone,--pressing with main force against various parts of the body with +sharp-pointed swords,--pressure under enormous weights,--exposure to +excessive heat, etc. Montgeron, viewing the whole as miraculous, +says,--"God frequently causes the convulsionists the most acute pains, +and at the same time intimates to them, by a supernatural instinct, that +the formidable succors which He desires that they should demand will +cause all their sufferings to cease; and these sufferings usually have a +sort of relation to the succors which are to prove a remedy for them. +For instance, an oppression on the breast indicates the necessity for +blows of extreme violence on that part; an excessive cold, or a +devouring heat, when it suddenly seizes a convulsionist, requires that +he should be pushed into the midst of flames; a sharp pang, similar to +that caused by an iron point piercing the flesh, demands a thrust of a +rapier,[12] given in the spot where the pain is felt, be it In the +throat, in the mouth, or in the eyes, of which there are numerous +examples; and let the rapier be pushed as it may, the point, no matter +how sharp, cannot pierce the most tender flesh, not even the eye of the +patient: of this, in my third proposition, I shall adduce proof the most +incontestable."[13] + +To _some_ extent, it would seem, the symptoms themselves, attending the +convulsions, appeared, to the observant physician, to warrant the +propriety of the remedy desired. Montgeron copies a report of a case +made to him, and attested by a gentleman of his acquaintance, a +Jansenist, who had persuaded his cousin, Dr. M----, at that time a +distinguished physician of Paris, and much prejudiced against the +Jansenist movement, to accompany him to a house where there was a young +girl subject to the reigning epidemic. They found her in a room with +twenty or thirty persons, and at the moment in convulsions. The +assistants agreed to place the case in the hands of the physician, and +he carefully noted the movements of the patient. + +"After a time," proceeds the reporter, "he was greatly astonished to +observe a sudden convulsive retraction of all the members. Examining the +patient closely, touching her breast and limbs, he became aware of a +contraction of the nerves, which gradually reached such a degree of +violence that the whole body was disfigured in a frightful manner. His +surprise was extreme, and it was soon changed to alarm, which induced +him to forget his prejudices, and to resort to the very means he had +previously condemned as useless or dangerous. He caused us to place +ourselves, one at the head and one at each hand and foot, and bade us +pull moderately. We did so. + +"'Not enough,' he said, with his hand on the patient's breast; +'stronger!' + +"We obeyed. + +"'Stronger yet!' he exclaimed. + +"We told him we were exerting our entire strength. + +"'Two, then, to each limb,' he said. + +"It was done, (by the aid of long and very strong pieces of +cloth-listing,) but proved insufficient. + +"'Three to each!' he cried; 'the child will die; pull with all your +force! Stronger still!'" + +"'We cannot.'" + +"'Then four to each!'" + +"He was obeyed." + +"'Ah, that relieves,' he said; 'the nerves resume their tone; the +symptoms improve. But do not relax the tension.'" + +"Then again, after a pause,--" + +"'Strong! stronger! The contractions increase. Put all your strength to +it.'" + +Ultimately five persons were assigned to each band; and the nearest +aided themselves by bracing their feet against the bed. They continued +their efforts during half an hour, sometimes pulling with all their +strength, sometimes less strongly, as the physician observed the +contraction of the nerves to increase or relax. Finally he ordered the +tension to be gradually diminished, in proportion as the convulsion +passed off. + +After a time this convulsion was succeeded by another, causing a sudden +and alarming swelling of the chest. "The girl stood leaning against a +wall, and in that position he caused us, as had been our wont, to press +with force on her chest. This we did, interposing a small cushion +composed of listing. At first, I alone assisted." Then Dr. M---- ordered +three, four, five, ultimately even a greater number of persons, to aid +them. "The convulsion ceased gradually, and in the same proportion he +caused us to diminish the pressure." + +"Afterwards the physician, having retired to another room, said to us, +before going away, 'You would be homicides, gentlemen, if you did not +render these succors; for the symptoms require them; and the girl would +die, if you refused them. There is nothing but what is natural in the +relation between her state and these succors.'"[14] + +Another example, occurring in 1740, and still more striking, because the +case was that of a girl only three years of age, is given by Montgeron +on the authority (among other witnesses) of Count de Novion, a near +relative of the Duke de Gesvres, Governor of Paris. The Count, having +been present throughout this case, testifies from personal observation. + +The child's limbs, as in the previous example, were drawn up by violent +convulsive movements, and the muscles became as it were knotted, causing +extreme pain. The little creature urgently begged that they would draw +her legs and arms. Moderate tension caused no diminution of the pain; +violent tension, administered with fear and trembling, relieved her +immediately. She complained also of acute pain in the breast, which +swelled to an alarming extent. To remove this, nothing proved effectual +but excessive pressure with the knee on the part affected. + +After a time, however, some of the Anti-Succorist theologians persuaded +the mother that the succors ought not to be administered,--and even +raised doubts in her mind and in that of the Count, as to whether the +Devil had not some agency in the affair. "Who knows," said the latter, +"if the Arch-Enemy has no part in this?" So they intermitted the succors +for some weeks. During this time the infant gradually sank from day to +day, would scarcely eat or drink, seldom slept, and death seemed +imminent. + +The physician, being called in, declared that the only hope was in +resuming the succors, terrible as they appeared, and that, too, +promptly. To the father he said, "If you delay, it will be too late. +While you are trying all your fine experiments with her, your child will +die." They resumed the same violent remedies as before; and the child +was gradually restored to perfect health.[15] + +But these examples, whatever we may think of them, are but some of the +most moderate, which Montgeron himself admits to be explicable on +natural principles. He says: "During the first months that the succors +commenced, the power of resistance offered by the convulsionists did not +appear so surprising, and seemed, indeed, to be the effect of an +excessive swelling which was observed in the muscles upon which the +convulsionists requested the blows to be given, and of the violent +agitation of the animal spirits; so that the succors demanded by the +sufferers appeared, in a measure, the natural remedy for the state in +which God had placed them. But when, every day, the violence of the +blows increased, it became evident that the natural force of the muscles +could not equal that of the tremendous strokes which the convulsionists +demanded, in obedience, as they said, to the will of God. And here was +manifested the miracle."[16] + +I proceed to give, as an example of one of the more violent succors here +spoken of as miraculous, a narrative, not only vouched for by Montgeron +himself as a witness present, but put forth, in the first instance, by +one of the most violent Anti-Succorists, the Abbe d'Asfeld, in his work +already referred to,--and put forth by him in order to be condemned as a +wicked tempting of Providence,[17] or, worse, an accepting of aid from +the Prince of Darkness himself. It occurred in 1734. + +"Here," says the Abbe, "is an example, all the more worthy of attention, +inasmuch as persons of every station and condition, ecclesiastics, +magistrates, ladies of rank, were among the spectators. Jeanne Moler, a +young girl of twenty-two or twenty-three years of age, standing up with +her back resting against a stone wall, an extremely robust man took an +andiron,[18] weighing, as was said, from twenty-five to thirty pounds, +and therewith gave her, with his whole force, numerous blows on the +stomach. They counted upwards of a hundred at a time. One day a certain +friar, after having given her sixty such blows, tried the same weapon +against a wall; and it is said that at the twenty-fifth blow he broke an +opening through it."[19] + +Dom La Taste, the great opponent of Jansenism, alluding to the same +circumstance, says, "I do not dispute the fact, that the andiron sunk so +deeply that it appeared to penetrate to the very backbone."[20] + +Montgeron, after quoting the above, adds his own testimony, as to this +same occurrence, in these words:-- + +"As I am not ashamed to confess that I am one of those who have followed +up most closely the work of the convulsions, I freely admit that I am +the person to whom the author alludes, when he speaks of a certain friar +who tried against a wall the effect of blows similar to those he had +given the convulsionist. As this is an occurrence personal to myself, I +trust the reader will perceive the propriety of my presenting to him the +narrative in a more exact and detailed form than that in which it is +given by the author of the 'Vains Efforts.' + +"I had begun, as I usually do, by giving the convulsionist very moderate +blows. But after a time, excited by her constant complaints, which left +me no room to doubt that the oppression in the pit of the stomach of +which she complained could be relieved only by violent blows, I +gradually increased the force of mine, employing at last my whole +strength; but in vain. The convulsionist continued to complain that the +blows I gave her were so feeble that they procured her no relief; and +she caused me to put the andiron into the hands of a large and stout man +who happened to be one of the spectators. He kept within no bounds. +Instructed by the trial he had seen me make that nothing could be too +severe, he discharged such terrible blows, always on the pit of the +stomach, as to shake the wall against which the convulsionist was +leaning. + +"She caused him to give her one hundred such blows, not reckoning as +anything the sixty I had just administered. She warmly thanked the man +who had procured her such relief, and reproached me for my weakness and +my lack of faith. + +"When the hundred blows were completed, I took the andiron, desirous of +trying against the wall itself whether my blows, which she thought so +feeble and complained of so bitterly, really did produce no effect. At +the twenty-fifth stroke the stone against which I struck, and which had +been shaken by the previous blows, was shattered, and the pieces fell +out on the opposite side, leaving an opening of more than six inches +square. + +"Now let us observe what were the portions of the body of the +convulsionist on which these fearful blows were dealt. It is true that +they first came in contact with the skin, but they sank immediately to +the back of the patient; their force was not arrested at the surface. + +"I insist unnecessarily, perhaps, upon this fact, since all, even our +greatest enemies, admit its truth. But, however incontestable it is, I +conceive that I cannot too strongly prove it to those who have not +themselves witnessed what happened; inasmuch as the principal objection +made by the author of the 'Memoire Theologique' consists in supposing +that the violence of the most tremendous blows given to convulsionists +is suspended by the Devil, who thus nullifies the effect they would +naturally produce."[21] + +Montgeron further says, that "the greatest enemies of these miraculous +succors admitted the fact that such terrible blows, far from producing +the slightest wound, or causing the convulsionist the least suffering, +actually cured the pains of which she complained."[22] + +The convulsionist sometimes demanded enormous pressure instead of +violent blows. To this also, the Abbe d'Asfeld testifies. I translate +from his "Vains Efforts." + +"Next came the exercise of the platform. It consisted in placing on the +convulsionist, who was stretched on the ground, a board of sufficient +size to cover her entirely; and as many men as could stand upon it +mounted on the board. The convulsionist sustained them all."[23] + +Montgeron adds,--"This relation is tolerably exact, and it only remains +for me to observe, that, as they gave each other the hand, for +reciprocal support, most of those who were on the board rested the whole +weight of the body on a single foot. Thus, twenty men at a time often +stood upon the board, and were supported on the body of a young +convulsionist. Now, as most men weigh a hundred and fifty pounds, and +many weigh more, the body of the girl must have sustained a weight of +three thousand pounds, if not sometimes nearly four thousand,--a load +sufficient to crush an ox. Yet, not only was the convulsionist not +oppressed by it, but she often found the pressure insufficient to +correct the swelling which distended her muscles. With what force must +not God have endowed the body of this girl! Since the days of Samson, +was ever seen such a prodigy?"[24] + +If these incidents, attested as they are by friend and foe, seem to us +incredible, what shall we say of another, not less strongly attested? + +Let us first, as before, take the statement of an adversary. I translate +from the "Memoire Theologique." + +"A convulsionist laid herself on the floor, flat on her back; and a man, +kneeling beside her, and raising a flint stone, weighing upwards of +twenty pounds, as high as he could, after several preliminary trials, +dashed it, with all his force, against the breast of the convulsionist, +giving her one hundred such blows in succession."[25] + +To this Montgeron subjoins,--"But the author ought to have added, that, +at each blow, the whole room shook, the floor trembled, and the +spectators could not repress a shudder at the frightful noise which was +heard, as each blow fell on the convulsionist's breast." We need not be +surprised that he adds,--"Not only ought such strokes naturally to +rupture the minute vessels, the delicate glands, the veins and the +arteries of which the breast is composed,--not only ought they, in the +course of Nature, to have crushed and reduced the whole to a bloody +mass,--but they ought to have shattered to pieces the bones and +cartilages by which the breast is inclosed."[26] + +This was the view of the case taken by a celebrated physician of the +day. Montgeron tells us:--"This philosopher maintained that the facts +alleged could not be true, because they were physically impossible. He +raised, among other objections, this,--that the flexible, delicate +nature of the skin, of the flesh, and of the viscera, is incompatible +with a force and a consistency so extraordinary as the alleged facts +presuppose; and, consequently, that it was impossible, without ceasing +to be what they are,--without a radical change in their qualities,--that +they should acquire a force superior to that of the hardest and most +solid bodies. They let him quietly complete his anatomical argument, and +set forth all his proofs, and merely answered, 'Come and see; test the +truth of the facts for yourself.' He went. At first sight, he is seized +with astonishment; he doubts the evidence of his eyes; he asks to be +allowed himself to administer the succors. They immediately place in his +hands iron bars of a crushing weight. He does not spare his blows; he +exerts his utmost strength. The weapon sinks into the flesh, seems to +penetrate to the entrails. But the convulsionist only laughs at his idle +efforts. His blows but procure her relief, without leaving the least +impression, the slightest trace, even on the epidermis."[27] + +Space fails me to furnish more than a very few additional specimens of +the endless incidents of which the details are scattered by Montgeron +over hundreds of pages,--incidents occurring in various parts of Paris, +daily, for many years. Three or four more of these may suffice for my +present purpose. + +A certain Marie Sonnet had made herself so remarkable by the incredible +succors she demanded, that a physician of Paris, Dr. A----, published, +in regard to her case, a satirical letter addressed to M. de Montgeron, +in which, after attacking the girl's moral character, be assumed this +strange position: "It is a sentiment universally established, that it is +in the power of the Devil, when God permits, to communicate to man +forces above those of Nature. Nor must it be said that God never permits +this; the case of the girl Sonnet is unanswerable proof to the +contrary."[28] + +Among the incidents which appear to have led to this opinion one is thus +stated by him:--"They let fall upon her stomach, from the height of the +ceiling, a stone weighing fifty pounds, while her body, bent back like a +bow, was supported on the point of a sharpened stake, placed just under +the spine; yet, far from being crushed by the stone, or pierced by the +stake, it was a relief to her."[29] + +Montgeron supplies further particulars of this case. He says:--"It was +not once, it was a hundred times in succession, and that daily repeated, +that this flint stone was raised by main force, by the aid of a pulley, +to the ceiling of the room, and thence suddenly let fall on the stomach +of the patient. This stone weighed, it is true, fifty pounds only; but, +descending from a great height, its effect was immensely increased by +the momentum it acquired in falling, as soon as the cord was detached by +which it was suspended in the air.' And, in truth, the ribs of the +convulsionist bent under the terrible shock, sinking under the weight +till her stomach and bowels were so completely flattened that the stone +seemed wholly to displace them. Yet she received no injury whatever, but +was relieved, as Dr. A---- himself admits. He confesses, also, that the +body of the convulsionist was bent back so that the head and feet +touched the floor, and was supported only on the sharp point of a stake +right under her reins, and placed perpendicularly beneath the spot where +the stone was to fall. The weight of the stone in falling was, +therefore, arrested only by the point of this stake, the body of the +convulsionist being between them, so that the entire force of the blow +was concentrated opposite that point.... The stake appeared to penetrate +to a certain depth into the body, yet neither the skin nor the flesh +received the slightest injury, nor did the convulsionist experience any +pain whatever."[30] + +This same Marie Sonnet exposed herself to terrible tests by fire. A +certificate in regard to this matter, signed by eleven persons, of whom +one was an English lord, one a Doctor of Theology in the Sorbonne, and +another the brother of Voltaire, Armand Arouet, Treasurer of the Chamber +of Accounts, is given by Montgeron, and I here translate it:-- + +"We, the undersigned, certify, that this day, between eight and ten +o'clock, P.M., Marie Sonnet, being in convulsion, was placed, her head +resting on one stool and her feet on another, these stools being +entirely within a large chimney and under the opening of the same, so +that her body was suspended in the air above the fire, which was of +extreme violence, and that she remained in that position for the space +of thirty-six minutes, at four different times; yet the cloth [_drap_] +in which she was wrapped (she having no other dress) was not burned, +though the flames sometimes passed above it: all which appears to us +entirely supernatural. In testimony whereof, we have signed our names, +this twelfth of May, 1736." + +To this certificate, which was afterwards legally recorded, a postscript +is appended, stating, that, while they were writing out the certificate, +Marie placed herself a fifth time over the fire, as before, remaining +there nine minutes; that she appeared to sleep, though the fire was +excessively hot; fifteen logs of wood, besides fagots, having been +consumed in the two hours and a quarter during which the witnesses +remained. + +Montgeron adds, that this exhibition has been witnessed at least a +hundred times, and by a multitude of persons. And he expressly states, +that the stools, which consisted of iron frames, with a board upon each, +were placed entirely within the fireplace, and one on each side of the +fire; so that, as Marie Sonnet rested her head on one stool and her feet +on the other, her body remained suspended immediately above the fire; +and further, that, "no matter how intense the heat, not only did she +suffer no inconvenience, but the cloth in which she was wrapped was +never injured, nor even singed, though it was sometimes actually in the +flames."[31] + +He declares, also, that Marie, on other occasions, remained over the +fire much longer than is above certified. The author of the "Vains +Efforts" admits that "she remained exposed to the fire long enough to +roast a piece of mutton or veal." + +Montgeron informs us, in addition, that Marie Sonnet sometimes varied +the form of this experiment, with a somewhat varying result. He +says,--"I have seen her five or six times, and in the presence of a +multitude of persons, thrust both her feet, with shoes and stockings on, +into the midst of a burning brazier; but in this case the fire did not +respect the shoes, as, in the other, it had respected the cloth that +enwrapped her. The shoes caught fire, and the soles were reduced to +ashes, but without the convulsionist experiencing pain in her feet, +which she continued to keep for a considerable time in the fire. Once I +had the curiosity to examine the soles of her stockings, in order to +ascertain if they, too, were burnt. As soon as I touched them they +crumbled to powder, so that the sole of the foot remained bare."[32] + +Dr. A----, in the letter already alluded to, which he published against +this girl, admits, that, "while in the midst of flames, or stretched +over a burning brazier, she received no injury whatever."[33] + +M. Poncet, whom I have elsewhere mentioned as one of the chief writers +against the Succorists, admits the following:-- + +"This convulsionist [Gabrielle Moler] placed herself on her knees before +a large fire full of burning coals all in flame. Then, a person being +seated behind her, and holding her by a band, she plunged her head into +the flames, which closed over it; then, being drawn back, she repeated +the same, continuing it with a regular alternate movement. She has been +seen thus to throw herself on the fire six hundred times in succession. +Usually she wore a bonnet, but sometimes not; and when she did wear one, +the top of the bonnet was occasionally burned."[34] Montgeron adds, "but +her hair never."[35] + +Gabrielle was the first who (in 1736) demanded what was called the +_succor of the swords_. Montgeron says,--"She was prompted by the +supernatural instinct which guided her to select the strongest and +sharpest sword she could find among those worn by the spectators. Then +setting herself with her back against a wall, she placed the point of +the sword just above her stomach, and called upon him who seemed the +strongest man to push it with all his force; and though the sword bent +into the form of a bow from the violence with which it was pushed, so +that they had to press against the middle of the blade to keep it +straight, still the convulsionist cried out, 'Stronger! stronger!' After +a time she applied the point of the sword to her throat, and required it +to be pushed with the same violence as before. The point caused the skin +to sink into the throat to the depth of four finger-breadths, but it +never pierced the flesh, let them push as violently as they would. +Nevertheless, the point of the sword seemed to attach itself to the +skin; for, when drawn back, it drew the skin with it, and left a +trifling redness, such as would be caused by the prick of a pin. For the +rest, the convulsionist suffered no pain whatever."[36] + +Similar is the testimony of an Advocate of the Parliament of Paris, +extracts from whose certificate in regard to the succors rendered to the +Sister Madeleine are given by Montgeron. Here is one of these:-- + +"One day, extended on the ground, she caused a spit to be placed +upright, with the point on her bare throat. Then a stout man mounted on +a chair, and suspended his whole body from the head of the spit, +pressing with all his force, as if to transfix the throat and pierce the +floor beneath. But the flesh merely sank in with the point of the spit, +without being in the least injured. + +"Another day, she placed the point of a very sharp sword against the +hollow of the throat, just below the epiglottis, and, standing with her +back against the wall, called on them to push the sword. A vigorous man +did so, till the blade bent, though not so much as to form a complete +arc. The point sank into the flesh about an inch. I was curious to +measure the exact depth, and found that the flesh rose so far around the +sword-point that I could sink a finger in beyond the first joint. She +received this succor twice. The sword was one of the sharpest I have +ever seen. We tried it against a portfolio containing the paper intended +for the minutes which on such occasions I always make out. It perforated +the pasteboard and a considerable part of the papers within."[37] + +The Sister Madeleine carried her temerity in this matter still farther. +Here is a portion of the certificate of an ecclesiastic, for whose +uprightness and truthfulness Montgeron vouches in strong terms, and who +relates what he alleges he saw on the thirty-first of May, 1744. + +"Madeleine caused them to hold two swords in the air horizontally. She +herself placed the point of one in the inner corner of the right eye, +and of the other in the inner corner of the left, and then called out to +those who held the swords, 'In the name of the Father, push!' They did +so with all their force; and I confess that I shuddered from head to +foot.... A second time Madeleine caused them to set two swords against +the pupils of her eyes, and to press them strongly, as before. This time +I took especial notice of the part of the sword that was on a level with +the surface of the eye when the pressure was the strongest, and I +perceived that the point had penetrated a good inch into the pupil."[38] + +The Chaplain in Ordinary of the King, under date of the fourth of +October, 1744, testifies to confirmatory facts. He says,--"I have seen +them push sword-points against the eyes of Sisters Madeleine and +Felicite, sometimes on the pupil, sometimes in the corner of the eye, +sometimes on the eyelid,--with such force as to cause the eyeball to +project, till the spectators shuddered."[39] + +Another officer of the royal household gives a certificate of succors +administered to this same Madeleine, of a character scarcely less +wonderful, with pointed spits, of which two were broken against her +body. + +This officer certifies, also, that, on one occasion, when pushing a +sharp sword against Madeleine, not being able to push strongly enough +to satisfy her, he placed a book bound in parchment on his own breast, +placed the hilt of his sword against it, and pressed with so much force +that the cover of the book was quite spoiled by the deep indentation +made by the sword-hilt. He adds,--"The instinct of her convulsion caused +her sometimes to demand as many as twenty-two swords at a time. These +were placed, some in front, some against her back, some against her +sides, in every direction. I myself never saw quite so many employed; +but I was present, and was myself assisting, when eighteen swords were +pushed at once against various parts of her body. Although the force +with which this prodigious succor was administered caused deep +indentations in the flesh, she never received the slightest wound. It +often happened that her convulsions caused the flesh to react under the +pressure of the sword-points, so as forcibly to push back the +assistants."[40] + +The Advocate of the Parliament of Paris, already mentioned, certifies to +the same phenomenon. His words are,--"One can feel, under the +sword-point, a movement of the flesh, which, from time to time, thrusts +back the sword. This occurs the most strongly when the succor is nearly +at an end. The convulsionist calls out, 'Enough!' as soon as the pains +are relieved."[41] + +The same Advocate states, that sometimes the convulsionist threw the +weight of her body on the swords, the hilts resting on the floor, and +being secured from slipping. He speaks of one case in which, "while she +was balancing herself on the points of several swords upon which she had +thrown herself with all her weight, [_ou elle se jettoit a corps +perdu_,] one of them broke."[42] + +The officer of the king's household already spoken of testifies to a +similar fact. A certain Sister Dina, he says, caused six swords thus to +break against her body. He adds, that he himself broke the blade of a +sword while thrusting against her; and that he saw two others broken in +the same way.[43] + +In regard to what Montgeron considers the exacting instinct, the same +officer says,--"I had the curiosity to ask Sister Madeleine, in her +natural state, what was the sort of suffering which caused her to have +recourse to such astonishing succors. She replied, that the pain she +suffered was the same as if swords were actually piercing her; that she +felt relieved of this pain as soon as the sword-points penetrated to her +skin, and quite cured when the assistants put their whole force to it. +She laughed when the swords pierced her dress, saying, 'I feel the +points on my skin. That relieves. That does me good.'"[44] + +Both the Advocate of Parliament and the ecclesiastic from whose +certificates I have quoted testify that the convulsionists were +repeatedly undressed and examined by a committee of their own sex, +consisting in part of incredulous ladies of fashion, to ascertain that +they had nothing concealed under their clothes to resist the +sword-points. But in every case it was ascertained that they wore but +the ordinary articles of under-clothing. The Sister Dina was examined in +this way; and it was ascertained that she had nothing under her gown +except a chemise and a simple linen stomacher. Her clothing was found +pierced in many places, but the flesh wholly uninjured.[45] + +Although throughout the writings of the Anti-Succorists there are +constant denunciations of these succors as flagrant and wicked temptings +of Providence, yet I do not find therein any allegation that serious +injury was ever sustained by any of the patients. Montgeron himself, +however, admits, that, on one occasion, a wound was received. He tells +us that a certain convulsionist long resisted the instinct which bade +her demand the succor of a triangular-bladed sword against the left +breast, fearing the result. At last, however, the pain became so intense +that she was fain to consent. For the first seven or eight minutes the +sword-point only indented the flesh, as usual. But then, says Montgeron, +"her faith suddenly failing her, she cried out, 'Ah! you will kill me!' +No sooner had she pronounced the words than the sword pierced the flesh, +making a wound two inches in depth." He alleges, further, that the +instinct of the convulsionist informed her that the wound would have no +bad consequences, and could be cured by severe blows of a club on the +same spot; which, he declares, happened accordingly.[46] + +Besides the incidents above related, and a hundred others of similar +character, which, if time and the reader's patience permitted, I might +cull from Montgeron's pages, the restless enthusiasm of the +convulsionists ultimately betrayed them into extravagances, in which it +is often hard to decide whether the grotesque or the horrible more +predominated. One convulsionist descended the long stairs of an +infirmary head-foremost, lying on her back; another caused herself to be +attached, by a rope round her neck, to a hook in the wall. A third +repeated her prayers while turning somersets. A fourth, suspended by the +feet, with the head hanging down, remained in that position +three-quarters of an hour. A fifth, lying down on a tomb, caused herself +to be covered to the neck with baked earth mixed with sand and saturated +with vinegar. A sixth made her bed, in winter, on billets of wood; a +seventh on bars of iron. The Sister Felicite was in the habit of causing +herself to be nailed to the cross, and of remaining there half an hour +at a time, gayly conversing with the pious who surrounded her.[47] +Another sister, named Scholastique, after long hesitation between +different modes of mortification, having one day remarked the manner in +which they constructed the pavement of the streets, had her dress +tightly fastened below the knee, and then ordered one of the assistants +to take her by the legs, and, with her head downward, to dash it +repeatedly against the tiled floor, after the fashion of paviors, when +using a rammer. + +"If," says Calmeil, "the idea had chanced to suggest itself to one of +these theomaniacs, that disembowelling alive would be a sacrifice +pleasing to the Supreme Being, she would undoubtedly have insisted upon +being subjected to such a martyrdom."[48] + +The mental and physiological phenomena connected with this epidemic +remain to be noticed, together with the theories and suggestions put +forth by medical and other contemporary writers, in explanation of what +has here been sketched, the substance of which is usually admitted by +these commentators, however incredible, when related at this distance of +time, it may appear. Next month the subject will be continued. + + * * * * * + +PRESENCE. + + + The wild, sweet water, as it flows,-- + The winds, that kiss me as they pass,-- + The starry shadow of the rose, + Sitting beside her on the grass,-- + + The daffodilly, trying to bless + With better light the beauteous air,-- + The lily, wearing the white dress + Of sanctuary, to be more fair,-- + + The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier, + That in the woods, so dim and drear, + Lights up betimes her tender fire + To soothe the homesick pioneer,-- + + The moth, his brown sails balancing + Along the stubble crisp and dry,-- + The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring + On either hand,--the pewet's cry,-- + + The friendly robin's gracious note,-- + The hills, with curious weeds o'errun,-- + The althea, with her crimson coat + Tricked out to please the wearied sun,-- + + The dandelion, whose golden share + Is set before the rustic's plough,-- + The hum of insects in the air,-- + The blooming bush,--the withered bough,-- + + The coming on of eve,--the springs + Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,-- + The frost, that with rough, rugged wings + Blows down the cankered buds,--the white, + + Long drifts of winter snow,--the heat + Of August, falling still and wide,-- + Broad cornfields,--one chance stalk of wheat, + Standing with bright head hung aside,-- + + All things, my darling, all things seem + In some strange way to speak of thee; + Nothing is half so much a dream, + Nothing so much reality. + + My soul to thine is dutiful, + In all its pleasure, all its care; + O most beloved! most beautiful! + I miss, and find thee everywhere! + + * * * * * + +GLACIAL PERIOD. + + +In the early part of the summer of 1840, I started from Switzerland for +England with the express object of finding traces of glaciers in Great +Britain. This glacier-hunt was at that time a somewhat perilous +undertaking for the reputation of a young naturalist like myself, since +some of the greatest names in science were arrayed against the novel +glacial theory. And it was not strange that it should be at first +discredited by the scientific world, for hitherto all the investigations +of geologists had gone to show that a degree of heat far greater than +any now prevailing characterized the earlier periods of the world's +history. Even Charpentier, my precursor and master in glacial research, +who first showed the greater extent of Swiss glaciers in former times, +had not thought of any more general application of his result, or +connected their former boundaries with any great change in the climatic +conditions of the whole continent. His explanation of the phenomena +rested upon the assumption that the Alps formerly rose far beyond their +present height; their greater altitude, he thought, would account for +the existence of immense glaciers extending from the Alps across the +plain of Switzerland to the Jura. Inexperienced as I then was, and +ignorant of the modes by which new views, if founded on truth, commend +themselves gradually to general acceptation, I was often deeply +depressed by the skepticism of men whose scientific position gave them a +right to condemn the views of younger and less experienced students. I +can smile now at the difficulties which then beset my path, but at the +time they seemed serious enough. It is but lately, that, in turning over +the leaves of a journal, published some twelve or fifteen years ago, to +look for a forgotten date, I was amused to find a formal announcement, +under the signature of the greatest geologist of Europe, of the demise +of the glacial theory. Since then it has risen, phoenix-like, from its +own funeral pile. + +Even when I arrived in England, many of my friends would fain have +dissuaded me from my expedition, urging me to devote myself to special +zooelogical studies, and not to meddle with general geological problems +of so speculative a character. "Punch" himself did not disdain to give +me a gentle hint as to the folly of my undertaking, terming my journey +into Scotland in search of moraines a sporting-expedition after +"moor-hens." Only one of my older scientific friends in England, a man +who in earlier years had weathered a similar storm himself, shared my +confidence in the investigations looked upon by others as so visionary, +and offered to accompany me in my excursion to the North of England, +Scotland, and Wales. I cannot recur to that delightful journey without a +few words of grateful and affectionate tribute to the friend who +sustained me by his sympathy and guided me by his knowledge and +experience. + +For many years I had enjoyed the privilege of personal acquaintance with +Dr. Buckland, and in 1834, when engaged in the investigation of fossil +fishes, I had travelled with him through parts of England and Scotland, +and had derived invaluable assistance from his friendly advice and +direction. To him I was indebted for an introduction to all the +geologists and palaeontologists of Great Britain, with none of whom, +except Lyell, had I any previous personal acquaintance; and through him +I obtained not only leave to examine all the fossil fishes in public and +private collections throughout England, but the unprecedented privilege +of bringing them together for closer comparison in the rooms of the +Geological Society of London. A few years later he visited Switzerland, +when I had the pleasure of showing him, in my turn, the glacial +phenomena of my native country, to the study of which I was then +devoting all my spare time. After a thorough survey of the facts I had +collected, he became satisfied that my interpretation of them was likely +to prove correct, and even then he recalled phenomena of his own +country, which, under the new light thrown upon them by the glacial +phenomena of Switzerland, gave a promise of success to my extraordinary +venture. We then resolved to pursue the inquiry together on the occasion +of my next visit to England; and after the meeting in Glasgow of the +British Association for Advancement of Science, we started together for +the mountains of Scotland in search of traces of the glaciers, which, if +there was any truth in the generalizations to which my study of the +Swiss glaciers had led me, must have come down from the Grampian range, +and reached the level of the sea, as they do now in Greenland. + +On the fourth of November of that year I read a paper before the +Geological Society of London, containing a summary of the scientific +results of that excursion, which I had extended with the same success to +Ireland and parts of England. This paper was followed by one from Dr. +Buckland himself, containing an account of his own observations, and +another from Lyell on the same subject. From that time, the +investigation of glaciers in regions where they no longer occur has been +carried to almost every part of the globe. Before giving a more special +account of this expedition, I will say a word of the mass of facts which +I had brought from my Alpine researches, on which my own convictions +were founded, and which seemed to Buckland worthy of careful +consideration. To explain these more fully to my readers, I must leave +the Scotch hills for a while, and beg them to return with me to +Switzerland once more. + +Thus far I have spoken chiefly of the advance of glaciers, and very +justly, since they are in constant onward motion, being kept within +their limits only by a waste at their lower extremity proportionate to +their advance. But in considering the past history of glaciers, we must +think of their changes as retrograde, not progressive movements; since, +if the glacial theory be true, a great mass of ice, of which the present +glaciers are but the remnants, formerly spread over the whole Northern +hemisphere, and has gradually disappeared, until now no traces of it are +to be found, except in the Arctic regions and in lofty mountain-ranges. +Every terminal moraine, such as I described in the last article, is the +retreating footprint of some glacier, as it slowly yielded its +possession of the plain, and betook itself to the mountains; wherever we +find one of these ancient semicircular walls of unusual size, there we +may be sure the glacier resolutely set its icy foot, disputing the +ground inch by inch, while heat and cold strove for the mastery. There +may have been a succession of cold summers, or, if now and then a warmer +summer intervened, a colder one followed, so that the glacier regained +the next year the ground it had lost during the preceding one, thus +continuing to oscillate for a number of years along the same line, and +adding constantly to the _debris_ collected at its extremity. Wherever +such oscillations and pauses in the retreat of the glacier occurred, all +the materials annually brought down to its terminus were collected; and +when it finally disappeared from that point, it left a wall to mark its +temporary resting-place. + +By these semicircular concentric walls we can trace the retreat of the +ice as it withdrew from the plain of Switzerland to the fastnesses of +the Alps. It paused at Berne, and laid the foundation of the present +city, which is built on an ancient moraine; it made a stand again at the +Lake of Thun, and barred its northern outlet by a wall which holds its +waters back to this day. Other moraines, though less distinct, are +visible nearer the base of the Bernese Alps, and, above Meyringen, the +valley is spanned by one of very large dimensions. Again, on the other +side of the first chain of high peaks, the glacier of the Rhone, +descending the valley toward the Lake of Geneva, has everywhere left +traces of its ancient extension. We find the valley crossed at various +distances by concentric moraines, until we reach the lake. There are no +less than thirteen concentric moraines immediately below the present +termination of the glacier of the Rhone, the one nearest to the ice, and +the last formed, marking its present boundary. Others are visible half a +mile, a mile, and two or three miles beyond, near the villages of +Obergestelen and Muenster. One of the largest and finest of these ancient +moraines of the glacier of the Rhone stands at Viesch, and extends +across the whole valley, while the Rhone, already swollen by many +mountain-torrents, has cut its way through it. Lower down, we meet with +traces of other ancient glaciers, reaching laterally the main glacier, +which occupied the centre of the valley: such was the glacier of Viesch, +when it extended as far down as the village;[49] such was the glacier of +Aletsch, when it added its burden of ice to that coming from the upper +valley; such was the glacier of the Simplon, whose moraines, of less +antiquity, may now be seen by the road-side leading over the Alps to +Italy; such were the two gigantic twin glaciers that drained the +northern slopes of the mountain-colosses around Monte Rosa and +Matterhorn, united at Stalden, and thence, losing their independence, +became simply lateral tributaries of the great glacier of the Rhone; +such were, farther on, the glaciers coming down from all the +side-valleys opening into the Rhone basin; such were the glaciers of the +St. Bernard, and even those of Chamouni, which in those early days +crossed the Tete Noire to unite below Martigny with those that filled +the valley of the Rhone. Thus the outlines of this glacier may be +followed from its present remnant at the summit of the Valais, where the +Rhone now springs forth from the ice, to the very shores of the Lake of +Geneva, where, near the mouth of the river, on both banks of the valley, +the ancient moraines may be traced to this day, thousands of feet above +the level of the water, marking the course the glacier once followed. + +It is evident that here the remains of the glacier mark a process of +retrogression; for had these successive walls of loose materials been +deposited in consequence of the advance of the glacier, they would have +been pushed together in one heap at its lower end. That such would have +been the case is not mere inference, but has been determined by direct +observation in other localities. We know, for instance, by historical +record, (see Gruner's "Natural History of the Glaciers of Switzerland,") +that in the seventeenth century a number of successive moraines existed +at Grindelwald, which have since been driven together by the advance of +the glacier, and now form but one. Indeed, we have ample traditional +evidence of the oscillations of glacier-boundaries in recent times. When +I was engaged in the investigation of this subject, I sought out all the +chronicles kept in old convents or libraries which might throw any light +upon it. Among other records, I chanced upon the following, which may +have some interest for the historian as well as the geologist. + +During the religious wars of the sixteenth century, when the Catholics +gained the ascendancy in the Canton of Valais, the inhabitants of the +upper valleys adhered to the Protestant faith. Shut out from ordinary +communication with the Protestant churches by the Bernese Oberland, the +account states that these peasants braved every obstacle to the exercise +of their religion, and used to carry their children over a certain road +by the valley of Viesch, across the Alps, to be baptized at Grindelwald, +on the farther side of the glaciers of Aletsch and Viesch. I could not +understand this statement, for no such road exists, or could be +conceived possible at present; nor was there any knowledge of it among +the guides, intimate as they are with every feature of the region. +Impressed, however, with the idea that there must be some foundation for +the statement, I carefully examined the ground, and, penetrating under +the glacier of Aletsch, I actually found, a number of feet below the +present level of the ice, the paved road along which these hardy people +travelled to church with their children, and some traces of which are +still visible. It has been almost completely buried, although here and +there it reappears; but at this day it is completely impassable for +ordinary travel. + +Evidence of a like character is found in a number of facts cited by +Venetz in his celebrated paper upon the variations of temperature in the +Swiss Alps, drawn from the parish and commune registers of the Canton of +Valais. Among these are acts concerning the right to roads which are now +either entirely hidden by ice, or rendered nearly useless by the advance +of the glacier, a lawsuit respecting the use of a forest which no longer +exists, but the site of which is covered by a glacier, and other records +of a similar character. The only document, so far as I know, previous to +this century, which furnishes the means of delineating with any accuracy +the former boundary of a glacier, is a topographical plan of the +environs of the Grimsel, including the extremity of the Aar, making a +part of Altmann's work upon the Alps. + +In 1740, Kapeler, a physician of Lucerne, undertook a journey to the +mountains of the Aar, to visit certain crystal grottos, now well known, +but then recently discovered. He prepared a map of these grottos and +their vicinity, in which they are represented as being situated at some +distance from the extremity of the glacier, the lower end of which is +now considerably beyond them.[50] + +But to return to the glacier of the Rhone. We can detect the sequence +and relative age of its ancient moraines, not only by their position +with reference to each other and to the present glacier, but also by +their vegetation. The older ones have a mature vegetation; indeed, some +of the largest trees of the valley stand upon the lower moraines, while +those higher up, nearer the glacier, have only comparatively small +trees, and the more recent ones are almost bare of vegetation. Moreover, +we do not lose the track of the great glacier of the Rhone even when we +have followed its ancient boundaries to the shores of the Lake of +Geneva; for along its northern and southern shores we can follow the +lateral moraines marking the limits of the glacier which once occupied +that crescent-shaped depression now filled by the blue waters of the +lake. + +M. de Charpentier was the first geologist who attempted to draw the +outlines of the glacier of the Rhone during its greatest extension, when +it not only filled the basin of the Lake of Geneva, but stretched across +the hilly plain to the north, reached the foot of the Jura, and even +rose to a considerable height along the southern slope of that chain of +mountains. At that time the colossal glacier spread at its extremity +like a fan, extending westward in the direction of Geneva and eastward +towards Soleure.[51] The very minute and extensive investigations of +Professor A. Guyot upon the erratic boulders of Switzerland have not +only confirmed the statements of M. de Charpentier, but even shown that +the northeastern boundary of the ancient glacier of the Rhone was more +extensive than was at first supposed. Other researches upon the ancient +moraines along the shores of the Lake of Geneva, and in other parts of +Switzerland, in which most geologists of the day took an active part, +have made us as fully conversant with the successive outlines and +varying extent of the principal glaciers ranging from the Alpine summits +to the surrounding lowlands as we are with the glaciers in their present +circumscription. But no one has done as much as Professor Guyot to add +precision to these investigations. The number of localities, the level +of which he has determined barometrically, with the view of fixing the +ancient levels of all these vanished glaciers, is almost incredible. The +result of all these surveys has been a distinct recognition of not less +than seven gigantic glaciers descending from the northern and western +slopes of the Alps to the adjoining hilly plains of Switzerland and +France. It is most interesting to trace their outlines upon a recent map +of those countries, but it requires that kind of intellectual effort of +the imagination without which the most brilliant results of modern +science remain an unmeaning record to us. Let us, nevertheless, try to +follow. + +The glacier of the Rhone, occupying the whole space between the Bernese +and Valesian Alps, filled to overflowing the valley of the Rhone; at +Martigny it was met by a large tributary from Mont Blanc, by the side of +which it advanced into the plain beyond, filling the whole Lake of +Geneva, and covering the beautiful Canton de Vaud and parts of Fribourg, +Neuchatel, Berne, and Soleure, rising to the crest of the Jura, and in +many points penetrating even beyond its outer range. + +To the east of this, the largest of all the ancient glaciers of +Switzerland, we find the ancient glacier of the Aar, descending from the +northern slope of the whole range of the Bernese Oberland. The glaciers +that once filled the valley of Hasli, from the Grimsel to Meyringen, and +those that came down from the Wetterhoerner, the Schreckhoerner, the +Finster-Aarhorn, and the Jungfrau, through the valleys of Grindelwald +and Lauterbrunnen, united in a common bed, the bottom of which was the +present basin of the Lakes of Brientz and Thun. These were joined by the +glaciers emptying their burden through the valley of the Kander. To +these combined glaciers the formation of the terminal moraine of Thun +must be ascribed. But before this had been formed, the glacier of the +Aar, in its amplest extension, had also reached the foot of the Jura, +without, however, spreading so widely as the glacier of the Rhone. +Farther to the east Professor Guyot has traced the boundaries of three +other colossal glaciers, one of which derived its chief supplies from +the Alps of Uri, bringing with it all the tributaries which the main +glacier coming down from the St. Gothard received right and left, in its +course through the valley of the Reuss and the basins of the Lakes of +Lucerne and Zug. The second, born in the Canton of Glaris, followed +mainly the present course of the Linth and the basin of the Lake of +Zurich. Professor Escher von der Linth has shown that the lovely city of +Zurich is built upon a moraine, like Berne. The imagination shrinks from +the thought that all the beautiful scenery of those countries should +once have been hidden under masses of ice, like those now covering +Greenland. The easternmost ancient glacier of Switzerland is that of the +Rhine, arising from all the valleys from which now descend the many +tributaries of that stream, spreading over the northeastern Cantons, +filling the Lake of Constance, and terminating at the foot of the +Suabian Alp. Next to the glacier of the Rhone, this was once the largest +of those descending from the range of the Alps. + +West of Mont Blanc Professor Guyot has traced the boundaries of two +other distinct ancient glaciers; one of which, the glacier of the Arve, +followed chiefly the course of the Arve, and, though discharging the icy +accumulations from the western slope of Mont Blanc, was, as it were, +only a lateral affluent of the great glacier of the Rhone. The other, +the glacier of the Isere, occupied, to the south and west of the +preceding, the large triangular space intervening between the Alps and +the Jura, in that part of Savoy where the two mountain-chains converge +and become united. + +It would lead me too far, were I to describe also the course of the +great ancient glaciers which descended from the southern slopes of the +Alps into the plain of Northern Italy. Moreover, these boundaries are +not yet ascertained with the same degree of accuracy as those of the +northern and western slopes; though very accurate descriptions of some +of them have been published, with illustrations on a large scale, by MM. +Martins and Gastaldi, and of others by Professor Ramsey. I have myself +examined only the upper part of that of the valley of Aosta. + +The evidence concerning the ancient glaciers of the Alps, especially +within the limits of Switzerland, is already so full that it affords +ample means for a comprehensive general view of the subject. It is +frequently the case, that, when a stretch of time or space lies between +us and a matter we have once studied more closely, it presents itself to +us as a whole more vividly than when our nearness to it forced all its +details upon our observation. In my present position, now that the lapse +of many years separates me from my personal investigations of the +ancient and modern glaciers, and I look back upon them from another +continent, it seems to me that I have, as it were, a bird's-eye view of +their whole extent; and I confess that this distant retrospect of the +subject has been to me almost as fascinating as were the researches of +my earlier years in the same direction. I wish that I could present it +to the minds of my readers with something of the attraction it possesses +for me. I trust, however, that I have made it plain to them that the +great mountain-chain of the Alps has been a central axis from which +immense glaciers at one time descended in every direction, not only to +its base, beyond which the lowlands extend in flat undulations, but to a +greater or less distance over the adjoining plains; while at present +they are confined to the higher valleys. So far, then, notwithstanding +the extraordinary difference in their dimensions, at the time they +reached the Jura and the plain of Northern Italy, when compared with +what they are now, they seem directly connected with the Alps, and the +mountains appear as their birthplace; so much so that the first attempts +at a generalization concerning their origin started from the assumption +that they must have been formed between the high ridges from which they +seem to flow down. These facts, then the only ones known concerning a +greater extension of the glaciers, naturally led to the views advocated +by M. de Charpentier. My own theory was also at first, that the upheaval +of the Alps must, in some way or other, have been connected with these +phenomena. But it soon became evident to me that these views were +inadequate to account for the former presence of extensive glaciers in +other parts of Europe; and even within the range of the Alps there were +insuperable objections to their final admission. If the ancient glaciers +had been first formed among the highest mountains, and extended +downwards into the plains, the largest and highest moraines ought to be +the most distant, and to be formed of the most rounded masses; whereas +the actual condition of the detrital accumulations is the reverse, the +distant materials being widely spread, and true moraines being found +only in valleys connected with great chains of lofty mountains. + +Again, all these moraines are within one another,--the most distant from +the glacier to which they owe their origin encircling all those which +are nearer and nearer to it within the same glacial basin. And as no +glacier could reach to its farthest moraine without pushing forward all +the intervening loose materials, it is self-evident that the outer +moraines were first formed, and those nearer the glacier subsequently, +in the order in which they follow one another from the lower valleys to +the higher levels at which alone glaciers exist at present. Translating +these facts into words, we see that the glaciers to which these ancient +moraines owe their origin must have been retreating gradually while the +moraines were accumulating. But a glacier while uniformly retreating +forms no high walls of loose materials around its edges and at its lower +extremity; as it melts away, it only drops the burden of angular rocky +fragments which it carries upon its back over the loose fragments above +which it moves, and which it grinds to powder, or to sand, or to rounded +pebbles, in its progress. It is only where the glacier remains +stationary for a longer or shorter period that large terminal moraines +can accumulate; and they are generally found in such places in the +valleys of the Alps as would naturally determine the lower limit of a +glacier for the time being. There is no possibility of escaping the +conclusion that the ancient glaciers must have begun that series of +oscillations to which the accumulation of the moraines is to be +ascribed, at a time when ice-fields already occupied the whole area +which they have covered during their greatest extension. After we shall +have seen how many centres of dispersion of erratic boulders existed in +the northern hemisphere, similar to that of the Alps, we may perhaps be +able to form some idea of the manner in which these ice-fields +originated and gradually vanished. + +Some investigators have been inclined to explain the presence of +boulders, moraines, drift, and the like phenomena, by the action of +water. But even if we could believe that rivers had brought along with +them such masses of rock, and deposited them where they are now found, +the regularity in the distribution of the materials disproves any such +theory. In the lateral moraines of the Lake of Geneva we have a striking +illustration of this apparently systematic division of the loose +materials; for the northeastern moraines of that glacial basin contain +rocks belonging exclusively to the northern side of the valley of the +Rhone, while the moraines on the southern shore of the lake consist of +rocks belonging to its southern side. Indeed, rivers, so far from +building up moraines, have often partially destroyed them. We find +various instances of moraines through which a river runs, having worn +for itself a passage, on either side of which the form of the moraine +remains unbroken. In the valley of the Rhone there are villages built on +such moraines, as, for instance, Viesch, with the river running through +their centre. + +But if we need further confirmation of the fact that these accumulations +on either side of this and other Swiss lakes are ancient lateral +moraines, we have it in their connection with walls of a like nature at +their lower end, where we find again transverse moraines barring their +outlet, and also in the continuity of long trains of fragments of +similar rocks extending side by side across wide plains for great +distances without mixture. From the beginning of my investigations upon +the glaciers, I have urged these two points as most directly proving +their greater extension in former times, and more recent researches +constantly recur to this kind of evidence. All our lakes would be filled +with loose materials, had their basins not been sheltered by ice against +the encroachments of river-deposits during the transportation of the +erratic boulders to the farthest limits of their respective areas; and +all the continuous trails of rocks derived from the same locality would +have been scattered over wide areas, had they not been carried along, in +unyielding tracks, like moraines. On a small scale the waters of the +Rhone and of the Arve recall to this day such a picture. There are few +travellers in Switzerland who have not seen these two rivers, where they +flow side by side, meeting, but not mingling, at the southern extremity +of the lake, the different color of their water marking the two parallel +currents. In old times, when the glaciers filled all the valleys at the +base of Mont Blanc, and to the east of it, uniting in the valley through +which now runs the River Rhone, the glacier of the Arve came down to +meet the ice from the valley of the Rhone, in the same manner as the +River Arve now comes to meet the waters of the Rhone where they rush out +from the southern end of the lake. + +This would be the proper place to consider the formation of the lakes of +Switzerland, as well as their preservation by the agency of glaciers. +But this subject is so intricate, and has already given rise to so many +controversies which could not be overlooked in this connection, that I +prefer to pass it over altogether in silence. Suffice it to say that not +only are most of the lakes of Switzerland hemmed in by transverse +moraines at their lower extremity, but the lakes of Upper Italy, at the +foot of the Alps, are barred in the same way, as are also the lakes of +Norway and Sweden, and some of our own ponds and lakes. Strange as it +may seem to the traveller who sails under an Italian sky over the lovely +waters of Como, Maggiore, and Lugano, it is, nevertheless, true, that +these depressions were once filled by solid masses of ice, and that the +walls built by the old glaciers still block their southern outlets. +Indeed, were it not for these moraines, there would be comparatively few +lakes either in Northern Italy or in Switzerland. The greater part of +them have such a wall built across one end; and but for this masonry of +the glacier, there would have been nothing to prevent their waters from +flowing out into the plain at the breaking up of the ice-period. We +should then have had open valleys in place of all these sheets of water +which give such diversity and beauty to the scenery of Northern Italy +and Switzerland, or, at least, the lakes would be much fewer and occupy +only the deeper depressions in the hard rocks. + +Such being the evidences of the former extent of the glaciers in the +plains, what do the mountain-summits tell us of their height and depth? +for here, also, they have left their handwriting on the wall. Every +mountain-side in the Alps is inscribed with these ancient characters, +recording the level of the ice in past times. Here and there a ledge or +terrace on the wall of the valley has afforded support for the lateral +moraines, and wherever such an accumulation is left, it marks the limit +of the ice at some former period. These indications are, however, +uncertain and fragmentary, depending upon projections of the rocky +walls. But thousands of feet above the present level of the glacier, far +up toward their summits, we find the sides of the mountains furrowed, +scratched, and polished in exactly the same manner as the surfaces over +which the glaciers pass at present. These marks are as legible and clear +to one who is familiar with glacial traces as are hieroglyphics to the +Egyptian scholar; indeed, more so,--for he not only recognizes their +presence, but reads their meaning at a glance. Above the line at which +these indications cease, the edges of the rocks are sharp and angular, +the surface of the mountain rough, unpolished, and absolutely devoid of +all those marks resulting from glacial action. On the Alps these traces +are visible to a height of nine thousand feet, and across the whole +plain of Switzerland, as I have stated, one may trace the glaciers by +their moraines, by the masses of rock they have let fall here and there, +by the drift they have deposited, to the very foot of the opposite +chain, where they have dropped their boulders along the base of the +Jura. Ascending that chain, one finds the grooved, polished, and +scratched surfaces to its summit, on the very crest of which boulders +entirely foreign to the locality are perched. Follow the range down upon +the other side and you find the same indications extending into the +plains of Burgundy and France beyond. + +With a chain of evidence so complete, it seems to me impossible to deny +that the whole space between the opposite chains of the Alps and the +Jura was once filled with ice; that this mass of ice completely covered +the Jura, with the exception of a few high crests, perhaps, rising +island-like above it, and mounted to a height of some nine thousand feet +upon the Alps, while it extended on the one side into the northern plain +of Italy, filling all its depressions, and on the other down to the +plains of Central Europe. The only natural inference from these facts +is, that the climatic conditions leading to their existence could not +have been local; they must have been cosmic. When Switzerland was +bridged across from range to range by a mass of ice stretching southward +into Lombardy and Tuscany, northward into France and Burgundy, the rest +of Europe could not have remained unaffected by the causes which induced +this state of things. + +It was this conviction which led me to seek for the traces of glaciers +in Great Britain. I had never been in the regions I intended to visit, +but I knew the forms of the valleys in the lake-country of England, in +the Highlands of Scotland, and in the mountains of Wales and Ireland, +and I was as confident that I should find them crossed by terminal +moraines and bordered by lateral ones, as if I had already seen them. + +The reader must not suppose, when I describe these walls, formed of the +_debris_ of the glacier, as consisting of boulders, stones, pebbles, +sand, and gravel, a rough accumulation of loose materials +indiscriminately thrown together, that we find the ancient moraines +presenting any such appearance. Time, which mellows and softens all the +wrecks of the past, has clothed them with turf, grassed them over, +planted them with trees, sown his seed and gathered in his harvests upon +them, until at last they make a part of the undulating surface of the +country. Were it not for anticipating my story, I could point out many a +green billow, rising out of the fields and meadows immediately about us, +that had its origin in the old ice-time. Thus disguised, they are not so +evident to the casual observer; but, nevertheless, when once familiar +with the peculiar form, character, and position of these rounded ridges +scattered over the face of the country, they are easily recognized. + +Of course, the ancient glaciers of Great Britain were far more difficult +to trace than those of Switzerland, where the present glaciers are +guides to the old ones. But, nevertheless, my expectations were more +than answered. The first valley I entered in the glacial regions of +Scotland was barred by a terminal moraine; and throughout the North of +England, as well as in Scotland and Ireland, I found the hill-sides +covered with traces of glacial action, as distinct and unmistakable as +those I had left in my native land. And not only was the surface of the +country polished, grooved, and scratched, as in the region of existing +glaciers, and presenting an appearance corresponding exactly to that +described elsewhere, but we could track the path of the boulders where +they had come down from the hills above and been carried from the mouth +of each valley far down into the plains below. In Scotland and Ireland +the phenomena were especially interesting. I had intended to give in +this article some account of the "parallel roads" of Glenroy, marking +the ancient levels of glacier-lakes, so much discussed in this +connection. But the reminiscences of old friends, and the many +associations revived in my mind by recurring to a subject which I have +long looked upon as a closed chapter, so far as my own researches are +concerned, have constantly led me beyond the limits I had prescribed to +myself in these papers upon glaciers; and as the story of Glenroy and +the phenomena connected with it is a long one, I shall reserve it for a +subsequent number. + + * * * * * + +BRYANT. + + +The literary life of Bryant begins with the publication of "Thanatopsis" +in the "North American Review," in 1816; for we need take no account of +those earlier blossoms, plucked untimely from the tree, as they had been +prematurely expanded by the heat of party politics. The strain of that +song was of a higher mood. In those days, when American literature spoke +with faint and feeble voice, like the chirp of half-awakened birds in +the morning twilight, we need not say what cordial welcome was extended +to a poem which embodied in blank verse worthy of anybody since Milton +thoughts of the highest reach and noblest power, or what wonder was +mingled with the praise when it was announced that this grand and +majestic moral teaching and this rich and sustained music were the work +of a boy of eighteen. Not that Bryant was no more than eighteen when +"Thanatopsis" was printed, for he must pay one of the tributes of +eminence in having all the world know that he was born in 1794; but he +was no more than eighteen when it was written, and surely never was +there riper fruit plucked from so young a tree. And now we have before +us, with the imprint of 1864, his latest volume, entitled "Thirty +Poems." Between this date and that of the publication of "Thanatopsis" +there sweeps an arch of forty-eight years. With Bryant these have been +years of manly toil, of resolute sacrifice, of faithful discharge of all +the duties of life. The cultivation of the poetical faculty is not +always favorable to the growth of the character, but Bryant is no less +estimable as a man than admirable as a poet. It has been his lot to earn +his bread by the exercise of the prose part of his mind,--by those +qualities which he has in common with other men,--and his poetry has +been written in the intervals and breathing-spaces of a life of regular +industry. This necessity for ungenial toil may have added something to +the shyness and gravity of the poet's manners; but it has doubtless +given earnestness, concentration, depth, and a strong flavor of life to +his verse. Had he been a man of leisure, he might have written more, but +he could hardly have written better. And nothing tends more to prolong +to old age the freshness of feeling and the sensibility to impressions +which are characteristic of the poetical temperament than the dedication +of a portion of every day to some kind of task-work. The sweetest +flowers are those which grow upon the rocks of renunciation. Byron at +thirty-seven was a burnt-out volcano: Bryant at threescore and ten is as +sensitive to the touch of beauty as at twenty. + +The poetry of Bryant is not great in amount, but it represents a great +deal of work, as few men are more finished artists than he, or more +patient in shaping and polishing their productions. No piece of verse +ever leaves his hands till it has received the last touch demanded by +the most correct judgment and the most fastidious taste. Thus the style +of his poetry is always admirable. Nowhere can one find in what he has +written a careless or slovenly expression, an awkward phrase, or an +ill-chosen word. He never puts in an epithet to fill out a line, and +never uses one which could be improved by substituting another. The +range within which he moves is not wide. He has not written narrative or +dramatic poems: he has not painted poetical portraits: he has not +aspired to the honors of satire, of wit, or of humor: he has made no +contributions to the poetry of passion. His poems may be divided into +two great classes,--those which express the moral aspects of humanity, +and those which interpret the language of Nature; though it may be added +that in not a few of his productions these two elements are combined. +Those of the former class are not so remarkable for originality of +treatment as for the beauty and truth with which they express the +reflections of the general mind and the emotions of the general heart. +In these poems we see our own experience returned to us, touched with +the lights and colored with the hues of the most exquisite poetry. Their +tone is grave and high, but not gloomy or morbid: the edges of the cloud +of life are turned to gold by faith and hope. Of the poems of this +class, "Thanatopsis," of which we have already spoken, is one of the +best known. Others are the "Hymn to Death," "The Old Man's Funeral," "A +Forest Hymn," "The Lapse of Time," "An Evening Reverie," "The Old Man's +Counsel," and "The Past." This last is one of the noblest of his +productions, full of solemn beauty and melancholy music, and we cannot +deny ourselves the pleasure of quoting a few of its stanzas. + + "Thou unrelenting Past! + Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, + And fetters, sure and fast, + Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. + + "Far in thy realm withdrawn, + Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, + And glorious ages gone + Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. + + "Childhood, with all its mirth, + Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground, + And last, Man's Life on earth, + Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. + + * * * * * + + "In thy abysses hide + Beauty and excellence unknown,--to thee + Earth's wonder and her pride + Are gathered, as the waters to the sea; + + "Labors of good to man, + Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,-- + Love, that 'midst grief began, + And grew with years, and faltered not in death. + + "Full many a mighty name + Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered; + With thee are silent fame. + Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. + + "Thine for a space are they,-- + Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; + Thy gates shall yet give way, + Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! + + "All that of good and fair + Has gone into thy womb from earliest time + Shall then come forth to wear + The glory and the beauty of its prime." + +Here is nothing new. It is the old, sad strain, of coeval birth with +poetry itself. It may be read in the Hebrew of the Book of Job and in +the Greek of Homer: but with what dignity of sentiment, what majestic +music, what beauty of language, the oft-repeated lesson of humanity is +enforced! Every word is chosen with unerring judgment, and no needless +dilution of language weakens the force of the conceptions and pictures. +Bryant is one of the few poets who will bear the test of the well-nigh +obsolete art of verbal criticism: observe the expressions, "_silent_ +fame," "_forgotten_ arts," "wisdom _disappeared_": how exactly these +epithets satisfy the ear and the mind! how impossible to change any one +of them for the better! + +In Bryant's descriptive poems there is the same finished execution and +the same beauty of style as in his reflective and didactic poems, with +more originality of treatment. It was his fortune to be born and reared +in the western part of Massachusetts, and to become familiar with some +of the most beautiful inland scenery of New England in youth and early +manhood, when the mind takes impressions which the attrition of life +never wears out. In his study of Nature he combines the faculty and the +vision, the eye of the naturalist and the imagination of the poet. No +man observes the outward shows of earth and sky more accurately; no man +feels them more vividly; no man describes them more beautifully. He was +the first of our poets who, deserting the conventional paths in which +imitators move, studied and delineated Nature as it exists in New +England, modified by the elements of a comparatively low latitude, a +brilliant sky, uncertain springs, short and hot summers, richly colored +autumns, and winters of pure and crystal cold. The merit and the +popularity of Bryant's descriptive poetry prove how intimate is the +relation between imagination and truth, and how the poet who is faithful +to the highest requisitions of his art must obey laws as rigid as those +of science itself. Here, at the risk of making our readers read again +what they may have read before, we transcribe a passage from a +memorandum of Mr. Morritt's, containing an account of Scott's +proceedings while studying the localities of "Rokeby":-- + +"I observed him noting down even the peculiar little wild flowers and +herbs that accidentally grew round and on the side of a bold crag near +his intended Cave of Grey Denzil, and could not help saying, that, as he +was not to be upon oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses +would be as poetical as any of the humble plants he was examining. I +laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness; but I understood him when he +replied, 'that in Nature no two scenes were exactly alike, and that +whoever copied truly what was before his eyes would possess the same +variety in his descriptions, and exhibit apparently an imagination as +boundless as the range of Nature in the scenes he recorded; whereas, +whoever trusted to his imagination would soon find his own mind +circumscribed and contracted to a few images, and the repetition of +these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and barrenness +which had always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but the +patient worshippers of truth.'" + +This is excellent good sense, and the descriptive poetry of Bryant shows +how carefully he has observed the rules which Scott has laid down. He +never has a conventional image, and never resorts to the second-hand +frippery of a poetical commonplace-book to tag his verses with. Every +season of our American year has been delineated by him, and the drawing +and coloring of his pictures are always correct. Our American springs, +for instance, are not at all the ideal or poetical springs, and Bryant +does not pretend that they are; and yet he can find a poetical side to +them, as witness his poem entitled "March":-- + + "The stormy March is come at last, + With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: + I hear the rushing of the blast + That through the snowy valley flies. + + "Ah, passing few are they who speak, + Wild, stormy month! in praise of thee; + Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, + Thou art a welcome month to me. + + "For thou to northern lands again + The glad and glorious sun dost bring; + And them hast joined the gentle train, + And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. + + "And in thy reign of blast and storm + Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, + When the changed winds are soft and warm, + And heaven puts on the blue of May." + +This is all as strictly true as if it were drawn up for an affidavit. +March, as we all know, is the eldest daughter of Winter, and bitterly +like her grim sire. The snow which has melted from the uplands lingers +in the valleys; the storms, and the cloudy skies, and the rushing blasts +mark the sullen retreat of winter; but the days are growing longer, the +sun mounts higher, and sometimes a soft and vernal air flows from the +blue sky, like Burns's daisy "glinting forth" amid the storm. + +March and April come and go, and May succeeds. Hers is not quite the +"blue, voluptuous eye" she wears in the portraits which poets paint of +her, and those who court her smiles are sometimes chilled by decidedly +wintry glances. Bryant gives us her best aspect:-- + + "The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, + And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills, + And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. + Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds + Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, + The robin warbled forth his full clear note + For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, + Where young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast + A shade, gay circles of anemones + Danced on their stalks; the shad-bush, white with flowers, + Brightened the glens; the new-leaved butternut + And quivering poplar to the roving breeze + Gave a balsamic fragrance." + +How admirable this is! And with what truth, we had almost said courage, +the poet makes his report. The emerald wheat-fields, the rosy buds of +the apple-tree, the half-transparent leaves of the trees, the anemones +on their restless stalks, the shad-bush (_Amelanchier Botryapium_), the +quivering poplars, and the peculiar balsamic odor which one perceives in +the woods at that season are so exactly what we find in our New-England +May! How much better these distinct statements are than a tissue of +generalities about flowery wreaths, and fragrant zephyrs, and genial +rays, and fresh verdure, and vernal airs, and ambrosial dews! + +But the year goes on. Our fitful and capricious spring passes by, and +summer takes its place. But our New-England summer is not like the +summer of Thomson and Cowper, and images drawn from English poetry and +transplanted here would be out of place; and our faithful interpreter of +American Nature takes nothing at second-hand. How correctly he +delineates the characteristic features of our glorious month of June! + + "There, through the long, long summer hours, + The golden light should lie, + And thick young herbs and groups of flowers + Stand in their beauty by. + The oriole should build and tell + His love-tale close beside my cell; + The idle butterfly + Should rest him here, and there be heard + The housewife-bee and humming-bird." + +The _housewife_-bee is an expressive epithet. Does it involve a double +meaning, and insinuate that as a bee carries a sting, so women who are +stirring, notable, and good housekeepers have something sharp in their +natures? + +Next comes midsummer with its fervid and overpowering heats, which find +in our poet also an accurate delineator. + + "It is a sultry day: the sun has drunk + The dew that lay upon the morning grass; + There is no rustling in the lofty elm + That canopies my dwelling, and its shade + Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint + And interrupted murmur of the bee, + Settling on the sick flowers, and then again + Instantly on the wing. The plants around + Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize + Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops + Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. + But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills + With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, + As if the scorching heat and dazzling light + Were but an element they loved." + +But our radiant and many-colored autumn is Bryant's favorite season, and +some of his most beautiful and characteristic passages are those which +paint its hues of crimson and purple, and the vaporous gold of its +atmosphere. Such is the number of these passages that it is difficult to +make a selection of one or two for quotation. Here is one from "Autumn +Woods." + + "Let in through all the trees, + Come the strange rays; the forest-depths are bright; + Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze, + Twinkles like beams of light. + + "The rivulet, late unseen, + Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, + Shines with the image of its golden screen + And glimmerings of the sun. + + "But, 'neath yon crimson tree, + Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, + Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, + Her blush of maiden shame." + +Here is nothing imitative or borrowed, and here are no unmeaning +generalities. Everything is exact and local,--drawn from an American +autumn, and no other. And how lovely an image is that in the third +stanza, and what an added charm it gives to an object in itself most +beautiful! + +But our renders must indulge us with one more quotation under this head, +although we take it from one of the most popular--perhaps the most +popular--of his poems, "The Death of the Flowers." + + "The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, + And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; + But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, + And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, + Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, + And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. + And now, when comes the calm mid-day, as still such days will come, + To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home, + _When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, + And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill_, + The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, + And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more." + +Of the poetry of these exquisite lines, the melancholy sweetness of the +sentiment, the delicate beauty of the versification, we need not say one +word, but we claim a moment's attention to their fidelity to truth, and +the accuracy of observation which they evince. The golden-rod and the +aster are the characteristic autumn flowers in that zone of our +continent in which New England is embraced, and the sunflower is a very +common flower at that season. That lovely child of the declining year, +the fringed gentian, would doubtless have been brought in with her fair +sisters, had it not been for her somewhat unmanageable name. Bryant has +written some beautiful stanzas to this flower, but in them he only calls +it a "blossom." And how fine a landscape is condensed into the two +delicious hues which we have Italicized! and yet no one ever walked into +a New-England wood on a late day in autumn without hearing the nuts drop +upon the withered leaves, and seeing the streams flash through the +smoke-like haze which hangs over the landscape. + +But winter, especially our clear and sparkling New-England winter, has +its scenes of splendor and aspects of beauty; and the poet would not be +true to his calling, if he failed to recognize them. + + "Come when the rains + Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice, + While the slant sun of February pours + Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach! + The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, + And the broad arching portals of the grove + Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy + Trunks are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray, + Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, + Is studded with its trembling water-drops + That glimmer with an amethystine light; + But round the parent stem the long, low boughs + Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide + The glassy floor." + +There are many more lines equally good, but we have not space for them. +This is a description of winter as we have it here, compounded of the +elements of extreme cold, a transparent atmosphere, and brilliant +sunshine. No English poet can see such a scene, at least in his own +country: Ambrose Phillips did see something like it in Sweden, and +described it in a poetical epistle to the Earl of Dorset, which is much +the best thing he ever wrote, and has a pulse of truth and life in it, +from the simple fact that he saw something new, and told his noble +correspondent what he saw. + +But Bryant's claims to the honors of a truly national poet do not rest +solely upon the fidelity with which he has described the peculiar +scenery of his native land, for no poet has expressed with more +earnestness of conviction and more beauty of language the great ideas +which have moulded our political institutions and our social life. +Before the breaking out of the Civil War he was a member of that great +political party of which Jefferson was the head, and he is still a +Democrat in the primitive sense of the word; that is to say, he believes +in man's capacity for self-government, and in his right to govern +himself. He has full trust in human progress; age has not lessened the +faith with which he looks forward to the future; his sympathies are +with the many, and not with the few. Though he has travelled much in +Europe, his imagination has been but little affected by the forms of +beauty and grandeur which past ages have bequeathed to the present. He +has not found inspiration in the palace, the cathedral, the ruined +castle, the ivy-covered church, the rose-embowered cottage. Indeed, it +is only by incidental and occasional touches that one would learn from +his poetry that he had ever been out of his own country at all: his +inspiration and his themes are alike drawn from the scenery, the +institutions, the history of his native land. His imagination, as was +the case with Milton, rests upon a basis of gravity deepening into +sternness; and we have little doubt that not a few of the things in +Europe, which move to pleasure the lightly stirred fancy of many +American travellers, aroused in him a different feeling, as either +memorials of an age or expressions of a system in which the many were +sacrificed to the few. In his mental frame there is a pulse of +indignation which is easily stirred against any form of injustice or +oppression. His later poems, as might naturally be expected, are those +in which the sentiments and aspirations of a patriotic and hopeful +American are most distinctly expressed; among them are "The +Battle-Field," "The Winds," "The Antiquity of Freedom," and that which +is called, from its first line, "O Mother of a Mighty Race." It would be +well to read these poems in connection with the seventeenth chapter of +the second volume of De Tocqueville's "Democracy in America," which +treats of the sources of poetry among democratic nations; and the +comparison will furnish fresh cause for admiring the prophetic sagacity +of that great philosophical thinker, who, at the time he wrote, +predicted all our future, because he comprehended all our past. + +And here we pray the indulgence of our readers to a rather liberal +citation from one of these later poems, because it enables us to +illustrate from his own lips what we have just been saying. It is also +one of those passages, not uncommon in modern poetry, in which the poet +admits us to his confidence, and lets us see the working of the +machinery as well as its product. It is from "The Painted Cup," a poem +so called from a scarlet flower of that name found upon the Western +prairies, + + "Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not + That these bright chalices were tinted thus + To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet + On moonlight evenings in the hazel-bowers, + And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, + Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, + The faded fancies of an elder world; + But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths + Of June, and glistening flies, and hummingbirds, + To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns + The morning sun looks hot. Or let the wind + O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour + A sudden shower upon the strawberry-plant, + To swell the reddening fruit that even now + Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. + + "But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well, + Let, then, the gentle Manitou of flowers, + Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, + Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone, + Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown + And ruddy with the sunshine,--let him come + On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, + And part with little hands the spiky grass, + And, touching with his cherry lips the edge + Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew." + +What a lovely picture is this of the Manitou of flowers, and what a +subject for an artist to embody in forms and colors! The whole passage +is very beautiful, and its beauty is in part derived from its truth. It +meets the requisitions of the philosophical understanding, as well as of +the shaping and aggregating fancy. The poetry is manly, masculine, and +simple. The ornaments are of pure gold, such as will bear the test of +open daylight. + +It is the function of the critic to discriminate and divide, and we have +attempted to deal thus with the poems of Bryant; but some of the best of +his productions cannot be classified and arranged under any particular +head. They breathe the spirit of universal humanity, and speak a +language intelligible to every human heart. Among these are "The Evening +Wind," "The Conqueror's Grave," and "The Future Life." All of these are +exquisite alike in conception and execution. We suppose that most +persons have in regard to poetry certain fancies, whims, preferences, +founded on reasons too delicate to be revealed or too airy to be +expressed. As Mrs. Battles in a moment of confidence confessed to "Elia" +that hearts was her favorite suit, so we breathe in the ear of the +public an acknowledgment, that, of all Bryant's poems, "The Future Life" +is that which we read the most frequently, and with the deepest feeling. +We say read, but we have known it by heart for years. We will not affirm +that it is the best of his poems, but it is that which moves us most, +and which we feel most grateful to him for having written. The grace and +charm of this poem come from regions beyond the range of literary +criticism, and the heart shrinks from making a revelation of the +emotions which it awakens. + +We have left ourselves but little room to speak of the new volume, +called "Thirty Poems," which lies before us. While nothing in it was +needed for the poet's well-established and enduring fame, it will be +welcomed by all his admirers as an accession to that stock of finished +poetry which the world will not let die. Here we find the same dignity +of sentiment, the same fine observation, the same grace of expression, +as in the productions of his youth and manhood. The tone of thought is +grave, earnest, sometimes pensive, but never querulous or desponding. +Declining years have not abated in him a jot of heart or hope. His is +the Indian-summer of the mind, made genial by soft airs and golden +sunshine, by green meadows and lingering flowers; and still far distant +is the time,--to borrow a noble image from this very volume,-- + + "When, upon the hill-side, all hardened into iron, + Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast." + +All honor to the strong-hearted singer who, in the late autumn of life, +retains his love of Nature, his hatred of injustice and oppression, his +sympathy with humanity, his intellectual activity, his faith in +progress, his trust in God! + + * * * * * + +ANNESLEY HALL AND NEWSTEAD ABBEY. + + +The picturesque region of Matlock, with its cliffs and streams, its deep +woods and romantic walks, is full of attraction. There we not only see +the outward graces of Nature, but catch glimpses of her subtler +elements. Springs, dripping from hidden sources, transform the fruit, or +the bird's-nest with its fragile eggs, into stone with a Medusa touch; +while in deep caverns are found beautiful spars, exquisitely tinted, as +if prepared by the genii of the rock for the palace of their king. + +Varied and wonderful are the workings of earth, air, fire, and water in +the Derbyshire valley, where a sensitive nature recognizes more things +in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in the philosophy of many a +passing traveller. To this region of beauty and mystery Byron often came +in his youth. These cliffs and streams and woods were familiar to the +young poet, and his retentive memory must have received here many of +Nature's deep and marvellous lessons. Perhaps among these scenes there +came to him those + + "noble aspirations in his youth + To make his mind the mind of other men, + The enlightener of nations, and to rise + He know not whither, it might be to fall, + But fall, even as the mountain-cataract, + Which, having leapt from its more dazzling height, + Lies low, but mighty still." + +In Byron's day, Matlock was a fashionable watering-place; and the +drawing-room of the "Old Bath," with cut-glass chandeliers, old +engravings, and cushioned window-seats, looks much the same as when it +witnessed many a gay assembly. In this room the wayward and sensitive +youth, secretly writhing with mortification at being prevented by +lameness from leading Mary Chaworth to the dance, watched, her more +fortunate partners with moody envy. The young Lady of Annesley little +imagined that the lame boy, with his handsome face and troublesome +temper, would link her name to deathless song. + +On a fair, sunny morning, towards the close of October, we left Matlock +for Annesley Hall and Newstead Abbey. The day was in harmony with the +poetical associations of our excursion: a gentle mist hung like a veil +over hills and groves, giving a dreamy aspect to Nature, and rendering +the places we intended to visit creations of fancy rather than actual +facts. Very unromantic personages, however, answered our inquiries for +Annesley, which reassured us of its reality. Byron's "Dream" had +rendered the scenery familiar to our memory. + + "The hill + Green and of mild declivity, the last, + As 't were the cape, of a long ridge of such, + Save that there was no sea to lave its base, + But a most living landscape." + +Our approach led us beside those gentle slopes, and we seemed to see the +maiden and the youth standing on the mild declivity, with its crowning +circlet of trees. + + "And both were young, but not alike in youth: + As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, + The maid was on the eve of womanhood; + The boy had fewer summers. + + "... She was his life, + The ocean to the river of his thoughts. + Her sighs were not for him; to her he was + Even as a brother, but no more; 'twas much, + For brotherless she was, save in the name + Her infant friendship had bestowed on him, + Herself the solitary scion left + Of a time-honored race. + + "Even now she loved another, + And on the summit of that hill she stood + Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed + Kept pace with her expectancy and flew." + +That lover, soon after, became the husband of Mary Chaworth. It is not +for us to speculate wherefore Destiny entangled the threads in that web +of existence which originally seemed to have woven the fates of Byron +and Mary Chaworth together. We are ignorant of spiritual laws, and know +little of the origin whence come those strange attractions, mind to +mind, heart to heart, which make or mar the life-experiences of us all. + +Had events been ordered otherwise, Byron might have been a better and +happier man, but the world would never have received the gift of "Childe +Harold." Alas, that the soul must be ploughed and harrowed, and the +precious seed trodden in, before it can give forth its fairest-flowers +or its immortal fruit! + +When we had last heard of Annesley Hall, it was ruinous and desolate, +and we knew not in what condition it might now be found. Passing through +an avenue of ancient oaks, the road winds down to an old picturesque +gate-house, and, leaving the carriage, we walked onward. Looking through +the arch of entrance, we saw as in a picture, nay, as in the poet's +dream, "the venerable mansion," sitting quietly in autumn sunshine on +its old terrace. To gray walls and peaks clung a climbing plant, its +leaves red with touch of frost, contrasting deliciously with green ivy, +and putting a bit of color into darker hues of stone-work. As we passed +beyond the gate, we saw that the mansion had been, restored and repaired +by careful hands guided by tasteful eyes and loving hearts. Above the +hall-door was a bay-window, which instinct told us belonged to the +"antique oratory," but we walked onward to the terrace, with its stone +balustrade, inclosing a bright flower-garden. On the other side of the +house stretches the lawn and park, with deer feeding quietly in the +distance. No human form appeared; all was silent and peaceful. We walked +thoughtfully on the old terrace, recalling the images of the poet and +the Lady of Annesley; but looking up at the ancient sun-dial on one of +the gables, we perceived that its shadow fell deeper and deeper with the +declining day, telling us, as it had told many before, how time waited +not, and reminding us that we, also were travellers. Passing again round +the mansion, and casting a wistful look within, we saw a woman sitting +at a low window, sorting fruit. We approached, and asked if strangers +were permitted to see the Hall. She replied gently, that it was not "a +show-house." We pleaded our cause successfully, however, when we told +her how the thought of Mary Chaworth had led us here from a distant +land. If the owners of Annesley knew that once an exception was made to +a general rule, we trust they also believed that the visitors were not +actuated by an idle curiosity. + +Our request being granted, our guide laid aside her plums, and with a +kind hand admitted us into the entrance-hall. It was low and venerable, +with family-portraits on the walls, among them that of the Mr. Chaworth +whom the "wicked Lord Byron" of other days shot in a duel. From the hall +we entered the modern part of the house, harmoniously blended with the +older portion of the building. In the drawing-room, two noble portraits +by Sir Joshua Reynolds arrested our attention. The lady (as Miss Burney +tells us in her journal) was a beauty and a belle of Sir Joshua's time, +and the painter has done justice to his subject, who is drawn at full +length, feeding an eagle,--a spirited, splendid woman, who looks down +from the canvas with bright, triumphant eyes. In the next apartment we +were shown a portrait which touched deeper chords in our heart. It was a +likeness of Mary Chaworth in miniature, representing a mature and +beautiful woman. + + "Upon her face there was a tint of grief, + The settled shadow of an inward strife, + And an unquiet drooping of the eye, + As if its lids were charged with unshed tears." + +The truth of this description startled us, and revealed instantly how +deeply impressed upon the mind of her youthful lover must have been that +face which was the starlight of his boyhood. Tears had passed since they +parted, and chasms of time and gulfs yet deeper and wider than time ever +knows had separated Byron from Annesley and England, and yet, when he +wrote those lines, her face rose before him so clearly, wearing on its +loveliness the impress of care and sorrow which he knew must be there, +that no words but his can truly describe the expression of her features. +Turning to our conductress, we asked if she had ever seen the Lady of +Annesley. "Yes, I knew and loved her well, for I was her maid many +years"; and, with a faltering tone, she added, "she died in my arms." +Genius has immortalized Mary Chaworth; yet the tender and heartfelt +tribute of one who had been the humble, but daily witness of the beauty +of her life, was worth a thousand homilies. + +We were conducted through the library, which had been in other days the +drawing-room, out of which opens a small apartment, known to the readers +of the "Dream" as the "antique oratory." Leading from the old +entrance-hall is the favorite sitting-room of Mary Chaworth in her happy +childhood and youth; and here, in his boyish days, Byron often sat +beside her while she played for him his favorite airs on the +piano-forte. Beneath the window is a little garden, where she cultivated +the flowers she loved best, and which are still cherished for her +memory. Our guide gathered a few of these, and gave them to our young +companion: they now lie before us, carefully preserved, with some of +their gay tints yet unfaded,--memorials, not only of Mary Chaworth, who +lived and loved and suffered through all the varied experience of +woman's life, but also of her to whom the blossoms were given, the fair, +young girl, "who lived long enough on earth to learn its better lessons, +but passed from it upwards and onwards without a knowledge of sin except +the shadow it casts on the world." + +Taking leave of our kind guide, to whom we were indebted for a visit of +deep interest, we paused a moment on the terrace ere we "passed the +massy gate of that old hall," to receive once more into our memory + + "the old mansion and the accustomed hall + And the remembered chambers, and the place, + The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade." + +A holy stillness pervaded the venerable house and its surrounding +scenery, a peace which breathed of a purer sphere, where what is best on +earth finds its correspondence. + +We wondered not, that, when the deep waters of the poet's soul, too +often ruffled by passion, polluted by vice, or made turbid by +selfishness, were calm and pure enough to mirror heaven, they ever +reflected the bright and morning star of Annesley. + +The transition from Annesley Hall to Newstead Abbey is inevitable in +thought and rapid in fact,--the road, over which the young poet so often +passed, between the two estates, being only three miles in length. We +had lingered so long at Annesley that the day was nearly spent before we +reached the Abbey. How did the venerable pile, with its mysterious +memories, fateful histories, and poetical associations, flash out into +light and darken into shadow as the October sun sank behind the distant +hills! + +The Abbey church is now only a ruin, but the airy span of its rich +Gothic window remains, as evidence of its original beauty. Through the +now vacant space, once the wide door of entrance, we saw the floor of +green grass, and in the centre the monument to Byron's favorite dog, +Bowswain. All was silent about the ruin, except the cawing of a thousand +rooks, who were settling themselves for the night with a vast amount of +noise and bustle on the high branches of the old trees which sweep down +on one side of the Abbey. + +The residence which adjoins the church, once a monastery, was inherited +by Lord Byron, with the title: to part with it was a dire necessity. +Colonel Wildman, the school-fellow of Byron at Harrow, purchased the +estate from the unhappy poet in the most liberal and generous manner, +and blessed it into a home. On entering the house, we were shown through +long corridors and vaulted passages, in which the monastic character of +the building was preserved. When Byron came to Newstead from college, +the Abbey was in a most dilapidated condition, and he had only means +enough to make a few rooms habitable for himself and his mother. A +gloomy and desolate abode it must have been. The furniture of Byron's +bedroom remains as it stood when removed from Cambridge. On the walls +are prints of his school at Harrow, and Trinity College, with various +relics and boyish treasures. The window commands a view of the sheet of +water which stretches before the Abbey, with its wooded banks,--a scene +which he loves and remembers even when "Lake Leman wooes him with her +crystal face," for he writes to his sister,-- + + "It doth remind me of our own dear lake + By the old hall, which shall be mine no more." + +Adjoining Byron's room is a suite of apartments, ruinous and roofless in +his day, but which Colonel Wildman has restored, and furnished most +appropriately with old tapestry and antique tables and chairs. These +rooms wear a ghostly aspect, and we were not surprised to learn that +one, at least, had the reputation of being haunted. The great +drawing-room, once the dormitory of the monks, is now a splendid +apartment richly decorated; above the chimney is a fine portrait of +Lord Byron, and in an ancient cabinet was shown the cup made from a +skull found in one of the stone coffins near the Abbey church. It is +mounted in silver, and the well-known lines, written by Byron, are +engraved on the rim. "Having it made" was, as he said himself, "one of +his foolish freaks, of which he was ashamed." The cup, however, bears +little resemblance to a skull. Colonel Wildman preserved the furniture +of Byron's dining-room, and other apartments, (very simple it is,) +without alteration, in the hope that he might return from Greece and +revisit the halls of his fathers. Had Fate so willed, he would have +found how kindly and faithfully his early friend had associated him with +Newstead, and preserved every memorial of past history connected with +the place. Yet thoughts of bitterness would even then have mingled with +these familiar scenes, for it was not the heir of the Byrons who had +restored Newstead Abbey to beauty and order. + +Quitting the Abbey, and passing into the gardens, we followed the +gardener through the deepening gloom to the wood, where, in former days, +an ancestor of the Byrons set up leaden statues of satyrs, which the +country-people called "the old lord's devils"; and very much like demons +they looked. The tree was pointed out upon which Byron cut the names of +"Augusta" and "Byron," with the date, during a last walk the brother and +sister took together at Newstead. It is a double tree, springing from +one root, which he chose as emblematical of themselves. The dim light +barely enabled us to discern letters deeply carved, but growing less +visible with the expanding bark. One of the trees has withered under +that spell which seems to have blasted all connected with the name, and +is cut off just above the inscription. The oak planted by Byron in his +youth in a different part of the grounds was also shown to us. It is yet +strong and vigorous. We picked up a yellow leaf, which the wind bore to +our feet, as a fitting memorial of the place and the hour. + +Passing again through the old Abbey church, the chill of the evening met +us, cold and damp,--fit atmosphere for the place. The rooks were all +asleep in their high nests; silence, darkness, and mist were fast +casting their mantle over old Newstead; and the only cheerful sign came +from the distant window of the Colonel's library, whence shot out a +generous gleam of household fire,--emblem of that warm heart which had +shed light upon the once desolate abode of its early friend. + +Since our visit to Newstead, (seven years ago,) the Abbey has passed +into other hands, and even a royal owner is now reported to possess the +poet's ancestral home. We shall ever deem ourselves fortunate that our +destiny led us to make this pilgrimage during the lifetime of Colonel +Wildman and while the place was under his enlightened and generous +ownership. + +A few miles from Newstead Abbey is Hucknall, a poor, desolate-looking +village, at the end of whose street stands an old church, beneath which +is the burial-place of the Byrons. The building is ancient and gray, but +dreary rather than venerable. Standing in its comfortless interior, we +remembered that Byron once asked to be buried under the green, grassy +floor of the roofless church at Newstead Abbey, with his faithful dog at +his feet. The poet, whose rapid glance seized every glory and beauty of +Nature, whose memory, wax to receive, and marble to retain, transferred +the vision through the medium of his rare command of language, should +have had a grave over which winds sweep, birds sing, and stars watch. +Not so. A white marble tablet let into the wall above the family-vault +was erected to Byron's memory by his sister. Perhaps the simplicity of +the monument was suggested by these lines, written at the early age of +nineteen years:-- + + "When to his airy hall my father's voice + Shall call my spirit, happy in the choice, + When poised upon the gale my form shall ride, + Or dark in mist descend the mountain-side, + Oh, may my shade behold no sculptured urns + To mark the spot where dust to dust returns, + No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumbered stone! + My epitaph shall be my name alone. + If that with honor fail to crown my clay, + Oh, may no other fame my deeds repay! + That, only that, shall single out the spot + By that remembered, or by that forgot." + +The inscription upon the tablet, after his name and title, designates +him as the Author of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," who died while aiding +the cause of Liberty in Greece: thus striking the noblest notes in a +powerful, eccentric, blotted score, as the fundamental chord of Byron's +requiem. + + * * * * * + +THE LAST CHARGE. + + + Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife + For country, for freedom, for honor, for life? + The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,-- + One blow on his forehead will settle the fight! + + Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel, + And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal upon peal! + Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair, + As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare! + + Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake! + Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake! + Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll, + Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll! + + Trust not the false herald that painted your shield: + True honor _to-day_ must be sought on the field! + Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,-- + The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed! + + The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh! + The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky! + Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn, + Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born! + + The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run, + As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun; + Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,-- + His sceptre once broken, the world is our own! + + * * * * * + +NORTHERN INVASIONS. + + +Northern Invasions, when successful, advance the civilization of the +world. + +It would not be difficult to present from all history a mass of +illustrations of this thesis wellnigh sufficient in themselves to +establish it. And there is no doubt that the principles of human nature, +which appear in those illustrations, can be set in such order as to +prove the thesis beyond a question. The softness of Southern climates +produces, in the long run, gentleness, effeminacy, and indolence, or +passionate rather than persevering effort. It produces, again, the +palliatives or disguises of these traits which are found in formal +religions, and in institutions of caste or slavery. The rigor of +Northern climates produces, on the other hand, in the long run, hardy +physical constitutions among men, with determined individuality of +character. It produces, therefore, freedom even to democracy in +politics, protestantism even to rationalism in religion, and grim +perseverance even to the bitter end in war. A certain stern morality, +often amounting to asceticism, is imposed on Northern constitutions. So +superficial is it, so much a creature of circumstance, that Norman, +Scandinavian, Goth, or Icelander, deserves no sort of credit for it. All +history shows that it vanishes before the temptations of any Vinland +which the frozen barbarians stumble upon. None the less does it give +them vigor of muscle, and power to endure hardship, which, in the end, +tells, over the accomplishments of the most warlike Romans, Greeks, +Persians, or other Southrons. "Fight us, if you like," said Ariovistus +to Caesar; "but remember that none of us have slept under a roof for +fourteen years." That sort of people are apt to succeed in the long run. + +When they succeed, as we have said, they advance civilization. To begin +with the farthest East, all such strength as the Chinese Empire has +to-day is due to the Tartar cross in its blood; that is, it results from +the conquest of imbecile China by Northern Tartar tribes. One or two +more such invasions, followed by colonization of Northern emigrants, +would have made China a much stronger power this day than she is, and a +nation of higher grade. The history of Indian civilization, again, is a +history of Northern conquests. They tell us, indeed, that the Indian +castes may be resolved into so many beach-marks of the waves of +successive invasions from the North, the highest caste representing the +last innovation. When Abraham crossed from Ur of the Chaldees into +Canaan, when Cambyses broke open the secrets of Egyptian civilization, +when Alexander first opened to the world Egyptian science, these were +illustrations of the same thing,--Canaan, Egypt, and the world were all +improved by those processes. Greece died out, and has never yet +reestablished herself, because she never had a complete infusion of +Gothic blood in her worn-out system. Italy, on the other hand, had a new +birth, and at this moment has a magnificent future, because Goths and +Lombards did sweep in upon her with their up-country virtues and +wilderness moralities. What the Ostrogoths did for Spain, what the +Franks did for Gaul, what the Northmen did for England, are so many more +illustrations. What Gustavus Adolphus would have done for Germany, if he +had succeeded, would have been another. + +What we are to do in the South, when we succeed, will be another. It +makes the subject of this paper. + + * * * * * + +Nobody pretends, of course, that War itself does anything final in the +advance of civilization. War itself is, what the poets call it, a +terrible piece of ploughing. With us, just now, it is subsoil-ploughing, +very deep at that. Stumps and stones have to be heaved out, which had +on them the moss and lichens and superficial soil of centuries, and +which had fancied, in that heavy semi-consciousness which belongs to +stumps and stones, that they were fixed forever. As the teams and the +ploughshares pass over the ground which has lain fallow so long, they +leave, God knows, and millions of bleeding hearts know, a very desolate +prospect in the upheaved furrows behind them. It is very black, very +rough, very desert to the eye, and in spots it is very bloody. This is +what war does. So desolate the prospect, that we of the Northern States +have certainly a right to thank God that it was not we who called out +the ploughmen. + +War, in itself, does nothing but plough,--but immediately on the end of +the war, in any locality, he who succeeds begins on the harrowing and +the planting. And because God is, and directs all such affairs, it is +wonderful to see how short is the June which in His world covers all +such furrows as His ploughmen make with new beauty. It is to the methods +of that new harvest that the President has boldly led our attention in +his admirable Proclamation of Amnesty. It is to the details of it that +each loyal man has to look already. It is but a few weeks since we heard +a sentimental grumbler, at a public meeting, lamenting over the +discomforts of the freed slaves in the Southwest, as he compared them +with their lost paradise. Men of his type, to whom the present is always +worse than the past, succeed in persuading themselves that the +incidental hardships of transition are to be taken as the type of a +whole future. And so this apostle of discontent really believed that the +condition of the fifty thousand freed slaves of the Mississippi, in the +hands of such men as Grant, and Eliot, and Yeatman, and Wheelock, and +Forman, and Fiske, and Howard, was really going to be worse than it was +under the lashes of Legree, or at the auction-block of New Orleans. The +more manly, as the more philosophical way of looking at the transition, +is to discover the shortest path leading to that future, which, without +such a transition, cannot come. + +The President, with courage which does him infinite honor, leads the way +to this future. His Proclamation is really a rallying-cry to all true +men and women, whether they are living at the North or at the South, to +take hold and work for its accomplishment. With an army posted in each +of the revolted States, with more than one of them completely under +National control, he considers that the time for planting has come. He +is no such idealist or sentimentalist as to leave these new-made +furrows, so terribly torn up in three years of war, to renew their own +verdure by any mere spontaneous vegetation. + +Practical as the President always is, he is sublimely practical in the +Proclamation. "Let us make good out of this evil as quickly as we can," +he says; "let peace bring in plenty as quickly as she can." To bring +this about, he promises the strong arm of the nation to protect anything +which shall show itself worth protecting, in the way of social +institutions of republican liberty. He does not ask, like a conqueror, +for the keys of a capital. He does not ask, like a Girondist, for the +vote of a majority. He knows, it is true, as all the world knows, that, +if the vote of all the men of the South could ever be obtained, the +majority would utterly overshadow the handful of gentry who have been +lording it over white trash and black slaves together. But the President +has no wish to prolong martial law to that indefinite future when this +handful of gentlemen shall let the majority of their own people +pronounce upon their claims to rule them. Waiving the requisitions of +the theorists, and at the same time relieving himself from the necessity +of employing military power a moment longer than is necessary, he +announces, in advance, what will be his policy in extending protection +to loyal governments formed in Rebel States. If there can be found in +any State enough righteous men willing to take the oath of allegiance +and to sustain the nation in its determination for emancipation,--if +there can be found only enough to be counted up as the tenth part of +those who voted in the election of 1860, though their State should have +sinned like Gomorrah, even though its name should be South Carolina, +they shall be permitted to reconstruct its government, and that +government shall be recognized by the government of the nation. + +It is true that this gift is vastly more than any of the Rebel States +has any right to claim. When the King of Oude rebels against England, he +does not find, at the end of the war, that, because he is utterly +defeated, things are to go on upon their old agreeable footing. +Rebellion is not, in its nature, one of those pretty plays of little +children, which can stop when either party is tired, because he asks for +it to stop, so gently that both parties shall walk on hand in hand till +either has got breath enough to begin the game again. If the nation were +contending against real and permanent enemies, in reducing to order the +States of the Confederacy, or if the national feeling towards the people +of those States were the bitter feeling which their leaders profess +towards our people, the nation would, of course, offer no such easy +terms. The nation would say, "When you threw off the Constitution, you +did it for better for worse. It guarantied to you your State +governments. You spurned the guaranty. Let it be so. Let the guaranty be +withdrawn. You cannot sustain them. Let them go, then. You have +destroyed them. And the nation governs you by proconsuls." But the +nation has no such desire to deal harshly with these people. The nation +knows that more than half of them were never regarded as people at +home,--that they had no more to do with the Rebellion than had the oxen +with which they labored. The nation knows that of the rest of the +Southern people literally only a handful professed power in the State. +The nation knows, therefore, that what pretended to be a union of +republics was, really, to take Gouverneur Morris's phrase, a union of +republics with oligarchies,--seventeen republics united to fourteen +oligarchies, when this thing began. The nation knows that the fourteen +will be happier, stronger, more prosperous than ever, when their people +have the rights of which they are partly conscious,--when they also +become republics. The nation means to carry out the constitutional +guaranty, and give them the republican government which under the +Constitution belongs to every State in the Union. The nation looks +forward to prosperous centuries, in which these States, with these +people and the descendants of these people, shall be united in one +nation with the republics which have been true to the nation. For all +these reasons the nation has no thought of insisting on its rights as +against Rebel States. It has no thunders of vengeance except for those +who have led in these iniquities. For the people who have been misled it +has pardon, protection, encouragement, and hope. It can afford to be +generous. And at the President's hands it makes the offer which will be +received. + + * * * * * + +We say this offer will be received. We know very well the difficulty +with which an opinion long branded with ignominy makes head in countries +where there is no press, where there is no free speech, where there are +no large cities. Excepting Louisiana, the Southern States have none of +these. And the "peculiar institutions" throw the control of what is +called opinion more completely into the hands of a very small class of +men, we might almost say a very small knot of men, than in any other +oligarchy which we remember in modern history. It is in considering this +very difficulty that we recognize the wisdom of the President's +Proclamation. He is conscious of the difficulty, and has placed his +minimum of loyal inhabitants at a very low point, that, even in the +hardest cases, there may be a possibility of meeting his requisition. + +It is not true, on the other hand, that he has placed his minimum so +low as to involve the government in any difficulty in sustaining the +State governments which will be framed at his call. It must be +remembered that this "tenth part" of righteous men will have very strong +allies in every Southern State. It is confessed, on all hands, that they +will be supported by all the negroes in every State. Just in proportion +to what was the strength of the planting interest is its weakness in the +new order of things. Given such physical force, given the moral and +physical strength which comes with national protection, and given the +immense power which belongs to the wish for peace, and the "tenth part" +will soon find its fraction becoming larger and more respectable by +accretions at home and by emigration from other States. We shall soon +learn that there is next to nobody who really favored this thing in the +beginning. They will tell us that they all stood for their old State +flag, and that they will be glad to stand for it in its new hands. + +It will be only the first step that will cost. Everybody sees this. The +President sees it. Mr. Davis sees it. He hopes nobody will take it. We +hope a good many people will. The merit of the President's plan is that +this step can be promptly taken. And so many are the openings by which +national feeling now addresses the people of the States in revolt, and +national men can call on them to express their real opinions and to act +in their real interest, that we hope to see it taken in many places at +the same time. + +When Constantine made Christianity the religion of the Roman Empire, he +supposed that one-thirteenth part of his people were Christians. He was +statesman enough to know that a minority of one-thirteenth, united +together because they had one cause, would be omnipotent over a majority +of twelve-thirteenths, without a cause and disunited. So, if any one +asks for an example in our history,--the Territory of Kansas was thrown +open to emigration with every facility given to the Southern emigrant, +and every discouragement offered to the Northerner. But forty men, +organized together by a cause, settled Lawrence, and it was rumored that +there was to be some organization of the other Northern settlers, and at +that word the Northern hive emptied itself into Kansas, and the +Atchisons and Bufords and Stringfellows abandoned their new territory, +badly stung. These are illustrations, one of them on the largest scale, +and the other belonging wholly to our own time and country, of the worth +even of a very small minority, in such an initiative as is demanded now. +What was done in Kansas can be done again in Florida, in Texas, if Texas +do not take care for herself, in either Carolina, in any Southern State +where the "righteous men" do not themselves appear to take this first +step on which the President relies. + +Take, for instance, this magnificent Florida, our own Italy,--if one can +conceive of an Italy where till now men have been content to live a +half-civilized life, only because the oranges grew to their hands, and +there was no necessity for toil. The vote of Florida in 1860 was 14,347. +So soon as in Florida one-tenth part of this number, or 1,435 men, take +the oath of allegiance to the National Government, so soon, if they have +the qualifications of electors under Florida law, shall we have a loyal +State in Florida. It will be a Free State, offering the privileges of a +Free State to the eager eyes of the North and of Europe. That valley of +the St. John's, with its wealth of lumber,--the even climate of the +western shore,--the navy-yard to be reestablished at Pensacola,--the +commerce to be resumed at Jacksonville,--the Nice which we will build up +for our invalids at St. Augustine,--the orange-groves which are wasting +their sweetness at this moment, on the plantations and the +islands,--will all be so many temptations to the emigrant, as soon as +work is honorable in Florida. If the people who gave 5,437 votes for +Bell and 367 for Douglas cannot furnish 1,435 men to establish this new +State government, we here know who can. + +"Armies composed of freemen conquer for themselves, not for their +leaders." This is the happy phrase of Robertson, as he describes the +reestablishment of society in Europe after the great Northern invasions, +which gave new life to Roman effeminacy, and new strength to Roman +corruption. The phrase is perfectly true. It is as true of the armies of +freemen who have been called to the South now to keep the peace as it +was of the armies of freemen who were called South then by the +imbecility of Roman emperors or their mutual contentions. The lumbermen +from Maine and New Hampshire who have seen the virgin riches of the St. +John's, like the Massachusetts volunteers who have picked out their +farms in the valley of the Shenandoah or established in prospect their +forges on the falls of the Potomac, or like the Illinois regiments who +have been introduced to the valleys of Tennessee or of Arkansas, will +furnish men enough, well skilled in political systems, to start the new +republics, in regions which have never known what a true republic was +till now. + +To carry out the President's plan, and to give us once more working +State governments in the States which have rebelled,--to give them, +indeed, the first true republican governments they have ever +known,--would require for Virginia about 12,000 voters. They can be +counted, we suppose, at this moment, in the counties under our military +control. Indeed, the loyal State government of Virginia is at this +moment organized. In North Carolina it would require 9,500 voters. The +loyal North Carolina regiments are an evidence that that number of +home-grown men will readily appear. In South Carolina, to give a +generous estimate, we need 5,000 voters. It is the only State which we +never heard my man wish to emigrate to. It is the hardest region, +therefore, of any to redeem. At the worst, till the 5,000 appear, the +new Georgia will be glad to govern all the country south of the Santee, +and the new North Carolina what is north thereof. Georgia will need +10,000 loyal voters. There are more than that number now encamped upon +her soil, willing to stay there. Of Florida we have spoken. Alabama +requires 9,000. They have been hiding away from conscription; they have +been fleeing into Kentucky and Ohio: they will not be unwilling to +reappear when the inevitable "first step" is taken. For Mississippi we +want 7,000. Mr. Reverdy Johnson has told us where they are. For +Louisiana, one tenth is 5,000. More than that number voted in the +elections which returned the sitting members to Congress. For Texas, the +proportion is 6,200; for Arkansas, 5,400. Those States are already +giving account of themselves. In Tennessee the fraction required is +14,500. And as the people of Knoxville said, "They could do that in the +mountains alone." + +We have no suspicion of a want of latent Southern loyalty. But we have +brought together these figures to show how inevitable is a +reconstruction on the President's plan, even if Southern loyalty were as +abject and timid as some men try to persuade us. These figures show us, +that, if, of the million Northern men who have "prospected" the Southern +country, in the march of victorious armies, only seventy-three thousand +determine to take up their future lot there, and to establish there free +institutions, they would be enough, without the help of one native, to +establish these republican institutions in all the Rebel States. The +deserted plantations, the farms offered for sale, almost for nothing, +all the attractions of a softer climate, and all the just pride which +makes the American fond of founding empires, are so many incentives to +the undertaking of the great initiative proposed. In the cases of +Virginia and Tennessee, and, as we suppose, of Louisiana, Arkansas, and +Texas, the beginning has already been made at home. In Florida a recent +meeting at Fernandina gave promise for a like beginning. If it do not +begin there, the Emigrant Aid Company must act at once to give the +beginning.[52] There will remain the Carolinas and three of the Gulf +States. The ploughing is not over there, and it is not time therefore to +speak of the harvest. For the rest, we hope we have said enough to +indicate to the ready and active men of the nation where their great +present duty lies. + + * * * * * + +REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES. + + +_Principles of Political Economy, with Some of their Applications to +Social Philosophy._ By JOHN STUART MILL. New York: D. Appleton & Co. + +If works upon Political Economy, representing the orthodox European +doctrine, are to be written, John Stuart Mill is certainly the man to +write them. Able, candid, judicial, indefatigable, powerfully +poised,--characterized by remarkable mental amplitude, by a rare +steadiness of brain, by an admirable sense of logical relation, by a +singular ease of command over his intellectual forces, by a clear and +discriminating eye that does not wink when a hand is shaken before +it,--of a humane and widely related nature, whose heats lie deep, so +deep that many may think him cold,--of an understanding as dry as John +Locke's, wanting imagination in all its degrees, from rhetorical +imagination, which is the lowest, to epic imagination, which is the +highest, and therefore destitute of the sovereign insights which go only +with this faculty in its higher degrees, while, on the other hand, freed +from the enticements and attractions that are inseparable from it,--Mr. +Mill has qualifications unsurpassed, perhaps, by those of any man living +for considerate and serviceable thinking upon matters of immediate +practical interest and of a somewhat tangible nature. His mental +structure exhibits combinations which are by no means frequent. Seldom +is seen a conjunction of such cold purity of thinking with such +generosity of nature; seldom such considerateness, such industry, +patience, and carefulness of deliberation, with a boldness so entire; +seldom such ducal self-possession and self-sufficingness, with equal +openness to social and sympathetic impression; nor less rare, perhaps, +is the union of a reflective power so large and dominating with an +observation so active. + +These mental qualities fit him in a peculiar degree for service in the +field of Political Economy as now commonly defined,--a branch of +literature which, more, perhaps, than any other, represents at once the +genius and the limitation of our time. + +Political Economy is a half-science, not total or integral; and if it +pretend to spherical completeness, as it often does, it becomes open to +grave accusation. The charges against it, considered as a strict and +complete science, are two. + +Of these the first has been cogently urged by Mr. Ruskin, while virtual +admissions to a like effect were made by Mr. Buckle in his spirited +account of Adam Smith. It is this: as a science, Political Economy must +assume the perfect selfishness of every human being. Every science +requires necessary, and therefore invariable, conditions, which, when +expounded, are named laws. Such in Astronomy is gravitation, with the +law of its diminution by distance; such in Chemistry is chemical +attraction, with the law of definite proportions. The natural and +perpetual condition assumed by Political Economy is the absolute +supremacy in man of pecuniary interest. Absolute: it can admit no +modification of this; it can make no room within its province for +generosity, or for any action of man's soul, without forfeiting, so far, +its claim to the character of a science. Put a dollar, with all honor, +liberal justice, and humane attraction, on the one hand; put a dollar +and one cent, with mere legal right and consequent safety, on the other +hand; and Political Economy must assume that every man will gravitate to +the latter by the same necessity which makes the balance incline toward +the heavier weight. Or, conceding the contrary, it yields also its claim +to the character of a perfect science, and takes rank among those +half-sciences which partly expound necessary laws and partly contingent +effects. + +Now this assumed sovereignty of pecuniary interest seems to us _not_ a +final account of human beings. There is honor among thieves; is there +none among merchants? Does not every man put some generous consideration +for others into his business-transactions? Has an honorable publisher +_no_ aim but to print that which will sell best? Has he _no_ regard to +the character of his house? Has he _no_ desire to furnish a nourishing +pabulum and a healthful inspiration to the mind of his country? In the +employment of labor and the giving of wages do men generally quite +forget the work_man_, and think only of the work and its profit? This +does not happen to accord with our observation of human nature. We think +there is a large element of honorable human feeling incessantly playing +into the economies of the world; and we think it might be yet larger +without any injurious perturbation of these economies. + +Again, as a science, Political Economy considers wealth only as related +to wealth, to itself, not to man. It assumes wealth, as absolute, and +regards man as an instrument for its production and distribution. But +this attitude must be reversed. Wealth cannot be treated of in a wholly +healthful way until it is considered simply as instrumental toward the +higher riches which are contained in man himself. + +And here we reach the peculiar virtue of Mr. Mill's book. + +In the first place, he accepts the science as such, accepts it cordially +and almost with enthusiasm,--in fact, has a degree of faith in its +completeness and of confidence in its uses, greater, perhaps, than our +own final thought will justify; for the reader will already have +perceived that we incline in some measure to the opposition, with +Carlyle, Ruskin, and others. Proceeding upon this basis, Mr. Mill +expounds the orthodox theories with that definiteness of thought, with +that precision of statement, and that calmness and breadth of survey, +which never fail to characterize his literary labor. Any one who +assumes, and wishes to study the science, will find in this writer a +guide through its intricacies, whom it were hardly an exaggeration to +name as perfect. Always sound-hearted, always clear, candid, and +logical, always maintaining a certain judicial superiority, he is a +thinker in whose company one likes to go on his mental travels, and +whose thought one will be inclined to trust rather too much than too +little. In the second place, Mr. Mill discerns the limitations of the +science more clearly, and acknowledges them more frankly, than, to the +extent of our somewhat narrow conversance with such writers, has ever +been done before by any one who regarded it with equal affection and +reposed in its theories a like faith. This, too, is thoroughly +characteristic of him. He is one of the sanest and sincerest of men. + +Thirdly, his inspiring and generative purpose is to lift the science +into serviceable relation to the broad interests of man. Here we come to +the real soul of the book. He accepts its customary limits chiefly that +he may transcend them. He treats of wealth with a philosophical and +cordial perception of its uses; but beyond and above this he is thinking +of man, always of man,--and of man not merely as an eater and drinker, +but as an intelligence and a candidate for moral or personal upbuilding. +A reader would regard the work with a dull eye, who should miss this +commanding feature. Sometimes by special discussions, as in his defence +of peasant-properties in land,--sometimes only by an aroma pervading his +pages, or bypassing expressions,--and always by the general ordering and +culminating tendency of his thought,--one reads this perpetual question, +the true and final question of all politics and economies:--How shall we +secure the greatest number of intelligent and worthy men and women? + +But while Mr. Mill's sympathy is with the people, the many, the whole of +humanity, and while his desire for men is that they may attain the +mental elevation which shall make them really _human_ beings, yet a +marked feature of his book is the mild Malthusian element which pervades +it. Let no stigma be therefore fixed upon him. Let honor be rendered to +the courage which steadily inquires, not what representation of the +facts will win applause, but simply what the facts _are_. And +undoubtedly it is true that all considerate men in England have been +compelled to contemplate the _possibility_ of over-population, of an +insupportable pauperism, of a burden of helpless numbers which shall +sink the whole nation into abysses of starvation with all its horrible +accompaniments. It is but a few years since Ireland escaped unexampled +death by famine only by an unexampled exodus. The New World opened its +arms to the misery of the Old, and fed its famine to fatness,--and has +got few thanks. But this rescue cannot be repeated without limit. And +therefore forelooking men in England find the problem of their future +one not too easy to solve. Mr. Carlyle, among others, has grappled with +it. His brow has long been beaded with the sweat of this great +wrestling; and if he seem to some of us a little abrupt and peculiar in +his movements, we must at least do him the justice to remember that he, +after the manner of ancient Jacob, is struggling with the angel of +England's destiny. Mr. Mill, too, with an earnestness less passionate +indeed, but perhaps not less real, is toiling at the same work. + +And, by the way, an instructive comparison might be drawn between these +two writers. Mr. Mill, not highly vitalized by belief, not nourished by +any grand spiritual imaginations, hampered by a hard and poor +philosophy, and with limited access to absolute truth, nevertheless, not +only belongs fully to the opening modern epoch, but through a certain +entireness of moral health and sanity is leading the time steadily +forward into its great believing and builded future; though it may +follow from his limitations that into this future he cannot accompany it +_very_ far. Mr. Carlyle, with a poetic profundity of nature and a force +of insight which entitle him not merely to a high place among the men of +our time, but to a name among the men of all time, standing face to face +with the divine reality and wonder of existence, conversing with the +heights and depths of being, and appreciating the significance of +personality, as Mr. Mill never can, will accompany our epoch into its +future farther than one can foresee, but to its present must render a +mixed and imperfect service; for a sickness runs in his veins, and he is +trying to force the age into a half-way house, which is built equally by +his hope and his despair. + +Were this not merely a general characterization, but a review, of Mr. +Mill's powerful work, we should venture to take issue on some matters +both general and special,--as an example of the latter, on the possible +utility of protective duties. The reasoning by which he, in common with +his class, proves these to be necessarily futile for good, is indeed +faultless so far as it goes, but, in our clear judgment, fails to cover +the whole case; so that the question, whether as one of general polity +or of industrial economy, is still open to consideration. Especially it +may be urged, that the infancy of human industries, like the infancy of +human beings, may require protection, even though their adult vigor +could be safely left to take care of itself. Suppose it conceded that +this protection is at first costly. So are the cradle and the nursery. +Yet it may be that they "pay" in the end. Nay, as the cradle may enrich +the household through the new incentives to labor and frugality which it +supplies, so protections of industry may evoke new industrial powers, +and thus at once begin to enrich the _nation_, though the capital which +supports these fresh industries could not at first hold its own, as +against other capital, without the motherly cares it receives. + +But enough. Here is a book on a matter of large and immediate +importance, put forth by one of the amplest and soundest minds of our +time,--a man so long-headed and clear-hearted, so able and intrepid to +think, to speak, and to hear correction, so intent upon high ends and so +calmly patient upon the way, that the public can neglect his thought +only by a criminal neglect of its own interests. + + +_A Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life. With a Complete +Bibliography of the Subject._ By WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER. +Philadelphia: Geo. W. Childs. + +Few "signs of the times" are more significant than the disposition shown +on all sides to scrutinize and interpret the spiritual history of +mankind. Lessing, Schlegel, Herder, Hegel, Guizot, Buckle, and others, +endeavor, with various degrees of ambition and success, to estimate +history considered as a progress; Carlyle in his "Heroes" and Emerson in +the "Representative Men" regard it rather as a permanence, and seek to +present its value in typical forms; meanwhile the Bibles and mythologies +of the old world are collected, translated, subjected to interpretative +study; and the critical scholarship of our time is almost wholly engaged +in an endeavor either to arrive at the exact text or at the precise +value of all the ancient literatures. + +All men have at length discovered that the history of mankind _means_ +something, and are naturally intent on learning _what_ it means. No one +now regards it as a mere Devil's phantasmagoria, significant of nothing +but Adam's sin in the Garden. However differing on other points, we all +now perceive that the history of the mind of man is a more interior +history of the universe,--that it must be studied, in the most earnest +and reverential spirit of science,--that what Astronomy seeks to do in +the heavens and Geology on the earth must be done in the realms of the +mind itself,--and that, till we have found our Copernicus and our Newton +of the human soul, modern science lingers in the porch, and does not +find access to the temple. We all see that this history, not indeed as +to the succession of its outward events, but as to its interior reality, +must be grounded in the eternal truth and necessity of the universe. +What wonder, that, having been so fully penetrated by the scientific +spirit, modern minds should look with great longing toward these earths +and skies of human history, coveting some knowledge of the law by which +the thoughts and faiths of man perform their courses? + +Nor any longer can "negative criticism" enlist the utmost interest. It +is construction that is now desired; and he who studies history only +that he may vanquish belief in the interest of knowledge cannot command +the attention of those whose attention is best worth having. That fable +is fable and mythus mythus no one need now plume himself on informing +us, provided he has nothing further to say. Of course, we raise no +childish and sentimental objection to what is called "negative +criticism." It may not be the best possible policy to build the new +house in the form of certain stories superimposed upon the old one, +which, perhaps, is even now hardly strong enough to sustain its own +weight. Let there be due clearing away; let us find foundations. + +But the essence of the new point of view in the contemplation of history +consists in this, that we no longer seek these foundations in the mere +outward and literal history of man; we look, on the contrary, to his +inward history, to perennial hopes and imaginations, to the evidence of +his spiritual impulses and attractions, and just here find not only his +_real_ history, but also the basis for theoretical construction. + +We see, indeed, as clearly as any Niebuhr or Strauss of them all, that +the imagination so pours itself into history as to supersede, or to +disguise by transfiguration, the literal facts. The incessant domination +of man's inward over his outward history is apparent enough. What then? +Does that make history worthless? Nay, it infinitely enhances the value +of history. Who are more deserving of pity than the distracted critics +that discriminate the imaginative element in the story of man's +existence only to cast it away? "Facts" do they desire? These _are_ the +facts. What is the use of always mousing about for coprolites? Give us +in the present form the product of man's spirit, and this to us shall +constitute his history. Let us know what pictures he painted on the +skies over his head, and he who desires shall be welcome to the relics +which he left in the dust under his feet. + +In our own country some worthy efforts have been made to set forth +certain grand provinces in the spiritual history of the human race. Such +was Mrs. Child's most readable book,--does she ever write anything which +is not readable?--"The Progress of Religious Ideas." We have seen also +some fine lectures on "Eastern Religions,"[53] which ought to go into +print. And now Mr. Alger comes forward with his large and laborious +work, seeking to contribute his portion to these new and precious +constructions. + +Mr. Alger's book is a real _work_. It is the result of no light nor +trivial labor, of no timid nor indolent essay of thought. His aim has +been to pass in _judicial_ review the thoughts and imaginations of +mankind concerning the destiny of the human soul. It is an instruction +to the jury from the bench, summing up and passing continuous judgment +upon the evidence on this subject contributed by the consciousness of +the human race. + +Mr. Alger is a brave man. He does not hesitate to grapple with the +greatest thinkers, nor to measure the subtlest imaginations of all time. +In the opening chapter, for example, which is appropriately devoted to a +consideration of theories of the soul's origin, he lays hold of the +boldest speculative imaginations to which the world has given birth, +with no hesitating nor trembling hand. Occasionally the reader may, +perhaps, be more inclined to tremble for him than he for himself. One +remembers Goldsmith's line,-- + + "The dog it was that died"; + +but our author comes forth from the trial in ruddy health, and does not +seem at all out of breath. And all through the book he delivers his +sentence like a man who has earned the right to speak. + +And has he not earned it? For some years Mr. Alger has been known to +scholars and others as a most indefatigable and heroic worker. This book +justifies that reputation. The amount of reading that has gone to it is +almost portentous. To us, who can hardly manage twelve books, big and +little, in as many months, this mountainous reading furnishes matter for +wonder. + +Neither has this reading been chiefly a work of memorizing, nor has it +been expended chiefly upon works of history commonly so called. A +product of man's spiritual consciousness being under consideration, it +is works of thought and imagination, rather than works of narration, +which claim our author's critical attention; and his reading has been +reflective and deliberative, involving a judgment upon speculative more +than upon historical data. And it may fairly be said, though it be much +to say, that he has shrunk from nothing which a perfect performance of +his task required. Whether we consider the formation or the expression +of his judgments, it may still be affirmed that he has met his great +theme fairly, and given to its exposition the utmost exercise of his +powers and the unstinted devotion of his labor. + +We can accordingly pass upon his work this rare commendation, that it is +thoroughly _honest_. This may, indeed, seem to many no very high +approval. But it is one of the very highest. For we mean by it not +merely that he has refrained from conscious misrepresentation of +fact,--that he has not lied, as Kingsley did about Hypatia in the novel +wherein he borrowed, only to befoul, the name of that spotless woman, +knowing all the while that his representation was contrary to the +recorded facts of history. To say so much only of this book would be not +to attribute to it a positive merit, but only to acquit it of damning +demerit. But what we affirm is that Mr. Alger has fairly looked his +facts in the face, and come to some understanding with himself about +them. When he speaks, therefore, it is about facts, about realities, not +merely about words; and what he offers is the result of genuine +processes of production which have gone on in his own mind. If he speak +of life, it is not life in the dictionary, but in the universe. If he +profess to offer thoughts, he really gives the results of his thinking. +He does not cant; he does not merely recite verbal formulas; he does not +play the part of attorney, first determining what to advocate, and then +seeking plausible reasons: everywhere one perceives that he has really +brought his _mind_ to bear upon _facts_, and so has come to real mental +fruit. And it is this verity, this reality and genuineness, to which we +give the name of _intellectual_ honesty. It is a rare quality; and +always the rarer in proportion to the depth of the matters treated of, +on the one hand, and to their expression in customs and institutions, on +the other. Institutions are masks. The thinker must have both +earnestness and penetration, if he is to get behind them. And just in +proportion as any element of man's spiritual consciousness has come to +institutional expression, it is the easier to talk about it and the +harder to think upon it,--to talk _about_ it without talking _of_ it. +But our author has made the distinction, and to the extent of his power +looks facts in the face. + +Having come to an understanding with himself, he honestly tries, again, +to come to an understanding with the reader. He honestly imparts his +mind. We find the book in this respect worthy of especial admiration. + +Mr. Alger always writes well when he is not overmuch _trying_ to write +well. If he forbear to covet striking effect, his style has perspicuity, +directness, and vigor,--the essentials of all excellent writing,--and to +these adds verbal affluence and occasional felicity. But if he be +tempted of the Devil to become eloquent, and the father of all +rhetorical evil strives hard to bring the soul of his style to +perdition, then he begins to write badly. Let him, since he is capable +of heroic things, imitate Luther, and fling his ink-pot. Even though it +light upon the page, let him not be inconsolable, but remember that no +blots are so bad as those made by ambitious inflation. We have not that +horror of "fine writing" which leads The Saturday Review and Company to +such obstreperous exclamation, and can endure the worst that Americans +are guilty of in this matter quite as well as that affectation of +off-hand ease and _nonchalance_ which enhances the native clumsiness of +many among the later English writers, and, to our mind, mars extremely +the poetry of Browning. But if a writer has some propensity to +rhetorical Babel-building, it were well for _him_ to make an effort in +the opposite direction, and try to build his sentences underground, like +the houses of the Esquimaux. + +Mr. Alger's book has minor faults and major excellences. But let him be +content. He has faithfully performed a great labor, and we give him +cordial approval. To a great theme he has brought great industry, a just +appreciation, a fine spirit, and much of intellectual courage and +activity. + +Add that he is a man whose soul is in sympathy with the best thought, +hope, and heart of the time. Brave, just, and humane, he is always on +the right side, and always as direct and unflinching in the utterance of +his faith as he is intrepid and right-natured in its adoption. Opinions +are expressed in his work which do not accord with those of +ecclesiastical majorities; nevertheless we think that those will thank +him who least agree with him. It were, indeed, a shame that the people +which sets the highest price upon political liberty should be the last +to welcome the higher freedoms of thought; but it is a shame, we trust, +which will not befall our country. We ourselves have, it is true, as +little affection as most men for that sort of "free thinking" which +consists in pouring out upon the public the mere wash and cerebral +excretion of unclean spirits; but when any man has brought to a +consideration of the greatest facts a pure and reverent spirit, he is +entitled to present the results of his meditations with manly +directness and vigor, as Mr. Alger has done in the work before us. + +The "Complete Bibliography of the Subject" is an admirable piece of +work. We present our respects to Mr. Ezra Abbot, Jr., and wish that many +an earnest literary laborer had such a "friend." + + +_Dream Children._ By the Author of "Seven Little People and their +Friends." Cambridge: Seaver & Francis. + +The children seem to have found their Dickens at last. But, of course, +it was to be expected that the child's Dickens would be different, in +some important respects, from the Dickens of grown-up men and women. And +so he is. Children do with the world in their thoughts pretty much as +they will; and the genuine artist, working for children, must recognize +this, or he will utterly fail. The author of "Dream Children," who made +his introduction to the reading public as the author of "Seven Little +People and their Friends," has the rare faculty of realizing for himself +the exact position and attitude of the child. This position he takes so +earnestly that he has nowhere the air of assumption or arbitrary +fiction. The child lives so much in pictures! But the pictures must not +betray one single feature of unreality, or the whole effect is spoiled; +a moral may be pointed or a tale adorned, but the child has lost his +natural food. We need such works as that under present notice to keep +children from starving,--works that are not mechanically adapted to +children, but which come to them as their own fresh, pure thoughts come, +bringing them pictures like those which their own untrammelled fancy +paints for them. + +We have no space to enter into any details here. The children must do +that for themselves; but not the children alone. For, as now and then we +come upon a piece of Art, a painting or a statue, which from its subject +would seem to belong peculiarly to the child's world, but which, because +it is genuine Art, as to its manner and execution, rises out of this +confinement to a single class, becoming universal, so it is with books +of a similar character. This is true of the present work more +emphatically than of the former work by the same author. The more +external features of the work--its exquisite getting-up, in paper, +binding, and especially in illustration--are only fitting to the +inherent gracefulness of the writer's thought. + +The subject is inviting, but we can only add that these short stories +exhibit the rarest freshness and purity of imagination, the richest +humor, and the most striking suggestion of an exhaustless fertility of +invention which we remember ever to have seen in any child's book +before. There is nowhere a careless execution; and the reason of this is +probably that the characters have had a leisurely growth in the author's +own mind. Generally it is supposed, that, to suit a subject to children, +it is only necessary to go through some outward manifestations and to +give the thing an air of novelty; but in this treatment there is no +freshness, and no very great or very permanent moral expression. The +writer of "Dream Children" will have a select audience, but he will have +it pretty much to himself, and, as the best of all rewards which he +could have, he will educate the thoughts of his juvenile readers +imperceptibly into a greater love and reverence for the very heart of +truth and beauty. + + +_Remains in Verse and Prose of Arthur Henry Hallam; with a Preface and +Memoir._ Boston. Ticknor & Fields. + +A permanent, though modest, place in the literature of the English +language will be accorded to this little volume. Judged upon their +intrinsic merits as compositions, the "Remains in Verse and Prose of +Arthur Henry Hallam" would, nevertheless, hold no abiding position among +the many pleasing poems, clever dissertations, and brilliant essays +annually given to the press in Great Britain and America. Were they +brought to us as the writings of a young man dying at thirty-two, +instead of ten years earlier, we might hastily say, that, sacred as they +must be to the personal friends of the author, there was in them no +excellency sufficiently marked or marketable to warrant republication. +But there gather other interests about them when we are told that these +compositions came from the son of a very eminent man, and were written +at an age at which we congratulate ourselves, if our college-boys are +not oppressively foolish. For the rare instances of hereditary +transmission of distinguished mental power are well worth attention, and +the maturity of thought and the subtile trains of reflection in this +youth now afford that large promise of genius which may not be +confounded with those specious precocities of talent the world never +lacks. Yet it is not probable that even these attractions could give to +the literary remains of young Hallam that permanent place in letters +which we have made bold to promise them. Only the inspirations of a +great poet could wake the noblest sympathies of noblest hearts in +perennial tribute to this friend so early called from life. + +The student of Shakspeare's sonnets--poems having much in common with +those written in memory of Arthur Hallam--is never tired of conjecturing +the person to whom they were addressed. Who was the "only begetter" of +these passionate offerings of the poet's love? Might he be recognized as +he walked, a man among men? or was he the splendid idealization of +genius and friendship? There are but faint answers to these questions. +After the claims of Mr. Hart, Mr. Hughes, and the Earls of Southampton +and Pembroke have been duly examined, there comes the conclusion that we +may not know who and what he was towards whom the august soul of +Shakspeare yearned with such exceeding love. Future readers of the "In +Memoriam" of Tennyson will be more favored in their knowledge of the +young man there given to fame. It will be known that he was worthy of +the deep sorrow breathed into exquisite verse,--worthy also of those +noble half-lights flashing above the sombre atmosphere, to show the +instruction, the blessedness, the beauty, which grow from human grief. +We are compelled to confess that those keen poetic glimpses into the +high regions of philosophy and science, with which the memories of his +friend inspired Tennyson, seem just dues to the brilliant auguries of a +future which this world was not permitted to see. + +An outline of Arthur's life has already been given to the American +public. Little can be added to it from his father's touching preface to +the unpublished edition of these writings in 1834, which is now +reprinted. The childhood of young Hallam exhibits facility in the +acquisition of knowledge, sweetness of temper, and scrupulous adherence +to a sense of duty. At the age of nine he reads Latin and Greek with +tolerable facility, and achieves dramatic compositions which excite the +admiration of the father,--a thoroughly competent, unless partial, +critic. This luxuriance of fancy is judiciously received; no display is +made of it, and Arthur is sent to school at Putney, where he remains for +two years. The common routine of English education is more than once +broken by tours upon the Continent. When the boy leaves Eton in 1827, +his father pronounces him "a good, though not, perhaps, first-rate +scholar in the Latin and Greek languages." As certain Latin verses +referred to are, for some inscrutable reason, omitted in this American +edition, the reader has no means of deciding whether it is the modest +reserve of the parent which pronounces them "good, without being +excellent," or the fond partiality of the father which discovers them to +be "good" at all. In any case, we must consider Arthur's "comparative +deficiency in classical learning," for which the eminent historian seems +almost to apologize, as one of his especial felicities. The liberalizing +effect of travel, and a varied contact with men and things, prevented +his powers from contracting themselves to a merely academical +reputation. When at Cambridge, he renounces all competition in the +niceties of classical learning, and does not attempt Latin or Greek +composition during his stay at Trinity. Thus he escapes the fate of many +quick minds, which, running easily upon college grooves, that end in the +indorsement of a corporation, never make out to accept their own +individuality for better and for worse. Arthur enters upon legal studies +with acuteness, and not without interest. A few anonymous writings +occupy his leisure. He is now just rising upon the world,--a brilliant +orb, as yet seen only by a few watchers, who congratulate each other +upon the light to be. A fatal tour to Germany, and all ends in darkness +and mystery. + +Judging from the writings before us, we should say that this young man +was destined to a greater eminence in philosophy than in poetry. His +father's opinion, in reverse of this, was perhaps based upon average +tendencies of character, instead of selected specimens of production. +The best prose papers here printed, the "Essay on the Philosophical +Writings of Cicero," and the "Review of Professor Rossetti," are far +more remarkable for the ease with which accurate information is +subjected to original, and even profound thought, than are the poems for +brilliancy of imagination or mastery over the capacities of language. +Still, it must be confessed, that the sonnets are full of melody and +refinement,--indeed, we can recall no poet who has written much better +at the same age. In all Arthur's compositions we recognize an exquisite +delicacy of feeling, without any of the daintiness of mind commonly +found in intellectual youths. He seems to have acquired much of his +father's command of reading, and to have inherited those rarer faculties +of selection and generalization which give to learning its coherence and +significance. In contrast to the precise and somewhat hard literary +style of the elder Hallam, the diction of the son glows with the +sensitiveness of a highly artistic nature. Arthur's attainments in the +modern languages appear to have been considerable. He is said to have +spoken French readily, and to have ranged its literature as familiarly +as that of England. His Italian sonnets are pronounced by competent +authority to be very remarkable for a foreigner. They are certainly +marvellous for a boy of seventeen after an eight months' visit to Italy. +In fine, upon the testimony presented in this volume, we think that no +considerate reader will hesitate to credit Arthur Hallam with a rich and +generous character, a wide sweep of thought rising from the groundwork +of solid knowledge, and the delicate aerial perceptions of high +imaginative genius. + +Surely the life whose untimely end called forth "In Memoriam" was not +lost to the world. Perhaps it was by dying that the moral and +intellectual gifts of this youth could most effectively reach the hearts +of men. He was not unworthy his noble monument. As we turn to the +familiar lyrics, they swell and deepen with a new harmony. Again, the +genius of Tennyson bears us onward through tenderest allegory and +subtlest analogy, until, breaking from cares and questionings so +melodiously uttered, his soul soars upward through thin philosophies of +the schools, and at length, in grandest spiritual repose, rests beside +the friend "who lives with God." It is good to know that the "A.H.H." +forever encircled by the halo of that matchless verse does not live only +as the idealization of the poet. + + +_History of West Point, and its Military Importance during the American +Revolution, and the Origin and Progress of the United States Military +Academy._ By Captain EDWARD C. BOYNTON, A.M., Adjutant of the Military +Academy. New York: D. Van Nostrand. + +In every country there must be localities the names of which are +particularly associated with the national history. But in the United +States there are few such places that are not portions of some one of +the States; and if they have been the scene of incidents sufficient in +number and importance to furnish material for an historical monograph, +or so-called _local_ history, it will probably derive its special +interest and coloring mainly from events of the Colonial period and the +development of the material prosperity of the particular State or +section. The associations of West Point, the seat of the United States +Military Academy, are in this respect remarkable, that they derive their +interest exclusively from circumstances incidental to the birth and +progress of the nation. The history of the place is an important part of +the nation's history. Compared with more comprehensive annals, wherein +minute description of places and persons is impossible from the breadth +of view, local histories leave on the reader more vivid impressions by +affording a more microscopic and personal inspection. Where the minor +history, as we may call it, is thus connected with the greater story of +the body politic, it always enables the mind to combine, in the sequence +of cause and effect, a certain series of events in the course of the +nation's life, leaving a more distinct apprehension of the reality of +that life in the past, by giving a rapid glance, under strong light, +over a part, than usually remains after the perusal of larger works +which attempt the survey of the whole. + +From the beginning of the history of the United States, the +administrative power of the National Government has been continuously +exercised at West Point, to the exclusion of all other authority. It was +occupied by the Continental forces at the commencement of the +Revolutionary contest, as a place of the greatest strategic importance. +It was the objective point in that drama of Arnold's treason, which, by +involving the fate of Andre, is remembered as one of the most romantic +incidents in the story of the war. In Captain Boynton's new "History of +West Point," the aspect of the place, in connection with the events of +that time, is given by that method of description which always leaves +the sense of historic verity. The maps, plans, reports, letters, and +accounts, with the spelling and types, though by no means with the +printing or the paper of past days, are reproduced; and the actors on +the scene, not only those of high position, whose names are household +words, but those also whose part was humbler and whose memory is +obscure, are allowed to present themselves to us as they appeared before +the public of their own day. The first part of the volume gives the +history of the place as it has been occupied for strategic purposes. The +second part is devoted to its history as the seat of the Military +Academy, a history which succeeds immediately to the former, and is +intimately connected with the history of our internal government from +its first organization under the Constitution to the present hour; so +that the history of the locality presents itself as a brilliantly +colored thread running through the warp of the national history. In the +composition of this portion, as of the other, the author has presented +his subject, not so much in his own narrative, as by a judicious +combination of extracts from documents and papers of original authority; +although his own observations, by way of connection and explanation, are +given in good taste, and indicate a candid judgment, founded upon a +manifestly loving, but still essentially impartial, observation. It +should be no wonder, if the graduates of the Academy, who continue their +connection with the army in mature years, should always regard the place +through a vista of memory and affection, shedding over it a brilliancy +to which others might be insensible. To most of them it has been as a +home,--to many, probably, the only home of their youth; and, in the +unsettled life of the soldier, we can conceive that to no other spot +would their recollections recur with like feeling. We believe, that, in +the society which gathers more or less permanently around the Academy, +the feeling of a home-circle towards its absent members follows the +graduates during their military service; and that they, on the other +hand, are always conscious of a peculiar observation exercised from the +place over their conduct; so that each one, during an honorable career, +may look forward to revisiting it, from time to time, as a place +associated by family-ties. This influence upon the individual graduate +must be a very powerful incentive. It must, in the nature of the case, +be unperceived by the public, but its value to the public will be +enhanced by the observation which they may extend to the Academy; and it +is eminently proper that such observation should be courted by the +Government, and by those who represent it on the spot; the opportunity +should be given to all, irrespectively of civil or military place, to +become acquainted with its general management, the principles on which +it is established, and the terms which the cadet makes with the country +on entering, and to see, from time to time, a general _resume_ of its +working and success. A book which tells this, in its natural association +with the narrative of all that gives the locality its name in our +history, promotes a national interest and supplies a public want. +Captain Boynton's book should command the interest of those who know +most of West Point, and of those who know nothing about it. To some it +will be a grateful source of reminiscence, and to others of +entertainment combined with information which has acquired an increased +interest for the citizen. + +Not the least inviting portion of the book is that which relates to the +topography and scenery of the Point. It is one of the singularities of +our frame of government, that the nation is the lord of so little soil +in the inhabited portion of its own dominion: though it is well to +remember that territorial sovereignty is not, as many persons imagine, +the only kind of sovereignty, nor, indeed, the most important kind; for +there is sovereignty over persons, which may be held without eminent +domain over the soil. Allegiance is personal. It is not based on the +feudal doctrine of tenures. The notion of many persons respecting the +right of the people of a State to carry themselves out of the nation is +connected with false conceptions on this subject. It is pleasant to +think that one of the places in which the nation is the land-owner and +exclusive sovereign is celebrated for historic events, and also +preeminently distinguished for beauty of situation. This circumstance +undoubtedly contributes to the hold which the place has on the minds of +those who have passed a portion of their youth on the spot, and it has +evidently been a source of inspiration to the author, and, we may say, +to the publisher, too, who have combined in making this a book of luxury +as well as of useful reference, a parlor-book. The pictorial +illustrations they have given add greatly to its value; and in this +matter they might safely have gone even farther. This book is intended +to make the spot familiar to the minds of many in various parts of the +national domain. Most persons of any leisure, in this section of the +country, have either themselves visited the banks of the Hudson or are +familiar with scenery somewhat similar in some part of the Eastern or +Middle States. But there are multitudes in the South and West of our +conlinental empire who have hardly ever seen a rock bigger than a man's +body, and who can, except by the aid of pictures, have no idea of a +river hemmed in by mountains. The view given in this book of the +localities in 1780, after a drawing made at the time by a French +officer, is more valuable in this respect, we think, than for the +historical purpose; and we should have preferred a similar view of the +place as it now appears. + +In common with all institutions which are the means of power and +influence, the Academy has been regarded with jealousy. It has +occasionally been assailed by an hostility which must always exist, and +which its friends should always be prepared to meet. Captain Boynton has +fairly stated and answered the objections commonly advanced. Among those +recently put forth is the complaint that no great military genius has +been produced from the Academy. The question might be asked, Does ever +any school produce the genius? It is contrary to the definition of +genius to be produced by such instrumentality. If no such military +phenomenon has been seen, the only inference is, that the genius was not +in the country, or that the circumstances of the country gave no +opportunity for its development; and the question is, Should we, in the +absence of genius, have done better without such an academy to educate +the available talent of the country to military service? Goethe has +said, that, to figure as a great genius in the world's history, one must +have some great heritage in the consequences of antecedent events,--that +Napoleon inherited the French Revolution. Though Napoleon developed +military art beyond his predecessors, there is no reason to suppose that +a soldier with natural endowments equal to his could now become the +inspirer of a similar degree of progress. The ordinary method of +appointment of cadets is described and vindicated by the author. While +it does not appear, _a priori_, to be the best possible, it must be said +that it is hard to devise any better one. It is always to be borne in +mind that appointment does not by any means involve graduation. Enough +have graduated to supply the wants of the army in ordinary times, and +these have been selected from about three times the number of +appointees. It is often said that equally competent persons would offer +themselves from civil life. To maintain this, it must be held, either +that the education given by the Academy is not of important benefit, or +that the same benefit may be attained without it. But no one pretends to +say that the education is not of the utmost importance; and, as Captain +Boynton shows conclusively, we think, it is impossible for any one to +attain it by unassisted study, either before or after entering the army, +while it is utterly out of the power of any private institution to give +a similar training. + +Among the treasons incident to the Rebellion, none struck loyal minds +more painfully than the desertion of the national right by Southern +cadets and graduates of West Point. Some supposed that the diligent +inculcation of State-Sovereignty doctrine by every organ of Southern +opinion could not alone have caused this breach of plighted faith, and +it was charged against the education given at the Academy, that it was +based on "principles which permitted no discrimination between acts +morally wrong in themselves, and acts which, destitute of immorality, +are, nevertheless, criminal, because prohibited by the regulations of +the institution." The charge indicated a gross misconception of the +subject. The conduct-roll, which is to determine the standing of the +cadet according to a total of demerit-marks, must include in one list +delinquencies against all rules, whatever may be their source. But +besides this scale for classification, the military law, to which +cadets, as part of the army, are amenable, refers all immoralities and +criminalities to a military tribunal. It would be well, if our +collegians would try to estimate the effect, moral, intellectual, and +physical, of the training of the Academy, as contrasted with that which +they are receiving, and, in comparing a collegiate with a West-Point +graduation, to remember that the cadet has been on service, and would +have been discharged by his paymaster, if he had not done his duty, +while in the colleges the professors serve for the pay, and would lose +their bread and butter, if there were no degrees given. + + +_Roundabout Papers_. By W.M. THACKERAY. New York: Harper & Brothers. + +We had scarcely finished reading this admirable volume of essays when +news of the author's death was transmitted across the sea. And now we +are to look no longer at our shelf which holds "Vanity Fair," +"Fendennis," "The Newcomes," and "Henry Esmond," and think of the +writer's busy brain as still actively engaged over new and delightful +books destined some day to claim their places beside the +companion-volumes we have so many times taken down for pure enjoyment +during the last twenty years. Do you remember, who read this brief +notice of the man so recently passed away, a passage in one of these +same "Roundabout Papers," where this sentence holds the eye half-way +down the page,--"I like Hood's life even better than his books, and I +wish with all my heart, _Monsieur et cher confrere_, the same could be +said for both of us when the ink-stream of our life hath ceased to run"? +Only they who knew Thackeray out of his books can believe that this +desire came earnestly from his heart to his readers. He was a man to be +misunderstood continually; but his record will be found a noble one, +when the true story of his career is told. His greatness as an author, +his striking merit as an artist in the delineation of character, can +never fail to be rightly estimated; but few will ever know the +thousandth part of the good his generous deeds have accomplished in the +world,--deeds done in secret, and forever hidden from the eye of +public-charity hunters. His life had struggles, many and crushing; but +with a noble fortitude he pursued his calling when sorrow held down his +heart and wellnigh had the power to palsy his hand. This is no place for +his eulogy; but we could not notice the publication of his latest volume +without thus briefly recording our tribute to the author's memory. Since +the death of Macaulay, England has sustained no greater loss in the +ranks of her literary men. + + * * * * * + +RECENT AMERICAN PUBLICATIONS + +RECEIVED BY THE EDITORS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. + + +A Manual of Devotions for Domestic and Private Use. By George Upfold, +D.D., Bishop of Indiana. New York. D. Appleton & Co. 16mo. pp. x., 244. +75 cts. + +Revised United States Army-Regulations of 1861. With an Appendix, +containing the Changes and Laws affecting Army-Regulations and Articles +of War, to June 25, 1863. Philadelphia. G.W. Childs. 8vo. pp. 594. +$2.00. + +Hints on Health in Armies, for the Use of Volunteer Officers. 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Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 450. $1.50. + +Heat considered as a Mode of Motion: being a Course of Twelve Lectures +delivered at the Royal Institution of Great Britain in the Season of +1862. By John Tyndall, F.R.S., etc., Professor of Natural Philosophy in +the Royal Institution. With Illustrations. New York. D. Appleton & Co. +12mo. pp. 480. $1.50. + +Light on Shadowed Paths. By T.S. Arthur. New York. G.W. Carleton. 12mo. +pp. 355. $1.25. + +Rich and Humble; or, The Mission of Bertha Grant. A Story for Young +People. By Oliver Optic, Author of "The Boat-Club," etc. Boston. Lee & +Shepard. 16mo. pp. 296. 75 cts. + +The Hermit of the Rock. A Tale of Cashel. By Mrs. J. Sadlier. New York. +D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 16mo. pp. 492. $1.25. + +Sermons, preached at the Church of St. Paul the Apostle, New York, +during the Year 1863. New York. D, & J. Sadlier & Co. 16mo. pp. 377. 75 +cts. + +Strategy and Tactics. By General G.H. Dufour, lately an Officer of the +French Engineer Corps, Graduate of the Polytechnic School, and Commander +of the Legion of Honor, Chief of Staff of the Swiss Army. Translated +from the Latest French Edition. By Wm. P. Craighill, Captain U.S. +Engineers, lately Assistant Professor of Civil and Military Engineering +and Science of War at the U.S. Military Academy. New York. D. Van +Nostrand. 12mo. pp. 400. $2.50. + +The Works of Charles Dickens. Household Edition. Illustrated from +Drawings by F.O.C. Darley and John Gilbert. Little Dorrit. In Four +Volumes. New York. Sheldon & Co. 16mo. pp. 314, 325, 298, 294. $4.00. + +Papers on Practical Engineering, U.S. Engineer-Department No. 9. +Practical Treatise on Limes, Hydraulic Cements, and Mortars. Containing +Reports of Numerous Experiments conducted in New York City, during the +Years 1858 to 1861, inclusive. By Q.A. Gillmore, Brigadier General of +U.S. Volunteers, and Major U.S. Corps of Engineers. New York. D. Van +Nostrand. 8vo. pp. 333. $3.50. + +The History, Civil, Political, and Military, of the Southern Rebellion, +from its Incipient Stages to its Close. Comprehending, also, all +Important State-Papers, Ordinances of Secession, Proclamations, +Proceedings of Congress, Official Reports of Commanders, etc., etc. By +Orville J. Victor. Vols. I. and II. New York. James D. Torrey. 8vo. pp. +viii., 531; viii., 537. $6.00. + +A Glimpse of the World. By the Author of "Amy Herbert." New York. D. +Appleton & Co. 12mo. pp. 428. $1.25. + +Shoulder-Straps. A Novel of New York and the Army, 1862. By Henry +Morford. Philadelphia. T.B. Peterson & Brothers. 12mo. pp. 482. $1.50. + +The Triumphs of Duty; or, The Merchant-Prince and his Heir. A Tale for +the World. By the Author of "Geraldine," etc. Boston. Patrick Donahoe. +16mo. pp. 392. $1.00. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] See Mr. Norton's "Travel and Study in Italy," p. 132. + +[2] "Giudica e manda, secondo che avvinghia." + + _Inf._ v. 5 + +[3] "Les observateurs eclaires manquaient en 1737 pour suivre la +transformation des phenomenes morbides."--Calmeil, _De la Folie_, Tom. +II. p. 317. + +[4] _La Verite des Miracles operes par l'Intercession de M. de Paris et +autres Appellans demontree; avec des Observations sur le Phenomene des +Convulsions_, par Carre de Montgeron, Conseiller au Parlement de Paris. +3 vols. 4to. 2d ed. _Cologne_, 1745. + +The first edition, consisting, however, of a single volume only, +appeared in 1737, and was presented to the King in person at Versailles, +by M. de Montgeron, on the twenty-ninth of July of that year. The work +was translated into German and Flemish; and besides several editions +which appeared in France, one was published in Germany and two in +Holland. It is illustrated with costly engraving. + +Though the King (Louis XV.) received M. de Montgeron in an apparently +gracious manner, yet, the very night after his reception, as he had +himself foreseen, he was arrested and cast into the Bastille. Thence he +was transferred from one place of confinement to another; and at the +time he was preparing the second edition of his work, he was still (in +1744) a prisoner in the citadel of Valence. (See Advertisement to that +edition, note to page vii.) He died in exile at Valence, in 1754. + +[5] Voltaire, with his usual wit and irreverence, proposed that the +notice, proclaiming the royal command, to be affixed to the gate of the +church-yard should read as follows:-- + + "De part le Roi, defense a Dieu + De faire miracle en ce lieu." + +[6] Hecker alleges that "the insanity of the _Convusionnaires_ lasted, +without interruption, until the year 1790," that is, for fifty-nine +years, and was only interrupted by the excitement of the French +Revolution; also, that, in the year 1762, the "Grands Secours" were +forbidden by act of the Parliament of Paris.--_Epidemics of the Middle +Ages_, from the German of I.F.C. Hecker, M.D., translated by B.G. +Babington, M.D., F.R.S., London, 1846, p. 149. + +There were published by Renault, parish, priest at Vaux near Ancerre, +two pamphlets against the Succorists,--one entitled "Le Secourisme +detruit dans ses Fondemens," in 1759, and the other, "Le Mystere +d'Iniquite," as late as 1788,--an evidence that the controversy was kept +up for at least half a century. + +[7] "A peine l'entree du tombeau eut elle ete fermee, qu'on vit le +nombre des Convulsionnaires s'accroitre extraordinairement. Les +convulsions commencerent a s'etendre jusqu'a, des personnes qui +n'avaient ni maladie ni infirmite corporelle."--_Oeuvres de Colbert_, +Tom. II. p. 203. (This is Colbert, Bishop of Montpelier, and nephew of +Louis XIV.'s minister.) + +[8] Montgeron, work cited, Tom. II. p. 36. Calmeil, _De la Folie_, Tom. +II, pp. 315, 317. + +[9] For particulars and certificates in this case, see Montgeron, Tom. +II. _Troisieme Demonstration_, pp. 1-58. + +[10] Montgeron, work cited, Tom. II. _Pieces Justificatives de la +Troisieme Demonstration_, p. 4. + +[11] Montgeron, Tom. I. _Seconde Demonstration_, p. 6. + +[12] "_Un coup d'epee_" is the expression employed by Montgeron; but the +facts elsewhere reported by himself do not seem to bear out, in most +cases, its accuracy. It was not usually a _thrust_ of a sword's point, +but only a _pressure_ with the point of a sharp sword, often so strong, +however, that the weapon was bent by its force. + +[13] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 10. + +[14] See, for the entire relation, from which I have here given extracts +only, Montgeron's work, Tom. III. pp. 24-26. Montgeron, though he +vouches for the narrator as a gentleman worthy of all credit, does not +give his name, nor that, of the physician, except as Dr. M----. The +occurrence took place in 1732. + +[15] Montgeron, Tom. III. pp. 107-111. + +[16] _Ibid._ p. 688. + +[17] "As murderous blows must either wound or kill, but for a miracle, +there ought to be a promise or a revelation to warrant their infliction. +But God has given no such promise, no such revelation, to justify the +demanding or the granting of the succors. It is, therefore, a tempting +of God to do so."--_Vains Efforts des Discernans_, p. 133. + +[18] _Chenet_ is the French expression, an andiron, or dog-iron, as it +is sometimes called. Montgeron thus describes it: "The andiron in +question was a thick, roughly shaped bar of iron, bent at both ends, but +the front end divided in two, to serve for feet, and furnished with a +thick, short knob. This andiron weighed between twenty-nine and thirty +pounds."--Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 693. + +[19] _Vains Efforts des Discernans_, p. 134. + +[20] _Memoire Theologique_, p. 41. This is admitted also by the Abbe, +see _Vains Efforts_, p. 127, and by M. Poncet, _Reponse_, etc., p. 15. + +[21] Montgeron, Tom. III. pp. 693, 694. The author takes great pains to +disprove a theory which few persons, in our day, will think worth +refuting. In this connection, he quotes from a memoir drawn up by a +gentleman who had spent much time in examining these phenomena, as +follows:--"The force of the action and movement of the instruments +employed is not broken or arrested or turned aside. Experience +conclusively proves this. One sees the bodies of the convulsionists bend +and sink beneath the blows. One can perceive that the parts assailed are +twisted, and receive all the movements which such weapons as those +employed are calculated to communicate. And the violence of the blows is +often such that not only are they heard from the lowest story of a house +to the highest, but they actually communicate to the floor and to the +walls of the apartment a shock, which is sensibly felt, and which causes +the spectators to start."--p. 686. + +Montgeron adds his own personal experience. He says,--"That has happened +frequently to myself. I have often been so much impressed with the +strong motion communicated to the floor by the terrible blows dealt with +stones or billets of wood with which they were striking convulsionists, +that I could not restrain a shudder. For the rest, this is an occurrence +to the truth of which there are as many to testify as there have been +persons, whether friends or foes, who have seen the 'great succors.' One +may say, that it is a fact attested by witnesses +innumerable."--Montgeron, Tom. III. p 686. + +Independently of the theory of Satanic intervention which the above +details are adduced to disprove, they are very interesting in +themselves, for the insight they give into the exact character of these +terrible probations. + +[22] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 694. + +[23] Quoted by Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 697. + +[24] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 697. + +[25] _Memoire Theologique_, p. 96. + +[26] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 697. + +[27] _Ibid._ p. 698. + +[28] _Lettre du Dr. A---- a M. de Montgeron_, p. 8. + +[29] _Ibid._ p. 7. + +[30] Montgeron, Tom. II. _Idee de l'Etat des Convulsionnaires_, pp. 45, +46. Montgeron does not allege, however, that any other part of the body +than that where the warning pains were felt became insensible or +invulnerable. He cites (Tom. III. p. 629) the case of a convulsionist +who, "at the moment when they were striking her on the breast with all +possible force with a stone weighing twenty-five pounds, bade them +suspend the succors for a moment, till she adjusted, in another part of +her dress, a pin that was pricking her." + +[31] Montgeron, Tom. II. _Idee de l'Etat des Convulsionnaires_, pp. 31, +32. + +[32] Montgeron, Tom. II. _Idee de l'Etat des Convulionnaires_, p. 33. + +[33] _Lettre du Dr. A---- a M. de Montgeron_, p. 7. + +[34] _Reponse des Anti-Secouristes a la Reclamation_, par M. Poncet, +p. 4. + +[35] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 706. + +[36] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 707. + +[37] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 720. + +[38] _Ibid._ pp. 713, 714. + +[39] _Ibid._ p. 719. + +[40] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 716. + +[41] _Ibid._ p. 721. + +[42] _Ibid._ p. 709. + +[43] Montgeron, Tom. III. p. 708. + +[44] _Ibid._ p. 718. + +[45] _Ibid._ p. 709. + +[46] Montgeron, Tom. III. pp. 722, 723. + +[47] The details are given by M. Morand, a surgeon of Paris of high +reputation, member of the Academy of Sciences, who had been employed by +the Lieutenant of Police to make to him a report on the subject, and who +reproduces the result of his observations in his "Opuscules de +Chirurgie." He found four girls, the centres of whose hands and feet +were indurated by the frequent perforations of the nails. He witnessed +the operation of crucifying one of them, the Sister Felicite. A certain +M. La Barre was the operator. The nails were of the sort called +_demi-picaron_, very sharp, flat, four-sided, and with a large head. +They were driven, at a single blow of a hammer, nearly through the +centre of the palm, between the third and fourth fingers; and in like +manner through each foot a little above the toes and between the third +and fourth; the same stroke causing the nail to enter also the wood of +the cross. Felicite gave no signs of sensibility during the operation. +When attached to the cross, she was gay, and converged with whoever +addressed her, remaining crucified nearly half an hour. Morand remarked, +that her wounds were not at all bloody, and that very little blood +flowed, even when the nails were withdrawn. See his "Opuscules de +Chirurgie," Partie II. chap. 6. + +[48] _De la Folie_, Tom. II.; the page I omitted to note. + +[49] It Is desirable that the reader should look up these localities +upon a map of Switzerland, that he may be impressed with the growing +grandeur of these ancient glaciers, even while they were retreating into +the heart of the Alps; for in proportion as they left the plain, the +landscape must have gained in imposing effect in consequence of the +isolation of these immense masses of ice, which in their united +extension may have recalled rather the immensity of the ocean, than the +grandeur of Alpine scenery. + +[50] This map, with all its details and measurements, is reproduced (Pl. +V. fig. 1) in my "Systeme Glaciaire." It was accompanied by an +explanatory paper in the form of a letter to Altmann, then Professor at +Berne. + +[51] M. de Charpentier has published a map of this ancient glacier in +his "Essay upon the Glaciers and Erratics of the Valley of the Rhone." + +[52] In the last report of the New-England Emigrant Aid Company we find +the following significant passage:-- + +"There is, undoubtedly, a general desire among the inhabitants of the +Northern and Middle States to remove into the States south of them, +which will soon welcome the introduction of free labor. This desire +manifests itself strongly among soldiers who have seen the beauty and +fertility of those States, in their duty of occupation and protection; +and it has communicated itself to their friends with whom they have +corresponded. Society in those States is, however, still so disturbed, +and in such angry temper, that no Northern settler will be welcome or +comfortable, as yet, who goes alone. To be saved the animosities and the +hardships of lonely settlement, it is desirable that parties of +settlers, furnishing to each other their own society, and thus far +independent of dissatisfied neighbors, should go out together. The +conditions on which only land can be obtained point to the same +organization. Lands already under cultivation are not offered for sale +in all the Border States, at very low rates. If parties of settlers +could buy in the large quantities which are offered, it would prove that +they could remove and establish themselves, in some instances, upon +these lands, almost as cheaply as they have hitherto been able to make +the expensive Western journey and take up the cheap wild lands of the +Government. + +"But such purchases in the Border States are only possible when large +tracts of land are sold. To enable the settler of small means to take a +farm of a hundred acres, there needs the intervention of the organizers +of emigration. Such a company as ours, for instance, can bring together, +upon one old plantation, twenty, thirty, or forty families, if +necessary: it can arrange for them terms of payment as favorable as +those heretofore granted by the Government or the great railroad +companies of the West." + +Such suggestions apply more strongly to the case of Florida, which has +come within our power since this report was published. Florida is, +indeed, more easily protected from an enemy's raids than any of the +so-called Border States. + +[53] Written--if the author will permit us to tell--by Rev. Samuel +Johnson, one of the truest and ablest of our scholars. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 13, No. 76, +February, 1864, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY, VOL. *** + +***** This file should be named 15819.txt or 15819.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/8/1/15819/ + +Produced by Cornell University, Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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